#jackiplier

The apartment hums with a certain ring, a frequency unknown to him. It thrums in his chest, deep in his skull and lungs and ribs, and he thinks maybe this is what it feels like to be dead. Not quite feeling anything, but feeling too much, and he lets Mark guide him into a waltz that neither of them know how to dance to.

Fingers laced, Mark dances with him on the carpet floor, his socked feet making not a single noise. Jack thinks maybe he's humming a tune, but he can't really register it, focused solely on the imprints Mark's pressing into his hip, the callous of his fingers scraping into his. He can't understand how wrong this is, after all this time.

In the corner of the room, the clock reads 2 AM. Or maybe it's 3. He can't tell. The numbers blur together like melted ice, an amalgamate of nonsensical noises, phrases. That's his entire life, it seems. Nonsense—bullshit that's strewn together like words, like sentences, but never quite comes out right. Nothing he says ever comes out right. Nothing he ever does comes out right. He just keeps dancing and Mark keeps leading.

He doesn't think to ask why Mark keeps leading. He just lets it happen.

“Yes,” Mark answers, a question he never asked, but Jack knows there had been a question at some point. Maybe he'd forgotten. “Yes, I did.”

And he tastes the question on his tongue, bitter and distant, an aftertaste of cigarette smoke and whiskey. Jack's mouth is stale with the sharpness of it, but he nods.

Did you love me?

He blinks. Mark's not looking at him. Jack doesn't look either.

And in his throat he feels the next one, a scalding sensation, but it doesn't get to his lips. Instead, it crawls back down into his chest, settling between each of his ribs, clutching at his heart. He doesn't want to know the answer. Jack knows that Mark hears the question when he spins him, twirling him, dipping him down, as though they're old lovers and this is their final dance.

He thinks it is.

“No,” Mark tells him, and the little monster in his chest squeezes, laughing at that, as though it had expected that answer. Maybe it had. “Not anymore.”

Do you love me now?

But Mark's theatrical. Mark's about a show. Mark's always spoken in riddles, sentences and names he can't explain. Mark's a liar and a cheater and sometimes more, sometimes a trickster and a demon, and sometimes Jack swears he's a devil. It's never certain whether Mark's telling the truth—and once he thought he could tell. Not now. Not anymore.

Mark lifts him back up and they continue to dance in the room, chests close, and Jack finds it strange that he can only feel Mark's chest thrumming, not his own. He hears his pulse in his ears, but can't find it in his chest, and he wonders if it's long gone, or if the heart beating in Mark's chest is his. Perhaps Mark took it from him long ago. He can't remember.

“You don't,” Mark says, voice soft, still.

He hears the question this time, cotton in his ears, dampened and muted. His head is underwater, then, the air gone from his lungs, and it rumbles, reverberates towards him.

Do I love you?

But the answer doesn't feel right, grazes over his skin uncomfortably. Jack thinks Mark is wrong, this round, and he can't ever recall a time where Mark had been wrong before. But Mark lies, and so maybe he's always been wrong, but he doesn't know, and suddenly time is blurring together.

“Too long,” Mark answers quickly, pressing his lips into his neck. It's not a kiss, not quite, but it's there, a silent pressure.

How long have I been here?

Something in his mind tells Jack he's crying, but he doesn't feel it. He just nods, allowing Mark to twirl him again, holding him close, pressing his hand to his chest. Jack closes his eyes but he sees the stretch of numbers in front of his eyelids, the clock ticking. 2 AM, 3 AM, 4 AM.

“Time for you to sleep,” Mark kisses his neck gently, clutching him tighter, so tight Jack fears he may break. Or perhaps hold himself together. He's not sure.

The question rings in his fingers seconds later.

What time is it?

Jack's dimly aware of the salt in his mouth, and the ugly thing inside of him scratches at his throat, rendering his voice soft and incomprehensible. But he can't sleep yet, not until he's sure, not until he can say anything and know that he's real.

“I love you,” he says aloud, voice hoarse and still. The apartment sounds like it shatters beyond repair with the words. His fingers feel warm, sticky, and when he opens his eyes, there's blood running through them.

When he looks up, Mark's sitting in front of him on the couch—tired, resigned. He says nothing for a long time.

“Yes,” Mark says, unprompted.