Work Text:
Whoever thinks that education workers get it easy when it comes to vacation time is gravely mistaken. And an idiot.
It’s a fresh, late September morning, and the birds are chirping outside Jack’s window, greeting the weak morning sun as it rises over the busy streets of New York City. It’s barely eight in the morning on a Saturday, and Jack is already showered, dressed, and reluctantly settling down at his dining table, cup of coffee in hand.
The mug is awful, leftover from a staff Christmas party a handful of years before– it reads World’s Okayest Boss in large block lettering. He places it down on the table next to his laptop, releasing a weary sigh as he pushes it open.
It’s only been about half an hour of work, but it feels like three hours, an endless flood of spreadsheets and emails and signing form letters, when there’s a knock at the door.
Jack blinks, the blue light of the laptop screen flashing behind his eyelids. He checks the time. Eight-thirty in the morning. Who could possibly be here at eight-thirty? Shawn doesn’t wake up before ten on weekends, as a concrete rule. If Lucas had needed his couch, he would have been here last night–
He swings open the door to see Eric standing there, smiling conspiratorially.
“I thought Saturdays were your sleep-in days,” Jack says in greeting.
“Oh, hello to you too,” Eric responds, and raises his eyebrows. “Can I come in?”
Jack allows him into the apartment, and Eric wrinkles his nose at the sight of his work set-up.
“It is not even nine in the morning,” Eric says disapprovingly.
Jack sighs. “Budgetary concerns aren’t going to sort themselves out. This whole Yancy situation isn’t going to sort itself out. Everything else isn’t going to sort itself out.”
“Jack,” Eric says, taking Jack by the shoulders. “This is exactly why I’m here.”
“How did you get in without the buzzer?” Jack asks.
Eric shrugs. “I snuck through the doors after an older lady. I wanted to surprise you.”
Jack feels warmth blossom in his chest. “Surprise me with what?”
“Exactly.” Eric says. “You, Jackson Hunter, need a break.” He pauses. “We need a break.”
“I have work to do,” Jack protests weakly.
“It’s Saturday,” Eric says pointedly. “Do you have one thing that has to be done by the end of today, a Saturday?”
There’s a pause. “No,” Jack admits.
Eric grins, knowing he’s won. Which, well, of course he’s won. Jack is only so strong, and the options of spending the day doing work or spending the day with Eric– well, it’s a no-brainer.
“Alright,” Eric says, hand migrating from Jack’s shoulder to his wrist. “Get your shoes, coat, and scarf. Adventure awaits.”
Laughing, Jack allows Eric to pull him out the door of his apartment.
There’s a fresh cup of coffee in one of Eric’s car cup holders, probably getting cold by now, but Eric sips it happily before pulling out of Jack's building’s car park.
“Where exactly are we going?” Jack asks warily.
Eric grins. “That is a surprise.” He turns the radio on, but keeps it low, so they can still talk, a realization that makes Jack feel suddenly overwhelmed, by the quiet surety of Eric about this thing between them. He’s already long forgotten about the stack of work in his apartment, sitting in the passenger seat absorbing the warmth of the heated seat and the warmth of Eric’s smiling profile.
Eric takes one hand off the wheel, and Jack puts his hand over Eric’s. Eric looks pleased, flushing slightly and moving to intertwine their fingers.
Traffic is surprisingly light for an NYC morning, but as they approach the heart of the city, rush hour begins to show itself. However, Jack is so thoroughly distracted by the conversation they’re having that he doesn’t notice they’ve reached their destination until he’s looking out through the windshield at the wall of a parking garage.
“Here we are,” Eric announces cheerfully, and they reluctantly detangle their hands to get out of the car.
It’s only when Jack looks around and sees a nearby sign that he realizes where they are.
“Eric, this is parking for the Met,” Jack says.
Eric nods. He’s taken Jack’s hand again. “Yes it is. Today, we’re tourists. We know nothing of the big bad city. We might even pick up a couple of I♥NY sweaters from the gift shop.”
Jack raises an eyebrow.
Eric raises one back. “It’s about a… a fresh perspective. Viewing the world through new eyes.”
“Yes, theatre kid, I do recognize improv when I see it,” Jack replies, but he’s smiling. Eric has this strange ability to do that to him, and even if he’s dragging his feet to tease Eric, he’s excited. In fact, once they get out of the parking area and around to the front, starting to climb the steps to the Met, he feels downright boyish.
The price of admission is outrageous, of course, but they pay anyway, Eric’s hand rests gently between Jack’s shoulder blades as they walk in, side by side. A guide is passing by with a group of tourists gabbering away in French, and Jack notices her eyes catch on them briefly before she sweeps the group away. The two of them are perceived together, Jack realizes, in a way they never have been together– now that they are, well, inching toward together. He feels… scared, excited, nervous, thrilled.
They hit up European artwork first, because Jack took a course on Renaissance art in college and fell in love, and when he expresses that to Eric, Eric’s eyes crinkle up at the corners and he says, “I didn’t know that.”
They stop in front of Caravaggio’s The Musicians, shoulder to shoulder, taking a long moment to absorb the piece in front of them– muted reds and browns and lovingly-crafted shading decorating round, cherubic faces.
“How appropriate,” Eric quips.
“Yes,” Jack says dryly. “The one with the lute looks just like you.”
Eric pokes him in the ribs. “And the one in the back with the grumpy eyebrows is you.”
Jack laughs. “I do love this style,” he admits. “The way that Baroque artists painted people always seems so otherworldly.”
Eric looks thoughtful. “I think I know what you mean.”
Monet’s Water Lilies. John Singer Sargent’s Madame X. Winslow Homer, The Gulf Stream. A blur of famous, beautiful works of art, crowded by bouncing children and college students in berets and exhausted mothers. And Eric by his side, shoulder to shoulder, heads bent, whispering things to make him laugh, make him think. It’s like he can feel the weight of everything lifting off his shoulders, just for the moment. It’s like Yancy’s sneering face is flying away on Raphael-painted wings.
They have lunch in the overpriced cafe, and Jack insists on paying, because how else can he repay Eric for the day? So they sit across from each other, feet brushing under the table, and debate Manet, and discuss Vermeer. Jack is reminded of just how similar they are, despite how, all of those years spent with resentment, it always felt like there was an ocean of differences between them. What fools they were.
When they make their way outside, in the mid-afternoon sun, they’re holding hands again, descending the steps in quiet contentment.
“This was very romantic of you,” Jack admits, carefully. Eric looks pleased again, the way he had when Jack had taken his hand in the car. “And an excellent idea.”
“So you admit I’m a genius?” Eric replies, squeezing Jack’s hand.
Jack laughs. “I would have admitted that regardless.”
That’s definitely the right answer, because Eric kisses him, just quickly, right there on the steps of the Met in the crisp fall air.
“Gustav Klimt,” Eric says when he pulls away. “The Kiss.”
Jack's lips are tingling as he elbows Eric in the ribs.