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Jake was not one to be keen on forgiveness. It was a virtue that did not come easily to him, a trait which he required in others (it was impossible to know him from the beginning of his freshman year to the end of his junior year without forgiving him at least once for the shit he pulled) but could never find in himself.
Despite the pain he felt on the birthdays he spent alone and the awards nights during which he longed to see his parents in the audience, if he ever saw them again he would hit his father in the balls and rip his mom’s hair out for leaving him.
He and Chloe still fucked around, but afterward he’d always sneak in a snide remark regarding a fight they’d gotten into last week. Or last month. Or last year.
No one had ever confronted him on the immaturity of his grudge holding, not because of the power he still held over his high school (even after everyone supposedly learned the lesson of self-love and embracing your individuality, they still craved validation through the admiration of others, and being friends with Jake was the perfect avenue through which to achieve that), but because:
If he ever saw his parents again, he would give them a polite smile and imagine kicking his father in the balls and ripping his mom’s hair out.
He fucked around with Chloe, then kissed her on the mouth as he silently seethed over every way she’d ever wronged him.
Christine may take her skills to the stage, but Jake was just as much of an actor as her. And he hated himself for it because:
“Don’t fuck with me, Jake, I know you’re pissed at me.”
Jake looks up from his computer, brow creased with feigned confusion. He forces a purposefully tired but amused half-smile onto his face as he locks eyes with Rich, who is leaning against the wall, a bowl of pasta in his hand.
“What?”
Rich’s smirk falls as he realizes the route Jake is dedicated to take—innocent until proven guilty, innocent until proven aware, innocent as long as he’s oblivious to all the needles he pokes and prods Rich’s skin with, stabbing just hard enough to redden the skin without drawing blood.
“C’mon, buddy,” Rich says, his tone thick with a new form of sarcasm—not the kind that was meant to cause harm, but the type that came from exhaustion that could no longer sustain fake niceties and almost felt guilty for the lack of filter he had left. “You really think I kept that motherfucking robot in my head for two years without picking up a thing or two? The SQUIP knows all, the SQUIP can sense when Jake Dillinger decides to be a little shit and process his emotions through passive-aggressive quips rather than actually saying how he feels.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
It is absolutely what’s happening. Jake watches Rich carefully as he pushes off the wall and sets his bowl down on the dining room table. They’d been at peace only five minutes earlier. Jake was working on his college essay and Rich was eating his dinner, not sitting because to sit would be to make dinner a Formal Event rather than a casual running-into-the-roommate-while-in- a-communal-space. Rich mentioned he wanted Jake to take out the trash in the bathroom because it was full. Jake told Rich if he was so bothered by it, he could do it. Rich said he already cleaned the kitchen and did the laundry, Jake could handle one chore. Jake said he could handle all the chores in his old house, but he’d been forced out and was not yet used to his new living quarters. Rich said that was bullshit, he’d been living there for six months. Jake said fine, he’d do the trash if Rich insisted.
But Rich isn’t done, apparently.
“Really?” Rich says. He’s standing across the table from Jake now, arms hanging loosely at his sides. It’s strange, to be looked down upon by Rich. There have been plenty of times in the past that Rich has been standing and Jake has been sitting, giving Rich the advantage of height, but never before had he gazed down at Jake like he was worth less—like he was not a figure to be admired, but rather a seventeen year old boy who was exactly like everyone else. “Because, Jake,” he says Jake’s name like it’s meant to sting. It does. “According to my sources, and they’re reliable sources, when you’re angry, you tense your shoulders. Like you’re going to throw a punch.”
Jake forces out a stark laugh as he relaxes back into his seat, pinning Rich down with a sardonic glare that he hopes conveys simultaneous disengagement and victory.
“Are you really going to psychoanalyze me with the musings of a dictatorial artificial intelligence?”
“Are you really going to throw a fit because you don’t have a butler to do your chores for you anymore?”
Jake’s fingertips dig into the dining table. Fuck this. Fuck Rich.
“You realize I’m letting you live here, right? This is my fucking apartment. Your name isn’t on the lease. I can make you leave whenever the fuck I want.”
Rich shrugs. He shrugs, as if nothing Jake is saying even touches him. Like he’d anticipated it. Wanted it, even.
“Do that, then. At least then I don’t have to clean up your shit.”
“Fine. Get out. Find somewhere else to sleep.”
“If you so insist.”
And he turns, he walks out, he grabs his backpack from his bedroom floor, he storms through the kitchen, he slams the front door, he starts his car, and then he fucking leaves. He leaves, and Jake sits at that dining room table, his computer still open. He breathes, slow and deep, and as the digital clock over the oven transitions from 7:10 to 7:11 to 7:35. The red at the edges of his vision recedes slowly into a dull gray and the pounding in his head quiets into pure silence. The apartment seems to buzz with a lack of life. There is no one breathing in the living room, no one sleeping in the bedroom down the hall from Jake.
He gets up slowly, a single, sharp pain shooting down the back of his calf as he rises—a pain he’s grown used to, one that dulls some days and screams on others. He walks to the bathroom and kneels down in front of the trashcan. Methodically, he takes the trash bag out, ties it shut, and grabs another from the cabinet under the sink.
His hands shake as he does so, trembling with the effort it takes to suppress his pride as he does Rich's bidding because:
Rich is laying on Jake’s bed. His eyes are shut, and he looks so goddamn angelic Jake’s knees nearly buckle. It’s been three days since their fight. Rich has avoided their apartment since then, only stopping in for forgotten homework and the CDs he’d left behind in his room.
But here he is, laying on Jake’s bed, his eyelashes casting short, gentle shadows across his face. He’s on top of the blankets, clearly not settled in but comfortable enough that he’d drifted off.
“Rich,” Jake whispers, and it almost sounds like a plea. Please wake up, Jake says in that whisper, please forgive me. I’m going mad. The hallways taunt me. The floorboards creak like they never have before, weeping for you to come home. I wax poetic in my room like a lunatic.
But his voice only says, “Rich,” so Rich only hears his name as he awakes.
He blinks a couple times, but it’s clear from his first breath that he’s wide awake the second Jake says his name, a lingering instinct from his old home.
“Are you ready to apologize?”
He sounds sluggish. He draws Jake in with the lulls of his voice—his vowels drag, his eyes are bleary, and Jake wants to dive into his warmth and the comfort of his touch.
“I—” he starts, almost ready to say I’m sorry , but the words catch in his throat.
He cannot forget the smell of smoke. He cannot forget grasping for Rich amongst the flames. He cannot forget the sense of longing in the hospital days later—the pure, debilitating desire to just go home, only to have no home to return to.
He does not lie. Instead, he climbs into bed next to Rich. Rich is almost limp—not quite, not fully unconscious, but clearly falling back into the grips of sleep. Jake takes his arms by the wrist and forces them around himself into a hug. He creates a barrier between him and the rest of the world. Here, there is only the warmth of Rich’s body heat. Here, there is only the scent of his deodorant, the faint smell of his shampoo, the feeling of his stubble against Jake’s cheek as he presses his face against Rich’s chest.
He squeezes his knee between Rich’s legs, resting between his upper thighs, and tangles their ankles together. He inhales the moment. There is nowhere else that he relaxes as such. He cannot even bring himself to hug Rich back, he only lays there, praying for the seconds to stop ticking by.
“Please don’t leave again,” he whispers, and he knows it's a lie, because:
“Get the fuck out of my fucking house!” Jake screams. There’s tears streaming down his face and anger pulsating so violently in him that the world seems to tilt—he can barely keep himself standing. The floor is made of water, the air is made of water, and his voice drowns in a fury he can’t stop from boiling over.
“Really?!” Rich screams back. He’d been cocky before, confident and suave in a way he only was when recalling or uttering the words of the SQUIP, but now there’s only raw hurt and desperation left. “Really?! Because every fucking time I leave you beg for me to come back within the fucking week. ”
“I don’t need shit from you,” Jake seethes, so sure of himself he takes the initiative to storm into Rich’s bedroom. He tears Rich’s clothes out of his closet and shoves them into Rich’s backpack, then throws the backpack into the hallway.
“Get out.”
But this is said quieter. Even before Rich leaves, even before the fighting and the screaming ends, Jake can feel the silence creeping up on him, the loneliness, the unworthiness. He will sit alone in this apartment until a darkness he doesn’t want to name eats him from the inside out, creeping from the depths of him into his lungs and blood, suffocating him until the only words he can get out are, “Rich, come home.”
And Rich will come home. Because:
“You two act like we used to,” Chloe says. She and Jake are alone at lunch today. Rich has been out of the apartment for almost two weeks now, the longest stretch they’ve ever gone without each other.
“The fuck? No we don’t,” Jake snaps back. He and Rich were nothing like he and Chloe used to be. He’d never loved Chloe. He’d never felt safe around Chloe. With her, it was all for sex. He’s different with Rich. Rich is…different.
“Well, you two act all madly in love, then you get in a relationship-ending fight, then you don’t talk for a couple of days or weeks, then one comes crawling back to the other, you have make up sex, you act all lovey again, but the problem remains, so you two fight again, and you’re stuck in an endless cycle of loving and hating each other.”
“Okay, maybe, but you’re missing one crucial detail: Rich and I aren’t fucking dating.”
“So? Am I wrong?”
Jake and Rich are nothing like Jake and Chloe, because Jake loves Rich, and he’s pretty sure he never loved Chloe.
But one thing she said stuck. Rich hadn’t been home in a long time, and Jake’s pride can’t take another hit—he’s not going to beg Rich to come home—but there are other avenues to get him back…avenues Jake is willing to take because:
“ Fuck ,” Rich bites out. He sounds feverish; desperate. “Fuck, Jake, you’re so good to me, so good, don’t stop—”
He grips at Jake’s hair, pulling at the roots and tangling his fingers in the loose, sweaty curls. Jake can barely focus on the pain it elicits: Rich is about five inches deep into his mouth and the tip of his dick is damn near pressed against the back of Jake’s throat, but hearing Rich moan and beg for more isn’t what Jake’s looking for. He wants more, so he presses down ever so slightly further and picks up his pace. He wants Rich to—
Shit. That. He’d wanted Rich to come in his mouth. Bingo.
He jerks back in surprise, so fast that cum spills out of his mouth. He spats out what remains, unprepared for both the volume and taste.
“Shit,” he hears, but it’s breathless and small. Rich is splayed out on Jake’s bed, eyes closed, mouth hanging open loosely, entirely limp. “Sorry, I didn’t think I was actually gonna—”
“It’s fine,” Jake rasps out, his cheeks pink. He’d never sucked a guy off before. There’d been more of a learning curve than he’d expected, and he’s pretty sure it isn’t exactly hot to sit straight up and spit cum everywhere the second his partner finishes. “I just wasn’t ready.”
Rich hums in response. Jake takes pride in the fact he seems too blissful to do anything else, especially considering Jake knew Rich got around a lot while squipped. He’d had experience, yet Jake’s performance was enough to leave him laying there helplessly.
“Fun?” Jake asks, smirking.
“Shut up.”
“What? It was my first time, I just wanna know how I did,” Jake says as he takes off his shirt and wipes his mouth and chest down with it. He turns to Rich next, cleaning up his stomach and then, more gently, wiping down the rest of it.
“It showed,” Rich whispers.
“What did?”
“Your inexperience.”
Jake slaps him with his cum-covered t-shirt (ew) and Rich doesn’t even react. Instead, he says, “Throw that in the hamper. Then come back.”
Jake does as instructed. When he turns back around to get in bed, Rich has one arm splayed out across the pillows. Jake takes that as an invitation: he curls up next to Rich, his head resting on Rich’s bicep and his arms around Rich’s waist.
“I got you good,” he whispers playfully, and he can’t tell exactly what he means by it. In his head, it was a brag—a testament to his skills, but when the words slip out, they’re more fond than he intended, more gentle.
Rich just says, “I’m glad to be home.”
And Jake agrees, because:
Rich puts a plate of salmon and broccoli down on Jake’s desk.
“Jake,” he says, “You need to eat.”
Jake doesn’t take his eyes off his computer screen. It’s a fucking application—an internship. It comes with a scholarship, but Jake doesn’t need money. He needs the work experience before college. He needs his resume jam-packed with the best shit there is.
Rich stands there patiently, waiting for his presence to finally register in Jake’s mind.
It takes a moment, but finally Jake’s gaze shifts from the screen to Rich’s face. His eyes widened slightly in surprise at the sight of him. He hadn’t realized he was there.
“Jake?” Rich prompts. Jake may have only had the SQUIP in his head for a total of fifteen minutes, he doesn’t have the same body-language mind-reading abilities of Rich, but he was coherent enough to sense the concern in Rich’s voice.
So he sits up straighter. He blinks once, twice, to clear the blurriness from his eyes—he leans back, smiles, forces his hands to relax at his side as he looks Rich up and down, a cocky confidence on his face. He’s a charmer, afterall.
“Yes, gorgeous?”
Rich doesn’t blush. Not that Jake expects him to, or wants him to, or relishes in the feeling whenever he does. But he doesn’t, so it doesn’t matter.
Instead, he lets out a small, almost defeated sigh.
“Jake,” he says, and his voice is so small it barely takes up the space between them. Jake’s smile drops. “You can’t pull this shit on me. The SQUIP knows all—” Jake recognizes that phrase and braces for the blow, “---so the SQUIP can sense when Jake’s losing his mind.”
And there it is. Jake tenses as the insult hits his ribcage dead-center.
“Really?” he snaps back, but even he can hear the weakness behind it. There’s no venom. He doesn’t want to fight. He’s tired. He wants to keep working on his application. “Does the SQUIP also know that arson is a felony?”
Here it comes. Jake knows Rich well enough to know where to stick the knife when he wants the wound to hurt. And when Rich is hurt, he’s angry. And when Rich is angry, Jake is angry, and when Jake is angry he kicks Rich out, and when Rich gets kicked out Jake is miserable, so Jake begs for him back and the cycle starts all over. He knows it’s been too long—Rich has been home for a solid month now with no fights. It had been looming on the horizon for days now, brewing even as Jake and Rich actively ignored it.
And now it’s here, and it’s going to tear the walls down and flood every room in the house and—
Rich touches Jake’s shoulder with his fingertips then, confidence boosted when Jake didn’t immediately jerk away, his full hand. He runs his thumb over Jake’s t-shirt in a circular motion, slow and almost mindless. His eyes are fixed in Jake’s face even as Jake lowers his head in shame.
“Don’t do this to me,” Rich whispers. “Please don’t make us do this again. I don’t want it. I’m tired. You’re tired—you’re exhausted , and I don’t think you really want to fight either.”
No, Jake wants to say, no, stop it, I know you’re angry—you’re angry just like I am, you’re always angry, but he can’t get the words past his lips. Not when Rich is kneeling down in front of him, taking both his hands in his, and whispering, lips against Jake’s knuckles as he kisses them, “Just come to bed with me, baby.”
“Yeah,” Jake gets out, surprised at how difficult it is to get the word out past the lump in his throat. He bites down hard on his lip to keep it from trembling. He’s not going to cry, he’s got no real reason to cry, and yet his eyes burn. He blinks, just once, and a tear falls into his lap.
“Jake, oh, baby, c’mere—”
All the fight fades out of Jake as Rich cups Jake’s face with his hands and kisses his forehead. He’s limp and ashamed as Rich leads him by the hands to his bed. Rich crawls in first, dragging Jake behind him. Jake buries his face first in the pillows then in Rich’s shirt, taking every opportunity to hide himself from view. It’s instinctive, to hide when crying. He can’t look Rich in the eyes. Can’t see the sympathy, the worry, the helplessness. All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and let Rich hold him close, his hands running up and down Jake’s back as he whispers, “It’s okay baby, it’s okay,” until his voice quiets and all Jake can hear is his own breathing.
He stays the night—he even sleeps for a couple hours—wrapped up in Rich’s arms like a child, but when the sun rises and illuminates Rich’s sleeping face, the shame sinks its claws into Jake’s lungs until he can’t breathe.
Rich, beautiful Rich, eyes closed, peaceful. Rich, violent Rich destroying Jake’s house, his life, his sense of self, his ability to trust—Rich, who he cannot forgive. But:
Warm water runs down Rich’s bare back. Jake’s fucking freezing, standing half a foot behind Rich as he washes the shampoo out of his hair. Jake watches, goosebumps covering his skin as he waits patiently for Rich to finish and give Jake his turn under the showerhead. He knows he’s allowed to be closer now, to hold Rich from behind and kiss his neck and shoulders as Rich washes his hair—Rich almost seems to crave affection like that at times, but sex is the solution to the fighting, not…not whatever that is. So he stands, cold and helpless, until Rich turns to see his pathetic figure.
“God, you look ridiculous,” he laughs, oblivious to the war tearing Jake apart from the inside out. He doesn’t even hesitate as he squeezes shampoo into his hands and then plops it onto Jake’s head, an easy smile on his face. He massages it through Jake’s hair and Jake is so malleable under his touch that when he’s done, Rich has to take the time to direct Jake under the stream of water to rinse out the bubbles.
“Are you okay, baby?” he asks as he presses a light kiss on Jake’s nose, then his lips. Shower water gets in his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Jake nods dumbly and doesn’t forgive, but:
“So,” Charlie says. Rich had just left to go to the bathroom, leaving Jake alone with his brother for the first time. Ever. “I’ve gotta say, I admire your maturity.”
“Wha-What?”
Jake’s nervous. He’s so fucking nervous he can’t even talk. He knows Charlie makes or breaks him—if Charlie hates Jake, then Rich won’t date him. Or— fuck , not date, they’re not dating. If Charlie doesn’t like Jake, then Rich will cut off whatever’s going on between them.
Jake’s been on his best behavior. While Charlie’s been in town, he’s done more chores than he’s done in the rest of his life combined. He folded the laundry—not just his, but Rich’s too. Then spent half an hour opening and closing drawers, trying to figure out where everything goes. (He hadn’t realized he’d like Rich’s smile when he found all his clothes put away so much. The look he gave Jake left the room spinning.)
“Man, I mean I love Rich so much obviously, but even I can admit he’s done some majorly fucked up shit. I would’ve never forgiven him if he did to me what he did to you. So I guess, thanks for looking past that. He’s—I don’t want to blame my dad for everything, cause I know it wasn’t all him, but Rich didn’t have it easy, so he’s not—it’s not that—.” Jake grips the kitchen counter a little harder. He forgets. So often, he can forget. But there’s a reason Rich is here and not at his real home and it’s the same reason Rich probably got a SQUIP in the first place.
“I’m the one who’s lucky to have him,” Jake tries, a smile made of glass on his face. Charlie must notice because a quick flash of sympathy crosses his face.
“Yeah,” he responds, “Yeah, but I think he knows he’s pretty damn lucky to have a person like you in his life too. And he deserves some luck—I think it might be his first time ever having any—so just, don’t fuck it up.”
The weight of his words drapes over Jake’s shoulders. The responsibility feels almost immeasurable. Jake’s seen Rich when he’s happy—seen him at his best, confident and loud and excited for whatever could come his way. But he’s also seen Rich at his worst. He was there, the days before the fire. He watched Rich’s sanity fracture and he hadn’t done a thing to stop it. He’d seen him in the hospital afterwards, too, limp and broken. He hadn’t been able to stop it.
I would’ve never forgiven him.
Charlie said that assuming Jake had. Assuming he’s actually grown to look past all that has happened. He trusted Jake with Rich’s life because he thought Jake had forgiven him.
But he can’t. He can’t. But:
Rich slides up next to Jake like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Jake drapes his arm over Rich’s shoulders and pulls him in ever so slightly closer, just enough to grasp onto some of his warmth. He feels Rich smile.
“How’re you?” Rich whispers like it’s a secret, like no one in the crowded lunchroom can seem them pressed up against each other.
“Damn, you’re reducing me to small talk?”
“Not small talk, dummy, just making sure my boyfriend had a good day.”
Boyfriend. Jake doesn’t deserve that title. He hasn’t forgiven him. He can’t. But:
Rich crawled into bed next to Jake at some point last night. Jake isn’t sure when, he must’ve slept through it, but he’s awake now and Rich is in his bed.
“Rich?” he whispered, groggy and confused, “The fuck are you doing here?”
They’re dating. Maybe. But their rooms are separate still, the relationship too tentative to venture further. They need space. Still. Even though the walls between them seem to pound with a deep set coldness that chills Jake to his bones and he lays in a bed by himself every night.
“Nightmare,” he breathes in response, eyes still closed, mostly asleep.
Jake lets out a quiet laugh and pulls Rich a little closer. He imagines him like a child scared of the monster under his bed, creeping into his parents’ room, too embarrassed to wake them up.
“Yeah?” Jake replies, a soft smile on his face, “‘Bout what?”
“Fire.”
One word. Jake’s heart drops.
“Oh. Since when—is this the first—are you okay?”
Rich shrugs and cuddles up closer to Jake’s bare chest, his nose pressed up against him. Jake doesn’t say anything for a moment, but the realization sets in that Rich probably isn’t asleep at all. Probably hasn’t been all night. But the same shame that had Jake hiding when he cried now has Rich with his eyes closed, false grogginess layered in his voice to avoid conversation and eye contact.
“Is this the first time?” Jake presses, prodding gently at the wound he knows is still red and angry. He doesn’t know how to alleviate the pain, but watching it fester makes his stomach turn.
Rich shakes his head but otherwise doesn’t move.
“How often?”
Rich shrugs.
“Baby—” it breaks Jake’s heart to pull away, but he forces himself too and lifts Rich’s chin up with his finger to look him in the eye, “---baby, talk to me. How often?”
He watches Rich consider the question, watches as Rich examines Jake’s face, searching for anger, or maybe for empathy—or maybe for forgiveness, and Jake’s starting to think maybe Rich can find traces of it if he really looks. Finally, he lets out a small sigh.
“I dunno, Jake. Every once and a while. Not as often now, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
Rich escapes Jake’s grasp and pushes himself away. He glares at the wall with a ferocity Jake didn’t know he could have so early in the morning.
“What would you have said?” he whispers. Jake can hear the unshed tears in his words—he watches as Rich swallows hard and purses his lips to hide the trembling.
“Rich, I never would’ve—”
No. It’s unimaginable to Jake now, yelling at Rich for being afraid, for feeling pain from Halloween, but he hasn’t forgotten the weeks afterward during which he’d poked and prodded at Rich whenever he could, sneaking insults in whenever possible, glaring at Rich both when he was and wasn’t looking. He remembers the burning jealousy as everyone fawned over Rich’s injuries, remembers specifically the time he’d snapped in the hospital and screamed at Rich for almost ten minutes— you have no idea what you’ve done to me, you can’t know the pain you’ve caused, cut the fucking crying out you don’t deserve it, how could you, I hate you—
“Yeah, Jake, you would’ve.”
Jake nods once in confirmation. He studies Rich. The glassiness of his eyes, the slowly-appearing freckles on his nose. The heat of him is almost unbearable—Jake feels him under his palms, against his chest. He feels Rich’s breath against his neck, and realizes he cannot imagine a place safer than this. There is no one in the world, no amount of money, no time that could pass, no new loves that could leave him so relaxed. Nowhere else he could lay like this, almost limp, watching the man he loves in golden-morning sunlight. He can close his eyes without worry that when he’s not looking, someone will take a knife to his back.
“Rich,” he whispers, but it’s so quiet that Rich doesn’t even . He squeezes Rich’s hands tenderly to get his attention. Almost mechanically, Rich’s gaze shifts to him. Under the weight of it, the words Jake wants to say suddenly feel clumsy in his mouth. He has to fight to get his voice to work—but he fights that battle with no regrets, and once the words fall out all it’s like a stone dissolves in his lungs.
“Rich, I’m so sorry. I was so hurt—and I know you know that, and I know now that it’s not an excuse—but really, I was so fucking hurt. I didn’t know what to do with myself. And usually when someone hurts me, it’s the kind of pain I can silently bear for the rest of my life—yes, I’ll make my passive aggressive comments, but I’ll survive. It was different with you. I could barely breathe. And I missed you so much. I was so angry, I was so hurt, but I just—I wanted you. All of the time. I wanted you back. And I couldn’t handle it. I’ve never had to forgive anyone before. My parents are gone, I’ll never have to look them in the eye and accept all the pain they’ve caused me. Chloe and I are broken up, I never have to trust her even after all that’s happened between us. But with you? I couldn’t stand being apart, but every time you were there all I wanted to do was run and hide and it was awful, but you—you’ve been patient with me, and I know it was so hard and it sucked and we fought all the time but you’re here and I don’t want to be with anyone else and I trust you and I want you to trust me too so I’m so fucking sorry for everything I’ve ever said or done that made you think I’m not going to be here for you until I’m dead and buried six feet under, and even then I’m not sure if I’ll be able to stay away from you.”
Rich stares, wide-eyed, until the dam breaks and the room floods with a weightless water that washes away the ashes still sticking to their clothes and skin. He grabs at Jake, desperate to get him closer, until their bodies are pressed so close Jake can’t tell where he ends—Rich kisses his mouth, then his jaw, his cheeks, his neck, whispering on repeat, “Thank you, I’m so sorry, I love you, I’m sorry, please—”
Jake cuts off his torrent of words with one long, warm, forgiving kiss. Because:
Rich is asleep on Jake’s shoulder. They’re being adventurous and taking the train to New York—no car, no friends, no map, just them and a vague plan to watch at least one Broadway show while they’re there. It was a spontaneous and romantic decision, one that Jake was proud of.
He’s wide awake. He’s never been able to sleep on anything that moves. But the second they’d sat down, Rich had conked out. It’d been like this for almost an hour, Rich asleep on Jake’s shoulder and Jake just sitting there, idly running his fingers up and down Rich’s bicep.
It was all worth it. He knows it for sure now, with Rich curled up next to him. He knows Rich is worth it. Not just forgiveness—not just the pleasantness of where they’re at right now, with everything going well, with only smiles and kisses and trust. Rich is worth every fight they will ever have. He is worth screaming matches and tears. He’s worth breathing through the anger. He’s worth learning how to diminish the screaming into talking, worth the vulnerability of saying I want you, and I want to feel wanted.
Worth all the trust Jake's learning to put in him.