XII. Honolulu, U.S.

XII. Honolulu, U.S.

When Toby tries calling Matt from the airport, it's almost a relief that it goes straight to voicemail. He doesn't know how to explain the last sixty hours of his life. You just had to be there, man.

"Hey Mattie." He pauses in front of a screen to check for the right gate. "So, I got back yesterday, but I'm already on my way out again. But—bear with me, okay? Haley's summer break is coming up, and I know you've been too busy to plan much of anything. How do you feel about Hawaii? Plenty of women in bikinis, I'm told." He picks up his hastily repacked suitcase and proceeds to the check-in counter, pausing for a moment before he adds, "Think about it, all right? I'm hoping to stay for a couple of weeks, maybe more, and if you guys were to join me, I could meet you at the airport and make sure you have a place to stay. How's that sound?" With a deep breath, he joins the line at the counter. "I'll be out of touch for the flight, but call me, okay? Later. And say hi to Haley."

He disconnects the call and stares at the display for a long moment.

His research yielded a landline number. Toby wrote it down along with Mike's address, the folded note in his pocket crinkled and sweaty from repeatedly looking at it even though he knows it by heart. Toby could call ahead.

He switches the phone off.

***

Toby pulls off his sweater before he's even down the jetway, a light breeze ruffling his hair. Honolulu Airport is open on all sides, warm air streaming through the construction that is decorated with a large, cursive ‘Aloha' in red letters. The airport lobby comes with an actual garden and palm trees that Toby suspects are plastic until he touches one of the trunks, and no, they're real.

He's walked right into a living, breathing cliché. At least there are no airport employees waiting to drape flowers around the necks of unsuspecting tourists.

After retrieving his suitcase, he follows the signs toward the taxi waiting area, his path lined by more palm trees. Posters advertise surf wear, dolphin shows and dive tours, bright colors wherever he turns. It's enough to make his head spin.

He jumps into the first available cab, nerves soothed by the universal scent of cushioned seats that have seen too many people, the stench of their sweat and cold cigarette smoke clinging to the car's interior despite the open windows. The radio is blasting reggae music.

"Where to?" There is a lazy, laid-back quality to the driver's question that vaguely reminds Toby of Jesy, and shit, yeah, where to?

Hotel. Toby should find a hotel first, drop off his baggage. Showing up on Mike's porch with a suitcase would make him look ridiculous at best, desperate at worst.

He names Mike's street.

Leaning back, he closes his eyes as the car pulls away from the curb. He feels slightly dizzy, sweating through his too-warm shirt even though the driver closed the windows and turned on the air conditioning. Must be the toll of travel combined with the heat that his body will need to adjust to first.

Yeah, Toby doesn't even believe it himself.

"First time in Hawaii?" The driver doesn't sound as if he particularly cares.

Toby keeps his eyes shut. "Yeah."

"Long flight?"

"Sorry, can we just... not talk?" Shaking his head, Toby spares a quick look at the houses that rush by outside. He thinks he spotted the ocean, framed by a hotel and a glass-dominated building that reflects the sun, but maybe it was just a spark of light in his eyes. He closes them again and adds, "Nothing personal, man. Just a little exhausted, that's all."

"Sure thing."

Blessed silence descends. Unfortunately, it allows Toby's brain to churn at a faster pace, no distraction provided by words, only the reggae music that is meant to be relaxing. It isn't working.

There's a remote chance it was an outdated address. Or maybe Mike isn't home, might not even be on the island. He could have decided to visit his sister, or the relatives he grew up with—there are countless reasons for Mike to be somewhere else. He did, however, land only a day before Toby.

Outside, the distance between houses grows. Flowers bloom in every nook, small-leaved plants crawling up the sides of buildings, palm trees reaching high. While there must be sufficient rainfall to sustain the vegetation, there is not a cloud in the sky. Absently, Toby watches the amount on the meter climb. Paradise does not come cheap.

He should tell the driver to turn around, drop him off at a decent hotel. It's not a good idea to show up on Mike's doorstep like this, tired from the flight and in need of a shower.

Just then, the taxi turns into a side road. The driver's gaze flicks up to meet Toby's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Which number did you say it was?"

"We're here?" Fuck. Toby is not ready. He is so not ready. He's less ready than he was when the plane took off in Newark.

"Depends." A careless shrug. "There are over a hundred houses on this street, and every single one of them comes with a nice, big property. Could be another few minutes."

My mistake, Toby intends to say. Must have given you the wrong address, sorry—just turn around, please.

What comes out is, "Twenty-seven."

"Ocean side. Nice." The driver hums a short, cheerful tune that clashes with the reggae music. A minute later, the car stops in front of an open wood gate that is framed by flowers, palm trees visible in the garden, the ocean half-hidden behind a small house that looks like something straight out of a Sotheby's catalogue: tasteful, subtly luxurious without being garish about it.

Wow.

Toby already suspected that there's a little crazy in Mike, but exchanging this place for a standard hotel room with a complimentary treadmill, even temporarily? He's certifiable.

"You gonna get out?" The driver sounds curious rather than impatient, but it snaps Toby out of his contemplation.

He pays the substantial sum without much thought, then tucks his wallet away and wills his body to move. He's come this far. It shouldn't be hard to take those last few steps which are no more than a completely logical conclusion to this entire trip, so really, what is he waiting for—a heavenly sign of some sorts? Rainbows without rain, church bells without a church? There's an open fucking gate. How much more do you need?

He pushes the door open, slides out of the cab and grabs his suitcase from the trunk. Turns to face the house. Mike's house. After the air-conditioned interior, the warmth outside is dizzying and he stands still for several seconds, trying to get his bearings. Behind him, the cab pulls away and that's that: he's arrived.

Enough already.

Toby nudges the gate fully open with his hip and makes his way along the paved driveway, an old pickup truck sitting at its end. Apart from that, everything looks clean and well-tended—not the work of an owner who's been gone for weeks and weeks. That leaves three options: Mike has a gardener, he doesn't live alone, or this isn't his actual home. Bourgeois component aside, Toby would like to pick door #1, please. Also, he needs to quit stalling.

Marching forward, he counts the number of steps from the gate to the front door. It distracts him from the anxious knot in his stomach, from reviewing all the ways this could go wrong. If Toby can shoot some fucker while his hands are tied behind his back, he should damn well manage to ring a fucking doorbell. It is not that difficult: set suitcase down, lift one arm, extend index finger, press button.

The sound cuts through the peaceful quiet of a late afternoon. For a moment, even the ocean seems to fall silent.

Toby repeats it—press, hold, and look at that: it gets easier.

Something clatters inside the house. It's followed by a yelled, "I'm coming, hold your horses!"

Mike.

It's Mike. That's his voice, and he's here. He's here. This is Mike's home, and Toby is standing on his porch with no fucking clue what he's going to say. Mike will open the door and find Toby standing there, fish-mouthing like an idiot who's lost all higher brain function. What was he thinking, coming here without a plan? Because that's what it is: he's got no plan at all except ‘find Mike'.

Well, he did. Now what?

The door opens before he locates an answer, and yes, that's Mike, and he's wearing swim trunks—only swim trunks. His face is briefly obscured behind a towel as he dries off his hair. "How can I—"

He catches sight of Toby and promptly drops the towel.

"Hi," Toby says. "I'm looking for Michael Staten?" His voice sounds foreign in his own ears, tinged with an unfamiliar roughness. He lets his gaze travel from the towel at Mike's feet up, up to find Mike staring at him with wide, shocked eyes.

"Toby?" It's quiet, barely more than an exhaled breath.

"Uh. Well." Toby clears his throat and inhales air that tastes like sand and summer. Then he offers his hand and hopes that his grin turns out rather steadier than he feels. "Tobias Millen. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Mike blinks. He glances down at Toby's hand before his expression transforms into one of open, raw desperation.

"Yeah, fuck that," he grits out. The next thing Toby knows, his hand is knocked aside and Mike takes a rough hold of his shoulder, pulling him in so that their bodies collide. Toby catches himself with a flat hand on Mike's naked chest, barely registering the sting of pain when his injured pinkie scrapes over Mike's skin.

"I take it" —relief inflates the space behind Toby's ribs— "you're not going to kick me off your property?"

"Shut up," Mike tells him, and that's not very nice, but the sunshine paints him in gold and bronze, and when Mike ducks his head to claim Toby's mouth in a bruising kiss, Toby's lips are already parted.

This. Just this.

It hurts a little when Toby's shoulder hits the edge of the doorframe, then he's all the way inside, and the dizzy moment is enough to remind him that he needs to breathe. He tears his mouth away to inhale, lips skidding over the edge of Mike's jaw. The wall is hard against Toby's back, Mike warm and solid against his front and Jesus, just, "What is it with you and pushing me up against walls, seriously? Is it a control thing?"

"Whatever keeps you here." While Mike's tone is light, his eyes are serious, uncertainty hiding in the curve of his tentative smile, and that, now that is just wrong. Toby needs to set this right, only he almost forgets there even is an issue when Mike shoves a thigh in between his legs.

"I am here," Toby manages. It's an effort to make his voice work when all blood is rushing downwards. "Do I look like I've got other plans?"

Mike pushes closer, sucking on a patch of skin just below Toby's right ear. He pulls back once the spot aches delicately, a clear sign that Toby will find a mark later on. The thought makes him grin.

"Not right now," Mike says, belated. He waits for Toby to meet his eyes. "But you took a cab from the airport, right? How often did you think about making the driver turn around?"

Touché—Mike sees more than Toby realized.

Strangely, though, it only serves to spark heat along Toby's spine. He gets a hand around the back of Mike's neck and strains up to kiss him again, pushing his whole body into it. Mike comes easily, curving over Toby, Toby's shirt sticking to Mike's damp skin. The front door is still open next to them. Toby spares a momentary thought for his suitcase, then kicks the door shut anyway—whatever, it's just clothes.

"I flew ten hours to see you." He grabs Mike's shoulders, using the leverage of the wall to shove him back, takes a quick glance around to take in what little he sees of the house: old wood, some living room kind of space further up ahead. Definitely too far. Without giving Mike the courtesy of a warning, he drags both of them down onto the floor. The polished wood is hard under Toby's knees, but it doesn't matter—it's a flat surface that allows him to lay Mike out and drape his own body over him, using his full weight. From just a few inches away, he stares Mike down. "Do you really think I've come all this way just to tuck tail and run?"

Mike counters Toby's stare with the pale ghost of a smile. "You've been running since we met."

The protest gets stuck in Toby's throat. Sure, Mike is exaggerating, but... not by much. Maybe.

"I'm sorry." Toby tightens his hold on Mike's biceps and ducks his head to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "I'm done now, promise."

"Okay." Mike's tone holds a trace of disbelief, and Toby will have to work on that. He suspects that, Toby's own track record aside, Mike just isn't used to people staying. The thought sits heavily in Toby's stomach.

He ignores it in favor of bringing their mouths back together. Slipping his tongue into Mike's mouth, he releases Mike's biceps in favor of propping himself up so he can shove Mike's trunks out of the way—they're an obstacle, and as such, they need to go. Mike's hips roll up smoothly, and God, he's gorgeous, all spread out for Toby to explore, touch, possess. He circles Mike's cock in a loose grip, and Mike exhales roughly, lashes dark against his cheeks. Toby wants to stay forever, maybe.

"Clothes," Mike mutters, tugging weakly, blindly, at Toby's shirt.

With some reluctance, Toby releases Mike's cock to pull the shirt over his head, while Mike is unzipping Toby's jeans before pushing them down along with Toby's boxers. They bunch around his knees, granting just enough access for Mike to wrap his hand around Toby's erection and oh, Jesus fucking Christ—Mike's fingers are still cool from the ocean and feel amazing on Toby's overheated skin, a brilliant contrast that makes him squeeze his eyes shut.

He resists when Mike tries to nudge him over onto his back.

"What?" Mike mutters. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Toby opens his eyes for a bright smile. He traps one of Mike's hands, lacing their fingers and ignoring the slight edge of pain in his pinky as he throws a leg over Mike's thighs. "I've got you, all right? For once, just lie back and let me handle it."

Before Mike gets a chance to reply, Toby drapes himself fully over his body and wraps a hand around both of their cocks. It's a tight fit, the circle of his fingers barely wide enough to hold them both, but even just the thought of it is enough to make Toby's vision narrow.

Mike twitches into it, their cocks dragging together. In response, Toby moves his hand and kisses Mike again, slowly, slowly, and there's this moment when he feels Mike giving in: he sinks into it, his fingers relaxing their tight clench on Toby's. The frantic edge to his motions makes room for a languidness that has Toby deepening their kiss, running his tongue along Mike's teeth. Mike lets him, even spreads his legs for a better angle, following Toby's cues rather than fighting for dominance. He's so, so beautiful, and Toby wants him so much that his entire chest hurts—not just the bruised rib, but his whole rib cage, lungs so wide they barely fit.

He lifts his head and stills, waiting for Mike's eyes flutter open. It's clear that Mike needs a second to focus.

"I want you," Toby tells him, voice low. "You were right: I want this more than I care about whatever rules the Agency put in place. They're a load of bullshit anyway."

Mike's throat moves when he swallows. Then his mouth curls into a smile that is big and real, impossible for Toby to resist. There's no reason why he should. So he dips his head, rubs his thumb over the crown of Mike's cock and kisses the smile right off his lips until Mike is gasping into his mouth, hips twitching in tiny, aborted movements.

"Michael," Toby whispers, and that's apparently all it takes for Mike to spill over Toby's fingers. Toby isn't far behind.

They lie in silence for a long moment that stretches into a minute, possibly two. When Toby finally removes his hand from between them, his fingers are sticky and yeah, he needs to wash those jeans before he wears them again—maybe he can throw them in with Mike's laundry. The thought of their clothes mixed together in the washing machine makes his stomach ache sweetly.

The orgasm must have short-circuited his brain.

Mike shifts slightly, enough to remind Toby that the floor must be pretty uncomfortable. He rolls off Mike's body, kicking his shoes off, followed by his jeans and boxers, and at least they're both naked now, naked and a little sweaty and disgusting. That's okay. It's all good. When Toby turns his head, he finds Mike watching him with the faintest upward curve to his mouth.

"So." Mike's voice isn't entirely steady. "Tobias Millen, huh?"

Toby's whole body expands on a deep breath. "That's my name."

"Should you be telling me that?"

"Don't know, don't care." Toby props himself up on one elbow and reaches out to drag a finger through the wet puddle on Mike's stomach. It shouldn't be a turn-on. It really, really is. "Right now, all I'm interested in is this house. Specifically the bedroom. More specifically the bed. I have a million questions about your bed, such as: is it comfortable? Is it big enough for us? Does it come with a headboard?"

Mike's dark gaze follows the motion of Toby's hand before he focuses on Toby's face again, his smile growing. "I believe it will meet with your approval."

"Prove it," Toby challenges.

Instead of a reply, Mike rolls them over. His face hovers above Toby for a moment, then he grins and pushes himself off the ground, offering Toby a hand to help him up. As Toby's center of gravity is somewhere back in New Jersey, he's grateful for the support.

Even once he's upright, neither of them lets go.

***

Toby wakes to the morning sun on his face and Mike's lips wrapped around his cock. He has just enough time to touch Mike's face, trailing his fingertips down one cheek, before he squeezes his eyes shut and comes, Mike's hand and mouth working him through it.

While Toby is still trying to catch his breath, incapable of coordinated movement, Mike sits back on his heels to bring himself off with short, rough strokes. He never once takes his gaze off Toby, and Toby stares back evenly, glancing down just once to find Mike's cock flushed and dark against Mike's fingers, Toby's own spent cock twitching helplessly at that in a vain, almost painful attempt to come again.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Toby asks, his voice sounding like sandpaper on wood. "Because if the answer's yes, you're doing one hell of a good job."

In response, Mike shoots him a happy grin. With the morning silence broken by only a faint murmur of traffic and the rush of the ocean, the rhythmic sounds of Mike's hand on his cock appear obscenely loud, and Toby manages to lift a hand and flatten his palm against Mike's belly.

He feels the muscles bunch up an instant before Mike groans, eyes drifting shut as he spills over Toby's hip. Fuck, he's beautiful.

Toby bites down on his tongue, waits for Mike's breathing to even out and his gaze to clear before waving an accusing hand at the mess on his stomach. "Trying to stake a claim, are you?" It's meant to be a joke, but the words come out tighter than Toby intended, everything just a little too bright and overwhelming. "Because, you know, that's all very alpha male and whatnot. Maybe rub it in too, for good measure."

"So what if I want to?" Mike's tone is slightly defensive. He lowers himself beside Toby, and Toby rolls over to face him, Mike's come smearing over the sheets. They'll have to change them—last night's activities having taken their toll—but that's not the issue right now. Not with Mike's expression suddenly shuttered, gaze sliding past Toby.

"Do you want to?" Toby asks carefully.

"Forget it."

"No."

"Toby."

"Mike." Toby reaches out to trace the interlinked tattoos that span Mike's biceps, fingertips light as he follows the pattern. "Michael. Talk to me."

"I'm thinking." Mike hesitates. "Just trying to come up with reasons to make you stay."

What is he talking about? "I have every reason to stay."

"Do you?" Mike's voice holds a challenge. He covers Toby's hand with his own, stopping its exploration and forcing Toby to direct his full attention to Mike's face. When their gazes meet, Mike's expression is unreadable, his forehead smooth. Toby can only hope he is doing an equally good job of hiding his thoughts, but it's hard to stay impassive when he's so very aware of the bite mark on Mike's shoulder, brightly outlined by sunlight, and all Toby wants is to touch it, ensure himself it's really there. That he did that.

Maybe they aren't so different after all.

Mike's eyes narrow. "How long are you staying?"

Toby shakes his head. "I don't know."

"You don't know." Mike blinks once, a tiny crack in the facade, and Toby digs his fingers into Mike's bicep.

"That's what I just said—I don't know."

"You mean to tell me that you came here without a plan? You?" Mike's expression breaks open, disbelief creeping into his tone along with something else, something that sounds like amazement. "You just hopped on a flight and showed up at my door?"

Toby shrugs awkwardly, his position making him abort the gesture. "What, is that a problem?"

"No. Not at all." Angling his body towards Toby, Mike eases his grip on Toby's hand. "Not in the least."

His smile is small, the beginning of one rather than anything fully expressed. Toby frees his hand to trace its shape and watches as it expands under his fingertips. Inhaling the fresh, clean air of what smells like a summer morning, Toby can't help but smile back.

"If you must know, I left Matt a message just before I flew out, asked him if he wanted to bring Haley here for her break. Which starts in two weeks, so that's—" He drops his hand and looks away, at the curtains blowing in the breeze. They're fascinating. Really. "I was planning to stay at least that long, if that's all right with you." When Mike doesn't immediately reply, Toby shifts back. "I should probably check my phone, see whether he tried to reach me."

He is prevented from moving further back when Mike's hand closes around his elbow. "Tell Matt he should come." Mike's tone is certain. "They can stay here with us. Haley would love it, the beach and all, and I can teach her how to surf. There's enough room for four people."

Toby stares at him. Mike meets his gaze evenly, and what is this—some misguided craving for a taste of family, something Mike didn't get to experience nearly long enough?

"We could find a hotel," Toby says slowly. "It wouldn't be a problem, you know. I hear there's plenty of hotels on this island, what with that whole tourist destination thing it's got going on. I was somewhat preoccupied when I arrived, but I did see the ads at the airport."

"Hotels are expensive." Mike keeps his hand on Toby's elbow. "Don't you think Haley would prefer this? I've got the beach right here, and it's way better than some crowded, anonymous hotel complex." He pauses. "Don't you prefer this?"

"You're serious." Toby doesn't dare move, but his chest feels lighter when Mike's lips curve upwards, enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes, and Jesus, that's not fair. There is no way Toby can be expected to cling to even a shred of caution when Mike is looking at him like that, all soft-eyed and hopeful.

"You came all this way to see me."

"Yeah." Toby swallows and suppresses the need to clear his throat. "You realize we need to talk at some point."

A faint line appears between Mike's brows. "We do?"

"We do." Toby's brain wants to twist the statement, take it back as soon as it's out because talking is where problems start. Why talk when their bodies get along just splendidly? He continues anyway. "Yes, Michael, we do. I know the concept of relationships is somewhat of a novelty to you—" Fuck, Toby didn't mean to say that. Didn't mean to get ahead of himself because yeah, he flew to Honolulu for Mike, but a relationship? That's a whole different level, and Toby might have implied it with his dinner invitation back in Singapore, sure, but he had an excuse, could blame a sticky situation and the very real risk of death for losing his head. Mike doesn't do relationships, right?

Mike's grip on Toby's elbow tightens, and Toby fights not to flinch. "What?"

"So this is a relationship?" Mike asks.

"I don't know," Toby says. "You tell me."

"Why don't you start?"

"Why should I?"

For a few seconds, Mike is silent. It's long enough that Toby becomes overly aware of the rush of the ocean, loud in his ears even though he knows, rationally, it isn't actually that noisy. Mike doesn't take his hand away, though, his palm warm on Toby's skin.

When he does speak, his voice is soft. "Okay. How about—I'm going to take a swim, okay?" He doesn't leave Toby time to interrupt. "I always do that in the mornings. I'll be back in an hour, and you can go running or chill or whatever else it is that you want to do. Explore the house or the beach, whatever." A short pause while Mike draws an audible breath. "And when we both get back, we'll talk."

"You need to mentally prepare yourself for this, huh?" Toby's grin falls short, and Mike shakes his head, no hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Don't pretend you have this figured out any more than I do."

"I hate it when you make sense." Holding his breath as he counts to five, Toby looks around the room, taking in the sheets that are tangled at the foot of the bed and the generous amount of sunshine that makes it through the fluttering curtains. He could tell Mike that he wants to stay for as long as Mike will have him, that he wants things to progress to a point where one side of this bed is Toby's side, where Toby's clothes have a place in Mike's closet.

How, though?

He nods. "Okay. One hour."

Mike slides his hand down from Toby's elbow, lingering briefly on Toby's wrist before he breaks the contact. When Toby sits up, suddenly conscious of his own nakedness, Mike stops him with a quick, "Hey."

Toby raises a brow. In response, Mike tugs Toby down for a light brush of their mouths, the contact ending far too soon and leaving Toby just slightly disoriented.

Mike pulls back. "One hour."

He rolls out of bed and stands naked beside it for a second, stretching leisurely before he glances back over his shoulder and counters Toby's rapt stare with a wink. Smug bastard. Once he's gone, Toby falls back onto the mattress and allows himself two minutes to get a grip.

Then he pushes himself upright, his limbs aching pleasantly and yeah, a run might just do him some good.

***

Before he leaves, Toby checks his phone to find that Matt did call, leaving a short message that insults Toby's intelligence and emotional competence. When Toby tries to call back, he gets sent straight to voicemail. Ah, the joys of modern technology.

Having changed into his running clothes, Toby goes downstairs to find a set of keys on the kitchen table. A note, Mike's writing a wide-spread scrawl, identifies them as, ‘Lanai, front door gate. Keep them.' Toby picks them up with slow fingers, turning them over before he slides them into a pocket of his shorts.

On his way past the terrace door, he glances out at the bay, the waves rolling in steadily. It takes him a moment to spot Mike: far out, the distance reducing him to a small dot on the water.

Toby locks the terrace door and sets off down the beach.

At first, he finds it difficult, the soft sand giving under his shoes and making each step an effort until he remembers that it's easier to run at the edge of the water, where the ocean cools the sand and turns it into a solid surface. While it means that he frequently has to evade the incoming waves, the distraction is welcome, makes it easy to lose himself in the simplicity of the motions.

This early in the morning, the beach is fairly empty, only a few just-past-sunrise fanatics already out to enjoy the sun. A couple of brightly colored surfboards bob in the waves, and the day's brightness borders on painful, everything sharp and crisp, the ocean a constant rhythm to accompany Toby's run. It couldn't be more of a contrast to the gray high rises at home.

Spending a large portion of his free time here on this beach, in Mike's house… With Mike...

It wouldn't be a hardship.

Toby doesn't look at his watch when he turns around, but he arrives back at the house only forty minutes after he left, unlocking the terrace door to get a glass of water from the kitchen. With the heat of the day only just beginning to creep up, he isn't that sweaty, but he feels warm enough to pull off his T-shirt and stretch out on one of the deck chairs on Mike's terrace. No, lanai. Apparently, they call this a lanai around here.

He hasn't had his eyes closed for more than a couple of minutes when a shadow falls over him, followed by a few droplets of water. Toby blinks to find Mike grinning at him, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair so that he's dripping all over Toby, retreating only when Toby half-heartedly swats at him. Mike looks loose and refreshed when he sprawls in the second deck chair.

"Wipe that proud smirk off your face," Toby tells him. "I know your brain is a little twisted, so let me explain to you that it is not a generous gesture if you share your ocean wetness with me. It is also not endearing."

The sun brightens Mike's eyes to a warm green. "You know what's funny?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me. Whether I care to hear it is a different matter."

"I have never met anyone who takes the phrase ‘nag because you care' to your level." Mike props one foot up on the chair. With the wet swim trunks clinging to the lines of his body, it's more than a little distracting. "Also, you should go shirtless more often."

"It's all about incentives, babe."

"I'm asking you to. I think that should be good enough."

The thing is: it just might be.

Toby wasn't dropped on the head as a child, so of course he doesn't provide Mike with that kind of ammunition; it would only lead to disaster. "Well. Throw in a decent cup of coffee every morning, control of the remote when the Yankees are playing, and the admission that fruit on pizza is wrong. Then we might have a deal."

"Scrap the pizza, and it sounds like something I can do."

Mike didn't object to the part where Toby asked for coffee every morning—every morning as in many mornings. It's just another hint to add to the growing pile, and Toby is neither a fool nor a coward, so it's about damn time he faces the music.

He leans forward, elbows on his thighs, and lets himself just look at Mike: it's a lovely sight, Mike still damp and mostly naked, dark hair sketching a path from his belly button down into his trunks, the morning sun gentle on his face. Jesus, yes, Toby wants to wake up to this, to them, every goddamn day.

Maybe he's already in too deep. But if he is, he's passed the point of no return.

Glancing away, he tries to time his breathing to the ebb and swell of the ocean. "I'll start, okay? Here's the thing: I don't know how this is going to work. I have no clue how it possibly can when you're an explosion hazard and I'm back in Newark and our jobs take us God knows where." The sun is brilliant in his eyes, spots of brightness dancing behind his lids each time he blinks. He spares Mike only the shortest of glances, taking in Mike's smooth expression that is belied by a strain around his mouth. Waves roll in and Toby inhales. "What I do know is that I want it to work because, see, I wasn't planning to fall in love while I'm still active in the field. It really wasn't part of my plan. Any plan. But" —he lifts one shoulder, his vision overflowing with light— "you, my friend, are terrible at heeding my instructions. So, just in case it wasn't clear: I'm in love with you."

Mike doesn't move. The ocean's rhythm remains unchanged, uncaring.

"I want this to work," Toby finishes softly. He refuses to look at Mike. "But it won't if we're not on equal footing."

Finally, Mike moves, swinging his legs over the side of the deck chair. His hand lifts in an aborted attempt to reach out, but stops halfway between them. "You think I offer my house to just anyone?" he asks. His voice sounds unfamiliar, parched. "You honestly think I would have let that asshole Welton walk all over me if it wasn't for you? I thought I'd made myself clear."

Toby's gaze fixes on Mike's face. "Clear how?"

Mike sends him a slow, patient look.

"Clear how?" Toby insists. "Are you saying you're in love with me? Is that what you're saying?"

His stupid heart skips a beat at the smile that starts in Mike's eyes and then grows, takes over Mike's entire face until Toby can't help but return it. They must look like right idiots, beaming at each other over the gap between the deck chairs.

"Jesus, Toby." Mike shakes his head, but he doesn't stop grinning. "It's about time you noticed."

"No, say it." Leaning forward, Toby grabs Mike's wrist to pull him closer until Mike's weight is supported only by the very edge of his deck chair. "Spell it out for me, Michael."

"I'm in love with you." Mike twists his wrist free, but only to lace their fingers. His gaze flicks from their hands to Toby's face, the smile dimming just slightly. "And I have no clue how this is going to work either. We both know that this is far out of my area of expertise. Honestly, you think I planned any of this?"

"I know you didn't." Toby runs his nail over the pad of Mike's thumb. "After all, you do suck at planning."

"Lies and slander," Mike says, and this is probably a bad time for Toby to notice the stubborn droplet of water still clinging to the hollow of Mike's throat, glistening like a tempting secret. If Toby dipped his head and leaned forward to lap it up, Mike wouldn't object.

Because Mike is in love with Toby.

Toby's rebuttal is weak and belated. "Not if it's true."

Mike gives him a slow smirk, all smug calculation. "You want me to develop and execute a plan? I can do that."

Of course he won't be able to resist a challenge. Maybe Toby should have thought of that earlier. Too late now.

"Here," Mike continues, gaze unwavering. "How's this for a plan?" He strokes Toby's wrist with a light fingertip, his tanned hand contrasting with Toby's paler skin. His voice dips to an intimate level. "I'm going to prep you right here—nice and slow, lay you out in the sunshine so I can get a real good look at you. Take my time."

Toby swallows.

"And then," Mike tells him in that same low, confident tone, "you'll follow me into the ocean. No need to get in very far, just until the water comes up to my chest. We'll get your legs around my waist, and I'll fuck you right there, one hand around your cock."

Fuck, he's good.

Maybe it should lessen the appeal that he's well aware of what he's doing, that he might have been trained in how to pitch his voice just right, how to angle his head and phrase his words. Given the obvious bulge in Mike's trunks, Toby finds it hard to care. When he gives a light tug, Mike happily slides off his deck chair and into Toby's lap.

"Porn—" Toby buries a hand in Mike's hair to pull his head down— "has nothing on you, babe. I hope you know that. You could give that porn version of Pirates of the Caribbean a run for its money, and from what I remember, it was a lot of money. Most expensive porn movie ever made, wasn't it? You're better."

"We need to discuss your taste in motion pictures." Mike's grave tone is offset by the gleam in his eyes. He shifts his hips, rubbing up against Toby's cock in a most delicious way, with Toby's worn sweats doing very little to limit the impact. "Also," Mike continues, "I take this to mean you agree with my plan. I did think it was a good one."

That's when Toby's phone rings. From the open bedroom window, the sound cuts through the peaceful quiet of the morning.

Mike tilts his head. "Leave it."

"Could be Matt," Toby says.

He doesn't really want to talk to his brother when he has Mike in his lap, but the missed calls are getting ridiculous. Also, Mike offered to house Matt and Haley for a summer vacation—offered because he wants Toby here and doesn't mind if Toby comes as a package deal, at least while school's out. It's... kind of mind-blowing. Maybe it'll feel more tangible once Toby knows whether Matt is planning to book flights.

Mike hesitates before he nods. "Fine. You get the phone, I get lube. Make it quick." When he moves off Toby's lap, Toby has to stop himself from pulling him right back in.

"You're very bossy." Toby clambers to his feet and continues talking even as he moves into the house, calling over his shoulder while he rushes up the stairs. "We'll have to talk about that, just so you know. There can only be one bossy bitch in this relationship."

Relationship. Huh.

He skids into the bedroom and grabs his phone. The display identifies the caller as Liu, not Matt. That's... unexpected. After a second's consideration, Toby picks up. "Liu. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm not sure I want to hear anything about your pleasure, man." Liu's drawl is as fabulously relaxed as ever. "You sound like you got plenty of that since we last spoke."

Toby hopes his grin doesn't show in his voice. "Is there a point to this call? Anything that would stop me from hanging up on you right here, right now?"

"Actually," Liu says, "there is: if either you or Mike get a call from someone who claims to be the Governor of Hawaii, don't hang up on him."

Toby lowers the phone and looks at it for a moment. Nope, still doesn't make sense. He shakes his head as he brings the phone back to his ear. "Liu Wei Zhou. Are you high?"

Liu laughs, and he doesn't sound high, merely comfortable and at peace with the world. "Hawaii is looking to expand its capacity beyond occasionally protecting the President and other VIP travelers during their holidays. The Governor knows Jesy's part of the family, you know how it is. Long story short, I've been asked to set up their new branch."

A new unit, in Hawaii. Led by Liu.

Toby's brain spontaneously combusts at the sheer amount of possibilities.

"You've been planning this. Ever since I told you Mike's from Hawaii, you've been planning this."

Liu's smirk is audible, and wow, he's a smug, awesome bastard for keeping this to himself. "It's a pretty sweet deal, bro. Jesy's on board, and I thought you and Mike might be interested."

"You think you're so clever," Toby says, but the amazement in his voice makes it sound like a compliment. He sits down heavily on the mattress, shaking his head because this, okay, things like this and people like Mike do not happen to Tobias Millen, they just don't. Certainly not all in one day.

"I know I am." Liu's tone takes on a slightly more serious note. "The Governor wants to speak to my preferred candidates in person, so you might want to make a good impression."

Toby squints at the bright sunshine that falls in through the curtains. The sheets of Mike's bed are just where they left them, tangled and in dire need of a wash, the room smelling of sex. While Toby is still processing the news, Mike enters the room, triumphantly waving a new bottle of lube as if he deserves a medal for finding it when Toby spotted it openly sitting on the bathroom counter earlier.

"I always make a good impression," he says belatedly. "So does Mike."

"Right." Liu's tone implies that he reserves judgment, but Toby can't be bothered to protest—not with Mike stepping right between his legs, immediate and there and so real it hurts. Toby clears his throat and feels a smile growing on his face.

"Okay," he tells Liu, not taking his eyes off Mike. "I will see you soon, then. Thank you; you are a marvel and a friend. Now please excuse me while I do dirty, dirty things to Mike's body."

"I heard that," Mike says just as Toby ends the call to Liu chuckling in his ear.

Tossing the phone aside, Toby tips his head back to grin at him. "You were supposed to, babe. Also, that was Liu. How do you feel about becoming a member of some new Hawaiian unit he's been asked to set up?"

"Huh." Mike runs his hand down Toby's torso, stopping with his palm flat against Toby's belly. He purses his mouth. "Pretty good, I guess."

"You're not surprised. Why are you not surprised?"

"This is Hawaii." Mike makes it sound as if he's talking about some kind of secret cult. His thumb smoothes over Toby's skin, teasing at the edge of his waistband. "Word travels fast, and since Liu let it slip that Jesy knows the Governor..." At Toby's raised brow, he shrugs and smiles. "When we talked about Hawaii—you know, about how you might like it here."

"Liu is a devious man." Not that Toby particularly cares as long as he has Mike perched over him like this. Really, Mike should lose the swim trunks. They're fine as far as swimwear goes, sure, and Toby is in fact a fan of Mike wearing clothes in public because seeing him naked is a privilege Toby isn't willing to share; he might have a brother, but he's always been of the opinion that siblings teach you to become more protective of what's yours rather than the opposite.

Jesus. Is Toby seriously considering moving to Hawaii for Mike?

Yeah. Yes, he is.

"I don't know," Mike says into the shocked silence that reigns in Toby's head. "I think Liu is pretty awesome."

"I am awesome." Wrapping both arms around Mike's waist, Toby pulls him down on top of himself. Mike manages to catch some of his own weight on his elbows, but he's still heavy, real and warm, so much glorious skin for Toby to explore.

Mike's grin is mischievous. "You're all right. I guess."

"Take it back." Toby glares up at him. If anything, Mike's grin grows.

"Make me."

"Michael." Toby puts a lot of emphasis on the name. He loosens his grip enough to slide both hands down Mike's back, spreads his fingers. "If you admit, right now, that I am the most stunning, awesome man you have ever met, that there is no one else you could ever fall in love with, then I promise that at some point today, you will learn just how long I can hold my breath for a blowjob." He pauses to watch Mike's pupils dilate just slightly, that damn grin slipping, before he adds, "Underwater."

"Fuck, you fight dirty." Mike's tone is an equal mix of admiration and delight.

"Don't tell me you're surprised," Toby tells him. He moves one hand lower, pushing at the trunks. They cling to Mike's waist and really, what an offending piece of clothing. Maybe Toby will rip it. He could. Easily. It would be like something out of a cheap porn movie, but it might be worth it to see Mike's reaction. Toby suspects it could be pretty fun.

"I'm not." When Mike shakes his head, his nose nudges against Toby's. "I think I know what I'm getting myself into."

Toby tugs at the trunks, just to test the strength of the fabric. He grins. "Yeah, you better."

Mike lowers his head, his mouth brushing over Toby's. "Oh, I do. Trust me." His low voice melds perfectly with the flow of the ocean and the calls of morning birds outside.

"I do not trust you." Toby lets his legs fall open for Mike to settle between them. "Not at all, not even a tiny little bit."

"I take it that's a yes." When Mike pulls back just a little, the crinkles around his eyes make another appearance, and—yes. Yes. Toby wants to stay around to watch them become permanent, so much that his stomach feels hot and heavy with it.

"You can't prove anything," he says.

"Hey." Mike tilts his head, his look thoughtful. The shift of his hips against Toby's is calculated. "Did I mention I'm in love with you, Bas?"

Toby exhales on a soft gasp. "Fuck you, that's not fair."

"Get used to it." Mike's smile is brilliant and Toby returns it, his stomach still uneasy, but it's a different kind of uneasy, a good kind. The best kind.

"Yeah." When he inhales, he smells summer and salt and Mike. "You know what, babe? I plan to."