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Jack blames Luke.
Which isn’t fair, and he knows that, but Jack’s not thinking rationally right now. Not when he’s the one who’s gone and fucked up, who’s gotten them and their carefully kept secret caught, exposed, discovered. Jack hadn’t expected it to be himself who did it.
It wasn’t going to be Quinn, because of course it wasn’t. He’s sturdy and dependable, able to keep a secret like his life is on the line, and in this case, it actually is. Therefore, Jack had assumed it was going to be Luke. You see, Jack’s not a big blabbermouthed fuck, despite what the haters (and some of his fans) think. Not about this, at least.
Therefore – Luke. It was always going to be him, Jack was positive about it. He feels a little bad for assuming it’d be Luke, but could he really be blamed? Young and naïve, Luke would say or do the wrong thing, and someone too important, too dangerous, would find out, and that would be the end of everything. Game over. Truth exposed. No more hockey, no more fame. The Hughes brothers would be hunted down and killed for being monsters.
Instead, it’s Jack who’s gotten them caught, and in the worst way, too. His mouth is dripping with blood, fangs threatening to pierce his skin from there they sit heavy and incriminating against his bottom lip, and his gaze is fixed on Nico. His Nico.
Nico, who’s not looking at him with fear or disgust, the way he should be. He’s just… looking. Like he can’t tear his eyes away. And maybe that makes sense, considering how jarring this must all be, but still. It makes Jack insecure, weirdly enough, and he wants to turn away, but he can’t. It’s like he transfixed, stuck in place by the power of Nico’s gaze. It’s upsetting and disorienting to Jack’s already overwhelmed brain. He’s supposed to be the seductive monster here, not Nico.
(Jack is valiantly choosing to ignore the many times Nico’s damn near seduced him with a smile, a wink, a simple bit of praise and nothing more. If he thinks about that for too long, he might start questioning things he hasn’t questioned in years.)
A boiling hot bead of blood trickles over the swell of Jack’s bottom lip, dripping off a fang and slipping over his chin. It’s probably leaving a patchy pink streak behind, one that Jack’s seen on his skin, on Luke and Quinn’s too, a hundred times before, but it’s swallowed up by the ragged hem of his hoodie before he can think to stop it, or turn and look in the nearest mirror.
Nico still hasn’t looked away.
Jack wants to say something, anything, but he can’t, mouth thick with recently swallowed blood. Nico’s still fucking staring and it’s making Jack itch, something deep-rooted and ugly rearing its head inside his sternum, a visceral reminder that he’s probably never going to be the one Nico chooses. Jack isn’t sure whether he wants to tamp the feeling down harder or rip his chest open and let it free instead.
Nico steps closer then, and Jack’s breath hitches. An old, human habit, really. He doesn’t need to breathe, not really. Not anymore. The shift of his mouth causes him to taste blood on his tongue, the depth of it rich and suffocating, freely given by a human who knows about the vampiric side of the world, the plastic blood bag on the floor in the periphery of his vision serving as a reminder of what he was doing mere moments before Nico walked in and ruined it all.
Maybe.
Jack blinks Nico’s sweetly handsome face into focus again when he feels the warmth of Nico’s hand on his jaw. He’s dragging a crooked finger over the curve of Jack’s chin, collecting the second free-flowing bead of blood in the bend of the digit before he’s gently pressing it against Jack’s mouth. There’s something encouraging about it all, steadfast captain reassurance radiating from his actions.
Jack opens with an almost embarrassing ease, tongue lapping at the knuckle of Nico’s fingers, tasting the runaway blood. He’s like a starved kitten, one hand shooting up to curl around Nico’s wrist, holding him in place. Nico’s breath stutters, a ragged gasp falling from his tongue, and Jack flicks his eyes up to ascertain what Nico’s feeling.
It's a kick to the gut when Jack realises it’s not fear in Nico’s eyes. It’s almost… lust.
With a soft noise that’s half moan, half hum, Jack lets his eyes slipped close, tongue still lathering wet and sloppy, frothy with pinkish spit, against Nico’s knuckle. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that streaks of spit are making their way down Nico’s hand, pooling in his palm and dripping off his enticing wrist. The tackiness greets his palm from where he and Nico are joined.
If Jack couldn’t feel the thickness of Nico’s bones underneath his fangs, he’s sure he would’ve bitten down by now, desirous and eager and greedy for more blood. For Nico’s blood. He almost wants to do it anyways, to sink his teeth through flesh until the sweet, glorious taste of Nico graces his wanting tongue.
Nico gently prises his finger free from the heat trap that is Jack’s mouth, replacing it with his wrist before Jack can whine in protest. He stares at Nico incredulously. There’s no way, right? But Nico merely smiles and nudges the pulsing tick of his wrist against Jack’s mouth. Jack groans and latches onto the human warmth of Nico’s skin.
A shiver ripples through Nico’s frame and when Jack looks up again, lips gently sucking at the swell of Nico’s vein, Nico smiles and flexes his arm. It makes the vein pulse and Jack groans again, eyes rolling back briefly. He adjusts his mouth, let’s the sharpened tips of his teeth grace Nico’s skin.
He presses his fangs against Nico’s most prominent vein, and he bites.