Frostfire | MxM

Seventeen

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"Nobody looks good in their darkest hours. But it's those hours that make us what we are." —Karen Marie Moning

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Trigger Warning:
This chapter contains depictions of graphic physical violence, assault, and mention of substance use. Please proceed with caution if these themes might be triggering for you.

In a situation like this, anyone with a scrap of sense keeps their head down and rides out the storm, praying they come out the other side with minimal damage. But common sense and Jackson?

Yeah,they don't seem to have ever been on speaking terms. That idiot doesn't know how to stand down, the same way a rabid dog doesn't stop to wonder why it's biting.

On any other day, I might've laughed at how inevitable his stupidity is. But humor's got no place here. Not when my body's shaking like it's staging a revolt—tremors rattling through my arms and legs, my stomach twisting tighter with every shallow breath, threatening to spill its contents any second.

The cold isn't just there, hanging in the air—it's in me, threading through my skin, sinking its teeth into my ribs until breathing feels more like a chore than a reflex. And the drugs... Christ. They're not dulling anything. If anything, they're twisting it, pulling everything too tight inside me, turning the world into this jarring, jerky mess I can't keep up with.

My body lags, slow and leaden, while the world around me surges forward—too brutal, too vivid, like someone's cranked up the contrast to unbearable extremes just to screw with me. Movements blur and sound slice through space, painfully crisp, but none of it feels real. Like I'm watching through shattered glass, every piece reflecting a reality I can't quite step into.

It's all warped, splintered into these glittering pieces that don't fit together. Close enough to feel every edge digging in, but too far to reach out and stop any of it.

I'm stuck.

Frozen in place.

Just another useless bystander to my own shitty choices.

"Do you have any idea who I am ? With who you're messing with?" Jackson spits, his words jagged, breaking apart as a harsh cough tears through him.

Even with his body convulsing, he manages—either out of sheer arrogance or plain stupidity—to shoot Gabriel a venomous glare. He's sprawled out on the floor, one arm clutching his bruised stomach, his face a grotesque mess of swelling and purple blotches. And yet, that bloated ego of his still clings on, like a busted crown he's too stubborn to let go of.

Gabriel barely moves. "Should I?" The words slip out, soft as a breath, like he's genuinely pondering it.

His back is turned, but I don't need to see his face to know the expression—utterly indifferent, as disengaged as the rest of him.

"My dad's the damn Chief Constable," Jackson spits, clinging to whatever scrap of leverage he can muster. "You won't even make it home before they've got you in cuffs."

Gabriel's head tilts, just barely—a subtle flicker of acknowledgment, as if he's humoring the thought. But his voice stays flat, untouched by concern. "Is that so?" He lets the words hang for a beat, then adds, "And what exactly would they charge me with?"

The pause that follows isn't long, but it feels like the air itself tightens. For a moment, everything blurs into static: the relentless rush of blood pounding in my ears, the distant hum of traffic bleeding into the quiet. It tethers me, barely, pulling me from the swirling void in my head. Time feels stretched, distorted at the edges, like I'm holding my breath - or maybe my body's about to give out completely.