365 Days (and Counting)
Rodney turns over and yawns and rubs his right eye with the pad of his thumb and thinks: that dent in the pillow is from John's head-John, who's out running because his knee's been better the past couple of weeks; who will make Rodney coffee when he gets back, if Rodney hasn't gotten there first; who will crowd Rodney up against the kitchen counter and bite at his jaw, or else come find Rodney in bed, if he's still lying here; who will kiss him sweetly, tasting like water and salt and promises; he thinks: it's been a year. It's been a year.
* * *
The sound of a dog barking jerks Rodney awake-the Dramamine he'd taken before getting on the ferry in Hyannis had obviously knocked him out shortly after he'd found a seat, and he looks around, blinking, at the people in shorts and rugged sandals, the dogs on leashes, the backpacks and duffel bags and the ocean rushing by.
* * *
John's not downstairs when Rodney gets there, even though he'd taken his time getting out of bed and brushing his teeth and determining that yesterday's khakis and a fresh t-shirt are an acceptable combination for a Thursday morning.
The house is quiet and still, and Rodney walks through the kitchen and the living room. Cash's leash is missing, and John's running shoes, and Rodney lets his fingers light on the stubborn tomato sauce stain on the counter, the postcard stuck to the freezer door, the chewed pencil next to the phone; he drags his palm along the back of the couch, and it's exactly the way John slid his hand up Rodney's thigh the night before, firm, pushing hard enough that Rodney could feel the shape of his palm against skin and muscle, taking him in hand, watching Rodney's cock in his fist while Rodney watched his face-the soft curve of his mouth, the faint flush high on his cheek.
* * *
Rodney jitters through his first few days on island. It's too quiet. It's too dark at night. It's too damp, and the fog is eerie and unsettling and kind of claustrophobic, and everything's unfamiliar, and he thinks, as he stares dumbly at the two beach chairs propped up against the wall next to the cottage's front door, that maybe he doesn't know how to be on vacation. He drinks too much coffee and stays up too late and he's exhausted, really exhausted, but he still can't sleep-he lies in bed and listens to the strange nighttime echoes of boats and water, and his head's full of numbers that don't add up to anything at all.
And the not-sleeping must be getting to him, because one minute he's concentrating on the feeling of cool, wet sand between his toes, and the next he's talking to someone-a tall, male, drawling someone who's the only other person on the beach-and Rodney has no idea how he got here.
The next morning, he finds a crumpled scrap of paper in his pocket and blearily reads the smudged print: ESPRESSO CAFE, 9:30. It's already after 9, and he hurries in spite of himself, and when he finds where he's going, the same guy's there, waiting for him. They have a coffee date, apparently, he and the guy-John?-who's as faded and well-worn as if Rodney really had dreamed him up, a little gray and fuzzy and frayed around the edges, though he seems to snap into sharper focus, somehow, when he spots Rodney, when he smiles at him.
* * *
Rodney doesn't want to panic, but it's well past when John should be back, now, and before he can think any more about it, he's grabbing his fleece and the car keys and his cell phone, just in case; he's hurrying out the back door and heading for the Wagoneer, because he is in no way ready to lose all of this. Any of it. It's only been a year, he's only had a year, and he wants so much more.
His hand's on the door handle when he hears clamshells grinding under a heel, and then the dog's rushing past, and Rodney turns to see John following, jogging toward him, jogging right up into his space. He's glowing, alive and whole and happy, and Rodney fumbles the keys and phone, lets them fall to the ground and pulls John into the shade and interrupts whatever he's saying about the run feeling good, about how he wanted to keep going for a bit-kisses him hard and holds on too tightly, probably, and doesn't let go.
"Did you shower yet?" John asks when Rodney lets him up for air, crushed close enough that Rodney can feel how warm and hard he is.
"Waited for you," Rodney tells him, pressing one more kiss to John's grinning mouth. Waited a long time for you, he thinks.