to see if i can catch a dream

.

It's not the first time he's stumbled upon a naked girl on the beach, unfortunately.

Because - Wes, and his parties, and the alcohol and dares and hormones and whatever else it is that inspires girls to take off their clothes and romp around in the sand with the oldest Evans boy. And, well, because he is Soul, younger, less attractive and attracted brother, it is not the first time he's found himself helping a naked girl on the beach, either. Call it good will, or paying it forward, or whatever; there is something inherently vulnerable about loneliness, and while he is accustomed to solitude, he sort of figures not everyone feels the same.

And without clothes, no less. Soul has a strict no public nudity policy, himself. Not that anyone would want to see his gangly body anyway, but still.

He finds her long after their guests have headed back into the beach house. They're noisy, and Soul's headphones blew a week ago, and he'd been silently lamenting his own laziness for damning him to a late night on the coast when he'd spotted her, a tiny, waifish dirty-blonde thing, sand caked to one cheek.

"Here," he finds himself saying, digging a towel out of his backpack, all the while averting his eyes from her pale, moonlit skin. "Cover yourself up."

Girl number who-knows-what blinks owlishly at him. Her face is awfully soft, for Wes's taste; she's almost doe-eyed, lashes blonde and light, freckled from cheek to cheek. Really cute, he thinks, objectively speaking; almost dangerously young-looking, with a little button nose, slim build-

Soul decides it is best not to overthink his brother's one-night-stands and shakes the towel this naked girl still hasn't accepted. In fact, she does seem perturbed, but not due to her state of undress; she's blinking again, staring at him, the moon, the dim, star-speckled horizon behind him. The damp sand shifts beneath her knees as she moves, leaving round, perfect craters in her wake, and- Soul stops staring, coughing.

Then she tries crawling to her feet, goes jelly-boned like a toddler and crumbles like a sandcastle.

Drunk, he thinks decisively. Drunk and completely at peace with her new status as streaker, coupled with no earthly business being this alone near a frigid tide.

"Christ, okay, wait. Can you, uh-" he is not a parent, has never had to teach someone how to walk, and wow, her eyes are green, huh. Focus. "Stand, maybe? Or, uh, shit-"

She says nothing, only squirms, writhes on the beach like a newborn seal. She sprawls, then, arms outstretched, grainy fingers brushing his ankles, and Soul jumps a mile, gasping. Ticklish, he thinks, flailing, stumbling back, before landing with his ass in the sand, too, with an astonishingly undignified shriek. And finally, it seems that is what gets her to startle, and there's a wrinkle between her brow, confused, as she paws her way toward him with impressive strength, dragging herself across the distance between them.

He knows drunk legs are kind of dumb and useless, but damn. She could at least wiggle a little, maybe use her knees to inch her way forward, like some sort of strange, bipedal worm, but no. No, she seems intent on just dragging herself using only upper body strength. And it's working.

Drunk chicks, man. Fucking Wes, fucking and chucking 'em. How's she ever supposed to get home, if she can't seem to remember that she is not a zombie and she has feet to carry herself around on? Bare feet. Where the hell are her shoes? And the rest of her clothes?

Soul grunts, cracking his neck. Kind of feels like rubbing his sore, boney ass, too, but is quickly distracted by Wes's little plaything power-crawling toward him. She gets as far as wrapping a damp hand around his wrist before he realizes the gravity of the situation and begins attempting to wiggle out of her grasp - which, he quickly discovers, is deceptively ironclad. Her skin's almost clammy on his, wrinkly little fingers, and he's caught up in wondering just how long she's been out here, playing in the tide before she begins quite literally using him as a human ladder.

"WHOA, wait-" Okay, that is a hand on his ass, Christ. Being touched is right up there with no nudity on Soul's list of no-nos, but it's sort of hard to shove her off after watching her take a nose dive only minutes prior. "I see why Wes liked you now," he says, while hooking his hands beneath her armpits and helping lift her to her feet.

She purses her lips and stares at him in that uncanny, unblinking way. Such unwavering attention, without even a hint of discomfort or shyness, despite - she is still naked, good lord, he had not intended to get an eyeful tonight, and sort of feels like a skeezeball for glancing down, despite knowing she's not wearing a thing.

Not… that it even awakens anything in him. Tits are little blobs of fat, with a nipple presented like a cherry on top. Probably have the same appeal as a sundae for dudes who give a shit about that sort of thing, but presently Soul doesn't give a shit about her tiny tits or slight waist or long, long legs. Nah, he's more concerned about the why, about the way she's looking at him, fragrant and reeking of sea salt, and the grains of sand, speckling her like freckles.

Mystery girl wobbles, then, grasping for his shoulders. One hand cups his neck and he swallows nervously. "Okay?"

Pretty pink lips open, but no sound comes out. Not even a squeak. There's a faint gasp, intake of breath, and then she sort of wilts, those doe-eyes clouding over, discouraged.

"... Okay?"

He takes a step back. It is a grave mistake. Lady of the beach does not seem to understand the complexities of legs yet, and the moment his body begins to retract from her direct line of contact, she timbers. Arms link around the back of his neck, and he has about half a second to yelp before she is hugging herself to his chest and, okay, boobs. Hello.

Default to blaming Wes. Do not think about how awkward this is. Do not think about how fucking dead he is when this girl comes to in the morning.

Soul does not think about it and steadies her hips with his hands. Her skin is cold. And sandy. Eurgh, it's a strange texture. Feels a little like the one time Wes had conned him into thinking a brotherly fishing trip would be fun and not a slimey, grainy Experience. The texture rubs him the wrong way, and sends a sort of shiver up his spine, but he cannot release this fish-out-of-water without fearing she might take another drunken spill into the sand, so he perseveres. Very bravely.

Even if his delicate sensibilities are crying.

(It's weirder for her, it's gotta be weirder or her, grow a pair, Soul. Why can't you be tougher, anyway?)

"Okay," he says, for what must be the fifth time tonight, gritting his teeth, "never mind that, then- can you just, towel, maybe? Yeah?"

Unnerving silence. Maybe not, then. His Batman towel sits in a heap at their feet, crumpled and sad. Clearly she has no taste. What a badass towel he'd offered her. Only the best for ladies like herself; such a gentleman he is, huh, having a one-way conversation with a girl who doesn't even smell like alcohol.

Eh. He knows the trick. Get stupid wasted, spend time out on the coast, rolling around in the sand, come back smelling like a seafood restaurant, profit. Avoid conflict. Never make eye contact with dad. No one will suspect a thing from the first born. There's distance in her eyes, a longing, lost sort of ache, and despite the strength in the set of her brows, he can read the worry between the lines with practiced ease. Like sight reading. Muscle memory.

She wiggles one hand away from crushing the back of his neck to trace the shape of lips, and her fingertips taste like the ocean. Hrgh. Who knows where else these hands have been, grossnasty, urgh. He shudders again, sends a silent prayer to whatever cruel deity is up there torturing him, and heaves her and her noodle legs into his arms.

"Sorry," he mutters, grunting, as he hefts her into a more comfortable position. Either she's heavier than anticipated (unlikely, she is twiggy) or he is weaker than originally thought (likely), because he strains, for a moment, staring down at his towel, wondering how in hell he's supposed to dress her in it without dropping her in the process.

The world is cruel and unusual. So much for proving he doesn't give a shit about dating. He's gonna stroll right in with a naked girl in his arms.

Her arms find their way around his neck. She shivers, and he grunts, legs shuddering as he lowers himself into a squat. Regrets skipping leg day. Regrets skipping every day at the gym, really, and grits out, "Towel," in a desperate hope that she will understand at least this. Nudges toward it with his chin and everything, as if his body has not begun trembling beneath the effort of any little bit of manual labor.

(Weakling, weakling, such a pathetic weakling-)

Utilizing her legs may be too much to ask for, but she hugs the sandy towel to her chest, blinking curiously at him, and Soul seizes momentum and launches himself into a jog. The tide crashes behind them and she shivers, face smushed up into his shirt, and up close, he can tell her hair's actually more gold than burnt blonde. She shivers in his arms, this curious, trembling little thing, and something buried deep and raw in him unravels.

It'll be the first time he's brought a girl home. Naked. From Wes's beach.

First times for everything, he supposes.