Ch. 7

"What the fuck are you doing, Tom?" He's standing on a log over the creek and I'm concerned. I wasn't following him exactly, but no one should be alone in the woods this close to sunset.

"I'm crossing. What does it look like I'm doing?" Tom puts his arms out to his sides to balance himself partially, and probably partially to piss me off.

I try not to rise to the bait, and instead reply calmly, "There's plenty of wood over here."

"Yeah and there's lots there, too." He points to a few fallen trees that must have come down this winter.

"Whatever." I work to collect up some pine branches, keeping busy and watching him from the corner of my eye. He makes it safely across then proceeds to hack away at the fallen trees. I sit on a picnic table for a minute to take a rest while Tom tosses branches across the creek to my side.

"Don't just watch," he orders. "Pick up the stuff I found and take it back to the tents."

"Fine," I don't want to argue, but he's got me pretty pissed, so I snag the wood and march back to the tents. I debate whether or not to just leave him by himself when my conscience gets the better of me, so I stomp back to where Tom should be.

"Just bloody awesome," I mutter as I move to collect up more branches, Tom not in sight. But when I bend down something, someone, catches my eye.

FUCK

Clinging to a branch, Tom is laying partially submerged in the water, mostly submerged actually. Water from the snowmelt is rushing around him, and his head and arms are really the only part of him not in the creek. I blow my emergency whistle with three sharp blasts as I run to the edge of the water. The creek is deceptively deep and fast moving due to the time of year, and it looks like Tom's not able to keep his feet on the bottom because of the force of the rushing water.

Kneeling along the bank, I reach out and grab his arm. Tom looks at me wildly, panic in his eyes, as his head slips under the water for a second. His hair waves in the water, dark strands in stark comparison to the white landscape. His head breaks the surface again, and it's obvious he's not going to be able to hold on much longer. "Let go of the branch and grab my arm," I order him. Tom doesn't respond.

I need to get him out of the water—it's probably below freezing, but not solid due to the strength of the current. At this rate he's going to die of exposure or drowning. I try to keep a level head, because I need to get him out, even though my heart is racing. Bracing my legs against a tree trunk, I lay my upper body along the branch that Tom's holding. Maneuvering both of my arms under his shoulders I wrap my arms around his back and pull him to the side of the water. I have no idea how I do it, other than sheer willpower because his soaked clothes are making him insanely heavy and I'm not that strong.

"What's wrong?" I can hear Kyle and Kent's boots pounding as they run up to us.

"Tom. He fell in. Hypothermia," is all I manage to say as I struggle to my feet.

Kyle and Kent quickly help Tom get back up the hill to the tents, his breathing ragged and speech slurred. More that not they are carrying him, his feet refusing to work as they should, as I race alongside. Under the tarp that serves as a rain shelter, we sit him at the picnic table while removing his wet clothes. My fingers stumble over his bootlaces working the knots free to remove the sodden leather weights from his feet. His toenails are blue with cold, and fear courses through me. We have to help him, we have to get him warm.

Under his jacket is a thick woollen sweater, soaked through, and a worn grey undershirt. Stripping this from him down to nothing, there's an intricate tattoo of swirls snaking down one arm from his shoulder and his lean body is marked with various scars—nothing unusual for people in our class, some scars are just more visible than others. He's so much smaller than his personality, seemingly so frail, vulnerable. I take my hat off, warm and dry, and place it on his head, careful to cover his ears, and grab my extra hat from the table and put it on myself.

"Kent, gather up his sleeping bag and clothes and put them in my tent," I call. He nods and moves from one tent to the other, a small pile shuffles across.

"This is all you, Justin. You need to get in there with him," Kyle says once we've gotten Tom free from the rest of his clothes. His skin is red and blotchy, and his face is so incredibly pale. I wrap him in my sweater, still warm from my body as I remove the rest of my clothes, the cold air biting into me, even though I am mostly dry. I can only imagine how freezing Tom must be. He looks up at me, his ice-blue eyes, usually cutting, are dull and cloudy, and my heart is breaking.

"I know." Leaving my boxers on, I follow Kyle who is carrying Tom. He deposits Tom on the pile of sleeping bags and spare clothes, and I dive onto them next to him. Kyle backs out and begins to do up the zippers. First the tent, then the fly.

I get Tom into an open sleeping bag and pull another on top, then I light a camping lantern mostly for the heat factor and carefully hang it up in the centre of the tent before burrowing into the bag with Tom, zipping it behind me. My sweater is still wrapped around him, so I pull it off and try to manipulate it so that it is over the front of his body, then I push my bare chest against his frigid back.

This is my undoing, right here, this, right now. His shivering body curled up tight, his cold skin pressed against me, and me wrapped against him, trying to transfer the heat of me, the warmth of my flesh without giving anything away. The intimacy of everything, the proximity. My arms are like a vice keeping him close and as I run my hands up and down his arms, his goosebumps tickle my palms, his sinewy muscles are taut, making my head spin. I feel selfish, but also terrified—this is what I want, who I want, but never how I wanted it to happen.

His breathing is still rapid, shallow, panting and scary. I just want him to be okay. I close my eyes to the harsh light of the lantern and place my chin on his shoulder, my cheek pressed against his, the stubble on his jawbone a reminder of how much of a man he is. This eighteen year old man that captivates me, challenges me, disgusts and intrigues me all at once. I have to be here, I have to make him better, keep him alive, but I know I am in dangerous territory.

"J-J-J-ustin?" it comes out quietly, in fits and starts. He doesn't call me 95, there's no sardonic mocking. He is so vulnerable, almost childlike.

"Yeah, Tom?" I breathe carefully, biting my lip.

"T-T-Thanks," gentle, fragile, heartbreaking.

"You'd do the same for me," I say, not really sure if it's true, but hopeful. I'm just relieved that he's cognizant of who I am. "Just rest and get warm," I urge softly, skin to skin, holding him close.

I can feel his body relax some and that's a comfort to me as I drift off into sleep next to him, surrounding him, coveting him. Adrenaline finally wears off and his scent—slightly musky, slightly citrus, all Tom,—fills my nose. A few times during the night I wake, Tom's breathing even and better, his body warm, our limbs tangled together like lovers in the close quarters of our shared sleeping bag. When I try to wriggle away, just a little, Tom shifts a bit and pulls me tight to his bare chest. I'm sure it's an automatic reflex on his behalf, but it feels so good.

....................

Somehow in the night we have shifted again, and when I wake, it's because Tom is stirring behind me, spooning me. His hands are splayed across my chest and his face is slowly pulling away from my shoulders. I suppose it's only fair since I saw his scars last night that he should see mine now—my back is peppered with them. Little circles. The twenty three reasons why my dad left. The twenty three reasons why he didn't come back. The twenty three reasons why I don't go shirtless, ever.

"What happened?" his voice is gruff and quiet. Sexy. So very sexy.

"You fell in the water," I offer.

"Not that." His hand trails across my back, softly, gliding over the twenty three. I fight to avoid shivering under his touch.

"I was two. I cried. My dad gave me something to cry about." My voice goes cold.

Suddenly I'm too exposed. I flounder with the sleeping bag's zipper, escaping gracelessly, but as quickly as possible. Throwing on whatever clothing I manage to find, I race from the tent and run to the edge of the campsite to catch my breath.