Chapter 6

SIX

S imon wakes up to a heavy arm wrapped around his hips, a broad hand splayed across the flat of his stomach, and a fuzzy cat curled up between his spread knees. The air outside is quiet now, aside from drips of water pattering through the old metal gutters and pouring down the cliffs towards the ocean. It's peaceful, for a moment—the warmth of another body pressed against his, the gentle sounds of day-old rain—and Simon is half-tempted to close his eyes and go back to sleep.

"You're awake," Bruce murmurs into his shoulder, his whiskery cheeks sending goosebumps across Simon's naked body.

"I am," Simon whispers back.

"Did you sleep alright?" Bruce asks, but Simon barely hears over the rushing of blood in his eardrums as Bruce drags his hand from Simon's stomach, to his hips, to the hairy weight of his thigh.

"I– I did," Simon manages, the tail end of it turning into a wordless keen as Bruce bites down on the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

"This okay?" Bruce breathes. It's still dark in the house with only the faint stream of sunlight brightening the place up, so Bruce's hand is little more than a shadow against Simon's pale skin.

"Yeah, Bruce," Simon says. "Anything."

He eats Bruce out for maybe an hour, his face and fingers dripping with the other man's arousal, and by the time they've both come—Bruce, twice—the sun has fully risen and they need another shower. They don't really fit in the microscopic stall together, but once Simon falls to his knees and licks Bruce clean, neither of them can be fucked to care.

Once they're both washed and dried Bruce offers Simon a clean shirt, and Simon can't resist accepting, pulling Bruce's too-big long-sleeved shirt over his head and relishing in the crisp scent. They get dressed in near-silence, save for the cat—who Bruce says is named Davey Jones—rubbing all over Simon's ankles and purring up a storm comparable to last night's.

"What are we doing today?" Simon asks and runs his fingers lightly over the cat's spine. Just the words remind him, after hours of intimacy, of holding each other close, that they're on a deadline, and Bruce's best case scenario is if Simon leaves for good.

"Seeing the town," Bruce says, just as quiet as always. "Gonna show you what feeding tourism could ruin."

Simon swallows hard. Bruce tips a scoop of kibble into a bowl and unlocks a smaller panel on the door for Davey Jones. The cat comes trotting up and buries its face in the bowl. Bruce watches it for a moment and then, when he seems satisfied, grabs keys and a beanie from the hooks by the door.

"Ready?" he asks after picking up the large cooler from the kitchen. Simon is— his boots are on, his scarf wound around his neck—but he knows, once they leave this house, Bruce will be different. He'll slide a cigarette between his lips (which Simon won't pretend he isn't attracted to, especially after seeing Bruce's mouth around his cock this morning) and his focus will return to the task at hand: stopping Simon at all costs.

"Why do you live on the edge of a cliff?" Simon asks instead of answering, peering out the window facing the ocean. "Why don't you live in town? And don't give me a made up answer, like that it's close to the docks. We had to drive a full ten minutes to get there even from here, and Caerlloyd Harbor is barely twenty minutes wide."

The sea outside is wild; it's choppy after yesterday's storm and the beach—if he could call the rocky shore a beach at all—is covered entirely in driftwood and rubbish. Everything the storm took from the town it gave back in droves, smashed on the stones that keep the waves at bay.

"For the same reason I fucked you last night," Bruce says simply and exits the house.

Simon hesitates and then rushes after him. "What does that mean? Bruce, what—"

Bruce is standing on the edge of the cliffside his home is perched on, staring out over the open sea. His back seems rigid under his jacket and Simon feels the urge to reach out and touch him. A thin trail of smoke rises from his lips.

"To feel alive," Bruce says quietly. "To know that I could be destroyed at any moment. To be human again. Because–because I like to make mistakes."

Simon stands there in silence for a moment, looks over the rushing sea, and he thinks he might understand. "Why do you live in Caerlloyd? Is your family here?" he asks. He's sure the answer is no; he framed it as a leading question for a goddamn reason. Bruce Cadogan is the loneliest man he's ever met and he wants to know why.

"Get in the truck," Bruce says after a moment, and Simon does.

The ride is silent. The town itself is beautiful in the early morning sunlight. They drive over cobbled roads and newer pavement struck through with jagged cracks from old snow melts refreezing between the molecules. Maple trees grow in the grassy spots between crooked townhouses. Women walk dogs, parents push strollers, and Simon looks at all of the storefronts he drove past the day before last without a thought.

A bookstore—Foghorn's Used and New, it says in painted letters on a large wooden sign—sits between a local family-owned pharmacy, as proclaimed on a sign out front, and a yarn store with a dozing, one-eared cat in the window. Simon remembers the ball of wool in Bruce's house and wonders if it was purchased here, but the store disappears in the rearview before he has much time to ponder.

Bruce stops at a rainbow painted crosswalk and waves at a couple with a shaggy-furred retriever passing by. They greet him by name and offer him genuine smiles; Simon almost feels like he's intruding.

When they finally get to Bruce's intended destination, Simon almost laughs. Caerlloyd Inn stares back at them, all white paint and kitschy yet charming decor. Simon can't swallow his sigh and Bruce glances at him as he gets out of the truck. The shorter man grabs the cooler from the truck bed and lugs it inside, nodding vaguely in thanks when Simon holds the door open for him.

"Bruce!" a familiar voice calls out, and Cricket twirls her way through the door to the dining area. "And Simon! I was wondering why you didn't come back last night," she adds and crooks an eyebrow at Bruce knowingly, the same exasperated-yet-knowing best friend expression Mo makes when Simon shows up late to brunch in the clothes from the night before.

"Cricket," Bruce grumbles and gestures vaguely by lifting the cooler. "Brought your pay."

"Smells fresh," Cricket replies and gestures back to where she came. "You know where they go. Thank you, Bruce." She follows him closely and Simon hears muffled whispers being passed before Bruce sets the cooler down on the microscopic kitchen counter with a loud noise.

Simon lingers in the dining area, expecting for them to talk longer, but Bruce emerges quickly and slumps down into one of the seats at the table, the same one Simon had sat in yesterday morning, and Simon falls into the one beside him.

"Bruce tells me you're giving him a chance to convince you not to wreck the lighthouse," Cricket says as she brings out a wicker basket and sets it on the table in front of Bruce. "I hoped he might."

"You all seem exceedingly sure of his ability to get the job done," Simon replies and folds his hands politely on the table in front of him. "I'm not sure what you all have against innovation, but–"

"Oh, you've forgotten already?" Bruce says quietly and peers into the basket, nodding after a moment and letting the flap fall closed again.

Snark sits on the tip of Simon's tongue, but he swallows it back. Cricket expected Bruce, expected to trade his cooler full of shiny silver fish for whatever is in that basket, but she didn't anticipate Simon. She must've thought Bruce would run him out of town, not take him into his bed, and–

"I haven't," Simon admits, refolding his fingers on the tablecloth. "I just want to hear her perspective, if that's alright."

"I'm gonna be a lot meaner than Bruce has, if you're still here," Cricket says with a snort and falls into her seat, "especially considering—"

Simon hears a dull thud under the table and Cricket cuts herself off, a pained expression clear on her face. There's a moment of silent argument between her and Bruce, the type of conversation only two people who have known each other for years can have, and then Simon clears his throat.

"Bruce told me that you're worried about the tourism industry ruining the charm of Caerlloyd," he says, pressing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and Cricket snorts.

"It's much more complicated than that," she says. "This is our home. Any change at all is scary, and outsiders won't understand the way we live here."

"They might," Simon starts, but Cricket purses her lips.

"Do you?" she says.

Bruce raises an eyebrow at Simon and he's struck by how the expression is growing familiar, how Bruce's worn cheeks and round face are becoming a comfort, like an old sweatshirt. A soft pair of knit socks.

"We're going to get going, if you're done with him," Bruce says after a beat too long and pulls the basket closer to himself. "Is there—"

Cricket pushes a small plastic container across the table, which Bruce tucks into the picnic basket. "Three steps ahead of you," she murmurs. "Don't be stupid, Bruce."

"Am I ever?" he replies. The sentiment is intimate, and Simon is briefly struck with the feeling that he's intruding.

"More than you admit," Cricket retorts.

Bruce gives her one final heavy look and gestures for Simon to follow him out. Their footsteps feel like echoes of the other —Bruce's heavy boots mirrored in Simon's quieter footfalls, their boots both making solid sounds against the hardwoods—and Simon finds that he likes being behind Bruce. Not just for the view—though the other man's broad shoulders and firm backside are nice to watch—but because Bruce is loose and open, offering a vulnerability to Simon that he wants to lean into.

They slide into the truck together, the basket between their thighs on the long bench seat, and drive down the cobbled road away from the sea.

Bruce takes him to a dense patch of bushes a mile or so inland. He collects a small blanket from the back of his truck and the two of them walk further into the thatch of them, where a large tree grows from the center of the field itself. The bushes seem to close behind them, shielding them from the road and enclosing them in the quiet ambiance of nature.

It's warmer than it was yesterday. Simon unwinds his scarf as soon as it seems like they've arrived at Bruce's destination, with the larger man unrolling the blanket and draping it carefully over an empty spot of grass.

"A picnic?" Simon finally asks. Bruce sets the basket down and brushes his hands off on his jean-clad thighs.

"A picnic," he confirms, and then gestures at the bushes surrounding them, "and a taste of Maine. Come on." When Bruce opens the basket, he pulls out a roll of paper towels and the small plastic container Cricket gave him which he offers to Simon. Simon takes it hesitantly and follows Bruce over to the edge of the clearing. "Look."

Bruce spreads some of the branches apart with practiced, careful hands and ducks his head a bit to peer inside. Simon mirrors him. Hidden behind the outermost layer of leaves are dozens of bright, ripe blueberries just waiting for someone to come by and pick them.

"I don't take too many, figured we'd just get enough for the two of us to have a snack, but I wanted to show you," Bruce says quietly and reaches in, using one broad, gentle hand to scoop half the berries off the branch in one quick pull. It's clear that he has done this a hundred times and Simon can't help but be impressed as he bares his palm and shows Simon the unblemished blueberries cradled there.

"Can I try one?" Simon says and reaches out boldly, taking one of the thicker berries between his fingers.

"Of course," Bruce replies and a smile pulls at his lips, sending a surge of warmth through Simon's gut. His smiles seem rare, like a flicker of sunlight in a New England winter, and Simon wants to bask in the warmth of it for as long as he has the chance.

He pops the blueberry in his mouth before he does something stupid like kiss him, and the flavor erupts over his tongue. It's sweet, sweeter than any blueberry he's ever gotten from the supermarket, but with an air of tartness that kicks in just as he swallows. It's delicious and he grabs another one from Bruce's palm almost immediately.

"These are so fucking good," he says, hoping it'll—Oh, yes . Bruce's face splits in a wide smile, one he doesn't try to bite back or swallow, and Simon grins back. "Thank you, Bruce."

"C'mon, city boy, I have a whole picnic for us."