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  Guy starts to snap back that yes, it matters, before he remembers Cameron's foreboding words of the night they agreed on this: I think it's a bad idea.

  Screw it. Guy's not going to let his plans get derailed before he's even tried. He lifts his chin, calling forth all his stubbornness, and meets Cameron's eyes. "Twenty bucks says I can make this happen."

  "You're kidding."

  "Serious as the grave." Guy tears a sheet from his spiral-bound notebook and scribbles down a marker. He offers it to Cameron in a direct, deliberate challenge. "If you think I can't, then put your money where your mouth is."

  Cameron's grin stretches broad and white. "Like taking candy from a baby," he says as he takes the marker, folds it and tucks it in the pocket with his radio. "Do your worst."

  Guy watches Cameron stand, sipping his coffee thoughtfully while Cameron toes through the pile of shoes next to the kitchen door for the sand-caked flip flops. "Hey," Guy says on the soothing wash of the last drops from his mug. "Cameron?"

  "Mmhmm?"

  "You're right. As long as it's us, it's still good."

  Cameron looks up, his grin shading toward shyness and hope. "Really?"

  "Really." Guy salutes Cameron with his now-empty mug. "But I'm still going to win the bet."

  Cameron's laughter is a sweet, sweet sound as he exits the apartment on his way to work.

  But he who laughs last… Guy flips the phone directory back open and searches under "C" for "Caterers". This'll be a piece of -- you know it -- cake.

  ***

  Five p.m. is generally regarded in the greater United States as quittin' time. Guy rolls his forehead on his demolished phone book and moans softly, inhaling the ink-and-paper stench of defeat.

  Negotiations with the caterer he'd chosen had started well. Words like spinach etouffe and mini-quiche and ramekins were thrown about -- in company with large dollar signs. Larger than Guy had been prepared for when not working with a corporate discount, but hey, a little checkbook juggling and he'd thought the prices were doable.

  Then, when everything was over but the eating, the caterer had said casually, "You did say the wedding was in two years, correct?"

  "No," Guy had replied. "Two weeks."

  Formerly successful negotiations broke down immediately after, accompanied first by shock, then by laughter, then an overly personal and embarrassing question about due dates. Guy suspects she didn't believe his denials. The caterer finally took pity on Guy, offering up motherly apologies and suggestions that he hit the Fresh Market for some snack platters and the liquor board store to stock up a serve-yourself bar.

  Screw that, Guy had thought, angrily dialing the next caterer. Who'd shot him down. As did the next.

  And so it had gone all day long, Guy's hopes shot down by every wedding service listed in the local phone directory.

  DJs could not be hired on such short notice, not even with his limited pull as an employee of a major broadcasting station.

  Florists hyperventilated and confused him with suggestions about blending carnations with baby's breath as an emergency solution. Guy figured that if they'd look like the kind of bouquets a guy would take to his sick great-aunt in the hospital, then he'd search elsewhere. Problem was, no one else had anything better.

  Not a single bartender had the weekend free. On a beach frequented by heavy drinkers on vacation, that was saying something. Or maybe that was why they weren't free; Guy wasn't sure and by then he'd lacked the patience to ask.

  The only tuxedo rental shop in town was out of stock in his and Cameron's sizes. Guy briefly entertained the notion of standing by the doors and trying to bribe the pimply young guys heading in to pick up their prom gear before deciding he really didn't want to get arrested on suspicion of solicitation.

  As for plane tickets to Hawaii that weren't astronomical enough in cost to sucker-punch Guy in the chest? Forget about it.

  I suck. Guy miserably thumps his forehead against the ruins of his phone directory. Not only am I out twenty bucks I could have put toward an MP3 player for Cameron, but… jeez, if Cameron was right about the impossibility of planning, what if he's right about the wedding being a bad idea?

  Guy isn't the superstitious type, but he can't help a small shudder at the thought. "No," he mutters into the directory's spine. "Like hell. I will take this hill, and I will not surrender."

  "Sure thing, General Patton." Cameron hops onto the table, sending ink pens flying. He'd come home hours earlier, of course, but after one death glare had wisely chosen to spend the rest of his day on their tiny balcony, soaking up still more sun, then going back to the beach to pick up a slack shift. Now, he nearly glows with reflected radiance, his skin browner than ever and hot to the touch. He's exhausted, baked as a potato, and edible from nose to toes.

  "You win," Guy says out loud, nudging his head against Cameron's far more comfortable thigh. "As soon as I pay the extra minutes I ran up on the cell today, you'll get your twenty bucks."

  Cameron pets Guy's head, sifting the short strands through his fingers. "Thought you said you weren't going to surrender the hill."

  "The battle's lost. Not the war." Guy lifts his head to catch Cameron's eyes. "I still want to do this. I do. Non-traditional's still on the table."

  "Hmm," Cameron says, tweaking a small pinch of hairs. "I like non-traditional."

  Guy purses his lips briefly in thought. "Actually, why would we want tradition?"

  Cameron nods, his enthusiasm rising. Along with, not coincidentally due to Guy's proximity to his groin, his cock. You are so easy for me, baby, Guy thinks, admiring the rising tent in Cameron's shorts. God, I love you. He can almost taste the salty weight of Cameron's cock on his tongue.

  "Hey." Cameron jostles Guy's shoulder, tolerantly amused. "Eyes on the prize."

  "They are," Guy replies, nosing closer. "Sex, the great mind-clearer, right?"

  "True. We're not done with this," Cameron says, gesturing at the table full of paper rubbish and despair. "It's a lot of headache, Guy."

  "This much I already know." Guy's heart rate kicks up. Don't say you want to drop it. Please don't say that.

  Cameron drums his fingers along Guy's arm, his expression set in lines of deep thought.

  Guy looks abruptly away and waits, heart now in his throat and the taste of panic sharp on his tongue. He suddenly understands one of the reasons why Cameron said this wasn't a good idea. They can't go back from where they are now. Even if they agree to forget everything, "failed wedding" will linger dark and ugly at the back of their minds and who knows what'll happen then.

  Okay, so maybe he's jumping the gun, but -- he can't live without Cameron, and if he's screwed up what they've got…

  "Guy? Breathe." Cameron flicks Guy on the cheek. "Look at me. Look. Okay?"

  Guy would really rather not, in case he sees confirmation of his fears there, but Cameron's asked and he responds by obeying.

  The narrow, considering lines of Cameron's expression have softened into patient fondness. "I'm still with you," he says simply, squeezing Guy's shoulder. "Calm down."

  Guy could just weep with relief. He settles for leaning into Cameron's comforting touch and soaking up his presence. "If it was longer than two weeks, I could get everything perfect. I know I could."

  "Don't doubt it," Cameron agrees. "Why two weeks, by the way?"

  "I had to trade, beg, and promise my unlikely-to-be-conceived firstborn away for vacation time during the summer, and the only reason I snagged that was because one of the lawyers thought I was cute enough to indulge."

  "You are. You're downright adorable. Figured it'd be something along those lines, and if two weeks is absolutely-positively what we've got, then we'll work with it."

  Guy sits upright and back in his chair, studying Cameron. "Sure. But --"

  "Guy, I would be just as happy with the two of us saying 'I do' right here and now," Cameron says frankly. "I know you, though. You want everyone to see. I'm not criticizing, babe, I get wher
e you're coming from."

  "And?"

  Cameron's smile widens, warm as his skin with its day's worth of absorbed sunlight. "So I didn't just sit on the lifeguard tower on the afternoon shift."

  Guy blinks. "Huh?"

  "Check it out." Cameron hops off the table and stands upright, digging through the pocket that doesn't hold the bulge of his portable radio player, its ear bud cords wound neatly around the unit. The radio in question is pleasantly dwarfed in size by the promising girth of Cameron's half-sprouted wood.

  "Once again, you have my full attention," Guy says faux-absently, licking his lips.

  Cameron cuffs him gently on the top of his head. "Pay attention, smartass. Here." He comes out with a handful of wrinkled scraps of paper and proudly scatters them in front of Guy, high on the dramatic flourish quotient. "Go on, look at them."

  Puzzled, Guy chooses one at random and studies the dim ink on yellow carbon. "A receipt?"

  "Look closer."

  "A receipt for..." Guy inhales deeply, surprised. "For Mike's Beachfront Bar?" He snatches another one. It's a handwritten receipt from someone named "Suzy Q", listing "reunion-sized picnic" as the bill of sale.

  Amazement growing, Guy sorts rapidly through the rest, every last one of them listing all they'll need for an unorthodox wedding. Beyond the bar and the food, there's a receipt from "Martha's Re-Fits", a secondhand clothing store, a written promise from Kyle saying Cameron can borrow his stereo system (with "if you get sand in it, you're dead meat" underlined three times, with five exclamation points), an open commission voucher from some place called "Nico's Handcrafted Jewelry" and a small business card from a Reverend Salicia (who also does tarot readings and spiritual consultations).

  Guy gapes at Cameron, who grins back as gleefully as a kid in a candy store. "You did all of this today?"

  Cameron shrugs with mock modesty. "I called in a few favors and used my natural charm -- mmf!"

  Guy lingers on Cameron's lips, tilting until he's got the right fit and Cameron's changed his stance to let Guy get up close, cozy and extra-personal. Guy's pitched a tent of his own, the support pole (so to speak) prodding Cameron's hip. "All of me says thank you," Guy informs Cameron when they separate.

  "I can tell," Cameron replies, mussed and dazed, but giddy. "You like?"

  Guy kisses Cameron again and slides his hand down the front of Cameron's shorts, no waiting. "I love," he answers, circling Cameron's cock and pulling from base to head, loving the way Cameron gasps and flings one strong arm around Guy to keep him from escaping and for support. "I'd like to express my appreciation."

  "Go -- go right ahead. God," Cameron hisses, rocking forward.

  Guy squeezes and strokes, pushing his baby hard and fast. He mouths kisses under Cameron's jaw and then down across his collarbone before coming back up to sip at his mouth. He rolls Cameron's balls and gives them a tug, just enough for the tiny sting of pain Cameron gets off on big-time.

  As for himself, Guy rocks into Cameron's leg, not at all ashamed at getting hot and bothered over humping like an overly hormonal teenager. All he cares about it having Cameron's cock in his hand, twitching with the rising demand of Cameron's need to come.

  "Give it to me," Guy urges, speeding his strokes. "Want you dripping down my fingers." He drags his thumbnail over Cameron's frenulum, and that's it. Cameron bucks, gasps, and streams thick, sticky come over Guy's hand, coating it and soaking his shorts. Guy sinks his teeth into his lower lip and rocks urgently against Cameron's leg, rushing to get there before Cameron's done.

  "I -- will marry you -- so hard," Cameron pants.

  Guy releases a strangled yelp and shoots, shocks of dual relief flooding him. It's his turn to grab Cameron and hang on for support. Cameron comes through like a champ, holding Guy upright and using him for balance at the same time, his cock jerking through one last spasm.

  They stand in place for a long moment, breathing heavily and raggedly.

  Guy head butts Cameron's chest. "Marry me so hard?" he teases. "You know, that made no sense at all."

  "I meant what I meant. As to what I said, I don't even care." Cameron fits his chin over the top of Guy's head. "Do you?"

  "Nope," Guy replies, content. "Not in the least."

  Chapter Four

  Guy loves their apartment, truly he does. Converted as it is from an old hotel suite, he knows most folks would raise an eyebrow or even wrinkle their nose. Guy will admit that at first thought, the idea is a little strange. Hotels aren't homes… except when they are, when they contain a Cameron who via sheer force of personality takes over everywhere he goes and infuses it with such presence and vitality of life that Guy figures Cameron could make a cardboard box inviting.

  Luckily, their suite doesn't have corrugated walls, but anyway. Cameron's stamp decorates every square inch of their home, from the Mardi Gras beads dangling off the framed hotel-logo "Guest Rules & Regulations" sign still hanging on the inside of the door to the fake-snow frosted doors to their balcony overlooking the ocean to the… interesting… paint job done on the bedroom. Guy's never had the heart to tell Cameron crimson and pastel blue clash more than a little, and after a while he got used to it.

  Wherever Cameron is, eye-watering color schemes or no, that's where Guy wants to be.

  So yep, Guy loves their apartment, bedroom and all.

  What he doesn't love -- nay, hates -- is the eastward-facing window in the aforementioned bedroom.

  Dawn's early light heralds its presence by blazing through their rice curtains, a recent acquisition of Cameron's. He describes the brilliant dawn as nature's wake-up call and has since chosen to cheerfully ignore the presence of their perfectly serviceable clock. As with said clock, Cameron can sleep through the rising sun with the ease of a sedated baby

  Guy follows standard protocol, which involves groaning deeply and pitifully, yanking his pillow out from where it's balled up beneath his head, and smashing it tightly over his face.

  "Blackout shades," he mutters. "Blackout shades nailed to the sills. One of these days."

  Blindly, breathing in the up-close-and-personal smells of "Spring Fresh" laundry detergent and traces of shampoo, Guy flails to his left, intending to jab Cameron as hard as he can in the ribs as small payback for the evil curtain choices.

  His hand brushes the complete absence of Cameron, coming to rest not on a warm, sprawled-out and snoring, possibly even drooling man, but on a cooling divot where Cameron zonked out the night before. The sheets are slightly crunchy with dried sand. Guy winces in sympathy. Sometimes Cameron's so wiped out from an evening shift of saving the asses of those who think they can surf that he collapses into bed without doing more than kicking off his flip-flops.

  In Guy's opinion, anyone who scoffs at lifeguarding as an easy job deserves twenty laps. Around the ocean. Every drop of it, Pacific to Atlantic to Mediterranean.

  Guy twists over and flops on his stomach, all the better to hide his face from the demon sun, and presses his nose to the rucked-up fitted sheet. Ordering his brain takes strength and will, and Guy's not too sure he wants to make the effort, but now that thoughts of Cameron have filled his head, he's rapidly growing discontent with lazing around in bed. There are better things to do. There's a Cameron to do.

  And there's a wedding to plan, T-minus one week and counting now, but Guy really can't cope with that particular labyrinthine tangle before he's inhaled some coffee.

  Cameron, then. His mission, should he choose to accept it: find Cameron.

  Guy pats the gritty crystals of sand where Cameron lay. Thought one is that Cameron, encrusted with salt, his hair stiff from ocean water and probably itchy in uncomfortable places as well as funky from sleeping the near-comatose sleep of the hard-working man, would naturally want to clean up. Right? Right.

  Therefore, Cameron has gone in search of water that involves as little salt as possible.

  Guy cocks his ear, a difficult proposition while buried under a pillow, and listens carefully. The
walls of the suite are thinnish and despite the layer of fluff blocking his aural capabilities, he thinks he can hear a pattering of water over tile.

  Therefore, Cameron is taking a shower.

  Guy's pleased, in a vague sort of way, with his logic.

  The next part requires strength of will. Guy's a man on a mission, though, and will not be deterred. With stubborn determination overriding the part of his brain still whining for "five more minutes, Ma" he kicks off the rumpled light quilt partially draped over his legs and keeps nudging until a soft, crumpling sound tells him it's hit the floor. Take that, he thinks, proud.