Take me home tonight

[Brayden Smith]

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.

[Jack Ripley]

"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."

[Brayden Smith]

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.

[Jack Ripley]

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."

[Brayden Smith]

"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."

[Jack Ripley]

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."

[Brayden Smith]

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."

[Jack Ripley]

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."

[Brayden Smith]

"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...."

[Jack Ripley]

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.

[Brayden Smith]

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...

[Jack Ripley]

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."

[Brayden Smith]

"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.

[Jack Ripley]

"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."

[Brayden Smith]

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?"