The Phantoms of Marvis Pass

Eight - To See Him Smile

        A coastal rainbow trout slips aimlessly through the murky body of the river's skin, and its pinkish sides flicker in the sunlight filtering through the chilled water.  It slivers away into the dusty darkness like a spirit returning to the root and rot of its own grave.  The river's light hands pass by a green canoe, slipping by with small crackles of flowing water.

        Daryl sits up straight at the front of the narrow boat, a blanket draped over his bony shoulders like moss clambering over a stone.  He is anxious.  His eyes are affixed ahead of him, desperate to spot the aged mill that Wes had mentioned.

        Beads of sweat cling to his short, curly hair like stars, glistening like clear pearls.  Al eyes one as it runs down over Daryl's skin and seeps into the interlocking threads of the blanket, and he pulls his attention away from the minute details of his lover to continue rowing.  The paddle dips into the river like a ladel gathering up melted chocolate, and it sways past the canoe with swift strokes.  Al passes the paddle over to the other side, trying to keep them going in a straight line through the fog drifting along the waters.  The mist wanders up his nose, delivering a fresh, humid scent to his brain.

        "There.  I see it." Daryl points to the crown of a dead water wheel peeking through the clouds of translucent whiteness.

        "Do you want to pull over now?"

        "Yes."

        Al points the canoe towards the shore, and the dirt crunches beneath them as they beach.  Daryl is the first to amble out, and he immediately begins the journey on foot towards the mill.

        "Dude, wait!" Al cries, and he fumbles out of the boat and scurries up to Daryl.  "Don't let me get lost." Al gives him a jaunty smile, almost every tooth exposed, before poking Daryl in the ribs.

        Daryl jabs Al in the side in return before pulling the blanket tighter around his body.  It feels like impermeable armor.  His nerves stir when he suddenly hears a high pitched noise, but with a quick jerk of his head, he discovers that it is just Al slapping his skin, trying to ward off an insect.

        "Shit.  You would think with this chill that those damn skeeters wouldn't still be out."

        Daryl snorts, the sound rumbling his throat quickly.  "Skeeters?"

        "Yeah, yeah.  Those bugs that suck your blood."

        "Mosquitoes."

        "Yeah, them 'squitoes."

        "You from Texas?"

        "Nah, nah.  From Mississippi.  You know that."       

        "I'm screwing with you.  You look like and talk like one of 'em.  One of those archetype Texans."

        "Ain't no problem."

        "Never said it was a bad thing.  It's just funny to me.  You're funny to me."

        Al puts his chin briefly on Daryl's head before grabbing his cheeks and planting a kiss on his lips.  Daryl giggles underneath the smooch and curves his body into Al's, and Al curls an arm around Daryl's hips, keeping them balanced as they awkwardly stagger.  Al breaks the kiss and gives Al a mischevious smile before tapping the end of his boyfriend's nose with his free hand.

        "And you're funny to me," Al says before letting Daryl's waist go, making him tumble backwards into the leaves.  Al parades away, humored by his lighthearted prank.

        "Al!" Daryl yowls as he hit the ground, and he quickly recovers and gets to his feet.  He slips a bit as his legs move rapidly, but he soon gains traction and streaks towards Al, furious but also giggling.

        Al spots the hasitly approaching Daryl, and he lets out a scream of fake terror before sprinting towards the mill awaiting their arrival.  He cackles like a barnyard drunkard as he ducks and weaves through the foliage, trying to avoid Daryl's outstretched fingers.  "You can't catch me!" Al taunts as he pauses to waggle his hips.  He jerks his body to the side as Daryl bursts through a bush, the blanket flaring around him like a comforting cape, and darts past him.

        Daryl curves back around and flops against Al's chest, and he closes his eyes to listen to the rhythmic chug of Al's great, big heart.  He lifts his head, and Al's mouth is lax with wonderment as he gazes down with giant, glistening puppy dog eyes.  His deep pupils reflect some of the scenery around them, and his dewy eyelashes perfectly frame his piercing scleras and radiant irises.

        "Hey," Daryl whispers.

        "Hi," Al mutters back.

        Daryl places a peck on his chest before spinning around and meandering to the mill a couple meters away, and Al watches him swiftly travel.  He admires his lithe body and the way it moves so flawlessly.  Al moves a bit of his hair behind his shoulder as his mind becomes transfixed on the physical attributes of Daryl.  And his exquisite hands.  Their ability to move with just grace and power is so amazing to Al, who can barely manage a pencil with his boisterous fingers. 

        Daryl writes in cursive while his handwriting is a bombardment of scratches and lines. 

        Al wishes he could be as elegant as Daryl, who is clad in a black tweed vest and collared button up.  Al appreciates his gruffness and gritty appearance, but sometimes when he gazes upon his love, a pang of envy zaps his heart.  Daryl looks like a scholar, a worn-by-the-elements scholar, but still someone with artistic expertise.  He looks so smart, and he is.  He probably was an excellent student as a child, and while Daryl was learning how to paint and write out mathematical equations with the flourish of a pen, Al was out throwing rocks with his siblings.

        But maybe Daryl isn't as smart as Al thinks he is.

        Oh, who is he kidding?  Daryl is smart as hell.  Maybe if Al started wearing slacks and a fedora he would also magically gain unlimited knowledge.  Trade in his height for some factoids and numbers.  He can chop off a few inches of his six foot six height.  He's got more than enough to spare.

        God, Al reflects.  I didn't realize this is such a big insecurity of mine until now.

        Maybe this is why Wes gave instructions to Daryl.  She knows Al is too damn stupid to understand the wackadoodle nonsense of the universe or afterlife.

        But I'm smart, too!  I'm no damn Galileo, but I'm not some redneck buffoon!  I can understand it all.  It'll take time, but I can do it.

        Maybe...maybe this is something he should talk about Daryl with?  He isn't too sure.  This is such a revealing thing to talk about someone with!  Exposing your heart and admitting you thrist for something to change about yourself?  But he's trusted Daryl so many times before with his insecurities.  He showed him his underwhelmingly pudgy belly, and Daryl still adores him.  And his countless split ends?  Still strokes and braids his locks each night before bed.  Oh, but what about that stupid crooked incisor?  Daryl always wants to see him smile.

        Daryl loves his smile.

        And he wouldn't change a damn thing about it.

        Fat tears of joy and appreciation pop up into Al's eyes, and one of them hovers apon an eyelash.  Daryl is his cure.  He can help him through all struggles, internal and external.  He has sensed the Sorrow's approach so many times, and because of it, he has saved them both from so much pain.  They were able to hide and plan.  He's calmed him when he was stressed, and his nimble fingers have sewn his blanket shard back together when he chewed too desperately.

        Daryl.

        He's a goddamn hero.