Jet Link | 002 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
metalicarus) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-03-28 11:20 am
metalicarus) wrote in thecapitol2015-03-28 11:20 am
Entry tags:
Block the entrances, close the doors.
Who| Sam and Jet
What| Sam finds the bottle Jet's climbed into
Where| The Speakeasy
When| The night after the crowning
Warnings/Notes| Alcohol, mentions of alcoholism, depression and insanity and creepy capitolites
Twice he'd been forced to clean up and sent out of his apartment only to return and fall back into the heap he'd found for himself over the last week. When he'd found that vodka bottle left for him after the interview with Sigma, he'd refused to touch it at first. It reminded him of the arena and losing his mind in that fog of static and how the vodka he hadn't used as weapons turned to his own fuel and fed that fog so it grew thicker and more powerful. It was terrifying.
But being forced to interact with someone else had strained those seals and locks he'd wrapped his emotions in and the fear of them breaking free and obliterating him was stronger than his fear of that fog. He drank. The more he drank, the stronger that cloud of insanity became and the easier it was for him to forget himself, forget he was even bothering to exist and his emotions stayed trapped. That was how it started. One bottle turned into three with almost nothing else put into his stomach but the substance he'd deemed 'poison' when he was younger. Maybe it was poison, maybe that was the point. He'd condemned his bastard father for poisoning himself and their family, but maybe Jet now understood at least a part of why. His father had still had a family to care for, drowning himself was unforgivable, but Jet had nothing left. His family was dead, Joe, Pyunma, the others, he'd told himself they were fine for over a year but he'd been lying; they were dead and the former two had never been revived past that first arena. Just like Al--
He downed the entire contents of his glass in one go, chasing the ghost of a name from his mind with the burn down his throat. His room had been in complete disarray, so much so he'd been shooed out just so the Avoxes could clean it, so Jet went to the next best place. There were enough people here he could continue to pretend he didn't exist and drink as much as he wanted and who would even say he was there? This was the speakeasy, no one said or saw anything.
'Hey, can I buy you a drink?' The voice seemed far off for how little attention Jet payed it, but then there was a hand on his shoulder as the man repeated the question and numbly Jet just nodded. Why not, he was going to get one anyway. Something was put in front of him and he went to take a swig as the guy kept talking, that hand still on his shoulder. 'You're Jet, right? The District 2 tribute? Those kills were intense--' He kept talking and Jet kept staring ahead, ignoring him. Hopefully he'd be done saying whatever he was saying and just leave so Jet could go back to pretending he was see-through.
'--you know, it's probably better he didn't come back, he never did anything interesting. Just wasn't cut out for it at all, not like you.' Jet's head snapped up and over to look at the guy for the first time. The way he was decked out, it was clear he was some spoiled brat of a capitolite, some punk kid with a mouth on him and a grin that made Jet's stomach twist and that fire of his anger flare. He'd been talking about...
His vision was wobbly and he didn't trust himself to land a punch, so his arm lashed out instead, catching the man across the chest and shoving him back. "Get away from me!" It was a hiss, the fire swirling in his tone and in his eyes fueled to terrible levels by the alcohol in his system. How dare this punk say anything, leering at him like he was. He had the audacity to look offended as he took a step back closer to Jet. 'What the hell's wrong with you? I was paying you a compliment.'
If Jet could spit fire like Chang, he would have roasted this piece of crap in a heartbeat. Instead he stumbles a bit as he gets off the barstool and has to catch himself on the bar to keep his balance. He was in a sorry state, but if this brat kept running his mouth, Jet would fight every blurry version of him he saw until there were none left. He should have just left him alone, why couldn't he have just left Jet to his peaceful non-existence? Now he was dizzy and sick and so angry there was no way he didn't exist. At least not in this moment.
What| Sam finds the bottle Jet's climbed into
Where| The Speakeasy
When| The night after the crowning
Warnings/Notes| Alcohol, mentions of alcoholism, depression and insanity and creepy capitolites
Twice he'd been forced to clean up and sent out of his apartment only to return and fall back into the heap he'd found for himself over the last week. When he'd found that vodka bottle left for him after the interview with Sigma, he'd refused to touch it at first. It reminded him of the arena and losing his mind in that fog of static and how the vodka he hadn't used as weapons turned to his own fuel and fed that fog so it grew thicker and more powerful. It was terrifying.
But being forced to interact with someone else had strained those seals and locks he'd wrapped his emotions in and the fear of them breaking free and obliterating him was stronger than his fear of that fog. He drank. The more he drank, the stronger that cloud of insanity became and the easier it was for him to forget himself, forget he was even bothering to exist and his emotions stayed trapped. That was how it started. One bottle turned into three with almost nothing else put into his stomach but the substance he'd deemed 'poison' when he was younger. Maybe it was poison, maybe that was the point. He'd condemned his bastard father for poisoning himself and their family, but maybe Jet now understood at least a part of why. His father had still had a family to care for, drowning himself was unforgivable, but Jet had nothing left. His family was dead, Joe, Pyunma, the others, he'd told himself they were fine for over a year but he'd been lying; they were dead and the former two had never been revived past that first arena. Just like Al--
He downed the entire contents of his glass in one go, chasing the ghost of a name from his mind with the burn down his throat. His room had been in complete disarray, so much so he'd been shooed out just so the Avoxes could clean it, so Jet went to the next best place. There were enough people here he could continue to pretend he didn't exist and drink as much as he wanted and who would even say he was there? This was the speakeasy, no one said or saw anything.
'Hey, can I buy you a drink?' The voice seemed far off for how little attention Jet payed it, but then there was a hand on his shoulder as the man repeated the question and numbly Jet just nodded. Why not, he was going to get one anyway. Something was put in front of him and he went to take a swig as the guy kept talking, that hand still on his shoulder. 'You're Jet, right? The District 2 tribute? Those kills were intense--' He kept talking and Jet kept staring ahead, ignoring him. Hopefully he'd be done saying whatever he was saying and just leave so Jet could go back to pretending he was see-through.
'--you know, it's probably better he didn't come back, he never did anything interesting. Just wasn't cut out for it at all, not like you.' Jet's head snapped up and over to look at the guy for the first time. The way he was decked out, it was clear he was some spoiled brat of a capitolite, some punk kid with a mouth on him and a grin that made Jet's stomach twist and that fire of his anger flare. He'd been talking about...
His vision was wobbly and he didn't trust himself to land a punch, so his arm lashed out instead, catching the man across the chest and shoving him back. "Get away from me!" It was a hiss, the fire swirling in his tone and in his eyes fueled to terrible levels by the alcohol in his system. How dare this punk say anything, leering at him like he was. He had the audacity to look offended as he took a step back closer to Jet. 'What the hell's wrong with you? I was paying you a compliment.'
If Jet could spit fire like Chang, he would have roasted this piece of crap in a heartbeat. Instead he stumbles a bit as he gets off the barstool and has to catch himself on the bar to keep his balance. He was in a sorry state, but if this brat kept running his mouth, Jet would fight every blurry version of him he saw until there were none left. He should have just left him alone, why couldn't he have just left Jet to his peaceful non-existence? Now he was dizzy and sick and so angry there was no way he didn't exist. At least not in this moment.
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But he'd needed to get out of the Tribute Center, get some air, somewhere no one was looking to him or expecting anything. Speakeasy seemed like the place.
He's there barely five minutes before he spots Jet, three sheets to the wind and ignoring some guy blabbering at him. He hesitates, knowing that Jet probably still doesn't want to see him, then decides he doesn't care. He's already heading over when he sees Jet shove the guy and try to stand.
Sam moves in quicker, catching Jet's elbow to help him balance as he shoots the Capitolite a level stare. "That's enough compliments for tonight, man, you're done here."
He steps between them so he's facing Jet. "Come on, brother, let's-" he starts, but doesn't get to finish before the dumbass is at it again.
'Wait, you were the one with him when he died, right?' The guy angles back around so he can try to get back at Jet again, grinning like a fanboy about to get a private scoop. 'Come on, Jet, ask him what happened, ask him how it was-'
Sam snaps. It's not his proudest moment, but goddamn he just wants the guy to leave Jet alone, stop prying into his personal life and digging into wounds that haven't even had time to stop bleeding yet. He whirls around, fist already cocked back, and uses his momentum to drive it straight into the guy's nose.
"You hear me? I said you're done here, get the hell out."
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But then that guy was back at it and the very thought of asking Sam what had happened made him sick to the point of physical nausea. He could remember seeing Sam and Albert's faces in the sky that night with Bucky and how devastated they'd been, knowing Sam was with Albert...well, at least his husband hadn't been alone.
But before he could say anything, Sam's fist was connecting with the Capitolite's face and all Jet felt was fear for Sam. It was the Speakeasy, more than likely no one would say anything, but still. All he could think about was talking to Bucky on the roof and how now he was probably being punished for it and that couldn't happen to Sam too.
"Sam!" Jet reached for his friend's shoulder and pulled him back a bit before his hand slipped down to take hold of Sam's arm. The guy had staggered back and was likely only standing by virtue of a nearby table, but he hadn't fully recovered yet. If this turned into a real brawl, they'd draw attention for sure.
"Come on. Please." He started tugging on Sam's arm, hoping he'd leave with Jet like the cyborg was hoping. He couldn't lose this too, he'd been avoiding Sam, but at least Jet knew he was still there.
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The tinge of guilt doesn't set in until he hears Jet say please. Then he realizes that he might have just gotten them into trouble more than he helped the situation. Back home, punching a guy who won't leave his friend alone in a situation like this is not the best way of managing his anger, but here? Here it's a dozen times worse, if things escalate.
He backs off immediately, pissed at himself, and slings his arm around Jet's waist in a pre-emptive attempt to help him keep his balance as they walk.
"Sorry," he mutters as he moves to leave with Jet. "Should've had a better handle on myself than that."
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"S'alright...guy had it coming...just don't want you to get into shit for it." His words are slurred, but the sentiment is real. Jet just got brutally honest when he was drunk, especially if he was drunk and upset.
"Thanks, by the way...I'll go somewhere else for the night. You should too." Implying he wasn't done getting so sloshed he could black out and finally sleep. That was one good thing about not having his own cybernetics: his metabolism never would have let him get drunk. It was faster than average as a normal person, but he could beat it if he was faster.
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Technically, Sam's not looking for any trouble, but he's not dumb enough to think he's not going to find it.
Sam laughs a little at the implications of that, soft and with only the barest hint of humor. "Come on, man, you really think I'm going anywhere now that I've actually gotten to lay eyes on you?"
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He came up short, hoping it would dislodge Sam's hold on him. He tried to get his tone to go cold like the voice he could hear in his head. It never went anywhere, not unless he drank enough. "I don't need you to hang around." Maybe if he said it outloud it'd feel more true. He wanted Sam around, probably needed him, but if he was Jet might just lose one of the only people worth hanging around for. Probably by Jet's own stupidity.
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Sam swallows a little when Jet says he doesn't need him around. He doesn't disagree outloud, even though he sure as hell knows that Jet needs someone. "Maybe not," he says quietly. "Maybe I'm the one who needs to hang around." He shakes his head. "I'm not going anywhere, all right? Better get used to it."
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It's out of his mouth before he can catch it and more follows soon after, like a floodgate that had been bursting at the seams. It was those emotions he'd been trying to drown in the alcohol, the ones he'd kept locked up since he discovered he was alone again for fear of the force they held and how much they would rip him up. But now they were freed with the right words and they were coming out whether Jet wanted them too -a side effect of the alcohol he hadn't considered- and they were aimed at the first outlet Jet had been given: Sam.
"You don't need me, Sam, I can't help you or anyone, you're more likely to get dragged off 'cause of me or to just not come back at all!" He couldn't help Bucky, he'd been lying to both of them to say that. And on top of that, saying he'd fight the Capitol in a place he knew he'd be heard was an invitation for them to take Albert away and it was an invitation they'd accepted. And now Jet was alone.
Joe, Pyunma, Chaud, Albert...they'd come with Jet from Valhalla and he'd lost every single one of them. Pyunma and Joe had been killed in the museum and Jet hadn't been there to do anything to stop it and Chaud had died in that fog in the hellarena and Jet hadn't protected him -he was just a kid- and now he'd lost Albert all over again. Every silent moment was filled with the resounding thought of how he'd been too late to save Albert back on Mocawa, how Jaden had gotten into his head and broken everything Jet had loved, leaving the younger cyborg to try and fit the pieces of his partner together with love and care and patience that had felt as useful as trying to use spit and string. Yet, somehow, he'd managed...and Albert had been whole again, not without his scars, but whole. But it never left his mind that those scars wouldn't have had to been there if Jet had just gone after him like his instinct told him.
And now his husband was gone, ripped away from him all over again and he could see Kirk's leering face every time he closed his eyes, only instead of just being the twisted scum he'd been, he was the personification of the Capitol itself, jeering at how Jet had ruined everything and would continue to ruin everything around him.
"Don't waste your time, I just want to find another bar so I can drink enough to finally get some goddamn sleep! I-I can't...do this..." Human contact. Touch. Care. They were too harsh and he could feel things breaking down at even this much and he didn't want it. It hurt too much. What started as vehement turned to hopelessness ending in a pathetic crack of the cyborg's voice as that floodgate was smashed to bits.
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Well. He should know not to take it personally. Hopefully he can remember to stick to that, even though this is a hell of a lot more personal than what Sam's used to. Both because he cares so damn much about Jet, and because Sam's a little vulnerable with his own grief. A large portion of which is for the same man Jet's torn up over, of course - just not in the same way.
Someone else might say not as much, but Sam learned a long time ago not to measure grief in quantities like that.
Sam slides around in front of Jet so he can get a better look at him, though he doesn't move his arm. The end result is Sam half-hugging him, but hell if he cares what it looks like. "You are not a waste of my time, you hear me? You're not alone, Jet. Maybe it feels like you are, maybe it even feels like it's your fault, but you're not."
There's a lot more he wants to say, but he's having a hard time getting his thoughts in order. Especially because, as he was just reminded, the Capitol's got eyes everywhere. Well. Almost everywhere. "Come with me," he murmurs. "Please, Jet."
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The contact of that half-hug seared him and burnt through the fog in his head Jet had been clinging to, leaving him aware enough to nod in agreement. This wasn't the place for this, any kind of display was likely to show up in some news broadcast and twisted to fit the Capitol's needs. That was the last thing they needed.
"Yeah..." Carefully, his fingers curled into Sam's shirt, as though that would stop him from suddenly vanishing before Jet's eyes like some part of him feared.
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He doesn't talk as he walks them to the nearest blind spot he knows, but he also doesn't take his arm away, either. Sam kind of figures Jet might need the arm around his waist for balance still, with how drunk he'd seemed in there - and like hell is Sam going to let go of him now.
Once they've made it to the blind spot - well, Sam still doesn't let go.
"I'm tired as hell of them having a show with this shit," he mutters. Sam assumes Jet knows about blind spots, though he can't actually remember if he's ever confirmed that. But Albert did, and - and Sam doesn't want to go there.
"What're you trying to do, Jet?" he asks quietly.
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The urge to lash out and try to escape that feeling of being cornered ripped through him and he very nearly acted on it, some of that fear leaked into his eyes before he turned them away and pushed down the urge. He didn't want to face what Sam was asking him to face. He didn't want to feel again.
But it was already happening.
"Forget. To try and not feel cause...I can't--" He couldn't feel again, if he did it'd be all over and he'd fall apart at the seams. "Alcohol's good for forgetting everything that's important. It erases all the crap." Maybe not anger, but feeling only anger wouldn't be anything new. "And sometimes, if you drink enough, you can pass out and everything'll be fine for a little while."
The calmest times in his childhood where when his dad passed out. He never wanted to be Ciro, he'd told Albert he'd rather die than be anything like his father...only a year ago...and yet being Jet wasn't much better.
"I just want to sleep without feeling like..he's there. I haven't had enough yet."
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Because he knows what it's like to never really get over waking up and expecting someone else to be there.
"There ain't enough alcohol in the world that's gonna make that feeling go away." His voice is very quiet, but at least he manages to keep it steady.
After a moment, he ventures, "Sounds like all of that's coming from personal experience."
Sam's got no idea if Jet had previous alcoholic tendancies, or if maybe he knew someone who did, but all of that is usually only the kind of things people who're intimately familiar with drinking to forget say.
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Anger was what he fell back on now and suddenly he couldn't see Sam anymore, all he could see was Ciro Licursi falling into a bottle and staying there for five years. Five years where all Jet knew was anger and fear and hatred and how he ran out because he didn't want to be that, he didn't want to turn into his father. But now that crap he'd thought of as 'poison' when he was eight was running through his veins and he'd followed that worthless jackass of a man into the very same bottle.
And he couldn't say that, it'd make it real and he'd have to face that hatred he knew was waiting for him. Not from Sam, but from himself. He didn't want to be that angry man Ciro had been but now he was but if he just ignored it-! Angrily, Jet pushed against Sam to try and dislodge that hold.
"Shut up! What do you know!?" His anger flared and roared in his veins and pooled in his eyes making them sting as the urge for violence filled him and he turned away to slam the side of his metal hand into the nearest solid thing that wasn't Sam.
He might be terrible like his father, but he'd never be that bad. The stinging turned to burning and hate burned in his expression. "It's nothing, I'm fine!" The 'I'm fine' was practically a growl as his chest got tight and embers settled around his heart and he suddenly got the feeling he wasn't trying to convince Sam so much as himself.
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It's not unexpected.
As soon as Jet starts pushing at him to get away, Sam lets go. He doesn't back off, because he's not letting Jet really push him away, but he's been around too many vets who come up swinging when confronted, especially when they're drunk and angry. It only took a couple of black eyes for him to know when to take a step back.
"How the hell could you be fine?" He shouldn't be fine. If he was fine, Sam'd be a hell of a lot more worried than he even was now, and he's pretty damn worried.
"One of the hardest things in the world to do is admit that you're not okay, Jet. You don't gotta admit that to me, but don't bullshit me when I got eyes and a quarter of a brain."
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"What the hell else am I supposed to be? I have to be fine, I have to be fine for the same reasons we're hiding in a blind spot right now. If I'm not, then I might slip up and say something else, something that'll make them take you or Initiate or Bucky or Terezi or Venus -anyone I care about...they'll take them."
Slowly, slowly, the fire was ebbing -cooling- and in the absence of it's heat, the burning in Jet's eyes gave way to hot tears. They fell and he tried to swipe them away, but they didn't stop.
"I-I said...I told Bucky I'd storm any damn Capitol building I had to- that I'd fight to keep him safe and to get him a chance to stop resetting, no matter what it took and I...I don't regret it, I still mean it but..."
He closed his eyes, pushing more tears out as he grit his teeth in an attempt to keep his voice steady. It only succeeded in cracking his voice. "I said it on the roof...I know that goddamn place is bugged, I knew over six months ago and I still-I wrapped a fucking bow around him and asked them to take him." A flash fire burning with hatred filled his voice then, but it wasn't directed at Sam, it was directed inward. "It's my fault he's gone."
That same wall he'd punched became his support as the fight fled and left hopeless nothing in it's wake. It wasn't long before he was on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest so he could bury his face in them, no different than he'd been in the cave in the arena.
"...I'm not okay...because I don't even know why I should bother trying to be."
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That it isn't Jet's fault, that the blame rests on no one but the Capitol. It doesn't matter what Jet said, the Capitol could have figured it out anyway. Hell, Sam'd been the one to ask Albert to be his support in case he lost someone, and Albert'd said 'if I'm not the one who's gone', maybe the Capitol had thought it'd be entertaining making that come true, maybe it's Sam's fault and-
And that isn't anywhere Sam needs to be going right now, so he's going to cut off that line of thought before it goes further. This is about Jet.
But he doesn't want to interrupt him, and by the time it seems like Jet's done, everything's switched. The anger's faded a little, to another kind of grief.
So instead he sits down next to Jet, and takes a risk in reaching out to wrap an arm around his shoulders.
"Then don't try, not right now. Sit here with me and let yourself be not okay."
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He couldn't.
But he was going to. Maybe he was overdue for it.
He hadn't cried when he'd thought Albert was dead back on Valhalla, it'd been less than 48 hours later that he'd found out that wasn't true, so the numbness hadn't had a chance to wear off. He hadn't cried when he'd gotten his partner back in a pile of emotional and mental pieces and no guidelines on how to put him back together and he hadn't cried when he realized Pyunma and Joe were well and truly dead. They weren't in 13 and, even if they'd gone back to Valhalla, there wasn't a lot of hope to hold for them there either.
There'd been a hundred things to fall apart over and he hadn't because he'd needed to keep it together for one person or another. And now one of the people he'd decided he needed to be strong for in case he ever needed it, was giving him a chance to put that down, if only for a little while.
Slowly, the tenseness in him slipped away and Jet turned more into the hold, still a little mad that the tears had yet to stop, but more accepting of them being there. A moment later saw Jet's arms wrapping around Sam as he switched positions, no longer closed off, but open to the brother beside him.
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When Jet finally leans into him, wraps his arms around him, Sam wastes no time. He slides his other arm around Jet as well, pulling him in close and holding on to him as tight as he can.
He won't say anything stupid like it's okay, because it's not okay. They both know it, and Sam isn't going to lie and try to make it sound better than it is. They're not okay, and that's unlikely to change any time soon.
But they're not alone, either, and maybe that's the best they can do right now.
"I'm here, brother," Sam murmurs. "I got you."
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His hands tightened in Sam's shirt and as his metabolism slowly did it's job, his thoughts came in a little calmer as well. There was a buzzing in his head, but it was more manageable now. When he finally found his voice in all the buzzing, it came out lower and more steady than it'd been before.
"I'm sorry. For all of that. I did exactly what I never wanted to." And he'd done it to Sam which just made it seem that much worse.
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He’s had worse, so much worse, from other people grieving and in pain that he’s tried to help. Shit, Sam’d done about the same himself, so he knows he’s got no room to judge, even if he was inclined to. He’s too familiar with the kind of thinking pain like this causes, with the things you do to try to get away from it.
“But if you thinking you need to give me an apology means you’re willing to talk about what you never wanted to do, I’ll take it.”
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He pulled away, not completely, but enough to no longer have his face buried against Sam. "Get that drunk. Get that drunk and then take it out on someone I care about. I...I never wanted to turn into him, told A-Al he ought to push me off a damn roof if I ever did, but then it was so easy to fall into. By the time I realized, I didn't want to find a way out of it."
It was easier to self-destruct as long as there was no one around him to get caught in it, but then Sam had come in too close and that's exactly what had happened. He was a drunk, maybe not a fully-fledged one, but he'd spent the last week constantly drunk off his ass so that pretty much qualified. "...I turned into my dad and he was scum. But at least I didn't-" He shook his head, the words 'hit you' didn't come out. "-so I guess I'm not quite so bad as him. Bad enough. You didn't deserve to be caught in that shit." His misdirected anger was probably no better than a fist.
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"You didn't turn into anyone," he says, very quietly. "Judging yourself for the shit you do right now is..." He pauses, shaking his head, because he'd been about to say 'not something you should do,' but hell if he doesn't know that's easier said than done. "Really fucking hard not to do, I know, but I'm gonna tell you anyway that it's not worth it."
It'd taken Sam a long time to realize that judging himself for the way he acted after Riley wasn't helping - and even then, he still feels it sometimes.
"And I'm the one who put myself right in the middle of that shit, man, you don't have to worry about what I deserve. If I didn't want everything you've got I would've walked away back in the Speakeasy."
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Breaking down on Sam was definitely a wake-up call if he'd ever had one, but the thought of letting that numbness go and potentially facing that onslaught again was...well, terrifying. But if he didn't hurt Sam or anyone else like that again, it'd be worth the fear.
"Thanks, Sam. I'm sorry for pushing you away and saying you didn't know- I know you do." Sam knew grief, hell, he was probably grieving for Albert too and Jet was being selfish for closing up like he was the only one. But he knew better than to apologize for that one. "And don't try to tell me I shouldn't apologize, you deserve at least one. This...junk shouldn't excuse being a jackass."
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He goes quiet when Jet apologizes for saying he didn't know. It's not the first time he's had that spit at him, that he didn't know shit so what the hell was he trying to do pretending like he knew what someone else was going through. One of the first things he learned was not to try to insist that he did, because that hardly ever went over well.
"I don't know, not exactly the way you do." He runs his hand down Jet's back, almost absently. "But I do know the kind of shit that just seems to stop mattering, when you lose the person who was the most important to you. So I don't need an apology, man, but if you're giving me one, I'll take it, because it's a pretty good sign."
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"I think I might be hungry. How 'bout you?"
He was certainly done talking about this. He appreciated Sam's help and how he's snapped Jet out of his own head, but Jet still had an emotional limit on how much he could focus on this stuff, let alone talk about it. He hoped Sam understood.
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And he understands not being able to handle going into anything else. Sam has his own limits with that, too, and maybe he hasn’t reached them right now - but he’s pretty close. He’s a little relieved at Jet’s question, letting out a soft, heavy exhale before he quirks a little grin, giving Jet a gentle shove.
“Man, I missed dinner, I am starving.”
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He'd hesitated because going out didn't sound overly appealing, especially with the knowledge they'd be watched like Celebrities and gossiped about just as much. But, right now, they needed food and Jet was certain he could focus on Sam's presence over anyone elses and that was what would be comforting.
He pulled away and stood, glad his legs were metal and couldn't protest being in the same position for too long. He offered his hand down to Sam to help him up while the other scraped at his face and the smallest of smiles popped out for the first time in a long while.
"I'll buy."