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"There," Erik said, holding up the little wooden masterpiece he'd spent the past couple of idle afternoon hours whittling. "It's a sailboat. Or at least, it's supposed to be."
Charles, stretched out on the grass with the warm summer sun lulling him to sleep, opened one eye to gaze at it. A yawn broke his features. "It's a little lopsided," he pointed out, then smiling at his lover's slight frown. "I like it, though. I think it's unique."
His fingers traced over the lovely little imperfections; tiny splinters and uneven bumps, almost mirroring the steady roaring of the sea before them. "Keep it," Erik murmured, pressing a kiss to Charles' cheek. "It's safer in your hands than in mine."
"I'll add it to the collection," Charles smiled, setting the boat in the grass beside him. It would go next to the lighthouse Erik had surprised him with one morning a few weeks ago, upon realizing he'd forgotten their anniversary. He had spent all night crafting the thing, and while it leaned to one side ever-so-slightly, Charles would often spend hours at a time staring fondly at it.
He would never get tired of watching Erik's hands at work. They were elegant, as Erik was himself, but roughened up by years on the sea and in constant movement. It was an odd balance, but it suited a man like Erik perfectly. Every line on his palm, twisting around his fingers; every scar, he'd once told Charles, was a story. And he could recount so very many of them.
"Shall we head home?" Erik wondered aloud. It was more of an absent offer than anything else, but there was a storm brewing on the far horizon, and they had a couple of miles to walk back.
"I suppose," Charles sighed, staring up at the clouds again.