VIII. Samara Beach, Costa Rica

VIII. Samara Beach, Costa Rica

Mike rents them a 4x4 car and pays in cash. They sign a form in which they agree they won't take the car out of the country, or drive it on unpaved roads or through rivers. That second part makes Mike's lips twitch suspiciously.

"You were lying," Toby says as soon as they're both seated. "You, my friend, were shamelessly lying to that poor man. I swear to God that if we return this car broken and drowned, it will not be on my head."

"I'll take full responsibility." Mike is grinning almost too widely, an unnatural tilt to it as they pull off the rental company's property and onto the road. Before Toby gets a chance to investigate, Mike remarks, out of the blue, "Haley would enjoy surfing, don't you think so?"

She would. However...

"At the risk of sounding repetitive: there's a way conversations work, and this isn't it." The car smells of overheated leather. Toby flicks the air conditioning on and undoes the first three buttons of his shirt before he turns his face into the gust of cool air. After the Ecuadorian Andes, the heat of Costa Rica's Pacific coast is a mild shock. "Conversations aren't the equivalent of firing random sentences at each other. If you expect me to follow your thought process to a point where it makes sense for you to say ‘Haley would enjoy surfing', you need to bring me along for the ride. It is not like throwing grenades, you see."

The lines around Mike's mouth relax to make room for a short laugh. "Throwing grenades?"

"Like grenade fishing: you throw one into the water to see what pops to the surface, belly up. That's not how things work in civilized society." Toby shakes his head, and he knows he's being a little ridiculous, playing it up in an attempt to ease whatever tension is still lingering in Mike's posture. "But then, what did I expect from someone who considers fruit an acceptable accessory to pizza?"

Another short laugh. "Don't knock pineapples, man."

"I'm not knocking pineapples. I'm knocking your decision to put them on a perfectly nice pizza." Toby gives Mike a pointed look. "The only excuse for ordering pizza Hawaii is that you're actually from there, and it reminds you of home."

Nothing really changes in Mike's expression. "I know this may come as a surprise, but if you find people in Hawaii eating pizza Hawaii, they're typically tourists."

"It does, in fact, not come as a surprise." Toby pauses. "Hence my point about the reminder of home."

Mike hesitates, his gaze darting to Toby, then back at the road. "Well," he says. "I am from Hawaii, so yeah, there's a bit of nostalgic pleasure in it, I guess. Also, the combination of cheese and pineapple is divine. You should try it sometime."

"How about I bang my head against a wall instead?" Toby asks politely.

"To each his own." The sleeves of Mike's T-shirt have ridden up to expose a glimpse of his tattoos. Toby spends a second too long studying the pattern: marine references and a twisted, green-inked pyramid.

"So," he says aimlessly. "Hawaii, huh?"

"Hawaii. Yeah." Mike deftly swerves around a pothole, and the fact that Toby barely notices is a likely sign that he's getting used to Mike's particular brand of crazy. Constant exposure. "Actually," Mike continues, "that's what I was getting at earlier, before you derailed the conversation."

"Excuse you," Toby says, with dignity.

"My point was that if you want to take Haley somewhere, Hawaii would be a great choice. There are actual dolphins there, not just those that come with a Barbie. I know some places where you could stay, things you could do. Plus" —Mike shoots him a quick, warm smile— "no shortage of bikini-clad beauties, if your brother wants to follow later."

Haley would love it.

Maybe, if Mike happens to visit home at the time, he could show them around; they could have a picnic at the beach, go swimming—which is where Toby needs to stop, because the idea of Mike stripped down to a pair of swim trunks that ride low on his hips, well, that's not an image Toby needs right now.

He leans slightly into the cool breeze of the air-con. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to introduce Haley to surfing."

"Is that a ‘yes, Mike, please tell me more, and thank you for wanting to help?'"

"As far as ideas go, this isn't the worst I've heard today." Toby waits a moment before he smiles. "Also, thank you."

"You're welcome," Mike says. He returns Toby's smile before he focuses back on the road.

***

The closer they get to Samara Beach, the less eager Mike is to arrive.

It isn't blatantly obvious, but there are small indicators: his increased patience when they are stuck behind a slow-moving construction vehicle, how quickly he agrees when Toby suggests they grab some water and sandwiches from a kiosk beside the road, or his insistence that they stop for a minute to enjoy the view when they first catch sight of the ocean.

"Friendly reminder," Toby tells him eventually, straightening while Mike is still reclining against the hood of the car, gazing off into the distance. "We can still turn the car around, head back to the airport and get on the first flight to the U.S. No one is forcing us to be here."

Mike's attention snaps to Toby, his eyes unreadable.

"Unless, of course" —Toby spreads his arms and gives Mike a comfortable grin— "you're still working on a fool-proof plan to make my body disappear, and that's why you're in no hurry to arrive."

It wrings a smile from Mike, so Toby counts it as a win. "You need to get over your obsession with my supposed plans to do away with you."

"Just because you're paranoid…" Toby trails off, and Mike grins at him.

"Doesn't mean they're not after you."

"Exactly. Kurt Cobain, everyone's role model of a well-adjusted, healthy young man." Toby lets his gaze linger on the narrow cut of Mike's hips and his long, long legs. The low-standing afternoon sun washes his skin in warm hues.

"Actually, the original quote belongs to Henry Kissinger. Cobain just recycled it." Mike pushes away from the car. At Toby's pointed look, Mike adds, "The relatives I grew up with were heavily into politics."

"Yeah, about that." Toby shifts his weight and diverts his attention from the hollow of Mike's throat. Nearby, a mockingbird is perched on the fence that surrounds a gated community, a billboard assuring Toby that security and comfort are only a small step away. "I have a theory, if you want to hear it."

"Sure," Mike says easily. He crosses his arms and leans back, eyes on the horizon.

"You visited this place with your parents." Toby continues quickly, after a brief glance at Mike's blank expression. "You said it was a long time ago, and you would have been here with someone, obviously. Parents seem like the obvious answer. Except now that we're getting close, you're starting to think it may not be such a good idea to return."

For a long moment, the mockingbird's raspy calls are the only sound that disturbs the silence stretching between them. Two cars pass by, engines humming. Toby thinks about looking away, giving Mike some space, only it would seem like a cowardly move.

He isn't prepared for it when Mike turns his head, holds Toby's gaze. "You're good at this." Mike's voice is slightly rough.

"Peppermint Peppy taught me well."

"Wisdom that comes as a sugary treat? Sounds like a special kind of fortune cookie." Mike's mouth lifts at the corners, but if it's supposed to be a smile, it's a mere shadow of his real ones.

"My psychology coach. He left an impression." Toby returns Mike's smile, aiming for something easy and unassuming. Taking a step closer to the car, he nods his chin in the direction of the village, only a mile away now. "I meant what I said: if you want, we can turn around right now—go back to the airport, or check out some other place around here. Or we keep going. It's up to you."

"We were here just a month before they died." Slowly, Mike shakes his head and drops his arms, his gaze sliding past Toby to fix on the road. His shoulders tense, but when he meets Toby's gaze again, his eyes are calm and certain. "There's something I want to show you, at least if it still exists. Let's go."

"You're—"

"I'm sure," Mike interrupts smoothly. His expression softens. "Really, Toby. Thank you for the concern, but I'll be all right. Let's go."

***

Samara Beach must have changed a lot since Mike's last visit. While not so touristy as to trigger Toby's fight or flight reflex, there are several souvenir shops scattered along the main road, and the beach is lined with cafés that blast reggae music into the afternoon, booths offering anything from surfing lessons to towels. Out on the water, surfers are stretched out on their boards, bobbing on the surface like colorful beads, with only a handful actually trying to catch one of the small waves that roll into the bay.

"Is that what spurred the idea of surfing lessons for Hal?" As they drive past, Toby spares the brightly colored, hand-painted sign of a surf shop a dismissive look. "Because I'm not sure whether I would classify that, out there, as surfing—it's just kids on flashy new boards who would cower in fear if a real wave came their way. It's sunbathing, really. Just higher up on the coolness scale."

"Well, it is a beginner surf spot." Mike follows the statement up with a shrug, eyes invisible behind his dark sunglasses. "But I agree: you'd be better than ninety percent of them if I gave you even just a five-minute lesson."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment, or if you're bragging about your own skills as a teacher."

"Why can't I do both?"

Why indeed.

"You learned how to surf before you could walk, I take it?" Toby pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and watches the town draw by outside the window. "The way I see it, Hawaiians spend their days riding the waves, drinking cocktails with tiny, pink paper umbrellas, and mistreating pizza because it can't fight back."

Toby is pleased to see some of the strain around Mike's shoulders loosen as he chuckles. "Glad you've got such a well-rounded view of me and my people. Truly impressive how you manage to steer clear of the usual stereotypes."

"How old?" Toby demands.

Mike smirks. It shouldn't be attractive. "Me, right now?"

"You, when you started surfing."

"Three, going on four. Got my first surfboard as a hand-me-down from a neighbor."

"Thanks for the confirmation. It's so nice when everything fits into neat little drawers, you know?"

"Remind me why I asked you to come?"

"Hell if I know," Toby says, but when he glances over, it's to find a small, genuine smile tucked into the corners of Mike's mouth, and... well, that's why. No one wants to face their ghosts alone. Not even Mike.

They pull into the parking lot of a supermarket, and Toby slides lower in his seat while Mike kills the engine. "Don't forget my steak," Toby mumbles, eyes half-closed—his brain had better cooperate tonight so he can get some quality sleep.

"You're not coming?" Mike asks.

"Nah. Too tired." Toby waves him off. "Just get me something nice, will you?"

"Sure." Mike unbuckles his seatbelt, a click, then nothing. The conspicuous absence of movement makes Toby slit his eyes open to find Mike watching him, expression serious.

Toby holds himself very still. "What?"

"Nothing." In spite of that, Mike doesn't move. "Just... thank you, I guess. For coming."

Toby's stomach clenches with a weird, sick tightness. He makes himself smile through it. "You're welcome. Now go."

With another bright look, Mike slips out of the car, the door falling shut behind him. Sleepiness gone, Toby exhales a measured breath, turns off the air-con and leaves the car. It's warm outside, not unexpectedly, but he leans against the hood and enjoys the heat of the sun on his face, takes his time studying the surrounding houses and a nearby bar that claims to be an open-air living room: oversized couches are scattered under palm trees while one of the Marley sons provides for a generic Caribbean atmosphere.

Mike returns some minutes later with a map, two bottles of water, wine, bread, barbecue essentials, and a thick package wrapped in paper. Toby points. "Size of a crêpe, just as thin?"

"I did my best."

"That does not inspire confidence."

Behind the sunglasses, Mike's grin seems even more pronounced. "Get in the car, will you?"

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

Yet Toby complies, settling back in the passenger seat, while Mike dumps his purchases on the backseat, then digs a blue bottle of sunscreen out of the pile and drops it in Toby's lap. It's... strangely thoughtful given that Toby is blessed with the kind of skin type that requires protection if he wants to bypass the lobster stage on his way to a tan.

While Mike unfolds the map on the steering wheel, Toby unscrews the bottle and squeezes some liquid into his palms. "What are we looking for?"

"A perfect postcard beach." Mike sounds distracted, his fingers tracing a whispering path on the map. "At least it used to be, back then. Maybe it's a holiday resort now."

After spreading the sunscreen over his face, Toby checks the mirror to make sure there aren't any obvious white spots, then leans in to study the map with Mike. Their hands brush as Mike moves the map closer to Toby and taps a yellow stretch.

"Or maybe not," he says. "Not if this map is up to date."

Toby looks for the connection between Samara Beach and the yellow stretch picked by Mike: the map shows a blue line that cuts the connecting road in two, no way around. Toby stabs at it.

"Tell me there's a bridge."

Mike's grin is all anticipation, and of course. Of course.

Toby inhales and smells sunscreen and leather, smells the subtle hint of cologne he's come to associate with Mike. He sighs. "All right, then. Hit the road, Jack."

***

The dirt road ends right up against a steep hill.

There's a path there still, slightly less overgrown than its surroundings, yet just as uneven. Toby wedges himself in, both hands against the dashboard as the car rattles over large stones, wheels slipping on caked mud. He's almost zen about it, proof that his constant exposure theory has some merit—now it just needs to encompass Mike as a whole, rather than only his driving.

When they finally make it up and over, Toby has to admit that the pay-off is worth it: the endless expanse of sand that awaits them is like something straight out of a travel blog. The beach is deserted but for the two of them, the sinking sun casting a golden glow over the scene as enormous waves roll onto the shore.

Toby hops out before the car has pulled to a full halt and immediately slips off his shoes. The sand is hot under his soles, and he waits for Mike to catch up before he takes a few steps towards the ocean, then turns.

"Beaches like this" —he waves his arms in an all-encompassing gesture— "exist only in glossy brochures that travel agencies use to lure you in. And then you arrive: everything's crowded, there's trash lying around, and you're asked to pay thirty bucks to rent a deck chair for the day."

Mike gestures at the rivulet behind him that marked their final obstacle before the car made it onto smooth sand. "There's a can rusting away in that stream. If, you know, it helps salvage your view of the world."

"It doesn't." Toby shakes his head. "Seriously, how are we the only people here?"

Mike stands unmoving for a moment, just breathing as he takes it in. His chest rises on a deep inhalation. "It's mostly locals who know it. And I guess the waves are a bit rough for some people."

"Having to drive your car through a river might play a role too."

"You pretend to hate it, but you really don't." Mike sends him a quick smile before he pulls his T-shirt over his head and leaves it in a crumpled heap on the sand along with his sunglasses. Toby follows him to the water's edge, draws to a stop beside Mike, wet sand nice and cool under his bare feet. He glances over to appreciate the way Mike's stomach curves down to display the cut of his hip bones, then forces his gaze away.

"It's beautiful," he says quietly, and he's mostly talking about their surroundings.

When Mike speaks again, his voice is low, barely carries over the ebb and swell of the waves. "It's amazing how little it's all changed. We came here because we'd been looking for better waves, and the couple that owned our vacation home mulled it over for half a week before they coughed up this spot."

Toby isn't surprised that the shallow waves of Samara Beach couldn't hold eight-year-old Mike's attention. His sister's probably the same, and if their parents let them surf massive waves like the one currently breaking further out in the water, then Mike's fearless constitution is a family trait.

"I take it," he begins quietly, "that your parents surfed, too? Hawaiians and all."

"My mom did." Mike's eyes are soft as he stares out at the ocean. "She was good, even competed a few times."

Toby sits down in the sand, digging in his toes. "I'm sure she was a wonderful woman."

"She was." Mike swallows visibly. Against the sky, his figure is reduced to a silhouette. "My dad was pretty great too."

"I don't doubt that for a second," Toby tells him softly. His chest feels a little tight, not quite enough room for the air he needs. It's humbling that he's even here, that Mike trusts him enough to want him around when there is so much they don't know about each other.

They are silent for the space of three waves that crash and roll up onto the beach, water hissing as it seeps into the sand. Then Mike sinks to the ground beside Toby in one fluid motion, propping one leg up to wrap his arm around it.

Beautiful.

Toby leans back on his elbows. The sun is blinding, tiny flecks of gold dancing through his vision each time he blinks. Heat makes the shirt stick to his skin, and he'd consider taking it off if it wouldn't imply having to move. He'll jump into the water in a few minutes, clothes and all, to cool off.

"Your parents... They died in an accident?" He licks his lips and tastes salt, focuses on the line of Mike's profile. "You can tell me to fuck off; I won't hold it against you."

Another wave breaks and washes up on the beach before Mike replies. "A car accident. Or so I thought, for a long time."

"There's a story there." Toby straightens to shrug out of his sticky shirt. "If you want to share it, I am a half-decent listener, contrary to popular belief. Again, no pressure."

Mike rolls to his feet and moves closer to the water. An oncoming wave sprays him, wetness darkening the hems of his pants. When he wades in further, Toby gets up with a sigh and follows.

"My father..." Mike turns his head for a frayed smile before he faces forward again. "He headed the police department. They were trying to crack down on a Japanese crime ring that was just putting down roots in Hawaii. I guess that planting a bomb in my dad's car was their way of telling him to fuck off."

"Jesus. I'm sorry, Mike. I'm really fucking sorry." Toby exhales and takes a step forward, closer. The water is shockingly cool on his bare ankles. "Please tell me the bastards paid for it."

Mike sends him a grin that's really more the caricature of one. "Why do you think I picked this line of work?"

"We don't operate in home territory." As soon as it's out, Toby backtracks. "Wait, don't tell me. Not a word. I'd like to claim factual ignorance in case anyone ever asks me whether you may have performed illegal acts of self-administered justice."

The edges of Mike's grin soften. "Don't ask, don't tell?"

"Something like that." Toby wades in further, until he's beside Mike. In an undertone, he adds, "Good for you, though."

"Yeah." Mike breathes in, breathes out, staring at the horizon. The sun washes over him, and Mike's chest aches a little.

He reaches out to touch Mike's elbow, drawing his attention. "Hey. I really am so sorry, Mike. Maybe..." He tries for a smile. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to come here."

Mike's gaze fixes on Toby's mouth.

It's like whiplash, the sudden need that zips through Toby while water is sloshing around them, the bitter taste of salt on his tongue.

"No," Mike says slowly. His expression is raw and open. "I'm glad we came. It's a beautiful place."

"Mike," Toby starts, then doesn't know how to continue. This can't happen. Not now, not with Mike so vulnerable and Toby too caught up in him, too aware of how easy it would be to close the gap. He would find it much harder to walk away, this time.

A wave, taller than the last few, reaches up to his belly and sends him slightly off-balance. It jerks him out of the moment.

"Well." He takes a stumbling step towards the shore, wet pants sagging on his hips. Mike is still watching him with that same open need, and Toby has to force the next words out. "It is beautiful, no doubt. The one thing that could possibly improve it is a steak roasting over a fire."

It's not his best line, but it's either that or give in. Toby doubts Mike even realizes the full impact of it, at least from where Toby's standing: it would hurt.

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.

When Mike tugs him closer, their chests pressing together, Toby doesn't fight it. He comes easily, parting his lips for Mike while he slips his hands under Mike's T-shirt, tracing a path up Mike's back until his fingers come to rest below the sharp arches of Mike's shoulder blades.

"Toby." Mike shapes the name against Toby's chin, just before swallowing a potential reply. Toby lets him, pushes his own tongue into Mike's mouth, running it along the line of Mike's teeth. He feels rather than hears Mike groan, and that, the fact that he's still holding back, makes Toby suddenly angry.

He tears his mouth away. "Stop pretending you've got it all under control." His voice comes out harsh, slightly deeper than usual.

Mike stills, eyes narrowing in on Toby's face. His muscles are corded tightly.

"You brought me to a beach that you visited with your parents. I know how they died when I shouldn't know the first thing about you. So don't pretend." Toby slides a leg between Mike's thighs, jerking closer. "Don't pretend you've got this under control."

Mike's fingers clench around Toby's bicep, digging into the muscle. "I'll stop when you do."

"I'm not—"

Toby's protest gets cut off when Mike pushes him flat onto his back and rolls on top, Mike's weight trapping Toby against the ground. Mike's eyes are dark. "You want this. You want me. Fuck the rules."

It's not about the rules.

Toby isn't sure when it stopped being about the rules and became about so much more—but of course Mike wouldn't get it. He's never been in a relationship, never cared to try, so he couldn't possibly understand how much it can fuck you up when it all falls apart.

"We're courting disaster," Toby hisses. And yet. Andyet. He's aware of the way Mike's hip bone presses into his stomach, the shadows beneath Mike's cheekbones and the gray hint of stubble. Toby wants to run a finger over it, feel his nail catch on the fine hairs.

Mike stares down at Toby as if waiting for something. Anything. His voice is morning-rough. "You're a coward."

He just really doesn't get it.

Toby sucks in a badly needed breath. "And you don't give a shit about consequences, do you?"

There's a moment, frozen in time, when neither of them moves. They're staring at each other, so close, the glow of the morning sun painting everything golden.

Mike rolls away in an abrupt shift of muscles.

He sits back against a tree, legs propped up and slightly apart, providing Toby with a clear view of the bulge in Mike's shorts. Fuck, Toby wants him. He wants to get his hands on every part of Mike, take his time while the morning wraps them up, while the heat of the day is starting to settle in. God, he wants. All of it, all of it, every damn little thing.

He retreats to the opposite corner of the blanket and takes the sleeping bag with him. Flattening his tongue against his palate, he hides his hands under the sleeping bag, digs the nails of his left hand into the palm of his right. Calmly, he meets Mike's eyes.

There is no discernible emotion on Mike's face, his features wiped carefully blank. Toby can't tell whether he, like Toby, is applying tricks that he picked up to make it through training.

A long minute passes in silence. The waves move in counterpoint to the rush of noise in Toby's ears.

"I don't get you," Mike says. "At all." His voice is perfectly controlled, and yeah, the thing is, he doesn't. He couldn't.

Looking away, Toby shakes his head. He pushes the sleeping bag aside and rolls to his feet, avoiding all eye contact. "We should head back," he tells the empty space between them.

Mike doesn't move for another second, two. Then he nods, blurred motion at the edge of Toby's vision. "Yeah. Guess we should."

Toby gets up. He pokes a blackened branch from last night with a toe, closing his eyes briefly before he begins to shove the remaining ashes closer together so that he can toss sand over it—make sure it can't catch fire again after they're gone.

***

The plane descends through a cover of clouds, the dazzling brightness of the sun making room for a gray-hazed world. They collect their baggage quietly, moving towards the taxi stand together even though all they exchanged on the journey back were the bare essentials.

It doesn't mean Toby didn't stare for too long when Mike finally fell asleep on the flight. It doesn't mean their gazes didn't cross when the stewardess addressed them both at once, asking whether they wanted wine or something else. It doesn't mean Toby felt reassured that he made the right decision. But then, it's not as if he's ever sure about Mike.

Mike's hotel is nowhere near Toby's apartment. As Mike doesn't know that, he won't notice that it doesn't make sense for them to share a taxi, that it merely prolongs the inevitable. A light drizzle fogs up the windows of the car, distorting the familiar roads.

Toby doesn't watch Mike disappear into the hotel. There's no point.