Jacket walks into the bathroom and slams the door behind him. He leans on the sink, spitting the last of the bile in his mouth into the bowl before he risks looking into the mirror. Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck is that. He stares grimly at the fish belly pale, sallow-faced corpse standing behind the glass, which looks back at him with dull, lifeless eyes and a sagging, expressionless face. He recognises the features; the strange lopsidedness of the face, the huge scar on the side of the skull thatās vivid pink, the way the eyes bulge unattractively out of the sockets, but none of it coalesces into an image he understands. Itās like looking at a badly made photofit.
He rinses his mouth out and brushes his teeth, trying to get the taste of sick out. He splashes some cold water on his face too. He feelsā¦ Not human, but more grounded. He risks looking at himself in the mirror again, but doesnāt feel any more comfortable with what he sees. He checks his teeth, both to see if heās looking moderately cleaner, and to check that the reflection actually follows him. It does. Fuck, guess it is him.
Jacket grinds his eyes with the heel of his palms and shakes his head. Definitely still dizzy, but at least existing on this realm. He steps back out of the bathroom and finds the Biker inexplicably trying to clean his fucking apartment. The Biker giggles when he succeeds in throwing trash into the garbage can and Jacket doesnāt really know how heād label or explain the exact feeling that storms into his chest and explodes like a dirty bomb. He ignores it, stares at the Biker without expression until the Biker strides across the room and takes his chin in one gloved hand.
The Biker pulls down one lip and Jacket has to swallow hard. The Biker makes some kind of dull joke, but Jacket barely listens. His eyes closed, he leans his face against the Bikerās fingers just a little. A few moments ago he doubted whether or not the Biker could actually stand him, now he thinks heād die if he found out that was the case.
People donāt touch him like this. People donāt hold him like this. Heās very used to that, to not having.
āVital signs deteriorating,ā he plays.
He takes a few steps back, enough that the side of the bed hits him on the back of the legs and he sits down on it heavily. He clicks his thumb back and forth over the play and rewind buttons over and over again.
āSeeker- seeker- seeker- seeker-ā the tape spits out nonsensically.
Jacket watches the Biker from half-closed eyes. He waits to see what he does.
āThis is a pleasant sensation,ā he plays.
The Biker only realizes what heās doing whenāwell, when Jacket reacts, when he rests his face on his hand and looks tired in the dirty lighting, the dirtier apartment. Itās a very hazy look, exhausted and worn out, like a broken down car. He doesnāt think Jacket is bothered, and the Biker doesnāt think he is either, holding Jacketās chip and lip like heās going to put his thumb in, touch his teeth, touch his tongue. A lot different than the threat he was thinking the last time he was here.
Itās the drinking. Itās the vulnerability that cracked open unexpectedly, breaking like some kind of fruit skin. Tangible misery that the Biker sees. Itās difficult, being rushed with something like sympathy. Or empathy. He doesnāt like to care about people. Jacketās not the one he thought heād care about. When Jacket backs away, he doesnāt follow. When Jacket sits down, he thinks about dropping down to the bed with him, but he doesnāt. A lot pushes through his head, forcibly and intrusively.
Heās thinking about it. Heās thinking, is it nice? Do you want more? Heās thinking, I shouldnāt touch you, I shouldnāt want you. The excuse of drinking is feeling less and less like a likely story. Jacket doesnāt seem like the type to point out itās a weak excuse, but that might be the way heās looking at the Biker trying to convince him that. Maybe heād like that excuse, because itās easier to push away the truth of whatās held between them.
He remembers heās staring at Jacket. Jacketās grip on the tape recorder is lazy and relaxed, and he looks tired. He also looks expectant, waiting, maybe desire. Maybe. The idea of Jacket wanting him is a good idea, and a terrifying one. He can imagine Jacket flicking a lighter, distant and tired, in the same way. Anything to entertain himself, keep his mind from drifting too far down.
āI think...ā he says slowly, finally glancing away from Jacket, finally stepping a little closer to Jacket. His hands hold Jacketās shoulder, and tip his chin back up to look at him, turning his head slowly. He rubs a thumb on his shoulder. ā... That you should get some sleep.ā
I want to stay, I want to hold you down, I want to make an impulsive, bad decision. I want you to make the same decision, I want you to beg for it, I want you to kiss me first. The Biker makes sure, as best he can, to keep his hands light.
āIāll see you tomorrow. Or... whenever.ā The hand on his shoulder reaches up, into his blond hair, and it is indulgent, and he is not going to think about it. āDrop by whenever. Iām... on the seventh floor.ā
The Bikerās hands slip from Jacket. He steps towards the door, and forces himself to not look back, to not drink in the sight of Jacket on his bed when the door opens and the brighter light of the Paliliciumās hallways spill in. He bends down and grabs his boots from their cleanest parts, and decides heāll just walk downstairs without them on. He closes the door, and itās a lot cooler in the hallway, but he doesnāt like it.
