The Salt in His Skin

The North Atlantic doesn’t care about your problems. It just tries to kill you, over and over, while you work. That’s what I tell the new divers when they show up green and puking over the railing. Liam Carter showed up greener than most, lean muscles still twitching from his last swim meet, hands always moving like he’s trying to solve a Rubik’s cube no one else can see. Smells like engine grease and nervous sweat. I put him on my dive team because somebody’s gotta keep him from getting his dumb ass killed.

Today the water’s the color of old bruises. We’re salvaging a cargo container from a sunken freighter, just another Tuesday. My wetsuit’s itching my neck, same as always. Liam’s checking his gear, same as he should. I watch him out the corner of my eye. His hands move faster when he’s scared.

We hit the water and the cold punches the air out of my lungs. Liam’s close enough to touch, his light cutting through the dark. The freighter looms below us like a dead whale. We reach the container, start hooking up the cables. Everything’s routine until Liam’s light starts flickering. He jerks his head up, eyes wide behind his mask. His regulator’s spitting air. Not good.

I kick toward him. His hands are clawing at his hoses, trying to find the problem. Stupid kid. I grab his shoulder, point up. He shakes his head, points at the container. The cable’s still attached. He’s tangled. Fuck.

The water’s getting darker, colder. Liam’s movements are sluggish. I yank the knife from my belt, saw through the cable. It snaps free. Liam’s regulator dies. His eyes roll back. I shove my backup reg in his mouth, grab him around the chest, and kick for the surface. My muscles scream. The light fades as we rise. Everything’s muffled, slow.

We break the surface and the world comes rushing back. The boat bobs a few yards away. I drag Liam toward it, my lungs burning. Hands reach down, haul us up. I land hard on the deck, Liam on top of me. He’s not moving. I roll him over, check his pulse. Thready, but there. His lips are blue. I start CPR, my hands shaking so bad I can barely keep the rhythm. Come on, kid. Don’t you dare die on me.

He coughs, vomits seawater all over my chest. I flop back on the deck, breathing hard. Liam blinks up at the sky, dazed. I get to my knees, check him over. No broken bones, no blood. Just shock, cold, and the lingering smell of puke. I haul him to his feet, drag him toward our shared berth below decks. The rest of the crew watches us go, silent.

The berth is barely big enough for two bunks and a hot plate. I shove Liam toward the lower bunk, start stripping off his gear. My hands won’t stop shaking. He tries to help, but his fingers fumble on the buckles. I slap his hands away, yank his wetsuit off. He’s shivering, covered in goosebumps. I wrap him in a blanket, sit him on the bunk. He’s still dazed, eyes unfocused. I grab our med kit, check him over again. Pulse is stronger now, breathing even. No injuries I can find. Relief makes my knees weak. I sag onto the bunk beside him, let my head fall back against the wall.

The silence stretches. The boat groans around us, the engines a low thrum through the hull. Liam’s blanket rustles. I crack an eye open. He’s watching me, dark eyes wide. I grunt, push myself up. My stomach growls. I dig through our stash of cold rations, toss him a packet of something that claims to be beef stew. He catches it, rips it open with his teeth. We eat shoulder-to-shoulder on the bunk, the silence thick enough to choke on.

The silence thick enough to choke on. I ball up my empty ration pack, chuck it at the trash can. Miss. Liam’s still picking at his food, head down. I watch him out the corner of my eye. Kid’s got shadows under his eyes like bruises. He looks up, catches me looking. I jerk my chin at his food. “Eat. Need your strength.” He nods, takes another bite. I can smell the fake beef and salt on his breath. The boat groans, rolling with the swell. Liam’s knee bumps mine. He jerks away like he’s been burned. I frown. What’s his deal? I rack my brain, trying to figure out what I said or did to spook him. Comes up empty. I sigh, stretch out on my bunk. “Get some rest, Carter. Long day tomorrow.” I roll over, face the wall. Listen to him move around the tiny space. The rustle of his blanket, the click of the light. The dark presses in. I close my eyes, try to sleep. My muscles ache, my mind races. The image of Liam’s slack face, his blue lips, plays on loop behind my eyelids. My hands clench in the blanket. Could’ve lost him today. Stupid kid. Should’ve double-checked his gear. Should’ve— I force myself to breathe, slow and deep. The boat rocks me, the engines a lullaby. I drift. Don’t know how long I’m out. Wake up to the scratch of pencil on paper. Crack an eye open. Liam’s sitting on his bunk, back against the wall, sketchpad on his knees. His head’s bent, hair falling over his forehead. His hand moves quick, sure. I can’t see what he’s drawing. Don’t want to spook him. I watch him through my lashes. The way his tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth when he’s concentrating. The way his fingers smudge the lines, soften the edges. He’s good. Better than good. I remember the sketches I’ve seen him do— the boat, the crew, the water. Always the water. He catches me looking. Jerks, slaps the sketchpad shut. His cheeks flush pink. I raise an eyebrow. “Whatcha drawing?” He shakes his head, won’t meet my eyes. “Nothing. Just messing around.” I sit up, swing my legs over the edge of the bunk. My bare feet brush the floor. “Bullshit. Let me see.” He hugs the sketchpad to his chest, shakes his head again. “It’s nothing. Really.” I stand, take a step toward him. He flinches back. I stop, frown. “Kid, you’re acting squirrelly. What’s going on?” He bites his lip, looks away. “It’s stupid. You’ll laugh.” I snort. “Try me.” He hesitates, then sighs. Opens the sketchpad, flips to the right page. Hands it to me. I look down. My breath catches. It’s me. Sleeping. Head pillowed on my arm, face relaxed. He’s caught the shadows under my eyes, the stubble on my jaw, the way my hair sticks up every which way. It’s rough, unfinished, but it’s me. More me than any photo I’ve ever seen. I look up at him, narrow my eyes. “When’d you draw this?” He shrugs, won’t meet my eyes. “Just now. You were out cold.” I look back at the sketch. At the way he’s drawn my hands, my mouth. The way he’s drawn my throat, the line of my collarbone. The way he’s drawn me. I feel heat climb my neck. “Why?” He hunches his shoulders, picks at the edge of the sketchpad. “I don’t know. You just… you looked peaceful. I wanted to remember it.” I take a step closer, tower over him. He doesn’t look up. “Remember it for what?” He bites his lip, hard enough to leave a mark. “I don’t know. Just… in case.” In case what? In case I die? In case he does? I frown, take another step. He’s backed up against the wall, nowhere to go. I lean in, brace my hand on the wall beside his head. “In case what, Carter?” He swallows, throat working. “In case you… in case you never looked at me like that again.” I blink. What the fuck? I open my mouth to ask what he means, but he keeps talking, words tumbling out like he can’t stop them. “I know it’s stupid. I know you don’t… you don’t think of me that way. I’m just… I’m just a kid to you. A dumb kid who can’t even check his own gear.” His voice cracks. He takes a shaky breath. “But when you hauled me out of the water today… when you wrapped me up and made sure I was okay… I thought….” He trails off, shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s stupid.” He tries to duck under my arm, but I plant my other hand on the wall, cage him in. He freezes, eyes wide. I lean in closer, my nose almost brushing his. “Thought what?” He licks his lips, swallows again. “I thought maybe… maybe you cared. About me.” I stare at him. At his big dark eyes, his trembling mouth. At the fear and hope warring on his face. My gut clenches. Fuck. I do care. Too much. I’ve been trying not to notice how his hands linger when he checks my gear, how he always sits next to me at meals, how he smells like salt and skin and something sweet I can’t name. I’ve been trying not to notice how my heart kicks up when he walks in the room, how my eyes follow him when he’s not looking. I’ve been trying not to notice that I’m falling for this kid like a ton of bricks. I take a shaky breath, my voice rough. “I do care.” His breath hitches. “You do?” I nod, jerk my chin. “Yeah. Too much.” He blinks, his eyes searching mine. “Too much?” I swallow, my mouth dry. “Yeah. You’re… you’re my diver. My responsibility. I’m not supposed to….” I trail off, look away. Fuck. How do I say this? How do I tell him I dream about him, that I wake up hard and aching, that I want to pin him down and taste every inch of his skin? How do I tell him I want him, all of him, forever? He reaches up, touches my cheek. His fingers are cold, trembling. “You’re not supposed to what?” I close my eyes, lean into his touch. My voice is a rasp. “Want you. Like this.” He sucks in a breath. I feel him move, feel his breath on my lips. I open my eyes. He’s right there, eyes dark, lips parted. Waiting. I groan, give up, give in. I lean in, press my lips to his.