The Stains Beneath Our Skin [mxm] ✔

6 | Jack

Jack was waiting for him when he got home later that week. Thursday. Casper had called it his last day and spent morning till night getting fucked or on his way there.

He'd thrown up bile twice on the way home already, crouched in the dark clutching his head and moaning. The thought of the filthy film of his skin clinging to this sack of bones made him sick. The last guy had kicked him straight out and his fucking ass cheeks rubbed pornographically slick together. It was gross. He wanted to shower in boiling water and scrub himself down to the bone. Maybe that'd wash away the filth for one night.

But then again, no doubt his bones would show brown with grime and nicotine stains too.

Seeing Jack sprawled out on the sofa sent his gorge right up again. That haggard face and the lifeless slump of his shoulders.

Maybe he should just run away again. God knew he fucking should. Jack only wanted one thing being back here, but ... Cain was back in two days...

Too little too late. Jack jumped to his feet when he saw him, tears already swelling across his grey eyes and without question of whether Casper wanted another hand on him ever again, he ran over and swept him up in his arms.

Coffee and cigarettes and whiskey and the place that had once been home.

"Awh fuck, Cas, baby, I missed you so much. I'm so fuckin' sorry, baby. I just get so fuckin' angry, and I—"

A shudder wracked his body and he twisted his fingers through the back of Casper's hair, pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. His heat was like an inferno, burning away all the bad until you pulled back and found your skin blistered and charred.

And it was too much right now. Casper pushed at Jack's chest, but his solid bulk didn't give. Oppressive. Too strong.

"Jack, get off."

"Come on, baby—"

His words burst out in a shriek. "Jack stop fucking touching me!"

Casper wrenched himself out of Jack's arms. His skin fucking crawled and Jack's fucking stupid forlorn, gutter-wretch expression turned his stomach. Shit. Shit. Why did he always come back?

"Cassie? What did I do?"

"Nothing." And that's just the problem. "I just don't want anyone to touch me right now."

"Shit." Jack turned away. Twisted lips, fingers wrenching at the roots of his hair. All the self-loathing guilt. "I know, baby. Came lookin' for you at work and ... y'know." Jack nodded at the bedroom. Like it said everything. It did. "Heard."

"I'm surprised you're not too disgusted to touch me then."

That went through Jack like the knife Casper had meant it as. Fresh tears spilt from his eyes as he turned and paced over to the kitchen. A whiskey bottle, open with about a hundred mil off the top, sat on the side, but Jack didn't pick it up. That meant he was serious.

A bottle of whiskey was like Jack's comfort blanket, and the smooth burn down his throat was a mother's hands in his hair while he cried. One that actually loved him.

But he didn't go for it, and that meant he wanted to stay kind. Be Jack for once. It wasn't fair that that was something special.

Jack's aimless wander ended leant against the counter, just out of reach of the bottle. The fingers in his hair looked as if they tore it out in clumps by the roots, but his voice really showed the whip of self-loathing falling on his back. "You know it ain't like that, baby."