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When Jack caught sight of Brock he was immediately enamored. It didn’t make sense -- Brock was standing behind the local diner where he worked as a server, smoking a cigarette and stretching, flexing the wrists of his wings under a streetlight as light faded around them. Jack was heading to his car, parked in the back just a few feet from where the man was standing. He was burly and shorter than Jack was. He unconsciously ruffled his feathers, chin raised proudly. Brock’s wings were beautiful, slate gray mottled with white freckle-like splotches. The underside of his wing was a steely gray. They had to be about sixteen or seventeen feet long, an educated guess judging from the extended wrist. The tip of his cigarette was a glaring red, smoke curling from his nose when he dropped his cigarette, rolling his head neck and sighing loud enough to hear. Jack realized he’d stopped walking, too busy taking in the sight before him. He still had his change pouch around his hips, a bit wide for a man, but Jack found that appealing. The black bag was slung low, going well with a heathered black tee that made his olive skin looking fair, the faint glow of blood beneath his skin giving him a rosy glow. He was clad in acid washed jeans that hugged the swell of his hips and thighs.
He was quite the specimen, from the proud quiff of umber hair to his worn white Sketchers and everything in between.
Jack pondered the best way to approach him. He was completely taken aback by him; an immediate connection that Jack hoped would be reciprocated. He fluffed his feathers again, trying to make his wings look even bigger than they already were. His wingspan was eighteen and a half feet, feathers the color of burnt sienna, dappled in black, the undersides were cream colored. Under the yellow glow Brock stood there, ethereal and nearly unapproachable. A waiter wasn’t supposed to allure him the way that Brock currently was. Jack knew he would willingly grovel for the chance to take him out, just once, and see if there was more to his reaction to him than lust. He gathered his thoughts, drew himself up higher and crossed the parking lot.
Brock finally noticed him, tucking his wings back in, undeniably sore from being furled for such a long shift. He eyed Jack critically, sizing him up and trying to decipher his reason for approaching him. Jack stopped a few feet short -- he didn’t want to crowd him. “I’m Jack,” he said.
Brock eyed him critically, taking in the white oxford tucked into the black slacks. “You look out of your element,” he said, nodding at his shiny loafers.
Color spread across Jack’s cheekbones. “This place is good for home cooking.”
Brock grunted and placed the filter between his lips, taking a long deep drag. “I guess it is,” he said, releasing a cloud of smoke as he spoke. “Do you need my help with something? I’m on break.”
Jack rubbed his palms against his jeans nervously. “I was just thinking…” he said slowly. “I was just thinking that maybe I could take you out. Some time. If-if you want, I mean. No pressure.”
Brock had sharp coffee-colored eyes, intelligent and endless. Jack could feel his resolve crumbling around him as he took in the sight before him. “You want to go on a date with me?” Brock asked in a dead voice.
“Yes,” Jack breathed, heart hammering. He’d never felt like there was so much on the line with something as simple as a date.
Of course he knew they came from different worlds. Brock existed on the outskirts of his life. They were incompatible in almost every way. Brock wasn’t cultured and comfortable in the world where image was everything. That was apparent from the smell of tobacco that clung to his skin and clothing. It was particularly pungent with a lit cigarette so close to him.
“And why would you want to go on a date with me?” Brock asked suspiciously.
“I… You look nice.”
“I look nice,” he echoed deadly. “I’m sure there’s plenty of nice guys in the city. That’s where you’re from, right? People ‘round here don’t dress like that.” He nodded at Jack’s clothing.
Jack flushed further. “I came from work,” he said defensively.
Brock continued to stare at him, taking him completely, weighing his options. “Are you paying?” he finally asked warily.
Jack was surprised by the question. “Of course. I’m taking you out.”
Brock squinted at him, trying to read between the lines of his words. They locked eye contact for a moment. Jack felt his stomach had dropped down to his feet as he held Brock’s gaze. “Okay,” he said. “Sure. Why not.”
Jack was pleased in the most wonderful of ways. He didn’t realize how little faith he’d had in Brock agreeing until he was washed in surprise. Jack was able to appraise Brock now he knew that they would be spending time together. He wondered how long Brock had existed right under his nose as he occasionally stopped in for an odd meal here and there. Brock looked at him expectantly and Jack realized that he was staring. Color flooded to his face and quickly averted his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to come off as some sort of weirdo to be avoided.
“Ah, okay -- what about tomorrow night?”
“I’m working.” Brock took another drag, tip searing in the fading light. “Monday night, I can.”
“Monday,” Jack agreed immediately. “Monday it is.”
“You can take me to some fancy place.” Brock said.
Jack grinned. “I can definitely do that.”
Brock took a final drag and then threw the butt to the ground, scuffing it with his shoe. “I gotta go. PIck me up here at 7 on Monday. That’s when I get off.”
Jack nodded eagerly and Brock turned tail and started for the propped open back door of the diner. Jack watched him go with awe. He wasn’t sure what had captivated him about Brock but his aloofness had multiplied it. He would understand this man if it was the last thing he did.
** ** ** **
Monday rolled around with a nasty surprise. Jack got up from bed and as he turned to remake it he was faced with several feathers lying innocently on the cream sheets. He couldn’t be molting! It was as though fate itself wanted the date to go poorly. The last thing he wanted to do was shed feathers in front of Brock but what choice did he have? With a heavy sigh he showered, losing even more feathers that laid, sodden, on the marble. He picked them up with heavy regret, tossing them into the trash can before he shaved and dressed for the day. He lost more feathers at his desk and his optimism wavered.
When the day was over Jack rushed home to change and see the damage. His wings, once handsome, looked ragged and permanently ruffled as his secondaries slipped free. Jack groaned in dismay but he still dressed and beat his wings a few times to try and get out anything loose. Feathers fluttered around the room and he tried to smooth his wings into something remotely tolerable. It helped but only a bit. He checked the time and reluctantly left the house. Who knew what Brock would think!
Brock was standing out in front of the diner, dressed in an oxford shirt and a nice pair of black slacks. Brock appraised his vehicle as Jack pulled up. He made a move to leave the car to open the door for him but Brock moved quickly and soon he was nestled in Jack’s passenger seat. The streetlight lit up half of Brock’s face, giving him an angelic glow. For a moment Jack forgot about his situation and simply appreciated a man like Brock sitting beside him.
“Nice car,” Brock said.
“Thanks. It’s a lease.”
“Still nice.” Borck said. Jack was so taken by Brock that he didn’t realize that Brock was waiting for him to drive. “Are we going to dinner or not?”
“Oh!” Jack said, flushing. “I’m sorry. Yes.”
He pulled away from the front of the diner and started towards the inner city. Brock and him talked aimlessly. Brock complained about his shift and Jack listened. Jack considered telling him about his unfortunate molting but decided against it. If he could maintain an image of somewhat perfection that would be better. He didn’t want to drive Brock away, after all. It may have been natural but it put him into a state of disarray and that was not how he wanted to come off as.
They went to an Italian restaurant and Brock seemed glad about that. They were led to a table in a quiet corner where the lighting was low and a candle flickered joyfully in the middle of the table. Brock and Jack settled opposite each other. It lit up Brock’s face and Jack was content to just look at him. They put in their drink order -- Jack, whiskey and Brock wine -- and the two conversed about safe topics such as work. Their drinks arrived and Brock took a sip of wine, closed his eyes, and smiled.
“I take it that it’s to you liking?” Jack asked, a bit amused.
“This is good wine,” Brock said. “Usually all I can get is what the grocery store sells. I never get fancy stuff like this.”
Fancy. Jack was so adjusted to the world he lived in he forgot that Brock was a waiter and that didn’t afford much money. “Feel free to order as many glasses as you want.”
Brock rolled his eyes. “Oh, I intended to.”
Jack laughed. He was enamored by him, by his unapologetic expression of self. “Good.”
“Mmhm.” Brock took another sip. “So what made you choose me? Surely there are debutantes that you could wine and dine?”
“I don’t want debutantes.” Jack said honestly. “There’s something about you that draws me in.”
“Probably my ass,” Brock said conversationally. “That seems to be the focus of just about every guy who takes me out. But if you’re expecting me to put out, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. I don’t fuck on the first date.”
Jack’s smile never left his face. “Good, I never intended to.”
Brock eyed him suspiciously but, seeing no deceit in his eyes, shrugged. “Good.”
“Do you date a lot?”
Brock took a sip. “I’m hard to please,” he said finally. “I go on a lot of first dates. I’ve yet to find someone that I wanted to go with again.”
Jack sorely hoped he could change that as he nodded in his head in understanding.
“What about you?” Brock asked.
“I’m usually too busy for dates.”
“But you made time for me?”
“I did.”
“And you’re telling me my ass had nothing to do with it?”
“If you recall you were facing me the entire time,” Jack said, amused. “You just stood out to me. You still do.”
Brock looked uncertain before the expression changed suddenly to satisfaction. “I am quite the anomaly,” he said.
Jack had to agree. Their food came, lobster ravioli for Brock and pasta carbonara for Jack. Things were going so well up until Jack paid the bill and they stood. There were a few feathers behind Jack’s chair. He prayed that Brock wouldn’t notice, trying to hustle him out the door. But Brock turned his head and caught sight of them. The burnt sienna feathers stood out starkly against the pale floors and Jack blushed. There went his image.
“Molting?” Brock asked casually. Jack nodded mutely. “That was me last month.”
“You don’t… You don’t care?”
Brock looked at him as if he was crazy. “Why would I care? Everyone does it.”
That was true but being in any state of disarray felt wrong to Jack. “I usually am much more… Neat.”
“Neat?” Brock echoed with a playful wag of his eyebrows. “Don’t worry Mr. Rollins, I still want to have a second date with you.”
“You do?” Jack asked.
“Yes.” Brock said confidently. Jack let out a small laugh of relief. “Assuming you want to take me out again, that is.”
“I would love to take you out again,” Jack replied.
“Good.” Brock said. “Now walk me to the car.”
And Jack did without giving his molt a second thought.