Ben and John's first time together in another country: Roatán, Honduras. But back on the ship, things might just get more international! If you’re enjoying this series, I reply to all emails at [email protected]
Bradypus variegatus
The second sea day had come and gone in a blur of sun, unlimited soft serve, and Ben dramatically refusing to do the FlowRider. Now they were on Day 4, their first day on shore. The minibus rattled away from the port, a cloud of heat and diesel, and windows fogging at the edges where the AC couldn’t quite keep up.
It was just past 9:30 AM, and Roatán climbed upward in layers of green: thick palms, low houses painted coral and mint, laundry snapping in the humidity.
Ben, in his navy blue Pressure shorts, sat rigid beside John, knees braced against the seat in front of him like he expected heavy wake.
“I still cannot believe you convinced me to do this,” he said.
John didn’t look up from the waiver folded in his lap.
“You said you wanted to be adventurous.”
“I meant emotionally,” Ben shot back. “Not physically launching myself over a tropical rainforest.”
John smiled faintly. He was wearing the black-and-yellow pressure shorts to match Ben because his navy blue ones were with Caleb in Colorado, probably in the wash after that video.
The other royal blue pair was currently draped over the shower head back in their stateroom, freshly rinsed in the sink that morning after being, as John had diplomatically put it, “a casualty of the last two nights.”
Ben had noticed after brushing his teeth. Ben noticed everything about John’s shorts.
“I have never broken a bone,” Ben continued. “Twenty years. Clean record. If today is the day that changes, that’s on you.”
John finally turned toward him. “You’re not going to break a bone.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You absolutely do not. You get a hug from a sloth later.”
The bus hit a pothole. Ben grabbed the metal bar in front of him. John instinctively steadied himself with a hand on Ben’s thigh through the nylon shorts. He didn’t move it away.
Ben glanced down. “Got the black ones today,”
John shrugged. “I wanted to match, but you saw what happened to my navy blue.”
After another 10 minutes, the bus doors folded open with a hydraulic sigh, and the heat hit them all at once.
Not Texas or cruise-ship heat.
Real heat. Tropical heat.
The parking lot was red dust and crushed gravel, ringed by bright signs advertising ZIPLINE + SLOTH EXPERIENCE in hand-painted letters. Beyond it, the trees climbed upward in a wall of green.
Vendors hovered near the entrance, coolers of bottled water, plastic bags of sliced mango dusted in chili, foil trays of empanadas sweating under the sun.
“Ay, Cold coconut, muchaco?" one called.
John smiled politely. “Maybe after.”
Ben shook his head. “I hope they have an actual bathroom, not a hole in the floor, that I can throw up into.”
They signed another waiver at a folding table. Got neon wristbands snapped tight around their wrists. A guide pointed them toward a set of dusty wooden stairs disappearing into the canopy.
Ben assumed there’d be more time.
There was not.
The next thing he knew, he was halfway up a tower, the boards vibrating slightly under shifting weight. The air felt thinner up there, or maybe that was just him.
He reached the top platform and immediately regretted everything.
The ground was no longer a concept. It was a rumor.
Cables stretched outward like silver lines stitched through the trees.
“Okay,” Ben muttered. “This is nuts.”
John was two people ahead of him in line, calm as if they were waiting for coffee instead of gravity.
A young Honduran woman in a faded green staff polo moved efficiently down the line, clipping carabiners, tightening waist straps, checking buckles with sharp tugs.
When she reached John, he stepped forward without hesitation.
Ben tried not to watch. He failed.
The harness went around John’s hips first, thick black straps pulled snug under the curve of his glutes, then threaded between his legs and cinched tight at the waist.
Over the black-and-yellow Under Armour Pressure shorts, the only pair John had left that day.
There was something about the contrast: the industrial straps cutting clean lines over athletic fabric that made the whole thing sharper.
Defined, structured. Ben swallowed.
It was absurd, the things your brain chose to notice when you were fifty feet above a tropical rainforest.
But there it was, the clean geometry of it. The way the harness shaped around that body that didn’t miss leg day. The way it emphasized rather than hid.
It pulled something older loose in Ben’s memory: Fire Mountain, Boy Scout camp.
Harness prep at the ropes course.
Lines of boys in athletic shorts and class B t-shirts, waiting their turn, laughing too loudly, trying not to look like they were looking.
That same unmistakable outline when the leg loops tightened.
Ben hadn’t understood the charge of it back then. Just that it made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with heights.
Now he did.
The guide gave the straps one last firm tug and John barely flinched. Ben realized he was staring.
When John caught him, one eyebrow lifted.
“You good, Benji?” he asked.
Ben blinked, then dragged his eyes back up. “You look ridiculous.”
“In a CSA-approved way?”
“In a you-better-not-break-any-bones way.”
John grinned. “Still mad?”
“Yes.”
The guide clipped John to the line and walked him to the edge of the platform.
There was no dramatic countdown, just a simple instruction. “Sit back. Trust.”
John leaned into the harness, weight settling into the straps.
For a split second, he hung there, suspended, outlined against green.
Then he was gone.
The pulley screamed down the cable. A streak of black and yellow slicing through the jungle.
Ben’s stomach dropped. Not from attraction this time,or from the fear that he was up next.
Just the sudden absence of the weight beside him: the way your balance shifts when someone steps out of formation.
The platform felt wider without him, quieter.
Ben squinted down the line, tracking the flash of yellow through the trees.
And there, at the landing platform, John’s arms were already lifting in triumph.
Of course, he’d be at the bottom, waiting.
A guide touched Ben’s shoulder.
“Your turn.”
Ben stepped forward on shaky legs, not John’s defined athletic form in the black and yellow shorts. Just his twinkish frame in the navy blue basketball shorts that went past his knees.
As the harness wrapped around him, as the straps tightened and locked into place, he exhaled slowly, just like he did when he was a Tenderfoot.
Twenty years. No broken bones.
He glanced down the line where John had vanished.
“You'd better be at the bottom with coconut juice,” Ben muttered.
The guide clipped him in.
“Sit back,” she said.
Ben leaned.
And the ground under his feet disappeared. The cable caught him harder than he expected.
For half a heartbeat, there was only weight: the harness digging into his hips, the nylon of the shorts around his thighs, the sudden, violent pull of gravity deciding something for him, and then the breeze.
A rush so fast it flattened thought.
The jungle blurred beneath him in impossible green layers. Leaves flashed silver. A bird exploded upward from a branch as he passed. The pulley screamed above his head, metal on metal, and Ben realized he was making a sound too, not a scream, not exactly, something indignant, breathless and alive.
The air hit his face warm and wet and real.
This was not some Instagram reel, this was happening to him.
Halfway down, he made the mistake of looking.
The canopy opened beneath him like a dropped curtain. The ground was very far away and also rushing closer. His stomach flipped cleanly over itself.
He tightened his grip, then the line began to level.
The speed softened, a platform rose toward him.
Someone caught the back of his harness with practiced ease, his feet touched worn wooden planks. The world steadied in increments.
He was still alive.
A staff member unclipped him, metal snapping free from metal. The pressure was released from his hips.
And then John was grinning right in front of him.
Before Ben could even reorient, John leaned in and kissed him, quick, bright, and triumphant.
“See?” John said against his mouth. “You made it.”
Ben rolled his eyes, but he was still breathing too hard to deliver a proper rebuttal.
“I was never not going to make it,” he said, adjusting the waistband of his navy shorts like that had anything to do with composure. “I simply prefer solid ground.”
“Uhuh.” John looked unconvinced.
They both turned to the nearest staff member, waiting for instructions, expecting maybe a shuttle, a staircase or something civilized.
The man just pointed wordlessly to a weathered wooden sign nailed to a tree.
→ Trail back to platforms / Sendero de regreso a las plataformas.
The trail disappeared upward into dirt and roots and sun.
Ben stared at it. “You have got to be kidding me.”
John just laughed.
The hike was worse than the zipline.
The air felt thicker at ground level. Still. Close. Mosquitoes materialized almost immediately, whining at Ben’s ears like tiny, vindictive drones.
“Oh my God,” he snapped, swatting at his thigh. “I didn’t sign up for this!”
He slapped his calf. At the back of his arm. At the navy fabric stretched over his hips.
“Why are they obsessed with me?” Ben whined.
John walked beside him, untouched, hands loose at his sides.
“They must sense fear.”
“I am not afraid of mosquitoes.”
Another one landed directly on his thigh. Ben swatted hard, smacking his own pressure shorts so hard that the result smeared all over the fabric.
“Why are they not biting you?”
John glanced down at himself as if considering the question academically.
“They prefer twink blood.”
Ben stopped walking. “Excuse me?”
John shrugged. “Higher sugar content.”
Ben stared at him. “That’s not a thing. You just made that up.”
John grinned, not denying it.
By the time they reached the next tower, Ben had slapped himself at least twelve times and was convinced he had contracted something tropical and irreversible.
They did the second line. Then the third.
By the fourth, Ben stopped bracing before stepping off. The drop still startled him, but the terror had dulled into something cleaner. Controlled.
By the fifth, he whooped halfway down without meaning to.
John heard it and pumped a fist from the landing platform.
“Don’t,” Ben warned when he arrived.
“You loved it.”
“I tolerated it.”
The sixth and seventh lines blurred into heat and speed and wind. His legs trembled less each time the harness took his weight. The trust part, that was getting easier.
By the final platform, his shirt clung to his back, and his hair was damp at the edges. John’s black-and-yellow shorts were dusted red at the hem from the trail, bright against the white piping.
Ben realized he was smiling.
Not the tight one he used when he pretended something was fine. An authentic one.
The last unclipping felt almost anticlimactic.
“Time for Sloths?” John asked.
Ben inhaled deeply, steady now.
“Yes,” he said. “Slow mammals. Stationary mammals. Mammals that do not suspend you above the earth.”
They were directed to another path, this one flatter, shaded by broad leaves. The air felt quieter here, less charged.
Ahead, a painted wooden sign read:
SLOTH SANCTUARY
The path curved gently through dense greenery, the sounds of the jungle folding in around them: insects, distant bird calls, the rustle of something small in the undergrowth.
Ben was still slapping at his arms.
“I’m going to need a blood transfusion after this.”
John walked ahead, somehow still untouched, the black-and-yellow shorts dusty at the hem but otherwise unbothered.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being eaten alive.”
A wooden archway appeared ahead, draped in vines and hand-painted flowers. A sign swung gently beneath it:
MONKEY & SLOTH SANCTUARY
Bienvenidos
A young Honduran woman in a khaki vest met them at the entrance, clipboard in hand, smiling wide and genuine after seeing the color of their wristbands.
“Two from the Allure?” she asked.
John nodded. “That’s us.”
“Perfect. I’m Elena. I’ll be your guide through the sanctuary.” She glanced at Ben, who was scratching his forearm. “The mosquitoes are very fond of tourists today.”
“They’re obsessed with me,” Ben muttered.
Elena laughed. “I have something for that later. First, animals.”
She led them through a gate into a shaded clearing. Enclosures lined the edges, but they weren’t cages: more like open-air habitats, trees, ropes, and platforms. Parrots perched in the branches, their feathers impossibly bright: scarlet, emerald, cobalt.
One of them tilted its head and squawked loudly.
Ben jumped. John snorted.
“They’re very talkative,” Elena said. “You can offer them fruit if you want. They’ll eat from your hand.”
She handed them each a small cup of chopped mango and papaya.
Ben approached cautiously, arm extended like he was approaching a sleeping dragon. A scarlet macaw hopped toward him along its perch, considered him with one bright eye, then delicately took a piece of mango from his fingers.
Ben blinked. “Wow.”
John was already surrounded. Two parrots on his shoulders, one on his wrist, a fourth eyeing the cup in his hand like it was considering a heist.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ben said.
John grinned, birds perched on him like brightly colored accessories. “They know what they like.”
Elena laughed again. “Okay, okay, come. The main event.”
She led them deeper into the sanctuary, past enclosures with coatis and agoutis, past a small pond with turtles sunning themselves on rocks.
And then they stopped.
A large, open-air enclosure with trees, ropes, and hammocks. And in the branches, hanging upside down, impossibly still:
Sloths.
Three of them, at least. Their fur was a mix of gray and brown, algae-tinted in places, blending into the foliage so perfectly that Ben almost missed them even when he was staring right at them.
“Bradypus variegatus,” Elena said. “Brown-throated three-toed sloths. This is their home.”
Ben stared.
One of them moved. Slowly. So slowly it barely seemed like movement at all: just a shift of weight, a turning of its head, eyes blinking with ancient patience.
“They move about forty meters a day,” Elena said. “In the wild. Here, they don’t have to move much at all. They sleep eighteen to twenty hours.”
“Twenty hours,” Ben repeated.
“Just like sophomore year,” John chuckled.
Elena smiled. “You can hold one if you’d like. We limit it to a few minutes per person; it’s stressful for them if we do too much. But we have a very calm one today who doesn’t mind.”
She gestured to a sloth closer to the ground, wrapped around a vertical branch, watching them with dark, unhurried eyes.
“That’s Mariposa. She’s our ambassador today.”
Ben looked at John.
John looked at Ben.
“You first,” Ben said.
“Scared?”
“Of a creature that moves forty meters a day? Absolutely.” Ben shook his head.
John stepped forward.
Elena guided his hands into position, showed John how to support Mariposa’s weight, and how to let her cling to him rather than the other way around.
And then the sloth was in his arms.
Ben's phone was already out.
Click.
She was lighter than John expected, maybe ten pounds, and her fur was coarse but soft underneath. Her claws wrapped gently around his forearm, not sharp, just… present.
John’s face went through something complicated.
“See my new girlfriend?” he laughed.
Click.
Ben circled slowly, finding the angle. The afternoon light filtering through the canopy. John's expression, soft, undone, entirely present. The sloth's tiny claw curled around his wrist. The black pressure shorts cutting just above his knees.
“You both good?” Ben asked, still shooting.
John nodded, not looking away from Mariposa. “Yeah. we’re good.”
Click.
They stood like that for a minute. Two. Elena didn’t rush them. Ben didn't stop taking pictures.
Finally, John carefully handed Mariposa back to Elena, who settled her onto a branch.
“Your turn,” John said.
Ben hesitated, then stepped forward. He handed his phone to John. “Document this. I need proof that a girl actually touched me on this cruise.”
Mariposa was even lighter in his arms. Her claws barely registered. Her eyes, when they met his, held absolutely no judgment. No expectation. Just… weight.
Ben exhaled slowly.
“I get it,” he said.
Click.
They stayed with the sloths for a while longer. Watched one of them slowly, so slowly, reach for a leaf. Watched another shift position over the course of ten minutes. Ben kept shooting: close-ups of fur, of claws, of John laughing at something Elena said.
Elena walked them back toward the entrance, pausing once so Ben could take one last photo of Mariposa suspended in her quiet, deliberate stillness.
The mosquitoes seemed less aggressive now. Or maybe Ben had stopped noticing.
The minibus was already half full when they climbed in, the air-conditioning working harder this time, blasting cold against damp skin and exhausted bodies.
Ben dropped into the seat with a long exhale.
His legs felt rubbery and his shoulders hummed with leftover adrenaline.
John nudged his knee and threaded his fingers through the nylon hem of Ben’s shorts.
“You survived, hun.”
“I thrived,” Ben corrected, eyes closed.
John laughed softly. “Zero broken bones. But you need a stick of AfterBite.”
The bus lurched forward, winding back down through the green hills toward the port. Laundry snapped between houses again. Kids waved from the roadside. The ocean flashed into view between breaks in the trees, sudden and bright and impossibly blue.
Ben leaned his head back against the seat. The exhaustion settling in felt earned.
After a minute, John reached over and threaded their fingers together without looking at him.
Back at the port, the world felt louder.
Tourists clustered near the souvenir shops. Steel drums echoed faintly from somewhere near the dock. The cruise ship loomed enormous and white against the sky.
They scanned their SeaPasses and stepped back into the cool, controlled air of the ship, like crossing into another dimension.
Ben quipped immediately: “Food.”
“Shower first?” John thought.
“No. Food. I need to eat something that doesn’t smell like a banana.”
The Windjammer at 1:30 PM was a different beast than breakfast.
Still crowded, but looser. Easier. Families with sunburned kids, couples in cover-ups, the clatter of trays, and the low hum of a hundred conversations blending into white noise.
Ben made a beeline for the burger station.
John followed, grabbing a plate but not really looking at the food. His eyes were still half-lidded from the bus ride, the exhaustion settling into something almost comfortable.
Ben stacked his plate: burger, fries, a second burger with onions just in case. "I need food that wasn't deep-fried in a jungle."
"Those fries were definitely deep-fried somewhere."
"On a ship. Regulated. Civilized." Ben squirted some ketchup. "I need regulated carbs."
John snorted. "I'm getting drinks. Find us a table."
Ben nodded, balancing his plate as he scanned the crowded room. He spotted an empty table near the windows, small but perfect, and started weaving through the maze of diners.
Halfway there, his brain registered something: A flash of pink.
He turned instinctively.
Across the buffet, near the dessert bar, stood Dennis.
The pink adidas Inter Miami jersey was unmistakable: Messi's 10 on the back, Royal Caribbean across the chest, fresh from the onboard shop. Below it, the same Beckenbauer shorts from the mixer, black with white stripes this time instead of red. And below those, pulled up to his knees, long white and black adidas classic soccer socks.
Ben stopped mid-stride.
A woman with a tray of drinks muttered something as she swerved around him.
He didn't notice.
Dennis was focused on the dessert selection, completely unaware. He picked up a plate, considered a slice of lemon cake, then another, then settled on the first one with the kind of deliberate attention Ben recognized from his own obsessive compulsion with sportswear.
Ben watched him for a second longer than he realized.
Then Dennis looked up at Ben, down at his shiny navy blue Pressure shorts, then back up.
Their eyes met.
Dennis's face shifted through something quick: surprise, recognition, then a slow, easy grin. He lifted the lemon cake slightly, like a toast.
Ben felt heat explode up his neck.
He turned immediately, almost knocking into a busboy, and rushed to the table he'd spotted. He dropped his plate onto it with more force than intended. A fry bounced onto the table.
John appeared a moment later, two sodas in hand. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing." Ben sat down too fast. "Absolutely nothing."
John set the drinks down and squinted at him. "You're lying. Your face is the color of your Coca-Cola souvenir cup."
"It's hot in here."
"It's air-conditioned."
Ben grabbed a fry, shoved it in his mouth, and stared at an empty space on the table like it was the daily cruise planner.
John slowly turned to look behind him.
Dennis was walking toward them now, lemon cake in one hand, that same easy grin on his face. The pink jersey caught the sunlight through the starboard windows. The socks were, objectively, a lot.
John's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Is that?"
"Yes."
"The soccer shorts guy."
"Yes."
"In a pink jersey."
Dennis reached their table and set his plate down across from them. Slid into the seat like he'd been invited.
"Hullo," he said, accent softening the words.
Ben managed a nod. John smiled.
"I'm Dennis," he added, like maybe they hadn't caught it the first time. "From trivia the other night. The winning team."
"We remember," John said dryly. "We were the one-point team."
Dennis laughed, easy and warm. "Ah, yes. The nurses' table." He glanced at Ben, then quickly away. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your names."
"I'm John." He gestured with his chin. "This is my boyfriend Ben."
Dennis nodded, repeating them softly. "John. Ben." Like he was filing them away. "You're American? Both of you?"
"Yeah," Ben said, finally finding his voice. "I'm from Seattle. He's from Wisconsin."
"We go to school together in Colorado," John added.
Dennis's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You met there?"
"Geology class," Ben said. Then, because that sounded insufficient, "Last year. Freshman year."
Dennis smiled. "Ah. A love story in the mountains."
John snickered, remembering spring break and RMNP. Ben felt like he was ready to implode.
"What about you?" John asked. "We heard your accent that night."
Dennis nodded. "I'm from Germany. Near Essen originally. I'm at UT Austin now, Business Management." He gestured vaguely toward the buffet. "I came on this cruise with some friends from school. They're... somewhere." He looked around, unconcerned. "Probably the pool."
Ben's eyes dropped involuntarily to the pink jersey. The Royal Caribbean logo across Dennis’ chest. "You got that with the gift cards?"
Dennis glanced down at himself, then back up, grinning. "You noticed. Yes. It seemed like the right choice."
"It's a good jersey; our roommate loved Messi," Ben said. And then, because his brain was still catching up: "Those shorts are good too. Beckenbauers."
Dennis's eyebrows lifted again. This time higher.
"You know Beckenbauer?"
Ben's jaw just twitched.
John watched the exchange with the expression of someone eating popcorn at a tennis match.
"I…" Ben started. "I mean. I know those shorts. Sometimes I see them on Tumblr."
Dennis laughed. Not mocking, genuine. "You know shorts.'" He looked down at his own black-and-white pair, then around the table at Ben in his navy blue Under Armour. "I noticed your shorts, too. Are they nylon?”
Ben blinked. "You did?"
"They shine in the light, they’re silky." Dennis shrugged, easy. "They must be nylon too."
Something passed between them. John cleared his throat lightly.
"Well," John said, reaching for one of Ben’s fries, "this is adorable. Can we eat now?"
Dennis grinned and pushed his lemon cake toward the center of the table.
"Of course, you have to try this dessert, though. It's yummy."
Ben picked up his burger, took a bite, and immediately forgot how to chew like a normal person.
Dennis watched him with mild amusement. John reached for another fry.
"So," Dennis said, breaking the silence, "you two have been together since freshman year. That's... a long time. For college."
Ben swallowed with effort. "Yeah. We're basically geriatric."
"He means we're committed," John corrected smoothly.
Dennis nodded, considering this. "I've been here for two years. UT. The longest relationship I've had was three months with a guy from my Econ study group." He shrugged. "He transferred to UF."
"Oof," John said.
"Ja." Dennis took a bite of lemon cake. "It's fine. I'm not... I don't know. I'm not upset about it." He glanced at them. "You're lucky. To find each other so early."
Something in his tone made Ben look up from his burger.
Dennis was watching them with an expression that wasn't quite envy, wasn't quite longing. Just... recognition. Like he was seeing something rare and knew it.
John, as always, was faster.
"We know," he said quietly. "We're lucky."
Ben's blush hadn't fully faded, but something else was creeping in now, something more agreeable. He looked at John, then back at Dennis.
"Maybe you'll find it too," Ben said. "The right person. Eventually."
Dennis smiled, small and genuine. "Maybe."
The moment hung there for a beat. Then John clapped his hands together. "Okay. Dennis. Here's the thing."
Dennis raised an eyebrow.
"My boyfriend clearly wants to talk to you more about those shorts."
"I don’t…" Ben tried to clarify.
"And I think we should make that happen. But not here." John pointed at the crowded buffet. "Tonight. We're going to the early show in the theater with his parents. After that, we'll be alone in our stateroom."
Dennis's eyebrows climbed higher.
John gave him the floor and cabin number without hesitation. "Deck Nine. 242. Come by after the show. We can continue to talk about the Breckenballers."
Ben's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.
Dennis looked at John, then at Ben, then back at John. A slow grin spread across his face.
"You're serious, you want me to come by after your dinner show?"
"I'm always serious about protecting Ben," John said, stealing another fry. "Right now he looks like he’s about to blow a gasket."
Dennis laughed. He finished the last bite of his lemon cake and stood, picking up his plate.
"Deck Nine. 242. After the show." He nodded once, easy. "I'll be there."
He walked away without looking back, weaving through the buffet crowd, pink jersey disappearing into the chaos.
Ben glared at John.
"What did you…."
John shrugged, completely unbothered. "What?"
"You just," Ben gestured wildly. "You just invited him to our room. To talk about nylon shorts."
"We don’t need to talk about shorts, Benji, you can if you want to."
Ben lowered his head, but he kept quiet and grabbed a fry instead.
Back in the stateroom, the air was cool and still.
Ben peeled off his navy shorts first, tossing them toward the foot of the bed. "I call the shower first, I can still smell the sloth on me. You can join me if you want."
John followed, already pulling his black-and-yellows down. "Remember to take out the shorts that I have drying in there."
The shower was small, the way ship showers always are, but since Elm Hall, they’d figured out the choreography. Ben under the spray first, John waiting his turn, then swapping without discussion.
By the time they emerged, steam curling out the bathroom door, the afternoon light had softened into something gold and warm.
Ben collapsed onto the bed in just a fresh pair of Hurley boxer briefs, limbs heavy. "I could sleep for twenty hours. Like a sloth."
"You'd need a branch."
"I'd make it work."
John slipped on some UA boxers and grabbed his royal blue Pressure shorts from the bathroom counter where Ben had left them. They were still damp, not dripping, but cool and wet to the touch.
He frowned at them, then his eyes drifted to the balcony door.
Outside, Roatán was still there. Green hills rising from turquoise water, close enough to see individual trees. The ship hadn't moved yet, but maybe they’d be pushing away from the dock soon.
John slid the door open and stepped out into the heat.
Ben sat up. "What are you doing, the ACs just started cooling."
"Drying these." John draped the royal blues over one of the deck chairs, the nylon catching the sun. "They're still damp from this morning. If Dennis is coming over, he should see the whole collection."
Ben stared at him.
John leaned against the railing, completely unbothered, watching the island and the people moving below for a few minutes.
Then Ben heard it. Drums. Faint at first, then clearer: a rhythm rising from somewhere on shore, echoing across the water. A send-off. A goodbye.
He stood, walked out onto the balcony, and felt the ship move.
The heat wrapped around him immediately, thick and humid. He stood beside John, shoulder to shoulder, both of them in just their boxers, watching the island send them off.
The drums continued. Steady.
Ben's hand found John's on the railing.
"We're really doing this," Ben said quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Having Dennis over tonight. Showing him our shorts."
John looked at him. The afternoon light caught his face, bright and clear.
"Who knows what will happen," he said. "But yeah. We're doing it."
Ben nodded slowly. Looked down at the royal blues hanging behind them, drawstrings swaying slightly in the breeze.
"They're still wet."
"That's why I put them out here in the sun."
The drums continued. The port slowly grew smaller.
And Ben, for the first time all day, felt steady.
They stayed on the balcony until the drums faded, then drifted back inside.
The TV was thick, mounted at the foot of the bed, but neither of them really watched it. Something about snorkeling played on low volume. Ben scrolled through the photos on his phone: John in the harness, John with Mariposa, John laughing at something Elena said.
John dozed off somewhere around 4:30, head tilted against the headboard, breath slow and even, with some drool on his cheek.
Ben watched him for a minute. Then he put his phone down and let himself drift too.
Dinner was a blur.
Ben ordered the same thing he always ordered on cruises: steak, medium rare, mashed potatoes, no fuss. John had the fish. Sofia asked about the excursion. Ben gave short answers. John filled in the gaps.
Neither of them mentioned Dennis.
Steven, to his credit, didn't ask why Ben kept glancing at the dessert menu.
The theater was half-full when they arrived, but Sofia steered them past the general seating with the confidence of someone who'd done this before. An attendant in a royal blue vest scanned her SeaPass and nodded them toward a roped-off section near the center.
"Pinnacle," Steven murmured to John with a small shrug. "She's earned it."
The seats were wider, softer, with little side holders for drinks. Ben sank into his chair like he hadn't been sitting all day.
John slid into the seat beside him, close enough that their elbows touched.
"You still tired?" John asked quietly.
Ben nodded.
The lights dimmed. The opening notes of "Grease" hit, and the stage exploded into Rydell High: poodle skirts, leather jackets, the whole nostalgic fever dream.
Ben watched for a while. Sandy's transformation. Danny's posturing. The car at the end.
But his mind kept drifting.
To Dennis. To the knock that was coming. To whatever showed up at their door after this.
John's hand found his in the dark.
Ben squeezed once and held on.
The finale brought the crowd to its feet. Ben stood automatically, clapping, not entirely sure when the show had ended, just that a car had rolled onto the stage.
Sofia turned to them, glowing. "Wasn't that wonderful?"
"Amazing," Ben said automatically.
John snorted quietly. Ben elbowed him.
They filed out with the crowd, Steven already checking something on his phone, Sofia chatting about Sandy's costumes.
At the elevator bank, Sofia hugged them both goodnight.
"Don't stay up too late," she said warmly. "Mexico tomorrow. That’s to you too,” She looked at Steven.
Ben nodded. "Night, Mama."
The elevator doors closed on her smiling face.
John pressed the button for Deck 9.
The ride up was quiet. Just them and a couple who got off on 7.
When the doors opened, the hallway was empty.
They walked to 9242 in silence. Ben tapped his pass. The light flashed green.
The door clicked open.
Inside, the room was exactly as they'd left it. The TV still on mute, playing something about shopping in Cozumel. The royal blue shorts still draped over the deck chair, visible through the glass.
Ben stood in the doorway for a second too long.
John nudged past him, kicked off his shoes, and flopped onto the bed with the black and yellow shorts to change back into.
"He'll come," John said, peeling off his pants.
Ben blinked as he grabbed his navy blue pair from the floor. "How do you know?"
"He said he would."
"People say things."
John looked at him. "Dennis doesn't seem like the type."
Ben looked back out the window and sat on the edge of the bed to change.
The minutes stretched. The TV was changed to ESPN.
Then, a knock.
Soft and confident. Three taps.
Ben’s stomach dropped, but not from fear.
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