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Richie is buttoning the final button on his shirt in the bathroom when someone starts frantically knocking. Breathing in deeply, he tries not to scream bloody murder on the exhale. The dinner shift has barely just begun and he’s already borne witness to atrocity after atrocity. Not only has there been a botched straight public proposal, spontaneous elder dance floor stripping, and an entirely preventable stabbing, but someone had to go and spill drawn butter all down the front of his pristine white shirt.
Bev always tells him he should keep a spare on deck, but he’s never listened to her and now he’s paying the price. Borrowing a shirt from Stan was his only option. How so much could possibly happen on a three hour cruise, he has no idea. A lot happened to Gilligan in that amount of time on his ill-fated tour, but at this point, Richie would rather be stranded on a deserted island than continue working this cursed shift.
“Hang on,” Richie calls out to placate the knocker. Stan is bottom heavy, pear-shaped, whereas Richie is built quite the opposite - sort of lightbulb-shaped. If Stan tried to wear a pair of Richie’s pants, he’d bust out of them in no time, just like how Richie is practically tearing the seams out of Stan’s shirt every time he so much as blinks. It’ll have to do, unless they want him to be a completely topless waiter. All he can do is pray he doesn’t hulk out of it before the night is through.
This isn’t exactly where Richie has envisioned his life would be at this age. At the very least he thought he’d be performing on cruise ships, not serving on them. Doing comedy on one of these fucking boats is a cake walk. Everyone’s either drunk or not paying close attention. At least they’re in the room, and that’s enough attention for Richie. He really has to revisit asking Mike if they can do an open mic night on the boat, maybe once a month or something. It would be horrible, but it’d give him some sort of positive creative outlet as opposed to getting his soul sucked, and not in a good way.
Suddenly the bathroom door kicks in and he screams so fiercely a button flies off and ricochets around the room. Richie could’ve sworn he locked the door. He’s been terrified of someone walking in on him ever since Bev accidentally saw him hanging dong when he had to take his pants off to dry after some little maniac kid dumped hot soup on him.
When Richie gets a look at who broke down the door, however, all is forgiven. It’s some little slip of a thing, very cleaned up and sharp, yet also delicate and wantonly adrift, wide eyes dark and searching. The man’s build may be slight, but the kick he demonstrated was mighty, and Richie felt it in his within himself. He imagines dozens of scenarios of their life together the second their eyes meet, and thinks, maybe they already know each other. If they don’t, maybe they should.
The man careens wildly from side to side as if they’re sailing on stormy seas, and he’s so green around the gills Richie could almost believe he’s a fish magically transformed into a handsome man for just one night. Richie doesn’t make it a habit of fantasizing about the various hunks that rotate through the doors here, as that way lies certain heartbreak, but he’s had such a rough fucking night he needs a little escapism.
“Sorry,” the man says to him, and then he runs to the toilet to hork his guts out. So much for escaping. At least the guy made it to the toilet. Getting puked on tonight would have to be the last straw.
“It’s not a problem,” Richie tells the man’s heaving back. “Feel better.”
Richie leaves him to it and goes back out to the dining room floor to continue his shift. The sun is just starting to set, and the waters beyond the boat are shimmering gold. It’s beautiful, and Richie wishes he could go out and enjoy it. But there’s a woman being taken to his section by the host, so he must get back to work.
As he approaches, he hears the woman’s loud complaints about the sun being in her eyes, and his heart sinks while he watches the host shut the blinds for her. Richie begged for this section because of the view and now he can’t even have that.
“This is dirty,” the woman says, shuttered in darkness. With disgust, she hands her glass to the host. “And this. This too. How much did this cost?” When she’s done, all she has left is a soup spoon. Richie does a U-turn to grab new plates and utensils, making sure they’re spotless before he sets them down. He doesn’t want to have to do it again.
“It’s our wedding anniversary,” the woman at the table tells him before he can get a word out. She gestures at the empty chair across from her. Jesus, he doesn’t need this right now. On any other night he might like to entertain a deluded woman on a date with her imaginary husband, bring a plate of food out to him, pretend to sneak the bill to him and receive an invisible tip for his efforts, but just this second he’s not in the mood. There’s no way he wants to risk being overtly rude, though, so he plays along.
“Oh, how nice, congratulations,” Richie says. He turns to the empty seat and addresses it, enunciating clearly as if to a child. “And how long have you two been married?”
“That’s not -“ the woman says, but her attention is taken by the guy stumbling out of the bathroom and towards them. It’s the sexy horking guy! And even though he’s clearly been horking his brains out, it doesn’t make him less sexy. In fact, it’s given him a sort of sickly sweaty glow, and it’s knocked some of his hair out of place so it drapes invitingly across his forehead, just begging to be brushed back with tender fingers. Damn, Richie should’ve known the guy was happily married. He almost wishes this woman really did have an imaginary husband instead. Now Richie will have to be the one with the imaginary husband.
“Here he is. Eddie-bear, are you feeling any better?” The woman at the table says.
“Do you have anything I could take that would help with seasickness?” Eddie-bear, if that is his real name, leans in close to Richie, and Richie has to crouch half a foot to listen. His eyes travel over to his wife and the light drains out of them. “Or anything that could kill me?”
Eddie-bear wobbles slightly, his lips grazing the shell of Richie’s ear as he whispers, his breath humid and minty. It smells like he’s been chugging mouthwash. They don’t have mouthwash in the bathrooms here, so he must just carry around mouthwash in his pocket like a freak.
Richie shakes his head, trying not to black out. Maybe he’s lonely or maybe he’s been at sea too long, but this man’s humid minty breath hitting Richie’s face makes him ache with the want to be wanted. Then he remembers he has a spare dramamine tablet in his pocket and digs it out, discreetly slipping it into the man’s palm. He looks up at Richie through his thicket of eyelashes and smiles weakly.
“Thanks,” he says, squeezing Richie’s fingers briefly. Richie will probably be sustained by the contact for the next hundred years.
“Eddie, what are you whispering?” The wife says, tossing her hair around and giggling. “You don’t have any surprises for me, do you?”
Eddie visibly chokes back another round of land-lover vomit. “Actually, Myra. I do have a surprise.” He reaches into his suit jacket with trembling hands, and Richie doesn’t really want to see what he pulls out. They’re already fucking married, according to this broad, so what else could they possibly do in front of him?
“Why don’t I get you two started off with something to drink?” Richie says, remembering he’s here working and not actually trapped in a torrid love triangle with two strangers.
“Can I just get some ice water?” Eddie says, taking his seat across from Myra. He wishes Eddie was sitting on the opposite side, and the blinds were open. Richie thinks he’d really like to see the water at sunset, just knowing the beauty of it would soothe his stomach. It always calms Richie down, anyway. He could look at the water forever and never get bored. That’s part of the reason why he took this job - the romance of it, beautiful scenery, wind in his hair, Titanic every day. Well, the first half of Titanic. Well, the middle of it, anyway.
“Shrimp cocktail,” says Myra, the Billy Zane in Titanic of the day. That makes Eddie the Rose, and he’s the Jack. He sighs to himself. He’d much rather have lived a life that would allow him to be the Rose, although he sure wouldn’t mind sketching Eddie’s tasteful nude.
“That’s not a drink,” Richie says, but she ignores him to reach across the table and dig her claws into Eddie’s arms. Richie tries not to be jealous over this and goes to fetch Eddie’s glass of water and to put in the shrimp cocktail order for the missus.
“Ben, when you make this one,” Richie says glumly. “Can you use the old shrimp?”
“Richie, you know I can’t do that,” Ben says, but he seems sorry about it.
“Fine,” Richie sniffs. “Break my heart. See if I care. Billy Zane is out there with my imaginary husband and you won’t feed her old shrimp.”
“Billy Zane is here?” Ben says.
Richie brings the water and the shrimp cocktail out to the table just as Eddie is sliding some paperwork over to his wife. It’s probably like a mortgage for a huge mansion with a pool and a waterslide, or the lease to a brand new cherry red convertible that can fly like the car at the end of Grease, or adoption papers for three golden retriever puppies, or a movie contract with Steven Spielberg to star in ET 2, or whatever else she stole from Richie’s ultimate MASH as a teen, the first being Eddie as a husband.
“Myra,” Eddie says, voice quivering with such nausea that Richie thinks he should bring him a bucket. “I want a divorce.”
“Oh, shit,” Richie says.
“What?” Myra says, a deranged smile frozen on her face. “What do you mean, Eddie? It’s our anniversary.”
“Myra,” Eddie sighs. “You’re the one who dragged me out here. I wanted to tell you at home.”
Richie would love to just sit down right here on the floor and watch this go down, but he thinks that’ll be too obvious and unprofessional, so he makes himself scarce. Eddie guzzles down his water, giving Richie an excuse to go back to the table to refill it and listen in, and if it takes a long time to pour the water, well, he’s just being extra careful not to spill.
“We’re no good for each other, Myra. You’ve never been the right person for me.”
“But Eddie - “
“You smother me. You like, snuff my fucking candle.”
“You don’t like my candle snuffer, Eddie? It’s antique.”
“No, not literally - you won’t even let me have any of my own fucking candles. I haven’t been able to fucking breathe the entire time we’ve been married.”
“Eddie, you’re not thinking clearly. All this sea air - “
“I am thinking clearly. Myra. For once in my life.”
“You’re on something, aren’t you? What did that waiter give you?”
“No, I’m not on drugs, Myra. The waiter didn’t slip me anything.”
“Eddie, please, aren’t you forgetting something? You love me, don’t you?”
“Jesus, you’re so much like my mom. If you put a wig on, you could literally be her.”
Richie attempts to cover his uncontrollable gasp with a cough but he ends up coughing so hard he has to run back to the kitchen to recover. He’d have to see a side by side comparison to confirm if Eddie’s mom and wife are identical, but that’s pretty fucked up.
He isn’t sure exactly how long this back and forth goes on for, but pretty soon the happy couple are the last ones in the dining room. After a while Richie starts to feel kind of bad for Myra. From what he’s heard, she’s awful, but this is pretty brutal. He wouldn’t like to be in her shoes on the receiving end of this kind of tirade. First of all, they’re ugly. Keds? On an anniversary date? But on the other hand, he hopes he isn’t the type of person who ever would be in her shoes - he hopes he treats people better than what Eddie described. If Eddie wants, he should be rid of her, free to seek solace somewhere else, maybe in Richie’s arms. Actually, the more Richie hears Eddie talk about how wrong his wife is for him, the more it sounds like this job. Is he not stifled by it? Is he not drained of all life? Is his boss not just his mom in a wig? Okay, no, Mike is his boss and he’s the greatest person in the entire world, but Mike can’t stop all bad things from happening all by himself.
Things on the floor start to seem kind of chill, so Richie figures it’s safe to go back out. It takes everything in him not to ask any invasive questions, or to ask to see a picture of Eddie’s mom next to Myra’s head. He clears his throat. “Can I get you guys anything else?”
“And I’m probably gay,” Eddie finishes, slumping back in his chair. At this Richie nearly drops to his knees, his server instincts really kicking in. Gay, sir? You said gay? Would you like to sample kissing me? Can I interest you in the tasting menu for my dick? Have you tried the cock here?
“Enough, Eddie, enough!” Myra finally screams and stands up. “You can say what you want about me but don’t you dare say I made you gay.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Eddie says, holding his hands up. “You couldn’t do that.”
Myra gasps furiously. Her mouth screws up like she’s going to scream again. Richie wouldn’t be surprised if she went full Wrestlemania and broke a chair over Eddie’s head. He could throw his body atop Eddie’s protectively and save him. But after only a few moments of hesitation, Myra grabs her shrimp cocktail and tosses it, glass and all, right into Eddie’s face and storms out, leaving Eddie and his divorce papers drenched in red sauce.
Richie stands next to the table, awkwardly empty handed and unsure of what to do. Something in him wants to offer Eddie some sort of comfort, but what good would that do, coming from him?
“I’m sorry about all that,” Eddie says, wiping futilely at the mess all over him. After a minute he gives up and throws the dirty napkin on the table in defeat. He whips his tie off, too, and starts to unbutton his shirt. Does Richie have the power of mind control? He knew he shouldn’t have eaten that old shrimp Ben warned him about, but he was hungry. Would spoiled, radioactive shrimp grant him the power of mind control?
“No, um, don’t worry about it,” Richie says, pulling up a chair to sit beside Eddie. “I’ve seen worse, like just today. I saw someone get stabbed earlier.”
“Oh, well,” Eddie says. “I’m glad I didn’t get stabbed. You wouldn’t happen to have any spare shirts here, would you?” He eyes Richie’s too-small shirt, and Richie would give it to him if he asked, but he doesn’t.
A shrimp is stuck in Eddie’s hair. Richie isn’t really thinking when he digs right in to get it for him, brushing some of the stray curls back in place and shivering with the restraint to do more. “Sorry, you got a little guy here,” Richie says, the dark strands so soft it distracts from the amount of gross food in it. He offers the rescued shrimp to Eddie.
“No, thank you,” Eddie says, lip curling in disgust. Richie, not one to turn down free food, bites into it.
“For what it’s worth,” Richie says, wagging the shrimp tail at Eddie. “It was pretty brave what you did. Humiliating, sure. Soul-crushing, definitely.”
“Okay, you know what - “
“But it seems like you did the right thing,” Richie is quick to add. “Maybe you could have waited for a different day that wasn’t your wedding anniversary. And the setting, well, let’s just say you paid an exorbitant amount of money to do it here. I couldn’t afford a ticket to this, let alone for me and a date I brought just to dump.”
“They don't pay you here?” Eddie says, frowning.
“I’m working for tips, baby,” Richie says. “But that’s not the point. This cruise ain’t cheap.”
Eddie glares at him. “I didn’t pay for it. This was her surprise for me.”
Richie can’t help but burst out laughing. “Oh my god. She paid to get dumped fucking big time like that?”
Eddie cracks a smile at that, his eyes crinkling around the edges. Richie’s heart aches to see it. God, he’d really like to take Eddie out onto the decks, show him the best lookout places away from everyone else, the most majestic views from the most secluded, romantic spots. He’s about to ask Eddie if he’s got anywhere to be, since Richie gets off soon, but Eddie’s smile slips away before he can.
“Sorry, what’s your name again?” Eddie says.
“Richie,” Richie says, and that snaps him back to reality. This entire time, Eddie didn’t even know his name. Richie’s been building something in his heart on a possibility and of course, it isn’t possible at all. Richie’s just a server, and he really only brought Eddie some water, something they’re surrounded by. Meaningless, nothing special. Richie’s life story. It feels worse than the time he helped with a live birth in the middle of the dining room dance floor and they didn’t even name the baby after him.
Fuck, he can’t keep doing this. He has got to quit this job. Preferably before the next childrens’ day. Last time the clown they brought aboard to do animal balloons for all the kids and Richies on board made a pass at him, and when Richie turned him down, called him a twinkletoes motherfucker in front of a bunch of customers. The clown was supposed to be his ally.
“Richie,” Eddie says. “Thanks for everything tonight.”
“Sure, you’re welcome,” Richie nods and stands. “No rush on the table. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Richie leaves him alone and tries to occupy himself by bothering Ben. The kitchen is closed now, and they’ll be pulling into the dock soon. After a while Ben shoos him away and Richie dares to look in the direction of Eddie’s table. It’s empty now, and in need of clearing, so he gets to work wiping away the evidence that Eddie was ever there at all. The tablecloth is splattered with red cocktail sauce, and the divorce papers are still there. He could go find Eddie and make sure he gets them, but he doesn’t think he could face the humiliation. He’ll just turn them over to the boss. Picking them up to do that before he forgets, he spots something else tucked underneath Eddie’s glass.
“Holy shit,” Richie says, clenching his fist around the bills. Eddie left him a fucking $500 tip. Richie’s been given a $2 tip on a bill 1000x the size of it and with much more service provided. Eddie gave him a huge amount of money, for what? Bringing him water? Cheering him up after he made a major life decision? It has to be some kind of mistake.
Without thinking, Richie bursts out of the dining room doors, running full speed across the decks. He’s terrified he’s going to run into Myra, if she hasn’t dramatically thrown herself overboard yet, but he doesn’t. Most people gather up front to take turns playing Titanic, and normally Richie would be among them with Ben now that the kitchen is closed, but tonight he’s got somebody to get to first. Finally, on his last desperate sweep of the decks, he finds Eddie all by his lonesome at the back of the ship.
“Eddie,” Richie calls out. “You forgot something.”
Eddie turns, startled at first, then relaxes invitingly against the railing. “What is it?”
Richie gives him the sloppy divorce papers. They look like they’re covered in blood. “You might want to get a new copy. Or not. It’s kind of cool like this.”
“Thanks,” Eddie says, folding them up and stuffing them inside his jacket. He turns to face the water again, and his silhouette against the dusky sky is like a painting. “It’s something out here, isn’t it? I could look at the water forever.”
“Oh,” Richie says, his heart leaping. “Yeah, me too.” He leans over the railing beside Eddie and gazes down at the churning of the water under the boat’s motor. “Why are you back here? Most people like the front of the boat. That’s where everyone plays Titanic. You know, I’m the king of the world!” He spreads his arms wide and intentionally hits Eddie in the shoulder.
“Titanic?” Eddie says, hitting him right back. “Isn’t that shit like 20 years old? Who still cares about it?”
“I do, Eddie,” Richie clutches his chest. “Very deeply. It was released for home video on four VHS tapes. You don’t just get over something like that.”
“Well I like it back here,” Eddie says. “You can see where we’ve been.”
“Eddie, look, I think you made a mistake,” Richie says, before he can get too lost in Eddie’s eyes and what he sees through them. He pushes the $500 cash towards Eddie. “You left me this tip.”
“Yes,” Eddie says, pushing it right back. His hand lingers on Richie’s for a bit, then falls. “It wasn’t a mistake. You’re well worth it. More, in fact, but it’s all I had on me.”
“Eddie,” Richie sighs. God, he’s falling for a man who keeps $500 cash on him. Richie would be lucky to check his savings account and have that in it. He’d like to do something worthy of it. “Hey. What do you say we get outta here?”
“Umm,” Eddie says, staring at Richie like he’s crazy but he’s kinda into it. Either that or he’s about to get seasick again. “We’re docking soon, aren’t we?”
“Then what are you gonna do?” Richie says.
“Well,” Eddie considers. “Myra and I drove here together, and she has the car keys. So I’ll probably just get off and then get a cab back to - our house. And then… check the mail in our mailbox. And then.”
Eddie seems like he might be having trouble breathing normally, so Richie pats him on the back a few times, rubs his hand over it in slow circles. It does the trick and Eddie calms down enough to give him a slight nod, which Richie takes as agreement to getting the fuck off this cruise.
“Follow me.” Richie leads the way to where they keep the lifeboats. It’s a small cruise ship, and they only have a few lifeboats, bright orange fishing boat style ones that have to be manually lowered by a system of rope pulleys.
“Wait,” Eddie says as he catches sight of the lifeboats. “Aren’t you a server?
“Okay, ouch,” Richie says. “I can’t know what to do, because I’m only a server?”
“I didn’t say only a server,” Eddie says. “I just mean. You know. Like, I don’t know what to do either.”
“I’m just fucking with you, Eddie,” Richie says. “They train all the cruise staff to help in an emergency. Now, you must be this tall to ride this ride.” He hovers his hand in the air a few inches above Eddie’s head. “Sorry, shrimpy, I think you’re too short.”
“Fuck off,” Eddie pushes Richie aside and gets into the lifeboat. For all his talk, Richie hopes he can actually remember his training. He hasn’t ever had cause to use it before, and now seems like a perfect time as ever. He’s got the wind in his hair, $500 in his pocket, and an Eddie to impress.
Richie reaches up to get ahold of the rope tethering them to the ship and yanks it. It lowers his side incrementally, like crooked window blinds, and Eddie screams as he’s see-sawed in the air. Richie gives the rope another hearty tug to straighten them out, and they remain parallel to the water beneath them all the way until they splash gently down into it.
“Jesus, I can’t believe I forgot,” Eddie says, clearly panicked. Richie hasn’t untied them yet, but he supposes he could pull them back up if that’s what Eddie wanted. “Aren’t there any fucking life vests on this thing? I could’ve fucking drowned.”
Richie breathes a sigh of relief and unties them. There’s no going back now. He searches under his seat and throws the life vest stowed there for Eddie to catch. Unfortunately he doesn’t realize the strength and breadth of his own throw and the buttons on Stan’s shirt finally give up, the shirt ripping all the way open.
“Sorry, uh,” Richie says, holding the tatters of the fabric together so his heaving bosom isn’t out there for all to see. “This isn’t my shirt. “
“No, it’s okay,” Eddie says, leaning back comfortably now that he’s in no danger of drowning. His dark eyes travel the length of Richie’s body and Richie flushes hotly even though his nipples are out in the sea breeze. “I really don’t mind. You look - rugged. Handsome.”
“Oh,” Richie says, letting the sides of the shirt hang loose. “Well in that case.”
The shoreline is lit up with buildings and street lamps, and they’ll reach it in no time. Richie doesn’t want that, and he isn’t sure Eddie does, either. He takes his time paddling them to shore, the water lapping hypnotically against the sides of their boat. They could be the only two living people on this water.
“I could fall asleep out here,” Eddie says, his face tilted back towards the sky.
“Well, you did take a dramamine,” Richie says. “I’m surprised you have conked out yet.”
“No, I didn’t take it,” Eddie says, cracking his eyes open. He breathes through his nose the way only very sleepy people do, but his gaze is alert. “I didn’t end up needing it. I think I felt better, just with you there.”
“Me?” Richie says. He can’t wait to tell Ben that someone said he of all people had a calming, soothing presence.
“You know, that was the first time I’ve ever told anyone I’m gay,” Eddie says, contemplative after a peaceful silence. “Kinda wish it wasn’t to my wife.”
“You can tell me if you want,” Richie says.
“Okay,” Eddie clears his throat and straightens his back. “Richie, I’m gay.”
“Hi gay,” Richie says.
“Shut up,” Eddie says. “This is nice.”
Richie has to get some nervous, lusty energy out, which is difficult to do on such a small vessel. He either has to pounce on Eddie, which doesn’t seem viable, or stand up, so he chooses the less embarrassing option and clambers up onto his feet. It’s all worth it, as Eddie freaks the fuck out even though the boat barely rocks at all.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie gasps and clutches his hand to his chest. “You could’ve tipped us over.”
“We’re not gonna tip over, Eds, there’s only two of us,” Richie says.
“Well now it feels weird you’re standing and I’m sitting,” Eddie says.
“So stand up,” Richie teases.
Eddie grips the edges of the boat and closes his eyes, as if visualizing something. He strains, like there’s an invisible weight on top of him, then slumps back pitifully. “I can’t.”
Richie yanks him up by the life vest lapels and doesn’t let go until he’s sure Eddie is stable, but Eddie clutches at him anyway, falling against Richie’s bare chest. Something hard digs into Richie’s hip.
“Eddie, I've been wanting to ask you this ever since you whispered in my ear earlier,” Richie says. “Is that mouthwash in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
“Oh,” Eddie says, putting some space between them and leaving Richie feeling suddenly cold. “It is mouthwash.”
“I knew it!” Richie says.
“What?” Eddie shrieks. “Gum or mints don’t fucking cut it, okay, they’re only temporary solutions. I like to have fresh breath. Don’t you? What if you get kissed?”
“I don’t usually,” Richie says. “Get kissed.”
“Well here,” Eddie says. He takes a swig of his pocket mouthwash and passes it off to Richie like it’s a flask. Richie fills his mouth with it too and they swish together. Richie spits his out like a fountain stream, and to his surprise, Eddie turns it into a competition, spitting an impressive arc way higher and longer than Richie did. Richie pockets the mouthwash bottle, a memento for this night so he’ll never forget it, as if he could anyway.
They stand there, minty fresh breath puffing out onto the salty sea air, for a few silent moments, until Richie can’t stand it any longer.
“You’re gonna kiss me, right?” Richie says.”That’s what all this was about?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Come here.”
“If this boat’s a-rockin’- “
Eddie’s mouth is extra wet from the mouthwash, but so is Richie’s, and he tries not to drool all over Eddie’s face. The first taste of his lips is sharp and stings with residual alcohol, but beyond that it’s as sweet and minty as a York peppermint patty. Eddie’s kiss gives Richie full body goosebumps, it transports him to an orgasmic tundra on another plane of existence, it allows him to see through space and time.
“Okay,” Richie pulls back, but only just. “That’s probably better than my shrimp breath.”
“I told you,” Eddie says slyly. “You know, maybe I should take that tip back. It doesn’t feel right now.”
“No!” Richie begs. “Please, leave the money out of this. You can just give me another tip. The tip - “
“Of my dick, got it,” Eddie says. “Can we sit down again? I feel like I’m gonna die.”
“From just one kiss?” Richie says and Eddie viciously pokes him in a ticklish spot as a reward.
Richie holds Eddie’s hand until he’s seated comfortably, and he squeezes in next to him on the same seat, slinging an arm around him to keep him close. They’ve nearly reached the shoreline now, the bottom of the boat scraping against sand and rocks, and Richie lets the tide pull them where it will. He doesn’t want to help the moon end the night.
“Well,” Eddie says, patting his own chest. “I should probably, I don’t know, go deal with my life. Get these signed. I’m still technically a married man, so.”
Richie wants to be like, so? So what? Aren’t we all married to something in this sick sad bitch of a world, man? But he knows he can’t be like that. He sniffs and says, “Yeah. I should probably bring the boat back.”
Maybe Eddie is a fish transformed into man for just one night after all. It feels like such a fairytale that something so unbelievably romantic could happen to Richie. They’ll probably never see each other again.
“Give me your number,” Eddie says, reaching into his pocket to hand Richie his phone.
Richie gapes at him. He almost can’t believe what Eddie is asking.“You want to see me again?”
“Well, yeah,” Eddie insists. “Don’t you?”
“You’re not a fish, are you?” Richie says suspiciously, but he punches in his contact info on Eddie’s phone.
“No,” Eddie says slowly. “Are you?”
“Not yet,” Richie says.
Richie steps off the boat into the shallow waters, soaking his shoes and socks, but it’s worth it to pull Eddie the rest of the way ashore so that he may remain bone dry and lovely. He lifts Eddie up off the boat under his armpits and twirls him around in a half-circle before Eddie screams to set him down.
“You’ll call me?” Richie says. “And you’re rich so I can get fired from my job for stealing a lifeboat?”
“Yes,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t specify which question he’s answering. Richie hopes it’s both.
Eddie stands on his tiptoes and kisses Richie one more time. He’s still wearing his life vest, and Richie doesn’t have the heart to ask for it back. It’s something he can keep to remember this night by. When they break away, Eddie stands on the rocky beach and waits to see him off as Richie pushes the boat back out into the water.
“Put on a fucking life vest,” Eddie calls out over the sea breeze. “If you fucking drown I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“You’re so sweet,” Richie calls back. “I’ll never let go, Eds. I’ll never let go!”
Eddie’s response is drowned out by the distance between them and the lapping of the waves, but if he listens hard enough, Richie can hear it carried to him on the wind: “Fuck off!”
Richie can’t help his goofy smile, his entire heart bobbing and buoyed. Maybe this cruise ship job isn’t the worst thing in the world.
~*~
“Richie, it’s Ben, you better pick up. You’re definitely about to be fired. You know how Mike is - he’s not mad, just disappointed. You stole a lifeboat, and we think you kidnapped a passenger? The divorce guy? Oh god, unless he kidnapped you. Can you bring proof of that? If you can, you can probably keep your job. Unless, oh god, what if he murdered you? Or you murdered him. You don’t seem like the type of person that would kill, but isn’t that what everyone says? ‘Oh, he was such a nice guy, you’d never suspect he’d be capable of something like that’. Please don’t make me host a true crime podcast with Mike, Richie, I’m not strong enough. I’ll do it, but - wait. I think I can see you from here. Stan loaned me his binoculars. Are you guys - are you kissing? Richie, oh my god, I’m so happy for you. But you’re definitely fired. You’re gonna bring the boat back, right? I don’t wanna have to go get it. Please just bring it back. I’m really sorry. And congrats!”