The last thing Sydney sees is James rolling his deep blue eyes, right before Sydney dives with his board straight into the waves, letting the salt wash away the last remnants of tension from the day before. He takes a few lazy strokes through the clear and calm waters, relishing in the soft caress of the waves against his bare skin, so different from the snarling waves off Waimea hurling stinging foam.
Then he hears James finally splash into the water behind him, and Sydney’s skin covers in goosebumps as James’ smile seems to spread its warm tendrils straight down to the depths of the ocean, filling the cold, dark deep with the fresh sunlight of a new day.
27
The sun is soft and pink in the sky as it slowly rises above the grip of the gentle waves, lapping at James’ ankles like melted cream. James shivers as the cool breeze brushes across his bare skin, watching transfixed from the shallows as Sydney holds his board over his head and wades out into the waves, the water pooling around his thighs and rippling just under the firm curves of his ass.
James’ mouth waters. The image of Sydney Moore wading naked out into the golden sunrise sea is so beautiful he feels tears building up in the back of his eyes. The soft sunlight drips down over Sydney’s golden skin like honey, clinging to his spine and draping across the muscles in his shoulders. The tattoo shimmers across his back as he twists and works to hold his board aloft in the sky.
James stares at Sydney’s hips as they sway deeper into the water, gently rocking in the small, splashing waves. Crystal clear saltwater rises and falls over the firm curves of Sydney’s ass, frothing in the space between his thighs. Fat drops of seawater drip down the length of his spine and into the dark line of his buttocks, leaving glistening trails.
James suddenly halts his steps, toes clenching in the wet sand, and tries to breathe. Tries to move.
Sydney looks at him over his shoulder and calmly brushes the curls out of his face, as if he isn’t doing anything extraordinary at all. He looks beautiful and trusting, like the only thing he wants in the world is for James to follow him out into the sea and go for a swim. Like somehow, despite everything, James’ mere presence makes him happy.
“You coming, Captain?” Sydney smirks, just as James finds himself blinking back the water in his eyes. Then Sydney flings his board down and dives into the water, sending up a small plume of crackling spray into the air.
James rolls his eyes, or at least he thinks he does, and then he takes two steps forward on numb legs, and throws down the board he’d been holding limply under his arm, and follows Sydney into their own little strip of ocean, diving through the water with a crash.
The saltwater weaves through his smiling teeth as he kicks down under the rolling, incoming swell, and then he surfaces to a burst of sparkling sunlight and the crisp, clear air of the island. He licks the dripping cascade of seawater off his lips,and it tastes like flowers instead of smog and asphalt. Tastes like warm skin and thick salt and a hint of shrimp.
Sydney paddles steadily in front of him, breathing calm and easy to the rhythm of his long and lazy strokes. James follows in his wake, not able to look away from the water rippling and splashing over the backs of Sydney’s bare thighs. He watches it pool in the dip between his shoulder blades and catch individual ringlets of hair in the sunlight.
James breathes in deeply and revels in being back in the water for the first time in over a week. There hadn’t been any time back in LA, not after he’d picked up that payphone and called Rob to tell him he’d already made up his goddamn mind.
He’d seen Rob and Lori nearly every hour when he wasn’t finishing out his last days at work—bowing to their staunch insistence that he let them be selfish and hoard all his time while they still had the chance. And he’d been busy packing boxes, selling his car, deciding what to ship and what to keep and what to leave on the side of the road in a cardboard box.
And sure, there’d been moments when he’d looked up from his boxes and stared out the window the way he always used to before. He’d watched the icy waves rush into shore and splash over the early morning surfers, and the afternoon families, and the evening lovers who all waded out into the water off Hermosa. But the thought of grabbing his board and running out to join them when he knew that Sydney was thinking he was all alone again forever on Oahu had felt like wanting to take a sip of sweet strawberry milkshake and instead getting a mouthful of sand.
So he’d waited. He’d stayed inside and inland and salt-free and dry. And he’d joined Rob and Lori for beers in their backyard far away from the water, where they asked him all about the beaches on Oahu and sent him wet smiles when they thought he couldn’t see. Where they carefully avoided any mention of Danny Moore or his surfing or his house, just in case James showed back up on their doorstep a week later with his tail between his legs.
Now, though, as he follows smoothly in the wake behind Sydney’s board, watching the curves of his back glisten in the sunlight, and the tattoo writhe across his paddling shoulders, James feels that the water is a kiss over every inch of his skin. It wakes up stiff joints as he paddles through the calm ripples as if he’d been swimming since before he learned to walk. It caresses his dry skin, softening it like a dried-up sponge dropped into fresh, cool liquid—finally pliable instead of unyielding stone.
It feels strange to be lying down on his board naked, the thought humming in the back of his mind that something feels out of place even though he’s paddled out to sea hundreds of times before. The waxed surface scratches at his chest and clings to his stomach like it always does whenever he feels safe and warm enough to swim without a wetsuit on.
But it also tickles the insides of his bare thighs, and digs in gently to the bones of his hips. His board rustles the thatch of wet pubic hair waving in the water as it rushes past his groin, and the waxed surface presses up against his soft penis in a way that feels grounding and vulnerable all at once.
It's just him, and his board, and the water, and the sky. No crowd at his back, or wetsuit covering his skin. No time limits or post-surf work shift or tiny airless apartment waiting for him alongside the long stretch of traffic and smog and skyline.
It’s just him and Sydney Moore.
Sydney paddles out ahead of him towards the smooth, glassy horizon, then stops fifty yards out from the shore and turns back to James with a warm and easy smile on his face. He sits tall and unashamed on his board. The saltwater pours down from his wet curls plastered onto his neck, and runs across his chest towards his abs and cock, which James notices is half hard where it’s bared between his legs. Sydney catches him looking and smirks, then takes a full breath, swelling his glistening chest, and scans up and down the shore.
“Feels like a year ago that we jumped off that cliff, doesn’t it?” Sydney says, squinting off towards the far end of the beach where the cliff stands silhouetted against the pale blue and purple candy sky.
James blinks, surprised. “Shit, it does.”
Sydney smiles wistfully as James pulls up next to him and perches on his board to rest.
“You know, the days always used to run together here before. Like one giant, never-ending day with a few work contracts thrown in or a competition to catch. And then this last month has felt two fucking years long.”
James hums. He feels alone on the earth with Sydney out in the middle of the ocean, their voices echoing loudly across the velvet surface of the waves which lap at their boards. He feels as if the shoreline could suddenly disappear, and they could be surrounded by nothing but the sea, and it really wouldn’t bother him in the least.
He expects that thought to gnaw with fresh anxiety in his chest, dragging him down towards the little piece of shiny metal that he knows is still resting at the bottom of the sea, worn and smooth from years spent warm and dry in the palm of his hand. But instead all he feels is a far-away calm, slowly approaching his bare skin before reaching out to cover him with soft and easy warmth, sheltering him from the bite of the breeze.
Jame
s suddenly remembers his first real glimpse of Danny Moore in his mind—standing next to him with his aviators glinting in the sun and stripping off his grey hoodie that day back at the ISF. The power and strength that had radiated from every inch of his tanned, confident skin. The picture is vivid in his memory—etched into his brain in perfect, brilliant detail.
“I feel the opposite, actually,” James eventually says. “It seems like I first looked at you next to me at the start line five minutes ago, looking all too-cool-for-school with your aviators and shit.”
Sydney chuckles. “Well it’s good to know I make such a lasting impression that you’ve forgotten everything that happened in between.”
James splashes a handful of water his way, shaking his head at Sydney’s smirk. “Ass.”
Sydney sends him a quick wink that sets James’ heart racing before James closes his eyes and tilts his head back to the billowing clouds. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, letting it settle every muscle in his body, and Sydney lies down on his back on his board and sighs lazily up at the sky. He holds out a hand towards James, wiggling his fingers to come, and James’ heart clenches all over again as he paddles himself forward on the water, aligning their boards. James grabs the other side of Sydney’s board to steady them beside each other, and Sydney places his head up on James’ thigh with a contented sigh.
James takes him in, eyes crinkling just at the corners. “There’s no fucking way that’s comfortable for your neck.”
Sydney shrugs. “Works for now.”
Sydney closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath, and James lets himself gaze straight down at his upside-down face. He runs his fingers through Sydney’s curls swirling in the water, pooling around his head as they bob on the surface of the calm and sleepy sea, and Sydney hums as he stretches his legs down and cracks his toes.
James blinks when he realizes he’d completely forgotten they were naked.
Finally, Sydney licks his lips and cracks open one eye, staring up at James through the pale wafts of sunlight.
“What you said earlier . . . about your job.”
James shrugs one shoulder to hide an odd wave of shame. “Ah, don’t worry about that. Just . . . half-asleep rambling. I’ll figure it out. Maybe the Navy employs professional surfers now—I can re-enlist.”
James half-chuckles under his breath, but Sydney’s expression doesn’t lighten at the poor joke. Instead, he lifts one hand over to rest on James’ board, keeping them close together on the waves. He closes his eyes.
“You know . . . something that came to me, this morning. An idea—”
“What, in the last ten minutes?”
“Ten minutes is more than enough time for an idea.”
“A fleshed-out one?”
“I think quickly.”
James scratches once at Sydney’s scalp as Sydney cracks open one eye to shoot him a smirk, then Sydney’s face sombers, and James’ fingers freeze.
“I have some savings,” Sydney says. “A good amount. Money I’ve saved up over the years from work and winnings. Built up pretty fast since I barely have to pay Hobbs any rent. And I was thinking . . .”
Sydney pauses, turning his cheek into James’ palm as James once again strokes through his hair and down along his neck. James shocks himself by leaning down to kiss Sydney’s forehead—easily, without any second thoughts at all. “Go on. You were thinking?”
Sydney takes a breath, steeling himself. “Look, maybe you’ll just rag on me for saying this, and maybe I deserve it. But . . . you and me, with what we know, what we want to do—we should open up a surf shop. Our own place.”
James huffs out a surprised laugh, rocking them both unsteadily on their boards. “Oh right, and cars can fucking fly,” he says. James pats Sydney’s head gently and ruffles his hair. “Stop shitting me. What’s the real idea?”
Sydney sits up suddenly, then angles himself so that he’s facing James with their boards side by side. He grabs onto James’ knee hard as James stares back at him in disbelief. The look on Sydney’s face—his earnestness, the flash of hurt deep in the pale blue of his eyes . . .
James realizes with a thud in his gut that Sydney is completely, one-hundred-percent serious. He tries to keep his face blank as he runs a disbelieving hand through his own wet hair.
“Shit, you’re serious.”
Sydney nods, then goes on, glancing down nervously at the water and chewing his lip as he spits out the words as fast as he possibly can, as if he’s afraid James will try to cut him off if he doesn’t.
“Look, it’s . . . it’s all just coming together now in my mind, but listen. I have the money. I know of a few places along the North Shore that could be for sale. I know how to use all the tools—how to make and fix boards. I could . . . I could design some. And you could own the place flat out and run the front. Give . . . I don’t know, give kids surfing lessons or some shit if you wanna feel humanitarian about it since you’ve almost died a million times—feel like you’re giving back. And then we’d—we could find a third partner to run it for us when we’re off at competitions, and you wouldn’t have to run all over trying to find a job somewhere that you’ll hate like hell anyway. Our entire lives could be right here with the water. Not wasting time trying to do or be anywhere else.”
James freezes, stunned. He almost doesn’t want to allow himself to hear what Sydney’s saying. It sounds like a goddamn dream he never even realized he’s had. His own shop. His own place. Sydney at his side and at his back and at his front. Locking up the door of the shop and coming home every night to their own bed with the smell of wood and salt and seaweed on their skin. Tasting like the sun.
Then the dream shatters in his mind, cracking into a million pieces like the center of a punctured mirror. There’s a reason things sound too good to be true.
James sighs and grabs the back of his neck, trying to work up the words and hating that the light behind Sydney’s eyes is about to fizzle out.
“I don’t know the first fucking thing about running a shop, Sydney,” he groans. “I mean, shit, I could run it into the ground. And I don’t have a dime to put into it up front. I can’t just rely on you to pay for everything for the rest of time.”
James wonders just when he started thinking of his relationship with Sydney as ‘for the rest of time,’ and then wonders why the words ‘relationship with Sydney’ make him feel hot in his throat, and all the while expects Sydney to roll his eyes and shoot back some witty retort. Call him an idiot and a spoil sport and afraid. Or say that James is right . . .
Instead, Sydney calmly nods to himself, then he looks over at James with an expression on his face that causes the entire world to freeze.
“You make me happy,” he says quietly.
Self-disgust suddenly rises within James in a choking rush. “God, I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to shoot you down like that. Everything is just—it’s a lot.”
James reaches forward to place a wet hand on Sydney’s bare chest, and Sydney immediately places his fingertips on James’ cheek. They’re close enough to breathe straight into each other’s mouths, and James wonders if he blinks if the entire rest of the world will have disappeared.
“It is a lot,” Sydney agrees.
Sydney swipes his thumb gently across James’ cheek, and James’ throat grows tight against the words that want to come spilling out of his mouth. Sydney looks radiant in the sunlight. Golden and strong in the buttery pink wisps of light slowly streaming across the pale sky from the sun.
“But, look,” he goes on, his voice barely a whisper. James leans in close enough that one of Sydney’s curls touches his own face. “We can try. I don’t see any reason why we can’t try. And I—I just want to be happy. With you. It’s something I never expected to have and I hardly know what the fuck to do with it but—”
James barely chokes out a watery “fuck” before he launches himself forward into Sydney’s arms, cutting him off with a grunt of surprise.
He hugs him awkwardly across the distance between their straddled boards.
Sydney huffs out a wet laugh into the side of his neck, clutching him close by his nape. “You are a marvel,” he whispers.
James pulls back and cups Sydney’s face in his hands, trying and failing to think of anything he could say. He kisses him gently, tasting the ghosts of the words on Sydney’s lips with a soft hum. Still amazed in the corners of his mind that he’s kissing a man beneath the wide open sun.
He looks over his shoulder back towards the shore. He sees their home, the peeling teal paint framed by lazy palm fronds and golden sand. He sees a ghost of himself from not even three weeks ago—standing nervously at the end of the lane in the shade of the trees, looking at Sydney—at Danny—Moore’s foot draped over the side of a hammock and wondering how in hell he was ever going to thank him for saving his life without looking like a pitiful fool.
Sydney’s staring at him now with eyes the color of crystal glass sea. He looks young and fresh and open. He looks like the man who conquered the waves at Waimea without falling to his death into the black deep, and he looks like the man James woke up next to the morning after he first let himself lay his hands on another man’s skin.
“You already growing nostalgic on me?”
James shakes his head at Sydney before looking back at the shore. “Not rising to your bait,” he says.
Sydney dramatically shrugs and looks out over the water. “Not my fault you wear every emotion on your face. I mean, shit, didn’t they teach you how to be stone-faced in the Navy?”
“Aw, fuck you,” James groans, trying not to laugh. “Can’t handle your shit right now. It’s too early.” He splashes Sydney with a handful of water, and Sydney dodges it, then gets a mischievous glimmer in his eyes right before grabbing James’ shoulders and shoving him clear off his board.
The ocean swallows James up in a cool gulp, cutting him off from the sound and the sunlight and the air. James chokes on a lungful of saltwater and kicks to the surface, shivering once in the cooler water hidden just beneath the surface layer warmed by the rising sun. He spits out a mouthful of water right at Sydney’s eye when he surfaces, shooting him the best glare he can.
The Sea Ain't Mine Alone Page 52
