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Unlike most momentous events in Merritt's life which have, historically, been precipitated by alcohol, this one is kickstarted by a pointed lack of booze.
To be precise, it starts when Merritt opens the fridge and realizes they've run out of beer.
“Beer run,” he announces to the living room. “Who's up? I went last time.”
Daniel—Atlas—Dan? Danny? Whatever; Mr. Control Issues—grunts but doesn't look up. He's fixing a mirrored box for their first show next Wednesday, and it looks like he's just gotten to the part with the superglue and has to hold things together for several minutes.
Henley, on the other hand, is curled up on the couch with a book. This would normally be a prime target for a beer run, but she's also got a bottle of ibuprofen on the table behind her head and the distinctive lump of a hot pack under the blanket on her stomach, and Merritt's not a total asshole.
Which leaves the last member of their merry band, who's sitting cross-legged by the foot of the couch, practicing his card tricks like he does for three hours every evening.
“Jack,” Merritt says with a grin. “You're up.”
And it's funny, though, because Jack glances up and glances back down and doesn't meet Merritt's eyes.
“Sorry,” he says. “Don't have my ID.”
And Merritt knows that's a lie even before Daniel speaks up.
“Your wallet's on the sink.”
Jack's fingers, for the first time in the week Merritt's known him, stutter and mess up a shuffle. “Wrong ID.”
Henley nudges at his head with her foot. “Don't be lazy. Your fake IDs are more than fine. I've been meaning to ask you where you got them, actually.”
“Uh,” Jack says. “Yeah, it's not one of my fakes.”
“Oh,” Henley says.
“Really?” Daniel asks. “I thought you were, like. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.”
Jack flushes and gives a very expressive, one-shouldered shrug, and, really, now that Merritt knows, he's surprised they didn't see it earlier, especially given the naive idolization of Captain Grumpy Pants over there.
“So, you're what—nineteen, twenty?” Henley asks.
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says without specifying which.
Merritt extricates himself with a “Well, guess that's me, then,” and shuts the door behind him.
And it's not a huge deal, really, for all Jack's obviously reluctant to share. It's just a matter of mentally reclassifying him from 'young, with a babyface' to just 'young'. It's done before Merritt walks out of the apartment, shift in perception easily managed.
But it nags at him, a little, even as he steps out into the chilly March evening. The wind nips at him so he pulls up his collar and tugs down his hat and tells himself he's being ridiculous.
Jack, even if he's three or four years younger than they'd expected, is still a fully-grown adult, and Merritt is nothing but a coworker. A bizarrely close coworker, who spends almost all day every day with him and shares a bunk bed with the kid at night, but a coworker nonetheless. And as a coworker, unless something about the kid is endangering the work, it's none of Merritt's business.
He pushes it back in his mind and buys the beer, along with some takeout (hot and spicy for Henley, vegetarian for Atlas, and disgustingly healthy for Jack, who eats like a man who spent the last year or two subsisting on ramen).
Jack takes a beer when Merritt makes it back, twisting the top off aggressively as if daring anyone to say one word about it. It's unusual for him; he's not big on alcohol. Merritt's guessing there's a mean drunk somewhere in his past, though he hasn't figured out if it was the father or a foster-parent yet.
No one mentions anything about it, and Jack's back to his old self halfway through his carton of Chinese. They spend the evening planning next week's routine, an hour-long show at a dinner-theater place that should help to get them some better gigs—leading, eventually, to Arthur Tressler. That's a ways off, yet, but they have to be perfect from the start; this first show's got to be big enough that they can start getting some attention going, from organizers and on social media, but small enough that they keep some tricks up their sleeve (well, and small enough that they don't fuck it up. Because they're all really good at what they do, but a couple weeks isn't long enough, even with intense practice, to anticipate each other's moves and really gel together onstage).
They get some good work done, plan to pick it up the next morning, and head to bed sometime after two. Jack and Merritt, of course, share the room with the bunk, Henley grabbed the other bedroom, and Atlas sleeps on the sofa pullout in the living room. Jack's got the top bunk this week, which suits Merritt fine; Merritt's on the evening schedule for the shower, and by the time he gets out, Jack's asleep.
Kid's not a bad roommate. He doesn't snore, doesn't make a mess, and actually makes an effort to be quiet whenever Merritt's asleep. He's the easiest of all of them to get along with, hands down.
Which, Merritt reminds himself as he lies down, means nothing. Jack was picked, like the rest of them, because he's seriously talented and really loves magic.
Merritt yanks his blankets up to his shoulders and turns onto his side.
And it might be surprising Jack turned out like he did, given his shitty-ass life, but none of them had exactly sterling childhoods. It's kind of why they ended up magicians in the first place.
Merritt looks at the clock, shuts his eyes, and listens to the deep, steady breathing three feet above him.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Years. Years he's gone without having to deal with this sort of shit, and he was perfectly fine without it.
He gets out of bed and heads out, ignoring the elongated lump of ridiculous human on the top bunk.
Atlas is, unsurprisingly, still up, looking over their trick set list and making notes. Merritt's got to give it to the guy; he's kind of a prick, but he works his ass off, and he seriously loves magic.
“What,” Atlas says without looking when Merritt stops in the doorway.
“Listen,” Merritt starts, and stops. Because there's really no tactful way to phrase this, so. “Jack's a good kid.”
Atlas' eyebrows crease. “Mmhmm.”
“Maybe,” Merritt says, and he feels like a complete idiot, he really does, but what the hell. “We can try not being dicks.”
“To Jack.”
“To Jack.” Merritt leans back against the door frame and crosses his arms. “Well. More than usual. I realize it's difficult for you to restrain your natural impulses.”
Atlas sniffs, shrugs, and turns back to his notebook. “Wasn't planning on it.”
And just then, just for one quick second, Merritt feels a connection—a flash of sympathy and understanding—and he thinks, hey, Atlas likes the kid, too.
And then Atlas sniffs again and waves his pen towards the hall. “Oh, I left some nose strips on your dresser. They might help your snoring.”
“Fuck off,” Merritt says, and leaves.
Henley's standing in the bathroom doorway when he passes it, her hair wrapped in a towel and a thick cream slathered all over her face.
“He's a good guy, you know.” She smiles. The white cream creases in several places. “Deep down.”
“I can hear you,” Atlas calls out.
“Deep, deep down,” she says. “Look, Jack's used to taking care of himself, and he knows what he's doing—”
“I know that,” Merritt starts. “I'm not—”
She holds up a finger.
“But yeah, he's young. So we'll keep an eye out for him.” She shrugs. “Where we can.”
He nods. She pats his shoulder. It's all very stilted and touching, and they're never going to speak of it again.
Jack is still asleep when he gets back, wrapped up in his blankets so the only parts of him visible are two fingers on his left hand.
Merritt eyes the packet of breathe-right strips on the dresser and almost knocks them behind it. Would, normally, except tonight he's decided to be considerate of others, apparently, so he very grudgingly takes one out and sticks it on. It feels cold on his nose in the chilly room, and he's pretty sure it's going to stick on so he can't get it off in the morning.
Fuck it, he thinks, and he settles in under the covers and falls asleep.