shoot down the stars [1/?]
Every Friday morning Jack Barakat stumbles out of bed and fumbles around with his clothes in the dark before he does anything else. It’s easier to face the world once he’s fully clothed. He jerks the stiff fabric up over his hips, shoves his arms through the holes and that’s that. After years of doing this it’s all pretty much routine. Once he’s got his jeans on, belt done up, he flips the light on and grabs a juice box out of his mini-fridge. Bagel in the toaster, a pinch of fish flakes for his guppies, then it’s time to pull out his sharps container and the little kit he keeps in the back of his sock drawer. He lays out the syringe, two needles - an 18 and a 22 gauge, both still in their packaging - the vial and two alcohol swabs. It’s methodical: swipe the top of the little vial with a swab, attach the 18 to the syringe and then draw the stopper back. The next part is always a little nerve-wracking, if he’s being totally honest. Flip the vial upside down and inject the air into the vial so that the serum gets drawn into the syringe. He taps the side of the syringe a couple of times to make sure there are no air bubbles. Then, he removes the 18 and puts it in his sharps container.
Next comes the smaller size needle; he cleans a spot on his leg using the other alcohol swab and takes a deep breath, keeping his foot flat on the floor rather than arching it up to meet the tip of the needle. It prickles a little where the needle enters his skin, but it doesn’t bleed when he aspirates it slightly. He depresses the plunger at the same time he takes a deep breath in, watching as the thick yellow serum slowly moves through the syringe into his muscle. Once it’s done, he withdraws the needle and applies a bit of pressure before putting on a band-aid. It’s got Spongebob on it. Somehow that seems like it takes away from the seriousness of the situation a little bit. He throws the syringe and the second needle - the 22 gauge one - into the sharps container and puts everything neatly away. Out of sight, out of mind. Well, except for the cold, lumpy feeling in his thigh accompanied by the dull ache, but that will usually fade to nothing more than a faint twinge in a few hours.
He’d do his injection in the dark too, if he could, but as a compromise he only ever pulls his jeans down around his thighs so he doesn’t have to see the jagged pink scars just above his knee. They’re not quite as old as he’d like to pretend they are, so until they’re not as noticeable he’ll keep wearing jeans unless he’s going to bed. It’s been long enough in this body that he’s accepted his flaws without question. Self-preservation, right? Because all the bad stuff can’t hurt him as much if he can control it and put his own spin on it. People never expect that, so it’s one of his better qualities, really. Flawed people with a sense of humour usually survive with their wits intact, so he’s going to need a lot of humour in the coming months.
The thing is that this particular morning is... different. Because when he wakes up he’s not wearing a shirt and someone is snoring obnoxiously in his ear. He can feel hot skin pressed up against his back. His sheets are all rucked up but it doesn’t smell like sex, so that’s a relief. It’s a little frightening, though, as he crawls out of bed slowly and feels for his clothes on the floor. Once he’s dressed it’s a bit better; he still feels anxious and he can’t remember what happened at the party he went to last night. Well, obviously he has some idea what went down, but he has no idea who the guy sleeping in his bed is or how they got there. He isn’t going to be able to do his injection until the guy leaves, which is a problem. Considering he has to be in class in under an hour and he’d like to wash the shame out of his hair first...
He solves it - very maturely - by turning the lights on and off and saying, “Wake up,” loudly until the guy groans and flips him off. And... admittedly, it is a bit of an internal struggle because holy fuck how did he end up with a guy this hot in his bed? They must have been very, very drunk. Which is a bit out of character for him considering he’s not really supposed to have more than one drink when he goes out, but it does explain the pounding headache and the nausea.
He knows he should be looking away when the guy sits up and stretches, but for some reason he can’t do it. So he stands there leaning against the wall, feeling guilty because he hasn’t fed Travis, Mark and Tom yet and they’re swimming hopefully around their water filter, and tries to appear nonchalant about the whole thing. Like he brings home hot guys all the time, totally. Except he kind of doesn’t, for very good reasons. “It is way too fucking early,” the guy grumbles, still sitting there staring blankly at him and messing with his hair.
Jack is inclined to agree, but he doesn’t say so. “So, um. I have class in an hour,” he says, pretending like he’s not completely gawking at the dude’s half-naked body. Because... it is a very nice half-naked body and this situation is so surreal that he’s not entirely convinced it isn’t a dream.
“I’m Alex,” the guy says. “You might wanna remember that.” He smirks and when he finally gets out of bed Jack can see that he’s a) really fucking tall and b) is really fucking tall. So Jack can’t really help staring at Alex’s ass when he bends over to search for his shirt among the dirty clothes. It’s a bit of a fatal attraction-type scenario: Alex seems cocky and he’s good-looking and Jack knows that this is not going to end well. He is way too hungover to deal with this.
“I... Jack,” he answers awkwardly. Are they supposed to shake hands or something? Hug? He doesn’t know. Suddenly his ironic t-shirt seems like it’s maybe too ironic and his jeans are too tight and everything about him feels slightly off.
“You know what, don’t worry about it. I’ll let myself out; you can go do whatever.”
He’s a little perturbed about being sloughed off like that in his own dorm room. And, to be honest, no matter how good-looking the guy is he’s a little paranoid about just leaving. “Uh, okay...?” he says finally, massaging his aching forehead with two fingers. He doesn’t really have ‘whatever’ to do. Alex doesn’t need to do that. So, he spends a few minutes fussing with his backpack and throws a few random notebooks in to make it look like he’s got somewhere to be. Then, he hovers awkwardly by the door for a minute, unsure of what to do at all. Alex is just standing there in front of his mirror, messing with his - admittedly great - hair and pulling faces. “So... I guess I’m gonna go, then.” He fumbles with the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and when he looks up from it Alex is right in his face.
“Alright, have a good day,” Alex says brightly, then leaning forward to kiss the corner of Jack’s mouth. Which... Honestly? Jack was not expecting, so that’s how he comes to be pressed against the door with Alex’s lips mashed against his. They’ve both got morning breath and it’s kind of tragically unsexy. Plus, he’s maybe freaking out a little bit that: first of all, he managed to score with a guy this hot, and second that he would bring the aforementioned guy back to his dorm room. A lot of situations come to mind that he would be less than okay with that could have happened last night; while he’s glad none of that came up there is the distinct possibility that it could have, and that’s why he pulls away and drops his hand onto the door handle.
“Okay, gotta go, I’ll see you around,” he mumbles quickly. He feels, quite honestly, like an addict in need of a hit. This complete stranger has fucked up his Friday morning routine and he does not appreciate it. And also... Just because they were making out last night, apparently, is not an invitation to do the same in the morning. It’s wonderful. Now he’s going to feel completely lethargic and zombie-like until he gets his shower and his shot. On the plus side, though, there’s a low probability he’ll ever have to speak to or see Alex again, so that’s a distinct bonus.
Except for the part where, you know, it would be kind of awesome to have a hot guy to make out with on a regular basis. But he’s not optimistic about his chances at this point in his life. Too much to be done, too many places he’s still got to go and things to accomplish before he’ll be ready for a relationship. He tells himself that the slight tingle he feels while he’s walking across campus is just his jeans rubbing against him and not residual horniness, even though it’s probably a lie. Jack is really, really great at lying to himself.
Next comes the smaller size needle; he cleans a spot on his leg using the other alcohol swab and takes a deep breath, keeping his foot flat on the floor rather than arching it up to meet the tip of the needle. It prickles a little where the needle enters his skin, but it doesn’t bleed when he aspirates it slightly. He depresses the plunger at the same time he takes a deep breath in, watching as the thick yellow serum slowly moves through the syringe into his muscle. Once it’s done, he withdraws the needle and applies a bit of pressure before putting on a band-aid. It’s got Spongebob on it. Somehow that seems like it takes away from the seriousness of the situation a little bit. He throws the syringe and the second needle - the 22 gauge one - into the sharps container and puts everything neatly away. Out of sight, out of mind. Well, except for the cold, lumpy feeling in his thigh accompanied by the dull ache, but that will usually fade to nothing more than a faint twinge in a few hours.
He’d do his injection in the dark too, if he could, but as a compromise he only ever pulls his jeans down around his thighs so he doesn’t have to see the jagged pink scars just above his knee. They’re not quite as old as he’d like to pretend they are, so until they’re not as noticeable he’ll keep wearing jeans unless he’s going to bed. It’s been long enough in this body that he’s accepted his flaws without question. Self-preservation, right? Because all the bad stuff can’t hurt him as much if he can control it and put his own spin on it. People never expect that, so it’s one of his better qualities, really. Flawed people with a sense of humour usually survive with their wits intact, so he’s going to need a lot of humour in the coming months.
The thing is that this particular morning is... different. Because when he wakes up he’s not wearing a shirt and someone is snoring obnoxiously in his ear. He can feel hot skin pressed up against his back. His sheets are all rucked up but it doesn’t smell like sex, so that’s a relief. It’s a little frightening, though, as he crawls out of bed slowly and feels for his clothes on the floor. Once he’s dressed it’s a bit better; he still feels anxious and he can’t remember what happened at the party he went to last night. Well, obviously he has some idea what went down, but he has no idea who the guy sleeping in his bed is or how they got there. He isn’t going to be able to do his injection until the guy leaves, which is a problem. Considering he has to be in class in under an hour and he’d like to wash the shame out of his hair first...
He solves it - very maturely - by turning the lights on and off and saying, “Wake up,” loudly until the guy groans and flips him off. And... admittedly, it is a bit of an internal struggle because holy fuck how did he end up with a guy this hot in his bed? They must have been very, very drunk. Which is a bit out of character for him considering he’s not really supposed to have more than one drink when he goes out, but it does explain the pounding headache and the nausea.
He knows he should be looking away when the guy sits up and stretches, but for some reason he can’t do it. So he stands there leaning against the wall, feeling guilty because he hasn’t fed Travis, Mark and Tom yet and they’re swimming hopefully around their water filter, and tries to appear nonchalant about the whole thing. Like he brings home hot guys all the time, totally. Except he kind of doesn’t, for very good reasons. “It is way too fucking early,” the guy grumbles, still sitting there staring blankly at him and messing with his hair.
Jack is inclined to agree, but he doesn’t say so. “So, um. I have class in an hour,” he says, pretending like he’s not completely gawking at the dude’s half-naked body. Because... it is a very nice half-naked body and this situation is so surreal that he’s not entirely convinced it isn’t a dream.
“I’m Alex,” the guy says. “You might wanna remember that.” He smirks and when he finally gets out of bed Jack can see that he’s a) really fucking tall and b) is really fucking tall. So Jack can’t really help staring at Alex’s ass when he bends over to search for his shirt among the dirty clothes. It’s a bit of a fatal attraction-type scenario: Alex seems cocky and he’s good-looking and Jack knows that this is not going to end well. He is way too hungover to deal with this.
“I... Jack,” he answers awkwardly. Are they supposed to shake hands or something? Hug? He doesn’t know. Suddenly his ironic t-shirt seems like it’s maybe too ironic and his jeans are too tight and everything about him feels slightly off.
“You know what, don’t worry about it. I’ll let myself out; you can go do whatever.”
He’s a little perturbed about being sloughed off like that in his own dorm room. And, to be honest, no matter how good-looking the guy is he’s a little paranoid about just leaving. “Uh, okay...?” he says finally, massaging his aching forehead with two fingers. He doesn’t really have ‘whatever’ to do. Alex doesn’t need to do that. So, he spends a few minutes fussing with his backpack and throws a few random notebooks in to make it look like he’s got somewhere to be. Then, he hovers awkwardly by the door for a minute, unsure of what to do at all. Alex is just standing there in front of his mirror, messing with his - admittedly great - hair and pulling faces. “So... I guess I’m gonna go, then.” He fumbles with the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and when he looks up from it Alex is right in his face.
“Alright, have a good day,” Alex says brightly, then leaning forward to kiss the corner of Jack’s mouth. Which... Honestly? Jack was not expecting, so that’s how he comes to be pressed against the door with Alex’s lips mashed against his. They’ve both got morning breath and it’s kind of tragically unsexy. Plus, he’s maybe freaking out a little bit that: first of all, he managed to score with a guy this hot, and second that he would bring the aforementioned guy back to his dorm room. A lot of situations come to mind that he would be less than okay with that could have happened last night; while he’s glad none of that came up there is the distinct possibility that it could have, and that’s why he pulls away and drops his hand onto the door handle.
“Okay, gotta go, I’ll see you around,” he mumbles quickly. He feels, quite honestly, like an addict in need of a hit. This complete stranger has fucked up his Friday morning routine and he does not appreciate it. And also... Just because they were making out last night, apparently, is not an invitation to do the same in the morning. It’s wonderful. Now he’s going to feel completely lethargic and zombie-like until he gets his shower and his shot. On the plus side, though, there’s a low probability he’ll ever have to speak to or see Alex again, so that’s a distinct bonus.
Except for the part where, you know, it would be kind of awesome to have a hot guy to make out with on a regular basis. But he’s not optimistic about his chances at this point in his life. Too much to be done, too many places he’s still got to go and things to accomplish before he’ll be ready for a relationship. He tells himself that the slight tingle he feels while he’s walking across campus is just his jeans rubbing against him and not residual horniness, even though it’s probably a lie. Jack is really, really great at lying to himself.