Chapter Text
“Summer is almost over, you know, Johnny,” Gyro says. They’re out on the trail again, Gyro riding Cobey - a short thoroughbred Johnny had ridden once during a practice race - this time so Johnny doesn’t have to look so far up at him.
“Yeah, I know. Classes start next week.” He’s not looking forward to it. His last semester had made it very clear that he wasn’t cut out for academics; every project, every paper made him feel like an idiot, even though his grades had been fine, all told.
“And I’ll be traveling after that.”
“You’ll still come and visit this winter, right?” Johnny asks anxiously.
“Of course! The Pope himself couldn’t keep me away!”
“Why do you always say “the Pope” in moments like that? Like he’d really try to keep you away.”
“Because no one respects the President,” Gyro says with a cheeky grin. “But summer’s almost over, and still you have not come to the beach with me!” He pokes Johnny’s shoulder. “What are we going to do about that, Johnny boy?”
“I guess you’ll be dragging me to the beach on your day off.”
“I don’t want to drag you,” he says. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to come, I want you to come to the beach with me because you want to have a day with me.” His tone is somewhere between playful pouting and genuinely crestfallen. Johnny’s chest aches in response.
“I do want to spend the day with you, Gyro. It’s just a hassle, ya know? I’ll have to rent one of those sand chairs, and it’ll probably take forever to get down to the water and -” it strikes him suddenly “- I haven’t been in the water for two years.”
“We can do something else -”
“No! We can go! We should go!”
Gyro frowns. “You’re not making so much sense, Johnny boy -”
“Gyro, I can’t let the last time I ever go to the beach be with Diego Brando.”
+
They go in the middle of the week, trying to avoid the crowds, but it’s still August, and the beach is packed by the time they get there. Johnny gets the last sand chair, and either he’s not used to electric, or the controls are funny, but getting down to the water is an experience. Gyro is already set up by the time he gets there - another thing he loves (loves?) about Gyro: when Johnny tells him to go ahead, to not wait for him, he does. The most he’s done is set up Johnny’s beach chair, but that doesn’t manage to irk him. They divided their cargo evenly, after all, tying their cooler full of beer and sandwiches to the back of the sand chair.
Gyro’s halfway done putting on sunscreen. Not that he really needs it, Johnny thinks; the whole summer out in the sun has made his skin a cool brown. Johnny, on the other hand, is pale as a sheet.
“My eyes!” Gyro cries when Johnny takes off his shirt, throwing an arm over his face. Johnny flips him off, then lowers himself onto the towel in front of his chair. “Is fifty going to be strong enough for your lily white skin -?”
“Fuck off,” Johnny giggles. He starts with his legs. “You get my back?”
“If you get mine!” Gyro sings. He throws his long hair up in a messy bun and slathers sunscreen on his hands, and then Johnny’s upper back. He sits right behind him, so they’re almost touching. It doesn’t help that Johnny wants to lean in, to get as close as he can.
Gyro falters when he nears the scar. “It’s fine,” Johnny says.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won't. It doesn’t anymore.” He does squirm a little, so he says quickly, “It just feels funny, that’s all. Hurry up and pass me a beer.”
The sit on the towel and drink, their cans hiding in colorful koozies, chairs forgotten just behind them. Johnny leans into Gyro’s chest, and Gyro’s arm winds it’s way around Johnny’s waist. Finally, Johnny thinks. He’s warm and fuzzy long before he’s drunk enough to justify it.
After lunch, Johnny starts to feel antsy. He can’t fathom how Gyro has the patience to sit behind him, doing nothing besides drawing little patterns into Johnny’s skin. “I want to go sit by the water,” Johnny announces. Gyro shifts behind him.
“Yeah! Let me just -” he reaches toward the sand chair, but Johnny shakes his head.
“I want you to carry me.” He only trips over the words a little. It’s not a sentence he’s used to saying. He’s never wanted someone to carry him.
Well. What he really wants is for Gyro to hold him, to pull him against his chest and hug him close enough that Johnny can kiss him -
Carrying him is close enough, Johnny thinks.
“Oh? Yeah, it’s okay?” Gyro says, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Don’t sound too happy about it,” Johnny says. He's only about half joking.
“Sorry! Sorry, you’re right, I shouldn’t -”
“Relax, Gyro, it’s fine. I just want to sit by the water. It’s too hot.”
Gyro scoops him up gently, one arm around his chest and the other under his knees. Johnny in turn wraps both arms around his shoulders, getting as close as he can. All in all, it takes far too little effort on Gyro’s part; Johnny isn’t that light. “You’re too strong,” Johnny grumbles.
Gyro laughs, but he’s careful not to shake too hard, or throw his head back like he otherwise would. “Only you could make that sound like a bad thing, Johnny-boy. We are going in the water?”
“Just like -” he cranes his neck around. Gyro’s feet are fully submerged in the waves, even as they come and go. “Here’s good.”
With only a little - read: not enough - effort, Gyro lowers them to the sand. His hands hesitate for a moment while he sits with Johnny in his lap. Apparently, he doesn’t want to let him go either. “Like this is okay?”
The ocean laps at Johnny’s waist, surging up to his stomach. He touches the cold, wet sand and dribbles some over his legs, where they’re starting to burn around the hem of his swim trunks. Gyro hasn’t let go, and they look just like any other ridiculously affectionate couple crowding the beach.
“This is perfect.”