You've Never Seen the Sea

by Grayson Sydney

  For all they’ve been through, they never eat together.

  Across the cafeteria, Roy is kissing Missy. All slow and passionate and hot and whatever and it has the back of his neck too heated to be comfortable watching it go down. Connor kind of hates that too.

  Ashley mistakes it for arousal or something because she licks at his palm next. Really makes a show of making out with his hand, and honestly? Gross. Connor makes a disgusted face.

  Riley won't shut up. His hand is sticky. It's really hard eating a sandwich one handed when it's cut diagonally and Johnny and his new friend are watching him and Missy left him for Roy Baler of all the people in the world and he’s fine with, really, he is, but, but, but—

  Connor whimpers a little. Drops his sandwich and covers his eyes with his hand. Ignores how in love Ashley is with his fingers all of a sudden. There's people around for—

  A slam of a lunch tray against the table and a shocked gasp as Riley is…yanked away from him? Then a warm leg is pressing in alongside his and there's the unmistakable female voice of Nerd telling Ashley:

  "His hand won't get you pregnant no matter how hard you try. Beat it."

  And it's Johnny, who is the one who's so solid next to him, who says, "His trust fund can't be as big as the rumors say. Scram."

  When Connor dares to open his eyes to witness the train wreck surely unfolding around him, he sees a frowning Ashley, still clutching his hand for dear life. Like she bought it on sale or something.

  "Why don't you—“

  Johnny laughs cruelly. He leans into Connor's space, slaps an arm around his shoulders. When he squeezes Connor, it’s possessive. Connor ignores the heady flip of his gut.

  Across the cafeteria, Connor sees Missy looking his way. He looks back at Ashley.

  "Trust me, girly," Johnny sneers. “Happy’s showed all the boys his bank account. If anybody has the final say so on how big it is, I think I'd be the better judge. Don't you?"

  Ashley huffs and, scandalized, stands and stomps off.

  Johnny relaxes beside him. He picks at what's left on her tray, which is almost everything given how preoccupied she was with Connor's hand.

  He grabs up a napkin to wipe off her spit on. At least there's that.

  Nerd Gierl produces a bottle of hand sanitizer. He accepts it gratefully with a palm held out. She squeezes a good dollop and he's never been so happy to smell the bitter tang of rubbing alcohol in his life.

  "You looked like you needed saving," she explains, capping the bottle and tucking it away.

  Johnny squeezes his shoulder, refusing to let his arm drop.

  "Couldn't let the dragon gnaw off your good hand, isn't that right, Happy?”

  Connor shoves him again but all he gets is another squeeze. The nickname is old. Johnny hasn’t used it in a while. Then a hand ruffling his hair.

  Finally Johnny pulls away, starts eating his lunch with both hands like a normal person who respects personal boundaries.

  "What d'you mean?"

  Johnny sends him a sidelong glance. Stuffs more food in his mouth. "You play with that hand."

  Connor coughs. "Excuse me?”

  Johnny's eyebrow lifts. "That's your dunking arm. Ashley looked ready to chew it off. You're welcome."

  "In this equation that makes us your knights in shining armor," Nerd Girl adds.

  Connor glares a little at her. "Who are you again?"

  She narrows her eyes. Johnny opens his mouth but she shushes him before he can answer.

  "No, no. Let the dummy decide. I want to know if he remembers who his lowly subjects are."

  "Oh, come on. That's not fair. I'm not like that."

  "Then what's my name? I've only sat behind you one row over all year long."

  "So what? You're a junior. I don't know all the juniors just because I dated Missy for so long."

  "Missy," Johnny enunciates as he chews.

  "And you're the one in junior English still. This whole situation says a lot more about you than me."

  "Or me," Johnny adds, unhelpfully. He’s also in junior English.

  "Shut up," Connor tells him. To the girl he guesses, "Mindy?"

  She scoffs.

  "Barr...y?"

  "Johnny, you know I was a guy?"

  Johnny makes a show of looking her up and down. Stares at her chest too long but the girl doesn't seem to mind.

  "Too much tit for my tastes," Johnny finally says, and, right. Gay and all. Roof. Jumping.

  The quarry.

  She gives him a sarcastic sounding laugh. "Not a Barry, then. One more try."

  Connor groans down at his tray. Gets a ringed finger in his face, pushing at the tip of his nose.

  "R…" he starts, unsure.

  She nods.

  "R...indy?"

  "Jesus."

  "Told you he's only a pretty face. Isn't that right, pretty boy."

  "What the hell is going on?" he asks in the harshest whisper he can manage.

  "It's Raya,” Raya says. “Riggly-Wiggly wants us to partner up for the poetry assignment."

  "Who?"

  "Mrs. Rigglesworth," Johnny explains.

  "Ah. Yeah, I know that. She wants us to do group work—wait. She wants us to pair up? Like, the three of us?"

  Raya shakes her head, no. "No. Like in general we need to pair up. She's long since banned Johnny and I from doing group work together."

  "Why?" Connor asks her slowly.

  Johnny grins like he’s got a secret. "Because we're hell when we spend more than an hour together. Our poems would turn out looking like dry cereal. Just, you know. Too wet."

  Connor isn't going to pretend to understand that metaphor.

  Raya laughs though, so that's something. For Johnny at least.

  Yet another thing for Johnny Burns.

  "How does this involve me in any way, shape or form?"

  Johnny shrugs and bullies his way over to grab up Connor's half finished sandwich. Chomps it down before Connor can even protest.

  "Riley wants to partner with you, right?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You're going to convince her to partner with Raya and you and me will work together."

  Connor snatches Johnny's fingers out of his sandwich-stuffed mouth.

  "Excuse me?" he snips, insulted by the very idea.

  "Look, we all know her singing sucks—“

  Raya flips Johnny off.

  "And I'm not about to go and suck your hand off like it's your dick anytime soon, so what about this little plan doesn't sound like a winner to you?"

  Johnny tugs his hand free and smiles smugly. Wicked in its curve and flash of sharp teeth. Connor blinks and focuses on the pendant shining between the peek of his buttons.

  And, right. Johnny said to forget it after that awkward morning after the quarry. Said to mind his own business. Said to pretend it never happened. He’d just been drunk out of his mind. And, okay, sure. But.

  But. Connor still wanted to kiss him.

  Still, he doesn't want to listen to Riley singing, ever again, thanks. And it would kind of be nice doing group work where his partner cared more about getting a good grade than getting laid.

  Maybe Johnny just considered it a mistake coming out to Connor. Maybe he regretted the kiss and didn’t want it to happen again. Maybe he regretted all of that after the whole secret admirer note sending thing, and—

  Ugh. He was tired of going over the last few months all the time.

  It’s easier going along with whatever Johnny decides is their new normal. And if that new normal involves getting a good grade, all the better.

  His father threatened to take his car away if he didn't graduate. If he doesn't turn in a stellar poem, he's screwed in English. Will probably have to repeat senior year if he fails it.

  Yeah, that’s not happening. Even if it means suffering through writing poetry with Johnny Burns.

  So he sticks his hand out and Johnny shakes it. Doesn't even hesitate.

  "Cool," Johnny
says, and that's that.

  Riley frowns only for a few seconds when Connor tells her he’s working with Johnny for their project. She shrugs when he tells her to work with Raya because she’s the only one without a partner.

  Raya is definitely not the last person in their class without a partner, but Riley doesn’t need to know that.

  He doesn’t know why they’re so gung ho on getting Riley paired up with Raya, but Connor figures it’s all because Johnny wants more of an excuse to drive Connor out of his skull with annoyance before the end of the year.

  And he’s doing a fantastic job of it when they’re in the library during lunch the next day, right after English class. Johnny’s sat across from him, dog-earing pages from a book on World War II Connor thinks, judging by the pictures of tanks and planes.

  Johnny’s folding a whole damn flip-up book.

  “So, what’s your poem going to be about?”

  “Don’t you mean who?” Johnny asks him, and Connor sits back in his seat a little.

  “Yeah, I guess? She said to write about some place important. Supposed to write about what feels like home.”

  Johnny’s folding fingers still. He crushes his creation and flips to another section in the book to start over.

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant. Where are you writing about?”

  Connor shrugs. Taps his pencil idly on the piece of paper in front of him. “I don’t know. Hartford?”

  “Boring.”

  “School?”

  Johnny laughs once. “School so important to you, you're failing out? Sure.”

  “Hey! How’d you know that?”

  He doesn’t mean to admit it. It’s not exactly common knowledge, but, still. Jesus.

  “What? I see your grades.”

  “When!”

  Johnny sighs, very put upon by the whole thing. “When Click passes papers back? I see it all, man. All that hair does not a big brain make.”

  Connor fights the urge to flick his pencil at his head again.

  “Fucking, whatever. Nobody asked. What’s home if it’s not Hartford, huh? What the hell will yours be about?”

  Johnny tilts his head this way and that. Folds a pyramid Connor doesn’t even know how in the book’s pages. He sees the flash of a rifle barrel on one edge, the hint of a hard-lined face on the other.

  “Hartford isn’t home for me, Happy.”

  “Stop fucking calling me that.”

  “M’not lying though,” Johnny says simply. “I don’t know. Probably gonna be about my car or something. Shit, stop crawling up my ass about it.”

  Connor doesn’t understand why it pisses him off so much when Johnny bristles. When he shuts down and backs away. Like the topic’s done and closed before Connor even gets a chance to talk to him about it, maybe gain some ground. Figure out where the hell they stand.

  He can’t exactly navigate this whole liking girls and guys thing on his own, can he? Not when Johnny was once so adamant about flinging his own shit around for Connor to find out about.

  But then Johnny huffs, and suddenly his hard expression is softening. Going slack like he’s decided it’s not worth the argument.

  Johnny’s been doing that more and more the last few months.

  “I don’t know, okay? Got no fucking clue where to start.”

  Connor relaxes. “Well, neither do I. And since it’s your fault we’re partners now, maybe we should work together to figure it out?”

  Johnny’s brow twitches. His lips thin as he folds another shape, a block this time, fragile and transparent with the light before he flattens it with another section of heavy gloss pages with decades-old text.

  “Maybe we—maybe it’s,” Johnny says, cutting himself short with every breath. “Maybe home doesn’t have to be a place. Maybe it can be a person. Someone you feel comfortable with. Or attached to. Somebody that sees you and, you know, like. Sees you and shit. Someone who gets it. Like you get it. Somebody on the same wavelength or whatever the—Christ. That’s what I meant. Before. Man, I don’t fuckin’ know.”

  Connor can’t stop the hand that shoots out to tap Johnny’s wrist. He freezes over the book, fingers falling still. His gaze snaps to Connor’s and stays there. Shocked maybe. Maybe a little pissed. Wondering what Connor will do. Probably expects a book in the face.

  But Connor doesn’t do that. He meant it when he told Johnny to come to him. That he needs it too.

  They need each other, whether Johnny wants to admit it to himself or not.

  “Hey. Hey, that’s a real good idea, Johnny. I like it. I get it. I do.”

  Johnny swallows. Connor sees it. Sees his eyes flicker between his and then away.

  “Okay.” Johnny's voice is so low, Connor has a hard time believing it came from him at all. “So who would you write about?”

  He drags his hand back before it can get any more awkward than things already are.

  Connor shrugs. “Missy probably.”

  Johnny nods stiffly, eyes firmly on his book.

  “Can’t anymore. Or I don’t, I mean. Think of her like that. I meant she used to be. Home. For me. Or what I thought home would be, one day.” He shrugs again, laughing a little hysterically. Because his life has changed so much in the last year. His future isn’t the steady, safe, known entity it used to be, before Missy left him.

  “So who, then if not her?”

  Connor huffs. “I don’t know. I don’t really have anyone.”

  Saying it out loud makes it sound terrible. Pathetic.

  We need each other, he wants to say.

  Johnny’s looking at him again. “Not even your mom?”

  The laugh that drags out of him is biting and bitter and he knows it. “Never around enough to really be a mom.”

  Johnny’s foot knocks into his beneath the table. Connor thinks it’s an accident until it happens a second time. Johnny rips an edge off the page he’s on, balls it up and launches it gingerly across the table to land in the space created by Connor’s elbows.

  Connor flicks it back and Johnny smiles.

  “Christ, Hapstader. You’re as bad as me.”

  And he laughs.

  Like no time’s passed at all.

  So Connor goes into gym that afternoon thinking that it's not so bad actually, talking to Johnny again.

  Maybe things can go back to normal. As normal as they ever were between them.

  So Connor tries in practice, to be nicer. Or at least engage Johnny in active teamwork rather than his usual works-like-a-charm strategy of pretending Johnny doesn't exist.

  And Johnny is receptive to it. It's weird.

  It might only be the fact that they're both skins the first half of practice but then Johnny's switched to shirts the second half so Connor's theory is chucked rather ruefully out the window.

  Together, Johnny works with him. Is really fucking good about it too. Plays up the defense and doesn't let anyone get anywhere near Connor when he's inevitably passed the ball, because he's one of the tallest and all. Johnny hounds on Benji, hunts him down like he usually hunts Connor. Gets him falling on his ass three times before their coach is calling it and telling them to switch.

  Then Johnny's shrugging his shirt back on, and he seems almost remiss about it. Stares at Connor's torso like he's jealous he doesn't have to suffer sweating through an extra useless layer. Maybe something else. He’s got that old, hungry look to him.

  But then, maybe Connor’s just getting caught up like he tends to do.

  And Johnny's always played dirty. So Connor isn't not expecting it when Johnny grabs at his shirt. Johnny twists and tugs him aside, gets him open. Goes in and steals the ball no problem, because Benji's supposed to be running point for him and he frankly sucks at it.

  So Johnny scores on him. Again and again.

  It's a smooth game, all things considered. Johnny's going hard, but no harder than he usually does. He's grinning and laughing out run of the mill shit talk like he's having the best time in the world, and Connor
gives it as good as he gets. It only seems to fuel Johnny's fire.

  And Connor has fun too.

  It all goes a little south when Benji throws a wedge into things, as he is wont to do now and again. Especially since Missy, and then Johnny.

  Johnny's got his fist tangled in Connor's shirt, trying his damnedest to make basketball a contact sport when Benji shoves Johnny. Calls him something awful.

  Johnny yelps and they both go down hard.

  Johnny lands on top of him, breaking his own fall on his elbows, bracketing either side of Connor's head.

  Connor hits his head hard and he groans. When he blinks, stars dance wonky in his vision.

  "Shit," he hears Johnny say. "You good?"

  And no, not really. He feels swimmy. And hot. Johnny's like, on top of him. And that's weird but also kind of nice, which is worse weird, and Connor feels like he's gonna throw up.

  "Hey, hey, hey," Johnny's saying. And then he's farther away from Connor. He's swiping hair away from Connor's eyes. He's straddling Connor's waist.

  "I'm gonna hurl," Connor warns and feels Johnny go rigid above him.

  Then Johnny is scrambling off and pulling him up by his armpits to sit.

  The gym spins and then Connor is meeting his lunch for the second time that day.

  "Hello," he moans.

  There's still that hand, Johnny's hand, so cool and nice and gentle on his forehead. Wiping away hair and sweat and—

  "Don't freak, but you're bleeding," Johnny comments. It's quiet, only for Connor to hear. And because of that, because of how Johnny's got a hold on him, he doesn't panic.

  Then he's farther away again, and his voice is loud. "What the fuck was that, Smith?"

  "Ow," Connor moans, leaning into Johnny's touch. He wants more of it. More touching. More Johnny.

  Coach orders Johnny to get Connor to the nurse. Johnny hauls him up but it's a blur how Connor manages to walk the way to the locker room.

  But then he's sitting and he can breathe, because it's just him and Johnny and no one else is looking at him.

  "You were asking for a breather."

  "I was?"

  "Jesus, Hapstader. You probably have a concussion."

  "How'd you know?"

  It comes out slurred. He doesn't need to see the frown on Johnny's face to know it's not looking great.