cacophonish | DUPLICITY: INBOX

"Don't worry about how heavy you are. I'm a bit stronger than I look." But Bash waits for Jeff to decide, lingering nearby thoughtfully. He does ask the bartender for a glass of water, quietly offering it to Jeff.

Jeff takes a few sips of the offered water. Even lukewarm and in a dirty glass, it tastes like something pure, and refreshing, the way water always does after a few too many drinks.

"Okay." He sets the glass down and loops both arms around Bash's shoulders. "You can carry me. It'ssss... probably not too bad a walk."

Bash just picks him up. He's not superhuman strong, but he's strong enough, one arm beneath Jeff's knees, the other behind his back, cradling him close as he heads for the door.

"See, not so bad. You're a scrawny little thing. Oughta eat better."

Jeff pretty much clings to Bash as he's being carried, nuzzling his face against him in some attempt at making his world smaller, and smaller. Like if he wills it, he can drown out Duplicity and all the bullshit around them, and pretend it's just the two of them.

He can't help it. Even with as low as he's feeling, he still laughs at the comment.

"Nooo. I don't like food," he declares, his voice somewhat muffled. It's a nonsense declaration, the kind that only a drunk could deliver with complete confidence. After a beat, he lifts his head and looks at Bash with a grin. "Are we there yet?"

Bash chuckles. "Such a brat. No, we're not there yet. I'm assuming you're living in public housing?"

He knows where that is, even if he's never been there before. More locational bullshit cheating.

He nods, settling his head down again. Luckily, they're a pretty short walk from public housing. "16th Floor, Room... D." A beat. "Not B. I made that mistake before..."

Which, all things considered, it could've gotten worse. But it's a mistake he doesn't want to make again!

Edited 2021-12-11 23:28 (UTC)

At least 16-B is empty now, as Ducky's moved to the Up. But Bash gets Jeff to the housing building successfully. He's humming that lullaby as he walks, the one his mom used to sing.

Somehow, Jeff seems to relax even more in Bash's arms, listening to the lullaby. He's like some kind of combo of a limp noodle and a koala bear. At one point, he even starts to hum along-- as best he can, considering he's drunk, but at least he can still manage to sound melodious-- until they get to his room. If there's even a lock on the door, it's either busted or he forgot to lock it.

"Oh. We're here."

Which, now that they're here, he's a little... embarrassed. He doesn't own enough stuff for it to be cluttered, but what little he has is scattered haphazardly. Empty bottles, half-empty bottles, various lubes and sex toys that the city keeps throwing at him, clothes, a bit of lingerie, a couple odd nicknacks... The only thing that seems to be placed with any care is his guitar and amp, set aside in the corner.

It's a cold splash of reality washing over him again. This is what he is, a fucking... disaster. Everything he touches becomes a mess.

"Sorry... I never had company here before."

Bash lays Jeff out on the bed. "Don't worry about it. How you feeling?"

It's not that he doesn't notice the mess, it's more that it's not his place to judge, nor his to try to change that behavior. He's just going to deal with Jeff himself and some of the feelings, tonight.

"I'm okay," he answers, though it's clear that now that they're here, the mirth he'd managed to muster up has faded again. "Not even that drunk..." He reaches out to Bash, to try to draw him onto the bed with him. The lumpy mattress is somewhere to sit, if nothing else.

"I'm... you know... fine..."

Very convincing.

Edited 2021-12-12 01:33 (UTC)

Bash sits on the edge of the bed so he can take his boots off, first thing. Because he's not about to lie on someone's bed, even if it's already a mess, in his boots.

"Right, for the record you're not a very convincing liar when drunk. In case no one had told you that before."

Jeff groans and rolls onto his other side, away from Bash. Like facing the wall will help him hide better. "Never been a good liar."

He's quiet for a moment, fidgeting, tugging at his sleeve and stretching it over his fingers.

"I guess... My feelings got hurt. And-- it's stupid. I know it's stupid."

"Your feelings aren't stupid. Did I hurt them?"

He reaches out to touch Jeff on the arm, but stops about an inch away, the hand folding into a helpless fist and falling away.

He hesitates before answering, mostly because he's not really sure which conversation-- or tangent, or whatever-- set him off the way it did. It's not like anything said to or about him was that bad. That one anonymous prick aside, it was all pretty well-meaning.

"A little," he says finally. "It... wasn't just you, I mean-- you didn't even-- not much." He takes a breath. God, he wants another drink, or like, to say something silly and distracting, or anything but talk about his own immature bullshit. But now that he's started, he can't stop himself from talking.

"It was just everything. That asshole saying I needed therapy and I was shameful or whatever, then the other guy jumping in to talk about why my kinks are valid-- I mean, I know he was trying to help, but it was, like, no one was talking to me, they were just talking about me. And then Vash accused me of joking about what I like, then when I tried to explain things, he kept being like, 'oh but I still don't get why anyone would like that' over and over--"

He takes another breath, then swallows thickly. For a moment, Jeff looks over his shoulder at Bash, almost apologetic for unloading all of this. Fucking alcohol. He's running out of steam, though, as he continues. "And on top of that, I went and totally misinterpreted some of the stuff we'd done, and thought it was something it wasn't and-- It was fucking... It was a lot, that's all. I just felt like a fucking freak of nature that everyone was picking apart."

Bash listens to all of that thoughtfully, but as Jeff reaches that conclusion, he looks, well, conflicted.

But he doesn't leap in with words right away. Instead he stretches out on the bed behind Jeff, draping an arm over his waist, and gently tugs him closer. Brushes his lips against his neck.

"I'm sorry."

He's practically bracing himself for Bash to get sick of his bullshit and leave. It wouldn't be undeserved, if it happened. Jeff's problems are practically all rooted in issues, dragged in, unresolved, from his turbulent life back home. Nobody should have to deal with that.

But instead, there's a weight on the bed, and a warm body at his back, tugging him close, and lips at his neck, and it's all so comforting. Slowly, with some hesitation (like he's not sure if this, somehow, is too intimate), he moves his hand down to curl his fingers over Bash's.

"Sorry... I'm sorry, too."

Edited 2021-12-12 02:56 (UTC)

"You don't gotta be. I...think I understand what I've done wrong. Here, lift your head?" So he can slip his other arm under it, and be both pillow and blanket, he means.

Once comfortable, he lets out a warm sigh.

"You are special to me. I care about you, a lot. I want to do things with you, but not just the hot kinky sex things that the city keeps pushing us into. I want you in my arms like this, because I like you a lot, but also because someone ought to be gentle with you. Clearly you're not being gentle with yourself, dear."

This is comfortable, laying like this, and Bash certainly makes a better pillow and blanket than the ones he's got. And as the other man lays out his thoughts, his feelings, without the veil of text to give Jeff the chance to jump to the worst conclusions, he feels that little knot in his stomach loosen, and relax.

"I really like you, too. You you, not just the Big Bad Dom," he admits. There's a short laugh, some lightness and levity finding its way back to his voice. "You know what's crazy is we haven't even fucked yet, really. Like-- god, I'm not even that kinky!" Easy? Yes, absolutely. But kinky? He's still got a lot to learn before he can declare himself kinky, despite what the city throws at him. "I like-- this. Hanging out and cuddling and-- fucking talking, laughing, all that. And I really-- I want to keep doing stuff like this with you."

Okay, he might've been cursing the alcohol before, but at least it's making this part easy. Just... talking about things, normally. Jeff shifts, rolls over again, so they can have this conversation face-to-face. He's smiling now, warmly, though it dims a little as he considers... gentleness.

"I don't... know if I can survive here, um... being gentle." To himself, that is.

"Do you think trying to obliterate yourself is a better way to survive?" That somehow doesn't sound like a trick question. Bash genuinely is trying to figure out where Jeff's head is at with everything, to understand what's going on below the surface.

That part's easiest, for the moment, as he looks into Jeff's eyes. He's got thoughts about all the rest (like how being told Jeff likes him, and not just the Dom he plays on TV makes his chest feel tighter and warmer and like he can't quite breathe for a second), but they can wait. Really, they can wait.

If he were sober, he'd probably find a way to avoid answering that question-- or at least try to. Deflect, change the subject, lie...

But the liquor's got him loose, and it's freeing, really, now that they've started having a talk like this. Looking into those warm, dark eyes, he... doesn't want to lie about how he's feeling. For once.

"Sometimes... Yeah," he says softly. "I do." He traces his fingers along the curve of the other man's jawline, just below the ear. "Like... it'd be easier if... there wasn't anything left to hurt. You know?" That being said: "I don't feel that way all the time. Just sometimes."

Bash isn't a psychologist, but he sure as fuck knows something about depression. And that's what he hears, below the surface of Jeff's words. Easier to destroy yourself than to hurt--he's seen that before, often in a more explosive violent form, among demigods who would throw themselves into any fight, almost hoping it would be their last.

He knows that's not something he's really equipped to help with.

But maybe, just maybe it'll help Jeff a bit more to keep him talking.

"Maybe...when you feel that way, you could text or call me? I won't always be able to come over, but I can talk. If...if maybe that'd help?"

He's been offered this lifeline before, back home.

It's funny or... ironic or whatever. Before, he couldn't take Ziggy, talking to him in a thousand different voices, watching him through the TV, peeking back through reflections, frying his neurons until the world around him seemed to fracture into dreams and incoherence--

He couldn't take the noise, and the company, and the way it all became a constant, inescapable unless he was blackout wasted or too high to hate it anymore. Ziggy was sensory overload on every level: physical, mental, spiritual, magical. He never wanted to kill himself, exactly, but he would've been okay with an ending, of a sort. Not death, but the annihilation of everything that made him him.

And now that he's here, and Ziggy isn't, he should be happy. It's what he wanted, right? Freedom. Solitude. Silence. All the noise turned down, and reality shifting back into focus. Except he can't take that, either. Now he's so fucking alone, he can't stand it, and the silence makes him want to scream, and now there's nothing to distract him from the ugly truth: everything wrong with him is just. Him. Jeff. Not Ziggy. It was always Jeff.

And so here he goes, dancing at the edges of cliffs, chasing self-annihilation all over again. And he can't say any of that. He wouldn't even know where to begin, and this feels too precious, and too precarious, to risk by blabbing about what a fucking headcase he is, or revealing that he's such spiritual poison that he even turned a beautiful abstraction into a demon, just by association.

There's one moment, though, where he looks at Bash, and it's all at the tip of his tongue, and the temptation's there and-- he swallows it back and nods.

"I can-- I can try." He can't promise, but he can try. After a beat, he smiles, a little teasingly. "Now can I call you nice?"

Edited 2021-12-12 18:37 (UTC)

"Yeah, you can call me nice now. Brat."

That tension, the seriousness pops like the skin of a soap bubble, brushing past and leaving a smile on Bash's face. He leans in and brushes his lips against Jeff's forehead, tangling their ankles together just to get even closer.

On some level, he's scared of how much he's feeling. He knows that back home, getting this close to someone would be impossible, because of Fatebinding. Because of how the Fates would twist someone up to make them a part of his legend, part of the Story of Bash, Saturday's Son, Demigod of Midnight Roads, Patron Saint of the Lonely Street. Here, he doesn't need to worry about that, but everything in him is still screaming to tread lightly.

Except he doesn't want to, not really. Not with Alec and not with Jeff. His heart has been aching for closeness all this while.

His smile brightens-- hell, his whole expression does-- and he slips his arm around Bash, just as eager to pull in, and see how close they can get on this crappy mattress.

He's real, this is real, it's all real. There's comfort in just being here, in the moment, with that affirmation repeating in his head. Whatever he was feeling before, and whatever's going to happen later, at least he isn't alone right now. They can just be here, together, until it's time to get moving again.

"I think..." He rests his forehead against Bash's, a playful look in his eyes. He's gonna let him in on a sobriety secret. "As long as I stay still and don't move, I can... be sober. If I move, I'm gonna be drunk again."

Drunk logic.

"So I guess you're stuck here."

"Guess so. Lemme text Alec so he doesn't worry when he gets home and I'm not around, and then I'm all yours for the night, okay?" Bash pulls out his comm device, tapping out a quick message, and then leans over the side of the bed and drops it in his boot.

"The one thing is, no sex tonight. Just cuddling. And kisses. And talking. Sounds good?"

leave a message...

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: discussion of passive suicide ideation

cw: passive suicidal ideation, drug use, hallucinations, possession, extreme self loathing

no subject

no subject

no subject