Tell Me Our Story

Each stroke downward settled his pounding pulse. Cold water dragged over him, all encompassing, beckoning him deeper. It pressed against him, heavier and heavier. Everywhere heavy but his wrist. His wrist tingled as if caressed by underwater bubbles. Magical, mythical.

The pirate hat was a black blur against a dark rock.

He stretched, grabbed it, and kicked back toward the surface. Light stretched into the water and the bottoms of the dinghies sharpened, one oar plunged into the water like a welcoming hand. His own lifted toward it—

He emerged, sucked in air, and stared at O’Hara bent over the edge, calling his name. A dazzling smile played at his lips as he moved the oar back into the boat and extended a hand. Jonathan tossed the pirate hat in first. It was inelegant, hauling himself into the rowboat. Hands clutched his upper arms, pulling and steadying him. O’Hara was all warm breath over his neck and shoulder.

The boat rocked, the momentum sending them both into a tangled heap—O’Hara splayed in the bottom of the boat, one leg over the side, the other bent, Jonathan stretched on top of him. The seat cast a shadow over O’Hara’s face and his uneven laughter bubbled between their chests. “Are you okay?”

Jonathan was all shivers. “Are you?”

O’Hara’s laughter quieted and he smiled, almost . . . shyly. His cheeks pinked, and he swallowed, and swallowed again. His lashes fluttered, gaze dropping down Jonathan’s face. Another swallow. “Uh, yes.”

Heat pooled at his lips under the intensity of that green gaze. Carefully, Jonathan pulled himself up. Seawater darkened patches of O’Hara’s pullover, his jeans at the inner thighs, his narrow hips. The points where they’d pressed particularly close. They echoed on his own body.

Flushing harder, O’Hara sat. “Dress, before” —he looked away— “you catch a cold.”

His clothes had been folded. Not particularly well, but folded nevertheless. Jonathan plucked up his shirt and pulled it on—

He froze, pinching the top button. Mr Cranky, their very quiet figurehead, sat with O’Hara’s phone trained on them, grin brightened by the screen. “O’Hara.” He kept his voice mellow, almost matter of fact. “Has he been filming us this whole time?”

“Why not?” Mr Cranky answered, in his usual growl. “When there’s treasure, you take it.”

O’Hara huddled into his sweater like he was trying to drown a shiver, or battle a new kind of laugh. He gestured with a jerky arm to the choppy ocean, Mr Cranky, and the soaking pirate’s hat. “You really would do anything for love.”

Jonathan showered and dressed, pulling on each garment with meticulous care, folding, pressing, buttoning. The room was stuffy, unaired. The bed had been made, but in the same haphazard way O’Hara had made his own: bumps and folds in blankets only just covering the mattress.

He inhaled deeply; the scent lingered in his lungs as he straightened his curtains and cracked a window.

He rubbed his jaw. There’d been a strange shift in the air between them once they’d returned to shore. O’Hara was always fidgeting, but there was a new quality to it this afternoon. Like his hands kept slipping on things. His laughter still rang about buoyantly but . . . streaked with . . . something. Then O’Hara had insisted on a few minutes longer with Mr Cranky at his villa, imploring Jonathan to go home and ‘arrive’, shower.

When Jonathan had bumped into him in the hall after the shower, O’Hara hadn’t met his eye. And in the bedroom, his watch was waiting on the dresser.

The leather pressed into his wrist, his pulse wild under it. Chilled glass cooled his forehead. He absorbed it, and turned, breathing in the lingering traces of sweat and old laughter—

Where was O’Hara’s bag, his things?

His nape prickled.

Two steps; he flung open the door. In another five, he found Savvy and O’Hara at the dining table over two steaming mugs and sugared donuts, O’Hara’s backpack on the floor alongside. His laughter at something Savvy had said stuttered as Jonathan approached. Chair legs rumbled. He lurched to his feet, knocking the table. Savvy stilled his mug, gaze pinging between them while O’Hara’s glanced off Jonathan’s.

Jonathan frowned. “Explain.”

“A taxi will be here in a minute.”

Leaving. Already.

Again.

Waves crashed over him. He was sinking. An ache pounded in his stomach and he focused on the grit of his teeth. “Why?”

“Seemed better than making you drive to the airport twice.”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

O’Hara was the epitome of confidence. Insults could be thrown at him and he’d barely bat an eye. In the face of an oncoming punch, he could grin. But this . . . was not that O’Hara. His graceful frame kept straight to the average person’s eye, but Jonathan detected the slight curve of his shoulders, his chin a shade too low. He fixed his gaze on the window Bastet loved squeezing through.

“Why?”

“We’ve done the challenge. I’ve been away four days now, I . . .”