We Are Bulletproof

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

But opposites, they say, attract.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like Alejo, Brayden was cute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tap tap tap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(EWW)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monstrous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So lemon water it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack kissed his fingers like a cartoon chef.

"Muah! Perfection!"

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

"My compliments to the chef."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What? Really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Hold on. He still was.

"...right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good night."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned to his right.

Jack.

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

God, he could just die.

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

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

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

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

Ohhh this was going to be embarrassing.

Horrific.

Mortifying.

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

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

But this? This was not cute.

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

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

"Oh. You need to borrow my phone."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn't bother flipping on the light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then woke up in a bed with three others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

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

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

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



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





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

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

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

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

"...shit."

Blood.

Blood on shaking hands, blood on a face stained in horror, the eyes wide and bulging, mouth half-open in a soundless, wordless scream.

And anger. Fear. Pain. Suffering. Regret. Regret. Regret. 

Nothing.

Covered in a cold sweat, Bray sat up like an arrow shot out of a bow. He passed a shaking hand of his own over his brow, half-expecting to feel something slimy and viscous and wet on his own face. On his hands. Blood. But he only felt the clammy dampness of perspiration on his cheek and he breathed out a long sigh of relief.

Lightly he pushed the covers binding his legs away, glancing around and expecting to see his own bedroom. Everything was different, though. The bed was larger, the nightstand was the wrong shape and the windows were all the way on the other side of the room, not close by where he could crack it open a sliver to feel fresh air on his face.

Right. He slept at Jack's apartment because he locked himself out. Right.

The air in the room felt stale and he couldn't breathe properly. He turned to see if he had awakened Jack but Jack was conspicuously missing. The sheets on his side were rumpled, too, as though he had been tossing and turning. Bray slowly ran a hand over the place where Jack had been, swallowing hard.

They called it dream-walking. Bray had done it since he was a little kid but he couldn't control himself. Sometimes he was in for the whole dream, other times only parts of it. He knew it happened because his mother--a fae herself--told him about it, that she could feel him entering and exiting her dreams. She taught him to control it but he wasn't good at it and eventually he gave up on it, thinking that it wouldn't be an issue. People rarely felt the intrusion, not unless they knew the signs.

Was that dream Jack's? Bray stroked a line back up the bed, up to the pillow where Jack's head had lain. He heard water running somewhere and guessed that Jack was in the bathroom. Should he go and check on him? Part of Bray felt horribly guilty, as though he had discovered a secret that he shouldn't be in on. But the whiskey and Ambien started to make more sense... if Jack had dreams like these...

How did he put up that cheerful front, then, if he was plagued by visions of blood when he slept? Or was he purposely over-compensating, so no one could guess that he was tormented by demons after dark? It couldn't be the first time, or a random nightmare. Not this. Not with this much emotion behind it.

Bray frowned, made up his mind--for once. He got up and silently padded to the bathroom, in time to hear the water shut off, to hear Jack's low curse.

Bray stood at the door watching Jack scrubbing his face with the towel. His voice, when he spoke out, was soft and tentative. "Jack? Are you okay?"

"F-fuck!"

He jumped and it felt like he had leapt straight out of his skin for a second. Then he saw it was just Brayden and his skipping heart started to settle--a little. Hanging the towel dutifully, he turned toward Brayden, still feeling shaky on the inside. It wasn't the first time he had such... nightmares. Usually, they started innocently enough but the deeper into sleep he sank, the darker they got. Until...

"No," he said tersely. Then more gently, "Yes. I just need some... water."

Taking Brayden's shoulder and arm in his hands, he nudged him out of the bathroom door so he could pass through himself. Even once he was out, one hand remained on Brayden's arm, half expecting him to disappear. These kinds of nightmares weren't always experienced when he was alone but he never, ever talked about them. They were the worst when he woke up in somebody else's home. The unfamiliarity always scared him--did he do it again?

As long as he could look down at his own hands and see they were bloodless, that he wasn't hallucinating... He would be fine.

Entering the kitchen, Jack let go of Brayden so he could get a glass of lemon water from the pitcher in the fridge. He downed one glass, then most of a second before he stopped inwardly shaking. He tried to smile for Brayden.

"I must have been sicker than I thought." His laugh was half-hearted. But noticing that Brayden was still watching him like he thought something else was wrong, Jack held his glass of lemon water close to his chest and walked toward Brayden. He wasn't sure what he thought he was going to do, but he ended up leaning his head down against Brayden's.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, although the words weren't met for Brayden. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. The sickness that washed over him when he woke up at least seemed to have passed but he still felt like shit. Without lifting his head or opening his eyes, he asked, "What time is it?"

"Oh. God." Jack's outburst scared him too, especially since he'd been trying to keep his voice soft to avoid startling Jack. Didn't work, did it? Bray almost clutched his own chest like a little old woman, but his hands got half-way up before he jerked them down to his sides.

"I'm--" He started to say sorry at the tightness in Jack's tone but Jack's words softened and Bray let his apology trail off. Maybe he shouldn't have come over. Maybe Jack didn't want to be caught in a vulnerable state. Bray was about to suggest that he leave--again--when he was moved bodily out of the way, and then taken to the kitchen. Offering no protest, he walked with Jack until he was let go of, after which he hovered awkwardly and anxiously nearby to watch Jack with ever-increasing concern.

The way Jack tried to laugh things off didn't make him any less worried. He felt instinctively that something was wrong. The dream, it unsettled both of them, but Bray couldn't let Jack know that without admitting that he had intruded upon his privacy. And then Jack would really be... not okay. Bray swallowed another apology as Jack downed lemon water like it was going out of style. He wished he knew what to say, or how to say it.

"Ah--" That wasn't it. He thought Jack was walking past to get to the little kitchen table but he stopped and his head came to rest against Bray's. Up close Jack's features blurred. Bray half-closed his eyes and felt a sympathetic twang in the heartstrings. His chest was sore as Jack apologized and it didn't get better the longer they stood there.

"It's... ass o'clock." That one he heard from a friend--one of the few he had. Bray laughed softly as all sense and sensibility deserted him. In the moment all he could think about was the dream, and Jack's shaken form standing at the sink struggling to come back to Earth. All he felt was the ache in his chest. His hands lifted, slipped around Jack's shoulders to bring him in for a gentle hug. "And you have nothing to be sorry for."

Ass o'clock. Even Jack let out a muffled laugh at that. Who the hell said something like that? It sounded like something a flirty stripper said before ripping off the bottom half of his costume before thrusting his ass in somebody's face. Or maybe Jack just had a demented mind. No argument there. The sigh that escaped him was heavy as Brayden wrapped his arms around him. Jack knew full well he didn't deserve the embrace but hell if he was going to let it go to waste.

"You don't even know me," Jack said into Brayden's temple. He had a list of things to be sorry for. Cameron, for example. But he wasn't going to explain all that to Brayden. What was done was already done and Jack had been kicking himself for years over what happened to Cameron. Not even Brayden could help him with that. Nobody can. Maybe Alejo could have. Alejo looked at him like he could see through him to every terrible, monstrous thing he had ever done and he still accepted him. It was so rare to find that kind of acceptance.

Idly, he wondered what became of Alejo. Had he gone back to his hotel? Did he call his boyfriend? Did he make up with him? Hopefully, he didn't tell him about them. It seemed like Allie had a lot more going on in his life. He didn't need to stir up even more grief and Jack wasn't the type to tell the guy's boyfriend what happened between them.

Jack held onto Brayden for a long moment. Human to human contact was the one thing that saved him from becoming the exact monster that Alejo saw in him. Connections to something... to something he couldn't even fathom right now, not as he floundered in the past, present, and fear of the future.

"Let's go back to bed," he whispered after they stood there for what felt like an eternity. It felt good to hold somebody and be held in return but it was doing him no favors in other areas. "You have my permission to toss water in my face if you think..." He trailed off. He hadn't even admitted he had a nightmare, just that he was still sick. But he let the rest reluctantly tumble out--too exhausted to hide it. "If you think I'm having another nightmare." He kissed Brayden on the top of the head before letting go of him. "Deal?"   

"I know pain," Bray said in a whisper so soft it was almost lost. He closed his eyes too as their embrace held for far too long, letting Jack make the deciding move on whether or not to draw away. For once Bray didn't feel awkward. It simply felt right; it felt like something he needed to do. Jack needed someone in that moment and Bray was the only one there.

He nodded slightly to acquiesce to the suggestion of going back to bed, but stopped turning when Jack spoke again. Bray wondered about the kiss on the forehead. He didn't need reassurance—Jack did. But he wasn't nearly tall enough to reach the top of Jack's head... Instead of moving away, he lifted his hand and wiped away a cold droplet of water clinging to one of the curls by Jack's temple. Bray smiled up at him, taking him in.

How sad his eyes were. Haunted. The demons that chased Jack weren't far behind, he thought. His fingertips grazed skin, still a touch damp, still cool. "Deal." But they both probably knew he wouldn't. Brayden Smith throwing water in anyone's face? Maybe—in his dreams. But in reality, Bray wasn't the type. He could ease Jack out of future nightmares if it came down to it.

He could put people to sleep; he could bring them out of it too.

Relieving Jack of his water glass and setting it onto the counter nearby, Bray took the initiative this time to recapture his hand. It just felt... right. Like something that made sense for him to do, and he didn't have to agonize over the ramifications or the consequences. Bray turned for the bedroom again, letting their clasped hands do the talking. It was far more eloquent than he could be, anyway.

Life is pain.

Jack's mother said that to him once. He was thirteen. They were fighting, arguing over another new man moving in. His mother had been sober for a few blissful months and then she fell back into it. The drugs, the drinking, the awful men that claimed they would take care of her--and her unwanted progeny. Jack hated him. He hated all of them. He told her that. Told her that he just wanted his mother. Couldn't she see what she was doing to her son? Jack blatantly cried out for help and she struck him in the face and said it: Shut the fuck up, Jack. Life is pain. And if he wanted it to end, he had to end it himself because, as she put it, she tried and it didn't stick. With his hand still on his struck cheek, he backed away from her and then ran out the door, into the streets. Even those dangerous streets were preferable to staying there with a mother who talked like that.

He wished that Brayden didn't know pain but there was something deeply sad in his eyes sometimes. When he thought nobody was looking. At work, when he wasn't working on something, when he was in thought. As if his thoughts tormented him. Jack could relate to that, although he buried most of his pain so deep down that he didn't bother reflecting on it over and over again. Brayden didn't seem like that type. More like the type to... keep turning it over in his mind until it drove him half mad.

"I'm serious, B," he said. "Don't you dare let me stay in that nightmare for longer than I have to."

He would rather be rudely awakened by water before the nightmare could properly cut into him. But how could Brayden know how bad it was? Jack certainly wasn't going over what he just saw. And luckily, now that he was waking up, it was burning away, the way dreams did as consciousness was regained.

Now it was Brayden leading him to the bedroom and Jack felt strangely like the child now. He slid beneath the covers, this time curled on his side, facing Brayden. He tucked a pillow beneath his cheek but his eyes were still on Brayden. He pulled the blankets up over both of them, like two kids at a sleepover.

"Have you always lived here?"

( B! Q! B!  :smooch:  Yuusss )

They all had their crosses to bear.

Bray's mom told him that once too, in her gentle tone and with her wise eyes full of pain. His father had just passed; his mother was dying and Bray couldn't understand why it was happening to them. To him. Selfishly he decried God, full of anguish and sorrow and feeling as though he would never be able to smile again. His mother took his hand and said that to him. They all had their crosses to bear.

There were others in the world suffering more than he was. Others experiencing grief and loss too—not just Bray. To understand that was to accept that pain was a part of life, and that the two were inextricably intertwined. Life was pain, but pain didn't have to define a life. It was long after he had lost everything, everyone, that he understood that.

But knowing the principle wasn't the same as accepting it. He still struggled, some days more than others, though he tried not to let it leak into his everyday life. He didn't want others to see his pain and to know that he was having a difficult time because everyone had their own problems, their issues. Bray didn't want to add on to their troubles with his own.

"I won't. I promise." He slipped into bed too but waited until Jack had settled in before laying his head down. On his side facing Jack, he took him in. In the darkness there wasn't more than a vague shape, an eye catching a stray glimmer of light, the outline of a mass of waves and curls. Under the blanket Bray's hand shifted and encountered the warmth of another hand.

"Yes, I was born here." He sighed, letting his hand remain where it was. Maybe he was too tired to be skittish now. Maybe the impact of the dream still had its hold on him. "Sometimes it feels like I'll die here, too." Bray's eyes closed momentarily. All his life, he wondered: was this where he was meant to be? He always felt as though... something was about to happen and he couldn't leave Hazleton. As though he was waiting for something, some great event. Or maybe he was waiting for someone...

He opened his eyes again and the thought was gone. "Where did you come from?"

I promise.

Jack's lips curved into a small smile. A promise? For him? For unfathomable reasons, he wanted to believe in that promise, that somebody would actually keep their promise to him this time. There was some whimsical saying about wishes being fishes (or was it horses?) and he always thought it was cute but ridiculous. Now he sort of understood it. Wishes were slippery things. Things he wished for in the past were caught... and found to be lacking. And some wishes were never able to be grasped. Wishing for just one promise to be honored... Which one did that fall under?

He realized that wasn't what the saying actually meant to convey. But he liked his realization better. Sometimes his broken little mind did that. Queer little things like that stuck to him. Conventional, not so much.

With Brayden's hand in contact, Jack idly stroked it, feeling the hard shape of his knuckles and the length of his fingers. Die here. Maybe he would. Jack didn't want to think about death right now. Or... ever. The memory of his nightmare flashed when he closed his eyes so he quickly opened them. Don't die. That was what he wanted to say. He swallowed the words instead.

"From all over," he said in amusement as he continued to lazily stroke Brayden's hand. "But I was born in Boston. Spent most of my life there. Did you know I went to Harvard, B?" He smiled as if it was something silly to disclose. "I didn't think I would ever go somewhere so prestigious. I was a nothing. But when I went there... for a while, I was something."

But he couldn't get out of Massachusetts fast enough. And now... here he was. All the way across the country.

It felt nice, the motion of Jack's fingers over his hand. A sweet warmth stole over him and he was still again, but this time not rigid like a plank. This time he didn't move because he didn't want the moment to be over, as though if he blinked or breathed wrong, everything would come crashing down and he would wake up with that hollow sensation in his chest as realization dawned that he was alone again.

"I did know that, Jack," said Bray with soft amusement in his voice, bordering on a laugh but not quite there. "I read your file." That was his job, of course. He looked at Jack's credentials, his degrees, his previous jobs. He wasn't joking when he said that he came from all over. It seemed like Jack had worked and traveled across the country, from Boston to tiny little Hazleton. What made him so restless, though? Was he one of those types who couldn't settle down in one place for long?

Or was he looking for something?

After a moment, Bray turned his hand over. He captured Jack's hand in his and he held on tight. It stood out to him. Nothing. Jack thought he was a nothing. How could that be when he was so accomplished? There was so much to admire about him—his education, certainly, but also his wit, his charm, the easy way he made conversation and slid into a scene as gracefully as if he had been born to inhabit the spotlight.

How could he ever feel like nothing?

"I think..." His fingers flexed against Jack's as he leaned his head closer, lowering his voice. "...you came from the stars. Because you shine, Jack."

"Oh."

Of course Brayden read his file. His scholarly achievements had to be all over that file. Brayden was probably curious why somebody who went to Harvard was here in Hazleton when he could work anywhere he wanted. (And it was a valid thing to wonder about.) The fact that he had moved on from job to job after school likely made him look like a bad candidate, too. But they had to weigh the fact that he was a Harvard graduate against his habit of moving onto another job, time after time.

Jack moved slightly closer. With his other hand, he pet Brayden's nose once, expression amused despite himself.

"That," he declared, "is a cheeseball thing to say."

But it didn't stop him from liking it. See, Brayden was totally cute. How nobody else saw it, he couldn't fathom but privately, he kinda liked that too. There was a constant internal struggle with how he viewed himself. Jack took care with his appearance. Anybody who met him would say as much. To get as far from his childhood of ratty t-shirts and torn jeans, he had developed a strong taste for all things fashionable. He had his clothes fitted by professional tailors. No more hand-me-downs. Hell, even what he was wearing right now in bed was expensive. Silk pajamas? A wispy dressing gown with a pattern of birds on it? Subtle, though. Not garish.

He had the money to spend on himself now that his mother never cared to spend on him. And if he "wasted" said money on clothing and surrounding his apartment in nice things, that was his business. He didn't even drive nor did he have a car. Back home, where cabs were a dime a dozen, he didn't need to. It wasn't a problem here in small town, USA, either. Most places were within walking distance and there was a bus system... albeit, not a very good one. But he lived in the hub of the town. Everything he needed was here. (Except the school but he carpooled with another fellow teacher in the building.)

"I think I came to the right place this time." After all, if a place like Hazleton could preserve Brayden's innocence and softness for so long... it must be a good place to be.

Bray's cheeks warmed when his nose was—there was no other word for it—booped but he felt the need to defend himself. "I only meant that... you're not nothing." Not to Bray. He might have said a cheesy thing but he said it with honest admiration. In Bray's eyes Jack shone brightly, more than anyone else he had ever met in his life. Jack was so bright that he eclipsed everyone else. In a room, he stood out the most; even when he did nothing but smile—even at someone else—Bray couldn't stop watching him.

From afar.

He never thought for a moment that he would end up here, in bed with Jack and holding his hand under cover of darkness.

"What are you looking for, Jack?" Why didn't those other places have it, and Hazleton did? Was it something about their small-time, unimportant, out-of-the-way in the woods town that appealed to him? He had a feeling that Jack was running from something—from whatever that nightmare was, maybe. He had a feeling that Jack had been running for a while now, because he saw the weariness earlier and the tiredness that ran so deep, down into his bones. Bray knew that look because he lived through it. They both knew pain, albeit of different kinds, from different sources. But he knew it when he saw it and there was so much pain in Jack...

His heart ached again. For Jack. For whatever it was that kept Jack running, kept him from finding his happiness—his happy place. Bray didn't know what made him do it, but he reached over and brushed a hand over Jack's cheek, right under his eye, like he was wiping away tears. "Will you go back to the stars some day?" Don't go, he wanted to say, because even in the span of one night, even having spent all this time only watching Jack from afar, Bray... he...

I'm not nothing.

It was nice to hear. Music. Magic. He wanted to believe it so badly. How different this encounter was than his earlier one with Allie. So different. More pleasant. While he appreciated speaking with somebody that knew what it was to be nothing, he stood by what he told him. Nothing plus nothing made nothing. No. He needed something. He wondered if that something was him. Brayden.

The idea scared him but not enough to jump out of bed and start making excuses. He couldn't get rid of Brayden anyway. Not after inviting him inside. Not after seeing him smile. And laugh. As small as that laugh was, he heard it. How did somebody who seemed so deep in his own mind even know what to say to some floundering stranger? They were coworkers for a while now but... it wasn't as if they knew anything about one another.

That could change though.

"How do you know I'm looking for something?"

The list of jobs he'd taken and left? The fact that he'd lived across the country? Made his way all the way to the west coast from a lifetime on the east? What was he looking for? Something to ground him. Something steady. A place that raised up people like Brayden.

"The stars," he said softly as Brayden touched his face, "might come for me before I make the choice."

And they wouldn't be wrong. But he tried. Oh. He tried. He wished he could emphasize how hard he tried. Even with his level of intelligence and his education, he never did learn how to stop it from happening. But he was trying. He was changing things. Yet. He has gone to that night club. Jack closed his eyes. How hard was he trying and what was he really trying to do? Get caught? Taken down? Meet what he deserved? Jack sighed as if the weight of the world settled on his lungs.

"I know."

No man who was satisfied with his life uprooted himself so many times. The administration was concerned about the number of job transfers that showed up on Jack's record; they thought perhaps there was some issue with discipline or with personal misconduct that forced him out. But nothing came up, nothing suspicious other than the fact that he wandered a lot and left a lot of perfectly good jobs behind. Everyone they spoke to had nothing but positive things to say about Jack so they hired him.

But Bray had the advantage of that kind of insight, just like he knew about the nightmare. If Jack wasn't searching for something, he wouldn't be here. If he already found what he needed to keep him rooted and grounded, he wouldn't be in Hazleton now, talking about coming to the right place this time. The clues were all there, after all. It only took an interested, observant person to put them all together.

And he wondered what Jack meant... The stars would come for him? Was that what he was running from?

"But we need you here..." He smiled ruefully. The world wasn't ready to let go of Jack, was it? The world—Bray's world—needed a ray of sunshine to chase away those cloudy days. Today would have been the same as any other for Bray if not for Jack. He would have gone home, eaten cold takeout, finished off those forms (so far away now in his mind, so wrapped up was Bray in getting to know Jack better). At some point he might have fallen asleep, woken up in a panic an hour later, frantically finished more paperwork...

Boring. Tedious. Monotonous. Bray's life had so little by way of excitement.

Tonight, he made such a fool of himself in front of Jack. Repeatedly. And yet he couldn't bring himself to regret all of it because those horrible embarrassments led him here. With Jack, holding hands, his fingertips still stroking Jack's cheek lightly, loathe to let go of the moment. Bray didn't know if there could ever be another night like this, full of chaos but somehow still sweet and funny and poignant and sad.

"Who, the school?"

He knew it was a cheeky response but it was hard to imagine who else the 'we' could be. Brayden? Other administrators? His fellow professors? The superintendent? No school actually needed him. They were sorry to see him go but he couldn't ever stay. All those great people, opportunities, places. And he ruined them. Ruined everything he touched. His mother said--

Well, he didn't want to dwell on the things his mother said. She was long gone from his life. Estranged. Jack hadn't spoken to her in well over ten years, at least. And the last time they did speak, it was her coming to him with a gaunt face and those hateful eyes, trying to manipulate him into giving her money for whatever vice she was hooked on.

All those vices... Every time Jack reflected on them, he avoided looking in the mirror. For so long. Even now, he had only partially attempted it. He'd given up on the drugs. The worst of it. But the laughably funny part was that the doctors still prescribed him things that were just as bad. Like that damn Ambien, for example.

Did... did he take some tonight?

He looked back at Brayden, who looked back at him with only kind and almost unbearably understanding eyes. It was hard to look at him for too long when he gave him those... those damn doe eyes. But he also couldn't look away.

"I used to believe in shooting stars, when I was really little. I'd watch the sky for them and trace their trail with my finger. Back then, I didn't know about wishing on them... or that they weren't even stars. I really thought they were just far, far away stars, flying through the sky like they were creatures themselves."

"Mm." It wasn't entirely a disapproving noise, but it wasn't an approving one either. Bray was beginning to understand a few things about Jack, like the jokes. Like using humor as a defence and a deflection against things he didn't want to delve too deeply into, skimming over them with a quick and witty response. It didn't hurt Bray's feelings though—he knew that Jack was deeply hurt. Someone—or multiple someones—had hurt him in the past, causing him to withdraw from the world and from others who might have tried to reach out.

How did he know that? He saw it in himself. He knew the symptoms of a broken heart.

That was why his gaze was still understanding, why his lips were curved in a half-knowing smile. He couldn't judge Jack for things he was guilty of himself, could he? That wasn't exactly fair.

His smile softened as talk turned to shooting stars. On the surface it sounded like a whimsical story but Bray thought there must be some longing hidden behind the words. He could see a young Jack sitting at a window at night, scanning the skies for that streak of light, hoping for a glimpse of his flying creatures. It was a more innocent time that Jack alluded to, when he still believed and when there was still a bit of wonder and magic in the world. Did Jack wish he could be that innocent again, that he could still live in a world where shooting stars represented more than a bit of space rock burning up in the night sky?

Or maybe he thought of shooting stars because Bray said he came from the stars. But Bray didn't want Jack to be one of those. He didn't want Jack to burn brightly only for a few moments and then disappear. If Jack was a star, he had to be like the North Star, shimmering in the sky for all to see.

"I never believed in shooting stars, but I have a lucky star." His fingers slid over Jack's eyes carefully to urge them closed. "Make a wish. Right now." Bray's voice was softly persuasive as he shifted closer, knee nudging Jack's in the motion. "I'll put in a good word for you."

Star talk was safe enough territory and it was partly due to Brayden bringing them up that he even remembered how he felt about shooting stars. That was a really far back when for him. Way back when. When he was small and foolish and yes, when he was still innocent enough to believe in the wonders of the world. In magic. He thought fireflies were shooting stars too. Just closer to earth. It never occurred to him that they wouldn't be visible in the sky that high up if they were so small he could catch them in his hands.

"Please don't tell me it's god," he said, even as he closed his eyes. Jack wasn't a believer. After everything he had seen, by the time word of god came into his life, he couldn't see it for anything more than a comforting fairy tale. Even if he wanted to believe, the skepticism in him ran too deep. Nothing like that could exist in this world. They were on their own. Even his guilt in... having done the things he'd done, wasn't rooted in being soaked in sin. Jack's guilt was for snuffing out a beautiful life before it had a chance to touch somebody else. While he believed in the moment of his actions that it was for the best, he couldn't help thinking... he really was the monster in their story. The one he so desperately wanted to save them from.

And that was why he couldn't believe in god and magic and fairy tales and sky creatures.

But he couldn't make himself think too deeply about it. He kept it at bay, with wit and humor, as Brayden had discovered. By keeping people at an arm's length even though he really wanted to pull them closer. He was a physical person. He liked touching people and he liked being touched. But mentally... people were still held away, where they couldn't touch the innermost thoughts and emotions he held in his core. Not even he liked looking at them. He wasn't going to expect anybody else to, either.

What was it that women often touted to one another? To first love somebody, you have to love yourself? If that was the case, Jack never loved anybody because although he acted like the epitome of self love... he hated himself more than anybody ever could.

So what did he wish for? What did Jack wish for? Brayden demanded he make a wish and make it now but Jack floundered. What did he want the most? Parents who cared? Jack's physical neediness came from neglect. Even as a child, oh... his teachers loved him. He was the most affectionate child. Once he learned he could touch people and lean on people and hug people, oh he did. Jack never wanted to leave school.

Or did he wish he never learned what it was to have his innocence taken from him? He could wish nobody ever hurt him. He could wish he never hurt anybody else. But... would any of that even happen... if he had parents who loved him?

With his eyes still closed, he said softly to Brayden, "Do you ever think you have too many wishes to make a wish... and then realize that every wish is connected? Like a little spiderweb of wishes that you follow up to the spider in the center..."

His eyes slowly opened.

"B... have you ever heard of Family of Origin?"

"It's not God."

Bray stopped believing in God a long time ago. Gods. Ancients, they called them in the supernatural community. Beings who gave rise to life. But the Ancients were selfish; they created life to amuse themselves, rather than out of any benevolent purpose. Even then, Bray couldn't find it in him to believe in anything after all that had happened to him in life.

Still... a tiny thin part of him believed in his star. In luck. In the hope that maybe some day all of the pain and loneliness and isolation would be worthwhile, and that at the end of his life he could look back and find just one thing that made it all worth the misery. It hadn't happened yet, but maybe it would. Bray was a strange little mix of jaded and hopeful that way. Somehow the jaded parts of him couldn't completely squash the once-hopeful part of him that used to reign supreme.

His hand slipped away and came to land on Jack's arm, resting comfortably there as he waited for Jack to make his wish. He wondered what Jack might wish for, what it was that his heart most desired. A home? A reason to stop running? Someone to reach down deep and soothe the parts of him that were fractured? That was what Bray would have wished for. Someone—anyone—to understand his pain and to help him heal because he could no longer do that on his own. He didn't know how to live without being in pain anymore.

"Maybe you just wish for more wishes, until you have enough to get to the center of that web." He turned his head slightly to look out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of a star. Nothing. Only street lights, dimly illuminating the bedroom from outside. Bray sighed and returned his gaze to Jack. "Family of origin. I think... it has something to do with the people in your life growing up? Their influence over how you develop? Why?"

"Hey, you never know in these small towns."

Some of them were filled with an overabundance of churches, especially out in the south but that was a tale for another time. People like him were definitely not wanted in the area, for various reasons. Plus, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Just one look at him and most could guess he wasn't about the settling down with a nice woman and birthing many children life. (But hey, not all of the south was like that--just many of the small towns.)

If he wished for parents that loved him, and that wish came true, he was certain that most of the other wishes would be unnecessary. But the problem was, wishes didn't come true and he could never go back in time. If he had different parents, he wouldn't even be Jack anymore. He would be another child, born to a different couple. Basically, he was wishing Jack Ripley never existed.

"Yeah."

Family of Origin. It was a component of psychology that inferred that one's first direct social group was responsible for shaping a person. He didn't know what prompted to suddenly ask Brayden about it because he didn't want to talk about it. Somehow, it had just been coaxed out of him. But now that it was out there, Jack didn't want to explain it further. So he smiled instead.

"I wish mine were star people."

And Jack would never exist and the people he hurt would still be around and the cycle they spoke about in psychology would stop. At least this one would. It wouldn't stop the other cycles from cycling but Jack couldn't save the whole goddamn world.

"People they come together, people they fall apart... No one can stop us now, 'cause we are all made of stars," he said softly in sing song because it was a song. He let it trail off, then--not singing--he added after a long moment, "How do you do that?"

The pieces started to come together in Bray's mind now, the more Jack spoke. The wistful wish he had for his parents to be star people, magical and ethereal, far up out of reach in the sky. Magical creatures that granted wishes. Benevolent, loving, kind. Parents he didn't have, who caused him pain. It didn't take much to connect the dots. Bray wasn't a genius but he was... thoughtful. He thought a lot, thought things through. Thought too much most of the time, but this time it was coming in handy.

Not knowing what to say, he didn't say anything. He thought. The little boy tracing stars became a man who woke up in the middle of the night with blood-soaked nightmares. He became a man who was sunshine and laughter outside, but pained inside, using his cheerful facade to fool the world at large into thinking that he was all right.

It was... ironic because Jack was both a philosopher and a psychologist. One might think he had the best tools to fix himself. But then again... things rarely worked that way. Just because he had the tools didn't mean that he knew how to use them on himself, in the same way that Bray understanding the fundamental role of pain in life didn't make it easy for him to rid himself of his own baggage.

As the silence stretched on, Jack surprisingly began to sing. And he had the voice of a lark. It was beautiful. Somehow it brought a little lump into Bray's throat, and his eyes shone for a second or two before he blinked it away. The words were so wistful and they hit home.

"Do what, Jack?"

Do what, he asked. And he genuinely didn't know what he was doing. There wasn't a single manipulative bone in Brayden's body. Jack knew manipulation when he saw it. He grew up with it, with people that only knew how to use and abuse. Brayden didn't even know how to manipulate. Everything in him screamed genuine and it didn't make sense to Jack. The young and the naive hadn't experienced enough of the world or the people in it to be damaged by them. Brayden must have... but somehow he came out of it without letting it ruin him.

People like him existed.

"Make it feel like I've known you forever."

Long enough to coax old memories out. Not the bad ones, either. Long forgotten good ones. The memories of a child that still thought magic could exist. Even through neglect, young enough to still think there was something better out there. Jack forgot about catching fireflies and watching shooting stars. He forgot about sitting outside in the tall grass of their shitty slum house in Hyde Park and listening to the neighbor's music playing on the stereo. Dancing to it alone. Playing with the stray kittens behind their house and sneaking them food when they got bigger.

"What was it like, growing up here?"

"Oh." Was that what he did? What he had been doing? Bray was—being Bray. Being a dummy, really, talking about Jack being a star, shining. Eager to please. Only this time it came naturally to him. A lot of what he said, what he did, wasn't premeditated. He would have found it laughable, how hard he tried to impress others just to fall flat on his face, but with Jack whom he genuinely wanted to get to know better, things happened of their own accord.

How strange, the way things came together. Earlier on in the evening it felt like everything was falling apart. Now all the pieces assembled themselves into a curious midnight narrative. Bray might come to hate himself in the morning for saying cheesy things, or he might not. He might find the embarrassment worthwhile, if he brought even a little comfort to Jack.

He didn't pretend to understand the amount of pain Jack was in. His life wasn't... horrible, in comparison. Jack had suffered much more, he could tell, more than someone like Bray could fathom. He wouldn't ever want to diminish that by comparing his own troubles to Jack's—especially since he didn't know the whole story. There had to be more. Much more. Jack Ripley was far deeper than anyone probably gave him credit for at first glance and he was, as Bray always thought, intriguing. Yes, he was so terribly intriguing, just like a mysterious star twinkling through the darkness.

But Bray couldn't reciprocate the sentiment—about knowing Jack—because he didn't know Jack. Bray was simple. Jack was not. So again he said nothing, and only squeezed Jack's arm to show that he understood, that he was pleased, that he cared. It was much easier to turn to another topic, too, but Jack's words didn't leave his mind even as he spoke up about growing up in Hazleton.

"It was... I'm sure it's different from the big cities. We're a small town but big things happen here." Bray half-smiled. "Everything's news in a small town, you know? Whose crops failed, who had a barn raising, whose horse ran loose through the center of town. And you could never get away with anything because a neighbor always saw, or somebody's kid would tattle on you." He laughed fondly, recalling the few times he got into scrapes of his own—usually out of that same desire to belong, listening to the terrible kids with bad ideas.

"Actually it's still sort of like that. You can't do anything without somebody knowing about it. I'm sure if I sneezed tonight, someone from across town will show up with a box of tissues in the morning."

...and if he laid with another man, even innocently... somebody would find out, he was sure...

Somehow, it was easy to imagine everything Brayden talked about. The small town life... It sounded delightful here, he had to admit. Back in Boston, Jack was just another statistic. Another dirty kid playing in the back alleys of old shitty slum neighborhoods. He heard they were nicer now, the houses in Hyde Park. But when Jack was growing up, they were run down, with peeling paint and broken windows and dried grass that grew too tall. There was a lot of room to get into trouble, too, but Jack didn't have people to care if he did. So when he was little, he had all the time and space to go on little kid adventures and quests in the neighborhood.

As a teenager, things changed drastically. Those were the years where he let himself be dragged in by anybody who would have him. A man could look at him just so and he would let them fuck him. There were drugs passed back and forth. A lot of alcohol. The kittens he loved so were barely adults when they started showing up flattened by cars or dead from disease, gunky eyes and noses. Fireflies were just bugs and shooting stars were just rocks burning up in the atmosphere.

But he could imagine a teenage Brayden in this small, sleepy town. Neighbors watching him, watching out for him. Kids tattling because that was the worst they could do. Stupid little schoolyard fights where they pushed one another and that was the end of it. He bet people noticed if parents were bad here in Hazleton. He bet the community got together and did those food drive things. Brought presents for kids on holidays when kids otherwise had nothing.

"I know what you mean." He propped himself up on one elbow and rested his chin in his hand. "When I arrived, everybody wanted to know who I was. Everybody wanted to shake my hand and invite me for lunch or tea to get to know me."

His expression was amused as he remembered it with fondness. That was the kind of attention he liked. People seemed to like him well enough when they met him. Even if they didn't know the deep, inner workings, they liked some part of him, at least.

"Do you know...? Mrs. Thompson spent an entire lunch hour trying to hook me up with her son! She kept saying, 'oh, you'd be so perfect for my Wyatt!' I never even met him, B! I bet you know him. What do you think?" He struck a vogue-esque pose, head up, hand elegantly held beneath his chin. "Am I good enough for Mrs. Thompson's son?"

Most of the time Bray watched other children doing things, while he hovered awkwardly in the background. He was too scared to go skinny dipping in the creek so he watched everyone's clothes while they whooped and hollered and threw themselves into the ice-cold water, shouting joyously as they splashed each other. At most Bray would dip his legs in it while sitting on the side of the bank, keeping a dutifully watchful eye on their belongings.

When the other kids went off to the town square for festivals and dances, he strolled through the stalls and tents, trying to find things he thought his mother might like or that his friends would enjoy. Very few people gave him anything just because but Bray always had the needs of others on his mind. It was surprising that he didn't have more friends but... perhaps they sensed that he was too eager to be accepted. That no matter what they did, what they said about him to his face or behind his back, he would still be there, still be anxious to fit in.

Bray never did fit in. He didn't know why. Maybe because he was sheltered and grew up with parents who constantly worried about him, he wasn't as adventurous as others. He never did have that madcap sense of fun that made the wild kids popular. He didn't like things like riding or swimming or shooting. His pursuits were bookish, perhaps, although he didn't fit with that library crowd either.

Couldn't there be a group of people like him, he wondered often when he was younger? People who didn't know what to say and let silences fall too long? People who over-thought every aspect of life and failed to enjoy the moment? If there were others like him, they were few and far in between. Young Bray learned to live vicariously through others, to enjoy their enjoyment rather than to experience things for himself. He learned that he wasn't cowardly as such, but he was shrinking when others were bold, that he retreated while another braver man would stride forward. He blended and never learned how to stand out.

And that was why Jack, he stood out so much. Jack was everything Bray admired in others that he never found in himself.

"Everyone knew about you before you came here. You were like a local celebrity," he laughed softly, recalling the curious inquiries into that new professor with a Harvard degree. My, my, such an illustrious figure, settling here in Hazleton? Everyone needed to know all about him and—for a while—even Bray shared in some of that limelight. But when Jack actually arrived, of course all attention shifted to him—including Bray's.

Wyatt Thompson, though... Bray struggled not to let his expression darken. He thought Wyatt was... still with Jeffrey. Wyatt was the one who claimed that things were getting stale, that he needed to redefine himself. That Bray was simply too dull. Bray swallowed again, hard. He looked up at Jack, striking his dramatic pose, backed by streetlights and moonlight. That lump in his throat went away. He smiled with honest, open admiration and with a real warmth unfurling in his chest.

"I think..." Bray reached up to tuck away a stray strand of dark hair curling into Jack's cheek. "You are more than good enough for anyone, Jack Ripley. And anyone would be lucky to have you."

"I'm so flattered."

He might have said it in a jesting tone but he was secretly actually flattered. A local celebrity. All because of his illustrious work at Harvard, no doubt. Sheer luck and hard work landed Jack in Harvard, to be honest. Through high school, he struggled a lot with his vices, with his so-called friends and boyfriends and flings that meant nothing. But there was a tiny seed in him that still cared about having high marks in his classes. And he was intelligent, despite all the stupid choices he made, the bad friends, the drugs that probably fucked his mind up. Somehow, though, he was able to do it.

Jack worked his ass off for that scholarship. Nobody deserved it more than he did. For once, he believed in something about himself that strongly. The joy of finding out he got it, that he was accepted, that he was covered. Those were the years of his life that might have been the best of his life in a long time. He belonged.

But it was also the start of something in him breaking inside. He learned not to let those cracks show, though. He learned how to be the sunshine in the room. The one person in the room everybody wanted to be, or wanted to be with. The life of the party, the reason people orbited him. And it was nice. It was a perfect distraction from everything that wasn't perfect in his life.

"You really are too sweet." Jack tilted his head, loosening the curl that Brayden had just tucked away. "But for the record, I'm joking about Mrs. Thompson's son. She just seemed way too... desperate about it. Kinda made me think maybe he's not much of a catch, hm? If your mother has to vouch for you, it doesn't bode well..."

And he hadn't missed that brief cloud in Brayden's otherwise soft gaze. This Wyatt Thompson guy must not be much of a winner in his eyes. And Jack was content to trust Brayden's instincts.

A tall, handsome, learned man moving into town who was an eligible bachelor? All of the mothers were in a tizzy to marry off their daughters. And sons. It didn't surprise Bray that Mrs. Thompson tried to push Wyatt onto Jack. Wyatt was the type who liked to lean on people—including his own parents. He wasn't shiftless but he was lazy, preferring to drift through life depending on the kindness of others. Bray always knew what he was to Wyatt, but he still enjoyed having someone in his life who was more than a friend. They had their moments, too, even if Wyatt was mostly only in it for the financial support.

But that was three years ago. Bray was the only one who held on to those few good memories; he was sure Wyatt had long since moved on with someone newer, more exciting, less dull. Possibly richer as well; there were a few high rollers here in Hazleton who preferred to live away from larger cities. Many were vampires, if that meant anything. Then again, they had far longer to amass wealth, didn't they?

Jack was still something of a celebrity in town, to be honest. People were still interested because he came from a big city like Boston, with his Harvard degree. Plenty of folks who grew up in Hazleton and had never been further than Portland thought he was a big deal. Plus, Jack wasn't stuck-up. He didn't have an affected manner that made others dislike him. He was the picture of friendliness and that went a long way here.

"Wyatt's not that bad. He's very handsome and always has something to say. But his mother thinks it's time he settled down. That's probably why she pushed so hard for you two to meet. If you're looking for someone..." Bray turned his head away, still smiling softly but now at the mattress. "I'm sure you won't have any trouble, Jack."

And when he did eventually find someone worth his time, Bray would still be happy for him. For them.

"Settling down..." He lifted his gaze upward for a few seconds, then let out a breath. "Not sure about that one."

On the one hand, Jack yearned to be able to finally settle down with somebody he could love and trust. On the other hand, he couldn't even imagine it being in the cards for him. It was honestly too much to hope for. Love and trust were such difficult things to give away and it felt like every time he tried, he ended up going too far. Here, in Hazleton, he wanted things to be different.

And so far, so good. The problem was that he hadn't been here long enough to feel safe enough to think he could. He had been at some of those jobs for a couple of years before the disastrous happened. Then he tried shallow relationships, flings, that sort of thing. But even shallow relationships eventually became something because it was so easy for Jack to fall for the next doe eyed man who trusted him so implicitly. Then it became his duty to protect... and that meant... bad things eventually.

"I'm not looking right now," he said finally. "I'm kind of in... relationship detox right now. But yeah... you're right. I probably won't have much trouble." His smile was a touch wistful. Oh, he hoped that was true. He genuinely hoped trouble would stay away this time.

"I see." That sounded like Jack didn't want anything serious on his plate with respect to relationships for a while. Maybe he had a bad break-up; that was the logical conclusion to his words and to 'relationship detox.' Relationships were always such tricky things. People seemed eager to jump into one but not everyone was prepared to put in the work. They wanted all the payoff without the effort in most cases.

Bray, though, still believed in love. That somewhere out there was a person just for him, who could make up for all the things he lacked. That person... would have to be some kind of saint, no doubt, but it wasn't impossible. Unlikely didn't mean impossible. Even if they weren't here in Hazleton, perhaps one day if he managed to uproot himself, to shake the feeling that he somehow needed to be here... It wasn't impossible.

He settled back down, letting out a low sigh. Jack wasn't looking. That cleared everything up. He was just... flirtatious. The touches, the kiss to the forehead, the sweet words, they didn't necessarily mean anything. Yes, that became apparent now and Bray supposed that... he ought to be thankful, really. No more muddled thoughts. No more wondering—no more over-thinking.

But he was disappointed. Of course he was. Anyone would be, wouldn't they?

"We should try to go back to sleep," he said gently, glancing outside again. Sky was still dark; there was still time to sleep before they had to wake up and frantically call a locksmith, wait for him to get into town and pry open Bray's door. The paperwork... Lord, the paperwork. He felt the clawing sensation inside again, the anxiety. Bray breathed in deep, held it for five, let it out.

"I'll wake you if you have another nightmare," he added as he turned his cheek into the pillow, bringing up his free hand to grasp at one corner of it. Bray brushed the soft pillow cover with his thumb. Felt like silk, or some other type of expensive material. Hm. Luxurious.

I see, he said, and the disappointment was palpable. But Jack didn't know what else to say or how to fix it. Love yourself first and then you can love somebody else. What if he could never love himself? That could be for the best. His version of love had never worked for him or his partners. And he certainly didn't want to see anything happen to Brayden. There was something too important to him. They hadn't known each other long but even Jack could see that. There was something different about Brayden. Somehow... he brought out something less... bad in him.

How?

How could he know? It wasn't as if he was writing Brayden off... as.... as... a friend. Jack could use those. And... they were still neighbors. And co-workers. It would have been a lie, though, to say he hadn't ever wondered what it would be like to have a relationship with him. When was the last time he opened himself up this much? In the space of an evening? He closed his eyes tight. Opened them. If it was a dream, it felt very real. The sensation of the sheets and the warm blankets atop them and the weight of the body beside him.

Jack watched Brayden with longing, even though Brayden wasn't even looking at him. At the way his eyes darted out to look outside, the way he rested back against the pillow. He seemed to be carefully avoiding looking at Jack now. Hesitantly, Jack laid back down, too. He didn't turn away, though.

"Thanks, B."

Bray felt Jack's movement but he couldn't bring himself to look, feeling bittersweet about the end to their conversation. It felt as though everything was going well but maybe too well. At first—disastrous. Then even more terrible, with the nightmare. And from that terrible low, things got better. Jack seemed less closed off to him, exposing his vulnerabilities, bits of his past that Bray hadn't known and would never have guessed. Bray began to feel as though he was finally included; he was in on these small secrets that Jack divulged to him. Finally, he was on the inside, not on the outside looking in.

Then... just as Jack seemed within reach... he slid away again with mentions of Wyatt, of looking for other partners, of being good enough for someone—someone else. Someone that wasn't Bray. Of course not. He felt stupid to think that he ever had a chance at holding on to a star. Stars weren't meant for people like Bray to keep—people who locked themselves out of their apartment because they got too excited about the prospect of bringing soup to a handsome co-worker.

Stars belonged with other stars, all twinkling away, far out of reach.

But that was okay. No, really, it was okay. Better that he knew now. There was safety in knowing. Security in knowing his place and where he stood in the grand scheme of things. Bray was silly. Silly, silly. He smiled at the edge of the pillow and nodded, feeling Jack's eyes on him but still unable to look up. "Of course. I promised." He didn't believe in breaking promises. If he didn't have his word, he didn't have anything. Bray closed his eyes just to stop himself from wanting to look at Jack.

In the morning he would be himself again, he was sure. Whatever that flight of fancy was earlier would be long gone and sensible Brayden would take control.

"Good night, Jack."

"Good night."

His gaze remained on Brayden for a long while, until his vision blurred and doubled up. Somehow, the sleepiness was finally coming back. His eyelids grew too heavy to fight and eventually he fell back into an uneasy sleep. And it was uneasy.

There was a dark edge to it at first, visions of the old building his mother raised him in. The rundown building with boards tacked over the downstairs windows. There was a shouting match inside but Jack was bouncing down the front steps, skipping the last few and spinning toward the back of the building.

But when he entered the back alley, he was surprised to see Brayden already there. "B? What are you doing here?" he asked, and suddenly, he was no longer a child but an adult again. He put a hand to his face, his chest, shoulders. Strange. Looking around, the alley melted away and they were on a hill that Jack recognized as a part of one Hazleton's beautiful natural parks.

Slowly, he walked toward Brayden, who was standing beside a park bench. Jack's eyes never left him as he approached, and even as he sat, his head inclined to keep watching him. Something was humming. A tune from his childhood. When he looked away from Brayden, he could see the stars. They were too bright to be real. When he looked over at Brayden again, he was gone. Jack waited, looked around the park, behind him and the bench.

"...B...?"





B̸̛̖̫̮̟̙̗̮͍̳̲͍̓́̄̀̔̇̇̈́́̈́͋͌͘͜͝ͅL̷̨̞̳̟̤̜͇̙͙͓̪̖̯̭̖̋͗ͅÖ̶̟̞̹̩̦̹̣̗͚͙̭̭̞́́̍͛͘͘͝͝ͅƠ̴̧̻̹̙͕̜̯̋͋̔́̃̈̿͌̅̃͛̇̿͝Ď̸̛͙̮̙̈̈͑̆̏̍̍̈́̆̿͝͝ ̶̢̺͍̬͍͎̹̼̹̽́͠Ë̷͓̪̥̼̦̥͍̼́͌̔̾͘V̷̮͓̫̩͙̩̬̞̺̹̱̤̗͕͈̆̓̈́̈̃̋̕ͅͅE̸̛̩̠̫̘͚̲̔̑̅̆̾̓̈́̇̇͘͘R̴̢̲͓̹̫̤̦͕̻̪̬̼̓͋́̑̎̓Y̴̭̯̣̠͌̅͂̐͝W̸̨͔̠͔̜̟̠͕͈͇̑̂̊̆̂̈̍̊H̶̙̿̋̓̎͗͛E̶̡̺̮̗͉͕̤̯̰͐͒̋̓̍̀̊́̚̕͜͝͠͠͠R̷̡̘̺̙̠̔̾͑̉́E̷̢͓͎̪̞͈̰̘̩̟̮̟̞̘͚͗̔̃





Static. Something buzzed in his brain and he clapped his hands over his ears. "Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

He dropped to his knees in the pool of blood. "B?! BRAYDEN?" His heart beat faster. "Fuck...! No!"

The static grew harsher. The red bled into grey and the entire landscape melted away into something dark. Nothing but darkness and then it slowly illuminated into something like black and white and shades of grey. Jack sat back on his heels but his arms wrapped around his body, face etched in despair. But the grey was wiped of the last vision. The park was gone, the blood was gone, even the static sounds were gone. Jack set a hand on the ground. It wasn't grass anymore. It felt like pavement. He pushed himself up to stand, a little shakily.

"...where the hell is this?"

Something glittery and bright passed him. A firefly. Jack stared at it, cocking his head to the side with an expression of disbelief. "B...?"

He had no idea why he should think the firefly was Brayden but he stumbled over his own feet to follow it. Although its body was tiny, its light was mighty. Everywhere it glided past, it illuminated the dark greys and blacks to color. Tall grass, brown and crunchy. School desks in a row. Jack slid a hand over one of them. A J carved into one. Past the desks, he saw the airplane he'd taken to Hazleton. He was alone as he walked down the long aisle and then paused at the door. The doors turned into bus doors. The doors that opened up to his new apartment. Sunrise.

Brayden was standing in front of his own apartment door.

"B?"

He looked behind him. The bus was gone. The plane was gone. Looking back over at Brayden, Jack slowly walked toward the middle of the courtyard. His apartment was right there. But he was looking at Brayden's.

"B..." He turned away from his apartment and moved toward Brayden, who was looking at him. Jack's confusion softened into a smile and he reached out for him, pulling him in close into a tight hug. He turned his head into his temple and his lips pressed against the corner of his eye. "Brayden..."

BZZZT! BZZZZT! BZZZZZT!

Jarred awake, this time by the harsh sound of his alarm clock, Jack sat up blindly, sleep still in his eyes and his heart thumping hard against his chest. His mouth felt dry and his head was pounding. Shaking hands reached up to run through his unruly hair and he drew his knees up slightly. What the hell? Then... Brayden? Jack turned to check that he was still there, half expecting him to have slid off in the night.

He knew Jack wasn't asleep and that he was looking. Still looking at Bray, putting him on edge because Jack didn't speak. He didn't say anything. And Bray didn't want him to say anything. He laid there holding his breath, tense, stiff again, hoping that Jack wouldn't say it.

Bray didn't want the reassurance. He didn't want to hear Jack say that they could still be friends. Not hearing it didn't make it any less true, didn't pull him out of that corner, but he... he couldn't deal with it at the moment. Or—no. He didn't want to deal with it. He didn't want Jack to have to feel bad about some silly little crush that Bray harbored and that he thought could go somewhere. Just because Jack paid him a little attention didn't mean anything. It didn't have to mean anything.

Jack owed him nothing, nothing at all.

They could be friends. Neighbors. Co-workers. Even that was more than Bray deserved. At the beginning of the evening he would have done cartwheels to be considered Jack's friend; he would have been elated to know that Jack saw him as a person and not only as 'that man with the stacks of paperwork.' And by Bray's own admission, he was a slow, slow turtle when it came to relationships. Losing his mind for ten minutes, that wasn't typical Bray. He just had to get back to the status quo, that was all.

While Jack's breathing slowed and evened out, indicating sleep, Bray was still wide awake. He finally dared to look at Jack, now that Jack wasn't looking at him. His expression softened but a spasm passed through it too, of sadness, emotion, disappointment. Bray slowly pushed himself up to sit and rested his back against the headboard. He reached down with a gentle hand to touch the side of Jack's head, stroking once along his dark hair. "I'm sorry," whispered Bray, for making things difficult for Jack.

Didn't he want to help Jack? He did—of course he did.

So then why was he adding to Jack's pain, why was he making things harder for him?

"I'm so stupid," he whispered to himself, disappointed in his own lack of maturity. He didn't want to make things weird. Jack deserved none of it; he wasn't responsible for the way Bray felt. Withdrawing his hand, Bray tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He knew he wouldn't sleep that night and... well, he wanted to make sure Jack didn't suffer any more nightmares. He promised he would look out for him and maybe... maybe it was more important that he had Jack's back than it was for him to mope over a man who was out of his league stating that he didn't want a relationship.

Some time later—maybe an hour or so—Jack began to turn and toss and twist again. Bray had dozed off but it was that strange, light kind of sleep that didn't take hold. He awakened to Jack murmuring, clearly in distress, and swiftly reached over to touch his palm to Jack's forehead. The power that thrummed through his veins focused in his palm, soothing blue-white light enveloping his hand. It spread out over Jack's face, all around his head, calming his mind and easing him out of whatever horrors he was being subjected to.

Bray was tempted to peer into his dreams but he didn't do it. He couldn't invade Jack's mind that way. Instead, he watched with worried eyes as Jack eventually stilled and he didn't stop watching over Jack until the sun rose and sent its warm, bright rays in through the slats in the blinds. By then, Bray... had to use the restroom. Quite badly. He tried to hold it in, still fearing that Jack's nightmares would return, but eventually biology got the better of him. Easing out of bed, he silently speed-walked into the bathroom and quietly shut the door behind him.

It was as he flushed the toilet that he heard the buzzing of an alarm and Bray quickly washed his hands. He poked a head out of the bathroom in time to see Jack sitting in bed staring at the empty place where he had been. Bray coughed softly. "Good morning." He edged out and, feeling strangely shy for some reason, stood by the bathroom as though guarding it. "Are you okay?"

Oh.

He was gone.

Disappointed, Jack stared morosely at the indent where Brayden was lying. When he lightly touched the sheets, they still felt warm. Why did you go? It must have been their conversation last night. Brayden didn't like the direction it went. Was... he hoping for Jack to ask him... to be in a relationship? Although his heart ached for the idea... Jack turned his gaze away from the bed and sighed, running a hand up his forehead and pushing his hair back. Ugh, hangover. He deserved it.

Then... the softest of coughs. Jack blinked as he breathed in, then looked up. The air stayed there in his lungs. It was as if he'd forgotten to breathe. Oh. He was still here. Brayden never left.

"Oh...." He exhaled as he dropped back down into the bed, relief flooding through his system like a drug. "I'm fine. Just a little..." He waved a hand in the air. "You know."

Hungover. Sick. Whichever word he wanted to believe. What time is it? he was going to ask but if the alarm went off, he already knew. It was set to go off two hours before he was expected to leave for work. Work.

"Oh shit." He sat up again, flipping the covers off him as he shed his floral robe and opened his closet door. "Did you call the locksmith yet? We can't get started on that paperwork until we get into your apartment."

Ah. No. It wasn't shyness, was it? It was shame. Bray was ashamed of himself, of the way he acted and reacted. He had a lot of time to think about things during the night—typical Bray, staying up for hours to run over every single little detail. He worked out that while Jack had opened up to him and was honest with him about his feelings on relationships, stating clearly that he was not ready to date seriously again, Bray... sort of acted like a brat.

What? He didn't get the response he wanted and all of a sudden the world was ending?

When did he get so entitled? Bray liked to think he was better than that but apparently he wasn't. Poor Jack, he only wanted to share his feelings. And he was sick, that was the worst part! He was sick and Bray should have been kinder, more gracious and infinitely more understanding!

He was thoroughly ashamed of himself and he ought to have left, really, before Jack woke up, except he was still worried about Jack's nightmares. That kept him there, keeping vigil throughout the night while he chided and berated himself for being so foolish. Well at least he could multi-task on that front. He could call himself ten kinds of an idiot and still keep an eye on Jack.

Jack looked a little green around the gills still, especially in daylight, but he wasn't feverish like he was last night when he showed up at the door. Bray stepped slowly towards the bed, discreetly checking him over. "Still sick?" He offered, pausing as Jack suddenly tossed the covers and shed his robe—and Bray looked politely away. Not that Jack was naked—he wore silky pajamas and all—but it was force of habit.

"Oh! Oh the—yes! The locksmith!" He'd been waiting for Jack to wake up since he couldn't get into Jack's phone. "Could I have your phone? I-I'm sure he..." Bray trailed off as his eyes caught on the alarm clock and on the time. "He... can get here... in time..." he trailed off miserably. An hour to get into town. Maybe ten to twenty minutes to unlock the door. And that left... what? Forty minutes to finish all the paperwork? Impossible. Bray still had to get himself to the school too, set up for the superintendent's visit, make sure all the department heads were ready...

All of that in forty minutes? Impossible.

He hung his head for a moment, eyes closing, heart breaking in his chest. There was no way. Nothing short of a miracle could help him now. "It's okay," he said at last, dully. "I won't get it done on time. I'll just have to own up to it with the dean and the administration. Don't—don't worry about it, Jack. It's my own fault, I shouldn't drag you into it too."

Sick? Jack started to shake his head--it hurt--and then nodded. Yes, he was still "sick." Definitely hung over and feeling the drinks he'd knocked back the night before. At least he had a good time... up until that part where he felt hollow and empty again. (Sigh.)

"Oh, honey, you could have asked earlier," he said, grabbing his phone and unlocking it for Brayden before holding it out to him. Jack promised to help with the paperwork and he said they could wake up early to get it done. Instead he slept so long that he didn't realize that time was still marching onward. If it weren't for that alarm, honestly, he'd still be sleeping.

But Brayden was panicking over the locksmith and the superintendent's visit and apparently a lot of paperwork. How much could it really be, that they couldn't get it done if they doubled down on it?

"Okay," he said pulling the phone back to himself since Brayden hadn't taken it yet. "Calm down. There's always a solution for these things. How about..." He searched through his contacts for the building manager. "I call the manager and have him come and unlock your door with a spare or master?"

He supposed he should have thought about that the night before but he was exhausted by good sex and still half drunk. Now he had the benefit of some sleep at his disposal. As he hit the call button for the manager, he reached out and gently squeezed Brayden's hand.

"Don't worry. It'll be taken care of."

Break in.

Break. In.

Bray's desperate mind wrapped around that idea as a last resort as Jack attempted to reassure him. He was calm, though. Surprisingly, quite calm. The freak-out had happened last night and he always knew that he would attempt to smash a window if worst came to worst. Bray was running through the logistics of that plan while Jack hit upon the idea to call the manager.

"Oh. What?" The squeeze of his hand brought him out of his scheming thoughts. "He's—he told me he was out of town this week. Or I would have gone to find him last night."

He would have actually walked half-way across town into the suburbs to find the building manager, if it meant getting back inside. Bray worried his lower lip for a moment, then turned to Jack again. He spoke with some measure of gravity, his expression somber. Serious. "Jack. We have to break in. It's the only way." If they could get in within the next ten minutes... he might get it all done in time.

Shit. Did Brayden tell him that last night? He listened to the phone continue to ring. Tried to remember what Brayden said when he showed up stuttering that he'd locked himself out of his apartment. He probably told him then but Jack was too busy laughing at him. Ah... Well. Oh! That was the landlord's telltale smoker's voice!

"Hello, this is--"

"Good morning!" Jack smiled with relief and started to speak but the voicemail message continued.

"Tanner Caldwell. I can't come to the phone right now. If you're a--"

Jack hung up and rolled his eyes with a sigh.

"Well. So much for that expertly thought out plan."

He crossed an arm over his chest, the other holding the phone. That didn't work out as well as he'd hoped. It seemed like they had to decide to do something else but before Jack could come up with another brilliantly useless plan, Brayden turned toward him with Serious Face... to say that they had to break in. Jack had no idea what to think about that. Breaking into Brayden's apartment like common thieves? He looked away, although the rest of his expression was a poker face. Then he glanced back over at Brayden, trying to decide just how he wanted to go about saying what he wanted to say without either upsetting Brayden or pissing him off.

"Listen," he said slowly as he tucked the phone under his chin and looked at Brayden thoughtfully. "You're not allowed to tell anyone about this, especially the superintendent or anybody we work with, like Mrs. Thompson and that guy who teaches... whatever he teaches, but you know the one, he lives two apartments down that way from me? Anyway, this is strictly between the two of us... got it? Okay. Well... It just so happens that I..."

He turned away from Brayden and opened the side table drawer near him. He pulled out a small box that he slid into the same palm as his phone. Then he took hold of Brayden's shoulder, turning him to the bedroom door to lead him out.

"I know how to pick locks."

For a brief moment there was hope but—no. Voicemail. Bray could hear it vaguely from where he stood beside Jack, hovering uselessly, plotting to smash in his own window and climb through. One of the perks of living on the first floor was the ability to commit crimes from ground-level. But was it committing a crime if HE broke into his OWN apartment? Wasn't that just... redecorating? In shards of broken glass?

Bray listened because Jack told him to listen. He was expecting a lecture of some kind on how to best go about kicking in a window. Jack had a Havard degree, for god's sake! He had to be smarter than Bray, a mere slave to the paperwork at a small-town university. Maybe it wasn't fair to pin all of his hopes on one man, but Bray had nowhere else to turn to! He—

"What?" What did that mean, don't tell anyone? Why would he tell anyone that he had to break into his own place? Bray wouldn't have done that anyway, out of sheer embarrassment! He thought Jack might still be somewhat delirious from the fever so he opened his mouth to explain that this secret crime was only between them when Jack left to get a small box. Ah. Glass cutter? Bray was turned around; he felt much better now that they were going to do something. They had a plan. Jack was skilled at picking locks so they would simply walk out, walk around to Bray's living room window, pick up a rock and...

Wait.

Hold on a minute.

Bray was still walking, out of the apartment in his rumpled work clothes from yesterday—he'd now slept in them, rolled around in them, dream-walked through Jack's first nightmare in them and sat in them all night while keeping watch over Jack. He was sure he looked especially bedraggled and pathetic. But. That didn't mean he couldn't turn furiously to Jack for a split second to stare at him in outrage.

"You—what?"

Jack lifted his phone and the little box up with both hands to cover his face as if they were a good set of shields. His voice was low so nobody could hear him except Brayden.

"I can pick locks."

He looked to the side, in the middle distance. Jack Ripley could pick locks. It wasn't a skill that he was proud of, obviously. Growing up in a hard little neighborhood full of hoodlums, he had picked up a skill here and there that made it possible for him to do things like... steal enough money to eat. Somebody had to get him food, even if it had to be himself. But he wasn't explaining that right now. They were standing outside at that point and it wasn't something he wanted the other residents to know about, either. If they knew, they would start thinking they weren't safe here and he didn't plan on doing anything to anybody. He was trying to start over.

Lowering his shields, he nodded at Brayden, then passed him and towards his apartment across the courtyard almost imperiously. He didn't want to see if Brayden was following him or if he was going to protest. Time was of the essence at the moment, wasn't it?

Kneeling in front of the door, he set his phone and the small box down beside his knee. He opened the box to reveal a set of small tools. Taking a look at the locks, Jack mapped out the plan and then began the job of picking the lock. He did his best to be quick about it, not wanting to be caught out. Hah... he was out here in his silken pajamas and barefoot. Not exactly how he wanted to be seen by his neighbors on top of everything else.

Click.

Jack turned the knob and the door opened. Collecting his things, he stood up. It was hard to look at Brayden now, for different reasons than last night. He hated that. He hated that he felt closer to Brayden than anybody he'd felt close to in a lifetime for just one night and all because he didn't say anything about the lock picking ability.

He couldn't even say he was sorry because... selfishly, he really wasn't. Instead of leaving promptly, Jack lingered in the doorway.

"I promised I'd help with the paperwork..."

"I heard. You. The first time." Bray was speaking in fragmented sentences again, but this time for a vastly different reason than last night. Oh, he was back to being dragged along by the hair behind Jack while Jack stormed ahead at eight hundred miles an hour. He was back to feeling lost and out of his element—also, furious. Because Jack could have mentioned that last night while Bray was freaking out!

Despite how Jack hid his face, 98% of him—the rest of his tall body—was still visible, so Bray directed his fury onto the parts of Jack that weren't hidden from him. He was furious all the way across the courtyard, trailing behind Jack looking like he'd gotten run over by a tractor and then backed onto and run over again. Meanwhile, Jack walked with his head high and shoulders squared, as if he owned the place—what a world of difference between the two of them.

Bray ran an agitated hand through his hair. It was getting long and people kept hinting that it needed to be cut, but Bray didn't know. He sort of. Liked the look. And he wasn't going for a man bun, either, he just sort of felt safer with some hair to hide his face.

Sure, lock-picking was a suspicious skill... but lots of people picked it up randomly. Hell, some looked it up. For kicks. And giggles. "Why do you have a kit?" THAT was the real question! Bray didn't care that Jack had quirky skills but the little box with the tools in it was suspicious! He stood behind Jack with his arms crossed, frowning. His brows creased and he knew he looked grumpy. He felt grumpy. He hadn't slept the entire night and he felt grumpy and—and lied to a little bit.

Not mad, though. Furious, sure, but not truly angry. He couldn't be angry at Jack after seeing what Jack went through twice in one night. Two nightmares. A tragic past. Why would Bray begrudge him a little oversight like this? Jack wasn't leaving, so he pushed open the door and lightly nudged Jack to get inside. It was cold this early in the morning; Jack was sick. Bray could be outraged inside his own apartment.

Inside, right by the door, were the stacks of papers in the humongous file folder, and bulging out of his bag. Bray sighed as he toed the door closed and bent to pick up both. He glared at the keys laying innocently on top of his bag. "Make yourself at home," he said tiredly as he trudged into the living room and dropped off the papers with a THUD onto the coffee table.

Yes. Brayden was pissed off. Made sense, though. Anybody would be frustrated by all this. Jack wasn't unflappable either, but at the moment, he wasn't angry because he wasn't the one who had information withheld from him. Also, the whole hysteria of getting work done and superintendent visits and all that. Brayden needed to learn how to just relax but he had a feeling if he said that now, Brayden might just gut punch him.

"Let's not," he said, in response to why he had a kit. He slid it into the pocket of his silk jammies. No reason to even bring it up again. He'd just pretend, oh, that never happened.

Inside Brayden's apartment, right by the door, was the apparent mountain of paperwork and holy... Jack didn't like the look of it. When Brayden fretted over not getting it done, he just assumed he was overreacting. Now... Not so much. He dropped his phone on the table next to the couch and then flopped onto it before remembering. Ugh. Shifting uncomfortably, he crossed his legs on the couch and reached for the stack of paperwork.

"We're going to need some serious caffeine if we're going to get this done."

They might or they might not revisit the little incriminating black box but Bray was more eager to get to work, so he dropped the subject. Jack clearly didn't want to get into it and Bray wasn't assertive enough to keep pushing. He didn't think Jack was a career criminal, though. Not a master burglar, although the silk pajamas and the luxurious pillow cases were cast in a somewhat dubious light.

For the moment he dropped his fury and picked up the paperwork. Bray's apartment had the same layout as Jack's, with different (cheaper) furniture. His couch was a bit ratty and his decorations mismatched. Living here at the Sunrise was expensive, so he had to cut costs somewhere else—and that somewhere else was the furniture. A lot of it was his parents' and others were kindly donated or that he picked up from the thrift shop.

Everything was clean, though, and repaired by hand. Jack might have noticed the patch sewn on the couch, from where a rip happened and the stuffing poked out. The coffee table top didn't match the legs; Bray did some clever figuring out to put two different (broken) ones together to make a whole one. He wasn't crafty by nature but the internet had some great tutorials and videos.

Since he didn't have a study or a work table, Bray dropped onto the carpet to sit cross-legged. He began pulling papers out and arranging them, feeling steadily better. He was sure he could get this done now, and Jack kindly offered to help. That made up somewhat for the lie of omission. Bray looked up, no longer grumpy—just serious and ready to get to work.

"Sorry... I don't drink coffee." His gaze softened as he reached for the file Jack had taken, to relieve him of it. "You know you don't have to stay. I can probably get this done myself. If you want to go back and get some more rest... I know you probably didn't sleep that well last night either."

Well, Jack would give Bray this much: at least he didn't stay mad long. Or he could be the type of person who exploded later on. Jack decided not to think about it and just like everything he didn't want to think about, he pushed it aside, somewhere in a pile of other thoughts he didn't feel like sifting through. Instead, he leaned forward-still, ouch--and he rested his chin in his hands as he looked down at the paperwork he'd taken.

No caffeine. Oh, he could feel the lack of it deep in his bones. Jack needed caffeine to function--he was one of those robots. It also helped balance out the pills he took that otherwise would have made him fall flat asleep in front of his class.

Instead of bitching about it, he sighed and rubbed one of his sore temples. No caffeine, aching asshole, pounding headache. Could he get out of work the way he had hoped to last night? He closed his eyes. Brayden was right. He didn't have to stay but he was already here and he said he'd help so he was going to help.

"Pen, please."

He held out a hand for a pen, assuming that like every other stack of paperwork he'd ever been handed, that it required black or blue ink.

"...okay." He handed over a blue pen from inside his bag and grabbed a black one himself. "Thank you, Jack." Bray smiled, already on the road to forgiveness because it wasn't hard to get back on his good side. He really didn't think Jack withheld that information to be deliberately cruel. Maybe Jack didn't think of it or maybe he was too sick to remember. Maybe it didn't connect in his mind. There could have been any number of reasonable explanations and he was sure Jack had his reasons.

Besides, he took Bray in and let him stay the night. That was a point in his favor, if nothing else.

The majority of the forms needed information copied over from a master copy, which he explained to Jack as he wrote rapidly. His hand was almost a blur as it flew over pages and pages and pages. Bray was dead tired and his vision swam a few times but he persevered, knowing that his job was on the line. The work wasn't difficult, either, but it was tedious and repetitive. Still, he soldiered on, lifting his head occasionally to make sure Jack was doing all right, answering whatever questions he may have had about this form or that form.

Eventually the pile dwindled. Bray was ever-conscious of the clock ticking away on the wall, counting down the minutes. An hour passed and the pile grew smaller. Bray's panic diminished and his sense of impending doom dwindled. He closed his eyes momentarily and his head spun. Bray stifled a yawn as he reached for one of the few remaining forms. Oh, good. He had enough time now to get them all down to the school. He could squeak by just in time and he had Jack to thank for that.

Really, Jack was too nice...

One more form down, and only a few left. Bray let out a sigh of relief and stopped to rub his bleary eyes. He paused and closed his eyes. Maybe he'd rest them for ten seconds; they were starting to sting. Slowly, his head dropped as he slumped over the coffee table, fast asleep.

"Well, that makes things easier."

He looked over the paperwork. Having a master copy to work from would make it vastly easier to fill things out, since some of the forms were asking for information he couldn't possibly know. He had only been working at the school for a few weeks. The last thing he knew were the ins and outs of their administrative paperwork.

The pair worked at it for what felt like a century but was only an hour. To Jack's relief, there wasn't much left to get done, so hey. They would actually get this done on time. (And maybe with time to get dressed.) Jack continued to fill out the last forms, noticing as he picked up the final one that Brayden hadn't been moving for... oh, the past ten or fifteen minutes. Jack started to reach out for him, then stopped and paused just before he was about to make contact. Then he stole his hand back. For a long moment, he simply watched Brayden sleep.

At least he seemed at peace. Did he get any sleep at all last night? Or did he lie there awake the whole time, fretting about this? Okay, that--that was guilt right there. He should have just told him about the lock picking instead of wasting his time with talk of stars. In silence, Jack finished the final form and set it down on the stack. Then he looked at the time, torn between waking Brayden up now and letting him get in a few more minutes. No, no. He would probably rather be woken up. He made this visit from the superintendent sound important.

Sighing, Jack slid off the couch and sat across from Brayden at the coffee table. Gently, he touched his shoulder and gave it a couple of shakes.

"Hey..." Another shake. "B, you have to wake up. Super important meeting today, remember?"

Dreams were such funny things when one was a fae. A dream fae. The way Bray's mother explained it, it was like they could travel to a whole different realm. The realm of dreams. There the normal rules of planetary physics didn't apply. The only rules were those dictated by the dream-walker, the one whose subtle touch could make the difference between waking up smiling and waking up in tears.

Bray didn't go in for manipulation—not even in the dream realm. He was always a bystander when he dream walked, entering and exiting unobtrusively. He knew he had the ability to alter the dream itself but never felt the need to. Sometimes the people around him had nightmares but they were the usual kind—falling from great heights, drowning, losing a loved one, taking an exam naked. That last one was one of Bray's too, and the one he dreaded the most.

Most of the time they were meaningless and random and nonsensical: the unconscious mind didn't obey the same kind of logic and sense as the conscious mind when it shut down.

But Bray's own dreams weren't like that of any other human being—or supernatural. He wouldn't have called them transcendent but he saw things that he understood to be unique to his kind. Sometimes he saw his mother. Maybe it was the lingering memory of her made manifest but she spoke to him; she comforted him and gave him advice.

He walked through his own dream realm now, a nebulous space that was neither here nor there. Bray was calm. All of his troubles and worries had faded and he knew that here he was safe from all harm. He sat down cross-legged like a child and placed his hands in his lap, waiting, peaceful, serene. A hand touched his shoulder and he looked up into the smiling, loving eyes of his mother. Bray smiled too and held up his arms.

He was a child again. His mother cradled him to her chest and stroked his hair, whispering sweet words of comfort to him. Bray snuggled against her and sighed. He was happy again. These dreams didn't happen all that frequently lately, so he really treasured them and clung to them, wishing in his waking moments that he could be here. That he could always be here.

"What's wrong, little bee?" His mother's fingers sifting through his hair was a balm upon his troubled soul. She called him little bee—little B. B. Bray smiled whimsically to himself; that was Jack's nickname for him too. B. There was something serendipitous about that, he thought.

Bray looked up at her, searching her gaze. "I'm sad."

"Why?"

"...I met a man. He's in so much pain. Something terrible happened to him and I don't know how to help him. I want to help him, mama." His arms tightened around his mother's shoulders as he brought himself in closer, burying his face away into her shoulder. "I don't want him to keep hurting."

His mother was quiet for a long moment and during that time Bray kept clinging to her, deriving comfort in her familiar presence. It was all in his mind. It was only in his mind. But it was all he had. When she spoke, her voice drifted gently in and out. "We all hurt, little bee. We all have our crosses to bear." She eased his head away from her shoulder so that their eyes could meet and her smile was as lovely and as sweet as he remembered. "Be patient and stay with him. He will learn to trust you and he will show you how you can best help him. But you have to be sure that you want to do this, Brayden. Or else he may end up hurting you too."

"...B... wake up..."

That didn't sound exactly like his mother's voice. Bray blinked and she was gone, leaving him alone in that strange realm. He scrambled to his feet, no longer a young child—just a tired man approaching middle age. Scanning the area, he called out to his mother frantically for her to come back but there was no response. Someone shook him and finally he jolted out of sleep, sitting up abruptly with wet cheeks and bright, unfocused eyes. Bray blinked and something slippery fell down one cheek. He brushed it away absently.

His head was still fuzzy, thoughts muddled. His mother... her words... Bray rubbed his eyes again as he looked all around, finally realizing that he was back in his own apartment. And that Jack was sitting right there across the coffee table, both of them on the floor. "I... fell asleep," he said sheepishly as he tried to discreetly dry his eyes. Bray averted his gaze to the pile of papers that Jack had finished for him while he slept. His chest felt warm again—dangerously so.

"I'm sorry. Thanks for finishing all of this up. I shouldn't have closed my eyes." Bray laughed uneasily, stiffly. "I owe you. Big time."

"Did you have a nightmare?"

Unconsciously, Jack echoed Brayden's motion the night before by reaching out and gently running a thumb under Brayden's eye. But where Jack had merely been exhausted and lacked real tears at the time, Jack's thumb met moisture. If it was from the remnants of a nightmare, then it couldn't be one about not getting the paperwork finished. Something deeper was at play.

Jack thought he knew Brayden because he simply felt it. Somehow, he felt comfortable talking to him, telling him things he wouldn't dream of telling other people. But... they didn't really know each other. This was the first time they said more than two words at a time to one another, so Jack didn't know where Brayden's pain came from. He recognized it, though. Another person like him. Another person with pain weighted heavily around their throat like a chain.

Everybody with pain seemed to deal with it in different ways. Life is pain. Jack's mother dealt with it by drinking and getting so blitzed that she never had to think about anything or anybody, not even herself. His father dealt with it by transferring it to somebody smaller and younger because he could. Jack... didn't like to think, either. But he was aware of the similarities between himself and his mother.

Gently, he ruffled Brayden's hair, leaned in and kissed the top of his head, and then pulled him closer in a half hug, Brayden's face to his chest. He ran his fingers through Brayden's hair slowly. But after a moment, he smiled and tilted his head to peer at Brayden.

"But yes, you do owe me big time."

Jack didn't know, he could have had a nightmare about mountains of paperwork not being done and he could have cried about it like a little baby... But of course he didn't. Unfinished paperwork was panic-worthy but not tear-worthy. Bray did feel horribly embarrassed to be caught crying straight out of a dream and it was never more apparent that Jack knew he'd been crying when he reached out to brush away tears under his eye. The tenderness of the act went right to Bray's heart and pierced through it like a hot knife through butter.

He was so starved for love. There wasn't nearly enough of it in his life and he didn't know how to cope with the loss. These dreams were the only times that he felt really happy and the more he had them, the more tempting it was to keep going back to them. Bray wouldn't have done anything drastic but he had to admit... some nights he was tempted. He didn't have Ambien lurking around in his medicine cabinet but there were other kinds of drugs floating around out there, he knew, that could help him drift off into eternal sleep.

His mother would be so disappointed in him though, if he did something foolhardy like that. She wanted him to have a good life and a full life, not to cut it short because he was lonely. Bray tried to put on a good front too, despite how he felt when he woke up from dreams like these; he supposed in that respect he and Jack were rather alike. Neither of them wanted to be seen at their most vulnerable, at the neediest points in their lives. But... it wasn't so bad with Jack. He could live with looking like a giant baby if Jack was the only one who knew.

"No... not a nightmare," he said slowly, feeling the weight of Jack's hand in his hair. It was so... misleading the way Jack kept touching him, kept reaching out. Bray wasn't accustomed to it; his friends, the few that he had, weren't nearly as physical as this. None of them ever kissed his forehead or drew him close the way Jack was now. It felt a lot more like something a lover would do and he was confused because Jack stated outright that he didn't want anything serious. Was this... not serious? Then what was it?

Nonetheless, Bray leaned into him and he loosely slid his arms around Jack's waist, holding on to the back of his silk pajamas. For a moment he closed his eyes and breathed, breathing him in and silently grateful for the outpouring of emotional support—even if it was sending mixed signals. The way Jack stroked his hair was so reminiscent of his mother's gentle touch that his eyes burned again, and he turned his face fully into Jack's chest to stem the tears.

"You can... collect any time," he said into Jack's chest. Now he was the one using humor to deflect, wasn't he? What was it about Jack that made him feel so safe? And at the same time, so confused. Conflicted. Bray didn't know how to feel in the moment but his mother's words echoed in his mind: stay with him and eventually he would tell Bray how best to help him. She warned him, too... Jack's pain might overwhelm him. Bray still had to try though.

He eased his head back and looked up to see Jack smiling at him. Bray smiled weakly back. "I saw my mother. I spoke to her." The tears were in part of longing, in part from the happiness of reuniting with her and hearing her advice. Bray did want to help Jack even if there was nothing in it for him. He instinctively felt drawn to Jack—to Jack's pain—but he didn't know how to go about getting closer to him. Who knew that a mountain of paperwork helped pave the way? They were closer now, weren't they? A week ago Bray wouldn't have dreamed about being held by him. Now here he was...

He lowered his gaze again as the emotions ebbed and he stopped wanting to bawl after every word. Bray didn't let go of him, though. "She died a few years ago, right after my dad passed away. It was all so sudden. One day she was here, holding my hand and telling me not to worry and the next... they were both gone and I was... all alone." His voice lowered and his fingers tightened around Jack's pajamas. He didn't mean to unload his feelings onto Jack but the words tumbled out of their own accord. "They were all I had."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Jack said it as if he had something planned but in reality, he didn't. It was another form of deflection, to make light of a darker situation by injecting a little bit of humor into it. He didn't really care to collect anything from Brayden. Well, maybe that wasn't true. But there were no intentions of shoving him into some shit all over some imagined debt. Jack didn't, in essence, believe he was owed anything. He was the one who volunteered to help and Brayden would have had it all done himself the night before if Jack wasn't... selfish.

It wasn't as if he'd withheld the information on purpose. He just didn't realize that Brayden took it so seriously. The paperwork. Or that they wouldn't be awake earlier. Knowing he could pick the lock was sitting there in his mind but it was never at the forefront. Like a lot of things, especially when he was still half drunk from the night club, the knowledge was there within him... it was just floating in a place he couldn't quite reach at the time.

But this... this was fine. It was fine for Brayden to think he held it back the whole time. Didn't say anything. Ahem. Let him... suffer. (That part wasn't so fine.) But! He thought he was helping. Wasn't he helping? Right now? Brayden held onto him, hugged him back.

"...what?"

Color him surprised. Brayden saw his mother and she made him cry? When? In his dream? But it all made sense when Brayden continued. She was gone. She had died. And... Brayden loved her and no doubt, she loved him. Jack tried to smile at that but it was tiny, more of a flicker than anything. They were all he had. Both parents. Both gone. The air felt so heavy and weighted by the admission.

No siblings? No... friends? Just... nothing? Jack could connect there. Sometimes he wished for an older sibling to protect him. Sometimes he was glad it was just him and that he was a survivor. And friends, he had a few he might have called that but... they were never really friends. They were all in it for themselves, people like himself. Other kids in the neighborhood, getting into trouble. Getting him into trouble.

Saying that he was sorry for Brayden was not enough so he didn't say it. They were just perfunctory words, anyway. Things people said because they weren't sure what else to say. Jack thought the words were hollow. That they didn't help anybody with anything. To him, it was more in the action of the embrace, in the gentle squeeze of the shoulder, and a kiss to the temple. The willingness to be close and human and there, solid and real. The way words could never be.

And he let it sit, the moment. Let the feelings run their course for as long as he could let them before he reluctantly pulled away and smiled at Brayden, wordlessly, a hand on his cheek. Another beat and he took in a breath and turned his gaze on the table and the paperwork and the time.

"I hate to cut this short, B, but... come, come." He stood, gesturing for Brayden to do the same. "Today is going to be a long day."

Nothing, nothing, nothing all around him, and everything compacted inside. Bray was too full, overflowing with emotions that he didn't dare share with anyone else for fear of rejection. He had too much baggage, he knew. He wasn't and couldn't ever be and had never been that carefree type who let the weight of the world slide right off their shoulders. His shoulders bore the burden of everything and it was too heavy for one person.

Somehow he still carried on. The days kept going by, one after the other. Nothing changed just because Brayden Smith had a bad day, or because Brayden Smith talked to his mother in his dreams and woke up crying. Time marched on, unfeeling, uncomprehending, unsympathetic to anyone's plight. And he knew he wasn't alone but it was harder to remember that when he sat here in his fancy too-expensive apartment, still surrounded by everything that reminded him of the people he loved and lost.

Usually he went through the aftermath of these dreams alone, dabbing his eyes with the corner of his blanket. Today, unlike any other day, everything was topsy turvy. Ever since he met Jack--really met him, not just nodded silently to him from across the courtyard--he felt as though his life was inexplicably different. Things kept happening. Things like this, stripping off layer after layer and exposing him as the human (well, fae) he really was instead of some construct he hoped others would see and accept.

It helped to have someone holding him. It helped a lot. He was grateful for Jack but words of thanks didn't feel enough so he also said nothing, and instead held on for as long as Jack would let him. He hoped Jack understood. He thought he must have, because Jack let him stay there for quite some time and there was that look in his eyes again as he looked at Bray--until the time became an issue. Bray straightened with a start and a low curse, eyes flying to the clock. "Shit!" He scrambled to stuff all the papers back into his bag and leapt to his feet.

"Taxi! Can you call me a taxi? I need to change. You-you don't have to be there until later so-but-I have to--" He rushed off into his bedroom and carelessly left the door open as he frantically dug through his closet for something to wear that wasn't crumpled and rumpled. Bray all but tore his clothes off and hastily shoved himself into some new ones, buttoning up his dress shirt so quickly that he mismatched the buttons to the slots and had to start all over again, cursing each one as he did so.

"Yes," he said, even as Brayden was tearing off into his bedroom, presumably to get ready for work. "I can call a taxi," Jack said to the air in front of him. Turning to the table where he'd left his phone, he picked it up. Searched for a taxi service nearby. Called it.

Meanwhile, it sounded like Brayden was wrestling with half the cast of the Beauty and the Beast in his bedroom (at least, Jack assumed he didn't have any actual people in there but who knew? He could be wrong... but then how cruel would that be, for them to leave Brayden outside?)

Peering into Brayden's bedroom, where Brayden was the picture of Panic personified, Jack leaned against the door jamb. "All right. I called the taxi. It'll be here in ten to fifteen, so that's all the time you've got."

He remained in the doorway for a moment, then lowered his head, shaking it slightly.

"Here," he said, entering the bedroom and stepping in front of Brayden. He smacked at his flurry of useless hands, buttoning and unbuttoning the wrong rows in his state of agitation. "Allow me."

It was nothing for Jack to link all the right buttons to their allotted button holes and when he was finished, he gave Brayden's chest a gentle one-two pat.

"Well, there you go." He checked the time. "You should really... get going. Try to... eat something. You know. And maybe you don't like coffee but caffeine is your best friend today. All right?"

HOW was Jack so CALM?

Meanwhile Bray slipped full-on into panic mode. He always thought he worked better under pressure but in reality, that was just his way of justifying his freak-outs. Time crunches weren't Bray's specialty. He worked best when he had ample time to plan things out. Sure, there were always deadlines, but Bray didn't have much of a life so he usually got everything done early.

"Ten minutes? Okay. Okay I can--goddamnit!" He looked down to find that he'd mismatched the buttons again... in the other direction. Bray was about to rip off the shirt Hulk-style and find a sweater he could pull over his head when Jack entered and batted his hands away. He stood there somewhat defeated, shoulders slumped, watching Jack carefully buttoning up the shirt. Calm, cool and collected. Mister Suave.

"...thank you." He smiled wryly at the pat to the chest and reached out to give Jack's arm-elbow a pat. His hand sort of slid around. Yep, he was still internally panicking. Bray tore around the apartment again, collecting keys, phone, bag, coming back around to Jack as the taxi honked outside. "Eat. Coffee. Yes. Got it. You-you too. There's food in the fridge, see if there's anything you like. Don't go without eating something too, okay?"

At that point, Bray slipped into work mode. But for some reason he slipped into work mode three years ago, when he was still dating Wyatt. When, in the mornings, he tore around getting ready while Wyatt wandered around in his underwear watching him scurrying about the place. Bray used to fret over him too, telling him there was food in the fridge, not to skip breakfast. And before he left, he'd always--

The taxi honked again. In a hurry, he leaned up and pecked Jack on the lips. "Love you, bye."

It wasn't until Bray had his hand on the front door handle, having just closed it behind him, that he realized what he had done. Out of sheer habit. Somehow reverting back to the time when he lived with someone, he... Bray's eyes popped and his mouth dropped in a silent scream before his entire face screwed up into a horrible grimace. He hugged the bulging file folder tightly to his chest and sprinted across the courtyard towards the taxi waiting outside.

"That's nice of you and all, but I was planning to--"

Jack's words were cut off by a sudden shift in... dynamics? One minute, Jack was telling Brayden that he wasn't going to stay in Brayden's place. He had his own place and needed to get dressed and ready, too. And there was food in his own fridge. Not to mention there was coffee back home. But it was all cut off and he swallowed it back as Brayden leaned in to give him a cute little peck on the lips--okay?--Jack blinked.

But then... Love you, bye...?

"...bye...?" Jack said faintly, unsure how to react for once. It was almost like Brayden was playing out a natural scene with an established lover. It was exactly the kind of scenario that went hand in hand with somebody that lived with somebody for a while. The door was closed and Jack was left standing in Brayden's apartment. Alone. He licked his lips, not quite believing what happened.

Funny how natural it all came, though. Swallowing hard, Jack adjusted his pajamas, looked around the apartment now that Brayden wasn't there. He had no desire to pick through his things or do anything untoward. So he made sure he had his things and then walked out, making sure to lock Brayden's apartment door as he did. By the time he had left the apartment, the taxi with Brayden inside had left.

Jack hated rushing things so when he made it back to his own apartment, he immediately began brewing coffee, turned on a hot shower, and began gathering clothes together. The superintendent would be there so he had to dress the part. Not... that Jack didn't normally do so.

Although he had been given the okay to come in late, he still wondered if Brayden was functioning okay after the previous night, the paperwork, and the dream about his mother.

Once Jack's morning rituals had been cared for and he'd popped a few pills to help his head (and downed a couple of glasses of precious lemon water for hydration), he eventually had to call a taxi of his own. Normally, he carpooled to work with the aforementioned neighbor but since he had already gone on ahead of him, Jack was left with the taxi option.

By the time he arrived at the school, he wasn't surprised to see that everything seemed to be in chaos. People were doing their best to present their best feet forward. Perhaps Jack had the least to lose; he wasn't all that worried about what the superintendent thought of him or his department.

"You're late!" cried Jett Paretti when he entered the office. "The superintendent's going to be here any minute now!"

"I had permission to come in late," Jack said as he nonchalantly poured himself another cup of coffee from the communal office pot. "Besides, I'm here now, aren't I?"

God, he was mortified. That was now Bray's default state of being. He sank down low in the back seat of the taxi as it sped off and ran a hand over his face, wondering what Jack must have thought about the kiss. Love you. He didn't know what came over him. The rush of getting to the office, the dream, the hellish night before... Everything. Everything.

The taxi ride was just long enough for Bray to replay the scene over in his mind five times, each time only making him feel worse. But somehow he still felt oddly pleased about certain parts of it. The kiss. Peck, really. Little press of lips to lips. It still felt nice, though. It took him back to a time when he wasn't completely alone, and when there was somebody around for him to kiss good-bye before leaving for work.

Just... odd how easily Jack slipped into that role.

Everything was muddled in his mind, which was why getting to the school and being accosted by the dean was such a relief. "I know—I'm late," Bray gasped as he hurried inside with the paperwork still clutched to his chest. "Here. It's all done. Everything should be here. I'll go set up the meeting room." He didn't let the dean launch into a tirade; he just walked swiftly off, leaving the man with the stack of papers.

Bray finished preparing things just in time; the superintendent arrived on time and was greeted with the appropriate amount of both pomp and circumstance. Bray became background furniture again, scurrying around bringing coffee and tea, leading people to and fro, turning lights on and off in meeting rooms. He didn't get a chance to even go to the bathroom until the superintendent went for lunch, leaving him thoroughly exhausted—and with a bladder filled to bursting. Once he'd relieved himself, he staggered into the staff room where everyone was expected to wait for a word from the superintendent before he went on to meet each department head.

He opened the door, walked directly to the nearest empty seat and collapsed into it, burying his face in his hands. Bray took in a deep breath. God, Jack was right. It was going to be such a long day. Someone nearby placed a hand on his shoulder and he looked up to see Ali grinning down at him. "Everything okay Bray? You look like hell."

"...thanks..." Bray muttered, as his gaze automatically tracked to the tall, handsome man talking to Jett. Ah. Ooh. Love you. Bray eased his body slightly to the left so that Ali could hide him a little more, swallowing hard.

Jett Paretti was one of those men who had probably been in the profession for more than half his life now. He was the head of the psychology department, the one who assessed new students and aided them with anything they needed in the form of disabilities. He was a man in his early 60s with the wild eyes of a madman. Privately, Jack had been somewhat intimidated by him when they met, although he didn't say as much. As he got to know him, though, he learned he wasn't as... mad... as his face suggested. Most of the time.

While Jett went over some prudent information with him, the door opened and Brayden entered. Jack watched him out of the corner of his eye, then forced himself to look back at Jett as he kept speaking. After a moment, he handed him some protocol thing and by "handed", he thrust it against Jack's chest and told him to make sure he read it.

When he took a peek at it, however, he puzzled over it and looked back up at Jett. "Isn't this the same thing you gave me when I was hired...?"

"Brush up on it."

And then Jett was off to talk to Sheila, who worked as the school counselor and had entered after Brayden. Jack turned back to the table, then stiffly went over to Brayden and sat at his open side. He plopped the pages down in front of him.

"Brayden!" he said cheerily. He tapped on the pages. "Turns out you're not the only one with nerves about this visit!"

He eyed the guy Brayden was near, who seemed to be oddly standing in such a way earlier that he seemed to be trying to shield Brayden from Jack. In response to that, Jack only raised his brows at him before flipping through the pages in front of him. There were only 4 or 5 pages but they were a reminder of expected conduct and all that bullshit. What, was Paretti saying he wasn't performing to task?

(That's Willem fucking Dafoe, don't you dare tell me otherwise! LOOOOL make him c'mon he's awesome)

"I should've had some coffee," Bray whispered into his palms, face buried once again in his hands. Ali gave his shoulder a few more comforting pats, making some smart-alecky remark about how Bray on coffee would be bouncing off the walls. When Bray looked up, Ali was still grinning. He was just one of those people who never seemed to be in a bad mood. And he was probably one of only two people that Bray counted as a really good friend.

"Hey, you want to hit up the bar after work? A bunch of us are going--what're you doing Bray?"

Bray was dodging around, hoping that Jack hadn't seen him but of course Jack had seen him. Now he looked like an idiot, bobbing around trying to use Ali as a human shield. He didn't think he could feel any more embarrassed but as Jack walked over after conversing with Jett (who, honestly, scared the shit out of Bray most days), Bray felt himself desperately desiring that a hole open up under him, leading straight into a pit of molten lava.

Molten lava was how his face felt like as Jack eased into the space on his other side and very fluidly slipped into the adjacent chair. Ali beamed at Jack's comment about nerves, pointing down to Bray who was looking straight ahead like a deer caught in the headlights.

"You wanna talk about nervous? This guy is freaking out. Again." Ali laughed as he patted the back of Bray's neck. "C'mon. Come to the bar with us Bray. You too Jack, if you're not busy after work."

(Had to head canon him somewhere LMAO)

"Oh, I didn't mean me. Paretti's making me read through this thing he gave me on my first day for some reason." When did he give that weird old man cause to think he'd break conduct? All he ever did here was his job. So far, he managed to dodge any temptation to lean back into old habits. Most of the time, anyway. Jack flipped through the pages without much passion. It was generic shit he already knew about and he wasn't entirely interested in reviewing it.

"And I'm never busy after work."

What would he possibly do? Go home and what, sleep? Besides which, when a co-worker invited him out, he wasn't going to say no. He needed this. Something wild to take his mind off anything too serious. He leaned back in his seat, dropping the pages onto the table again.

"Where at?"

(I LOVE IT. <3333)

"He does that to everyone. I'm pretty sure he thinks of it as his personal Bible," Bray said at last, finally looking over at Jack because not looking at Jack made things even more awkward. Well, Jack seemed... natural. Not weird. Just Bray then?

Just Bray then.

He offered Jack the tiniest, most apologetic smile he had ever given anyone in his life as Ali gave Jack the address, obviously pleased to have him along. Bray... usually declined. And Ali knew that it wasn't anything personal, that he simply wasn't down for sitting at a bar drinking ice water while everyone else had themselves a good time. When people went off to the bathroom or wanted to dance, Bray ended up watching their things again. Just like when he was younger.

"How about you Bray? You down?"

"Ah. I think I'll pass. Thanks anyway." He smiled up at Ali with some measure of warmth and Ali only laughed.

"Thought so. Well maybe some day you'll grace us with your presence. Heh." He moved off to another group, where Bray heard him asking other professors to join him at the bar. Life of the party, Ali, but also just a genuinely good man.

Bray slowly turned back to Jack. Now that they were alone (somewhat) he cleared his throat softly in preparation to tackle. Love you. "I... umm... I'm sorry about this morning. I just. Was in a rush and forgot... Sorry."

You should come, he wanted to say to Brayden but recalling how he barely got any sleep, he would probably just end up passing out. So he only remained as he was, relaxing in his seat, legs crossed, eyes on Brayden as he finally managed to look at him. What was he so nervous about? Why hide from him? He seemed infinitely more comfortable with his other co-worker than with Jack.

Oh, maybe he was a friend of his. Brayden grew up in Hazleton. It stood to reason he'd have friends he grew up with. Shit. Mrs. Thompson. She was cheerfully talking about something to do with the funding and she sounded pretty positive about it. Jack gently elbowed Brayden to get his attention on her. As if to say, look, the funding isn't in any danger.

And... Brayden was apologizing. Again. Jack appraised him for a moment, trying to decide what part of that morning he meant to apologize for.

"Forgot what, exactly?"

He did hear the talk about funding and it did his anxious heart a lot of good to know that the paperwork had gotten done on time. Bray had Jack to thank for that. He had a lot to thank Jack for, if he had to be honest. When he was down, when he needed someone the most, Jack came through. He didn't have to; he wasn't indebted to Bray. No, Jack did it out of the kindness and goodness of his heart.

Like Ali, Jack was just a good man.

Bray was caught on his question, though, as he stared straight ahead again. Both elbows were on the tops of his knees; he leaned forward, almost doubling over, fingers criss-crossing, curling inward. His gaze was far away as though he could see far, far beyond the crowded staff room that they were in. When he spoke, it was in as small a voice as his earlier tiny apologetic, sheepish smile.

"Forgot that I was alone."

That... what? He was alone? Jack wasn't sure he followed. Did Brayden leave something dirty around the apartment that he was afraid Jack caught sight of? If he thought Jack was a snoopy creep, he had him all wrong. After Brayden left, Jack had no reason to hang around. Besides, he had to take the time to hurry back to his own place to clean up and look presentable for work.

Jack slid an arm over the back of Brayden's chair, checking over his nails with the other. Forgot he was alone. Then he recalled that as he left, Brayden kissed him. Not a big deal. Jack did more than that with people he never even saw again. (Or with people he did see again, which he supposed was more awkward.) The connections formed easily after that, though. The actions of a man who had been in a long term relationship. Brayden forgot he wasn't in a relationship and he sort of... substituted Jack for whomever it was that occupied that spot before.

"Oh!" Jack laughed. "Why are you apologizing for that? Trust me, you could've done worse." He outright smiled at the idea of being a replacement for a relationship, even if it was just out of habit or loneliness. Was this another one of those things Brayden kept in his mind, occupying it and tormenting him until he made it into a mountain?

"It was cute. Don't worry about it. Really, I'm flattered. Most people wouldn't consider me relationship material."

There was that word again: cute.

Bray was relieved that Jack didn't think anything of the kiss good-bye. In fact he seemed amused by the fact that Bray took it so seriously, when to him it meant nothing at all. But to Bray... it meant something. He forgot his loneliness in that moment, with Jack around. It kept circling around in his mind because he took it seriously and he was so introspective that every little nothing became a big something in his mind--given enough time to percolate.

But to Jack... Nothing.

Which was good. Yes.

"I'm glad you weren't offended," he said at last, smiling slightly since Jack was smiling at him now, evidently entertained by the whole fiasco. Bray didn't know what to make of his last comment, though. Not relationship material? But didn't he just get out of a relationship? Hence--detox? But he said people didn't consider him relationship material, not that... he wasn't made for relationships.

Bray let out the breath he'd been holding since he caught sight of Jack and pushed those thoughts out of his mind. "It won't happen again." No, it definitely wouldn't happen again. He wouldn't let himself slip up like that.

The door swung open again and the superintendent entered with the dean, causing a lull in every conversation. Bray stood up but paused. He patted Jack's shoulder gently. "Have a good time at the bar tonight, Jack. Be careful getting home."

The dean called his name and he hurried over, throwing one more half-smile over his shoulder at Jack. He was handed some papers to read over while the dean introduced the superintendent, who spent ten minutes speaking to the importance of their small community college and what high hopes he had for them. Then Bray had to leave with him, to take him around on a tour of each department and speak about the buildings and facilities. He tried to get one more glimpse of Jack as he walked out but he wasn't sure he caught Jack's gaze. Ah, well.

Why on earth would he be offended? Oh... was Brayden one of those people who thought that he was straight? That was almost... laughable. He never kept that part of himself a secret. Maybe he didn't come out and say it outright constantly but he really, really didn't hide it--and why should he? There might have been tormentors when he was a child... and there were still assholes that made it their business but in the grand scheme of things, he thought he lived in the best time for being gay.

Well, other than those times in the past, where it was a rampant and normal part of some cultures but never mind those. They also had questionable hygiene and a lack of decent drinks.

"Wait a minute. I never said that."

But Brayden was already leaving. He looked up at him as he stood and left after telling him to have a good time at the bar. Jack didn't know what else to say to that. Come with us? Get a good night's rest? Stop thinking so much all the time? (Might as well tell Jack to stop repressing memories--as much good as that would do.)

He lifted his head slightly in acknowledgement when Brayden looked at him, a small smile on his face. But then that was the last he saw of him for the remainder of the day. Apparently Brayden really had his work cut out for him the day and Jack had no idea how he was doing it on no fuel whatsoever.

Meanwhile, Jack and his department did well enough. Jack remembered enough from Jett's papers and they were all smiles and handshakes. Jack couldn't wait for it all to be over. And then it was. Note to self: he was going to continue just being a professor. This other stuff... he wasn't into it. Let other people deal with it.

Once work was done, Jack checked the address of the place he was supposed to meet a bunch of his co-workers. Oh yes. The weekend. A whole weekend to do whatever he wanted and not worry about waking up in time for something the next morning. He smiled before he called up somebody on a ride share app, then stood out to wait for it to show up outside the school.

All thoughts of Jack were squeezed out of Bray's mind for the remainder of the day. It was a terribly busy day, too, as he led the superintendent around and introduced him to every department head. There were informal chats, more meetings, going over some important paperwork for the audit—the funding, ooh, he cut it so close!—and then, finally, the superintendent left.

By that time, classes had long since been over and almost everyone had left. Bray stayed behind to finish up—you guessed it! More paperwork. A never ending sea of paperwork awaited him. That was his life, forms, forms, forms and more forms. He sighed as he finally stood up to stretch his aching back and shoulders and walked over to the window to see how dark it was outside. Not too bad; still some light to see by.

"Jack?" Was that Jack? It looked like him but Bray couldn't make him out too well from his office. He still stood there watching, a silly kind of half-smile on his face, until a car rolled up and the Jack-esque figure got in. Bray shook his head. Right. Time to get home! Tonight he was going back later again but what could he do? At least the bus was reliable, taking him home about half an hour later. Bray nodded his thanks to the driver and alighted, walking the half block back to the Sunrise.

Walking into the courtyard, his head turned automatically toward Jack's apartment. Ah. No lights on. He wouldn't be back so soon, would he? Bray unlocked his door and stepped inside to total darkness. He flicked on the light, looked around, sighed to himself. Alone again. After dropping off his bag, he sat on the couch for a while just staring at the coffee table. At the place where Jack sat just that morning, helping him to fill out forms. He turned to look into his bedroom—oh. His clothes were still strewn everywhere.

Bray touched the buttons of his shirt with a soft smile, recalling the way Jack slapped his hands away. In the moment he was too panicked to notice but now that he was alone again, he thought fondly back to that moment. Jack took care of him. So kind, so... thoughtful. He knew Bray was on the verge of a mental collapse and he stepped in—stepped up.

Not feeling particularly hungry, Bray got up again to grab a glass of water. He opened his fridge and stared inside. There was a lemon sitting on the shelf. He stared at it for a long moment and then took it, sliced it and dropped some into his water. Lemon water. Not perfectly chilled the way Jack's had been but it was good enough, wasn't it? Bray sipped it and then made a face. Lukewarm lemon water. Hm. Maybe not.

He set the glass down and meandered back into his living room, over to the shelf that held his books. Bray's fingertips ran across the rows in search of something to read when he stopped. Chicken Soup for the Soul! He forgot he had it. Bray pulled it out and flipped through it, then turned to look out of the window. Would Jack like this book? It might be good for a joke, since they had been waxing philosophic about soup helping to save souls. Smiling to himself, he grabbed his keys—HAH he remembered this time!—and headed out. He was going to leave it at Jack's door but thought better of it and instead decided to wait for him to come back so that he could hand it over in person.

It'd be worth the wait to see Jack's smile, or maybe even get a laugh out of him.

Outside, it had grown properly dark now. Bray found one of the wooden benches and settled down onto it to wait with the book in his lap. He didn't mind staying out here; some nights he did just that, when the loneliness of his apartment stifled him. This wasn't anything he wouldn't have done anyway. He breathed out slowly as he tilted his head back to look at the stars. In a small town like theirs, stray light didn't block out the stars that much. There were still plenty to watch, plenty to look at.

Bray reached out with one hand, smiling, and made a pinching motion between thumb and forefinger as though he could just... pluck one out of the sky.

It was good to just get out and have a good time with a bunch of co-workers. There was karaoke, dancing, and drinks, drinks, drinks by the dozen. There were questions, too, of course. The usual chatter between co-workers. Everywhere across the country, Jack experienced the same types of questions. Where did he come from, why here, did he like it? Was there a special someone? What about family? And Jack was witty and deflective, just as he always was. They were still strangers; why should he tell them anything beyond the most shallow, surface information?

There were some interesting physical feats made in the bathroom with a guy named Sal and then he was back at it on the dance floor, singing something, dancing with somebody else. Eventually, Brayden's friend Ali took him by the arm and asked if he wanted to go home. Jack might have wrapped his arms around him and kissed him.

"Not what I meant, man!"

Jack only laughed and leaned on him but he allowed Ali and another one of the co-workers to show him out. The fresh night air helped to sober him... slightly. Very slightly.

He was still singing and moving his body to the music in his head when they arrived at Sunrise. All in all, Jack was in quite the mood as he opened the community gate and walked into the courtyard. Unexpectedly, he spotted a Brayden with his hand outstretched to the sky.

"BB~" he sang throwing his arms out. He spun in a circle (ill advised) then stumbled slightly with a giddy, drunken laugh. He practically skipped toward the bench where Brayden had taken up residence and grabbed one of his arms as he dropped down next to him. His hand slid down so that his fingers threaded through Brayden's.

"You should've come," he said breathlessly, still high on night air and skipping and maybe something slipped into his drink. Who knew? It was wild back there and he lost track of who did what. "Why didn't you come? Too busy... catching shooting stars without me?"

The clatter of the gate opening made Bray turn his head but his hand was still out there, trying to pull them down, to fill his pockets with stars. If it had been any other neighbor, Bray would have shot to his feet and mumbled something about swatting away mosquitos. (In winter? ...sure.) But seeing that it was Jack, he smiled at the drunken figure twirling and whirling and stumbling towards him and held out the star-catching hand to try and stop him from falling onto the bench. Jack did anyway.

"You're drunk," he murmured as their fingers slid together, sending a thrill of warmth and excitement from the point of contact. But it wasn't only their hands. Their arms, shoulders, knees touched too. Bray looked over at him, partly bathed in moonlight, and smiled. It looked like Jack had a good time. He certainly still seemed excited, although he hadn't lost his sense of humor and quick wit.

"I was catching them for you." But he couldn't produce one because despite his best efforts, the brightest stars still remained out of reach. Bray dared to lean a little more against Jack and flexed his fingers lightly. Maybe he didn't have to spend all night catching one; maybe one would come to him if he waited long enough.

After today? Of course he was drunk! How wasn't Brayden? How was he not? His thoughts were a pleasant haze of jumbled up words and memories of dancing and singing. Favorite hobbies. Things he hadn't done with other people in... oh, it felt like too long.

It seemed like the older he got, the more pain he poured into himself. Without nights like these, he didn't think he would ever make it to the next step, let alone the next day. But right now? Everything was good and nothing hurt. He wasn't careful like he had been at the club in town with... Allie? He knew there was a guy in the bathroom but he barely remembered it now.

Sighing, he allowed himself to slide down and rest his head against Brayden's shoulder.

"Where?" Jack looked down at the hand he'd taken and slid his hand out of it so that he could check his palm for signs of stardust. He touched the insides of his palm with his fingertips and found no stars. His fingertips ran up over Brayden's fingers, fingertips against fingertips, liking the way it felt. The little shiver is sent through the points of contact. Down his spine. Up the back of his neck.

"Oh..!" Jack struggled to fumble around his coat pocket for a small wrapped bar of chocolate he got from the bar. He pulled it out. "Look what I brought back for you." (Except the word you came out slightly elongated--yooou.) The little chocolate was in the shape of a bottle and wrapped in tin foil. This one said Jim Beam Bourbon on it. He dropped it into Brayden's other hand.

Of all the burdens that Bray's shoulders had born, the weight of Jack's dark head was the most welcomed. He tipped his head toward Jack's and turned his eyes to the stars again, sighing as Jack's hand pulled away. When he looked over, Jack was looking at his palm as though he expected a secret hand-off from Bray. "I couldn't find the brightest one..."

Bray was glad when their hands touched again, and the thrilling warmth returned. His fingertips tingled. It was only one small touch but it felt as though it meant a whole lot more. Even children could hold hands but he didn't feel childish in that moment. He felt... good. And maybe he was the only one who did because Jack made it quite clear that he was...

He was a star. Out of reach. Bray could sit here and reach for him, longing for him, hoping to catch even one tiny speck of him, but he was always going to come up empty-handed. And he... was okay with that in some ways. Didn't he sit here night after night, hoping to pull down a star? One did finally come down; he should be happy that he managed to get this close. Some people never did.

"Oh." Something cool dropped into his other hand and he saw that it was a little chocolate. Bray had seen these sold around the holidays, but also in bars. He laughed. "Thank you. Are you bringing the bar to me?" Setting it down carefully into his lap, he placed the book into Jack's lap. "I brought this for you."

"Does it have to be the brightest?" he asked, still looking at their hands where they connected. Funny how the simplest touches could be the most intimate. Just hands. Just fingertips. His smile was content. Bright stars. Brayden would try to go for the brightest but if he was hoping to catch stars on his behalf, Jack would have settled for just one small one. A real one. Real magic to hold. To change that deep seated skepticism in him.

"Mm." His response was noncommittal; his intention wasn't to bring the bar to Brayden. That little chocolate represented the fact that he even thought of Brayden when he was elsewhere. Even when he was out of sight, somehow... Brayden had managed not to be struck out of mind. Brayden wouldn't know it but that in itself was a feat.

Tearing his gaze from their hands, he looked down at the book that Brayden gave him in return. Jack laughed, delighted somehow that they were both thinking of the other.

"Did we just exchange gifts? Merry Happy Christmas New Year?" Jack slid his hand over the book's cover. In his inebriated state, he could still read. Just... only when his eyes stopped crossing and doubling up the words. Chicken Soup. Chicken Soup... for the Soul. He traced the image on the cover, his smile growing slowly. When he raised his head, he intended to dispense another one of those witty one-liners that came so easily to him. (This one harkening back to their text conversation about saving his soul.) Instead he tilted his head just so... and he kissed him, mouth to mouth, lips on lips.

"For you? Yes." He felt bolder and braver in the moment, compelled to speak his mind. Jack was dead drunk and might not remember any of their exchange in the morning, so cowardly Bray was safe to say all the things that he wanted to, without needing to over-think them all. Just most of them—but still not all of them. He supposed that he thought so much because he was so honest. If he were capable of lying, maybe it would be easier to say things to please other people. Instead, he had to weigh every word and it was, frankly, exhausting.

Words slipped out more easily with Jack. He had that rare charm—he charmed them out of Bray. Even with Ali, one of Bray's closest friends, he held back certain thoughts, certain opinions, but with Jack it was so natural to say what was on his mind that sometimes the words came out of their own accord.

Bray studied the little chocolate that Jack brought for him. He didn't want to read too much into it so he told himself that it didn't mean much. It couldn't. What would happen if he started thinking that the star he held could be his? What happened when hope dared to take root instead of skepticism and fear? Bray was vulnerable—still. He had to be careful with that cracked heart of his because it was the only one he had.

Jack's delighted laugh did his heart some good, though. His funny declaration drew another laugh out of Bray, who pocketed the chocolate for later. "Happy birthday, don't forget that one." While Jack read the cover, Bray tried to read him, his expression. Did he like it? Did he get it? No, no, Jack would surely get it even in his inebriated state. Jack was the smartest man in town—literally.

But he didn't expect the kiss. He thought Jack would make another clever comment. Bray's brows lifted, then... slowly his eyes closed. It felt as if he was exploding, like a starburst had been set off inside of him and all the magic contained inside of this humanoid body was fleeing. His heart stuttered in his chest; his lungs squeezed. He reached up to... to... hold on to something but his shaking fingertips landed feather-light on Jack's jaw.

"Jack?" He spoke on the strength of a soft gasp, eyes still closed, lips brushing lips. Bray didn't know... didn't know what it all meant now. He couldn't seem to think properly.

For him, the brightest star. See, that was cute. Brayden was cute. He was good. He was sweet. Where did he come from? Even his sadness didn't seem to deter from his kindness. His parents were gone, he said, and all he had. But he still gave of himself. He was one of those self-sacrificing people that thought too much, probably too much about people outside of himself. More than himself. To his own detriment. Like bending over backwards with all that paperwork and organizing that whole visit with super--whoever that showed up.

There was no doubt in his mind that Brayden thought of him when he was out of sight. He wasn't out of mind. Because... if he was, there would be no soup and there would be no thoughts of plucking only the best star, and certainly not a book about a throwaway line he sent Brayden via text. Brayden held onto everything he was given. Kind of a scary thought. All the good things... but all the bad things... on repeat. Held too close. Warm, like a star. Burning through him, like a star.

A kiss was a kiss was a kiss, they said. But then they also said it's in his kiss. There was something different in this kiss than fervent kisses stolen in public bathrooms. Slow. Steady. Sweet. Something fluttered against his jaw. Fingertips. Shaking fingertips. Jack raised his hand up to touch the back of Brayden's hand, steady. It was his voice when Brayden spoke his name that made Jack open his eyes.

"...yes, Brayden?"

Brayden was scared, no word of a lie. Not Bray, the one who hid from everyone and pretended that he was fine, just fine, and it was no problem to take another load of forms or to work late so that others could go home to their families on time. Brayden wasn't like that. Brayden was often scared, insecure, lonely, unsure. Unhappy. Brayden was the one who looked but never touched, who passed off a genuine thought for him—a little foil-wrapped alcoholic chocolate—as just a whimsical gift.

Of course he knew what it meant. Jack didn't happen to have a chocolate in his pocket and decided to butter Bray up with it. Jack brought it home with him. From the bar. For him. In the same way that Bray waited outside for Jack to come home so that he could give him a book, in the same way that he couldn't look at a glass of water or a lemon and not think of Jack.

Jack kissed him first. But Jack was drunk. Jack brought home the chocolate. But Jack didn't want to be in a relationship at the moment, still recovering no doubt from the hurts that his previous relationship inflicted on him. Bray didn't even know the depths of his pain and he understood that it would take more than one night and one day of being on speaking terms to fully understand Jack. In time, perhaps, Jack would open up to him but he... He didn't know how Jack worked.

Bray held on to the moment just like he held on to Jack that morning, seeking comfort, looking for answers. He locked it away, burned it into his memories. If there was never another chance to touch a star, to kiss a star, then he would make this moment last. When he opened his eyes, it was to see Jack looking at him. Jack was always looking at him, studying him. He knew it because covertly out of the corner of his eyes, he looked at Jack too. He was always looking at Jack.

"Am... am I what you're looking for?" Or was he a stand-in, merely a bandage but not the cure? Was this real, or was it a fever dream? Bray's forehead lightly touched his, nuzzled against him. He breathed in through his nose, a scent of alcohol and Jack's cologne imbuing the bittersweet moment. "Will I be able to..." The tips of their noses brushed intimately. "Help take away your pain?"

That little bottle shaped bar of chocolate (was it still a bar if it was a bottle, though?) for some silly reason made him think of Brayden. Back at the bar. Jack had been sitting there with his second drink when he saw them, little novelty chocolates with alcohol centers, lined up on a tiny shelf of their own. With his chin in hand, a bored Jack had eyed the chocolates. Brayden didn't drink. He said as much. But what was a splash of alcohol encased in chocolate? He smiled to himself. It's not drinking if it's in chocolate.

Somebody called his name and Jack quickly slid the money across the counter and plucked one of the little bottles from the display case, carefully pocketing it in his coat. Then he was sliding off his stool to go up on the stage, more than happy to collaborate with one of his co-workers on a Taylor Swift song.

Back in the here and now, the present--haha--Jack was watching Brayden and Brayden was watching Jack. Brayden spoke and Jack's eyes dropped to his lips, watching them move, distracted by the thought that he had just kissed those lips and those lips kissed him back. He thought about it--was thinking about it--kissing him again. But Brayden nuzzled him and Jack's line of thought was disrupted. He blinked. Their noses touched. Jack smiled and his hand slid from Brayden's hand down his arm and then up to cup his face.

"I'm not in pain, silly." And in the moment, he wasn't. Pain? What pain? Pain was the last thing on his mind. No, no, he was focused more on this, them holding each other's faces and staring one another right in the eyes. Should it be painful? Should this hurt? Because... it didn't.

"Oh... I see."

The answer that wasn't an answer told Bray all he needed to know. The walls were still there, keeping him out, and he still didn't know if he was what Jack was looking for—if he was the one Jack needed, or merely the one he wanted in the moment. And Jack was still drunk, no doubt about that, while Bray was not. There was a distinct inequality there.

Slowly he let his hand drop, but only so that he could slip his arms around Jack. "I see," he whispered again, disappointed. But this time it felt so much worse. He didn't want Jack to be in pain but this—the alcohol, the denial—was proof that he was. Whoever said that alcohol made men honest was a damn liar, Bray thought bitterly as he turned his head into Jack's shoulder momentarily.

Jack was drunk. Likely he wouldn't remember this moment, while Bray would. He would remember it just like he remembered every other moment, good and bad. Three years had passed since he last broke up with his ex and he still held on to those memories, those old habits—the kiss good-bye, the words. Love you. Bray was a hoarder but not with possessions—with people, with memories, with scraps of affection and also with the pain that came from loss and separation.

He lightly stroked the soft hairs at the base of Jack's neck, trying to console himself with this moment. This closeness. "When I'm with you, Jack, I don't feel so lonely. I don't feel alone." For you see, Jack took away his pain, but Bray couldn't do the same for him. Jack wasn't in pain right now, he said, pushing Bray further away and holding him at arms' length.

What? What did he see? See? Jack closed his eyes. Smiling. At the moment, he wasn't picking up on Brayden's emotions. All he felt was closeness and warmth. That was good, wasn't it? It was all he ever wanted when he was young. Somebody to hold him, hold onto him. Somebody to hold. His hand slid from Brayden's cheek to his shoulder, picking at a stray thread or maybe a lost hair. Hard to tell when his depth perception was off.

In his dreams, when he was a little boy, he used to imagine that somebody held him. When he was cold, alone, scared, sick. Blankets became his refuge. Pile them up, pull them close, and he could imagine there were arms here and chest there. And he would hum. Not lullabies; he never even heard those until he was too old for them to work on him. But music he heard outside, through the neighbor's house, from cars on the street, at the store.

That was nice. The stroking of the back of his neck. His eyes remained closed. "Mm. That feels nice."

Maybe instead of violence, it would be better to just... feel hands on skin like a prayer. Reverence. He could imagine what Brayden's hands could do to his back, how they would feel on his chest. Instead of scratches, something else. Instead of bruises, something... else.

Jack tilted his head back as he opened his eyes, trying to get a look at Brayden, who was talking sense. Not nonsense. Sense.

"I don't feel alone." A soft hiccup interrupted him. How... rude. "Either." He struggled to sit up, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His ass hurt even more than ever and the wooden bench wasn't helping. With all the clumsy grace of a drunk, he slid an arm around Brayden's shoulders. His expression, however, was dead serious when he looked Brayden in the eye this time.

"You're not alone."

Hiccup. Bray couldn't help letting out a soft little laugh. He supposed that if he could find some humor in that, he was still doing okay. The world... it didn't change for one man's disappointment. Time didn't stop for Bray alone, never had, never would. Not getting what he wanted didn't mean that he had to give up, that it was futile and useless forever.

His mother's words still resonated inside his thoughts: Be patient. Stay with him.

If he stayed by Jack's side, would he eventually get a real answer? Would Jack show him how he could help, whether he spoke the words aloud or showed Bray through actions? It wasn't like Bray was going anywhere. He'd been in Hazleton his whole life and it was looking like he wasn't about to leave anytime soon. What was out there for him anyway? More pain? More emptiness? Leaving his little nest here, which already felt so lonely, to face the big, wide world out there? Preposterous. Bray wasn't the adventurous type, after all.

He shifted slightly to face Jack properly, noting his sober expression. Jack wasn't sober but he seemed serious right now. And yet, Bray couldn't seem to wholly believe his words. He smiled and dropped his gaze to the area near Jack's collar, noting that one of his buttons was in the wrong slot. Reaching up, he corrected it—just as Jack helped him to button up that morning.

"I'm not alone," Bray repeated, but the words sounded even more hollow coming from him. His fingertips traced the smooth little button. "I'm not alone..."

"You're not."

Why did Brayden sound so skeptical?

"What? You don't believe me?"

And why the obsession with his button? Brayden seemed fixated on it, even to a drunk man. Oh he thought he sobered up a bit on the ride back but his head still swam comfortably in alcohol. He knew he shouldn't love it so much. Alcohol. What it could do. How it could suppress and compress and depress. Just press everything. Down. Down. Down. Somewhere deep. Somewhere nobody could reach. Somewhere even Jack couldn't touch. If he just kept pushing it down. Maybe. It would never come back up.

"B. BB. Baby." He fondled Brayden's cheek lovingly. "You're not alone. You still see her in your dreams. And probably your dad, too.... amirite? They're inside forever. And they love you." His eyes, without his permission, went misty for some reason. Motherly love. Fatherly love. Always carried inside of him. "Their voices are nice ones. Good ones. They love you, B. Little B."

He traced a line down Brayden's nose. Down to his lips. To his mouth. Like he was hushing him. Shhhhh. Their voices were good ones. Kind ones. Loving ones. Whatever wisdom they imparted was beautiful. It had to be. Because Brayden was beautiful. One of a kind. Maybe not to some. But Jack never met a soul like his. Abruptly he dropped his hand.

"I lied, Brayden." But instead of saying what he wanted to say instead of continuing to open up, his cursed and terrible mouth said, "My ass hurts. And my back." He hugged Brayden again and rested his chin against his shoulder. "My heart hurts." And in the smallest and nearly inaudible of voices he said, "I just want to die."

"I..." He didn't want to lie even to a drunk man who couldn't remember so he didn't finish his lie. He didn't believe Jack. Not right now. Not fully. It was no good to only be... a small part of someone. That meant they could still move on—that meant Jack could move on—and he would be alone again. No guarantees for the future, but that also meant he couldn't sincerely believe that he wasn't and would never be alone again.

But for a drunk man, Jack was quite perceptive. Bray nodded. "Yes. I hear him too." His father, mild-mannered and soft-hearted, just like Bray. Most fathers taught their sons not to cry, not to show that they were hurt, to bottle it all up and shove it away. Bray's father encouraged him to do just the opposite. There was no shame in shedding tears, his father said. That meant they were human. That meant they were capable of empathy, sympathy, that they had a heart which cared for other hearts, and that was a good thing.

Seeing the way Jack teared up, Bray reached out to brush the area under his eyes again. He felt like this whole evening was a repeat of the previous, only they were out in the courtyard instead of in Jack's apartment. Oh, well. No one was looking anyway—most people were inside with the blinds drawn, living out their own lives.

"Jack..." He was shushed so he shushed but his hand lingered at Jack's cheekbone, near his temple, the fingertips dipping into his wavy hair. That Jack who didn't have parents that loved him could speak so eloquently to Bray's was heartbreaking. And he was right—he was right about all of it. Bray's parents loved him. They taught him to be kind, to be loving, to care about others. What did Jack's parents teach him? How to be hurt? How to close off his heart to other people? How to pretend he was okay and put up that front to keep everyone out, isolating himself?

How to be okay with being alone?

Bray was silent as Jack confessed to lying. He hurt? His—his ass and his back. His heart. He gathered Jack close as his own eyes stung and he didn't even bother brushing away his own tears as he held Jack tighter and tighter and tighter, hurting for him, aching for him. "You can't..." die. No. Jack couldn't die, Bray wouldn't let him. He turned to kiss Jack's temple, the side of his head. "You have to live. You-you haven't even read my book. The book, remember? For the soul? And-and I have to eat this chocolate you brought me, so we... we can't... give up, Jack. We can't give up. I'm not giving up on you."

There were a lot of ways to die that could be fun. Interesting. The idea of death was never a specter for Jack but a welcoming home. Relief from being so goddamn sick inside. Even when he wanted to recover, he fucked it up. Even when times were good, there was that knowledge that he didn't deserve it. And he always always let that fuck it up. The good things. The happiness. It was as if he had some broken parts inside that were there so long that he sometimes hardly even noticed them.

Evenings out with people he could pretend were friends. Karaoke. Drinking and fucking. It was a glorious night. A beautiful night. And he was so so so happy. So happy. He thought. He thought he was happy.

But the thing was... those jagged broken parts? They liked to cut him at the worst times. Had to spring out when things were going just fine. Everything was fine. And then. He thought about mothers and fathers. He thought about what it was to be alone. Some part of him was even a little jealous. The voices in Brayden's head. They had to be loving. Encouraging. But the voices Jack heard were vile. And everything he touched. They became vile too.

"If I died now, my voice in your head would still be a good one, B..."

"No... no... I don't want your voice. I want you. I want the real thing." A disembodied voice or a visitor in dream land was never going to be the same. They were all in his head, sure, but fat lot of good that did for Bray who needed them in his waking moments more than he did in his sleeping ones. Sleep was a reprieve from unhappiness; he was unconscious for that and didn't need the help.

Being awake was hard. Harder some days than most others. The constant struggle to keep his head above water left even loving, self-sacrificing Bray a little exhausted. But when he reached for them—the pills, the knife, the gun, whatever—he thought of the people who would be left behind. The people who would be left alone if he killed himself. How could he visit that kind of horror upon another person? How could he subject them to the same level of loneliness and despair that he, himself, felt?

That theory only worked if there was someone out there to grieve for him, though. If there was one person who cared. It didn't have to be a whole village. Just one. Just one person whose life would be left much worse off if he died. If Jack died.

And Bray, he could be that person for Jack.

He probably already was.

Bray turned away, wiping a hand across his eyes. "I want you," he whispered softly. "I want the real thing." Not a voice. Not a memory. Not a dream. Jack was so close... The star he had been trying to catch all his life was achingly, maddeningly close and if he just... reached out his arm another mere millimetre... "You said I wasn't alone. If you were gone... I would be."

Jack half laughed and he half cried. It was an ugly and ungainly sound and he would have been properly embarrassed if he was entirely sober. Of course, being drunk as he was—and maybe possibly drugged—he didn't have the wherewithal to be. He didn't even have the ability to control his wild mood swing. From happy and over the moon to confessing into the void that he would rather be dead. Again it would have mortified him if he was less inebriated.

"Because I make you feel less alone?"

The question was almost childlike. Why... did he even ask? Brayden already told him. He. Felt less lonely. Less alone. But he could never be alone with the memories of his parents. Were they not enough? Would a... could a memory of somebody ever be enough?

Another little hiccup.

"I'm not—" he laughed but there was a tinge of wildness in it. "I'm not holding a gun to my head, B." There was no imminent danger of Jack killing himself. Just because he wanted to die didn't mean...  well. Maybe it did. He had been determined at one point not to die. When he checked himself into that rehab program. When he came out clean. Or cleaner.

He tried to look Brayden in the eyes again. Why was it so hard sometimes? He squinted at him. The cool air of the night stung at his face now. Heh. Well he asked for that didn't he. But the more he looked at Brayden, the more he realized that all this time he thought nothing and nothing wasn't the solution. Brayden was something. And the only way he could make Jack something too was if he shared his something. And Brayden was already so self sacrificing that it might. Just. Kill him.

"Brayden," he said in all seriousness. "Being alone isn't the worst thing that could happen to you."  He reached up and held Brayden's face. "Believe me."

"Yes. Because you make me feel less alone. Because... you don't make me feel like I'm nothing. And when you look at me, I feel like I could be somebody." Jack wasn't going to remember any of this and it was okay. Bray just had to get it off his chest, he supposed. He wanted to be patient, like his mother told him to be. He was going to be here for Jack no matter what, even if he couldn't be with Jack in the capacity that he wanted to be.

But he had to admit it to himself. He had to say it, as much for himself as for wild-eyed Jack who laughed like his heart was breaking. Broken. A lifetime of pain led him here to sleepy Hazleton and maybe... just maybe... he fell here so that Bray could open his arms and catch him. Maybe Bray's purpose was finally made clear in that heart-wrenching sob.

Bray who had been holding out his hands to catch a star and Jack who had been falling, falling, falling, falling... Didn't it just make sense, in some strange abstract cosmic way?

He cradled Jack against him, letting him stare, letting him look and search for whatever it was that he thought he needed in someone. Didn't have to be Bray. He knew that he was far from perfect, and that whatever he had might not be nearly enough to make up for what Jack needed. But Bray was willing to try; he didn't shrink from duty, as much as he shrank from everything else.

"You don't have to be holding a gun to your head to..." Bray trailed off. His fingers touched one of Jack's temples, where a gun would have been. Cold metal pressed to the side of his head. It was a horrific mental image and inwardly he shuddered. He pulled Jack closer, gazed into his unfocused eyes. They were hazel; they seemed to change colors under the light of the stars. And here Bray thought he was magical...

"It's the worst... for me." He smiled wistfully as he reached up and let his fingertips ghost over the back of Jack's hand. "But I know it's not the worst for you. I know, Jack. I know. But just know that you're not alone either. Okay? And you don't have to hurt alone."

"I don't... even own a gun."

That wasn't the point. And he knew it. And Brayden knew it. Guns didn't have exclusive rights to killing people. Drinking away his liver was killing him. He thought putting down the drugs might help, as if it were some kind of signal to both himself and the world that he was done pretending that his entire life was just one long ride to suicide. A gun didn't have to be pointed to his head for its symbol to be there, forever tantalizing and flirting with death.

He knew somebody with a gun, though. Alejo. Alllllllie, he thought the name with some affection. Poor, empty, soulless Alejo, a brother of his heart and a little speck of nothing just like him. He owned a gun and he could have used it on Jack. And Jack could have tightened his hands around his delicate throat. And they both could have died.

Fuck. He hated the darkness. When did it get so dark? Tonight was supposed to be a good one. A good one. He closed his eyes. Tight. Like he could go back, back to the laughter and dancing and singing. It was all a blur, quickly losing all its details and edges. Did he kiss his co-worker? A soft laugh escaped. He opened his eyes. Brayden was still there, for some reason. He kissed two co-workers. Maybe more. He was kinda handsy when he wasn't drunk. His lips were wanderers when he was.

His hands slowly slid over the sides of Brayden's head, resting somewhere vaguely chesty. His alcohol drenched mind tried to process what it was that Brayden was saying. Being alone was the worst for anybody. Jack wasn't even sure how he misconveyed that information. Was that even...? There were worse things. Did he say that, with his own mouth?

"Yeah... no... right... You're right." His gaze slid away, to a tree that arched up to the night sky. A shooting star that wasn't a star. He lifted his hand to trace its course, the way he would have done as a child. "...you're right."

The barriers came up and down, fluctuating, letting Bray in and then pushing him out. He was confused and he could just bet that Jack was too. He wouldn't be here if he wasn't, if he knew the answers and where to find them. Bray wasn't pushing, though. He didn't need to know everything tonight. A lot had already been revealed; another piece of the puzzle had been unearthed, adding to the bits and pieces he gleaned from before.

"You're drunk," he murmured again, without knowing why he felt the need to tell them both what they already knew. Jack was drunk. Everything was off-the-record. Bray pulled him closer and let him rest, let him turn his eyes to the heavens and trace a vague streak across the night sky. Bray closed his own eyes to let the darkness behind his eyelids sink in. His hands were restless, though, stroking through Jack's hair and over his temples, his cheeks, his jaw and lips and throat.

"Do you want to go inside, Jack?" They couldn't really... sit out here all night. Bray could have if Jack wanted to but he didn't think it was a good idea. Jack was already emotional and he wasn't in a fit state to discuss his innermost feelings. Bray didn't want him to keep sinking down into his own darker emotions, either. This was enough for one night, wasn't it?

Rome wasn't built in a day, after all.

"I am," he agreed. A laugh. And his hand that traced the shooting star (that could have been there and maybe wasn't) came down to rest against Brayden. "I'm so drunk."

It was a miracle that Brayden hadn't met Drunk Jack before this point. But Drunk Jack had been quietly nursing his own wounds in his new luxury apartment in Oregon. The first time he'd even gone to a bar, he'd found Allie Allie Allie... Oxen Free. And he didn't know what to do with that information. Didn't really know how to approach anything anymore, when he wasn't the same Jack as before, now that he'd gone through (drug) rehab and told himself not to let it get dark again.

Drinking too much, it was hard to control whether it went one way or the other. Sometimes it swung wildly from one to the other. And he really, really wasn't supposed to be drinking. His last doctor told him he had to stop self medicating. But the problem with all these doctors, head doctors especially, was that they didn't actually know the full story. And if Jack had a say--and he did--they never would.

Funny, really, how he thought philosophizing might clean his soul, how psychology my clean his mind, that throwing away his vices in a fit of horror would clean his body. But this vessel would always be the same vessel that had never been wanted, with all its imperfections and its scars. His soul would always be pockmarked with regrets. And his mind... Well, it was still sharp but for how long?

And he really didn't want to get into his heart. His heart wanted to love. It wanted to open up. But historically, that was never a good idea. Honestly, he couldn't even be sure what love actually was. If it was something needy like that moment in time with Allie or if it was just some word for something that never existed except in fairy tales. Something to help people sleep at night, like god. Something that made people feel like a bigger part of something important, a part of a whole. Because who was really whole all by themselves? Nobody, that's who.

"Ugh... do I have to?" He slunk even further down, as if he could just slink down and melt into the bench. Or maybe into Brayden. But he was sore and achy and sitting out in the cold was making him all stiff. Not the good kind. Like the kind where you didn't move for a long time and then when you did, you realized what a mistake it was. Then again, going inside meant bed and he had a love affair with his bed, the whirlwind kind, the kind where he loved it and hated it at the same time.

"Yeah, yeah, let's go."

Jack tried to pull himself up but he succeeded only in slinking further down, until he could feel his asscheeks touching the pavement. Cold soaked in, even through his pants. His work pants. His fancy work pants that... oh. A book slid down his chest and he caught it, between said chest and his hand. It was the book Brayden gave him. Gave him? Yes, yes. They exchanged gifts. He held the book so that it rested on his forearm, the bottom against his chest. Chicken Soup for the Soul, it said.

"I. Love it," he declared, a little laugh rumbling up inside him. Because it was funny. It was. The soup that could save a man's soul. It could happen. Stranger things happened.

"No, but you'll regret it in the morning." Sleeping out here was a horrible idea. Bray had done it a few times in the past, when he came out to catch stars and only caught a few Zs. Waking up curling on a hard bench, drenched in dew and shivering it out? Not an experience he thought Jack wanted to have.

Bray sank a little into the bench too as Jack did, not being tall enough or prepared enough to catch the brunt of his full weight. He sighed and grappled with Jack, who decided that he did want to go in. Well, that was a step in the right direction. And then a step in the wrong direction as he fell, even with Bray struggling mightily to keep him on his feet. Down he went in a heap, laughing about the book. Chicken soup for the soul.

"Up. Up you get, fella," Bray grunted softly as he tried to get Jack off the ground and back onto his feet. "Think... how nice it'll be to sleep in that big bed of yours." it was very luxurious, Bray could attest. Big enough to fit three, maybe four people... but not big enough to contain all the nightmares of one man. Bray sighed as he hooked his arms under Jack's armpits and somehow hauled him up.

The little chocolate sat heavy in his pocket as he half-dragged, half-staggered with Jack to his door. Bray fumbled through Jack's pockets for keys, recalling how furious he had been that morning to find that Jack knew how to pick locks. For a man so supposedly open, he sure had a lot of secrets stored away inside. Bray glanced at him and sighed, "Good thing it's the weekend. You're going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow morning."

Oh, throw it in the pile with all the other regrets. Jack even made a psh sort of sound as he waved his hand at the air. There were so many regrets inside of him that he didn't even know how he managed to live like a normal human being at this point. Could be from living with them for most of his life. Some 30-odd years of hell. It was his normal.

"I am, I am," he said as he stumbled up to his feet. And he did so want to fall asleep in his big, wonderful bed. He could already practically feel its warmth around him and his face smashed into the mattress. Not unlike the night before. What was wrong with him lately? Just when things were getting good and he was settling in nicely in Hazelton, he went and screwed it up by getting shit-faced two nights in a row.

"I promise," he said to Brayden as he felt himself being patted down, "that I'm not always like this."

For some reason, it was concerning him that Brayden only knew him as a drunkard. But he did have a laugh at Brayden's last comment.

"I--I was thinking that exact same thing when I went to the bar!" He said it as if he was simply amazed that Brayden thought the same thing when it was a common enough thought to have. He leaned up against the wall by his door, still letting Brayden find his keys on his own. They were on his person... somewhere.

"You should have come," he said as he made himself comfortable, propped up there against the wall with a dazed smile and far away eyes. "We sang Rihanna and Taylor Swift and I think Sia... Baby, I don't need to have dollar bills to have fun tonight~"

"Were you?" And it didn't stop him from drinking too much anyway? Another little piece for the mosaic that Bray was building of Jack. He smiled fondly up at Jack as he frisked him (essentially), finally finding his keys in the back pocket. Bray who was too polite to cop a feel dis his best not to grope around too much back there. Ahem.

A part of him wanted to go when he heard Jack was going but ultimately he didn't. Maybe he ought to have. Would the night end differently if he had gone? If he was the one sitting at the bar watching Jack singing and dancing and getting blitzed out of his mind? Maybe... but probably not. Bray didn't think his presence had any real sway over the outcome of anyone's evening, either way.

Tonight was just. Luck. He happened to be out here and Jack happened to come back at that time. Luck.

"Come on, let's get you inside." Bray knew the names of those artists but he hadn't heard their songs. He didn't... really listen to music, oddly. He liked background chatter from the radio. Maybe a bit of news. Tedious and boring, wasn't it? His life was like that, though--depressingly bland. Easing Jack off the wall, he helped him inside and turned on the lights. The trip into the bedroom was a laugh and a half, stumbling into and bouncing off of furniture, tracking a crazy trail through the living area and in through the door. Bray tried to prop Jack up against the closet door as he helped Jack undress.

This time he didn't have trouble with the buttons on Jack's shirt. He glanced up, half-smiled; he was returning the favor, he supposed. "Do you want anything before bed? Water?"

Weekends were meant to have fun and forget the rest of the world for a while, weren't they? Brayden probably spent his weekends with paperwork. What a sad thought. Even when he wasn't drinking, Jack didn't use weekends for work related things. When he first moved to Hazleton, he used his weekends to wander the town's streets, trying to get a feel for his new environment, for the locals, trying to immerse himself in a place he could call home.

Getting inside was a joke, but together they somehow managed it. (No thanks to Jack, who kept tipping over and laughing about it.) They were in familiar territory now. His apartment was warmer than the cold air outside and there, there was his bed. But they didn't go straight to bed. No, they were at the closet for some reason. His closet, which was filled to the brim with his every indulgence. Gorgeous colors, patterns, varied fabrics. He could be vain that way, in how he presented himself, in the clothing he chose.

"Mm." He was aware that his clothes were coming off and that was usually a prelude to something sensual. He shrugged out of his shirt once it was unbuttoned, carelessly letting it slip to the floor. Water would have been a good idea but the question was forgotten almost as quickly as Brayden asked it.

"Nope," he said decisively, but then just as decisively, he reached out to delicately (somehow) slide Brayden's top button right out of its buttonhole. "Just you."

Sigh... An internal sigh, full of weariness. Bray's head was full of thoughts--not that it usually wasn't, but tonight he felt particularly full up on heavy musings and internal monologues. He wished that he could somehow siphon some of those thoughts away, to be examined and reexamined at his own leisure, but that was impossible. For him. It was possible for others--witches, for example--but he didn't have access to any of that magical technology.

Busying himself with Jack gave him slight reprieve, though, until Jack's shirt fell away. Bray couldn't help staring for a moment; there was just a lot of chest in front of him and a lot of bare skin. His fingers twitched longingly but he kept them from doing anything untoward. Pants next. Haah. Pants next. Right. He--look, despite years of inaction (to put it kindly) Bray wasn't made of stone. Physical attraction was very much still a thing and... yes, physically he was attracted to Jack.

He blinked at Jack's nimble fingers as they came up to his own collar and popped a button out of its slot. Bray didn't understand at first, and then it dawned on him. "Ah." His fingers closed around Jack's to stop them from going further. "Jack. I... think you need to go to sleep." He was trying to be gentle about it, of course, but he couldn't dance around the fact that it wasn't a good idea.

He wanted to badly, with every fiber of his being, but it was a Bad Idea. And had Jack been sober, Bray thought that he would have known it too.

Sleep? But why sleep when they could still have fun? Was that not what they were doing right now? Brayden was unclothing him. It only seemed fair to his sloshed brain that he should be undressing Brayden, too. He was intensely curious now, what was underneath all the boring administrator clothes. But Brayden was stopping him. Jack tried to move his hand out from under Brayden's.

"I think so, too," he said. "Together. We need to go to sleep together."

Never mind that they did that before. Last night, in fact. Only they just slept. Or Jack did. Hard to tell how much sleep Brayden got, since he seemed to be pretty haggard the next morning.

"Don't you feel it?" he asked, his hands slipping around Brayden's waist to pull him closer. There was something between them. A spark. Something more than a spark. Jack couldn't be the only one who felt it. Could he? It felt so different than anything he ever experienced... and so strong that he couldn't believe that Brayden didn't feel it, too.

"Do you know... how long I've been looking? ...searching? It can't just be me..." He eagerly took Brayden's hand to bring it to his chest, where he could have sworn that his heart beat in time to a song only their two hearts could possibly know. (What the hell did they put in his drink?) "...stay. Don't make me beg, B."

Oh, Jack, he was so persuasive. So persuasive, so irresistible. So hurt and so broken. How could Bray take advantage of him when he was like this? Only a few moments ago he was confessing to wanting to die and that just made him so vulnerable, so lost. How could anyone not want to protect him--even from himself and his own desires?

Sleeping together would ruin things. It would ruin all the credibility Bray built up over the course of so many days, that he was someone Jack could trust, could confide in, could be close to without feeling as though he needed to give Bray something in return. Bray did nothing with the expectation of reciprocity. He did this because he wanted to help, because he was good and he saw the good in Jack.

However, Bray was also human. (Sort of.) He was prey to the same vices and the same weaknesses and for a moment he did waver. He nodded. Yes, he felt it too, the heat between them, the sparks, the kindling flame. He felt it even as he watched Jack from afar, watched Jack watching him from afar. They watched each other across the courtyard, watched one another in the staff room, followed each other as they passed in the hallways.

It was impossible to miss that electric feeling between them, especially now. Especially after so many secrets were bared (but so much more left in Jack, Bray was sure). He felt the heat and the heartbeat under his fingertips, leaning into Jack and half-closing his eyes. Wanting this didn't make it right. Be patient, his mother said. Stay by his side.

"...I'll stay, Jack." He looked up, tipped his head up to kiss the corner of Jack's mouth tenderly. "But I won't have sex with you."

"You're such a little tease," he said, a hint of petulance in his voice. Brayden, the little cock tease. Well, not really, in retrospect. Brayden never actually did anything that would have indicated he wanted anything to do with him romantically. Sexually. There was only the chemistry, which very well could have been one-sided all along. And here Jack thought himself such a great reader of character. Maybe he was losing his edge.

It didn't have to mean anything that Brayden kissed him back. That could have been shock. Or maybe it didn't actually happen? It was possible. There were memories in Jack's bank that even today he couldn't tell whether they were true or not. Or if they were remnants of nightmares, pieces of dreams, thoughts that he had, things he wished were true. Things he desperately wished weren't true.

They could be so good together, he thought. Him and Brayden. But it was impossible, wasn't it? Brayden was way too good for him. Beyond too good for him. Look at him, right now. So virtuous, pushing him back--not physically--but placing distance between them. Maybe he could sense it in Jack, that he was no good for him. Or he could be smart and he was taking heed of past words from Jack himself.

He wasn't relationship material. Relationship detox. Smart, smart Brayden. So clever.

Still, how he could say that he would stay, kiss him ever so tenderly, and then say no sex. It didn't make sense right now. Were they not in a place for it? Half clothed as he was? Jack sighed and he took his hands away from Brayden in order to unbutton his own pants, to sidle out of them and stand before Brayden in only his underclothes.  He wagged a finger at Brayden.

"No, no. You're right... I was just," he said as he sifted through his pajama collection, "imagining how it could be. But reality rarely holds up to fantasy."

He pulled another silk set out. Silk was so... fine. Nobody could convince him it wasn't the best fabric for sleep. As he shrugged himself into a pajama top, he eyed Brayden. "You should borrow something. Take your pick. Although I'd love to see you in... oh... something like this."

He plucked at a pair of pajamas in a soft turquoise color.

"You should wear more color.... it brings out the brightness in your eyes. Mm?"

"I'm not..." Bray denied sadly, wishing with all his heart that he could give in to Jack's pleas and be with him. It was only one night, wasn't it? One taste of glory, of heaven, one chance at holding on to a blazing star? But that star was spinning out of control and Bray had already put himself into the position of stopping it. He had to stop the downward spiral that he saw Jack take. For better or worse, this was his role now and he had to resign himself to that fact.

It didn't make him feel any better, though, to see Jack's expression fall. To feel him pulling away physically and emotionally, turning away after removing his outer clothes to search out pajamas. They were good together. That was the problem. It was too good, too much at once. Bray knew he could plod along like an old, tired horse on the way to a funeral the way he progressed through relationships but being careful now was better than rushing headlong into things, he was sure. And he was plenty sure that Jack had had plenty of those fast-and-furious relationships in the past.

Bray didn't want to be another regret.

He stood watching Jack pulling out silk pajamas for himself, watching him put up those same barriers. Jack was imagining how good they could be together. Bray was too and his heart was sore and heavy. Jack was drunk, he had to remember that. He couldn't be blamed for the things he said or the things he thought in a moment like this. Bray was stopping him--stopping them both--from making a fatal mistake.

"Anything's fine," he said quietly, accepting the turquoise set from Jack. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind." Bray took himself further away to change out of his clothes, laying his work clothes onto the back of a chair, neatly folded. He went back to pick up Jack's clothes too, and deposited them into the laundry hamper he saw the night before. Then he was back to help Jack into bed, slipping back into the same bed he was in the night before and drawing the covers up over them.

Bray didn't close his eyes, though. He watched Jack silently for a minute before tipping his head forward again, hoping to give Jack some form of reassurance that he wasn't slamming the door on them. Funny enough, Bray thought Jack wasn't particularly interested in him but... drunk Jack apparently thought otherwise. Maybe when the time was right--when Jack wasn't hurting so badly--they could... be truly good together.

Bray kissed him again, gently--but it held. It was a real kiss. "Good night, Jack. Sleep well."