Morning, and it's dim. Light filters through the blinds in slivers of golden haze, the curtains pulled weakly to settle the room in a melting perpetuality - little sun rests on the bed, on which sheets are tumultuously tossed but pillows spared of the destruction. Kaya awakes to this, under four blankets and unsure whether he's conscious of the time or whether time even exists in a place that is unpleasantly pleasant. He hears voices in the other room. Slept in late, damnit. The silent alarm on the dresser blinks 9:35am. Tries to move to get up, but there's someone in his arms. Nestled right up next to him. He's spooning a rando. Did Andrew and him swap dates? Kaya squints in the dim lighting - their hair's frizzy and messy, their frame lanky and thin. Masculine.
Jackson Clarke's cuddling with him. They had sex.
As if the morning wasn't torturous enough to Kaya. The sun invades, and so does Jackson. One could argue they were the same. One could argue both burned Kaya's wings, hung him above the clouds and then let him fucking fall. Jackson's a nasty thing, sunkissed and sunbruised, the freckles upon his nose scorching scattered and his voice molten bullet. It's where they meet, really. Both are intolerable human bastards. And, now, Kaya has to deal with feelings for Jackson. Prick, prick, prick. Fuck Australians, and fuck people named Jackson.
He...has to admit, though, it's somewhat of a sight. He's got a warm feeling that's not love, it's not love, but Kaya feels okay lying here with Jackson, arms around him. Podcasters being podcasters. His lips pressed idly against his spine. Bros being bros. Legs entwined in a knot, Jackson's simpers of sleep hushed. He's not gay, because he's straight. He's not straight, because he's gay. He's straight not, because gay's he. Madness mantra, messiah in his grasp. Jackson's silence has never been so uncomfortable.
Kaya smells his own scent on Jackson.
He's not straight.
Political correctness gone normal.
"I've been awake f'an hour, Kaya." Jackson mumbles, still curled up, and Kaya jolts away from him in terror of the incoming breakup. Excuses, excuses, excuses, he was held at gunpoint by the Russians, it was a prank- "No, come back. The blankets aren't providing warmth, I feel like I'm going to have to get a refund." Kaya crawls back, obedient sucker, guilty sucker, Jackson turns and he's half - lidded lovely. His hair's in his eyes, hazel at dawn.
"Y'don't own these sheets." Silent whisper. Jackson tries to kiss him and Kaya shirks away from the touch. What are they? What the fuck are they? How can Jackson be so unconscious of their current crisis? Is Jackson uncaring? Is Jackson careless? Friends with benefits? Acquaintances who blow each other both in bed and on audio? What the hell? He's playing a dangerous game. Escaping Turkey feels like a walk in the park, compared to...this. Kaya doesn't hate this. He likes this. He'd like to wake up to this now and then.
Thing is, this is just a little bit gay.
"Yeah," accentuated with snark as the Australian stretches and smiles at him mischievously, "neither do you." Yeah, Jackson doesn't give two shits.
Kaya'll think about it later, congenial and committed atmosphere be damned. "Faggot," Kaya murmurs, and Jackson snickers wickedly as he kicks Kaya's leg and Kaya roughly tugs him up. Fingers tear, grasp, grab at Jackson's hips. Hands find, snarl, embrace at Kaya's throat. Jackson's pulled into his lap forcefully and he's right askew on Kaya's cock, the cheeky fucker. He looks beautiful. Kaya's heart is doing the flippy thing, where it does a backflip and breaks its own back in the process. Oh, Jackson's picturesque. Kaya wishes he hadn't left his phone in the living room with Tiana. Tiana, Charlie, bless their hearts. Why is he thinking about Tiana and Charlie when Jackson's here? Fuck, Jackson slept with Charlie last night. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Was it his fault or was it Charlie's? Fuck. Does Charlie remember it? He's going offtrack, he's horny and he can't focus! (God, God, dear God, he could do with a little friction right about now.) "You - you trying to kill me, Clarke?" Jackson grinds down. (Afuckingmen, the Madonna cries. Kaya is so glad he paid attention to that one time during the before panel dinner Andrew went batshit about Christianity so he can now make dirty references to a sacred text while Jackson's sleepily trying to blueball him.)
"Yeah, dude," Jackson simpers terrible. Kaya wants to crack his skull open. He wants to kill him for hurting Charlie. Kaya's grip becomes tighter. They move together, violently rigid, Jackson's fingers pressed taut against Kaya's windpipe, Kaya's knuckles deep in the concave of Jackson's waist. "Make it - oh, fuck - a little easier for me to talk on the podcast, when you're dead."
"I'll make it a little harder for you to walk," Kaya husks roughly.
"You're the one who brought it up, bitch."
"It's not like you're bothered, mate. Unless you'd like to let go of me." Jackson says, casually. Kaya wants to watch how many facades Jackson can shed before he skins him alive.
"Nah," Kaya simpers with a smile, sinking into the bedframe, watching Jackson as one of his hands raises from his throat (ah.) to press down flat on his chest. Hawk - like, predator observing prey. He'd be a little fucked up if he didn't say he was enjoying the passive aggressive mockery of his morality. "I'll stay like this a while."
Jackson snorts. "Selfish cunt."
"Have gay sex somewhere else," Andrew shouts from the other room. "Charlie's livestreaming." Kaya hears him choke on his own spit.
Jackson hums in the back of his throat. He'll have breakfast in bed early.