Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The lighthouse stood strong on the edge of the deteriorating cliffside, waves crashing against the sides as if they were owed the pieces of dirt they stole—it was picturesque, and Shayne always felt so small surrounded by it all. In the midst of his work, he lets himself drift, if for just a moment, envisioning the ships he directs and whether they ever consider their final destinations, the last voyage before anchoring forever to one shore. The moment courses through him weightily, the same environment that draws him in always finding ways to pull him back out. The air was warm, stagnant save for at the very top of the lighthouse, where gusts of wind stirred up from the ocean flowed through the sleeves of the sweater tugged halfway up his forearms.

He swipes his thumb across the rag in his hands, still damp from cleaning salt residue off the windows, before leaving it to dry over the railing. His attention returns to the lights encased behind the glass, assuring that each wick was cut to length, then he painstakingly fills each oil canister with enough kerosene made to last the night; foreign sailors have told him before of the lighthouses where they come from— updated to an electrified bulb that would render him obsolete— but he didn't mind the time-honored lifestyle; it gave him an excuse to keep to himself, a logical reason for not visiting in his letters home.

Starting his descent of the spiral staircase, he flattens his hand on the structure and counts each time his hand snags against peeling paint. He never planned on living out his twenties, solitary in a lighthouse— yet he's grateful for it, offering him a space where he can maintain control of everything, with no prying eyes to stray him from his routine. By the time he makes it out of the lighthouse and into his connecting home, there are only two goals on his mind: a good book and a cold beer.

When he first moved into the lighthouse cottage, a few books were already populating different corners— an unbalanced mixture of partially-filled logbooks and withering nonfiction. He’d brought just a couple of his own from home, curating only his favorites, the rest likely awaiting his unlikely return. On his first visit to the market, a small cart with books propped up carefully along its ledges, more stacked just in front of them, stood out; an air-curved sign displayed above them all: Stock rotates monthly. Before long, he’d begun the first tradition of his new life, rewarding himself with a new book each market trip. 

Shayne’s bookshelf is filling in nicely after nearly 6 months of market trips, organized chronologically by each purchase date; he’d scored himself more room after transferring the logbooks underneath his writing desk, an heirloom he’d acquired after his grandfather’s death. Shayne removes the most recent book from the shelf, spanning his hand over the title, before finding himself in front of the fridge and heaving it open. The refrigerator contained an array of items—fresh vegetables, recently caught fish, meat wrapped in paper—but notably no beer. He must’ve drunk his last one the other night when he updated his logs. 

Restock day isn’t for another two days, and Shayne’s certainly not about to make a special trip all the way to the market just for a few packs of beer. Analyzing the sun still nestled in the sky, he figures he has time to stop into the bar just over the hill. The most arduous part of this life was the trek back into town— putting aside the labor he puts his body through daily, traversing unstable ground on foot multiple times a week is what keeps him in shape, so he never found it warranted to complain, even if only to himself. 

Shayne’s halfway, just barely standing on the highest mound of the land, when he sees the bar sign. He clutches his book tight against his thigh, rotating it so that its pages peer up at him, not missing the way his mouth begins to water as he starts on the final descent. From the outside, the streets seem dead, like the remnants of a town that once was, and if Shayne didn’t know better, he might picture himself as its sole inhabitant. Lingering outside the door to catch his breath, he can already make out the muffled conversations scattered across the tables. With a huff, he pulls open the door and shuffles inside. 

There’s no disputing that this bar is a hole-in-the-wall, the exact antithesis of high-end, and yet it’s standing room only nearly every evening. Port Stop, a clear-cut name despite regulars still debating the intentionality of its double entendre, has maintained its status as the spot for all sailors, domestic and foreign alike. Shayne makes it through the threshold, and sure enough, the bar is all but crawling with them. He trudges past them in droves—practically piled on top of each other like sardines—and secures his favorite stool, the rest of the bar seating open save for one sailor. 

He hasn’t been sitting for a minute when a voice cuts through the rest, weathered and deep. “Shayne?” His eyes flick up from where they rest on the book's title page, immediately encountering another man on the opposite side of the counter. "What brings you in, son?"

It took Shayne just shy of two months to train himself not to flinch when Jim calls him that; Jim, the owner and sole employee of Port Stop, is an old friend and fellow Navy battalion member of his father. Growing up, Shayne knew Jim owned a bar—opened just a year after his time in service ended— and that he'd always lived far, but he never expected that when he took a hammer to his old life, he'd run into a shard of it within walking distance of his new home, almost like it was trying to return to him as a mosaic.

"Just a stout, Jim. Cleared mine out the other day.” As a kid, Shayne always liked it when Jim came around. He never asked him to speak up, or to grow up, and he always diverted his father’s attention away from him for a change. 

Jim doesn’t respond, retrieving a bottle from behind him, levering off the lid, then pouring it into a tilted glass. Shayne doesn’t hesitate to take a sip, his mouth enveloped in chocolate and coffee. He plants it down to the right of his open book and glances over his shoulder. “Lot of uniforms in here tonight.” 

“I’m sure you know why,” Jim shoots back, a barely visible grin forming just under his grey beard. “Ship out day's tomorrow, last hurrah.” He's always been a man of few words— fragmented speech, resigned to only the need-to-know.

Shayne nods, cradling the glass in his palm. "Can't say I blame 'em. Those weak-ass beer rations would have me swimming back to shore to find the closest bar." With that, he lifts the drink to his mouth, drinking slowly, counting all the notes he could differentiate.

As expected, Jim doesn't respond with more than a grunt, leaving Shayne alone with his book; after prolonging it as much as possible before he has the chance to buy a new one, he's finally nearly finished with it. He returns to where he left off and easily consumes the first page, allowing himself to get lost in the world laid out before him. It's only a few moments before his mind wanders a little, the raucous sounds of sailors and clinking dishes filling the air. He's trying to start the first sentence of the next page for the third time when his attention snags on Jim's deep laugh as he converses with the only other patron sitting here at the bar.

"No beer? Just got in a few cases of whiskey, they threw a few gin bottles in there too." When Shayne steals a glance, Jim is leaning on the bar, his palm flat against the wood, eyeing the other patron with intrigue.

The other man holds a smile, kind and cautious. "Gin on the rocks is perfect," he voices, picking at a splinter in the wood. Jim fills a short glass with ice, then gin, and places it in front of him. The man nestles the glass in one hand, swirling it in the air absentmindedly. "Sorry for being a pain in the ass, my first ship out's tomorrow, and I guess it's hitting me."

Out of the corner of his eye, Shayne catches Jim reopen the gin bottle and pour more into his glass. "Let that hit you instead, kid." He can't see him, but he can hear Jim's tone grow gentler. "On me."

That was the Jim he's always known, a cocktail of intimidating and deceivingly understanding. Shayne takes another swig of his beer, licking it off his teeth as he attempts to get back into his book. If he can manage to drown out the noise around him, he might actually be able to finish it.

Perhaps he puts his glass down too hard, or flips to the next page too loudly, because Jim once again acknowledges his presence, but this time, not to him. "Your battalion's like family, but your lighthouse keep," he pauses to point Shayne out at the other end of the bar before continuing, "your lighthouse keep's your right-hand man."

Shayne looks up alertedly from his book, as if someone had just called his name. Two sets of eyes are on him, one expectant, the other curious, and he sighs inwardly as he shuts his book. "It's keeper, Jim."

"Same damn thing," he bites back, no real bark in it. He maneuvers behind the bar, retrieving Shayne's beer glass—which he hadn't realized was one sip from empty—and refilling it with a cold beer from the ice chest. Largely, Jim was a kind man, but Shayne knew this was no gift, rather an incentive.

He tilts his head to the side and musters up an awkward smile. "Nice to meet you…"

"Tommy, it's— I'm Tommy," he fills in the blank, somehow equal parts jumbled and completely clear. "And you're… Lighthouse Keeper."

Tommy flashes a disarming grin, and for the first time, Shayne looks at him. He's also sitting on a barstool, one foot resting against a support rod, the other planted on the floor. He's slender—certainly leaner than any boat worker Shayne's ever seen—with brunette hair that refuses to be contained under his cap, seamlessly connecting with a full beard. The first couple of buttons on his uniform are undone, necktie untied, and Shayne, without really meaning to, trails a path up the middle until he reaches the collar. He forces himself to turn his head, eyes closing tight for a moment, and stares through his beer.

"That too, I guess. Also, Shayne." He clears his throat and glances at Tommy once more, gesturing his head towards him. "They're gonna make you shave that."

The other man has since returned his drink to the bar top, relocating his hand to his jawline, scratching the hair there in acknowledgment. "I just couldn't do it, y'know?" he pauses, lifting his gin to his mouth, releasing a humor-laced sigh afterwards. "I only look good with facial hair, unfortunately."

That doesn't seem possible. The thought catches Shayne off guard, and he can't shake the feeling of being watched, despite Jim having already resigned himself from the conversation, washing dishes at the corner sink. He twirls a loose thread from his sweater around his finger before firmly pulling it out. "I think I might have the opposite problem." Shayne gestures loosely at his mustache— a new addition since leaving home.

Tommy hums as he eyes Shayne, a look between appraisal and appreciation. His face is unassuming, an easy smile resting on his lips, but even from a few stools down, Shayne can practically feel the edge in his eyes. "Don't know if you own a razor, but there's a simple solution to yours." Tommy's smile shifts slightly, morphing into something with more challenge. "Or is it, like, a lighthouse keep thing?"

"It's kee—" Shayne stops himself when he catches the glimmer in Tommy's eye, and he bites his bottom lip, a poor attempt at subduing a grin. "It's something I'm trying out, I wanna give it at least half a chance." Tommy understandingly nods, once again scanning Shayne and his surroundings through half-lidded eyes.

"That book must be amazing if you're bringing it to the bar," Tommy changes the subject, humor outlining his words. He takes another sip of his gin, and Shayne analyzes the book in front of him. He wonders if he's the only one who's ever read a book here while nursing a beer, and he feels his face warm at the thought. "What is it?"

Shayne's attention returns to Tommy, realizing that he once again is referencing the book. "Oh, it's…" he pauses to peek at its cover, admittedly confused when he doesn't remember it. "It's—" He lifts his gaze to answer, before averting it to the sailors, their voices filling the space before he has a chance.

This was not the first time sailors stationed themselves in Port Stop the night before shipping out, nor was it the first time Shayne had witnessed their antics. It was tradition: show up in uniform for your first round discounted, pass cards around, down beers, and discuss women, then finish out the night skipping a stone in the ocean for good luck before going home. Shayne usually never minded the background noise—using the sound levels as an indicator of time passing—but today felt different. Most days, he would sit at the bar and eavesdrop on who won or which one had someone they were leaving behind on land, but today, all he's trying to do is answer one particular sailor's question.

Once again, Shayne surprises himself, watching the men loudly distribute a new round of cards as realization begins to envelop him. He wants to talk to Tommy, to tell him the title of his book. Not only that, but he might even want Tommy to respond, ask him follow-up questions, and prolong the conversation. It's not like this conversation will matter tomorrow, with the other man leaving for deployment the upcoming morning, not to mention the bribery beer losing its cool, his chapter no closer to being finished. That's what he should be focused on, not the way Tommy's necktie hangs loosely from his shoulders, or how his fingers curl delicately around his glass, or—

The air around Shayne shifts as the stool next to him is filled. "Sorry, figured I wouldn't hear you over that," Tommy explains, gesturing with his head towards the rest of the bar as his knee nudges Shayne's. His voice is softer, closer, and Shayne can smell a hint of vanilla as the tides of his resolve begin to recede. "What's your book?"

Shayne, acutely aware that Tommy's now close enough to read the title himself, rotates the book towards him. "All's Quiet on the Western Front. It's… well, I suppose it’s a war account,” he states simply, opting to water his answer down when his eyes catch on the other man’s uniform. 

“Course it is, nowadays it seems like everything points back to some war somewhere,” Tommy prattles, the pads of his fingers tapping idly against the wood. “Is it at least a good one? You know, accurate?” 

“I suppose that’s…” Shayne lets out half a sentence before he gives up on it, Tommy’s words taking him for a loop. “Considering it’s an unapologetic display of the physical and mental horrors of war as a whole—me personally, I’d say so.” He finishes his explanation, lowering his voice in the middle as he takes a cautious, cursory glance around the room. 

“Maybe I should read it sometime. It sounds refreshing.” Tommy pauses briefly before continuing. “Not war, of course, or its horrors. Just that someone’s saying it, instead of just publishing another disguised recruitment advertisement.” 

Shayne can’t help but feel a little dumbfounded. Here he was, talking to a man outfitted in a Navy uniform, nursing a free celebratory gin for his first ship out tomorrow, and he’s denouncing war. It wasn’t technically a crime to be against it, but growing up encircled by sympathizers, Shayne had learned quickly to keep his mouth shut for his own safety. And yet, here Tommy is, representing the country and critical of it at the very same time. 

“Okay, I just have to ask,” Shayne finally speaks, all too aware of the way Tommy’s head tilts curiously. “You saying that, doesn’t it make you,” he considers for a moment, then continues, “a breathing oxymoron?” 

Tommy breathes in an amused breath and smiles, like a wayward kid caught red-handed. “I walked right into that one. Criticizing recruitment ads while actively dressed as one isn’t very compelling, hm?” 

Tommy takes a swig of his drink, but before he has the chance to resume, Shayne beats him to it. “Why’d you enlist? Other than clearly needing some good American patriotism in your life.” Shayne balls his hand into a fist and knocks it in the air once between them, drawing another breathy chuckle out of Tommy.

“Why do you think anyone enlists anymore? I can guarantee you at least half of the men in this bar aren’t in this uniform because they've always dreamed of laying down their lives for honor." Tommy sniffs once, pivoting his head to scan the tables before flicking his eyes back to Shayne. "Just how many do you think had their fathers sign up for them?"

The words strike Shayne deeper than he'd care to admit, especially not to a stranger with a sharp jawline and an answer to everything. "That doesn't answer my question." He picks up his beer, the chill just starting to wane, and takes a hefty sip.

Tommy lifts his head back upright, absentmindedly shrugging, eyes lingering on Shayne's throat as he swallows the beer. "I'd bet it's the same for you. Decent enough pay, housing provided, and the status boost is a nice bonus," he explains flatly.

His hands are busy along the hem of his necktie, one cheek slightly sunken where he gnawed at the inside of it; Shayne may not know Tommy too well, but he certainly knows when someone's not saying something. "Can't argue with that," he mutters, deciding not to push the subject— he's not too keen on showing his hand just because someone asks him to, either.

Tommy nods in acknowledgement, their conversation lulling into silence as the other men erupt into another bout of noise. The sailor's drink is nearly ice, his leg bouncing rhythmically against the stool as he watches another card game wrap up, and Shayne wonders if their exchange might be coming to an end. He peeks out a window at the far side of the bar, the sky losing sun by the minute. He really has to get home, ignite the lighthouse, and hunker down for the night. It's his favorite part of the job, so why does he feel disappointed?

"How's it end?" Tommy's gaze is on him again, expression unreadable.

"What?" Shayne blinks and inwardly shushes himself, worried Tommy might be able to hear his thoughts.

He juts his head down slightly towards the bar top. "Your book. How does your book end?"

"Oh, right, uh," he picks up his book and tilts it towards Tommy so his bookmark is visible. "I'm not sure yet, I haven't finished it."

"Well, that's a shame." The other man's eyes bore intently on it, and Shayne sets the book carefully back down next to his drink.

"I thought you said you wanted to read it," Shayne says, trying out a soft smile, watching him almost expectantly.

Tommy looks up and finds his gaze, an almost wistful smile meeting his. "I do. A spoiler would've been nice though." His tone is watered down, perhaps one crack away from being broken open, his leg no longer moving as he turns to stare through his gin.

Shayne's smile falters a moment, and he shifts a little in his stool as another moment of silence builds between them. Every time he thinks he has Tommy figured out—checked all the necessary boxes—Tommy turns his progress on its head. He steals another glance out the window, the only light coming from Port Stop's reflection off the glass, and he sighs. He pushed his luck, lingering for longer, but now he's really overstayed his welcome, and he has to walk home to ignite the wicks.

"The sun's down. I have to go make sure the lamps get lit," he explains when he catches Tommy's eyes on him, patiently curious. Shayne pushes off the stool onto his feet, cradling his glass to finish the last of his—now lukewarm—beer.

"That must be really cool, doing that every day," Tommy remarks earnestly, warmth returning to his voice. "Don't think I've ever even seen a lighthouse up close."

"Would you like to?" Shayne hears his own voice ask, surprising himself. Tommy looks just as caught off guard as Shayne feels, and he assumes he might've overstepped. Perhaps he misread the entire interaction; maybe Tommy was only being polite, ready for Shayne to depart so he could enjoy his last night of freedom alone. He almost doesn't want to hear his answer, one hand on his book as he rifles in his pocket for his money with the other.

He stops when another hand, feather-light and intentional, rests over his. "I would love to," he soothes, hushed, pinky finger resting just beneath the sleeve of Shayne's sweater. He has to force himself to tear away from the sight, eyes finding Jim distracted at a table before connecting again with Tommy, whose gaze trails up his arm to settle on his face.

"Great," Shayne manages, wondering if he sounds as breathless as he feels. He finally retrieves his cash, eyes flicking down to the wood as he dispenses it, when he catches a glimpse of the other man's drink. "Finish that first, Jim doesn't give handouts like that often."

A smirk flashes across Tommy's face, and then he takes his hand back and curves it around his glass. He removes his cap and tilts his head back, drinking slow, his other hand lying flat against his abdomen. Shayne feels transfixed, stuck both in time and in this position, resigned to a life of tracing the sharp line of Tommy's jaw and chasing his delicate touch. By the time Tommy comes back up for air, Shayne flutters his eyes closed, trying to keep himself focused on the task at hand. Tommy's never seen a lighthouse, and I happen to have a lighthouse.

"Ready?" he asks as Tommy returns the now-empty glass onto the bar, crushing the last few ice cubes between his teeth.

It's hardly a minute before they're crossing the street from the bar and starting up the hill. The evening air is cooler, small gusts of wind falling just short of him for Tommy instead, and Shayne can't help but be unmoored by it. The lighthouse was empty when he showed up on his first day, and apart from him, it's remained that way. The structure was always too out of the way to attract tourists, and Shayne too much in his own way to attract anyone else. He’s not sure what makes tonight any different, if perhaps the salt kicked up from the ocean with the sole intent of affecting his judgment, but he finds himself in no mood to complain.

Tommy's features look different under the moonlight, his eyes glowing almost mythically as his hair lifts minutely from the breeze, now happily freed from his cap. Shayne's stealing glances his way—tracking the steady rhythm his hips keep to— and if he picks up on it, Tommy doesn't let it show, his attention split between the arriving stars above and the grass below. From their position, the ocean is just barely visible, and he blames his literary endeavors for waxing poetic, nearly vowing to swear off fiction for the next month. Still, it deserves to be said that Tommy's lips remind Shayne of the horizon line— glittering with silver, fiercely protective of the mysteries that lie behind them.

When they reach the top of the hill—the lighthouse perceptible just across the expanse— Tommy huffs out a laugh. "I can't believe you walk this every day." The other man runs his hands along his arms for warmth, and Shayne suppresses the urge to lend him his sweater.

That's because I don't. The quick response echoes in his mind, and his head shakes ever-so-slightly at the thought. “You get used to it,” he offers instead, transferring his book from one hand to the other. A gentle smile curves at the corners of his mouth as he outlines the title with his fingernail. “One trip back from the market has me questioning if it's possible live off of sand instead.”

The laugh Tommy lets out sounds warm enough to shield them both from the chill, and Shayne breaks out into a satisfied grin. The rest of the walk is comfortable, shrouded in silence save for the occasional nocturnal seagull, until they finally reach the cottage. Shayne doesn’t stop— plans set on the lighthouse— and Tommy obediently follows, voluntarily obvious with appraisal as his gaze absorbs what it can from the outside of Shayne's home. The moon is almost entirely obscured as Shayne slows, lingering just a few steps from the door to the lighthouse.

When Shayne checks behind him, Tommy isn’t far off with his head tilted all the way up, a woah spilling from his lips to frame his awed expression. An almost proud grin finds purchase on Shayne’s lips as he follows the trip upward. Bringing his gaze back down to earth, Tommy approaches the structure, leaning against it tiredly with a sigh. “Well I’ll be damned, she’s beautiful.”

Shayne may not have built the lighthouse, but a sense of gratification settles within him. His eyes linger at the top of the structure, then Tommy, before finding their way over the cliffside, darkened waves folding one over the other. Without a word, Shayne walks right up to the edge, the ground beneath him softer the closer he gets, and kneels, gathering a few stray stones before standing back up. Tommy’s sights are set on him when Shayne glances over his shoulder, and Shayne beckons him with a jut of his chin.

As if magnetized—to the ocean or him, Shayne can’t be sure—Tommy peels himself off the wall, hips swaying as he closes the distance. He slows to a stop at arm’s length, his expression dimmed under the shadow of the lighthouse. "Hold out your hand,” Shayne gently instructs, holding his own out in the space between them.

Tommy hovers his hand underneath Shayne’s without a second thought, a curiosity-laced smirk settling on his face. Shayne gifts him half the stones he collected, hand retreating with the rest. “Figured we could skip ‘em. Didn’t want you to miss out on the tradition.” 

“To hell with tradition,” he snickers, but accepts the stones, angling his body out to face the ocean below. In one swift motion, Tommy tosses it underhanded, watching it successfully skip a few times across the water before taking its plunge. “Why’s it so important we skip a stone before we ship out anyway?” 

“It’s kind of like you’re making a deal with nature,” Shayne tries, tossing his own stone towards the water, hopping twice before disappearing. “Giving the ocean a gift in exchange for good luck and a safe voyage.” Another rock launches from his grasp and immediately penetrates the water.

Tommy takes his turn, nodding proudly as it skips for longer than the first, then tilts his gaze sideways back at Shayne. “Cheap trade, don’t you think? Gifting the ocean what already belongs to her." He observes the last rock in the middle of his palm, then positions it before tossing it into the ocean from just above his head.

"The ocean's gonna think you're trying to woo her if you're not careful. That's what I think." The corners of Shayne’s mouth quirk up as he rolls his last stone between his fingers. 

Tommy shrugs coyly, biting his lip as he seems to search for the right words. “The ocean’s smart, I think she knows my true intentions.” 

Tommy meets Shayne’s eyes now, sharp and unwavering, and despite the late-summer breeze, a warmth radiates at the base of Shayne’s spine. He shifts from one foot to the other, the crashing of the waves thrumming in his ears as he diverts his attention from the other man. He throws his last stone from the cliffside, like he might have a deal of his own to make with nature, the layers of his resolve already eroding before the rock disappears underwater. 

Shayne pivots back towards Tommy, a glow outlining his frame as the moon emerges from hiding behind the lighthouse. “I really have to get that lamp lit. Follow me.” He starts for the lighthouse door without another glance, but even over the humming waves, Shayne can sense Tommy’s presence keeping pace behind him. 

When they reach the door, Shayne unlatches it and heaves it open, stepping aside to let Tommy go first. “After you,” he instructs, extending his arm to gesture inside. 

“Such a gentleman,” Tommy praises, the corners of his mouth quirking as he heeds Shayne’s words, passing through the threshold and pausing to look at the path laid before him. “You know,” he calls over his shoulder, starting his ascent as Shayne pulls the door tightly shut. “A true gentleman would carry his guest instead of making him climb up a hundred stairs.” 

Shayne snickers, heat settling on his cheeks as he falls in line behind Tommy. “And a true Navy sailor wouldn’t have an attitude.” When Tommy snorts out a laugh, he continues. "Also, it's 248 stairs."

Even looking at his back, Shayne can tell when Tommy rolls his eyes, a fuller smile tugging at his cheeks. "Dear Lord," he mutters, shaking his head almost incredulously.

They continue the spiral trek, Tommy meeting each narrow step cautiously, Shayne gliding his hand along the wall. The paint is peeling less closer to the bottom, but he catches a few spots, making a mental note to fix them in the morning. Eventually, Shayne can see the halfway marker up ahead, directly parallel to the next landing. Typically, he uses the alcoves only to take a break when bringing kerosene canisters to the top, but he figures it might be best to let the other man take a breather.

It's when Tommy nearly misses the step onto the landing that Shayne makes the executive decision, cradling his hand against Tommy's waist to direct him up and over. The other man regains his footing and allows himself to be guided, a small gasp spilling from his lips as the ocean comes back into view through the window.

Shayne settles behind him, peering around the taller man's arm to take in the view. He's grateful for the notable lack of storms this summer, which has allowed him to keep the windows unlatched all season long before needing to lock them up come fall. In the far corner, the town resides, and he chooses to believe in the optical illusion, wondering if it could really all be this small and subdued; the lighthouse—singular, distant, and resilient—is his. Him.

"Somehow the waves look even better from here," Tommy whispers, as if trying to preserve the stillness around them. Shayne's attention pulls away from the window back to the man in front of him, all the way down to where Tommy's is still nestled in his grasp.

Without really meaning to, Shayne flinches away, retreating once more for the stairs. "Just wait until we get to the top," he remarks, a feeble attempt at keeping his voice even. Tommy turns from the window, his own hand ghosting across his waist as he wordlessly wedges himself once more between Shayne and the next set of steps, his face indecipherable. Shayne follows his lead, willing himself to keep his eyes anywhere but the figure in front of him.

The last half goes by quicker than the first—the watch room now just through the door ahead—and Shayne lets out a ragged breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Tommy steps inside cautiously, extending his arms as he navigates further through the darkness. Shayne maneuvers seamlessly around him and clicks on the oil lanterns, starting with the one on his desk. The watch room is quaint, nearly empty save for a wood-fired oven and a dark-wooded desk, matching the two small bookshelves tucked in the corner.

"I can't say I expected furniture in here. Maybe the desk, but definitely not the bookshelves," Tommy reacts, gravitating closer to read the faded dates on logbooks. When Shayne makes a move to flick the lantern resting atop the wood fire stove on, he watches with a playful smile. "That seems counterproductive."

"The nights might be cold, but it's still summer. I'm not wasting any of my fall wood for some light." Shayne returns his attention to the sailor, who's now inching his way closer to the desk with a curious tilt of his chin.

"I can't imagine having to move anything in here, or out," the other man carries on, ignoring Shayne's response as he lowers himself into the desk chair. "Think I'd end up just pushing it all out a window."

Shayne chuckles softly, shaking his head as he finds himself tracing Tommy's steps, stopping first to straighten the logbooks, careful not to smudge the titles further. "This lighthouse has been here longer than I've been alive, same goes for this furniture." He swipes a finger across the sole patch of dust, then brushes it off with his thumb. "And honestly? They're gonna outlive me, too."

Silence falls between them as Tommy finds interest in the logbook centered on the desk, gingerly opening it to the first page. "Wait, this place is open for visitors? This guest section is empty."

"You saw for yourself how long that walk is. You think a tourist is doing that?" Shayne strides over behind him, resting a hand on the back of the chair.

Tommy hums in agreement, turning the page and analyzing it quietly. He does this a few more times, careful with each page as he lifts it. "You have really pretty handwriting," he murmurs, peeking behind him out of the corner of his eye.

Shayne masks the shiver in his body with a single breath out, a smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you, I, uh, tend to take my logs home. Take my time with them at my writing desk, then bring them back up here." Tommy is still peering over his shoulder, listening closely, and Shayne swallows the nervous itch in his throat.

Tommy flips through a few more pages before decisively stopping on one, inspecting it closely. "What is— is this a poem?" For a moment, Shayne furrows his brows, unsure where Tommy is referencing. It's not until he leans in closer that he sees it:

The nothingness of life

Found on old corroded, brown paint

Feet through clutter and palm over mouth

One eye still in a dream

"Did you write this?" Tommy asks, pulling Shayne halfway out of his own head. The perception settles uneasily in his stomach, as if Tommy is observing him underneath a particularly intimate magnifying glass.

"Oh, that's— yeah, I write while waiting for the tides sometimes." Shayne shifts from one foot to the other, heat creeping its way onto his cheeks. "Speaking of, we're almost to the gallery deck. Just a few more stairs."

Shayne steps back to extend a polite hand, and when the other pauses, he considers taking it back. But then Tommy lifts his hand, palm soft against Shayne's callouses as he pulls himself back up, eyes catching each other before Tommy slides past him towards the stairs. His now-empty hand tightens into a fist at his side, and Shayne nips at the inside of his cheek as he once again falls in line behind the sailor. 

“Just keep going up,” Shayne instructs when they arrive at the service room. “And take it slow, this last stretch is pretty narrow.” Tommy doesn’t respond with more than a nod, head hung low as he watches his feet, oblivious to the way Shayne’s eyes are trained on him, careful not to let him fall. There’s almost a rhythm to the way the sailor’s torso sways from one step to the next, a melody with each breath he breathes— a particularly alluring siren song that Shayne itches to climb overboard for and chase.

Salt-stirred humidity hits him first before the gallery deck comes into view, and when it finally does, an indulgent grin spreads across Shayne’s face. “You’ve officially climbed up 248 steps. Congratulations,” he proclaims, tracking the man in front of him as he finds the railing, hands curving around it gently.

“Worth it,” Tommy whispers, gaze fixed on the ocean and mouth slightly agape, too mesmerized to laugh. Shayne passes behind him, closer now to the lantern room ladder, before turning to look at him once more— Tommy’s head turning in slight movements, chest rising and falling in awe—it was picturesque, but with the town in view past Tommy, blinded and unknowing, Shayne doesn’t feel as small as he usually does. 

Closing the distance with the ladder, Shayne wraps one hand around a rung, planting a foot on the bottommost one before calling over his shoulder. "Stay down here, I'll be back once I get this lantern lit."

“Oh,” Tommy’s voice permeates through the wind, and Shayne freezes on the ladder. “So is it— it’s not a candle?”

“A— one singular candle? It’s a bunch of wicks reflected by a lens.” Shayne shakes his head and peers back over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed in amusement, then focuses forward once again with a sigh. “But I’ve been told there are lighthouses in other towns that are better and don’t need keepers anymore.” 

Shayne’s words come out sardonically, the words of drunk foreign sailors replaying bitterly in his head. He expects Tommy to agree, pose the benefits of an electric lighthouse rather than the antiquated one he resides in, but only a distracted hum of acknowledgment carries from Tommy, evaporating into the air as Shayne wordlessly climbs to the lantern.

When Shayne reaches the top of the lighthouse, he wills himself to shift his mind away from Tommy, to at least focus on doing his job first. The kerosene canisters are right where he left them, and he sends a silent 'thank you' to his past self for doing the heavy lifting he no longer has to do. He zeroes in on one of the cartons, twisting off the cap, then heaving it up and over to pour the fluid into each lantern. He pulls the lighter from his pocket and ignites all the wicks before finally dropping the weights, watching them slowly start their descent to the opposite end of the lighthouse.

As expected, the light reflects the way it’s supposed to, and Shayne replaces the kerosene cap, stopping only to admire his work once he's double-checked everything. He’s been at it for months, and yet he hasn’t shaken the wave of satisfaction that washes over him each time the lantern beams out over the water. He descends the ladder with a familiarity, the side rails cool to the touch in the evening weather. 

When Shayne reaches the bottom and turns from the ladder, Tommy is right where he left him, legs dangling off the side, neck tilted up to the light. He takes a few steps forward and stops, admittedly taken by the sight, and his feet bring him beside Tommy before he can think about it, abandoning his usual lawn chair. By the time he settles down next to him, the sailor’s attention is back on the water, eyes tracking the way the light cascades along it. 

“This is— wow,” Tommy breathes out, softer and more awestruck than he’s been all night. His head pivots again, and he gestures with a jut of his chin. “A view like this feels like enough to make a man fall back in love with his hometown.” 

His words dwell meaningfully in Shayne’s chest, and he almost wants to pry, ask why he fell out of love in the first place, but opts instead for a beat of silence as he outlines the town from afar. “It did for me.” He removes his book from his back pocket and stores it in the empty space behind them.

Tommy’s attention diverts once again, resting a cheek against his hands and the railing as he assesses Shayne. “You know, I don’t think I ever saw you growing up. You’re from here though, right?” 

“Easy explanation— grew up here, just on the opposite side of town. I didn’t move to this side until a few months ago.” Shayne tilts his head up to the beam of light, the railing slowly warming beneath his hands.

After a moment, Tommy nods against his own hands and lets out a puffy exhale. “Still feels like a long way from home.” 

A smile pulls at the corners of Shayne’s mouth, thoughtful and a little wistful, watching now as a new wave crashes and recedes below. "Not anymore," he murmurs, Tommy's searching gaze catching his own, and he wonders if the gleam in his eyes is just a simple reflection of the light against the water.

Tommy momentarily breaks eye contact, finding the book Shayne cast aside before recentering his focus. "What's the dream?"

"What?" he asks, and his brows furrow, wondering if he'd misheard Tommy.

"Your poem," he explains, cautiously. "What's the dream you always have one eye on?" If anyone else were asking, Shayne might think they were making fun of him, perhaps pitying. But somehow, with Tommy, it comes across as nothing but earnest.

Shayne considers the question for a moment, calculates the risks that come with each answer, and ultimately lands on one. "Honestly? I don't know. Really," he shares, adding the last part when Tommy raises his eyebrows suspiciously. "I dreamt of getting out— leaving home, never looking back. And I did that. So why does it feel like I'm still dreaming?" Tommy blinks at him in response, and he shakes his head. "Shit, sorry. You didn't climb all the way up here to listen to my sob story."

"Sure I did." Shayne thinks about laughing, but Tommy certainly isn't, eyes boring into him with a seriousness that makes Shayne's throat itch. “That’s where the clutter comes in, yeah? And the palm over the mouth? Wading through discarded attempts at finding it, all the while worried that it might be you holding yourself back?” 

“I—” He’s all too aware of how his jaw hangs open, overcome with the need to say something, but the silence does the talking for him. He casts his eyes away, where they land on his unfinished book, and his jaw hinges back into place. “I’ve been thinking about writing a book. The next great American novel,” he confesses, half-heartedly sarcastic as his hands emphasize the last half of his words. 

Tommy finally lifts his head, eyes half-lidded and smile disarmingly gentle. “Not that you should take advice from me, but I think you should do it.” He shrugs noncommittally. “Or… try, at least.” 

A lull of silence billows between them, blending with the whistling breeze that surrounds them. Shayne’s eyes catch on Tommy’s cap, tucked just under his thigh, crumpled and forgotten about. “What’s the other reason you enlisted?” he asks, adopting the same tone as Tommy, anticipating mutual vulnerability.

Tommy finds the water again, thumb grazing along the hem of his pants as his chest rises and falls once more. “You’re right that I enlisted myself, not my father. And I meant it when I said pay and housing were enticements enough.” He hesitates for a moment, then lifts one shoulder into an absent-minded shrug. “Guess I’m just trying to look for my own dream.”

“And you think you’re going to find it in a Navy uniform, thousands of miles away at sea?” Shayne nudges the brim of his cap with his knuckle.

“Are you gonna find yours at the top of this lighthouse?” Tommy’s head inclines again towards the lantern, still dutifully shining across the ocean.

The beginnings of a grin tug at the corners of Shayne’s mouth, tracing the chiseled lines of Tommy's jaw. “Touché.” He reclines back, arms extended behind him, as he joins the other man in looking at the light above them. Out of the corner of his eye, the sailor lifts his hands and curls them over his arms, gently squeezing to increase blood flow. "Are you cold? We can always head back down."

"No," Tommy answers almost immediately, shaking his head. "No, I'll be alright." He lets out a puffy exhale, his hands still stationed at his arms.

And so, Shayne does what he knows he should've from the beginning: he pulls off his sweater and folds in the sleeves before laying it neatly over the closer half of Tommy's lap. It's not until the knitted material brushes his leg that he dials his attention back, hands instinctively smoothing out the creases.

The sailor's tongue glides along his bottom lip in hesitation. "You're not— aren't you gonna be cold?" His voice is barely above a whisper, gaze still locked onto the sweater.

"Sure. But I'm up here every night, I'm used to it," Shayne reassures. "I started back in the winter, I've been colder." Tommy is still staring at the sweater, and Shayne nudges it ever-so-slightly, and it seems to be the last bit of encouragement needed, as Tommy unfolds the sleeves and puts it on.

The sweater is just slightly oversized at Tommy's torso, the sleeves stopping just short of where they do for Shayne, but even still, it looks good on him, like he was meant to wear it. When Tommy's fingers find the hem, thumb grazing over the ridges in the pattern, Shayne hopes the sweater is enough to keep him warm, his body heat enough to provide.

"Thank you," Tommy whispers, his eyes finding Shayne's for a brief moment before they drift to his arms—once deceivingly obscured, now exposed as he remains in just his white undershirt.

Shayne returns the gesture, carried away by how Tommy looks in his sweater, satisfied at how it hides the top half of his uniform. Just beyond him, another wave reaches the shore and retreats, and Shayne imagines the entire perimeter encased inside a bubble, invisible to the public like a one-way mirror; he pictures a life where, somehow, all of this is his— the lighthouse, his sweater, Tommy, his future— a rogue shiver courses down his spine.

"Can you tell me some more poetry?" Tommy's words pull him out of his thoughts, thankful that his focus is back on the water.

"More? Like what?" Shayne speaks softly, peering at the sailor with an amused smile and a tilt of his head.

Tommy pauses for a second and looks at Shayne, seemingly everywhere but his eyes, before flicking them back up and out with a shrug. "Anything. This view," he gestures obviously at the scenery around them, "I imagine this gives you endless material."

Shayne huffs a laugh, but takes the time to scan their environment, to absorb inspiration into his skin. He follows the currents as the moon wrangles them, then steals a glance at Tommy, his breath catching at the way he reflects the moonlight as if it's an old friend. He casts his eyes onto the coastline, a serene smile perched on his face.

"You know, the moon is indisputably powerful, radiant— too mysterious for any words in my vocabulary," his voice carries and hangs in the air between them after a beat of silence. Without moving his head, he flits his eyes towards Tommy and draws a short breath in. "But now I think I get it. The water isn't restrained. It's simply gravitating, helpless under the gaze of something beautiful."

Tommy shivers underneath Shayne's sweater, his lips parted just slightly as he inhales deeply. Equal parts hospitable and unusually bold, Shayne huddles in closer, their thighs touching now, Tommy's cap completely hidden underneath them. Shayne rests a hand on the space just above his own knee, and Tommy mimics the action, pinky fingers bumping gently against each other.

Shayne leans almost naturally into the touch, watching closely as their hands interact. "It's like the rest of the world doesn't exist up here," he whispers, worried one sudden move might disrupt this moment.

"Or maybe," Tommy starts, similarly hushed as his hand eases onto Shayne's thigh, measured and feather-light. "Maybe this is the whole world." His palm lies flat just above Shayne's own. "Is this okay?"

Shayne can feel Tommy's stare, flecks of heat landing on his cheekbones, but his eyes maintain downward. The siren song rings loud in his ears, and he recognizes it from before, when he was too young, when he climbed overboard and nearly drowned as a result. Perhaps naively, he wonders if this time could be different, if this is his chance to float for once. He knew why he felt drawn to the sailor—why he invited him back to the lighthouse—and he certainly knows now. He wants to scold himself for not being honest, but, with another man's hand still on his leg, now really feels like the wrong time.

He considers Tommy's interpretation of his poem, still feeling a little cracked open, mesmerized at being so easily understood. What if it really is him getting in his own way? Holding himself back? The nothingness of life, the old corroded brown paint, one eye in a dream, the other, reality: if I don't ever step outside of the same routine, the same pattern, I'll never find my way out. Maybe it's time to wade out of the clutter he created.

Shayne only realizes how long he's been quiet when Tommy's hand starts to retreat, a ready defensiveness to the gesture that makes Shayne's stomach twist. He finds his own hand lifting to catch the other man's hand, chasing his touch like the tide chases the moon's favor, before bringing them both down to rest upon his thigh.

"More than okay," he finally voices, locking eyes with Tommy, uncorked and apologetic. The other man holds their contact in both eyes and hands, and then one of them moves, palm hovering as fingertips begin gliding up Shayne’s thigh. 

Tommy reaches the crease of his hip, surpassing it languidly in favor of his waist, and he looks just about as unmoored as Shayne. There’s a note of safety laced in the way Tommy’s looking at him, like one uncertain word, one second-guessing move, and this all stops. The consideration settles weightily within Shayne, and when Tommy’s palm pauses to momentarily span across his chest, his tongue catches between his teeth.

When the sailor's hand resumes, he applies a little pressure to his chest until he reaches his shoulder. He squeezes once, as if only to mark where he's been, then finishes his path upward by cradling Shayne's cheek in his palm. Instinctually, Shayne tilts into the touch, eyes fluttering almost closed, and fleetingly, he asks himself if he should really be doing this, should be entertaining it. But then Tommy's thumb is brushing against his cheek, and he doesn't flinch away, eyes once again struggling to stay open. 

As if sensing the emerging calm under his touch, Tommy moves his hand to the back of Shayne’s neck and implements a comforting squeeze. He tries to fix his eyes back on the sailor, the ghost of a smile suppressed on his lips, and his mind wanders. Does Tommy feel the same way he does, his heart also fluttering like a caged butterfly? He wonders if Tommy’s ever done this before, then assumes that he probably has. There's something about his smooth words, the pinky underneath Shayne's sweater sleeve, his gaze so sharp, Shayne feels honored to be the object of it—these things all feel baked into him, experienced.

Tommy’s gaze. Shayne brings himself back down to earth, to the top of the lighthouse, where Tommy’s hand remains on the back of his neck, applying the occasional reassuring pressure. His eyes are boring into him with a fire behind them that Shayne can only hope is keeping him warm, and his body is pivoted away from the scenery towards him as he leans just a little forward into Shayne’s space. Tommy’s eyes— like his lips, or hands— hold proof of this experience, all disguised mysteries that make up Tommy— all questions with no visible answers. But up here, under the scrutiny of no one but Shayne and his lighthouse, his facade almost splinters, like he’s choosing to trust him, the reasoning yet another mystery. 

Tommy’s eyes, watching him with curated intrigue, his mouth, twitching almost invisibly if they hadn’t been so close, Shayne finds that he’s repeating himself; Tommy is the scratch on the record that is his thoughts. His hands, doting on Shayne like it’s all they know how to do, his shoulders, jutted forward like they’re gravitated to him. Shayne feels dizzy, maybe drunk, admittedly a little guilty, definitely magnetized. This is a bad idea, a dangerous one that Shayne knows too well. He should stop this, guide Tommy back down the stairs and see him on his way. He should—

Fuck it.

The hand closest to Tommy reaches out for a fistful of his sweater and pulls him in. When their lips finally touch, the sailor’s hand melts over the side of Shayne’s neck, everything around them dissipating— the crashing of the ocean, the light cascading above them, the salt at the tip of his tongue. It all fades away, leaving behind nothing but Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Nothing but his muffled gasps escaping between them, the aroma of vanilla wafting from his neck, the smooth softness of his lips. If Shayne felt drunk before, it’s nothing compared to the way he’s feeling now. 

It’s borderline intoxicating kissing Tommy, exhilarating when he tilts Shayne’s head back to deepen it. He doesn’t miss the way the hand on his neck directs and holds him in place, or the way Tommy’s other hand replaces the one on his thigh, this time with more confidence. When they pull away, Shayne sheepishly feels akin to his lantern— bright-eyed, trajectory dutifully tracking the sailor. 

“I should check on the lantern,” he hears himself say, a vexing fear and hesitation folded secretly into each word. 

Both of Tommy’s hands converge to cradle Shayne’s face between them, a warm smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “So diligent. So…” He lays a peck along his cheekbone, pressing the smile into an approving hum. “Good.” The word is whispered like an end to prayer, imprinted onto Shayne’s skin with another peck to his cheek. 

Tommy retracts just a little to reacquaint their eyes. “You said lighthouses in other towns are better, but those lighthouses don’t have you. And I’m gonna feel a hell of a lot safer out at sea knowing you’re here watching out for me.” 

A wave of emotions floods Shayne, and he does his best to understand them. Just about every other sailor he had met offered the same dismissive sentiment— both opinionated about and conveniently disinterested in his lighthouse. And now here was this sailor, opinionated and interested and… leaving in the morning. In a few hours, when the sun finds its way back into the sky, Tommy will be boarding a ship, sailing off to sea for a length of time he’s not sure even Tommy knows. Unspoken uncertainty a biting gust of wind around them, the thought of a simple goodbye feels wrong— he figures the least he could do is give him a proper send-off.

Shayne’s lips find Tommy’s again before his mind catches up, his hand finally releasing the sweater in favor of spanning it flat over his chest and bracing it over the sailor's shoulder. He kisses him deliberately, free hand finding Tommy's waist to tug him impossibly closer. The other man lets himself be pulled until he's knelt and leaning in, his own hands still holding Shayne's face as he once again tilts his head back to deepen the kiss.

Tommy runs another thumb across his cheek, the same spot he last laid a peck, his words still processing in his mind. Shayne could think of many words to describe himself, recalling ones others had used in the past, good never being one of them. With all the failures, the messes, he's left in his wake, it's hard to feel like he's good for anyone— not his father, nor his childhood best friend, and evidently not the other sailors he's come in contact with, before leaving him behind for the promise of honor. Whatever it is Tommy sees in him to arrive at that conclusion, he's sure it's a mistake, an outcome of Tommy not knowing him. Shayne isn't good, not honorable, and as viciously indulgent as the thought might be, he imagines the siren song lilting from his own tongue, luring the sailor to untimely destruction. The idea buzzes beneath his skin and, when Tommy's lips shift to graze the hinge of Shayne's jaw, transforms into something headier: he wants to be good, to prove Tommy right, and everyone else wrong.

He wants to be good for Tommy.

"The lighthouse, the ocean… so much to look at," Tommy whispers, eyes trailing his hands as they glide down Shayne’s chest. “And the only view I keep concerning myself with is this one.” His hands settle at Shayne’s waist, thumbs tucking underneath his belt loops, fingers finding the skin just underneath his shirt when he grins. “Is that cheesy?” 

Shayne huffs a laugh and follows it with a tender smile, his lower half fidgeting into Tommy’s touch. One hand still on his waist, the other on his shoulder, he grabs at the knitted fabric. “Please,” he manages, perhaps more needy than he would’ve liked, but he can feel each inhibition melting away under Tommy's appraisal.

“What do you want?” His eyes are still closed, but Shayne can tell he’s still smiling, voice earnestly gentle. The question catches him off guard— if he can't even figure out his own dream, how can Tommy expect Shayne to know what he wants now?

He hesitates for a moment, the edges of his brain a little fuzzy when Tommy applies a small amount of pressure with the pads of his fingers. “I want…” his own voice trails off, searching for courage in the colors on the inside of his eyelids. Tommy imprints another peck, this time at his hairline, and the warmth at his spine envelops Shayne. “You. I want your hands. Please,” his voice is just above a whisper, hoping he sounds less flustered than he feels.

When Tommy removes his hands, Shayne lets out a low whine. “I’m right here, bub. Just getting comfortable,” he soothes, palms finding his thighs after a moment. “You can have my hands. Hell, you can have whatever you want, Shayne.” 

Another shiver courses through Shayne, and then Tommy’s at the waistband of his trousers, fingertips slipping just barely underneath. Tommy flits his eyes upward as Shayne’s breath hitches, a silent question passing between them. He pairs a nod with his next breath out, unable to resist a glance down when the sailor fiddles with the button and zipper of his pants. In one swift motion, he tugs the zipper all the way down and eases a hand over the front of Shayne's underwear.

A moan punches out of Shayne, and he's almost embarrassed by it, but Tommy's eyes find him with a pleased smile. "I've got you." He haphazardly palms the material, his other hand reclaiming its spot on Shayne’s cheek.

He continues at a slow rhythm, licking his bottom lip contentedly each time he draws a noise from Shayne. After one particularly desperate whine, when Tommy’s hand presses over the tip of his erection, he lets out a breathless laugh as Shayne’s hips lift into his touch. “Easy, tiger. Let me get you comfortable first.” 

It’s only then that Shayne is aware of his position— torso leaning diagonally, hands still clenched around the sweater, member stiff and restrained beneath two layers. Tommy’s hands move, already guiding him from his sides before he can protest, until his back comes in contact with the railing. Shayne lays his palms flat over the concrete on either side of him, and without reprieve, Tommy hooks his fingers over both waistbands and hauls them down, just enough that the ground is cold against his upper thighs.

Tommy quite obviously isn't a small man, but evidently neither is Shayne; he’s not used to being manhandled and directed this way, but when the other man’s hands detour to knead the muscles in his thighs, another noise catches in his throat. He wastes no time before he’s removing one and curving his hand around Shayne’s erection, forcing his gaze upward in search of approval. Hesitation waning, Shayne feels himself nod a few times, eyes following Tommy’s down, where they land unabashedly between Shayne’s legs.

He starts with a few cursory strokes, Shayne already almost fully hard, Tommy's face and hand competing for his attention. The victor is decided for him when the sailor's other hand lifts into the space between them, palm up. He gestures it closer to Shayne in minute movements, expression out of focus behind, his lips pressed together as if he's too shy to explain, but prepared to if he doesn't understand.

Lucky for him, Shayne understands. Fingernails etching crescents into his skin, he opens his mouth and closes his eyes, bending forward until his tongue finds Tommy's open palm. The sensation is intimate, unexpectedly arousing, but he tries not to linger, licking along each groove until the area is slick. He retracts his tongue but remains suspended forward to open his eyes and peer up, the sight alone is enough to draw a groan from Shayne. Tommy is watching him, vulnerably close, lips parted as if unconsciously half-mimicking his movements. 

After what he’s convinced could’ve been an eternity, Shayne reclines back against the railing, deciding on a whim to extend his arms along it on either side of him. He grips the rods firmly as Tommy returns his now-slicked hand between Shayne’s legs; he can feel how his biceps flex under the pressure, a detail Tommy clearly doesn’t miss, his free hand moving to chase it beneath his palm. 

“Jesus, I—” he starts, the sailor’s words separated by a rogue moan spilling from Shayne’s lips. “With arms like these, I can’t help wondering what the rest looks like.”

There’s no command in Tommy’s words, but Shayne translates them into one, maneuvering his arms from the railing until his fingers find the hem of his shirt, singularly pulling it up and off to the side. His eyes find Tommy, the moon once again reflecting from his gaze, refined into glowing fragments at each corner. Residing under it, under him, was intoxicating, and Shayne realizes the pulling of the tides might be just as alluring to the moon as it is to the waves. 

“You’re so beautiful. Shayne.” Tommy’s voice sounds dipped in honey, hushed in awe as both hands explore his body— one agonizingly slow around his member, the other, tracing with one finger over each crease of his stomach, his chest. Shayne swallows and tilts his head back, eyes closed, ears buzzing at the sound of his name wrapped around Tommy’s tongue. An approving hum embeds itself into the sailor’s touch, and Shayne preens at the attention. “Should I…”

Tommy’s voice fades out, the hand roaming his left side disappears, willing him to open his eyes enough to find its fingers curling behind the hems of Shayne’s sweater and his uniform shirt. "Wait, don't— ah— leave it on," he breathes, accidentally bumping Tommy’s occupied hand in the process. The sailor’s brows knit together faintly, but he listens, loosening his hold on the fabric. Shayne shakes his head apologetically. “Trust me, I would love it if you… But I’d rather you be dressed and comfortable than undressed and cold.” 

Shayne watches as Tommy’s skin flushes, his gaze softening into something partly reverent, the rest undefinable. He seems too taken by Shayne’s consideration to respond verbally, resolving instead to quicken his pace between his thighs and intertwine their hands. The sweater stays on, a sight Shayne enjoys— knowing Tommy is warm, taken care of, enveloped in him. Tommy's hand moves once again up his shaft, introducing a swipe of his thumb to the head. A moan tumbles out of Shayne as his hands twitch for more contact, but he doesn't honor the temptation, keeping them where they reside over the railing and against Tommy's own. His mind is quiet, strikingly so, but definitely not silent, remnants of resolve and indecision still speckled about.

“You can touch me, Shayne.” Tommy’s words don’t disrupt his pace, but they come out soft, a reminder of something previously unspoken. He drives his point home, disconnecting their hands to guide Shayne’s over his waist before placing his own to span over a thigh. 

The knitted material is coarse between his fingers, the sailor’s uniform shirt a contrasting smoothness when he gingerly slips under the hems. The first touch to Tommy’s skin lines up perfectly with another swipe of the thumb, and Shayne’s hips jut forward as he compresses it in his hold, thumb just above Tommy’s hipbone. The other man lets out a contented sigh and huddles closer between Shayne’s legs to allow for more comfort.

The next touch is feather-light up his side, a reactionary shiver that feels satisfying under Shayne’s touch. He continues to roam Tommy’s body, wondering in awe if he cracked open somewhere, fractured in a place that lets the sailor peer in and see him— know him. He explores the skin, cataloging it, committing Tommy to memory.

The hand on his thigh snakes over to his stomach, applying pressure to the space just above his erection as he rotates his other palm over the head a few times. The sensation feels like bolts of lightning scattered across his body, an overstimulating sign that he knows means he's close to unraveling. He senses himself nodding more than he feels it, a tensed heat rising to envelop him as Tommy holds the rhythm, increasing the consistency of his hand over Shayne's member.

Heat and tension within Shayne’s body build almost musically, the rhythm of Tommy’s hand in harmony with his heartbeat. For once, Shayne isn’t thinking nautically, the ocean miles away, a hazy backdrop on a freshly developed polaroid. His mind is poetry, prose, lyrics— long ago and far away; I dreamed a dream one day; and now that dream is here beside me. Tommy strums his last chord, and Shayne's song reaches a crescendo, body a medley of pulses and hums, and the other man relocates his hands to soothe over Shayne's thighs.

When the music subsides, the sound of waves subtly roars in the distance, and the sailor's chest rises and falls in tandem, a lulling smile holding easily at the corners of his mouth. His eyes roam over Shayne's chest, coated in fallen music notes, working out a solution with a furrowed brow. Wordlessly, Shayne bundles his discarded shirt in his hand and swipes it across his front. When he’s done, he discards the shirt once more to the side, carefully raising his hips to pull his underwear and pants back up. 

His gaze finally lifts off himself, the bulge between the other man’s legs impossible to miss, material taut as he stays kneeling before Shayne. Tommy hasn't made a move to free it, hands still petal-soft over his skin, and, with eyes still dutifully fixed on Shayne, he's wondering if the sailor even considered it. A hand reaches out to palm it, and the hands on his thighs stall, fingers imprinting into skin as Tommy's breath catches in his throat. With his free one, Shayne pulls the other man in by the back of his neck, lips connecting as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Shayne's touch repositions to the waistband of his pants, and it's not long before Tommy's lips part, breathless as his gaze follows the movement. "You—" he starts, words separated by a small gasp as fingers brush the skin underneath it. "You don't have to."

"I want to," Shayne answers, voice tender, and he thinks it might be the most sure of something he's been all night. His fingers tip out from where they rest beneath the waistband to feather against his stomach. "If you want me to."

"God. I want you to, Shayne." Tommy's hips twitch receptively to Shayne's touch, cheeks dusted with color. "Please."

Newfound confidence thrumming under his skin, he presses Tommy’s mouth against his once more, guiding him to lie back on the platform with a flat hand over his stomach. Tommy instinctively extends his arm, serving as a cushion between the metal and Shayne’s bare torso. His fingers traverse beneath the waistband and palm Tommy’s erection through his underwear before removing them to hook over his pants. “Need these off.” 

“Yesterday.” Tommy grabs the other side of his pants and lifts his hips to pull them down. Shayne nudges his underwear down and curves a hand around his member, and Tommy lets out another small gasp. 

It takes him a minute for the confidence to seep into his fingertips, moving his hand up and down as he works towards the same momentum as Tommy just a moment ago. He continues up and down, wasting no time before introducing his thumb to the head, eliciting small gasps, as if a secret he’s never told anyone else. It’s been a while since he’s done this, allowed someone close enough into his touch, and he admittedly feels out of his depth.

“You’re so good, Shayne,” Tommy whispers, breath warm over his ear as he shakily exhales it. His forearm lifts, allowing his hand to tangle itself in Shayne's blonde hair, his eyes fluttering at the gesture. When his thumb swipes over again, Tommy's hips drive upward into the contact. "Not gonna last long. Got halfway there just looking at you."

Shayne’s own erection twitches sensitively in response, his body flushed with red. As if rewarding him, Shayne increases his pace, builds up until he’s mimicking Tommy’s movements, rotating his palm around the head a few times. It only takes a few measured strokes for Tommy's breath to fracture, gaze trained between his legs.

“Wait, I'm—” A palm rests over Shayne’s wrist, and he immediately pauses, propping up on an elbow as he awaits further instruction. “Your sweater.” He runs his free palm along the knitted material and meets his eyes with concern.

A warm, if amused, smile forms on Shayne's face, removing his grasp on Tommy to smooth the two layers over his stomach higher. An involuntary shiver runs through him, drawing out a soft laugh from Shayne, and Tommy joins him, sheepish and out of breath. He leans down and captures him in another kiss, his laughter sweet on his tongue. His hand feathers back between his legs and continues to stroke, the interruption evidently not resetting his progress when Tommy’s hips fidget in response. 

When Tommy finally comes undone, Shayne is convinced he’s carrying the entire night sky in his hands, holding it against his lips; his eyes two fragments of the moon that still hold their luster, red-speckled cheeks stars that Shayne feels compelled to connect. He’s always imagined the sky untouchable, its beauty this hanging, otherworldly thing that all encompassed him. But tonight, by some miracle, or perhaps he’s dreaming, Shayne can’t be sure, he gets to touch the stars, gets to feel the velvety smoothness of the sky against his skin. He handles Tommy through the unraveling, pleasure potent and intoxicating like a shooting star, until his body finally eases. 

The moon shards disappear behind Tommy’s eyelids as he flutters them closed, and Shayne doesn’t disturb him, taking the initiative instead to retrieve his shirt behind him. He dabs it across his exposed stomach, careful to catch every fleck of stardust before smoothing the sweater back into place. By the time he discards it behind him again, Tommy’s arm finds a home draped over his side, guiding him closer until Shayne’s cheek is pressed into the sailor’s bicep. His eyes are open now, body shifting to his side so their faces are mere inches apart, hand dipping to lazily play with Shayne’s hair. Any uncertainty Shayne held about this, about what they’d just done, what it means for it to come to an end, all lay dormant, kept at bay with each gentle scratch to Shayne’s scalp. 

“I hope the ocean’s as kind to me in the morning,” Tommy whispers, his last word hanging just above them among the stars— morning. 

“You made a deal with her. What was it, five stones? You’ll be fine,” Shayne reminds, a smile subdued against muscle, repressing the preemptive ache of soon being able to smile uninhibited. "You're lucky."

Tommy huffs a laugh, its warmth tickling Shayne's bare shoulder. "Can't say I've ever had luck when it comes to women." He flashes a grin, nose wrinkling cheesily, and soon Shayne is laughing too, warmth blossoming in his chest.

They lay entangled, Shayne looking to the sky when the sailor does, an almost mythic haze surrounding the moon. He decides that Tommy's right, that endless material seemed to endure all around him— Tommy included. "O sailors, rouse your brave hearts! Heed not the death cry of the waves," he cites, stitching two parts of one poem closer together.

"Wow, that's…" Tommy pauses, sitting in the words as he pulls in a deep breath. "Was that one of yours?"

Shayne smiles, blush dusting a thin layer of red across his cheeks. "I'm flattered, but no. That one's Adah Menken." He snakes a hand around Tommy's waistband, pulling, the other man lifting his bottom half knowingly until it clings comfortably around his hips, then retires the hand to his waist, fingers making contact just beneath his sweater and uniform.

A relaxed smile tugs at the corners of Tommy's mouth, mapping the stars through half-lidded eyes. "What's it called?"

He hesitates at first, then coughs out a laugh, nervously swiping his tongue across his bottom lip into a grimaced smile. "It's— well, it's called The Ship That Went Down." He hides his face loosely against the sailor's covered muscle, and Tommy lets out another huff.

"Great pep talk, Shayne." Tommy shakes his head, his name so affectionate from his tongue that it makes his head liquefy a little.

They lull into a beat of silence, the sailor's gaze perhaps a mile away as he counts the stars. Shayne moves his hand to rest at Tommy's cheek. "You don't have anything to worry about. You won't be alone out there."

The words are platitudes, placating, he knows they are— he knows Tommy knows they are— but Tommy tilts his head to face Shayne anyway, eyes scanning every feature. "And you'll be here," he pauses, swallowing slow. "Keeping the light on for us."

Shayne magnetizes to him, guiding Tommy by his cheek to meet him in the middle as he presses their lips together. He can't possibly imagine what's to come after tonight—for Tommy, more than anyone—whether this is the start of some tectonic shift in his life, a result of the deal he made with nature, or simply a passing blip, never to cross his radar again. He kisses him, affected and answering, retracting after a minute to rest their foreheads together.

Silence flows between them, the unspoken increasingly difficult when Tommy pulls him close after another shiver, forehead melting into his shoulder blade. Tommy's hand is still scratching his scalp, the other smoothing down his back, and Shayne can barely contain the drowsiness that begins to overtake him. Dreaded questions and their answers permeate bitterly over his tongue, too sharp at the hinge of his jaw to bite back.

"Do you have to leave soon?" Shayne manages, a wave of embarrassment washing over him. Tommy didn't owe him more time, wasn't obligated to shirk his responsibilities for a little while longer to spend it with him, and yet Shayne hopes he does anyway.

But the sailor keeps him close, cheek pressed against cheek as warm breath circulates his ear. "I wanna stay in this world for a bit longer. If that's okay with you."

Shayne has every intention of responding, of suggesting they stay here forever, clinging to each other under the lantern’s safety. He hears a low hum leave his lips and settle along Tommy’s neck, the body intertwined with him an effective sedative. He wants to tell Tommy more about his books, wants Tommy to surprise him with another stark opinion, wants this morning to take a hint and allot them more time. His body is a tidal wave of emotions—an exhilaration of being seen, a fear of retaliation, interest in a stranger—exhaustion a breakwater, dispersing it into smaller, undefinable pieces that have Shayne closing his eyes to parse through. The last thing he hears is something he can’t place, Tommy’s breathing and the ocean breeze blending to create one song. 

The first thing he hears when he finally stirs awake is laced with familiarity, the distant ship horn his own makeshift rooster. He opens his eyes to him reaching for something not there, the strip of platform ahead of him barren. Bracing one hand flat atop it, Shayne heaves himself to a sitting position as he takes in his surroundings. The sky was awake, swirled with oranges and pinks painted around the lighthouse, still dutifully shining out to sea. 

The sea ripples, bright-eyed and refreshed, and Shayne just barely catches a Navy ship sailing purposefully away from their shore. Reality pangs in his stomach when his eyes flick down to find his sweater, returned, neatly folded and residing where his head just lay. He runs a hand over the knitted cotton, still warm from his body heat, then picks it up to unfurl. His fingers tangle with something akin to velvet at the collar, and he carefully fishes it out and twirls it in his palm— Tommy’s necktie, twisted and certainly left by mistake. Pocketing it, Shayne pulls the sweaters back on and, after collecting his crumpled shirt, forces himself to stand up.

The rest of the platform is empty save for the lawn chair, a sentiment that he normally wouldn’t think twice about, and yet an unease settles in his chest. The night plays out again in his mind in flashes: the lantern, the beer, the sailor—the book. Shayne stares diligently where it lay just hours before, as if doing so might will the book back into existence. He fleetingly considers the worst, the vision of the anti-war apologist’s book submerged in the very ocean as the Navy draws a rueful huff from his lips. 

Another, farther ship horn sounds in the ocean behind him, and he wills himself not to look, closing distance with the ladder instead. He goes through the motions—check, extinguish, clean, check again—the necktie a weighted phantom in his pocket. He wastes no time climbing down the ladder before descending the stairs, dragging a hand over each chip in the paint until he reaches the watchroom; the oil lamps are blown out, his most recent log closed and centered at his desk, its chair tucked in close, his book nowhere to be found. One, two, eight landings, he leaves it all in his wake, the cool morning air inviting itself through each window and encircling him as he passes.

The sky is bluer by the time he exits the lighthouse, less potent when he shoves the door tightly closed behind him. It’s a few steps before he stops at his front door, the idea of Tommy depositing the book just inside falling short when the doorknob doesn’t budge. He retrieves his key from underneath a particularly sizable rock hauled from the cliffside and abandons it on a nearby side table when he makes it inside. Nothing new stands out to him— the door to his bedroom still closed, nothing so much as slanted the wrong way. His eyes immediately gravitate to the bookshelf on the left wall, the empty slot glaring back at him, demanding answers. Familiar titles and reminiscent premises peel from their covers, sticking in his mind, and realization washes over him.

Tommy took it with him.

Standing in his cottage, partway in the living room and halfway to the kitchen, last night's conversations come back to him in fragments, like excerpts of his next read. Shayne can't help but be conflicted, considers it fair to be frustrated, his thoughts swimming with ways the story ends. He tries anger on for size, and when his fingers coil the necktie in his pocket, he finds it doesn't suit him. Shayne frees it, cradles it in his palm to study the stitching, as if the blue material holds all the answers; as if it, too, tells a story.

Tommy, the anti-war Navy sailor, with a penchant for wit and hands too soft, too gentle, to cause harm. The man who grew up on the other side of town from Shayne, who refused to shave his beard regardless of obligation. The first person to ask about his books, his lighthouse, his poetry, and listen— the only one to hold him. Maybe, in some twisted, undefinable way, Tommy needs the book, something that understands the challenges he's up against, provides a strange sort of pacifying comfort. If Shayne's book can provide even an infinitesimal shred of that to Tommy, he's more than willing to welcome the loss— even if he's anxious to know the ending, too.

Shayne finds himself at his writing desk before he can realize it, golden rays cascading across it now from the window on the far right wall as the sun finds its way through the clouds. He settles himself in the chair, retrieving first a key from the few that hang on hooks just above the desk from a shelf, and unlocks the top drawer. Storing the necktie in an empty corner, he counts out a few sheets of paper and lays them in a stack in front of him before obtaining a quill. The wood grain a welcome roughness against his wrists, he writes, time drifting under the meditation of the shifting sky, breeze in tandem with the rhythmic sounds of quill on paper.

Penning the last word and his signature, he returns the quill to its rightful spot—adding more ink to his mental market list—and lets everything dry before filing it away in the drawer, putting the key back once the drawer is securely locked. After a breath, he crosses the room and pauses first at the window, wondering if he might reflect sunlight as he did moonlight. His feet carry him outside once again, retracing his steps from just hours before, mingling with the same patches of grass until he slows at the cliffside.

The ship on the horizon is long gone, nothing more now than a vast empty sea. He pictures Tommy, freshly scolded, devoid of his necktie and beard, maybe picturing Shayne. Seagulls soar overhead, falling out of sight when he kneels to collect another batch of stones. He fists one in his pocket, keeping the rest pooled in his palm— five in total. Each rock skips successfully across the water before sinking to the bottom, and Shayne hopes that doing so might transfer extra luck to the sailor, a second layer of protection. Waves billow and break in a way that feels akin to those buffeting the sides of the ship, and he anchors in place, gaze steady on the horizon line.

He hopes the sea is as kind to Tommy as its shore has been to Shayne.