Make you a sword of me?

[jackrackham]

Jack flips through the few shirts lying in his dresser, feeling full of nervous energy. There's something exciting about the prospect of being able to fight again, even if only played with an aim to practice. It feels like something that really truly belongs to him and who he is, even in this place.

Even if the shirt he arrived in Darrow with weren't dirty, he would be a little wary now of repeating the whole outfit lest it trigger something in him like had happened on horseback. Regardless of how well Eliot had taken it, Jack wants to be able to show Eliot that he's not going to lose himself like that again. Even more, he wants to show Eliot that he's good at something. It would feel good to be able to show him something worthwhile, to impress him.

He pulls out a loose sleeveless shirt, pulls that on and tucks one side loosely into the belt of his old trousers. He tucks his dagger down into his boot, situates his sword belt on his hips, and grabs his sunglasses before heading out the door.

When he arrives at the boardwalk, Jack wanders a little ways from the few people out this early. The sky is clear and blue, the lingering sunrise keeping an orange tint to the sand and sea. The air hasn't warmed up yet, and the salt breeze feels soft against his face. He paces a little in the sand, thinking over different ways they might spar.

He's not sure that he has much to teach if Eliot is looking for that, but he is looking forward to seeing how Eliot fights. He's looking forward to seeing Eliot. After the mess of the last week, it'll be good to do something that feels uncomplicated.

Comments

[jackrackham]

The whisper in his ear makes him shiver and as Eliot pulls away, Jack is already leaning further towards him. Jack hastily returns the glass to the bedside table, then follows Eliot's direction, gladly letting himself be pulled closer. He grabs Eliot by the shoulders and swings a leg over his lap, straddling him. As he settles down, his grip on Eliot's shoulders loosens and he takes the opportunity to run his hands over Eliot's shoulders and down the length of his arms, then slowly back up again - following the curves of his muscles as he goes.

"Why would you hide what you can do? You're a powerful man. I'd think other men would like that." He sighs lightly, as he follows the line of Eliot's collarbone with his eyes. "I do. Like it."

Maybe it's too much to admit, but he has an instinct to flatter Eliot, and more, it doesn't make sense to him that Eliot would hide what seems like a fundamental part of himself. This really is different, if Eliot usually prefers anonymity with the men he fucks, but he deserves some praise for who he is and what he's accomplished. Jack doesn't want this to feel anonymous and it seems like Eliot doesn't either- or at least they know each other too well now to pretend.

He sets his elbows on top of Eliot's shoulders, ready to pull himself flush against him or grind down against him, but Eliot's hands are already up between them, tracing up his torso and over his chest. When Eliot said he wants to be decadent about this, Jack thought he'd only meant the food, but he's beginning to realize that his entire approach is different than he'd been expecting. Maybe Eliot wants it this way, or maybe he thinks that this is what Jack needs, but in the least he's learning that he's going to have to be patient and follow Eliot's pace.

Searching for a more comfortable position, he lifts himself up on his shins and tilts his hips forward. As he settles back down, he voices a small noise in the back of his throat, halfway between a moan and a sigh.

As Eliot continues to explore his chest, Jack lifts a hand to the back of Eliot's neck, gently pressing fingers along his spine up into his hairline. His skin is smooth, his hair a pleasant texture, and it feels nice to cycle between the two.

"If you hadn't used magic, I would have had my blade at your throat instead, and we wouldn't be here now." He smiles a little, relieved now that this is where they are. "Unless you had plans to lose your mind and kiss me in the middle of a sparring session?"

Eliot's hand stills for a moment and then traces a small circular scar that rests over his heart. Jack tips his head to the side, looking more at Eliot's hand than at the scar itself. When Eliot stays quiet, Jack glances to his face. The expression that he finds there seems hard to read, but he guesses that he's intrigued by the origin of it.

Jack smirks. It's entirely possible that Eliot likes his scars. It is proof that he's had an exciting life and been in life or death situations. It must be a thrilling reminder. "A lead shot. I was lucky I wasn't closer when he fired the pistol. Hurt like hell when they dug it out."

[eliotwaugh]

“Oh,” Eliot says. He knows that he needs to say more, to maintain the mood, but for a moment he doesn’t know what to do. It doesn’t matter that Jack explained the scar with the same nonchalance as every other tidbit of information about the inherent violence of his life before Darrow. He can only think of Jack in pain, bleeding, the wound so close to his heart. He holds his breath, trying to push down the irrational fear and anger that someone–in the past, in a different world–nearly took Jack away from him.

It’s not how he expected this to go, none of it is. Jack’s careful hand on the back of his neck, idly petting him and giving him such a deep feeling of calm it’s disturbing. His questions, the uncanny way he can get under Eliot’s skin even now, framing a very reasonable withholding of personal information as hiding. Eliot could explain himself, try to convey the disappointment he felt the first time he bragged about his world to a local and was met with polite disinterest. He could try and express how that feeling made him stop mentioning it, or caring so much about getting to know anyone here, how he started to think of his casual encounters as glorified masturbation. But he can’t go down that line of thought, because it’s not about trying to explain how he feels. It’s not about him, it’s about making Jack feel good and enjoying this little bit of time for what it is, and he needs to stop thinking and just act.

Eliot dips his head to kiss the scar, and pulls Jack closer with one hand firm on his back to feel the muscles there, tight despite how readily he goes where he’s led. He slings his other arm around Jack’s hips, relishing the warmth and pressure of their bodies pulled more flush against each other, the slowly building humidity of shared breath. Most of all Eliot loves the way Jack shudders when he traces the divot of the scar with his tongue, reverent, as if he could erase the memory of suffering and claim this man, for just a little while, as his.

When Eliot tilts his head and mouths at his nipple, he can feel Jack’s sharp intake of breath and the low sound that gets stuck in his throat. He relishes all the sensation, the quickening pulse next to his ear, and no longer feels lost in his own head about this night. He looks up at Jack, his expression smug and a little devious, before he pulls away.

“You feel so fucking good, can I just—you won’t mind if I show off a little,” he says, breathless and smirking. It’s not even flashy, lifting the tray of food out of the way with telekinesisand setting it on the table, but Jack seems awed all the same. Eliot looks past his flushed face to the lamp and it clicks off with a thought, and for a moment they’re in darkness. Then, he sighs and wills a cluster of little lights into being. They twinkle like warm candle-colored fireflies as they drift on the canopy of the bed and glint off Jack’s necklace. Eliot almost wants to ask him to keep it on. He looks at Jack with a smile, shifting further onto the bed so he can lean back, and toys with the waistband of his jeans. “There now, that’s so much better, don’t you think?”

[jackrackham]

Jack watches with surprise and awe as the tray of food lifts out of the way and the light clicks off. He is already feeling pleasantly overwhelmed by Eliot's praise even before Eliot starts moving objects about with his mind. When it does happen, it takes him a moment to register that it's Eliot's doing at all. He thinks that the tray and the light will be the extent of Eliot's 'showing off' until low light fades back in as a collection of gently moving sparks of light. He's caught off guard, distracted from Eliot by this display, the corner of his mouth lifted in a surprised smile.

Eliot speaking brings his attention back and for a moment he just looks at him, speechless at how beautiful he looks with the low warm light reflecting off his eyes and his smooth skin.

"I-" A laugh bubbles up out of his throat. It feels faintly ridiculous, that Eliot wants to be here with him, that he's a magician that can cast real magic, and he's charming enough to do it now just for atmosphere. This all feels unreal, like he's dreaming it.

"Eliot, you can show off anytime you like." He's not sure how to parse what he's feeling, but he does know that it's something fond and pleased and yet it also feels too big to exist in his body. The immensity of the feeling presses outward from his chest in a way that makes him feel like there is something inside of him trying to fight its way out. Eliot has leaned back, but Jack follows him eagerly, tipping his head to smother his smile at Eliot's temple. He mouths along the edge of his jaw, then drops a foot to the floor to brace himself as he explores the shifting landscape of Eliot's neck and the gentle hollow behind his collarbone.

He shifts to go lower, but his position at the edge of the bed makes it difficult to explore with more than his hands. Reluctantly, he pulls away and stands, a small smile returning to his lips when he finds himself weak in the knees.

As Eliot moves fully onto the bed and turns to look up at him, Jack divests himself of his trousers and underthings. It's a relief, to no longer be so constrained, but he already misses the gentle pressure of the boxer-briefs (he remembers with a little laugh, that Eliot had picked them out for him.) He carefully removes the rings from his right hand and sets them beside the tray of food. They'll just get in the way if they stay on his fingers.

As he's turning back to Eliot, a small mote of light flies in front of his face and he reaches out, lifting up two fingers to gently touch it. It's warm, like candlelight- He's almost expecting it to be solid like wax, but as he pushes his fingers into the light it splits and rejoins behind them. When he looks back down at Eliot, the open desire he sees there cuts right through him. Still keeping his eyes on Eliot, he pushes the same two fingers that he'd used to touch the mote of light into his own mouth, half curious if there might be a lingering taste to the magic. Not finding any, he wets his fingers with saliva and then drops his hand to stroke his cock once, then again, an unvoiced moan at the back of his throat as his gaze shifts down the length of Eliot's torso, settling on the bulge evident in his jeans.

"Another pesky button there?" he says and he kneels onto the bed and directs his attention to the waistband of Eliot's jeans. He undoes the button, but stops short of undressing Eliot further. It feels to him like something that he shouldn't do without being asked. He pulls his hand away and sets it instead along the inside of Eliot's thigh, stroking there as he glances up to meet Eliot's gaze. He feels comfortable in this space, but impatient. He isn't really sure where to go from here or what Eliot is expecting, but he knows he wants more.

"How are we going to do this? Do you want to fuck me? Do you want to be the woman?" Either option feels intimidating, but Eliot has been so considerate with him thus far and his own desire is making details unimportant. He doesn't really care what Eliot decides, as long as he gets to be closer to him as soon as possible.

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot can’t remember the last time he’s wanted someone this keenly. He watches Jack, intent and a little in awe of how beautiful he looks amid the drifting lights. He feels sure of himself, not desperate despite how uncomfortably clothed he still is. The energy between them now coalesces into an understanding that calms him. He stares, mouth half open in a grin, and loves him: his wobbly legs, the desire in his eyes, the trust he’s placed in Eliot by expressing it. Jack so deserves to be appreciated, he thinks—he’s been neglected for far too long, and Eliot’s delighted to make it up to him.

That certainty doesn’t keep him from letting out a needy whine, though, when Jack sucks on his fingers. Eliot squirms in place, eager and gripping a fistful of sheets to keep himself from just stripping down. He needs to give Jack something to do, since he so clearly likes to be useful and reacts so charmingly to praise.

His breath quickens when Jack comes back to the bed, and it feels good, the way Jack orients himself to him. He feels powerful, and he likes it, but even more he likes that Jack likes it. Eliot gives him a slow, hungry smile. He’s going to take such good care of him. “Go on,” he says, his voice low and calm, and nods at Jack’s hands for him to continue.

Eliot’s not surprised by the question, or bothered by it, but it does deserve a more substantive answer than ‘neither’ to correct the assumptions Jack’s working from. So he sits up on his elbows and considers him.

“There’s a lot of different ways to fuck,” Eliot says slowly, his smile widening as he watches Jack work. He holds admirably still, despite wanting to grind up against his palms, and continues his explanation. “But in any circumstance neither of us is ‘the woman,’ and that’s kind of the point. We’re not-” he groans in relief as he’s freed from his jeans, and lifts his hips to be extricated. He huffs a laugh; he’s so eager he’s already leaking a damp spot onto his underwear and Jack’s looking at his cock like he’s starving, but Eliot exercises the most restraint known to humanity and keeps talking.

“-We’re not operating within the bounds of some idea about proper order,” he explains, and reaches out to thread his fingers through Jack’s hair. “It’s not a performance with a set script or roles, it’s…a conversation, and we decide what we want together. It’s collaborative, not transactional.” Perhaps it’s not the best speech, but he can hardly do better in these circumstances.

Eliot clears his throat and kicks his jeans off the bed with an awkward shake before he notices where Jack’s attention has gone. He’s staring at Eliot’s socks, or the garters at least, one hand resting warm on his ankle. He can feel his pulse through the thin silk and the slight tickle of Jack’s fingers on the back of his calf as he’s starting to figure out the clip, “Oh it’s all right, leave it,” he laughs softly. “I’ll keep them on, just come back here.” Jack looks up at him with an expression in his dark eyes that stops his breath for a moment.

He draws Jack up with a hand on the back of his neck to lie on top of him, and shivers at the electric tingle of skin on skin. Jack is soft where he’s not wind-chapped from a life at sea, and Eliot wants to memorize every inch of him. From their bony knees bumping to the weight of him and the feel of his ribs when he breathes, it’s like an echo of this morning—but better in every possible way. He presses a hand to the small of Jack’s back, like they’re dancing, and ruts against him slowly. Eliot has to stifle his moan in a kiss just below his ear, the skin hot and sweat-damp under his mouth. Neither of them may last very long at this rate, but it will surely be worth it.

Pulling away a bit, he peppers Jack’s face with kisses and notes the dazed look in his eyes. “If you’re curious how it feels getting fucked in the ass,” he smirks, breathless, “I’d
love to enlighten you. But that’s a lot of effort and I’m-” Eliot laughs. “-impatient. So let’s start a little simpler.”

[jackrackham]

"Christ, Eliot." Jack laughs in return, burying his face at Eliot's temple. "I'm not going to need complicated. But ah-" He starts shifting his hips gently, and his breath is caught by the pressure of their bodies, his cock sliding against the similar hardness of Eliot's cock. He gasps, his breath hot, and he keeps his hips moving. It takes effort to keep the pace slow, especially with the thought of what Eliot might feel like moving inside him. "-I'm going to hold you to that."

After a minute, he feels the silk sock and the elastic garter pressed against his ass- Eliot lifting a foot to hook behind him and urge him closer. A laugh caught halfway in his throat at the reminder that he didn't actually manage to get Eliot fully undressed shifts immediately into a moan when he follows the unspoken demand and presses closer.

He nuzzles into Eliot's temple, hiding a smile there. The idea that this might not be the only time they fuck removes the remaining anxiety he had about how this is going. He wants this again- to find new ways to make Eliot sweat and moan his name, to know the feeling of every smooth surface of his body.

Slowly, they become a chorus of pants and moans. The gentle shifting of their hips speeds up- One elbow planted beside Eliot, the other with his fingers dug into his hair, he struggles to move faster and press closer.

Eliot's hand fists into his hair and he moans out Eliot's name, pausing for a moment, his head resting against Eliot's chest. He can hear Eliot's heart beating fast, feel his cock twitching pressed between their bodies, and this feels right. He doesn't feel awkward or lost or too inexperienced. This is Eliot and there's no denying that they both want this.

"Hold on. H-hold on." He pulls back enough to kiss him, but both of them are breathing too quickly to maintain a kiss for very long. Instead, he kisses along his jaw, then pulls back, running his hands along Eliot's chest, tracing over his nipples and down his waist. He feels dangerously close to a precipice, and he doesn't want to cum without palming Eliot's cock.

"I just need-" He sits up enough that he can reach between them to wrap his hand around both of their cocks. Around them, the motes of light surge and flicker, and Jack smirks from within a daze, hoping that that means he's distracted Eliot enough that he can't keep focus on his spell. He strokes them once then lifts his hand back to his mouth, licking across the palm of his hand before returning it slicker.

"That's...so hot but let me get...I've got something better than spit," says Eliot, and fumbles for his side table. It's awkward, reaching backward, and Jack follows his hand to open the drawer. With direction, he retrieves the small bottle from within and hands it over to Eliot.

Oil spills over Eliot's hand and he joins Jack's hand, sliding over their cocks until they are impossibly slick.

"Oh, yes. That's...good. You're perfect." Jack's hips involuntarily jerk forward as they both stroke. His arm holding him up trembles and props his other hand beside Eliot. His heart is pounding against his ribs and he whimpers. Between quick breaths he mumbles out "Eliot, please."

Eliot's hand strokes quickly, fisted around Jack's cock now, and Jack whines, only able to hold himself up as his vision momentarily whites out and he cums over Eliot's hand.

"Eliot," he gasps through his orgasm. Afterward, Eliot brings a hand up to stroke his chest and push back his sweat-damp hair. His breath slowing, he's able to ease back and return his attention to Eliot. Eliot is gently stroking himself and Jack watches him for a moment, taking in for a moment how utterly perfect he looks in this moment- his cock slick and straining, his eyes dark and lidded, he lips parted, breathing hard.

"Let me." Jack replaces Eliot's hand with his own. He starts slow, enjoying how Eliot pants and squirms under him, but he quickly speeds up. It's not long before Eliot is moaning loader, his head tipped back gasping as he cums. The motes of light spark and sizzle like a hundred lit fuses. Jack strokes him through it while the room momentarily glows.

As the motes of light shift back to their dim glow, Jack falls to Eliot's side, smiling lazily and listening to his own heartbeat slow, his breathing evening out. His mind feels fogged over and he can't think of anything to say. For the moment, he's okay with simply resting next to Eliot, staring up at the gently shifting lights.

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot abandons any notion he had about keeping a serious or authoritative air. It’s all too delightful. Jack is surprisingly affectionate, nuzzling at him so Eliot can feel his smile, and all Eliot can think is how how lucky he is to see him like this. It’s an overwhelming, possessive joy, something Eliot hasn’t felt in a long time. He hadn’t realized how much he needed it. And now he has it here in Jack, who hasn’t balked from this, and whose enthusiasm is intoxicating.

If he were coherent he’d tell Jack how proud he is of him, but all he can manage is a breathless litany of “yes” and “good.”

Eliot flashes a quick triumphant grin. Jack’s needy and begging as he strokes him, and Eliot would give him anything he asked. He’d give him the world if he asked.

He wants to tell Jack all these things after he finishes but he can’t form the words. The hand on his cock drives all thought from Eliot’s mind, and he can only whine and gasp Jack’s name, and the flare of the lights match the spots in his vision.

Jack rolls off of him and Eliot keeps his eyes closed, lets out an unsteady exhale, and lays in the hazy muddle of returning thought.

He counts his own heartbeats, feeling heavy and tired, the familiar sequence of sensation spinning out like it does after every sexual encounter. It will be awkward, Eliot knows—he waits for the inevitable moment that the physical presence of someone else in his bed grows too uncomfortable and he has to get him to leave.

He doesn’t want it, of course. He wants to make this last but he knows it won’t, he’ll start to get irritated by another body this close to him, and he needs to ensure Jack doesn’t feel bad about it.

But as his breathing slows to normal and Jack is lying quiet beside him, it doesn’t happen. Eliot realizes, with slow confusion, that he doesn’t mind the feeling at all. That he only feels the strange calmness he’s come to associate with being close to Jack. The sex was fun and good and he feels satisfied, providing Jack that experience. But in some unfamiliar way, it isn’t enough.

He keeps his eyes closed and imagines what it would be like, if this was different. If he were different, and good for more than just a nice time. I could be happy like this, he thinks. And as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he wants it, so badly he has to hold his breath for a sudden moment. He doesn’t want to play the good host and get Jack cleaned up and sent on his way. He wants this feeling to stay, for Jack to stay, and he wants Jack’s arms around him and he’s certain that if he were better, and deserved it, that it could be different and he could fall asleep feeling safe.

He ought to tell Jack this, that he’s never wanted something like this before but somehow he needs it now. Jack is just his friend, he has no illusions about that. But maybe it wouldn’t be too much to ask him to stay, maybe he wouldn’t mind giving Eliot more than what he already has.

“Hey-” he starts to say, finding his voice hoarse, but at that same moment Jack rolls over and the mattress dips as he moves to get up.

The peaceful feeling is gone, and all Eliot’s certainty along with it. He makes himself smile and be charming.

“How are you feeling, was that all right?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at Jack. It’s an important question, but not the one he wanted to ask. But he can only be responsible now, the moment for tenderness and vulnerability has passed.

He almost wonders if Jack wants to go another round, but something in his bearing tells Eliot to give him space. So he manages to form a little abjurative spell with one shaky hand and he sits up on his elbows and flicks his fingers at Jack like he’s brushing dust away, and in an instant he’s clean and dry.

Eliot lays back down with a sigh. The little lights seem dimmer than before.

[jackrackham]

For a few moments, the silence feels companionable and his mind is clear. He feels comfortable in this little pocket of warmth that they've created, but the silence stretches out a little too long. In the increasingly resonant silence, Jack shifts his gaze towards Eliot. He finds him impassive, his eyes closed, a line of tension pressed between his eyebrows.

He'd expected that by now Eliot would be rolling back towards him- maybe gloating a little, considering how easily and thoroughly he'd managed to undo him. He'd expected a hand on his chest and the warm smile that he's come to expect. He wants to smile and joke about his ridiculous socks, tell him that next time he'll manage to undress him completely, but none of that feels appropriate.

The silence begins to feel like dismissal.

Could it be, he thinks, even though Eliot had said he wanted this, that he actually didn't? Or that Eliot had thought he'd wanted him, but the actual experience had been a disappointment? Had Eliot been acting for his sake? He's not sure which is worse, and the thought makes him feel sick. Can it be that he's destined to keep hurting the people he loves in the same way?

He pushes himself up to sit and bends to retrieve his trousers and underwear from the floor. When he looks back at Eliot, he finds him smiling, but it's the smile that stops just short of showing off the crooked tilt of his jaw. It's practiced and perfect, and he has no idea what it's hiding, but he does know that he's done something wrong to make it necessary.

He huffs an embarrassed laugh at Eliot's question. He feels like a selfish fool. Before he can answer, Eliot makes a shooing motion at him and suddenly they're both clean, like this never happened at all. He pulls on his underwear and trousers, standing as he does. At best, this was fine for Eliot, but it was transactional, and he's slipped on this mask so that Jack will leave him alone instead of hanging around.

"More than all right," he answers honestly, and looks back down at Eliot, the little lights dimming around them and obscuring the details of his expression.

"I should let you get to sleep," he says, watching the shadows shift around Eliot's face.

One last transgression- He bends to kiss him once more and lingers there a moment, afraid that it might be the last time.

"See you later" he says. Hovering there, one hand on Eliot's chest, he nearly adds thank you, but it feels too pathetic to voice out loud. Instead, he walks away, retrieves the rest of his clothes from the other room, and leaves Eliot's apartment without saying anything else.

[eliotwaugh]

Eliot had assumed there’d be a certain amount of awkwardness at the end, but he never anticipated a kiss. He returns it after a moment’s hesitation—his thoughts are sluggish and he can’t quite understand why this is happening. Something about the way Jack’s looking at him makes his smile falter. Eliot gives a shaky nod and wonders at how Jack is so hard to read now, when just a little while ago they were so in sync.

“Sure,” he says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “Get home safe.” He says it like this is any other evening coming to a close, and he’s horrified at himself.

A lightheadedness suffuses him even before Jack is gone, but the sound of the door closing knocks something loose in him, and Eliot sits up and draws his knees to his chest and the little lights wink out as he starts shaking.

Jack’s hand on his chest was so warm, and now Eliot just feels so cold, like he’ll never be warm again.

He tugs the duvet loose and wraps it around his shoulders; he surely cuts a pathetic figure just huddled in the dark so he reaches to turn on the lamp. The light doesn’t improve his mood as much as he’d thought, revealing only the food and water still mostly untouched. It seems such a meager offering now.

A glint of silver catches Eliot’s attention and he stares at the two rings sitting on the nightstand where Jack had left them. For a long moment he doesn’t know what to think. See you later, he’d said, but in Jack’s absence it’s impossible to take his words to heart. The rings seem less like a reason to return and more like they’d been abandoned as Jack cut and run.

He reaches out to touch them but draws his hand back. He’s trembling, and for a moment he has the wild irrational thought that he cannot touch these things or else he will sully them somehow, as surely as sullied Jack in this whole endeavor.

He tries to take a breath to steady himself but only manages a sob. Dimly, Eliot knows he ought to eat, but he glances at the tray of fruit and cheese and feels a little ill. He’s spoiled everything, and Jack must be regretting it by now.

Eliot’s up and staggering out of the bedroom before he realizes it, taking the duvet with him. The weight of it is like a mantle and it helps the shaking enough that he can walk, but he feels wobbly and wild-eyed as he looks around the apartment like it’s a crime scene.

The dagger, too, was left behind. It feels like an indictment. Eliot frowns at it, and the bottle of wine in the kitchen. It’s far better than he deserves, but he needs something to chase the chill and the tremors away.

He pours himself two fingers of whiskey instead. The first swallow burns his throat as he takes the glass back to the bedroom. Eliot laughs to himself, thinking that the sting is the least he deserves. He only realizes he’s crying once he’s back in bed, curled up in a pile.

If there’s a silver lining to be found, at least Jack left before seeing what a pathetic mess he really is.

“Fuck,” Eliot whispers, trying to concentrate on keeping his hands from shaking and spilling the drink. “Fuck.”

[jackrackham]

Jack doesn't pause once he's outside Eliot's door, and instead of going into the familiar metal prison of the elevator, he follows the bright green exit sign and pushes his way into a set of stairs. They're concrete and cold and not much better than the elevator, but at least he can keep moving. Jack knows that he's running away, that he's not being rational, but as his boots his the steps he feels propelled away as surely as if Eliot had firmly asked him to leave.

He makes it down five flights before he slows down and another before he stops completely and drops to sit on the landing of the stairs, hastily wiping tears away from his eyes. It's only then, with his palm pressed against his face, that he realizes he left his rings behind. He left his dagger behind, too.

He takes in a deep breath and lets it out, trying to slow down his breathing. He leans over, letting his hands slide back into his hair and fists his hands there, pulling just tight enough to feel pain.

What is he supposed to do now? He can't just walk back up there, sweaty and crying, and ask for his things back. Eliot's already had enough of him for one evening, if his silence was anything to go by.

For a while there, he thought at least they'd had an understanding. He'd though that Eliot had enjoyed himself, but Eliot's silence calls into question all of his assumptions. What a fucking farce this has all been, he thinks. He feels even more confused and upset than he had this morning.

Could it be that Eliot was regretting his decision? Had he done something wrong that hurt Eliot? Was it just bad sex and he didn't know any better?

"Fuck," he says, bringing his hands down to scrub over his face. He thought it had been good. Not just the sex, but being close to Eliot in that way had felt far more comfortable than he'd expected, far more like he belonged in that bed. It had seemed for a little while like their friendship could extend to sex without any hiccups at all. He'd felt safe with him.

He dwells for a moment on what didn't happen after- Eliot rolling to him and putting a warm hand on his chest, smiling his crooked smile, asking him to stay and sleep next to him, going for breakfast in the morning.

He sighs. He shouldn't have expected it, but part of him did.

"Jack Rackham, you are a fool."

He sits there for a few minutes more, coming to rest his head against the side of the stairwell. He feels exhausted. Only when he hears someone opening the stairwell door above does he push himself back to his feet and walk down the remaining flights of stairs. He has no interest in interacting with some random stranger right now.

His apartment is cold and stark and strange. Once in the door he locks it and gravitates to his desk- the one piece of furniture that he'd added since he moved into this place, and now the most familiar. A blank notebook offers him the chance to write any of this down, but he finds he can't order his thoughts enough to write a word. For a while he pulls over his algebra textbook and distracts himself with a different sort of frustration.

He should try to sleep, he knows, but it would hurt to confront his cold bed knowing that Eliot is in his own, sleeping soundly. He digs out his phone and opens up his texts with Eliot, scrolling back a little bit to look at their texts from today and the last few days. It's past midnight, now. Calling now to leave a message would wake him, but he could leave a note for him to read in the morning.

What, though? He can't let on that he'd been hurt by Eliot's quiet dismissal, or that he would have liked to stay. Leaving immediately is probably just what Eliot expects from his partners and he'd been wrong to hope for anything more. He definitely can't let on how much he cares for him. There's no guarantee that Eliot even wants to sleep with him again.

At the same time- he has been wrong about Eliot's intentions and desires before. There must be a diplomatic way to ask if Eliot ever wants him again.

After a couple of false starts, he texts Thank you for the transformative experience. Hardly the swordplay I'd intended to have when I awoke this morning, but a welcome lesson nonetheless. If you are still a willing teacher, I would enjoy trying something else, some other time.

Then, he adds, Do you think that I should accept Jacobs offer? The date this Saturday? If he's no longer interested, Eliot deserves a simple way to let him down an Jacob is an simple alternative. It would be much easier for Eliot to suggest that Jacob might be a better match for him than it would be to turn him down outright. He presses send, then tuns his phone face down on the desk. His hand rests there a moment, as if he might read Eliot's mind across the distance, then he returns to his studies.