Log. Tuesday evening. 30 October. A random tea place in Westchester.

Jackson is full of restless energy, today, and it shows: he fiddles with the key hung on a lanyard around his neck (it unlocks the lock on his bicycle, parked outside), he bounces up and down on the balls of his toes, his fingers drum against the denim of his jeans. Bounce, fiddle, taptaptap. Fiddle, taptaptap, bounce. Bright blue eyes alternate between glancing towards the door and scanning the menu board at the small cafe -- it lists tea, and more tea, and /more/ tea, of most every colour and region and flavour imaginable (and no coffee to be found anywhere!); rooibos and many variations of spiced chais and white tea and Assam and oolong and a dozen different herbal varieties to aid with various ailments, and the list goes on. And on. And on. Jackson is rather in heaven.

One year ago, it was Rene's first New York Autumn. Closely followed by a first winter. The second time through, he is not looking forward to it and has taken steps to ensure his warmth and not fall prey to the tricks of sunlight. Just because the sun is out, does not mean that it is warm! That was his downfall. Never again! All he needs when he enters the cafe is dramatic lighting and a toe-to-head camera angle--Rene is looking quite determined, neck and part of his face bundled in a big, colorful scarf that winds over his shoulder and chest. He wears a black peacoat overtop his jeans and long-sleeved shirt, the bottom buttons undone simply because he probably could not see past the scarf. His hair is loose over his shoulders, slightly wavy from drying without a combing. At least one stranger tosses him an amused glance. Rene is a mighty cold-warrior! At least the gloves he wears are the fingerless kind, lending him a bit of practicality. "Where did my summer hide?" The boy demands an answer of nobody in particular when he shuffles on his toes over towards Jackson; his movements are slow, half from cold and half from nervousness.

"I been wond'rin' the same thing! Can we hibernate till spring?" Jackson was bundled against the cold, too, but his coat has been shed and draped over one arm; still, the knit hat, scarf, and gloves (all in matching red-and-black stripes) are still on. He tugs slightly at Rene's scarf to expose enough cheek to drop a light kiss on, and then waves excitedly at the menu. "Isn't this place /great/?" he gushes happily. "You can get 'most any kind of tea /ever/ an' it's all fair-trade."

Rene smiles softly as he is semi-freed from the confines of cottony woolen walls and subsequently pecked on the cheek. "Hibernation is only okay when you're covered in fur. Otherwise you freeze. But it might be interesting to try." The blonde scans his surroundings more carefully now, eyes alighting on the board of teas. "Wow." Rene agrees on the term of greatness.

"We could get some Rogaine an' grow lotsa fur first," Jackson decides with a grin. "I bet you'd look cute if you was all shaggy." He shifts from one foot to the other, glancing back at the board. "The only problem is now I can't at /all/ decide what I want t'get."

Rene considers this prospect of shooting up hair growth products. "I'd...probably end up looking like an afghan hounnd." He says this thoughtuflly while reading. "I haven't even heard of most of these. I know--" Both eyes close, and his pointer finger(also covered in an awkwardly padded bandaid) moves around in the air in front of him. Yes, people stare. The boy stops suddenly and squints open one eye. "Vanilla...rooibos for me." By some luck, he manages to pronounce it, but not without a pause.

"Afghans are /cute/, they look all -- stuck-up an'snooty!" Jackson says with a laugh, but then suddenly he frowns and catches Rene's hand in the air. "What happened to your finger?" Ordering his own tea will have to wait until he is done being concerned.

Rene feels like a little kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar; perhaps it was the literal and sudden catching of his real hand. A small wiggle of resistance is met. "I couldn't find a smaller bandaid. I just cut myself, that's all. I wasn't paying enough attention." Meanwhile he makes it a point to at least seem aloof, face inspecting the board further.

"You should pay attention," Jackson replies with more worry than reproach, dropping Rene's hand and slipping his own hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. "Otherwise I'll hafta come back an' start cooking all your meals for you again so's y'dont hurt yourself." Though it has been a long time since he was new to the city and exchanged cooking for a place to stay. He rocks back on his heels, and finally settles on a drink -- a large mango maté with soy milk.

Rene cradles his own hand in the other while Jackson settles on his drink. "I was distracted. It happens." The boy chuckles lightly and picks at his gloves. He wasn't oblivious to the reminder that Jackson's cooking gives off, and it puts a small frown onto his lips. He'll wait until they're sitting down to say something about Sunday-night-ghosts.

Jackson notices the small frown, and it puts a slight crease between his own brows as he pays for their order. He turns from the register, leaning back against the glass of the case where various pastries and desserts are displayed, and studies Rene critically. "I think you're more like a Papillon than an Afghan," he informs Rene. "They're pretty. You need to look at me with more /disdain/ t'be an Afghan."

That gets a smile; Rene -is- a Papillon. Little companion watchdogs with a knack for athleticism. "I think you're right. I don't think I could get my nose up high enough for an Afghan..." He makes an upward tilting face, a bad attempt at...contempt. Blondie's not feeling it. "Nope." He peeks past Jackson's side at the glass, if just to see if those numbers match the numbers of teas. Rene suddenly grins up at the other boy. "I'm not sure I can breed you." It starts out as a laugh, but then he stops and puts his hands up to pull down the scarf, cheeks red. ". . .That didn't come out right at /all/." Rene snorks just a tad.

"You can breed me if you want to," Jackson answers with a giggle, leaning forward to kiss the tip of Rene's upturned nose. It earns more stares from the cafe's other patrons, but Jackson is not paying attention to them. Behind him, the display case holds an assortment of sweets almost as varied as their teas -- the large number of vegan options is further indication of why Jackson likes the place so much. "-- How should it have come out?" Jackson is slightly puzzled.

"I meant to say it's hard to think of what sort of dog you might be. Maybe I'm thinking /too/ hard. Golden Retriever." Rene smiles broadly, content in his own decision. Everyone loves them! They love everyone else! Playful and cuddly.

"Oh. /I/ meant that you could keep me to make little Jaxes an' maybe we can enter 'em in shows," Jackson replies, grinning. "And I could be a golden. They're happy dogs."

Rene stares at Jackson for a few seconds, daydreaming about babies on harness leashes in dog shows. Many of them have colorful sprouts of hair on their heads. "...Sounds like a plan." Rene giggles despite himself. "My neighbors used to have a golden. He was so big and fluffy. I suppose everything looks huge when you're a kid, though." Hee.

"You need silly pretentious names for dog shows, though. I couldn't be Jax. I'd have to be Grand Caramel Holland or somethin' if I was a golden." Their drinks are handed across the counter, and Jackson flashes the youth who made them a bright smile before claiming them both and sidling away from the register to find free seating.

Rene follows on Jackson's heels, whether needed or not. Hee. "Those drive me crazy. Those poor pups. Dogs are supposed to be named...Spike and Buster and Lucky and Spot." Blasphemy otherwise!

"My dog back home's named Skittles," Jackson replies, finding a free table and setting their drinks down before slipping into a seat. "He's a mutt, so he don't need a silly name like Imperial Starshine Lotus Blossom."

Rene settles himself on the seat across the small table, grinning over a little stream of steamy air from the tea. "Maybe the last three, each by themselves. Starshine would be a pretty name..." The boy is leaning, relaxed, on the table when he says this. He's also watching Jackson, and his blue gaze lingers. Hmm.

Jackson makes a soft 'mmm'ing noise of wordless assent, slipping his gloves off to cradle his mug between long fingers as he leans back in his chair. His eyes meet Rene's, and hold the older boy's gaze, thoughtful, questioning.

Rene smirks a little, shaking his head with a laugh and glancing to his drink. "Starshine." He's probably not making any sense. "So...I had a visitor on Sunday evening." The boy lifts his mug in both hands to test the waters. He did pick this at random, after all.

"Mmm?" That noise again, but this time one of question rather than affirmation. Jackson doesn't lift his mug yet, but keeps it held in both hands, waiting for it to cool some and enjoying the heat the ceramic gives off. "The good kind or the bad kind?"

"I'm not certain." Rene has gone rather muted, but it picks up. "Craig." His eyes flick back to Jackson's. "...I thought he was -dead-." With good reason. With 'dead', Rene's voice shifts and he tries to cover both it and his quickly growing fluster by drinking his tea.

"/Craig/?" Jackson's eyes widen with surprise that quickly melts into a confused sort of relief. "He's -- he's okay?" His brow creases deeply at the change in Rene's voice, and one hand pries itself off the mug to start reaching across the table for Rene's hand, but he aborts the gesture halfway through. His hand sits uncertainly in the middle of the table, palm flattening against the grained wood of the tabletop. "What happened to him?"

Rene finishes the gesture, setting his mug down and reaching out for Jackson's hand with his own. Maybe he was waiting for it, because it nearly appears instant. He seems to be getting increasingly glassy-eyed already. "He's fine. Said he wasn't supposed to be gone for more than a month." A tiny snort. Rene's having clear trouble with bits of the relay. "It was more like.. almost eleven." Maybe some angry bits too, though they don't last long. "I think the mob wanted him back." If Jackson was oblivious before now, that is probably fixed. "People been after him to kill him before he disappeared...so...I thought that he'd just..." It is easy to see where 'I thought he was dead' came from. "I thought for ten months that I've had -two-...taken like that. Then he just shows up and says 'I forgot to take the note outta my coat'?" The last part is said half bemused and half choked.

"The -- mob?" Jackson blinks, and his reactions are in slow motion; his hand turns up to curl fingers around Rene's, he leans forward in his chair, lifts his cup halfway to his mouth before changing his mind and setting it back down. "Oh," is inadequate response, but it takes him a moment to digest this. "He wrote you a note." Jackson's eyes meet Rene's, more than a little bemusement in his own expression. "And -- and now he's back." There is a question in this statement, but Jackson cannot bring himself to voice it just yet. His hand squeezes Rene's gently, physical comfort and reassurance to stand in for his lack of eloquence.

Rene clings onto the touch as if it were a momentary lifeline. "He left to let me think Sunday night. Came back yesterday afternoon." The blonde seems to have calmed down a bit, but his nervousness isn't gone. "I missed him when he left. I'm relieved and glad he's still alive. It's not like I've never thought about him. He was a rogue but...good friend." Among other things. "I still think about Luc all the time too, like that." If Rene had a pair of canine ears, they would be splayed to the sides and back now. "We talked about...things." It's not difficult to discern what 'things' might be. The entire 'what now?' conversation.

Rene clings onto the touch as if it were a momentary lifeline. "He left to let me think Sunday night. Came back yesterday afternoon." The blonde seems to have calmed down a bit, but his nervousness isn't gone. "I missed him when he left. I'm relieved and glad he's still alive. It's not like I've never thought about him. He was a rogue but...good friend." Among other things. "I still think about Luc all the time too, like that." If Rene had a pair of canine ears, they would be splayed to the sides and back now. "We talked about...things." It's not difficult to discern what 'things' might be. The entire 'what now?' conversation.

Jackson nods, slowly. "What --" he begins, and his voice comes out unsteady, uncertain. He pauses, licks too-dry lips, swallows. "What are -- y'all going to --" he tries again, and though his voice is even now, the words are hesitant. His hand tightens around Rene's. "What's going to happen now?" This time, the question is calm, if quiet.

Rene swallows too, but it feels like it gets stuck in his throat. "Nothing. I have to talk to him again, but...I think I just want him there. Just around. Because he'll always be my friend. But that might be a tiny bit harder to.../explain/, now." That sounded ominous, but Rene's come to the conclusion he needs to be honest.

Jackson's brow creases again, blue eyes puzzled. "Harder to explain? Why? I mean, you and he was --" He hesitates, glitter-dusted eyelids falling as his gaze drops briefly to the table before lifting to Rene again. "Like -- like you said, he'll always be your friend."

"And he was more than ready to stay that way." Rene's other hand moves to his forehead as he leans onto the table, head hanging into his palm and blonde hair around his cheeks. "I did a stupid, silly, /stupid/ thing." Because now the intimate possessiveness will come flooding back; it would have been more of a 'big brother' had things continued...peacefully. Rene's face is shadowed by his hand, but it's plain that he's both hiding and trying to keep himself from cracking. It's not working so well; he's watering up behind his wrist.

The puzzlement only grows. Jackson's hand squeezes at Rene's again, concerned. "Rene, what's wrong?"

"I was ready to just be his friend. He was just ready to be mine too. I knew I still loved him like a best friend--He wasn't doing anything but being /himself/ and I--we? couldn't stop remembering how we--used to be, and one thing led to another..." Nervousness has progressed into a small hyperventilation, and Rene rubs his wet face against the side of his palm, leaving his red-eyes in plain sight. "Before I knew it, we were--" If it were another set of people, Rene might not feel so disgusted with himself; but this is Jackson, and therefore a possible transgression against something invisible. The blonde boy doesn't even finish his sentence, instead burying his face in the crook of his elbow on the table, his other hand like a vice to Jackson's.

"You -- were --?" Even Jackson, as oblivious as he generally is, has caught on by now, but that does not stop the question from coming out anyway. He stares down at his maté in silence. One hand tightens around Rene's; the other curves around his mug. His expression is oddly calm. Above and around them, the lighting in the store flickers unsteadily.

Rene sinks into his jacket sleeve before picking himself up just enough to look at Jackson like a drowned cat. "I'm sorry. Je suis désolé. I don't know what I was /thinking/." He mutters, hissing the last syllables. His breath is audibly caught in his chest. "I couldn't hide it, either. I had to be honest. Because I can't...lie to you. I /can't/. I'm sick from myself. Can you find it to forgive me?"

"I -- to forgive you. Yes. Yes, of course." Jackson's voice is detached and rather robotic as he says this, and his forhead creases in a puzzled frown, as if he is confusing himself with his own words. "Excuse me, one moment, please?" he asks, oddly formal, and pries his hand out of Rene's before rising, stiffly, and heading to the counter to get the bathroom key from the cashier. He vanishes with it into the back.

Rene remains to watch the empty chair for only a few seconds, palm to his knotted stomach when he rises to duck after Jackson to the back. Noo. No. No. No. If anyone tries to even talk to him, much less stop him from following, someone could very likely get hurt.

The bathroom is single-occupancy, and Jackson, still very much on autopilot, locks it behind himself, oblivious to Rene following. The sounds from within are muffled by the door, but not enough to make them unrecognizable. A thump, as he drops to his knees. Retching, and then more retching; it ends in a heavy dry heaving before the toilet flushes. The sink runs. There is silence.

Rene is not oblivious. Not by a long shot. He's seen this before, but it was never him on the wrong side of faithfulness. Now it feels like he's going to mimic those exact muffled noises and then some. Rene wants to pound on the door like a maniac, but nothing happens save for a glazed-over stare, the quivering heave of his chest like a rabbit under the hunt, and the new flood of wetness from his eyes.

The silence stretches on, and then the door opens. Jackson's eyes are dry, and colour has returned to his cheeks. He looks faintly surprised to see Rene outside the door. "M'sorry," he says quietly. "I was..." His words trail off into nothing. "Sorry," he repeats.

"You have nothing to be sorry about." Rene says this with a shaky-voiced conviction, shoulders straight and expression restraining itself from a breakdown. He is angry with himself, and even if it was the truth that he'll be forgiven, it is likely he will never do the same for himself. More tears flow freely with even half a blink. "I hurt you. /I'm the one that was wrong/. Don't be sorry for something you didn't do, Jackson, please. Please..." Rene closes his eyes and swallows--or rather, he tries to do so. "You didn't do anything. I did something and it feels like I'm going to choke to death on my heart because of it and how I hurt -you-. You did nothing wrong. /Nothing/..." Fists clench beside him, and the floor below gets a wet glower. "I betrayed your honest trust and that is -evil-." The word hisses past his teeth. Rene often jokes about himself being malevolent, but this is not one of those times.

Jackson leans against the frame of the bathroom door with on shoulder. His eyes fix on Rene, clear and still very dry. He looks at Rene's tears, and bites his lip. He pushes himself upright, the movement impossibly heavy in contrast to his calm expression, and takes a slow step towards the older boy. One arm loops, awkward, hesitant, around Rene's shoulders and pulls the other boy towards himself, a clumsy attempt at comfort. He says nothing.

Rene's next inward breath could be a death rattle by the way it moves through his lungs. His shoulders quiver under the touch at first, but when the clumsy attempt pulls through, any and all shaking, movement, or appropriate noise is directed through his face. Sobbing is hardly ever a pretty thing, and this counts for Rene just as much as anyone else. He's never done this. Never. But then he did. Fists uncurl and his fingers search in blindness for at least the lower hem of Jackson's coat. "Je suis désoléjesuisdesolejesuisdesole--" The muttering through inntermittent chokes goes on quietly, jumbled and running together.

Jackson's embrace is stiff and uncertain, but he holds Rene close, and his head slowly drops to rest his cheek against the older boy's head. With his arms around Rene, with his cheek against Rene's head, there are enough non-visual signals to make it obvious that the dry eyes, the calm exterior, is Jackson's mutation at work, an illused mask of serenity that hides cheeks slick with tears, hands that tremble uncontrollably, breaths that hitch jagged in his chest as he fights to keep them silent. Still, he says nothing, but now it is clearer why -- his illusions, also, would do nothing to steady a voice cracked and laced with held-back sobs.

Rene presses himself gently against the taller boy, cheek to his front and hands sliding around to clutch pathetically at the back of clothing. He's still murmuring softly as he literally gushes. As his senses realize the illusion, there comes another sudden wave of emotions; Rene's hands tighten at Jackson's back, and his noises, shakes and so forth begin to mimic the ones that cannot be seen until their sobs come into parallel.

Jackson's arms tighten somewhat, too, but his body is still stiff and tensed against Rene's. Slowly, the hitching of his breath calms somewhat; enough, at least, for him to try out his voice again. "Tea's gonna get cold," is all he says, quiet enough that his voice does not wobble. Much.

Rene runs his tongue past salty lips, one hand moving slowly from its clutch to find Jackson's arm, and hopefully, his hand. There is a throbbing pain inside of his head and gut, when his eyes turn upwards it seems like they'll be permanently red from how much they seem to have leaked out. They still are. "Jackson--" It's hard to say his name, because there is everything he did wrong in such a short time reminding him how hard it -needs- to be.

Jackson's eyes meet Rene's, clear still and calm in stark contrast to the other boy's. His hand rests in Rene's, but there is no response -- he does not pull away, but his fingers stay limp and motionless at the touch. "Rene." There is no queston mark in his utterance; his voice comes out flat and devoid of emotion.

Rene's neck slips forward, and his forehead bumps into the other boy's chest weakly. The voice did not do much good. He has nothing coherent left.