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What was even the point in these little meet-ups? For Curly to rub more of his accomplishments in Jimmy’s face? He was so goddamn obnoxious with that. What gave him the right to do that? What gave Curly the right to have the things that he deserved more?
. . . And why did he continue to chase his friend’s light like a pathetic moth to an infuriatingly bright flame?
Frustration with his friend fueled his more habitual actions; as such Jimmy reached into his jeans’ pockets for the pack of cigarettes and lighter he was unnecessarily barred from having on jobs. They couldn’t possibly police what he did off the clock, though he was sure they wished they could. He wouldn’t be surprised to see that annoying horse keeping an eye on him and his every move (as if his mere existence was a sin).
He often dreamt of that horse - pony (whatever the fuck it was) when he was on a haul. It would begin with that godawful chime, then speak in its cartoony tone; rather than voice one of its nauseatingly positive lines, however, the thing would speak directly to him. What it said was always some pointed lie he could dismiss with absolute ease
. . . That didn’t keep the words from uncomfortably bouncing around in his mind though.
Jimmy could vaguely taste tobacco as he idly glared down at Curly’s coffee table, his gaze hazing and distorting the piece of furniture into nothing more than an incoherent mass. He could somewhat make out a whirring blur out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t bring himself to shift his leer, move, or even blink.
“Didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”
Curly’s voice caused Jimmy’s attention to snap up to his friend. The fog faded quickly from his vision, eagerly providing him a bright and clear picture of Curly. He hated how Curly smiled at him like they were equals. He knew what his friend truly thought of him; he knew just how much pity and self-gratification filled each and every one of the other’s thoughts.
Jimmy merely scoffed into his cigarette before switching gears to take another drag off of it. With his line of sight fixed, he could see that the shifting blur he’d noticed earlier was Curly’s dog, Chester. He’d almost called the thing Chadwick, but one exhausted glance from Jimmy had the man backing down and choosing the only slightly less repulsive name. Chester was a golden retriever with the same temperament as her owner. There was one exception, however, and that was how Chester refused to go near Jimmy.
It . . . bothered him, but why should he care about what some dumb dog thought of him? They were too stupid to understand anything more complex than a milkbone, and they viewed mud to be the pinnacle of entertainment.
She really was like her owner.
“So what’s on the agenda for today?” Jimmy asked as he pulled the cigarette from his mouth. Curly was not-so-subtly scooting an ashtray toward him while very blatantly noting how his friend had rested his shoes on the coffee table.
The lesser pilot sighed, irritation hissing from his lungs, and picked his feet off of the table to instead plant them uncomfortably on the floor. “You did keep me waiting,” Jimmy reflexively insisted. Had Curly not done that, then he wouldn’t have found it necessary to get comfortable in his absence. That much should’ve been obvious.
Despite Curly’s clearly aggravating hints, he did use the ashtray - he wasn’t some disgusting slob after all.
When he looked up from flicking ashes into the offered tray, Jimmy found his blond-haired doofus of a friend still staring at the spot where he had lain his shoes. Slob or not, he did leave specs of dirt on its surface; and those inconsequential crumbs appeared to be giving Curly an existential crisis.
“Grant,” Jimmy tried again, this time using his friend’s first name. The reaction he spurred from the other was technically what he was looking for as Curly focused on him rather than the muddied table. His friend narrowed his eyes at him, pausing as if in contemplation of how he should reprimand him. Curly was always too nice for such things, yet Jimmy tensed with fear for the worst.
The preparations were pointless, however, as his dopey retriever of a captain smiled and shot back a playful, “James.” He looked so smug, so proud of himself for something so simple and trivial.
Well, Jimmy would give him that as the teasing reply left him breathing a light sigh of relief and donning the slightest hint of a smile. He just hoped Curly missed it as he tried to cover up the weakness by fully extinguishing his cigarette and leaving the remains in the ashtray. To further obscure his momentary shortcoming, he spoke again, once more asking, “What’s the plan for today?”
Curly straightened. For the most part, his gaze remained on Jimmy, though it did flick back to the table every so often. The culprit of the mess didn’t bother mentioning it as he really just wanted to get on with their apparent activity (whatever that ended up being).
“Fishing.”
The other’s words took a moment to truly sink in. Jimmy half-assumed he’d misheard; then again, this was Curly and fishing was completely on the table for him. Everything was on the table for him. He could say that the plan was to go across the world for a very specific snowboarding spot and that would be completely in character for him.
Must be nice having the funds to afford such extravagant tastes.
“Fishing,” Jimmy repeated blandly as though willing Curly to admit that it was a joke after all. Tragically, he didn’t.
“Yep!”
He glanced at the clock that stood in his friend’s living room: an antique grandfather clock which had been passed down Curly’s family line for generations. Supposedly, it was made by one of his far-off ancestors. His friend adored the thing despite how obsolete it had become over the years. Hell, schools didn’t even teach how to read clocks like that anymore, yet Jimmy knew how thanks to Curly. He was pointlessly knowledgeable about several antiques thanks to Curly.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit late in the day for that?” Was that an excuse not to go? Or a simple observation that his friend should’ve come to on his own?
Curly beamed with far too much enthusiasm for something like fishing. “A new fishing spot opened about an hour from here.” He eagerly pointed off in a direction that Jimmy could only assume was the vague location of this apparent new fishing spot. “It has different domes, all with their own time zone so no matter what time it is for us, there’ll be at least one dome where it’s early morning for the fish.”
That sounded a bit cruel, but whether the fish were agonized by the blatant manipulation, it wasn’t his problem. Since it was such a controlled environment though, Jimmy couldn’t help but ask, “Do we get to keep the fish we catch?” That might just make the trip worth it.
“Can’t imagine they’d get much use out of a buncha speared fish.”
“Fair enough.”
—------------------------
It wasn’t until they were halfway to their destination that their outfits really stood out to Jimmy. Had Curly explained their plans in advance, he could’ve chosen something a little more fitting; instead, he was left sporting his usual sneakers that would do nothing against possible invasions of water. The jeans and long-sleeved shirt, he didn’t mind, but he would have appreciated a jacket (especially if early morning domes were as cool as actual mornings).
Outside of wearing his usual boots, Curly wasn’t dressed much differently from his friend - he was even wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt. That could mean that he had nothing to worry about, but Curly often glossed over the small details that surrounded him.
Tragic as it was, the latter proved to be true; it was freezing in that dome. He could even see Curly’s exposed arms prickling with goosebumps, although his friend didn’t make any mention of it. He seemed more focused on carrying the cooler while Jimmy was in charge of hauling the fishing rods and bucket of worms they’d rented and bought respectively.
“So you wanna fish from the dock or take one of the boats?” Curly asked as they approached what was essentially a fork in the road. One way held a sizable collection of bare docks while the other hosted a plethora of rowboats. There was at least one motorized boat left for the taking.
“Boat’ll probably have better luck.” Plus, they could ride off to a corner far away from any others (not that there were many others). Early-morning fishing had become a rather niche hobby over the years. More often than not, people weren’t interested in the activity, having better things to do with their time. Jimmy was among their ranks.
That wasn’t to say there was no one; otherwise, the place would’ve been shut down within a week or even before it opened. Those privileged with getting to retire seemed to be the ones meant to keep this place afloat.
“Sounds good,” his happy-go-lucky partner in crime praised. It was nice to hear even if the answer should’ve been obvious.
Did that make it feel almost patronizing? Yes. And the anger it spurred slithered through Jimmy’s body like a sickness. He could almost feel its toxic and malicious presence eagerly swimming through his veins and infecting his muscles - even going so far as to seep into his bones. The only thing he could think to stop it from ripping out of him was to clench his hands so tight that he had to wonder if the fishing rods would break.
If they did, then it would just be Curly’s fault for always looking down on him.
They didn’t so he, at least, wouldn’t have to deal with that. Unfortunately, his friend took it upon himself to pick a fishing vessel in his absence. Common sense would have (no, should have ) pointed a captain of all things in the direction of the last motorized boat, but apparently Curly lacked such a basic trait. He picked one of the rowboats and was happily stowing the cooler on it.
Some of that fury breathed out of Jimmy in a snarl. Annoyed as he was though, his feet still took him over and onto the boat Curly had claimed as theirs. Upon boarding (if it could even be called that with such a pathetic craft), his idiot sunshine of a friend blasted him with his endless radiance in the form of a bright smile. No words accompanied the cheery expression so there was nothing to twist and mangle in his mind: Jimmy was just allowed to bask in the warmth he couldn’t ever get enough of.
His lips reflexively pursed together to smother a smile only to fail in their attempted assault. It grew and grew as if spiting the reluctance that lived within him. As a final defense, Jimmy bowed his head in hopes of hiding the joy Curly had passed onto him, however, that didn’t work either. How could it when he found himself laughing ever so softly?
It tasted so much better than the wrathful infernal that was destined to boil his insides for an eternity.
Jimmy took in a deep breath, reveling in the cool air that hesitantly spread through him like a purifying frost. He could drink it in all day, maybe get drunk off of it. That would be nice.
His brief bliss was halted, however, by the presence of a hand. He could see it held tentatively just in front of him like one might with an animal they were cautiously trying to befriend. He knew it was Curly. That was always his test to see whether he could touch him at all.
Despite his earlier aggravation with his childhood friend, Jimmy nodded and that hand was promptly placed on his shoulder.
Curly offered the lightest squeeze to which Jimmy replied by laying his head on the other man’s hand and gripping his wrist to keep him in place. He closed his eyes and breathed in again. Rather than continue with the exercise his friend had taught him (and one he generally disregarded), he contentedly hummed the breath out.
“Feeling better?” His dearest friend asked.
Jimmy nodded once again, pressing against Curly’s hand in such a euphoric manner. There was the softest urge to place a kiss atop his knuckles, but fear tore into it until it was nothing more than dust being blown away by a cruel hurricane.
He lifted his head to fully look at the friend he could never truly have and sighed. The sudden loss of his own smile withered the one that had previously illuminated Curly’s face. His wonderful companion frowned, asking an obvious, “What’s wrong?”
Jimmy hadn’t even realized he’d set the bucket and rods down until he went to look for them. They weren’t far considering the boat wasn’t exactly big; they were just at his feet. He released Curly and grabbed for the fishing poles more as something to preoccupy his hands and give him a directive to focus on. It wasn’t like they’d be using them right that second after all.
“I’m not helping you row,” Jimmy stated as though that should’ve been obvious. Curly’s disappointment in his blatant regression didn’t go unnoticed (how could it when his hand dropped off of his shoulder?), but he refused to look too long at it. He’d just get annoyed if he did so he threw his attention onto the water that gently rocked their boat.
It was such a departure from the Tulpar: this tiny wooden thing against that tolerably-sized space freighter. At least the serene water was nice to look at as opposed to the fake scenes the latter “provided.” The addition of earthly sights was meant to make them feel at home while they were out in space for over a year, but it only ever felt like a mockery to him.
“That’s fine,” he heard Curly insist in that appallingly sweet tone of his. “These arms can row for days.” There was no doubt in his mind that his captain was flexing - or at the very least, imitating a typical flex.
Jimmy continued forcing his attention off of his friend; instead choosing to direct his gaze onto the water now that said friend had pushed them away from the dock. He wasn’t exactly sure where the urge came from, but he leaned over the side of the boat and dipped his fingers into the water. His fingertips glided and grazed satisfying rivulets into the surface as Curly rowed them further into the man-made lake. It was cool against his skin, and much like the crisp breeze, he wanted nothing more than to take and take and take.
He didn’t throw himself overboard (desperate as he was, he wasn’t an idiot); Jimmy simply hunched over to the point that he looked as if the ride was making him ill. It obviously wasn’t, but Curly didn’t exactly get that memo as he asked, “You alright, Jim?”
From this position, Jimmy could plunge up to his elbow into the water. He didn’t bother rolling his sleeve up, he didn’t even consider it. All that mattered was the intoxicating sensation the lake provided him.
“Jimmy,” Curly pressed.
“‘M Fine,” he replied blandly, almost automatically as he found himself distracted by his own rippling reflection. He could only catch small glimpses of the full picture. There almost seemed to be life in him - at least, with the help of the water’s distortion.
“If you get any further into the water, you’re gonna scare all the fish away,” the other joked, but Jimmy knew what he actually meant. He was worried he’d throw himself in entirely. He’d never do that though: he was too much of a coward even during his lowest moments.
Since Curly was clearly beginning to worry, Jimmy pulled his arm from the water and straightened himself back out on the small boat. After once again setting the fishing poles on the deck of the boat, he took hold of his soaked sleeve and wrung what water he could out of it. Unlike with the dirt he left on Curly’s table, he made sure to drain the liquid back into the lake; the last thing he wanted was to get more wet.
“Satisfied?” Curly asked, a smirk dancing playfully along his visage.
Jimmy rolled his eyes as he squeezed out the last of the overflow. Unfortunately, that still left his arm drenched and his sleeve in a similar state. They weren’t dripping anymore, but it was still cold.
Why’d he have to do something so stupid? Was it Curly’s fault? No, it had to be his fault. Everything was his fault.
“You certainly seemed like you were enjoying yourself,” Curly added when he failed to get an actual answer.
“Kinda wish you’d have told me ahead of time that we were going fishing. I would’ve brought a jacket.” As if he wouldn’t have dunked that in the water as well. He didn’t allow that thought to stick around and simply let it slip away with the slickness of oil.
“You’re right, I probably should’ve warned you,” his friend chuckled. Curly shifted then, hunching forward to grab a fishing rod for himself and severely rocking the boat in the process. The guy basically lived on adventures when not working so it wasn’t exactly surprising to see their pitiful raft struggle to keep up with his mass.
He looked so warm and safe. He always did; and Jimmy wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around his best friend and cling to him. Maybe he’d knock him to the floor of the boat. What would they do after that though? Would there be anything more than simply enjoying his tender embrace?
“Got something on your mind?” His safe and warm best friend asked. Curly had sat back in his designated seat across from Jimmy, fishing gear in hand (he’d even claimed the bucket).
Jimmy blinked the remaining haze from his eyes before quickly directing them off to the side. What he chose to look at wasn’t exactly interesting: it was just his own fishing rod. At least Curly more than likely wouldn’t be able to guess his thoughts based on that.
“Just wondering why you’re taking so long,” he muttered bitterly.
His misplaced displeasure only blossomed like an infestation of poisonous vines as Curly boasted his obnoxiously wonderful laugh. There was so much joy in it (so much love) and it was all for him. How could it be for anyone else when they were the only two in the boat?
“D’you need me to teach you how to do it?”
Yes, because he’d never had a father who cared to teach him much more than how to resent and fear the world around him. That’s where Curly learned, wasn’t it? He learned how to fish from his father? They enjoyed the old school life so that wouldn’t have been surprising. If he remembered correctly, the duo had invited him on an outing once.
He wasn’t allowed to go.
Was that another nightmare or real life though?
“It can’t be that hard,” Jimmy replied, his voice still little more than an irritated grumble. Despite that, Curly didn’t mind. He probably had excellent hearing from how often he had to strain to hear some of the things his friend was saying. It probably didn’t work like that, but if it did, he succeeded in sharpening at least one of Curly’s senses.
That was an accomplishment that eagerly plastered another smile to Jimmy’s face. It only grew as his rare cheer spread to his friend again.
As for fishing . . . he didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was meant to be doing. There were worms which he knew were to be bait for the fish. They went on the hook, right? That’s where he’d always seen fish dangling from during the off times he watched TV.
Jimmy’s eyes drifted to Curly and his work. He was impaling a worm on the hook (multiple times, even). That was impressive; he didn’t know his friend had it in him to cause even the most insignificant of beings pain.
Seemed easy enough - or so he thought. Impaling something would probably have been easier had that something not been miniscule, writhing, and covered in a slick slime. It was mucus, wasn’t it? Disgusting, yet not as disgusting as the pale yellow that oozed out of it upon being run through by the tiny hook.
By the time he’d followed Curly’s lead in skewering the worm several times, the invertebrate’s insides had desperately coated the tips of Jimmy’s fingers. He almost had to wonder if this was a final act of defiance. One last fuck you to him for murdering it.
He paid its evident suffering no mind and looked once more toward the only one of them that had any idea of what they were doing. Curly reeled his own rod back, looked behind him to spot Jimmy, then swung his arm forward. The line whizzed through the air with a dizzyingly rewarding noise, finishing with an even better plop in the water some yards away from them.
That was easy. He could do that. Hell, maybe he could even make it go further (as though that was the competition rather than securing the biggest fish).
Jimmy mimicked Curly’s motions, but when he threw his arm forward, nothing happened. The line didn’t whistle off into the distance, it didn’t even escape from the pole in the slightest. He tried again, though this time without the flourish he’d seen his friend exude: he swung it forward as if he was attempting to beat an invisible assailant with it. A scowl had even crept across his face to insist that was exactly what he was trying to do.
It still didn’t work. Even worse, his partner was laughing at his failure.
Jimmy turned his frustrated scowl onto Curly only for it to be met with a radiant smile of equal strength. His absolute sunshine of a friend always looked like he was attempting to extinguish the shadows encasing him with his endless cheer. Unfortunately, it worked.
The surly co-pilot’s displeasure waned (melting away in his captain’s generous warmth), and becoming nothing more than a slightly embarrassed smile. He looked down at his dysfunctional equipment and gingerly waved it to draw Curly’s attention to it. “I think mine’s broken.”
Curly looked from his own fishing rod toward Jimmy and his apparent predicament, clearly weighing his options. He didn’t move from his place, but he did lift his clearly functional equipment to point at what looked to be a half ring near the base of it.
“Flip that,” his friend instructed. Before he could take Curly’s advice, the other quickly added, “But lightly keep your finger on the line so it doesn’t all spool out.”
Jimmy looked back at his own rod. Those were instructions he could’ve used earlier, but Curly clearly forgot how different their lives had been. It was annoying for sure, and he could’ve easily let himself be consumed by resentment. With the crisp air pleasantly dusting his face and softly jostling his hair though, he managed to step out of the poisonous muck that was always so eager to devour him.
Brightening his mood further was how this cast actually worked. There weren’t even any snags to it (literal or figuratively). Curly also offered another tip before Jimmy began floundering amidst another failure. It really was the least he could do.
While fishing wasn’t the most exciting thing in the world, he couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed. Their surroundings were so calm. Their boat bobbed with an intoxicating mercy. The chilly air breathed a hopelessly dormant life back into his lungs. And the best part of all was how he was allowed to share this experience with the only person he could call a friend - the only person he could call safe.
They didn’t even need to talk to each other to enjoy one another’s presence. The only time either did speak was when they caught a fish; and that was simply to discuss the catch before dropping it unceremoniously into the watery cooler. The splash of each addition almost made Jimmy feel like a kid again - at least, if he’d been born into Curly’s family instead.
What would it have been like to be able to grow up in an environment of love and praise?
It was a frequent reverie, though one that generally left him rather down in the dumps. Jimmy wasn’t given the time to fall to those depths, however, because the line of his fishing rod was pulled tight.
Instinctively, he tugged on it and was immediately met with the resistance of a brick wall. Was it snagged on something, maybe? If it was snagged on something, then trying to reel it in wouldn’t have done anything, yet that was the only idea that came to mind. Of course, that didn’t work, but what exactly was he supposed to do in a situation like this? How was he supposed to know the hook would get stuck on a rock or whatever the fuck else was in the water? It was a man-made habitat so that was just on the company-
It tugged back, lightly pulling his hands forward.
“You got something?” Curly asked, having seemingly noticed his . . . what exactly was this? It wasn’t a predicament, was it?
Whatever it was, Jimmy nodded, replying with a, “Kinda seems like it,” as he pulled back in petty retaliation. His attempt was met with even more aggression as this sudden tug-o-war match dragged his entire body forward. He stumbled from his seat, grunting as he fell against the floor of the boat. His knees hurt, but it was better than the alternative of getting flung overboard.
Curly disregarded his own gear, leaving it laying in the boat with the hook and bait still cast out into the lake, and moved to his friend’s side. Seeing as the side of the boat was the only thing that kept him from being thrown into the water, Jimmy wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be helped up (he probably had better stability on his knees than he did standing.)
Unfortunately, sitting on the ground meant he had no leverage for whatever monster fish was trying to drown him. That left him begrudgingly taking his friend’s hand and allowing himself to be lifted back to his feet where he was promptly pulled at again.
Luck favoured him in that instance as Curly wrapped his arms around him and pulled back with a surprised grunt. As much as he would’ve loved to revel over being in his friend’s arms, Jimmy couldn’t exactly move anymore.
“I can’t use my arms,” he complained to the man who was still providing an insane asylum’s version of a bear hug.
“Then we do it together,” Curly countered. “As long as we’re working together, we can do anything.”
Jimmy was certain the other was bearing a sharp-toothed grin as he said that. He couldn’t keep himself from sporting one, nor could he keep himself from letting it grow as Curly changed his grip on him. The broader man released his lanky friend and grabbed ahold of the fishing rod from behind him.
Curly’s hand easily enveloped Jimmy’s own while his captain’s other hand lightly grazed along his waist. Instinct instructed a jolt of fear to rush through his body like a coward’s heroin. Just as the dreadful anxiety clawed its way up his throat, expelling only mere wisps in the form of shallow and panicked breaths, his captain offered him a soft, “You’re alright. It’s just me.”
The terror intent on suffocating him corroded, crumbling away to allow a soothing breath of air in. It was just like his friend - his captain - in the way it acted like a balm to his very being.
Jimmy gulped the life-saving essence down and nodded the go-ahead to Curly; his dear companion seamlessly continued on with what should’ve been a trivial and mundane tutorial.
Rather than tug or try to reel what was hopefully a large fish in, Curly flipped a small switch on the handle that Jimmy hadn’t even realized was there.
The thin cord began to glow with a dull blue light.
Jimmy opened his mouth to question the lightshow, but failed before Curly offered an explanation. “It strengthens the line so it won’t break.” That was surprisingly useful.
Generally, he’d find it annoying that such information wasn’t offered to him from the start; now, however, his focus was on something more important. Both of them threw their attention onto the deceptively calm waters, and with Curly’s assistance, they began reeling the stubborn fish in.
Even with his help, it was a struggle. Both men strained to move the handle, grunting with the effort as it outright refused to budge every now and then. They were making progress though (even if it was with a painful slowness).
Still, the trial was oddly nice. Not only had he apparently caught something more than worthwhile, but he was allowed to do it with his dearest friend. Jimmy hadn’t even thought about the fact that Curly had placed his hands on him without any real warning - his presence just felt right.
He was right: together they could accomplish anything. They’d drag this fish in and have a feast. Jimmy could even work on his cooking skills. He could be the one that provided for Curly rather than the other way around. They just had to-
Another harsh tug of the wire had them both stumbling forward. Unfortunately for the fish, its desperation to get away only fueled their desire to drag it in. Adrenaline shot through Jimmy like a bolt of lightning that he could nearly feel racing through his companion.
Their slow progress continued and continued until Jimmy was almost positive their opponent was just within reach. Just a bit more.
. . . Except another rough pull threw the embraced duo off balance and hungrily dragged them over the side of the boat.
Jimmy failed to hear the splash of their combined mass through the sudden burst of freezing water enveloping him. He’d plunged his arm in hours prior, sure, but this was an entirely different experience. The cold’s aggressive pins and needles even forced him into releasing the loaned rod. Considering how easy it was to lose the piece of equipment to the vast lake, he had to assume Curly was given the same silent directive.
Rather than focusing on gear they’d more than likely be scolded for losing, Curly proved to prioritize the two of them. He released Jimmy, but didn’t let himself lose him entirely; instead, linking an arm with his best friend. Connected, the duo propelled themselves back up to the surface using their feet and free hands. It almost reminded Jimmy of those dumbfuck elementary school races where they tied two kids’ legs together. He and Curly always blew their peers out of the water in those stupid competitions.
Breaking through the surface came with relative ease (far easier than trying to wrangle that fish in), and the moment their heads were above water, the pair reflexively gulped in air as if they’d been deprived of it for months. He wasn’t actually sure how long they’d been underwater, but he doubted it was that drastic.
“Ah w-well, that cou-could’ve gone b-better,” Curly mused through clattering teeth that split his statement into sporadic and jittery segments. He looked as cold as Jimmy felt. Hell, his own teeth were clicking together as if they were actually participating in a race.
“You th- You think?” He asked in a similarly disjointed manner. He wasn’t given any further verbal replies as Curly instead smiled to the best of his freezing ability. He then let Jimmy go to motion toward their boat that was thankfully still floating. How it hadn’t either tipped over with them or drifted away, he was unsure, but it was something to be thankful for at least.
The question of how they were meant to get back on the boat without capsizing it weighed heavily on Jimmy’s mind. Had their remaining equipment not been on there, they wouldn't have needed to worry so much. Tragically, flipping the boat over meant losing what little they had left.
Again, he really had to wonder why Curly decided on a rowboat of all things. It would’ve been so much simpler had he just let them pick a better vessel. At least, a motorized boat would’ve had a damn ladder.
“Over here,” his friend called from the front of the craft. Jimmy hadn’t even realized he’d swam that way.
Not having much else to do, he followed his captain’s orders, though he didn’t have much faith in his plan.
“Here, I’ll- I’ll help you up,” Curly insisted, hands already brought up and out of the water as if he’d really be able to lift Jimmy onto the boat.
“I’m f-fine,” Jimmy insisted back. He wasn’t necessarily mad; how could he be when the overactive furnace that was his soul was currently icing over? He was too cold to be anything but on autopilot.
Even getting back into the boat felt numb - he didn’t remember it in the slightest. The next thing Jimmy remembered was laying on the deck of the boat and staring at the artificial sky high above him. He could vaguely hear the lake around them sloshing about.
It sounded as fake as his breathing felt.