Page 48 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

Mike blinks, then releases a heavy breath through his nose. Smiles. While it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, it isn’t fake either. “Give me ten minutes to enjoy the water, okay? Then I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re going swimming?” Toby points a thumb at the crashing waves. “If you think that these are the right conditions for a pleasure swim, you are touched in the head, my friend.”

Mike’s smile grows by a margin. “Feel free to join me.”

“Thanks.” Toby takes another step away. “But no thanks. I’ll see you on land.”

Mike shrugs, keeps smiling.

Toby doesn’t watch when Mike shimmies out of his soaked pants and tosses them in the vague direction of the shore. As Toby continues towards the beach, he passes the pants which have come to float in the water, rocking back and forth with the changing current. Hopefully, Mike has the decency to keep his underwear on, but Toby wouldn’t put money on it.

He wades back onto dry ground and turns just in time to see Mike duck underneath a wave and emerge on the other side. Against the brilliantly blue expanse of the water, he seems small.

***

A loose gathering of palm trees and cypresses cowers against the dune that hides the beach from anyone who doesn’t know what to look for, herded in by white sand on one side and rocks on the other. In the fading light, they scour it for enough wood to keep a fire going for a while.

By the time Mike deftly arranges the sticks and branches into a pyramid, the ocean has partly swallowed the sun, its orange circle tinting the sky in a deep, rich shade of red. Instead of remarking on clichés, Toby lets himself enjoy the natural spectacle while he uses his army knife to open the bottle of wine Mike bought.

The fire catches within seconds, glowing brightly against the darkening beach, and they pass the bottle back and forth while the steaks are roasting over the flames. The wine isn’t anything special, a trace of acid lingering in Toby’s mouth after each sip, but the bottle is warm from their hands, the fire crackling merrily as the ocean rushes in the background. With his back against the trunk of a palm tree, the cool breeze of an approaching night stirring his hair, he can’t think of a place he’d rather be.

“This is surreal,” he says aloud. “Like a scene out of a movie. Here’s hoping it’s not The Beach.”

Mike moves to stoke the fire, sparks shooting up into the night. He glances over with a smile that lingers mostly around his eyes. “Again with the killing and dying.”

Mike has yet to put his shirt back on, and Toby finds himself distracted by the gleam of naked skin in the firelight. He returns his attention to the wine.

“It’s because these steaks are taking forever, and I get hangry easily.” Belying his own words, Toby relaxes further into the sand. Their hands brush as he passes the bottle over.

Mike’s smile grows more pronounced. “I promise it’ll be worth the wait.”

“It better be,” Toby says.

He isn’t quite sure what they’re talking about anymore, isn’t sure Mike knows, and at this particular moment, Toby simply doesn’t care. All he wants is to be right here, right now, the rich smell of cooked meat heavy in the air as he’s sharing a bottle of wine with Mike.

Just this.

***

Toby wakes up to the sound of waves and Mike’s face above him, inches away. Behind Mike, the sky is of a pale orange, the sun having yet to make it over the hill. The air is still chilly on Toby’s bare arms, his sleeping bag unzipped and pushed down to his waist.

He doesn’t move.

“Good morning,” Mike says into the space between them. There’s an unfamiliar tension around his eyes, his expression unreadable as he meets Toby’s gaze.

Toby shifts. His muscles protest at the movement, the sand underneath his back barely softened by the blanket they spread out before they went to sleep. “Good morning,” he echoes. “What time is it?”

“Some point in the morning.” Mike still doesn’t move, and neither does he follow the useless reply up with a smile. His breath is warm on Toby’s chin.

“Very helpful, thank you for clearing that up.” Even though Toby manages to make his voice sound even, there’s a weight on his chest, his throat tight and his mind foggy, thoughts sticky and wading through molasses. He doesn’t angle his body away when Mike reaches out, doesn’t move at all when Mike rests a broad palm against the side of his neck, but his mouth is still working. “If this is an attempt to throttle me, you’re going about it like an amateur. Honestly, Mike, after all that expensive training the government shoved down your throat, I would have expected more from you.”

More. Now there’s a word.

“Out of curiosity” —Mike’s hand slides lower, fingers dipping underneath the collar of Toby’s T-shirt— “just what does it take to shut you up for any length of time?”

“Severe physical pain,” Toby replies quickly. Still he can’t make himself move.

“Not the answer I was looking for.” With a chuckle that is hardly more than an exhalation, Mike shifts forward, his body coming to rest against Toby’s side. He’s warm, his eyes bright and clear, and when he dips his head, Toby intends to twist away and instead meets Mike halfway, mouths fitting together. Toby fists Mike’s T-shirt, the washed-out cotton soft under his fingers.

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