A/N: I want to cry at this a little, because I fought really hard to break free from my comfort zone, and this ended up being just sort of, well, sleazy and lame. But my friend wanted me to write a sequel to Bare Bones (this fic probably makes a lot more sense if you read that one first) and I just couldn't resist the idea of a cliché-y locker room confrontation. I've always had a thing for those. I don't know what else to say, really; except that if Hell exists, I'm pretty sure I'm going there.
Disclaimer: I make no money out of this, and I'm very poor, so please don't sue. WWE and TNA don't belong to me, nor do these people, and everything depicted here is merely a product of my imagination.
Warnings: Here be slash, some violence and foul language. Also, if your angst tolerance limit isn't very high, this might not be the fic for you.
This ain't no singing in the rain
This is a twister that will destroy you
- Placebo
xxx
Phil Brooks steps out of the showers to a recently emptied locker room the Thompson-Boling Arena in Knoxville, Tennessee, soaking wet, with a towel wrapped around his waist. SmackDown has ended about an hour ago and thousands of fans have poured out of the building as one big, happily bubbling mass; some opportunists probably still linger around the arena in hopes to get a glimpse of their favorite superstar, or maybe even a photo or an autograph.
Phil mentally wishes them the best of luck, starting a frantic search of clean clothes from the chaos that is his bag. He really hopes that the majority of people feel they got their money's worth - this has certainly not been the best night of his career. His body is still going a hundred and thirty miles per hour and his head is all over the place; the shower didn't do much to help that.
He prefers playing a heel to playing a face, especially after his quite a long run as a face in WWE, but it is undeniably more stressful no matter how one looks at it. And it is more personal. Having people hate him because he is straight edge means having people hate who he is, not some childish character – even though he would never try and bother to convert people, despite the fact that he sometimes secretly wishes that he could. But it wouldn't work. An outside force can never make a person change, not completely; this he knows. That's why he isn't quite sure yet what he thinks about the whole Straight Edge Society storyline, but so far he doesn't loathe it, and he supposes that it's a start. And anyway, it is better this way. He would resign in a heartbeat if he would ever have to be like Cena and force people to love him.
He gets dressed and towel-dries his hair, trying to listen whether there are any other people still around, excluding the stage hands, sound technicians and such. Almost everybody decided to head for a bar earlier, and Phil urged them not to wait for him because the creative wanted to have a chat with him about his upcoming misadventures, and chats with the creative tend to stretch to ridiculous lengths. He is usually quite content even if all the action of the night consists of driving a drunken Chris Jericho around, but he suspects that tonight he would have been even more of a buzzkill than usually.
He has been on his toes since Kofi told him the day before that Jeff was going to be on the backstage during the SmackDown tapings. He's been telling himself that Jeff is there to see Matt because Knoxville is conveniently close to North Carolina, and while that is most likely true, it is a bit too convenient to be a coincidence. It is a mystery to him why the hell Vince would even allow Jeff to be there, especially as it is pretty clear that his next stop is going to be at TNA – even for someone who didn't know it for a fact like Phil. The old bastard is going senile, Phil is fairly sure about it, and he makes a mental note of talking about this with someone before Vince goes apeshit and files WWE for bankruptcy or something equally crazy. Well, fine, maybe Stephanie wouldn't let him do that, but Phil still suspects that Vince may have a few loose screws somewhere in that grey head of his.
With the benefit of hindsight, Phil's mostly unplanned visit to Matt's hotel room two weeks ago could have gone a lot better, and he has no idea whether Matt has talked to Jeff, because since the Michigan incident (as he likes to call it) he has done his very best to avoid any situation in which he might be left alone with Matt. He can see that the man is itching to get to talk to him, and he is starting to think that Matt may soon be in such a state of mind where he is going to do something stupid, like slashing Phil's tires or lock him in a cleaning cupboard to get in touch with him, but he doesn't care. As far as he is concerned, his contribution to this whole thing is over and done with.
Or it would be, if Jeff wasn't sneaking around in the arena. Phil almost expects the two men to attack him from behind the corner somewhere, and it makes him feel himself stupider than he has felt for a very long time - he has never been the one to act paranoid, but lately he has come to notice that there seems to be a first time for everything. He knows that when in good terms, it is possible for Jeff and Matt to form a lethal team; the two of them are probably having a competition of which one is able to come up with a more inventive way to finish Phil off. Kill Phil, he thinks and snorts to himself, angrily flinging a tangle of sweaty clothes into his gym bag. There's a movie I'd sure like to see.
When Phil decided to go to talk to Matt and give him that damn letter (although, admittedly, he hadn't believed that he would actually give it until he was looking at it in Matt's hands), he had zero intention of telling the man how he really felt, and, regrettably, still feels for Jeff; even in his less stable state of mind he realized that it would be the dumbest fucking idea ever. Matt had had over eight months to figure out what was going on, and since no such thing happened, it was only Phil's pleasure to conceal the whole thing even further.
And yet, somehow, the words had come out as if it was everything he was ever meant to say. Phil had already been a little unbalanced, to say the least, and Matt was a major pain in the ass, and it just happened. He had almost hoped for Matt to follow him so he could have punched him in the face, but he hadn't followed, and by the time Phil had gotten back to his room, the only person he wanted to punch in the face was himself. The whole thing was, and still is, absolutely ridiculous, and he knows that all three of them in the same building is nothing but a disaster waiting to happen. Granted, the shitstorm he expected from Matt's part has not quite occurred yet, but it is only a matter of time.
And when it comes to Jeff, well, Phil knows that the man hates it when someone sticks their nose into his business, and he hates Phil, so Phil sticking his nose into his business likely means maximum trouble. He deeply regrets for getting involved in the first place; he should have left that dysfunctional little family to handle their own damn issues - and those they had plenty of - but Matt, that idiot, seemed to be just oblivious to everything and Jeff was in a downward spiral to say the least, and Phil felt... well, responsible. He couldn't just leave it like that; what kind of a man would he be if did? He wasn't raised to walk away from things, and that is his cross to bear.
Since when did I become such a pussy, Phil wonders bitterly, but the answer to that question is so obvious that he doesn't even want to think about it, and it has all to do with Jeff. It is just like he said to Matt; everything always does.
He goes to the showers to get his shampoo that he left there, and while he is at it, he hears the door opening and closing in the other room; the click of the lock could as well be a trombone of doom. He recognizes the footsteps, and he already knows it's Jeff before he hears the derision-laced words, spoken in a stretching, impeccable Southern accent.
"I know you're here, and I wanna word, so you might as well come out from wherever you're hidin'."
Phil mentally beats himself up for forgetting to lock the door, which would of course have been the first and most crucial step in avoiding any unwelcomed confrontations. But the night has been rather hectic; he simply forgot, and it is a little late now to act like the place is empty. Besides, he would gladly just get this over with rather than play hide and seek with Jeff, and what is left of his dignity wouldn't even allow it, anyway.
He steps out of the shower room and finds Jeff leaning on the closed door, his arms crossed, contempt written all over his haunted-looking face, and for a moment there Phil is almost paralyzingly sure that this locker room is going to be his final resting place; Jeff's censors are so clearly set on 'out for blood' that he wonders how Matt ever made it alive from the conversation he supposes the brothers have had.
"You really have gone to outstandin' lengths to humiliate me." Jeff's words are dripping malice, and Phil finds it unbelievable that Jeff would think this has been about humiliation out of all things possible. He almost wishes it was, though – it would make this a whole lot easier.
Jeff is wearing an old, worn-out leather jacket and light jeans; his currently dark brown hair is on a ponytail, and he looks unthinkably... 'restless' isn't really the right word to describe him, but it is the first word that comes to Phil's mind. He looks like he hasn't had a good night's sleep in a long while, but he doesn't look tired as much as he looks edgy and mean and noxious like a broken power line.
Still, Phil cannot help but notice that Jeff looks slightly better than on that Tuesday three months, two weeks and five days ago when he informed Phil that he wanted nothing more to do with him now or ever again in the future (and although in Jeff's case 'slightly better' just means that he probably isn't high at this very moment, Phil still decides to deem it as a turn for the better). Back then he looked exactly like somebody who had lived their whole life on the good old impulse zone, the wretched wasteland between life and death; the ultimate thrill-seeker indeed, as JR used to call him.
There is suddenly a stupid flutter of hope in Phil's heart that maybe whatever Matt has said to Jeff actually has made a difference, if even the smallest one. And it is only now that he truly realizes how much he has actually missed seeing Jeff – granted, this is far from an ideal situation, but still there is a small part of him that wants to walk straight to the man, wrap his arms around him and tell him that they can work this out because any other option simply does not exist.
But of course he doesn't do so.
"Well, look who it is," he says instead, and it is almost an insuperable effort for him to keep his voice stripped of any more personal feelings than mock surprise. "The last time I saw you, you didn't want anything to do with me."
"That hasn't changed," Jeff says, and clearly he isn't pulling back any feelings; there is pure, unyielding hate in his voice. "You think I came here because I wanted to see you?"
"That was my assumption," Phil says and closes the locker door, deciding that it is the wrong time for any kind of an emotional breakdown; he can have it later, in the car, in the hotel, anywhere but here and now. Whatever happens, he doesn't want Jeff to realize how much this has affected him in the long run - even though he has probably already realized it if he read the letter, because according to Phil's experience, he can read between the lines better than anyone. But it is different. Maybe Phil gets it all thrown back at his face and maybe he won't, but he will not be the first one to admit anything if he can help it.
"Well, your assumption was wrong." Jeff glares at Phil in a way that suggests that his mere existence is some kind of a personal insult guided towards the older man, and Phil wasn't really expecting anything less. He will consider himself lucky if he gets out of this with all his teeth still in place.
"You know what your problem is?"
Phil sighs, guessing where this is going. "No, but I bet you're gonna tell me."
"You want to control everythin'. It isn't enough for you that you think you've got your own little life completely under control, oh no - you really have to make that extra effort to see to it that everybody else is just as miserable as you are. It's fucking pathetic."
"We clearly have different opinions about what's pathetic," Phil says bitingly, but then, that hardly comes as a surprise for anyone. In a way, he can even understand why Jeff would think that this is about Phil trying to patronize him or act like he knows better, but it is not. At least he doesn't think so. The reason he went to Matt is because he was worried, plain and simple, but he can't bring himself to say it aloud, not now. Besides, at this point, it wouldn't change anything.
"If you think I've got some ridiculous need to have control over your life, you're in for a disappointment." Technically, it is not even a lie. "I have a life of my own, which, by the way, isn't nearly as miserable as you think."
Jeff lets out a mocking laughter that is so bitter that it doesn't really sound like laugh. "You? A life of your own? Hold the press, we have a scoop."
Phil hopes that they could talk about this like rational adults, but already he knows that this is not going to be one of those reasonable conversations; he is too stubborn for his own good, and Jeff... well, Jeff just has never been a particularly rational person in the first place. And what's even more relevant, they are both men - there are no clear-cut roles for either of them, no-one telling them what they are supposed to be to each other, and in the end they just don't go together. It is like trying to put a square shaped block through an oval shaped hole.
"I thought I made it perfectly clear that I wanted you out of my life," Jeff says, and his sneer is freezing cold. "You, your vain ideals, your stupid jokes, your ridiculous-lookin' ring attire, all of it. And the next thing I know, you've gone whinin' to my brother like some parole officer. What I do or don't do is none of your fuckin' business."
"It used to be." Phil shrugs, trying to keep his voice appropriately cold and not quite managing. "Old habits die hard. You of all people should know that."
"Oh, don't even try that with me," Jeff retorts, and his anger bubbles sourly beneath the surface. "Guilt trippin' doesn't work with me, when are you gonna learn that?"
"Probably never," Phil admits, knowing that it's true. However, he also knows that the times that he has in fact resorted to guilt tripping in the actual sense of the word are few and far between – most times he has just tried to appeal to Jeff's common sense. But Jeff takes everything as guilt tripping, and Phil is pretty sure that if the man ever ends up in rehab or therapy, or both (as he probably should), he is going to have to have a long chat about that particular thing.
There is a brief silence and there are so many unsaid words in the air that it is getting hard to breathe, and Phil decides that he has to say something because this is strenuous enough as it is. He doesn't want to bring it up, not really; he feels like he is selling his soul to the devil just by asking, but he has to do it, because he might not get another chance and he needs to know.
"Did Matt give you the letter?"
Jeff snorts and his tone is nothing short of scathing. "Yeah, Matt gave me the letter. And apart from feelin' like a thirteen-year-old again, when Lorna Baxter from my class was sendin' me love letters that I never responded to, I wasn't too thrilled about receivin' it."
"You never read it." It is a statement, not a question; all of a sudden Phil just knows it.
"No," Jeff admits without even blinking his eyes. "If it makes you feel any better, I didn't throw it away, either. But I don't wanna know what it says. I don't care, Phil."
Phil wonders to which extent exactly that is true. Jeff is a curious nature, and sure, Phil can remember Jeff having done a lot of stuff because he didn't care. But not caring enough not to do something? That doesn't sound like the Jeff he knows at all.
"Is that really it? You don't care? Or were you afraid you might have to look at things from my point of view?"
That clearly hits something somewhere, because suddenly Jeff has strode to him with a few long steps, and he is so close so suddenly that Phil has backed himself against the lockers before he has even realized that his legs have made some kind of a movement. His body reacts instantly – bones aching, joints tensing, flesh coming alive and buzzing like a million bees; some kind of a memory trace from months back taking over.
"Your point of view? You don't get to even have a point of view as far as I'm concerned. You know why? You remember what I told you, huh?" Jeff tilts his head and presses his index finger against Phil's forehead as if it was a pistol, then pushes the imaginary trigger.
"You don't mean jack shit to me."
Phil wants to say that he doesn't believe it, not a word of it, but how could he? He did know to expect it, knows that it is all true to the most gut-wrenching extent, and still the words are a blade tipped in ammonium, ripping his chest open. There was a time he thought he knew why this happened, the whole 'get the fuck out of my life' business, and he thought it had something to do with feelings Jeff just did not want to have, but now... now he thinks it might very well be that Jeff never had any of those feelings in the first place, and what is he supposed to say to that? How is it even possible to miss something that never existed to begin with?
No good deed goes unpunished, I suppose, Phil thinks and suddenly he just wants to hit where it hurts, just wants to see the insult reflecting from the dark eyes looking at him with such, such ire, no matter what the price.
"What if you weren't the only reason I went to see your brother?"
Jeff narrows his eyes, taking half a step backwards. "What are you talkin' about?"
"The world doesn't revolve around you, y'know, even Matt suggested that, and..." Phil's mouth curls in a half-smile, "... he's really a decent guy, your brother. There would be no drama with him, no fuss, no hassle. And the way he looked at me in Michigan when he thought I didn't notice... man, he's begging for a good fuck. Maybe if he asks real nice I might -"
Phil doesn't even see the punch coming before Jeff's fist hits him squarely on the jaw; the man has always been swift with his moves. The blow is so vicious that it sends Phil's ears ringing, and for a moment he sees nothing but colorful, electric-like patterns on a black canvas.
"And Matt actually told me to go easy on you," Jeff spits, grabs Phil's chin and slams his head against the lockers. "I should fuckin' kill you for even sayin' that!"
The killing part does not come as a surprise for Phil, not at all, but he is surprised about Matt's words; the image he has gotten of the man lately does not really match with them. What surprises him even more, though, are his own words and how they came out of his mouth so fluently; what he said was obviously a straight-out lie, but he cannot help but think why the thought crossed his mind in the first place, and for a moment it scares him so much that he feels like the air is turning into glass around him.
The feeling quickly passes, however, as there are more pressing matters to be regarded - such as the fact that Jeff's proximity, no matter how hostile, is starting to cause physiological reactions that are more than a little undesirable in the sort of a situation that they are in.
"Your left hook has gotten sloppier," Phil manages, and that is another lie right there; in fact it has only gotten meaner. He feels a trail of warm blood slowly spilling from his busted lower lip, and there are tiny droplets of crimson staining the light blue lockers on the side of his head. "Must be losing your touch."
"Lack of practice," Jeff hisses back, grabbing Phil's shoulders, and just as he is about to ask what Jeff thinks he's doing, the Charismatic Enigma drives his knee to Phil's stomach, efficiently striking the air out of his lungs. Nothing comes out of Phil's mouth but a miserable little gasp; he doublefolds, clinging to Jeff's jacket for balance like he is about to drown, and Jeff lets him, just looking down at him, and it is impossible to read his face. In the midst of trying to get one breath of air into his lungs, Phil has a sudden and disturbing sense of dejá vu, and it bothers him because he can't remember whether it is affiliated to something that has happened in the ring or out of it; personal and professional lives twist and tangle to one another. He can't be sure, but the kick hurts like fuck, and in a way he is really glad about it, because it is bound to do something about his hard-on - having a boner while being kicked in the stomach would be, not only utterly ridiculous, but also extremely dubious on several different levels (the dejá vu is whispering to him that he must be an extremely dubious person then because it has happened before, but he obstinately ignores it).
"Up," Jeff murmurs, and even though his voice is quiet, the command is there, ringing like a warning bell. He grabs Phil's wrists, and his grip is that of a fighter; dark blue fingernails are digging into inked flesh, and Phil can almost hear his bones creaking against one another. He realizes that he is pretty much fucked if Jeff wants to continue to kick his ass, because he is too busy trying to breathe properly to fight back; but before he can finish his thought, Jeff has already hauled him back against the locker and pressed his lips against Phil's bloody ones.
And Phil knows that it is a game, knows that it is all there is to it, but even knowing that he cannot help but kiss back; it is mostly a reflex, but it reminds him of how things once were. Haste, unaffiliated memories come and go in the spinning haze of his mind - the rattle of white plastic cups as they raise a mock toast to something he can't remember (but his cup is filled with Pepsi and Jeff's with vodka, he does remember that); their breaths steaming in the freezing January night as they are driving from Minnesota to North Dakota and the car's heater breaks down; Jeff's warm hand in his own as he raises their hands for the victory in the ring; the darkly amused words It's about time you learned somethin' whispered to his ear, followed by a pair of arms snaking around his waist... he can taste the blood between his teeth, and he has to keep reminding himself that they can never go back to what was, never again. Maybe things would be different if it was a genuine kiss, but it is not. It is Jeff hunting for reactions, placing traps, throwing baits.
When they finally break up the kiss, the air is crackling with tension. Phil sees his own reflection mirroring from Jeff's bright, green eyes and it is his blood that is coating the older man's lips, and for a moment the whole scene is like an extract from some macabre dream.
"Jeff," he almost whispers, out of breath, "let go of me." He could probably push him away relatively easily, but then this thing would explode into a full-on fight, and to be honest, Phil is not entirely sure about his chances against Jeff when he is like this. One could as well try and fight a hurricane.
A smug, adverse smile is tugging the corners of Jeff's lips; he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as if he just drank something disgusting, and there is blood left on his hand. "You wouldn't have said that three months ago."
"That was three months ago," Phil snaps, now desperately needing Jeff to back off, because it is getting painfully obvious what is happening inside his jeans. "I wouldn't have your sorry ass if you offered it on a fucking silver platter." It is yet another lie, and not an utterly convincing one.
"Is that so?" Jeff is looking at him with cunning, half-closed eyes, and once again Phil finds himself nearly amazed by the rapid change in Jeff's demeanor. Years ago, when they had just met, Phil always admired Jeff for his stunning diversity and ability to go from one extreme to another so effortlessly - he could be the nicest, most wonderful man you'd ever meet, but when he got angry or anxious, or thought that somebody had wronged him or someone he cared about, he could be more cruel than anybody, spreading venom around him like a poison ivy. Phil used to find it intriguing beyond belief, but now it is disturbing more than anything else, almost horrifyingly so.
And then Jeff lets go of Phil's other wrist and starts trailing his hand downwards his torso like it had never forgotten the way (and why would it have, in three months?), lower and lower, until Phil hears the sharp 'clink' of his own belt buckle as Jeff opens it slowly, almost deliberately, without having to look down once. Phil twitches involuntarily, his mind working rapidly to form some sort of an argument, but then his fly is already open and any possible words he thinks about saying shrivel in his throat before they ever get out. Jeff might say something along the lines of that's funny. I don't think the downstairs got the memo about that, Phil, do you? but Phil can't be entirely sure because the rush of blood in his ears drowns out most of the words; and by god, this is more humiliating than anything in a long, long time.
He leans his head back against the lockers, his eyes closed, pulse beating like a hammer. "Stop it."
"Eyes on me," Jeff retaliates; his voice sounds like silk wrapped around stone, and there isn't any force under the sun that could stop Phil from obeying, even though he doesn't really want to.
"Please, just –" he breathes, but his sentence is cut short because Jeff's fingers are keen and agile, and the hell with him for being so good at this, at everything he fucking does -
"What was it that you said about my ass, huh?" Jeff's smile is poisonously sweet, like a candy apple filled with arsenic. "That you wouldn't have it on a silver platter?"
"You offering?" Phil asks, breath ragged, almost laughing at his own question; even when they were doing this on a more or less regular basis, Jeff rarely did anything of the sort.
Jeff chuckles (exactly as Phil figured he would), his eyes shining like chrome. "You should be so lucky."
There is nothing sexual in the scene that is unfolding in the locker room, Phil knows it; the atmosphere is charged, suffocating... vengeful. It has nothing to do with pleasure, really, neither his or Jeff's - it is more like Jeff's way of showing that he is still in control of this morbid train wreck they once called a relationship... and as much as Phil would like to argue with that, or deny it altogether, one look at the situation tells him that he is really not in any kind of position to do that.
For a moment he just wonders how this ever happened, this is not how they are supposed to be, not at all. He hopes, more than anything, that it would not have to be like this, that they could still somehow find a way to repair what is broken and continue on. But it is too late. There are some things that can never function ever again once fallen apart.
And speaking of which, he shouldn't even feel like this. He wishes he could just flick a switch and stop wanting, because all this mess of feelings just makes everything all the more complicated. Phil has never labeled himself as one of those people who think with their downstairs brains instead of the upstairs ones; there has always been a certain voice of reason to prevent him from doing so. Now there are plenty of voices in his head, and none of them is a voice of reason.
"I've been watchin' you havin' a blast with your new gimmick," Jeff whispers, an inch away from Phil's ear. "It suits you better than well. All those people hatin' you for all the wrong reasons... tragic, ain't it?"
"And yet you're even worse than that," Phil gasps, hating Jeff for doing this. He is certain that they have had a conversation much like this one before. "At least I'm not hated because I'm a fucking junkie."
Phil supposes that it is too much to ask that his words would have some kind of an effect on Jeff; if they do, it is so subtle that he cannot see it. The only noticeable difference happens between his legs where the movement of Jeff's hand slows down to something that can only be called by the word 'tormenting'.
"You might wanna be a bit nicer to someone who's holdin' your dick in his hand," Jeff points out, as if that needed any clarification. Phil's mind is screaming please please please fucking please but he can keep it in by biting his already hurting lip so hard that it almost brings tears to his eyes. Not that it would matter much, though. He doesn't have to say it aloud, because Jeff already knows it.
He would like to think that he has some dignity left, still, despite everything, but then Jeff picks up the pace again and it is all gone, and really, fuck dignity, because when has that ever helped him out of a tight spot? All that there is left is a tangle of messy emotions and his mouth opens in a soundless moan as he comes, fingers knotting convulsively into the black leather, much like before; only this is a follow-up of a different kind of violence. He buries his face into Jeff's leather-clad, cigarette-smelling shoulder, fighting back an urge to bite into the soft, tattooed skin and draw blood, to color the inked roots crimson red; in the end he just lets out an unwilling, almost pathetic kind of moan against Jeff's neck in the afterburn of the orgasm.
"Still got it, I see," Jeff mutters, sounding unbearably self-satisfied - that tone is so infuriating that it momentarily almost gives Phil some of his much-needed poise back, and he wants to hit something so bad that he can hardly stand it. Preferably Jeff.
"Asshole," he exhales, slowly lifting his head, and that is as far as his poise gets him.
"This has been slightly upliftin' for me," Jeff offers in the way of an answer, brazenly wiping his hand on Phil's shirt as if this sort of thing was something that he does every day, "and a lucky night for you. It must be nice not havin' to use your own hand for a change."
Phil just scowls at him, breathing heavily, blood flowing like quicksilver in his veins; he tries to force himself to move, but he actually has to muster up most of his will power just to be able to keep standing on his own two feet, so it doesn't quite happen.
"Oh, I'm sorry, was this your good shirt?" Jeff asks mockingly, casting a critical eye on Phil's merchandise shirt with the two familiar X fists. "At least when I was around, the merch had some class."
"Sure, if you wanna call neon-colored fishnet shirts classy," Phil retorts weakly, unable to come up with anything more cutting. But Jeff smiles at it, and for a moment it almost looks like a real smile, the kind of smile Jeff used to offer him every now and then, and during one wicked second he can actually see a trace of something that Jeff used to be, something that he probably still is – just not to Phil, and somehow that makes it even worse.
He is nothing but glad when Jeff opens his mouth again and the ghost of a smile is gone like it was never there in the first place.
"On a closin' note, don't go talk to Matt about me ever again," Jeff says and this time he presses his index finger on Phil's chest. "And if I ever hear you've made some dickhead move on him, I will kill you."
Phil would find that extremely funny if he didn't know that Jeff is being dead serious; the thought of him hitting on Matt is bordering preposterous, and he strongly doubts whether Matt would fall for his supposed "moves" anyway.
"Nah. You wouldn't." He swats Jeff's hand lazily aside, and a part of him really wants to believe his next words. "You still like me too much."
Jeff's eyes flash; he looks nearly amused in a way that doesn't seem amusing at all to Phil, and he places his palms against the lockers to either side of Phil's head.
"Do it," he almost coaxes, "do it, and we'll see just how much I still like you."
The words twist into something malicious and poison-oozing; Phil isn't stupid enough to doubt their reliability for one second, and so he says nothing. There simply is nothing to say.
Jeff taps the locker with his finger, drawing hollow and metallic clank sounds; his gaze is intense, baleful, and for a moment it announces this isn't over yet. Phil knows that there is absolutely nothing that would stop Jeff from beating him to a bloody pulp or turning him around and fucking him raw if he wanted to do so – and, alas, the whole twisted concept of revenge fuck really is something that Phil could see Jeff fit into his repertoire of schemes. It hasn't always been like that. Or has it? Time has a tendency to take bitter memories and twist them until they are distorted and, more importantly, laced with silver and gold.
"You know what almost makes this worth the trouble?" Jeff asks in a conversational tone.
"I couldn't possibly guess."
"You're gonna miss me." He says it almost triumphantly, as if this had been some kind of a competition that he has just won. "You really are. I wasn't sure until today, but I am now. It makes me happier than you could ever imagine."
"Are you done?" Phil asks quietly. He is not going to take the bait and deny it, and what would be the point, anyway? He knows that Jeff recognizes a lie when he hears one.
"Yeah, I'm done. For now." Jeff's looks at him up and down with appraising eyes and finally raises an eyebrow. "And by the way, Phillip... I would clean myself up before goin' out if I were you."
He pats Phil lightly on the cheek (a patronizing gesture if he ever saw one) and his fingers burn upon the aching flesh; at the next moment the man is already marching towards the door, and in about four seconds all of him, shadow and everything, is gone and Phil finds himself alone in the room.
He curses out loud, slamming the back of his head against the lockers as if it wasn't already hurting enough. Rationally thinking his injuries aren't bad - bruises heal and even the feeling of indignity will wane off in time, and besides, he and Jeff have had encounters that overshadow this one with flying colors; arguments escalating into fistfights in a matter of minutes, insults cutting the air like machetes through flesh, breakable and unbreakable objects shattering against walls and floors. But then, he has never known how to regard Jeff in rational terms. He doesn't think it is even possible. If it was, none of this would have happened to begin with.
He wonders whether Jeff will ever read the letter, despite of what he said, and he almost hopes that he didn't. He doesn't know whether he could find it in himself to endure another confrontation like this, and he feels that he would rather live the rest of his life without seeing another sight of Jeff than live this one evening all over again. That is probably a vain hope, though. There is a certain feeling of pendency to all this, and if what he thinks he saw in Jeff's eyes was really there, he is going to have to watch his back a bit more carefully from now on.
Just thinking about it makes him grow weary. Who knows - if it was ten years ago, things might be different. Maybe he would even see an opportunity to be seized in it. But he is thirty-one and he thinks that he is getting too old for stuff like this; not just physically, but emotionally as well. He feels strained and attenuated, as if Jeff had peeled some layers off of him and taken them with him, leaving him raw and skinless and inside out, with some sort of indeterminate feeling of what the hell am I supposed to do now.
Phil sighs and starts taking his shirt off, but then decides to have the second shower of the evening at the hotel after all. The room smells too much like sex and Jeff, and he doesn't want to spend another minute in there.
He gathers the rest of his stuff together as quickly as he can while patting his injured lip with a piece of damp paper; he had blissfully forgotten that he is still bleeding. He wonders briefly whether it would be more funny or awful if he told everybody tomorrow that he ran into a door, but then decides to leave the role of a battered housewife to someone more suitable. The make-up team can work wonders, anyway.
Creeping out of the arena by some dodgy back door seems ridiculous, but Phil thinks, knows, that if he has to answer even one question, just one, he is going to snap, and it is going to be ugly. Thankfully only one person passes him, and the guy is way too busy to pay any attention to Phil.
Once out, he walks to his car so fast that he is practically running, and for a second he actually expects to find his tires slashed. It would almost make sense – even if Matt wasn't angry enough to do so, Jeff sure as hell is. But the tires are fine, and he gets in the car, slamming the door shut, dumps all his things in the backseat and just sits there, quietly.
After a while he buckles himself up and starts the car, muttering a quiet "shit" that drowns in the noise of the engine, and apparently, life should go on, even though at the moment he finds it extremely hard to believe that such a thing could happen any time soon.