nr, ryan leonard/will smith

tags: fourth of july, complicated relationships, past relationship(s)

Ryan’s sunning himself, no other word for it. Skin going pink, red, more speckled, laid out on one of Colleen’s thick striped towels. He’s got a pair of swim trunks on, blue stretching across the meat of his thighs until the fabric cracks and pales.

Earlier in the kitchen, watermelon juice dripping down Will’s wrists. Ryan half in the doorway, hair a mess, yawning.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I meant to pack them, I swear.” Hang dog stare. What are you going to do about it.

“Mine won’t fit you.” Will didn’t look down at Ryan’s legs, kept slicing fruit. Popped a piece in his mouth, wincingly sweet. Juice dripped down Will’s chin and he licked it away.

“I’ll ask Fowler then,” Ryan’s voice might have been strained but it didn’t matter because Will was busy. He had a lot of fruit to slice.

Ryan didn’t. He went into Will’s room and stole a pair. Will recognized the shade of blue immediately, the faded green drawstring, and thought about telling Ryan that those were actually an old pair of Mack’s that he’d left here last summer, just to see what Ryan might do.

Yesterday, beer drunk and stuffed full of seafood on the deck. The sky was purple and orange and the ocean was practically waveless.

“Do you know yet?” Voter asked eagerly.

Will spun a bottle around on his thigh. The cold felt good. He liked that everyone leaned forward to wait for what he was going to say.

“No, but we’re getting close,” Will said and didn’t try to make it seem humble. He let his legs spread slightly in the chair and tipped his head back.

The guys laughed.

Ryan laughed too. But not like he was happy. “We,” he echoed, and Will was the only one who heard him.

Gabe was talking about buying a boat and filling it with girls.

Will cut his eyes to the side to stare flatly at the twist of Ryan’s mouth around his corona.

“His and hers contracts, huh Smitty,” Ryan did a shitty job of keeping his voice low but everyone was too busy being excited about a boat that didn’t exist to pay them much attention. “You gonna make him dinner every night too?”

Will laughed and his throat felt raw so he gulped more beer.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Will said finally, and Ryan looked away.

Upper hand. Underhand. A frisbee cutting wide. Ryan’s hand snatched it out of the air and threw it right back.

In the end, Will didn’t bring up the origins of the swimsuit.

It didn’t matter whose it was, really. It didn’t matter when it was crumpled on the bathroom floor later. When Ryan was soothing the sunburn against Will’s stomach with his tongue. When he said Will, Will let me. Just let me.

Ryan remembers Strome’s draft year, even if he doesn’t remember Strome getting drafted. Drafted third overall by the Arizona Coyotes, Ryan’d read on his phone screen in tiny letters when the Caps announced they were bringing Dylan Strome on as a coach, his career was cut short after only two years when Strome took a bad hit into the boards and broke his leg in three different places.