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They take their shoes off in the Mini. Rob wiggles his toes in Steve’s face, goes, “Last one in is the last one in!” and leaps out of the car.
Steve watches him go for a couple of seconds. The sand looks almost crunchy beneath Rob’s eager steps. Sun-kissed and glittery. He imagines it would feel more fine against his palms than it looks.
Across the beach, Rob has stopped on the edge of the shore, the breeze slowly cuffing the back of his shirt, tugging it to the side somewhat. Sun-kissed, wonders Steve absently, observing the line of his jaw in the dim orange of the sunset.
Steve kicks his feet over the side of the car, and feels the sand part between his toes. It does feel fine, and soft, and sandy. Steve quite likes sand. All those grains of the universe, coalescing into this long stretch of silky path.
“Getting slow in your old age,” Rob calls.
Steve makes his way over, and stops just beside Rob. Evening tide sweeps at his feet. It's not as cold as he thought it'd be.
Perhaps, just perhaps, that's because Rob glances over and rests an arm over his shoulders. Like a page turning, that quiet snuffle of a sound, his thumb brushes over his collar and then over his shirt. Steve’s stomach flips, and then settles. The heat of close contact and just a little bit of wine.
“Lovely,” Steve comments. “Absolutely lovely.”
“Couldn't agree more.”
They watch the sun slip below the horizon. Rob makes an offhand remark about how the sun’s actually disappeared long before they see it (in Stephen Fry’s posh rumble, of course), and Steve replies saying that he's just ruined the moment entirely (in true Alan Davies fashion, as you do).
A blast of ocean air hits them suddenly, and not wanting to lose the view just yet, Rob shuffles closer, arm still around Steve's shoulders. The best part about this is that Steve allows him to. Allows the warmth to soak through layers of clothing, into skin.
“Have we then reached the romance portion of the trip, then?” Rob says.
“I suppose we have,” Steve answers, “pre-game, then.”
“First base still a ways away,” agrees Rob. “And the batter steps up to the plate. He's ready, yes he is, ready to get that swing in!”
“Commentary on your own life, I suppose.”
“The pitcher stills, the ball in his grasp. He assesses the situation, carefully. This is the game of their lives, after all. This could make or break everything.”
Steve despairs, just a little, at Rob’s accidental poignancy.
“You have this, Rob, the coach shouts from the sidelines. Yes, you do.”
He does. Here he is, standing on the beach with his arm around Steve Coogan’s shoulders and he already has it. He just doesn't realise it yet.
“The pitcher winds up, and he throws, and oh!” Rob cups his free hand over his eyes and looks out into the distance. “The ball flies out towards the horizon!”
“Get a move on, Rob,” coughs Steve, affecting an American accent, playing the coach, as he would be expected to in this situation.
Unexpectedly, Rob tugs his arm back, and lets it hang by his side. “Too late,” he says, “the ball’s been recovered. Batter didn't even make one foot off the ground.”
Steve glances over at him. “Who's the one stuck in a metaphor now?”
Rob laughs. “There is more than one metaphor to life, my friend.”
“Well. Life’s just a series of metaphors falling together one after the other, isn’t it?”
“Like dominoes.”
“Quite.” Steve pauses, his heart suddenly trapped up in his throat for no good reason at all. It’s tended to do that quite often, recently. Particularly during this trip. Often (and unfortunately) around Rob. “Were we heading somewhere with this little analogy?”
“Not going to lie,” Rob says, waving his hands out before him, “I’ve completely lost the plot here.”
“As you have from the very start.”
The page turns once more. Ahead, the sea douses the last drips of sunlight streaking across the night sky. A blank slate, washed cleaned, filled in with the gentle glimmer of starlight penciled in by the hand of the divine. The lights of the city left behind them barely illuminate the lines of Rob’s face when he turns to Steve, and says, oddly vulnerable, “The plot seems to misplace itself quite often when it comes to you.”
“Appalling,” Steve says, mouth dry. “Something must be done about that.”
“Perhaps.” The corner of Rob’s mouth quirks up, near-invisible in the darkness. “But would it truly be romance without a fair bit of unrequited pining?”
The wind shouts. Sand flies up and hits the hem of Steve’s shirt.
He says nothing.
Rob brushes at his own khakis primly. “Dinner awaits,” he declares, and starts striding back in the direction of the car.
Steve traces his footprints in the sand. Left, right, left, right. One step at a time, until they disappear amidst the mess of a thousand other footprints left by a thousand other souls.
He follows.