Chapter Eleven – The Debrief
Rob collapsed onto the porch swing with the grace of a felled oak, his camera dangling precariously from one limp wrist. "Seriously," he added, squinting at me through the golden halo of his whisky glass, "we drank the same amount, and I feel like my brain's been through a wood chipper."
I shrugged, settling into the wicker chair that creaked familiarly beneath my weight. "Simple," I said, accepting the overfilled glass Brian thrust at me. "Grew up on English six per cent cider and ESB. Your Canadian beer's like making love in a canoe...."
"... fucking close to water," Brian finished with a bark of laughter, clinking his glass against mine hard enough to slosh burgundy onto the deck as he joined us, sharing the other wicker chair, creating a circle of friendship more accidental than symbolic.
“Steve, you made it, finally. Welcome to our home,” as Brian wiped wine from his chin with the back of his hand, grinning crookedly at the stain on his sleeve. "Sorry about the circus today," nodding toward the distant ferry terminal. "Didn't mean to ambush you quite so... enthusiastically," his laughter faded into something quieter as he swirled his glass. "Three years, Steve. For three years, we’ve been sharing your adventure with our friends on the island. I guess it started as dinner table stories or bar talk, about how my posh English mate was walking across Canada. Then I shared some photos of you in your makeshift kilt and then the tales of your chaffing and accidental close calls with nature, but then..."
Rob snorted into his whiskey. "Then it turned into bloody performance art requiring updates and a blog, capturing the imagination of the community here. We’ll take you to our favourite bar in Nanaimo. You have a dedicated noticeboard with all their favourite photos of you…and yes, before you ask, some are more revealing than others."
I actually laughed out loud, wondering what photographs had been posted in that bar, while remembering not just the bear or raccoon but a bison who refused to move out of the way or the elk that took a shine to me and followed me for four days until…he probably worked out I wasn’t going to shag him.
Brian kicked him half-heartedly, "Shut it, Rob, too much information at the moment. Point is, islanders latch onto things. And you...," as he waved a hand at my sun-bleached hair, "You became this... myth. The posh boy who kept going when sensible people would've quit. The one who…" His voice cracked unexpectedly. "Fuck. You kept answering my emails even when you were exhausted."
A moth battered itself against the porch light as I remembered hailstorms, my fingers numb, Brian's crude jokes glowing on the tiny screen of my mobile phone. The messages had felt like tether lines thrown across a continent.
Inside, Billy coughed wetly. The sound snapped Brian's head up. "Shit. Forgot about patient zero."
“What Brian hasn’t told you yet is… everything went bananas when you and Billy became friends.”
Rob's laughter spilt across the porch like overturned wine, his fingers sketching shapes in the air as he recounted the absurdity. "You should've seen the posts on the blog. Half of Vancouver Island was refreshing Brian's blog like it was the fucking Second Coming, waiting to see if the posh Englishman would finally shag the moody artist. Finally, we heard from you in Penticton, and we were back in business, almost proud to announce that love had indeed brewed in the high Rockies.”
Brian elbowed him, nearly toppling from his chair. "Oi! We ran a classy blog. Lots of nature photographs with you swimming in mountain lakes, your tighty whities looking more ragged as time elapsed, or you sitting by a campfire, celebrating another day of survival and then Billy started appearing in photographs as well and... we could tell from your body language, you were more than friends."
Rob chuckled again. “We even had folks send new Fruit of the Loom or Hanes briefs for you. They’re in the garage in a box along with cards and fan mail.
Rob’s grin turned conspiratorial then. "All was well until the frank and honest messages and sketches, and we had to update the site with something.”
I remembered those messages, how Billy would dictate them after we made love. I would set the scene, saying things like sitting naked with Billy beside the fire, but Billy would insist I elaborate by saying, Billy says I’m a fabulous lover. I shouldn’t have sent them, but I did, and I smiled, thinking, if only I had known.
“We sent them to you to keep you involved and up to date, and because you were part of it. While I can’t ask Billy now, I think he would agree when I say, we want the world to know, we love each other.”
I smiled inside, witnessing Brian and Rob sigh with relief as they continued their tale. "We sifted through everything you guys sent and managed your audience expectations," Rob declared.
Brian slurred slightly, wagging a finger. "Like a tabloid editor with a heart. We kept it tender, factual and personal with honest content, including detailed charcoal sketches of your hands and feet and… everything intimate between you two. Billy sent a photograph of a fine self-portrait of you and him together, and then, another time, he would add contrast, capturing you in your white briefs. We also published extracts from your clinical notes about river crossings, and updates for fellow hikers if you discovered the maps were wrong. There was one rant I published that got a response from the Rangers Service that they would investigate. Rest assured, we kept to a minimum the x-rated entries, especially after finding out the Rangers Service were subscribing to the blog updates.
Sensing I was a little disturbed, Rob chipped in. “Steve, the Mounties haven’t subscribed, so you're safe.
That broke the ice as I laughed, taking another sip of wine.
Brian’s smile faltered suddenly, becoming serious. "Fuck. You two were real. Not just… figments of our imagination. People started to follow you because you were real, warts and all. You were the love story that people wanted to read and experience. Achieving the almost unachievable: someone posted a comment.
Today was a celebration your readers and followers wanted to give you, and that’s why Rob and I decided, fuck it. Let people celebrate gay love, gay hikers and everything good in this world. Admittedly, we didn’t expect that many to attend, though.
“Wow, guys,” I started, understanding my friends' needs at that moment in time. “It seems you had an adventure, too. Thanks, guys. Thanks for everything. One question, though, where’s the box? I need some briefs for tomorrow.”
We all laughed together, silence descending over the porch, the night stretching before us like the Pacific beyond the railing, dark, endless, and shimmering with possibility. Rob produced a joint from somewhere, the paper glowing cherry-red in the salt breeze as he passed it to me. "First time smoking together, too," he mused, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled around the porch light as I passed it to Brian, having taken a much-needed drag.
Rob tapped his empty glass against the railing with a yawn that cracked his jaw. "Right, I'm officially turning into a pumpkin," he announced, stretching until his vertebrae popped like firecrackers. He paused at the sliding door, silhouetted against the golden rectangle of interior light. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," the smirk he threw over his shoulder was pure Brian-influence before the glass door hissed shut behind him.
Silence pooled between us, thick as the wine in our glasses. Across the harbour, dawn bled pink into indigo, painting the masts of moored sailboats in watercolour light. Brian exhaled through his nose, the sound almost lost beneath the cry of gulls wheeling overhead. "Three years," he mused, swirling his drink.
I watched a seagull dive-bomb something, unsure what, but definitely something. "You set up a fucking blog about me, about us."
The laughter burst out of Brian like a startled crow, harsh and delighted. "Course I did! You were trekking across the colonies like some poncy Phileas Fogg, and I was loving every moment of it and just had to share with lesser mortals," as his grin widened across his face as he mimed typing. "'Day 47: Lost in Woodstock. Crying over an aggressive moose and dumbfounded by an argumentative raccoon. 'Quality Gold' mate, but I was with you every stage and every heartache."
The rising sun caught the silver in his stubble when he turned to me. "Would you have kept walking if you knew?"
"Probably not send so much info, but I was coming to see you and found someone on the way," I responded. And then I asked, “That charcoal of Billy and me, what did you do with the photo?”
“It’s hanging on the wall in our favourite bar, why?”
“You can tell them, the original has made its way back. They can have it if they want it.”
“I’m sure they’re jump at it, especially considering its providence,” Brian replied.
The bottle's neck clinked against my teeth as I took a swig, the Chardonnay's crisp acidity cutting through the morning's brine-heavy air. Brian's grin in the predawn light was pure mischief as he stood and kicked off his shorts, his overflowing ginger pubes not hidden behind his tighty whities, catching the first pink rays like copper wire.
"Race you to the tide line," he slurred, already stumbling across the wooden decking. "I've been waiting three years for this. Even fantasised about it a few times and now you're here...," as he grabbed another bottle of wine before almost falling off the porch.
I had only known Brian physically for what? Eighteen hours now, twelve of which were probably under the mutual influence of drink, but somehow, it felt right as I did what he did, allowing my vest to flap like a surrender flag as I chased after him.
It’s not often you see two grown men running in white vests and tighty whities at 5am towards the beach, but the cold sand was shocking between my toes after months in hiking boots, and strangely, wonderful. Brian whooped when he dived into the shallows, emerging with seaweed in his left earring and seawater dripping from his chest hair. "Christ, it's fucking cold. Whose bright idea was this?" he yelped, shaking like a wet terrier.
We collapsed laughing above the tideline, the damp sand moulding to our backsides as we passed the bottle between us. Brian's knee knocked against mine, warm despite the ocean's chill, as he gestured wildly at the horizon. "Look at that," he breathed, the rising sun painting his freckles gold. "Bloody postcard perfect."
A seagull screeched overhead, its shadow crossing Brian's torso like a momentary tattoo. His discarded vest dumped sensibly somewhere in the sand before he plunged into the sea. I traced the water droplets sliding down his sternum with my gaze, remembering Billy's fingers charting similar paths just days before. The thought of him, probably still passed out upstairs or lying next to the toilet, puking into the bowl, sent a pang through my ribs sharper than the morning chill.
"You're thinking about him," Brian observed, not unkindly, as he handed me the bottle. The wine tasted of oak and regret as it washed over my tongue.
"I am. I love him, Brian. I owe you a big thank you for sending him with no guarantee we would ever meet."
"You're most welcome, my friend," Brian responded. "So, what now? I'm assuming you've had enough of hiking."
"Yeah. Definitely."
Brian passed me the bottle, and for a moment I hesitated before taking a swig. "I want Billy and me to make a life here. I want you and Brian to be a part of it. I like it here."
"What would you do, Steve?" Brian enquired.
"Fucks sake, Brian, I'm a Marine Biologist and the last time I checked, I’m virtually a national hero. Perhaps qualities UBC needs from someone like me?"
"I'll tell you now, for Billy's sake, you can't divide your time between BC and the UK. For all his bravado, he is fragile. He needs you."
The rising sun painted Brian's freckles gold as he studied me, his usual smirk softened by something like relief. "Good, you know," he murmured, pressing his shoulder against mine, warm despite the ocean's chill, my silence implying I understood. "Because I've already emailed UBC's marine sciences department head. He’s a mate, and he mentioned you look good in tighty whities."
Sand gritted between my toes as I choked on my sip of wine. "You what and…seriously, he subscribes to the blog?"
Brian's grin returned full force as he stole the bottle back. "You heard me. Told him Canada's newest viral sensation needs gainful employment," as he wiggled his seaweed-draped toes. "He’s expecting your call Monday."
The waves lapped at our ankles, their rhythm syncing with my pulse. Somewhere upstairs, Billy was probably drooling onto Brian's guest pillow, oblivious to the tectonic shift happening on this beach. I stared at the horizon where sky met sea, an unbroken line, endless as the possibilities suddenly stretching before us.
"What about us, Brian? Are we good? Is our friendship solid?"
"You know it is, Steve. Solid as a rock, but I...Steve, you are the most handsome man I've met in years and..." his statement dying as it rolled off his tongue.
Brian's unfinished confession hung between us like the seaweed clinging to his collarbone, awkward, salty, yet undeniably real. The ocean breeze carried his words away, but the weight of them settled against my ribs.
"You're serious," I said, watching a sandpiper dart across the wet sand. “You think me handsome?”
"Deadly. You turn me on and excite the fuck out of me," Brian confirmed, chuckling slightly as his fingers tightened around the bottle neck. "Rob knows. Christ, he's the one who suggested I..." His laugh this time was softer, self-deprecating. "Bloody hell, Steve. We're not getting any younger, and watching you, looking at your photos during your adventure, did something to me in a way you can't imagine. I’m an old man now, but not too old to have desires."
I held up a hand before he could finish. "Brian. You are my best friend after Billy. You know you can ask me anything. Don't be ashamed. It's me you're talking to. Just remember, you also love Robert. He’s your man, your love."
The sunrise stretched golden fingers across Brian’s shoulders as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Right. Bollocks." He tossed a shell into the surf with unnecessary force. "Suppose I’ve cocked this up spectacularly, haven’t I?"
I caught his wrist before he could reach for the wine again. His pulse thrummed against my fingertips, rapid as the sandpiper’s retreating footsteps. "No," I said slowly, "Just ask me."
"Right," he muttered, then louder: "Fuck it."
He yanked me forward by the wrist, his mouth crashing into mine with the same reckless precision he applied to everything. The kiss tasted of salt and Chardonnay, his stubble scraping my chin as he nipped at my lower lip. It was nothing like kissing Billy, where Billy teased and savoured, Brian's grip on my shoulders was firm enough to leave bruises. "I want to..."
I knew what Brian wanted. He was just too ashamed to say it, I guess, or maybe too shy, and so I decided to make it for him, allowing the coarse sand to shift beneath me as I let gravity take over, grains sticking to the damp small of my back where my vest had ridden up as I lay on the sand, inviting Brian to explore me if he wanted.
Brian's palm skated across the wet fabric with proprietary confidence, his thumb finding my nipple through the material and pinching just shy of painful. "Christ, you're responsive," he muttered against my mouth before biting my lower lip hard enough to taste delicious. His other hand mapped the divot of my navel like he was reading Braille, calloused fingertips swirling and pressing deep as if excavating some core truth.
The absurdity of it, Brian half-naked and seaweed-strewn above me, dawn painting his freckles gold while his fingers worked my skin with the same intensity he applied to pissing off border officials or senior officers when required. "This is your big fantasy, then?" I gasped when his teeth scraped my jugular. "Sand in places sand shouldn't be?"
"Shut it," he growled, as his hips stuttered against mine, the damp cotton of his briefs catching on my briefs with a drag that shot sparks up my spine. His knee slotted between my thighs with military precision, the pressure just shy of brutal. "Three years watching you ponce about in those rambler's shorts, silly but practical nightshirts and ridiculously frayed tighty whities..." as his fingers twisted my nipple sharply. "...thinking about what you'd look like coming apart on my fingers."
The ocean hissed against the shore ten feet away, the rhythm syncopating with Brian's ragged breathing. His hand abandoned my chest to fumble with his waistband, his movements nervous but precise. Morning light glinted off the silver ring in his ear as he spat into his palm, the sound obscenely loud in the salt-air stillness.
"You're sure it's okay?" he demanded, pupils blown wide despite the sunrise. Not waiting for an answer, he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of my briefs and yanked them to mid-thigh in one fluid motion. The cooler air raised goosebumps along my exposed skin, but Brian's hands were furnace-hot as they skimmed up my inner thighs. "Fuck, you're gorgeous," he breathed, the reverence in his voice at odds with the rough spread of his fingers.
My cock had already responded, waiting patiently for him to take it, the irony not lost on me that Brian, of all people, was the one kneeling between my thighs with the sunrise at his back like some freckled, ginger-haired deity. His fingers traced the length of me with a reverence that said it all. "You’re like a fucking textbook diagram of what a man should be."
The laugh that punched out of me was half-groan as his grip tightened experimentally. "Compliments now, Brian?" I managed, digging my heels into the sand when he twisted his wrist just so.
"Observations, professor," he corrected, and then his mouth was on me, hot and relentless, with none of Billy’s teasing preamble. Brian didn’t savour, he conquered, his tongue mapping the underside in broad, wet strokes that left me arching off the damp sand. The scrape of his stubble against my inner thigh was a counterpoint to the softness of his lips, the contrast maddening.
Brian's fingers grabbed my briefs. "You don't need these anymore," peeling the damp cotton down with the solemnity of a man uncovering buried treasure. I arched my legs, letting him strip me completely. My vest followed, catching briefly on my elbows before I wrestled it over my shoulders and tossed it above my head, where it landed with a wet slap.
"Christ alive," Brian breathed, his gaze raking down my body with the same intensity he'd once reserved for grading my thesis drafts. The rising sun painted gold streaks across my thighs, my cock already flushed and eager under his scrutiny. His Adam's apple bobbed violently when I spread my legs wider, sand gritting pleasantly beneath my arse.
Then he was on me again, mouth searing a path up my inner thigh while his calloused palms mapped the dip of my hips. No teasing, Brian licked a broad stripe from base to tip like he was marking territory, his nose nudging my balls as he swallowed me down in one practised motion. My fingers twisted in his ginger curls as he set a punishing rhythm, all suction and sharp teeth and throaty groans that vibrated through my pelvis.
"Fuck... Brian ...." my curse dissolving into a gasp when he hummed around me, his free hand kneading my thigh hard enough to leave bruises. Distantly, I heard the seagulls and the waves through the breeze of wind against the Pacific shoreline, and I was in heaven with the man who had been for years my inspiration, my friend.
Brian didn't slow, his tongue swirling just under the head on every upstroke until my toes curled in the wet sand. He pulled off with an obscene pop, his spit-slick chin glinting in the sunlight. "Tell me," he rasped, thumbing a bead of precum from my slit. "Who's better at this, me or Billy?"
"With age comes patience and experience. Surely you know this," I responded.
Brian's laughter was muffled against my hipbone, his breath hot and damp as he nipped the skin there. "Cheeky bastard," he growled before taking me deep again, his throat working around me with a practised ease that had my fingers tightening in his hair. The contrast was dizzying, Billy's teasing artistry versus Brian's single-minded hunger, both unravelling me in entirely different ways.
Sand shifted beneath us as Brian adjusted his stance, one hand sliding beneath me to cup my arse while the other traced the seam of my thigh with rough fingertips. He pulled off just long enough to spit into his palm before stroking me in time with the waves breaking nearby, his grip just shy of too tight. "Fuck, you're leaking everywhere," he muttered, smearing precum down my length with his thumb.
His mouth returned with renewed focus, his tongue flattening against the underside as he worked me toward the edge with military efficiency. No teasing buildup, just relentless pressure and the occasional scrape of teeth that had my thighs trembling.
The orgasm hit like a rogue wave, sudden, all-consuming, dragging me under before I could gasp. My back arched off the sand as Brian swallowed around me, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks. Stars burst behind my eyelids, brighter than the sunrise painting the beach gold.
I admitted in silence that Billy hadn't milked me since...yesterday morning, but this much cum? Surely, it wasn't possible that my body could produce so much, as cum flowed from my tip with obscene intensity as Brian continued until oversensitivity started to consume me. Brian refused to stop, though, his mouth working my cock, milking me beyond what should be possible, taking me through the level of sensitivity I have never been before, beyond a level of pain and senses that a man couldn’t possibly survive, forcing me to start struggling for freedom.
Only then did Brian release me with a satisfied smirk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not bad for an old man, eh?" he panted, collapsing beside me in the damp sand. His briefs looked damp, clinging to the outline of his arousal. “Had you going to the point you couldn’t take it anymore. It's fucking torture when done properly, and that, Steve, was an introduction to where I could take you.”
I flicked a handful of sand at his chest. "You didn't learn that in the army with those burly soldier boys, did you?"
"Certainly not, young man. Had to wait until I left where testosterone levels are to normal," he shot back, grinning as he stretched out like a sunbathing seal. The seaweed still clung to his collarbone, moving with each breath. “Too much testosterone in the army, I’m afraid. Too much testosterone and bollocks. As for how far I could take you, admit it, you have wondered how far I could take you. You must have during those other conversations we used to share?”
The seagulls screamed overhead as I studied the horizon. Truth was, I had, in fleeting moments over pints, during late-night thesis revisions, whenever Brian's laughter cut through an online conversation like a blade. But never seriously imagining it like this. "Once or twice," I conceded. "Mostly when you wore that army jumper with the elbow patches."
"Always knew you liked men in uniforms," Brian declared, laughing out loud.
"Why do you think I embarked on this journey?" was all I could say in response to a secret unravelled.
“Now you’ve completed that journey, you could go on a new journey with me to see how far I can take you until you scream for me to stop,” Brian suggested.
“How far have you taken Rob. I assume you have?” I sort of demanded.
“The last time, unable to escape, seven times,” Brian said with a beaming smile. “Plenty of lube and soundproofing.”
Seven times, I said to myself, as the tide crept closer, each wave licking at our feet with increasing boldness.
Brian's briefs, now more sand than fabric, clung stubbornly to his hips, the seaweed forming a ridiculous garland across his chest that rose and fell with his slowing breaths. My own nakedness should have felt more vulnerable under the widening morning light, but the salt drying on my skin and Brian's quiet proximity made it somehow ceremonial. I reached out and touched Brian’s briefs. “Can I?”
Brian put his hand on mine, “Not today, Steve, another time. I just wanted to spend time with you and fulfil a fantasy I’ve been imagining for a long time. I’m sure we will play again, especially if you want to trust me.”
I smiled, saying nothing, understanding the moment as a sandpiper skittered past, its needle-thin legs kicking up miniature dunes near Brian's outstretched hand. He twitched a finger experimentally, sending the bird into a frantic retreat. The chuckle that escaped him vibrated through the sand between us. "Think we scared the wildlife," he murmured, his voice roughened by recent use.
I flexed my toes, watching grains cascade from the arches of my feet. "You scared me once," I admitted, tracing a lazy circle in the damp sand. "First proper paper on marine symbiotic relationships, and all you asked was, what's this shit. Don't understand the question, let alone the answer."
Brian's snort sent a seagull wheeling overhead. "Christ, I'd forgotten that. You turned in twelve pages for me to review before publishing, handwritten in green ink," as he turned his head, morning light catching the silver stubble along his jaw. "Bloody brilliant work though, when I eventually understood what you were talking about. Even if you did argue that clownfish were latent anarchists."
The shared memory stretched between us, warm as the sun now heating our shoulders. His pinky finger brushed mine, accident or intention unclear, and neither of us moved away. The Pacific exhaled against the shore, rhythmically erasing our footprints.
“One last silly fact for you, Brian, there are no such things as seagulls.”
“Fuck off, yes, there are, look around you,” Brian replied.
“Look it up if you don’t believe me.”
Chapter Twelve – Our Undiscovered Country
Brian's laughter cut through the morning air. "We should go. Rob will be up, I expect, and Billy will probably surface at some point, feeling like death warmed up, I expect."
I chuckled at the thought of Billy with a hangover as I stood. "Bloody ocean's claimed more than my dignity this time," I declared. "I can't find my briefs," gesturing to the retreating tide that had stolen my means of modesty like some aquatic pervert.
Brian giggled, yes, giggled like a teenager, looking at me, my vest barely covering my modesty as we trudged back toward his house, which occupied a position of envy amongst the other neighbouring properties.
Sand coated my thighs like gritty body glitter. In fact, it coated places I didn’t think possible, Brian chuckled, "Steve, you look very funny like that. Can't imagine what you did to lose your briefs?"
"Ha, ha, very funny, you old perv," I responded, taking Brian's hand as we walked together.
The back door squeaked ominously when we slipped inside, the scent of burnt toast and stale beer assaulting us. Rob sat at the kitchen island nursing a mug of something dark, his camera ready for the day ahead. "Morning, Casanovas," he drawled, zooming in on my sand-crusted legs. "Hope you used protection against jellyfish. Sorry, meant to say, what the fuck happened to your briefs?"
"Good morning, Rob and very funny," Brian replied. "Just some harmless fun to start the day, and as for the briefs, they drowned in the surf."
"Whatever," Rob grunted, "At least you enjoyed the sunrise. I might make an effort tomorrow. As for today and the rest of my life, I’m choosing methodism," as he covered his face with his hands, clearly feeling rough for some unknown reason.
A thud from upstairs sent dust motes dancing in the sunlight. Billy's groan vibrated through the ceiling like a dying walrus. Brian grimaced, "Sounds like someone's paying for last night's excesses."
"He'll still have a morning wood to greet the day, though, regardless of how ill he's feeling."
"Really?" Brian snorted.
"What?" Rod groaned. I don't care how magnificent his morning wood is; I can’t even manage thinking about it this morning."
We all howled with laughter at Billy's moans and groans as I peeled off my damp, sand-coated, once pristine, white vest. "I need a shower," I said, standing naked, hearing the bathroom door slam, only to hear Billy evidently attempting to vomit up his entire digestive system.
Rob winced sympathetically. "Steve, you might want to shower in the utility room," as Brian covered his ears from the noise.
Rob, I think you might be right," hearing the noise from upstairs, turning to trapse down the hallway to freshen up for the day ahead, feeling certain I heard Rob tell Brian, “He’s got a cute bottom.”
The stairwell creaked under my bare feet as I ascended, feeling refreshed after my shower, each step punctuated by another retch from behind the bathroom door. Billy's flushed face appeared in the gap when I knocked, his usually vibrant green eyes now the colour of week-old lettuce. "If you value your life," he croaked, sweat-damp curls plastered to his forehead, "don't let Brian cook breakfast."
"Okay," I replied, closing the door.
I slipped on a nightshirt, tightening a belt around my waist, more out of habit than need and went back downstairs to join Brian and Rob in the kitchen.
The famous nightshirt," Brian and Rob almost said in unison, their gazes tracking the faded burgundy fabric as I adjusted the belt. "Yep, I can see the practicality of it," Rob declared, snapping a photo with his ever-present camera. Brian sipped his coffee, eyes crinkling. "Nice colour. Brings out the colour of your eyes."
I flipped them off with a grin, grabbing toast from the pile Rob had miraculously burned only around the edges. The coffee was strong enough to strip paint, just how I liked it after years of dodgy train station brews.
Silence settled as we ate, broken only by the occasional groan from upstairs where Billy was presumably rediscovering his mortality as sunlight pooled on the butcher block countertop, illuminating Rob's scribbled notes about tide patterns and Brian's abandoned crossword.
Rob stretched, letting his camera swing from his hand. "Let's hike Burnaby Mountain. Clear your heads after breakfast."
I nearly choked on my toast. "Absolutely not," I wheezed, wiping crumbs from my face. "I've hiked enough to last a lifetime. Let's go shopping for a change."
Brian's mug froze halfway to his lips. "Shopping," he repeated, as if I'd suggested synchronised swimming with sharks. "You. Want to go shopping."
"Need proper clothes that aren't hiking gear or this bloody nightshirt," I said, plucking at the well-worn fabric.
Rob's camera flashed before I could blink. "Iconic," he murmured, reviewing the shot. "The infamous nightshirt on its natural host, captured time and time again on your blog."
"Really, Rob?"
"Yes, really, Steve. You actually look good in it to the point that I might even buy some for Brian and me, but not today. It's Sunday, and we don't shop on Sunday, so you're going to have to wear that for the rest of the day because I shoved all your clothes into the wash. Yours and Billy’s. I emptied your backpacks, and to be frank, I’m amazed the clothing wasn’t walking on its own accord towards the washing machine.
“What? I’ve got nothing to wear, for fucks sake.” I protested. “Only this fucking thing,” as my hand gripped the material. “I don’t even have briefs.”
“Stop fretting,” Rob responded. I got these for you from the famous box you have to delve into some time," as he tossed to me a pristine pair of Hanes. “It was a toss-up between Hanes or Fruit of the Loom, I’m afraid.”
I actually laughed, seeing the funny side, realising this was actually day one of the rest of my life. "Come here, guys," I ordered, taking Brian and Rob outside onto the porch, standing between them with my arms hanging over their shoulders, gazing out over the sea as my fingers dangled the Hanes briefs over Rob’s chest.
The words slipped out before I could weigh them, carried on the same breeze that ruffled Brian's ridiculous seaweed-draped hair and made Rob's ever-present camera sway in his hand. "I love you guys."
My arms tightened around their shoulders, feeling Brian's sharp inhale and Rob's surprised stillness beneath my hands, the ocean stretched endlessly before us, its surface shimmering like hammered pewter under the climbing sun.
Rob recovered first, his elbow jabbing my ribs with practised precision. "Christ, you're sentimental when hungover," he muttered, but his free hand came up to clasp mine where it draped over his collarbone, his grip unexpectedly warm.
Brian said nothing at all, just leaned his temple against my shoulder with a quiet sigh that might have been contentment or resignation. The silence stretched long enough for gulls to wheel overhead twice before he finally spoke. "Right. Well." He cleared his throat, pulling away to scrub a hand through his salt-crusted ginger curls. "Suppose this means you're staying then."
The simple truth of it settled between us like the morning fog burning off the shoreline. "I love Billy," I added, watching a fishing boat putter across the horizon, "and this is our new start. With you idiots very much part of it."
Rob's chuckle was low and knowing as he lifted his camera, capturing the moment with a soft click. "Could've just texted that like a normal person," he teased, but his knuckles brushed my elbow in a fleeting gesture that spoke louder than words.
The silence after my declaration stretched long enough for another fishing boat to chug across our line of sight until I suggested. "Sunday, hey? In that case, let's go and see the Sea Lions and leave Billy to die quietly."
Brian exhaled sharply through his nose, that particular half-laugh he reserved for moments when I surprised him. "Sea lions," he repeated, squinting at the horizon as if they might materialise on command. "You do realise they're not penguins, right? They won't just..."
Rob's comment was always practical. "Tide's out," he observed, nodding toward the exposed kelp beds glistening further down the coast. "Might catch the buggers sunbathing on the rocks," his grin was all teeth when he added, "Better than watching Billy redecorate Brian's toilet bowl."
Brian made a sound like a deflating balloon. "Christ, I'd forgotten about the state of my bathroom..."
"Then let's not remember it," I interjected, herding them toward the door. The wooden deck creaked under our collective weight, three pairs of bare feet leaving prints across the polished boards. Rob paused just long enough to shout up the stairs, "We're hunting pinnipeds, princess!" which earned a guttural moan from Billy that might have been an acknowledgement or a death rattle.
Brian rushed back inside to put some shorts on, kicking his gritty, sand-coated briefs down the hallway towards the utility room and certain cleanliness…at a future date, slipping on a polo shirt, declaring, “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
The coastal path wound through scrubby pines that smelled like Christmas and cat piss. Brian led with the confident stride of someone who'd walked this route a thousand times, which he probably had. Rob lagged, camera swinging, capturing the way sunlight fractured through the branches overhead, and I, enjoying being barefoot like Brian and Rob, enjoying the view that didn’t involve climbing it.
Someone once wrote a book called 'Three Men In A Boat'. Our boat consisted of four friends instead of three. The setting, more romantic and magnificent than the River Thames. Vancouver Island, offering magical scenery, meets the magic of the Pacific Ocean. We were writing a new book as we dipped below the cliffs, out of sight of the house where we had left Billy to recover, walking into our very own undiscovered country full of love and possibilities, including fucking Sea Lions frolicking in the kelp.
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