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Fucker is asleep. He’s twisted in an awkward position, though, on his stomach, his legs tangled in the cushions, his face buried in the crook of one arm. He’s only dressed in black boxer briefs, the ink on his upper back and arms stark against his pale skin. A few swirls of black decorate his lower back, too: a sort of curling wave.
I study his tattoos. It’s beautiful, arresting art, dark and sprawling and complex, like him. I stare at them, wondering like every time what they mean to Jet. There’s a violence in them I don’t like, and I wish I knew more about his past. I wish he’d tell me.
He shifts uneasily, twisting his legs more, one arm clutched over his head. His drawing pad is on the floor where it must have fallen out of his hand.
Fucker was working on the comic. The page I can see looks fucking awesome. How can he breathe like that, though? His damn face is stuffed in the cushions.
I sit down on the edge of the sofa, rub my hands over my face. The TV is playing some late night show with women dressed as bunnies and men in caveman gear chasing them.
Fuck, is that a thing? I imagine Candy dressed as a bunny, and my dick perks up. Huh. Guess it could be. My dick sure thinks so.
Jet mutters something unintelligible into the cushion and then moans.
The sound freezes me up. It’s not a good, I’m-having-a-good-time moan. It sounds like he’s in pain.
“Jet.” I stretch over to put a hand on his shoulder, but his head comes up and collides with my fingers.
He gasps, then tries to turn over, arms flailing, and fails. He fights with the cushions, punching his fists into the sofa, his face a mask of fear.
“Dammit, stop.” I grab his arm, but that only seems to make it worse for him. He wrenches his arm free and kicks at me, garbled sounds that might be words falling from his mouth. I grab at his ankles. “Jet, stop, it’s me. Joel.”
He sobs something, then finally stills. His wide eyes stare back at me, blank and full of fear. His face is deathly white.
“Don’t let him,” he whispers, barely above a breath.
“It’s okay, Jet, it’s just a nightmare.” I pat his leg, something twisting in my chest from seeing him like this and not knowing how to help. “It’s not—”
“Don’t let him get me, too,” he pleads, his voice broken.
I blink. “Man, Jet, that must have been a hell of a nightmare. But it was a nightmare.” I slide my hand up his arm. His body is shaking on the couch, his skin cold and clammy under my palm. “Just…”
Just what? How can I help him? I think back to when I had the nightmare of him bloodied and dying, and shiver. He was there for me.
Hell, why not? It’s a big couch, and if it gets him to sleep and rest… He hasn’t been sleeping much lately, but I don’t remember seeing him this bad before.
“Scoot over,” I tell him and shove him a little when he doesn’t move. “Damn, you’re heavy.”
I stretch out on my back beside him and wrestle him around until his head is resting on my shoulder and his arm is draped over my middle.
If his eyes get any wider, they’ll pop out of their sockets.
“All right, fucker?” Damn, he’s still shivering. I rub his back. “Comfortable?”
He nods and some of that chilling blankness leaves his gaze. “Yeah.” Even his voice sounds creaky and rusty.
“Try to get some sleep.” I let my eyes drift closed. “I’m right here.”
“Everyone leaves, J,” he whispers. “Everyone.”
He doesn’t sound angry, or sad. He sounds… defeated. That wakes me up again, and I pet his back, then his hair.
“No, they don’t. I won’t. Is this about Candy?” When he says nothing, I forge on. “Candy will come back. We won’t let her go, all right? I don’t know why she left like that, but I’m sure there’s an explanation. Hell, if she really wanted to be with us for so long, she won’t just walk out now.”
His hair is silky soft under my fingers, and I twine them in the dark locks. He swallows hard, his eyes drifting closed. “She won’t?”
“She won’t.” I tug a little on his hair, and he produces a tiny moan that goes straight to my dick. Dammit. Not the time for this. “We’ll talk to her tomorrow morning.”
Jet hums in response and curls up closer, throwing a leg over mine. He’s warming up, too, and he’s real and solid against me, his musky smell familiar and pleasant. Eventually his breathing evens out, and he falls asleep, his fist planted on my chest.
