Surf's Up by Lbilover


The note on the front door said ‘Surf’s up! Your board’s waxed and ready to go. E.’. Sean went into the storage closet and found his too rarely used wetsuit, loaded his surfboard into the back of his car and headed out. A short drive north along the Pacific Coast Highway, and he turned off into a small parking area populated by several beat up, colorfully painted Jeeps and one familiar if dusty silver Audi. He parked his Prius next to the Audi, pulled on the wetsuit, and with the freshly waxed board under one arm, carefully navigated the rocky descent to a secluded beach where a couple of celebrities could hit the surf without being recognized.


It was late afternoon; the sun was angling down toward the far horizon and the ocean was gun-metal gray except where the breaking waves sent sprays of white foam into the air. As he crossed the warm sand, Sean made out a number of black-clad surfers riding the swells. He couldn’t distinguish Elijah among them, but he’d catch up to him eventually.


After attaching the leash to his ankle, Sean waded out into the chilly water until he was thigh deep then slid onto his board and paddled out to the bone yard, breasting the incoming waves when possible or diving under the larger of them to emerge gasping with the cold and blinking salt water from his eyes. Safely past the furthest line of breakers, he found Elijah sitting idle on his board, waiting for him. He waved as Sean paddled up.


“I saw you crossing the beach,” Elijah said. “Figured I’d wait for you.” He was wet as a water rat, speckled with sand and bits of seaweed, and glowing with exertion.


“How’s the riding?” Sean asked.


“Fuckin’ outrageous, Sean,” his partner enthused. “And I’ve only wiped out twice.”


“Go you. I should be so lucky.” Elijah was a far better surfer than he was, Sean admitted without ego. But that was mainly thanks to Billy, a surfing addict from his days in New Zealand who had only recently returned to Glasgow after living in Venice for a year. Over the past months, Elijah had gone surfing with him as often as he could spare the time, and Sean only rarely.


“You just need more practice, that’s all,” Elijah said, going belly down on his board. “And there’s no time like the present. We’re burning daylight, Astin.”


Side by side, they glided easily across the smooth water to where the waves gathered into towering peaks before breaking with a clap like thunder and racing toward the shore. They positioned themselves so as to catch the next developing wave, and the wait wasn’t long.


Elijah glanced over at him and grinned. His eyes were a brilliant, almost electric blue. “Ready?”


“As I can be,” Sean said dubiously, and started paddling like hell as the white-crested wave formed high above them, blotting out the golden sky.


He got to hands and knees as his board picked up speed, caught in the inexorable tow of the wave, and then rather shakily to his feet with arms outstretched. He bent his knees, gripped the waxed fiberglass with his toes, and found his balance. Based on past experience, he expected to lose said balance and wipe out any second, but to his amazement, he almost immediately got locked into the curl, the leading edge of the white arc poised above his head, and there he stayed.


“Cowabunga!” The triumphant scream was torn from his throat, and he heard Elijah’s irrepressible giggle through the roar of the wave. He didn’t dare glance behind him. Such moments in the curl were rare for him and to be savored.


Billy claimed that riding a perfect wave was like having the world’s best orgasm. While Sean wouldn’t quite say that (except as a means of provoking Elijah to prove him wrong), there was no doubting that the mad rush toward shore with the adrenaline pumping through him, the wind in his face and the board vibrating beneath his bare soles was pretty fucking amazing.


And he didn’t fall off, which was even more amazing.


The wave eventually petered out, and Sean pulled out of it, raising the head of his board to stop its forward motion and hopping off into the swirling surf. He rested his hands on top of the board as much for support as to keep it from drifting away. His legs were quivering like jelly and he was totally out of breath, and he wanted to turn right around and catch another wave, recapture that high.


Suddenly he staggered as a pair of sopping neoprene covered arms embraced him enthusiastically from behind. “So who’s the doubting Thomas now, huh?” crowed Elijah. “You did awesome!”


“It was a total fluke,” Sean said, but he held up his right hand and Elijah high-fived it. Then he swatted Elijah on the behind and said, “Get your ass in gear, Wood. We’re burning daylight here.”


~*~


By the time they dragged their weary bodies out of the water for good, the sun, looking remarkably like the red rubber ball in the old pop song, had nearly reached the horizon and the sky was ablaze with color.


“Oh shit, I’m dead,” Sean groaned. He jammed the nose of his board into the deep sand and collapsed onto the beach towel Elijah had spread out. “Tell me you have beer in that cooler, please?”


“You even need to ask, Sean?” Elijah unzipped his wetsuit to the waist and let it fall down by his hips, baring his arms and torso. Then he knelt and opened the cooler and retrieved two cans. He popped the tab on one and handed it to Sean.


“Bless you, you’ve just saved my life.” Sean drank half the can in one long swallow and then wiped his salt-rimed mouth with the back of his hand. He’d had a few big-time wipe outs and eaten more than his share of sand not to mention gotten it in unmentionable places that were starting to chafe uncomfortably. Following Elijah’s lead, he unzipped his wetsuit part way and sighed with relief as the balmy air caressed his clammy skin. He scratched idly at his itchy groin and thought: [i]it was so totally worth it[/i]. And besides, that’s what shared showers were for - scratching itches.


Elijah dropped down close beside him. Beer clutched in one hand, he stretched out his legs and leaned back on his elbows. “Fuck, that’s a beautiful sight,” he said, staring out at the ocean whose surface glowed as if it were on fire. “Makes me think of all the sunrises we saw in New Zealand.”


“We saw plenty of sunsets, too,” Sean reminded him.


“Somehow I only remember the sunrises, though.”


“That’s because once we got home, you made sure you never saw another one again if you could help it.” Sean reached over and tweaked Elijah’s nose.


“Too right,” Elijah said with feeling. He sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees then rested his chin on his kneecap and stared contemplatively at the fiery sunset.


Sean stared contemplatively, too, but not at the sunset. There was something even more beautiful for his eyes to contemplate: Elijah, with the setting sun painting his pale skin with gold and creating subtle shadows that emphasized the dips and hollows in his lean torso and his well-muscled shoulders and arms.  


Physically he wasn’t the same Elijah with whom Sean had shared so many sunrises; time and weight lifting had chiseled away the softness of lingering youth. But in heart, mind and spirit, he was still the same Elijah who, for all the bitching and moaning and playing of ear-splitting rock music to get them moving in Feet, would pause outside their make-up trailer, stare in wonder at the sun coming up over whatever incredible vista New Zealand had on offer that morning, and say in a hushed voice, “How lucky am I to be able to see this?”


A question that Sean asked himself every single morning that he awoke with Elijah by his side.


“You’re staring, Irish,” Elijah said without looking at him.
“Too right. No offense to New Zealand sunrises or California sunsets, but you beat the hell out of them both, Lij.”


A smile curved Elijah’s mouth, but he didn’t turn his head. “I wonder if Frodo and Sam ever went surfing,” he said unexpectedly.


“Where’d that thought come from?” Sean asked in surprise. They rarely talked about their alter egos, even if an undercurrent of love and gratitude for them flowed steadily beneath the surface, informing every aspect of their life together.


Elijah shrugged. “The mention of New Zealand, I guess. That’s where we hobbits learned to surf, after all.”


Sean chuckled. “And the only surfing hobbits are you, me, Dom, and Billy, and I use the term loosely in referring to myself.”


Elijah gave him a friendly shoulder bump. “You did great today. Like I said, all you need is more practice.”


“And twenty-five less pounds to haul around,” Sean said ruefully. “But to return to your question, Elijah, the Shire was nowhere near the ocean. Where were Frodo and Sam supposed to surf? The Bywater Pool?”


“I was thinking about later, after Frodo went to live with the Elves on that island. I bet the Elves were brilliant surfers and they probably taught Frodo how to hang ten, and then he taught Sam when he came and joined him. Those big hobbit feet had to be good for something.”


“It’s a charming fantasy, Lij,” Sean said, smiling as he imagined Frodo and Sam as surfer dudes in doggers hanging ten in company with a bunch of Elves. He wondered with amusement what the Elvish for ‘cowabunga’ was. “But by the time Sam got there, he was a little long in the tooth for surfing.” He huffed a laugh. “Like the actor who played him.”


Elijah eyed him. “Fishing for compliments, Irish?”


“Always,” Sean said, tacitly acknowledging the ten-year difference between their ages and his never-quite-dispelled fear that Elijah might someday yearn a younger and hipper partner.


“And I’m always happy to oblige,” Elijah replied, tacitly acknowledging Sean’s fear, which he never patronized. He stuck his beer in the sand then took Sean’s from his unresisting hand and did the same. With a swift, lithe motion he rose to one knee, pivoted to set his hands at Sean’s shoulders, and pushed him down onto his back.


Elijah hovered above him, blotting out the sky just as the waves had earlier. Sean felt the same breathless sense of anticipation, of preparing to fling himself into the maelstrom, but without any fear now of wiping out. Elijah was outlined in fire, his face was in shadow; but his eyes glowed as if they’d sucked the last traces of blue from the sky.


“I find that with you non-verbal compliments are most effective,” he said solemnly, bracing his arms on either side of Sean’s head.


“A good thing we’re the last ones on the beach then,” Sean commented, although to be honest, he wouldn’t have tried to stop Elijah from ‘complimenting’ him even if they weren’t.


Elijah giggled. “I’d call it a very good thing, considering the compliment I have in mind.” He lowered his head, but he didn’t kiss Sean as expected. Instead he licked the hollow at the base of Sean’s throat. Without pausing he continued licking him, moving along his collarbone, down his chest and over his belly in broad swipes with the flat of his tongue. Sean wasn’t sure which was more arousing - the wet warmth of Elijah’s tongue on his sticky skin or the teasing scrape of his beard-scruff, normally soft as mink but now crusted with sea-salt.


Elijah hummed with pleasure as he worked his way downward, sounding like a contented cat cleaning itself. When he reached the barrier of Sean’s wet suit, he raised his head and said, “You taste like a salted pretzel, Sean. One of those giant warm soft pretzels they sell on the boardwalk.” He dipped his tongue in Sean’s navel and swirled it around then added in an erotically charged voice, “I’d like to squirt mustard all over you and eat you.”


“Oh shit.” Never had the idea of being an edible foodstuff sounded so appealing.


“But as we don’t have any mustard at hand,” Elijah went on, sitting up, “I’ll have to make do without.” He found the zipper to Sean’s wetsuit, tugged it down as far as it would go, and peeled back the damp neoprene. “One jumbo size hot dog coming up, I see,” he joked as Sean’s burgeoning erection sprang free, and Sean gave a rather hysterical laugh. “Yeah, I can definitely make do without the mustard on this hot dog. But first I better clean off the sand.”


Sean was already half out of his mind. When Elijah pursed his lips and blew on his cock, he let out a strangled moan and grabbed futilely for purchase in the soft sand, but it squirted out between his fingers. Elijah blew on him repeatedly, alternating soft puffs along Sean’s thickening length with more forceful exhales at the flaring crown, and that alone was almost enough to make Sean come. Just when he thought he was going to embarrass himself and wipe out in a more spectacular fashion than he had in the water, Elijah wrapped his fingers around the base of Sean’s cock, bowed his head and took him deep.


As Elijah hollowed his cheeks and expertly sucked, Sean knew he was locked into the curl now, with no fear of wiping out. The mad rush enveloped him as he rocketed, straight and true, toward oblivion. He tried to arch up as the first spasm of release shook him, but Elijah’s firm hands kept his hips ruthlessly pinned to the towel. There was nothing for it but to let Elijah have his way, and have his way he did, sucking hard, until the thundering breaker finally petered out and Sean, his entire body feeling like jelly now, lay limp and wrung out. Billy, he thought, was totally, absolutely, incontrovertibly wrong. When it came right down to it, there was simply no comparison, and Sean should know.


Elijah sat up and licked his lips. “So, how’d the non-verbal compliment thing work for you? Still feeling too long in the tooth for surfing, Seanwise?” he asked, arching one ironic brow.


Sean gathered his strength and his scattered wits. “Surf’s up, Mr. Frodo,” he quipped, and a few seconds later had Elijah on his back and his hand on the zipper of his wet suit. “Turnabout’s fair play,” he said, bending his head.


~end~