#oceans 12

The airport lights are bright enough to make you squint behind the dim lenses of your sunglasses, a sterile white that casts the most unflattering angles on everyone and highlights the jet lag etched across the sea of faces bustling to gates. 

Duty-free perfume permeates your senses, your wrists coated with an ungodly mixture of scents you had no intention of buying but tried anyway due to the low price and your newly found income. Perhaps ‘income’ is a generous term, though you can’t think of anything that isn’t scandalous to describe stolen money. 

Your seat is uncomfortable to say the least; the hard plastic is cutting into the ridges of your spine just enough that you can no longer feel your lower back; you cast a glance at the man sprawled across a row of them, head pillowed on his bag, clearly immune to the discomfort and selfish enough to ignore the hovering family nearby. 

 “You know,” You mumble, leaning towards the occupied seat beside you. “That family looks like they could do with a seat.” 

Rusty Ryan hums noncommittally, glancing up from his half-eaten sandwich, the packaging crinkling. Sunglasses shade his face from view, and despite the unattractive lighting buzzing overhead, it seems to do very little to diminish his tanned skin, haloing the blonde buzzcut he’s somehow kept perfectly clean. It seems if the European sun picked favourites, it was certainly him.

“They could just ask.” 

You fix him with a bemused look, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Or you could offer.” 

“Then you would have to move too.” He fixes you with a knowing glance, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And we all know you’re not doing that.” 

A small laugh slips free, seraphic and loud enough that the dozing man on the bench across shifts slightly. You roll your eyes before turning back in your seat, shifting just enough to alleviate the tingling that has started to creep its way up your legs, winding around the muscles. 

“You really coming back to LA with me?” Rusty asks, finishing off the rest of the sandwich and balling up the plastic. You take it from him and slip it into your jacket pocket before he can discard it elsewhere, nodding once.

“I didn’t waste my money on a ticket for nothing. Besides, I don’t exactly have anywhere else to go.” 

He raises a brow at you, finally slumping back, one arm stretching around your shoulders to rest loosely over the back of your own seat. “What about Danny?” 

“He has Tess now.” You muse, gravitating to his side enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him. “And something tells me they’re going to want their own house to themselves without me hogging the guest room.” 

Rusty scoffs and you feel his fingers dance along the curve of your shoulder, the touch so absentminded, you’re not sure he’s even aware of it. “You’re his sister.” 

“And Tess is his wife.” 

“So?” He shrugs once, as though your intrusion on their newly formed domestic life means nothing. However, he catches the look you fix him with, entirely unamused and knowing, and something tacit passes between you both. “What? You think they’re settling?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?" You finally push your sunglasses up onto your head, blinded momentarily. You catch the way his face morphs into a grimace, like the mere thought of your brother being domesticated is one he tries to avoid, one so unnatural that it’s unnerving in itself. 

“No.” He sniffs once. “Still doesn’t mean you can’t stay with them.” 

You let out a wry laugh, leaning into him further, the action a subconscious one that neither of you seems aware of nor bothered about. “You trying to get rid of me already, Ryan?” 

He scoffs once, and you feel his arm move from the back of your seat to around your shoulders, settling there heavily and without much ceremony at all. “I just got you back.” 

The statement brings with it a gentle, if not oppressive, silence; the tacenda of just how long the two of you have spent apart is still clearly a subject neither of you is willing to touch upon. Three years is a long time, long enough to move on and go elsewhere with your lives, and yet neither of you did; instead, you hung up onto a past that would undoubtedly resurface eventually.  

“Don’t sound so smug.” You mumble, finally turning away, though there's a hint of stolidity now, the fear that if you get too comfortable, he will leave again, creeping back, unwelcome, into your system. 

“I’m not smug,” he retorts, shifting so that he can look at you properly. You don’t protest when he grasps your chin gently, turning your head and forcing you to meet his gaze. There’s something genuine behind his eyes, his brows softened enough for you to read the guilt that’s been tugging at him for months. 

“Really?” You scoff, but it’s hollow, devoid of any true humour. Rusty seems to notice. “That’s rare—” 

“Don’t do that.” The firmness catches you off guard, enough that you blink once, entirely stunned, lips parted like a fish on land, mid-gasp for air. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t release his hold on your chin. Simply watches you with all the amorousness of a besotted man who's realised his mistake too late. 

“What?” You ask, though it comes out as more of a whisper, careful not to draw too much attention from bored and prying airport guests. 

“That thing.” 

“What thing?" You prompt again. Rusty heaves a sigh.

“The thing where you shut down and act like this is all over before it’s even started.” He swallows thickly, and you realise then that this may be the most emotional you’ve ever seen him. Calm, composed, veracious Rusty Ryan suddenly looks vastly apologetic, like you’ve stabbed him once and twisted the knife. 

“Can you blame me?” You shake your head, a breathy laugh pulling from you. “You left me, Rusty. After two years. You just left.” 

“I was scared,” he admits, and the genuineness almost breaks you. He doesn’t raise his voice or shake you to emphasise his point. He just stays completely calm and entirely patient. 

“Of what?” 

“Things were serious. We were living together. You were plannin’ stuff. And I didn’t know how to handle that.” 

“I hated you.” You admit, entirely guileless. “I really hated you afterwards.” 

“I know.” He nods. “I know.” 

Silence settles once more; however, this time it feels lighter. The weight of unspoken words no longer presses down on you both, and you finally allow yourself to sag against his side once more, your remaining dregs of energy finally dispersed and replaced with the faintest glimmer of hope.

“Are you going to leave me this time?” The words are hushed, barely audible, like speaking them any louder might shatter whatever fragile bridge has built between the two of you. 

He hesitates. 

“Are you going to come back with me?” 

“Are you going to keep trying to run your shitty hotel?” 

Rusty barks a laugh, one so genuine that you can’t help but smile. He drops a kiss to the top of your head, warming your body in a way you haven’t felt in years. It’s familiar—comforting—and you find yourself tilting your head just far enough to capture his lips with your own. 

The intercom crackles overhead, announcing the final call for Italy. A few people around you rise, bustling in the general direction, and you open your mouth to make a wry comment about getting there early, when Rusty stands too.

“That’s us.” 

He bends down to pick up your bags before watching you expectantly. 

You frown, brows furrowed as you glance at the board just to make sure. “They called Italy.” 

“I’m not deaf.” He counters, holding a hand out for you like a bored mother does for their child. “C’mon or we’ll miss it.”

You rise warily, taking his hand. “We’re going to LA, Rusty.”

Yet, despite that, he continues to walk to the gate for Italy, joining the queue of eager tourists and the occasional well-dressed businessperson. He shakes his head, handing you the boarding passes—immediately you scan them with all the fervour of someone afraid their boyfriend has lost it. 

“Rusty.” You begin, glaring up at him. “These aren’t for LA.”

“Hotels probably gone under by now," He shrugs, as though that answers everything. He seems to catch on as you continue to gawp up at him before adding. “I thought you wanted somewhere nice to settle down.”

Settle down? 

“The hotel—What—You own it.”

“Not anymore.” The queue shuffles forward. “I sold it.” 

“Sold it?” You echo, stressing each syllable as though you’re trying to get through to him, trying to make sense of what exactly he’s telling you. He remains completely stoic, as though what he’s doing isn’t completely out of the ordinary. “You’re telling me you sold your hotel in LA so that you could move to Italy?” 

“We,” he corrects languidly. He hands your boarding passes and passports to the lady at the desk. “So that we could move to Italy.” 

The woman wishes you both an enjoyable flight and you can barely muster a ‘thank you’ as he drags you, and your bags, through the gate, looking every bit as smug as you’d expect. 

“Rusty, where are we going to go?” 

He glances down at you, a wry smile tugging as he lips. He bends down to press another kiss to your lips and you melt into it instinctively. 

“We’ll figure it out.” 

⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭