After the oppressive grandeur of the Domus Aurea, itâs a relief to be back on his own turf, among his own kind: it hadnât taken long for the Morgue to feel like a sanctuary to him, a place where he felt chosen and valued instead of an unwelcome interloper; and it didnât take long for Xander Desai to feel much the same to him, a sanctuary in the form of a person, someone who is more like family to him than his own had ever been.
Itâs nothing he isnât used to: being looked down on, and meeting that disregard with a carefree smile. He used to do that every day. But what he hadnât realized was that, somewhere along the line, he had gotten unused to it, too used to the easy rapport he has with the Gravemakers, with his friends, where being friendly and lively doesnât feel like so much work, because it isnât actually fake. Isnât just a means of survival, of way of holding himself up when he might have otherwise crumpled instead.
So itâs a relief, after spending the day feeling buttoned-up and playing nice, to be messy and careless once again, and with the person he trusts himself around the most, because heâs never made feel Jack feel unwanted, or unvalued, or like he has to try to be anything other than whatever he wants to be at any given moment. âSo how are you feeling?â He asks, sly, nudging Xander with whatever limb is closest, comfortable and sprawled out on the Morgueâs old and worn furniture as he helps himself to Xanderâs space as easily and with as little concern as he helps himself to Xanderâs time.
âPeaceful? Full of friendship and good will towards your fellow man?â Not waiting for an answer to his own question, he snorts: âWhat a joke. Who put Beaux up to this, anyway?â