you've got whatever's left of me to get (m!jude + aos!jesus au)
That was fine. The longer he could distract himself, the better. Taking stock every morning, lifting boxes. His eyes sometimes flickered over to the case of flowers at the front of the store, and he thought about asserting his abilities--his windowsill garden in his terrible apartment, all that time he spent learning--but wouldn't until he could rise to the occasion. He didn't want to bring attention to himself anymore.
Someone slipped and fell, once. Glass in her arm. Without thinking about it, he went into that mode, found the first aid, fixed her up thoroughly. Someone asked, later, once she was fine, if he was certified, and his answer was yes; then they asked what he did before this, and the conversation came to a halt. He couldn't raise questions. There was a time when he liked curiosity, eyes on him, but not anymore.
And sometimes he'd look down to the red vest, flimsy over his thermal, with whatever name tag he wanted on it. Sean, sometimes, Michael, others. Everyone knew another Sean or Michael. It was easy for him to blend in that way. Names that stuck out wouldn't do. But he'd remember his own name. He couldn't convince his way out of that. And so Jude spent another evening loading up the freezers with beercans, restocking cereals, whatever was needed of him. Every hour or so, he'd go out for a cigarette, or if it was packed, he'd chew gum until the itch passed. By the time it was winter, after he'd planted his wildflowers and packed his things and found this job, he had little else on his mind.
[12/13/13 12:49:26 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Sometimes, he looked at the stars above his head, and no longer felt anything. None of the blinding pain in his abdomen. No lack of air, no weak legs. The silence of Earth, louder than that of space, and the loneliness had finally molded him into what they thought fit, and for that he had been hateful at first.
Now, sometimes, nothing happened when he looked up, except a sensation of numbness. And he was thankful for that.
How could he pilot a ship, how could he lead hundreds of lives across the universe, if he couldn't even get a hold of himself anyway? This was better. And he had adapted, despite his mother's insistence for him to go back to the neighborhood, the coddling mom wanting to spare her child. Despite Mary's sad little looks hidden with comforting words, which fell on both of their dead ears because who were they kidding. Who were they kidding.
At least he kept in touch with her. Sometimes.
Despite Peter. Peter, who had held him and tried to put him back together to no avail. He was done.
This was better. He told himself that everyday. Nice town, a bit cold but nothing he couldn't bear. A nice view of the stars.
The fucking stars. That evening his feet had dragged him straight to the fucking grocery store with enough credits to buy the pleasant buzz of alcohol. Everything go fuck itself.
[12/13/13 1:03:31 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Almost closing time. Today he'd collect his check and go home, shower, read the book in his back pocket until he slept. He'd been devouring books lately. The significance of paper, the feeling and the smell and the comfort of it. His garden and his books, enough to pay the bills. That was it. And from that he was pure.
He was about to check on everything and clock out when he heard the sliding door whir. A heavy footfall behind him. It was funny--Jude had gotten so good at being calm, but always turned around as soon as someone approached. Revealed he was on his guard constantly.
And when he turned, from behind a produce section, he saw. That face. /That face./ There was a moment of deer-in-headlights silence before he turned and found another aisle, close to a wine rack. Breaking a bottle and wielding it crossed his mind at the time, before he took a deep breath and tried to rationalize it.
Sometimes--in earlier days, when he was still detoxing and panicking almost constantly--he'd see familiar faces, brief flashes of features, before they dissolved back into an unrecognizable person. It went away, in time. But this one stayed. Maybe he was just seeing things in his head. The cold air from the door opening seemed to disprove it, but it's what he repeated as he collected himself.
[12/13/13 1:16:32 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: The store was warm, at least. Warm enough for him to feel, only for a while, comfortable.
He beelined for the liquor section.
Honestly, Jesús hadn't even payed his surroundings any attention until he realized he had been staring at the same can of light beer ('that shit is disgusting dude' I know right?'), just some dumb grey can with nothing special about it. For all he could have cared, were it another day, he would have grabbed the first thing his hand reached and gone home. Calling it a day. Get drunk enough to maybe choke on his own vomit, maybe.
No. Rapid angry little steps, taking him from big bottles to little ones to strange containers to the wines ('so will you make wine out of this?' 'oh my God, fuck you so much' 'it was a serious question!') to, ah yes, someone who could help him. "Hey man. You know if you got any of that, uh, the beer with the two little horses on it?"
He couldn't even bring himself to remember the name of that.
He also should have payed more attention, as soon as he had muttered that he looked up, and froze.
He wished he could have said that everything froze. No, it was just him, him and this son of a bitch who looked /just like him/ except-- except--
No differences. No differences at all. But surely it was just his mind playing tricks on him, after years of the same shit he should have been used to that by now. And he should have left. But he didn't. He stood there, like an idiot, staring and shaking.
[12/13/13 1:24:31 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: /Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck/ he was following him--okay, he was going to the liquor section, which was not too uncommon at that time of night, or ever, but he was still there within just a few feet of him. He remembered the face, the tone of voice. The beer.
The stupid fucking beer. He remembered living on it, but didn't let himself remember much else. He couldn't. Jude opened his mouth, stared down at his name tag with the faint outline of the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his thermal, what that man--no no it wasn't--was wearing, then over to the fridge where the aforementioned six-packs were stacked.
He stammered once or twice, then jerked his chin in the direction of the beer. He couldn't look at him. Maybe if he looked back he'd be a different person--but no, he was still there, gaping at him just the same.
[12/13/13 1:47:34 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Poor guy had to stand having a total stranger staring at him. He guessed he must have had worse, so he tried not to feel bad about it. There had been a time where he would have apologized endlessly, shared a quick laugh then scurried away. Sounded like something nice to do.
Right. Ignoring his closed throat, he nodded, biting his lip. The beer, yeah. "Uh, thanks."
But the thought, the possibilities no matter how wild or impossible they may have seemed, were going to drive him crazy, if not that he already was. The eyes that had looked at him so many times, for him to ignore. Those lips he knew them too well, the hair soft in his hands, all of him whom he had devoted himself to, endlessly loved until he could endless cane to an end.
His hand had wrapped around the packet of cans. Suddenly, he snapped. And his hand let go, and he turned, slowly, what if it wasn't real and he could shatter the image of him as easily as glass. What ifs, what ifs, he was tired of what ifs.
"Jude?" His shaky voice had been no more than a broken whisper. But to him, it had been enough.
[12/13/13 8:18:44 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: No, that wasn't right, he had to be fucking kidding. That was him. That was his voice. The way he said his name, though he never said it quite like that. He never looked like that, like he was about to shatter. He remembered how he always seemed to stand taller, how--
No. He couldn't do this. He stood dumbstruck and backed away, jostling a wine rack, dented cans of beer rolling at his feet.
He couldn't do it. It wasn't safe here now. And if it wasn't here, it couldn't feasibly be anywhere. That thought was what made him bolt, not quite running but nearly so, out into the parking lot.
His name. The way he said it like he ever meant shit to him (nonono keep it back.) It was cold, threatening to rain, and the air stung his face as he struggled to light a cigarette, flicking the lighter over and over.
[12/13/13 10:00:40 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Wait," /wait wait wait wait/ he was leaving, "wait!" but that meant he actually was /there/, that the beers falling and the other's footsteps running away from him /but why was he running/ were real, they were completely real.
It was surprising that he didn't become overwhelmed with the amount of questions ready to spill from his lips. That or his intermittent breathing, the moment the cold air slapped him on the face he remembered how to inhale and exhale and inhale again, if only for a moment.
"Wait wait wait, please, I'm begging you," ah, fuck it, and he grabbed Jude's --that wasn't him, he didn't smoke-- shoulder, only to step back and drop his hand like it had burnt his skin.
This was /absurd/. Impossible, and Jesús wondered why shit like that kept happening to him. He rubbed at his eyes. Although why bother because he was already crumbling down. Still, something stronger than what he was now, buried in him, pushed all that nonsense away. With some sort of difficulty, he managed to croak "I'm sorry if I scared you. You just--"
Look exactly like him. "Don't go. Don't. Please, please."
The words themselves, the same he had repeated over and over and over, were enough.
Enough to cover his face and hide the remnants of the sorrow he had thought he'd worn out already. "Sorry."
[12/13/13 10:35:17 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude stumbled backwards on the asphalt, guarding his cigarette with his hand and finally lighting it. His shoulder felt like it was burning, the strange warmth of his hand ingrained against his skin. No one had touched him in a long time. He'd always dodged it, distanced himself, made it clear he didn't like it.
The look in his eyes awakened what felt like ancient memories, bile rising in the back of his throat. Looking at him. Jesús--fuck, /fuck/, he was here, he was alive or at least back to haunt him.
The cigarette shook in his hands, and he took a deep inhale, blowing smoke not quite away from his face but not in it either. Maybe it would pass through him, disrupt the vision, he'd fade away. He could hear a crackle of thunder in the distance, mist in the air.
"You've got the wrong person." His voice cracked, hoarse. Maybe once there was a semblance of energy, youth to it, but now it was exhausted just like the rest of him.
[12/13/13 10:59:02 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús coughed, waving the smoke away. Whoever --whatever this strange hallucination or dream or fucked up turn to his own reality and his life had taken, well. He was the same, on the outside. Another completely different thing could be said for his demeanor. Even when Jude had gone through so much, he still managed to look... better.
It was going to rain, it added to Jesús nervousness. He wanted to step closer. But if anything, he'd learned to be wise, prudent, even when he wanted to send everything to shit. So he stood on his spot, wrapping his arms around himself.
(Something he'd learned too.) "Then why'd you run away when I said your name?" He paused, taking a deep breath, the way the cold bit at the tracks on his cheeks making him blink several times. And he was still there. Smoking, of all things. "Why'd you run away from me?"
[12/13/13 11:21:44 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Why are you doing this." It wasn't really a question, as much as a statement. He tapped some ashes on the ground, rubbed them in with the sole of his shoe. Kept himself from looking at him.
He knew. He remembered. And suddenly he was angry. He'd followed him. Found him again, when he'd found someplace safe. His flowers, his apartment, the rain. His job. He had it. He had everything, but he had to come and fuck it up, like he'd fucked up his life before, but that wasn't really his fault but--
He didn't realize he was mirroring him, clutching his sides to keep himself warm. He felt a faint drizzle against his jacket. "Will you just--" he shuddered, feeling something familiar sink in, "will you just stop fucking with me for ten seconds straight?" /Just get out of my head. Just get out./
[12/13/13 11:47:29 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Doing what now. Jesús frowned, something stronger than grief and hurt and everything, really, finally breaking away his pained expression. "What?"
What was that supposed to mean. Him, suddenly it was him the one fucking around with J--this guy? All he'd wanted was something to drink until he passed out, instead he got this. This.
"What the hell are you talking about," and if his voice came out louder than he had wanted to, he didn't notice. "Why are /you/ doing this, who are you, who do you think you are, wearing around his face?"
[12/13/13 11:57:42 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He flinched at the sound of his voice. Loud, like before, harsh. It was him. It couldn't have been anyone else.
Jude took another drag on his cigarette and let the smoke eke out slowly.
"Who do you think I am." He finished his smoke and stomped it out, embers on the ground. "Honestly. Who."
[12/13/13 12:10:13 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Doesn't matter who I think you are. You're dead!" and hearing himself saying it like that made him realize just how fucked up the entire situation was.
"God." His grasp on his own jacket tightened, the drizzle was becoming harsher. Honestly, he couldn't have cared less, just a little rain to hide his pathetic little tears.
"I saw you. I buried you," he muttered to himself.
[12/13/13 12:30:22 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He stood there in silence, trying to process what happened. That wasn't right.
"I'm not dead." At that moment--and God how trite--he just have wished he was. "Tell me how I died, then. You--don't fucking tell me that. Don't pretend I meant /shit/ to you."
[12/13/13 12:45:29 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Yes you are, yes you are, he was saying it out loud and in his mind and it still sounded dull.
"N--don't, don't even," it was as if this appearance was exclusively there to dig up every single thing he had buried throughout the years. When all of a sudden his heart was taken away but he couldn't do anything because the yells of the Captain and the alarms on the bridge had kept him grounded long enough until he was finally /allowed/ to break down.
Madness. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't relive that just to satisfy the other's sick curiosity. "Don't even do that. You're not him. You're definitely not him. He wouldn't have said that."
Jude knew how much he'd loved him.
Jesús wanted to throw up.
[12/13/13 1:01:54 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He took a moment to look him over and cringed. He wasn't the same, he knew. Something was wrong. This was different--it was all clear now, he remembered his face, the shape of his hands and his voice and that sick look on his face, the urge to care for him, rain matting his hair down.
And without another thought to it, he broke down, crumpled onto his knees and began to shake.
"Who are you," he managed, rubbing at his eyes, the ugly scar over his temple. "If--if I'm not him, who are you?"
[12/14/13 1:37:15 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: The moment his knees hit the ground, Jesús' jaw clenched, a pang on his chest, but it was unimportant because his instincts kicked in.
So he fumbled with his jacket before finally taking it off, and crouching next to him, draped it over Jude's shoulders. The cold of the small drops of water on his back were also trivial. He was already soaked anyway.
But that was about as much as he dared touch him, even when his hands ached to reach out and map his lips. He was closer, and God, that /was/ him.
"I'm just," he swallowed, "a dumb retired pilot. Who'd you think I was?"
[12/14/13 1:54:36 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "No," he murmured, and reached up to rub at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He wanted to hand his jacket back to him--the warmth around his shoulders, the smell of him that stuck out like a sore thumb, only served to make it worse. He was real. He was standing in front of him. And everything he had tried so hard to hold back, forget even, was unfolding again, something he'd worked so hard to tie up and close the chapter on.Â
"No. I shot you." He couldn't bear to look at him, swallowing back a sob. "I--Mary, and Mr. Kent--"Â
He had to do it. He remembered being told he had to do it. He was the only one he trusted. And it had happened so quickly. He didn't fall like he thought he would, like in the movies, and he'd thrown up afterwards. The days he'd spent not eating not sleeping, just thinking, in his quarters afterwards. Realizing eventually he never meant anything to him in the first place.Â
His throat suddenly felt raw. He needed him to get out. Out of his head. He thought he'd atoned enough, he'd be able to move on. Why did he have to follow him here?
[12/14/13 2:17:45 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: That was...that was disturbing, that this man claimed that he had shot him. And also left an open door for more questions to tumble down and overwhelm him.
(/Imagine Jude shooting you/. Well, he'd be alive even if it cost his own life, so it didn't sound too bad.)
"Mary?" And Mr. Kent. The two people who had held him back when he saw Jude--
Jesús shook his head, blinking away more tears. "You mean Mary, the chocolate-addicted girl who gave you Oppenheimer?" and despite everything, a sad little laugh escaped his lips, unbelievable, was this really happening was he truly telling him they had killed him, "and Randy, the guy who smells like raisins?"
He flicked the stub of the cigarette away from him, then looked up. At the evening sky. Maybe somewhere, some of the answers he was looking for we're waiting for him. For them. "Jude would have never shot me."
[12/14/13 2:37:47 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "What the fuck are you talking about?" He looked up at him, his brows furrowed. "They--"
Talking about them like they were his friends. It would have made sense, almost. The first thing Randolph had ever done to him was give him a gash on the side of his face with his own knife, which he'd taken care of poorly and had gotten infected and left an ugly scar. And then more. Mary, who'd ruined him--he couldn't even think about that. Not again.
/Jude would have never shot me./ Maybe that's what he was thinking, right before he died. Because he moved like putty in his hands. He let Jude love him. Didn't push him off, because deep down, he knew he wanted to see him like that.
"I did. I shot you in the face. You…opened the door, and neither of us said anything, and I shot you." He looked down at his muddied jeans, his shaking hands, the cigarette butt skidding on the pavement. "You were…you were using me anyway and you /hurt/ people and now you're here acting like I ever meant something to you."
[12/14/13 3:24:06 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Jude." He closed his eyes, maybe when he opened them again this dark apparition would be gone, "I'd never use --I never used you. I never hurt anyone on purpose. And you..."
He'd made a promise to him. And after he had held Jude in his arms to keep him from shaking and his shirt had become stained with the tears he'd hated to see on him so much, he'd said something that came back to him with incredible force. It left him struggling to breathe as he averted his gaze from this Jude.
This Jude who had probably never heard anything like it in his life.
/Entreat me not to leave leave thee, or to return from following after thee, for whither thou goest I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people and thy God my God./
"You meant the universe to me," he finally rasped out. He felt so incredibly small and vulnerable. "I loved you while I could. Hell, believe what you want, but I still love you.
That man you shot in the face is not me."
[12/14/13 3:52:48 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Stop crying, he told himself, /stopstopstop./ He felt as if he'd open his eyes and he'd be gone, and he'd be sitting in the parking lot crying his eyes out for no apparent reason. Someone--a customer walking by, a coworker wheeling carts back out, something--would see him, and he couldn't explain himself. Go somewhere else for a job.
It wasn't fair. He couldn't be him. He /hurt/ him. But not here.
"Then who are you," he said, hoarsely. He couldn't let him come back that easily, he realized. He couldn't fall back in. "If you're not him, then who are you?"
[12/14/13 4:23:25 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Good question, now even he was doubting who he was. He tucked some strands of wet hair behind his ear, for Jude to see him. So he could see who he was.
"Just Jesús. Jesús Olivera. That's it, I mean, what do you want to know? I was a pilot of the USS Enterprise, I went to shit when you died, and I'm here now, trying to make some sense out of everything rather than being back home getting drunk."
Whether that would make sense to him, he didn't know.
[12/14/13 4:59:44 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: It didn't. He shook his head, reaching up to grasp at the back of his own neck. What felt like a long time passed until he mustered a reply: "You're not real."
He couldn't be. It wasn't right, didn't make the first bit of sense. And if he was real, he couldn't be any good.
Jude rubbed at the back of his neck, moving back away from him, unsure whether to stand up and walk away or just hope he'd disappear, either of them. "I don't get it. Why are you in my head?"
[12/14/13 5:22:53 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Hey," he frowned, hilarious, he had thought /he/ was the one in his head, "I'm real. And so are you, apparently." His jacket was still on Jude's shoulders, the cold rain pouring down on both of them enough of a reminder; he could already feel shivers down his back, the tiny hairs on his arms standing, someone on another nearby street laughing.
Yeah it was all real. It was awfully real.
And he was tired. Suddenly so, so tired, he felt his legs shaking and he sat back, on the goddamn middle of the street, rubbing at his face and taking in even breaths. "I dunno what's happening. All I know is you're real. And I'm not drunk. Mostly, you're...here." /How./
[12/14/13 5:30:04 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "This isn't right." He said it with certainty; everything else, he wasn't quite sure about, but this he knew for sure. "We aren't supposed to be...here. Talking to each other. This isn't supposed to be happening."
He couldn't imagine himself ever letting go of those things that could happen, with valid reason. He couldn't think of a single thing he wanted to say to him.
It wasn't supposed to happen. He'd spent almost two years trying to isolate himself. If he couldn't die, he could at least spend the rest of his time alone. /But no./
[12/14/13 7:58:20 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: It hurt. Hell, he was already trying to subdue the swelling and stupid need to slam his fist against the nearest wall. It wasn't fair. And it hurt.
But it would be better if he stopped suffocating Jude, if he stopped just seeing him like that.
He rubbed at his face one final time, his beard scratching the pads of his fingers, and remained silent for a while, until he managed to get a hold of his thoughts if only for a brief moment. "Listen, Jude. I'm not whoever you think I am. I'm real. This is all real. So --if you want me to leave you alone--"
(Who was he kidding, he couldn't do that, just pretend that the man he loved hadn't showed up all of a sudden, admittedly different, and yet /him/.)
He stood up, rolling his shoulder as soon as he was able to stretch his legs. And wordlessly, helped him get up.
[12/14/13 8:24:31 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude let him help him up, cringing to the touch. A few beats of standing in the rain passed before he pulled the other man's jacket off his shoulders, folding it up and holding it out to him.
"I need to go." He couldn't say anything else. It was pouring, and he hadn't clocked out, among other reasons. He envisioned going home soaking wet, having at least three cups of tea. Reading his book. Going to sleep, pushing it all back. Work the next day. And so on.
[12/14/13 9:12:00 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He took his jacket, no point in making him keep it. He also doubted he'd even /want/ to keep it. "That's okay. I understand."
Jesús faltered, shoved his hands down his pockets, clenched them into fists. "Yeah, okay," and he stepped back, allowing him more space. Letting him go. (Again.)
It was fine, he kept repearing to himself. It would be fine.
[12/14/13 9:54:37 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He stood there for a few moments more, hair matted on the back of his neck, then turned and left.
He'd brushed him, briefly, when he helped him up; that was the only real confirmation he wasn't just some apparition. And that touch replayed in his head repeatedly, on the way home, showering, lying in bed. It haunted him in the morning and compelled him to take the day off--sick from standing out in the rain, a partial truth. And after that brief episode, he forced himself to move on.
Days passed; not one where it didn't return to his mind, naturally, when he returned to the liquor section, went out for a smoke, spent too much time doing nothing. But at times it felt close.
[12/14/13 10:29:52 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: His return to the grocery store was inevitable. It was just a matter of thinking things through, of replaying the moment in his head until it hurt, until he could no longer focus on his work, until he stopped writing to Peter, until he found the solace and silence in a cheap bottle of wine. And of letting time settle in between them, otherwise, well. Jesús was afraid of scaring him away.
He also found himself spending more time huddled in his room with a PADD on his hands, flickering through files and pictures. Something he hadn't done for almost a year.
Fear seeped into his heart. His head swam with bewilderment. Only steel-like determination drove him to the place where he'd last seen him again.
He found him inside. He fidgeted with his sleeve, pulled his hair into a ponytail, bit at his lip until he tasted blood. Fuck.
God.
[12/15/13 12:42:41 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: To distract himself through the afternoon, he focused on the music playing over the speakers, bumping his cart of stock down an aisle.
Son of a bitch. He and top shelves never had gotten along. He spent a few minutes looking between the height and the front of the box of cereal, before he glanced behind him and immediately winced.
Maybe if he looked away long enough he'd just disappear. But he couldn't find anything to distract himself with while he waited.
[12/15/13 12:53:13 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Hey," and if that wasn't the lamest greeting to ever exist, he didn't know what it was. A part of him was thankful for the dumb music, he couldn't imagine being in complete silence, not right now. A larger part of him detested it.
Right. "Uhm. Listen, I know that..." he reached over for the box of cereal and handed it over, not quite looking at him, fuck, suddenly his tongue decided to be against him. Because he opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, struggling to form any sentence.
"Sorry. Sorry, I know that you don't, uh, trust me. But I just --I needed to talk to you."
[12/15/13 12:58:36 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Thanks." Jude stared up at the box, then down at his shoes, pursing his lips. He wasn't going away, was he?
He looked around, to make sure no one was in earshot--he couldn't get caught talking to somebody for too long. (And part of him still feared he was only talking to himself.)
"About what." He folded his arms, turning towards him but not meeting his eyes.
[12/15/13 1:07:42 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús raised his gaze, scanned the place, no one was around, and if they did get caught he could just grab a box and (flee) leave him alone.
He wanted to know why had he showed up in his life, what had happened, /who was he/, "I need you to know who I am. Who I really am. Or was," because he'd appeared at a very unfortunate stage of his life, really.
He'd even brought his PADD, concealed beneath his coat. "You get off soon from work?"
[12/15/13 1:23:45 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: But he already knew, he wanted to tell him. He'd heard enough. Instead, he tried to bore holes in the linoleum with his eyes.
The fact he didn't have an immediate answer didn't work in his favor. He could go for a smoke, take his lunch break. But he didn't want to. He'd spend the rest of his life in the damn store if he had to.
"Not anytime soon," he said, kicking at the floor idly. He couldn't go with him--he was, well, he was afraid. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
[12/15/13 1:40:25 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "It means I" -need- "would very much like you to trust me." So that came out sillier than intended.
And he had planned on taking it slowly, slowly gain his trust, be prudent, easy. Instead, once he had started he couldn't bring himself to stop.
"I don't know where you came from, or why you're here. I'm still not entirely convinced you're real or if I've already gone mad. And I think you think the same, you know? You asked me who I was. Who you think I am is dead. And he won't ever hurt you again."
/I promise./ He stopped himself right before spilling that out. It upset him to even think about promises.
"All I'm asking is that you don't leave because of me. I don't want you to leave." Again.
[12/15/13 1:51:20 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He didn't want him to leave. Not like he could, anyway. And in that sense, he felt trapped, the only thing preventing him from lashing out was the anger he had pent up and his own morbid curiosity.
"If you're not him, then who was I?" /Why are you saying you loved me? What about me was there that you could love?/ Maybe another time--no, no. "I still don't know who you think I am." It still felt like they were both looking for and avoiding the wrong person.
[12/15/13 2:22:34 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "That's what I don't know. I don't know who you are. All I know is that--" /you're alive/. He shook that thought away. It was useless to hope for this man to be exactly like Jude, and he'd come to terms with that during the past days.
Who had he been, once. "I know that Jude was a great man. He liked his job even if it caused him a lot of stress. He had Mary, and Mr. Kent, and McCoy and his girl and Christine too. He loved kids. His favorite color was blue. He liked to drink up all my beer, and coffee, and play with my dog.
And he was a bit of a wreck," the understatement of the century, and that made him laugh despite wanting to break down again, "but that didn't stop him. It never stopped him. He was perfect to me, with all his flaws.
I loved him deeply while I could because I know he deserved to be happy. And that's what I did. I think. I think he was happy. We both were." He tore his gaze from the obnoxiously colored cereal box he hadn't realized he'd been staring at, to settle it on him, just for a second. "And now here I am."
[12/15/13 2:35:32 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He couldn't bear to look at him, much less respond. Maybe somewhere, that was him. Once. But all those names made him sick to his stomach, and he recognized some of the things he said, but didn't accept them.
It wasn't him. It couldn't be, anymore. He wanted to be an empty, pale shell of whatever he expected. He wanted to disappoint him.
"Him," he said, "you loved /him./ But I'm not him. I don't know why you would love him, or me. Those things--maybe on that ship, you knew those things, but what else? Why?"
[12/15/13 2:51:08 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús tipped his head to a side, half closing his eyes. "Because I saw him for whom he truly was. I was his friend, his confident. He did the same, and he understood me. He cared for me."
He smiled, sadly, but it was still a small smile. "I don't know what you want me to say. Sometimes not even I can find any words that can do all of this any justice, man."
Ah. "Yeah, you're right. He's gone." Yet frankly, this Jude was not as far from his as he would have expected. "But are you telling me it's not possible for me to care for you?"
[12/15/13 3:02:35 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "I'm just--" he gulped, taking a few paces away from him. "Why do you want to, so badly? Why do you want to care for me?" When this man hardly looked like he could care for himself.
Whatever Jude this was, he'd ruined him. He couldn't get past him. And that couldn't ever work out well.
"I'm just a guy who got out of rehab two months ago and landed this shitty job. I just don't know what you expect for me to say."
[12/15/13 3:27:11 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "It's fine," he shook his head slightly. Each step he took away from him was a nail on the cross he carried on his back. "It's fine. You're right, I didn't really expect" you to understand or for me to fuck it up "any answers. I can't /demand/ any one right now. Sorry."
But he was right. He hadn't really realized how badly he needed him until he was standing in front of him once more. Hadn't even realized how desperate he sounded, and that made him wince. Fucking hell.
Why did he want to care for him, he asked. Rehab, and yet Jesús saw broken pieces, and how he wanted to pick them up and carefully put them back. But how could he even begin to explain that. He was cornered. He hadn't put enough thought in this.
Where was the liquor section again?
"I'm sorry," he murmured, before stepping back, but almost knocking down a rack, luckily stopping before he could cause a mess. "Sorry," it had been a bad idea, the way he looked at him, the way he backed away, Jesus Christ. "I just do. I just do, Jude."
[12/15/13 12:52:38 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He'd constructed a layer of glass around him, and then he'd come and broken the barrier. Anger had flooded in to replace shock, and he clutched at himself to calm down.
"I'm sorry, too," he said, tersely. "But I just...whatever person you think I am, I'm not anymore. Whoever you want me to be, I can't. I'm really sorry."
/I can't kiss you. I can't be with you. I can't heal people. I can't be near you, or anyone./ Too much happened in the past, it felt. He'd lived the extent of his life.
[12/15/13 1:51:07 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: And that's what Jesús had been trying to repeat to himself over and over and over again, but his stubborn mind decided to slip in doubt, what if he can; what if he could.
Always those slivers of faith through darkness.
"Thats fine." He wasn't asking for him to change who he was. He rolled his shoulder, rubbing it sheepishly as he looked at the stand. "I just want you to trust me."
[12/15/13 1:59:16 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "With what?" He stared up at him--refusing to look him in the eye, still, but still trying to glare at him. "Trust you with what?"
There was nothing he could really trust him with, anyway, he told himself. He didn't have anything to tell him. Or anything he wanted to tell.
His eyes darted away from him to look around him, the dumb music, the obnoxious colors blurring into one. His chest suddenly hurt.
[12/15/13 2:18:57 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: His eyes finally settling over him, he tried keeping a steady gaze as the other glared. He did his best. Eventually, though, he simply shoved his hands in his pockets, ready to leave.
God, how could he get so tired so quickly? "Just trust me."
It was all he said, all he had to say, before he nodded, and turned to leave.
[12/15/13 2:27:14 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Gone. He still didn't answer his question, but he didn't care; he couldn't bring himself to. He had work. Although once or twice, the idea--merely the idea, ignoring the details--of being with him flashed to mind, but he pushed it away. That wasn't what he was here for.
At the end of the day he spent a few dollars out of his paycheck for some seeds. Lavender and roses. He'd have to nurse them over the winter indoors, then put them out a few months later. He imagined putting bits of lavender in cabinets, on shelves, making the place smell warm and inviting and not like a cheap apartment.
Once he got home, he put on the television and got to work, distracting himself with the white noise. The seeds smelled nice enough to nest away on shelves already, so he did, then got to work on the roses. He worked with an unfamiliar fervor, humming to himself, listening to the freezing rain outside and the news report.
[12/15/13 3:29:03 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: As soon as he had returned home, he'd fed the dog and secluded himself to his small workshop, arduously resuming the coffee table he had abandoned for a few days now. He'd hoped the familiar buzzing of the saw and the laser would have helped shut down everything. If only, it worsened it all. Left alone with his thoughts, it heightened that feeling of failure, as soon as it had seemingly been subdued came back stronger than ever.
Shit. Searing pain on the palm of his hand. Of course, of /course/, he could hear his father's scolding 'you should have payed more attention you weren't careful enough I had taught you better than that'. He could feel warm liquid trickling down his skin, drops falling on the floor and over the wood.
Ah. But he'd had worse. Much worse. So no, why bother. He could just take a cab. He could just--fuck. He denied panicking.
He wrapped his bleeding hand in a towel, snatched his jacket, and left.
It was all going to be fine. It was, really. In fact his hand became unimportant for a second because he leaned against the vehicle's cool window, and watched the rain fall down. Because suddenly he saw /him/, and /who would have guessed/.
He wasn't sure whether life was toying around with him. Maybe it was a fucked up blessing. Whatever it was, it compelled him to exit the car, dismiss it, knock on his door, covered in rain and blood and /who cared/.
[12/15/13 3:53:58 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He'd been leaning up against the window with his shoulder and drinking his tea, a mess of bulbs and soil on his coffee table among the stacks of books and magazines, when he heard the screech of a cab outside.
A tenant, he imagined, squinting down at the blur of lights and someone moving, the patter of the rain on the tarp he'd covered his flowers with. Someone coming home late, took a wrong turn, something.
But he understood his luck, and almost accepted it when he heard the pounding on his door. He glanced over to the TV, the green light of the clock reading eleven o'clock, and he opened the door. What did he expect?
Nothing, really, even as he looked him over wordlessly, noticing the cut on his hand and shifting to an familiar mode, abandoned iteration of himself, in an instant.
"Just--just sit down on the couch, all right?" He turned away from him, walking briskly if not running to the bathroom and grabbing some towels. "What happened?"
[12/15/13 4:10:18 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: The familiarity of it all made him stare at him, admittedly he regretted his decision if only for a split-second. He'd expected to be kicked out, yelled at; he claimed he was nothing like the Jude he once knew, but he was undeterred by the sight of him with his stupid hand against his chest.
"I was using an electric saw," he said as he sat down, closing his eyes. It smelled of flowers, though he couldn't quite tell which one specifically. It was nice. "Guess I kinda fucked up."
[12/15/13 4:23:53 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He returned with an armful of towels, spreading some on the couch to keep him from dripping on it. Fuck it. He wrapped one around his shoulders and pushed the coffee table out of the way, all the bulbs and soil and magazines to the corner.
"Kinda." He cringed, covering his hand back up and going back to the bathroom, clattering around for what he needed. He didn't have time to pause, look in the mirror, consider what he was doing, much less as he set everything down on the table.
"Why were you using a saw?" He crouched next to him, unwrapping his hand and cleaning off the blood with a washcloth. "I don't remember you--" he grimaced, stopping that thought in its tracks. It was best not to think of anything at all. "How bad does it hurt?"
[12/15/13 4:33:32 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús glanced at his hand. Ah. Okay so maybe he had had worse. That still didn't make the large cut look any better.
Jude cleaned off the blood, and the smallest of brushes against the skin set his nerves on fire. "A --bit," he managed to breathe out, blinking away droplets of water and desperately trying not to pull his hand back. "I was -I was making some stupid coffee table, fuck, that's what I do now. Carpentry runs in the family."
That small slip of his didn't go unnoticed. He briefly wondered how his...other self was. Other than the manipulative monster he had described before. God. No time for that. "What are you gonna do."
[12/15/13 4:57:26 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He pulled back the washcloth and glanced at the splotches of dark red with a frown. He could notice his pain, see it from where he knelt and hear it restrained in his voice.
"You don't have to lie about it hurting," he said, dabbing a cotton ball with peroxide, murmuring a "might sting a little", then cleaned off the wound. He wished there was some way to calm him down, soothe him, that didn't involve going any further, moving any closer to him than he was then.
"I'm just going to clean it off and bandage it." Jude wrinkled his nose, fumbling around on the coffee table for the neosporin he'd put down. Then he froze, the full brunt of what he was doing settling in. Fuck. "Just--just keep talking to me, okay? I just need you to distract me while I do this."
[12/15/13 5:18:39 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "I'm--" not lying, but yes he was, no matter though because the words stuck in his throat and instead, embarrassingly so, he made a tiny sound as soon as the cotton ball made contact.
His heart was beating faster, his hand shaking. It was the peroxide stinging, he told himself that. But also, and he didn't realize quite yet, the nature of the situation. What Jude was doing. The memories brought back were stronger than the great discomfort caused by the injury. "Okay. Okay I can do that. Uhm."
A beat of silence as he was trying not to focus on the pain, focus instead on Jude. "What's that, what's that plant that smells funny? Like, sweet, you know? My mother used to have a few pots in our place, but eventually got rid of them because kids would throw rocks at them, cut off the flowers, so I really don't know shit about plants. That's Pet--" Peter's area.
"It smells nice."
[12/15/13 5:26:55 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "It's lavender." He dabbed the gel onto the wound carefully, then reached for the bandage and began to wrap his hand up. "And I brought the roses inside." Jude glanced behind him at the flowerpots lining the sink, his brows furrowed in thought.
Listening to his voice did something to him, and it made his chest hurt again. He tightened the bandage around his hand, then pulled back. "Is that all right? Too loose, or…?" The way he was kneeling was uncomfortable, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to sit next to him or not. Maybe across, on the coffee table. It didn't matter. He still had a lot of things he had to figure out for that evening.
[12/15/13 6:03:43 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús let out a breath he had been holding back from the moment the gel touched the slash, and finally sat back, knees pulled up to his chest and his hand held out in front of him, still shaking. Even his wrist hurt.
Roses and lavenders. The scent was comforting.
"It's fine. It's fine," he rested his forehead on an arm. "It's fine."
[12/15/13 6:13:10 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Hey." Jude got up, tempted to perch on the couch next to him but instead settling on the coffee table across. He didn't touch him, but instead looked him over with a sinking feeling.
He'd done this before. Both of them remembered. And despite everything he carried, it still hurt to see the man like that.
"Tell me what's wrong." Without thinking about it, he reached out and patted his knee, but then recoiled as if he'd touched an animal about to bite him.
[12/15/13 6:25:07 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: The few beats of silence that passed between them, he spent them catching his breath, the clenching of his jaw suddenly because of an entirely different reason. He was glad Jude couldn't see him, not entirely.
And then his eyes widened, and he looked up, hiding the surprise with a few blinks. "Other than I just cut my hand, something that had never happened in twenty years of doing the same thing?" A rueful smile tugged at his lips.
"/Nada./" Didn't even bother moving from his spot. It was happening. He was actually there, siting in front of him. Surreal. "Should ask you the same," he added quietly.
[12/15/13 6:38:42 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude only sighed in response, putting his chin in one hand and leveled his gaze. Without meaning to, he met his eyes, dark dark brown and piercing, and he felt his stomach turn over.
"I don't know what you want me to say." He closed his eyes and listened to the rain. Didn't sound good, with no signs of letting up. "Or do."
Slowly, he got up, moving to the kitchen in his socks and retrieving a mug. "If I was /him,/ don't you think I'd know?" The question seemed to affirm his only reasoning, and it almost felt satisfying when he walked back and handed Jesús his mug of tea.
[12/15/13 7:23:06 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He took the mug with his good hand, muttering a quick and slightly disbelieving 'thanks'. His gaze moved to the window. The goddamn sky was falling down, so he might as well bask in the warmth of the drink.
(Once, they had sat in a rec room with him, munching on some stupid candy and drinking tea from the Hendersons.) His lips quirked up yet again, briefly.
"Maybe. But that's not what I asked." Jesús' eyes flickered to him. "You're not him, after all."
[12/15/13 7:29:22 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "I'm not." Jude sat back down across from him, hooking both hands behind his neck and leaning to face him, elbows pressing into his own knees. In a way, he was sorry. He knew he couldn't ever be what he expected, and that would probably ruin the whole thing.
"I wish I was," he added thoughtfully. "It sounds like he was happy."
He wasn't sure whether or not he was saying it to make Jesús feel better, but it partly rang true. "Was he? What was he like?"
[12/15/13 8:05:22 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Another sip of his tea, before he set the mug aside, and dragged his feet closer to himself. Strangely, he did not feel his voice catching.
"Well he was. He was happy. I mean," how to even /begin/, "he hurt. And he, ah, he had breakdowns every once in a while, yeah. He got stressed. He worried a lot. But he was happy."
And then, before he knew it, he'd set the mug aside, and begun unraveling himself. Unraveling Jude. When they met, their moments together, their shore leaves and all the stupid things they did, the countless times they got drunk, their friends, those the exact opposite of what this Jude had told him to be. Their voyages in the Enterprise. His home.
He realized, by the time he was almost done (and not really done, there was just /so much/), that he was looking out of the window, into the dark sky. His hair had become even more disheveled. It was still raining.
(Somewhere, up there, the remnants of who they had once been.)
His tea had gone cold, but he drank it nevertheless. "Ah, sorry. I get excited when I talk."
[12/15/13 8:19:00 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: By the time he was finished, his hands were shaking. He wanted to find his cigarettes, but knew it wasn't the time. He followed his gaze out towards the window, his lips pursed.
"I know." He remembered now, how he talked. Not the way he was supposed to, but suddenly some of it made sense.
He stared down at the carpet, mulling over everything. It wasn't supposed to be like this, for either of them. How it happened was beyond him. "I'm sorry," he murmured, finally letting go of his neck and letting his hands fall in his lap. "I'm sorry he's gone. But I--"
No, no, no. He didn't let himself finish that sentence. He couldn't do anything. It wasn't supposed to be happening in the first place. He pushed some of his hair back behind his ear, on the side where he had the scar. He didn't care if he saw it.
[12/15/13 8:32:55 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Naturally his eyes drifted over to the scar.
A wave of nausea, and sorrow, hit him, which he forcefully pushed away by trying to clench the bandaged hand. Sure enough, it sent a potent jolt of pain through his arm. But God, it was better than staying with the sick realization that he'd probably made him feel even worse.
What had he even gone through anyway. What had /he/ done to him.
"I know," he repeated quietly, gaze unwavering. "It's fine. I've--I've told you. I don't want you to change who you are."
[12/15/13 8:39:22 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: It took him a moment to pinpoint his discomfort, but he frowned at him, and shook his hair back against his temple. As if that made it any better, he added: "That wasn't from you."
"/I/ want to change who I am," he said, and laughed bitterly. "At least that's what I've been trying to do." He still stared out the window, squinting through the rain and only seeing a cloudy sky in turn. "But…that really wasn't meant to be, is it? You found me, after all."
[12/15/13 8:52:45 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Honestly," Jesús tried reaching for his shoulder, out of habit, but realized he probably shouldn't do that with his wounded hand, "I don't know."
God and his mysterious ways, he thought amusedly.
"I don't even know." Then, "who do you want to be, then?"
[12/15/13 8:57:49 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "I don't know," he responded abruptly, then shook his head. "I wish I could be with people and not get hurt. Or not hurt them." His teeth dug into his lip, hard, and he rubbed at his temples to ease away some kind of tension.
"Do you know what I mean?" Jude wasn't really sure why he was asking. "Even /he/ hurt you. When he died. Everyone hurts each other. I wish we didn't have to have that."
[12/15/13 9:20:07 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: That --that made him, for some reason, smile into his smug. A sad one, but a smile nevertheless. Then he drank. "Yeah. I know. I wish we could never get hurt, too."
Yet it was inevitable. He'd tried too. Not to hurt anyone. /Tried/. "I think that, while you may not be able to avoid that, you can try to make things better anyway. And that overcomes the hurting, sometimes."
He bit his lip, then shrugged slightly and sighed. "That's just me."
[12/15/13 9:30:15 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Did he try? To make things better?" He shifted to sit on his hands, kicking idly. "Do you think he was happy 'cause you kept your promise?"
He wrinkled his nose thinking about that last part. "It was kind of a stupid promise." But there was something to be admired about it. He held up his end of the deal, at least. But of course that meant he'd ruined him.
[12/15/13 9:40:57 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Suddenly he had to put the mug aside, because his shoulders began shaking with laughter. "Yeah, it was." He admitted that. "We were drunk. You don't really make the best decisions or say the best things when you're drunk."
But he meant it with every fiber of his being, until the day he died.
Jesús rubbed his eyes. "But yeah. Yeah, he was. And he tried. And if you asked me, he managed to do that."
[12/15/13 9:50:44 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He couldn't bring himself to laugh, but he looked up at him and smiled. It was genuine, albeit wistful. He just wished there was something he could do. He would trade places with this other Jude, if he could. Get rid of this strange in between.
"It's kinda late. And pouring." He picked up the mugs, taking them both to the kitchen. He only realized what he was trying to say until after a moment, and he leaned in the doorway, facing Jesús. He looked miserable on his couch, towel around his shoulders, still a little damp, and it brought him to add abruptly: "If you want to stay, it's fine."
[12/15/13 10:58:00 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He'd offered him to stay. He'd actually done that, it hadn't been something he had misheard. For what felt like a second, he was dizzy. Then he looked up to meet his eyes.
The only reason he wanted to go back to his own small place was to check on Coyota and that dumb tribble. Who were perfectly fine. Nevertheless...
"I'll only stay if you think /you'll/ be comfortable with that, Jude." /If you want me to./
[12/16/13 8:29:23 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Would he be? In that moment where they both seemed relatively vulnerable, he actually thought about the question. Out of his comfort zone, he decided, but what wasn't?
So he nodded, then moved to the closet to grab an armful of blankets for him. Not too much blood on the towels, thankfully.
"How's your hand doing?" he asked, and hesitantly sat down, putting the blankets between him.
[12/16/13 11:20:28 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He looked down at his hand while Jude retrieved the towels, focusing on the way the bandages were wrapped, focusing on anything but the way his heart sped up.
"It's--" /you don't have to lie about it hurting/ "it hurts. But I'll be okay. Thank you," as he tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear, before he rested that one good hand on the blankets.
"I mean it." He gave him a tiny smile.
[12/16/13 12:17:09 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "If you say so." For someone rusty, he told himself, he hadn't done half bad on his hand. Responded quickly. Didn't change the fact it was still pretty bad, but he'd done his best.
It was always only a matter of doing his best. Now he remembered.
He leaned back on the couch, forcing himself to relax. Then, gingerly, he reached out and put his hand over Jesús's.
[12/16/13 12:50:39 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He admitted he was surprised. Perhaps a bit reluctant to let himself relax; because already he was fearful. He feared so much.
But Jude's hand was on his. And his eyes remained fixed on them as he carefully turned his hand, palm facing up, fingers curling slightly.
Suddenly the silence didn't seem as heavy as it had been before.
[12/16/13 1:13:55 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He stayed like that for a while, trying not to hold his hand too tightly. He tried to remember if they'd ever done that--well, /before/--but he pushed it back, knowing he'd only get worked up.
He couldn't bring himself to look anywhere but at him. He'd committed his face to memory, once, and then vigorously erased it, and now the pieces were floating back into place.
He could feel Jesús's pulse suddenly slowing, relaxed, and in that volatile moment he asked, partly to himself: "Was it supposed to be like this?"
[12/16/13 1:28:54 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He'd asked that to himself, once, and he had had no answer. Maybe things would have been less complicated then. Maybe not.
What he did know was that Jude was far better there than in whatever place he had been trapped in before. And there was nothing bad in that.
He gently traced the other's knuckles with his thumb. "I wish I knew."
[12/16/13 1:34:35 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude sighed in response, shifting nearer to the stack of blankets in between them. "I'm sorry I said it wasn't."
He'd said so both because it felt true and also because he didn't want anywhere near him. Now he just didn't know what he wanted at all. "And everything else I said, too."
[12/16/13 2:02:56 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús tipped his head to a side, mirroring him and leaning just a bit closer. God.
"There was no harm done," and he'd seen the fear, the panic in his eyes as soon as he had seen him in the store. He had had every right to believe that.
No need to apologize. "It's okay." A pause. "You're okay now." /I'm going to make sure you are./
[12/16/13 2:33:36 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He stayed close like that, giving his hand a squeeze. He believed what he said, trusted him. But the fact he was willing to do such a thing brought little jabs to his stomach.
"Thank you." He bit at his lip thoughtfully, then lifted up a blanket and put it across his lap. Another around his shoulders, trying to make him comfortable and keep him from using his hand.
Jude realized he was lingering face to face with him, but ignored it for now. It would be fine. "Is that all right?"
[12/16/13 2:50:04 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: The closeness was overwhelming. To say the least. He wanted to reach out, so badly, reach out and keep him there, just like that. Maybe that way he'd remember how to breathe.
Then he blinked, after realizing he was staring at (the eyes he'd thought he'd never see again) him and that he had asked something. "Yeah. It's perfect."
Jesus Christ.
Without thinking, yet carefully, he raised his hand, and the tips of his fingers grazed Jude's cheek. His brow. He dared tuck his hair behind his ear, the tip of his scar there for him to see.
Jesús bit his lip. "Sorry."
[12/16/13 5:15:39 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He flinched at first, but let him touch his face, bringing his gaze down. He knew what he was looking at, maybe wanted questions on, and he bristled a little. He'd remembered too much for today, it felt. He looked back up at him with wide eyes and couldn't think of anything to say.
Which prompted Jude to move away from him, and stand up. "We...should both probably get some rest. I have work tomorrow, and you..." He had no idea what he had, really. "You should rest, too. After a shock to your system like that, I mean..." He shook his head, pacing away. "I'll be down the hall if you need anything."
[12/16/13 6:17:42 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He hadn't gotten much sleep lately. Not after the incident, which not only left him unable to continue with the stupid coffee table, admittedly unwilling to.
Also because after he had left, he realized he hadn't left more than a messy scribbled note over the borrowed blankets, and he felt bad for that. Call it last-minute panic, the events of that night playing over and over in his mind. Jude had looked so at peace with everything while he slept. So he hadn't dared to wake him up. A note. He'd left a dumb note.
Jesús began working again. As best as he could, slowly, yes, but it needed to be (perfect) a great work. It was also, in a way, helpful for him to sort out his thoughts. Get his shit together. The hours he spent carefully crafting the wooden box were cathartic, liberating.
The result was --well, he was proud of it. Simple, the wood was soft under his touch, yet it would be resistant.
Now all he needed to do was to deliver it.
[12/16/13 6:29:22 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He left the note on his bedside table, occasionally considering tossing it. He had no idea what to do with it, really; he'd feel bad getting rid of it, but the fact it just sat there was slowly driving him crazy.
Maybe he was gone for good this time. He didn't really know how to feel about that.
So Jude put himself back into his work, forgetting. He'd been getting better at forgetting, lately. He crossed his mind once or twice, but it didn't really faze him. Days passed, and on a cold and for-once clear evening, he stepped out for a cigarette, bundled up in his jacket and leaning against a concrete pillar.
[12/16/13 6:43:24 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: The thought of knocking and leaving the box on the doorstep before he ran away crossed his mind. A childish thing to do; at the moment it had seemed like a viable option. But he saw him there, and for a moment, faltered as he collected himself.
Jesús bit his lip, but smiled, finally close enough to utter a "hi" and be heard. The smell of the cigarette only made him huff quietly, now.
"Hey," again, "I'm --sorry I kind of, disappeared. Last time. I just wanted to say thanks, you know, for what you did for me." And the small box rested between his arms, there was no way to hide it or anything anyway, while he stood there. "So, thanks."
[12/16/13 7:00:30 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He moved to stand up fully, greeting him with a nod once he saw him. So he wasn't gone. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he was glad. He didn't want him to leave without everything cleared up.
"It's fine," he replied, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket. "I get it, I mean. It's fine." His gaze drifted down to the box in his arms, and he wrinkled his nose. It looked sturdy; something that took a lot of effort. It felt like no matter what, he'd never get this guy. "What's that? Did you make that?"
[12/16/13 7:23:42 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Yeah," he shifted his weight from one leg to another, looking down at the small box. "It's...it's a flower box."
Now that he was in front of him, he was lost. The rough stubble, his hair, he could feel it against his fingers again. But he pushed it all away.
Blowing some of his hair away from his face so he could get a better look at him, his eyes were still settled on the box. "For you."
[12/16/13 7:33:23 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Oh." A flower box. He didn't actually have one. He could imagine the space it allowed on his windowsill, and he smiled to himself, then at him. A real smile, for once.
"Thank you." He stubbed out the cigarette on the pillar and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. A draft passed through, the wind biting at his face.
He realized he'd noticed the flowers in his apartment, then remembered he'd asked. It was very thoughtful, really. He hadn't really expected something thoughtful from him.
[12/16/13 7:53:35 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: And suddenly, he was staring up at the smile, and returning it with one of his own. Jesús admitted that despite the great satisfaction at seeing him like that, it still felt like he had a knife, twisting and hurting and making his chest heavy with (old) sorrow.
It was worth it, though. It was worth seeing Jude smile. He could breathe again, and he stepped closer, feeling, yeah, better. "I can help you install it on your window, any window you'd like. If you want me to. If I'm not interrupting anything."
[12/16/13 8:10:47 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He imagined him, for just a moment, in his house again. Now that he'd been in it, now that he'd bled on his couch (he still needed to wash the stains out of that towel, ugh.)
"I'd like that," he finally said, looking down and kicking at the ground idly. "Could make dinner afterwards, if you want."
(He'd always wanted to know how to cook well. Suddenly he had the time to learn a little once he'd settled down. Why not practice, after all.)
[12/16/13 8:31:22 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He struggled for the right words because his damn tongue suddenly decided to be uncooperative.
"Yeah," Jesús' smile was unwavering. If only, it softened, eyes flickering over Jude's features before he set the box aside. Inside, nails and a hammer. "Sounds nice."
So he got to work.
[12/16/13 8:41:43 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude let him in, watching him for a moment before wandering to the kitchen. He'd taken comfort in cooking, as mediocre his abilities were. At least he was eating. He used to forget, he remembered.
But it wasn't time to think about that. He didn't know why he was making a big deal over the whole thing--maybe because it all felt like an initiation, doing over what had happened in the past. In the end he decided to fuck around with some pasta. Good for leftovers, after all.
Once or twice he looked back to the bottle of wine in the cabinet, which he'd bought for some reason, even though he'd stopped drinking (as much.) An occasion, he decided. (Even though Jesús had made it clear he'd made his fair share of defining mistakes drunk--/oh my God I'm not getting him drunk just calm down./)
[12/16/13 9:14:48 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: While Jude messed around in the kitchen, he worked on adjusting the box on the window, taking measurements, nailing it and peeking inside the window--
Occasionally.
It was difficult not be assaulted by memories. At least he was trying not to let that affect him, and so far, he was good. He was, actually, enjoying his work.
Mostly, he kept going through plausible scenarios that would happen once he finished with the flower box. Wondering what Jude would say. Hoping he wouldn't screw things up like he had last time he'd been in his home.Â
(Nervousness.)
He breathed in the cold air, realizing he'd been humming to himself for a while.
There. He was done.
[12/16/13 9:31:52 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He was actually in a decent mood by the time the food was finished, and hardly noticed the other man. He did call out to him, though: "Whenever you're ready, it should be done soon."
He tried to clear off the small table, setting some books aside and pushing the ashtray to the corner. It was nearly impossible to not think about the wine glasses, and his palms got sweaty the more he did. Fuck it. What was the worst that could happen?
"I made some stuff," he said, and turned to him. "Just, uh, some pasta. And some asparagus--uh, it isn't really in season yet, but I got some. It's not much. Dunno how to thank you. For the box, I mean."
[12/16/13 9:48:57 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Asparagus?" Sure enough, there it was. Needless to say not only was he incredibly grateful, but also flattered for all he'd just done.
His lips quirked up into a tiny lopsided smile. "It's --this is great, really.
You need any help with anything?" he asked as he tied up his hair, eyeing around the kitchen, stepping closer inside.
[12/16/13 10:03:20 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "I think it's good." He disappeared back into the kitchen for a moment, then returned with two plates; a simple dinner, like he said, but prepared well and with such meticulousness it was clear he'd made the exact same thing several times in the past.
Jude eyed the bottle of wine on the table and frowned, standing by the chair but not entirely ready to sit down. "I don't really drink much anymore, but. It's an occasion, I guess."
[12/16/13 10:19:16 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: It was the meticulous touch to all which caught his attention, but he said nothing. All would be left for his imagination for now, maybe someday he'd muster up the courage to ask about his past.
But right now, his gaze followed Jude's until it settled on the bottle. (When was the last time he'd gotten drunk anyway? Not that he was going to get drunk.)Â
He nodded, relaxed, content.
Although, the sight of it, the realization of their dinner with wine, was enough to make the back of his neck feel warm.
"Anytime is a good time for wine. Or beer. See, I wish I could say I didn't drink a lot," he shook his head, smiling softly.
[12/17/13 11:40:38 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "We all have bad habits," he replied, seeming to echo something he'd heard before. "Or ways of coping."
No shit, he thought to himself. But at least Jesús's way of coping was almost harmless compared to his, in the past.
He cringed briefly, before sitting down and pouring them both a modest amount of wine. "Let me know if it needs anything, all right? Or if you want something else to drink. I'm still kind of learning how to cook."
[12/17/13 12:20:22 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús noticed the cringe, looked away before shifting closer. "I'm sure you're good at this," cooking, setting up the entire dinner for someone else, being around him, he didn't specify.
The pasta was actually pretty good. Then again he ate pretty much anything. And he began to feel deeply content, somehow feeling at ease (relatively speaking), so he ate eagerly. Making small chat between bites.
Yet there was something about the wine that felt odd. It was only when he noticed the label on the bottle that he realized, he'd already drank from that brand.
He had some more. 'Way of coping.'
"Man, I feel bad, I don't want to finish all your wine," his eyes crinkling slightly, " maybe I should bring you a bottle next time to compensate for this one."
It wasn't until the words had already tumbled out of his mouth that he realized the implication of them. He cleared his throat, the warmth of his cheeks now unable to be ignored.
(It wasn't from the alcohol.)
[12/17/13 1:15:30 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Next time. There would be a next time. Which seemed bizarre, really, but the confirmation that he even wanted there to be a next time made enough sense.
"It's fine, really." He rested his cheek against one hand, tilted his head, and smiled. "But I wouldn't mind that."
God. He probably sounded like an idiot. (They really should have just stuck to water.) He struggled not to watch him as they both ate, and he felt his nerves even in the apparent ease of the conversation, sometimes prickling up in dull moments.
[12/17/13 1:36:28 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He said he wouldn't mind. That was enough to lift some of the weight off his chest that had suddenly settled with his flushing face, enough to make the corners of his lips quirk up. "Then I will."
However he still saw the apparent unease in Jude. It...wasn't surprising. If anything, just familiar.
His glass was empty. No, he wasn't going to get wasted. It wasn't the time, but he did help himself to more. There was a brief silence falling upon them, a moment of hesitation. "You okay? You want, uhm, you want more wine?"
[12/17/13 1:55:39 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "I'm fine." He frowned--of course Jesús had noticed. Why wouldn't he. "But I better not."
Not a good idea to get wasted on the first...whatever this was, he decided. Keep his dignity for now and not make too many (if any) mistakes.
He was tempted to get up and clear the plates, just to do something, but he waited. Out of his own curiosity, he asked: "Was it all right?"
[12/17/13 2:15:06 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "It was, yeah," he said, after he'd drank the small amount of wine he'd poured, licking his lips as he smiled, gaze down on the plates. "I liked it."
And then, then he stood up and swooped the dirty dishes before Jude could say anything, not realizing he was grinning just a little bit. "Let me wash these. You did everything else man, it's only fair, and where I come from it's rude for someone to just sit around and do nothing. My hand's better anyway."
Then he could thank him, again, maybe leave --God, he didn't want to leave him, not now.
[12/17/13 2:44:27 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Thanks." He froze there for a moment, standing up halfway, before settling back down and letting him take the plates. And in that moment where he was gone, he wrung his hands and tried to think over what to do next; the polite thing to do was for him to leave, and for Jude to lie down and consider what exactly had happened. But the barrier of politeness between the two of them on this occasion could be easily broken through in passing.
As if he hadn't thanked him enough, he thought. Maybe on his way out he could just--rise up on his toes and--
No, no. God damn it. Instead, he failed to look like he was busy by the time he came back in, on the corner of his chair, staring out the window.
[12/17/13 2:46:07 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: This message has been removed.
[12/17/13 3:15:11 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He had no intentions of making false assumptions and making relations between one and the other. He'd told himself that that was wrong. But God, he had already seen the way he sat and the way he stared out and Jesús forced himself to stay calm and quiet. Mostly calm.
"Hey. All done." Ready to leave. Jude had said he wouldn't mind if he cme back. It wasn't --this time, it wasn't as if he would never be seeing him again. So why were his feet unwilling to take him away?
"I should," he gestured to the door, biting on his lip. Yet smiling softly. "You know. But I mean it, when I say I liked this. I really did."
Then he leaned down and pressed a small kiss to his forehead. It conveyed...sweetness. Endearment. Everything he could not yet find words to say. But, it was short, he didn't want to cause him any discomfort or distress. Any more than he had already caused. "/Gracias./"
[12/17/13 4:33:35 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: It would have been fine if not for the fact he felt his face go red--/he meant it right it wasn't just wine talking/--and a few beats passed before he had a proper reaction.
And to think he'd planned all out so carefully--he'd kiss him on the cheek on the way out and he'd leave and then they'd both have plenty to process. Sometimes he forgot other people were separate entities.
But fine. Whatever. "You're welcome," he managed, rising from the chair. "So, um…see you soon?"
[12/17/13 5:41:33 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: It wasn't what he had planned when he'd shown up at his doorstep with the box and his tools. But now he found himself unable to imagine any other outcome. "Yeah," he stepped back, "I'll see you soon."
He left the small apartment, glancing back once he was outside, not minding the impossibly cold air biting at his face. Not minding the quiet streets. Because for once in years, he felt able to look up at the night sky with his eyes full of amazement.
[12/17/13 6:06:54 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: A few days passed where they didn't talk. He would have been offended if not for the fact he didn't have any way to contact him. But it was fine that way. The addition of the box to his window gave him some extra space, and he spent a fraction of his paycheck on a new flowerpot, some seeds.
And, at the nursery, while he was at it, he bought some colored lights. Why the hell not. He strung them up in his living room and around the box, and sat in the quiet glow with his cup of tea and cheap ramen. Forecast said snow, which was fine. Something new, at least.
[12/17/13 6:35:23 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: At times like that he terribly missed his home. Not the small house in the middle of town. The one in the tropical warmth. His mind kept wandering back to it, but other than that, he hadn't even considered visiting. How could he leave. Not now.
Instead he'd tried clearing his list of commissions as best as he could. The faster he finished, the more time he had.
(/Time? Time for what, Chucho?/)
So he could finally go back to Jude's. That was good. It was better that way. He had even gotten the wine he'd promised, carefully tucked between his coat and his sweater.
The lights were definitely mood-lifting. The cold, not so much. He could only hope Jude would hurry up as soon as he knocked on the door.
[12/17/13 6:47:16 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude turned to the door as soon as he heard it, setting his things aside on the coffee table and opening it. He'd hoped--no, god damn it, he couldn't spend too much time hoping on /anything/ or he'd just disappoint himself.
"Christ, it's freezing," he mumbled, stepping aside to let Jesús in. "Did you, um, did you need something?"
He wondered briefly why he'd just let him in without thinking about it. It had to do something with trust, as shaky as it was. Maybe because he didn't want to make him stand in the cold. Or some combination thereof.
[12/17/13 7:06:05 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Tell me about it," colder than the vast space he'd once been in. "No, not really. I'm just--" he stopped himself, out of embarrassment he'd blurt something like the last time, but mostly because he was shaking.
Inside, he unzipped his coat and took out the bottle of wine. "Since it's, the season and all." Shit. "I can come back another day if I interrupted or something." Even if he didn't really want to leave. Even when Jude had been the one to let him inside. (No harm in asking.)
God, but that had to count as something good, no? No matter. "Nice lights. By the way."
[12/17/13 7:58:59 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He shook his head and smiled, closing the door behind him. "Not at all. Um--thanks. I appreciate it, really."
It still didn't fail to surprise him that he actually got him the wine. Seemed like one of those empty offers, where the promise itself was enough.
He glanced around the apartment, and was tempted to reach out for a lamp to bring some more light into the living room, but he stopped himself. The faint glow was nice, in a way. "Thanks. I picked them up today, just 'cause. I mean, might as well celebrate somehow."
[12/17/13 8:18:45 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Rubbing his nose vigurously with both hands, he looked around, finally giving himself some time to appreciate the lighting.
It gave an incredibly cozy air to his surrounding. Pretty. It could have been just his perception, picturesque as always. Which was odd--no, it was better not to think of that, of how he had once tried to overlook the season's colors and smells, and had failed.
He was there now, blinking at the way the shadows playfully danced on the apartment's windows and the furniture, on Jude's face. And it was enthralling. "All you need now is a pair of reindeer antlers."
[12/17/13 8:26:27 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude scoffed, sticking his hands in his pockets. It was pretty nice, really. He usually had to choose between the stark lighting and complete darkness, but these offered a warm glow instead, the light of the television keeping it from being completely dark.
And as he stood there, his head swam a little, as much as he would have liked to deny it.
"Yeah, I'll look into it." His eyes flickered over to the sofa and then back to him, unsure of what else to say.
[12/17/13 8:37:16 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Oh?" But he noticed Jude's gaze, and that was all he said before he motioned for him to sit down as well.
He'd said the wine was for special occasions. Jesús maintained anytime was wine time. Needless to say he set the bottle in front of them, glasses be damned.
The couch no longer had the small blood stains he'd left behind. He nervously fiddled with a lock of hair, then pulled it all back, glancing at him.
Jesus. His heart was racing. "Maybe a red nose too."
[12/17/13 8:41:28 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude sat down next to him, moving so that he was at a respectable (but still pretty close) distance, and leaned back. "You wish."
He eyed the bottle and grinned, in spite of himself. "Is this what we're doing?" He picked it up and squinted at the label. Huh. "Not complaining, of course."
He glanced behind him to see if the stains were gone. They weren't visible, at least; he'd done well enough scrubbing them out. "Hey, um. How's your hand?"
[12/17/13 8:52:25 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "It's either this or I'm going out to get you the whole reindeer getup," he said, watching as he picked the bottle, and hesitating for a moment before he got comfortable; before he pulled his knees to his chest and smiled.
The aforementioned hand was held in front of him, for Jude to have a look. It had been messily bandaged, despite having learned one thing or two on caring for wounds back in the ship. It was healing just fine though. "Pretty good. 'm fine thanks to you."
Or pretty good /for him/, at least.
[12/17/13 8:58:02 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "That's good." Gingerly, he took his wrist and looked over his hand from there. It was healing up nicely indeed, and it was nice to know he hadn't lost his touch.
Which was weird, seeing how he /wanted/ to lose his touch. Maybe. Now he couldn't remember what he really wanted.
Admittedly, he didn't want to get up and get the glasses, nor was it an occasion that really necessitated it. He pulled the cork out carefully and handed the bottle to him, playing with it between his fingers. "Go ahead."
[12/17/13 9:15:33 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He must have looked like an excited child who was just given their doctor's approval. It was either that silly similarity, or his fingers brushing Jude's as he grabbed the bottle, which made his face heat up. He was thankful for the low lighting.
"How nice of you," Jesús raised the bottle, a tiny toast, then tipped his head back as he drank. It was warm against his throat, soft. Helped him, somehow, relax on his spot, the grip on his own sleeve loosening.
He was done, and he handed it over to him, biting on his lip. "Kinda feel bad for not inviting you over to my own place. Keep barging in here."
[12/18/13 9:46:43 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude shook his head, lifting the bottle to his lips and drinking. It was nice, actually, unfamiliar but still the kind of wine he liked (and his sense of preference was minimal, really.)
He sighed once he finished, and turned to look at him. "It's fine, really. Don't mind visitors." Only partly true. "I'm not, um, /opposed/ to seeing your place, though."
Maybe just as an experiment, to see if it was like anything he remembered. At the same time he knew that was a terrible idea. Bound to launch him into something awful.
[12/18/13 11:06:45 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He hummed, carefully reaching over for the bottle. Oblivious to Jude's experimentation, he was comfortably basking in the atmosphere the lights gave off, a faint smell of tea and food piercing his nose. It was definitely intimate, but that, he decided, was better off unacknowledged.
"We'll see. The place is a mess anyway. Dog likes to bite everything." /She'd like you/ was both an understatement and a repetition of something he'd already said and seen, long before.
Whatever. "You been okay lately?" he suddenly asked, shooting a furtive glance before his mouth was busy with the sweet wine.
[12/18/13 11:41:00 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Yeah, fine." He shrugged, resting his chin in one hand and waiting for him to pass the wine back. "Gets busier around this time of year, I guess. So there's more to do."
That, and he'd gotten better at getting lost in the mess of days, falling into a rhythm. It was easier that way.
He remembered that dog. Not the most positive memories, but maybe here she'd be all right. "I don't mind, really. I like dogs."
[12/18/13 11:55:28 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Realizing he was still clutching the bottle's neck, he blinked, and handed it back. "I know."
(/Dude, I love dogs though. I had a dog --Gus-- when I was a kid and it was the best./ Then he'd smiled, bright and sincere.)
Jesús rubbed his eyes, leaning back against the couch, unknowingly closer to him. He really needed to stop doing that.
[12/18/13 12:20:17 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude scratched at his head and frowned, briefly. Of course he knew. Whatever.
He took the bottle and had a more generous swig, warm against his throat.
Maybe it was from the alcohol, or just out of his own curiosity, he blurted: "What else do you know?"
[12/18/13 1:11:28 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "I don't--" /think I should tell, don't know if I should be comparing, don't know if you have anything else in common/, God, he pried the bottle from his hand and drank the largest amount he had taken that night.
"We didn't have a lot of time together," he had wished for so much more, "but he trusted me enough for me to get to know him really well. In fact I think I knew more about him than what he ever knew about me, you know."
One thing had him biting his lip and despite the uncomfortable sensation settling deep in his stomach, smiling. "Virgil."
[12/18/13 1:22:02 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Oh, come on." He grinned, bumping his shoulder. Some things just stuck. But the fact that was one of the things they could have poked fun at, a little detail swept under the rug, made him laugh yet brought a little jab to his stomach.
Now that he thought about it, there were a million things he wanted to ask him. But they had to wait. He knew he'd overwhelm himself, above all.
"What didn't I--/he/ know?" Jude reached for the bottle and squinted down inside it, then took another sip.
[12/18/13 1:36:21 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús laughed at the small bump, his head falling back. He'd teased Jude so much throughout their time together, and now --it felt good to have another laugh. If only for a bit, if only differently.
"Well," he sighed, there was a trickling numbness in the tips of his fingers, "just stuff y'know, he didn't know about all of my, ah, old friends. Mostly I tried keeping away most of my childhood because it just wasn't that nice. Or interesting, for that matter."
He plucked at a loose string from his pants. "What do you know about me."
[12/18/13 1:48:28 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Oh." He wasn't surprised about his childhood, really, but wouldn't have commented on it. He handed the bottle back to him flimsily, surprised at how light it had grown already.
"I know what I know." He scratched at his jaw for a moment, searching for something clever. "Like how you do woodworking. And you have a dog. And...you're good at noticing details about people." He laughed, but remembered the box and realized it was fitting. "I'm not as good, obviously."
[12/18/13 1:59:37 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús took the bottle, gently patting Jude's knuckles with the bandaged hand while he muttered an 'easy there', and nibbled on it for a moment. "Sometimes I think I try too hard."
(It did leave him wondering, however, just what exactly he had shared in common with the man who had taken a shot to the head.)
Aaand if he kept thinking about that it would be a definite moodkiller, so he drank. Just a bit, because he was chuckling suddenly, shifting on his spot and pulling his legs closer to him. "If you want more of this by the time it's done just bring me some water from the sink."
[12/18/13 2:09:45 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "You must be good at hiding it," he muttered, taking a quick break from drinking for just a moment. (If he was going to get completely wasted, it ought to be a slow downfall. He imagined his group leader cringing if he did so much as bring it up.)
He laughed, not minding the fact the other was cozying up one bit. He wondered for a moment who was going to move further first, but then he dismissed it. Best to let things run their course. "I'll be asleep if we finish all of it."
[12/18/13 2:26:28 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He clicked his tongue, eyes crinkling as he tipped his head. "Then no more for you, I don't want you falling asleep, what will I do in the meantime, huh?"
Still, maybe for the last time, he gave him the bottle of wine, leaning further into the couch. "I'm not good at hiding anything. Not even good at lying. So I guess that's good." He looked at him, smiling.
[12/18/13 2:38:34 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude hummed, taking another sip before setting it on the table, out of reach, then turned to face him where he sat. He was bad at lying--that struck a chord somewhere, left him a little shaky but still comforted. It seemed to confirm the idea that he wouldn't lie to him. Wouldn't manipulate him. Maybe.
He smiled up at him, settling against the couch. "Since you're so bad at it. Anything you're hiding right now?"
[12/18/13 2:51:55 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Well, as of now, I think I'm a bit tipsy, and I'm trying to hide it but maybe you can see it clearly," he crossed his eyes, wrinkling his nose, because why the hell not.
Then he tapped at his chin pensively, grinning, "Let's see. What else am I hiding."
(/I'm still confused. I'm still disbelieving. I still hope that you're not a dream, but if you are then I don't want to wake up./)
"I don't know. Why don't you try to figure me out," so he turned on his spot, fully facing him, brown eyes --slightly amused and wide-- fixed on him.
[12/18/13 3:09:49 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude grinned at him, shifting a little closer to him. His legs were tucked up on the couch, and he felt comfortable, almost relaxed. "That's hard. I'm awful at figuring people out."
/Maybe you just haven't tried./ He frowned to himself and stayed there, and looked up to meet his eyes. He seemed warm, friendly, inviting. Even in the haze and the smell of wine on his breath.
So, impulsively, he moved closer to him, face to face. He would have kissed him there if not for his own nervousness setting in at the exact wrong time. He met his eyes shakily, and managed: "Um, can I…?"
[12/18/13 3:25:51 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: And just as he had said, Jesús just couldn't fully hide his nervousness, that need to lean over, too long since he'd done anything like it and it hurt, even when the wine had eased him down. Of course it hurt.
But Jude's eyes made it all go away.
His heart was racing like mad. "Yeah." He didn't even need to ask. "Always."
Jude has asked. Now it was him just leaning down, his forehead on his, their noses bumping.
His lips on the other's, the gentlest of brushes.
[12/18/13 3:32:54 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Okay. Okay he could do this. Carefully, he reached out for his shoulder as he kissed him, to steady himself. It was strange--he couldn't actually remember ever kissing him, and it felt new. To him, at least. He could imagine Jesús had done this a thousand times before, then lost it--God, he couldn't even think about that, actually.
He opened his eyes for a moment, focused on him then to the lights, then closed them again, shifting to hold onto him. He could keep going, he realized. He could be like this for hours.
[12/18/13 4:44:17 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: But no. It was not the same, no matter if some small, hidden part of him wished it had been. Yet it still felt like his heart had skipped a beat, like his head was foggy. Although that could have very well been the wine.
Then he shifted, and he gently cupped his cheek, gently pecking him, and decided that no, it was definitely all Jude.
[12/18/13 4:51:27 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude pulled back after a few moments more, bumping against his forehead and smiling at him. He could feel his pulse going a mile a minute, and his face all flushed (both from this and the wine, he was sure).
He couldn't connect his thoughts anymore, and his head was swimming. His lips were parted, and he struggled for breath for a moment.
But he still laughed, gently, in the back of his throat. And he asked, like he always did: "Is this okay?"
[12/18/13 5:25:17 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: ./You needn't even ask/. Even if he had become used to hearing that, and every time Jesús had replied similarly.
"No," he kissed the tip of his nose, the corner of his lips, and laughing, hoping his beard wouldn't scratch too much, his neck. "It's perfect."
So maybe Jude had probably never heard that. He'd ensure he would, now.
[12/18/13 5:32:59 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude huffed gently, running his hand across his shoulder and rubbing it. He leaned in to kiss him again, a little clumsy now. He wasn't sure what to do--in a way, he wanted to thank him, but didn't really understand why or how.
"Hey." He looked at him, still energetic but showing some strange sense of concern. "Are we--are we just drunk, or do you actually…?"
[12/18/13 5:50:32 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He cocked his head to a side, eyebrows slightly knitted together. "I don't think my current state can be described as being /drunk/. Everything's spinning a bit. But I'm still very much aware of everything I do. And what I say."
He knew how to hold his liquor. Rather well. Although maybe --the slight concern in his gaze made him blink. His thumb gently traced his cheek. "I'm okay. Are you?"
[12/18/13 5:55:07 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Are you sure?" He couldn't help but smile at him, some of his concern fading away. He wondered what was with all his doubts; that feeling in his stomach had returned again, and it overwhelmed him. He was even shaking a little, to his own chagrin.
He knew he needed to stop /remembering/, or at least trying to remember. He didn't understand why he wanted to drive himself back down into that state. "I think so."
[12/18/13 6:59:00 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: God, he could feel him shaking against him. Sure, he had --he had seen worse on him, but that didn't mean it was any better. So he took his hand in his, linking their fingers and giving a reassuring squeeze.
It was understandable. Because he kept doing the same. It was actually rather surprising how he'd kept at bay several emotions that some memories carried within.
"Yeah I'm sure," Jesús leaned back to look at him. "I'm absolutely sure," /if you are/. "I'm here/"
[12/18/13 7:04:30 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "I think I need to..." He huffed softly, and leaned against him. He felt embarrassed, admittedly, for getting so worked up over something as simple as that, even as supportive as Jesús seemed.
He /was/ him, he realized. He was him but he wouldn't hurt him. Jude couldn't even bring himself to say his name. Maybe he'd never have to.
Instead he wrapped his arm around his waist and settled against his chest. Better. He mumbled a "sorry" against his shirt, hoping the other hadn't gotten his hopes up on something. (Whatever that meant.)
[12/18/13 7:37:11 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: The hand around his waist made him smile softly. "It's fine. Really," his bandaged hand came to rest upon his back, rubbing circles as best as he could.
The lights kept dancing around him, soothing, cozy. It was even better while he sat there holding Jude close.
A kiss to his head was all he did before closing his eyes, just to hear his breathing. "We're going to be fine, hm."
[12/18/13 7:50:14 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He closed his eyes as well, shifting to lean his head against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. It seemed to ground him in a way, and the shakiness left him.
"Yeah. We'll be fine." He opened one eye to look at him and smiled.
[12/18/13 8:44:40 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: By far, it had been one of the calmest nights he had ever spent since he arrived in the small town. Not quiet, the strong wind howled softly and rattled the windows every now and then. Just a deep tranquility settling upon them as soon as one had fallen asleep, the other following shortly, and now the morning had gently awakened Jesús.
There was actual snow outside, he could see it accumulated on the window, the lights still casting a faint glow beneath all that white.
He flexed his hand slightly, and deciding against running outside and rolling on the snow, he nudged Jude's ankle with his foot. It would do no good running around anyway. He remembered falling, falling into a hole in the ground and the cold still made his shoulder hurt. But anyway.
"It snowed," he slurred, his accent thicker with sleep. "'tis cold."
[12/18/13 8:49:29 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Huh?" He hardly remembered falling asleep, and it took him a minute to process what all had happened. The fact it was all real, too, took a bit longer.
Jude shifted from where he'd nestled in his arms and craned his neck to look out the window. "Sure did." Snow was always pretty at first, but got gross quick. He stopped being fond of it a long time ago.
He yawned, covering his mouth and rubbing at his eyes. "I could make breakfast, if you want. It might suck."
[12/18/13 9:08:14 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "It's not going to suck. I could help. Or at least try," he offered, still trying to focus his eyes on a single spot. "Try, mostly."
Of course, as soon as he could muster some energy to even move from his spot. Which would take a while longer, given he was comfortably settled next to him, and warm too.
(He had always been the one to get up last, anyway.)
Despite that, he pecked his cheek and turned so he was facing him, his lips quirking up. "I can't cook."
[12/18/13 9:43:44 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "You don't have to." He smiled at him, and returned the peck on his cheek. The headache he felt coming on could be ignored, as he moved away to distract himself by starting a fresh pot of tea and digging around in the pantry.
A box of pancake mix sat there, daunting. One of the things he picked up for free in stock. Why the fuck not.
"Since we've got nowhere to be, might as well," he said to him, setting the box on the counter and getting the milk and eggs out of the fridge. "Are pancakes okay with you?" Whatever kind of question that was.
[12/18/13 10:28:02 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "As long as it's edible I'm okay with whatever," he smiled, staring up at the ceiling for a moment, before he slipped off the couch, and stretched.
He was sure he looked like an absolute mess. But he could have cared less as he approached him, as he stuck his tongue out in concentration while he worked on opening the box. For the first time, he briefly considered shaving.
Naturally, his eyes drifted outside. Some kid was running around, far from there.
[12/18/13 10:36:26 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He was so caught up in what he was doing he hardly noticed, occasionally murmuring his thanks before turning back to the stove. Granted, he had to squint at the directions throughout most of it, but at least he didn't mess up.
But it was nice that way. He was so at ease he hummed to himself, songs he'd heard over the speakers at work. In the moments between, he tended to his flowers, which he'd put in one half of the sink until it stopped freezing.
Between two fingers, he handed Jesús a tiny pancake, hardly a scrap. "Test it. I wanna see if I fucked up the batter."
[12/19/13 1:04:27 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He'd been unconsciously swaying with the rhythm of whatever song Jude was humming. Then he stopped as soon as he was called, and eyed the small piece of pancake.
(He wasn't the best dancer, he'd seen better both in space and, hell, in his own damn neighborhood. But he liked it. It had been at least two years since he'd last even allowed himself something as simple as a small dance. And now there he was.)
Without warning he leaned down and took the pancake between his teeth, one hand too dirty, the other bandaged. An appreciative hum. "Is not bad. I mean it," he swallowed.
That was before he shot him a small lighthearted grin. "You should try it, see for yourself."
[12/19/13 1:39:16 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "I will in a sec." He smiled at him, then got to work on fixing a plate. It wasn't bad work, really, for a first try, albeit a little messy.
He readied his cup of tea and set the plates on the table, sitting down. Cutting off a bite for himself with his fork, he tasted it, praising himself a little. Hot /damn/ they were good if not for the fact they burnt his tongue a little.
"You know," he said between bites, "this is probably the least weird morning-after I've had." Although it wasn't really a morning /after/. Huh.
[12/19/13 3:13:12 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He raised his eyebrows, "the least?" The question had slipped from his tongue before he could stop it. But he didn't expect any explanations, nor an elaborate answer.
(He wasn't entirely keen on knowing, either.)
So before Jude could say anything, Jesús shook his head with a small lopsided smile. "That's good right?"
[12/19/13 5:11:33 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He licked his lips and nodded, taking a sip of his tea. "It's not a bad thing. At all. I mean--I probably shouldn't have brought it up."
Granted, Jude had never had good experiences when it came to /that./ Maybe good at the time, but there was always a tinge of regret, or miscommunication. He didn't know how to describe it at first, nor did he particularly want to.
"Is it all right?" He poked at the stack of pancakes with his fork, and glanced at him. He was a little proud of himself for what he'd done, but maybe it was just him.
[12/19/13 5:42:12 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Probably. He didn't mind, as much as it troubled him to think of what he'd been through, he did not blame Jude for that.
And he hadn't thought of /that/ yet. It was still something he found himself unable to even consider yet.
"Yep," he said after he finished one of his own, tipping his head to a side. Beneath the small table, he carefully rested his ankle next to Jude's, "I like this," then He added "next time I'll help you make these in the shape of snowmen."
[12/19/13 5:46:45 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Calmly, he hooked his foot around his ankle and smiled. "You know how to do that?"
This felt nice. The snow wasn't heavy enough to drown out everything but the two of them, but it was enough to shift the focus.
And...well, the more time he spent with him, the fonder of him he grew. If not for the occasional memory of their first encounter in the parking lot (and the false ones from before) he would have accepted it.
[12/19/13 6:49:02 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús set the fork aside, instead using his hands to quickly tear and rip small chunks of a pancake. "Me?"
The other's foot, his smile, the fact he'd slept there and were now eating together and he was probably making a fool of himself--
That he trusted him, it all had him feeling...so much better.
His smile was bright by the time he was done. "Nah. But I can learn." Finally, he sat back. The food closely resembled a snowman. "I can learn from you."
[12/19/13 7:12:28 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He wasn't sure what he expected him to learn. But the more time they spent together, the safer he felt, the more he felt the need to reach out.
They spent the next weeks like that, consisting of him visiting and the two of them eating, talking, and then sometimes he'd kiss him until that anxious feeling returned and he had to stop. He appreciated the fact Jesús was understanding about that, and once or twice they slept in the same bed with his arms wrapped around him as if to compensate. Deep down he knew he didn't mind, but he still scolded himself. Tried to rationalize why he would feel that way, with no answers other than bad memories.
But it didn't matter. He was there for him, and that fact kept him going sometimes, especially during work in those weeks before the holiday. And so at the end of a long shift, he'd received a bottle of champagne from the stock room and they split it, lounging on the couch and watching some bad film.
"Hey." He looked up from where he'd laid against his shoulder, trading the bottle back to him, and gave him a nudge. "This is nice. Just so you know."
[12/19/13 7:29:09 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: The movie was so bad, he was eternally thankful for Jude nudging him, making him tear his gaze from the screen and settle down on him. Then he took the bottle from his hand, only to set it aside, because he had had enough and his fingers felt tingly.
And as much as he would have liked to get completely drunk, Jude was right. It was nice, and he wanted to keep things the way they were. "I know," he kissed his temple.
Honestly, he couldn't have asked for anything else.
[12/19/13 7:37:25 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude laughed softly, reaching out for the bottle but giving up as soon as he saw it was out of his grasp. He moved to sling his legs over his lap, his arms around his neck--he wished he had any excuse for himself as to why he was suddenly so clingy. Other than the alcohol.
"You /know/? What's that supposed to mean?" In spite of everything, he was pretty alert, nudging up against him again and pressing kisses to the side of his face.
[12/19/13 7:51:03 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He had to admit, the sudden change in Judes's spot caught him off-guard, but he laughed regardless of his initial surprise. It was --it was cute, and amusing, and it all made him wonder what was going on.
But first he had to stop laughing and squirming, and that was difficult with each kiss on his face. "It means I know this is totally nice!" He turned his head, smiling softly at him, one hand resting on his knee, the other wrapping around his waist.
"Except that thing," his eyes flickered to the screen, back to Jude, before his lips grazed the other's, "that thing just sucks so bad, I'm sorry to tell you that."
[12/19/13 8:51:59 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "No, no." He grinned at him, trying to hold him still as he kissed the side of his mouth. "This is a beautiful work of classic cinema. And it's too good for us."
Then he kissed him, preventing himself from thinking too hard about it. The champagne made his head swim a little, but he was otherwise controlled.
He was still going lightly when he set his hand on his side, then pulled back to look at him. "Hey."
[12/19/13 9:07:41 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "That film is literally nothing but a sweaty dude with a gun tryi--" oh, okay. He kissed him back happily, the movie and the almost-emty bottle left forgotten; all in favor of nothing but his lips.
That, and some strange sensation settling in his stomach as soon as he saw him. He tried blinking away the faint haze of the champagne. "Hey."
Maybe, as it had happened many times before, it was all a misconception. "You okay?" he asked quietly, his thumb rubbing small circles on his back.
[12/19/13 9:28:04 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "I'm fine." He gave him a quick peck on the lips, arching his back up against him. And, without much thought to it, he kissed him again, this time languid and deeper than usual, and he kept at it until the blare of gunfire from the movie over the speakers distracted him, and he pulled back and laughed against his lips.
"Okay, I can't do this with that in the background," he murmured, and settled his arms back around his neck. His teeth worried at his lip for a moment, struggling with the appropriate words. "Is this…right? I don't wanna do this if you don't, or if you think it's weird, or whatever."
[12/19/13 9:50:43 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: ./Oh./ The second kiss left him breathless, it was that or the full realization of what Jude meant. Of what was happening.
He could feel his pulse quickening, God, he had to get a hold of himself. Which proved hard, when Jude was so close, and he had just /kissed him like that/.
"No, no no," it should have been the other way around, he should have been the one asking if he was fine. "I mean, it's not weird."
Maybe just a bit but that was completely unimportant because there was something just so much more important. "I'm just--I want to make sure /you're/ okay."
[12/19/13 9:56:26 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: (( I said important and important in the same sentence and it's bothering me but I can't edit it these are my problems ))
[12/19/13 9:57:45 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "I'm fine." He smiled, bumping against his forehead deliberately. "I just need to...take it slow, you know?"
As if to demonstrate, he kissed him again, one hand gripping in his hair. This was all right. He could do this.
He wondered what it was like for Jesús, in the past. At the same time, he didn't really want to know.
[12/19/13 10:09:16 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "That's okay. We can do that," taking a breath in, Jesús nodded, and then he was kissing him back with the same enthusiasm, an also affection, Jude had shown before.
He /would/ do that. As long as Jude was fine, it was all good too.
But first, he pulled back, frowning as he reached beneath his legs. The remote control. Which ended up being thrown aside, and also worked as an excuse for him to shift into a more comfortable position.
[12/19/13 10:29:11 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Thank God." He laughed gently against his lips, then shifted into his lap, his knees on either side of him.
Sometimes he had to stop, pulling back to rest against him if he felt himself getting worked up. Eventually, though, his hands slid down to the hem of his shirt, slipping under delicately. Mapping out out his skin, which he admittedly wasn't as familiar with as he would have liked.
[12/19/13 10:45:48 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: While Jude's hands fluttered over his stomach, he couldn't stop kissing every single part of his face, slow and lingering, there was no rush. Even when every brush of the other's fingers jolted his heart.
And he paused, if only to look back and imprint that image, the other's face, in his mind.
(He swore that would never fade the way it had before.)
A hand on his nape, pulling him closer, the other on his hip, keeping him there. He began kissing his jawline, down to his neck.
[12/19/13 11:02:47 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He tipped his head back slowly, smiling a little as soon as the other kissed his neck. Carefully, he slid one hand under his shirt, the tips of his fingers drawing lazy circles.
Slow, he had to take it slow or he'd freak out, he understood. He shifted in his lap, squeezing his legs around him. Couldn't bring himself to think about anything else yet.
[12/19/13 11:19:34 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús shuddered slightly, closing his eyes for a second, his lips quirking up. Needless to say he was basking in every moment of that slow rhythm.
He squirmed a bit more, finally looking at him, muttering "God, you're beautiful." He'd just never stop saying that.
Both hands rested on his hips now. But first, he'd made sure to let his fingers brush against his side, that spot he knew, the one Mary had told him long ago.
[12/19/13 11:27:05 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: That made him jolt, then bend forward, laughing gently against his shoulder. It didn't help that what he said before made him want to hide his face.
Had anyone told him that before? It was nice. He couldn't quite wrap his head around it, but it made his stomach jump in a strangely good way.
"Don't say that," he murmured, and then rolled his hips against him, slowly. "What's that even mean."
[12/19/13 11:37:11 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Ah. He didn't know what to say because his hips had him skipping a beat, then blinking once as he tried to focus on what he had asked.
But it also made a tiny pang of sadness hit him, because sometimes he wondered about what he'd been through. What he probably heard everyday from people who only spat venom and wounded and didn't care.
"I mean it," he kissed him, deep and long, conveying his honesty, "it means I think you're amazing." /That you're worth so much to me./
[12/19/13 11:40:08 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "How come?" He held onto his sides and rolled his hips again, his breath hitching a little. "What'd I do?"
He was teasing him a little, bit didn't really know how else to get an answer. Regardless, he returned the kiss, growing more enthusiastic as each moment passed.
[12/19/13 11:52:29 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús opened and closed his mouth, lifting his hips and swallowing back a quiet curse.Â
Tease.
Fingers danced from his hip to his thigh, where he rubbed encouragingly. What did he do?
And he let him know this, then kissed him again, and he might as well spend hours just like that, he realized.
[12/19/13 11:58:35 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: This was okay, he told himself, he could do this. One more grind of his hips and something sparked, prompting him to reach down and fumble with his own pants.
But he kept kissing him, his tongue tracing over his lip and a gentle shudder leaving him from his shoulders. He pressed up against Jesús's hands, encouraging his touch.
[12/20/13 12:28:35 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Easy there," but even his own movements had quickened somewhat, his breath catching in his throat. They could do this. They could. He helped with his pants, although allowing his fingers to lightly touch his skin, the hem of his underwear, his hips his back his thighs.
He couldn't help it. He had to touch him, all of him, some sort of declaration of his profound affection. Let his hands speak while his mouth gently venerated his lips.
His hips, on the other hand, were slow. Hell, maybe once or twice, /take your time, whenever you're ready/, he didn't want to move hastily.
[12/20/13 1:18:43 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude cursed softly and pressed up against his hand, trying not to break away from the kiss but also feeling the need to breathe, sing his praises.
Kissing him was hard when he couldn't bear to look at him. He leaned his forehead against Jesús's and closed his eyes, holding onto his sides to steady himself, then moved down to rub slow circles against his hipbones.
[12/20/13 2:44:08 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Jesús looked up, only to quickly close his eyes as soon as he had; the other's breathing was incredibly soothing.
Then, carefully, one could say almost hesitant, he gently pressed his palm against Jude. He wouldn't do anything else, though, just keep him steady while he fought the urge to roll his hips, just waiting for a reaction. Almost asking for permission.
[12/20/13 2:50:43 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He could only curse again in response, easing up against his hand needily. Already he could feel his breath growing short, and he moved his hand down to his thigh, giving it an encouraging squeeze.
"Talk to me," he managed, doing most of the work by moving his hips. "Don't like it when it's--/ah/--dead quiet." That, and he knew he'd freak out if that was all he had to listen to.
[12/20/13 3:12:56 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: He swallowed back a slightly shaky laugh, his hand felt on fire, and he finally raised his hips to meet Jude's.
"That's okay," neither did he, he just hadn't been able to muster up any coherent words. "/Tranquilo/," he stroked through the fabric, biting his lip.
Jesús arched his back slightly, burying his face on his neck.
[12/20/13 3:26:35 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: All he could do was cry out softly in response, and rub against him again. He kissed at his forehead gently, leaning against him as he sat up from his lap, on his knees.
That didn't calm him as much as it woke something else up, prompting him to slip his pants down to his knees, almost frantically. He knew he could do better, should have gone slower, but whatever.
[12/20/13 3:38:23 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Jude," he murmured, his voice trembling, and his lips remained parted as he tried holding only to his thighs but ended up reaching for his hair, tousling it, gently tugging.
And once his pants weren't in the way anymore, his hand wrapped around his cock. It wasn't slow. Not anymore. But there was still a careful edge to everything he did; tender.
(Loving.)
"/Dios/," he gasped quietly, he needed contact, more of it. Even if he was perfectly content staying like that, watching him.
[12/20/13 3:44:54 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Fuck. That was too much, hearing him like that. He tipped his head forward and moved with his hand as he struggled with the other's pants, wrapping his hand around him hastily, eager to return the favor.
All the while he kissed at his forehead, his hair, pumping his hand thoroughly and allowing his hips to buck and jump up between soft moans.
[12/20/13 4:28:52 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: His own thrusts were erratic, accentuated with gasps and moans that broke through his shaky words. Each kiss felt so cool on his warm forehead.
"Ah," he kissed him with one particularly energetic tug. "I mean it, I mean it, you're amazing, you're gorgeous."
[12/20/13 4:40:03 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: Jude tried to say something in reply, but was cut off by his own noises (again, embarrassingly loud, the kind that would leave the other tenants raising their brows at him for days) and a sharp thrust of his hips.
God damn it. He leaned down to kiss him, hard, squeezing him and trying to give him fair warning. He couldn't hold on much longer, not like that.
[12/20/13 4:52:34 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Hey," he exhaled before shutting his eyes and tipping his head back, overcome with the heat between them, between his legs.
But he forced himself to look at him once more, for his hand to increase the pace. His lips were on his again. "Come on," he kissed him, deep and sweet, encouraging, "/vamos pajarito."
[12/20/13 5:16:37 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: His breath caught in his throat and he tried to hold on for one last time, but jolted halfway though--he moved down to bury his face in his shoulder, crying out loudly against him and letting out those last few frantic jerks of his hips.
Even slumped against him, Jude kept going with his hand until he was sure he was finished, and kissed his neck encouragingly, until he sank back down in his lap and took a few minutes to just breathe, hold onto him tightly.
[12/20/13 11:34:14 PM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Finally he shut his eyes closed, gritting his teeth to keep himself from yelling into his ear, letting out a long moan instead. There were sparks behind his eyelids, he was sure of it.
Then his jaw fell slack as he tried regaining his breath. And shakily, he removed his hand and rested it on his back.
Jesus Christ. "Hey," he croaked. The unspoken question was no mystery though. /Are you okay?/
[12/20/13 11:41:29 PM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Hey," he repeated, keeping his arms snug around his waist. Jude could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, smell the familiar musk between labored breaths.
He was more than fine. He wasn't quite sure how to convey that in polite words, so he planted a kiss behind his ear.
Then he hummed, still frozen where he sat but exhilarated, his pulse thudding. He turned his head to look at him, licking his lips before asking incredulously: "What was that you called me?"
[12/21/13 12:48:22 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: The kiss was more than enough, soft and soothing, until he opened his eyes and was, admittedly, a bit embarrassed. There was no way to hide his sheepish look, the flush on his cheeks now caused by something entirely different.
So he paused to inhale, exhale, inhale once more before he even replied. He settled his fingers on his hip. On the cheerful little bird caught mid-flight, with its wings extended. "/Pájaro/, bird. /Pajarito/," he bit his lip, "small bird."
[12/21/13 1:04:33 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: "Really?" Jude grinned at him, bumping his nose against his neck, then looking down at the tattoo. Weird. He hadn't thought about the fact Jesús would have seen it.
"That's cute," he murmured into his neck, then tried to move--his legs were getting stiff, and there was no doubt he was weighing the other down. And there was no use sleeping on the couch when there was a perfectly good bed. "'Small bird', like, 'birdie', or…?"
[12/21/13 1:14:28 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: "Yes really," he rubbed his back once more before he let him move. For a moment he considered staying there. But Jude seemed to have other thing in mind, so he wouldn't protest against that. Not to mention
He kissed his cheek, then nibbled on his jaw playfully. "Could be 'birdie'. Could be baby bird. Heh," he grinned, "it can totally be the latter if you want."
[12/21/13 1:21:19 AM] MONTY MIGUEL ROSAS: He responded to that with a gentle headbutt to his shoulder, and slid out of his lap, his arms still around him as he stood up. "That is so weird."
"C'mon." He wasn't sure what else he was up for for the rest of the night, but some room to spread out was definitely a priority no matter what. He bent his head down to kiss his cheek, tugging him backwards. And in a moment that would have been poignant if not for the grin on his face, he asked: "Was that all right for you?"
[12/21/13 3:13:25 AM] GABS WALTER BLANCO: Naturally he followed him, standing up and yeah, his legs were definitely stiff and sort of numb, but whatever. It was completely irrelevant.
Because as they walked, Jesús tipped his head and smiled, affectionate and warm and with such a profound affection in his eyes. "Yeah." That had been so much more than just 'all right'. It had been Jesús offering his trust, his guidance, it had been Jude taking it.
Maybe they could do it again soon.
