Pick your poison

[Jack Ripley]

Brayden was a bad boyfriend? Jack watched him as he tumbled over his words again, hurriedly espousing all the terrible things he was as a boyfriend. Boring. Geeky. Gamer. Non-drinker. As if these were crimes, as if these were reasons for people to break up with somebody. Well, maybe the first one. Jack wasn't fond of boring people any more than any person was. But boring was subjective. Jack personally couldn't find Brayden boring. He was far too anxious and enthusiastic and oddly sad to be boring. He was complex. More than it seemed on the surface.

Jack lowered his head, shaking it. All those terrible boyfriend traits paled in comparison to the ones that Jack had hidden up his sleeves. It honestly made him feel physically ill just thinking about it. And he could feel them welling up, shoved to the forefront of his mind where he didn't want them.

His hand reached for the table and he spread the cards out as his hand shot over them.

"I've lied. Cheated. Hurt people." His voice was soft as he continued, flicking his gaze up to watch Brayden. "I fucked Allie twice and I already pushed him toward suicide. We weren't even in a relationship. I'm not who you want me to be, Brayden."

His heart felt heavy saying it, but was it not the truth? He turned his head away from Brayden. He wished he could be all those things that Brayden made him into. That he was really a star. But he was in serious doubt that it took a single person to make that change. Who was he when he wasn't around Brayden, then? The same... monster as before? Did something really change inside him or did he just really, really want it to? He lowered his head, catching his forehead with his palm because he didn't want to look at Brayden and see his face fall or the light in his eyes die out.

But I love you too. He swallowed hard, blinked back a nasty sting in his eyes and swiftly got to his feet. Abandoning the game, he swept his coat up in his arms, his things.

"You can keep the game." Without looking at Brayden, he touched the top of his head, then turned for the door. "I'll see you..." He swallowed again. "At work Monday."

[Brayden Smith]

Couldn't they try? Couldn't they make something beautiful out of the broken shards of them that were still left? Bray wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination and he knew that Jack, too, was far from perfect. They all had their small quirks, their bigger issues, their own idiosyncrasies. But the beauty of a relationship was working on them together. Making the jagged pieces align and fit, making a whole out of two halves.

He idolized Jack, it was true, but he also strove to see the good in him. In everyone. Bray didn't want to be so bitter and so hardened that he could no longer accept others or love them. He grew up with love; he thought maybe he had a lot of love to share with someone and that was one of his strong suits. He thought maybe Jack needed some of that, too. Stability. Trust. Someone he could come home to instead of just bringing home another person from the club.

Bray saw him before—before they started speaking. He saw Jack with a new face every time, staggering home from the club, singing and laughing. Sometimes it was Jack alone, though. Sometimes there was just something lonely about the way he stopped at his door and paused and looked up at the skies. Was he lonely, still? Even when he was with Bray? Somehow Bray didn't think so—and that wasn't just his optimistic hopeful side. He saw the light in Jack's eyes. He heard the peals of laughter when he made a dumb joke or did something silly that amused him. He thought there was something really special between them.

No amusement now though. "But... but I don't..." He tried to stammer soft responses to Jack's list of alleged crimes. Cheater. Liar. Drove Allie to suicide—that one really alarmed Bray. But that wasn't a side of Jack he had ever seen. Jack only ever treated him with kindness and respect, so how could he also be those terrible things? "You're not," he tried again, only to be stopped as Jack... gave up. On the idea of them even before they got anywhere.

"But..." But didn't drunk Jack want to be with him that time? Didn't he say that he was thinking about how good they could be together? Then, Bray refused him. He wanted to wait, to bide his time, to strengthen their friendship. Did he wait too long? Bray was trembling. He didn't notice it until Jack's hand landed on his head; it was bent, chin almost at his chest and hair screened over his face.

"Oh-okay," he said softly to his own knees. Discreetly Bray wiped a thumb over one eye. Just a little... little eyelash in it. Yeah.

"I'm sorry Jack."

[Jack Ripley]

God. Fuck. Damn it. Jack stood there with his eyes closed, as if that could ward off the pain surging in his chest at the sound of Brayden's small voice. Jack didn't want to be somebody who made Brayden smaller. He wanted him to stand taller, to be bolder, to be brave and stick up for what he felt and what he believed in. But Jack was just grounding him down, the way he ground down his own sins, the way he ground down people before him with flippancy.

I've killed people. Brayden.

The words hung in his mind, stark and violent. If Brayden could strike down the rest of it, he could never strike that one down. It was an ugly weapon, the final trump card to keep somebody at bay. A truth that was as ugly as it sounded, as ugly as it made Jack feel. Jack was the worst person he knew in his entire life, would always be the worst person. And Brayden, he was the best. It was a bad match.

Wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

Could he...

Could he possibly have something he didn't deserve? Was there ever any way to redeem a person that really hurt people? Not just their feelings? Somebody whose delusions rose up... whose voices in his head drowned out his own, to tell him what he did was Good?

Jack stood there, frozen in place, not quite to the door, standing there with his coat slung over his arm. When he turned back to Brayden, he clutched his coat like some kind of security blanket. Brayden looked like the portrait of despair. Loneliness. Abandonment. Jack leaned back, sagging against the front door with his heart in his throat, hand so tight that his knuckles were turning white.

"Don't," he said to Brayden. "Don't be sorry. You've never had anything to be sorry for."

He laid his head back against the door, eyes closed. Everything that Brayden named off was just him. They weren't sins. They were hardly even flaws, really.

"You're too good for me," he said to the ceiling, eyes still closed. He didn't want Brayden sulking and wallowing in sadness over this. It really was a "it's me, not you" type of situation, no matter what Brayden was quietly telling himself.

[Brayden Smith]

The sound of footsteps leaving was a sound that Bray knew all too well.

His heart cracked again, just a little more, let in a little more daylight into the frayed core of his hopes and dreams and beliefs to burn up that small, small wellspring of happiness that he still harbored. Bray didn't move. He thought back on all the words he babbled, he thought about what Jack said to him. He thought and thought and thought and thought. And that was his problem. Thinking. Over-thinking. Reading too much into everything.

Was there nothing between them all along? Were the signs that he thought he saw just his own delusions? A smile, a laugh, they weren't unique to him. Jack smiled at other people. He laughed with everyone. What made Bray think he was special? Because Jack touched his cheek and kissed him on the forehead and told him that he was cute?

Cute?

Cute wasn't special. Cute wasn't desirable. Cute was... benign. Friendly. And like a fool he seized on that, made something out of nothing, told himself that he was special and that Jack might have liked him—might have loved him. Bray loved Jack. With all of his heart and all of his being, he loved him as he loved everyone who came into his life. But Jack was walking out on him just like everyone else and Bray didn't know what to do now.

But Jack... didn't leave. He walked to the door and Bray was waiting for it, waiting for the click of the lock as the door closed behind Jack. Jack just stopped. And he spoke again, and Bray didn't dare to look up at him, didn't want to look at him with so much pain destroying him from the inside-out. He didn't know how to talk without apologizing, so he didn't. He said sorry a lot. Sorry for existing, sorry for breathing, sorry please don't leave. He would rather take the blame than to risk driving someone away.

"What? N-no. No!" Bray finally looked up, stung to respond. He let out a soft cry and stumbled to his feet, nearly pitching and falling onto the coffee table. "No Jack, you're—you're wrong. I'm not. I've never-never been too good for anyone. Not. You're so—why would you say that?" How could Jack think that Bray was too good for him? Breathlessly Bray walked toward him, reached out a shaking hand to latch on to Jack's own, pleadingly. "Jack. Jack what if. What if it could work? What if we just-just tried it? Just for a little while? I know it sounds crazy but. What if?"

[Jack Ripley]

He lifted his head away from the door when he heard Brayden's voice rising, the sound of him bumping into things. And as usual, Brayden was clumsily scrambling to get to him, like he thought that if he could just rush over and shut Jack's mouth, he might stop him from spewing words he didn't want to hear coming out of his mouth.

Why was he still on this? Why did he look past the things Jack said? Those were all warning signs. Red flags, to most. The kind of thing nobody wanted to be involved with--nobody wanted to date a liar and a cheat. And Jack did those things. He lied to people he cared about. He fucked around with people who had boyfriends. For fuck's sake, he did it as early as a few weeks ago--with Allie!

Brayden didn't want to see any of the bad parts of him but that was almost the problem. Jack so wanted to be seen and he so wanted to be seen in a positive light. He wanted nothing more than to be the miracle Brayden sought and not the monster Allie knew he was. Could there be no in-between?

What if.

Did anybody look at somebody with so much hope in their eyes as Brayden did in that moment? Jack should have left before he let Brayden look at him. Or he should have left before he looked back and saw him, sitting there in utter dejection. Weak. He was becoming weak.

Philosophy was all about what ifs. What if there were no classes, no genders, what if people didn't live this way but lived that way. What if they never invented this. What if they did invent this. What if this Jack was a new existence, the old Jack was dead? What if that Jack never existed? Would this Jack then take Brayden's hand? Would the brand new star Jack leave? He wouldn't. A Jack with no past. A Jack with a better past. He would put his hand on Brayden's cheek, like so. And he would lean in. Like he was now. And he would kiss him, in a way that was not meant to be construed as a friend saying goodbye but more as a lover inviting his lover in. Jack hovered before that kiss, eyes closed, lips a hair's breadth from Brayden's.

"What if..." he whispered. "...you find out you don't want to after all?"

[Brayden Smith]

What if—it was a curse for those who dared to have hopes and dreams. What if things worked out? What if they found happiness in one another? What if everything they saw in themselves wasn't what the other saw? What if they each inspired the other to be better, to be stronger? What if instead of hurting—instead of cheating, lying, driving the other to the brink of madness—they healed the cracks?

What if Bray was just good enough for Jack, and Jack was just good enough for Bray?

He was still shaking physically. There was too much emotion inside of him to be contained and he was hovering so close to his own precipice. This was the defining moment. This was the moment that meant everything to Bray because even though he loved all, he didn't love equally. And somehow he knew in his heart of hearts that there would never be another man like Jack ever again. No one would ever bring him up as high as Jack; no one could ever inspire him to be the best version of himself, geeky and boring and clumsy and all, as Jack could.

"Jack..." Bray's heart soared and he couldn't help that. Jack touched him again. He looked at him with such heartbreaking, sad eyes but there was still a glimmer of hope in them. Or was that resignation? Was he giving up? Giving in, maybe? Bray's hands went to his sides to clutch at him as he leaned in so close that his face blurred before Bray's anxious gaze. Their lips barely touched; Bray's eyes flicked closed and he breathed in, breathed him in.

"What if you were wrong?" He took the initiative to kiss Jack, a desperate but still somehow sweet, soft, loving kiss. A brief kiss, because he had so much to say and not enough time to say it. "What if I'm so in love with you that... that I don't care if you're a liar and a cheater, Jack?"

[Jack Ripley]

"About...?"

Wrong about what, Brayden? What if he was wrong about what? The question fluttered away with a sweet, soft kiss. Disappeared, out of sight, out of mind. Ah. And there it was. In love. It shut down everything. The entire world just stopped. No sounds, no lights, no voices. Just nothing.

Until Jack swallowed. Hard. He could hear it in his own head. He wondered if it was so loud that even Brayden heard it in the quiet. YOU SHOULD CARE, Jack wanted to scream. Brayden should care! Did he think it wouldn't happen to him? That Jack was infallible? That he wouldn't make more poor life choices, just because somebody loved him with all of his heart? How could he not see how much this scared the shit out of Jack?

People relying him. People loving him. People needing him. What could possibly make this time the time where he didn't fuck something up? Brayden wanted him so badly that he wasn't seeing the forest for the trees. If he was the one cheated on, lied to--hurt--did that mean... nothing to him? How could he put so much faith into this--into Jack? It didn't make sense to him.

But oh, oh, oh how Jack wanted it to. He wanted it to fall into pretty little lines. For the universe to come together for once, to align into something wonderful and magical and powerful. His lips brushed Brayden's. Another sweet kiss that threatened to break his heart into pieces. He could feel it. Somehow. Brayden's emotions were practically tangible. And he could see it. Something beyond the bloodstains of the past. It was a little like one of those rolling dioramas. Starting with some sad stupid kid looking at the stars and ending with him becoming one.

It didn't feel real. It felt just like the nightmares but he was awake. It was just something small. Instead of the terrifying vision of blood slashed across his face, it was so simple, so mundane. A kitchen table in the morning light. A dog tailing Brayden hopefully as he carried an infant against his hip and Jack... Jack reaching for the infant as naturally as breathing.

He sucked in a deep breath, as if he'd been drowning and only just found the surface. Quickly, he dropped his hands from Brayden, heart beating wildly, almost sickening him in his current state. Too full of water. Hungover. Swallowing hard, he marched straight over to the couch and laid right down on his back, feeling bloodless and pale. What was...? Oh. He slid his hands over his face, up into his hair, looked up at Brayden.

"I forgot my..." He cleared his throat in embarrassment. "My meds."

[Brayden Smith]

Did Jack think it had never happened to Bray? That he had never been cheated on, never been lied to? Or was that the problem? That he did know and he didn't want to be lumped in with the regrets of the past? Thing was, Bray never regretted having loved anyone. He regretted the way relationships ended, he regretted the things that he could have done better, but he couldn't stop seeing the good in those past lovers, too. It was never all bad. There were always good moments, golden moments to hold on to.

He did care if Jack cheated on him or if Jack lied to him. But the prospect of future pain didn't deter Bray and it wouldn't hurt half as much as never being able to try to make a relationship work. Something good and pure could come from this; maybe every relationship didn't have to end in hurt and betrayal. Instead, they could find in each other what they had been searching for all along: acceptance, love, the willingness to care for someone. Companionship for Bray and an anchor for Jack.

Maybe their hearts just... needed a break from being broken.

What if things worked out perfectly this time, but they would never know it if they didn't try?

"Jack, please," he whispered into a second kiss, clutching at him fearfully. He was afraid that Jack would run away again, that he would turn and march out the door and come Monday, they would be co-workers bumping into each other in the hallways. Bray didn't know if he could handle that kind of forced interaction, if his heart could recover from being broken this time. It barely healed from the last time he truly loved someone—and that person didn't love him back. A small part of him was willing to bet on Jack being different, though. A small part of him whispered What if he loves you back?

He thought Jack was genuinely about to leave, but instead Jack marched himself over to the couch and laid down on it. Bray stood at the door staring at him, eyes wide. "O-oh!" Again he almost tripped over himself to get to Jack, kneeling by the couch with a hand at his shoulder and concern etched on his face. "Where is it? I'll go and get it! Are you okay? Should I call a doctor?"

[Jack Ripley]

For a second, he thought he was going to throw up. But the sensation wasn't nausea. It was something else. Something that left him feeling lightheaded--and not in the good way--and sick--also... that was never in a good way. Sick like he'd forgotten to eat all day and it was catching up to him. Not hungover. Just... something else. Startling. He wasn't sure what it was but it had his heart fluttering and he still felt strange and bloodless.

Not the best sensation in the world.

It had to be the meds. Or the lack of them. Jack took them in the morning when he woke and before bed at night. Like clockwork. Pill in. Shower. Breakfast. The day. The night. Dinner. Shower. Pill in. Bed. That was all it was. He closed his eyes. And he could hear them, like echoes in the back of a cave--voices. This was too much. Too fast. He didn't understand it. Normally, the medication was more forgiving than this. He only missed one pill--last night's. Then he would go home and take it, like nothing.

Hopefully. But he didn't want to go anywhere until that strange lightheaded, bloodless, echoing feeling went away.

"No, no... don't call a doctor. I'll be fine..."

Lying down did make some of it feel better. His heart, for example, wasn't rushing to burst anymore.

"It's in my bathroom, orange bottle--" Jack honestly didn't want Brayden seeing it though. If he didn't know what it was, fine. But he could always google it and then he would have questions. Most sane people would. But the second Jack sat himself back up with the idea of just going himself, he could feel it coming back. It didn't make sense. This wasn't normally how it felt to be off his meds. Slowly, he sank back down, but he grasped onto Brayden.

"Call Marge, she's already there." She practically moved in by this point and it was weirdly fine with him. "Ask her to bring it here."

She probably already saw it anyway. Jack took her for a snoop and she definitely would have checked the medicine cabinet and googled anything she didn't know.

[Brayden Smith]

God, Jack looked terrible. That was saying something because Bray didn't think he had ever seen Jack looking like anything other than his very best. Even straight after a nightmare, he still didn't look like this! Was it—was this the wrong time? Was being emotional doing this to him, on top of not having his meds? Bray didn't know that Jack even took medication and in the moment he was too worried to wonder about it.

"Okay, okay, no doctor," he said as he half-rose as if to go and call a doctor despite promising he wouldn't. He sank back down, hands at Jack's face, feeling his forehead, smoothing his hair. Worried hands, a flurry of motion. "Bathroom. Orange bottle. Okay! I'll-I'll go—" Nope. Jack was up, Bray was holding on to his shoulders and Jack was clutching him. "Marge? But—oh. Yeah. Okay, yeah."

He... was not the most level-headed in a situation. Oddly, Bray was more suited to action than to thinking in moments of sheer panic. He gently set Jack back down and dove for his phone, laying with the cards on the table. Bray fired off a panicked, typo-filled text to Marge asking for the orange pills from the bathroom and then almost threw his phone down in his haste to get back to Jack.

"She'll be right over," he murmured. Bray briefly ran to the kitchen to get some more cool water. "Have a sip of this, Jack. Just a little, I got a straw for you." Jack didn't look like he wanted to get off the couch and it was probably better to not move too much anyway. Bray stroked his hair and sat with him until Marge knocked loudly and then he was off and away again, running for the door, opening it, being shoved aside.

Marge dropped beside the couch and sort of pushed pills into Jack's mouth without a word. Bray stared at her, and then tentatively sidled closer to take one of Jack's hands.

"You idiot," Marge was saying in her usual tone, seeming... not as panicked as Bray, that was for sure.

[Jack Ripley]

Chaos. That was the only word for it. Brayden appeared to be in complete chaos. Up and down, moving hands, words starting and stopping. Jack couldn't help it; even though he felt like raw dog shit, he turned his head away, covered half his face and let out a soft rumble of a laugh that he tried so hard to contain. It was just so... funny. Jack was fine. He'd been through worse, felt like worse, and was pretty sure--even if somewhat alarmed--that he was going to live to see yet another day. (And if not, oh well, right?)

But Brayden was still in chaos mode, like a restless spirit that couldn't stop moving. And then he was off to the door and Jack laughed aloud, his hand waving Brayden away as if to say shoo, shoo, go get that door you raving lunatic. Because one of them here was a lunatic but it might be him.

"Ah, there she is," he said as Marge entered stage left and looked as unperturbed as usual. If she thought anything of the scene she walked in on--Jack laid out on the couch like a hysterical queen, Brayden bouncing back and forth between couch and door, and all the scattered parts of a forgotten card game--she didn't even blink an eye. She just stepped in and shoved a couple pills into his mouth and practically down his throat.

Jack coughed as he sat up, then took the water Brayden offered earlier, popped the straw out, and took a deep gulp. And... scene.

Or would be, if he wasn't still sitting on a couch in Brayden's apartment feeling like he was on a bad trip. He drew his legs up onto the couch and crossed them, as if he were about to meditate upon it all. He didn't. But maybe it could have helped. Taking in a deep breath, he rested against the back of the couch, letting his head drop and his eyes close. Everything was fine. It was fine. He didn't know what the hell came over him but it was a one time deal and the meds, the meds would do their thing.

[Brayden Smith]

It wasn't funny!

One moment Jack was distressed and the next he was laughing--Bray heard him, yes he did, despite how Jack tried to conceal it. But it didn't stop Bray from feeling concerned until Marge stormed in and shoved pills down Jack's throat. He hovered anxiously nearby as Marge took a seat on the couch as well, but glared up at him.

"He's not dead," she said matter of factly.

"...no..."

"Or dying."

"...no..." Bray edged away, around the other side of the couch.

"So I ran over here because...?"

"...I... I was worried."

"Because you were worried."

Bray cast a look that clearly said HELP to Jack as he coughed, but also thought to drape the fleece blanket over Jack's shoulders. Marge rolled her eyes and then reached for the half-empty bottle of wine, taking a long, long gulp from it. Idly she reached over and patted Jack's thigh, as if to bring him back out of his trance.

"Had fun last night? Hm?"

[Jack Ripley]

Jack did come out of whatever trance he was in, lifting his head up and waiting. For what, he didn't know. For Brayden to stop buzzing around like he was waiting for Marge to stick a heel in him? Or Marge to do the heel sticking, maybe. He'd heard the exchange between the two and he couldn't help wondering just how Brayden phrased the situation. Dead and dying. He cracked a smile. But he was neither.

"I'm fine," he said, before realizing that wasn't the question Marge put forth. Of course it wasn't. As long as she saw him with her own two eyes, she knew he was fine. Just forgot some meds and had a minor brain... seizure. He wasn't sure what to call that. Whatever just happened. And he really, really--as Jack was wont to do--didn't care to chase down what caused it or why it happened. As long as it didn't happen again, he was as fine as he claimed he was.

"Hm."

There it was, that little sound he made when he had no answer or no answer he wanted to share with the class. His gaze slid sidelong towards Brayden, who was fully clothed. And himself, who was also fully clothed, if rumpled. Self consciously, he put a hand to his head, as if his hair might be on fire or slanting in a wayward fashion that sold him out.

She had to know. The bottle of wine she brought was nearly empty. The cards were scattered about, as if they'd just tossed them aside and started fucking on the coffee table. And Jack stayed overnight. But Brayden wasn't nearly as relaxed as a man should be post coitus. Jack slid another sidelong look at Brayden, who looked wary, like he still thought Marge was going to murder him.

"We had fun, didn't we, Brayden?"

[Marguerite De Silva]

Hm. Mysterious. Marge took another swig of wine as she waited for a response, feeling Brayden growing more and more restless, more and more anxious. Cute little Bee, he was so skittish and jittery--and he didn't even drink coffee, if Jack was to be believed! Only water, juice and soup. Her gaze flicked to the kitchen like an addict who sensed a line of coke nearby, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Hm.

But of course she knew. She saw it in Jack--that light in his heart, it was so strong that it was almost blinding. She had to turn her powers down, or risk actually getting so overwhelmed--hence the booze. Great for dampening magic. The light from Jack was probably only outshone by the one from Brayden so--yes. She knew. They fucked.

"Oh. Uh. Yes!" Brayden was trying to sound cheerful and not suspicious as he sat on the armrest closest to Jack, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sweet. "Yes. It was. Fun."

"Describe." Marge drank more wine and wished it was soup. (Damnit.)

"What?"

She turned to arch her brows at him. "Describe the fun."

"That-that's very personal," Brayden muttered, avoiding her gaze. "It was just. Fun."

Marge turned to Jack with a smile. "Jack? Do you have any answers for the class?"

[Jack Ripley]

Now it was Jack's turn to raise his eyebrows at Marge and her probing questions. Describe the fun? Did she want a detailed blow by blow? (Of course she did, this was Marge they were talking about.) Jack didn't mind sharing blow by blow details of sexual encounters. They weren't typically something he held closely guarded to his heart. Sex was fun, a way to blow off some steam, get those good feelings in, relax. But typically, describing an encounter didn't occur with said encounter sitting right there, perched on the arm of the couch next to him.

Who was to say what Brayden recalled? Who was to say what he wanted revealed? That was the thing of it. He couldn't tell if Brayden's hesitation to say anything beyond the term fun came from a lack of memory or from an innate shyness regarding sex. Some people were just wired that way, to keep it between the people that participated, guarding it jealously like a secret.

Brayden did use the term personal. So Jack put up his hands in a nonchalant shrug. "Let's not make a big deal out of this, all right?" He looked from Brayden to Marge. "I gave him a blow job. End of story. Now will you drop it? Hm?"

Now it was out there. It was out there and he wasn't sure how Brayden would take it. If he remembered it at all, if it jogged any sort of memory in him. If he thought Jack was lying. If he wished Jack said nothing and kept it to himself. But it was just the three of them and it wasn't as if Jack was going to open up the door and shout to their neighbors about what happened.

Besides, for him--for Jack--the important part was still locked away in his heart. The sweetness of the words, the idea of stars and black holes. That, to him, was much more intimate than the sex parts.