emmabutt

He's draped across the couch—one leg hanging loosely off the cushions, his arm resting behind his head—with an empty glass in his hand and zero concern for his liver. He can't be bothered to remember how many drinks deep he is; he has no plans for it to be his last.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ —

Jack is drunk out of his mind.

The others are all over the place—Spot, Race, Albert, Romeo, and Buttons are all playing some card game Jack isn't going to try remembering the name of; Crutchie, Elmer, Tommy, Finch, and Sniper are all standing around the kitchen island sharing a box of pizza and a 24-pack of beers.

David and Mush are sitting on bean bags in the right corner of the room talking about something that would probably bore Jack half to death in his current state. There's maybe three or four cans that Jack can see on the floor beside Mush, but David looks sober.

Jack decidedly ignores the bitterness that blooms in his chest.

Everyone knows Mush and David have been getting close lately. Sharing food, posting pictures of them together, constantly staying in each other's orbits. It's unusual for Jack to feel so bothered by something simple, but it's different when it's David. When Race and Spot started getting closer last year, Jack didn't feel all that bothered even though Race is easily one of his closest friends.

Jack didn't feel threatened by Spot, though. He didn't feel like something of his was being taken from him.

David was his friend first.

Somewhere deep in the neurological web of his brain, Jack realizes his desire for a refill, but he can't get the words out properly without sounding like he just got his wisdom teeth taken out. He opts for nudging Race with his foot instead.

Race turns to look at Jack and snorts, as do most of the others.

They've seen Jack tipsy and buzzed before, seen him when he was holding back. They've seen him refuse drinks because he, quote, "doesn't like the feeling of being drunk drunk".

Jack typically doesn't like feeling out-of-control.

"Damn, you's gone, Jack," Race taps the blunt between his fingers into the ashtray beside him before passing it to Spot. "Whaddya want?"

With what little function Jack has in his limbs, he vaguely waves his glass toward the half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table that's been shoved off to the side of the room. There's various cans and bottles and glasses strewn about its surface, but Jack can't really make out the shapes of them all so he only hopes that Race knows which one he's asking for.

Race shakes his head with a smile that looks distantly worried.

Albert teases, "Don'tcha think youse had enough, Jack?"

His comment illicits a laugh from the guys on the floor, but Jack doesn't find it all that funny.

Part of him knows that Albert's right. The tiny, still-functioning chamber in the back of Jack's mind knows that he's already had too much. If it were any one of their other parties, he'd be slightly buzzed and cracking jokes with them. He'd be having fun instead of moping on the couch, shrouded and suffocating in his own thoughts.

But this time is different. This time, Jack desperately wants—needs—to lose himself in a bottle. He wants to forget his own name, wants to forget where he is and why he's here.

He wants to forget about the fact that he's done hardly anything but think about David all night.

David, who's now looking at him from across the room with a concerned frown and furrowed brows.

God, Jack can't stand that look.

Race—the observant little shit—picks up on the mood shift and tries to redirect.

"A'right, Jackie, I's cuttin' you off for the night."

Jack groans in protest despite the fact that he doesn't have the mental nor physical capacity to put up any real fight. Race snatches the glass out of his hand and brings it to the kitchen, greeting a couple of the guys as he sets it down into the sink.

"Besides," he calls out, "don't ya gotta help Ms. Medda at the theatre tomorrow? Ain't there a bug goin' 'round backstage?"

"Mmm–yeah. Wha's it matter?" Jack slurs.

He watches Race whisper something to Crutchie but his brain can't focus for long enough to make it out. Crutchie responds with a knowing smirk.

Race washes out the glass and puts it into the dishwasher before leaning against the kitchen island, his arms bracing his weight.

"Maybe youse could take one of us down with ya if Medda needs another one o' them Beauties," Albert chimes with a snicker.

Spot swats at Albert's arm and says, "C'mon, all'a youse know not one of us got the face f'that."

"Davey does," Race yells and the rest of the room beams with laughter, side comments and follow-up jokes stirring up amongst them.

Jack swears he sees Race staring at him when he says it.

David's head whips over to shoot a glare at Race, but the smile that spreads across his face soon after betrays any weight it held.

Then, David looks over to Jack.

Jack meets his eyes and immediately feels his face burn up. It's not the alcohol anymore; it's the fact that David is watching him. He's not worried about Mush or Race or anyone else; he's worried about Jack specifically.

Before Jack can venture too far into what that could mean, he's pushing off of the couch and staggering to his feet, just barely saving himself from face-planting. In his peripherals he sees Romeo begin to stand—presumably to give Jack a hand—but he sits back down when David places a hand on his shoulder. David steps passed the boys on the living room floor, making sure he doesn't kick any stray cards around, and places a careful hand on Jack's shoulder with the other coming to rest on his side.

David holds him up and keeps him from swaying as best he can.

"Don't stand up so fast," he says, his voice loud enough for only Jack to hear. There's a distinct layer of concern in his tone that makes Jack's stomach churn.

He tilts his head up to look David in the eyes. They're face to face, their noses inches apart, and Jack can't help but think that, yeah, David does have a pretty face.

His eyes, the slope of his nose and cheeks, his lips; everything about him is beautiful; girlish, Jack thinks.

One thought leads to another and Jack is soon wondering what David would look like if he were a Bowery Beauty. Maybe Medda would have him in one of those cutesy outfits—the blue one with the frills and bows and those tights that would show off David's legs. Maybe he'd have make-up on, something slight to embolden his already pronounced features. They wouldn't even need to give him false eyelashes, considering the fact that his lashes are already as long any of the other Beauties.

Jack doesn't acknowledge the butterflies in his stomach; or the fact that he can't stop glancing down at David's lips; or the overwhelming desire he feels to know what they taste like.

"You definitely drank too much," David says quietly as he meets Jack's eyes. Gently, he nudges Jack forward and, with a quick nod to Race, leads him to the bathroom at the end of the hallway.

By now, most of the guys have lost interest in their situation and have returned to playing and eating and chatting, save for Race and Crutchie who watch as David drags Jack away.

"Told ya," Race smiles, holding his hand out in front of Crutchie. "Those boys is hopeless."

Crutchie reluctantly hands Race a five dollar bill.

—

As soon as the door closes behind them, Jack's back hits the wall behind him and be slides down to the floor in front of the toilet, barely managing to keep his balance. He brings his knees to his chest and tries to take a deep breath to calm his racing heart, to no avail.

David steps over him and sits on the wall of the bathtub, his hands falling into his lap as he awkwardly twirls his thumbs.

Jack wants to apologize, wants to tell David that he didn't mean to bother him while he was trying to have a good time, but his voice gets caught in his throat and all that comes out is a low grumble. Instead, Jack rakes his eyes over to David and blinks slowly up at him.

David looks at Jack like he's something fragile and precious.

"What's actually going on with you, Jack?"

Jack studies the other boy's face, looking for any indication that he isn't being serious and finding none.

"Ain' anythin' goin' on, Davey, 's jus'…" he hesitates.

David stares at him expectantly and gives a small, encouraging nod, to which Jack lets out a long sigh in response. Hopefully David doesn't notice the way Jack's eyes tear up, the way his hands shake and his lip trembles.

This is one of the many reasons he doesn't get hammered around his friends. Without fail, every time Jack has gotten this drunk in the last few years, he's cried—or, more accurately, sobbed.

"Have y' ever wanted somethin' real bad, even when y'know ya can't have it?"

David's expression shifts into something blank and unreadable.

"Yeah," he shuffles. "I mean, I think it's–"

"David," Jack cuts him off bluntly and his voice wavers. "How d'you get the achin' to go away?"

A heavy silence falls between them.

David moves from the wall of the bathtub down onto the floor beside Jack, who can't bring himself to look David in the eyes anymore.

"I…" David inhales slowly and brings up a gentle hand to rest on Jack's shoulder, the touch light and hesitant, as if he's worried he'll scare Jack off like a feral cat. "I don't know. I wish I could help you, Jack, I really do."

The quiet returns for a brief moment until Jack chokes out a sob muffled by the back of his hand.

The guilt he feels over having David here, stealing him away from the rest of the party, is too much. Something about the way David starts rubbing circles against Jack's back makes him feel even worse because if David only knew the things Jack thought about him, he'd never go this far to make him feel better. If anything he'd be disgusted, he'd tell Jack that he hates him and he'd leave without a second thought.

Wordlessly, David wraps his hand around Jack's wrist and pulls it away from his face. Jack is inclined to protest but decides against it upon feeling David's thumb brush across his cheek to swipe his tears away.

He turns to face David—fast enough that he would've toppled over had David not held him up with a hand on his side—and opens his mouth to say something.

I don't need your pity, Jack thinks; I don't need you to feel bad for me. I don't need your help. I don't need you, I don't.

He opens his mouth, dead set on withdrawing and pushing away the way he always does whenever he's given an ounce of compassion, but David's expression makes him pause.

His gaze is uncharacteristically soft and warm. There's a barely-there smile playing at his lips and his brows are upturned. Jack can tell he's biting his lip, though he doesn't understand why David feels the need to hold back at this point, not when Jack is already crying in front of him.

Jack wants to say something, wants to tell David that it's fine, he's fine, but he's instead lurching to the side and throwing his guts up into the toilet.

He hears David hiss out a curse and is immediately met with a hand on his back. It would be a lie to say Jack didn't enjoy the attention.

They stay that way for a couple minutes while Jack's stomach empties itself out and he tries not to cry harder at the comforts David mutters to him as he gags and heaves.

"I'll get you some water," he murmurs and exits into the hall, leaving the door open.

Between his small gasps for air and the occasional sob, Jack strains to listen to the conversation unfurling in the kitchen. The voices are distant and hazy but he can hear a few sentences.

"He'll be fine," David says, drawing out what sounds like a relieved sigh from whoever he's talking to. "I think I'm gonna take him home. Medda told me she trusted me to look after him the last time I visited the theatre."

Jack's heart drops.

He doesn't want David to do this out of obligation. He doesn't want David to take care of him because his adoptive mother asked him to or because he somehow felt it was his duty or job. Jack wanted David to want to spend time with him, even if that meant comforting him while he threw up after getting too drunk at a party. It was still them; they were still together, near each other, in each other's space.

After a couple seconds, someone starts talking again. Their voice is too quiet for Jack to hear so he tries holding his breath, but it doesn't help.

A couple stray voices chime in before David musters a shy laugh and starts walking back down the hall, towards the bathroom. Jack stands up, nearly falling over twice, and meets him at the door.

David's eyes widen for a moment, then he smiles down at Jack and says, "I got your water. Drink this and then I'm driving you home, Jackie."

Jackie. That's the first time David has ever called him by that nickname. It gives him a warm, mushy feeling in his chest and there's no doubt his face goes even redder, but he can't be bothered to care at this point.

Jack takes the water and chugs it, setting the empty glass onto the counter behind him once he's finishes it. He motions to walk by David and into the hallway but is stopped by David's arm in his way.

Jack blinks away the tears rushing back into his eyes. He's been enough of a crybaby tonight.

"Le's go," he says.

David's face morphs into a frown and he asks, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes. Now can we go?"

David doesn't reply, instead lifting his arm and letting Jack pass, but not without slinging said arm back around Jack's shoulders. He swears he doesn't need it and grumbles at David but is quickly shut up when he nearly runs into the wall as he's stumbling down the hallway. They make it to the living room mostly unscathed save for a stubbed toe that David will surely blame Jack for tomorrow.

"I'll be back," David says as he feels around for his phone and keys in his pocket.

"Careful, Dave," Albert whistles, glancing up at them as they shuffle by.

David pretends not to notice the look Albert gives them and instead says goodnight to everyone, promising to help clean up if the party's over by the time he gets back.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack can see Mush wave at David with a smile.

It annoys him terribly.

Before Jack can voice his thoughts on that, David is helping him into the elevator and walking him towards his car. David opens the passenger side door for him and Jack ducks into the seat. Before Jack has a chance to attempt to put his seatbelt on by himself, David is reaching over him and buckling it for him.

Their eyes catch as David pulls back and he ruffles Jack's hair lightly.

"Let's get you home."

—

The car pulls into to the driveway of Medda's place and Jack frowns when he realizes none of the lights inside are on. Jack isn't surprised considering the theatre's need for extra help right now, but he's not looking forward to being this drunk and home alone.

David removes his keys from the ignition and gently pats Jack's thigh before exiting from his side, then he helps Jack out of the car carefully, mindful of his head and inability to walk straight without assistance.

Jack enjoys this more than he'd ever admit if he were sober. The feeling of David's undivided attention, his hands gently splayed on Jack's side and shoulder, the way he went out of his way to make sure Jack was alright; it's more intoxicating than the vodka in his system could ever hope to be.

With a couple stumbles and a bit of swaying, they make it safely to the front door. Jack makes an attempt to find his keys, but everything is too wobbly and blurry for him to nab them.

David clicks his tongue and shakes his head and something about the gesture makes Jack's heart pang with guilt. By now, he'd expect David to leave and tell him to figure it out for himself like Spot did that one time, but David instead pulls Jack's hand out of his pocket and reaches into it himself, retrieving his house key and unlocking the door. It swings open with a light creak.

David gazes down at Jack, his eyes lingering on his lips for a moment until he turns away, his head jerking towards the door, motioning for Jack to go inside.

"Go get some sleep. I'll see if I have any Liquid I.V. left in the car."

Jack doesn't respond. He watches David begin to walk away and something bone-deep within him can't bare the thought of David leaving. Without thinking, Jack surges forward and grabs David by the wrist so hard that the boy winces. David turns to look at him but Jack already has his eyes glued to the ground.

"Stay."

Silence; then David huffs.

"Jack, I was just going to–"

"Please," Jack whispers. "Please."

They both stand frozen for a couple seconds until David slowly shifts his arm to interlock their hands.

Quietly, David says, "Okay, Jackie."

Without letting go of Jack's hand, David walks by him and leads him into the house, closing the door behind them. Jack hums umcomfortably when the lights flicks on but David doesn't acknowledge it; he simply leads them towards the hallway and stops in front of it.

"Which room is yours?"

"Right," Jack says.

David opens the door and Jack nearly slams his forehead into the doorframe trying to walk inside.

Wordlessly, Jack switches on his bedside lamp and plops down onto the bed, pulling his hoodie off before laying back, the coolness of his comforter soothing the heat beneath his skin.

"Scoot," David says bluntly as he takes off his hoodie as well, tossing it onto the floor beside Jack's. Typically he hates leaving clothes on the floor, but he supposes this is a special occasion.

Jack squirms up the mattress until his head hits the pillow and he is soon met with the realization that his body is a lot more tired than he anticipated.

David slots beside him.

Even in the dim golden light of his lamp Jack can see the pink in David's cheeks, the endearing look behind his eyes that's far too sweet to be geared towards someone like Jack Kelly.

Jack, who's mouthy and anxious and so quick to run at the drop of a hat; who snarls and bares his teeth at anyone who tries to needlessly pity and doubt him. David—intentionally or not—has managed to keep him anchored and in place despite his tendency to flee. Even since before they got to know each other, David has never let Jack run from anything.

Thankfully, Jack can still run from his feelings about David himself and the boy'll be none the wiser until Jack inevitably finds a way to slither out of his hold.

"Jackie," David hums. "Sleep."

" 'M tryin', get off my back," Jack grumbles in response.

With the power vested in him by the liquid courage still running through his veins, Jack ducks his head under David's chin, his arms wrapping around his waist and his legs intertwining with David's.

David lets him get away with more than usual; just for tonight, he thinks.

Jack, on the cusp of sleep, mumbles, "Love you Davey."

Once he's sure that Jack has finally fallen asleep, David replies: