Title: Motion Picture Soundtrack.

Summary:You can't always get what you want. And sometimes, you can't get what you need, either.

Warnings: Angst, implied sex, implied non-con.

Motion Picture Soundtrack.

Limbless and helpless, I can't even recognize you.

Their relationship used to be a tangle of roads – most often ones that ended in the wrong destinations being reached. A slam of a door makes an abrupt end to any confession; words that barely taste the air fizzle and distort in a haze of nothing. They still try to make this work, whatever i this /i may be, and bruised hearts and broken lines set their position, never budging an inch.

Will used to be jealous, though it seemed silly to be jealous over such a thing. Jack was popular, and fun, and hell, he was easy. Will would clench his hands into fists, feel his fingernails leave imprints in his palm that lasted for days after thinking such a thing. But if he was so easy, what was his excuse?

Jack gets jealous too – it's one of the worst things about him. He doesn't show it, the way it's eating him up inside as Will's hands travel up and down smooth, pale arms, even if it isn't romantic, the friendship behind it is enough to make him want to throw up. And whenever Will calls him "his best friend," he wants to kick and scream and call him a liar, recollecting all the times he said that about her too.

There's nothing more infuriating then what's happening now, though. Angry red marks glare from the pale white of Jack's neck, a vicious reminder that there still might be something (that there is something) still going on here. Will trails his fingers over the mark and traces it with his tongue; his hot breath coasting over the skin, while he whispers, "You sure do have an odd way of showing your affections."

All Jack can do is whimper and hold Will's arm tight, the tips of his fingers white and desperate as he tries to think of a witty retort and fails, while his arms try to pry Will of off him and fail again.

Heat is pressing all around Jack's skull, blurring his vision until all he can see is a faint, black-rimmed outline of Will's head as he goes down lower and lower , and the roads converge and crash as the two breathe as one, though Jack's breaths are more ragged, with more than a few parts self-loathing.

As Will grabs Jack's hips, his fingertips scratching and airtight on his torso, this is the only way Jack can feel like this, and he knows it isn't healthy and isn't intimate and he knows it's hardly love.

But every little bit helps.