Jim hates Josh a little sometimes. Like when he makes fun of Michael. Or puts down state schools as substandard. Or makes Jim sit down because otherwise he's too tall to reach.

But Jim lets these things slide. Because Michael can be ridiculous. And because Jim's education wasn't anything to brag about. And because when Josh's voice is low in his ear, his hands creeping under the hem of Josh's shirt, Jim can forget.

It doesn't keep him from hating himself a little, though.

He tried other things. He mastered every video game he owns, playing against the computer since Mark wasn't here. He saw every new movie he could stand to buy a ticket for. Books and music didn't work; he always drifted into his own head. So when Josh invited him to a sailing club party, he accepted, figuring he could drown himself if it came to that.

*     *     *     *     *

He's early, and his car feels conspicuous. He should have parked around the block, but instead he pulled in and now there's a valet walking toward him. The guy glances at his antenna - not the kind that retracts into the frame - then calls him Sir. Jim hands over his keys, takes the ticket and finds the bar.

He's had two, maybe three, whiskies when Josh finds him. "Come meet the crew." Or maybe he said The Crew. Jim downs the rest of his drink and checks his balance before following. He hopes one of The Crew has a peg leg.

They seem nice enough. They smile at him, although few mean it. The men have insignia on their ties that he doesn't recognize. The women all have good skin. Several times, he catches their eyes rebounding from his belt, then narrowing at Josh, appraising, envious. One stands too close, and rubs the back of a red nail on his wrist as she laughs. He looks at the guy he thinks is her husband, but he just looks relieved. Jim makes his excuses and goes outside.

None of the boats bob. They're too fucking big. They aren't even boats any more, they've bloated into yachts. Honest-to-God yachts, the first he's seen this close. A few have wood trim, but most are white and chrome and white some more. He wants to pee on one of them, just to give it some color.

"Hey."

He looks down to see Josh's ringed pinky on the rail beside his bare one. He takes a breath and tries to hide the bitter. "Hey."

"Little stuffy inside, huh?"

Jim isn't sure which way he means it, so he watches the water.

"Nice night. Calm. Good moon."

"Mm."

Josh looks up at him and tilts his head. "C'mon. I'll show you the boat."

They walk down the boardwalk and the yachts shrink a bit as they go. He suspects that at the very end, they may become boats again, but they only walk halfway. Josh turns down one of the small piers and stops at what Jim now understands to be a modest yacht. White and chrome. The name on the stern is Dunderhead. Jim chuckles at that and relaxes a little.

"Wanna take her out? It's a good night for it."

What the hell. "Sure."

Josh shows him inside and turns a light on. It glows on the wood interior. "The bar's over there. Why don't you fix a couple while I get her ready?"

Jim walks to the bar - it actually has a brass rail - and roots around until he finds two tumblers. He pulls the tiny ice cube tray from the freezer and flexes it. The cubes clink against glass in a way that's becoming comfortable. He pours the scotch. He takes a sip, like hot caramel in his throat, and feels a low rumble under his feet, then a nearly imperceptible shift.

He finds Josh at the throttle and puts his drink on the dash there.

"Thanks. We'll just take her out into the bay a bit. Get away from the city. Ever been on a boat?"

"A small sailboat once. Really small. I worked the jib."

"Sounds cool. Did you race?"

"Nah, just messed around. Got pretty wet. Buddy of mine was restoring it for some rich guy." He clears his throat when he realizes what he's said, but Josh laughs.

"I've been there."

Jim doubts that and takes another sip. They move slowly through the inner lanes of the harbor, then out into relatively open water. It's darker here and Jim can feel waves under them now. He bends his knees to accommodate them. When no lights clear the periphery, Josh cuts the engine. He picks up his drink and motions Jim to follow.

Josh leads him to the bow. The metal railing comes to a sharp point there and when Jim puts his drink on it, the sound makes him slip a finger under the tumbler. Josh's elbow rests against his. They lean and sip and consider the water that laps under them.

After one drink (the fourth, really), Jim's stomach feels warm. Josh points out constellations.

After two drinks (five), something in his chest releases its grip. He stares at Josh's thumb as it taps the rail.

Sometime during the third (sixth), he hears glass breaking near his feet. The rail is pushing into his back and Josh into his front, and somehow, he's still tasting scotch. Warm hands, larger than usual, find their way under his shirt, over his nipples, and a hot, lead weight settles in his belly. Josh's chin is rough on his neck, his shoulders solid. Jim slides his hands down to Josh's waist then his hips. Jim's dick is straining against his dress pants and his hands find Josh's ass, pulling him hard against himself, grinding. Josh moans and begins fumbling with Jim's belt, his fly, then slides his hand down the hair at Jim's navel and grips him. Jim lowers his head and groans. Josh's head rests against his chest and his hand is stroking Jim from balls to tip, and Jim has to hold the railing.

When he's long and heavy, Josh says, "Goddamn," and kneels. He pushes Jim's clothing out of the way impatiently and stares for a moment. Then he closes he eyes, leans in, and presses his tongue to the base of Jim's dick, and slides it up slowly, until Jim groans. He spreads his feet as far as his pants will allow, afraid his knees might give otherwise. When Josh closes his mouth over the head, they do a little. His tongue is hot and firm, circling then sucking, his hand gripping Jim's cock and pulling up. His other hand comes up to hold Jim's sac, a thumb kneading his balls.

"Shit." Jim grits his teeth.

Josh stops long enough to say, "Come."

Then his mouth is moving up and down, sucking hard, and his hands are gripping, squeezing, sliding, and Jim gasps, "Oh fuck-"

"Come."

He tries to hold out longer, just get lost in the wet fucking heat of it, but he can't and manages a strangled, "Unhhh," as he comes hard into Josh's mouth. Josh sucks him off until he finishes pumping, then sits back on his heels, resting his hands on Jim's thighs. He rubs them up and down, feeling the muscles there twitch. He squeezes them, then reaches for his drink - the unbroken one - and stands. Jim pulls everything up, zips, tucks, looks at the glass scattered on the deck.

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be." Josh hands him his own drink. He barely feels the liquid go down, so he hands it back. "Head back?"

Jim nods. "Yeah, I think so."

He stays at the bow, watching the city come closer, the lights making the water appear less dark than he knows it is. When they reach the slip, he doesn't wait, but steps silently off the stern and walks until the ground under him feels familiar again.