Under my skin

[Brayden Smith]

It might have seemed odd, a man like Brayden living in a glitzy glamorous (for Hazleton) kind of apartment. A beacon, brightly lit, Sunrise Apartments seemed more the type of building meant for high rollers and the wealthy elite. Brayden Smith was neither of those things. He was humble, quiet, retiring and unassuming, retreating from the spotlight of life to hide in the shadows.

But opposites, they say, attract.

He didn't know what drew him to this building in particular, at the heart of downtown Hazleton. New downtown, of course--old downtown had a flavor of its own but it was nowhere near as exciting. The nightlife here was about as good as it got for a small town. They had their clubs, their bars and a strip club that Bray passed by every day to and from work, furtively shooting glances at the racy blown-up pictures of half-nude male dancers.

He didn't have a car so he commuted. Thirty-two minutes each way (give or take a few). He caught the 110 in the morning at 7:12 am and came back home on the same numbered bus, stepping off at anywhere between 5:15 pm and 5:40 pm. The time it took to get home varied--even in a small town, somehow, there was rush hour traffic. He knew the bus driver by name and sight but rarely spoke to him, nodding mutely as he scrambled on and off.

Tonight, though, Bray broke his schedule. He was home late after spending too much time going over paperwork at the school. Even now he had a huge file folder stuffed to bursting with papers and forms under his arm, which he juggled with the takeout bag dangling from the same hand. The other hand was desperately clutching his messenger bag sliding off one shoulder, which had--you guessed it--more files inside. It was audit season, so Bray was looking forward to working through the night to finish all the paperwork before the school board superintendent of the county came to visit.

Outside, he saw some kids loitering by the front door. They had skateboards but only a few were zipping around. A couple of others were watching a video of some kind. Bray watched them with anxious eyes; he could take the back way, maybe, to avoid running into them. The group dispersed and got back onto their boards. Ah--they were watching some kind of tutorial, he'd bet. Yep. Some tried out the new trick; most failed and fell, stumbling, onto the pavement. Their laughter mingled in the cold night air.

Bray half-smiled to himself as he swerved to take the back entrance. He didn't want to disturb them by going through them to get to the front door. As he got to the back, though, there was already someone there wrestling with the door. Bray's steps slowed; anxiety built up again. The door looked stuck. Or maybe the stranger was trying to break in...

"Ahem." He coughed ever so softly to announce his presence. All he wanted was to get to his apartment. 1B. Ground floor, nothing fancy, not the penthouse, but it was all his. The woman at the door started and whirled around, a look of fright on her face. Bray smiled reassuringly, shyly at her. "Locked out?" The woman let out an exasperated sigh and launched into a story about leaving her keys at home and not realizing it, as Bray walked up to the door.

"I'll get it." He tilted his head to the side to trap the strap of his bag against his shoulder, while fumbling around in the bag for his keys. A few papers slipped out and as the woman helped him to retrieve them, he unlocked the door. With an awkward laugh he took the papers back, bade the woman good-night and shuffled down the hall towards his own apartment. Just as he entered, his phone went off and Bray just let everything drop to the ground--including the take-out bag. He stood there, semi-defeated, before grabbing his phone out of his pocket and raising an eyebrow at the name of the person who had texted him.

Jack Ripley. What a name. He was new to the psychology department; Bray had only seen him a few times when he went in to drop off forms and paperwork and such. But the few times he encountered Jack Ripley left an impression on him. A good impression. Bray's lips formed a smile of their own accord as he toed off his shoes and went inside to sit on the couch with his phone, leaving everything else at the door. He could pick them up later.

[Jack Ripley]

Their impromptu conversation ended up taking Jack somewhere else. He couldn't say why, exactly. Brayden Smith was one of those quiet types that should have been stuffy but somehow came across as soft and timid. Weird place for a man like him, administrator? Well, maybe not. He wasn't a dean or a principal, doling out punishment and making all the hard calls. Just mostly... boring administrative stuff.

Okay, okay. He took it back. Brayden was right where he should be.

He caught Jack's attention in that "interest vaguely piqued" sort of way. Was he a virgin? Lord, he looked like a virgin. Like one wink would send him into shock. Or he was painfully vanilla. Definitely not into men. Or was he? Whenever Jack heard the term "gaydar" he grimaced. But he had no such thing, not in a regular, scholarly environment.

Like Alejo, Brayden was cute.

Oh. Did that mean he had a type? Tsk. ...Okay, maybe. But co-workers were generally off the table so Jack ignored the undercurrent of attraction toward Brayden. He never saw him at the clubs or bars in town, either, which somehow didn't surprise him. Occasionally, they crossed paths in the Sunrise's courtyard but mostly they just waved and nodded and moved on.

The original plan was to spend the whole evening with Alejo but once the conversation took a pleasant bend, Jack's mind was already made up. Alejo was out, Brayden in. He barely even registered Alejo's disappointment in his anticipation of seeing Brayden. And once Alejo was gone, Jack raced into the shower, changed into a new set of clothes, then into silk pajamas and a robe when he realized that it was evening and he was supposed to be sick. Hurriedly, he threw clothing into his laundry hamper in the bathroom. Lit a couple of aromatic candles. Stared around the apartment and lamented the fact that he never did hang up his paintings.

And then there was a knock at his door and he turned away from the wall to look at the door, heart leaping into his throat. Running his fingers through his dark curls, he slapped his cheeks to make sure it looked like he might have a fever. Looking around, he grabbed the water bottle he usually used to spritz his handful of houseplants and instead spritzed himself in the face a couple times.

There. He must look at least on his way to being sick. Clearing his throat, he called out, "Coming~!" before finally making it to the door and opening it.

"So sorry about that. I was just... blowing my nose."

[Brayden Smith]

Intimidating really wasn't the word that Bray thought of when he thought of Jack.

He saw the last text but by then he had already committed to the hot bowl of soup that he cradled like the elixir of life in the palms of his hands. The phone laid on his kitchen table, screen flickering back to black as Bray exited out of his apartment and gently toed the door behind him. God he hoped he had his keys on him somewhere; otherwise it was going to be an awkward night sleeping out in the hallway, as the building manager was out for the week.

But no... intimidating, not really. He could see how Jack might come off as that way, though, with his crisp dark curls and watchful eyes and towering figure. A handsome figure, though, and he wore his clothes well. Bray didn't want to think of himself as some kind of pervert but a handsome man was difficult to ignore, especially one who lived just down the hall. And yet, he had been too scared to even approach. When they saw one another, Bray nodded and kept his eyes to the ground as though searching for pennies. Then when they passed one another, he looked back—darted a look, really, over one shoulder before hastily turning away for fear of being caught and labeled a scumbag pervert.

And so it had been since pretty much his youth, that cowardice and the fear of failure prevented him from being successful in any part of life, professional or personal.

Outside, he headed down towards 1F but was met half-way by a young man heading out. Bray turned his body sideways and eased up against the wall so that they wouldn't bump into one another. (And he wouldn't throw hot soup on himself or a stranger.) The young man smiled at him in passing and Bray half-smiled back, marvelling at his boyish good looks. Stylishly cut brown hair, dark blue eyes, beautiful smile, nice figure. Sexy, some might have called him. Bray called it unfair—here was someone with all the enigmatic charm and good looks that he lacked.

Well, some were born more fortunate than others, he supposed.

Not that he begrudged anyone for being successful! He only wished he had It. Whatever It was, he didn't have it. But he did have the soup, yes, with dumplings and he had an awkward conversation with the handsome, sick new professor. Bray's heart beat faster as he approached. It was some kind of miracle that he got himself a meeting with Jack Ripley—outside of work. How did he work up the courage to offer the soup? And was Jack flirting with him, with all of those comments about saving his soul? It felt like flirting, even though he couldn't be absolutely certain.

Tap tap tap

His knock was more of a light kick on the door—hands full and all of hot soup. Bray didn't know if he ought to smile or what so he settled for something half-way there as he waited, listening to thumping and footsteps coming from inside. Then the door opened and a glowing Jack—oh, no. That was sweat. Jack looked feverish, flushed and perspiring.

"Hi." Bray clung to the soup like a lifeline. "It's—no it's fine. Um. Here. The soup. It's still hot." Which—obviously it ought to be, given that he spent fifteen minutes heating it.

[Jack Ripley]

And there he was!
...as awkward as ever. Jack smiled as he looked down at the soup. Brayden said here, like he was planning to just thrust the soup into his hands and then hightail it away again. Jack clucked his tongue and swung the door wide open, stepping aside and gesturing inside his apartment.

"Are you coming in or were you planning to just dump the soup and ditch me?"

It wouldn't have surprised him if he did. What, did Brayden imagine that he'd bring the soup to him and then Jack would shut the door in his face? He let out a little laugh, genuinely amused. Then, by way of explanation so Brayden didn't stare at him in utter confusion, he cleared his throat again.

"I didn't imagine this was how we'd meet." He thought about how that sounded, then added almost as an afterthought, "Not that I distinctly had an idea on how we'd meet. Outside work, that is. I've seen you around the apartments, though. As you can see, my place isn't quite ready for guests yet but I'll make you a special exception."

Yeah, him and Alejo but shhh, Brayden didn't have to know anything about that.

[Brayden Smith]

(I BET THERE'S STILL STAINS ON THE COUCH!)

"I—no. Oh no, no if you want me to—" Stammer, stutter, confusion. Bray felt like Jack was going at the speed of light and he was too slow to keep up. Anyone normal would have taken it in stride—of course they came to visit, bearing soup, and they would sit and chat a bit, perhaps. Get to know the intriguing man who only moved in a few weeks ago, see if there might be some sort of chemistry that went beyond mere acquaintanceship from work.

Intriguing was how Bray thought of Jack. Fascinating. Not intimidating but statuesque.

He stepped into an apartment that was clearly in the set-up stages, with pictures leaning against walls and a tell-tale box here and there. Bray tried not to seem too interested, like he was taking mental notes. He tried to curb his curiosity and when Jack kept talking, digging himself into some kind of strange hole that he smoothly and effortlessly explained himself out of, Bray kept his eyes on him. It wasn't hard to do that—he didn't have to force himself to look at Jack. He did, however, have to force himself to not look away.

"I..." He didn't know what to say to all of that. There was no prepared response, no quick-witted quip. Bray smiled and it was a genuine smile, but also genuinely exasperated at himself. Sheesh. He needed to relax and not be so tense. This wasn't a job interview or anything. (He was still tense, though—but he willed himself to stop being such an awkward duck and at least to speak full sentences.)

"I'm honored. Here, you should sit down. You're sick. Try the soup, see if you like it."

[Jack Ripley]

(EWW)

Door closed. Just the two of them. Jack felt again the genuine sensation of anticipation and hope. It seemed to spring up at the oddest times. Why now? Why him? Who knew? He shrugged off the questions and he spun on his heels, gesturing for Brayden and his soup to follow him.

"Kitchen's this way," Jack said, walking stiffly into the dining area. A--ah-ouch. He held his head high, though. No wincing. Don't be a baby. He passed the counter and over to the small, square dining table that sat against the wall with three chairs set around it. Looking over at Brayden, he tapped the table before moving on to the fridge.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked, opening it, then glanced over at the various bottles of alcohol lined up on the counter. "I have wine. Rum? Whiskey?" He wrinkled his nose a little at that, then leaned forward (ouch) and said in a stage whisper, "I save that one for desperate occasions."

[Brayden Smith]

Bray thought that Jack was walking a bit funny but chalked that up to the fever. Maybe he shouldn't go in the next day, if it was even affecting his ability to stand or move about. He looked quite ill, although he seemed to be trying to put on a cheerful front for Bray. That wasn't necessary, really. Bray wouldn't have judged him and he wouldn't have imposed on Jack by keeping him out of bed. Entertaining when sick didn't seem like a good idea; Jack could have been resting and sleeping.

Nevertheless, he was glad for the company and secretly pleased that he made it in through the door. Bray did... sort of plan on handing the soup over and maybe leaving. He was glad even for that much, content to bide his time and make a slow... slow... slow advance towards friendship. Jack, however, seemed to be much more forward than he was. Much friendlier, too, and infinitely less awkward.

Bray leaned a little to the side to get a look into the fridge, brows lifting at the alcohol. "Ah... I ah. Don't drink." His smile was purely apologetic. No, Bray was boring like that. He only drank water, juice and soup. The taste of alcohol was definitely not for him and—as stated before—when he needed something to boost his spirits, he turned to... chicken soup. For the soul.

The whiskey bottle, however, which was meant for desperate situations, seemed a bit emptier than the other bottles. Bray laughed gently. "Been a tough... lifetime, huh?" He wondered what kind of rough waters Jack had to brave... After a moment, Bray stood and dared to place a hand on Jack's arm, lightly tugging him over to the table. In his state, he shouldn't be trying to play host to Bray—he wasn't worth the effort, honestly. "You should be resting. Maybe you should stay home tomorrow. I'm sorry Jack, I didn't know you were so sick."

[Jack Ripley]

Okay then. Lemon water it was. Ouch. Bending to grab the cold pitcher of lemon water was about as fun as it could be, given he'd just been fucked thoroughly not... twenty minutes ago. Half an hour? It definitely hadn't been that long ago and a hasty hot shower wasn't enough to soften the pain. (He would have preferred a long soak in the bath, honestly.)

"Everybody drinks," Jack said with the tone of a man that Knew Wise Things. He turned toward Brayden with the pitcher in his hands, letting the refrigerator door close gently behind him. Then his gaze followed Brayden's to the whiskey bottle. Yes... it was... quite empty, wasn't it? Tough lifetime, all that. Jack tried to wave it off, as he was wont to do. The last thing he wanted was for Brayden to stand there pitying him or imagining him in such a mess that he cried his heart out over a bottle of whiskey. Which... happened. When he had... breaks. Ugly.

Monstrous.

His gaze took all of Brayden in, slowly studying him as he got up. Moved closer. Touched his arm. Warm hazel eyes met Brayden's soft brown eyes. Brayden had the kind of eyes that seemed to see something good in everything. Understanding in a much different way than... What was his name again? Alejo. Poor Alejo. How he faded from memory when Brayden was around... If Jack believed in such things as love at first sight, he might have felt he was falling now. But no, no. Brayden was just soft and fuzzy.

Allowing himself to be led to the table, he set the pitcher down and sat... very gingerly.

"No, no, no... I'll be fine. It's just from 11 AM, right? That was our deal, wasn't it? The late start should... help." He reached up and gently patted Brayden's hand. "But aren't you so sweet."

[Brayden Smith]

Any normal person would have been tempted to say I'm not everybody. Instead, the words at the tip of Bray's tongue were Then I must be nobody.

He wasn't everybody. Everybody drank but Bray didn't, aside from the brief taste of alcohol he had in his late teens. Even by those standards, he'd had a late start. Most kids were drinking by the beginning of high school, since there wasn't much else to do in a tiny town like Hazleton. By the time they hit senior year they'd already gotten into the hard stuff—whiskey, rum, vodka, tequila. Brayden Smith, the uncool kid, was never part of that party scene. He stayed home and helped his mother make dinner, listened to his father's problems at work, set the table and cleared up afterwards, washing and drying the dishes meticulously before storing them all away.

Most of his life, he sort of hid from the world. Yet he longed to belong, and he didn't know how. He wished for acceptance, to be seen and noticed, but it was impossible when he shied away from everyone. The way that Jack looked at him as he approached might have been the closest that Bray had gotten in a long while to being noticed. Even in his capacity as an administrative assistant at the school, he was merely the shuttle for paperwork. People didn't see Brayden Smith; they saw unnecessary forms and stuffy rules and procedures that had to be observed.

How soft and warm Jack's eyes were, as they studied him. Bray wasn't the blushing type, luckily, or he would have flamed red. What did Jack see? Did he see someone who was trying his best to socialize and reach out? Or did he see... a strange man who kept soup around just in case someone needed it? Bray would have given anything to have just a peek into Jack's mind at the moment, but his powers unfortunately didn't swing that way.

He saw empty glasses on the counter so he took one before Jack got up to take one for him, setting it onto the table while Jack sat down slowly. Even that looked like it took a lot of effort, further solidifying his opinion that Jack was deathly ill. Bray hovered anxiously nearby with his hand still on Jack's arm for some reason. He couldn't get that look out of his mind. That look from earlier, the way Jack took him in like he was only just seeing him for the first time. Like he... liked what he saw.

Bray was abstract, distracted. "Oh. Oh but..." He looked down at Jack, felt the warmth of his hand, and felt a surging urge to run back into his apartment and lock the door. And at the same time, he wanted to hold Jack and stroke his dark hair and tell him not to worry, that work wasn't as important as taking care of his own health. That played out in his mind, though; in real life he stood there like he'd gotten his feet stuck in quick-drying cement, stammering something about Jack not pushing himself too hard.

Sweet? He was sweet? Bray's face did feel warm this time. He was at a loss for words, which happened a ridiculous number of times thus far. And they had only been conversing for less than ten minutes... "I'm." He laughed, awkward, unsure as to how to accept the compliment. "Thank you. But I'm not really... You're too kind..."

[Jack Ripley]

In the land of Jack Ripley, who was an abortion that didn't take, whose mother cared more about getting high than caring for a kid, whose father beat him bloody, and whose new "stepfathers" were worse than his father ever was, everybody drank. His mother drank, his father drank, all the stepfathers drank. And drinking was the least hard thing they did. Shit like coke and meth was always in the house. Jack got his first dose of cocaine when he was twelve and the newest "stepfather" decided to try and fuck the gay out of him.

Yeah, that went well. So fucking well. Jack was fucked up from the start but the whirlwind of alcohol and drugs and abuse eventually took its toll on him. And here Jack was, now in Hazleton, Oregon. The sleepiest town he'd ever seen, small town charm and hospitality. Pretty open minded place for such a small town, though. He almost felt like he belonged when he arrived. There was something in the air that welcomed him, wrapped him up, and made him feel... safe.

If he didn't screw it up here, he might love it. And so he took his medications. But he also drank. He couldn't seem to stop that bad habit. Drugs; he'd been clean and sober for what, almost five years now? He'd been sober his last year in university but... there was a brief stint where he fucked it up and got back on the drugs. But look now! He'd made it. Five years. Nothing to sneeze at.

He wondered what kind of life Brayden Smith lived. Probably a far cry from his life. From Alejo's life. From the lives of... people he met before. Brayden probably wouldn't call him a monster. But deep down... he knew that he would. Jack lowered his gaze and stared at the items on the table, almost uncomprehending. Water pitcher, soup. Oh right. He reached out to pour Brayden a glass of the lemon water. There were other things in the fridge, like milk and orange juice, a couple cans of Dr. Pepper. But he doubted Brayden wanted caffeine and in general, milk and OJ were for breakfast.

So lemon water it was.

After he filled the glass, he set the pitcher down. Then he turned his gaze to Brayden's hand on his arm. The spark came back into his eyes and his lips twitched in amusement as he looked up. Eye to eye.

"You can sit down." Poor Brayden. He only wanted to help but Jack was hardly about to die. Even if he was sick, at the most, his "symptoms" were a head cold at best!

"I promise I don't bite." A pause and a mischievous smile. "Hard."

Naturally, he propped an elbow on the table and went to cross his legs. Winced. Fuck.

"So, this soup." He reached for it. "Do you think it's cooled down enough yet?"

[Brayden Smith]

Anonymity was perhaps its own kind of torment, especially in a town so small that everyone knew just about everyone else. Bray wasn't an attention whore by any means but he... he wanted to be more than... nothing. Although he didn't have a chip on his shoulder and while that sadness never turned itself over into anger and rage and violence, he still felt unhappy a lot of the time. That was why he hid, why he had so much soup in his fridge just waiting for him to drown his sorrows in.

It was kind of nutty, really, being that dependent on soup. Bray didn't have anyone else to lean on, though—not even alcohol. Soup was to him what whiskey undoubtedly was to Jack. The last people he could lean on were his parents, both of whom succumbed to illness and passed away, one after the other. By the time they found out, it was already too late. That was why Bray worried so much over everyone who sneezed, who sniffled, who seemed even a little bit under the weather. He still had the fear of loss clenching around his heart, drowning him in the fresh horrors of being left alone when he still didn't feel ready to confront the world all by himself.

There was so much fear and apprehension in him. So much uncertainty. His pool of confidence was never that big to begin with; he was born that way. It wasn't anyone else's fault, really, just... something in him was missing. Something didn't switch on the way it did for someone like Jack or even the young man out in the hallway. He was constantly plagued by self-doubt, crushed under his own sense of inferiority, under the feeling that Hazleton and beyond wasn't made for the Brayden Smiths of the world.

As though proved right, Jack had to tell him to sit down. Had to pour the water for him because he was so flustered that he couldn't function. Bray sat down slowly too, mortified, embarrassed. He drank the ice-cold lemon water just to have something to do, so that his hands wouldn't... go and cling to Jack's sleeve like a lost child. Though he smiled against the rim of the glass, he didn't dare lower it. Corny joke. But it was funny nonetheless, especially because Jack's smile was so charming and enigmatic.

"Yes," he gulped at last, lowering his glass. There was less steam rising from the bowl now, so he hazarded to guess that Jack wouldn't burn off a layer of skin trying to drink it. Bray drank from the glass again, only to lower it to say, apologetically (he did apologize a lot), "I'm sorry. You must think I'm... a terrible guest. I'm just." Nervous. "Not used to. Having company."

[Jack Ripley]

Ah, there it was. His inane joke made Brayden smile. A small and hidden smile, but it was there and Jack felt quite accomplished with himself.

"Relax," he said as he reached over and gently patted Brayden's cheek. "I'm the one who has company. You don't have to play host."

He dropped his hand. Drawing the bowl of soup closer to himself, he looked around the table. No spoon. Not feeling much like getting up again, he lifted the bowl up and drank. It was still warm, almost hot, but not enough to scald him. And it tasted good. Felt good. A different kind of warmth than what he experienced with Alejo. Or with alcohol. He could feel the warmth spreading the same way alcohol did but it was warm, not a burn.

Although he wasn't actually sick, the soup made him feel better. Strange, how such a thing could work. He heard whispers of strange things in this sleepy town--heard about witches. Was Brayden one? He smiled at himself at the idea. Brayden didn't fit the image of witches he had in his head. Goth chicks, mostly, with great big books and too much eyeliner.

As he set the bowl down, he appraised Brayden. "You made this?"

[Brayden Smith]

The pat on the cheek would have felt patronizing under any other circumstance but coming from Jack, Bray only felt oddly flattered. He didn't do anything as incriminating as turn his face into Jack's hand but he didn't jerk his head back, either. The warmth intensified on his face and crept ever so slowly down his neck. Bray's hands clutched his near-empty glass nervously.

Again, he didn't know what to say or what to do, so he said and did nothing. Let the moment pass.

"Oh—spoon. Sorry, I should've..." Brought him a spoon maybe. He was in so much of a hurry to get here... before his nerves deserted him. Bray nodded and uncurled his hands from around the glass. If he squeezed it any more he'd shatter it. "Is it. Okay?"

[Jack Ripley]

Jack kissed his fingers like a cartoon chef.

"Muah! Perfection!"

Really, he was in a remarkably good mood, given how dark it had been not an hour ago. But that was how his moods tended to be; swinging from one to the other. Happily dancing to his favorite song, then speaking of how he felt like nothing. And then sitting here (albeit with an aching asshole) cheerily talking up soup. Why hadn't he bothered talking to Brayden earlier? He leaned a little closer and winked.

"My compliments to the chef."

Brayden Smith. Older men, men around his age, usually weren't interesting. They had lost their youthfulness, their bright eyes, their innocence. And Jack greatly disliked men who reminded him of those he'd grown up with as a child. People that looked at others with an ugliness in their eyes, with nothing but malice and greed. It was no wonder he found comfort in people like Alejo or Brayden. Alejo's sad eyes, Brayden's gentle eyes. They had real souls inside of them. Maybe Jack couldn't see them but he could feel them, like a heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

"Would it be too forward of me to ask you to teach me?" he asked, intentionally using the term Brayden used earlier. Forward. As if it was forward to bring a man soup--or to ask a man to teach another man how to cook. Amusement glittered in his eyes when he asked and he gently nudged Brayden's calf with his foot.

[Brayden Smith]

This time Bray couldn't stop or hide his smile. He laughed quietly. Every stereotypical chef was represented in the one motion of Jack's hand rising into the air, lips pursed. A connoisseur of chicken soup with dumplings. Put a tall white chef's hat on him and stick a video camera in his face and he would have been the most popular television personality.

"Thank you," he said modestly, completely opposite to Jack's over-exaggerated response. "This is the only thing I know how to make."

Somehow he got through that sentence without stammering or apologizing. Was it Jack? Was it his garrulous personality and warm eyes and constant touches? A touch to the hand, a hand to the cheek, a foot under the table gently nudging Bray's calf... He was a physical person. But even physical people, surely, didn't act so... forward.

Bray was quiet for a moment, studying Jack. His gaze was a polite gaze; it wasn't shrewd or calculating, not hard or piercing. He saw the amusement in Jack's expression, in the quirk of his lips, the way it lit up his eyes. If Jack was mocking him, he didn't see it. It was gentle fun that he poked, as though he knew without being told that Bray was sensitive, easily discouraged.

The words on the tip of his tongue begged to be spoken and on the surge of an unknown source of bravery, Bray asked, "Are you... hitting on me, Jack?" Maybe it was his smile. His warm eyes, which hadn't left Bray in a while. His laugh, his sense of humor which wasn't cruel the way others' could be. His patience, where another might have gotten frustrated by Bray's lack of social skills. Maybe it was just Jack.