So I edited The Assault (as I’ve been referring to it as). Killed my feels. Killing them everywhere. Editing my Idol piece tomorrow according to a friend’s suggestions and posting it then. Here’s some of the aftermath of The Assault:


Jazz panted as he came to a stop, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees. Breathe. He needed to breathe. And to calm down, and to <i>think</i>, and —

He collapsed against the nearest wall, grateful that none of the Palace Guards had stopped him as he (somehow, calmly) walked through the gates. Just a moment. Just a moment to clear his head, then he’d figure out where he was going — what he was going to do.

Shivering, he pushed himself away from the wall and tried to forget the feel of Savin’s hands on his body. Tried to forget how close Savin had actually gotten him unwillingly. His feet moved blindly, leading him to god knows where.

The air surrounding him grew colder, denser as he walked, his breathing slowly evening out. His mouth felt like cotton, dry and sticky all at once. Especially when he found himself in front of Mitchel’s house.

His hand still ached, the pain growing worse whenever he flexed his fingers. Swallowing as best as he could, Jazz took the steps towards Mitchel’s door two at a time, lifting his left hand to knock instead of his right. Maybe Mitchel wasn’t even home, yet.

As much as he had come to dislike the asshole, he was better than the downright bastard waiting for him back at the Palace. That thought only spurred Jazz to knock on the door quickly and as loudly as possible before hugging himself tightly.

What if Savin came looking for him? What if — what if Savin followed him? Or worse yet, what if he were still back in their living quarters, waiting for Jazz to come back so he could “finish” what he started? The thought chilled him straight through to his very core.

Jazz shook his head and shuddered, leaning against the railing for a moment as he waited for Mitchel’s door to open. If it’d open at all, he reminded himself. If Mitchel wasn’t home, he’d have to go somewhere else. Not Mari’s — Mari and Savin were too close. She’d tell Savin where he was in a heartbeat.

Just as his heart began to settle in his shoes, the door swung open slowly, causing Jazz to stand up straight and relax his arms.

“Callahan?” Mitchel asked, arching an eyebrow towards his hair. “Excuse my language, but what the hell are you doing here?”

Any other time, Jazz would have laughed. As it was, his face burned as tears filled his eyes. “Can I — can I please come in?” he murmured, his voice thick and grainy.

Mitchel frowned, but otherwise moved aside and gestured for Jazz to step inside his home. Jazz mumbled a quiet thank you, being careful to keep his distance as he walked past Mitchel. It had been years since he saw the inside of Mitchel’s home, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see it hadn’t changed much at all, in that time.

“Would you like something to drink?” Mitchel offered as Jazz collapsed onto his couch.

“Strongest fucking thing you have,” Jazz croaked, putting his head in his hands. “Please.”