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It’s a sunny day, despite the fact that it’s October, and the unusually nice weather is what convinces Mike and Will to take the day off and ride all the way to Tomkins Cove, where they plan to spend the afternoon at a state park.
At first, Mike is completely opposed to the idea. But Will eventually wins him over by promising to bake whatever he wants, prepare sandwiches, and bring everything along for a picnic in the park.
And that’s how they end up more than an hour into their walk, Mike complaining about his aching arms and tired legs while still refusing to let Will carry anything heavier than the two foldable chairs.
“Fuck, I swear I’m about to collapse. Will, baby, we have to find somewhere to sit,” he says, drawing in a long, exaggerated breath.
“You’re so dramatic,” Will sighs, glancing back at Mike. “I told you I wanted to find a good spot. We didn’t come all this way just to throw ourselves under the nearest tree.”
“Well, that spot better be paradise. Flowers everywhere, sunshine, rainbows, and animals waiting to cuddle us like we’re in a Disney animation or something.”
Will stops walking to look at him, and Mike nearly crashes into his back. “Whoa, watch out.”
“Your mind never ceases to amaze me,” Will says, smirking.
They pick up their pace again after a while, and Mike doesn’t forget to brush against Will’s arm every now and then— it’s an old habit that has stuck with him since high school. He mostly does it to get Will’s attention, or simply to remind him that he’s right there beside him, even when there’s no real reason for it.
“How are you holding up?” Will asks, narrowing his eyes against the sun. He has his sunglasses with him, somewhere inside his bag, but he’s too lazy to stop and dig them out.
Mike doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his attention drifts toward a hedgehog rustling beneath a bush a few feet away.
“Earth to Mike,” Will says, waving a hand in front of him. “You still with me?”
“Oh. Sorry.” Mike finally looks back at him. “I got distracted.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“I mean, I can walk,” he continues, adjusting the bags in his hands. “But it’d be really fucking nice if we could settle down somewhere at some point.”
He gives Will a tired look, though there’s a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he’s hoping that will be enough to convince his husband.
At that, Will sighs, already knowing he’s lost. Mike has a particular look he uses when he knows he’s getting his way, and unfortunately, Will has never been very good at resisting it.
“Okay, okay,” he finally says, shaking his head. “Just give me five more minutes. I swear I’ll make up my mind.”
“Ugh, finally.” Mike lets out a long breath of relief.
They pick up their pace again, although Mike’s earlier complaints don’t exactly disappear. He continues to mutter under his breath about his aching arms and how they should have brought a car closer to the picnic spot, but there’s noticeably less misery in his voice now that he knows they’re actually stopping soon.
They walk for another few minutes, following the trail deeper into the park. The trees grow thicker around them, their leaves turning gold and orange in the October sunlight, while dry leaves crunch beneath their shoes with every step. Somewhere above them, birds call back and forth between the branches, and every now and then a squirrel darts across the trail before disappearing into the undergrowth.
At one point, Will notices a flash of reddish-brown farther ahead and slows down.
“Mike.”
“What?”
“Look.”
Mike follows his gaze, and for a moment they both stand there watching a fox move quietly between the trees. It pauses just long enough to glance in their direction before slipping behind a cluster of bushes and disappearing from sight.
Mike stares after it. “Well,” he says eventually, “that was worth the walk.”
“You were literally complaining five seconds ago.”
“I've changed my mind. You don’t get to see a fox everyday.” he says, shrugging.
“Fair enough.” Will lets out a laugh.
They continue on, and before long, the sound of running water reaches them through the trees. They keep walking until the trail opens up, and suddenly the trees give way to a wide view of the river stretching beyond the shoreline, the sunlight scattered across its surface while the wooded hills rise in the distance.
Mike stops. The bags hanging from his hands suddenly seem completely forgotten.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
Will looks out at the view, and for once, he doesn't have anything clever to say either. The whole landscape seems almost unreal after the long walk, with the blue of the water framed by trees already beginning to change with the season and the warm afternoon light settling over everything.
Mike looks at him, then back at the river.
“Okay,” he admits. “I take back everything I said.”
Will smirks. “See?”
“Shh. Don't ruin the moment.”
Will laughs once again, and Mike finally starts walking toward the river again, this time without a single complaint.
Once they reach the riverbank, he immediately sets the bags down with a groan, as though he’s just completed a particularly difficult expedition. Will unfolds the two chairs while Mike starts pulling everything out of the bags, arranging the blanket, sandwiches, fruit, and containers of food across the grass.
He places the drinks within easy reach, checks that nothing has been crushed during the walk, and finally drops onto one of the chairs with a deeply satisfied sigh. Will takes the other seat beside him, stretching his legs out in front of him as they both look over the river, the effort of getting there already beginning to feel worth it.
“You know, I’m not usually the biggest fan of hiking or spending hours wandering around in the woods,” Will says, glancing over at him. “But this…”
He gestures vaguely toward the river, the trees, and the hills stretching out beyond them, as if he can’t quite find the words to capture the whole view. “This is really beautiful.”
Mike smiles to himself and leans down toward the cooler sitting beside his chair, pulling out a bottle of beer.
“Oh, for sure,” he says, twisting off the cap.
They sit in silence for a while. Will closes his eyes, letting himself relax in the warmth of the afternoon sun, while Mike takes occasional sips from his beer and looks over at him every now and then.
Eventually, Mike speaks. “If you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would you pick?”
Will opens his eyes and turns his head toward him. “What?”
“Anyone,” Mike repeats, gesturing vaguely with his bottle. “Dead or alive. You get one dinner with them. Who are you choosing?”
Will stares at him for a second before letting out a quiet laugh. “That’s what you’ve been thinking about this whole time?”
“No.” Mike takes another sip. “I was just enjoying the view, then I came up with the question.”
“Right.” Will shakes his head, settling back into his chair. “You really do come up with the strangest questions.”
“You don't have to answer.” Mike simply shrugs.
“No, I’m answering.” Will turns his head toward him again, already thinking about his answer. “Give me a second.”
He considers the question for a moment, his eyes drifting back toward the river. “Caravaggio.”
“Who?” Mike asks, raising an eyebrow.
Will rolls his eyes, already knowing this was going to happen. “You don’t know Caravaggio? The painter?”
“Well, I’m not an art nerd like you, I’m just a normal guy.” Mike says, grinning as he finishes his sentence.
“He was a pretty fascinating person,” Will continues, ignoring Mike’s reply. “I’d want to ask him about his paintings, obviously, but mostly I’d want to know why he killed that man.”
Mike’s smile fades away. “You know, when I said you can pick anyone, I wasn't expecting you to pick a murderer.”
“But he was also a painter.”
“A psychopathic painter.”
Will rolls his eyes, but there’s a quiet amusement in his expression.
“Fine. Pick someone else,” Mike says, taking another sip of his beer. “Someone I might actually recognize.”
Will looks at him again, clearly a little offended by the suggestion, though he can’t quite hide how amused he is. “Someone mainstream?”
“Maybe.”
“You're impossible to please.”
“I just want to know who you'd choose if you weren't allowed to give me an art-history answer.”
Will shakes his head, settling back into his chair. “Fine. Give me a minute.”
A few seconds pass before Will speaks again. “Okay. I’ve got it.”
Mike turns toward him, giving him his full attention.
“I don’t want to be predictable and say Bowie or Robert Smith. I actually thought about this one.”
Mike lets out a quiet laugh. “All right. Now I really want to know.”
Will glances at him, looking quietly pleased with himself. “Jackie Kennedy.”
“The First Lady?”
“Yeah.” Will turns a little more toward him. “Imagine how interesting it would be to actually talk to her. She was around for so much history, and she probably knows some insane gossip about the Kennedy family.”
Mike listens, looking more convinced by the answer than he expected to be.
“First of all, you could ask her about the assassination,” Will continues. “You know… How the JFK’s head exploded. How did she feel while trying to hold his head together.”
“And second, I’d want to know about the president’s sister. The one who was lobotomized.”
There it is again, that slightly morbid curiosity Will has always had. Mike has been used to it for so long that it barely surprises him anymore. Actually, he might be into it.
Will had these tendencies even back in middle school, when he came back to life. After coming back, he wanted to visit his ‘grave’ and see the pictures of his fake body.
It never really went away, either. Even now, after all these years, he could still come out with something like that completely casually.
Mike takes another sip of his beer, glancing at his husband with a quiet sort of fondness. “Rosemary, right? I forgot about her…”
Will nods quietly, settling back into his chair. “Anyway. Who would you pick?”
Mike doesn’t answer right away. His attention drifts toward the river, following something on the water for a moment, though it’s difficult to tell whether he’s actually watching it or simply thinking. He turns the beer bottle slowly between his hands.
“Um. I don’t know.” He pauses, then glances over. “George Lucas, probably.”
“I’d want to ask him about the whole process of making Star Wars. How much of it he had figured out from the beginning, how he came up with the Force and the Jedi and all that. Whether he always knew where the story was going.”
“That would be pretty interesting,” Will admits.
Mike nods, looking back toward the water. “I mean, imagine sitting across from the person who created all of that. You could ask him about the original trilogy, the things he wanted to do but couldn’t, what he thought would happen to the universe after he was gone. I’d probably have about a thousand questions!”
“Would Jar Jar Binks be among them?”
Mike lets out a sigh. “Well… Eventually.”
Will smiles into his drink. “I knew it.”
“I’m not saying he’d be my first question,” Mike says, though the faint amusement in his voice suggests he has thought about it before. “But I’d like to know what he was trying to do there.”
“Apparently, he was trying to test the limits of everyone’s patience.”
Mike laughs, lowering his bottle to his knee. “You know, I actually think the character makes more sense when you consider the larger mythology.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. That’s the concerning part.”
Mike shakes his head, still smiling, and leans back in his chair. For a while, he continues talking about the original films, about world-building and mythology and how strange it must have been to create something that eventually became so much bigger than its creator. Will listens, occasionally asking a question, occasionally making some dry comment that Mike pretends not to appreciate.
When he eventually mentions the sequels, Will glances over at him. “Would you ask him about J. J. Abrams?”
“Maybe not at dinner.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d like to enjoy the evening.”
Will lets out a quiet laugh, and Mike nudges his shoe against Will’s beneath the blanket.
“Besides,” he adds, “I’d rather hear him talk about what he imagined the future would look like before everyone else started adding to it.”
Will studies him for a moment, his expression softening. “That’s actually a good answer.”
He glances down at Mike’s empty beer bottle, which has been resting beside his chair for the past few minutes. “Finished?”
Mike turns it slightly in his hand, checking for any possibility of another sip before setting it down in the grass. “Sadly.”
“Good. I made you walk all the way out here, so I’d hate for you to get too comfortable.”
“Um, excuse you? I carried half the picnic.”
“Most of the picnic.” Will smiles and reaches behind him for the container tucked into one of the bags.
Mike notices immediately. “Is that the tiramisu?”
“Maybe.”
“Will.”
“What?”
“You know I can see it.”
Will brings the container out and sets it carefully on the blanket between them.
“I thought we could have dessert.”
Mike watches him undo the lid, revealing the neat layers beneath the dusting of cocoa. His expression shifts into something softer, warmer, and far too pleased with itself.
Mike stands first, stretching his legs after sitting for so long. He offers Will a hand, and Will takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up before they both settle onto the blanket. Mike folds one arm beneath his head while Will lies beside him, their shoulders nearly touching, the dessert placed between them.
Mike takes a bite, then closes his eyes for a moment. “Oh, that’s good.”
Will tries not to look too expectant. “Just good?”
Mike turns his head toward him. “Very good. Outstanding, actually.”
Will’s cheeks warm slightly, and he looks down as he takes a piece for himself. “You don’t have to exaggerate.”
“I’m not.” Mike shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “You made tiramisu, brought all this food, planned the whole thing, and somehow convinced me that walking through the woods for an hour was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.”
“Yeah but you complained the entire time.”
“I wouldn’t call it complaining.”
“What would you call it, then?”
“Constructive criticism..?” Mike says, smiling to himself.
Will laughs under his breath, and Mike watches him for a moment, his expression turning fond. “You look very pleased with yourself.”
“I am.”
“Well, you should be.”
The compliment catches him more than it should. Will glances over, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Are you trying to make me blush?”
“Is it working?”
“Unfortunately.”
Mike smiles, then leans closer. His hand settles lightly against Will’s cheek, thumb brushing once beneath his eye before he kisses him. It isn’t hurried, nor is it anything more than a warm, lingering expression of gratitude, but Will still feels himself soften beneath it. When Mike pulls away, he stays close enough that their noses nearly brush.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
Will’s eyes flick briefly toward his mouth before returning to his face. “For the tiramisu?”
“For the tiramisu,” he says. “And the picnic. And making me leave the house.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And for being extremely handsome while doing all of it.”
Will lets out a quiet, embarrassed laugh and nudges Mike’s shoulder with his own. “Compliment me one more time, and I’m never stepping into the kitchen.”
“Worth it.”
Mike takes another bite, looking entirely satisfied with himself. Will tries to focus on his own dessert, but the warmth in his face refuses to go away.
After a moment, Mike reaches across him for another forkful.
“Honestly, I think this might be the best part of the day.”
Will turns toward him. “Not the beautiful view that’s sitting in front of us? Not the fox we saw earlier?”
“Those are beautiful too.”
“And yet the tiramisu wins?”
Mike considers it, then gently taps his fork against Will’s.
“The tiramisu, followed closely by the man who made it.”
Will rolls his eyes, though he’s smiling too much for it to be convincing. He settles back onto the blanket, shoulder pressing against Mike’s as they continue eating, the river moving quietly beyond them and the afternoon stretching out with nowhere else they need to be.
By the time they finish the tiramisu, the sun has shifted enough that the blanket is no longer completely covered in light. The warmth remains, though, softened by the breeze coming off the river, and neither of them seems particularly interested in moving.
Mike has retrieved his book from beside the picnic bags and settled onto his back, one knee bent and the other stretched out beneath the blanket. At some point, without either of them discussing it, his head ends up resting against Will’s thigh, who ends up adjusting himself slightly to make him more comfortable, and Mike responds with nothing more than a quiet hum before returning to his reading.
For a while, Will watches the river.
Then he reaches for his sketchbook. He starts with the shape of Mike’s head, the loose fall of his hair, the angle of his cheek where it rests against Will’s leg. Mike turns a page every few minutes, occasionally shifting his thumb along the edge of the book. The movement is small enough that Will barely notices it at first, too occupied with trying to capture the exact line of his jaw.
Eventually, Mike’s hand goes still. His book remains open against his chest, one finger tucked between the pages to hold his place, while his breathing evens out. His face relaxes in sleep, all the little expressions he wears throughout the day disappearing one by one. The crease that sometimes forms between his eyebrows is gone. So is the faintly amused look he gets whenever he thinks he has made a particularly clever observation.
Will keeps sketching.
He has drawn Mike more times than he could count, in notebooks, on scraps of paper, in the margins of things he was supposed to be paying attention to. He knows the familiar details of him by heart, the slight unevenness of his eyebrows, the way his mouth softens when he’s tired, the small facial scar on his chin— thanks to the bullies from middle school— that Will has kissed more times than he could possibly remember.
Still, there is always something new to notice.
Perhaps it’s because Mike looks different when he sleeps. Not younger, exactly, but unguarded. The world seems to ask less of him in moments like this. He isn’t thinking about work, or deadlines, or whether he remembered to answer an email. He isn’t trying to make Will laugh or defend some obscure opinion about a book. He’s simply there, warm and familiar, trusting Will enough to fall asleep with his head in his lap in the middle of an afternoon.
Will looks down at him and feels that old, almost ridiculous tenderness settle somewhere beneath his ribs.
This is his husband.
After all these years, after every ordinary day and every difficult one, after all the versions of themselves they’ve had to become and leave behind, Mike is still the person Will wants beside him for things like this. A quiet afternoon, a half-finished sketch, the sound of water moving past them. Nothing particularly remarkable, and yet he can’t imagine wanting anything else.
He lowers his pencil to the page again.
Somewhere around the time he finishes the outline of Mike’s hand, Mike stirs.
His fingers twitch against the book. He shifts his head slightly, blinks up at the sky, and then yawns so deeply that Will pauses with his pencil hovering above the paper.
He brings one hand over his face. “How long was I out?”
“About half an hour.”
“Really?”
“Give or take.”
Mike lowers his hand and looks up at him, still visibly caught somewhere between sleep and waking. Will returns to his sketch, adding a few careful lines to the page while his husband slowly gathers his thoughts.
For a little while, neither of them says anything.
Mike remains where he is, his head still resting against Will’s leg, while he continues drawing. The river makes a soft, constant sound beyond them. Somewhere farther up the bank, a bird calls once and then falls quiet.
Will glances down at the open book lying across Mike’s chest. “Was the book so boring you fell asleep?”
“Huh?”
“The book.”
Mike follows his gaze, as though he has forgotten it’s there. He lifts it slightly, checking the cover. “Jane Eyre?”
Will looks at him. “Yeah.”
“I mean, a little,” Mike admits. “But it’s more depressing than boring.”
“Yeah. Fair, I guess.”
He lets the book fall back against his chest and closes his eyes again, though this time he doesn’t appear to be falling asleep.
Will keeps sketching, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.
Mike’s eyes drift toward the sketchbook in his hands. “Are you drawing me?”
Will keeps his attention on the page. “No.”
“Will.”
“What?”
“You’re holding a sketchbook, looking directly at me, and moving a pencil around.”
“I could be drawing the view.”
“Except you’re not.”
Will adds another line to the page.
Mike lifts his head slightly, trying to get a better look. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not finished.”
“That has never stopped you before.”
He reaches for the sketchbook, but Will pulls it out of reach, holding it against his chest. “Absolutely not.”
Mike stares at him for a second, then shifts onto his side. “Give me the sketchbook.”
“Michael.” Will shoots him a warning glare.
That only seems to encourage Mike. He reaches again, and Will twists away, keeping the sketchbook tucked safely against his stomach. The movement makes the blanket bunch beneath them, and Mike lets out a quiet laugh as he leans over him.
“If I’m your muse, I should have the right to see it!”
“You have no such right.”
Mike makes another attempt, but Will catches his wrist. “Stop trying to steal my things.”
“Then stop hiding them from me.”
“I’m not hiding it. I’m protecting it.”
“From me?”
“Yeah, especially from you.”
Mike’s smile widens. He lets his weight settle more comfortably over Will, bracing himself on one arm while the other slips toward Will’s side.
He notices a second too late. “Michael, don’t you dare.”
“Don’t dare what?”
Mike’s fingers press into Will’s stomach, and he immediately jerks beneath him, letting out an undignified laugh as he tries to push Mike away without dropping the sketchbook.
“Stop, stop, stop!”
“You’re very ticklish for someone who claims to be so dignified.”
“I am dignified. Get off!”
He laughs and continues just long enough to make Will squirm, one hand still clutching the sketchbook while the other tries unsuccessfully to block him.
“Give up already.”
“Never!”
“Then you leave me no choice.”
“Get off me, you animal.” Will’s laughter grows louder, and he finally manages to catch Mike by the shoulders, pushing him back enough to breathe.
“Mike. I mean it.”
“All right, all right.”
Mike finally stops, though he doesn’t move away immediately, remaining half sprawled over Will, looking down at him with an expression of such obvious satisfaction that Will narrows his eyes.
“God, you’re awful.”
“And yet...”
“And yet nothing.”
Mike leans down and presses a deliberately wet kiss to the side of Will’s neck.
He recoils at once. “Oh, that is disgusting.”
Mike laughs against his skin before lifting his head. “I had to get affectionate.”
“You slobbered on me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Will wipes at his neck with the back of his hand, glaring at him despite the smile threatening to appear.
Mike finally shifts off him and settles onto the blanket, looking entirely pleased with himself.
“Fine,” he says, reaching for his book. “I’ll just steal the sketchbook when you’re asleep.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I absolutely would.”
“You’d have to get past me first.”
He opens Jane Eyre again. “I’ve already proven I can overpower you.”
“You tickled me. That isn’t the same thing.”
Mike sticks his tongue out like a little kid.
Will shakes his head, still smiling as he sits up and brushes a few stray blades of grass from the edge of his sketchbook. Mike moves with him, and soon they’re sitting side by side again, their shoulders brushing whenever either of them shifts.
Will returns to his drawing while Mike pretends to read.
Neither of them makes much progress.
“Well,” Mike begins, closing the book in his hands.
Will sets his sketchbook aside and turns toward Mike, watching as he slips a finger between the pages to keep his place before placing it on the blanket. There’s a thoughtful look on his face, as though he’s been waiting for the right moment to bring something up.
“Remember last month, when we were talking about our next vacation?”
Will takes a moment to think. He vaguely remembers the conversation happening over dinner, or maybe lunch, though the details have blurred together by now.
“Yeah, I do. For Thanksgiving, right?”
“Yeah!” he says, a little too eagerly. “I was looking at a few places. What about Mexico?”
Will turns toward him. “Mexico?”
“Why not?” Mike asks, settling more comfortably against the blanket. “Somewhere warm, with a beach and actual sunshine. We could spend a few days doing absolutely nothing, go swimming, eat good food, wander around markets. Find some little restaurant near the water”
He seems to warm to the idea as he goes, gesturing lightly with one hand.
“And we could take a boat out somewhere, or visit some old ruins if you felt like doing something cultural. You could take photographs, sketch the buildings. I could sit in the shade with a book and complain about the heat.”
“You’d complain about the heat?”
“I’m sure I’d find something.”
Will smiles, imagining it despite himself. The blue water, the warmth, the two of them with nowhere they needed to be and no reason to check the time. “You know what, that actually sounds nice.”
Mike’s face brightens. “Then it’s settled?”
“It’s settled,” Will confirms. “Assuming we can actually agree on where to go in Mexico.”
“We can work on the details later.”
“Of course we can.”
Mike looks satisfied with the decision despite the fact that they’ve done little more than name a country. He reaches for his book again but doesn’t open it, leaving it resting loosely in his lap as they sit together in the quiet.
For a while, neither of them says anything. The afternoon has begun to soften around them, the sunlight turning warmer across the river and the trees on the opposite bank. Will looks down at their things scattered across the blanket, the empty dessert container, the abandoned forks, his sketchbook lying open beside his pencil.
Then he glances at Mike. “Are you glad we took today off?”
Mike looks over, and for a moment, he seems to consider the question seriously. Then he reaches across the small space between them and takes Will’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Yeah,” he says. “Definitely.”
His thumb moves slowly over Will’s knuckles.
“You know I love our life,” he continues. “I really do. But New York can feel a little smothering sometimes.”
Will gives him a small, understanding smile. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
Mike glances toward the river again. “It’s nice to get away from everything for a few hours.”
Will squeezes his hand. “Even if I made you walk through the woods.”
“Especially because you made me walk through the woods.”
“Your sentence doesn’t even make sense?”
“I didn’t want it to make sense.”
Will laughs quietly, and Mike smiles at the sound. They remain like that for another moment, hands joined between them, neither feeling the need to fill the silence.
Eventually, Will looks toward the lowering sun.
“Speaking of getting away from things, I think we should probably start packing up before traffic gets terrible.”
Mike sighs, though there’s no real resistance in it. “I suppose we should… Nothing ever lasts forever, am I right?”
Will rolls his eyes affectionately, letting go of his hand and beginning to gather the forks and empty containers.
Mike folds the blanket carefully, shaking a few stray leaves and pieces of grass from it before placing it into one of the bags. They move around each other easily, passing things back and forth without needing to ask, their shoulders brushing now and then as they collect the remains of the afternoon.
Mike puts the lid back on the cooler and checks the area around them one last time. “Did we leave anything?”
“Only your dignity.”
“Oh, I lost that somewhere around the second hill.”
Will picks up his sketchbook and slides it safely into his bag. “Probably for the best.”
Mike takes the heavier bags before Will can reach for them, settling the straps over his shoulder with an exaggerated sigh. “You can carry the chairs.”
“I was already planning to.”
“Good. I like when we divide responsibilities fairly.”
“You carried everything here.”
“Mind you, I’m still carrying everything back.”
“Because you won’t let me help, asshole.”
“Well, I don’t want you to hurt a muscle or something. Because if you do, you’ll complain about it for the next couple of days, and I don’t wanna hear about it.”
Will looks at his husband. “You know me very well.”
“I’ve had some time practice.” Mike says, winking.
They begin walking back toward the trail. The path seems less demanding on the way back. Perhaps it’s because they’re no longer carrying the anticipation of reaching the river, or perhaps because the afternoon has settled pleasantly into their bodies, leaving them relaxed and pleasantly tired.
Mike walks beside Will with the bags hanging from one shoulder, occasionally brushing against him when the trail narrows. Will carries the chairs and keeps one hand free, which Mike eventually finds without looking.
They walk quietly for a while.
The trees shift overhead as the sunlight filters through the branches, catching on the last stubborn leaves and turning them gold. Somewhere behind them, the river continues moving through the landscape, indifferent to their departure.
Will glances back once, taking in the glimpse of water between the trees.
Mike notices. “Already missing it?”
“Maybe.”
“We can come back.”
Will looks at him. “Next time, you’re not allowed to complain about anything.”
Mike considers that, his expression solemn. “I can’t promise that.”
Will shakes his head, smiling as they continue down the trail, their joined hands swinging gently between them.