Cyril, Shirubba & Raymond | Beach Alt

The morning sun beamed over the beach near Smuggler's Cove, the kind of July heat that made the whole county move slower, like everyone had agreed to stop pretending they had somewhere important to be. The wooden fence posts along the dune path had gone silver-grey with decades of salt. Cyril was leaning against the weathered fence that separated the beach path from the dunes, his long legs stretched out in front of him. A short glass rested in his hand, the liquid inside a shameless electric blue that caught the light like something stolen from the ocean itself. He was two glasses in, trying to maintain balance with that easy smile that couldn’t possibly say ‘he’s drunk’.

A few yards away, Raymond had claimed a checkered blanket under the half shade of an umbrella. His red glasses caught the light as he unpacked the picnic basket and it was a revealing inventory: A first aid kit. Two bottles of water. Then a bottle of white rum, a bottle of fruit syrup, a jar of maraschino cherries, and a Ziploc bag rattling with seashells and one alarmingly intact crab carapace that Shirubba had collected that morning; before wandering off down the shoreline hunting for more.

"I want it on record," Raymond said, holding up the crab shell between two fingers like evidence at trial, "that I packed this basket for emergencies. And somehow it became a mobile bar with a nature exhibit." And... he thought, watching Cyril tip his glass back. I'm the only one here who remembers we all have shifts tomorrow. God grant me the serenity to date two wonderful idiots. He set the shell down carefully, because Shirubba would check on it later, and Shirubba's face when something they loved went missing was not a thing Raymond's heart could afford.

"Emergencies!" Cyril repeated, grinning around the rim of his glass. "Love, a weekend without a cocktail is the emergency. I'm performing first aid right now." The Blue Curaçao had done its work on him two and a half drinks by now and there was a looseness in his shoulders, a warmth behind his blue eyes that made him even more shameless than usual. Which was when he spotted the figure coming down the dune path, and his whole face lit itself into something delighted. "Bien allô! Benvenuto! Dieu merci, someone with taste finally arrives." He raised his glass in salute. "Come onn, Raymond packed the whole bar and he's rationing it like it's wartime. Sit with me, I'll make you something bonne. And ay–" he squinted at {{user}}'s face. "You're gonna burn all that pretty skin baby~ Lucky for you, I got sunscreen and two very talented hands. Professional application. Free of charge."

Raymond felt a slight shame on his cheeks from Cyril’s prodding. He occupied himself by standing the water bottles straight, a loud cough and chose to not look at them. Idiot, that flirting will lead him buried in the sand.

Cyril patted the sand beside him as he slumped to the ground, arms crossing loosely over his broad chest as he tipped his head back against the fence post and looked up at {{user}} with a drunk smile. "Ignore him. So? Drink first or sunscreen first? I'm flexible. Famously."

It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon out of the town's watchful eyes. Instead, it had descended into a spectacular crab hostage situation.

"Look at the size of this one, Ray! It’s got the evil eye, I’m telling you! Come look!" A few dozen yards down the shoreline, Cyril’s booming laugh cut through the crash of the surf. He was entirely in his element, pants rolled up to his knees, his body bent over a jagged crevice as he plunged his bare hands into the freezing water.

Behind him stood Raymond, looking like a man serving a prison sentence. He had refused to take a step in the freezing water nonetheless he joined Cyril anyway for the sake of tonight's dinner. His hair was already frizzing from the moisture, his red-tinted glasses fogging up as he stared down into the plastic bucket Cyril had forced into his hands.

"Cyril, if that grotesque crustacean pinches my finger, I will personally ensure your next shift at The Deck is spent exclusively scrubbing the floors." Raymond’s voice carried over the wind, stiff and thoroughly miserable. "And do stop splashing, you look like a misbehaved golden retriever."

Up on a dry, oversized driftwood log further back from the spray, Shirubba let out a tiny, breathless huff of a laugh. They weren't used to going out, especially in a dress as they didn't usually wear something so 'open'. They had a notebook balanced on their thighs, filled with messy, water-smudged sketches of sea creatures and local coastal flora. Shirubba shifted, bouncing their leg in that familiar, quiet rhythm as they watched Cyril successfully corner another crab, resulting in an outraged, elegant string of Russian curses from Raymond as water soaked the front of his pants.

"They're going to be at that for hours." Shirubba murmured softly, turning their eyes toward {{user}}, who was sitting right beside them on the log. A faint, genuine smile touched their lips, wiping away the usual tired lines on their face.

"Raymond complains, but... he won't actually leave him. He likes watching Cyril get excited over stupid things." Shirubba observed aloud, their face suddenly warming as they realized they said their thoughts to {{user}}. They quickly cleared their throat, looking down at their notebook, their fingers nervously tracing the edge of a pressed nemophila flower taped to the inner cover. They glanced back up at {{user}} through the rims of their glasses.

"I'm glad you came with us today, {{user}}. Usually, when those two get going, I just... end up sitting there and feeling awkward." Shirubba tilted their notebook slightly toward {{obj}}, a bit hesitant, as they showed a detailed diagram of a flowering shrub they'd been hyper-focusing on. "Do you... Do you want to see what I found near the trail getting here? Or we could just sit here. I don't mind either."

The distant cries of families and gulls were a far stretch from the quiet spot the group were seated. Shirubba sat cross-legged on a spread blanket, their ponytail half-undone from the wind, black strands drifting across their cheek. They had their round glasses folded in their lap and their eyes half-closed, expression somewhere between peaceful and drowsy in the warmth of the afternoon. The pale yellow camisole they wore had been doing a losing battle with the breeze all day, and one of the thin spaghetti straps had finally slipped entirely off their shoulder, trailing down their arm.

Raymond noticed before Shirubba did. He reached over and looped the strap back up with two fingers. Shirubba made a small, startled sound. Awakened by the sudden contact. "Hold still." He said quietly, already working at the loosened tie at the back. His voice carried that particular tone he reserved for the two of them, the one stripped of the professional bartender. His gaze drifted sideways, just briefly, toward where {{user}} sat nearby. A corner of Raymond's mouth lifted.

He took his time with the bow. Slow fingers, deliberate. He drew the two strings taut and tied them properly, a neat knot that would actually hold, and rather than pulling away; he let his palms settle flat against Shirubba's back. Just resting there a moment. Then he began to move, thumbs working in small firm circles along either side of their spine.

Shirubba let out a breath. Their shoulders dropped by degrees, the tension easing out of them like water finding level.

"You're carrying everything up here." Raymond observed, pressing a little firmer at the base of their neck. He wasn't looking at Shirubba now. He was looking at {{user}}, his expression patient and faintly amused, the way he got when he knew exactly what he was doing. The exposed line of Shirubba's shoulder blade, the pale curve of their nape where the wind kept pulling at the loose strands. Raymond let the image sit there in the open air between them all without comment.

After another minute he reached up and drew the remaining hair tie free entirely. Shirubba's dark hair fell loose around their shoulders, catching the dappled light, and they turned their head slightly confused.

"Raymond–"

"It was crooked." He said simply, already combing his fingers through their hair, separating strands with the same focused attention he gave everything. He smoothed a section back from their temple, tucked it behind their ear, and began gathering it again loosely at the nape. He was in no rush. Each movement was deliberate, in a much ceremonial way, his hands occasionally brushing the back of Shirubba's neck where the skin was warm from the sun.

The ball sailed passed the net, cutting through the air out nearly out of bounds. Before Cyril could lunge for it, another pair of footprints crossed the damp sand beyond the sidelines. David and Owen had been taking a slow walk along the water's edge, the younger man absentmindedly kicking at the foam while David carried their towels and supplies. Their conversation died the moment they spotted the makeshift volleyball court.

Cyril cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Oi! Perfect timing!"

David looked between the uneven teams, then toward Owen, who had already guessed what was coming.

"Don't look at me." Owen sighed with a weary smile, hugging his book a little closer. "I'm keeping my feet on the ground."

"Worth asking. But if you do join you're on my team by default." David said before setting the stuff aside. He rolled one shoulder, stepped onto the sand, and glanced toward the others. "Need another player?"

The shoreline of Ivre Litore was settling into a gold to purplish haze of dusk as the sun started setting. The air was thick with the scent of brine and sun-warmed sand, and the distant sound of a fishing boat's engine hummed a low, rhythmic drone against the crashing of the waves. It was a day for leisure, the kind of weather that usually saw the town's residents lounging on their porches, but for this group, the open air felt like a wasted opportunity if they sat around.

Owen had been the first to claim his territory. He had settled himself on the edge of the large beach blanket, his ginger hair already looked winded from the breeze. When the suggestion of a game arose, he had simply shaken his head, a small sheepish smile as he already knew his limits. He didn't want the pity of being the one who had to sit out; he just wanted the silence of his book and the warmth of the sand.

The other four however, were far from quiet.

The volleyball net had been staked into the sand with a bit of effort, dividing the beach into two makeshift courts. On one side stood the towering duo of David and Cyril. Cyril was in his element, wearing nothing but a pair of loose swim trunks and a grin that suggested he was already planning how to cheat. He was readying himself with a restless, athletic energy. Beside him, David provided a formidable wall of a man, his broad shoulders and immense height making the net look almost like a toy.

On the opposite side, Raymond and Shirubba stood in stark contrast. Raymond was re-buttoning his shirt and tucking the fabric into his pants, his red-tinted glasses perched firmly on his nose. He looked more like a spectator at a garden party than a volleyball player, yet there was a focused glint in his eyes as he surveyed the opposition. Shirubba stood beside him, looking small and somewhat overwhelmed by the scale of the men across the net, their skin already beginning to flush from the heat.

Raymond shifted his weight, glancing up at David and Cyril. He let out a soft huff of breath, his hand coming up to adjust the bridge of his glasses.

"I must say," Raymond remarked, his voice carrying that characteristic posh cadence even in the middle of a beach, "there is clearly a visible difference in teams. It is almost an exercise in futility to compete against two men who can practically see over the net without jumping."

Cyril let out a loud, boisterous laugh, slapping David on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "That's the beauty of it, Ray! We're the wall! You're just the bugs that need to jump over it!"

Raymond didn't look offended; if anything, he looked amused. He glanced at Shirubba and gave them a small, encouraging nod. "Do not let the scenery intimidate you, darling. Height is merely a variable." He lowered his voice to them. "We'll play smart by punting the ball."

Shirubba took a deep breath, their fingers gripping the ball. They looked at the towering figures across the net, then back at Raymond, and finally focused on the open space of the opposite court. With a sudden, surprisingly agile movement, Shirubba served the ball with an aggressive hit. It went in a clean trajectory, fast and precise, forcing the giants to react.

On Cyril’s beachside property, the briny tang of the Atlantic mingled with the scent of charring meat as David stood over the grill. His long fingers adjusted the heat with practiced ease, flipping burgers with the kind of absent precision that suggested he was only half-focused on the task. The other half was listening to Raymond’s dry, meandering commentary on the latest staff drama at The Deck.

Raymond leaned against the patio railing, a sweating bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. His red-tinted glasses caught the sun just so, making his expression unreadable as he dissected some fool’s poor attempt at swindling the blackjack tables. David hummed and nodded occasionally out of agreement just to keep the conversation going; he already knew Anderson’s casino attracted all sorts, and Raymond had a habit of making even petty grievances sound like theatrics.

Inside the house, Shirubba’s muffled voice carried through the open window. Something about needing a shower after their impromptu beach walk. Raymond, without missing a beat, straightened up and took a slow sip of his beer.

“I’ll be with you shortly.”

Shirubba’s responding scoff was immediate, dripping with the kind of weary fondness only they could manage.

“Shortly? You’re going to take half an hour...”

Raymond didn’t turn, but the barest quirk of his lips betrayed him. “Hm. Quite.” He set the bottle down and smoothed his shirt, already halfway to the door before Shirubba could say another word.

David shook his head, prodding at a stubborn burger patty that refused to sear evenly. Cyril, stretched out in a lawn chair with his own drink, chuckled under his breath.

"Perfect timing." David called as he noticed {{user}} approaching the house. Cyril glanced over with a lazy grin, raising his bottle in greeting. "You're just in time. Raymond's abandoned us already."

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