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Sawyer wasn’t addicted to sex, really.
It had never been something that preoccupied his mind, or chipped away at his resolve in any way that’d have him coughing up sappy-sugar words just to get a taste of. If he’d wanted to, sure, he could butter a girl up with Southern drawl alone and get his money’s worth off it – he was some sorta natural aficionado, if you will – but that was that. A nice, tight little business exchange.
No, he figured, it was more like an appetite. A yearning. Some distant feeling of jet-lag, like his body’d gotten used to curving inward and fitting against someone else’s. He was always basking aimlessly in that misshapen warmth and rough, meaningless contact, getting himself tangled in sprawling limbs and lingering whispers, draping into some nameless lover’s bed. That was always there – always supposed to be, rather, like some sweet treat always within reach.
Sawyer had never realized it before, but withdrawal ate away at him like a gaping wound.
The sun had been beating down for hours, pressing down against his temples and sticking to his skin like wet blood. That everyday, same cyclical hum, the air always thick and dense and flooded with heat. Round and round, that same headache, same weather. Same island.
“You gonna hurry up back there, Abdul? ‘Cause I sure as hell don’t feel quite safe and sound knowin’ I got an armed torturer slinkin’ around behind me.” He knew he was biting without much gravity. Just something, anything, to get a rise out of him.
The rustle of leaves at his back came to a still. “I thought I spotted a trail.” Sayid paused, then added, “If you wanted this to be over quickly, I do not understand your insistence on bringing me along."
Sawyer sneered. "Can't exactly be huntin' boar by myself now, can I? Got the Doc and Freckles too busy making googly eyes at each other, and John and his boy-toy not farin’ much better. Rest of 'em are just dead weight. That leaves me stuck with you.”
He turned to watch him. Sayid was a stone’s throw away, eyes squinted in coal-black pinpoints, hair tousled wildly over the gilt brown sheen of his skin. He looked up to meet his gaze, expressionless. “Then don’t complain.”
Sawyer merely scoffed, adjusted the gun in its holster, and kept walking.
That was the thing, this singularity. This constant back-and-forth – strung taut and heavy like a fishing line caught in the maw of its prey – weighed on him like a fresh burn. Tension kept him alive. Anything that could break him away from the daily, meandering, cog-wheel spin of this damned island had to be good for him.
And, it was different with Sayid. It had to be. It could never be the same with someone like Kate; someone he knew he had ensnared within his jaws, no matter if she believed otherwise. He could poke and prod and tease, and always know he'd find her dallying about beside his tent like it'd never happened. They couldn't hurt each other; there'd never be a victim emerging from their lovers' spats. It was fun – hell, it was a downright staple of his day – but it couldn't ever make him feel alive. More bark than bite, more smoke than fire.
Sawyer, beneath everything, lived to fight. He had to punch and kick and scratch like he was desperate to survive, like it was the only thing left he could do to save himself – just to feel whole. Breathless; gutted; thrashing around like he was some wild, wounded animal, a rush of adrenaline through his quivering veins like a shot of caffeine, or laced heroin. He'd look into the eyes of his Cain and see that bitter, brimming hatred, feel that loathing course through him in every touch, every blow, his body trembling from the damaged pride and unbridled pain.
And he would thrive.
His eyes trailed over the shock of Sayid's black, curly hair as he treaded further into the jungle. Would Sawyer wake up, tomorrow, aching dull, fresh bruises kissed into his skin and blood still matted into his sun-baked scalp? Would they drop the pleasantries and get down and dirty in the mud again, just to take the edge off?
Sawyer swallowed; a bitter cocktail of hubris, scalding as it coaxed its way down his throat. There just had to be a raw thrill. He had to know he couldn't always win, the same kind of gamble he'd get from running a con. If all else failed, there had to be that nice little promise of dying to fall back on.
He kept his distance back a few yards away from Sayid. It felt better, keeping up a lookout from behind him, watching his lithe figure prowl past a bushel of tiger lillies. Cat-like. It reminded him of being fifteen, and that slow immersion into hunting deer in wide-eyed Tennessee – about the same affair, really, the same stirred-up feelings – he was just a naïve boy, then, where the rifle shook between his white-knuckled hands, heart pounding in his ears, his lips muttering over themselves in tremors; aim, lock, shoot. Predator, prey.
The birds chittered on above them. Sawyer opened his mouth to make some sly comment about it before a strange glint in the grass caught his eye, about a foot away from Sayid. He caught up and leaned over the object to inspect it.
A small, seemingly completely unbroken Matryoshka doll lay rather peacefully beside the trunk of a tree. Sawyer glanced at it in curiosity, wondering if it could've fallen out of the cargo-hold ages ago, and, with a smirk, if he could manage to barter the antique with some old eccentric collector taking refuge on the beach for a nice basket of fruit.
He crouched down carelessly, picked it up in his hand, when–
Sayid spun around and leapt towards him, “Wait, Sawyer, don’t–”
–a large net surrounded them instantly, and with a bounce swept their bodies together and strung them helplessly up into the air.
Sawyer furrowed his eyebrows in frustration. “Son of a bitch.”
It took a moment or two for him to adjust to the circumstances, to process them, in all their fever-dream-like glory. Sayid’s body was pressed awkwardly against Sawyer’s – his limbs akimbo, the weight of his form warm and heavy. Sawyer settled into the feeling like he was in a drunken stupor. He absorbed the details, one by one: Sayid’s hands clenched unwittingly into his shirt for support, his head forced forward and crammed into the crook of the other’s neck, knee shoved roughly into the space between Sawyer’s thighs. The smaller boy looked up, achingly slow, his hair falling over his face in coils.
“Splendid.” Sayid sighed, and stretched his arms out to push away.
Sawyer did the same, more instinctively than anything else.
“Don’t be pinnin’ this on me, now.”
“Who else would be to blame?” Their aimless struggle for breathing room around each other was proving fruitless, as the netting jumbled them further into each other with every attempt to fight its coercion. Sayid shook his head lightly, shifting the subject. “This must be one of Rousseau’s.”
“Well,” Sawyer tutted, relaxing his arms against him, “if we’re talking blame, word on the street was that you’d gotten the little Frenchie right beneath your fingertips. Next time the two of you cozy up for tea-time, why don’t you put in a good word for me ‘bout takin’ these traps down?”
Sayid stiffened, worming away, but it was impossible to fully detangle themselves. It was almost too easy, too predictable, and Sawyer had to force himself to bite back a grin.
“We must find a way to break loose.”
“Ain’t nothin’ get past you, huh?”
The quip is rewarded with silence, and the firmness of Sayid’s body pressed further against his. It’s so sudden that Sawyer’s heart begins to stutter and an idle worry emerges – childish, like he’s some kind of schoolgirl – that Sayid has noticed its erratic rhythm. Or, even worse: that he had been listening to it this entire time.
Pain spasmed down his arm.
“Shit,” Sawyer barked, shoving Sayid aside. He had managed to lean too far into the injury on Sawyer’s left arm; the wet bandage peeled slightly. “Easy there, for Christ’s sake.”
“Sorry. I am attempting to reach my knife.” Quieter, he added, “I misjudged.”
“Well hell,” Sawyer smirked, “don’t think I’ve ever heard you making apologies before.”
Sayid arched forward again, craning his arm behind him with stronger caution. “I rarely have reason to make amends to you.”
Sawyer snarled. “Felt mighty sorry for yourself after sticking me to that tree though, didn’t you? Unless you were just takin’ a sick day.”
If they were on solid ground, Sawyer figured, they’d be like two snakes by now. Rolling and thrashing around in the grass, boiling under the hot Island sun. Living.
Sayid stilled, relaxing his muscles. Withdrawing himself, he adjusted slightly, stretching his torso even closer to Sawyer’s.
“I cannot reach it. Can you…”
The bitterness melted down his throat. “Yeah, yeah.” Sawyer muttered. Then, lower. “Hell of a way to ask for help.”
His hand skimmed down the curve of Sayid’s waist, brushing against a small section of unclothed skin. Sayid’s back arched instinctively, shivering against the sudden contact, the front of his jeans bucking into Sawyer’s.
Sayid glanced up, briefly, before turning away again. He was always filled with that hard soberness Sawyer could never replicate, like black coals burning into his skull.
It was strange, too, seeing him from a top-down perspective, when it always felt like Sawyer was forced beneath him. On his knees, a knife to his eye, or being pinned flat to the sand. It was rare – refreshing, even – to have Sayid be the one to have to put in effort to meet his gaze. It sent a dark sort of thrill down his spine.
He was right here, really. Right where he wanted him. Sawyer couldn’t help but roll his fingers down further, almost teasing, hypnotized by how warm his skin could feel even in the blistering heat of the jungle. Sayid’s brown flesh was soft and supple, even over his taut muscle, and Sawyer couldn't help but shiver.
Sayid was unraveling, thread-bare, laden with hesitation, and the palpability burned deep in Sawyer’s chest. He rolled his fingertips gently down his spine, feeling for every little curve and indent.
Sawyer could provoke him, fight with him, touch him in any number of ways – but Sayid would never again let him be this careful.
“Almost,” he mumbled, grazing the surface of the knife’s handle. Sayid brushed forward, grimacing, his whole body so tense it seemed like it would burst from the seams. His eyelashes fluttered against Sawyer’s face, just close enough to feel like a kiss. Sawyer felt the hairs rise at the back of his neck.
Warm, impossibly warm. The ache in his arm swelled, the bandage soaked with Sayid’s sweat, and the pain stuttered deliciously through his dizzy figure. He was so close – just a little more – and as Sayid pulled in further, further, he was almost startled by the knife falling into his grip, if only, if only–
The sun was still pulling tight against his brain, his temples, blinding, that all-too-bright feeling. It was nauseating, this sickness, this hot, disgusting stickiness. Sawyer bathed in it.
He breathed shakily and handed the knife over. “There.” The world felt blurry, mismatched, out-of-sync to his own thoughts.
Sayid reached up, cutting the knot in a few quick strokes. The two tumbled to the ground.
Sayid stood, expressionless. He turned, eyes narrowing, face curving into the same look of sterile disdain he always held. No change, nor chink in the armour.
Something sour pooled into Sawyer’s chest.
He got up, adjusted the front of his jeans, and kept walking.