57 Hilton Street

May and Alex are back on the road, after spending most of their day at a hotel in South Carolina - they drove through the night. Alex was far too hysterical to stay calm in a car, so May had insisted they pull over into some hotel in Columbia.

They're on the road again now, almost at Atlanta, Georgia. Alex keeps staring at his cell, hoping, praying for contact from Jack. May can’t help but feel sorry for him; there’s a desperate sheen covering his brown eyes and they seem to be permanently full of tears. And sure, she’s worried too, but Alex is worse than her. He’s shaking, and is staring down at the floor and his knees. May has an iron grip on the steering wheel.

“Alex.” May says, stopping at the red stop light and looking at the elder.

Alex looks back at her, and May notices how dire his nerves really are. She doesn’t understand why he’s working himself up so far already; it’s at least another seven hours before they’re even in Tampa, let alone at Andrew’s house, and besides, it’s half past one in the morning, there’s no way Jack will be awake. She wants to comfort him, but there’s nothing she can really do; she has to concentrate on driving.

*

When Jack wakes at three in the morning, Andrew's pressed against his chest, asleep. He smiles weakly - Andrew must've finally conceded to pity sex - but then realizes he's now just as bad as Alex.

And then he feels bad; all Andrew was last night was some tool in his now perfectly executed revenge plan. Jack tries not to dwell on it, and falls back to sleep.

The next time Jack wakes up, Andrew's not glued to his side, and only his clothes remain strewn over the floor of Andrew's room. Jack pulls himself up from the bed and wanders around the room, collecting his clothes and pulling them on slowly. He takes in his surroundings as he does so.

Andrew's room is exactly how Jack expected it to be; organized chaos. There's a desk opposite the bed with a vast array of notebooks and screwed up sheets of paper, pens and CDs strewn over its surface, surrounding a CD player.

Jack realizes he doesn't have any idea what Andrew actually does for a living, so he hazards a guess at a writer of some sort.

There's a mirror on another wall and a few small canvas paintings on the wall opposite. Jack notices a shag rug on the floor, and he realizes that just standing in the room makes him realize he knows next to nothing about the man he had sex with last night.

He finishes dressing, and looks around once more. He contemplates making the bed, but decides against it and begins to walk downstairs.

He hears Andrew talking - or arguing, it seems - with someone in the kitchen.

"Seriously Andrew, if he hurts you again, you know I'll be after him." The other voice says.

"I know, Mike. You've told me a thousand times."

"I'm just saying. After what happened in high school..."

"You don't seriously still hold that against him?"

"Andrew, you wouldn't stop crying for days! And even when you were done crying, you wouldn't leave the house! You barely spoke to anyone!"

Andrew doesn't respond, and Jack freezes outside the door.

He feels even worse now.

“Just shut up.” Andrew replies bluntly a few moments later. The sound of a kettle boiling drowns out the next several sentences and Jack frowns. He pushes open the door and sees Andrew sitting on the counter top, staring across the room at a man Jack assumes to be Mike.

“Morning.” Andrew says. He doesn’t move, and he never even looks at the younger male in the doorway.

Jack looks at Mike, and it takes him all of two seconds to remember who he is; Mike Toohey, Andrew’s best friend from back in high school. He always seemed to have something against Jack.

Jack thinks that Mike hasn’t changed much in four years - he’s basically the same height and the crazy mop of dark brown hair is identical to how it was back in Dulaney. The same brown eyes are glaring at Jack from across the kitchen.

“And you are?” Mike asks, even though he’s ninety-nine percent sure it’s Jack.

“Jack.” The younger replies bluntly. It’s not a surprise that Mike doesn’t recognize him; he looks pretty different from how he did in high school.

“Oh.” Mike replies. Andrew stares at him from across the kitchen, his eyes displaying a mix of nerves and begging.

Jack senses something is going on when Mike looks back at Andrew and they appear to have an argument just by looking at one and other.

“Anyway, I’d better go. Don’t want Karla to get mad at me.” Mike says, leaving the room.

As soon as Mike is out of the house, it becomes evident that Andrew is not in a good mood. His fingers are knotted in his out-of-control brown hair and his eyes are squeezed shut. Jack steps over to him and smiles weakly. Andrew opens his eyes and frowns, pulling his fingers from his hair and toying with the edges of his cardigan.

Andrew sighs audibly and slides down from the counter top. He pours a cup of coffee and Jack notices that the elder’s hands are shaking. Jack stops him before he spills boiling water all over himself.

“You okay?” Jack asks quietly, slipping his arms around Andrew’s waist, hugging the elder to his chest. Andrew sighs again and nuzzles into Jack’s neck. He still smells of sex. Jack kisses Andrew’s forehead in what he hopes is a reassuring way.

“Mike thinks you’re using me.” Andrew says bluntly. Jack frowns.

“And I think he’s right.” Andrew pushes away from Jack and looks at him, a pitiful look in his eyes.

“But-” Jack starts, but is cut off by his cell ringing in his pocket.

“Answer it.” Andrew orders “But I won’t be here for you if you mess up again.”

Andrew leaves, and a few moments later, Jack hears him climbing the stairs. He pulls out his phone and takes a glance at the caller ID: Alex.

And without thinking, Jack answers the call. He gets an earful of broken sobs. He knows it’s Alex and not anyone else using his phone, simply because he knows what Alex sounds like when he cries. And in-between Alex’s sobs, he’s trying to say something.

Jack stays silent, and just tries to decipher what Alex is saying.

And through the hiccupping, the hysterical crying and the heaving sobs, Jack makes out ‘I’m sorry.’ spilling in a constant loop from Alex’s mouth.

Jack’s eyes soften; why is Alex tearing himself up over this?

“I… I know I’m stupid, and I’m a dick, and that you probably never want to talk to me ever again, or look at me again, let alone be in a relationship with me again, but you have to know that sleeping with Danielle was the stupidest mistake I’ve ever made, and that you’re the only one I’ve ever felt this… this much for.” Alex sobs, all in two or three breaths.

Jack still remains silent, now awestruck at Alex’s declaration.

“Jack?” Alex asks nervously, with a shaking voice “Say something? Please.”

“You haven’t given me much chance.” Jack replies. He’s nervous now; this is the first time he’s spoken to Alex since ‘the incident’ and Andrew isn’t here to hold him.

“Sorry.” Alex replies quietly. Jack can’t tell whether he’s apologizing for the Danielle screw-up, or for not letting him speak.

“It’s okay.” Jack responds. It’s the most ridiculously awkward phone conversation he’s ever had.

Andrew, meanwhile, is upstairs, trying to remove all traces of Jack from his room.

Mike was right about him all along.