Chapter Text
None of Jake’s things were around the apartment. When Steven asked, in slight fear that they shared the same toothbrush— Jake certainly isn’t a vegan— Jake pat his cheek and assured him he had his own place to stay. I never used your toothbrush or your fancy little face cream, princesa.
Which made Steven curious, and he roped Marc in (who did a pathetic job of pretending he wasn’t curious too) to find out Jake’s whereabouts. Using Marc’s super spy skills, they found themselves standing in front of a sprawling stone mansion. 13 Abington Circle, surrounded by green land for miles on all sides. The documents declared the estate was paid in cash by M. Spekter. And when Marc broke in, they realized there’s an alarm system.
Jake sped into the round driveway in a shiny onyx Porsche wearing the richest clothes they’ve ever seen on him, and paid off the police to keep it off the record. He smelled like spicy cologne, the type where you look over your shoulder to see who just passed you by.
Marc demanded answers, red and bristling under Jake’s cool gaze.
Rather than providing an explanation, he gifted each of them a personalized key straight from the pocket of his leather jacket. Steven’s was gold with a little Tawaret keychain. Marc’s was obsidian, with a silver middle-finger keychain.
For some reason this only served to piss Marc off further, but Steven merely thanked him and stepped around grumpy Marc to explore.
Thirty-two bedrooms. Thirty-five bathrooms. An entire gym, theater, rec center, and bowling alley on the lower levels. Three full-sized kitchens, five different sitting areas, and reading nooks everywhere.
Most importantly, in the east wing there are only three bedrooms. Giant, side-by-side, in a hallway with no windows. The door leading to this wing is riddled with security cameras.
The furthest room is filled with green plants and shelves of books and encyclopedias on mythology, with black-out curtains over the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that lead out to a balcony hovering above the sprawling patio in the backyard, and a fireplace with an armchair in front of it. There's a giant connected bathroom that makes him feel too small, a fluffy king-size bed, and a mahogany desk fit for an office in the center of rows of shelves. Rugs of different cultures line the hardwood floors.
The second-furthest is disgustingly neat and polished, with books organized alphabetically, a picture of Steven under the lamp on the nightstand, and a gym full of daunting metal equipment. The large bed is firm enough to crack your back, with only one pillow on each side, and a light blanket. There’s a balcony out there too, adjacent to Steven’s. Where Steven’s balcony has couches and foot rests, Marc’s has three simple armchairs. Steven has caught him doing push-ups in the empty balcony space.
They didn’t move immediately. It was a slow process, items moving back and forth as they needed it. Having pajamas at the estate was convenient. A toothbrush was nice for when he woke up the next morning. The body shop was having a sale on lotions, so an extra was bought and placed on his vanity. Every time he managed to take a picture with Marc in town or vigilante-ing, he pinned it to his new photo wall. When Layla came by, she gave him a vase of fresh-cut flowers that he placed on his nightstand and waters everyday. Knick knacks from markets filled the floating shelves. He bought five more pillows for his bed. And with Jake’s help, he added another bookshelf that’s almost full now.
The best part is that he’s right next door to Marc, so that when nightmares come, he wraps himself in a blanket and shuffles down the hall to cuddle with Marc for the rest of the night.
It’s perfect.
He leaves his room late one night, mid study-session to find a late-night snack in the closest kitchen.
Then he hears it.
Moaning. Glass shattering.
Steven stops, frozen in place. Pressing himself against the wall.
The light from Jake’s bedroom pools under the closed double doors.
“...knew you’d break first,” Jake is saying. His voice is a tone that Steven’s never heard before. Low and sensual. “You always do.”
Marc groans again, but it’s muffled. Like… gods, like his mouth is full.
Steven goes light-headed at the realization. His hand flies to the wall next to him for support.
Since when do they—
They’re—
How did he not notice?
“As soon as you realized who I am, and how much I’ve seen, well…” Jake chuckles. “What was stopping you? Certainly not the child-like pedestal that he puts you on.” There’s a pause. Then Marc groans, and Jake’s voice is quieter. More intimate. Steven takes a cursed step forward and strains to hear. “I’ve seen every disgusting thing you’ve ever done. You don’t have to hide, cariño.”
Steven stares at the closed doors.
Would he be on his knees? His mouth stuffed full and open around Jake’s cock, the stone in his eyes crumbled to dust.
And…
….
Did he say ‘child-like pedestal’?
Marc doesn’t… does he? Does Marc see him as a child?
Maybe he… talks too much? Or maybe the enthusiasm is the problem? Admittedly, he gets excited often, but it doesn’t make him a child. He’s a grown man, with passions.
A grown man who happens to respect Marc and everything he’s endured. Sure, he may ask questions about his mercenary days because the adventure of it all makes for fascinating conversation. Marc never seems overly bothered by his questions. No, in fact, Marc gets this endearing look in his eye, like Steven is…
…
Who is he kidding? Of course Marc thinks he’s a child. Of course he picked Jake over him. Marc will never see Steven as his true equal. Jake has done all of the same horrible things Marc has done, and clearly they can bond over that.
There’s a pop and a sudden wet gasp, and Marc’s ragged, unsteady breathing is painfully familiar. He only sounds like that when he’s losing a fight. Then, in a raw voice, “Jake, please…”
Jake’s returning groan is thick. More glass breaks and books clatter to the ground. There's a heavy thud and a wooden scrape, like bodies hitting a table. Marc chokes on a sharp gasp.
Steven backs into the corridor and returns to his room with a strange deep loneliness in his soul and a yearning that he chokes and shoves down, his feet silent on the plush carpet. He’s not hungry anymore.