#i... love them

“Remind me why we’re doing this again,”

Port threw a smile over his shoulder as he gripped the rusty tap, turning it slowly, rusty gears squeaking, until water gushed out of the hose, spilling across the grass and pooling around his bare feet. In typical John B fashion, he had offered up The Chateau as the hang-out hub for the summer, and all the Pogues were well and truly taking advantage of it. Port had commandeered both Pope, and the Chateau’s hose in his yearly hair dying ritual.

“Summer’s for trying new things, Pope”

Pope picked up the end of the hose, pointing it away from himself, looking thoroughly unimpressed with his answer. But, as he always did, Pope went along with it. He grabbed the back of Port’s shirt, an old Heyward’s tee covered in years of dried fish-gut stains. There’s no malice in the action, and Port laughed, before Pope slid his hand to the back of his head and shoved his head under the water. 

Heat bloomed across Port’s face — now undoubtedly the same peach-pink shade as his hair — at the feeling of Pope’s hand splayed against the back of Port’s neck, warm and steady.

The tepid water from the hose ran down his face in streams of pale pink, splashing onto the grass, and Port waited patiently for it to run clear. He’d done this every summer since he could remember.

First with lemons, squeezing the juice into his hair and lying out in the sun with Star. Then, Kool-Aid — unintentionally, and entirely because Juno had gotten upset with him and upturned a pitcher of grape Kool-Aid over his head one night. Now, he used the more classical permanent methods — bleach, then dye. 

Pope ruffled a hand through his hair, snagging on the wet curls, before he stamped his foot over the hose, abruptly cutting off the flow of water.

“You’re good.”

Port righted himself again, and shook his head. Droplets of pink-hued water flying in all directions, splattering against the grass, and, more importantly, Pope’s shirt.

Pope jumped back, a sigh of frustration escaping him. “Come on, man.”

Port felt a twinge of guilt, but he quickly shrugged and lightly supplied, “it’ll wash out- I promise.”

Pope shook his head, skepticism practically bleeding from the gesture, but he handed Port a towel regardless. 

The screen door slammed open, and both boys jumped. “Hey!”

Big John Routledge was never a threatening figure, but he was often imposing, and this time was no exception. His voice was stern  “Don’t be getting pink all over my good towels.”

The Routlege’s didn’t have good towels, they had possibly clean towels and unusable rags. Nonetheless, both Port and Pope nodded solemnly, looking properly chagrined. Big John tossed a mangled looking scrap of fabric their way and promptly headed back inside. It was a t-shirt, ratty and riddled with holes, but Port wrapped it around his hair anyway, twisting it until his hair was mostly dry and the shirt was stained an entirely different colour. 

Port could hear Big John’s heavy footsteps through the house as he returned to his office, and it wasn’t until they had ceased, that both he and Pope burst out laughing. 

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