The Current

The air hung thick and yellow over the Red River, the kind of summer afternoon where the heat clung to skin like a damp sheet. Frankie scraped a loose, half-rotten chunk of timber with the toe of his worn canvas trainer, watching it splinter into grey dust. He was crouched by the broken fence, the one that used to keep people out of the abandoned boatyard. Now, it just sagged, a skeletal grin of splintered wood and rusted wire.

The river churned sluggishly below, a muddy, indifferent expanse reflecting the bruised sky. He hadn’t meant to come this far down, past the main path where the joggers and dog-walkers went, but Jared had said 'somewhere quiet' and his own feet just kept moving. A low, rhythmic thumping, deep in the earth, vibrated up through his soles. Not a heartbeat, but something mechanical, far off, like the city breathing. It was too regular to be natural, too insistent. Frankie pressed his palm to the parched, cracked earth, trying to discern its source, but it felt formless, pervasive.

Summer was winding down, leaving behind a sticky residue of boredom and unease. He felt it in the way the leaves on the cottonwoods already looked tired, in the way the sun, for all its blistering heat, seemed to carry a hint of something fading. It was the same feeling that sat in his gut, a quiet, persistent ache he couldn't name. He knew Jared wouldn’t understand it. Jared was all sharp edges and forward motion, a bright, dangerous kind of energy that Frankie both admired and feared.

A crunch of gravel behind him. Frankie's shoulders stiffened, then relaxed a fraction. Jared. Of course. Only Jared could walk like that, all casual confidence, even on ground that seemed determined to trip you. He didn't turn around immediately, instead flicking another piece of timber into the sluggish river. It floated for a moment, then began to slowly sink.

“Hey,” Jared said, his voice a low rumble. Not a question, just an acknowledgement. He dropped beside Frankie, not quite sitting, more like a controlled collapse onto a flat, sun-warmed stone. His old jeans were faded, torn at one knee, and a smear of grease decorated his forearm. He always looked like he’d just come from doing something important, or at least, something that involved tools and dirt.

“Hey,” Frankie replied, finally turning. He tried to keep his voice even, but it felt thin, reedy, like a strand of spider silk. Jared smelled of something metallic, engine oil maybe, mixed with the faint, sweet scent of summer dust. Frankie’s gaze snagged on the loose strands of hair that escaped Jared’s messy bun, glinting gold in the hazy light.

Jared squinted at the river, then at the sky. “You okay? You look… like you’ve been doing maths in your head for an hour.”

Frankie felt a flush crawl up his neck. “Just… watching the river. And there’s this weird thumping.” He pointed vaguely at the ground. “Can you feel it?”

Jared pressed his hand to the earth, forehead furrowed in concentration. “Yeah. Like a slow drum. Or a sick engine.” He paused, then stood, stretching. “Come on. I found something wild, further down.”

Frankie’s pulse quickened. He pushed himself up, trying to appear less awkward than he felt. “Wild how?”

“You’ll see.” Jared gestured down the bank, past a tangle of overgrown reeds and another section of collapsed chain-link. The path here was barely a deer trail, slick with damp mud in spots, littered with broken bottles and twisted metal. It was a proper forgotten place, exactly the kind of place Jared loved.

Down by the Forgotten Waters

They picked their way along, Jared leading with a casual grace that Frankie envied. Frankie, meanwhile, stumbled on a loose rock, his heart doing a clumsy flip-flop. He caught himself, knuckles scraping on brittle weed stalks. He was always doing that, always just a little off-balance.

Finally, Jared stopped. “There.”

Frankie followed his gaze. Partially submerged in the muddy bank, a skeletal structure of weathered wood jutted out from the water. It looked like the ribs of some ancient, drowned beast. An old, rotting dock, perhaps, or the remains of a small, forgotten boathouse. One corner of it was still attached to the land by a single, thick, moss-covered timber beam. The wood was dark with river water, slick with algae, and studded with rusted, bent nails. It had an eerie, almost unsettling presence, something lost and slowly decomposing.

“What is it?” Frankie whispered, a strange melancholic beauty to the decay.

“Looks like an old fishing platform. Or something,” Jared mused, already stepping closer, balancing carefully on the precarious edge of the bank. “Think we can… get on it?”

Frankie’s stomach clenched. The water looked deep and murky directly in front of the structure. The beam looked flimsy, ready to snap. But Jared was already halfway there, his weight testing the edge of the muddy slope. Frankie couldn’t let him go alone, not when his own heart felt like it was doing a slow, heavy drumbeat in his chest, mirroring the one from the ground.

“Wait,” Frankie called out, his voice a little too high. “It looks really unstable.”

Jared paused, glancing back with a grin that made Frankie’s insides fizz. “Live a little. We won’t drown.” He reached out a hand to the main timber beam, testing its strength. It looked solid enough, a thick, old growth log.

Frankie took a breath, the humid air heavy in his lungs. He slid down the bank, hands digging into the dry earth, then pushing off into the slicker mud closer to the water. His worn trainers had zero grip. His foot slid sideways, catching on a loose rock. He windmilled his arms, a pathetic, flailing attempt at regaining balance. A sickening lurch, and then he was falling. Not a graceful tumble, but a long, slow-motion slide straight into the river’s edge.

The water was cold, shockingly so, and thick with mud and sediment. It immediately soaked through his jeans, clammy and gritty. He hit the bottom with a squelch, one knee twisting painfully against a hidden rock. He thrashed, trying to push himself up, hands sinking into the thick, sucking mud. His jacket sleeve caught on one of the rusted nails sticking out of the timber beam, tearing with a loud rip. A metallic tang filled his mouth, a scraped lip.

He spluttered, coughing up river water, mud smeared across his face, in his hair, dripping from his chin. He looked up, utterly humiliated, to see Jared staring down at him, eyes wide. The grin was gone, replaced by a flicker of genuine shock, then something softer.

A Hand Offered

“Frankie?” Jared asked, his voice low, tinged with concern. He extended a hand, palm up, a small scar just above his thumb. It was a steady hand, covered in light dust. Frankie stared at it, at the dark river water sloshing around his waist, at the mud clinging to every centimetre of him. He looked like something dredged from the bottom, a pathetic, waterlogged mess. His entire body felt hot with shame, a searing, internal burn that dwarfed the cold of the river.

“I’m… fine,” Frankie mumbled, though a shiver ran through him. He reached for Jared’s hand, his fingers slick with mud, his grip unsteady. Jared didn’t hesitate. His fingers closed around Frankie’s, strong and firm. He pulled, gently but insistently, hauling Frankie out of the muck with surprising ease. Frankie scrambled, slipping once more, his other hand finding purchase on the slimy timber beam, before he was finally back on solid, if still muddy, ground.

He stood there, dripping, shivering, his clothes heavy and dark with river water. His scraped knee throbbed. The torn jacket sleeve flapped uselessly. He didn't dare look at Jared, couldn't bear to see the pity, or worse, the silent laughter. He tried to wipe some of the mud from his face, only succeeding in smearing it further.

“Well,” Jared said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “That was… an exit.”

Frankie risked a glance. Jared wasn't laughing. His lips were pressed into a thin line, but his eyes were kind, and a hint of a smile touched the corners. He let go of Frankie’s hand, but then, unexpectedly, reached out and gently brushed a streak of mud from Frankie’s cheek, his touch feather-light, sending a strange jolt through Frankie’s soaked skin. It was more intimate than any embrace. The melancholy ache in Frankie’s gut lessened, replaced by a fragile warmth.

“Yeah,” Frankie managed, his voice still croaky. “Real smooth.”

Jared looked at the torn sleeve. “That’s a shame. Favourite jacket?”

Frankie shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “It was… okay.” He still felt ridiculous, a sodden, muddy caricature of himself. But Jared wasn't looking at him like a joke. He was looking at him with something akin to understanding, or perhaps just a shared weariness of the afternoon’s slow, unfolding mistakes. The persistent thumping from the ground seemed to fade, or maybe Frankie just wasn't listening anymore. The bruised sky still reflected in the river, but the weight of it felt a little lighter, as if the embarrassment had, somehow, shifted a burden.

They stood there for a long moment, the silence broken only by the chirping of crickets beginning their evening song, and the distant, almost imperceptible hum of city life. The sun dipped lower, casting long, distorted shadows across the broken boatyard. The air, though still warm, took on a different quality, hinting at the cooler night to come. Frankie didn’t know what to do, what to say. His jeans squelched with every tiny movement. Jared was just watching him, a quiet, almost unreadable expression on his face.

“Let’s go find a hose or something,” Jared said finally, his gaze lingering on Frankie’s face. “Before you turn into a human mud pie.” He offered a small, hesitant smile. Frankie felt his own lips curve upwards, a shaky, uncertain movement. The river murmured beside them, an indifferent witness to a strangely intimate, utterly humiliating afternoon. Everything felt different now, but Frankie couldn't quite say how, or what it meant for the suffocating silence between them.

He just knew he wasn't alone anymore, not for this second.