Work Text:
Mike Hanlon’s arm is twisted into a particularly inconvenient curve this morning. Bill Hanlon’s head has been resting on top of his shoulder for the past eight hours, his pillow cold from having been discarded. His wrist is bent with the sole purpose of being able to rest his hand in Bill’s hair. Between his index finger and thumb, he holds a strand of grey.
From the crack between the curtains, Mike sees the sun rise above the sea. Lazy fingers absentmindedly fumble with Bill’s hair — he should wash it today, Mike thinks to himself — as he studies the colours. What had been faint pink stripes coming through the dark only minutes ago was now a bright orange glow, illuminating the water beneath. It reminds Mike of the early mornings he used to spend on the farm with his father. For a moment he lets himself think of how happy Will Hanlon would have been to see his son get married, and he doesn’t realize that he’s crying.
Bill awakens when he hears the irregular breaths his husband is taking. Mike’s hand moves out of his hair when he turns around, but neither of them care. He puts his head against Mike’s chest and lets himself wake up. For now, for the both of them, that’s enough.
Mike’s breathing brings itself back to its normal pace after ten, twenty minutes, and it’s silent. The sun is fully up, now, forcing itself into their room, reminding them of a new day. A day that could have belonged to the two of them, but neither of them wanted to keep for themselves. Their wedding had been more than a celebration of their love; it had been a celebration of Stanley and Beverly and Richie and Eddie and Ben, too, as well as Patty. One of friendship and survival and relief. It didn’t feel like anything but natural when they decided to bring their friends on their honeymoon with them.
Now the calm after the storm could finally begin. Eddie’s divorce was finalized a couple of weeks ago; Richie cancelled his tour, after having travelled non-stop for the last four years; Beverly won the legal battle over her company. Ben was still the youngest architect to achieve as much as he already had and Stanley was still the best accountant of the south, and they could both afford a few weeks off. But now, here, neither Mike nor Bill were feeling like seeing them just yet.
Bill’s eventual query into whether Mike feels like ordering breakfast already is met with a groan that tells him no, not yet, but followed by a kiss to make up for it. This time, when he lays down on a cold pillow, he’s the one pulling Mike back against him. They can do with another ten minutes of sleep.
In the rooms bordering theirs, Stanley and Patty make the same decision; Eddie discovers a sense of comfort in Richie’s snores; Beverly draws random patterns on Ben’s back.
Unbeknownst to them, all eight of them are facing the sun.