Archive of Our Own ^beta

jake pov:

jake didn’t know how it started.

like, genuinely—what the fuck.

he was twenty-three. twenty-three and rich and famous and actually doing what he loved for a living. the music freaks had blown the fuck up after college. their band name was supposed to be ironic, but now it was printed across merch and plastered behind them at festivals, in LED lights the size of a building. sean was producing for major artists. zander and luke had their own fanbase somehow—don’t ask. hailey was a genius with their tour visuals, and millie had literally tackled a guy in a crowd once and went viral.

and jake? jake had it all. the music, the fans, the stage high. he had friends he trusted. he laughed again. he lived out of a suitcase with no real address and forgot what day of the week it was unless they had a show. he wasn’t the kid clawing his way up in a school full of fake smiles and sharp tongues anymore.

he was fine. for real.

until drew.

until fucking drew.

it’d been years since the fight. junior year. shit got ugly. stuff said that they couldn’t take back. it wasn’t just drew, it was all of them—zoey, lia, liam, henry—but mostly drew. because it had always been drew. best friend turned puppet master turned stranger. the silence between them had lasted longer than their friendship ever did, and jake hadn’t thought twice about it.

or maybe he had. maybe a thousand times. but he had music now. he had people. he had shows and fans screaming his name and guitars that felt like extensions of his body. he had new memories to stuff in the old wounds.

so why the hell was he flying out on his only days off just to fuck drew alvarez?

he sat in first class with a cap pulled low, earbuds in, hoodie zipped up over his face like it could block the shame. the flight to L.A. was short. he’d done it more times than he could count. private sometimes, if drew arranged it. commercial when jake didn’t want anyone knowing. either way, he’d be picked up, driven to some glossy high-rise or rented suite, and greeted like he wasn’t the ghost of someone drew used to love.

“hey,” drew would say, all deadpan, lounging in a silk robe like he didn’t just drop six figures on a view of the ocean. “you’re late.”

and jake would roll his eyes, say something like “you’re annoying,” and then fuck him so hard he couldn’t walk right.

the first time had been an accident. a mistake. a heat-of-the-moment, post-party, post-festival mistake. jake had been high on adrenaline and drunk on champagne, wandering back into his green room when drew was just there, sitting on the couch like he owned the place. he probably did.

“you look good,” drew had said, lazy. bored.

and jake, who hadn’t seen him in four years and thought he hated him, had blinked once. and then kissed him.

it should’ve stopped there.

but it didn’t.

drew was a fucking mess. not on the outside, of course—on the outside, he was still that picture-perfect ceo, model-type, dressed in designer black and draped in expensive silence. he smelled like money and cold air. he didn’t smile much. but something in his eyes cracked when jake touched him.

he could still be mean. drew never lost that. the way he’d scoff, or say something under his breath to piss jake off, or act like he was still the one in control even when he was laid out, jaw slack, begging.

that was the weirdest part.

seeing drew like that.

vulnerable.

needy.

underneath.

jake hadn’t known drew even liked guys. hadn’t known he did either, not really. but apparently his sexuality bent for one specific fucking man, and it bent hard.

sometimes, when they were in bed after, sweat cooling and music playing low from drew’s fancy speaker system, it felt like high school again.
just two dumbasses sitting on the floor, sharing airpods, laughing about something stupid henry said. jake would look over and see the version of drew that used to sneak him out of class, the one who bought him overpriced "healthy" smoothies after school, the one who knew all the words to the songs jake swore he’d never show anyone.

but then drew would say something cold. distant. like, “this doesn’t mean anything,” or “you can leave now,” and jake would remember that this wasn’t some happy fucking reunion.

this was sex.

just sex.

...

except sometimes it wasn’t.

sometimes drew looked at him like jake had broken something he didn’t know was fragile. sometimes he’d ask about the band. about sean. about zander, weirdly. and jake would tell him, and drew would pretend not to care but ask anyway.

he never asked about jake, though. not directly.

but he’d notice.

he’d notice the bandages on jake’s fingers after too many back-to-back shows. he’d pull him into the shower and say “you’re overworking again” in that flat voice that somehow always felt like concern. he’d press his mouth to jake’s collarbone like he was trying to remember it.

and sometimes—just sometimes—jake would stay. not for long. not for sleep. just long enough to let himself forget how fucked this all was.

he never told the others. not sean, not millie, not even hailey. they’d ask where he was going and he’d shrug. “visiting someone.”

technically not a lie.

tonight was no different.

he landed, got picked up by some guy in a sleek black car, rode in silence through the L.A. traffic, up to the glass elevator of drew’s building.
same as always.

when the door opened, drew was already half undressed.

“took you long enough.”

jake tossed his bag down. “shut up.”

and then he kissed him. hard. messy. familiar.

drew tasted like red wine and peppermint. he moaned into jake’s mouth like he’d been waiting all week.

somewhere between the bedroom and the couch, their clothes disappeared.

drew was still mean. still tried to bite. but jake knew how to handle him now. he knew how to pin him just right, how to make him beg, how to coax those desperate little sounds that made jake forget how long it’d been since they’d been friends.

when it was over, they lay there in silence.

the sheets were damp. the city lights glowed against the ceiling.

drew turned his head, eyes half-lidded. “you staying?”

jake stared at the ceiling. “nah.”

a beat.

“…cool.”

but neither of them moved.

and jake didn’t know what the fuck that meant.

drew pov:

drew alvarez wasn’t a sentimental guy.
he didn’t waste time missing people.
didn’t dwell. didn’t daydream. didn’t cry to sad songs like some loser in a coming-of-age movie.

he was twenty-three. a ceo. a millionaire. one of the most successful men his age—not just because he inherited the company, but because he actually gave a shit. he showed up early, stayed late, took something his dad built and made it ten times sharper. better. sleeker. modern. profitable as hell.

he had the penthouse. the car. the suits. the numbers. the women. the respect.
he had the friends. well—some of them.
liam was still around, calm and chill and dumb and somehow also too smart for his own good, closing real estate deals and bringing craft beer to their hangouts like a dad at thirty.
henry had somehow turned “being annoying” into a career. drew didn’t get it, but he’d caught one of his stand-up sets in person and actually laughed, which was insane.
lia… yeah. lia was probably the weirdest one.
they weren’t close in the beginning of high school. she’d just been "zoey's best friend". chill but whatever. but after the fallout—after jake left, and zoey cheated, and drew was left with a crater where his life used to be—lia kind of… stayed.
showed up one day with pink whitney and takeout and a box of tissues and said, “let’s not talk about it unless we have to.”
he’d scoffed. rolled his eyes. let her stay.

now she was one of his best friends.
weird how that shit happens.

zoey was gone.
she’d tried to fix things a couple times. slid into his DMs like nothing happened. texted “hope you’re doing well <3” like they weren’t both aware she’d fucked someone else.
he never answered.

and jake—

yeah.

jake was everywhere.

billboards. magazine covers. tiktok. tour announcements. jake fucking sterling and the music freaks topping the charts with their stupidly good vocals and catchy choruses and annoying charm. he was bigger than any of them could’ve imagined. and honestly? drew wasn’t even mad.

he was proud.

no one worked harder than jake.
not even drew, and that was saying something.

but it hurt.
god, it hurt.

not that he’d ever admit it out loud.
but losing jake was like taking a knife to the chest and then smiling through it for six years straight.
he was his best friend. his favorite person. his everything.
and it didn’t just end. it exploded.

junior year.
they said shit they didn’t mean—well, maybe drew meant some of it. but he didn’t mean all of it. he didn’t mean for it to end the way it did.
jake was gone the next week. into the music club. into a different orbit.
drew never got to say sorry.

never got to say he was in love with him.

yeah. that part sucked.
he didn’t even know back then. not really.
just thought he was obsessed. jealous. maybe a little too protective. didn’t realize until months later that all the girls he’d dated were basically knock-off versions of jake.
didn’t realize until college when no matter how many people he kissed, he still missed him.

and now—

now jake flew out sometimes.
sometimes drew flew to him.
no calls. no texts. just a flight and a hotel room or drew’s apartment and silence, and then—

sex.

just sex.

except it wasn’t.
not for drew.

he didn’t know how it started.
some event. some afterparty. jake showed up and they locked eyes for the first time in years and it was like a punch to the ribs.

he hadn’t changed.
he had, obviously. tattoos now. messier hair. sharper jaw. but still jake. still the same voice. the same eyes.
still the same smile drew hadn’t seen since they were seventeen.

and then they were kissing.
and then drew was in his hotel bed.

he thought it was a one-time thing.
a fluke.
a mistake.

but it kept happening.

jake would land in L.A., show up like nothing happened, fuck the shit out of him—like, really fuck the shit out of him—and then leave.
sometimes they’d talk. kind of.
a “hey.” a “you look tired.”
once, jake asked how henry was doing.
that almost made drew cry.

but mostly it was quiet.
jake didn’t stay more than an hour after—two, if drew was lucky.
he never slept over.
he’d kiss him breathless, drag his mouth down his chest, make him fall apart again and again—and then he’d pull on his hoodie and vanish like a dream.

and drew let him.

because it was better than nothing.
because it was jake.
and drew was weak as hell where he was concerned.

tonight was no different.
the lights of L.A. burned through the floor-to-ceiling windows. the bedroom smelled like expensive cologne and sweat.

jake’s shirt was on the floor.
his hair was messy.
he was staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers.

“you staying?” drew asked, voice quiet.

jake didn’t look at him. “nah.”

“...cool.”

he watched him.
watched his fingers twitch.
watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

god, he wanted to kiss him again.
tell him not to go.
tell him everything.

but instead he just nodded. turned his face away.

pretended it didn’t matter.

lia asked about it once.
joked about how he kept disappearing for “emotional resets” like a victorian widow.

he didn’t answer.
just sipped his coffee and changed the subject.

he was drew alvarez.
he didn’t pine.
he didn’t do “unrequited.”
he didn’t wait around hoping someone loved him back.

except—he did.
for jake.
he always would.

jake pov:

jake didn’t know how the fuck they got here.
like this.
like right now, like this minute, like mid-fuck, bedframe-slamming-the-wall type of here.

he had no idea.one second he was outside drew’s door—sweaty from the car ride, hoodie on, heart doing something stupid in his chest—and the next he was inside. not just in the penthouse but inside, like deep in it, deep in him, like he hadn’t been thinking straight all goddamn week.

and he hadn’t.

it had been a rough week.
rough month.
too many concerts. too many interviews. too much pressure.
the music freaks were doing amazing.
life was loud. nonstop. neon.
he hadn’t been home in a week. didn’t know where “home” even was. a hotel? a bus? a stage?
his throat hurt from singing.
his hands ached from guitar.
his back was fucked from shitty plane seats and carrying it all.

he should’ve just slept. should’ve stayed in. should’ve taken a breath.

but he didn’t want quiet.
didn’t want alone.

he wanted drew.

which was stupid.
so fucking stupid.

drew was the last person he should want.
drew was smug. arrogant. cold. manipulative.
drew hurt him.
drew ruined him.

but also—

drew was familiar.
drew was warm sheets and the scent of cologne he could still recognize with his eyes closed.
drew was memories of sophomore year summers and dumb pranks and inside jokes no one else would get.
drew was comfort.

and jake hated him for it.
and hated himself for it.

and his throat hurt from screaming over music and his fingers were raw from playing too hard and his spine felt like it’d snap from carrying a guitar for two hours a night.

he was fucking tired.

and he didn’t wanna think.

so he came here.

because apparently that’s what he did now. fly halfway across the country to fuck his ex-best friend like it was a prescription.

but here they were.

he was rougher than usual.

like, way rougher.

they’d had intense nights before—sure. but this was different.
this was full-blown carnage.
he was all teeth and hands and low snarling breaths like something in him snapped and drew was the only thing that could take the blow.

the bed frame was rattling.
the headboard slammed.
drew had hand-shaped marks down his ribs and bites up his throat and jake wasn’t even slowing down.

he had drew on his stomach, hand buried in his hair, pulling hard—too hard probably, but drew only moaned like he wanted it, like he needed to be ruined a little.

jake growled something into his shoulder. didn’t even know what. maybe "fuck, i missed you," or maybe just a noise, like "ngh." he was gone. fully gone. out of his head and into muscle memory.

“don’t stop,” drew hissed, clawing at the sheets, eyes shut tight. “don’t you dare fucking stop.”

jake didn’t.
he picked up the pace.
cruel. fast. relentless.

his fingers dug into drew’s hips hard enough to bruise.
drew arched like a goddamn bow, all sharp bones and gasps.

they were both being assholes.
jake bit him. drew cussed him out.
jake slapped his thigh. drew slapped his face.
it was feral. not romantic. not gentle. not even slightly.

“harder,” drew growled, voice hoarse and low and already wrecked.

jake didn’t answer. just shoved him down, pinned his wrists to the bed so tight he knew it’d leave marks.
the bed banged against the wall again. and again. and again.

drew arched up, panting.
“god, you’re—fuck, you’re so needy,” he snapped, laughing breathlessly. “what, miss me or something?”

jake growled.

“shut the fuck up.”
he slammed in harder.
drew screamed.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
this wasn’t about affection.
wasn’t about feelings.
this was relief.

but underneath all of it—

under the breathless insults and snapping hips and choked-out groans—

there was this stupid, awful, aching need.

because jake had missed him.
not just the sex.
not just the body under his.

he’d missed this.
the comfort. the heat. the silence after.
missed the way drew breathed. the sound of his voice. the memories of being fifteen and mean and dumb and loud.

and that pissed jake off.

because he hated drew.

he hated the way he never said how he felt.
he hated the way he smirked through everything like it didn’t matter.
he hated how they never talked about the fight, never talked about what they used to be, never fixed it.

but he still came back.

because drew was—god, he was home.
a toxic, half-burnt, guilt-ridden home, sure.
but jake hadn’t felt that warm in weeks.

he shoved drew down.
bit the back of his neck.

he should’ve slowed down.
he should’ve cared if it was too much.
he should’ve stopped.

but he didn’t.

because he couldn’t.

because part of him thought if he stopped, everything would come crashing down.

and right now?

right now drew was under him.

his.

and even if he hated him, even if he hated himself, he didn’t wanna let go.

not yet.

drew pov:

he didn’t know how the fuck they got here.

it wasn’t like this.
not usually.
not ever.

jake had never been gentle—drew wouldn’t lie to himself like that—but he wasn’t mean. not until now.

usually it was rough around the edges.
like, bruised thighs, sore ribs, fucked-out for a day or two, sure.
but this? this was different.

this was vicious.

jake came in through the door looking like shit. hoodie halfway up his neck, eyes dark, jaw set like he was holding something back.

and then he grabbed him.

no talking. no sarcastic bullshit. no half-smile.
just shoved drew against the wall like he needed him.

like he was gonna die if he didn’t get inside him right now.

and that had never happened before.

not in six months of this.

jake didn’t need him.
not really.
he came here. he fucked him. he left.
it was a routine.
an ugly little secret they both kept in their back pockets.

but now he was being rough.
mean.

and it was so, so fucking good.

drew was screaming.

not like, performative either.
not just to be dramatic or obnoxious.

no, this was full-body, spine-arching, can’t-breathe screaming.

because jake wasn’t holding back.

he had both of drew’s wrists pinned behind his back, face shoved into the mattress, one leg hiked up at an impossible angle, and was slamming into him like he wanted to leave a dent.

the bed frame cracked with every thrust.

the headboard had already hit the wall so many times it probably left dents in the drywall.

drew’s whole body shook with the force of it.

and he was talking.

they both were.

mean. filthy. breathless.

“fuck, you like that?” jake snarled into his ear, hand wrapped tight in drew’s hair. “always such a slut for me, huh?”

drew bit his own fist to keep from crying out. turned and spat: “you wish. you’re the one who flies halfway across the country to fuck me like your life depends on it.”

jake laughed.

dark. unhinged. low in his throat like it hurt.

“shut the fuck up,” he said—and pulled harder on his hair.

drew gasped. moaned. tried to twist out of it and failed.

his body ached.
everything was tight.
his back. his thighs. his voice.

he wasn’t even sure he could walk after this.

but holy shit, it was good.

too good.

because even though he knew it wasn’t real—
even though he was fully aware that jake still hated him, had hated him since junior year, hadn’t looked at him the same since the fight—

it felt real.

felt like jake needed him.

like something had cracked open in him and the only way to patch it up was to fuck drew like this.

and drew—fucking idiot that he was—let him.

let himself believe it.
just a little.

even though every bruise on his hips was proof this wasn’t love.

his thighs were trembling.
his arms were numb.
his whole body was hot and cold and burning and floating all at once.

he could feel himself slipping.

emotionally.
mentally.
whatever the fuck.

because something about jake moaning into his neck, panting against his shoulder, grabbing him like he was the only solid thing in the world—

it made drew’s chest ache.

he bit jake’s arm. hard.
jake growled and bit his shoulder in return.

he slapped jake across the face once.
hard.

jake only smirked.

“you hit like a bitch,” he rasped.

“and you fuck like one,” drew spat back—
but his voice cracked at the end.

jake didn’t notice.
too busy fucking him like he was possessed.

but drew noticed.

he felt it in his throat.
that tightness.

the kind that came right before something broke.

his face was buried in the pillow.
he was gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles went white.
his heart was beating out of rhythm.
his stomach turned.

he was gonna cry.
fuck.

not now.
not now.

jake’s voice was still low in his ear.

“missed you,” he muttered once. just once. like it slipped out.

and drew’s whole body flinched.

don’t believe it.
don’t believe it.
don’t—

but it was too late.

jake pov:

jake didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with him tonight.

like yeah, he was tired. fine. exhausted, actually. worn thin from back-to-back shows, traveling with the band, barely sleeping, barely eating. the kind of tired that made his head buzz and his hands shake when he didn’t keep them busy.

but this wasn’t about being tired.
this was something else.

something animal.
ugly.
desperate.

and now drew was under him again—sweaty, flushed, fucked-out—and jake had no idea when he even flipped him over.

just knew he needed to see him.

needed to look him in the eye while he did this.
needed to kiss him. hard.
needed to bite his shoulder until drew gasped like he couldn’t breathe.

and he did.

god, he did.

he kissed him until it hurt.
not soft. not even remotely.
their teeth clacked. their noses bumped. it was sloppy and brutal and messy and hot as hell.

jake grabbed him by the jaw and bit down on his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood.

drew moaned. loud.

fucking masochist.

his hands clawed at jake’s back, dragging red lines down his spine, nails catching on sweat-slick skin.

and he was still being mean.
still mouthing off.

still throwing shit like,
“you always fuck like you’re trying to prove something.”
and
“must suck knowing your voice is the only thing about you anyone likes.”

jake just grinned.

“you don’t seem to mind it.”

but it was escalating.
both of them.

meaner. rougher. louder.

hair-pulling. slapping.

drew bit him, hard. just enough to make him bleed.
jake just spit on the ground and grabbed his throat.

“try it again,” he rasped. “see what happens.”

drew grinned. all teeth. all sharp.

“oh no,” he drawled, voice hoarse. “what are you gonna do, sterling? fuck me even harder? you think that scares me? you’re all bark, you’ve always been. even in high school—remember that? loud, fake, clingy. everyone liked you 'cause you were pretty. and stupid. and desperate. desperate to be liked so you let everyone walk all over you. god, it was fucking pathetic. you used to beg me just to fucking hang out with you. 'please drew, come over after practice,' 'please drew, don’t ditch me,' 'please drew—' like you weren’t already a walking charity case. all smiles and no spine.”

jake stopped moving.

drew kept going. like once the words started pouring out, they couldn't stop.

“you think you’re some big deal now, huh? because you're on stage? because people scream your name? you think that makes you special? you’re just a product. a body. a voice. a fucking poster. no one gives a shit about you, jake. they like the idea of you. they don’t know you. no one does. and you like it that way 'cause if they knew who you really were, if they knew how pathetic you used to be—how empty you are—they’d drop you so fast you’d never sell another record.”

the room went silent.

jake stared at him.
mouth open.
something white-hot boiling behind his ribs.

and then he snapped.

he slammed drew’s arms above his head.
bit his neck so hard drew screamed.

and then—faster. rougher.
brutal.

nothing held back.
no filter. no control.

jake was angry.

not regular pissed. not annoyed.
not his usual “you’re a dick and i hate your mouth” kind of mad.

no—this was white-hot, jaw-clenching, eyes-blurring rage.

now he was fucking him.

not fucking like before.
not like they usually did.
not like two ex-best-friends-turned-secret-hookups trying to exorcise whatever still lingered between them.

no.

this was punishment.
this was revenge.
this was jake trying to tear every cruel word off drew’s tongue with his hips.

and he wasn’t stopping.

drew stopped talking.

immediately.

just gasps.
shaky little moans.
whines.

“j-jake—”

his voice cracked.

jake didn’t hear it.

his nails dug into drew’s hips hard enough to bruise bone.
his hand tangled in his hair, yanking his head back until his throat arched.

he slammed in again and again and again.

like he could break something.
like he needed to.

drew’s eyes were glassy.
mouth open.
nothing coming out.

he was shaking.

his hands clawed weakly at jake’s arms.

he wasn’t fighting anymore.
wasn’t smirking.
wasn’t being cruel.

just wide-eyed.
loud.

“please—”

jake didn’t stop.

too angry. too far gone.

he wasn’t empty.
he wasn’t fake.
he wasn’t—

he didn’t even know what he was anymore.

except this.

just this.

he pressed his forehead to drew’s.

“you don’t get to say that,” he whispered.

drew’s hands trembled.
his voice barely worked.

“hurts.”

but jake didn’t hear him.
not really.
not over the ringing in his ears.

not over the voice in his own head that sounded a lot like drew’s rant.

not over the ache.

he just grabbed him tighter.
slammed in harder.
pushed until the bedframe groaned beneath them.

drew’s breath hitched.
a broken little sob.

his hands were bruising drew’s thighs.
he had his leg hooked up over his shoulder, fingers digging in so deep it’d probably hurt tomorrow.

time passed.

a lot of it.

he’d lost count of how many times he’d already made him come.
didn’t matter.
drew was screaming now, hands shaking, chest rising and falling in erratic gasps like he couldn’t even get words out anymore.

and jake—fucking idiot jake—didn’t notice.

he didn’t notice the tears.
didn’t notice the redness in drew’s face, or how his lips were trembling, or how his fingers kept curling into the sheets like he was trying to ground himself.

he just saw the way his mouth opened.
heard the noise.
heard the whining, the high-pitched pleading gasps that barely sounded human.

and he thought—yeah. good.

fuck you.

you deserved this.

you fucking deserved this.

it wasn’t until jake shifted his grip—until he pressed in and looked down, really looked—that everything hit him like a brick to the chest.

drew was crying.

not moaning.
not playing it up.
not just overstimmed.

crying.

full-on.

red eyes.
wet cheeks.
shoulders shaking.
bottom lip trembling like a kid who just got the wind knocked out of him.

and jake—

jake froze.

everything in him shut down at once.

his chest dropped.
his hands stilled.
he pulled out so fast it made drew flinch.

“shit—” jake rasped, voice raw. “shit, shit, hey—”

he touched his face, but drew turned away.

“drew.”

nothing.

“hey. are you okay?”

no response.
drew wouldn’t look at him.
still breathing hard, still shaking, still crying.

and jake’s stomach turned.

oh my god.

he hurt him.

he hurt him.

he backed off completely, hands up, stumbling back like he was suddenly radioactive.

“fuck,” he whispered. “fuck, i didn’t mean to—I didn’t think—i didn’t know—”

drew sat up slowly, wiping his face, still not looking at him.

and jake felt sick.

like actually sick.

his head was spinning.
he couldn’t breathe.
his hands were still shaking, but for a whole new reason now.

what the fuck did i do.

he reached out again, then pulled back.
he didn’t know what the fuck to do.

“i’m sorry,” he said, barely audible. “drew, i’m—fuck, i’m so sorry, i didn’t realize, i thought you were—fuck, i thought—”

“keep going.”

the words cut through the silence like a blade.

jake blinked.

“…what?”

drew finally looked at him.
his face was blotchy.
eyes red, lips parted, hair a mess.
but his voice was steady now.

“i said keep going.”

jake stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“no. no, i—I’m not doing that. you’re crying, drew.”

“i know.”

“what the fuck?” jake snapped. “why would you want—why would you ask me to keep going after that?”

drew didn’t answer.
just sat there, breathing hard, wiping at his face like he was ashamed of even having tears.

and jake felt it—deep in his chest. this twisting guilt, hot and choking and horrible.

he’d never seen drew cry.
not once.
not even when zoey cheated.
not even when they stopped talking.

he never cried.

and now jake had fucking done it.

he was the reason.
and that made him feel like scum.

“drew, I can’t—”

“please.”

jake paused.

drew swallowed.

his voice was quiet.

“just… softer.”

he sounded small.
almost like he was asking for a favor.
like he needed it.

and jake—fucking jake—felt his chest split.

because he didn’t get it.
he didn’t understand what was happening.
but he knew this—

he didn’t want to hurt him again.
not even by accident.

“drew,” he whispered. “i don’t… i don’t wanna hurt you.”

“then don’t.”

jake sat there, watching him.
his hands shook.

he still felt sick.

but then—slowly—he reached forward.
touched his cheek.

drew leaned into it.

and jake… he didn’t know what this was.

but he pulled him down anyway.
laid him back on the pillows.
kissed his forehead.

and when he pushed back in—slow, gentle, careful—drew whimpered, but he didn’t cry again.

he clung to jake.
held onto him like he might fall apart.

and jake didn’t realize it yet—
but the way he moved, the way he held him—

it was almost loving.

drew pov:

holy shit.
he was going to die.

he had to be dying.
there was no way this was real.
no way jake sterling was doing this.

it had to be hell.
punishment.
some sick karmic joke where he got everything he ever wanted right before it all ended.

because this—this wasn’t sex anymore.
this was something else.

and drew couldn’t breathe.

his body ached.
his voice was gone.
he was shaking so hard he couldn’t feel his fingertips.

it had been too much.
too rough.
too fast.

he’d said something awful—meant to be awful, wanted to piss jake off, wanted to watch him break a little because jake always made him break—

and it worked.

oh god, it worked.

jake snapped.
jake hurt him.

and it was so, so good—until it wasn’t.

until jake looked down and saw the tears on his face.

and everything stopped.

drew had never seen him like that.
never seen him look that scared.
that sick.
like he’d killed something with his bare hands and only just realized what he’d done.

“are you okay?”
"i'm sorry."
“fuck—fuck, drew, i’m so sorry—”

he’d looked like he was gonna cry.

him.

not drew.
not the one who'd been crying like a goddamn baby, not the one who'd begged for more even when it hurt—no, jake.
beautiful, perfect jake, with his voice and his stage lights and the hands that always knew exactly how to touch him.

he’d looked like he was breaking.
because he hurt drew.

and that was the worst part.

because it didn’t look like guilt for messing up the sex.
it looked like he cared.

and that—
that was the cruelest thing of all.

and now—
now jake was moving slow.

like achingly slow.
like every motion was deliberate.
like drew was made of glass and jake was afraid he’d crack him open again.

his hands were gentle.
holding his waist.
his cheek.
his face.

he was holding him.

and he wasn’t saying much, but when he did—

"i didn’t mean to hurt you.”
"you’re okay, i’ve got you."
"fuck, you're perfect—”

drew’s chest ached.
physically ached.

he was crying again.

quiet this time.
soft, silent tears sliding down his face.

and jake—fucking jake—wiped them away.

like it was nothing.
like it was normal.

"i’m sorry."
“you don’t have to do anything, okay? just stay with me.”

and drew felt it in every inch of his ruined, raw, shaking body—

this was the worst thing he’d ever felt.
because it was the best thing he’d ever felt.

and he knew he’d never get it again.

he loved him.
he loved him so fucking much.

six years.
six fucking years of pretending he didn’t.
six years of swallowing it down, of letting zoey have him, of letting the band take him, of letting time bury it—

and now he was here, being fucked so carefully, so gently, held like something precious, kissed on the forehead like jake had never kissed anyone there before—

and it wasn’t real.

jake was gonna leave in the morning.
zip his hoodie, smile a little, say “later” like they didn’t just fall apart in each other’s arms.

he didn’t mean this.
he couldn’t.

because jake didn’t love him.

not like that.

drew turned his face away.

couldn’t look at him.

not with jake’s hand on his jaw like it belonged there.
not with the praise still soft in his ear.
not with jake looking down at him like he was something worth saving.

“you okay?” jake whispered, brushing hair off his forehead.

drew choked out a noise.

not a word.
just a little broken breath.

and jake kissed his temple.

fuck.

fuck, he couldn’t do this.

“yeah,” drew said finally. his voice wrecked. “fine.”

jake smiled.

soft.
worried.
stupid.

“you sure?”

drew nodded.
lied.

because if he said the truth—if he said i love you, if he said please don’t leave, if he said please mean this the way I do,—he’d shatter.

and jake didn’t need that.

he didn’t want that.

this wasn’t love.

it just felt like it.

jake pov:

jake felt like shit.

not the usual kind of post-hookup guilt.
not that flimsy “shouldn’t have done that” ache that crept in after most of his mistakes.

no.

this was different.
this was sick-to-his-stomach, hands-still-shaking bad.

he sat there for a minute after, completely still.

drew was quiet.

not cold. not upset. not pushing him away.
just quiet.

his breathing was soft.
his eyes half-closed.
his whole body limp and flushed and wrecked.

and that only made jake feel worse.

he’d hurt him.

not just rough sex.
not just a little too much.

he’d gone too far.

even now, even after they slowed down, even after jake tried to fix it with soft hands and gentler touches, he could still feel it—under his skin, like a bruise.

the image of drew crying beneath him wasn’t leaving.
his mouth open in shock.
his voice too gone to say stop.

and jake didn’t notice.

he hated himself.

genuinely.

not for the sex. not for being here again.

for not noticing.

they lay in bed longer than usual.
usually, jake would’ve already left by now.

but there was no fucking way he could leave.

not with drew like this.

he looked—
fuck, he looked fragile.

curled up under the covers, flushed and shaky, hair a mess, marks all over his neck and thighs.

jake sat on the edge of the bed, half dressed, hands twitching like they didn’t know where to go.

“you okay?” he asked for the fifth time.

drew nodded slowly. “m’fine.”

his voice was hoarse.

it made jake flinch.

“you’re not fine.”

“i am, jake,” drew mumbled, softer this time. “you’re being dramatic.”

“you couldn’t walk ten minutes ago,” jake said, voice cracking.

“i still can’t,” drew muttered under his breath, which earned a weak huff of something that was almost a laugh from jake.

but the guilt didn’t lift.

he reached out. brushed hair off drew’s forehead.

“you sure you’re okay?”

drew blinked at him.

and something in his expression—something tired but open, soft in a way jake wasn’t used to seeing—made jake’s chest squeeze.

“yeah,” drew said, barely audible. “but like. if you wanted to keep being nice to me, that’s fine.”

and jake’s heart fucking shattered.

he helped him up slowly, careful not to pull too hard.
drew winced once when he stood.

“shit—sorry—fuck—”

“it’s okay,” drew mumbled. “not gonna break.”

“you already did,” jake muttered, guiding him toward the bathroom. “and i fucking let it happen.”

drew rolled his eyes, but let him lead the way.
still trembling. still leaning on jake more than he probably realized.

and jake didn’t let go.

the shower was warm.

jake stood behind him, arms around his waist, holding him like he’d vanish if he let go.

he kissed the side of his neck.

not to start something.
just to be there.

he mumbled apologies into his shoulder.
quiet. raw.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“i’m sorry.”
“you didn’t deserve that.”

and drew just… leaned back into him.

quiet. letting the water hit his chest. eyes closed.

he didn’t say much.
but his hand covered jake’s on his stomach, and stayed there.

jake washed his hair.
carefully.
like drew was made of porcelain.

kissed the back of his neck.

praised him.

“you did so good.”
“you’re amazing.”
“you didn’t do anything wrong.”

drew trembled again.
but didn’t pull away.

afterward, jake wrapped him in a towel.
carried him back to bed.

drew mumbled, “i can walk, you know,” half-asleep against his chest.

jake kissed his forehead.

“yeah, and i can fly. shut up.”

he tucked the blankets around him.
slid in next to him.
held him close.

drew made a quiet sound. something like a hum.

he looked confused.
not scared. not upset.

just confused.

like he didn’t know what this was.
what it meant.

like he didn’t think he deserved it.

and jake didn’t know what it meant either.

but he wasn’t leaving.

not tonight.

drew’s breath was slow and warm against his chest.

and jake kept kissing the top of his head.
kept whispering things.
apologies.
praise.
gentle reminders.

“you’re okay.”
“i’ve got you.”
“i’m sorry.”

because he meant it.

all of it.

he’d never wanted to hurt him.
not ever.

and holding him like this—
holding him like something important—

it didn’t make the guilt go away.

but it was the first time jake felt like maybe he could start making it right.

drew pov:

drew woke up slow.

slow like his body wasn’t sure if it had permission.
slow like his bones were negotiating with gravity.
slow like the kind of slow where you don’t want to wake up—because somehow, impossibly, what you’re waking up from feels better than anything real ever could.

he didn’t move at first.
not just because he couldn’t—though, yeah, he couldn’t, his legs were basically useless, his hips were fucked, his throat was raw, and there was definitely a hand-shaped bruise somewhere on his ribcage—but because he didn’t want to move.

not with this.
not with him.

because jake was still there.

still there.

tucked in close behind him, one arm heavy over drew’s stomach, the other curled under his neck like a pillow. his chest was pressed to drew’s back, warm and steady and here, and his breath was brushing slow against the nape of drew’s neck.

and drew—dumb, stupid, hopeless drew—felt like he was going to cry all over again. like a loser. fuck. 

it didn’t make sense.
it did, but it didn’t.

last night was… everything.
chaos. pain. sweetness. overload.

jake had gone too hard, and drew had said something too cruel, and the whole thing spun out fast.

but jake hadn’t been evil. not violent. not bad.

he’d just been angry.
just missed the signs.
and when he realized—

god.

he fell apart.

he’d looked like he wanted to die.

and drew had tried to tell him it was fine, that it wasn’t a big deal, that he could keep going—and jake had refused until drew insisted, voice low and weak and still so in love he thought he’d choke on it.

and then jake had gone so, so soft.

so loving.

not that he realized it.

kisses to the shoulder. praise in his ear. hands that trembled like they were afraid to touch him, even when he begged for more.

it wasn’t just aftercare.
not the way it felt.
not the way jake held him.

and now he was still here.

still curled around him like something his.
like something that mattered.

what the fuck.

drew blinked.

the morning sun was slanting in across the sheets, lighting up the room like something from a fucking dream sequence.

jake shifted behind him, nuzzled closer.

“you awake?” jake’s voice was raspy, still full of sleep.

drew cleared his throat. “mm.”

“hurts?”

“yeah.”

a pause.
then jake kissed his shoulder.

then his spine.

then the side of his neck.

little soft things, like apologies.

“you okay?”

“i told you last night, dumbass.”

jake didn’t laugh.
just breathed.
his hand rubbed lazy circles over drew’s stomach.

“still sorry.”

“you apologized like eighty-five times.”

“eighty-six,” jake murmured. “this is eighty-seven. sorry again.”

drew snorted. “you’re annoying.”

“you love it.”

yeah, he thought.
i do.

but all he said was, “shut up.”

he couldn’t walk.
not even a joke.
he genuinely tried to get up at one point and his legs fucking buckled.

jake caught him before he hit the floor.
carried him back to bed.
kissed his forehead.

and then made breakfast.

actual breakfast.
like eggs and toast and coffee and cut fruit in a glass bowl.

“who the fuck are you,” drew muttered as jake set the tray on the nightstand. “some kind of tragic disney prince?”

jake rolled his eyes and shoved a forkful of eggs at his face.

“eat. you need strength to insult me later.”

drew chewed slowly.
swallowed.
watched jake pick blueberries out of the bowl and eat them one by one, eyes soft and tired.

and he felt it again.

that ache.
that heavy thing in his chest.

because this—this—felt like love.

felt like something real.

but it wasn’t.

jake wasn’t in love with him.
jake was just nice.
jake just had some overblown moral compass that wouldn’t let him leave without making sure drew wasn’t bleeding to death or emotionally wrecked.

it wasn’t love.
it was guilt.

and it fucking sucked.

because it felt better than anything drew had ever had.

after breakfast, they laid in bed again.
just for a little while.

drew was dozing.
half-asleep on jake’s chest, fingers curled around his t-shirt, too warm to move.

and then—

“i missed my flight last night.”

drew blinked up at him. “huh?”

jake carded his fingers through drew’s hair.

“i have a show tonight. in seattle.”

drew froze.

“...you missed your flight?”

“yeah.”

jake said it like it was nothing.
like it was a Tuesday.
like missing a flight meant for a sold-out arena show was just part of the plan.

“you’re dumb as fuck,” drew whispered.

jake smiled. “probably.”

he sat up slowly.

drew stayed in bed. watched him get dressed.

there was a pit in his stomach now.

he knew this part.

jake tugged on his hoodie. checked his phone. zipped his bag.

and then turned back.

“hey.”

drew looked up.

and jake crossed the room.
leaned down.
kissed him.

not rough.
not fast.

soft.

his hand cupped drew’s cheek.
his thumb brushed under his eye.

he kissed his forehead.

“you were amazing.”
kissed his mouth again.
“you’re okay?”
kissed him again.
“i’ll text you when i land.”

and then he was gone.

and drew was alone.

and it hurt like hell.

to be continued.