Jake loves Roland very, very much.

He's always obeyed Roland in every word and deed and gesture. Even in his heart and in the city of New York, with the voices screaming their mighty war in his head, he was comforted by faded-blue denim colored eyes.

Maybe he hasn't always obeyed every word to the letter, every gesture to the micrometer. But he makes Roland proud of him, and that's the thing that makes him warm from the tips of his makeshift sneakers to the top of his bleaching head.

So when Roland lays him down to sleep at the end of the day Jake looks around at the wasted lands and wonders why.

Eddie and Susannah have fallen asleep. He smiles, listening to them breathe with the contentment of new lovers. Stuck in the groove where they know, are certain of their love for each other, and that makes the world just a little bit better. He thinks he knows how they feel. He doesn't tell them that, though. No real need to intrude on the moments that are just for them. He wouldn't want them intruding on his, after all.

He's in a new place. He has, for all purposes, a new name. Not Bama, not John Chambers. He's Jake now, Jake, one of Roland's ka-tet. Jake, on the quest for the Dark Tower. Jake. Roland's Jake.

He crawls out of his sleeping bag in the haze of half-wakefulness, the thoughts putting themselves together in his head to make a clear and conscious decision. Eddie stirs and he stops in mid-crouch, not glancing over to see if the other man's awake. It's only a couple snores, and then the older boy's asleep again. He creeps over to the still and too-long form in the sleeping bag on the other side of the fire. Apart from the rest of them. Roland's thin. Too thin. Jake worries about him eating more, about him sleeping more, dreaming less. Jake fusses to himself because he doesn't dare fuss to Roland.

Funny, when he dares tonight.

Roland wakes instantly, of course. He can hear the shift in the older man's breathing, even if Roland doesn't move or open his eyes. He's so attentive to every gesture and breath and heartbeat now. Super-sensitive. Every sound like a sharp prick against his skin. Like the inrush of breath Roland takes, just now.

"Jake."

His voice is low so that the other two don’t hear. Jake is careful with the sounds of rustling cloth.

"Roland."

"What are you..."

Jake shakes his head. The ends of his hair, longer than he's ever had it by now, whisper over the parchment skin at Roland's abdomen.

"Shh. Just... please. Let me do this." He doesn't know why he's asking. Why he's begging. Why he's talking to Roland like this at all or why he's trembling scared.

Roland's hand rests on the top of his head. "Are you sure?" He doesn't know what else to ask.

"Yes." It's not a violent surety. It's a quiet surety that leaves no option for anything else. "Yes, I'm sure."

Roland doesn't understand. Jake can hear it in his voice, feel it in the tentative, confused way Roland's fingers stroke through his hair. That’s all right. Jake knows what he's doing. Knows exactly what he's doing as his fingers push denim and cotton and leather, as his tongue slides over half-parted lips, as he kisses the softest flesh of the man he adores. He knows what they are more than Roland does. Right now, anyway. He's never been this happy in his life.

Roland's Jake.

Go to the top! For you have reached the bottom.