Under my skin

[Jack Ripley]

"What? Really?"

And here he had been assuming that Brayden Smith was a mad cook in the kitchen. Soup was his specialty, was it? Jack half smiled as he looked down at the soup with amusement and bemusement both. It was good, though. Almost magical. Jack had been cooking for himself since time immemorial. Who was going to feed him? Not his parents. He had to learn how on his own but he got better at it when he took home economics in high school. (Which, incidentally, was also a way to get free food.)

He was about to offer to make something for Brayden sometime when he asked him--outright--if he was being hit on. Jack's hands wrapped around the warm bowl of soothing soup. Hard to say what would work. Being honest? Little white lie? How many people nudged other people in the calf with their foot? Did that even count as hitting on somebody? Jack was usually... a lot more open about when he hit on somebody. As in, they knew they were being hit on.

But doesn't he? Shy little mouse like him? Asking? He had to suspect something was going on. (Even if it wasn't the original intention...)

"Maybe." He shifted slightly in his seat and looked Brayden over thoughtfully. "It's force of habit when I'm alone with somebody cute."

His smile was mischievous as he broke eye contact finally and picked out a dumpling to try.

[Brayden Smith]

Take-out was Bray's staple throughout the years, after his parents passed away. It was painful to be in the kitchen cooking the meals his mother used to make for him and admittedly, he was a clumsy cook. He couldn't seem to multi-task and the few times he tried to make something, either one pan burned while he was attending to something else or he cut himself and bled all over the food. He didn't tell Jack that, though, not wanting to come across even more incompetent. Bray just nodded and flashed a wry little smile at his own ineptitude.

Then talk turned to flirting and he waited with bated breath. Part of him was hopeful; part of him was fearful. If Jack said yes... If he said no... Either way, Bray didn't know what he ought to do. Flee was the gut instinct to both.

"Maybe..." he repeated softly, watching Jack watching him, taking in his playful smile. Ah--force of habit. Cute. Bray lowered his gaze to the still-spoonless soup bowl and after a lengthy pause, got up and rooted out a fork from one of the drawers so that Jack wouldn't have to fish around the bowl with his fingers. He came back and handed it to Jack and then sat back down opposite him, cupping his near-empty glass of water.

Force of habit. It wasn't anything serious. He smiled at the rim of his glass, but a little sadly. "I should probably... head back. Long day tomorrow, with the superintendent visiting."

[Jack Ripley]

Damn it. Wrong thing to say. See, he was going to say If I say yes, are you going to run away? And he supposed he had the answer without even having to say it... Damn it! Jack looked up from his dumpling hunt when Brayden got up and watched him look around the kitchen for a fork. Sighing, Jack took the offered fork and watched as Brayden took a seat again. Surprising, since Jack was certain that Brayden was going to exit stage left.

Oh. Hold on. He still was.

"...right."

The big superintendent visit. Jack used his fork to idly poke at dumplings that he didn't eat. Truthfully, he was still half drunk and tired as hell. He should be getting sleep, too. Sitting back, he slowly set the fork down.

"You're right. We both could use the sleep. Even if I'm getting a late start... long day ahead." He stared into nothing for a moment. "Long day."

He made no moves to get up, though. Rubbing his eyes sleepily, he said, "You can show yourself out, right? I really don't want to stand up."

[Brayden Smith]

Really he sat down because it seemed rude to run out while stating his intention to run out. So he sat back down but that also seemed odd in retrospect. Too late now, though, to appear normal. Bray was trapped in a loop of disappointment and embarrassment--all of his own making. Jack was just being Jack, as far as he knew. Bray was also being Bray but the problem was...

Bray wasn't normal. He gave up so easily. If he could have been a little more... forward, he might have offered to teach Jack how to make the soup. He could have said that he thought Jack was cute too. (Substitute another word for cute, though, because Jack was so much more than that.) He might even have confessed that it had been years since he'd last been alone with another man, been honest about feeling conflicted by his attraction to Jack when he had been so hurt in the past.

But no. He sat down and said he was leaving.

And he thought he sensed some disappointment from Jack too, even though he was no expert at reading others. Bray's eyes were soft as they lifted up to Jack's face. He smiled again, less sadly, more gently. "Yeah. I'll see myself out. I hope you feel better soon Jack." Now he did stand, bringing his glass over to the sink--habit. Then he was turning for the door, taking one last look at Jack. "Good night."

[Jack Ripley]

"Good night."

He waved his fingers at Brayden, watching him leave. The second the door closed behind Brayden, Jack dropped his head down onto the table, right next to the bowl of soup. That ended... not so well. He closed his eyes and he could smell the wood scent of the table and the remnants of the broth from the soup. Stomach grumbling lightly, Jack lifted his head and popped a couple of dumplings and veggies into his mouth. It was good. Some chicken, too. Polishing off the meal in a matter of two or three minutes, Jack felt somewhat better.

His head, at least, stopped spinning. (Putting it down on the table and lifting it again gave him horrible vertigo for a moment.) Pushing the bowl away, he looked around his now empty apartment. Everything was too quiet. He hated when it was too quiet. Time to get my ass up... With a groan, Jack pulled himself up by the table's edge and brought the borrowed bowl over to the sink. As he rinsed it out, he stared into space. Then smiled. The bowl would at least give him a reason to pop in on Brayden at some point.

Done with his task, he shuffled over to the living room area with bleary eyes. Toward the couch where he and Alejo had a good time. Yikes. He pulled the blanket that laid across the couch off. After years of tugging men onto the couch with him, he learned to protect the couch. Then he headed toward the bathroom, tossed the blanket into the hamper and headed toward his room with a yawn.

[Brayden Smith]

He left and he immediately felt horrible. That didn't end well... Bray could have kicked himself and if there hadn't been a woman entering her apartment just down the hall, he would have. So many ways that could have panned out, and he blew it. Now he wondered if Jack might think that he was disinterested, or that it was his—Jack's—fault that Bray fled the apartment.

It wasn't Jack's fault, it was Bray's. He couldn't seem to reach out and grab on to what he wanted. He didn't have the confidence to put himself out there and all of the opportunities that life presented him, they all passed him by. Bray had no one to blame but himself.

With heavy steps he reached his own apartment. He paused at his door and cast a look of longing down the hall. Although Bray tried to reassure himself by telling himself that Jack was tired and needed rest, he still wished that he could have at least presented himself in a better light. All the things he wished he could say flashed through his mind. Flirtatious things he'd heard other men say came to mind—nothing Bray felt bold enough to pass off as his own, but...

"...oh... no..." He was fumbling through his pockets for keys. There weren't many pockets to fumble through, despite the fact that Bray was still dressed in his work clothes. Jack caught him as he was heading inside so he didn't have time to change; he'd been worriedly hovering over the soup, making sure it was heated through. Bray was sure he had the keys in his pocket when he headed out but... now he remembered letting his bag drop at the door, letting the file folder drop... letting the keys drop onto the bag. He was going to retrieve them later... and never did.

Bray paled. Looked around in a slight panic. The building manager was out. His door locked automatically, there was no keypad either. It needed a key. He... his phone? No phone. The phone was on his kitchen counter; he didn't think he'd need it. The blood rushed to his ears as he stood there stupidly for several long minutes. Then, jerkily, he turned to his left. The lobby had some couches; he could crash on those until the morning, when he could get into the school and call a locksmith.

He turned to his right.

Jack.

But he left in such a hurry... But he had to finish all that paperwork! He had planned on pulling an all-nighter! Bray worried his lower lip. He made himself go right back to Jack's door and he knocked timidly a few times. "Jack?" Bray didn't want to yell too loudly for fear of disturbing the other tenants. He knocked again. "It's... me, Brayden."

God, he could just die.

[Jack Ripley]

Flop! Face first into a soft and fluffy comforter on a firm mattress--just the way Jack liked it. His eyes were already closed and he turned his head so he could breathe. Sleep, beautiful sleep, such a stubborn mistress. But tonight... tonight he could just drift off...

A tapping at the door. He ignored it. Then he heard a familiar voice saying his name and he opened one eye. Then the other when said voice claimed to be Brayden. What on earth is he doing back here? Jack lifted his head, then turned over onto his back with a long suffering groan. There was enough alcohol, soup, and sex tonight to lull him into sleep and this is what he dealt with.

Gingerly sliding off the bed in a manner that meant his still sore ass didn't suffer more trauma, Jack got up and stiffly made his way back into the front room. Unlocking the door, he opened it to see that--why, yes, it was Brayden standing there. Jack blinked a couple of times--Brayden doubled for a second. And then he leaned closer, reaching out with the hand that wasn't holding onto the door.

"Oh, look who's back," he said mischievously as he gently poked him on the chest. "I thought you were going home to sleep."

[Brayden Smith]

Ohhh this was going to be embarrassing.

Horrific.

Mortifying.

He hoped Jack didn't hear him. Then why was he knocking on Jack's door? Just to say he tried and failed? So he could give himself an out before darting down the hall and going to sleep on the lobby couch? He was already thinking about maybe smashing in one of his own windows by the time noises came from within, approaching the door.

Bray didn't have time to go outside and find a big rock to break his own window. Jack opened the door again, looking somehow more haggard and tired and immediately Bray felt ten times worse. He felt the gentle prod to his chest and looked down at Jack's hand, then back up at Jack's still playful smile. That same smile he had earlier when he revealed that he flirted with men he found to be 'cute.'

But this? This was not cute.

"I was." Bray probably looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Guiltily he gestured to his own door down the hall. "But I. Locked myself out. And I was wondering if. I could. Borrow your phone. To call a locksmith." His sentences weren't really full sentences; he started and stopped them at odd intervals as he wished and prayed fervently that a sinkhole would open up under his feet and bury him in his stupidity.

He wanted to impress his handsome new neighbor and ended up making him fish around a bowl of soup with his fingers, running out on him after he blatantly came on to him and then had to run back and disturb his well-earned rest because somebody got all flustered and couldn't retain enough brain cells to remember his keys and phone. And as if all that wasn't horrible enough, he added in a clearly desperate tone, eager to impress upon Jack the severity of his bone-headed move, "I have to finish all the paperwork for tomorrow or we won't get any funding for the next two years!"

[Jack Ripley]

"Oh. You need to borrow my phone."

No, no. Jack wasn't disappointed. He was just. Disappointed. For no reason, really, because he was very tired and did want to sleep. It wasn't like he and Brayden here were going to have a good time together. Even if Brayden had the guts for it, Jack was in no position to lead the way. And he had a feeling he would have to when it came to dear Brayden.

Then it all struck him. That Brayden had locked himself out. In his sleep addled madness, Jack laughed. A genuine laugh. Not a laugh of ridicule or a bitter and self deprecating laugh. A laugh of high amusement at the ridiculousness of the entire scenario. Brayden was an adult man. He had to be around the same age as Jack. Maybe a little younger. Maybe older. But he was a fully formed adult with a strangely childish character.

It sort of resonated with Jack, who felt the same. His veneer of imperious and enlightened adulthood in the presence of their coworkers was mostly a veil. A cloak to entrap him, to protect him. To protect other people. To keep them out and everything he hid away so deeply far from them. They were alike and not so alike. It was almost a relief to know he wasn't the only one.

And in a much different way than his alikeness with Alejo. So.... different. 

"Honey," Jack said, taking Brayden's hand in his and gently tugging him inside. "Honey," he said again with a mixture of amusement and exasperation and resignation. "It'll take the locksmith at least an hour to get here, if they're even open. And then they'll have to do the work on the door, which will take another, oh, five minutes if they're good. Maybe half an hour if they're not. Just sleep here. I'll help you with your paperwork in the morning." He paused. "Ah well. I suppose the late start was never meant to be..."

He closed the door behind Brayden and stood there, still holding his hand. He completely forgot he was holding it.

"Just relax. If you need a night cap, I have plenty to choose from. But from experience—don't trust the Ambien."

[Brayden Smith]

Yes, yes—the phone! The phone! To get the door unlocked so he could work on those eight thousand pages of forms and applications and grants and why did everything have to be in triplicate? What happened to one copy that people faxed to other people, like in the good old days? Bray was as delirious—if not more so—than Jack, whose unfocused eyes kept reminding Bray of that one time his ex got horribly drunk and came stumbling home in a complete stupor. At least Jack was coherent...

It was the thought of losing two years of funding that made him panic. If he didn't get this done, he would lose his job. He knew it. He knew it. All those years of faithful service to the school would mean nothing if he stripped every department of its funding! It wasn't as if a mysterious benefactor would show up for them, the way one magically appeared for the old library.

While Jack laughed, Bray wrung his hands together in front of him. He wanted to ask what was so funny but he sort of knew. Deep down inside he knew how utterly ludicrous this situation was. Jack was right to laugh, delirious as he sounded. Bray would have laughed too if it wasn't his job on the line, and his ass that was going to get raked over the coals!

Honey? Jack took his hand and Bray clung to it. Honey? Jack's voice was rich with expressive emotion, like a theatrical piece, an actor on a stage emoting across a sea of adoring fans. He was so... dramatic. Not in an over-done way, never hammy, but Jack was larger than life. He was unlike anyone Bray had met in his entire life and against his better judgement, Bray was caught up in his wake.

He stammered useless counter-arguments. "B-but—the locksmith might—what about—" No full sentences. Bray couldn't deny that Jack was right. The locksmith was way out of town; it would take him too long to get here, to unlock the door. That was if Bray could even get in touch with him. It was so late that there was no guarantee he'd be in.

"I could—" smash the window, he wanted to say, but again stopped short. "Sleep. Here?" Bray was only vaguely aware that they were holding hands. He needed that strength of another person's hand holding his securely in the moment, so he accepted it unconsciously. His glance fell onto the couch. Better than the chair in the lobby, wasn't it? Jack was so kind to offer it when he stood there babbling like an idiot.

"Am-ambien?" Bray's head snapped up finally, alarmed. "Oh no I don't—I'd—I'd need a prescription for that—" He shut up. Jack was making a joke. (Right?) Bray's lips pressed together as he breathed in hard through the nose. He had to calm the hell down before he gave himself an aneurysm. "I'll take the couch," he said meekly, grasping Jack's hand even tighter.

[Jack Ripley]

"Yes." He could sleep here. "That is what I said."

What were the alternatives? He doubted Brayden wanted to sleep in the courtyard or the office. Or outside of his own door. Although, there were other alternatives. Brayden could break into his own home and worry about the consequences later. He could try calling the locksmith but it really would take them a while to get to Hazleton. Why wasn't there one in town, anyway? Ah, the impracticalities of small towns. Some things--night clubs and bars--were apparently more important than locksmiths.

Jack let out a soft snort at the mention of needing a prescription. Not necessarily. True, Jack had one, but Brayden didn't need it. The pills were already in the bathroom, ready to be taken. But truly, Ambien was awful and he really, really didn't recommend it. The whiskey was better. At least whiskey didn't cause hallucinations.

"Nonsense." He used the hand he still held to pull Brayden in the direction of the bedroom. "My bed's more than big enough for two. Or three." He paused. "Or four."

Not that he tested that or anything. His bed was his luxury and it was more than big enough for the both of them. The couch was fine for... extracurricular activities but he wouldn't recommend actually sleeping on it. It was one of those stiff things, bought brand new when he moved to Oregon. It wasn't quite broken in and it would probably result in a stiff neck and back. The bed, however...

He didn't bother flipping on the light.

"Shoes," he said, because he didn't care if Brayden went to sleep fully clothed but no dirty shoes in the bed. He let go of Brayden's hand and pulled the blankets back, then patted the bed. "No arguing. Just sleep."

By that point, he was already climbing into the bed and slipping his legs beneath the blankets. He was so fucking tired.

[Brayden Smith]

Practically speaking, Bray didn't need anything to help him sleep. He was a walking, talking, socially awkward human-sized Ambien. The one truly useful ability he had, being a fae, was helping himself and others sleep. Bray thought about mentioning it, since Jack obviously needed sleep aids, but decided against it. Not yet. Not until he knew how much Jack knew about Hazleton's other population.

"Four?" echoed Bray faintly as he was brought into the bedroom. He eyed the outline of the bed in the darkened bedroom with some misgivings, imagining four people on it. Sleeping? No--surely not sleeping. Other activities. Good thing it was dark, then; his expression must have betrayed his thoughts in that moment.

Jack must have read his mind because he said shoes--Bray toed them off immediately--and blocked his stammering arguments. His shoes were off before the arguments left his mouth, which was quite a feat in and of itself, given how easily Bray made excuses to back out of things. Feeling somewhat stripped of his usual defences, he obediently climbed into bed.

Then he realized. They were in bed together. The covers were over his shoulders before his brain caught up with the situation. Did things always move this fast with Jack? Did things keep happening in a whirlwind of activity with him? Bray was distinctly out of his depth. He was more accustomed to deep thought, to over-thinking, to rarely doing. Jack... he did things.

Stiff as a board, Bray laid there at the very edge of the bed, hardly daring to breathe. Sleep, Jack said. No arguments. Sleep? He couldn't relax long enough to drift anywhere, much less off to sleep!

[Jack Ripley]

"Mmyeah... once. Don't worry so much. Bed's clean."

That was what he assumed, anyway. That Brayden was flipping out over the idea that three others had been in this bed at one time before him. It was that one time, all right? They were all blitzed out on something. Some drug that Jack never heard of before. One of the others passed it around and Jack, being the type to try anything once, jumped on it.

And then woke up in a bed with three others.

Flopping over onto his stomach to ease the pain in his ass, Jack's head turned toward Brayden, who was lying there in the bed as stiff as a corpse. Sleepily, Jack reached out and touched the side of his head.

"Stop. Thinking." Brayden didn't seem to be capable of that. Of just stopping his thoughts. Honestly, Jack might have had the same problems if he wasn't the type to seek out mental blockers. Things to stop the thoughts. Anything that kept the serious thoughts at bay. Brayden didn't drink, though, and if he didn't drink, it was likely he didn't smoke or snort or anything else.

"Just go to sleep," he said, letting his hand drop beside Brayden's face. The alcohol was really doing him in. After the events of the evening, he was more than ready to nod off. "If you can't stop thinking, I suggest the whiskey." His finger reached out to gently stroke Brayden's cheek. "Just don't touch the Ambien..."

[Brayden Smith]

"Sorry." The word slipped out, easy as breathing. He barely registered that in one night, he had apologized about half a dozen times. Bray really did try to relax but all it did was make him more aware of how tense and anxious he was. Everything rushed around in a furor in his head, thoughts of his earlier embarrassments, locking himself out, the paperwork that had to be done... Jack's words mingled in too. Sleep. Stop thinking.

A hand landed at the side of his head and he started, not expecting the touch. Bray half-turned into Jack's fingers as it stroked his cheek, however. He felt oddly soothed. It was reminiscent of the way his mother used to stroke his cheek, not because he was internally freaking out but because she loved him and wanted to express that. Touch was important. Love was, too. Comfort. Reassurance. Bray couldn't always turn inward to find those things.

"I don't drink," he said again softly, more to himself than to Jack. He also didn't do drugs. (Soup didn't count, okay?) Bray sighed and closed his eyes as he turned toward Jack, onto his side. It was habit--he always slept on that side, one hand under the pillow, the other draped across his own stomach. He wouldn't be able to sleep unless he used his powers tonight. He tried not to rely too much on it but, yes, some nights the thoughts wouldn't stop long enough to let him rest. Some nights all of his worries came to haunt him and he had to flick that manual switch to turn them all off.

He never really knew how he used his abilities. It happened. He thought it. Willed it, perhaps? Fae powers were strange things. They were supposed to be in tune with the planet and with nature, but Bray wasn't anything like that. Not a hippie, though he did his part to recycle and sort plastics from papers and metals. He sighed again. Willed himself to sleep, and like--magic--the rest of the world began to fade. Something flickered behind him; he didn't notice it. The wings. They said fae had wings but Bray never saw them. He was always fast asleep by that time--and so was anyone within ten feet of him. 

[Jack Ripley]

"Mm...so you said..."

Brayden didn't drink. But maybe a little whiskey in his system would help. Or maybe the gentle stroking of his cheek and his temple would help. Jack didn't know nearly enough about Brayden. They were co-workers and neighbors but hadn't become friends--yet. Jack could change that, though. Oh... it would be so nice to have friends. It had been... so long since he had friends. And he couldn't even remember a time he had real friends. People that actually have a shit. Probably didn't deserve them. Probably why he shielded himself from letting any such person in.

But right now, he was tired and anybody could have been his friend, as long as they were next to him, a warm body to stroke.

Jack's eyes drifted closed. Why was he so much more tired than he was before? Hah... Like that was possible. His every limb felt heavy while his head felt light. He fell deeply into sleep.

"You don't know how to dance?" Jack rolled his eyes and let out a sigh before flicking the end of his cigarette onto the cement beneath his feet. He and Cameron were standing outside the big graduation party. Inside, the music was so loud and bouncy that Jack could practically feel it coming up from the ground and all through his bones. He'd been kicked out on account of being caught spiking the punch. Cameron followed him, laughing in his goodnatured way.

"Not all of us are as lucky as you, Jack," Cameron said.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're tall. Like... bendy. You have moves even when you don't know you have moves."

"Mm..." Jack tapped a thoughtful finger to his own lips. "Actually, I'm aware. I'm just good at making it look natural."

He danced in place, a mischievous light in his eyes as he took hold of Cameron's hands. "Come on, Cammie. Dance with me. I don't care if you think you don't have the moves."



B̸̡̢̥̻̦̜̋̀̆̈́̍̈͛̚͜l̷̡̟̘̪̭̗̠̥̱̦̳̫̃̄͘̕͝o̷̻͕͎̠̥̘̭̍̌̾o̸̱̮͓͙͎̻̤̓̎͐̊́̋͋ḓ̷̟͙̳̽͛̆̈́͐̍͆͒͘̚.̸̡̳̹̬̰͔̈ ̸̡̧̛̛̖̱̣͔̩̞͎̎̾̎͋̂̽̚͠H̸͓̖̾̈́ȧ̶͈̯̩̉͌ͅn̶̨̛͈̱̟̞͛̋̏́̉̎͐͛̓d̷̦̩͊̆͗̈́̊̇͛ś̴̜̼̠̤͖͎͎̋̌ ̵̧̘͚̠͎͚̰̼̥͗̈̓̍̔c̷̯̹͇̩̪͗̿̎̉̓͒̀̇͜o̵̧̓̾̋͆͊͋̊̃͝͠v̷̢̡̢͎͕͓͋̈́̈́̒̒̀e̴̙̯̠̭̲̱̲͎̒̀̊͋̿̐̃̊̑̋̄͝ŕ̶̢͈̖̻̱̣̟͔̞̠̠̓̀̅͗̾̚͜͠ê̶̟̪̘̺̻̳̩͍͋́͝d̸̨̨̢̛͉̞̞̼͚̱̺͓̲͌̒̏͠ ̶̧̛̤̫i̸̝̪̯͎̳̥̪͐̈́͗̆̀̌͒͑̋͑̋n̷̠̯̮̜̼͑̚ ̸̩̲͎͖͚̪̱̩͍̰̻͂̌͑͘ͅb̷̧̙̝̤̱̩̟̣̦̈̊̀̀͘l̴̩̲͖̱̻͍͍͙̝̯̉̈́̓̋̃̂̑́͘͜o̷̰͛̐̆̑̓̈́̒͑̕͘o̶̗͎̘͈͛́̀̓̓͒̚͠d̷̼̗̪͌̆͑͑̐͆.̴̢̛̠̲̣͓̟͚͛̀ ̵̨̧̛̻̫̱̗̮̼̠̌̾̆̅̚͜F̷͇̻̲̥̩͖̞̞͍͙̏̽͌͌̉́͗̾̒ͅā̵̹̉̋̿̓̊̕͝͝ç̷͉͊̆̓̋̎̀̀e̵̙͙̭̩̝̱̤͕̼͗̌̾̑̅͗̆̈́͆̃̕ ̶̡̛͍̈́̚c̶̢̲͉͓̜̮̰̜͔̭͂̍̓̈́̈͌͜o̵̰̠̱̣͍̞͉͆͛̈́͋͆̐̅̈́v̶̡͎͙̭̳̟̯̐̈́͋̐͋̌̽̋e̴̛̤̗͓͒̓͛͜͝r̵̢̛̠͓̮̠̬͂̆̀̌͊́̉̊̚̚͜ë̴̡̛̼͓͕͕̜͖͉̤́͗̐̿͛͑̂͒̚ď̴̩͑ ̷͔̥̞̣͍͈̻̎̽̈́͂̄͗͝i̵̧̞̯̖̖̻̻̹̙͉̐̂n̸͙̰͔̖̬̳̝͓̝͛̃̔̓̒͋͛̐̔͂͝ ̶͉̺͍̫͐͆̔͐̂̽̈͋̉͘b̸̡̛̬̅̀̿̓͆̇̓̚̚̕͝l̴̺͚͇̲̜̝͙̗̝̙̀́͑̎͋ͅṓ̶̥̖͍̱̣̳̒̓̄̅̌͗̐͋͜õ̷̝̝̟̰͎͚͇̞̒̃̏͒̽̾̉̽̓̈́͘d̸̢̛͇̘̲̤̻̠̣̃͛̑̈́̏̕.̶̡̩̩͈̱͖̭̪̞̭̑̌





Jack kicked at the blankets and rolled over to sit up, sweating and gasping. Looking around the dark bedroom, it was just him. His heart beat so fast that his mind fluttered, light-headed. With a shaking hand, he reached for the side table for a glass of water but there was nothing there. He hadn't brought anything into the room that night. Still shaking uncontrollably, he kicked his legs over the edge of the bed. Shit, shit, shit. He covered his face with his hands. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.

Except. Somebody breathing nearby. With his heart leaping into his throat, Jack turned to see that somebody was lying in bed beside him.

"Ca-Cammie?" he said fearfully, almost childishly. As he reached out to touch him, his senses came crashing back down to him. Not Cameron. Brayden.

"Brayden." He almost went to shake him awake but decided against it. Taking his hand back before he touched him, he hastily threw himself out of the bed and marched down to the bathroom, where he promptly threw up into the sink. He turned the water on as cold as it could get, splashing his face several times before reaching for a towel to dry off with.

"...shit."