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Chanty by dee
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Orlando was horizontal, flat on his back in the sand under the stars. Billy was vertical, between him and the waves and existing only in sound. Billy was singing in what Orlando assumed was Gaelic because the words didn't make any sense. Or maybe he was just very, very drunk.

Their feet beat hollow on the wooden pier with the water inking black in glints between the boards. Orlando couldn't keep his head up, couldn't keep it off Billy's shoulder, as they staggered together. Such a beautiful, beautiful night. Maybe they could swim.

"Whoa, watch it." Billy's arm tighter around his waist, tugging him back against, away from the edge of the pier.


"Don't want to lose you yet."

The song on Billy's voice fades in and out, an easy lull of volume and rhythm. Were there male sirens? Mermen? The syllables are liquid and drowning, tugging at Orlando. He is out of his depth.



"What're you singing?"

"The Beatles. Yellow Submarine."


Very, very drunk, then.