Author's Notes: Please, let me know what you think of this story. As I said, it's my first W&G story and my first slash story, so I'm a bit nervous. Are Will and Jack in character? Does the dialogue sound realistic? Any comments, constructive criticism, praise, etc you can give would be extremely appreciated.

Part II

"This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star."

Will closed the door softly, somehow fearing that any kind of noise would break the strange contemplativeness that had come over him in the last few moments. This day—hell, the past ten minutes—had thrown him for so many loops he felt as though he no longer knew which way was up.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in his apartment felt stifling- the walls too close, the ceiling too low, the lights too bright—and so he headed towards the balcony, hoping the fresh air would help clear his mind. Absently, he noticed a wine bottle he'd opened earlier and decided to have a glass. At this point, he felt as though alcohol couldn't impair his thinking any more than the day's events already had.

Glass in hand, he walked slowly across the balcony and leaned against the wall, letting the sounds of the city wash over him as his mind whirled through what had transpired earlier.

Nothing had happened. And that was what Will had wanted. The idea of him and Jack together was laughable, almost absurd.

So why had Karen's words left him feeling so bereft? As though something he hadn't even known he'd possessed had been ripped away from him? As though a chance he hadn't even known he'd wanted had taken from him in the blink of an eye?

He swallowed wine hard and pretended the lump in his throat was because of something in the city air.

Jack paced the length of his apartment restlessly. In the fifteen minutes since he and Will had parted ways, he'd tried—and failed—to distract himself by watching television, reading the latest issue of In Style magazine, even brushing his hair 100 times. The diversions worked for a few minutes, but his thoughts always returned, inevitably, to Will.

Frustrated, Jack collapsed on his couch in a huff. This was ridiculous. He'd lived for years with the reality that Will did not have feelings for him, and he'd even convinced himself that he'd long since moved on from his youthful crush on Will. So why had this one, brief possibility that something could have happened between them put him in such a tizzy?

He thought back to their stilted conversation in the hallway, remembered the unusual tentativeness in Will's voice, the way he'd avoided meeting Jack's eyes for more than a heartbeat, the regret that Jack could swear he'd seen in Will's eyes.

But, why regret? Jack thought he'd done a sufficient job of seeming unaffected and unhurt by all that had happened. Will would have no reason to regret anything he'd said or done, because he hadn't said or done anything that had—at least outwardly—upset Jack.

Unless…unless it was something he hadn't said or done. Something that he hadn't had a chance to finish.

Everything that had happened flashed like lightning through his mind until one particular memory hit him with almost palpable force .With a sharp intake of breath, Jack bolted out of his chair and out his front door, pausing a beat to gather his courage before entering Will's apartment.