AN: Yep, another one of my one-shots. As usual, I'd appreciate constructive criticism if you have any to spare.

The Ocean

Waves rush up onto the shore, smoothing the sand and leaving piles of creamy seafoam. They erode the sand under his feet as they recede, and he sinks into the sand. He likes being rooted so deeply in the beach-- it ties him to the place he belongs.

The stars twinkle above him, partly obscured by clouds and light pollution. The half-moon glows a brilliant silver, made even more brilliant by the dark backdrop. Everything here is home; the sound of the waves, the smell of sea-salt and vinegar-drenched french fries, the dim and fading sounds of carnival rides behind him. He's almost complete, lost in memories of his childhood. As the wind tangles in his hair, he remembers long summers spent walking on the boardwalk, chatting and swimming and building sandcastles. He remembers when there wasn't a stale cubicle to return to in the morning, when he could do whatever he wanted to.

There's something missing from the night-- despite the ocean and the sand between his toes, despite the warm air tempered by sea breezes, he's missing the final piece of his puzzle.

"You said," he whispers to the black horizon, "four years. Here I am."

Behind him, he hears the carnival rides starting to shut down. It must be one in the morning. Too late to be out; too late to stand by the waves and yearn.

"I shouldn't be surprised." His voice is rough; he choke/laughs at the ocean. "You always wanted to leave. You said this was a dead-end town." Another choked sound-- a sob, maybe. "I hope you found whatever you were looking for."

He sinks to the ground, not caring as cold salt water races up to soak his jeans and splash hs face. He hardly feels it; he's done feeling. Almost done. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he hides his face in his hands aand cries. A grown man, brought to tears by a homecoming and a diappointment-- it's pathetic, he knows. The boardwalk is empty, now, and no one is on the beach-- no one can see him cry. That's just a small mercy.

The sobs slow after a while; he's too numb to cry anymore. He just stares blankly at the dark ocean, listens to the calming sound of the waves. The clouds are thicker, blotting out even the moon; he doesn't care. Let it rain. What's a little more water when he's already soaked?

He has to work in the morning, but he's tempted to just not show up. Why shoud he plaster a smile on his face and enjoy his work? He'd rather stay on the beach, sunk into the sand for eternity. He wants to be like the bits of shell and driftwood that gather where the waves crash; he wants the water to carry him out to sea and wear him away until he's just a million grains of sand on a hundred different beaches. But he never gets what he wants.

The sky opens up, sending rain down in sheets to soak whatever parts of him are still dry. He shivers once under the cold drops, then lets go of the cold. He can't be cold if he can't feel.

Now he's done feeling.

"I hope you miss the ocean."

He's ready to stand up and walk back to his dingy condo, wake up after another night of not sleeping, drag himself into a white-walled office and keep living. He's ready to sentence himself to a life of... nothing really. A life of being dead inside.

He doesn't get the chance.

"I do," says a voice behind him, so faint beneath the waves and driving rain that he wonders whether he imagined it. He doesn't turn to check, but he doesn't stand and leave, either. "I miss you more."

Despite the rain, despite the waves, someone sits down next to him and slips an arm around his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I'm late."

He sags against the newcomer, relieved for the solid warmth next to him. "Just by two hours," he says. Two hours that he spent suffering, but only two hours.

They stay there as the rain lets up and the tide goes out, leaving them dry and buried in the sand, and when the sun rises over the Atlantic and the boardwalk reopens, they walk down the boardwalk and lose themselves in memories.