#bianccwrite

Found at the towels’ edge, Rodi throws himself right on his knees, spreading any sand found underneath them everywhere. Fleeting discontent befalls Olive, as the sand sticks on his thigh. Rodi lets out a sigh for the effect and another faltering fall, a near belly-flop onto the towels, just before his knees shook from dizziness.

Olive picks his golden aviators, lowering them under the tip of his nose. “Well? Was it refreshing?”

It seems he expected the question, from how quickly he answers. “Like fuckin’ broth!” Rodi doesn’t raise to his elbows, he remains lying with his back to the sky.

Olive adjusts their puny umbrella, which never wants to stay upright, and makes sure the shade somewhat covers Rodi. He gingerly places his palm on top of his lover’s tentacles, to check for temperature. He’s radiating warmth as always, albeit more.

“Are you sure you’re well? What if it’s a heatstroke? If water or shade don’t help, then we should think of retreating.”

Rodi keeps his eyes closed, arms tucked under his chin as a pillow. His speech is slower than usual, a bit muffled by his arm. “You drive yourself back home,” he chuckles into the crook of his elbow.

“There’s a café a few minutes away from here.”

“I’m fine, really. I’m absorbing solar energy. You already know the process. Photosynthesis.”

A breath puffs out of Olive’s nostrils. Placing his hat on the sand, Olive lays on the side of his body, lined next close to the other. “Very fascinating. I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Mhm. You would’ve known if you wrote about me, and not some lame corals in your dissertation.” He waits a bit, in case Olive would start explaining why he’s ignorant. Instead, he feels his fiance’s palm against his skin again, checking his forehead, the back of his neck, his cheeks. He might be lucky this time. The hand settles on his hip, which is probably not part of the routine temperature check.

And then, Anthos softly goes, “actually, they’re not lame”, and brings up terms such as symbiosis and aquacultures. Rodi’s already heard the story, multiple times, while it was unfurling in their own home, lunchtime after lunchtime on end. These big words never stir his mental imagery as much as the actual experience, when he first saw the Bay’s corals together with Olive. Their vivid colours appear behind his eyelids. The incessant breeze mimics the sea’s lukewarm currents, feeling just the same as three years ago, when his head was fully underwater. The more he dives into the memory, the less he’s part of the conversation. There’s an enveloping sense of comfort taking over. Before he knows, he forgets about his feverish condition, and any other bodily concerns.