Nights Without Night (Fox Lake Book 2)

by Marina Vivancos

“We were, like, so convinced that the owner had tried to run me over. I probably just stepped out onto the road like an idiot,” I say. The owner of a local Indian restaurant had, in our overdramatic minds, tried to kill me, and we’d spent the summer sticking ‘closed’ signs on his restaurant’s doors.

  “Didn’t you draw a middle finger on some of the posters?” Isadoro says incredulously as if it’s not our own past.

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Not to mention the time we made those water balloons filled with pee. We literally peed into a bucket for that one. We put more effort into that than most of our science projects,” Isadoro says, laughing loudly.

  “Jesus, I think I’d repressed that one. We were so awful, we really were. Oh, but remember when you found a wounded bird? We were so sad when it died…”

  “Oh, yeah. It had a good funeral though. I like that we buried it with one of your little clay animals, so it wasn’t alone.”

  “Yeah. Okay, we weren’t that bad.”

  “Yeah, only to people,” Isadoro chuckles.

  “Eh, people kinda suck anyway.”

  When we deem the castle as good as it's going to get, we wash up, dry off, and walk to a nearby food truck for lunch. We don’t order much, the heat robbing us of our appetite, but the squid we buy is so fresh and good that we go for seconds. We compliment the two women manning the truck and they smile their thanks.

  “We catch some of the squids ourselves, actually. They come out at night, near land where they’re attracted to light. You don’t even need to put anything on the lure, a squid jig is enough,” one of them explains. Isadoro and I look at each other, communicating without words.

  Inspired by the conversation about our past mischief, we decide on the spot to go out and fish squid that night. We finish our food as we plan.

  We spend the rest of the day lounging and playing on the beach. When we’ve had enough of the sun, we pack up and head back to the boat. After cold showers and clean clothes, we go buy the necessary supplies. We already have the line, rods, and coolers, so all we need are the squid jigs and some ice to keep the squid fresh. After we store everything away we go back into town for dinner. We meander around to pass the time, fizzing with anticipation.

  When it’s late enough, we head out. We’ve already decided on the perfect spot. We steer the boat towards the lighthouse and then anchor far enough away from the other boats to not disturb them.

  “We probably need a permit for this,” Isadoro says.

  “We’re only gonna catch a couple, come on.”

  We sit on the swaying boat for hours, under the expanse of stars. The town is small enough not to cause too much light pollution, and they are bright pinholes of light in the black. The moon is almost full, dripping silver into the waves.

  It’s a perfect night to catch squid.

  The squid don’t agree.

  “I thought this would be easier,” I say, having gone from excited to calm to impatient.

  “Stop playing with the line, then. They said to keep it still.”

  “I read on Google that you have to move it up and down!”

  “Are you seriously going to trust Google more than the locals who literally caught the squid we ate today?”

  “All hail Google, for Google knows all,” I chant in a low, monotone voice. Isadoro laughs, shaking his head.

  “Kids these days.”

  “Okay, Grandpa-Daddy, tone it down there. I don’t want you to slip and break your glass hip.”

  “You’re-”

  “Oh shit!” I cut him off as I feel a pull of my line.

  “Did one bite?”

  “I think so!”

  “Reel it in!”

  Isadoro comes over to stand next to me as I reel the line in. It takes longer than I expect but suddenly, a squid slips out of the water.

  “Oh shit!” I shout. I’d half expected it to be a boot or something.

  “Wait, don’t-” Isadoro starts, but it’s too late. I’ve already grabbed the squid, forgetting to leave it hanging on the line for a few seconds. The moment my hand clasps around it, it flops towards me and inks me in the chest.

  I scream, stumbling backward and falling against one of the benches.

  “It’s going to kill me!” I shout. I can see the creature’s evil, gelatinous eyes looking at me.

  “Hold still!” Isadoro says, grabbing the thing from me. I let go of it gladly, stunned by the sudden attack. Isadoro holds it away from himself, unhooking it and dropping it quickly into the bucket.

  “Are you okay?” Isadoro says, but his concern is undercut by the way he doubles over with laughter.

  “I’ve just been shot by a squid and you’re over there laughing your ass off!” I complain. “There’s ink everywhere!”

  “Oh my God,” he says between laughs. “The way you screamed…I’ve seen soldiers take bullets with less fuss.”

  “That thing had the devil in its eyes! You didn’t see it! That thing is evil!” I defend. Isadoro collapses on the opposite bench, arm over his stomach as he continues laughing. I lift my shirt towards my nose and then rear away. “It smells!” I howl mournfully. This just makes Isadoro laugh harder.

  Seeing I’m not getting anything from Sergeant Empathy dying of laughter in the corner, I strip my t-shirt off carefully and then wipe myself with a towel. The ink has stained my skin, however, as well as some of the white plastic on the boat.

  “Look at this! He’s left the mark of Sauron on me!” I complain. Isadoro hides his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. “You are the worst,” I tell him as I laugh too, putting a clean shirt on.

  When he’s finally calmed down, he moves carefully toward the squid, peering into the bucket.

  “It’s still moving,” he says.

  “He’s probably got nine lives, like an evil cat.”

  “Cats aren’t evil.”

  “I didn’t say cats were evil, I said he was like a cat that happened to be evil. Please check yourself before you wreck yourself.”

  Isadoro starts giggling—no other word can describe the noise—before he sobers again as he looks at the squid. Slowly, he turns to look at me, eyes wide. I know that look.

  “No. We are not throwing that thing back in the ocean!” I say. Isadoro just looks at me. “Are you fucking serious? We sit here for hours only to catch the asshole of the ocean and you want to put it back?” I say. Isadoro looks into the bucket and then back at me. “Isa, for real. It’s already wounded. We’ll take this one to the food truck and won’t catch anymore, okay?” I say. Isadoro sighs.

  “Okay.”

  “You big softy,” I say, rolling my eyes but smiling. He looks at me and then starts laughing again. “Oh, my God!” I say, but this time I’m laughing with him.

  We crumple onto a bench, stomachs aching and breath short. I lean against him for a moment and everything feels so wide and open around us.

  We kill the squid, wrap it, and pack it in the cooler with ice. When we get back to the docks we clean the boat and then take another shower. The sky is shivering with the suggestion of dawn by the time we’re in bed.

  “You still smell like squid ink,” Isadoro whispers in my hair.

  “No, I don’t!”

  “Hmm…yeah, right here I think,” he says, pressing his lips to my clavicle. “And here,” he says, moving his lips down, biting at a nipple. I laugh, squirming.

  He peppers my chest with kisses and bites, playful like he’s chasing a scent. I smile and mock-struggle underneath him until his mouth lowers, tongue joining his lips and teeth. I still, slightly out of breath. He hums against my skin and I shudder, wrapping my legs loosely around him so he can continue moving down. My cock is hardening from the sudden intent in his movement, but he bypasses it, licking at one of my balls before sucking it into his mouth.

  I let out a gasp, my hands holding his shoulders as I close my eyes and focus on the sensation. He rubs the pads of his fingers against my hole, just enough to make me shudder
at the suggestion of something more. He presses my taint with his thumb, massaging me there, and I rock in his hands, in his mouth. All these sensations are an insinuation of a deeper pleasure, but it doesn’t stop my dick from fully hardening against my stomach.

  “Isa,” I plead. He hums back, a buzz of sensation, before moving his mouth to my dick. He licks a line there, up, down, up again, teasing me in increments before sucking the head into his mouth.

  “Yeah, fuck, yes,” I say, already pent up.

  He works me over slow and deep. It’s a relentless, steady pace. His hands stroke my thighs as my knees lift to bracket his head, then move up to my hips, holding them down. He looks so good there between my legs. He lifts his eyes to meet mine and I shudder all over at the look. It goes straight through my skin and hooks in deep, where he’s already always been.

  He moves one of his hands down and pushes the flat of two knuckles against my taint, pressing there again as he rolls his fingers. At the dig of each knuckle, I writhe. The pit of my stomach, the hollow in the bones of my hips, it all melts into a delicious stream of light.

  The orgasm hits me from the inside out. His mouth is ruthless around my dick, sucking me down, and I arch into him, against him. A low groan rips from me to join the waves.

  I’m panting when the last pulse of pleasure has gone through me. I slump against the bed and Isadoro collapses with me for a few seconds, pressing his face against my stomach. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, running a hand against the bristle of his hair.

  He moves up my body to kiss me. I part my lips for him and reach down to grasp his cock in a fist. I love feeling the air of his gasp in my mouth. Love having him so close, here, with me.

  I feel all of Isadoro’s pleasure. Feel his shivers, his moans, the way his kiss turns sloppy the closer he gets to orgasm. Feel his eyelashes, the grip of his hands, the want and pull of his muscles. His hot, animal body strains over me, thinking only of me. Feeling only me, and itself, and us together.

  He comes in hot stripes against my stomach, my name pressed against my own lips. I lift my hips, pressing us together, and he slides against me, wet and still coming until he’s spent.

  We’re breathless and sticky and pressed together. I move my lips to his ear.

  “Guess squid ink really does it for you, huh?” I murmur. He laughs against me and that’s good, too.

  ******

  On our last day before we start heading back home, we go to the food truck, bearing gifts. The two women cheer when we show them the squid we caught, laughing as I tell them an only slightly exaggerated version of my successful hunt. They accept the squid from us and insist on giving us a free lunch in return.

  We spend the day walking. We avoid the tourist-laden areas and enjoy the sea air that brushes the whole town clean. We get ice cream that melts almost as soon as we buy it, go into a museum about marine life, find a little park where kids are running around. We grab dinner and I order squid again as vengeance. Isadoro laughs at me.

  At night, we go to the town square, where a local band is playing in the open. We sit and watch on some stone steps until, to my surprise, Isadoro drags me to dance. I don’t even fake a protest. The noise is all around us, the music and the people, but it’s just us in the moment. We press and sway close together. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes.

  **********

  The return home is filled with long days at sea. There’s a sense of calm to cutting through water and air despite the noise and the wind. It’s all the openness around us, perhaps, or the lack of people. The space to think or just be for a while, like our lives are frozen somewhere else. But we both feel life thawing as we get closer to it. There’s a building sense of anticipation as we unravel knots in the distance travelled, but it’s not yet enough to shatter the peace offered by the sea.

  Isadoro is mostly quiet, but I don’t feel lost to him. His silence feels pensive instead of isolating, and I leave him to it. I have my own sea creatures crowding my head, and as hard as I try to throw them into the ocean, they always come back. I’m followed by the image of his room, the heavy darkness of it, its stagnant air and smell. How being in that room feels, like gravity is pulling you down from the feet of your soul until you want to get on your knees and plead. How small Isadoro looks in that room, like his edges are dissolving and he’s about to disappear.

  Desperately, desperately, I do not want to go back to that room. But it’s not my choice if we do, and I know if Isadoro goes back in again, I will follow, but not all of me. And not forever.

  These thoughts are mostly swept away by the salt air, but they drip with squid ink, staining my skin.

  By some unspoken agreement, we both know the sexual aspect of our relationship will end when we get back. The dreamlike quality of this trip has only encouraged an acceptance of truth, and we can both see this is a strange, dangerous game we’re playing.

  It only makes the time we have left more intense.

  At night, we become almost frantic. We dig into each other’s skin with fingers and teeth. Our hold leaves marks behind, squid ink over squid ink. Even when we drift to sleep, we cling to each other like buoys in the dark.

  We spend the last night in the docks where it all started. Each harbour has a song, and this one is familiar, like it’s tucked away in memories of childhood. We buy some beer and stuff the cooler with it, sitting in the cockpit on opposite benches. We’ve got chips and salsa propped on upside-down buckets in the middle. I scoop some salsa up generously, stuffing the chip into my mouth.

  “What food did you miss most when you were over there?” I ask.

  “Oh man,” Isadoro says. “We were constantly talking about food. It’s like we wanted to torture ourselves. Cheeseburgers were a big thing. They’re so easy to imagine, you know, all dripping with grease…”

  “Gross.”

  “So good. And it was about what it meant I guess, the all-American cheeseburger. If we had that in our hands, we were definitely home.”

  “Yeah, we can do grease like no other alright.”

  “And, I mean, comfort food was a big thing, but that was different for all of us. I mean, sometimes I would just miss the oranges from the farm. Man, when you pick one of those big sour ones in winter…”

  “Literally nothing is better.”

  “Nothing. Or, oh fuck, you’re mom’s carbonara. Carbonara is one of those dishes everybody makes different enough that you really notice. Remember that time she wanted to experiment and put capers in it?”

  “Literally thought you would cry.”

  “I did a little,” he says, and I laugh, shaking my head. “You know what I really missed? Just getting on my bike and going for a ride. Like, we used to do that all the time as kids, we didn’t even think about it. To town, to the beach, ‘round La Portera…it was the thoughtlessness of it I missed. That really simple freedom.”

  “Maybe you should get a bike when you get home. That way when you start feeling a little…antsy, you can hop on and clear your mind.”

  “Yeah, that’s not a bad idea actually. Maybe I can get a real bike. Like, a motorbike.”

  “Yeah, come back home and crack your head open, why don’t you.”

  “I’ll be careful! Anyways, I’d like to see the comparative stats between motorcycle and bicycle accidents in big cities.”

  “Google it.”

  “Eh,” Isadoro says dismissively. I roll my eyes, smiling.

  “This is the problem with you not having a phone in your hands at all times. You’ve lost crucial millennial skills.”

  “No, that’s the problem with people these days. It was better when-”

  “URGH! Stop! Urgh, I can’t believe you’re a hipster this is so embarrassing.”

  “I am not a-”

  “La, la, la, la, la-”

  “I am-”

  “La, la, la, la-”

  “I AM A VETERAN-”

  “LA, LA, LA, LA-”

  “OF THE GREEN BERE
TS!”

  “I CAN’T HEAR YOU MY PHONE HAS BURST MY EARDRUM I HAVE PHONE CANCER I—WHERE ARE YOU? I CAN’T SEE YOU I’M BLIND!”

  “You are the most ridiculous person. You are a verruca.”

  “A verruca!” I gasp, honestly offended. Isadoro laughs loudly. “I’m—how dare you, sir? You puss-filled cyst! Your name is now Mister Puss-Filled Cyst, congratulations.”

  “Is ‘Mister’ part of my name?”

  “Yes, Mister is your first name and Puss-Filled Cyst is your last name.”

  “What’s my middle name?”

  “Jambalaya,” I say without pausing and we both dissolve into laughter.

  “How many beers have we had?”

  “Not nearly enough to explain this.”

  We drift on the surface of easy conversation. When we’ve had enough beers and the salsa is long gone, we pack everything away and go wash up. Isadoro catches me as we leave the locker room and kisses me like he can’t wait until we reach the boat.

  When we get to it, he helps me hop onto the deck, keeping his hands on me. They’re warm presses against the skin of my stomach and back, the brush of fingers against the nape of my neck. When we make it inside, he wraps his arms around me and kisses me in a way that makes me lose myself completely.

  The moon is big and heavy in the sky. We strip in its light like we’re preparing for a ritual to the sea gods. We climb onto the bed in a mess of arms and legs and laugh as we knock into each other.

  There’s a moment, tucked between laughing and gasping, when I want to say something. A set of light, glowing words. I want to press them into his mouth, his eyes, every inch of his skin. I want to illuminate him with them. But then he kisses me again, and the moment passes in silence.

  He kisses my jawline, my neck, down the centre of my chest. It’s one of his favourite things to do. Like he’s marked a path he enjoys walking. He always pauses on my nipples to feel me squirm, before lowering again.

  Today, he stops at my stomach. I watch him drip his fingers in lube and then he settles against me again. He strokes my hole with his wet index finger before sliding it in. I shift my hips and immediately ask for more. We’ve been doing this every night, so the prep is barely necessary. I know he enjoys it however, so I let him indulge.