Work Text:
“better go now, while you can
just like that it begins, appetite, emotion”
I.
It’s not as though Layne’s not prone to finding himself chin-dip in a situation of his own making. He’s gotten into fights, he’s done his due diligence. While most would have simpered to his mother how sweet he was, how polite, she would laugh. Sweet yes, until the days she’d drag Layne’s meaty fist to the car after he’s shouted something to a passerby he’s certainly not supposed to.
It’s not as though he doesn’t understand. How sometimes it’s the only box left to tick, that prick in your belly that steadily brews until it lifts your hand, lets it strike. He knows.
It’s just Jerry keeps ticking off enough boxes he feels as though there might be nothing after the fact. He’s a nice guy, really, but Nick had told him he’s testy, gets riled up with a single cock of a brow.
“You know anything about him?” Nick had asked, the night Layne had moved Jerry in. “His dad? His mom?”
Layne had bristled despite himself. “I know enough,” is all he had said, the image of big blue eyes shining in unshed tears washing over him. He hadn’t probed much, didn’t see himself fit to.
Nick had raised a shoulder, shrugged as if to say, Your call. He supposes it was.
II.
He’s in a bar, enjoying the feel of a girl’s nails against his arm. Layne’s listening to her, half aware of the words leaving her cherry red lips, half aware that she’s blinking low and slow, and he’s not enough of an idiot not to see the clear intent there.
“Layne.” Sean’s voice cuts over the girl’s, eyes flicking to her apologetically. “Got a moment?”
Layne dips his chin into a nod, patting the girl’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he offers. “Next one’s on me.”
The girl smiles, moving to drape herself across the nearest soul, which would happen to be the bartender. Layne shakes his head, allowing Sean to snake a hand over his back, guiding him into the thrashing sea of bodies. Sweat clings to his thin tank, the air sticky enough he can taste it, sweet and lingering on his tongue.
“Sorry,” Sean echoes, voice low. Uncharacteristically solemn. No teasing remark given. “She looked interested.”
“She still does,” Layne says dismissively. “Owe it to me later. What’s up?”
Sean lets his arm drop, nodding to a doorway that leads further into the bar. There is where the stage is, Layne knows, Alice having performed there that evening. “How drunk are you?”
“Enough.” Layne shoots his friend a look. “What’d you do?”
“Not me.” Sean’s face is rueful, lips tugging at the corners. So unlike himself Layne nearly asks him to spit it the fuck out. It’s then, though, that he understands, a groan twisting its way from his throat.
“Again?” Layne demands. “That’s the second time this week.”
Sean clearly doesn’t miss the quiet barb there, the unsaid accusation of where were you? He clicks his tongue, what can you do? “You know him. When he’s up, he’s up.”
“Until he’s not,” Layne snips. He’s got a hand running through his curls, wishing for a tie to pull them away from the heat of his neck. “Fuck. Where is he?”
“Take a wild guess,” Sean says in slight amusement, Layne not bothering to glare. Not when a loud shout sounds from the main room, followed by a few (loud) hoots.
Making his way through a gathering crowd, Layne finds exactly what he’s looking for. A tall, beefy man with biceps the size of a small grapefruit jerking a finger to point at a decidedly smaller man, half-hunched at his feet.
“I don’t wanna see you again,” the man’s saying, jeering, hand large enough to crush a melon with a flex of his wrist. “That clear?”
Layne’s eyes flick to the floor, land with resigned horror on the swell of his best friend’s face, purpled on the left side, a welt at the corner of his mouth. Jerry’s breathing hard, sharp bursts from his chest that could double as hiccups. The glare he throws the other man would be intimidating if it weren’t for the shine of blood against his temple.
“Fuck you,” Jerry spits. “Go to hell, man.”
The man’s face smooths in mock consideration. His friends, Layne would assume, laugh, wet and awful and Jerry doesn’t shrink. Layne shoulders through, knocking aside a few elbows to stop short before him.
“Jerry,” he says, flat.
Jerry’s head rises, meeting Layne’s gaze with startlingly clarity. To anyone else, the blankness there would signal a boast. To Layne, though, it’s something closer to regret, coupled with the twist of his brow.
Layne ignores him, turns to his attacker. “Are you done?”
The man tuts, a low catch that sounds across the small space. “Tch. What’s it to you?”
The people around Layne seem to watch with rapt interest, as if the prospect of a second round is enough to wait, to goggle. Like bloodhounds, a pack of them, waiting to lick what’s left with careless abandon. Layne would be disgusted if he weren’t distracted.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Layne says evenly. Holds his hands out, palms flat. “Only it’s my friend you’re beating.” He looks at the blood, the bruising begin to blossom. “Fantastic job, by the way. Think it’s time to throw in that towel of yours.”
Under him, Jerry makes a weak little sound. “Layne.”
The man’s pupils contract, even in the fluorescent lighting of the bar. It washes over him, yellow and sickly-looking. “You look familiar,” he says.
“Got one of those faces, I guess.” Layne stares coolly back. He’s got a hand out, now, fingers stretching to Jerry’s, who link, limp, in his. He pulls him to his feet, letting him sway into his hip. “Can’t say the same for you.”
Jerry’s lips are moving, close enough to Layne’s ear that he can faintly feel them, the shape of them, the low urgency in which they form. He ignores him again, the man using his silence as bait.
“You’re the singer,” is what he says, a clear interest pooling over the words. They spill forward like rot. “Played earlier. With that one.” A sharp nod to Jerry. “He didn’t like much what I said about you.”
Layne lifts a lofty brow, feeling Jerry begin to vibrate under him. “That so. I’m sure it was justified.”
Another laugh. Like stones turning. “That’s a mouth you’ve got.”
“Apparently so.” Layne turns, guiding Jerry as gently as he can, a hand squeezing against his waist as warning, go, go. “Happy drinking, gentlemen.”
He gets a cheer back, a resounding wave that has him gritting his teeth as he half carries the guitarist further away, mentally cataloging how much paperwork it would be to toss him from the bricks of the roof. Jerry seems to recognize the quiet anger there, wisely keeping his mouth firmly shut until they make it outside.
The air is cool, the sweat beginning to fall from Layne’s flesh as he tips his head back. Counts one, two. Three.
“I’m sorry.”
Four. “I’m sure you are.”
“Layne.” It comes out in almost a whine, a whimper that sounds as pathetic as the next. “Don’t do that. Look at me, man.”
Five, six. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t mean it.” Seven, eight.
“Mm.” Nine-fucking-ten.
“I know I fucked up. I know. Blanche, please.”
Layne’s neck twists at that, the nickname that falls so easily from those teeth. Teeth that spill with half-dried bits of blood, a mouth that Layne’s not sure if he wants to smack or—
Or. Eleven.
With a light hiss, Layne grips Jerry’s collar, holding him as if by the scruff of a kitten. “You fucking kill me sometimes. You know that?”
Blue eyes shine, unblinking. “I know.”
Layne grunts, shifting to prop Jerry against the wall. He figures he’ll wait, wait for Sean to catch the drift and come drag Starr from wherever corner he’s drank himself into. Great. Shitfaced, shit-for-face. One that stares down at him in such earnestness that it gets him scoffing.
“What’s your problem? Huh?” He (slowly) smacks a hand to Jerry’s shoulder, the jut of bone and meat. “Shitty, fuckin’ right hook you got or something. Can’t take anything. Can’t take you,” he sweeps a hand, cutting through the air like water, “anywhere.”
Jerry’s chin wobbles. Enough. “You’re drunk. I’m sorry.”
“I am,” Layne agrees. If not for the clear slur of his words, then by the breath Jerry can undoubtedly taste. Fanning across a dimpled, reddened cheek. “Because that’s what you fucking do at a bar. You drink, and you fuck, and you don’t let some asshole tell you what’s what.”
Jerry swallows. Layne watches it, and hates that he does. “You’re right. You are.”
“I’m right,” Layne echoes. He laughs, screwing his face up until it hurts. His mouth is numb, his tongue moving as though caught. “Couldn’t even get a number or nothing, too worried about you.”
Jerry’s lips part. “You worry?” There’s a light wonder there, clear as the shitty night sky, and Layne’s so angry he think he could explode from the force of it.
“Of course I do,” he snaps. “You’re nuts. Complete fucking mental case. All I do is wonder where you are, who you’re with, if you’ll fuckin’ run to Mexico. Don’t leave a note or nothing.”
Jerry’s face softens, moonlight painting over the lines of his face, so disgustingly eager Layne could punch him for it. “No. I’d take you. You and me in Mexico, huh? The Everly brothers.” He, as much as he can, bumps Layne’s hip, adopting a sing-song tone. “Dream, dream, dream—”
“Hah.” Layne shakes his head. Squeezes a fist. “I’m not your brother.”
“So that’s a no to Mexico, then?” Jerry’s lips are beginning to quirk, pull at the corners as if it’s easy. He sobers quickly, though, enough that he speaks in a whisper. “I really am sorry. I am a mental case. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Layne.”
Layne’s jaw ticks, rolls. He bites down on a curse, absently wondering where the hell Sean is. Wondering how long he has to hold Jerry together before he can’t ignore the gnawing, pointed rise to his gut that he doesn’t want to poke.
“I didn’t mean it,” Layne says after a beat. He closes his eyes. “Just—shit, I don’t know. Tired.”
“Even if you didn’t,” Jerry says softly, Layne feeling the pressure of his shoulder under his, “it’s true. I’d be fucking pissed if I were you.”
“Who said I wasn’t?”
“Touché.”
Layne’s eyes open, meeting the pair next to him, watches the slight sheen to them. They share a smile, begrudging as it is, before Jerry’s chin drops to his shoulder. Layne lets him, the weight familiar. Jerry isn’t standing as if in pain, but he does favor his left side.
“Hurts?” Layne asks after a moment.
Jerry hums. “Kinda. I don’t know.”
“You kinda need to see a damn doctor. Or a shrink.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in that kinda stuff.”
“I never said I don’t,” Layne corrects gruffly. “Just think it’s stupid.” Despite himself, his fingers move to Jerry’s wrist, a thumb swiping over the pulse point there. The flesh is sticky with blood. Layne bites back a growing feeling of nausea. Then, quietly, “If you need it—”
“You think I do?” Jerry’s chin rises, a grin making his face stretch almost grotesquely. At least in the dark. He chuckles at Layne’s pointed look. “I guess. Everything is so,” he trails off, as if searching the air for the right word.
“Shitty?” Layne offers.
Jerry nods. “Damn straight. You know how you said all you think about is where I am?”
Layne’s cheeks flush. “Well. I don’t, really.”
“Well, anyways.” That’s a smile, Layne can hear it. “All I think about is my mom.” A pause. Jerry’s breath is quiet, soft little puffs that warm the shell of Layne’s ear. “Think about that day. D’you know her name was Gloria?”
“No,” Layne answers carefully, like a liar. He’s heard this before, this same spiel the last time he caught Jerry swinging at some poor drunk at the last bar. Heard it whispered between their pillows, as if the dark itself could keep it from rising above and beyond their heads. “Nice name. Pretty.”
“Mm.” Jerry lets out a little sigh. He’s playing with the stretch of Layne’s palm, whether he’s aware of it or not. “She was pretty. So damn pretty. Like somethin’ out a magazine. Except better. None of that fake shit, you know? She was real.”
Real. Layne stares at him, stares some more. Tracks the line of throat that darkness doesn’t cover, the mole along his collarbone, the way he worries his lip with a canine. He imagines a woman, a woman with this nose, this slope of chin, this quiet regard that others don’t know quite what to do with.
“She sounds nice,” Layne tacks on, lamely. Jerry doesn’t seem to mind, just nods. Like it’s the most important observation Layne could ever make.
“She was,” Jerry agrees. “Y’know, actually. She’s not all I think about.”
Layne’s throat is so, so dry. “Jerry.”
“Uh-huh?” Jerry squeezes his hand, his wrist. “This band, Layne. It’s all I got.”
You’re drunk, Layne wants to say. You’re drunk and so am I, and I can’t do this. “I see.”
“So when that guy said that shit.” Jerry waves his free hand, towards the door, brow furrowing with sudden disgust. “About the band, about me. You.” He shrugs a shoulder, drops the hand. “Well. Guess I got a little defensive.”
Layne’s lips thin. “What’d he say about me?”
Jerry’s eyes cloud over, a strange flicker that has Layne dropping his hand, peering into his face. He has an idea. Jesus, it’s something he’s heard from the mouth of another plenty.
“He said.” Jerry’s hand scratches idly at his hip. Brushes over the bruise on his arm. “Well, he said a lotta shit, Layne. Didn’t like how you looked. How I looked.”
“So say it.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so pointed, so accusing, but it does. Jerry seems to crumble under him, withering away like he’s been stripped of any and all foundation, left for ash and dust and whatever else is under their boots.
“You know,” Jerry says. He does.
“He call me that,” Layne asks, “or you, too?”
Who were you doing this for? lies unsaid.
Jerry’s mouth tightens. His spine uncurls from the wall, neck making a sick little popping noise as he levels himself to meet Layne’s look. “You.”
Layne laughs. A quiet little huff. “Bullshit,” he breathes. “Don’t use me as a fuckin’ excuse, man.”
“There’s no excuse.”
“Stop,” Layne cuts over him, sharp. “Stop.”
“I don’t wanna go to Mexico,” Jerry cuts over him, voice deadly serious, and Layne’s head spins, his heart thumping against the sharp edge of his ribcage. When did they get to this? “I’m sorry I’m—well, I’m sorry. But I’m goin’ fucking crazy and all I got is here.” He nods to Layne’s arm, still pressed securely against his hip. “You and the guys. And I’m scared, Layne, I’m scared you’ll see through all this and call bullshit. You won’t leave a note.” A breathy, watery laugh. “You’d leave one, right?”
“Jerry.” Layne’s mouth stretches like taffy. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing. Say nothing. Just. You wouldn’t do all this and leave, right?”
“Where would I go?” Layne gestures, free hand carding through his curls rough enough to pull one free, snap through to the end. “I’m not made of fucking money.”
“I don’t know. Anywhere.”
“God,” Layne breathes. He jerks away. “You’re so—so fucking selfish. So fucking sure, huh? Got it all figured out. You think it’s just you that’s right here, at the bottom?”
He breathes, not entirely sure where this is coming from, only that it bleeds from him like wine, like water, crystalline until the last drop. It goes even as Jerry begins to smile, stepping towards him. “Shitty fuckin’ friend, going around and picking fights, you could get arrested. You’ll play guitar from the prison yard?” He throws a hand up, ha! “Poor you, poor Jerry. What about Layne?”
“What about him?” Jerry asks gently. Layne’s so indignant at the audacity of it all he doesn’t notice the thin press of fingers at his nape, his hair.
“Maybe you’re not the only one with fucking problems,” Layne goes on. His voice cracks. “You think I like seeing you like this? Beaten and—and on the ground like that? I hear shit too. People call you shit and I don’t like it but you have to,” he shakes his head, his hand, “have to stop.”
“You're right,” Jerry says, magnanimously. “You’re right, Layne. I’m being stupid.”
“You are.” Layne’s eyes narrow, even as his hand settles over the base of Jerry’s spine. “No more fights. Not without me, at least.”
“Okay,” Jerry concedes. “No Mexico.”
Layne makes a low, huffing noise, almost a hiccup-laugh. He’s drunk, he’s drunk, but he presses a kiss to Jerry’s temple anyway, straightening as Sean hurries out, Starr in tow. Neither seems to notice Jerry’s hand dropping, or the smile they shoot the other. They don’t need to.
Fin.