Archive of Our Own

The next day he had handed in the spruce pole and 'Punting on the Cam' sign back to Paul, collected his cash, and then vowed never to stand with a sign again.

Now here he was in an airport, with a sign. A man in a hideous tropical shirt approached, pushing a trolley. So like the tourists in Cambridge that summer. Hathaway groaned inwardly.

"Are you for me?"

Hathaway straightened to his full height.

The Geordie accent surprised him. The intelligence behind the man's tired eyes surprised him.

It was the beginning of the many ways that Robbie Lewis would surprise him.

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

"'Course you were a poler," said Robbie, as James pushed off from the shore. "Reckon you've done everything on the water."

James gave him a fond smile. "There are some things I have not done on the water."

Lewis snorted a laugh. "Didn't mean that. I meant boats and things. Rowing. Canoes."

James pushed off, his legs twined and bending at the knees with remembered ease.

He thought of the man watching him so intently, the way they communicated with a glance. The happy way his heart would leap into shared rhythm when Robbie was close.

He thought of lavender socks and madrigal music on a guitar; conversational Mandarin and finally being able to make a difference in the world despite the unfortunate shape of his face. He stood tall in the sunlight, wanting to cup its radiance in his hand.

"Why are you standing on the stern, then?"

"Standing on the till is punting Cambridge style. In Oxford, the tradition is to stand in the boat at the bow," he didn't mention the legend that Oxford polers couldn't stand on the till because if they fell into the river they would sink. He didn't go into the history of punting, the complicated economics of waterways, tow paths and the Cherwell. He didn't want to spoil the gentle mood.

He felt absurdly content. Twenty years since those few days on the River Cam.

"So you're showing up all the Oxford scholars," Robbie mused. "Bet you lot in Cambridge thought Oxford would fall in and couldn't swim."

James' smile curled up at the corner of his mouth. They floated along the Isis, past their usual haunts, and settled against the shore. He anchored the punt with the pole. The sun was setting behind the trees, leaves dark against a quiet pallet of pale yellow and gold. A dignified sunset befitting Oxford.

He folded himself next to Robbie, who handed him a beer. James would never drink a Pimm's in a punt willingly ever again.

They sat in companionable silence for a long while, listening to the water, the sounds of distant birds.

"You had a summer job doing this?" Robbie said tentatively, re-arranging himself against the cushions so he was stretched out in the bottom of the punt. "I'd like to hear about that if you've a mind to tell me." He stifled a yawn, apologizing with a small chagrinned uptick of eyebrows.

"Not much to tell. I learned a lot." James stretched out beside him, his head propped on an elbow. Robbie's eyes were closed, his mouth smiling softly. A gentle breeze ruffled his graying hair. James gazed at him with affection, fighting the urge to touch his cheek. He flopped down on the cushion beside his friend, their shoulders touching companionably.

He placed his hand behind his head, and closed his eyes, feeling the lull of the punt and the warm sun on his face, the reassuring press of his friend at his side.

His life was turning out so much better than he had ever dreamed.