"It's too cold for you to be out here in only a shirt."
Jimmy doesn't turn around, can't bear to even look at Thomas. "I'm fine," he retorts curtly, his half-numb toes stubbornly pressing into the sand as another wave of cold water washes around his feet. Surprisingly, Thomas doesn't get any closer or (heaven forbid!) touch him and Jimmy's thankful for it; he's sure he can still feel Thomas between his legs.

Jimmy rubs his hands stiffly over the goosebumps on his bare forearms, fighting off both the chill and the rising image of Thomas's hands in his mind. It's strange, kind of surreal to think about those long wonderful fingers now, fingers that had been on him just a few hours ago, all over his naked body and, God, even inside of him.
The cool morning wind stings a little on his cheeks, turning them pink, but Jimmy finds he doesn't care, rather appreciates the distraction. "I don't want to talk about it," he declares before letting his eyes drop shut in a futile attempt to block out the disturbing reality of the previous night.
And though those hours of madness are sort of a blur, Jimmy remembers some details with great clarity.

…

The way Thomas was looking at him in the small hours of the night, eyes intense as ever if a little weary in the soft golden light of the open fire. That familiar dazzling smell, cigarette and musk, when Thomas leant in to murmur some silly joke in his ear, but most of all the exact moment when Jimmy broke, eventually, after months of silent longing simmering beneath his skin.

Oh he'd been so naive; it was ridiculous to think they could have ended up any other way. The two of them alone for almost an entire week. A little house by the sea with only one bedroom. It had been a long time coming and so, naturally, just like summer falls into autumn one day, the inevitable happened.

A whispered "Come on Thomas, I want it!" before mouths were chasing necks, tongues exploring every inch of heated skin they could reach. And when Thomas's fingers finally dipped below the waistband of his jeans - Jimmy cringed with embarrassment at the memory of all his salacious encouragements, the lewd things he begged Thomas for.

It's funny, though, how Jimmy was always certain Thomas would be the one to initiate it. Thomas, the lovey-dovey touch-starved one that's been secretly -and sometimes not so secretly - pining after him for the past 2 years. It really should have been Thomas but damn, was he wrong about that. It was Jimmy who commenced the kissing in front of the crackling fire, who gently brushed his mouth against the lips of a very tensed-up Thomas, then kissed the frown off his face and all the shaky "Are you sure?"s from his mouth ("Yes, yes, yes Thomas").

It was also Jimmy who hastily manoeuvred them into their small bedroom, his eager fingers busy working at Thomas's shirt buttons, and all the while Jimmy kissed and kissed, so impatient and greedy for lips and skin and moans and sweat that he barely recognized himself anymore. He touched, licked and bit Thomas anywhere he could and it felt like floodgates being opened by the sheer force of his emotions.

They made love, then. Wild and frantic. Stormy like the ocean.

...

Jimmy listens to the waves crashing relentlessly into the shore,the roaring sound filling his ears.

It was too much.

"I guess I'll sleep on the sofa tonight," he hears Thomas mutter, now beside him. The words are coming out fairly even, yet there's a flicker of silent disappointment in every syllable that makes Jimmy's stomach clench. No, that's not fair, a thin little voice stirs inside of him. Don't leave me alone. I can't do this on my own.

"And after breakfast I'm going to talk to the landlord," Thomas continues quietly. "If we leave tomorrow morning, I'm sure we'll get part of our money back."

Abruptly, Jimmy's eyes fly open; he's positive his heart just dropped into the wet sand. "No, Thomas!" He shouts, spinning around on his heels. "You've been working like a dog the past few months to get a few days off and just because I'm a bloody idiot who can't- can't even -" Jimmy stutters, fumbling for words where there are none as his eyes waver over the hem of Thomas's grey sweater, avoiding his face.

"Can't? Can't what, Jimmy?" Thomas asks cautiously. His fingers are nestling within his sleeves and when Jimmy finally does look up, it's obvious that Thomas is aching to hold him. Jimmy knows that expression and right now part of him yearns for Thomas's strong arms around him, too.
It doesn't happen.
The sea breeze wildly tousles Thomas's hair, a mess of dark wisps against the bleak grey sky, and Jimmy swallows thickly. It somehow mirrors the way Thomas's hair stood out against the white linen as Jimmy kissed his face with fervour into the pillow last night.
Thomas's mouth twitches nervously. "It's still me, you know? Thomas," he says, his voice weak.

Their eyes find each other, connecting at last, and then Jimmy sees him, his lips forming a voiceless "Thomas … " as random memories start flooding his mind, dragging him under.

Thomas and Jimmy.

Thomas.

It's always been Thomas.

Thomas gently holding Jimmy's head with both his hands as Jimmy vomited into the bushes next to the roller coaster. (It had been a horrible ride but Jimmy preferred to blame it on the food.)

Thomas asleep on Jimmy's couch, wrapped in a cosy wool blanket (Jimmy's favourite) and snoring softly. Jimmy bent over him, secretly watching his moonlit face and wondering if Thomas would ever try to kiss him again, so he could get things right next time.

He remembers the smell of Thomas's grey sweater, the way the fabric felt against his face as he cried into Thomas's chest that was so warm and solid and probably the only thing that kept him anchored to this world after his mother had died.

...

Jimmy absently rocks back and forth on his heels, his freezing feet sinking further into the dank sand. I love him, he comprehends, all of a sudden, and the sharp unexpected clarity knocks all the air from his lungs.

Jimmy has always refused to put a name to it, yet it's been a ghost on his mind for months. Or maybe it's been there all along, Jimmy is not sure. But the crux is that now they've done it, thecomfortable vagueness between them is turning into something real, something to accept and act upon, and it had filled Jimmy with such uncertainty and trepidation of irrevocable change that he couldn't help but stumble out of bed and out of the house half an hour ago, like a thief in the night.

As if Thomas, still tangled in the sheets, all warm and gorgeous, was the kind of cheap one-night stand you can't wait to get away from once your head is clear enough to fill up with shameful regret.

Except Thomas is anything but.

He's Jimmy's best friend and the most precious human being in the whole world.

Thomas is everything.

Thomas seems to struggle to keep his expression carefully blank when Jimmy searches his face, but it's no use. Jimmy recognizes that look, so full of worry – for some reason Thomas worries a lot about Jimmy – but there's something else in his eyes that makes Jimmy's insides churn: The fear of losing him. It's something Jimmy's seen before, about eighteen months ago, when he furiously shoved Thomas out of his flat, accompanied by yells and vulgar curses, his lips still tingling where Thomas's had touched them. It's something Jimmy never, never wants to see again.

You're doing this all wrong, Jimmy tells himself with an anxious flex of his fingers. His chest feels so tight, as though his heart is trying to crush itself. He's all you've ever cared for and now you're fucking it up, you're-

"Thomas!" he suddenly blurts, an embarrassing cry for help in his own ears. Jimmy's heart is beating so wildly against his ribs, it seems to drown out the sound of the wind and the waves for a moment. He's blinking rapidly against the increasing prickle in his eyes as he feels his composure slipping away like sand at riptide.

"Jimmy, I'm right here." Thomas's voice almost cracks at the last word and his hand reaches out to Jimmy's, ever so hesitantly, only letting the tips of their fingers brush, as if one rash touch might burn them and everything they could be into ashes. Whether time moves slow or fast, Jimmy doesn't know. A distant sobbing sound frees itself from deep within him until his eyes start blurring and he feels warm wetness on his cheeks. That's when Jimmy finally allows himself to slump forward, against Thomas, head dropping onto his shoulder. Closer. Closer.

As though Thomas can read Jimmy's mind, one hand drifts across the gap between them, finding a hold on the blond's small waist before curling around it reassuringly. "It's alright, Jimmy. I know."

The gentle stroke of Thomas's fingers across his knuckles is soothing, and Jimmy can feel himself beginning to relax. With his forehead resting against Thomas's shoulder, Jimmy hums quietly into the grey cotton, leaving tears and a small spot of snot in the wake; Jimmy knows Thomas won't mind.

"I'm thinking- um," Jimmy tentatively slips his fingers into the warmth of Thomas's palm, "Maybe we can just do this tonight?"

Thomas pulls back to look at Jimmy, taken aback. At this point, of course, it's a rather comical notion, considering all the unholy things they'd already done to each other the night before. "You want me to hold your hand?"Thomas asks, his eyes wide and curious, and Jimmy nods, momentarily getting lost in their fluid greyish-blue. Thomas's eyes are always the most extraordinary shade but when he is sad, the colour changes into something almost ethereal. The pale sky kissing the ocean.

"Jimmy, you know how much I-" Thomas sucks in a sharp breath before he pulls Jimmy against him, more firmly this time, with just the right measure of possessiveness that Jimmy likes. "I love … your hands, I do. I always have and nothing's ever going to change that, do you understand?" His grip tightens around Jimmy's cold fingers. "Nothing!"

"Nothing," Jimmy echoes, the word causing an oddly euphoric sensation inside, and he squeezes back Thomas's hand for emphasis. Jimmy lays his cheek against Thomas's shoulder and stares distantly at the turbulent ocean, the tension draining out of him like a waterfall. Yes, this is how it should have been from the beginning, Jimmy thinks, his heart swelling to double its size at the chaste kiss Thomas plants into his hair. But he still wants me. And I want him, too. Maybe it really is that simple.

A seagull screams high above their heads and Jimmy deeply inhales the salty sea air. With Thomas's body so close to his own, he can breathe freely again, and a relieving calmness starts settling in his bones.

There's a tiny, hopeful smile flashing across Thomas's face when Jimmy slides their entangled hands into the pockets of his sweater. "Let's go back inside," Jimmy suggests, his thumb caressing the soft skin on the inside of Thomas's wrist.

"It's too cold for me here."