Chapter Eight – Approaching The Last Leg
We resumed our journey, hiking from Penticton to Vancouver along the Trans Canada Trail, which transitioned from sun-drenched vineyards and semi-arid lake valleys to, once again, the rugged mountain passes and lush temperate rainforests that left us bereft of words to describe the beauty.
The closer we got to Vancouver, the more we enjoyed the historic Kettle Valley, offering both of us a relatively flat, accessible path to follow despite the dramatic terrain we viewed surrounding us.
While a sign celebrated the Kettle Valley Rail Trail as being a legendary part of the Trans Canada Trail, we were reminded that it technically ends at Hope, about 150 km east of Vancouver. Not for us, though, especially me. I was going to finish the bloody thing if it killed me, even though Billy reminded me with some frequency, "don't forget you did cheat right at the start."
"Cheers, bitch," I said to Billy.
I continued, "Oh dear, I missed... what?" Pausing for breath, "Maybe, twenty kilometres. You can't even walk to the corner shop, let alone twenty kilometres. And for the record fuckwit, we’re actually doing an extra how much? So, shut the fuck up."
That shut him up for at least a few minutes, allowing us to enjoy the hike from Hope, moving from the historic rail beds to a mix of riverside paths, dikes, and urban greenways through the Fraser Valley.
And then, as we came over a rise on Burnaby Mountain, I got the first view of Vancouver and almost immediately collapsed as I gazed upon my destination.
The Vancouver Skyline was stunning, and from where I was, where we were now sitting, I almost wept at the sweeping, unobstructed panorama of the Vancouver skyline to the west. And then I took in the backdrop to the skyline, of the Burrard Inlet and the snow-capped North Shore Mountains.
I could see the Straits of Georgia, beautifully blue and inviting, and then the silhouette of Vancouver Island, appearing rugged and dark blue on the western horizon. On this day, God must have been with us, because it was exceptionally clear and we could even see the snow-capped peak of Mount Arrowsmith, rising directly behind the downtown skyline.
The tears hit me like a sudden summer storm, violent, unbidden, and drenching. My knees buckled first, then my breath, then whatever composure I'd clung to during those endless mountain passes. Billy's hand found the small of my back as I folded forward, forehead pressed to damp earth, shoulders shaking with the force of it all.
I'd survived grizzlies that stood taller than Billy's cocky grin, raccoons that pillaged my supplies with military precision, and Billy's relentless teasing that bordered on psychological warfare. Survived icy river baptisms that stole my breath and left me gasping against his chest, survived the way he'd looked at me that first dawn, many times attempting to ignore his morning wood, like I was both miracle and mirage.
Now here, sprawled on this goddamn mountainside with Vancouver's skyline glinting below us, the weight of it all cracked me open. Billy's fingers carded through my sweat-damp hair, his thumb tracing the shell of my ear in that way he'd learned made me shiver. "Look at you," he murmured, voice rough with something warmer than pride. "Conquering continents and my dick like some fucking Renaissance explorer."
I barked a laugh that dissolved into another sob, clutching at his thigh like it was the only solid thing in a spinning world. The city sprawled beneath us. Glass towers catching fire in the sunset, freighters drifting across the inlet like toys in a bathtub, the distant hum of civilisation we hadn't heard in weeks. And beyond it all, the island waited, dark and hazy on the horizon.
Billy's lips brushed my temple, his exhale warm against my skin as his palm slid down to cover my pounding heart. "I've never seen the city as you have just now, and do you know, I have missed something magical, but thanks to you, I see it, I get it... now."
Chapter Nine - Vancouver
The end was in sight, and I decided, fuck it. I want somewhere nice to stay and…. God, a hot bath big enough to drown in or certainly to drown Billy if he didn’t shut the fuck up.
The Rosewood Hotel Georgia was perfect. The lobby smelled like money and desperation, overpriced orchids wilting in crystal vases, leather chairs that cost more than my hiking boots, and a concierge whose smile didn't reach his eyes when he clocked Billy's duct-taped backpack.
Billy whistled low at the chandelier as I handed over my credit card, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the marble counter. "Third best, huh?" He smirked at the receptionist's strained expression. "Guess we'll have to fuck extra loud to compensate."
"Billy, shut the fuck up for a change and just enjoy it," I said, the chastisement working as Billy did just that.
Our room, the Rosewood Suite, overlooked the harbour, freighters glittering like fallen constellations. Billy dropped his backpack with a thud and flopped onto the king-size bed, limbs splayed like a starfish. "Holy shit," he groaned into the duvet, "I forgot what mattresses feel like," as I watched his toes curl into the Egyptian cotton, his spine melt into the memory foam, every muscle surrendering to luxury after weeks of sleeping on granite and tree roots.
Wow, I heard Billy as he shouted, “Steve, it’s only got a fucking rooftop garden terrace with, wow, a plunge pool and, Steve, you have to see this, an outdoor fireplace.”
"Yeah, yeah, I know, but before I have a bath and explore the place, I'm WhatsApping Brian. Shall we do the 11am ferry to Victoria tomorrow?"
"Steve, fine by me, whatever you fancy," as Billy paused, looking in the minibar. "I do have one question, though. How the fuck can you afford this? It fucking horrendously expensive. I can't even afford the mineral water," as he slammed the minibar door.
"Oh, simple, if you really want to know." I started.
“Well, seriously, this is fucking expensive. Way beyond my pocket and also yours,” Billy responded.
“Well, if you want to listen, I can explain.”
“Go on then, surprise me,” Billy replied. “Your dad’s loaded or something.”
“Not entirely,” I said. “I discovered a submarine wreck a few years ago. Pure accident during a marine survey, but...inside the wreck, it contained $150 million in Russian Gold bullion dating back to the war. Sure enough, the Russians wanted it back even though we were in international waters, and so we came to a deal. They bought it from us for... a little less, let's put it that way. After all, what would I do with that much money?"
Billy just stared, blinking. "You're fucking joking."
"Nope. Google it."
As Billy Googled my claim, Brian replied to my WhatsApp. See you at about 12.30 then. Looking forward to it, and have you told Billy yet? He needs to know the truth about you.”
“Funny you mention it, just doing it now and… not sure how he’s going to take it, by the way.”
“Like I did when I found out. Total disbelief, probably followed by….Fuck,” Brian declared, reminding me that Billy had no idea how his life was about to change.
Realising the seriousness of the situation, I looked up from my phone and found Billy staring at his screen, his jaw dropping in a way that left him speechless.
"Dr... Professor Steve….?" His voice cracked on the second syllable, fingers trembling around his phone as the UK Guardian Newspaper page glared back at him, my faculty photo from Cambridge glaring between paragraphs about marine biology and archaeology and the infamous "Atlantic Gold find."
I shrugged, tossing my phone onto the duvet. "Technically, it's Associate Professor if we're being pedantic."
Billy launched himself across the bed like a feral cat, knocking the breath out of me as he straddled my hips. "You stole gold from the Russians?"
His thighs clamped around my waist, fingers digging into my collarbones. The manic glee in his eyes mirrored the night he'd sketched me mid-orgasm, that same terrifying focus.
"Recovered," I corrected, gripping his wrists. "From a sunken submarine in international waters. And technically ours, my partner and I, and we brokered a...deal with the Russians, it was easier."
“$150 million bucks,” he shouted, his mouth crashing into mine, teeth clacking as he kissed me with the same reckless intensity he did everything. When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, pupils blown wide. "$150 million in gold bullion and… what the fuck, tell me this isn’t a joke," he demanded, breath hot against my mouth. "Tell me everything."
That evening, we sat at either end of the huge bath, drinking a lovely bottle of Oyster Bay as I recounted my tale. Billy couldn't believe it and said so every opportunity he had, and then he asked, "How come it didn't change you, all that money?"
Billy's fingers traced the condensation on his wineglass, his toes brushing against my cock under the soapy water. "Money's just rocks with delusions of grandeur," I said, watching his lips quirk at the pretentiousness. "Spent enough time underwater to know what really lasts."
The bathroom steamed around us, Billy's sketches from Penticton propped against the towel rack, their edges curling in the humidity. He'd drawn my hands that morning, veins and scars rendered with forensic precision. Now those same hands gripped my ankles beneath the water, thumb pressing into the tendon I’d strained near Hope.
Billy's wineglass paused halfway to his lips, droplets cascading down the stem. The bathroom's steam curled around his stunned expression like fog around a streetlamp. "You're joking, right?" he said for the third time that evening, but his fingers had gone slack around the glass.
I caught it before it shattered against the porcelain, setting it aside as Billy stared at me with the same intensity he reserved for sketching storm clouds, as if he looked hard enough, he might discern their underlying structure.
"I planned to tell you since Hope," I admitted, trailing my toe along his calf beneath the water. The tub's jets sent ripples across his bare chest where droplets clung to the scar from a paddling incident. "Saw how you sketched those cliffs at dawn, the way your fingers twitched like you needed a brush instead of charcoal, but we didn’t have an opportunity, I guess."
Billy's laugh came out strangled. He pressed his palms against his closed eyelids hard enough to leave temporary marks. "Fuck you," he whispered, voice cracking. "Fuck you for noticing that."
His shoulders shook, not with laughter now, and I watched him wrestle with the confession I'd just handed him, as precious and terrifying as the Russian gold.
I stood abruptly, water sloshing over the rim as I stepped out and grabbed a towel. Billy's gaze tracked me, bewildered, until I dropped to one knee beside the tub, the marble biting into my skin, and took his wet face in my hands. "Listen," I said, thumbs brushing his cheekbones where paint freckles used to cluster before his hiatus. "You've spent months running from galleries and guilt. Tomorrow we run, no, we walk, toward something new."
His exhale warmed my lips as I kissed him, tasting Sauvignon Blanc and the salt of unshed tears. When I pulled back, Billy's fingers clutched at my wrists, his pulse hammering against my fingertips. "Brian's going to lose his shit," he muttered, but the corner of his mouth curled upward.
"Not really. Brian has always known, and it was he who suggested I could afford a new start and a new focus. You see, money doesn't buy happiness, it just makes having a bad time affordable."
"I don't understand," Billy answered.
"It's simple, Billy. I could have flown here first class to see Brian and Rob, but I wouldn't have found you or earned Brian's respect. Money makes things possible, and it made it possible for me to walk all the way across Canada....don't say it.... minus 20 kilometres. Money is a tool, not a way of life."
"I guess so," Billy responded and then smiled. And you did cheat….”
“Fuck off, Billy. I did an extra….whatever, getting here? The important thing is, there's no guessing, Billy. You can and will do what you are good at because you can afford to. I might even seek a Chair-ship here in Vancouver. Thanks to Brian, I can study bloody Sea Lions close up and personal if I want to. It was his video that changed the course of my life and allowed me to write the next chapters in my story of life and now….yours. Now, enough talking. You going to fuck me before dinner or afterwards?"
Billy's fingers tightened around my wrists, his pupils dilating like ink in water. "Both," he growled, surging up from the bath with water sluicing off his torso. His wet palms slapped against the marble floor as he hauled himself out, dripping onto the heated tiles like some mythic creature emerging from the depths.
I barely had time to register the predatory grace of his movements before he tackled me backwards onto the plush bath mat. My shoulder blades hit the floor with a muffled thud, Billy's teeth already at my jugular. "Christ, you're," as his knee shoved between my thighs, "...fucking relentless," I finished lamely, arching into the friction of his damp skin against mine.
He nipped at my collarbone, “Onto all fours, my man,” as one hand already working my cock to full hardness.
I managed to flip myself over, assuming the position Billy demanded. "You started this," he murmured, his fingers running down my back towards my anus. "Telling me you're some fucking academic Indiana Jones," as his lips now trailed lower, pausing to suck a bruise just above my coccyx. "Did you think I'd let that slide?"
The first lick drew a ragged moan from my throat. I could sense that Billy's grin was pure wickedness as he moved his tongue around me, torn between surrendering to the pleasure and prolonging the exquisite torture as two fingers ran down my cleft from my back to my balls.
And then, a knock at the suite door shattered the moment.
The knock came again, three sharp raps against mahogany. Billy didn't even lift his mouth from my arse, just raised his middle finger toward the door while his other hand pinched my nipple hard enough to make me gasp.
"Housekeeping," called a muffled voice.
Billy's tongue swirled around my hole as he muttered, "Tell them we're busy," before resuming his activities. His throat muscles fluttered around me in a way that short-circuited rational thought.
"J-just leave it!" I managed to choke out, hips jerking involuntarily as Billy's fingers found my perineum.
The retreating footsteps barely registered over the wet sounds of Billy's mouth as he muttered, "Where were we?"
His thumb now rubbed circles under my balls while his other hand stroked me lazily. "Ah, yes… Dr Davis was about to explain…." his teeth grazed my inner thigh, "…. how he smuggled gold bars in his arse, and while you do that, my tongue is going to inspect it, properly."
Billy's tongue mapped my body like he was deciphering some ancient text, each swipe and press revealing sensations I didn't know existed. When he finally worked his way lower, the first hot stripe across my entrance sent electricity crackling up my spine, not pleasure yet, just pure shock at the intimacy of it. Then he did it again, slower this time, the flat of his tongue pressing insistently until my hips jerked of their own accord.
"Christ, you're tight," he murmured against me, the vibration making my thighs tremble. His thumbs spread me wider as he licked a slow circle, the tip of his tongue probing gently before retreating, a maddening tease that had me pushing back against nothing. "Easy, professor," Billy chuckled darkly, blowing cool air across the wetness he'd left behind. "We're just getting to the footnotes."
When his tongue finally pressed inside, it wasn't the tentative exploration I expected. Billy ate me out with the same shameless enthusiasm he did everything, deep, wet strokes interspersed with flickering licks that made my toes curl against the bathmat. His chin bumped against my balls with each forward thrust, the scratch of his stubble a counterpoint to the silken heat of his mouth.
The sensation built in layers, first just the shocking intimacy, then a slow-building pressure that coiled low in my gut. By the time Billy crooked two fingers inside alongside his tongue, I was shaking, sweat dripping between my shoulder blades as my vision blurred at the edges. He found that spot inside me with terrifying precision, rubbing insistently while his tongue never stopped moving, until pleasure detonated through my nervous system like depth charges.
I came, my back arching as white-hot ecstasy crackled through me, shooting out of my cock with more pressure than normal, landing on the floor as I looked down, pants. Billy moaned against me, the vibrations drawing out my orgasm until I collapsed forward onto the mat, twitching and incredibly oversensitive.
He lifted his head with a smug grin, chin glistening. "Page 247 of your textbook, doctor," he purred, licking his lips. "Prostate stimulation via lingual....blah blah," as he moved on all fours like a predator, towards my ropes of cum littering the tiled floor, licking it up with relish, muttering, "yum… yum... oh God…yum."
The bath mat fibres tickled my spent front as I rolled over, as Billy's tongue swiped a final stripe up before collecting stray droplets with hummed satisfaction. "Can we have more yum yum?" he murmured against my hipbone, teeth nipping the overstimulated skin, "but this time with more substance?"
I laughed hoarsely, swatting at his damp hair. "Dinner first, you feral raccoon," as my limbs felt like overcooked linguine, the kind Brian always complained about at Italian places, limp and sticking to everything. Billy made a show of pouting, but his stomach betrayed him again with a louder gurgle.
He collapsed beside me with theatrical flair, our sweat and the bathwater creating a dubious slick on the heated tiles. "Fine," he sighed, flopping an arm across his eyes. "But only because I want to watch you try to walk in this state," his smirk widening as I attempted to rise, knees buckling instantly.
Chapter Ten – Journey’s End
I woke, refreshed, having enjoyed the luxury of the sheets and a wide bed that had been well used after dinner. Billy's cock stood at attention, as normal, tenting the Egyptian cotton, the fabric in a perfect parabola that caught the first pink-gold light of dawn. I'd memorised every vein and curve by now, the slight bend to the left, the way the head darkened when he was really turned on, but the sight still punched the breath from my lungs. My mouth watering instinctively.
"Morning," Billy murmured, voice thick with sleep. His fingers carded through my bed-mussed hair as I leaned in, but then his grip tightened, stopping me inches from my target. "Wait."
His smirk was pure mischief as he flipped onto his side, dragging me with him until we lay face-to-crotch, his morning breath warm against my balls. "Let's do something different today."
The moment his tongue licked a hot stripe up my shaft, I more than understood. This wasn't just a position change; it was Billy's way of saying trust me without words.
I moaned around his cock as I took him deep, tasting sleep and salt and last night's Oyster Bay. His answering groan vibrated through my dick where his lips stretched tight around me as we found our rhythm.
Billy was sucking me off with the same intensity he did everything, all teeth and tongue and barely controlled hunger, while I focused on slow, deep strokes that made his thighs tremble against my shoulders. The sheets tangled around our legs as we shifted, the expensive Egyptian cotton now damp with sweat, spit and precum.
Billy's hand snaked between us, thumb pressing against my perineum just as he hollowed his cheeks around my cock. I choked around his length, my hips jerking forward instinctively. He chuckled, the bastard actually chuckled, and did it again, his fingers working in cruel counterpoint to his mouth.
I retaliated by scraping my teeth along his shaft just enough to make him hiss. His hips bucked, shoving deeper into my throat, and for a glorious moment, we lost all coordination, just two bodies chasing sensations without finesse. Billy's nose pressed against my balls as I swallowed around him, the vibrations drawing a ragged moan from him that I felt more than heard.
When he pulled off with a wet pop, I gasped for air, my lips swollen and slick. "Christ," I managed, licking a stripe up his inner thigh just to feel him twitch. "You're..."
"Relentless?" Billy supplied breathlessly, his fingers tightening in my hair. "So I've been told," as he dragged me back to his cock with a smirk I could hear in his voice. "Less talking, professor."
The second time was slower, more deliberate. Billy's tongue mapped every inch of me while I focused on breathing through my nose, taking him deeper with each pass. His taste filled my senses, musk and skin and something uniquely Billy that made my cock ache.
I felt rather than heard his moan when I swallowed around him, the way his thighs tensed against my shoulders. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave bruises, his rhythm faltering as I worked him closer to the edge.
Billy came first with a choked-off gasp, his release hitting the back of my throat as his hips stuttered against my lips. He gushed cum down my throat like he’d never had an orgasm before, and I swallowed reflexively, taking it all, enjoying the taste of him, pure and unsullied.
My own orgasm crested as he milked me through it with shaky fingers, his tongue lapping messily at my oversensitive flesh, proving time and time again that he was a consummate professional at providing an excellent finish.
We collapsed in a tangle of limbs and damp sheets, Billy's forehead pressed against my thigh as we both caught our breath. "Page 248," he mumbled against my skin, lips twitching into a smile. "Mutual satisfaction via..."
"Shut up," I groaned, swatting weakly at his shoulder as a dribble of cum leaked from my cock, forcing Billy's tongue to deal with it.
Billy laughed, the sound warm and satisfied as he rolled onto his back, arms flung wide. "Breakfast?" he asked, already reaching for the room service menu with one hand while the other traced idle patterns on my stomach.
I watched the dawn light paint gold across his collarbones, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinked sleepily at the menu. His cock lay spent against his thigh, still half-hard in the aftermath, a sight I'd committed to memory along with the curve of his smile and the way his fingers curled around a pencil.
The shower steam clung to my skin as I scrubbed the last traces of sleep from my eyes, the hot water doing little to ease the pleasant ache in my muscles. Billy had been relentless last night, in the best possible way. The sharp rap at the suite’s door jolted me from the memory, and I called out over the rush of water, “Just leave the breakfast on the terrace!” assuming Billy had at least thrown on a robe.
I should’ve known better.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I stepped out to find the room service cart parked neatly by the stairs, empty of its contents and the waiter, a lean guy in his early twenties with an immaculate uniform, frozen halfway down the stairs from the terrace, looking down at Billy lying on the bed.
His gaze was locked onto Billy, who lay sprawled across the sheets like some Renaissance painting of debauchery, one arm flung over his face, the other resting on his stomach. The sheet barely covered his legs, leaving his thighs, still marked faintly from my grip, and his softening cock fully on display.
The waiter’s lips curled into a smirk that was equal parts amusement and appreciation, his eyes flicking from Billy’s body to me, then back again. “Complimentary breakfast is on the terrace,” he murmured, gesturing to the cart with a professionalism that didn’t quite mask his amusement. “And, uh… congratulations.”
Billy stirred at the sound of his voice, peeling his arm from his face to blink blearily at the scene. His gaze landed on the waiter, then dropped to his own exposed body, and instead of recoiling, he just grinned, sleepy, unrepentant. “Morning, again,” he drawled, stretching deliberately, making the sheet slip another inch. The waiter’s smirk deepened as he took in the scene of Billy completely naked with a growing….
"Congratulations?" I repeated, my fingers pausing mid-air as I reached for my wallet. The waiter, Neil, flinched almost imperceptibly, his polished demeanour cracking for half a second before he smoothed it over with another practised smile. Billy had climbed off the bed, the sheet pooling around his ankles as he provided a full, unencumbered, full-frontal view for the young man, with an erection, as his sharp eyes flicked between us, blushing as he took in the scene. “What?” Billy demanded.
“Nothing,” I responded as the waiter cleared his throat, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "The journey, sir. The nightshift staff were talking about your achievement. I just thought I would offer my personal congratulations," as his fingers twitched against the cart handle, nervous energy as he looked at Billy again.
Billy's laugh was lazy, but I caught the edge in it. "We're a little occupied with our own endurance events," he said, dragging a fingertip down his sternum, slow and deliberate. The waiter's cheeks pinked, but his gaze stayed locked on Billy's hand.
I tossed a folded bill onto the cart, watching his throat bob as he swallowed. "If we need anything else," I said slowly, "we'll call for you, Neil, specifically," his name tag glinting under the chandelier light as he backed toward the door, nearly tripping over the threshold in his haste.
The second the door clicked shut, Billy was padding upstairs, barefoot to the terrace, his bare back tensed, muscles shifting with anatomical marvel, with fading bite marks indicating it had been a busy and active night for both of us.
I dropped the towel and joined Billy for a naked breakfast. The weather was perfect, nice and warm as we ate a hearty English breakfast, the irony of the phrase not lost on me as I savoured my coffee, watching my love devour a breakfast like a condemned man.
As he was finishing his third sausage, Billy piped up, “Steve, don’t forget, wear the clean Hanes and a clean vest and…don’t forget to tuck the vest in so it captures your…beautiful and muscular form,” Bill ordered. “I want you looking perfect for Brian, and well, me too.”
“Yeah, alright, Billy and no funny stuff beforehand.”
Billy chuckled and returned to his breakfast, leaving me to wonder what it would be like to finally meet Brian and Rob.
The Hanes briefs clung snugly against my skin, their crisp cotton still bearing the chemical tang of fresh packaging, an absurd contrast to Billy's frayed Fruit of the Loom briefs tossed over the chair, their faded cotton worn relatively translucent in strategic places. I tucked the pristine white vest into the waistband with ceremonial precision, the fabric whispering against my stomach like a virginal shroud, remembering what Billy had asked.
“Do I look okay, Billy?” as I stood in my pristine white vest tucked into my Hanes briefs with, ironically, white socks.
"Christ, you look like a fucking altar boy," Billy snorted, tying his bootlaces with teeth-gnashing intensity as he looked at me.
His usual ensemble was his threadbare shorts, that same damn flannel with the missing button, and boots that had seen more miles than our hike, looked deliberately dishevelled next to my department-store purity. He caught my fidgeting and smirked. "Relax, professor. Brian's not actually going to inspect your underwear," as his fingers hooked into my waistband, snapping the elastic against my hips. "Unless you want him to."
After checking out, with unusually sincere wishes being uttered by the staff, I, for some unknown reason, was feeling nervous as we got a cab from the hotel to the ferry port.
There, we found the ferry terminal bustling with tourists clutching Starbucks cups, their designer sunglasses reflecting our mismatched silhouettes, Billy's wild-haired, paint-stained chaos next to my stiff-necked neatness. I gripped the railing as the ship's horn blared, its vibration travelling up my spine just as Billy's fingers found the small of my back, our backpacks on the deck next to our feet.
"You're shaking," he murmured against my ear, lips brushing the shell. His breath smelled of the hotel's complimentary toothpaste and something darker, richer, the ghost of last night's wine clinging to his canines. "Nervous?"
"Cold," I lied, watching a seagull swoop dangerously close to a child's ice cream cone. The truth sat heavy in my throat; this meeting with Brian felt more exposing than Billy sketching me mid-orgasm, more vulnerable than confessing about the Russian gold. At least underwater, pressure was predictable.
The first glimpse of Victoria came sharp and sudden as the ferry rounded Galiano Island, white spires, classic architecture and red roofs rising from the mist like some misplaced English seaside town. Then I saw the crowd.
"What the fuck," Billy breathed beside me, his grip tightening on the railing.
Three hundred people at least crowded the docks, waving Maple Leaf and Union Jack flags along with rainbow flags and banners.
Placards bobbed above their heads saying, YOU DID IT, and WE KNEW YOU'D MAKE IT, in glittering letters. A brass band in mismatched uniforms played a horrendously off-key rendition of "O Canada" while others played, "God save the King."
My stomach lurched harder than the ferry's wake. "Excuse me, mate," as I grabbed a passing crewmember's sleeve, "what’s going on?"
The man grinned, jerking his thumb at me. "Some Englishman with his Canadian partner are finishing the TCT. The whole gay community on the island is captivated by the achievement. News went out yesterday that they’re on this ferry. Apparently, their blog's got followers from here to fuckin' Cornwall," as he nodded toward a cluster of elderly ladies waving Welsh flags. "Those nanas tracked them since Banff, I believe."
"A blog. Seriously?" I exclaimed in shock.
"Yep, apparently so. I heard in the bar last night that their mate set it up, and he's been posting updates about their journey ever since they started, even mentioning he ‘cheated’ with the start line, his words, not mine, leaving Nova Scotia. Word has it, he’s the first gay Englishman to walk the whole route, and half of Vancouver Island’s gay community has come to cheer their arrival. There's even a camera crew from CTV.”
The crewman walked away to the sound of the brass band's cacophony, as our ferry docked, the off-key rendition of "God Save The King" morphing into something resembling a victory march, followed by another crisp rendition of ‘O Canada’ as Billy's fingers dug into my bicep hard enough to leave bruises.
"You're telling me," he hissed over the noise, "your snarky online pen pal organised a fucking parade?" as his breath smelled of the complimentary ferry coffee and barely-contained panic, a far cry from last night's confident lover.
I spotted Brian before he saw us, his ginger curls bouncing above the crowd like a distress flare, his legs glinting in the sunlight as he shoved through the throng with brutal efficiency, his kilt drawing no attention to his other good looks. Rob trailed behind, camera raised, capturing every bewildered expression on our faces with professional precision.
"Christ on a cracker," Billy muttered as the crowd surged forward. “Brian’s wearing a fucking kilt, why?” as his grip on my arm shifted to something protective, his artist's fingers pressing against my pulse point like he was taking my vital signs. "They've got signs with our faces, Steve. Actual fucking caricatures."
Brian's voice cut through the chaos before we could retreat inside the cabin, his megaphone loud and surprisingly crystal clear. "THERE'S THE MAN WHO WALKED ACROSS CANADA FOR A BJ!"
The crowd roared with laughter as Rob zoomed in on Billy's crimson face. My knees nearly buckled when I saw the banner unfurling behind them, a Photoshopped image of us mid-hike, Billy's hand conspicuously low on my backside, captioned: 20km Short But Who's Counting?
Billy made a sound like a tea kettle boiling over. "I will murder him with his own knife," he growled, but his threat lost potency when an elderly woman in a "Proud Nana" t-shirt waved a bouquet of wildflowers that stood waiting.
Next, we heard on the ship's loudspeaker system: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the Captain. Due to a welcoming party, we ask that Dr Davis and his partner make themselves known to a member of the crew and disembark first, for health and safety reasons.'
Billy and I looked at each other and said simultaneously, "What the fuck."
Billy grabbed our backpacks while I smoothed my stupidly pristine vest visible behind my classical professor's cardigan, which remained unbuttoned.
Both of us moved like condemned men toward the gangway. The crew parted like the Red Sea, their grins widening as we passed. "Enjoyed your voyage, gentlemen?" the purser asked, winking like this whole circus was his doing.
The moment our shoes hit the dock, the brass band launched into an off-key rendition of "Rule Britannia" that made my teeth ache. The Mounties in their scarlet serge formed a loose cordon, all three of them, their stern expressions crumbling as elderly ladies ducked under their arms to thrust bouquets at us. One tiny woman in a "Nan's Pride" sweatshirt shoved a jam jar of wildflowers into Billy's hands. "You keep feeding that boy," she stage-whispered, patting Billy's bicep. "Skin and bones, this one," she added, jerking her chin at me.
Billy's smirk could've powered the ferry back to Vancouver. "Hear that, professor? You're malnourished," as his fingers found the small of my back as we inched forward, the crowd pressing closer. Someone draped a garland of cedar around my neck, the scent immediately conjuring memories of our first night tangled together in the high Rockies.
Thirty minutes dissolved into a blur of handshakes and photographs. A group of university students presented us with hand-knit socks "for the rest of your journey," though we'd just completed it. Their rainbow banner proclaimed, 'GAYS HIKING CANADA'. Billy's choked laughter warmed the shell of my ear. "Guess we're mascots now."
The crowd's energy crested when Brian finally materialised, Rob's camera capturing every twitch of my facial muscles as he sauntered up. His ginger curls bounced with each step, the sunlight catching the silver ring in his ear. "Took you long enough," he drawled, pulling me into a hug that smelled of whisky and seaweed. "Had to entertain these lovely folks while waiting," as he gestured to the elderly Welsh choir now harmonising with the brass band.
Billy's grip on my waist tightened as Brian turned to him. "And you, Billy, not so famous after all, even though you have a wall at the National Gallery."
Brian's smirk widened as Billy's ears reddened. "Robert's been dying to ask, was it the artistic talent or the dick that convinced Steve to..." At that, Billy blushed a biblical red and moved behind me for safety.
"Interview!" Rob interjected, shoving between us with his camera raised. The CTV crew materialised beside us, their sound tech thrusting a microphone under my nose like it was a live grenade.
The reporter, a woman with a sleek bob and shark's smile, called Veronia, pounced. "Dr Davis, how does it feel completing this historic journey with your..." her gaze flicked to Billy's hand on my hip. "Partner?"
Billy's thumb rubbed circles through my vest, unaware that the broadcast was being watched on a couple of big screens around the area, and the crowd had gone quiet. No pressure, but all eyes were on me. "Absolutely amazing, and the welcome here today has made the whole experience worth it," I managed to say, ever the diplomat.
Taking the opportunity, I turned to the crowd, held my hands up and said, "Good afternoon, BC," to which, for some reason, they all went mad. The reporter then asked me, "It's no little thing to finish the TCT, but what kept you going all this time, and what are you going to do now?"
"That's hard to say, Veronica,” I said, “but besides the beautiful scenery, it must be the people I met on the way. All Canadian’s and all terribly nice," to which the crowd responded with loud applause. "And, I'm going to have a cold Canadian beer. And frankly, I really need one after this wonderful greeting."
The crowd remained terribly excited as the reporter said, "Finally," pausing for effect, "Word has it, it started as a silly bet. Is it true, and are you wearing them today?"
I blushed and smiled, looking at Brian. "It is true. My mate Brian wagered a multipack of Hanes briefs, and Billy here, managed to deliver the part payment, and that's how we met, and yes, I’m wearing them today."
A huge roar rose from the crowd, chanting, prove it, prove it, in rhythm to a drum beat. "I'm sure I speak for all the viewers, and those here today, can you provide it?"
"Veronica, I can prove it, and since you've asked so nicely, I'll even show you," and at that, I slipped my shorts down, and the whole crowd went wild, live on TV, as the crowd saw me in my tighty whities.
Veronica turned to the camera. “Well, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, proof you can achieve anything when wearing your Hanes.”
The crowd were cheering and clapping, almost riotously, while I pulled my shorts back up, as Veronia continued. "Dr Steve,” now looking at me again, “you're a good sport and a hell of a hiker. On behalf of the TV station and all residents of BC, welcome to Victoria, the end or perhaps the start of your journey. Enjoy the rest of your stay, and then she turned to face the camera crew. VERONICA WALTERS REPORTING FROM VICTORIA PROVING THAT HANES MOTIVATE HIKERS. NOW, BACK TO THE STUDIO.
The round of applause and the cheers from the crowd were incredible, and then, as if by magic, they started to disappear into bars and diners like Brian, Rob, Billy, and I did. The celebrations dwindling into small groups of well-wishers and fans as the Mounties regained control. All three of them, looking distressed from the incident, unused to such events breaking out on their quiet beat.
I had had my fifteen minutes of fame as the cold beer and whisky chaser burned a welcome path down my throat, its smoky warmth dulling the edges of the day's surrealism and the incredible welcome that had seen me prove to the world that I wore Hanes tighty whities with pride.
Billy's knee pressed against mine beneath the pub table, a grounding point amid the chaos of autograph and selfie requests and shouted questions about our favourite hiking socks. Brian grinned like a fox with a henhouse key, spinning increasingly elaborate versions of our "meet-cute" for anyone who'd listen, while Rob captured every slack-jawed reaction with his ever-present camera.
By last call, my cheeks ached from smiling, my pristine vest now smudged with lipstick kisses from enthusiastic grandmothers and beer stains from overeager well-wishers. The bartender slid another round toward us with a wink, his sleeve tattoos catching the low light as he nodded at our empty glasses. "On the house for Canada's favourite hiking queers."
Billy snorted into his pint, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter as he swayed from left to right, entering the early stages of planning to windowsill his way somewhere. "Fuck me," he muttered, thumb swiping at the condensation on his glass. "We're a fucking tourism campaign," as his fingers found mine under the table, calluses catching on my knuckles in a way that sent sparks up my wrist despite his exhaustion and the side effects of way too much, too quickly.
Brian's phone buzzed violently against the oak, screen lighting up with notifications. "Bloody hell," he groaned, squinting at the display. "You're trending, mate." He flipped the screen to reveal a viral clip of my shorts-around-the-knees moment captioned ENGLISH PROFESSOR LIVING PROOF THAT HANES ARE BEST.
Rob's choked laughter drew stares from the remaining patrons. Brian, though, was thinking and then suggested, “You could get an advertising break from Hanes themselves, if this continues.”
"Delete that," Billy growled, half-rising from his seat, before I tugged him back down. Brian's grin faltered when I nudged Billy's shoulder and felt the unnatural heat radiating through his damp shirt. "Christ, he's burning up," I murmured, pressing the back of my hand to Billy's forehead. The flush I'd attributed to alcohol darkened under my touch. “I think we need to get you home, Billy. You’re not okay, and I don’t think it's drink-related.”
"Right then," Brian said, suddenly all business, tossing a twenty on the table as he stood. "Pint's over, lads. Our national treasure needs bunking," his joking tone unable to mask the concern in his eyes as Billy listed sideways, his usual sharp reflexes dulled by... alcohol and a high temperature.
The walk back to Brian and Rob's pad blurred into vignettes. Billy's weight sagging against my shoulder, his breath hitching when the cold harbour air hit his sweat-damp neck. Rob materialised with a bottle of water like some lanky guardian angel; Brian was arguing with a group of tipsy well-wishers that no, they couldn't get one last selfie with "Canada's Favourite Hikers," as we marched with determination, suggesting the party was more than over.
Billy mumbled something incoherent against my collarbone as I wrestled him up the stairs, his boots catching on every other step. "Easy, artist," I whispered, catching him when his knees buckled. The nickname earned a weak chuckle that dissolved into coughing.
The bedroom smelled of lavender sachets and salt air, the quilt crisp and sterile compared to our nest of tangled sheets at the Rosewood. Billy collapsed onto the mattress with a groan, his fingers fumbling at his buttons until I batted them away. "Let me," I said, peeling all his clothes off in a concerned but unceremonious manner.
His skin was slick, the tattoo along his ribs, a Cree constellation map, standing out starkly against the flush as Brian and Rob chuckled, "He'll be okay in the morning, although he might not be at his best,” as I tucked him into bed, kissing him on his forehead.
The door clicked shut behind us, sealing Billy into his drunken cocoon of quilts and mumbled curses. Downstairs, Brian was already uncorking a bottle of fine Chardonnay, the sound echoing through the quiet house. "Christ, mate," he slurred, pouring with the precision of a demolition crew, "how're you still vertical?"
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