Epilogue
Two years later...
Blake tilted his head to look at what Rusty was watching on the TV, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
If this was what passed for their national sport, he didn’t understand how all Australians weren’t gay.
“Those shorts are so tiny,” he said.
“It gets hot out there,” Rusty explained. “Even in the winter. Footy’s brutal.”
“Did you ever play?” Blake asked.
Rusty laughed. “It was kind of mandatory. But I’ve got the trophies to show for it. Or mum does, anyway.”
“They’re in the garage,” Rusty’s mother said. “In a box labeled Rusty’s trophies, if you want them.”
“I wanna see them,” Blake said, turning back to the game. He didn’t know anything about it, but then, he didn’t know anything about American football, either. Not much, anyway.
“So how come they don’t wear helmets?” he asked, since Rusty hadn’t gotten up to get the trophies yet. He’d wear him down.
Rusty wasn’t great at celebrating his achievements, but Blake intended to teach him to be. Even things he’d achieved when he was a kid.
There were probably photo albums out there, too, and he was desperate to see baby Rusty.
“We’re smart enough not to smack into each other’s heads out here,” Rusty teased. “They’ve changed the rules since I was a kid. Used to be you’d see players climbing up each other’s backs to take a mark.”
“Take… a mark?” Blake asked.
“Catch the ball,” Rusty’s father translated.
Blake was glad he’d come around. He even seemed happy to see them, and he’d been nothing but charming to Blake.
He and Rusty still butted heads from time to time, but Blake could see now that it was just how they were. And that maybe, all Rusty had needed was someone to stand by him.
“I see you pair managed to get yourself in the papers,” Rusty’s father added, passing them each a plate of toast.
“Thanks, dad,” Rusty said absently, leaning forward to watch the TV more closely.
“Made it to the print edition of the Herald,” his father continued, offering Blake the newspaper in question.
There was a grainy picture of the two of them kissing at the airport taking up a third of the page. Blake remembered Rusty kissing him and saying it was for the papers, but Blake hadn’t thought he was serious.
He’d come to learn since that Rusty’s father was actually a little more famous than he’d assumed. When Rusty had told him he was an independent politician, Blake had taken that to mean that he wasn’t going to get anywhere.
He’d been extremely surprised to learn that he’d won the election. Australian politics were weird.
“Good,” Rusty said after a moment, glancing at the picture in Blake’s hand. “Not a bad picture. We should call the paper and see if we can get a copy.”
“Straight to the pool room?” Blake asked, hoping he was using the phrase in the right context.
“Listen to this one,” Rusty’s dad said, laughter in his voice. “You’ll make a real Aussie out of him yet.”
“He’s perfect as he is,” Rusty responded, taking a bite of his toast and making happy noises.
Blake liked the sound of that. Rusty hadn’t stopped being the kind, caring man he’d shown himself to be when Blake first dragged him to Hope Springs.
It didn’t look like he was ever going to.
He glanced down at his toast, frowning at the black substance spread over it. This, he’d been told, was Vegemite. Rusty had made him promise to try it while they were visiting his parents.
Part of Blake suspected it was some kind of prank—Rusty loved those—but he was watching Rusty eat the same toast and clearly enjoy it.
Gathering up all his courage, he took a bite out of the corner of his toast.
The taste hit him like a kick in the face. It was intensely salty, and thick enough to stick to the roof of his mouth, leaving him wincing as he tried to get rid of the lingering flavor, which was making his eyes water.
He coughed, grabbing the glass of orange juice he’d been handed earlier and swallowing it down, trying to rinse his mouth out. The juice was sharper than he was used to, as well, a distinct sour note making his jaw contract.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as the toast, though.
“You right there?” Rusty asked, turning and raising an eyebrow.
“How do you eat that?” Blake asked, nodding to Rusty’s half-finished toast.
Rusty shrugged. “It’s good.”
Blake stared at him. “It’s not good,” he said. “You’re going to die of heart disease.”
“It’s got vitamin B!” Rusty said. “And… stuff, I guess. It’s good for you.”
“I hate it,” Blake responded. “And I don’t understand what’s wrong with you.”
The aftertaste was still clinging to his mouth, and the memory would be burned into his brain forever.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Rusty’s mother said, bringing the orange juice over and pouring Blake another glass.
He drank it greedily, appreciating it a whole lot more as it got rid of the last of the salty, aggressively savory flavor of the Vegemite.
“Does this mean you don’t want the rest of your toast?” Rusty asked, his eyes hopeful.
Blake stared at him again, but passed his plate over. “I’m married to the most disgusting man on Earth,” he said.
Rusty took the plate from him, adding Blake’s toast to his own plate and then setting it down on the coffee table. “But you still love me, right?” Rusty asked.
Blake looked at him, taking in the old t-shirt and underwear he was wearing, the toast crumbs all over him, the tousled hair, and sighed. He still loved him. Even if he’d just tried to poison him.
“I guess,” Blake teased. “But I’m not kissing you until you’ve brushed your teeth.”
“Harsh,” Rusty said around a mouthful of toast. Toast he was still eating enthusiastically, like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Blake would have to buy a jar of Vegemite for him to take home. Disgusting as it was, Rusty clearly liked it.
And he loved Rusty. So they could keep one jar of a really gross spread in the cupboard, and Blake would even put it on his toast for him.
He was keeping the rule about not kissing him until he brushed his teeth, though.
“But fair,” Blake responded.
“I’ll make it up to you with Tim Tams,” Rusty promised.
Blake wasn’t sure he wanted that, but he’d probably let Rusty convince him.
He’d let Rusty convince him of a lot of things, and it’d always worked out just fine.