Pick your poison

[Brayden Smith]

Time, time, time. What was time? Time was fluid. It was a hassle and a hindrance. It was painful, stretching on and on forever, and it was a curse, fleeting during the best and most exciting moments. Time wasn't a prerequisite for love. Bray--conservative, reserved Brayden--wasn't hung up so much on the length of time that it took to fall in love with someone. Love was the one thing that time didn't apply to.

Because he knew different kinds of love--parental love, the love of a childhood friend, unrequited love and pure, sweet love born from pain--he knew that time in the context of love was irrelevant. He could be in love with Jack after a week, a month of knowing him. All that mattered was that he did love him. His heart was clear on that point and Bray was uncomplicated that way. He had no ulterior motives, no selfish reasons for doing anything; his love was pure and straightforward. Real. It was real.

It felt real. Very real. And he had to tell Jack that before the courage drained out of his veins! Once the words were out, they could never be taken back and that... that was a good thing. He couldn't back-track if he said it now. But Jack, he seemed... shocked? Bray let out a low grunt as Jack sat up so suddenly that he got shoved over. "Wha?" He stared up at Jack staring down at him.

The bed bounced. Jack was back and Bray immediately latched on. "Mm..." Hard to talk with a finger at his lips. He pulled the hand down. "I don't say stuff... to SAY stuff." Bray sighed and put the hand back, mumbling against it, "I'll... tell you again when I'm not tipsy. I'll tell you."

[Jack Ripley]

A drunk man said a lot of things he didn't mean later. A drunk man post orgasm was even more likely to say things he didn't mean. Things like I love you. Love was a word that was abused and thrown around. Jack didn't even know what to feel about it sometimes, starving for it, longing for it, needing it like any human being, like a flower stretching to the sun.

Jack wanted to hear it. He really, really wanted to hear it. But he only wanted to hear it if Brayden actually meant it. Not the wine, not the sex talking. Just... Brayden. Nothing else influencing him.

He remained as he was, propped up while Brayden clung onto him and mumbled words against his finger. Jack thought again about stars and Brayden's obsession with them. He thought about how black holes were just stars that collapsed in on themselves but there were theories that they could reform back into a star. Maybe that was where Jack was now. Reborn into a new star form, no longer doomed to suck people into his orbit and... remove them from this life.

"If you remember," he said sadly, "you can tell me as many times as you want."

Brayden said it himself, though. He was so drunk. So, so drunk. Jack slid his arm down across the bed, stretching it out in front of him so he could rest his head against his own upper arm. And he looked at Brayden, watching him, studying his expression. He moved his finger from Brayden's lips, wrapped his arm around Brayden and drew him in close again. His chin gently rested against the top of Brayden's head.

"But I love you too."

[Brayden Smith]

Jack sounded so sad. It was a joyous occasion but he was sad and even Bray's drunk brain registered that. Softly he kissed Jack, right at the hollow of his throat, having found himself drawn in close. "Don't be sad," he whispered against the warm, soft, vulnerable spot. Bray's arm slipped around Jack too and his closed his eyes. That silly wet heat was back when he opened them and he didn't know why, couldn't control his own emotions in that moment.

It was a joyous occasion.

"Please don't be sad, Jack," he murmured as his eyes closed again and as he nuzzled against Jack and snuggled against him. Wa1rm, satiated, cocooned in warmth and love and finally with Jack in his bed, he felt good. The heat behind his eyes went away. The knot in his throat smoothed out. His heart beat returned to normal and his breathing evened out. Bray had a lot more to say, things his sober mouth filtered out, but he couldn't help himself. The alcohol, the—ah—physical exertions, the sheer relief of knowing that Jack felt the same way, all of it soothed him and lured him into the land of dreams.

That night, Bray didn't dream and he didn't enter anyone else's dream, either. It was unusual but the alcohol dampened some of his powers and he was able to sleep easy through the night. In the morning, something buzzing and tinkling woke him. He opened his eyes to pain. "Ohh..." His mouth was bone-dry, too, and his head was splitting apart. Bray clumsily pushed away from the warmth surrounding him, felt a—chest?

"Jack?" He froze. That was Jack. Jack naked Jack. Under the covers he felt Jack's body pressed intimately to his own. His own naked body. Bray collapsed back onto his pillow in a state of shock, trying to remember what happened the night before, but all he recalled between the jackhammers pounding away inside his skull was... something about astronauts and long people.

(Awww Jack. <3 Cutie)

[Jack Ripley]

"Am I...?" he asked into the ether. Was he sad? He was sad. Why was he sad? It didn't make much sense to be so sad when he should have been filled with elation. Don't think. No time to think. He closed his eyes and did his best not to. Hard not to reach for something that would make the thoughts more bearable but he didn't. Eventually, the thoughts silenced themselves and he fell into a restless sleep.

He dreamed.

He nightmared. The word wasn't a verb but it should have been.

Somebody he thought he loved. The first time he uttered the words. A beautiful boy with a beautiful smile and the achingly sweet naivety of somebody who hadn't yet been touched by the darkness of the world. Jack thought he loved him. He loved him so much that it hurt sometimes just to look at him. But he didn't know what it was, really. Love was an illusion that he kept chasing after, like those shooting stars as a kid.

His entire body jerked back into the real world when he heard his name. Heart racing, he opened his eyes to a bedroom. A clean bedroom, if made up of threadbare furniture. Stiffly, he raised his hands up to see that they were clean, too. That the person speaking to him was not who he thought it was.

Plop. Brayden dropped down against the pillow beside him. Jack blinked away sleep and turned his head toward him. The expression on Brayden's expression did not bode well. Slowly, Jack placed the back of his fingers against Brayden's cheek.

"Don't."

[Brayden Smith]

He—oh, his head... He wanted to remember but he couldn't and that was actually frightening. That was incredibly frightening. Bray didn't know what sort of expression he had in that moment—terrified, shocked, in disbelief—but he couldn't control his feelings. The last time he woke up with a gap in his memory, it wasn't a good time. It was a long time ago, but that didn't mean the incident didn't stay with him, didn't shape the way he viewed alcohol.

The wine. Marge's wine. And—

A hand at his cheek stopped his spiralling thoughts in their tracks. Bray's eyes turned to Jack, a little unfocused. Jack. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped as a wave of emotion suddenly overwhelmed him. That was right. Jack... it was Jack laying with him, not a stranger. Not someone with bad intentions, someone out to hurt him.

"Jack." Bray reached up a shaky hand to grasp onto his wrist, gulping, calming himself through sheer force of will alone. Don't. Think. He breathed out. Breathed in deep, held it for five, slowly let it out. "Jack," he said again, almost marvelling at the name, the word, the man. "I-oh. We. Did we..."

Game night? Cards. Some type of clumsy amateurish flirting happened, he remembered that and his face warmed. Oh dear. "Date night?" It was asked tentatively, as though he wanted to know how much Jack remembered.

[Jack Ripley]

They were so naked that Jack didn't feel like it was even worth saying that yes, something happened between them. Now more than ever, Jack was relieved that he didn't just follow his body's instincts to fuck. Brayden wasn't harmed in any way, there wouldn't be any regrets on either side. And Brayden... Brayden didn't seem to have a grasp on his memories, which... Jack didn't know how to feel about that. Not good, though. Definitely not good.

"Yes."

He spoke before he gave it thought. But there it was. The game night that became an impromptu date night. Not that it was really much of a date. They drank a little, kissed a lot, and ended up landing in bed together. In general, date nights started out more date-like in Jack's world but they skipped right over the part where they went out somewhere. A club, a restaurant, a bar, whatever.

And he couldn't tell what Brayden thought about it. His expression was so awful that Jack couldn't help feeling guilty for his part in all this. And yet, he hadn't done anything--for once! The wine had never been his idea and he wasn't the one who proposed the idea of date night. Brayden did that on his own. And the wine, he had his suspicions about the wine.

Jack sat up and looked down at Brayden. He didn't remove his wrist from Brayden's hold, since it seemed to offer Brayden some modicum of... He didn't know. Comfort? Reality? Grounding? God, his head hurt too much for thinking.

"...you okay?" he finally asked because he wasn't a mind reader and he honestly couldn't tell where he stood on all this shaky ground.

[Brayden Smith]

Bray was too hungover to feel awkward but at some point he was sure it would hit him. How naked they were, how tightly they were wrapped up in each other's arms when he woke up. It felt like every part of him was enveloped in warmth—scent, touch, sight, everything was Jack in those few brief seconds after he opened his eyes. It felt like they had merged to become one entity.

Right now, though, he was shaking off that horrible flashback and he was dazed and confused. Bray didn't even realize he was holding Jack's wrist still. He looked up at Jack through the haze of pain and he couldn't make out much from Jack's expression either. Slowly, Bray sat up too—but he didn't let go of Jack. "No. Yeah." He shook his head and instantly regretted it.

"I'm fine." He rubbed his face with his free hand, then realized the other one was latched on to Jack and let go. "Sorry. I..." That was where the tracks ran out; his thoughts ended abruptly there. He. He didn't know what to say now, if he should confess that he didn't remember anything. Damnit! Why did he drink the wine? Why did he think it was a good idea?

At the time he wanted to loosen up a little and he didn't think the wine would be so strong! And of course Bray had no idea of his own limits, since he didn't drink. Blinking slowly, he looked at the window where a thin sliver of light was peeking through the drawn blinds. Morning. Bray's head turned back to Jack. "Are you? Okay?"

Jack looked a little pale, too, and tired, like maybe he didn't get much sleep. Nightmares. Bray couldn't forget the one time he walked through Jack's nightmare and saw... what he saw. He swallowed again—hard. During the night he didn't feel anything but... then he remembered promising to wake Jack whenever he had bad dreams. It was one time and they didn't really sleep together again, but...

"Did you have another nightmare?" Bray was pulled in so many directions. Almost distractedly he reached up to pass a hand over Jack's brow, easing back some of his thick dark hair, feeling his temperature—for whatever reason.

[Jack Ripley]

"A little hungover," he said. "Nothing a gallon of water won't take care of."

With a mouth as dry as his currently was, a gallon of water sounded like pure heaven right now. He glanced at the side table but there was no glass of water sitting helpfully nearby. Not that any such thing would have awaited him back home, either. He would have had to make the trek to the kitchen for the water and practically drown himself in it before he took a long shower and started feeling human again.

Wine, such a cruel mistress. Easy to get down, awful the next morning. It looked like the wine had really done a number on Brayden, though, despite Jack having definitely drunk more of it than him. And yet Brayden was reaching out for him, touching him like a mother might touch their child to make sure they weren't ill. Jack was pretty certain he wasn't suffering from any fever, though.

Still, he briefly closed his eyes at the touch, deriving comfort from it.

How did he guess? About the nightmare? Jack sighed as he opened his eyes and edged his gaze away. Why couldn't he just erase the memories of the past, to no longer hold them so heavily on his soul? They were tumors, growing with time, rather than disappearing. Just because he didn't look at them in the face, in the light of day didn't mean that his subconscious wasn't continually wrestling with what he'd done.

Jack swallowed hard. Looked back at Brayden. No point in lying about it. By now, Brayden had to have guessed that his hunch was correct.

"Who knew they would follow me all the way to your place?" he quipped, trying to bring levity to the situation. He cupped Brayden's cheek. Again, he started to speak but thought better of it and only smiled at Brayden before dropping his hand.

[Brayden Smith]

Ah—Jack drank the wine too. There was an odd sense of comfort in that, shockingly. He didn't want Jack to be hungover either but misery did love company. They could be hungover together; thank god it was still the weekend, too, and they didn't have to drag their tired corpses in to work. Bray would just die if he had to do any paperwork in the state he was currently in!

Jack's forehead didn't feel burning hot and Bray was about to drop his hand when Jack closed his eyes. His expression in that moment stayed Bray's hand. It was almost impossible not to feel a surge of longing and-and despair. Bray wanted to kiss him so badly that it formed a ball of physical ache in his chest. He was glad Jack closed his eyes; again, Bray didn't know what sort of expression he would have presented in that moment.

"I'm sorry. I should have woken you." He knew it wasn't his fault but he couldn't help it. He felt so badly. Having a chance to help and not doing it, it felt terrible. Bray turned his cheek into Jack's hand, felt some strange hopeful sensation when Jack opened his lips, then... nothing. Ah. Bray smiled more at his own foolishness than at Jack.

Just because they slept together didn't mean...

No, it didn't mean they were automatically somehow together.

"I'll get you some water. Hold on." Time to go about the business of living. Bray edged off the bed and gently tugged the topsheet with him, though not before throwing an embarrassed look over at Jack. Sure they woke up naked but Bray didn't remember anything. His ass was fine, though, so he assumed Jack was on the receiving end of things and—oh, dear God. Dear God. Bray wrapped the sheet around his waist and scurried for clothes. Jack's clothes were on the floor too—he picked them up and deposited them gingerly on the bed without looking at Jack.

Then he ran for the kitchen with his own clothes in hand.

[Jack Ripley]

"It's not your responsibility," he said with a hint of self-deprecating amusement. Of course not; it was Jack's own responsibility to get these nightmares under control. But they had been with him for years. Since childhood, when his nightmares contained his deep seated fear of abandonment, then evolved into the fear of letting people in too close while simultaneously hungering for just that.

Jack knew without a doubt that he was a bad person. If he brought himself to believe in a god or gods, then he would be resigning himself to an afterlife filled with misery and punishment for all the sins he committed. There were things he left hidden because of the shame. Like the fact that he didn't fight it at all, that first time his mother's boyfriend closed the bedroom door behind him and pushed him into his bed. Jack, sick as he was, wanted the attention so badly that he soaked up whatever attention he got. Somebody wanted to touch him. Somebody wanted him.

But it crumbled pretty quickly, afterward when he was left alone, spent and shamed and mortified. It didn't matter how many times he tried to protect himself from the rest of it. After that one time, all he ever heard was but baby, you liked it so much last time... let me fuck you, you'll forget all about what happened at school. Here, let me help. Give me your arm. It'll pinch for a second but soon, you're going to feel the best feeling you've ever felt. Yes... that's it. Look at you now... You want it... now turn around...

Jack ran a hand over his face, tired and a little shaky. When he looked up again, Brayden was gone and Jack's clothes were sitting there, waiting to be put back on. A dismissal? Jack swallowed hard again. There it was, that awful, terrible burn that resonated, echoed from his heart and outward. From his soul, like an infected wound, burning, throbbing, impossible to ignore.

Slowly, Jack sorted through his clothing and began to slide into the various articles of clothing. He ran a hand over his head. Held his palm against his forehead, much like Brayden did. He half expected a fever to bloom from the depths of his infected soul. Jack was dressed before Brayden made a reappearance. And when he didn't come back, Jack swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet touching the floor hesitantly.

In his mind, their laughter echoed. His heart lurched, aching for the sound to be real. A fool's smile. Brayden almost said it, too. He loved stars. So what did he think that meant, hm, Jack? Forcing himself to his feet, Jack made his way out of the bedroom and poked his way into the bathroom to open up Brayden's medicine cabinet.

Like any medicine cabinet, there were painkillers. Jack shook a couple pills out into his palm, then slammed them back, not even bothering with water. He wandered out of the bathroom with the pill bottle in hand, setting it down on the kitchen counter for Brayden.

"This'll help too," he told Brayden.

[Brayden Smith]

All he needed was some time alone to process what happened or didn't happen or happened but his mind told him didn't happen. Bray was in the kitchen for a long time, putting his clothes on, folding the sheet he'd used to aid in his shameful escape, getting water. A gallon of water, Jack said. Bray only had a 1 litre bottle that he filled with cool water and cut up some slices of lemon to put into it.

It oughtn't have taken him that long but he procrastinated going back. Jack was there. Was he naked? Even now Bray could remember the outlines of his body, his chest, the shapely silhouette of his long limbs. Graceful neck. Beautiful smile. Eyes that smiled, eyes that silently betrayed his pain at those odd moments when he let his guard down--when he was drunk or tipsy.

Bray put a hand to his lower stomach. Imagining Jack naked was fine and all for showers and when he was actually alone, but he didn't want to do that here or now. His head still pounded, too, so he grabbed a glass and downed it, then took up the bottle for Jack. "Oh." When he turned, Jack was there. Dressed. His clothes were a little wrinkled, though, from having sat on the floor all night, but he still looked much more presentable than Bray did--on any given day.

"Thanks." He didn't refuse the painkillers and popped two in his mouth--after reading the bottle again to make sure that, yes, two was the recommended dosage. Had to be sure. Bray pushed the water over to him across the counter. One of the pills stuck in his throat so he refilled his glass again and quickly gulped that down too. Afterwards, he had nothing else to pretend to do so he hung out in the little kitchen area like an idiot, feeling like an idiot, looking beyond Jack at the mess on the floor like an idiot.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Bray was all kinds of an idiot, every single kind of idiot that it was possible for one person to be, that was him. He promised himself that he wouldn't--that he would wait. Be patient. Let Jack know that it was okay to confide in Bray, that he wasn't just out for a good time in bed. He wanted to remember everything, too, if they ever got that far and now there was just a hollow, black void where precious, beautiful memories ought to have been. Bray ran a hand over his forehead, fingers tightening slightly against the top of his head.

"I'm sorry." He closed his eyes but--nothing. No memories. "About last night."

[Jack Ripley]

Why... was there this... strain in the air between them? Jack could sense it. Brayden was so tense. His words sounded short. Clipped. Was he avoiding making any eye contact with him? Jack sighed and leaned his hip against the counter, taking the bottle of water that Brayden held. Without preamble, he tilted his head back and drank greedily. His dehydrated body thanked him. He was sure that his liver also thanked him for the respite from more alcohol.

After a long moment, he set the bottle down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He'd demolished more than half that bottle in moments and his stomach felt uncomfortably full and sloshy. He... was probably going to regret that.

Jack raised his brow and lifted his chin slightly.

"What are you sorry for? There's nothing to be sorry for."

He lightly chucked a hand to Brayden's chin. Nothing to be sorry for at all. It was... good. A little bittersweet but that was life for you. He wished he wasn't right about Brayden not remembering anything but Jack had it there, held in a safe with other memories. At the moment, he couldn't decide if he wanted to cherish them or push them away. His subconscious would hold onto them, though, regardless. It always did.

Moving back and away from Brayden, Jack turned toward the living room and all the cards and tokens that had been scattered during the part of date night that was game night. Slowly, he knelt down and began gathering together the pieces of the game. Flashes of the night before kept coming back to him. Brayden pretending to go for a snack. Knocking everything down. Look, he lost. Date night. The kisses. Jack licked his lips without thinking, then swallowed hard.

Realizing he'd paused, he took in a breath and continued to collect the game pieces together, setting them neatly on the coffee table.

[Brayden Smith]

"There's..." said Bray faintly as Jack chucked him under the chin. Chin up, sport, that seemed to say. It was... artificial. Everything about their interaction was wrong and strange and weird and Bray couldn't stand it.

There was something to be sorry about. There was a lot to be sorry about, like the fact that he thought alcohol could make him brave. Like if he drank a little, his inhibitions wouldn't get in the way of his feelings and he could stop sitting on them. That was a stupid move. Of course he'd get drunk; he didn't know his own limits. The wine was deceptively sweet, it went down smooth and easy and even Jack fell under its spell.

Except Jack could hold his liquor and Bray couldn't, and now things were so, so unnatural.

After a moment of watching Jack picking up pieces of the game, he let out a small noise. A small, fed up noise. Bray, he was so tired of feeling this way. Maybe it was the hangover and the headache shortening his usually even temper, maybe it was just having to hold those feelings so close to his chest. Maybe it was the real fear that whatever steps he made with Jack were disappearing before his eyes.

They were going back to being strangers, awkwardly exchanging meaningless conversation. Things couldn't end this way! Not like this. Bray was over and kneeling beside Jack before he knew it, stopping his hand. "I'm sorry," he began evenly, but his voice shook as he went on, "I don't remember anything. Because I wanted to remember everything and I got drunk and... I'm sorry. I know you said you didn't want a relationship, Jack, so I didn't want to push you into anything. But I... do... I-I want..."

[Jack Ripley]

Jack's hand was stilled and for a long moment, Jack didn't even look up. He only stared at the hand on his, at the handful of cards in his own hand. Why did he keep insisted on apologizing? Brayden was always apologizing for everything--all the little things, things that were really not that important. It was fine that he didn't remember the night before--that wasn't something to be sorry for. He couldn't help that it happened, that he drank too much and blacked it all out.

Slowly, Jack's hazel eyes lifted to meet Brayden's, though the rest of him didn't move. In silence, he listened to Brayden. Tremulous emotion wavered in his voice when he spoke and he tumbled over his words in that just-so way that Jack had come to attribute to Brayden. He thought it was cute. When he was too excited, he did the same thing. It turned out, he did it when he was stressed, too.

Jack blinked. Swallowed hard. Relationships hadn't come up last night. A date, yes. Jumping into a relationship hadn't, of course. One strange date night didn't make a relationship. Slowly, Jack's gaze dropped back to their hands again.

Relationships weren't Jack's strong suit. Past relationships ended in pain, for him, for them. Somebody always seemed to care more than the other person. It was all lopsided. And Jack was a terrible boyfriend. Just terrible. He gave into hedonistic desires--a lot. Because he didn't have true respect for himself, even if he played himself off as such with his careless affect.

Moving his hand away from Brayden, Jack dropped down to sit on his ass, rather than continue kneeling there in front of the table. He rested an arm against his tented knee. And he looked up again, meeting Brayden's gaze.

"My track record as a boyfriend is... less than stellar, Brayden."

[Brayden Smith]

There, he said it. The words tumbled out in a rush because if they didn't—if he took the time to think about what he was saying—they would never come out. Even Bray winced once he stopped babbling, winced visibly, shoulders ticking up, body tensing. Shit. He said that almost nonsensically, and Jack wasn't even moving. That was probably the worst part. Or, no. If he had made a joke out of it...

Bray watched him in silence, heart right up in his Adam's apple. And then when Jack slid his hand away, his heart plummeted. Now it was Jack avoiding his gaze, Jack moving away, sitting down. Bray didn't move. Every muscle was locked in place and he was sure that disappointment featured prominently in his expression. He took a breath, a shaky one, as hazel eyes lifted to his brown. Muddy brown, not very exciting. Not as beautiful as... hazel.

Brayden Smith was by all accounts the most boring man in town. He didn't do things, he didn't try new things, he had a schedule that he stuck to obsessively. His things were kept over many years because inside he was broken and he couldn't let go of anything that once belonged to someone he loved. He loved a lot of people. That meant a lot of things were kept hanging uselessly around, constantly reminding him of people that went out of his life.

And now... Jack was leaving too. Jack was trying to let him down easy but it just made his desperation worse. Ugly. Oh, it was an ugly feeling, an ugly, ugly feeling. Bray shook his head. "But-but Jack. I am too. I know. I know I'm... boring and geeky and. I like card games and I don't even drink. I—" There was a lot that he could say about how bad a boyfriend he was, that people told him over the years as they ground his confidence into the dust.

Jack only ever lifted him up, though.

"Can't we. Try anyway? Jack?"