thephantomq

Week 4 Write Off - House of Leaves

Sun, 04 Aug 2024 16:41:16 GMT

Have you ever read something that like – completely flipped your world upside down?

I’m having that experience with House of Leaves. I’ve read it before – or well. I thought I’d read it before in its entirety, but…

When I got about 100 pages in, I couldn’t remember any of what happened next. There were details that had clung to me for years – a decade, actually – from when I last read it, and all of those details had come into fruition by that point in the novel.

I’ve been picking through it, a chapter or two here and there. There was a span of weeks where I didn’t touch it. I told my therapist I had every intention of continuing to read it, and she told me it makes sense that it’s taking me a while to get through it – not only is this book a hefty 600+ pages, it’s dense. It’s a lot.

The thing is, I’m almost positive I’d read it in its entirety, before. I say almost because memory is a fickle thing, and well –

It may not have been me who read it. It was Mel who introduced us to this book, over a decade ago. She passed away in 2013. Maybe it had been Alicia who read it. Maybe it had been some other member of the System who’d read it, and sequestered the information away.

Because this book is a lot. The group of us are reading it – Steven and I especially, as the two main writers of the group. Steven absolutely adores the insanity of this book. He’s been calling it writing goals. I honestly can see why, though good god, the dedication it’d take to write something like this.

Steven and I both have been writing annotations in it – treating it almost like a textbook as we write notes to ourselves.

Here are a couple of my favorites:

(It reads: this is one hell of a sentence, holy fuck.)

This one cracked me up when I saw it:

Text: Mallory, the tabby cat, vanishes completely, and no mention is made about what happened to him. His disappearance remains a mystery.
Annotation: The House ate him, hth [hope that helps]

I won't include an image of the very last one -- but I had written a lengthier note, for my own sake. It reads:

God. Just.
Have you ever gotten lost in the recesses of your mind? Stuck in a loop with no way out?
Yeah, I can see why that'd be a theory* someone would have about this extra dimensional space inside the House.
Did I mention I/we have DID? Yeah. This book encapsulates how it feels to have this disorder, in some way. The story within a story, within a story... etc.
idk. It's a lot. There's a reason this last chapter took me weeks to read. It was outright triggering -- and inspiring. Even talking about this book in Group Therapy made the other folks feel like they were dissociating.
Because this is a p[retty] good representation of it.

*The theory, in the book itself, was that the House was a reflection of the inhabitants' psyche(s). That it was influenced by one's mental health. Which like -- that theory works really works, for me, though I don't know how accurate it is -- considering I still haven't finished reading this monster of a book.

Of course, I'll have to finish reading it to find out for sure. Considering it's taken me 4 months to get a little more than halfway through, I'm sure it'll probably take me at least that long to finish the rest.

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LJ Idol? LJ Idol

Sat, 29 Jun 2024 21:59:15 GMT

Honestly love that it's still called LJ Idol even though it's migrated to dreamwidth.

The name's Alex, it's been years since I did an LJ season (mini or otherwise).

Hi :3

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Second Chance Idol

Fri, 21 Dec 2018 12:09:46 GMT

Sure, why not ;)

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LJI Week 8: Sprezzatura

Sun, 09 Dec 2018 23:46:26 GMT

“State your name for the court, please.”

Jazz swallowed and ignored the way his fingers itched to skitter down the length of his tie. Emperor Casio stood before him, his grey eyes focused intently on him. Clearing his throat, Jazz lifted his chin and willfully pushed his lip out from under his teeth. “Jasper Levi Callahan,” he said, grateful that his voice didn’t shake. “I prefer to go by the nickname ‘Jazz.’”

“Please, Jasper, can you tell us why we have gathered these men and women here today?”

Casio gestured to the jury -- a panel of individuals Casio had selected himself. Jazz found himself unable to look in the direction of those men and women, and instead found himself looking elsewhere over the courtroom. Lin sat to a table by herself -- the table Jazz also sat at, when he wasn’t put on the stand. Next to her table was another, much larger table, with enough seats to sit ten and four of them empty. Three of them no doubt were meant to belong to himself, Lin, and Casio, but the fourth…

Jazz shook his head and ignored the way his heart ached in his chest. Of course Mitchel wasn’t there. Of course Mitchel wouldn’t be sitting with the rest of the Council, when he had already recused himself from being Casio’s judge. Of course, of course, of course --

“We’re here today because I allegedly committed treason,” he said, forcing his attention back onto Casio’s unbearably impeccable posture. He folded his hands in his lap and squeezed his fingers -- reassured himself that it was okay to be a little fidgety. But only a little.

Lin’s face pinched a little at Jazz’s answer, and Jazz tried to ignore the way Casio’s eyes lit up. “Allegedly?” he prompted.

Jazz breathed out through his nose and did his best to offer Casio a slight smile. “Yes, allegedly,” he answered.

He needed to relax. It was his first day on the stand and he’d likely have to endure a long series of questions. He knew the procedure -- knew he would have to establish that he had no intent of inciting war against the Empire and had no ill-will against Emperor Casio himself with his answers. And that -- that should be easy enough. He had been invested in stopping a potential war between the Empire and Cliffton. He had been invested in figuring out whether someone was embezzling money from the Empire.

He’d never thought the evidence would point towards Casio himself.

Giving himself a little shake, Jazz noticed Casio’s lips were moving, but he hadn’t comprehended a single word that had left him. “I’m sorry,” Jazz said, managing a sheepish look. “Could you repeat that?”

“I suggest you pay attention, Jasper,” Casio said. “Care to tell me how you’ve committed this ‘alleged’ treason?”

Jazz shook his head. “I can’t do that, Excellency,” he said, a wry smile tugging on his lips. “That would require me having done something treasonous.”

“Is that so?” Casio turned to the court -- a room that had few individuals scattered in the seats behind where the Imperial Council and Lin sat. “Would you like to tell me about the events that occurred on November 28th, last year?”

Jazz blinked, his brow furrowing. “I’m not sure I --”

“Is is true that you were suspended from your duties as Imperial Councilor on that date?” Casio prompted, cutting Jazz off and half-turning to meet Jazz’s eyes once again.

Jazz’s face heated up. Oh. “Yes.” He tightened his grip on his own fingers.

“Care to tell me how long you were suspended for?”

“A week and a half,” Jazz answered, his face burning even hotter. He wanted to squirm, his shoulders trying to inch towards his flaming ears as he thought of why he had been suspended. No doubt Casio --

“That’s an awful long suspension, Jasper,” Casio said, pacing the space between where Jazz sat and the Councilor’s table. “Care to tell me why you were suspended?”

Jazz forced his jaw to stay relaxed; resisted the urge to grind his teeth together. Instead, he allowed himself to rake his fingers through his hair and breathed out slowly, closing his eyes. “I acted out during a meeting,” he said. Light detail, Lin’s voice, just from moments before today’s hearing had started. Just give them the facts with as little detail as possible, answer yes or no whenever possible.

“Acted out how?”

Jazz licked his lips and gave Casio a pleading look. How could he answer that with as little detail as possible? And once he had, no doubt Casio would ask him why he had acted out -- and he couldn’t in any way mention what Mitchel had told him in confidence -- that Casio had targeted him with sexual advances, nearly a decade ago, just as he had started to do with Jazz, and --

“Your Honor, please instruct the defendant to answer the question.”

“I raised my voice,” Jazz blurted out, not daring to glance at the severe woman who sat on the bench. Amelia Samson had been his arresting officer, and she now was acting Imperial Judge for this particular hearing -- appointed by Casio himself when Mitchel had refused the honor. “And I took a step towards you as I did so, Excellency.”

Casio eyebrows lifted towards his silver hair, a slight smirk tugging on his lips. Jazz shivered and curled in on himself a little, scooting further back into his seat at the look. The last time he had seen it… “Would you like to elaborate on that?”

“No,” Jazz said. He gave a slight shake of his head. “I would not.”

He felt the shift in the room at that, the way the jury shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Lin had her hands on the table and a slight frown on her lips, her dark eyes unreadable.

Casio walked back over to his table and picked up a folder. He made a show of flipping it open, and Jazz did his best to discreetly wipe his palms against the sides of his thighs. “Is it true that you called me a shortsighted, stubborn child?”

Jazz grimaced. “Yes,” he said, knowing damn well his physical reaction had already answered the question for him.

“Did you also tell me that if I continued with my plan to pull troops out of Cliffton, at risk of starting another war with them, that I should not be -- and I quote -- ‘surprised once my own people decide to turn on me and get rid of me’?”

Jazz closed his eyes and breathed a sigh through his nose, hanging his head as he dropped his eyes to the floor. “I did, yes,” he said. “I also apologized --”

“The next day, yes,” Casio said, snapping the folder shut. He walked back over to the table and rummaged through several other folders sitting on top of it, all while saying: “No doubt after sitting in your own sweat and weighing your options --

“Objection, your Honor,” Lin said, standing up. “Emperor Casio is speculating.”

Casio turned to Amelia, and Jazz found himself glancing at Amelia, as well. She leaned forward, gavel held loosely in her hands. “Sustained. Excellency, please stick to questioning the defendant.”

Jazz sighed in relief, which didn’t last long as Casio selected another folder and opened it. He faced Jazz again, turning on his heel with such practiced ease Jazz’s stomach twisted and climbed into his throat. Something glinted in Casio’s hand -- a disk, Jazz realized. “Did you know that the room you had been held in after threatening me had a camera, Jasper?”

“No,” Jazz breathed.

“Your Honor, I ask for permission to show the jury what the defendant said when he believed his words could not be used against him,” Casio said.

Amelia nodded and leaned back against her seat, her arms folded loosely over her chest. “Please proceed, Excellency.”

Jazz watched, his eyes wide in horror and his face burning as the lights of the room dimmed. The video would be displayed on the wall opposite of the Jury, who sat to Jazz’s left. It took a moment for the footage to start -- for the screen to show the small table Jazz and Amelia once sat at, the door behind Amelia opening to reveal Mitchel, a moment later.

Jazz found himself looking out over the open court room once again, looking for any sign of Mitchel’s dark hair and dark eyes. For the reassurance Jazz halfway expected to feel upon seeing them anywhere but on the screen to his right. Mitchel had said he’d be present for the hearing, even though --

It’s perfectly fine with me, Miss…

Samson.

Miss. Samson. Jasper and I should only be a few minutes.

Biting his lip, Jazz dared to look at the jury -- at the faces he had zero connection to. Their intent expressions chased a shiver down his spine, and he found himself looking at Casio next, just as he heard Mitchel’s recorded voice once again demanding, Do you have anything to say for yourself? I know you don’t agree with Casio’s point of view very often, but the way you behaved in that room today...

I don’t want to bloody talk about this now, he heard himself say with all the vehemence in the world. Jazz groaned and put his head in his hands, his next words playing in his head a split second before he could hear himself saying them: I don’t need you lecturing me like I’m a goddamned child. Just because I’m a decade younger than you --

You were acting childish.

He wanted to cover his ears; wanted to block out the look on Mitchel’s face as he told Jazz he didn’t want to argue. He had been so stubborn, then, so bent on being right, he’d just kept going, had just kept arguing his position on continuing to provide aid to Cliffton, their now borderline-enemy.

I understand that you’re concerned about our involvement with Cliffton, but -- Casio could very well have you locked up in a cell, right now. What you said to him -- it was borderline treasonous…

It’s fucking Casio. He’s been waiting for an excuse to put me in my place, and here it is. Watch, he’s going to remove me from his council, and --

The room went silent and the lights came back on. Jazz lifted his head from his hands, his mouth dry and his eyes stinging with tears. “Tell me, Jasper. Who is in that video with you?”

“Mitchel Foraker,” he answered, swallowing hard.

“Is it true that the two of you are involved with one another?”

Jazz’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to sit with his back straight and folded his hands in his lap. “We used to be, yes.” His eyes stung, and he swallowed down the lump starting to form in his throat.

"When did the two of you separate?"

Sighing, Jazz glanced down at his hands. "Several weeks ago."

"Before or after you were arrested?"

"Before," Jazz whispered.

"Who broke up with whom?"

"Objection, your honor. Relevance?" Lin asked, sound exasperated. "My client's breakup has nothing to do with this case."

"Sustained."

Casio glanced at Amelia, an unreadable look crossing his face before he shrugged and rounded on Jazz once again. Smoothing his hand down the length of his tie, Casio gave Jazz a predatory smirk. "Care to explain what you meant about me putting you in your place?”

“You heard Councilor Foraker, Excellency. You and I don’t agree much when it comes to policy,” he said. Somehow, the words came out with ease, despite the way his fingers shook as he brushed his hair out of his eyes. “That moment in the War Room wasn’t the first time we had a severe disagreement on how to direct the Empire’s troops. I had been a thorn in your side and you in mine.”

“I see,” Casio said. He gave a nod of his head and glanced over the jury, then over the rest of the room. Jazz braced himself for the next question, knowing damn well he’d already buried himself enough already. “Is it true that after this, you began investigating the Empire’s financial activity?”

Jazz closed his eyes. “I had found two discrepancies in the financial reporting,” he said, lifting his chin as he reopened them. “I brought them to your attention and you dismissed me.”

“Is it true that you continued to investigate despite this?”

“It’s not. Linda Cruz had discovered a third one and brought it to your attention. I wasn’t involved. You dismissed her as well.”

“Did Linda Cruz provide you with information on the third discrepancy so that you could investigate it?”

“No,” Jazz said, not so much as letting his eyes flicker over to Lin. “She hadn’t.” He’d gotten it himself, later, without her knowledge.

Casio’s rapid-fire questioning came to a stop, as did his feet, as he had been approaching Jazz’s seat steadily during the course of it all. He met Jazz’s eyes as his hands came down on the rail that caged Jazz in and leaned forward. “Did you alter Empire financial records to concoct an embezzlement scheme, all in an effort to discredit me and forcibly remove me from the throne?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Jazz spat, narrowing his eyes. “I didn’t alter anything, I just --” Jazz snapped his mouth shut, his heart stopping in his chest as Casio’s lips parted, slowly spreading into a wide grin.

“You just what, Jasper?” he pressed, letting go of the railing and looking out over the room. “I believe you just cut yourself off.”

Jazz licked his lips and hugged himself loosely, his gaze resting on Lin for a moment. She gave the slightest nod of her head, her expression grim. Helpless, Jazz allowed himself to look at the jury once more before turning to Casio, shivering at the near feral expression Casio now had on his face.

“I just -- wanted to know who had,” he croaked out, dropping his eyes to the floor.

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LJI Week 7: Steadfast

Thu, 29 Nov 2018 13:28:53 GMT

Devin lowered Jazz against the harsh, dusty brick wall, careful to arrange him so that he was sitting up against it. Jazz didn’t so much as flinch; didn’t so much as make a noise as Devin did so, and Devin’s stomach sank towards the dirt-crusted floor. Forcing himself to breathe, Devin glanced around their surroundings once more -- they were in an alleyway, sufficiently far enough away from a main street but close enough that Calla and Wes should still be able to sense them and reach their location.

The Government’s Manips hadn’t managed to follow them; Devin had masked their location well enough, got Jazz to safety, but --

Jazz groaned, and Devin scrambled to the ground, cupping Jazz’s face in his hands. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

Jazz gave him his best quizzical look, his brow furrowing and his mouth hanging open, just slightly, poised to ask a question that obediently didn’t come. Or maybe couldn’t, as Jazz clutched at the blossom of blood splattered on his shirt. “Mine?” he croaked out as his gaze landed on it.

Devin nodded. He had used his abilities to keep steady pressure over the gunshot wound, but -- “Got shot,” he said, keeping his voice low. He brushed Jazz’s bangs back from his face, a grim smile forcing its way across his lips. “Pushed me out of the way.”

“You hurt?” Jazz asked, his expression changing from confused to concerned. “You… okay?”

Devin nodded again and pulled his hand away from Jazz’s face. He positioned himself better between Jazz’s legs, his fingers pushing Jazz’s shirt up and out of the way. If it had been a blaster shot, he’d know what to do -- would have known how to keep Jazz from bleeding out or what he even could do, with his limited abilities in healing.

Guns weren’t commonly used in Majeria. If only Ellis were --

“Hurtsss,” Jazz whined, his head thumping back against the brick wall. Devin placed his hand over the bullet wound and closed his eyes. He tried to visualize the human body just like Jansen’s girls had tried to show him a thousand times before. Tried to trace the path the bullet must have taken --

He could try to slow the bleeding? Though he’d already been doing that, been trying to do it the entire time he carried Jazz on his back to safety. And he’d already signaled for Wes and Calla to come retrieve them. And as much as he’d slowed it down and even sealed some of the damage done by the bullet, Devin knew that if he didn’t get Jazz proper help soon…

“Don’t,” Jazz said, pushing Devin’s hands away. “You don’t -- don’t have enough…”

“Do too,” Devin said, hearing the word charge filtering through the blind panic happening in Jazz’s mind. He kept his hands where they were and concentrated again, biting his lip. He had enough of a charge. For another twenty minutes, maybe. And then after that --

“Devin,” Jazz hissed, and Devin could feel the heat of his glare. Stop pushing yourself, he heard, loud and clear and dead center in Devin’s mind. In that moment, Devin wished Jazz had never learned that if he just thought things loud enough, Devin would hear them despite not wanting to.

“‘Mnot,” Devin all but growled, swiping the back of his hand against his brow. So much blood. He could feel the shredded pieces of Jazz’s insides with his mind; could try to piece them back together but he didn’t know what was right and what wasn’t, and --

You’re not a fucking healer!

Devin met Jazz’s eyes after that and clenched his jaw. “Fucking know that,” he said, willing tears away as he pushed himself to visualize the damage from an even smaller level. Individual blood vessels formed in his mind’s eye, and he willed them to reform, trembling with the effort. Don’t want you to fucking die, he thought to himself.

I’m gonna.

Devin blinked, a jolt running through his body as he sensed Wes’s distinct energy only a couple of miles away. He didn’t look Jazz in the eye; didn’t want to acknowledge Jazz’s response. And after several minutes of trying to do what he could, sweat beading on his brow, Devin felt the slightest of touches underneath his chin.

“Devin,” Jazz managed, his voice weaker than it had been moments ago. His hands rested on top of Devin’s and the heat they normally carried was gone. “Devin,” he pleaded.

Devin grit his teeth together and looked up. Jazz’s eyes were dull, clouded with pain. Tears glittered at the edges of them and Jazz swallowed, hard, and drew in a shaky breath. “I --”

Devin shook his head, his eyes stinging with tears all over again. “Stop fucking talking,” he ordered, though with the way his own voice cracked, the heat behind his words didn’t carry. “Stop.”

“I love you,” Jazz managed in a rush, reaching for Devin’s face. His fingers ghosted along Devin’s jaw again, and Devin cradled Jazz’s hand to his face, a quiet sob escaping him, despite himself. “All of you.”

Devin choked on another sob and found himself curling against Jazz, his ear resting over Jazz’s fleeting heartbeat. “Love you, too,” he said.

From here, it would be an hour to the Jansen Estate -- an hour before Jazz could receive any kind of true medical care. And that was if Wes and Calla turned the corner now, which they wouldn’t, as they were still weren’t all that close. He knew, he knew if he could just -- hold Jazz’s body together long enough -- if he could keep his heart beating long enough --

“Stop,” Jazz whispered into Devin’s hair. His arms weakly wrapped around Devin -- arms that Devin never once thought could be anything less than strong. “Please. Let me… let me…” It hurts, he heard.

Devin knew. It was the one thing he’d been trying to blot out, the one thing that he truly couldn’t acknowledge. Despite Jazz not being an Adept like Wes and Calla, Devin could still feel the things Jazz did, if they were close enough together. He could feel it as if it were his own side in tatters, feel the way Jazz’s lungs couldn’t take in a full breath due to the pain. How hard it was for Jazz not to shiver.

What d’you want me to do? Devin asked, his one hand still over the wound, his focus still on knitting whatever he could back together. He willed the thought into Jazz’s mind, wanting him to hear it despite how Jazz had asked him countless times not to do that.

Stop it. Just...take the pain away. Please.

Devin’s breath caught in his throat and more tears spilled from his eyes. Breathe, sweetheart, Jazz thought-whispered at him, his fingers tracing a jerky trail up and down Devin’s arm. Devin whimpered into Jazz’s chest and clutched at his blood-soaked shirt. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do what Jazz was asking. No way, no fucking way --

I’m gonna die anyway.

Biting back a sob, Devin lifted his head from Jazz’s chest. Their eyes met -- all the pain and pleading and forgiveness plain in Jazz’s gaze.

“P-Please,” Jazz choked out, tears rolling down his face. “For me.”

Well, you don’t seem like a killer. Calla’s words echoed in his mind -- a near-forgotten memory from his time in the Home. He’d asked her, then, what she’d meant. He hadn’t ever killed anyone. He had no intentions of killing anyone.

He still had no intentions of killing anyone. And Wes and Calla were just a few blocks away, now. If he did this… His stomach twisted and climbed into his throat. What would Calla and Wes think, if he did what Jazz asked?

Hey -- you called me a killer earlier. Why?

Swallowing hard, Devin’s heart ached in his chest as Jazz’s breathing grew shallower; more rapid and his eyes fluttered shut. Could he live with himself, if he did this? Did it even matter? Jazz was right; he’d lost too much blood, the bullet had done too much damage. And he was in so, so much pain.

Oh, honey. What’d you think they were trainin’ you for?

With a jerky nod to himself, Devin leaned in and brushed his lips against Jazz’s. He rested his hands gingerly on Jazz’s sides, careful of the wound as he also reached in with his mind, visualizing the one spot that Jansen had taught him would mean instant, painless death if it were manipulated in just the right way. Jazz kissed him back, his hands weakly gripping at Devin’s shirt.

And they let go, just as Jazz’s lips went slack -- as his body slumped against the wall. Devin pulled away and rested his head on Jazz’s chest again, listening for a heartbeat he knew he would never hear again.

He supposed he was a killer, after all.

( Author's note & Art )

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LJI Week 06: Not My First Rodeo

Fri, 16 Nov 2018 23:19:37 GMT

Sometimes, you really fucking hate these topics and just how your brain processes them. Fragments of ideas jump out at you, connections that only make sense to you fit together, building a tenuous chain from the topic to what you end up putting on the page.

Sometimes, you trash two or three or four different starts, none of them coming together quite right and the words sounding hollow to your own ears. Considering this certainly isn’t your first season of Idol (nor do you suspect that this will be your last), this isn’t what frustrates you.

It’s when an idea won’t die that gets to you the most.

It’s when you keep seeing an event so clearly in your fucking mind and yet the words -- well, you can get them. But they’re not right and you find yourself singing “Hard to be the Bard” under your breath as your eye starts to twitch and your fingers start typing oiwq5tu4o2j;o3qa because none of it makes fucking sense.

(And I know, I know, I gotta go

And get back to my pen and ink

Oh don't make me do it,

Don't make me go through it

Can somebody get me a drink?!)

You keep thinking about your father-in-law. How this phrase is something you just know has come out of his mouth more than once in the fifteen fucking years he’d been in your life. Past-tense, because the man passed away just a handful of months ago and part of you still hasn’t accepted this.

Part of you wants to rehash the funeral, how you sat next to your brother and ignored the way sweat rolled down your back in the circular Catholic church that actually felt homey and not like some melancholy medieval approximation of how we should celebrate (mourn?) Christ’s life.

Part of you wants to rehash the exact moment you burst into full-blown, crocodile tears during said funeral, how you all but wailed that your father-in-law had joked about how he had been waaaaay more involved in his grandson’s birth than he (and you) had ever wanted to be. During the service. With close to one hundred people turning towards the sudden disturbance (coming from you) in the otherwise quiet crowd as the eulogy continued on and on.

But the words, they won’t go. The fact that your father-in-law ordered, “Alright, Bob, it’s time to come out!” while holding your leg as you were pushing won’t make it on to the page, either. Nor will how that prompted the nurses to write, “Hi, my name is Bob,” on your newborn’s bassinet some several hours later -- “dooming” him to a nickname you hadn’t quite been sold on yet.

Except…except your son is 10000% a ‘Bob.’ And his nickname is just one of many gifts your father-in-law had given him. Like the house he literally bought to make sure you and your son had a home, when you left your ex-wife’s home with what you could shove into the back of your car and the several thousand dollars your best friend had raised to help you escape that house.

The two of them had a bond that was beyond words. When your son wouldn’t sleep, your father-in-law could sit in one of his recliners and your son would be out in a matter of minutes. When he was born, your father-in-law had gotten to hold him first, before anyone else -- before you.

You miss him. You miss him walking through the door when rent was due and how he’d basically take your check and then talk to Bob for ten-fifteen minutes -- as best as one can have a conversation with Bob, anyway. You miss the phone calls, the ones that start, “Alicia. This is your father-in-law,” in that not-quite Southern drawl of his.

And when you listened to the eulogy, months ago, it confirmed something you’ve always known about your father-in-law but could never verbalize:

He really did give a shit about others, even those less fortunate than him, and he worked his ass off to support his family.

Even you.

The daughter-in-law who wasn’t even legally his daughter-in-law anymore, two months before he passed away.

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LJI Week 5: SUDDEN DEATH

Wed, 14 Nov 2018 01:11:24 GMT

It’s been eleven days. Eleven days since you’ve picked her up at the airport, hoping that your body would hold it together long enough to get her and bring her back to your place. You’re over that stomach bug now, and she’s as ready as she’s going to be to face her eventual ex-husband. You tell yourself that she’ll be okay, that you’ll be okay, even though in eleven days, you’ve grown quite used to her presence in your home.

She has to go back. She has a kid and a marriage to divvy up and a job to find and you… you have to find a job yourself and get out of the shitshow that is your current one, though part of you isn’t ready to concede defeat.

You never want her to go -- you never want to hug her goodbye and watch her disappear into the airport, but this time is worse. There’s a tension, this singing in the air every time your eyes meet hers. The blue-green of them has never not taken your breath away, but it’s painful now. She’s going back to her life and leaving you to yours.

As you slip out of the car and open the trunk for her, your body leans in towards hers. You lick your lips, give her a hug that lingers. Your eyes fill with tears and it takes everything you have to pull away. There’s this heavy, omnipresent awareness that your brother and his girlfriend are also in the back of the car, waiting on you to climb back in it and take them home.

“It’ll be okay,” you whisper to her, ignoring the way your heart breaks for her. She loves her husband, you know she does, and you know it’s hard, walking away from a relationship that you thought would last forever. And while she’s decided walking away from him is for the best, part of you wants to nudge her towards staying. He changed his mind on the divorce, after all.

The rest of you, perversely enough, is glad she wouldn’t let him take it all back. He’s a good guy, and a good father, but…

“I’ll miss you,” you tell her, hugging her again. “Message me when you get home.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” she says back, and there’s a question in her eyes, but she nods, turns on her heel, and heads inside.

You don’t remember how long it takes, between dropping her off at the airport and getting home. But you itch to message her, a confession waiting to spring forward from your fingertips. But you tell yourself to wait. You then tell yourself you have to tell her, if only so things don’t get weird later. That tension won’t go away unless you do.

Hey, when you land, I need to talk to you about something, you find yourself typing, knowing she won’t see the message for at least another hour.

I think I need to talk to you about something, too, she responds later.

Your heart skips a beat in your chest and you bite your lip, turning her response over and over in your head. You remember that tension; the way she was reluctant to look away from you. How that hug lingered and how you couldn’t stop yourself from imagining doing more than that. Taking in a deep breath, you type:

I think I have feelings for you.

And you wait.

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LJI Week 5: Kayfabe

Sat, 10 Nov 2018 00:55:39 GMT

“Dr. Bates, come with me for a moment, will you?”

Savin frowned, but gave his chief of surgery a nod of his head as he began to dress down. He’d just completed a rough surgery -- motor vehicle accident -- and his feet ached and his eyes stung. Once he’d shed his mask and his gloves, he followed his boss into a more secluded corner, slipping his hands inside the pockets of his uncomfortably damp scrubs.

“Savin, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just gonna say like this,” the other man began, giving him a tired, weathered look. “I need you to go home for the rest of the night. The nurses are…concerned.”

Savin blinked and gave himself a little shake. “Concerned about what?” he managed after a moment of attempting to get his jaw to work.

His boss just raised his eyebrows at him. When Savin just gave him the same look back, his boss sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “Savin, I know you’ve experienced a couple of difficult things, these past few months, but… your numbers are slipping. The nurses suspect you haven’t been sleeping and they believe you to be unfit to continue performing surgeries. And I am inclined to believe them, given what I’ve witnessed tonight.”

“That was a difficult surgery --”

“You were hesitant.”

“I wasn’t --”

“You were.”

“It was hard to tell where the bleed was, but once I found it --”

“You nearly left a sponge inside the patient.”

Savin’s face burned, and his fingers curled into fists inside his pockets. He forced his jaw to remain loose, nodding slowly. “I’m gonna get washed up and head home, then,” he said, speaking as evenly as he can. “When can I come back?”

“I don’t want you to step foot in this hospital again until you’ve managed to get some solid sleep. I’ve found coverage for your shifts for up to a week.”

“I don’t have the --”

“You have bereavement leave you haven’t used.”

Closing his eyes, Savin nodded again and reached up to rub at his jaw. “Understood,” he said, the word sticking in his throat. “I’ll be back on Tuesday.”

***

“You’re home already?”

Savin started, his eyes snapping open at the rough, sleep-filled voice coming from behind him. “Yeah,” he said, stretching himself out in his oversized armchair. The book he’d had in his lap fell to the floor and he bent forward, snatching it back up and dusting off the cover. He’d also had the television on, an early morning news show chattering away in the background -- though he hadn’t been paying it any mind.

“When did you get home?” Jazz asked, his words distorted by another yawn. Soft footsteps approached Savin’s chair, and Savin tensed as Jazz’s arms wrapped loose around his shoulders. “Is everything okay?” he whispered, his lips close to Savin’s ear.

Savin shivered and leaned into Jazz’s embrace, closing his eyes as he reached up to trail his fingers along the edge of Jazz’s neck. “Yeah, everything’s okay -- now that you’re here,” he said, roughening his voice and doing his best to give Jazz one of his sultry little smirks. Maybe, if he distracted Jazz sufficiently…

He wouldn’t have to give a real answer.

***

Jazz stood in front of their full-sized mirror, buttoning up the cuffs to his shirt as hurried to get dressed. Frowning to himself, he studied Savin, who was lying on the bed behind Jazz. He had his phone in front of his face, glasses now replacing contacts, and an odd look on his features.

He hadn’t so much as watched Jazz get dressed -- hadn’t commented on any of Jazz’s features, though he’d offered to join Jazz in the shower, earlier, after they’d finished up. Jazz’s frown deepened as he then moved to knot the tie he’d draped over the back of his neck.

“Are you sure everything’s okay, love?” he asked after a moment, clearing his throat. He turned away from the mirror and headed over to the bed. “You’ve been really quiet.”

Savin blinked, his brows knitting close together for a moment before he rested his phone to his chest and scrubbed at his face with his palm. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, offering Jazz a slight smile. He then looked Jazz over, a low whistle escaping him. Like he’d done a thousand times before. “You look good, mate.”

“Thank you,” Jazz said, settling on the edge of the bed just beside where Savin lay. He nudged Savin with his elbow. “What were you reading, anyway?”

Savin frowned a little, his expression closing off as he picked his phone back up. “Just… articles on the Delborne Bombing,” he answered, sliding his hand down his upright phone and then turning it so that it rested on the opposite edge. He did this a few times, turning his eyes towards the ceiling.

“I don’t understand why you keep doing that to yourself,” Jazz muttered, shaking his head and plucking Savin’s phone from his fingers. He tossed the phone down on the nightstand before gently resting his hand against Savin’s cheek, brushing his thumb over Savin’s skin soothingly. “You were there. You witnessed what happened. You helped people, saved some of them, lost some -- why do you need to keep reliving that?”

Savin’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and he closed his eyes. “I dunno, mate,” he answered. ”It's not that big of a deal, is it?”

“I guess not, but…” Jazz bit his lip and moved his hand down to Savin's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “I don't know. You haven't seemed like yourself all morning.”

Savin smiled that time and sat up, placing a light hand on Jazz's side as he leaned in and kissed him. “I'm fine, mate. I got to come home early and enjoy some of your brilliantly sexy company.”

Jazz snorted at that, feeling his face heat up a little as Savin's hand moved down toward his thigh. Savin then snickered and dipped his head to brush his lips against the edge of Jazz's neck. With a slight, sharp inhale, Jazz had to will himself to gently nudge Savin’s hand away from his lap. “Alright, alright, that’s enough of that. I need to get going before Lin kills me for being late again.”

“Think it might already be too late for that, love,” Savin said, his tone teasing. He glanced at the clock sitting on Jazz's nightstand. “D’you really think you can make it to the Palace in fifteen minutes?”

“I've gotten there in less time,” Jazz said pushing himself off the bed. He kissed Savin again, and as he pulled away, Savin reached for him, gripping his suit jacket tightly.

Jazz could have sworn Savin’s hand trembled underneath his as he batted it away playfully a second time.

***

Savin swallowed the knot forming in his throat as he stepped out into the living room, his eye immediately landing on Jazz stretched out over the length of the couch, a thin book open in his lap. Clearing his throat, Savin all but threw himself into his chair, painfully aware of how Jazz’s eyes widened when he realized Savin was now sitting in front of him. “Don’t you --”

“They don’t want me coming in,” Savin grumbled, rubbing at his eyes underneath the bottom edges of his glasses. His eyes ached, burning with an even further lack of sleep. As hard as he tried, he hadn’t managed to keep them closed for more than a handful of moments at a time. “They said I needed to take some time off.”

“How much time?” Jazz asked, his tone carefully controlled. Like he was afraid to hear whatever Savin’s answer happened to be. “When did they tell you this?”

“Last night, and a week.” Savin took his glasses off the bridge of his nose, squinting at them before rubbing them with a corner of his shirt. His chest felt too tight, like his ribs were curling further in on themselves as he noticed the lack of Jazz’s laptop near him. “I thought you'd be out here talking to Devin.”

Jazz’s jaw clenched at Savin’s statement, and he gave a slight shake of his head as he flipped the page in his book. “He's with Ellis tonight,” he said, clearing his throat. “He hasn't seen in him in a while so he's spending the whole night with him.”

Savin grunted in response, that tightening in his chest never lessening. He sighed and folded his arms over his chest, frowning to himself as he debated grabbing his own laptop but thought better of it, instead, sinking further back into his chair. “So, what?” he started, clearing his throat again as he raked his fingers through his hair. “You're not gonna ask me what's going on with work?”

Jazz looked up from the page he was on, raising an eyebrow as he regarded Savin once again. “I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would tell me.”

Savin’s teeth ground together, and he had to force himself to breathe in deeply through his nose and look away from Jazz. “Sure,” he said, swallowing hard. And he didn’t really want to talk about it, except --”Except you asked me like ten times this morning if everything is okay and now that I've said it isn't, you're too busy reading your book to talk to me about it further.”

“I was following your lead --”

“Bullshit,” Savin snapped, cutting Jazz off. “You're so fucking full of shit, Jazz.”

Jazz blinked, reaching up to clutch at his hemp necklace as he narrowed his eyes at Savin. “What the hell?” he asked. “Savin, the fuck are you going on about?”

“Did it even fucking occur to you to stay home, this morning?” Savin growled in return, glaring at Jazz over the edge of his glasses. He uncrossed his arms and gripped his knees in order to keep his hands from shaking. “They sent me home early, did it ever occur to you that I might fucking need you?”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know you ‘needed’ me?” Jazz spat, pushing himself off the couch and tossing his book behind him as he stalked off towards the kitchen. “You acted like you were perfectly fine all morning!”

Savin blinked, then let out a hollow bark of a laugh. “Really, mate?” he asked, his eyes following Jazz’s every move.

“Really,” Jazz said, his tone scathing as he clamored around in the kitchen. “How the fuck am I supposed to know to stay home unless you bloody ask?”

“I don’t know, mate. Maybe my name needs to be fucking ‘Devin,’ instead,” Savin said, all of his anger leaving him as overwhelmingly helpness crashed over him, instead. Hanging his head, he stared at his trembling fingers, his eyes stinging as his hair hid his face. “He wouldn’t even have to ask….”

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LJI Week 4: Ghosting

Thu, 01 Nov 2018 02:20:27 GMT

IMPERIAL JET MISSING, HEAD COUNCILOR JASPER CALLAHAN AND FLIGHT CREW PRESUMED DEAD

Savin’s grip on his phone tightened. He moved to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose before realizing he was wearing his contacts. He felt shift beside him, and he jumped as something brushed against his arm.

“You okay, Bates?” Mari’s voice, distant and yet too close all at once. Another touch on his arm, this time more urgent. Grounding. Concerned.

Savin snapped his head up and tore his eyes away from his phone, taking in the on-call room as though he were seeing it for the first time. He’d damn near forgotten he was at work. He pressed his phone face down against his thigh as he glanced at her, his mouth going dry as his brain turned the headline over and over. “I -- have you checked the news recently?” he asked, clearing his throat and forcing himself to swallow. His voice, surprisingly, didn’t quaver as he spoke.

Mari furrowed her brow, her dark brown eyes focused on Savin for a moment before she dug her phone out of her scrubs pocket. With an effortless motion, she unlocked her screen. He watched her, studying any subtle movements in her expression as she scrolled through her apps.

She placed a hand over her mouth a moment later, her eyes widening. “Savin -- Savin I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You should go home. I’m sure Chase can handle things for the next couple of hours.”

Savin shook his head and shoved his phone back into his pocket. “No,” he said, pushing himself off the on-call room bed. He paced the small space before it, his stomach twisting into his throat. “I’ve only got a couple more hours left.”

“Savin…”

“It’s better if I don’t go home,” he continued, raking his fingers through his hair. He turned his back to her, his eyes focusing on the sliver of sunlight edging its way over the horizon. “Besides, he and I broke up. There’s not… I don’t think they’d let me go home.”

“Not everyone knows the two of you broke up,” Mari said. “You’ve been burying yourself in work the past few weeks enough as it is. Go home.”

Savin half-turned towards her, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his scrubs and his shoulders slumped. “I still have some of his things at home.”

Mari blinked up at him. “I thought he grabbed all of them?” she asked, her voice quiet. She moved closer to Savin, her steps measured and precise.

“Yeah, and we got into one hell of a row when he came to grab them.” Savin swallowed and looked out the on-call room window again, stepping further away from her. “I’m gonna go see if I can stay on another shift,” he said after a moment, pushing past her and out the room.

“Message me when you get home,” she called out behind him.

***

Imperial Jet Found in Baskian Sea -- No Survivors

Savin collapsed into his oversized armchair, his eyes glued to his phone as he skimmed headline after headline. His eyes burned, and exhaustion washed over him in waves. When he closed his eyes, all he could see were the pitying looks his coworkers kept giving him. He could also feel their hands on his shoulder, on his back, on his arm -- could hear the way they whispered, I’m so sorry to him. How some even whispered, Maybe they’ll find him, to him, as though that would help ease his mind.

He swiped away notifications for missed calls, several of them from his father. He ached for his mother, for her sweet voice and how right now, he desperately wanted to hear it again. There was even one from Mari, and several text messages from her as well.

He should let her know he was home, some twelve hours later after they last spoke. She was worried. It wasn’t kind of him to let her worry like that. After several moments of staring blankly at her messages, his eyes skimming them but his mind uncomprehending, he found himself typing, I’m home, and sent that.

Home.

The same home he’d kicked Jazz out of, just a few weeks ago. He had changed the locks without telling him, while Jazz had gone to Cliffton on Official Empire Business. He’d purposely kept Jazz off the lease, too, leaving him with nowhere to go when he came home. Petty? Sure, but…

At the time, it had felt like the right thing to do. Now, though…

Savin groaned and put his head in his hands, willing tears to come that never did.

***

Imperial Jet Shows Signs of Receiving Artillery Fire

Savin stared up at his phone, which he held precariously close to his face as he lay in his bed. More headlines stared back at him, and Savin rubbed his nose before moving to close the news app. He hadn’t read any of the articles anyway. Some of them he’d tried to start reading, but -- every time he saw Jazz’s name written in full, his stomach would clench and his mouth would go dry.

Instead of mindlessly absorbing the titles of articles he had no intention of reading, Savin moved to his voicemail. A multitude of messages sat, waiting to be listened to.

A lot of them were from Jazz. And Savin had listened to none of them, since the night he’d last seen Jazz in person.

With a quiet sniff, Savin tapped on the earliest of Jazz’s messages. “Hey Savin,” Jazz’s voice, quiet and somber, rung out on speaker. “I’m guessing you blocked me, since this went straight to voicemail, but… Look, I’m… I’m really sorry, mate. I shouldn’t have said any of the things I said to you the other night, I just -- it really hurt, you know? But that’s -- that’s no excuse for how I’ve been treating you and I just… I’m sorry. Please call me back, okay? I want to talk.”

Savin groaned, lowering his phone to his chest as tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. Not only had he blocked Jazz’s phone number, he’d blocked him on all social media, too. He had even stopped going to his favorite diner, just in case Jazz had decided to try and “bump into” Savin there.

Each voicemail was more of the same. An apology. A plea to talk. In one or two, Jazz had snapped in frustration, tears evident in how his voice shook, and then immediately pulled himself back. And even in those messages, where Jazz had clearly been lost in his anger, there were apologies. Requests to talk. To just answer the damn phone already or call him back.

Jazz must have called him every other day or so. Savin moved through the messages methodically, working towards the most recent, until he was on the last one and his face was drenched with tears.

“Hey Savin,” started the last one. Jazz’s tone was different in this. Less apologetic. “It’s been a few weeks and I guess you’re not gonna call me back, which is fine, I just --” A pause as Jazz cleared his throat. “I love you,” he said. “I love you a lot and I really, really wish I had gotten a chance to talk to you. There’s… a lot that’s happening, right now, and I’m sure you’ve been keeping up with the news, I just -- please don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll be safe. You just… you might not hear from me again for a while, so… please take care of yourself, alright?”

Savin snorted. Take care of himself. Like by listening to messages left by his dead ex-boyfriend -- that counted as taking care of himself, right?

***

In Memoriam: Jasper “Jazz” Levi Callahan

Savin slipped his glasses over his eyes and scrutinized himself in the mirror. His tie was, thankfully, straight -- and only took him five tries to get it just right. There were bags under his eyes, the green of them duller than usual, and his face looked thinner than usual. His clothes were looser, too, now that he thought about it…

“You ready to go yet, Bates?” Mari asked, knocking on Savin’s bedroom door. “The funeral starts in like an hour.”

Savin raked his fingers through his hair, gave himself another once over in the mirror, and stepped around his bed to the door. “Yeah, I’m ready,” he said as opened the door. He snatched the pack of cigarettes off from his dresser, shoving them inside his pocket as he offered Mari a brittle smile. “As ready as I’m gonna be, anyway.”

Mari snorted at that and poked Savin in the ribs. “Maybe you should leave the cigarettes here,” she said. “You know how Jazz felt about them.”

“Mm.” Savin pulled the pack out once again, flicking the top of it open and eyeballing how much of the pack he had left. “I’ll leave it in the car when we get there,” he said, stepping down his short hallway towards the living room. “I’m gonna need one before we get there and one after we leave.”

“Well, you better go smoke now, then, because I’m not sitting in the car with you while you do that,” Mari said, folding her arms over her chest. “You know how I feel about those things, too.”

Savin blinked at her, then nodded. He slipped on his shoes and then headed towards the sliding glass doors that lead to his small balcony. “Alright,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Do you wanna step outside with me or wait in here?”

“In here’s fine,” Mari said, settling onto the couch. “Just don’t take too long, okay? I don’t think you wanna be late.”

Savin nodded again, fished a cigarette out from his pack along with the lighter he kept inside it, and slipped past the sliding doors to the balcony. He shivered in the chill fall air, but didn’t bother going back inside for a jacket. With practiced motions, he got his cigarette lit and inhaled deeply.

A funeral without a body. It wasn’t the first one Savin had attended, and likely wouldn’t be the last, but…

Something was off. It had been about a week and a half since Jazz’s whole flight had gone missing, but -- something just seemed off. The articles were inconsistent, the information provided on them incomplete -- and it didn’t sound like Emperor Cruz was too intent on investigating things further, despite rumors that the Lamagne or even Cliffton had shot the jet down.

Savin sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wanted to call Devin, of all things, and talk to him about this. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do that, not yet. It was hard enough, accepting Jazz was really gone, but telling Devin…

That’d make it all too real.

Just as Savin flicked his half-burned cigarette into the makeshift trash can he had sitting on the balcony, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Furrowing his brow, Savin pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

He didn’t recognize the number -- it certainly wasn’t from the Empire, either. In fact… Swallowing hard, Savin lifted the phone to his ear. “Mosh’ moshi?”

“Well I’ll be damned.” Savin’s eyes widened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as his heart skipped a beat. “You actually answered.”

Savin fumbled his phone, managing to catch it before it ended up smashed against his concrete balcony. With a trembling hand, he brought it back to his ear. “Jazz...? But aren’t you...”

“I’m not dead,” Jazz said, clearing his throat. “But I guess we did a good job convincing everyone that I was.”

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LJI Week 2: My Mount Rushmore

Sun, 14 Oct 2018 14:07:21 GMT

You fidget as you stand just in front of your bed, your face burning hot as you hold a folded note in your small, chubby hands. Several friends are over for your eleventh birthday, including the boy you’ve been crushing on since second grade -- the same boy that stands in front of you, right now.

He’s the same boy you’ve written multiple letters to over the past few months, never once signing your name. These letters all contained similar content: how much you like him, how much you adore him, how he makes your heart go wacky -- though your name wasn’t Helga G Pataki. If anything, you’re braver than Helga, since you’ve never once picked on the object of your affections out of fear he’d discover how you felt.

Taking in a deep breath, you pass the boy the note, your eyes downcast as he plucks it from your fingers. He turns the folded piece of paper over in his hands, his brow furrowing.

“It’s me,” you squeak before you can stop yourself, the heat in your face now spreading down the sides of your neck. He hasn’t even had a chance to open the note yet. “I wrote you those letters.”

He looks up at you, wide blue eyes locking on to your own. “Oh?” His face brightens and his smile nearly splits his face in two. “I like you, too, Alicia.”

You grin back.

***

You stare down at the letter and study the meticulous handwriting spaced throughout the page.

I love you, it reads. I’d treat you like a queen. You deserve the world and more, Alicia.

Holding the letter tentatively in your hands, you glance at a boy sitting halfway across the bandroom. He raises an eyebrow at you, and you smile back at him. The letter isn’t from him -- but it is the first one of its ilk you’ve ever received despite the number of them you’ve given out yourself since that first boy, on your eleventh birthday.

No, this letter’s from a girl. One of your closest friends. Your heart aches in your chest and you bite your lip, contemplating a response. You really don’t want to turn your friend down. Your friend is sweet and funny and a little adorable. It’s just…

You glance at the boy again, then pull out a sheet of loose leaf paper and a pen out of your pocket.

I’m really sorry, you start just as your band teacher saunters up to the front of the classroom. You put the started letter away and pick up your mallets instead.

I’m already dating someone else, you finish up sometime later, in another class. There’s more to the letter than that, like how you don’t want to stop being friends and how you hope your friend can forgive you for not liking her back.

If you didn’t already have a boyfriend, you wonder if you would have said yes, instead.

***

“Oh no,” you groan, tears stinging your eyes as you open up your wallet even further. You examine every nook and cranny of it, biting your lip to keep it from trembling.

You couldn’t have seriously left it at the bank, could you have? That’s the last place you remember seeing it -- you had taken it out of your wallet to look at your account number. At eighteen, the whole banking process is still so new to you and you haven’t memorized the number, yet. But you put everything back, didn’t you?

Slowly, you put the wallet back down and place your hands over your face, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. The letter you lost was important; it was from your boyfriend, while he had been in bootcamp. It was the letter he’d asked you back out in. You’ve carried it with you everywhere ever since you’ve received it.

And now you’ve just left it somewhere, where it had probably gotten thrown away. It’s been hours since you were at the bank. There was no chance it’d still be there. As you pull your hands away from your face, you glance around your room. Maybe… maybe you could rewrite it. You’ve read it so many times, you practically had it memorized. And maybe you could carry that with you everywhere, instead.

You find yourself scrambling for a piece of loose leaf moments later, plucking one of your pens hanging from an old candy dispenser you house on your desk. You close your eyes and visualize your boyfriend’s chaotic scrawl, rehearsing the words in your head.

You recall his words of admitting he’d never stopped loving you. His words of how breaking up with you earlier that year had been a mistake. How he had admitted to being afraid of getting hurt. And then, the final question -- whether you could handle the life of a Marine, the life he’d chosen for himself. And if you could, would you like to be with him, again. Once those words are on the page, you add a note for yourself:

Don’t ever lose this reminder. He chose you -- don’t ever doubt his feelings for you.

***

It’s been more than a decade since you’ve rewritten that letter. In that decade, that boyfriend became your husband, who then became your wife, who then became your ex-wife. You live in a house paid for by your former father-in-law, who is now your late former father-in-law, as of less than two months ago.

Your beautiful nine year old son lives with you, along with your brother and his girlfriend. Your brother lost his job just the day before, and the frustration with him burns a small hole in the pit of your gut. But he’s asking you to print out a copy of his resume, and your printer is buried under a year’s worth of junk accumulation.

It had been your plan that weekend to tackle the mess that was your room, already, to begin with. Dust speckles the walls, gathers in the corners. There’s a birthday gift bag in the corner that’s been acting as a makeshift trash can for who knows how long that you desperately need to carry outside and throw in the trash.

So you start with the top of your desk. Papers have gathered there, along with a set of mason jars you bought on a whim to help you with meal planning that you then never used. There’s a humidifier that you need to put away until you actually need it again. This task expands to the small filing cabinet beside the desk, where there are more papers gathered and trash shoved between it and your desk.

As you dig this trash out, your hands close in on a plastic bag that has several things inside it. As you glance inside it, your stomach drops to the floor and your mouth goes dry, your eyes burning with tears.

“I thought I burned all of these,” you whisper to yourself, your hands closing on a cluster of letters written in your sloppy, loopy handwriting. They’re adorned with labels, the labels describing the tone confined within the letter.

They were the last letters you wrote to your ex-wife, the month or so following her decision to end your relationship. You don’t remember how many you had written, but it was at least one a day as you mourned the loss of the life you thought you wanted. She had originally kept them in a box -- a box you emptied out and left your rings in, instead, the day you fled from her home with your son on your hip and his toys and clothes for you both shoved into the back of your car.

You sit on the floor, pulling each of these letters out of their plastic tomb. Your eyes land on one that doesn’t have a label, and you dare to open it.

I never stopped loving you, stares back at you in your handwriting, and you fold the letter back up and put it back in the pile. On top of that letter, you leave the letter titled Very, Very Angry. You vow to burn these remnants of your past life when your girlfriend comes to visit, in two weeks’ time. You'll need her calming presence if you dare to open one and read it.

Hopefully, you won’t break down and read them before then.

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LJI Week 1: "It's hard to beat a person who never gives up"

Fri, 05 Oct 2018 22:52:05 GMT

“What do you think I should do?” she asks quietly. Your attention is split between the barely-there tremble in her voice and getting the eggs in the pot to boil.

“I think you should quit,” you tell her after a moment or two of hesitation. You clear your throat and wince. “Seriously, dude, this job isn’t worth it. You can find a new one. I promise.”

“But if I can hold on ‘til the end of the PIP…”

You want to shake her. How many times have you two cycled through this conversation? How many times can she offer reasons to stay that actually sound logical? Because they always do. Staying until Max comes up for the summer. Staying until she gets fired, just to buy more time to put down on her resume and better chances at unemployment. Staying because she needs the money, she needs the stability of a job otherwise she might end up homeless. Staying because what if this’s the only job she can get?

“I mean…” you drag that second word out, licking your lips as you swap the phone from one ear to the other, cradling it between your head and shoulder so as to free up your hands. “I get it. It’d look better to leave in another month or two. Especially because you’re working for a start-up and start-up time is different…” You can’t bring yourself to even start on the but.

She’s fucking miserable there. The man she reports to has a fucking vendetta and it doesn’t matter how hard she fights back, the bullshit he pulls? He always gets away with it -- like his cloaked sexist and ageist remarks. Or his claims that people reported back to him that she wasn’t doing a good enough job. The whole “Performance Improvement Plan,” which was a thousand percent reactionary because she dared to speak and stand up for herself and call his bullshit out.

“So you think I should stay,” her voice is flat, and if she were standing in front of you instead of in her own kitchen, you know the stare she must be giving you, now. The slight tightening of her jaw. The way her eyes become shadowed. You swallow, hard.

“I don’t know,” you manage. “I see the benefits of both staying and quitting. I just -- I don’t know, dude.”

And you do see the benefits of staying. But all you can see is her, balancing her laptop on her thighs as you snuggled up close to her in her apartment, her eyes scouring the code on a Saturday. And again for a few hours on Sunday. A good six to eight hours of the forty-eight you get to spend in her apartment in a span of two weeks or more.

All you can see are the tears threatening to spill over as she talks about the latest piece of bullshit he dropped in her lap. And it’s all you can do to ignore that sinking, clenching feeling in your gut as you struggle to figure out how to best support her.

“You should quit,” you tell her, with all the conviction you can muster. Being unemployed almost destroyed her once before, but -- “You need to quit that job, dude.”

“I can’t, dude,” she insists. “I’ve only been there four months, who’s gonna hire me?”

“I swear to you, you’ll find another job.” You breathe in, take the pot off the burner and let the eggs sit under a stream of cool water. “This is you we’re fucking talking about. The same person who decided to fucking up and move to NYC after living there for bootcamp for three months. The same person who found a fucking job within a couple of weeks once you started looking. Hell, you found your apartment over a literal fucking weekend. You’ll find another job.”

Silence. And then: “I don’t know, dude.” Her voice is so small it makes your heart ache. “What if he’s right about me and my work and even if I get another job, I just fuck it up all over again?”

“Then we’ll deal with that.”

There’s some silence, and then: “I can maybe still do enough points this week. If I just… make it until the end of the PIP…”

You hold back a sigh and nod, even though she can’t see it. “I know you can beat the PIP, dude, it’s just…”

You just wish she wouldn’t fight so damn hard to prove herself to someone who isn’t fucking worth it.

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Oh hey, it's time

Tue, 18 Sep 2018 02:23:18 GMT

LJ Idol time, that is.

I'm totally doing it this time. :)

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APTDNE -- "Bad Idea"

Sun, 27 May 2018 22:10:02 GMT

AN: Shameless smut ahead. Of the Jazz/Devin/Wes threesome variety. Because I had a Mighty Need for it, thanks to the RP Sarah and I are doing... Double penetration ahead.

“I’m not surprised, though -- Devin’s always so good at everything he does…” The words left him, unbidden, and had been meant as comfort -- as praise.

But Jazz knew he had said the wrong thing before Devin had even had a chance to react.

( Moar under here... )

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Because it's been a while...

Thu, 01 Feb 2018 00:33:13 GMT

Mitchel Becoming Jazz’s Legal Counsel

Jazz leaned back in his seat, his eyes focused on Mitchel’s back. His shoulders were level and back, confident, one hand sliding down the length of his tie -- the only way Jazz could tell the other man was a touch nervous.

“Your honor, it would in no way be in Jasper Callahan’s best interest to switch counsel now,” Lin argued, her chin lifted and her jaw set. She glanced back at Jazz, who did his best to keep his expression neutral. “We’ve heard most witnesses; his trial is nearly over and bringing in new counsel would only weaken his position.”

Jazz scoffed, the sound quiet enough that he hoped no one heard it. His position was weak enough, thanks to Lin’s lackluster performance. If he had asked Mitchel from the start --

Well, Mitchel probably would have denied him the help. But if he had, and Mitchel had agreed to it, then maybe, just maybe, Jazz wouldn’t be staring down a potential life sentence. He was lucky that the death penalty could only be given for assassination attempts made on the Emperor as opposed to simple treason.

That law had only changed five years ago.

“With all due respect, your honor, but my client’s current counsel has done a piss poor job of protecting him.” Mitchel’s voice was clear, strong. “Jasper Callahan would not be requesting the removal of his current counsel if he disagreed with me.”

“Jasper Callahan is unlikely to disagree with his lover, your honor.”

Jazz didn’t so much as flinch. He’d expected Lin to bring up his previous relationship with Mitchel -- he’d feared exactly that, when he’d approached Mitchel for help, in the first place. Mitchel just smiled. That deadly, sharp smile he only gave when he was about to tear Jazz apart in one of Emperor Casio’s council meetings.

“I would hardly refer to myself as his ‘lover,’” he said, taking a calculated step forward. Jazz had never seen Mitchel in court before; had only seen him defend and rip apart rhetoric in meetings. If it weren’t for Mitchel’s jarring words, Jazz would’ve found himself more attracted to Mitchel than he’d ever been. “Jasper Callahan and I stopped sleeping together several weeks ago.”

“Yes, but you did sleep together. Rather frequently, if I recall.”

“And that’s about all we did, counselor,” Mitchel said, smirking and adjusting the knot of his tie.

Jazz felt his face burn and kept his hands folded in his lap. That wasn’t all they did. Up until a few weeks ago, Mitchel had practically been murmuring the words I love you to him. Had comforted Jazz when he needed it, been his confidant. But Jazz knew that he had to keep his reaction hidden, so gripped his own fingers tightly and forced his expression to stay loose, even if the heat traveled down the back of his neck and under his collar.

“Mr. Callahan sure looks like he’d like to refute that, counselor,” Lin said, and Jazz could hear the triumph in her voice. Jazz didn’t so much as move, not even when Mitchel turned to glance back at him, an eyebrow raised.

“He looks like he misunderstood the nature of our private interactions,” Mitchel said with a shrug. “Jasper Callahan is eleven years my junior. We may both have a seat on the Emperor’s Council but our age difference was enough to deter me from pursuing anything more serious in nature than a fling.”

“Then why have sex with him at all?” Lin asked, her own brows lifting towards her hair.

Jazz almost choked on his own spit as Mitchel gestured to him, a proud grin on his face that Jazz knew was absolutely for show. “Why not?” he countered, all smarm.

He then turned his attention to the judge. The same judge Jazz had, up until this point, forgotten was there. “Your honor, what Jasper Callahan and I once chose to do in the privacy of our bedrooms is, quite frankly, not the business of this court, nor will the previous nature of our relationship have any impact on my ability to defend him. Jasper Callahan is nothing more than a coworker I happened to take to bed every once a while. Linda Cruz is guilty of the same -- her husband used to be a member of Emperor Casio’s Council, as well, before he decided to step away.”

The judge glanced at Lin, her expression unreadable. She then focused her attention on Jazz, sharp eyes landing on him squarely. “Mr. Callahan, you have chosen to sit at Councilor Foraker’s desk,” she said, clearing her throat. “Given what you just heard, would you still like to remove Mrs. Cruz from your counsel.”

“Yes, your honor,” Jazz said, without missing a beat. He folded his hands on top of the table and licked his lips, glancing at Lin for a moment and frowning a bit to himself. “Ms. Cruz promised to give me everything she has into this trial, but I believe she is pulled too thin by having to be at Emperor Casio’s beck and call. I approached Mr. Foraker myself, as I wasn’t certain whether I could even remove Ms. Cruz as my counsel, given the sensitive nature of my case and the impact it will have on the Empire, should I prove myself innocent.”

“Do you see any issue in having a former sexual partner represent you in court?” the judge asked, turning her gavel around in her fingers. Her eyes flitted to Mitchel. The look wasn’t favorable. “The opposing counsel will try to use this information against you, and it will be admissible.”

“I am aware, your honor. And I’m sure Mr. Foraker is, as well,” Jazz said, feeling his mouth go a little dry. He sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat. “I have already weathered several attacks on my character so far this trial; I’m positive I can handle having my sex life scrutinized as well.”

The judge nodded, glancing between Lin and Mitchel once more. Jazz shivered, did his best to keep it private, and kept his eyes on Mitchel’s back.

“I will grant Mr. Callahan his wish to appoint Mr. Foraker as his legal counsel,” she said after a moment. “Court adjourned.”

***

“Just a fling?” Jazz found himself hissing at Mitchel the moment they were truly alone and out of the courthouse. The ride to Mitchel’s house had been unbearable, what with the knowledge that his car was likely still bugged. “Is that really all I was to you?”

Mitchel sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Jasper, please,” he murmured. “We need to go over all of the evidence Lin handed over to me. The more familiar I am with your case, the better -- now is not the time to discuss what you were to me.”

“A fling?” Jazz repeated, knowing damn well he should listen to Mitchel, but he couldn’t stop his mouth from running either way. “Mitchel, you don’t bring a bloody fucking fling to meet the family --”

“It’s posturing, Jasper,” Mitchel said, his voice sharp and clipped. He tugged his tie loose and headed towards his bedroom, his shoes expertly removed by the door. “I want to restructure your image with the court -- at present, they think you power hungry and conniving. If I can convince them to instead see you as less of threat to the Emperor…”

“So how is my sex life supposed to do that, again?” Jazz asked, following Mitchel down the hall. He didn’t enter Mitchel’s bedroom, however, when Mitchel shut the door. “Nevermind making it look like you were simply using me for sex.”

“You’re a young, attractive, highly sexual individual,” Mitchel said, emerging from his bedroom in more casual clothes. He met Jazz’s eyes, a slight frown making its way across his lips. “Since we started sleeping together, you’ve started dating two other individuals. You’ve slept with several others a time or two before you and Devin started dating. I would rather paint myself as someone who is taking advantage than watch them paint you as a slut.”

“But I am a slut,” Jazz said with a shrug, folding his arms over his chest and frowning himself. “There’s nothing wrong with liking sex --”

“There isn’t. And we’re going to use your sexual history to our advantage. If we change their perception of you to someone who is too busy bedding multiple men to do much of anything else, they’ll question whether you even have the time or inclination to destroy our government or whatever it is the prosecution is claiming.”

Jazz just leaned back against the hallway, his arms still tightly wound over his chest. He took in every word Mitchel said, his frown deepening as he reached up to toy with his hemp necklace. “You really think making me out as a sexed out blond is going to work?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s the one angle Lin certainly hasn’t thought of,” Mitchel said with a shrug. “From what I saw, she is hardly making you out to be anything other than someone who might be harboring a grudge against Emperor Casio -- which is hardly going to work in your favor.”

Slowly, Jazz dropped his gaze from Mitchel’s face -- which was earnest and open -- and nodded, slipping both of his hands behind his back. He bit his lip, casting a furtive glance in Mitchel’s direction. “A fling?” he asked again, this time much more quietly than when they’d walked in the door. “Really?”

The corner of Mitchel’s mouth twitched, and he let out a breath of a laugh as he passed Jazz in the hall. “No, Jasper,” he said, his expression softening. He reached out for Jazz, but pulled his hand away before his fingertips could so much as brush Jazz’s skin. “Not really.”

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PB -- Jazz getting molestered

Fri, 06 Oct 2017 11:20:09 GMT

“You can’t go in there, dude.” Wes stuck his arm out in front of him, barring Jazz from the door. Not that it probably mattered -- Devin hadn’t let anyone in or out of that room for the past twenty-four hours. But if he could stop Jazz now…

Jazz placed his hands on his hips, his lip catching between his teeth for just a moment before he frowned up at Wes’s stony expression. “Why not?” he challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Wes glanced back at the door, then used his long, skinny limbs to corral Jazz backwards, towards the room they’d been standing in, just moments ago. Jazz didn’t move. “You can’t,” he repeated, the words coming out almost like a squeak. “You’re too close as it is and you need to be far away from Devin, right now, or --”

“Or what?” Jazz snapped, glaring at Wes. “I’m not an Adept like you and Calla, he can’t pull a charge from me --”

“He’s been pulling charges from you, dude!” Wes reached up, his hands digging into the tight, wiry curls on top of his head and pulling. “That’s why you’ve been feeling weak! You are an Adept, you gotta be, and you can’t be here right now -- you don’t know how to shield or how to hold onto your energies or anything --”

Jazz’s frown deepened, and he planted his feet into the ground, digging his heels in even as Wes moved into his personal space. An odd, crashing sensation made Wes close his eyes and shiver -- and when he opened them again, he could see Jazz shiver, too.

“See! He pulled from you! Just now!” Wes cried. He reached out again, wrapping his hand around Jazz’s arm. “We need to get you out of here -- !”

“I’m not leaving him in that room alone with that -- with that asshole,” Jazz said, squaring his jaw.

Wes had to keep himself from all but rolling his eyes as another tremor wracked Jazz’s small frame. Instead, he leveled him with a pained look and groaned, slapping a hand against his forehead. “Have you even been watching the feeds? Devin’s not the one who’s in trouble right now --”

“Except he is and if we don’t stop him soon he’s gonna do something he’ll regret for the rest of his fucking life.”

“You’re impossible.” Wes muttered, shaking his head. He glanced behind him, shivering himself as his eyes lingered on the door. “If you go in there right now, there’s no telling what Devin’s gonna do -- he might not even let you in, y’know? Calla and I haven’t been able to get through the door to stop him and I doubt he’s just gonna let you through, too.”

Jazz considered this for a moment. He glanced between Wes and the door, chewing his bottom lip. After a moment of seemingly careful deliberation, he gave Wes a pleading look. “I’m not an Adept,” he said, grasping at straws. “I never -- I can’t read his mind, like you can. I don’t know -- I don’t know what all’s going through his head right now like you do --”

“He’s shielding,” Wes said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “He’s not sharing what’s going through his head with any of us, right now -- just because you can’t feel him doesn’t mean you normally can’t, dude, and I know Devin’s panicked about you reading his mind more than once, and --”

“I can’t read his mind!” Jazz repeated, his teeth grinding a little as he glared up at Wes. “He isn’t pulling a charge from me. I am not an Adept. I’m not exactly a High Ender -- or even from bloody Cliffton, for that matter!”

Wes pinched the bridge of his nose. He forced himself to take in a deep, steadying breath, remembering the exercises Calla had taught him almost a year ago. He needed to be calm; he needed to shield himself so Devin couldn’t keep pulling charges, with him and Jazz so close.

And just as he was about to argue that they’re not entirely sure what made an Adept an Adept in the first place, Jazz opened his mouth, first: “He’s in that room, alone, about to do something he’ll regret,” he said, sounding desperate. “One of us needs to stop him.”

“You go in there, dude, and he’s gonna do something else he regrets, just to get you to leave,” Wes said, speaking his words slowly. “Don’t go in there.”

Jazz glanced at the door one last time. He met Wes’s eyes and held his gaze before he sighed and rubbed at his jaw. “Okay,” he said, his shoulders slumping. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. “How long does he have to be in there for?”

“As long as it takes,” Wes said, his own expression grim. He started walking back towards the safe room -- the room where they could watch Devin torment his father behind the safety of camera screens.

He hadn’t expected Jazz to bolt past him, throw open the door, and slip through it before he’d taken another step.

***

Jazz slammed the door shut behind him, his breath coming out in short, pained gasps as he did so. He’d half-expected Wes to grab him again -- except he hadn’t, because Wes was too trusting, just as Jazz thought he would be. He let out a bark of a laugh, a small, twisted grin of triumph making its way across his face. Serves Wes right, trying to stop him -- he should’ve just --

Electricity crackled in his ears.

He had only a split second to pull away from the door and out of the way of the lightning strike. His vision went white. He slammed himself down, the floor thrumming underneath him.

Shouldn’t be here, cutie.

“I don’t care,” Jazz said, pushing himself up from the ground. “You can’t keep doing this --”

His throat tightened, cutting off his words. Jazz scrabbled at his throat, trying to pull away whatever had wrapped around it -- except nothing was there. Gasping for air, Jazz tried to pull himself away from whatever gripped him, but --

Leave.

That same grip around his throat moved to his chest. Jazz slammed back against the door and cried out.

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Calla and Devin bonding

Sun, 10 Sep 2017 18:43:19 GMT

"Calla, I hate to interrupt, but I need your help with something."

Calla looked away from the girl she was training -- only a couple of years younger than her -- and frowned, her eyes locking onto Jansen's dark ones. "Need my help with what, Doctor J?"

Jansen gave her a look much like the one her father used to give, before Morgan had gone and screwed up her life and ensured she could never return to it. Frown deepening, she turned to her charge. "Go take a rest, kiddo," she said. "I'll come back and tell you how to bond with a Manip later."

The girl nodded -- and Calla realized she couldn't even remember her name. She'd seen so many potential Adepts, so many potential Manips through Jansen's program. Their faces all looked the same -- girls who were grateful for the opportunity to escape the oppressive reality of being "Agreeable" at all times of the day.

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in between rp sessions -- wes and devin, devin's migraine

Fri, 11 Aug 2017 15:45:35 GMT

"Devin, dude, are you okay?"

Wes didn't know why he was asking. Thanks to their newly formed bond, Wes already knew the answer -- Devin's head *hurt* as though it were about to be split in half. And the nausea -- Wes'd experienced waves of that yesterday and earlier that morning, when Devin was trying to heal Wes's broken wrist. It had been less than four hours since Wes had left to go get his wrist looked at -- and Devin had seemed fine, then. Just tired.

Devin groaned in response, kneading his forehead with his knuckles as he curled up into an even tighter ball on the couch. "'mfine," he croaked, opening one eye to peek up at Wes. "Promise."

Wes sighed and knelt down beside the couch, resting his forehead against Devin's. "I know you're in pain, dude," he whispered, pressing his lips to the bridge of Devin's nose. "Want me to help you back to your bed? You'll probably be more comfortable there..."

"Mmph." Devin just buried his face further into the throw pillow he'd curled himself around, giving the slightest shakes of his head. "Don't wanna move..."

He should've expected that. After a moment of debate, Wes sat down on the floor and stroked Devin's hair, letting his hand drift down Devin's back. "D'you want me to get you anything, dude? Water, crackers..."

Devin whined, the answer clearly a "No," as it filtered through the static of their connection. Wes nodded, kissed Devin's cheek, and got up, turning to attend to the kitchen. The stack of pancakes he'd left for Devin that morning had been left on the little end table beside the couch, cut into pieces but probably only a bite or two missing, and Wes took that back with him, tossing the remaining portion in the trash.

He didn't linger long in the kitchen -- he knew any loud clanging noises would only exasperate Devin's migraine further. Still, Wes found himself coming back out into the living room, comforter in tow. He gently laid it out over Devin on the couch, bending down to brush his lips against Devin's temple. "Lemme know if you need anything, okay? Just try'n get some sleep for now -- I'll wake you up in a couple of hours and see if you want anything simple to eat.."

Devin nodded, the movement slight. He didn't open his eyes, though he did lean in a little to Wes's touch, as light as it was on Devin's back. With another brief kiss to the top of Devin's head, Wes headed back towards his bedroom. He could entertain himself for a few hours watching NebulaQuest and playing a little bit of SimFighting -- though he knew if he was going to play that, he'd have to do so as quietly as possible, with as little movement as possible.

Of course, the moment Wes got himself comfortable in his own bed and started up one of his favorite episodes, he fell asleep, himself. When he woke, the splitting sensation had dulled to hard throb, and the nausea seemed to disappear. It took him a moment to realize the pain wasn't his own as he oriented himself

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Parenting!AU random shit

Fri, 28 Jul 2017 19:01:03 GMT

“Jazz, You ARE the Father”

Jazz blinked at Jessica, furrowing his brow. "You're -- what?"

Jessica fidgeted with her bra strap and bit her lip. "I'm pregnant."

Jazz blinked again, this time his jaw hanging open a little. He then gave a weak laugh and licked his lips. "Um -- are you sure it's okay to tell me this at work?" he asked, his mouth going dry. Music thumped around them both, and scantily clad men and women alike passed them by, heading towards tables or poles -- one of which Jazz was supposed to be dancing on in another few minutes.

"It's yours," Jessica said, keeping her voice low. She moved closer to him. "I know it's yours."

"I -- okay." Jazz scrubbed at his face with his palm, nodding his head even though his heart started to pound in his chest. "Is there -- do you need me to do anything?"

Jessica's shoulders relaxed and she closed her eyes, raking her fingers through her long, flowing hair. Hair that reminded him of Devin's as she looked up at him with beautiful light brown eyes. "You're not gonna argue with me?" she asked, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. "I thought you wouldn't believe me."

"Why wouldn't I believe you?" Jazz gave her a half-hearted smile. "I mean, it'd be different if we hadn't..."

"I know, but we only had sex twice, and we used protection..." Jessica placed her hand on Jazz's arm. "Not to mention you have a boyfriend."

"The condom broke the second time," Jazz said, shrugging his shoulders. "And Devin gave me permission to sleep with you, so..." He turned towards his mirror and inspected his wig, adjusting it accordingly as he chewed his bottom lip in thought. “I’m on in a minute -- d’you wanna talk later, or…?”

“Text me,” Jessica said, moving closer and pecking Jazz on the cheek. “We can talk tomorrow before work, okay? I know this is a lot and honestly I don’t know what I’m going to do, yet, but… I’m leaning towards keeping it?”

Jazz nodded, glancing over his make up one last time and carefully dabbing some extra glitter down his chest. He even pulled the open collar a little wider, exposing more of his skin in the process. “Okay,” he said, avoiding Jessica’s eyes in the mirror. “I’ll text you tomorrow morning.”

Jessica nodded, too, striding past Jazz and towards her corner of the make-up room. Jazz watched her leave, an odd shiver rolling down his spine as he recalled the night the condom broke. How she had been on top of him, that time. He remembered the way his whole world stopped when he realized the condom had broken partway through.

It should be okay, she’d told him. You’re clean, right?

“Goldi, you’re up.”

“Thanks, Carly,” Jazz murmured, pushing himself upright. He gave himself one more glance-over in the mirror and brushed the golden curls over his shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like dancing. But as he strutted his way to the stage, Jazz knew he had no choice. So he lifted his chin and put on his most mischievous grin, making sure to exaggerate the natural sway of his hips as he pulled the curtains aside.

Show time.

***

“Please pick up…” Jazz curled in on himself tighter in the staff bathrooms tall, holding his phone to his ear. He’d only thrown on a skirt to cover his otherwise bare behind in his barely-there thong. He hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt -- the reveal that he was a man had already happened for the evening, so he would be expected to dance the rest of the night shirtless, regardless, and the bathroom was usually unbearably warm. Still, he shivered as the phone continued to ring out.

“Please pick up,” he groaned once more, doing his best to keep himself from smudging his make-up. “Please, Devin, please, please, plea --”

“‘lo?”

Jazz heaved a sigh in relief. “Devin! I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?” he managed, raking his fingers through his hair. He’d long since shed the wig. Devin grunted his answer into the phone, and Jazz gave a nervous chuckle at it. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I just -- I needed to talk to you about something, real quick…”

“Mmph.” Jazz heard the displeasure in Devin’s tone. “Text me?” he offered.

“You’ll just fall back asleep and I --” Jazz cut himself off and shook his head. He glanced at the time -- one in the morning. He’d be done by two-thirty. “Nevermind, yeah,” he said, giving a slight nod of his head. “I’ll text you. It’s probably better that way, I just -- really needed to hear your voice, that’s all.”

“Everything okay, cutie?” He sounded a little more awake, now. And worried. And Jazz had to kick himself for that -- now Devin wasn’t going to go back to sleep, because he was going to be too worried about Jazz to do so. “Swrong?”

“I --” Jazz gave a disbelieving laugh, running through his brief conversation with Jessica, earlier that evening. “Jessica’s pregnant,” he said after a moment, hoping the two words would be enough. Devin was smart, and even though he sometimes took forever to wake up, Jazz hoped that this wasn’t going to be one of those times. Otherwise this conversation was just going to be frustrating for the both of them, and --

“...what.” Jazz could almost hear Devin blink at him owlishly through the phone. “The fuck?”

“She’s pregnant. She -- she knows it’s mine.” Jazz swallowed, raking his fingers through his hair again. “Devin, I don’t know what I’m supposed to fucking do and I’m freaking out but I can’t leave work early, and --” He cut himself off and forced himself to take in a deep breath. “I love you. I should be home in a couple of hours and we can talk more, then, I just -- I needed to tell you, okay?”

“...’kay.” Devin cleared his throat. And then yawned, loud and obnoxious, into the phone. Hearing it just made Jazz laugh silently to himself and shake his head, and indulgent smile making its way across his lips. “Love you, too. Gonna -- gonna go now, ‘kay?”

“Okay. Sweet dreams, sweetheart.” He hung up the phone before he could try and convince Devin to talk on it longer. Sighing, he brought the phone to his lips and chewed on the case, turning his eyes towards the ceiling.

He’d knocked up a woman.

He’d knocked up a coworker.

Groaning, Jazz leaned his head back against the stall and forced himself to take in yet another deep, steadying breath. She said she was probably going to keep it. He was probably going to be a father. He wasn’t even twenty-one, yet. He was just barely old enough to drink. If he hadn’t been curious about what it would be like to sleep with a woman --

Jazz pulled his phone out of his mouth and swallowed, pushing himself out of the stall and heading back towards his make-up station. On the way back, he made sure his phone wasn’t visible despite the lack of clothes he was wearing. Not that he was using it to record the girls or anything, but if his boss caught him with it…

He stashed the phone away before anyone else saw it and headed back out onto the floor, plastering his best smile back onto his lips. Just one and a half more hours until close. Less, actually.

He could do this. He could totally do this. As he approached a table filled with women, he turned on the charm and leaned over them, placing his hands carefully on the backs of their chairs. “There anything I can get you ladies tonight?” he asked, sticking to one of the many scripts he’d developed in the past three years he’d been employed here.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jessica take the stage, all five-five of her. He tried not to watch as she took to one of the poles, his heart jumping in his throat. Should she even be pole dancing while pregnant? Was that okay?

Except he knew he couldn’t say anything; no one but him was supposed to know, and so he gave his attention to the girl with the dark hair, her dark eyes drinking in every inch of his body.

Maybe he could make a little extra tonight, if he could just get his head in the game. He thought of Devin -- how he’d planned to wake his beautiful boyfriend up when he came home with a lap dance tailored specifically to him. Maybe, just maybe, he’d manage to be in the mood for that idea by the time he left.

But then the club closed, and Jazz could feel the weirdness return as he walked Jessica back to her car, the two of them walking in silence.

“Maybe I should have waited to tell you,” Jessica said with a sigh, her heels clicking against the asphalt right along with Jazz’s. His feet ached, but he offered her a slight smile as she looked up at him. “You were off all night, after I did.”

“I know,” he said. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I still made enough money tonight, though. And I’ll do better, tomorrow night. I just -- are you sure you should keep doing this shit? It’s not supposed to be good for the baby, right?”

“My doctor knows I’m an active dancer,” Jessica said with a shrug. “She said it’s fine as long as I don’t push myself too hard.”

Jazz nodded, stopping beside Jessica’s car. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and bit his lip. “Where do you wanna meet up, tomorrow?” he asked. “Your place?”

“Would your boyfriend be okay with that?”

Jazz just shrugged, and Jessica’s brow furrowed. Rubbing the back of his neck, Jazz said, “Devin will… I mean, he doesn’t really have much of a choice?”

“My place’s fine.” Jessica punched Jazz’s shoulder lightly. “Text me when you’ll be over.” She unlocked her car and slipped into the driver’s seat, and Jazz nodded, giving Jessica a small wave goodbye before heading towards his own car.

The ride home was a blur. And as Jazz pulled up to the small three bedroom ranch, he noticed the extra lights on in the living room and groaned. Knowing Devin, he hadn’t fallen back asleep at all, and now he’d been up for two hours, probably wracking his brain for all sorts of ways this scenario could go badly -- because that’s just what Devin did. Bracing himself, Jazz stepped up the walkway and onto the small porch, unlocking the front door and slipping past it as he pulled his heels off his feet.

Devin cleared his throat, and Jazz looked over at the couch, where Devin reclined against the corner, a steaming mug carefully cradled in his hands. Another cup sat on the coffee table, and Devin nudged it closer to Jazz. “Made you coffee,” Devin said, and Jazz gave a weak, appreciative laugh as he settled on the couch beside Devin and took the extra mug into his hands.

“Thank you,” Jazz whispered, breathing in the rousing aroma. His mug felt cooler than usual. And there was a hint of something else -- something he couldn’t place his finger on until he lifted the cup of coffee to his lips and sipped at it. “Did you -- did you put bailey’s in this?” He sipped it again, glancing over at Devin with his brows lifting towards his hair. “Is it all bailey’s?”

“Got some coffee in it,” Devin said with a snort, pursing his lips together a little. He tipped his own mug back a little, which was obviously much emptier than Jazz’s. “Not tryin’ to get you drunk, dude.”

Jazz chuckled and shook his head. “Thank you,” he said. He sank back against the couch and closed his eyes, resisting the urge to down the rest of his alcohol in one shot. Part of him desperately wanted to kick his feet up onto the coffee table, but he knew that Devin would not appreciate that very much. Instead, he tucked his foot under his knee and stretched himself across the couch a little.

The silence was comfortable, if a little strained, as the two of them sat next to each other. Jazz rested his hand on Devin’s knee, brushing his thumb along the outside of it as he stared off in the opposite direction of Devin. Devin’s fingers claimed his, stilling Jazz’s thumb. “So,” Devin said, putting his now-empty mug down on the coffee table.

“So,” Jazz repeated, turning towards Devin with his brows lifting towards his hair. He, too, placed his mug down on the coffee table, the action slow and deliberate as he turned to meet Devin’s eyes. “I’m sorry for waking you up. I could’ve waited until I got home to talk to you.”

Devin shrugged and tossed his long, thick braid over his shoulder. Devin stared back at Jazz, studying him for a moment before clearing his throat and frowning a little. He picked at the end of his braid. “Gonna be a dad, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Jazz said. He curled up against Devin, resting his head on Devin’s chest and relaxing just a fraction as Devin’s arm wrapped around his back. “Jessica wants to talk tomorrow before work -- at her place. Is that okay?”

He tilted his head back a little so he could watch Devin’s face as he answered. Devin gave Jazz a wry half-smile. “Don’t got much of a choice, do I?” he asked, lifting an elegant eyebrow. “Talk about what, though?”

“What she’s going to do with it, I guess?” Jazz answered, giving an awkward shrug of his shoulders. “I mean, she’s leaning toward keeping it, but --”

“Can fucking give ‘em back?” Devin squeaked, and Jazz paused and pushed himself upright, cocking his head to the side.

“You can’t --” Jazz shook his head and sighed, collapsing back against Devin’s chest and burying his face in Devin’s shirt. “She doesn’t know if she wants to get an abortion or if she wants to continue with the pregnancy.”

There was an awfully long silence, and then: “Oh.” Jazz gave a single bark of a laugh and slipped an arm between Devin and the couch, hugging him. “Knew that.”

“Mhm.” Jazz teased. His mirth faded a little, his mouth going dry as he repeated: “She’s leaning towards keeping it.”

Devin grunted in response, his fingers at the back of Jazz’s head as he massaged Jazz’s scalp lightly. “Said that already.”

“I know. I just -- it doesn’t feel real, you know?” Jazz cleared his throat and turned his head so that his words weren’t muffled by Devin’s shirt. “We only had sex twice.”

“Fucking condom broke,” Devin said. He nudged Jazz. “Guess your shit works real good, then.”

Jazz snorted and did his best not to laugh, shaking his head all over again as he settled further against Devin. His night at work started to creep up at him, and he could feel his eyes droop despite the coffee. Or maybe even because of the coffee, as a pleasant warmth buzzed through his body. “Shut up. This isn’t -- I guess this isn’t really all that funny. I’m going to be a father. I don’t have the first fucking clue what to do with a damn baby and I’ve never wanted kids, and --” He cut himself off, blinking away his tears as he whispered: “D’you think I can convince her to not keep it?”

Devin tensed underneath Jazz, his soothing touches coming to a stop. “Not your decision to make, is it?” he asked.

“I know, but -- she’s the same age as us and I know she doesn’t have any other kids, and it’s hard to keep dancing when pregnant -- I’ve watched other girls try to do it, y’know?” Jazz bit his lip. “I just -- I’m not ready to be a dad.”

Devin remained silent, and Jazz had to hold back another sigh as he scooted even closer to his boyfriend. Devin’s fingers were in his hair again, nails drifting lightly over Jazz’s scalp.

“Think you’ll make a good dad,” Devin said after several minutes had passed, his words quiet as he breathed them into Jazz’s hair. “Don’t think anyone’s ever fucking ready to be one, either.”

Jazz gave another bark of a laugh at that. “I don’t have the first clue about being a dad, sweetheart,” he said. His eyes stung, and he gripped Devin’s shirt tightly. He didn’t want to think about his own father, who’d passed away just before his eighth birthday -- or how that had left him alone with a mother who didn’t love him anymore, once she found out he was gay.

What would she think now, if she found out he’d knocked a woman up? She’d probably think him irresponsible and unfit, especially since he was still dating men, and --

Jazz lifted his head from Devin’s chest and narrowed his eyes at him, frowning a little to himself as he reached up to brush loose strands of Devin’s hair out of his face. It was starting to curl -- a sure sign that Devin would have to have Wes over sometime soon to straighten it again… much to Jazz’s chagrin. “Why aren’t you freaking out about this?” he asked, studying Devin’s face.

Devin shrugged and looked out over their living room. His fingers stroked down Jazz’s back, coming to rest at the small of it. “Dunno,” he said after a moment. He gave Jazz a slight smile. “Too fucking tired, I guess.”

“How was work?” Jazz asked, leaning up to kiss the corner of Devin’s chin. He pushed himself away from Devin and grabbed his coffee mug, bringing it to his lips and downing the rest of it quickly. He then placed a hand out for Devin’s mug, which was also empty. As Devin handed it to him, he stood up and headed towards their kitchen, passing the small dining room table and frowning a little at it as he did so.

Devin grunted and Jazz could hear him shrug his shoulders. “Work,” he answered, padding into the kitchen after Jazz. He wrapped his arms around Jazz from behind as Jazz started to rinse out their mugs and place them in the dishwasher. “You hear back ‘bout the internship?”

“Not yet,” Jazz said with a sigh. He leaned against Devin a little, careful to rinse off the remaining dishes in the sink. “I should be hearing back about that on Monday…”

The Imperial Law Internship. His chest tightened a little, and he bit his lip. It was a year-long internship. Would he even be able to do it, if he was going to be a father? And how far along was Jessica, anyway? They’d had sex at least a month ago, right? So she’d be pregnant for another eight…

“Breathe, cutie,” Devin murmured. He kissed the edge of Jazz’s neck. “Should get some sleep, ‘kay? Can talk more later…”

“Sleep, or something else?” Jazz asked, tilting his head back a little and moaning quietly as Devin continued to press light kisses against his skin. He remembered the lap dance he’d wanted to give Devin earlier -- and let himself fall back against Devin a little and shivered as Devin’s hand slipped underneath the waist of his booty shorts.

“Up to you,” Devin murmured, his voice husky as he moved his other hand up Jazz’s shirt to toy with a nipple. “Look fucking amazing tonight.”

Jazz snorted. “You think I look ‘fucking amazing’ every night,” he said, turning around in Devin’s arms. He hooked a hand behind Devin’s head and pulled him down for a kiss, just as he pressed himself against Devin’s front. “I came up with a new routine. Want me to show you it?”

Devin smirked down at him, kissing Jazz back, all while pushing Jazz up against the kitchen counter. “Mhm,” he hummed against the edge of Jazz’s jaw. “Would love that…”

Blowing off some steam wouldn’t hurt, would it?

***

Jazz stood in front of Jessica’s apartment door, adjusting the collar of his shirt for the tenth time before knocking lightly on the door. He slipped his hands inside the pockets of his jacket, biting his lip as he tapped his foot against the threadbare carpet.

The door swung open a moment later, and Jessica waved Jazz inside. She gestured to the couch, and Jazz sat down on it without a word. His heart stuttered in his chest as she sat down next to him in silence, offering him a bottle of beer.

Jazz snorted and smiled wryly at her, taking the bottle. “Thanks,” he said, popping the top of it off.

“Okay -- this is more awkward than when you came over here the first time we had sex,” Jessica said with a snort of her own.

Jazz laughed. “No no no, I was more awkward the second time -- I just managed to get into it a little faster, that time,” he said, tipping his bottle back. He leaned back against the couch and stretched his arm along it, glancing at Jessica. “So… you’re absolutely sure it’s mine?”

Jessica nodded, curling up against Jazz’s side and resting her head against his chest. “Yep,” she said, patting his thigh. “You were the only male-bodied person I had sex with last month.”

“You say that like you had sex with --” Jazz paused and blinked at Jessica, his eyes widening a little. “Wait, you had sex with other women?”

Jessica laughed and nodded. “I consider myself a lesbian, Goldi,” she said, smiling up at him. “But I guess you also consider yourself gay, so I guess we’re even, there.”

“Yes, I do, but -- why me?” Jazz asked, sipping at his beer once more.

“I could ask you the same question,” Jessica said, sitting up and plucking a glass of water from her end table beside the couch. “I’m not exactly the most manly looking woman in existence and you don’t seem to be the type of gay who’s into femmes…”

“I haven’t shown you a picture of Devin yet, have I?” Jazz asked, pulling his phone out from his pocket. He fumbled through his photo gallery, thumbing through endless selfies until he landed on a selfie he took of him and Devin together at a nearby historical park, the sun setting spectacularly behind them. “That’s Devin.”

“He’s -- wow. You two are one hell of a beautiful couple,” Jessica said. She smirked up at Jazz. “He also kinda looks like me.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jazz said, feeling his face heat up a little as he thumbed through the rest of his photos from that particular night together. He avoided Jessica’s knowing look. “Either way, to answer your question, um -- I guess I was just curious? I mean, right before my mom kicked me out, she asked me how I was so sure I didn’t like women when I wouldn’t even try to sleep with them.”

“Weren’t you like, seventeen when she kicked you out?” Jessica asked, shaking her head. Her long hair fell in front of her face and she brushed it behind her ear, frowning a little at Jazz as she sipped at her water.

“Mhm. And in case you were wondering, as fun as it was having sex with you, I’m pretty sure having sex with women’s just not for me,” Jazz said, smiling into his glass.

“That’s too bad, they make all these amazing noises when you fuck them just right,” Jessica said. She tapped her fingers against the glass, her expression sobering some. “So… I’m about six weeks, right now, according to my doctor. The only real symptoms I have is this ultra strong sense of smell and my boobs fucking hurt. She said if I opted to terminate, it’d be best to do it sooner rather than later. Before morning sickness kicks in, preferably.”

Jazz blinked, sobering up himself as he locked his phone and slipped it back inside his pocket. “You told me last night you were leaning towards keeping it,” he said, his voice shaking a little. “Did you change your mind?”

“I don’t really know what I want to do,” Jessica said, putting her glass back down on the end table. She raked her fingers through her hair before moving to pat at her lower abdomen. “I’ve always wanted kids. But I’m only twenty and I’ve got my whole fucking life ahead of me, y’know? But -- I don’t think I’ll ever willingly have sex with a guy again, either…”

“I was that bad, huh?” Jazz asked, giving her a teasing smile.

“No, you were pretty good, actually,” Jessica countered, smirking back at him. “I just would rather eat a pussy than suck a dick, y’know?”

Jazz snorted. “Nope. I don’t know.” He toyed with his bottle for a moment, tracing the opening of it with his fingertip as he frowned a little to himself. “If you’ve always wanted kids, maybe you should keep it,” he said after a moment, internally cringing at his own words. He lifted his eyes so he could meet Jessica’s questioning gaze. “Maybe now’s the right time for you to have a kid.”

“Maybe…” Jessica leaned her head back against the couch, turning her gaze towards the ceiling. She swallowed, the muscles in her neck moving with the action. “Why aren’t you telling me to get rid of it?”

“It’s not my decision to make,” Jazz said with a shrug. “Even Devin said so, last night.”

“Do you want me to keep it?” she pressed, her voice quiet. There was an odd note to it; one Jazz eventually recognized as surprise.

Jazz shrugged again. “I’ve never really considered having kids. It wasn’t really part of my plans, y’know?” he said. He looked out over Jessica’s living room; studying the flat-screen television positioned in the corner and how it was suspended against the wall. “I applied for the Imperial Law Internship. If I become a Palace intern…” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know… Devin says he thinks I’d make a great father. But I’m afraid I’d be too fucking selfish to be a good dad.”

“So you would rather I not keep it, is what I think you’re getting at,” Jessica said, deadpan. She pulled her hair back with both hands and fumbled with a hair tie for a moment, placing her loose curls in a messy bun. “You do actually have a say in whether I keep it or not, you know. It’s your kid, too.”

“I know it is, but -- it’s not my body,” Jazz said, glancing at Jessica. “I’m not the one who has to carry the baby to term and I’m not the one who has to fucking push it out of my body -- you are. I just have to help you raise it, if you keep it.”

“You don’t really have to help me raise it, if you don’t want to,” Jessica said, picking up her glass again and sipping at her water. She looked down into the glass, tapping her fingers against it once more. “You just said you’ve never really considered having kids and I’m not gonna force one on you, either.”

Jazz licked his lips and downed the rest of his beer, considering Jessica’s words. “I think you should do what you think is best,” he said after a moment, turning towards her. He propped his head up with his fist, pulling his feet underneath him on the couch. “I kinda think you should keep it. And just because I’m scared doesn’t mean I get a free pass on being involved in the kid’s life, either.”

Jessica nodded and scrubbed her palm over her face. “It’s getting late, Jazz,” she said. “You’re in earlier than I am, aren’t you? Don’t you need to go home and change?”

“I have my clothes in the car,” Jazz said, giving Jessica a half smile. “Devin’d just jump me if I changed at home, anyway, and then I’d be fucking late, again…” His smile faded somewhat as he raked his fingers through his hair. “He’s hanging out with his best friend tonight, anyway. I don’t wanna interrupt that…”

Jessica snorted. “Way to sound jealous, Goldi.”

“I am, a little. He loves Wes and won’t admit it,” Jazz said. “They’ve known each other since they were kids, though… and Wes doesn’t like me, much.” Jazz gave a quiet laugh at that. “The feeling’s kinda mutual, if I’m being honest…”

They lapsed into another silence, the both of them staring off into some undetermined point. It was Jessica who broke it first, with a quiet clear of her throat. “So we’ll be clueless parents together, then?” she asked, turning towards him.

“If that’s what you want, yes,” Jazz answered, surprising himself with his lack of hesitance in his response. He met her gaze and offered her a slight smile. “You’re allowed to change your mind and opt to not keep the baby, you know. You’re only six weeks along, right? You’ve got time.”

Jessica shook her head. “Honestly, knowing you will help me raise this thing helps a whole fucking lot,” she said. She squished her stomach, pouting her lips a little as she did so. “How long d’you think it’ll take anyone to notice at work?”

“I have no fucking clue,” Jazz said. He sat upright and slid an arm around Jessica’s shoulders. “I can help you find a job less physically taxing? It might be better for you and the baby in the long run…”

“Ugh, don’t,” Jessica said, wrinkling her nose. She didn’t move out from under Jazz’s arm, though, and instead snuggled closer to him. “I told you last night that my doc says it’s fine, Goldi. Stop being an overprotective dad. You’re not even a dad, yet.”

Jazz laughed and squeezed Jessica lightly. “Okay, okay. I’ll do my best.” He paused, biting his lip for a moment before asking: “So what do you think you’re having?”

“A boy,” Jessica answered with absolutely zero hesitance. “I just have this gut feeling that it’s a boy.”

“Hm.” Jazz leaned his head against Jessica’s and closed his eyes. Slowly, he drew in a deep breath and considered. “I guess raising a boy would be easy. Kind of… I think I’d be totally lost with a girl. I don’t even know how girl parts even work...”

“That much was obvious,” Jessica said with a snicker. Jazz just glared at her in response. “Look, I could tell I was your first female partner, Goldi.”

“Whatever,” Jazz said, rolling his eyes. He then grinned at Jessica. “Think you could get me another beer? It’s not like you can drink them anymore…”

She smacked him in the arm, but pushed herself off the couch and returned from the kitchen with another beer in her hand. “Promise me you’ll let me drive you to work if you drink this, though.”

“I’ll go get my work clothes from the car, then,” Jazz said, standing up as well. He looked Jessica once over, then smiled and slipped his shoes back on as he headed out the door.

Maybe this whole thing wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

Place Your Bets

Jazz picked up his phone and bit his lip, glancing at the time. His eyes darted around the Imperial Library before landing on Mitchel Foraker. The other interns seemed to follow his gaze, then one of them spoke:

“So, Callahan, you’re gay, right?” he asked, tapping Jazz on the shoulder in the process. Jazz turned to him, squinting at him as he tried to remember his name.

His mind then caught up with the question he’d been asked, and Jazz gave a shrug of his shoulders. “Yeah, I am. What of it?”

“What d’you think of Foraker, then? You think he’s gay, too?”

Jazz sighed. “Gaydar isn’t really a thing, you know,” he said, grumbling the words. He didn’t want to think about this now -- he just wanted to stare at Mitchel Foraker in peace. In a few hours, he’d be leaving the Palace to head over to the nearby clinic, where Jessica was having her 20 week ultrasound. So far, everything in her pregnancy had been going fine -- her blood pressure was good, her blood sugar was good, the baby was obviously growing.

But he could smell the bet coming from a mile away as the rest of the interns clamored around him. And Jazz could never resist a bet. “I think Foraker’s gay,” said another intern -- Jacob, Jazz remembered.

“I think he’s straight,” said Samantha. She leaned her backside against the table, standing beside Jazz as she glanced in Mitchel’s direction. “I’ve seen him stare at a female or two.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffed a fourth intern. Mickey. “He’s gay. I’ve seen him watching Callahan here.”

“Yeah, why d’you think I asked Callahan, Mickey?”

Jazz sighed, doing his best to discreetly watch the older man while everyone else continued to express their own guesses of Mitchel’s sexuality. He half-listened to the theories and evidence before slamming his hands down on the table, pushing himself out of his seat. “We could take a bet on it,” he said, turning to the group behind him. He carefully rolled up his sleeves before adjusting the knot of his tie. “How much should we put down?”

“Fifty,” Jacob suggested. There were murmurs of agreement, and Jazz just grinned to himself as everyone placed their bet -- an unofficial sheet getting passed around them.

“I bet he’s bi,” Jazz said, writing down his opinion last. He glanced over his shoulder and drew in a deep breath, steadying himself for what he was about to do next. “And I’ll let you guys know if I’m right, here, in a few minutes…”

He strode over to Mitchel's desk, his stomach twisting and threatening to escape via his throat. Instead he swallowed it down and forced his best smile across his lips. Mitchel continued to work, notes and various paperwork strewn in front of him. Clearing his throat to gain Mitchel’s attention, he said: "Hey, my name's Jasper Callahan. What's yours?"

He said it as smoothly as possible and extended his hand. Mitchel glanced up at him, his dark brown eyes assessing Jazz briefly as his mouth twisted into a slight smirk. "As one of Emperor Casio's newest interns, perhaps you should already know what my name is."

Jazz snorted, unable to hide the wide grin forming on his lips at Mitchel's sass. Without waiting for an invite, Jazz sat down in the seat beside Mitchel and turned to him. "Of course I know who you are, Councilor Foraker. I just --" He laid on the charm, raking his fingers through his hair as he did his best to appear coyly innocent. "You see, there's this -- bet going around with the interns about your sexuality, and I figured --”

“Which side of the pool are you on? Gay or straight?” Mitchel asked. There was an odd note to his voice; one Jazz hesitated to internalize as annoyance.

“Neither,” Jazz answered, scooting his chair a little closer to Mitchel. “If you ask me, people discount bisexuality a little too easily, you know? Especially with men, so that’s what I put my money on…”

Jazz held his breath as Mitchel’s pen finally stilled. His hands -- god, Jazz wanted to those hands to roam all over his skin. His nails were perfectly manicured, trimmed to perfection. Mitchel’s eyes met his, and Jazz hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Are you a bisexual man yourself, or…?”

Mitchel held his gaze, and Jazz felt his throat close up a little as his heart stuttered in his chest. Still, he managed to smile disarmingly at Mitchel, relaxing further into his seat as Mitchel turned back to his work. “I’m gay,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “But I have a tendency to attract guys who’re bi, so…”

Did he sound hopeful? God, he sounded hopeful, didn’t he. He could kick himself, but instead he watched as Mitchel turned back to him again, his gaze seeming to land on Jazz’s bared forearms before lifting to his chest, then his eyes. “I see,” Mitchel said. He cleared his throat and returned to his paperwork, sorting through it and stacking it into various piles. “How large is the pool?”

“It’s up to five-fifty,” Jazz said, his heart pounding in his chest. “Three bet you were straight, seven bet you were gay, and I bet you were bi.”

Mitchel rose from his seat, having successfully packed away all of his things. He looked down at Jazz, one corner of his mouth lifted upwards. “Well, Callahan,” he said, patting Jazz on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’re the first person to ever guess my sexuality correctly.”

Jazz blinked and felt his face heat up at the brief contact. A moment later he found himself frozen in place as Mitchel walked away -- by turning his back on Jazz so he could watch him walk away. His mouth fell open a little as he absorbed the slight sway of Mitchel’s hips and how his suit fit his form perfectly.

He pulled out his phone once Mitchel had disappeared beyond the stacks and texted Devin, the message reading: I think I’m in love...

Before he could send Devin a text elaborating on that detail, the rest of the interns swarmed him.

“So, did he tell you? Is he gay?”

“Is he straight?”

“C’mon, Callahan, don’t keep us in the dark, here, man, we gotta know…”

Jazz just smirked up at them before slowly rising to his feet. “Pay up, bitches,” he said, holding out his hands and grinning. “Imperial Councilor Mitchel Foraker is bisexual.”

He was met with distrustful looks and several disappointed groans. And in a few minutes, Jazz collected his rightful earnings and shoved them away in his wallet. They made small talk for a brief while, several of his fellow interns grilling him on how he just knew that Mitchel was bisexual.

“You guys said he seemed to check out both men and women,” Jazz said with a shrug. “Just made sense to me that he could be bi, you know?”

They continued to talk for a bit longer, conversation breaking off here and there for them to continue their own research and notes. Jazz glanced at his phone and blinked at the time, his mouth going dry. “Shit,” he said, gathering up his things and shoving them into his messenger bag. “I’m sorry guys, but I gotta go.”

He was so going to be late for Jessica’s ultrasound -- and that was the last thing he wanted to be, right now. As he made his way out the library, he noticed the message Devin had sent him back, which read: Finally talked to that one guy, huh?

Jazz snorted at that as he unlocked his car with the other hand. As he slipped into his seat, he typed back: You don’t remember his name, do you? =p

….

Started with an m, right?

Jazz laughed and shook his head. He turned on the car and looked up the address of the clinic he was supposed to meet Jessica at, turning on the navigation app before typing back: Mitchel Foraker. He’s one of Emperor Casio’s Imperial Councilors and hot af. Also he’s bi.

He bit his lip, sending the message before he could second guess himself. He knew it was likely Devin would give him permission to pursue Mitchel if he really wanted to, but it always was a little nerve-wracking to ask for it, at first.

Got a chance then, huh, cutie? Go for it

<3 I love you so much right now...

Love you more, cutie

Jazz snorted at that, smiling a little to himself as he put his phone down and pulled out of his parking space. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music, dancing a little in his seat as he made his way out of the parking garage. If he was lucky, he’d get there minutes before Jessica was pulled back into the ultrasound room.

Twenty weeks. She was twenty weeks along already -- halfway to giving birth and things seemed to be looking up for them both. His internship was going well. His nights at the Queen were still productive, though he found himself there for less and less hours as his internship ate up most of his time. Jessica had found a job elsewhere -- something that required her to move around less; that didn’t push her to her physical limits like she frequently did while dancing.

He missed her at the Queen, but the dancers did their best to keep him company. They texted frequently, exchanged emails now and again while at work. And soon, he’d be seeing her again for the first time in a few weeks. She’d sent him pictures of the baby bump of course, saying she felt dumb doing it, but that her friends insisted she should.

Jazz would never admit it to anyone but Devin, but he enjoyed those pictures the most. And as he maneuvered his car into the closest parking space to the door, he noticed a text from Jessica, reading: You here yet?

It was sent maybe five minutes ago. And as Jazz slipped into the building, locating the right suite, he saw Jessica sitting in one of the chairs, her phone in her hands.

“Oh good, I’m not late,” Jazz said as he collapsed into the seat next to her. He raked his fingers through his hair and bit his lip, glancing around the room. “It’s really okay for me to be here, right?”

Jessica snorted and smiled up at Jazz wryly. “Of course you’re allowed to be here, you’re the baby’s father.” She patted her stomach. “He’s moving around a lot right now -- you wanna see if you can feel him?”

“Can I?” Jazz asked, the words leaving him in a hushed whisper. He hesitantly reached for Jessica’s stomach, placing his hand where she ultimately directed it. He furrowed his brow in concentration as he pressed his palm against her. His eyes widened as a huge grin split his face. “Wait, was that --?”

“Yep.”

“Holy shit.”

“Jessica Brown?”

Jessica stood up, and Jazz found himself following her, his face heating up as he noticed the tech’s sly, knowing grin. “The two of you are a beautiful couple,” she said, directing them both into an ultrasound room. Jazz glanced at the equipment, taking a few steps back as Jessica positioned herself on the table according to the tech’s directions.

He appreciated that Jessica didn’t correct the technician on whether they were a couple. It really didn’t matter whether people perceived them that way or not -- he was the father of Jessica’s child -- even if he had an amazing, sexy, beautiful boyfriend to go home to, after this. An amazing, sexy, beautiful boyfriend who was probably blowing up Jazz’s phone with teases about Jazz’s attempt at flirting with Mitchel Foraker.

The tech directed Jazz to stand on the other side of the table, positioning it a little higher up. She instructed Jessica to pull her pants down her hips and to pull her shirt up. Jazz watched everything in silence, willingly reaching for Jessica’s hand and squeezing.

That probably wasn’t helping to dispel the image of them as a couple, now that he thought about it. Not that Jessica seemed to mind. “Are you nervous, Jazz?” Jessica asked, tilting her head back so she could look up at him. “You’re not the one getting squirted with cold gel, you know…”

“Maybe not right now, I’m not,” Jazz quipped, careful to keep his voice low. Jessica heard him, though, and snorted.

“Got a hot date with your boyfriend later?” she asked, also keeping her voice low. Except Jazz saw the way the tech’s brows furrowed at her words.

“We don’t have anything specific planned, no, but --” Jazz cut himself off with a laugh and glanced at the tech. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Mhm. Sure you will -- after you’ve finished with Devin, right?” Jessica teased, winking up at him.

Their small talk came to a stop, though, as the tech cleared her throat. “So Jessica, you’re twenty weeks and four days, correct?”

Jessica nodded, a tired smile making its way across her lips. “It feels like I’ve been pregnant forever, though…”

Jazz snorted, trying to conceal his laughter with a cough. “So is this the ultrasound where we get to find out if we’re having a boy or a girl?” he asked, squeezing Jessica’s fingers as he turned his attention to the screen.

“Yes it is, but first we have to make sure that all of baby Brown’s organs are developing appropriately -- and if baby Brown is cooperative, they’ll let us know what’s between their legs,” the tech said. And with that, the wand was pressed to Jessica’s rounded stomach.

They both watched the screen in silence, and Jazz felt a warmth in his chest he thought was only reserved for quiet moments with Devin, when they were alone and curled up together at home. “Wow,” he murmured.

Jessica squeezed his hand. “Yeah,” she said, the tech moving the wand this way and that. Jazz couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen, feeling his eyes well up with emotion he absolutely was not expecting.

“Hey,” he said after a moment, his voice cracking a little. “Still think we’re having a boy?”

“Yeah, why?” Jessica asked, turning her head so she could squint up at him.

Jazz’s face split in a slow grin as he glanced between Jessica’s expectant expression and the screen where he could only identify various blobs as their baby. “Wanna make a bet?” he asked.

***

“We’re having a girl!” Jazz cried as he all but tackled Devin, who was sitting on the couch, tapping away at his phone. Devin yelped and caught Jazz as best as he could, blinking at him for a moment as Jazz continued to babble excitedly while curling up in Devin’s lap, gesticulating wildly as he recounted the ultrasound appointment to Devin in great detail.

Sometimes, Jazz really, really reminded him of Wes. This was one of those times, as Jazz’s blue eyes shone with the excitement of his day. In his hand he clutched several pictures -- from the ultrasound, Devin realized as he nodded, Jazz’s words slowly filtering through to his brain.

“Went well, then?” Devin asked when Jazz nuzzled close to him, his nose brushing against the sensitive edge of Devin’s neck.

“Mhm. Baby’s growing just fine,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. Jazz tightened his arms around Devin’s front, grinning all the while as he settled against Devin’s chest. “I can show you pictures! Jessica made sure they printed two copies so I can take one home.”

Devin cracked a slight smile at that, and Jazz shoved the ultrasound pictures into his hand. Devin squinted at them, his brow furrowing a little. “The fuck am I looking at?”

“Oh! Yeah, ultrasounds are fucking difficult to read, but --” Jazz shifted in Devin’s lap, sitting more upright as he traced a shape with his finger. “This’s the baby’s face in profile,” he said, glancing towards Devin. “She totally has my nose.”

It took a moment, but Devin saw what Jazz was talking about. His own smile widened a little as he glanced between Jazz and the image. “Kinda see it, yeah,” he said. To humor Jazz further, he flipped through the rest of the pictures -- just a few -- before putting them down on the coffee table. “Kinda adorable, how excited you are…”

He trailed his fingertips down the length of Jazz’s back, which earned him a shiver as his fingers ghosted over the bottom edge of one of Jazz’s shoulder blades. Jazz blushed a little at Devin’s comment and grinned. “Oh? Is it?” He slid his hands up Devin’s chest, turning so he could straddle Devin’s lap.

“Mhm.” Devin leaned up, and Jazz met him halfway, kissing him softly. “Really warmed up to this whole dad thing. ‘Skinda hot…”

“Mm. You’re not gonna say that when the baby’s born, sweetheart,” Jazz said, kissing Devin again. Devin shivered as Jazz’s nails raked down his neck. “Jessica and I were trying to figure out how to handle coparenting her…”

“Can tell me ‘bout that later,” Devin said, sliding his hands down to Jazz’s ass. He groped him, relishing in the way Jazz whimpered a little against his lips. “Wanna hear more ‘bout Mitchel…”

“Oh god, he’s so fucking hot,” Jazz moaned, resting his forehead against Devin’s. His breathing had already quickened as Devin’s hands continued to wander. “Just -- the way he carries himself and everything and he’s bi and you know my luck with bi men…”

“He tell you that?” Devin asked, raising an eyebrow. He inhaled sharply as Jazz ground against him, closing his eyes.

“The interns made a bet,” Jazz answered, chuckling as he continued to grind himself against Devin’s lap. He brushed his lips along the edge of Devin’s jaw, each kiss slow and teasing. “Most of ‘em bet he was gay. Some bet he was straight. I bet he was bi and went over to him to find out… rolled my sleeves up, loosened my tie a little…”

Devin groaned. “Bet he checked you out,” he breathed, tugging Jazz’s shirt free from his pants. He started working at the buttons, rocking his own hips upward as he sought to create more friction between their bodies.

“I think so? It was hard to tell...” Jazz pouted a little at this, pulling away from Devin so he was sitting upright in his lap. His hands continued to roam over Devin’s chest and shoulders, though, and he moved in time with Devin’s hips. “He was so sassy when I asked him for his name, Devin -- not like I didn’t already know it, but… god, I wonder what he’s like in bed…”

“Mm, bet he’s a bottom,” Devin murmured, sliding his hand down the front of Jazz’s pants once he undid them. He palmed Jazz’s arousal, smirking up at him. He’d felt the shudder running through Jazz’s body at the very mention of Mitchel bottoming for him.

“What makes you think that?” Jazz asked. He bit his lip in concentration, his own hands now on the waist of Devin’s jeans. Somehow, with a little bit of fumbling, Jazz managed to get them both naked from the waist down before climbing back into Devin’s lap, brushing his ass against Devin’s fully erect cock.

Devin shrugged. He reached around Jazz’s backside, teasing his finger over the tight ring of muscle. “You walk away first or him?” he asked, smirking a little as Jazz grew a little louder and pressed himself down against Devin’s finger.

“He walked away first.” Devin pulled out a bottle of lube they had stashed away in the couch cushions, quick to spread some on his fingers before pushing the first inside Jazz. Jazz gasped, his whole body tensing -- but he made no move to stop Devin, either. “He’s got this round little bubble butt and I couldn’t -- mmm -- I couldn’t look away…”

Devin groaned a little himself at that, his whole body warming at just how hot talking about Mitchel was getting Jazz. “Want him to fuck you, huh?” Devin asked, his voice straining a little as he stretched Jazz open, slipping a second finger inside him. “Close your eyes, cutie. Pretend I’m him.”

Jazz whimpered, bouncing a little on Devin’s fingers and catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “Oh my god,” he moaned, matching the thrusts of Devin’s fingers. “Mm, Councilor Foraker, I didn’t know you could be so forward…”

Devin shivered, cupping Jazz’s face with his free hand and pulling him down for a kiss. Jazz’s lips parted easily, their tongues teasing against each other’s as Jazz more or less fucked himself on Devin’s fingers. He knew better than to talk when Jazz was imagining him as someone else. Instead, he changed the angle of his hand, letting himself thrust his fingers in even deeper.

Devin yelped in surprise, though, as Jazz threw Devin down sideways onto the couch, pulling himself away from Devin’s probing fingers. Devin blinked up at Jazz, and Jazz smirked down at him from his sudden position between Devin’s legs.

“Thought you said he’d be a bottom?” Jazz breathed, sliding his hand over Devin’s cock.

With a laugh that quickly devolved into a moan, Devin nodded his head before throwing it back against the arm of the couch. Jazz’s fingers were pushing in him already, spreading him wide without the aid of lube, and Devin relished the pain of it, shivering as Jazz moved a bit too quick adding a third.

He couldn’t bring himself to argue with his own assessment of Jazz’s newest interest, and he wasn’t about to, when Jazz had that look in his eye.

Jazz let out a low whistle as he walked into Jessica’s apartment. “Wow,” he said, his eyes landing squarely on her rounded belly. He wanted to reach out and touch it, though he knew it was better to wait for her to give him permission to than to do it on a whim. “You look like you’re about to pop.”

“I better not be,” Jessica grumbled, putting a hand to the small of her back as she watched Jazz walk over to the couch. “She’s not due for another four weeks.”

“Yes, but the doctor said she’s full-term, if she comes now,” Jazz said. He offered to help Jessica sit down in silence, but she waved him off and settled onto the couch without his help, half-collapsing onto it. He sat on the arm of the couch, folding his hands in his lap and wringing them together. “How’s your blood pressure?”

“Same as it has been,” Jessica said with a sigh. She closed her eyes, resting her hands on top of her stomach. “They say the modified bedrest is bedrest enough, as long as I don’t keep doing my shopping on my own.”

“I told you, let me help you with that shit,” Jazz muttered. He folded his arms over his chest, frowning a little to himself as he leaned back against the couch.

“You’re not my boyfriend --”

“No, but I am your baby’s father,” Jazz said, meeting her gaze. “I want my coparent healthy and I want my daughter healthy, too. You have to take care of yourself, Jessica.”

“I am taking care of myself,” Jessica said with a huff. She scowled, her lips pursing together for a moment before she reached up and rubbed her temples. “I didn’t realize you’d be such a protective pain in the ass. Does Devin know you’re like this?”

“Devin’s not a fan of it, either,” Jazz said, his expression softening somewhat as he shifted himself onto the couch proper. He sat next to Jessica and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Have you come up with a name yet? Four weeks isn’t a whole lot of time…”

“Have you?” Jessica asked. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, giving it a wry smile. “Maybe our little angel doesn’t want a name…”

“You mean little brat,” Jazz said with a quiet laugh. He squeezed Jessica once, then let his arm fall away from her. He placed a hesitant hand on Jessica’s stomach, leaning forward and saying, “You hear that? You’re a brat, stop making your mother sick, will you? You kinda need her.”

Jessica just laughed, then grimaced. “Ow,” she said, poking a spot on her stomach. “Stop kicking me, damnit, that was my bladder.”

Jazz laughed and shook his head, pulling his hand away from her stomach. He leaned back against the couch. “Have you thought about doing the thing the doctor said?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“Which thing? There were lots of things, Jazz,” Jessica said wryly, giving him a small smile as she leaned all the way back against the couch. She closed her eyes, rubbing at her forehead once more, her fingers drifting over towards her temples.

Jazz stared at her for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t have a headache, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Jessica snapped back a little too quickly, pulling her hands away from her face. “Or well -- it’s not really that bad of one --”

“Jessica.”

Jessica rolled her eyes with a quiet snort, meeting Jazz’s eyes with a defiant gaze of her own. “You’re not the boss of me,” she said, sticking her tongue out at him. “That tone might work on Devin but it’s not gonna work on me…”

Jazz just shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair. He licked his lips, frowning a little to himself. “You’re not seeing spots or anything, right? I read something about those when you told me you’d gotten diagnosed with pre-e…”

“No, I’m not seeing any spots,” Jessica said. She leaned her head back and turned her eyes towards the ceiling. “The only thing I’ve done today is get up to go to the bathroom ten thousand times and to let you in, since you insisted on coming over and doing my shopping for me.”

“Well, I wasn’t about to let you starve,” Jazz said, smiling at her. “D’you have your shopping list ready? I can go now, if you want me to stop being up your butt about resting.”

Jessica waved towards a nearby bookshelf. “It’s under my card -- please don’t fucking use your own money to pay for my groceries. I have money saved up even though I’m on bedrest, I promise.”

Jazz snorted and stood up from the couch, moving towards where she had gestured to. “I’m supposed to start paying you child support, soon,” he said, turning to flash her with an obnoxious grin. “It wouldn’t be that bad if I started now, would it?”

“Oh my god, Jazz,” Jessica groaned, putting her head in her hands. “Please just go already. You’re too much.” Despite her best attempt to sound annoyed, her amusement came through loud and clear. “How does Devin even deal with you?”

“He doesn’t,” Jazz said with a chuckle, picking up Jessica’s card and her list. He glanced at it, his brow furrowing. “That’s -- a lot of fucking white trash food, Jess.”

“It’s all I can eat,” Jessica grumbled. “It’s all I wanna eat.”

Jazz just rolled his eyes good-naturedly and shook his head, slipping Jessica’s card into his back pocket and her list into the front one. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, stepping over to her. He bent forward and kissed the top of her head. “Please go lie down or something until I get back. Leave the door unlocked and I’ll let myself in, okay?”

“You’re terrible and your boyfriend must hate you so, so much when he’s sick,” Jessica said, gently pushing Jazz away from her. She was smiling, though, even as she struggled to get herself back to her feet. “I’ll go lie down right now so you’ll stop pestering me. You have a date to get to tonight, don’t you?”

Jazz just laughed, his face heating up a little as he moved towards the door. “That’s not until eight-thirty,” he said. “Now go lie down.”

***

“So please, tell me if I’m understanding correctly,” Mitchel said, laying his fork down on the plate in front of him. He picked up his wine, bringing the dark red liquid to his lips. “You’re gay, but you’ve impregnated a woman and the two of you are planning on raising said child together?”

Jazz gave Mitchel a sheepish smile, lifting his own wine to his lips as he glanced around the restaurant -- which was much more to Mitchel’s tastes than his own. As it should be, considering Jazz had lost the bet he’d made with Mitchel earlier that week. “I was curious about what it was like, to sleep with a woman,” he offered, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “We only slept together twice and the condom broke.”

Mitchel hid his mouth behind his wine, but Jazz could see the hint of a smile. “Decided women weren’t for you, hm?” he asked, leaning back against his seat. He set his wine down and folded his hands in his lap. “That’s a shame. There is a certain… allure to them.”

Jazz shrugged. “She reminded me of Devin -- my boyfriend,” he admitted softly. He shifted a little in his seat, hoping his nervousness didn’t show.

Mitchel’s brow furrowed. “Boyfriend?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “I was under the impression you were single, Callahan.”

“I’m -- allowed to see other people,” Jazz said, offering Mitchel a partial smile. He rubbed the back of his neck again before turning to pick at his food. “Devin and I have been dating since we were seventeen, more or less. Living together since we graduated secondary. But I’m not monogamous, and Devin knows and um -- has encouraged me more than once to sleep with other people.”

This was the part he hated. The part where he had to wait to see whether his prospective new partner would turn tail and run from him, because he couldn’t promise them monogamy. Mitchel blinked, his expression turning neutral as he processed the information Jazz had just presented to him.

“Does he see other people, as well?” Mitchel asked, his brows still knit together.

“Sometimes,” Jazz said with a shrug. “It’s kinda rare for him, though -- he likes sex, but he’s demi and he has to be close with someone to even really want it, in the first place?” Jazz gave Mitchel a wry smile. “He’s in love with his best friend, too, and just hasn’t realized it yet.”

“And you have no issue with this?” Mitchel raised an eyebrow. “Is jealousy not something that happens in your relationship?”

“No, it happens,” Jazz said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “We just -- well, communication’s fucking important, you know? I tell him when I’m jealous -- he does, too, but he isn’t really the jealous type.” A slow smile made its way across Jazz’s lips, and he lifted his glass to them once more. “In fact, he likes to let me pretend he’s the other men I’m really into but haven’t made a move towards, yet. He thinks it’s so fucking hot, working me up like that...”

“Oh?” Mitchel’s expression changed, curiosity briefly flashing across it. “Is that something the two of you do often?” He lifted a perfectly sliced piece of steak to his mouth, and Jazz found himself watching Mitchel’s hands all the while.

“It’s been happening a little more frequently, lately,” Jazz answered, noticing the way Mitchel’s hand moved to his tie. How he loosened it, just a fraction. His smirk turned a little more confident. Mitchel hadn’t run away yet. Mitchel was still halfway-flirting with him and giving Jazz openings to run with. “There’s been this one man -- he’s a bit older than me and a little standoffish, but -- I think he’s just so fucking hot.”

“Do you work with this man?” Mitchel asked without missing a beat. His posture remained impeccable, but Jazz saw the hints of arousal. “It’s ill-advised to get into a relationship with anyone you work with, as I’m sure you’re aware…”

“Probably is, yeah,” Jazz said with a shrug. He ate a couple more bites of his food, then smirked at Mitchel again. “But I don’t know how many times I can fuck Devin into the mattress instead of him. I want to know what he’s like in bed. And the thing is, we only work in the same building -- we don’t necessarily work on the same team. Though he helps me out a lot with my work, sometimes. If I ask nicely.”

“Have you simply tried asking to take him home?” Mitchel asked. His eyebrows were raised, and even from across the table Jazz could tell his pupils had widened, somewhat. They were in public, though, and as tempted as Jazz was to run his foot up the length of Mitchel’s leg under the table, he didn’t.

“Well, I have a boyfriend at home that he didn’t know about until recently -- also it was more fun to lose a bet on purpose, so I could take him out to dinner, instead.” Jazz winked, unable to stop himself as he downed the rest of his wine. “It’d probably be better to head back to his place, considering… but I don’t want to just invite myself over.”

“You did not lose on purpose,” Mitchel said with a quiet snort. “You overestimated your abilities -- though Emperor Casio did say he was impressed with your speech’s attention to details. He also informed me that he’ll be paying additional attention to your work, from here on out, and that he wants me to mentor you. He simply hasn’t announced it, yet.”

“Mentor me for what?” Jazz asked, his horniness momentarily forgotten. His eyes widened, and his heart stopped in his chest. “Mitchel, mentor me for what?”

Mitchel chuckled, the sound rich to Jazz’s ears. “There is an opening on the Imperial Council, as I’m sure you are aware. He certainly hasn’t selected anyone, yet, but -- he wants to keep an eye on your development. And he wants me to facilitate it.”

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SavWes @ JazzDev Wedding

Wed, 26 Jul 2017 18:52:41 GMT

Arriving in Cliffton was always an affair.

Savin stepped off the plane, flanked by Imperial Guards. He half-expected to be tackled once he reached the bottom of the stairs, though this time, he couldn't even see Jazz's blond head in the crowd of people standing before him. Frowning a little to himself, Savin

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Just Talk -- Ch 4

Fri, 07 Jul 2017 13:00:15 GMT

He wasn’t wrong.

Thank god, he told himself repeatedly, that it wasn’t an order night. He’d had one call out. The bakery order was late. He’d barely managed to get sizzilis up in time, breakfast up on the steam table, the express case filled. At five forty-five, he was exhausted and covered in sweat, and the six am rush was about to hit. Coffee wasn’t brewing fast enough and his manager walked in just as he was six orders deep in the deli, disappointment plain in her ice-blue eyes.

His relief showed up and took over the deli a moment later, and James found himself being summoned into the office. “You forgot to empty the outside trash again,” she said, cocking her head to the side and folding her arms over her chest.

James nodded, not bothering to point out that no, he had emptied it, it had just filled up again in the hours in between. Instead he cleared his throat, adjusting his apron and slipping his hands into the pockets to make a mental inventory of pens -- most nights, he took extras home. “I’ll go take care of that,” he offered, reaching for the safety vest hanging up by the office door.

“Make a bale, too -- I’m sure you need to,” Stallone muttered, giving James a dismissive wave of her hand. “What else didn’t you get done, last night?”

“The cold box could be touched up,” James answered honestly. “I managed to do half the dairy order before bakery showed up.”

“Go take outside trash, make a bale, and finish up the dairy order,” Stallone said, settling in front of the computer. She reached out her hand. “Keys?”

James passed the safe keys over. He didn’t so much as look at her as he slipped the safety vest on and left her office, cutting through the chaotic deli in order to get to the trash room. All the while, he couldn’t shake the heat of Stallone’s stare.

She was never satisfied with how the store was when she walked in. He thought, after months of working at this particular store, he would’ve gotten used to that fact. But as he emptied the outside trash, he found his shoulders shaking and his eyes stinging. The trash had been done, damnit. It had just been busy and there wasn’t really a need to make a bale, he realized, as he slipped back inside the trash room. But a small bale would be better than leaving half of one for first shift to do later.

So he sucked it up, glanced at his phone, and got to work. The knots were still hard for him; he’d been shown how to make them over and over, but his fingers refused to memorize the motions. But the process was simple enough. And the more practice he had at it, the better. After several moments of struggling, he got it right, pulled the bale free, and carried it out of the way, stacking it against the wall.

He stepped out of the trash room and into the backroom, slipped into the bathroom and washed his hands once free of the ugly safety vest. The cold box was next, and for a minute, James debated bringing one of the provided coats with him, and decided against it.

He’d be too hot for it after a few minutes, anyway, he told himself. He stepped back out onto the floor, helped Kelly with the coffee for a moment, and then crossed the back of the store. It didn’t matter that the cold box was sitting at roughly 38 degrees. He stared at the stacks he hadn’t gotten to, frowning to himself as he tried to think of where he’d left off.

Crates upon crates, stacked six high, and there must’ve been a good twelve stacks. Maybe more. He’d lost count. The coldbox was always too fucking small for this, but the physical activity of hooking the -- James couldn’t remember the name of it, but it had wheels and helped, kind of, when moving a whole stack of milk over to where it was supposed to be.

He had to rotate. Had to make sure that the oldest milk was easiest to reach; had to make sure nothing had to be spoiled out. Maybe if he didn’t actually do his job the way it was supposed to be done, he’d be faster. But Wawa had a reputation for freshness, and he wasn’t about to fill holes with the newest product if older product existed.

He’d get done faster if there was more room to move, too. Pulling out old product to make room for new was a challenge and he had yet to find the right rhythm, despite having tackled the dairy order about once a week for the past three months.

It was seven thirty when he finished, drenched in sweat and product now present in previously empty spaces -- except, of course, for the holes that they hadn’t received the product for. He would fill the sodas further down or the water bottles in between the soda and the teas, but at thirty minutes past his time to leave, he wasn’t sure he had the time to.

At least the milk and teas were filled. Empty crates now sat where the new ones had been, also stacked six high -- no higher for safety -- and James did a sweep of the floor, making sure nothing was at trip hazard height. Once satisfied, James sighed and slipped out of the cold box, the warm air of the store uncomfortable as he made his way back towards the office.

Stallone had moved on from her customary spot in front of the computers, and was now in front of the steam table, her thin brows knitting close together. "James -- a few things don't have codes on them," she said as she spotted him, her expression serious. "When'd you drop the meatballs?"

"Five-thirty," James answered, squaring his jaw. He wrung his hands, moving closer to the steam table to make sure he didn't miss any other codes. He hadn't even bothered to change the pan when he made new bacon earlier that morning. "I'm sorry, I thought I had written out a code for them earlier..."

He probably had and it had probably gotten lost in the shuffle. And at this point, the coffee he'd drank at four was beginning to wear off, his shoulders slumping. Stallone glanced at him for a minute, then just shook her head. "Go home, James. We'll take care of this. See you Saturday."

James's jaw clenched, but he nodded and wandered his way into the office. He stared at the time clock, did a mental calculation. Getting home at this time of the day generally wasn’t that bad, traffic-wise, but leaving the Wawa in question… James shook his head, punched in his code, and unhooked his nametag from his shirt and placed it in the pocket of his apron.

Seven thirty-seven, his morning class was at 9 am. He desperately needed a nap, and with the loss of those forty minutes, he wasn’t getting one. It would take him twenty minutes to get home. Another twenty to shower to get the deli-smell off his body. And if he was lucky…

He didn’t want to run into Mark. He knew that Mark had work at around nine, this morning. But getting to the Target was a little more difficult; took a little more time. Maybe if James just went to school, Wawa-smell be damned, he could keep avoiding the fight. All night long, he’d received messages from Mark -- messages he hadn’t even read, yet, as customers had kept James busy.

James stepped out of the office, his eyes scanning for a way to step through the throngs of people preparing themselves their morning coffee. He’d need one himself, but maybe it was better to get an energy drink instead. He had to make it through class -- and then he’d have class again, in the afternoon.

If he had an energy drink now, though, that’d eliminate any chance of a nap between classes. And Mark would definitely be home by the time James was done his second class for the day -- which would mean no sleep until their argument was finished.

Maybe he should just skip classes, he thought to himself as he stood in front of the coldbox doors, a slight frown on his face as he considered his options. A MonsterJava would probably do the job. Or one of the V8 energy juices -- those didn’t taste like crap, either. And the last time he’d had RedBull, he’d regretted it more than anything. The crash was worse with a RedBull than any of the others, and James wasn’t sure he could tolerate one of those, today.

After a couple of moments, James just shook his head and closed the door. He was stalling. Trying to avoid going home, just in case Mark hadn’t left early today like he did most days. And if he lingered much longer, Mark would message him, accusing him of exactly that and James’s excuse of “Stallone kept me late” could only work for so long. Instead of buying himself some coffee, James made his way out of the store and through the parking lot.

He hoped Mark would be in a better mood, if he was still home.

***

“Tell me a little bit more about your job -- you said you work third shift, right?” Dr. Adler asked, leaning back in his seat. James tensed, but drew in a deep breath as he nodded, answering Dr. Adler’s question silently. “Do you like working third shift?”

“It’s exhausting,” James said, giving a nonchalant shrug as he spoke. He gave Dr. Adler a small smile. “It’s Wawa. It’s a lot of running around and convincing my associates to actually do their damn jobs and dealing with temper tantrums from the ones who fucking know better.” James rubbed his palms together, glancing at the burn mark on his arm.

He looked up to see that Dr. Adler at his brought his pen to his lips, and that Dr. Adler’s eyes were focused on James’s arm, as well. James covered the almost-healed burn with his hand. “I’ve been thinking of looking for something else, but I really want to finish my degree, first,” James said, clearing his throat. Dr. Adler met his eyes. “I sometimes have to double up on classes because I’m so far behind…”

“Do you really need to?” Dr. Adler asked, raising an eyebrow. “I know you said last week that you planned on graduating sometime next year -- would going a little easier on yourself really push it back that much?”

James gave another shrug of his shoulders and shook his head. “I mean, probably not, but -- I’m twenty-three and I don’t have a fucking degree, yet.”

“I take it you’re not very happy with that fact,” Dr. Adler asked, raising an eyebrow. He stroked his chin for a moment, leaning forward in his seat. “Are you afraid another job won’t work with your school schedule?”

James raked his nails over his scalp, frowning a little to himself. “I’ve heard -- horror stories from a couple of friends -- where their job interfered with them going to school, or like -- them not getting paid enough to be able to afford to go. And I’ve managed to avoid student loans so far, but…” James wrung his hands. “My credit’s… not the best? And I don’t have anyone who can cosign with me, if I need one…”

“Mark won’t cosign with you?” Dr. Adler asked, eyebrow still raised. “The two of you have been living together for a few years now, right? And have been dating about as long?”

James nodded, his nails catching on part of his scalp. He did his best not to pick at it while sitting in front of Dr. Adler, and he wasn’t about to now even though he was exhausted and it’d help keep him awake. Instead, he cleared his throat again and kept his fingers buried in his hair as he propped his head up with his hand. “Mark’s credit’s not much better -- we’ve tried to go in on a loan together in the past, too, but since he’s not family…”

“Ah.” Dr. Adler crossed one leg over the other, shifting in his seat a little as he raked his long, dark hair out of his eyes. “So what about your family?” he asked. “Would they be able to help?”

James shook his head. “My dad made it quite clear he didn’t want anything to do with me, after I told him I was moving in with Mark,” he muttered, lifting his head. He picked out dirt from underneath his fingernails, frowning to himself. “My mom is…” he trailed off and shook his head again. “She means well, but she doesn’t -- have the means to help me with something like that.”

James could’ve sworn he saw Dr. Adler’s eyes light up as he asked, “How so?”

“She’s got her own mental health issues, and um…” James sighed and covered his face in his hands. “She was the one who originally got me the job at Wawa, because she worked for Wawa, too. Until she, um -- she had a huge mental breakdown, a year or so ago, and -- and she’s doing better now, but… she’s in a similar position as me, credit-wise. Maybe worse? I don’t know…”

“But the two of you are still on good terms?”

“Kind of?” James rubbed at his face and bit his lip. “I mean, she knows about Mark and I guess is okay with the fact that I’m gay? We still talk, it’s just… not often.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

James shook his head. “Mark’s got a sister, but we don’t talk to her much, either -- we kind of avoid his family? They were… less accepting than my dad.”

“Hm.” Dr. Adler stroked his chin, his lips pursing together in thought as he turned his eyes towards the ceiling. “So you don’t really have any family to rely on, and Mark’s the only person you can?”

James nodded.

“You said last week you had to take some semesters off to help Mark -- has he helped you any with the college expenses?” Dr. Adler asked, his tone containing nothing but curiosity.

James tensed. “We -- have tried to split the bills as much as possible, but --” James sighed caught his bottom lip between his teeth. “Mark thinks going to school is kinda pointless, y’know? When I could find a job and move up the ranks without a degree. So we’ve agreed that he doesn’t have to help me with school bills.”

Dr. Adler blinked, then gave a slow nod of his head. “I see,” he said. He furrowed his brow a little. “Do you think that’s fair?”

“Well, he pays just about everything else, so --” James shrugged. “I mean, I pay for school and for the gas in my car, and any food I buy at work, and -- I think that’s it?”

Dr. Adler raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know all of what you pay for?” he asked with a quiet, almost hiccup of a laugh. “That aside, if Mark can’t afford his side of the bills, you’re expected to drop what you need to in order to help him pay, right?”

James furrowed his brow, but nodded slowly. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, frowning as he looked away from Dr. Adler. “I’ve had to drop semesters so I could scramble and help pay rent, or his car loan, or…” He shook his head. “It’s -- I know it seems unfair, but -- we need to have a place to live, you know? And we need his car. Mine’s -- well, it’s a piece of shit.”

“So why not help you invest in a new one?” Dr. Adler asked, steepling his fingers together in front of him. “How long has it been since you two struggled to pay rent?”

James licked his lips and leaned into the corner of the couch he had curled himself up against, folding his arms in front of him and squinting his eyes in thought. “I mean -- it was last year? And his car’s paid off, now, but we still have to maintain it. Though some of the things he gets done at the dealership, I could probably do myself? I dunno… he hasn’t considered getting me a new car, yet. He’s pretty content to run mine into the ground, first.”

“Yeah, but you need a reliable car to get to and from work, don’t you?” Dr. Adler asked, his expression open. “Or is it one of those cars that looks like shit on the outside but still runs pretty good?”

“Kind of both?” James offered, giving Dr. Adler a half-smile. He raked his fingers through his hair and glanced out the window towards the parking lot -- which he really couldn’t see, given the angle of the couch. “It’s -- it was a gift from my dad. He literally gave it to me for free when I was a teenager and I’ve been driving it ever since. But -- I can tell the engine’s probably starting to go? The car just -- doesn’t move like it used to.”

“Have you told Mark that?” Dr. Adler lifted his brows again. He tapped his fingertips together and looked off to the side, scrubbing his cheek with his palm. “If I’m asking too many questions it’s okay to tell me so, by the way. I’m just really curious in nature sometimes, and like -- when I was a kid, I used to get made fun of it for it all the time, you know?”

James blinked, then gave Dr. Adler a reassuring smile. “No, I don’t think you’re asking too many questions,” he said. His smile faded somewhat as he dug underneath his fingernails, cleaning of them imaginary dirt. “I was picked on a lot as a kid,” he said, clearing his throat. “It took me a while to figure out it was probably because it was obvious I was gay.”

Dr. Adler gave a quiet laugh at that. “Well, imagine being bisexual,” he said, crossing one leg and resting it underneath the other as he leaned back in his chair. “I think it took me until I was like -- twenty? to even realize I liked men the same way I do women.”

“You’re bi?” James asked, blinking. He felt his face flush as Dr. Adler’s smile grew a little wider. “I wouldn’t have guessed --”

“There’s a reason why I purposely advertise myself as open to the LGBT community -- or did you not do your research and just picked me out of a hat, when you asked if I was taking new clients?” Dr. Adler smirked at James as James felt his face burn hotter. “Ah, so no research, then?”

James shook his head. “A -- someone I knew from school recommended you to me,” he said, his voice quiet. He rubbed at his burn again and bit his lip. “They -- I hesitate to call them a friend, because I don’t really hang out with them outside of school or anything, but -- they said I could trust you with anything. My last therapist… kind of was a bigot. Thought I could just will my sexuality away, y’know? She definitely thought I should stop living with Mark and move on from dating him and start dating women…”

Dr. Adler was quiet for a moment, his eyes lowering to his own hands as he slowly rubbed them together. “Well, now I understand why you seemed a little more hesitant than most,” he said after a moment, the words leaving him in a heavy sigh. “So tell me a little bit about work -- I understand the money situation’s a little tight from time to time, but why Wawa?”

“It’s convenient,” James said with a shrug. “Working thirds lets me go to school without worrying about classes, honestly. And nightshift pays more, but…” James shook his head, his eyes drifting to his burn once more. He traced it with his fingertips; recalled the half-truth he’d given Dr. Adler the week before. “There’s this one girl, Addison -- she’s been at that store longer than I have. She’s really fucking good at the deli and she hates it. She wants to be on register because she thinks it’s ‘easier’ and -- well, she’s not necessarily wrong, but…”

“You need her in the deli,” Dr Adler supplied for him, nodding a little. “Right?”

“Right,” James said, clearing his throat. “It’s like -- the other associates need to be trained back there, but I need her to train them because I can’t get stuck in the deli -- I’ve got other shit I have to do before first shift comes in, y’know?” James sighed and scrubbed at his face, exhaustion settling even further into his bones, the more he talked about work. “My manager thinks I’m shit at my job enough as it is -- I’ve been straight up told that my coworkers don’t respect me.”

Dr. Adler blinked at that, his eyebrows flying towards his hair. “Is that so? You seem like someone deserving of respect to me. You’re thoughtful, you work hard, you obviously aren’t afraid to get dirty doing the job. So why don’t they respect you?”

James shrugged and turned his gaze towards the window again, loosely hugging himself as he considered Dr. Adler’s question. “I’ve been told I’m not firm enough with them,” he said after a moment. “That they think they can walk all over me and do whatever they want…”

“Do they?” Dr Adler asked. “And have you done anything to try and fix that, if they do?”

James frowned a little to himself. “It’s -- I mean, I’ve been getting better at it? But I try to compromise and help find solutions that’ll make everyone happy, too, but -- sometimes I forget that certain things still need to get done a certain way or I try to overcompensate for their lack of work ethic…”

His frown deepened. He continued to brush his fingers over his burn before drawing in a deep, steadying breath. “There’s another girl -- Akia. She’s lazy as fuck and at this point I’ve just -- kind of given up on her? She calls out a lot, too, so I can’t even rely on her to show up, half the time. And then there’s Sam -- he’s adorable, and he works hard, and we’re kinda close, but -- he gets frustrated real easily, sometimes. And he works another job and sometimes I think he’s just too damn tired to do the job at Wawa…”

He trailed off and sighed, scrubbing at his face. “I don’t like conflict,” he said after a moment. “I do handle the problem customers as best I can, but I’m really fucking awkward about it. And I don’t like ordering people around or getting stern with my coworkers, even though technically I’m their boss and they have to listen to me.”

“Not many people enjoy conflict,” Dr. Adler said, giving a slight nod of his head. “So you feel like you let them walk all over you, sometimes? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Kind of?” James pursed his lips together, furrowing his brow in thought. “It’s more like -- I don’t see the point? I don’t even really care that much if they like me, I just -- like, with Akia, it’s not worth it. She doesn’t give a fuck about the job. She probably doesn’t give a fuck about being fired. And I’ve been told I can send her home, but like -- is that worth it? She’s another body and we’re short-staffed on thirds enough as it is -- and she can at least ring up customers if she doesn’t do anything fucking else, y’know?”

Dr. Adler nodded. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but -- you sound a little frustrated about that. And maybe not just about that,” he said, resting his hands on the arms of his chair. He tapped his fingers as James nodded his head. “Have you tried speaking to your manager about Akia?”

James nodded. “I’ve given up trying to tell her anything, though,” he said after a moment, dropping his eyes to the floor. He gave a small shrug. “She doesn’t listen, so that’s not worth it, either. All she cares about is picking apart every little thing I do, instead.”

Dr. Adler was silent after that, frowning a little to himself as he considered James’s words. “That seems to be a common thing for you,” he said after a moment. “Do you think you do a bad job?”

James shook his head. “I’m not great at my job by any means, but -- the order gets put away every other night, for the most part, same with bakery and I do my best to keep everything in code, I just -- I’m not good with the people managing part and I know my time management needs work.”

“Has she given you any actual advice on how to better time manage?” Dr. Adler asked. “If she’s going to critique how you do things, she should also provide you with some guidance, you know? How else is she going to expect you to improve?”

“She’s worked on thirds with me, once?” James offered, gesturing with his hands. “It was one of the easier nights of the week and she didn’t really, like, provide me guidance so much as bullied everyone into doing their job and then claiming it was just that easy.”

“So you think she’s a bully?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Adler nodded again, licking his lips as he considered his next words. James, on the other hand, found himself looking towards the floor, tears filling his eyes as he realized just how quick he was to answer that question.

“If you could find another job that offered third shift, would you take it?” Dr. Adler asked, his voice soft. “It doesn’t sound as though the situation at Wawa’s going to be improving any, anytime soon.”

comments

Just Talk -- Ch 3

Wed, 28 Jun 2017 21:33:56 GMT

When James woke up, hours had passed and Mark had long since left the bedroom, leaving James to sleep. With a huff, James rolled towards Mark’s empty side of the bed and grabbed Mark’s pillow, resting on top of it without once opening his eyes. He should probably get up. He didn’t want to reach for his phone, though -- which was resting on top of the nearby nightstand. His alarm hadn’t gone off. And Mark didn’t have work, so he’d wake up James if he’d slept through it.

He’d been doing that an awful lot, lately.

With a slow, measured sigh, James groped blindly for his phone anyway. If he kept it closer to his face, when it finally went off, he’d hear it. Except as he settled back into sleep, the bedroom door squeaked on its hinges. “Hey, babe?”

James furrowed his brow. “Yeah?” he croaked. “Please tell me I’m not late…”

“No, you’re not, but -- it’s Thursday, isn’t it? Don’t you have class today?”

James blinked and pushed himself upright, squinting at his phone as the brightness of it flooded his vision. “It’s Wednesday,” he murmured after a moment, breathing a sigh of relief. “I don’t have classes on Wednesday, remember?”

“Oh.” Mark blinked back at him from the doorway, giving James a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that, I just thought --”

“It’s okay,” James said, collapsing back onto the bed and closing his eyes. He half-expected for Mark to shut the door behind him and return to whatever he was doing, but the door remained open and Mark didn’t move. After a couple of quiet moments, James grit his teeth together and lifted his head from the pillow. “Yes?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow. “Did you need anything else?”

Mark shrunk away from the door, his eyes widening a little as he gave James an apologetic look. “I was just wondering if you’d help me make dinner…”

James closed his eyes and turned away from the open door, pulling the blankets up around him. “I thought you said you would handle it?” he grumbled. He wished he could block out the light. His eyes ached, and he tossed his phone back onto the nightstand. “I need to sleep, Mark --”

“I know, it’s just -- you’re a better cook than I am…”

“It’s spaghetti,” James snapped. wrapping himself even tighter in the blankets. “There’s this thing called the internet, Mark. Use it. Let me sleep.”

The words tasted sour on his tongue, and he jumped as the bedroom door slammed shut. Sighing, James turned onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow, screaming into it and hoping the sound was muffled. Great. Just great. With a huff, James reached for his phone and glanced at it. Five in the afternoon. Even if he’d had class he would’ve been late; they started at three. Sometimes one. And he had to get up at ten, if he wanted to take a shower and eat something before going in.

Five more hours of sleep. Four and a half, actually, depending on how long it took for him to fall back asleep. And considering he could hear Mark’s heavy footsteps throughout the apartment, it might take him longer than that.

If he were a smart man, he’d get out of the bed and apologize. But his body ached, still, from putting the order away the night before. And if he didn’t get more sleep now, he wouldn’t be able to get any sleep tomorrow morning, either -- or at least, nothing more than a brief nap before he went to his one and only morning class he had. And then he had a class at four. But he was at least off tomorrow night, and then Friday night --

James squeezed his eyes shut, growling a little as he tossed himself onto his side. He needed to stop thinking. He needed to just breathe, relax, and go back to sleep. It shouldn’t be that hard, right? Except now he could hear Mark in the cabinets; hear him slam things shut. He winced when he heard Mark curse, his voice muffled through the walls of the apartment but not enough so to take the sting away.

Drawing in a deep, even breath, James forced himself to consciously relax his muscles -- a technique he took away from his last therapist; the only useful thing the man had taught him. He did his best to clear his mind; to focus only on his breath entering and leaving his body. He could have his fight with Mark later. He needed rest. He needed to be functional tonight. He was running shift again and Salone wasn’t exactly an easy boss to please, and after the past night he needed to redeem himself…

He gave himself a slight shake. Maybe he should take one of his anxiety meds? But he didn’t want to knock himself out like that, either. He needed to be able to get up in four hours and fourty-three minutes. Turning onto his back, he put his phone down and folded his hands on top of his stomach, staring up at the ceiling.

Maybe he’d gotten enough sleep. Maybe he could get up and talk to Mark and things would blow over, and he could lie down for a couple of hours and rest. It wasn’t an order night. It wasn’t a weekend night. He could buy a fucking energy drink, if the free coffee wasn’t enough to keep him moving. And then he could nap before class and again between classes. And then he could come home and pass out for the remainder of the day.

It wouldn’t be that bad, he told himself. It really wouldn’t be. It’d be a whole lot worse if he let Mark stew on this all night until tomorrow. If he got up now…

He’d give it another thirty minutes, he told himself. He’d keep his eyes closed until then. If he fell back asleep, he fell back asleep. If he didn’t, he’d get up and go talk to Mark. In the meantime, he had to find a way to get his stomach to settle in his chest; to get his lungs to open up a little bit more. He continued to take in slow breaths, and Mark’s banging around in the kitchen faded out some.

When he woke up a second time, it was to the almost soothing melody of his phone alarm, it ringing to fill the dark spaces of his bedroom. He reached for it and swiped his thumb over the dismiss button, groaning as he pushed himself out of the bed. A shower would take him ten minutes. It'd take him another five to get dressed.

As quietly as he could, James slipped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. He could hear the television; either Mark was too engrossed in what he was watching to hear James leave their bedroom, or the other man had fallen asleep on the couch.

Either way, James wasn’t too keen on finding out which it was. If he was lucky, Mark was asleep and would remain that way until after James was out of the shower. If he was even luckier, Mark would remain asleep until James was on his way out the door. At his luckiest, Mark would sleep ‘til the morning, and would have forgotten all about James not getting up to help him, the day before.

As he shrugged out of his shirt and slipped out of his boxers and started the water, though, there was a knock on the bathroom door. Biting his lip, James slipped past the shower curtain. “Come in,” he called, cautious, stepping under the spray.

“So we’re not gonna talk about earlier, then, before you start getting ready for work?” Mark asked, raising his voice just enough so James could hear him over the rushing water.

James held back a sigh and closed his eyes, letting the water help ease the tension already forming in his shoulders. “I didn’t know if you were still awake or not,” he said, knowing damn well that was the wrong answer.

“You could’ve checked if I was, y’know.”

James reached for his shampoo and lathered it into his hair before reaching for his body wash and his wash cloth. “Mark…”

“That wouldn’t have taken any time at all, to see if I was still awake.”

James finished scrubbing himself down, his stomach twisting and threatening to climb into his throat. “I know,” he said, the words quiet against the sound of the shower. He rinsed himself off. “The lights were out, though.”

“The TV was still on.”

“You fall asleep watching TV all the damn time,” James scoffed, reaching for his conditioner. “I wasn’t about to wake you if you were asleep.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” Clearly, James thought to himself. “And I think you need to apologize for how you treated me, earlier. I was just asking for help, you know.”

James breathed out slowly through his nose, biting his lip once more as he raked his fingers through his hair. As he worked the conditioner through, he weighed his options. If he apologized now, it would likely sound insincere. If he waited until he do so sincerely, he risked pissing Mark off further. “I know you were,” he settled on a moment later, satisfied that he’d detangled his hair appropriately. “But I didn’t get any sleep yesterday and if I’d gotten up to help you, I wouldn’t’ve been able to go back to sleep.”

“You didn’t get any sleep yesterday because you decided to tackle your assignment last minute instead of ahead of time like I’d told you to,” Mark said, sound exasperated. “I’d told you taking an extra class this semester was too much --”

“It’s not too much,” James said, cutting Mark off just as he shut the water off. He reached around the shower curtain, groping blindly for his towel which was, thankfully, right where he’d thought it would be. “I’d be fine if you --”

He stopped himself just as Mark swung the shower curtain open, his blue eyes icy as he met James’s eyes. “If I what, James?” he snapped, folding his arms over his chest.

James looked off to the side, frowning a little as Mark didn’t so much as move to let James out of the shower. “I haven’t been able to focus on it much,” he said, his voice quiet as he rubbed his towel over his head. “I’d be able to focus better if I got better sleep.”

“Are you saying I don’t let you sleep?” Mark asked, raising an eyebrow. His arms didn’t budge from over his chest, nor did he stand to the side as James tried to maneuver around him to get out of the shower.

James managed to get to the sink without falling flat on his face, reaching for his toothbrush and the tooth paste. “You certainly didn’t make it easy on me earlier,” he muttered.

The temperature dropped as soon as the words left him. “You certainly didn’t seem to fucking mind, earlier,” Mark spat in response. His hands wound up on his hips, his jaw set. “I was just trying to help you relax --”

“Yes, I know, but how is waking me up at five in the afternoon and asking me to help you with dinner supposed to help with that, Mark?” James asked. His hands shook as he began the process of brushing his teeth. He focused his attention ahead, on the mirror, his hands moving the brush furiously in his mouth.

How many times had they talked about this? About how James needed more sleep and how Mark didn’t need to be by him every second that he was home? That of course James was struggling with one or two of his classes because he’d gotten behind on his homework, thanks to Mark needing his attention.

“I was making us dinner! I didn’t wanna fuck it up --”

“It was spaghetti,” James hissed through a mouthful of foam. He spat it out, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. “It’s pretty hard to fuck up spaghetti, Mark.”

Mark just glared at him, his gaze intense as James turned on the water and bent forward, cupping the water with his hand. He didn’t swallow, just swished it around and spat it back out. “Did you fuck up the spaghetti?”

“It didn’t taste like how it does when you make it…”

“That doesn’t mean you fucked it up,” James said, lifting his head from the sink basin. He reached for the hand towel and patted his hands dry, taking his time and avoiding Mark’s eyes all the while. Eventually, he lifted his gaze and leveled Mark with an even, apologetic look. “I’m sorry for snapping at you for waking me up.”

A moment passed before Mark shook his head and raked his hair out of his eyes with a huff. “No, you’re not. You’re just saying that because you think that’s what I want to hear,” he said, his lips twisted in an ugly frown.

With a huff of his own, James pushed himself away from the sink and moved out of the bathroom, not even bothering to wrap his towel around his waist. “Whatever, Mark,” he said with a roll of his eyes. Hastily, he dried himself off and reached for the uniform he’d set out that morning between the end of his shift and his therapy session with Dr. Adler. As he slipped his shirt over his head, he glanced back at Mark, who had stomped into the room behind him, his arms folded over his chest once more.

“If you were really sorry about snapping at me you would’ve apologized sooner,” Mark argued, his jaw set. “You always do this -- you always apologize but you never fucking mean it, because you’re just gonna go and get mad at me next time I wake you up or interrupt you doing homework or something. You always say you’re gonna do better and that you’re gonna treat me with respect and then you turn around and brush me off when I ask for your help --”

“You first woke me up because you thought I had class, today!” James cried, incredulous as he slipped on his underwear and black pants. He looked down at them, his brow furrowing as he inspected the thighs of his jeans. “Did you -- please tell me you washed these, Mark.”

“Of course I fucking washed your work clothes,” Mark scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s not my fault you work in the deli all the time and get them all fucked up.”

James glowered at him for a moment, then sighed and shook his head as he sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his socks. There was a stain on one of the legs, light enough that James could make it out -- but maybe no one would notice it when he wore his apron. That, he knew, needed to be washed, too, but he’d left it in his car earlier that day. “I know it isn’t your fault,” he said as he rose to his feet. He towered over Mark for a moment before pushing past him and walking out of the bedroom.

“I don’t know why you keep putting yourself in that deli, you know,” Mark said, following him without so much as missing a beat. “You’re the shift manager, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you put someone else in the deli?”

“Sometimes I’m the only one who even knows half of what they’re supposed to be doing,” James said, shrugging his shoulders. He stepped into the kitchen, his eyes catching on the stove’s clock for a moment. He calculated how long it’d take him to get to work; calculated how much time he had left before he had to leave.

With knowing he didn’t really have enough time to do this, he reached into the fridge and took out the leftover spaghetti Mark had made while he slept. If he heated it up for two minutes, he could get his shoes on his feet and put his keys in his pocket and maybe get out of here on time.

“Really? You’re gonna eat that now?” Mark asked, raising an eyebrow. He leaned back against the dining room table, his arms folded neatly over his chest once more. “You don’t have to do that.”

“You made it for both of us,” James said, slipping the bowl into the microwave. He walked past Mark, moving towards the shoe rack and stuffing his already aching feet into the non-slips. He could feel the emerging holes in the sides and the way the insole had been worn down; he needed to get new ones, soon.

“It tastes like shit, James.”

“Well, I don’t see anything else I can eat, Mark.” James said, mirroring Mark’s body language and folding his arms over his chest. “We don’t exactly have much food in the house.”

Mark narrowed his eyes at James, the fold of his arms tightening over his chest. “Really? You’re gonna get on my shit about that, now? This morning you said that was okay! Were you lying to me?”

James’s blood ran cold and he shivered, looking away from Mark just as the microwave alerted him his food was done. “I wasn’t lying to you,” he said, his voice quiet as he pulled the bowl free from the microwave. He stared at the spaghetti, his stomach turning as he scrounged through the kitchen drawer for a fork.

“Bullshit,” Mark spat. “You’re always lying to me. You’re always getting mad at me about dumb shit and you never once tell me what the fuck is actually going on. You can’t even tell me what you talked about in therapy!”

comments

Just Talk -- Ch 2

Thu, 22 Jun 2017 22:59:17 GMT

With a quiet sigh, James shut the door to his apartment behind him. The lights were on; Mark's large, cumbersome sneakers sat in the middle of the floor, along with a pair of black socks discarded nearby. James snorted, a wry smile making its way across his lips as he moved the sneakers into the correct place on the shoe rack beside the door. He then toed off his own sneakers, nails raking at the bandage covering his burns.

"How was therapy?" Mark asked, stepping out of the kitchen alcove and into the dining area of their apartment. He gave James a sheepish grin and rubbed the back of his neck as his eyes moved to James's hands. "Are those...?"

"Your socks?" James finished for him, smirking a little as he held out the items in question. "You bet your ass they are."

"Sorry," Mark said, taking the socks from James's hands and moving towards the short hall leading to their bedroom. "You know how it is sometimes when you come off of a shift..."

James just shook his head, then massaged a temple as he moved into the kitchen and opened up the fridge, glancing inside. "Did you go grocery shopping?" he asked, frowning a little as he stared at the scarce interior. He plucked one of the three bottles of water that were left and twisted it open, his frown still there as he straightened himself out. "Mark?"

"No, I totally forgot to go grocery shopping," Mark groaned, emerging from their bedroom. He rested his hands on his hips, pouting a little as he leaned one shoulder against the hallway. "Do you think we have enough to make it through 'til Thursday?"

James sighed, closing the fridge behind him as he then opened up the freezer. “I’m not sure -- I mean, I could make us dinner tonight and you should be able to have leftovers for a couple of days, but…”

“There’s not much to snack on,” Mark said, wincing a little as he opened up the kitchen cabinets. “But you said you can still make dinner…?”

“Yeah,” James said, pulling out a block of frozen ground turkey. He glanced over at Mark, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “We have spaghetti, right? And sauce?” He hoped that they did. It’d be the fastest thing to make -- and it’d produce a lot of food for them both. Not that he couldn’t buy food from work, but…

He was getting kinda tired of Wawa. And he needed to save. Once he was out of school he’d have to start looking for something much less unpredictable than Wawa. Third shift was starting to get to him, and now that he thought about it, it was already 1030 in the morning. His eyes burned, and no amount of rubbing them seemed to help.

“You should go to sleep,” Mark said, glancing at him. “I’ll make dinner tonight so you can sleep in a little, okay? I’m not in today.”

“I know,” James said, pouting a little. He moved closer to Mark and leaned against him, burying his face in Mark’s neck. “I miss you, though. I don’t wanna go to bed, yet…”

“I can go with you?” Mark suggested, holding James close. His fingertips brushed along the edge of James’s shirt and then slipped under it, drifting along the small of James’s back.

James shook his head and pulled away from Mark, biting his lip again. “I’m not -- really in the mood for that,” he said, giving Mark a shaky smile. “I just wanna watch Adventure Time with you for a bit and pass out. That okay?”

Mark nodded, his expression odd for a moment as he moved further away from James. He then smirked at him, leaning in to brush his lips against James’s own. “Sure. But the offer for me to make dinner tonight still stands, you know.”

“Mm, I think I’ll take you up on that,” James said, pulling away from Mark and lightly dragging him over to the couch. He walked around it and tugged Mark down with him, picking up the remote with his other hand and turning on the television. He made himself comfortable, resting his back in the corner of the couch and cradling Mark’s head to his chest. “Adventure time?” he suggested, his eyes suddenly heavy.

“There’s a new Fiona and Cake episode,” Mark murmured, his hair brushing against James’s chin as he spoke. He looked up at James with big, blue eyes, a playful little smile on his lips. “I think it’s actually pretty heavy on Marshal Lee and Prince Gumball?”

James snorted and shook his head. “I like Marceline better as a chick, thanks,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Mark’s head. Still, he pulled up the On Demand menu and flipped through the episodes they’d recorded earlier, pouting a little in thought as he slid an arm around Mark’s shoulders. “Marshal’s voice though…”

“Mm, you are fond of his voice, aren’t you?” Mark teased, pressing a quick kiss to James’s jaw.

“You could say that,” James said, starting the episode. Absently, he ran his fingers through Mark’s hair, then massaged the back of his head lightly, his attention spent on the television. He sank further into his seat and half-nuzzled the top of Mark’s head, his fingers drifting down the back of Mark’s neck.

Mark jumped a little at the touch, a quiet gasp escaping him. James pulled his hand away. “Sorry,” he said, an apologetic smile on his lips. “I’m still not --”

“I know,” Mark said, turning his head so he could meet James’s eyes. He gave him a soft, tender-hearted smile, which slowly morphed into a teasing smirk. “But if I really wanted to get you on your back, I could get you that way…”

James scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Stop thinking with your penis and watch the show,” he said, nudging Mark. He drifted his fingertips down Mark’s back, careful not to go too lightly, lest it give Mark the wrong idea as he watched the episode in earnest.

Or well, as in earnest as he could with Mark’s fingers brushing along the inside of his thigh. Not going too high, and dipping just low enough that the touch could be construed as innocent. Absent-minded.

James knew better. He moved his own arm so that it settled around Mark’s back. Nuzzled close to his boyfriend, the warmth of Mark’s body heightening his awareness that he hadn’t slept in far too many hours.

“You never did tell me how therapy went,” Mark said. There was something odd about his tone. He glanced up at James, the movement and his words causing James to stiffen a little underneath him. “Should I be concerned about that?”

James furrowed his brow. “Why would you be?” he asked. “It’s just therapy.”

“You didn’t do so well with your last therapist, is all,” Mark said with a shrug. “You’ve seen this guy twice now. What’s he like?”

James shrugged, too, his attention still mostly focused on the episode. “He’s not much older than me?” he said, glancing down at Mark. “I mean, he’s in his thirties and I don’t think he’s been doing this for very long -- but he seems like a good guy. Doesn’t mind it if I curse while talking to him about stuff. Doesn’t push all that hard and isn’t blaming all of my problems on the fact that I’m gay.”

“Well, that’s good,” Mark said. His nails raked upwards along James’s jeans. “Do you think he’s hot?”

James rolled his eyes and placed a hand on top of Mark’s, moving it away from his lap and back to somewhere less personal. “He’s -- okay looking, I guess?” he said with another shrug. “He’s my therapist, Mark. I don’t think having an attraction to him would be all that helpful?”

“Might make it easier to spill all of your deepest, darkest secrets if you wanted to bang him,” Mark snickered, nuzzling James’s chest. He mouthed at James’s clothed nipple. "Know who I wanna bang?"

James shook his head, this time a wry smile making its way across his lips. "I could make a couple of guesses..." he said, pressing a quick kiss to Mark's temple. "Unfortunately for you, he's not in the mood for that."

"Are you sure about that?" Mark asked, his expression innocent as he palmed James's crotch. He only put a light pressure there, moving his hand over James's hip and around to the small of his back, fingers brushing against bare skin where James's shirt had ridden up. At the series of touches, James shivered a little, his eyes drifting shut. "Looks like someone's getting turned on to me..."

"Mark..."

Mark lifted James's shirt up, bending his head forward to tease just above the edge of James's jeans with his tongue.

"Mark."

James felt the heat pooling between his legs and shifted in his seat, unwittingly exposing more of his middle to Mark, who took advantage of it, his tongue trailing upwards. He nipped along James's ribs, his hand once again moving to between James's legs. "Yep, someone's definitely getting turned," he said with a quiet chuckle.

James couldn't argue. He did like the attention, he just -- "I'm really tired, Mark," he groaned after a moment, reaching down for Mark's hand once again. He threaded their fingers together. "I should probably just go get some sleep..."

"You can sleep after we're done," Mark said, letting go of James's hand. He had murmured the words against James's stomach, nosing his way up to one of James's nipples. He nipped at it, tugging it a little with his teeth, all while giving James this absurdly playful and innocent smile. "I promise to make it quick, I just really want to make you feel good, okay?"

Sleep would make him feel good. James bit his lip, studying Mark for a moment before moaning a little as Mark’s palmed him over his jeans for a third time. It was so obvious his body was reacting to Mark’s touches and teases, but --

“I know you do,” James said after a moment, gently pushing Mark away from him. “We can do things after I sleep, okay? I’m way too tired.”

Mark pouted up at James, but sighed and nodded as he pulled away from James. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” he said, settling back against the couch. He frowned a little and folded his arms over his chest. “If you’re that tired you might as well just go to bed, then.”

James blinked, then rolled his eyes as he pushed himself up from the couch. “I don’t mind cuddling with you until I fall asleep, you know,” he said, the words leaving him in a thankfully even tone. He leaned over the couch and kissed Mark’s forehead. “As long as you can behave yourself.”

Mark raised an eyebrow at that before a slow, wry smile made its way across his lips. “Since when have I ever behaved?” he asked, standing up from the couch as well. He turned the television off as James moved towards the hall, to the bedroom on the right side of the hall.

James had managed to shuck off his pants and crawl under the covers before Mark found his way into the bedroom. The queen sized bed meant James could curl up on his side comfortably, his back to the door. He’d long since bought black-out curtains, and they were drawn tightly over the window, blocking out any sign that it was day time, right that second.

He didn’t move as Mark’s arm slid itself around his waist. He didn’t move as Mark’s lips pressed against sensitive parts of his neck. “You seem a little stiff,” Mark murmured against his skin. His hand moved from its resting place against James’s stomach, towards James’s shoulders. “Would you prefer it if I rubbed your neck and shoulders a bit?”

James bit his lip. His back did hurt, a little. He’d put away the coldbox order by himself, all one hundred and fifty pieces of it. Lugging cases of water to their correct shelves and organizing and rotating the deli items had taken a lot out of him. Mark’s fingers were drifting along his spine and over his shoulder blades, the touch varying in pressure.

“I guess that’s okay,” James said with a quiet sigh. He leaned his head back as Mark’s hands moved to the base of his neck, his thumbs massaging along his vertebrae. “Yeah, definitely okay,” he amended after a moment, an involuntary purr escaping him as Mark’s thumbs continued to move along his neck and shoulders.

It had been so long since Mark had given him this kind of attention. James found himself melting into it, his eyes drifting closed as he rolled onto his stomach, his head pillowed by his arms. He could fall asleep like this, with Mark’s hands sliding over his back with no further agenda, and --

Mark was on him a moment later. “Is this okay?” he asked, more or less straddling James’s hips, his hands still moving along James’s spine. “It’s easier to do this this way.”

James grunted his response, his body warming at the weight of Mark on top of him. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say he knew where this was going to go, if Mark remained on top of him like this. But Mark’s hands were working wonders and causing James’s muscles to unlock. And then Mark’s hands slid under his shirt, tugging it upwards and James yielded, lifting himself up just enough for the shirt to be tossed aside.

Mark's lips were at his neck before James could protest, and James's body responded in kind, a shiver rippling through him as Mark continued his massage. Pressing his lips to James's skin in light, slow passes, James found his own breath catching in his throat and swallowing a moan that wanted to escape him.

"Mark, I --" He cut himself off with a gasp as Mark shifted his weight on top of James. Mark was hard and pressing against him, grinding his hips in such a way that made James ache, just a little.

"Still too tired?" Mark breathed into the junction of James's neck and shoulder. "Or d'you think you could pass me the lube?"

"Get it yourself," James said, his words playful as he rolled his own hips. "You can do all the work, for once."

Mark gave a quiet laugh at that, his weight disappearing from on top of James, only for him to take hold of James's shoulder and all but shove him onto his back. James's breath caught again, his legs automatically spreading to allow Mark between them the moment his boxers were gone. Mark's fingers probed his backside, slick with lube and teasing, stretching him open in a way that made James's eyes roll back in his head.

It was rare for Mark to want to top. If he'd known from the start --

Well, maybe he wouldn't have been so adamant in saying no.

comments

JT -- Ch 1

Thu, 22 Jun 2017 16:06:20 GMT

Chapter One

James stared at the man sitting across from him, one arm resting against the arm of the couch, the other draped across him. He tried not to pick at the edge of his shorts and dropped his gaze.

“Why am I here?” he repeated, his mouth going dry. He shifted his weight, folding both hands in his lap and dragging his tongue along his top lip, smoothing it over the edge of his teeth.

There were so many reasons. And the man in front of him was his newest therapist. His latest attempt to get healthy. He had to give him at least one of them, and let one of them be true. Otherwise what was the point of going to therapy? But he found himself unable to talk, his eyes barely meeting his therapist's as he said, "Um... I'm not sure where to start."

His therapist nodded. He gestured to James’s bandaged arm. “We can start with there, if you’d like. Were those self-inflicted?”

James flinched and curled in on himself. “They’re --” His words cracked under the pressure of his tightening throat, and he shook his head. “No, I had an accident at work -- just clumsy,” he managed a moment later, giving his therapist a shaky smile. “But -- that’s not to say I haven’t -- thought about hurting myself, in the past.”

“I'm sorry to hear that." His therapist -- Dr. Kenji Adler -- relaxed into his seat, dark eyes warm and inviting. "So James, what do you do for a living?”

James found himself relaxing a little as well at the question -- at least Dr. Adler wasn't going to make him elaborate further on his self-harming tendencies. He licked his lips and scratched at his bandage. “I work at Wawa,” he said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I burned my arm pretty bad on one of the sizzili trays -- wasn’t paying attention.”

It was a believable enough story. He’d suffered a lot of random injuries while on the job -- had even cut his finger open while cutting a sandwich once. Mark had never let him live it down -- it was his sandwich that James had been making, after all.

“Really? How long have you worked there?” Dr. Adler continued. He’d insisted James call him Kenji, but James didn’t think it was a good idea to think of him by his first name. Not yet. He didn’t want to get too comfortable.

“A few months?” James answered, furrowing his brow a little in thought. “I haven’t -- really been able to hold down a steady job, you know? School makes it kinda hard…”

When he went to school, anyway. It took both hands to count the number of times he’d had to take a semester off because Mark had needed him home for some reason or another. The total couldn’t be counted on his hands if James included the number of times he’d left class because Mark had asked him to.

"Oh, so you go to school, too? Where at?" Dr. Adler asked, leaning forward in his seat. He pressed his palms together, studying James. "What for?"

"Psychology," James answered, a little sheepish. "I go to WilmU... it's nice, it's real close to home, actually…” That was why he’d picked it. In case Mark needed him to come home, for any reason.

Dr. Adler nodded again and leaned back once more, bringing one leg up under the other in his chair. He gave James a wry smile. “Well, I’m glad you decided you still have faith in psychologists, despite everything you’ve learned so far in school.” He studied James for a moment, his smile fading somewhat. “This is our second week meeting up, isn’t it?” he asked.

James nodded, and Dr. Alder pressed his hands together in front of his face, nodding to himself.

“Are you uncomfortable, James? It’s okay if you are, you know,” he said after a moment, moving his hands away from his face. His smile turned empathetic; inviting. “Talking to a therapist is a process -- opening up to a complete stranger is hard and I don’t expect you to open up to me right away, but -- you mentioned wanting to hurt yourself in the past?”

James gave a shaky, nervous smile in response and resumed picking at his bandages, resisting the urge to run his fingers through his hair. “I did, yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s -- when I’m really stressed out, it -- when I was in high school I used to cut? But I haven’t in so long and um…” He released a stuttering breath. “I might’ve been -- having suicidal ideation, before I decided to start going to therapy.”

“Are you having suicidal thoughts now?” Dr. Adler prompted.

James shook his head. “My -- boyfriend kind of… threatened to have me go to an inpatient facility, when I told him I might be suicidal.” He scratched the back of his neck and gave Dr. Adler a sheepish smile. “I compromised with him and said I’d find a therapist, instead.”

“Well, it’s a good compromise,” Dr. Adler said, reaching up to stroke his chin. He pursed his lips a little in thought. “So why not tell me a little bit more about yourself? You’re -- twenty-three, right? And do you live with your boyfriend?”

James nodded, feeling his face heat up a little. He looked Dr. Adler over once again; his frame was slight, but he had long, lean legs and a perpetual half-smile. “I do, yeah. I’ve been living with Mark -- that’s my boyfriend’s name -- for almost four years, now?”

“How long have you two been dating?” Dr. Adler’s expression hadn’t changed much. He hadn’t closed off any, hearing that James had a boyfriend. Which James should’ve expected -- he had purposely looked through multiple therapists, trying to determine whether they’d be a good fit for him or not. And obviously, they needed to be LGBT friendly, if he was going to see them.

“Um…” James gave Dr. Adler a sheepish smile and threaded his fingers through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. “Mark and I’ve known each other since high school? But we didn’t -- start dating ‘til after…”

It had been just a few months, actually, between Mark’s love confession and them moving in together, but -- moving in together had always kind of been their plan for post-high school. Start going to college, move in together.

“So you’ve known him a long time, then,” Dr. Adler remarked. He was still far too relaxed in his seat, his eyes looking off towards something behind James before finding its way back to him. His smile widened as their eyes met. “Tell me a little bit about him -- what does Mark do?”

“He’s a manager at Target,” James said, curling up a little against the arm of the small couch provided in Dr. Adler’s office. He found his own eyes wandering a little as he propped his head up with his hand. “He’s been working there since we got out of high school, really. Been promoted a couple of times. He tried to get me a job there with him, but…” James shook his head. “I’d heard enough of his horror stories…”

“Well, I’m sure they don’t work around school quite as easily as Wawa might, either,” Dr. Adler suggested, his smile turning wry. “Did you start school late? Or are you a grad student?”

James shook his head. “Neither,” he answered, licking his lips as his mouth went a little dry. “I’ve just -- had trouble getting to class, so I fell a bit behind. I’m supposed to graduate sometime next year, though -- as long as I don’t miss another semester…”

Mark would probably be upset with him, if he didn’t graduate again. He’d already missed his graduation once, thanks to needing to make up credits. He’d had to beg that they let him stay in, actually. He needed this degree. It was just a stepping stone, he knew -- he’d have to put himself into even more debt just to go to grad school, but…

It would be worth it, he’d argued with himself. More than worth it. And he’d had scholarships and earned others along the way to help ease the financial burden. Was paying for his school out of pocket with what he earned at Wawa -- and he was working thirds, just to get the shift differential.

“How many have you missed?” Dr. Adler asked, his brow furrowing. “You should’ve graduated last year, right? That’s at least two…”

James’s whole face burned and he dropped his eyes to the floor. “Six,” he said with a wince.

“You don’t sound so happy about that,” Dr. Adler said, his voice soft. “And that’s a lot of semesters to miss…”

“I didn’t always have the money to go,” James said, wishing his face would resume its usual temperature. He kicked the air aimlessly, frowning a little to himself as he scratched along the stubble forming along the edge of his jaw. “Mark has -- he’s needed help, a couple of times, too, to keep our apartment. And one term, his mother died… and since I didn’t always have a job and school’s expensive…”

“I’m still paying off student loans,” Dr. Adler said with a groan and roll of his eyes. “So trust me, I know how fucking expensive that shit is.”

James blinked, lifting his head from his chin and studying Dr. Adler for a moment. Did the other man just curse? James felt a small smile tug on his lips. “Isn’t it a bit unprofessional to curse?” he asked, teasing.

Dr. Adler gave a quiet snort and shook his head, giving James a lopsided smile. “Look, I picked this job because I get to make the rules for my sessions -- you seemed like the type who wouldn’t mind if I cursed or not.”

James’s smile grew a little wider and he folded his hands in his lap, sitting upright against the back of the couch. “So you don’t mind if I do, then?” he asked, the words quiet. “I mean, not that I haven’t felt the need to before this, but --”

“Of course I don’t -- they’re just words,” Dr. Adler said, giving a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. “I want you to be comfortable here, James. What’s the point of talking to a therapist if you can’t be comfortable with them?”

James nodded at that, his smile fading somewhat at Dr. Adler’s words. The last therapist he’d had, it hadn’t gone well. They’d made him uncomfortable, questioned his sexuality, dismissed his “problems” as not big enough. Disaster, all around.

James looked down at his hands and licked his lips again. “Yeah, um -- the last therapist I had was a dick.” James cleared his throat and drifted his fingers up to the bandage again. “She didn’t think my problems were valid.”

Dr. Adler shook his head. “I’m not surprised to hear that -- you seemed really hesitant when you walked in last week and were still really hesitant with me, today. And look -- these first, what, three sessions or so? We’re just getting to know each other. If you decide I am not the therapist for you, by all means, tell me and look elsewhere.”

He leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his palms together, a wry smile on his lips. “I normally tell new clients if I don’t think we’re gonna work well together by the second week, anyway, but you don't need to worry about that. I’d like to keep seeing you -- as long as you’re comfortable with me, too.”

James took in Dr. Adler's relaxed posture; the way his eyes appeared almost hopeful behind thin-framed glasses. He found himself curling around the arm of the couch he sat on, an almost shy smile making its way across his lips.

"I think I'd like to keep seeing you, too."

comments

College!AU Chapters 1-3

Thu, 15 Jun 2017 16:48:25 GMT

Chapter One

“Hi, my name’s Wes, what’s yours?”

Jazz stared up at the inhumanly tall boy before him, blinking as his mind struggled to process the words the boy -- Wes -- had said. He’d spoken them in a rush, bouncing in place as he held out a hand for Jazz to shake.

“Jazz,” he managed a moment later, processing complete and reaching out his hand. He and Wes shook briskly before Jazz pulled his hand back, glancing around the room. He noticed the bunk beds, stacked on top of each other. “I take it you’re my roommate?”

“Seems like it!” Wes beamed, sitting down on the edge of the bottom bunk. He had to lean forward pretty heavily not to bump his head. “Maybe we should set some ground rules for the room, first, since we’ve gotta share it and all?”

Jazz slid his bag off his shoulder, placing it down beside the empty desk. There was another situated on the wall underneath the window -- which was already covered in books and DVDs, as well as video games. He lugged his suitcase behind him and placed it beside the desk as well, still taking in his surroundings. “I -- I guess,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ve never shared a room before, so…”

Wes nodded, his head almost wobbling with how quickly he had done so. Unsettled, Jazz looked away from him. “I’d like the bottom bunk because I’d probably hit my head a lot on the ceiling if I took the top one and also I’m pretty clumsy, y’know? I’d probably fall off it or something.”

Jazz studied Wes again, his brows knitting close together. “You’re what, six three?” he asked, unable to stop himself. This time, he took in every detail of his roommate, catching his bottom lip between his teeth.

Not his type, he decided. Good.

Wes shrugged. “I’ve been told six four but I think I was wearing shoes with a bit of a heel on them that day and I don’t think I’m that tall? But yeah, six three sounds right to me,” he said, offering Jazz a quiet smile. “Where’re you from?”

“North Wilmington,” Jazz answered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Brandywine area.”

“Ooh, I know a lot of people from over there -- did you go to high school at Brandywine?”

Jazz shook his head. “Cab,” he answered, feeling his cheeks warm up some. He looked at the dressers, pointing at one of them. “Which one’s yours?”

“The one on the left,” Wes answered, scooting over to him. “So, Jazz -- you have any girlfriends or anything?”

Jazz’s blood ran cold. He gave Wes a shaky smile and shook his head. “I’m not --” He couldn’t say it. “I’m not dating anyone, right now,” he finished, pulling open the drawers to the empty dresser. He avoided Wes’s imploring gaze as much as he possibly could. “You from DE? Or are you from out of state?”

It was Wes’s turn to look sheepish, and he scuffed his socked foot against the floor. “I’m, um,” he began, clearing his throat. “I’m a member of the Jansen family.”

Jazz stopped what he was doing, looking up at Wes with wide eyes. “As in like, AI Jansen?” he asked. “Wait -- are you Weston Jansen?”

Wes’s face took on a warm glow, and he gave a much less enthusiastic nod of his head. “Please call me Wes, though, I don’t really like my full name.”

“Me neither,” Jazz said, offering Wes a quiet smile in return. “Who the fuck names their kid ‘Jasper’ these days, anyway?”

“Your parents?” Wes offered, giving a quiet chuckle. “I wouldn’t wanna be called that, either. Jazz’s so much cooler, y’know? And I take it you’re a fan of the musical genre too? What’d you do at Cab?”

“I was a dancer,” Jazz said, shoving clothes in his dresser with no rhyme or reason. He glanced up at Wes again. “Why’re you staying in a dorm? Couldn’t you have rented your own apartment out in Newark and everything?”

Wes shrugged. “I wanted to experience college like everyone else,” he said, his fingers drifting along the edge of the gold chain he wore. “You want me to show you around? I know everyone at this point and I can show you where to go if you wanna eat something cheap and stuff…”

Jazz considered this, biting his lip in concentration as he finished shoving the last of his clothes away. “I mean, I know there’s a lot of shit to do on Main Street and all -- I’ve been to Newark before, y’know? But… you already know everyone who’s here?”

“I mean, I’m sure we’re gonna get more students in the next couple of weeks because school’s about to start and all but -- c’mon, Savin and Mitchel should be in their room and you gotta meet Calla and Mari. They’re the dorm hotties and Savin’s lucky enough to have dated Mari once already…”

Jazz swallowed, apprehension tightening his chest, just a little. He glanced down at himself. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, same as Wes. Not that he cared about what he was wearing to meet girls -- girls didn’t interest him. But Savin and Mitchel... “Weren’t we gonna discuss ground rules, first?” he asked, giving Wes a slight smile. “Like how we’re gonna handle bringing people home, maybe?”

“Well, that’s part of why I wanted the bottom bunk, too, y’know?” Wes said, his eyes flashing a little with mischief. “Easier to have sex with someone if you don’t gotta climb up to the top bunk -- but I wanna put up a sheet around the bottom bunk to give privacy and stuff just in case I bring anyone home and you come in, is that okay?”

Jazz blinked, his face flushing as he thought of Wes bringing home a woman. “I mean, as long as the two of you aren’t loud, I guess it’s okay?” he said, trying to will his face back to its normal temperature.

“Is it okay if I bring home guys, too?” Wes asked, settling on the edge of his bed. He folded his skinny arms over his chest. “I’m bi and I actually kinda prefer dudes but girls are so pretty, y’know?”

Jazz looked at Wes in a new light and gave a shaky nod of his head. “Bringing home guys’s fine,” he said, his voice quiet. He cleared his throat. “There anyone else that’s bi?”

“Pretty much everyone on this floor!” Wes chirped, grinning. “Savin and Mitchel both are but Mitchel prefers girls and Mari is bi but she prefers dating dudes and Calla --” Wes gave a wistful sigh. “Well, I think she’s bi, too, but she hasn’t said and she hasn’t brought home any girls yet but I kinda think she likes Mari? I know she likes Mitchel but Mitchel’s kind of a douche sometimes…”

Jazz stared at Wes for a moment, his mouth falling open a little as Wes rambled. He then gave himself a little shake. “So wait -- Calla’s probably the only straight person?” he asked, raking his fingers through his hair. “I mean, aside from me.”

The words felt thick on his tongue, but he did his best not to wince at them. Wes just cocked his head to the side, regarding Jazz oddly for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah, probably,” he said after a moment, his grin finding its way back to his face. “Wanna go meet them?”

“Sure,” Jazz said, shoving his hands in his pockets. He gave a little shrug himself. “It wouldn’t hurt, right?”

Wes nodded, moving to open the door to their door. He stopped partway, moving towards another door instead. “By the way, we have a shared bathroom with Savin and Mitchel, so just be careful when you wanna go, okay? Make sure to lock both doors and all. It’ll save some embarrassment if you decide to get yourself off in there or something.”

Jazz’s face burned again, this time the tips of his ears growing hot as well. “I take it you’ve walked in on one of them?”

“They’ve walked in on me!” Wes chirped, an almost sheepish grin settling on his lips. “Gave Savin a heart attack the one time but I’ve walked in on him a couple of times, too. Savin says he’s walked in on Mitchel and honestly I don’t mind if you need to get off and I’m in the room -- just let me know and I’ll leave, okay?”

Jazz laughed, the sound awkward to his own ears as he shook his head. “You’re really open about this kind of stuff, aren’t you?” he asked, a nervous chuckle invading his voice.

“Oh! Yeah, I’m sorry, am I coming on a little too strong? It’s just that you’re really pretty and I’m sure you’ll have a lot of guys and girls wanting to come into the room with you in no time, y’know? And I know you said you’re straight and all but if you wanna experiment with guys, too, that’s totally fine with me.”

Wes turned to face Jazz again, and Jazz nearly tripped over his own bag, stepping away from the bathroom just as Wes shut the door to it once again. “Wait -- you think I’m pretty?” Jazz asked, looking up at Wes in faint horror. “You’re not -- I didn’t think you were hitting on me or anything, I just --” He held both hands in front of him and gave Wes a nervous smile. “I’m not used to people talking this frankly about sex. I mean, my last school was kind of… well, Catholic?”

“Cab Calloway isn’t --”

“My last university,” Jazz corrected, clearing his throat and rubbing his neck. “My mother wanted me to go to a private Catholic university but it was too expensive for me to keep going, so…”

Wes blinked at Jazz and looked him over once more. “O-Oh. I didn’t realize you were a transfer student! I guess that explains why you’re moving in so close to the start of the semester and why I haven’t seen you on campus before…”

Jazz nodded, wringing his hands as he gave Wes a half-smile. “Y-Yeah. I’m -- really kinda new to UD.”

“Well then, I definitely have to introduce you to everyone!” Wes said, grabbing Jazz by the arm and pulling him towards the door. “Savin and Mitchel should be in their room so let’s go meet them first, okay?”

“Okay….”

Jazz glanced back at the room and at the bag he’d half-unloaded, and the other suitcase he’d left by the door. He didn’t really want to go and meet people right this second, but…

This could be fun.

Chapter Two

Wes wasted no time, dragging Jazz to the door that was only several feet over. He knocked on it, his own rendition of “shave and a haircut,” to which Jazz had to roll his eyes at.

“Do you always have to knock on the door like that, Weston?” someone grumbled as he swung the door open. His eyes widened a little at the sight of Jazz, then moved back over to Wes. “Who’s this?”

“This is Jazz, Mitchel!” Wes said, his grin only slipping from his face for a second at the sound of his full name. He clapped a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “Can we come in?”

Mitchel raised an eyebrow. “Is he your newest --” He stopped himself as Jazz violently shook his head, interrupting him with a quiet, “No no no, I’m his new roommate.”

“Roommate?” Mitchel’s eyebrow somehow moved impossibly higher. Still, he stepped to the side and waved them both in. “Weston’s room isn’t a shared one.”

“It is now!” Wes said, nudging Jazz forward. Jazz stepped inside the room, which somehow seemed even smaller though there was enough room for two beds on opposite sides of the room. “I figured I’m not really getting the whole college experience if I continue to live alone for the next three years…”

“Mhm,” Mitchel hummed, shutting the door behind them both. He and Jazz’s eyes met, and Jazz found himself dropping his gaze, it following the lines of Mitchel’s body.

He wasn’t here to find a boyfriend, he told himself. He couldn’t have a boyfriend. His mother had nearly killed him, the last time he’d…

“So what’s Jazz short for?” Mitchel asked, a quiet little smirk making its way across his lips. Jazz had to still his nervous heart at the sight of it.

“Don’t answer that,” Wes warned, pulling out one of the chairs tucked underneath a desk and sitting down. “He’ll just call you by your full name relentlessly when he finds out.”

Jazz blinked at Wes, his attention finally pulled away from Mitchel and his brief fantasizing. A slow smile made its way across his lips. “Hm, is that so?” he asked, leaning against the desk opposite of Wes and folding his arms over his chest. He gave Mitchel a teasing smile. “How’d you feel if I shortened your name to Mitch, Mitchel?”

The visible shudder that ran through Mitchel at the sound of his shortened name made Jazz grin wider. Wes’s eyes widened, and he looked up at Jazz like he’d opened up a whole new world to him. “Why didn’t I think of that?!” he nearly shrieked. “Hey, Mitch, you think you could call us by our preferred names? We’ll just keep calling you ‘Mitch’ until you dooo…”

Mitchel groaned and rolled his eyes, stepping past them both on his way to one of the beds -- the one that was impeccably made. The other was a pile of blankets, all in disarray and bundled together up against the wall. “If you’re looking for Bates, Wes, he isn’t here. Went out somewhere with Hadley, I think.”

“Awww, he’s with Mari?” Wes pouted, his fingers reaching up to trace along the edge of his chain. “But I really wanted to see himmm.”

Jazz blinked, then snickered. “Why? Are you and him a thing or something?” He couldn’t think of the other boys’ name. It began with an S, right? “You sound a little jealous, Wes.”

“Weston and Bates have -- a thing, yes,” Mitchel snickered. “Though I suppose they’ve taken a break for the summer?” He gave Wes a pointed look. “I haven’t heard them in a while, at least.”

Wes’s face took on that warm glow again. “We’re not that loud!” he protested. “And we’re just open to seeing other people, that’s all, and if he wants to start seeing Mari it’s fine with me, I just -- really wanted to see him since I haven’t yet since I got back…”

“He might be avoiding you,” Mitchel supplied, picking up a travel mug and lifting it to his lips. He gave Wes a pointed look over the edge of the mug. “He said something about not wanting to see you, I think?”

Wes’s grin slipped from his face. “He -- doesn’t wanna see me?” he breathed. Jazz looked between Mitchel and Wes, frowning a little to himself. Sure, Wes could be a little much, but -- he was friendly, and kinda cute in his own way. And seeing his heartbroken face made Jazz want to walk over and hug him. “Did he say why?”

Mitchel shrugged. “It’s Bates. Do you think he shows his vulnerabilities around me?” he asked, his brows lifting towards his hair. “I’m considering it a win that he’s even speaking to me, at this point, after I stole Calla’s attention from him before the summer…”

Wes rolled his eyes. “Do you even like her, dude? Or are you just after her because Savin likes her?”

Mitchel’s quiet little smirk came back. “You have given Calla a once over, haven’t you?” His smirk grew wider. “Also, didn’t you try to hook up her with her last year, as well? I remember Bates was a little upset about that, too…”

Every word out of Mitchel’s mouth made Jazz want to roll his eyes into the back of his head and keep them there. “I see what you mean about him being a bit of a douche,” Jazz murmured out of the corner of his mouth as he moved to stand next to Wes.

Wes just snorted, his lips quirking at the corners. “Told you,” he said back, his eyes flashing with mirth as he looked up at Jazz. “Savin’s a lot nicer, I promise.”

As if on cue, the door swung open, revealing a young, tall asian man with glasses. Wes scrambled to his feet and launched himself at the other boy, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. “Savin! You’re back~!” he cried. “I’ve missed you.”

“Holy shit, Wes,” gasped the other boy, his knocked-askew glasses visible over Wes’s shoulder. “My spine...”

“Sorry!” Wes let go, reaching up to rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was just really excited to see you and Mitchel was being a douche and saying you didn’t wanna see me, and --”

“Of course I wanted to see you,” Savin said, though Jazz caught the odd note to Savin’s voice. Even though Wes had let go of Savin, Jazz noticed there was barely an inch of space between them, and Wes’s hands had reached up to cup Savin’s face, but Savin backed away a little, his eyes landing on Jazz and his sharp brows furrowing. “Who’s that?”

Jazz gave a little wave, blushing a little as he caught a full view of the other boy’s face. “I’m Jazz,” he managed, giving Savin his best smile and resisting the urge to catch his bottom lip between his teeth. “Wes’s new roommate.”

Relief flooded Savin’s features as he glanced between Wes and Jazz. “You asked for a roommate this year?” he asked. “Isn’t that gonna put a damper on you bringing people home?”

Wes shrugged. “Jazz said he didn’t care,” he said, giving Savin some more room. “So how’s Mari? I haven’t seen her yet either and Mitchel said you were just with her and do you think she and Calla’ll hook up this year? I’m pretty sure they like each other, y’know?”

Savin further relaxed, and Jazz found his eyes drifting along the length of Savin’s body, too. He was thin, but not quite as thin as Wes. And when Savin glanced in Jazz’s direction again, Jazz found himself looking away, feeling his face heat up a little at being caught staring.

“Mari’s fine,” Savin answered, clearing his throat. Jazz glanced back at him, noticing the little smile on Savin’s lips. “I’m not sure she even realizes she likes Calla yet but she totally does, I agree. They apparently hung out all summer…”

“Calla’s not into women,” Mitchel said with a snort. “Hadley’s going to be mightily disappointed if she wants to pursue her…”

“‘Mightily’?” both Jazz and Savin asked at the same time. Jazz jumped a little at the sound of Savin’s voice joining his own, giving Savin a sheepish look whereas Savin moved past Wes after toeing off his shoes. “Mitchel, you need to work on the ‘talking like a regular fucking human being,’ thing, my guy,” Savin continued, flopping himself down onto his bed. “So Jazz, you a freshman, or…?”

“Sophomore,” Jazz answered, wishing his omnipresent blush would go away. Savin’s eyes were trained on him and he found it difficult to look away from them. From this close, he could tell they were lighter in color -- but not blue, as far as Jazz could tell. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m a transfer student -- but I’m from Delaware…”

“What part of DE?” Savin asked, resting his chin in his palms. He glanced between Wes and Jazz. “If you haven’t been to Newark before I can show you around, if you want.”

“Wes’s already got that covered, I think,” Jazz said, giving Savin a brief smile. He glanced back at Wes, whose expression had closed off, somewhat. “I mean, I’ve been up and down Main Street a lot before so I’m pretty familiar with that, but -- I’m from the Brandywine area.”

Savin nodded, pushing himself up into a seated position and crossing his long, lean legs underneath him. “Wes knows a lot of people -- he’s totally a better tour guide than me, promise,” he said, giving Jazz a sheepish smile. “Maybe the three of us could go somewhere? Mitchel’s a fucking wet blanket, anyway. Can’t take him anywhere, y’know?”

Jazz could feel Wes relax beside him at Savin’s suggestion. Still, the longer he stood in both Savin and Mitchel’s presence, the more nervous Jazz could feel himself get. He was supposed to be starting over here -- he couldn’t ruin his second chance by entertaining his body’s whims and desires. Besides, he liked girls, too, and dating one would be preferable.

But Savin was hot. And if he didn’t know any better, Savin was checking him out -- and maybe Mitchel was, too, though he was much less obvious about it. And given the way Wes seemed to want to stand between Jazz and Savin, Wes must have noticed it, too.

And if Wes and Savin were boyfriends, or really close friends with benefits, he didn’t want to get in the way of that. Giving Savin an apologetic smile, Jazz slipped his hands in his pockets and sighed. “I should probably get the rest of my shit unpacked, y’know? I still have a lot of shit left in my car -- I just didn’t wanna bring it all up at once…”

“I can help you bring stuff in,” Savin said, perking up immediately. His eyes flickered over to Wes. “We all can, if you need it.”

“I -- really don’t think that’s necessary, it’s just a few more things. I can carry it up myself,” Jazz said. “Thanks for the offer, though. I’ll see you guys in a bit?”

He needed to get out of this room. He needed to give Wes and Savin a moment alone, because there was clearly something going on that Jazz absolutely did not want to get in the middle of. But as he left Savin and Mitchel’s dorm room, he could feel Wes’s gaze follow him out. And when Jazz met his eyes, he felt a sliver of guilt.

He wasn’t supposed to like boys, Jazz reminded himself. It’s not like Savin knew that. Or that Mitchel did. He’d told Wes he was straight, but --

Maybe Wes had seen through him, after all. If the slight jealous look in his eye was anything to go off of. But maybe Jazz had imagined that, too -- Wes didn’t seem like the jealous type, and he and Savin weren’t supposedly dating, if what Mitchel had said was anything to go by. And Jazz was probably just reading into Savin’s friendliness -- projecting his own feelings onto Savin’s behavior.

He’d half-expected to make it to the parking lot alone, but Jazz could hear footsteps following behind him. Maybe if he pretended he didn’t…

“Hey, Jazz, wait up.”

Savin’s voice. Blinking, Jazz turned on his heel, his keys already in his hands as he fiddled with them and bit his lip. “Yeah, what’s up?” he said, half-avoiding Savin’s eyes as he looked up at him.

“I’m sorry, I think I made things awkward back in my room,” Savin said, scratching the back of his head. He gave Jazz a sheepish smile, brushing his chin-length hair out of his face. “Wes and I, um -- we had a thing, and --”

“I know,” Jazz said, smiling back at Savin. He loosely folded his arms over his chest. “But uh -- Wes seems to think the thing is still an ongoing thing? I mean, he still seems to really like you and I’ve only just met you guys a few minutes ago, y’know?”

“It still is an on-going thing,” Savin said, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He cleared his throat and looked off to the side, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I like him a lot, too, but -- I don’t know - - it’s complicated. And anyway, that’s -- that’s not what I came all the way out here to talk about, anyway.”

Jazz stepped closer to Savin, finding himself biting his lip as his eyes slid along Savin’s body once again. “Well, you were just apologizing for making things awkward -- which you didn’t, by the way. I think that might’ve been me because Wes was really happy to see you and you got -- distracted? by me, so…”

Savin shook his head. “Wes doesn’t get jealous,” he said, as if reading Jazz’s mind. “It’s just -- I had talked to my mom about my -- thing with him and she said…” Savin cut himself off, his eyes widening and his face turning pink. “Again, not what I came out here to talk about,” he managed a moment later, his voice rising in pitch. “I just -- I wanted to ask if…”

“If you’re wondering whether I’m interested in Wes or not, I’m not,” Jazz said, giving Savin a slight, reassuring smile. He glanced back at his car before moving closer to it, still toying with his keys. “So you don’t have to worry about me wanting to sleep with your not-boyfriend or anything.”

Savin blinked at Jazz, then looked relieved, a small smile making its way across his face. “Good,” he said, more to himself than to Jazz. “Good. Not that -- I was jealous or anything, but, Wes’s…”

“Wes?” Jazz supplied for him, grinning a bit himself. Savin nodded. “Yeah, he already called me pretty, but I don’t think he was hitting on me or anything, promise. And if he was, I would turn him down. He’s -- kinda not my type.”

No, his type was standing right in front of him, clearly head over heels for someone else already, and Jazz had to pretend he wasn’t interested in him. Smile still plastered onto his face, Jazz popped his trunk. “You wanna help me bring stuff back to the dorm? I know I said you didn’t have to earlier, but…”

“I can help, yeah,” Savin said, moving closer to Jazz’s car. He assessed what was left in Jazz’s trunk (not much, Jazz mused; just another suitcase and several of his things, along with some food he’d hoped he could store in the room), then grabbed the bags of food and laced several of them on his arm. “You’re lucky Wes has a mini-fridge already -- though you might wanna hide some of these things from him. They’re his favorite, too…”

Jazz felt his ears burn a little at Savin’s comment. “I’m sure we can manage to figure out whose food is whose,” he said, pulling his suitcase out from the trunk and placing it beside him on the ground. “Oh, I should probably tell him I’m allergic to oranges…”

“Citrus, or just oranges?” Savin asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oranges,” Jazz said, picking up the last of his things and juggling them in his arms as Savin closed his trunk one-handed. “Or at least -- my reaction to oranges is the worst. I haven’t -- needed an epi-pen for things with regular citrus in it.”

“Damn, that bad, huh?” Savin gave a wry chuckle. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of someone being deathly allergic to oranges before, and my dad’s a paramedic…”

“Oh, really?” Jazz asked, walking his way up towards the dorms. “It is supposed to be pretty rare, yeah…”

They continued to make small talk all the way up, both of them a little out of breath by the time they reached their floor. Jazz found himself relaxing further. They were about a couple of weeks out from classes. Just a couple of weeks of getting to know his new floormates. Maybe he could find a girlfriend, too.

“Hey, Slim -- you helping Wes’s new roomie move in?”

Jazz glanced over to the person who had spoken -- a girl, an inch or two taller than himself. Dark skin and dark eyes regarded Jazz with obvious interest, and Jazz found himself blushing a little at the intensity of it.

“Yeah, Calla,” Savin said, smiling a little as he nudged Jazz forward. “This is Jazz.”

“Hi,” Jazz managed, wanting to desperately reach up to fix his hair. Calla was -- well, he knew she was attractive. And yet… He did his best to free up one of his hands and offered it to her. “So you’re Calla? I’ve heard a lot about you…”

Calla took his hand in hers and smirked at him. “Whatever you heard, if it came from any of these idiots, it’s probably wrong,” she said. She stepped aside, letting Jazz and Savin through to Jazz’s dorm room. “Rich boy’s gone downstairs for a minute with Mari; said he’d be back in a bit.”

Savin nodded, his expression closing off once again. “Thanks, Calla,” he said.

Once he slipped into Jazz’s dorm room behind Jazz, Jazz shut the door behind them both. “What’s going on with you and Wes?” Jazz asked before he could stop himself, eyeing Savin as he placed his suitcase beside his dresser. “Every time anyone mentions him to you you get all weird.”

“I’m not --” Savin cut himself off and shook his head, bringing Jazz’s groceries over to the mini-fridge Jazz hadn’t noticed when he’d first stepped into the room. “I just -- need to talk to him, that’s all. I’m not getting weird.”

“Are you gonna break up with him?” Jazz asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because I just met the guy like maybe thirty minutes ago and I can tell he’s gonna take it hard, if you do.”

Savin had the decency to look absolutely scandalized. “No, I’m not going to break up with him -- there’s nothing to break up, we aren’t exclusive or anything, remember?” he said, folding his arms over his chest. He adjusted his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose. “Like I said, I like him a lot --”

“You can like someone a lot and not want to be with them, y’know,” Jazz said, mirroring Savin’s body language. “Sometimes you just aren’t compatible.”

“You sound like Mitchel,” Savin muttered, rolling his eyes. He moved towards the bathroom door and twisted the knob, as if testing it. “I gotta go -- I still have a couple of classes I need to register for before it’s too late. I’ll see you around.”

He slipped behind the bathroom door and presumably into his own dorm room, leaving Jazz to unpack the rest of his things alone. Sighing, Jazz glanced around the room that seemed smaller by the minute before moving back over to his food and putting it away in the mini-fridge, careful not to let his stuff mingle too closely to Wes’s. Once finished with that, he climbed onto the top bunk and pillowed his head with his hands, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to absorb the past hour.

UD was already vastly different than his last school, he’d decided. He’d never met so many people who were out about their sexualities in his life. Nor had he met so many cute boys in such a short span of time, before.

Too bad he still felt the need to pretend to be straight.

Chapter Three

“So, Bates,” Mitchel prompted as Savin slipped through the bathroom door. “You and Jazz seem to have hit it off rather well... “

Savin raised an eyebrow at Mitchel’s tone, then furrowed his brow as he noticed the inquisitive look on Mitchel’s face. He hadn’t moved from his bed, his legs still crossed in front of him as he flipped through the pages of his latest book. “Are you -- are you reading your textbook already?” he asked, his tone more horrified than anything else.

“I need to stay ahead of the game, you know,” Mitchel said, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders. He met Savin’s eyes with a level gaze. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“You didn’t ask a question -- you made a statement, and I’m ignoring it,” Savin said, settling in front of his desk and opening up his laptop.

“Please. Everyone knows that a statement like that requires a response. Do you think he likes men?”

Savin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “What does it matter if he does or not? Aren’t you dating Calla?”

“Well, yes, but the scoreboard’s starting to even out -- and I know you would think it quite a shame if I were to eclipse you,” Mitchel said, a quiet smirk tugging on his lips. “Once I sleep with her, we’ll be tied. Now I know you simply can’t have that -- so have you started thinking about your next conquest?”

Savin glanced at the wall where the scoreboard had sat all of last year, frowning a little to himself. “I don’t think we should do the scoreboard thing anymore, Mitchel,” he said after a moment, busying himself with his laptop. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “We can call it even if you sleep with Calla; that’s fine by me.”

Mitchel’s brows knit together. “That’s… a bit unlike you. A little healthy competition never hurt anyone, Bates.”

“Why do we always have to compete at shit?” Savin grumbled, glaring at Mitchel over the edge of his glasses. “Also, I’m pretty sure Jazz’s straight, so I’m pretty sure I don’t have a chance with him, anyway.”

“He’s a little too comfortable with Weston jumping all over you to be straight,” Mitchel said. “Not to mention, I’m fairly certain he was checking us both out, when he met us.”

Savin snorted. “You wish,” he said. His annoyance dissipated somewhat as he glanced at Mitchel again, leaning back in his seat.

“Like you don’t think Jazz’s hot yourself, Bates.”

“He is hot,” Savin said with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean I wanna date him. Or fuck him. Though I bet he’d be loud, if was on the receiving end…” He let himself fall to the image, closing his eyes as he envisioned Jazz on his back and underneath him, blue eyes pleading as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Giving himself a little shake, Savin said: “Okay, I would fuck him.”

“Of course you would,” Mitchel said with a quiet snicker. “Do you think Weston’s interested in him? Jazz isn’t quite his type, is he?”

“Everyone is Wes’s type,” Savin said, a wry smile tugging on his lips. “But -- Jazz said Wes wasn’t his, so there’s that? And you should’ve seen the way Jazz reacted to seeing Calla -- he blushed at the sight of her.”

“Calla is a stunning piece of art, is why,” Mitchel said, an odd edge to his voice. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his textbook. “Did she seem interested in him?”

Savin snickered. “Feeling threatened by the new guy already, Foraker?” he teased, scrolling through his friends’ page. He skimmed over the entries present there before looking back over at Mitchel. “She was Calla. She hasn’t even known him long enough to give him a nickname yet.”

“All we need to do is give her time, I’m sure.” Mitchel reclined on his bed, propping himself up against his pillows as he kept one leg bent at the knee. The two of them fell into a moderately comfortable silence, and Savin found himself relaxing against his chair.

“So what’s going on between you and Weston, Bates?” Mitchel asked, interrupting Savin’s peaceful train of thought. “I thought the two of you had decided to continue your arrangement from last year?”

Savin groaned. “Why is everyone asking me about this? Mari, Jazz, now you...” Savin pushed himself up from his seat and headed back towards the bathroom. “It’s no one’s business but mine and Wes’s, what’s going on between us.”

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Any/Any -- What the Hell are We Doing?

Thu, 08 Jun 2017 16:14:25 GMT

Any/Any -- What the Hell Are We Doing?

“Savin, what the hell are you doing?”

Mari’s words snapped Savin’s attention back to the present -- to the way he’d pressed into her personal space. She looked up at him with an eyebrow raised and her arms tightly folded across her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, backing away from her. He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “I just -- kinda went on autopilot and I wasn’t -- I didn’t mean…”

“How much sleep have you gotten?” Mari asked, her tone softer than it had been a moment ago. She placed a cautious hand on Savin’s arm and glanced around the on-call room. It was dark, thanks to the late hour and dimmed lighting, but there were enough details that helped Savin ground himself.

He was at work. Mari was his friend. Just his friend. And ex-fiance. And --

“You look terrible,” Mari said, as if Savin had answered her. Maybe he had. He couldn’t think. He could be called on at any moment to assist or lead a surgery, and yet he couldn’t focus. All he could think about was Jazz’s grimace when Savin had asked him to stay home, this morning. “You know you can, in fact, call out sometimes, right? You didn’t have to come in if you don’t feel well.”

“I’m not sick,” Savin said, perhaps a little too quickly. His mouth went dry and he moved further away from Mari and curled up on the nearest empty bed, resting on his side and facing away from her. “And I’ve been sleeping, just -- not well, y’know?”

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