Chapter 9

NINE

T hey end up on the ocean again on that third and final day. Bruce takes him a little ways up the coast to a small shack he unlocks with a key from his infinite ring of jingling metal and effortlessly pulls out two full sized kayaks and oars for them each. Simon didn't pack a swimsuit, but Bruce manages to find a wetsuit approximating his size.

They row out to a small island and pull the light boats up onto the shallow beach. Bruce ties them to a tree ‘just in case' with a thick length of rope. Then, he shows Simon a path through the thick trees and immense boulders that make up the landmass, revealing that it's barely a hundred feet wide where it juts out of the sea pointed towards the cliffs of Maine.

"This is Sir Arthur's Crag," Bruce explains as the trees begin to thin out. "This is why the lighthouse was built in the first place." They emerge onto a wide, flat area far above the sea they had just been paddling on, the edges of the island outlined by enormous, jagged boulders. "Look, see?"

Bruce holds out his arm and points and when Simon follows the line of his musculature he sees the lighthouse on the cliffside. She stands tall and strong, pale white against the blue-grey of the cloud-streaked sky, and the sun glints off the glass casing at the top. The waves are gentle today but they still build to impressive heights before crashing into the base of the cliff Old Grey sits upon and Simon can almost swear he hears it from here.

"She's beautiful," Simon murmurs.

"She is," Bruce replies. "These rocks here, look, the currents will send you right into the side of this island if you aren't careful. Especially in the dark, a lot of the folks who came into the harbor late at night or in the early mornings would be just a few hundred yards off course, and without the guidance of the lighthouse… crash ."

"Christ," Simon mutters and peers over the rocky cliffside into the sea below. "Is there a lot of wreckage down there?"

"Yeah. It washes up from time to time, normally after wicked storms," Bruce answers and crouches down, pointing at a jutting rock maybe fifty feet from the edge of their island. "Look at the base of this one, you can see the mast of an old sailing ship wedged between the rocks."

Simon takes a step forward and lowers himself as well for balance, squinting in the direction Bruce indicates. A bit of pale wood, washed smooth by the rise and fall of the tide, is barely visible between crashing shelves of water.

"So they built the lighthouse to guide sailors to the opening of the harbor," Simon says. "Why was it sold, if it serves such an important purpose?"

"It doesn't, not anymore," Bruce answers simply. "GPS made it all but obsolete."

"Why do you keep it running, then?"

"Same reason we do anything else—to feel something in the darkness," Bruce says. His fingers are tapping on his knee, locked up and nearly trembling.

"Were you out on the lighthouse the other night? The first night I was here?" Simon asks. Bruce stills for just a moment before catching his fingernail on the seam of his wetsuit and tugging at a minuscule loose string.

"I was," Bruce responds.

"Why?"

Bruce is silent. He picks at the cuticle on his right thumb for a moment before Simon reaches over and catches Bruce's fidgeting hand in his own.

"Bruce," Simon says.

"To feel something," Bruce echoes. His voice is hoarse. "To wonder if you were worth meeting at all."

"What's the verdict?" Simon whispers.

"I'm glad I didn't jump."

They sit on Sir Arthur's Crag for an hour or so while Bruce smokes and Simon listens to the quiet sounds of the wind and the sea. They kayak back to shore and lock the boats back up in the same shed they change back into dry clothes in. Bruce presses Simon's hips to the wooden boards and sucks him off until he's near collapse and by the time they get back up to Bruce's old truck, they're both starving.

"Let me cook for you," Bruce says as they drive along the winding coastal road that switches back and forth to climb the cliffs of Maine.

"You don't have a kitchen," Simon replies. It's true—Bruce's house has a fridge and a small hotplate. It's not enough to make a pot of tea on, let alone a meal.

"Cricket lets me borrow her kitchen on the rare occasion that the urge strikes me," Bruce explains and reaches over the stick shift to pat Simon's thigh. "I used to a lot more when—when me and Cassie were together, still. Now I don't cook as much. I fish, and I trade my catches for meals more often than anything."

"You like to cook, though," Simon guesses. Bruce seems like the type—he could see him in an apron testing a sauce with a dab of a spoon on his tongue.

"I used to."

"And you want to again? For—"

For me feels presumptive, but Simon's heart flutters a little as Bruce's hand, still resting on his thigh, shifts slightly and Bruce's lips quirk up.

"Yeah," Bruce says. "I do."

Bruce has him roughly peel potatoes into a small compost bin while he makes everything else—glazed cod, a creamy pesto sauce, and then, when Simon is done, garlic mashed potatoes. They eat in relative quiet but it isn't awkward, not in the slightest. It's the kind of cozy quiet between two people who simply fit , where they don't have to think about the silence. They share a bottle of wine—a white that Bruce procures from somewhere—and by the time they're done, the sun has just begun to think about setting and Simon's stomach is tying in knots.

"Bruce," he says softly as Bruce returns to Cricket's small dining room from stacking their plates in the small sink. "Did you do all this so I'd sell you back the lighthouse?" The question has been wearing on him all afternoon, since Sir Arthur's Crag at the latest.

Bruce's face twists. "No," he says, and Simon hears the truth in the word. "I did this because you make me want to cook again."

"I—Bruce," Simon repeats and there's too much emotion in the name, too much earnest longing. He feels exposed. "I'm not… I'm not good at relationships."

"I'm not either," Bruce replies. He smiles and it feels genuine because his lip is scarred on the very left corner and it pulls his face taut when he smiles in a different way than when he frowns, or when he smokes. It feels genuine because he cooked for Simon, because he offered him his bed, because he told him about his father and fucked him in the blueberry patch by the ocean. It feels genuine because Bruce doesn't smile often, Simon knows this, and he chose to now, for him.

"Am I delusional? Is this—do you feel—"

"Simon," Bruce interrupts and takes Simon's hand in his own rough palms. "You're not delusional."

"I want you," Simon says, and it's true. "I want—I don't want this to end, what we're doing here. I'm not sure, not about long term—I'm not good at long term, historically."

"I'm divorced," Bruce responds simply.

"My life is in Boston."

"A three hour drive away. Any lesbian would do twice that without hesitating."

"What if I slip into a depressive episode? What if I can't make myself get out of bed, let alone come to visit?"

"I'll visit you," Bruce says, like it's easy, and maybe it is. Simon swallows and shifts his hands in Bruce's, brushing against calluses and hangnails, the rough patch on the side of his thumb where Simon has noticed he picks at when he's craving a cigarette. His hands tell a story, one of rough living and his New England life, and Simon wants to memorize every scar.

"And what of the lighthouse?" Simon asks after a long moment of silence between them.

"What do you intend to do with it?" Bruce replies, but there isn't judgment in his tone anymore, just quiet, resigned curiosity.

"I want to do something you would appreciate. Something you would be happy with, that the other people of Caerlloyd would like. I—I want to fix it up, maybe…"

Simon trails off, the words in his throat surely too much too soon.

"Go ahead," Bruce says. His fingers are starting to twitch in Simon's and Simon clings onto his hand.

"Live there," Simon finishes. "Here. Eventually."

"Caerlloyd would love to have you. I would love to have you."

"Take me back to your house," Simon says. "I'm here for one more night. Based on our deal, I have until tomorrow morning to decide. Let me have tonight, and tomorrow, I'll make up my mind."

The ride back to Bruce's shack is quick. Bruce keeps his palm solidly on Simon's knee, stroking his thumb over the fabric on the inside of his thigh, and Simon traces shapes between the thousands of freckles on Bruce's hairy arm. They kiss against the door and as soon as they get inside, they undress in a rush.

Simon presses Bruce down against the headboard and buries his face between the bigger man's legs. His clit is long and solid from years of hormones, the perfect warm mouthful for Simon to suck as he presses finger-shaped bruises into Bruce's firm thighs. The hair tickles his nose and Simon pulls away to breathe, a thin trail of spit connecting his lips to Bruce's slick cock.

"Fuck," Bruce hisses and reaches down to sink his hand into Simon's hair. "You're so fucking good at that."

"Would you believe I've never done it before?" Simon murmurs and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Bruce's thigh. Bruce's fingers clench, pulling on the strands, and Simon buries his teeth in the unblemished flesh at the crook of Bruce's thigh.

"Fuck! Fuck," Bruce gasps and tugs on his head. "Come on, suck me off like you mean it, Simon."

The sound of his name in Bruce's raspy tone sends Simon bucking into the mattress, grinding down in a desperate plea for friction as he presses his mouth to Bruce's center again. He smooths his tongue over the soft, delicate head of his dick and reaches up to pull Bruce's thighs further apart. Bruce is sweet and nearly dripping with want as Simon licks into him, intoxicating, like fucking ambrosia that only grows sweeter with Bruce's grunts and moans as he approaches orgasm.

"Your hands, use your hands—" Bruce instructs and Simon presses his fingers to Bruce's clit, applying even, back and forth pressure as his tongue sinks inside, rubbing at Bruce's walls and urging him to orgasm. "Good– good boy ."

When Bruce comes, grinding down hard on Simon's mouth, Simon thrusts a hand between his own legs and jerks himself off hard and fast. He comes with a noise he muffles in the soft flesh of Bruce's thigh and rests his cheek against the man's knee, breathing so heavy he has to pause and regulate.

"Christ," Simon rasps and presses a hard kiss to the side of Bruce's leg, right over an old, shining scar. "You're…"

"Get up here," Bruce murmurs and holds his arms open, waiting for Simon to join.

"I should clean up—"

"Si," Bruce murmurs, and Simon can't argue with the way his voice is sleepy at the edges, how it oozes pleasure and a quiet contentedness. "Come up here. Sleep with me for one more night and allow me to pretend we have a future."

Simon curls up on Bruce's chest and allows himself to be held. He dreams of fog-veiled lighthouses and quiet murmurs; fresh bread and good boy .