Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m going home.”

Spongebob pokes his head from the kitchen while Danny turns his head from the couch. Their gazes weigh heavy on Timmy, confused and concerned.

“So soon?” Danny frowns, his tone clipped and cautionary. Short, like a line thrown by a particularly unconfident fisherman in a shallow pond. “Did something come up?”

“I know I said I’d be free, but Jimmy’s been busy lately. He said he’d be free tonight, so I was just hoping…”

“Aw Timmy, don’t worry about it!” Cheers Spongebob, who reaches over from the countertop to pinch Timmy’s cheeks. “If it’s for that, we don’t mind!”

Danny nods in agreement, “You’ve been here since two anyways. He reaches over to ruffle Timmy’s hair. “Besides, I was just starting to get sick of you.” 

“You’re getting sick? I already was an hour ago.” Timmy shoves Danny’s hand away from his hair, now all mussed and springy. “Ugh.”

“Let me,” Spongebob reaches a hand over and combs through it, the wetness taming the unruliness out of Timmy’s hair.

He shudders, mostly from the cold of it though and partially from his question of where the water came from. “Thanks Spongey.” Timmy thinks he’s going to ignore that question for now, at least for his own sanity.

Spongebob raises a bag, “You could say thank you by taking these leftovers home.”

“Tell Jimmy we said hello,” Danny, now leaning on the doorway, pauses. He worries his cheek  between his teeth, a pensive expression on his face. “And that we miss him.” 

“Definitely,” Timmy takes the bag of leftovers and raises them in goodbye. “Catch you soon?”

“Catch you soon.”

Timmy smiles, before exiting the house.

The walk home is cold and lonely. 

Timmy is all too familiar with the coldness he feels at his side, the silence that seems to follow him wherever he goes.

The bag of warm food is a poor replacement for Jimmy’s arm looped around his. The weight is all wrong, the crinkling of paper barely replaces conversation. Even if he closes his eyes, Timmy still can’t think of it as Jimmy.

If it was Jimmy, he would have babbled about whatever he planned to do tomorrow. Perhaps he would’ve leaned in and whispered sweet nothings in Timmy’s ear before tilting back, a twinkle in his eye and a tease in a smile. Or it would’ve been nothing at all, just a shared sense of contentment filling in the silence where conversation lay. A decisive consensus to sit back and enjoy , to both feel the snow crunching beneath their feet, the cold biting their faces, the warmth of each other pressed in their sides.

More definitively it would have been neither of these options as well. More accurately, they would have stood a respectable distance apart, more befitting of acquaintances than lovers. It would’ve been silent, at least outside of his head. Within Timmy’s mind, it would’ve been louder than a street in rush hour with how fast his thoughts would’ve raced.

But it’s none of those things. 

The truth stands that it’s only Timmy that walks home alone in the cold tonight. That it was only Timmy that accepted the invitation to the Christmas eve party tonight. That it was only Timmy that was still digging his heels in, trying to anchor something that’s already been lost.

Cold kisses the cheeks of his face, flushing them pink from exposure. The frost cups his face like an invisible lover, caring and cold but all the same anyways.

Timmy remembers a time when Jimmy’s lips did that to him. When they were years younger, all gangly and awkward as teenagers tend to be in the blurred lines of childhood to adulthood. When his fingers used to wrap around his, his arm a steady loop around his, his weight a familiar warmth around his. 

Everything was more than exciting back then.

Back then, all Jimmy had to do was smile for Timmy to have his heart stumbling, trying and failing miserably to put itself back together. The flutter of his heart had been near second nature. The rush of euphoria he felt everyday was a comfortable rhythm he fell headfirst into. 

And fell headfirst he did.

Eventually, that initial spark had faded into something more steady. Less like the excitable erratic bursts of fireworks on a hot July night, more like the comforting warmth of a candle in the evening. Fortunately, Timmy found himself enjoying this development just as much as the first stage. 

He had settled at the hole he dove willingly into. Let himself bury himself to the neck in its liquid warmth. Timmy had reveled in it, curled into its heat and let it penetrate deep through his skin to his heart where it stayed, stubborn and resolute. 

And he let it.

It was not an overnight development, more like the creeping frost as summer bled into autumn then winter. Perhaps it was always on the horizon, always inevitable. Perhaps Timmy had been the fool all along, wishing for summer rain during winter snow. Regardless, Jimmy had turned cold.

And in the hole Timmy had made his home in, his sanctuary became his prison.

Fun fact: Extremely hot things can feel cold and vice versa. Extremely cold things can feel hot. Under extreme cold conditions, both cold and heat sensing cells can trigger at the same time. Since two contradictory signals are being sent to the brain, it confuses the body. As a result, it makes the person feel hot in cold weather.

When Timmy woke one day, he mistook Jimmy’s gradual coldness as love. Love, in the purest form his parents ever gave him: Neglect.

When your hand is under cold water, you may feel hot if your hot-sensing cells send stronger signals to your brain, causing you to think the water is hot. But eventually as your hand stays in the cold water, you will eventually feel that it is in fact cold.

Eventually, Timmy had looked down at himself and finally saw the frostburns around his heart. The way his fingers had turned blue with his grief, stiff and cracking with movement. How his eyelashes had been coated in white frost, blinding his vision.

Jimmy had turned cold and Timmy had been none the wiser.

Sometime in the middle of his thoughts, Timmy’s feet had taken him to their shared home. Though the night is young, there are no lights in the window. Not since Timmy left anyways.

Timmy places one hand on the doorknob of their home, sucks in a cold breath and exhales cool vapor, and prepares to face the frost.

Silence has never been louder. 

Timmy can hear himself  distinctly. The rustle of his coat as he shrugs it off, the stray snowflakes that he dusts off his person, the jingle of his keys as he hangs them next to Jimmy. If you were to look closer, you could see the dust settled on each of Jimmy’s keys.

He reaches over and rubs away the gray powder with his fingers.

Dinner is cold on the table, still in its place where Timmy had left it in the afternoon. The sinks stay drying where he washed them this morning. The blankets where he had folded them last night, the presents unopened though the day is almost over.

All lights are off including the lights on the Christmas tree he decorated alone. No one had bothered to turn it on when the day had faded into night. 

Timmy doesn’t make a move to flick it on. Instead, he packs the dishes on the table into the fridge where they’ll hopefully be eaten another day. He takes out the leftovers Spongebob gave him, and piles them all into one plate. Timmy hopes it’s presentable enough for Jimmy, but he’s a bit too worn out to care.

As he rummages through the drawers for a clean knife and fork, Timmy sees their car’s windshield had frosted over. More so than in the morning, he can’t recall the last time it’s been defrosted since the snow began to fall.

When Timmy had first moved to Retroville, two years after they'd finally gotten their act together and began calling each other “boyfriend”, he had his first winter morning.

Having grown up in California in a town so painfully banal the only weather it ever experienced was lukewarm sunniness and half-hearted rain, Timmy had been horribly inexperienced in all things properly “winter.” 

He never had the pleasure of all things white and powdery. Never had the pleasure of seeing the perfect powder of snow on the roofs of houses, the joy of canceled school days, sleigh rides down the hills, or icicles frozen leaking off trees.

Likewise, Timmy was also ill experienced in the sheer inconvenience of winter. The ice on the roads, the mornings spent layering layer after layer, the snow packed in your driveway-

Horrible, absolutely horrible.

So, when Timmy was asked to “defrost” the car by Jimmy, you could imagine the surprise he felt when he saw the windshield had frozen over. Of course they do that, Timmy understands the science behind it at least. But it was never really a thing that ever occurred to him.

And Jimmy did say “defrost”… So obviously, Timmy’s solution was to take a pot of boiling hot water over the windshield to “defrost” the glass.

And that’s how Timmy spent his first winter morning staring in disbelief at a windshield, with cracks blossoming in spirals like snowflakes right in the center.

When Jimmy had come out, he stood in silence. To Timmy, the quiet had been loaded with an unbelievably heavy tension as he waited for the inevitable harsh pelt of words-

But to his surprise, Jimmy had burst out laughing, A beautiful twinkling little sound, brighter than the way the sun sparkles off the snow, clearer than the melted drops from icicles in the bright afternoon, sweeter than the hot chocolate they shared the night before, warmer than the kiss they had after it.

Timmy was lost in the way the skin crinkled in the corner of Jimmy’s eyes. The wrinkle of his nose as he devolved into snorts, the graceful lift of his hand as he hid his smile, dangerous to the world and especially to Timmy.

Yet still, Timmy’s whole being twitching to lean over and tug his hand away, unleashing the full devastation of Jimmy’s smile to the world. 

“I meant turn on the defrost setting in the car, not literal defrosting Turner.” Jimmy chokes between laughs before he comes to wrap an arm around Timmy. “Don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing to fix it.”

And he did, with some molecular atom binder that could weave broken items back together. Truth be told, Timmy glazed over Jimmy’s initial explanation, only registering some gibberish about cold and hot cell sensors that confuse your brain. Instead, having found himself lost again in the curl of his voice. The way his voice twisted itself over syllables, striding over sentences.

(Moments like those were few and far to come by these days. Timmy’s heart broke all the more with their absence.

Timmy would like to ask if Jimmy could invent a machine, any kind, that could fill the growing pit of dread in his stomach. Help him forget the twitch in his fingers as he longs to hold hands once again. Smooth and buff the sharp corners of his heart where pieces had chipped away. 

A human soul and a windshield were two very different things, but broken was broken and anybody would like both to be made new once again.

But these days, it’s a bit hard to ask anything of Jimmy these days.)

Timmy feels vaguely like an intruder in Jimmy’s lab. The warm magenta of his clothes are a stark contrast against the glow of cold cyan from Jimmy’s machines, robots, technology. 

Once, it felt like a second bedroom for the two of them. But then the work started piling and Timmy had become too much of a distraction and before he knew it, it had been days, weeks, months since he had stepped foot in the room for longer than a few minutes.

Despite practically being Jimmy’s life for the past few months, there are hardly any traces of life beyond the desk. Only a half-hearted cot in the corner with a saggy pillow and ratty blankets.

Jimmy’s hair floats like a halo where it splays itself on his desk, brown stained blue by the light from his computer. The man himself sits at an awkward angle, the office chair dangerously close to letting Jimmy faceplant himself on the floor. Timmy half wonders how Jimmy fell asleep in such an uncomfortable position.

Timmy places his foot behind Jimmy’s chair, to prevent it from rolling back, and reaches forward to touch his mouse. He cages Jimmy underneath his body, Timmy hopes the lack of light will make a more comforting sleep. With careful precision, Timmy skims through Jimmy’s millions of open tabs. Deleting the miscellaneous and saving the important before shutting the computer off, plunging them both into darkness. 

If Jimmy’s form tenses ever so slightly at the loss of light, Timmy pretends not to notice.

Instead, he leans back and scoops Jimmy in a hold after placing the plate of food down. The rough denim of Jimmy’s pants scratch Timmy’s arms where they’ve been tucked underneath his knees. The wavy mess of Jimmy’s hair tickles Timmy’s nose where Jimmy leans into Timmy’s chest.

He walks, Jimmy in his arms, towards the cot. As Timmy begins to set Jimmy down, his breath hitches for a moment. He freezes, thinking Jimmy had woken up but his breathing evens out and Timmy sets Jimmy down to the cot. 

He tries to make Jimmy comfortable as best as he can. Timmy straightens out crooked limbs, massages the knots in his back, fluffs his pillow, tucks him into bed. 

Normally, Jimmy would still be awake at this hour. If anything, Timmy would be the one heading to bed. But things haven’t been very normal lately.

If they were normal, they’d both be brushing their teeth together now after opening presents in the morning together, preparing food for their get-together together, going back to their bedrooms upstairs together.

Instead, Timmy looms over Jimmy in his lab where there’s no room for him to join Jimmy. 

Still, Timmy takes a seat and tucks his legs underneath him. He sidles his face on the edge of the cot, cold metal bars digging in his cheek, but he barely notices it. From this angle, Jimmy looks much more tired than from above when Timmy held him in his arms, his face pressed into his chest. Jimmy’s eyebags are much more pronounced, as if a particularly peevish sprite had decided to draw circles from soot beneath his eyes.

Still, it doesn’t change the way light manages to hit Jimmy from the most devastating angles, highlighting the subtle curvature of his cheek, his thick eyelashes, and his sleek hair. Though it’s been years, Timmy still finds Jimmy gorgeous. More than that really.

Jimmy was never one of the thousands of the same faces you’d find scrolling online. He was the type of beauty you’d find immortalized in museums. Engraved with love to stone. Recreated with care in oil paints. 

A view like this was one Timmy held close to his heart, forever embedded into his deep memory for the rest of his life. 

Quietly, he sits up, reaching a hand towards Jimmy’s face, pausing right before he makes contact. He wonders if he’s still allowed to touch him so gently, so intimately. If any of the quiet moments they’ve had before mattered now, if they ever did. 

They know too much about each other to be strangers. Timmy feels too much vitriol to ever be acquaintances, nevermind friends again. 

And yet, they’re too distant to properly be lovers.

Timmy is suddenly gripped by the desire to shake Jimmy awake, force him back to the land of the living to demand answers. If this is how he expected to end up. If any of their time together mattered now. If he still cared the same way he used to. If this is what they would ever be. Could ever be.

But his heart is louder than his brain. He wants to brush the hair out of Jimmy’s face, so that’s what Timmy does instead.

Timmy used to do this all the time, before they slept and stayed up at night whispering sweet nothings. The motion is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, like muscle memory kicking in after a long absence of motion. 

Timmy’s so nostalgic, he thinks he might just burst into tears. He’s glad that Jimmy’s asleep, because he has no idea what he would do if Jimmy saw him shrinking into himself.

Everyone says that between the two of them, Timmy was always the go getter. The one that never looked behind. The one that kept their feet moving, his eyes forward, and his chin up. Timmy guesses a part of himself believed that too.

But if Timmy were really any of that, he would’ve already picked himself up and left. See, the truth is that Timmy’s heart was always a bleeding one. Soft to the touch, damaged at the slightest provocation, and all too easy to squeeze in the palm of your hand. 

For the past nine years, Jimmy had him in a death grip, firm and unyielding. It was delicate, gentle at first, soft in its touch and careful in its grip.

Then, Jimmy had gone cold and it had frozen over, leaving Timmy gasping for air.

In the past, Timmy wouldn’t have even tried to escape if the option was available to him. He would’ve served his own heart on a silver platter to Jimmy. If asked to jump out a window, it was never a question of “why,” only backwards or forwards.

But now, Timmy wants to be happy.

Happiness used to be wrapped in the man in front of him, embedded in his smiles and tangible in his laughs. The feeling wound itself into the moments where Timmy tucked the strands of Jimmy’s hair, the late night conversations together, their shared excitement of everything and anything. Once upon a time, the idea of happiness and Jimmy were indistinguishable. But now?

 If you had told him just a year ago that they would come to this, Timmy would have laughed in your face. The concept of being apart from Jimmy, after thirteen years of knowing each other, is alien to Timmy.

The man in front of him is more of a stranger than when he first met him, thirteen years ago. 

But still, Timmy craves his warmth, his lips against his skin, his arms around his back, his hair flowing through Timmy’s fingers. Jimmy’s nights and his mornings, his laughs and his smiles, the ups and the downs. Timmy still wants it all. Still wants him. 

But he knows now not to spend time chasing a pipe dream. 

With shaky hands, he lifts Jimmy’s hand to his, pressing his face into his boyfriend’s palm. His fingers are cold, but his palm is familiarly warm. Still, Timmy winds his fingers in the gaps of Jimmy’s hands, his palm placed on top of his as he presses Jimmy’s hand closer to his face.

After a few minutes of silence, Timmy pulls away with hesitation. 

When he was younger, perhaps just a small child, Timmy used to crawl into his parent’s bedroom and then onto their bed where they slept. His room had been big, wide, and far too scary for someone so young. Anytime he got overwhelmed by the lurking darkness, he’d crawl into their room and nestle himself between them.

He kept doing it, pressing himself against their turned backs, desperate for the slightest bit of warmth. At the time, Timmy figured they must have not minded so much, even if his parents never really mentioned it. 

But then they started locking the door, and Timmy found himself alone in his bedroom once again.

And here Timmy is again. Even though he’s taller, stronger, and much more fearless than the small child he once was, Timmy remains painfully the same. 

He lifts Jimmy’s hand up, turning it carefully in his hand before kissing the back of it. The knuckles, the space between his fingers, his joints, the scar on his pinky from an experiment gone south, his blunt nails, the calloused skin of his fingers, everything. Timmy is a thief that steals affection from a man long gone. 

And well, Timmy was not exactly well-known for his foresight.

Sometime in the silence, Jimmy’s breathing had stopped. Timmy abruptly looks up, and finds that he does as well. Now, nothing but the oppressing tick of a clock fills the space between them. The quiet is heavy, a weight on his shoulders that seems to drag Timmy more and more down than ever before.

It’s choking him, filling the room thick with tension you could cut with a knife.

So, he opens his mouth and speaks, hoping to break at least some of it.

“Danny and Spongebob missed you.”

A beat. Silence. Then, something more vulnerable and small crawls out of Timmy’s mouth.

“…I miss you.”

More silence. 

Timmy doesn’t even know why he even bothered.

He rises from his place next to the cot, placing Jimmy’s hand by his side as he watches the man’s breathing even out once again. Turning to Jimmy’s desk, he picks up the plate of food, now cold, and starts for the door.

Before he exits, Timmy meanders by the door, turning his face towards Jimmy. At some point, Jimmy had turned on his side, his back towards Timmy as he breathes more shallow than before. 

Then, Timmy finally leaves, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Timmy eats his dinner alone. He does the dishes alone. He brushes his teeth alone. Then he gets in bed,

Alone.

He can’t sleep. Timmy lies awake staring at the ceiling, watching the minutes creep by the clock on the wall. The ticks are a metronome, steady against his own racing thoughts. His body is tired, but his mind can’t quite settle down.

His full stomach is more of a weight in his body than a drowsy satisfaction. The food was great, but he had hardly tasted it when he sat in the dining room with the lights off. He kind of wishes he never ate in the first place. 

He feels warm and very full, but Timmy can’t quite shake the cold in his chest. 

Timmy turns his head to the other side of the bed, empty and cold. It’s too big for just him. The past late night conversations echoing a bit too loud to sleep.

He won’t be able to sleep, at least not here.

“Let me under the covers, I’m freezing.’’

“From what?”

“The outside?”

“Figured, your feet are freezing.”

“That tends to happen when you go out in the snow.”

“Oh, haha.”

“Oh, haha?” 

“Oh, it’s nothing. I was just thinking.”

“Of?”

“How that all worked.”

“Ooh, another science lesson? I better go get my books. Should I pay you this time?”

“Ugh, you’re such a dork.”

“*You’re* a dork. You wear glasses!”

“That has nothing to do with- Ugh, nevermind.”

“I was being serious though.”

“What?”

“I would like to hear you talk about it.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“No, it’s just nice to hear someone say that. Uhm, let me just-”

“Yeah?”

“Well when you make a hot drink, it’ll gradually cool down as it loses heat. Eventually, it stops cooling down, otherwise it would just reach the impossible temperature of absolute zero.”

“Yeah I hate it when my hot drink cools to the point where it freezes over. Terrible stuff.”

“I’m not done- When two objects or systems have the same temperature, they’re in thermal equilibrium. This means that there will be no net heat transfer between them.”

“No heat transfer?”

“No *net* heat transfer. This means that there is heat transferred, but it’s the amount transferred from system A to B equals to heat transferred from system B to A, so they remain at the same temperatures.” 

“I… kind of get it?”

“Basically, it’s an object cooling or heating up to the temperature of its environment. It’s trying to attain thermal equilibrium. Systems tend to reach equilibrium as a result of the second law of thermodynamics, which states that in a closed system, entropy, a measure of the disorder or randomness of a system, tends to increase overtime.”

“So, my body was reaching thermal equilibrium with the environment outside..?”

“Well, factors like the type of material, surface area, and insulation can affect thermal equilibrium by altering the rate of which heat is transferred… But yes. Personally I like to think of it as your little body trying to heat up the whole universe. Exchange of energy and all that.”

“You find that funny?”

“More like… amusing. You’ll never heat up the whole universe, you’ll freeze before you do. But your body is regardless. Isn’t that nice?”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Haha, I guess Spongebob is rubbing off of me.”

The couch has a few too many lumps for it to be a comfortable bed, but Timmy makes it work.

Well, sort of.

Timmy’s a couple of inches too tall to lie down. His head hits the armrest uncomfortably, his feet dangle off the edge, and he has to curl himself on his side so he doesn't risk slipping off in the middle of the night.

His blanket is an odd shape, too short on either side to properly cover him but too long and thick to stay on his body. The pillow practically has air for stuffing. The fabric of the couch itches at Timmy’s skin.

Still, it’s better than his empty bed upstairs. Here, Timmy can fall asleep. His eyelids weigh heavy on his face as sleep begins to pull him into dark nothingness.

When he wakes up tomorrow, he will pack all his stuff into his car and erase every trace of himself from this house. He will take the photos off of the wall, his figurines from their bookcases, his shoes from by the door, the clothes in the closet and make sure that if anybody walks in, they’ll never know that Timmy had ever lived here.

He’ll paint over the scuffs on the wall where he’d fallen, paint over the stains he’d never been able to get out, the extra key holder by the door, the novelty mugs with his name on it from roadtrips years back, the trashy chick-flicks he kept underneath the console table. Timmy will take it all back and pack the past ten years with Jimmy into a truck where it’ll take him far far away. 

Timmy will meander by the door, the last box of his life with Jimmy in hand, and wait for any sign to come back in. A word, a smile, a look, a glance. Anything to come back and unpack everything in the truck, wave it all off as an excuse to deep clean the house anyways. Drive the truck back to its rental company, say it wasn’t all that needed anyways and resume life as it’s always been, always was.

But there will be nothing. 

Between the two of them, Timmy was always the slower one. Always the one to linger and wait, hesitation dripping from every action. Always the last one to realize that it would never come. Always the fool.

Timmy wonders if Jimmy would think of him with the same amusement as back then. A singular person trying to warm up the whole universe by himself. A singular person trying to hold up a dead relationship by himself.

Or, if he would’ve thought nothing at all. Facing Timmy with the same familiar coldness he had grown accustomed to.

Before he drifts off into sleep, Timmy watches the clock slowly tick from 11:59 pm to 12:00 am. Midnight.

Merry Christmas.

Chapter Text

When Timmy finally leaves, there wasn’t much of a change.

Jimmy doesn’t really know how he feels about that. 

There’s a mess of computer tabs on his screen, half-filled emails he hasn’t written blinking dimly at him, papers he needs to peer-review sitting on his desk. 

All of them: Unfinished, empty, incomplete. 

The whole day, wasted on nothing. The whole day, static. The whole day, drowned in the sea of Jimmy’s head. 

He’s in the middle of something when the thought that he had forgotten something strikes him. 

Jimmy should’ve known. He had a feeling that something was missing, a presence that had nagged and tugged at him like a dog on a leash. If he were someone more present, he would’ve listened. But when Jimmy’s head is filled with water, when his brain processes the world through a blurry lens, when the blank of his mind crosses out the rest of reality, it’s much easier to let it fade into nothing.

If white noise was a feeling, this would be it.

Logically, he knows he should be more distraught over this. Logically, he knows that what he is feeling right now is incorrect. Logically, he knows that he should feel annoyed, angry, or abandoned at Timmy’s retreat. 

But Jimmy reckons that if he were logical about this, he would not be in this situation in the first place. 

Being surprised at Timmy’s leave is like being caught off guard by rain when the clouds are dark in the sky. 

When the sun shines, the Earth gets warm. When the winter comes, the leaves fall from the trees. When Jimmy is like this -

Well, people have a normal, natural, and reasonable reaction. 

What was their normal?

Jimmy tries to remember it, but he comes up with- Well, he can’t exactly call it nothing . It’s in the same way you could picture Jimmy say, play basketball . Sure, you can picture it: Jimmy on the basketball court, him dribbling the ball with his hands, the sweat beading down his forehead- But would he actually? 

When you apply the weight of reality to the idea- Does it hold? 

No , it crumples, bends, breaks into a whole shattering of nothing. That’s what Jimmy means. Him and Timmy were together for years, yet he almost can’t remember any of it. He can think it, imagine it, believe it- 

But he can’t remember it.

His head throbs with pain, light with air and noisy with static. Remembering their relationship is like trying to pull a sleeve out from the bottom of a pile of clothes. 

If he tries to dig it up, everything will go spilling across his floor. If he tries to dig it up, there’s no telling what else will come up with it. If he tries to dig it up, Jimmy doesn’t think there’ll be enough of himself to put it back together.

Against some better sense of Jimmy, he looks at the dim of his lab, the light of his monitor, the gray of his keyboard. He thinks about the body that used to be right next to him, the emptiness he left behind. He thinks about the warm smiles that turned strained and thin. He thinks about the bolstering laughs that turned into quiet sighs.

And Jimmy thinks about when he went wrong.

In childhood, children smash windows with a baseball. 

In adulthood, adults break the glass of your car windshield.

…But with hot water? You can tell Timmy didn’t grow up in snow.

Between him and Timmy, Jimmy’s not the one with the driver’s license (shocking, he knows. But surprise surprise, when you build your own vehicles you don’t exactly need the government’s permission to drive them.) 

At the very least though, Jimmy is aware that you have to check your defrosters at some point in the driving test, right? 

Right..?

So, you could imagine his surprise when he walks into the chilling bite of the morning air, wondering where the hell the kettle went, and sees the car windshield- Splintered with jagged cracks that spiral outwards from the center. Timmy’s face is cracked too, someplace between fear and surprise, disbelief and resignation. His wide eyes are as crystal as the icicles hanging from the overhead of their house, his skin pink and rosy from the cold or embarrassment. Maybe both.

Timmy’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. Jimmy watches the swell of his throat, quivering in the tan of Timmy’s skin, warm against the cold blues of the winter world. The kettle is clenched in Timmy’s hands, a bright, metallic red. There’s a press in Timmy’s lips, his face hardening into some rigid expression that feels as off as the sun being dark. It tightens the loose smiles of his mouth, sharpens the glimmer in his eye from a cheery twinkle to a sharp flash, draws lines in his face that give Timmy a solemn sort of look that just very simply does *not* fit right. 

(But between the expression on Timmy’s face and the spiraled, cracked windscreen, it’s nothing but cute to Jimmy.)

“Turner,” Jimmy gasps, his voice blurry from laughter. “You turn on the defroster.”

“Really?” Timmy cocks his head. “That… Makes a lot of sense! Crazy how there’s a defroster for defrosting-”

“Crazy,” Jimmy remarks drily. “Don’t worry Turner, I’ve got just the thing to fix it.”

He goes back inside for his atom-fuser. Jimmy remembers the heat of it when it charged up, the weight of it in his hand, the click of the trigger when he pulled it. He remembers the satisfaction that curled in him when he saw the cracks of the glass weave themselves together, the relief on Timmy’s face.

But more importantly, he especially remembers the reward after: A kiss planted on his cheek.

(Moments like these are endemic, endangered, extinct. If they had a habitat, then it’s long been gone, wiped away by Jimmy’s artificial, man-made hands. Gone just as much as his heart has shrunken, a home for love long gone. In him, moments like these cannot exist like grass in the frost, fish on land, a bird underground.

If Jimmy could invent something that could bring the dead back to life, the past to the future, he would. A machine that could bring color from where it’s been bleached from Jimmy’s soul. Patch the holes and cracks from where his heart leaks out all the love it ever had in his short stint on Earth-

But these days, he lacks the energy to do even that.)

It wasn’t sudden, that’s for sure. The distance, the coldness, their dissolution. It wasn’t sudden, that Jimmy can say.

What was their normal? Jimmy can’t remember. He wonders if he’s truly forgotten or if he’s buried it somewhere deep in the recesses of himself. The corners that his mind cannot and will not ever reach. He wonders which option is worse. Forgetting or burying. Either way, he’s abandoned it. 

The change wasn’t as harsh as the flick of a lightswitch between dark and light. It wasn’t as stark as the contrast between black and white. There was no clear distinction to it really, just a gradual bleed until you look back and realize how much of it had changed.

It starts with a late night working instead of sleeping next to him. Maybe once every few months, then once a month, once every week, every day. A cot in the corner instead of a mattress upstairs. A ratty pillow instead of warm arms. A thin blanket instead of a thick comforter. Nothing instead of him. Maybe the next night. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Sorry.

Then, it’s dinner in front of a screen and keyboard instead of across from him. Just this night- Okay maybe the next night. Actually, all week, sorry about that. He promises he’ll make up for it. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Brunch, coffee, late night gas station runs. Today, tomorrow, next week, next month, maybe never. Sorry.

Then no dinner at all, Jimmy’s got work to do. Put it next to him, he’ll get to it. Or actually, on the table, he’ll come up soon, promise. Put it in the fridge, he’ll get to it in a few hours. Tomorrow for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or nothing at all. He’s wasteful, eat it yourself, he’s not hungry, he has work. Don’t cook for him, it's hard to be hungry when you’ve got work. He’s busy, don’t bother him. Maybe tomorrow, maybe never. Sorry.

Then, it’s nothing at all.

One more bite, one more lick, just another taste- Success is sweet and satisfaction is sweeter. Work is his dinner and his sleep. It is his days and it is his nights. It is the air he inhales and the carbon dioxide he exhales out. It is the evaporation and the condensation. It is Jimmy Neutron. It is all he can do.

Little by little, step by step. Change doesn’t happen fast. It creeps up on you, a predator stalking its prey. It follows you, when you eat, when you sleep. To your dreams, the watering hole, your breaths, your blinks, everywhere. It can taste him on its teeth and knows the way his flesh pulls from his bones. It knows the final breath he will take, his last look at the world before it cuts to black-

When do you realize you’ve bitten off more than you can chew?

When do you realize you’ve reached the point of no return?

When do you realize there’s something changed between the two of you?

And when did it happen?

Maybe there is no predator. Maybe there is no prey. Maybe Jimmy is his own predator. Maybe Jimmy is his own prey. But only one thing is certain for sure, Jimmy really did this all to himself. Jimmy is his own hunter and his own target and he is closing into himself.

When do you realize despite it all: the work, the time, the effort, the sacrifice, the time, the agony, the sweetness, the bitter, the cold, the hot, the warm, the cool, the loss of them -

It’s not enough.

Vaguely, it feels like he’s forgetting something. But for days like these (which seems to be all of them), it’s not an unfamiliar feeling. 

Nowadays, it feels as if there’s something hollow following him. Jimmy knows that it’s just a feeling, just the crawling of his spine, just the hair raising on his neck. But Jimmy swears that its presence, no matter how intangible the feeling is, is physical on Jimmy’s body.  It weighs on him in the slouch of his shoulders, bruises him in the bags under his eyes, touches him in the pallor of his skin.

But it didn’t just end there.

It’s made itself in every faucet of Jimmy’s lab. The emptiness follows him to the cold of his lab, the silence that’s disturbed by the clicking of his keyboard. It’s in the food that Jimmy eats, the blandness of his flavor. He can’t taste. It’s in his vision, the grays and blues of the world. Every other color has been chased out, he thinks he must’ve done it to himself. 

And what right does he have to complain? Or feel stressed or miserable about any of this? Jimmy needs work and work needs Jimmy. 

Something crystallized in Jimmy begins to melt at the thought, but it freezes over when he remembers:

He wanted this, after all. 

Jimmy shakes his head, but the feeling that something is missing still weighs heavy on his mind. Maybe it was an email he forgot to send, a paper he forgot to review, something on his to-do list that he accidentally crossed out. He checks his notes, nothing. He checks his inbox, nothing. He checks the calendar-

Oh.

Oh.

December 25th. Christmas.

With a stark feeling of shame, he returns back to the computer.

(“Happy new year Turner.”

“Happy new year Neutron.”

Fireworks bloom in the sky. Red, green, yellow, blue, all bright against the dark backdrop of the night. Like a phoenix spreading its wings, rising further and further up, its tail trailing light behind till wings unfurls in a show of dazzle and glamour. In the silence of their rooftop, the explosions sound like the crack of a whip, the blow of a bomb, the fizzle of a whistle. 

Their sides are pressed flush against each other, warm in the cold night air. Jimmy’s foot is entangled with Timmy’s, their knees bumping against one another. An arm is wrapped around his waist as he’s pulled into the crook of Timmy’s shoulder, colorful light flashing over their faces.

Still, they can’t see each other in the dark.

“We should make a wish.” 

“People don’t usually do that for fireworks.”

“People don’t?” 

“Shooting stars, coins in fountains, candles-” 

“Candles?”

“Over birthdays.”

“Oh yeah- But not fireworks? Actually?”

“Actually. You know, you’re sort of talking to a wish expert over here-”

“Haha I’m sure you are, very funny- Oh wait. You are.”

“Yeah. I am. I’ve got credentials. PhD, MD, uh… BBQ, TTYL-”

“Those last two aren’t credentials, those are acronyms.”

“Whatever-” Timmy frowns as the fireworks fade from the sky. “Hey, why’d it stop?”

“They usually pause for a few minutes to set up a big, final firework- Just watch.”

…

“So, did you make a wish?”

“I thought fireworks weren’t wish-worthy.”

“Well, uh- Not anymore.”

“You can decide that?”

“Wish-expert over here, I have the final say on everything.”

“Sure you do.”

“Glad you agree. So, did you?”

“Did I?”

“C’mon.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Didn’t wish because it was a firework.”

“Oh.”

“There’s next year- Or I can make a firework right now!”

“Jimmy-”

“I can go down to my lab and-”

“Haha, don’t worry about it. I’m not disappointed.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So uh- Did… *you* wish?”

“Don’t need to.”

“There’s nothing you want?”

Fireworks bloom behind Timmy, light outlines the edges of his person but his face is nestled in shadows. Something warm reaches out to touch Jimmy’s face, Timmy’s hands- He knows by the brush of his thumb by his jaw, the soft skin on the pads of his fingertip, the warmth of his palms on his face. Gently, carefully, reverently, he tilts Jimmy’s chin upwards. His neck strains, his hands land somewhere around Timmy as he’s pulled in, palms sliding against the rough clay of their roof.

Timmy leans in, close- But not close enough. Their foreheads are pressed together, breaths hot on each other’s skin, almost burning against the night’s chill. Timmy’s eyes are almost indigo in the dark, purple in the blazing red of the firework’s light. Light scatters across his features, painting him blue, yellow, green, orange, red, the whole rainbow. Even in the pitch black, Timmy’s gaze is penetrating. Jimmy feels its heat on his skin, like a flashlight burning straight into his eyes. 

Then, a press to his lips. A tickle, it’s barely a touch. Yet, it burns every atom in Jimmy’s being. If Jimmy could get this feeling tattooed, he would. 

Timmy pulls away, presses his forehead against Jimmy’s, looking at him with those warm, warm eyes.

“I already got my wish.”)

When he first hears the click of the front door, the rustling of somebody in the kitchen, footsteps making their way down towards Jimmy’s lab- His first reaction isn’t to get up and apologize to Timmy. His instinct does not tell him to take Timmy in and hold him by the hand, the jaw, the heart. His mouth doesn’t say sorry, for forgetting Christmas, for the promises that went nowhere, for the coldness he had brought everywhere with him . 

No, his first reaction is to look for somewhere to hide, but there’s nowhere. Nothing but a shoddy cot in the corner of the room, the shelves spilling with machinery, the keyboard in front of him.

Step. From above.  

Jimmy gulps.

Step. Preceded by the swing of a door.

The cold air feels so much hotter, heavier.

Step. Descending. Coming closer. The same level as Jimmy.

Rustling. Right at the door that connects the neck of the stairway into the belly of Jimmy’s lab.The source? The man who is mired in Jimmy’s misery, drowning in the depths of Jimmy’s dissatisfaction, drenched in the dark of Jimmy’s disappointment, 

Timmy.

Before he enters, Jimmy ducks into the safety of his crossed arms, his head nestled on them like a pillow. Childishly, Jimmy shuts his eyes, hiding behind the darkness of his eyelids. In a minute, he’ll wake up and go back to bed upstairs. In an hour, he’ll be sound asleep underneath the covers. In another world, this is all a very bad dream.

To an outsider it could have looked like Jimmy was sleeping slumped over on his desk. To an outsider, it could have seemed like another late night behind a screen. To an outsider, it could have been an accident, a blip in routine, a mistake.

To Timmy? 

(Is Timmy an outsider?)

Well, Jimmy isn’t sure.

Maybe, if Jimmy looks like he’s sleeping, Timmy will turn back the way he came.

Maybe, if Jimmy keeps himself so still, Timmy won’t even notice him.

And maybe, if Jimmy can’t see Timmy, then Timmy won’t see him.

But Timmy does because of course he does. 

Something warm moves above Jimmy, partially blocking the light from his computer. Rustling sounds behind Jimmy, a nudge at the base of his chair, something settling to the right of Jimmy. Several clicks of a mouse, the plastic bottom rubbing against the mousepad on Jimmy’s desk. From behind Jimmy’s eyelids, the world gets darker. His monitor must have been turned off. 

(An exhale. Soft, quiet, barely there. 

Timmy.)

Jimmy tenses like a rope stretched taut. It’s dark, Jimmy assures himself. He won’t notice it.

Then, Timmy pulls back- Or at least Jimmy assumes he pulls back. The heat that had caged him from on top has left, but has not completely disappeared. Jimmy can still feel Timmy’s presence behind him, sticky like tar, staining like ink.

Hands, warm and sturdy, scoop him from his chair, bracing themselves underneath his knees. The mess of his hair, wavy and loose (he hadn’t the time to style it properly), brushes against the underside of Timmy’s jaw. Jimmy feels the quiet thumping of Timmy’s heart on the side of his head, leaned against Timmy’s chest. Quiet yet fast, impactful yet fleeting. Each beat is a reminder of the life thumping through Timmy’s veins, lively and bright and bold and nothing like Jimmy.

Desperately, Jimmy wants to stay this way, tucked in Timmy’s arms in the blanket of the night. Just for this moment, an hour, the whole day, forever maybe. 

And maybe that’s the reason why his breath freezes when Timmy begins to set him down on the cot.

With Jimmy’s freeze, Timmy tenses with his whole body, his grip holds a little more tighter against the soft of Jimmy’s skin. His back standing just a little more straighter against Jimmy’s weight, his breath holding just a little too long. In a silent panic, Jimmy resumes his breathing, smoothing the air out like wrinkles on bedsheets. That seems to soothe Timmy enough where he places Jimmy back down onto the bed.

There, Jimmy thinks. Now he’ll leave.

But Timmy doesn’t because of course he doesn’t.

No , he straightens Jimmy out, makes him comfortable. No , he carefully lifts Jimmy’s head, settling it down on a fluffed pillow. No , he’s careful about the way Jimmy’s hair falls on his face, brushing the strands so they’re out of his eyes. 

What is he doing? Some part of Jimmy thinks desperately. He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. What is Timmy doing? Stop it. Stop that.

Yet, it takes every bit of Jimmy’s willpower not to lean into the touch.

Timmy pulls away (much to Jimmy’s disappointment), but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he takes a seat next to Jimmy’s cot and does nothing, says nothing, and if it weren’t for the quiet sound of his breathing, would seemed like nothing. From the prickle of his skin, Timmy must be staring at Jimmy. Sharply, strangely, sorrowingly. He can see it in his mind, the downturn corners of his lips, the disappointed glaze of his eyes, the quiver of his fingers as he pulls away from Jimmy. In a way, if Jimmy had really wanted to, he could wipe the expression off of Timmy’s face. Replace it with something new, maybe not better, but something different. 

It would be as easy as opening his eyes, but Jimmy doesn’t.

It would be as easy as saying Timmy’s name. Five letters, two syllables, one second, but Jimmy doesn’t.

It would be as easy as a touch, a look, a breath. One moment that lasts for a second, less than that. An action that takes nothing from Jimmy and gives everything to Timmy-

But Jimmy doesn’t.

Something, Timmy’s hand, reaches close to Jimmy’s face, sending the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight. He draws close, Timmy’s palm fraction of a centimeter away from his cheek, but then it stills, held still by hesitance, recoiling with reluctance. Jimmy almosts sighs, letting the weight of the world sink away from his body with an exhale as he leans into Timmy’s hold-

Almost.

There isn’t a word for the tension that tightly coils in the space between Timmy and Jimmy, the feeling that’s tangible between them. In fact, there isn’t a word for Timmy and Jimmy’s moment together. They are not sitting together, they are just next to each other. They are not living together, they are just existing in the same space in the most neutral sense of the word.

It is like they are separated by a wall that is as thin as the space between Timmy’s hand and Jimmy’s face, as tall as the desperation rising like a flood within both of them. Their distance is fluid yet static, fragile yet unbreakable, minute yet immeasurable. It clings to them like a second skin, a mask pulled over their faces until it feels like their own, a distortion that clouds their vision until it feels natural.  

The tension is so suffocating, Timmy’s presence is so overbearing, the weight of it all is so heavy, Jimmy can’t even take a breath.

(He won't notice, right?)

Timmy’s voice breaks the silence, slow and hesitant, thin and waning, curling up in itself.

“Danny and Spongebob missed you.”

Don’t. 

(Silence.)

Please don’t. 

(As if waiting for a response.)

Please-

(It never comes.)

“...I miss you.”

What is there to miss, honestly? The sweet nothings cherry picked from rosy tinted memories of halcyon days? The cold bitterness that is their current, dilapidated state? Timmy’s declaration is an affirmation of what is still somehow there, a call for what isn’t.

Timmy’s words burn worse than fire, cuts sharper than a knife, like a wound underneath a wound. Something about the way Timmy says it, breathes it, means it sticks onto Jimmy’s skin, inked deep and jagged like a grotesque brand. Timmy’s words are open and raw, gashed open and bleeding with vulnerability. A mouth pleading for a response, a laceration dripping red down a limb- Jimmy’s answer could be its bandage or antiseptic, its salt or infection-

But it is nothing but silence.

Blood clubs until the scab turns into scars, the worst blows over, it all fades into nothing but a throbbing pain in the background. Jimmy’s hands are clumsy and his words even clumsy. He’s more likely to tie a tourniquet than to bandage the bleeding. More likely to make mattters worser than better- so what does he do?

Nothing: This is the best he can do for them. There’s a lot of things you shouldn’t do and one of them is anchoring yourself to a sinking ship. You should have listened when they told you to not put all your eggs in one basket.

Rustling breaks the quiet as Timmy rises from Jimmy’s side, punctuated by the soft click of the door as it closes, gone.

After a few moments, Jimmy rises. Listless, lethargic, lost. The breath he takes is shallow and thin, he feels light-headed from holding his breath for too long. Timmy’s presence is still thick in the room, charged and tense like electricity waiting for a target to shock. 

When it hits Jimmy, his eyes blow wide open. A hand cups over his mouth like something threatens to spill from it. From between his fingers it leaks out- Hoarse and animalistic. Wavering and intense. Something in between a scream and a sob, a gasp and a choke.

On the cot, Jimmy shivers.

He has never felt so cold.

It is reasonable that you can look at yourself and know that despite everything, you are a person that is just as flawed and capable of change as everybody else. You are a person with as many faults as the someone next to you. You are a person who is deserving of forgiveness as the man down the street, the woman in the window, the person driving by.

However, it is troubling when you make that realization and realize that changes very little about how you think of yourself. Then, that’s when you start realizing that perhaps nothing can really change that fact. Or at least, that’s what it was for Jimmy. 

When you break Jimmy down for what he is, down from the shield of his skin, the wall of his disposition, the shell of his nucleus, his atoms, his elements. What is he, really?

Jimmy will always be this way. It’s scientific theory: Widely tested and repeatedly proven. When pushed to his limit, Jimmy only degrades. When asked to be better, Jimmy doesn’t. When given the chance, Jimmy does not change. 

Every reaction has its equal and opposite reaction. Jimmy recedes and Timmy pulls in closer. Jimmy distances and Timmy comes closer. Jimmy is silent and Timmy asks questions.

Sometimes, Jimmy wishes competence equalled confidence, because if it did he would not feel like this, be like this-

But in a way, he’s glad the two don’t correlate because if it did and he was still the same-

Jimmy doesn’t know what he’d do with himself.

Living is a muscle and he’s let it atrophy. Living is a rainforest and he’s slashed and burned it. Living is a reservoir and he’s drained it dry.

He can still taste youth fading on his tongue, it is fading. Washed out by the sun, eroded by the waves,  becoming more and more watered down by the day. It is washing away with the tick of time, the grains of sand that are seconds, the gust of winds that seems to steal years away from him. 

Possibility. He is forgetting it.

Energy. He does not remember it.

Identity. He has lost it. 

All of it, he misses it.

These days, Jimmy thinks he’s going to swallow everything in his path, chew it up and spit it right back out.

When life is lived deadline to deadline, paper to paper, task to task- Sacrifices must be made, fat must be trimmed down, everything but the bare minimum must be cut down to its bare bones. Small joys, hobbies, hangouts, favorite shows, movies, music, Goddard, cleaning, eating, drinking, holidays, anniversaries, friends, families-

Himself.

Timmy.

Jimmy has done well to hide all the terrible parts of himself, but that does not change the fact that they are still there.

He has put his everything into his work, sacrificed and burnt every scrap of fuel he had to continue his projects. Now, Jimmy knows he has nothing left. All of it, crushed between the weight of his ego, the collar of accomplishment, his own unflinching hand.

(Don’t you know, the higher you climb, the harder the drop is?)

If satisfaction had a flavor, then Jimmy can’t taste anymore-

But he’s still has the craving.

( Did you know that the world is a basket?

You tell me everything has a purpose on Earth. The sun brings us energy through light that lets the plants grow. The herbivores eat the plants and then the carnivore eats the herbivore. Energy passes from the sun to the plant to the animal to the human. Up and up and up the food chain, triangle, web, pyramid, whatever you nerds call it- God so many names for the same things, what’s up with that? 

The Earth works in cycles. Nitrogen and phosphorus. Carbon and water. Life and death. Decay and growth. What goes around comes around. What once was the air was once the water. What once was me was once you. 

That’s true, but I don’t think it’s everything. Like- Like- Don’t worry man, I believe in science. Don’t look at me like that, I’m literally dating a scientist. Y’know? The scientist that *is* you? Trust me! The Earth is not flat. Climate change is a thing! Aliens aren’t real- Wait aliens are real. I’m off topic.

But that is just the Earth, I am talking about the world. The Earth is a rock in the middle of nothing that we live on, but the world?

Did you know that the world is a basket?

Baskets are meant to be filled and the world is a basket with an endless bottom. No matter what you put in there, there will always be space for the next thing after it. The world is a basket that can fit everything and anything and anyone. 

It was meant to be filled. It doesn’t matter with what, it doesn’t matter with who, it doesn’t even matter why. As long as something exists in the world, there is space for it. There is a place for it. 

As long as you exist in this world, you have the right to live in it. 

You’re always looking for an answer in things, that’s your job. But I think sometimes you have to accept that no answer is an answer in itself. Sometimes there is no reason. Sometimes the reason is just want. Sometimes just wanting is good enough. 

Did you know that the world is what we make of it? That our existence is ours to take into our hands? That destiny and fate are as malleable as clay, shaped into our own desires? 

Did you know some truths of the world are just man-made? Social constructs that can be dismantled and reassembled. Expectations and paths that can bend and twist with the slightest provocation?

Did you know that the world is a basket? The world is a basket that fits everything, graces all into its lining. There will always be space in it for people like me and people like you.

Did you know that the world is a basket?

When Timmy leaves, there was a change. It just took longer for the feeling to settle in- But it can pass Jimmy by, he doesn’t care.

(Think about it. Timmy’s shoes gone from the door, cluttered and disorganized because “ what’s-the-point-I’ll-wear-them-in-an-hour .” Timmy’s keys gone front he bowl sitting at the coffee table, tangled with Jimmy’s, his keychains bright and bold against the silver sleek of the metals. Timmy’s coat coat gone from the hangers at the front, pink and run ragged with wear and wash.)

He doesn’t care.

(Think about it. Timmy’s clothes gone from their closet, gaudy print tees and obnoxious stripings of pinks, yellows, and greens. Timmy’s doodles gone from pads of sticky notes, grocery store lists, receipts, branded in blues and immortalized in ink. Timmy’s figurines and comic books gone from the shelves, the tables, the drawers, bright against black wood, thin paper and colorful illustrations against thick dictionaries and dull textbooks.

He doesn’t care.

(Think about it. Timmy’s presence gone from his side of the bed, the imprint of his body outline in soft cotton and thin linen. Timmy’s warmth gone from Jimmy’s side, hot and burning, fire underneath his flesh. Timmy’s sweet nothings gone from the pillows, cloying and sugary and all the things Jimmy so desperately wants to hear again.)

Jimmy sits at the dining table, a cold plate of food next to him. He picks at it and feels nauseous like he’ll throw up if he takes one bite. It’s good cooking, of course it is because it’s Timmy’s cooking.

Suddenly, he covers his mouth like someone will hear, but it’s only just him and Timmy in the house and-

Oh god.

Timmy.

Jimmy figures he’s the worst type of person there is. He is the type that knows exactly how he is and does nothing to change it. 

(Not that he could, he doubts there’s any chance of reversing the damage done.)

“Jimmy?” A voice that makes Jimmy freeze.

“Jimmy,” Timmy calls out again. “Look at me?”

He slowly turns around, sees the man in question standing at the doorway between the living and dining room. Timmy’s hair is still mussed from sleep, bleariness rimming his eyes.

“I thought I was going to have to say please,” Timmy jokes. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says a little breathlessly. He tries to stand but his legs sink him downwards onto the floor.

Timmy takes a few steps forward until he’s standing in front of him, Jimmy staring wide eyed up at him. Then he kneels down, face-to-face with Jimmy.

“I’m sorry,” Jimmy says.

Timmy blinks, an unreadable look settling over his eyes. He smiles, but just barely enough to be considered one. The corners of his mouth lift minimally, but it doesn’t waver. Still, he doesn’t answer.

He reaches forward and takes Jimmy’s face into his hands, Timmy’s thumb brushing the apple of Jimmy’s cheek.

Jimmy closes his eyes. By his side, Timmy’s warmth is perhaps the closest thing he’ll get to salvation.