Chapter Text
It was a cold day. So bloody cold, in fact, that Jesse made the executive decision to skip his usual saturday jog. This choice wasn’t at all influenced by the dark rings etched under his eyes, or the sore ache in his heart, or his pounding hangover, of course. He glanced out the frosty window of his apartment. Snow was starting to gently drift onto the street, washing the world of colour. His hand, seemingly with a mind of its own, drifted towards the framed photograph lying face down on the cabinet next to him. He nearly touched it, brushed the side of the frame, then jerked his hand back; what did he care? He didn’t need Lucas. His sharp intake of breath at the thought of him whispered otherwise.
“Fuck you.” He muttered under his breath. He sat down on his sagging couch, hands fumbling for the bourbon on the coffee table. He still hadn’t cleaned up from last night. A half finished coffee cup had been upturned, contents pooling on his dining table. He glanced around searching for a glass. Didn’t find one, figured he didn’t really need one anyway, took a swig from the bottle. The alcohol muted his feelings, replacing the hopeless hollow with stifling loneliness - only just more bearable. He replayed last night in his head, each word, every utterance swimming in his haze. ‘Feel differently now’. ‘Leaving town’.
‘Girlfriend’. That part stung Jesse the most. Had any part of their relationship been real? He took another swig of bourbon only to find the bottle was empty. Hardly any had been left after last night. He threw it aside, almost disappointed that the glass didn’t shatter. He needed the feeling of catharsis that came with destruction. Perhaps what he needed was a jog, after all. He forced himself to stand, suddenly aware of the strong reek of alcohol and cigarettes emanating from him - everybody had methods of coping, his just tended to be strongly scented. Maybe a shower was in order first.
Jesse found no reconciliation in washing off his vices. Instead he got it over with as quickly as possible, changing into fresh clothes. He glanced at himself in the mirror as he dressed. He wasn’t looking too great for 27. His scruffy facial hair made him look older, as did the dark undereye engraved on his face. Tired brown eyes stared into themselves. Chestnut hair was growing a little too long, tickling the back of his neck. Despite Ontario being devoid of any sun, his skin was still tan from years in New Mexico. If not for the unhealthy amount of whiskey in his body, the thought of his home town at the present moment would likely have eked out an emotional convulsion. As it was, he just stared at himself and wondered what the hell he was doing.
“Lookin’ damn rough around the edges.” He mumbled, scratching his chin. Lucas had loved his drawling southern accent. His fingers curled, his nails bit into his skin. His headache gripped behind his eyes a little tighter. No more thinking. He buttoned up his plaid shirt and averted his eyes from the mirror.
His jacket did nothing to stop his shivering in the freezing cold. He walked briskly down the street, head hunched down. Thank god there was nobody else dumb enough to be out in this weather; he probably looked like a hobo, wearing his old ripped jeans after having found they were his only clean pair. There was a coffee shop on this street, right? The bourbon was kicking in, making navigation a little difficult. He stopped at a crossing and stared up at the street post. He kicked it, then growled when dislodged snow hit his head and shoulder. There must be somewhere he could get a half-decent meal. He chose to go left and began to trudge up the whitewashed street.
“Get away from me!” Jesse took a moment to realise someone - quite close to him, in fact - was yelling. Torn from his dwelling, Jesse glanced behind him in confusion. A man’s voice yelled again. The cry almost sounded like a warning. Jesse looked to his left and yelped. Down a thin alleyway, he saw a figure pressed against a wall. Between him and safety were three mangy dogs, hackles clearly raised. Jesse started to run towards him.
“Hey! You mutts, get outta here! Get!” He yelled, waving his hands. That was how you scared dogs, right? You made yourself look bigger. Or maybe that was bears. Either way, the dogs - wolves? - turned their attention to him and snarled. Jesse’s run faltered. The mutts seemed to be sizing him up, considering whether he was worth a fight. They seemed to think so, because before Jesse could react the three were tearing towards him. The biggest of the three was the first to reach him. It was clear to him now that they were wolves. Jesse yelled in pain as yellow fangs sank into his arm, puncturing the fabric he wore like it was gossamer. He pulled his arm away violently.
“Damn!” He kicked at the wolf. It whimpered and recoiled, ears pressed flat against its skull. The other two wolves watched the fight with grimacing faces. For a moment, Jesse and the largest Wolf stood off. He glared at its golden eyes, daring it to approach again. It seemed that the wolf decided it had more important matters to attend to. After barking at Jesse it turned on its head and ran, the rest of its miniature pack following close behind.
“Goddamn it - fuck, my arm!” Jesse clutched his right arm tightly. The stranger finally peeled himself off the wall and tentatively approached. He was quite a bit shorter than Jesse, with jet black hair and eyes.
“Were you bitten?” The stranger’s voice was crisp, accented - Chinese? No, Japanese - and more demanding than concerned. Jesse looked up at the other man with watering eyes.
“I dunno partner, you tell me.” He replied grumpily, watching a rivulet of blood begin to soak through the fabric of his jacket. And he’d just had it dry cleaned too. The man muttered something angrily in Japanese, his stern face pulled into a sour frown.
“You must go home.” The man demanded. Jesse looked at him incredulously.
“Excuse me? Bless your heart little fella, but I need to go to hospital!” He snapped back.
“Urusai.” The stranger snapped back. Although he didn’t understand it, Jesse could guess the meaning. ‘Shut your trap’.
“You need to go home.” The man repeated.
“Look buddy, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’ve had a bitch of a week, I’ve just had my arm bitten by some mangy dog - saving you, so mind your goddamn mouth - and now you’re tryin’ a tell me not to get medical attention?” Jesse had put up with this odd stranger enough, and he coldly turned on his heel. Suddenly he felt his headache renew, and winced as a cramp made his bitten arm tense up. He started to try to roll up his sleeve but found that his arm had now split into two swimming copies in his vision. He looked up at the stranger with a confused expression, then fell to his knees as nausea set in.
“I am taking you home.” The man declared, helping him stand. He threw Jesse’s unhurt arm over his shoulder and started to help him walk down the road. Jesse decided that going home was at least an upgrade from the freezing street, and allowed the stranger to half-drag him down the road.
“I’m at… Fifty-seven north street… keys’re in m’ pocket...” He mumbled. His mouth felt full of wool, muffling any words he tried to say. He winced as his arm erupted in pain again unannounced. His body then decided it had endured enough. his eyes rolled back into his skull, his head slumped forward, and he drifted into unconsciousness.
When Jesse opened his eyes his first thought was, ‘I’m home.’ The second thought was, ‘Goddamn fuck that fucking hurts shit fucking fuck’. He let out a groan and tried to roll over. This only intensified the pain, so he rolled back to his original position and forced his burning eyes to open. He was slumped over on his couch, no longer wearing his jacket. He glanced at his arm. A cloth bandage had been tightly wrapped around the wound. Red stains on the carpet led to where he was sitting.
“Have some tea.” The accented voice brought today’s events rushing back. Sadness, then adrenaline, anger, pain. He looked up to find a mug being handed to him by the man he’d met on the street. The sleep had sobered him up a little and he was able to now properly examine the stranger. The man’s black hair was tied neatly into a small ponytail. A few locks of straight hair hung on the right side of his face. His clothes were casual - black jeans and a dark shirt. Jesse stared at him for a moment, then dazedly accepted the drink.
“You’re in my house.”
“Yes.” The stranger’s affirmation had no effect on Jesse. His mind, still fuzzy with confusion, pain and the lingering hangover, could only manage one thought.
I need to stop drinking that goddamn whisky.