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They don’t talk about it.
He means to, Ponce really does, but he doesn’t want to ruin the still peacefulness of that morning, and that evening seems too soon, and they’re busy the next day, and then the third day he forgets, and he keeps putting off the inevitable for no good reason. It’s been nearly two weeks, and neither of them will bring it up. Ponce has heavily considered just letting it die where it stands.
Maybe ignoring the issue would be, not healthy, but livable if it didn’t persist. But of course, Ponce wasn’t that lucky, and the thing between them lives on in all these little ways.
None of it stops, the lingering touches and the soft looks, and it’s not like they weren’t there before, but now they carry a weight with them. It's in the way Jack placed his hand on the small of Ponce’s back while they were doing the dishes, impossibly soft, and how he’d looped an arm around Ponce’s shoulders as they’d walked to the bookstore down the street, though his grip had drifted south enough to land around Ponce’s waist by the time they’d reached the store. It’s an intimacy he hasn’t been allowed in ages, he doesn’t want it to end, but nearly everything around them demands it does.
——
Jack is sitting at the table, diligently shuffling through stacks of paperwork with pen in hand. He’s been pouring over the pages for hours now, and something in Ponce desperately wants to make him stop, give himself a break. Ponce is supposed to be looking through his newspaper for “HELP WANTED” ads, but he keeps getting distracted in favor of looking at Jack. It’s been more of a problem than he cares to admit.
He chokes back a groan when he realizes he’s been sidetracked again, and Jack looks up at the noise.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah, just-“ Ponce stammers, nodding at the newsprint, “-news.”
Jack stares at him; it takes everything he has not to stare back. He’s been less “put together” lately, with no job to get up for every day, and Ponce would be a damn liar if he said it wasn’t a good look. Jack hasn’t styled his hair back in weeks, opting to leave his loose waves natural, nor has he chosen to leave his glasses on the bureau every morning. Ponce thinks the gold frames accent his eyes and high cheekbones perfectly (not that he can tell him that), but Jack says they look tacky and prefers to walk around half-blind.
“What’re you working on?” Ponce asks and prays it’ll be enough to distract Jack from the moment he’d just had.
Blessedly, it does. Jack leans back in his chair and threads his fingers together behind his neck. “Family stuff,” he says, eyes trained on the ceiling. “Finances, mostly.” He hesitates for a moment before rolling his neck to better see the couch where Ponce sits. “They still want us to come visit, you know.”
“They want you to visit,” Ponce corrects. “I don’t think your family is too keen on seeing me.”
Jack moves forward, leveling Ponce with a stern look. “We were both invited, and I’m not going without you.”
It’s too much, it strikes too close to somewhere Ponce can’t recover from and forces him to stare at the newspaper in his lap.
“Besides,” Jack adds, “Bobby is gonna be home for a few days soon, and he won’t shut up about how he hasn’t seen you in ages.” The grin in his voice is audible.
The joking relaxes Ponce a bit, but he’s still too high strung for this. “I’ll think about it,” he says instead and tries to push down the pang he feels when Jack looks disappointed.
He hears Jack get up from the table. “I’m gonna go to my room,” Jack mutters, and Ponce’s eyes catch on where he drags his hand across the arm of the couch as he passes. The bedroom door clicks shut, leaving Ponce alone with his newspaper.
He knows he shouldn’t feel this way, especially knows he shouldn’t be taking it out of Jack, but what else is there? He wants Jack so badly, so badly, and there’s no one to turn to, nowhere to go. The people on the streets watch them with a critical eye, ensuring nothing goes beyond friendly. Ponce can feel eyes even if there aren’t any there because the world is unkind and throws insults and stones at people like him. He can’t be the reason Jack is subjected to that, it’s not fair to him.
Here, though, is different. They’ve created 900 square feet of safety looking out on the Charles River, where the outside world can’t judge them. No one else can stop the lingering touches and too-personal phrases Jack graces him with, nor can they stop Ponce from falling head-over-heels for everything little thing Jack does.
(They also can’t stop the nights where Ponce lays wide-awake in bed and stares at the popcorn ceiling, cursing whichever building inspector allowed their walls to be so damn thin, though he’s determined to make sure no one ever finds out about them.)
Regardless, he’s grown too comfortable in the safety their apartment provides, and, more importantly, the safety the Kennedy estate 75 miles away can’t promise. He can deal with the judgemental glares from strangers, but the thought of it from Jack’s family, the people he loves more than anyone, is terrifying. Ponce has looked death in his cold, dark face, but every one of Jack’s siblings is frustratingly smart- they’d see right through him. He may have been able to hide his feelings around Jack (God only knows how), but he wouldn’t last a day in Hyannis Port.
The newspaper in his hands still proclaims “HELP WANTED” in thick block letters, though it’s not the same help Ponce is looking for.
——
The first thing he notices is the darkness, and how overbearing it is. The second is the sounds: loud banging from somewhere behind him, above him, echoing through the hull of the boat.
“Shit!” Someone yells. “They got John!”
“They didn’t,” a rational part of him reminds him. “He’s fine,” it says, but that part is quickly drowning in the water creeping its way into the boat.
“They got John!” The person yells again, and he’s panicking now. The mission needs a commander, but he needs Jack. The water has reached his shins. He can’t keep fighting against the waves, but he has to get out, has to get Jack, he can’t be dead, please, God, he can’t be dead-
Another boom shakes the boat, and light erupts behind him, casting eerie orange stripes over the water. He winces at the sudden change, throwing an arm over his face.
“Everyone out!” A voice screams. “Leave the bodies, get out!”
But it’s not a body, it’s Jack, Jack is still here.
He can hear his name coming from somewhere, too loud and too clear for the chaos around him.
His arms are still shielding his face from the fire, and the sensation of being near burned while half-submerged in the ocean makes him want to scream, but he can’t leave, not yet, not while-
——
His eyes are closed, squeezed shut tight, and there’s a hand wrapped softly around his wrists. Tremors rip through his body every few seconds. He can’t remember falling asleep, but, evidently, he did.
“Ponce, it’s alright, I’m right here.” Jack’s voice comes from next to him, and it’s just as soft as his grip, but still grounding.
Ponce takes a deep breath and opens his eyes slowly.
He’s still on the couch, he can feel it under his back and pressed against his side, and the only light comes from a desk lamp across the room. He can see Jack in the dim glow, kneeling next to the couch, watching him wake up from his nightmare.
“Hi,” Jack says, but the line between his eyebrows and the worried gleam in his eyes betray his concern. “Before you say anything, you don’t have to tell me about it.”
He didn’t mean to bother Jack. Ponce could have dealt with this on his own; after all, it’s what he’s been doing for the last five odd years. Getting caught like this feels strangely like losing- like he’s admitting defeat for this weakness he can’t overcome, though he takes the olive branch he’s been extended with greedy hands.
“Can I get you anything?” Jack asks, and Ponce realizes he hasn’t said anything; he’s just been staring at Jack with bleary eyes.
The earnestness of it all kind of makes him want to hide. There’s nowhere to go, but he could stay silent and pray Jack leaves him on his own. He doesn’t really want Jack to go, though.
“I could go for a cigarette,” Ponce says instead. He tries to push himself up into a sitting position, but the shaking of his arms won’t allow it.
Jack clicks his tongue lightly. “Not in the house-” he moves an arm behind Ponce’s back for support, “-and I don’t think you should be going outside right now, either.” The look Jack levels him with is so impossibly caring, so full of what has to be love.
It has to be love because that’s what bursts in Ponce’s chest whenever he hears Jack singing off-key as he folds laundry, and watches Jack meticulously run pomade through his hair before covering it all with a hat, and tastes the extra sugar Jack puts in their tea because he has a terrible sweet tooth. Ponce has so much love to give to this boy kneeling next to him, and he hates that it took a nightmare for him to finally admit it.
He wants to tell it all to Jack, too, but fighting off the tremble of his voice and limbs is proving to be enough work. Ponce still isn’t holding himself up, instead relying on Jack’s hand spanning over Ponce’s back, and the heat radiating off of him feels something like heaven.
“Here,” Jack says, “this doesn’t have to be so uncomfortable.” He moves so quickly that Ponce doesn’t register what’s happening until it’s done, when there’s solid warmth under him and an arm around his shoulders. The closeness probably isn’t necessary, but god, Ponce feels like it is.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he mumbles when he has enough faith in his voice to stay steady.
Jack’s arm around him tightens and Ponce melts. “Don’t apologize. I wasn’t asleep, anyway.” He’s still wearing his glasses and hasn’t changed out of day clothes, which makes Ponce feel a bit better. It’s colder here than in New York, so Jack has taken to wearing thick knitted sweaters. Today’s is off-white and cable knit, unbearably soft under Ponce’s fingers.
Slowly but surely, Ponce’s breathing evens out until he can take a deep breath without it catching. Jack has started tapping along to the faint beat of the record he left playing in his room- something slow and crooning.
Laying on the couch together, listening to Jack’s music, it’s all so painfully domestic. He’s usually not the one to initiate contact, but Jack’s hand is so promisingly close to his, and Ponce threads their fingers together in silent confession.
Jack inhales sharply beneath him, but he doesn’t let go. “We should probably talk about this,” he says quietly. He’s right, of course.
If Ponce were a smarter man, he would deny everything in his head and take the safe route. That path is painfully grey but it keeps them safe, keeps Jack safe. It’s full of missed opportunities to greet Jack with a hug and kiss him when no one else is watching. It’s awful and it’s what he should pick. But Ponce isn’t a smarter man, he’s just tired.
“I’m in love with you.”
Jack sighs under him, squeezes his hand. “Yeah?”
He pushes himself up to better see Jack’s face. The lamp casts hardly any light, but Jack’s grin seems to glow. “I’m in love with you, too,” he says, and it's so simple, so obvious, that Ponce has to return the smile.
“How long?” Jack asks, drawing their hands up to his mouth.
“Forever, probably,” Ponce admits. “You’re so beautiful, Jack, and confident, and I’ve loved you since the first time we met. Took me a while to figure it out, though.”
Jack laughs against his hand. “Me too, I think.”
He can’t believe how lucky he’s gotten, after four years of wishing for this moment. “Jack,” Ponce says, “can I kiss you?”
“Please,” Jack breathes, and he’d be a complete lier if Ponce said it didn’t do something for him.
Kissing Jack is so easy, so much like it’s supposed to happen. He can feel Jack’s lips curve in a smile against him, and the closeness is intoxicating. Jack is everywhere, one hand under Ponce’s shirt and the other cupping his cheek in an achingly sweet manner. Ponce cards a hand through Jack’s hair and thrills at the sound it evokes from him. He loves him so much, it almost hurts.
“You’re good at that,” Jack says demurely. His eyes are half-lidded, chin still tilted up enough to brush Ponce’s lips with his own.
“You’re ridiculous.” Ponce kisses him again, thinks he could probably spend the next week doing nothing but this. “Should we go find an actual bed? It’s getting late.”
Jack hums. “I like you right here,” and he wiggles further down into the couch to prove his point.
This is a new side of him, unabashedly handsy. Ponce never thought he’d be this big a fan of all the contact, but, it turns out, he’s a fan of anything if it's Jack. “Your neck is gonna hurt like hell tomorrow.”
“‘t’s worth it,” he says like that’s an explanation. “We can sleep in a bed next time.”
“Next time,” Ponce thinks and the promise of a next time, many next times, makes his heart flutter. It doesn’t feel real, not after four years of being resigned to wishful thinking. Part of him feels like they’re supposed to make up for lost time, but it doesn’t seem lost. They were still together, just not like this, and he still knows Jack better than he does himself. Sure, he couldn’t tell Jack how much he meant, how much Ponce loved him, but maybe he had said enough without actually saying anything.
“I can hear you thinking,” Jack mutters into his hair. “Go to sleep.”
“I have a lot to think about.”
Jack’s arms tighten around him like he can squeeze the coherence out of Ponce’s body. “You can think in the morning. I know you’re tired, go to sleep.”
Ponce can’t help but laugh. “Fine, fine, I’m sleeping.” He must be really far gone if he can find even Jack’s petulant bossiness charming.
They fall into silence again, until the only things Ponce hears are Jack’s record player and the occasional car outside. The repetitive movement of Jack’s chest rising and falling is soothing, and it’s making it hard to keep his eyes open. As he drifts off, Ponce distantly realizes that Jack is still wearing his day clothes.
“He’s gonna kill me for letting him sleep in slacks.”
It’s fine. They’ll deal with it in the morning.