You've Never Seen the Sea

by Grayson Sydney

  “Says to skip the third and open the fourth in Trig.”

  “Okay,” Missy says. “Do that.”

  Johnny is late to Trig. He drops into his chair at the front of the room, two rows to the right and five seats ahead of Connor, fifteen minutes late.

  Connor’s been silently screaming for all fifteen of those minutes. The stack of pink notes burn a hole where he’s tucked them inside the flap of his binder. He can feel the heat of them. The promise of more and worse riddles.

  The fourth had read, I saw you in the store spending half an hour staring at two bottles of hairspray deciding which to get. You didn’t realize they were the same bottle.

  Connor’s been witnessed at his most vulnerable. And the only people he could reasonably explain his distress about this to are Missy and whoever his Dollar Valentine is.

  He almost wants to tell Johnny. Somehow get his attention and convey in some way the sheer insult of it all.

  But he doesn’t because then he’d never hear the end of it.

  The fifth, six, and seventh it said to open every twenty minutes starting next period. He has English next.

  He unfolds the fifth one while the teacher sets up for her lecture.

  It reads, I dream about your cock in my ass.

  He sits there, staring at the words until letters don’t make sense anymore.

  Twenty minutes pass by in an eon, pass by in a second. He opens the next, delicately folding it back.

  I wake up wondering what it’d be like to see you swallow. Wonder if you’d like it. Another first.

  The second twenty minutes is downright agonizing. His mouth is wet, it’s watering, and that’s weird. There’s no question now. It’s definitely not Betty sending him these.

  But then who?

  It drives him mad, makes him angry. He taps his foot, bounces his knee. Maybe plays a beat on his desk with two fingers while he watches the clock tick down.

  Johnny stretches where he sits, lifting his arms high and groaning. He looks up at the clock, around the room. Turns and catches Connor’s eye.

  Blue eyes sweep over the glare he’s sporting and then Johnny is turning back around with a smirk.

  The seventh Dollar Valentine he tears open. Rips the crease a little, and wishes he hadn’t.

  I don’t have to dream or wonder about what it’d feel like to have your eyes on me. They are, all the time. Sometimes I think I’m still dreaming, but then you laugh at something I say and it feels more real than reality.

  Connor glares at Johnny, the back of his head, the sway of his hair as he takes down notes.

  Connor can’t remember who he borrowed a cigarette from.

  It says to open the eighth after the bell, in the hall.

  Connor’s clutching it in his hand so hard, so focused on starting to unfold it that he doesn’t watch where he’s walking after class ends.

  He knocks into someone hard, pink note fluttering to the linoleum. He panics as a foot, then another kick it away. He panics trying to grab it.

  A ringed hand shoots down, picks it up. Holds it at eye level and Connor sees Johnny start to unfold it. Can’t see anything else but those fingers framing the paper.

  Johnny hands it to Connor, turns it around after reading it for himself. He’s not smiling or grinning or smirking. He reaches up and clasps a hot, heavy hand on Connor’s equally hot neck. And Johnny must feel how he’s burning up. How nervous he is. How out of his element an attempt to build a pool in winter has made him.

  Johnny squeezes his neck. Asks, “So, what’s it say, Hapstader?”

  And Connor takes his eyes off Johnny’s. Sees:

  I hope you haven’t run for the hills yet. Do you have any idea who I could be?

  Connor reads it again, again, again, meets Johnny’s unwavering blue stare.

  “Maybe some idea,” Connor breathes. Thinks about peasants at court.

  Johnny’s lashes flutter, dark against his cheeks. He looks at Connor’s mouth, the note.

  Says, “Open the ninth before practice starts.”

  Connor shivers. Wants a cigarette for the first time all year. Johnny squeezes him tighter, palm warm.

  “And the tenth?”

  Johnny drops his hand, lets it smooth down his back in a sweep too casual to be called anything else.

  “After,” Johnny whispers. “But before you shower.”

  He lets himself be swept up into the crowd.

  It’s exhilarating. It’s scary.

  Exhilarating like all firsts are. The first time you know someone likes you. Juvenile but always true, at least for him. He doesn’t know how other people get.

  He doesn't know how Johnny feels. Contemplative, at the very least.

  The rest of the day flies by. Now that he knows who it is, knows that it’s Johnny, it feels like driving thirty over the speed limit. He’s gonna crash headfirst into gym and he doesn’t even care.

  That’s the scary part.

  He doesn’t care that it’s Johnny.

  Makes it a little more exciting, more than a little scary. Makes him an anxious mess who’s sweating even before he changes for gym.

  He shoves his backpack in his locker, tugging his shirt over his head before he realizes he’s going on autopilot. Digs inside to find the ninth note. He takes a deep breath and opens it.

  You have three freckles on your ass. Look behind you.

  Connor scrunches his nose at the words. He turns around and sees the row of sinks and hair product that’s been left behind over the school year. But then he starts looking harder, scanning the mirror. Finds Johnny easy enough.

  Johnny’s reflection is staring at him, smiling dark. He shrugs his jacket off and lets it fall. Drags his shirt fast over his head, and Connor sees his abs flex. His hands find his zip and pull it down, and Connor watches his stomach pinch as he bends to shuck his jeans off. He’s not wearing underwear, and he’s not quick about pulling on his gym shorts.

  Connor frowns and shakes his head slow. Gives Johnny a look, because yeah, they’re there now. This is Johnny’s fault.

  Connor turns and makes a show of stretching, twisting at the waist. Rubs at his shoulders, and palms his pockets to take out his wallet and keys, maybe grabs his ass a little. He’s doing what he knows he likes seeing girls do, is all. He doesn’t know if it’s working. Just knows his blood is pumping and his head’s a little swimmy with the idea Johnny Burns has got it bad.

  He wants to make it so much worse.

  So he goes to pull down his jeans, makes it seem like an accident when he hooks his thumbs in his briefs and pulls them down just below his ass. Makes a slow go at pulling his underwear back up before actually getting changed for practice. He turns around when he grabs his usual Hartford Phys Ed shirt and pulls it on after catching Johnny’s expression in the mirror again.

  Johnny’s outright mad. Glaring at him like he’s two seconds away from slamming his locker shut. But it’s different, darker. His lips are turned up, like he’s hungry. Hungry for Connor and isn’t that a thought.

  Connor sends a little wave at the mirror and heads to the court.

  Johnny’s all clammy skin and hard hands during gym same as ever. He jostles and shoves and pushes and encourages in his usual aggressive way. But as he knocks Connor to the floor, he hurries to catch him before Connor can slam all the way down. Has him back on his feet in a flash, like he was never about to fall at all.

  Johnny claps Connor on the back, but not before leaning in close to say, “Knew your ass would be pretty when you wanted me to see it.”

  And Johnny’s breath is hot, fire on his ear as he runs off to get the ball back.

  Johnny brushes by him, not quite checking his shoulder so much as rubbing his bare chest and stomach on Connor’s side on their way to the showers.

  Johnny throws a lip-licking grin back at him as he nods toward the lockers.

  “Forgot something?” he calls, and turns into the showers.

  Connor’s hands are tinglin
g as he rolls his combination. It clicks and he shudders out a breath. Digs out the tenth Dollar Valentine and holds it.

  Really, he has no idea what he’s doing. Just knows he wants to see where it ends up. How it ends. Wants the chase of it like he wants it not to end, and that’s how he’s felt a few times before. Knows it’s a feeling you follow. Knows it’s the same feeling he got when he’d been so sure Johnny was going to kiss him after their fight.

  So Connor unfolds it. Reads:

  Go home. Open the third.

  “What?” he asks, to no one.

  He flips it over, checking again to see if Johnny wrote anything anywhere else.

  He gets dressed, feeling strange. Doesn’t shower because the note didn’t say to, but also because he doesn’t know what he’d do, what he’d say if Johnny was naked in front of him right now.

  So Connor gets dressed and goes home.

  The third Dollar Valentine sits on the kitchen island.

  It’s a pink flyer of a thing, too bright and too loud in his parents’ mausoleum of an empty house. He’s a rock in a gutter in this place, and it feels like living on the side of a mountain the longer he stares at Johnny’s final note.

  He grabs it and takes it outside. He sits at the edge of the empty pool, legs crossed and ass freezing through his jeans.

  It’s been two hours and all he can think about is what happens tomorrow. What happens when he sees Johnny again and all this is open. Out in the air between them. Known.

  And Missy knows too, which is maybe the strangest part. Missy said to keep an open mind. Missy said it made sense.

  And does it?

  Since gym all he can think about is how hot everything is. A flare at the thought of Johnny. A flare in the blood and the flesh, in his thoughts. But then, it’s always been like that. A flare in the blood when they fought. A flare in the flesh when Johnny used to shove him around, mean. A flare in his head, because Connor’s always spent a fair amount of time thinking about Johnny, cursing Johnny out, wishing Johnny was less Johnny.

  It’s a shift in perspective maybe, but it’s really not so different. Makes sense and—it makes sense. Like Missy had said.

  Connor opens the note.

  I’m sorry.

  -JB

  That’s all it says.

  Connor sets it down. Stares at the two words.

  He kind of feels like crying. Kind of feels like laughing. He doesn’t know why for either.

  Behind him, from the hall, the phone rings.

  Week of February 14th, 1982. Later.

  Hapstader's got small wrists. For a guy.

  He's skinny. Pulled long and thin in all the worst places. The places that look nice and soft on girls. The places that beg for teeth to sink into flesh, ask for bruises. One bite for every curve and lick for every line studied careful with unsubtle glances. Hapstader's got nice wrists and he has to be subtle to see them. To look. To study and think about.

  Hapstader's not a girl.

  Hapstader's got a dick and balls same as every other sweat stinking asshole after practice, soaping his pubes and running his hands over his ass, pulling at his cheeks like Johnny isn't right there, hello. Motherfucker.

  He doesn't get pissed off when he thinks about girls. They don't make him pull at his roots when he soaps his hair. Don't make him grumble and bitch and moan in silent suffering, barely restraining himself from lashing out. Girls make him hard, but they don't drive him up the fucking wall like Hapstader does in his effortless and unknowing way.

  He’s given himself up.

  Johnny tugs at his earring as he drives home. He takes the long way, because it's better thinking in his car than at home, where he can't think at all, ever. And he takes his time about it. Feels the metal and the beads, the sway and weight of it against his lobe. Thinks about the first day he'd showed up to first period and Smith had called him a fag, only west coast cocksuckers wear earrings in that ear, isn't that the rumor and Johnny remembers smiling, grinning like he'd taught himself to do. Freaked the fuck out of Smith. Did its job.

  Johnny remembers thinking the rumor goes either way. Some queers got their left ear pierced, others their right. He doesn't wear a fucking hanky at least.

  Girls get him off fine. They get him hard and he gets off on them. Likes coming on their tits and their asses and their faces, sometimes in their mouths. Likes going down on them better. Likes getting them real wet and warm and writhing. It's fun making them twitch and moan and pull and tug at his shoulders. Feels good, feels smug when they beg him for more. It's a hobby.

  He's thinking about what it'd be like to fuck tiny and prissy Missy Wagner when he remembers how nice Hapstader's wrists are. He's got good hands too. Blocky knuckles, squared off palms. Can spin any ball in gym with only one finger. And Johnny thought that was pretty cool, even though he could do it too. It wasn't anything special. Not like a party trick or some shit.

  Hapstader's got a nice dick. Long. Makes him wonder if Wagner ever hurt. Makes him wonder a few other things too. If Johnny could get two hands around him before the tip popped out, free and wet and pulsing. He's cut, unlike Johnny. He likes that. Heard it's still supposed to feel good. He wonders if he could make Hapstader feel good.

  He gets home and goes to his room. Does his homework. Takes a shower and gives himself blue balls ignoring how thinking about Hapstader's got him harder than he's been in a while.

  He doesn't see his dad, Jeran, until he's leaving for class with Mel the next morning. The mornings are always safest. He's got nothing to worry about.

  He's not a fag.

  He fucks Betty halfway through lunch. Takes thirty minutes and some change. She's wet and she's tugging at his jacket, getting lipstick all over him. She's moaning, and has been, but he knows when it's fake. She's putting it on and he's not getting her off and he's not getting himself off. Probably couldn't if he pulled out and tried to finish himself. Betty's a nice girl. Betty's not into him much but she's into him enough and that shit doesn't bother him. It never has. But he's not getting off and maybe, fucking hell, he's even flagging a little while still inside her. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, bites at her ear and thinks of wrists and fingers and a set of balls that Betty could never hope to have.

  After, when she's petting his hair and lowering her thigh from his hip, she kisses his cheek and says, "Don't worry. You can make it up to me next time."

  Johnny knows she doesn't mean it, which is the only reason he kisses her after. He appreciates the effort.

  Johnny’s fucked himself over. He knows that.

  He got caught up in the festivities of Dollar Valentine. He got so caught up he forgot he was trying his damnednest not to be a queer, and slipped, and sent one to Hapstader. Just like that. Then he’d sent another, and another, and Missy found him out, and was okay with it, and—

  He’s fucking himself is what he’s done.

  His dad’s gonna kill him.

  Thankfully Hapstader’s gone home as instructed. He’s likely read the dumb little apology he scribbled down that morning. Probably has already thrown it away with a little sneer. Because Johnny’s stupid, and he beat the shit out of Connor Hapstader and Connor doesn’t owe him shit.

  He knew better than to hope.

  Betty mentioned a part that night at her place. He ditches Mel after class and goes straight to Betty’s house. He needs to pretend things are normal, are fun, just for a while. Just for tonight. When Jeran finds out and fucking slaughters him.

  It's a party. Grace is more sober than her boyfriend, Benji, but she still makes a face when he pulls out a little glass vial.

  "What are you doing?" Benji asks, slurring his words.

  Johnny hates these small town hicks. California was fun. Johnny used to be fun.

  He's still fucking fun.

  He spreads his hand, his fingers out. Gets the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger taut and pours powder into the center.

  "Coke dip, bitch," he says. Sniffs. An avalanch
e to the brain.

  It burns and it burns, makes his face go familiar-pleasant-terrible numb and everything turns bright and alive and fast and he loves it, he loves being so fucking fun. He could headbutt a goddamn bullet and break it he's so fucking good and gone and everything now. Things feel unchanged, like he never moved to Hartford at all, for an instant, and he likes it.

  Time spins a little. He feels like he's on a tilt-a-whirl. The world is upside down and he's running through it. Feels beer and liquor splatter his shirt. He's too hot. Some girl who looks like Betty but isn't is grinding on him. He hopes she's not fucking bleeding.

  He kind of hates himself more than he ever has, so he sniffs more.

  Someone is pulling him. He's zipping through time itself and then he's against a wall, time and print and laser focus, all at once coming back to him. Bright, vivid, pulsing throbbing wet and greedy.

  "Shit, Johnny," Hapstader says, looking worried. "Your nose is bleeding. How much did you take?"

  His hand is on Johnny's arm, his elbow. He's wearing a tee shirt. He’s out of breath with big, super wide eyes and he looks like a cartoon and maybe he’s shocked, or afraid. It seems like fear. He can see Hapstader's small for a guy's wrist and he wants to sink his teeth into the vulnerable underbelly of it. Wants to lick the veins and feel him whimper with the push and ebb of pain, pleasure if Hapstader gave him more than a minute. He could turn one into the other easy as anything else and he wants it. Needs it.

  Hapstader tugs him again and Johnny blinks, light filtered blurry then bright again. Oversaturated fury of alcohol filled teenage expression. Wannabe violent tumult hillbilly bullshit for kids that regret every stupid fucking thing poured outta their mouths.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Hapstader asks him and Johnny shuts his mouth. Realizes he's been talking.

  How much did he say?

  A thumb under his nose. Comes away wet and red under the strange low light of gotta party gotta set the mood . He laughs, once. A broken giggle of a thing he doesn't really like much. But it makes Hapstader smile in spite of himself, maybe, and Johnny concedes it might be fine.