Jack is Glen's lifeline.

He realizes is with every soft brush of Jack's mouth over his throat, every drag of seemingly delicate, but surprisingly strong hands that bunch up his shirt and scrape up his ribs, every snap of his teeth and every hot huff of breath that washes over his throat.

Jack is Glen's light, his only light now that what is golden has been lost, and it's that sunspun hair, the tangling, set-free braid that he sinks his own hands into, tugs and pulls in an attempt to leash the man, the last bit of anything he has.

Jack just laughs at him.

Glen cannot even bring himself to care.

He, in that moment, is enveloped in everything that is Jack; every warm strand of gold and softness and strength, and he can't even protest when a long fingered hand is brought to his lips, covering his mouth to stifle his groans. His tongue flicks out on instinct, lips parting to suckle along the inside of Jack's palm, and the other man smirks at him, twisting his hand and changing its course of action to wriggle two fingers into Glen's mouth instead.

Glen also cannot bring himself to admit that he likes this.

His tongue laves, cheeks hollowing as he licks and sucks, everything an automatic, reflexive thing – a needy thing that Jack seems to easily understand. Glen almost reaches out, almost grasps for that wrist when Jack pulls his hand away, but narrowly stops himself.

Even if Jack is his lifeline, he can't dangle from that line like a fish on its hook.

Jack is a whirlwind in this as in all things, and Glen is left curled beneath him, nails claws into the blond's back, bunching through fabric as his thighs, one of the only bare things between them, cling to Jack's sides. Glen's body twinges with each movement, his toes curling, his fingers curling, his mind seeming to curl with every hard, tense slide, leaving him to gasp silently for air, to breathe in Jack as his precious oxygen as his lips press hotly to the other man's throat, fastening to his pulse and feeling blood throb through his veins in seeming time to every thrust.

He feels like an offering. Something almost twisted and wrong, wrapped beneath his lover like this. Glen doesn't care. His world is reduced to Jack, only Jack,everything that is Jack, from the dusty lilac and eerie osmanthus that he reeked of, tinged with the sweat of lust and need and possessiveness that seeped through his every pore.

Both of them are surprisingly quiet when they come, remaining tangled around one another for several moments afterwards, and only then does Glen think lifting of his hands, dragging them through the long, wisping lengths of Jack's hair. He wants to drown in the sunlight of it – the spark of golden that it brings into his life, that Jack brings into his life.

Golden hair, sunny smiles, bronzy pocket watches.

If only all of those things were not so very fleeting.