The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by C. L. Beaumont

  But James is holding bags . . .

  James must have heard the question, because his mouth twists. Sydney can tell by the way he’s holding himself that the bags are hurting his shoulder, and Sydney momentarily wonders what color red his blood stained into the sand.

  He shakes his head from the nauseating thought as James takes a deep breath. “I . . . I missed you,” he says again, all the emotion in his voice landing hard on the ‘you’.

  “You . . .” Sydney starts, then he wipes a hand over his dry mouth. The breeze blows a lock of James’ long bangs out of his eyes, and Sydney’s fingertips go numb with the desire to feel it. “You look so beautiful,” he whispers.

  His own brows shoot up, stunned. But before Sydney can stuff his fist in his mouth, or bury his head in the sand, or try to backtrack and cover over what the hell he just said, James Campbell melts.

  He drops his bags into the sand with a thud and runs the twenty feet towards Sydney, kicking up clouds of sand. Sydney throws open his arms and takes one desperate step forward and grabs James hard in his arms, not giving a shit when James knocks his sunglasses off his head. He pulls James close to his body in one fierce embrace as he lets out the last two minutes’ worth of tense breath in his lungs.

  James’ back is shaking hard, warmed by the sun. A damp trail leads down his spine from dripping sweat, and Sydney shivers when the hair on James’ chest seems to brush against his own skin through James’ thin shirt.

  “Fuck, Sydney,” James chokes out. “Fuck.”

  “James.”

  “Ah, God . . .”

  “James.”

  Apparently, it’s the only word left he knows.

  James fits his head beneath Sydney’s chin in a way that makes Sydney want to shield him from every gun left on earth, from the most dangerous waves, from the sky itself, and James hugs him hard enough to bruise, fingers gripping hard into his back, imprinting themselves on Sydney’s bones.

  “Say I can stay,” James breathes. “I know we didn’t say, before . . . not really . . . but you’re—you—”

  “James.”

  “I’m here now. Please . . .”

  James whispers the words into his chest, and Sydney can feel the heat of them straight through his shirt, straight through his skin and ribs down to the muscles in his chest. Something inside of him releases. Something held hot and tight, bundled up and tied together, since the moment the doors had closed behind James walking away from him at the airport terminal. One hundred and forty-five hours ago.

  Sydney melts around James’ body. Places his cheek down in his hair and rubs his face against the soft strands, brushes his lips again and again across James’ scalp, clean and warmed by the sun. He breathes in the scent of his skin, letting it spread through his veins like a salve. James smells like the seats in the plane, and floral Hawaiian mud, and sweat and salt and musky men’s shampoo.

  He smells like the worn, thin sweatshirt thrown back inside on the hardwood floor.

  Sydney tilts his face up to the clear open sky and thanks whoever the hell is up there that his momma always used to talk to. Thanks them for flying James Campbell clear across the Pacific Ocean and placing him solid and warm in his arms, gripping so tightly that Sydney can barely breathe. Thanks them more than he did the moment James ended his final Billabong ride, and Sydney knew before the judges even opened their mouths that he had just won.

  He cups the back of James’ head in his hand, swallowing down a thick emotion at the warm, living weight of it in his palm. He coaxes James’ face away from his chest, stares for a moment at the way the sunlight weaves through his blonde eyelashes, then leans down and kisses him with a rushing sigh. James exhales into his mouth, hands immediately flying up to hold Sydney’s jaw in his hands.

  “Thank God,” James moans against his lips.

  The relief is nearly debilitating. Sydney thinks he should climb back up on the cliff and announce to the entire world that it is actually he who is the biggest idiot of them all, because he thought he would be absolutely fine going about his days as if he’d never felt James Campbell moan against his mouth, or caught rasps of James Campbell’s stubble on his own chin. As if he could just blink once and magically pretend they’d never kissed—never touched each other so closely, nose to nose, that neither one of them could close their eyes and pretend something else was happening, couldn’t look away. As if he could simply wave at James at the next competition across the beach and conveniently forget the fact that James was the first person since his momma to call him Sydney, the photograph held carefully in his steady hands.

  God, he’s been a fool.

  Sydney kisses him deeply, humming just to feel the vibrations rumble across their tongues.

  “God,” James murmurs, out of breath.

  Sydney chuckles against his mouth. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  The smile threatening to burst across his face hurts his cheeks. The salty breeze tingles across his sensitive lips, carrying the taste of James’ mouth across the sand on a gentle, soothing wind.

  James’ eyes are the ocean. He brushes the curls back from Sydney’s forehead, looking like he has words waiting right at the tip of his tongue. Then he shakes his head in something like disbelief, even though he was the one who just strolled up unannounced in the oblivious sand, bags over his shoulders, and he pulls Sydney hard down against him by the back of his neck. He licks into his mouth, rolling across Sydney’s tongue, and he groans against his chest, sending a flame of heat shooting straight down Sydney’s spine.

  Sydney kisses back, distantly aware in the back of his mind that the sky has never really seen them kiss—not like this. That the daylight is illuminating the places where their bare lips brush, desperate and wet. And the entire ocean is watching James’ lips part under his, the way they consume the soft sighs from Sydney’s mouth. And James’ mouth tastes like the first gulp of seawater Sydney ever accidentally swallowed down.

  That, and a hot, slick, rolling, gasping—

  Sydney sips on the breaths spilling over from James’ mouth. He touches the lips that once turned cold and blue beneath his, caresses the mouth that almost died in the foaming shallows of the ocean and still gulped in oxygen and breathed. The beautiful mouth that had looked death in the face twice and yelled, “Fuck you, you bastard, I’m not ready to fucking go yet!”

  A laugh bubbles up in Sydney’s chest at the thought, and he pulls back to chuckle breathlessly down at their feet. James cups his cheek in his calloused hand and frowns, a grin spreading across his wet and swollen lips.

  “You laughing at how I kiss, asshole?” he whispers.

  And oh, his voice is impossibly deep, and rough . . .

  Sydney swallows his laughter, legs shaking. “No.” He brushes his thumb gently across James’ lower lip, watching the soft skin stretch with the pressure of his finger. “I was thinking that you have the most beautiful mouth, but you say the dirtiest things.”

  James gets a dark glint in his eyes, and a sudden shiver cascades down the back of Sydney’s neck. He can hear James panting, barely standing still, as James’ tongue slowly slides out to lick the tip of Sydney’s thumb. They stare at each other, and Sydney holds his breath, then James’ lips gently pull Sydney’s thumb into his mouth.

  Sydney watches his finger disappear into the warm, wet heat of James’ mouth, a stunned shock burning its way up his bare arm. James sucks at his thumb gently, holding his gaze with a look Sydney imagines James had on his face when he crept into that jungle with a gun in his hands. His courageous, steady hands—hands which had held him, and brushed through his hair.

  “You’re so brave,” he wants to whisper to him, because James is standing under the open sun with Danny Moore’s thumb sucked into his mouth, but he’s already told James that once. No, twice. And James Campbell can’t think he just flew all the way across an ocean to see a kid who blushes bright red at something as innocent as a thumb and can’t even think of anything new
or original to say.

  James finally releases his thumb to brush against his lips, hot breath on his glistening skin sending goosebumps up Sydney’s arm. “Good,” James says, voice rough and low. “Because it looks like you’re fucking stuck with this mouth, Moore.”

  But then James immediately closes his eyes, and his mouth twists in something like a frustrated question, like regret.

  It only takes Sydney half a second to understand the question on James’ face, and yet that’s still half a second too long. He’s standing here making out with James Campbell when he thought he was about to spend three hours fixing a radio on the porch, and James has asked to stay with him, James brought his bags, and Sydney “Idiot” Moore hasn’t even said yes.

  He clings like hell to the muscles on James’ back—the trembling strength of his shoulder blades in the sun.

  “Stay here with me” he breathes, even though James already asked. He needs to say the words—taste the way they burst off his tongue. His eyes grow embarrassingly wet, blurring out James’ face into a brilliant spot of tan warmth, and he knows James sees before he blinks it away. “James, live here. Stay with me. We’ll . . . we’ll figure it out, whatever you need . . . and it’s—I . . . I missed you.”

  James gasps through his nose and blinks hard, leaving a sheen of water across his own eyes.

  “Okay,” he whispers, nodding.

  “Okay.”

  Sydney’s breath chokes in the back of his throat. He leans in to kiss James again, and instead the million questions in his head start to pour out of his mouth. “I don’t understand, though. You . . . you were going to—and your job? Your apartment, your friends? I didn’t ever think . . . ever think you were planning to . . . how?”

  James clears his throat roughly. “I’ll tell you everything. I promise, I’ll tell you, but—” He pauses and gentles his grip on Sydney’s cheek, tilting his head down so that he can rub his nose once along Sydney’s, breathing in long and deep. He whispers so softly Sydney can barely hear him over the roar of the waves.

  “Can we?” he asks, in a voice that sounds so sad, and pained, and hopeful all at once that Sydney can’t believe James Campbell is brilliant enough to fit so much emotion into two words. But, then again, he really shouldn’t be surprised, should he?

  Sydney nods desperately, nose bumping into James’, then he crashes their still-wet lips together, the lump in his throat forgotten. He rubs his thumb along James’ cheek, catching the drop of salty water falling from his eye. James groans deep in his chest, clutching at the back of Sydney’s shirt and roughly pulling him a stumbling step forward in the sand, straight into James’ sturdy body.

  Sydney knows he’s grown hard—can feel the low current of heat start to pulse between his thighs. He goes to move his hand to the back of James’ waist to press them closer together, desperate for friction, his tongue between James’ lips and teeth, when suddenly James pulls back, gasping from the kiss, and grabs his arm hard around the wrist.

  “Fuck, I need to feel you. Now,” he growls.

  James pulls him quickly up the steps and into the cool darkness of the house, and a whimper escapes Sydney’s mouth as he tries to keep up. The moment he’s inside the doorway, James grabs his shoulders and pushes him back into the wall with a thud that rattles through the wood foundation. James runs his hands up Sydney’s sides under his shirt and kisses him hard, pressing him back into the wall with the force of his body.

  Sydney’s chest is heaving. He slips down farther on the wall, bringing himself face to face with James, and pulls James into himself by the small of his back, perfectly aligning their hips and groaning when James’ half-hard penis presses hesitantly into the dip of his own thigh.

  It’s exquisite. James’ body is warm and solid in his arms, letting Sydney feel the full weight of him pressed up against his frame, and James’ tongue slides against his as if they have all the time in the world, maddeningly hot and steady and slow.

  It’s the fantasy Sydney never even knew enough about to want—the one where it’s calm, and in the middle of the afternoon, and in his own home. The one where he fears the windows of his house will burst because they can’t contain the sounds of their combined sighs and moans.

  The one where James Campbell came back with his bags sitting just outside in the warm sand.

  James pulls back panting and looks straight into Sydney’s eyes, gently arching his lower back more firmly against Sydney’s palm. His warm hands slide up over Sydney’s chest beneath his thin shirt, finally coming to rest just above his nipples, and he rubs warm, soft circles into Sydney’s shaking skin. The swish of James’ palms over his chest echoes throughout the quiet room, then James leans in towards his neck, hesitates for barely a second, and gently presses his warm, wet lips just under Sydney’s jaw.

  Sydney’s skin explodes in shivers. “James,” he gasps. He reaches up to caress the back of James’ head with his hand, holding him closer as James slowly presses soft, steady kisses down the line of Sydney’s neck, fingers still gliding over the thin hairs on his chest.

  And Sydney suddenly remembers the toned lines James’ own chest, how the thick blonde hairs felt when they brushed across his cheek, how they rasped against his skin, and how he kissed through them right before he licked his way down James’ stomach, mouth watering to suck down his thick, dripping—

  Sydney’s head thuds back against the wall. He drowns in the sweet, wet drag of James’ mouth along his sensitive skin—the puffs of warm air from James’ mouth spreading throughout his entire shaking body.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Sydney reaches his other hand down to the low of James’ back and presses, guiding James to roll his hips against him, rocking his hardening penis into the dip just above Sydney’s thigh. James moans softly into his neck, voice high and broken, as Sydney’s hand moves lower to the firm muscle of his ass and holds him there, rocking James’ hips into himself in a slow, heated rhythm.

  Sydney lets loose an unintelligible, embarrassing moan, right in the moment James licks his pulse and whispers, “yeah, like that . . .”

  Filled with rushing boldness—which is stupid, because they’ve already seen each other naked for God’s sake—Sydney presses his thigh between James’ legs, his tense muscle rolling straight against the hot bulge of James’ cock.

  James’ breath falters. He presses one last shaking kiss to Sydney’s neck before lifting his head to rub his cheek along Sydney’s jaw. Sydney shivers at the rasp of James’ day-old stubble against his thin skin. James brings up one of his hands to cup Sydney’s cheek, whispering low into the crook of his shoulder.

  “I . . . I need you to understand, Sydney. I don’t have a plane ticket back. I moved out of my apartment. Do you . . . is that . . . do you get me?”

  Instantly, Sydney wraps his arms around James’ back, holding him in a hug which one-month-ago-him would have called completely unnecessary and sentimental. James hands find his waist, and they share a long breath in perfect sync.

  Sydney closes his eyes, his cheek in James’ hair, and tries to convince himself for good that this is even happening. Just thirty minutes ago, he was sitting alone on his porch, trying to pep talk himself into eating something for the first time in over a day, counting the hours up to infinity to prove to himself that James Campbell had once desired his company—his conversation and his bed and his mouth.

  And now James is here, in his house, with his bags, asking and promising to stay. Letting Sydney hold him and press their bodies together. Letting Sydney feel his cock against him with the understanding this is no longer just some unavoidable, convenient fluke.

  He realizes he hasn’t answered, leaving James hanging for the second unforgivable time that day. He pulls James even closer in the embrace. “I understand,” he whispers. Then, in a rougher voice, “You came back.”

  James looks up at him with deep blue eyes and clears his throat, voice soft and intimate in the silence of the room. He doesn’t take a step back, o
r pull his arms away.

  “Honestly, I knew I had to come back the second I opened my apartment door,” he says. “Just took me a few days to sort everything out—my stuff and my place and all that.” Then he breathes out a sigh, suddenly shaking in Sydney’s arms. “God, Sydney, I’m so fucking sorry I left. I didn’t . . . I just didn’t realize what we—”

  Sydney hushes him with a kiss, just at the corner of his mouth. He understands now, as if it were written down for him in the size and force of a wave. Looking into James Campbell’s eyes, holding his body against him, he sees that this is not the same James Campbell who walked away from him into the airport. Not even the same James who emerged victorious from the waves, or who hurled away the bullet into the sea, or who kissed him along the shore.

  “I think you had to go back,” he says gently.

  James nods, understanding. He takes in a deep breath, as if he’s going to say a lot more, then responds, simply, “I think I did.”

  They look at each other for a few seconds longer, James’ hand idly tracing Sydney’s spine, until Sydney thinks that maybe the moment has passed—that they’ll get James’ bags from back outside and talk through what the hell to do next. He wonders if James realizes that Waimea is tomorrow. Wonders what competition James plans to surf in next, and whether he’ll need to get a bigger bed to fit them both, and how James will earn money, and if James is hungry or tired or thirsty or wants to go and surf or wants to go and be alone or—

  James’ mouth is pressed against his, and Sydney’s brain stops short. He freezes as James softly draws one of his lips between his teeth.

  “Stop thinking for five seconds and come fuck me,” James murmurs into his mouth.

  Sydney audibly gasps.