Avery snuggles closer and the collar of his shirt widens at his shoulder. Jake doesn't mean or want to, but he catches a glimpse anyway, scratches down Avery's chest. They look deep. "What's this from?"
Avery looks down as if surprised he's hurt. "Jack."
"Jack the cat?"
Avery's eyes say no.
Jake doesn't understand why they do it and he's afraid to ask. It doesn't seem like they'd know anyway. It gives him the fucking creeps to watch Jack touch an ugly wound on his neck absently, to finger it and wince and then smile. He doesn't get it, not at all. How they could do it. How they could like it.
He's seen them, too, blood glistening on mouths as they kiss. It's a cannibal kiss, an apology and a desperate clutch and he's noticed tears in their eyes as they take turns whispering hurt me.
Just as strange is the after, blood drying and tears drying and how they bathe until they're clean and the cuts look old.
He doesn't get it. He doesn't want to. But he senses that somehow, for Avery and Jack, this is all right. It's just a part of them, the terrifying part of what they have, and Jake knows that they need that part too, even if it's beyond his comprehension. Avery is still looking at him, and when he speaks again, it's about something else. There's no need to go further; they take care of their wounds.