"Make Class Not Suck" Fic, vol. 1
For swmbo, the fastest gun commenter in the west, who asked for Summerland or the OC, and the ocean.
The Weight of Mo(u)rning
Summerland, Bradin, G
He flexes his toes into the wet sand, sinks them into the grit and grind. Hissss and cold as a wave curls around his ankles. Sea breeze prickles against his bare chest, he extends his arms, stretches his back, sighs as the vertebrae crack into alignment. One arm and the other into the wetsuit, a quick motion and the close comfort of neoprene. Reach out, wrap an arm around the board, then one, two, three strides into the water. A slide onto the board, then pull, arms straining against the unending push of water. Stronger than Poseidon for now, sitting easily out past the breakers, rising and falling on the swells, taking comfort in the ocean’s breathing. Eyes straining in the new light, searching for the swell that will carry him back to shore, then quickquickquick strokes that burn in his arms and he is caught--
Moment of exhilaration as he pushes up, finds his footing. Power thrums through the board up into his feet, legs, chest. A wall of water climbs behind him, gives chase, threatens to wrap him up, giving him nothing to breathe but salty spray. Legs straining, weight shifting to carve his path through the tunnel, slipping through the wave’s grasp and bursting out into the light, the beach an ever-growing blur in his peripheral vision. One more turn, cut back across the wave, but too slow too much and his feet can’t feel the thrum of the board now. A moment of nothing but air and then--
Plunged, wrapped up in a cold embrace, pushing downdowndown, hang limp, then finally breaking the surface, sucking giant lungfuls of air, shaking his head and swiping the water from his face.
Two long strokes to his board, then back up, back out, pulling against the tide, pulling, pulling.
The Weight of Mo(u)rning
Summerland, Bradin, G
He flexes his toes into the wet sand, sinks them into the grit and grind. Hissss and cold as a wave curls around his ankles. Sea breeze prickles against his bare chest, he extends his arms, stretches his back, sighs as the vertebrae crack into alignment. One arm and the other into the wetsuit, a quick motion and the close comfort of neoprene. Reach out, wrap an arm around the board, then one, two, three strides into the water. A slide onto the board, then pull, arms straining against the unending push of water. Stronger than Poseidon for now, sitting easily out past the breakers, rising and falling on the swells, taking comfort in the ocean’s breathing. Eyes straining in the new light, searching for the swell that will carry him back to shore, then quickquickquick strokes that burn in his arms and he is caught--
Moment of exhilaration as he pushes up, finds his footing. Power thrums through the board up into his feet, legs, chest. A wall of water climbs behind him, gives chase, threatens to wrap him up, giving him nothing to breathe but salty spray. Legs straining, weight shifting to carve his path through the tunnel, slipping through the wave’s grasp and bursting out into the light, the beach an ever-growing blur in his peripheral vision. One more turn, cut back across the wave, but too slow too much and his feet can’t feel the thrum of the board now. A moment of nothing but air and then--
Plunged, wrapped up in a cold embrace, pushing downdowndown, hang limp, then finally breaking the surface, sucking giant lungfuls of air, shaking his head and swiping the water from his face.
Two long strokes to his board, then back up, back out, pulling against the tide, pulling, pulling.