His back fucking hurts and his legs are sore. Oh, and he's starving, but even if he had the energy to get up, there's nothing in the fridge — or on it.

His stomach growls. Eliza looks up at him and he hugs her closer. "You wanna make me something?"

She sniffs at him. "I just showered. Don't play that with me." He blows air in her face and she shuts her eyes. "I'm hungry."

And he is, holy shit. When was the last time he ate properly? He doesn't even know what he wants.

He wants… everything.

His stomach growls and Eliza tilts her head. "Liiiiiza," he whines, burying his face in her neck. "Please. Be a good girl and order me something…"

But all she does is walk off to the other side of the couch, the bitch. He reaches for her and drags her back, holding her to his chest. "Don't leave me, Liza. You're supposed to be my best friend."

She huffs and wriggles around. "Why're you giving me so much attitude?" Then he chuckles. "Oh yeah. I raised you."

She growls the slightest bit and it actually hurts his feelings. He sucks his teeth and sets her free. "Fine, I fuckin' see how it is. You're not getting nolovefrom me anymore."

And — wow. She doesn't even react, just sits her pretty ass down on her bed in the corner. Alright. He pouts, 'cause he's alone and he can. Then his stomach growls again and the hunger pang that stabs him right in the gut actually makes him hunch over.

"Fuck me," he groans, tipping over and pressing his face into the cushions. He shouldn't feel this shitty. Or weak.

But that's how it's been for the past few days. Months. His whole life. The last one too, or whatever. Might be the fact that he doesn't want to need basic human necessities, so he neglects his own body and doesn't give it anything good.

Or maybe he hates himself. It's not like he kisses the mirror anymore. Or even looks at it.

The TV flickers across his face. He looks out the window.

Nah. Nah, nah, nah, no, fuck that.

With a grunt, he lifts himself up onto his feet and drags himself to the kitchen. He stares into his empty fridge and then his empty cupboards, but coming back to the land of the living didn't give him any freaky psychic powers so nothing comes at all.

What does he even want? Cereal?

Meat? Bread? Tacos.

He reaches in and pats around, hoping there's something tucked into the corner.

And there is.

But it's thin and round and suspiciously shaped like a CD — he pulls it out and it is. How did he forget that he left this here? He's got too many hiding places at this point.

Tucked into a crack in the wood was something he hasn't seen since he first got here a few months back. Something he hasn't dared to listen to since before he lost his life.

JAYBIRD in Barbie's too-neat handwriting, all perfectly deliberate, written in black Sharpie along the CD. Back when she was burning playlists for everyone and their mother, and he made sure she put his music on his. It makes him happy, remembering her attitude, the frown that he always brought on her face. But he can't bring himself to smile about it.

He stalks back into the living room, staring at the letters, tracing them over with his eyes. He only kind of remembers a song or two that's on it. How could he listen to it?

Duh.

"We're going for a drive, Liza, get ready," he calls as he walks to his bedroom and pulls on his jeans and leather jacket, shoving his wallet and the CD into the inside pocket. He glances out the window again even though he doesn't want to.

He could close it.

But then he shuts off the lights and he doesn't.

At the door, he shoves on his boots and grabs the keys, whistling for Eliza to go ahead of him as he opens his front door. He locks it behind him before picking up the pace, a sudden burst of energy breaking through the utter exhaustion of his cross-country ride, and runs past Eliza. He goes down the stairs as fast as he can, laughing every time he passes her again.

"I win. Food's on you," he says once they reach the bottom floor. He blows a raspberry at her, but all she does is pant happily. "Must be nice bein' a damn dog," he mutters, holding the door open for her.

'Cause damn dogs don't have to think about sexy alien redheads and what they could be thinking. If they put some of the pieces together. Or if they'd ever come back. If it was better if she knew everything so she can stay. Or stay away. Forever. For good.

No, dogs don't gotta think of all this bullshit. They just follow their owner to the car they stole in a completely different city, a beautiful black convertible with a fake license plate and a CD player, parked on the empty block down from their empty building. They let themselves get buckled into the passenger seat and don't wonder why the fuck, after it's been over and done and the picture's gone, why doubt it now?

He starts the car and even the way he does it is bitter. He's switching up on himself again and his heart's beating too hard, it's thrumming in his fingertips, like his whole existence is a state of perpetual discomfort and anxiety. He wasn't like this before, or maybe he was a long time ago,

but he hid it and he hid it well.

Whatever. He'll drown this shit in hot sauce or whatever. Anything.

Don't look up. Anything.

He slides the CD in and once the first notes begin to play, he goes.

"Oh shit. No fuckin' way," he smiles. He picks up speed down the empty road, the wind blowing pleasantly on his face. "When's the last time I listened to this?" He drives along the coast, the music booming as he goes faster, faster, faster.

The air has a bite to it, but it feels good. So does the next song as it plays, heavy with a heavier bass and it presses a long, full laugh out of his chest. "What the fuck, man!" he shouts. "How did I forget!"

Wow, he must've been a depressed piece of shit. But he remembers listening to it alone in his room way too loud, trying to drown out the noises of the city, and then the way Barbie pretended not to like it. The way the anger and despair in it felt good and real, like he it made sense for him

to feel that way, given what he's had.

He reaches the busier streets of the city, and too many people are out at this time. He doesn't bother turning the music down, though. He's beaming and he can't stop himself. Eliza woofs happily. He parks and unbuckles her, hopping out of the car and walking into the small Mexican spot.

The first thing he spots is long red hair.

No, but his heartbeat still spikes like nothing else, cannot be her.

And he's right, obviously, 'cause he walks further in and sees that it's a completely different person.

The red isn't even right.

But the fear of God was still put in him at the millisecond he thought it might've been the right shade, but this one's too bright yet too dull, and not natural at all.

"No dogs, sir," he hears, and he whips his head around.

"Aww, really, man? She's a good girl!" he says, flashing a smile before snapping his fingers. "Liza. Dance."

And dance she does, hopping with the beat of the song he just heard again. He strokes her behind the ears once she goes back down. "I'll be quick. Promise."

The guy laughs. "She's cute. You trained her?"

"Absolutely. She's the best."

He orders his food: carne asada tacos with extra hot sauce and fries and a horchata, large, because he hasn't been here in awhile and the lack of energy in his body is catching up to him again. He feels a stare at his back and when he turns around, he sees the girl's big eyes and the question behind them.

"Wanna pet her?"

She nods, and he waves at Liza to go, where she happily accepts the delicate pets along her fur. The guy sitting across from her shoots him a dirty look. He smiles right back.

"Have a good night," he says after he pays, stupid smile still on his face. "Say good night, Eliza."

"Thanks," the girl says, waving shyly.

"No problem. She loves redheads," he says, and no, he doesn't realize it until he gets back in the car.

"I'm fucked in the head right now, dude," he mumbles with the shake of his head. He starts the car after making sure the food is safe in the backseat and pulls out, the next song on his playlist slower than the last few.

"Damn, Liza, this was my shit." It drones on but it wraps around him too, and he remembers —he remembers Grayson liking this one, too.

That dumbass. The kid's got everything — everything, and he still manages to fuck it up, somehow.

What's with him tonight? His eyes can't be stinging. The wind's getting colder. It used to be easier.

He drives down the empty street to the point where it reaches the sand, the place he's spent too much time at, and parks so that they face the ocean. It crashes down and he can smell its salt from here.

"Fuckin' finally," he says, reaching back and grabbing the bag, laying the container on his lap. Eliza sniffs at it. "Got you some too, no worries."

He opens it and is hyper aware of the fact that he is literally salivating. Holy shit, it looks beautiful. He squeezes lime over it all, but before he takes that first bite, he takes some of the meat in his hand and feeds it to Eliza. "Thanks for hanging with me at this time, dear."

She stares at him as he takes a huge bite of one taco, and he feels it drip down his face. There is, quite possibly, nothing better than having a proper meal after an extended period of time without it.

He skips to the next track when the song ends, lowering the volume so he can listen to the ocean. The tides run high up the shore and the moon is half-full, shining through gray clouds. He can see a few stars tonight.

Stars. Stars are nice to look at.

He tears open the container with the fries and gives a couple to Eliza. He shoves them in his face. They're overly salted and absolutely divine right now.

Stars… stars…

The song that plays is slow and light, but sad. He used to want to be a rockstar and make songs like this here and there, to even out all the anger he would've made. He'd write shitty love songs with an electric guitar. It just seemed right.

But that's another dream he won't get to have. And he doesn't mean to be sad over it, but it happens when he's tired like this, even though he's also kinda happy. There's no one else he'd rather be right now.

He feeds Eliza some more before running his knuckles along the side of her face. "You're my best friend in the whole world. You know that, right?" He strokes her ear. "We'll be best friends forever." She nuzzles into his palm and he smiles. "Atta girl."

They finish every last bit and drive the rest of the way back home, trudging up the stairs. He throws his jacket and boots on the floor, peels his jeans off, and slips back into his sweats, his back hunching over from exhaustion. But he forces himself to scrub his hands and face clean, then his teeth, all the while avoiding his own gaze in the mirror.

And, oh. The window's still open. There's no one else here.

Why would there be? He plops down on his bed and stretches his back out before flinging an arm over his eyes. He's just as alone as he's been the past couple of weeks. Such a short time, yet it feels like he hasn't seen her in months.

It may as well be. He's putting years between them, giving out clues so that she can figure it out. So he doesn't have to tell her.

But why should she know in the first place? Why give her the right? The means? And oh, yeah, he forgot.

He's not supposed to miss her. Or want her around. No, he's supposed to give her reasons as to why she should leave and never come back.

Now he's so tired of it all that he can't sleep — he's jittery and his face twitches, his eyes burn whenever he blinks, but it's not enough to have him sleep. He sighs and pulls himself up, walking to the kitchen and wetting paper towels. He opens the cabinet beneath the sink and grabs the bottle and a glass. He takes the pack and lighter he left on the window sill and swings his legs out of it. He moves his plants aside, sitting his tired ass in the chair there, and rests his leg over the banister of the firescape.

He can't believe she actually watered his plants.

He laughs.

"That girl…"

The hibiscus flowers are dying now. He stares at them as he lights his cigarette. It feels all too fitting.

He rubs the side of his face and leans back, laying the wet paper towel on his knee and ashes the cigarette on it. He reaches beside him and pours the liquor into the glass.

He acts like this makes him feel better, and it does for a bit. But then he always spirals. Always, he always does, and it'd be better if he forced himself to go to sleep. It could be that this is the only time he has peace. Or that he hates himself, or life, or something along those lines. Or the fact that she watered his plants, even after leaving her cold and then a very asshole-ish note. Or it could be anything and everything. He doesn't exactly know anymore. He stopped knowing a long time ago.

He downs the drink and tries not to wince as it burns. It goes warm down to the center of his body and he feels it relax.

So he pours another.

And technically, literally, and theoretically, smoke and alcohol taste and smell absolutely disgusting together. He's chasing away the best meal he's had in months with it, but it only makes him want more. He feels himself giving into it. His chest and face going numb, bit by bit. He only notices the blood that leaks from his nose when he looks down and there's a line of red staining the white of his shirt, but he just chuckles and tips his head back as the burn slides down his throat.

He always forgets how much his body always hurts until he's like this, blissed out, and his heart doesn't ache for no reason. The world looks soft this way. And the stars look brighter. Blood drips onto his tongue. He doesn't bother wiping it away. He shuts his eyes instead, head spinning slowly, a nice warm coating his body from the inside out.

So he doesn't hear it. He hates that he doesn't.

He hates that he opens his eyes and hers are there, big and glassy and real, and he knows it is 'cause he keeps blinking and she's not gone.

He is too many things at once. Shocked. Thrilled. Drunk. Pissed. Drunk. Happy. Pissed.

No, she's not supposed to be here.

"Jason?" she says, and it's barely a whisper, and he wants to shut it out.

He laughs. "Been awhile, princess."

"Your… your face…" She reaches out to him, but the look he sends her has her arms shooting straight down.

"What about it?" he deadpans, drawing another cigarette out of his pack and lighting it. He inhales before taking it between his fingers and waving it towards her, making sure the smoke gets her right in the face. She actually recoils.

"You are bleeding." She sounds meaner than he expects her to be.

"Don't worry 'bout me, sweetheart." He tilts his head back against the chair and exhales. "That why you're here?"

She crosses her arms. "Am I not allowed to be concerned for you?"

He shrugs. "Didn't ask you to be." He ashes the cigarette by her feet. She steps back and he smirks.

"Must you act this way?"

He rakes his eyes up her legs, her hips, her stomach. The only thing that's clear. The purple against her golden skin and the ends of fire curling around it. He looks at her everywhere except her face. He has her. He doesn't want to look her in the eye and give it up.

His gaze lands right over her heaving chest, his stomach hot with everything he wants to do to her. "How'm I acting?"

She might actually be shaking — how come she's getting worked up so quick? "Jason," she says, as if it's a warning he'd consider.

There's a sick part of him that likes getting her this way. All riled up, her body tense and breath heavy, and if only he could look up. He'd see that beautiful blush of hers, the way she's made out of hearts and roses.

Maybe he's not as drunk as he thought — if he was, he'd fall apart by now. Oh, he'd break.

Doesn't she know by now? Shouldn't she know? Yet she's come back, letting him hurt her again. He shakes his head and scoffs, and then he laughs again because no, he can't believe her. She's a masochist, she's gotta be.

"What is so funny?" Her voice is dark, deeper.

"You are, baby."

"Do not call me that."

"What? Don't like it anymore?" he taunts. "What about sweetheart? Princess? Gorgeous? Don't wanna talk about how I make you scream and cry without even sayin' your name?"

"Why are you saying these things?"

"'Cause they're true. Are they not?"

"Do not speak to me this way."

"Or what? What're you gonna do?" He reaches over and makes a damn show of flicking his cigarette. This time the ash lands on her feet. "You gonna leave?"

She shakes off the ash but remains silent. He turns back around and tries to keep himself sane. This is good. This is necessary.

The only indication of her presence is the way his insides ignite, over and over, because even having her backed into a corner behind him drives him fucking insane. He's too awake now. Too sober. He wants to not feel his face or his mouth. A fresh line of blood drips past his lips. He doesn't let himself speak.

He'll wait. He'll choke on air if it meant she'd go and never look back.

But the fact that she's still here — it does something to him. There's something in his fucking chest he can't name, but he wants to puke it out. And then something lower that he absolutely can.

Then his mind goes. All the ways she came in his mouth, his fingers, his dick and the way she'd say his name, the way she wrapped around him, the way, the way, the way. His blood rushes down and his breath hitches with the sudden heat.

She needs to leave. Before he loses himself.

"Where did you go?" and she says it so softly that it breaks his fucking heart.

"Work." He says it harshly, a bite, and he hears her shuffle around. This has to end. Soon.

"Jason…"

"Why the fuck are you still here?"

"Because I was worried for you."

"Like I said, didn't fuckin' ask for you to worry."

"How… how can you say—"

"'Cause you don't mean jackshit to me. Ever heard of fuck buddies? That's an Earth thing, princess, but I'm sure you're familiar."

It's the silence after that makes him nervous. The words feel gross coming out of his filthy mouth but it's better — it's better this way. She has to know that.

"Was fun while it lasted. Don't you agree?" He smiles wolfishly and it hurts as he does. He forces himself to look at her, for the half a second that he can take, at the anger and despair in the cracks of her mouth and eyes.

He pouts, mocking. "Aw, did you want one last pity fuck? If you ask nice, I'll make it quick. Got someone else coming soon."

"I do not believe you." She states it and it… why does she always stay?

"You won't stick around to find out."

"Who says I am unwilling?"

He chuckles. "You're batshit crazy. You're delusional."

"Tell me the truth, Jason."

"What fucking TRUTH?" It rips out of his throat and then he realizes — oh, he's drunk, alright. He keeps himself from toppling over once he stands so quickly and towers over her, eyes cruel and tongue cutting with the taste of his own blood.

Now why is he angry? Why's he mad? Where'd it all come from? Not from her. Not her, with the thousand different states of mind illuminating her eyes.

She should break him. He deserves it.

"Say it again," she says, daring him, blinking back tears as her brows furrow deeply. She's so clear to him it scares him.

"You don't mean fucking NOTHING to me," and he says it with his whole body, staring straight into her soul. "So don't come here, and ask me where I've been. It's OVER. There wasn't anything to BEGIN with."

He witnesses every word cut jagged and deep down into the very life of her. And then the taste of it, battery acid stuck to the back of his fucking throat, and he doesn't know what else he can say to get the fucking message across. He wants this to be over. He wants to erase it and please, please, make this moment stop existing.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out."

The way she nods is broken.

And finally — he should be relieved. He should be fine with the way she turns around, slowly like she's giving him a chance, or maybe 'cause he left her weak but he's not and already his guts are on the ground.

So it could've been over at that.

But when she lifts her feet off the ground —

Desperate. And sorry. So fucking sorry.

His heart swells with panic, his whole body trembles with it. For some reason, seeing her leave feels like dying.

No. Not like this. Not like this. Please, not like this.

He reaches out for her, running on pure instinct, slides his fingers into the waistband of her skirt and pulls her back to him, something strangled and ugly coming from the base of his throat.

All he sees is green — his neck snaps with the burn and strength of her slap, right across his face.

"DO NOT TOUCH ME!"

Reality sinks in. How's he still standing? The sounds must be her cursing his name. It takes forever to bring his head back around, dumbfounded.

And it's her — her, closing in on him, her fists grabbing his shirt. The tears streaming down her face, rivers, right underneath the hot glow of her eyes. He blinks down at her, heart hurting too much, he hates everything about now.

How does he tell her? How does he tell her when he can't even say it?

Her, falling weak, givin up, giving in — he did that this time.

"Why?" she pleads. "Why this? Again?"

And for the life of him, for the death of him, he tries to give her the answer. He crashes down on her, bloodied lips bruising against hers, wrapping her so tight around him so that maybe she'll forget.