Work Text:
Two men walk along a narrow beach. They look at the sea, at the sand, at the seagulls tapping their bird-claw stamps into the surf, but they never look at each other. They appear lost in thought, but not in separate thought. They are aware of what the other does, thinks, feels and does not say.
The sand parts beneath their feet, allowing them to sink a little downward with each step. It slows them down, and one gets the impression that this is why they chose the beach to walk on, to prolong their walk without either of them having to suggest taking another turn.
The taller of the two men drags his feet a little. It is windy. The collar of his dark coat is turned up against the cold and the hem blows about his legs. The coat looks worn. Not old, not frayed, but it has been around a lot - it follows the contour of his body exactly, as if it has been worn so much it has become a second skin.
The other man’s coat is different. It is new. Less than a year old. It was chosen for its function, not its personal appeal, though it’s not an ugly coat – it is a very smart coat, because that is what it needs to convey: Good taste. Control. Independence. It is strong and neat and practical, like the rest of him.
He walks sharply, with a straight back, and a straight face. His right hand is bleeding. A gash runs along the last two fingers, across the knuckle of the third and curved along the back of the hand. It is a defensive wound. The cut is not deep – the tendons are unharmed and the bone untouched – but the trails of blood that run towards his finger tips are still wet. Higher up on his arm, hidden by his sleeve, a bruise is rapidly darkening. It is a small bruise with a round centre, caused by a high-impact blow with a blunt object, like the butt of a knife. If it hurts him, he doesn’t show it.
The waves roll up onto the beach in slow curves, each overlapping the others like petals on a flower. With each new petal, the sand disappears further beneath the sea; the land relinquishing its territory to the water.
A gull cries unexpectedly loudly and the tall man turns his head in alarm, conditioned to respond to anything that might be a threat. The weak sun lights his face, turning the pale skin almost translucent. His features are sharp, angular and his eyes have dark rings below them. He looks exhausted; emaciated. Time and circumstance have made him a nocturnal predator.
He too has bruises on his arm, but his are where he slammed them into others deliberately. There are many, in various shades, mapping out his past on his skin like the rings of a tree. He breathes deeply, evenly, calming himself and forcing down the premature rush of adrenaline flooding his veins. A memory comes rushing back; a threat, a response, the consequences of an action. He does not regret it, does not wish it undone; he simply recalls and flexes his muscles as if going through the motions again.
He looks at his friend, if he may still call him that, and wonders how it came to be that he can never tell him of this memory. How is it that there must be secrecy when they once shared everything? Because you chose it over the other option, the worse option. So he looks away, to the overlapping waves that have crept up, almost unnoticed, to where they roll in now, barely a meter from their feet. An hour, perhaps, if they stand quite still, and the water will begin to swallow them.
The other man follows his gaze, joins him as he stares at the foamy edges of the water. They have fallen into step, a slow even pace, optimised for his legs, at the cost of the stretch and speed of his friend’s longer legs. Expertly optimised, he thinks. He never noticed that before.
He puts his hands in his pockets, thumbs hitched over the edge, fingers dangling in the dark. The fresh blood is sticky between them. He wonders if he should wash it off, and if the seawater would sting. He wonders if it would be cold, if he could dip his hands in it, his arms, his head. How long does it take to drown if one goes down with lungs full of air? The thought is so familiar it is almost comforting. But he won’t do it now, just as he didn’t do it before.
The sky grows darker as the clouds in front of the sun thicken. His friend’s skin has grown dull again and the hollow of his cheeks has deepened. When was the last time he had a proper meal? How many meals has he watched him have, hidden in the darkness, guarding him against an unknown threat? How many nights of sleep has he seen him take, how many hours in front of the fire? Has he seen him laugh..? The guilt is sickening.
The air grows dense, heavy with the scent of approaching rain. How much time do they have left? No, wrong question. They have forever now, or near enough. How much time will there be before they have to head inside?
The tall man has a similar thought. He knows when the rain will start – seventeen minutes: calculated using the approximate humidity, based on the frizz of his hair, and national averages for September fifteen on the Southwold coast – but he wonders how long they will endure it when it comes. He wonders how much the rain will matter to them, to both of them. If it will matter more than this.
He does not adjust his pace.
They walk on, unspeaking. There is no need. Anything they could conceivably say feels redundant, subordinate to the beach, the weather, the moment.
They say what they have to say just by being here together.
The rest can wait.