Pick your poison

[Jack Ripley]

They could sit around for years wondering if the other person was going to do the asking... misinterpreting every other word and action. Jack was pretty sure he didn't make a good case for himself, what with the bitching about how he didn't need no man and bringing home strangers to fuck for what was supposed to be a night. (And then ended up becoming the crazy son to take care of.) And Brayden was just too damn--damn--content to sit on the sidelines and nod while Jack lied through his teeth.

Because maybe he didn't think he should--be in a relationship--but that didn't stop the wanting. And the wanting, it got in the way of so many things. Jack was the king of bad decisions. Constantly. He chose the path of least resistance all the time, but it always ended up being the worst path. It looked easy until he started up the path and realized it was a goddamn trap. That it stopped being the easy path when he turned the corner and saw that it went straight up, without footholds or ropes.

He told himself he just wanted to feel good. That it felt good right now. That he was tipsy and turvy and the world was swirling in a pleasant, slow spin around the merry-go-round with his eyes shut tight and the sun warming his face.

There was no crime in this. In wanting something and having it. There was no crime in feeling good with somebody who wanted to feel good. But it had never been this scary before. It felt so good that he felt like his feet were kicked out from under him and he was falling, falling, with no thought as to where he might land.

But he kept going, because he was the king of bad decisions. Because he was maybe a little bit falling in love with somebody and it wasn't just some idealized version of a person but an actual person. A person with failings just like him, who said stupid things and did stupid things. But he still looked at him without judgment and he still laughed with him and he still smiled at him. And he smiled in that innocent, unabashed way a child smiled, like he was sharing his happiness and he wasn't sorry about it, he wasn't covering it up, he wasn't faking it.

Jack swallowed hard when he heard the words that left Brayden's mouth. His breath came up short and choked in the back of his throat and he paused. The fear overtook him for a moment. Brayden's chest was laid bare to him, and Jack could practically see the anticipation in his muscles. He could almost hear the beat of his heart. And he most definitely could hear his name on his lips. Echoing over and over again. Not in the bad way. In a good way. A really good way. It made his heart shiver.

"... all right." Since you asked so nicely. Even the smart remark couldn't pass his lips. Not right now. Somehow... this was serious, even if Brayden was drunk and Jack was tipsy and maybe it was the only way this was ever going to happen. Jack didn't care to think about the aftermath. Now. Now was the only time that mattered.

Jack slid his hand over one of Brayden's legs, pushing it down, extricating himself.

"Not here, though." His hand found Brayden's and he pulled him up to a sitting position. A slow kiss, before he rose to his feet and tugged Brayden up with him. "Bedroom. Come on."

[Brayden Smith]

This... this thing that had been brewing between them, it was genuine. It was real. It was so real that it hurt and Bray was elated in the moment but also in pain. Some part of him that wasn't sloshing around in wine knew that he didn't really want it to happen this way—drunk, barely coherent, stuttering out vagaries. He wasn't a starry-eyed child with some fictional idealized notion of what sex ought to be, but he wanted to be sober in the moment. He wanted what was about to happen next to be a conscious effort, a decision that they made together because in their heart of hearts they respected and loved one another and were ready to commit to each other.

Instead, he was drunk. His inhibitions were ground-level. And while Bray couldn't make himself regret it completely, that moment when Jack paused gave him pause too. But. His body was already teased to unbearable tension. He could see that Jack wanted this too—wanted him—and it was such an exhilarating feeling. Wanted. Needed. That was everything Bray had been searching for and here was Jack handing it to him on a silver platter.

How could he refuse?

"But we—" They were already there and in position. Bray frowned, puzzled, as he was tugged up. He nuzzled Jack and sighed as he got unsteadily to his feet, clinging to him and vaguely aware that his shirt was hanging off his shoulders. Absently Bray pulled it back on properly and stumbled in the general direction of his bedroom.

"Jack? Is—is one condom enough?" He asked with a stupid laugh, head high up in the clouds. Well, they were finally going to do it, and there seemed to be no going back. Bray latched on to him with a tipsy foolish smile. The warnings faded; he was spinning again, kissing Jack clumsily as the sides of his legs bumped the low bed, hands going every which way because he couldn't decide on a place to start exploring. "I-I only have one. So."

[Jack Ripley]

"One should be enough. Unless you wanted to go three rounds or something."

He winked at the idea, somehow keeping his tone light even though his entire body felt like it was burning for more. Should he have stopped things where they were at? Jack just knew he didn't want to fuck Brayden on the floor of his living room. He was tipsy, not full on drunk. But Brayden... Brayden could barely stand straight, let alone walk in a steady line.

In the back of his mind, Jack had a fear of regretting this moment. Worse still, he worried that Brayden would regret it.

But he didn't--he couldn't sit still and think too hard about it. Brayden was ready. Jack was ready. There was nothing skeezy going on, not that he knew of. Although he did have his suspicions about the origins of the wine. Somebody out there definitely gave it to him. Brayden wouldn't know a good wine if it hit him in the head. Or would he? Was it a leftover from his past relationship? Jack didn't want to know, he decided.

"One's enough," Jack reiterated, reaching up to pull Brayden's shirt off. It had already been half falling off before Brayden tried to fix it. But it needed to go. Jack let it fall somewhere beside the bed, gently kicking it aside as he lowered his gaze. His hands moved to the front of Brayden's pants, opening then, sliding them down, then gently climbing over Brayden, tipping him back onto the bed as he did so.

"Where is it?" he whispered, his naughty hands already on Brayden, already continuing where they'd left off in the living room. Brayden was warm, when his hands connected with skin--a whole different sensation than touching him over his underwear. And his hands, they knew what they were doing when it came to touching a man.

"And please tell me you have lube." He arched a brow at Brayden. Because Jack hadn't come here prepared for any fucking, he didn't have any on him. If he'd been coming back from the club, luck would have been on Brayden's side. But he wasn't. He came here straight from his apartment, expecting nothing but card games, silly overtures of junior high style flirting, and popcorn. Not... this. Definitely not this.

[Brayden Smith]

"Three?" Oh no, one condom definitely wasn't enough for three rounds unless they wanted to reuse it and—ugh. It didn't take a sober man to know that that was a disgusting idea. Bray shook his head and Jack went out of focus for a moment. Then three of him appeared, rotating around and around one another, before merging into one. One Jack who had magically removed his clothes and pushed him onto the bed.

"It's—ah—in the-the..." Bray panted, not used to so much stimulus. He pointed to the worn bedside table. "Top drawer."

One single condom in there, unused for... a long time. A long, long time. Bray didn't even want to think of how long it had been since he had anyone in this bed. He didn't even have a pet to cuddle up with—the apartment rules forbade pets, even ones in cages. The only thing he took to bed was himself and... in recent days, that little chocolate Jack gave to him, now sitting innocently back on the windowsill.

As for lube? "Uh." Bray finally snapped out of it long enough to give thought to lube. "Mmmaybe," he slurred, turning his gaze to the drawer. There might be half a little thing of lube in there—again, from a long time ago. Back when he was dating Wyatt, there was lube and condoms in there but to be honest, they weren't intimate that often either. Wyatt, he... had other people for that. Bray knew it and silently swallowed his hurt, letting Wyatt do what he wanted out of desperation not to lose him.

Don't think.

Feeling the pain welling up again, he grabbed on to Jack's face with both of his hands and kissed him—suddenly, hard, desperately. His hands clawed at clothing, removing the last of them. No more Wyatt. Jack was here now. Jack wouldn't hurt him. Ever. Bray didn't know how he knew that, but he knew. Jack wasn't anything like Wyatt. Bray's leg hooked over Jack's waist as the kisses melted into something a little softer, as the edge of his panic became nothing more than a blunt, vague memory. When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but love—his love for Jack, Jack's affection for him.

"Oh Jack," he murmured, reaching down, sliding a hand between their heated bodies. Bray touched velvet heat and stroked it slowly, memorizing its weight and the shape of him, the way he felt, hot and ready against his palm. He licked his lips—nervous, excited, anticipatory. "I need you, Jack." Condom or not, lube or no lube, Bray was more than willing to have Jack any way he could.

[Jack Ripley]

Three was just an arbitrary number Jack threw out there. He didn't actually expect Brayden to go with it. It was amusing to watch him think about it, though, as if he thought Jack was serious. Did Brayden even have that kind of stamina? Jack only did if he was super high and that... that wasn't happening anymore. He'd given that shit up. Alcohol didn't always help the libido, either.

But a little bit didn't hurt. It certainly woke Brayden up. (Never mind the slurring speech and the uncoordinated way he moved.)

"When's the last time you had sex?" Jack asked in equal tones of exasperation and astonishment. A man--most men, in his opinion and his experience--didn't go without sex for very long. Even that whole blue ball month challenge--what did they call it again? It was a challenge because men didn't like going a full month without being, well. Fucked. Or fucking something. (Some men would have staunchly refused to say they liked being fucked but oh well. Their loss.)

Jack was about to search the drawer that Brayden's drunken gaze turned to but found himself suddenly grabbed. Not by the cock or balls. By the face. Both hands, even. Jack blinked at the sudden ferocity in the kiss. Desperation? Whatever it was, he liked it. A soft and muffled laugh escaped his throat as they kissed. There was that leg again, as if Brayden was worried Jack was going to leave him high and dry.

"Brayden--" he started but there were more kisses. Soft kisses. A hand between them. "Oh..." Jack groaned and closed his eyes, smiling as Brayden felt him up, with an inexpert touch but a curious one. Careful. Almost like he was trying to methodically memorize everything about the feel of Jack, from size to length to weight. Jack bit his lower lip. And here all he'd done was fondle Brayden in his excitement.

Parting Brayden's legs with a hand at his thigh, he took him in with darkened hazel eyes. Desire was evident in the light of his eyes and he felt his breath catching as he beheld Brayden. Gently, he slid his hand over Brayden's chest, leaning in. As he kissed him, he pressed him back against the bed.

"I don't want to hurt you."

[Brayden Smith]

The last time he had sex... If Jack wanted a day or month, Bray couldn't say. But he could name the year—that was how long of a drought that he was going through at the moment. Casual encounters weren't for Bray. He couldn't see himself sleeping with just anyone, just to satiate a physical urge. When things got desperate, Bray took things into his own hand (ahem).

Or he wrote admittedly shameful smut that never saw the light of day.

It was a geeky thing to do, it was an embarrassing thing to do but it gave him an outlet for those certain urges. He didn't feel completely satisfied but it was good enough. Arguably Bray never had a rampant libido and intimacy and romance went hand-in-hand for him. So the dry spell continued until tonight, and maybe he could be forgiven for being a touch... eager.

"A little over... three years," he mumbled, finding the fact that Jack mentioned going three times amusing in his drunken state. Three was the magic number! He laughed and a part of him was dying at the admission, but most of him was just... far gone. So gone.

And things kept happening. Bray had a hard time keeping up with Jack on a normal day but right now with his mental faculties... diminished, he was completely left behind. There were the kisses, his own rising panic, Jack... That little noise that shot straight to Bray's groin and banished any doubts he might have had. Jack's smile, his pleased smile when Bray touched him. Oh Jack, Jack... just Jack. He was achingly beautiful, still glorious in his imperfection and despite the deep-seated pain that drove him to vice, and it made Bray's heart throb unbearably to think that they had come so far.

But there were also Jack's cautious hands and worried eyes; there was desire there too, and his kisses lit Bray on fire. He tried resisting against the hand at his chest. "Hurt me?" Bray laughed again softly. "No... no no Jack no. Hurt... no. Pain is... is a part of life. I'm used to it. I can—I can handle it. It's not gonna be forever. Pain in the ass is... fleeting." His hand flew through the air. Fleeting.

That was philosophical on some drunk level, he thought. Anyway a sore ass was worth this. Jack was worth any amount of pain.

[Jack Ripley]

"Three years, Brayden?" Jack could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "Three fucking years? Well," he said with a slight change of expression, "not three fucking years. Three non-fucking years."

How did a man last so long without going insane? How was Brayden so nice? He should have been the grouchiest asshole on the planet. Lack of sex certainly made Jack irritable. Sex was his favorite way to feel good. It was free and it was a kind of affection and most drugs just couldn't produce that same feeling a really good orgasm did. So how? How was Brayden not snapping people's heads off and chain smoking?

Brayden also seemed resistant to the idea of being laid down onto his back on his own bed, resisting Jack's gentle push and staying put. Did he not want this now? Was he changing his mind? Fuck. Was he... did he... Was he too drunk after all? And sobering up was getting into his head?

"Shh shh shh..." Jack stroked Brayden's cheek. "Don't. Don't say that pain is a part of life."

There was an unexpected edge to his voice when he said it; but he didn't want to hear those words coming from Brayden. Life is pain, Jack. Learn to live with it. Those were the words of a woman too thin, with haggard hazel eyes and a permanently downturned mouth. Sitting on the porch in her drab sweats and a t-shirt three sizes too big, shouting insults at laughing teenagers. They weren't the words of a man like Brayden.

Three years. It would hurt. Jack wanted to promise it wouldn't hurt but it would. Brayden hadn't flexed those muscles in a long time. It took time, experience, and lube for it to feel really good. Slowly, he stroked Brayden, caressed his cock as lovingly as he caressed his face.

"You're drunk," Jack said, a tinge of sadness in his tone. "And horny. So you think you don't care if it hurts but believe me, you'll care." He lifted his head, imperious as ever. "But fret not, Brayden Smith." His smile was mischievous as he glanced downward, then leaned in to deliver another kiss, a deep kiss, one that ended with a flourish of tongue. His voice was low and soft as he thumbed the head of Brayden's increasingly agitated cock.

"I have other... talents." He smiled as he licked his lips for emphasis. His hand slid back up over Brayden's chest, again gently pushing at him. "Now lay back or you're going to regret it."

[Brayden Smith]

After three years of seeing no action, Bray was going to either be a serial killer or he was going to overcome that trial, learn to live with it and get on with his life. Thankfully perhaps for everyone else in his life, the latter occurred—and not the former. He was too mild-mannered, anyway, to flip his lid and start knifing people at random.

Jack's astonishment was only met with drunk resignation. Yeah, three non-fucking years. Right on the dot. Bray wasn't interested in the usual embarrassed, ashamed feelings that came with a topic like this, though. He felt good and his armor of red wine protected him from judgment!

"Sorry. Sorry." Don't say that? Yes sir! Bray was in no fit state to question it. Pain was irrelevant. Jack was everything. He sighed as he laid back at Jack's insistence, laughing at his sudden Kingly tone. Mmm... kiss... Bray chased after him but he was gone again, taking his magical lips with him. "Hm. Other talents?" Like... getting painkillers for people? That was a skill. Walking unhampered? Definite skill. Bray nodded obediently and let his head rest on the pillow—the one with the old, faded pillowcase he couldn't bear to throw away because it reminded him of his mom.

There was so much in the apartment that was old, worn, faded, aged. Sentimentality was one thing but Bray held on far too tightly to things that it probably wasn't all that healthy. And he knew it. He knew his apartment, while cozy and homey, could do with a bit of an update. Strange, how content he was with what he had—until Jack showed up. After Jack showed up it wasn't so hard to throw away a chipped glass or a ruined cushion anymore, or to see things for what they were—just things.

Bray mused on that as he watched Jack, seeing him through a fine haze of overwhelming affection. His eyes were soft, his expression thoughtful. (His boner, though... raging. Three years.) Jack fixed him, didn't he? Took away his need to hang on deathly tight to material possessions, cleared that blockage in his heart and allowed him to live and feel like a normal person again. Jack really did save him, and Bray was too drunk and not eloquent enough to express that.

"You—you make miracles happen." There was wonder and marvel in his tone as he ran a hand absently up Jack's thigh, liking the way it felt warm and firm. "Let's go 'n buy new furniture. Later." Obviously later—right now they were doing something even more important: fixing Bray's blue balls.

[Jack Ripley]

"Yes." Other talents. There were several ways to get off with another man that had nothing to do with fucking him in the back door. Not that he didn't want to; he did. But there was time enough for that. There was time for that, was there not? Jack didn't see anything barring the way for them to be... together. He could take his time, make it feel good. But after three years, nobody could have that kind of patience. So... and hence? Other talents.

Slowly, he lowered his head. There was an art to this, an art to pleasure, an art to being with somebody in a sensual, affectionate, dare he say it--loving?--manner. There was a nuance to it that wasn't simply sexually charged. And so his lips traversed over the soft, warm expanse of skin laid bare before him, in no particular rush. But he could feel it. The electricity in the air. Attraction. Mutual attraction. Need and desire. Desperation, especially from Brayden.

"Honey, I have no idea what you're talking about." Furniture? What did that have to do with miracle working?

Jack teased a little. A flick of a tongue over a nipple, an agonizingly slow stroke of the hand down his hip and inward. Brayden felt more than ready in his hand. A trail of heated kisses and gentle nips, soft flicks of the tongue, and he was there, nuzzling the warm weight that nestled between Brayden's legs. He kissed the tip as reverently as he had kissed Brayden's temple before, another kiss, another. And then lips glided over him, tongue slid down his shaft, and his hands, his hands were occupied. One at Brayden's hip. The other... holding onto Brayden's hand with his fingers intertwined. An innocent gesture and a sultry gesture. Somehow... it just seemed... appropriate.

Normally, Jack wasn't the one doing this part. Most of the time, other people were the ones going down on him. But Jack still knew. Still had... the talent for it. He knew what he was doing; the best part of being a man who loved men was the fact that he knew what a man wanted. Where they wanted to be touched. How hard. There were exceptions to every rule but... in general, he knew what felt good. When not to go too far. Brayden was new territory; he didn't know how far was too far for a man who had been celibate for years. Anything would probably have been good enough for him. Even a sad hand job might have been enough.

But Jack didn't want to go in half hearted--and he didn't. He parted Brayden's legs and he fucked him--with his mouth. Took him in as deep as he could go. His tongue was relentless, tasting every part of him, delighting when he felt Brayden becoming harder with every bob of the head, every swirl of the tongue. Becoming wet for him. He could taste that, too, running his tongue over his weeping slit, tasting it in the back of his throat when he slid Brayden's cock deep inside.

He stopped only for a moment to breathe, swallowing his taste, licking his lips. Glancing up at Brayden, he held onto his inner thigh, stroking, massaging, kissing the warm hollow between. Fuck, he could hardly breathe, couldn't take in a single breath without tasting him, smelling him.

"Brayden," he whispered like a gentle prayer to some god he never thought existed. Another kiss, a nip to the thigh. And then his lips were around Brayden again, fucking him with his mouth in earnest while his hand slipped down between those parted legs, to massage him elsewhere, to get him ready for some eventuality that he could really only dream of. But he could feel it. The heat. The receptiveness. How ready Brayden really was. Maybe he wouldn't have cared if Jack just fucked him. Maybe there was some type of muscle memory that opened him up to that kind of touch. Maybe he touched himself that way. Jack didn't know but he knew this: Brayden was opening up to him. His legs, his body, his heart. Even as his mouth worked so-called miracles, his fingertips were finding new ones to spark. If he could have his way, he would explore every inch of Brayden in one night, memorize every single part of him, inside and out. Body and soul.

[Brayden Smith]

"Hmm..." His smile was whimsical as he followed Jack's descent with mild bemusement. It hadn't clicked into place yet, what Jack was about to do. Bray's drunk mind went to one place and one place only and at any rate, he had never been adventurous in his love life. Or, rather, he'd never had partners willing to show him the way. Bray himself was open to experimentation, once coaxed into it, and if his partner was so interested.

Sex as Bray knew it was an emotional connection. He didn't know how his partners treated it, knew to some extent that for a number of them he was the vehicle to them getting off in a pinch, but it didn't stop him from being a dreamer. A believer. He had to believe that there was more to sex than a man with his cock up another man's ass, thrusting away. There had to be more than that. If someone was willing to let another man enter him—inside him, into the most intimate part of him—then how could it just be biological? How could anyone not open their hearts, entrust their partners? That was an intimate connection all of its own class.

That was probably why sex created so many problems for people. Why people claimed that there was no such thing as no-strings-attached sex. For Bray, every time was its own experience, something to be treasured. He took something different away from each encounter and that was just how he was: sentimental, emotional. Needy, one of his exes said, but he didn't know how not to be... himself.

Tonight, he needed this. He needed Jack to be kind, to be gentle and loving and patient with him. He was vulnerable, more so because he was so drunk that he didn't know up from down or left from right. And Jack was all of that and more. Bray trusted him implicitly. He squeezed Jack's fingers as a hand slid into his and he smiled again, finally getting it. Jack was going to—ah...

In his entire life, Bray hadn't had many people willing to go down on him. Most men enjoyed having it done to them, though. Bray did too. His head fell back heavily against the pillow, then lifted so that he could watch Jack. Ah. The sight of him slipping low, finally settling down between his legs... Bray didn't know what kinds of sounds he made but he was sure they were embarrassingly wanton and needy. The breath left him all in one huge burst and after that he never caught it back. He kept gasping, lungs burning, and the hand that didn't clutch Jack's tightly was wrapped around a fistful of sheets, tugging on it as his body tensed, shuddered, tensed again.

There was no doubt that Jack was good. His mouth, his tongue, they were godly. But it was the hand in his that Bray remembered, that kept standing out. It was the way Jack looked at him whenever their gazes matched, the look on his face—not long-suffering, not merely doing this to get it over with and get Bray off. He... What he did, it was out of love. It was that emotional connection that Bray had been searching for, the knowledge that someone was with him because they saw into his imperfect heart and still thought he was worth sticking around for.

It felt like an angel had wrapped its wings around his body when he finally came, with an arch of the back, a toss of the head, a shivering cry of release and relief. His heels dug hard into the mattress and briefly his thighs clenched and tensed around Jack, then fell away abruptly. Bray melted into the bed in a puddle, completely boneless and spent. Three years of solitude undone in one night? If that wasn't a miracle, he didn't know what was.

Slowly, with his eyes still closed, he reached down and touched an ear, some soft hair, maybe an eye. He didn't poke Jack or anything, his fingertips merely ghosted over his face, exploring the topography of his face in the darkness behind his closed eyelids. "Jack?" Bray opened his eyes and smiled. He felt so full, despite being so spent. His heart was full and his eyes, for some reason, were also full of warmth and wetness. Oh, it was the wine, wasn't it? It had to be the wine.

[Jack Ripley]

Jack Ripley was a man of many talents. Many of those talents were understated. He had a naturally nice head of hair but he knew how to manipulate it to look nicely coiffed. The universe blessed with him a tall, slim body that was nice to look at and he'd been told on many an occasion that he had a nice ass. (Thank you.) His eyes were a nice, soft hazel color--probably the best gift his mother ever gave him.

Nature and the universe had come together to make something of him, and he used what he had to fine effect. He wore clothing that suited him, from color to cut to fabric. He chose a rather bored and regal affectation to his expressions to impress upon the world that he was there for himself, not for anybody else. That nobody should dare he think he dressed to kill for anybody or anything beyond what he preferred, what he liked, what he found to his own taste.

That talent was a mixture of his birthright and his upbringing. Nobody would ever have guessed he lived his life in squalor as a child because he didn't want them to. There would never be cause for a person to ever even have a passing thought of it. Jack Ripley wanted people to see him, to notice him, to drink him in, to adore him, to emulate him, but to never be him. Because he was Jack Ripley. Nobody could be Jack... except Jack.

But Jack also had other talents. One of his talents rather bothered him for portions of his life. Jack was an observer of people. And innately, he could easily place himself into the shoes of another person, he just didn't like that he could. It gave him a conscience. And unlike so much documentation about people like him, Jack had a strong sense of empathy. For without it, he could never learn to feel so much as he did when he was young and strove for acceptance. He wasn't just echoing the motions of others. He did feel them. He felt his feelings and he felt theirs. He did his best with what he had. He left the plates of food for the mother who never fed him. He silently brought the beer to the man that shoved him face first into his bed and hurt him.

He could cook. Clean. Sew. He could read and write, quite eloquently. He had a million concoctions for hangovers. He knew how to insert a needle into his arm, how to snort coke, and how to fuck a man until he couldn't see straight. He could dance. He could sing. He could kiss and cuddle. He had whole passages of books on philosophy memorized, could recite certain poems from heart, and knew how to diagnose a schizophrenic or a sociopath.

Jack Ripley truly was a man of many talents.

And he was happy--ecstatic even--that one of those talents made somebody feel like he was their miracle. Jack liked it better than monster. He could abide by that title. But monster... made him feel black and dark inside, opening that hollow emptiness. Miracle, though. Miracle made him feel bright as a star. Bright and shiny and new. Like things could be Good. And they could be Kind. And that maybe--just maybe--magic and love and real, true happiness--were things that existed. That stars were entities and not hunks of rock hurtling through space.

Jack was not spent but he was more than happy. Happier than he thought could be possible, for having blown a guy until he got off and leaving his own body wanting. Jack could sometimes be a selfish lover and he knew that. But he certainly hadn't been selfish tonight.

For a long moment, he stayed where he was, with the taste of Brayden still fresh in his mouth, coating his throat, filling him inside like an emotion that could not be captured nor defined. Something sad but sweet, something bigger than him. He stayed in that place, that emotion, let it wash over him, let himself feel it, rather than blocking it out. And his eyes closed. His head dropped back, his lips parted on a sigh.

He could feel Brayden's hands, seeking him out, reaching for him. He could hear him, too. Even in his memory, the sounds that he made, the way his body moved. It was all there, stamped into his memory. Burned there. Branded and tattooed.

And then he opened his eyes and he breathed in. He slid up, curling his body against Brayden's. For once, content just to be in the presence of another person. To just. Be. And then he noticed the tears and his heart thumped in his ears and his throat. He reached for him, turning Brayden's face to him in both hands, thumbs attempting to make amends, to ameliorate any pain he'd inadvertently caused. Which was odd to him because Brayden was smiling and he had the smile of a heartbreaker, if he only just knew it.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, genuinely alarmed. Had he disassociated in the moment?

[Brayden Smith]

Two hearts forever, a spark and a flame, that was how they felt in the moment. That was why Bray had tears in his eyes but a serene smile on his face. Everything in his life was finally coming back into focus and the colors, they were all back, brighter and more vivid than ever. He felt alive again. Truly, breathtakingly alive, not because Jack gave him a blow job after three years of virtual celibacy, but because he took the time and the effort and the care and attention to do it. And because they had finally done what Bray couldn't ask for while sober, which was to be together.

"No, no, you didn't hurt me," he said as his face was turned to Jack, blinking when thumbs swept under his eyes. Bray laughed, sniffled, clung to Jack as though he couldn't ever bear to let go. "I'm just. Drunk." Drunk on that sweet, dark red wine, drunk on the high of orgasm, drunk on the feel of Jack's body curled up against his and the heat of his hands on Bray's face.

Drunk on love, something he had all but given up on. Love didn't give up on him, apparently. It was only biding its time, waiting for Jack to come along before shooting its arrow straight to the core of Bray's heart.

"I'm really drunk, Jack," whispered Bray as though it was their dirty little secret. He hadn't been drunk since... oh, maybe freshman year, and even then it was an accident. He didn't know the punch was spiked and he woke up very sore in the nether regions. Bray never told anyone about that, though; he buried it away, ashamed that he had lost something he considered precious in such a crude and loveless way. But that and this, the two were night and day. Bray didn't even know his assailant from back then; he sure as hell would always remember Jack.

Turning fully into Jack, he slid a leg overtop of his lazily. Bray felt floaty and amazing. He nuzzled against Jack and his questing lips sought out Jack's lips, kissed him at first chastely, then... less so. Bray's hand had a mind of its own, too, wandering across his side, up his back, over the jut of a shoulder blade and then alllll the way down past the small of his back. "I think I got..." He paused for another kiss, languorous and unhurried. "I got the brightest star. And I dunno how. I dunno how that happened." Bray's laugh was still silly, tipsy. "I love stars, Jack. I love 'em."

[Jack Ripley]

"...and being drunk... makes you cry?"

Now that Jack was looking him in those eyes, he didn't think it was just being drunk. But he didn't think they were pained tears, either, as he first feared. Brayden was... happy? Overwhelmed, maybe. Jack could feel it; he felt the same way. Maybe that explained the warmth behind his eyes and the tightness in his throat. Overwhelmed with happiness. Disbelief, maybe, that he could even feel something so so so strongly that it swept him under and away, and all he could do was let it wash him clean. Pure. Whilst he curled up beside his lover like a youngling for comfort.

"I know you are," he whispered back, his gaze still searching Brayden's gaze. He was very drunk. It affected the moment. The mood. Jack didn't even know if Brayden would recall any of this or if it would be awash in a haze of red wine and the afterglow of a long overdue orgasm.

He was glad, though. That he controlled himself. That he decided against fucking Brayden into the mattress. That he didn't cause him any harm. Patience was hardly his strong suit, he would say. But he could be. And he would be.

In the moment, he appreciate the hands that roved and wandered and the lips that sought his. And he reveled in the kisses, from the chaste to the sultry. Nuzzles, he found, were the best. His arm wound round Brayden, holding him closer. His eyes fluttered close for a kiss. Half opened as Brayden spoke in hushed tones about stars. Brayden really did love his stars.

"You should've been an astrologer. Or astronomer. An astronaut. Something with an astro in it." He touched Brayden's chin, tipping it down so he could kiss him again. "And I--" he declared. "Would be the lonely star nobody else discovered. Everybody thought it was a black hole. Even... the black hole."

[Brayden Smith]

"You're very long," was Bray's completely serious nonsensical response to Jack's question, as he found that his arms only reached down so far and he couldn't get to the rest of Jack. Being drunk didn't make him cry but being emotionally satiated in a way that he had never experienced, that might do it. If he thought he had been in love before, he was wrong. He had never felt anything remotely close to the way he felt for Jack—drunk or sober, but especially sober. Being drunk only helped him to be more expressive, albeit clumsily; it didn't fundamentally alter the basis of his feelings.

He did love stars. He loved them when he was small and when he believed earnestly that he had a lucky star. He turned to them for comfort when he was left alone at night with a cold spot in the bed beside him, while his lover was out enjoying himself at parties and at clubs. He sat under the stars wrapped up in a blanket, trying to count them all, whenever he felt down or blue. No one could stay sad when so many bright eyes were winking down at them.

Jack was his brightest star, though. The way he made Bray feel outshone any of the other stars, comforting though they were. They couldn't hold a candle to Jack. He knew there was something special about Jack when he first saw him but he didn't know just how special, how much Jack would come to mean to him. Bray always did feel that he was put here on Earth—in Hazleton—for someone. To live for someone, to love someone—to live for and love Jack.

"Astro-nut," Bray laughed stupidly, and thankfully it was cut off by another soft kiss. Humming quietly in the back of his throat, he nuzzled Jack after the kiss naturally ended and stroked a hand over his dark hair. So pretty, his hair. Or—not pretty. Stylish. Not a hair out of place, perfectly coiffed. "You're not a black hole. Those things... they pull everything in and... then... there's nothing. You, Jack. You. You make miracles so you're. A star. And I love stars. I love stars."

The tip of Bray's nose nuzzled the tip of Jack's. Up close, he only saw a blur, but the beautiful clear hazel color of Jack's eyes wasn't blurry. Bray smiled foolishly. "That means. You know what that means right?"

[Jack Ripley]

Pft, what? Did Brayden just call him long? What was he supposed to do with that? Was it a compliment or some kind of comment on his height? Jack had never been hung up on his height so he was going to consider that a compliment. (As he did with anything questionable, lean toward the favorable outcome, always.)

"Mhm." He was very long. Did Brayden have anything else to enlighten Jack with? He waited but no, he was making stupid jokes and laughing at himself. Jack laughed too because he wasn't completely unaffected by the wine--or the sound of Brayden's laughter. Forget Jack's blow jobs; Brayden's laugh was the real miracle. It could cure anything. Anything.

Jack smiled in pure contentment. His kisses too, were a panacea.

"I get it, B. You LOVE stars." And he was a black hole but he wasn't. What Brayden described sounded like him though, as a black hole. Something attractive but dark, destroying everything that came into its orbit. His smile slowly vanished at the thought and he lowered his gaze. But Brayden didn't think he was a black hole and maybe black holes could become stars again. (They could.)

"Hm. What does that mean?" He spoke the words before he really let the words sink in. Alcohol, being a depressant, he was just going to blame his slow thought on that. Or maybe he just didn't expect it. So soon. So fast. But... not unwelcome. Jack immediately sat up, so fast that the world spun for a few seconds. Then he dropped down to prop himself up on his elbow. He placed a finger to Brayden's lips.

"Shh. Don't say it if you don't mean it."