Disclaimer: I do not own Xiaolin Showdown

Unwanted News

There was a distinct lack of air in the enormous space; at least that was how it felt. How could such a large room be so void of oxygen? Well, maybe it wasn't really lacking in breathable air, but rather the sole person in said room was just feeling his entire life crashing down on him and could no longer breathe properly.

The call had just come to him via his rarely used personal mobile phone, the first call from his mother he had had in over several weeks; usually she waited until he was home to say whatever she had to say to him, but this was urgent and so she'd felt the need to inform her son immediately via a phone call. And he wished like hell that she had waited until he was home, because there was no worse news to receive and no worse place to be when he received it.

Up until this minute, he had been having a great day – well, as great a day as someone could have when their lover was a fifteen hundred year old dragon warlord with anger management issues and little patience. Truthfully, most of that anger and lack of patience were not directed at him so often ever since they got together, but they still existed and could occasionally turn on him. His lover made a conscious effort not to harm his young partner but that wasn't to say that he had changed his ways for him; he would do that for nobody.

Jack was in no doubt that, at the very least, the lack of patience was going to get him when his lover found him in the main room, crying like a child, and all because of what his lover would deem sentimentality.

That was another problem with dating – not a term his lover would accept if spoken aloud, for reasons he didn't understand – a fifteen hundred year old dragon warlord: his own true sentimentality had died out long ago, when he'd first chosen the path of evil and cast aside his Xiaolin teachings. Even if he did choose to listen to what the young man had just been told, even if he attempted to sympathise, he would never be able to empathise and could never accept why such news would cause such emotions to become near enough uncontrollable.

Why should he? Chase Young had lost all his family a long, long time ago; it was likely that he did not even remember his father to be able to miss him.

The young man in the room, on the other hand, was very much able to miss his father; he didn't even understand why he suddenly mourned so desperately, because his father had never really been there for him anyway. Dad had vanished from his life when he was a young child – too young for him to remember – and reappeared when he was perhaps eight or nine, beginning a string of infrequent visits that were always forced and awkward, leading Jack Spicer to believe and understand that his father's interest in his life was focussed strictly on carrying on the bloodline and family name, not on his son's welfare. The two had spent a bit of time together – educational time more than anything else, with his biological father instructing him on how to handle money and officials and suchlike – but it had never been actual father-son time; it had never been enjoyable and had always been treated as a chore by both parties.

Jack had never really understood why his father had walked out on him when he was less than a year old; the stress of a baby seemed a rather pitiful reason to walk out on your wife and child, but he had done it and hadn't reappeared until years later, willing to pass on teachings but not ready to care for a child of any age. As a result of being fatherless – since his mother had had a constant flow of partners and lovers that were always temporary and never permanent – he had been raised under his mother's watchful eye; or rather, he had been raised under the watchful eye of the nanny that his mother had hired. Nevertheless, he idolised his mother in a way, since she was the only role model he had had as a child. Was it any wonder he was so messed up now? The kindest thing his father had ever done for him was sending him a couple of gifts from abroad; he was hardly a decent parent.

And Jack Spicer was indeed messed up; no sane and sensible person would throw themselves into battles they couldn't win countless times, or take instructions from evil ghosts, or engage in a romantic – sexual – relationship with a fifteen hundred year old man who could transform into a reptile.

But none of that mattered right now; what mattered was that his mother had just called him – why, why couldn't she have just waited until they could talk in person!? – to inform him of his worthless father's death.

Car crash, suspicious circumstances, possible assassination – all of it sounded entirely plausible to Jack, considering that he vaguely knew his father was involved in dodgy stuff nowadays; it all made sense that his father would die by someone intentionally crashing into his flashy car in order to 'get rid' of him. What did not make sense was why it was hitting his neglected son so hard.

Jack had visualised in his mind, on more than one occasion, being informed of his father's death – his mind could be morbid when he lay awake at night, finding it difficult to sleep, and it is true that most people will occasionally visualise horrific scenes whether they want to or not - and he'd always imagined that he'd shrug and move on, unaffected by the news and partially relieved that their occasional awkward meetings would be consequently stopped. He had even been prepared to feel a bit rejected that his dad had left him yet again. But he had not expected this: the feeling like he couldn't breathe, the burning eyes as he tried desperately not to cry, the way his heart felt like it was constricting in on itself. He hadn't been prepared to feel like he had actually lost someone.

It struck him now that, deep in the recesses of his heart and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had actually longed for a proper father as he was growing up; a dad who'd drive him to school in the morning and tell him to do his homework, someone who would tell him exciting stories and swing him around in the air – someone who would actually be a father, properly acting like one and not just claiming to be that.

And now that his father was dead, that tiny glimmer of hope he had held – that hoped his father might one day become that man – was completely shattered and destroyed, with no hopes of repair.

It was funny really, a simple case of not really appreciating what you had until you no longer had it. His father had never been a good dad, but at least he had honestly been able to say that he had a father; that was more than some people. Now he no longer had one, and he couldn't even say that their time together had been good. It hadn't.

Jack didn't know what was worse – that his dad was dead or that he'd found out while sitting in Chase's lair and waiting for his lover to return from a minor mission. Chase had told him to prepare for something special when he returned, which was about as flirtatious as Chase Young ever got when basically telling his lover to get into bed and wait for the fireworks. Jack was pretty sure that his lover was not going to appreciate a weeping, semi-broken lover sobbing into the polished floor; that in and of itself took away from the mood.

The albino tried to stop sniffling and crying, but it was no use; the torrent of tears held more than just the pain of his father's death, they held within them all the neglect he'd received as a child thanks to his father's absence, and all the pent-up rage and hatred he still held for the man for what he had done. Nineteen years worth of anger and pain and hope fell from his eyes in the form of crystal tears that streaked his eye make-up and stained his pale cheeks, relentless as they forced him to collapse. He curled into a ball, shaking and sobbing, as he waited for the grip on his heart to lessen so he could get up, knowing that resisting would only prolong this suffering.

It was a pathetic yet saddening image, seeing a young man – nearly twenty years old – curled up on the floor with painful sobs wracking his lithe frame and his muffled cries echoing all around the room.

And it was in this state that Chase Young found his lover upon his return.

Jack Spicer felt the presence of the warlord even though his back was to the immortal, and he wiped his eyes ferociously with both hands with making a pointless effort to stop sobbing, all too aware of his lover's lack of patience with this form of emotion being so openly displayed. But it was all for nought; just thinking about how angry Chase might be with him for this and how he was letting him down forced more tears down the albino's already tear stained cheeks. The force of the agony strengthened and forced him back to his knees, his attempt to rise failing miserably.

He could not hear, over the noise of his own gasping and wailing, the footsteps of his lover as he approached him, and he was startled when he saw the fine boots appearing in front of his eyes – but it did not stun him as much as it did to see the mighty Chase Young kneeling down in front of him with an expression that was ... well, not quite concerned, but as near to concerned as Chase's expression could ever get; he was too well trained at keeping emotions hidden to fully allow Jack to see that he was entirely uneasy with this situation.

Jack glanced up at Chase, almost expecting to be struck for this show of pain and misery, but whatever pain he might have been anticipating never came. Chase did not touch him in any way, merely kept a trained eye on him; Jack dared not to move, even though he could not control or stop the erratic movement of his chest as he continued to sob and gasp.

And as it turned out, he did not have to control these things, for his lover made to move to force him to stop it. Jack would have been stunned once upon a time by the blatant show of the Chase Young version of care, but nowadays he was only surprised and delighted; Chase really did care enough to comfort first and ask questions later, even though this was so much against how he would have wanted to initially act by simply leaving.

Chase was indeed offering his own form of comfort to his young lover. Of course, it was not what you'd expect from anyone else – from Chase Young there could be no gentle embraces, no calming endearments whispered, no assurances that it would all be alright. He simply didn't do that sort of thing, and that was all there was to it. However, he did sit down properly next to Jack and place one hand on his shoulder, offering his presence and show of support even if he voiced nothing.

It may not have been everything Jack needed but at that moment, it was enough. Just to know that Chase genuinely cared about him enough to stay with him in this moment of weakness offered to him more comfort than anything the warlord could have said ever would. It was beyond his comprehension that, out of all the people in the world, it was him that the immortal was willing to sit with like this; it meant more to him than the world than Chase cared even this much.

And that was when it truly hit Jack, hit him hard.

Chase. Chase Young, his lover and sort of mentor. Chase Young who meant everything to him.

Chase who he would never have found had he not been searching for the shen gong wu in an attempt to rule the world. If not looking for the shen gong wu, he would never have met Chase Young. And he would have never been able to know about and search for the illustrious shen gong wu had he not freed Wuya from a puzzle box.

A puzzle box sent to him by his father!

Just like that, it became so clear to Jack Spicer that his tears managed to stop, halted by his sheer shock at the epiphany. Suddenly, just by receiving this comfort from his lover, Jack understood just why his father's death was hitting him so hard. He truly understood why he felt remorse and sorry and longing for the man who had abandoned and neglected him, for a man who he had never really cared about in his life.

Because regardless of his father's treatment of him, the man had done one thing for him that he owed him a lot for: his father had sent him the puzzle box that had set his life on the road that he had walked on ever since. His father had sent him Wuya, his key to the shen gong wu, his path to finding Chase Young for real.

Now, Jack began to understand it all. He felt that much sorrow simply because he owed his father for allowing him to be able to find Chase, and that was more than anyone else had ever done for him in his life, save for the dragon warlord himself.

It wasn't that Jack actually missed his father, or even that he felt he owed him; it was that he was sad over the loss of the man – not really his father but simply a man - who had given him what he needed to find the love of his life. It crushed him so painfully now because he realised that, if nothing else, he should have been grateful for that one tiny little thing, for helping Jack to find Chase.

The revelation took a lot out of Jack, and he almost thought that he might burst into tears once again, but in reality he had run out of them and instead he simply sagged against the motionless form of his lover; all the energy had been drained out of him by the crying and the newfound knowledge. The hand was removed from his shoulder and the warlord wrapped one arm around him steadily, remaining silent. Jack leaned into the touch, into the man who was his reason for ... well, everything; he had long ago given his heart over to Chase Young, even before the warlord had given him any indication that he might one day be able to reciprocate.

At last it was clear: his thankfulness to his father came from the man sending him the puzzle box, his key to one day finding Chase Young. He had closure and understanding, and suddenly the pain became easier to manage; it did not disappear or even lessen, but simply became more controllable. For the first time since his mother had given him that damned, ill-timed phone call, Jack Spicer was able to truly breathe.

The arm around his shoulders held him tightly, not moving but still holding, always a strong and sure presence that he so notably associated with Chase. No matter what might happen, he knew that, for the time being – for at least his lifetime even if Chase would outlive him by centuries to come – he had the love, or at least what resembled love, of the ancient Tai Chi master. That was more than most of Chase's many past lovers had ever really dreamed of, and more than he himself had ever imagined the warlord could give him when he had first fallen – literally – into Chase's hands years ago.

His neck went limp and his head rolled into the dragon's neck, his breathing evening out. No more tears were falling now, and he was at last restful and quiet in the small embrace; he knew that this would later be somehow thrown back in his face, somehow held against him – for teasing purposes at least - but right now he didn't care.

For the moment, he had all the comfort that an immortal dragon warlord was able to give, and he accepted it. But more importantly, he was glad of it.

Please R&R