When Jason Dean yelled "I don't think I caught your name."
Jimmy spat "I didn't throw it."
From that moment, Jimmy began leading JD behind him wherever he went, like a piped piper cloaked in the skin of a sociopath.
When Jimmy first tried a slurpee, their fingers were intertwined. JD kissed him, tasting like cherry cola and cigarettes.
From the bathroom at the 7-11, it was guaranteed that you could find the creed "St. Jimmy Rules!" carved in JD's handwriting.
When JD first held Jimmy's hands, he held them like he was holding a virtue in his seizing, raw palms. Jimmy felt like a gift from God.
From then on, Jimmy grasps JD's wrist tight enough to leave bruises. JD whispers his sweet-nothings as if he was confessing. Either way, they were a vice.
When Jimmy became lovers with a trigger, Jason Dean went out with a bang.
From the suburbs of Jingletown, to the backwoods of Sherewood, they lived together, breathing hymns of each other's damned ballad.