Jason was completely and utterly pissed. He had to watch brother, his perfect, golden, complete a**hole of a brother flirting, and giggling, and winking, and swaying to the music over martinis with what was his. It was infuriating.

…Not that they knew they were his. To them, he was nothing more than a trusty best friend who let them cry on his shoulder when they were sad, and laugh with when they were happy.

But he knew it was more. It just had to be, otherwise all the work he’s done trying to gain their trust would be for nothing. All the hints he’s dropped, and the glances he’s sent their way, all of it would be totally fruitless.

And he just couldn't deal with that.

But when they stumbled, drunk, over to him and tugged on his sleeve, Jason caved completely. All fantasies of abandoning them there and never talking to them again, of pulling his brother off into a back alley and leaving him there to die, fell out the window.

He drove them home, taking pity on the poor thing. It was silent, mostly, except for their drunken little mumbles against the frosted window and Jason's seething, his mind racing with ways to win them back. For good.

“...I don’t think you should talk to him anymore. He’s bad news,” Jason grumbles while they’re stopped at a red light, his hands clutching the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “Everyone says he’s a manwhore.”