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He should have gotten up earlier to do this, but he's still not used to how quickly it gets hot here: By nine a.m., the day's blanket of humidity has descended on Charleston, and there won't be any respite until dark, and that only if they're lucky. It's not like he hasn't dealt with heat before—half the places they lived growing up didn't have AC—but he also never had to do yardwork. They never stayed long enough, and none of them ever cared enough. Things are different now.
He finishes the hedges, puts the clippers away, and downs half a Nalgene bottle of water before he starts the lawn. At least it's small. It doesn't take more than fifteen minutes to mow, but he's dripping with sweat by the time he's done. Gross. He puts the lawn mower back in the garage, then goes over to the side of the house, turns on the hose, and aims it over his head. The water is clear and cool, and he sighs with relief as it cascades down his body, washing away the sweat. He drinks some right from the spout. Water satisfying thirst is a simple but intense pleasure, and he closes his eyes before rinsing his face and turning off the faucet. He shakes his hair out like a dog and hopes that Lissa doesn't kill him for coming into the house soaking wet.
He decides that she can do the lawn next time if she objects so strenuously.
She had some work to do this morning—cotillion season doesn't start for months, but the dresses are planned well in advance—and she's sitting at the kitchen table sketching when he comes in. She's surrounded by fabric swatches, pages from fashion dailies, and photographs of the ballrooms at the various social clubs in Charleston: All but the most daring of the dresses will be white, but the mothers match the style and shape of the ornamentation of the dresses to the décor of the room, with perhaps (if the family is particularly adventurous) a ribbon at the bodice or waist to complement the flowers their daughter will carry.
Sam, quite frankly, is mystified by the entire thing, which seems as codified and arcane as a Latin rite, but the debutantes earn Lissa a good living: She can go for a year off what she makes from them alone.
Sam's about to apologize for getting water all over the floor, but when Lissa looks up, her smile is anything but angry. Her eyes make a leisurely foray from head to toe and back again, and Sam is suddenly very conscious of how his T-shirt, still drenched, outlines the shape of his body, how his jeans are clinging to his hips. Lissa drops her pencil onto the open notebook and gets up. Her hands spread across his abs, and she presses her face into his chest, breathing in. "Lissa, I stink," Sam objects.
"Mmm, no. You smell all clean and hardworking. Like you just came in from the fields and it's time to eat. I'd make you lunch, and then you'd undo your overalls and pull up my apron and fuck me on the kitchen table." Lissa's forehead suddenly wrinkles, and she looks mildly disturbed. "God, which of the long line of Ukrainian peasants did that one come from?"
He pulls her against him and she doesn't struggle even with his wet clothes, just molds herself along his front. "No overalls," he says. "But I'd still be game for the kitchen table."
"Mess up my work and I'll kill you. That's what the counter's for."
Accordingly, he fucks her on the counter. They don't even take off all their clothes, just enough for him to tongue her cunt and clit until she's moaning his name, and then enough for him to slide into her where she's hot and slick from his mouth. She wraps a leg around his hip to take him deeper, but she's already come once and it's not urgent. Still, he makes himself last until she's done it again, shuddering in satisfaction on his cock, and then he lets orgasm overtake him. He buries himself in her, groaning, then drops his head onto her shoulder when the lees of it have finally washed through him.
They shower together, Sam because he needs it, Lissa because she says she likes him wet. They don't do anything more than make out under the spray for a little while, but he doesn't mind: He likes being naked and warm with her, likes the touch of her fingers as she washes him, likes how her skin feels under his hands when he washes her.
"Are you working the rest of the day?" he asks her as they're getting dressed. She doesn't need to, not with the season still a long way off, but she will if she's inspired, particularly if she's in the design stage rather than the materials stage.
"The rest of the morning, anyway," she says. "I'd like to have something on paper for when I meet with Mrs. Alston on Tuesday. What about you?"
"I've got some errands to run with Dean," Sam tells her. "But I'll be back this afternoon."
He's hungry after all the sex and yardwork, so he has some cereal. He's putting the bowl in the dishwasher when Dean bangs on the door. "Stop trying to knock the house down," Lissa tells him, but without rancor, and she accepts his kiss on her cheek.
Sam doesn't need Dean along for this—the order's in, and all they're doing today is picking it up. But the last time Sam tried to do this, someone died. He's pretty sure Dean knows exactly why he's here, which is the reason he's refraining from making the salient point that his presence is really not required.
Dean somehow manages to find a parking space off King Street, and they go into the store. The woman behind the counter recognizes them—Charleston, for all that it's a city, is small like that—and smiles. "Sam, right? Your ring is ready."
Lissa is tall, with commensurately sized hands that are strong and agile rather than delicate. Sam wanted what he now knows is called an eternity ring, with channel-set diamonds—a solitaire would just get in the way of someone whose hands are her livelihood. They didn't have what he wanted in Lissa's size, and this style can't be sized up like a regular band, so they ordered it for him, and now it's here.
His hands are shaking a little as he opens the box the woman gives him.
It's exactly what he had in mind, the gold a compliment to the warm hues of Lissa's skin and hair, the diamonds sparkling like daylight stars.
He's horrified to realize that there are tears running down his face.
Dean's hand comes to rest reassuringly on his back. "Dude, it looks good. Now all you have to do is ask her."
Sam can't help laughing, because, as ever, Dean is insane. Plus, even if South Carolina does at some point come to its senses and legalize same-sex marriage, Chris has a ten-minute rant about why marriage is an atavistic, heterosexist transaction that is at root an exchange of chattel, so Dean's never going to have to go through this.
Sam even agrees with Chris to some extent, at least about the historical origins. But he wants to get married anyway—specifically, he wants to get married to Vasilissa Zyemlya—and he wants to do it right.
Sam keeps the ring, tucked in its box, securely in his jeans pocket as they go out to the car. He forgets to put on his seat belt and stares straight in front of himself, and realizes, dimly, that he's terrified.
Dean looks over at him. "You know she's gonna say yes, right? You're not that stupid."
Sam thwacks his brother on the arm, on general principles.
She's going to say yes. The demon's dead. Sam knows these things.
"It's not even noon yet," Dean says, "but you look like you need a beer. Do you need a beer?"
Sam might need a beer.
The bars aren't open this early, but the restaurants are. They each have a beer, and Dean has some chicken wings, and Sam eats a couple just to hear Dean complain, and all the while the ring is in Sam's pocket and the world doesn't end. Then Sam orders some chicken wings, and Dean eats a couple in retaliation, and Sam complains, and the ring is still in his pocket and the world still doesn't end.
On their way back to the car, Dean slings an arm around Sam's shoulders and asks, "Feeling better?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "Thanks."
"No problem. I am an awesome brother."
Sam can't agree with this out loud and still maintain his masculinity, but he leans against Dean a little bit, and he's sure that Dean understands.
Dean drops him off with a, "Cheer up, emo kid. It's going to go fine." Sam knows that Dean can't add, "And call me ASAP after you do it," and still maintain his own masculinity, but Sam understands that, too.
Sam walks in to see Lissa still at the table, several pages of fairly complete-looking sketches in front of her. She looks up and smiles. "Hey. You get everything done?"
"Yeah, I did." He kisses her hello. "I've got a question for you," he says, and kneels next to her chair.