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Rust appreciates Marty’s backyard a lot more now that he can get in and out of the lawn chairs by himself, now that he doesn’t have to rely on Marty to bend down to put bug spray on him. Now that he can build a real fucking fire. Marty has a fucking fire pit. Useless piece of shit.
It’s too hot out for a fire. Rust doesn’t give a fuck. He just likes the act of building it, lighting it, smelling the smoke. He sits far enough back that he doesn’t overheat. He’d be sweating no matter where he sits.
His belly is pleasantly full from dinner, steak and corn Marty cooked on the grill. Rust missed fresh sweet corn in Alaska, not that he’d ever admit that out loud.
Marty’s footsteps are heavy on the grass as he approaches. He never really learned how to stop moving like an announcement. Rust looks up, considers smiling at him. He settles for gesturing at the other lawn chair.
“Thought you were gonna let one of the girls at the beauty school cut your hair today,” Marty says as he lowers himself into the chair.
Rust rolls his eyes. Mary Helen gave him a trim. “I did.”
Marty reaches out and touches the ends of Rust’s hair. “Might have her use scissors next time.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Rust says.
He doesn’t mind Marty’s touch. It’s affectionate under the teasing, less bite than there once would have been. They do that now. Touch. Kiss. Get off together. It’s just unusual that they do any of them outside.
Marty squeezes Rust’s shoulder. Fuck it. Ain’t nothin’ out here but them and the mosquitos. And the cicadas. Frogs. Crickets. Can’t none of them talk, so Rust figures it’ll be fine.
The crack of an opening can turns Rust’s attention back to Marty. If he watches Marty’s throat work, well. That’s his business.
Marty holds out a second beer to Rust. Rust takes stock of himself. He shakes his head.
“Nah. I feel good. Don’t need to alter my mental state.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Marty asks, put-upon. They’ve been carrying on less than six months, and he already sounds like an exasperated spouse.
Rust shrugs. “Well, think about it. Think about the purpose of alcohol. People ingest small amounts of mind-altering poison to cope with the crushing reality of the human condition.”
“Jesus Christ, Rust,” Marty groans. His blue eyes sparkle. “Shut the fuck up, man.”
Rust smirks and leans back in his chair. “Make me, Marty.”
Marty drops the other beer can to the ground. “I would if I thought that chair could take both our weight.”
The thing is, Marty’s gotten kinda heavy. Stocky, sturdy, weighs Rust down into the mattress. Pretty much the opposite of the way Rust has turned to bone and sinew. He’s soft under Rust, over him, beside him. Rust likes it.
“All I’m hearin’ are excuses,” Rust challenges.
Marty shakes his head, takes a few swallows of his beer. He sets the can in the grass next to the other one and stands up slow. He groans, stretches. “You’re a pain in my ass, Rust.”
Rust looks Marty up and down. “We ain’t even worked up to that yet, but I’d be real careful with you.”
When he wants to, Marty can move fast. His hand is cold on Rust’s jaw, damp from the condensation on his beer can. He tastes like cheap hops and salt from dinner. Rust leans forward and grabs onto Marty’s collar.
“C’mere,” Marty says.
He hauls Rust up, and Rust lets him, helps him. Being pressed against Marty feels good. Marty gets an arm around Rust’s waist. When he groans, it rumbles through both of them.
“You ‘bout ready to go inside?” Rusts asks. He slips his hand underneath Marty’s shirt to tip the odds in his favor.
Marty sighs. “The fire. You go in. I’ll put it out.”
Rust shakes his head. “I built it. I’ll put it out.” He’s not all busted up anymore. He doesn’t need Marty fucking babying him.
“Let me try that again,” Marty says. He tugs at Rust’s ponytail. “You go in and wash off that bug spray for me so I can put my mouth wherever I want, and I’ll put out the fire. How’s that?”
It’s a direct manipulation of Rust’s weak spots, but he’ll allow it. “Fine. But you shower when you get in too. And bring in the trash from out here.”
Marty laughs. “Sorry, did I get remarried when I wasn’t looking?”
Rust doesn’t know why that sticks in his craw, but he does know that he doesn’t fucking like it. He pulls himself out of Marty’s arms.
“‘Course not. We’re just buddies out here, right?” Rust’s tone is hard, bitter.
Marty pinches the bridge of his nose. “When in the hell did I say that, Rust, huh?”
Rust shakes his head and turns toward the house. “Didn’t have to say it.”
He makes it two steps before Marty grabs his arm. “Don’t fucking hit me, alright? Just, just let me say somethin’.”
Rust strongly considers hitting him anyway, but he doesn’t. “Say it, then.”
Marty loosens his grip until it’s a gentle touch. “So that was a bad joke. I was just makin’ fun ‘cause you were bein’ all prissy, but I didn’t mean what you think. You’re not my damn buddy. I’ve had a lot of buddies. Never put one’s dick in my mouth, and I sure as hell never kissed one. Alright?”
As far as speeches go, it’s not much of one, but if Rust wanted speeches, he’d be warming another man’s bed. He sighs. “Alright. You gonna shower? And bring the trash in?”
“Yes, sir,” Marty says. “And I’ll set the coffee maker.”
Rust knew Marty was a piss poor husband, and he took up with him anyway. This is what progress looks like, he reckons.
“Fine. I’ll see you in a minute.”
Marty leans in for a kiss. Rust thinks about giving him his cheek, but he doesn’t. Effort needs to be rewarded. And when he takes a second kiss and a third, that’s his reward for being the bigger man.