The Stains Beneath Our Skin [mxm] ✔

30 | Running Low on Wishes

Jack's corridor stunk of cigarette smoke and damp, and a good amount of the first had probably leaked out of Jack's flat when he got too drunk to bother with the balcony.

It'd been a day and a night since Cain had found him. The day after Cain had left, Casper had let himself into an apartment that he'd thought was his with his hidden key. Someone else's things adorned all the walls and counters, huge houseplants and dreamcatchers and fairy lights. The girl living there had screamed, and when she'd called the landlord, he'd said he couldn't remember anyone by that name living there.

The ghoul might have laughed if he hadn't left with Cain.

His job was gone – the boss had told him that just fine answering the phone with laughter when Casper called – so what was left?

A new life somewhere soft with sunlight and the smell of fresh rain? Dream on, Roach Boy. No hope smacked through this hollow shell. He'd sat at the side of the road, clutching away the hunger pangs, watching the coaches roll by, with his bones gone too cold to dream.

The city had its teeth in him, and maybe he'd gotten too used to captivity to let go.

Right now, all he wanted was arms around him and fingers in his hair and the soft whisper that he was okay, he hadn't failed, he'd done the right thing. Roach Boy had wrenched off that carapace and there wasn't anything left but rotting bug flesh.

Jack's door looked just the same. Fuck knew why it wouldn't, but apprehension curled in Casper's stomach as he stared at it anyway.

What if Jack didn't live here anymore? This flat had always been Jack's flat, and if he wasn't there...

A haze crept into the edges of the world, swallowing the dingy corridor and its chipped magnolia paint. Drowned him with the hyper-sharp image of a smashed peephole and the number 309 nailed in brass to the crappy door.

Maybe Jack didn't live here. Maybe he never had. Maybe Cain had done more than snatch Casper away – a breath of magic to loosen all memory of him from the world.

Casper closed his eyes and slammed his fist against the door. Took a step back once he did and huddled against the opposite wall, arms tucked beneath his jacket. Good thing he'd worn this stupid outfit running away 'cause he'd had to sleep on the street last night too, and it'd been even colder than huddled up in that shitty cave.

Footsteps sounded behind the door. Heavy. Jack's. Casper clutched himself tighter, breaths so fucking choked they were almost like retches. His eyes burned.

A clunk echoed through the hall, underlaid a small scuffle, and the door creaked inward.

And there was Jack.

His eyes went straight to Casper skulking against back wall like some bitter little ghost, and all the colour drained out of him. His face, his neck, and across his bare chest. Kinda like choking, the noise Jack made. Kinda like the feeling that wrung Casper's throat in its hands.

He looked just the same. A tightness drew the hard lines of his face almost barren – gaunt cheeks and a hollow beneath his jaw – but just like always, his eyes brewed with the weight of an overcast sky. A heavy rainburst of life.

The sting that overflowed Casper's eyes hit like a punch. Gasping, Casper twisted his head away, swiping at his eyes. Literally everything else had gone away with Cain, so why couldn't he take the tears too?

"Cas?"

Jack's grip on the doorframe had his knuckles white as his face. There were cuts across them, scabs encrusted on the ridges. A space opened as he raised his arm and shifted toward the door, lending a glimpse into his flat. Just a mess of undone dishes and discarded clothes.