Chapter Text
It was getting late. Jerry’s stomach rumbled, and he felt around in his pocket. There was only a crumpled five dollar bill and a few coins. The cup holders in his car yielded maybe fifty cents more. In was enough for a burger somewhere. Jerry sighed, realizing that he was gonna have to make some money soon.
Parked in the alleyway next to a shitty dive bar, Jerry bit into his whopper. Burger King wasn’t really his thing, but his gas was low so he couldn’t afford to go anywhere else. He hated living out of his car. Had almost driven back to Dallas a few times. Didn’t know why he never did. He wasn’t sure why he was still here in Seattle anymore. Crinkling the wrapper up into a ball, Jerry spotted a flash of green under the gas pedal. Another five dollar bill. Thank fuck.
Jerry tried to psych himself up to go into the bar. He always hated doing this, but he was in desperate need of a shower and some actual money. He looks at himself in the rear view mirror and tries to smooth the wrinkles out of his shirt. No use. He throws a jacket over it instead, messes with his hair for a moment, and exits the vehicle. The reflection in the window reminds him that he looked like he lived in a car. At least you look like an attractive young man that lives in a car, Jerry thinks to himself. He was banking on it.
To his surprise, and disappointment, Jerry realizes that this is far from the first time he’d been to this bar. He tries not to make any eye contact with the bartender as he gets his beer. He thinks he’d die of shame if he did. Sipping his beer, he scans the crowd. More young people this time, but still enough older folks. He knows the drill now. Sit by the bar facing outwards, and look—
Jerry’s thoughts are interrupted by someone yelling at him. Terror hits the pit of his stomach near instantly. He’d been an anxious wreck since he’d come back to Washington. The noise doesn’t stop, instead gets louder, and Jerry realizes that it’s coming from a familiar face. A familiar face that is now swiftly approaching him. With a friend. He’s not entirely sure where he knows this guy from, but he sure seems non threatening.
“Hey! Crazy to see you ‘round these parts!” The man beams at Jerry, and he feels recognition click in his brain. The man is named Mike, is a bass player, goes to Washington State. “I didn’t know you went out.”
Jerry smiles awkwardly back. He’s met Mike twice, maybe three times. “I’m trying to see the city more, experience Seattle and all that jazz.” He makes eye contact with the guy Mike’s standing with and feels even more awkward immediately. He wishes he was drunk already.
“Haha, nice.” Mike’s calm expression breaks. “Shit, I’m being rude. Jerry, this is Layne. Layne, this is Jerry. We jam together sometimes.”
Layne smiles at Jerry politely, and extends a hand out. Jerry shakes it nervously. Layne has said no words at all, but he exudes an aura of cool. He’s fashionable, and his hair looks straight out of a Pantene ad. He looks awfully familiar. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too. You play too?”
Layne tilts his head from side to side. “I sing. I can drum a little, but singing’s my thing.”
“He’s being so humble,” Mike grins “Layne’s the singer in a band, and the band kicks ass.”
Jerry nods. Maybe that’s why Layne looks familiar. Chatting with Mike and Layne isn’t unpleasant. He slips into conversation with them long enough for Mike to offer him a beer. The spare change in his pocket tells him to say yes. There’s an offer of jamming together next week made. Jerry takes it so he has something to look forward to, finally. Hanging out with the two half-strangers is more fun than he expects it to be, but he can’t shake the guilty feeling of the original purpose of his coming here. He’s equal parts thankful and melancholy when Mike and Layne slip away into the crowd to talk to other friends.
Jerry resumes his post by the bar, sipping his new beer. He wishes he could find the nice middle aged lady he met here last time. She was the best one by far, less creepy than any other. Her shower had good water pressure too. Jerry thought to himself that it was weird how much you noticed those little things when you had none of them yourself. He’s raised out of his thoughts by someone sliding into his peripheral.
The aforementioned figure is a man in his fifties. He eyes the beer in Jerry’s hands, and then Jerry himself. He looks a little more clean cut than the ones Jerry’s met before him. “What you drinking?”
Jerry’s at first surprised at the voice, more high pitched than he’d assumed it’d be, and then disappointed that he’s done this enough to have expectations like this. “Lone star. Reminds me of home.”
“Texas boy?”
Jerry leans in on his elbows and nods. Tries to ignore the unhappy look the bartender gives him. The man leans back on his forearms. “How ‘bout I buy your next one?”
“I wouldn’t say no, sir.” Jerry’s thankful for looks, because being polite wouldn’t get him this far if he wasn’t pretty.
One beer turns into three or five, and the guy’s pretty chatty. Jerry’s okay with that, he has to do less talking than he’d normally have to. The man’s unmarried, works as a fashion photographer. Jerry bets that this guy has a great shower. He imagines standing under the warm water, getting to wash his hair with some expensive shampoo as the guy speaks. It makes him not grimace as the man briefly grabs his thigh.
The man offers Jerry a line of white powder when the barkeep isn’t looking. Jerry eyes it eagerly. He hasn’t gotten to do coke since he left Texas. The line was small but stimulants were stimulants, and stimulants were what Jerry liked best. As soon as he snorts it he realizes it isn’t coke. The space behind his eyes instantly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
“What the fuck,” he hisses out at the greying man before him “what the fuck did I just take?”
The man seems unfazed. “Ketamine.”
Jerry tries to think if he’s ever done ketamine. The drip starts to hit the back of his throat. No, he doesn’t think he’s ever done ketamine. Could you die from ketamine? “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask,” the man shrugs. Barkeeper is back. Despite the fact that Jerry’s skin feels like it’s rippling and melting, he tries to keep it cool. “Besides, all the queers love to do ket.”
Jerry tried to think of what to do. His brain moves like molasses. He’s unsure of how much time has passed while he sits there next to this man, slowly piecing thoughts together. What was the right thing to do? Go along with it or try and skip out now? The thought of sleeping in his truck for yet another night tells him what to do. He redirects his attention back to the man next to him, who is now telling him that he’s off to the restroom, and that Jerry should stay put right where he is.
As soon as the guy leaves, a hand clamps down on Jerry’s shoulder. He winces, so sure that he’s going to get thrown out of this bar. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’s surprised when he sees that the hand belongs to Layne. Mike is nowhere to be seen.
“Come with me,” Layne says with so much conviction that Jerry’s ketamine addled brain doesn’t even think of disagreeing with him.
Layne pulls him through the crowd and into the patio bar, where there’s an equally sized crowd. Mike’s gone, Jerry realizes slowly. The next thing he realizes is that he’s been cheated out of a customer. He stares down Layne as intimidatingly as he can manage. “What the fuck.”
Layne looks shocked. “What do you mean ‘what the fuck’? That guy was totally creeping on you.”
Layne makes eye contact with Jerry, who looks vacant and yet somehow pissed off. Jerry’s too fucked up to hold his tongue, and regrets the words as he says them. “You just cost me a customer.”
It seems like five different emotions cross Layne’s face at once. It settles on concern. “That guy gave me serious serial killer vibes.” His eyes settle on Jerry’s. They’re narrowed and blue and hazy.
“I don’t need your charity.”
“Oh come on,” Layne sighs. “Just let me help you out.”
Jerry eyes Layne. Layne’s hair is nice, like super shiny and healthy nice. Maybe he does have a good shower. Definitely no money though. Jerry’s brain is too foggy to make an actual decision. Layne stares at him impatiently, before speaking again. “Okay, just let me keep an eye on you until that guy goes.”
Jerry’s too tired to keep fighting about it, and hopes to himself that he can still make a quick buck later. In that moment, the older man pops out into the deck, clearly looking around for Jerry. Layne shoves him under a table despite his many protests. The man moves near them, and Layne kicks Jerry further under the table. The people around them look down under the table and then at Layne with a mix of confusion and annoyance. He shushes them until the older man leaves, cursing under his breath.
Jerry clambers out of the table as soon as he is able to, arms and legs a little unsteady from the drugs and alcohol still. Layne pulls him to a smaller table, where they actually both get to sit at, insisting that he keeps a further eye on him. Layne’s idea of keeping an eye on him apparently meant just hanging out at the bar for another hour, much longer than the ketamine lasted. Layne buys them margaritas. Jerry’s pretty sure that he saw the guy leave a while ago, but was having a good enough time to not try and leave. They stay together til close, Jerry sloppy drunk and Layne a little loose himself.
“You live nearby?” Layne asks.
Anxiety catches the back of Jerry’s head on fire, immediately unsure of how to respond. He settles for “Yeah, super close.”
“Let me walk you to your place. Y’know, just in case Mr. Creepy’s still hanging around.”
Jerry’s only now at a loss for words. He doesn’t know how to get out of this one, a situation he had literally just tee’d up for himself, so he heads for his car. Layne follows. He stops in front of his truck and looks at Layne sheepishly. Layne looks back at him, incredibly confused. Why Jerry had lead him to his vehicle was completely beyond his realm of reckoning. Layne was drunk, but Jerry was even drunker. Was he thinking of driving in this state?
“We’re driving to your place? Or you need me to go?” Layne’s tone turns apologetic.
“Uh, this is my place.”
Layne looks at the truck, and then at Jerry. At the truck, then Jerry. Truck, Jerry. It seems like his brain is on loading mode. Jerry avoids the eye contact, and feels his face flush with embarrassment. He wishes that Layne would just go. Or that he could sink into the earth, where he could no longer be perceived. Jerry’s snapped out of his thoughts by Layne snagging his car keys, and confidently prancing over to the driver’s door. Jerry’s truck was by no measure anywhere near considered good, or even mediocre, but it was what he had, all he had really, and this was an offense.
“Hey! Give ‘em back!” Jerry tries to take his car keys back, but Layne’s quicker, and is unlocking Jerry’s door. If this was how his car got stolen, Jerry was going to track Mike down and kill him on sight.
“We’re driving to my place. You can crash for the night.”
Jerry watches Layne get into the truck and rev the engine. “But you’re drunk!”
Layne seems unfazed. “Less drunk than you. Let’s go!”
It’s all the convincing Jerry’s brain seems to need. Layne has already started the car anyways. He hops into the passenger seat, and Layne practically floors it before he can even get his seatbelt on. Layne’s not a bad driver, but he speeds so much that Jerry is anxious through the numbing alcohol and after effects of ketamine. They breeze past a cop and he thinks his heart nearly stops. Thankfully Layne pulls the car into a secluded parking lot before any sirens can go off. The parking lot is behind what looks like a warehouse. Thank god for beer, or otherwise Jerry’d have thought that this was how he would get murdered.
“This is my place, let’s go!” Layne throws the keys into Jerry’s hands, and starts making his way towards the building. Jerry is both amazed and terrified of his special brand of manic confidence. He grabs his bag of essentials, locks his car and stumbles to catch up.
The sign out front says Seattle Music Bank. The inside of the building looked as much like a warehouse as the outside of the building did. The halls are long and lit poorly, with yellowing fluorescent bulbs. It smells like weed and beer, and seems to be completely devoid of any human life currently. It looked like a goddamn horror movie, and through his drunk haze, Jerry wonders if this was a long con into getting raped and murdered. Layne confidently strolls down one of the halls, twirling his keys on one finger, and stops about halfway down the hall to unlock the door to a room. Jerry pokes his head in before entering, worried about what he’ll see.
Layne’s room does not look like the kind of place that would be inhabited by a serial killer, more like a music obsessed college student. It is a lot to take in, covered in completely wall to wall in posters and art. There’s a couch and a bed and a coffee table that has a bong and a hot plate on it. A mini fridge hums in the corner with a microwave on top. There’s quite a few cans of beer scattered around, and the ashtray in the room is just a wine bottle a quarter’s way full of cigarettes. There is a door to what Jerry really hopes is a bathroom is on the far side of the room.
The door does lead to a bathroom, albeit a shared one with the room next door. Jerry’s especially careful to lock both doors in the bathroom while he goes, figuring that the other door lead to another room much like Layne’s. The shower behind him preoccupies his mind. It looked worse than mediocre, but better than nothing at all. At least Layne had nice shampoo and conditioner.
“Can I use your shower?” Jerry asks as soon as he re-enters Layne’s room. Layne’s sitting on the couch, shoes off, with a beer and a cigarette. He nods at Jerry, and then pauses.
“Wait!” Layne reaches into his mini fridge and tosses a can of beer into Jerry’s hands. “Shower beer. Enjoy it, man.”
The beer is nice, but the shower is nicer. Oh, showers were easily what he had missed most since living out of his car. It had been too long since his last one, and shaving in your rear view mirror sucked. He uses Layne’s hair products, scrubs down and shaves. Now squeaky clean and free of stubble, Jerry dries off and changes into what is, unfortunately, his last clean change of clothes. He pushes that thought back, determined to enjoy tonight. He deserved to have a little fun sometimes.
Layne is like the nicest guy, ever, because when Jerry gets out of the shower he is greeted with a bowl of popcorn. Layne, munching happily, pats the space on the couch and drops the bowl into Jerry’s hands. Beer and popcorn and a shower; Jerry thought he was in heaven. He was surprised by his host’s graciousness and generosity. Usually stuff like this came at a price.
“Thank you so much man, really. Let me know if I can ever get you back.”
Layne shakes his head. “Nah, I really don’t mind. Your company’s enough.”
They crush the bowl of popcorn and have some smokes. His beer finished, Jerry realizes how drunk he is. He was no stranger to alcohol, but living out of your truck was not particularly conducive to drinking as much as he had tonight. He reflects on the situation on hand with what’s left of his brain. Usually into this far into these situations he was fucking or getting fucked by his customer, and feeling absolutely soulless about it. This time around, he’d actually pretty happily sleep with Layne. Not a great realization for someone who was currently just gay for pay.
He doesn’t realized that he’s vocalized his thought process until Layne pulls back, looking at him funnily. They had been sitting knees touching on the couch, and now Layne was a little further away, head tilted to the side and chuckling nervously. Jerry wonders how much he had just let slip. “Nah man, I don’t swing that way,” Layne says, hands up.
“Me neither.”
“You just offered to blow me.” Layne says. Jerry tries to avoid feeling the heat of embarrassment that is probably flooding his face right now. Offering this up without getting paid was a first.
“Look, you get yourself into some pretty weird situations when you live out of your car.” Layne smiles at that statement.
“Fair enough. I don’t really care if you’re into dudes. I’m still gonna let you spend the night anyways.” Layne says, patting Jerry on the back. Jerry feels a weird pang of disappointment at the rejection. He decides that he is going to file that emotion for later, way later.
That night Jerry snuggles into the couch, warm under Layne’s scratchy blanket. It felt renewing to get some sleep on something actually resembling a bed and not the cold, leathery, uncomfortable seat of his truck. He’s thankful for his host’s generosity, and has a nice warm feeling about Layne overall. Maybe his luck was turning out good for a change.