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Dwight wonders what it would be like to hold Jake's hand.
Are they warm, under his gloves? How tightly would he grip Dwight's hand back? How long would he let them hold hands? It's a silly line of thought, an incredibly silly line of thought, but it's one he returns to often, when they're sitting next to each other at the campfire, trying to melt off the exhaustion of their last trial. They're barely a foot apart -- Jake, sat on the forest floor, leaning back into the log Dwight's sitting on. The others are chattering amongst themselves, but things are quiet between them. He's too wrapped up in his own thoughts for conversation, and he's pretty sure Jake likes the quiet anyway. The soft crackle of the fire is enough for the both of them.
He's still thinking about what it would be like to hold hands with him.
It's just -- it's silly. It's stupid. They're just friends. There isn't anything else there. They're just friends. But friends hold hands too sometimes, don't they? Dwight's not even sure they're that kind of friends, anyway. But they are friends. He thinks. He's pretty sure Jake doesn't hate him, at the very least. Which is good enough, all things considered.
Would he keep the gloves on? Or would he want to take them off? Would something like that even make a difference, all things considered? Holding a hand is holding a hand. Dwight's not sure a single glove would matter all that much, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe it would. He's not sure. It's not like he's going to find out, anyhow. They're just friends. And not the kind of friends that hold hands. He's not sure he wants to hold Jake's hand in a friend way anyway, and it's not like --
"-- Dwight? Dwight."
Jake's voice knocks him out of his thoughts, and, blinking, he turns to face the other man, face still resting in his own hands. He's still half in his own head, not quite paying attention to the rest of the world as he lets out a short hm? of acknowledgement.
"Dwight. Your shoe. It's in the fire."
His shoe is in the -- ? Oh, fuck! Dwight swears, yanking his foot away from the flames, trying to stamp it out before it eats through the pleather of his shoes. Jake leans over and dumps the remainders of his drink onto the shoe, dousing the fire. He can feel his face heating up instead of his shoes now, embarrassment taking hold after panic. His foot is fine. His ego is not.
Jake's standing now, a gloved hand placed on his arm in an attempt to steady him after the… fiasco of sticking his foot in the campfire. He looks concerned, or at least Dwight thinks he looks concerned. Maybe a bit amused. But mostly concerned. His face still feels hot. He's not sure it's because of the fire.
"You alright?" Jake squeezes his arm gently, and Dwight's heart jumps in his chest. He hopes Jake doesn't notice how red his face probably is. Hopes the glow of the fire hides it just enough.
"It's - um, I think I'm fine, yeah." His foot hurts a bit, like holding a hot mug with your bare hands for too long. But it's fine. He lets out a nervous laugh, trying to direct his own attention away from Jake still holding his arm.
"You're sure?" Jake's voice is soft, concerned, like he's worried Dwight's just trying to laugh it off (which he is, a little, but it's really not that bad. He'll probably have to get new shoes, somehow, but it's not that bad.) He tilts his head at Dwight imploringly, waiting.
"I'm sure." He affirms, nodding slowly like that'll do more to assure Jake that it's fine.
Jake snorts, and then shakes his head at Dwight, letting go of his arm. "Come sit back down," he says, gesturing back toward the log and the fire, "and this time don't burn your shoes."
Face still burning, Dwight does exactly that.
+
Surely Jake's hands must be nice beneath the gloves. They're probably not soft or anything like that, but they're probably strong hands. Good hands. Dwight feels his own hand gripping the spot on his arm Jake held a few days ago, trying to revive the ghost of a memory. He's being weird, he concludes rather abruptly, and tries to redirect his thoughts to something else. He's being weird, he's being weird. Stop thinking about Jake's hands.
They're sitting by the campfire again, this time across from each other. Jake's wrapped up in conversation with Claudette, the two of them speaking quietly as she shows him a plant stem. Jake plucks it from her fingers, spinning it slowly in front of his eyes like he's trying to get a better look at it, gloved hands and bare face bathed in orange firelight. Dwight's just sat on his log again, face in his hands, hunched over slightly, pretending it's the flames he's looking at, and not Jake.
"You are so full of shit." Nea lands on the log next to him with a resounding thump , causing Dwight to startle and almost lose his seating. He stares at her, wide-eyed, as she leans back slightly, hands laced behind her head.
"I -- sorry, excuse me? " She scoffs at him while he says this, rolling her eyes as his face falls into a look of confusion.
"You. Full of shit." Nea continues, looking pointedly at him before jerking her head in Jake's direction. "And him. The lovey-dovey campfire gazing. It's getting gross at this point, Dwight. What are you, planning your wedding? "
Dwight is so glad that Jake appears to be too busy with whatever Claudette's telling him about a twig to notice any of this.
"It's not -- it's nothing like that! There isn't -- there isn't anything--" He's trying to keep his voice low, even as she cuts him off with another scoff. She seems more amused than annoyed, if anything; more like she just wants to poke fun at him for. Well. Lovey-dovey campfire gazing, he guesses. It's not like that, is it? He's not really, he's not -- him and Jake would never --
" Sure ." She says, sarcasm dripping off her tongue as she speaks. "You and him just having long , drawn-out campfire gazing sessions every other night is absolutely nothing , Dwight. Suuure. "
"It is nothing!"
Nea doesn't dignify him with a response, and instead rolls her eyes at him again before getting up, leaving Dwight on his own once more. He's relieved for it, frankly. It's all really just -- it's not like that, is it? He's not -- he's really not. Him and Jake would never. They're just friends. Jake's just a friend. It wouldn't happen. He's sure Jake wouldn't even think about him like that. Why would he? And it's not like the… the campfire gazing is that obvious, is it? Is it? It can't be. Nea's just messing with him. She has to be. That's just what it has to be.
Dwight looks up from the ground for a moment, flicking his gaze over toward where Jake's sitting, and discovers that the other man is looking over at him.
He buries his head in his hands, face burning hotter than the fire in front of him.
+
It's not like it's that much of a not-friend thing. He can want to hold Jake's hands in a perfectly normal, completely friend-based way, and Nea's just putting stupid ideas in his head. Holding hands with your friends is nice! Great, even! It's just a friend thing. It's just a friend thing.
It's not like it would ever happen as a not-friend thing anyway.
Him and Jake are both sitting by the campfire again, this time having swapped seats, with his back pressed into a log behind him. Dwight doesn't get how Jake likes this. The ground's getting his pants wet and the bark of the log is digging into his back through his shirt, but maybe that's just part of the appeal for Jake. Or maybe he's just used to it. Dwight just misses cushioned chairs. But this is fine, in lieu of that, considering it's still nice, mostly, and the fire is warm. Jake's busy with trying to whittle something, a knife fisted in one hand and a chunk of greenwood in the other, eyebrows knit together in concentration. Dwight's not sure what he's trying to carve out; Jake hasn't shared what it's supposed to be, and it hasn't taken shape yet. But he's curious, and he can't help but watch. He leans over, rests an arm on the log, just to get closer and get a better look. But not too close. Not too close.
Jake's not wearing his gloves for once -- they're placed off to the side, resting on the log next to them. There's dirt in his fingernails, and they look like he's been attempting to cut them with a knife. Probably the same one he's using for woodcarving. Nail clippers are hard to come by in the fog.
Dwight mostly just chews on his own fingernails. It works. Sort of.
"What're you making?" He asks, and Jake's eyes flick up to look at his face for the briefest of moments, before they turn back down towards the knife. He's still carving; slow, careful movements peeling the wood away from him.
"A spoon." Jake answers simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. The wood piece looks a bit big for an eating spoon -- too long, and curved slightly in the middle. Dwight wonders if he's planning on making more than one.
"Oh, that's nice." He's not sure what else to say, so he says that's nice just to have something to say. Jake hums in response, attention still on the greenwood, as Dwight watches and looks on. Neither of them say anything else, even though Dwight has this ticking urge inside him to fill the silence. It's instinctual. The need to fill a lull in conversation, because that's what you're supposed to do, because to do otherwise is to cause offense. Usually.
But he knows Jake likes the quiet, so he doesn't, and just keeps watching as the fire crackles by them and the others carry on their own conversations.
He's not sure how long this goes on for, as he watches Jake slowly whittle out what he guesses must be the bowl of the spoon, before moving on to start carving out the shaft of it. It's rough. The process is slow. But Jake is patient, and careful, and keeps going on, under the orange-red glow of the firelight. The wood shavings pile on his lap -- Jake doesn't stop to brush them off, seemingly content with letting them cover his legs -- and on the ground around his feet. He has to resist the temptation to reach over and dust them off of Jake's pants. They must be annoying, he reasons, but Jake seems too absorbed in what he's doing to notice, too focused to --
" Fuck! " Jake hisses out, swearing as the knife slips and gashes his thumb, and bright red blood flows freely, staining the soft beige of the greenwood. Dwight startles at the sight, shock and worry coursing through him. Jake swears again, shaking his hand vigorously, as if to try and rid himself of the pain, before moving to stick the offended finger in his mouth. Dwight chastises him for it, afraid that might just make it worse.
"I'll get a bandage for it. Just wait." He says, even as Jake insists that it's not that deep, it's fine, don't worry your head off about it. But he does worry, and comes back a moment later to find that Jake has gone and stuck his bleeding thumb in his mouth anyway. Dwight can't help but roll his eyes at the man, but doesn't say anything about it, and instead just sits back down, gesturing for Jake to give him his hand. Jake relents after a second, sighing exaggeratedly before pushing his injured hand toward Dwight.
They don't have much on hand in the way of medical supplies -- most of it gets saved for trials, but Dwight figures they can spare some gauze and an antiseptic wipe for this, and everything'll be just fine. Probably. Dwight takes Jake's still-bleeding hand gingerly, careful, like he's afraid he'll hurt Jake even more by making the wrong move. He is. It's just a small cut, but he's still worried. He presses the antiseptic wipe to the cut, and sees as Jake's face scrunches up in displeasure, teeth clenched as he restrains himself from making any noise. The man's fingers tense, his hand going rigid under the pressure. He has to press harder, remembering what Claudette said about needing to make sure dirt wasn't in the cut.
"Stings," Jake mutters, but he doesn't complain otherwise, just endures Dwight's attempt at properly cleaning out the wound. He's half wondering if he should've asked Claudette or someone else to come over and help with it, but it's too late for that, really.
"Sorry." He says, putting the now-red wipe down and reaching for the gauze as Jake grunts out a displeased response. Jake's fingers flex beneath his as Dwight slowly wraps the gauze around his thumb, careful to make sure he's doing it right. Jake's hand is cold, or at least colder than Dwight's own hands. The gauze doesn't take too long to secure, and a moment later he's finished. But his hands linger for a moment, cupping Jake's between them. He hasn't noticed that Jake has looked away, attempting to shift his focus to something else, hiding the lower half of his face in his free hand.
"Well, you're all done." Dwight says after a moment, carefully letting go of Jake's hand, watching as the man tests his fingers, curling them in on each other and flexing his thumb, looking at them curiously, like something about them has changed. Dwight finds his expression unreadable.
"Thank you." Jake says softly, looking away for a moment, before casting his gaze back to Dwight's face. The man nods slowly to him, and Dwight gives a small nod back. He's smiling, just a little.
"It's no problem."
+
Dwight does get to hold hands with Jake, eventually. Not as a not-friend thing. Not as a friend thing either, actually. Really, more as a desperately-running-for-their-lives thing.
Beggars can't be choosers, though.
Jake's grip on his hand is vice-like, almost painfully tight as he's practically dragged along. Every step sends pain lancing through him, his free hand gripping the slash across his stomach as they run. It's not deep, but it burns, and the world feels like it's about to spin out of existence. The only thing he can focus on his Jake's hand and running, running like it's the only thing he can still do. Corn leaves whip past his face, tiny spines tearing at his skin, threatening to knock his glasses off. His heart squeezes in his chest, his lungs struggling to keep up. He's just running. Wherever Jake goes, he'll follow.
They jolt to a stop after a minute, ducking behind a wooden wall that leaves him feeling far too exposed, but he's not going to complain. He's wheezing, out of breath, hunched over next to the wall. Jake's still holding his hand, peering out at the corn, like he's trying to see if they're still being followed. They're still holding hands, Jake's fingers still clenched around his. He doesn't mind so much, leaning his back against the wall, sliding down just a bit as he tries to catch his breath. He can't tell if it's him or Jake that's shaking, but it might just be that the both of them are.
He wonders if Jake's fingers will leave imprints on his.
"We have to go." Jake says after a moment, tugging almost desperately at his hand. Dwight groans, mostly out of exasperation. His whole body hurts and his lungs are still struggling to catch up. The prospect of more running is killing him inside. Most of him just wants to stand here for a bit more, catch his breath, and let Jake continue holding his hand.
"Do we have to? He's probably not even--"
"Yes." Jake practically snaps at him, pulling him by the hand away from the wall, slower than they were going before, but fast enough to leave him wincing when his feet hit the ground.
But it's fine. He trusts Jake to get the both of them out of this.
+
Time goes on. Jake continues working on his spoon in-between trials. Dwight watches him work sometimes, but mostly figures that Jake wants time to himself and his wood, and he leaves him to it. He tries not to dwell too much on the feeling of Jake's hand in his, and pretends it isn't more than just a friend thing. He insists, even to himself, that it isn't.
It wouldn't be right , anyway. It'd be like dating a coworker, he rationalises. No one likes dating their coworkers. It's weird. He's being weird again. There are other things he should be focused on, anyway.
The last trial he had was bad.
Only two of them made it out, and he wasn't among them. Spent more time on the hook than off of it. Watched the other two flee through the gates as the Entity's massive, chitinous legs punched through his torso. There's still a gripping, violating nausea that consumes his stomach and chest, a feeling that seeps into his lungs and his very soul. Like someone's still trying to strangle him, even though he is, for all intents and purposes, alive and well.
He's hunched over on a log by the campfire, shivering, like sitting next to it will banish the cold from his veins and replace it with the glowing warmth of the flames. He can't. Not yet. The feeling will fade in its own time, he knows, but the fact that it's still here is more prominent in his mind. He's tired. He wants this to be done with.
Dwight doesn't say anything when Jake sits down on the log next to him. Jake doesn't say anything when Dwight, half-conscious, leans against him, and uses the other man's shoulder as a headrest.
They sit like that for a while, quietly enjoying each other's company. Dwight doesn't have the energy to speak. Jake doesn't mind the quiet anyway. Dwight's content with it; Jake's body is warm against his, and the crackle of the fire fills his ears like a soothing hum. He feels, for the briefest of moments, safe.
Dwight doesn't even notice himself falling asleep.
The fire's burning low when he wakes up, reduced by neglect to glowing red embers, Jake's gone, and the camp is emptier than it was the last time he was conscious. He stays where he is for a moment, curled up on his side, lying on the log, before he realises that there's something thick and heavy draped over him. A blanket? No, a jacket. Whose? It isn't one of his, and for a moment, his brain struggles to piece together who could possibly have left their jacket on him. Takes him a minute longer to realise it's Jake's.
"You up?" He startles a bit when a voice reaches him across the firepit, whoever it belongs to just barely illuminated by the embers. Nea. She's stabbing at the charcoal with a branch, the end of it occasionally igniting in a short burst of flame. She sounds tired, aggravated. Dwight guesses the others must be sleeping, or… well. In trial.
"Yeah, I'm -- Yeah." His voice is hoarse from sleep, as he pushes himself up, the jacket sliding off of him ever so slightly. He reaches for it before it gets too far, however. The woods are cold without the fire blazing, and even though the post-sacrifice nausea has left him, he's still shivering a little in the frosty air. Nea jabs the fire pit, sending sparks flying as an ember cracks beneath her stick. He wonders why she hasn't put more wood on the fire. "Where's…?"
"Jake?" She supplies, not letting him finish his sentence as she takes another stab at the embers. There's something grim about her tonight, something serious. The snark and the wisecracks are gone. "In trial."
"Oh." The word is quiet, dissipating into the air like the mist on his breath. Nea doesn't say anything. He doesn't know now, but he'll find out later that Min has been gone too. Too many of them have been gone.
She's hungry , his mind supplies, and he begs himself to ignore it.
Clutches the jacket tighter in his hands.
There's silence between them, after that, the kind that stretches on and on like a bottomless gap as the fire continues to die and the darkness of the woods continues to press in on them. It's quiet. Too quiet. The only sound between them is the wind, and even that's just barely a whisper. Nea continues stabbing at the embers, taking out whatever pains she has on the coals. He just sits there on the log, holding the jacket, staring at the embers, wondering how Jake is doing.
Dwight wonders if he'll make it out of this one alive.
The night stretches on, barely-there moonlight replacing the glow of the embers. Jake'll be mad that they let the fire die, he thinks, but he can't bring himself to move and replenish the wood, and Nea seems content with watching it sputter out.
Is Jake running, he wonders, is he hiding? What's happening in that trial, so far away? There's nothing he can do to help, stuck here by the campfire, shaking in the cold. Just hope that Jake's alright. Maybe that's enough. Jake would tell him not to worry, but he'd always tell him not to worry, no matter the situation. The embers have gone out, smokey remnants curling in the frosty air. He's still staring at the firepit, like him just looking at it will be enough to relight the flames. Part of him wonders if he should attempt to rekindle it himself, to save Jake the work. Do one nice thing for him.
Dwight doesn't even realise he's begun nodding off again until someone puts a hand on his shoulder, and he jolts back to consciousness, squeaking slightly. He hears someone snort behind him, and embarrassment rushes through him.
"The fire went out?" It's Jake, he realises, and a tension he didn't know was there floods out of him, relief consuming his entire body. He's still embarrassed -- mostly about the fire now, even though Jake seems unbothered by it.
"Yeah. Sorry." He says, looking over at Jake, who's come and sat next to him on the log, leaning forward slightly with his arms across his chest, jacketless. There's something strange about that, some odd sense of vulnerability about it, like he's never seen Jake without the jacket before. He probably hasn't, now that he thinks about it. Dwight pulls the jacket off of himself, offering it back to Jake. "You left your jacket here."
"You needed it." Jake answers plainly, shifting in his seat, before moving to push the jacket back towards Dwight. His touch lingers for a moment, and Dwight tries not to think too hard about it. "Keep it. You look cold."
He's glad that it's too dark for Jake to see the way his face flushes.
"I'm going to go start the fire again." Jake says after a moment, stretching as he stands up. Dwight nods. Part of him wants to ask about the trial, if Jake's okay after all of it, but he's not sure he wants to know. Some stones are best left unturned.
+
Dwight considers the idea that, maybe, the hand-holding thing isn't a friend thing. Maybe it is more than a friend thing. Maybe it is.
Okay. So. Maybe it is.
But what difference does that even make? It's not like Jake is interested, why would Jake be interested in him? It's not like he's strong or cool or… anything really. He's just Dwight. It's unfathomable to him. And he can't have Jake knowing he's interested, because that would just make things weird. So Jake doesn't need to know, and he can keep this all to himself, and he shouldn't think about it too much, because that's weird.
"Here." Jake's words pull him out of his thoughts, and Dwight looks over at the other man, only to be greeted by the sight of a carved spoon in Jake's outstretched hand. "This is for you."
It's too long to be an eating spoon, the handle curves a little in the middle, and the bowl is too large to fit anyone's mouth around.
"It's for cooking." Jake explains, as Dwight accepts the spoon from him, feeling strangely overwhelmed by the gesture. The wood isn't smooth, unsanded, but it isn't rough either. If Dwight knew more -- or anything, really -- about wood carving, he would've noticed how all the splintery parts had been painstakingly carved off, made to be as pleasant to use as possible, for something made with a small paring knife. A gift. He feels at a loss for words.
He doesn't know what to say. Jake looks… flustered, almost embarrassed, and he can't imagine why.
"It's great," Dwight manages, a smile on his face as he runs a thumb across the wooden handle. He thinks Jake seems pleased with that, a sort of glint in the other man's eyes. A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. He feels a little giddy about it all.
"I'm… glad you like it." Jake's averted his eyes, and Dwight's not sure what he's supposed to do next. It's great. He barely knows where to go from here. It is great.
He's saved -- maybe, he's not sure if he wants to call it saving -- by a sudden chorus of shouts rising up across the camp, demanding their attention. David and Nea taking the piss out of each other again. Dwight mutters an apology to Jake, and scuttles off, determined to break up whatever fight they're having this time.
Later, he'll sit next to Jake by the fire, his side pressed into Jake's, thinking about the spoon, and thinking about holding hands. He'll feel a little giddy, and it'll be one of those rare moments where he feels a little safe. Like everything's going to be fine.
And that'll be enough for him, just now.