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I don’t know whose idea was it. Benny says it was Catfish’s kids’. They say it was him that came up with it and promised them they could go in the summer.
Anyway, they insisted we all come together, so here we are: Benny, his girlfriend, Fish with his family, and the two of us. Or three. We have a dog now.
One dog. One, two, three kids, Will counts as he’s walking across the sand, leaving the ocean behind. He doesn’t really have to make sure they’re all within his sight, someone always has an eye on those kids, but he thinks it’s better to be safe.
One, two, three, four adults, he continues, getting close to the spot they’ve picked for themselves on the beach today, a bunch of towels and bags and classic beach essentials scattered around two large umbrellas.
Frankie, for once, looks startingly relaxed in the striped deck chair next to his wife when Will passes him – sunglasses and his old Standard Heating Oil hat on, throwing an occasional look at his kids over the edge of the magazine. It’s good to see some of the usual tension gone from the lines of his shoulders and limbs, to see him somewhat rested. Catfish deserves every bit of his peace.
Still, they’re missing someone.
“Benny?” Will asks before kneeling down on a towel beside Pope where he’s stretched out on his belly in the shade, eyes closed and forearms crossed under his head.
“Ice cream run.” Santiago twitches a bit when a drop of seawater falls on the crease of his elbow, and Will watches the muscles in Pope’s arm flex as he shifts slightly to look up. “How’s the water?”
Ironhead hesitates where he meant to lie down on his towel. Considers his options. “Wet,” he says at last. “Salty. Check for yourself.”
Pope raises his eyebrows as Will leans over his body and props himself on one hand on his other side. And then he tenses, hissing sharply, when the waters drips from the edge of Will’s collarbone, from his elbow and neck, and onto Santiago’s bare back, cold on heated skin.
“You think you’re funny, huh?” Pope squirms, trapped between Will’s knee on one side and his arm on the other, trying to move away. He’s not trying very hard though, Will can’t help but notice.
“Not really. Well, maybe a bit.”
He shakes his head for a good measure, and Pope squirms some more in protest. The moment he finally manages to roll over onto his back, he presses a hand to Will’s shoulder – to push him away, probably, but there’s barely any pressure.
“Oh, fuck off. First you wake me up at dawn, and now you won’t even let me get some fucking rest.”
“You wouldn’t fall asleep here,” Will points out patiently. He lowers his voice. “And if memory serves me right, you weren’t complaining in the morning either.”
Pope grins at him, easy and genuine. “You made it worth it.” A brief pause. “But really, get off me and lie the fuck down.”
Will chuckles and does just that, but not before dragging his palm down Pope’s chest to spread the moisture on his skin. Just so it dries faster, he tells himself in his mind. So it doesn’t tickle when Santiago shifts and the droplets of saltwater run down his stomach.
There’s not much to do here except swimming and sunbathing, really, but I guess that’s the point. I think you’d be bored out of your mind and you’d love it. Catfish is, and he does.
Frankie’s youngest daughter makes the rounds, third day in a row.
She goes from one person to another – for you, for you, for you – and makes sure no one feels left out. They all thank her dutifully not only to demonstrate a proper response to getting a gift, but also because they’ve all agreed it’s simply very nice of her. Nobody has the heart to mention that she obviously has her favorites.
When she reaches them, Will and Santiago are ready. Arms outstretched, they wait until she pours whatever she’s holding into their hands and runs back towards her siblings.
“What did you get this time?”
“Seashells.” Three, white and pink, looking tiny and fragile in Ironhead’s hand. “You?”
Pope uncurls his fingers to show him four little rocks in various colors. They’re pretty, smoothed by ocean, the surface still glistening with water but quickly going matt as they dry.
“Huh.” Santiago’s tone is teasing, but Will can very clearly hear the subtle note of pride in it. “I got more.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I’ll try. No promises, though. Give them to me, I’ll put them away.”
Will does as he’s asked, careful not to let anything drop or break. They really plan on keeping those. When he’s done, seashells and stones rest together in Pope’s wide palm.
Safe, he thinks and swipes a few stray grains of sand from under them with his thumb.
Your girls would love the beach. Building sandcastles is kinda fun when it gets competitive.
A few weeks ago Benny got himself a camera, an analog one. Will has to admit it was a very well thought out move on his brother’s part, because this way nobody can tell him to delete the photographs he takes. It’s not that anyone actually minds all that much. Benny seems to have fun and that’s what really matters.
Usually.
Will leans his hip against the counter, very much in Pope’s personal space, and passes him one of the mugs. Sharing their coffee is something that happens on its own every morning, even if it probably feels less like a ritual for Santiago than it does for Will. Still, he is eager to keep it up whether they’re at home or not.
He just likes the routine. Especially if it involves Pope. Especially if it involves Pope sleep-tousled and not entirely awake yet, peaceful in the sunlight that brings out all the shades of brown in his eyes and silver in his curls.
There are voices from within the house they’ve rented for this trip, growing louder by the minute. The kitchen will get crowded very soon but Will guesses they have another moment or two before that. They sip their coffee, Pope asks about eggs. Ironhead tells him they don’t have enough for everybody and suggests toasts, and Santiago, in a voice still deeper with lingering sleep, counters that they could go out for breakfast. Only the two of them.
In the stretch of time that it takes for Will to consider, he catches a glimpse of movement from the kitchen doorway. There’s a click of the shutter followed by Benny’s muttered huh, gonna be a good one, and then his retreating footsteps.
Pope closes his eyes briefly, opens them again to give Ironhead an unimpressed look.
“How do you feel about becoming an only child? Because I’m going to kill him.”
Will bites his lip to stop himself from smiling. “After breakfast.”
“After breakfast,” Pope concedes on the end of a sigh, and they both know he won’t be mad by then anymore. Will won’t remind him of his plans either because he keeps a photo of Santiago in his wallet, one of the first Benny has taken, cropped and folded to fit. He’s not really in a position to complain.
And he kind of wants a few more photos to put in the frames at home.
And I think you’d enjoy burying my brother in the sand up to his neck and leaving him like that. We certainly did.
We’re having a good time.
The water is cold, as Will expected it to be in the early morning, the beach just as empty.
It’s a good way to start the day; peaceful. There’s no one here. A couple of people in the distance to Will’s left side, a lonely swimmer far to the other. Before him, there’s only the movement of the waves, their steady whisper, clouds low on the horizon where the expanse of the water meets the sky.
Chest deep in the ocean, Ironhead submerges and lets the ocean wash over him.
He starts moving before the chill reaches his bones, swims at a leisurely pace just to keep it at bay. It’s nice, though his body demands a bit more of a challenge at times and Will has to remind himself not to push any harder.
When a while later he blinks away the water caught in his eyelashes and glances back towards the shore, Pope is right there, shirtless and in swimming shorts, wading slowly through the water.
“Surprised to see me?” Santiago asks as soon as he’s close enough to be heard over the sound of waves around them. The water laps at his waist, then chest and shoulders as the distance between them shortens. Will waits patiently.
“I am, actually. You’re up early.”
Finally within an arm’s reach, Santiago stops and shrugs. “Well, since you said I could join you.”
There’s a hesitant note in his voice, and Will gets where it comes from. His morning runs – or anything else of the sort – are as much a means to keep in shape as they are a time to be alone with his thoughts. But not today.
“I did,” he confirms lightly, “I just didn’t think you’d take me up on the invitation.”
Pope raises his eyebrows a bit, and Will reaches out for him to make sure that there is no confusion about what he means. I offered, he shows him with a hand sliding over Santiago’s collarbone and down his arm, because I wanted you with me. I’m glad you’re here. And then he says it out loud too, even if he knows he doesn’t have to, because Pope has already linked their fingers together.
It’s a fucking good way to start the day.
They spend the next moments mostly in silence, floating more than swimming, until Will takes it upon himself to help Pope get rid of any lingering sleepiness that the cold water hasn’t already managed to chase away. Santiago splashes him in the face, slipping out of reach when Ironhead tries to push him underwater, and laughs.
Will would join in, but Pope’s curls are wet, old burdens barely visible in the lines of his body, and his own laughter gets stuck in his throat. His eyes are stinging a little. Saltwater, Ironhead reminds himself, blinking.
Pope closes the space that separates them again, and in the slide of wet skin they settle into a loose embrace. Santiago trails his fingers along the tan lines above Will’s waistband, as lightly as he trailed kisses there last night, and pulls at his thigh, a caress and a suggestion at once. Will goes easily. He hitches his knee high on Pope’s hip and feels more than hears his noise of approval. The arm around his waist lifts him off the bottom, and then the only thing do is to hook his other leg around the back of Santiago’s.
Weightless in the water, Will presses closer to the warmth and lets himself be held. He can stay like this for a moment.
The waves rock them gently.
Pope seems to get a bit bored, sometimes, but he likes it here. I do, too.
They’ve parked the truck on the edge of the parking lot, right between two other cars. Will has been wondering why – there were surely quite a few better spots – for about three seconds before Santiago twisted in the driver’s seat and pulled him into a kiss.
“Really?” Ironhead asks when they part, amused and way less exasperated than he’s trying to sound. “You couldn’t wait until later?”
Pope gets out of his seatbelt, fumbles for Will’s right after. “Come on. We haven’t been alone for one fucking moment today.”
He’s got a point, so Will leans in to lick the taste of salt and sea breeze off his lips.
They take a short moment away from people’s eyes, both eager to make the most of it. Will feels Santiago’s enthusiasm, matches it easily, but he’s still surprised when Pope backs away and says, “Get on the backseat.”
“Pope. They’ll be waiting for us.”
“We have, uh, nine minutes. Five for us, four to get there.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence on Will’s part as he holds Santiago’s gaze, dark and persuasive, and then, just like that, he finds himself sliding onto the backseat of Redfly’s old truck.
Pope doesn’t waste any time, a smug little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He moves closer right away, pressing Will against the side door, and Ironhead parts his thighs to accommodate him, one leg in the tight space between the backrest and Santiago’s body.
And it’s good. They’re acting like they don’t have a sliver of self-control, but Will realizes it’s difficult to feel shame when Pope sucks on his tongue like that.
He ignores the hard edge of the door digging into his back and tips his head up for more – and in that second, Santiago rises on his knees, leans over him a bit more. A change of position, a shift of weight, and then Pope breaks off with a sharp curse, catching himself on Will’s shoulder.
“Easy, easy,” Ironhead soothes in a low voice, trying to mask his own concern as Santiago scrambles to sit down. The length of his thigh presses against Will’s ass.
Santiago makes a pained noise in the back of his throat, fingers squeezing his right knee. Will reaches out towards it too, covers Pope’s hand with his and rubs where he’s given the access.
“Fuck, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Will answers immediately, wrapping an arm around Pope as he bows over him again. “Was it getting worse these past few days?”
“No, I would’ve told you. Just, uh… bad angle, I guess.”
“Okay.” Ironhead rubs slow circles over Pope’s spine and knee. “I’ll take a look tonight. And maybe you should make an appointment, get it checked out.”
Santiago makes a sound of vague agreement, but frustration is still coming off of him in waves, so Will hugs him tighter. As far as he knows, it has been good recently, the pain almost gone on a daily basis.
It takes a minute, but Santiago relaxes eventually, resting his head on Will’s chest, temple to solar plexus. “That was a stupid idea.”
Will chuckles quietly. “Yeah, you’ve got those sometimes. Says a lot about me that I go through with them.”
“It does. You must really like me to put up with this shit.”
“Mm-hmm.” Will’s fingers slow down to a stop. “Nothing new.”
It was probably a right thing to say, because Pope’s hold on him tightens briefly in reply – a firm, startled squeeze. They stay like this, breathing together in the silence of the truck, until Santiago shifts slightly in Ironhead’s arms.
Will feels him take a deep breath, and then Pope opens his mouth.
He said you would’ve killed us both, but I don’t think he believes it.
I think you would be happy for us.
“That’s bullshit and you know that.” It comes out a bit more sharply than he intended, but Will can’t bring himself to feel bad about putting the certainty into his words.
When Pope raises his head, his brow is creased, lips parted. He looks genuinely confused, and Will wants to kiss him to get his point across.
“Now get off me,” he says instead, gently. “Our nine minutes are up.”
Pope stares at him for a moment longer. Blinks once, twice, before he snorts and shakes his head. “My bad.”
And Ironhead understands, just like that, that it’s not about the time.
He sits up as soon as he has the room to do so. His spine protests at the movement, and Santiago is being noticeably careful trying to shift back and around to get to the door. That’s what they get for making out on the backseat like fucking teenagers, Will supposes.
They’re going to be late, and he is going to let Pope explain to Catfish’s wife why.
Maybe a little pissed off about the truck.
It takes him an hour to figure out what exactly this weird feeling he’s had since they’ve taken their seats is about.
It should be more crowded. It is, kind of, even on the edge of the cluster of little square tables this beach bar is. It feels like there’s too much space at theirs, more still with how close to him Santiago is sitting, their thighs pressed together and shoulders brushing. And Pope looks so fucking gorgeous in the warm glow of string lights that it takes Will by surprise whenever he glances at him.
He hears Pope chuckle at something Catfish said and turns his head to see the wide smile he knows so well. The lines are deeper around Santiago’s mouth and eyes now than they used to be, and Will spares a moment to feel grateful he gets to see it from up close every day.
Pope catches Will’s gaze as if he knows what the sight does to him, and he probably does. To some extent. Ironhead answers with a smile of his own and rubs his thumb under the rolled up sleeve of Pope’s shirt just because it’s right there and all it takes for him is to turn his hand a bit.
You don’t have to worry about him. Pope’s okay.
But the things is— The thing is, they should be all knocking knees, kicking someone at every attempt to stretch a leg.
Instead, when Benny brings the next round to the table and drops down onto his chair in a comfortable sprawl, no one shoves him and no one gives him shit about minding his fucking limbs. Instead, Will has his brother on one side and Santiago on the other, Catfish next to Pope, and it’s unsettlingly comfortable.
It feels like they’re missing someone.
“We should do this more often, boys,” Benny muses, raising his bottle over the tabletop. “To retirement, yeah?”
Frankie sits up, the bottle dangling in the loose grip of his fingers. “You’re quitting already, Benjamin? Look at him, the guy wins a few fights and suddenly he’s giving it all up for drinks at nine in the morning and a shitty beach house.”
Will looks from one to the other and back, watches the grin pull at the corners of Benny’s mouth. “Eh, not yet. I’m talking about your retirement, old man. My fighting days are not over.”
“I’m glad mine are.” Catfish finally knocks their bottles together, and Will joins them, but not before raising his bottle at Frankie’s words in a gesture of agreement.
Ironhead’s happy for him. And for Benny, who still has a few good years of fighting in him.
Pope is not a second behind him, a line of heat against Will’s right side where they both lean forward. When the glass stops clinking against glass, a brief silence falls over them as they all take a sip. Ironhead sits back and takes in the background noise of conversations mixed with soft music. Takes in the view of his brothers around the table and Pope right next to him.
He watches Catfish catch Santiago’s eyes.
We all are, as much as we can be.
“Seems like you enjoy your retirement, too.”
It’s a light, non-invasive statement, but there’s a sort of certainty in Frankie’s tone that comes from all the signs Will is sure he notices, and the conclusions drawn from them. Benny murmurs a low I bet he does, but Will is the only one close enough to hear, and he decides to act like he didn’t.
Pope just grins in answer, not missing a beat. “You have no idea.”
Judging by the tiny knowing smile Catfish tries to hide by taking a swig of his beer, he might have some idea, but Ironhead’s attention is suddenly back on Pope, on the way the brown eyes soften as he turns towards Will. They share a look, quiet and warm.
But still,
Soon after that they move on to shots. When further into the night Pope gets sent for another round and comes back with five shots instead of four, nobody points it out.
An honest mistake.
wish you were here.