Work Text:
The midnight air in Wilmington is thick, heavy with the swampy humidity of a Delaware July. Mosquitoes buzz in the stagnant heat around the perimeter of the New Castle Body Sculpting Clinic, but Tyler doesn’t seem to notice. He moves like a creature native to the dark, all loose limbs and restless, kinetic energy. Before Jack can even calculate the height of the chain-link fence, Tyler is already halfway up it. His boots find traction in the diamond-shaped gaps with practiced ease, his fingers hooking through the wire. He rolls over the top, dropping down onto the gravel on the other side with a soft, muted thud.
"Come on, gray-sky," Tyler calls out in a harsh whisper, his eyes gleaming through the shadows.
He bounces on the balls of his feet, his fingers twitching against his thighs. His ADHD makes inaction physical agony; he can't just wait, he has to vibrate with the anticipation of the next movement. Jack sighs, the sound catching in his throat. Ever since his apartment exploded, leaving his perfectly cataloged life in smoldering ruins, he has been tethered to Tyler’s chaotic orbit. Moving into the dilapidated house on Paper Street was supposed to be a temporary refuge, but over the last two months, something shifted. Jack looks at Tyler—really looks at him, with his bruised knuckles, his shredded faux-fur coat, and his absolute, terrifying freedom—and feels a dangerous, aching pull that has nothing to do with gratitude and everything to do with wanting.
Jack grips the cold metal of the fence and begins to climb. He is clumsy, his work shoes slipping against the wire. When he reaches the top, the rusted barbs of the wire catch the cotton of his button-down shirt. He freezes, stuck at the apex, wobbling dangerously like a loose goober rolling across the dashboard.
"Whoa, whoa, hold on," Tyler says, scaling back up the inside of the fence in a heartbeat.
He reaches out, his large, calloused hands instantly making contact with Jack’s waist to steady him. But Tyler doesn't just hold him. Tyler’s hands wander, sliding up Jack’s ribcage, his thumbs sweeping over the fabric of Jack’s trousers. Tyler is hypersexual by nature, a man who communicates through touch, friction, and heat, never pausing to think about boundaries or consequences. Jack’s breath hitches. He doesn't pull away. He lets him. He leans into the touch, his heart hammering against his ribs, paralyzed by the sheer thrill of Tyler’s hands on his body.
"Tyler—" Jack gasps, but the shift in weight is too much.
The fabric of Jack's shirt tears with a loud, sharp rip, and he loses his footing entirely. He plummets backward, but Tyler anticipates the fall. Tyler shifts his weight, absorbing the brunt of Jack's impact as they tumble into the weeds and gravel together.
Tyler’s chest is solid against Jack’s back, a warm, heavy weight. For a second, neither of them moves. Tyler’s breath is hot against the nape of Jack’s neck, a low grunt vibrating in his chest. Then, Tyler pulls Jack to his feet by his waist, his hands lingering a beat too long on Jack’s hips before letting go. Before Jack can apologize for the ripped shirt, a sharp crunch of gravel echoes from the front of the clinic. A sweeping beam of white light cuts through the humid dark.
"Move," Tyler whispers.
He grabs the front of Jack's torn shirt, dragging him down behind the nearest of dozens of rusted, industrial dumpsters lining the back lot. The smell of rotting garbage and chemical bleach hits Jack instantly, but he barely registers it because Tyler is pressed flush against him. They are crammed into the narrow, filthy gap between the metal bin and the brick wall. Tyler’s knee is wedged between Jack’s thighs, and his arm is slung over Jack’s shoulder, pinning him close. Jack can feel the rapid, erratic thumping of Tyler’s heart.
Through the gap, the silhouette of a security guard appears. The man looks bored, swinging a heavy flashlight lazily across the fenced-in enclosure. The beam glints off the chain-link wire, skimming just over the top of their dumpster. Jack holds his breath until his lungs burn, staring at the sharp line of Tyler’s jaw just inches from his own face. Tyler isn't looking at the guard; he’s looking down at Jack, his eyes dark, his lips parted in a reckless, silent grin. The guard gives a heavy sigh, turns on his heel, and walks back toward the heavy steel door of the clinic. The door clicks shut, and the outdoor floodlight flickers, leaving them in relative darkness again.
Jack lets out a long, ragged exhale, his shoulders sagging. "That was too close."
"That was living, Jack," Tyler says, already moving. He steps out of the alcove, his restlessness driving him forward as he eagerly grabs the heavy lid of the closest dumpster.
Jack steps out behind him, his eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight. He freezes when he sees the stark, bright orange sticker pasted across the metal. "Tyler, wait. Look at the sign." Printed in bold, black letters over the warning label is the word: BIOHAZARD.
Tyler doesn't even blink. He grips the handle of the lid. "The best fat for making soap—because the salt balance is just right—comes from human bodies."
Tyler throws his weight back, lifting the heavy lid. It gives a loud, metallic creak that makes Jack flinch, expecting the guard to burst back through the door. Jack closes his eyes, inhaling a sharp breath, terrified of what he is about to see. When he opens them, Tyler is leaning over the rim, plunging his arms into the depths of the dumpster. He grunts, his biceps flexing under his jacket as he hauls out a massive, industrial-sized plastic bag. The plastic is thick, but it’s translucent enough to reveal a heavy, shifting mass of thick, pale-pink goo.
A sickly-sweet, chemical-and-iron stench hits Jack’s nose. It’s the smell of old blood mixed with antiseptic and stale tissue. Jack gags, instinctively turning his face away, his hand flying over his mouth. His eyes wander to the side of the adjacent building, focusing on the sleek, corporate font etched into the glass of the back entrance: NEW CASTLE BODY SCULPTING CLINIC.
"Relax, babe," Tyler says, his voice dropping into that smooth, hypnotic cadence he uses whenever he wants to sell Jack on a beautiful disaster. He sets the heavy bag on the gravel with a wet slosh. Seeing Jack’s pale face and wide, horrified stare, Tyler’s expression softens just a fraction—a rare glimpse of genuine tenderness breaking through his manic facade. He steps closer, wiping a smudge of grease onto his jeans. "It's all from the asses and thighs of rich women. Paydirt. They pay thousands of dollars to have it sucked out, and we take it for free." Tyler reaches out, his thumb catching a bead of sweat on Jack's temple, dragging it down his cheekbone. "I'll show you in the kitchen tonight. As the fat renders, the tallow floats to the surface of the water."
There is something so grounded, so strangely domestic about the way Tyler talks about the kitchen, about rendering and floating tallow, that the horror evaporates from Jack's mind. It grounds him. It makes the grotesque feel like art, or at least like a shared secret between the two of them. Jack looks from Tyler’s eyes down to the dumpster.
He takes a breath, nods, and steps forward. "Give me another bag."
Together, they dig. For twenty minutes, they work in a feverish, silent rhythm, hoisting the heavy, cold bags of discarded human tissue out of the bin. The return trip over the fence is a disaster. Each of them is carrying three heavy, awkward bags of fat, the plastic slick with condensation and grease. Tyler goes over first, tossing his bags over the top before vaulting the wire with his usual chaotic grace. Jack follows, hoisting his weight up, but as he tries to swing his leg over, the sharp barbs catch the bottom of his second bag. There is a sharp pop, followed by a horrific tearing sound.
"Tyler!" Jack yells.
The bag splits wide open. A massive, gelatinous torrent of pink human goo erupts from the tear, cascading down the chain-link fence like a slow-motion waterfall. It hits Jack’s trousers first, soaking through the fabric of his khakis, cold and unctuously thick. It pours into his shoes, squelching between his toes. Jack loses his grip entirely. He slips down the inside of the fence, his feet finding absolutely no purchase on the grease-slicked wire. He slides to the bottom in a heap, completely covered from the waist down in high-end Wilmington lipid waste.
Tyler stares at him through the fence for a fraction of a second. Then, a massive, booming laugh breaks from his chest. It’s loud, uninhibited, and completely infectious. Jack looks down at his ruined clothes, his ruined shoes, and the absurd, pink mess dripping from the fence. A bubble of hysteria rises in his throat, and before he can stop it, he starts laughing too. It’s a breathless, ragged sound—the sound of a man who has completely given up on sanity.
"We can work with one less," Tyler shouts over their mutual laughter, leaning against the fence for support. "When the tallow separates, there will be a clear layer on top. It's glycerin. We can mix it back in when we make the soap!"
Tyler reaches over the top of the fence, his long arms straining as he grabs Jack by the armpits to haul him over. Jack scrambles, completely lubricated by the fat, and tumbles over the top barbs. They both hit the dirt on the outside of the perimeter fence, landing in a tangled, breathless heap. The impact knocks the wind out of Jack, but Tyler is still roaring with laughter, his face flushed, his chest heaving against Jack’s side. Jack tries to stand, planting his hands on the ground, but his palms are coated in grease. His arms shoot out from under him, and he falls flat on his face. Tyler fruitlessly tries to catch Jack by his waist, flailing like a goof when he immediately slips on the grease-soaked grass, landing squarely on his rear.
They are stuck in a slapstick nightmare of human fat. Every attempt to gain traction results in another slide, another tumble, their bodies colliding and sliding against one another in the dark. Their laughter grows louder, echoing off the clinic's brick walls, completely reckless.
The heavy steel door of the clinic bangs open again. "Hey! Who's out there?" a voice barks. The beam of the flashlight cuts through the night, cutting across the gravel path as it moves toward the perimeter fence.
Jack’s eyes go wide. "Tyler, the guard!" he wheezes, but he can barely get the words out because he is still laughing so hard his ribs ache.
Tyler isn't panicked. He looks at Jack, his face lit up with absolute, manic joy. He reaches out, his slimy, grease-covered hand wrapping firmly around Jack’s equally slick hand. He squeezes tight, interlocking their fingers.
"Up," Tyler commands, his voice thick with mirth.
They make one desperate, synchronized effort. They push themselves up, their boots sliding wildly in the grass, and for a second, they wobble like newborns on ice. They fall down one more time, landing hard on their backs, the absurdity of the situation completely overwhelming them. They are hysterical now, tears pricking Jack’s eyes as he grips Tyler’s hand like a lifeline. With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, Tyler hauls Jack to his feet. They abandon the ruined bags, each managing to clamp a single, unbroken bag of fat under their free arms. They stagger away from the fence line, their legs flailing, sliding, and splashing through the dark.
They round the corner of the brick building just as the flashlight beam hits the spot where they had been lying. They sprint down the alleyway, the squelch of Jack's shoes marking every step, until Tyler yanks Jack violently to the left, pulling him into a deep, shadowed brick alcove between two abandoned warehouses. They hit the back wall hard. Tyler immediately drops his bag of fat and throws himself against Jack, pinning him into the corner.
"Shh," Tyler breathes, though he can barely contain himself.
To stifle the noise, Tyler slaps his hand over Jack’s mouth. Jack, acting on pure instinct, raises his own grease-stained hand and presses it over Tyler’s lips. They stand there in the suffocating July heat, drenched in human fat, their hearts hammering against each other's chests in a frantic, syncopated rhythm. Through their fingers, they can feel the desperate, muffled vibrations of each other's laughter. Tyler’s eyes are burning into Jack’s, bright and completely alive in the dark. He leans his forehead against Jack’s, the grease on their skin mingling, blurring the lines of where one man ends and the other begins.
Jack looks into Tyler's eyes and realizes, with absolute certainty, that he would follow this man into any dumpster, any fire, any life Tyler wanted to build. As the footsteps of the guard fade into the distance, Tyler's tongue licks against the palm of Jack's hand, and Jack doesn't pull away.