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Jack likes to think that he functions pretty well, all things considered. Especially for a hockey player.
Like, there were those first few months where he was living on his own and he grew some plants in the fridge because he didn’t know expiration dates weren’t just general guidelines, but. Mostly, he did alright. He learned a lot in Buffalo. About himself, sure, but also about how life works when you’re an adult.
You don’t change a light bulb with the light flicked on. A puncture in a bicycle tire is easily found if you push it underwater and look for the air escaping. Plants need to get rotated towards the sun every once in a while to avoid growing lopsided. And your meatloaf will always go dry if you don’t cover it in moist baking paper before sliding it into the oven at exactly 360 degrees. You know, the important shit.
And while he knows his general competence is sort of an exception in the NHL, nothing could’ve prepared him for the level of complete ineptitude at being a functioning human being that Connor McDavid exudes.
i.
It’s something he finds out in their first month in Seattle, before they really start talking to each other about stuff other than hockey and well before they become friends.
They’ve just come off the ice after a particularly grueling practice, leaving their marks on the glass and the boards of the brand new arena. His stall is across from Connor’s and he hears the tail end of a chirp when he walks out of the showers, a towel slung low around his hips.
“C’mon, dude,” EJ says to Connor, judgment lacing his voice. He's leaning against his own stall and looks at Jack, jerking his head at Connor again. “Back me up here, Eichs. He can’t go into an interview looking like that.”
Jack tugs on his socks, looking up to give Connor a once-over. His eyes rest on the crumpled fabric of Connor’s black button-down. “Yeah, that looks rough,” he says, pulling a grimace. “Did your iron break or something?”
Connor turns to look at him, his damp hair flopping down over his forehead. “My cleaning lady is on vacation.”
While EJ is raising his eyebrows skeptically, asking Connor, “Your cleaning lady does your laundry?”, Jack intercepts with a, “So? Do it yourself.”
Connor’s gaze moves between the two of them, brown eyes wide. “I don’t know how,” he says, crossing his arms. The creases on his shirt get worse with the movement.
Jack snorts, shaking his head as he drops his towel. He puts on his briefs and steps into his jeans, tugging them up over his ass. EJ is laughing as well, this snorting thing that makes his eyes crinkle.
“Yeah, ha-ha,” Connor says, looking affronted. He gets up from his seat. “C’mon, what am I gonna do? They’re already here and they didn’t want me to wear team gear for the interview.”
Jack tugs his sweater over his head, taking a look at the annoyed expression on Connor’s face. One thing he’s learned in the past few weeks is that Connor doesn’t like people making fun at his expense. It’s not the best trait to have, given the sport they’re in, but people are nothing if not accommodating for Connor. Jack likes to think that he’s different.
He takes pity on Connor, though, because it very well could've been him having to do the interview today. That's at least one perk of not being the most important guy on the team anymore.
He jerks his head. “Alright, come with me,” he says, walking out of the locker room.
Connor follows him into the laundry room, the sound of the washing machines rumbling through the small space.
“What are we doing here?” he asks, looking around before his eyes fix on Jack. “Seriously, I’m so fucking late already.”
Jack looks around and spots the ironing board hanging from a hook on the wall. He takes it down and folds it open, the hinges squeaking. The flatiron is on a table closeby and Jack turns it on.
“Take your shirt off,” he tells Connor, leaning against the wall. The water inside the flatiron starts bubbling, heating up.
Connor’s just looking at him now, silent. It hits Jack again, like it always does when it's just the two of them enclosed in a small space. How the universe came together in a crescendoing explosion of cosmic proportions that created the odds for them to end up on the same team. It makes a light flutter swoop through his gut every time.
He usually avoids being alone in a room with Connor.
Connor’s still not doing anything, though, so Jack holds out his hand. “I thought you were in a hurry, big shot?” he asks, shaking his hand impatiently.
Connor moves then, unbuttoning the top few buttons before extending his arms backwards, pulling the shirt over his head in one move. “Are you, um. Are you gonna show me how to do it?”
Connor's arms are pale, the green hue of his veins pronounced as he holds out the shirt for Jack. His fingers close around it, the warmth of Connor's body still clinging to the fabric.
"I've got places to be, too," Jack says, turning around. He unbuttons the rest of the shirt and splays it across the ironing board. It's not exactly an answer but Connor doesn't ask again.
Steam flows from the bottom of the flatiron when he picks it up. He can feel Connor’s eyes on the back of his neck while he drags it across the shirt in broad, even strokes. There are some persistent creases that he has to go over a few more times, but the whole thing doesn’t take more than two minutes.
“This’ll do,” he mutters, finishing the last cuff before turning the flatiron off and setting it back down. He turns around and carefully hands the shirt back to Connor.
Connor puts it on, doing the buttons up again. He sends Jack a small smile, the corner of his mouth lifting up. “Thanks.”
“Whatever." Jack shrugs, not quite meeting Connor's eyes. He folds up the ironing board and hangs it back up against the wall.
Connor's gone when he turns around again.
ii.
While Connor’s non-existent ironing abilities can be excused, given the lack of free time in his life since he reached the ripe ol’ age of three and the doting helpfulness of his cleaning lady, it doesn’t fly in this situation.
Jack’s about to leave for morning skate, leaning against the wall of the elevator on his way down to the parking garage beneath his building, when Connor calls.
It doesn't take him aback like it did the first few times it happened. After the third time Connor had called about him bringing a new soccer ball to use for two-touch, the absurdity wore off.
He picks up the phone, hitching the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder as he walks out of the elevator. "What's up?"
“Are you at the rink already?” Connor asks.
Jack dumps his bag in the trunk and shuts it, switching his phone to his other ear. “No, I’m about to leave. What, you need me to pick something up?”
“Yeah, uh. Me.”
“Why? Drive your own ass to practice,” Jack says, the engine rumbling as he drives out of the garage.
“My car’s broken,” Connor says. “There’s all these lights on my dash flashing. It’s not safe.”
“I doubt that. Are you in your car right now?” Jack asks. At Connor’s affirmative hum, he asks, “Which symbols are lighting up?”
"As if I know what they are?" Connor lets out an audible huff. "Just come pick me up, alright?"
Jack rolls his eyes. He turns left at the intersection instead of right. "Fine. Don't touch anything, your car might blow up."
"Eichs!"
Jack snorts. "Dude, calm down. I'll be there in five."
He doesn't exactly know where it comes from, if it's a nature or a nurture thing, but Connor can get demanding. It borders on plain rudeness.
It comes out at the weirdest times, too. Barely a week ago they were in the locker room before a game and Connor just lifted his foot with his skate on and Brett, who was already tying his own skates leaned over and tied Connor's, too. Connor makes other guys order his dinner when they're out with the team and proceeds throughout the meal to steal from the plates that are within his arm's reach.
Jack has never seen Connor carry his own bag off of the bus. One time he'd even jammed his neck pillow around Jack's neck as they'd walked down the narrow stairs and just abandoned it. Jack considers it his own now, at least until the day Connor inevitably comes by to demand it back.
Connor is standing near his car when Jack turns onto the cul-de-sac. Jack can see the pissy look on Connor's face when he stops his car along the street.
"It's a brand new car," Connor despairs when he's buckled into Jack's passenger seat. "I don't get it."
"It's probably nothing," Jack assures him, trying to keep the long suffering tone out of his voice. "I can take a look after practice, if you want."
"Yeah?" Connor looks at him then, his expression clearing.
Jack tongues the inside of his cheek, thinks of the mess that's waiting for him at home. His parents and sister had stayed over in his guest rooms this weekend. A pile of laundry can burst through the door of his laundry room any moment now. He really should get to that before they leave for the two-week road trip.
He looks sideways, meeting Connor's eyes. There's a strong resemblance to a Golden Retriever in them, framed by his long lashes.
"Yeah," he concedes, letting out a sigh. "Sure. It's probably nothing, anyway."
They barely arrive on time for practice. Brett raises his eyebrows when he gets out of his car, looking at Jack hoisting his and Connor's bag over his shoulder.
Practice is tough and he can feel the burn of it linger in his thighs when he and Connor drive back to Connor's house. It's raining again. Seattle has familiarized him with this slow drizzle that doesn't look like much but it can have you drenched within five minutes.
He makes Connor hold up the umbrella as he sits down in the driver's seat of Connor's car.
"See?" Connor braces one arm against the open door, ducking a little. His hair brushes against Jack's temple as he leans in.
Jack takes in the red lights on the dashboard and then sinks against the back of the seat.
He looks up at Connor. "Seriously?"
"What?" Connor asks. "Is it that bad?"
"No, the car's fine." Jack swings his legs out of the car, getting out. Connor doesn't step away, holding the umbrella up over both of their heads. "You're literally just low on oil and wiper fluid. That's it."
"Oh." Jack watches as Connor appears to process the information. "So. I should call someone to fix it?"
"No," Jack says, exasperation slipping into his tone. "You just have to fill it up. Where do you keep the stuff? I usually have a stash in my garage."
"My dad was in charge of that. With the moving." Connor looks at the garage doors, a pensive furrow above his brow. "I don't--"
"If you're gonna say 'I don't know' one more time I'm getting out of here," Jack threatens. Connor guiltily shuts his mouth. Jack sighs, thinks about the pile of laundry, undoubtedly doubling in size in his absence. "Alright, let me take a look."
Connor quickly nods. He lets Jack into his house and Jack tries not to look around too greedily as Connor guides him towards the garage. There’s not a lot to see, anyway.
The only sign that someone is living in the house is in the living room, where Connor’s dog is eagerly coming towards them. Other than that, there's a laptop sitting on the coffee table and a few Playstation controllers lie scattered across the couch.
He can smell the faint scent of rubber and gasoline as they walk into the garage. It’s a large space even with two cars parked inside. Long shelves cover the far wall and Jack lets his eyes skim across the various bottles and paint cans.
“Great news,” Jack announces, taking the bottles of engine oil and wiper fluid from the top shelf. He turns around and Connor raises his eyebrows expectantly. He holds up the bottles, smiling at Connor. “You can't blame your dad for you being an idiot about cars. He knows what's up. It's really just you.”
Connor snorts at that, bumping Jack against the doorway with his shoulder. “Yeah, alright.”
They go back out to the car again and Jack opens the hood, setting the bottles down on the engine. He leans his hip against one of the headlights, crossing his arms.
Connor looks back at him, his eyes moving between the car and Jack. “Aren’t you gonna. Y’know. Do something?”
“You do it,” Jack says. At Connor’s constipated look, he asks, “What?”
“That’s not fair.”
“What?” Jack repeats. “Making you change your own oil?”
“No,” Connor says, gesturing at Jack. “You know that I don’t know how to do it but you said you’d leave if I said that again.”
Jack feels a smile crack on his face at Connor's stubborn expression. "I promise I won't leave, okay?" he offers, picking up the bottle of wiper fluid and holding it out. "But you gotta be able to do this yourself."
It's still raining, making Connor's hair curl up a little at the ends. Connor drags the palm of his hand along his beard before giving a small shrug, reaching out for the bottle. "Fine. Just make sure I don't blow my car up."
"It's a car, not a bomb. Relax."
He meets Connor's skeptical glare with a placating smile, watching Connor unscrew the cap of the bottle.
He's always read and heard about how coachable Connor is, and he figures he's getting a firsthand experience right now. Connor follows up his directions, pouring carefully and making sure the oil level gets back up.
It doesn't take long but there's a drop of rain clinging to the tip of Connor's nose when he straightens. Jack can feel the cold wetness on his own fingers, the skin going red.
"There," he says, closing the hood of Connor's car. "Another skill in the books. Life truly is a process of learning."
"Shut up," Connor says, but there's no bite to it. He puts the bottles underneath his arm, his eyes flitting between Jack and the house. "Do you, uh, wanna come in? I can get you some dry clothes."
"Oh." Jack bites down on the inside of his cheek, the warmth of his mouth a stark contrast to the chill outside. He remembers something about laundry, vaguely. It seems insignificant now. He gives Connor a small smile. "Sure."
iii.
It happens more often, after that. He picks Connor up and drives them to practice in the morning. Connor comes over to his place a few times a week, turning half circles on Jack's kitchen chairs while he makes them lunch. There's a spot on his couch that Connor considers his now, and he will jab his toes against Jack's ribs if he takes that spot.
It's not a choice he makes consciously, his brain doesn't tell him to hang out with Connor for an entire afternoon but it also doesn't supply him with anything else he'd rather do. And if there's things he has to do, his adult responsibilities rearing their heads, well, Connor just comes along.
He tries not to think about it too hard, but when Sarah from PR makes them do a couple's quiz for the team's YouTube channel and Connor gets every question about him right, that's when he has to acknowledge to himself that, yeah, maybe they’ve become friends.
It's a cloudy day and Jack can see the trees in Connor's front yard moving in the wind. The front door remains closed. His fingers start up an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel. He presses the horn again, but other than a few birds flying up out of the tops of the trees, there is no response.
He dials Connor's number and presses his phone to his ear.
"Dude, where are you?" he asks, once there's a click. "We're gonna be late."
"I'm not coming," Connor says, a nasal tone to his voice. "I'm sick."
Jack leans forward in his seat and spots Connor's bedroom window. The curtains are drawn. There are no other lights on in the house.
"Are you at home, or?" He angles the phone away from his ear, Connor having a coughing fit on the other end.
"Yeah," Connor wheezes after a few seconds. "I'm in bed. Can you tell Coach I'm not coming?"
Jack takes a look at the clock on his dashboard and sighs. "Hold on, okay. I'm coming up."
He puts the car in park and gets out, walking up to Connor's front door. Connor gave him a key a few weeks ago, pressed the cold metal down into the palm of Jack's hand right before he left the car, waving a quick goodnight.
He uses it to open the door and gets inside, Lenny pressing his nose against his cheek as he bends down to take off his shoes. He drags his fingers through Lenny's fur before turning around, the dog following on his heels as he makes his way up the stairs.
Connor's bedroom is on the left and he opens the door. The room is dark and smells of stale air. A dark lump on the bed betrays Connor's position, a tuft of hair peeking out at the top.
"Hey. It smells like ass in here," Jack says, stepping further into the room before he bangs into something, hard. "Jesus, fuck!"
He grabs at his foot, covering his toes with his fingers as he limps over to the bed, sinking down onto the corner of the mattress
"There's a box there," Connor supplies unhelpfully, sounding muffled and miserable from underneath the blankets.
"Yeah, I got that," Jack groans, rubbing at his sore toes. He gingerly gets up again and shuffles over towards the windows, tugging the curtains away.
Connor's head ducks further down, disappearing completely. Jack looks around at the balled-up tissues strewn around the room. A box of lozenges lies toppled over on the nightstand.
"Do you have a fever?" he asks.
The lump shrugs, Connor muttering something unintelligible.
Jack goes into the bathroom, flicking on the lights. He rifles through the drawer below the sink. Other than some Q-tips, lube, and a box of condoms, there's not much in there. He shoves the drawer shut, ignoring the pink tinge spreading across his cheekbones as he opens the mirrored door of the cabinet. There's a thermometer on the bottom shelf and he grabs it, walking back towards the bed.
"Here, c'mon," he coaxes, curling his fingers around the top of the blanket and tugging it down.
Connor's hair appears first, a few strands matted to his sweaty forehead, and Jack pulls the blanket further down.
Jack feels an instinctive tug at the corner of his mouth when Connor blinks up at him. "Hey."
He gets a grunt in response. "Told you I'm sick," Connor says, his voice raw. He rubs the sleep from the corners of his eyes. "I think I saw every hour pass."
Lenny jumps up on the bed, laying his head down on Connor's bare shoulder. Jack looks down at the thermometer, holds it up for Connor to see.
"You should check your temperature," he says. "I'll call Pomo after, let him know."
Connor extracts an arm from underneath the blanket. His fingers are clammy as they brush over Jack's, taking the thermometer from him and putting it between his lips.
"It's, uh," Jack says, leaning over. He pushes the thermometer an inch further into Connor's mouth. "It's gotta be deeper or it doesn't work."
Some of the glassiness has faded from Connor's eyes as he looks up at him. Jack feels heat break out in the nape of his neck. He gets up off the bed.
"Water," he says. "You need water to swallow down some painkillers. And tea. For your throat."
He makes sure to avoid the box this time, getting out of the bedroom and down the stairs. There are glasses in the overhead cabinets in the kitchen and he fills one up, draining it in one gulp before filling it again. While he waits for the kettle to boil, he berates himself for staring at Connor so obviously. Connor's sick, he's not supposed to be ogling him right now, even if it's slightly captivating to see him so unguarded.
He goes back into the bedroom a few minutes later. Connor's lying with his back to the window, a slight sheen to his bare skin. The thermometer is on the nightstand, reading 103 degrees.
"You've got a pretty high fever there, bud." Jack extends the glass of water, pressing an ibuprofen in Connor's other hand. “Here.”
Connor sits up a little, leaning back against the headboard. "Thanks," he mutters, after swallowing the pill. He rests the glass of water against his ribs, a tired expression on his flushed face.
"Of course," Jack says, sitting down on the other side of the bed. He takes his phone out of his pocket, calling Maurice.
It's a short call and Maurice also puts one of the team doctors on the line, telling Jack what to do. Jack hears her talk to Maurice for a bit, and then she tells him not to come into practice either, in case whatever kind of flu Connor has spreads easily. He looks over a few times during the conversation, Connor's eyes drifting shut.
"Yeah, okay," he says. "I'll just, uh. Be here then. I’ll check in with you guys around noon. Thanks."
He ends the call, putting his phone down onto the night stand. Connor opens his eyes as his weight shifts on the bed.
"What did they say?"
Jack pulls a face. "I'm being quarantined in here with you. Keep it away from the team. They just want me to make sure you don't die in the night."
Connor snorts, and then grimaces in pain. He covers his chest with his arm. "My joints fuckin' hurt," he croaks.
"It'll get better once the pills start working," Jack says, standing up and walking into Connor's closet. He grabs a long-sleeve shirt off a shelf and goes back to Connor's side of the bed. "Put this on. Your body shouldn't get too cold, with the fever still up."
"Gonna act as my nurse, Eichs?" Connor prods, lifting an eyebrow as he tugs the shirt over his head, his movements slow and stilted.
Jack helps him get the hem of the shirt down over his stomach, his knuckles brushing against Connor's skin. "You wish. I'm just makin' sure I have you on my PP unit against the Leafs."
It's easier to look at Connor, now that his chest is covered with the faded Otters logo. Lenny is licking Connor's hand, pressing his nose against the palm.
"He needs to be walked," Connor sighs, pushing the edge of the blanket away. His fingers are shaky.
Jack pulls it back up, staring Connor down. "I'll do it. You have to sleep."
Lenny takes his side, jumping off the bed when Jack gets up. He makes sure to tug the curtains closed again, the bedroom going almost completely dark.
A pitiful groan comes from where Connor's turning over in bed. "I'll be fine by noon," he states, as if he's challenging Jack.
"Of course, Davo." Jack closes the bedroom door behind him.
iv.
Under his watchful eye, Connor recovers from the flu pretty fast. They're both back in practice by Wednesday, after spending two days holed up in Connor's house. Jack's pretty sure he managed to navigate Connor's kitchen and make them breakfast this morning without really waking up, which is not something he'd like to take a closer look at, thanks.
They lose the game against Toronto, which pisses him off to no end. He did connect with Connor on the powerplay, resulting in a heap of questions for both of them in the postgame interview. Connor's standing to his left and Jack can see the mask of annoyed indifference slowly pull over Connor's face as the Toronto reporters fire their questions at him.
Connor's still frowning about it as they step into the elevator at the hotel. They get adjoining rooms more often than not nowadays, so Jack can hear Connor's, "Oh my g--fuck!" before their hotel room doors fall shut behind them.
He pulls it back open and turns around, walking into Connor's room."What's wrong?" he asks, but he can see the damage already.
The window has been flown completely open, sending icy gusts of wind inside the room. It's been snowing and hailing all night, and the carpet and half of Connor's bed are soaked through. Jack wraps his arms around his upper body, the temperature in the room nearly as cold as outside.
"Jesus," Connor sighs, closing the window with a jerk at the handle.
"Why'd you even open the window," Jack says, walking over to the bed and lifting up the corner of the wet duvet. The mattress is damp, too. "The weather here’s worse than at home."
Connor walks over, also feeling the bedding. He pulls a face, pulling his hand back. "The room was stuffy. I sleep better when it's cold."
"Well," Jack deadpans. "It's cold, alright."
Connor sends a glare his way. Jack bumps their shoulders together. "Just get your stuff over to mine and we'll call downstairs to see if they've got another room."
He holds the door open as Connor carries his bag inside, dropping it below the TV. Jack picks up the phone from the desk, extending it to Connor.
Connor just purses his lips, briefly meeting Jack's eyes before averting them again.
Jack sighs. "You want me to do it?"
The expression on Connor's face clears slightly, and he nods. He takes off his shoes and walks over to Jack's bed. He turns the TV on, lying down.
A warm curl of fondness unfolds in his chest, watching Connor get comfortable on his bed, his feet digging into the duvet. He swallows, forcing himself to look away. The dial tone breaks up quickly, the receptionist's bright voice coming through the phone. Jack toes off his shoes while he asks her if there's any rooms available. He must pull a face when she tells him there aren't any, because Connor's sitting up straighter.
"Seriously?" Connor asks, when Jack has hung up. "Not one room in this giant hotel?"
"There's a medical conference this weekend or something. The entire hotel's filled up with doctors," Jack says, sitting down on the bed. He clears his throat, looking at the TV as he says, "Whatever, dude. Just sleep here. I'm gonna pass out in two minutes anyway."
He can feel Connor's eyes on the side of head but he keeps looking ahead, hopes the dim light in the room conceals the pink flush on his cheekbones. The mattress moves when Connor shifts, getting off the bed.
Jack clenches his jaw, uncomfortable heat going down his spine. He shouldn't have offered. It's weird. There's probably guys with two queens, Connor should just send a message in the group chat.
"Okay, cool," Connor says instead, walking to his bag and bending down to rummage through it. He's holding a pair of sweats and a toothbrush when he straightens. He turns towards Jack. The fabric of his dress pants is wrinkled and his hair is mussed up from where he'd been leaning against the headboard. "You wanna use the bathroom first?"
"No, uh," Jack says, quickly shaking his head. "You can go, I'm just gonna--," He takes a look at the TV, where there's an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras playing "--watch this for a bit."
Connor pulls a face at him, snorting a little before walking into the bathroom. Jack turns the TV off as soon as the door clicks shut, feeling oddly jittery. He gets up from the bed, walks the length of the hotel room, before also changing out of his game day suit. He's just pulled a shirt over his head when the bathroom door opens again.
"Do you have another hanger?" Connor asks him, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. He's shirtless, the waistband of his sweats riding low on his hips.
Jack tugs the hem of his shirt down, still in his boxers. "Uh, yeah," he says, walking towards the closet. He takes out one of the empty hangers and hands it to Connor.
"Thanks." Connor jerks his head at the bathroom. "You can go."
Jack makes sure not to meet Connor's eyes as he passes him, their bare arms brushing. He stares himself down in the mirror above the sink, brushing his teeth with jerky movements. He's spent two days in Connor's house with Connor walking around in various states of undress. It's not supposed to make him feel like this, not right now.
There's a fluttering heat underneath his skin, though, when he and Connor are together. It's been happening more and more lately. And while he knows Connor's also into guys, has the image of Connor kissing a guy in Florida etched into his brain, he doubts Connor likes him back, like that. Especially if he starts acting like a moron around him.
Connor is already in bed when Jack comes back out of the bathroom. He's lying on his side, scrolling through Twitter. He looks up when Jack closes the bathroom door, giving him a sleepy smile.
The covers are cold as he slides in, but when he relaxes onto his back he can feel the edge of where Connor's body has been warming up the space underneath the blankets. He wets his lips, biting down on the inside of his cheek.
"I feel like I'm black and blue."
The soft, hoarse edge to Connor's voice makes something jump inside of him. He turns onto his side, meeting Connor's eyes. The small bedside lamp doesn't give off much light, but it's enough to see the way Connor's hair fans out against the pillow.
"Rielly got to you?" he asks. The presence of Connor in his bed doesn't keep the sleep at bay that's been tugging at his eyelids.
Connor shrugs, the movement making the blanket slip down his shoulder. He yawns, the tendons in his neck briefly tightening. "Dunno who it was. Hurts, though."
"Have Dan check it out tomorrow, 'kay?" Jack mutters. He stretches a little, feels his muscles relax against the mattress. The movement makes his ankle press against Connor's calf.
"Yeah." Connor's breathing comes out slower already, more steady. His eyes keep drifting shut. "Gonna turn the light off."
Jack rests his head fully unto the pillow, swallowing past the lump in his throat. His eyes are on the pale skin of Connor's throat, the gentle dip of his collarbone. His mouth goes dry. "Good idea."
v.
After that, it feels inevitable that he develops a full blown crush on Connor. Who knew that waking up to Connor's face three inches away from your own would be a catalyst leading to a frantic heartbeat and clammy hands? Jack sure didn't. If he did, he might've migrated to the floor after Connor had fallen asleep.
He's dealing pretty well, all things considered. They still hang out every day and he doesn't even kiss Connor when he shows Jack a picture of Lenny wearing a dog jersey with Eichel across the back of it. Connor's also not an overtly touchy guy by nature so he's not, like, seducing Jack with his body. Even if Connor's body is something he'd like to be seduced by, maybe.
It's something he realizes when he's sitting cross-legged on the floor of Connor's bedroom, a stack of wooden planks in front of him. Connor's standing on the other side of it, peering into a booklet. He's wearing a soft hoodie, his hair all over the place. His beard is unkempt, making him look a little scruffy. Jack wants to put his mouth on Connor's neck.
He tears his eyes away, back onto what's supposed to become a closet for Connor's clothes. "Maybe you should've asked Klinger," Jack says. "I'm pretty sure Swedes can do this in their sleep."
"Why would I?" Connor mutters, not taking his eyes away from the instructions. "I've got you."
It's a good thing Connor's not looking at him, because Jack can't help the smile that tugs at his mouth. "I'm not the best at assembling furniture though, bud."
"You'll manage," Connor says, looking up from the instructions. "Just make sure I don't mess up. That's what you normally do, anyway. This is the third time I've ordered this closet and I'm not spending money on a fourth."
Jack snorts, getting up off the floor. "What happened to the other two?"
The booklet with instructions crackles as Connor folds it open on the first page. "I don't want to talk about it."
After Jack takes a look at the first couple of instructions, too, they get to work. Connor starts out looking and thinking along with the instructions, but within ten minutes he's sitting on the floor where Jack had been sitting. He offers commentary while he hands over tools when Jack asks.
(His feigned surprise when Connor knows what a caliper is gets him a kick against the back of his thigh.)
There's a structure to assembling IKEA furniture so after he demonstrates where the screws and pegs go on a few planks, Connor does one himself, too. There's a proud smile curving at the corner at his mouth when he hands it to Jack, helping him assemble the parts together.
He makes Connor use the hammer to align the planks with the wooden frame. "You're nearly there," he smirks, when Connor is done. "Try not to have it fall apart during the last step."
Connor's cheeks are flushed pink from the assembling. Jack feels his smile tense a little when Connor pulls up the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head. He's wearing a soft gray shirt underneath, his hair messed up. He levels Jack with a challenging glint to his eyes, and Jack suddenly has many regrets.
"What else?" Connor asks, one hand perched on his hip as he looks at the last picture in the instructions. "Tighten screws," he reads, leveling Jack with an unimpressed look. "As if I can mess that up."
"Famous last words," Jack chirps, holding out a screwdriver, tip first. When Connor reaches for it, he twists it around in his palm, out of reach before extending the handle.
Connor pulls the screwdriver from his hand, shoving against his chest with his other. "Funny."
Jack snickers, his hand briefly brushing across Connor's. He leans his head to the side to watch as Connor crouches down, tightening the screws at the bottom of the drawers. They push the closet against the wall after Connor’s done.
Jack pats the side of it with his hand, feeling the smoothness of the wood under his fingers. “Good job, bud. That only took us, like, three hours. But you’ve got something to show for it.”
Connor takes his chirps in stride, smiling at the wardrobe. He jerks his head at Jack. “C’mon, let’s eat.” He winds an arm around Jack’s shoulders as they walk into the hallway, tugging him in for a second. “I’m starving.”
The crook of Connor’s elbow is warm against the back of his neck, the touch kicking up flutters in Jack’s stomach. He bites down on the inside of his lip, nodding. “Yeah, same.”
+1
It happens gradually. He knows it does, because time is time and it doesn’t go faster or slower. But as soon as he notices that Connor doesn’t seem to need him anymore, it leaves him feeling blindsided, wondering if he should’ve seen this coming.
It starts with dinner that night, when Connor puts a bowl of mac and cheese in his lap that is just fine. Jack has been fed mac and cheese by Connor before. It has never once tasted like anything that could be called fine. There’s no burnt aftertaste to the cheese and the macaroni is perfectly al dente, not a hint of the signature crunch in sight.
The potted plants in Connor’s living room stop changing every month, too. Instead of turning various shades of dull brown like they used to, they grow larger and sprout new leaves. Connor cancels their morning run on Sunday, telling him that he’s busy repotting his plants into new pots, you know, the gray ceramic ones they saw at Home Depot a few weeks ago?
Jack knows he should be proud of Connor for finally figuring this stuff out, for taking over the reigns of his adult life from his housekeeper and, well, Jack. But when Connor doesn’t even ask him what amaranth is during a grocery run at Whole Foods and just chucks it into his cart, Jack can’t help but feel disappointed. Connor even carries his own bags now, too.
It leaves him feeling useless. He misses Connor, even though they still hang out a couple of times a week. It’s just a whole lot less, now that Connor’s no longer calling him to demand he come over and fix whatever it is that broke around Connor’s house. It’s on an afternoon, as he’s walking back through the kitchen and he seriously contemplates breaking Connor’s faucet just so Connor makes him fix it, that he realizes a little distance might be in order here.
So that’s what he does. He keeps driving them to practice, but when Connor asks him to check out the early version of chel ‘23 he got sent by EA, Jack begs off with an excuse. He repeats it a couple of times over the next two weeks. It sucks because Connor starts looking more like a kicked puppy every time Jack backs out.
It’s been a week since he and Connor last hung out together outside of the rink and Jack’s car, when Brett walks up to him in the locker room after practice.
“Hey dude,” Brett says, towelling his hair dry. “Didn’t you help Davo set up the VIKEDAL?”
“The what?” Jack asks, squinting a little. He lifts his foot onto his other knee, tugging his sock on.
“The closet in his bedroom.” Brett slings the towel around his neck. “I bought one, too, but it’s impossible to set up alone. Wanna help me out here? I’ll even buy you pizza at the end.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” It’s not like he has anything else to do for the rest of the afternoon, after dropping Connor off at home. “I gotta drop Davo off first, though.”
“Sweet, thanks,” Brett grins. “No need to hurry, I’ve got a call planned with my agent planned in, like, half an hour.”
Jack nods. “Okay, I’ll text you.”
He continues getting dressed after Brett wanders off again, catching Connor’s eyes on him when he tugs his hoodie over his head. Connor averts his eyes as he keeps tugging on the laces of his sneakers with jerky movements, his knuckles white.
Jack picks up his bag and walks over. “Ready to go?”
Connor looks up, his hair falling over his forehead. “Hm? Yeah.”
They’re quiet as they walk towards Jack’s car in the parking lot. Connor keeps his arms crossed during the ride, not even reacting when Jack’s rock playlist comes on. It’s raining again, the wipers flipping back and forth quickly as they’re stopped in front of a red light.
“Should clear up soon,” Jack says, craning his head to look at the strip of blue sky visible in the distance.
“Why are you going to Brett’s?” Connor blurts out. He’s pressing his lips together when Jack looks at him, a furrow etched above his brow.
“Uh,” Jack says, dragging out the word. Behind him, someone honks. He quickly gets them moving, turning the corner to Connor’s neighborhood. “He asked me to help him. Set up that IKEA closet you also have.”
“Right. So you do have time to help or hang out, just not when I’m the one asking. Fine, got it.” Connor slumps a little in his seat, sturdily looking out of the window.
Jack opens his mouth, closes it again on a breath. He stops the car in front of Connor’s house, turning the music off. “Davo,” he says, not missing the way that makes the jut of Connor’s jawline clench. “It’s a tough closet to put together, you know that. I’m just helping him out. You and I spend time together all the time.”
“Not anymore,” Connor mutters, moodily. He briefly meets Jack’s eyes before looking ahead again. “You keep blowing me off. I literally bought, like, a drying rack the other day. Because you said it’s bad for the environment to use the dryer for everything. And you haven’t even come in to see it.”
“Do you,” Jack starts, slowly, because he’s feeling pretty confused right now, “want me to come look at your drying rack?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do,” Connor says, firmly.
Jack feels his own eyebrows knit together. “Why?”
“Because,” Connor says, stressing the word. “I keep doing all of these things for you to show you that I’m, like, trying. To be better at being twenty-five. So maybe you’ll take me seriously when I tell you that I fucking--,” He lets out a noisy breath, trailing his hand through the air. “When I tell you that I like you.”
Jack’s fingers twitch as Connor meets his eyes, his heart hammering in his chest. The windows are fogging up now that the car isn’t running anymore, the space around them growing smaller. His throat is dry when he swallows. “You like me?”
Connor purses his lips, nodding once. “Yeah. And I knew you’d think it was a joke. Or that you wouldn’t believe me if I didn’t show you that I’m serious about it. About you.”
“I do take you seriously,” Jack says, his voice coming out rough. He feels brave, a little hazy, when he reaches out and covers the palm of Connor’s hand with his fingers. He hopes his smile doesn’t betray the myriad of emotions going through him right now. With the way Connor’s looking back at him, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it did. “And I like you, too. For a while already.”
He sees the moody expression fade away from Connor’s face, barely catching the dorky grin that emerges before he has Connor’s lips pressed up against his own, a hand at the back of his neck keeping him in place.
Kissing Connor feels like nothing he’s ever felt before, and nowhere close to what he imagined it to feel like. The scrape of Connor’s beard against his chin is a rough counterpoint to the plushness of Connor’s mouth, moving softly against his own. It sends heated sparks down to his fingers, which he brings up to hold onto the lapels of Connor’s coat with.
One of Connor’s hands moves to his neck, a warm presence against the sensitive skin. He presses a thumb up against the underside of Jack’s jaw, tilting his head to kiss him more thoroughly.
Jack makes a plaintive noise when Connor pulls back after what feels like an hour, opening his eyes. Connor sends him a smile, still leaning into Jack’s space. “So,” he says. Jack likes the way Connor’s voice is slightly hoarse. “Wanna come in?”
Jack presses his lips together, tasting Connor on them. He makes a show out of looking pensive. “For the drying rack, right?”
The sound of Connor’s laugh makes his stomach flop pleasantly. “Yeah,” Connor smiles. “For the drying rack.”
They get out of the car, hurrying up the front lawn while the rain comes down steadily. Jack feels Connor press up along his back as they reach the front door.
“Open it,” Connor says. “I don’t have a key.”
He briefly looks over his shoulder at Connor, grabbing for his keys in his pocket. “How do you forget your own key?” he asks.
Connor gives him a look. “I didn’t.”
Jack lets out a laugh. “You wanted me to open your door for you?” He feels warmth burst in his chest at the thought, smiling down at his hands as he fumbles the key into the lock, turning it. “All part of your grand scheme?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Connor says, when Jack’s still snickering as he pushes them into the house. “I know. Worked, though, didn’t it?”
Jack allows himself to get pushed up against the door, Connor’s body flush against his front as he crowds into his space. Connor kisses him again, capturing his smile with his own mouth.
“Yeah,” Jack breathes, tingles going down his spine as Connor presses his mouth against his neck. He brings a hand up, tangling his fingers in Connor’s hair. Allows himself to close his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It worked.”
the end.