It's too late when Jack realizes it.
Far be it past the moment that Glen's head rolls along the ground, lifeless and pale as death, paler than the man's skin ever should have been.
It hurts, flicking Glen's blood away from his sword. Dare he say it – it hurts more than the loss of Lacie, no matter how fresh that still is in his mind.
Jack hadn't intended for it to be like this. He had intended to lie – to wriggle his way close to the duke to better find himself at Lacie's side once again. Instead, he found himself at Glen's side on long nights, sitting upon a piano bench and watching, fascinated, by the way Glen's long fingers played over the piano keys, wishing so very much that Glen's fingers would play over him like that.
It wasn't suppose to happen that way.
And yet it did. Jack had found himself craving the warmth and security of Glen's bed, the way he always smelled of roses and old, expensive woods, the way he didn't smile with his lips but with his eyes, that slightest furrow of his brow when Glen was worried about him or what he was doing or anything that had to do with himand him alone –
Jack realizes, far, far too late, that he wants and needs Glen and to hell with his ruse.
In fact, he realizes it as he cuts Leo down, the spear-like end of a chain through his chest, and all he tries to think of is Lacie, Lacie, Lacie.
At the same time he worries did that hurt, Glen? I don't want it to. Please just die so I don't have to think about this again, please die quickly and please don't hurt if you are in there because I can't do this, I can't –
Jack wishes he could finish this, once and for all, so that he doesn't have to look at Glen again – doesn't have to admit how much he loves him, as much as Glen always loved him back.