t h e . l o n g . w a y . h o m e

The Long Way Home
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Maybe they've been heading toward this their whole lives.

Notes: If I still had shame about things, I would probably be ashamed of this, but as it is, how could I resist Jared Leto and Jake Gyllenhaal playing exceptionally slashy best friends? And I had to fix the end of the movie, because there's no way Jack and Cassie stayed together, not when it was totally obvious he belongs with Pilot.

Date: December 11, 2005

Jack and Cassie spend nearly a year together. She gets a job at a strip club (she has the shoes for it, she jokes) and takes care of him as his feet heal, and everything is good for a while. And then it isn't. They fight all the time, about how little he works and how little he makes when he does, and how he spends all her money on drugs.

He's not surprised to stumble home early one morning to find all her stuff gone. There's no note.

"I don't understand," he says to Pilot during their weekly phone call. "Nothing is different from last year. I haven't changed at all."

Pilot sounds amused. "Maybe that's the problem."

"What the fuck ever." Jack shakes his head. "What about you, man?"

There's a short silence and he can imagine Pilot's face all scrunched up as he thinks. "Nothing much. Working at the Gas'n'Sip."

"Seeing anybody?"

"Nobody special." That's Pilot's standard answer, and Jack doesn't understand why Pilot sucks so bad at scoring chicks, but he knows better than to bring it up now. It always leads to fighting and he's had enough of that with Cassie.

There's another silence, then, "You coming home?"

"Nah."

He bums around Seattle, sleeping on people's couches when he has to give up the apartment because he can't pay rent. He walks dogs during the day -- Seattle is a fucking dog-owning town and people are willing to pay him to get out of having to walk them themselves -- and at night he goes to clubs. It's always easy to find a girl to take him home, and none of it means a fucking thing.

He thinks about hooking into the local drug trade -- just pot and X, maybe -- but his feet ache when it rains, and in Seattle that means he has a constant reminder that he's better off staying out of other people's business. He knows he'd only end up smoking the merchandise himself.

"Maybe you have changed," Pilot says, laughing when Jack tells him that.

"Nah," he replies, though he supposes it's possible.

"You coming home?"

"Not yet. What are you up to?"

"Nothing much."

The conversations are always the same, comfortable. He misses Pilot sometimes, almost physically. He wants to tell him everything, still finds himself turning to point things out to someone who isn't there, but by the time they get on the phone, he doesn't have much to say.

One night, this hot blonde comes up to him at the bar of this new club that doesn't really have much going on. She says something he can't hear and he smiles and tucks her hair behind her ear. She smacks his hand away, and pulls him down so his ear is against her mouth.

"I'm offering you a job," she says.

"What?"

"You're not the brightest bulb in the lamp, but you're pretty, and you attract a crowd. You know anything about bartending?"

"I can tap a keg."

She rolls her eyes. "You can work the door. There are three rules. No fucking while you're working, no one underage comes in, and don't let me catch you taking or selling drugs on the premises."

"I can do that."

"Good. You start tomorrow."

The job is easy money and he gets to pick the prettiest girls off the line and let them in, collecting names and phone numbers as he goes.

"It's a good life," he says to Pilot. "How about you?"

"I'm all right. Kinda seeing someone, actually."

"Good for you. Any trouble getting off?"

He hears Pilot suck in a breath and thinks maybe he shouldn't have said anything, but fuck, what are best friends for?

"No, actually," Pilot finally says. He laughs a little. "Not at all."

"Excellent."

It's only after Jack hangs up that he realizes Pilot didn't ask if he was coming home.

He's been crashing on the couch of another guy who works at the club, and one night they stumble home drunk, and Declan shoves him against the closed door and kisses him. His mouth is hot and wet and tastes like Jack Daniels, and when he wraps it around Jack's dick, it doesn't feel any different from a girl's, really. Declan uses his teeth more, is all.

They don't talk about it in the morning, or at all really, and Jack decides he's making enough money now to find his own apartment.

Jack still likes and fucks girls. But sometimes now, he looks at guys, and wonders.

The phone rings one morning and he falls out of bed reaching for it.

"Jack?"

"Pilot, what the fuck?"

Pilot makes this kind of snuffling noise and Jack thinks he's crying. He's fucking crying.

"Nothing." Sniff. "Nothing. Sorry I woke you." He hangs up and the click seems to echo the pounding in Jack's head. He looks at the phone for a second, as if it can tell him what the fuck is wrong with Pilot, but it doesn't, so he drops it on the floor. Pilot knows he sleeps in, knows calling him at nine is like calling someone who works a day job in the middle of the night.

Which means he wouldn't have called if it wasn't important. Shit.

Jack paws through the dirty clothes on the floor for the phone.

"Sorry, man," he says when Pilot answers.

"It's all right. I shouldn't have woken you."

"Pilot--"

"Jack."

"Is everything all right?

"Yeah, it's fine. I was just--"

"Pilot."

"I said it's fine. I forgot, okay?"

"Okay."

Again, he listens to silence after the click and wonders what the hell is going on.

He has some cash saved -- he drinks and scores drugs for free at the club, so all he really pays for is rent and food and long distance -- and when he calls his boss, he tells her he'll be out for a few days, he's got a family emergency at home. It's not like he's lying. Pilot may as well be family.

Four hours later, he's banging on the door of Pilot's house, the way he did every day of his life up until two years ago.

Pilot's hair is all sticking up, he's wearing a ratty pair of boxers and a Motorhead tee shirt, and his eyes are all red.

They stare at each other for a second, and then Pilot's hugging him and he's hugging Pilot, closing his eyes and just smelling him, unwashed hair that smells of gas and smoke and sweat.

"Pop quiz," he says. "Who's the best friend you ever had?"

"You are," Pilot says, voice muffled because he's still pressing his face against Jack's shoulder.

"Beep. Gold star."

They finally move into the house and Pilot gets some beers from the fridge as they kick back on the sofa. Jack talks about his job and about Seattle and he watches Pilot, who looks pale and tired, but happy to see him.

Finally he slips off the couch and kneels in front of Pilot and looks up at him. "So, what's up?"

Pilot takes a deep breath, looks down at the empty beer bottle in his hand. "My mom has cancer."

"Shit."

"It was supposed to be no big deal, you know? Doctor said it was probably nothing -- a cyst or something, but they did a biopsy and we got the test results this morning."

"Shit." He doesn't know what to say, so he climbs back up onto the couch and pulls Pilot into another hug. He pretends he doesn't feel the tears soaking his shirt when Pilot cries. They fall asleep tangled on the couch, and when they wake up, it's getting dark, and someone's banging on the door.

He disentangles himself from Pilot, who mutters something and curls back into sleep, and opens the door.

A dark haired guy wearing too much eyeliner and a studded leather collar is standing there.

"Can I help you?" Jack asks, wary. Pilot had said he wasn't dealing any more, but he could have been lying about that.

"Who the fuck are you? Where's Pilot?"

"He's sleeping. He's had a rough day." The guy tries to push past him and he puts an arm across the door; all those months working the velvet rope have taught him how to deal with people trying to get into places he doesn't want to let them into. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm his boyfriend, you fucktard."

Before Jack can process this, Pilot joins them at the door, scratching his belly and yawning.

"Dave?" He puts a hand on Jack's shoulder. "It's okay. Let him in." Jack steps aside and Dave walks in like he's a tough guy or something. "Dave, this is Jack."

"I've heard all about you," Dave says, and his tone indicates none of it was good.

Jack folds his arms across his chest and leans against the door. "Can't say the same about you." He shoots a questioning glance at Pilot, who looks sheepish.

"I came as soon as I could." Dave says, trying to put his arm around Pilot. Pilot shrugs him off. "But I see it wasn't soon enough."

"Well, maybe if it hadn't taken you eight hours to come twenty miles when it took Jack four to come twelve hundred--"

"I am so fucking sick and tired of hearing about how Jack does this, and Jack does that. If Jack's so much better than me, why aren't you fucking him? Oh wait, I forgot." Dave laughs nastily. "He doesn't know you're gay and wouldn't want you if he did." He puts a hand over his mouth. "Oops. Guess I let that secret out."

Pilot looks like he's going to hurl.

"I think it's time for you to leave," Jack says. "He doesn't need this shit from you right now."

Dave gives him a hard glare and says, "Pilot?"

Pilot takes a deep breath. "Yeah, Dave, you ought to leave. And don't come back."

Dave looks from Pilot to Jack and shakes his head. "Whatever. I'm outta here." He stomps out the front door, and lets it slam behind him.

Pilot sinks onto the couch and runs a hand through his hair, then covers his face. Jack sits next to him, can feel him shaking.

"I don't know how you put up with that guy," he says, trying to make a joke out of it.

"I-- He--"

"Hey, hey." He puts a hand on Pilot's shoulder. "I don't care if you like dick, man. You're still my best friend. All that shit he said? It doesn't matter. It's not like people haven't said shit like that about us before."

Pilot jumps up off the couch and starts pacing. "It's not that. It's that it's true. What he said was true."

"Yeah, I kinda got that."

"Not just the part about me being gay, I mean."

"Oh."

Pilot sits down next to him, looking miserable, and Jack just wants to make him feel better. He touches his shoulder gently, then his cheek. When Pilot turns to look at him, he leans in, gives him a kiss.

Pilot's lips are soft and warm, and it's almost like kissing a girl, except for the stubble. He's trembling slightly, which makes Jack want to not fuck this up.

Pilot jerks away, mouth red and wet and angry. "I don't want your pity."

"Have I ever given anyone a pity fuck? Ever?" Pilot shakes head. "I'm not starting now." He tangles his fingers in the hair on the nape of Pilot's neck, tugs him close. "C'mere." Pilot lets himself be pulled into another kiss, and this time he opens his mouth, lets his tongue touch Jack's, and even though they both taste like sleep, it's a pretty good kiss.

They fall back against the cushions, hot press of lips and tongues, hands threading through hair and slipping beneath shirts, and Jack thinks it should feel weird, but it doesn't, because it's him and it's Pilot, and maybe they've been heading toward this their whole lives.

end

***

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