Work Text:
The Mexican sun is searing, and from where Less stands, pink as a boiled shrimp in silvery white speedos, everything around him is restlessly squiggling from the heat. It was like looking through a wavering sheen of water, Less thought, as he jogged slowly across the beach, sand on which glistened under the angry rays, to where Robert has already lain down on an sun chair. The sun seems to have boiled the sand, as it pricks his foot with every step and sends a shot of sharp pricking sensation up his bare feet. He props himself into the sun chair next to the one Robert is reclining in, spreading out his long limbs to receive the most out of the glorious afternoon sun. Robert rolls around to face Less, and hands a tube of sunscreen over to the younger man, saying, “you don’t want to get burnt, Arthur.”
Less considers briefly to ask Robert to help him with the sunscreen, then changes his mind upon seeing him close his eyes in thought. Typical Robert, to be weaving fragments of incidental thoughts into elaborate poetry out on an exotic sundrenched beach on a sublimely fine day with Ray Bans propped on his forehead. Less is not complaining, for he has well adapted to this, having lived with the genius for almost six years. He removes his shades, and closes his eyes like Robert, shutting out the slightly dazzling view, focusing on his auditory sense. Waves lapping in uncompromising rhythm, shorebirds chirping and squealing in the distance, tourists and locals chattering imperceptibly nearby. Less hears everything that reaches Robert’s ear, and he tries to conjure materials for poetry like his older lover. The attempt is futile, and Less reopens his eyes in mild disappointment. Is this the spiritual discrepancy between mediocrity and genius? Less can’t help but to wonder.
He splatters sunscreen all over his body and face, smoothing the creamy substance out with his palm. The tingling pain on the tender skin on his chest suggests that it may already be too late. A firm hand makes contact with his back, and Less turns his head slightly to see that it is the hand of none but Robert, who has left his poetry cooking state and is now looking at Less with a gentle smile, that is applying sunscreen to the patch of pinkish skin. He lets him do his thing, and when he’s done Less asks, “got anything good?” He is referring to the poetry of course, and without inducing the least of a surprise Robert flashes his confident smile of a genius’ and replies, “of course.”
He proceeds to marvel Less with a few lines of his newly produced work, which are not some of his better ones but still sufficient to draw a pleased smile from Less, before standing up, pulling his lover up and towards the ocean with him. “We’re on a Mexican beach, we should swim.” Less staggers along, laughing with the outwardly giddy and exuberant Robert. They wade into the coolness of the Pacific Ocean and swim in the clear water, tinted pale sapphire by the radiant skies above. Robert is not a good swimmer, Less even less so, yet they manage to get as far as a small platform that floats solitarily and insignificantly upon the calm waves. They clamber up on the platform, that provides them with buoyancy hence a brief recess from their long and exhausting swim (a ten-minute long swim of moderate speed), and flop down on their backs. For a while both take their time to catch their breaths, and allow the moisture on their skin to dry off rapidly in the heat, leaving coarse salinity behind. They do not speak, and together cherish the serenity of the ocean.
It is Robert who breaks the silence, “what would you do if I died out here?”
Less, who has just started to relax, is startled by the question, “huh?”
“Would you haul me back onto the beach, call the cops or leave me here?”
Robert is smiling now, but it is impossible for Less to tell whether he is joking or serious. He gives it a thought, picturing the scenario, and finds it absurd and unbelievable.
“You think it’s impossible, Arthur? Ah, but it is not,” Robert cocks his head to one side and glances at Less, squinting slightly, “it will happen, you know, you will see me off. You, my boy, are so much younger.”
Less decides he does not understand the world of genius poets after all, especially slightly drunk or stoned ones, despite having spent many years with Robert, and his eccentric congregation of acquaintances at the Russian River School.
He thinks the peculiar question over cautiously, and gives what he believes to be the most reasonable answer, “I’d probably call the and see if they can wake you up.” Less is sure that he would drown both himself and Robert (given that he has yet to die completely) in attempt to haul the taller and heavier man back to the beach.
Robert chuckles softly, and Less does not wonder what he thinks about his answer, and they move on to less unnerving topics. Enjoying a trivial conversation they lounge against the shimmering sea, thoroughly indulged in their vacation.
“I thought you said you were taking up writing?”
“Yes, I am just starting on my first novel, the one I told you about?”
“The gay Odyssey one?”
“Yeah…”
“Thought you’d given up on the idea… Should I write you an introduction?”
.
.
.
The intervals in the dialogue stretch longer, and at a point when Less has had his eyes half closed in peacefulness, he realizes in alarm that Robert has not replied since three minutes ago. Panic hits as he recollects their nonsensical conversation earlier, and frantically sits up right to peer at Robert, who is entirely motionless and tranquil as he lies there with his eyes closed. Mortified Less thinks of the unthinkable at once, as he feebly calls out his lover’s name, his voice sounding weaker and hollower than it already is.
Nothing. The man is still.
Less can’t think straight, reality dawns on him and he is terrified. He shouts out the name again and slaps on the man’s chest. Then Robert rolls around towards Less, his eyelids fluttering open in bewilderment.
“Did I fall asleep?”
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Waiving my sight I do not see
The songs of prancing waves, in glee
Yet I hear the crystal blue tide
Over which the seabirds do glide
And charmed I am by he who lies
Beneath the glorious heaven skies