cacophonish | DUPLICITY: INBOX

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?"

No sex. There's a kneejerk impulse to put that to the test and immediately try his luck. It's not out of any desire to push past Bash's boundaries, so much as, well, what else has Jeff got to offer? Sex is pretty much his main-- only?-- asset here. It's his worth, his currency, his weapon--

--all things he doesn't need to worry about with Bash. That's right. This is a safe bubble, an oasis-- or, rather, it can be an oasis, if he'll just allow it.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Kissing, talking, and, uh... What was the other one again? Cuddling. Right." He nods. Yeah, he can stick to that.

"Can you... tell me about him? Alec, I mean."

"He's smarter than me. Like, clever smart, not school smart, but I think he woulda been, in a world more like ours. He's from something kinda like the medieval ages, but with real dragons and shit. And he's pretty, really pretty."

He doesn't want Jeff to get jealous, but he's clearly kinda smitten with Alec. Bash gets smittened pretty easily.

Jeff isn't the jealous type, and he listens to Bash's fond description with some genuine interest, if only because he's sappy and soft-hearted, and it is sweet to hear somebody he likes talk about a person who clearly makes them happy.

Bash is smitten. It's cute.

But unfortunately, while he isn't prone to jealousy, he doesn't have the best impression of himself, and that ugly voice of all his self loathing is practically on autopilot. Alec's smart and pretty and he probably has a ton of cool medieval skills like sword fighting and horseback riding and... bread making or something. And meanwhile here's Jeff: skinny junkie trash, a walking fucking disaster. Fuck, why is Bash even wasting his time here?

"He sounds cool. I bet you guys--" He trails off for a moment, then his brows furrow and he frowns thoughtfully, as if suddenly realizing something.

"Back the fuck up, did you say dragons? Dragons?" His eyes light up with excitement, and suddenly, abruptly, Jeff's sitting up-- which is a terrible mistake, because his head's spinning and he's flopping back down immediately. It's not enough to contain his excitement, though. "Has he, like, met a dragon?!"

Apparently: dragons are the perfect distraction from Jeff's low self esteem.

Edited 2021-12-17 02:50 (UTC)

"Apparently. Small ones only, though."

Bash catches Jeff as he flops, kissing him gently. "I've never seen dragons, myself. A pegasus, sure. Cait-sith. Heckhound, even."

A warm smile blossoms on his face, and he looks up at Bash like my hero...

"That's so fucking cool," he murmurs, absolutely, sincerely enamored by the idea of meeting a dragon. Even a small one. Especially a small one, actually, because the thought of, like, a dog-sized dragon is just the best thing ever...

"I've never... never met any of 'em. I don't even know if they're real in my world, or..." Fairy tales. "How'd you meet a heckhound?"

"One of my cousins, Chevonne, has a connection to dogs. All dogs are puppy to her, even a fucking Black Shuck. His name is Chuckles and his head comes up past my waist."

He gestures mid-air, demonstrating the height with a wry smile.

"I still don't know who Chevy's godparent is, no one does as far as I know. But she's cool. We got a bit of an overlap in purviews, because she does some of the dark and spooky shit I does. But she's smarter. I mean, most of the other demigods I know are smarter'n me."

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cw: discussion of passive suicide ideation

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

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