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“It’s a little difficult to find beaches romantic after you’ve been stranded on an island for years,” Desmond says, as he and Charlie walk along the shore together.
“Tell me about it,” Charlie agrees. The crystal water laps around their ankles, pleasantly cool on his bare feet. The heat from the sun is almost unbearable, although it brings a lovely warmth to the skin. “If I ever see another grain of sand I might freak out and go on a rampage.”
On this island, there seems to be nothing but sand.
And trees.
And caves.
And death.
…
And polar bears.
But apart from that, it’s mostly just sand. Charlie thinks it’s enough to drive a person mad. He’s come bloody close to it more than once. Might’ve been the drugs doing most of the damage, but he’s sure the sand had something to do with it too – until Desmond reaches out to take his hand.
They keep walking side-by-side, splashing through the sea, but this time there’s a point of connection between them, their fingers interlaced. Charlie doesn’t comment on it; he can’t find the right words to express everything he needs to. If he had his guitar with him and an endless amount of time, maybe he’d be able to pull something out to make sense of it all.
He’s left to look down and smile to himself, feeling warm from his toes to the very tips of his ears. “Maybe it’s not all so bad,” he mutters, squeezing Desmond’s hand.
From the corner of his eye, he’s sure he can see Desmond’s broad, easy smile.