Second Year
July
The sun was getting hot. He could smell that particular odor a dock has when it's been baking in the sun for hours and Brian was thinking about how good a beer would taste right about now. A cold beer, in a glass bottle, no can. Coors—no, Sam Adams—no, Heineken. Yes, a Heineken, that's what he wanted. A glass bottle with drops of condensation dripping down the side that he could wipe across his forehead. He'd run the cold glass across his face, even if it looked gross and then he'd tip the top of the bottle into his mouth. He could feel the cold, the bitter in his mouth and on his tongue—maybe it would be a little too cold and he would get that instant ice cream headache you get when you eat ice cream too fast. He almost never ate ice cream and he had never told anyone that a cold beer on a hot day would do it to him. That was pussy and no one would ever accuse him of that. No one, Damnit.
He could picture the bottle on the dock beside him, feel the smoothness in his hand and the coolness. He could picture the wet ring it would leave on the old wood of the dock, silver with age and weather.
He could picture it, he could feel it, he could even taste it.
But he'd have to get up, walk the long length of the dock, up the stone steps to the shore, up the path to the house, up the wood steps to the front door, and through the front porch, the living room and into the kitchen to get the bottle from the fridge. He could almost imagine the cold when he opened the white door, hear the clink as he pulled out the beer, hear the snap and the fizzle when he opened the lid and see the two seconds or so of steam or vapor come out of the bottle—he pictured every step of the entire operation, from start to finish, every move, every step, every nuance and after all that the thought of having to do it all again seemed so, well, it seemed unfair.
He'd just gone through all the motions, at least in his mind
That should be enough, Damnit. The beer should be there now and he should be just getting settled back on the towel covered foam mat he'd been dozing on for the last couple of hours.
Mentally sighing and cursing the small nightmare he was caught up in, he was about to open his eyes, roll over and get to his feet when he heard foot steps coming towards him down the length of the wood planking, stopping beside him.
"I thought you could use this about now." The cold glass against his arm felt fabulous, but he wouldn't admit that. Not a chance.
"Fucking twat. That's cold."
"You are such a princess." He was being laughed at and that would have pissed him off if it wasn't Justin and if he didn't know that he was being teased—and that there would be payback later in bed. He sat up, took the beer being handed to him and tapped it against Justin's bottle and took a long pull. It was as good as he'd imagined it, maybe better.
His eyes open and his brain a bit clearer, he managed a coherent sentence. "Did you finish that sketch you were going to work on?"
"Yes, but on the way back I stopped down at the boathouse to just, I don't know, just look around, and you'll never believe what I saw down there. It was incredible—you've got to come with me."
He definitely wasn't awake for this. "No idea, what did you see?" Naked fish? Seaweed? A dead snake in the water?
"The big snapper."
Blank look. "The Big Snapper?"
"Shit, Brian, I must have told you about him. He's a local legend. He's been back there since my family has been coming up here and you almost never see him. You've got to fucking see this thing, he was right at the shore by the dock of the boathouse—you've got to come. He's fucking amazing, honest to God."
A turtle. A fucking snapping turtle. Uh-huh. "Well, he's probably gone by now."
"Shit, no, they don't move that fast, he's sunning himself, he'll still be there. Come on." His hand was being pulled. Shit. Justin had a bug on about this and that meant he wouldn't let it go. Shit.
Obviously there was nothing to be done but to get the hell to his feet, shove some sandals on and walk the damn quarter mile through the damn woods to the damn boathouse to see some—what the fuck was it? A damn turtle?—that had probably headed out to sea by now.
Fine.
Accepting the inevitable, he moved, allowing Justin to pull him up they made their way down to the boathouse, Justin practically scampering and telling him all about the damn turtle legend. Twenty years ago—or was or forty? Whatever—his grandfather had been working down at the boathouse and looked up to see the snapper between him and shore. Doing the only thing he could think of, he threw the shovel he was using at the thing—the turtle bit the wooden handle in half. And then flew to the top of the trees and laid eggs while playing a rumba through his butt' ran through Brian's mind—fortunately staying there. Christ.
The thing was still there and it was the biggest fucking turtle Brian had ever seen. OK, he had screwed around in the local ponds when he was a kid and sometimes they'd see snappers that were a foot or so across but this fucker—shit—he was three feet from shell tip to shell tip, he was a big as a fucking wash tub and smelled like a damn sewer with all the moss and shit that was growing on him. He heard them or saw them or something, turned his head, took a good look, seemed to say fucking tourists' to himself and slipped off the fallen tree he'd been sunning on and disappeared without a ripple.
Justin was right. He was amazing.
"Jesus."
"Yeah."
They walked back to the house, hand in hand.
They had been up at the house in Canada for almost two weeks and were doing well. They had agreed that neither of them would bring any work with them and that they would spend the time just trying to reconnect. Well, OK, Brian did bring the laptop, but he only used it to check his e-mails once a day and Justin did bring his sketchpads, but you might have well asked him to leave his arm behind and he had agreed that he would go easy with them. In fact almost everything he drew was another sketch of Brian—reading, sleeping, lounging on the dock, dressed, naked, wet from a swim.
Some of them were just anatomy studies; some were the drawings of a lover. All of them were well done.
They were relaxed together and if they didn't bring up the problems that they'd been having, neither were they arguing or bickering. They seemed to be getting the hang of being together again, the easy comradie seemed to be returning and the tension that had been the norm a few weeks ago was—well, no, it wasn't completely gone, but it was significantly less than it had been.
Their sex life was doing better, too. After months of headaches and pleas of exhaustion and conflicting schedules, things were pretty much back in sync and both of them appreciated the benefits—the many benefits.
The lake, the time alone was a lot of what they needed. They slept late, ate when they were hungry, explored more of the lake than they had seen last year. They would take one of the boats into the small town, get the car and explore the countryside—the small villages and the larger towns. There would be an occasional movie or a stop at a local diner. It was all comfortable and pleasant. There were no comments from people who realized that they were a couple other than a smile that any couple might get. There was one old woman who had called them lovebirds' when she had seen them holding hands in her small antique shop, but a hand squeeze from Justin was enough to diffuse Brian's expected snark.
Things were going well for them and they were happy enough to regret having to get back home.
Jenn and Molly, Justin's grandparents had all agreed to clear the house for them for those two weeks, letting them have the time alone. They all seemed to know that it was important and though Brian resented others knowing that there were problems, he was grateful for the time they had with no interruptions.
The last day, a Friday, had been another good one and they had just taken one last tour around the lake after lunch. It was late afternoon and there were no real plans for the rest of the day. They had thought that they might go to town for dinner, but neither cared much one way of the other. It didn't matter.
Justin was in the bathroom when Brian heard the boy's cel ring. It was sitting on the kitchen table and walking over checked the caller ID.
Shit.
"Yes?"
"Jus? I know I promised you I wouldn't call, but I was hoping that we could hook up. I really have to talk to you—I heard some things about Brian—hey, just let me finish—and I think you should know what's going on, OK?"
"Justin isn't available right now. You may want to try back later."
As he clicked the small cel shut, cutting off the connection he heard the tip of Eric's voice saying, "Br…" and the bathroom door opening.
Putting the phone back down where he'd found it he walked through the doorway to the living room. Unaware of the missed call, Justin smiled, put his arms around him, reaching up to kiss his mouth. "Sit on the dock with me?"
"Sure."
They went down, sitting on the end, barefoot, feet in the water, looking at the stand of seaweed that grew at the end of the dock, the tips of the plants at least four or five feet below the surface of the clear water. They could often see fish swimming around them, looking for food. They were holding hands.
Justin seemed happy, content. "This has been good, hasn't it? I mean, we're better than we were, I think."
A boat went by, a couple of hundred yards out. They waved to the occupants, as was lake custom when you saw someone going past.
Justin continued. "I was thinking, if it's OK with you, I'll just throw a couple of those steaks we got on the grill. We could go into town, but we have to pack and get the house closed up and it would just be easier, if you don't mind."
"No, that's fine. It doesn't matter."
"My Mom said that she and Molly will be driving up here tomorrow, so it shouldn't be any big deal with the shut down, we can leave all the food and just lock the door, I guess. I told her that we'd leave the house keys and the keys to the big boat at the counter at the marina. We can just leave the boat tied up and they'll take it over when they get here later."
"Sounds simple enough." It was obvious to Justin that he was now bored with the subject and now wanted either silence or to change the conversation to something else. Still holding hands, Brian was toying with Justin's wedding ring, the simple gold band. "Have you noticed that after a while you get so used to it that you forget that you're even wearing it?"
He nodded. "I did notice that. It's become part of my hand now. If I do take it off for some reason? I miss it, my finger feels weird."
Justin had missed his meaning. His mind wasn't going where Brian's was.
"When do you take it off?"
"You know, when I'm washing my hands, if I'm doing something at school or someplace where I'm using chemicals or something." He looked at Brian's matching ring. "Why? Don't you ever do that?"
"I haven't taken it off since you put it there."
"…Really?" Justin seemed inordinately pleased by that. He kissed his husband. "I didn't know that."
A fish jumped out in the water. They caught the flash of silver, heard the splash, saw the ripples.
"Something's probably chasing it."
"Probably."
They sat quietly together for maybe half an hour, watching the sun go down and the astounding colors the sky and clouds turned, changing moment by moment—blue to pink, orange, gold, violet. The islands turned black, the sky on fire above them, the breeze gone and the air cooling.
Releasing his hand, Justin slid his arms around Brian's waist, holding him, pressing himself against the larger body. Brian's arm went around his shoulder. They sat, still watching the last color disappear.
"This has been good for us, hasn't it?" Justin voice was quiet, the moment peaceful.
"I'm glad you think so."
"I love you, Brian."
Brian didn't answer, he tightened his grip in Justin's shoulder slightly and kissed the top of his head.
Out on the lake the loons were starting to call and another fish jumped.