You're Up Awfully Late {Septiplier}

Just for the Reunion

"Please, please, please, let me through," Jack begs, tear soaked blue eyes behind greasy green bangs. "Please. I swear I'm a creator. I'm Jacksepticeye. I just lost my pass. Please. I have to get back here."

The broad shouldered security guard shakes his head slowly, looking down at the short Irishman with pitiful eyes. "I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to let anyone through unless they have their pass."

"Please," Jack pleas. "I know this is making your job more difficult, but I have to get back here. I promise I won't be any trouble."

The guard sighs. His ears should be deaf to the green haired man by now, but he pities Jack. Crumbled clothes, unwashed hair, and dark bags beneath his eyes- it's clear life hasn't been handing the Irishman an easy hand.

Jack glances at his phone, heart lurching when he seems the time. Less than fifteen minutes to Mark's panel, and he's can't even get into the convention center. Bitter tears slide down his cheeks.

"Hey, Hey, Hey," the guard soothes, not wanting to watch the other man cry. "It's going to be alright, okay? Let me just call my supervisor. I doubt anything will change, but maybe he can do something for you."

"I d-don't have time for that," Jack sobs, dropping his face into his hands. "I-I'm going to m-miss my panel."

The guard gives a small groan, as if the man crying is causing him physical pain, before he grabs the rope. "Tell no one I did this for you," he decides before waving Jack through.

"Thank you so much!" Jack smiles through the tears, slipping inside.

Trotting through backstage, he searches for any sign of Mark, his stuffed backpack bouncing with each step. He can't help but glance at his phone, his chest clenching at the thought of missing him.

Jack turns a sharp corner, slamming into a hard chest. He's a moment from grumbling, but he recognizes the broad shoulders. His eyes light up as he jumps back, smiling widely at Mark's confused face.

"Jack?" Mark asks, almost as if he cannot believe it is him. "Are you okay? What are you doing here?"

"I have to talk to you," Jack insists, skipping any formality. His hand brushes his bangs from his eyes, grease left on his fingertips.

Mark sighs, long and low. "Jack, I have to go to my panel."

"It will just take a minute," the Irishman promises, face turning sad.

"I don't have a minute right now," the raven dismisses, looking at his visitor over more fully. He's never seen Jack this bad: unwashed hair, unkept beard, dirty clothes, dark bags beneath his eyes. His cheeks look hallow, as if he has lost an unhealthy amount of weight. His blue eyes are sad, unnaturally dull.

"Here," Mark continues, fishing his keys from his pocket. He offers them to the green haired man before saying, "take a taxi back to my house and get some rest, Jack. You look... horrible, to be completely honestly. I'll be back later tonight."

"But we need to talk," he insists, becoming more desperate. The distress from Ireland followed him all the way to LA, turning his mind frantic.

"Later," Mark replies, short, as he offers the keys again.

"No!" Jack nearly shouts, stomping his foot in protest. "I'm not going! I need to talk to you now!"

Mark pulls back, blinking as his friend's pale cheeks turn a furious red. "Jack, I'm busy, okay? My entire life doesn't revolve around you."

"So first it's I'm not making enough of my own choices but now it's I'm not being enough of a follower?" Jack demands, words turning more bitter. "Because the only time you care about me being decisive is when it benefits you?"

"What has gotten into you?" Mark hisses a whisper, eyes flashing around the others meandering backstage. "You can't just expect me to drop everything because you stormed up to me. And, you know what Jack, I'm just trying to be nice, okay? You look like shit, and you're acting like a real dick. If you want to talk, then you'll wait until after my panel."

Jack's about to spew a mess of insults, take all the pain and misery of the last few months and throw it on the American. But clenching his first hurts his fingers and setting his jaw hurts his cheeks and tensing his muscles makes him feel like they might rip from the strain.

Jack sighs loudly, anger dissolving into numbness again. "I want to watch your panel," he nearly whimpers, meek.

"And afterward you promise to go back to my house?" Mark asks.

Jack nods, offering an open palm for the keys. The American drips them into his hand, letting them fall with a jingle, calling over a black clothes stagehand.

"Can you get him a seat to my panel?" Mark asks the woman, pointing to Jack.

She nods, smiling politely and waving for the Irishman to follow her. He stuffs Mark's keys into his pocket, glancing pitifully to Mark. His pale cheeks turn red with embarrassment, realizing, for the first time, how horrible he must look.

Mark looks stunning, even with the cold frown on his lips. Jack almost can't believe how bad he let himself get. How long has it been since he showered? What was the last thing he ate? He wishes this wasn't how they came back together, that he would have had the foresight to at least change his clothes.

"I'm sorry," Jack mutters sadly as he follows the woman, leaving Mark to stand alone.

The American gives a small sigh, but he lets the other go. He's hoping, praying, Jack will be waiting for him when he gets home, that he won't disappear between then and now. But, he just can't force him to make that decision. It hurts to send Jack away, just as it did the last time. Maybe it is worse now, more bitter. Yet, Mark lets him walk away, turning to find his stage.