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"No," Dean says.
"You'll like it," Chris says patiently.
"They speak French there," Dean retorts with distaste.
"You speak Latin and a good bit of Spanish. French is a Romance language. You'll pick it up in no time."
Dean plays his trump card. "I am not getting on a fucking plane and you know it."
Chris looks entirely too satisfied with himself as he leans back, pulls something out of his pocket, and slides it across the table.
Dean squints at it, then glares at Chris—like it's Chris's fault that the volume of reading in Dean's BSN/MSN program killed his eyes—and takes out his glasses. "Thursday, April 22—New York, New York. Friday, April 23—cruising the Atlantic Ocean. Saturday, April 24—cruising the Atlantic ocean. Chris, what the hell?"
Chris hands him another piece of paper. Like he was expecting this.
"'Sail the world in sophisticated style. Welcome to Queen Mary 2—the grandest, most magnificent ocean liner ever built.' Chris, seriously, what the hell?"
"It's not a plane," Chris says—slightly defensively.
"OK, I never took a damn boat across the Atlantic Ocean before, but I'm pretty sure this can't be cheap."
"We have the money."
Dean raises his eyebrows, and Chris says, "You're the one who scours the bank statements every month. You know we both get paid well. The only thing you spend money on is on your car. My car's paid off. The house has been paid off for the past century or so. Our main expenses are upkeep and utilities on the house, malpractice insurance, and student loans. Everything else goes to retirement and savings, and I'd be surprised if you didn't have the balances memorized."
Dean mumbles a number that's barely comprehensible, but which Chris is morally certain is the current balance of their savings account.
"When was the last time you had a vacation?" Chris adds, gently.
"Don't they make you dress up just to go to dinner?" is Dean's response.
"There are something like ten restaurants on the ship," Chris says. "For some of them, yes. Not for the others. But they'll deliver the food to your room if you want. You can sit on the balcony in your boxers—or in nothing at all—and eat prime rib with your fingers, and I'll sit next to you and eat the not-red-meat alternative with my fingers, and we'll go inside to bed and fuck until we're sleepy. You'll wake up with my mouth on your cock, and then we'll order breakfast. And if you want to do nothing but that for six days straight—without either of our BlackBerries going off, without any interruptions at all—you won't hear me complaining."
They look at each other across the table. Chris reads you sure you want to be trapped in a cabin with me for six days? in Dean's eyes, and Chris hopes that Dean reads I've been looking for an excuse in Chris's.
Dean looks back down at the printouts, and Chris knows he's capitulating.
"This is New York to Southampton," Dean says. "We're in Charleston. And what about Paris?"
"I was thinking you might finally deliver on that road trip you've been promising."
Dean's head pops back up, and Chris is sure that his grin is entirely unconscious. "Dr. Christian Guerard Nicholson, whackjob bicyclist and defender of the carbon-footprint faith, is actually volunteering to go on a road trip in a gas-guzzling American muscle car?"
"Give me a break, Dean. You retrofit that thing for biodiesel five years ago."
Back on familiar ground, Dean snorts and eats some of his lasagna.
"So we drive to New York," Chris says, "on the road trip you keep talking about, and then we sleep, eat, and have sex for six days with the Atlantic Ocean outside, and then we take the train to Paris. We stay in this amazing apartment in Paris that Elspeth's grandmother owns, we eat and sleep and have sex and walk around, and then we do the first part again, in reverse."
"I bet they eat all kinds of vegetarian shit in Paris," Dean says, back to grumbling again.
Chris's expression is pure disbelief. "Dean, the dish they're most famous for? Is steak frites. Which is steak with French fries."
Dean looks skeptical.
"Swear to God. Look it up. I haven't eaten red meat for twenty years now, but I still remember how good that steak was. Ask Julia if you don't believe me. They eat it so rare it's practically mooing, and the frites will be pretty much the most amazing thing you ever had. They drink coffee and eat dessert like fiends, and they have no use for vegetarians. You'll probably decide that you should have been born French."
Later, when dinner is finished and the dishes are washed, they're in the shower. Dean is spreading the seaweed-and-arnica wash (sufficiently organic for Chris's specifications and sufficiently nongirly for Dean's) over Chris's shoulders. Chris leans back against him, enjoying the feel of Dean's hands on his skin, and they stand there like that for a moment.
"So can I make the reservations?" Chris asks after a contented silence.
"That's a long vacation," Dean says.
Chris turns around so that they're looking at each other. "We have the days coming. More to the point, we both deserve some time off."
"Yeah," Dean says.
"I need to hear yes or no, Dean," Chris says. His voice is quiet, but he's looking Dean in the eyes. "If you don't want to go, we won't go."
Dean looks up at him then, and the smile on his lips is small but clear. Chris wants to kiss it, but refrains; he needs the answer first. "Make 'em," Dean says. "I want to spent twelve days doing nothing but eating prime rib and fucking until neither of us can walk. Which shouldn't be a problem since we'll get food delivered to our door. Anything else on top of that is just gravy."
Chris gives in and kisses the smile. Dean's mouth opens under his and they kiss with the water washing over them, arms around each other, wet and slick and naked together. Chris was thinking that they'd just shower and go to bed, but it doesn't work out like that: He loves the taste of Dean's mouth, the feel of Dean's body, and his hand needs to wrap around Dean's cock, tease Dean with his fingers, suck bruises onto his skin where Dean's work clothes will cover them. Chris uses fingertips on the sensitive undersides of Dean's balls, touching him with slow, deliberate gentleness until Dean is gasping. "Oh, fuck, please, Chris. Please. Make me come. God, now. Please."
And Chris does, watching with avaricious affection as Dean shudders and cries out, and his face goes loose with pleasure. Dean lets Chris hold him for a moment after his climax, when he's still panting and lax, vulnerable in a way he way he allows himself only when they're alone. Chris kisses his face, strokes his hair—and then Dean drops to his knees.
It's maybe a little shameful, how much Chris loves this sight: Dean on his knees, hands firm on Chris's hips (unless they're doing gloriously wicked things to his balls or ass), all that strength checked, all that dedication and focus brought to one single task, which is pleasuring Chris. Chris watches his cock slide in and out between Dean's full lips, which he could swear are smirking when Dean looks up at him. Now Dean's using one hand to rub the shaft while he tongues the head—and, God, his hand is going back to caress Chris's balls, to rub that weirdly sensitive place between balls and ass—and meanwhile Chris can't take his eyes off him, off the obscene shape of Dean's mouth, how his head bobs up and down as he brings Chris, so slowly, closer to orgasm.
When it arrives, it's shattering, and Chris barely has the presence of mind to keep from gripping or thrusting too hard. He throws his head back, hears himself whimpering, barely manages to stop his knees from giving out as he falls back against the tile wall.
Dean stands up and Chris pulls him close, holds Dean's head in his hands as he licks his own taste out of Dean's mouth.
"We're going to have a few weeks to do nothing but that," Chris whispers once they're finally in bed.
It's a satisfied-sounding Dean who replies, "It's gonna be fun."