#super sin squad

With a cold, wet fingernail, Jian zeroed in on a ridge in the glass, obsessively rubbing at it with small, quick movements, staring at nothing as he tried to suffocate the most reasonable-sounding voice in his head so far.

He wasn't some out of control maniac. He was perfectly capable of having just one drink with his friends. And it wouldn't kill him. It literally wouldn't even harm him. It wasn't the deadly poison he was trying to convince himself it was.

"—Jian. Hey. Jian." Chela poked his left bicep, almost-gently prodding him from his trance. She kept her voice graciously low-key, but damn, the girl jabbed him hard enough to bruise. "You good? What's goin' on up there?"

"Ow. Bitch," Jian spat with no venom, rubbing his arm with an icy hand. He'd fallen out of loop with the table conversation, Wes and Trish recounting a college tale with players he'd never heard of. He must have zoned out for a minute. "I'm fine, there's nothing—" he vaguely gestured to his skull, "—uh, nothing going on up there."

"You sure?"

"For sure." Neither of them were fooled for a second. Chela squeezed his hand beneath the table.

"Okay. But if you do need anything—" Chela raised her eyebrows and let the offer hang in the air before patting his thigh and turning back to the conversation. Jian felt a bit lighter, almost forgetting what had been bringing him down in the first place, until his gaze landed again on the little laminated cocktail menu at the center of the table.

Hm. Right.

He wasn't usually like this. He could do restaurants, he could even do bars, it was no big deal. He found it remarkably easy to be around drunk people without feeling the pull.

But this time he felt cornered, like something was prodding at him, nudging between his shoulder blades, making him fidgety and anxious, making his palms sweat and his heart race.

"Hey, um, actually," Jian caught Chela's attention, much more gently than she'd gotten his. She didn't look surprised to turn back around so soon. "I'm gonna go outside for a sec."

"Want me to come with?"

"Could you?"

Chela nodded, and they excused themselves from the table with next to no fuss, waving off mildly concerned comments. Jian let go of a tense breath when his, "It's fine, I'll be back," really was all it took to pacify the group that was never going to be hostile to him in the first place. It was still a trip getting used to being trusted with his own head.

Wading through the modest weekend crowd toward the exit, the repetitive chorus of Rihanna's "We Found Love" danced over the muddy noise of several tables' overlapping conversations, stronger and fainter and stronger again as Jian and Chela passed between speakers on their way out. Jian couldn't sift through the rushing noise of his own brain enough to pin down what he was actually feeling, but he could tell that song was at the center of it.

The music still carried on the cool wind when they opened the door, even more speakers piping the restaurant radio onto the empty patio for any customers who may have been waiting outside. The failed escape from the noise lit a spark of nervousness and irritation in Jian's chest, but at least out here he could remind himself to breathe, and there would be no one watching him while he made the effort.

The darkening sky was clear and the air was still and warm. Jian sat at a black iron bench and Chela joined him, leaning back and crossing her legs at the ankles.

"So, whatchya got?" Chela asked. Ever impatient, even in her most helpful moods. Jian leaned forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, and tried not to snap at her for it.

"Gimme a minute." Getting his voice to land on a neutral tone was an accomplishment. His throat strained with the effort.

"Do what you gotta do, my dude."

What he had to do, apparently, was turn off his brain and let the song play out. He spent the final forty seconds of it with his eyes shut against his palms. Beside him, Chela's restless energy was growing with every passing moment, though her charmingly dykeish chivalry kept her from pushing.

"I haven't heard that song in ages," Jian said when it finally faded out and the restaurant's 2000s pop mix rolled onward, "Paparazzi" by Lady Gaga up next. "They used to play that one a lot when I was on the scene, you remember that?" He wiped his hands down his face, forgetting the smear of glitter he'd applied for their night out, until he saw some of it on his palms. "Shit."

Chela laughed, then checked his cheeks and waved him off. "Still looks good, babe. You wanna talk? Is it sober stuff?"

"Yeah. God, this shit is embarrassing."

"Jian. I literally caught your leg when it fell off the ride at Six Flags."

"That was funny-cute embarrassing. This is sad embarrassing."

"We both know I've been around for plenty of that, too," she said, the humor dropping from her voice for a moment, like his leg had done from that damn ride. "And I love you anyway, remember? So, come on. Spill." Her voice skipped easily back towards levity, a cheesy TV detective creeping into her tone.

She never really meant to do that. Normally Jian would laugh with her about it, but tonight he just sighed, rubbing sweat and glitter onto his jeans. Even just that familiar duo of substances was making more bright flickers of vague, unwanted memories pop into his head like flashbulbs. Papa-paparazzi.

He remembered the grit of it, glitter scraping his skin raw as he melted into the heat and violence of the crowds, like he could dissolve away into the strobe lights. He could still feel the sugary grime clinging to his fingers, after all these years.

He remembered loving it. He remembered the ease of it, of genuinely not giving a shit about where any given night took him. He remembered the catch and release.

"They sat us right by the fucking bar," Jian said, his voice rising to a frustrated growl, the hot steam that had been covertly building in his chest since the beginning of the night finally finding a crack to hiss out of. He immediately tried to smother it again, pressing duct tape over the tiny break in his composure. He forced a deeper breath. When he spoke again, his tone was quiet but bitchy. "Plus, Wes and his endless supply of stories from fucking college. What am I supposed to do with that? He was taking Psych 101 while I was, you know, being the fucked up case study."

"Pssht, leave him alone. It's not about Wes. You like Wes."

"I don't. He's an—"

"You li-ike Wes." Chela drew it out this time, nudging Jian's shoulder and giving him a wink. "You want to be his fucked up little case study."

Jian rolled his eyes, then shot her a glare. "That's, like, actually not funny, Chela," he said, scowling to her playful smirk. "Swear to god, one of these days he's going to piss me off at a bad time and I'm going to punch him in the mouth."

"Yeah, okay, whatever," Chela said breezily. "So, you're being a cunt because Applebee's is pelting you with teen angst from all sides. That's rough. Wanna go somewhere else? You know we'd be down to find another spot if you asked."

Jian took a breath. Fine, maybe he was being a cunt, but Wes' unrelenting goodness and sunshine still made his fucking ears ring.

That wire of delicately suppressed bitchiness was still strung tight in Jian's chest, but he was trying to gently loosen it to something more suited to a casual night out with his new friends. It was hard enough to arrange a night where they were all free to meet up. He didn't want to spend it rotting beneath the cold, queasy shadow that followed him whenever his mind wandered more than a couple years backwards.

His body knew exactly what it was. His mind just didn't want to admit it, even to himself, so he was left with nothing but those painful echoes. If stuffing up that blind spot with drugs and alcohol wasn't an option anymore, he'd still rather redirect all that rage and heartbreak to the nearest innocent target than actually try to uncover it himself.

He remembered loving it. He remembered the freedom that came with disavowing fear.

He never had to face it before.

Chela squeezed Jian's arm when the silence became unbearable for her. When Jian looked up, he realized that tears had begun budding in his eyes. He hadn't even felt it happening.

"Babe, you know that, right?" Chela asked, still holding Jian's arm. He didn't mind the anchor. "No one's gonna be upset if you wanna go somewhere else. Honestly, Jian. We all support you."

"No, no, I know. It's okay. It's, um . . ." Jian swallowed. He felt like he was on the edge of a horrible betrayal, even just admitting how little progress he'd actually made in digging himself out of this particular hole. He couldn't even fucking face it. "I just needed a little break from things— the music, the bar, fucking Wes." He caught himself, a bit too late, and leaned back with an aggravated sigh. "Sorry, I'm being a cunt again."

"Yeah. Yeah, you are," Chela said, laughing at him. "But that's, like, okay, you know?" Her relative levity worked loose some of the painful hooks dragging Jian downward, and he took a couple more slow breaths of cool evening air.

He didn't have to face anything right now. He just wanted to have a night out with his new friends.

Something in him was still so resistant to even meeting new people that the constant struggle of reminding himself that he might actually be safe around this little group was exhausting him. He was out of practice, as far as trust went.

But these people were different than what he knew. This was nothing like North Carolina, nothing like the streets, nothing like the suburbs. Not everyone wanted him dead. Not everyone wanted him to suffer.

"I don't want to leave," Jian said into the silence. He didn't know exactly where the conviction was coming from, but it felt right.

"Okay."

"But . . . I don't know, I . . . You know," Jian floundered, shifting his weight on the bench. "I don't want to be a cunt for the rest of the night."

Chela blinked a couple times. "Do you wanna get a drink?" she asked.

"Um. Yeah, I do. That's, like, the problem?" Jian stuttered, successfully stupefied.

"No, I mean, like," Chela said, smacking Jian's thigh and laughing. "You could get that blue shark drink or something. I know you like those. Just get it virgin."

"What did you just call me?"

Chela smacked him again. He was going to end up with bruises by the end of the night if she kept this up.

"Shush, you fucking dweeb."

Jian cracked a smile, and quieted down.

"I know it's not gonna fix everything," Chela continued. "But you can still be part of the fun drinks club without drinking. You're not even the only sober one here today. I'll get one, too. What are you worried about, that we'll think you're lame? We already know you're lame."

"You're really good at pep talks, did you know that?"

"I do my best."

It was . . . an option. He couldn't deny that.

No, it wouldn't fix everything. It might not even work, might make him feel worse. But trying was probably better than sulking out here and getting picked on by mosquitoes while the rest of the group was happily chattering inside.

As Jian considered what havoc a Shirley Temple would unleash in his stomach, he noticed the sick weight inside of him had actually lifted some. It wasn't a lot, but it was something. It was an option.

It wasn't what his body was accustomed to demanding. He'd still feel the pain of that denial.

"I . . . I can't promise that I won't still be, like, kind of a bitch. When we go back in. I'll try, but . . . You know."

"Jian," Chela laughed, and more of the weight slipped away. "I'd only be worried if you ever stopped being a total bitch."

————

The sound of chattering diners bathed them in a different, busier kind of warmth than the stillness of early summer outside. Serenading their slightly awkward trek back to the table was "Super Bass" by Nicki Minaj. All of it together, the noise and busy energy of this place, sent Jian's skin tingling in a milder version of that existence-numbing buzz he'd spent his life seeking years ago. In his modern era, the tactile reminder made him feel more uneasy and pissy than untethered and free.

But he had options now.

"Please?"

It came out as a squeak, congested and exhausted, and was completely ignored as Garcia leaned down between Jian's shoulder blades again. The desperate breath that Jian had managed to suck in was pressed right back out before it could even reach his lungs, and that claustrophobic terror swept through his mind again, like a fire eating up fabric drapes.

All of Jian's muscles went frantically rigid. He tried with everything he had to get himself up off the floor, but he couldn't even move his arms enough to lay his palms flat. From just above him, Jian heard a quiet hitch in Garcia's breathing as his pathetic little instinctual struggle gave Garcia something tight to push through, but he still couldn’t stop himself from giving in to the panic and pointlessly trying to wrestle his life out of Garcia's hands.

It was too late. Jian was already slipping away again, his thoughts going dark and his hands going numb. Garcia relished in it, slowing his pace and deepening the roll of his hips as Jian's body went lax again and his head radiated heat from somewhere deep inside his skull, burning wobbling mirages into the air.

"Good boy," Garcia purred from somewhere near the back of Jian's head. "Like that."

There wasn't anything else he could do. As he finally passed out, Jian felt Garcia's hips rutting flush up against him with no resistance at all, as deep inside him as he could possibly go, and Jian knew the fucking perfectly trained puppy that had wormed its way into his subconscious had taken the praise with enthusiasm. A dry whimper managed to escape Jian's throat as he felt himself getting hard too, but he saw black again before the shame could hit him in full force.

He was underwater at first, then in the deep shade of a small tree, the smell of its leaves hanging thick in the muggy air. One trembling breath drew the sweet smell in, but when it came out as a heaving cough, Jian couldn't remember where he was.

Before he could find real flowing air again, Garcia's fucking scent refilled Jian's lungs, and he had never been anywhere except beneath this man.

Again.

Jian tried to stay calm through it, but he knew he would always hit that point where his head started screeching and his body stopped taking orders.

Again.

When he had air, it traveled in short huffs that did more to express his desperation than to feed his aching lungs, but it still wasn't good enough. Garcia only listened for a moment and pressed down again, satisfied with the conviction that Jian could survive another round.

Jian spent every conscious moment trapped in a splitting headache spawned by fear and exertion and dehydration. For every round of Garcia's fucking game, he felt more and more drawn to the unconscious instead. But he couldn't quite reach that peak and hold on to it.

This time, Jian could hardly take in his one allotted gasp through a crop of tears. He couldn't even consider faking the strained wheeze and the choked rattling sounds from deep in his chest that they were waiting for. The consequences of Garcia seeing through even one false performance could mean the end of his life right fucking there. All he could do was endure the horror of teasing death, over and over again, until his own lungs gave him an out.

But he'd had a lot of practice.

Again.

A rush of gratitude and relief welled through him when his breath didn't immediately return upon Garcia releasing pressure this time. Jian scrambled for purchase, gagging on an empty gasp, when Garcia took a handful of hair and tugged his head back, but the leverage he achieved with both of his hands finally solidly on the floor wasn't enough to clear his swelling airways. It was almost over, he told himself, but whether the end would come with a few puffs of his inhaler or a trip across the River fucking Styx he couldn’t tell yet. It was almost over, but of course Garcia was going to fucking come first.

The river grew closer, and Jian grew colder in its proximity. A large hand startled him from behind, and Garcia cupped Jian's throat in his palm, tipping his chin upward, gentle but uncompromising.

Jian had barely blinked his eyes open before he felt Garcia quicken his pace, thrusting into him with single-minded drive.

Just as he felt his mind start to sink away into some kind of dark, inescapable dream, Jian managed a choke. Then a cough, and finally a gasp, but it was like he was breathing through perforated plastic wrap.

Both of his knees knocked against the hard floor, every bone and joint echoing with radiant pain from every jolt. But he was breathing.

His breath rattled in his chest and he was barely getting enough to keep going, but he was breathing. Soon he found himself able to gasp in more quick shots of oxygen, and to whimper out wordless, terrified pleas when he wasn't coughing his fucking lungs out.

He couldn't take any more, they both knew it. But Garcia still pushed him just a bit harder, releasing Jian's throat to plant both hands on Jian's hips and force them to ram backwards into him, making Jian's head rattle around on the hard floor while he whimpered in a distant voice.

It was too close this time.

Garcia buried his teeth into Jian's left ear, tugged his head back and settled deep inside of him. Intentional or not, the pain and shock of it acted like a flimsy rip cord to Jian's spasming lungs, forcing one deep gasp through his inflamed airways.

It was still too close. Jian's vision was shadowed by a dark, gray-blue film, rotting at the edges. He didn't feel being pushed flat to the ground, or the inhaler that bounced off his shoulder, but he saw where it landed in front of him. He was almost too far gone to comprehend what was going on, much less to do anything about it. A rattling cough brought tears to his eyes, and the blurry darkness rapidly crawling inward from the edges of his vision sent a lightning bolt of fear into his heart.

He had to try. He had to fucking try or he was going to die.

One arm stretched over a slow, shaky path across the floor, but Jian's strength was too quickly waning, and he collapsed again into a dark sinkhole.

He stayed underground until something hard and plastic was forced into his mouth, and the slightly bitter taste of his rescue inhaler hit him like cool water on his face.

Jian’s thoughts swirled together like a funnel of water down a drain. It was still just as hard to breathe, but to administer the medication Garcia had dragged Jian's body up into a position that was becoming familiar: Jian sitting upright between Garcia's legs, his back pressed to Garcia's chest. In that half embrace, Jian suddenly didn't feel as frantic as he probably still should.

He felt drowsy, which he supposed might've been just as bad. But he had Garcia, who he supposed still wanted him alive, encouraging Jian's shallow, labored gasps for now.

Another puff of the rescue inhaler brought him closer to focus, just a reminder that he wasn't finished fighting this battle. 

"Come on, Jian," Garcia was saying quietly. He raked a hand through Jian's hair, sweeping sweaty curtains from his forehead. It was all very gentle, but not quite tender. Garcia was just as invested in Jian's suffering as he was in his recovery. "Keep breathing, baby."

Sure, Garcia may have been following Jian's struggle to stay alive like he was watching one of his wrestling championships. He probably would've been taking bets if they weren't alone. But at least for the moment, Garcia was soft and still, and his palms spread their settling warmth across Jian's chest and forehead. Of course Jian was going to soak it up while he could.

Of course he was. He’d had more than enough experience to know that you never passed up those rare comforts offered by a sadistic captor.

He did miss the mountains.

He wasn't going to think about that.

It was hard not to. North Carolina had charred every corner of Jian's brain, and there was no escaping that fact, especially not while lost in the whirlpool of violently uprooted thoughts and all their chaotic branches swirling around him.

But he would beat those memories to the frozen fucking ground if he had to. Not now.

He felt his heartbeat pounding wildly beneath the hand Garcia had pressed reassuringly over his chest, one finger lightly passing back and forth between his collarbones. Jian let one of his trembling, numb hands drift to Garcia's thigh and hold on. It felt like surrender, and he hoped it would be received that way, but he never fucking knew with this guy.

Nestling deeper into Garcia's lap and taking another puff of the inhaler which Garcia was still holding for him, Jian finally felt his lungs start to fill up a touch more comfortably. He still had a long way to go, but his harsh gasps had quieted down to thin, choppy wheezes. Compared to the deep, satisfied breaths that played across Jian's left ear from Garcia's contented fucking sighs behind him, Jian sounded like he was on the brink of death, which he might as well have been.