Archive of Our Own

“Hey, I've been meaning to ask you something.”

Layne looks up from his plate. Inez's gaze is glued to the beer bottle in front of him, his thumb rubbing at the edges of the curling label. There is an uncertain, almost sheepish tilt to his mouth; no trace of the usual lightheartedness.

“Yeah?” Layne prompts him after he swallows the last bite of his sandwich.

There is a small pause before Inez's eyes flit up to meet Layne's.

“It's about you and Jerry,” he says slowly.

Layne brushes his palms, dusting the crumbs off of them. He frowns, confused by this timid tiptoeing. It's not like Inez to be this hesitant, least of all about the band.

“Okay? What about us?” he tries not to sound too impatient. He reaches for his own bottle and tips it to his mouth.

Inez shifts in his seat, clears his throat.

“Are you two… y'know… fucking?”

Layne chokes on his beer. He starts coughing violently but waves away Inez who leans towards him, palm ready to slap him on the back. The bassist draws back, tucks a curly strand of hair behind his ear as he chews on his lower lip, concern radiating off of him.

When Layne feels like he can breathe again, he looks at him with eyes so wide they might pop out of their sockets.

“What?” it comes out wheezy and bit too loud, but Layne barely notices.

Inez winces, stammers out: “Sorry, I didn't— you two are so close. It— it just seems that way, you know?”

Layne doesn't know; in fact he has absolutely no idea what his bandmate is talking about. He keeps staring at Inez, waiting for him break into a sly grin, say it's a joke or a prank, maybe something Sean put him up to or literally anything else. But Inez's mouth remains pressed in an unhappy line.

“What?” Layne repeats stupidly, too stunned to come up with anything else.

When Inez looks at him again there is an embarrassed flush spreading across his face.

“Listen, let's just forget that I brought it up, all right? I mean it doesn't even matter,” he shakes his head before taking a slug of his beer.

Layne would argue with that; would if Inez's words weren't still rattling around his skull like loose change. What the fuck, his brain offers unhelpfully, that's ridiculous. He'd like to think that he is owed at least some kind of explanation of how Inez came to that conclusion.

Just then the other thing he'd said runs through Layne's mind, obliterating everything in its path like a wrecking ball.

He's opening his mouth, the question prickly and hot on his tongue: What the hell do you mean 'it just seems that way'? but he notices Jerry and Sean walking over to their table, chuckling at whatever joke has just passed between them. He shuts his mouth as Sean sits next to Inez while Jerry plops down on the seat beside Layne, throwing an arm around his shoulders; neither the guitarist nor drummer aware of the tension weighing the air around them.

“Whatcha got there?” Jerry leans over to pluck one of the french fries from Layne's plate. Layne tries to swat his hand away, but Jerry is already stuffing the fry into his mouth.

“Fuck off, dude. Get your own,” he grumbles, only half-seriously, while Jerry smacks his lips loudly and shoots him a grin.

Layne finds himself mirroring it, can't force himself not to. Until he turns back and catches Inez's eyes on him, on them, before he quickly averts them to Sean, who too starts to steal scraps from the bassist's plate.

Something odd crawls up the back of Layne's neck like a line of ants. He fights the urge to shudder. It's as if he's been caught, as if somehow messing around with Jerry should make feel him guilty. It just seems that way echoes in his head.

Jerry squeezes his shoulder, drawing him back to himself.

“You all right, Blanche?” his voice is low, forehead creased with concern. Layne forces the corners of his mouth up.

“Yeah, I'm all right,” he says and then sliding back into the exaggerated annoyance from earlier, “… I mean I was all right until you showed up and started stealing my food.”

Jerry smirks at that before his hand darts towards Layne's plate again. Layne manages to swat it away this time and it turns into a battle, Sean and Inez across from them entering one of their own. Easy laughter soon bubbles out of Layne's throat as the conversation from earlier slips from his mind.

The afternoon sun has begun to slip towards the horizon. The heat of it still hangs in the air, but it's no longer oppressive, sticking to his skin as it had earlier in the day. Layne adjusts the sunglasses on his face and looks down at Susan, who is walking beside him.

“You parked out in the back?”

“Yeah,” she says. After a beat she adds, “you really didn't have to go with me, Layne.”

“Aw, come on, I'm happy to. Plus, it's nice to take a break from those jerks for a bit,” he points his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the tour bus.

The corner of Susan's mouth quirks.

“I don't think they'd be too happy to hear you call them that.”

Layne gives her a toothy grin. “Trust me, we've called each other much worse. In fact, I'm sure they're calling me something much worse right now.”

She shakes her head, but there's a fond smile clinging to her face.

Layne pulls out a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, shakes out two and hands one of them to Susan, who takes it with a thanks. Layne lights them both up and they continue walking in pleasant silence, slowly approaching the parking lot.

“Wait, I forgot to mention something earlier,” Susan stops and turns to Layne, “about the couple of shows you'll be playing in three weeks. Some of the hotels didn't have enough rooms available, so you will have to share. I put you down in a room with Jerry,” the shade of apology in her tone is hard to miss.

Layne waves his hand dismissively.

“You know we don't care about that. We're way too stoked to be able to sleep in normal beds for few nights.”

Susan gives him a thankful look. She exhales a small cloud of smoke and Layne knows her well enough to notice the stiffness in her shoulders.

“Seriously, Susan, it's not a problem,” he assures her again, “we're not some fussy fuckin' prima donnas. At least not yet.”

She chuckles at that. “Somehow I can't see you guys ever turning out that way.”

They smoke quietly for a minute, before she adds, “To be honest, I figured you wouldn't mind sharing a room with Jerry.”

There is an unusual color to her words; a shade of understanding or perhaps sympathy. Layne doesn't know where it's coming from — wonders if there is something they had talked about that he'd missed.

“No, I don't mind,” he replies, though it comes out more like a question.

Susan looks up at him, squinting slightly against the sky, the corner of her mouth upturned teasingly. There is a knowing glint in her eyes, as if she's hinting at something they're both privy to. It sits awkward and uncomfortable on Layne's chest; a jigsaw puzzle that he should have but is missing.

He's about to take a drag when the fog parts and Inez's words from last week float through it: are you two… y'know… fucking? It suddenly clicks. He opens his mouth as a wave of uneasy premonition fills his stomach.

“Hold on, do you think that— ”

She raises her palm, shaking her head. “Don't worry, you don't have to tell me anything. I know it's none of my business,” but the conviction is still there, sparkling in her eyes like sunlight hitting the surface of rippling water.

Layne stares at her as he tries to process what she's saying, overcome with a dreadful sense of déjà vu. He feels heat hotter than the air surrounding them rush to his face, which makes no sense; he has nothing to be embarrassed about.

Susan offers him one last smile before glancing at her watch. She takes in a sharp breath.

“Shit, I'm running late. Thanks again for accompanying me, Layne.”

“Susan, wait—” he tries, but she's already rushing towards her car.

“Sorry, I really need to go. We can talk about it next time, if you want, okay?” she calls back.

But there is nothing to talk about, Layne thinks, a lump of frustration the size of a golf ball lodged in his throat. He watches as Susan gets in her car, biting the inside of his cheek. There are about a dozen of questions whizzing through his head and he doesn't have an answer to any of them.

He looks down at the cigarette between his fingers, then follows the curl of smoke spiraling from its tip up to the expanse of the sky. He tilts his head back as his eyes glide across the blue seeping into warm orange, searching for a sign he already knows won't be there.

“What the fuck is going on?” he breathes out.

It would be an overstatement to say that he's thinking about it constantly. He isn't. He forgets about it often enough, but it is always there, tucked away in the back of his mind; a loose tooth he is unaware of until his tongue brushes against it and then he can't leave it alone.

He inspects it from all sides, trying to figure it out — why, why, why being the incessant chorus underneath it all — chews it over almost obsessively. Sometimes he gets lost in it until someone shakes him back into reality with a concerned look on their face and all Layne can muster is a tight-lipped smile and a weak no, I'm fine.

After a while he comes to the uneasy conclusion that maybe, if he allowed his imagination to unspool and run until it reached the realms of impossibility, he could see where Inez and Susan were coming from. It occurs to him that Jerry and him are, well, they're quite touchy with each other. Absentminded little things that he'd never even noticed before now jump to his attention, red and blaring, more so in how natural they are to them: Layne bumping his hip into Jerry's; Jerry leaning forward to place his fingertips on Layne's chest while they're talking; Layne putting his feet on top of Jerry's when they're sitting across each other; Jerry hooking his chin onto Layne's shoulder to watch him draw.

Or, his desperate mind wonders, if it's how much time they spend together, huddled close with their guitars and notebooks open wide, grinning at each other when they stumble upon something that sounds particularly good. Or how they completely lose it over each other's jokes, no matter how lame they are. Or—

The whole thing is stupid, he is aware of that; has been repeating it to himself so often that the words have begun to lose their meaning and turned into an empty mantra. So Inez and Susan both think that there is… something going on between him and Jerry. It shouldn't be such a big deal. What is left of the rational part of his brain tells him that he should just laugh and move on with a shrug of his shoulder.

They're close and they're touchy with each other but they've always been that way. They're best friends after all, it's how best friends are.

Right?

As if he weren't already questioning his sanity, he's been more and more often finding himself just… looking at Jerry; getting caught on his profile as they're standing outside, the straight slope of his nose stark against the sky, lips parted to blow out a puff of smoke. Other time his eyes fly up to Jerry standing in front of him, talking to one of the roadies, and unwittingly they run down his back, map the way it tapers down to the slim waist. It's easy enough to look away and pretend that it doesn't mean anything, even as the tops of his ear burn for the next few minutes.

It's not so easy when they're on stage; sometimes he looks over his shoulder and watches Jerry whip the honey-colored mane of his hair back while he plays, sometimes his eyes get stuck on the planes of his chest shiny with sweat.

Once Jerry comes to stand right next to him during the second half of Would?. Layne turns his head, their eyes lock and Jerry beams at him, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, wispy strands of hair stuck to his flushed face. It hits Layne like a swing of a baseball bat.

It also wakes a shivery and raw feeling in the pit of his stomach; a pair of jaws opening up threateningly, craving and wanting. He averts his gaze and tries to ignore the mixture of confusion and embarrassment filling up his chest, but it only turns into tarry guilt that sticks to his ribs.

He looks at the waves of the faceless crowd in front of him and decides that he needs to put a stop to this. At the earliest opportunity he'll tell both Inez and Susan that for reasons that escape him (he'll make sure to stress that part) they've got the wrong impression; there is nothing going on between him and Jerry. That'll be the end of it and the world will once again begin to turn on its original axis.

Turns out finding the right moment to discuss a pretty delicate problem with your bandmate while on tour is basically impossible. It's not just the constant whirlwind of performing, traveling, and mingling with other bands on the roll; when there is a pause, a chance to breathe out and stretch their limbs heavy with exhaustion, there is never any real privacy — not enough for Layne to be comfortable bringing it up anyway.

His heart jerks with anticipation then when he enters the unusually quiet tour bus and catches a glimpse of a dark-haired figure sitting in front of their television. But it settles down right away as he realizes with a small twist of disappointment that it's Sean. Even from the distance Layne can hear the furious mashing of controller buttons.

“Sonic again?” he asks before he comes closer and recognizes the familiar blue hedgehog spinning and running across the screen.

“Yep,” Sean answers, not even bothering to turn back.

Layne hums and is about to go to the kitchen area, when the idea to ask Sean about it drifts across his mind, so sudden and unexpected it halts him mid-step. He's about to brush it aside, but the thought sinks its teeth into him. Sean who's known both of them longer than Susan and Inez, who's even lived with them under the same roof.

Layne mulls it over as he chews on his lower lip. He decides that he won't give himself the chance to chicken out and lowers himself next to Sean, crossing his legs.

He looks over at the drummer who is completely immersed in the game; eyes glued to the screen, eyebrows drawn together. This isn't the right time for any conversation let alone for bringing up if Sean thinks that two of his bandmates are secretly screwing each other.

Layne shifts a little as the question continues to gnaw at him.

He figures he might try going at it from a different angle, remembering certain suspicion that had fluttered around his mind, vague and unlikely, but suspicion nevertheless.

“You're not pulling a prank on me, right?”

The frown on Sean's face deepens. His gaze shifts toward Layne for a split second before it flies back to the TV screen.

“Huh? What?” Sean says. He sounds more annoyed than confused, can't you see I'm busy? ringing loud and clear through his words. Layne ignores it just like he ignores the slight pang of guilt between his ribs.

“You and Inez,” he clarifies, and then adds, even though he is fully aware of how ridiculous it sounds, “… and Susan.”

Sean makes an incredulous sound in the back of his throat.

“What the hell are you talking about, Staley?”

“So you're not?” Layne asks again instead of answering. He almost winces at the tinge of desperation in his voice.

Sean's eyes actually meet his for the first time, the brown stirring with a mixture of bewilderment and concern. He doesn't have to say anything for Layne to see that he's wondering if his bandmate is high out of his mind or just completely crazy. Layne can't say that he blames him.

When Sean opens his mouth he speaks slowly, letting the words hang in the air, like he is trying to make sure that Layne has enough time to absorb them.

“No — me, Inez, and Susan, are not pulling any pranks on you… unless it's only the two of them and I don't think I have enough imagination for that. Now can you tell me what the fuck this is about?”

Layne draws slow circles on his knee with his thumb. The courage from earlier quickly drains from his body, but it's not like he can just drop it now. His tongue feels leaden in his mouth, but he forces it to move.

“They both think that… that Jerry and I are sleeping together.”

Silence stretches between them. It's two seconds long, maybe three, but to Layne it seems agonizingly long.

Sean doesn't look away from the screen as he snorts, derisive.

“Yeah, well, aren't you?”

Layne's eyebrows shoot up, before he shoves Sean's shoulder. The drummer barks out a laugh, completely unbothered.

“You're not serious,” Layne accuses him.

“I'm totally serious,” Sean says, voice lighter than summer breeze. While his good humor is one of his more charming qualities, right now Layne's dangerously close to shoving him again. And a lot harder this time.

Sean's eyes flicker to Layne's, who doesn't bother to try and conceal his annoyance. Sean grunts as he turns back to Sonic.

“Don't look at me like that, dude. What are you gonna tell me next — that they think grass is green and water is wet?”

It cuts through Layne, clean and smooth like knife through melting butter. He tries to suppress the panic clawing at his chest, takes in a breath. This is Sean, he's still fucking with you, he reasons or tries to at least.

All of a sudden Sean curses loudly. Layne's head snaps to the screen just as it fades to black, the words Game Over appearing on it.

“Shit! I almost had it,” Sean groans, letting the controller fall onto the carpeted floor with a thud.

Layne watches him rub his eyes, frustrated and irked. He feels a twist of annoyance aimed at himself, but he wants to— no, he needs to make sure that Sean's been messing with him, that he too doesn't think that the singer and guitarist in his band are romantically involved. For Christ's sake.

Sean picks up the controller and restarts the stage.

“Listen—”

That's as far as Layne gets, before Sean cuts him off. “Layne, buddy, I appreciate the company but can you shut the fuck up?”

And well, Layne isn't going to be a complete asshole. So he swallows the question even though it burns in his throat.

“Was just gonna say that you have my unwavering support,” he says weakly. Sean offers an absentminded thanks, his attention already turned to the game.

Layne watches him play for a while, but all he can focus on is the uneasiness settling in the pit of his stomach like a layer of gravel.

When he enters their hotel room he is arrested by soft music rippling through the air. He holds onto the doorknob and listens. It's a mellow little tune that he doesn't recognize, must be something new Jerry's working on. He cranes his neck and sure enough, he spots Jerry lying on his bed, booted feet planted on the ground, guitar sitting across his lap. Layne closes the door as quietly as he can.

He walks over to the foot of the bed. Jerry's eyes are closed, his forehead wrinkled in concentration.

“Is that a new song?” Layne asks softly, scared to break whatever spell Jerry is under.

“Maybe,” the guitarist says with his eyes still shut. The melody morphs into something livelier as he begins to improvise; his long fingers dance over the fretboard, nimble and spider-like, never faltering. Layne could watch him do this for hours.

But Jerry stops eventually, his fingers stilling. He opens his eyes, turns his head to the side until their gazes meet.

“Hey,” he says like he's just noticed Layne is in the room. It pulls on the corners of Layne's mouth until there's a stupid smile stuck to his face.

“Hey,” he parrots and Jerry's lips twitch as well.

The melody is still swirling around Layne's head. He's about to ask him some more about it, when Jerry sits up. He studies Layne's face, eyes skimming over his features; looking for an answer to a question Layne's not privy to.

Then: “You wanna talk?”

The smile on Layne's face drops slightly. He cocks an eyebrow, “About… ?” he asks, ignoring the elephant that's been stomping in the corner of his mind for around three weeks now.

Jerry shrugs a little too nonchalantly. "Dunno," his fingers strum the guitar: once, twice. "You look like you've got something on your mind."

Layne nearly laughs at that, because isn't that the understatement of the century.

He'd been stewing for days torn if he should talk to Jerry about it — or rather he'd known he would talk to him about it… eventually. He probably should’ve known that Jerry would see that there is something bothering him; that there is some persistent worm burrowing itself in the folds of his brain. He always seems to pick up on whatever shade Layne’s thoughts are at any given moment, almost perfectly attuned to his particular frequency. Right now Layne can’t decide whether he should be glad for it or curse it.

He sits down on the bed next to Jerry with a sigh. But when he feels his gaze on his cheek, the brush of his shoulder against his own, he lies down instead, mimicking Jerry's position from earlier. He fixes his gaze on the ceiling as he wonders how he should go about this.

“It's, uh… kinda weird. Or no it's pretty fuckin' weird, actually.”

He glances over at Jerry; he's put the guitar away and is now turned halfway towards Layne.

“All right,” he says easily, patiently.

Layne seeks the safe blankness of the ceiling again. The beginnings of various sentences weigh on his tongue; he rolls them over, but none of them feel right. Then again it seems pointless anyway. Not much use wrapping a blanket around the grenade he's about to throw, hoping it will somehow ease the impact.

So he simply blurts out: “Everybody thinks we're fucking.”

The silence that follows covers everything like volcanic ash. He dares a look back at Jerry; his head is turned to the side, his face pensive.

“Everybody?” he asks, sounding somewhere between confused and curious. Layne doesn't know what to make of the fact that he doesn't seem to be shocked, at least not as much as he himself had been.

He clears his throat. “Susan, Inez, Sean — well, I think Sean does. I still don't know if he was messing with me or not.”

Jerry just hums at that. A small furrow forms between his brows. Like he is weighing it over, trying to decide what to make of it; like he doesn’t believe it — believe Layne.

“I'm not fucking with you,” it flies past his lips in a rush, the words mushed together, “'Cause that's what I thought it was at first, y'know. I thought it might a prank or something. But it's not.”

Jerry turns back towards him. His eyes map a crooked crescent above Layne's head before they settle on his face. They are somehow completely unreadable to Layne and it both frustrates and disturbs him.

“They really think that?”

Layne nods. There is a pause, then Jerry huffs out, “That's kinda funny.”

“Yeah, kinda,” Layne echoes lamely.

Neither of them laughs.

Layne fights the urge to squirm, unused to the unfamiliar tension that stretches between them. He wants to reach out to Jerry, clasp his shoulders, demand tell me I’m not crazy, it’s all bullshit, right? until Jerry gives him one of his warm smiles and agrees.

Instead he stays as he is, pinned to the bed like a dead butterfly.

It’s Jerry who breaks the silence with a murmured, “So that's what's been eating you.” He leans on his hand closer to Layne, studying his face as he had done earlier, the question from before answered.

Layne plays with the ring on his index finger, twists it from side to side.

“I know it's not a big deal and I should just laugh it off… but I can’t. I keep thinking about it 'cause I’m trying to figure out why,” he actually laughs then; a short, joyless sound that stutters from his throat. “We hang out a lot, but we're best friends, so it's not that weird, right?”

“Right,” Jerry responds, sounding somewhat apprehensive. Layne hears it but it doesn't really register. He's lost in the words that are pouring out of his mouth in an unchecked stream; finally being let out after circling around his head for weeks.

“Besides we work on songs so we gotta spend a lot of time together. And we also do with the other guys, so I don't think that's it — or it's just part of it, y'know. I think it's 'cause we're really touchy with each other.”

It takes him a second to realize what he's just said. He shuts his mouth, teeth clicking together, and thinks about biting his stupid tongue off and swallowing it.

Unidentifiable emotion flits across Jerry's features, there and gone again.

“We are?” he asks, his eyebrows twitching upward.

“Yeah, I've been, um, kinda noticing that.”

Layne tries not to focus on the awful heat that's crawling up his neck.

Jerry dips his chin, stares at the small space between them. The urge to know what's going on inside his head is maddening at this point.

When he looks up again, it’s there, finally, a hint of emotion seeping through the blank surface, but it's not what Layne'd expected — Jerry's jaw tenses, the blue in his eyes darkens and turns into two clusters of clouds threaded with lighting.

An alarm starts to go off in the back of Layne's head.

“So you want us to stop, is that it?”

Layne blinks up at him, tries to connect the words to the conversation so far and fails.

“With what?”

“The touching, spending most of our time together, whatever… I can switch rooms with Sean or Inez if you want.”

Layne feels more than hears the quiver of anger in his voice; it hits him in the sternum like shrapnel. It startles him but only for a second.

He raises himself on his elbows. A spike of ire begins to poke in his side now as well, lodging itself into his flesh, infecting it.

“What are you talking about? Why the fuck would I want that?” he nearly snarls.

Jerry's shoulder jerks up and down as if yanked it by an invisible string.

“Dunno — to put some distance between us, so people don't think you're sleeping with me. It freaks you out. I get it.”

An answer crawls onto Layne's tongue, oozing with bile, and he has to clench his jaws to stop it from hurling itself out of his mouth. Whatever barrier had been between them is gone, shattered, and now the anger gushes from each of them like blood from open wounds; it pools and blends around them in a hot, suffocating mess.

He’d hoped that when he’d tell Jerry about the whole thing he’d call Layne an idiot and tell him to stop overthinking it. That he would help Layne with screwing his head back on; his brain would shift in its proper place and all these muddled thoughts that have been plaguing him would fall out in the process. Maybe that was naive of him. Maybe even slightly assholish. He's too riled up to dwell on it, though, let alone admit it.

He takes in a shuddery breath.

“No, that's not why I'm telling you. How—,” how could you even think I’d want that from you? he doesn't say, even though it burns through his tongue like acid. “What throws me is them, all right? Their… fuckin’ strange impression of us. Not you, not us. You seriously think I'd be telling you all of this if I felt weird or uncomfortable around you?”

He can basically hear Jerry turning it over in his head, looking for any crack, any catch.

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to think?” he retorts. His voice is quieter, though the sharp edge is still there.

There are about a dozen of things Layne could say to that, but as the hum in his ears begins to subside he sees most of them for what they are: covered in unnecessary thorns or tasting like pointless accusations.

All of a sudden he is overcome with the urge to hold onto Jerry, his fingers itching with it; hoping that somehow gestures will speak clearer than words. He reaches out.

For a single, crushing second Jerry's shoulder twitches as if he’s about to draw back, but he remains still instead, lets Layne take a hold of his slender forearm. It's impossible for Layne to ignore how rigid it is beneath his palm.

He waits until all of the anger evaporates from him, before he trusts himself to speak again.

“Look, I'm— I'm just being a dumbass. I'm well aware of that and I figured you'd tell me the same thing,” he admits.

He isn't surprised when Jerry's lips remain drawn in a tight, stubborn line. Layne squeezes his arm and tries again.

“I don't want anything to change between us, okay? Jesus Christ, you're my best friend. I guess it's not even that weird that they think that about me and you. It would freak me out a lot more if people thought that, like, me and Sean were fucking,” he hears himself babbling, but he doesn't really care anymore.

Jerry is still quiet, but slowly the frown on his face begins to crack; the corner of his mouth curls up and his forehead smooths over.

He huffs out what is almost a laugh. "Gee, Blanche, you know how to make a guy feel special." It is a subtle peace offering that Layne is more than willing to accept. In turn he doesn't bother suppressing the grin that forces itself onto his face.

“One of my many talents,” he retorts easily and Jerry ducks his head, trying to hide his smile. The muscles in his forearm relax in Layne's grip.

The heaviness that's been sitting on top of Layne's chest melts away; the knot in his stomach comes loose, untangling and flooding him with light relief. It feels normal again, feels like them — their atmospheres overlapping in familiar way.

Jerry's raising his head, when his gaze catches on Layne's fingers still wrapped around his forearm.

“You're doing it right now,” he says. It's gentle, but there is the tiniest wisp of teasing.

“I know,” is all Layne says, none of the embarrassment clinging to him anymore. To make his point, he runs his thumb across the paper-thin skin on the inside of Jerry's wrist.

Still it doesn't fully chase away the need to make Jerry believe him. Hell, he's already ripped himself open here — he might as well go on; expose more of the tender, fleshy core he's normally so protective of.

He takes in a breath and slowly pushes the words out as if they were made of porcelain.

“I like touching you… even if it gives people the wrong idea.”

Jerry's mouth curves up, likely about to crack another joke, but then his eyes soften and in a voice even quieter than Layne's says, “That's good to hear. I like touching you, too.”

Heat is creeping into Layne's cheeks again, though he finds some solace in seeing that Jerry's face is unusually pink as well. He runs his thumb across the soft skin again, feeling the raised veins beneath it.

Just then the raw ache he'd nearly forgotten about makes itself known, blooms within him like a bruise. For God's sake, Staley, get a grip, he reprimands himself; wonders if these past weeks have actually turned him insane, cracked his head in some fatal way, never to be healed again.

He doesn't know what is showing on his face, but Jerry gives him a look that immediately stops the whirring in his head. It soaks through Layne's skin and continues to seep into the deepest parts of him. Not entirely unpleasant shiver runs down his spine.

Jerry turns; Layne lets go of him and Jerry shifts once more, leans forward on his arms. Their knees knock together and suddenly he is right above Layne.

Layne is immobile. He can't breathe, can't blink; a mosquito trapped in a drop of amber.

“I hope I'm not the one getting the wrong idea here,” Jerry jokes, but the words are shaky, trembling in the air.

A strand of hair slides from behind his shoulder and falls in front of his face, the ends of it tickling Layne's cheek. It pulls Layne out of his stupor and he reaches up, his fingers shaking only minutely as they tuck the strand behind Jerry's ear.

“I think you're all right,” he replies, voice barely above whisper.

For a moment Jerry stares at him with what can only be described as devastating fondness. It lances through Layne and cuts his heart in two perfect halves.

Jerry lowers himself until he's propped on his elbows, his face hovering above Layne's. It should be weird, Layne thinks, it should be surreal to be this close to him; to feel their breaths mingle in the small space between them, to feel his body practically lying on top of his own. And yet inexplicably it doesn't.

Hesitation flickers across Jerry's face, an unspoken question swirling in his eyes: are you sure? The uncertainty is so unlike him, coloring his features in odd, but endearing way. Layne places his hand on Jerry's waist and manages to nod. They're so close that he can feel the quiet exhale of relief that Jerry lets out. Then the gap between them grows smaller and Layne closes his eyes in excruciating anticipation.

Jerry presses his lips to Layne's for maybe a second. The tender skin brushes against his own like a blade of grass swinging in the breeze. It's barely anything, a shadow of a kiss rather than the real thing. The want that's been pulsating beneath his ribs twists and keens, dissatisfied. And Layne doesn't have it in him to fight it anymore — doesn't see a reason why he should. He puts his hand on the back of Jerry's head and draws him in a proper kiss.

It seems to take Jerry by surprise, but he gives in right away; cups the side of Layne's face and angles him so he can deepen the kiss and Layne nearly sighs with relief. They slot together easily, their bodies melting into each other, slow and honey-like. It's as if they've done this a thousand times and the irony isn't lost on Layne.

It scratches the incessant itch within him and in its place deep warmth spreads throughout his body. He wraps his arm around Jerry's middle, draws him closer until he must feel it too, radiating through Layne's skin.

He parts his lips and doesn't have to wait long for Jerry to pick up on the invitation; all of the earlier hesitation is gone as he licks into Layne's mouth. He brushes his tongue against Layne's, a faint taste of nicotine clinging on it. Layne buries his fingers in Jerry's hair, tugs on it slightly until Jerry lets out a beautiful, low hum.

Time drips lazily around them, turns into something irrelevant outside of their little globule. When Jerry pulls away, they both inhale shakily. His pupils are so blown that there is only a thin line of blue around them; his lips are red and swollen and Layne finds it difficult to focus on anything else.

Jerry runs the pad of his thumb across Layne's cheekbone, looking at him as if he can't believe that he's holding him like this.

“Okay?” he breathes out, brushing Layne's cheek again.

Featherlight giddiness washes over Layne and if Jerry wasn't on top of him, holding him, he thinks he might float away with it. A smile tugs on his lips. His hand drops from the back of Jerry's head and catches his wrist, fingers curling around it.

“Yeah, I'm okay,” he says and for the first time in a while he means it.