The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by C. L. Beaumont

  Danny licks his lips. “It’s shallow enough to stand just a little ways to your right. Sand bar juts out.”

  James gazes at him and gives a delayed, “okay.” It dawns on him with a sickening lurch that he wants, more than anything, to close his eyes and focus on the sound of Danny’s voice echoing on the surface of water, trapped between their bodies. The war rages inside him, churning in his stomach. He looks at Danny’s kind eyes, his soft mouth, his young face. The droplet of seawater hanging on tight to the tip of his nose.

  Danny starts swimming away, seemingly completely ignorant of the fact that the man sharing the water with him is the real one the other surfers at the competition should warn people about. James grimaces and swims behind Danny until they can stand up to their navels out of the water, expecting Danny to continue to walk towards the shore.

  Instead Danny turns so that they’re face to face, sharing the heat from their dripping chests.

  James finds unexpected words hovering just behind his lips, pressing madly to get out. Apologies for staring at the hollow of Danny’s neck, for not having an apartment filled with photographs and beautiful furniture, for having a gnarled scar blasted into his skin instead of inked art. For having killed a man.

  But before James can say any of this, Danny blinks the water out of his eyes, takes a step forward, and opens his mouth.

  “You were brave,” he says.

  James shuts his eyes hard and shakes his head. A rueful grimace forms in the corner of his trembling mouth. “That was stupid, back there. I . . . I shouldn’t have been scared like that. . . I don’t know why the hell I couldn’t just—”

  The breath is stolen from his lungs as Danny’s hand suddenly rises from the water, palm placed firmly right down over the scar on James’ chest. James freezes. Danny’s hand doesn’t flinch.

  “James,” he says, in a voice that cracks over the word. A voice that pounds within James’ own chest. Danny’s thumb strokes once across his skin. “You were brave,” he says again.

  James tries to breathe properly under the feeling of Danny’s palm on his chest, covering the most intimate part of his skin, willingly touching the haunted darkness etched forever into his body. He trembles beneath the weight of it, afraid to look Danny in the eyes. He feels deep down that when he does, he will be stripped bare. No longer able to conceal any of his needs or thoughts, not even from himself.

  “Steady on, Jimmy,” Keith had once said to him, grinning, right as they stepped off that dinghy onto the fatal shore.

  James steels himself, and he finally raises his hand to cover Danny’s own, sturdy, tan fingers covering long and thin. He meets Danny’s gaze and nearly falls forward with a rush of sudden recognition.

  The man from the pier.

  “I missed you,” Danny whispers. His eyes grow wide, as if he’s shocked those words just left his mouth.

  James nearly groans. He wants to draw the man before him into his body. No—he wants to be drawn into his. Kept and protected and held with steady arms.

  Danny blinks hard. His hand twitches beneath James’ fingers. “I . . . well, not—not really. Not like . . . I know it was just a few days, and you were hurt, and . . . and we barely—”

  “Shh,” James whispers. His hand travels up Danny’s arm. He leans forward, licking his parted lips, at a complete loss for what to say. Danny Moore’s wide eyes are indistinguishable from the Oahu sea. “Danny . . .”

  James’ words fade to a sigh as Danny suddenly reaches out and grasps him in his arms, pulling him close against his body and cupping the back of his neck with his huge, warm hand.

  James closes his eyes as his cheek meets Danny’s chest. “Fuck, I missed you too,” he breathes into his skin.

  Danny holds him as the gentle waves lap at their skin, right there in full view of the ocean and sky. James has never experienced anything like this in his entire life. Desperation rolls through his body—hands practically clutching at Danny’s back, clinging to the tendrils of the jellyfish, the bones of his shoulder blades. He shivers when Danny’s cheek rest against his forehead with a slow glide.

  “Is this okay?” Danny whispers. James feels Danny’s chest tense against him, anticipating his response.

  James opens his mouth to say something back and can’t. Finds the words blocked and choked in his throat. He turns his face into the hollow of Danny’s neck as an answer. He holds on tighter, sighing as Danny’s body relaxes under his once more.

  He hears a wet breath in Danny’s throat, a shaking sigh. A sudden thought pops into James’ head just as they both start to shiver in the evening breeze, the heavy sun having just slipped below the waves. He clings to it like a lifeline.

  This is why Keith Hartman didn’t leave you to die on that beach.

  ~

  James keeps waiting for the night to turn tense and awkward—for that panicked, internal alarm he’d felt flare through his system in the Hermosa Beach shower to start up again, loud and fierce now that they’ve held each other skin to skin in the shallows of the waves.

  Only, it doesn’t.

  James is sitting on one of the chairs Danny moved out to his porch, practically devouring the spicy rice dish Danny seemed to whip up out of thin air once they made their way back to the hut from the shore. He’s wearing a borrowed pair of Danny’s sweats and an old, worn Grateful Dead t-shirt that he doesn’t fully believe Danny just randomly bought at a Goodwill.

  They sit and look out over the moonlit ocean, illuminated by the lights still on inside the hut, pouring golden pools through the windows onto the sand. James feels like he’s lived in this place for a hundred years. The thought of leaving to go back to his bare hotel room churns in the pit of his gut like lead, yanking him down from the heavenly daydream he’s been living in all day.

  “Just stay here,” Danny says, somehow reading his goddamn mind. “Can’t catch a bus this late, and there aren’t any taxis out here this side of the island. Couch isn’t that bad—I’ve slept on it plenty of times.”

  James breathes out slowly. He’s terrified of how much he wants to say yes.

  “Besides, you’ve got an early-ish morning tomorrow,” Danny goes on. “I think check-in is at seven-thirty or eight.”

  James’ mind freezes, frantically running back over that sentence again and again. He starts to frown. “But I don’t need to be there for check-in . . .”

  He turns to look at Danny and sees a look on his face he’s never seen before. He looks. . . sheepish? Somehow curling back into his seat.

  The realization slams into James, knocking him breathless and forcing pounding blood in hot waves through his limbs.

  “The fuck’s going on?” he asks, voice dangerous.

  Danny sits as a statue, gazing purposefully nonchalantly out to sea. He holds his chin high even while his spine sags. “You’re surfing tomorrow,” is all he says.

  James clenches his fists. “No, I’m not,” he says, keeping his voice as steady and flat as possible.

  “You are. You can borrow a wetsuit I have I think will fit you. And my board.”

  James’ skin turns to ice even as a bead of fiery sweat drips down the side of his face. “Since when am I fucking surfing tomorrow?”

  Danny swallows hard and finally turns to look at James. He doesn’t look quite so casual anymore. He looks ruffled, now. Squirming and unsure.

  “Since I called when we were eating lunch and re-registered you.”

  “Since you called and—Jesus you just don’t fucking stop, do you?” James leaps to his feet and paces across the deck, one fist clenched in his hair.

  “Seriously,” he goes on, “what even made you think that’s a good idea? I was just in the fucking hospital, for God’s sake. I haven’t even surfed!”

  “It’s only been four days; you haven’t lost any strength.” Danny rises to his feet and faces him. “You proved to yourself just now that you aren’t afraid to be back in the water.”

  “Oh, so that was just a test?�
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  Danny flails his hands. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

  James huffs, reeling at the memory of the heat of Danny’s bare skin. “Look, what made you even . . . I haven’t prepared for one fucking second. Don’t know a single thing about who’s surfing, or what’s going on, or where the hell I’m even supposed to go. What on earth made you think this was a good idea? That I wanted this?”

  “Of course you wanted this! This is your dream, why you came all the way out—”

  “I’m not even supposed to fucking be in it! You know that’s not why I came here!”

  James glares at Danny for a long moment, then goes completely still. “I shouldn’t even have the points to be here,” he says. The ice in his voice startles even him.

  His mind flashes back to Danny whipping off his sunglasses mid-ride down a pitiful swell off the Los Angeles coast, staring James down just before flinging himself back into the waves on purpose.

  Danny steps back and runs his hand through his curls. “Come on, man. Don’t try that on me. You wouldn’t have even been that far behind me in scores anyways. You don’t understand, James. This is what you need to do.”

  “Need to do? I don’t need to do anything. Especially not something you just decided for me not five fucking days after you had to fucking resuscitate me!”

  “But you’re already here! You have a board and they’ll put you up against a Wild Card and you can surf,” Danny pleads.

  “God, I just—you know what? No. I’m not letting this ruin my fucking day. You’re going to sleep, and I’m going to sleep, and we’re waking up to go watch the fucking competition tomorrow, got it? Whether you’re down with it or not.”

  Danny stands still staring him down, hands fidgeting at his sides. James dares him with his eyes to try and keep fighting—to put up another ridiculous, pointless, goddamn unbelievable selfish excuse why James should go out and embarrass himself on Danny’s home turf tomorrow. Why James should have to be the one to take on the uncomfortable stares instead of Danny fucking Moore, for once.

  But Danny ducks his head and eventually just nods, taking another step back.

  “Shower’s in the back,” he says low into the awkward silence. “There’s an extra towel.”

  “Right,” James says as he strides inside. He doesn’t wait to hear whether Danny follows him as he tears off his clothes and steps into the shower. He scrubs his skin furiously with his hands in the steaming water, rubbing until he feels pink and raw.

  By the time James makes it back out to the main room, the door to the bedroom is closed, light pouring out from underneath . He flicks off the lamp by the couch with such force it nearly topples over, then flings himself onto the couch. He hates himself when he notices Danny left a folded-up blanket and a pillow for him, stacked perfectly neat. He huffs onto his side, forces his brain to shut off, and stares blankly into the dark.

  James barely sleeps. He’s awoken just before dawn to the sound of footsteps softly padding through the room, making their way carefully out onto the deck. He lies awake staring at the ceiling, waiting for Danny to come back inside, hating the fact that he feels so alone knowing that Danny’s no longer also in the house.

  When he doesn’t return what feels like ten minutes later, James pushes himself from the couch and groans, cracking his neck. He blinks blearily at the soft, grey light starting to bathe the beach in silver as he looks out one of the windows. He instantly spots Danny down by the shore, standing still and gazing out to the sea, shoulders slumped.

  James sighs as his feet carry him out to the sand, shivering once at the chilled dawn air. He makes his way slowly down to where Danny stands, giving himself hundreds of missed opportunities to give up and turn back.

  Danny doesn’t even look over at James when he joins him by his side. He doesn’t seem surprised. His curls ripple back from his face with the light salty breeze.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” James says to fill the silence. Even the sound of the waves feels muted.

  Danny hums. They stand in silence for long minutes, looking out over the sea as it slowly lightens with the oncoming sunrise. The man next to him feels soft and gentle as the new day dawns, fading effortlessly into the peaceful landscape instead of standing out against the horizon, powerful and bold. A pathetic shame creeps across James’ skin when he remembers how he yelled and stomped off the night before.

  He takes a deep breath in through his nose and smells the salty air. His palms itch to get in the water. To get their grip on a freshly waxed board.

  “You aren’t messing with me,” he says quietly. “You really think I can hold my own for a round without embarrassing myself?”

  He turns to look at Danny, and frowns when the man shakes his head.

  “No,” Danny says. He meets his gaze, eyes focused and intense. “I think you can win.”

  James huffs and looks away, heart suddenly pounding in his chest. “Nobody’s that optimistic.”

  “James.”

  James sighs and looks back, resigned to hear whatever new wild excuse or explanation Danny has at the ready—perfectly designed to goad and convince him into doing this stupid thing anyway. He raises his eyebrows at Danny to continue.

  “James,” he says again. Danny hesitates, then turns towards him, waiting for him to do the same.

  James holds his breath as Danny’s hands slowly reach up to settle on top of his shoulders, his grip warm and firm. Danny’s pale eyes flicker in the morning light, and his curls blow softly across his forehead in tangled strands. James feels an unexpected moan on the tips of his lips.

  “Think what you want about me,” Danny says. “Whatever people say, whatever they’ve told you, I—I don’t care. But I’m not cruel. I wouldn’t embarrass you.”

  James is gutted at the expression on Danny’s lost face. He gazes helplessly into the little droplets of ocean and takes a step closer, shivering hard when Danny’s fingertips trail lightly at his collarbone.

  James licks his lips. The roll of his tongue sounds unbearably loud. His body is pulsing, shaking, held together only by the hands on his shoulders. Danny’s breath fans across his skin.

  “No,” he whispers, and the rightness of his words washes through him with a calming hum. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  The air between them changes. Danny’s eyes widen, and James finds himself slowly leaning forward into the heat of his chest. He barely registers what’s happening as Danny tips his head down towards his, lips dry and parted. His own hands reach up to touch Danny’s warm, firm waist, afraid to press too hard, afraid to make this all disappear.

  James tries to relax his neck and closes his eyes. Feels Danny’s breath dance across his lips, the warmth from his cheek illuminating James’ skin. The taste of his mouth already swirling across James’ tongue on the cool air.

  Suddenly Danny sucks in a breath and pulls back. James flings opens his eyes to see Danny staring down at him in disbelief.

  “You want this,” Danny breathes, his voice uncharacteristically shaking.

  James’ answer falls effortlessly from his lips. “Yes.”

  Danny swallows hard and blinks. “With me?”

  The question is so small, so tiny and fragile in the air. The unspoken “and not Rob” hands like a trembling secret between them. James closes his eyes and thinks of holding a picture of a curly-haired little boy in his hands.

  “God, Sydney, yes. More than anything.”

  Sydney’s chest hitches on his breath. He looks at James with pure, absolute, radiating wonder, and he breathes James’ name on a sigh into the dazzling sunlit air.

  He cups James’ face in warm, trembling hands and kisses him with a soft smile still on his lips, leaving James melting and breathless in the sand as the oblivious sea laps at their bare feet.

  13

  James Campbell is kissing him.

  James Campbell is kissing him.

  Sydney tastes the groaning sigh that leaves James’ mouth as James’ hand comes up
to hold the side of his face, fingers trailing through his curls and holding on. It brushes gently across Sydney’s cheek, soothing that bruise that came from the end of a fist while James had struggled, gasping in the wet sand ten feet away.

  James Campbell tastes like the cool layer of wet sand buried just beneath the top layer baked in the sun. Like the first burst of ocean water at the start of a new day across his bare skin. Like soft, warm heat.

  A moan escapes from the back of his own throat as he tilts his head to capture more of James’ sleep-soft lips under his, wet and pliant and gentle. Consumed.

  Fire burns up his spine and crackles in the pit of his chest as he pulls James’ body flush against his, and the rapid beating of James’ heart pounds straight through to his own skin. James’ peaked nipples brush against him. An electric shiver through his blood.

  And James’ body is somehow both solid and soft beneath his hands—hands which he can’t believe are still steady despite the fact that James Campbell is kissing him. Steady, coursing, overwhelming desire burns in his chest, and he pulls back to speak before he loses his nerve.

  “Say it again,” he whispers, lips brushing against James’. The air between them is warm and wet, shaky exhales on the salty ocean breeze. Sydney keeps his eyes open despite the flush of hot embarrassment creeping across his face. He needs to remember exactly what James Campbell’s eyelashes look like up close, count the number of faded freckles on the bridge of his nose, the lines at the corners of his eyes. Needs to burn this image into his memory in case they never . . . in case it doesn’t . . .

  To his relief James seems to know immediately what he means. James smiles a breathy laugh and looks into his eyes, brushing the curls from Sydney’s forehead with gentle fingers.

  “Sydney,” he breathes.

  The sound of his name in James’ voice reverberates in his ears, then floats out over the sea and towards the distant horizon. Sydney wants to cup the sound of it in his palms and hide it away inside his skin forever. He wants to paint it across the sky.