Chapter Text
“I know you see it, too.”
It’s true. Marc sees it all: He smokes his cigarettes almost too slowly now, and accompanies them everywhere, everywhere. He clings onto their shirts and fingers like a child as he walks by their side, never breaking contact. His brows are constantly furrowed, his lips wear a frown. He doesn’t argue with them about anything at all. He barely speaks at all, and when he does, it’s usually in inquiries that require Marc and Steven to speak more so than him. He pinches at the soft skin of his wrists repeatedly to keep from dissociating around them. He looks like he’s about to cry all the time.
Jake has changed a lot since that one mission, and Marc and Steven have no idea why.
They’ve tried confronting him, of course, but Jake just brushed them off and asked about their days and how they feel instead. Steven has even tried asking Khonshu, and of course, the pigeon was cryptic and ultimately useless. Marc knew that it must have to do with the mission in which they’d all felt Jake’s gunshot wound, and understood where Jake’s fright and worry comes from, but he doesn’t know why it’s stretching on this bad.
They’re both clueless to the fact that Jake knows and blues over: They will not be together in death.
Head ahead, eyes staring into Khonshu’s voids for eyes through the rearview mirror, angry tears escaping as the god mocks him for thinking he’d go to heaven, let alone still be tethered to Marc and Steven in an afterlife.
“Your existence isn’t even approved of by the gods. They have not forgiven me for giving you this life,” Khonshu said casually, then scoffed to himself. “You think they’d let all three of you make friendship bracelets in the afterlife? I knew you were delusional, but in death, too?”
The streetlights all look blurry. He doesn’t want to know what street he’s on or where he’s headed. “So, what happens to me and Steven…?”
“Look into my eyes again and you’ll know.”
Black holes.
Void.
Darkness.
Nothingness.
He couldn’t bring himself to scoff or mock or lift the corners of his lips to smirk and fight back. This was heartbreak.
“This is what Steven and I are promised? I fought for you and by you as your slave, and this is what I’m promised? Nothing? Eternal darkness?”
The depression he fell into from there was brutal, and as though sorry and pitiful, the god didn’t employ him for missions. It’s been three weeks of trying to savor and spend every minute with Marc and Steven as though they were all going to die within the next minute. He knows they’re confused, knows they’re worried, knows he barely gives them any privacy as he clings onto them and silently follows them around, and he doesn’t care. In his mind, he keeps hearing the maddening whisper of you’re going to die alone, alone, alone, over and over again. Marc and Steven’s presence is the only remedy to keep it at bay.
“To be loved is to be seen,” Steven says when Marc sighs at Jake’s state. “Perhaps we just need to let him know that, eh? Give him a little reassurance that we see these changes and wanna be there for him?”
“Doesn’t he know it already?” Marc says with a frown.
Steven shrugs with a smile. “Wouldn’t hurt to make sure he does.”
They’ve been whispering on the bed in the very few minutes that Jake wasn’t around as he was in the bathroom. With Jake always by their side, it was hard to talk about the Latino so freely. At some point they’d wanted to plan something for him to cheer him up a little, but Jake had quickly figured that out and asked them not to bother.
Jake comes out of the bathroom quickly, goes to sit with them silently.
“Your stache needs a trim and so does your hair,” Marc says. His hand reaches out to comb his fingers through the long strands. Jake shuts his eyes in a moment of bliss, but Marc (the doughnut, Steven thought) didn’t think much of it. “What if I give you a haircut and tame this situation going on?” Marc’s hand casually caresses Jake’s cheeks, examining what he needs to trim and shave.
“Sure,” Jake says.
“I’ll get the supplies then.”
Marc gets up, and Jake moves to take his seat on the kitchen table instead. Steven just stares at them in silence as they set everything up. They don’t have a cape, so Jake just takes his shirt off. He’s somewhat excited for this. He’s always been the one to do his own hair and shave. Nobody has ever done anything for him, especially not like this.
“What made you wanna do this?” Jake asks as Marc wets his hair.
“Meh, saw that you’ve not been yourself lately. Thought maybe this would help.”
He knows exactly what Marc means and doesn’t argue. He really wants to savor this moment, so he looks at Marc from the mirror. Sees as he gives his hair all his attention. The sound of the scissors and water spray lull him, and Marc’s fingers brushing through his hair every now and then make him feel dizzy.
Then there’s Marc’s breathy whispers in his ears. “Turn your head a little,” with his gentle fingertips under his chin to move him. A satisfied hum when the hair falls exactly where he wants it to. “Atta boy,” Marc says when Jake has memorized his moves by now and tilts his head without Marc asking, and Jake’s heart swells.
Then he moves onto shaving his face and trimming his beard, and Marc is too focused to realize he’s way too close to his face, and Jake can feel Marc’s breath on his lips. He knows they’re right in front of each other, but it makes Jake yearn. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. The earth may engulf them, but they will not have this moment again. There will be a day where he will feel Marc’s breath and attention on him for the very last time.
He suddenly feels that he should ask Steven to kiss again, and to ask Marc to please please please kiss me, too. He doesn’t want to force them, but he thinks he needs to feel and connect to them in every way possible. But… but how does he ask? How does he say it without outing the secret he’s trying to protect?
Marc’s thumb brushes away the hair that falls on his face. “Hmm, looks pretty even to me,” he whispers, and backs away completely to look at his work.
“How do I look?” Jake rasps out.
“You can check the mirror…” Marc says but realizes Jake’s eyes are on him despite handing him a mirror. To be loved is to be seen, he recalls. “You look handsome, Jake,” he says. “Right, Steven?”
Steven gets up to ruffle his hair and kiss the top of his head. “Always, love.”
Jake doesn’t respond—too busy holding his tongue back from saying please please please.
“Something’s wrong with you, love,” Steven says from the passenger seat.
“Nothing’s wrong, Ste—”
“I know what it is though,” Steven interrupts with a sigh.
Jake’s been driving since he was twelve years old. The first time was when Wendy had wanted to suffocate him with a noose she had tied herself. He was asleep and didn’t know what was it that was around his neck, but once he gathered his senses, he had kicked her hard enough to get her off him and ran out of the house. On his way out, he picked up the keys to the sleeping Witness’ car, and in a moment of absolute panic, tried to mimic what he had been seeing people do. He crashed the car into a neighbor’s house, which justified the bruises they’d see him wear as a consequence of the action rather than Wendy absolutely losing her shit and taking it out on him.
From that moment onwards, he knew he wanted to learn how to drive, and most importantly, to drive responsibly enough to ensure he’s never the one getting hurt. However, with Steven telling him he knows exactly what troubles him, makes him a little too nervous to be entirely responsible. He goes into an empty parking lot and parks there instead.
“Why’d you park here?”
“Tell me what you know.”
Steven sighs, adjusts his body so that he’s facing him. “Look, last night while Marc was cutting your hair, I… okay, gotta admit, I psychoanalyzed you.”
Jake doesn’t know if that’s good or bad, so he just simply blinks at him.
“Jake… darling… what do you need?” Steven murmurs.
¿Qué?
“¿Qué?”
Steven eyes him and groans. “I’m not the best at these kinda conversations. But… Jake, are you… touch starved?”
Jake’s relieved to know that Steven hasn’t cracked the code about what exactly it is that fuels his melancholy, but he doesn’t exactly know how to respond to this.
“It’s okay to have wants and desires, Jake. You know that, right?”
“I don’t know that, no.” He doesn’t have it in him to lie, especially not to Steven.
Steven frowns, but despite that, he’s relieved to know that all Jake truly needs by the end of the day is some reassurance. “Well, I’m here to tell you it’s okay, alright? And that I can take care of you, dear. All that you’ve got to do is let me, alright?”
Steven’s voice sounds so soothing to Jake’s aching head, but not to his body. His body aches and aches and aches more with every word uttered, and he knows that Steven’s right. His body feels ice cold, and all he wants to do is set it on fire and not die. How does he ask for that? Can he just look at Steven and for Steven to know? He could only hope so in the way he looks back at him.
And Steven sees him. Sees all of him. Through and through and completely and without bounds. He sees a plea, sees a need, sees a handsome face and recognizes that he, too, has wants and desires.
“Come here, love,” Steven commands in a soft whisper, and Jake obeys.
He sinks into him immediately. His lips are on him in less than a second. But the position is rather uncomfortable, and so, Jake breaks the kiss to get out of the car and walks over to the passenger seat. He opens the door and kneels so that he strains his neck instead of Steven. All this allows Steven to do is cradle Jake’s head and deepen the kiss. His tongue goes into Jake’s open mouth so seamlessly, and although Jake’s brain short circuits at that, there’s that ugly whisper of not enough, not enough, not enough, and it expresses itself in frustrated whines and in glossing his eyes.
“What’s the matter, love?” Steven whispers into his mouth. “You want to sto—”
“No,” Jake says immediately, breathlessly.
“Then what is it?” Steven pulls back all the way to look at him, and he appreciates the view more than he likes to admit: Jake—big, strong, and intimidating-looking Jake—on his knees, flustered and blushing and looks as though he’s about to cry in pure need and want. A picture-perfect lewd image straight out of his dreams. Steven can’t lie to himself, and even if he does, his body won’t cooperate. He’s reacting. And in Jake’s search for an answer, his eyes land on Steven’s lap.
He looks up at Steven again. Please?
“Say it, love,” Steven encourages softly. “I can’t possibly do or give you something you don’t verbally consent to.”
“Why not?” Jake asks, genuinely confused and overwhelmed.
Steven’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean ‘why not?’”
“I’d like it, anyway,” Jake says. “I’d like whatever you do to me. Whatever you give.”
“That’s not how things should go, love,” Steven says before sighing. “I know your body’s been violated with beatings and unwanted touches, but with me, you’ll never have to go through anything you don’t want. You understand?”
Jake’s hands are resting on Steven’s knees. He looks up to him and blinks the blur in his eyes away to savor his view. Steven towers over him in his seat like a god, a king, an angel. He sees repentance and forgiveness and heaven in his eyes. The golden lights from the car’s interior lamps make it seem as though the British man is wearing a halo or a crown. A gentle smile is etched on his face, always. His kind eyes on him even though he’s undeserving of kindness. But to someone like Steven, who is Jake to decide what he does and doesn’t deserve? He wants Steven to decide his beginning and end. He wants Steven to define him. He wants Steven to put him on his knees and for his knees to ache and burn against the cold, harsh ground, but it would be worth it because Steven has decided so.
He wants to tell him how doomed they are to loneliness and eternal darkness. He wants to tell him there’s no heaven for them. He wants them to become one, to engulf each other, to become the creators of their own makeshift heaven and to spend eternity there, or until Steven has to get up for his 8 AM work shift. He doesn’t just want sex. He’s had that before, and it’s so fleeting and transactional and too simple. He wants to be diminished to nothing, then empowered to something. He wants nothing in return. He wants to cry and bleed and see stars all at once.
“Jake?”
What does he say? How does he say it? It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
“Please?” It’s barely audible to his own ears. It’s laced with heavy desperation and need.
“Please what?” Steven murmurs back, patiently running his fingers through Jake’s hair.
The heavy silence of the parking lot and its fluorescent street lamps; the lane they were driving on leads to a highway, so the cars just fly right by and their beeps and honks echo from afar; a wailing siren could be heard; the buzzing sound of every street lamp feels as though it’s wired to the inside of his skull; the concrete pavement is unforgiving against his knees; the cold wind bites at his cheeks and ears and neck. It’s all so cruel. It’s a world he struggles to find a space to exist within.
“Take care of me.”
Steven leans to kiss his forehead. “I think I know how to do that. Get back in the car and take us home.”
Marc’s been glaring daggers into the big blinking sign of a liquor store. He should’ve not gotten off the bus and instead went straight back to the flat, but he had gotten quite excited over the idea of relapsing. With the 24/7 JHONNY’S LIQUOR STORE sign winking flirtatiously at him, how could he not be tempted? But now that he’s standing face to face with a whole store of liquor, he’s not sure he wants to anymore.
“Is it really worth it, Spector?” he grumbles to himself. Fuck.
He hates being sick, he really does. But sometimes, giving into his impulses and his sickness feels euphoric. Sometimes the idea of relapsing and going back to old ways is enough to get him out of bed. He used to feel giddy whenever he’d cut, even if the stinging and reminder of why he does it in the first place sent him to the darkest pits of his skull. Romanticizing it helped. He’d think to himself: Look how strong and powerful I am to be drawing my own blood like that. Look at how quickly I forget all the pain with the liquor in my system. Aren’t I so smart? It’s just a shot, two, three, who the fuck is counting? I’m so smart. I’m so powerful. I’m so strong. The blade and the bottle make me so.
“Fuuuuuck!” he whines as he rubs his eyes, some passers-by give him looks but he doesn’t care. “Give me a sign, universe. Do I do this? Fuck, what do I—"
His phone buzzes and he checks to see it’s texts from Steven.
Steven: Need to talk to u abt something. U home?
Marc: No, I’m not. What is it?
Steven: Hmmm idk if I can explain it via text. When are u gonna be home? Jake and I will be there in abt 10 mins.
Marc: Steven DON’T do this to me. Tell me now.
Steven: Relax mate, it’s not bad or anything.
Steven: It just has to do with Jake and sex.
Marc’s brows raise at that.
Marc: ???
Steven: That’s why I’m saying see you home in 10 minutes?
Steven: Where are you anyway?
Marc: In front of the liquor store.
Steven calls him immediately as soon as he’s read that. Marc’s lips quirk in amusement.
“Don’t you dare walk in there and get a bottle of anything, Spector.”
Marc whines childishly. “Why not? Maybe… okay, how about we all drink a nice glass of scotch or whiskey or even wine. You like wine, right?”
“Nope. No. I’m not entertaining this,” Steven says sternly. “None of us are drinking tonight, understand? You’ve had such a good, clean, long streak going on for you, which I’m insanely proud of. Keep it up, yeah?”
Marc grunts, but he’s not actually pissed off or anything. He just wants a distraction, really. “But the Jameson Irish Whiskey bottle is talking to me like I’m its lover. How can I not answer a lover? It’s a bit rude, y’know?”
Steven sighs, then stays quiet for a few noticeable seconds. Marc is about to apologize, but then Steven says, “If you want to be spoken to like a lover tonight, stay sober and be home in 10 minutes. Alright, love?”
And fuck. Was Steven’s voice sultry and indicative of something? Marc can’t tell. What he can tell for sure is that his throat has gone dry.
“Marc?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah,” Marc coughs awkwardly. Steven chuckles on the other side, and fuck, fuck, fuck. “See you soon.”
He knows they’ve had this conversation before about them learning to become each other’s lovers. It makes the most sense, and they really are full of love for each other. It makes sense to go all the way with it. He’s kissed Steven, and Steven has kissed Jake, and him and Jake…
Him and Jake haven’t even kissed yet.
They also have not had the sex talk yet, and he fears he might scare Steven away with it. He knows he scared Layla (and Frenchie, though he doesn't remember how), when he wouldn’t react to anything within normal, safe boundaries. He was always so insecure, and sex amplified that. He avoided it for the longest time.
The first time he had sex (that he recalls, anyway), he was fifteen and in high school. The girl he’d had it with was just as lonely and alienated as him, and she made it clear she’s settling for it with him. It hurt like hell, but… but it was precisely that hurt and humiliation that aroused him in the way that he wanted to prove her wrong. He thought he had enough power to do that. Then when it came down to the actual act, he could barely feel a thing. At some point, the girl had gotten angry, and he thought she might hit him any second and didn’t react well to that at all. With him still living with his mother, the wounds and scars were still fresh. He couldn’t sexualize the abuse even if he wanted to.
The way the girl had yelled at him for wasting her time burned his skin, and he reacted without thought. He hit her. A slap to her face. He regretted it immediately. Opened his mouth to apologize, but the words never came out because she had slapped him right back. She was wearing rings, and it hurt and bruised his cheek bone. He thought he could hit her again and run away, but she had started grinding on him, and his body was tingling with regret, shame, pain, and suddenly, arousal. She had smiled when she realized Marc’s body was finally reacting, and without hesitation, slapped him again.
Marc wanted her slaps to stop, however. It reminded him too much of his mother, and that wasn’t a pleasant image to get off to. But for as long as that girl was hurting him, he was receiving some pleasure. Her moans got louder and her bouncing on him was faster, and that felt incredible. She liked slapping him, said something about how it gets her off hearing him grunt in pain. Huh. Maybe he can endure that if it meant he gets to cum.
Shortly after that, he slowly but surely started sexualizing his abuse. What Marc doesn’t know is that the danger and pain laced with the intimacy of it all triggered Jake’s presence, and so, their preferences bled into each other. Marc wanted to endure pain for the sake of receiving pleasure, whereas Jake wanted to endure the pain for the sake of receiving more pain.
He remembers how Layla had looked at him with pity and sympathy when he had tried to explain it. She had tried to explain to him that it wasn’t necessarily pain that he was seeking, but love. But his body didn’t know that. His body knew pain and learned to seek it. He couldn’t force her into anything she didn’t want to participate in, and he had no desire to taint her. He accepted whatever she gave. At least she made the sex safe and sane.
He's had sex with Frenchie, who he doesn’t know whether it counts or not, the reason being is that he kept losing time (must have been Jake, he thinks). They weren’t exactly friends, but he saw too much of Marc. Saw the scars littering his body whenever he caught him shirtless. Saw the razor blades he kept under his pillow. Saw the wild, manic eyes he’d wear and saw how he’d let the opponent beat him to pulp before he’d eventually get back at him. There wasn’t a conversation, not one he remembers, anyway. There was just a look of understanding. There were nights when Marc would wake up sweaty and gasping for air, and looking for the blade to take the edge of, and Frenchie would hold his wrists firmly in place and bite at his neck until Marc winced loudly in his ear, take him roughly and with very little preparation, place a pocket knife close to his neck as he whispered filthy words, and sometimes punch him through it. It was violent, it was unsafe, it was the closest Marc had felt to home. It made his heart swell, and his head feel dizzy. It was bliss.
And then Marc had asked for more, scaring him off.
A loaded gun to my head while you fuck me.
A noose for a collar and leash. Don’t let me breathe.
Don’t fucking hold back. Punch me as hard as you can.
That’s when Frenchie started to properly understand that Marc was truly unstable, even in his desires and wants. He doesn’t know if Jake had scared him further away or not, but he knows that Jake’s a part of him, and for that he’s doomed.
Thinking of it all makes him wince out loud. He’s nervous. What if Steven realizes he needs to seek other people who are stable and loving and gentle—not some deranged, unhinged man with the urge to either beat his partner or be beaten just to get off? Fuck, he should’ve had this conversation much sooner.
He’s in front of the door before he knows it, and he walks in to see Jake smoking by the window, and Steven scrolling through his phone on the kitchen table with a cup of tea. He has never said it out loud, but he loves coming back home to them. It never get old.
“There you are, love,” Steven greets. “No whiskey in hand?”
“Nope.” Marc puts his hands up. “You suck for that though.”
“Aww, tough,” Steven says sarcastically. “Anyway, now that we’re all gathered here, I think we should talk about something important, and that is: Sex.”
“I never thought I’d have the sex talk so late in my life,” Marc said. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I had it at all.”
“Yeah, I know, which is why I’m starting the convo,” Steven says casually. “I wanna hear it all: Your preferences, what you like, what you don’t like, the things you’re willing to try, the hard noes, if you even want to have sex at all, all of it.” Steven looks between Marc and Jake, waiting for somebody to start.
“How about you start,” Marc says. “I don’t even know if you’ve had sex before.”
“I did. Once with a lovely girl, and another with a boy. Both happened in college.”
“Ah, Steven, look at you,” Marc says teasingly. “I didn’t know you had game like that.”
Steven blushes maddeningly at that, hides behind his mug as he takes a sip of his tea. “Yeah, well, it was a bit awkward at first. I’m not the smoothest bloke on the planet. But I’d say it went well. I like taking care of my partners and making sure they’re satisfied.”
Marc nods slowly at that and crosses his arms. There’s no way in hell Steven would be on board with anything he could ask for, and he feels incredibly ashamed of himself for that.
“Of course, I’m open to hearing you guys out. I assume your preferences are going to be much different than mine.”
Marc’s brows furrow. “What if you don’t like what I like?”
Steven smiles gently. “Try me.”
“Well, uh...” Marc crosses his arms and looks at the floor as he speaks. “I… I can only get off when it’s… violent.”
Steven nods. “Alright. Giving, receiving…?”
“Both.”
“Alright. Anything you like in particular? Any hard noes?”
“Um… I like choking—”
“Alright, that’s tame, I guess—”
“—until either me or my partner pass out.”
“Oh.” Steven’s brows furrow in thought at that. “Yeah, that’s when I’m gonna have to ask you to compromise. I don’t think I wanna pass out or see either of you passed out. Jake?”
Jake shrugs and looks between them both as he answers. “I don’t mind passing out.”
“Ooookaaay,” Steven says. “We’re gonna have to work on you establishing some boundaries, Lockley. Until then, please do continue, Marc.”
“I don’t like getting spat at,” Marc continues, feeling a little more relaxed the more he spoke. Steven made it easy and comfortable to with how casually he himself spoke about the matter. “I don’t mind giving that, but receiving is a hard no.”
“I don’t think I’d like getting spat at, either. You, Jake?”
“I don’t mind—”
“Yeah, you can’t keep saying that to everything, sweetheart,” Steven says with a frown. “There’s gotta be something you wouldn’t like. For that, we need to know.”
“How about I let you know when it happens? We’re gonna establish a safe word like you told me earlier anyway, right?” Jake asks.
“Yes, we are, but why would I want to wait until something bad happens to recognize it and avoid it?”
Jake sighs. “I won’t ruin the mood, if that’s what—”
“That’s the last thing I’m concerned about, Jake,” Steven says sternly. “Marc? A little help here?”
Marc squints his eyes at Jake, trying to figure him out. “How far did you go?” he asks. “How did you scare Frenchie away?”
“Who?” Steven asks.
“Jean-Paul DuChamp. We shared a tent with him working for Bushman,” Jake answers. “The most violent sex I’ve ever had with a man. I scared him off when we had a gunshot wound and I’d told him he can fuck the hole it left behind.”
“Jesus…” Steven shudders and breathes hard through his nose. “Bloody hell, Jake.”
Jake just shrugs. “He didn’t agree. Called me a crazy son of a bitch and stopped touching us altogether.”
Marc snorts a laugh. “Makes sense.”
“I can’t believe this sounds amusing to you,” Steven says to Marc.
Marc sighs. “Look, Steven. Not gonna lie, I’ve learned to sexualize the abuse a long time ago, and I guess Jake ended up doing the same. I know it’s bad. But it was either that or have no sex at all. I don’t know, man. It’s not ideal, but… but it’s who I’ve become.”
“Do you think I don’t know?” Steven says with a raised brow. “I’m not stupid. I’ve read enough psychology books to know people like us will not have a normal sex life. It’s just… we’ll have to make some serious compromises, starting with no guns or wounds or blood unless it’s from a bite or a couple of scratches, understood? At least not when I’m involved, anyway. Got it?”
Marc nods, then turns to look at Jake. “You okay with blood, right?”
“I’m okay with whatever you want.”
Marc’s eyes narrow. “But if you’re not okay with something or you end up regretting it, you will…?”
“I will use a safe word,” Jake says and rolls his eyes.
“Alright. We’re getting somewhere, I guess,” Steven says. “Any other hard noes or questions or anything at all?”
Marc bites his lips. “Is it… is hitting, okay?”
“In what way?”
“Slapping, punching, spanking…?”
“I think I can handle giving and receiving a couple slaps and spanks here and there, but not punches. Jake?”
“I’m okay with all of the above.”
“Of course you are,” Marc mumbles, feeling a little sorry for the man. “So I take it you’re more gentle and dominant than anything else, Steven?”
“I guess so…? I definitely do like being in charge most of the time.”
And that made sense. In a way, they’re all trying to reclaim power one way or another. Even Jake, who’s the epitome of masochism and submission. He’d be able to stop them any time. He’d be taking the pain not because he has to, but because he wants to—because he’s in the arms of people he loves. As in for Steven, he’d be in charge, controlling how his partners feel under his care. And in what Marc finds most enjoyable is the power of getting to claim a reward, a sense of relief, by the end of it all whether he has to endure a level of pain for it—proving his worth and strength—or have his partners endure for his sake.
What he worries about is the safety and sanity of it all. He can’t lie to himself. He knows he’s a sick man with sick thoughts by the end of the day. He fears hurting them or hurting himself enough that it hurts them. He fears taking it too far. He fears letting his suicidal tendencies and ideations bleed into the sex, and he definitely fears acting out on impulses and paranoid thoughts.
“Let’s keep things simple and establish safe words based on the traffic light system,” Steven says. “Everybody on board with that?”
Marc and Jake give verbal agreements, and Marc is about to ask if they’re going to start anything tonight when Steven declares that no, they won’t be doing anything tonight.
“I want it to be special,” Steven says with a smirk.
“You can’t just have us talk about this and then do that,” Marc groans.
“Uhh, yes, I can,” Steven says in a duh-like tone. “Sue me.”
“Fuck you, Steven,” Marc groans again.
Jake just looks out the window as he smokes another cigarette, letting Marc and Steven bicker. It catches him off guard when he hears a door shut and Marc retrieving a chair to sit by his side.
“Hola,” Marc says with a grin.
“Hola.” Jake smiles back. “Where’d Steven go?”
“Said he has some dinner to attend with coworkers,” Marc says with a pleased smile. “I’m glad he has this job. It’s doing him well.”
“Yeah. Glad he doesn’t have to deal with a Donna constantly yelling at him.”
“God, I hated her for that,” Marc says with a disgusted look. “You’ve been off lately. That bird bothering you?”
Jake sighs. “No. I don’t know what’s bothering me. Just give it a rest.”
Marc raises his hands defensively. “Alright, relax, dude. Just worried about you.”
A moment of awkward silence, then Marc asks, “How did that convo with you and Steven start anyway?”
Jake shrugs. “You know how Steven is like. Said he ‘psychoanalyzed’ me.”
Marc chuckles, and the sound of that along with the breeze of the night make Jake feel light. The silence isn’t so awkward anymore, but Marc breaks it anyway.
“You deserve to be treated gently, Jake.”
Jake rolls his eyes. It’s a good thing they’re facing the window and not each other, he thinks. “I know.”
“Maybe it would be good for you.”
“Stop doing that,” Jake says, his tone dripping in annoyance. Marc turns to shoot him an inquisitive look. “The thing where you make me feel like I’m just an amplified version of your flaws and coping mechanisms.”
Marc flinches, genuinely taken aback by that. “Woah, woah, woah. Jeez, when did I ever say that?!”
Jake sighs through his nose, resorting to smoking another cigarette instead of responding back, and Marc has just about had enough.
“Okay, tell me now what the fuck is going on with you,” Marc says sternly. “Something shifted ever since that day you got shot and—”
“This has nothing to do with that—”
“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Jake!” Marc raises his voice. He hears Jake curse under his breath in Spanish at that and sigh out the smoke, as though tired of Marc already. For some reason, that gets under Marc’s skin. “Stop being so fucking childish and tell me what’s fucking wrong.”
“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong, ay dios mío.”
Marc crosses his arm. “You can go ahead and tell me you’re not my worst traits, fine.” He composes himself, tries to speak gently. “I understand how… invalidating that sounds. You are your own person. But you are, whether you like to admit it or not, a part of me. Just as much as I am a part of you.” He leans in, places a hand over his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, trying to ground and compose himself like how Steven taught him to. “I see you. You could never scare me away.”
Jake mulls the words over, biting at his cheeks as he does. Then, he murmurs, “I’m not… not trying to scare you away.” Marc waits patiently for him to continue, leaning into his space even though Jake doesn’t face him yet. Jake continues, “It’s… it’s me who’s scared.”
“You? Scared?” Marc repeats. He’s not mocking or disbelieving him, he’s just surprised. He thinks it’s a pretty big deal for someone like Jake to be scared of something, and he worries that something with that last mission might have gone terribly wrong. He worries Jake might have been threatened or is currently under danger. What other reason could there be? Still, he tries to get the truth out of him. “Why?”
Jake still doesn’t look at him, if anything, he shuts his eyes when he whispers, “Because I love you. Because I don’t… I don’t ever wanna lose you.”
Fuck. Perhaps Marc is a doughnut like Steven has been calling him all along. Of course, Marc had to get technical and neglect completely what such an experience might have translated to. After all, to wear a suit and risk your life fighting bad guys who might endanger your loved ones just to get home and realize your loved ones might as well have been in the battlefield caught in the crossfire of it all? No wonder why Jake hasn’t gone out on another mission since, and no wonder why sex has been brought up so suddenly. If life is meant to be this short and risky no matter how much one tries to protect it, no matter what god one serves, no matter how much of one’s power is amplified to, then what even is the purpose of doing any of it? And why not hold onto the people you love and ask them to hold you a bit tighter at night?
“I’m sorry, Jake,” Marc says. “I… I didn’t look at it that way.”
“What do you mean?” Jake turns his head to ask.
“I don’t wanna lose you either, baby,” Marc admits. “I get why that mission scared you. I’m so fucking glad you’re okay, but no need for you to be this scared, okay? We got each other, remember?”
Jake smirks. “Did you just call me ‘baby’?”
Marc blushes madly, turns his head to look out the window instead. Jake just smiles to himself, feeling a little giddy about it. A moment of silence diffuses into the air. Jake breaks it this time.
“I’m a part of you and you’re a part of me,” Jake repeats. “So, I must ask, what’s your suicidal head making out of all of this?”
Marc barks a laugh. “That’s rich coming from the guy who wanted his wound fucked.”
“Hey, that was just to test my endurance and tolerance of pain. You would’ve wanted that shot to your head. Am I right or am I right?”
Marc holds his smile, but the warmth behind it effaces. Jake notices but doesn’t comment.
“If I lose myself,” Marc starts. “You… you make sure I get lost completely. And then you bring me back.”
The smile hasn’t completely worn off, but there’s a tinge of determination and a bite of worry in Marc’s voice that Jake has picked up on. Marc knows he knows—knows he understands that sometimes, the only way out is through; the only way to truly understand how truly sick one is, is to let the fever peak before it drops; the only way to know one is not home is when the furniture keeps getting rearranged without one’s say in what goes where; the only way to know how much control is in one’s hands is when they’re tied.
And although Jake understands the message and its intensity, he chooses to lighten the mood by letting out a snort and saying, “You wanna cum so hard you get sent to heaven and back?”
Marc chuckles and shakes his head as he gets up. “I’m gonna get ready for bed.” He gives Jake a rough pat on the shoulder. “Good talk, Jake.”
“Yup,” Jake says, popping the ‘p.’ “Good talk, Marc.”
Marc goes into the bathroom to wash his face, brush his teeth, and look into the mirror to whisper to his reflection, “You’re a fucking coward. You should’ve kissed him.”
They don’t do anything after their initial conversation about sex. Steven held some more conversations to establish some more boundaries and get to know more of their preferences, but nothing actually happened. It was frustrating Marc, especially that his work was getting a little too stressful, and his alcohol cravings were at an all time high. Still, he kept it together or at least tried his best to. His short temper ultimately gave him away, but Steven had simply told him to cope with it a little longer, which was fair. The last thing Marc wanted to do was force any of them into anything.
Just as Steven had thought that maybe it was time to start bringing the talk to life, Jake gets tasked with missions again, and he’s gone for long hours into the night. And for most of these missions, Jake would come back either nonverbal or only carrying the capacity to respond to yes-or-no questions, and a dire need for sleep.
However, one night, Jake walks into the flat heaving, limping, and torn to shreds. He had failed his mission, and therefore, Khonshu had refused to heal him as a form of punishment. Unbeknownst to Marc and Steven, Jake wasn’t just carrying the weight of guilt of failing that mission, he was carrying shame Khonshu had tried to instill into his heart and mind when he had yelled at him like a child, telling him his body isn’t for love and desire, but for service. It was his response for when Jake begged to be healed although he had failed.
“I know I was too late to kill them. They won’t get away next time, I promise. But… please?”
The god tilted his head in mockery. “Why? So you look presentable? So you can offer yourself? So you can become an object of desire?” he scoffed.
Jake bowed his head to keep from glaring directly at him. “I just… don’t wanna look this bad.”
And Khonshu had pointed his scepter right under Jake’s chin. “Such great audacity for you to completely forget why you remain here. You are not meant for heaven, neither eternal nor short lived. You are meant for obedience and service. This is the contract you are bound to. This is what you live for.”
On the rooftop they had been on, Khonshu turns his back on him like a father, walks towards the moonlight. And right before he vanishes, he tells Jake, “You disgust me.”
It wasn’t meant to get to Jake’s head as much as it did, but oh well…
He leans on the door, aware he might be staining it with his blood, aware he might be staining his cheeks with silent tears. Marc and Steven are up in less than a second, their hands hovering over his bloody body, and Jake’s mind blares please, please, please. But he shoos their hands away and heads to the bathroom on wobbly feet instead, their voices muffled and bleeding into one another behind him. Just as he’s about to lock the bathroom door, Marc barges in with wild, concerned eyes.
“Let me look over—”
“I don’t need—”
“Stop with this masochistic bullshit right now, Jake!” Marc says sternly, already kneeling to look under the sink for the first aid kit. “Sit your ass down and let me stitch you—fuck! We ran out of gauze.”
“There’s a pharmacy not too far from here,” Steve chimes in, squeezing his way into the bathroom. “It’s 24/7. I’ll make a run for it and be here as soon as I can.”
Jake sighs, “Guys, there’s no need—”
“Bloody hell, Jake. Even your voice doesn’t sound right,” Steven says with widened eyes. “Just what the hell was that useless pigeon doing letting you get torn to shreds like this?”
Jake closes the lid of the toilet seat to sit heavily atop it. He leans back against the wall wearily and looks up to the warm yellow fluorescent ceiling. “I failed. Therefore, no healing.”
And it’s funny, except it’s not. He seeks pain—hell, he enjoys it! Yet, under these circumstances, it brings him nothing but misery and shame. It turns him into a defenseless child all over again. There’s no joy and no reward in failure, especially when it’s accompanied by the reminder that it could cost him not just his life, but Marc’s and Steven’s, too. He wanted nothing more than to experience all there is to experience with them like lovers do, but he keeps flirting with death and instead of it giving him a tender kiss, it ravishes him completely then throws him out of its house, and he’s forced to take the walk of shame back to his lovers soiled and with no energy, no explanation, and no dignity.
He feels like shit and looks like it, too. Khonshu’s voice echoes in his skull: You disgust me. He feels it too deeply. After all, what is there for Jake to offer? He keeps failing at offering protection; his body is too scarred, bloody, and a burden to patch up, so no wonder why Marc hasn’t even kissed him yet; he could drive Steven to and from, but at the cost of annoying him with his neediness and suffocating cigarette smoke.
“Jake?” Marc says softly. “Can you get into the bathtub?”
He has no idea how he’s managing to hear any of what Marc is saying with the aggravating echoes in his skull of how much of a disgusting failure he is, but he obeys, then realizes he’s failing at that too with how wobbly his knees feel.
“Hey, hey, hey, lean on me, okay? You can sit, actually. I’ll clean you up.”
“No,” he says sternly and immediately locks his jaw.
Marc lets out an exasperated sigh. It sounds sharp against Jake’s ears, but he makes up for it with some quiet. Marc just stands there, silently mulling over what to do. Jake lowers himself to the bathtub instead, leans his head against the hard tiled wall with his eyes closed, and tries not to breathe so heavily as to not worry Marc anymore.
“Jake?”
“Hmm?”
“Please let me clean you and stitch you up. There’s blood everywhere.”
Marc doesn’t even wait for an answer. He simply urges Jake to move how he wants him to with his hands, and although he slumps every chance he gets, Jake’s like putty in Marc’s hands with how tired and drained he is. He lets the rag soaked in betadine sting him, lets Marc sew him up and wash away the blood. All is done in silence and without a single sound uttered neither from him nor Marc. Marc silently leaves the room so Jake can change to clean clothes—a baby blue loose shirt and loose gray sweatpants—and Jake is grateful for both the clean cotton clothes, and the bit of privacy. With how insecure he feels, he needs that.
But he fails at putting his shirt on without popping the stitches. And that undeniably hurts. He accidentally lets out a muffled grunt, and Marc’s ears pick up on it quickly and clearly. He’s back in the room with his hands taking over the task before Jake could protest, and he keeps his head bowed with his eyes looking anywhere and everywhere but Marc’s face. As soon as that’s over with, Marc lifts Jake’s arm up around his shoulders, forcing him to lean on him as they walk back to bed. He props him up to a half-sitting position, with most of the pillows under his back for support.
“Once Steven’s back, I’ll wrap you up so even if you bleed some, you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”
Jake just hums back and closes his eyes, hoping that the weariness clads him in a thick blanket of sleep instead of the tormenting voices in his head. What he wouldn’t give to open up these wounds again and watch himself bleed out. Instead, he feels Marc’s fingers run through his hair, and he suppresses a whine and attempts to move his head away, but Marc gently tugs at his hair so he remains still. It’s too gentle to count for anything, and Marc urges him to rest his head against his chest with a gentle tug. Jake doesn’t resist much from there, simply heavily sighs against Marc’s chest.
But the more Marc runs his fingers through Jake’s hair, the more his heart swells painfully. He tries to swallow down the misery and hurt, but it doesn’t work. This is a type of suffocating pain he can’t find pleasure in. This is a touch he doesn’t appreciate. He chokes on a cry and shuts his eyes tightly, hoping Marc pays him no mind.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Marc murmurs. “A gentle touch feels like needles. A slap feels like feather.”
Jake doesn’t respond.
“But I need you to know this, Jake. I see you. I see you beyond your resemblances to me. Please believe that I do. And I see that— “Marc sighs shakily— “you were once a little boy. And sometimes, when I look at you, I see the little boy who never got to feel things like this—like someone playing with your hair, like someone holding you when you need to be, like someone making you giggle. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve heard that sound come from you. And… and I know you enjoy pain. Trust me, I know that sometimes it truly is the only way to feel at all. But… but it feels wrong to give you that before giving you something sweeter and gentler first—before making that little boy giggle.”
And what does he say to that? Does he dumbly nod against his flesh and let whatever Marc wants be? Does he shake his head and reassure him he’s a big boy now and nothing hurts anymore? But that’s a lie. He hurts a lot. He’s hurting now. He may get wrapped in gauze from head to toe, he may be mummified and thrown into a sarcophagus, and while it may keep his blood from leaking, it won’t keep this pain, guilt, and shame from spilling and eating through his flesh like lava.
He lifts his head to look at Marc’s tired eyes with his glossy ones. Please?
Like a rose petal against his fingertips; like the occasional light showers of London’s gloomy sky; like the hint of menthol in his cigarettes; like the slight taste of chocolate in his coffee; like the moonlight hitting his face. The kiss is gentle and soft. He barely feels it on his lips. And Marc’s fingertips on his chin and cheeks feel like silk against his skin. Yet, it burns. All of it burns.
To Jake’s surprise, when his eyes flutter open, Marc’s eyes are half-lidded as though drunk, heavy with their hold of a look of absolute admiration and adoration. It makes Jake’s heart swell terribly, augmenting the burn.
The burning worsens when Marc whispers, “I love you, Jake.”
“Promise me one thing.”
The god tilts his head at him, eying his reflection through the rearview mirror. Jake waits for him to nod at him to go on, knowing the god won’t offer promises he can’t keep. Once he does, Jake swallows down the cigarette smoke and focuses his eyes on the road ahead as he speaks.
“Promise me they won’t be alone in death. Promise me they’ll be with each other as they die. Promise me it would be painless and merciful on them. And… and when Marc is sent to the Field of Reeds, promise me he won’t be alone there.”
The god bows his head, his chest rising and falling as though to mimic a deep sigh.
“I promise you, my son.”