Work Text:
If you'd ask Jacobi what the most romantic word in the English language is, he'd probably say 'sir'. And yes, that is fucked up, thank you.
Maxwell used to make fun of him, and he used to agree with her, because yes, it is a bad idea, and yes, the thing with Kepler is going nowhere, and yes, he is breaking his own damn heart, yes, he knows.
But he couldn't help it. There was absolutely nothing he could do, because, that thing they say about moths and flames? Turns out they don't tell you about the moths who know fire is bad for their health. Maybe because their knowledge is irrelevant. Because they die too, right alongside their moth friends. Because it doesn't stop their itch, in the deepest core of their being, telling them that after a lifetime of being cold they have to take it when they see a chance of warmth. Even if that warmth would only last a couple seconds. Even if the price would be way too high. They can't help it. They need it. They need it more than life.
And Jacobi's not regretting it. Despite it all, despite the blood in his mouth and the ringing in his ears and the aching in his muscles and the fact that he's about to die here, the farthest from home he could ever get, he's not regretting a second.
So it's not a surprise (or at least shouldn't be) that when Riemann is beating him down again and again with his bloody fists, all Jacobi can think about is Kepler.
Kepler, squeezing his shoulder after a mission-went-well and looking so satisfied something blooms in Jacobi's chest; Kepler, stern and fierce, looking at the world like he's trying to pick-and-choose only the best parts of it, the most deserving, and then looking at Jacobi, like he is one; Kepler, in the middle of one of his long, agonizing stories, dragging out the words like he's got nowhere else he'd rather be in than here, with Jacobi, telling blunt lies to his face that no sane person would believe (being a blunt lie, right in front of his face, that no sane person should believe-); Kepler, eyeing him up and down, face blank, opening his mouth to compare Jacobi to whisky, expecting Jacobi to not see through it but Jacobi swears he can see right through it; Kepler, talking down Maxwell after a mission-went-wrong, and Jacobi can feel himself making excuses in his head, to him, to her, to the both of them, to his parents, to himself; Kepler in the other room, sleeping, while Jacobi's on his hands and knees in some backwards cheap motel in the middle of absolute nowhere, praying for the first time since he was nine, explaining himself, wishing for it all to be okay, imagining his father's face the whole time, sneering at him "you chose to be gay? And for that?" and him answering back "please, please, I love him, I know it is wrong, I know it is ugly, I know it will kill me, please let me have this, please just let me have this"; Kepler with a gun to his head; Kepler with a gun to his mouth; Kepler sneering at him, disappointment oozing from him, enmity oozing from him, Jacobi wants to take his hands, Jacobi wants to slap him, Jacobi wants to suck his nipples dry; Kepler telling unfunny jokes and waiting for Jacobi to laugh; Jacobi laughing, Jacobi laughing so much he thinks he's about to throw up, Jacobi laughing until none of this is funny anymore; Kepler, fingers dancing on the back of Jacobi's neck in the car ride home, so light he's not sure anything is there at all; Kepler, sometimes looking at Jacobi's lips until he trails off in the middle of talking and then those eyes snap back up to meet him, and they look so regular, and pinched like in confusion, "Well, Mr. Jacobi? You were saying?"; Kepler, so gentle when he knocks on Jacobi's door, so patient, so polite, Jacobi wants to tear himself apart in Kepler's name sometimes; Kepler, cleaning up Jacobi's wounds and lingering a second too long, that's all he is allowing, just a second; Kepler, fingers digging into Jacobi's shoulder and his tone fierce, standing between him and Cutter; standing between him and some jerk with a gun; standing between him and a burning building; standing between him and emotional clarity, between him and some peace of mind, between him and not feeling like his skin is on fire at all waking hours; Kepler, shouting his name, knowing he will answer; Kepler, not even flinching at the sight of an active bomb, knowing Jacobi will handle it, knowing he is safe; Kepler, looking at Jacobi and never flinching; Kepler, looking at Jacobi; Kepler, buying him expensive booze at a cheap place, knowing who Jacobi is and wanting him; Kepler, a year later next to him in the car, making the sky explode just because he's happy that Jacobi's there; Kepler, today, calling him Daniel, saying goodbye.
Refusing to admit that he was wrong. Refusing to look him in the eyes. Refusing to admit that he remembers.
Daniel's tired. He's tired of this man, he's tired of this love. Tired of waiting for other men to give him a reason to love himself. He's angry, he's hurt, he feels stupid, like a moth that flew right into the warm light and discovered burning isn't just a thing that happens to other people.
Whatever. Right now, he's got bigger problems. He's got a crazy fucker making him bleed, he's got a bomb about to go off, he's got friends who're fighting god-knows-where, he's got a world to save.
Warren Kepler chose not to be a part of it. Jacobi will have to deal with it.
If he lives.
If he lives…
If he lives, he'd deal with it. He'll cry, and he'll mourn the relationship that's gone, the most toxic relationship in all toxic relationships, and he'll mourn Maxwell, who would've love to tease him about it but also would probably be proud, and he'll get a shit ton of therapy, and he'll maybe call his dad but no actually fuck that he won't, and he'll never drink whisky for as long as he lives, or maybe drink only whisky from now on, and make it his? Or maybe he'll drink it but think of him instead?
Or maybe he'll just think of him.
Or maybe he'll just move on.
(But he won't forget. He won't forget. He'll remember. For himself, for her, for him. He'll remember for them all. He'll never forget.)