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It started with a Hawaiian shirt: a burnt orange sunset-y colour, covered with white gardenia blooms and subtle, gently looming silhouettes of palm trees.
The shirt was nice, with fabric that had a weightlessness to it, shifting every so often, almost as if it had been stirred by an ocean breeze. Its colours were bright in a peaceful way, not a headache-inducing one.
No, it wasn’t the shirt with which Jon took issue.
Rather, it was the context of the situation through which the shirt had appeared in the Archives, and specifically the attitude of its wearer, that had Jon crossing his arms and sporting his first scowl of the day.
“Tim.”
Jon sighed, impatient. “Tim.”
Tim glanced up from his computer screen, smiling a bit too widely for nine in the morning. “Yes?” he asked, his voice dripping innocence.
Jon cleared his throat lightly. “You are aware that the Institute has a dress code? And although we are isolated down here in the Archives, I do intend to adhere to the professional expectations that have been set for us.”
Tim snorted. “Martin’s sleeping on a cot in document storage, for God’s sake! I’d hardly call that professional.”
Martin ducked his head, clearly not wanting to get involved in a brewing conflict.
Jon’s scowl deepened.
Tim was a good researcher—competent, punctual, innovative—but Christ, sometimes he could be utterly infuriating , and yeah, a little bit of an arse.
Jon knew what everyone upstairs thought of the Institute’s new Head Archivist. Was it so much to ask that his own assistants respect him?
Jon gritted his teeth. “Business casual attire is generally considered appropriate for the workplace.”
There were worms crawling in the file cabinets and statements that wouldn’t record to his laptop and that penetrating chill that came when the tape recorder clicked on, but Jon would be damned if he couldn’t at least manage to look like he had everything in the Archives under control.
“It does have a collar.” Tim tugged at his collar to demonstrate. “And buttons.”
“I can see that,” Jon said dryly.
“I think you’re neglecting that the term ‘business casual’ has the word ‘casual’ in it.”
“Very observant, Tim,” Sasha chimed in, fingers clacking away at her keyboard.
“Thank you,” Tim smirked.
Jon was not impressed. “It’s also got the word business, ” he pointed out.
“Jon.” Tim clapped his palms together, holding his hands so his fingertips were leveled at Jon. “Jon, you’re focusing on the wrong elements here.”
“I am trying to retain what little respectability we have.”
Tim gently swiveled in his chair, side to side. The palm trees swayed with the movement. “The first question you should be asking is whether my wearing this shirt is posing a threat to workplace productivity.”
“That’s not the poin—”
Tim held up a hand, calling for silence. “No, no. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He seriously did not have time for this.
“How do I look, Sasha?” Tim asked, his tone purely academic.
Jon sighed. “I don’t see how this is relevant to—”
“Shush,” Tim interrupted.
Sasha peered around her computer screen, propping up her chin in her hand as she studied Tim.
“Hot,” Sasha concluded.
Tim nodded. “And does this ghastly violation of dress code cause you distress of any kind? Does it distract you from your duties to your Archive overlords?”
Sasha took a moment to consider.
Jon was quickly moving from mildly irritated to actively annoyed territory.
“Nope,” Sasha answered cheerfully. “I don’t mind.”
Tim leaned back, beaming, vindicated. “Oh the Archives? Yeah, I’ve heard of it. That’s where all the hot people work, right?” He spun in his chair, twitching his eye in a wink so exaggerated it looked painful. “Martin agrees. Don’t you, Martin?”
Martin made a choked noise and there was the sound of a pencil tearing paper. He’d poked a hole through the sheet, graphite tip going straight through.
Jon watched as his ears went a bit red.
“S-sorry?” Martin squeaked.
“Ignore him, Martin,” Jon said, perhaps a bit more firmly than he’d meant to.
Tim chuckled, causing the gardenias nestled against his shoulders to ripple. “You need to relax, boss. Chill. Slip into the mindset.”
Jon felt a bitter laugh gathering in his cheeks. Chill? Really?
“The mindset for what?”
Tim grinned, wider than ever. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll see.”
Jon knew how the Archive was meant to smell—old manuscripts, and paper fresh off the printer, the cold, almost musty smell of a basement, and the colder, steel scent of file cabinets lined up in rows, with notes of tea and ink and the occasional cloud of carbon dioxide to tie it all together.
Jon lived and breathed the Archives, and he knew—he was certain that something was not right.
The culprit was obvious.
“Tim,” Jon demanded. “What have you done?”
The break room wasn’t the ideal location for a confrontation, but it would do.
“Relax,” Tim said soothingly. He was wearing another bloody Hawaiian shirt—bright yellow and dotted with parrots this time. “It’s just ocean breeze air freshener to air the place out a bit. No one likes being assaulted by that old book smell.”
Jon was about to say that, in fact, he liked that old book smell, but Tim was not yet finished.
Tim inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut blissfully. He reopened them, triumphant. “Notice that hint of sea salt? You know, I’ve heard it’s good for the sinuses.”
Jon rolled his eyes, but decided it was best not to argue any further.
Choose your battles, and all that.
Still, the progression of events was highly unsettling. Jon wasn’t sure how far Tim would go with this...stunt? Prank? Protest?
Jon didn’t really know what it was. He just hoped for it to be over soon.
Hawaiian shirts and air freshener. Jon didn’t know how things could get much worse.
And then came the beach balls.
“Tim, you’re driving him mad,” Martin warned.
The third day of Tim’s tireless beach-themed crusade had dawned on an Archive littered with beach balls, each striped with white, yellow, red and blue, perched on shelves, half-stuffed into file cabinets, balanced on desks, strewn across the floor.
Martin, having taken the lift with Jon, had the opportunity to witness the Head Archivist’s reaction to Tim’s redecoration.
There was one vein on Jon’s forehead that stood out in particular.
Tim had shown up in a light blue Hawaiian shirt, speckled with hibiscus flowers, a beach ball tucked beneath his arm. “Do you like it?”
In response, Jon had clenched his jaw and stalked off to barricade himself in his office. Martin had noticed the slight tremble in his hands.
All this stress couldn’t be good for him. Martin wondered if he was sleeping.
“Oh, Jon?” Tim scoffed. “That’s how he’s always been. Even back in Research, the poor guy was always so uptight.”
Martin frowned. Jon wasn’t always this tense. There was a softness to him when Martin brought his tea in the mornings—a muted tenderness on late nights when he came to the door of the document storage room, hovering there in the dark, sometimes to ask if he should leave the light on in the office before he left, sometimes in search of an extra fire extinguisher, sometimes just to check that Martin was still there.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea, what with the worms and everything, I mean.” Martin advised, trying to be casual about it. “We’ve all been under a lot of stress lately and—”
“Exactly!” Tim pointed at him victoriously. “Martin gets it.”
“I…do?” Martin asked, not sure as to what he was getting. He looked to Sasha, confused. She shrugged.
“Beach day is all about de-stressing, taking a load of, forgetting your troubles.” Tim spread his hands in a wide motion, almost as if imagining the seaside scene right there in the Archives.
“Well, my troubles are wormy and—and wriggly, and I can’t imagine how a day at the beach will fix them,” Martin protested, his voice pitching upwards dangerously.
Sasha tilted her head, thinking it over. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Worms can’t swim,” Tim declared, immensely pleased with himself.
“No, they cannot,” agreed Sasha, with a decisive nod.
“It’s not like you’ve anything else to do, Martin.” Tim juggled a beach ball, passing it back and forth from hand to hand. “Unless spraying down worms and writing lovesick poems counts as busy.”
Martin spluttered, “I do not—that’s—”
Tim raised an eyebrow.
“Tim, I told you not to go through my things,” Martin huffed.
“I’m a researcher,” Tim said simply. “Curiosity is in my nature.”
“ I thought your poetry was lovely,” Sasha contributed. “I especially liked the one about the tea and the hands.”
Great. They’d both read through his journal. Martin should have known now to not expect any less from two very intelligent people who regularly circumvented police and government confidentiality, and whose job descriptions were becoming more and more synonymous with career snoops. Privacy didn’t seem to be an option at the Magnus Institute, at least not when it came to Martin’s crushes.
Martin frowned arranging his collection of pens, just for something to do. “Anyway.”
Oh dear, when had his voice become so wobbly?
Martin cleared his throat, and tried again. “Anyway, I think you’re missing something quite significant.”
“Nonsense. I’m observant. Sasha said.” Tim propelled the beach ball, volleyball style. It arced through the air, colliding with Martin’s desk, toppling a stapler.
“Tomorrow we’re going to have the best Beach Day of our lives, and there’s nothing you or Jon can do about it,” Tim announced in a booming tone.
He spun in his chair again, stirring up the air in the room, and hitting Martin full force with another blast of ocean breeze air freshener. Christ, that stuff was salty.
“Tomorrow?” Martin asked sceptically. “Tim, it’s the middle of March. It’s like eight degrees outside.”
“So?”
“It is supposed to be raining all this week,” Sasha conceded.
“I didn’t say we were going to the beach.” Tim paused. “I said that we’re having a Beach Day. And we are.”
Tim lobbed another beach ball, this one bouncing off of a file cabinet and disappearing down the hallway.
“There’s no use in waiting,” he explained. “The little umbrellas that I ordered finally arrived, so we’re all set.”
Martin still didn’t fully understand what they were set for.
Tim pointed at Martin and Sasha, making eye contact to guarantee that they were listening. “Tomorrow, okay? Come ready to relax. Hawaiian shirts mandatory,” he commanded, deadly serious.
Martin shook his head. “I don’t think I even own—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tim stopped him. “Of course, you do.”
Martin sighed. “And I suppose we’re not telling Jon about this?”
Tim gave him a mischievous smile. “He’ll figure it out.”
Jon had been scared many times in his life, but every other instance of fear paled in comparison to the inescapable horror that clutched at Jon’s throat when he came down the hallway on that Thursday morning, and saw what had become of the Archives.
He hardly even recognised the main space. Someone had pushed all the desks to the side, shoving manila folders and file cabinets out of the way. And sitting there, grotesque and fat were two inflatable pools, one of them whose side was partially compressed as it was smushed up against the door to the Head Archivist’s office, barricading Jon’s way.
The not-Archives smell and the intrusive beach balls remained, poisoning the atmosphere even further.
“Well, what do you think?”
Tim was wearing another fucking Hawaiian shirt, but it was worse this time because there was Sasha, wearing one too. She’d thrown on a professional-looking blazer, but there was only so much success one could have while trying to dress up a Hawaiian shirt.
Martin stood a bit to the side, sheepishly kicking at a beach ball. Jon’s dismay only deepened once he caught sight of the bright, patterned fabric sticking out at the neck of Martin’s workplace-appropriate jumper.
Oh God, they’d gotten Martin too.
And then Jon looked down and the world tilted around him because Tim was wearing Crocs.
Crocs in the Archives.
Jon had to steady himself on a file cabinet. He wasn’t sure his heart was equipped to handle this.
He could smell the artificial scent of sea salt wafting through the room, and in the background, the soundtrack of this absolute nightmare played from a noise machine perched on top of the printer—waves crashing against a sandy shore.
There was a lot to criticise about Gertrude Robinson and her unorthodox methods of organisation, but Jon was certain she had never let anything like this happen in her Archives. And if Elias happened to stop by right now, what were the odds that Jon—underqualified and overwhelmed Jon—would walk away from this, retaining his position, or even keeping his job at the Institute?
“Before you say anything, I’ve got everything under control.”
Jon looked at Tim. He didn’t think it was possible for a man in Crocs to have anything under control.
“We all came in early to get a head start on the day’s work, and we’re willing to stay a bit late tomorrow if you think we’re still behind,” Tim explained. He certainly seemed confident about his solution, although the gratuitous use of “we” was a bit concerning given that Martin and Sasha did not look too pleased with this compromise.
“And I promise that everything will be cleaned up by the end of the day,” Tim swore. “Not a drop of water or a grain of sand shall remain.”
Sand? Who had said anything about sand?
Plus, the inflatable pools in the middle of the room were enough evidence. Jon placed his hands on his temples, wishing it would all disappear. “Tim, if anyone were to come down here, we’d all be fired.”
Tim grinned and wagged his finger. “No, you see, I’m already one step ahead.” He wrapped his arm around Sasha, proud. “Sasha here has managed to reprogram the lift so from now until however long we need, no one will be able to take the lift to this floor.”
Sasha gave him a small, reassuring smile. Jon felt a tiny fraction of relief seep into his bones.
Tim spread his arms, a question. “So…Beach Day?”
Jon surveyed the scene one last time. “I’ve work to do,” he said sternly. “Enjoy yourselves.”
He marched over to his office and struggled with the doorknob a bit, trying to free the door from the crushing press of the inflatable pool.
He could feel all of them watching him. Today was just humiliation after humiliation, wasn’t it?
Finally, with one forceful tug, Jon managed to yank the door open and slip inside his office. He heard the unmistakable sound of water sloshing as the door slammed shut again.
Martin could hardly believe that Tim had actually brought his own blender from home, and there it was plugged in, and sitting on the kitchen counter in the break room, waiting patiently as Sasha shoveled crushed ice, and poured pineapple juice, coconut cream, and rum together into its compartment.
Martin was a bit worried about Tim’s notions of responsible spending, considering that he’d bought all this on a researcher’s salary. However, Martin wasn’t going to complain about the drinks. He liked piña coladas.
He waited for the whir of the blender to die down.
As Sasha checked that the mixture was the right consistency, Martin leaned forward, curious.
“Did you really reprogram the lift?”
Sasha laughed, light and airy. “No, of course not. I know some basic password decryption, but I’m not a wizard.” Satisfied with the slushy texture, Sasha detached the jar from its base. “Can you fetch me those glasses from the table, please?”
Martin did as he was told, and brought over the glasses. They were the sort you might find at a fancy restaurant or a resort, bulging at the bottom before sweeping inward at the middle slightly, and then flaring out again at the top.
Martin watched as Sasha poured. Four glasses, he noticed, although he had no idea how they were going to convince Jon to drink his, what with him holed up in his office, determined to proceed with business as usual.
“Those things are from like the seventies,” Sasha was saying. “I don’t even know if you can hack a lift.”
“So, Tim lied.”
Sasha shrugged. “Sure.”
She was looking at him, and Martin knew that she knew. Tim hadn’t told her but she knew what Martin had done, that he didn’t deserve to be here. And she hadn’t said anything about it.
Sasha plucked a few wedges of pineapple from her cutting board, positioning them artfully on the rim of each glass. Next, in went the paper straws, white with spiraling stripes of yellow.
“Don’t worry, it’s not like anyone comes down here anyway,” she reminded him. “Unless they’ve got a complaint, that is.”
Martin chuckled. There sure had been a lot of passive aggressive emails circling around lately, inquiring as to when the Archives was going to get a handle on their pest control problem.
“Besides, I doubt we’ll be fired even if we are caught. Who else would willingly work down here? More now than ever we’re not exactly the most popular department.” Sasha picked up a miniature drink umbrella, twirling it by the handle between her fingers. Martin watched the bright pink canopy rotate. “It’s not like it would be easy to find people to replace us.”
Martin nodded uncertainly, still apprehensive about this whole Beach Day thing. “I suppose.”
“Just relax, Martin.” She took in a deep breath. “Smell that ocean breeze, dip your toes in the pool, build a sandcastle or something. Tim even bought seashells online, you know.”
Sasha busied herself with adding the four little umbrellas as a final touch.
“And,” she said, presenting him with a glass. “Have a drink.”
They shouldn’t be drinking during work hours, but it wasn’t like there would be anyone around to care.
Martin accepted, holding the straw delicately as he took a sip. It was tangy and cold and indulgently sweet. “Wow.” Martin took another sip. “That’s really good, Sasha.”
Sasha raised her own glass to her lips. “I did some bartending while I was a grad student.” She winked. “Looks like I’ve still got it.”
Martin nodded.
Sasha laid a friendly hand on his shoulders. “Now go,” she urged. “You deserve a break, so take one.”
It did sound kind of nice when she put it like that, and it would only be one day after all.
“Okay,” Martin decided. “Okay, I will. Thank you, Sasha.”
“You’re very welcome.” She grinned. “And take that jumper off. Mandatory Hawaiian shirts, remember?”
Martin rolled his eyes fondly. “Fine.”
He made his way out of the break room, trying to tug his jumper up and over his head with one hand, while holding his piña colada in the other hand.
Tim had set up two wading pools, one filled with water, and one to simulate a beachy shore, with sand and—yep, those were definitely real seashells. Deciding that a swim in the Archives would only end poorly, Martin pulled off his shoes and socks, setting them neatly aside, and carefully stepped into the second wading pool.
The sand was soft on the pads of his feet. Martin swung his ankle, tracing a circle around the circumference of the pool, and then kicked gently back and forth, stirring the sand, sculpting dunes and digging trenches, uncovering and reburying smooth shells. Martin sat, rolling up the hems of his trousers, and leaned back against the side of the pool. It was just flexible enough to cushion his back.
Martin scooped up a handful of sand, parting his fingers slowly to watch the grains trickle through the cracks.
The noise machine was still going: invisible waves pounding against a nonexistent shore.
Martin took another sip from his drink, watching the little umbrella as it danced in the glass.
Jon had tried to focus, he really had, but there was only so much one could accomplish when one’s office had been permeated by that wretched sea salty smell, and that infernal blender kept going, and one had to suffer with the knowledge that there were two inflatable pools and three Hawaiian shirts and Crocs right outside one’s door.
Martin hadn’t brought his tea and Jon hadn’t technically slept last night and there was only so much beachiness that a man could take before he started going mad, so Jon set out for the break room in search of caffeine.
Jon slipped out of his office—if you could call grappling with an inflatable pool “slipping out”—and took a moment to take in surroundings.
He was surprised to find the area nearly deserted, and even more surprised to find Martin, resting in the second wading pool.
He wasn’t sleeping, it seemed. Jon knew what Martin looked like while sleeping.
Jon paused. Admittedly, that was a bit creepy, come to think of it.
But Jon had completely legitimate business in document storage on late nights, and oftentimes, Martin also happened to be there, asleep. It wasn’t Jon’s fault that tracking down documents filed by Gertrude’s assistants took much longer than was ideal, and involved a great deal of looking at things with his eyes.
No, Martin wasn’t sleeping, but his chest rose and fell with each breath, and his eyelids were nearly closed, his head reclined against the side of the pool. He was wearing what looked to be the least obnoxious Hawaiian shirt Jon had ever seen, which was saying something because Jon found most Hawaiian shirts (and certainly all of Tim’s) highly offensive.
Was this the first time Jon had seen Martin out of his usual knitted jumpers?
Or was this the first time Jon had bothered to notice?
Jon was still staring, but it was hard not to.
Martin looked so peaceful. There was a warm glow to him, a healthy flush that the Archives had sucked away.
Seeing him like that, sitting there—it did something to Jon’s anger, like lowering the volume by a few decibels until there was nothing but the waves on the shore and Martin’s exhales.
And suddenly, Jon didn’t feel so upset about this Beach Day idea anymore.
If nothing else, Martin was doing Beach Day right.
Jon felt a little light-headed.
Right, caffeine.
Finally, his legs obeyed.
Unfortunately, it was not caffeine that Jon encountered at the door to the break room.
“Great, Jon! I could use a hand with these.”
Tim was wrestling with two beach chairs that refused to stay folded, trying to shove them through the doorway.
“Tim, actually I—”
Tim handed him one of the chairs. “Thanks, boss.”
Jon wasn’t going to just stand around, holding a beach chair, so he followed Tim into the break room.
Sasha was leaning against the counter, chewing on a pineapple slice, a piña colada in her hand. She’d forgone the blazer.
Jon deposited the chair in the corner of the room where Tim had set up the other one, and stared dubiously at the kettle, wondering if that tea was still worth it. It was never the same when Jon made it anyway, and he wanted to avoid being at the centre of the Beach Day festivities if he could manage it.
Jon turned to go but Tim made it to the doorway before him, and held out an arm, blocking the way. “Whoah, whoah, whoah. Why are you in such a rush?”
“I have work to do,” Jon repeated for what felt like the millionth time. “I don’t have time for this.”
Tim leaned backward, glancing down the hallway. “Well, make time.”
Tim pointed in the general direction of the wading pools. “Martin was trapped in his flat for two weeks fending off worms. He lived in isolation and fear for thirteen days and now you’re avoiding him?”
Jon stepped backward, caught off guard by the guilt that had risen in his chest. “I’m not—I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t you think he deserves something nice?”
“Yes, of course,” Jon answered with no hesitation.
Tim peered out again and shook his head, sympathetic. “He was telling me just the other day how he can’t stand being alone. Imagine how he must feel. Poor, poor Martin.”
Jon frowned. Martin had looked pretty content just a few minutes ago, but if what Tim was saying was true…
Jon knew what Martin had been through, but he hadn’t thought—he hadn’t know that, still, even now living in the Archives—
Tim was still talking, encroaching on Jon’s personal space. “In fact, he’s probably miserable right now.” Tim paused, and like flipping a switch, his face was illuminated with what Jon assumed to be the radiance of revelation.
“I know!” he gasped. “You should go cheer him up.” Tim prodded Jon’s shoulder, grinning like he’d just come up with the most brilliant plan ever conceived.
Jon shuffled a few steps backward. He glanced over at Sasha, who was watching this spectacle, intrigued.
“No, I—I can’t,” Jon said. “I wouldn’t call cheering people up my forte.”
“Then, step out of your comfort zone.”
“I thought Beach Day was all about comfort.”
“And I thought you didn’t care.” Tim smirked once he saw that Jon had no clever retort prepared. “Besides, the moral of Beach Day is much too complicated and I have better things to do than to sit here and explain it to you.”
Jon crossed his arms.
“Oh, come on,” Tim coaxed. “Don’t be so uptight.”
He paused, thinking. “I can loan you a Hawaiian shirt. I think I have an extra lying around somewh—”
“No,” Jon insisted.
He wanted to make Martin feel better, but not at the cost of wearing a Hawaiian shirt. There were some principles that Jon could never compromise, full stop.
Tim held his chin, examining Jon. “At least roll up your sleeves and loosen a few buttons.”
Jon stared at his own shirt, perplexed.
“Here,” Tim offered, stepping closer to help Jon do as was instructed.
Jon unbuttoned the top button at his throat.
Tim gave him an expectant look. “What are you, eighty? Another one.”
Jon sighed, but humoured Tim’s request.
Tim nodded his approval.
His arms shot out abruptly, startling Jon. “Wait, wait, wait!”
He placed his hands on Jon’s shoulders, rolling them backward. “Are you always this stiff?”
Jon glared at him. “Yes.”
Tim stepped back, sweeping his eyes over Jon one last time.
Jon looked down at himself, suddenly self-conscious.
“Sasha?”
“Hm?” Sasha glanced up from twirling one of those little paper umbrellas. She looked Jon up and down, and then gave Tim a thumbs up.
Tim grinned. “Okay, now you’re ready.”
He gave Jon a shove out of the door, and for some reason Jon kept walking, not really sure why he’d agreed to do this in the first place.
But Jon was still walking, and he kept walking until he was peeling off his socks and shoes and lifting his legs one by one to step into the wading pool and Jon had to hold onto the side of the pool to regain his balance and Martin’s eyes were shooting open in surprise—pleasant surprise, Jon hoped.
Jon wiggled his toes in the sand experimentally.
It felt…nice.
Jon looked up to find Martin watching him, a small, amused smile playing on his lips.
It was odd seeing him like this up close.
Jon sat beside him, crossing his legs.
Martin was taking small sips from a piña colada. Jon watched the umbrella bob in Martin’s drink.
Martin set the glass down, clearing his throat. “Erm, do you want a drink? Sasha made enough for everyone.”
Jon shook his head. A strange sort of dizziness had settled over him already, and he didn’t think that an alcoholic beverage would do anything but exacerbate that feeling.
Martin shifted, clearly uncomfortable, bringing his knees up to his chest.
Jon didn’t think he was doing too good of a job at cheering Martin up.
Jon coughed. “So…how have you been?”
“Good,” Martin responded, automatic in the way that social etiquette demanded. He shrugged. “Better.”
Jon nodded. “That’s good.”
And it was silent again. The sound of waves filled the room, roaring in Jon’s head.
Jon had never been any good at this. He didn’t know what had sparked Tim’s plan, or why Jon had listened.
He kneaded the sand at his feet, fingers catching on the edge of something smooth and solid. He cleared the sand away, bringing the hidden object to the surface.
It was a shell, off-white and dusted with hints of pink, ridges and bumps running up and down the irregularly-shaped thing, a crevice in its middle. Jon turned it over in his hands, running a finger along the edge that tapered to a thin point.
“A conch shell,” Martin observed, almost whispering. “May I?” he asked, palms extended, shy, and Jon placed the shell in his hands.
Martin held the shell up, occupying the space between their ears. Jon scooted a bit closer to listen.
There it was: that whooshing, resonating sound. It didn’t sound like waves to Jon. It sounded like wonky air currents.
Jon leaned back and watched Martin with the shell pressed up to his ear, his eyebrows knitted in concentration.
“You know,” Jon said. “It’s not the sound of the ocean you’re hearing. It amplifies and distorts the sounds already present in your environment.”
“Oh,” Martin said, lowering the shell to his lap, tracing his thumb over its surface.
There were a few grains of sand clustered in his hair. Jon didn’t know how they had gotten there but he couldn’t stop staring.
Jon bit his lip. “If you ever need to talk someone—”
Martin was watching him.
“I can recommend a variety of Institute-approved therapists you can choose from, and I can talk to Elias if you need to take leave for your mental health—”
“Oh, n-no,” Martin interrupted, hurried. “I’m fine, really.”
A blush had spread across Martin’s cheeks. Jon couldn’t differentiate it from the glow he’d seen earlier. Maybe they were the same thing.
“Okay,” Jon said. “I’m glad.”
“Uh, and how are you?” Martin stammered.
Jon exhaled. “Honestly, I’m still trying to wrap my head around how Tim managed to fit all this stuff in the lift.” He gestured vaguely at the pools, the beach balls, the noise machine.
Martin looked up, catching Jon’s eye. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he apologised, embarrassed.
Jon sat up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I tried to tell Tim that you wouldn’t take it well if he kept going with his Beach Day idea, but he wouldn’t listen.” Martin was breathing a bit harder. “And I know it’s disrespectful and childish and I shouldn’t have gone along with it and I’m sorry.”
Jon massaged his forehead lightly. This was going to hurt but there was nothing that could be done about it.
He sighed. “I hate to admit it, but I think Tim was right about this one.”
“You do?” Martin asked, the disbelief evident in his voice. Jon didn’t need to look to know that Martin’s jaw had dropped.
Jon winced. “I do.”
“Wow.”
“Please, don’t tell him I said that.”
Martin nodded dutifully.
“After the past few weeks, I think a break was long overdue,” Jon admitted. “And although Tim’s methods were ill-advised and he can be a bit much at times—
“And stubborn,” Martin added.
“And stubborn.”
“And a touch inconsiderate?”
“Yes, that too,” Jon agreed. “But I think he does have good intentions…for the most part. And this time, he did the right thing.”
“He means well,” Martin summarised. He was grinning at Jon and suddenly Jon wasn’t so sure that they were still talking about Tim.
“I think he does,” Jon said.
They shared a smile, and that’s when Jon felt something squirming and fleshy brush past his heel. He jumped up with a yelp of surprise, and Martin followed suit, shrieking, “Where is it? Where is it?”
Martin hopped side to side and Jon kicked at the sand, desperate to expel their worm intruder, but apparently neither of them had the brilliant idea to actually step out of the wading pool.
Finally, with a well-placed kick, Jon managed to propel the worm out of the pool, sending the writhing blob of white soaring through the ocean breeze air and landing in the other wading pool with an almost comical plop.
They stared at it, writhing and flailing in Tim’s inflatable pool. It didn’t look particularly bothered by its circumstances, but Jon knew it couldn’t survive underwater forever.
Jon looked down. Somehow, during the skirmish, he’d grabbed Martin’s wrist, and he was still gripping it tightly.
If Martin had noticed this development, he wasn’t saying anything about it.
Martin looked from Jon, then to the worm, and then back to Jon, and then suddenly Martin was laughing—throwing his head back, shoulders convulsing, arms trembling from the effort.
“What?” Jon asked, terribly confused. “What?”
Martin gasped for breath, tears streaming down his face, and finally managed to croak out, “Worms can’t swim.”
And then Jon was laughing too, and Christ, his chest hurt, but it was in the nice way.
Definitely in the nice way.
Tim lounged on the beach chair, an arm behind his head.
“Sasha, I’m thinking we should make this a tradition.”
Sasha sat up a bit to look at him. “Oh? Every year we make it our mission to raise Jon’s blood pressure?”
Tim shoved her shoulder, playful. “No, you know what I mean. Beach Day. Tropical drinks. Hawaiian shirts.” He shrugged. “Who knows, maybe it’ll be good luck. Maybe this time next year we’ll be worm-free.”
Sasha giggled, a bit tipsier than she’d like to admit. “Yeah, worm-free, but then it’ll be roaches and then the spiders.”
“Oh, Martin would love that.”
“Jon would hate it.”
“Jon would find some reason to hate it,” Tim corrected. He groaned, standing up and stretching. “I think it’s time for a swim. What do you think?”
“I strongly encourage you to keep your shirt on unless you want Jon to have an aneurysm.”
“Am I really that irresistible, Sasha?” Tim teased.
She swatted his arm. “You wish.”
Tim grinned, pleased with himself, and he had every right to be.
Tim’s Beach Day Extravaganza, it seemed, had been an undeniable success.