Crackerbox ✔

seventeen: beautiful creatures

"And I'm supposed to make sure you don't get mad." Lee nudges Jack lightly, savouring the way their elbows clink against each other like the adoring scarlet lips of wine glass-lovers, so tall and slender and fragile. "So I guess I'm doing my job perfectly."

Jack snorts, but bumps his elbow against Lee's anyway. "Didn't know your job involved being annoying as hell."

"That's actually at the top of my job description, in fact," Lee declares.

He's met with an eye roll so large he could erect a billboard for it. "Whatever. Get your ass out here. Let's go."

Lee laughs, the sound nothing but air, his lungs desperately sucking oxygen into themselves like he'll never breathe again. Like they know his heart will stop the moment he steps past the safety of Jack's bedroom door, because his father's just called and the world will undoubtedly fall like rain once Lee hears what he has to say. "Sure. Let's go," he replies, and he thinks about how this is his last minute alive.

But then he walks past the doorstep, and his myocardium is still a thudding maniac in his chest, thumping against his bare bones as if it's not ready to die, as if the warmth of Jack's palm pressed flush against his sends the blood flowing through his veins once more. He is hard under Lee's butterfly touch, tentative fingers reaching for the light, and like a moth to a flame, Lee spirals further into the funny little things that are his feelings.

Jack's father is in the middle of the living room, broad shoulders heaving with barely-concealed rage. "That bastard," he hisses, obviously in the middle of a conversation with his equally pissed off wife. Then he swings around, eyes widening at Lee's presence, hand instantly swiping at the air dismissively. "I'm so sorry, Lee! I didn't see you there! I wasn't talking about your dad, I promise!"

"You're not fooling anyone, Dad," Jack snorts. Takes a horrible liar to know another horrible liar. Like father, like son, Lee supposes.

He grins. "It's okay, Uncle," he says cheerfully. "I've said worse things about Dad." And I've told him them, too, but he never seems to listen anymore. I said I hated him and he didn't even flinch.

Jack's father's mouth presses together in a tight frown. "Right." His gaze travels to Jack and Lee's interlocked palms, eyes widening again as the frown wipes itself right off his face. Jack instantly pulls away, discreetly brushing his hand off on his shirt as if that'll get rid of the memory of Lee's fingers on his. The action hurts more than Lee would like to admit. "You might want to sit down for this."

(Lee figures he must as well be comfortable while his universe ends, so he obediently plops himself down on the threadbare couch. He's gratified by the way Jack immediately sits next to him. Even though he did brush off his palm.)

Jack's father raises his hand and waves it around. "Are we all nice and settled and ready? Alright? Great. Your dad's got a bloodhound."

Out of all the things in the world, his father getting a dog...hadn't exactly been the news Lee was expecting to hear. "What? But we already have Socks, and---"

"Not a dog, sweetie," Jack's mother interrupts, sympathy dancing in her brown eyes. "A P.I. Your dad got a private investigator to look for you."

Nothing crashes and burns and erupts in flames like Lee expects it to. He's just---numb. Confused, almost. There's a million thoughts swirling in his head. Isn't this what you always wanted? he asks himself. For Dad to give a shit about you? Doesn't him hiring a private investigator mean he's finally giving a shit about you? But now, now, now, indirectly flaunting his fat wallet in Lee's face and ripping him away when he's managed to reach something resembling happy---it tastes like bittersweet tragedy, dark chocolate flooding Lee's arteries instead of blood.