== (wants) wrote in repose, @ 2016-11-29 17:51:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | *log, cris martin, sam martin |
Log, beach cabana: Sam A & Cris M
Who: Sam Alexander & Cris Martin
What: birthday celebrations~!
Where: a hotel beyond the Capital
When: backdated; right after this
Warnings/Rating: I'm going out on a limb to say... sex.
Like beads on his finger-worn rosary, lost in some drawer, Cris counted back years in his head, almost idle. 'Cause he was forty now. Forty. Forty, which was a big fucking number, hard to swallow down past Adam's apple and harder still to wrap his head around, in spitea knowing it was coming—'cause it always was. But, to be real honest, the guy never thought he'd live this long. It sounds kinda morbid, I know, but life expectancy for Spanish kids in the 'hood, 'specially those who deal drugs, then become cops, had never been what you'd call high. Add on to that his papi, his own struggles with stuff—and, yeah, forty seemed ancient. But, parsing the beadsa his life backwards, as he drove that last lil bit to the parking lotta the hotel, Cris was actually in a good mood about it, huh? Not just 'bout the whole getting old thing or the shoulda died young, but didn't thing, but—alla it. A lotta that prolly hadta do with Sam. Sam, who he'd just gotten offa the phone with, who was silly and young and smart and beautiful and vulnerable and flawed and his. Where all the roadsa him ended, she began. And he wasn't just thinking that 'cause she'd surprised him with a fancy car or nothing, huh? Nah, we'll just call it a gratefulness for the gringita, general and specific at once. Her lil Jersey voice was still thick in echo in his mind as aforementioned fancy car pulled to a stop in fronta the hotel she'd picked out covert. The wind was cold, but Cris' face was pretty numb from the drive and he didn't need a whole lotta feeling in his cheeks to grin stupid at the place and its potentials. (Mosta which revolved around a certain gringa and a whole lotta fucking and kissing and holding. He was romantic like that.) He was still impressed and surprised that she'd set alla this up right under his nose. But, Sam had always been a thoughtful gift-giver and she was real good at putting these things together. He was glad. Both for the gifts and just to have her here with him, alone, no strings or brothers with deities or sisters with eating disorders or nothing else attached. No Joey either, though her he'd miss. Somehow, the guy always forgot how much he needed to get away, just him and Sam, from the cloya Repose, right up until the fresh air hit him and he felt suddenly, but gloriously just… free. Walls down. Nobody waiting for him to do nothing. Nonea that. Just Sam. Just him. And no shoes, huh? Sam told him to take 'em off before trying to hoof it out to the lil cabana, so Cris, in fleece, shirt and tie (he felt like getting fancy on his birthday, alright?), stripped off his old work shoes (still nicer than any and alla his sneakers) and socks, and started out over chittering sand. The day was wind-swept and clear. He'd already fielded calls all morning from his hermanas y mami, nephews, nieces, Teresita—whose singing voice was real nice—, everybody, all before noon, so he was happy to tuck away his phone and just take in the scene. Cold beaches felt like home to him. Hunts Point, feathered, straggly grass, and cutting breezes come the falla winter. And even if the trees were a lil different here, up 'long the linea main hotel and gumma highway, even if the water was less fishy, less industrialized, the salt was the same. He'd never gone down to the beach a lot, huh? Not like somea his friends. But, maybe he was thirsty for whatever slivera home he could get, 'cause he gobbled it up now, like he had—metaphorically—the box Sam had gotten him, that he now carried against his hip. It was all he had. That box. Keys, sunglasses, wallet. 'Cause he hadn't expected to be leaving Sonrisa, so he hadn't packed. But, he wasn't worried about it. He wasn't worried 'bout much. He went to the cabana, trimmed in wishful-thinking teal, and real stupid and real polite and for no reason at all, he knocked on the door. "Hola, mami. ¿Me permite?" |