You've Never Seen the Sea

by Grayson Sydney

  Almost had a mother, who left. Almost had a father, who he likes to think died in the war. Almost let himself enjoy his first kiss, almost killed the kid for it. Almost went home a lot more sorry than he did the long nights he spent in WeHo.

  Almost snuffed out Happy Connor Hapstader’s flickering little candlelight heart. Almost loved him, maybe. A little. Somewhere buried under all the rot he carries around in spades.

  The curtain rod buckles. He falls at the edge of his bed and gasps. Hits the back of his head, and it throbs. He sobs. Because he’s a fuck up and it’s another almost.

  Almost killed others. Can’t figure out how to kill himself. It’s funny.

  Johnny calms down. Gets the shit he cares about in one arm, his pockets. He gets in his Firebird. He gets gas.

  And he’s about to pull out of Hartford. He’s on the highway to do it. Highway right out of that hell, and it makes him laugh. That’s funny too.

  But Hapstader’s stopped at the same light as him. A look to his left and there Hapstader is, in all his big haired glory. He still sees the ghost of the fresh pumpkin he sported for a head for a week after their fight and Johnny did that and Johnny hates himself, knows there’s no hiding the mess of how much hate he carries. The light turns green and they stay there, taking in the other. All they’ve done. That drunken mess of the other night. How Johnny had been given a ride to school like it was nothing the next morning.

  Hapstader revs his engine, what little it can rev. Johnny returns it. Hapstader’s lips lift in a smug little thing and Johnny grins, devilish and hungry and so fucking sorry.

  They race all night. Or close to it.

  March 15th, 1982.

  "You're a sloppy drunk," Melanie told him once. When he was fifteen and angry and had two packs of beer and more than a few shots. He tripped over his shoelaces, giggling to cover the pain of how his fall skinned his elbow bloody. Mel got him a box of bandaids. She’d been so little when she’d said, "You need to have a limit."

  "I don't have one," Johnny laughed back at her, because he didn't.

  That much was hardly a thing back then. Now, it takes a whole hell of a lot more to do any real damage.

  Now? Right now?

  He tried to kill himself two weeks ago and he fucked even that up. The idea hasn’t left his head since.

  He's drunk. Sloppy fucking gone, beyond buzzed, fucked up.

  The breeze is cool in Hartford. Wind that begs a chill the second it hits you. Makes your skin pebble and your teeth clack in the ghost of a shake, wanting the bite of molar on molar. Wanting the chill and the bitter quiver where skin is thinnest.

  The quarry was shut down when those four kids made a suicide pact and jumped. Heard Mel mention it once or twice. Before they moved to Hartford.

  They fell. Fell from right here. Where Johnny's teetering on the edge.

  The wind is a push pull kind of comfort. An angel at his heart, telling him he's safe, there's time. A devil at his back inching him over, gust by whipping gust.

  He teeters.

  He's crying fast enough the even faster wind steals his tears away. Snatches them clean off his overheated cheeks until they're pricks of light in a dusky skyline.

  His dad’s gonna kill him sooner or later, so why not now? Why not make it easy on everyone?

  But his ribs hurt, and his neck hurts worse, and his face hurts worse than that, but his heart hurts the most. He's a pussy.

  He wonders if they'll look for him, after. Wonders if they’ll say it was a suicide pact, if they’ll think someone else jumped with him. They might think he tripped and the whole point would be ruined.

  Wonders if there will be pieces left to look for, after. If. When. He supposes the clothes on his back will be something. Will have to be enough.

  He told Mel when he dropped her off that morning she could have his jacket. The good one. Black leather, soft and worn. He knows she likes that one the most. Knows she wants to be like him. A little too much like him. Had to tell her if she cuts her hair, he can't save her from Jeran. She'd listened. He told her to wait a few years. Move to a bigger city where the people don’t care what you are so long as you pay your taxes.

  Mel. Angry little Mel. His little sister.

  An engine cuts, smooth as honey.

  He teeters.

  There's a gasp as he inclines forward. A stomping as he falls and then a wrenching dread as an iron vice grabs him by the hair and back to the earth.

  He's yelping with the sting of it. Then growling at the arm that clamps around his neck, scrambles over his chest, a sharp pain at his groin as fingers cement themselves to his belt loops to haul him back.

  He's dragged away kicking, away, away from the wind and dark quarry water and imaginings of what four bloated bodies might look like, after days of being gone and missed.

  Nobody would miss him.

  A hand claps at his face, twists them around until Johnny's underneath a warm body, all legs and hair and big brown eyes with little flickers of green and yellow and he cries. He can't stop. He’s gonna die sooner or later and he’s looking up at everything he’s ever wanted.

  Connor Hapstader is shouting something at him. Connor Hapstader is dripping tears onto his nose and forehead between a panicked swipe of lips over his skin, the second too close to a kiss at his hairline for Johnny to process. Connor Hapstader's holding him down with a strength Johnny didn't think he had.

  Connor Hapstader's saved his life again.

  Connor Hapstader is the boy he's been in love with for a few months.

  Just the few.

  Just since Connor punched the shit out of him and gave him something to think about.

  He's not a total fag. Or, a total gay. He’s been trying not to use that word, since the night of the roof and all. It feels weird to think it about himself now. Still feels a little right.

  He’s fucked in the head, he knows that. Maybe it’s the whirlwind kind of day he’s had.

  Regardless, Connor's more a hobby than anything.

  A pretty face to think about when he jacks off into a tissue. A nice long cock to steal glances at in the school showers.

  They're not friends. They don't know each other at all, aside from the points that maybe matter the most; Johnny can hit and Connor can take it. He can show up at Hapstader’s house in the middle of the night and not be shoved off the edge of the roof when he deserves it.

  Connor can save his life, and has. Twice.

  What else is there?

  They’re not friends.

  Connor parks in his driveway. Gets Johnny up the stairs to the door and then beyond, staining his nice interior decorating with mud and the stench of liquor.

  He stumbles until a hand lands on his lumbar, guiding him forward. You won't fall here, it says.

  Johnny hates him. Hates the instant support, the unasked for brick wall of a will that's not even bothering to be nosy and ask him shit. Ask him why he wasn't picking Mel up after school, again. Why he was standing at the edge of the quarry, teetering. Falling.

  Connor gets him upstairs slowly. Maybe takes twenty minutes until Johnny's leaning against the sink in the en suite bathroom.

  He kind of wants to tell Connor how his dad hit him awake this morning.

  Connor points at his torn jeans. Johnny ignores him. His vision is swimmy, head all filled with cotton.

  Hands at his waist, undoing his belt and zipper with ease.

  Johnny thrusts his hips lazy, sneering, "Always knew you wanted to suck me off."

  It’s not what he wanted to say. He wants to cry.

  Connor doesn't so much as pause. He gets Johnny's jeans down his thighs.

  "That what you need right now?" Connor asks, amicable. Unperturbed, Johnny would hazard.

  "Would you?"

  Johnny steps out of his jeans when they're at his ankles, kicking off his boots at the same time. Then Connor's pulling his underwear down.

  Johnny's flaccid. Connor's looking down at him. His bruises. The
old burn on his left hip. Connor's looking at everything. The hair at his groin. His length. Farther, at his thighs, his shins, his feet. Farther still. Looking at what, Johnny isn't sure.

  "I would."

  Johnny hums a sound. He couldn't say what he means if he was badgered about it. It’s a confession for a confession already made. He figures they’re even.

  He shrugs out of his leather jacket and hands it over. Lifts his arms and Connor draws his tank top up and off in one easy pull.

  Johnny stumbles into him a little, naked, very off kilter.

  "You're about two licks away from cowboy drunk," Connor tells him, and Johnny's never heard of that before.

  "Lick me twice and find out."

  Connor laughs, all breath. Gets Johnny wrapped in one arm while he bends with the other to turn the shower on. The support feels good, wonderful. Feels good to be held up.

  "Can you stand on your own?"

  Johnny shrugs away from him and immediately starts falling. Connor catches him. Again.

  Tears leak out of Johnny's eyes. Real slow. Inescapable from Connor's sharp gaze. The guy's always looking.

  Connor leans him up against the wall and then undresses quickly. He's definitely all legs. Johnny lingers on his chest hair. Nicer and thicker than what Johnny's managed to grow. His ass is round and biteable when he turns and steps into the shower. Then he's holding his arms out for Johnny to step into, under the warm spray.

  Johnny does and he leans against Connor, back to chest, while Connor suds his hair. Rinses the soap from him, his skin. Wipes gentle under his arms and around his dick. Gets him half hard and leaves him a little blue-balled by the time Connor turns him in the spray so they're chest to chest. It’s still nice. So fucking nice he could fall to his knees right there and sob. Wouldn’t even care after the day he’s had.

  Instead, Johnny wants to kiss Connor Hapstader, so he does. Connor kisses him back for as long as it takes his hair to be thoroughly cleaned. It's not romantic. It just is. Johnny needs it then more than he's ever needed anything before in his life. Connor gives it to him, is eager and easy about how he gives it.

  Then Connor's leading them out, wrapping a fluffy green towel around Johnny's shoulders. Is kissing Johnny's nose before guiding him by the shoulders back to Connor's bedroom.

  Johnny sits at the edge of the plush mattress when Connor pulls the gaudy covers back.

  Connor Hapstader points until Johnny's lying down. Says, "Stay." And heads off, nake, his ass cheeks jiggling a little as he jogs off to Johnny doesn't know where.

  Everything is heavy and weightless and wet and dry and too warm but he's shaking with the cold too. He's wondering how long he's going to be alone for when Connor jogs back in, a little out of breath but with two mugs and a bottle of water.

  Johnny sits up and accepts the hot broth. Connor sips at his which makes Johnny drink his own down. Tries to get it in one go, because he's not a fucking pussy and he won't be showed up by Connor fucking Hapstader. Connor Hapstader, who saved his life.

  Johnny downs the water next. Sees Connor looking at him cautiously.

  Then Johnny coughs and more tears seep out and then his throat is burning and tasting like bile and Connor is holding a bin under his face.

  "Better out than in," Connor offers, like it's at all soothing. But the hand rubbing circles on Johnny's shoulders is.

  It's all saliva and broth and water and maybe whatever he had for breakfast.

  "There's no blood this time," Johnny tells Connor between wretches, because that part is important. He remembers that much.

  Connor frowns and clasps his neck before going to clean out the bin.

  They do the same song and dance twice before Johnny can barely keep his eyes open anymore. He's empty. A thousand percent empty.

  He'll never be full again.

  But then Connor's sliding in bed behind him and Johnny can feel his clammy hands as they maneuver into the best spots to hold Johnny’s body to his, secure, final in their touch. He can feel Connor soft against his ass cheek and it's kind of funny so he laughs, once. Feels Connor kiss his shoulder. This is not how he imagined this moment going down.

  "Go to sleep, Johnny," Connor instructs him.

  Johnny falls asleep, Connor's hand in his.

  Johnny wakes up with his face smashed against Connor's bare chest. He thinks he's dreaming. He thinks he's in heaven.

  Connor's trailing the tips of his fingers up and down, up and down Johnny's shoulder blade.

  Says when he notices Johnny's woken up, “Your sister called. I let her know I picked you up."

  Johnny grunts.

  "You hungry?"

  Johnny shakes his head.

  "Yeah. Didn't think so." Up and down, up and down. "Johnny?"

  "Hm?"

  Up and down. Up and down.

  Then those same fingers begin carding through his hair.

  Connor doesn't say anything else. Johnny dares to stay where he is. He still feels like he's floating. Empty headed, empty hearted. Empty veins and empty cells. A steady heartbeat plays underneath his ear. It's lulling.

  "What's cowboy drunk?"

  Connor's fingers rake through his hair, static over his scalp. Make his skin tingle. Make his whole body tingle. Feel overwarm and melted down. Rose colored honey soft and all sorts in between.

  He's still a little drunk.

  "Get so sloshed you do wild stuff. Wild stuff, John.”

  John. Nobody calls him John.

  "Who says I was doing something wild?"

  Fingers stutter a beat through his hair, gentle but anxious. Johnny slings his arm higher over Connor's ribs.

  Connor's hand stills, fingers threading through the curls at Johnny's nape.

  "Hey."

  Johnny brushes a thumb over his side, feels his chest expand with a deep inhale.

  "You come to me, okay?"

  He's not exactly sure what Connor means. If he means when Johnny feels like teetering. If he means when Johnny's had two bottles of Jack and a row of shots and enough coke to take out a cheer squad. If he means when Johnny gets lonely, lonely enough to imagine what it would sound like if Connor said I love you.

  He remembers suddenly he kissed Connor last night. He’s embarrassed.

  "You don't want that," Johnny mutters against a spattering of freckles. Connor's covered in them. Pretty little things like constellations in a pale sky. Pale like skim milk.

  Connor's head rolls on his pillow, hair spilling forward, getting Johnny in the eyes. He blinks and huffs and then Connor is just there, right in front of him.

  "I do. I want that. I want it all, Johnny," he says back just as quiet and patient and wanting as Johnny thinks he maybe could be. "Need it too, all the time. Need and want it. You hear me? You come to me."

  The words ring in his ears. High pitched impossibility. So quiet the words descend past the waves of his churning thoughts, dark and vicious. Settle slick and large and overpowering in the base of his brain. A mantra to replay on lonely nights.

  Need and want and need again.

  Connor's mouth slides over his then, dry and all kinds of yearning. Tastes like morning breath. He sniffs like he's got to blow his nose. But Johnny kisses him back because it's Connor fucking Hapstader, and he's been in love with the guy for a while now.

  And maybe he needs him, a little.

  Maybe he needs a lot.

  Maybe Connor's willing to see that.

  April 25th, 1982. The Beginning.

  For some inexplicable reason, Johnny Burns is the only student Mrs. Rigglesworth has ever liked. Probably in the whole history of Hartford High.

  As Rigglesworth is yelling at Connor (again) for messing around in class and, quote unquote, flirting too much with the girls, he wonders not for the first time how it’s come to be that he’s the one more despised. Than Johnny goddamn Burns.

  It’s just weird, is all.

  Maybe it was the month of detentions Johnny got last year. Maybe he’d m
anaged to somehow charm Click over to his side. Because no matter what Johnny gets up to in class, flirting, talking, pissing Connor off (in particular, not that he’s got his favorites or anything), Johnny doesn’t get in trouble. Ever. For any of it.

  Johnny pisses him off. Nevermind that Johnny’s his, what, friend now? But still.

  It’s unfair, in Connor’s opinion.

  Weird. Unfair. Something greatly misaligned with the rest of the sane universe, because since the moment Johnny stepped out of his gaudy monster of a Hot Wheel, Hartford has flipped its shit. Literally and figuratively.

  Case in point being the wadded up spitball that smacks moist against his forehead and sticks for a long moment, before falling limp to his desk.

  He frowns down at it, whatever he was saying to Ashley whoever the heck to the left of him effectively cut short as Johnny chuckles behind him. He hears the tittery laughter of another girl beside him, and turns to see that one girl. A nerd from chemistry.

  The titter devolves into an ugly snort and chuckle as they lock eyes.

  Riley Velner taps his shoulder from his right and when he turns he’s met with a full force simper, tits pressed together in a pale swell of inviting skin covered in freckles and—

  And another spitball hits his cheek this time.

  He growls and reels around, chucking his pencil at Johnny’s obnoxious head. It gets stuck in his hair and Johnny looks...proud.

  Connor is the one who gets detention that afternoon.

  Connor hates Johnny Burns.

  Even though he also kind of, really, likes him.

  Ashley is kissing at his palm during lunch. Riley is pressed beside him, crooning in a soft southern drawl she swears is going to carry her to Nashville and beyond. She’s going to be signed and she’s going to win awards, and, and, and.

  Connor’s just trying to eat his sandwich, okay?

  Ashley won’t give him back his hand.

  Riley is plastered to him.

  Two tables away, the nerd and Johnny are glaring his way. Connor wonders when exactly it was that Johnny ditched Benji and Grace for the nerdy junior. Connor harumphs into his sandwich and does not give in to the urge to glare back.