It had all started with a moan.
"Get off of me!"
The look of anger in his eyes only added fuel to a slowly growing fire, making it burst with life it wasn't supposed to have, allowing it to consume everything on its way.
"Sam...!"
He licked his lips, slightly dry, but didn't relent.
Jack... Jack stood out in many ways. No one else seemed to think so, but for Sam he stuck out like a sore thumb, his gaze drawn to him automatically ever since he had first laid eyes on him a couple of months ago when he visited the dojo out of curiosity. There were many reasons, all of them of very different nature: because he had never seen someone so pale in his life; because he was the only one who could beat him in a match; because he seemed like the one person in that club who cared about kenjutsu beyond it being a sport; because he had never met a man with features so delicate that he had to look twice to make sure he wasn't a woman—and those were only the ones he could come up with in the spot.
Yes, Jack was someone who attracted attention in every way. It was impossible not to notice him.
"No, no. Not until you decide to behave."
Jack, who kept struggling under his grip, growled again and made Sam's breath hitch, his hands twitching, eager to follow a sadistic need to apply more pressure and reap another reaction. He was interrupted by their Sensei's stern look, however, a quick warning gesture keeping him from going any further. With a disappointed sigh, he let the blonde's hands go for good measure, and he landed with a blunt thump on the tatami, panting like an animal and glowering at him like he wanted to jump at his throat and tear it open using nothing but his teeth.
Hm. Interesting image.
He rose his hands as if his glare was a gun, yet it seemed like Jack didn't feel like starting another fight, not this time. His body relaxed and he looked away, resigned, ignoring the cheers coming from the crowd as his Sensei helped him up.
Yes, he stood out alright.
But after that moan, Sam started thinking he stood out in ways he hadn't considered before as well.
"You're staring again, mon gars."
Mistral's thick accent poured out of her lips like honey. He smiled at the bronze-skinned beauty, her arms wrapped around his arm and her head on his shoulder.
"Am I, now?" Then, a tilt of his head. "Jealous?"
She let out a chuckle, a little too deep for a woman. "Depends. If your... object of interest is that unsavory pale boy, then I have no problems."
"Then we're good."
Sam's eyes returned to his front, trying to locate his object of interest, who had moved from his previous spot. He found him soon enough, a few meters to the left, but he was accompanied by another couple of eyes this time, the ones of his roommate he didn't know the name of, and that had, just like Mistral, taken note of his watchful gaze. He smiled at him and he smiled back with a raised eyebrow before looking at Jack again.
"Even his friends are noticing. You need to learn a little something about subtlety, Minuano, otherwise he's going to think you're looking at him."
"I'm not trying to be subtle." He replied to Monsoon, who was half-hidden behind a book. "And I doubt it. Not everyone is as thick-skulled as Jack, or at least I'm hoping so, because then I'd have to switch colleges, if not leave the country."
"Oh, no, that won't be necessary. That level of stupidity is one of a kind."
"Heh. Good."
Jack—Or 'Raiden' as he had heard he liked to be called—brought a mixture of emotions to Sam. Ever since their discussion on Satsujinken that had left nothing but a bitter taste in his mouth and painful memories of the past slightly awakened from their slumber, he had wanted to teach the man a lesson about the real world, the world where the naive ideals and foolish principles the blonde spouted without a thought had no way to survive. Pure anger and resentment dominated his actions back then, emotions muted behind a cool mask of annoyance yet loud in his movements when they sparred, swinging his sword down as if aiming to break his resolve, his very self.
"You need to measure your strength, Samuel! You're not swinging a club!"
Sam shrugged, barely bothering to give their Sensei a dismissive glance. "I am using the same strength I use with Murasama."
"A steel sword isn't—"
"I'm fine."
Jack, who held onto the swollen skin of his left shoulder, gave both men a glance full of defiance, the rest of the students dead silent.
"I can take it. You know strength isn't all there is to sword fighting, after all."
Those last words were meant to mock him, Sam knew, because Jack was aware of the fact that he had the speed Sam lacked—That was the only reason the blow he had meant for his head went to his shoulder, instead. Sam shrugged again, as if sliding his words off his body with indifference.
"Whatever you say, pretty boy."
Anger and resentment.
Those feelings had remained intact and prevalent for months, and he expected them to never really change, as Jack showed no signs of relenting, instead growing stronger and more irritating with each fight.
But time passed.
It passed by quietly, faster than he would've expected, and as if his brain had grown numb to anger with time and were searching for something different and stimulating, his thoughts started taking another direction.
A moan.
Like a snowball rolling down a hill, Sam's focus switched to something more primal when they sparred after that. He began picking up on the blonde's vocalizations, the expressions his face twisted in as he pushed him to the ground. Sounds and images fed a new kind of emotion, nurturing it until that sentiment pulsed with its first breath of life in the form of a dream where Jack was under him yet not quite in the way he would've expected him to be.
Odd.
That was all that he had thought back then before his eyes closed again, not realizing his brow was furrowed.
As mixed as they were, old and new emotions weren't exactly struggling for predominance, either. They coexisted and even fed off each other at moments. His anger and this something more, pushed Sam to engage into fights with the blonde more often than he would have hadn't his brain taken alternative paths in its perception of Jack at the last moment. It got to the point where even their Sensei had threatened to kick them both out of the club, fuming with exasperation as he declared his dojo was not a boxing ring—Nor a cockpit, he quickly added, the spectators watching from outside dropping their shoulders in shame.
"You have a thirst."
Eyes still on the pillar the blonde had disappeared behind, Mistral's words and her index finger on his lips barely registered, yet managed to bring him back from his musings nonetheless. "What?"
"You thirst for that boy, Samuel."
Oh.
Right.
Lust was the word he was looking for.
"I guess I do."
Well that was something to think about. Then again, it wasn't like he could feel absolutely shocked about it, either; in spite of the animosity he felt towards him, Sam wasn't so foolish as to deny the fact that he did think Jack was attractive from a completely objective point of view. He had called him pretty boy as a joke at first, as nothing more than a taunt, yet taunts rarely weren't based on facts. Yes, Jack was pretty, almost strikingly so—Blue eyes obscured by too-long eyelashes only stood out more against pale skin that seemed impeccably chiseled on stone, the hair that grazed his face feathery and light, easily swayed by the slightest puff of air, and his lips—
His lips...
Sam caught himself there, probably because that was where it all started, where the line between honest appreciation and attraction lied on.
Yet that moment of doubt didn't last long. Sam allowed himself to cross the line with relative ease soon enough, then walked even farther, not stopping at his lips, oh no, instead effortlessly continuing down to his neck and further below, imagination filling the blanks sight couldn't.
Mistral was right. He had a thirst, though not quite a need, as he found himself satisfied only by looking, admiring, little treats he tossed at the puppy that symbolized his desire. He figured it would be fine if he kept things as they were—No harm done from just looking, right? It would never go beyond that.
Or so he thought.
Because once again time passed, and said puppy became a wolf in a matter of weeks, growth Sam only became aware of once he woke up one night sprawled on his bed, one leg bent in an awfully awkward angle and his cock hard against the mattress, pieces of imagery—blonde locks, pale skin—still lingering in his head.
Oh, for crying out loud.
Feeling nothing but annoyance at his body suddenly wanting to act like he was going through puberty all over again, he took care of it slowly, lazily, and with Jack's eternally scowling face in his mind when he came.
Well.
Well, that was...
... that was something.
As he brushed his damp hair back with his clean fingers, Sam sized his new situation with uncertainty.
So he wanted Jack. Alright, that was no news. He had desired Jack for a while. But it had never translated to something so raw, never going beyond the safety of his psyche, and never something he couldn't satisfy by just looking from afar.
But this wasn't just admiration anymore. Looking wasn't going to cut it, god no, because the more he thought about Jack, the more his desire for something concrete grew. He thought about his pretty mouth, pale and unmarred like the rest of him. He thought about it enveloping his cock or wide open as moans poured out of it as he got fucked blind. He wanted to make Jack beg, he wanted to make him cry out—He already knew what his screams sounded like from their previous fights, and kept wondering how they would sound in a mellower tone, maybe a couple of octaves higher as he moaned for sweet mercy, trapped between Sam and the bed, his cock buried to the hilt.
Shit.
He was hard again.
... This was getting out of control.
He figured at first that his annoyance towards Jack would've halted his needs' growth, but the problem was that what he felt towards the man wasn't hate—it was simply anger, an emotion not strong enough to battle lust. His libido slowly consumed what was left of his resentment, twisting it, digesting, dividing into nothing but a memory of what it was.
Sam was worried—No—Preoccupied was the word. The way things were going, Jack wouldn't be able to stay uninvolved for long. And that meant having to reach out for someone, he sensed, who was not available to be reached out for by any means.
Yet that also meant a challenge.
A concept Sam was very, very fond of.
Bearing in mind the fact that he'd have to take action to fix his predicament, his attention shifted from Jack's physique to his behavior. He already knew Jack was as dense as a black hole, considering how completely clueless he acted when he openly flirted with him, how his hands being on places they shouldn't be when they brawled never raised any questions. That was both good and bad; good because it meant he hadn't really rejected his advances just yet; bad because it would take a goddamn miracle to make him become aware of said advances in the first place.
A detail that had escaped Sam until then hinted against complete hopelessness, however.
Jack's eyes.
It had happened by chance, when he had turned away and caught his reflection on a window. Sam saw blue eyes looking at him, unaware of his own, something indescribable in them as they ran through his back.
Then lower.
Sam had to swallow a fit of laughter.
It wasn't like he thought someone checking him out was funny. It was something so natural and that he did so often that he would've been an hypocrite had he made fun of Jack for it. No, what was amusing was that it was the first time he had seen Jack do something remotely close to that nature, the first time he broke out of his monk-like persona. He had desires, even if he wasn't very aware of them, and there was something in Sam that awakened them whether Jack liked it or not.
Perhaps he wouldn't be so unreachable, after all.
His suspicions only grew larger when he started looking at him in less direct ways, on mirrors, on glass, on anything that had a reflection, anything to make the blonde think he was safe to allow himself some indulgence, unknowingly providing Sam with evidence for a trial he had no idea was coming.
The last piece of proof was found in the changing room, as he got out of the shower with nothing but a towel, wrapped purposefully tight to his waist so it would outline his finer assets. Jack feigned his usual indifference when he walked by his side, eyes straight ahead, gaze neutral and far from both the looks of anger and curiosity he had seen many times before. When Sam got to his bag, he pretended to be enthused by how deep it was and murmured meaningless complaints, eyes instead looking for a full-body mirror nearby that was perfectly angled for him to see the other man.
And his eyes, once again, were on him.
"Something the matter, pretty boy?"
He heard something drop and couldn't keep his grin from widening when he looked back at Jack, who tried to hide the embarrassment of being caught in the act behind a deep scowl.
"... You're dripping all over the floor."
Right. Sam almost rolled his eyes.
"I'll get a mop if it bothers you so much, blondie."
"Whatever."
He was clearly uncomfortable, but refused to make it more obvious than it already was by cutting their conversation short. And Sam, for once, didn't insist, because he had already gotten his answer:
Pretty boy was interested.
Now the problem was getting him to admit it. The man was clearly going to refuse if asked upfront—He doubted he even was aware of the fact at all, for that matter. Sam racked his brain for a minute, eyes distractedly going over Jack's figure as they always did whenever he wasn't looking, and once his eyes landed on the naked skin of his shoulder, he realized he was undressing.
Ah.
Jack... Jack was undressing.
Sam doubted for a second, in one of those few rare moments where he wasn't sure what to do or how to react. He didn't have much time to think about it either, as Jack's keikogi started sliding down his back, pale skin, just like he had painted it in his dreams, shattering almost every line of thought in his head to pieces.
Almost every line.
Because he realized that while the color fit, the texture didn't.
Scars.
"... You're still here?"
Light scars and bruises adorned his back and arms, and probably lower, too.
"Sam."
The way he called his name pulled him out of his trance, and he realized Jack was giving him a quizzical look, pulling his robes up to protect himself from a gaze that was asking too many questions.
"Ah. I—I got distracted."
"Well, go get distracted somewhere else. Some privacy would be nice."
He decided against telling him that if he wanted privacy then he shouldn't undress in a place that was technically public and simply chuckled, focusing on looking for his own clothes instead.
His mind, however, remained on Jack's body.
Odd.
Lust was put on hold just like the anger he had felt before it, confusion taking its place.
Something wasn't right. Scars didn't fit the image he had of Jack. They didn't fit who he thought was barely a man, a boy like Mistral always called him, someone who had lived in the city his whole life with a nice, average family, living a nice, average life, surrounded by nice, average circumstances.
Why?
"Jack? Fighting? No way, no way."
"Yeah! Guy's grumpy but he's as sweet as honey!"
"Geez, Maria, your crush is showing."
"Sh-Shut up!"
Sam chuckled along with the female members of the club and patiently waited for them to stop bickering before continuing his line of questioning. "You say that, but he's not so sweet when he's fighting me, is he?"
"Only because you provoke him! I would slap you too if you treated me like you treat him." Said another one of the girls before Maria could jump to defend him, her frown softened by a playful smile. "But seriously—I've never seen him picking fights outside of the dojo. He's pretty mellow otherwise."
"Why are you asking, anyway?"
"Oh, nothing but innocent curiosity, really. I saw a couple of scars that made me think he was picking up fights or... maybe had an accident or, who knows, something along those lines. I was wondering if you girls knew anything about it."
They all exchanged curious looks.
"Maybe they were old scars?" Maria ventured. "We all do stupid things as kids, y'know. It's the only explanation I can think of, because he hasn't been in any accidents and as far as I know, and Jack isn't the kind of guy to look for fights, either."
"Yeah, and you would know."
"Oh, leave me alone!"
He echoed the girls' laughter as Maria lightly hit her friend on the head with her bokken, yet uncertainty continued to grow inside him.
Odd.
Odd, it was odd, because his scars weren't old, no, he was too familiar with injuries to not be able to tell if a wound was recent or not. Jack's scars in particular were a couple of weeks old at the very least, so the girl's innocent guess didn't fit what he had seen.
Jack was hiding something, and hiding it so well that even people who were paying attention couldn't realize what was happening.
He had not ran out of options just yet, though—If those who were only attentive acquaintances couldn't provide him with the information he needed, he would simply have to resort to... closer sources.
The problem was that the closer the source, the more loyal to Jack they probably were, and the more resistance he would meet when trying to retrieve any useful information.
He wasn't wrong.
Kevin's usually amiable eyes hardened with suspicion and a tinge of protectiveness when Sam approached him and casually asked, feigning innocent worry that the other man didn't fall for and only made him back away with distrust.
"... Raiden's fine." He said dryly, his gentle tone replaced by a cautious one.
"I doubt he is, considering those scars of his. Or do you not know about them either?"
"..."
He absolutely wasn't wrong about his loyalty, Sam thought, but even though he had predicted it, he still felt a little taken aback by how much resistance he was meeting. Kevin seemed like a reasonable enough guy, which was why he had approached him first, but he should have known that him being reasonable didn't mean he was a push-over.
"Jack has good friends." He admitted.
Kevin's stance didn't relax for a second, arms crossed on his chest as if to conceal a secret. His eyes did soften, however. "Look, man. I don't know what you came looking for, but you aren't gonna get it from me. If you wanna know about Raiden, you gotta ask him directly."
"Ask him when? When he runs away from me to flee or when he runs towards me to fight?"
"And just whose fault is that."
"... Guilty as charged."
"Yeah, exactly." He growled, like a parent scolding his child. Then came a sigh, though, his shoulders dropping slightly. "But... It'd be unfair to say this is your fault only. Raiden's my friend, but I'm not gonna blindly defend him either. He gets riled up too easily. Almost too easily, even." He finished in a mumble he thought Sam's ears wouldn't catch.
"Oh, so you've noticed? That our fights aren't my responsibility only."
"What, do you think I'm stupid?"
"I didn't say you were. In fact, I think you're quite the opposite."
"... Well, I do have the best grades in all... Wait." Kevin put a stop to his boasting and gave Sam a wary look. "You're not flattering me just to get information out of me, are you?"
"... Of course not."
"You suck at lying, buddy." Sam barked out a dry fit of laughter.
"Alright, maybe I was trying to get on your good side, but I wasn't exactly lying."
"My, my, thank you very much sir, but you're gonna need a lot more than that to 'get on my good side.' A vanilla shake would be a good start—Joke, joke!" He added immediately when Sam started taking out his wallet with a mischievous smile. "Alright, man, what do you really want!?"
"I want to know the reason behind those scars."
"Why? How is it your business?"
"I suppose it isn't." He conceded, if only to make Kevin's defenses lower again. "But it is your business, isn't it? Doesn't he worry you? Jack, I mean."
He rolled his eyes skeptically. "Please don't say you're 'worried' about him, you're only gonna make me believe you really think I'm a freaking idiot."
"I wasn't. It isn't worry that drives me. Instead, you could call it... curiosity."
"Right. Curiosity. Look—That's enough, alright? Whatever Jack... Raiden does isn't any of your business, nor mine for that matter."
"If it weren't yours then you wouldn't know as much as I think you do." Noticing the way Kevin tightened up all over again, Sam changed his strategy immediately, his tone soothing: "That's fine—You wouldn't be his friend if you didn't actually care about him. It is only to be expected."
"I... I guess..."
A pause.
"... I guess I am worried."
When his whole body unwound like a tightly knotted rope loosened by time and a very firm hand, Sam knew he had managed to break his main line of defense. He thanked his own persistence as Kevin leaned over the closest wall, and looked at him with tired eyes.
"Hm. About the scars, you mean?"
"It's not the scars. I mean, it is but..."
"But?"
"Raiden... I've known him for a long time, alright? But I can't get the guy to open up with me—There's always something that stops him right before..." He tried to express with his hands what he couldn't with words, his frown deepening when even then he couldn't convey his thoughts thoroughly. "... No matter what I do... Or what anyone does, really, since I'm not the only one trying, he's just... closed. Out of business. Like this safe with one of those rotary dials that no matter how much you turn you can't get it to click."
Kevin finished his frustrated speech with a another sigh, and Sam felt a little sorry for him—It looked like he was genuinely distressed about the whole deal. Jack didn't deserve such good friends, he thought, not if he had them scrambling like that, not if he couldn't offer them the one thing friendship was based on: Trust.
"... Sorry." When Kevin's eyes rose up from the floor, they glinted with caution and worry again—It seemed he had finally realized he had compulsively poured his heart out to a stranger and was starting to regret it. "Look, I won't tell you about the scars. It's not something you should know about, in fact I don't think it's something even I should know about. I just found out by accident, and Raiden didn't want to talk about it, as usual."
"Talk about what, exactly?"
"I can't tell you that. I can't do that to him."
Tough one to crack, he'd give him that.
But Sam was tougher.
"... If I wanted to find out, like you, by accident..."
"Sam..."
"What do you propose I do? Perhaps I could find out why he's doing whatever he does."
"Please. What makes you think he'll tell you what he wouldn't tell, you know, his friends?"
"Maybe because you are his friends."
"What?"
Kevin rose an eyebrow and Sam shrugged. "He can't tell you because you are his friends." He repeated. "Maybe he fears telling you because he likes you, and speaking about it will make you stop wanting to be his friend."
"..."
Kevin's brows furrowed, a deep frown contorting his features.
"He wouldn't... I mean, I would... I would never..."
A pause.
Then his face relaxed with a realization he hadn't been able to come up with for years.
"Oh my god, that's—That's exactly it, isnt it!?" Sam couldn't help but chuckle as the man ran his hands through his scalp as if wanting to tear every hair out of it for not coming up with that answer sooner. "I can't believe this—! That idiot...!"
"Ah, well, I won't disagree with that. I have been told his stupidity is one of a kind."
"Damn right it is, little skinny albino son of a—"
"Eh, wait, where are you going—"
"I'm going to kill Raiden."
Sam's jaw dropped a little and he barked out a surprised guffaw, allowing himself only that second of amusement before running ahead to catch up with Kevin's quick steps, jumping in front of him to stop his mindless dashing. "Now, now, let's all calm down, shall we? As satisfying as beating Jack is—And I believe I have enough experience in this field myself to have a trustworthy opinion on it—this won't help anybody."
"It would help me."
"... Why don't you let me handle this?" He proposed, letting the words rumble in the most reassuring tone he could manage to calm the man down. "I'll see what Jack's up to, and I'll help however I can. All you have to do is point me in the right direction."
"..."
Kevin's gaze lowered and Sam didn't even bother containing a victorious grin: It was a clear sign of defeat, one cemented with words a second after:
"Alright... Alright, I can tell you something, I guess."
"Good! Then..."
"But, there's something I want you to answer first."
"Ah. That is no problem—"
"Sincerely."
"... That might be a problem." He joked, and Kevin rolled his eyes.
"Eye for an eye, buddy."
Another shrug. "Alright then. Shoot."
"You said before that you are doing this out of pure curiosity, right?"
"Yes, I did."
"Well, that's bullshit."
"Hm?"
"Isn't it?"
Sam failed to see where this was going, but he felt his own danger alarms raising regardless. "I think... I think calling it 'bullshit' isn't quite right. It's not a 100 percent bullshit... more like a 75 percent bullshit?" He tried with a smile, but Kevin didn't smile along.
"Sam."
"What?"
"Why don't you just admit you have a crush on Raiden?"
Something about the word 'crush' made Sam wince. It was too emotional, not good enough for the raw emotion driving him at the moment, not good enough for him. "Because we're not in elementary school?"
"'You sure about that? Because you're this close to pulling his pigtails and flipping his skirt."
As appealing as the idea of Jack in a skirt was, he still felt too annoyed to let it distract him, not used to being put on the spot against his will like that. "It's not a 'crush'. But... if you must know, I am very interested in Jack... physically."
"Psh." Kevin rolled his eyes again. "I already knew that—It's not like I haven't seen you staring at his ass like it's on fire. But... fine. I guess that's an honest enough answer."
"Good! Then...?"
"I will be out this weekend."
Sam frowned. "Come again?"
"I'll go visit my folks, so I won't be around this weekend." He repeated, then turned around. "And Raiden knows."
Oh.
Alright, then. That was good enough, Sam figured, even if his hint was still a little broad when it came to terms of time. He was not looking forward to stalking Jack for two whole days nor dealing with the questioning looks from the people who'd notice him following him like a spy in some sort of old, 90s stealth videogame.
But he could work with that, at least. It was better than nothing, and he could use it to finally get things moving...
... Moving where, again?
That question hovered over his head along a couple of others that were born from both Kevin's questions and his bored meditation as he watched Jack from afar that Saturday. Sam retraced his steps, carefully following the series of events that had gotten him to where he was that day, mentally drawing a path that was unclean, crooked and twisted:
Anger, annoyance, attraction, lust, wonder, and a myriad of in-betweens.
Time did wonders. What had originally been a violent desire for revenge for unknowingly waking old pains had turned into a gnawing yearning to possess him in bed, and that, in turn, had ultimately taken him to somehow meddle in his personal life, curiosity eating at him, instead.
So where was this going, exactly?
He didn't know.
Not a single clue.
But that was fine. Sometimes questions didn't have answers, and Sam could live with the uncertainty even if they did; he had grown used to doing things without a clear purpose a long time ago, after all. All he needed to know was that things were pointing towards Jack, be it fury, longing, confusion—And if that was the vector his feelings were following then so would he.
Sam would've been lying if he said he didn't regret following said vector a little when it landed him in the sleaziest, filthiest bar he had ever seen, though.
Jack had strange tastes, he thought half-amused, half-mystified. Sam stared at his back as he sat in a dark corner, away from the blonde's eyes—Though truth be said, the only way the man would see him was if he sat right on top of his goddamn glass, his eyes fixed on his drink like the meaning of life had sunk to the bottom of it.
It wasn't the first time he had seen Jack drink like that. He had found him doing the exact same thing when he managed to bump into him in parties back in college, taking shot after shot as if to drown his demons, his angels, hell, anything in both his body and psyche. So Sam wasn't exactly shocked when he ordered his fifth shot, his voice already slightly uneven:
"I'll have another."
"Now, now, Jackie. I don't want any trouble from you today."
Oh.
Interesting.
"... 'm not gonna give you trouble?" Jack answered, then paused, seemingly confused about that sentence coming out as a question instead of a statement. "I'm not... gonna give you trouble." He repeated, confidently this time.
"Yeah, that's what you said last time you were here and you cost me two tables and a chair!"
"I paid for those, didn't I?"
"Doesn't mean they weren't a pain in the ass to replace, kiddo."
Interesting. Interesting. Sam didn't realize he was leaning over his table, his own drink long forgotten beside him as he listened intently to the bartender, a tired-looking black woman in her fifties who regarded Jack with motherly eyes.
"... But... Fine, fine. I rarely get customers that pay for the damages—Most of those pieces of garbage run away and never come back. Just promise me you'll take it outside this time, will you, honey?"
"Yeah, I... I promise."
The woman served him another drink with a resigned sigh, drink that Jack downed in no time, shivering slightly to the bitterness of alcohol. Unfortunately, they didn't continue their conversation, the bartender too busy tending to other clients while Jack sat there for several minutes as if waiting for something.
Or someone.
"Hey, Jackie-boy's here!"
Both the voice and the man it belonged to were unfamiliar to Sam, but not to Jack, who snarled as soon as he managed to recognize him in the darkness.
"Fuck off."
"Now you're just being rude. Can't you even say hi after last time? We had so much fun after all!"
The man's smirk was sinister and as fake as the friendly tone of his voice. This was no friend of Jack's, Sam suspected, soon proved right by way he regarded him with a threatening look in his eyes.
"Last time?" The blonde repeated, cocking his head to the side. "You mean when I wiped the floor with your sorry ass?" The man's fake smile faltered, and Jack's grin widened in turn. "I don't have time to fuck over the same piece of shit twice, so why don't you go bother someone else?"
"You cocky son of a bitch—"
Sam felt himself transported back to the dojo for a second as screaming, cheering voices rose up around him, and he realized that he hadn't been the only one watching over Jack—Men and women alike had been waiting for someone to take him on, only a few clients looking bewildered by the sudden chaos. The man lunged forward and tried to punch the blonde in the face only to find himself missing, fist hitting nothing but air before he found himself suddenly lifted off the floor by the neck. When Jack spoke up, his voice was rough and guttural:
"You still punch like a little bitch, I see. A five year old would have a better chance at actually touching me, you pathetic fucking wretch."
"Y-you piece of shit—brat—! Let me go...!"
"C'mon, Jack, show him a good time! We wanna see blood!"
"Beat his face to a pulp like last time, fuck him up!"
It was like an M-rated version of their public back in college, joking, innocent cheers for one side or the other replaced by ill-spirited and cruel remarks, cheering directed towards the promise of violence more than towards a winner. Jack ignored them all and took the man outside, the bartender sighing sadly and looking as old as ever. She was the only one in the bar who wasn't curious or thrilled by what was happening, and Sam was not surprised—Bar fights weren't uncommon, especially in a place where the alcohol was cheap and tasted cheaper, where people only went to get intoxicated for a single buck, so it was probably a common occurrence for her. He did find himself, however, frozen with disbelief for a minute as the few waitresses did their best to calm the crowd down.
What was happening?
This didn't fit the Jack he knew.
The Jack he knew was a pampered boy who liked fantasy a little too much, who had a naive view of the world appropriate for someone born in his circumstances. The Jack he knew only partied with friends and went to sleep at 3 am at most. The Jack he knew only fought with fists and wooden sticks, the Jack he knew pretended he didn't enjoy brawls, the Jack he knew didn't gave into them so damn easily, either.
This... who was this?
"You think we should...?"
"Yeah, they're outside. No one's gonna notice."
Sam couldn't see them, but he heard them, and suddenly two, three, four men rose up and went outside as well.
They were allies, he realized, and not Jack's.
The Jack he knew... the Jack he knew didn't stand a chance, he realized, quickly rising from his seat as well, following the men at a distance so they wouldn't notice.
Yes. The Jack he knew most positively did not stand a chance.
But this Jack...
"..."
This Jack was wiping the floor with them.
His movements were something of dreams, of nightmares. Every punch that came towards him met nothing, the blonde's reflexes fast as lightning even when drunk off his mind, easily turning the men's own strength against them as he took a hold of their extended arms and kicked the back of their legs, effectively throwing them to the floor. Then, before they could even become aware of the fact that their feet weren't touching ground anymore, came a bone-breaking blow to whatever Jack felt like shattering at the moment and screams resounded on the filthy alleyways nearby, eerily echoing over and over again. And that was only his defense—When he decided to attack, Jack threw blows at their chest with one hand, tricking them into protecting their torso so he could quickly aim to their faces with his other hand. But once inside their area, he wasn't satisfied with only punching them, oh no, instead taking a hold of their heads, pulling them towards him so he could knee them in the stomach, grinning sadistically as they compulsively vomited bile and cheap booze.
"Is that all you got!? You make me laugh!"
Five men were constantly hitting the floor, victims of quick grapples, punches and kicks Jack had never used against Sam, standing right back up only to find themselves on the floor again a couple of seconds later. Ever so rarely did they manage to hit him with improvised weapons, tubes, boards, anything they could procure on-site, and when they did, they regretted immediately, the backslash for their insolence brutal—White was the last thing they saw before their face met a world of pain, the sound of bone breaking loud and clear, filling them with terror and sharp regret.
Sam was nothing but a witness, for the first time in forever speechless, for the first time in years joyous.
Who... was this?
"The White Devil!"
His heart was pounding with delight, something he hadn't felt since his days back in the favelas.
Whoever he was, he wanted to take him on.
"Is that really Jack!?"
"Oh shit! I've been waiting for that motherfucker for weeks!"
But that would have to wait until later. The scuffle had attracted more curious eyes that belonged to people who did not want to just passively observe, but join in—seven, eight, nine, all of them with a single objective:
Jack.
"Grab him!"
"Fucking cocky little fairy bitch! You think you can just take us all on!?"
Sam heard laughter in a voice that sounded like Jack's but couldn't be, and he failed to confirm his suspicions as white was swallowed by a pandemonium, becoming the center of a circle of beasts.
Then came a cry in a voice that, unlike the other one, was undoubtedly Jack's.
This wasn't good.
Sam's first instinct was to charge in, unsure if he was moved by the desire to help his rival or fight his heart out. Taking the men out was easy enough, they were drunk after all, so they fell like leaves one after another under his fists, only one of them managing to punch him in the eye and that got a well-deserved elbow to the face in response, courtesy of Sam's fast reflexes.
"Jack...!"
He eventually caught a glimpse of alabaster stained with red in between flying fists, blood that wasn't only from strangers—Jack was wounded.
"Hit him now!"
Pretty boy was lucky he found him when he did. A large man loomed over the unsuspecting White Devil, an empty bottle of rum in his hands that he swung down over Jack's head, promising a world of pain. Sam was faster, however, jumping over the man without thinking, stumbling over him and deviating his hand so it would strike Jack on his shoulder, instead. The bottle shattered and a scream of pain tore through his throat as Sam fell to the ground, only the man remaining standing as the Devil turned around, eyes flashing with borderline insanity
"You fucking sack of shit!"
He had cried out, but seemed immune to the pain scorching his shoulder as he took a hold of his attacker's wrist, quickly pulling then twisting his arm from that point and making him fall to the floor with nothing but raw strength. Jack used the man's own hand to press the broken bottle to his neck then, diving in more, and more, his victim's terrified screams freezing the heated brawls surrounding them, all eyes on Jack and his prey.
No, not Jack—This was not Jack—
Yet Sam found himself shouting his name all the same:
"Jack, stop!"
He jumped on the blonde against his better judgment, driven by who-knows-what anymore, taking a hold of his arm and forcing him to let go of the man's wrist, broken glass leaving long, skin-deep lacerations that would've been deeper and deadlier if Sam hadn't intervened when he did. Jack struggled under his grapple, furious and confused, and just when he was about to bury his teeth on the skin of Sam's arm, police sirens blared nearby.
"Run!"
The next few seconds flew by in a flash. Suddenly, fighting wasn't a priority anymore—Fleeing was. Men scrambled about, looking for places to hide from the policemen running towards the bar, the sound of guns shooting blanks making them panic and stumble on their own feet.
"Hey, you, big guy! Over here!"
The bartender was making signs his way. Sam took a hold of Jack's shirt and lifted him up from the floor, dragging his clumsy drunk feet toward the bar that closed its doors just as they sneaked in. The woman then lead them both toward a dark room, the customers around them returning to their seats, fabricating an ambience of peacefulness that would fool the most keen detective.
"I'll be back darling. Gotta hold the fort."
Sam only nodded, keeping the confused Jack on his feet by pulling his shirt up. As soon as the bartender left, the blonde looked up at him, squinting his eyes to see Sam's face better.
Uh-oh.
"W-Who are you...? Who—"
A clean blow to his gut cut him off and then Jack's body went limp, blue eyes rolling to the back of his head. The Devil finally fell, fading in his arms, and Sam felt his knees give in slightly—Jack was heavier than he had expected.
"You need to go on a diet, bonito." He joked to deaf ears.
Sam dragged him over to the closest table he could find and sat on it, old wood creaking under his weight. The blonde was pressed to his side, languished and paler than ever, blood still dripping down his nose and a dark bruise blooming on his cheek. His hands were stained red as well, but something told him that it wasn't Jack's blood, even if his arms were covered in bruises as well.
... A stranger.
That was who the man by his side was.
As he heard the voices of the policemen outside the room, Sam replayed Jack's movements over and over again, comparing them to his stances back in the dojo. Every once in a while when he fought him, Sam thought he had seen moments of brilliance. He had suspected the blonde had been holding his blade back; however, his apparently ordinary background had led him to believe he was over thinking things, or that Jack was merely naturally talented. But now he knew there was more to that.
He almost felt betrayed—Why didn't Jack show this side of him sooner?
He needed to fight this Jack.
He needed to have this Jack.
"Hey. You."
The policemen's voices were gone. Sam blinked, somewhat dazed still, and watched the bartender walk in with two bags of ice, one in each hand, that she promptly smashed against his face and Jack's. The cold felt painful against his swollen eye and Sam reflectively dodged her as she pressed harder.
"Ow—Excuse me—Ow."
"Oh, stay still you big baby."
Sam sighed and let the older woman press the bag against his face again so she would stop scolding him, her other hand busy placing the second bag on Jack's reddening cheek.
"... Fool of a boy kept his promise." She muttered, her voice trembling with gratitude. "Are you his friend?"
"Ah, not quite..."
"Don't you think you can lie to me, you brat. I saw you staring at him ever since you entered the bar. There's no way you don't know each other. 'Came to take care of him?"
"... I suppose you could say that."
"Glad to hear it." Her smile was one of past beauty, green eyes joyful and relieved. "Boy's always alone, y'know. Kinda famous... or well infamous around these parts—Bars and pubs I mean."
"Oh. Does he come here a lot, then?"
"Well, not often. Twice a month at least." Probably because the other two weekends his friends were around to keep him on a leash, Sam thought, pulling Jack up as he was starting to slide down his side. "But somehow he's still kind of a legend. Good lil' Jack The Ripper..."
Sam blinked—Hold up. "Jack... Jack the what?"
"Oh. You didn't know? That's one of the few cheesy names they call him around here—Though it's an awfully unfitting one if you ask me. The kid doesn't rip anybody—he just... punches them a little. Kicks them a little bit, too... And well, he does bite sometimes. Well, you saw."
"Yes, I... I saw." He admitted, and the following chuckle born in his chest was more of disbelief than amusement, remembering how Jack seemed ready to gnaw off part of his arm hadn't the police arrived when they did.
"'Guess it just sounds good. And well, the kid does kick some ass; I've never heard him of him losing a fight."
"So that's what he comes to do here? Get drunk and fight until he passes out?"
"Well, yeah!" She frowned. "What are you asking me for? You are his friend, aren't you?"
"I'm more of an... acquaintance. I only followed him because no one knew what he was up to during the weekends—Jack isn't exactly an open book, you see, so everyone was worried."
The bartender offered a sad smile, her eyes on the blonde's face. "... Y'know, somehow, that doesn't surprise me."
The woman only let them go home when she made sure both of their faces didn't look like balloons, wishing them good luck while mischievously slipping the tab in Jack's pocket for him to pay it another day. 'I'm sure he'll pay me back as soon as he can', she said with a wink, 'He's that kind of guy'.
The walk back to college was a nightmare, and Sam could swear the distance seemed to have doubled now that he was carrying Jack's useless weight. He even considered waking his sorry ass back up so he could walk on his own two feet, but discarded the idea immediately: Jack wouldn't take lightly the fact that he had followed him to a bar, nor would he like the idea of him knowing his little secret. So after two hours that felt like days, Sam was finally allowed a sigh of relief, breathing the pain out of his system after dropping Jack on his own bed like a weighty sack of potatoes.
"Ay..."
For someone so thin he sure was damn heavy, he thought somewhat irritably as he knead the sore muscles of his neck, his eyes scanning the room with interest. Old movie posters and the like were orderly stuck all over the walls near Jack's bed, marking his side of the room and clearly separating it from Kevin's, that was messier and had all kinds of family and friend pictures stuck to each other in a way that felt more natural and warmer than Jack's decorations.
Somehow, both sides represented them well.
Once he managed to regain his edge, Sam allowed himself to take a long look at Jack's body. He wasn't nearly as hurt as he thought he was; only a few of his wounds were bleeding, and they were shallow cuts. They'd heal just fine by themselves if he just let them be.
"I guess I underestimated you."
That was the understatement of the century. Jack had managed himself flawlessly in spite of his poor physical state. Too flawlessly.
... It was unsettling.
It begged an explanation, it didn't fit—Jack seemed to live an overly comfortable life like the rest of his friends, never knowing the pains of life-threatening conflict; yet he knew moves to survive.
And moves to kill.
That last grapple wasn't just something you learned in self-defense classes. Self-defense classes for civilians focused mainly on disabling the threatening force, rarely going beyond that. Turning a weapon against its owner, on the other hand... was something you taught to those going to war.
"Who are you?"
He didn't wait for an answer that obviously would never come, reaching out for his face, covered in cold sweat and a single bruise on his jaw. Jack was especially careful about leaving no evidence of his midnight adventures on his face. A fool would've though there was an aesthetic reason behind that, but Sam knew better—Jack simply didn't want anyone to know he liked spending his Saturday nights beating strangers down to a pulp.
"'Jack the Ripper', huh? The 'White Devil'." He said, his tone as mocking as his sneer, feeling like he was talking about a fictional character from a bad, western movie. "I would say 'nice to meet you' but the more I think about it, the more I wonder if we really are strangers."
He leaned down, his knee on the mattress by the side of his leg. The hand that caressed his face ran down to his chin, and he traced his lips with his thumb.
He leaned lower.
His breath on his lips.
A smile.
But there was no kiss.
Instead there was a whisper, voice tight and holding anticipation and excitement like a dam.
"This isn't over, pretty boy."