Owen sat back in his chair, looking out over the night-shrouded water and absently twisting the wine glass on the table before him via the circular base of the glass and the tips of his two forefingers. His other arm was resting on the hip-height whitewashed stone wall beside him that defined the limits of the viewing deck of the eatery he and Vincent were at. He was smiling mildly to himself as he did, able to make out the water nearby thanks to the lights of the businesses and houses dotting the hillside and the full moon rising over the ocean. His belly was also full, for he'd feasted well on their last night in Santorini, eager to taste everything one last time before they flew out at nightfall the next night.
Home. He wasn't looking forward to it, for it was now almost August and he had no idea what he was going to do once he got back to the States. It had been easy enough to put such serious thoughts aside these past five weeks as they'd spent some time (at Owen's request) in Italy, Spain and then Greece. The weather had been balmy, perfect for worshipping the sun by pools and lakes and oceans by day and walking quaint, twisting streets at night holding Vincent's hand and kissing him passionately in shadowy alcoves, smelling foreign spices and hearing exotic accents on lazy breezes.
He'd rethought his mother's inclusion in the holiday after the Turkey veto had come about but she hadn't stayed for the whole holiday this time. She'd toured Italy, Spain and the main parts of Greece with them, but they'd had the last two weeks for just them and Owen was surprised by how much he relished that. Doing tourist things by day with his mother was wonderful - they'd drunk an awful lot of wine this time, sampling from the areas known famously for it and Owen had developed quite an appreciation for the red versions - but it didn't compare to the way being with Vincent made him feel. It amazed him how his love seemed to keep getting deeper and evolving, how he learned new things about him nightly, how his lust for the man only grew so that he could barely keep his hands off him and a night without a climax in his arms was unheard of.
Looking at him now, across their small table, that feeling swelled in him and he was already planning what they might do when they got back to their hillside villa. Or on the way. He'd found his voyeuristic, daring side on this trip, too and had quite embraced the idea of exhibitionism. Mostly it was because of where the villa they'd been in for the last two weeks was. He'd discovered early on that the roof was designed for sunbaking and there was only one roof slightly higher than theirs, two houses away, so he'd taken to luxuriating in the sun's rays naked. Initially, it'd been because he wanted a smooth tan to impress Vincent with (and perhaps age his youthful skin into looking that bit older) but he soon realised he just enjoyed laying there naked and slick with oil.
After two days, he'd also realised someone was watching him play with himself, laguorously warming his body up as the sun sank and he planned to wake Vincent smelling of the sun, crisp oil and radiating heat. They were on that roof a short distance away, the top of their dark head just visible; he thought it was a woman. The next day there'd been two heads and they were both definitely women, side by side and watching him until he had himself nice and firm. When he walked away, he heard them sigh to each other and laughed, enjoying this little afternoon game. It had continued every day afterwards and they were as uncaring now about him knowing they were watching as he was about them admiring him. It was one of the things he'd learned to love about Greece; the whole country felt free and approving - welcoming, even - to him and he could imagine himself living here, this way, with sun-soaked days and passion-filled nights indefinitely.
"I think it's going to rain tonight," he remarked offhandedly, for the smell of ozone was in the air and clouds were scudding across in front of the fat moon more and more often. It only occurred to him after he said it that his guesswork was irrelevant and he laughed, expecting Vincent to correct him if he was wrong. "Am I right?" he grinned, lifting his wine glass and finishing the remaining decent mouthful, leaving the strong sediment behind. It was his third glass and he had a pleasant buzz from it and the delicious food; he was absently rubbing Vincent's ankle beneath the table, his feet free from his sandals. He was wearing white shorts that reached his knees and a black and silver tourist's T-shirt he'd picked up at the Parthenon. The little eatery they were on the front deck of was casual and he didn't look out of place, even at ten o'clock at night.
