The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by Beaumont, C. L.

  James looked for him. He really did.

  Sydney gasps for breath as James sucks his upper lip between his. There’s a certain physical heat in James’ mouth—one Sydney’s never tasted before. It loosens his tongue and lips, makes him think of James gasping for grunted breaths as he pumps along a towering wave.

  James grabs his face, pressing hard, and they moan one last time in unison before James pulls back to lick his kiss-swollen lips, eyes wild and dilated and absolutely locked onto Sydney’s face. Sydney’s hands still clutch at the fabric around James’ waist, holding himself up from collapsing onto the grass.

  He stares. James looks like a ray of sun plopped down in the middle of the velvet green blanket of the earth. The bright sunlight glints off the tips of his blonde bangs, and the saltwater dances on his eyelashes, and the colors of the jungle of flowers behind him reflect off his tan, rippling skin like a handful of sea-polished pearls.

  James leans in towards him again and runs his nose along Sydney’s cheek, sending a shiver down Sydney’s spine until his bare toes clutch reflexively at the soft, warm grass.

  “Couldn’t get away from them fast enough,” James whispers, eyes still closed. “Thought they’d never let me leave.”

  Sydney feels a bewildered smile curling at the corners of his lips, but he settles his mouth into a cool line just as James opens his eyes, pinning him back to the wall with the pure, earnest truth in the lines of his face. Sydney licks his lips and tries to speak, tries to pick out words that he could possibly say that would somehow do justice to the fact that James just willingly left a crowd of people who were fawning all over him just so that he could press Sydney’s back into a wall and kiss him.

  Sydney realizes he’s been standing there with his mouth half-open, and James’ brow furrows as he takes in the look on Sydney’s face.

  “Shit, man, sorry, you’re shaking. I didn’t mean to—”

  Sydney cuts off James’ ridiculous apology by gripping his shoulders and turning to slam James’ back into the wall instead. He needs to taste the salt on James’ lips. Badly. Needs to feel every inch of his strength and muscle surging up into his hands, touch the force of the man who conquered the Banzai’s largest waves of the day. He needs to taste and subsist on the oxygen and carbon dioxide coming from his warm, wet mouth. To show the rolling mountains at their backs that James Campbell is letting him kiss him when he’s just one surfing round away from becoming a champion.

  James gasps in surprise the moment Sydney shoves him back, body going stiff for a moment. Fear flashes through Sydney’s chest that he’s pushed too far, gone completely over the edge, when James reaches out, grabs him, and finishes pulling Sydney into himself until James is trapped against the wall. Sydney moans on a sigh and presses his lips once more to James’, licking into his mouth and tasting the proof of James’ words—the proof that he really was seeking Sydney out on the sand.

  James groans deep in his chest as Sydney caresses his lips, tracing them with his tongue. He cups James’ face in his hands, growing shockingly warm and heavy between his thighs at the rasp of James’ stubble across his fingers, when suddenly James’ own hands are up and under his shirt, running roughly up Sydney’s bare sides and clutching at his skin. He trails the tips of his thumbs over Sydney’s nipples and grasps the whole span of his ribs.

  The hot trace of James’ hands on his bare skin, just five minutes away from a beach full of people, sends a fiery thrill through Sydney’s core. He thinks of the way James’ thighs had bulged through the wetsuit as he clung to his board and soared across the face of the wave, of the way the saltwater slipped down the inky black neoprene over his calves, and, in a rush of pure desire, Sydney reaches down for the underside of those thighs and lifts James up against the wall with a thick grunt. A pulse ripples through him when James immediately wraps his legs around Sydney’s waist, trapping him with his thighs and pulling Sydney as close to his body as they can get.

  Sydney is flying, held down to earth solely by the gripping muscles in James’ legs. He carries the weight of James’ powerful body in his hands, the quivering muscles that had carried him across the punishing roar of the ocean, the kiss of warm sunlight still lingering on his skin. Sydney pants into James’ mouth and tastes the warm, wet heat of him, kneading his fingers into the firm curves of his ass through the wetsuit as he holds him up off the ground.

  “Like that,” James whispers with Sydney’s tongue in his mouth. His thickening cock is pressing straight into Sydney’s abs, bulging the clinging black fabric of the suit. Sydney grazes his teeth across James’ stubble as James’ head thuds back against the wall. James yanks on his curls. “Fuck, like that . . .”

  Out of nowhere, the memory of the photograph Sydney bought when he was fourteen floats into his mind—the shirtless sailor with oiled abs and dog tags gleaming on his bare chest, a hand reaching down into the open fly of his tented uniform pants. And for the first time since leaning down to kiss James Campbell on the beach at sunrise just yesterday morning, Sydney’s brain realizes that he has that sailor. Here. Now. Groaning with his ass in Sydney’s palms and grinding his cock into Sydney’s body. Desperate for friction just ten minutes after absolutely annihilating his semifinal heat, punishing the waves of the sea with the sheer strength of his body.

  Biting his bottom lip.

  It’s the most erotic thought Sydney’s ever had in his life. He hikes James higher up on the wall and gasps against his wet lips. He speaks before he loses his nerve, dipping his head to lick a stripe up the salty side of James’ tensing neck.

  “I want you,” he groans. “Have wanted you. Hermosa, when you were changing—God, you . . .”

  James’ head hits the wall with a thud.

  “Fuck, Sydney.”

  “Watching you out there. Fuck, you have no idea what I—”

  A loud bang clatters from the other side of the surf shop wall, and Sydney whips his hands back from James’ ass so quickly James barely catches himself from falling to the ground. Sydney leaps away from him, tripping in the grass, and tries to breathe over the wild pounding in his chest. Cold sweat prickles across his skin, smothering every last inch of heat.

  He has no idea what just came over him, pinning James Campbell to a wall and hiking his legs up around his waist in broad fucking daylight, when James should be resting and preparing for his finals heat in just a few hours, when he should be off surrounding himself with his new community and watching the other surfers and studying the rises and falls of the waves.

  James’ hand is suddenly on his cheek, dry and warm. James doesn’t look like a man who should be off preparing for a finals heat, or who was just slammed into another wall by another man in broad fucking daylight, or who wishes he was back watching the other guys surf.

  Instead James pats his cheek once before letting his hand slowly fall away. Sydney thinks he sees a sudden gloss over James’ deep blue eyes, but it’s quickly blinked away.

  “Stop thinking so hard, genius,” he says in a surprisingly casual voice, still trying to catch his breath. “You’ll pull a muscle and then my plans for tonight’ll go to shit.”

  Sydney laughs despite himself. He stoops to pick up his sunglasses, then shoves his hands in his pockets to try to look less useless while the panic slowly fades from his body in rolling waves. His erection is long gone, and a quick, sheepish glance down at James sees him quietly adjusting himself in the wetsuit with his palm.

  Sydney immediately looks away. He clears his throat and ducks his head, hating the fact that he suddenly feels ten years old.

  “Sorry, I just—I didn’t mean to do that . . . now. I shouldn’t have just—”

  “I started it, didn’t I?” James says, an undercurrent of embarrassment behind his rough voice. He rubs a hand over his mouth and tries to fix his hair. He shoots Sydney the barest hint of a grin—one Sydney convinces himself isn’t forced. “You can be a real idiot sometimes, you know that?”

  Sydney chuckles agai
n through his nose, and his eyes trace the lock of soft, gold hair that’s fallen into James’ face. A small rush of warmth finally breaks through the cold, dead weight draped across his skin. “I’m starting to realize that,” he says.

  James’ body heat still thrums along Sydney’s limbs, pulling him close even though they stand two feet apart. James looks like he’s going to say something else, then shuts his mouth. Sydney wonders if he’s imagining the way James’ eyes quickly rove up and down his body. Then James drops his hands to his sides, shakes out his shoulders, and starts to walk back towards the road, tilting his head for Sydney to follow.

  James walks back out into the world as if nothing at all unusual just happened. It takes Sydney’s breath away—watching James hold his head high and walk down the street like this isn’t one of the most nerve-wracking days of his life. Like he doesn’t have to surf his ass off and try to win his first pro competition in a few short hours. Like he didn’t just press his erection into another man’s thigh and cling to his body in the hidden shade.

  But then again, this is probably last on the list of nerve-wracking days in James’ life. Sydney looks at the beach in the distance and once again feels a wash of shame over the complete irrelevance of his tiny life. That James Campbell wakes up every day having survived a war, continuing to live, and all Sydney has is a dozen useless medals from playing a game in the water.

  “This isn’t just a game for me,” James had told him once, standing in a sweat-soaked shirt with grey circles under his eyes, and Sydney remembers, not for the first time, that a Banzai win for James Campbell would mean a thousand things more than when Sydney had conquered the same waves.

  He bites his lips, arguing with himself against his desperate, selfish need to have James to himself for just a little bit longer, growing stronger with each step they take closer to the crowds and waves. The answer finally comes to him when he notices the tightness in the way James is carrying his left shoulder—the careful stillness in his walk.

  “Your shoulder’s gonna give out on you unless you stretch it out,” he says, catching up a few steps to be by James’ side. “Got some food in an ice chest in the Jeep. If you eat now and stretch some you’ll have enough time to get back down and watch the water for a while before you’re up.”

  James stops in his tracks, then immediately turns to head in the opposite direction of the competition, back to where they parked the Jeep.

  “I knew you were a genius,” he smirks.

  Sydney tries not to let his chest puff up too obviously with pride. Who feels proud of themselves after simply suggesting somebody else eat lunch? He passes a hand over his mouth, hating that what he’s about to say will wipe the easy smile from James’ face.

  “Give me a chance too to fill you in on who you’ll end up against this afternoon,” he says cautiously.

  James runs a hand through his hair. “Shit, hadn’t even tried to find out before leaving with you. Who is it?”

  James turns to look at him, and he must see the look on Sydney’s face, because his immediately blanches like a sheet, dread in the lines of his eyes.

  Sydney clears his throat and forces himself to hold James’ gaze. “Duke O’Brien,” he answers, as casually and apologetically as he possibly can.

  “Oh fuck.”

  ~

  “Look, we’ve been over this. He’s not as unbeatable as everyone says he is. Hell, I’ve beaten him—”

  “That’s because you’re you!”

  “You’ve beaten me, and I’ve beaten him, so I’m not sure why you’re being so damn stubborn about this, after all—”

  “I beat you because you fell off your fucking board! On purpose!”

  “And as I’ve told you before, it still would’ve been close if I hadn’t!”

  “You haven’t told me that before.”

  “My deepest apologies. I’m telling you now.”

  “You’ve gotta be—close is not the same as beating. Especially not in the fucking Billabong finals. Jesus . . .”

  “You’ve made it this far, haven’t you? And nobody’s fallen off their board on purpose yet.”

  James opens his mouth to retort then abruptly closes it again. He slumps back into the seat and tears haphazardly at the crust on the sandwich in his hand.

  Sydney smirks at James’ silence, too wrapped up in their time alone together to be worried at how much it delights him to watch James Campbell act like a sulking child. The dichotomy of it warms him from a very specific and hidden place deep in his chest. He reaches across the gear shift of the Jeep to place a hand on James’ knee.

  “Come on, gotta eat something. Your body’ll thank you.”

  James sighs again through his nose and stares out the front window at the distant beach like a man staring at his own gallows. Sydney moves his hand up to James’ shoulder, loose and open now after Sydney helped him stretch it, standing in the shade of a nearby canopy of trees. This time, James hadn’t flinched at all when Sydney’s fingers touched the scar, which had caused a completely unneeded and sharp emotion to tighten Sydney’s throat.

  He’s just about to fill the silence with something stupid, like asking him how the shoulder feels, when James’ brow suddenly furrows.

  “Hold on, when did you even pack this food? I was with you the whole morning.”

  Sydney takes his hand back to reach into the bag in his lap and lift out a handful of sunflower seeds. “Did it last night.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  Sydney hums and throws back the seeds into his mouth, overly enthusiastic and almost knocking the sunglasses off the top of his head. He quickly recovers, but knows that James without a doubt saw.

  “Well, why the hell weren’t you asleep?” James adds.

  Sydney takes his time to chew and spit the shells out the side of the window, smirking when James makes a disgusted noise. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and decides whether to make up a reason or tell the truth.

  The truth wins. He ignores the sweat forming at his brow and instead remembers the force of James’ hands slamming his shoulders back into the wall.

  “I knew I had . . . plans for the morning. Didn’t want us to be late if we didn’t already have your stuff packed for the day.”

  He shrugs, waiting for another disgusted noise, but James throws back his head and barks out a laugh. “You made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at three o’clock in the morning just so you could have enough time to have sex with me?”

  “No, that would be stupid. I did that so that I could give you a good-luck blow job. There’s a critical difference.”

  “’Critical difference’ my ass, you fucking loony.”

  “Well it worked, didn’t it? You’re here, in the finals.”

  James turns to look at him, and the sudden smile on his face takes Sydney’s breath away. The tension seems to melt from James’ body before his very eyes, slowly fading away on the warm, floral-scented air. James nods once and exhales a deep breath before sitting up straight in the hot leather seat, taking a full bite of sandwich and shaking out the remaining tension in his shoulders.

  “Right,” he says over a full mouth. He wipes away the crumb of crust caught in his stubble. “So, O’Brien. Tell me whatever the hell I need to know.”

  Sydney doesn’t want to talk about Duke O’Brien. He wants to start the Jeep’s engine and drive over to the other side of the island where no one else will be around and stand under the clear, open sky holding James Campbell’s hand tight in his. For an insane moment, he almost opens his mouth to suggest it. To say that it’s just some silly competition, and James has already proved he’s a world class surfer, and can’t they just go and be on their own now for every minute until he has to leave?

  Then the image of James hurling the bullet away into the sea pops into his mind, just like it’s done again, and again, and again over the last twelve hours, and Sydney bites his tongue against the reminder that James has a life extending far be
yond the tiny bounds of the Oahu shores. Far beyond Sydney’s reach.

  Sydney squares his shoulders and spits out another mouthful of shells, forcing his mind to focus on the task at hand. A tiny part of his heart is yelling that James Campbell needs him right now, and the rest of his heart desperately wants to believe that’s somehow true.

  “Duke O’Brien,” he begins. “Last year’s Virginia Beach champion, as you know. Second in the Sunset Beach invitational, fifth in the Surfabout in Sydney, and came third in the U.S. Open over in your neck of the woods in ’74—”

  “See now, since Long Beach is in Los Angeles, this actually is the correct usage of ‘your neck of the woods’—”

  “Which, as I was saying, got him qualified for Virginia. But then there’s his regional wins, which—”

  “Oh this is really helpful, thank you. Tell me more about the competitions he’s already won which I haven’t, please.”

  “Well it’s important to know what waters he’s surfed on before! You can’t just walk out there totally ignorant!”

  James laughs and places a hand on Sydney’s knee. “I know, I know, genius. Keep going.”

  A flushed, embarrassed grin spread across Sydney’s cheeks when he realizes James was just goading him on purpose. He flexes his thigh beneath James’ palm and watches the shimmer of the waves far out in the distance.

  “Right, so, in the last year alone, he’s surfed on every major coastline for big wave surfing. Word is he’s using the Billabong here to pave his way for the World’s in Australia in two months. It’s a huge advantage if he wins this; they’ll let him skip straight to Day Two. So he’s gonna go hard and fast, isn’t afraid to be a dick and drop in on a wave you’re paddling for if he thinks it’s a good one, so you can’t hesitate at all with him. Don’t pause up at the crest after paddling, just drop in early so you can get on the face, even if you miss part of the barrel. Yes?”