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Grayson didn't actually hear much about Hero and Aurelia. It was hard to hear much of anything over the swift, sudden impact of I'd never hit on you, I swear. and the completely empty feeling that followed. There was a difference between knowing a thing and hearing a thing; words, words were important to Grayson. Words had always been important to him, from the time he was a little boy being teased on the playground to the grown man standing in front of Jude, hearing echoes of his conversation with Ignacio, seeing truth in his face as he misinterpreted everything Grayson had said.

No one had the power to hurt him like this.

And just like that, there was no room to be hurt anymore. He didn't even understand what he felt for Jude, didn't know if it was all in his head from nearly seeing him dying, or if it was something that had been slow-building, but he was done. He couldn't stand there and keep hurting. He didn't have it left in him.

So, he got angry.

Grayson angry was a peculiar sight. He drew himself to his full height, for once - which only matched Jude's - and his shoulders drew back. Dignity he wore like a cloak, and his mouth suddenly became severe, harsh, in a way that Grayson's never was. And his eyes all but burned, eyes that had been patient, kind, sympathetic -- eyes that had only ever looked to Jude's and sought understanding.

They were hot on his face, now, and the blush on his cheeks faded to be replaced by something pale. When he was angry, Grayson did not go red - he was leeched of all his color.

"Who do you think you are, Jude?" His voice was deep, so impossibly deep, that it might have been Arthur Graves standing before him rather than Grayson. "Honestly, who do you think you are?"

He hurt, but it was hard to feel it under the fiercely contained fury. He hurt, but more than that, he was embarrassed. He was mortified. He was offended that Jude would take what he offered as help, help freely given to assist in him understanding himself, and turn it into something as cheap and small as a rebound attempt. Neither of them had been indicating anything like that, but that was easily forgotten, quickly forgotten, by the temper that Grayson almost never indulged in.

To think that he would assume Jude was hitting on him just then, when they were talking about Hero --

And damn Hero anyway, for starting all of this --

"I did not assume you were hitting on me. I'm sure you labor under the impression that any homosexual man would thank his lucky stars to receive even a scrap of attention from another man, but that is far from the truth."

How could someone sound so furious and never raise his voice?

And hadn't he just said he wasn't homosexual?

"I'm also not fantasizing about being your rebound from Hero-" Ouch, Grayson. "-because I am trying to help you, if you haven't noticed."

His heart ached. Ached, underneath the fire.

"I am attracted to men, Jude, not every man I see." And his voice was so calm, so deadly calm. "Please make an effort to remember that."

Even though he was attracted to Jude.

Even though he cared, rather desperately, even when he really didn't want to.

His mind might have been going a thousand miles a moment, but his voice was steady, calm, low. "What are you doing, Jude, standing in front of my door as though you won't let me back inside?"

Jude might have been thrown off enough not to hit Grayson; there were not promises to be made on Leo's side. He so rarely lost his temper that it was a wild thing, his mouth ran away from him, and he was only left to regret his actions. He might not have punched Jude, not just then, but he thought about it.

For a moment.

His hands even balled at his sides, violet eyes sparking, but he didn't move. Couldn't.

He'd asked a question, but he didn't seem to care about the answer. Instead, he bared his teeth, the snarl a stark contrast to his easy smiles, and spoke through his clamped jaw. "That is not the point, Jude."

It wasn't the point? The fact that he'd told Jude time and again, time and time again, that he wasn't his type, wasn't the point? Had he been calm, he would have been embarrassed by the hole in his argument. But he wasn't calm.

The only thing calm about Grayson was his voice. His heart was hammering faster than it had in battle, and he felt a little bit light-headed. Just a little bit dizzy.

He unclenched his hands, flexed his fingers at his side. Standing there in sweats and a tee shirt, he might not have looked intimidating, but a little boy going by on a bicycle nearly upended trying to see if there would be a swing thrown before he rode away.

"I beg your pardon if I have to assume certain things because you do not communicate." Angry girlfriend? When had he become Jude's angry girlfriend? "This has nothing to do with whether you are my type or not, and for the record, you are still not my type, Jude Lawson."

A lie.

It would be nearly impossible to tell under the anger.

It was just too goddamn much.

Grayson went still, so very still, that it was difficult to tell if he was even breathing. He could put up with a lot of things, as he seemed to constantly remind himself when it came to Jude. He could put up with a great deal of things, and he always had, thought he always would.

He would not put up with being toyed with by Jude Lawson because he was angry, even if he had no idea why he was so angry.

So, he held Jude's angry gaze, contempt and a hurt so deep that it seemed impossible in his eyes, and stared. For a heartbeat, two.

Then, faster than he'd ever moved, he brought his free hand up and punched Jude in the side of the head, as hard as he possibly could with an injured shoulder. It was not as hard as he would have liked, given the circumstances. Jude's hand was still on his cheek, Grayson's other hand in his hand, and the color had finally come back into his face. Embarrassed, mortified. Absolutely devastated.

And, God, more angry than he'd ever been.

"You are a goddamn jerk, Jude."

That was fine with Grayson. He didn't even want to look at Jude Lawson's goddamn face, much less think about him, or remember his voice, or smell his cigarette smoke on his clothes.

He didn't say a word when he stormed back into the house, slammed the door hard enough to make his Pop swear from the kitchen. He shoved Tristan back into his room bad-temperedly when he poked his head out, complaining that he'd heard their entire b***h fight, okay, and he slammed the door to his room when he got there.

He had nowhere to put his anger but inward, and that also really pissed him off.

He did finally cry, but they were furious tears that only dissolved into quiet, brokenhearted ones when the memory of Jude's face finally cleared through the haze.

And then, he folded his arms around himself, and he wept because he was the goddamn jerk.