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Ace stifles a scoff. What a hypocrite he is.
His grip on Arturo’s coat tightened— if even possible, his fingers were already cramping— as he stared up at the man, every moment of eye contact further solidifying the pit that had opened in his stomach. This man, the pussy he is, has eluded Ace from the very start.
He should be able to grow a pair. Grit his teeth and fucking bear it, because the blood beneath his soles isn’t going away anytime soon, and if he doesn’t get rid of it now, it’ll follow him for the rest of his goddamn life. There are hard decisions you just have to make in life, and no amount of self-loathing is going to decide for you.
Whether he’s scolding himself or Arturo isn’t exactly clear.
Either way, this asshole needs a real loud wake-up call.
Ace shoves Arturo into the podium behind them and shifts his grip from the man’s coat to his shirt collar, pulling him to eye level. Arturo looks like a frightened animal, despite himself and all that Ace has seen and assumed— never in a million years would he have thought he’d see the man cry so openly, unabashed and exposed. Just another thing the jockey has always been afraid to do, and it dawns on him that he’ll never get the chance to. If he looked closer, he’d find a hint of bewilderment in the surgeon’s eyes.
Another wave of frustration (jealousy?) fills his chest and the only thing he can think of is doing anything he can to not totally regret this dogshit life he’s led. Ace never got the opportunity to live as everyone else had, never allowed himself the space to experience what it is to be human. To open himself up so willingly to another has been off the table before he learned the concept of love. To cherish someone without fail, no matter what happens? No matter how horrible they are? No matter who he truly is?
But if he can allow himself the faintest sensation of it, really truly free himself of those lingering bits of shame… if he could just pretend it’s brazen affection, act as if this behavior will be anything but selfish and crude…
His lips meet Arturo’s, barely imitating a kiss, and as hard as he tries, a crushing embarrassment seizes his whole self. That was awful, he thinks. I’m not built for whatever that is. Ace pulls back and takes note of how disgustingly quiet the room has gotten. He tries to convince himself that dying with humility just isn’t worth it, but the idea that this is going to live in people’s memories for much longer than he will makes him sick. Willing away your embarrassment sure is a hard task.
He jolts suddenly as Arturo’s gloved hand shakily touches his jaw. The look in his eyes sends a wave of nausea through Ace’s body he’s felt very few times— in times he’d sworn he’d die. This man could kill him with his gaze if possible. Ace is being pitied, he knows he is, because there’s no way in hell he isn’t. There’s nothing right about it, and the idea of Arturo feigning interest is much more comfortable than some sort of reciprocity. Could it even be reciprocal? He doesn’t have a clue what sort of feelings he holds toward the surgeon, only that this is something he wants, and would probably regret once he’s cast to hell.
Arturo pulls his mask down and leans forward, and suddenly the jockey feels a lot less inclined to care about the details of this shit show.
It’s awkward— almost uncomfortable— but Ace doesn’t mind, as that’s probably what love is supposed to be like. Some resounding, foreign greed spurs him to place a hand at the back of Arturo’s neck, burying the other in his horrid teal hair. The idea of being so close to someone has always seemed so undesirable. It’s nothing short of infuriating that his deathbed will be the first place he invites another man. Perhaps if he were normal, intimacy would come more naturally, but what is he if not innately broken and driven by malignant desires and fears?
For one blissful moment, the trial room melts away— the blood beneath his shoes, the half-dead body of someone he thought cared, the hostile stares of the remainder of his classmates— it all becomes worthless background noise that he couldn’t care less for. Pure exhilaration courses through Ace’s veins, shadowed by the misery of realizing just how stupid he’s been to have never done this before. He wonders if it would feel any different if it weren’t Arturo kissing him, and realizes they’re probably on the same level of idiocy. It’s comforting to know someone’s just as scared as you.
Ace can’t help but think of Arturo’s perception of him. There’s no possible shot that he holds a different belief than their classmates. These people think he’s fucking stupid. An unstable, pathetic, spineless coward, whose death is more of a blessing than an execution. The jockey can’t help but find himself agreeing with these sentiments, but it doesn’t make it any less unbearable when it’s shoved down his throat every waking moment. He’s had to grapple with uselessness his whole life, supporting his absurdly large family with a profession that sucks the soul from his body. Not that he’s ever been thanked for it. Not that I ever cared, is what he wishes he could say, but it’s all too obvious how desperate he is for any semblance of warmth and fondness. God, he can’t even lie to himself—no wonder he didn’t manage to escape.
If Ace somehow managed to fool all these idiots and leave this shithole and everyone in it to die, would he have regretted it? Is it worse to be responsible for twelve deaths, or just his and Arei’s? He’s already crushed under the weight of one death. What’s the difference between thirteen and three? No matter what, blood is coating his hands, so much he could drown, or struggle to catch his breath for the rest of his miserable existence. No way in hell is Taylor ever forgiving him now. Ace has been one foot in the grave since he died, and he’s willfully jumped in, mistakenly saying he’s been pushed. It isn’t anyone’s fault except his own that he’s uncontrollable— even if he’s dying for someone to take responsibility, to fix him quickly and painlessly. He’s a lost cause.
He’s reached ten different levels of stupidity for contemplating all of this in the middle of shoving his tongue down another man’s throat, but hey! If he’s going to be allotted any final moments of his choosing, might as well make use of them. If not for remorse flowing through his blood, he’d think there’s no time like the present. But he would’ve had time, and he cut it short. Eighteen is a bit longer than he’d imagined, but now that death’s knocking at his door, Ace wishes he’d invested more time in deadbolts rather than idly letting his life pass by.
But unfortunately, he isn’t kissing just anyone. It’s someone who’s in the same situation as he is. Ace isn’t delusional like David is, infatuated with some hopeful interpretation of a man he barely knew— no, Arturo is quite the opposite. He’s a compilation of every deplorable trait Ace hates about himself, accompanied by a myriad of other issues that put them on equal standing to be the world’s shittiest person. Or maybe it is wishful thinking, and he’s just dragging Arturo down to his level to feel better about himself. Either way, they’re both rock bottom. Ace is already a dead man walking, so subjecting the surgeon to his shallow desires is the least of his problems. Fuck having a guilty conscience, it’s only going to weigh on him the next five minutes he has to live.
Despite how impossible breaking out of his spiral thinking seems, at least he’s trying. No better time than the present (if he says it enough, surely it’ll be true). He doesn’t have the time to wallow in what-ifs now, even if he’s been doing just that. Ace pushes everything he’s been bitching about to the back of his mind and tries to focus on how liberating it feels to have someone so close to him, so willingly taking in his presence as something other than a nuisance. The mirror image of all his worst characteristics, a man in a similar position to him— perhaps that is why they accept each other so readily. Who else but the only one who could possibly understand why he is the way he is? Something clicked into place watching Arturo threaten Eden. Hopefully the same happened for the surgeon at some point during this trial— if not, it’s likely that he is truly alone.
He really should’ve learned how to live in the moment, because this is a damn good moment, and he’s ruining it completely.
It’s not exactly love, but Ace will take it— as much as he possibly can— to his grave. Granted, he won’t be receiving such a luxury, but what remains of him in Arturo’s memory is close enough to satisfy the fear of being forgotten. If they truly are one and the same, he’ll be haunting this asshole for the rest of his life.
And that doesn’t sound half bad.