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I wish there was a treaty we could sign. It’s over now, the water and the wine. We were broken then, but now we are borderline. And I wish there was a treaty; I wish there was a treaty, between your love and mine. Leonard Cohen - String Reprise / Treaty.
~*~
They play for Södertälje’s junior team. William wears 88. David wears 96.
David is a small fifteen year old boy with golden hair, quiet but only because he doesn’t speak much Swedish, William thinks. The ice catches on fire when he is on it. They throw them on the same line and David has magic in his hands, his feet. He dangles past defensemen like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He can find William from the other end of the rink and when he sets up a goal, or when he scores, he smiles with his whole being, and his smile is like riding on the subway when it surfaces to cross a river. Light flooding in where there was only darkness a moment before, the water a magnificent shade of blue just outside the dirt-caked windows. Almost enough to make you believe in God.
David is all alone in Sweden, lives by himself, doesn’t have family with him. So William invites him over for dinner at his family’s house, feels like it’s the least he can do.
David’s eyebrows shoot halfway to his forehead.
“But we ate?” he says in English. “You want more food?”
It’s just the two of them in the elevator in a hotel in Karlskrona. Lit in soft yellow light and with generically pleasant music playing in the background, it’s the first time they have been alone since the morning. David is leaning against the far wall, swimming in the oversized black turtleneck he is wearing, fixing him with a quizzical look.
The thing with David is, whatever he does, he does it with his whole being. And currently his whole being is confused.
William laughs, which only adds to it. He runs a hand through his hair as he thinks about simpler, clearer ways of phrasing his question and whips out his phone to enlist the help of Google Translate when he comes up short.
The elevator comes to a stop with a ding! when it reaches their floor.
William gives David his phone as they step into the hallway and David’s eyes go wide when he reads the translated text.
All hotel hallways look the same. The carpeting changes, and so does the color of the walls, but all carry the same eerie feeling, something so transient that is trying so hard to make you feel at home.
William worries for a moment—about what, he doesn’t know—but in the next, David’s face lights up with a grin. He throws himself at William, hard and unexpected enough to almost send both of them flying to the floor, wraps an arm around William’s shoulders.
“Really?” he asks and sounds so excited that you would think William told him he was going to get drafted by the NHL at the ripe old age of fifteen. “You are the best, man.”
William nods and laughs, this kernel of warmth wedged in between his ribs, as they stumble to their room like a four-footed beast.
*
“So this is home,” William says, showing David in, and tries to take in his family’s home through new eyes as he follows inside after him—wonders if the décor is too gaudy, or if the house is too hot. David runs cold so maybe it’s actually too chilly. The thermostat is woefully far away.
The living room erupts in a chorus of welcomes and greetings when David steps foot in it. His mom beams at him, his dad claps him on the back, Alex offers a wave. Daniela comes in running and almost collides into David’s legs, wants him to look at her new doll. William wants them to back off, just a little bit, but among the wave of chaos that’s his family—David, well—he looks at home. He turns to William with Daniela’s doll in hand, and grins from ear to ear.
His family is used to looking after young players but it wasn’t like this with Nicklas, back in DC. Or maybe it was exactly like this but William was a kid back then. Nicklas was never his teammate.
He remembers how to breathe after a moment and returns David’s smile.
*
When they sit down to dinner, he learns something new about David, which is that David can eat his weight in homemade food, and can do it very quickly.
To the point that, his family kind of stops talking at some point and just admires David as he inhales his food with a pace that’s equal parts impressive and alarming, oblivious to the rest of the world.
Except then, David looks up—looks at William—and he stops with a loaded fork halfway to his open mouth, apparently suddenly aware of the Nylander family watching him eat.
He puts the fork down as color rises in his cheeks. He apologizes to William’s mom and explains in slow, half-broken English that the food is very good.
William suppresses the urge to throw a bread roll at him (he knows exactly what his parents will do to him if he does that), but little does David know.
There is only one problem when it comes to teenage boys and her food as far as his mom is concerned, and it’s eating too little, especially during the season.
At this point, David is already leaps and bounds ahead of William in his mom’s eyes with his impressive performance. William is definitely going to get at least a snide remark, and maybe even a fully-fledged lecture from his mom later about how he should try to be more like his friend, instead of always picking at his vegetables.
Predictably, she shakes her head and laughs it off, tells David that there is always more food.
“See William,” she says to the side, catching William’s eye, with that brand of subtle passive aggression that comes as second nature to all moms.
They invite David to come back next week in a chorus as he is leaving. Never one to need to be asked twice David nods happily and thanks them for the food.
At night William lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling, smiles to himself where no one can see.
*
David comes to dinner the next week, and comes the week after that too, praising William’s mom’s cooking every time.
His mom takes to cooking a lot more and giving David enough leftovers to feed him for a couple of days to take with him when he leaves. They play street hockey in the upstairs hallway with William’s siblings, in teams of three and four with David and William leading the charge on each side. David swings a giddy Daniela in his arms when she “scores” after he shoulders William out of the way with zero mercy. Alex, the third member of their team, pokes his tongue out at him. William holds onto his shoulder that is still aching and looks at the three of them, shaking his head.
The thing about David is, he never does anything by halves.
He plays hockey with all of his soul and body—even when it’s in their hallway—and when he laughs it fills the entire room. There is magic in the way he gives all of himself to what he is doing, that makes you want to stop whatever you are doing and watch in wonder.
And watch in wonder, William does, as David scarves down his food with the vigor of a man who hasn’t had anything to eat for days yet again, absently tucking away a lock of hair that keeps falling onto his face.
He stops when he feels a gaze bore into him.
When he looks up he finds his dad, his thin eyebrows drawn in a frown, regarding William with that brand of not-so-subtle disapproval that comes as second nature to all dads.
William nearly chokes on his piece of bread, suddenly aware that he has been practically staring at David, the smile on his face as open as day for—God knows for how long.
David looks up from his food, eyes wide with alarm—at his coughing, William realizes with a few seconds’ delay. David pushes back his chair as if he is one step away from getting up and rounding the table to rub William’s back. William tries to drink some water and through coughs and tears stinging against his eyes shakes his head.
“I’m fine.”
“Careful,” David says in English when William has finally stopped coughing. “No good to me dead.”
*
His dad comes to his room that night after everyone has gone to bed. He knocks on the door in that sharp rap-rap-rap of his and William wants to ignore it, pretend that he is asleep.
He tells his dad to come in.
His dad sits on the edge of the bed. They are predictable people, his parents. You can tell the speech they have in store for you by what you did wrong and what mood they are in. Tonight’s speech, William thinks, is going to be about how hockey demands focus. Friendship is all good and well but you can’t let yourself get caught up in one person. A diplomatic way of telling William to be careful, without voicing things you don’t talk about.
Instead, his dad sits on the edge of William’s bed and tells him that there were two homosexuals in Chicago.
William freezes where he is.
“Someone caught them kissing after a game,” his dad says, his voice perfectly even. “Told the others. People put up cut-outs from gay porn magazines in their stalls, gave them dildos.” He scrunches his face. If the light was a little lower William could pretend it wasn’t with disgust. “There is no room for something like that in the locker room. They couldn’t stay. Got traded a bunch of times and rotted in the minors in the end.” He looks William dead in the eye. “Talented guys, William, and it was a waste. They shot themselves in the foot.”
He spends another moment staring William in the eye, as William sits very still, unable to look away. Then with a nod, he stands up and leaves.
__________
They get called up to the senior team. William still wears 88 and David wears 90.
They are in Mora for a road game and David doesn’t go out so much as step out and disappear. He tells William that he is going to get some air after dinner and then doesn’t come back or pick up his phone or respond to William’s texts.
William sits alone in the hotel room they are sharing, a little pissed. He can’t hang out with the other guys because they will ask him where David is and he will either have to lie when he has no idea what David is up to or tell the truth and make David look bad.
His phone rings at 10pm. It’s David.
“Where the fuck are you?” William hisses.
There is an unofficial rule that they should all be back in their rooms and getting ready for bed at this hour seeing as they have a game tomorrow. An unofficial rule David is well aware of.
He can hear music in the background, chatter of other people talking.
“William.”
David emphasizes the last syllable. His voice is dreamy, and there is an edge to it, an intensity that’s not normally there. Hearing his full name like that, on David’s lips—William clenches his jaw.
“Where are you, man?”
“I am-” David sighs, like it’s too much work to speak, to explain. “-at a bar. There is pinball machines. I want to go home but—I don’t know—don’t know how to get back.”
David is slurring his words. He is wasted.
William takes a deep breath he hopes isn’t audible over the phone and asks him what the name of the bar is, stuffing whatever wants to rise up deep down in his chest. When David eventually complies, he tells him to stay put. He is coming to pick him up.
*
David is already outside when William pulls up in front of the bar and he smiles brightly when he recognizes his linemate.
He makes an unsteady beeline to the cab.
“You came!”
He is flushed and his hair is tousled like he ran his hands through it too many times. William scoots over to make space.
“Yeah, you are lucky Jonas is an idiot and coach keeps putting him on my right wing when you aren’t playing,” William grumbles, knowing full well David won’t catch all of it. They can talk these days but David’s English is still not that good. He isn’t sure who the explanation is for.
“And you owe me big time.”
David nods dutifully, trying and failing miserably to look somber.
*
With some luck, they make it back to the hotel and to their room without getting caught by anyone else on the team, William supporting some of David’s weight. David doesn’t throw up until he is in their bathroom either, which is a net win in William’s book.
William offers a silent prayer, and when David is done retching, he sits him on the bed, helps clean up his face. David’s clothes reek of alcohol and sweat—he shouldn’t sleep in them, so William helps him take them off. His fingers burn where they brush against David’s skin and he doesn’t so much as look at David as he throws his friend a clean t-shirt from his suitcase.
When David is settled and when he has had some water to drink, he tips his head back against the headboards, and closes his eyes.
“I’m jealous of you, you know,” he says softly.
William dangles his feet off the side of his own bed.
“Why?”
Drunk as he is, David sounds sincere—he doesn’t lie in general, tells whatever is on his mind—and this is news to William.
David sighs.
“Your dad is alive—fuck, he is on same team, you are from here, and you have the best number. 88.”
Something breaks in William’s chest. He forces himself to smile even though David’s eyes are closed.
“You think 88 is the best?”
David nods and practically exhales the ‘yeah’ he offers as an answer, his voice dreamy and half-gone.
“Tell you what.” William wants to reach out and smooth David’s hair, where it’s falling onto his face. Wants to take away his pain. “When we make it to the NHL, you can have it.”
David opens his eyes.
“Really?” he asks, suddenly more alert than he has been in the past hour.
William laughs a little at that—at how earnest he sounds.
“Anything for you, man.”
“Anything?” David asks softly, like he can’t quite believe it.
His cheeks are still flushed, pupils blown wide, his hair still a mess. His brow is pinched in a frown.
“Anything,” William repeats, and he hates the way David is looking at him, like he is the only thing in the world worth looking at.
Hell, he will probably regret his offer in no time when David asks for William to pay for all of his meals for the next year, or for William to wear a unicorn mask and neigh in the locker room. He wishes he had a drink or five, like David.
“Will you hold me?”
The question comes at William from left field. He stops mid-inhale.
“David.”
“You said anything,” David repeats, with just a hint of petulance.
But he looks—William doesn’t know if he imagines how hurt David looks, whether he is just drunk.
Either way, a promise is a promise.
So he nods and climbs out of his own bed and into David’s. He hesitates for a moment—he doesn’t know how they should do this, doesn’t know what to do with his arms, his legs. But it turns out that he doesn’t need to know. David just sidles up to him until they are flush against one another and rests his head on William’s chest.
It’s striking—the warmth that surrounds William—and wholly unexpected, like flying on a dreary day. That moment when the plane rises above the last of the gray storm clouds and sunlight breaks through. And it’s been raining for so long that you have almost forgotten what open skies feel like, and the light is so strong that it’s almost blinding.
He freezes when David sighs against his chest, his breath hot against William’s skin through his thin t-shirt. It takes him a moment to remember what he was doing, and wrap a tentative arm around David’s shoulders. David’s shoulders are pointy but he is so soft, so still like this, in William’s arms.
David’s eyes have already fluttered closed again even as his brow remains pinched. William rubs his arm, softly, ready to stop if David tells him to. David doesn’t.
He wants to drop David and run away and he never wants to let go.
“David,” he whispers, because what they are doing is wrong. He must know that too.
David only gives him a content mmm, and settles further against his chest like a cat.
He is drunk, William reminds himself. He is drunk and he is hurting and this doesn’t count as—it doesn’t count as anything.
*
He dreams of laughter when he finally dozes off, the skies outside the window lit up in pale pre-dawn light. Their teammates, his dad, the fans, laughing and laughing and laughing in an uproar.
At him.
__________
William plays for Modo on loan from the Marlies and David-
William is running as fast as he can, the world reduced to the rain on his skin and the burn in his muscles. He stops when the song he is listening to gets cut off and replaced by the default ringtone of his phone. It’s raining so hard that taking out his phone to see who it is is a lost cause, so he accepts the call through the button on his earphones.
“Hey Will, did I wake you?”
In a heartbeat William’s mind goes to all the things that could be wrong, all the reasons why David would call him at this hour. But his friend sounds chipper, even more so than usual, so he extinguishes the spark of concern.
“No, hey. What’s up?”
“Whoa,” David says, “did I call at an ‘inopportune time’ dude?” The air quotes and the mischief in his voice is so open, not even the ocean between them can dampen it.
“What? No.”
“It’s just that you are really out of breath. I know you love me but I didn’t know you loved me so much to answer when in bed with a girl, if you know what I mean.”
It’s quiet on the street he is on, not many people out in a rainstorm on a Wednesday night, either on foot or in a car. William bends down and puts his hands on his knees to try and catch his breath, and in between pants tells David that he is out on a run.
He found some time ago that if he runs hard enough he can almost make his mind go blank.
There is a moment of silence on the line. Then David says, a little tentatively, “but it’s 1am over there.”
There are hands, one on his neck, the other sneaking its way under his shirt on the small of his back.
William wipes at his eyes to get rainwater, sweat, he doesn’t even know what out of them.
When he runs, he doesn’t have to think about the lips of the guy whose name he didn’t catch last night against his own, and he doesn’t remember the shame burning under his skin. Almost.
“Yeah,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “What’s up man?”
He hears the inhale on the other end of the line before David tells him that he has news, his excitement shining through his voice.
“Yeah?”
“I got called up to Boston. They want me to play on the Bruins tomorrow night.”
“What!” William all but yells into the mic. “Against the-” not the Rangers, the Rangers they play next week. “-Penguins? Fuck.”
“I know.” David grins from ear to ear. “Can you believe?”
William can’t and he absolutely can. David has been busting his ass with the P-Bruins and scoring goals in Providence, so it’s absolutely what he deserves but it’s also the NHL they are talking about. Just tomorrow David is going to be playing in the NHL. Holy fucking shit.
“Fuck yeah!” This time he yells it, so loud that not even the rain can drown it out, not caring one bit for the sleeping residents in the apartments around him or about anyone or anything else, his chest swelling with pride.
He tells David to tell him everything, and David does, from how Cassidy gave him a call to his conversation with Coach Julien.
“I just hung up with Julien,” David says, “and wanted to—well, tell you first.”
William closes his eyes. Sunlight on his face, as the plane rises above the last of the gray storm clouds.
“I am glad,” he says, “you are going to crush it in Boston bro.”
“I’m gonna score five goals.”
William laughs. He can picture it so clearly. David with the spoked-B on his chest instead of Providence’s P, thousands of fans going wild as he buries puck after puck in the Penguins’ net. David jumping into his teammates’ arms so hard, he would knock them off balance if he was a little heavier, the way he used to with William. The rookie wonder from Czech Republic. His David.
“…that a yes or a no?”
“Hmm?” William tears himself from his daydream.
“Are you still cool with me taking 88 or should I ask them what other numbers they have free?”
William freezes. A car passes by—a gray beat-up Honda—its headlights blinding against the rain before they disappear. Still.
David had apologized in the morning back then, for drinking before a game, and that was all they said. It’s not as if he asked David but he assumed—he thought David didn’t remember.
“Yeah,” he says a little weakly now, forcing his voice to be even. There are fifty jokes he could make about David stealing his number.
He can’t think of any of them.
“You are the best,” David says before he hangs up to get dinner.
The music resumes blaring once the call disconnects. William stands very still on the quiet street as lightning flashes purple among the clouds on the horizon.
__________
The Marlies recall him mid-season. He arrives in Toronto on a cold afternoon when steely gray clouds cover the sky and threaten snow. He gets a one bedroom apartment, furnished, so all he has to bring are his three suitcases and two cardboard boxes. It is nothing to write home about, but he stands in the middle of the living room his first evening there, his breath caught in his throat with the weight of how close he is- to everything they dreamt of.
He is flying, playing the best hockey of his life. There is very little that can stop him when he is on the ice and his new team warms up to him quickly. He feels alive when he is out there, in a way he could not put into words if he tried, always has.
And he wonders sometimes what would have happened to him if he wasn't given his first pair of skates when he was three. If he was born in a place where sunlight glittered on a turquoise sea and water didn't have the permission to freeze in the winter.
David scrunches up his face when he takes one look at his apartment, the first time he comes to visit.
He is standing in the middle of William’s narrow living room, by the coffee table; William is a few feet to his left. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are still red from the cold. It’s been months since William last saw him and the time difference on top of a busy hockey schedule meant they had little opportunity to catch up except for the brief text here and the occasional phone call there. He looks like the same old David William has known since they were fifteen, with his flowing sandy hair and narrow frame, and he looks like someone completely new.
“What?” William asks. Of everything he expected to be when he saw David, annoyed wasn’t it.
David glances around, still wearing the same expression of- is it disapproval?
“It’s depressing, man.”
William follows his gaze, trying to see what he sees.
The apartment is a little cramped for sure and a little gloomy. The sun is shining outside on a frozen city but little of it filters inside, leaving the room in a perpetual dusk. His window looks over a street that is not quite residential and not quite commercial and beyond that another apartment building. The building’s white paint is starting to chip in the corners and gray curtains are drawn tightly in the window that faces his, offering no glimpse of the life that might lay beyond.
So sure, it is not a dream home from the pastel pages of a magazine but he didn’t want to spend money he didn’t have and the place is in good shape, modern, with furniture that is more than decent. If the walls are bare, he didn’t exactly have time to decorate. He snaps on a light.
“Better?”
David opens his mouth like he is going to object but then thinks better of it. When he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle in the soft glow of the floor lamp, and William thinks back to when he first met David, how he thought David was magic. All the annoyance burning under his skin, this lifeless, foreign thing that stood between the two of them is gone, just like that.
They stand there for a moment, shrouded in the gloom of the living room, smiling at each other. Then David says “I have something for you,” and turns to walk towards his carry-on suitcase.
William watches him, a little breathless, as he opens it in the corner and starts digging through, wondering whether he got that pasta machine he was joking about after all. If you miss me you can just make some pasta, he had said over the phone, his voice bright with laughter. William was pretty sure he was drunk.
Instead, David fishes out something flat and rectangular – a photo frame.
He sets it down on the empty shelf next to William’s keys.
The frame is made of polished dark wood, classier than you would expect from David. In the middle of it, behind the glass, is a picture of the two of them, from when they were sixteen, cheeks pressed together and scrunching up at the camera.
“There,” David says, admiring his handiwork. “Much better.”
William looks at him, intending to say something.
He stands before the picture and stares long after David has left. At how young David looks. How young he looks. How it feels like a lifetime ago even though it wasn’t that long ago at all.
This was what they dreamt of then, what they talked of in hushed whispers. The NHL.
His Maple Leafs debut is as magical as he thought it would be when he was playing in Sweden with David on his right wing.
The arena speakers announce their arrival, an upbeat song starts playing and William doesn’t hear any of it. His heart is beating in his ears and the crowd is cheering and cheering and cheering. Men and women and children, all dressed in blue. Their voices blend with voices from the games he used to go to when he was a kid to watch his dad and, he stands in the middle of the Leafs logo, under the spotlights, the 29 proud on his back.
The world stops spinning when you are out there. Blood courses through your veins. Your lungs burn with the exertion. Around you, fans—thousands of fans—and their hearts beat to the same rhythm. Doing it in the NHL is more intoxicating than anywhere else he played in.
And William wonders, how people who are born in gentler climates with sky-blue seas can go their entire lives without that rush. He wonders whether, like cigarettes, the trick is to never try it, because if you do, you might not be able to go back.
He asks David, that night after the game, lying in his bed in the dark.
“What would you like to do if you weren’t playing hockey?”
David laughs on the other side of the line, the sound clear and bright. He is in a good mood tonight and spent five minutes going over every time William touched the puck as if he was preparing to challenge their play-for-play guy for a job.
“I know you guys lost,” he says, “but retirement is a little extreme don’t you think? You are going to lose a lot of games on that team.”
“Hey.” William hates him. “Here I thought your good mood was for me.”
“My good moods are always for you,” David replies primly.
William hates him. He closes his eyes and breathes.
“Anyway, answer the question.”
David makes a mmm sound before he tells William that he would like to be a kindergarten teacher.
William smiles. Yes. Children’s drawings would line up the walls and David would stand in the middle of it all, a gentle smile gracing his lips, a flock of four year-olds gathered around his legs like ducklings. He is yet to meet a child who doesn’t love David on sight, and yet to meet a child whom David doesn’t love back instantly in turn.
The conversation devolves into their favorite school teachers from there. William is grateful David doesn’t ask him the same question back. He has no idea what he would be without hockey.
*
William puts the photo frame away in a drawer before his parents visit a couple of weeks later. (To celebrate your debut, his father tells him, doing very little to hide the pride in his voice.)
He means to take it out once they have left.
He never remembers to.
__________
It is the summer so they are not really playing for anyone at the moment.
William notices it on the second day of their vacation. They are on a beach in Spain, he and David, the one week they steal each year to enjoy a bit of the sun and hang out. David is getting ready to dive into the sea from the dock, sunlight golden on his tanned skin. He has been building a bit of a tattoo sleeve in the past year and there is a number there, on his upper arm, that blends into the shapes and patterns around it, that escaped William's eye up until now. Two eights in stylistic loops.
He raises his hand without conscious thought and touches the inked skin.
"What is this?"
David turns to him, the buildup to his dive momentarily halted, and flashes a grin. His hair is matted with salt water and droplets cling to his skin here and there.
"Do you like it?"
William manages a nod if not a witty reply. Satisfied, David turns to face the water again, and gaining some speed dives into the sea with an athletic jump.
*
William tries to let it go but he can’t. It keeps wandering into his thoughts as they swim, as they eat, as they lounge in the bar with cocktails in their hands. He stares at the spot on David’s arm even when it’s covered under a t-shirt, where a number is inked permanently into his skin.
He walks barefoot on the carpeted hallways when he can’t sleep. He knocks on David’s door. He has to ask. He has to know. David opens the door a moment later, in boxers and a white t-shirt, his hair sticking out in odd angles.
“Will?” He frowns. “Is everything alright?”
William takes a step forward and David moves aside to let him in. The hotel door closes behind them with a click. He stands in the short hallway that leads into the room.
“Why did you get that tattoo?”
He has to ask.
David stares back at him for a moment, confused.
“That night when you got drunk in Mora and I told you you could have 88 -- you remember it.”
It is not really a question. David nods anyway, once and slowly. The confusion in his eyes has given way to something else. They used to share a room when they first started the tradition of vacationing once together over the summer, when neither of them was making the money they are making now. He woke up a couple of times with a start to find David staring at him from the other bed, watching him, a look in his eyes that William couldn’t- didn’t want to read.
The same look that he has now.
David takes a short step forward so they are standing toe to toe. There is very little space between them but enough that if William wanted to slide away he could with ease. And God knows he wants to; every muscle in his body is screaming at him to run -- out of this room and preferably out of this city.
He doesn’t. He raises his hand and touches the spot on David’s arm again. David looks at where his fingers are brushing the sleeve of the t-shirt and smiles, a hesitant, quiet thing, a slight curl of his lips around the corners. Then his eyes find William’s, like they have done so many times before and as if it is the first time.
And William looked up everyone who played with his father in Chicago, his throat so tight he couldn’t breathe as he stared at the screen, studied every face that belonged to a player who was sent down, who was traded away, who shot himself in the foot, wondering is it him, is it him, is it him.
He lets his hand slide up from David’s arm to the nape of his neck, and with eyes shut tight, he surges forward until his lips find David’s.
It isn’t half as graceful as he imagined it would be. There are no fireworks going off in the background, no choir of angels. They tangle in each other, a mess of limbs and mouths, pulling and pushing and colliding in odd angles. It’s messy and it’s awkward and it’s better than anything he ever imagined it would be.
__________
William runs. He is barefoot on the wet sand and dawn is starting to break over the water. He is pushing himself harder than is safe, his body burning with exertion. His sharp breaths mix in with the dull, uncaring rumble of the sea.
David held him last night in the dark, fingers digging into his shoulder almost hard enough to bruise, as if anything less and William might disappear into the thin air. William felt like he might.
‘You have done this before,’ David said. David hadn’t -- that much was as clear to William as his experience must have been to David.
He is alone on the beach. The first light of day paints the sea in pastels -- a mosaic of sky blues and pinks. He showered this morning, stood under the cold spray until he was shivering, and still he can feel the layer of grime on his skin, something that won’t be washed away. If he runs fast enough-
‘Never with anyone who mattered,’ he replied. He has never so much as stayed the night before.
David’s warmth—even now, here on this cold beach—surrounds him in all directions. It almost burns, like when you turn on the tap and the water comes out scalding hot.
He was lying very still with his head resting on David’s chest and when David chuckled softly, he could feel the sound reverberate in his own body.
‘And me? I matter?’
He stops and stares into the horizon, where the sun is just starting to rise. Its golden light breaks into a thousand shards on the water. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and tries to focus on it. Waves crash on the beach, one after the other, unyielding. He has no idea where to go from here, what to do.
*
It is almost noon when he returns to the hotel. He is parched and as he pads his way to David’s room, so exhausted that his legs barely carry him. He stands before the pleasantly generic door for a whole minute, heart still beating fast in his chest.
David’s voice was painfully sincere when he asked whether he mattered.
His hand is trembling when he raises it to knock.
David opens the door.
“No need to clean the room-”
He stops. His eyes are red. He looks at William, his handsome features drawn tight.
It was meant to be a joke, the question, but you could tell that he did not know the answer.
“Hey,” William says a little hoarsely. It is in all likelihood the absolutely wrong thing to say. He has no idea what the right thing would be.
But it must be enough because David smiles, the surprise and concern and hurt on his face melting into something more familiar.
“Hi.”
David is the only person who ever mattered.
He steps aside and William walks in, closing the door behind him.