Work Text:
Jackson has been acting weird for days now.
He's been late three times when picking up Holland. He's been curt and gruff and generally seems to get annoyed faster than usual at Holland's antics.
He didn't show up at all yesterday or the day before after mumbling something about “Having that thing to take care of”. He had taken off pretty quickly after that, not specifying what exactly he had to take care of, acting like Holland should and would know what he's talking about.
Holland still doesn't know what's going on, but he had decided to take it upon himself to check on him and, if necessary, remind him that their fledgling detective agency actually needs their detectives around to solve cases.
When Jackson opens the door, he looks surprised to see Holland there. Then he looks confused and then surprised again.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice incredulous, and Holland feels more and more like he missed something important. Had Jackson quit without him noticing and he's now standing in front of his former partner's door like a confused puppy? Holland doesn't think he did.
“Where have you been?”
“What –”
“Why haven't you been answering my calls?”
“I –” Jackson starts, a furrow forming between his brows, probably because he just realized that Holland has no idea what’s going on.
Holland jumps right into lecturing him, nearly gleeful at the thought that it's not him being lectured for once. “You do realize we can't just sit around doing nothing, when we have a business to –”
“I'm in heat, you fucking dumbass.”
There's silence for a moment, then Holland asks, “What? Why?” He's confused now, too.
He, admittedly, doesn't really keep up with the news – definitely not any medical news – but last time he checked alphas don't go into heat.
Jackson looks at him, brows furrowed, confusion now making itself known in his expression too. “What do you mean why? It's biology.”
“No – I mean, what – You're an omega?” Holland asks, embarrassed to hear that his voice has gone all wobbly and squeaky.
Jackson, Holland knows, has grown intimately familiar with that tone of voice over multiple months of working together. Months spent running around like headless chickens, nearly falling asleep on stake-outs and just generally proving to be mediocre detectives at best. But somehow they always pull through and come out on top. They work well together. Holland isn't exactly sure why, in theory their personalities should repel each other like super-charged magnets. He knows that he's a lot to deal with on a good day and that there are days Jackson really just can't take any more of Holland's antics, but more and more he catches his partner looking at him with a formerly unfamiliar expression on his face; fondness and amusement crowding out anger and annoyance.
This is something new altogether, though. There's no disgruntled cheating husband chasing them. No low-level drug dealers wildly shooting at them. It's just Jackson and him.
“Yes, I'm an omega,” Jackson says after a moment of silence, slowly like he's explaining it to a child, and Holland doesn't really know what to do with that information. He knows exactly what he wants to do with that information. But he knows that's not an option so he ruthlessly tries to squash down the images that are suddenly flickering in his mind, images of Jackson flushed and gasping and – He tries again, with only marginally more success, but it at least does stop his dick from getting too interested in the situation.
There's silence still, because for once Holland is completely and utterly speechless. His thoughts are racing, clunking together dully in their haste to get from one corner of his mind to the next and back again. There's a ringing in his ear, his hands are shaking and he feels very warm all of a sudden. He might be losing it.
He takes a deep breath, the air neutral to him as always, tries to get his thoughts back in some kind of order, but he's never been good at wrangling himself.
Jackson seemingly notices Holland’s predicament, which isn't surprising considering that he has gone both stock-still and beet-red in the span of mere seconds.
“You didn't know?” Jackson asks somewhat haltingly and for the first time in the span of this conversation Holland sees uncertainty on his partner's face. He instinctively doesn't like it.
“How would I?” Holland chokes out, gesturing wildly to his nose, having been shocked out of his muddled thoughts by Jackson's voice. “I can't fucking smell!”
“I didn't know – You can't smell at all?” Holland can see Jackson's hand tighten on the door, knuckles turning white from the force.
Holland throws his hands up. “No!”
He's breathing heavily. He might be hyperventilating. No, no, he's not. This is fine, he can definitely deal with this. At least this explains Jackson’s horrid mood and generally frazzled state. He had actually started to worry Holland. Normally, he's by far the more reliable and calm of the two, and the sudden switch had made Holland feel all wrong-footed. Like someone had broken in and pushed all the furniture to the right by just an inch, giving what's supposed to be familiar an off-puttingly new feel.
“So, you're fine?” Holland asks hesitantly, after a beat of even more awkward silence, scuffing the tip of one polished shoe against the wooden floor, not sure what to do with himself. He shouldn't be here, because now that he's looking at Jackson properly, actually taking him in and fitting what he sees together with what he hadn't and couldn't smell, but knows now, it’s pretty obvious what's going on. He's dressed in what are probably his softest clothes and there's a warm flush to his cheeks, like he'd overindulged in that whiskey he sometimes likes to drink. The hand Jackson isn't using to hold the door open is shaking ever so slightly.
He catches Holland looking and puts his shaking hand into the pocket of his pants, a move designed, but failing to be, subtle.
“No, actually,” Jackson says.
Holland's thoughts are completely derailing again, so he doesn't really process Jackson's words. “What?”
“I’m not ‘fine’,” Jackson says with a sardonic snort, voice noticeably strained. “I feel like I'm on fire and everything hurts. Thanks for asking.”
“Oh.” Holland grimaces. Stupid question. He's surprised at how coherent Jackson is, though, considering his situation.
He looks him up and down again, carefully. Takes in the broad shoulders, scruffy beard and thinks of his rumbling voice.
“You're really an omega?” He asks and immediately wishes he could take it back. It's a rude question and Jackson is in no state to deal with Holland's disregard for social niceties, which is actually mostly accidental when it comes to Jackson these days.
And besides that, he should know better, because sure, he has big hands and can finally grow what passes as a beard but he's been called too pretty or too scrawny to be an alpha enough times to know it's rude, demeaning and stereotyping in a way he thought society left behind in the fifties. But it just slipped out, because truthfully? His brain still hasn't fully processed what's going on.
“Holland,” Jackson snaps, justifiably fed up with his bullshit.
“Sorry,” Holland mutters absentmindedly. His gaze keeps getting stuck on Jackson's bare neck and that's not good. This whole situation is not good, he can admit, or as Holland would like to put it; this situation is fucked, but the way he can't take his eyes off Jackson, and how he feels steadily warmer and warmer, is especially ‘not good’.
They're still just looking at each other, Holland awkwardly standing in the hallway and Jackson leaning more and more of his weight onto his door. There's a pained grimace on his face. He must feel absolutely terrible. Spending a heat alone is never easy on omegas, he knows that much, and for Holland to be able to read the pain from Jackson's expression, he must really feel horrible.
Holland can feel a sympathetic whine claw its way up his throat. He ruthlessly swallows it back down, grateful to not have completely lost control over himself yet, because he's sure Jackson wouldn't appreciate it.
He suddenly realizes that the open door means Jacksons’ scent must be steadily seeping out into the hallway and into the comedy club below and a part of him that's not as buried and small as he wants it to be, greedy and covetous, wants to scream at the injustice of it all. Why do they get to smell Jackson when he can't? Why do they get to know what he smells like?
He could ask someone, sure, but it wouldn't be the same. He knows it wouldn't, because he remembers being able to smell, remembers the deliriously sweet and hot scent and he also remembers how no description ever came close to the sheer bliss of an omega in heat.
It’s not fair that he doesn't get to smell Jackson. It's really not and he can feel himself get more and more worked up about the fact that other people – strangers – might be smelling Jackson right now. A bitten-off growl slips out of him at the thought, dissatisfied and frustrated, and Jackson's gaze snaps to him immediately like he can't help himself.
“You should go –,” Jackson gets out, but Holland is already shaking his head, an instinctive reaction, every fiber of his being screaming at him, daring him to even think about leaving Jackson alone now.
Jackson is in pain and he's alone and Holland wonders how long it's been since he had someone to share his heat with. Years, he'd wager, because Jackson doesn't seem the type to just let any alpha walk in and help him through his heat. The stray thought calms something in him a bit, enough to realize that Jackson's state is rapidly declining. He looks like he's falling apart, holding onto the door with single-minded focus, and Holland can see that the hand in his pocket is curled into a fist. His pupils are big and endless and his gaze is fixed on Holland's neck now too.
“Jackson,” Holland starts and Jackson makes an inquiring noise. He suddenly doubles over, a pained grunt leaving him and Holland moves without thinking, grabbing Jackson's shoulders to keep him from tilting sideways completely.
The move shifts Jackson's hand away from the door which falls closed behind them with a loud bang. Holland jumps at the noise and then there's a hand on his chest pushing him away.
“I'm not gonna slip and die,” Jackson snaps, irritated at Holland's rash decision, straightening up even though he's clearly still in pain.
Then he stills suddenly, because Holland has started growling again. A quiet, rumbling noise, that spreads through the apartment like smoke, stretching out and curling, and when it reaches Jackson, Holland can see him shiver. The door is still closed.
“You really should –”
The question slips out before Holland can catch it and hold it back, wriggling out between his teeth and over his lips, the sheer need to know driving it forward. “What do you smell like?”
Jackson balks at that. “I'm not going to tell you what I smell like.”
But Holland wants to know, he needs to know. No isn't going to cut it.
“Why not?” He growls out and something in him purrs all smug and satisfied when Jackson’s whole body twitches in his direction in one instinctive, aborted movement.
“Holland, I'm being serious. This is going to turn embarrassing for both of us real soon if you don't leave.” Jackson only just barely manages to press the words out and Holland realizes it's because he's slowly but surely sinking into his heat again, deeper this time, he wagers.
“What's a bit of embarrassment between friends?” Holland asks. It sounds like a bad line from a movie, but his voice is earnest when he says it – daring, almost. Jackson just snorts sardonically and Holland sighs.
“Why would it be embarrassing? It's like you said – just biology,” he adds, softer now, but still just as earnest and insistent.
“Holland.” Jackson's voice is low, a warning. For who, Holland can't tell. There's a tremor wracking his usually steady frame.
“I can help, alright?” Holland says, ignores how it almost feels like begging. “I can bring you food and water –”
“I can't control myself with you here! Alright?” Jackson snaps and Holland can feel his heart skip a beat. When it starts beating again, it has to be loud to Jackson's ears, even louder to his own like it's banging away inside his ribcage, only just contained by its unyielding form.
“But – I mean – That's also just biology.” Holland sputters half-heartedly, somehow not convinced by his own words.
“It's not,” Jackson retorts. “It's you.”
Holland feels the impact of the words. The way they fall onto him, sink into him and fill him up, up, up. Some spills out and he desperately tries to keep it in, tries to keep every last piece, every last facet of Jackson Healy saying ‘it's you’ deep inside him, tucked behind his ribcage, clutched to his heart.
He’ll never let it go.
Jackson sighs, clearly taking Holland's silence as some sort of judgment, a grimace on his face that's equal parts pain and embarrassment.
“Leave. Now, please,” he says, blue eyes continually leaving Holland's face then snapping back to it, pupils blown-wide and deep and dark, like Jackson can't help but look and drink in the sight of him. Holland knows he must look wrecked. There’s a warm flush on his cheeks, he can feel his heart pound and his scent has been leaking out of him since Jackson said those two little words.
“I'm staying,” Holland says, resolute in his decision.
Jackson takes a deep breath, exhales shuddery and he looks like a man close to ruin. There's force shaking his frame, like he's actively holding himself back and Holland thinks he must be. He doesn't need to.
“You don't have to –” Jackson forces out.
Holland interrupts him. “I want to.”
Jackson looks at him properly then, doesn't try to tear his gaze away and Holland can see him take in the earnest slant of his brows, the worried tilt of his lips and the black of his pupils, big and round.
“Are you hungry –” Holland tries to ask but doesn't get to finish his sentence.
It all goes very fast from there and Holland has trouble processing what's going on, because from one moment to the next Jackson has taken two big steps right into his personal space, decimating the space he created just moments before, and then there's a mouth on his.
Holland has always liked some rough handling, some passion, something to show him how much the other person wants him and Jackson doesn't disappoint. He presses against him with a low sound, licks past his lips, when Holland opens up for him.
“Jesus,” Holland pants against Jackson's lips, dick rapidly going from a semi to a full hard-on and pressing uncomfortably against the material of his slacks.
“Where’s – ” Holland tries to ask between kisses, but Jackson just fists a hand in his shirt and drags him to his bed, which Holland is very on board with.
His breath hitches when he catches sight of Jackson's bed. He's built a nest. It makes sense of course, and he expected it in some vague way, just a stray thought at the back of his head. But the reality of the situation sinks in, heavy and intoxicating, as he takes in the pillows and blankets and random items of clothing strewn on the bed. He wishes he could smell it, he thinks, feeling a whine rise. This time he lets it out, lets it fall past his lips and into the room.
Jackson looks at him, tugs on his shirt with even more insistence and unceremoniously lets himself fall backwards when his legs hit the bed frame, pulling Holland on top of him, who goes down with a yelp, trying not to knee Jackson in the dick on his way down.
“Come on,” Jackson murmurs, scrabbling at Holland's shirt buttons.
“Oh, no, no, no,” Holland says, realizing what he's trying. He pries Jackson's fingers from his shirt, before he manages to rip it and send the buttons flying. It's a nice shirt, okay? He would like to keep it intact.
Jackson looks caught but not all that ashamed, mostly he seems annoyed and impatient. “Just get it off,” he says, whiny in a way he usually isn't.
And Holland, eager to please, does exactly that, managing to undo the buttons in record time and lets Jackson push the shirt off his shoulders.
“Now you,” Holland says, still straddling Jackson, knees bent and legs on either side of his hips. He carefully keeps a few inches between his ass and Jackson's crotch, not wanting to hurry him or catch him off-guard. They have time, he thinks, but Jackson evidently disagrees if the way he ignores Holland's word to instead tug impatiently at his slacks is anything to judge by.
Their position doesn't really allow for any pants to be removed, though, so Holland says, “This isn't working, give me a moment,” and climbs over Jackson. If his face nearly makes contact with the hardwood floor of Jackson's apartment when he tries to get off the bed then that's between him and said floor.
He straightens up, running his hand through his hair a few times to try and get it back into shape. Then he straightens his watch, looks down at his polished shoes, suddenly somewhat nervous about being half-naked and generally a bit of a mess.
Jackson seemingly doesn't notice, just sighs long-sufferingly, squirming where Holland has left him on the bed.
“Stop peacocking and get on with it,” he complains, still so needy in a way that's totally new to Holland. He wonders if the streak is always there, just carefully buried most of the time, or if this is solely because of his heat.
“Wha – I'm not peacocking,” he says, feeling the flush from earlier crawl back up his cheeks.
“You are,” Jackson says and Holland already wants to complain again, when the look in Jackson's eyes makes him pause. He's lazily taking in Holland's form, gaze trailing down, then back up, and down again. Jackson looks like he wants to eat him and Holland swallows, mouth suddenly dry and what he wanted to say completely forgotten.
He fidgets some more, while he toes off his shoes, then decides he needs to just jump over his shadow. Jackson clearly wants him here, it will be fine. Maybe he's a fan of noodle arms anyway, who knows, Holland thinks, then opens the buckle of his belt.
The sound seems louder than it should be and Jackson's gaze immediately zeroes in on where Holland's long fingers are undoing the button and zipper of his slacks with practiced movements. Holland has to suppress a relieved grin at the obvious desire on Jackson's face, but a small, satisfied purr slips out and it makes Jackson look at his face instead and that? That's even better.
Holland holds his gaze, blinking fast in an effort to not miss a single thing, then drops his slacks and underwear, hard cock springing free. He sighs, finally not feeling so constrained anymore, and steps out of his clothes that are pooled on the floor, taking off his socks as he goes.
He takes a step towards Jackson and can't help but revel in the sight before him. He can't smell him, but he can see him, so he keeps looking at him, takes in the hitch in his breath, when he climbs back onto the bed, carefully crawling over Jackson's form until he's close enough to press their lips together again.
Jackson whines into his mouth, hands coming up to tug him closer and Holland, drowning in the warm feel of his lips and the slick wet glide of their tongues, purrs contentedly, a sound Jackson happily swallows down.
He breaks the kiss after a while, pulling back to watch Jackson's eyes flutter back open and the sight of his spit-slick lips goes straight to his already hard dick.
“Jesus,” he says, sitting back a bit, breaths coming heavy and panting.
“You want to take this off?” Holland asks, tugging at Jackson's shirt.
Jackson nods and Holland helps him sit up a bit, so he can shrug off the dark blue fabric.
Jackson looks vaguely embarrassed, but Holland doesn't notice, completely enraptured by the newly-bared skin. He puts a hand on Jackson's chest, draws his fingers through the soft hair there, then does it again, lightly scraping his nails through it and watches Jackson shiver under him.
“So pretty,” he mumbles absentmindedly, but doesn't miss the flush on Jackson's face this time.
He smiles at it, holds Jackson's gaze as he draws a finger over one rosy nipple, doesn't let Jackson's reaction escape him and hums, when a bitten-off whimper reaches his ears.
“Interesting,” he says, going back to exploring, and Jackson rolls his eyes, patience stretching thin.
“Holland,” he says, pushing Holland's hands away from his chest and hooking his own into the waistband of his pants.
Holland halts him, one big hand on his. “Can I…?”
“Alright,” Jackson says, letting his hands drop back down to his sides.
Holland tugs the soft pants down over his hip, then pauses, looking back at Jackson and motioning to his boxers. “Those too –”
“Dear God, yes, Holland,” Jackson says impatiently. “Just get on with it.”
“Alright, alright,” Holland says, raising his hands in a placating gesture, then going back to what he was doing.
When he finally has Jackson naked beneath him, he takes a moment to just look.
Holland looks at his graying chest hair, grabs the flesh there with both hands just because he wants to. And because he can. He's finally allowed to, he thinks with glee.
He draws his thumbs over Jackson's nipples and just like last time a beautiful whimper escapes him that goes straight to Holland's throbbing cock.
Holland moves further down, draws a hand over Jackson's soft belly, suppressing the need to cop a feel there too. He doesn't think he’d appreciate that. Maybe later.
“Holland,” Jackson says, voice strained, clearly trying to get him to hurry up. He keeps saying his name like that and Holland loves it. He's always been a little shit, being naked doesn't change that.
He looks at Jackson's cock, while he spreads his legs. It's hard against his belly, slick beading at the tip. It's thick, too, almost as thick as Holland's and he wants to put his mouth on it.
He's trying to get his words together, to ask if he can please suck Jackson's dick, when he catches a glimpse of the slick he's leaking onto the bed.
“Fuck,” he moans, earlier train of thought completely forgotten. “You're leaking.”
Jackson squirms on the bed, cheeks warm and flushed, spread out naked under Holland.
And Holland can't take it anymore, he needs to get his mouth on him. “Can I eat you out?”
“Holland.”
“Please, I have to eat you out. Please –”
“Holland,” Jackson snaps.
But Holland is still looking down at Jackson, not processing his words at all, so Jackson reaches up with one big hand and takes Holland's chin between his fingers.
His grip is strong. He pulls Holland's head up, forces him to look at him.
“Holland.”
“Yes?” Holland swallows. The tight grip Jackson has on him is doing something to him. His cock twitches.
“Put your dick in me. Now,” Jackson says and Holland whimpers at the thought.
“The rest can wait. Please,” He adds, not really sounding like he's begging, but there's something in his eyes that makes Holland pay attention.
“Alright, alright. Can I –?” He says, sounding messy and whiny even to himself.
Jackson just looks at him and pointedly spreads his legs wider.
Holland takes the hint.
He takes himself in hand, exhales shakily, and pumps a few times. Jackson watches closely, gaze hungry.
Holland shuffles forward on his knees, then pauses.
“Pass me that pillow,” he says, nodding to one of the pillows lying on the bed.
Jackson reaches back with one arm and gives Holland the pillow, then lifts his hips to allow him to place it under the small of his back.
“Thank you,” Holland says absent-mindedly and Jackson flushes at the praise. Holland contemplates whether that’s new too or not for a moment.
Then, finally, he lines himself up with one hand, the other on the bed next to Jackson's head, and pushes in slowly. Their bellies touch and Holland can feel Jackson's body hair against his own smooth skin.
Holland feels a shiver race over his body, when a breathy noise escapes Jackson. He opens up for him, so sweetly and easily. He's wet, warm and so fucking soft, and that's exactly what Holland tells Jackson.
Jackson soaks up the praise, with only minimal embarrassment, but his gaze does flit away from Holland's. They can work on that.
When Holland has bottomed out, he pauses above Jackson, lets his head drop down to Jackson's neck, and nuzzles the sensitive skin there.
He might not be able to smell Jackson, but Jackson can definitely feel him. A shudder runs through the man beneath him and he clenches around Holland.
“I want to smell you,” Holland whines, sounding like a child who hasn't yet understood that life isn't fair sometimes. Or why it isn't.
“I can smell you,” Jackson pants, voice low and wrecked, and Holland lets out a low groan at it.
“Yeah?” he asks, pulling back out just to push back in, faster this time.
“Yes.”
“Is it a good smell?”
Holland, who still has his face buried in his neck, can feel Jackson nod as he says, “Yes.”
A satisfied purr rumbles in his chest and he starts properly fucking Jackson. Drives his cock into him, pulls back out almost all the way, just to push back in. Deep, even strokes that have Jackson clenching around him and throwing his head back to let out a low moan.
“Fuck, you're perfect,” Holland mumbles into Jackson's neck.
He pulls back a bit, to be able to look at Jackson's face, and sees that he's biting his lip in an effort to hold back his noises.
“No, no, no,” Holland pants. “Let me hear you, please,” he adds, pointedly burying himself to the hilt in one fast movement.
“Fuck,” Jackson gasps. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Holland grins down at him, still pressing his cock into Jackson.
“Yeah, just like that. Keep letting me hear,” he orders, voice slipping into something deeper and darker, grin audible through it, and he's sure his scent is growing wilder and heavier by the second.
His knot has started to swell, too, and it deliciously catches on Jackson's rim with every thrust.
“Look at you,” Holland breathes, keeps on talking, keeps on voicing the twisting thoughts inside his head. A chorus of beautiful, perfect, pretty, beautiful, perfect, pretty.
“So beautiful.”
He can see Jackson's gaze flit away again.
“I mean it,” he adds, pausing until Jackson looks him straight in the eyes and nods once, acknowledging his words.
Then he goes back to his rhythm, fucks Jackson into the mattress with enough force to rattle the bed. He knows Jackson can take it, knows he's strong enough.
Jackson's words and noises are getting increasingly more incoherent, just bitten-off curses, hitched breaths and moans he now uninhibitedly allows to pass over his lips to Holland's delight.
Holland can see it in Jackson's face when he comes for the first time. He clenches around him, head thrown back, throat working as he swallows and Holland wants to see it again and again. And again.
“Fuck,” Jackson chokes out, cock twitching as he comes, ropes of cum splattering onto on his belly, some of it painting Holland's skin too, with how close they are.
“Bite me,” Jackson gasps and Holland's heart skips a beat, because that? That's more than just lending a hand. Even if Jackson is just somewhat fond of him and his heat is amplifying his feelings, that means something.
Jackson's throat is still bared and Holland's teeth itch with the need to taste. Take him between his teeth, hold him there, savour him there, then swallow him down, down, down.
But he won't.
Because that's something they need to talk about. Not something you do in the spur of a moment.
Instead he puts one elegant hand on his throat and squeezes down, digs his nails in, sharp little pinpricks of pain that have Jackson shivering undernath him.
It isn't long until Holland follows him over the edge, hand on his throat, deep in him, taking Jackson down with him, drowning him in the feeling of his second orgasm.
He buries himself even deeper as he comes, as deep as he can. His knot swells up and locks the two of them together as Holland pants and whines through his peak.
He more or less gracefully collapses onto Jackson, hand falling away from his throat. He buries his face in his neck again, cock still throbbing, surrounded by wet warmth.
Jackson is letting out small, rumbling noises and Holland purrs right back.
He instinctively takes deep breaths, nose pressed to the skin under Jackson's jaw and ear, then whines when he still, still, can't smell him.
Jackson notices and sighs, hues of both fondness and exasperation in his tone. He moves a bit below Holland, and then there's a strong hand in his hair, tugging him off. Holland complains wordlessly, a petulant growl leaving him, until he realizes exactly what Jackson is doing as he presents him with two slick fingers.
Fuck. Holland whimpers, realizing what he's just been presented with, because while he can't smell, his tastebuds works perfectly well.
He looks Jackson in the eyes, still locked together, pressed together, belly to belly, chest to chest, and carefully takes his fingers into his mouth.
His eyes slide shut without his approval as he loses himself in Jackson's taste, shudder after shudder running through him as he comes again, twitching where he's still buried to the hilt inside Jackson.
Jackson's scent is deep. Heavy and sweet without being cloying. There's something sharp and spicy there too. It reminds Holland of the expensive cognac he only breaks open on special occasions.
It's horribly fitting, because, well, alcohol has always been his vice, hasn’t it? And over the months Jackson has become something eerily similar. Something he wants to gorge himself on, knows he shouldn't, knows he's playing with fire, but still, he wants.
But maybe it doesn't have to be like that. Maybe he can have this, maybe he can lose himself in Jackson, just Jackson and nothing else.
Why would he ever reach for a bottle when he's allowed to reach for Jackson?