I've Forgotten Everything
"The memories they're hazy now
I don't recall at all
there's nothing, there's nothing there
just me
and I don't understand why
I've forgotten everything about you
'til someone says your name…"
- Phil Collins, "I've Forgotten Everything"
He wishes he could call it hate; then it would be easier to understand. But it's not, not quite and maybe, not at all. It isn't an impersonal, impassionate affair, though it really should be. There's no reason it should be at all, but it is.
"Hey," Jesse calls softly as he lets himself into Donald Margolis' apartment. When he steps on to the carpet, he hears the crunch of glass beneath his feet and makes a mental note to try and vacuum before he leaves. "Hey," he calls again, and Donald looks up from the bed listlessly.
"Hey, Jesse," he responds, his voice languid and bereft of energy. "What brings you here?"
"You have me a key," Jesse reminds him, taking another, more cautious step forward. "So I thought I'd…"
"Check up on me?" Donald finishes, sitting up and kicking one barefoot off the bed and, haphazardly, into a shoe, then the other.
"Yeah, haven't seen you in a bit. Figured I'd check." Jesse steps forward again and lets the door swing shut. "Looks like my house in here." He drags a hand over his face as he crosses over to the bed and sits down next to Donald. "What do you wanna do?"
The question is pretty much just a preliminary – there's very few things that Jesse and Donald have done together other than threaten fistfights, grieve… and this.
Jesse leans up and presses his lips against Donald's, looping an arm around his shoulder and drawing him close.
How this began, Jesse doesn't quite remember. They'd run into each other one day, outside a bar, a few months after the airline crash, though he can't recall who'd reached out to whom. They'd gone drinking and their cab driver had been confused and insisted on dropping them both at Donald's and somehow – somehow this had begun. This attempted extinguishing of guilt, drowning of regrets in something more twisted.
It hasn't gone so far as to be sexual, yet, but it has been a release nonetheless, one Jesse can't quite figure out, and he doesn't want to try.
Donald's tongue trails over Jesse's lips and he bites Jesse's lower lip gently as he moves closer, reaching up to move his hand to Jesse's thigh; his frame seems so much thinner than his own that it gives him pause for a moment.
Jesse feels Donald's beard rub against his face, just as he's about to let his eyes slip shut, but the thought that rushes into his brain is enough to make sure that he keeps them open. No, no, he thinks, this is messed up enough already.
He breaks the kiss and reaches out, running a finger down Donald's cheek.
"Do you wanna do something… more?" Jesse asks, quietly. Uncertainty floods Donald's eyes, and he shuffles his feet.
"I don't know. Maybe. Have you… before?"
"Nope," Jesse replies with a little nervous laugh. Maybe this was a horrible idea, maybe it should stay as it is or way less than it is. Is it quasi-incest in a way, or something? It's dangerous and has so much potential to go wrong.
He swallows hard at the prospect, and there's a sense of crossing a line that shouldn't be crossed, a line takes them from a dysfunctional kind of shared grieving into something more, something where it seems like feelings like love and want should have a place, and Jesse doesn't know if they should.
And Donald, Donald just wants to feel, not o feel, he doesn't know what he wants, he wants Jesse, because Jesse is the last vestige of normality that he has now.
Donald reaches out and unzips Jesse's hoodie, this ridiculous thing he's wearing, and his thoughts drift to the cliché of "kids these days", but he chases it off.
Jesse pulls off his T-shirt, following this wherever it goes, but not wanting to; there's something so off-kilter, so – and now, oh shit, Donald is trailing his fingers, precise fingers, got to be precise to be an air traffic controller – along his chest, one fingertip grazing his nipple, sending little shock waves through Jesse's body – fuck, it was almost too much, already.
"Oh God," Jesse gasps out. Donald smiles, sadly, and presses his lips, presses the warmth of his body against Jesse's, and the younger man reaches out and begins to unbutton Donald's shirt before breaking the kiss to pull it off. For however old the man must be, Jesse notices that he's in good shape, intimidatingly so, and Jesse feels a chill as he recalls with what ease Donald had picked him up off the bed when… back then…
If he wanted to hurt me…
Maybe that's why he's doing this, out of some hope for self-destruction, because if he wants, really wants to or even, just on a whim goes to hurt Jesse, he can. Jesse is laid open, vulnerable to him and maybe that's what's arching him forward even more, the realization that the man running his fingers over Jesse's ribs could just as easily break them. He sucks in his breath and closes his eyes, shivering again before opening slowly and leaning in to unsnap the clasp on the front of Donald's pants. It all seems to be moving way too fast and way too slow.
When Donald's cock has been freed from his boxers, Jesse doesn't really know what to do. Rather than ask or wait for instruction – the talking, no, they don't want to talk, if they talk too long, one of them is going to say her name – and so he presses back with his hands on Donald's shoulders and opens his mouth, pushing hesitation to the back of his mind as he leans down on his elbows, before bringing just the head into his mouth and sucking experimentally as the air traffic controller gasps, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain – and he is – as he reaches out and grapples clumsily for Jesse. The younger man takes him deeper, trying to control his gag reflex and having some trouble; he tries to breathe through his nose but starts to feel as if he's drowning or choking. He draws back and begins to lick and suck slowly again, feeling an odd pride as Donald responds with strangled moans of appreciation.
Jesse shuts his eyes tightly, sliding forward as he feels his elbows scratch along the fabric of the comforter beneath him. Donald grasps his shoulders but instead of pushing down, simply clings, his fingertips curled into Jesse's back. When Jesse takes him deeper again, he doesn't last long, nor does he really get much of a chance to warn.
A moment later, Jesse scrambles to sit up, swallowing slowly and wiping his lips, feeling something he can't quite put a name on. He opens his eyes again and meets Donald's, and when the air traffic controller reaches for him, to reciprocate, Jesse shakes his head.
"Next time." Maybe.
Donald half-nods and lies back on the bed, and Jesse moves to his side – always his side – to lay his head on the man's shoulder. His eyes slip shut and he falls asleep, quickly.
The next morning he'll wake up, and he'll try to remember to vacuum so that Donald doesn't walk into broken glass. He'll jump in the shower, though he's sure no matter how diligently he washes, Mr. White will be able to smell the other man on him. Be able to tell that Jesse's keeping something from him, something he'd never approve of, never okay. And then he'll walk out the door, back to the battlefield of the drug world the knowledge that he's the bad guy.
But for now, he's forgotten all of that. For now, the two broken men have each other.
For now.