the anatomy of love [BxB] COMPLETED

27

When he can't ignore the blinding light pouring from the windows, Jackson reluctantly gets up. Mr. Sawyer―Wes―is not in bed, probably waking up hours ago even though they both went to bed late. Very late.

Jackson walks around the room, wondering if Wes has some sweats, but has a hard time imagining that statue of a man owning anything so casual. He opens the door to a walk in closet, and can barely contain a sound of shock when he sees the racks and shelves full of clothes. So this is his bedroom. They fucked in his bedroom. Jackson's heart thunders and he looks for a pair of pants that might surprise Wes.

He chooses a pair of plain grey joggers that Jackson would pay to see Wes wearing and walks to the kitchen, hoping Wes is making breakfast in the kitchen.

But when he rounds the hallway, the kitchen is empty, the lights off. The white countertops look clean, and there's no dishes in the sink. Only the kettle is out, still on the stove, but it's turned off. Confused, Jackson walks to the other side of the floor which he isn't as familiar with.

"Wes?" He calls out, the name still unfamiliar in his mouth. "What, no breakfast made? I bet you don't even have food in the kitchen. Only tea."

No answer. Jackson hesitates as he walks down the lightless hallway. Did he leave? Then he notices a door up ahead with light lining the frame. Jackson keeps walking and then knocks on the door, feeling stupid for doing so after last night.

"Come in." And it's like Jackson's in front of his office all over again, taking a chance, standing on the edge of a cliff and preparing to jump. Except this time, the bottom looks dark and barren, and there's a bitter taste in his mouth, almost like blood.

Jackson opens the door. Wes is sitting behind a desk, and Jackson has to remind himself he's not in the office, because his boss is wearing a suit and writing in a black notebook. He glances up, then continues working, the entire movement effortless and cold. There's a cup of tea next to the notebook, and a newspaper folded beside it.

"Who works on a Sunday?" Jackson jokes, but it comes off flat, and Wes looks up, raising an eyebrow.

"I do, clearly."

"Wes," Jackson says, and Wes flinches, but otherwise continues jotting notes.

"I'll be leaving soon. I have a meeting."

Jackson's stomach twists, and he feels queasy, like the floor just disappeared and he fell backwards, hands grasping at empty air. He smiles despite the urge to cry, if only to ground himself in some physical control.

"That's fine. You don't have to be an asshole about it," Jackson says, and the hurt in his voice is plain. Wes looks up at him, and his eyes remind him of the first time they kissed, wide and yet fierce, wavering between chaos and confidence, warring between hot and cold. His words cut the air like sharp electricity. "I know we aren't anything. I already told you, I don't date. You don't have to worry about pushing me away. I've done that by myself since the day I met you."

Wes's face turns stony, and he writes a few more words before closing the notebook and standing up. "I'm not worried. I'm just busy. And I'm sure you have things to do, too."

"I get it. I'm leaving." Jackson turns around, almost seething, wanting to shout but not even sure what he'd say. Why is he so angry, anyway? Just because he's calling him by his first name Jackson should get a hug and kiss in the morning along with his pancakes?

Jackson walks back to the room, trying to control his steps so he's not childishly stomping down the hallway like an ignored toddler. He's a mature adult, and this is just mature sex, after all. Leaving in the morning is part of the deal, not breakfast and attention.