Work Text:
Jack’s skin sizzles. This is what he does every morning; hop in the shower and give himself third degree burns. It’s the closest thing he can get to an electric shock.
He deserves the sting. Like those electrocuting dog collars that stops dogs from barking. Why even get a dog if you don’t want them to bark? Jack doesn’t want the barking, so he doesn’t get the dog. He’s the dog, and he needs the sting to keep him in line. He wonders if he could realistically set the water hot enough to where he would actually burn. He doubts that shower manufacturers would want the lawsuits.
Steam escapes from the stall as Jack exits the shower, and he stubs his toe against the toilet. “Fuck!,” he screams out, “fucking fuck!,” because he doesn’t care if his neighbors have a problem with the noise. That won’t be his problem until they’re knocking down his door. Which, quite frankly, has happened a couple times. Like Anaïs, the fifty-five year old divorcee that lives next to him—bitch that she is, with the grey roots she tries to cover up with hair dye—who had came about a week ago to complain about the “inappropriate noises” spilling from his apartment. He can’t help if the chick—what’s-her-face—he had picked up from Dead Rabbit was a little less than discreet. Boy, was she loud.
His morning routine has been the exact same for the past ten years. Jack can allow himself to get lost in the ritual. First, he wakes up, and this is probably the hardest part. He’s so used to being hungover that it actually feels weird when he wakes with his head intact. Maybe he’s addicted to pain. Second, he gets in the shower, lathers himself with his two-hundred dollar aloe body wash. The price tag is justified by the fact that it’s organic, and sans carcinogens, and sans crap, and corporations never lie, so it must be working (if he gets skin cancer, he’ll fucking sue). He washes two-hundred bucks down the drain, every morning, along with his charred skin cells.
He shaves—he refuses to grow a beard—and throws on any one of the identical suits he owns. They’re mostly tailored, so they’re comfortable. But, even then, the collars still do cut at times. It’s okay; he’s addicted to pain. Jack’s toe still throbs from stubbing it, and he limps around his apartment in his loafers.
Finally, he looks around the flat—and he sees why the British call apartments ‘flats’ because, wow, his really is flat. And sterile, too. The typical New York City hustle that can be heard outside is irrelevant when he could hear a damn spider crawl in this place. With a sigh, he shuts the door behind him. Out front, his car is waiting for him, as it always is.
Jack’s skin sizzles. He wants to scratch himself, but he can’t without messing up his clothes. He squirms in his seat instead.
—
Jack watches the news these days. He’s that boring adult. Back when he was a younger—circa pre-recession—before he started growing a few grey hairs—fuck you, Anaïs—when he had enough energy to keep up with the television. He used to sit down and watch things. Like, The Big Bang Theory, he fucking loved The Big Bang Theory. But, theoretically, he got swamped by work—he drowned himself in it—and there was a fucking recession, and now they’re on season who-knows-what.
(One Google search tells him they’re about to start their ninth season, but Jack can’t figure out what the hell they could be talking about for nine goddamn seasons).
Whatever. He doesn’t need to keep up with the Modern Families or the Mike and Mollies of the world; he’s got CNN. All he needs is Anderson Cooper. And a beer. And a Xanax.
So, The Big Bang Theory’s on its ninth season, apparently, and it only serves to remind Jack how fucking fast time has gone by. He hardly notices it passing, with all the years bleeding together, days stacking on themselves like a car pileup. But Jack’s not driving any of the cars; he’s under them, being crushed a little bit harder everyday. That’s what happens on the corporate ladder. And it’s true what they say: it is lonely at the top.
It’s lonely at the top, and it’s lonely in his apartment (his flat flat). Jack thought of going out and picking up some random girl—maybe guy, if he were to be so bold—but he had less energy than usual. He flips through the channels, hardly even lifting his arm toward the screen. Cooper’s not on, and he’s not interested in anyone else at CNN (yes, he has a crush on fucking Anderson Cooper). Maddow isn’t on until nine. Television fucking blows.
It does help to see familiar faces, though. While click, click, clicking on his channel surf, Jack’s knocked over by a tidal wave; that tidal wave being Eric Matthews. Jack gets up from the sofa, suddenly alert, and leans into the TV. He wants to be absorbed by the TV, transport through it, like that creepy chick from The Ring. He’s totally mesmerized by the sight. It’s Eric—like, his Eric—dressed in a nice suit, standing behind a podium. The podium has his name on it—Eric Matthews—in big bold letters. Underneath is Mayor of St. Upid Town. Jack did, in fact, know this detail, because it’s about the only thing advertised on Eric’s Facebook page. He doesn’t have any other social media, and Jack eventually vowed that he would stop checking. He did stop checking.
Beside Eric, by the other podium, is Jefferson Davis Graham; as in, the fucking New York senator.
That’s when it dawns on Jack that Eric’s running for fucking senator. Sure enough, that’s what the text on the TV reads. Jack’s mouth is agape. He can’t believe he’s watching a debate and Eric, his best friend, is in it. Used to be best friends. That title expired long ago.
Meanly, Jack realizes that there’s no way that Eric wins this race. Graham is an incumbent; an experienced politician. He wishes it weren’t true, but he’d be surprised if they don’t laugh Eric off the stage.
And Eric does make it off the stage; but not because anybody’s laughing at him.
“My name is TJ Murphy” some kid says. Jack can see him sitting in the audience, with his long hair and glasses. “Eric Matthews knew me once as-“
Eric looks nothing short of flabbergasted, and his voice goes soft when he says, “-Tommy?”
Looking at the screen, Jack’s just as shocked at the revelation.
“Hi, Eric.” TJ Murphy—fucking Tommy—smiles.
Then, Eric’s walking away from the podium, renouncing the podium. Then, Eric’s hugging Tommy, and the whole crowd cheers.
Jack doesn’t realize he’s crying until he can’t hear the TV anymore because his ears are popping. He collapses, legs up to his chest, a complete mess of sobs. The look on Eric’s face triggered something dormant within him that he had tried so hard to keep down. Jack can remember that time in his life so vividly. He can recall the chill of the Philadelphia spring. It was chilly the day Eric had to essentially give up Tommy. Imagine having to ‘give up’ a kid that was never really yours? Eric kept a brave front.
What Jack remembers the most is how bad of a friend he was. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he was hardly there for Eric. He almost lost his baby brother and lost a son in the span of a week. By that point, Jack had already been withdrawing from Eric. Long before all that, really. He knew Eric wasn’t doing alright, and he hadn’t even tried to dig deeper. He was too busy fucking Rachel and pretending like there wasn’t somebody else he wanted more.
Eric had admitted it himself; he lost the race. The quest for Rachel’s heart, Jack had won it. But, Jack can see the truth now; Eric’s the real winner. Almost twenty years, and he has his Tommy back. He’s a mayor, he’s a candidate, a politician. And before Jack started crying like a little bitch, he took note of the whole front row. He saw Cory—still with that Brillo head—and he saw Topanga, and Shawn (oh, God, Shawn), and everybody else that Jack squeezed out of his life for no real reason other than he could.
And Eric and Rachel are friends on Facebook. He checked. Jack, of course, is friends with neither of them. She tags Eric sometimes, and he leaves comments on her posts in return. They aren’t just Facebook friends, they’re actual friends. Jack stopped checking a while ago. He lost, he lost, he lost.
—
Jack lost life, and Eric’s winning. He’s won life, and he’s won the race; he’s an honest-to-god, literally-go-fuck-yourself, senator. An elected official. Eric Matthews, D-NY. Has a funny ring to it. It takes Jack a few days to process this news. He’s happy. He’s happy for the man who was once his best friend. He’s also worried, because the fate of the entire state lies in Eric Matthews’ hands.
But, Eric could go ahead and burn down the entire Tristate Area. Jack would have a hard time giving a shit. He likely wouldn’t even notice. He’d probably be in the shower, with the water set to Satan-hot, and someone—maybe that bitch Anaïs, or the doorman that looks like Danny DeVito—would have to pull his naked body from the inferno. Then, maybe, he’d notice. He’d commend Eric for it. Problem is, Eric now seems to be fucking everywhere. He’s a celebrity.
It was easy to avoid Eric when he was just the mayor of wherethefuckistan, and his social media presence was virtually nonexistent, save for those comments he’d reserve for Rachel, and for Cory, and for Topanga (Lucky for Jack, Shawn’s not on Facebook). Except, these days, he’s a celebrity. He’s invited to talk with Jimmy fucking Fallon. Jack ate up every goddamn second of that interview, too, there’s no way around it. Eric came on with a dark blue suit and a baby pink shirt and a light green tie and he just looked to die for. (Hearing Eric reminisce about college with Fallon left an ache in Jack’s heart. It’s okay; he’s addicted to pain).
Soon enough, Eric’s infiltrating more than just Jack’s screens—his TV, his phone, his laptop. It isn’t long until he starts seeing Eric’s face in stores. One day, while Jack’s over at Rite Aid, he finds Eric front and center of the magazine rack. He’s on the cover of Vanity Fair. His smile is wide, white, and the cover seems glossier than the other magazines nearby; the Vogues and the Rolling Stones of the world. They dressed Eric in a grey suit, blue shirt underneath, and a yellow tie, and Jack can’t pluck the thing out fast enough.
Jack buys three copies.
“Mr. Matthews Goes to Washington,” the cover reads. “Insight Into the Senator’s Plans For the Next 6 Years, and How America Fell In Crazy St. Upid Love With Him.” Jack chuckles at the wordplay. “Story by Alissa Dimopoulos. Photography by Annie Leibovitz.”
“It isn’t often that an unmarried, childless young man can build a successful career in American politics. Yet, one Eric Matthews managed to break through these pillars, shocking the country on his journey to the top. The thirty-seven year old Pennsylvania native—formerly the mayor of St. Upid Town, a tiny town straddling the border between New York State and Quebec, Canada—now holds a seat in congress; and he’s not one to fade into the background.”
No, he is not, Jack thinks.
“No less unmarried, no less childless, Senator Matthews not only won this unprecedented race, but did so by defeating an incumbent, another feat that is typically unheard of. Former Senator Jefferson Davis Graham held two consecutive terms since 2003, having formerly been a representative for New York’s 16th district. However, his streak would come to an abrupt end much thanks to one teary-eyed reunion.
The scene captured hearts across the nation. Having no children of his own, Senator Matthews’ family values were put on trial by Graham, quite harshly, during the debate. For any other individual, it may have been the end of the line; a young hopeful inevitably wiped out by the elder statesman. Senator Matthews, though—who had been set up by Graham—got what his campaign needed in T.J. Murphy. Mr. Murphy, a twenty-five year old journalist, whom Senator Matthews met—and nearly adopted—back in his years attending Pennbrook College.
Teaming up, they exposed the former senator’s corruption, and once again showed the country that families come in all different shapes and sizes. It only took one hug, one reunion, one election.”
Jack eats up the Vanity Fair article, gorging on it as though it were his last meal. So many emotions are whirling inside of him, but most of all, he’s so damn proud. Pride courses through his veins as he gobbles every single printed word in the magazine. Yet he has no one to tell. He can’t share this with anyone. He sure as hell can’t share this with Eric. Jack can’t pat him on the back and tell him how he feels because they haven’t talked to each other in fifteen years.
“Here’s a fun fact: Senator Eric Matthews is only the second openly queer member of congress. Senator Tammy Baldwin from Wisconsin, elected in 2012, holds the title of first. In the grand scheme of things, this is not too long ago. It seems the congressman already has a reputation for shattering norms and exceeding expectations. The people of New York wonder if he can keep this up, while maybe doing some good along the way.
Senator Matthews describes himself as “excited” for the coming six years. “I’m up for the challenge,” he states, further claiming, “the last thing I would want to be is that guy that goes to D.C. with a bunch of promises, and then never keeps them.” He chuckles as he tells me that he shivers at the thought of being referred as a ‘ politician.’ “It’s a such a dirty word, isn’t it? I want to reinvent the word.” That sure sounds like a plan. And he has many. At the forefront, he has shared his desire to focus on the safety and well-being of children. However, he will also focus heavily on the environment.”
Eric Matthews: the environmentalist.
Jack Hunter: the big-oil lobbyist.
Time is one son of a bitch. Here Eric is warning about endangered species, and oil spills, and fucking smog, while Jack goes to line another pocket, and another pocket, and—wait for it—another pocket, for his boss. As a reward, his boss lines his pockets. That’s how he pays for this sleek Manhattan apartment (the flat flat). That’s how he pays for the car that picks him up every morning for work. That’s how he pays for the two-hundred dollar soap he washes down the drain every shower. And that water? He wastes it, all of it. He wastes it while he bathes. He wastes it when he brushes his teeth and keeps the water running. The sound of the faucet is soothing, and he’s a fucking hypocrite. Eric would hate to see who he’s become. Jack did him a favor by cutting him off.
—
Jack can remember a little over a year ago; when his little sister, Hannah—she isn’t so little anymore—found him asleep on the floor of his flat flat in a pool of his own drool and dried vomit. She had tsk, tsk, tsked all over the place, clacking her heels on his floor, picking up him—wow, she’s strong—and throwing him onto his own sofa.
Hannah had nursed him back to health, and gave him a lecture. She sounded just like their mother. “you better pull it together,” she told him, kindly keeping him company while he blearily watched the Anderson Cooper she flicked on. “You better pull it together,” Hannah repeated, “‘cause I’m getting married!” Those three words—I’m getting married—were the ultimate hangover cure, and Jack’s head spun toward her so fast he nearly got whiplash.
At the time, a hungover Jack could hardly process the idea of his little sister—not so little—being a married woman. A fiancee, no less (no less, no less). Unlike Jack—who has dedicated the bulk of his adult life to wallowing in his misery with a few hookups in between—Hannah did the opposite. She met her husband, Justin, while in college—fuck off—and they had been inseparable since. They were at NYU, and he was majoring in economics, while she majored in architecture. She built that damn relationship from the ground up, like the good little architect she is.
And they live a nice life on the Upper West Side. They never stopped going on dates, even a few years into the relationship, and they never left that place people call the Honeymoon Phase. Those two live a damn Honeymoon Life.
See, Hannah realized she was lucky. The two sealed the deal before graduation and never looked back. She didn’t push Justin away. She held onto him, tightly, and that’s how you reach true fucking happiness; by not letting go. Jack Hunter is the cautionary tale of what happens when you let go. When you’re dangling over a cliff, being held up by nothing but a rope, you don’t let go of that rope. That should be common sense. Jack has none, apparently, because he let go of the damn rope.
Eric was his Justin. They could have been the ones living on the Upper West Side this whole time, and they could be going on dates. They could have been the ones sending out wedding invitations, because, hell, it’s legal now—God bless—and Jack loves his sister. He doesn’t want to resent her for not being stupid like he was. He even loves his new brother-in-law; Mr. Herzog, the poor lovesick fool. He stands tall at six-foot-four, yet he acts as though he barely reaches five-eight. He’s a smart guy. He’s kind, non-judgmental.
He didn’t get drunk at Hannah’s wedding, because Jack loves his sister, but he made sure to blackout the next day. Those two days following the wedding were a satisfying blur. He had skipped work like a high school kid skipping class. He’s lucky he wasn’t fired.
Eric wouldn’t want to be his Justin. Jack’s certain Eric would hate him; certain that he does hate him. I can’t believe I was friends with that guy, Eric’s probably thinking. Shawn may at times make an offhand mention to Jack—wonder what he’s up to—and Eric turns up his nose. He’d hate him more if he knew how obsessed Jack was getting.
Jack has a new morning routine. First, he wakes up. It’s still the hardest part. Shapes dance behind his eyes as the headache pounds his brain like a hammer on a nail. He gets high on the pain. Then, he remembers he gets to see Eric… on the internet. Second, Jack hops in the shower, using the shower head as a blowtorch on his skin. He’ll have to buy new body wash soon. Jack watches the suds travel down the drain, but it doesn’t make him sad anymore.
His skin doesn’t sizzle; it fucking sings.
And Jack’s singing. He never used to listen to music while he got ready. Dignified businessmen who live in sleek Manhattan flat flats dress in silence. These days—it’s so close to Labor Day—Jack fills the old silence with new music. He dropped some money on a premium Spotify plan. He adjusts his collar, and sings along to the Stevie Wonders and the George Michaels of the world.
His drives to work—once occupied by mind-numbing rounds of Candy Crush—are now filled with nothing but Eric.
It’s downright inappropriate, the way he follows Eric’s every move online.
His driver never looks back. Never looks like he wants to. He just keeps his eyes on the road. Jack keeps his eyes on the phone.
Three hundred thousand people follow Eric on Instagram. He’s verified. And his feed is flawless. It’s filled to the brim with all the good causes he’s already gotten behind. There are pictures of him volunteering at a soup kitchen in Brooklyn—Jack might die—and photos of him talking to a small business owner from the Upper West Side. Jack looks closer at the photograph and realizes Eric wasn’t far from Hannah and Justin’s apartment (theirs is not flat). He clicks off the post, the pads of his fingers buzzing.
Eric was even in his New York Times: “Matthews Clashes with GOP Over Solar Rights Act.”
That sense of pride never exits Jack’s blood.
When Jack goes into work, phone hidden in his jacket pocket—It feels dirty—he can tell something’s going to happen. His assistant, Danielle, is more frazzled than normal. She’s a good one; a ball of nerves, but gets the job done good and quick. Jack’s probably the only man in the whole office that doesn’t flirt with his assistant. Like his co-worker, and occasional partner, Dave Kruse—“dee-kay”—who almost got his own assistant pregnant. Jack feels sorry for her. Kruse is a prick.
Danielle lets Jack know that his boss wants to see him right away. Her hand holding her pen trembles, as if she’s the one the boss wants to see instead of Jack.
“How many coffees you had?” Jack asks her, genuinely concerned.
“Um, well—“ Danielle’s about to answer, before stopping herself. “Disclosing that information isn’t in my job description.”
He chuckles. “Remind me to add that.”
At least she's a little calmer.
—
Jack approaches the bakery. The nightmare bakery. He already saw the pictures online—he had to check that his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him—but it was much worse seeing it in real life. Jack can’t imagine that there’s another Topanga in the world that just happens to own a bakery in New York. Occam’s Razor hates him, and the property records confirm the bakery is, in fact, owned by Cory and Topanga Matthews.
He’s gonna quit his job. He’s not cut out for this. He’ll flee Manhattan and become a hermit in the Catskills.
The door is wide open. He can see the back of Eric’s head. Jack smiles; a natural, uncontrollable reaction when in proximity of Eric Matthews. Come within ten feet of that man and you’ll have to deal with the side effects: grinning, laughing, aggressive butterflies in the stomach.
Jack takes a deep breath.
“This might just be the start of the best friendship since… Jack—who was that guy I used to know?”
Eric said his name. Jack’s ears ring.
“What’s up, buddy?” Is the first thing Jack says. That’s really the best he could think of. When he gets home, he’s hanging himself.
“Jack!” Eric sounds happy, not repulsed. He’s grinning wide, and his teeth are just as white in real life as they are on the magazines, and he’s hugging Jack. Eric is hugging Jack, has his arms around him, tight, and Jack realizes that maybe Eric missed him too.
He should’ve known. Eric doesn’t hate anybody. Not even the mosquitos, or the sludge on the roads on Christmas, and certainly not Jack’s wretched heart.
“I’m a senator now, did ya hear?!”
Jack wants to laugh at Eric’s announcement. It was the first time Jack voted in any election since 2004.
He jokes, “it’s the end of the world!,” which is only a half-joke, really, and Eric says, “probably!”
The shine of the reunion—Jack feels Eric’s hands on his back like they were branded there—seems to be wearing off quickly, and their laughter dies down, and Eric asks him, “what’re you doing here?”
That’s the dreaded question, isn’t it? Because, while Jack had gotten lost in the joy of finally seeing Eric beyond the web, he had completely forgotten the true reason he was here. Perhaps he’ll become the first thing Eric Matthews hates.
“What, I need a reason to see my friend?” Ha, you fucking suck.
“So, we’re still friends?,” ha, you fucking suck, “‘cause I haven’t seen you in a really long time.”
For once in his pitiful existence, Jack decides to be honest. “Not a day goes by that your voice isn’t inside my head.” His expression goes dark, "no matter what I do.”
Eric invites him to sit down, branding his shoulder with his palm yet again—he’s addicted to pain—and leads him toward one of the couches. Now that the hard part’s been done, Jack can take a second to admire the place. Eric tells him that he’s “senatoring,” and Jack doesn’t bother to correct him on the improper use of the word. Hell, Eric has enough pull now to make it proper; senatoring his way into the dictionary.
Jack wants to stall. He doesn’t want to admit what he’s here to do.
Except, it doesn’t take long for him to connect that Eric already knows. Jack’s the evil guy from the evil company who’s been sent to sleaze his way into Eric’s pocket.
He thinks he’s good looking, too. It makes Jack sick. He wishes Eric could have told him over a candlelight dinner rather than a business meeting (Jack Hunter: big-oil lobbyist).
“You know all about me, huh?” It should come as no surprise; no one has ever known Jack like Eric. Jack was nineteen when he was truly seen for the first time. He was last seen at twenty-three, and now he's been found by the very same man. Only Eric ever could.
“I know what all my friends're doing.” This shouldn’t come as a surprise, either. Jack’s social media presence may not be as glamorous as Eric’s, but it still exists, and he kind of forgot that Eric could perceive him online as well. It’s a small comfort to know that Eric’s checked him out. Eric continues, “what I don’t know is why.”
Why? It was too scary to live the truth. It’s easier living the lie.
Some people just aren’t made to help others; Jack is one of those people. He traveled all the way to Pennsylvania to meet his brother—oh, God, Shawn—and was ready to throw in the towel within a week because things were too hard. Eric, thankfully, was there to set him straight. Then, Jack abandoned the Peace Corps, because it was too hard, and he had no Eric to set him straight again. The last time they had spoken was on the phone, and when Jack landed in New York—it was winter, it was cold, and it was 2003—Jack hadn’t bothered to contact his friend.
See, a young, prideful Jack didn’t want to admit that maybe he needed Eric in his life; that thoughts of him were the only things that kept him going while overseas.
Jack can’t very well say all that, so instead he spews some garbage about growing up, and actually manages to transform their feud over Rachel into an analogy for the Art of Decision Making. He’s disappointed; he’s usually better at bullshitting. Naturally, he has to be. Jack has sleazed his way into the pockets of half of Eric’s colleagues. All of Jack’s expertise seems to be flinging itself out the window.
But Eric knows all this. There’s no hiding for Jack. He can’t hide behind his hair—swoosh—or use his pocket square as a shield, and he’s never felt more uncomfortable in his life. He can physically feel his hair—swoosh—start to droop downward, like it knows that Jack’s sitting with someone way better than him (Eric Matthews: environmentalist).
It’s no use. Jack knew this assignment was dead on arrival. Eric’s too good, and there’s no amount of bullshitting that could get Eric to deviate from his morals. He thought of refusing the assignment altogether. But, if he had, his boss would’ve passed it on to Kruse, and Jack’ll staple his nuts to this ugly ass sofa before he lets that slimy prick go anywhere near Eric.
A reunion’s a reunion, and Jack would never have had the balls to do it himself. It was a sign.
“You grow up, you face another choice, and you make the wrong choice… why does that happen?”
“I don’t know, Jack.” Eric’s not using his Senator Voice anymore, “I wasn’t there.”
Eric doesn’t hate Jack. It should be a relief. It isn’t. And, it’s not ‘cause Eric’s being nice, or ‘cause he’s seeking Jack’s approval; Eric’s too good to hate Jack. He doesn’t even waste his time with pity. He’s too busy helping others, because that’s what Eric was made for.
“Now I’m in a position to influence the whole world.”
“What do you know! Me too!” Eric smiles at him and it means everything. “I guess the only real choice left is… who influences who?”
It’s a challenge, if Jack’s ever heard one. A very kindly wrapped challenge, but a challenge nonetheless. It makes Jack nostalgic for their Pennbrook days. If only a DeLorean really could work as a time machine.
Quickly recovering from the tough conversation, Eric goes on to ask if Jack is free for the night. He knows there’s no innuendo in that, but he wishes there was.
“‘Course I’m free!” Jack says, “It’s New York City!,” as if that means jackshit (ha-ha), “whatcha got in mind, buddy?,” and he really needs to stop calling him buddy, ‘cause he sounds like a jackass (ha-ha).
When Jack reaches to pat Eric on the arm, Eric pulls back. “Don’t touch,” he says, and it only makes Jack wanna touch more.
—
“Some place you have.”
Jack is not drunk. Lightly buzzed, maybe.
As it turns out, Eric’s idea of a night out is dragging Jack to a middle school dance. Not the most romantic of settings. it still hit Jack like a ton of bricks. He got to see Cory; got to meet Cory’s daughter, more importantly. He knew of her, technically—thank you, Facebook—but having her right there in front of him, in all her fourteen-year-old glory, was living proof of all the years he had missed. Riley has Cory’s face, too, which was unsettling.
They danced the night away with a bunch of teenagers (they used to be the teens, now they’re the Feenys). Jack can only take so much of that. For the most part, Eric kept him at a distance—don’t touch—and Jack tried not to let that deter him. Unexpectedly, he invited Jack back to his apartment.
And Eric doesn’t have a flat flat. The place is so distinctly him. He smells the same as he did in college. It’s messy, but not in a gross way. It’s, like… lived in.
Now, it’s inching toward eleven o’clock, and Jack is sat squished against Eric’s side on his orange couch. Orange, not red.
It’s unexplainable, this intoxication. It’s more than just alcohol. His stomach churns like he’s scared, but his brain hasn't gotten the memo. He leans into Eric, resting a cheek on his shoulder, and placing a hand to his chest. He fidgets with the two top buttons of Eric’s shirt.
Eric chuckles, low in his throat, and it vibrates under Jack's palm. “Eh, it’s nothing.”
Jack’s not sure how they ended up like this. They left the dance as it was winding down. Cory took Riley and her friend Maya home, and that’s when Eric had dropped the question; “y’wanna see my place?,” he had asked, and there’s no universe where Jack would’ve declined. Once again, God intervenes, knowing Jack would’ve never had the balls to ask himself.
He had entered Eric’s apartment carefully, afraid that some forcefield would materialize and run him out. It’s a nice apartment. Humble. Not quite expensive as his own, but definitely not a slum.
Eric had lead him to the orange couch, and offered one drink. Jack offered one yes, and then they each had their one drink, sitting on the orange couch with about a foot of distance between them.
A few seconds, minutes, hours—what even is time—passed, and the only thing left between them is atoms and molecules. Actually, if they were to get naked right now, Jack’s sure that their atoms would begin to bond. He shouldn’t be thinking about getting naked. All he can think about is getting naked. He’s sweating profusely through his Armani.
“Nothing you do is nothing,” Jack replies, because he’s a sucker.
“Careful, Jack,” Eric squirms, stretching himself out, “I might start to think ya like me, or somethin’.”
“What if I do?” Jack asks, feeling emboldened by the one drink that turned into two, three, four…
There’s a moment of silence, except for Eric’s heavy breathing. Eric looks at Jack through the corner of his eye. “I’d tell you to go fuck yourself," he replies.
If Jack were sober, he may have taken that statement to heart. An inebriated Jack, however—who is entirely consumed by Eric’s body heat—laughs, instead. It’s a fond laugh, that ends in a smirk. “You would, huh?”
“Yeah, I would.”
To prove a point, Jack expertly pops the top button of Eric’s shirt with one hand. He pops the second, and the third, and proceeds to caress the bare skin that is revealed. He scoots impossibly closer, hooking a leg around Eric’s. While he continues to unbutton, Eric turns his head to the side, away from Jack. “Eric,” Jack reaches the last button, fingers playing with Eric's belt buckle. “Look at me,” he commands, voice low.
Reluctantly, Eric listens, and Jack knew he would. It’s nice, when you know a person, even if many things have changed around the things that remained the same. “I like you,” Jack says, all cheeky. And when Eric looks away this time, it’s because he’s blushing. Jack brings his hand to Eric’s jaw, preventing him from going very far.
“Go fuck yourself,” Eric says, as promised, biting his lip.
Jack kisses him, unable to resist it any longer.
He had gone half his life dying to know what this would feel like.
He thinks back to the days in their old apartment (theirs wasn't flat). Every time Jack had seen Eric naked, but never had the guts to reach out and touch. All those nights that they shared a bed and fell asleep holding each other, then acting like it didn’t mean a thing in the morning. All those nights abroad with the Peace Corps, when he was left with nothing but memories of Eric and a hand shoved down his underwear.
Eric’s actions don’t match his words. He’s kissing Jack back with just as much heat, if not more. He brings his arms back, shoving his unbuttoned shirt off without ever breaking the kiss. When he struggles at the cuffs, Jack helps him out. The shirt gets abandoned on the floor.
Moving his lips away from Jack’s mouth, onto his neck, Eric begins to unbutton Jack’s shirt as well. It’s slow, and it’s sensual, and it’s too slow. It’s too slow for Jack, which prompts him to just rip off the rest. He hears a few of the buttons cling against the tile.
“Sorry,” Eric takes the time to mumble, as though it was his fault.
Jack doesn’t want to hear it. He discards his ruined shirt, proceeding to put his body on top of Eric's. Shirt on shirt, body on body.
He takes note of how quickly Eric moves to place his hands on Jack’s hips; like his hands were made to be there.
Jack unbuckles his trousers, leaning in to kiss Eric again, deeper, harder. He can feel Eric’s excitement from where he’s sitting. Jack very deliberately rubs against him, yanking a groan out of Eric.
“We shouldn’t” Eric speaks, sounding dazed. Jack tries not to get distracted by his swollen lips.
“I know,” Replies Jack, leaving kisses all over Eric's face.
Eric frowns, which isn’t nice. But, he doesn’t push Jack away. “Y’think y’can just not talk to me for fifteen years, and then—“ Eric shakes his head, trying to think of the right words. He grips tighter on Jack’s waist, “—y’think I’ll just let you back in?”
Jack pulls back slightly to look Eric in the eyes. “You don’t have to,” he assures.
“I want to.”
“I want you to.”
They breathe shakily together. Eric runs his hands up Jack’s bare back, pushing the pads of his fingers against his vertebrae, like he’s memorizing the grooves; like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. The ‘again’ at the end there is implied, but carries no less sting (no less, no less).
When a few more seconds go by, Jack starts to lose confidence. He feels a little silly; half-undressed, straddling his best friend. Clearly, that passion from before was a fluke. “I can go,” Jack extends, giving Eric a smooth way out. He wouldn’t hold it against him.
A fire is reignited in Eric’s eyes, and he straightens up. The hands behind Jack’s back press harder, painfully so—he’s addicted to pain—forcing him into Eric’s chest. “Don’t you dare leave,” demands Eric, commandeering, and desperate.
Jack murmurs back, “I won’t,” right before their lips meet again, this time with no sign of stopping.
Then, Jack’s being carried. Then, he’s being placed on a bed.
—
Every morning is the same. One of his eyes always opens before the other, like an old, raggedy doll. And the headache is a staple. The Hangover Show commences. The imaginary crowd in Jack’s mind cheers as the headache dances, five, six, seven, eight, never missing a beat.
The flat flat never has this warmth, though. This fuzzy warmth. The sheets hug him, unlike his own that only ever cover him. And his body aches, pleasantly, putting his stupid hangover out of business. Jack stretches slightly, making his muscles cry and his bones crack. He hums.
He’s not alone in the bed. Jack thought maybe he’d wake up and everything would be a cruel dream (the nightmare is his life), but he’s proven wrong by the sight of Eric sleeping beside him.
They’re both naked, to the bone—in more ways than one—and Jack can’t remember the last time he’s woken up in a good mood.
He rests his head on his hand, taking this opportunity to watch Eric. Jack wonders if there’s a science to why people appear younger when they sleep. Whatever it may be, it’s certainly true for Eric. His best friend, who he just slept with—Jack’ll process this information later—who’s on his side, facing Jack, and scrunching his nose in his sleep. It’s so adorable, it makes Jack mad. He gets the urge to touch Eric’s face, and he follows it.
Jack continues to inspect his features, 'till Eric’s eyes flutter open prettily. Both his open at the same time, like a brand new doll. Jack’s not jealous; just glad he gets to see it.
At first, Eric smiles at him softly. Then, he seems to snap, excitedly yelling out, “hey!,” as he crashes his body on Jack’s. Eric sits up on his hands, looking down at Jack. “You’re here!,” his tone says, I can’t believe it.
Jack smirks a bit. “Where else would I be?” He’d much rather be here than—well, anywhere. He could be nominated for a Nobel Prize, and he’d still rather be here than in Stockholm.
Eric’s expression grows unsure, “I don’t know, I thought..." and he bites his lip, "maybe you wouldn’t be here when I woke up.”
Jack stares hard at Eric’s frown, having every intention to turn it upside down. It’s an intruder. “You think—” he places a hand at the nape of Eric’s neck, pinching the little hairs there, “—I’d leave after the best night of my life?”
Jack kicks the intruder, locks him up, and Eric smiles like he was made to do. He seems bashful, and Jack has never been more attracted to him than in this very moment. He is overwhelmed by affection for the man hovering over him. All of a sudden, Jack’s flipping them around, and he now has Eric trapped beneath him, hands cupping his face.
When they kiss, it’s soft, and it’s slow. Now that he’s totally sober, Jack makes an effort to commit the whole experience to memory. Paranoia still nags at his gut. This could still be a dream, and The Morning may be getting ready to drag Jack away from this. The Morning will grab at his ankles, and Eric will try to pull him back, but The Morning will be stronger than either of them.
Eric tries to break away to breathe, but Jack doesn’t let him. He presses harder, putting an arm around Eric’s neck while he moves to straddle him properly. Chest to chest, Jack can feel the racing of Eric’s heart. He’s causing that.
Panting, Eric accuses, “y’trying to suffocate me?”
Jack just smirks. “Pretty nice way to go, huh?”
“Well, not today, I have a meeting with the mayor.”
“Oh,” Jack nods, impressed, and brings up two fingers for air quotes, “senatoring?”
Eric nods back wordlessly.
An idea takes root in Jack’s mind. “When’s your meeting?”
“Uh, 1:30.” Eric raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
One glimpse at the alarm clock on the bedside table tells Jack that it’s 9:12AM. Jack sits upright, still straddling Eric, and he rests both palms on his diaphragm. “We could go out for breakfast.” He draws random shapes on Eric’s front, leaving faint, white nail marks. He speaks casually, “I know this place my sister goes to all the time.”
“You wanna take me out?”
“You still like French toast, right?”
Eric hums, distracted. “I spent so long imagining how this might go down…” He looks Jack directly in the eye when he asks, “what changed?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean—last night notwithstanding—you completely cut me out, and then you’re—and now you’re…” Jack can tell when a million thoughts are swirling too fast in Eric’s head for him to keep up. “…you’re in my bed, and you’re trying to take me out. I don’t get it.”
Jack doesn’t really get it himself. He only knows what he wants, and who he wants. All those years of pretending and running have exhausted him. He’s completely gutted, empty, like a pumpkin on Halloween. Jack’s Eric-shaped void can finally be filled.
“Eric, I’m sorry.” He says, realizing he never apologized. “I meant it when I said that the best choice I ever made was keeping you around.” Jack had told Eric as much at the dance. He’d had almost zero reaction to the confession then. “And the worst was letting you go,” he strokes Eric’s cheek with his thumb, “I must be crazy for thinking I could live without this face..."
Eric giggles, leaning into Jack’s touch. “Let’s say—hypothetically—I accept your, um... invitation.” Eric starts. “Would you—hypothetically—be paying?”
Jack blinks for a few seconds. A laugh is then knocked out of him. “That’s your only condition?”
“Well, have you really turned into a cheapskate like everybody says?”
“Who says I’m a cheapskate?!”
“I have my sources.” Eric shrugs smugly.
“Oh, okay, so we can go out, get some breakfast,” Jack gets off of Eric, working to untangle himself from the duvet, “and you can tell me all about these sources!”
Eric places both arms behind his head. “A congressman never reveals his secrets.”
“That’s a magician, you creep.” Jack moves to peck Eric on the lips. “Nice try.”
-
So goes Jack’s morning routine. First, he wakes up (the hardest part, check). Second, hop in the shower, and crank up the heat. Steam rapidly fills up the stall, obscuring Jack’s vision. His skin sizzles, begging him to turn it down, but he won’t budge.
“Ah!”
Until the water turns tepid, almost cold, in one instant, and Jack startles.
“What’re you, nuts?!” Eric asks rhetorically—Jack hopes, because he’s not answering that—his voice reverberating against the bathroom walls.
Jack is quick to defend himself, “I like it hot.”
“Hot?! This is a hazard!” Counters Eric. He inches closer to Jack—he doesn’t think there have ever been two men quite this naked—and caresses Jack’s shoulder. “Look at your poor skin, it’s red!” Eric kisses his burned, reddened shoulder like it’s precious, and Jack’s insides turn to mush.
Eric holds him close, lathers him with his cheap, drugstore soap, and takes care of him. Initially, Jack remained wary, not used to being taken care of. But, maybe Eric really is a magician—who never reveals his secrets—and his fingers work Jack so skillfully that his outsides become mush as well. His eyes droop, and he allows Eric to carry most of his body weight.
Jack drops his forehead on Eric’s collarbone, while Eric starts washing his hair with his cheap, drugstore shampoo. He massages Jack’s scalp, and scratches his scalp so delightfully that Jack does roll his eyes back a bit. Eric reaches for the nob, and turns the water even colder. “Cold water’s better for your hair, y’know,” Eric informs him. Jack shivers.
-
“You think I’ll start a trend?” Jack chuckles, picking up his discarded shirt from the living room floor. Half the buttons are missing, and there are little threads sticking out. Another four hundred dollars down the drain. He passes Eric his own shirt, which is fully intact, yet not nearly as expensive. That somehow feels like a metaphor for something. Eric laughs while adjusting the mess they had made on the couch, and it’s nice to laugh together.
Jack announces his plan to make a stop at his flat flat to grab a new shirt, but Eric waves him off. “Don’t be silly,” he scolds, passing Jack a fresh new shirt, “have mine.”
Against his will, Jack blushes at the gesture, clutching the soft fabric in his hands. It’s a light blue Ralph Lauren, and Jack can tell that Eric wears it quite often. There’s something special about clothes worn out of total love, the threads getting tangled with the DNA of their owner. When Eric heads back into his bedroom, Jack brings the shirt up to his nose, breathing in the scent of flowery detergent and Eric. He slips the thing on, and it hugs him, unlike his own shirts that only ever clothe him. Just a clever way to avoid an indecent exposure charge. This is spiritual.
-
( Epilogue )
“I am not cheap.”
They’re sat in a corner at Greengrass—Hannah swears by this place—and their table is right up against a large window. The sun shines through brightly, and they have a full view of the messy traffic, hustling, bustling, and people sprinting all over the place.
Eric speaks with a mouth full of eggs. “Not according to Senator Bridgeman.”
“Bridgeman?!” Jack drops his fork in frustration. “I met him once for, like, two seconds, how could he think I’m cheap?!”
“Apparently he had a meeting with your partner over the energy bill; David-something.”
Jack rubs at the area between his eyebrows. “Kruse.”
“Yeah, that was it!”
“Of fucking course.”
Eric interprets something in Jack’s tone that he was really trying to hide. Really! He seems amused by it, though, which is mildly annoying. “What, you two fighting for a promotion?”
“No—“ Groans Jack, “—a year ago, Kruse and I went to Vegas, and I won a lot, and he lost a lot, and he’s still pissed I wouldn’t split my wins with him.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Never mind the fact that I paid for the plane tickets.” Jack slouches, irritated by the mere memory. He goes on, under his breath, “and slept on the floor so his whiny ass could have the bed.”
He would’ve invited Justin to the Vegas trip if he wasn’t so strictly against gambling. Obviously, he’s the lucky one. Plus, D.K. practically begged on his knees.
“That was nice of you.”
“Oh, please,” Jack crosses his arms, “we flipped a coin and I lost.”
Eric laughs, genuine, and loud, and unashamed. It is possible that Jack is steadily becoming even more attracted to him, even while he has eggs and spinach stuck between his teeth. Eric opens his mouth, and all Jack sees is sunshine.
“Well, as you can see, I’m not a cheapskate, ‘cause I bought you all this stuff,” Jack sits back up in his seat, pointing to the big spread before them, “and the pancakes, and the eggs, and are you really that hungry, or are you just trying to bankrupt me?”
Eric wipes at his mouth dramatically with his napkin. “I really was just hungry, but the second thing sounds more fun, so let’s go with that!”
Jack smiles in what he thinks is the most ridiculously fond look he’s ever pulled. He wants this to be his life, until he drops dead. And he’ll buy Eric the world, until his credit cards max out, and his cash runs dry, and little moths start to fly out of his alligator skin wallet.
Eric eyes Jack’s half-eaten banana walnut muffin. He points to it, still chewing when he has the gall to ask, “y’gonna eat dat?”
“Yes!” Jack brings his plate towards himself, and away from the garbage disposal he happens to be in love with. “Gluttony’s a sin!”
“So’s lust, but I don’t see you complaining about that!”
Well. Eric’s got him there.