It starts about Jimmy's songs. Well, Kyle's not exactly sure, but that's usually where it starts.
It always starts with Jimmy being protective, like he's stuffing his music under his leather jacket – under his chest where he caves in around it, as if the world was falling down and that would be the last thing that he'd save before he dies. But...Kyle gets it, you know? That feeling when you've got something that you wouldn't trade for the world, even if some big shot director has already gotten a hold of you and your to-be musical. If they ever get it finished, that is.
Whatever.
Kyle's been dealing with this shit since he and Jimmy were children anyway, and it doesn't look like it'll stop anytime soon, unless Jimmy falls off a roof and his brain magically rewires itself.
Where it starts isn't the problem. Where it ends is the actual issue, because it lands Kyle searching through the entirety of New York (not really) for Jimmy after he takes off for an unknown reason. Hence, why Kyle assumes it has something to do with their musical. Or Jimmy's musical. Those two are all and the same to him.
Either way, Jimmy's probably dead drunk or about to OD on something, because he's a big jerkface that never really thinks about anything, except when it concerns him.
And, yeah, sometimes that's too much for Kyle – whether Jimmy pushes his temper too much, or he gets hurt real bad for something shitty, or his jerk face-yness takes him far enough to end up kissing some girl in an alleyway and then fucking her. Eventually Kyle just snaps like a rubber band. He takes his lot of stored energy before rebounding it into kinetic, and then returns to his usual peace of mind.
All that said, those are the true reasons why Kyle is murderously stalking down some nameless road, eyes searching every back door of the bars that he passes. He's familiar enough with this routine that some of the workers taking a smoke break tend to shake their head and smile sympathetically.
Because that's what he is.
Some cute kid who can sing his heart out cleaning up after Jimmy's mess, probably (most likely), horribly in love with an asshole. Though that was true, it's not like he's going to abandon Jimmy to a terrible death just to save face.
He may be the worst person in the world, but Kyle's not going to leave him alone because that's not Kyle. Jimmy can end up murdering thirteen people with a cute girl on his arm, but Kyle's going to be there in the background to make sure that the law doesn't catch up to them.
Classic third wheel…though he doesn't mind too much. He's used to it.
Kyle rounds the corner, peeking suspiciously into every alleyway that he is much too familiar with, glancing down at every vomit stain that darkens the cracked pavement. He shivers in disgust, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
He pulls his scarf higher until it covers his mouth, zipping up his jacket, and heading toward Times Square. He's been searching for three hours; Kyle supposes that he's allowed to disappear in the crowd too. Jimmy's a selfish prick.
He hums absently to himself as he passes a flower shop, hanging pots and dangling petunias and other such blossoms peeking into the corner of his vision.
He slows at the sight of a leather jacket, a girl with curling brown hair next to him. Kyle nearly mistakes them for Jimmy and Karen for a split second, but then they start talking about arrangements for some marriage. The lady behind the counter smiles happily and points to some paper on her counter.
Kyle knows that they aren't his friends, but he could've hoped that it was. The guy's voice is all wrong, mangled and much too high, and the girl talks like she's had one too many cigarettes this morning, so Kyle directs his gaze to a bouquet of roses and tiger lilies that sit in front of him. His fingers twitch nervously in his pockets.
He really needs to find Jimmy.
He sighs heavily, taking off in the direction of Table Forty-Six, because maybe – just maybe – he's there for once.
Playing the piano because their singer is sick or whatever, even though he knows that he's not supposed to. Kyle doesn't know; he just hopes blindly and wishes that it'd all work out.
He walks through the door, scanning the room discreetly, looking for Jimmy's face out of everybody there, even going as far as circling the piano and the backroom. There are only a few of their co-workers and some guys hanging out over drinks.
At noon.
Kyle sighs, but its not like Jimmy's doing any better than they are. The men are laughing raucously over a rerun of some basketball game, booing at players when they miss a shot. He ignores them, glancing his watch impulsively, and circles the kitchen to check out the back door, trying not to look suspicious.
The guys that are on their shift understand why Kyle's here, though. He doesn't even need to ask for them to frown sadly, shrugging their shoulders, and then run over to refill beer cups and bottom-heavy scotch glasses.
Great, Kyle thinks. Jimmy's gone, and Derek needs him for whatever stupid reason that he does, and I can't find him. Just peachy
Kyle's eye twitches out of annoyance, but he turns to leave, sighing impatiently. He needs to be back at their his apartment in an hour at least, or he'd never make it back without having to call a cab. Or Karen.
Fuck Karen, Kyle is walking home without her help. Besides, she and Jimmy seemed to have become best buddies or something, so maybe that's where he is.
His phone buzzes with a new text message, and he digs it out of his jacket pocket, swiping at the screen to type in his password. It's from Karen.
Karen: have you found him yet?
So Jimmy's not with her. Figures.
Kyle: No. I've been looking since like nine, but he just took off during the night, and I can't find him anywhere
Karen: oh. okay. tell me if you find him – derek's pitching a fit over one of your songs
Kyle: Yeah, I'll call Jimmy again and tell him that Derek's unhappy and he should "get his ass over to the rehearsal studio asap"?
Karen: that's a nice message…but derek's not mad at you guys or anything
Kyle: I thought that you said he was pitching a fit or whatever
Karen: it's derek's way of saying that he likes something
Kyle: Wow. Uh, sure, yeah that sounds great.
Kyle doesn't get much farther before somebody rips his phone out of his hand, and he comes face to face with one of the more intoxicated men at the bar. Or, should he say – face to shoulder, because the guy is at least six foot four, and so are his friends. Kyle sighs inwardly.
"Can I help you?" Kyle asks meekly, fingers twisting together. It would be a lie to say that he's nervous.
"Get us another round, jailbait," the man says, his words already slurred beyond normal speech. If Kyle weren't so used to working with insanely drunk people that called him plenty of names, he would never have been able to make out his statement – not to mention the fact that it was hard for even him to take a stab at guessing his request.
"U-uhm, excuse me?" he asks again, wincing.
"I said," the man growls, his breath sour on Kyle's face. "Get me another drink!" Kyle shrinks back a little. Kyle's phone clatters to the ground, but he doesn't bother to pick it up, kicking it behind him instead.
"I-I don't, um, I don't work here," he lies, trying to shuffle in the direction of the door, the kitchen, anywhere but here.
"Yeah ya do," the man hisses, "I saw you goin' back to say hello to your little friends five minutes ago." He jabs his finger in Kyle's chest. "Don't you lie to me," he whispers, his face barely three inches apart from Kyle's own.
"No, no, no, no, no," Kyle says quickly, "I don't think you understand," he tries. "I-I really don't work here, I can't get you anything-I'm sorry."
"I don't give a fuck, jailbait," he spits angrily, "I want another round for me and my friends, and we want it now."
Kyle continues backing up, but the man follows, stepping forward every time Kyle's foot goes back. Kyle's hands are held in front of his chest, trying to placate, console, ward away, but it's not working, and he glances behind him for a split second. His mistake.
The man notices the change in attention, and gets closer to Kyle, bending down so that his back makes a smooth arch over Kyle's five-eight stature, made even smaller as Kyle automatically curls in on himself for protection.
"Please, oh god, I'm really sorry I don't work here, I'm really not allowed to get you a-," Kyle is cut off by a fist slamming into the side of his face. He staggers, surprised, hands flying to his jaw as he's driven closer to the wall by the door – the man's alcohol stained breath like clouds around his head. Kyle feels fear well up inside him for the first time, and he can't do anything but repeat his words and stutter out some broken apologies along with it.
The man pushes against Kyle's chest – hard, and Kyle's ankle buckles underneath him, caught on the edge of the rug beneath his feet. His leg twists artfully underneath him, as if the sigma it pulls his body into is something careful, planned, and Kyle is down, scrambling backwards on his forearms. He just wants to get away, he out of the drunkard's path. He tries pushing himself up, but his leg doesn't move, just drags itself along the ground with the rest of his torso.
He goes as far as he can, his back hitting the fogged over glass that makes itself a wall, still pulled to the ground with his entire left side throbbing. Kyle feels his throat close up on him, something harsh building in his nose bridge, like his chair is tipping over the edge of a cliff that plunges straight down into the ocean, but he can't tell when he's going to fall – when he's going to die.
Kyle begs, he fucking begs on the floor, puncturing the comments of "jailbait", and "faggot", and "I could mess up your cute face so bad" with his pleading, as he tucks his bad leg closer to his side, but never able to really move it from the floor. There's a crescendo in the conversation and Kyle is suddenly standing, two hands at his throat, pushing his weight onto his bad leg. The words loose themselves in the blood that rushes to his head and the frantic wheezing that is bad enough to make his head spin, the world coming down in colors and shapes and blurred vision.
His foot is sickled painfully under his weight, and Kyle can already feel the bruising that's going to show tomorrow. His leg is going numb, and so is his throat, and he can barely detect the way it jumps and seizes uncomfortably as he struggles to breathe around the man's sausage fingers. They press up against his windpipe, forcing the air out of his lungs and not letting it back in, turning his lips a pale shade of blue, his face staining pink under his lack of oxygen.
Kyle can't say anything anymore, not even a word to try and get the man's hands off of him. He can only scrabble mindlessly at the iron grip around his throat, vision starting to go dark around the edges. His arms drop to his sides, unable to feel his fingers.
Yup. This is it for him. What a lovely way to go.
His eyes flutter shut in a half-assed lieu for him to try and not vomit, even though he can't (not really) – not until the smack of a fist against skin and the familiar sound of a nose breaking. Then Kyle's dropped to the floor, air flooding his lungs, and vision blurring uncomfortably. He barely makes out the throbbing of his ankle through the haze of a fight, the guy who just had his hands around his neck being pulled back by his friends, who – apparently – finally decided to look over and check out what was taking him so long.
Kyle wheezes painfully, a harsh sound, and he presses shaking hands onto his jeans, wiping them dry. The shapes haven't gotten any clearer than they were five seconds ago, but that doesn't matter, because the taller guy is being hauled off, supposedly outside and to a taxi, and the other is walking toward Kyle, crouching down until he's almost level with him.
"Hey," he says.
Kyle sighs in relief, but the breath turns into a staggering cough at the end. Rough hands then press against his cheeks, pulling his chin up so that his eyes are looking at what should be Jimmy. Except the very convenient fact that he can't really see.
"Kyle," Jimmy says, a shade rougher in his tone. "Kyle are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm-I'm fine," he manages, head rolling to the side. He winces. Jimmy's hands get tighter around his face.
Kyle's not going to lie; he really likes this attention if he's going to be completely honest. Jimmy's not a touchy-feely kind of person – never was – even with Kyle. The only time he really ever got close to somebody besides Kyle…was Karen, and then they had stopped talking for a week, but that's besides the point.
Jimmy's rude. He's crass and loud and always wants his way with everything, and doesn't stop until he gets it, or is persuaded otherwise. Sometimes through forgiveness, but mostly through Derek slapping him until he gets it. It took Kyle three seconds and a head nod to realize that Jimmy's a jerk, of all shades and colors, but people just suck it up and deal because, like it or not, he's got real talent and some pretty accurate gut instincts.
Hence, why Kyle, even as Jimmy's best friend, is kind of shocked and honestly surprised that Jimmy would be the person to start being overly concerned about him. Jimmy usually doesn't care if people are injured. He just tosses a pack of frozen peas at their face and tells them to "go with it. Complaining ain't gonna change anything."
"Talk to me," Jimmy says, a hand smoothing Kyle's hair away from his forehead, the other one against the side of his waist.
Kyle smiles a little dazedly, "Hey, wow you care about me?"
Jimmy freezes for a split second, trying to cover up his stupefaction, but his pause is an eternity to Kyle. Just goes to show what he's grown up with. He's only afraid that he's scared Jimmy back into his shell, finally stopped him from showing he doesn't have a heart of frozen stone and a stick up his ass. Kyle might have gotten mad at himself for that, but it doesn't matter. Not really.
" 'Course I care about you," Jimmy whispers lowly. He hangs his head a little, something tugging uncomfortably at his chest. "I…we wouldn't be where we are right now without you. Not even halfway there," he mutters. He looks back up at Kyle, right back into his blue eyes that aren't even five inches from his own.
Kyle doesn't say anything, his mouth too busy hanging open to be of any use. Jimmy inhales resolutely, like he's prepping himself for something, and then his hands are back on Kyle, one slipping under his knees and the other supporting his back. Jimmy stands up, cradling Kyle close to his chest, Kyle's mangled ankle dangling limply in the air.
Kyle breathes in sharply, arms going around Jimmy's neck instinctively – for safety, even though he knows that he won't drop him. As much of an asshole that Jimmy Collins is, he wouldn't hurt Kyle if were at the receiving end of a bullet. Classic jerk-face-y action going on.
"Didn't think you could walk," Jimmy says, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Kyle's foot, already swollen to twice it's normal size.
"Didn't think so either," Kyle mumbles, pressing his face into Jimmy's leather jacket, breathing in his scent.
It would be weird for normally functioning people, but the two of them are beyond those boundaries now. It kind of happens when Jimmy ends up fucking some nameless girl into his mattress as Kyle makes tea in the kitchen, nodding faintly when a particularly impressive moan from the girl makes itself known to Kyle and his poor ears. At least he can't see them. If he pretends really, really hard.
Jimmy grunts as he pushes the door open, making his way down the street so that he can set Kyle down on a bench and flag down a taxi. Kyle has his wits about him by then, insisting on limping his way into the passenger seat after Jimmy, and making sure that Jimmy has his seatbelt buckled properly.
"Don't worry," Jimmy says, "I picked up your phone too."
Jimmy carries Kyle out of the taxi after paying and then all the way back to Jimmy's bed, setting him down on the mattress and skipping off to ransack the fridge for his bag of frozen peas.
"Don't. Move!" Jimmy calls.
Kyle throws his hands up in the air, shaking his head fondly.
"It's not like I can go anywhere, can I?" he responds when Jimmy comes back, juggling an ice pack and an ace bandage.
"Yeah," Jimmy says, frowning unhappily. He sits down on the ground, crossing his legs, and moving closer to inspect Kyle's ankle. He folds the ace bandage in half twice, slinging it across his shoulders so that his hands are free. He probes gently at the bruising that's already making itself apparent, glancing at Kyle's face to see if he's hurting him.
Jimmy's mouth is twisted in concentration, his eyebrows pulled together, and Kyle just wants to lean down and kiss him (when does he not?), but settles and canting his head to the side and watching him just as intensely.
"I want to take your shoe off," Jimmy says finally, sitting back on his hands.
"Okay."
Jimmy sighs, rubbing a hand over his face; he looks up at Kyle. "It's gonna hurt," he says.
"Yeah," Kyle says, smiling faintly. "I know."
"If you say so."
"It's fine, Jimmy. I'm going to be fine. Don't worry so much, you little prick."
Jimmy looks vaguely offended at that comment, but doesn't say anything, his hands back on Kyle's leg, tracing their way down his shin and onto the top of his sneakers, unlacing them deftly. Kyle watches him, sinking his weight into his shoulders so that they're nearly touching his ears.
Jimmy tugs experimentally at the heel of the shoe, shoulders a pinched line when Kyle hisses.
"Sorry," Jimmy says, and then yanks off the sneaker on Kyle's bad foot, still apologizing as he presses the ice pack to his ankle, and moves to take off the other shoe. Kyle is doubled over his stomach, tears in his eyes as he breathes harshly, a painful reminder of the bruises around his throat.
Jimmy places the sneakers side-by-side, laces undone and mud splattered, climbing up to Kyle's side. Jimmy swings his bad ankle onto his lap, pulling off Kyle's socks and tossing them by his sneakers. He pulls the ace bandage off his neck and over Kyle's ankle, wrapping it around the limb and tucking the end into a corner of the compress, and pressing the ice pack over it again.
Then it's quiet. Kyle's fingers in Jimmy's, and the gentle pitter-patter of rain against their apartment.
"Thanks," Kyle says, smiling. He shifts until there's more room on the bed, and then they're splitting the mattress half and half with each other. He leans back against his pillows, playing absentmindedly with Jimmy's hand – running his fingers over his palm, his wrist, tracing it up his forearm.
"What're you doing?" Jimmy asks. He doesn't move.
"I dunno," Kyle says, and drops Jimmy's hand.
"Okay."
Kyle looks up. "Come here," he says, tugging him closer. Kyle lies down, staring up at Jimmy who has stayed propped up on his elbow, features softened in the way they do when he's comfortable. When he's at home, Kyle realizes with a start.
Okay. He can do that.
Then Kyle looks up, his mouth a tiny "o" of surprise. He reaches a shaking hand to draw Jimmy closer by his shoulder, until they're close enough that either of them could reach out a finger and grab hold of somebody's hand.
"Are you crying?" Kyle asks softly, sitting up.
"Wha-no! No, no, no, I'm not," Kyle clears his throat self-consciously. "I-I'm not crying," he says, rubbing at his eyes.
"Hey, hey," Kyle murmurs. He stops with a touch on Jimmy's hand. "It's okay."
Jimmy draws a shaky breath, his shoulders harsh underneath his flannel shirt.
"No," he says stiffly. "No, it's not okay."
Kyle doesn't say anything.
"It's not okay because I left in the middle of the night without a note, hell without even turning my fucking phone on in case you needed to call me or something like that, and then I'm back to our apartment and you're not here and I'm freaking out because you're-you're Kyle and you're never not here a-and then I'm going around Greenpoint and Manhattan looking for you and I can't find you and I can't remember where I've left my phone, so I was basically going blind into this whole fucking thing.
Kyle wants Jimmy to stop, but he's in this world of his own now, and the tears are coming, whether he wants them or not.
"And I just stop all of a sudden. Like when you realize something so fucking obvious that wasn't obvious to you, but then it is and," Jimmy breaks off.
"It's okay, Jimmy," Kyle says, "I'm fine!"
Jimmy continues like he hasn't said anything.
"…A-and it's really shitty because I finally understand why you're always so mad at me for taking off without my cell to god knows where, because I felt really hopeless and I felt like absolute shit, and I'm trying to call Karen who's in rehearsal and then I didn't even want to try Derek, because he's, well, he's Derek and you never call Derek…unless you're Karen, then maybe. But I didn't know anywhere else to look for you, so I thought 'oh hey, maybe Kyle just went to work or something', even though we don't have to, but you're Kyle so I figured it was worth a try. I get to Table Forty Six and you're being fucking strangled or some shit and I just-."
Kyle cuts him off, latching his fingers into the collar of Jimmy's stupid leather jacket and pulling him down into a kiss, stopping the conversation rather effectively.
They pull apart a few seconds later – Kyle's eyes wide with fear.
"O-oh, my god," he stutters, "I'm sorry, Jimmy, I didn't mean to. I know that you don't really swing that way, but I really overstepped my boundaries I'm really-umph!"
Jimmy attacks him with another kiss, his hands turning Kyle's neural functions to a mush.
"I don't swing that way?" Jimmy asks. "Really?"
"Well, yeah, you never really said that you were gay, so I just kind of assumed that-."
"For the record," Jimmy says, eyebrows raised in that cocky "I'm-better-than-you-and-I-know-it" attitude. "I'm bisexual."
"Oh." Is all Kyle can manage. He ducks his head, cheeks flushed.
"Yeah, 'oh'," Jimmy replies, huffing playfully. "Now can I kiss you again or what?"
"Hmmm," Kyle says, pretending to think. "I think yes."
A grin breaks Jimmy's face before he leans down and pulls Kyle closer, wrapping his arms around his waist tight enough that if Kyle wanted to get away, he couldn't, but both of them know knows that they're not going to leave anyway.
Kyle takes the invitation and leans his weight onto Jimmy, his arms encircling his neck, and pulling himself closer to that there's barely any space between them. Scratch that – there's absolutely no space between them.
Kyle hums contentedly into the kiss, and Jimmy breaks it off, pressing their foreheads together and dragging him down until they're both lying on the mattress, face to face.
"I think," Jimmy says, sliding his jacket and shoes off and tossing them off the bed. "That it's bedtime."
Kyle smiles, all dimples and blue eyes and curling bangs. "Well that's good, because we didn't turn on any lights," he replies cheekily. Jimmy kisses him once on the temple and pulls the blanket over their shoulders.
He hears the bag of frozen peas fall off the bedsheets, but Kyle can't really care less at the moment, his hand held to Jimmy's lips, where he fans out his fingers, ghosting a touch over his lower lashline.
"I'm okay," Kyle whispers. "Please don't cry."
"Okay," Jimmy rasps. "Okay, okay…yeah, uh, okay."
"Don't worry."
Kyle scoots closer until his legs are tangled with Jimmy's, his forehead resting against his chest, and a heartbeat jumping steadily under skin. Kyle's hands snake around Jimmy's waist, and Jimmy's hands are draped over his shoulders. Comforting, grounding, and Kyle knows right at this moment that there's nothing else in the world that he would trade this for.
"Hey, um, I have a question," Jimmy says at eight in the morning.
"Yeaup."
"Will you be my boyfriend?"
Kyle pauses in making his tea, a smile spreading across his face.
"Duh, you big idiot, of course you can be my boyfriend," he rasps. Jimmy winces, moving closer so he can trace the bruises that line Kyle's throat.
"Sorry about that," Jimmy says. He glances around – like he's searching for something, and his hands settle on the scarf around his shoulders, fingers twitching in the fabric before he takes it off and wraps it a few times around Kyle's neck, effectively hiding the fingerprints. Kyle smiles happily, bumping noses with Jimmy before drawing him into a soft kiss, only leaving him because the water is finished boiling.
They show up to rehearsal with Kyle suspiciously quiet, but then surrounded by the whole cast as he removes the scarf, looking sheepish under all the attention he was receiving. Even Derek looked concerned.
Jimmy just stands off to the side, as he's supposed to – like a good boyfriend should.
What's most surprising though, is that Kyle is constantly handing Jimmy things that he doesn't have enough hands to hold, but he's (surprisingly) always there to take a tea mug or a clipboard or a stack of books and set them down on the table next to Derek. The two of them leave, Jimmy with an arm slung around Kyle's shoulders protectively, before he turns to kiss him right as they're out the door.
Derek groans, throwing the nearest object at Jimmy – which turns out to be an old draft of HIT LIST (because he likes Kyle better), only very narrowly missing Jimmy's head. He leaves him with a very gracious "FUCK YOU TOO WILLS", and another kiss on Kyle's cheek.
"You know," Ana remarks to Karen quietly. "I was betting Derek on their relationship status, soooo turns out that he owes me twenty bucks," she says triumphantly, raising her chin and marching over to her director.
Karen sees his shoulders slump defeatedly as he reaches into his pocket for a wallet. She smiles happily to herself, tapping Derek on the shoulder and asking him to walk her home.
Ana waves goodbye.
Karen spots Kyle and Jimmy ahead, their fingers intertwined, and she can't help but to think that they were honestly complete idiots for not starting their relationship earlier. Really really.