We Are Bulletproof

Jack spent most of the past weekend nursing his hangover but in the good company of his newfound friend, Brayden. At least, that's what he assumed they were. He was so hammered that night that he didn't remember much about the night but the morning, at least, was made nicer by the fact that somebody was there to dote over him. Hangover or sickness, Brayden was there to help.

Work at the school continued in the same vein as it had before. Luckily, Jack was nice and sober before he went in for work that week. And then... the curse of the weekend had arrived again. Friday night, Jack was content enough to stay in and play some card game that Brayden introduced him to at his apartment. But Saturday night, he found himself feeling... antsy.

He had no idea how the hell Brayden lived the way he did, in what appeared to be some form of celibacy. Virgin? He could be, but that would be so, so sad, given he was in his 30s. Poor, sad Brayden.

Jack almost texted Brayden to extend the invitation to him but if he recalled anything from his party night with co-workers, it was that Brayden didn't seem to like it much. (Also, Jack was mercilessly teased by Ali for having kissed him...? Ah, well. Drunk eyes.)

Dressing to the nines as he was wont to do, Jack took the walk up to the night club with all the confidence of a king strolling the streets of his commoners. And when he entered the night club, which he had attended before, he was more than a little pleased to see a great deal of the most beautiful naked men, dancing in lurid ways that left nothing to the imagination. Jack felt like he was eye fucking them just stepping into the place. God, if he felt like he was at home anywhere, this had to be it.

Stepping up to the bar, he held up some folded cash between two fingers.

"House special," he said. "And don't hold back on the hard stuff."

He knew he should be trying to steer clear of alcohol but with an entire week rubbing it out for somebody that clearly only wanted to be friends, he needed some kind of relief from it all.

Saturday night and the club was awash in sin and liquor.

Ho
Hum

Marge stood behind the bar wiping a glass clean with a towel, eyeing a cute blond who was making eyes at her from the other end of the bar. She was tempted but he looked too young. Probably got in on a fake ID—the bouncers weren't known to check that religiously here. Pity. He looked like he could be entertaining for a few hours after work—after her work that is. But then again it might be too late past his bedtime.

She actually had a little inward laugh at her own joke, lips curving up briefly. Oh—hello. He was what they called a tall drink of water... in like 1980. In the modern day, he was what Marge called Promising. She watched him approaching and waving his little dollar bills around, ordering a strong drink. Marge whipped the bills out of his hand as fast as anyone could blink.

"Coming right up. One Forget-Me-Not." Which was a stupid name for a drink loaded with enough booze to knock out a horse. But hey—Marge just made the drinks, she didn't have any lessons on morality for these people. As she grabbed various bottles with practiced ease, she eyed him. Shit. Gay. Yeah, that was magical powers for you—couldn't let a girl find that out on her own, could it? She might have at least had a little fun trying.

Gay and pining. Oh, if she had a dollar for every time somebody came through with a sob story like that. Nevertheless, as she slid the drink over to him, she remarked casually, "Going straight for the hard stuff huh? Tough week?" He could've been here for a good time and she could have been wrong, but she wasn't. That was the curse of her abilities. It made her look like a know-it-all bitch.

Well, it made her look like a know-it-all. Marge had the bitch part all covered on her own.

"Ooh, what a cute name." Forget-Me-Not. Like the flowers, right? A cute sentiment but he was pretty sure that a drink with such a cute name was meant to knock a person out on their ass. Well... Fine. That was good. He just needed enough alcohol in him to make everything fuzzy and sweet. He knew he shouldn't be drinking. That he should have stayed home but he was about to go crazy sitting there in his apartment alone. And going over to bother Brayden? Just going to bother himself, too, the way he felt.

Not that he had to drink to scratch that particular itch. It just made it easier.

"Fuck yes," he said, almost as if he had been holding the words in for far too long and needed to release them. "Well, maybe not tough, per se. Long. Way too long. Do you know it's been a week since I got laid?"

It was fine to divulge these things to bartenders. He tended to befriend them at places that eventually became his regular stomping grounds. Turning his head to look at the beautiful, beautiful men, he sighed. Hey, he could still appreciate the male form in all its shapes and sizes, couldn't he? And they were gorgeous, all in their different ways. They were already making him a little hot and bothered.

"Any of them available?" he asked, since the bartender would know. "Scratch that... do you think any of them would be interested?" He ran a teasing glance over one man in particular, from head to toe. "God, where do they even come from?"

The drink was starry blue just like the flowers, thanks to a generous dash of blue curacao. It was pleasant going down--not so much coming up. Marge would know. She'd had a few... for research purposes. One didn't seem like it'd knock this fella off his feet, though. Something told Marge he could hold his own.

Apparently he was also quite chatty, which was kind of cute in that it had been a week since he'd gotten laid and why the hell did he wait so long? With those good looks? Marge laughed at his ill luck. Bad fortune? The pining? It wasn't a cackle or anything, she didn't delight in his plight, but the eager way his words spilled out was funny. Marge leaned against the counter and rested her chin on her palm, watching him hungrily eyeing every scantily clad young man that walked past.

"Balls probably as blue as that drink, huh?" she asked bluntly, with another laugh. "If it makes you feel any better, most of them are as horny as you are. Half of them have already come over to hump the bar." Most of them were young, handsome men out looking for a good time. Some were already eyeing Jack like wolves, circling, probably waiting for a chance to get in. Jack was dressed to the nines--they scented money in the air and Hazleton, for some reason, was not short on poor, good-looking young men. There was even some vampire up in a mansion on a hill who kept a harem.

"Why'd you wait so long?" 

(Forget-me-not (https://www.epicurus.com/beverages/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/windex-cocktail.jpg))

He arched a brow when the drink was placed before him. Well worth the money just for that color. Jack loved his color. Lifting the drink, he let out a soft snort of a laugh. If only his balls were the same pretty blue color as the cocktail. If he had to imagine the term blue balls as a color, though, he thought it would be a nasty, ugly bruise of a blue, for how much torture it was.

"My god... don't remind me. If I don't have somebody calling me daddy by the end of the night, I'm going to kill myself." He tilted the glass to his lips and let the cool liquid slide down his throat easily. It might have been hard liquor in there but he was a practiced enough drinker to make it look easy. Although the liquid was cool in temperature, it was warm when it hit his belly. He could tell this was a hard hitting one.

Setting the already half empty glass down in front of himself, he toyed with the slice of lemon that came with the drink.

"Work week," he said. "Turns out, it's not so good for my level of productivity if I'm not productive in the bed at least semi-regularly." He lifted the glass to take another drink. "That and I want somebody that's either playing one hell of a game of hard-to-get or genuinely isn't interested. As fun as the games can be, I can't take it another day longer. Last night, I spent the night at his place and all we did was play cards."

A whole week and he was climbing the walls already, was he? God, Marge could relate so hard. She shook her head pityingly as he continued on with his sad, sordid tale, downing the drink like it was blue kool-aid. Marge was impressed--not even a cough or a shudder and he'd swallowed about half of it in one breath. She got started on another, anticipating that one pretty blue drink wasn't going to cut it for him--not if he was going to do some damage to some poor little thing later on.

"You played cards. On a friday night." She stopped to level a Stare at him. Yes, it was a judgmental Stare. It was full on judgmental and she didn't care to dial it back. "You. This." Her finger drew an oval in the air, encompassing him and his fine ass figure. "Playing cards instead of fucking. Oh honey. What. Are you doing?" Marge tsked as she slid the second drink over on a coaster. (She'd get the money and the tip from him in a bit.)

"Is he worth all that? He must be one hell of a guy." That or what's his name here was badly smitten.

"Right?" Jack said with a shrug and a look that said finally, somebody that understands! He placed a hand to his heart as she stared him down and then drew attention to his looks. Yes, him. Yes, all this--spent a Friday night playing cards instead of fucking. It was a real tragedy, was what it was. He might not want a relationship... (Did he? Or didn't he? He didn't know, fuck, it was too hard to make up his mind about it.) But he definitely needed sex. Didn't any healthy male his age?

This bartender, though, she got it. And she was on the ball, too. Jack gratefully received his second drink and half stood so he could pull his wallet out of his back pocket. Sliding his card out, he handed it over to the bartender.

"I might be here a while."

That was his answer for whether or not Brayden was worth all that. Having Brayden in his life... was worth it. But he didn't think even Brayden would have wanted to keep him from having sex. Just because one of them was fine with celibacy didn't mean that the other was. And hell if he even knew what Brayden wanted. There were hazy snippets of a drunken conversation but to tell the truth, he didn't remember most of what happened that night he came back from the bar after work.

Just that it was the last time he had sex--and it wasn't with Brayden.

"Oh... hm..." He caught the eye of a handsome man dancing in a distinctly sexual way. There were women around him but he seemed more interested in looking at Jack. As Jack lifted his glass for another drink, he winked. When he set his glass down, he smiled at the bartender.

"I'm Jack, by the way. And he's worth... something." But maybe just as a friend, which he supposed in itself was something quite valuable to somebody who never had true friends before.

What a fucking tragedy. That a man with needs had to wait an entire week just to play some silly little card game on a Friday night. Mm. Marge did not approve at all, no she did not. She, too, was a sexual being and she wasn't ashamed of that. They all had needs. It wasn't like having feelings for someone meant that they had to cut themselves off from the rest of the world.

As long as they weren't together in a relationship, hey, all bets were off. Besides, cards? Cards? Alone together with no one else watching and all they did was that? It sounded to Marge like the other guy wasn't that interested. She didn't think it was Jack. He didn't look like the shy type exactly, not after lifting his glass to a man dancing with a group of women. That took balls. (Blue balls.)

"Marge." She reached over and took hold of Jack's jaw, physically turning his head back around. "Not him. Uh uh. Bad news if you hate games, baby. Whatever's on this card probably wouldn't cover his tab for the night." But she could see why Jack might be attracted to someone like that--that was a man who knew his worth and expected others to know it too. However, he wasn't for Jack, the man who respectfully let another man lead him around by the nose, and whipped him into playing cards all night.

There was something still respectful in Jack, she thought. And it was respect that kept him from pushing the guy down or forcing himself onto him, wasn't it? By his own admission, that other one was worth something. More than he was willing to let on, Marge would bet. Ah, men. They were so depressingly simple.

"How about that one?" There was a brown-haired young man dancing his little heart out, dressed so scantily that he might as well have been wearing nothing at all. The crowd had parted a little ways, enough for Marge to notice him. Earlier he'd been by to drink his liver rotten. He tipped her a hundred dollars--probably thought it was a tenner--and then swayed off onto the dance floor where the crowd absorbed him.

It wasn't as if the card game was bad. They obviously had fun with it. There had been lemon water and popcorn (...) and Jack recalled flicking a popcorn against the side of Brayden's head when he was too busy concentrating on his cards. There was a point when Jack shuffled the cards and went whoops and let them flip up around them. Just maybe as kind of an excuse to see Brayden bend over. That was when he knew he had a bad case of attraction and it wasn't just going to go away.

The shower he took later when he was back home was... interesting. It was just lucky that his apartment wasn't wall adjacent to Brayden's.

"What?" Marge caught him looking at a handsome dancer with a definite cocky look to him. What? What, she didn't think Jack was capable of navigating these men on his own? (Then again, she worked here and saw who these people took home.) He flicked a glance back over in that direction as Marge dished that the guy was a big time player. Games. Jack sighed. Of course he was.

Turning to see who Marge was talking about, Jack's gaze ran over him in appraisal. "Hm... He's a cuti--wait a minute." Jack put up a hand and turned his head. "Hold up." Finishing what was in his second glass, Jack got up, saying to Marge, "Watch my coat--please and thanks, you're a doll," before he weaved his way through a handful of dancers.

"Allie?" Jack said, reaching out to touch his arm.

Forget-me-not.

Forget-me-not.

Alejo loved the sound of that, hyphens and all. On his third glass, he finally got the pun behind it and he laughed so hard that he doubled over. See, it said forget me not, but then it was so full of delicious booze that it made you forget your troubles. Right? Wasn't that--no. He swore he got the joke behind the name and then it was gone. Oh well, too bad!

Five glasses later, everything was encased in crystal, shiny and glowing and perfect. Fucking perfect. Alejo felt good with bodies pressing into him, all around him, swallowing him and swallowing his pain. After an entire week sitting in his motel room, barely eating and drinking, he just lost it. He got out in the tightest leather pants he had, the clingiest, most sheer top he could find at some cheap shop downtown and he fucking lost his mind at this club. Alejo couldn't even remember the name of it, that was how drunk he was. He was pretty sure most of his blood had been replaced by blue curacao by now and it felt. So. Fucking. Good.

Someone's hand snaked around to rub at his crotch and he turned into them, grinning. Alejo ground into that hand and threw his head back, sighing. Laughing. Felt good. Even if it was a rough hand, and even if the guy who held him looked like a bruiser. You know--one of those ones. Didn't matter. As long as it wasn't a good, kind, true man like Judah. He wanted nobody like Judah for...ever. Forever.

Hearing his name called, he shoved his partner off and turned. Whaaat? Was that really sex god? Jack? (Jack called him a sex god but that was what Alejo remembered of him in the moment, in his drunken haze.) He threw himself onto Jack, lips immediately crashing against lips and bodies fusing together as one.

"Jackie!" Alejo's laugh was delighted. Alejo's hands went low. "How the hell did you know I was here?"

Whoa, whoa. The response was immediate. As soon as Allie turned around and saw him, he latched onto Jack like a... he didn't know. Like an octopus tentacle. No? A suction cup? No. A cuddly koala bear? Okay, that worked. Iffff koala bears also kissed enthusiastically and tasted exactly like neon blue Forget-me-not.

"I didn't!"

Honestly, he had no idea the intrepid little backpacker was still in Hazleton, let alone at the exact same night club! It was pleasant surprise, though. Wasn't it? The last time they met, Allie seemed a little disappointed when he left, but that was probably because Jack's immediate attention was snagged onto his neighbor when he texted him back. (He didn't think he actually expected him to.)

"You're still in town, I see," Jack said, hands sliding around Allie's hips. Looking him over and taking in the... ah, interesting choice of fashion, Jack felt a niggling sense of concern. "Where did you even get this outfit? You look like a Hot Topic prostitute and half the guys here are definitely waiting to fuck you in the closest bathroom. Just... so you're aware."

Pulling Allie closer, almost protectively, he drew him towards a less crowded area of the club. In a quieter tone, he asked, "Are you okay, sweetie? Did somebody roofie you?"

"You didn't?!" Alejo was appropriately shocked because for some reason he thought Jack found him here... intentionally? As if Jack would be out looking for him. Alejo did sort of fall off the face of the earth and Jack never did call him, so he went ahead and assumed that once again he was the only one who was reaching out and getting a handful of nothing. Whole lotta nothing.

Right now though, his hands were full of something. A nice ass. He remembered this ass even in his inebriated state and his coy little grin said that he still liked it a whole lot. "Still hanging around the old place, you know," he said, as if he was so over this damned sleepy little town. Judah was still out there somewhere with his... with the love of his life. And Alejo had been putting off going home because he knew that he would go into their apartment and probably have a breakdown.

Better to have a breakdown here in this wonderful club, with a whole lot of strangers. And Jackie. Handsome Jackie, so put-together. So sweet. So... normal that nobody knew what he was inside. He was basically a taller, slightly older Alejo. "Hey. I resemble that remark..." He frowned, then laughed, feeling feather-light. Were guys watching him? Were girls watching him? Were they lining up to fuck him? He couldn't tell. At some point he thought he'd been in a corner and someone had their hand down his ultra-tight pants but that was like. At least twenty? minutes ago?

"Jackie. I cannot be roofied." He clung to Jack and rested his cheek against Jack's chest. "Nooo, that's. That doesn't happen. It's like against the law and shit and I will arrest anybody who tries." He nuzzled his cheek against Jack. "I just had. Five. Six of those blue drinks."

No, unfortunately. Jack just assumed the cutie from the club had gone on his way to other distant lands. Or back to his boyfriend maybe. Jack had no scruples there. The guy might have a boyfriend but... he slept with Jack. And they had such a good time, too.

They had that connection. That nothingness. That core feeling of not belonging. But... lately. Jack didn't feel that way so much anymore. Something about just being around Brayden made him feel like a better person. Not so much nothing anymore. He'd become something to Brayden. Even if it wasn't a sexual relationship, it was one that had quickly become dear to Jack's heart.

In just a week, so much inside felt changed. But... how changed? And what about Allie? What happened in the week since they met? Something drastic. He no longer looked like that naive young man he met back at the other bar. He was something else now.

"Well if you resemble it so much, consult me first before you dress for the club."

The tight pants were a nice touch but that shirt was definitely screaming "fuck me daddy." Which was somewhat amusing to Jack since he recalled his fun little partner doing the fucking.

"Hm... and how many of these people know you're a cop? Because darling..." Jack ran a little thumb over Allie's lower lip. "Your outfit leaves nothing to the imagination. So if you're packing tonight, it must be hidden... somewhere it really shouldn't be."

"I will not!" Indignantly he slapped Jack's ass. Well his hand was there. It was a spank, he couldn't tell a lie. It was a spank. "You're not my dad, I don't--I don't have to report to you." His real dad would be spouting blood out of every orifice in outrage at Alejo's antics here tonight, he'd bet. His parents were Ultra Conservative. His mother prayed five times a day--probably asking God to save her heathen son.

Well tough fucking luck. Alejo was beyond saving now. He was hollow and broken, no longer that fresh-faced young police officer who swore to uphold the law and to protect every citizen. Right now all Alejo wanted to protect was his right to p-a-r-t-y!

He sighed up at Jack and kissed the pad of his thumb as it traced his lip, not even realizing that he had blown his cover. So much for innocent young backpacker huh? "Shut up and dance with me, you old fogey. What happened to you? A week apart and you're all... acting your age?" He laughed again, feeling silly, silly, silly. Alejo cuddled up to him and wrapped his arms securely around Jack's waist.

"Dance with me Jackie."

"I... what on earth are you talking about?" Jack would have found the spanking to be quite nice actually, if it weren't for the unsexy comments about him being his dad. And not in the daddy sense used sexually. Was he actually insulted by Jack's comments on his fashion choices? Well. He should be! He did look like a teenaged prostitute!

And now the fogey comment. Jack had no idea where it was all coming from but... he found it all distinctly... unattractive. There was an age gap for certain but having it called to attention... Jack thought the arresting comment was a joke and joked back but... now he wondered. With Allie taking everything so seriously, as if he were an obnoxious teen with some baggage to unload... Fuck. Well. He barely looked old enough to be here, let alone a cop. Maybe it was Jack thinking too much for once.

Cops just.... understandably made him uncomfortable.

"Actually..." He tried to extricate himself from Allie. "I'd rather not. I was just..."

Warning him that there were some rapey looking creeps watching him? He did his duty then. It didn't seem like Allie much cared. About that or... anything.

"Never mind... just... be careful."

Everything was unraveling and Alejo felt powerless to stop it. Things fell apart with Judah. Judah who was the best thing to have happened to him in... ever. He put everything he had into that relationship, he really did. He tried to be perfect for Judah. Anything Judah wanted, Alejo was there to hand to him. Every time Judah needed to be picked up, Alejo's hand was there.

His perfection wasn't enough for Judah, to capture Judah's love, so he came to the realization--true or not--that he wasn't enough for anyone. Alejo at his best was barely hanging on to some other guy at his worst. What did that say about him? About his own worth? That he couldn't compete with a man who was half-way across the country from Judah? He didn't doubt that Judah loved him but he knew when he was coming out on the losing end of things.

Breaking up was hard every time but this time something really broke inside of him. He was dressed like a whore. He had six drinks, came here with no protection, danced with anyone who put a hand on him. Jack. Jack showing up made him genuinely happy. Jack pulling him aside to warn him, with all the good intentions in the world, worried him. It brought him back down to earth and he didn't want to come back down. He wanted to float high, high above his feelings of insecurity and worthlessness.

But. Jack was leaving. Pulling away. Leaving him here to his own devices.

Alejo's breath stuttered in his chest for a moment. Something ugly welled up inside. Something... nasty. Dark. Blacker than black. "Jackie... don't..." He grasped on to Jack's hand, desperate. Ugly. "Don't. No no no don't go you can't go you can't you can't." Was that the alcohol? Was that him? The two were sort of mixing together to create the monster that he always knew he was. Monstrous. Ugly. Unloved and unworthy of love.

His perfect wasn't even good enough.

"Jackie... please... I thought you understood..."

Hey, he was just here for a good time. To scratch an itch. He hadn't come here to be insulted by some kid who thought he was an old man. God, was he that old now? He didn't feel that old. Not old enough to be somebody's father.

Anyway, he had come for a good time, all right? That was the point of coming out to a night club. At least, it was the point now. No more looking for an excuse to be... that person he used to be. But he ran into Allie instead and Allie... Whatever transpired within the past week, it wasn't a good look on the kid. Maybe he was getting old, to be telling him to be careful. Kinda laughable, given the kind of things Jack had hiding in his closet.

His exit was blocked by Allie himself, as he latched onto Jack and not in the cuddly koala way this time. Jack looked down at Allie and he didn't know what to think. What happened? Was... this Jack's doing? Did talking about their mutual feeling of nothingness break something inside Allie? Jack's free hand stroked the side of Allie's face.

Understood what...? While Jack was busy feeling less like nothing, it seemed as if Allie was busy feeling more like nothing. (As much of an oxymoron as that sounded.) Jack once understood, though. That hollow feeling of being worthless and nothing to everybody. Jack didn't necessarily want to be another person looking through Allie. With a sigh, he dropped his hand from Allie's face.

"Come on, sweetie," he slid an arm around Allie's shoulders to steer him from their corner and toward the door. "Let's get you out of here."

A good time... That was what Alejo came for, too. He came to forget because after a week of remembering--God, every single moment he lived out with Judah seemed to all rush back--he was going crazy. Crazy with loss, crazy with grief, crazy from missing Judah already. It would have been easier to fall out of love, he thought, than to go through this. Whatever this was.

An existential crisis.

The Alejo that Jack was seeing now was but a fraction of how bad he used to be before he met Judah and settled down. That Alejo thought nothing of drinking until he passed out, of dancing the nights away and sleeping the days away in a still-drunk stupor. He said stupid shit, insulted people, got into fights, got into more trouble than he could remember. That was a whole other lifetime that he lived before he found what he thought was salvation.

Now, Judah was gone. And Alejo was back to that mouthy asshole who pushed people away--people who cared for him. Like Jack. If Jack didn't care even a little, he wouldn't have come over. Drunk as he was, Alejo understood that. He stood there dejected until Jack touched his face and he clung to Jack's hand like a lifeline. He thought Jack understood how that madness inside could drive him to this state. Maybe he did, because he was sliding an arm around him, trying to get him to go quietly into that good night.

"...okay." Alejo still clung to him though, arms around his waist, as he let himself be led away from the spectacle he'd been making of himself earlier. In the moment it felt good but seeing Jack's rejection threw a bucket of cold water over him. He looked down at himself as they walked, the shine of his leather pants painted on, the sheerness of his top, and sighed.

"I'm sorry," he murmured to Jack, feeling that sickness rising inside, rising up to his eyes, a molten heat in the backs of them. "Please... take me home with you tonight."

Say goodbye to a good time. Jack's night was going in a completely different direction than he had imagined. He only had two drinks! He was buzzed, but he wasn't nearly as drunk as he hoped to be. As he passed the bar and the lovely Marge, he didn't even bother asking for his card back. There was still that thought in the back of his mind that he'd be back. Even if it was just to chat with the bartender, because he could use somebody to talk to about everything he couldn't seem to talk about with anybody else.

He wanted to leave his number with her at least but... Well, she had his full name on the card. She could google him or something.

Out in the cold of the night, Jack let out a long breath, feeling as if he'd been holding it inside. What was happening to him? All of this was... He didn't normally do this kind of thing. It wasn't as if Allie was his problem but he somehow felt responsible for his current state. Nothing, the word echoed in his mind. He was looking at it now, stark and naked. It was almost terrifying to really look at head-on.

"What happened?" he asked, as they stood at the stop light, waiting for it to turn green, much like the last time they stood on this very corner together. "Talk to me, Allie."

"Shit fuck!" Alejo swore as the cold night air hit him square in the face and upper body, unprotected by the whorish outfit he had chosen for himself that night. Honestly he should have dropped dead from embarrassment and if it hadn't been so damn cold, he would have ripped off the sheer material and ground it under his foot.

He wanted to be better than this. Really, he did. Six drinks in, not so much, but a slap to the face and some frigid night air later, he was regaining sanity. Alejo walked close to Jack like he wanted to be his shadow, and when they stopped at the light he full-on hugged him, shivering against him. "Shit happened," he said--slurred--into jack's warm chest.

Hadn't they done this before? Like... a week ago? The feeling of deja vu hit him hard. He reached up to touch Jack's face, pawed at it for a bit, just to make sure he was solid and there. Yes, he was there. He was real. Alejo sighed with relief and went back to clinging to him like a leech. "Lotsa shit happened Jackie baby. I told my boyfriend I cheated on him. He still wanted to make things work." Here he stopped to laugh, a high, delirious sound of pain. "He's the nicest man I've ever met, did you know that? The NICEST man. And soooo handsome. So handsome. So good. Too good for... trash like me."

Alejo pulled away to look at himself with unfocused eyes. He pointed to the top. "This. Is trashy. Somebody shoulda told me--hic--not to wear this shit."

"You don't say."

Shit obviously happened or Jack wouldn't have asked about it. The Allie he met a week ago and this Allie were like complete opposites. One had been so sweet and naive, albeit, sad. This one was still sad but there was a new desperation clawing at him. Maybe he had been desperate before but this was something else, a whole new level of desperation. It honestly hurt to look at him and not because of the outfit but because he... he didn't feel so much as nothing as he did right now.

"...Oh." Wow. He. Actually told his boyfriend he cheated on him. And instead of being kicked to the curb, the boyfriend attempted to work things out. Shouldn't that have been a good thing...? Jack wasn't sure he understood what was happening. Allie sounded... lucky, honestly. And it sounded like he knew it now. Regret. Regret was such a nasty thing and poor Allie was swimming in it.

What did he do? Allie didn't say what he did. Just that there was a chance to make things work--but it sounded like it hadn't worked. Did Allie do something? Jack's heart beat faster. Did he... do something drastic? Crazy? The kind of thing Jack might have done?

Jack looked at the shirt as Allie pointed at it and he half smiled. "Well... I definitely would have told you not to but I'm not sure you would have listened." He sounded pretty stubborn earlier about it. Hm. Shit. He forgot his coat back at the club, too. And everything that was in it. Including his keys. He almost laughed aloud at himself for it.

"Uh oh, we're in trouble," he said in a sing-song tone as they crossed the street together. Shit. He left his lock pick kit at Brayden's. Which was good fortune, actually, since he could pick his way into his own apartment. But not so good fortune because... some part of him didn't want to be seen with anybody else in front of Brayden. Which was stupid because they were just friends.

"No, no I would've listened. I would've listened to you Jackie." He muttered that almost as if perplexed, as though he couldn't understand why anyone wouldn't listen to Jack. Jack was classy. Look at him. Even though he was at a nightclub he was the King. Dressed impeccably, clothes tailored to fit just right, he was. Oh. Too good. For trash. Like Alejo.

Something in him died again.

But the alcohol turned him back on and he grinned up at Jack's sing-song voice with a new... light in his eyes. That desperation had given away, finally, to clarity and it freed him. Oh, it was so liberating. So, so liberating and powerful and new. Alejo had never felt this way before. He knew he was drunk, duh, but that new feeling was a league above drunkenness.

"Are we in trouble?" He snuggled close to Jack, a hand slipping low again. Copped a feel. Feeling good. "What kinda trouble Jackie?"

Oh, he would have now? And what made Jack so different? Hm? He kind of liked it, that hero worship he saw in Allie's eyes. He missed that feeling, of being somebody strong and smart and capable to somebody who didn't know better. People who attached themselves to him in all their loving purity. They... truly didn't deserve to meet Jack, in the end. The real monster in their lives that he told himself he was protecting them from.

But maybe he could still save himself. Maybe he could still save Allie. But... he couldn't. Could he? Allie was beyond being saved. He was so sad and torn up. Helpless and alone. Ripped up by the world. It was too late to save him. Some other monster got to him first. Or it was Jack... Jack who opened him up to the nothingness, who shone the mirror in his face. Fuck, he felt so responsible for him now that it made him sick.

Gently, he stroked the back of Allie's head, as an apology.

"Not any kind of trouble I can't fix." He kissed Allie on the temple. Slid his hand into Allie's.

The Sunrise apartments were never very far from the downtown center of Hazleton--partly why he'd chosen the location. It was fairly late out by the time Jack opened up the community gate into the courtyard. No Brayden on the bench this time... partially a relief. With another brief kiss, he patted Allie on the bum.

"You know where I live, just wait for me there, all right? I have to get something."

He didn't let go of Allie until he had at least steadied him by a nearby bench. Then he sucked in a deep, deep breath and forced himself to march over to the familiar apartment across the courtyard from his. He knocked a few times, not even sure if Brayden would even be awake.

"B? Are you awake in there? I left something at your place and I kinda... need it now."

Oh Jack. Jackie. He was like every man that Alejo attached himself to, too good and too kind for someone like him. Jack's hand in his brought on a fresh wave of emotion, swirling into the muddy pool of self-loathing and doubt that had been steadily accumulating throughout his life. He held on and swung their hands a little, though, recalling a time when he would do this with his mother as they walked home from church, Alejo chattering ceaselessly about what he learned in Sunday school.

Where did it all go wrong?

His mother called him sick. Said there was a devil inside him. She was right. Alejo was a devil, and Jack himself even said that last time, didn't he? Alejo glanced over with unadulterated admiration as Jack promised to fix things. Yes... Jack could fix this. This and... so much more. "My hero," he laughed softly, but also truthfully. Jack was a hero and Alejo was the anonymous citizen who needed his help. Superheroes didn't get together with regular people, though. That wasn't how comic books worked and it wasn't how life worked, either.

Alejo was cheerful on that new high--that enlightened state of understanding--as they entered the familiar courtyard. "Okay, okay. I know. It's that one." He pointed to one that looked about right. 1...G? The apartment was somewhere near that area and anyway Jack would lead him inside, so he wasn't worried. Alejo hung around near the bench because he tried to walk towards the unit and kind of stumbled, so he decided nah. Not worth it to go by himself.

He watched Jack walking to another unit across the way and knocking on the door. Hm? Who was Jack going to see? After a moment, the light inside turned on and a sleepy-looking brown-haired man emerged, rubbing his eyes.

"Jack? You're back." The man didn't even notice Alejo; his gaze was fixed on Jack, a half-bemused smile on his face. "What--oh, you forgot something. Come in, come in." Alejo looked away when he saw that smile evolve into something much warmer, as B's gaze softened. Ah. So gentle. So gentle, that man. No edges, nothing sharp about him. Gentle and sweet.

Hero. He heard that. Allie calling him his hero. It was probably meant as a joke but it made Jack feel like he had a lot more left to do with him. Hero. For once in his life, he was really starting to believe he could be the hero. Before, he thought so but then it was skewed, especially after he started on medication that was meant to stabilize his mood. He dropped those after a few months, though. They made him feel like a zombie. Which was preferable? Some days, it was harder to say than others.

For a long moment, Jack stood before Brayden's door and he thought he had made a mistake. They could just find a way back to Allie's hotel room instead. Jack could clear thing sup later, in the morning. Stop by the night club, talk to the bartender, get more information on her for any... future mishaps.

He still couldn't believe that after laughing at poor Brayden, Jack had gone and done the exact same thing.

As Brayden let him inside, Jack's smile was a touch shameful. Just a touch.

"So... I forgot my coat and everything in it back at the club," he said. He raised his brows slightly to see if Brayden understood already where this was going. Instead of filling in the blanks for him--Brayden no doubt was already doing enough of that for the both of them, Jack added, "I left my lock pick set here and I need it to get into my apartment."

Bray went to bed at his normal time since Jack had gone out and by himself, he was a routinely boring person. After dinner, he wandered around a little bit tidying up and then sat down at his laptop to write a few chapters of his book. It wasn't really... amazing. The plot was generic and the characters had strong resemblances to himself and the people around him, so obviously he wasn't showing it to anyone.

Just a hobby. Just... something to pass the time. And in his story, unlike in real life, Bray could be the hero.

So he did that for a bit and every once in a while glanced up through his open window. Why? No reason. Just... seeing if the light in the window on the other end of the courtyard was on. (It wasn't.) Feeling foolish, Bray then climbed into bed and again he saw that twinkling winking star, and again he rebuffed it. No, sir. Bray was not easily tempted to stray.

He woke up to Jack knocking and being a light sleeper normally, of course he heard it. And of course he leapt up out of bed and scampered to the door, heart beating rapidly for no good reason. After Jack came inside, though, to explain the reason for his visit, Bray kind of stared at him. Jack... locked himself out. And he needed his lockpicks to get back in.

"...you..." That was as far as he got before he burst into laughter. Bray clutched his stomach, then tried to cover his mouth to stop the peals of merriment. Oh, now the shoe was on the other foot! Now it was Jack's turn! "Oh--I'm sorry," he gasped, leaning against Jack for support, stomach aching. "Sorry it's not--hahaha--not funny. Not funny."

God, it was so funny!

Bray straightened and wiped his eyes. "H-here. I put it here." He went to his bookshelf and plucked it off, then handed it to Jack--but not before another burst of laughter came out.

After explaining himself, Jack waited imperiously for some kind of response. He stood as a king might, tall and mighty and unworthy of such silly mistakes... the kind that Brayden would make. Yet here he was, without keys and resorting to getting his lock pick set back. Luckily for him, he had left it with Brayden. Not on purpose, of course. It just sort of happened but--oh, how serendipitous it all was!

"You are such a poor liar," Jack said dryly. Although it was difficult not to crack even the slightest smile when Brayden began to laugh. When he was well and genuinely amused by something, it was like looking into the face of an angel. Brayden had the sweetest smile and the most dulcet laugh... and god fucking damn it... when did he catch such severe feelings for somebody meant to be a friend?

Ahem.

"Hah-hah, very funny. Now we're the same, how do you like that?"

All that laughter was deserved, though. After Jack laughed in Brayden's face for doing the same thing, he hardly had room to play Mr. High and Mighty. Stiffly, he reached for the smooth black case and flipped it open to see that everything was where it had been when he left it with Brayden. Not that he expected Brayden to do anything to it. If anything, he would protect it with his life, probably, because it was Jack's. Because it was a friend's. Somebody he cared about.

"Did you try using them yourself?" he asked, knowing he shouldn't be drawing out this moment with him... together. But also... every time he spent time with Brayden, he was loathe to leave him again. He let the small box close with a smart little click.

Poor Jack, he didn't deserve to be laughed at... for this long. He did deserve to be laughed at for sure but Bray eventually started feeling kind of bad and got himself under control. "I think that's a step up for me," he said of Jack's dry comment about them being on equal footing. Bray didn't think so--one look at them and anyone could tell who the real King was. Even when he did something so childish and silly as forget his coat and keys at the club, he held himself with regal bearing.

Meanwhile, Bray went all to pieces under the same circumstances! So they were definitely not on the same level.

It amused him to see Jack checking the case but of course it was intact. Everything was there, not a single tool missing. Bray did guard it carefully when he found it, and he wondered when Jack would be back for it. It was kind of funny how neither of them were in a hurry to return it to its original owner, as though both of them perhaps wanted an excuse to stop by again.

Ahem. Not that Bray looked for excuses. He already had them in plenty--no need to search around. That was what he did in his spare time, like the sneaky (not really) person he was.

"Ah. No, I didn't want to break anything." He leaned closer to see if something was bent or missing but by then Jack had closed the lid already. That just left Bray leaning in, looking at the glossy box top. Then looking up at Jack and smiling that one silly little smile he couldn't wipe from his face when they were alone together. "Did you have a good time at the club, Jack?"

He knew Jack probably wanted to get back to his own place and they did just spend Friday night together, but... he still wanted Jack to stay for just a little bit longer. Was that bad? Was it wrong?

While Jack didn't argue, he did make an expression that said enough--Brayden was a step up? At least Jack had a spare lock pick kit! (Never mind that he would have been stuck outside for the night if he didn't leave it with Brayden.) Which would have been fine. If he didn't have some extra baggage to deal with.

Swallowing hard, he held the small box against chest and turned his head toward Brayden. Standing too close. He could have kissed him, the way Brayden was looking up at him, smiling in that way he seemed to have reserved for Jack. His eyes always seemed to smile, too, when he looked at him. Jack wondered if his did the same when he looked at Brayden.

Jack cleared his throat and turned his gaze away from Brayden.

"Actually, no." If anything, he was seeing the stretch of another weekend without a way to scratch that itch deep inside. Talk about blue balls. He wondered if Marge the bartender knew she directed at him just the wrong person for the evening. Sigh. But if he hadn't seen Allie, who knew what would have happened to him? Jack knew what kind of people lurked out there.

"I only had a couple drinks before I ran into somebody who definitely... had no business being there, in the state he was..." Jack wasn't sure why he felt he was the patron saint of these sad boys. Maybe he was still trying to save the past Jack. Past Jack would have longed for somebody to rescue him from a life heading in the direction Allie had been heading into at the club. And Jack... ah well. He couldn't leave him that way, in the end.

"I should get going," he said, though he didn't immediately move away from Brayden. He liked it too much when they were standing close together, as friends or not. As he was wont to do, he brushed the tip of Brayden's nose with his fingertip. He didn't know why he liked that so much. He just... did. His lips curved into a little smile.

"You should get back to sleep."

With some reluctance, he moved away for the door, heart so heavy. Now for Allie...

What? What was that look for? Bray spoke the truth. Being compared to Jack was one step up for him--but probably a step down for Jack, for them to be considered on equal footing. Well, Bray knew he couldn't compare to someone like Jack and even being mentioned in the same sentence with him was a distinct compliment. He thought Jack didn't see it that way--probably that was the cause for the Look.

Or, heck, he was just... being playful. Jack could be playful as a puppy, like when he threw popcorn at Bray during a critical moment in their card game, or bringing him that little alcoholic chocolate. it sat on the windowsill of his bedroom in its own special spot, where he could see it before he went to sleep and right when he woke up, to remind him that someone was thinking of him. That someone cared.

Someone cared. And he was right there looking down at Bray. Not looking through him but at him, with that soft glimmer in his eyes. That was the look that made Bray want to kiss him. That tender look, the one which had no place in the eyes of a friend. And Bray knew Jack, in his drunken state, had wanted to be with him but he didn't know if sober Jack wanted the same thing. Jack didn't really make advances towards him. Their interactions were painfully wholesome--or as wholesome as they could be for two grown men (one of whom was a Brayden Smith).

"Ah. I'm sorry. But it's good of you to help a friend." He laid a hand on Jack's arm not because the moment called for it but because he wanted to touch him. Hold on to him, if briefly. Bray was learning something important about greed. The more one had, the more one wanted. Before he would have been ecstatic to be considered a friend. Now... he wanted more. He wanted so much more...

"Heh. You." Bray couldn't even find it in him to tell Jack not to do that to his nose. He liked it. Another little point of contact, another playful gesture. But it didn't mean anything, did it? He couldn't tell. Bray's hand on his arm tightened ever so slightly and then he let go as Jack moved away, letting out a soft breath and a soft laugh. "Oh, right. Sleep. I can finally sleep in tomorrow." He returned Jack's smile, feeling so rueful as he followed him to the door. Bray didn't have to--he wanted to.

"Good night, Jack."

As Bray peered outside, he saw a figure huddled on the bench near Jack's unit. For a second he thought it was a vagrant, until the figure waved an arm and called softly, almost plaintively, out to Jack--Jackie. Bray shut the door slowly and quietly. That tone... he felt as if he knew it all too well.

Yeah, well. Was Allie a friend? More of a fling. Maybe he was a friend now. Two people who understood each other. Maybe... maybe... Jack thought with an upswell of hope--maybe he could actually help Allie. Maybe... he could redeem all the terrible things he did in the ugly desperation he understood all too well. Now that he felt more balanced, with both feet firmly on the ground. Maybe he had it in him to help somebody else. To really help them and not... not what the sickness inside told him was helping them.

He wished... he wished he could tell Brayden. All that he had already altered inside of him. How meeting him had fundamentally changed something inside him that he never, ever thought could be changed. How it felt like he was healing those jagged edges that carved him from the inside out. He wished he could share it all with Brayden, all the good things he knew were happening because of him. Maybe that would change something inside Brayden, too. Maybe Brayden... would never reach the level that Jack did, that Allie did. That so many others did.

But he didn't. Now just wasn't the time. Maybe later. Someday.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, refusing to say good night. No good night. It wasn't a good night. It was a stressful night. A strange night.

Back out in the cold, he waved back at Allie, holding up his small box. As he drew closer, he confided, "This is my way into my apartment when I'm dumb enough to leave my keys at a club."

He said it as if he had done it before. Never before had he done something foolish. In fact, back in other cities and towns, he had been quite adamant about holding onto his things. But... for some reason, Hazleton and Brayden and Marge and everything about this place made him feel... safe. Like he belonged, like there was no reason to worry.

In some ways, he was starting to feel less like a fraud and more like the person he was always meant to be.

"Now, watch this," he said, bringing out his lock pick with a flourish, more than giddy about showing off his skills. (The two glasses of Forget-me-not might have helped with the giddiness as well.) Kneeling before the door, he concentrated on carefully getting the lock open. And just like it had worked with B's apartment--click!

"Voila!" Jack said as he got to his feet, and gave Allie a sweeping bow before pushing his apartment door fully open. "Now come on and let's get you some lemon water."

You saw a lot of stars out here in the small towns, Alejo noticed. Laying on the bench outside with his head propped up by his hands, it was quite calm. Jack was inside doing Jack things with his softly smiling friend. Cute. The guy was older but he still seemed so innocent to Alejo. In his line of work he saw a lot of hardened people, criminals, murderers, rapists. Hell, there were a couple of rapists at the club just waiting to pounce. That man, B, wasn't like that.

Was that Jack's type? Jack was in there a long time. Alejo didn't look in on him; he started counting stars until Jack came back out. Ninety eight was the final tally. He sat up and his head swam as he called for Jack—Jackie. Alejo got to his feet and unsteadily tottered towards Jack, who was holding a little box. "Magic?" He asked keenly as he peered down at the little thing with all the seriousness of a drunk man.

"Ah. Lockpicks." Mark of a criminal, that. A box full of tools. Alejo laughed outright but it was a delighted sound, not even half-way drunk. He was sobering up quite a bit now and anyway alcohol never affected him the same way it did other humans. It was because he, too, had magic. His other forms accelerated his metabolism, helping to burn off the alcohol faster. That was why he had six drinks that night, fearing that two or three would disappear too quickly.

He watched Jack doing magic with little metal things, laughing when he seemed so inordinately proud of his own prowess. Alejo clapped loudly. "Brrrravo!" He rolled the Rs in a distinctly hammy way. "You, mister, are fulla tricks!" Alejo wobbled and held on to him. He shook his head as he clung to Jack again koala-style. His mouth was parched and lemon water sounded really good, but he didn't want that.

"No," he said to lemon water, tipping up onto his tippy toes to kiss the underside of Jack's handsome chin. "I don't want lemon water, Jackie. I want. Dick." And in case Jack didn't get it, he reached down to squeeze him through his pants. "Your dick."

Magic? Jack laughed at the idea of him using magic. He wished! No, it was just a lock pick set. He didn't even think about the fact that Allie may or may not be a cop. After all, he had felt the gun but hadn't gotten a look at it. And there had been no badge, as far as he knew. He couldn't imagine somebody looking like Allie being a cop so he just swept it away with all those things he noticed and then didn't care to follow up on.

"Mhm." Lockpicks. His lips curved into a little smile as Allie clapped for him. Another bow. Yes, yes. A magic trick! He could open doors at will! What a trick! He could be the next Houdini.

"You have no idea." Jack gave Allie a hooded stare before he smirked. He had so many more tricks up his sleeve. Some of them relevant to Allie's interest. Some... not so much. Also, what was that? No to water? Yes to dick? Said dick immediately responded to the none too subtle touch even through his pants. God... A little sound that caught in the back of his throat escaped unbidden. It only served as a reminder of how desperate he was to actually fuck or be fucked. Going it solo just wasn't the same.

"So thirsty," he said with a hint of mischief in his own tone. What? He got Allie out of the rotten situation he could have been in. There was nothing wrong with reaping the benefits of that, was there? At least Allie seemed more sober at this point and he'd ditched the strange attitude from earlier.

Jack outright smiled as he slid his arm around Allie's waist to urge him to come inside with him, closing the door behind him with the heel of his expensive Italian shoes.

"And so direct." He kissed Allie as he slid the lock pick case on the little table next to the door, walking him further into the living room and toppling over him, onto the couch. "Be careful what you ask for..."

"Oh, yes. Very, very thirsty Jackie," Alejo purred as his offer was immediately taken. That little magical fella in Jack's pants was all for it too—he felt it stirring under his palm and grinned. This was so much better than back at the club, when he thought he would lose Jack. That was... not something he wanted to revisit so he didn't. Not right now.

Right now Jack was pulling him closer and they were heading inside, into that vaguely familiar living room. Alejo kissed him back with every bit as much fervor as he did when he first saw Jack, letting the rush of familiarity and closeness envelop him as they tumbled onto the couch. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hazily recalled a different covering on the couch the last time he was here.

Did Jack entertain a lot of people here?

Alejo's smiling lips lifted away as he rolled over and sat straddling Jack. Slowly, teasingly, he lifted his shirt, letting skin show inch by inch. It really was a poor choice of clothing, now that he had a good look at it. So sheer that it would tear if it snagged on so much as a splinter. Why on Earth did he think this would be good to wear? Alejo removed it and tossed it aside, relishing the freedom of bare skin. He smiled down at Jack devilishly as he rolled his hips and ground their lower bodies together with a low sigh. "Mmm Jackie..."

"Oh, you little..."

Jack had plans for being mr-on-top. Instead, Allie seemed to have other ideas, since he rolled him right over and straddled him with ease. Again. He really did know what he was doing. Like Jack, he must have had his fair share of partners. Before, during, after the boyfriend? Jack was somewhat curious. And he still thought he was responsible for whatever had happened between Allie and his boyfriend. How could he not? He was the one that he cheated with.

Ugh. No, no. No thinking. He wished he drank more than two of those bright blue drinks now. Two were enough to give him quite the buzz but not enough to turn off that part of his mind.

Not that those thoughts stuck around for very long, with Allie lifting up his ill-advised top to reveal his naked chest.

"Much better," Jack declared as he slid his hands up over a beautiful, naked chest. Dusky pink nipples, that little hollow where his navel dipped. Narrow hips. One thing hadn't changed since their last night together and that was the fact that Allie was still gorgeous. Annnnnd even that thought was ceremoniously distracted by the sensual way Allie moved those hips.

His eyes half closed and his hands at Allie's hips invited him to continue with his motions. "Aa-aah... yes..." He arched his back and let his head drop back against the couch. Hands slid down over Allie's pants but they were so damn skin tight that it was impossible to slip between them and Allie's skin.

"We're going to have to cut these things off," Jack said in almost growl of frustration, even as he was fondling Allie's ass through the so-called "fabric."

"Deeevil?" Alejo finished for him, drawing out the word impishly. He was a little devil, wasn't he? Jack probably thought he had it easy tonight, dealing with a drunk Alejo. Well, joke was on him! Alejo wasn't even half-way drunk now! The alcohol really did speed out of his system; he felt so much more like himself and so much less like a dumb brat out on a bender just because he broke up with... the most decent man he'd met in a long while.

Ugh. Shit. No. He refused to think about Judah—which was something he and Jack currently had in common.

Unlike last time, Jack seemed pretty eager. He was already hard; Alejo felt it distinctly as their hips swayed and brushed. Friction built up as he gave in momentarily to some animalistic urge and rocked his hips quicker and quicker against Jack, moaning his name wildly. Then—suddenly—he stopped to prevent... an accident. Premature ejaculation was a thing. It was not now and never would be a thing in Alejo's world.

"You... need to find the secret to taking them off," he laughed as he leaned down to kiss Jack, letting him struggle with the leather pants. Oh they were on so tight that it actually hurt a little up front. Jack wasn't the only one getting excited; Alejo was ready to go too. But the fastenings at the front were merely for show—the real zipper was at the back.

He kissed Jack until some of that terrible heat inside subsided, long enough for him to divest Jack of his beautiful shirt. Bare chest met his eager hands as he scraped jagged lines down them, working his way to an obvious place. Alejo shifted down along the couch and let his lips and tongue replace his nails. "You're... so fucking gorgeous," he whispered against Jack's navel, flicking a wicked little grin up at him. Alejo's lips pressed against the obvious outline at the front of his trousers, tracing it shape, feeling its heat. God he wanted it... he wanted Jack to remember this, him, their shared moments. He recalled last time telling Jack that he wanted to be a part of someone.

He wanted to be a part of Jack. Jack said he could and then he didn't call, as though he forgot Alejo. Would he forget this night, too? What could Alejo do to make him remember? He undid the buttons, the zipper, nuzzling against Jack like an affectionate kitten but not really getting straight down to it. "Jackie..." He breathed against Jack's lower stomach, flicking his tongue into and out of his navel suggestively. "Am I still a part of you?" The answer had to be yes, right? Because—Alejo wasn't giving him another option, as he freed Jack from the confines of his underwear.

"Sure... why not... That's one word for it..."

And not a bad one. Little devil, little minx, little... no, he was definitely a devil. What was he doing? One minute he was building friction up to a place where Jack could just feel his toes starting to curl, the shivers going up and down his spine and in his loins. And then the next minute, Allie was just... leaning in for a relatively chaste kiss. When Jack kissed back, he caught Allie's lower lip between his teeth. They could both be devils.

Secret pants. Well, Jack was already playing with the back. He slid his hands upward and there was just the slightest line giving away a seam hiding a zipper. What the hell was with these things? Jack wore tight pants on occasion--although he preferred fitted to something that looked, well, painted on. He couldn't recall ever wearing a pair that zipped from the back.

"Who put you in these things?" Jack asked in amusement, trying to imagine Allie zipping them up on his own.

But even as he was unzipping Allie, he found that his own clothes were coming off, one piece at a time. Obviously, he didn't protest. He liked having his chest out in the open and he more than liked the direction Allie's mischievous little mouth was moving.

"I thought that was my line..." He slid a hand over the top of Allie's head, through tousled brown hair and down the nape of his neck. But again, Allie paused. Kept pausing, like he knew it was driving Jack crazy. Was that why? He wanted to be... a part of him?

"You were a part of me for days," he said, recalling how every movement made his ass hurt. How could he forget why? "...made working difficult, let me tell you." It didn't help that he got fucked up in that bathroom the very next night, though--which he so wisely didn't share with Allie.

"Magic, baby. It's all magic around here." Which was oh-so-true and didn't Alejo know the half of it—but he was willing to bet Jack didn't. It was still a funny line, though, he thought as he grinned. Yes, a magic hand lubed up those pants from the inside and plopped him into them. It took a fair few minutes to get just one leg in, he could admit that, and another agonizing few to get the other in. Jack didn't have to know that, though.

All Jack needed to know was that tonight he was getting laid. Which was pretty obvious, even if Alejo was teasing him with light kisses over fabric and eventually slowly pulling off his pants and underwear. More clothing to join the pile laid out at the foot of the couch. Now that Jack was fully naked, Alejo took him in. He was gorgeous. Really, really gorgeous. Long limbs, delicate long fingers, a beautiful torso. A beautiful cock, too. Jack also wasn't awkward the way some tall men were. He moved with fluid grace and he had the bearing of nobility. Of a King.

Alejo didn't know how he looked in that moment but his eyes were full of stars even if his position was less-than-demure. He smiled up at Jack and he liked the sound of that. He was a part of Jack for days. Days after their run-in, Jack still remembered that night? Alejo must have done more damage than he thought. Somehow, he couldn't be too sorry about that.

"Good. Because I'm still holding you to that, Jackie." He needed to be part of someone more than ever now. Having gotten the response he wanted, he got down to work and it was the least he could do to thank Jack for pulling him out of that club.

His experience with blow jobs wasn't extensive but Alejo couldn't claim that he had never done it. Or that he had never practiced on various partners throughout the years. Nobody ever complained, aside from his first boyfriend—but that was all kinds of clumsy, too much teeth, not enough saliva, not enough tongue. Alejo was also plastered, which made things like swallowing Jack to the hilt easy. Easier. His gag reflex kicked in and he lifted his head with a soft gasp, but then he was back again, using his mouth and his hands, bobbing his head around Jack, tasting him and taking him in in all his glory.

"You love your magic."

Magic pants. He almost laughed at the idea. Magic pants. Jack didn't even believe in real magic. Magic to him was all trickery and illusions, which he could also appreciate. Maybe Allie did a reverse Houdini to get himself into those so-called magic pants. Still a little tipsy, he let out a short laugh--he couldn't hold back the amusement a moment longer.

"And I love it... If I ever create a band, that's what I'm calling it," he said between soft laughter. "Magic Pants." He even put his hands up to his eyes and parted them, dramatic jazz hands style to show Allie the whole effect. "Although I think it'd work better if the hands were... down... there..."

Down where Allie was still toying with him. Jazz hands over the dick. Magic dicks. Maybe he was hysterical. Maybe he was just in an intensely good mood because he was about to get laid. Jack stroked Allie's head. Soft hair. He had soft hair. And a soft tongue. A warm mouth. A wet mouth.

"You're a goddamn wizard, Allie," he gasped, eyes slowly closing as his head tilted back. He swallowed hard, legs simultaneously wanting to part to allow for more room for Allie to maneuver and wanting to close around him to keep him momentarily in place. His fingers raked through Allie's hair, his hips moving of their own volition. T-too close... His hand tightened in Allie's hair and he could feel his body clenching hard, doing his best not to just let go so soon. Way too soon.

Magic Pants. Wasn't there a chick flick about that? It was in the title, he remembered. Alejo wasn't much of a movie buff; he settled down for them with Judah on quiet weekends but usually his naughty hands went places and he ended up forgetting the point of movie night. No, the point of movie night was to be naughty, and not to pay attention to what was on the TV screen.

He felt plenty naughty at the moment, working his mouth around Jack's cock. Beautiful cock. Magical cock. Now, see, that would have made for a hilarious band name. Magical Cock. Starring Jackie and Allie, the drunks.

Alejo hummed agreement since his mouth was currently occupied. He was a goddamn fucking wizard and he was a wizard at fucking, yes. Yes to both accounts. Feeling Jack's thighs tense against him, he reached up with one hand to press down against Jack's abdomen, as though giving him the strength to not cum. Maybe removing his mouth was a better idea. Alejo came up for air, grinning and licking his lips like a hungry wolf. He levered himself up and crawled up along Jack's body, all predator.

One of his other forms was a wolf. He knew the way it felt to stalk prey, to chase them through dark woods and when he finally had them under his jaws, to—bite. Alejo's teeth scraped the side of Jack's throat as he ground his own aching lower body against Jack's erection to show him that he wasn't the only one who was suffering.

"Jackie... baby..." A low purr, a sultry growl, his lips were right by Jack's ear. Alejo's hand slipped into Jack's hair and gripped the silky smooth strands. "I want you... to show me how much damage you can do. Fuck me. Right now."

Oh, he was going to. If Allie didn't stop that--what he was doing right there, with his tongue as if it was ensorcelled with some kind of magic, too. Sex in itself, Jack thought, was some kind of magic. It was the easiest and quickest way to bond physically with a person. All that sciencey stuff about hormones and oxytocin and all that--it felt good to be close to another human being, for skin to touch skin. The first thing nurses wanted mothers to do when they had their babies was to hold them... skin to skin.

And from then on, that was what humans wanted. Touch. And touch... oh, touch could be so many things. Gentle kisses to the forehead and fingertips against fingertips. Touch could be a hand on a cock--or a mouth on a cock, in this case. It could be teeth against clavicle. Nose to nose. Cock to cock. Lips on ears. Ooh, Jack liked that. His eyes closed and he smiled as if he heard the voice of the messiah himself speaking to him. Even if the words were crass, the voice was melodic. Jack personally liked that--the juxtaposition of hard and soft.

So. Now it was his turn.

Jack shifted his weight so that he could flip Allie over and pull his hips up close. Oh, he could fuck him from the front but if it was damage Allie was seeking, this was the way to do it. Rough. And he liked it, the feel of it, the animalistic nature of fucking a man hard from behind. He liked being the one fucked, too. A flicker of a drunken night--a man named Sal, bending him over a sink and fucking him. Dry fucking him, too. No wonder he couldn't forget. But shhh, it was all Allie. He thought about Allie a great deal more than he thought of already forgotten Sal.

Slipping his hand between Allie's legs, he finally touched him. Velvet and heat, hard and straining. Sure hands with long fingers stroked with a sultry and almost nonchalant rhythm. Teasing. But his other hand was at Allie's back, sliding down his spine and parting him. Teasing some more. Allie had a responsive body. Just looking at the shape of his ass and the pucker of his asshole made his body weep. He aligned their bodies but didn't enter. The wet tip of his cock slid over Allie's eagerly awaiting hole but bumped over it. Rubbing against him raw... it felt... good. Wild. Feral. He gave Allie another stroke, this one harder than the last.

"How much damage," he asked, voice a low murmur against the back of Allie's neck, "are you willing to take?"

Really, it was his way of asking lube or no lube? And he hoped the latter this time because... the need in him was rising to an unvoiced scream inside every vein and every cell of his body.

Sex was a strange thing for Alejo and always had been. He didn't have one of those tragic back-stories where someone took advantage of him when he was young and raped him or molested him. He was loved as a kid and that shaped how he saw love, too. His body had never been mistreated, except by himself or by his permission. Relatively speaking, Alejo had it easy growing up.

But sex, he felt strangely about it. It was necessary, of course. A good time didn't have to mean anything romantic or emotional. There was such a thing as no-string-attached sex. In a relationship, however, things were different. But Alejo wasn't like most. He could be possessive and at the same time, he was not a jealous man. He could watch his lover fucking another man in front of him and barely feel a flicker of jealousy. All he really needed to know was that his lover belonged to him. That he was a part of him. Everything else was mostly... biological.

This muddled that line for him. Sex tonight was mingled with that newfound awakening he had earlier—his epiphany. Sex was usually just sex but tonight he needed something that he wasn't sure even Jack could give him. Despite his playful teasing and baiting, inside the darkness was still growing, ever growing, growing beyond his control. He wanted to hurt. To be hurt. To claw and to be clawed at. He needed something rough, hard, painful.

Jack... Oh, Jack. He must have been a mind-reader. Or maybe Alejo's rough and needy tone gave him away. Flipped over onto his stomach, he let his body simply sink into the couch. Even before Jack touched him, he moaned purely from anticipation. Lewdly he thrust into Jack's hand and revelled in that particularly sinful kind of friction that only another man's hand could offer. A woman's hand was too small, too soft, too delicate. But a man. A man knew how to grasp another man, how to squeeze the shaft, twist up at the head, swipe a thumb over the slit and make it all gloriously wet, slick, sticky warm.

"Fu-uck Jackie," he whispered with his face buried into the couch cushion, as a teasing hand worked its way down to his ass. Alejo pulled his hips up higher as though to encourage Jack to get on with it, but of course—he didn't. Well, it was only fair, he supposed. Alejo backed his ass up against Jack when he felt something distinctly large and hot and solid nudging him, but it slipped away at the last moment and he made a needy sound half-way between a sigh and a groan.

That was a good question, though. As if he even needed to think about it. As if his body wasn't already on the brink. This was so horribly uncivilized. This was animalistic, raw, primal. Alejo let out a delirious laugh and reached back to curl his hand around Jack's cock, to pull it back to his waiting ass. "If I'm not screaming," he moaned as he positioned Jack and wiggled his hips again, "you're not doing enough damage."

To that, Jack smiled--he couldn't help it. Sometimes, a man did just need a rough fuck. Tonight, they were definitely on the same page. Jack wanted a rough fuck, too, and Allie seemed more than willing to oblige. Good. He looked down over Allie's body, over the way his hair brushed his ears and how... beautiful a man could be, face down, ass up.

"Now I'll be a part of you."

He could have been a part of him already, if he allowed himself to let go earlier. But he didn't want to. Not like that. Not so soon, not so fast. Because his mood was mercurial and he wanted it this way. Rough and hard. Nothing too soft. Not right now. Besides, stopping to lube up would just kill the vibe they had going.

Licking his lips and swallowing hard, Jack's hand teased at Allie's ass, massaging and coaxing him open with his fingers before he mounted him. Even as his cock entered the heat of Allie's body, his other hand stroked and stoked the fire he knew had to be building in Allie's loins. He could feel it, in all the tension in his body, in the way his body seemed to anticipate him, to hold him there just as Allie had held onto his arm in the club. Tight, unwilling to let him go.

Warm and tight. So fucking tight. Roughly, he thrust himself inside up to the hilt. There was barely any time to settle in before he began a highly frictional, punishing pace. His hand purposely left off the most sensitive part of Allie, lest he also cum too soon. Instead, he brought his hand up Allie's chest, over pert nipples. Hard as a rock. Then up and around his shoulder. Into his soft hair. He pulled it. Hard. Pulled his head back so that he could capture his pale throat with his lips, tongue, teeth.

And then they were both around his throat, his hands. And he squeezed until he could feel the throb of his heartbeat. He was so alive in that moment.

"Scream, Allie," he demanded in a rough voice. He thrust hard and deep one too many times. All that friction, painful and pleasing all at once, was taking its toll. One more deep, deep thrust, as far deep as he could possibly go, and he was biting down hard on his own lip. He tried to stop it, but there was no stopping it this time. Heat spread inside of Allie and spilled out, down his thighs.

The smile in Jack's voice made Alejo smile too. "Part of me..." he murmured to the couch cushion, because it was beautiful how in synch their thoughts were in that moment. Yes, Jack would be a part of Alejo forever. And sooner or later Alejo was going to be a part of Jack. Forever. By any means necessary.

Anticipation was the worst part of waiting but it was so much more intense knowing about all of the good things to come and not being able to do anything to obtain them. In his position he was vulnerable, part of the reason that it heightened the sexual tension so much. Alejo didn't know when, he didn't know how soon Jack was going to get on with it. He felt the weight of Jack's body settling over him and tried to get a look over his shoulder at him. So beautiful, the way Jack's eyes glittered in the light.

"Come on baby," he groaned, and then the torment both stopped and began. It hurt straight away and it hurt the way Alejo wanted it, piercing down into his groin. His fingers clenched against the cushions as the upper half of his body strained up, arms shaking, back bent and head down. He cried out at the first thrust but it was a distinctly pleasured sound.

Jack's hand. God, he had amazing hands. This wasn't his first time at the circus, either, and it showed. Alejo didn't know what he expected but the intensity of the pacemaking took his breath away. It hurt so good that he couldn't find the voice to scream and instead he mashed his face into the cushion, letting out a wordless, soundless cry. "A-ah!" Even that sound was small, catching in the back of his throat at the sensation of a hard fist in his hair. His throat worked around the formation of a scream but that didn't come out either, as Jack's hands wrapped around his throat so hard that colored lights popped in front of his eyes like a starburst.

And finally he... he was whole. As darkness encroached upon the edges of his vision he caught a glimpse of something so beautiful, so serene and so fucking perfect that it brought tears to his eyes. This was what he craved. The agony of being fucked raw and the pleasure of sweet, welcoming death. He wanted to be fucked to death. Yes, yes yes yes, fucked to death. To go out in a blaze of glory, screaming and begging for Jack to go harder, deeper, to rip him apart body and soul.

"Jack! Fu-fuck me Jackie fuck me fuck me fuck fuck fuck fu—" His screams ended in a high-pitched sound of ecstasy. Body wracked in tremors, he bucked against Jack even as Jack thrust fully inside and came, filling him with the most exquisite, molten heat. It spilled down the inside of his thigh and he tried to close his legs to keep it inside of him, where it belonged. Where Jack belonged, deep inside.

"Mmm... magic... baby..." Alejo collapsed onto the couch and just breathed. His hands went to his head, into his hair, and he tugged hard, fingers flexing open and closed. God. That was the fuck of a lifetime, he was sure. Vaguely he felt his own pulse racing against the side of his throat and reached down to feel the bruises. There had to be bruises. He needed there to be bruises, or Jack hadn't done it right.

Ah... He closed his eyes and everything slotted perfectly into place. Peace and tranquility. All the voices in his head that loved to scream and whisper and claw their way to the forefront of his mind were silent, lovely and silent. And he felt weightless. Boneless. A soul, fire. His smile of contentment was warm, belying the darkness of that final moment, when he squeezed Allie's throat so tight that his nails tore through him.

Did they... did they really? Breathlessly, Jack shifted himself so that he could lie there next to Allie on the couch. Its seat cushions were luckily wide enough to house them both. That was a part of being a tall man; he tended to buy large beds, deeply cushioned couches, tall stools.

Their bodies melded together, both warm, both slick with sweat. Jack pulled him a little closer, and he looked at the wild disarray of Allie's hair, his hands at his throat. Slowly, he reached out, sliding his hand over Allie's hand. There was blood. His hazel gaze met Allie's, absurdly concerned, after having fucked the poor man raw.

"...you're bleeding," he said, taking Allie's hand away and trying not to wince at what he'd done. This was the start. The start of something bad. A bad pattern. A pattern he didn't want to repeat. A pattern he vowed not to repeat. But it was there, stark against Allie's pale, delicate throat. Four red marks, like claws. Bleeding and bruised. His thumb brushed over Allie's jaw. He curled Allie's smaller hand into his and he could feel the warmth of blood between them.

"...I'm sorry." That never should have happened. He let things get out of hand again. He almost...

"Hm?"

Alejo wasn't focused on the sticky sweet warmth at his throat. All of him hurt so much that it was difficult to pinpoint one place to be concerned about. At any rate, he wasn't concerned at all. His ass was never going to recover from this, he was almost sure. Didn't care. Being fucked so hard that he could just about taste Jack in the back of his throat was a memory he was taking to his grave.

He cuddled into Jack in a tangle of sweaty arms and legs, wiping damp hair out of his eyes, slicking it up and out of the way. Jack's expression was sorrowful, apologetic; Alejo's was still blissful and full of joy. He looked down at his own blood-stained claws and let out a soft laugh. Oh. He was bleeding here too. But there wasn't a fountain of blood so it wasn't like Jack punctured his jugular or anything. Just a little scratch. A little love scratch.

"Why?" Alejo nuzzled against him, still smiling. "I wanted it this way, Jackie." Why was Jack so contrite? Because he cared? Oh, how his heart leapt at the thought. Alejo tugged his hand away and absently wiped the sticky blood against his own thigh to rid his fingers of it. Then he hugged Jack tight, tight, tight. "I wanted you to do it, Jackie," he whispered, letting his eyes drift closed. "It felt good."

"Are you saying that because you're drunk?" he asked, bemused. "Because alcohol can dull some things."

A lot of things. And Allie had how many drinks before Jack realized he was there? Although it seemed like the chill of the night air and their walk to the apartments had spun away a lot of that alcohol. It still left Jack tipsy, but not without his faculties.

"Or... are... you... a... masochist?" he asked, mischief back in his tone, his words scattered as he slipped a leg through Allie's legs, slid a hand over his arm, and lowered his head to allow his lips to touch the slope of a shoulder. Allie clamped onto him so tight that he could scarcely breathe. The way he held on, in every sense of the word, it was like he was afraid.

Jack... didn't know what to do with that. Afraid, not of him, but of him leaving. It had to do with whatever turning point happened during the week. The boyfriend? Jack stared out into the middle distance, his chin now resting against the place where his lips last touched.

"...sometimes, I like the pain, too." It was a quiet admission but a true one, with more weight than he thought Allie could understand. Sometimes, he thought it was because he deserved it. Anticipated it. Only knew pain for so long that it took the place of pleasure. But there were mixed signals, cross firing in his brain. Because he wasn't about whips and chains or anything like that. Just the wildness of sinking his nails into somebody, into fucking them so raw that their blood mingled together as one. Or being the one fucked, didn't much matter either way to him.

But he liked it when those fine little hairs at the nape of his neck were toyed with. Laying his head in a lap and having somebody stroke his hair. Sitting with an arm around somebody while they watched lame sci-fi movies. Brushing somebody's hair over his ear because it was too long. Watching somebody's lips twitch because they wanted to smile at something utterly ridiculous that he said. None of that is Allie. And he knew that. He knew that.

"Mm... kay." He kissed the tip of Allie's ear. "You should stay tonight."

He didn't want to sleep alone. Couldn't... sleep alone. Not without help and fuck the Ambien and whiskey. Besides, Allie, he suspected, wasn't going to be walking any time soon.

Alejo laughed and tapped an index against Jack's forehead. "No sir, I'm not drunk. And I'm not~ a~ masochist~"

He was the other m-word: monster. There was a monster inside that made him this way. Alejo didn't go out of his way to get fucked into oblivion but when it did happen, he didn't resist. He didn't even love the pain. Maybe just the intensity. Fuck like you mean it, right? If they fucked hard, they meant it—and for a little while, they cared enough to put everything they had into it so that Alejo could feel it, too.

Yeah it was fucked up. No one said Alejo was the poster child for mental health.

He traced little pink swirls against Jack's shoulder as Jack rested against him, chin on his own shoulder. "Hmm... then you're one too." Masochist. No, monster. Alejo didn't say the word but he thought it. They were both monstrous little things in their den of depravity. Devils. Demons. Unclean, as his mother would have said while making the sign of the cross.

Sighing, he turned to Jack with an almost comically disappointed look. "I've already booked myself into your bedroom for the next... oh, week." The Look melted away into a playful laugh, a twinkle in his eyes. "And I do expect morning service, sir." He couldn't go back to that motel room alone, sit there alone, hold that gun alone. It was too tempting and Alejo didn't want it to end like that. He needed to still be a part of someone and he couldn't do that if he was dead by his own hand.

Shifting one leg out from under Jack's made him yelp in pain. See? He wasn't a masochist or... else he would probably have cum again from the pain so sharp that it made him feel faint. "Jackie. Jackie I need Advil."

"Yeah... maybe a little."

He could be a little masochistic. Not like he writhed in ecstasy every time somebody beat him or anything. But he liked nails down his back, it felt good. A hard spank--nice. And he liked bites on his throat. Maybe he should be vampire~ bait. Haha... as if they even existed.

But no, he wasn't really into the deep stuff. The whole dungeon set up thing with ball gags and people chained upside down, that wasn't his kink. Far be it from him to shame anybody else for their kink, of course. To each his own.

"Oh? The whole week, you say? You're going to be very bored when I'm at work." He said it with a smile, though, somehow... somewhat relieved that somebody was staying with him. And also... a little concerned. A part of him just really wanted Brayden--and he had to stop that. Even the bartender could tell he was pining and it so wasn't a good look for him. Or for anyone, for that matter.

"Aw, my poor baby." Jack kissed Allie's cheek before forcing himself to sit up and climb over Allie. "Advil, coming right up." But before he went down the hall to grab the medication, he stopped and turned around with a light of mischief in his hazel eyes. Hands clapped together once.

"Do you want me to bridal carry you into my bed?" Humor was written all over his face. Partly because he thought it was a funny vision but also partly because he'd always wanted to dramatically carry a lover across the threshold into his bed like a prince. (Not all fantasies were Amazingly Original, all right?)

Sure he was. They both were. Everybody was a little masochistic on the inside—a little monstrous in their own way. What about that guy across the way? Did he have some tiny wiggly little demon inside of him too? Alejo smiled thinking about it. Maybe. Who could be absolutely pure in this day and age? Who didn't have at least one skeleton—or at the very least, a few bleached bones—in their closet?

But now was not the time to wax poetic about inner demons. Alejo snorted. "Please, I'm obviously going to entertain myself while you're at work." His eyes twinkled too. "By masturbating furiously in your bed all day." Oh he... he kind of grossed himself out a little bit imagining himself covered in cum after 8 straight hours of jacking off. Eww...

Well, if that didn't make him want to jump off a cliff...

Which he would as soon as the Advil came to him. And that would be. Never? Alejo gave it some serious thought, weighing the options. Then he held out his arms to Jack. "Carry me baby. Like I'm your princess~" He sang the word 'princess' in a high-pitched falsetto, foolishly grinning away. Jack looked so pleased with himself and so little-boy-naughty that he couldn't resist. And what the hell? What did Alejo have to lose by now?

"...please don't."

He said that with his hands still pressed together from the earlier clap. The idea of Allie furiously masturbating in his bed all day long... Yikes? Jack was a clean man. Sex together, that was a thing. But there was a reason he used various covers and blankets for his couch and even if they had fucked in bed, Jack would wash it first thing in the morning. Hush, okay? He liked things clean, but especially his beloved bed. And sex. Well, sex wasn't clean. And he circumvented that whole business by taking care to masturbate in the shower. Clean bed. Clean body.

(He was going to have to wash the bed anyway though, since their filthy demonic bodies would soon be lying in it.)

Jack expected to grab the Advil and come back for his royal cuddle-fuck-buddy but... who was to deny his princess, with his arms open wide and waiting? Laughing aloud, Jack made his way back over.

"This will hurt for a second," he said. "But bear with me and you'll get your Advil. Promise~!"

Lifting Allie wasn't all that difficult. Jack wasn't beefy by any means but he could slip his arms beneath a man and bridal carry him into his room. Not that he'd ever had occasion to do so before but it was easy enough. And cheesy enough. And he loved it because of it--it was so dumb.

"You're heavier than you look," he said as he carried his new burden off into the sunset. But they made it there without incident--Jack took care not to smack any limbs on the doorway. "Welcome to my boudoir, mon chéri~"

Gently, he laid Allie down, which was, he realized, too little, too late. Allie was bleeding, not just from that dark side of him choking him out... but also from... ahem. All that raw fucking. Hence... he supposed, the raw part. No wonder he wanted that Advil. He took in a breath, started to say something, lifted his hand, thought better of it and ended up putting his two hands together, the backs of his fingers against each other.

"I'll just go get that Advil now."

He rushed out of the room and into the adjacent bathroom, feeling... He didn't know what he felt. Hateful of himself? Disappointed in himself? Afraid of what might happen if this relationship continued? Was this even a relationship?

"Fuck."

He whispered the curse at the sink as he held onto it. No, no. This was fine, it was okay. Allie said that's what he wanted and he didn't look... hurt. He didn't look sad or abused. Jack wasn't becoming one of his sick "stepfathers." Everything between them was consensual. There wasn't a drop of regret in Allie's expression when he looked at him. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Still, Jack splashed a little water on his face and took a couple of deep breaths before he opened up the medicine cabinet. Pushing aside his prescriptions, he finally came upon painkillers. Hopefully, it would be enough. Closing the cabinet, he sauntered back into the bedroom as if he hadn't been close to Meltdown City only a moment ago. Shaking the small bottle at Allie, he held it out to him.

"Advil, as requested."

"Ohhh you said it would only hurt for a second!" Alejo cried out, deeply aggrieved, as he was picked up off the couch. Well it hurt for more than a goddamn second, that was for damn sure! His arms slipped naturally around Jack's shoulders and he pressed in close as they made the arduous journey into the bedroom. He felt good about the silliness, peppering Jack's face with kisses, until Jack commented on his weight and Alejo slapped his shoulder hard enough to make an audible sound.

"You did not just call me heavy!" He-he wasn't fat! Alejo checked himself. Checked his own stomach, frowned, slapped Jack again. The second slap was undeserved but he did it anyway, because he was mildly perturbed to find that his stomach wasn't as defined as he thought and somebody had to bear the brunt of that disappointment. "...I had eight down there," he remarked to Jack as he rested his head against Jack's, then turned to kiss the side of his head.

Now there were only six abs. Where did the other two abs go? By way of the hastily snatched fast food dinners and late nights staying up obsessing over the serial killer he was here to track?

Alejo felt nothing like a cop in that moment. His badge was back in the motel room with his gun, both hidden under his pillow. He left them behind; tonight he wasn't a cop. He was just a deeply hurt man—inside and out. Sighing, he braced for impact as he was set onto the bed and winced as soon as he touched down. "My hero~ My prince!" Who said he was heavy. Mm.

Jack was still the hero if he got the Advil, though. Alejo arranged himself carefully on the bed, smiling to himself. They were so... dumb together. Being carried into the bedroom like that was dumb. And cute. Jack was cute. Alejo's gaze was fond as it slid over to the bathroom, where he heard bottles being pushed about. He grabbed the bottle as soon as it came rattling along, shook out six or so and popped them into his mouth like candy. Alejo chewed, wincing at the bitter taste—that way they started working faster.

"It might look like I'm trying to OD on Advil," he said as he reached for Jack again with grabby hands, "but I need it." That damned fast metabolism that helped eject alcohol quicker also made drugs far less effective. He looked up at Jack with an evil smile. Just an evil smile. "And as soon as I can move again, Jack, I'm going to destroy your ass."

An eye for an eye, as they say. Or, in this case, an ass for an ass.

Whoops. He over-exaggerated. Also... did Allie just slap him? Twice? Ooh, he should have dumped him onto the bed for his rudeness! But of course, he didn't. And he also realized calling a person heavy might come across as insulting, even when it was meant to be playful. Did he not have the tone for it?

And also? Eight? Eight what? He looked down and absurdly asked, "Cocks?" Because why would a man ever look down at himself and disappointingly recall that once, he had eight? "Eight at once?"

And what did that have to do with weight? Ohhhh, he got it. Eight cocks at once because he was so attractive, not heavy! "Got it. All right. Well some of us don't need to exaggerate how many cocks we've had at once."

Mostly this was said out of his own disappointment. What was Allie trying to say with that remark, other than the heavy thing? That one Jack cock did not eight other men's cocks make? Hm. Well. It was a strange line of thinking but Jack was a little strange and a little tipsy and he--what was Allie doing? Jack tried to grab the bottle from Allie, alarmed.

"Nobody needs six Advil at once!" Jack said. "Did you even read the bottle? It's extra strength!"

If Allie killed himself here--! Well, Jack wouldn't let him. He wouldn't let it happen. Death was no longer on the table, it was no longer Jack. It wasn't a thing that he did anymore, that he would ever do anymore. If he had to call poison control or get him to an urgent care--an emergency room--anything! But look at how nonchalant the man was. Grinning at him, like the damned Cheshire cat. Jack stepped away from the bed, as far as it took to be more than an arm's length away.

"Oh no, no, no. That's not how it's going to work tonight."

A part of him wanted it, he could hardly lie about that. But tonight was Saturday and tomorrow was Sunday. And Monday? He was back to work. And the last time this same little... minx destroyed his ass, he really destroyed it. Days, remember? Almost into this week! Or was that Sal? Their combined efforts were almost enough to make him rethink the ass destroying. Not so pleasant when he was at work. All that walking around the room--diminished. Any sitting at his desk--no reprieve.

"Mmno," he said again with a shake of the head, as if to make it clear that he'd even given it a little thought and come to the same conclusion: that it wasn't happening.

"I have a job, you know. And last time, you made my job hell so... no ass destroying tonight."

Well cocks, abs, they were basically the same things--except totally different. Alejo just ran with that because he found it hilarious that Jack would 1) go there and 2) sound almost a little sad about it. There was no reason to take that tone; Alejo had never had eight at once. Not even four at once. Three at most. No, wait. No, four. Five? Four. Three.

The point was, he had lost a few abs and he did not know where they had gone.

As the bottle left his hands rapidly, Alejo swallowed what was in his mouth. He had been eyeing it and deliberating on maybe three or four more but... not tonight, apparently. Jack seemed unduly alarmed. Or duly alarmed. Alejo laughed, still a touch tipsy, and laid back starfish fashion on the big, wide, comfy bed. "Relax baby. I have a... condition that makes things like booze and pills not work that well. My six is like your two."

He glanced over at Jack, frowning. "Not tonight, you heathen. I meant like. Well whatever, when I can move my hips without wanting to die again." Was there a good time for a working man to have his ass destroyed? Eh. Alejo could seduce him into it, he was fairly certain. With his six abs. He gestured for Jack to rejoin him, since Jack had tried to get away like his mortal soul was in danger.

"Come here, you're too far away. Look at you, all... over there. Over here's where it's at."

A condition? That sounded... concerning. Jack didn't ask since Allie didn't seem like he was asking for questions about it. Sometimes, Jack could sense when somebody wanted him to follow up on a remark or question--part of working in psychology, probably. Allie didn't seem too bothered by whatever made his tolerance so high. Jack thought it must have something to do with his metabolism, his liver, something like that.

Screwing the cap back onto the bottle, Jack set it down on the table nearby. That might be a bad call; he didn't know how badly Allie hurt or how many pills he thought might do the job. The problem was, it wasn't possible to simply look at a person and decide if they were close to suicide or not. In fact, most people on the brink of suicide were smiling the last time a person saw them.

It's just a condition, he wasn't killing himself in front of you, he reminded himself. He just didn't know if he could handle it. Another dead body. Another death. He was pretty sure every death pushed him to a new brink and he wasn't willing--anymore--to test how close he was to the brink.

"Well," he said, as he came back to the bed. "It is my favorite bed."

He dropped onto the bed beside Allie, on his back, too, staring up at the ceiling. For some reason, it made him think of stars. Pushing the thought away, he turned over onto his side, propping himself by his elbow. Again, he felt as if he had something to say but it just didn't feel right. Allie, he thought, was close to the brink. That glimpse of him back at the club and the need for the violence. There was no balm for his soul, the way Jack had in Brayden. Unless it was him, which... was a troubling thought.

"Good thing you don't have a job," he said, using his free hand to lightly touch the marks he'd made all over Allie's poor throat. Did he though? His mind went back to the cop joke and he wondered if it was a joke after all. "Or you'd have some eyebrows to contend with." He lifted his to demonstrate.

"It's... your only bed," Alejo pointed out smartly (he thought). Well there was just the one bed, it had to be all or nothing on favorite beds! But he laughed, carefree in the moment, "It's my favorite bed too." Because Jack was now in it and don't anybody dare tell him that was a cheesy line.

"Hmm." He didn't flinch when Jack's fingers touched upon the marks on his throat. They stung from the contact but he brushed off that pain. Just another drop in the ocean of his pain. Alejo's head turned a little to face him; he reached up to trace the eyebrows that were lifting at the evidence of sex and violence on his body. "I have a job, just not here. Back home..."

His gaze grew faraway, back to the streets of New York. Dingy, dark, dirty and depraved, New York was home. It was where he grew up and grew accustomed to the bag ladies patrolling the streets after midnight and the huddled masses wrapped in filthy blankets taking shelter around burning trash cans. New York was a city of extremes. Extreme wealth, glistening towers, and extreme poverty, tent cities and the scent of urine when the wind blew in just wrong.

Alejo focused on Jack again. His hand slid to trace the outline of Jack's achingly handsome face and he smiled. "Back home, I was a superhero. Did you know that? People looked up to me. I saved lives."

Yes, yes, Allie, that was the joke. But he only smiled because Allie was probably still drunk. Anyway, he couldn't know Jack spent ages looking for the right bed and also spent exorbitant amounts of money on it. Hey, he was a single man with no dependents to look after and no pets. It was just him; he had a fairly disposable income and he disposed of it all over his luxury bed and clothes.

The important things.

Aha! So the backpacker had a job back home! East, as Jack recalled, just like himself. What he didn't expect was to hear Allie call it being a superhero. Ah... so it was true, then. He was a cop. Or some kind of law enforcement, he imagined. A gun, probably a permit to conceal it. The idea made Jack feel a little stand-offish but it wasn't as if Allie knew anything. His heart beat a little faster. He hoped he didn't know anything.

"Oh? If that's the case, why would you want to be here?" Why be here as a self-confessed nothing when he could be back home as a hero?

"Well."

Why was he here?

He came here hoping to prove his own worth to people who couldn't have given half a shit about what ended up happening to him. He wasn't an agent of the FBI; he was just 'local law enforcement,' one of those unfortunate little bit players who got caught up in the line of fire and didn't live to tell the tale. Cops died every day on the streets, doing nothing but their jobs. They were unsung heroes, often never acknowledged.

Alejo didn't want fame or fortune or glory. He wanted acceptance. He wanted people to know his worth, to acknowledge that he was worth something. That was why he came all the way out here to track his killer.

His killer.

His hand fell and slid over Jack's, fingers tracing fingers. "Every hero needs a villain. I'm here to look for mine." He smiled, wondering if Jack had guessed already. Alejo wasn't working too hard to be subtle; there was no longer a point to doing that. "I've been in a one-sided love affair with him for two years. He doesn't know me. Doesn't know I'm alive. But my life for the past two years... has been his and his alone."

And his villain was here? In bum-fuck-nowhere? Jack swallowed hard, not liking the implications of some cop from back east showing up in a sleepy town like Hazleton... and just happening to be on the trail of a so-called villain. For two years. In the past two years, only one person had died at Jack's hands. He... didn't do it so often that it should have been easily traceable. And the body count wasn't some crazy high number. But enough. Enough to be labeled a serial killer.

And deaths that had nothing to do with him could have been tacked onto the case in the meantime. They could be attributing several deaths in the name of a serial killer. Because... they knew how to profile killers but they didn't really know killers. There was a remarkably small understanding of how they worked, and even the experts were aware of that. There was a part of people who didn't want to understand. It was easier to recoil with disgust. Monster. Allie used that term for him--for them.

Jack moved his hand away from Allie's. Maybe he was just hearing what he didn't want to hear. There was nothing about serial killers in anything Allie said. Just a villain he'd been hunting for a couple of years. Jack couldn't be the only one in this small town. There could be any number of them. For all he knew, Allie was one himself.

"Mm."

It was his I'm thinking sound. The sound he made when he wasn't sure what else to say, the sound he made when he knew what to say but thought better of saying it. At the moment, he knew what he wanted to say but... He didn't. If there was enough on him to take him in, Jack would already be in handcuffs.

"Is that why it can't work with the boyfriend?" He rested his chin in his hand, as if he wasn't nearly as affected by what Allie was dancing around. "You want the bad boy and he's not bad enough for you?"

A contemplative sound left Jack and Alejo smiled up at him, waiting for him to put it all together. He didn't know for sure even now if his killer was Jack, but he thought the evidence was strong. That little piece of a degree they had in evidence... He saw the two framed degrees on the wall. One of them had a small piece missing too. It could have been simple coincidence... or it could be a sign.

Talk turned to Judah and the smile faded slowly from Alejo's lips. "No... Not really. I couldn't hide it anymore from him. Judah. His name is Judah. He's everything that's good and kind in the world and he wouldn't have understood. Not the way you do, Jack." Alejo tried to turn onto his side, failed--his ass really didn't like him moving even an inch. Sighing, he fell back to his original position, with only his head turned to Jack.

"He's a cop too, Judah. He's a real superhero. He apprehends villains, he doesn't... fall in love with them." His smile was a twisted, dark thing. Only monsters fell in love with killers, wasn't that right? Monsters with monsters, birds of a feather all flocking together.

Judah. Judah the boyfriend. It sounded like Allie cared about him, though. And Jack could understand the good and kind comment, knowing somebody like that himself. But he knew others like that in the past and... Jack dropped his gaze.

Another cop. A good, kind man. But also... a cop. What, were they on this case together? Jack didn't have all the pieces. Why did Allie sound so sad about Judah but confessed to falling in love with a villain? Somebody he claimed to have never met but was with him for two years. Did he just fall in love with the idea of him? And... how? If he had somebody he described so wistfully in his life--who was with him, who was his boyfriend, who apparently was willing to work things out even after he was cheated on...

Why would anybody choose the villain?

"It sounds like," Jack said slowly, "you fell in love with an idea, not a person."

Alejo nodded, not disputing Jack's remarks. "At first, it was the idea of him," he sighed, turning his gaze to the ceiling. "At first I wanted to catch him to make a name for myself and to finally be seen, you know? I'd spend whole nights looking over the case notes, comparing evidence, drawing my own conclusions. Two years passed... Every day he was on my mind, in my thoughts. I guess somewhere along the way I stopped wanting to catch him for justice and... started wanting to catch him for myself."

And Judah, he didn't know. Alejo kept it all carefully hidden from him, fearing that he would lose Judah if he came out with the truth. Fearing that he would be taken off the case, and lose all contact with his killer. He didn't love Judah any less--but he grew to love his killer more. Coming here was a long shot. He didn't expect to find Jack here. Beautiful Jack, god-like, magnificent Jack. Jackie.

"Then I came here. I followed him to Oregon and the trail went cold, so I searched around for a small town that someone could blend into without raising too many questions. Hazleton seemed like a good place." He turned to look at Jack again, reached out--with heavy protest from his lower body--to tap his chin gently. "And here, I found you, Jackie. Isn't that a scream?"

Allie thought they were on the same page... but they weren't. Because Jack didn't understand how somebody could fall in love with the idea of somebody so black-hearted. On paper, it had to look awful. Somebody killing innocent young college boys, in the very prime of their lives. Beautiful boys, too. The kind that could light up a whole room with their presence and comforted the souls of those who weren't so lucky to have been born loved and protected all their lives.

Jack couldn't fathom falling in love with... a monster. He couldn't see himself loving somebody that genuinely wanted to hurt people. And wasn't that all a serial killer was? A monster who loved death, who reveled in it, who needed it to feel alive? That was what it said on paper. That was the understanding the public had. That cops had. That Allie must have had. So it didn't make sense, for somebody to become a cop for the aspect of being a beloved superhero... to fall in love with idea of a villain, a killer, somebody who didn't care, somebody who was only in it for themselves, a narcissist. All those things killers were supposed to be.

"A goddamned riot."

His intonation was flat. Jack had no intention of outing himself but it seemed like Allie was quite sure he'd found his villain. Jack hoped he was a disappointment. That whatever Allie cooked up in his head was nothing like the Jack he found. But maybe he found proof he existed when Jack let go and shredded Allie's throat. I should have killed him when I had the chance. But no, no. He didn't want to think like that. He couldn't think like that. It was like a disease. It was degenerative. But he could stop it; he had the power to stop it.

"I can't say I know what you're hoping to find," Jack said as he moved his head back, away from Allie's touch, as if it burned, as if it disgusted him. And maybe it did. Jack had everything wrong when it came to Allie. And he hadn't been so wrong about somebody in a long, long time.

"But I'm just a professor." Nothing deep and dark in him now. That was behind him. If Allie wanted to be with a killer... he had to look elsewhere.

Hi-larious.

Alejo was still smiling even though Jack was not. There was nothing funny about this; it was just a little sad, how far he'd fallen. "I told you I was a monster," he said quietly into the gathering silence. He was light and dark, shadow and sunlight. There was good in him and there was... the devil. Alejo couldn't make the two parts match up, you see. He never could. The smiling, happy, loving policeman and this... wretched creature laying in bed with Jack were somehow contained within the same person, sharing the same flesh.

But he wasn't disappointed. It was mostly a relief to know that Jack was here and that he had caught up to him. Alejo had no real plans beyond that. He didn't think he would run into Jack this way, at a club. Twice. It seemed as if fate wanted to throw them together, every chance it got.

He looked at Jack, in his denial, and made his own thoughtful sound. "Mm." A professor. From out East, blending in with these simple people, trying to live out a peaceful life. He even had a small-town friend, with a gentle smile. Simple, kind, neighborly. No one suspected him; they were all in awe over his big-city charm. But how long would that last? How long before the monster inside came shrieking out?

"I know I sound crazy, Jackie. Believe me, I do. To everyone else he's a monster but to me, he's..." He wasn't talking to Jack now, just up at the ceiling. "I don't love him because he killed all of those people, you know. That's not... why I followed him here. But he understands. He knows what it's like to live one way but be another. And I don't... know how to..." Alejo's hands came together as though to demonstrate a point. Two halves within the same vessel, but too different to ever merge.

"Maybe you're right," he sighed at last, closing his eyes. "Maybe it is just the idea of him. A villain and a hero. How can someone be both of those things? I was hoping he'd know..." His eyes flickered open, then closed again. "...I think he killed out of love. Do you think that's possible? To love someone so much that you just... want them to be a part of you forever?"

The bodies of those young men were treated with care. With love. They were preserved in their eternal youth and Alejo... knew... that the killer loved them. That they would always be a part of him, be with him.

Did Allie think this villain knew how to live two separate lives? That there was some trick to it? If he knew the truth, he would surely be ever more disappointed with the truth. If he thought Jack was this person... Jack didn't have some magical solution. There was a break inside of him that made it easier for him to shove his worst thoughts and actions, the bad memories that he preferred to forget--deep, deep down, to a place where they couldn't touch him, couldn't hurt him.

Jack didn't spend time ruminating over the past anymore. He ran from it and left it behind, where it belonged. But... even psychology dictated that none of that ever disappeared forever. Eventually, such thoughts would resurface. They came out through the subconscious, in things like wanting to be hurt and punished, in wanting something so pure and loving that it eclipsed all else. And the bad parts, they came leaking out in the nightmares.

After a moment, Jack sat up, cross legged on the bed, hands on his knees. Now Allie was getting too close to the truth. Loving somebody so much that he would rather they die than experience the real horrors of the world. Nobody taught Jack what it was to truly love and maybe he was misguided but... he swore they were being protected. In the moment, in the darkest parts of his heart, he mourned them even before they were gone. Stay pure forever.

Swallowing hard, he lowered his head and let his hair fall across his face. Allie seemed to think he had him pegged but he still had it wrong. What Allie described seemed more what Allie wanted. What he hoped to get out of... this. it seemed important to him when he asked if he left an indelible mark on Jack, if he was a part of him. Allie wanted to be a part of somebody. Wasn't he already? Surely he had that boyfriend. Why was he here, chasing Jack down? What did he really think Jack had to offer?

"It's possible." He couldn't say it was impossible that somebody lovingly murdered somebody. How could he? He had done it himself. "But killing somebody isn't the only way to be a part of them forever."

Slowly and painfully Alejo turned onto his side, facing Jack. He watched him, watched the thoughts running through his mind, watched the cogs turning. There was no use in pretending that they didn't know what the other one was. All of the run-around was meaningless in the end. Jack knew. Alejo knew.

He reached out a hand the hesitated before touching Jack's knee. Jack looked... so alone in that moment. He was so sad. There was love and there was Jack's kind of love, Alejo's kind of love. A love that hurt instead of healed, one that tore them apart because they couldn't understand and couldn't feel what others felt. For others, love was pure. For them, it was... monstrous.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Jackie." His voice was low, as though what he said could only ever be for the two of them. "I just want to... understand. I just wanted to talk to you. Did you know, I've been leading them off your tracks? I've been trying to protect you even before I met you at that nightclub. I don't want to hurt you," he repeated again, letting his hand fall away.

"Help me understand, Jackie. How can I be part of someone without..." Alejo's hand went to his own throat. "This? Because this is what I... want. Need. To stop the monster inside."

Why, though? Jack didn't understand what it was about the Jack on paper that Allie thought was something worth loving. Worse still, he didn't understand how he could hunt him down and play these games with him. Some games were fun. This one wasn't. Jack didn't even know how to react to the idea of somebody fantasizing about the worst parts of him, holding onto them as if they were... something worth hanging onto. And all Jack wanted to do was slip them off, the shackles of his past, the brokenness that led him down that path, the inability to fix those things on his own, even with all the tools he had at his disposal.

Of course Jack didn't know that Allie had been leading people off his trail. He hadn't even been aware there was anybody this close to him, to knowing who he was, what he had done, the skeletons that hung far back in his closet. Never meant to see the light of day. Yet Allie kept trying to hold the door open and illuminate them--all the things Jack didn't want.

Talk about what? he thought sardonically. About all the ways he had done things? About his motivations? The thoughts that went through his mind? The emotions? The regrets? The nightmares? What the hell did Allie want from him?

"You already had it," Jack said, tone vague and far away, his gaze not on Allie. "But you threw it away."

"Then there's... nothing?"

He sat up with that same ugliness as before crashing over him from head to toe. Jack had no answers? Nothing?

Alejo sat looking at him, still watchful. He touched his own throat again in the horrible helplessness of the moment. Then he laughed. A low, soft, unnatural laugh.

"There's nothing," he said again in a little sing song voice as the pain faded from his over-worked body. Nothing, nothing, nothing~ The bed creaked as he stood up. Maybe some of that Advil was working now, helping him to get to his feet.

"I think... it's a good time... for a little walk."

Back to his motel room. Back to the badge. And the gun.

That word. Nothing. It used to mean so much to Jack. That hollow nothingness inside, from being distant, from holding others at arm's length with sarcastic remarks and an imperious act. But inside, Jack was nothing. He didn't know how to help Allie. Honestly, he didn't know what Allie was hoping to gain from all this. Watching him get up, Jack scooted to the edge of his bed and tried to take his arm before he got too far.

"Like this? I don't think so."

And he didn't just mean the raw asshole or the drunken state or the triple dose of Advil. He meant wherever Allie's head was at. It wasn't somewhere good, but it wasn't like that couldn't be fixed.

"Stay tonight."

Jack feared whatever might happen otherwise. That Allie would go back to the club, let somebody really hurt him. Let somebody kill him. Maybe just kill himself. Jack didn't know what was going through Allie's mind, but there was that dark look in his eyes that he'd seen back at the night club and that was concerning enough.

Alejo tried to shake Jack's hand off. "Why? There's nothing here, Jackie. You said it yourself. I had it and I lost it..." He smiled softly at Jack and pulled his arm away. "It's not with you."

Who was it with? Judah didn't have it or Alejo would be whole by now. He thought Jack had the answer but he didn't. He didn't understand after all and those two years of painstaking work had come to naught.

"Let me go, Jackie. I'm tired. I just want to go back and... rest."

He looked toward the door, out into the living room and then beyond to all of the dark and empty years he spent trying to find a place in this world for himself. Just himself. He thought he and Jack were the same but sadly, they weren't.

"I'm tired, Jackie."

"No..." It wasn't with him but that didn't mean it wasn't with somebody. Jack didn't understand. Why not the boyfriend--Judah? Why him? There were things about Jack that Allie must have made up, to work with his clever narrative, to work with the idea that he'd fallen in love, rather than the person those ideas were being applied to. And how could Allie know? He didn't know Jack. All he had were his assumptions and it turned out his assumptions weren't what he thought they were.

But Jack wasn't about to apologize for not being whatever it was that Allie needed. Jack didn't want to stay broken. He didn't want to stay nothing. He needed... he needed more than that. And Allie... he did, too. He was reaching for it, but he didn't realize how incompatible the two of them really were. Maybe where Allie thought they were so alike, they weren't. Or maybe in some ways, they were too alike to work. There needed to be a balance between two people... not two broken people trying to use the other as their glue.

"Rest here." Jack tried again. "Just lay down... close your eyes... it'll be all right."

Alejo was exhausted. A lifetime of emptiness and nothingness could make anyone want to give up. Give in. The voice had always been there but tonight it was the strongest yet. At the club, here with Jack, in that very moment, he heard it loud and clear.

It was giving him the answer he needed.

But Jack wasn't letting him go. He was still trying to help save what was beyond saving. And that somehow made it worse. The fact that Jack cared, that Judah cared, it was worse because it wasn't enough. It ought to have been. But it wasn't. Alejo was too broken.

"...okay." He only said it to appease Jack and to stop him from looking so concerned. The voice was still there. He could slip away in the middle of the night to answer its summons.

"I'll stay the night. Don't worry." He patted Jack on the arm and sat back down onto the bed. Just sat there, staring at the wall.

Jack didn't believe him. Not for a second. Especially with the way Allie sat there and just stared into the nothingness in front of him, as if he saw beyond this moment and into some other moment. Jack didn't know what was expected of him. One moment, Allie was high as a kite and now he was in the lowest moment of his life. And Jack couldn't save him, if that was what he wanted.

"I'm not whomever you thought I was," he said quietly. "Nobody ever is."

Jack wasn't what Allie wanted him to be. Allie certainly wasn't who Jack thought he was. All people ever did was disappoint each other when they tried to make them whatever they thought they were. That wasn't how people worked. Jack had been learning that over time. That maybe some of the innocents he thought were so innocent weren't. That maybe some of the worst people hid behind a facade, just like he did, just like Allie did.

"...and honestly, Allie... I don't want to be whatever it is you're imagining I am. Whatever you... thought I was."

"I know."

He still stared at the opposite wall, looking at its whiteness and its blankness and its nothingness. But that wall, it had a purpose. It was put there for a reason, to block out the light and to prevent others from looking in. It was there to protect and to give shelter.

What was Alejo put here to do? To disappoint? His family, Judah, even Jack? Was he here to cause pain instead of giving love back to the people who loved him? That was what heroes did. They spread love and happiness.

Villains, monsters, they were the ones who caused pain and hurt. They were like black holes. No matter how much love was poured into them, it could never fill them all the way up. He saw that now. He saw how foolish he had been to think that one person could fix his nothingness. Only Alejo could fix that--fix himself.

Alejo nodded as Jack spoke and tried to explain to him things that he already knew. He understood disappointment. He understood not being the person others thought he was, mistaking others for something they were not.

"It's not your fault Jack. You don't have to explain anything. You don't owe me anything. The mistake was--is mine." His hands started twisting in his lap, fingers grasping at nothing. Alejo laughed again, the same low laugh. "Shouldn't have... gone out tonight, huh? I don't think I can get back into those pants tomorrow..."

His fingers stopped twisting. "I'm sorry I ruined your evening."

As much as he wanted to say he hoped that Allie found what he was looking for, he had a hard time believing that would be good for anybody involved. Shifting in his bed, he pulled the blankets back, so they could slide beneath rather than lying on top of them. There wasn't really much else to say. Everything felt... hollow now. Jack hated the feeling, it reminded him too much of how close he could have been to snapping, doing something... bad.

But it wasn't here now. Whatever it was that Allie saw in his research was no longer there. Or if it was, Jack had finally succeeded in shoving it so far down that it had finally been buried and laid to rest. He didn't know. He didn't want to know.

Jack brought the covers up around Allie. "You can borrow something from my closet." Which likely wouldn't fit but would still fit better than trying to squeeze into a pair of painted on breeches. As for coming out tonight, Jack couldn't speak to that but he was feeling similarly. Maybe he should have just gone over to Brayden's and played another silly game with him. His heart hurt thinking about it, how differently things could have been. To get laid versus to spend time with his friend.

"It's not ruined," he lied. "Well, not entirely."

They did have a good time before Allie decided to get heavy on him--and this time the word had nothing to do with physical weight. Why couldn't Allie be the Allie he thought he was? Why was he this... creature that reared up to remind him of all the ugly in the world that he had come here to get away from?

"That's a terrible lie."

He slid under the covers because it was what Jack seemed to want of him, and Alejo was tired of fighting. The evening was ruined, but really, Alejo's life was ruined long before this. Maybe if he had never been assigned to Jack's case... Maybe if he had gone on to do something else, he could have kept up pretences. He might still be with Judah, pretending that he didn't know Judah loved another man.

Was that better than this? Was being fake-happy better than being real-broken? Alejo laid his head down onto the pillow, facing away from Jack. He had been wrong. Jack wasn't nothing anymore. When they first met, yes—there was nothingness in him. A week later, somehow, something changed for him. There was something in him now that Alejo knew he would never have.

Slowly he closed his eyes, letting his thoughts slide away into half-drunk musings. Alejo curled up under the covers and let his head drop towards his chest, hugging a corner of the blankets. "Night, Jack." He wished he could say good night, but it was a horrible night.

"Mm." That sound again. What else could he say? He felt like he was dealing with a young, petulant child again. Not unlike some of his students, actually. Allie looked like he could have been one of them--once. But now... Jack no longer saw the bright eyed, smiling, happy, and naive man he had once met. Inch by inch, he started to see the mask fall. From confessing their nothingness to one another to this.

The night had been a rocky one, at best. Jack lay there on his back, under the covers, his hands over the covers. It started out nice. He met a new friend, how now had all his important things--wallet, card, coat, keys. Sigh. He supposed he could go back tomorrow and get them back.

He tapped on his own leg through the blanket. The wait was excruciating. He didn't know how long it took but eventually, when he looked over at Allie's back, he thought he was probably asleep. Slipping quietly out of bed, he put on a soft silken robe and headed out to the living room. And realized as he poked through his things that amongst everything he'd left behind, his cell phone was another item gone.

Going to the window and looking out in the courtyard, his gaze went to the bench where he and Brayden goofed off once. There were memories. Blurry ones. But he could have sworn he kissed Brayden. Letting the curtain fall back, he turned away and went to the kitchen to pick up his emergency whiskey bottle, bringing it to the couch, and turning on the TV. Anything--anything to shut his mind down.

After her shift, Marge hefted her bag over one shoulder and swept up a coat and wallet and keys that weren't hers. She'd been told to 'hold on' to these items while Jack went off to find someone to bang and then when he did, he just. Left. He left with that brown-haired young man and had the audacity to look over at her but not come pick up his shit.

Which was why Marge took the liberty of buying herself a drink on his card. What? It was a holding fee.

It wasn't hard to find out who he was, mostly because his damn name was on the damn card. A quick search revealed his wallet, which had ID, which let her know where he lived. If he had lived further away, Marge would have left his things at the club's lost and found, but the apartment he lived in was along the way to her place and she didn't mind dropping Jack's things off.

Call her a softy.

And okay she wanted to check up on that brown-haired boy. There was something strangely off about him. He'd been dancing with all the wrong sorts of people so she thought what the hell—maybe Jack could both save him from a bad time and have himself a good time. Not knowing how disastrously her match-making had ended up, Marge arrived at the Sunrise and let herself in through the gate. She marched up to door 1F and knocked curtly, seeing that a light was on inside. Were they still going at it? Marge quirked a smile. Didn't matter, somebody better open the goddamn door and soon because it was cold outside.

"Jack! I have your shit!"

Jack was a couple of episodes into The Golden Girls (the choices weren't exactly the best at that hour), when he heard a knock at the door. At first, he looked up hopefully, thinking it might be Brayden--but it didn't sound like his knock. And a few seconds later, the knock was followed by the familiar voice of Marge. Huh. Jack swiftly reached down to at least pull on his underwear before he went to the door, clasping his robe closed at the front. He opened the door to Marge and oh!

He recognized that coat! His things!

"Oh!" Jack immediately beamed and bounced forward to embrace her. "You're such a lifesaver!" He pulled back from her to get a look at her. Unlike him, she looked fierce, like her absolute best, even when she was apparently just getting off her shift at the club.

"I was planning to stop by tomorrow and pick everything up." But he had no idea if she even worked Sunday night and then what? Ah, all's well that ends well, he supposed.

"Open the goddamn door, Jack," Marge muttered in a vaguely death-threat-like way as nobody teleported to the door to yank it open. But she heard voices coming from inside, and what appeared to be tinny, canned laughter. A TV show? Soon there were footsteps and then Jack was there, pulling the front of his robes closed. Marge patted him on the back as he leapt on her to embrace her, amused by his effusive greeting. Sheesh, somebody was glad to see her.

"Your place was along the way, so I thought I'd bring your things back. Didn't think you'd still be up." She wasn't even trying to be coy as she peered inside to get a glimpse of the young man Jack took home with him. "So the blue balls?" Her grin was meaningful as she stepped inside to get out of the cold, patting Jack's bare chest along the way.

"Everything went well, I assume?"

"They're less blue."

Suddenly, he was glad he'd covered up, although he somehow didn't much care if Marge got a look at him or not. Either way, she seemed amused enough by how he presented himself, probably with hair that looked as though hands had raked through it (true) and a slight sway in his step (also true).

Jack closed the door behind Marge, glad to shut out the cold. It was freezing out there right now! Inside his apartment, it was cozy and warm, with the comforting sound of stupid television playing in the background. Clothes were still scattered across the floor by the couch and the bottle of whiskey sat on the coffee table.

"And... ah..." Jack glanced towards the bedroom. "I think he's asleep right now."

Jack took hold of Marge's hand in both of his. "There's a lot going on with him." He didn't know how much to keep to himself or how much to reveal but he supposed this was safe enough to say: "There was a boyfriend and I think they broke up... He wasn't totally clear on that but... He talked about him in past tense so I think it's pretty over. I want to help but I... don't... think I can."

"So I see." She picked her way around a pool of leather and sheer material and—oh look, there was the shirt Jack had been wearing earlier in the evening. The couch seemed to be the scene of the crime. No condom wrappers. Ooh, naughty boys. Somebody was going to be sore in the morning, and it didn't look like Jack.

Marge turned to Jack with a smirk. "You did good for yourself tonight, you bad boy," she began, but then Jack took her hand in both of his and—"Oh god, no. No don't—Ugh."

She tried, nobody could say she didn't try. She tried to stop him from blabbing out what she knew he was going to say about the sleeping cure for a bad case of blue balls, that he was probably freaking broken inside. Well the broken ones were the best in the sack so he was welcome and—fuck. Marge's expression went from annoyed to judgmental to disgruntled.

"God, why is it always the cute ones?" She groaned as she whipped her hand out from Jack's. It looked like he was going to ask her a favor. That was the posture, the two hands clinging to hers. "Why are the cute ones always batshit crazy, Jack? God!" Flinging herself dramatically onto the couch, she stared up at him flatly. "So he broke up with his boyfriend, boo hoo hoo. That can't be everything, can it? What else happened?"

Oh, he wished he'd done good for himself tonight. At first, he really thought he did, too. Allie was jesting with him, being a cute little shit and the next thing he knew, he was making marked comments about who he was and who he thought Jack was. Jack still wanted to know where he made all those assumptions. Was it the last time they were together? Did he give him some kind of hope that... he didn't know! That they'd be together forever, some kind of Bonnie and Clyde killing team?

Somewhat horrified at the thought, he wondered if it was true. If Allie had been telling him he wanted to drop the cop act and become a villain with him. That he wanted to help him kill more people. God. He held his elbows elegantly as he watched Marge take a seat on the couch. By now, the covers had been switched out, lucky for her.

"Honestly, I wish somebody could share that information with me..." Crazy was good in bed but... for the rest of it. Jack sighed and closed his eyes as he rested his forehead against two of his fingers.

"He thinks I'm somebody--he thought I was somebody that understood him." Jack skirted around the coffee table to come sit on the couch beside Marge. "But he misread me." He leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee, letting out another long suffering sigh. "And I definitely misread him. But if I turn him out, he's going to do something drastic."

The more she heard, the more Marge didn't like what she heard. So cutie was great in bed but he was proportionally crazy as well. Wasn't that just—completely normal. Her eyes didn't once leave him as he traversed around the coffee table and came to sit beside her. Lightly Marge nudged his knee with hers, feeling it coming. The Request.

"Honey... Is that the whole story?" If she was going to take on a charity case, she had to know all of it. She didn't want to take him in—that sounded like The Request Jack was working up to—only to wake up with some psycho standing over her with a knife, screaming about his ex-boyfriend and about not knowing who Jack was as a person.

"Because." Marge leaned in. "There are two people you don't fucking withhold the whole truth from, baby. Your priest and your bartender." She tapped his cute little nose with the tip of a perfectly manicured index. "So. Spill. How drastic is drastic?"

No. It wasn't the whole story. Honestly, he didn't know how much of the story Allie might divulge to Marge or to anybody who would listen. What if he was angry at Jack for being... somebody else? What if he decided to give him hell, to hurt him? It sounded like he had some ammo... but still. Was it enough to actually and reasonably get Jack into trouble? Allie said he'd been protecting him, but what did that mean? What did he know?

"Drastic as in I think he might hurt himself," Jack said finally. "It looked like he was going to OD in front of me... but then he said he had a condition that made his tolerance for medication ridiculously high."

He didn't really believe that. There were a couple of times he'd gotten up to check that Allie was still breathing. Putting his hand on his chest. Feeling the rise and fall of it. But he'd moved the pills off the nightstand, just in case.

"Look," he said slowly, holding out his hand for his coat. He needed the smokes in one of the pockets. Like now. Pronto. "I don't really know him. I met him last week at another club. We shared a little about our... sad sack feelings. And now he thinks I'm... some disappointment because I'm less... sad sack right now."

"Well shit, why didn't you say so sooner?"

Marge didn't think it was that bad but apparently the crazy train not only derailed, it took out a nearby town and exploded all to pieces. How the hell did Jack manage to get from a good time at the club to hosting a suicidal, broken, disillusioned little charity case? And no, it wasn't her fault. She refused to take the blame for this.

Handing over his coat, she leaned back with another groan. "Isn't there someone who can take care of him? Someone that's not you or me? What about that ex? Or his family?"

But if he and Jack only met for the second time tonight... Marge passed a hand over her eyes and then extended the same hand to ask for a drag of his cigarette. "Kids," she said bitterly. "Where do they get all of these fucked up notions?" The fact that he went all to pieces over Jack not being as 'sad sack' as he thought seemed dramatic. And that was saying something because Marge was drama personified.

There had to still be more behind it, she thought as she eyed Jack sharply. She ought to get up and leave this sordid mess behind... but he was so cute. Not crazy back in the bedroom, Jack. And cute was Marge's weakness, even if they were gay.

"Did you want me to welcome you with that? 'Hello, cutie, thanks for the coat, by the way, the guy I took home? Tried to off himself right in front of me?'"

He shook his head. Not the way he would welcome anybody. Besides, while he really didn't believe in any condition that made the guy so highly tolerant of painkillers, there was still the smallest chance that he really did have one. Jack was an asshole sometimes, this was true. (Who wasn't?) But he didn't know what was a secret with Allie and what wasn't. What to share with Marge... what not to.

Slipping his hand into the pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and the lighter, not hesitating to light up. Technically, he wasn't supposed to be smoking in this apartment but he needed it right now. And it looked like Marge was on the same wavelength. When she reached for the cigarette, he passed it to her without hesitation.

"I don't know," Jack sighed. "But I almost can't blame him. He seemed to... hero worship me for some reason." That part he just couldn't fathom. "Not that I'm not fabulous enough to be hero worshiped but..." He made a movement with his hand. "All the wrong reasons."

He took the cigarette back to take in a long, stress relieving drag, then slowly blew the smoke out as he handed it back to Marge.

"He had all the wrong reasons but he might have been right about me... if he met me two months ago."

Marge rolled her eyes heavenward but admittedly, being told that someone attempted suicide was a downer. More of a downer than finding out they weren't what she thought they were. She really thought it wasn't that bad. Some part of that boy seemed dark but there was darkness in Jack, too, and maybe their darkness would connect, she thought.

That was the shitty thing about reading hearts and not minds; sometimes the heart lied.

"You are very obsessable," she ceded with a crooked grin as she took a drag of the calming cigarette and then passed it back to Jack. Marge held the smoke in her lungs for a long moment, then gently let it out. This was all very... gay. But she was half-way invested in all of this now, and she had a feeling that Jack needed a friend. Otherwise, why blab it all out to her? And her job as a bartender meant that she was naturally curious—if not always sympathetic—about a good old-fashioned fucked up sob story.

"So what changed between two months ago and now?" She took another drag, passed it back. "That little friend you were playing cards with instead of fucking like rabbits?"

"Why, thank you for noticing." He looked Marge over with appraising eyes. "You're gorgeous but I have a feeling you already know that."

The way she wore her hair, her makeup, her clothes. She wasn't just any bartender. She could have been a model. A star on Instagram. Social media. Honestly, he'd be surprised if she wasn't. It wasn't just the looks, it was the whole attitude. Marge had confidence and she wore it like any Hollywood star. How she ended up in this little hole, he had no idea.

Before he responded to her question, he had to take a drag. He needed the time to think and he had been nursing his bottle of whiskey for the past hour. Slow. Steady. He passed it back before letting his head fall back.

"Partially," he admitted. "But two months ago is when I moved here. Away from the shit that made me..." He let out a soft snort of dark amusement. "...a sad sack. But yes. Yes, if you must know, that little friend is... somehow... he's become important to me."

"Aww, you're sweet." She reached over and stroked along his thigh, almost petting him for the compliment. Marge's smile was genuine that time, even if her drawled out words could be misconstrued as patronizing. But she meant it. That was her way of showing sincerity. Jack really was sweet. She had a good feeling about him as soon as he approached the bar, that they would get along just fine. Like vodka and martinis, or blue curacao and Forget-me-nots. It was just too bad that he only came along now, and not sooner.

They could still tear up the town together, though. It was never too late to be a fabulous bitch and to paint the town red with other, like-minded fabulous bitches.

"Well that was very clever of you," she said of moving away from Sad Sack country. In Marge's general experience, that meant some shit went down that Jack didn't want to bring up with her at the moment. When someone moved out of their city, lock, stock and barrel, that fucked up sob story wasn't far behind. She could wait, though, to hear all that. Something told her Jack would eventually confide in her.

Marge studied the dwindling cigarette before taking another puff. "Hmm... so then the real question, honey, is... What the hell are you doing fucking Crazy back there," she said as she jerked the cigarette in the direction of the bedroom, "and not being with someone who presumably you see yourself having a future with?" Sure as hell, Jack had no future with crazy. Crazy was a good lay but he wasn't important, clearly.

"Who is he, by the way? The little friend? I'm sure I'd know him by name."

"He's not interested."

He scratched idly at his chin, though he smiled at Marge's hand on his thigh. His naked thigh. But it was a good question. Why was he sleeping with some crazy guy that misread his current self... and not with the one that had become important to him. Not that so-called Crazy back there wasn't important. But Jack had mixed feelings on him now. He couldn't tell whether or not he was a threat. But... he felt... responsible.

As for Brayden's interest.... He wasn't. He wasn't interested. But he was fun to be around. Jack felt like he was the most of himself than he was anywhere else. Just... relaxed and chill and able to jest and joke with him. But interested. He'd shown his interest more than once. He showed it all the time! Maybe he misread Brayden the way Allie misread him. But he thought--sometimes, at least--that Brayden wanted him too.

"Oh, right. You'd know him in this two horse town, wouldn't you?" Jack propped a leg up on the coffee table. "His name is Brayden Smith. Lives across from me, works at the community college?"

So what if she was pawing a man's naked thigh? Jack was gay, it was all harmless good fun. (And if he wasn't completely gay, Marge wasn't ruling out the possibility of Jack being... promising.) But she did snort out of her nose at his pessimistic insistence that his important friend wasn't interested. And when he spoke that name—Brayden Smith—she dropped the cigarette right onto the couch.

"Shit!" Marge scrambled to pick it up before it burnt a hole in the expensive cushion. "Bullshit," she followed up with as she leaned across to snuff the cigarette out in the ash tray on the coffee table. When she straightened, her expression was severe. "Brayden Smith. Is not interested. In you. Bull. Shit. Jack."

So he was telling her that he spent a whoooole Friday night with Brayden Smith and nothing happened? That was on him, because she did know Brayden Smith and she didn't think he would ever not be interested in a man like Jack. Hell, half the gays in town would be interested in Jack. He was suave, obviously cultured, dressed like a King—oh, he was so very much her style.

Jack was the definition of Eligible Bachelor. And Brayden Smith? He was about the closest Marge had seen to being the Invisible Man.

"Are you scared? Of a relationship? Because there's no good reason you shouldn't be over there right now with your dick up his ass. Or..." She waved a vague hand. "Whatever it is you do."

Oh, okay. What was all this now? Marge about burned down his pretty couch and all because of what? Brayden Smith? (And it was bullshit, she said.) Jack watched her the whole time, her body language, her expression. Even the tone of her voice said a whole lot more than Jack expected when he dished the name. Did Brayden Smith have some secret life that Jack never knew about? (Well, who was he to judge another man for having skeletons in the closet, right?)

Wait, what? Scared? Jack put up a hand.

"Excuse me?"

Her crass language didn't bother him in the least. He could be just as crass, honestly. Actually, it was a breath of fresh air to meet somebody so openly genuine, even if she was abrasive and seemed to know it. But what did fear have to do with any of this? Jack? Afraid to stick a dick in an ass? Never.

But he was realizing that wasn't what she was driving at. She even said as much. Was it the idea of a relationship that scared him? Did it? He hadn't really given himself permission to think about it. But when he did... He had to admit, something seized up in his chest. Made him still his tongue when he wanted to say certain things. Kept him from doing something stupid. Or so he told himself.

"All right."

He didn't want to admit it but the fact that Brayden might not be showing interest could be his own fault. Jack had a way of flirting that could possibly confuse a poor nervous wreck like Brayden. Not solely on purpose. Although he was... attracted to that about him. Why was he so attracted to that? Nervousness, the overthinking, sometimes even oversharing. But if Brayden ever thought about it maybe being a thing, Jack shut it down pre-tty quickly at the beginning.

"...I may have told him I'm on a relationship detox." He sat up and pointed at Marge to hush her before she spoke, hurrying to talk over anything she might say. "But that's because I am. And it's not out of fear. Relationships with me have been notoriously--let's say... bad for the other person involved."

Aha! Marge uttered a triumphant sound when Jack admitted that, yes, Marge was absolutely correct. As usual. But she didn't get to say anything since he held up a hand to forestall her gloating. Like he already knew her inside and out, instead of being a stranger at the start of the night. She settled for raising her brows just so and crossing her arms over her chest.

When he finally stopped making excuses, she shook her head. "All I'm hearing are excuses." Her shoulder shrugged expressively. "And honey, that's still called being afraid. Don't you think you owe it to him—and yourself—to at least give it a chance? Brayden Smith is the last person I would've thought you'd be interested in but... if that's the one your little heart says is special, I mean..."

She reached across to poke him on the chest, over the heart, to make her point. "The heart wants what it wants, Jack. And the longer you wait, the worse it's going to get."

Uh, excuses? Where were the excuses?! They were reasons, hello. He had good reasons, too! He just couldn't get into them. Still... As he looked down at his own hands, he realized that he hadn't done anything when he could have--to the conflicted man in his bedroom. Mostly, Jack chalked that up to the fact that he wasn't feeling fiercely protective of him or trying to save him.

And oddly, part of him felt guilty for that. For not feeling that strongly about him. Normally, it was a fast connection. Loneliness, nothingness, that touched and made a little void that was just the two of them. And he felt it that night, on their first night. It was just... when he heard him use the word monster, something inside of Jack shifted. Nobody had ever called him that in all of his life. Not even his... not even his victims.

Jack closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and lowered his head. He could still feel the place where Marge poked him on the chest. Yes, the heart did want what it wanted but what difference did it make? How had things become so scrambled and was it a good thing? When he opened his eyes, Marge was still there, fierce as ever. God, she had eyes that could see straight through a man.

"The worse what's going to get?"

Marge's index lifted—like she was going to poke Jack in the forehead for being dense—and then it swung down. Down, down, past his chest, past his abdomen, down, down, to his crotch. "This." She said pointedly. And it was true. The heart wanted what it wanted and the body followed suit. It was like an itch that couldn't be scratched, no matter how many broken Crazies Jack took home to bang. They wouldn't be Brayden.

"How many crazies are you going to waste your time with? And what if Brayden finds someone else?" Not that that seemed likely... given that it was Brayden Smith. He wasn't the talk of the town but Marge knew he was notoriously boring. Pathetically boring, actually. The only reason Marge even knew of him was through Ali, a mutual friend.

She eased away to lean against the back of the couch, shaking her head. "I'm not here to force you into a relationship, honey. I just call it like I see it. And I see you running away. Right into the arms of..." She jerked a thumb in the direction of the bedroom. "How much worse can it get than this, really?"

Oof. He waited for it and it didn't come. When he opened his eyes, he found that Marge wasn't poking him but pointing downward, in the direction of his (thankfully) covered crotch. Yes? It wasn't any happier with Jack's choices than his heart was but who knew that he was going to run into Allie at the club? Even now, he felt a little sad, actually, that he'd been so happy to run into him and Allie was so happy to see him--and it had to end like this. The whole thing after they moved on into the bed stuck in his throat like a bitter pill.

He gave a shit about Allie. It was just in him. Jack cared about a whole trail of boys that ended in despair for all of them, including Jack himself. That was reason enough to stay away and take the idea of a relationship detox seriously, wasn't it? But he couldn't discuss that with Marge. Or anybody. Ever. It was something he would never be able to divulge to anybody. The closest anybody got to it was Allie and he was a mess.

Jack slid his leg off the table, sitting forward and half thinking about going for another cigarette to calm his nerves.

"Allie's not that bad," he said. "He's just in a bad head space right now." And who knew better than Jack what it felt like to be in a bad head space? As for the idea of seeing Brayden with somebody else... Jealousy wasn't his strong suit. Regret was, though.

Oh, men. This man in particular. Marge shrugged again, having said her piece. Whatever happened next wasn't on her—she gave her two cents, like any good bartender wouldn't. Actually most bartenders listened, they didn't really talk, but Marge was Marge and she loved meddling. Who didn't, though? Who didn't?

But she thought she could see where this was going. Nowhere good. Jack was going to say one thing but his actions were going to say another. Maybe he might not even realize or notice that he was doing it. Hopefully he didn't hurt himself in the process, because Marge saw a lot of pain heading Brayden's way. The story was age-old and played out but that didn't mean it wouldn't be painful to watch.

Which was why Marge didn't plan on watching. Hey, she tried, didn't she?

Standing up, she walked over to the kitchen where she had seen bottles. Ah, well-stocked. Wordlessly she grabbed some empty glasses and mixed them up a little... balm for the soul. "Here." She handed one glass to Jack when she returned and nursed her own glass as she sat back down. "Well now. What do we do about... Allie? Is that his name? Do I take the day shift and you take the night shift? Because you're not pawning him all off on me, brother."

Fuck, he should say no but he didn't. He took the glass and held it without drinking just yet. Was that what he wanted? To get even more alcohol in his system right now? Yes. Absolutely. He let the drink swirl around, like a wine connoisseur at a fancy tasting. At least Marge dropped the topic of Brayden. For now. He side-eyed her. Why did he have the feeling it would just keep coming up with her? He lifted the glass to his lips.

"Hmno." He shook his head as he swallowed. "No, it's... Alejandro." He said the name with great affection and a sultry look in his eyes. "A beautiful name for a beautiful man."

Too bad he was riding the crazy train. Jack thought he might have made a passable distraction. But that was the problem. Allie needed somebody who wouldn't use him as a distraction. Somebody who looked only at him. He was that kind of person. Greedy and needy. Jack understood that. He was the same, deep down.

Jack sighed. "And fine, I'll take the night shift. You're just lucky our jobs align the way they do." He paused. "Say, though... You know this place so well, and the people in it, yes?" He tucked his hand beneath his chin, the other setting his glass down on the table. "You have to know somebody perfect for a guy like Allie, right? He needs somebody in it with both feet, you know? Somebody that could fall head over heels for him and dote on him. Oh! But he needs to like it rough."

"What?" Marge wanted to punch him in the head—but she'd let the drink do that for her. "I'm going to need you to take that back. Lucky is not the word I would use in this situation." She drew out the word situation as her laser eyes shot through Jack. Jack who in one breath mourned Alejandro being batshit crazy and in the next breath praised his beauty. Sure, he was a cutie, but the crazy sort of took away from all of that boyish charm.

Men.

Marge sipped her drink as she gave serious thought to his suggestion, only to make a wry face. Did that mean Jack also liked it rough, since he'd gotten it on with Alejandro—twice? She eyed him up and down and sideways. "I mean. I might. But it sounds like that little crazy boy is pretty attached to you."

Oh and what would happen if Brayden saw him repeatedly going in and out of Jack's place—especially at night? Marge wondered if that thought occurred to Jack, or if he was now over and past that, on to the next distraction, thank you. She knew a little something about glossing over the unpleasant parts of life—her own was pretty sordid, too—but that was a one-way ticket to disaster. And Jack thought THIS was really better than just manning up, going over and shoving his tongue down Brayden's throat?

Men.

All right... so lucky wasn't the term for it. What did she expect him to call it? She worked at night, he worked in the day... It worked out, didn't it? Luck! But she wasn't wrong about the whole... attachment thing. Allie was attached but he seemed pretty over it when he almost walked out. And he probably would have walked out too, if his ass didn't stop him. His literal ass.

Jack tutted as he slid his hand into one of his pockets, picking out his phone. It was rude, probably, to have a conversation with a fabulous woman like Marge and pull out his phone but... He was drunk and tired and he didn't even know what else to say to her. The plan was to just... look somebody up. Somebody to try and pair him off with. Maybe with a dating app.

"I'll find him someone then."

But when he opened up the browser on his phone, what he saw was the last thing he'd been checking in on... and that was some silly little card game. He remembered now. Last night, he went to bed in his own bed, alone. But while he laid there, propped up against his pillows with that last cigarette of the night, he thought--why not find a new game to play. It was a passing thought but he found one that sounded like it was just up Brayden's alley.

And now, there it was, staring at him from the phone screen. Jack stared at it for a moment before screen-shotting the image and sending it to Brayden. Never mind what time it was--he didn't even know--or that for all he knew, Brayden had plans for next weekend. He still shot off the text before he thought about it. And then... he looked up at Marge. Oh shit. She was still here.

"So, here's the deal..." He trailed off, his mind wandering in so many different places. "What were we talking about again?"

"Good luck with that," Marge muttered as an aside as she watched Jack flicking through his phone. "Better find somebody just as crazy, or you'll be stuck with this one forever." She tipped her head back and downed the drink, then got up to make herself another one. On the way, she peered into the bedroom to check in on little Crazy.

He was sleeping peacefully on his side, his face relaxed. Cute. Looked almost like a little cherub--but behind that innocent face? A whole lotta trouble.

"What the hell did I get myself into?" Marge muttered as she wandered back into the kitchen. After she got another drink she meandered about Jack's apartment just looking at things. "What? We were talking about finding another crazy to match the crazy in there," she sighed as she came back. But instead of sitting down, she leaned against the back of the couch and lightly squeezed Jack's neck. Tense.

"What. Is that?" She pointed a finger--using the hand holding a very full glass of alcohol--at the phone. "Are you trying to set yourself up over here?" The name said B. B for... Brayden? Marge tried to grab his phone so she could scroll through the messages.

How was he supposed to know crazy when he saw it? It wasn't a look. Usually. Maybe he could find him one of the crazier students. Jack had students. Why didn't he think of that earlier? Introduce one of them to Allie... Hope that they were both the same brand of crazy...

But what if they weren't, though? That would just make Allie... crazier. Like he needed another failed relationship. Or love interest. Whatever. Like he needed to fall for somebody that didn't fall back. And like... 150% in love, none of that one foot out, one foot in business--like Jack. Jack was all bad for him. But he didn't used to be, that was the thing. Two feet in, that was his deal. Until it broke him and it broke the other person. Maybe Allie saw it because it was there but now it wasn't. Or it was?

Just... not with Allie.

Oh god. His head hurt. Thinking hurt. How did he get here, in the center of an existential crisis? Things here were supposed to be simple. No love, no lovers. Just... himself and a job and the occasional night out to keep things sorted. You know, for the body. He didn't have to be celibate just because he eschewed the idea of love.

"What. Is what." Jack tried to dodge her grab but Marge already had his phone before he knew it. And she sloshed a little alcohol down his shoulder while she was at it. "Excuse me, that was a private conversation."

The drink sloshed a little--just like Marge, a little--as she made a bid for the phone and won. Marge scrolled through sickening texts, her expression growing increasingly horrified. "Oh my GOD," she exclaimed loudly, dropping the phone back onto the couch as if what she saw had physically burned her retinas. She gave Jack a horror stare too, then chugged the drink down as fast as she could.

"Oh I needed that. I haven't seen anything like this since..." Her eyes rolled upward as she tried to recall. "I was in junior high. Oh you... you've got the hots for him pre-tty bad, honey."

That was disgusting. Disgustingly pure and horrifyingly adorable. Card games. Popcorn and butts. Sexting? That was nowhere near sexting and the fact that Brayden so innocently skipped over everything. Jesus H Christ. Marge didn't know if that was an act or what but it was quite something. In this day and age, a man who couldn't even adequately flirt back over text was... a rare breed, indeed. Small wonder Jack had blue balls!

She gave Jack a little prod between the shoulderblades. "What the fuck are you still doing sitting here? Go. Get over there, he's practically begging you to come over." Jesus. The two of them were ridiculous. "I'll watch over crazy, don't worry. Go."

Yeah.

...Yeah.

Jack hated himself, too. He didn't even look at the phone now that it was lying on the couch like a burning brick. Marge was right. It was all pretty junior high. He didn't have to look back through the messages to know that. But when he was doing it, he couldn't stop smiling like an idiot. And now he was sitting on the couch with a solid feeling of horror dawning on him.

There was still time to put the brakes on.

But it was hard to think with Marge prodding him and urging him to get his ass over there. Everything between Allie and card games and students were all flying around like scattered pages and he wasn't sober enough to bother trying to pick one to look at for too long.

"Thank you~" He kissed Marge soundly on the lips before sweeping himself up off the couch. He nearly stumbled over the coffee table that he forgot was there but then he was gone, no more thoughts. Well, nobody ever accused him of being the overthinking type. He thought enough. And then he shut off what he didn't care for. Typical.

But it was fucking cold outside, with bare feet and nothing but a light robe. Silk was fine to the touch, but it wasn't made to keep out the cold. He stood outside Brayden's apartment with his arms around his body after knocking urgently. Why didn't he get dressed before he stepped outside?

Oh, boy.

Bray sensed a whole Story behind the friend's appearance. He stood in the middle of his living room in his PJs, contemplating heating up some soup to bring over later. Jack didn't reply but hey, it didn't hurt to be prepared! Although he hadn't gotten a good look at Jack's friend, the fact that he was Jack's friend elevated his importance. In the end, he decided to put the pot back on the stove and as he turned around, he realized he was still in his PJs.

"Shoot!" He turned for his bedroom but Jack knocked--the curse of living so close! Bray's head still swam. Cards. Popcorn. Butts. Sexting... Oh, sexting. He had never done it, wouldn't know where to start, but it did feel a little racy describing their clothes to one another. Not that--not that Bray would have slipped off his very unsexy, plain navy blue PJs.

Jack in a robe though...

He raced across the room to open the door, not even trying to appear less-than-eager about seeing Jack at 4 in the morning. Any time was a good time to see Jack, wasn't it? God, he was pathetic. He knew it, he just couldn't stop himself. Bray opened the door to a freezing Jack--in his short silk robe. "Jack! Oh god it's freezing." Bray pulled him inside and shut the door quick.

"Here, come sit on the couch. There's a blanket." Which Jack would recognize as the soft fleece one they used to cover their legs with when they watched Bray's favorite series--The Wizards--on TV.

"Everything they tell you about alcohol warming you up is a filthy lie!" Jack declared as he was ushered into the much warmer apartment. Anything was warmer than standing with his feet on freezing concrete, seeping into his bones and soul. He didn't need any convincing to take a seat on the couch and cover up in a warm fleece blanket. And god, Marge was right, he was so disgusting because even as he wrapped the blanket around himself, he was realizing that it smelled just like Brayden.

Whatever time it was, however much he had to drink, that sting of icy air on his face was enough to slap him right awake. Not that he was really all that tired. Or he was tired, but not in the about to fall asleep sort of way. His mind was still racing chaotically and he vaguely wondered if he had forgotten to take his medication that morning and if he was maybe going insane.

But no, no. Everything was fine. Warming up in the blanket, he looked up at Brayden and then he sighed, sitting back against the old threadbare couch. Brayden seemed to collect old secondhand things, maybe by choice. Probably by choice. He was a single man just like Jack. He could afford to buy nicer things. He just didn't want to. Something about him drew him to old things, abandoned things, things that needed care and attention and love. Jack laughed softly at his own thoughts. Was there room enough in there for another leftover?

"I know you have soup. Soup, it turns out, isn't a filthy liar like my old friend alcohol."

Bray's laugh was soft and low as he watched Jack make a beeline for the couch and immediately try to cocoon up in the blanket. Unfortunately it was a Bray-sized blanket and not a Jack-sized one, so at best it covered about half of him, but it was better than nothing! Bray followed him to the couch but didn't sit, opting to stand beside it, leaning lightly against the armrest while he gazed fondly--if still sleepily--at Jack.

"It sounds like you need some new friends," he remarked gently. As gently as the hand that stroked back a few curls from Jack's forehead. "Good thing I put the pot on to warm up. Do you want some?" Soup was good for hangovers too, wasn't it? Or was Jack still drunk and not yet at the headache, dry mouth, hate-the-world-and-watch-it-burn stage yet?

At some point, Bray realized that he had begun to emulate Jack--he started touching him. Randomly. Without knowing it, without purposely doing it. His hands, they had minds of their own. Bray always heard that saying but never lived it until now. Parts of Jack invited touching--his hair, his temple, his brow. Other parts of him too, he was tempting all over but Bray didn't want to seem... forward.

Jack did it too, though. He touched Bray, left soft and almost absent kisses against his forehead sometimes. Sometimes they'd turn toward one another, both with the same intention, and then--awkwardness. Bray would laugh and pretend he was reaching for something and eventually move away, recalling Jack's firm declaration that he wanted nothing to do with relationships. But he thought back to those moments when he had a minute alone. He wondered what would happen if he'd done it.. If he leaned in and kissed him.

The blanket really wasn't meant for Jacks. But he did his best to wrap himself up in it, even if parts of him awkwardly stuck out and were still cold. A blanket that smelled like Brayden was better than nothing.

"Hm... yes, I do have some toxic friends." He didn't mean people, either. He definitely meant the alcohol. His vices were many and numerous, all designed to blank the mind, to stop intrusive thoughts, to forcibly keep history where it belonged while he attempted to forge some semblance of a new life ahead of him. Some days were easier than others. There were days when it never even crossed his mind that he would rather be dead. And then there were days when it tormented him mercilessly, where voices from the past mocked and pushed. The world would be better off without him.

But now it was silenced by some dream of a memory. Somebody that he thought was Brayden, telling him that he didn't want him to die or disappear. He wished it was true. Jack's wishes never came true. And legend had it even when dreams came true, there was always a caveat.

Jack closed his eyes like a content cat receiving much longed for attention. He almost forgot the question posed to him. Something about soup. Rude of him not to follow up, when Jack himself brought it up.

"I do."

He did want the soup. Something substantial and warm in his stomach would probably do him good. When was the last time he ate? Long before he decided to dress up and head out to the night club. He never planned to get shit-faced. All he wanted was to have a couple drinks, find a nice looking guy, have a good time, and then go home satiated enough to stop thinking about this face right in front of him. The one he saw when he opened his eyes and he was still there, with his too-kind eyes.

With a strange feeling of clarity, he said, still looking into those eyes, "I know it has to stop but I've never lived without something to numb it."

"Okay. I'll get you a bowl." 

Now Bray was extra glad that he hadn't waited for Jack to respond before putting the pot back on the stove. He could have microwaved a bowl easily but there was something much more satisfying about soup heated through on the stove, bubbling and piping hot, with fluffy dumplings all bobbing around merrily as though asking to be chosen for the bowl and eaten.

Bray was about to turn away to get the soup when Jack spoke again, and as always he listened with full attention. The last time Jack said something poignant he was drunk off his face, and the next morning he didn't remember anything. Bray remembered, though. And he tried to be even kinder to Jack, to be more attentive to his needs, to watch out for signs, to look out for him.

He wondered if he was stifling Jack that way, though. The doubts crept up unawares. Was he spending too much time with Jack? Asking too much? Did his intentions show too clearly? Because Bray was something of an open book and Jack, he was sharp--he could read between lines like no one else, with unfailing accuracy.

Bray swallowed. Paused again before he spoke. "It's not too late to learn how to live without alcohol, Jack. And you don't have to do it alone." He smiled briefly and turned away to fetch the bowl, swallowing again, mind buzzing with the admission. It was no secret that Jack used alcohol liberally. Bray saw the bottles back at his place.

Whiskey, Jack said, was the one he turned to when things got really rough; he wondered if that bottle was emptied tonight.

"Here, be careful, it's hot." Bray came back around with the soup--and a spoon. He sat beside Jack and handed the bowl over, then tugged the blanket up more securely over him. "Maybe we can wean you off whiskey using chicken soup."

Soup for the soul. An absurd idea, that something so simple could act as a true balm to a dying soul. It wasn't the soup, though. Substitute the soup for anything else, as long as the person providing it had genuine feelings for the people around them.

Jack met all kinds of people in his life, many of them the worst the world had to offer. He didn't let it get to him--or he tried not to. Somehow, he used humor--dark as it was--to deflect the worst of it. What really did he have to gain if he sat around thinking about his own lost innocence or how nobody in his life ever protected him? Because he knew in his heart of hearts that was a lie. There were teachers--the reason he became one himself--who were there, concerned, loving. If it weren't for their saving graces, Jack might actually be a monster. A real monster, without a drop of empathy or compassion for anybody else.

Miraculously, they were still there. Feelings and emotions. They said not all sociopaths were serial killers but all serial killers were sociopaths. And he had to disagree. Knowing what a sociopath was, he was aware that it wasn't what he was. Because he did feel things--he felt things too strongly. So strongly that it hurt, to the point where he had to numb it.

Oh, all those poor life choices that wanted to come for his throat.

Jack fell silent as he waited for the soup. Brayden's heart was so big that it was any wonder he was alone. Somebody really fucked up. Or Brayden's odd shyness made people hesitate. Was he playing games? Was he interested? Jack saw what he saw and he didn't think it was simply wishful thinking on his part. It was this that was on his mind as Brayden came back with a bowl of soup. Even the steam rising up into his face felt good. The warmth of the bowl in his hands. Everything felt so... cozy and homey and right.

"...doesn't weaning involve mixing the alcohol with the soup? You know, less and less until there's just soup?" He said it with amusement but his mind was still elsewhere, on the other things that were swimming mindlessly through his brain.

"I tried quitting cold turkey once," he said, as he spooned up some soup. "The drugs were a lot worse but for some reason, I just can't seem to stop turning back to the bottle. It's the first thing I think about the minute things go wrong."

Bray laughed, "Hush, semantics." Smart aleck. Bray wasn't adding whiskey or any other type of alcohol to his soups, so Jack would just have to deal with that. But his soup tasted good, it was hearty and it didn't need any fancy embellishments, which was a sort of apt representation of Bray and Bray's life. Nothing fancy. Simple, down-to-earth, homey, but always there for anyone who needed it--and him.

Right now Jack needed him, even if it was only for a blanket and a bowl of steaming soup. Anything Bray had, he would have given to Jack if it only meant that he could help heal the wounds and scars that pockmarked his soul. Jack's soul was another one that soup wouldn't cure, sadly, and Bray knew that. Alcohol wasn't the answer, though. It was just a cover-up, like a lick of paint over a crack in the wall. Even if no one saw it, the crack was still there, still steadily growing.

For a moment he watched Jack spooning soup, recalling with a little smile how the first time they met, Jack was fishing around with his fingers for dumplings. That day stood out for Bray, in good ways and in bad ways. Was that only a few weeks ago? Less than a month, really--and look how far they had come. Look how close they were, seated side-by-side on Bray's worn couch, talking about all the things that mattered instead of everything that didn't.

He rested an arm over the back of the couch, using that free hand to lightly stroke the back of Jack's head and down to the nape of his neck. Jack seemed to like that--okay he outright said it one time. Fine hairs at the back of his neck. Soft dark hair. The tip of an ear. Bray's fingertips explored idly.

"What do you think it'll take to make you turn to something else the next time things get bad? Is there... something? Anything?" His heart was full of sympathy, but it was heavy with sadness. "You can't keep punishing yourself like this, Jack."

Things could be good, if he could let go. They could be perfect, as perfect as anything Jack ever wanted. Mundane as it was, there was something gloriously and achingly beautiful about just being. Not alone. Being alive with somebody else. And somehow Brayden caught onto how much he liked that--the stroking against the back of his neck, against the fine hairs that sprang out from the nape of his neck. But in all honesty, Jack simply liked being touched, where it was a chase hug or a gentle kiss or even those damned nails across his back.

Contact meant something. It had always meant more than words. People always said things about how they wished they could do this or they would have done that. But nothing said it like the actual actions. Somehow, Jack never got the feeling that Brayden said anything out of exaggeration or imagination. Whatever he said, he just meant it.

So yes, mundane as it was to sit in a living room, eating soup, it was the exact something his restless soul had been seeking out for so long. It was the balm for his soul. Not an absolute cure, but it definitely brought with it relief.

Jack paused, spoon in mouth, before slowly removing it and setting it down in the mostly eaten bowl of soup. How long was an appropriate amount of time to punish oneself when they did something terrible? His heart and his chest ached with the longing to share his burdens but he knew--he just knew--that he would lose Brayden forever and he... he didn't think he could handle it, especially not right now. Things were still oddly raw between them.

"You."

"Me?"

Bray was hearing things, right? Him? It sounded like Jack was saying he... could replace the whiskey. That Jack could turn to him if something terrible happened. Ah.. because Bray was reliable. Not because...

But no, that wasn't right. Jack had the Look in his eyes again. That certain look, soft, special and unbearable. Trapped. There was a soul in there trying to get out, trying to be understood. Bray didn't know if it was just him or if anyone else saw the same look. Did Jack let anyone get close enough to him for them to see through his facade?

"Me?" He repeated again, leaning in closer with hope beating down the walls of his heart. "I'm here... I'll always be here, Jack."

Here waiting foolishly for something he didn't think could happen, couldn't believe was happening even if it was all unfolding before his very eyes. Why was he so afraid? He was always afraid to lose people, to ruin friendships, to pursue relationships. Loss was unbearable. Being left behind, it was unbearable and sometimes it was easier to not try than to try and lose.

It was easier to hold on tight, tight, tight to what he had, like he did with this old couch, with the chipped bowl he'd been using for years, with the little tiny chocolate that Jack brought back for him, still sitting on his bedroom windowsill. It was easier to settle for what he had than to dare dream about what he could have.

But Jack... He was so special. Different rules existed for Jack.

Feeling punch-drunk on an emotion that he didn't dare put a name to, Bray leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. A kiss--a real kiss. And when he pulled away, the hope was filling him to overflowing, shining in his eyes, infusing his smile. "You--we're not alone anymore, Jack, and maybe... we could...."

Always was a pretty strong word. Brayden might even believe it with all his heart, too. For now. But it was easier to make promises when the whole story wasn't there, when the ugly parts of a person were buried below and all Brayden could see was the pretty flower that sprouted up out of the shit and the mud. He couldn't even see the ugly milk white roots, spidery and hideous, untouched by the light of the sun.

But he liked hearing it, nonetheless. That he would always be there. Jack wished it to be true and he wondered what the caveat for this one was. Would he realize something about Brayden? Could there possibly be anything to discover that would leave him recoiling? Hardly; Brayden was one of those people who were laid bare, simple as they appeared. Things were pretty black and white for Brayden, which could be the problem for them both in the end.

No matter what, just knowing Brayden seemed to have caused a shift in Jack that he couldn't explain in words. He just knew that it happened and it was frightening, the kind of thing he didn't like to look headlong at, the kind of thing he chose to turn his gaze from and pretend it didn't exist. The kind of thing he deflected with a smart remark and then moved onto the next subject.

So he said nothing at first, only searching Brayden's expression. So genuine. Brayden definitely believed in what he said. He believes in us. It struck him hard, like a stab to the heart and if he weren't so accustomed to disguising his real feelings, he very well might have gasped out loud at the suddenness of it. Instead, he started to lower his gaze, started to form his lips into some kind of deflection, the kind that came naturally to him. And instead, lips met his.

The confusion that came afterward swirled around all those pages of thoughts he had been having trouble with earlier. But lifting his gaze to meet Brayden's, all he saw was that damnable kindness in his eyes. Hope. Affection. Oddly still, understanding. Jack leaned in. Eyes half closed and he breathed him in. The real thing. His hand cradled the back of Brayden's head, through long, soft tawny hair.

"B..." He meant to say it, that he needed Brayden to understand how bad he was for him, how just because Brayden was a good influence on him didn't mean things didn't go both ways. But everything wanted to shut down. It was so hard to look at him when Brayden smiled like that at him, with that light of hope glowing in his every cell. You can do so much better than me, B. Say it. Say it.

Did he stare too long? His eyes closed. Like the kiss of a butterfly's wings, his lips met Brayden's again and deepened naturally into a real kiss.

Jack waited so long to answer that Bray thought he had done something wrong. Said something wrong. He was so careful not to let it slip, his feelings, his small hopes and dreams for them. For now there was a them, where there used to be one. And Bray, he was so cautiously optimistic that it took him long enough even to get to this point.

Didn't Jack feel it? The tension between then and the unspoken attraction? Bray wanted to ask Jack that, the longer it took for him to formulate a response. Because Jack asked him that a week ago and Bray had acknowledged it. And if drunk Jack could be so honest, then sober Jack... Surely he felt it more. Surely the surreptitious glances that used to be cast from across the courtyard were now right up close, their eyes locked on each other any time they were in the same room together.

Bray saw it. He was afraid to acknowledge it but that didn't mean it didn't happen. Chemistry was a rare and beautiful thing; it happened to some easily and to some only once in a lifetime.

"Jack," he whispered, pleadingly. Maybe they didn't have to be lovers right now. Maybe all he wanted was for Jack to be open to the idea of them. And whoever, whatever, hurt Jack so much that he closed himself off, Bray could slowly unearth and help to heal. Jack said it himself—he wanted Bray. He wanted Bray to be the one he could turn to when things were tough, when he felt like he needed an outlet. Bray was up to the task, wasn't he? He could try. He could learn.

Instead of a response, he was kissed again and his fingertips pressed against Jack's shoulders. Was that a yes? A no? It was such a tender kiss but there was something horribly sad in it, too. Bray let it happen—for once. No thinking, only feeling. Reacting. His hands slipping over Jack's shoulders, arms looping around his neck. He leaned in closer and dared to hope, dared to let himself believe in something good and pure.

But the feelings were raw, too. There was still a lot of hurt in him and in Jack. Bray took in a long-overdue breath as he broke off the kiss and turned his head into Jack's shoulder for a long moment. His brain buzzed. They kissed. And Jack—was he drunk? He smelled like alcohol. Bray sniffed again and the strong odor was unmistakable. "...are you drunk?" He asked hesitantly, fearfully. If this was like the last time...

How could anybody say no to that? To the way Brayden said his name in just that tone, in that soft voice, like he was half afraid that Jack was going to do it. Exactly what he thought about doing--deflect. Brayden didn't have to say it--don't do it--because Jack could hear it in that tone and see it in his eyes.

So he dared to kiss him back. One day, he might look back on this moment as a mistake. Or he could look back on it as a turning point. Fervently, he hoped for the latter. Jack was so sick of hating himself and his every move, he was tired of constantly deflecting every single person in his life. After so long, it was part of what drove him to the breaking point in the first place. The need for this. A trusted person who looked at him without judgement.

Never mind the buried secrets he feared would ruin everything.

At least right now, he had this. And for some reason, the depth of that emotion made his eyes sting and he squeezed them shut as tight as he could as they parted. He lowered his head, parted his lips, breathed in. And he could still smell him and sense him, the scent of his soap, his shampoo, detergent, whatever mix of scents that created Brayden.

His eyes half opened and his words caught in his throat. Then he let out a short little exhalation of a laugh.

"My new friend spilled her drink on me." Right there, on that same shoulder Brayden was trying to nuzzle. "But I'm a little drunk, yes. Rule of thumb, B. If it's a weekend, I'm probably a little drunk."

"Oh." Bray transferred his head to Jack's other shoulder--the one that didn't smell like alcohol. He smiled, and then let out a soft, uncontrollable laugh. How absurd. He would choose that shoulder to press his cheek to, the one soaked in whatever drink Jack's friend spilled. Jack had rather a lot of friends, didn't he? He got along so well with everyone and everyone seemed to love him.

But that love, it was a shallow kind of affection. They got along with him; Jack was bright and unique, he had his own way of doing things, saying things. Sometimes he caught people aback; Bray saw that with his own eyes, and was always amused to see people grappling with how to respond. See, he wasn't the only one who got tongue-tied around Jack.

Yet, Jack was still alone. He was a social butterfly but he never came down to rest, didn't have a place to land. He just kept flitting from one person to another, one place to another. From one side of the country to the other. Bray smiled against his shoulder. Maybe here, Jack had found a home at last. Here in Hazleton, but--dare he be so presumptuous--also here with Bray.

"You weren't drunk yesterday. Or--Friday." It was Sunday morning, wasn't it? So late that it was early. But Jack wasn't drunk, not even a little bit, on Friday evening. So there were exceptions to that rule.

"I didn't drink much when I first moved here, either," he confessed. On the one hand, he was too busy moving in. On the other hand, he had high hopes that this would be his last move. While he kept his alcohol for those emergencies he mentioned, he hadn't had more than a glass here and there. It worked great for his new job. He could work with a clear head.

Mostly, he just needed a night cap to get to sleep. Enough to knock him out but not leave him with a hangover. It was  a delicate balance but one Jack had by now learned. The past few weeks had been a little more tumultuous on him, though. It started with Allie. But there were also conflicting feelings regarding Brayden. As always, even the possibility of a relationship spun him out of control.

And he tried his best not to get himself drunk enough to be hungover before work. Or... let wild little minxes fuck him in the ass. That was a lesson learned.

"...I just wanted to have a good time. I ran into somebody I knew and, I admit, there was something rotten in the state of denmark, if you know what I mean. So I took him home, hoping... I don't know." He touched his chest, where his pack of cigarettes would normally be in his coat pocket. Oh right, he was wearing a robe with nothing much left to the imagination beneath.

"Things got weird. He thought I was somebody I'm not." Anymore. "And I thought he was somebody he's not. It got a little messy and I, the fool that I am, turned to my very favorite of the vices, which is My Lady, Whiskey." He fell silent, then let out a long, quiet breath, turning his head toward Brayden afterward, resting his chin against his cheek.

"He's messed up, B. And I think part of it's because of me."

Those shoulders--how heavily weighed down were they? Bray nuzzled into Jack's shoulder gently, stroking the top of the other with his hand. These shoulders were always held with a certain air of nobility, thrown back, proud. But there was so much piled onto them, too, that Bray wondered where Jack's source of strength came from. What did he draw from, to be able to hold them up?

There was something admirable in that, he found. Even despite Jack's demons, he could still get through life and get on with it, day after day. Bray did too but his days were all colorless, bland, blending into one another. And Jack's was all color but he now knew it was too vivid, too bright, to eclipse the pain that he felt inside and to distract from the inner demons that came to plague him when the colors drained and the songs faded away.

He didn't say much as Jack began to speak. It seemed as though Jack had been holding the words in, waiting for someone to come along so that he could unload them off of his shoulders and to free himself from that burden. Bray lifted his head briefly to look at Jack; he was thoughtful but still silent, although he nodded to show that he was listening.

If he had to be honest, he thought that the friend was more than a friend. Not that he thought Jack was dating him, but... bringing a friend home from the club only meant a few things. It hurt him, though he tried not to let it get to him. Jack was his own person; he wasn't under any obligation to humor Bray's feelings. While they were in this tentative, strange new territory, Jack still wasn't tied down. Neither was Bray, but he wasn't exactly going to go out and bring someone home from a noisy nightclub.

"But you... you're not responsible for what other people think. If he misunderstood who you were, it's not your fault." He stroked Jack's cheek lightly. "Did you drink because you felt guilty? Because you disappointed him?"

Jack ran a hand through his hair. He didn't know where to look or what to say to that. Guilt was a huge part of it. Regret was one of his ugliest burdens but he hadn't done anything to Allie. Should he feel guilty that he didn't when Allie might have wanted it? But he didn't. He didn't want to die, he wanted somebody to hold him, like Jack did. He wanted somebody to look at him like maybe there was a whole world inside of him that only he could see.

And Jack wanted to. He wanted to but he didn't even know how to try. What could he do for Allie, to ameliorate all that pain inside? What could anyone do?

He knew Brayden was right but it still felt wrong inside that he had no ability to change things for Allie. That maybe he might have but now he couldn't. That part of him had somehow been shut off. The fear had been there for a moment--a breathless, deathly moment. But when vision returned, he could see that Allie was still there, alive, content, sighing, laying back.

Breathing.

"Somebody hurt him. And then I hurt him. And I don't think he's going to be okay. So I keep--keep thinking, where could I have changed things, when did it go wrong, how could I fix it." He looked up at Brayden. "But I can't fix things, Brayden. I can't even fix myself. But I can't watch another--I can't let him... die."

While all of the details of the story eluded Bray, he could tell that something about Jack's friend had touched him in a bad way. It did something to him, drove him to drink to chase the guilt away. Why, though? Why did Jack feel the need to fix his friend? Why did this affect him in such an obviously significant way?

Bray thought back to that evening out in the courtyard, when Jack came stumbling home drunk from an evening out with their co-workers. Jack collapsed against him, whispering about wanting to die. Was that their common thread? Why Jack was so concerned over his friend, and why there was such fear in his eyes? If it were something frivolous, Bray didn't think Jack would be this way, almost frantically clinging to the assertion that he needed to fix everything for his friend. How good a friend could he be? Jack had only been in town for less than two months. It had to be that common thread--something he saw in his friend that he knew existed inside of himself.

He couldn't let his friend die--Jack admitted finally.

See? Being an over-thinker had its merits too.

Again, Bray took his time to formulate a response. He didn't want to say something in a hurry just to say something, and risk making things worse by compounding Jack's guilt.

"Then... we won't. We won't let him die. If you can't fix him, you can still help bring him back from the brink. And in time, maybe someone will come along who can fix him. If you help him stay away from the edge just long enough for that person to come along... Well, that's the most you can do, isn't it, Jack? It's the most anyone can do."

"It's just that..."

How to put it? Jack searched for the appropriate words in his surroundings, as if Brayden's friendly, cozy apartment would tell him something. Funny how their homes were built the same but they looked nothing alike. Jack's home was fancy. With the paintings and the shiny, new furniture.

"I'm not sure... we can."

We. Brayden was inserting himself into the mix, which was cute. But he didn't know the darkness that lurked in people. He didn't seem capable of it. As if he had been so loved that he was blinded to the very idea. But no, Jack had seen loneliness inside of him, too. An emptiness, as if before all this, he was a robot, going through the motions of his daily life without much joy. Was that how it was for him? Bland? Did he ever wake up for work wondering if it was worth it?

"He had somebody," he said finally. "Allie. He told me about him. His boyfriend. He spoke highly of him and I can tell he loves him but he doesn't feel like he deserves him." That, Jack understood. He understood it so, so much that it hurt. "So he broke up with him, even though he told me that his boyfriend wanted to work things out."

Idly, he slid a hand over Brayden's hand, over the back of his knuckles, along his fingers.

"Do you think we should look for him? Or... would it just make it worse?" He sighed. "I'm not usually much of a meddler, B." But... he glanced at the window, back where his own apartment was. He thought he knew somebody who was.

"Hey, you can't say that when we haven't tried."

Only Jack had tried--what about Bray? What about his chance to help someone? Bray knew he couldn't fix everyone but he at least deserved a chance to help make things all right, for Jack's sake if for nothing else. Bray wasn't much of a meddler but he was raised with love, in a loving environment. He was taught only how to love, not how to hurt or destroy. And that was his unique power that he brought into all of this.

He looked down at their hands too, at the way Jack stroked his fingers. That was a loving gesture and no one could tell Bray otherwise. Jack had it in him too--that secret power, the power to care for someone and to love someone. Even if it wasn't Bray and even if this was only a temporary reprieve from the darkness inside of him, Bray felt lucky to be here. He was lucky that Jack allowed him to be a part of his life--that Jack wanted Bray to be a part of him.

"I think we can be forgiven for meddling a little, if it helps save someone's life." He smiled up at Jack. "I'll bring him some soup. And I think we should look for his boyfriend. Maybe he can give us some insight into how your friend--Allie ended up this way."

Jack made a face. Oh, he could say whatever he wanted! He did try! Maybe not hard enough. At the very least, though, he kept Allie from going out in the night with a destroyed ass and a bunch of Advil in his system. And... at least he seemed peaceful in his sleep. Every time Jack checked in on him, he seemed at peace. There had to be a way to fix this. It was important to Jack. It was... a redemption of a sort.

Of course, he knew saving a life wasn't going to make up for those lost by his hand. But it was all he could do, unless he just wanted to give up and let go. Say it wasn't his problem. Bury it away with everybody else. Jack... didn't think he could survive another death on his hands, though. He knew it when he arrived here, before he even laid eyes on Brayden. Most certainly, there was a shift in him after being shown Brayden's unconditional kindness. But the deaths had been haunting him for years. And with each one, another piece of Jack's soul cracked. One more... one more... and he didn't think he was going to make it.

But he couldn't share that part with Brayden. So he swallowed hard and he stared at their hands, at their clean hands. No blood on these hands. Hands of lovers. No, no. Just hands of friends. Friends. Jack could use real friends. Did he really want to fuck that all up by sleeping with Brayden? (If Marge was to be believed, it was The Right Thing to do.) Jack wasn't so convinced. Sex, intimacy, and romance were all very different categories. Nobody could convince him otherwise.

"Well, then," he said, lifting his head in a more Jack-like fashion. "We'll try to soothe his soul with soup and find his boyfriend." He ran his hand up Brayden's arm, finally--finally--smiling. "I have to admit... having a plan of action makes me feel a lot less..." He waved a hand. "Useless."

There he was, the old Jack. Handsome Jack, with his handsome smile. Bray's heart fluttered every time Jack smiled at him and he was hard-pressed not to smile back even bigger than before. It wasn't all dire and bad and terrible--the situation and the realness of the danger was, but when they put their heads together, anything was possible. Bray felt that way with Jack, that anything was possible if they did it together.

"You were never useless, don't say that."

And here Bray thought he was self-deprecating and hard on himself, but Jack was downright cruel. Useless? Never. He helped Bray so much, eased him out of his little old turtle shell. He made Mondays not only bearable, but something to look forward to. Weekends were no longer lonely affairs where Bray went through the motions--cleaning his already tidy apartment, working in bits and pieces on his novel, going out for groceries. Now everything had a purpose and there was a purpose for everything he did.

He caught the waving hand in his own and pulled it down to rest in the space between them. Bray's smile was directed at their clasped hands, too abashed to look Jack in the eye as he murmured, "I don't know if you realized this, but you've already saved me. You're the hero in my story, Jack, and you mean the world to me. I know you'll be able to save Allie, too."

"Useless to him," he clarified. "I feel less useless to Allie. Well. Felt. Although I suppose helpless would be more accurate... It just sounds more pathetic."

Helpless sounded so... small. Useless was bad, too, but it didn't sound as small. And Jack didn't want to be small. Small minded, small hearted. Vulnerable. There, he thought it. Helpless made him feel vulnerable. At least useless just made him sound lazy. Why lazy was the preferred of the two could fill an entire chapter of a psychological profile. He didn't care to reflect on it.

"Ah...m." Jack felt a lot of things in that moment. A warm upswell of affection--Brayden's smile made Jack smile, too. A shock of surprise--how did he save Brayden? But also a tendril of fear. What Allie said about heroes and villains... Jack didn't feel like a hero, although he didn't like the idea of being a villain, either. And he wondered what it said about Allie's narrative, if the so-called villain saved the not-so-heroic-feeling hero. Allie thought of himself as a villain but... he was still a cop.

He wondered if in saving Allie, he was about to fuck himself over.

"I saved you...? And here I thought you were the one saving me."

"You saved me, even if it might not feel like it." Bray was firm on that point. Jack saved him and Jack brought him back from the brink of hopelessness. Before Jack came along, Bray had been inching towards the edge of that long fall. The precipice yawned before him, luring him in. Give up, it called out to him. Give up and embrace the loneliness, give in to the hollow feeling.

Bray was not and had never been suicidal, though. His demise was mostly--he supposed--losing who he was. Losing purpose. Going through life simply existing, but not enjoying any of it. Jack brought him back from all of that and showed him a life worth living, and for that Bray was forever grateful, even if he might never be able to coherently express himself.

Being told that he was saving Jack, though, made him feel warm. Wanted. Useful rather than useless. So they both saved each other? Bray looked up, pleasantly surprised by that revelation. "I guess that makes us equal then," he laughed as he reached out to pull the blanket down over Jack's shoulders.

Ah, well, tonight wasn't the night either, was it? He thought he had expressed his desire to be... more than friends but Jack never did give him any answers either way. Although, Bray supposed that absence of an answer was answer in itself. Maybe Jack didn't want to let him down, too. Maybe he didn't want to disappoint Bray and God knew Bray wouldn't have wanted him to go back to his old friend, whiskey.

He glanced outside the window, where the sun had yet to rise. But the clock said nearly five o'clock, and Bray wondered if Jack might need some sleep. Sleep was good for the soul, too. His hand lingered on the blanket, hovering near Jack's chest. "Are you going back to your place to sleep? Or do you want to stay here?"

Saved him... From what? He still liked it. Hearing it. Thinking about it. Without even trying, somehow he was doing the right thing. Good things. Jack never saw himself as a hero nor as a villain. Not even a monster, unless he looked really deep into it--so deep that it only cut him with its truth when Allie said it so plainly. Allie didn't even mean it in a derogatory way and it still cut deep.

After all this time, all this desperate, terrible effort, he'd managed to save one person. And he didn't even know it. Didn't know how he did it. He couldn't stop smiling and it slightly embarrassed him, so Jack lowered his head. The smile didn't go away, though it softened at the edges.

"Oh no, we'll never be equals." He said it so loftily that it might have sounded as if he thought himself better than Brayden but that could never be further from the truth. He lifted his hand up to the blanket too, as Brayden adjusted it. "O soother of souls and maker of soups, I bow to thee accomplishments."

But good question. Stay or go. He knew what he wanted. But Marge might be pissed if he left her alone in his place. What if he went back and she cut up all his ties? No, no. She'd never do anything like that. ...Would she? No. He cupped Brayden's cheek. "I want to stay with you." A gentle pat. "But I should probably go back. Marge is babysitting Allie and she might get revenge on me if I don't get back soon." He paused. "Although.... she'll probably be pissed anyway since I didn't--"

He glanced away and made a vague motion with his hands. Oh, did he almost say that aloud?

Jack said what Bray not-so-secretly felt. They couldn't be equals. Jack would always be elevated in Bray's eyes because he was the hero in Bray's life story. Cringe-worthy as that declaration may have been, Bray felt it to be true. Jack was the bright spot in his mornings, the one his thoughts turned to when he let his mind wander. He wouldn't have said that Jack featured in every thought... but he starred in a great many of them.

Meanwhile, Bray was... the maker of soups. The only thing he knew how to make, soup. What a terrible skill for a hero, he thought. Soup Man? Was he Soup Man? While Jack was a star--and a rock star--Bray was Soup Man, arriving on the scene with bowls of hot chicken soup to soothe frazzled nerves and to tell everyone that things were going to be all right.

Not exactly a glamorous mental image.

"Ah, I see," he said, disappointed that Jack wouldn't be staying. But it sounded like he was needed back at his place. Bray might have tagged along but it sounded like there were too many people there already. Allie. Marge--another of his friends, Bray imagined. And Jack would have his hands full with Allie, who was very badly off by all accounts.

"Since you didn't what?" He asked the question idly and almost in passing, as he stood up to gather the bowl and bring it to the sink to soak. While in the kitchen, he grabbed a container. "I'll pack up some soup for you for later. And for your friends, if they want any."

"Since I didn't fuck you."

Oh, there. There he did say it out loud. Oops. Part of him said it because he wanted to see Brayden's reaction. Part of him instantly wanted to take the words back before he could. Friends, he kept telling himself. They were just friends. Weirdly intimate friends, yes. But friends. What if he just screwed it all up by planting the seed into Brayden's mind?

He kissed me.

And that he did. But kissing was one thing. Fucking. Another. See, Jack had ways of compartmentalizing everything. There was nothing wrong with being intimate with a close friend--he had no qualms being so close to Brayden. So touchy. Because he knew when they met. He just felt the connection. It didn't hurt that he also found him attractive.

Fucking was casual. It was done for the fun of it, a way to pass the time and numb any stray thoughts. Fucking was something he did when he was bored, craved a good time, or thought somebody was particularly attractive. Flirting was one of his favorite pastimes, whether anything came of it or not. And he did have a think for eye-fucking anything he thought was attractive.

Fucking a friend, that could be a thing, too. He just had a hard time envisioning white-bread-vanilla Brayden as a friend that fucked. Not that he didn't want him to be. But... damn.

He crossed his ankles as he sat forward, pulling the blanket and his robe a little closer around him, as if he even had a demure bone in his body.

"Apparently, she knows you and she thinks we should fuck." Jack shrugged casually, as if it was the most natural topic to come up in conversation.

"Huh?!" Bray actually dropped the soup spoon in his shock. That-that was very... direct. Blunt, even. He bent to retrieve the dropped spoon, carefully avoiding looking at Jack who sounded completely nonchalant about everything. "She knows me?" Did he know her? Marge? The name wasn't familiar. While he wracked his brain for a face to fit to the name, he found another ladle and carefully began to transfer soup into the glass container.

"Um. Well." What the hell did he say to something like that?! Bray's face was hotter than the soup. He. Couldn't imagine why this Marge person would think that he and Jack needed to—fuck. Or why she would be upset that they didn't! Sure, Bray was upset too but not about something like that. Intimacy went hand-in-hand with relationships in his mind, and he and Jack weren't in a relationship. Ergo... no sex.

"I... have the soup." Oh, just drop it, Bray, he thought to himself. Drop it and move on, don't dwell on what could have been. Jack wasn't interested in a relationship with him. They might have kissed but maybe it was simply for comfort rather than out of a desire to be his partner. Bray even went out on a limb and kissed him first to indicate his own willingness to be his lover but he was now perfectly clear on where they stood and that was fine. He could be friends. They could be friends.

"I could lie," he said, mostly to himself now. "But I think she'd see right through me. She's like that, you know."

And she would see right through him; it was a weak lie. And Jack thought it would be fairly obvious if he had sex versus if he didn't have sex. Especially if she and Brayden started talking. There were some things that just weren't practical to lie about, he supposed. Jack's policy was to be as close to the truth as possible. And if not, then he just let things be vague. Or didn't bring them up at all.

He slid his hands over the hem of the fleece blanket, so different than anything that Jack himself owned. Everything with Jack was silks and brocades, cashmere and cotton (good cotton, not the cheap shit). He didn't think he owned a single thing made of fleece. But it was... nice. It was very... Brayden.

"Hey, B--" The question began but it didn't finish. All the hints had been dropped, the clues. Jack had been flirting with Brayden Smith since they met, first with his eyes, and then with his words. And even his hands. But Brayden didn't seem as receptive as Jack might have hoped. Sometimes, he thought it was because Brayden was just clueless. But he had been in a long term relationship before. Shouldn't he know the clues? See them? Maybe he was dodging Jack for a reason.

"Thank you." That was what he said instead of asking him. Why they didn't, couldn't, wouldn't. It was a stupid question, anyway. If they were, they would have.

Regret hung in the air between them as Bray returned with the container, wrapped up in a towel to guard against the heat. He smiled at Jack but his heart, it wasn't smiling. It didn't feel like smiling. "Yes?" he asked as he handed the soup to Jack, who didn't go through with what he started to say. Maybe it was just as well. Platitudes and sympathetic words couldn't take away from the fact that they just... weren't happening.

"Oh. You're welcome, Jack. If you need more, just come over." There was a little hope in that--in the fact that Jack was nearby, and it was only a matter of walking across the courtyard to see him. Bray was trying to be patient. And if it never happened or could never happen, at least he had this friendship to hold on to, and he treasured it no less than he would have a genuine romantic relationship.

Maybe the timing was all wrong. Maybe Jack just needed a friend in this moment, and not a romantic entanglement to add to everything else that was going on. Bray's life was uncomplicated but Jack's wasn't. His smile grew a touch warmer. Yeah. Jack didn't need that nonsense at the moment, grappling with his own pain, trying to help his friend. Even in his own darkest hour Jack was still trying to save someone else.

Heroic, Bray called that.

"Well. You should get some rest, Jack. And if you want to talk again, you know my door's open to you. Any time, day or night." He laughed a little. "Even at 4 in the morning."

With reluctance, Jack made himself get up, letting go of the fleece blanket and taking the soup. Then he stood there for a long moment, still feeling as if things were unresolved. It felt like Brayden was holding back on him, like he wanted to say something, too. But they just said things that didn't matter. Thank you, you're welcome, get some rest. Anyway, Jack knew a polite goodbye when he heard one. He had outstayed his visit. Brayden wanted to get back to sleep. Jack probably woke him up. There was no indication that Brayden might have been awake before, not even a blaring television.

No. Books. If Brayden couldn't sleep, he thought he'd be reading. He was a little geek that way.

"Right. I should get back before Marge kills Allie off," he said. "Although that would solve a couple of problems, it would just make bigger ones."

Time to go. A beat of hesitation and then he reached out, pulling Brayden closer for a half-hug. Any time, he said, as if he would always open the door for him. For some reason, he couldn't see Brayden ever shutting the door on him, no matter what terrible things he knew about Jack. He was literally one of those friends. The kind that people joked would help them hide a body. Jack kissed his temple.

"Catch up on your sleep!" Jack said as he moved back, pointing at him as he made his way to the door. "Or you'll get ugly circles around your eyes." His hand turned in a fluttering wave and then he turned away, opened the door, and stepped back out into the horrible cold.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, his energy flagged and he sighed. Time to get back to the real work at hand. There wasn't enough whiskey in the state of Oregon to help him now.

"She'd do that?" ...that was the kind of person who wanted Jack to sleep with Bray? Now Bray was conflicted. He was, in a ridiculous way, thankful that someone wanted them to be together but the way Jack described her made her sound... terrifying. Intimidating for sure. Ah but maybe it was a joke. Bray relaxed, shaking his head. Yeah it was a joke, it had to be.

Bray hugged back and even leaned up to kiss him on the cheek softly. He felt that it wasn't out of line to do that. A kiss on the cheek was innocent enough and tame enough, even if what he really wanted to do... He'd better not think about that. (Especially not with Jack in a robe, obviously mostly naked under it.) And see--Jack kissed him too, on the temple, another innocent, sweet gesture.

Friends. Friends was okay.

He followed Jack to the door even though he wanted to tug on his arm to make him stay, and he laughed dutifully at Jack's parting shot. Telling him to go back to sleep to avoid dark circles when he texted people in the wee hours of the morning. But then again... Bray didn't have to seize his phone and eagerly text back, pretending that he was, oh, just hanging out and not sleeping. But if it was Jack, it was always more important--most important.

"Bye Jack. Good ni--morning." Bray laughed as the door closed, and then... Alone again. He sighed and dragged himself back to his bedroom, but hovered by the window to watch Jack making his way back to his own apartment. His fingers slid over the little chocolate standing propped up on the windowsill. After a moment, Bray brought it back with him into bed and laid it on his pillow beside his head.

"Maybe we could... give us a shot," he whispered longingly to the chocolate as his fingertips ran over its shiny yellow surface. Earlier he wanted to say that to Jack, but... it didn't come out. Not all of it. Bray turned to bury his face into his pillow to stifle the low, shuddering sigh working its way out of his lungs.

Out of one apartment and into the next. Jack opened the door to his own place with trepidation, knowing full well that he hadn't accomplished the goal Marge set out for him. But she wasn't him. And god, he was so beyond pathetic. He closed the door behind with a gentle kick, and noticed that Marge wasn't in the living room. Maybe she left while he was at Brayden's.

Setting the soup down on the counter, Jack curiously moved to the back of the apartment, towards his bedroom.

"I'm back," he said, softly, so as not to wake the sleeping bear. "And I have soup?"

Like that made things any better. Maybe it worked on Jack but he somehow doubted it was going to work any magic on Allie.

The longer Jack remained over at Brayden's apartment, the better Marge felt. Yes, yes they had to be doing it now. That was good. It was so frustrating to watch Jack dance his way around the fact that he was attracted to Brayden--more than physically. If it was merely 'the hots' that Jack had for him, Marge wouldn't have been so adamant. But she saw into his heart when he spoke of Brayden, and she heard him playing it off as "Oh, just a friend, someone important but not THAT important."

Well he didn't know her powers, and he couldn't see how much the light in his heart shone when he was talking to Brayden. Marge didn't have to see the stupid goofy grin on his face earlier, when he texted with Brayden, to know that his feelings were genuine. But she also couldn't outright state what she saw, so she tried to nudge things along.

After a while, she went into the bedroom to check on Sleeping Crazy. He stirred when she touched his chest, over his heart. Marge recoiled. So much darkness... So much pain. And Alejandro, he was so young. But things always affected young people so much more, they took things like rejection and loss so much harder. Someone like Marge, already jaded, stopped giving fucks a long time ago.

"Poor kid," she muttered sympathetically as she passed a hand over his brow. He settled back down and she heard the front door open. Marge was out in a wink, grinning. "Well?!" she demanded eagerly, bouncing over to Jack. "How was it? Are those balls back to normal? Did you--" She stopped short. Her expression grew stormy. "You didn't fuck him." Instead of bringing home a trophy heart, Jack brought back... soup? Marge glared.

"Please tell me you didn't go over there JUST to TALK to him."

There was death in her eyes. Marge was this close to killing him, he could feel it. He wondered how she would do it. If she was more of a strangler or a deadly kick to the balls type of woman. Somehow, he doubted whatever she did, he would see it coming. Other than the promise of death, the mode was completely mysterious. Probably because she'd be more of a crime of passion type of person, using whatever she had on hand. Even soup, if she had to.

"He didn't want to. What was I supposed to do, take him by force?"

Never mind that he didn't actually use his words to ask for it and he didn't make any real moves to get the ball rolling. Jack just didn't sense it from Brayden. Most people were so easy to read and he thought Brayden was. But he actually wasn't. He gave off strange, mixed signals. It was probably his quirkiness that made it so difficult. Most guys were easy enough to read because they were up front and open about whether they wanted to fuck. Brayden just sort of... talked about friendship and made soup and played card games and watched shows. When they were together, it was a bit like being an old married couple.

Not that it was a bad thing.

"Anyway," he said as he moved past her to get to his closet--because this robe was not cutting it anymore!--he began looking for warmer clothes. "You can go home now. I need sleep, he's already sleeping. Nothing more to see here."

"Oh he didn't want to so you sat over there with your blue balls and talked about the weather?" The words: sarcastic as shit. The tone: light and airy. And sarcastic as shit. Jack had one job. One. Job. To put that dick somewhere where the sun don't shine (or the other way around, Marge wasn't presuming) and he couldn't even do what Marge had to think came naturally to him. Watching Jack at the club, she knew that he didn't have issues in that department.

"Did you ask him? Did you tell him that you wanted to fuck him? Did you do anything over there?!"

And... god why did he bring back soup? Marge's heated glare would have sent it boiling again, as Jack tried to evade her wrath. Well tough luck, Marge was staying. "No," she flatly refused with her arms crossing over her chest. To make her point, she removed her jacket, threw it down into a corner and then crawled into bed. There she sat like a queen, like she owned the bed and the sleeping crazy in it--who was still sleeping, dreaming fucked up dreams no doubt.

"What are you waiting for? Does he have to run in here naked and jump on your dick? Is that what has to happen? Because." Marge's eyes narrowed. "I can make that happen." But rather than an offer of help, it probably sounded like a threat. Which it was. It was definitely a threat.

We kissed. But that sounded pathetic even in his own head and he could tell Marge would definitely spit all over it. Rightly so, anyway. Kissing was not fucking. Not even remotely. And he didn't have blue balls right now, thank you very much. Allie helped alleviate that problem, although it would only work for so long before he was thinking about the way Brayden looked at him before he left...

Fuck.

Jack let his silk robe fall to the floor--he'd clean up after he got some sleep--and he changed into a warmer set of pajamas. Oh god... it felt so good to be wrapped in warmth after all the chill from outside. Unfortunately, if he thought he was going to be able to just slip into bed and sleep, Marge had other ideas. Not even bothering to tell her to leave, Jack only pressed a hand to his temple before pulling back the blankets.

"You don't need to make that happen." He settled himself into the bed alongside his two bed fellows, pulling a pillow closer after he wrapped himself in luxuriously warm blankets. "I'm perfectly capable of seducing men on my own. So if you're going to stay here, get some sleep. We have a lot to do in the morning."

"Someone has to make it happen," said Marge darkly as she slid under the covers too, though not before nudging the sleeping Alejandro aside a little. The bed was huge, thankfully, which meant plenty of space for everyone. After Jack laid down his head, Marge laid against him, resting her own head against his shoulder. She reached up to pat his cheek.

"Baby, you're in denial." If he could seduce any man, then Brayden must be no man. Because she could've sworn Brayden was into him and who invited someone over at 4 in the morning just to talk? 4am was prime fucking time. At least to Marge, who had the late shift. But also for most people who left with somebody on their arm. 4am. Prime time.

Sighing, she wrapped her arm around his waist. Marge's anger, it was out of love. She could see what they couldn't and it was driving her insane. Men! They were so dumb! "Is the soup good at least?" It smelled pretty good, actually. "Is he the domestic type? Is he cute? I need to go over there and get a good look at him."

"Mm." That was his go-to sound, a little hum of a noise, the noncommittal sound of I heard you but I don't want to talk about it. He wasn't in denial. If she saw Brayden back there, she would agree with him. He wasn't looking for romance, any more than Jack was. Detox. Although to be fair, Jack had been in his self-proclaimed relationship detox for over a year now. Since the last one. Ever since then, when he came back to himself with the blood of an innocent on his hands. He told himself it was the last time. Never again.

Never again.

His heart felt so heavy again, as he lay there in the bed, with Marge's head upon his shoulder and her arm around his waist. It was comforting; it was always comforting. Slowly, Jack's eyes half closed and he let out a short, soft breath. Let it all out. Breathe it out. Let it go.

"The soup is top notch," he said softly, dreamily. Half lidded eyes struggled to stay open but he was so tired. "And I thought you said you knew him." Now he was wondering at the validity of that statement, since Brayden didn't seem to recognize her name when Jack brought it up.

"He's adorable, in that shy, stuttering, ultra geeky way. Domestic might be the word for it but I think... he wants more. More than a boring administrative job and going home alone and skipping out on parties..."

"I know OF him, I didn't say I knew him personally. We have a mutual friend named Ali, you probably know him from the college." Ali was kind of like Jack, but without so much baggage. He was also a big personality, the laughter in a room, the one to bring everyone together. And Marge knew that he and Brayden had been friends since they were kids--real lifelong friends type shit.

Yet, he and Brayden never came together. Not enough baggage, maybe. Funny, that. How Brayden seemed to latch on to Jack, when he had Ali under his nose the whole time. By all accounts--drunken confessions at the bar when Ali came to visit--Brayden was a dense one but there, Marge sensed a real disconnect between what one wanted and what the other wanted.

Here, it was all sheer dumbassery and two men who couldn't get together if they were locked in a closet with one another.

"Hm. He sounds... soft. Almost like the type to get chewed up and spit back out by the world when it's done with him, huh? Definitely not like you or me baby." Marge's thumb stroked idly over his side. Hm. Just little comforting gestures. She wasn't made of stone and maybe she was a little lonely, too. Lonely enough to latch on to somebody who showed up at the bar and make him her new... friend? Well duh--they were friends now, after they agreed to take care of Crazy over there.

"Do you know a lot about Brayden? I mean have you two had time to actually talk and get to know each other, and not just make pathetic puppy eyes at each other?" There was a teasing smile in Marge's voice. "I heard his last relationship was three years ago, with some guy called Wyatt Thompson. A real user, you know the type. Chew em up and spit em out when he's done with them. Not like you. I can tell you care about him." But Jack cared too much to even make a move, and that wasn't much better in Marge's opinion. To not even give Brayden the chance at happiness, that seemed cruel.

Well, now that made more sense. No wonder Brayden didn't know of her. He only seemed confused when he brought her name up. Jack nodded. Ali worked with them at the college and he was the one that invited everybody out to the bar one weekend. It was one of the best weekends Jack had in a while since he'd arrived in Hazleton. Finally, he belonged. He smiled as he thought about it, remembering dancing, singing.

"Mhm." Jack agreed with the assessment that Brayden was soft. Definitely soft. There didn't seem to be a hard bone in his body. Ha-ha. Not what he meant but just that when he saw him through drunk eyes, all soft and fuzzy, nothing much changed when Jack was sober, either.

Jack gently ran his hand over Marge's arm. Soft, soft Brayden. Nothing like him. Nothing like Marge or even Allie. Just... Brayden, in some kind of class of its own. He glanced towards Marge as she asked what he knew about Brayden and he didn't answer verbally, only made a small noise in the back of his throat. What did he really know of Brayden...? He recalled... something about the loss of family. Loneliness. Jack closed his eyes.

"He told me about Wyatt Thompson. His mother works at the college and she was trying to set me up with him." So apparently this guy was a real piece of work. Jack found himself already disliking him, whomever he was.

"Was she now?" Marge scoffed. From what Ali told her, she wasn't surprised. And Ali had been through that whole disastrous relationship, hadn't he? He couldn't do anything, though. Something about Brayden knowing that Wyatt was bad news, but accepting him anyway because Brayden was... Some kind of fool. The kind of fool that was hard to hate because everything they did was for someone else. A kind fool.

"Don't you think you could. Be better than his scumbag ex? If you make each other happy, what's the harm in giving it a shot?" Marge eased herself up slightly, resting on one elbow and looking down at Jack, frowning. Her free hand came up to touch the side of his head gently, stroking through his hair with careful fingers. It was really, really frustrating to hear him talk about Brayden in that tone. That longing tone, that wistful tone.

"If you know all about him being lonely and needing someone to make his life more than paperwork and missing out on every party... Why not do something about it instead of letting him just... exist like that?"

Mrs. Thompson was one of those overbearing women, slightly overweight with a pearl necklace she never took off and the kind of look in her eyes that said she thought she was above everybody else. The way she talked, she was practically an owner of the college and maybe she was related to one of the higher ups but Jack was pretty certain she hadn't founded the place. She was just one of those rich bitches who liked to rub it in people's faces. Worst of all, she obviously only married into it, which was likely why she felt the need to rub it in so much.

"No." He didn't think he could be better than the ex, although the idea of the ex being a scumbag to Brayden did make him feel... a certain type of way. Not a good way, either. He turned his head toward Marge.

"I am. I do. He told me himself he feels... less lonely with me around." He thought he heard it in a dream but it wasn't a dream. He really said it and Jack was fairly certain he shared those sentiments aloud. "Some things just take more time than others. And sometimes fucking doesn't fix things."

"Yes." Marge's hand came to land over Jack's heart. The heart that was dark, but not completely. The heart whose darkness was totally eclipsed by the light from simply texting with someone. That was true whether or not Jack believed in it himself. That wasn't something he could explain away, no matter how hard he tried.

She sighed. Oh god, if Brayden actually said that... And Brayden did seem like the type to say something corny and mean it so much that he made it genuine and touching without realizing it. "Sometimes fucking solves everything, Jack." Because not fucking was keeping him here in bed with her and a crazy boy off his meds when he could have been in bed with Brayden. Not fucking made him go to her bar with that ravenous look in his eyes, to find somebody to relieve the ache in his blue balls but not in his heart.

"Fucking would've saved you a week of torture, at least," she said as she laid back down with another sigh. "And if he actually said that to you, that's basically admitting that he loves you. Friends don't say shit like that to other friends Jack. I don't think friends ask friends to come over at stupid o'clock in the morning and friends sure as hell don't pack soup for friends in a container they'll have to bring back sooner or later, when they live five fucking feet away."

"Saved me," he said with an amused scoff. "But who says that it would've saved B? --Brayden?"

He hadn't meant to use the nickname in front of Marge. His gaze slunk away to the other side of the room, not even wanting to see her expression, though his hand remained on her arm, gently stroking, tracing nonsensical swirls and patterns. Maybe getting laid would have helped him but he couldn't help thinking it might just complicate things when things were already overly complicated.

Besides, he kept reliving every second he remembered together with Brayden and he still didn't understand where Marge was getting her information. Brayden seemed pretty damned content to be friends. Even if he did kiss him first back there. A gentle kiss, though. A loving kiss, one might venture to say. But a lover's kiss? A fuck me now kiss? Not... so much.

"...he knows he can come over any time he wants," Jack argued stiffly. "He doesn't have to use soup containers as an excuse."

Marge slapped him very lightly on the chest. "B. HMM." B, was it? Brayden, he had to correct himself as though she could be in any doubt as to who 'B' could be. Jack was right to look away; Marge's piecing stare probably could be felt even in the darkness.

"Well you're sure putting a lot of words into B's mouth, J," she snorted, though not without some humor. B indeed. The fact that he had a nickname for Brayden wasn't the real reason she glared at him; it was the fact that he felt he needed to cover it up. Allie was a nickname too. Marge didn't hear him hurrying to say Alejandro every other sentence. Just--B.

"And if he knows that like you say he does, why did he still do that? He could come over with soup any time. In a bowl. He didn't have to give you a container. So how much does he really know? How much does he know about how you feel? Or is it all just what you assumed?" Marge's leg slid over his, as though to trap him there in case he fled the scene of the crime. "Denial, Jack. Denial."

But his mind was back to what he said earlier. Saved me. In that context, they were talking about saving him from the horror of blue balls. If he drank enough and took the right cocktail of drugs, he could turn that off by himself. He knew because he'd had a brief stint in Ohio where he couldn't... ah... well, get it up even when he most certainly wanted to. A man's worst nightmare.

That wasn't what the words saved me made him think, though. Automatically, he went back to the surprise that suffused him when Brayden said that he saved him. And the surprise in Brayden's tone when Jack volleyed back with and here I thought it was you saving me. He felt a warm little shiver in his heart that made it ache so sweetly that he honestly didn't know what to do with it. If he ever thought he fell in love with somebody, he was wrong. All it was that he felt before was attraction, affection, and maybe love. But he had never been in love like this before. And it didn't make sense.

He couldn't make sense of it.

Jack stared up at the ceiling with his hooded, tired hazel eyes, with a dark curl in his face that he was too lazy to move himself. Denial. Fuck, was that it? He was... in denial? A sigh escaped and he wished there was smoke in his lungs or more alcohol in his veins.

"What do you want me to tell him, Margie? How can I make it any more obvious?"

The sigh felt so heavy that even Marge felt the weight of it on her chest. She eased herself up a little more—damnit Jack, why was he so tall?—and took his face between her hands. Sure, Jack couldn't see the expression on her face, but the softness of her tone and the gentleness of her hands was enough to convey her sympathy, her empathy for his situation.

"I know it's not easy," she sighed, leaning down to kiss what felt like his forehead or his brow. Her heart went out to him, it really did. Why? God knew. Maybe those three drinks she had earlier. Maybe her own life experiences with love and with hesitation and regret. Sure as hell, she knew what he was going through and she did, after all, also have the advantage of magic.

"But you can't ignore what's right in front of you, baby. It's staring you in the face. He wants you. Fuck, he made you soup, how obvious can one man get? And if you really made it clear, I'm pretty sure not even Brayden Smith could miss it. Did you tell him you want to be his boyfriend? Did you ask him out on a date? If you're waiting for someone like him to come to you... well those balls are going to be purple before that happens."

Because really, soup. And card games. Popcorn.

"You don't know me if you think I wait for other people to come to me."

Jack was the life of the party when he was in a group of revelers. The one who paid for a round of drinks, let men grind on him and ground right back, danced as if he were a petal on the wind--carefree, and sang every song he recognized at the club, the bar, the basement. Wherever the party was, Jack was sure to be there.

As he grew older, however, it seemed less like revelry and more like a distraction. Sure, it was always a distraction but now it was really a distraction. Especially when he thought he was putting it in his past... and he kept going back in order to occupy his mind on something better than The Golden Girls and a much loved bottle of whiskey.

"I'll tell him when I tell him," he said, no longer trying to bother fighting with Marge. She was way too stubborn and way too perceptive. There was no point in even trying to lie to himself with her sitting there listening and arguing the whole time.

"Mm, stubborn bitch, aren't you?" Marge's tone was still fond. Exasperated. She wasn't about to be deterred, though. Oh, no. And she wasn't wrong, either—Jack was waiting. Waiting for a sign, waiting for something to happen like a miracle from God to let him know that Brayden was interested. He was in denial about Brayden's feelings, too, which was arguably the most irritating part.

Well, Marge hadn't seen Brayden yet but she already had an inkling about how he felt. Nobody who was 'just friends' with someone acted like that. If that were the case, everyone else was, by comparison, a shitty friend altogether.

Giving up for the moment—but not forever—she laid back down. Maybe she'd go over in the morning and wake Brayden up. Say hello since she was going to be here for a while looking after Crazy. She should get to know the neighbors. Marge smiled to herself in the darkness, thinking that maybe Jack wasn't the only stubborn bitch in the room.