Chase knocks his fingers away, mood dropping off into something pouty. No fun. He flops back down to lay on Jack's bed again, wetting his lips and watching dust motes drift about the ceiling. He could provoke the fight: he could instigate, or push at buttons until that fist with its shiny little ring came crashing down... but for all his bluster, he won't. No matter how mercurial Chase gets, Jack always seems to keep up better than most. Or weather it better, at least. Ignore it better. Something like that.

And Chase won't admit it to himself, but when he found Caleb and his Covenant, all those boys he'd called brothers, he'd coveted that. Not enough to try and earn it, of course, but he'd still wanted it.

And so here, now, it'd be... inconvenient to be in Jack's bad graces for real. He lets it go, and looks back over. "Have you met anybody here that's not? Fucked up." Because Chase really hasn't. Especially not anybody with their face.