And deep in him was an ugly thing, a petrified thing, a mewling—he had never intended to fall in love with a man. He couldn’t be—even though Dare and Quinn were, he couldn’t—couldn’t tell his friends that he was—

And it wasn’t...all right to feel this way.

As far as he knew it, love was supposed to feel comfortable, and cozy, and kind: a mom, a dad, brothers, sisters, soft kisses, and the feeling of things made by hand, skill and focus and sweet intentions. Loving Theo wasn’t any of those things.

Loving Theo hurt, it ate at him, it was an impossibility. Even in the quiet moments it was burning up and wanting to die and hoping to live forever, as long as he could have this, his arms, his bones, his sharp smiles, the ways in which he was irrevocably broken. Sometimes he looked at Theo, dancing, buzzing with caffeine, slow and sticky with booze, and he felt something ripping in him, like he’d never be the same. Like he’d never been a normal person, and that was all right, because the person he loved wasn’t normal, either.

And that was—

Maybe he could tell himself that it was never love at all.

Theo opened the door.

He was energetic, cheerful. Now that Colin had him doing more work around the club, bookkeeping and advertising and any odds and ends he was up for, he’d started coming home with a little more excitement. He liked his work, and he was good at it, and he was getting recognized, which Jack had realized, at some point, was new for him.

He tossed his keys down, pulled off his shirt, exposing his tattoo, his nakedness. His vulnerability, which was for Jack, and Jack alone.

“Hi.” Theo brushed a kiss on Jack’s cheek, which burned like a brand. “How was your—”

He froze. Stared.

“Are you going somewhere?” His voice was chilly, but his chest and face turned a splotchy pink.

Jack wished he had hidden his suitcase. He almost wished he had already left. “I—”

A pause.

“Theo, I’m—I’m going home.”

“Are you?” His words as violent as the crack of a bullwhip, and then fragile. “Will you be coming back?”

Jack felt sweat gather, prickling all over his body. He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“Ah. Of course not.”

He mumbled, staring at the floor, “I was thinking—I wanted to—”

“You wanted to what?”

And that was the goddamned question wasn’t it, and there wasn’t really a good answer, and he started to feel angry.

Angry was good. He understood anger; anger at Beau was an old friend.

Anger had run under the surface of even their happiest moments, here in this fantasy, this life they tried to assemble out of their jagged parts.