Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Feet dangling off opposite sides of the board, Tal leans back on his hands and lets the waves splash cold and shocking over his thighs. The heat of the sun counteracts it, burning lightly against his chest and the high points of his cheeks. Tal closes his eyes, shakes the salt water from his shaggy hair. 

Before this moment, here in the water, it had been too long since he’d been on a board. Three years in the city had all but sucked the life out of him, stolen his hobbies and his time and his body. He’d caved in, working in the dank basement of Joja and failing to see the sun for more than a few minutes each day. Too tired to have much of a social life, beyond occasional visits with friends and phone calls that left him scratching stress lines into the cheap wooden counters of his shoebox apartment.

The waves here are familiar, like coming home — even if the farm itself isn’t. He blinks his eyes open and cranes his neck toward shore, blocking the sun with his hand. 

It’s quiet, nearly abandoned in spite of the warmth. 

This, he cannot understand. The beach is small, but serviceable. Slow, steady waves licking the sand and a horizon that stretches for what seems like an eternity. He slides onto his belly, turning the board and paddling further out as he waits for a good wave.

It comes. He catches it, popping upright and nosing the board through the wave, reckless and fast. He makes it about halfway through the barrel before he loses it, same way he has all day. He slips backwards off the board, crashing into the water with a gasp and the pounding pressure of the crash. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets it rock him for a few seconds, before he kicks his way to the surface.

The board, still tethered to his ankle, floats innocently a few feet away. He huffs, swims to it, and heaves himself back onto it. Flattening his chest against it, he chuckles and catches his breath. 

Tal is years out of practice. Even with muscle memory doing him a favor, it’s no surprise that the waves are knocking him around. He was no savant, even when he was in this water all the time. He’s been humbled more times by the Gem Sea more times than he can count, with scars on his cheek, his shoulder, his legs to prove it.

But god, he’d missed even this. The falling, the ocean slamming him under its surface, the powerlessness of waiting for a wave to let him go. The release of control, the loss of self. He surrenders here, lets himself disappear into the waves. 

Tal slowly makes his way back toward shore. The sun is starting to set and he’s been out on the water for hours; he’s starving. Past the pier, back onto the sand; he drags the board after him and shakes himself like a dog, water flying off him in a small explosion.

From a few feet away, there’s a startled noise of confusion, then a scoff.

“Oh, shit,” Tal says, shoving his hair away from his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there—”

“Obviously not.” The man standing there is shucking water off his strangely fine clothes, one eyebrow lifted. “My fault for being so close to the water, I suppose. Don’t come to the beach expecting to stay dry.”

Tal blinks. “I guess.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the man says, finally turning to face Tal fully. His eyes are bright, nearly gray, and arresting. He swipes his long, reddish hair back off his shoulder and holds out his hand. “My name is Elliott Thorne. I live here.”

Elliot sweeps a hand toward the entirely underwhelming shack at the far edge of the beach. Tal stares at it for a moment, then flicks his gaze back to the man in the smoking jacket before him. He’d assumed that the shack was some kind of storage for the beach — for lifeguard equipment or overflow from Willy’s shop, perhaps. Not someone’s living arrangements.

“Damn,” he says before he can stop himself. Then, wincing: “Uh. It must be nice to live near the beach.”

“Ah. Yes, the sound of the waves is quite soothing. Although less inspiring than I’d hoped.” Elliott glances at Tal, then, in answer to the confusion he finds there: “I’m a writer. At least that’s what I’m calling myself.”

Bewildered, Tal hums a small sound of surprise. “Oh. That’s cool.”

“And you are…?” 

“Right.” Tal is still holding his hand. “Tal. Tal Crane.”

“You’re the new farmer.” It is not a question. 

“That’s what I’m calling myself.” Tal grins, but Elliott doesn’t smile. “I mean— I’m trying my best.”

“Trying is worth a lot,” Elliott says, releasing his hand finally. “Has to be, don’t you think? Even if we don’t complete the task at hand, we must continue to try, no?”

Tal chuckles. “Well, considering you probably just watched me eat shit out there multiple times, I think you know my stance.”

That gets Elliott’s calm demeanor to break; his grin is small, almost begrudging. “Fair enough,” Elliott says. He looks out at the water. “It looked like fun. Before the shit-eating, that is.”

“Ah, even the shit-eating is fun if you do it right.” Tal winks at him. “Fun’s in the attempt, right?”

Elliott gives him a long look, then nods. “I suppose that’s true.”

“So, uh— what do you write about?”

“Honestly?” Elliott gives a humorless huff of a laugh. “Nothing these days. Writer’s block. I’m— eating shit. Metaphorically.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

Elliott looks at him for a long moment, then sighs. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me in a rather melancholic moment. I apologize. I don’t mean to be so… morose.”

“Oh, dude, it’s cool.” Tal runs a hand through his salty hair. “I thought you just didn’t like me because the first thing I did was pelt you with sea water.”

Elliott grins at that, a pleasing pink flushing into his cheeks. “Well, it didn’t help.”

“Come on. You could totally get inspired by that.”

“Oh?” Elliott folds his arms over his chest. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on what you write.”

Elliott gives him a strange look. “Romance. I write— I write romance novels.”

“Oh, come on.” At Elliott’s hesitant look, Tal spreads his arms. “Dude. How blocked are you, exactly? That’s a perfect meet-cute.”

Elliott’s eyebrows lift, his mouth curving higher. His eyes roll upward as he thinks. “Hm. A local dirtbag with a heart of gold teaches the beach recluse to love the little things? A feel-good story about—”

“Uh, does that make me the local dirtbag?” Tal repeats, laughing. “Man, see if I ever help you again!”

“I apologize. The mediocre surfer—”

“Dude! What did I ever do to you?”

“Well, there was that incident with the water.”

Tal scoffs dramatically. “You mean, your inspiration?” 

Elliott is chuckling now, bent over his folded arms with his hair falling toward his face. The setting sun sets it alight, as if he’s glowing. Tal looks away, biting down the remains of his grin.

“So. Romance novels, huh?”

Elliott scratches at his neck, won’t meet Tal’s gaze. “Yes.”

It seems that he’s waiting for Tal to say something additional, glancing at him with newly guarded eyes. Tal, at a loss for what he’s looking for, grasps desperately for something: “That’s cool, man. You must be pretty well-read, right? Being an author and all?”

Elliott blinks. “Um… yes. I suppose I am.”

“Maybe you could recommend me some stuff to read sometime,” Tal says, shooting for casual and not Why the hell are you looking at me like that? “Now that I live here, I have more time for things like reading, you know?”

“And surfing,” Elliot says thoughtfully. 

“And surfing. Yeah.”

“I could— well, what kinds of books do you enjoy?” Elliott is looking at him curiously now, the guardedness in his eyes fully abandoned. There’s openness now, something almost hungry. 

Tal shoots him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I’m more of a sci-fi guy. I don’t know if that’s—”

“That’s great,” Elliott says quickly. “I actually— I’ve read a lot of sci-fi. New worlds, strange life-forms, life-changing adventure. What’s not to love? I actually considered a sci-fi bent for the novel I’m working on, but… I’m just hitting a wall. It’s strange — the circumstances, the story, all the elements seem to work together but there’s something… missing…”

Elliott glances up, then smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I do ramble.”

“You’re just talking, man. It’s allowed.”

Elliott huffs a small breath that might be a laugh, eyes soft. “You’re right, of course.”

“Listen, it was nice to meet you,” Tal says, starting toward the bridge with his surfboard lodged under his arm. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, since I’ll be—” He heaves the board meaningfully.

“Right.” Elliott straightens, nods. “Of course. Good evening, Tal.”

Tal laughs at the formality, gives a tiny bow. “Good evening, Elliott.”

///\\\///

It’s nearly dark by the time Tal makes it back to the farm. He stashes the board in the rack alongside the house, pausing to run his hand over the small wooden board still nailed beside it. SURF’S UP, it reads, painted by Tal’s own hands when he was still small. The letters are shaky, sun-faded. But still: here. 

Beside it, there are a series of painted lines, demarcating his height over the years. Small gaps between the early years, then larger ones as he went through growth spurts and the start of puberty. The last one is still three inches short of where he is now — Talbot, age 14. 

He frowns, traces it with his finger. 

They hadn’t stopped surfing, but Tal had been old enough by then to take the board out himself. Life sped up, he drifted further from the boyhood he’d once clung to. And they never measured him again — at least not on the side of the house.

His measure had been taken though, many times after his grandfather stopped marking it with white paint. That had been when he’d started to come up short. That had been when the disappointment started to make itself known, when the distance started to feel less like generational differences and more like rejection. He was no longer a teen, struggling to relate to his parental figure; he was being forced away, pushed from the only comfort he’d known because of who he was growing up to be.

Tal sighs.

He circles back around the front of the little bungalow, turning the lights down before climbing up onto the porch and heading straight for the hammock slung on the far end. He does not even unlock the door; he sprawls out in his wet clothes, closes his eyes. 

One leg hung over the side, hands under his head. Tal sways side to side in the hammock, letting the slight breeze move him. How many times has he fallen asleep in this exact position in his life? In this very spot?

It is strange to be back here, in a place that was once has gone through seasons of being the only place he’d ever known and of being a place he was barely welcome. That is to say that it is strange to be home. To have it belong to him, even stranger.

Tal has not quite brought himself to make the place feel like his. There are still his grandfather’s belongings, scattered and hanging from the walls, covering every inch of the place. It is is like a stifling embrace: a little comforting, a little claustrophobic. He cannot bear to part with the last vestiges of a childhood that shaped him, even as the presence of them makes the painful years feel ever-present and blunt as a head wound.

Tal breathes deep, letting the smell of tilled dirt and ocean spray take over his senses. Tells himself, not for the first time, that the place will eventually feel like his. He just has to wait it out, let it settle. He just has to outrun the feeling of his grandfather, watching and willing him to leave.

This place can be his now. It is what he wanted, it is what he took. 

Tal falls slowly to sleep, dreams dazedly of falling beneath a wave that won’t let him up to breathe.