the anatomy of love [BxB] COMPLETED

40

They won the game and now they are going to playoffs.

Jackson rushes towards his teammates who hug and cheer, toppling onto each other. He's elated. Running on air. Hurtling into the victory's high.

But even as he hugs Caleb, tousling his hair and grinning, another part of him lingers somewhere else. Jackson pushes those thoughts away. He made his move.

"What are we doing tonight boys?" Caleb cries.

"Getting fucked up!"

"Damn straight," Caleb says, winking at Jackson, who rolls his eyes.

The team heads off the field to the locker rooms, jostling each other and shouting and running and laughing. Yet he feels so distant, so far away from the celebration. A rush of hatred rises in him, at Wes ruining yet another moment of his life. But sometimes hatred is another word for unrequited love.

After showering and changing, everyone heads to their cars to drive to someone's apartment where tonight's party will be held.

With all the commotion, everyone hitching rides and figuring out the times and shouting across the parking lot Jackson should not have been able to feel his phone vibrate softly in his pocket.

He takes it out and swears he feels his heart expand and snap back to its normal size, the thud of his pulse almost painful.

Wes: west ave. midnight.

Jackson grabs at Caleb, who senses his urgency and immediately asks what's wrong.

"He texted. To meet tonight."

Caleb looks confused, and then his eyes widen in shock. "Wes?" He says it in a whisper like it's top secret, and in many ways it is.

"Should I?"

"Why wouldn't you?" Caleb asks, confused. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"No," Jackson says, then groans, "Yes. Maybe. Not really. I wanted him to say the right things last time. I want him to apologize now. I want him to beg, not demand. But if he begs I wouldn't know what to do."

"Come to the party. Get drunk. Decide then," Caleb offers.

"That sounds like a bad idea," Jackson says flatly. "But why not?"

Caleb grins. "That's the Jackson I know and love."

"Okay, let's go get shitfaced."

☆★☆

"Wes! Where are you!?" Jackson shouts down the dark street. He laughs when his voice echoes in the empty night air. The cold breeze does not chill his skin even though he's only wearing a thin shirt.

Caleb makes an exquisite margarita, and Jackson may or may not have indulged himself earlier in the night.

"Mr. Sawyer! Maybe you like that better," Jackson says out loud, talking to no one. He stumbles and laughs again, but even drunk he can't escape the slight hurt he feels just thinking about Wes. His voice turns dark. "Maybe you like seeming important to hide how weak you feel inside."

"Maybe so," a familiar, cold voice slices into the silent space behind him. "But I would prefer not to hear it from someone else."

Jackson swivels around so fast his head spins and he pitches forward. Strong arms catch him at the shoulders.

"Wes," Jackson breathes, because the air left when he almost landed face first on the sidewalk. "You're here."

"And you're drunk."