Jack was being shaken. He didn't want to be shaken. He hated being touched by anyone but David. Not since what happened when he was eleven. The hand grabbing him, touching him, saying that it was normal.

"Mr. Kelly?" a woman's voice.

That was fine. That was good. Women were fine. It was the men…the men…

Jack opened his eyes. He was still in the buzzing hospital waiting room. God, that buzzing. It could drive anyone to insanity. Or an early grave.

"What is it?" he asked, irritable. Then his tone changed to worried. "Is it David? Is he alright?"

She bit her lip. It was a shiny, red color that reflected the lights. Who knew they made lipstick in that radioactive, glowing color.

"What?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry," she lowered her eyes. "We just checked on him and…and…"

Jack fell to his knees. No…it couldn't be. David was dead. He shoved past her and down the hallway. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the waxed linoleum. He shoved through the door. The bed was empty.

"No!" he screamed. "No! David! David!"

"I'm sorry," the nurse repeated. She had obviously followed him. "I just came in and we saw him and…it was his heart. Some shock to his system with it already lowered due to his not eating. I'm so, so sorry. We didn't see it coming."

She kept talking but all Jack heard was 'shock to his system.' He knew what that shock was and how he was going to stop it.

Jack stormed into the studio, hungry for blood. He knew he probably looked crazed. Strangely, at first, no one noticed him. Weasel was too busy making Skittery look less pissed off and more alluring model. For that shoot, Morris was the camera boy. Good. It would be easier. Oscar was lounging on a chair.

"Fucker!" he shouted, pulling the gun out of his coat.

The shoot ceased as those in the studio turned to face him.

"You fucking killed David!" he was screaming now.

Oscar rose to his feet. Jack expected him to smirk and swear, laughing about how his fag boyfriend was dead and it was his fault. It would be so much easier to kill him then. But he didn't. The look on his face was not a smirk as Jack pushed the gun between his eyebrows. It wasn't a sneer either. It was the look of someone who was about to shit their pants.

"Jack, no!" Skittery shouted, still naked and bruised from his shoot, dark circles of eye makeup encased his eyes. He looked almost zombie-like. "If you kill him, it won't do anything. If you kill him, David's still dead and you'll go to jail. Do you want that? So stop dicking around and put the gun down!"

It was like a splash of cold water. He dropped the gun to his side. Oscar smirked.

"I knew you wouldn't have the balls," he sneered.

Skittery walked forward and punched him in the face. "Shut your fucking hole, camera boy."

He turned to Jack and went to speak. "Jack, I know things look shitty right now."

Jack shook his head. "I'm good. I'm fine. I-I gotta go."

Jack sat in the apartment that night. He looked at the pictures on the nightstand. Of him and David and Sarah, all smiling and happy. Before the modeling and the drugs and the death and not eating. Before the nights locked up in passion and heat. Before all that. Jack looked at the gun. He wanted to hurl it out the window. Two of them were dead. One by suicide—accidental overdose his ass—and one by pretty much suicide. Jack's look turned into an intent stare. There was only one thing to do. Let all three go out the same way. What was the phrase? Coming full circle? Yeah that was it. He had to do it. He put the gun in his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

--

Spot sat with Race at the funeral. He didn't deserve to be there. He barely knew Jack and David. Yet, there he was, hand in hand with Race. He remembered their conversation about being jaded. He looked around. Everyone did look pretty jaded. No one cried, not even the tanned curly-haired buff boy with the half-blind kid. He looked like he'd be a crier but he just sat there with the others, staring ahead almost into space. They were a different breed, the models. Even different from Spot himself. They were almost like zombies all the time. The shoots must be killer. He knew he'd have to get out. He'd become just as fucked up as they were. Maybe end up like David, starving himself to death, or Jack, blowing his fucking brains out.

Race squeezed his hand. "You alright?"

Spot smirked. "I'm a model."

A/N: The ending was actually darker than I had planned it to be. I never originally intended Jack and David to die. It just…happened. So there ya go.