some idiot spilled his diet dr pepper on rhys' only good jacket the other week, so rhys had been down to wearing layers. his doctor told him he'd better take care of himself but also get out into fresh air often, so that's what rhys is doing.

he's sitting close enough to shore that if he stuck his foot out, he would touch wet sand. as it is, rhys doesn't want to get wet and die just yet, so he's just watching the sluggish waves. his soft blue t-shirt keeps his skin away from the slightly itchy wool of the dark green cardigan over it, and the dun brown zip-up keeps him even warmer. he can feel the chill of the breeze combing through his floppy brown hair, and it's nice, he supposes.

he pulls the cig out of his pocket, trying to decide if he feels like smoking or not. his thoughts wander, and he puts the cig away and takes out his battered copy of anna karenina and opens to the page with the sticky note folded inside.

rhys llywelyn

he's almost done with the third page, when someone sits next to him. that someone is all long legs, blonde hair, and cherry lipstick, and rhys automatically bristles. first, he's reading, can't she see that? second, why has this unfairly gorgeous girl picked him out to sit next to? third, rhys doesn't want to be a source of entertainment to a bored girl right now.

so, with all this in mind, his voice is not particularly warm as he looks up from his book and says, "hi there yourself." and, damn. it sounds a bit more flirty than he intended it to (which is not at all, rhys is not trying to flirt at the moment, thanks very much).

dear god, he wants, like, three cups of good earl grey, and pronto. looking out into the murky water, he thinks longingly of france and the quiet shrieking of the kettle, and the flow of white cream into the soft brown of tea. he stifles his sigh, and crosses his ankles restlessly.

rhys llywelyn

okay, well. "i'm rhys," he says, fidgeting. jesus. he didn't come here to flirt or be flirted at, no matter how pretty the girl may or may not be. so he gets up, tucking his book under his arm, fingers dancing jerkily along its spine, and stands up.

"and i'm lea--"

leaving, is what he meant to say, but as he's scooting skittishly away, he f*cking slips on something flat and... slippery, and the next thing he knows, he's falling on his a*se. in the f*cking freezing ocean water.

it's a bad day to wear wool, he thinks absurdly as a wave crashes down on him, knocking him about a foot away from his landing place. he scrambles to his feet as fast as he can, anything to get out of the water. his jumper is soaked through, unbearably heavy and cold in the winter air.

"get it off, get it off," he hisses, trying and failing to yank the jumper over his head. he can't catch cold, he can't, he might die.

rhys llywelyn