Weasel, still awake, lies motionless; the disturbing events of the evening before tirelessly dancing through his mind. He pulls the covers tightly over his head. He lies like this for several minutes, his comforter-coffin rapidly filling with hot and humid air. His heart beats faster and higher into his throat and the birds' relentless symphony grows louder still. Weasel can hardly take it any longer, and he throws the blankets off of him, gasping as he cools his burning, suffocating lungs, the fresh air a welcomed relief.

He opens his eyes and watches as his memories are broadcasted above him, ballerina shadows pirouette, leap, and twirl effortlessly across the ceiling and the soft songs of mourning doves crescendo into a symphony; a tragic ballet produced by the pale periwinkle-grey light of the early morning.

"I had no choice. I had to protect you…I'm so sorry." these words tear through Weasel's mind.

The morning sun now glows bright yellow through his window, and Weasel's eyes burn and sting. He pulls himself upright and swings his legs over the side of his bed, letting them dangle as he stretches his tired and aching body. He grabs the crumpled shorts from the day before off of the floor and shakes them, sending an explosion of yesterday's affair into the air, showering his body and assaulting his eyes with granules of sand.

Agh, fuck! Weasel groans and grasps at his face, rubbing his eyes furiously in attempts to clear them of the essence of the beach. Tears stream down his face and he blinks deliberately, his eyes tender and swollen with discomfort and exhaustion. Wiping the tears from his cheeks, he stands stiffly and shuffles to his closet. Careful to choose clean clothes this time, he grabs a folded pair of shorts, and pulls a t-shirt off of a hanger. He dresses awkwardly, his rigid and sore body screaming with every stretch and bit of effort required.

Eyes blurry and aching, Weasel blindly makes his way to the kitchenette of his home; a tiny, two-room cabin that he purchased with the last of his savings right after he turned 18. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Weasel and, albeit small, he loved its rugged charm and the independence it allowed him was invigorating. Grabbing the coffee carafe, he fills his only mug with days-old, cold, black coffee and gulps it down, chugging ferociously. Weasel finishes one mug, and refills it for a second time, slamming the carafe back onto the coffee-maker and heads for the front door.

In the Summer, Weasel enjoys a cup of coffee (sometimes several) on his front porch every morning, and today was no different. He unlocks the deadbolt of the front door, taking another swig of the bitter sustenance from his mug, and pulls the knob, choking in shock as it swings open.

There, sitting on the top step and leaning against one of the porch's posts, is Johnson. He's dressed in green, camo fatigues and his back is to Weasel; his duffle bag lying on the ground at the base of the porch steps. Johnson doesn't flinch when Weasel emerges choking from his home.

"What the fuck?" Weasel coughs and sputters, wiping coffee dribbles from his chin and neck. "How long-" he fumbles with a series of beginnings. "Have you been here…what time is it…wait, why…" Weasel stutters as he begins to understand the details of Johnson's unannounced presence.

He clears his throat, and attempts to start over. "I can make a fresh pot of coffee and we can-"

"Weasel," Johnson interrupts sternly. He unfolds his arms, and turns to face his friend. His right eyelid is puffy and sagging low, causing his eye to close partially; a purple bruise perches above his cheekbone. The bridge of Johnson's nose is swollen and flecks of dried blood are visible just inside his nostrils.

Weasel studies his childhood friend's face and he's brough back to the beach where 18 hours prior, he had mercilessly fought the man who now stands, defeated on his front porch.

"You know that I have to leave you again," Johnson's words pounded against Weasel's eardrums and echoed through his mind. He knew that there was a chance that Johnson would have to leave again, he just didn't want to believe it.

He wanted so badly to embrace his friend - his forbidden love - and confess his feelings; tell him of the adoration that he'd felt for Johnson since they were kids, describe how his stomach would flutter with butterflies whenever he'd see Johnson's bike skid into his driveway; and explain that when Johnson would smile, how his eyes would twinkle that would make Weasel fall even more deeply in love with him.

Weasel wanted to scream, declare, and proclaim his love for Johnson…but instead he remained silent because he knew of the heartbreak that was yet to come.

Weasel is hurled back onto his front porch. Johnson's gaze still unwavering.

They stand there in silence for several moments before Weasel breaks eye contact. 

"Ahem, sorry about your face," he laments. "I may have some ice in the icebox…you should probably-" Weasel gestures over his shoulder.

"Weasel," again Johnson cuts in. "I don't need ice. I need to say-"

"I know what you need to say. It's pretty clear."

"Yeah, so, that's why I'm here." Johnson extends his hands in a gesture of brotherhood and goodwill. He knows that what he is about to say is going to destroy his sensitive friend's soul and wreak havoc on Weasel's heart.

Weasel recoils, pulling his shoulders away and shifting his body back towards the open door.

"Weasel…?" Johnson faces his palms towards Weasel in resignation and surrender and stands up straight. Before Johnson can continue, Weasel backs into the cabin and slams the door, flipping the deadbolt aggressively.

"Weasel, we both knew that I would have to leave again." 

"But now?! Tell me. Did you know that it was going to be now?!"

"I mean, they called-"

"Fuck off and go, then!"

"I came here to say goodbye! And to tell you-"

"Tell me what. How you're abandoning me again?! "

"I came here to tell you that I-"

"I LOVE you!"

Weasel's outcry hangs in the air. Johnson stops. Taken aback, he blinks and his brows furrow.

"So, there you go. There's your goodbye." Weasel's voice quivers from behind the door.

"Weasel, please open the door."

"I love you."

"Weasel? Please come back." Johnson presses his cheek against the cool wood of the closed door and Weasel's sobs dissipate as he moves away.

"Come on, Weasel! Please come listen to what I have to say!"

For what seems like hours Johnson stays there, relentlessly knocking and begging with silence.

Weasel never reemerges…and Johnson leaves.

***

Weasel slowly wakes. Eyes still closed, he lies motionless; the disturbing events of that morning tirelessly dancing through his mind. He pulls the covers tightly over his head. His whole body aches; his head pounds and his joints are sore and rigid. The world is silent, he pulls the covers away from his face and he opens his eyes.

Twilight illuminates his room with blue-green hues and his world is silent. He rolls over and glances at the clock blinking 7:47. Closing his eyes again, his chest twinges and his throat tightens. Tears squeeze through his closed eyelids and trickle down his face and neck, soaking into his cotton t-shirt collar. His heart beats faster, drumming louder in his ears, and he feels his cheeks and ears flush with blood; warm and tingly.

The last bus out of town leaves at 8:00. I can make it in time. I NEED to make it.

Weasel rips the covers off of him and he tears from his room, bolting towards the door. His feet scream in protest as he shoves them into his already-laced shoes. Throwing the deadbolt to the unlocked position, Weasel yanks the doorknob, causing the door to fly open, sending it crashing into and ricocheting off of the inside wall. He leaps through the open doorway and swings the door shut behind him with such force to make the earth shake and shiver, threatening to shatter glass and splinter the tiny cabin's wood frame.

Weasel's shoes pound the pavement as he sprints the mile and a half to the bus depot. His chest heaves, each breath pierces his lungs with a thousand daggers and his legs wail in agony; the muscles in his thighs and calves tug and shred away from the bone. Weasel's body screams at him to give up, but the fierce and blazing wildfire within his heart projects him forward; carrying his feet on its raging flames.

He rounds the corner and races to the depot just as the last bus pulls out of the far end of the parking lot and picks up speed, rumbling down the road, carrying its passengers away from town; away from Weasel. 

Weasel's pace slows and his legs finally give out. He collapses on the bench outside the bus depot's front doors, the pain in his lungs subsiding as he catches his breath. Propping his elbows on his knees, Weasel hangs his head as the sweat pours over his forehead where it melts with tears stream down the bridge of his nose, dripping to the ground.

I didn't make it. I thought I could. I was so fucking close. Weasel's shoulders tremble and his legs quiver, his sobs causing him to gag and heave uncontrollably.

After what feels like an eternity, Weasel finally gasps for air and his cries begin to ease. He wipes the snot and tears from his lips and chin with his t-shirt. Propping his hands on his knees in preparation to lift himself to standing, Weasel raises his head and takes a stuttering deep breath, just to have it punched right back out of him. 

There, standing tall in green camo fatigues, bathed in the white and buzzing fluorescent bus depot lights, is Johnson. His duffle bag rests on the ground at his feet and his arms hang gently at his sides.

"Heh. What the fuck." Weasel scoffs, shaking his head and diverting his eyes to look at his feet.

Several moments later, Weasel feels Johnson sink down next to him, casually leaning back and stretching him arm along the back of the bench.

Weasel peers out of the corner of his eye towards Johnson who is looking out towards the parking lot.

"So. What now?" Weasel sits upright and turns to face Johnson who continues to gaze forwards for several moments.

Johnson deliberately moves his face to look Weasel face-on. He studies every inch of his face and a slight grin leaks from the corner or his lips.

He inhales deeply, and then exhales slowly, his breath shaky and shuddering.

"Let's go home."