softlittlegrumbles

[softlittlegrumbles]

nicotinaaaa (I hate him)

[softlittlegrumbles]

Jason

he's such a stupid asshole, I love drawing him ♡ that's bbgirl right there

[softlittlegrumbles]

haha great times with Jason and his boyfriend C because happy Pride month and I can't post this on instagram.

[softlittlegrumbles]

When you were twenty...

[CW: drug use, explicit detail, nsfw detail, misplaced consent, absolutely not normal or healthy relationship dynamics] Read at your own risk!

Monday night crept in soft and sticky, humid under the skin, and left him in a slow decay of wanting. Jason had never really slept in Oliver’s bed so much as haunted it. Oliver was gone—a photo shoot, he’d said, brushing his lips to Jason’s neck like he always did before slipping out. Some hobby he did on the side when he wasn't busy picking apart other people's problems in an room down the hallway. Jason had been in that room, but not tonight. The townhouse, high-ceilinged and quiet as a cathedral, felt cavernous without Oliver in it.

Three hours had passed since the door clicked shut behind him. Nearly 9:40 now. Jason had exhausted the TV’s offerings—reruns of old sitcoms that felt tinny and absurd against the velvet hush of Oliver’s curated space. Every corner was too pristine, too still. He felt like a ghost misplaced among the living. So he drifted to the bathroom, drawn by the indulgence of memory. The bath Oliver had poured for him Saturday night had smelled like sugared lilies and vanilla and made his skin feel like silk. He’d laughed then, head tipped back on Oliver’s shoulder, water cooling around them. Divinity, Oliver had murmured against his ear. Jason hadn’t argued. He hadn’t known divinity until then. Not really.

Tonight, the bathroom held the same gold-lit warmth, the scent of distant sweetness still clinging to the air like a secret. Jason twisted the tap and watched the water bloom into the porcelain, steam already rising in curls. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink, fingers brushing through apothecary bottles and imported creams until he found something that didn’t belong.

A book. Hardbound. Unmarked. It was too light, too hollow. Curious, Jason pulled it free, turned it over and flipped it open.

Inside: a pouch. Canvas, worn at the edges. It wasn’t difficult to guess what it was. When he opened it, the confirmation hit like cold water. Liquid morphine. Syringes. A vial of clear, promised liquid; The whole set-up, neat as a travel kit.

He sat back on the tile, the sound of water thickening behind him. He stared at the contents like they might rearrange themselves into something less damning.

He’d done Heroin, sure. Pills from his mother’s purse, sleepy little benzos that made the world melt at the edges. A sedative here, a stimulant there. But this was something medical. Sacred, almost in that sense. And why would Oliver have such a thing? A sacrament of forgetting.

The thought came soft, slow, seductive.

Maybe that’s what Oliver meant by divinity.

Jason took his time. Everything about the preparation was delicate, like setting up a ritual. He didn’t rush. The bath frothed with expensive bubbles, the scent of vanilla thick in the air. He tied off his arm with a practiced tension, breath held.

He pressed the needle to his skin, the water lapping gently behind him, and for a long moment, just hovered there—on the edge of pain, or something like grace.

He could still stop if he wanted to.

The thought wavered like candlelight at the edge of his mind, fluttered once, twice—then guttered out. To stop now would be to return to that terrible quiet. That sacred stillness Oliver left him in. And Jason was past silence. Past waiting.

The rush was not sharp, not biting—it took 30 seconds from the time his thumb pressed the plunger down to feel the warmth in his bloodstream. He watched the viscous shadow disappear into his vein, and barely managed to slide the needle out before his body betrayed him. Fingers loosened their grip, and the syringe clattered gently to the tile, unnoticed.

The bath water was high, lapping at his sternum now, and he let himself slip deeper into it. His limbs unfolded like petals, floating just beneath the surface. His head lolled back against the rim of the tub, eyelids fluttering, the ceiling blurring into soft white light. It felt like sunshine. It felt like a kiss from God. The edges of him dissolved—his knees, his elbows, his ribs and all their angles melting into some honey-thick current. He was neither submerged nor floating, not quite awake but not asleep. Time stilled, curled into itself like a cat, and Jason exhaled, slow and long and holy. The heat of the water mingled with the warmth blooming under his skin, spreading outward in slow, liquid waves.

He couldn't feel his hands anymore, but that didn't matter. He couldn't feel his name in his mouth either, and that was even better. All that was left was sensation—soft, perfect, infinite. The ache he carried in his chest, that haunted house of gnawing want, had finally gone silent. The world no longer pressed in on him. It kissed him, instead. And in that brief eternity, Jason thought maybe this was love. Or the next best thing.

Oliver came home at 12:05 A.M., smelling like whiskey and cigarette smoke, the bottom hem of his shirt clinging damply to his skin from the summer night. The photo shoot had dragged itself bloody and raw into the late hours, and he'd let himself be talked into drinks afterward, empty laughter blooming in the cracked leather booths of some neon dive. He wasn't expecting Jason to greet him at the door — Jason didn't operate like that, and Oliver wouldn't have wanted him to. He preferred his boys passive, worn thin at the edges, content to be touched like expensive things without the bother of reciprocation.

The apartment yawned out in front of him, heavy with silence. Bedroom: empty, the bed rumpled but unoccupied. A faint noise—water, maybe?—tickled the air. Oliver made his way toward the bathroom, not rushing. What a small, private pleasure in moving slowly, in the tension of the unknown. He pushed the cracked door open with two fingers.

The overhead fluorescents hissed to life, and everything was washed in that unholy, sterile glow. A sick, greenish cast that made even the fine marble counters look cheap. But Oliver hardly noticed anything except the boy in the tub.

Jason floated half-submerged, the water around him cloudy with soapsuds, his head tilted back at an unnatural angle. His forehead glistened damply, hair plastered to it, his lips taking on the first delicate hues of death. Pale violets, blurred roses.

Oliver’s pulse didn’t even lift. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, simply watching.

There was divinity here, in the slackness of Jason’s mouth, the weightless drift of his fingers. Oliver had seen it before — that exquisite tipping point between life and death. He had memorized it, made a religion of it. Dead boys always looked like this. Perfect. Untouchable.

He might have kept watching longer — savored it — if Jason hadn’t started to choke.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Oliver muttered, voice low with annoyance. He knelt and pulled Jason out of the water with a sharp, practiced motion, flopping him onto his side. He shoved two fingers down Jason’s throat, grimacing as the boy gagged and coughed, sputtering up bathwater and bile onto the pristine tile.

"You absolute idiot," he hissed, his voice rich with exasperation. Jason mumbled something unintelligible, his body sagging like a broken doll against him.

Oliver snorted, reaching for a towel and rubbing him down with the same care one might use on a dog dragged in out of the rain. "Hope you enjoyed yourself," he muttered, brisk and scornful. "That was expensive shit."

Jason didn’t answer. The annoyance burned hotter now, eclipsing the earlier flicker of wonder. He hooked his arms under Jason's and half-dragged, half-carried him back to the bedroom, flopping him onto the mattress with little grace.

For a moment he just stood there, breathing through his teeth, watching.

Jason was splayed across the bed, damp hair fanned over the pillows, chest rising in shallow, tremulous movements. His body, stripped of its usual tensions and hungers, looked almost angelic in its ruin.

Icarus, Oliver thought, savoring it. Fallen. Wings torn and dripping wax. And like any good god, Oliver admired his broken creation.

If anything, that’s what Jason was — a creation, a breathing work of art wrecked beautifully by his own curiosity. A slip of a thing, bruised and pliant, half-ruined before Oliver ever laid hands on him.

He hadn’t meant for him to find the morphine. Hadn't thought to hide it better. But then, he hadn’t exactly tried, either. Oliver wasn’t surprised. Of course the little bastard went snooping. Jason had the kind of hunger in him that no one could starve out, the kind of need that made him pry open anything that promised even the smallest sweetness. A dog nosing through the trash for scraps. A boy always looking for the next thing to gut himself on.

Oliver pulled the blanket halfway over him, more to keep him warm than out of any real tenderness. The damage was done. It was good damage. Maybe even necessary.

He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his own hair, watching Jason’s ribs flutter against the sheets. His skin was cooling fast, blooming with a faint clammy sheen, but his pulse beat stubbornly at his throat. Alive, for now.

A better man might have felt guilt twisting under his ribs. But Oliver only felt the old, familiar pang of satisfaction — like setting a house on fire and standing far enough away to watch it burn clean through without getting his own hands dirty.

Jason shivered once, a little animal twitch, and Oliver leaned over, brushing a knuckle down his cheek.

"You're going to learn," he murmured, voice low and sweet, "One way or another."

-

Morning seeped into the room like a wound, slow and bleeding light across the rumpled bed. Jason surfaced from thick sleep like the bottom of a dark lake. His stomach curled and cramped in on itself, a slow roil of something hollow. Every part of him felt wrong—too heavy, too distant. His limbs were anchors tied to a drowning body. He rolled onto his side, face pressing into the stale heat of the pillow, and for a long moment he simply breathed, shallow and hurting.

The world around him had a strange, glaucous quality, as though viewed through dirty glass. The sheets clung to his skin, damp with sweat, and the faint, cloying sweetness of vanilla still hung in the air like a bad dream. Jason opened his eyes to an empty room. Oliver wasn’t there. Somehow, that absence hurt more than the ache twisting through his gut. The bed beside him was cold, untouched since he'd been dropped onto it like a sack of wet flour. Jason swallowed against the raw scrape in his throat and tried to lift himself, but the muscles in his arms shook pitifully, refusing to cooperate.

It took longer than it should have to sit up, the blanket falling from his shoulders in a heavy slide. He blinked blearily around the room, trying to will the walls into steadiness. His mouth tasted like metal. His heart beat slow and dumb behind his ribs.

The house was quiet in that specific, brutal way that let you know you were alone. Jason coughed once, the sound thin and pitiful, then dragged himself to the edge of the bed. His feet hit the floorboards with a dull, meaty sound.

The memory of the night before shimmered at the edge of his mind — the bath, the heat, the needle, Oliver’s hands rough on him, hauling him up, muttering curses that sounded almost fond.

There was a small, sore knot on the inside of his elbow where he had broken himself open. Jason touched it gingerly. Through the doorway, he heard the clink of glass. A faint, sharp sound that could have been anything: a drink being poured, a glass being set down. Jason pushed himself up, swaying a little. He moved toward it, stomach twisting tighter with each step, driven by some wretched hope that he couldn’t quite name. He scooped a crumpled shirt off the floor, pulling it over his head with slow, clumsy hands. It smelled faintly of Oliver—expensive cologne and cigarettes, something acrid and rich underneath, like old blood. The fabric clung damply to his skin, magnifying the chill that had sunk deep into his bones. Jason shivered but didn't bother fixing the shirt where it twisted at his shoulder. He stumbled through the doorframe, one hand dragging across the wall to keep himself upright, to keep the world from slipping sideways under his feet.

The townhouse was a mausoleum of empty spaces. The hallway stretched too long, the living room yawning wide and indifferent. Morning sunlight spilled through the high windows in lazy, indifferent stripes, catching on dust motes and the faint traces of last night’s sins.

Jason followed the sound—glass against glass, low and careless—and found Oliver in the kitchen, a half-finished drink sweating on the counter in front of him. He was leaning back in a chair, cigarette burning low between two fingers, lazily flipping through a battered book Jason didn’t recognize. He didn’t look up when Jason entered, didn’t say anything.

For a moment, Jason just stood there, swaying faintly in the doorway, feeling small and ridiculous and used up. The ache in his stomach gnawed harder, a sour animal trapped behind his ribs. His skin felt too tight. His mouth worked around a word, a sound, but nothing came out.

Oliver finally glanced up at him, slow and unbothered. His eyes—pale, glittering with something that wasn’t quite concern and wasn’t quite cruelty—swept over Jason like he was assessing a piece of art left too long in the rain.

"You’re up," Oliver said simply, voice roughened by smoke and sleep. He took a slow drag off his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. "Didn't think you would be."

The words weren't cruel. They were worse than cruel, they were honest. Jason closed his eyes, just for a second, and let the room spin around him. When he opened them again, Oliver was smiling — that lazy, private smile Jason had always mistaken for kindness.

"I was going to save that for a rainy day," Oliver said, his voice light, almost amused, as he stubbed the cigarette out against the rim of a chipped saucer. He stood from his chair with a languid stretch, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. "But I guess you helped yourself."

Jason’s lips parted, teetering on the edge of a response—sorry, maybe, or something smaller, more broken—but the word withered before it could bloom. Apology felt too clean for this. Too stupid. Oliver didn’t wait for him to find the shape of it. He crossed the kitchen in a few easy strides, his bare feet whispering over the cold tile. Standing close enough now that Jason could smell the sour tang of alcohol still ghosting off him.

"You’re gonna be sick in about an hour," Oliver said, tilting his head, voice almost tender, almost fond. "First time's always rough."

As if summoned by the words, Jason’s stomach gave a violent lurch.

He groaned, low and desperate, pressing his shoulder to the wall in a weak attempt to steady himself. The cold seeped through the thin fabric of the borrowed shirt. His mouth flooded with saliva, that awful, unmistakable warning.

Jason stumbled backward, almost knocking over one of the kitchen chairs, and half-ran, half-fell down the hallway toward the bathroom. His bare feet slapped wetly against the floor, knees buckling on the last few steps. He barely made it before he was on his hands and knees, body clenching hard around nothing but bile and spit. Gross.

The bathroom light was still off, and the dimness suited the moment — made everything soft around the edges. Jason stayed there, trembling, his forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, sweat sticking the hair to the back of his neck, the world shrunk down to the sour sting in his throat and the slow, merciless churn of wrongness in his stomach. Somewhere behind him, he could hear Oliver moving, deliberate and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to watch Jason break apart. His throat felt raw, his ribs aching with the aftershocks of sick. For a moment he just knelt there, forehead resting against the seat, the coolness a small mercy. He forced himself to sit back on his heels, panting softly, and crawled to the sink. Jason twisted the faucet open and let the water run cold, splashing it over his face, into his mouth, over and over until he could almost pretend he was clean. It didn’t help. The sour taste clung to him like guilt. When he felt steady enough, he pushed himself upright, gripping the edges of the sink until the black dots faded from his vision. He caught a last glimpse of himself in the mirror—something wounded, something owned—then turned away before the image could stick any harder.

The hallway back to the kitchen stretched long and thin, every step a small betrayal of his own body. Jason hesitated in the doorway for a second, head bowed like a sinner, before padding silently across the floor toward Oliver. He was sitting again, turning his empty glass in slow, lazy circles against the counter, as if Jason's collapse meant no more to him than a passing bit of bad weather. Without thinking, Jason leaned into him from behind, pressing his forehead between Oliver’s shoulder blades. He let out a soft, broken groan, more breath than sound. His arms didn’t quite have the strength to circle around him; he just folded against Oliver like a man seeking absolution.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, so low it could have been mistaken for wind.

Oliver stilled for a moment, and Jason could feel him breathe — a slow, deliberate expansion beneath the thin fabric of his shirt — before he reached back with one hand and tangled it in Jason’s damp hair, fingers curling just tight enough to hurt.

"Yeah," Oliver said, voice silky. "You are."

"Suppose you deserve it for snooping around," he murmured, almost lazy, like they were discussing the weather after all.

And Jason flinched at the words, the slight tightening of fingers against his scalp, but he didn’t pull away. He stayed pressed against Oliver’s back, breathing in the dry, bitter scent of smoke and skin, as if proximity could somehow shield him from the shame licking up his spine.

"Just wanted to try it," Jason said, voice hitching on the confession. It sounded childish even to his own ears.

Oliver let the silence spool out between them for a moment, deliberate, almost savoring it. Then, without turning, he asked, "How’d it feel?"

Jason’s breath caught. He squeezed his eyes shut against the heavy, humming ache blooming in his chest.

"Fucking amazing," he whispered.

It was the truth, ugly and beautiful as it was. It had been divine. A kiss from something bigger than God, bigger than love, something that made the smallness of his own existence seem bearable for a few glittering seconds.

Oliver hummed under his breath, a dark, pleased sound. His fingers loosened from Jason’s hair, smoothing over the back of his head in something that might have been mistaken for comfort if not for how cold it felt. A small, absent stroke, like he was petting something he owned, something that might bolt if not handled just so.

"You’re a greedy little thing," the corners of Oliver's mouth curled in a smile Jason couldn't see but could feel just the same. "One taste and you’re already begging for more?"

Jason didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His body, boneless against Oliver’s, spoke well enough for him. "Not if it feels like this afterwards," he muttered, the words tripping from his mouth before he could call them back. A lie, pure and clanging as church bells, too loud in the hollow of him. He tasted the falseness of it, bitter as copper, as he spoke it into existence — but still he said it, needing to hear something that sounded like control, like he wasn’t already crumbling apart at the edges.

Oliver didn’t argue. He didn’t even bother with one of his usual crooked little smiles. He simply hummed again, low and mild, and said, "Well, I guess you live and learn."

It was almost tender, the way he said it — almost — but Jason knew better than to trust softness when it came from Oliver’s mouth. He knew it the same way a skinned dog knew not to trust a hand held too sweetly. He stayed pressed against him a moment longer, breathing in shallow, fast little sips. His mind skittered and flickered, restless beneath the lingering sickness that draped over his bones. Thoughts bubbled up quick and sharp — shame, hunger, the desperate need to do something just to quiet the noise — and just as quickly they twisted back in on themselves, devouring the parts of him that tried to stay still.

The shirt clung to his skin now, itchy and suffocating. The air felt thick, pressing against him with a mean insistence, as if daring him to move, to act.

Slowly, Jason pulled back, arms dropping limp to his sides. His body screamed for more — of something, anything — a manic pulse rising under his skin like a second heartbeat. His mouth opened, another confession hovering like a fever on his tongue, but he caught himself this time, clenching his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached.

Oliver watched him without moving, one pale eyebrow arched lazily, as if he could read every frantic, raw thought bleeding across Jason’s face. As if he knew exactly how deep the rot went, and loved him more for it.

"Go lie down," Oliver spoke at last, casual as a blade sliding between ribs. "You’ll feel worse before you feel better."

Jason wanted to argue — wanted to claw his way into some fight, some anything — but he just nodded instead, small and defeated, and stumbled back toward the bedroom, the hollow thud of his footsteps swallowing him whole.

Sleep didn’t come easy. Jason floated at the edge of it, caught in a fevered half-dream where the ceiling sagged low and the sheets clawed at his skin. He’d close his eyes and drift for a moment only to jerk awake, heart rattling, body aching from the inside out. There was no peace in him — just a restless aching, a slow grind of shame and craving twisting in his gut like wet worms. Somewhere deeper, behind thick doors and red light, Oliver was working in his darkroom. Jason could hear the faint hum of music, the wet mechanical click of developing prints, the ritual of it steady and detached, like Oliver was building small, secret altars while Jason came undone.

When he couldn’t stand the sweat sticking him to the sheets any longer, Jason peeled himself up and stumbled toward the bathroom. He didn’t glance in the mirror this time. He already knew the wreck he’d find there. Instead, he let his gaze sweep down, to the tiles where last night’s mess had unfolded — where he’d knelt, foolish and greedy, offering up his vein like a gift.

The norphine was gone. The hollow book tucked away, no doubt. Oliver was careful, when he wanted to be. Jason stood there for a long moment, stomach crawling with old need, before shaking his head sharply and stripping off his clothes.

The water hit him cold at first — a shock that made him gasp, his skin tightening — but soon the temperature adjusted, or he did, and he pressed his palms to the wall under the spray, letting it run down his aching spine, sluicing away some of the filth he could still feel clinging to him.

He didn’t hear Oliver come in. He just felt it: the sudden shift in the air, the heavy awareness of another body near his. A hand sliding around his waist, slow and possessive, fingers splaying low over his stomach, the heel of Oliver’s palm pressing into the soft scarred place above his hip. Jason let out a small, involuntary noise — not quite a protest, not quite a plea — and Oliver chuckled, low and dark against the back of his neck.

The heat of the water was nothing compared to the heat of Oliver’s mouth, open and hungry against his shoulder, teeth scraping just enough to leave marks that wouldn’t fade easy. Jason tilted his head back, surrendering, the rest of him following without question, without thought, the way birds turn in a sky they’ll never understand. The world collapsed down again, tight and fevered, and Jason welcomed the fall. Oliver maneuvered him without a word, hands patient but firm, pushing him until Jason’s chest met the slick, cool tiles. The porcelain chill shocked his overheated skin, made him flinch, but Oliver was already crowding up behind him, caging him in with the slow, deliberate weight of his body.

Jason gasped — half at the cold, half at the feeling of Oliver’s palm sliding down, wrapping around him with a lazy, possessive confidence that made his knees threaten to give. He arched back instinctively, spine curving like a cat's, pressing into Oliver with a desperate sort of greed he didn't bother to hide. He was past shame — had burned through it somewhere between the first shoot up of heroin and the hours of restless dreams, and hours spent chasing a silence that wouldn’t come.

Oliver's hand moved with an unhurried rhythm, as if he had all the time in the world, savoring every twitch and broken breath Jason gave him. His other hand splayed wide against Jason’s hip, pinning him there with an iron steadiness, dictating just how far he could move, how much freedom he was allowed to have. The water beat down on them both, too hot now, scalding in a way that grounded Jason only barely. His forehead rested against the slick wall, breath fogging against it in frantic bursts.

"That's it," Oliver murmured against the shell of his ear, voice velvet-soft and cruelly sweet. "Look at you. Can't get enough, can you?"

Jason let out a soft, shuddering moan, the noise torn from somewhere raw inside him, someplace that still hadn't learned the difference between being loved and being kept. He wanted to say something — beg, maybe, or curse him — but the words stayed trapped behind his teeth, drowned out by the slow, steady undoing of him under Oliver’s hands.

They moved together in the water, slow and brutal and precise, the kind of rhythm that spoke to something deeper than want — a claim, a branding. Oliver fucked him at the perfect angle, the one that made Jason claw at the wall, head tipping back, mouth open on a silent cry. If Jason prided Oliver for anything — and there were secret, guilty lists of such things folded up and hidden in the tenderest parts of him — it was how Oliver never missed. Always hit that bruised, golden mark inside him like he was born to do it. It left Jason boneless, gasping, dizzy with pleasure and lack of air, his legs trembling under the weight of his own want. Oliver grinned against the back of his neck, feral and sweet, before sinking his teeth into Jason’s shoulder — not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a ghost of it there, something red and raw and theirs. And with it, Jason loved the way he could feel the exact moment Oliver came. Then it was over. And he stepped back and out of the shower, as if he hadn’t just caused ruin in his wake.

Panting, gathering the fragile shreds of himself, Jason stayed under the spray for a few seconds longer. His limbs didn’t quite feel like they belonged to him anymore. He shut the water off with a shaky hand and stumbled out after Oliver, water dripping from his hair, his skin flushed dark with heat and lack of oxygen. Without thinking — because Jason never really thought when it came to Oliver — he wrapped his arms around him from behind, pressing his face against the cool skin of Oliver’s back. His legs buckled at the last second, and he slumped against him, holding on stubbornly, eyes heavy-lidded and stupid with need.

"Wasn't that enough for you?" Oliver turned his head slightly, a cruel little smile playing at his mouth.

Jason shook his head, messy and slow, then tilted up, arms tightening around Oliver’s neck. His voice was a husky thread when he whispered against his skin, "Kiss me..."

And something — something buried deep and unwelcome — tugged at Oliver’s chest, sharp and human, making him hesitate for half a heartbeat before he gave in. Jason kissed like a teenager in love with Christ — all trembling devotion and violent urgency, like he wanted to pour every drop of himself into it, as if he could make Oliver feel how ruinously he adored him. It was the kind of kiss that carried too much of everything — too much hope, too much desperate, aching belief that this was love. Oliver smiled against his mouth, that cruel, indulgent little smile he wore when Jason was being especially dumb about his feelings. He let him have it for a moment — let him press and gasp and cling — before pulling away just a little too soon, just enough to leave Jason leaning helplessly after him, still hungry, still reaching.

"Easy," Oliver murmured, thumb dragging slow across Jason’s bottom lip, smudging the kiss he left there. "You’ll make yourself sick again."

Jason blinked at him, dazed and glassy-eyed, something raw and beautiful still flickering just under his skin. It made Oliver’s hands twitch with the urge to wreck him further — to peel that thin, trembling hope off of him strip by strip until he was nothing but sweet, trembling need. Instead, he brushed Jason’s wet hair back from his forehead, slow and mocking like you would with a fevered child. Jason shivered under the touch, a soft, broken thing.

"I’m already sick," he said quietly, so quietly it might’ve been a thought escaping rather than something he meant to say.

Oliver chuckled low, cupping his chin and tilting his face up to really look at him. "You always were, pretty thing," he said, voice rich with something dark, something dangerously close to fondness.

Jason smiled then, tired and wrecked and full of something too big for his body to hold, and Oliver decided — for tonight — he could let him have it. Let him believe in something, if only to make the fall later that much sweeter.

Oliver tapped Jason’s cheek twice with the pad of his finger, light and sharp, like he was marking him, then stepped back, leaving him swaying on his feet. "Get dressed," he said, already turning away, already done with the moment. "We’re going out in an hour."

Jason blinked, tried to gather his splintered mind back into something coherent. "Where?" he asked, voice still rasped from breathlessness and swallowed cries. Oliver didn’t answer, just tossed a look over his shoulder that was all sharp teeth and private jokes. Jason didn’t press — he knew better. Whatever Oliver had planned would be revealed in his own good time, if at all.

Left alone with the faint thrum of the shower still dripping behind him, Jason gathered himself. His legs protested every movement, stiff and boneless all at once, but he found a pair of clean jeans slung over the chair and tugged them on with trembling fingers. For a shirt, he stole one of Oliver’s — thin and black and worn soft at the edges — and layered it with a heavy jacket that still smelled like cigarettes and old leather and something ineffably him. The sleeves swallowed his hands, the collar brushing high against his jaw. He liked it like that. It felt like armor. It felt like surrender. By the time he finished dressing, he caught his reflection in the mirror — wide dark eyes, bruised mouth, hair curling damp against his forehead. He looked like he belonged to someone. He looked like he wanted to. Jason pressed his fingertips to the glass briefly, as if he could touch that other version of himself — the one who looked so certain, so kept — and then turned away before the ache of it could bloom too large inside him.

The bar was low-lit and crowded, a warren of thick laughter and gleaming whiskey glasses, the smell of sweat and wood polish in the air. Oliver slipped through it easily, that magnetic sort of cruelty about him that made people orbit whether they meant to or not. Jason stayed close at first, half-shielded behind Oliver’s shoulder, half-lit by the glow of his attention. Drinks appeared, slid across the table by one of Oliver’s colleagues — a sharp-eyed woman with the kind of laugh that curled around your spine — and Jason took them without thinking.

Usually he could drink anyone under the table if he wanted to, but tonight was different. Tonight there was a hollow pit gnawing at his stomach where food should’ve been, and every shot of bourbon seemed to tumble straight into that void, burning a hole clean through him. By the fourth round he'd rushed himself into something passed buzzed. The din of the bar coming at him like underwater music, warm and senseless. He mumbled something to Oliver — he didn’t even know what, maybe back in a minute — and stumbled out into the night.

The cold slapped him, welcome and brutal. His fingers fumbled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket, cupping his hands to light it. The first inhale hit hard, nicotine buzzing through blood already thinned out by liquor. For a moment, the world spun a little slower. The city smelled like rain on asphalt and oil, neon lights bleeding into puddles at the curb. The rough brick of the building was a poor substitute for a pillow as he breathed smoke and air in equal parts, trying to stitch himself back together before he floated too far away to find his body again.

The door creaked behind him and he half-turned, expecting Oliver, hoping — but it was nobody. Just the dark pressing in, the night thick and waiting. The cigarette burned down to a trembling stub between his fingers, and he thought about how easy it would be to just keep walking. Just ghost into the night, vanish like smoke — let Oliver look for him, let him feel that awful ache Jason lived with every day. But he wouldn’t. He knew himself too well. He hated the way he needed Oliver, hated the pulsing, ragged want that throbbed in him like a second heartbeat. Needed Oliver to look at him like he was the last goddamn person on earth, the last good thing left, and he despised himself for it.

He didn't hate Oliver — no, that kind of anger would have required a distance he simply wasn’t afforded anymore. Instead, Jason had endless reserves of self-loathing to smash against himself, again and again, until it all went numb. He flicked the cigarette away into the gutter, the embers trailing like dying fireflies, and dragged himself back inside.

The bar was hotter now, packed tighter, the air thick with liquor sweat and too-loud voices. Jason weaved through it, shouldering past strangers like a ghost no one noticed. When he spotted Oliver — laughing at something a woman with a razorblade smile was saying — something low in Jason’s gut coiled tight and mean. Still, he went to him, like always. Still, he hovered a breath away, waiting to be let in or shut out. Either would’ve hurt — but the waiting was worse. Jason slid into the seat beside Oliver without a word, dragging the glass from his hand like a spoiled child claiming a toy. He brought it to his mouth and drank without ceremony, the liquor burning its way down like penance, like he deserved it to hurt more than it did. And Oliver watched him with that quiet, dangerous amusement he wore so well, like none of this touched him at all, like Jason’s need was just another faintly interesting thing in a long line of things he could ruin if he felt like it.

At the last swallow, Oliver plucked the glass back from Jason’s fingers, casual and precise, just as a slick thread of whiskey clung to Jason’s bottom lip. He smiled then, soft and cruel. At least now he was paying attention. Jason wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, childish and graceless, but he didn't look away. He sat too close, thigh pressed against Oliver’s, warm and insistent, a constant humming pulse of see me, see me, see me.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to. Oliver set the empty glass down with a soft clink against the wood and turned his body toward Jason, lazy and predatory, hand coming to rest light as breath on the inside of Jason’s thigh — just enough to make Jason shiver under the worn denim, to make him ache somewhere deep and secret. The current between them said everything: you’re mine, you’re already broken open, and you’re going to thank me for it. God, that touch — it seeded something molten low in Jason’s stomach, the kind of heat that turned to hunger if you let it breathe too long. He inhaled deep through his nose, counting to four like he’d taught himself, like it would help anchor him to the moment and not unravel at the seams of it. Oliver was speaking now, turning his teeth on some sharp-jawed man across the table, all smiles and suggestion. His voice was smooth and pleasant, but his fingers on Jason’s thigh tightened in a way that wasn’t.

That kind of control wasn’t fair. It never had been. Jason bit the inside of his cheek. He needed another drink. Needed three. As Oliver’s attention meandered further and further from him, Jason’s jealousy curled up like a feral animal in his chest, all claws and bared teeth. It wasn’t rational, but it never had to be. He was drunk enough now to let the feeling win. His laugh came too loud at something no one said. He leaned in too close to a stranger’s shoulder, let his hand linger on the stem of a glass as though it were flesh. And still, Oliver didn’t look. Jason hated that. Hated the desperation of needing Oliver to see him again, to claim him the way he had earlier, when the water ran hot and their bodies were indistinguishable under steam and breathless sound.

By the time his vision started to soften at the edges, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth, Jason was no longer afraid of being too much. No longer afraid of what spectacle might earn him those cold, pointed eyes again. So he stood — or tried to — unsteady, burning with the need to be something to Oliver in this moment, even if it meant being a disaster. Oliver looked at him in the type of way a man would when he’d left a door cracked just to see if the house would burn.

“You okay?” he asked, casual as spilled gin.

“Fine,” Jason quipped, smile brittle and mean. “Why, were you paying attention?”

There was a heartbeat of silence that tasted like blood and pride, then Jason was grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, his hands clumsy, his spine rigid with insult. His fingers found a crumpled pack in his pocket, already pawing for the cigarette like it might soothe something. Like it wouldn’t just fan the fire under his ribs. Oliver didn’t stop him. That was worse somehow. Not a hand on the wrist, not a word—just the vague heat of his gaze at Jason’s back, cool and unreadable. Like he was already letting go.

Jason pushed the door open and stepped into the night, teeth clenched against the cold. The lighter sparked twice before it caught, the flame painting his face in soft oranges and shadow. He inhaled deep, holding the smoke in his lungs like it could take up the space Oliver left behind. Fuck him. Fuck this. He leaned against the brick, watched the red tip glow with each drag, wishing it could hurt more.

Inside, the mood didn’t so much shift as glide smoothly over Jason’s absence, like water over glass, barely disturbed. The murmurs and clinking glasses continued, silky and wine-stained. The only thing that changed was the angle of Oliver’s mouth — less curve, more calculation.

“He’ll be fine,” he murmured, eyes lingering on the door just a second too long before returning to his drink. The glass kissed his lips, and he drank like he was rinsing something bitter from his tongue.

“What are his measurements?” one of them asked — the designer, probably. Sharp cheekbones and no real soul behind the eyes. “I think he could model for my line.”

“Skinny little thing,” someone else added with a laugh. “You feeding him, Oliver?”

“I give him what he wants.” Oliver smirked into the rim of his glass. And didn’t he? Desire, wrapped in velvet and danger. Attention, in slanted doses. Morphine, once. Maybe more. They laughed, those lacquered snakes in jackets worth more than Jason’s rent. But Oliver only looked down at the liquor bleeding slow amber in his glass, watched the last drop swirl like a scrying pool, as if he could see Jason in the sheen — arms crossed outside, eyes rimmed red from wind and want.

He’d come back. He always did. They always did.

Oliver had been his age once. Twenty, raw with longing and too sharp around the edges, the kind of youth that made people stare a little too long and regret it afterward. He remembered it fondly, in the way a butcher remembers the bone — not for the flesh, but the sound the cleaver made coming down. Of course, he was never the one crawling back to someone on his knees.

No, Oliver had always been the altar. Not the supplicant.

He lit a cigarette of his own, ignoring the pointed glances from across the table. Smoke curled upward like incense, and he leaned back in his chair, legs crossed at the ankle, exhaling slow through his nose. Jason made a pretty penitent, but his confessions always came laced with spite, with that biting undercurrent of you made me do this. Oliver had broken boys before. Bent them like spoons with praise and disinterest, warm hands and colder eyes. But Jason — Jason made it feel like carving something out of himself each time. It was a wonder he hadn’t left yet. But then, maybe Oliver had given him just enough hurt to feel at home.

In the cold night, Jason paced the corner of the block like a stray caught in its own orbit, his arms wrapped around himself despite the borrowed warmth of Oliver’s jacket. The hem skimmed too low on his thighs, the sleeves hung over his fingers like they were trying to hide him. His cigarette had burned down to the filter, but he kept it between his lips anyway, sour comfort.

He was just about to light another when he saw it — across the street, nestled between a shuttered flower shop and a pawn shop glowing ghostly blue neon. The speakeasy had no sign, only a half-lit red bulb above the door and a man out front who looked like he belonged in the pages of a Bukowski poem. That was enough. Jason looked both ways like a child about to misbehave and crossed.

Inside, it was dark enough to feel like drowning. The air hung heavy with a perfume of stale whiskey and wet cigarettes, low jazz crawling from an ancient speaker behind the bar like it was ashamed of itself. It was barely full — a few old ghosts hunched over their drinks, a girl with a shaved head, scribbling into a notebook in the corner, a bartender who looked like he’d seen too much of everything. He slid onto a cracked vinyl stool and ordered something that burned. He didn’t want to be seen, not really. But he wanted to be looked at.

He drank the first glass fast. The second, slower. He could still taste Oliver’s mouth behind his teeth, phantom limbs of the man still wrapped around him like vines. He tried not to think of the way Oliver’s hands knew every slope of his body like a cartographer. Tried not to think about the fact that Oliver wasn’t coming after him. Because Oliver never had to. Jason closed his eyes and let the music crawl inside him. The liquor was warm. It didn’t ask for anything.

Several drinks later — three? four? — the count had slipped through the cracks between his fingers like everything else good. Jason found himself slouched in the dusky corner of an empty booth, legs stretched out under the table, head tipped back against the cracked red vinyl. His hair clung damp to his temples, breath sour and sweet with whatever poison he’d ordered last. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, but the bar had thinned even more, peeled down to its bones. The lights seemed dimmer, the shadows fatter, the air syrup-thick. Someone coughed nearby and he flinched like it was thunder.

His glass was empty but he didn’t have it in him to move. The booth felt like a church pew, and he was in confession, eyes half-lidded, whispering sins into the dark.

I ruin things. I ruin things. I ruin things.

Oliver hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. He checked his phone anyway — a stupid twitch, a need with no logic — and the screen glared back blank.

He wanted to be angry, wanted to throw the phone against the wall, wanted to rip the sleeves from the jacket, tear them to ribbons. Instead he curled into himself, one arm folded beneath his head, the other trailing fingers along the edge of the table like a child waiting for someone who would never come. He didn’t cry. But it felt like he might, if he breathed too deep.

“You’ve been doing that all night.”

Jason blinked slow, like the words had to crawl their way through molasses to reach him. He dragged his eyes up to the figure hovering near the booth — it was the girl from earlier, notebook still in hand, pen between her teeth. She looked carved out of something older than the bar, more permanent than the walls. A tattoo coiled over her cheekbone in a language he didn’t recognize — something pagan and sharp.

“Doing what?” His voice came out hoarse, like it had been scraped against gravel.

“Moping around like it’s everyone else’s business,” she said, tapping the notebook against her thigh. “Like we all came here to witness your breakdown.”

“I’m not moping,” he scoffed, too tired to sharpen it.

She arched a brow, tilted her head. “Looks like it to me. That shit’s radioactive, boy. Everyone can feel it leaking off you. Lucky you’re pretty. Otherwise I’d tell you to fuck off.”

Jason barked out a short laugh, rubbed his hand over his face. "Fuck off then,"

She didn't.

“You got that look,” she said, sliding into the opposite side of the booth without asking. “The one people get when they think they’re being tragic, but they’re just bleeding all over the floor.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t. There wasn’t anything left to push back with.

“Got a name?” she asked.

“Jason.”

“Jason,” she repeated, like it tasted strange. “Well, Jason — drink some water. And stop looking like you’re waiting to be rescued. No one’s coming, least of all whoever put that bruise of sadness behind your eyes.”

He went still. She smiled like she’d found a wound and pressed just enough to make it smart.

“That obvious?”

“Only to anyone who’s ever been there.” She paused, thumbed a lighter open and closed. “Let me guess. He’s older. Dangerous. The kind of man who makes you feel like a saint and a whore all in one breath.”

Jason’s throat clicked. Words didn't have a place in his mouth anymore.

“Yeah,” she said. “They always are.”

“Whatever, you just have a talent for reading people,” Jason muttered, but there was no venom in it. Just the slow, lurching amusement of someone who hadn’t smiled in hours and suddenly remembered how.

“Maybe,” she said, tilting her chin like she’d been caught in the act of something worse than empathy. Her eyes flicked with defiance, or maybe that was just how she looked — like every word was a dare and every silence, a bet.

“What’s your name?”

“Jen.” She smiled, a crooked crescent that looked real in a way nothing else had that night. Then she kicked his boot under the table, not hard, just enough to jolt him out of whatever spiral he was headed for. The bar didn’t feel like a coffin anymore. The shadows weren’t fingers clawing at his back. His phone, dark in his pocket, stopped burning a hole through his thigh.

Jen leaned back against the vinyl, legs sprawled like she owned the whole damn booth, and looked at him like she saw past the static, straight into the soft meat of who he was trying not to be.

And he didn’t want to leave anymore.

Not yet.

Not now that he’d made a new friend. Or something close enough to pass for it in the sacred hour between too many drinks and not enough choices. Jen ordered a round of drinks, two for herself, two for him— though by the time the last one slid down his throat, the world had started to erode around him. The edges blurred, softened, like everything he’d ever known had dissolved into a cloud of thick fog. His limbs were leaden, heavy, each breath coming slow and ragged, like his lungs had forgotten what air tasted like. Fucking wasted.

Jen was laughing at something — he couldn’t remember what — when she stood and helped him out of the bar. The chill of the night cut through the fog in his brain, sharp as a needle. The cold air felt good. It stung his skin and gave him a reason to stay conscious for a few moments longer. Jen lit a cigarette, offering him one, and he took it without thinking. He dragged the smoke into his lungs like it was the last thing he might ever inhale.

They stood there for a while in silence, the city noises muffled, distant — a low hum in the background of their shared smoke. Jason’s head was spinning, dizzying him in the way a forgotten dream might, and he could barely focus enough to keep the cigarette between his fingers. And then he saw him.

It was impossible to miss. Jason had seen Oliver in a hundred different rooms, a hundred different situations, but seeing him now — outside, with his colleagues clustered around him — made something deep in Jason’s chest crack open. His heartbeat was heavy, a slow, relentless thud beneath his ribs.

“Shit.” A quiet laugh bubbled up from his throat, uncontrollable, like a gasping sob held back by too many drinks. He didn’t want to laugh. He didn’t want to feel anything. But the sound escaped him anyway.

Jen raised an eyebrow, taking another drag of her cigarette, her eyes flicking from Jason to Oliver, then back again.

"So that’s the boyfriend, huh?"

Jason didn't answer immediately. His fingers curled around the cigarette, numb to the sensation. The words didn’t come. The weight of them sat heavy on his tongue. Boyfriend. The word felt like a trap, like a word he had no right to speak. But he couldn’t stop looking at Oliver. Oliver, with his perfect, careless smile, talking with people who weren’t Jason. With colleagues who didn’t have to fight to stay in the room with him. The light from the streetlamp overhead cast shadows across his face, but Jason still saw the sharp edges of his jaw, the arrogance in his stance. He felt small again, all at once. And, for a split second, he wanted nothing more than to vanish — disappear from the world and leave no trace.

"Yeah," he drawled, voice slurring at the edges like a smear of lipstick on a collar, "boyfriend."

It tasted ugly coming out. Like a confession half-swallowed and rotting in the back of his throat. He adjusted his jacket with trembling fingers, stumbled a couple of paces, boots scraping loose gravel that bit into the leather soles. His eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, never left Oliver.

Jen didn’t press. Just watched him with something like pity—or maybe it was respect. There was always something admirable about someone walking into a fire they knew would burn them. She flicked her cigarette onto the pavement and ground it beneath her boot.

"You’ll be alright?"

Jason gave her a soft, dopey smile that barely held together the wreck of his face. "M'fine," he said, though his knees wobbled under him like a deer born wrong. "Thanks for..." He waved a lazy hand in the air, the gesture trailing off into nothing, the sentence never needing an end. Thanks for the drinks, the conversation, the cigarette, the kindness, the anonymity. All of it. None of it. The knowing that he'd never see her again. Then he turned, shouldering the night air like a second skin, and walked across the street.

The city glared too loud, headlights cutting swathes through the darkness, his senses slurred and clumsy. He could feel every beat of his heart, an echo in his ears, and it carried him forward, toward the figure that made all this stupid gravity worth something. He was still outside, leaned against the wall with a cigarette poised between two fingers, laughing at something someone said. His face flicked toward Jason when he crossed the threshold of the sidewalk like a specter moving between worlds. Jason didn’t know what he planned to say. Probably nothing good. But he walked toward Oliver anyway.

The rest of Oliver’s friends peeled off one by one, dissolving into cabs and night buses, swallowed by the pulse of the city. Farewells traded like currency, kisses on cheeks, half-meant promises to catch up soon. Oliver waved them off without looking, already tuning back into the shape that was lurching toward him. He stumbled into Oliver like he was the one thing on earth keeping him tethered. His breath carried that acidic sting of cheap whiskey and too many cigarettes, and his weight pressed in like a secret he wanted Oliver to carry for him.

"Where’d you go?" Oliver asked, voice polished flat, calm enough to border on cruel. There was no warmth in it, just the mechanical tick of a man expecting an answer.

"Around," Jason said, shrugging, breath puffing between lips he didn’t quite remember biting raw.

Oliver looked him up and down, as if taking stock of the damage. “You’re wasted.”

“Y’were busy,” Jason mumbled. It wasn’t accusation. Not really. But it scraped like one.

Oliver exhaled through his nose, smoke curling between them like a leash, like fog on a morgue slab. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble acting like this.”

Jason blinked slowly, trying to hold his focus steady on Oliver’s mouth, on the drag of that cigarette. “Don’t care.”

"You will," Oliver said, crushing the cigarette under his boot. He reached out, took Jason by the arm—not gentle, not rough—and started walking. “Come on.”

Jason went with him, because he always did.

[softlittlegrumbles]

all circuits are busy, goodbye.

all circuits are busy,

you're high.

[softlittlegrumbles]

Cooking together! Or the first time Atticus finds out John is a vampire (he's being very obvious about it here)

[softlittlegrumbles]

Jason

^ added this song bc this is literally what he sounds like. huge voice claim for him

[softlittlegrumbles]

♡ the boys ♡

[softlittlegrumbles]

kissed by You once

that's all I'll ever have

fading memory of what You meant to me

Jesus never felt the ache like I do

why do I

why do I

why do I

Dear God, you've left one of yours

Dear God,

Did you forget

That I was still here?

[oh Gabriel. I'm snickering because he's kind of full of himself. like cmon buddy you can't be better than God]

[softlittlegrumbles]

[writing about my old men ocs]

[content includes angsty vampire stuff like: drinking blood! have fun reading]

The wind off the lake tasted like rust and regret, curling through the high-rises and settling in the bones of the city. It seeped under doors, through cracks in old brick, into the gaps between ribs where loneliness took root.

Atticus Graves had long since stopped believing in ghosts, but he could feel something trailing him as he let himself into their apartment. A specter of exhaustion, maybe. Or the presence of John—waiting. Always waiting.

The place was dark except for the glow of streetlights bleeding through the curtains, turning the living room into a chiaroscuro painting of oranges and deep blue shadows. Atticus set his bag down by the door, rolling the tension from his shoulders, and let the quiet settle over him. He knew better than to call out.

John moved like a trick of the eye—one moment, absence, the next, a presence felt before seen. He leaned against the archway leading into the kitchen, arms crossed over a chest that rose and fell only out of habit. He looked young, unfairly so, somewhere between 25 and 30 in the cruel stasis of his immortality. Before light, there was John. Atticus, at 46, was soft decay—lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight wear of time in the way he carried himself. John was a preserved thing, untouched.

"You were out late," John murmured, his voice a familiar weight, smooth as blood running over glass.

Atticus loosened the top button of his shirt, his fingers slowing as he looked at him. "Deadlines don’t wait for me to be well-rested."

John didn’t move closer, but he didn’t need to. The air between them grew charged, thick with the unspoken.

"You smell like outside," John finally said, quiet, contemplative. "Ink and paper and cold air. And coffee you barely drank."

"You can always tell," Atticus said, an old half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

John tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting in the dark, sharp enough to cut. "I know you," he said simply.

Atticus exhaled, slow. There were nights he wanted to slip between John’s teeth, let himself be tasted, devoured. But then there were nights like this, where John watched him like something fragile. As if time would take him away too soon, as if four hundred years hadn’t taught John how to hold onto things. Atticus closed the space between them, resting a hand against John's chest. Beneath his palm, no heartbeat. Never a heartbeat.

"Take me to bed," Atticus said, and John, who had survived centuries, who had watched empires rise and rot, obeyed as if it were the only thing he had ever known how to do. Their feet padded over the soft carpet, the city’s neon glow stretching long across the bedroom walls. John’s back met the edge of the mattress, and Atticus followed, a slow press of weight and warmth. Atticus kissed him softly, his hands steady on John's waist, grounding himself.

"I missed you."

His voice was quiet, but his lips didn't lie. The words settled in the air between them, heavier than they should have been.

John’s fingers traced the sharp ridges of Atticus’ knuckles, the tension coiled beneath his skin like a string pulled too tight. “I know,” he murmured. “I felt it.”

That was the thing about John—he didn’t just see Atticus - he felt him, breathed him in like perfume, let it settle under his skin like a secondhand sadness. Four centuries had sharpened his senses beyond reason. He could taste Atticus’s longing as surely as blood on his tongue.

Atticus let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. "Of course you did." His fingers slipped into John’s hair, pushing it back, watching the way his face softened under the touch. “God, I could fall asleep like this.”

John tilted his head, eyes hooded, something unreadable shifting behind them. “Then sleep.”

Atticus sighed and rested his forehead against John’s. He knew what John was offering—stillness, the comfort of cold arms and centuries of patience. But he didn’t want to sleep. Not yet. He wanted to cling to wakefulness. It wasn't fair that John got so much of the night to himself. Maybe he was selfish. Instead of answering, he kissed John again, deeper this time, fingers skimming over the smooth, unchanging lines of his body. John let him, let Atticus take something from him, let him press warmth into the parts of him that hadn’t felt heat in centuries.

“Let me hold you,” John whispered against his lips, a question disguised as a command.

Atticus breathed slowly, his body sinking against John’s like an unraveling. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Alright.” And for a little while, he let himself be held.

John’s fingers moved through Atticus’ hair with slow, deliberate care, brushing through the strands where silver wove itself between dark. He let them linger there, tracing time in the places it had touched him.

“You don’t have to look at them like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they mean something.” Atticus kept his eyes stayed closed, but his mouth curved slightly, that quiet, knowing smile he always wore when teasing John.

“They do mean something,” John said, voice soft but sure. “They mean you’ve lived.”

Atticus hummed low in his throat. “And you haven’t?”

John’s fingers paused for just a second, barely noticeable, before continuing their slow path over Atticus’ scalp. He didn’t answer.

Atticus cracked one eye open, watching him through the dim light. “Do you miss it?” he asked.

“Miss what?”

“The proof.” Atticus spoke with his voice quiet and thoughtful, “That time has touched you.”

John smiled, “I don’t need proof. I feel it.” Fingers curled lightly around his wrist and Atticus placed a gental kiss on his palm. It was warm, warmed by the heat of Atticus’s body, but soon it would fade, just like every time before. Immortality gave coldness a permanent residence in the body.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” John murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like I mean something.”

Atticus chuckled, quiet and low. “You do.”

John didn’t argue, didn’t remind him that time would take Atticus before it could ever touch him. Instead, he pulled him closer, wrapping himself around him in a way that felt more like devotion than anything else.

“Sleep,” he whispered against his hair.

And this time, Atticus did.

-

The room was dark, wrapped in the kind of silence that pressed against the skin. The blackout curtains swallowed the morning whole, trapping the night inside like a secret. Atticus blinked against it, disoriented, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. 10 a.m.

He overslept.

Beside him, John lay still, chest unmoving, face serene in a way that only the truly dead could manage. Atticus had always found it unsettling at first, that unnatural stillness, like John had been sculpted from marble and left to rest in a crypt. But now, he knew better. John was awake, in a way—just not in the way humans were. He’d slip into that deep, deathless sleep eventually, but right now, he was lingering somewhere between.

Atticus exhaled and shifted onto his side, fingers ghosting over John’s bare shoulder. “You watching me?” he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

John’s lips barely quirked. “No.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You talk in your sleep.”

Atticus made a noise of protest, burying his face into the pillow. “I do not.”

“You do,” John insisted, amusement threading through his voice. “Mumbled something about me being a very obedient vampire.”

Atticus groaned, the heat of mild embarrassment creeping up his neck. “I’m leaving. I’m moving out.”

"No you're not," John’s laughter was soft, barely there, but real.

Atticus sighed, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. “No, I’m not.”

They laid there for a moment, wrapped in the comfortable hush of the room, the kind of quiet that belonged only to places where morning hadn’t yet intruded. Eventually, Atticus sighed again and stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I need coffee.”

John hummed. “I need—” He paused, considering.

Atticus turned his head toward him. “Blood?”

John smirked lazily. “I was going to say company, but now that you mention it…”

Atticus rolled his eyes and pushed the covers off. “Offer expired.”

John caught his wrist before he could fully pull away, his grip gentle, cool. “Stay a little longer.”

For a moment, Atticus hesitated, looking down at him, at the unchanging face he had memorized. It wasn’t fair. Nothing about John was fair, he thought absently. To be held in amber like that, untouched by time, while he was slipping, piece by piece, hair silver, stripped of its rich color, lines growing deeper, flesh still warm but always, always running out of time. Maybe that was why he stayed. Why he let John pull him back down into the dark, even when the sun was waiting outside. The sheets were still warm, pulling him under like a riptide. Atticus let himself sink, let his body relax back into the space where John’s presence curled around him. Just a little longer. He could afford that.

Then John kissed his wrist, slow and deliberate, right over the delicate blue lattice of veins. It was more than just longing—it was hunger, tempered but present, threading itself through the gesture like silk unraveling.

Atticus swallowed. “You’re being obvious.”

John’s lips curved against his skin. “I don’t have to hide from you.” His tongue flicked out, barely there, a whisper of warmth against the pulse point. It sent a sharp shiver up Atticus’ spine, not just from the sensation but from the knowledge of what could happen. What John could do, if he chose. If Atticus let him.

He turned his head, eyes meeting John’s in the dark. “How bad is it?”

John exhaled, slow. “Manageable.” But his fingers curled a little tighter around Atticus’ wrist, like he could feel the blood moving just beneath the surface.

Atticus considered that, tracing his free hand along John’s jaw. “You could—”

“No.” It was firm, immediate.

Atticus raised an eyebrow. “No?”

John lifted his gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Not when you’re tired. Not when you haven’t eaten.”

Atticus huffed, rolling onto his back. “Always so goddamn noble about it.”

“You’d complain if I wasn’t.”

Atticus couldn’t argue with that.

"But..." John shifted, propping himself on one elbow. The room settled back into quiet, but the air between them buzzed with something unspoken. He looked down at Atticus with an expression that was more knowing than it had any right to be. “You like it when I want you,” he murmured.

Atticus didn’t move, didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

John smiled, slow and sharp, before leaning down and kissing him properly, teeth just barely grazing his lower lip. Atticus let him. Let him under, let himself sink into the kiss like surrendering to dark water. The weight of him pressed down, cool and grounding, the contrast between them stark—John, still and unchanging, Atticus, warm and fleeting, always moving toward something that John never had to fear. John’s mouth was gentle, but his hands weren’t. He gripped Atticus’ wrists, pinning them to the bed like something precious he wasn’t ready to let slip away. The moment stretched between them, thick with the weight of hunger—not just bloodlust, not just longing, but something heavier, something John never said out loud.

Atticus sighed against his lips. “You always do this.”

John tilted his head, thumb tracing the rapid beat of Atticus’ pulse. “Do what?”

“Make me feel like I’m the one who’s going to disappear.”

John’s expression flickered, something unreadable passing through his dark eyes. “You are,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Atticus’ throat, lips parting over the heat of his skin. “Eventually.”

Atticus shivered. He knew that. Of course, he knew that. But hearing it like that—soft, inevitable—set something in his chest alight. But it wasn't easy to hold onto thoughts when John's mouth moved lower, tongue flicking over the delicate skin of his collarbone, his jaw tightening as if he was fighting some internal battle. Atticus arched slightly, pressing up into him, not sure if it was an invitation or a dare.

"John," he murmured, voice fraying at the edges. "Just—"

John didn’t make him finish the thought.

It was a slow puncture, sharp but careful, a deliberate unraveling. The pain barely had time to register before the pull of it took over, something deep and dizzying, pleasure curling at the edges of it like smoke. Atticus exhaled hard, his fingers twisting into the sheets as heat spread through his limbs. John groaned against his skin, hands sliding to his waist, pulling Atticus closer, as if he could take more than just blood, as if he could drink him down completely.

Taking blood always felt bigger than it was. In some ways, it was. John had lived long enough to know that feeding was more than just survival, more than just hunger. It was communion. It was trust, offered up on the fragile altar of human flesh. And Atticus—Atticus gave so easily. His breath hitched, his eyes closed. He let himself tip into it, let John take what he needed, let himself be consumed. His pulse beat against John’s lips, a rhythm he could fall into if he let himself. The heat of him, the sharp tang of copper bursting over his tongue—it was all-consuming, the kind of intimacy that neither of them never quite learned how to name.

Stopping was the hard part. John felt the mortality of Atticus in every sip, each one pulling just a sliver of it away. With force, John stopped himself to pull back before he could take too much, before the haze of need dulled his control. His tongue flicked over the wound, closing it with something close to reverence. Beneath him, Atticus was pliant, loose-limbed and humming with the residual high, his body draped against the sheets like he’d been unraveled.

Watching him for a moment, something unreadable coiled in John's chest. He brushed a thumb over Atticus’ cheek, tracing the color that had already begun to fade, his warmth just slightly dimmed. "You good?" His voice was quiet, rougher than usual.

"You always ask." Atticus blinked up at him, dazed but smirking.

John huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "And you always act like it’s unnecessary."

Atticus slowly shifted onto his side, his fingers finding John’s wrist, pressing over where a pulse should be. He did that sometimes, absentmindedly, as if he expected one to return if he searched for it often enough. John let him. For a moment, they just breathed—well, Atticus did. John only pretended.

"You’ll need coffee after that," John murmured. "And food."

"You’re worse than a nurse." Atticus sighed dramatically, hand over his forehead.

John smirked. "I’d be a terrible nurse. No bedside manner."

Atticus grinned, sharp and lazy. "No, I think you’d be excellent at it,"

John rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to Atticus’ forehead before murmuring, "I’ll make the coffee."

Atticus made a contented noise, curling into the sheets, "You’re an angel."

John laughed at that, a low, rich sound. "Not quite." And then he slipped out of bed, leaving Atticus warm and drowsy in the darkness, the taste of him still lingering on John’s tongue.

Determined to regain some sense of autonomy, he sat up only for the world to tilt violently on its axis. His vision swam, dark at the edges, and he let out a slow breath before easing himself back down. Fuck. Atticus wasn't fragile—not yet—but mornings like this reminded him that he was, at the very least, human. John never took too much, but blood loss was blood loss, and it left him feeling hollowed out, unmoored. He pressed a hand to his forehead, fingers cold against his overheated skin, and exhaled through his nose. Somehow, in that moment, he felt older than he was.

Forty-six wasn’t a tipping point—not exactly—but it sure as hell wasn’t youthful anymore. There was an ache in his bones that hadn’t been there a decade ago, a weariness that settled deeper than sleep could fix. He wasn’t vain about aging, but he felt it in ways that unsettled him. Especially next to John. John, who hadn’t aged a day in four hundred years. A few years back, he had asked John if it was possible. If he could be turned. Not for vanity, not for vitality, but because a life without John felt like nothing at all. Like a different kind of mortal death. John had gone quiet, the way he did when something mattered—when words had weight and he had to measure them carefully before releasing them into the air.

"I don’t want that for you," he had finally said.

Atticus had scoffed, as if it were a ridiculous thing to say. "You think I want to get old and die while you stay exactly the same?"

John had looked at him then, really looked at him, and Atticus had hated the softness in his expression, the pity laced through it like silk-thin thread. "I think you don’t know what you’re asking for."

And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he still didn’t.

But now, lying there in the dark with the weight of morning pressing down on him, he wondered. If he asked again—now, with time creeping closer like an inevitability—would John still say no?

Doubtful.

John had spent centuries perfecting the art of refusal, of gentle, unwavering nos wrapped in the illusion of kindness. Atticus could press, could sink his teeth into the question and refuse to let go, but he already knew how the conversation would end.

Like it always did.

With John’s cool hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over the curve of his jaw. With a sigh that sounded like mourning, like I wish things were different, but never I’ll make them so.

With a sharp exhale, he dragged a hand down his face, pushing the thought away as John stepped into the room, the scent of hazelnut cutting through the heavy air. He carried a mug in one hand, casual, effortless, like he hadn’t been moving through this same routine for decades. Like he hadn’t been watching Atticus slip further from his prime with each passing year.

"Sit up," John said, voice warm, like the choice to obey was Atticus’ own.

Atticus did as he was told, slower this time, wary of the lingering lightheadedness. John handed him the coffee, watching as he took the first careful sip. "You're looking at me like I might keel over," he muttered, wrapping both hands around the mug.

John smirked, sliding onto the bed beside him. "I’m just admiring your resilience."

"Right. That what we’re calling it?" Atticus snorted.

John leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his temple. "You let me take from you before you even had breakfast. That’s either resilience or recklessness."

"Maybe both." Atticus closed his eyes for half a second, letting himself lean into John before he could think better of it.

John hummed, a sound that might have been agreement. Then, quieter, "You’re thinking about it again."

"Thinking about what?" Atticus stilled, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic.

John gave him a look. Don’t do that.

"Would it be so bad?"

"Don't ask me that," John’s expression flickered, something old and complicated threading through the sharp angles of his face.

Atticus studied him, taking another sip of coffee. "Why not?"

Instead of an answer, he reached for Atticus's wrist again, thumb tracing absently over the faint marks from earlier, barely visible now.

"Because," he said finally, voice too careful, too even. "You already know what I’d say."

[softlittlegrumbles]

get high, breathe underwater

showcasing all his stupid decisions because that's all he does!!! what a stupid boy!!!

[softlittlegrumbles]

sad Jason high Jason (there's no difference)

triggering topics: substance abuse, addiction, overall grime

Sunblind

Jason came to in a haze that tasted like static and copper, his mouth dry and tongue thick as rope. The world was both too much and not enough—too loud, too bright, and yet so terribly distant he could hardly feel it cling to him. Someone had draped a jacket over his legs, someone else was gone. The smell of vinegar, roaches, and spoiled food clung to the carpet fibers like grief. He blinked. The ceiling was low, yellowed, alive with cracks like veins. His body ached, but only in echoes. The kind of ache that comes after the storm, when the windows are broken and the water has already ruined the floors.

“Fuck this,” he whispered, but it came out too soft to have meaning.

He pushed himself upright with arms that barely cooperated. The needle was gone from his arm, though the puncture mark had already bruised purple-blue. The house creaked like it was mourning him. Someone coughed wetly in the next room. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

The front door moaned open and slammed shut behind him with a finality that made his heart lurch. He was outside before he realized he’d stood up, before he even knew what direction he meant to go. The air hit him like a slap—brisk and raw, wind like fingers down his throat. His hoodie fluttered against him like a dying bird. Every part of him was too soft, too exposed.

The sky was that colorless gray again. Mourner’s light. Clouds that sagged like they might cry but couldn’t quite remember how. Jason staggered a few blocks, shoes scuffing uneven sidewalk, breath puffing into smoke. His legs carried him out of habit, not will. At every turn he felt his body start to betray him—knees trembling, head swimming. His fingers kept curling like they were remembering how to hold the plunger.

An alley cut through the block like a wound, dark and narrow between two graffitied buildings. He stopped and leaned against the wall, concrete rough and cold through the fabric of his clothes. A broken bottle glittered near his foot. His breath hitched once. Twice.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. “I’m fine, I’m—” He closed his eyes. That was the mistake. The world slipped sideways. His chin tipped forward, eyes fluttering behind the lids. Just for a second. Just to rest.

Then—

VVVRROOOOMMMM—

A car screamed past the mouth of the alley, close and fast, engine tearing through the morning silence like it wanted to take a piece of him with it.

Jason jolted, head snapping up, breath caught in his throat. His heart thudded too hard in his chest, like it didn’t belong there. His eyes were glassy. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, breath ragged. A kid on a skateboard rolled by the end of the alley, they locked eyes for a second before turning away like he’d seen a ghost and decided it wasn’t worth it. Jason laughed, short and breathless; ran a hand through his hair, tangled and damp with sweat, and pushed off the wall. The ache was returning now, not just in his bones but deeper—behind his eyes, in his stomach, in the raw spot where the light used to be. Still warm, still here, he told himself. But the wind disagreed, and carried his breath away before he could believe it.

[softlittlegrumbles]

real talk I'm so fucking depressed and bad at posting art regularly - I slowed down my content on tiktok recently too (not by choice, just haven't been drawing) let's hope for a good tomorrow, right? aaahhh.

[softlittlegrumbles]

BOYFRIENDS (one of them has been undead for 400 years can you guess which one)

[softlittlegrumbles]

oh I love you I love you I love you, never leave me

never leave me

never leave me

[softlittlegrumbles]

dying

jk he's just going through withdrawal because he is an idiot moron

[softlittlegrumbles]

You're holding me down and pushing me up but it's not enough, I need you to hold me.

Part 2.

[This leaves off right where it left off on the first post so I recommend reading that before this one]

"That’s okay." Jason’s fingers curled tighter against Carlos’s waist, as if bracing for impact. His voice was soft, deliberate, but the reassurance felt just as much for himself as for Carlos. "We’ll figure it out."

Carlos could hear it—the small tremor beneath Jason’s steadiness, the waver between certainty and terror. The unknowing. The terror of knowing. He exhaled sharply, something between a sigh and a shudder, and let himself sink into Jason’s warmth, pressing his face into the crook of his neck. Existence was doomed in this moment, in his own body, in the relentless betrayal of it. If he wished hard enough, maybe he could shed his skin, step outside of himself, leave all of this behind in a discarded heap on the floor. The impossible nature of it all.

But it wasn’t impossible. Carlos knew that. It wasn’t some immaculate tragedy, some cruel, cosmic joke. The truth was much simpler. They had been reckless. Desperate. Raw. Neither of them had cared about protection, not when their nights blurred into one another, lips and limbs tangled in something more consuming than common sense. When Jason was high and Carlos wanted his attention. When they were too far gone to think, too entwined to care. And now, here it was—undeniable, unavoidable. Something real, blooming dark and heavy inside him.

-

The evening unraveled in familiar motions. Jason held him for as long as he needed, murmuring soft reassurances against his skin, words that should have felt solid but slipped through Carlos’s fingers like water. He stayed sober, though the effort was visible—his fingers trembled, his jaw tensed, a faint twitch pulling at the corner of his eye. Carlos saw it, felt the weight of it, and thanked him anyway. But Jason wouldn’t stay sober forever. Carlos knew that as well as he knew his own name. The needle would find its way back soon enough and Carlos wouldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t dare. There was no space for morality between them, no room for judgment. They had built their lives on indulgence, on want, on whatever made existence bearable for another hour, another night. He was half tempted to take it for himself, to push it deep into his own skin, to trade this overwhelming, suffocating real for something quieter. Something numb.

Night bled into morning without ceremony. Carlos stirred against the sheets, the air thick with sleep and the scent of Jason—stale cigarettes, skin, the faded ghost of sweat and cologne. Sunlight filtered through the half-drawn blinds, striking across his face, and he winced, groaning as he turned his head. Jason was beside him, still dead to the world, one arm thrown lazily over Carlos’s torso. His face was slack with sleep, mouth slightly parted, breathing slow and even. It should’ve felt safe. Comfortable. Instead, it was crushing. The warmth of him, the weight of his arm on his stomach– God, his fucking stomach. It lurched violently at the acknowledgment of it, and Carlos shoved the blankets aside, and staggered out of bed, making a blind, desperate run for the bathroom. His knees hit the cold tile as he barely made it to the toilet, retching up what little was left inside him. Acid burned his throat, his whole body trembling with the force of it. The sickness wasn’t just in his stomach—it was everywhere, seeping through his skin, curling in the hollows of his bones.

This was real. Too real. And there was no running from it. The thought of crawling back into bed, of Jason’s sleepy gaze flickering over him like he was something fragile, something sick, made Carlos’s stomach twist once more. He swallowed against the raw burn in his throat, bracing himself against the sink. The mirror didn't find him. He didn't want to look at himself—pale, drawn, eyes too dark, like he’d already started disappearing. Instead, he rinsed his mouth out and dragged himself to the kitchen. His stomach was a strange, hollow thing—somewhere between nauseous and starving, neither sensation fully landing.

The apartment felt different in the quiet of early morning. Dim light slanted through the window, catching dust in the air, turning everything a hazy shade of gold. The remnants of last night lingered—an empty coffee cup on the counter, Jason’s pack of cigarettes abandoned beside it, a used spoon and lighter shoved carelessly near the sink. Carlos ignored the sight of it. He opened the fridge, scanning its meager contents—half a carton of milk, an old takeout box he didn’t trust, a few eggs. Too many condiments for too little food. Nothing he wanted. He closed the door, pressing his forehead against the cool metal for a second longer than necessary. Behind him, soft footsteps padded into the room.

"You okay?" Jason’s voice was still thick with sleep, rough around the edges.

Carlos didn’t turn around. "Yeah."

Jason didn’t call him on the lie. The same answer would be given, no matter how many times Jason asked. Instead of pressing useless emotional small talk, he pressed his arms around Carlos’s waist from behind, his touch slow, deliberate. His hands settled lightly under his ribs, fingers splayed, tentative—just there.

Carlos tensed, but only for a second. He let himself exhale, let his shoulders drop, if only because it was easier than pulling away. It was warm, maybe the only warmth the world would offer him that day. So he stayed.

"You’re never up this early," Jason murmured against the curve of his shoulder, voice still thick with sleep.

"Not by choice," Carlos muttered, staring at the fridge door like it held some kind of answer.

Jason hummed in acknowledgment, his fingers twitching slightly against the fabric of Carlos’s hoodie. He smelled like their bed, fabric softener, sunlight and something softer beneath it all. For a moment, it felt dangerously close to something good. Carlos swallowed hard. He didn’t trust that feeling. Didn’t trust the way Jason’s touch made his chest ache in ways he wasn’t ready to deal with. And still, he didn’t move.

"You hungry?" Jason asked after a minute, his voice still slow, not fully awake.

"Maybe," Carlos shrugged, letting his head tip back against Jason’s shoulder. "Can’t really tell."

"You should eat something."

Carlos exhaled, closing his eyes for a second. He knew Jason was right. Knew he should eat, should try to force something down, but his body felt untrustworthy—on edge, hovering between hunger and nausea, like it hadn’t decided which way to break. Jason must have sensed the hesitation because he slipped away, arms unwinding from Carlos’s waist. The sudden loss of him sent an unexpected chill through him. Turning, he watched as Jason moved to the fridge, scanning its sparse contents with the same unimpressed expression Carlos had worn minutes ago.

"Eggs, toast, or… whatever the fuck this is," Jason muttered, lifting the takeout box before shaking his head and tossing it straight into the trash.

"You’re not exactly selling me on anything."

Jason glanced at him, eyes dark with something unreadable, gears turning. Then he shrugged. "Sit down. I’ll make you something."

Carlos hesitated. It wasn’t often Jason offered—he wasn’t the nurturing type, at least not in a traditional sense. But there was something about the way he said it —casual in the way he spoke when he was so sure of himself— that made Carlos obey without argument. He sank into one of the rickety kitchen chairs, arms folded over his stomach, watching Jason move. There was something almost normal about it. Almost.

A plate slid onto the table in front of him—four thick slices of French toast, golden and slick with butter, syrup pooling at the edges. The smell hit him first, warm and sweet, and suddenly, hunger clawed its way up from the pit of his stomach. Carlos blinked down at it, the sight almost surreal. Jason never cooked, not like this. Breakfast for them was usually coffee and a cigarette, maybe something scavenged from the fridge if they weren’t too strung out to care.

"You gonna eat it or just stare at it?" Jason leaned against the counter, lighting a cigarette like the moment wasn’t significant, like this wasn’t one of the few times he’d ever taken care of Carlos in a way that didn’t involve a high or a half-mumbled apology.

Carlos picked up his fork, cutting off a small piece, then another. The first bite was cautious, as if his stomach might reject it, but the sweetness melted on his tongue, and suddenly he was eating like he hadn’t had a real meal in days.

Jason watched him, exhaling smoke, his expression unreadable.

"Good?"

Carlos swallowed, nodding. "Yeah."

Jason smirked faintly. "Figured. You always liked sweet stuff,"

Carlos didn’t say anything, just took another bite as if he could fill the gnawing emptiness inside him with French toast and syrup. But he could feel Jason’s eyes on him, studying him the way he always did—like he was trying to solve something, like he was waiting for an answer Carlos hadn’t figured out yet. The food settled warm in his stomach, but nothing else did.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Carlos slumped further into his chair, the warmth of the meal suddenly making him too aware of himself, too exposed.

Jason shrugged, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "Just… looking at you, that’s all."

Carlos stabbed his fork into the last piece of French toast, but the bite sat untouched. He could feel Jason’s gaze lingering, something weighty in it, like he was trying to memorize Carlos, map out the changes he hadn’t spoken aloud yet.

It made his skin itch.

"You look different," Jason said after a beat, voice quieter now.

Carlos tensed. "Yeah, well. Haven’t been sleeping much."

Jason hummed, noncommittal, tapping ash into the sink. He didn’t say anything else, but the silence stretched thick between them, pressing against Carlos’s ribs, making it harder to breathe. Finally, Jason flicked his cigarette out into the ashtray, rubbing his palm against his jaw, looking suddenly tired, like he was working through something in his head.

"You’re not alone in this, you know," he murmured, looking unsure of himself even then.

Carlos’s throat tightened. He wished he could believe that. The words were warm, soft—meant to soothe—but they barely touched the surface of the cold knot in his chest. He stared down at his plate, at the syrup smeared across the porcelain, at the last uneaten bite he suddenly couldn’t bring himself to finish. Jason shifted against the counter, the silence stretching, waiting for something Carlos wasn’t sure he could give.

"Are we gonna talk about it—?"

Carlos exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh. "What is there to say?"

Jason’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing like he wanted to reach for something—Another cigarette, Carlos, maybe a fix. Instead, he settled for the lighter still in his grasp, flicking the flame up, letting it die, again and again. He scoffed softly, shaking his head. "I don’t know, man. Maybe something about—fuck, Carlos, you’re pregnant. That seems like something to talk about."

Carlos flinched at the word. Pregnant. Pregnant. Like saying it out loud made it more real, more inescapable.

He shoved his plate aside, appetite gone, and leaned his elbows onto the table, running a hand down his face. "I don’t know what you want me to say, Jase..."

Jason sighed, rubbing at his temples. "I'm sorry. I don’t know either." And that was the truth of it—neither of them knew a goddamn thing.

What a waste.

It was stupid. He was stupid. They should’ve been more careful. Should’ve thought past the next high, the next fuck, the next night spent tangled together in something reckless and desperate and doomed. They should’ve—should’ve, should’ve, should’ve—but it didn’t matter now. None of it did. And all of it did at the same time. Carlos pressed his palms against his face, exhaling slow, like he could breathe out the weight in his chest. It didn’t work. The pressure only burrowed deeper, curling behind his ribs, making his skin feel too tight, his body too foreign.

Jason was still watching him, silent, unreadable. The scrape of his lighter flicking open and closed was the only sound between them, a steady, rhythmic thing. Carlos wished he’d light the damn cigarette already—fill the space with smoke, with something easier to breathe in than the thick, suffocating tension.

"Are you keeping it?"

Carlos’ breath stilled.

Jason’s voice had been quiet, cautious, but the words hit like a fist to the gut anyway. He let his hands drop from his face, fingers curling against the worn tabletop.

"I don’t know," he admitted. His voice felt too thin, too raw. "I don’t know anything."

Jason nodded slowly, like he’d expected that answer, like he wasn’t sure if it made him relieved or terrified.

Carlos looked down at his hands, at the way his knuckles had gone pale. "Keeping it" — like it was some simple decision, something he could just weigh the pros and cons of, like picking a fucking brand of cereal. But it wasn’t. It was his body, his life, something growing inside him that he didn’t ask for and didn’t know what to do with. And no matter what he chose, nothing would ever be the same again. Jason gave him space shortly thereafter—grabbed his keys, muttered something about the store, about errands, like they were normal people with normal lives and not two fucked-up kids playing house with consequences too big for them to hold. Carlos let him go without argument.

Alone, the apartment felt bigger, emptier, like the walls had stretched in Jason’s absence. The silence was almost a relief. He made do with the time, cleaning in half-hearted attempts—clearing dishes, wiping down the counter, straightening the mess they both left in their wake. It was something to keep his hands busy, something to anchor him. The place looked better than it had that morning, but it didn’t change the way his chest felt heavy, the way his body still didn’t feel like his. He paused by the trash can, staring down at the crumpled takeout boxes, cigarette butts, the test. His chest grew a knot. Before he could think too hard about it, he pushed the garbage down, buried it deeper. Out of sight. He leaned against the counter, rubbing his face, willing his thoughts to shut up. A car door shut outside - Jason, back already.

Without really thinking about why, Carlos smoothed out his shirt, self-conscious in the way he always was when he tried to appear more put-together than he felt. He ran a hand through his hair, an automatic gesture, trying to make himself look like someone else, someone who wasn’t completely unraveling at the edges.

The front door opened with a creak, the sound almost too loud in the quiet room. Jason stepped inside, the usual weight of his presence filling the space before anything else—a bag slung over one shoulder, and, incongruously, a small bouquet of flowers in his other hand. Carlos simply stared with an expression close to bewilderment. It took a second for his brain to catch up with the sight, his mind shuffling through what he was seeing, trying to make sense of it. Jason—Jason, of all people—was standing there, offering him flowers like it wasn’t a thousand shades of wrong. Like they hadn’t been living in this perpetual state of fuck-up. The jarring sight of it hit Carlos harder than it should’ve.

Jason’s face was soft, almost shy, an expression Carlos hadn’t seen there in a long time. "I—" He shifted the bag, the bouquet still held awkwardly in his hand like he wasn’t sure how to offer it. "Thought you might want something. You know. Since, uh... today."

The weight of it, the sudden tenderness, felt like a punch to the gut. Carlos stood there for a moment, staring at him, then down at the flowers. His throat went tight. "Why?" The word came out sharper than he meant, but it was too late to take it back.

Jason looked taken aback, then his shoulders dropped slightly, a sigh slipping from him as he stepped forward, closer. "Because," he said, his voice rough and unsure. "Because I don’t know how to fix this. But I can’t just keep... pretending nothing’s changed. Not like this."

Carlos opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, his eyes flicked down to the flowers again. There was a strange, surreal sweetness to the gesture, but it felt like a band-aid on a wound that needed stitches. "Thanks," he finally whispered, the word tasting strange on his tongue. He reached out for the bouquet, fingers brushing Jason’s, lingering a little too long before he pulled them back. "These are pretty,"

Jason didn’t speak, just let the space between them breathe for a second, heavy and uncertain, before he finally mumbled, "I’ll cook dinner later. For us. Like, real food, not... shit we scrounge together."

Carlos didn’t respond, but the thought of it—of something real—settled in the pit of his stomach. And for the first time in days, it wasn’t nausea he felt. "Thank you," Carlos spoke again, the words coming out firmer, more solid this time, like he was grounding himself in them. He leaned up, his movements slow, almost tentative, and kissed Jason on the corner of his mouth—just shy of his lips, the place where they always seemed to find each other when they were too close and too far apart at the same time. "I mean it, thank you."

Jason’s eyes softened for a moment, a faint smile tugging at the edges of his lips. "Don’t thank me yet," he said, his voice a low, almost teasing drawl. "Dinner might be disgusting."

"Don't start," Carlos snorted despite himself. But Jason was already pulling him closer, his arm snaking around Carlos’s waist with a familiarity that made the tension in his shoulders ease just a little.

"Yeah, I know," Jason murmured, pressing his cheek against Carlos’s head, a rare security in his touch. "But I’m trying, okay? I'm trying to make this... right."

Carlos didn’t know how to respond to that. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Instead, he rested his hand against Jason’s chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat underneath the thin fabric of his shirt, steady and real in a world that felt anything but. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the beat of it anchor him. "You’re gonna make dinner, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t poison us," he spoke lightly, the words more of a promise than a joke, even though he was smiling, his eyes still closed.

Jason smiled back, his fingers tracing slow circles on Carlos’s back. "Deal."

The moment lingered, stretching out like a fragile thread between them, fragile in the way everything felt fragile now. It was a comfort—almost too much of one, the kind that made Carlos think of things he wasn’t ready to think about. Like the future. Like what came after.

For now, though, he just let it be.

[thanks for reading this far! the next part gets sad I'm sorry]