Summary: Jake thinks that he should shelter himself from the two other men who live within him. He should live a separate life from them. He is convinced that they will never accept him, so he has secrets, two big ones.
A/N: I'm not a native English speaker and this has not been proofread so sorry for any mistakes.
Warnings: I canon that Jake loves jazz, it just makes sense to me. Wrong description of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). I used my own imagination, it doesn't work like that in reality. There's no real description of the reader; it's just a person.
He takes care of the body, he protects then disappears. Neither Steven nor Marc should notice his presence. Nothing in their lives should shift or stand out, which is why he is standing here. Every evening like clockwork, he brings the body back to the apartment, back to Stevenās sanctuary. He stumbles into the living room, flips the lights on and looks around. The familiar room in which he still feels like a guest greets him.
The apartment looks lived-in. Steven has his books, Marc his baseball collection. And Jake? No trace to be found, heās a ghost. His presence is not meant to be noticed. The blind eye would think that he owns nothing personal. But if you look closely, beyond the obvious, youāll notice that not every pile of books are actual books. In the forgotten corners where Stevenās eyes never wander, you can find small pieces of him. His belongings are meticulously preserved and wedged into the dusty corners.
Knocking over another stack of papers, he sighs and looks around. āSteven, hermano, learn how to throw shit away, not everything is important.ā He takes the papers into his hands, analysing and flipping through them with indifference. If it were up to him, he would throw it all away, but he canāt. He canāt just throw things away, that would be suspiciousā¦ things that just disappear like that. Stevens' clutter must stay intact. Groaning,Ā āwhy do they have so many mirrors?ā
His muscles are sore, his head heavy. He needs to unwind before one of the guys makes an appearance. He can feel Marc on the surface, not really conscious, but close enough, he should hurry. Marc cannot catch him in the act.
With a little more urgency, he makes his way to the bedroom. Behind the wardrobe, there is a small cutout in the wall, one that he covered up with drywall. No one knows about this. Sliding the wardrobe to the side, he starts fumbling around, looking for the seam in the wall. His fingers find the little familiar dip. Toying around and pushing a little bit, the wall gives in and cracks open. In the small open space sits his guilty pleasure, his secret, staring back at him. His old vinyl player, shiny, almost glowing, sits there, ready to play the oh so sweet hymns of his favourite jazz songs.Ā
Secret one: What is life without jazz?
To Jake, jazz is everything. When the boys are unconscious and nowhere near making an appearance, he would indulge in it. Tonight is one of those nights. He can feel Marc, but he needs it. Just before going unconscious, he needs to feel a little relief. Khonshuās mission was long, painful, gruesome and bloody. Today took a toll on the body, he needs to relax, even if it's just for 2 hours.
Nights like this are for him and him only. Dimming the lights, soft Art Blakey fills the apartment, not too loud, just enough for the notes to drift into the bathroom. The room is damp, the air is heavy with the scent of lavender soap. The heat thickens, the water is scorching hot, just the way he likes it. He can almost feel it wash the weight of being Khonshuās puppet away. Hot showers are the only way to untie the knots in his back and loosen the tension thatās buried deep into his shoulders.
This feeling of relief is indescribable. He tips his head back under the stream, the warm water runs through his curls. Itās just marvellous, this is what he needed. Humming along to Moaninā, time vanishes, he could stand here for eternity.
Once the warm water has worked its magic, he steps out of the shower. Towel low on his hips, hair wet and curled, clinging to his forehead, blocking his vision. Steam curls against the mirror, blurring the reflection of a man who isnāt meant to be seen.
Wrapped in the safety of his hidden world, he returns to his collection. His latest addition, The Platinum Collection by Nat King Cole, rests in his hands. A masterpiece, one that deserves a place of its own. But where? He canāt showcase his vinyl the way he wants to, he needs to hide it somewhere. He turns the vinyl over and over, thinking. Steven mustnāt notice it. āIāll find a place, I always do.ā Whilst thinking, the door creaks open with a soft sound, letting him know that someone has entered the house.
āJake, amor? Are you home?ā
āSi, mi cielo in the kitchen.ā
You met in the jazz lounge.
You, a hobby singer, searching for something to do on quiet weekends.
He, a wounded soldier, searching for something to make him feel alive again. He found that something in your sultry voice.Ā
You enter the small kitchen, greeted by the scent of your lover. Warm and familiar like a never-ending hug, the smell envelops your whole being. āI missed you.ā These three words were enough to make him crumble, enough to push Marc away for the evening and try to stay conscious as long as he could. āI missed you too, bizcochitoā.
You scrunch your nose up at the nickname. āThatās a new one, speaking of bizcochitos, look what I brought.ā You swing the bakery bag in front of him. āFrom your favourite spot.ā
His eyes glisten and shine. āYou didnāt have to, I mean, youāre here, the sweetest of them all. I could just eat you.ā He softly places his hands on your hips, drawing you in. His skin still warm from the hot shower, eyes blown with lust and a playful smirk at the edge of his lips.
You know that look, he gives you the eyes. The eyes that lead to things.
Hard, warm, sticky, sweaty, hot, breathless things. Things that leave your legs weak, body sore and aching with love. Things that remind you exactly who he is and that heās still yours.
You donāt always have your boyfriend for yourself. You have to share one body with two other individuals. You know about Marc and Steven, you never met them and Jake makes sure you never will.
You miss him when heās gone, but you understand his life. You understand his condition. You also know what he has to endure, you know how hard his missions are and you know how much he puts his body on the line. The scars on his body can testify to it.
āJake, you should eat first, get something in your system.ā Pulling you fully into him, closing the small gap between the two of you.āI need it now, amor, I can feel Marcās presence. I donāt have much time.ā
One thing leads to another. The room is dimly lit, shadows of the two lovers stretch lazily across the walls. The night unfolds softly between the two lovers. Your soft legs entwined with hisā¦
The only sounds are the soft crackle of the old vinyl player spinning. The crooning voice of his lover, soft, yet warm and sultry, wrapped around him like the softest of silks. Singing to him. The night stretches on, filled with jazz, no solitude, just peace. The kind of peace only found when one is lying next to their world. Unseen by his brothers, unknown to them, but fully seen by his lover and in this moment of passion, thatās all that matters to him.
The truth: If Jake took some time and looked deep into the mirror, heād notice that his reflection doesnāt always mimic him. Sometimes the eyes staring back are familiar, but sometimes they donāt even look like his own. The man in the mirror is not always him. He thinks heās hiding from Marc and Steven, but the truth is, he carries them with him, every step of the way. Theyāre always here, present. They never leave. They found out about his existence shortly after Egypt. On Stevenās advice, Marc let him live a ānormalā life.
Jakeās doing his best, and maybe thatās all anyone can ask. He has his own life, his lover, routine, rhythm and passions. Being one of three canāt be easy. He has his role, he protects, fights and endures. He never asks for anything in return. The only thing we can do is give him space and respect his will. Maybe one day heāll let us in. Maybe one day heāll realise he doesnāt have to live in our shadows.
āā¢Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·ā¢āŹ ā” Éāā¢Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·Ā·ā¢ā
Thank you sooo much for reading my work! So sweet of you. I'm trying to get back in the zone I'm still rusty but I'll get there.
Mi cielo: my sky, my world, my love
Bizcochito / bizcochitos: literal meaning a small cookie/cake but here it's used as a form of endearment meaning my little sweetie
@quiet-night-sky-writers-blog @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @ingoldthewizard
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