#jokubas

It had been a week since Emilija had extended the invite to drink at a random bar in Vilnius with her bandmates. A full week. It was way too late to cancel now, despite the sinking nervousness settling in your stomach. So here you are, in your room, clothes scattered across your bed and floor like a category 5 hurricane was striking through it. Fiddling with the eyeliner pen, you contemplate, looking at your reflection as if you had wronged yourself in your sleep. 

Just as you get the last bit drawn on your eyelids, your phone buzzes. 

Once.

Twice.

Once more.

You check it.

> hey

> you still coming? Everyone is here

> except for Jokūbas

Naturally. You reply. You’ve heard many a tale about his tardy behaviour. You check your appearance in the mirror, deciding that if you nitpick any longer, you’d never leave the flat at all. With that thought, you headed off, bidding your cat farewell for the next few hours and locking your door behind you.

The warm air hits you immediately as soon as you step in from the outside. The noise hits second as a small round of applause from Emilija hits when you’re finally spotted. You slide into the short stool at the end of the table, the punishment for being late being the uneven legs it has. You glance at all of them each. The three of them look back before Jokūbas makes the first move at introduction, hands flat on the table as he leans towards you from the edge of the 4 person booth. 

“I’m Jokūbas, to give you one name to a face.” “The one that’s always late?” you echo back, causing a chorus of laughter to erupt from everyone. You immediately think about how you would like to see his eyes crinkle like that again when he smiles. You’re immediately shaken out of it when Alanas and Lukas soon introduce themselves thereafter. 

The night flows very easily over the few hours that you’re there, nursing the same drink order between your hands as you try to keep up with their natural dynamic. 

That’s when you least expect it. When you’re most comfortable. There’s a knock into your back from a random person as your hand is bringing the glass to your lips. The liquid spills all over your nice top, and you don’t even register it until the wetness clings to your skin and the most insincere sorry is muttered behind you before the presence disappears. 

“Are you okay?”

“What a dick-”

“Where’s the napkins-”

“Guys- guys, i’m okay- i’ll just- thank you-” Napkins are shoved into your hands as you try to quickly dab yourself dry of the mishap, more upset about possible staining and not being able to fully have the drink you paid for.

“Gosh, some people these days, I swear-” You hear Lukas scoff.

You try your best to get rid of most of the excess, the liquid’s colour clinging onto the fibres of your shirt for dear life. Just when you give up dabbing and patting at the fabric with useless napkins, a jacket is draped over your shoulders to keep you a little warmer because you have no change of top. Jokūbas is now in a signature black tee, tattoos on display for all to see. You see as his muscles move when he grabs another napkin to wipe up the small splotches of drink that splattered on the table. “Thank you…”

“No problem, really- you’re gonna be colder now with the- .. y’know-” You flush a little, trying to school yourself a little. I can’t be feeling this on the first meet. Especially for your best friend’s bandmate, just because he showed you the slightest bit of kindness. With a curt nod, you try to circle back to the original conversation, but a single look from Emilija has you feeling all too aware. She knows what you just felt, and she’s ready to tease when the opportunity arises. You shook a look back saying don’t and she laughs in jest into her drink. You’re sure that the others catch it too, but you pay no mind. 

The rest of the night goes on smoothly, even when you have to abashedly apologise under your breath each time your knee or foot bumps into Jokūbas’, a flutter in your chest each time contact is made. After a bid farewell with hugs all around, you all exit the bar, feeling jokūbas’ warmth linger longer than the other’s touch, even if you’ve known Emilija years longer than the mere hours you did for the rest.

The walk home feels emptier than it should, half dried shirt feeling a bit wrong against your skin, no more conversation, teasing or laughter hitting your ears. The absence of a jacket deepens it in your gut and you wonder why you were ever nervous in the first place when jokū-.... When everyone was so nice to hang out with. You force that correction in your mind, trying to reject that fleeting feeling for someone you’ve met once. 

The key turns in your front door and you can hear your cat howl from behind it as you enter. 

“Gosh they’re sickening-”

“Yeah, like get a room- fuck- you know they’ve hung out with Benas without us-”

“criminal.”

Alanas looks on in shock as you animatedly talk to Jokūbas while queuing for the bar. He laughs with the same crinkle in his face, which makes you forget to step forward when a space in front of you clears up. With a gentle touch, he guides you forward, hand just above your elbow. A giddy feeling arises in your chest, all warm and flooding through your ribs. You would want to see him in this lighting again, you think, where you can see a twinge of pink on his cheeks. The yellow light stays dim enough that the others don’t notice, but you do. Of course you would. You stare- well- you look at him enough to tell when something changes, cataloguing each part of him in your mind to think about later and almost scream into your bedding about. 

“This queue is taking forever, huh?” He leans in impossibly close, tips of your shoes knocking together on the hardwood bar floor, hand tracing ever so gently up from your elbow and landing on your upper arm, teasing his fingertips almost under your short sleeve. You can only muster a nod, swallowing thickly. You can almost feel the gawk from the other two from all the way over at the table at the absolute brazenness he has at getting close enough to you that there is barely a breath that you two wouldn’t share in this moment. A few shattered glasses sound out behind the bar and you tense only slightly, but Jokūbas feels it; of course he would. His thumb just barely traces a few lines before gently ushering you both forward, closer to being able to order. Selfishly, you both think that you wish this queue was longer so you wouldn’t have to return to the table just yet. You love the way his hands are just present enough to feel weighted but comforting on your skin. He can’t help but want to linger longer, feeling the way you tremble by chance when his touch finds itself lingering on your forearms, your hands; pinkies just hovering over each other every time you’re both sat in a booth at a bar. 

God, you’re both fucked.

“-ff… not even… not even drunk” “Okay, okay, lets just get you in, hm? Where’s your keys, bug?”

Your heart flutters more violently than normal, unable to hide your fluster when you let out a noise that gives you away. He pretends not to notice it as his arm stabilises you from moving to your shoulder down to your waist; watching you rummage through your jacket pockets.

Bug. 

It shouldn’t fluster you much, but it does. You had saved a small snail from being crushed on the pavement when you had both elected to go try this new cafe in town. Even though you had argued that snails aren’t in fact bugs, but molluscs, the name stuck. 

You pull your keys out finally, fumbling with them in your fingers in your drunken state. His fingers wrap around yours, stopping your hands from almost juggling with them to find the key among all the keychains you have on them. 

Jesus! How many do you have?? 

He thinks to himself as he finally finds the key in the sea of trinkets attached to the centre ring, sliding it into the keyhole and unlocking your door. As soon as you both step foot in your flat, you bend down immediately to your very cranky cat that is begging for your attention, almost as recompense for you leaving for so long. You can hear him locking your door behind you, taking off his shoes. 

Respectful. A keeper.

You shake the thought off as quick as you can, pressing rough kisses to your cat’s head, enough that a slight bit of worn lip gloss clumps the area of fur together as she meows in appreciation for all the attention she’s getting. You’re eventually coaxed to sit on the floor for a moment as he slips off your shoes for you, rubbing a circle on the inside of each ankle when he does so so softly.

You eventually find yourself sat on the edge of your bed, hands braced either side of yourself as you come to grips with how drunk you actually feel. The dim light is already dampening the future headache you’ll have in the morning as punishment for not hydrating properly. Jokūbas steps through, all kind faced and soft looking as he sets a glass of water on the cluttered nightstand. He sits next to you, tapping your shoulder to make you look at him, which so obviously works with how gone you are for him. His hands gently take your chin as a damp cloth with makeup remover on it wipes on your face. You whine as its colder than you expected to which he laughs in response, shushing you in a soothing way. “Shh, c’mon now. You’ll hate both of us if you keep this on… there we go.”

You only grunt in response, allowing him to continue. A frown tugs at your lips as he disappears back into the bathroom to rinse and hang up the cloth. When he comes back through, he finds you still in the same position he left you in.

“What’s with the frown, bug?”

“... lay.” “What?”

Without further response, you pull him down into the duvet, curling up, face in the pillow, in the most spine bending position possible. He thinks that it can’t be comfortable, so with very little internal struggle, he settles himself next to you, pulling the duvet over you both. He swallows thickly at the way you naturally curl into his side, drawn to the familiarity of him and his warmth. He hates how he adores the sight and feel of you there just feeling entirely correct. It’s so perfect to him that no puzzle piece metaphor could ever describe the way you complete him. His hand goes to your hair, stroking the back of your head and separating the strands with his fingers. Only when he hears the whistle of your breathing through parted lips does he pull his phone out with a free hand, turning down the brightness straight away to avoid waking you. His thumb presses against the screen, opening the band group chat, desperate to confess his internal conflict.

(seen by all)

With a sigh, he sets his phone on the nightstand and settles into you finally, legs intertwined and arm draped over your waist. He noses against your hair as he finally drifts into slumber.

You wake with a hefty exhale, mouth feeling dry and limbs all stiff. You just settle into the sheets again, ready to shut out the entire world again as you remember your behaviour last night around him. You assume he’s already left, thinking the noises in the kitchen are your cat poking around into where she shouldn’t be; on the kitchen counter. You decide to leave it until the kettle flicks on.

Cats can’t use the kettle. Is he still here?

With the chance of him being a prince charming and being in your kitchen, you reluctantly release yourself from the haven that is your warm bed, scouting around the bed for your slippers before padding to the kitchen.

“Morning. How are you feeling? Has it caught up to you yet?”

“Mm-mm… was i embarrassing last night?.. I didn’t mean to make you stay..”

A beat of silence follows, but before he can reply to brush it off, you continue.

“Maybe I did, actually. Uhm,.. not in that way, I just like.. Being close to you..”

He stands there stunned for just a moment, his only thought being holy fuck. Before you can backtrack, he rounds the counter and takes your hands.

“... bug.. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

You nod, muttering a quick “i like you” before your brain can hesitate for you. His heart thrums against his sternum, pulling you in for a hug, tight enough that you can feel his pulse almost.

“Are you serious?”

With another affirmative nod from you, nervousness tangling in your stomach, he pulls back from your neck, leaning into your face enough that your noses bump together. Without meaning to, you both laugh at the mishap, finally closing the gap, lips pressed to one another’s like a finality. His hands go to your waist and yours to his shoulder. 

His phone interrupts you two, ringing out in the kitchen like an ice bucket over your heads.

“Fuck, it’s Alanas. Its band practice today-”

“Late as always.”

You get a text later that day from Emilija.

Pažiūrėk į savo kūną, Ar džiaugies? (look at your body, Are you happy?)

“Honey? Are you okay in there?” A knock sounds out from the bathroom door, his voice muffled from the surface. You let out an affirmative, your voice carrying over the tiles slicken with the drips from your body after a shower. The towel around your torso sags off your body, threatening to slip onto the increasingly damp bathmat. You focus on the colour and patterns of the mat, ignoring how the cold evening air brushes and kisses your skin with the toxic promise of illness if you don’t dry up and get out of the bathroom soon. You refuse to look at them, the way they arch and paint across your skin like a form of controlled burning to prevent everything from spilling over into an uncontrolled brush fire that kills by its nature. 

They’re old. You know that. But they still burn like hot abrasions pressing into your skin when you remember they are there. When you remember where you were, what you were like and how you acted. You can see your reflection visibly cringe in your peripherals in the mirror, finally picking up your towel and drying off, no longer wanting to be locked in the bathroom, naked with only your thoughts and the rush of the wind outside. Slipping on your clothes finally, you open the door, slinking out to see Alanas waiting for you on the sofa, sitting too politely for someone who lives in the apartment. 

“Was your moisturiser being stubborn again?” He asks jokingly, knowing he swapped the bottle out for you without asking. He always does things like that. Sweet little things that make you think he’s perfect. Always unsaid too. He’s a humble bastard and you love him for it. 

His question makes you pause before nodding slowly. You forgot to moisturise your skin, more focused on getting dry and dressed than following through with your after-shower routine lest you think much more. You sit on the sofa next to him, leaning onto him with a huff that would rival a well loved shelter dog sitting in the sun. He knows better than to ask, nodding with a small hum before bringing you into him, hand guiding your head past his shoulder and onto his comfortable chest, petting your damp hair. Alanas presses a kiss to your hairline, lips another bit of small pressure that is grounding you through the floorboards of your mind to remind you what safety is instead of leaving you to mentally feel like a corpse in the forest; warm and present, not rigid, lost and scavenged. 

He knows not to ask. He knows to just act.

Show don’t tell.

Ar džiaugies? Ar džiaugies? Pasikeitei (Don’t you see? No one will love you, The scar will remain)

The door closes behind you, lips tugging upwards as his chases yours with fervour. Alanas’ hands hold you on your ribs, thumb tracing lines over your front with the intent of melting you into the floor, leading you backwards into the apartment. You both stumble over each other, breaths baited into each other’s mouth and warmth spreading from the centre of your chest, trying your best to transfer that to him as you hold his face, tips of your fingers trailing down his neck, over his irritatingly clothed shoulders and down his tattooed arms that you desperately want to sink your teeth in and lave over. 

“Mmn, baby-” He whispers against your skin, small little promises pressing against your jaw as he trails kisses down your neck, over your racing pulse. Your breaths hitch and stutter in your throat, the giggles quieting into small breathy noises that he would beg to hear for the rest of his life. Your hands tangle with his, pulling him back into the bedroom with you, fumbling with the lamp switch at the beside as he ever so slowly leans you down onto the plush mattress, the previously made bed crumpling up at both of your eager explorations of each other. 

You tug at his shirt and he sneaks his hands under yours slowly, making you gasp a little.

“A- ah, cold-”

“I know, m sorry. They’ll warm up, promise.”

With that, he presses more kisses across your face and neck, holding in his laugh at your pouty response to his touches that make you keen regardless. He continues his small caresses under your shirt, relaxing you as he finally tugs off your shirt, trailing his lips down, down, down your body, his eyes looking up at you in the sweetest way, as if you had hung the stars yourself and created life itself.  He laves and kisses over each mark, mole and scar on your skin, occasionally looking up again as if he’d take his own rib out with his bare hands to give you life and love.

And for once, you’re not ashamed. You bask and arch into the affections that don’t make the scars feel as deep and heavy as usual. You bare yourself to him unabashedly.

Ar džiaugies? (are you happy)

The light forces it’s way through the blinds, the hum of the streets below pushing into the air of your room. Slowly, you turn over, his arm over your waist limply, his chest rising and falling slowly. Still asleep. It’s only when you re-adjust your position fully, your leg between his and your chest pressed flush to his, skin to skin, does he stir.

Alanas goes in to kiss you once he’s pulled from his slumber by the light, his drowsiness making him extremely miscalculate his aim and pressing his lips to your cheek, right above your lips. He mumbles out in disagreement at his placement, a frown forming on his face, making you giggle at his discontent. 

“Can’t kiss me yet. I’ve got gross morning breath, babe.”

He only grunts in response, hiding his face in your neck.

Are you happy? You find yourself to be happy in this scene. A slow morning with the day on hold. The laundry can wait. Breakfast can wait. You don’t even consider yourself undeserving of this anymore as he clings to you under the warmth of your sheets. The sheets he let you pick because he knows you adore the little bunnies printed on the covers. 

You are happy. Even despite the past you’ve had weighing on you still. You get to lay here with your love, in the apartment you share, considering getting a cat with him, unknowing of how adoringly he talks about you to his students.

You awake with a jolt, chest heaving in tight breaths that feel like your esophagus is being strangled, hands white knuckling sheets and a near distant scream of yours fading in your ears from the slipping dreamscape.

Just a dream. Just a fucking dream.

You had better go to sleep again before Alanas wakes up. He sleeps so so soundly beside you, face angelic as it smushes into the pillow, no muscles of his even twitching at your awakening. Huh. He’s always been such a deep sleeper. He did always sleep through Jokubas’ practice drum the night before shows.

The fan whirs in the background, grounding you a little. 

Just a dream. Just a dream. 

Despite your reassurances into the dream being a false reality, it still flashes and burns into the back of your eyelids. The fear still sears you, like it’s being branded like a hot flush into the insides of your skin. You swallow thickly, starting to get up from the bed to escape the oppressive walls of the bedroom. 

Just as you carefully shift, already bracing for the cold hard-floors under your soles, Alanas groans sleepily, hands grasping your waist to stop you from leaving. So he can sleep through your jolts and shivers but not a little movement? Hm.

“...where are you off to…” He mumbles into the pillow, eyes still closed and his voice raspy from the clutches of slumber. 

“Water…” You meekly reply, petting his hair with clammy, trembling hands. You think he can feel his trembling because he perks up a little, eyebrows furrowed so sweetly like a cocker spaniel looking up at its owner. 

“Water? … You sure you’re just thirsty?” His thumb starts to rub circles against the skin that peeks from under your sleep shirt. Grounding. There. 

“You’re shaking a bit…”

“M okay.” You reaffirm. Whether you’re trying to convince him or yourself, neither of you know. You don’t see the way his lips tug into a frown at the way your voice wobbles. 

“I didn’t ask you that, love.” He keeps himself flush against you, keeping that pressure against your skin to keep you down to earth. “Tells me all I need to know.”

He sits up finally, nose pressed to the crook of your neck. He can read you too well, you think. He knows he can.

“You’re okay. You’re here, in bed with me. Just us. No loud noises, no pressure. Nothing that happened in your dream is real.” His voice covers you like a warm blanket, dampening your frayed nerves. 

Your breaths even out a little, just enough for it to feel like brambles aren’t puncturing your lungs like it’s death by a thousand cuts. As his hands remain, so too does his breath tickling your neck as it brushes against the skin there. 

“There we go, Zuikis, just deep breaths, hm?” He rubs your side with the same pressure as before, making your chest erupt with the warmth of a thousand suns.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wouldn’t let you spiral after a bad dream, you know? What do you take me for?” He jokes, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder. 

“Let’s get you that water.”

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A/N PT2: by the way, this is what i envisioned him looking up to be like: