Fic roundup II
Jul. 2nd, 2006 01:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
under_hatchesThree. Russell/ Dean, Alan, 814 words about what you want and what you get and about how sometimes what you get is what you (should) want. I wanted this to be part of something longer but after much much thinking and a tiny bit of revising I realised that it stands pretty much on its own.
Russell pressed the record button even though Alan was only getting ready and was still sitting there with the guitar in his lap, seemingly randomly tuning and retuning it. Alan was chatting with Dean, telling some story or other. Russell did not want to listen yet, so he watched the tremble, bass and heights indicators rise and drop with the swell of Alan’s voice. Alan must have reached the end of his story, his punch line, the one that Russell would only understand later when he would be listening to the recording.
Dean laughed and now Russell had that on tape too.
Alan looked up then, smiling at Russell and raising an eyebrow. He then seemed to remember something, the surprise clearly written on his face. He handed the guitar to Dean as if Dean had only been standing there to accept it all along. Alan took his bouzouki, grinning sheepishly as he checked its tuning. He made a quip about something, and Russell regretted having stopped the recording when Alan had looked over.
Alan was able to tell a story starting out at any imaginable keyword. Sometimes he started with a memory he suddenly recalled, even though the topic seemed unrelated to anything that had happened or had been said. Sometimes Alan recalled a place he had been to. Sometimes he mixed up all the stories he seemed to have in his head, and those where the times when Russell enjoyed listening most; when Alan took a turn and another one and suddenly found himself tangled. He ended up lost between two or more stories and said the first thing then that came to mind.
Doyle-ing, Séan had called it.
Russell had met Séan only once and knew hardly a thing about him. Though Alan seemed to have a million stories about Bob, ranging from ‘naked accordion player’ to their days in Europe, Alan only talked about Séan when pressed for it. He said things then like ‘Séan is a handsome bodhran player from Carbonear’ or something with the same level of un-information.
When they had met, Séan had been friendly but quiet. They looked like counterparts then, Alan with his forward momentum and Séan with his silent anchoring. Within a few hours they had recorded their takes. When Séan had not been focussed on the music and his play, he had looked at Russell. Russell had waited for him to ask; whatever he wanted to know, Russell had been prepared to answer it, as this was Alan’s friend. Séan had not asked. Only when Russell and Alan had left, and Séan had hugged Alan fiercely, the pieces clicked into place.
He should have kept his distance then, but more often than not it was Alan who came over or dropped a note or called the house.
Russell invited him to a trip around the harbour. When they sat on the afterdeck, Alan with sunglasses he had burrowed from Dean who had decided not to come along, Russell tried not to mind the paparazzi. Alan commented on them, amused and bewildered at the same time. Russell did not want to call Alan oblivious but in many ways he was. Only after they were out of sight for even binoculars and even the fanciest lenses, their usual chatter ensued. Russell absentmindedly pondered the last time he had sex with Dean on a boat, the waves, the movement of the boat and how they found their own rhythm in synch with the waves. He smiled then despite himself, having not listened to Alan’s story at all. Alan looked at him, a little incredulously, waiting for an answer he would not get. Russell handed him another bottle of beer, which shut Alan up for the better part of ten minutes.
They talked music for the rest of the afternoon. Russell liked the way Alan turned ideas around, after Russell had handed him a phrase. He could have continued until night, ping ponging ideas like that, but Alan was getting sleepy and blaming the sun and not the beer.
Russell watched Alan dozing on and off in the car during their drive to the hotel. He dropped Alan off, who was smiling gratefully and promising to spend more time in the shade from now on. Russell pointed out that they would spend most of their time during the day in the shed on the farm, anyway, and Alan nodded at that, solemnly. That’s a promise he could keep then, Alan said. He handed Russell the sunglasses, telling him to thank Dean. Alan gave a small wave, before he trotted off.
Dean and Russell talked for a lazy two hours about their day and the recordings. Russell sat close to Dean, liking the way the heat poured of him. Afterwards they made love, silent and fierce, with all the intent to find the rhythm of the ocean again.
~*~
Ongoing List, Alan/ Russell, 2.151 words which is a bit more than what I aimed for and that frankly rules totally. Mostly character study, rated G for no porn at all but I still like to think it makes for a very good read.
Ongoing List
They were on their way to check the northernmost fence of Russell’s property, mostly because Alan had begged to be shown around, but also partly because Russell simply needed to check it again. Sure, he could have delegated that task, but then there was Alan, who on his second visit to the farm did not want to nap in the shade (especially not in the chill autumn breeze) but wanted to see all of it, preferably. Russell tried to convince himself that showing a guest the border of his farm was not bad form, given the circumstance that Alan seemed pretty happy with whatever.
The sky was clear after the rainfall of the night before, so Russell decided to park the car and have them both stretch their legs. Russell was walking slightly ahead, nudging the fence with his shoe, or giving one of the poles a hard shove to see if they would budge. Alan was following him, sometimes sauntering ahead, sometimes falling behind again. They weren’t really talking, just exchanging the odd observation or two. Russell wondered about this, had wondered about it before. Alan would not shut up during sight seeing, either asking about every shit house on the premises or talking about every shit house on the premises, but when it came to open places he became quiet. Or at least more quiet, as Russell had to admit.
“Is that some sort of reverence?”
Alan looked at him peculiarly. He had his What the fuck are you on about expression, but with Alan it was never only that, and Russell liked to think that some kind of fondness for the oddness of his question was in there too. For some reason Alan even knew what Russell was talking about.
“No, I just can think here. It’s always been like that.”
Russell thought of something to say, something they could chat about, but instead he shook the fence some more.
“It’s not good for writing though,” Alan said.
“What’s good for writing?”
Alan shrugged.
“You. Talking to you is great for writing.”
Russell gave a smirk at that. Unexpected compliments was another thing he had come to expect with Alan.
“Be careful where you step. The soil is muddy here,” Russell said because he could not think of anything else to say.
Alan nodded, stepping carefully over a puddle. They walked on like that, Alan being quiet and a little lost in thought, at least he seemed that way to Russell, and Russell occasionally nudging a fence that was in perfect shape and needed no nudging at all.
And then Alan slipped, and fell, reaching out for Russell but barely touching his arm. He landed arse-first in the mud and was laughing so hard he couldn’t get up again. Alan was still holding out a hand, so Russell grabbed it and tried to pull him up again. But Alan was doubling over, laughing and giggling until finally reaching out his other hand. Russell pulled him up and into his arms, laughing too now.
He kissed Alan, quick and unintentional, and the first thing Alan said after the kiss was the last Russell wanted to hear.
“Oh-oh.”
Russell let go of him, a little shameful, a little stubborn, and looked at him sideways.
“The rain reminds me of France and the wine yard,” Alan then said. The unsaid apology almost made Russell angry.
“Does it?”
“Yeah, don’t you remember? We were on out way to some monastery or something and you wanted to shortcut.”
“No, I don’t remember,” Russell lied, not even knowing why. Maybe because he was thinking of France too.
“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” Alan said, “We ran to this little house because it started raining, and the roof was half gone.”
“Yeah, right. Look, we should get back, okay?”
Alan huffed, waving his hands dismissively. Russell took that as a yes and turned to walk back the same road they came.
“I hope you let me get in the car, as muddy as I am,” Alan said on their way back to the four-wheel drive.
“You can sit on the dog’s blanket,” Russell joked. Alan looked at him, trying to look insulted, but grinned and tried to brush the drying mud from his trousers.
After dinner, Alan sat down on the terrace as he did every evening and Russell retreated to his bedroom, announcing he would come out later. He knew Alan would be working, either writing or rewriting, for an hour before he would miss Russell. So Russell stretched out on his bed, thinking of the one time in France where they went up beyond the apple orchards. Not the one where it rained so hard they had run for cover, but the one where the weather had held, golden European sun casting long shadows. It had taken them a good hour to make their way through the gnarly trees that had been heavy with fruit. When they had finally reached the end, they had looked at hills in the distance, white houses like specks on the brown fields. The orchards had not been surrounded by lush green scenery, but by earth dried by the sun and wine yards.
Alan had made a comment about how small the trees were. Russell remembered that he had shrugged, not offering the logical economic explanation for it but letting Alan marvel at it for a while longer. He had picked an apple, ruby red and small, and had taken a big bite out of it. It had been sweet and sour at the same time, like good old vinegar, too zesty for his taste, but he had held it out to Alan nevertheless who had carefully sniffled at it and then taken a tiny bite.
“Whoa,” Alan had said, making a face, “Talk about sour.”
He had puckered his lips, but had chewed and swallowed and looked into the evening sun. Russell had shrugged again, taking another bite. The apple juice had made his lips itchy and he had pressed his lips together to get rid of the stickiness. With his sleeve he had finally rubbed the sugary coat off, smiling at Alan and holding out the apple again.
“Want another bite?” Russell had offered.
“No, thanks. I might be adventurous, but not that adventurous.”
“I’ve never seen you adventurous,” Russell had said between bites.
“I am. In all kinds of cases. Just not when it comes to unripe fruit.”
Russell had turned then, slowly walking back. He had paused, making sure Alan came after him.
“You shouldn’t eat the whole thing,” Alan had said, “The things you can get from unripe fruit. Ugh. You really shouldn’t… aw, man.”
Russell had turned and grinned at him, still chewing on the last bite, and had chucked the core into the opposite row of trees.
“See if you still grin if you get something nasty,” Alan had said.
“You talk too much. Hey, what about this: I’ll buy you Cider at the little farmhouse down the road. Fresh cider. You’ll love it.”
For some reason that had made Alan shut up and he had sped up a bit until they had been walking next to each other. Alan had looked at him, one eye closed against the light coming in sideways through the trees, clearly amused and content.
Russell had bought four bottles at the farmhouse from an old man that had looked at them crookedly until Alan translated.
“Quatre,” Russell had told the old man as he had been getting the bottles from a plastic crate, “quatre.”
Alan had laughed them, and the old man had chimed in, handing over the bottles one by one. Russell had thought that the farmer had been happy about their purchase, and maybe even a bit about seeing the two strangers leave shortly after.
Alan had seemed only happy, carrying two bottles against his chest, almost cradling them as if careful not to drop them.
There was a knock on the door and Russell sat up. The room was already half dark.
“Did you fall asleep? I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s all right. What time is it?”
Russell rubbed over his face with both his hands.
“A little after ten.”
“Fuck. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s all right.” Russell could hear the smile in Alan’s voice. “It was a long day. I just wanted to see if you’re up for another beer before going to bed.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be right out.”
When he came out, Alan sat cross-legged on the two-seater, quickly unwrapping himself to make room. Russell accepted the bottle of beer that Alan held out and sat down next to him. The air had become chilly and Alan was wearing his hooded sweater.
“Tell me about France,” Russell said and Alan looked at him. “What you remember. The rainy day.”
“Oh, that. I think I told you the gist of it already.”
Russell put his arm around Alan’s shoulders and pulled him closer.
“Yeah.”
So Alan started to talk about what he recalled.
They hadn’t made it halfway up the slope, a tight turn of dust roads and neglected wine yards, when the wind had freshened up. Russell had looked at the sky, watching the clouds gather quickly and the sky turn dark towards the east. Russell had even thought he could hear the dull rolling mumble of distant thunder.
"We should take shelter somewhere," he had said to Alan, who had been standing a few feet away and had been trying to fold their map. The wind had rushed under the spread paper, ripping at it fiercely. Alan had turned his back to the wind, smoothing out the creases and folding the map against his chest. His hair had been tousled, (That friggin wind! Remember it? It almost ripped through my map and I couldn’t see a thing!) and he had pushed it off his face while trying to put the map into his backpack one-handedly. Alan had frowned slightly at the clouds and then looked at Russell.
"Maybe we should find some place to take cover," Alan had said. Russell had rolled his eyes.
"What?" Alan had said. "It looks like rain!"
The first drops of rain had splashed down, leaving dark round spots on the loamy soil. Russell had walked ahead, criss-crossing through gnarled vine, stepping around torn bits of fence. When the rain had came down harder, he had started to jog towards what seemed to be a small stone house. He had been able to hear Alan falling into a light trot behind him, but soon the sound of their steps had been drowned by the downpour. When they had reached the house, they had climbed through the broken front door which had been pulled off its hinges, only to find half the floor covered in water already. They had both looked up, swearing at a roof that had been mostly gone for God knows how long. They had huddled into the remaining corner, and Alan had shook himself in a mock attempt to keep the water from dripping from his hair. He had laughed then, breathless from the short run and the cold. The rain had been coming down honestly, running down the uncovered stone walls. They had stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the water form deep puddles, and had wrapped themselves deeper into their jackets.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you," Russell remembered he had said to Alan, making him smile.
"Aren't we trespassing," Alan had asked, very clearly enjoying this.
Neither of them could recall what they had been talking about, but they had talked until the rain had stopped. They had not made it to the monastery Russell had seen in a travel guide, but gone straight back to the apartment where they had dried off and continued talking over mugs of steaming coffee that at first had seemed too hot to hold in rain cold hands.
“And we where trespassing too!” Alan announced.
“I thought you were adventurous.”
“Who said that?”
“I believe you did.”
“No,” Alan laughed into his beer, “I don’t think I did.”
Russell smiled, having his own memories to follow.
“Looks like rain again,” Alan said and pointed vaguely into the sky.
It was too dark to see anything except low clouds, and the trees rustled in a breeze that could announce rain indeed.
“Want to go inside?”
Alan shook his head and nestled closer. They stayed like this until the first tentative drops turned into a drumming shower and the wind blew cold enough to make them shiver despite sitting close. They left their bottles outside, and paused for a moment after closing the door behind them. Without turning on the lights, they stood next to each other, watching the rain coming down.
Alan yawned then and slipped his arm around Russell’s waist, unknowingly adding another memory to that ongoing list.
~*~
They stood side by side at the ocean, the wind rustling through their clothes and for a moment Russell pretended to be on holiday here. It was easy with the blue stretching towards the curve of the earth like that, and the clouds being blown swiftly across the sky. Alan looked at home here, as he always did close to the sea. Wrapped up in his dark blue sweater, he was lacking only one thing.
“Maybe we should have a look at that golf course. There still is enough time.”
And there it was, that impish smile Russell had missed.
Russell pressed the record button even though Alan was only getting ready and was still sitting there with the guitar in his lap, seemingly randomly tuning and retuning it. Alan was chatting with Dean, telling some story or other. Russell did not want to listen yet, so he watched the tremble, bass and heights indicators rise and drop with the swell of Alan’s voice. Alan must have reached the end of his story, his punch line, the one that Russell would only understand later when he would be listening to the recording.
Dean laughed and now Russell had that on tape too.
Alan looked up then, smiling at Russell and raising an eyebrow. He then seemed to remember something, the surprise clearly written on his face. He handed the guitar to Dean as if Dean had only been standing there to accept it all along. Alan took his bouzouki, grinning sheepishly as he checked its tuning. He made a quip about something, and Russell regretted having stopped the recording when Alan had looked over.
Alan was able to tell a story starting out at any imaginable keyword. Sometimes he started with a memory he suddenly recalled, even though the topic seemed unrelated to anything that had happened or had been said. Sometimes Alan recalled a place he had been to. Sometimes he mixed up all the stories he seemed to have in his head, and those where the times when Russell enjoyed listening most; when Alan took a turn and another one and suddenly found himself tangled. He ended up lost between two or more stories and said the first thing then that came to mind.
Doyle-ing, Séan had called it.
Russell had met Séan only once and knew hardly a thing about him. Though Alan seemed to have a million stories about Bob, ranging from ‘naked accordion player’ to their days in Europe, Alan only talked about Séan when pressed for it. He said things then like ‘Séan is a handsome bodhran player from Carbonear’ or something with the same level of un-information.
When they had met, Séan had been friendly but quiet. They looked like counterparts then, Alan with his forward momentum and Séan with his silent anchoring. Within a few hours they had recorded their takes. When Séan had not been focussed on the music and his play, he had looked at Russell. Russell had waited for him to ask; whatever he wanted to know, Russell had been prepared to answer it, as this was Alan’s friend. Séan had not asked. Only when Russell and Alan had left, and Séan had hugged Alan fiercely, the pieces clicked into place.
He should have kept his distance then, but more often than not it was Alan who came over or dropped a note or called the house.
Russell invited him to a trip around the harbour. When they sat on the afterdeck, Alan with sunglasses he had burrowed from Dean who had decided not to come along, Russell tried not to mind the paparazzi. Alan commented on them, amused and bewildered at the same time. Russell did not want to call Alan oblivious but in many ways he was. Only after they were out of sight for even binoculars and even the fanciest lenses, their usual chatter ensued. Russell absentmindedly pondered the last time he had sex with Dean on a boat, the waves, the movement of the boat and how they found their own rhythm in synch with the waves. He smiled then despite himself, having not listened to Alan’s story at all. Alan looked at him, a little incredulously, waiting for an answer he would not get. Russell handed him another bottle of beer, which shut Alan up for the better part of ten minutes.
They talked music for the rest of the afternoon. Russell liked the way Alan turned ideas around, after Russell had handed him a phrase. He could have continued until night, ping ponging ideas like that, but Alan was getting sleepy and blaming the sun and not the beer.
Russell watched Alan dozing on and off in the car during their drive to the hotel. He dropped Alan off, who was smiling gratefully and promising to spend more time in the shade from now on. Russell pointed out that they would spend most of their time during the day in the shed on the farm, anyway, and Alan nodded at that, solemnly. That’s a promise he could keep then, Alan said. He handed Russell the sunglasses, telling him to thank Dean. Alan gave a small wave, before he trotted off.
Dean and Russell talked for a lazy two hours about their day and the recordings. Russell sat close to Dean, liking the way the heat poured of him. Afterwards they made love, silent and fierce, with all the intent to find the rhythm of the ocean again.
~*~
Ongoing List, Alan/ Russell, 2.151 words which is a bit more than what I aimed for and that frankly rules totally. Mostly character study, rated G for no porn at all but I still like to think it makes for a very good read.
Ongoing List
They were on their way to check the northernmost fence of Russell’s property, mostly because Alan had begged to be shown around, but also partly because Russell simply needed to check it again. Sure, he could have delegated that task, but then there was Alan, who on his second visit to the farm did not want to nap in the shade (especially not in the chill autumn breeze) but wanted to see all of it, preferably. Russell tried to convince himself that showing a guest the border of his farm was not bad form, given the circumstance that Alan seemed pretty happy with whatever.
The sky was clear after the rainfall of the night before, so Russell decided to park the car and have them both stretch their legs. Russell was walking slightly ahead, nudging the fence with his shoe, or giving one of the poles a hard shove to see if they would budge. Alan was following him, sometimes sauntering ahead, sometimes falling behind again. They weren’t really talking, just exchanging the odd observation or two. Russell wondered about this, had wondered about it before. Alan would not shut up during sight seeing, either asking about every shit house on the premises or talking about every shit house on the premises, but when it came to open places he became quiet. Or at least more quiet, as Russell had to admit.
“Is that some sort of reverence?”
Alan looked at him peculiarly. He had his What the fuck are you on about expression, but with Alan it was never only that, and Russell liked to think that some kind of fondness for the oddness of his question was in there too. For some reason Alan even knew what Russell was talking about.
“No, I just can think here. It’s always been like that.”
Russell thought of something to say, something they could chat about, but instead he shook the fence some more.
“It’s not good for writing though,” Alan said.
“What’s good for writing?”
Alan shrugged.
“You. Talking to you is great for writing.”
Russell gave a smirk at that. Unexpected compliments was another thing he had come to expect with Alan.
“Be careful where you step. The soil is muddy here,” Russell said because he could not think of anything else to say.
Alan nodded, stepping carefully over a puddle. They walked on like that, Alan being quiet and a little lost in thought, at least he seemed that way to Russell, and Russell occasionally nudging a fence that was in perfect shape and needed no nudging at all.
And then Alan slipped, and fell, reaching out for Russell but barely touching his arm. He landed arse-first in the mud and was laughing so hard he couldn’t get up again. Alan was still holding out a hand, so Russell grabbed it and tried to pull him up again. But Alan was doubling over, laughing and giggling until finally reaching out his other hand. Russell pulled him up and into his arms, laughing too now.
He kissed Alan, quick and unintentional, and the first thing Alan said after the kiss was the last Russell wanted to hear.
“Oh-oh.”
Russell let go of him, a little shameful, a little stubborn, and looked at him sideways.
“The rain reminds me of France and the wine yard,” Alan then said. The unsaid apology almost made Russell angry.
“Does it?”
“Yeah, don’t you remember? We were on out way to some monastery or something and you wanted to shortcut.”
“No, I don’t remember,” Russell lied, not even knowing why. Maybe because he was thinking of France too.
“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” Alan said, “We ran to this little house because it started raining, and the roof was half gone.”
“Yeah, right. Look, we should get back, okay?”
Alan huffed, waving his hands dismissively. Russell took that as a yes and turned to walk back the same road they came.
“I hope you let me get in the car, as muddy as I am,” Alan said on their way back to the four-wheel drive.
“You can sit on the dog’s blanket,” Russell joked. Alan looked at him, trying to look insulted, but grinned and tried to brush the drying mud from his trousers.
After dinner, Alan sat down on the terrace as he did every evening and Russell retreated to his bedroom, announcing he would come out later. He knew Alan would be working, either writing or rewriting, for an hour before he would miss Russell. So Russell stretched out on his bed, thinking of the one time in France where they went up beyond the apple orchards. Not the one where it rained so hard they had run for cover, but the one where the weather had held, golden European sun casting long shadows. It had taken them a good hour to make their way through the gnarly trees that had been heavy with fruit. When they had finally reached the end, they had looked at hills in the distance, white houses like specks on the brown fields. The orchards had not been surrounded by lush green scenery, but by earth dried by the sun and wine yards.
Alan had made a comment about how small the trees were. Russell remembered that he had shrugged, not offering the logical economic explanation for it but letting Alan marvel at it for a while longer. He had picked an apple, ruby red and small, and had taken a big bite out of it. It had been sweet and sour at the same time, like good old vinegar, too zesty for his taste, but he had held it out to Alan nevertheless who had carefully sniffled at it and then taken a tiny bite.
“Whoa,” Alan had said, making a face, “Talk about sour.”
He had puckered his lips, but had chewed and swallowed and looked into the evening sun. Russell had shrugged again, taking another bite. The apple juice had made his lips itchy and he had pressed his lips together to get rid of the stickiness. With his sleeve he had finally rubbed the sugary coat off, smiling at Alan and holding out the apple again.
“Want another bite?” Russell had offered.
“No, thanks. I might be adventurous, but not that adventurous.”
“I’ve never seen you adventurous,” Russell had said between bites.
“I am. In all kinds of cases. Just not when it comes to unripe fruit.”
Russell had turned then, slowly walking back. He had paused, making sure Alan came after him.
“You shouldn’t eat the whole thing,” Alan had said, “The things you can get from unripe fruit. Ugh. You really shouldn’t… aw, man.”
Russell had turned and grinned at him, still chewing on the last bite, and had chucked the core into the opposite row of trees.
“See if you still grin if you get something nasty,” Alan had said.
“You talk too much. Hey, what about this: I’ll buy you Cider at the little farmhouse down the road. Fresh cider. You’ll love it.”
For some reason that had made Alan shut up and he had sped up a bit until they had been walking next to each other. Alan had looked at him, one eye closed against the light coming in sideways through the trees, clearly amused and content.
Russell had bought four bottles at the farmhouse from an old man that had looked at them crookedly until Alan translated.
“Quatre,” Russell had told the old man as he had been getting the bottles from a plastic crate, “quatre.”
Alan had laughed them, and the old man had chimed in, handing over the bottles one by one. Russell had thought that the farmer had been happy about their purchase, and maybe even a bit about seeing the two strangers leave shortly after.
Alan had seemed only happy, carrying two bottles against his chest, almost cradling them as if careful not to drop them.
There was a knock on the door and Russell sat up. The room was already half dark.
“Did you fall asleep? I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s all right. What time is it?”
Russell rubbed over his face with both his hands.
“A little after ten.”
“Fuck. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s all right.” Russell could hear the smile in Alan’s voice. “It was a long day. I just wanted to see if you’re up for another beer before going to bed.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll be right out.”
When he came out, Alan sat cross-legged on the two-seater, quickly unwrapping himself to make room. Russell accepted the bottle of beer that Alan held out and sat down next to him. The air had become chilly and Alan was wearing his hooded sweater.
“Tell me about France,” Russell said and Alan looked at him. “What you remember. The rainy day.”
“Oh, that. I think I told you the gist of it already.”
Russell put his arm around Alan’s shoulders and pulled him closer.
“Yeah.”
So Alan started to talk about what he recalled.
They hadn’t made it halfway up the slope, a tight turn of dust roads and neglected wine yards, when the wind had freshened up. Russell had looked at the sky, watching the clouds gather quickly and the sky turn dark towards the east. Russell had even thought he could hear the dull rolling mumble of distant thunder.
"We should take shelter somewhere," he had said to Alan, who had been standing a few feet away and had been trying to fold their map. The wind had rushed under the spread paper, ripping at it fiercely. Alan had turned his back to the wind, smoothing out the creases and folding the map against his chest. His hair had been tousled, (That friggin wind! Remember it? It almost ripped through my map and I couldn’t see a thing!) and he had pushed it off his face while trying to put the map into his backpack one-handedly. Alan had frowned slightly at the clouds and then looked at Russell.
"Maybe we should find some place to take cover," Alan had said. Russell had rolled his eyes.
"What?" Alan had said. "It looks like rain!"
The first drops of rain had splashed down, leaving dark round spots on the loamy soil. Russell had walked ahead, criss-crossing through gnarled vine, stepping around torn bits of fence. When the rain had came down harder, he had started to jog towards what seemed to be a small stone house. He had been able to hear Alan falling into a light trot behind him, but soon the sound of their steps had been drowned by the downpour. When they had reached the house, they had climbed through the broken front door which had been pulled off its hinges, only to find half the floor covered in water already. They had both looked up, swearing at a roof that had been mostly gone for God knows how long. They had huddled into the remaining corner, and Alan had shook himself in a mock attempt to keep the water from dripping from his hair. He had laughed then, breathless from the short run and the cold. The rain had been coming down honestly, running down the uncovered stone walls. They had stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the water form deep puddles, and had wrapped themselves deeper into their jackets.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you," Russell remembered he had said to Alan, making him smile.
"Aren't we trespassing," Alan had asked, very clearly enjoying this.
Neither of them could recall what they had been talking about, but they had talked until the rain had stopped. They had not made it to the monastery Russell had seen in a travel guide, but gone straight back to the apartment where they had dried off and continued talking over mugs of steaming coffee that at first had seemed too hot to hold in rain cold hands.
“And we where trespassing too!” Alan announced.
“I thought you were adventurous.”
“Who said that?”
“I believe you did.”
“No,” Alan laughed into his beer, “I don’t think I did.”
Russell smiled, having his own memories to follow.
“Looks like rain again,” Alan said and pointed vaguely into the sky.
It was too dark to see anything except low clouds, and the trees rustled in a breeze that could announce rain indeed.
“Want to go inside?”
Alan shook his head and nestled closer. They stayed like this until the first tentative drops turned into a drumming shower and the wind blew cold enough to make them shiver despite sitting close. They left their bottles outside, and paused for a moment after closing the door behind them. Without turning on the lights, they stood next to each other, watching the rain coming down.
Alan yawned then and slipped his arm around Russell’s waist, unknowingly adding another memory to that ongoing list.
~*~
They stood side by side at the ocean, the wind rustling through their clothes and for a moment Russell pretended to be on holiday here. It was easy with the blue stretching towards the curve of the earth like that, and the clouds being blown swiftly across the sky. Alan looked at home here, as he always did close to the sea. Wrapped up in his dark blue sweater, he was lacking only one thing.
“Maybe we should have a look at that golf course. There still is enough time.”
And there it was, that impish smile Russell had missed.
