In a lot of ways, Wesley Adams was drowning.

One day, he’d been completely on land, the air warm and dry inside his lungs and against his face. Then, without any notice, he slipped; feet sliding against the breaking sand, with gravel giving way to his weight until he broke through, unnoticed, right into the ocean. He plunged down and swallowed mouthful after mouthful of salty water until his lungs were so gorged that they were ready to explode.

But it felt like right before the end, right before he would finally have been at peace, someone had pressed pause. He felt suspended in that moment of near blacked out agony, full of water and regret. And no one knew. He couldn’t move or breathe or die; he could only lay there, freezing and weighed down.

Each morning, when he blinked awake, he’d feel as if water was dripping away, too.

He’d never really been fond of the water but Wesley knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d rather drown for real than feel like this.

Unfortunately, no one had bothered to ask or give him the choice. It was decided for him long before he woke up and so every morning he felt a little bit like drowning.

Wesley climbed out of bed on shaky sea legs and stretched. His shirt had a hole the size of a thumb on the trim of the neck and was long faded from the old band tee it used to be. It was also a size too small and rode high on his stomach when he reached his hands above his head. He’d borrowed it from his best friend’s house after his had been stained during a spaghetti eating contest with said best friend’s one-year-old, and he’d neglected to give it back. It had quickly become one of his favorites.

Wesley padded into his kitchen, a short room away from where he’d been sleeping. His apartment was small, partially because he knew that it wasn’t practical for a single man to need a huge amount of space, but also because he’d picked it right after moving to Poplar, Kansas and he couldn’t really be bothered to move. The coffee pot was already brewing what he knew would be an incredibly strong dark roast and the smell of it alone perked him up.

He sat at the table, slumped over and trying to fend off the urge to call off work and crawl back into bed.

Just as he was finishing up a really convincing argument— the basis of which was that the bed was fucking comfortable and Wesley could be back in it in under a minute— the coffee pot gurgled to a stop, announcing the finished product with more flourish than he thought was strictly necessary.

“Fine,” he grumbled, pushing himself out of his aching position, “I’ll drink you.”

His voice was rough, gravelly from sleep and smoking in his teen years. He poured as much coffee as he could into the biggest mug he could find. Some sloshed out of the sides, coating his hands, and he winced a little at the heat.

Halfway through the mug, Wesley started feeling a bit more human. The waterlogged feeling in his chest receded just a little, just enough that he could feel air in there, too, and he stopped imagining his own body being sucked underneath the waves.

So Wes felt like he was drowning a lot of the time. He also felt like he was asleep before his second cup of coffee in the mornings and like a jerk every time he forgot a birthday and like a lovesick puppy every time he thought about Sam.

Well, Wes felt like a lot of things. And just like all the others, he’d get used to the feeling of drowning. He was good at getting used to things.

Wes had never thought he’d be the kind of guy to fall in love. The way he grew up, the things he saw and did— well, they didn’t really leave him as a hopeless romantic. And even after he saw Sam that first time, even though his heart had surged and his world had shifted just a little bit on its axis, he didn’t think he’d ever really love him.

And he didn’t, not for a long time. He pushed the crush on the stranger as far away as he could, even as they spent years on the peripheral of each other’s lives, and even as Wes learned more and more about him through the other people in his life.

When Sam came back to Poplar on leave last year, things had changed for Wesley. He really thought they wouldn’t— really thought he’d be just as hopelessly dreamy about the guy as he’d always been but nothing would happen between them.

Wes’s mouth burned a little from the memory of Sam’s lips against his. He shook his head against the onslaught of desire curling inside of him and the anger that quickly rose to squash that.

They’d shared a perfect kiss, a declaration of potential and hope, and Wes thought maybe— just maybe— he could be the kind of guy to fall in love after all.

Then Sam had left. He’d left and he’d never called or written or come back.

He downed the second cup of coffee twice as fast as the first. He drank his third cup of coffee sporadically throughout his morning, moving throughout the apartment as he showered and shaved. By eight-thirty, when it was time to leave for work, he’d cleaned the coffee pot and his mug, eaten three pieces of wheat toast, and thought about Sam Carlisle ten more times.

Whatever. Wesley threw on his jacket over his ill-fitting suit and dug around the coffee table until he found his keys and cell phone. He’d go to work, breathe around the water, laugh at his co-workers’ jokes, and not let his mind linger a second longer on a crush who hasn’t spoken to him in over a year. Possibility burned him and he wasn’t going to allow one more maybe to play in his head.

Sometimes, it was better to go overboard than keep taking on water.

* * *

Wes liked his job. He enjoyed the quasi-monotony of being an accountant. A lot of people thought it was boring and Wes knew they were mostly right— he was an accountant for a bank, for God’s sake and he didn’t have grand illusions about how fun work was. But he didn’t think it was half bad. Work was always a little different— numbers always were— but maintained the same general idea so he was never stumped or found things difficult. He was able to glide through his tasks quickly and efficiently, impressing his bosses and giving him plenty of time to talk to his co-workers.

And his co-workers, really, were why Wes liked his job. He kind of adored them. There were the tellers, Charlie and Josie, who both could drink him under the table any night of the week; there was Ashley, their branch manager, who had the hardest glare he’d ever seen but also carried around a goddamn locket with a picture of her baby in it. And, of course, there was Tommy, Wes’s best friend.

Wes never thought he’d become best friends with Tommy Carlisle. Tom was a good guy, smart and kind and just this shy of being a huge dork, which made their friendship seem as effortless as it was awesome. But Wes couldn’t pretend like he’d noticed Tom first because he was a cool guy— no, it definitely had more to do with the massive fucking crush Wes had on Tom’s older brother the first time he ever saw him.

Wes couldn’t forget the first time he’d seen Sam Carlisle. He wished he could— he’d tried, a valiant effort spread over the past decade. Sometimes he’d tried to aid his effort along with a bit (okay, a lot) of alcohol, but even tequila couldn’t wash away the image of a young Sam climbing out of a muscle car.

God, Wes had been gone from that first day.

He moved to Poplar when he was seventeen. It had been after he’d found...well, just after. He’d spent the day before he moved looking through maps of the Midwest and when he found Poplar, something about its smallness appealed to him. The more he learned about the tiny town, the more Wes had thought that nothing could be further from where he was leaving. His hometown was grimy, gray, and big; Poplar promised sunshine, friendliness, and Wes had thought he could use those things in spades.

So he packed what belongings he had left and hot wired an old Honda he knew had been abandoned, driving and driving until the rearview mirror promised nothing but empty, flat fields and silence.

As soon as Wesley pulled the stolen car into the small town, he knew he’d found his haven. People walking their dogs, pushing kids in strollers, wearing fucking sun hats— Wes hadn’t thought a place where people laughed and held conversations from opposite sides of the street even existed, let alone that he’d be in one.

But he had found a place and made a plan. After everything, after losing so much, a place that reeked of simplicity and family seemed like everything.

It was when he was scouring the town for rentals or even a low priced motel that Wes stumbled upon him.

He’d stumbled down a small set of stairs, hand clinging to the railing. A car had squealed to a stop, tires burning into the asphalt, and the passenger door swung open too hard and fast. A guy, miles high, climbed out of the car. He wore a scowl on his face, though the expression smoothed out when a younger boy came out of the backseat. His hair was cut short, though little tufts of brown curled down to his forehead. Even from across the street, Wes could see how attractive the guy was. His face was sharp, angular; his pronounced jaw and deep set cheekbones cutting even as he tried to shoot the younger boy a smile.

His clothes were the baggy, quasi-uniform that everyone Wes had met so far seemed to sport: loose fitting, boot cut jeans and flannel shirts. Wes wasn’t sure if it was genuinely a style choice or if southern Kansas activities demanded the outfit; either way, it seemed to fit this guy in a way it hadn’t the dozen or so other people Wes had interacted with so far.

His skin had itched; not from the heat of the beaming sun, the way it would for the next decade or so that Wes had lived there, but from an urging underneath his skin. His very bones seemed to be pushing him forward, his blood desperate for him to say something to the pretty, sharp boy across the road.

But then the guy bent over, one long leg pushed behind a bent one, and he spoke to the driver. Wes couldn’t hear them over the hum of the cars and the street, but the younger boy’s face fell and when the guy stood back up, he was standing a little straighter and his jaw was a little sharper.

The car pulled away as quickly as it had stopped, leaving the boys by themselves. The street was empty outside of the three of them. But for all that, while Wes had certainly noticed them, neither of them seemed to notice Wes.

He stood at the end of the stairs, frozen, as the two teenagers crossed the street and entered the market. Wes watched them until they were long out of sight, only letting go of his breath when they’d been in the store nearly a full minute. His lungs felt too full even if he hadn’t given them air in too long and Wes had known, so well, that he’d chosen the perfect place.

So maybe it wasn’t a first meeting or a perfect first impression— Wes hadn’t even been a part of it, just a bystander. But that fit pretty well, all things considered. Wes never really stopped noticing Sam in town and Sam never really stopped to notice Wes.

His crush continued to get worse and worse, especially as Wes fought to make himself a place in Poplar. The community college accepted his GED and he’d gotten a job at the supermarket and as many times as he tried to talk to Sam Carlisle, his throat always closed up.

There was something special about Sam and every bit of information he learned, whether from overheard gossip or good-natured co-workers who noticed his infatuation, strengthened this theory. Wes thought maybe the only thing about Sam that he didn’t like was how clearly he had no idea how special he was.

But then Sam had left and he’d become best friends with Tommy and then that whole thing happened and Sam had never called and, really, Wes needed to learn to move the fuck on.

But, still. He’d never forget that first time seeing Sam. There wasn’t anything inside of him, his heart or his head or his bones, that would let him go.

Becoming friends with Tommy had helped a little, of course. He’d found the smaller boy from his memory to be one of the greatest people he’d ever met. Tommy was kind and clever and just—good. He had never been more thankful for someone as he was for Tom. And through learning all about Tom, he’d inadvertently learned about Sam. About how finicky the older brother was, how much he hated his home, how much he hated himself. And Wes had seen first hand how that hatred had spread, making himself so sparse in Tommy’s life that he wasn’t even at the birth of his nephew. And, sure, Sam had been on a mission at the time, but Tom had been devastated. So Wes had changed his crush from what a great guy, love to kiss him to what an asshole, love to kiss him.

All that to say: Tommy was a perk of the job, for sure. Wes had worked hard to create a life in Poplar and he loved his job, his friends, and even his small apartment.

He didn’t always love life but he always loved his life. So that was just going to have to be enough.

“Hey!”

Tommy’s voice startled him out his thoughts. Wes jumped in his chair, the pen he’d been toying with falling from his grip and clattering on the desk.

“Jumpy today?” Tom grinned, throwing himself into the chair opposite Wes’ desk. Wes’ office was right next to Tom’s, though the two couldn’t look more different. Tom’s was littered with pictures of his son and girlfriend, his brother and father, and friends— Wes was in quite a few of them and every time he saw them, he felt a little more like he belonged in Poplar.

Wes’ office, by contrast, was nearly the same as the day he moved in. The only personal touches he’d brought in were a few houseplants and one small framed photograph of Tom and him; the first time they’d gone to a baseball game together. Tom’s girlfriend had snapped it and Wes had tried to swallow back the emotion when he thanked her for it. For Wes, a best friend like Tom felt like roots. Like belonging.

Wes glanced at the computer and saw that it was already noon. He closed out of the spreadsheets and files he had opened, clicking the monitor off.

“Lunch?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. His back popped from the pressure and he let out a satisfied groan.

Tom scrunched his nose, shaking his head. “Sure. Man, it’s so gross when you do that.”

Wes laughed. They had this conversation often. “I’m thinking ramen.”

Tom hummed, standing out of the chair. “I want cheeseburgers.”

Wes dug around his desk for a coin and offered it to Tom just as he turned to him with a fist hovering above an open palm. Coin tosses and Rock/Paper/Scissors were the only way they had ever managed to solve their different palates for lunch decisions. They laughed a little and Wes flicked the coin up, calling heads.

It fell with the tails end up. Tom grinned wide and thrilled, as he did every time. Wes thought that if Tom weren’t always so goddamn excited, he would be a little more bitter about losing over half of the time.

“Statistically fuckin’ improbable,” Wes whined in a fake, good-natured way.

As Wes knew he would, Tom threw his head back and laughed. He clapped Wes on the shoulder and shook his head, his too long brown hair shaking.

“You’ll get past this,” he said in a serious tone before bursting into laughter again.

“Fine,” Wes grumbled, in mock-agitation, “we’ll eat burgers. Again.”

Tom shrugged, throwing an arm around Wes’s shoulders. “Not my fault you have terrible luck.”

Wes left his office door open, the way everyone here did. They asked Gina if she wanted to join them again. She waved them away and Wes didn’t press, even when Tom did.

By the time they’d actually left the bank, it was closer to twelve-thirty and Wes was thankful for how incredibly relaxed the office was about lunch breaks. He’d done his fair share of thirty minute lunches, especially during the busy times of the year at the bank, but he much preferred to eat slowly and spend that guaranteed hour with Tommy.

They didn’t go far, just to the diner a block over. The guy who owned it, Matt, was a bit of a crank, but a good guy who made incredible pancakes.

Wes ordered a short stack and Tom got himself his burger, with cokes for the both of them.

Tom tapped his fingers against the tabletop, jittering his leg up and down. He downed his entire pop in the first few minutes and waved Matt over for a refill.

Wes waited. Tom wasn’t really a secret keeper, so he knew that if Tom wanted to share, he would.

It ended up only taking a minute before Tom sighed heavily, letting his head fall and his shaggy brown hair haphazardly bounce.

“Look,” Tom said, frowning. He stopped himself, his frown turning into something a little deeper, and Wesley’s chest clenched.

Tom was a good guy, but he was goofy. Not really serious.

He found himself suddenly very worried about Sara and John, Tom’s family.

The baby was turning two in a few weeks. What things started happening around two? God damn, Wes regretted never binging Grey’s Anatomy.

“What’s wrong?”

Matt dropped their food off but neither man looked at the meal. Sweat gathered at the top of his forehead, threatening to spill down.

He loved Sara and John. He loved Tom. He was going to sucker punch someone.

“Look, it’s about Sam.”

Wes’s stomach fell.

He was sure he flinched, though he tried to school his expression as quickly as he could. Tom’s face morphed into one of sympathy.

“I’m sorry, man,” he picked up one of the French fries from his plate, toying with it. “I didn’t want to bring it up to you.”

“Why?” Wesley asked quickly, trying to speak calmly despite his hammering heart. God damn.

Tom raised an eyebrow and threw the fry into his mouth. He chewed slowly and Wes fidgeted under his scrutiny.

“You really want me to answer that?” Tom asked dryly.

Wes swallowed. “I—”

Tom put his hands up in mock surrender. “I don’t know what happened between you and my brother when he was here last year and, frankly, I don’t wanna. But I know—well, I know you.”

The last time Sam was in town, it had been the first time in five years. And he’d tried— God, he’d tried to not feel the way he did about him. He was mad at him, even, for abandoning Tom for all those years and missing so much. But then Tom had needed him to pick Sam up from the airport and it was the first time, the first real time, they’d ever spoken and then—

The kiss they shared the night before Sam deployed again ran in Wesley’s mind every night. It burned him as much in memory as it did when it happened.

Tom sighed, dipping his head a little lower. “I just—I need to know. Have you heard from him?”

Sam had left. And he’d not visited or called since.

“No,” Wes said, hating the way his voice sounded clipped and hurt. The short word felt shorter when drenched in what he was feeling.

I like it here. Sitting here with you, it feels—

Right, Wes had answered, feeling it the same way Sam said he had, it feels right.

Wes’s cheeks burned as he remembered that night. The way he’d screamed in Sam’s face to not leave, not when his brother had just gotten him back and not when—not when Wes had only just gotten the nerve to talk to him. Not when he knew, he goddamn knew, that Sam didn’t want to go.

“I haven’t heard from him in months, Wes, and I—he usually doesn’t go this long without checking in and I’m.” Tom cut himself off again, swallowing hard. Their food sat forgotten between them. Wes knew if Tom felt half as gutted as he did, neither of them would be able to stomach even a bite.

I’ll be here then. Waiting.

God, he’d been such an idiot. Kissing him like that, begging him to stay—promising to wait for him when Sam had refused. He must have looked so stupid. Sam must’ve laughed, told all his Navy buddies about the hopeless, starry eyed loser back home who couldn’t get over an unrequited crush for the life of him.

“How long?” Wes tried to swallow the hurt the memories brought him. It was difficult, as always, but Tom looked so worried that Wesley put in more effort than usual.

“Like, seven months, man. And ever since—well, he’d been calling a lot more. At least once a month, but usually more if he wasn’t on mission. But right before, he said he was going deep and it might be longer than usual. But this—this isn’t normal, man. He would have told me if it was going to be this long, I know it.”

Wesley fought through the fog building around his chest. He could taste the salt water from his mornings on his tongue.

“Do you think something happened to him?”

Tom looked at the counter top. He didn’t answer and Wes gave into the panic, just for a second.

He imagined Sam as he’d last seen him, blue eyes shining, lips kiss-bruised, and a blush high on his sharp cheekbones. He imagined him as the tall, angry teenager he’d first met and he imagined him in his Navy uniform, bleeding and alone.

Shit.

Shit.

Goddamn it.

“He’s fine,” Wes said. It sounded weak to his own ears but Tom perked up a little, all the same. “I mean, come on, Tom. It’s Sam. He’s fine.”

He had to be. Sam was the strongest person that Wes had ever met. And if he was wrong—

Wes refused to entertain that thought. His throat threatened to close completely if he tried again.

“Yeah,” Tom said, tapping his fingers against the table again. “You’re probably right.”

Wes nodded, trying to offer his friend a smile. “I know I am.”

“He’s probably fine,” he repeated.

Tom’s jaw locked and for a second, with just a hint of devastation morphing his expression, he looked so much like his older brother that Wes’s heart surged. The same piercing blue eyes and brown hair, though Sam would never wear his half as long as his brother did.

Tom turned back to himself and the picture rippled. He once again became Wesley’s best friend.

“Just if you hear anything, if he reaches out, would you let me know? Please?’

Wes reached over and clasped Tom’s hand. “Tom, of course I will.”

Though it was shaky, Tom smiled at him and squeezed his hand. Wes withdrew his arm, folding his hands in his lap.

Sam Carlisle, the quasi-maybe love of his life and the asshole who broke his heart, was missing. He’d been sent on active duty on a Navy Seals mission and now, at least to Tommy, he was missing.

They let Matt clear away their uneaten meals and walked back to the bank quietly, both pretending as if their thoughts weren't occupied with horrific images of Sam being tortured or beaten or—

They parted without saying anything, just offering each other small smiles. Wes went back to his office to pretend like his world hadn’t completely shifted on its axis. And when he sat down in his office chair, he pretended he couldn’t feel water, thick like a wall, crawling up his neck.

Sometimes, Wes felt like he was drowning. He could feel the burning of the water as easily as he could the chair beneath him. All he could hope this time, though, was that wherever he was, Sam wasn’t feeling like this, too.

Wesley turned his computer monitor back on and frowned at the screen, opening up a new tab on his browser. Taking a deep breath, he tried to steady his pulse.

Slowly, Wes typed into the browser. He’d do a little digging, see what he could find out— after all, he sort of owed it to Tommy. The guy was busy, with a girlfriend, a baby, and a full time job. If Wes could find something out, it would really ease the guy’s mind. He kind of had to, as Tom’s designated best friend.

He let out the breath he’d held in and clicked enter. Here goes nothing.

Showing results for: Sam Carlisle Navy SEAL missing