Weeks
It was weeks before they kissed. Weeks of running and fighting and almost dying. Weeks of sleeping in the same bed because they didn't actually have much cash. Weeks of sleeping in the van, pressed up against each other because it was autumn, and it was bloody cold. It had been an accident when they first kissed. They'd just saved the world- Italy, actually, but that didn't sound nearly as good. And Mickey had smiled, and Jake had forgotten, just for a moment, that he wasn't Rickey. And he'd kissed him. Then he'd remembered. Kissing Mickey felt different. Mickey was different. But kissing him was nice, and Jake liked it, which was probably why he didn't stop right away. He'd kissed him because he'd forgotten, and he hadn't stopped for much the same reason. He'd forgotten. Forgotten that Rickey had died, forgotten that he'd loved him, forgotten that Mickey had lived when Rickey died. Forgotten. Forgotten everything that wasn't him and Mickey and lips and happiness. And then he'd remembered and he'd wanted to run, but soon he'd forgotten that, too, because Mickey was kissing him back and it was good. It was good and safe and warm, and he could forget. He liked forgetting.