#pre fahc

Los Santos is a city full of crooked cops and gang wars. Up and coming criminals constantly fought for the top spot, unseating the previous kings and queens in the city of saints. The latest crew emerging worthy of note are the Fake AH. What the AH stands for, nobody knows.

The Fakes, as far as any of Ray's contacts could tell him, consist of three or four people with an astonishing track record. They waltzed into the city about two months ago, immediately uprooting established gangs and taking over their turf. They've also officially declared war on the Corpirate, the current king of LS.

Ray would prefer to stay far away from them and the trouble they're seeking, but.

The other fact he knows of the Fakes is that they're recruiting. Actively and selectively. That wouldn't be a problem, except the Face of the crew, their so called Golden Boy seems to have a specific target in mind:

Michael.

It started with a job they took, just Michael with Ray for secret back up. Ray picked it because it seemed low risk, high reward, with a decent payoff even if they split the money. And it worked like a charm, too: with Ray on overwatch and calmly calling out positions in Michael's ear, they wrap up in record time and without Ray giving away his presence.

But while Ray packed his sniper away, slow clapping echoed across the empty shipyard. It took Ray a moment to locate him. The Golden Boy leaned against a shipping container, legs comfortably crossed at the ankles and watching Michael through golden glasses. His smarmy grin put Ray on guard immediately.

"Well done," he said, pushing off the container to swagger up to Michael. "Impressive, even. And I'm not easily impressed."

Ray expected Michael to be wary, to brush him off. And he did, but the Golden Boy wasn’t deterred, continuing to flatter him. He sidestepped Michael’s prickly exterior and right into his space, metaphorically and literally. To Ray’s surprise, Michael let him. Didn’t protest as loud as he should, didn’t shove him away, and that’s when Ray knew he’d lost him.

If there is one truth universally acknowledged in Los Santos, it's this: the Golden Boy gets what he wants. Always.

It doesn't help that he and Michael hit it off immediately. The third time Michael comes home to their joined flat, brimming with excitement after going out for 'bevs' with 'Gavvy', Ray realizes that this is it. He's losing his best friend, without even jeopardizing their friendship by bringing up his feelings.

“-so he invited me over to his place next week, we’re gonna play some Mario Kart, you should-”

“He what now,” Ray interrupted, trying to maintain a neutral face despite the jealousy flashing through his heart.

The thing is, before all of this, Ray thought he had a chance. Michael flirted with him, in that friendly, gruff way he had. Except now he sees the same behaviour directed at someone else, and he can’t tell if it’s just how Michael is, or if Gavin holds his interest, too. And if it comes to a contest between Ray and the Golden Boy, Ray knows who wins.

It’s not him.

“Yeah, he wants me to meet his crew. It’d be good to have strong allies in this city,” Michael explains, grin bright and happy. Ray’s heart sinks. He knew it would come to this, but now that they’re here, he finds he’s not ready to let go.

Michael will go far, and Ray will remain behind. Invisible, like always. Alone again.

He’s happy for Michael, he tells himself. He is.

He’ll get used to it.

“I thought we were gonna check out the parking garage on 9th street,” Ray protests, though it’s quiet, more of a grumble than anything. Michael rolls his eyes.

“It’s not like we’re gonna spent all fucking day down there.” Michael musters Ray with a long, intense look Ray can’t quite meet, focussing instead on his game. “You can come with, you know. We don’t have to tell him all about your ‘secret sniper identity’ or shit.”

“And intrude on your special ‘boi’ time?” Ray drawls, rolling his eyes in turn. “Yeah, no thanks.”

Michael’s eyes narrow and after a long, tense moment, he points an accusatory finger at Ray. “Wait. Wait. Are you… jealous!?”

Ray gapes at him and sputters, “Wha- jeal- me? What? No!” Then he clears his throat and tries to compose himself, heart thundering away in his chest. He puts as much nonchalance as he’s able to into his next words (which is none). “Why would I be jealous?”

"Because I've been spending a lot of fucking time with Gavin, apparently!" Michael exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. But Ray's brain gets stuck on one specific word in that sentence.

"Fucking?" he presses out through a tightening throat, and hopes the dry delivery makes it sound more sarcastic than desperate.

"Fuck, no." Michael’s nose scrunches up in distaste, and Ray is swamped with relief. “What the fuck, Ray. Why would you think that?”

“S’not like you’ve been around much,” Ray mutters, crossing his arms. “How the fuck should I know.”

Michael sits down next to him, staring at Ray without replying. Ray ducks his head, fiddling with the controller in his lap. Maybe it’s for the best if Michael assumes Ray’s best-friend-jealous. That way, Ray can continue to pine for him from a safe distance.

“So do you want to grab some burgers or something?” Michael asks, breaking the stretching silence. Ray’s head snaps up.

“What, now?”

Michael shrugs. “You got anything better to do?”

Ray bites his lip, glancing back at his game, before saving and quitting. “Guess not.”

***

Ray’s halfway through his Up-n-Atom burger which Michael insisted paying for when he freezes, staring at Michael with wide eyes. Michael, whose foot has been nudging against his while he gesticulated wildly, regaling Ray with his latest adventure.

“Wait,” Ray says, and Michael pauses mid-sentence. “Wait. Is this a date?”

Soulmates are something of a scientific oddity. Many have tried to explain the metaphorical connection between two or more people, to quantify and qualify what makes someone a soulmate and why. There’s a lot of theories, and Ryan has read quite a few of them. The one thing they can all agree on is the undeniable fact that soulmates exist, and that there’s an easy way to test for it. Because, you see, any mark, any colour, any bruise will show up on your soulmate’s skin. Paint fades quickest - bruises linger.

Ryan’s soulmate has a bad habit of getting black eyes.

As such, the mask is very literally that, a mask. A mercenary that seems to be perpetually beat up, bearing lingering, visible bruises - employers tend to underestimate such a person, and more importantly, underpay. Before long, Ryan had to find a solution, since his soulmate didn’t seem inclined to let up on the regular discoloration. Under the dark mask, aided with dark paint around the eyes, no one could see the bruises. With time it build into his mythos, the untouchable Vagabond, harbinger of death.

“Please, join us,” the woman says, voice a pleasant lilt. Like silk hiding the steel of a dagger. “The fight appears almost over.”

In front of the couch is a long panorama window, separating the owners of the establishment from the raving, noisy crowd gathered for the spectacle. Inside the ring three combatants face off against each other. One hulking, bulked up man hits a short one straight across the face, snapping his head around. The third man quickly darts in, kicking the short man in the stomach, forcing him to keel over. What follows is a brutal beating as the two taller men team up against the shorter combatant, lying curled up on the mat.

Ryan averts his eyes, sickened by the display.

“He tried to betray us,” the man on the couch speaks up, voice a weird mix of nasal and gravelly. “Tried to run and tattle.”

The bulked up man picks the short one up from the floor, holds him up over his head, before flinging him out of the ring. The crowd roars loud enough to cause the window to vibrate. The woman crosses her hands over her knee.

“Just a reminder,” she says lightly, and his employer flinches visibly. “We don’t suffer fools lightly here.”

His employer glances nervously at the window and swallows. “I can see that,” he replies tightly.

The woman cocks her head, like an eagle eyeing its prey. “Do you,” she says dryly. She waves to one of her guards. “Bring Dooley up here. I think introductions are in order.”

The guard salutes her, “Yes, Ma’am,” and leaves quickly.

She turns to glance at the guards his employer brought with him, her gaze catching on Ryan.

“Well, now,” she purrs, standing up swiftly. She glides around the couch, nails trailing over his employer’s shoulders. “I see you brought a new face.”

His employer’s eyes flick between him and the woman. He licks his lips nervously. “Call it insurance. To ensure negotiations stay fair.”

“Negotiations?” the man on the couch says silkily. “Why, I dare say we have quite different expectations of where this is going.”

The woman watches Ryan, a small, secretive grin curling around her mouth.

His employer stands up slowly, hand dropping to his gun. “What are you-”

A shot, and his employer crumbles to the ground. Her grin widens.

“Like I said,” she purrs, taking a step back and turning to address his fellow mercenaries. “I don’t suffer fools lightly.”

There’s a shout as his fellow guards go for their guns, but the man on the couch and his guard are quicker to point theirs at them. Ryan stays perfectly still. The woman watches him intently.

“The infamous Vagabond,” she murmurs, dropping her gun. “Why, I didn’t expect to have the pleasure all so soon. Please,” she adds facetiously in an aside to the others, “do stop being stupid and drop your weapons.”

The bodyguards glance between themselves before lowering their guns. As if on cue, the door opens. Two men drag the bloodied fighter in and throw him in the middle of the room, before leaving and shutting the door behind them. Ryan watches from the corner of his eyes. They’ll be guarding the hallway, he assumes.

The woman steps forward, digging her heel into the wrist of the fighter. He cries out in pain, hoarse and pitiful. His colourful costume is ripped in pieces, flimsy gold and purple cloth shredded during the beating. Only the orange and purple helmet on his head appears intact. Small wonders.

“Perhaps we could come to an arrangement,” the woman continues as if she wasn’t interrupted in the first place. “Loyalty is easily bought, these days. But skills of your calibre - now those are hard to find.”

She steps past the downed fighter, poking at his leg with the toe of her shoe. An angry ring of red forms on his skin where she dug her heel in.

“We have work for the likes of you, Vagabond,” she states, sneering down at the beaten up man in disgust. “If you are interested, that is.”

Ryan nods cautiously. He isn’t stupid - his odds here aren’t great. His employer’s dead, he’s no longer getting paid for this. He’s at the pair’s mercy now. Showing off a traitor is a powerplay, proving there’s consequences of going against the leaders. At the same time it doesn’t feel like a place he wants to work at. He just knows better than to make that opinion known while in the belly of the beast. A glance at his fellow mercenaries shows them properly cowed by the theatrics.

“You two,” the man on the couch speaks up. He flicks his cigarette carelessly, the ashes falling onto the cushions. “Downstairs. I want you in the ring in the next hour.” He smirks. “Loser gets to live.”

The goons tense, exchanging startled looks. But when the ring leaders’ guard beckons them they follow him out of the door. Like sheep off to the slaughter.

The man on the floor whimpers. The woman scoffs in disgust.

“I’m sure we have much to discuss, Vagabond.” She kicks the downed man in the guts, rolling him over forcefully. “But perhaps in a different setting. I’ll have someone take the trash out-”

“I can do that,” Ryan offers impulsively. The woman glances up, surprise the first emotion showing through the cracks of the carefully crafted facade. She eyes him uncertainly, glancing back at the man on the couch, before turning to him again. Ryan stays still, muscles loose and ready to fight. This is his chance to get out of here before they trap him in a contract. Finally, the woman nods sharply.

“Fine. Take out the trash first. We can go through the minutiae of the agreement after he’s dead.”

Ryan waits until she steps back from the body, before kneeling down and hefting him over his shoulder. The guy is surprisingly heavy, and Ryan grunts as he carries him out and down the hallway under watchful eyes. One of the guards littering the building points him towards the back entrance, and they come out in a little alley. Ryan looks left and right, but no one’s out here. He lifts his hand as if to wipe the sweat off his brow, before remembering the mask.

There’s a red mark on his wrist, between the sleeve of his jacket and his leather glove. It’s round, like a penny maybe, and for a wild second he wonders if his soulmate is adding burn marks to their repertoire.

He doesn’t have much time to contemplate it, though, because the moment he starts walking deeper into the alleys, the man over his shoulder starts struggling. An elbow hits Ryan hard in the temple, a knee digs into his side, and Ryan has to twist out from under the fighter and drop him to the floor. The man lands with a grunt, just laying in the dirt for a moment, dazed.

His hand lies palm up, and there on the side of his wrist, the red mark from the woman’s heel.

Ryan stares. Then he glances down at his own wrist. Back to the stranger’s. Back to his own.

There’s no way, he thinks wildly.

But there’s an easy way to prove that. The man stares up at him, eyes flickering across the alleyway, calculating. Ryan pulls off the glove on the unmarked hand and pushes a finger under his mask. Gathering some of the black paint from around his eyes is easy. He pulls his finger back and smears it next to the angry red mark.

A streak of black appears on the stranger’s wrist and starts slowly fading to dark grey almost immediately.

“Fuck me,” the man groans, letting his head drop back to the gravel. Ryan eyes him critically. Then his gaze flicks back to the building they just left.

“We need to keep going,” he mutters, kneeling down next to the man who flinches. Ryan holds out his hand. “Can you walk?”

“Dunno,” the guy mumbles. He reaches out, fingers tracing carefully over the red mark on Ryan’s wrist. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Ryan replies dryly. He wraps his arm around the man’s shoulder and pulls him up, holding him steady as he swayed. “Once we’re out of here, we need to have a talk about your abysmal habit of getting beat up.”

“Not really my choice,” his soulmate - his soulmate - grunts, leaning into Ryan’s side. He gingerly takes a step forward. “Could we start with names? That seems easier.”

“Sure,” Ryan chuckles. Together they make their way down the alley. With each step, his soulmate seems to regain confidence in his balance, leaning on him less. “I’m Ryan.”

“Jeremy,” the other introduces himself.

“Jeremy,” Ryan repeats slowly. He props his soulmate up against the wall, before peeking around the corner. All clear. “Let’s get you out of here and then you can tell me what the hell is up with that garish costume.”

“Hey!” Jeremy protests, but follows along gamely. “I happen to like purple!”

“Alright,” Ryan says agreeably. There’s an old car down the street they might be able to jack. “Doesn’t explain the orange though.”

“Okay, first of all, screw you,” Jeremy mutters, pointing a finger at him. “And second of all-”

By the end of the day, Ryan’s pretty sure his soulmate got hit in the head a couple times too often, but it’s eclipsed by the giddy feeling of knowing. Jeremy is funny and stubborn, and once he gets him out of the awful fighting costume, he doesn’t look half bad.

Maybe it’s not how it happens in the movies, but this is Ryan’s life. And Jeremy slots in perfectly.

Ryan blinks at it a bit in surprise, taking it from him and looking it over. “Holy shit. This has to be worth some good amount. Where did you get this?”

“Found it,” Michael just shrugs, taking it back.

Ryan narrows his eyes. “Michael,” he says, firmer. “Where is this from? I told you that you shouldn’t steal these things from people. They’ll look for it.”

“I don’t see what the fucking problem is,” Michael huffs. “We can use the money! And the person isn’t going to be missing it.”

Ryan’s face falls at that, eyes wide at Michael. “Did you fucking kill someone? Michael, you shouldn’t… Please tell me you didn’t-“

“No, the body was dead already,” Michael glares back.

Ryan lets out a sigh of relief. But it’s brief. “Thank god. But you shouldn’t have taken this, its evidence that can fall on us.”

“But it’s good money! Money we can use! And I don’t see what the big deal is. You think I don’t know what you get up to during the day? How you’re making that money you have?”

Ryan stiffens. “What I do doesn’t matter. I’m trying to help us. Keep that watch hidden, we’ll need to wait a long while before we can pawn it.”

“Fine,” he pouts. “I also got some cash from the wallet. Took the guy’s gloves and then touched everything,” he says, digging the money out to show it. It isn’t much, or at least wouldn’t seem like much to anyone else, but the two twenties and several ones added up to a lot for them.

Ryan brightens, smiling at it. “Good work. But you’re going to tell me more about this fucking dead body you came across. And you’re going to be more careful, ok?”

Michael rolls his eyes. “I am fucking careful, Rye. I’m not a little kid. I’ve been on the streets at least as long as you.”

Ryan smirks a little, reaching up to ruffle his messy hair. “I know. But it doesn’t hurt to have me remind you against doing idiotic things like looting to a dead body you don’t know anything about. You don’t want to get involved in anything going on there.”

“Like you do?” Michael grumbles as he pushes past him to slip into their makeshift shelter.

Ryan follows after him, frowning. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, yeah. So you say,” Michael waves a hand as he flops down. “You’re making money for us, protecting me, and whatever other bullshit you’ve given me. I just want to know when you’ll fucking start letting me help you. I’m strong, quick. I don’t need protecting.”

“Not now,” Ryan says as he sits down besides him. “Just… Not now. Ok? Let me handle the worst of it.”

Michael doesn’t look pleased with that, he never does, but he leans over, resting against Ryan. Ryan sighs, wrapping an arm around him. Pulling him close.

They aren’t a likely pair that formed in this hell. A loud, brash kid (still a kid, no matter how much he insists he isn’t) and a quiet yet terrifying older teen just trying to keep them both alive. Hopefully get them both somewhere better, safer in life. Ryan leans over, pressing a kiss to Michael’s temple.

“Just a little bit longer,” he promises, not for the first time. “We’re saving up a good amount. A little longer. Than I’ll find us proper shelter. With a shower. Maybe a microwave,” he smiles, nudging him.

It pulls a small smile back out of Michael, always a brilliant sight. “Can’t believe I’m so excited about a god damn microwave. And running water.”

Ryan chuckles. “One day. Soon. I promise.”

There was a breeze blowing in off the open sea and giving respite to the citizens of Los Santos who had been beginning to grow tired of the sticky, blood scented air lingering from the last gang war. It wasn't that the people of Los Santos were unfamiliar with the vicious, dog-eat-dog world of gang politics, hell most of them were deeply invested in it in some form or another, but it was nice to wash away the warfare for a day or two.

Matt was certainly enjoying the change. The massacre had been very useful for him it was true, but the blood and guts weren’t really his style. He was happier to leave the majority of the violence to Jeremy and lock himself away in the spare room, fingers stained and burned from chemicals and soldering irons, just tinkering with the latest batch of weaponry he was creating.

“Best in the business.”

 Jeremy had smirked from the doorway as Matt had cursed and thrown his hands up in frustration one too many times. Matt had sent him a scowl, told him to fuck off and buy him junk food and gone back to work.

That had been three weeks ago. A batch of discreet, but powerful bombs wanted by Bleach's crew, Matt didn't know what for and didn't ask, but they were paying a lot of money so he got on with the job. Turned out it had been wiping out their rival crew, a plan which, as evidenced by the bodies in Los Santos mortuary, had worked out very well for them. Matt had made the bombs to order, Jeremy had overseen the deal and they were settled, a big wad of cash and the rival crew who had seen first-hand what a mean batch of explosives could do and would come around asking questions.

That might be looking too far ahead, this had been one of their first cut and run deals with a crew. Before now their business was predominantly as tech, two freelancers who were a quick hire for anyone looking for data or security information. Even on those jobs Jeremy was the front man, the talker who over saw the transactions and made the heists run smoothly, often accompanying the crews to ensure things went to plan. Matt was happy to stay home, happy to do his job behind closed doors, venturing to the shops only for snacks.

The sun was setting, orange and gold beams glinting off the shop windows and resting, heavy like a blanket, on the hot pavement. In the distance the purple haze of night time lurked, casting shadows down the street when cars passed by. Matt was walking slowly, breathing the fresher air and longingly staring into the shop windows as he headed to the store to buy the milk Jeremy had repeatedly begged him to pick up over text. It was in the reflection of a scuzzy tattoo parlor with a bored, blonde, tattoo artist staring out, that he saw the hand coming towards him. He felt fingers wind into his hair and slam him into the wall, the impact pushing a gasp from his lips.

The tattoo artist blew a bubble with her gum and pretended not to see.

 The fist in his hair pulled sharply backwards and slammed his head into the wall again and he felt a trickle of blood run down from somewhere above his eyebrow and he fell to the ground with a dull thud.

Behind his attacker the locals looked at the ground and kept walking.

“Cocky little prick your partner is… you know that?”

A voice hissed above him, and Matt could dimly hear laughter from behind the solid mass of the man who had grabbed him.

“You’ll let him know it was from us, Bleach wasn’t very happy with his attitude, you’ll tell him that won’t you…”

Matt swallowed and screwed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and he endured.

-----

The taste of blood wasn’t one that he was unfamiliar with, he’d been in this business long enough to get into a few fights. He, however, hadn’t been in this business long enough to get used to the feeling of lying on the cooling pavement, the grimy neon of the tattoo parlor’s sign licking over his face as he struggled to pull air into his lungs.

“Come on now, Darlin’… There you go, up you get”

A leopard print high heel swam into view as he was pulled to his feet by surprisingly strong arms. He could hear the pop of the bubble gum as she led him along the street.

“You arn’t far from home now, Darlin’, get on home now”

Her hands left his shoulders and he staggered forward a little, continuing along in the direction she guided him and after a pause he heard the click of her heels as she turned to head back to her parlor.

The journey home was slow, trickles of blood set on his face, sticky and warm against the ever cooling air. The smell of cheap liquor and stale smoke invaded his lungs, even in the gentle wind and Matt retched against a dry throat, spitting bits of tarmac and blood onto the pavement. His shoulder was hanging at an odd angle, a constant throb of pain overshadowing the pained stiffness of his bruises. The stairwell to his apartment was dark and he stumbled, catching his grazed hands on concrete and moving on quickly before nice Miss Clarke from the first floor could come out and investigate the noise.

A jammed key, a pained grunt and some more chipped paint settling into the carpet and he was in the dimly lit apartment.

Silence hung in the air, then a soft sigh, heavy limping and the infernal squeaking of the bathroom door.

A faint sob carried through the almost empty flat.

 -----

Jeremy had seen the pin pricks of red on the stairs leading up to their apartment, provoking him to move quicker, taking the stairs two at a time. His phone was clenched in his hand, knuckles white from the strain, Matt’s text burning into his hand like a brand. The thought of Matt being injured sat like a weight in his lungs, his throat, in the heaviness of his clenched fists. He could feel the anger at the back of his head, a surge of electricity setting his nerves on fire, momentarily clouded by the concern that was washing over him like waves on the pearly white Los Santos beaches. The door to the apartment hadn’t quite been closed from when Matt had entered and the lock turned surprisingly easily as he jammed the key in, a bitter reminder that he should fix that.

It was basically silent in the apartment as he entered, only the low thrum of the generator outside the kitchen window. He opened his mouth to call Matt’s name, but the words got choked down by the tightness of his throat and he settled for walking towards the crack of light seeping out from the partially open bathroom door.

The door caught on Matt’s bunched up shirt as Jeremy pushed it open and the man himself stood over the sink, one hand gripping the the porcelain with a force that had to be painful, the other cradled against his body. A sickly yellow street lamp flickered outside, casting pallid beams of light over the beads of sweat tracking over the darkened craters of bruises of Matt’s back.  Jeremy let out the first noise, a short, pained gasp and Matt looked up, long hair framing a pale face. Their eyes met and Jeremy felt his mouth fall open and his hands reached out towards the man. The weights in his throat and lungs remained, joined by a heavy, shifting blanket of sadness.

“Are you… Are you ok?”

Jeremy’s voice cracked as he spoke and the second after the words left his lips were filled with a loaded silence as the two men held eye contact through the mirror. Their laughter, dark and grating but perhaps buoyed by the absurd awfulness of the situation, broke the silence.

“Sorry… That wasn’t exactly a reasonable question.”

He stepped fully into the room as he spoke, letting the door swing shut behind him and standing behind Matt. He reached past Matt’s still, waiting body and pulled the plug from the sink, watching the swirls of bloodied water race down the pipes.

“Let me look, your shoulder looks painful, you can’t do it yourself.”

Matt gave a terse nod in response and settled himself uncomfortably on the edge of the bath, watching as Jeremy returned the plug and wrenched the hot water tap on, steam pooling up into the room between them.  The steam turned to condensation on his cold hands and the tiny droplets of water dripped down Matt’s chest as Jeremy delicately ran his fingers over the swollen, purple lump of his shoulder. Breathing a small sigh of relief, one that seemed almost a mockery given the state of the rest of Matt, he proclaimed

“It’s not dislocated, just a bit fucked, I’ll get you ice for it in a…”

His words were cut off by the low, thrum of Matt’s voice, a certain tone that Jeremy knew meant he was restraining himself, forcing his voice to stay steady.

“Bleach isn’t your biggest fan, you know that?”

Matt swallowed and tilted his head, lower lip trembling ever so slightly.

“They told me to tell you, Bleach doesn’t like your attitude. I wasn’t going to mention it. But I don’t want you getting… getting hurt too.”

The realization that he was the cause of the pain Matt was going through wasn’t exactly shocking, Jeremy would have been blaming himself if Matt gave himself a paper cut opening their mail, which thinking about it, he often did. So it wasn’t that guilt and Matt were unfamiliar feelings for Jeremy to link, but this was particularly uncomfortable. This was a step above the other times Matt had been hurt. This was a message.

He felt a pressure behind his eyes, down the bridge of his nose, across the base of his skull and  he screwed his tired eyes shut, feeling the burn from where he hadn’t blinked and the beading of tears in the corners of his eyes.  Words didn’t come out, not the ones he wanted to say anyway – im sorry, im so sorry, I love you, It will never happen again, please don’t’ leave me, I’ll protect you’

“I’m sorry. I… Stand up, I’ll… Shit”

His cursed loudly and spun quickly to turn the tap in the sink off before it overflowed. Matt smiled weakly at him and Jeremy was pretty sure his returning look was closer to a grimace than the warm smile he had been attempting.

“I’m going to kill them.”

Jeremy promised and ran a hot, damp washcloth over the grazes on Matt’s hands, trying not to feel the winces than ran like sparks under the delicate skin he held so tenderly.

Outside the street light finally flickered out as the sun left its last beams peering over the horizon.

By the time he’d finished cleaning his hands and the cut on his face, the night had truly settled and Matt, close enough that Jeremy could feel his breath on his cheek, was cloaked in darkness. His eyes had closed as Jeremy had methodically worked, rinsing the blood away and placing gauze over the torn skin. His lips were parted slightly and Jeremy could faintly see the dark stain of blood in his beard and the swelling of his lower lip. All of his thoughts of turning the bathroom light on vanished as Matt licked his lips and Jeremy felt his heart jolt. Maybe the dark was better.

Gingerly he reached forward and took Matt’s face in his hand, cradling his cheek with his palm and tilting his face upwards. The touch of warm water and the soft pressure of the now bloodied cloth to his lip and Matt’s eyes shot open and he grimaced before his eyes fluttered closed again. Jeremy swallowed hard and let out a long breath, murmured apologies flowing from his lips like a desperate prayer.

“Sorry, sorry. So sorry. Almost over. Its ok.. I L…Sorry”

From under his hands Matt smiled slightly and let out a soft, shaky breath that Jeremy forced himself to try and ignore.

He finished the job quickly after that, throwing the cloth back into the sink and pulling the cord for the light more vigorously than was entirely needed. Spinning on his heel he faced the sink again, lips pressed tightly together, hands shaking slightly as he rinsed the sink clear of blood which had gone from flecks of obsidian black in the dark to garnet in the harsh artificial whiteness of the grubby bulb.

Matt looked more frail in this light, the fraction of the glimpse he had saw as he sharply turned showed a very different man to the one he had tended a moment ago. The light had revealed in harsh detail the swelling of his shoulder, the marks of footprints on his stomach, the flecks of blood in his hair that Jeremy had missed when trying to clean his head wound. He could count the shades of blue and purple and yellow and every shade in between against Matt’s pale skin.

He could still feel the anger, solid and tangible in his fists, in the set of his shoulders, but sharp and piercing behind his eyes and on the tip of his tongue. He was going to murder them.

Matt’s hand on his wrist brought him back to reality and looked over to see Matt struggling to his feet.

“Sorry, I’m a bit stiff, I need to lie down…”

There was a long pause then quietly Matt, eyes focused on the ground, spoke again

“Thank you, Jeremy…”

His throat closed and the hands which had reached to steady Matt flailed in the air for a moment and he felt his face fall. God, how could Matt be thanking him, thanking him for cleaning the wounds that Jeremy had all but given him?

He didn’t reply, just pulled the man closer to him that was entirely necessary and hoped he understood.

His arms remained encircling Matt as they left the bathroom, fingers light as a feather on his hips, his stomach, his shoulder, not wanting to press pain into his friends skin. He knew Matt could walk but he left his hands on the man’s arm and lower back, a gentle urge towards his bedroom. They entered silently, Jeremy holding a hand to ease Matt into sitting, then lying on his bed, watching for a moment as Matt’s eyes flickered shut in pain and his breath hitched. His hands formed fists again, the sparks in the back of his head shot down to his fingertips. He was going to kill them all.

“Come on man, sit down for a minute, you look like you’re gonna keel over and die”

Matt’s voice was slightly strained but the panic that had ignited the ferociousness in Jeremy had faded into a weariness.

He considered turning around and walking away, telling Matt he’d lie down in his own room and getting the fuck out of there, going to a bar and drinking until the image of Matt crumpled on the floor was burned away. Drinking until the rage and the fear and the… the something that Jeremy couldn’t, or wouldn’t, consider, calmed down to a more... appropriate level.

But he didn’t do that. He walked around the bed, kicked his shoes and socks off, and lay down next to Matt. After a few moments of their quiet, peaceable breathing, Matt rolled onto his side to look at Jeremy, his eyes burning into Jeremy’s skull until the other man rolled over to look at him as well.

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“Beating yourself up about this, that’s what they want you to do, Jeremy. They fucking told me that. I’m not dead, feel like it, but I’m not, though I would make a wonderful corpse”

Jeremy snorted

“God, you’re even more macabre when you’re beat up”

Matt didn’t reply, he just grinned, stretching the tight skin of his split lip almost to breaking point. Jeremy could see the well of blood behind the thin, chapped skin. He forced himself to look up at Matt’s shadowed eyes.

“We kill people Jeremy, macabre is our thing.”

He felt himself laughing, loud and genuine laughter and Matt chuckled and out of the corner of his eye he saw Matt’s hand raise from his side towards Jeremy’s face. It happened in seconds which seemed to take an age and a heartbeat and Matt was holding the side of his face, palm pressed against his cheek, a dark parody of the cradle Jeremy had held him in.

Then he was leaning forwards and Jeremy felt the lead that had weighed down his lungs and crept through his veins melt away. He felt a rush of air down his throat, breaking the iron constraints that had settled on his ribs, and he felt a giddiness he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Then Matt’s lips touched his.

There was a loss of contact, for a moment, then another shivering breath of a kiss and Jeremy lost control. He moved forwards, tilting his face into Matt’s hand like a flower turning for the sun, the contact burning at his face like Matt had fire in his veins. He pressed the kiss deeper, a half moan, half sob echoing slightly in the room and Jeremy tried in vain believe Matt hadn’t heard him.

The metallic taste of blood stopped them, well, stopped Jeremy. He had shifted onto an elbow, propped above Matt, one hand wound into that infernally long hair that Matt refused to cut. Jeremy was secretly glad for it now, the smooth, simple texture gave him a grounding.

“Shit, your lip, I’m sorry, oh god…”

Jeremy, never normally one to ramble, found his mouth working without his still hazed brain’s consent and he struggled away.

Matt laughed at him, shook his head slightly and kept his hand cupped around the back of Jeremy’s neck, a light, but insistent grip that kept him in place.

“Lie the fuck down you idiot.”

A moment’s pause. Jeremy blinked, licked his lips clean of the smear of blood. Then he settled, body curved against Matt’s, an arm delicately laid across his bare waist.