no one can break an ocean

Gray's scars tell hundreds of stories.

Sting has seen some of them before – a thick white line across his thumb that he got from a woodworking class, or the tiny mark through his eyebrow where he used to have it pierced. He's got a scar on his chin from falling into the ocean, and a swathe of white on his right calf from falling off his motorcycle.

Sting loves to listen to those stories. Gray tells them, sometimes, when they're all sitting around a bonfire at the lake and he's had a few too many beers. He smiles more, then, and leans against Sting, and Sting can't look away from the sparks reflected in Gray's eyes.

Gray's eyes are like the ocean, deep and dark, and it takes a long time for Sting to admit that he's in love with them. That he's in love with Gray – with his hard edges and graceful fingers, with the way he drinks too much coffee and writes poetry on the backs of his hands.

One night the fire burns down and everybody else goes to bed, but Gray stays outside, watching the flames dwindle down to tiny embers. Sting sits across from him, knees tucked against his chest, staring at Gray curiously.

The fire's long gone before Gray stands up, looking at Sting and reaching out a hand to pull him to his feet. Gray looks through the trees toward the lake, and hesitates for only a second before sliding his fingers between Sting's and pulling him toward the beach.

Sting follows him without question. He'd follow Gray anywhere.

"You okay?" Sting asks as they make their way through the sand, down to one of the docks that stretches out over the water. It's hot and muggy and Sting's palm is sweaty against Gray's, but Gray doesn't let go of his hand as they sit down on the warped wood and dip their feet into the water.

Gray doesn't say anything, just stares out across the lake. The moon is nearly full and hangs above them, casting silver lines across the gentle waves that lap at the beach.

They sit in silence for a long time, and eventually Gray lets out a sigh and leans against Sting. Sting waits for a second before carefully wrapping his arm around Gray's waist.

"I'm tired," Gray says quietly, pulling their joined hands into his lap. He turns Sting's hand palm-up on his thigh and starts to trace gentle patterns across Sting's skin. "And scared."

"Why?" Sting asks, shivering at the scrape of Gray's nails across his palm. He tips his head until it's resting against Gray's, and instead of feeling like something new, it feels like they've always belonged like this, quiet and soft and filling the parts of each other that don't belong to anyone else.

Gray's silent for a second, then unzips his hoodie, slowly shrugging it off and pushing it onto the dock behind them. He's wearing a t-shirt underneath, and Sting realizes suddenly that he's never seen Gray without a sweater on.

When Gray rests his forearms against his thighs, Sting understands why.

His dark skin is decorated with scars – thin and thick, white and pink, harsh patterns of straight lines interspersed with deeper marks. They tell a different kind of story than Gray's other scars. This story is sad and angry and broken and alone.

Sting makes a soft, sad sound and runs his hand over Gray's arm, tracing the scars with his fingertips as he holds Gray tighter. Gray doesn't say anything, just turns and presses his face against Sting's neck.

"Do you want to tell me about them?" Sting asks quietly. Gray's hands tense into fists and he lets out a shaky breath against Sting's collarbone, then nods. Sting presses a kiss to the top of Gray's head and waits patiently, running his thumb back over Gray's skin.

"I was angry," Gray whispers, picking at a thread in his jeans. "Everything was... I didn't have anyone except someone who hurt me." His voice is so quiet that Sting can barely hear it. "It was... she was always there, and I couldn't get away. And this... it was the only thing I could control." Gray sighs. "She couldn't hurt me as badly as I could hurt myself."

"I'm so sorry," Sting whispers, turning toward Gray and running his thumbs up both of Gray's forearms.

"For what?" Gray asks, not looking at Sting.

"That I couldn't be there when you needed someone," Sting says. He brings Gray's wrists up to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to each of them.

"You are now," Gray says. He finally looks up at Sting, eyes dark and wet and full of uncertainty.

"That scares you?" Sting asks, kissing the backs of Gray's hands and shifting until they're facing each other and their knees are touching. Gray nods. "I won't hurt you," Sting says.

"I know," Gray whispers. "I'm tired of being scared." Then he slowly leans in and kisses Sting.

Something in Sting's chest explodes into a thousand tiny pieces that race along his skin and make his fingers tingle. He expects Gray's kiss to be soft and tentative, but there's a quiet desperation behind the press of Gray's lips, and Sting falls into it head first. Soon Gray's fingers are tangled in Sting's hair, and he's straddling Sting's legs as Sting runs his fingers under Gray's shirt and pulls him close.

"You're gorgeous," Sting whispers against Gray's skin, pressing hot kisses down Gray's neck and across his collarbone. Gray makes a quiet, eager sound and Sting feels braver, holds Gray tighter, kisses more fiercely.

Gray's hands find their way to the bottom of Sting's shirt and tugs it up over his head. Before Sting can ask, Gray pulls his own shirt off too, and Sting leans back in, dragging his teeth across Gray's chest while he squeezes Gray's hips.

It's too much and not enough. The air is hot and thick, and Gray tastes like cheap beer and smells like sunscreen and peppermint chapstick. Sting's skin lights up wherever Gray's fingers touch – hot and sharp and sparking.

When Gray finally sits up and pulls back, they're both breathing heavily, and the look Gray gives Sting is wild and determined.

"Come swim with me," he says, voice rough, and Sting glances past Gray into the silver light that floats on top of the dark water. "Please?"

Sting can't deny Gray anything and he lets Gray pull him to his feet, and then they're both kicking off their pants and standing on the edge of the dock, bared to the world and to each other.

Gray looks over at Sting and it's like Gray can see right into the soft places of Sting's heart that are spilling over with a hundred different emotions. Sting could get lost forever in Gray's eyes, his long, dark lashes, the curve of his smile.

Sting leans in and kisses Gray again. Gray hums and leans in eagerly, hands running down Sting's arms as they come together under the moon. Sting has wanted to kiss Gray for so long, and it's better than anything he'd imagined.

Sting has so many things he wants to say. You're perfectly imperfect. You have so many stories to tell. You're more than just your scars. I need you. I want you. Stay with me.

Instead, Sting pulls back and whispers, "let's make a new story together," then turns to the water and leaps in.

-----

The Ocean You

Every time you think you are broken,
know this; you are never really breaking.
No one can break an ocean,
darling, all you are doing,
is breaking the glass that is holding you back,
diving deeper into your own depths,
discovering yourself in pockets
of the most somber waves,
rebuilding your heart with coral,
with seaweed, with moon coloured sand dust.
So stop trying to hold yourself back inside that glass,
it was never meant to hold you.
Instead, break it,
shatter it into a thousand pieces...
and become who you were always meant to be,
an ocean, proud and whole.

-Nikita Gill