where is my mind

JETT MAVERICK. i'm picking up the heat like an                                                             atom bomb.           no time on the clock, it's a bloodshot.                                                                three, two, one...

[jettmaverick]

Jett [10.24]: i was an asshole???

Arin [10.30]: the fuck?? check who you're fucking texting

Jett [10.42]: okay love you too sweetheart

[jettmaverick]

Arin [09.47]: ???

Jett [10.24]: i was an asshole???

[jettmaverick]

Jett [23.01]: sorry i was an ass

Jett [23.02]: hope shit's good

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “Did I fucking ask?” So much for changing the fucking subject. He’d had enough of talking — of the assumptions that Queenie and him were anywhere remotely close to fucking ordinary, that it was as simple as jealousy and Arin being an asshole, that Jett had the merest fucking clue what he was rattling off like it was the most obvious fucking thing in the world. I don’t fucking know you. That’s what she’d said. And he’d thought they knew each other to the fucking core. She’d sleepwalked into the fucking closet, because of him, and the rift on his chest widened, because who else fucking did that to her? Arin felt his face heating up, and rose before the growing hurt got any fucking worse.

   “Fuck this.” He took a step, then paused. “If I hear any of this back from literally fucking anyone, you will wish you had fucking stayed in Dullahan.” With that, he strode toward the door without looking back, the pressure behind his ribs building until he felt like he was about to cave in on himself.      He didn’t know where he was going, only that when he pressed his back against a rough surface and sank to the ground, he was outside. The warmth on his face had started prickling, and his breaths were edging toward unsteady as the thing in his chest constricted further and further, choking him. Everything around him blurred into smudgy blackness, and when he turned his glassy eyes to the sky, he couldn’t see the fucking stars. Slowly, almost as if he was watching someone else do it, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and called Queenie.

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Jett’s sympathies were as unwanted as his advice. Preferably he would’ve grunted and moved on, but Arin knew that was too much to expect. Or, rather, too little. Picturing it, though, combined with the lament for his grandmother, drew another huff of laughter out of Arin that held nothing but actual amusement.      Upset, Arin thought as he drank more beer. What a petty-ass, tiny fucking word. He thought of Q then, for the millionth fucking time, and silly fucking words that everyone uses. He thought of how she’d looked at him when she’d said it, and felt the first tear of the laceration he’d pictured in his chest before. What if she never looked at him the same way again?

   “You’ve fucked one person your whole fucking life?” he asked suddenly, curiosity getting the better of him — and if Jett’s answer was yes, he wished he could fucking say the same.

     “No.” He shrugged, opting for, and settling back into, the way he was before; where so much of his time was spent around others that he was never left wanting. Back when he had no experience of doing everything he could in his power to escape the place he was in. In Dullahan, all conversation was good conversation if you could kick one off, and it was because there wasn’t really much to be had when you were surrounded by patients drugged into a stupor and staff that saw you as little more than a disobedient dog. 

     “Somehow, I don’t think her problem is that you fucked more than one person.” Jett knew Arin didn’t want the add-ons, but it hadn’t been all that long ago that Arin shared his opinions on Jett’s relationship, and what the fuck was he supposed to do? Probably nothing, he imagined. Maybe drinking his beer whenever he had the urge to talk was a better idea. Only drinking seemed to be making things worse, since it mixed with all the relationship talk reminded him of his, or distinct lack thereof. He wasn’t even sure he missed it when all it’d been was one disappointment after another. And the never-ending sense of fucking doom. 

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Again with the fucking comments. For a moment, his focus went into not flattening the filter of his cigarette between his fingers.    “I know what I fucking did! I didn’t ask you to fucking analyze, so shut the fuck up if you wanna keep your fucking teeth.” Arin had tried explaining himself to Queenie a handful of times already, and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to repeat himself for fucking Jett. But the questions kept coming, and it was looking more and more like the brunet wanted to experience life on porridge and fucking jello.

   “No,” he answered the last one, fed up. “Anything with a fucking pulse.” Bitterness crept into his voice as he repeated Queenie’s words.

   “I would’ve fucked your decaying grandma.”

     “Okay. Then,” he looked at Arin again, “Sorry your relationship is in a fucked spot and you’re obviously upset. That sucks.” This time, he offered a sympathetic sort-of smile, his lips pressed together and folded over, and turned back to the bottles behind the bar. He thought about Loralie, and the Government, and Presley, and the obvious shitstorm that was to come if she hadn’t gone back to them. Jett was losing his trust, and then he was back to thinking about Queenie, wondering if maybe she’d been feeling a semblance of what he had. Though siding with the fucking Government was a far shot from hanging out with the wrong women. 

     “My poor grandma,” he said solemnly, lifting the beer to his lips.

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “Fuck you. I fucking told you.” Wasn’t that Jett, though? Always giving people the fucking benefit of the doubt. Pierce. Greane. Now him. Wah-wah, you’re being too hard on yourself. Oh, wait, I forgot you actually are an asshole. He didn’t need Jett to tell him about fucking nails, or about Queenie’s fucking thoughts, or about fucking gambling metaphors that seemed more like begging to get punched in the fucking face. I’m not anteing shit.

     All of it — exactly the shit he’d been trying to tell Q when she’d asked him why he didn’t bring her up to people. What fucking right did Jett have to tell him about her fucking trust?

   “And I did you a fucking favor a fucking hour ago.”

     “Yeah, but I don’t want to suck your dick.” He widened his eyes at Arin, canting his head in pointed fashion before he caught the attention of the bartender to order another round of beers. Jett didn’t know who the people in question were, exactly, and based on how fond of people he knew Queenie to be… he’d bet she disliked or even hated the women. Whether or not that’d be cause to skew her judgement was another story Jett knew nothing about. He was working off mostly generalizations: what he knew about relationships and what he knew about Arin and Queenie. “I’d also dare to say you fuckin’ like me,” he added, flashing a giant grin at Arin.

     “So, why shouldn’t she think you liked those others?” He tried filtering through Bambi’s friends that he knew of, and it seemed like she talked to fucking everyone, but there were a few she’d keep around more than others. He recalled February, Rowan quite a bit of the time, Arin, Chaol, and there was that blonde chick who wasn’t a Lost Boy, but who shadowed Bambi whenever she wasn’t at the base. Jett never got her name because she was exactly the type of person he kept away from. Dramatic. Needy. Loud. If he wanted all of that, he could just spend enough time in the common room at the Treehouse or Bunker. Harlee. Loralie had brought her up too. Rowan hadn’t told Jett anything about the person at the warehouse with them; only her poor experience with Queenie and Arin. 

     “I mean, did you have any standards before?”

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “I’ll be on a fuck you kick in a minute,” Arin bristled, crushing his cigarette out. He wished he was in a fucking mood to make stupid-ass jokes. Realizing he had barely touched his beer, he drank half and ordered a whiskey — downing that, too, when it arrived.

   “I killed some bitch’s Government fucking daddy. I let some other bitch shoot some guns I was testing for Q because she was meant to be Greane’s fucking distraction and I needed to fucking know if she could hit the backup dart. I got fucking drunk with Ivan and roughed up some fucking junkie motherfucker who owed her money or some shit because I thought it was fucking funny and I wanna fight when I drink. Then I gave her a fucking ride home because the bitch was Fairly’s fucking friend, too, and I wouldn’t have fucking heard the end of it. I fucked. A Crybaby. Twice. Like, seven fucking years ago, but she was a cunt, so that also makes me a fucking pig, apparently. No—” He took out another cigarette, because his hands felt empty without one, “—A fucking sucker. That’s what she thinks. And if I helped Greane, or fucking Fairly, or any other Lost Boy with a fucking vag, it was obviously because I wanted to— fuck!” For a second, his anger was directed at his lighter, until an irritated shake and two more hard flicks got it lit. A long drag interrupted his speech for a moment, which was probably for the fucking best.

   “She says I ignored her when we had Greane cuffed in that fucking warehouse.” Arin exhaled a plume of smoke, staring at a bottle of something behind the bar without really seeing anything. “I didn’t even fucking realize.”

     Jett did his best to follow the story, or… facts, or whatever it was, tilting his head to the side slightly as he watched the moving reflections in the bottles, trying to put himself in Queenie’s shoes. He’d helped out some women. And one woman in particular multiple times it seemed, or they’d hung out, or whatever Arin might’ve called it. He searched his memory, connecting dots from his conversations with Rowan and what Arin was saying, realizing the ignoring came when the same woman who’d been Fairly’s friend was around. The Crybaby was hard to draw a clear picture with. She was a cunt. Queenie knew, and he assumed, disliked the Crybaby in question. And after another drag, after watching the smoke float up in curls between himself and the bottles, he responded, eyes narrowing against a sting that came from smoke getting a little too close.

     “Alright.” He sucked down the rest of the cigarette, crushing it out in the ashtray between them. “So, from her side, you...” He pursed his lips, squinting further as he kept trying to imagine it from Queenie’s end, “Give into women too much. And it sounds like Queenie wasn’t there for any of it, or that she likes any bitches in question.” He couldn’t help but smirk, a tiny perk of one corner of his mouth, “Listen, it does sound a little suspect. If I heard Loralie was bouncin’ around with other dudes and I felt… the way you two feel about violence.” His shoulders hitched in a shrug, “Bit hard to follow, honestly, but the ignoring part is probably the nail in the coffin — not that I’ve ever seen ya ignore her.”

     Jett inhaled sharply through his nose, straightening his posture to stretch his arms above his head, “You’re not exactly the favors type either. So… yeah maybe you were kind of an asshole.” He dropped his hands onto the edge of the bar, pushing against it, “Doesn’t sound like you ‘fucked it’ though. Just sounds like you gotta get her trust back. All-in game when instead she caught you anteing up at other tables.” Arin didn’t need his advice, nor did he ask for it, so Jett tried to make light of it, forgoing an admittance that these types of things were a welcome distraction when he was without for so many years in Dullahan. “So yeah, maybe you did fuck it.” He peered over at the blond next to him, preemptively “apologizing,” “Bad joke.”

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “No. And I didn’t fucking cheat.” His stomach twisted uncomfortably. The thought of Queenie breaking up with him felt likely to rend his chest, so he put it aside, taking a deep drag off his cigarette. “She’s pissed at me ‘cause I used to fucking sleep around, and now she thinks I wanna fuck every bitch that fucking talks to me. Said I would’ve if she wasn’t around — ‘cause I don’t have fucking standards for shit, and I’m a dick, right?” Why are you fucking talking?

   “Shit I fucking did made her think she’s not the one who has all my fucking attention, or that— that she’s fucking missing something I want, or that she’s not fucking enough for me or some fucking shit. I treated her like a fucking asshole without meaning it or even fucking knowing it, because that’s what I fucking do. That’s what the fuck I am.” Another drag, and Arin dropped his gaze to the ashtray in front of him, his lips tightening. “I fucked it.”

     Jett raised his brows as Arin spoke, specifically when he mentioned Queenie thinking he wanted to sleep with every woman who spoke to him. In his mind, Queenie was practically the picture of confidence, and it was hard to imagine her feeling insecure or jealous. It was even harder to imagine when it came to her and Arin. Even more surprising was the way Arin was falling into a pit of self-loathing, calling himself an asshole or a dick or some version of the same for the third or fourth time. Jett took a drag, chased it with a drink of his beer, and glanced sideways at Arin.

     “You sure you fucked it? Cause it sounds a little bit like you’re on a deprecation kick.” He was curious, and maybe he shouldn’t have asked, but he continued regardless, “What’d you do, anyway? To make her think that? It’d have to be some big shit or… well, I guess multiple little shits?” He snorted in derisive humor at himself, shrugging both shoulders before he polished off the remainder of his drink. 

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “It’s…” Arin lit his cigarette, then dropped the pack and the lighter both on the bar in front of Jett. “Whatever.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes again, his jaw tightening. Maybe if he pushed hard enough he could crush his skull into oblivion. Another laugh fell out of him suddenly, because everything felt so fucking absurd, and because he was talking to Mr. Love-Can-Change-Someone’s-Mind, and because— “I thought—” Another laugh.

   “Fuck.”

     Saying anything out loud solidified it in a way that made him want to crawl out of his skin, but it was real, and apparently he wasn’t fucking equipped to deal with it. He drew a breath, starting over.    “I thought Q and I understood each other.” There was a solid knot somewhere at his core, growing more constricted by the second. “Fucking turns out it just… took her longer than everyone else to realize I’m a piece of shit.” The corners of his mouth dipped, and he gave a small shrug, turning to Jett with bright fucking irony shining in his eyes. “Right?”

     Jett turned back to Arin and blinked because he hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He took another drink, propping a smoke between his lips that muffled his next question, “Did you two…” His gaze lifted briefly from the cigarette to Arin, “Break up?” It seemed unlikely, but if Jett had been asked to guess what Arin’s problem was, he’d have never come up with what the blond just said. So maybe he was wrong. Although, somehow, Jett knew the situation would be a lot worse if it was break up status. 

     He ignited the lighter, holding it up to the end of the cigarette and inhaling deeply. It was a bad habit; one he’d completely broken during his time in Dullahan. But he’d always been a social smoker, and when he’d gotten out, it was easy to fall back into. “Either way, hardly think she thinks you’re a piece of shit unless you cheated on her or some shit.”

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Arin frowned thoughtfully at the receding back of the girl who’d approached them as she returned to her friends and her table, wondering, if the situation had been presented to Queenie like some stupid fucking riddle or mathematical problem, what her answer would’ve been. Question: A tiny bimbo approaches Arin and Jett in a bar, asking them to buy her and her friends drinks.      Answer: Arin says yes.      Momentarily, he wished the blonde would come back — just so he could tell her she was ugly and ask her why the fuck she thought she’d had a right to approach them, but there was no point. Maybe Jett wanted to. Though it felt like a different world ago, it was only last weekend he’d told Arin about his pig fucker girlfriend’s latest trick; a disappearing act whose big finale was the brunet alone and fucking single.

     Despite himself, Arin felt bad about how much he’d taken the piss out of their stupid-ass relationship, and that thought forced a bitter huff of laughter up his throat. He’d thought what he had with Q was so much better; perfect, pristine and uncompromising and indestructible and fucking flawless, but it turned out he was just as much of a blind fucking idiot as he’d accused Jett of being.

     The temptation to hurl his pint glass into the shelves behind the bar almost overcame him for a moment, so he put it down and started digging in his pockets for his cigarettes instead, picturing Queenie’s hands as he did. Two fingers touching her lips in a request. Fingernails scratching insistently at his thigh. Index and middle finger wiggling near his already lit cigarette. Gimme. He gave up on smoking, too, and buried his face in his hands, drawing in a slow, soundless breath.

   “I know you’re fucking curious,” he said after a while, dropping his hands to pick up his pack and lighter again. “There’s nothing to fucking say.”

     Arin huffed, drawing Jett’s attention toward him as the brunet watched the other man perform the telltale search for cigarettes, though he gave up shortly after, sighing into his hands before he finally spoke — and finally retrieved his smokes. He couldn’t help but wonder if something had happened to her; if perhaps she was at the Resistance hospital or someone similar. But then wouldn’t Arin be with her? Certainly, he wouldn’t be in a bar. Right? Maybe. A lot of people drank when someone they loved was sick or injured. He turned his focus back to the bottles behind the bar, sparing Arin his gaze when he responded, “Seems like there’s somethin’. You look fucking miserable. And I’ve never seen you do a double take on lighting a cigarette.”

     “Speaking of…” He looked at Arin again, brow raised as he tilted his head toward the pack in Arin’s hand, “How ‘bout you bum me one?” Jett knew it was entirely likely Arin would tell him to fuck off, maybe harass him for his form of delivery, but Jett was used to it… and to be honest, it seemed like, out of the two of them, Arin was the one in need of a bit more compassion. And Jett was capable of giving it. That was if he could figure out the best language for delivery.

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     He ignored the joke, focusing instead on the road. No matter how much or little of the medication Jett kept for himself, it wasn’t like their venture had cost Arin much besides some cardio and forty minutes of his time — which he had a lot of at the moment. Too much, and if he could fill it with a thousand stupid fucking jobs, he would.

     After parking in the garage at the Haven, they rode the elevator up to the main floor, where Jett started lugging the crate down the hallway stretching left. Arin split off, because he was superfluous in a simple drop-off, and the brunet didn’t need his fucking hand held.    “I’m going to the fucking Hole.” He spoke over his shoulder, not turning around to check whether or not Jett acknowledged it. If he was drinking alone, so be it.

     Due to the nature of the base as a center for operations, the Haven didn’t have a lot of recreational spaces. People lived there, however, and people liked to fucking drink; might as well capitalize off it. The large dining hall wasn’t the place for it, so they’d dedicated another space that they’d filled with a bar and stools and a pool table and groups of seating, frequented daily by the people who called the Haven their home.      Above the double door that led inside, somebody had spray-painted the words THE HOLE on the wall in big, red letters. Normally, Arin found the name funny. He sat at the bar, ordering two beers. He’d drink both if Jett didn’t show up. Or if he did and decided to start bitching about his meds.

     He was going to the Hole, and if it hadn’t been an invitation, Arin wouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place. While it wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary for Arin and Jett to hang out, usually it ended with the blond skipping back to his place, or somewhere, to hang out with Queenie. Especially if he was in a shit mood, right? Unless the shit mood had to do with Queenie, in which case that meant the subject was, in all likelihood, very fucking off-limits. The thoughts about Arin’s mood were a decent enough distraction as he strolled down the halls leading to the pharmacy, where Jett set down the crate, took what he needed, then sent over the manifest, in case they needed it. The entire thing had gone off without a hitch, and those were the type of things Jett lived for. He’d gotten the medication, he’d gotten a little excitement (though he was fine without it), and he had every good reason to sleep well that night. At least as it stood right now. Arin had a penchant for, well, trouble. Whether it meant he gravitated toward it, or the opposite way around, simply put: it was still trouble. 

     Last time, Jett was the source of the trouble, left without his meds and a mind that liked to check him out every so often. Who took the reins then? He had no fucking clue, and he never had; all he knew was he hated the man or creature or whoever the fuck took over. He kept the conversation limited, offer pleasantries as he left, and made his way to the Hole, where he found Arin at the bar.       He took a seat beside him, fingers curling around the glass to slide it toward himself, though he didn’t take a drink yet, glimpsing sideways in Arin’s direction. These days, there wasn’t much to talk about besides the going-ons of the Haven, and Jett was certain Arin knew about anything he cared to know about. Now, Loralie wasn’t in the picture, which took down a solid column of ammunition that Arin had once had. Where’s Queenie? Nope. Hey, fucktard. Nah. Wanna tell me why you look like someone pissed in your beer? Definitely not.       Before he could come up with, well, anything really, a younger-looking blonde with a bob approached them, beaming. “Wanna buy us some drinks?” She asked, pointing a thumb over her shoulder at her friends circled around one of the low tables.

     “I don’t,” came out automatically, and Jett had barely spared her a glance, finally taking that drink, his tall form hunched over the bar. And now every topic, from stupid to stupider, had left his mind, because he realized he’d forgotten, for an instant, that he was single. Not that it would have changed much. At least, he wasn’t drunk enough for it to, yet. 

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     They’d gotten away. No real fucking hitches, and Arin wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved. Neither, he realized as he changed course for the Haven as directed; he was fucking apathetic. No room for anything else with the shit that was already buried in him, filling his mind and fucking body.    “Wasn’t fucking doing any—” His brain caught up with his eyes and he cut himself off, brows furrowing in a disagreeable expression of incredulity as he cast a look at Jett, who was apparently busy giving in to an urge to stick his head out of the window and hang his tongue to flap in the wind like a fucking dog. His expression melted into annoyance as he shook his head at the brunet in what was almost a warning.

   “Tell me you didn’t do all that shit for one fucking bottle.”

     “Nah. We did it for half,” Jett joked, turning his head toward Arin only enough so he could be heard above the wind coming in the window. Relief was all there was left to feel when he’d gotten what he’d been waiting months for. And unless the patrol was gonna catch up with them — which he doubted given the space between them — it should’ve been smooth sailing all the way to Haven. He’d been watching the route, the delivery, and the pharmacy for weeks, planning out how to make it exactly that. Not that he’d entirely expected it to go that way. He wondered how often those trucks were robbed; if perhaps because this one didn’t have any of the “good stuff” they’d expected it less. Based on the manifest he’d managed to get from a Resistance hacker, it was all anti-psychotic types, mixed in with an anti-depressant or something along those lines. He was familiar with some of the names because of fellow patients in Dullahan, but it wasn’t often they exchanged their drug history — unless you were prescribed some of the good stuff. Jett was — but he didn’t take them now. Back then, he was seen as a threat, if only because of his size, and especially because of his blackouts, which meant he was almost constantly on sedatives. Sometimes, he traded them for a fucking brownie. Sugar was harder to come by in there than some might have expected.

     Jett rolled the window back up, scraping his fingers over his buzzcut before his hand dropped down to the back of his neck, rubbing the spot momentarily. It was obvious something was up with Arin; it was obviously stupid to ask. Arin never gave up much information willingly, especially if one asked, so Jett kept his mouth shut, lifting his hips off the seat to retrieve his phone from his back pocket.

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     Plans like the one they were seeing through at the moment all depended on one thing: going off without a hitch. For short and sweet there was no plan B, and if shit went sideways they’d be back to the outcome he’d considered a moment ago. Kill. Run. Arin spared a glance to the silencer on Jett’s rifle, wondering about its make and quality, whether his shot was gonna be a tap or a pop. Right next to the building, that could be the difference between the truck drivers coming to check or not. Too late to fucking ask, anyway, and it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t magically pull a better one out of his ass if it did turn out to be shit. He wondered if it was even Jett’s rifle, or if he’d borrowed it from the armory at the Haven.

     The brunet got the door jammed, and Arin wondered if he was counting on the drivers not sticking around to watch it close; if he had a different tactic in mind should they have. What a fucking plan. Probably he’d had eyes on them for a while. His or someone else’s. Whatever. Sensing the moment was near, he put his eye to the scope again to make sure the reticle was still on the drone, or near enough that he wouldn’t have to adjust much. Then he returned his attention to Jett — and there was his cue.

     Arin lined up his shot. The drone had barely moved since the last time he’d looked at it. Hopefully whatever ammunition the rifle was loaded with was enough to get through its bodywork and into the processor. Hopefully the processor was located in the same place as it was on most other models. Probably he should’ve asked some fucking questions. Whatever.      No one had known it at first, but once the Resistance had gotten its hands on enough of the (unexploded) drones the Government sent out to patrol the streets, their major weakness had become apparent: the central processing unit had to be close to the outer casing and surrounded by fans to keep from overheating, which didn’t leave a lot of options when there were automatic weapons on each side, and — as an airborne device — it was most likely to be shot at from underneath. This one was smaller. Maybe it was plastic. Hard to tell from a distance. Jett went for the truck, and Arin fired. The drone jolted in midair then corrected course, flashing red in alarm. Hitch, he vaguely remembered thinking as he’d tugged the bolt, chambering another round, and fired again. The drone clattered to the ground, lightless, before it’d had time to sound an alarm or draw a weapon or deploy gas or whatever the fuck it was built for. Another cycling of the bolt, another clink of a casing hitting asphalt — a sound he enjoyed, and he refused letting his mind wander to the others. Fuck.

     Keeping the rifle raised, he watched the truck door and the darkness inside, waiting to hear footsteps. The rifle hadn’t been that loud. Passable. How suspicious the drivers were came down to how prone they were to getting robbed. Arin hoped not very, but suspected the actual answer was the fucking opposite. Jett appeared with the crate, snatching his door jammer as he left. Arin thumbed the safety and shouldered the rifle, catching the keys to Jett’s truck when they came flying at his face. He didn’t know where they were going, but he was certain away was good enough to start, so he didn’t ask.

      Everything happened in a blur of muscle memory and the distinct awareness of no other fucking option. He couldn’t fuck this up. His very life was on the line. So Arin’s rifle was background noise; distant clips in the air above him, and then he was out, crate in hand, the fucking medications jingling in their glass vials. Loud. Too fucking loud. No fucking time. He’d tossed Arin the keys and ran behind the other man, cutting the corner at the alley opening toward his truck. There was a muffled sound of yelling not far behind them, and Jett was ripping open the passenger door and practically tossing the box in the back seat, the medications loudly ringing as glass bounced between plastic. He leaped into the seat, grabbing the oh shit handle to lift himself more quickly into the truck, and Arin was beside him, starting the ignition. 

     And they were off, Arin tearing away from the curb and speeding past the back street as the two men jogged out of its depths. Jett didn’t even offer them a glance before he was turning in his seat, fingertips filtering over the lids as he looked for the correct one. It’d been a full month since his last dose, and he had no intention of waiting.       “We need to drop this off at the Haven,” he mentioned, his words stifled by the pills he’d just popped into his mouth, swallowing dry, “Then you can get back to whatever you were doin’. Thanks for comin’ out,” he added absently as he pocketed the pill bottle.

     They were clear of the scene, and Jett pressed the button on his armrest to roll the window down, finding satisfaction in the billow of air that blew across his face. He peered out it, behind them, curious if they were being followed, but didn’t notice the van behind them, though a flash of lights darted horizontally past, probably on its way to the pharmacy. 

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

   “Okay.” In different circumstances, Arin would’ve ragged on Jett for saying make dust, but as things stood, the thought didn’t even cross his mind, the plan occupying his focus in all its simplicity. If all the crates were marked with similar numbers — one or even two digits off — Arin didn’t trust the speed at which he’d be able to identify the correct one, so he relieved the brunet of the rifle, settling the stock near his shoulder and peering through the short scope that was mounted on it. Better Jett get his meds than Arin getting stuck between fucking C2080 and C0208, squinting against the jumbled letters in the dark before bringing the wrong one back or something else that would end in at best grand theft auto and at worst a pile of fucking corpses and sirens blaring in the distance.

     It wasn’t hard to fall into exactly what he’d been doing since leaving home, every conscious moment he could so he didn’t have to feel the shitstorm inside him: work. Whether he was giving orders or following them, it made no difference, so long as he could focus on a task and not. Think. About—      Arin took aim at the drone hovering near the truck, his law tensing and then relaxing as he forced everything away, following the machine with the reticle as it made smooth micro-adjustments midair.    “On your cue.”

     Just okay, and Jett knew something was up, but he also knew better than to ask about it, especially when there were other, more dangerous, things at hand. He knew Arin would opt for the gun; though he hadn’t, in all honesty, taken into account his inability to read and the difficulties it would pose. He just assumed Arin would want to wield the weapon and be the one to drive them out of there. More control, more satisfying action, unless Jett ended up in a tussle with one of the people, in which case Arin would likely jump in anyway. 

     As Jett stepped forward, he was calm; where there should’ve been pumping adrenaline, there was nothing. Sometimes, he’d forget what a “good little soldier” he could be after spending so much time confined in Dullahan; how easily he could shut himself down in favor of “the job.” With a nod, he closed in on the mouth of the alley, hovering near the wall and hugging the shadows as the two men opened the back of the truck, retrieved a crate, and then pulled it shut, walking away before it fully closed. Jett had a metal disc in one hand and a small remote in the other, holding his breath as he tossed it toward the truck. As it hit the edge and began to slide inside, Jett pressed the button on the remote, making the disc become a magnet that held it in its position with a light click, the sliding door of the truck coming down on top of it, wedging it open.      With that, Jett held up two fingers. On his cue. And he didn’t wait for Arin to take the shot before pushing forward; because he knew, without a doubt, he would. 

[jettmaverick]

D R A W I N G   P I N S

ARIN MELNIKOV.

     It didn’t take him ten minutes. He’d written off the fucking thing when he’d texted Jett last, so when the brunet’s call came, he was in the middle of something else. Nothing important. At least, not that fucking important. But it didn’t take him ten minutes. Disengage. Get in the fucking car. Find the fucking place. Arin thought maybe it had been fifteen-ish by the time he pulled into a mostly empty parking lot outside a dark and closed diner near Jett’s map pin, glancing at his phone as he got out of his car. Okay — seventeen. Fuck it. The other cars helped his not stand out; as long as they stayed there until he was done, the Mustang was inconspicuous enough. He looked around for cameras, but only spotted one across the street, pointing in the opposite direction. He also noticed for the first time Jett’s truck, parked a few spots over, almost obscured by another slightly bigger one, and the fact that he hadn’t seen it from the road or while he was parking or at any fucking point besides now pissed him off — another needle of annoyance in what was already a fucking pile. He was late, and he was apparently fucking blind, too. The fact that his attention was elsewhere was the root of all of it, and that pissed him off even more, and so he went in mental circles again and again, pissed off and pissed off and pissed off until he wanted to crush his phone to dust in his hand as he walked, looking around for Jett.      Where is she?

     There was a sound in an alley he was approaching, discreet, almost subliminal, but it threw him back for a disorienting moment out of his current thoughts and into the woods — the short whistle-calls they’d used when the need arose, or when convenience allowed for it. Stupid shit. Someone’s here. All clear. Hostile. Whatever the fuck. The one Jett used was a call for identification, or a location check, one half of a sequence that was meant to be completed by the person hearing it. Are you a Lost Boy? I’m a Lost Boy. Where are you? I’m here. Arin didn’t whistle back. It had served its purpose. He knew where the fuck to go, which he wouldn’t have otherwise, because he didn’t see the brunet in the dark swathing the narrow passage until he was basically in his fucking face. By now, it had been twenty.

   “Alright.” He slumped against the brick wall behind him, exasperation seeping into his body language as he made empty eye contact with a peeling piece of unintelligible white graffiti on the wall opposite. “What’s your fucking plan?”

     The truck had already arrived by the time Arin showed up, the delivery people appearing in the mouth of the alley as they rounded the vehicle to unload crates of medication. The whistle served its purpose, bringing Arin through the other end of the alleyway, and now there was only the hushed conversation of the delivery people and the low buzz of the drone that surveyed the area. When Jett glanced at Arin, he thought he looked tired, his unfocused gaze stuck to the opposite wall, and his voice lacked its usual aggressive (and somehow playful) glimmer, matching his lackluster appearance. Jett didn’t comment; he’d learned better by now when it came to Arin, and chose to answer his question instead. 

     “They go inside, one of us shoots the drone, the other pops in back and grabs the crate numbered C2080. It should be near the front since it’s the next stop. Then we make dust. If we do it fast enough, we can get out of here before the patrol shows up.” It was a dangerous plan. But for Jett, it was just as dangerous, if not more if he blacked out. Loss of control would surely land him back in Dullahan, or worse, if you could call it that. To Jett, Dullahan had been the worst of the worst, and death would be a kinder consequence. Only for Arin, there wasn’t as much at stake, and Jett wasn’t sure Arin would be as willing once he heard the plan. It was messy; fast. But it was the only option, short of following it to the end of the line, back to the facility, where security was thicker. “They only make two trips in so we gotta run on the next. It’ll be a couple minutes while they sign the intake form.” 

     He’d spent weeks planning; speaking to those at the base who had experience in the area. They weren’t preparing for another medication run for another month, and they didn’t target specific medications since it could be hard to track everything everyone needed. Which meant it was a toss-up Jett couldn’t afford. So here they were. 

     Jett had a rifle on his back, a silencer screwed onto the barrel, and he unshouldered it, raising a brow at the blond, “Which job you want?” He half expected the other man to say neither, then come out with a new plan of his own. Jett wouldn’t be offended; this wasn’t about ego. It was about one thing and one thing alone: his livelihood. 

[jettmaverick]

Arin: What.

Jett: You coming?