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Jack’s making cookies again.
That’d be perfectly fine if it were any other day and Jack was a normal kind of guy, but as it turns out, neither of those things are the case.
For starters, it’s three in the morning and they have a plane to catch at noon tomorrow. For another, Jack only makes cookies when he’s got something on his mind and it won’t let him alone.
Mark feels along the walls, smelling the hot sugar and melted chocolate from the top floor of their new apartment and making a concerted effort not to trip face first down the stairs. Everything is dark and silent, save for the sound of spoons clanking in bowls and the hum of the fan above their stove that always sounds like it’s seconds from spiraling towards mechanical death.
Mark hits the landing louder than is probably necessary, feet heavy in the wake of only four hours of sleep, and he fumbles for the light switch.
“Jack,” he whispers roughly, unable to feel out the switch on the walls. Blindly, he follows the dim glow of the stove light from the direction of their kitchen. “Jack, what the hell?”
There’s no response, and Mark crosses the kitchen threshold to find Jack sitting on the counter, surrounded by bowls of varying sizes and wearing half a bag of flour like it’s an apron.
“If I put you in the shower like that you’re going to turn into the Pilsbury Doughboy,” Mark mumbles, leaning sleepily against the doorframe.
Jack pops a chocolate chip into his mouth and fixes his gaze on Mark’s shadowed profile.
“Mornin’ baby,” he says, checking the timer on the oven. “Shouldn’t you still be asleep?”
Mark scrubs one hand over his eyes, wishing the blurriness would go away.
“Jack, it’s 3 AM,” he groans, unable to peel himself away from the wall. “What the hell is bothering you at this hour?”
It’s an unspoken secret between them that Jack only bakes when his brain won’t give him any time off from thinking, and whenever he makes cookies, it means that something in particular has got him snagged.
“I’m fine,” Jack shrugs, licking the chocolate off his fingers. “I just can’t sleep, thinking about how everything’s gonna change from here on out.”
“Uh-huh.” Mark isn’t surprised at that admission, but he crosses his arms and tries to look as attentive as possible. He’s not sure he succeeds. “You wanna elaborate on that?”
Mark can see the heat from the oven wafting in front of Jack’s swinging legs—another nervous habit—and his boyfriend glances up at the ceiling.
“Everyone’s growing up,” he tells Mark, voice echoing in the too-tall rafters of their brand new kitchen. “Felix and Marzia are having a baby, we’ve just bought this new place, Bob will be done with grad school soon. How do you figure that?”
Mark raises an eyebrow, but everything’s still sort of masked in sleep and bad lighting.
“I don’t know,” he replies wryly, trying not to seem too insensitive. Jack’s more prone to late night existentialism than anyone Mark’s ever known, but he’s not exactly worried. He’s been like this since college, lying awake on their ratty sofa in their shared dorm, decorating the floor with textbooks and soda cans.
It’s nothing dangerous or unsettling, it’s just Jack.
“I’m pretty sure it’s all a part of the natural passage of time,” Mark continues, breaking into a yawn. “Y’know, getting old and all that. You can check my old quantum physics books if you’re really curious—pretty sure the answer’s in there somewhere.”
He’s honestly not even sure where all their old books are, seeing as they’ve only gotten around to unpacking the essentials since they’d moved in two days ago, but judging by the expression on Jack’s face it doesn’t really matter.
“I forgot how unfunny you are when you get woken up,” Jack comments, but he’s smiling. Mark can hear it in his voice, even if his face is a little hazy.
“I’m hilarious all the time,” Mark affronts, pouting dramatically. “Comedy knows no hour of the morning nor the night.”
“Your comedy sure as hell does.” The timer goes off with an intrusive beep and Jack hops down from the counter, bare feet padding softly against the tile floor. Mark wonders if he’s cold.
He watches Jack pull the tray from the oven and set it on the stove, weak spirals of heat dissolving into the air near Mark’s bared arms as his boyfriend tosses the oven mitts onto the marble top.
“Are you coming to bed?” he asks, unsure of whether to press further about Jack’s wildly swerving train of thought, or accept that he might need another hour or so of late night personal therapy.
Jack taps out a rhythm on the counter, probably a drum riff only he can hear in his head, and Mark waits patiently. He’s never actually managed to fall asleep on his feet, not even after several all nighters in his senior year of college, and Jack’s cookies really do smell good.
“Do you wanna get married?” Jack cranes his neck to look at him, one blue eye turned golden and green in the half light of the bulb above the stove, and Mark cocks his head in confusion.
“Is that what you were in here lamenting about?” Mark feels like his tongue’s made of cotton, and maybe Jack’s proposition should strike a more dramatic chord in his chest, but mostly he just feels warm.
It’s probably the baked sugar and the gaping oven between them—Jack’s notorious for letting the appliances run long after he’s done with them.
“You make it sound like I’m having an episode down here.” Jack rolls his eyes and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. Mark can’t see the expression shaded on his mouth, but he bets it’s the nervous smile that always accompanies that tone of voice. “Seriously though, I think we should get married. Maybe get a dog, pay our bills on time, embrace adulthood as it comes at us head on.”
Mark’s head thunks against the wood of the doorframe, but he barely notices the discomfort through his smile.
“Y’know, when most people freak out about growing up, they take the time to rebel a little before settling down,” he notes, blinking fondly at the spread of baking supplies littering their kitchen. “You’re in here baking for us and talking about buying rings like you’ve already thought about it.”
It’s evident from the embarrassed tilt of Jack’s chin that Mark’s right, but Jack just shrugs again and pokes at one of the cookies, steaming in the dim cast of light.
“Well, I know I love you and this new place and what we’re doing together,” he admits slowly, not looking at Mark. “That’s more than some people our age can say—hell, it’s more than people twice our age can claim. I think we should do it—but only if you want to.”
Mark’s got a ring burning a hole in his suitcase somewhere, one he’d bought three months ago without any idea where to leave it and how to present it, but Jack’s apparently been on board with the idea for longer than he has. Figures.
“I’m fine with growing old as long as you’ll do it with me.” Mark cuts off another yawn, shifting against the wall and thinking of how nice it feels to sleep in their bed and stand in a real kitchen again, after so many months of living in and out of hotels.
It’s been a long enough road getting here, from meeting through an exchange student program and completing his degree two years late, to sleeping in Motel Sixes and fighting over dubious job offers. Mark is tired, but he’s never been more ready to start something new, something stable.
“Is that a yes?” Jack sounds incredibly young for a second, the way he had when Mark had first met him all those years ago, shy and geeky and tapping his feet to the nervous rhythm in his head that never quieted, not even today.
“I already have a ring,” Mark admits, because there’s no sense in starting off their new life with secrets. “It’s in my suitcase and it’s yours, if you want it.”
Jack’s shoulders relax and he runs one hand through his hair, laughing shakily. It’s a good laugh though, the kind that means he’s relieved and hopeful, and that’s sure to put an end to the late night crisis baking.
“I don’t have a—um, a ring,” he says with a stutter, tilting his head sweetly at Mark. “But I’ve got like a dozen homemade cookies. That’s just as good, right?”
Mark laughs in the open air between them and it echoes back at him, loud and promising in the early morning stillness.
“You’re gonna be like this our entire lives, aren’t you?”
Jack puffs his chest up, looking defensive, but he’s fighting off a laugh of his own and Mark loves him more than anything in that moment.
“Better get used to it now,” he taunts, his face cracking into warm, smooth amusement. “There’s years more where that came from.”
They eat half the cookies that night before Mark drags Jack into bed with the insistence of a sleepy child, and Jack comes willingly, after demanding that Mark find him the ring and put it on his finger immediately.
“We’ll make it official after the trip,” Mark tells him, and Jack rests his cheek in the crook of Mark’s neck, fingers tangled in his shirt.
“My cookies were still better,” Jack snuffles into Mark’s skin, but Mark can feel the indentation of the ring against his collarbone and he figures that this part of growing up is more than worth it for the both of them.