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embracethemadmess · 2 years ago

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chapter #2 - medium-rare alliance

Fandom: Moon Knight

Pairing: Steven Grant x Jake Lockley

Will they date?: Can be read either as platonic or romantic

Summary: Khonsu really craves Jake as his avatar, therefore he makes the decision to divide moon system into three individuals. Marc takes this opportunity to work on his relationship with Layla, Steven tries to build his very own life from scratch. However, when they’re split, there’s a little surprise awaiting for the two of them. Turns out Marc had more than one alter. His name is Jake, he speaks Spanish and wears flat caps. He’s also… hm, a tad like a stray cat at first - wild, unpredictable, scared. Steven convinces him to stay with him and in between Moon Knight’s missions he discovers that Jake is fond of sun-dried tomatoes and toying with Steven’s rings.

You can read it on ao3: https://compress.boo/g/BDP4TYGP

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Everything you touch, you ruin.

His hand stopped mid-way, hanging in the air between him and Steven’s shuddery body. A single bead of sweat fell down his temple as he slowly breathed out, careful not to let his toxic oxygen reach Londoner’s fragile skin. What a waste.

His nose hurt, the scar cut in the bridge of it felt like it was opened anew, although in reality the skin there was not broken. He knew, he touched it and there wasn’t blood on his fingertips.

I am the god Khonshu, in search of a warrior. A killer. To be my vengeance.

He looked at the sight in front of him again; he saw his body standing by the bed in which his alter was sitting on the mattress, unmoving, yet shaking from within. Forever unsatisfied. Steven’s legs were entangled in bedsheets, gray sweatpants hugged his sweat-damp thighs where his palms were pressed flat to his lap. In the silvery coldness of the moonlight Jake could notice a vast contrast in the way Steven radiated warmth - both on the outside, with the milky bronze of his skin tone, and on the inside, for how hot waves crushed over him with wild brutality, tainting his cheeks with the most romantic shade of redness, escaping him by deep exhales while each of his inhales was a weak attempt to cool his inner system down.

To bind your very being to me. We were so young. Do you want death or do you want life?

In Jake’s eyes it looked as if Steven was challenging the god on the moon. Broken. Most fascinating.

Indeed, Jake thought to himself, agreeing with the low rumble of voice echoing within his skull. Steven looked exactly like this as he was fighting for every breath. Jake even tried to hold his own so the Britishman could gather much needed air in his lungs more freely, but for some reason it didn’t seem to work and, after some time, Jake gasped silently, his body jerking in protest against this act of heroism.

I work at a gift shop. Do you swear to protect the travelers of the night? Or it was just a way for me to keep being what I've always been.

A killer.

Jake folded his arms across his chest and dug fingernails into the skin of his opposite bicep. Lack of confidence was a solid weight on his shoulders, made him hunch down the same way he’d witnessed Marc only a few hours earlier.

“Steven,” he called out, the name feeling heavy on his tongue. Not sure what else he could do to help, he let out a broken whimper as the voices in his head overlapped.

A killer. Do you swear to protect the travelers of the night? We do come as a package deal now. My Moon Knight. Fractured.

“Steven–” he tried again, the tone of his voice not in the slightest firm or at least steady. Nothing. Out of all sources of noise that were haunting him at the moment, the one he had desperately needed to hear didn’t answer his pleas. A shiver crept up his spine, cold and devastating, eating at his skin while it crawled under it like a demon sent straight out of hell to possess him.

Perhaps it didn’t stray far from the truth, he’d later catch himself admitting, an undeniable proof for it unveiled before him the moment he leaned forward just a little bit prior to caging a handful of Steven’s curls in a grip of steel to then yank his head up to his eye level. He stared at the face so similar to his own, and yet vastly different.

I work at a gift shop.

Steven’s skin was pale, frightfully so, nowhere near the olive tone Jake thought he saw emitting warmth just seconds ago. Glazed expression sunk deep into mature, paper-thin skin, clammy with speckles of sweat sprinkled on hollow cheeks. His eyes trained on something far behind Jake, far above everything that’s real. A single line between his brows seemed to crease his face into concern, other than that the museau that was gracing Jake’s eyes had notes painted on it by shadows, of the saddest serenades about millions of miles between the two of them. Celadon shade of his five o'clock shadow matched livid lips hidden in it, a beautiful tribute to the sickness dancing deep within his soul.

I work at a gift shop, my name’s Steven Grant.

“Eres tan débil,” hissed Jake, slight resentment tugging at his heart, making him clutch his hand on the British’s hair even tighter. “Le dediqué mi vida. Mi corazón.” His other hand found its way to Steven’s jaw, fingers dug into the skin on both of his cheeks. An unintentional touch that dedicated to the man below him a show of sheer strength as he continued spilling venom. “Y aun así, te eligió a ti. ¿Por qué a ti, hm?

He demanded an answer, he needed to know. The feeling of his body physically starting to tremble settled heavy at the bottom of his stomach, tens of whys were vibrating on his tongue to the point of leaving him breathless.

But Steven didn’t give him what he so desperately craved, no. At least not in a way he wanted.

Instead of a verbal reply, an agonized wince appeared on the Londoner’s face; between the brutal construct of the one’s above palms, a faint gasp managed to slip through the tight throat, and Steven’s eyes fluttered shut in the darkness of the night, his whole expression fighting an urge to twist in pain as he remained still in his place. Oh, how tragically pretty were the prominent wrinkles around his clenched lids, how magical was the choreography in which long lashes were moving in patterns set to imitate a troubled sea perfectly.

As a lone teardrop rolled down the side of his face, Steven whimpered, still clearly somewhere far above everything material in their reality, yet drowning in ache that was caused by Jake’s fingers bruising his skin relentlessly. Maybe something else as well, that Jake couldn’t know. Not anymore.

Dark chocolate of his eyes long forgotten by an undeserving spectator, now slumping under the weight of stubbornly knitted, thick pair of brows.

No wonder your scales don’t balance. All those voices inside your head. Khonshu.

Lines that he had once heard were bouncing off his skull to finally throw him to his knees.

It’s maddening, isn’t it? That is why we now act through hosts like you, my son. Everything you touch, you ruin.

Funny thing, he called Steven weak, although there he was, kneeling by the bed, mocked mercilessly, tainted by each and every phrase, gnawed at with slurs that echoed in his ears, beaten by insults that were not even all meant for him to take. Coldness of the wooden floor needling his body with shivers, one after another, but it didn’t really matter, did it? This he was used to, physical discomfort that is, deep creases and tensed muscles were his to wear, therefore he accepted whatever tried to punch him down to the ground as it was his purpose, the whole point of him.

Steven, on the other hand, wasn't designed to express pain, Jake scolded himself quickly the moment he finally noticed he was the one causing the other that pain. Not on his face should it be blooming, not in his very own skin should it carve broken details of distress, and it was Jake’s turn now to whimper at the sight slowly being revealed to him as the foggy blur left his view.

A killer.

Steven looked so small like that, so fragile, Jak took a mental note of that fact while the grip of his hands was loosening enough to let them slide to the bottom of his cheeks to cup them gently, thumbs caressing pale bruises forming there as the direct consequence of his assault. Rage was still stirring in his veins, though, envy burning him alive piece by piece, forcing his palms to sting in a breathtaking urge to clench into fists.

“Oh, hermoso lío,” a hesitant whisper formed itself at the back of Jake’s throat to then leave a sour twinge at the corners of his lips. He followed even the tiniest flicker on the surface of Steven’s eyelids, as if waiting patiently for him to open them at last and grace him again with the chocolate liqueur-shaded irises, to quirk the corner of his mouth up to a shy smile, to part his lips slightly in order to offer him a cup of tea.

None of it ever happened that night, of course. Steven was there only physically, that detail obvious to Jake’s curious eye, his mind drifting away on a stream of unconsciousness, far from the place that granted him only agony. He was still shaking from within, like his body was a boiling electric kettle struggling to keep hot bubbles under, about to start whistling furiously. His chest was caving, upon noticing it Jake let one of his hands slide further more to his sternum and rub at it in a calming motion while the other he kept clasped to his cheek, keeping it still, holding it.

I’ll protect you with everything I have. You are the only real superpower I ever had.

“Él te considera digno…” he susurrated, then pouted at the sight of the color drained out of the Englishman’s face. With a resigned sigh he got up from his kneeling position, his palm dropped from the other’s chest to his jerky knees pressed tightly together. “So be it,” he continued, voice still set in hushed tones like he was afraid Steven would wake up abruptly if he had raised its volume, and scold him for doing what he was about to do.

Grant’s unruly locks fell back down, crushing against his forehead the moment Jake freed it from harsh grasp, a few damp springs tried to cover the pulsing vein running across the middle of his brow, right beside the deep line created with his frown. Jake’s thumb slowly traced down the bridge of his nose, took a turn across right nostril in order to wipe the tear shimmering its way down the cheek right before it could settle in a small furrow there.

The only real superpower. Steven Grant, I’m a giftshoppist. The only super– Steven Grant.

Approaching Steven as if he was a glass statue, and not a real person, the other’s hands gently spread his legs so that he was able to stand between them, followed by raising his arms to then rest them on his own shoulders and around his neck. A couple seconds later he sneaked his palms underneath the backs of the British one’s things and lifted his whole body, now wrapped around his torso in a similar way a bright blanket was wrapped around his faint posture, threatening to fall under Jake’s ministrations.

Forever unsatisfied. The only– Steven. You saved us. Steven. We were so young. A killer.

It was difficult to suppress a mild sigh at the strange sensation of all of the voices starting to bleed into each other. The man took a shaky breath in, his jaw grinding and clenching nervously, his glances shifting around the room as his eyes accommodated nothing but wildness. The heavy ball of stress that was Steven weighed him down but he stood straight, always an obedient soldier. Additional body heat became a warm contrast to the cool breeze that was wafting through open windows that he did nothing about, despite feeling his feet freezing against the trail of sand around the bed. He couldn’t have been more grateful for the pair of socks Steven had given him if he tried, although he still was so, so cold it pained him. He could feel himself losing it, his heart was pounding into his ribcage in a rhythm similar to the one beating against the other side of his chest, Steven being the owner of it. On edge, Jake tightened his hold on the Londoner’s body before he shifted towards the window the closest to the bed. White frame divided the glass into twelve little squares filled with a view of a sleeping city Jake didn’t recognize, didn’t know despite navigating through it every few days. Mad, the way it looked so calm when every shred of flesh was twisting and crumbling within him - it wasn’t fair, come to think of it, that the world seemed so unresponsive to the war taking place in his troubled soul.

Warm puffs of shallow exhales were hitting the side of his neck while he was standing there, almost in the middle of the flat that wasn’t his, one arm supporting Steven’s weight from where it was placed on his bottom, and the other enveloping his waist. At some point he even felt the latter’s ankles crossing against the backs of his knees, as well as his arms tightening around his neck when he nestled his nose in the crook of it.

A warrior. A monster. Why is there a little boy in a room full of people you've killed? A killer.

Looking up in the sky, Jake could see a full moon matching the coldness of its light with the one spreading across his entire body.

Glancing down, he could notice a man stalking through the night all alone, with a cardboard box full of clothes and sundries in his hands. He was cursing aloud, exasperated and most likely drunk.

Peering back up, he saw the god of the moon looming over the rooftop of the building in front of him. They were facing him, their stuff leaned slightly in his direction as if to show they were calling for him, expecting him. They didn’t say a word, only tilted their head as they caught his attention, waiting for response.

At that, Jake squeezed Steven’s body tighter, and pressed their cheeks together prior to rubbing them in a soothing motion. No vengeance that night, he thought to himself, he needed a rest.

I will release you both. A way for me to keep being– a killer.

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In the morning Steven could be found back in his bed. Laying sideways on a soft mattress, with his jaw loose and lips slightly parted, he held onto the pillow like his life depended on it; the arm set under it numb but still clutching his hand tenuously into a fist, letting his knuckles brush over thick curls scattered across white fabric above the tip of his head. A lone, prominent vein constantly visible on his forehead, lion’s wrinkle accompanying it due to his brows set into a soft frown. Micro movements of his eyeballs were causing the skin on of his eyes to jitter just a little bit, the lines around them carving the paper-thin layer of his museau in the most beautiful way possible. Face relaxed finally, after all the sleepless nights, although there was a tension hidden in the press of his shoulder to his jawline. Quite the sight he was, completely unaware of the presence looming over in his space.

At about 8 in the morning, he jolted awake. He tossed and twisted in bedsheets, from his side onto his back, black t-shirt rolling up his stomach in the process. Indiscriminately he swept his hair back from his forehead, then rested the very same hand on his pec, a sigh escaping his lips at the thought of whether he resembled Marc more than himself in that moment. He felt the ache tugging at his heart and wished he hadn’t had to contemplate such a thing; wished Marc had never left his side in the first place. But life wasn’t always fair, now was it? No, of course not.

One of his eyes squinted mildly, a couple of hairs from the bottom lashline glued to the cornea, both in protest against fully waking up, as well as a reminder of the many tears his eyes swam with just a few hours earlier. It blurred his vision enough to make the flat look surreal, thick fog swaying horrifically slowly around the area, with him in the center of it like a lost child trying to find his way back home.

His body was warm, too warm to feel comfortable. He grunted softly as he lifted himself a bit on his elbows, so his back now rested on the pillow while the back of his head hit the bookshelf headboard.

“Wake me up before you go-go,” a hoarse hum tore from his throat, which surprised even him, the sound of it. His hand left the pec, lingering down his chest, nearing his groin lazily. Slim fingers trembled with anticipation, although his face expression remained emotionless.

How long has it been, he wondered; how long since he had been last touched this way? A random thought that appeared in his mind unexpectedly, however, he couldn’t really blame himself for that, considering all the stress he had been put through, the agony of existing for the past few weeks, perhaps even months - he wasn’t sure, wasn’t aware of the time slipping through his fingers like the sands of the Duat. All he knew was that his hand made its way to the drawstring waistband, ready to pull and toss the fabric down his thighs, when from the corner of his eye he noticed a blurred posture appearing somewhere beside the washing line near the bathroom. “I'm not planning on going solo!” somehow he still cited a line of the song playing in his mind, instead of any reasonable explanation of why he was doing what he was doing, only exclaiming the last word while his cheeks turned scarlet at the sudden awareness that he’d been watched.

Caught red-handed, the hand of his was visibly stinging now, even when jerked up and pressed to his cheek, a forbidden desire shaken out of his system to be replaced by a heavy weight of embarrassment.

Jake only bent his head to the side at that, not a care in the world, whereas Steven drew his lower lip between his teeth.

“Sorry…,” a muffled confession left the Englishman’s mouth before he tried to duck. Tried, because the moment he saw the other man fighting shivers trailing up and down his spine, he grimaced at the thought of how lousy host he must’ve been not to offer his quest a proper pallet with cozy bedding and an additional blanket. It was June, alright, but mornings still averaged out about 59°F, a temperature which often gave Steven horrible colds. Despite all the circumstances, Jake was standing before him wearing only a thin t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and colorful socks, and Steven cursed mentally his act of idiocy.

In a blink of an eye he sprinted out the bed, almost falling face-first to the floor due to legs tangled in bedsheets, only stopping abruptly when he was about to run into a pile of books on his left, his arms momentarily shooting into a circle around them.

“Sorry,” he repeated himself, then the red tint spread to his neck and even the pieces of his chest revealed by a v-neck darkness of the t-shirt. “Bloody hell, I’m such a plank, aren’t I? You must be freezing your bottom off, fuck, fuck, f–” there he was, the Steven Grant Jake knew so well, always babbling, always giving too much information, always stating what he felt was obvious. “Gimme me a sec, please, I’ll toss you a jumper, yeah.” It was a statement, rather than a question, but still, Steven looked over his shoulder after saying it, the chocolate liqueur of his irises drowning in desire to get some kind of response.

Jake simply nodded, a muscle in his jaw twitched and it made Steven question whether it was a signal of nerviness, or just a sign that he really was cold.

Either way, Steven faltered across the room, wildness pouring out of his eyes, lips set in a hard line whilst trying to find the right piece of clothing, as if it really mattered. The other man remained silent through the whole process, following every rapid step, a line appearing between his brows as he observed, one side of his mouth curving into a subtle smile, even if the chaos whirling within Grant startled him.

Before Jake could even fully register what was happening, Steven was right in front of him, with his arms stretched out behind Jake’s tense shoulders as he covered them with the fabric of a thick cardigan with patterns so many, Jake probably couldn’ name a solid part of all the shapes sewn in it. It was bright, it was terrifyingly colorful which made him feel like puking, it was disgusting, and the way it had muffled him up caused him to let out a relaxed sigh.

“There you go, mate,” Steven mumbled, beaming at him for just a second before he noticed something above Jake’s shoulder. “Shit,” was the word that dropped into the comfortable speck of silence between them, then, “no. No, no, no.”

His expression dulled, after that Jake rubbed his brow as if to ward off a building headache, because the Londoner was moving too fast, too dramatically to the point where the room felt so full of his presence; running around the kitchen, from the bathroom to the opposite side of the bed, to the round table in the front part of the flat, back to the kitchen. He seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once, and Jake’s head started to spin. Stop, he thought to himself, please stop, he pleaded at the back of his mind, don’t move.

But Steven didn’t hear him, because how could he, if they didn’t share the body anymore, couldn’t feel each other anymore, couldn’t hide when the world became too frightening, too much for them to handle on their own.

Jake held his breath subconsciously the moment Steven shoved a plate into his hands. He blinked owlishly at the sight of a few grilled-cheese toasts with a blob of ketchup on the side, as well as a cup of tea he saw Steven put on the table prior to snatching a brown messenger bag off the coat hanger.

“I really need to get going now, or else Donna’s going to murder me, but, like, you stay there,” Grant commanded, his palms raised and facing the ground as if he wanted to sign the motion of laying an object down.

Jake narrowed his eyes in response to that.

“Please, stay,” he pleaded softly this time, his face twisted in a brooding expression, eyes bored into the other, hands fiddling with the strap of the bag. “Best case scenario, I’ll be back in a few hours, if I’m not doing inventory yet again.” The second part of the statement was almost whispered, exhaustion weighing down his hunched shoulders clearly as day. “‘Till then, please, make yourself at home, alright? The cheese is not an actual cheese, though. Yeah, sorry about that, I’m vegan. But,” he exclaimed, scratching the side of his nose lightly, “one of you did set me up on a date in a steakhouse, you know.”

Jake’s nose crinkled, then he returned his gaze to the plate he was holding. Steven snorted when once again met with the kind of silence so still he could hear a pin drop.

“Alright,” he queried, “laters, gators!” With a tiny wave of a hand, he opened and then closed the front door. Keys rattled close to the door lock for no longer than two seconds before he shook his head in disapproval, caressed the gold-colored five in his flat number instead and scurried to the elevator.

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Steven had once watched a short horror film. It was about this creepy man in a cursed box who was killing people that the box was given to. Once opened, the receiver of the box couldn’t take their eyes off of it, otherwise this wet, presumably naked middle-aged man tried to take away their life or something, Steven wasn’t entirely sure, it looked like he was either killing them, or possessing them and turning into his very own minions. Whoever received the box had to watch it all the time, and the only way to get rid of the curse was to pass it on to another person, who would accept it as a gift.

In that film, whenever the receiver of the box looked away, the creepy naked man got further out of the box and closer and closer to his target.

It goes without saying that, after somehow going all the way through that film, Steven was scared shitless to close his eyes once he stumbled upon an opened box, just in case.

The third alter, in Steven’s modest yet scarred opinion, was sort of like the creepy naked man in a cursed box, in a sense that Steven hadn’t been aware of him ‘till the moment Marc had decided to abandon him after Cairo. Moreover, Steven felt like every time he took his eyes off of him, he got closer and closer, dangerously near him. Dubious, with a quite intimidating aura and unclear intentions. He was silent, there was this weird vibe to him that caused a tingling sensation on the scalp, alongside a shortness of breath. One could feel like suffocating when around that man, uncertain about what would happen next.

The thing was, Steven wasn’t frightened the way he’d been after watching that film, no. It was just a thought, a mild comparison, something that came to his mind when he returned to his flat a couple hours later and he almost bumped into Jake, who, for a reason unknown to Steven yet, was standing right across the front door as Steven closed it behind him and turned to face the kitchen.

You see, two days earlier, when Marc had been crushing Steven’s heart by announcing his departure, Steven had looked at Jake, had looked away for only a second, and he had glanced at him again, Jake had appeared closer to him than he’d been before. Staring without a word spoken, observing his every move, daring him to look away once more.

When Steven had left the apartment a few hours ago, he had left Jake standing somewhere in the middle of the flat, right? And when he returned, Jake was there, almost breathing down his neck. Again, staring without a word spoken, observing his every move, daring him to look away again. Only this time Steven was left completely alone with him, Marc wasn’t there with him. It felt so wrong. It was like Marc had passed Jake on to Steven, however Steven simply couldn't have remembered accepting him as a gift.

But, hey, at least he wasn’t alone. That’s why Steven couldn’t bring himself to truly fear Jake when he was looking into an identical set of brown eyes studying him at the very moment. How fucked up must Steven have been, to seek attention of a cursed, fortunately not naked, man? To crave it to the point of almost locking said man in his flat, just to be sure he was going to be there when he returned? To want to look away for long enough for Jake to take him away, hide him in a cursed box in which he’d spent the rest of his life with him?

Absolutely mad, he thought to him, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips and hitting the other man with a warm puff of air that smelled like toothpaste and pear-flavored mousse.

“Sorry,” once again he muffled apologetically, then did his best not to let the smile on his face fade as he felt a single tear collecting in his eyelashes. He blinked at Jake, and a soft sniffle followed before he raised both of his hands, in each of them a paper bag filled with stuff. “Funny, I forgot I’d got the sack, you know? Which is fair, I vandalized the loos,” he reasoned with himself, the corners of his mouth turning downright to a sad pout. Without a second thought, he turned towards the kitchen, already complaining mentally about the weight of the bags in his hands, straining the muscles of his arms. “I mean, technically it wasn’t me, it was Marc, yeah?” he made it sound like a question, however, he didn’t wait for Jake’s response. Not like he’d get one, anyways, taking his attitude into consideration. “Bet they wouldn’t believe me if I told them it had been the little American guy who shared the body with me. Would think I’d gone bonkers, ‘s what they would do. Still think it’s got something to do with that steak I had to have all by myself. Anyways, I got sacked but I forgot about it, thus I walked into the museum today, went straight behind the counter, it was mad. They haven’t contacted the authorities, though, which is nice, I suppose,” babbling, he scratched his nose, then shoved his hair back away from his face in order to concentrate on unpacking groceries.

“So, I thought I’d do some grocery shopping, buy something meaty for you, maybe some clothes. Reckon you don’t intend to be parading around wearing pajamas and my jumpers. I know, I know,” he grumbled, tossing in the freezer a four-pack of beer, “not the best idea to be spending money without a proper source of income, ‘s why I used Marc’s credit card. I don’t remember nicking it from him, yeah, but,” once again he exclaimed without a reason to it, glancing at Jake over his shoulder to see the man’s eyebrows rising at him, “to be totally honest, at this point I just– I can’t know for sure that I haven’t done any harm, I mean, the absolute shit-show I’ve-we’ve been put through…”

Jake was standing in the front part of the flat, his back leaning against the round dining table, his arms crossed, all his senses alert. Meanwhile Steven took a few tours across the kitchen, walking back and forth from the place he’d left the groceries, to the fridge or various cabinets in which he stored things like yoghurts, vegetables and fruits, several pieces of tofu, or even a multipack of batteries. It felt domestic, it felt a bit wrong in Jake’s opinion, too good to be true. There was gonna be some trick to it, some kind of a very painful catch that Jake couldn’t see yet, but about to bite his arse. So, he observed, studied his surroundings as if waiting for danger to finally come at him. His forehead creased when, at the same time, he tried his best to focus on what Steven was saying to him; tried to find any clue that would betray the face of the threat he was dealing with.

“What I wanted to say is, I saw him double-checking whether he’d packed everything he needed. If that card was a necessity for ‘im, surely he would’ve taken it with him, am I right?”

Jake nodded at that, actually finding it quite rational. Steven beamed when he noticed his reaction, then chewed on his bottom lip as he put away two boxes of oat milk.

“Besides,” Grant continued proudly, “We both know Marc hasn’t been employed recently, yeah? If anything, I think he’d be thankful that he doesn’t have to deal with all that filthy lucre. Could've been a tad more careful when killing that jackal in my workplace, plant-based stuff isn't actually cheap, so… Which is a crime, while we’re at it.”

A finger was raised as if to make a point, and Jake’s eyes widened in response to the Londoner’s stream of consciousness. Once again that day, the room started spinning around him, he barely registered the moment Steven walked up to him and shoved a can of beer in his hand prior to parroting his stance against the table. He didn’t take his eyes off of him, boring a burning hole into his temple while, at the same time, opening cans for the both of them.

“Cherry flavored,” he mentioned, addressing the cans, even though Jake hadn’t asked. “I shouldn’t be paying more money just because I prefer the real milk be fed to calves, or goat kids, or… I don’t know, small beings that actually need it to grow up and not be sliced into steaks for some git to order on his stupid date that he missed completely because he’d lost two days from his life.” By the end of his little rant, he was exasperated, but mainly ashamed and miserable. He exhaled deeply, his face chagrined with pale skin under which crawled the desire to run away. His death grip on a can of beer was threatening to cause the sweet-scented beverage to spill, Steven kept it against his chest like something precious, but also like a stress toy, and that was what got Jake worried. “Also, it’s non-alcoholic, sorry,” he added in a hesitant whisper, sending a shiver up the other’s spine.

A moment passed, in which they both remained silent, afraid to pop the bubble that seemed to have grown around the two of them. Jake pretended not to notice Steven’s excessive swallowing, and Steven pretended not to notice Jake’s knee jerking rhythmically. They were standing there in the front part of Steven’s flat, leaning against the round table, arm in arm, facing the front door and glancing at it wistfully as if they were expecting someone to come in. Breaths trembling in tandem, eyes a bit glossy, thumbs rubbing cans of beer in their hands mindlessly.

Steven’s lips parted at some point, ready to flood his companion with another stream of rambling, but it was Jake’s voice that bounced off the walls - a low, heavily accented proclaim that spread warmth across Steven’s chest.

“Lo siento.”

The Britishman peered up at him when he fully took in the situation and Jake’s words. Well, a single word.

“I know what it means,” he replied, a speck of pride tinting the tone of his voice. “Why are you apologizing to me, Jake? Oh, god, please, don’t say you killed fake Gus when I was out,” with that question, Steven caught sight of the fish tank, his brows snapped together the moment he didn’t notice anything suspicious. Just a goldfish swimming in the tank, not a care in the world was clouding its tiny brain. “No, I should be the one apologizing,” he admitted soon after returning his head to previous position, only modifying it so that he could rest the side of his face against Jake’s shoulder, tentatively, already preparing himself for rejection that, to his surprise, never actually came. “I didn’t manage to buy any clothes for you. I wanted to, I swear I did, b-but–” he found himself squeezing his eyes shut, a gesture Jake couldn’t notice from this angle, but he was sure he could hear his wet, throaty breathing that he tried his best to dismiss by waving his free hand.

“Uh, this whole situation, you know, Marc’s leaving, losing me job, and there were so many people in the mall, yeah, and sometimes it’s a bit difficult for me to, um, be social, and, and feel real, and it’s too much on some days, so I– well, I panicked. Ordered Indian food online with delivery, then waited for it to be left at the door, honestly the best thing that the pandemic could offer, and then I just… took it and came in, because I was hungry, but I didn’t feel like cooking anything, and I sure as hell didn't have the energy to order to-go, so…” another sniffle filled the space between them when Steven was venting, neither rhyme nor reason, especially when he continued and Jake heard: “We could go there one day, together, and you could choose things you actually like, how ‘bout that? Just, eh, just promise me you’ll stay with me, please. I’ll give Marc his money back, at some point, I actually feel awful about spending it without him knowing. It stank, I could feel the card dripping with blood that fucking old bird had ever forced him to spill.”

The sound of knuckles cracking followed, to which Jake responded with a heavy sigh. He gently placed the Londoner’s hand in his own, his thumb brushing over abused knuckles and trembling back of hand. Steven sobbed, tears ran down the dry skin of his cheeks, but he powered through it, coughed before saying what he needed to say.

“Marc’s right, you know? I am way out of my depth.” With his head still resting on Jake’s shoulder, he nodded to himself. “Like, I hated Donna, I hated that J.B. couldn’t even remember my name, but at least I was among other people, right? And now I don’t have the job anymore, and Marc’s not here, he’s with Layla, and I’m happy for them, I really am, but at the same time I hate that they left me after everything that had happened, and I need time to collect myself, and I also need someone to tell me I’m alright, that I’m gonna be alright, at some point, and me mum– she,” mentioning her, Steven’s thought grew muddied, panic started to tear his skin apart.

He growled through gritted teeth. Jake didn’t say anything, only kept his hold on his hand assuring, strong while it was obvious he held him like he’d hold something precious, something worthy of care. His face remained blank, but Steven didn’t mind that as long as he didn’t see it, and at the moment he was too busy alternately keeping his eyes shut, and throwing short glances at his worn trainers.

“Don’t leave me alone, Jake, because I fear I’m gonna lose it for good.”

When Steven’s gaze darted up at him, Jake, as befitted a man from a cursed box, was even closer than he’d been before. Staring without a word spoken, observing his every move, daring him to look away once more. And when Steven felt his hand being squeezed tighter, his mouth curved into a ghost of a smile. He looked away, prepared for Jake to take him to the other side of the box, and took a big sip of his cherry flavored beer.

He didn’t even like cherries.

#moon knight fanfic #steven grant x jake lockley #stevenjake #jakesteven #separate bodies au #moon knight fic #Silver rings & sun-dried tomatoes

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