You've Never Seen the Sea
Grayson Sydney
Copyright © 2020 Grayson Sydney
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: DepositPhotos/Grayson Sydney
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
December 27th, 1981. The End.
December 27th, 1981. Later.
February 14th, 1982.
Week of February 14th, 1982. Later.
March 5th, 1982.
March 7th, 1982.
March 15th, 1982.
April 25th, 1982. The Beginning.
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December 27th, 1981. The End.
Johnny calls him Happy.
Johnny says he's got fire in his heart. Connor's never thought to call it that, when he feels that cautiously familiar swell of have to protect my people in his heart.
It just was. It wasn't fire. Not like the kind he sees haunting Johnny's shoulders when he stalks the halls or hunts him during gym.
But it makes sense in a strange, ironic way.
Because when Johnny pushes him, Connor wants to push back.
If Connor's a fire, Johnny's a kettle over his flame.
Because Connor sees the second a spark flares behind those blue eyes when he pushes Johnny back with a hard shove.
Feels his heartbeat stutter-rush up into rage.
Johnny throws a goddamn mean punch.
But so does Connor.
Connor nails him first and Johnny goes back laughing. He has to shake his hand out because, Christ, the guy's got a melon for a head. His chest heaves in laughter and gurgling breath and then he’s sending Connor back, back, falling crash into the pretty glass cabinet full of ornaments. His vision is all glass stars as he falls to the floor. Down and down he stays.
Then Johnny's on him.
Johnny's fists are just as mean as they look.
One of the kids nails Johnny with the baseball bat Roy keeps by the door.
December 27th, 1981. Later.
Connor’s head feels like a gallon of whole milk. The kids have been dropped back home. He’s been outside wondering just what in high hell he’s going to do about the guy currently passed out a foot away from him.
This is gonna suck.
Part of him wants to just go back to his own house and let Roy deal with it—with Johnny—when he gets back from his date with Missy. But. That would be lazy of him. And more than a little awful.
Johnny Burns is his responsibility now whether he likes it or not. They did just finish beating the living shit out of each other. It’s a miracle Connor’s even up, in his opinion.
Connor sniffs, clutching the side of his head when it sends a twinge through his probably-broken nose. He peeks through the window of the Baler house before reaching for the door. Frowns a little that his responsibility is still very much present and accounted for.
Inside, Johnny’s just as knocked out as he looked from outside. That baseball bat really did some shit, in Andy’s words.
Connor isn’t quiet about letting the door shut behind him. And he’s not shy about stomping over to the fridge to grab something for his aching face. He swivels to regard the unconscious asshole on the floor.
Johnny’s bloody and his cheek is red and raised. Connor at least got a few good hits in before going down. He got that much. Broken glass litters the floor. Connor’s not going to think about potential shards lodged in his scalp where Johnny pushed him into the display cabinet.
Benji’s going to be an absolute nightmare when he sees the two of them and connects the dots at school tomorrow.
Connor sighs and crouches by Johnny’s unconscious form. He picks up a wrist and drops it again, letting it fall with a thump. Nothing. Johnny could be dead if it wasn’t for the lame twitching of his lips in his sleep.
The guy’s getting his beauty sleep and Connor’s just...fucked. Like all his fights tend to leave him.
“I’m too sober for this,” he mumbles and lifts an arm to smack Johnny in the cheek.
Hard.
Johnny startles awake, rambling nonsense as he comes to. His head flies up, hits Connor’s still-hovering arm and he goes back down, groaning.
“You’re bleeding on a perfectly good carpet. Get up and follow me,” Connor commands, and stands up, hands on his hips.
Johnny grunts, squinting up at him with mismatched blinking. “H—Hapstader?”
“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. You’re out of here before Roy gets back.”
Johnny scrubs at his face, thumbing over the sore spot on his cheek. “You think I’m pretty, Happy?”
Connor rolls his eyes at the tired nickname. Kicks at Johnny’s hip. “Get. Up.”
“Not getting it up like this,” he grumbles, trying for funny Connor thinks, but slowly starts sitting up anyway. He sways. “Holy shit. There’s five of you.”
“Surprised you’re seeing anything at all.”
Johnny slaps at his nudging shoe. Misses and swipes at the air sluggishly.
“Burns. Get up. We gotta get you home.”
Johnny barks a laugh. “I’m a fag. Fags don’t go home. Fags are shitty, failure sons who fuck up and lose their shitty sisters.” Another laugh.
Connor raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t kick him again. “Man, what?”
“Gimme a minute. My head, can’t fucking see straight. I’ll be outta your hair.” He snorts. “Hair. So much goddamn hair,” he mutters.
“I drove Mel home already. Told your mom you hit a pothole and knocked my mailbox over since you were so upset about Mel missing. Told her I said you could stay over ‘cuz you knocked your head pretty good and I didn’t want you driving. Said I’d drop you off if you wanted. So, guess who’s getting dropped off.”
Johnny squints again, confused. “Why would I hit a pothole? I didn’t hit any goddamn thing. ‘Sides you.”
He smirks, but the accompanying wince cools it some, makes Connor’s red vision cool down with it.
Feels good to smile down at Johnny, mean and meaner when he says, “Technically you did. Because Mel hit some shit when she drove it earlier and you got a nice dent in your bumper.”
“And she’s—wait, what?”
Connor shrugs. Because why should he have to bother explaining anything at this point is beyond him. He doesn’t actually care. It’s the Burns’ problem they have a daughter who likes taking her brother’s car for joyrides.
“Whatever. I covered for you. Least you could do is duck out of here before they get back. I don’t care if you go home or I drop you off at the fucking drive-in.”
Johnny mumbles more nonsense, grabs at his hair.
“What was that?”
“She still run?”
“Who? Mel?”
“No,” he barks quietly. “My car.”
“Oh, yeah. The Firebird’s just dinged up. You could fix it no problem.” Connor nudges a littler gentler at his knee this time. “Come on, man. You really got to get out of here.”
“I’m not going home,” he states, rolling onto his knees and using the couch to leverage himself up. He tilts before checking himself. “Fuck Jeran. Fuck that fucking house. I’m not going back. You can’t fucking make me, fucker.”
&nb
sp; “Jesus,” Connor mutters. He holds his hands up, placating. “You have anywhere else I can drop you off then?”
Johnny points at him accusingly, threat all in the way he jabs it through the air, bruises and bloodied nails and all. “Fuck. You. You goddamned queer.”
Connor reaches out and pushes Johnny. He falls back on the couch with a huff. He sounds insulted. Looks it too when he meets Connor’s eyes.
“Hell, Burns. You know any other words?”
Johnny glares murder up at him.
“Look, you can hardly stand. I don’t think you can drive. Suck up the macho man act and tell me where you want me to drop you off for the night.”
Johnny doesn’t say anything. Just works his jaw like it’s about to become unhinged, swallow Connor up like a snake and throw him right back up, bones all mush. He might.
“Fine. You don’t want to talk. Follow after me. Try to keep up.”
Then he’s tossing Johnny’s keys in the air, catches them, and leaves out the front door.
He’s already climbing into the front seat when he sees Johnny’s angry face flash through the front screen. He sways into view, supporting himself up against the frame before leaning his weight unsteadily as he risks the few steps to the railing.
He grips the column and glares at Connor through the dark. Connor stays where he is, fighting down the self satisfying smile he wants to show off. Crosses his arms instead.
Johnny sways and sways, knees buckling.
Then he’s yelling, shrill, “Get the fuck over here before I cave your eyes into your fucking brain, Hapstader!”
Connor does let himself laugh. Because frankly, Johnny deserves it.
Johnny grips bruises into his arms on the walk to the passenger door.
“Not my street,” is all Johnny says between long minutes of silence and dark stretches of road.
Connor nods. “Wasn’t heading that way. You ever been to Berrywood?”
Johnny scoffs. “Smith lives in Berrywood.”
“Not the nice part.”
Johnny smacks his lips. “Thought all of Berrywood was nice.”
“I live in the nice part.” Connor takes a narrow turn. “Benji likes to fluff himself up, make himself bigger than he really is.”
Johnny snorts a laugh at that. Connor does too, after realizing what he said.
“We’ve all seen him in the showers.” Johnny holds a hand to his chest. Connor steals a glance and sees Johnny’s eyes are closed. “Boy’s not hiding anything worthwhile.”
He laughs again, mean.
“Guess not.”
“So what makes your Berrywood nicer than his?”
Connor shrugs, biting his lip. “Benji’s in the burbs. I don’t have any neighbors.”
Johnny hums, kicking a foot up to rest of his own dash. Connor has a feeling if he tried the same, he’d get his ankle hacked off.
“Fancy that.”
“Big house,” Johnny comments when he steps out onto Connor’s drive. “Parents not home?”
“Nope.” He throws the keys Johnny’s way, hitting him in the shoulder. “Follow me. Or you need more help, grandpa?”
Johnny swears under his breath, picking his keys off the ground. He seems to be steadier on his feet as he steps, focused, up the drive.
“You really wanna start with that name bullshit right now? Tonight?”
“What more could we do to each other?”
Johnny whistles low from behind him as Connor opens the double doors. He doesn’t bother flicking the lights on.
“I could think of a few things,” Johnny says softly as he gazes around the foyer. Sweeps his eyes up the stairs. “Where’s your bathroom? I gotta take a leak.”
Connor’s already heading for the kitchen. He needs ice and rum. “Upstairs. To the left.”
“I’ll be sure to steal your toiletries,” he states proudly as he starts hobbling up the steps. He reminds Connor of a toddler learning to walk.
In the kitchen, Connor stares into his fridge. There’s a six pack his father probably forgot about. Beer is cold and nice on a sore throat. Connor knows his own throat is sore from swallowing all his own blood. The blood Johnny made him bleed.
What's it say about him that he wants to split a pack of beer with the guy he just had a fight with? The worst one he's been in, to boot.
Maybe Johnny knocked his head loose somewhere between the flying fists and the shattered glass. His head smarts. He's definitely going to scar.
Connor decides to take mercy. He grabs the pack of beer, along with a pack of peas (for himself, thank you very much) and digs out the nice bottle of rum from the back of the (should be) locked liquor cabinet.
He takes the steps up to his room two at a time. Flops back on his bed before deciding the floor would be more comfortable. That and blood is a bitch to get out in the wash.
That's how Johnny finds him; sprawled out on his bedroom floor swigging rum from the bottle with the bag of peas resting over his eyes. It's bliss.
Johnny takes a seat next to him, snatching the peas away. Connor blinks his good eye open and sees him holding the bag up to his nose, his mouth. Johnny wiggles his fingers toward the rum.
Connor spills some down his chin before passing it over. Uses a thumb to catch the stray drops and lick them off.
Johnny watches him do it. Then he removes the peas to take a swig. He winces and coughs. Sets the peas over his shoulder as he reads the label.
"This is good stuff."
At fifteen a bottle it should be."
Johnny snorts wetly at that. "Fifteen dollars?"
Connor shakes his head and snags a beer for himself. "Fifteen hundred. Beer?"
Johnny blinks blankly but accepts the beer.
"That’s half a year’s rent for my family.” Johnny clicks his tongue.
"Rum is rum." Connor takes the bottle and takes another long drink from the neck. Coughs as he rises to an elbow to clear his throat and catch his breath. "You drink it to get drunk."
"You wanna get drunk with me you don't need rich shit to do it. Couple dollar bottle of Jack would do just fine."
"Maybe I feel bad for you."
Johnny gives him a shrug. Makes a sound like he doesn't buy it. "Sure you do."
He blinks and Johnny goes from sitting beside him to lying down. He sighs in relief when he settles, as if he's the one in immense pain. Connor knows he's not. He can't possibly be.
The bag of peas slide from Johnny’s shoulder, before being placed back on Connor’s pulpy face. He yelps at the cold, wet dripping down his neck. Johnny’s laughter is rasping. Wind through wheat.
Time passes. Enough to warrant Johnny clearing his throat by the time he speaks up again.
"Hapstader. Why're you bothering to do all this? I sent you halfway to heaven tonight, and you're getting me drunk? Offering me ice?”
Connor harumphs. "The peas were for me. And second, you're an intense drunk, but you're a happy drunk. Least I can do to make sure you don't give me a repeat performance since you don't feel like going home."
Connor wants his rum. So he grabs the bottle and slugs back two gulps. Like it's even enough to get him buzzed. He pours the rest of his beer down his throat next and then Johnny is slapping the empty can away. It hits his bed and bounces to the floor in a crinkle.
"You covered for me too. What the fuck game are you playing here?"
Johnny’s leaning over him, brows furrowed and eyes furious. He seriously thinks Connor is fucking with him?
"Melanie looked afraid of Jeran when I dropped her off. I'm not an asshole. Cover for you is cover for her. Cover for her is cover for everybody else."
“You mean you. And our little disagreement earlier.”
Connor huffs dryly. “Exactly.”
Above him, blue goes all crackly electric, wet drawing up fast at the corners of his eyes before he slams back down where he'd been. He sniffs hotly and wipes at his face.
"Fuck. I'm bleeding again.”
; "You know where the bathroom is."
"Don't you think you should clean up too?"
Connor sniffs, can hardly do that without the acidic taste of iron hitting the back of his throat. He shrugs noncommittally and decides to follow after Johnny to wash up.
Inside the bathroom, there's blood-stained washcloths in the sink left from Johnny. He grabs up the same and rinses it before sticking it under his nose. Connor grabs the first aid kit and a fresh towel. Lets the water run as he wipes the crusted blood from his face. Shakes glass from his hair.
He's swollen really bad. It'll be worse come morning and he's not looking forward to it. He doesn't know how long Johnny intends to stay in his house but if he's here the whole night, Connor will just give him the couch. He doesn't really want to see Johnny in the morning. Doesn't want the tirade of mocking that's sure to come from him when Connor wakes up looking five times worse than right this second.
He sighs and Johnny elbows him. Feigns it was a mistake when he gets a glare in the mirror for it.
Connor paints his cuts with antiseptic goop and puts a bandaid on the worst ones. His hair protected most of his head, but there’s a cut along his scalp, looping a little dowd his forehead that’s definitely going to scar. One thousand percent. It's deep and needs two bandaids.
Johnny’s looking at it in the mirror like he's hurt by it. Like he's sorry.
But in a flash it's gone, back to his usual smirk and Connor hates him all over again. Hates how ready he is to forget all the bad shit people do to him, if it means they feel sorry about it later. Like they care.
Johnny doesn't care about him.
He throws the towel in the trash and heads back to his room.
Connor feels like an idiot. And he’s in pain from his toes to the top of his head. Kind of pained in the chest too, but he’s not going to think too hard on that part.
So he does what he always does when he feels like a particular brand of shit. He digs inside the drawer of his desk and finds his weed and lighter. There’s three pre-rolled joints from the last time he smoked. He had the forethought to know this would probably happen again. This, being a bad fight and a special kind of strange heartbreak.
You've Never Seen the Sea Page 1