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"Are your eyes closed?" Eric shouts from where he stands centered in the living room.
And distantly are the fumbling sounds of Jack as he tries to make his way to him, a pitchy clatter and a pained yelp. "Does this sound like a man with his eyes open?" His voice is squeaked — that had to have hurt.
But Eric shrugs, "I don't know, I can't see, either."
There was certainly a much better way for them to go about surprising each other with tonight's Halloween costumes than fumbling blind, and while they mean well, they're certainly not the brightest. Jack's shin pays dearly for it.
Jack's finally found the ledge leading down to the living room, but still can't quite seem to locate Eric. "Marco!" Jack calls out. Hopefully, this'll help.
"Who's Marco?"
…He doesn't know what he even expected from him. "Marco Polo, you idiot. You've never played Marco Polo before?"
"Hm… don't think I know him."
Their collective shared brain cell is obviously under Jack's sole custody for the time being. While Eric might not get the point, he spoke enough for Jack to find him finally, and with hands outstretched, he grazes the edge of his arm, his fingers dragging over the surprise feel of smooth fabric. "Oooh, is that velvet?"
And before him, Eric matches with the same touch, his hands roaming over his shoulder, and the sound he makes is nowhere near as pleased; it's judging. "You've got padded shoulders?"
"Save your judgment for when you open your eyes, man."
"But it feels like a crime."
Actually nevermind. Jack wants Eric's hands off of him, and he throws him from his shoulders. "Count of three, we open our eyes, alright?"
Eric cuts to the chase. "Three." He wastes no time.
And as they open their eyes to each other, their reactions are… unique.
Just before Jack, Eric is dressed in a long, flowing black cape that drapes over his shoulder, recognizing that comforting velvet he'd run his hands over. It half obscured the beautifully ruffled shirt just beneath it, something antique, reminiscing Victorian. He looked good, really fucking good — Jack is surprised. He's absolutely captivating, his face painted a sickly opaque white, the edges of his eyes shadowed with smudged and tired greys, the corner of his mouth trailing with painted blood just beneath the point of a fang. He spent a lot of time on this.
"Your outfit is amazing." Jack can't hide how impressed he is.
Yet, Eric seemingly reflects the opposite, a displeased curl of his lip.
"And what are you, a British soldier?"
And just like that, any feel-good emotion drains from him. Eric is an ass.
Jack bears the well-fitted garments of historic royalty, dressed in a cream colored coat, double-breasted, and intricately embroidered with gold trim. It fit him well, hugging tight around his carefully sculpted torso he'd spent years perfecting through rigorous workouts; it was a point of pride for him. He thought he looked like a dream in this, but now he's having second thoughts.
"I'm Prince Charming." Jack straightens the crown on his head, the tassels of his epaulettes swaying as he moves. "Is it not obvious?"
"Dude, it's cheesy."
Okay, now he's just plain offended. Eric just doesn't understand the vision like he does. "Cheesy or not, whatever — it doesn't matter. I mean, girls like this sort of thing, right? The prince charming, knight in shining armor type?"
"So you're only dressed to get laid?"
"Bingo."
"…So what do you think is going to change for you this time?"
Jack has just about had it with him. He broods with his arms crossed as he grumbles. "At least I'm not the one over here looking like the undead." He says this as if he doesn't like it. Truth is, he can't stop looking.
"I think girls like vampires, too? Think Interview with a Vampire. You see the vision?"
Jack sees it alright.
He's got to focus. "Okay, Eric, here's the plan: I'm gonna be your wingman for tonight's party, and you'll be mine. Quick — scenario: hot girl I've been eyeing meets you at the punch bowl, what are you gonna say?"
Eric concentrates. He primes himself like he's in the scene, and he gestures a long table before him, staring at the empty air in silence before shrugging. "I'd probably be too busy with the snacks."
They are already off to a horrific start.
"Dude, you suck at this."
"Um, yeah?" He points to his fangs like it's obvious. "What else do you expect from a vampire?"
…And this is exactly why no one has been interested in either of them. Got it.
Jack lets it go, shaking his head. "Anyway, you ready?"
"Yeah, but you're not."
"Do you think you can quit ragging on me?" His brows are unfortunately upturned, where Eric has left his confidence in tatters.
"Relax, I'm not ragging on you." He brings his hands up to carefully pluck at the edges of his coat. "It's just a little crooked. Here, let me fix it." He shifts between long stares and careful tweaks, his hands smoothing over the delicate planes of his torso, and Jack finds himself surprisingly flustered. Jack can see the subtle peek of fangs from where they show, lightly tugging at the corners of his bottom lip as he curls into a gentle smile. "Perfect."
It's immediate the way heat settles into Jack's cheeks, and again, he finds himself taken aback at the image of him. It's an unfortunate and unexpected blip into bisexuality, a brief eclipsing of his straighthood, and it's strange… yet not unexpected. He chalks it up to the miserable dry spell, barely remembering the touch of a woman, and for a man who was as miserably starved for affection as Jack was, touch is touch, and his body cannot discriminate — it does not know how to.
He has to snap himself out of it, dry spell be damned. He takes a long step back, disguising discomfort with a forced cough into his closed fist. "Think we should probably head out now."
And before either has the chance to find themselves out the door, Eric calls for attention with Jack's arm encircled in his palm.
"Just letting you know, I never said you looked bad, Jack. The prince charming look suits you."
And what the fuck is going on with Jack that hearing this does something to him? He turns away before he even gives it the chance to ruminate.
They empty into the streets where the breeze runs a chill through their spines, a rattling shiver in the cold October night, with the cascade of autumn leaves swimming around them with every gust. The party is just a few blocks away, an easy walk, and the two don't mind it. They both enjoy that little breather, that space of time between each other as they view the festive décor and adorably costumed trick-or-treaters.
They take in the sight of every plastic skeleton, every last intricately carved pumpkin, and the array of orange lights that drape along trees. The streets are alive with the laughter of children and their pattering footsteps as they make their way to each house, eager with Halloween baskets, running off the hope of something sickeningly sugared.
There was a childish beauty to it all, one thing Eric seemed to mourn a bit.
"Man, I miss being a kid and getting to do stuff like this sometimes, y'know?"
"Well, what's stopping you? It's not like you didn't dress the part tonight."
Eric pouts as he looks over himself. "It feels like it'd be a crime for a 5'9" man in his last years of college to try out trick-or-treating." But he looks to Jack — looks down at him, actually. "You might fare a bit better, being short and all."
"I am only one inch shorter than you, Eric."
"One inch closer to being child-sized."
Why does Eric keep dishing hits at him? Jack is tired of it. "You piss me off."
"You love me, don't lie." He plays up that signature smile that he knows works every single time, and Jack is no better a sucker for it.
Jack takes in a long breath, "Unfortunately." It's grudging how he says it.
They hear the party before they see it, the distant sounds of overlapping chatter and the faint grumbles of bass vibrating just beneath their feet — this is definitely one of the bigger ones they've been to, and Eric's got this twinkle in his eye when he looks over to him.
"No way this one isn't going to be crazy — do you hear how loud it is already?"
They first notice the home upon the flickering array of lights that dance through the windows, and next by the collection of other costumed college kids, hopelessly drunk and swarming the front lawn like ants. Jack was excited; everything he liked most was at his fingertips here: good drinks, hot girls, and Eric.
…Eric… He fits himself perfectly on that list, yet something about his place on it feels less innocent than typical. He brushes it off.
Jack is an absolute animal the way he roves his gaze over every woman that makes their way from the house, and it's bad enough that Eric has to strike him for it. Hard. It's audible, the cracking noise as he hits his shoulder. "You look desperate."
He can't help but wince at the sting. "I kind of am." He got him good.
"Well, try not to look like it, at least. Look —" Eric gestures over him. "You might look like you fought frontline for the British army a gazillion years ago, but you're hot in this, man. Talk less and flaunt more, ya know?"
"…What did you just call me?"
"A British soldier?"
Jack squints. "No, the other thing."
"I'm not saying it again."
He squints long at him. Jack wants to goad him, to pry for that phrase that strokes his ego a little too well, but he resigns to drop it from the conversation, yet what Eric says builds a home in his brain, replaying the warmth of his voice, that deep bass. He can't kick that ever-rising pulse of butterflies that build with each long look to him. He thought he looked hot.
But good God, why did it have to be Eric making him feel quite like this?
The party inside is just as they imagined, a chaotic crowd of costumed bodies in a vaguely rhythmic sway to strange club mixes of their favored Halloween hits, and it's a pain to move through. Eric takes the lead, parting through the sea of people to find any clearing that'll give them the space to relax. It's so dense, and Eric has to tug Jack to keep from losing him to the crowd, and it's a relief once they reach an open corner.
"This is insane." Jack leans in.
"No shit, this place is packed."
It's hard to know where to start, until they spot the snack table, and Jack half-expects a real-life unfolding of their played-out scenario.
Eric's eyes glow with his hunger. "Gonna snag me some food, you gonna get anything, too?"
Jack eyes the person passing beside him, slow sips from a red solo, and he points. "Whatever he's having."
"jungle juice, then. Got it," Eric tugs at him again. "Come here."
Eric pulls them over to the snacks, labeled with endearingly stupid names: it's a candy bowl labeled as the witch's cauldron, trail mix as monster munch, and as for Eric's favorite? The punch bowl that's labeled in dripping red font 'blood bank'.
He quickly grabs himself a cup full; it's sweet and fruity, that hit of liquor, too, that stings the back of his throat, and he hums in content. "Sustenance."
He's so fucking weird.
Jack likes it that way.
It's an easy observation from where they are, relaxed and away from the bustle. It's incredible to watch from the sidelines, the varied costumes — it's a lot of lazy Spirit Halloween costumes, a horrible felt hotdog, or a simple ghostface, but between that are women flaunting some notably adorable outfits. There's a sweet bumblebee in a corner, wearing iridescent plastic wings and a curly antenna headband, and in another corner is a witch wearing a tightly laced corset, dressed in vibrant violets, and stands stark in the crowd with her pointed hat.
But there's someone who catches Jack's eye, and really catches it. She's beautiful where she sits in the corner of the couch, just across from them in the living room, an adoring angel in all white, bearing small feathered wings and a golden halo — they'd look great together, he thinks, complementary.
Jack nudges Eric, leaning in as he points over to her. "I think I'm gonna talk to her."
And he nods, pleased as he looks between the two. "She's pretty cute. Just your type, kinda matches, too."
Eric gives him just the perfect hit of confidence. He puffs up his shoulders, a scheming raise of his brows. "Watch this."
And Eric does just that, watching as Jack makes his way to her, and he's smooth with it — he's kind of impressed. He watches over their body language, the lean in, the soft touch over each other's arms, their bodies turned to face each other. Jack is working his game, and he works it well, immediately hitting it off in a way that is usually so atypical for strangers.
But Eric notices a change; it's subtle, and Jack plays it off with ease, but he recognizes the way his face drops, a brief look to Eric before returning to conversation. He can't quite seem to shake himself from that off look he wears.
It's unexpected when he calls out. "Yo, Eric!" Jack twists in his direction, his voice barely sounding above the loud beat of music.
He downs his last sip before making his way over, feeling the comeuppance of the liquor as he weaves himself just before them, standing there utterly confused, but ultimately very curious, too.
He looks over where, just on the opposite side of the couch, a voice pipes up, smooth and velvety. "You two are friends?" The girl speaks through a smirk, long black hair cascading over her shoulder that contrasts with the vibrant reds of her dress and the horned headband — it's clear both her and the girl beside Jack came together.
His nod signals something between the two girls as they lean in, as they look at each other, muted grins smothered between a bitten lip. The haloed one who has been absolutely wrapped up in everything that is Jack leans back, looking between both him and Eric, and she holds no bars. "You two are hot."
It feels like winning the lottery to hear.
Jack leans into her; she smells sweet, floral. "Maybe we can all talk for a bit and get to know each other."
"I think I might like that."
She can't stop eyeing between Jack and Eric, and something about this seems… off.
They make their room for Eric where he sits just between Jack and the friend in red, and it's simple small talk that they make between each other, the horned one setting her eyes on Eric. It's only typical icebreakers, but that tension continues to grow between them all; it's unexplainable. The chemistry seems so obvious, very much there, yet somehow disconnected. How do you even begin to explain this?
Jack's had his hand over her arm for an age, her skin soft, reflecting the iridescent baby blues of glitter, and he traces his touch upward, her cheek is so close to being cradled within his palm, and she recoils. Okay, bad move — too soon, I guess. He pulls back, with that reminder to take it slow, but again, she cranes her neck to find validation in her friend before she traces her sight between both Jack and Eric yet again.
"What do you think about a dare?" She finally asks.
"Anything." Jack is quick to reply.
And she leans over as she looks to Eric. "What about you?"
Eric shrugs. "I'm game."
The silence is long, the grins between the pair of friends are devious before, finally, she just says it:
"You two should kiss."
Jack is… confused. "You want me to kiss your friend?"
"No," she laughs. "I want you to kiss your friend."
Jack is beyond horrified, a brief look over to Eric before turning to her. "You want me to kiss Count Chocula?"
"Count Chocula? Says Yankee Doodle over here, who decided to trade his feather hat for a dollar store crown."
The two girls are amused by their antics, an open giggle to each other. And just beside Eric, the girl in red shifts herself upward, tucking a loose, black strand behind her ear, and she's blunt. "Maybe we just want to see what we have to look forward to later."
Jack and Eric stare at each other. This is awful, horrific, terrible. And it's worse when it's overheard by other curious passerbys, facing the additional stares that are nosy to their unfolding.
Jack strains, because he really does not want to kiss this giant idiot, at least not in public with an open view of wandering eyes, but there is promise in the sultry gaze of the woman beside him who eyes him down in a way he is much too weak for.
"What are you thinking?" Jack says, unsure.
"I really don't care either way, dude, but if we're going to, can we please hurry up and get this over with? People are starting to look."
He stares at Eric again, stares at him long, and there goes that feeling again, that wandering look that traces around the cascading loose strand floating just over an eye, that strong jawline, the tempting wait of his lips — what the fuck was wrong with him?
Jack pulls back, swallowing nervously, "Yeah, sorry." He looks to the woman next to him; her brows are so disappointedly upturned, but he has to remain firm. "It's not gonna happen, I can't."
But her hand presses into his thigh, teasing upward slowly, barely stopping — she knows exactly what she's doing. "Pretty please?" her voice is soft as she asks.
He quickly whips his head to Eric, "She said, 'please'."
"Let's just get this over with, okay?"
And beside them, the two girls are beyond giddy, priming themselves for the perfect view, meanwhile Jack and Eric prime themselves for each other.
It's like Jack is back to an elementary style level of cluelessness when his preamble to it shows with him being unreasonably awkward and still.
"Jack, relax." he's physically got to angle him towards him. "Have you even kissed a girl before?"
"Don't be stupid."
"Well, you're not acting like you've kissed one. Don't be so rigid, dude. Calm down."
He can feel the stares around them; he tries to tune it out, but he's so self-aware of every little movement he makes, the way he's seated, the rhythm of his own breath. But Eric circles a palm to his jaw, that urge for his eyes, and there goes the fluttering, a relentless tangle into his insides, forgetting the world around him — forgetting anything that isn't him.
Eric wastes no time; he doesn't wait for Jack, nor does he ask him — he just goes for it. It's simple and chaste, just a small press of lips. It's nothing to write home about, and would have been otherwise unremarkable if it weren't Eric's mouth on his. Jack avoids his gaze when he pulls back, an immediate look to the girl sweetly haloed beside him, and he waits for her reaction.
…He's disappointed.
"That's how you would kiss me?"
"No," he laughs nervously. "I'd definitely do more than that with you, but uh…" He looks to Eric, a forced grimace. "Maybe not so much with him." He probably would.
"Why not?" she quirks her head. "Show us what we're missing out on."
Jack feels like he's in the middle of a crisis, yet Eric is so… nonchalant. Why?
They all wait for a choice that is seemingly in Jack's hands, all eyes on him. He remembers that soft hand of hers up his thigh, the curling heat of knowing what was waiting for him, and Eric's mouth is the barrier between that. He's in this awkward limbo, frozen where he's sat, and Eric has had enough of waiting for him; he doesn't have the energy to talk through the mental gymnastics.
Eric leans forward, a hand hooked firm around Jack's waist, while the other drags him from behind his neck.
"Eric, wait —" Jack is barely able to get out, is barely able to spot the surprised stare of the girl just behind him, before his vision is smothered in everything that is him.
It's immediately different; the kiss is much firmer, much more sure, and the grip dug into his waist pulls him in closer. Eric's mouth is so warm over his, and he can taste the fruit punch off of his tongue, the lingering kick of alcohol, intoxicating as it rolls over his own, unexpected, but not unwelcome. Eric's teeth skim along his lower lip, a soft bite that tugs at him, but it's a bite that brings back the reminder of the fangs adhered to his teeth, and he pulls back with a yelp.
"Dude, your fangs!" Jack points like it's a crime, watching as Eric rushes to pop them off.
"My bad," He mumbles, burying them in his pocket. "In my defense, I didn't have making out with you in mind when I put them on earlier, so."
Jack flushes; there's something about hearing the acknowledgement so boldly through words that makes it feel that much more real. He doesn't get much more room to ponder before Eric's mouth is on his again — no hesitation, no second-guessing.
Eric's clearly well-practiced, pulling out every stop he imagines has made other women weak in times past, every stop that makes him weak now. He keeps goading Jack further into him with every tug of his waist, but any closer means closing himself onto his lap, and in a space where he imagines there are many more eyes over him than he wanted, he'd like to at least preserve himself a molecule of his dignity. But goddamn it, this is nice, really fucking nice.
He has to steady himself with his fist gripping the ruffled fabric of his top, the mild lace soft within his palm. He can feel how the muscle beneath his shirt moves, the slight curve of his pec, so against the grain of what he's used to, but Jack finds he likes it… a lot. He likes it even more when his lips trail along the planes of his neck, the soft, wet drag of a tongue finding that sensitive spot that feels just right.
Jack is beyond gone. It's the heat of his mouth, the soft beating of his breath over his skin, that free hand over him travelling lower and lower.
But he suddenly keys in on the music, aware of the sound of people around him, and that recognition finds him with the reminder that they were not alone. He pulls back suddenly, trying to steady his breath like Eric did not work an unspeakable amount of magic on him, and he's horrified as he looks at him… well, sort of. Partly.
Eric is heavy-lidded and lust drunk on everything that is Jack, but he'd love it more if it wasn't paired with the chaotic smudge of facepaint, the dripping trail of blood just beneath his lip now a vaguely pink blur. It confirms his fear when Eric gives this low chuckle as he looks at him. He pulls a thumb that tugs at Jack's swollen lip, feeling the way it bounces with each tender drag that tries to wipe the evidence from him, seemingly a lost cause.
"Anyway." Jack dodges that next drag, tries to put it in the back of his mind, because it's here that he realizes he's hard, and being aroused by this brainless yet unfortunately good-looking idiot was not on the list of things he had wanted to experience today. He looks to the girl next to him, a grounding laugh. "You wanna give that a go, too?" Jack feels hazy, still running on that high he's trying to chase elsewhere.
"Or… me and my friend could keep watching? You have chemistry."
"Chemistry?" Jack's face drops; he's incredulous. Is he hearing her right? "He's my best friend, of course, we have chemistry — I wanted that with you."
But she shrugs, leaning forward as she checks the reaction from her friend, a confirming nod before she sighs. "I don't think we're really as much in the mood for anything tonight, but it seems like you two are."
And from beside Eric, she pipes up, "You think you wanna check out the dance floor? pretty sure I just saw one of our other friends come in."
They agree, faces smug as they part from the couch, leaving a stunned Jack and mildly annoyed Eric.
And there Jack sits — cock-blocked, unfortunately horny, and wallowing in a pile of shame amongst the many pairs of eyes that gawk at him.
"So I kissed you for no reason?" Eric reclines, arms crossed. He is not happy.
And Jack just stares. "…Go."
He's got his head planted firmly in his hands. The life around him still goes on; meanwhile, he's stuck on the lingering feel of being in Eric's hands, beneath his mouth, getting a hit of him in that outfit that had slowly begun to drive him feral. He hates that he mourns less of what could have been with the nameless angel beside him, but more of what could be with Count Chocula across the room.
Jack has to excuse himself to the bathroom, a private space to wean down and collect himself, but his reflection is a disaster. He turns on the light to find where smudges of white and reds make their permanence over his face; even worse is the wear of facepaint over his neck. It's like he feels it all over again as he traces his vision over the evidence his mouth left.
Prince Charming is a hot and bothered mess; wrecked hair, flushed cheeks, and his clothes that left home perfectly straightened are now rumpled by the very hands that sorted them to rights.
Jack grips the edge of the sink, frustrated, needing baseline, yet his brain calls for more.
"I've gotta get the fuck out of here." He whispers to himself, now scrubbing himself endlessly with warm water, the remaining red stubborn on his skin.
He hopes it'll be a moment quickly forgotten by the time he makes it out of the bathroom, but he is met with stares and teasing looks, and even from across the room, he hears the direct call of a wolf whistle.
This is it — this is his legacy. His remaining college years will have him forever sentenced as the guy dressed as Napoleon's second-in-command, who then went on to feverently make out with a rejected Anne Rice protagonist. It would have been infinitely less embarrassing if he were off his ass and beligerently drunk, but this man was stone-cold sober. His biggest crime? Thinking with the wrong head.
He sucks it up and makes himself to the snack table where Eric finds himself once again, and painfully in character, catches him indulging in the 'blood bank'.
"Let's go."
"I'm busy." Eric lifts the red solo cup like it's answer enough.
"Let's. Go." Jack has no desire to waste any more time and tries to drag Eric who resists, pouting.
"Come on, Jack, I haven't even gotten to try the Boo-Berries!"
"I really don't care. I'll buy you some later, just come here."
Jack urges him through the party, pulling him around firmly by his wrist, which naturally collected them a myriad of 'oooh's'. It's like a breath of fresh air when they get that hit of cold as they leave out the front, a freedom from eyes and commentary, leaving it as just them, yet being alone seems to be another problem all on its own.
"You're lame, Jack — things were just getting started!"
"Yeah, and making out with you is where it needed to end."
Eric can't help that smug look of his, mildly drunk, and he eyes down Jack as he swirls the remains of what's in his cup.
"What?" Jack deadpans. He knows that look.
But Eric's smirk creeps wider, taking down that last swig. "Nothing."
"Well, it's not nothing if you keep on staring at me like that."
"Admit it."
"Admit what?"
"You know what."
Jack is cold and annoyed, trying to shove his hand into the pitifully small pocket of his pants for that brief bit of warmth. The walk back to the apartment could not be any slower.
"You liked kissing, didn't you?"
"I hated it," Jack says quickly, too quickly. In what universe was that convincing?
"Then why were you so flustered? Jack, you're still flustered — look at you!"
Jack is glad he can't look at himself, because he knows the wear of tension driving up his shoulders, the way he seemingly can't even look in the same direction as him.
"You've got yourself a thing for vampires, don't lie."
Jack heats, his voice raising, "Absolutely —" he halts mid-statement as he catches sight over Eric, feeling the creeping yearning that brings him immediately back to square one. "…not." And denials have never sounded more like agreeance.
The street they're on is quiet as they ease further from the bustle, a night winding into sleep. And while the dead of night only hums with nighttime beetles and whistled wind, the wordlessness between them is deafening.
He doesn't expect it, and there's hands on Jack, sudden, as he's pulled into shadows, only the vague illuminations of a neighboring streetlight reflecting over Eric before he's leaned in, answering that call Jack has had for his lips over his. Jack leans in, too, matching with his mouth parted, breath briefly grazing him in that sigh of relief as they puzzle into each other.
But it's nothing more than that, ending quickly, and Eric parts —
"Are you happy?"
"Yes," it's quick off the tongue, a mistake; he shakes his head vehemently, the most aggressive head shake known to man. "No, that was disgusting, — no, vile. That was a crime put against me, Eric." Jack couldn't be any less convincing if he tried.
"You want me to do it again?"
"Absolutely not." Absolutely yes.
Eric has no shame for the way he prods at him; the alcohol completely tears down whatever barely-there boundary he had left. Jack is chalk-full of denials, yet he can feel the way his body heats around him, even in the cold. The thin polyester of Eric's velvet cloak is a pitiful source of warmth, but it doesn't stop his attempts that drape it over his shoulder. And further, it doesn't stop Jack from snuggling into it.
Their buildings sneak up on them quick, finding themselves wound through familiar corridors and bearing that short elevator ride they've gone on time and time again. The familiar number to their apartment greets them with its warm brass, and looking over it signals a finality.
"We never talk about this again, okay?" Jack is stern.
"So, we're leaving everything at the door?"
"Exactly."
"Which means…" Oh no. "…If you wanted to do that again…" Oh yes. "…We could do it before heading inside?" Yes absolutely.
Jack wastes no time; he's feral, animalistic, wanting that hit of Eric by any means necessary before he's reverted to the normalcy of t-shirt and jeans, and before Jack himself becomes infinitely less sexually experimentative… possibly.
He presses Eric into the door where he pins him, his body thudding against it, and he blinks in surprise, leaving him scarcely a chance for breath before it's, this time, Jack decidedly kissing him. He doesn't play timid or shocked this go around; he unwinds in the truest spirit of just how gone he is for him in like this. They stand there, changing heavy breaths between each wet slide of their tongues, driving them deeper into that blind lust that proves its point, strained behind fabric, and they can feel it against each other.
There's that reminder circling the back of Jack's brain, 'leave everything at the door'. And if he had no sense, he'd resolve it at the door, too.
He lives for that unexpected groan Eric makes when Jack digs his fingers into his hips, pushing him into the door yet again, another hard thud. They're reaching the capacity for what could be acceptable to do in a semi-public space, begging that dreaded question that tests that rule.
Their resolve finds itself in the worst way possible, barely registering the click of the lock from just behind before it swings open. Jack barely manages to catch Eric before he'd have fallen straight into her, instead steadying him as he stumbles into his chest.
They're caught at the scene of the crime, and it wears on them with guilt, a crooked crown, and smears of makeup somehow worse than before. Rachel is covered with every inch of surprise, mouth agape, and grasping over the edges of her robe like she's clutching at pearls. It doesn't take long until it's immediately shut again, leaving the two in an awkward silence, mortified.
"How bad do you think that looked?" Jack's worn a creased line between his brows, nervous.
"Probably just as bad as you look right now." And instead of Eric rubbing paint off his mouth with a thumb, it's a long swipe with an open palm.
"Ow — hey!" He winces away. "Would it hurt you to be gentle?"
"Based on how you threw me against the wall, I kinda figured the last thing you'd want is gentle." Eric pauses, that spark of an idea that has him looking between Jack and the door. "…What if we left this behind at your bedroom door?" He quirks a brow.
He's a genius.
"How long do you think we'll have to wait until Rachel's gone back to bed?"
"Hmm… I imagine we probably already scared her into hiding."
"Perfect." Jack gleams. Rachel is the last of his worries when everything he wants is in the palm of his hands, now soon to be the center of his bed. He rushes Eric, an urging tap over his shoulder. "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go."
And just like that, his months of waiting, of yearning for affection that begs for the gentle touch of a woman, all soft shapes and curves, but he gets Eric. He's broad-shouldered, and prickly from his day's old stubble; his voice is bassy and deep, and somehow, it was perfect to him.
Jack pulls him back at the soft click of him opening the door, his smile crooked as he looks up at him, that heavy gaze that knows of every good thing that's to be in store for him..
"Maybe you should put the fangs back on, too."