diary ♕ jarbyn

eight

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jack excuses himself early that night as well, avoiding corbyn's gaze and hurrying out as quickly as he can, stifling a yawn. corbyn's heart sinks slightly – why won't jack tell him what's wrong? what is he hiding?
he sighs, turning off the TV with a flick of the remote and staring at the bland, whitewashed wall opposite him. he wishes he knew what was wrong with jack, so he could fix it.
maybe he should go to bed too. nothing holds much interest when it's not tied to jack, so there's no point staying up.
corbyn ambles tiredly up the stairs, intending to go straight to his bedroom, but the fact that jack's door is ajar catches his eye. jack never leaves his door open – he's big on privacy – so why is it open now? carelessness?

corbyn walks over and goes to pull it shut but stops, unable to resist peeking in to see jack's sleeping figure. At least jack's actually in bed this time, blanket pulled right up to his chin and breathing deep and even, face calm and serene.
when jack looks like this, corbyn can forget all former qualms about him. When jack looks like this, corbyn can fall completely in love with him all over again.
corbyn lingers there for a moment, staring at jack's face as he tries to gather the scraps of his heart and soul and the willpower to leave. he wishes he could wake up next to jack every morning, see jack looking like this. the thought makes his heart ache a little more, break a little more, and corbyn has to wrench his eyes away from the tranquil perfection that is jack.

he's about to close the door and put the safe distance of it between them when the dream diary on jack's bedside table catches his eye again.

he shouldn't. he really shouldn't. jack doesn't want him to, so he shouldn't. jack trusts him not to, so he shouldn't. there are so many reasons he shouldn't, but the devil on his shoulder bats them all aside.

just do it, it tells him. jack's asleep. he won't know.

what if he finds out? what will corbyn do then? he's always been a bad liar – especially when jack's involved.

actions first, consequences later.

corbyn hesitates for a single moment, one more moment of conscience, before he moves forward quietly, tiptoeing into the room. once again he thanks the heavens for the silent combination of carpet and socks that allows him to pass unnoticed across jack's room to his bedside table and pick up the book, sneaking back out again just as silently as he came in.

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wc; 444