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The windows crack. No, shake. No, rattle! They crack, and they shake, and they rattle.
For Jack Hunter, it’s all the same thing.
The windows crack, and he cracks his knuckles, one by one. Index to pinky. He does it over and over until there’s nothing more to pop in his poor twisted fingers.
The windows shake, and Jack shakes. He can feel the tremble in his hands that he tries to quell by pinching himself on the arm. His breath shakes when he exhales, a sound Jack feels more so than he hears. Inhale, exhale, then stutter.
The windows rattle, and Jack… sure is rattled.
It’s ridiculous, really. He’s eighteen years old for crying out loud. He can legally purchase cigarettes from the local gas station, and yet here he is, cracking, and shaking, and rattling in his new, unfamiliar bed with his knees drawn up to his chest. It’s his first storm in Philadelphia; hurray! He’s sure the rapid little raindrops are having the time of their lives out there, dropping from their clouds to the fresh asphalt.
The sheets are crisp; too crisp. He washed them too good. Jack forgets not to starch his sheets like he runs a damn hotel. And now he’s turned his new bedroom into a hotel. Jack hates how symbolic it feels.
To sum up: Jack is an idiot, and he wants to go home. Home is familiar, home he knows, home is a routine. A routine has been disrupted, just for Jack to live with a half-brother who hates him. He’d have an easier time bonding with mental hospital escapees in Times Square.
So, his homesickness—a very terrible sickness that won’t be silenced by a Tylenol—has resulted in this fear of the storm; as in, the cracking, and shaking, and rattling.
Jack grips the crisp sheets—Hotel Jack, one star—and looks around the dark room. The familiar silhouettes of his items, half-unpacked, against the unfamiliar backdrop are only illuminated by the moon, and the awful lightening. Everything looks wrong. It’s like his organs have been rearranged; his heart is currently in his throat, pump, pump, pumping. The windows pump, too. Pump, crack, shake, rattle!
He can’t take it anymore. Jack dislodges his knees from his chest, and his socked feet hit the floor. Even the floor is wrong. He can remember every ridge of his old bedroom floor in New York. He can remember the wooden tile that was just slightly crooked, the one he always had to adjust. There’s no crooked floorboard here, and it isn’t New York. It’s Philadelphia, and his half-brother is sleeping in the other room.
Jack sinks his feet into the floorboards, his new ones, feeling the ridges. It’s like reading braille, but it’s in another language.
He needs water. Not rain water; regular water.
He pads over to the door, carefully getting it open. His old bedroom door used to open inward This one opens outward. What a bad design.
He tiptoes out into the hall—which really isn’t necessary, since he likely can’t be heard over the thunder—and looks to all the doors besides his own (they must open outward, too). Behind one door is his half-brother; the one that most certainly hates him, and Jack can’t blame him, since he’s so far been terrible at this whole ‘long lost brother’ schtick. Then, behind another door, is Eric, his other new roommate.
To say Eric is strange is understatement. There’s the saying, “follows the beat of one’s own drum,” but it’s like Eric’s inventing new notes as he plays.
He’s kind of like a dragonfly. Loud, and direct, and alluring; a sound you can’t ignore. You might be scared at first, taken aback by his boldness, frightened by his impatient snaps, and his loud horror movie shrills. But, once you get close, he caresses, he doesn’t sting. And instead of taking you down with the hurricane of his wild, bright, and colorful wings, he makes you part of it; whether you want it or not.
Jack hasn’t decided yet if he wants it. He’s never had a friend quite this weird. He figures Eric won’t give him much of a choice, though. And, embarrassingly, Jack’s not sure how many friends he’s ever truly had. He’s been out of high school for months, and he hasn’t talked to one ‘friend’ since the big graduation party.
When Jack quietly makes his way out into the kitchen, the light is just as dim, save for the flutter of lightening every so often, followed by a pump, crack, shake, and rattle.
Pump, his heart.
Crack, the thunder.
Shake, his hand.
Rattle, the contents of the fridge when his trembling hand opens the door, the metal handle cool under his palm.
There it is; the water. Mercy, finally, and the tremble in his hand runs up his arms like a shiver. Brr.
Jack grabs a one of the plastic bottles of pure, ice cold water, and twists the top off, the white fridge light disappearing into nothing as he shuts the door.
Sip, swig, and scream.
Yes, Jack most definitely heard a scream ring out in the apartment. Not really a scream, actually. More like a gargle.
And, it came from his mouth.
The water that was supposed to soothe his throat went the wrong way when he unexpectedly bumped into something. Actually, someone.
“Oh my god, you’re choking!”
The lightening creepily illuminates Eric’s face. Jack pictures him wielding a knife.
Jack just coughs and coughs, no words coming out.
“Okay, Jack, just breathe!”
I’m choking, you moron!
Eric curls his hand into a fist and hits Jack’s back repeatedly, punctuating every single desperate cough.
“Enough, enough!” Cough, cough, “I’m okay,” cough, cough.
Jack heaves a few breaths—he can breathe!—and he clutches his sore throat.
“You alright there, Jack?” Eric rubs Jack’s back, which is a much more soothing motion compared to the painful punches. “You really gave me a scare, there.”
Jack freezes, sore throat forgotten. “I gave you a scare? Are ya kiddin’ me?”
“Yeah, you jumped at me.”
“I jumped at you?!” Jack points to himself with two index fingers—they no longer shake with fear, but with fury—“y'just popped outta thin air!”
Eric tilts his head in that annoyingly innocent way. “No, I didn’t, I was here the whole time!”
“Where?”
“On the floor,” Eric says. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s perfectly normal. Because sitting on chairs might make people suspicious.
“Why're you sleeping on the floor?” Jack’s face scrunches up.
“I wasn’t sleeping on the floor, I was sitting on the floor,” Eric explains calmly.
“Sleeping, sitting,” Jack waves a hand, “why are you sleeping or sitting on the floor? At… two o’clock in the morning?”
And, what does Eric do? He shrugs. Even in the dim light, Jack can see the line of his shoulders go up, and then come down just as quickly.
Jack mutters, "oh, that explains everything..."
“Well, why are you up getting water at two o’clock in the morning?”
Jack blinks at him, “not like I need it to live.”
“Clearly you don’t, since it almost killed you just now.”
In that moment, Jack lets his eyes flutter shut, the remnants of his patience a dandelion, and Eric just blew him away.
The thunder cracks, shakes, rattles, and Jack jumps, startled out of his brief contemplation of his life choices.
“Woah, now, are you scared?” Eric asks, his lips curving into a faint smirk.
“Scared of what?”
“The thunder!”
Jack sputters, “what thunder?"
Eric suddenly raises his hands at Jack, “boo!”
“Ah!”
And Eric giggles that annoying giggle, thoroughly satisfied with himself. Jack huffs. He grabs his water bottle, forgetting the cap, and tries to move around Eric.
“Want me to keep you company?” Eric asks
“No, I don’t want you to keep me company!” Jack’s brows knitted, “do I look nine to you?”
Eric puts a finger to his chin, like he’s thinking, “nah, but you sound like it,”
Jack’s gonna kill him.
“C’mon, Jack, step into my office,” Eric wraps his hand around Jack’s elbows, the warm hold a sudden jolt. Eric pulls Jack into the living room.
“I don’t want to step into your office,” Jack tries to protest, though there’s not much heat behind it. He’s beyond that.
Eric grins, “too bad!” He cackles a little, too. Prick.
They sit on the couch, and their sides are so close, they’re almost touching. Eric Matthews has never become acquainted with the concept of personal space, and that is a fact that Jack has come to tolerate.
“Why don’t you tell Doctor Eric what the problem is,” Eric says, his tone sweet.
Jack has been attached to this guy for the past week, and now he can’t even escape him in the time when he should be sleeping. The rain outside gives no indication that’ll be stopping any time soon.
Great. He has a shrink for the night.
Jack speaks quietly, trying to contain his frustration, “there's no problem,”
“See, your mouth is saying one thing,” Eric says, “but your heart-“ and when Eric lays his palm on Jack’s chest, he stops, the words—the stupid crack or observation—dying on his tongue.
There’s silence for a few seconds, other than the pitter-patter of the rain outside. Jack feels his resolve falter a bit, his eyes scanning Eric’s face.
“What?”
“Your heart’s beatin' really fast...” Eric says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
Jack gulps, “is it?”
“Yeah,” Eric breathes out, “boom, boom, boom, boom.”
Jack says nothing. He just brings the water bottle to his lips, and takes a slow—real slow—sip of water. Having Eric near him is a hazard.
“Are you really that scared of thunder?”
“It’s not the thunder,” Jack replies.
“The lightening, then,” Eric’s hand is still rested on Jack’s chest, right above his heart.
“No.”
“Did you know that lightening fertilizes plants?”
Jack blinks, “huh?”
“It’s true,” Eric nods. His hand slides down from Jack’s chest, casually resting on his lap, instead. Every spot he touches feels like it’s burning. Crack, shake, rattle. “It creates nitrogen, and the little raindrops bring it down to the plants. In't that incredible?”
“Yeah, sure is… incredible,” Jack’s head shakes a lightly, unsure of what to do with this new information. Here he was assuming the raindrops were having a party; turns out, they’re on the clock.
“I know what’s wrong,” Eric says.
“You do?”
Eric then shrugs, “you miss home.”
“How…” Jack’s body shifts a little, “how do you even know that?”
“If I were you, I would,” reasons Eric, “hell, I’m not you, and I do.”
And, what a preposterous thing to say, because, “your home’s a few blocks down.”
“Blocks, hours… steps,” Eric lists, “who’s countin'?”
Jack bows his head, looking down at his lap. He wants to rest his hands on it, but Eric’s own. hand is still rested there, and he can’t risk touching it. It would be way too weird. He keeps his hands on the couch, nails digging into the cheap fabric. He wants to ask Eric to move his hand, but to ask would be to point it out, and the last thing Jack wants to do is point it out. Somehow, he doesn’t want to say anything; as though a spell would be broken.
“You don’t have to worry, you know,” Eric suddenly says.
“Worry?” Jack replies, “I’m not worrying,” though his voice is meek.
“Sure, you are. You’re a worrier,” Eric smiles, “I’m a tell-you-not-to-worrier.”
“You’re a... you-worry-me-er,” Jack shoots back
Eric doesn’t take it as an insult; it just makes him smile wider. Jack can’t figure it out. From what Jack’s learned so far, Eric’s a whirlwind of energy, always cracking and rattling like the thunder outside. And, yet, he’s sitting here right now, so soft, so gentle, seeing right through Jack as though he were made of glass instead of flesh. Unnerving, is what it is.
When the thunder cracks (shake, rattle) once again, this time louder, Jack actually jumps. A bit of water also jumps, straight out of the open bottle, spilling onto the couch. Jack notices how the droplets merely sit there, and roll, not immediately absorbed by the fabric.
“Man, you’re jumpy,” Eric chuckles, placing an arm around Jack’s shoulders. Pop, fizzle, hiss. Touching, why, Jack doesn't know. Eric is always touching. Something, he's always touching, and it's often Jack's body.
Eric yawns comically, not even bothering to cover his mouth.
“You’re tired,” Jack observes, “you should probably go.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, I could stay up all night,” Eric leans back.
Joy.
“You really don’t have to do that. Really.”
“Of course I don’t have to. I want to!” Eric tightens his arm around Jack’s shoulder, jostling him a bit, “one day, you're gonna jump so hard, your bones'll slip clean out your body. And, I like my wings boneless, but not my Jack.”
His Jack? Oh, boy.
Jack turns his head, looking to the side, trying to avoid Eric’s gaze; those soft hazel eyes. He just wants the sun to come up. But, it’s barely three in the morning. She’s taking her sweet time, and Jack is trapped.
He sighs out in defeat. When he leans back, he ends up on Eric’s shoulder. The once-burning arm around him cools down to a fuzzy warmth. Jack crosses his arms, wrapping them around himself protectively.
“I know you’re all homesick and everything, but,” Eric speaks, just barely above a whisper, “I’m glad you’re here and not out there. In New York, I mean."
Jack doesn’t dare turn his head in Eric’s direction. But, his eyes do move, and he glances at Eric through his peripheral. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Eric replies, though he sounds like he knows. It’s the kind of I don’t know that means I definitely know. “I guess I like havin' you around.” He pauses. “'Sides, I can’t pay rent on my own.”
“I’m sure there are other guys in Philly looking for roommates."
Eric shrugs, "sure,” then, leaning into Jack's space ever so slightly, “but, I want this one.”
Jack turns his head; he dares.
The pitter-patter of the rain outside slows to a pitter here, a patter there. The windows no longer crack, or shake, or rattle.
“Do you hear that?” Eric whispers.
“Yeah, the thunder stopped,” Jack looks back and sees the rain staining the window, drops streaking and sliding. The apartment remains dim without all the lightening.
“No,” Eric’s palm rests on Jack’s heart once again, “your heart isn’t tryin' to jump outta your chest anymore.”
Jack looks down at his chest.
The pump, pump, pumping of his heart has slowed to a regular pattern. He hadn’t even registered it. His chest doesn’t rattle, and his hands don’t shake. He feels simply exhausted. He could pull three all-nighters, and he still wouldn’t feel as tired as he does in this moment.
Clearly, Eric is just as tired. Because, when Jack lifts his head, he sees Eric has already fallen asleep.
The only thing that shakes now is Jack’s breath; Inhale, exhale, then stutter.
Eric’s body radiates as much warmth as his personality does, and it covers Jack head to toe like a big blanket. His eyes droop on their own accord, and Jack sinks further into the couch cushions.
Out of curiosity—and nothing else—Jack brings a hesitant hand up to Eric’s chest. He rests that palm right up against Eric’s heart...
...it’s racing.