do you know the secret? [open]

[JACKSON SALES]

Performance night. Tickets were sold, and there were girls (and guys) lined up around the building just to see him bleed his heart out for an hour onstage. Not to mention get wasted and dance, but mainly it was to see him. Of course Jackson knew this, receiving many @replies on twitter by screaming people saying "OMFG JACKSON I WILL BE THERE" and seeing countless bulletins on Myspace informing their friends. To be honest, flattery only when so far. Jackson was calmed by the fact that no one actually knew where he went to school, but they knew he worked at The Secret, just performing on the side. The Secret, on performance night, went all out, getting everyone to work and then some, due to the sheer amounts of people they attracted. His boss wanted loved these nights, always looking forward to them every week.

And sure, Jackson loved to sing. He loved the fact that people actually loved the shitty words written at desperate times to form lyrics, and the shitty guitar parts to accompany them. He loved watching people dance, and his heart swelled when they even sang along. He loved losing himself on stage, his hair coming undone by the end, and the sweat and makeup smearing together to make some unknown mixture of something that just felt awesome. Jackson loved the rush, the energy, before, sitting in the dressing room singing his songs in his head, doing his hair, just waiting.

The hour always passes by fast. Before he knows it, he sings the song for his mother, and watches below as the audience cries, and he himself has to wipe the tears from his eyes before proclaiming into the microphone, "Thank you," stepping off the stage after the cheers quell down to a slightly less deafening roar and into the dressing room. His makeup comes off, and he changes, applying regular mascara and eyeliner before stepping behind the bar for the continuation of his shift. Hundreds of people still remain near the stage, glancing and wondering if this will be the one time he comes back for an encore. He never has, and to his knowledge he never will. This was something he did for extra money, and maybe entertainment, and just to let off steam. If people enjoyed it, good, and if not, fuck them. Jackson knew nothing would come out of it, so why cry over spilled milk?

Exactly, don't, you fucking crybaby.

Girls dressed to impress invaded his space, twirling their hair and ordering ridiculous girly drinks that always took too long to make. Thankfully, someone took over for him and he gladly accepted, twirling around some other people to reach a less than familiar face. His heart stopped, and when he tried to turn away, a hand caught his arm. When he turned to look again, the person was gone, but he knew, Jackson knew that person was his father. That smirk, the same one he used when he shot his mother. Jackson would recognize that anywhere, he was damn sure. Jackson was also sure he was shaking, placing a hand out to steady himself. Not wanting to cause a scene, he made his way to the back room, collapsing on a large crate of vodka. He focused on his breathing, but just as he was feeling better, a most familiar figure stepped in. Why me? "What do you want?" he grumbled.

[EZRA HART]

Of course, he always showed up when Jackson sang. Technically, he had to be there because of his job, but there were times when Jackson's show stretched longer than his shift--usually on thursdays, when he didn't have to stay as late. This was one of those days. So, naturally, after his shift was over, he ambled into the already packed crowd to try to find a good enough place to stand and watch the show. That was the other thing about thursday. It was so close to friday that none of the students gave a shit and came to the late show anyway. He spotted a good deal of the school--mostly his grade--in the crowd, but made no attempts at conversation. Those who knew him also knew that he wasn't in the mood to talk. He was in the mood to listen, and that was that.

Oh, god. It seemed like he was only up there for five minutes (had it really been an hour already? he almost wanted to get his money back, up until he realized he hadn't actually paid to get in). Maybe it was because he'd heard the show a thousand times over, or maybe it was because he always wanted the show to go on. Jackson never sang for him outside of the Secret--usually because Ezra was an annoying asshole, and Jackson sang for other people just to spite him, but it was also a much more special feeling to watch his best friend wave to him from the stage. He hadn't tonight, though; Ezra brushed it off. Jackson was probably busy with other people--he had a whole crowd in front of him, right?--and he saw Ezra every day, so. There was no point in getting jealous.

But he kinda was.

So, the show ended. He found himself fighting through a group of party-girls who had their fair share of tequila, all of whom felt the need to dance and press themselves against him while he was trying to walk by. Seriously, girls? If they wanted to be all-out whores, they should've gone to the second level where Blair hung out. After finally managing to pass by them, and through a group of retarded kids who thought it would be fun to start a fight with a waitress, he found himself near the back entrance. He went into the first room--which they deemed "backstage", as it was, obviously, behind the stage. He looked around--no one but a cocky-looking guy and five or so girls. The demon rolled his eyes and stretched his neck a little. Nope. No Jackson.

He went through two more rooms in the backstage area--dressing rooms--to try to find him. Still nothing. He paused a moment near the controls for the lighting and scratched the back of his neck. The only other possibility was the back storage room--which was ridiculous, unless Jackson suddenly felt the need to get very drunk very fast. He shrugged and took his chances, turning into the storage room. What he saw was his best friend, slouched on a crate of vodka. What do I want? Shit, what happened to you? He frowned, then shook his head. "Jesus. I just wanted to say "great fucking job", but if you're gonna be like that, I'll go find some better company at the bar." He strolled over and hopped up on the box, looking down at the boy. "What's up with you?"

[JACKSON SALES]

Why? Why why why why why why why? Why does the sun never shine when it is supposed to? Why do things go worse before they go better? Why do semi-decent people always get shit, while the good people live happy lives and the bad ones escape consequences? Why didn't he realize the warning signs sooner, that his mother and father were not getting along, the goods time were not rolling, but the bad ones were. Why couldn't he been a little quicker down the stairs? Why couldn't he storm his father, instead watching his mother get shot and then him the same? Why? Why was life full of these insane questions that made you dwell on the fact that you are stupid, and no matter what, nothing, NOTHING, will change this?

Goes to show you how stupid the human race is. Pity.

The moment the door opened, Jackson knew it was Ezra. The arrogance seethed off the teen like some simile he could not be bothered to think of at the moment. Maybe it was metaphors. Maybe it was your mom. Who knew? The vodka crate was too uncomfortable for his lanky and skinny frame to be comfortable around. He didn't care, nor did he care when Ezra's head came into view. "Yeah, good luck with that company," he spat, knowing all too well the freaky girls were still waiting near the stage and by the bar. They would, up until the bouncers threw them out. Normally, Jackson would stay and tend, because the tips were astronomically larger for him on performance nights than ever. And knowing him, he would go back out there eventually, once he calmed down some. And got over his stupid irrational fears.

"Ghost from the past," he replied. Sure, Ezra was not smart enough to understand whatever that meant. He couldn't remember what he at for breakfast, or if he ate at all, so why would he remember something that happened months ago? Exactly. Standing up, he made his way over to the open box, newly arrived two days ago because he helped unload it, of nice new bottle of Jack. Smirking, he took one, ripping the box and everything off including the cap before gulping a mouthful down. He wiped his mouth on his wrist, turning to look at Ezra. "Better question is, why are you here? Don't you have a boyfriend to attend to or something?" Ohhh, bitchy Jackson. What now, sucker?

[EZRA HART]

Yeah, good luck with that company.

Well, Jackson was a little pissy now, wasn't he? He raised an eyebrow, then shook his head and gave a small sigh. "Whatever," he mumbled, sulking a bit as his gaze fell ahead of him again. He cracked his knuckles, taking a quick glance around the backroom. It felt like so long that he'd been in there when, in truth, it had only been a day; it was just last night that he'd been inside there to grab another bottle of vodka for the extremely lonely man at the bar. Then again, maybe it was just because it'd been so long since he'd been with Jackson in the back. Sure, they were in there a few times together in the past few weeks--but that was only for a few seconds, and then they'd return to their bartending job.

Then, suddenly, his gaze left as Jackson started to move away. "Ghost from the past?" he repeated, confused at first. Not about the meaning, he wasn't that stupid, but about which ghost exactly he was talking about. Jackson, unfortunately, had quite a few of them, and it was hard sometimes to keep up with what he was reminiscing about. Sometimes it was about his mother, and her death; sometimes it was about his dad, and what a fucking douchebag he turned out to be; sometimes it was about himself, and what he'd managed to do to his best friend over the course of a few short years. "Which ghost are we talking about, here?" he murmured, half-expecting Jackson to answer that one, and half-expecting him to go on ignoring him and heading over to the giant crate of vodka that was calling both of their names. He wasn't going to have any; it was a bad, bad idea in the making. Vodka never led to G-rated activities like scrapbooking.

Ezra's eyebrow rose even further as Jackson turned around and spat more words back at him. Shit, Jackson. It's not like that hurt at all. After--how many years now?--of friendship, hearing that? No. That didn't make an impact on him at all. Then again, he supposed he kind of deserved it. He was the one who had started the whole thing anyway, right? So--now he seemed like the colossal asshole. Fuck. He hated logic. And now...what was he supposed to say to Jackson? The truth, he supposed. Lying never got him to good places. "He's out with Dani right now," he answered coolly. "And I wanted to come and see you sing. That okay?" He supposed not, otherwise Jackson wouldn't have asked. Besides, he knew exactly what the other was thinking--their stupid curse/blessing deal. At times, it was useful. At other times, he wished he could shut it off. He didn't need those thoughts of hatred toward Sammii every time the three of them were in a room together. He leaned back a little and narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to see if he could pick out what was truly wrong.

"Stop changing the subject. Why're you so pissy? PMSing?"

[JACKSON SALES]

Jackson could feel the sulk, and maybe, just maybe, he felt bad about acting like a bitch. Seriously, maybe a nanosecond at most. His mind was too caught up in recent events, which now decided to flash in his mind again. Bartending, just doing his job and suddenly he could not breathe and everything disappeared. He was still in The Secret, but not really. He was back to last summer, back to when his life turned to hell, thanks to the bastard whom he was forced to call Father. He was brought back to the present by a laugh, the bottle of rum threatening to break due to grasping it so hard. His body shook, seething anger. His father chuckled, relinquishing the bottle from his son's grasp and setting it on the bar. Jackson took that moment to look around, noting that his father did indeed use his freezing power to freeze the hundreds of people in the bar. His good son was unaffected, though. Joy.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, eyes lowering into a glare as his arms crossed his chest. His father surveyed the bar, before resting his eyes on Jackson. He never knew what his mother saw in this man, and thanked whatever power that be he got most of his looks from his mother. Except his eyes, given to him by his grand 'ol dad. "Why, can't a father take an interest in his son's extracurricular activities?" Smirking, he poured himself a drink, taking a sip before speaking once more. "My offer still stands." Jackson laughed, not that humors, 'dude-that-was-so-funny-if-I-was-drinking-milk-it-would-be-coming-out-of-nose' laughter, but the kind where you make a noise to confirm you aren't nailed to the floor in fear. Because in reality, Jackson was scared to death his father would decide to take him away from what mattered most to Jackson. "My answer still stands as well."

Edward sighed, setting the glass down, giving his son a stare. "You are just as difficult as your mother," he began, eliciting a smirk from Jackson. "It was one thing I loved about her. You cannot keep running, son," taking a step closer, Jackson lost a breath, keeping his eyes locked on his father. "You know, one day, I will get bored of this, of you, and start making your life hell." This time, Jackson was actually amused. "You mean to say you have not already?! YOU KILLED MY MOTHER!" He yelled, YELLED at his father, who simply stood there with the same smirk on his face. "You also get your anger from me." He turned, grabbing his glass before throwing it's contents at the girl leaning over the bar, grabbing napkin. Her still body got wet, and his smirk grew larger. "Consider this a warning." As fast as he came, he was gone. People were alive again, bustling, and Jackson was still locked to the floor, eyes semi-wide in fear. That's when he ran to the back room.

Jackson took a deep breath, slumping over the crate. You get all that? He sure hoped Ezra did, but once was painful enough, but doing it again might cause some damage. He sat there, waiting for his breath to return to normal before answering the previous question. "I didn't imply it like that. I just figured you had better things to do than watch some lonely bastard, albeit your best friend, sing his heart out on stage over demons and shit of his past." He took another sip of Jack, relishing the burn he felt as it went down. The nice thing about regeneration was that there was no real damage done. He could get drunk, but the feeling would only last a few hours tops until he returned to normal. It helped, too, working in a bar.

Sorry. The only real apology he could muster was hardly ever spoken. Ezra always relayed it threw mind, later saying it was a hassle to mumble it. They were both too proud and arrogant to belittle themselves to actually say the five letter word out loud, six if you wanted to be cute and add 'I' in front. That was only on rare occasions. Looking up, he sorted through what he relayed to Ezra, sighing. What the fuck do I do? Something else he could never say aloud, when he needed help. Right now, he needed it, a lot. Scared. Tiny, barely there, but he knew Ezra would catch it.

[EZRA HART]

Ezra had been waiting for an explanation, leaning forward once more and staring Jackson down as he drank the bottle of vodka like it was water. By this time he'd stretched out his arms in front of them, then lazily crossed them over his legs and propped his chin up with one hand. Jackson seemed intent on ignoring him; for few moments, he hadn't said anything. The demon's eyes rolled up to the ceiling and he let out a soft sigh, resisting the urge to shake his head. Jackson had always been stubborn--much like himself--but he'd thought that maybe this time he'd actually tell him what was up. It was amazing that they even knew so much about each other when they refused to talk. In fact, since they were tiny kids, Ezra had the habit of talking people to death and Jackson had the habit of watching with amusement. The only times Ezra really shut up were when Jackson was sad, or when the other was actually being serious.

It took a lot to make five year-old Ezra shut up--Jackson found that out the hard way. Everywhere they'd gone, Ezra was talking, and everything they did, Ezra was talking, and every time they ate, Ezra was talking. Every time Jackson shoved a lollipop in the other boy's mouth in an attempt to get him to quiet down, Ezra would be satisfied for only a few moments before he went into another rant about how much he liked cherries (or, at least, cherry-flavored lollipops). It took Jackson about three weeks to figure out that one: he was stuck with Ezra (pretty much for forever), two: Ezra would never shut up for as long as they were together, and three: Ezra really, really liked cherry-flavored lollipops.

So, as he extracted the cherry-flavored lollipop from his pocket and slid it into his mouth, he was a little taken aback that it was Jackson's turn to speak up. Suddenly, he was whirled into a memory. Though neither one of them physically moved from their spot in the backroom, he fell forward a little as his mind contorted with images from Jackson's past. It was as if he was stuck right in the middle of each scene--unable to change anything, and forced to watch the suffering that flickered across his best friend's eyes. He shook his head a little, trying to evade the memories and get back to the present. Unfortunately, Jackson wanted him to see it all; this was one of those times that he wished he could just shut the connection off.

Finally it was over.

He shook his head, blinking hard a few times and trying to understand what was going on. He was back in the backroom, he got that far--at least, until Jackson started speaking again. Everything instantly relayed back to him, and he shook his head. "No. I just like to hear you sing," he mumbled, flicking one of the darkers strands of hair out of his face again. His dark eyes darkened further and he nodded to the bottle in Jackson's hands. "I hope you know I'm not cleaning that shit up." Even though he would, and he knew Jackson knew he would.

Sorry.

Scared? It was a long time since he'd seen Jackson really scared. Jackson scared didn't look much different from Jackson calm, or Jackson serious, or Jackson sad. Maybe it was because the other didn't really like to show emotion--no, that was out. If they'd have to had labels, sad to say, Jackson would probably fit under emo. At least, that's what Dai said. "I don't...know," he started lamely, dropping his head and lifting a hand to scratch the back of his neck. "Let me think." He fell quiet--an odd phenomenon--and began to set his mind to work. Obviously, having Jackson stay with them would be no help. Not only would insane drama ensue between himself, Sammii, and Jackson, but Jackson's father had the ability to freeze time--and, if he couldn't stop it, what was the point? None. Exactly. "How about...Trent? Trenton Colville?" He bit his lip a little and raised his eyes. "The guy I used--" Well, it sure as hell wasn't date. "--see. He can stop time. How about you stay with him?"

It was worth a shot.

[JACKSON SALES]

The mind of Jackson Sales whirled around like a maelstrom, never ceasing to be thinking of at least five different things all at once. The poor young man sat there, bottle in hand, going over different scenarios as to how the next encounter with his father would go down. He knew something had to change, because what he was doing now was just not working out. Jackson needed a plan, a new one at that, that would stop the living hell he called life and restore order to whatever needed it. Maybe it was him. Jackson looked around, the eyes behind his glasses filling with tears that would never spill. The last time he cried, truly, was when his mother died, after Ezra came and got him, taking him away from the bloody scene to somewhere safe, holding onto him until the sun came up and his eyes dried. His stoic face went back on, and Ezra could garner no more emotion from him, which he hated. That was the only real problem with their relationship; the fact that Jackson showed hardly any emotion when Ezra wanted him to, when he thought his best friend was going to break down into tears, Jackson simply sat there and did nothing, which was hated, but accepted in the long run.

But now, now was different. For the first time in a long time, Jackson felt hopeless. Sure, he would find a way to get his dad away from him, but as of this very moment in time, he saw no way out. The one plan he had, killing his father, and not working out as of now. That being the only plan made Jackson tense his fits, his entire body filling with sadness and rage, knowing that this fight would probably never end, not for a long time at least. And Jackson had the sinking feeling he would get no help from anyone, and would be forced to fight this fight alone. Ezra he knew would try, but there was no way Jackson could live with himself if his father did something to his best friend. No way. Not. One. Bit.

There's nothing we can do. Sure, there was something, but as of now, there was nothing. No plan, no way out. Jackson knew he could run, but his father would only chase him, eventually finding him. He did that now to him, taking a few months before finally catching up. Jackson did not want to run forever, it was not possible. But, he could not stay here and subject innocent people to Edward's wrath. That too was not possible. "The more I run, the more he chases. I can't stay though." Should I stay or should I go now? He sat there, watching and listening to Ezra think, knowing whatever he came up with would probably solve nothing. And he was right. "This is my fight," he told him. "Remember that time you tried to stand up for me when we were sixteen, telling my dad that breaking the back window of the car was all your fault, when it was really mine? Remember what he did to you? It'll be ten times worse for anyone that crosses him like that now."

Jackson sat there, going over all past events with his father. He knew his fate, he knew that he was going to have to kill his father or be forced to be tortured until Edward died. Only about thirty more years then. Joy. I think it's best if I leave. Of course, that decision would not go over well with Ezra. Something had to be done now instead of later, waiting until his father came back again to teach him another lesson. The thing with regeneration was that sure, he could heal, but he still felt the pain from everything, no matter if it was a paper cut to a broken limb. Still hurt like a bitch either way. But heartbreak, what Jackson was going through right now, that did not heal. That would stay with him for the eternity, until the people he knew now were dead, and he would move on to find a new set of friends to be around. Find a new Ezra. "Don't fight me on this."

[EZRA HART]

Remember that time you tried to stand up for me when we were sixteen, telling my dad that breaking the back window of the car was all your fault, when it was really mine? Remember what he did to you? It'll be ten times worse for anyone that crosses him like that now.

He shuddered a little.

Of course he remembered that time. It wasn't often that he had gotten to see Jackson's dad--they spent most of their time at the beach, or at the mall, or on the boardwalk, as neither of them had much interest in spending more times with their fucked up families. So, the few times he'd gotten to see Mr. Sales was enough for him. He remembered seeing him once when they were in their freshman year, and they had been so excited that they were headed into high school. He remembered his first kiss on the beach. He remembered sitting in Jackson's closet in sophomore year, the two of them fumbling, unbuttoning jeans and ripping shirts, on top of each other like it was nobody's business. He remembered the look on Jackson's face as he kissed him, and the shock and fear that split their grins as the boy's father entered the house. He remembered having to jump out of the window and into Jackson's mother's prized rose bushes, which he was later yelled at for mercilessly.

But, most of all, he remembered when they were in their late sophomore year--sixteen years old--and they had been driving back from the beach. Ezra, by some sort of means, had managed to snag a case or two of beer for the ride back. Of course, his stupidity clouded the fact that drinking and driving was a bad fucking idea, and halfway through the trip back, Jackson had taken the wheel. Ezra, however, had still been at it; beer bottles littered the car seat in front of him as he began picking up several items around him. He found a trophey that Jackson had won in the seventh grade--for bowling, he remembered; they kept it in the car solely so Ezra could tease Jackson whenever he felt the need to. Upon picking up the trophey, he had started to swing it around wildly. Jackson immediately grabbed the bottom half of the trophey. A few moments of fighting passed, and then, as Jackson finally got a hold of the trophey--his eyes having left the road--they went over a speed bump, and Jackson flung the trophey into the back window. It smashed, glass shattering everywhere. When they had gotten back, Ezra had taken the blame--because, honestly, it really had been his fault (as usual). The consequence, though, was more than he had considered.

After he had told Jackson's father, his memory of the night was a little fuzzy. He vaguely remembered ropes--or were they chains? Something had binded him down. Something tight--something that had left red marks on his wrists for days afterwards. He remembered sharp pains in his head--whether it was from the alcohol, or from some sort of power (he wasn't quite too sure what Edward had the ability to do, and he was a little afraid to ask). He also remembered that there was laughter. A whole lot of laughter--and some threatening. A few sick grins. That was what he had done, right?--with each person he'd killed? He had laughed. He had laughed and grinned.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

Don't fight me on this.

He gave a quiet chuckle. "C'mon, Jackson," he muttered, staring at the cold floor. "Have I ever backed down?" He raised his eyes a little, watching the boy's legs. He hated these parts. "You know that I'm not gonna sit back and watch you waste away." He gave that phrase another thought, then corrected himself. "Or fight." There was no way he was letting Jackson get away with this. He didn't care if he had to track Daileh down again, or even Mort, or Joe, or fucking Fate if he had to. Jackson wasn't going to leave, and Edward most certainly wasn't going to live.

"You're staying here."

[JACKSON SALES]

It took a lot to get one Jackson Sales angry. Mess with his friends, check. Steal his food, check. Fight, check. Disagree with him on very important matters, check. So, there was quite a reasonable explanation for why anger coursed through his veins, his fits clenching tighter and tighter. His left palm began to bleed from the pressure, and the bottle of Jack shook violently. Ezra didn't seem to understand the fact there there was no was out. And his best friend wouldn't back down from a fight, any fight, no matter what. He sat and watched as his best friend when back three years ago, to when his father tortured him halfway to death, a fourth of the way to hell. Jackson had snuck in to the basement when Edward needed to grab more torturing devices. He clutched his best friend, willing with words aloud and in his mind for the other to transport, to get the hell out of there. It took a moment, maybe more, for the other was too weak, but eventually, they made it to the beach before Jackson had picked the teen up, carrying him eighteen miles to the hospital. He was pretty sure Ezra forgot about that part. He hoped so.

Point was, if something like that happened again, Jackson would not be able to forgive himself. He already did too much, having Ezra become too involved with matters. And sure, having him around angered Edward, which helped, but this time there was no mercy. However powerful the pair were, Edward was more. Hell, Jackson needed the entire school, and maybe more, if he wanted to take him down. Some things were just not possible. And he was not willing to put more people out there because of a stupid childish fear of his father. Jackson couldn't die, and had already been previously tortured by the man, so what was next?

Of course, he knew what was next. Edward would take Ezra. His father may have never been around at their younger years, but he was damn smart enough to understand the boy meant everything to his son. And he would use that to his advantage. And after that, he would use Daileh, and more people until they were gone, and then he would lock Jackson up in another room with four white walls, but this time, there would be no escape. "You already sat there and watched from the sidelines once, remember?" Okay, that was a bitch move, but he deserved it. That time, suicide almost worked, having landed himself in the hospital for two weeks because of it. Now, he was doomed to be a little underweight for the rest of time. And it also meant buying new clothes. Fight the good fight? You'll die. And I won't let that happen.

You're staying here.

Fuck that to hell, he was not. You can't stop me. "You can't stop me." Okay, he wasn't going to say that aloud, but now that that was over with. That anger, that rage, it was back again, worse than before, and Jackson didn't know how to stop it. Jumping up, bottle still in hand, he marched over to Ezra, leaning over him. "What happens when you die, hmm? What then? You expect me to tell Sammii that the love of his life died because of my petty little problems? That I couldn't stand up for myself, that you died because of me? You expect me to live with myself after that?!" Jackson was in hysterics, bottle sloshing too and fro. "NO!" The bottle fell from his hand, crashing to the ground behind him, soaking the backs of his pants. You can't do that to me. He was at a loss for words, the only thing he could think of was the constant state of no no no no no.

"Not going to happen," he said through his tears, emotions spilling through his tough exterior. "I'm on my own."

[/size]

[EZRA HART]

You already sat there and watched from the sidelines once, remember?

Well, that was a bitch move.

The boy gritted his teeth as the anger bubbled up inside him. He was so unused to Jackson being mad at him--or anyone, for that matter. It used to be that Jackson simply wasn't mad, or sad. He was carefree--a little on the quiet side at times, but that never hurt. But as of late, he had gone into what Ezra liked to call the "emo period" of his life. It was kind of like a mid-life crisis, only instead of buying tons of useless shit and getting a trophey model girlfriend, every thing that went slightly wrong made Jackson cry. He actually hadn't seen the boy cry before this period (unless you counted the night when his mother was murdered, but he supposed that was at the very beginning of the "emo period"). It was always Ezra who had been the one to flare up at anything that went slightly against his way; it was always Ezra that had to be saved from fights at the secret against twenty or so people that he had pissed off; it was always Ezra who ended up killing mercilessly when his troubles became too much for him to bear. Now, he supposed, after years of bottling it up, Jackson was letting loose. Too many things had gone wrong for his friend.

"Oh, really?" he shot back, watching as the blood dripped from the palm of the other's hand. It seeped to the ground in a way that drew his attention straight to it; he wanted to touch it, to watch it. Blood fascinated him to the point that he'd started killing for fun. Granted, Daileh had eased him into it, but once he'd started feeling the warmth of splattered blood over his fingers, and the thrill of sinking a dagger into a person's flesh. "Watching from the sidelines? Is that how you explain months of me at your fucking bedside?" He was a little sore about the subject of Jackson's suicidal attempts, as he knew they were all his fault; as many times Sam told him he wasn't to blame, he couldn't fight the thought that he was killing his best friend slowly and painfully. "Cause I remember that as loyalty."

You can't stop me.

He growled, folding his arms across his chest as he sat and watched the other boy's fury rise. "Fuck you," he spat, rolling his eyes a little as he watched the other. Jackson had officially gone fucking Harry Potter on him. Suddenly, however, the other boy marched over to him. Within the blink of an eye, Jackson was looming over him and yelling about what would happen if he died. He attempted to scream over the other boy, whose voice had taken on an impressive new volume. "No, I expect you to tell Sammii that the love of his life died because he was fucking fighting for his best friend when he was too fucking proud to ask for help!" Suddenly, the bottle slipped from his friend's hand and smashed all over the floor. He'd have to clean that up later--or make one of the new kids at the bar do it. What the fuck? He watched as Jackson breathed heavily over him, steaming with rage that he'd never quite seen in his life.

He watched as the tears spilled from Jackson's eyes and pushed himself up so that he was face to face with the other boy. "Look, Jackson," he started, smoothing back a couple of spikes in his hair. "You gotta get off your fucking high throne and let me--or someone else--help, okay? I don't care if you get the fucking FBI to come and hunt down your father. I mean, we both know I'd like to be fighting with you--" He broke off for a moment. "--but, as you're so fucking sure that you can do it without me, at least do me the courtesy of getting some help."

[JACKSON SALES]

This, this right here sucked. Jackson had known Ezra pretty much ever since he could remember. He could count on one hand the amount of times the two fought, because in the years of friendship, the two rarely let their anger get the best of them. There was the time when they were eight, when Ezra stole his girlfriend, kissing her behind the swing set during recess, not realizing his best friend was standing yards away. Jackson didn't talk to the other for the rest of the day, letting his feelings of anger bottle up until they were walking home, when he exploded. At the tender age of eight, they vowed never to take girlfriends away from each other. It later evolved into boyfriends as well, but all the same. Years later, when they were fifteen, Ezra went crazier than usual when he got drunk, using his powers during the summer to show off to people who thought he was nuts. Jackson dragged him away from the mess, only waiting until the boy was sober before unleashing furry. Of course, Ezra didn't remember the events that occurred. To be honest, he hardly remember anything from when he was drunk.

Then, Ezra tried to get him to calm down after a fit of indescribable events shortly after the death of his mother. Roles were reversed, Ezra trying to stop Jackson from killing people. He argued, he wasn't killing just anyone. He was stalking the streets, finding the people who gave innocents nightmares, the kind of people who traveled in packs because their pride was to low and they were too scared to travel alone. His power meant he could take them all at one, gathering them up and leaving them in front of the police station for his father, note and all. He'd stay in the shadows, waiting to see his father storm out in anger, read the note, tear it up and throw it into his pocket before storming back inside. He loved it. Ezra tried to get him to stop, and eventually, what his best friend was telling him sunk in and started to make sense. This wasn't right, he needed to focus on the correct way to get revenge. He was weak. He needed to be stronger if he wanted his father to pay.

But this, this wouldn't do. Ezra didn't get it. He didn't get the fact that he would die, go bye-bye if he tried to help him. He was angry at that, and angry at his father. More over, he was angry at himself for not seeing this sooner. Weather he liked it or not, the death of his mother was his fault. He should have seen the problems sooner, gotten down to the living room sooner, used his power against his father. He should have done something, anything, instead of standing there like a deer in headlights, watching his father kill his mother before turning the gun on him and shooting his as well. For months, he thought about it, before his attention turned elsewhere.

"Yeah. It's exactly how I fucking describe it. Fucking loyalty or not, it was YOUR fucking fault I was in there in the first place! You sat back for months while I destroyed myself. You didn't do ANYTHING. Remember that night, when I told you I was close?" Jackson sucked in a breath, his voice going down an octave or two. "Remember when we fucked, because I told you it would be the last time? And you said you'd miss me? And you rattled off all that bullshit to make me feel better?" His anger rose, his voice stronger and louder. "Were those just lies you were feeding to me?"

Jackson laughed. Not humorous, but an angry, bitter laugh. "No matter how much you try, no matter how much you want it, I won't let you fight my fights for me. My fucking pride doesn't mean shit." The anger was back. "You'd do that? You'd DESTROY the love of your life for your best friend, who, oh, I dunno, just happens to be in love with you as well? It's fucking messed up. I'm not going to do that, you know it. There would be NO WAY in HELL I would face him if you died." Not only because Jackson wouldn't know what to say, but because he would be too distraught and hurt himself to pick himself up and do anything.

And there Ezra went again, spouting off things he had to know wouldn't work. He was trying, Jackson would give him that, but grasping for straws would get him no where. His anger was worse, this was the worst he'd even been. Ever in his years alive, he'd never been this mad. Not even when his mother died. Okay, maybe then it was close, but this was worse. This was someone willing to die for him, someone who was too close to lose, even though Jackson knew he'd already lose him. Sure, his best friend was his best friend, but that was the end of that. He'd be nothing more, and Jackson knew that, even though the fact killed him. He seethed. "Think about what you just said. I'm not on a fucking high throne. You may not realize it, too caught up in yourself, but this is the lowest I've ever been. This is lower than when you stole not one, but two of my girlfriends. Lower than when my mom died. You need to see it from my perspective." But he wouldn't, Jackson knew this.

"NO ONE CAN FUCKING HELP ME! WHY DON'T YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND THAT?!" He needed to throw something, anything. Thank god the club was so loud, the party still in full swing so no one would hear them yelling. Well, more like Jackson yelling, considering Ezra had yet to lose his cool. This probably was a first as well. He ran his hands threw his hair, getting blood mixed with the strands. "Tell, me how would I tell the FBI? 'Oh hey, I need you to tack down my father. Yeah, he killed my mother. He's a cop. Did I mention he can freeze time and cause paralysis?' No, I can't fucking do that!" His rage took over, he kicked over a box of vodka near Ezra, clipping his side in the slightest. "It has to be me. And me alone."

[EZRA HART]

In all honesty, he was far too selfish to wish that he could undo everything that had been done. All of his problems with Jackson could be solved by simply going to Trenton and getting him to rewind back the time in his best friend's mind--or, perhaps, going to Tia and asking her to mess with his memories. But he knew that Jackson would never forgive him for doing that--at least, while Ezra was holding him down, he'd get hell from it--and after whatever was done, he'd have the heaviest conscience on the face of the planet. He also knew that he couldn't bear to ask Tia to do something like that--he protected his baby sister with every fiber within him--whether it was from "sex fiends" (whores) like Kaden, who wanted to get into her pants no matter what, or murderers like himself, who didn't care about friends and family when they were faced with bloodlust, or even if it was just from the other kids at their school. As far as he was concerned, Tia and Jackson were his responsibility--both of them, as of late--and he wouldn't do a thing to harm them.

But he had, and he would again. The nights he'd spent with Jackson were some of his best--and some of his worst. Each moment he'd shared with Jackson over the past few months meant a break-up with Sammii, or several nights of rejection and tears, or the feeling that he was a bigger slut than he'd been when he'd started senior year. The worst part was, probably, that he didn't want to undo what he'd done. He wanted it to be in his and Jackson's mind that they'd been together--even if in secret, even if only for a few moments--and wouldn't let anything come between that. Not Trenton, not Tia, and certainly not himself. No; his conscience didn't seem to quite mind that he'd crushed his friend's heart in the process. As long as he'd gotten what he wanted, right? He could practically hear the choir preaching in his head that his soul had gone straight to hell, and that he was posessed by something greater that he could not imagine--that he was the devil for doing such foul things to his best friend and then turning his back on him for someone else--for wanting to do it again, and again, until Jackson begged for mercy for one sweet kiss--for reliving each sweet moment in pleasure and biterness.

He supposed that these things were out of his control--or, he liked to think they were--mainly because he was a demon, and he thought it to be in their nature. He'd never met a demon who wasn't sadistic in some way; what if this was his? He liked crushing people--no matter if they were a relative, or a best friend, or a lover. Wouldn't that explain why he'd broken up with Sammii so many times, or why he'd crushed Jackson's heart in the palm of his hands? Wouldn't the explain the body count he'd produced over the years, the girlfriends he'd stolen, the innocents he'd corrupted, and the lives he'd sent straight to hell? It put his mind at rest, at least for a little, to think that this was all out of his control, and was his destiny to reflect the lives of demons before him. Mythology came from somewhere, after all.

"I'm sorry!" he shouted back as Jackson's voice calmed down, his own fighting for the spotlight. "I'm sorry I'm fucking messed up and I fucked you when you told me you were going to die. I'm sorry I have so many fucking problems and I don't know what to do with it. And you know what? I'm pretty sure I'm way more fucked up than you'll ever be, and I'm sorry for that." He paused to take a breath, and calm himself down a little. It didn't work as well as planned. "But you know what? I did fucking mean it. I would've missed you like hell. Maybe half of what I fed you was shit, but I didn't know what to say, alright? My best friend was fucking dying. I would have said anything to keep you from diving off." Again, he paused for a breath, and heaved a little as he tried to steady himself. "And if I was the one fucking dying, you'd want to lie to me too."

The next bit hurt, and he fell quiet. He wasn't going to fight about Sammii with Jackson. That was far beyond a lost battle, and he wasn't going to go there now. He'd just be digging his grave a few feet deeper--which meant the impact of his body with the ground would be sickeningly worse.

"Alright, Jackson. Be fucking pissed at me. Can you do me a favor and stop being five? Move off of the fact that I'm a fucking slut and sleep with anyone that so much as looks at me--" He broke off as Jackson continued with his "perspective" spiel. No, he couldn't entirely see it from the other boy's perspective. That was part of why he was so pissed off. He simply couldn't understand what was going through the boy's head, and it made him want to throw something against a wall. "Well, fuck, Jackson. Tell me. How is it from your perspective? Cause all I see is a southern boy with shit for brains who can't understand that he needs help." He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to grab a bottle and chuck it at the other boy's head. Physical damage would be a no at this point.

Apparently, though, Jackson thought otherwise. A second later, he had shards of glass sticking into his leg. "Fuck," he hissed, pulling some of them out as quickly as he could so as to avoid the pain. This was fucking perfect. He now had shards of fucking glass stuck in his leg. Growling, he plopped back down on another one of the crates and settled for simply glaring at Jackson. At this point, he didn't seem like much of a threat--his leg was taken out, and he was virtually hopeless at walking. "Fine. You win." He shook his head, allowing some of the smaller shards to fall out.

"I'll be waiting if you make it out alive."

[JACKSON SALES]

So what, after fifteen years of being each others other half, Ezra was just going to give up on him? Just give up in general? He never did that. Always the vocal one in their duo, he never back down. Ever. Even from silly little dares, back when they were six and Jackson dared him to climb up the tallest tree in the park. Ezra did it, and in his celebration dance at the top lost his grip and ended up falling down to the ground. Jackson remembered crying his eyes out and calling for help before Ezra woke up. Of course, he fall broke his arm, but not his ego, as he told Jackson again and again that he did it. And the next day at school he bragged and bragged to all the kids, showing off his arm and everything. Jackson was proud of his best friend, but in the back of his mind he wondered if there would ever come a time where the dare was too much and Ezra was hurt worse. Jackson didn't like to see people in pain back then, regardless of how well his best friend or anyone else around him hid it.

And then when they were sixteen, and that ordeal that happened to Edward taking Ezra to the basement and torturing him. This was not a dare, not in the least, but Ezra had stood up for his best friend in his time of need. He took the blame, and the pain as well. When Jackson had snuck down to the basement when his father came up, and hoped and prayed the reason he came up to the surface was not that Ezra was dead. But by the look in Edward's eyes, he could see the monster insider, and not the disappointment that his prisoner had not lasted longer. Jackson rushed down to the basement, knowing that he did not have much time between his father leaving and returning. The sight of Ezra's bloody, torn up body made him cringe, but to be truthful, he had seen Ezra do worse to other innocent people. Not to be morbid, but the boy was used to it. He rushed to his best friend, grabbing his wrist with one hand and his chin with the other. There was a pulse, there was breathing, there was life.

To be honest, Jackson didn't know how he got Ezra lucid enough to teleport them out of there. Initially, Jackson told him to just save himself, and as soon as his best friend understood, he took a step back, but a hand latched onto his and they both were taken away. And a first, Jackson was upset, because he wanted to face the wrath of his father. He wanted to have the balls to call his father out, to harm him, but looking back, Jackson knew he would have not been able to. Instead, he tended to his best friend, who needed the attention and the focus. And now, a few years later, more blood had been shed and more revenge was sought.

"We're both fucked up. You can't help it, though. It's in your fucking nature. Your blood lust, you cannot stop that. My revenge? It's all my doing. Well, Edward's, but it's the same fucking thing." Jackson could feel himself calming down, if only in the slightest. Getting what he wanted across to Ezra would not work if he was still in his angered state, regardless if Ezra used his anger to get things across in the past to him. And sure, maybe Ezra deserved a dose of his own medicine, but that would have to wait for another time. If they ever got the chance. "Fuck, I never said you would never fucking miss me! But eventually, given time, you would find a new best friend and marry Sam and he would be best man and you would move on with your life. What happens to me, hmm? When you die, I'll still be here. Still the same Jackson, but alone with no. What then?" Jackson had thought on this so many times in the past, when he discovered he'd be hard pressed to ever be six feet under, but more when he tried to kill himself. Sure, he didn't like doing that to his best friend, but then again, the same was going to happen, just naturally. What then?

Okay, being called five pissed him off a little. Maybe, perhaps, if Jackson let Ezra into his mind, he'd see what his best friend was really trying to say. Jackson didn't want to lose his best friend, he wanted to lose his best friend. I can't handle losing you now. I know, someday, I'll lose you, but thats not now, and, just, no. I cannot bury you. Not now. Of course it doesn't make sense, but this is Jackson Sue Sales we are talking about. He loves metaphors, beating around the bush, speaking in code. He loved the link shared with his best friend, because it save time and made him talk less, but also helped say what he really wanted to say, not just what came out of his mouth. There was a difference. "You don't fucking think I want your help? I'm fucking scared out of my fucking brains! I have no idea what to fucking do!" Jackson threw his hand up in the air, slapping them down at his sides that made him cringe. He started to pace, staying close yet afar from his best friend.

Okay, maybe kicking that crate was not the best move. He smelled the blood, heard the cussing, but with his back turned, he did not see. He couldn't, he'd break down even more and lose himself in his anger and emotions. Of all the things his father yelled at him for, only one sunk in. He was always preaching for Jackson to watch his emotions, keep them in check. That way, he would have the upper hand in any argument, in any battle. In the middle of anything, he would still have a cool head, for the most part. The hair helped more than anything. But Jackson remembered this, and usually remembered to employ this, but tonight was different. He was rattled, shaken from the encounter with his father. He was so caught up with fright that his mind stop thinking, only thinking fearfearfear and panicpanicpanic. He stopped functioning like normal. If anything, that would be his downfall. His pacing stopped when he heard "Fine. You win." and Jackson knew that was not true. Ezra would never EVER give up in anything, no matter what. Jackson slowly turned around as Ezra stopped speaking, his eyes wide. "You don't mean that," he whispered. "Take it fucking back. You don't fucking mean that." He started shaking, fear freezing his movements. "LIE TO ME AGAIN! LIE AND SAY YOU'LL DO ANYTHING AGAIN, EZRA. FUCKING LIE!" His voice echoed, ringing in the cellar as Jackson struggled to breath. "Please?"