Work Text:
"You know, you're being awfully presumptuous," David says, doing his damndest to sound casual and relaxed.
"Who is?" Jack asks, teasing, his mouth in David's hair.
David turns around in Jack's arms to look at him. Jack looks as casual and relaxed as he always is, with his square jaw and his laughing eyes. "The same guy who has to leave for practice in twenty minutes."
Jack makes an affronted noise and presses his mouth to the topmost knot of David's spine. It makes his shoulders hunch and roll back, even though he tries to keep them still. "Are you accusing me of handling myself inappropriately, good sir?" he says, in the worst British accent David's ever heard.
David sniffs contemptuously. "That depends on whether or not you are."
"I would never," Jack replies, sounding appropriately miffed. David smiles tersely at his laptop screen without seeing a single thing on it.
It's still early. Volleyball practice had been put off because they had to use the gym for some nondescript parent meeting, but it wasn't supposed to be that long, so Jack had decided to skip going home and just go to David's instead. David had told himself they were going to strat-scout by watching some college games on YouTube or something.
Of course, however, David had forgotten that Jack is, well. All hands.
It feels like they've spent the majority of their two hours at home doing nothing. David had stopped paying attention to the BYU-UCLA game from a month ago playing on his laptop at around the five-minute mark, despite how much he was reminding himself to keep his focus. All he's been able to pay attention to so far is the firmness of Jack's chest at his back... He shakes himself gently, reflexively turning up the volume even though it's at max already.
"That's as loud as it can go," Jack says unnecessarily.
David sighs, though it's mostly for theatrics. "You're being—distracting," he reprimands. "At least one of us should focus so we can actually get something done this practice."
Jack laughs. David can feel it on the back of his shirt. "My intentions are nothing but pure."
"Jack," David protests.
"Davey," Jack replies, his voice wheedling and soft. "You alright?"
David chooses not to answer that. Lets Jack draw his own conclusions, which he certainly does, judging by the way he rests his head against Davey's neck. "You know I love you."
The back of David's neck heats up. "...Yeah."
Jack beams into his collar, his hands lighting on the curve of David's hip. "So you know that if you wanted me to stop, you could say so at any time and I'd fuck right off into the sunset."
"Obviously."
"So," Jack repeats. And then he's shifting, letting David rest on his pillow so he can look into his eyes. David feels a bit like someone's playing piano up his back. "I think you had a bad day today, and I know you sometimes feel better when you just let me touch you..."
He's right about that. David looks at his hands, begins to pick nervously at his comforter even as he shivers. "I mean—yeah, I did, but it was just nothing."
Jack raises his eyebrows.
David frowns at him, only half meaning it. "It really was. I just—got a test back today that wasn't so great, and I tried really hard—"
"That sucks. I'm sorry, Dave."
"—and I just want this practice to be good," David lets out in a rush. "They're counting on us to get 'em through this season, you know? I don't know. Today was just a little weird. It's okay."
Jack nods, looking pensively up at the ceiling and reclining slightly. He takes one of David's hands, chapped from the recent bout of cold weather, and starts rubbing his knuckles, almost like he isn't thinking about it. "I gotcha, Davey." A beat. "And you're sure that's all?"
David tries not to smile at that. He tries, but the levee breaks eventually. It always does with Jack; sweet, solid Jack, who can't stand to see anyone sad on his watch. "That's all. On my honor."
"The honor 'a Brooklyn," Jack says seriously, and David really does laugh this time, which seems to settle him some. He sits up, grinning, and holds his arms out. An offer. An out, if David should want it.
No, David thinks. He doesn't.
"And, I mean, I have been payin' attention," Jack says, as soon as they're settled comfortably again, his voice humming pleasantly against David's back. "BYU's blocks are fucking insane, but UCLA's got some serves that'd take your hair off. Well," he corrects, "when they can get 'em over the net, that is."
"Says you," David says good-naturedly, finally feeling like the tension coiled inside him is beginning to unspool. "As I recall, somebody hit Race in the back of the head with his opener last year—"
"That was one time," Jack wails, and David's laughing at him, and then Jack is kissing him to shut him up and talking about blocking drills and serve aiming and the back of Race's head, and for the first time all day, David feels like something's going right.
——
(They're ten minutes late to practice. Coach awards them five laps each on top of warmup, but Davey sees the wry smile on Jack's face and decides it's worth it.)