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December was a terrible time to be out in the city, but damn it all, Jack was still refusing to do anything in his apartment other than sleep.
Jack could never manage to shut off his brain, so if he ever spent too long inside of his apartment, memories would resurface and he would end up crying like a huge baby, and after a while he was just really sick of that--and by extension, himself.
Though, one good thing about December was that it gave him an excuse to be out--he could buy gifts for the people he did still have in his life. He hadn't yet decided if he would make the trip back to Ireland this Christmas--he knew that his parents wanted him to, but whether or not he was feeling up to the task was another story. The money wasn't an issue--for once. It may just be easier to send packages to them through the mail than cart his depressed ass over the ocean.
So far, in his backpack, he carried presents for his two brothers, his mother, and one of his sisters. He decided to visit the bookstore next, knowing his other sister really liked books, and he was sure he could find a book she would like. She was the younger of his two sisters--he'd grown up the closest to her. Jack was confident in his ability to find a gift for her.
Unsurprisingly, the bookstore bustled with people, all like him--attempting to find gifts for loved ones, co-workers, bosses, and unsettling in-laws. He made a beeline for the science fiction section--his sister had an particular fondness for it. Jack then began the long trek of finding something he thought sounded interesting enough for her.
As his eyes scanned over the spines, one caught his eye. He pulled it out, running his fingers over the crisp cover, listening to the soft creak as he opened it. The summary wasn't particularly appealing, but something familiar about struck him. Like he'd heard of it before...
Jack dropped the book, suddenly overcome with tremors. He stared at the discarded book, before picking it up again, offering an apologetic smile to the person gazing at him curiously from the other side of the shelf.
He gripped the book tighter in his hands, his stomach churning. He remembered now. This book--Mark had owned a copy. His ex boyfriend had tried desperately to get him to read it, and Jack had really always meant to, even though it wasn't up his alley, but he hadn't gotten around to it before they'd split.
In all reality, Jack knew he shouldn't buy it. It would be stupid to buy it. It would only be good for reminding him of what he didn't have anymore.
But he held onto it as he grabbed another book from the shelf, without even looking at it, and hurrying to the check out counter.
Jack paid for both books, putting the one for his sister in his back, but he carried the other in his arms. As he left the store, he opened it up, his eyes reading the first line of the first chapter, then the second line, then the third...
Before long, Jack lost himself in the words, only half able to avoid the people walking towards him. Most often, though, he was simply jostled around, the occasional swear word reaching his ears and to "watch where he was going." Jack ignored them.
While most people walked around him, there were the few that ran straight into him. Namely, the one.
When Jack and the stranger made contact, Jack fell back, his book flying across the pavement. His butt connected with the sidewalk, and he hissed in pain, clenching his teeth as he groaned out, "Fuck me. I'm sorry--"
He looked up, and the other person gazed down at him, their eyes locking. Jack felt his heart stop completely, dropping into his stomach.
Mark opened his mouth, as if to reply, but then closed it. Then he opened it again, nothing coming out, but Jack could see the heavy sigh that escaped him, the puff of smoke evidence enough.
The other man turned away from him, bending down to scoop up his book. Jack stumbled to his feet, spitting out harsher than he'd intended, "Give me that!"
He reached for it, but Mark pushed it into his hands, his fingers lingering over the cover as Jack snatched it back, holding it to his chest. He dropped his gaze, unable to look at him, blood rushing in his ears, cheeks burning with embarrassment and nerves.
"I thought you said," Mark murmured, so quiet amongst the cacophony of sound in the streets. "...I thought that wasn't your kind of book, Sean."
Sean. Jack felt his throat close up. Mark had never called him Sean. He had always been Jack to Mark--but not anymore, it seemed. Jack stuffed his free hand into his coat pocket, gnawing on his lower lip as he said, "Yeah. Well. It's not--it's not about--"
He cut himself off. Jack finally raised his eyes and Mark was looking back at him, his eyes boring so intensely into him that Jack thought he might crack.
So many words could be exchanged. He could tell Mark that he missed him. He could tell Mark that he still loved him, that he wanted to be with him again, that he'd bought the book because it reminded him of him--he could beg Mark for a second chance, could pull the other man into his arms, let his actions show his regret more than his words.
But something stopped him. Sucking in a shaky breath, Jack said, "It's not about you. I didn't--I didn't get this stupid book because of you."
If he hadn't known any better, he would have said the light in Mark's eyes dimmed at his statement. But he nodded once, his mouth twisting into a soft grimace. "Of course. I didn't think so. You've made your distaste of me very clear, Sean."
People rushed around them, busy with their own lives, unconcerned by the two men standing in the middle of the sidewalk. He hated the sound of his real name on Mark's tongue--it didn't fit. It wasn't right. Unable to stop himself, he grit his teeth, "Don't fucking call me Sean, Mark."
Mark's eyes widened, as if surprised by his sudden hostility. But just as quickly, he barked back, "Jesus, no need to be like that. It's your name, isn't it? What the hell does it matter whether I call you Sean or not?"
It didn't, really. But Jack's skin crawled upon hearing his rebuttal. "It matters because you know I hate it, though you never were good at listening, were you? Always were about doing whatever it was you wanted, damn what I thought, isn't that right?"
Guilt washed over him as the words escaped his lips, especially considering this was the exact opposite of what he'd wanted to happen upon seeing Mark again. He wished he could take them back, but damn it all, they were out there, now--why the fuck was he so bad at missing people? Against his better judgment, he reached out, "Mark, I--"
"You know what," Mark spat, cutting him off. "Fuck you. Just--fuck you, Jack, you know that? You might have been the one to end it, but just--Jesus, you don't have to be like that. You have no reason to be acting like this and here you are, being the biggest asshole to ever grace this earth. Maybe I wasn't perfect but you weren't either, and god, if I still had any feelings left for you, they're gone now."
In a huff, Mark tightened his scarf and brushed past him, leaving Jack frozen, wondering if he'd just heard him right. He watched him from over his shoulder, his form retreating into the crowd of people, soon gone from sight.
He could have fixed it. He could have fixed it if he hadn't lost his temper for something so senseless as his own anger--not even at Mark, but at himself. He felt like he was in a daze as he wandered back to his apartment, the mantra repeating itself over and over in his mind: you could have fixed it, you could have fixed it, you could have fixed it--
Right before he got to his apartment, Jack stared down at the book he still held in his hands. The Irishman leaned against the rail, and opening up to the middle of the book, he gripped a handful of the pages and tore them out. As the next gust of wind blew past, Jack let go of the paper, watching it flutter into the wind, scattering as they went. He repeated this several times, until finally the spine was nearly vacant of anything at all--almost like he felt. He dropped it outside his apartment door, before he entered.
Jack kicked off his shoes, not bothering with his coat, or gloves or beanie, leaving them on as he made his way to his room. Again, tangled sheets and a messy room greeted him, but Jack immediately went to his desk drawer, digging out a pair of old headphones.
He pulled his phone from his coat pocket, plopping onto his bed. He plugged the headphones into his phone, pulling them on over his ears, before scrolling through his phone.
His finger hovered over the song. That song. His heart screamed at him with every fiber of its being not to play it, but he did anyway. One tap was all it took.
"Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you..."
Leaning back, Jack stared at his ceiling as the music rolled through his head, the soft ukulele mixing together with his memories so effortlessly. He could feel each one pricking him, making him bleed somewhere in his body.
The music still playing, he scrolled through the phone numbers in his phone. His name found Fischbach, Mark under 'F', and holding his breath, he slid his finger and deleted it.
With that, he closed his eyes, dropping the phone. It bounced slightly to the side.
Jack could still remember every digit. And to the tune of the music, he repeated the numbers to himself over and over again aloud.