Chapter Text
Bojan had always prided himself on his career as a journalist. Or rather, he had prided himself on the dream of being one. After finishing his studies, he had imagined it would be easy—an exciting leap from the safe confines of university to the fast-paced world of reporting. But months had passed, and rejection letters piled up like unwanted souvenirs on his shelves.
Slovenia and Serbia had nothing for him. No paper would take him, and no editor was interested in the pieces he proposed. The Balkans truly offered nothing exciting for him to kick start his career with. Bojan was stuck.
The thought of spending another lonely year in his cramped apartment with no real job prospects made him feel suffocated. His mind was filled with doubts and regrets. Was his journalism degree worthless? Had he chosen the wrong path? Is he gonna end up working in his local Hoffer, his diploma just an useless piece of paper?
Fuck fuckity fuck.
He needs a plan. He needs anything.
He searches through the options in his head. The only thing that comes to his mind is the message he received a few weeks ago—an invitation from two high school friends, now living in the States.
“Come stay with us,” they said. “Maybe you’ll get lucky here.”
What the hell, sure. It’s not like he’s got anything to lose.
So, he books the obscenely expensive flight, packs his bags with minimum belongings, and lands in a city of endless possibility. The first weeks are a blur of sights, sounds, and the comforting feeling of not being weighed down by the pressure to succeed. He’s been visiting the landmarks of San Francisco, catching up with his friends, and eating his share of fast foods with variations that only Americans could possibly come up with.
It’s fun.
Martin even finds him a gig to earn some cash - a remote job as a copywriter for a Slovenian-American magazine from Cleveland. It’s nothing great, but it earns him enough to rent a shitty one-room flat not too far from Kris, giving him the freedom and privacy he needs. Bojan really can’t complain.
He’s doing well.
But, like an itch that can't be scratched, the drive to get a story gnaws at him.
One evening, as he sits in a bar with his Kris and Martin, someone behind them mentions the X-RAY club—one that had been whispered about among the locals for its underground dealings, its shady connections to sex trafficking and drug business, all carefully shielded under the veil of authority. Bojan’s heart skips a beat.
This is it. This is his story. The kind that will finally get him noticed.
He doesn’t hesitate.
That night, he leaves his friends behind and ventures to the club alone.
The bouncer, a towering figure with tattoos covering his arms, doesn’t even bat an eye at Bojan’s presence and lets him through without a word, stamping his wrist with a fluorescent ink with more force than Bojan thought necessary. It was as though they were all accustomed to people like him, people who weren’t meant to be there but were anyway.
As he steps inside, his senses are immediately assaulted by the pounding bass of the music and the thick cloud of smoke in the air. The strobe lights make everything feel disorienting, like a dream he can’t wake up from and Bojan wonders for a second if entering the lion’s den unprepared was really the smartest decision.
Isn’t that what true journalists do though?
He leans against the bar, trying to act natural, trying to blend in. He orders a drink, something with a long list of ingredients, Bombay Sapphire gin placed first, and a rather quirky name Fasten Seat Belt, his hand trembling slightly as he takes a sip.
Oh, it tastes good. Too good.
He looks around, his heart beating entirely too fast in his chest. Is he nervous? Excited? Both?
The bar is suffocating in its smokiness, a dimly lit den where faces blur together, eyes darting nervously, laughter thick with alcohol. The air feels heavy, as though everything in the room is carefully hidden under layers of deceit, as though Bojan can feel the depravity.
He knows he should be careful. But he’s young, inexperienced, overenthusiastic and gets drunk far too quickly on the allure of proving himself to exactly nobody but him. His head swims, the alcohol making his vision fuzzy, and as he stumbles through the crowd, he overhears fragments of conversations, voices that only seem to confirm the whispers of corruption he’s been fed.
There must be something for him. Someone he can ask, interview maybe. Should he sneak around and eavesdrop?
It all seems so easy on paper.
He sways to the music at the side of the dancefloor, four Fasten Seat Belts in his system already and his eyes wander around the room.
And then they land on him.
The man is beautiful, in a way that makes Bojan catch his breath. He has striking, piercing blue eyes and his hair is black, styled in a ridiculous bowl cut that frames his face in a way that makes it impossible to look away. He wears dark makeup that adds an air of mystery, and his leather outfit, too tight to be practical, leaves very little to the imagination.
He moves like he owns the place, his hips swaying with the rhythm of the music and Bojan can’t help himself.
He keeps stealing glances at the man and he quickly notices as if he expected that from Bojan. Every time their eyes meet, Bojan looks away quickly, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment, but the man doesn’t look away. He smiles, a knowing grin that makes Bojan’s heart race.
Focus. He needs to focus.
Material, something worth a story. Talking to people. He needs his head back in the game.
But as Bojan tries to gather his thoughts, things take a turn.
Before he knows it, two men appear at his side. Their overly friendly smiles make him uneasy as they edge closer, pressing themselves against him, their hands groping his sides.
“Hello, beautiful.”
“You seem a little lost, sweetie?”
“I’ll help you find your way for… a little price.”
Bojan freezes, the heat of embarrassment and discomfort rushing to his face. The taller of the two whispers in his ear, something about how he can “have a good time” if he’s willing to pay up and his body tenses. He fights to stay calm, but he’s not sure how to get out of the situation.
And then it happens so quickly—a shift in the air, a sudden sharp voice cutting through the tension.
“I called dibs, assholes.”
The two men stop, their faces flickering with annoyance and Bojan turns toward the voice, the familiar magnetism pulling him in again. The man from before, the one he couldn’t stop staring at, stands just a few meters away, a smirk on his lips. His eyes are sharp, confident. The kind of look that makes people obey without question.
Without another word, the two men step away, muttering something under their breath before disappearing into the crowd.
Bojan blinks, trying to process what just happened and turns to the stranger, unsure of what to say. The man’s gaze holds a hint of amusement as he takes a step closer.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice a low, soothing drawl. It sends a shiver down Bojan’s spine.
Bojan, still buzzed from the alcohol and the rush of adrenaline, manages a half-hearted chuckle, his heart racing.
“Uh… yeah. Thanks… I guess.” He pauses, feeling the awkwardness settle in. "What did you mean with 'dibs'?"
The man raises an eyebrow.
"Means I called you first. You’re mine tonight." There’s something almost playful in his tone, but it’s laced with something darker, something that feels dangerous.
Bojan feels a rush of heat to his face. He doesn’t know how to react to that. “Uh, well, I… I don’t really—”
Before he can finish, the man is already touching his arm, guiding him toward the bar. "Don’t worry, babe. You’re just getting me a drink. You owe me that much, right?"
“Uh, sure.”
Bojan follows, his steps unsteady. The stranger’s touch is warm, his presence overwhelming in the best way and despite his discomfort, Bojan can’t deny the pull he feels. They reach the bar, and Bojan finds himself leaning against it, his heart still thumping erratically.
“What’s your name?” Bojan asks, trying to steady himself.
“Jere,” the man replies sweetly, his smile widening. “And you are…?”
“Bojan,” he answers, the words feeling like a confession. He has no idea what he’s getting himself into, but the way Jere is looking at him, the way he’s moving, makes him feel like he’s already in too deep.
“Bojan.” Jere repeats, letting the name roll off his tongue like a secret. “Quite a name. And your drink?”
“Whiskey,” Bojan says without thinking, still processing the strange turn of events.
Jere orders the drinks with an ease that suggests he’s done this a million times before and as they wait, the space between them seems to shrink. Bojan feels the heat of Jere’s body, the electric buzz in the air whenever their eyes meet.
Jere leans in closer, his lips brushing Bojan’s ear as he whispers, “You look like you need someone to take care of you tonight.”
Bojan swallows, moving away, unsure if it’s the alcohol or the man’s presence that’s making his thoughts scatter. “I… I’m fine. Thank you.”
"Drink up. Let’s see where this night takes us."
Bojan straightens his back, an uneasy determination settling in his chest. “I mean it. I’m not into…”
“Hookers?” Jere cuts in smoothly, tilting his head with an amused quirk of his brow.
“Uh—men. I’m not into men. But also hookers, I guess. Whatever you are—Yes.” Bojan can feel his cheeks burn as soon as the words leave his mouth.
Jere’s laugh is low, velvety, and entirely too confident.
“Aww, you’re cute, Bojan.” He leans against the bar, propping his chin on his hand as if Bojan is the most fascinating thing he’s seen all night. “But, babe, if you’re not into men, you might want to work on the staring.”
Bojan feels his face heat up, the words catching him off guard. He straightens further, determined to maintain some level of composure despite the alcohol dulling his thoughts and the wave of defensiveness at Jere’s outrageous accusation. “I’m not trying to be cute. I’m just... I’m not interested.”
Jere tilts his head, his gaze never leaving Bojan’s face.
“Sure you’re not.” The way he says it is light, teasing, but it feels like a challenge, like he’s peeling away Bojan’s defenses one layer at a time.
“I’m serious.” Bojan grips his glass tighter, suddenly wishing he’d ordered water instead.
Jere chuckles softly, leaning in just enough for Bojan to feel his presence again. “Relax, babe. I’m not gonna bite.” He pauses, his grin widening. “Unless you ask. And pay up, of course.”
Bojan nearly chokes on his whiskey, coughing as he looks anywhere but at Jere.
“I’m broke,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, immediately regretting it when Jere laughs, clearly amused.
“Oh baby, maybe I’ll give you a discount then,” Jere teases, his voice smooth and playful but carrying an undercurrent of something Bojan can’t quite place. “Since you’re so cute.” He takes a slow sip of his drink, his piercing blue eyes locked on Bojan the entire time. “Tell you what—If you’re really not into... whatever I am”—he winks—“why are you still entertaining me?”
Bojan opens his mouth, searching for a response, but nothing comes out.
Why is he still here? His logical mind screams at him to leave, to walk away before things spiral further. Yet, something about Jere—his confidence, his magnetism—keeps Bojan rooted to the spot, like gravity.
“I have no fucking clue,” he admits finally, his voice quieter now, almost lost in the hum of the club around them.
Jere’s expression shifts slightly, the sharpness in his smile softening just a bit.
“Honest. I like that.” He sets his glass down, leaning on the bar with one elbow, his gaze unrelenting. “Maybe I’ll fuck you for free.”
Bojan chokes again, harder this time, barely managing to set his glass down before he spills it.
“I promise you I’m fine,” he sputters, voice strained, his cheeks burning.
“You don’t like what you see?” Jere’s voice is teasing, but there’s a flicker of hesitation behind it, almost imperceptible.
Bojan tightens his grip on his glass, as if it’s the only thing grounding him in this bizarre conversation. He avoids Jere’s piercing gaze, focusing instead on the amber liquid swirling in his glass.
“I didn’t say that,” he mutters, his voice barely audible over the pounding music.
Jere perks up at that, a smirk creeping back onto his face. “Oh? So you do like what you see?”
“I didn’t say that either!” Bojan snaps, feeling the heat rise to his face. He’s flustered, completely out of his depth, and Jere seems to revel in it. The man is maddeningly confident, every word and movement calculated to provoke a reaction.
“Awww, is Bojan a little flustered? Maybe I could help? Get you… relaxed? I know a way or two.”
Bojan glares at Jere, though it lacks the conviction he hopes for, especially as heat rushes to his face again.
“I told you,” he mutters, gripping his glass like it’s a lifeline. “I’m not here for that.”
Jere tilts his head, studying him.
“Not here for that,” he repeats, almost to himself, before smirking. “Noted. So, what are you here for?”
Bojan hesitates, debating whether to share the truth. But Jere’s piercing gaze seems to pull it out of him.
“I’m a journalist,” he says finally, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “Or... trying to be. I thought maybe this place could... I don’t know. Help me find something worth writing about.”
“A journalist? Cute and ambitious. You really are full of surprises.”
Bojan groans softly, regretting his honesty as soon as he sees the gleam of amusement in Jere’s eyes. “Look, I didn’t come here to—”
“To get saved from a horny mob by a hooker and have drinks with him?” Jere interrupts, grinning.
Bojan groans louder this time, running a hand through his hair. “Can you not call yourself that?”
Jere leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. “Why not? It’s what I am.”
“You don’t have to... I mean, you’re more than that, aren’t you?”
Jere’s smirk falters, just for a moment, replaced by something unreadable.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, his voice softer now. “Am I?”
Bojan doesn’t know how to respond to that.
Jere watches him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to Bojan’s surprise, he laughs—a warm, genuine sound that cuts through the tension. “You know what? I like you, Bojan. Get me another drink and I will keep you company. No strings attached. How’s that sound?”
Bojan blinks, the offer so simple, yet somehow loaded. “And you won’t try to make me... sleep with you?”
Jere’s grin widens, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Not unless you ask.”
“I won’t.”
Jere cocks an eyebrow, amused. “You’re so sure of it. Cute.”
Bojan feels anything but sure.
~*~
He wakes up to a splitting headache, his mind thick with fog, his body sore as though he’s been run over. He shifts on the bed, opening his eyes slowly, the world tilting as he tries to adjust to the light. His surroundings are blurry at first, and then, bit by bit, reality starts to creep back in—painfully, sharply.
God. Did he drink the entire bar dry?
He looks down at the pillows, noticing streaks of something black staining the white of the sheets. Confusion floods his brain. What the hell did that? He turns his head, still trying to piece things together.
How the fuck did he get home?
Reaching for his phone on the nightstand, Bojan sees a few missed calls from Kris and a string of messages from Martin, all asking the same thing: Are you alive?
That’s a good question, he thinks.
He rubs his shoulder instinctively, easing some of the tension in it with his hand, then stretches his neck from side to side. That’s when he feels it—a faint, tender dent in his skin. His fingers trace the contour, trying to figure out the shape. Did he hit himself somehow?
He stumbles to the bathroom, the apartment so small it only takes a few steps, his legs wobbly as he feels the alcohol still buzzing in his system. Blinking against the harsh bathroom light, he looks at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes drawn immediately to the mark on his shoulder. His breath catches as he stares at the spot.
It’s faint, but it’s unmistakable. A bite.
And then it hits him.
Bojan’s heart races as blurry, hazy memories of the night slam into him in fragmented pieces.
Jere. His flirtatious attitude. The teasing smile. The drinks that just wouldn’t stop coming.
Bojan swallows hard, his throat dry, the aftertaste of whiskey and something else lingering bitterly. Why the hell did he mix whiskey with the cocktails from earlier? How did he lose so much control?
His mind stumbles over the most important question, the one that sends a wave of panic through him.
Did they fuck?
The thought makes his stomach churn violently, and before he can stop himself, he leans over the toilet bowl, gagging. But nothing comes out. His stomach is empty, just a dry heave that makes him feel worse and after a moment, he drags himself back to the mirror, his reflection staring back at him like a stranger.
He looks wrecked. His long brown hair is a tangled mess, damp from sweat. His face is pale, his dark eyes bloodshot, and there's a streak of black on his chin. He doesn't have to guess—it’s Jere’s eyeshadow smeared across his skin.
A wave of nausea rises in him again, and Bojan fights it back, quickly splashing cold water on his face. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror this time, unwilling to confront the person staring back. His reflection feels foreign, like something’s shifted inside him, something he’s not ready to understand.
He stumbles back to his bed, collapsing onto it with a loud groan, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him.
FUCK.
The dread is overwhelming. He can’t remember. He wants to remember, but the more he tries, the foggier it all becomes. He hates this. He’s overwhelmed with shame, with disgust.
Did he... did he actually sleep with that man?
The thought makes him freeze. The feeling of wrongness claws at him from the inside, suffocating him. His chest tightens, and a shiver runs through him. The flood of self-loathing is instant, stronger than any of the alcohol. His mind screams at him, the echo of the self-disgust crashing through every thought. This cannot be real.
He curls into himself, wanting to disappear, to hide from the person he was last night and the person he is now.
He pulls the covers over his head, trying to block out the world, but the thoughts keep coming, relentless. He breathes heavily, trying to calm himself, but his mind is spinning in a thousand different directions. He feels like he's drowning in his own skin, in his own shame. His chest aches with the weight of it all.
What’s wrong with me?
A part of him knows this isn’t just about the night, or the drink, or the mistakes he made in the heat of the moment. It’s about everything that’s been buried beneath the surface for so long, things he’s never allowed himself to face.
He sits up, his head spinning again as he tries to push the covers off his body, his hands shaking. His fingers brush against the faint bite mark on his shoulder, and the reality of it hits him again.
Jere. A man. Touching him, marking him. Making him feel something that, until now, Bojan had never let himself acknowledge.
Bojan’s stomach twists violently, and before he can fully register the sensation, it hits him like a freight train. He bolts from the bed, scrambling to the floor, but he’s too late. He vomits, the bile and remnants of alcohol spilling out of him in a messy, uncontrolled heap beside the bed. The sickening sound of it fills the room, amplifying his disgust. His body heaves, but it’s just dry retching now, his throat burning with each desperate breath.
His knees buckle, and he collapses to the floor beside the mess, weak and trembling. Tears sting his eyes, a mixture of shame, confusion, and self-hatred clouding everything. His hands shake as he reaches for the sheets, clutching at them to steady himself.
The feeling of having lost control, of doing something he didn’t want to do—or maybe did want to, but couldn’t fully admit to himself—overpowers everything else. He’s repulsed by the smell of the vomit, the tang of whiskey still on his breath, but it’s the shame that wraps itself around him tighter than anything else.
How could I let this happen?
His mind races with a thousand questions, none of which he has an answer to. The bite on his shoulder flashes in his mind again, and his heart sinks. He remembers Jere’s teasing voice, the way he’d leaned in close, the way he’d touched him, like it was all part of a game. Had he played along? Had he wanted it? Had he—
“No,” he whispers to himself, his voice hoarse. No, this isn’t me. This isn’t who I am.
Bojan kneels there, his body still shaking, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and dread. His breath comes in short, frantic gasps, each one heavier than the last. He doesn’t know what to do, where to go, or how to think straight. All he knows is that something happened last night, something that makes him feel so fucking lost.
Did I want it?
The question claws at him, and with it, a wave of anxiety that crashes over him. His stomach churns again, not from the alcohol, but from the suffocating uncertainty. He doesn’t know if he enjoyed it. He doesn’t know if he gave in to it or if it was forced on him in some way. Did he want Jere to touch him after all? Or was he just too drunk, too out of control to fight it off?
The thought makes him dizzy, his pulse quickening, his chest tightening. He grips the sheets tighter, pulling them close to his body like they could shield him from the panic that’s rising in him. Why can’t I remember? Why is it so hard to know if I wanted it?
Every fragment of the night feels like a blurred image—a flicker of a kiss, a touch, words that don’t quite make sense in the daylight. The feeling of Jere’s hands on him, the way he’d leaned in, those damn teasing words that echoed in his mind now.
Did he... did he enjoy it?
The thought sends a jolt of panic through him, and he can’t stop it. He feels sick, his head swimming. His thoughts feel like they’re slipping away from him, each one competing for attention. But none of them give him an answer.
I’m supposed to know this about myself, right?
His hand shakes as it presses against his chest, trying to steady himself, but nothing works.
What if I did want it?
The idea hits him like a punch to the gut. His stomach twists again, and he gasps, as if the air itself has turned suffocating.
What does that make me?
Bojan’s mind spins faster now. His whole world has tilted, and he doesn’t know how to bring it back into balance. What if he did enjoy it? What if he’s been lying to himself all along, pretending that he couldn’t ever want something like that, when maybe, just maybe, deep down, he did?
His breaths come faster now, more shallow. His pulse races in his ears.
Am I... am I broken?
The anxiety makes him feel trapped in his own skin, like he can’t escape from the terrifying question. The guilt floods him, his own self-loathing wrapping itself around him. What does this mean about him? What does it mean for his future, for the things he thought he knew about himself?
He scrunches his eyes shut, trying to block out the thoughts, the doubts, but they won’t go away. They crowd in, louder and more demanding.
Did I enjoy it?
Did I want it?
Why can’t I remember?