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Jack wakes alone in a bed that is not his, but the scent of it — of that warm, familiar body it belonged to — that, he knew well.
He lies with the lingering memory of Eric's mouth to his neck, of those firm hands finding his skin with drunken worship, beating the hot, boozy breath over him. He's cozy with the thick sheets wrapped around him and the contrasting warmth amid the unforgiving Philadelphia winter that he watches paint the earth in dazzling whites as it catches the window.
It's his first time back in quite a while, the past 4 years having known only of the Chinese countrysides as a volunteer for the Peace Corps. It was hard for him to believe that he was there just a few days ago, breathing in those lush, green mountains along the riverside for perhaps the last time, now returned to the towering brick buildings of downtown Philly.
Jack has no idea what he'll make of himself now that it was over — no idea where to go, or who he wants to be, just that he needed to be back here, even if brief, and reconnect with what he last left behind.
Or rather, who he left behind.
It was a bigger homecoming for him to reunite with Eric than it was merely returning to the States, seeing him for the first time in those long years, as they shared drinks in the dim of a low-key lounge. They caught up on much there, hearing how Eric had moved back after a trying first year in New York City, feeling it too rushed and too fast, missing home something fierce.
Judging by the beautiful studio apartment he woke to, it seemed coming back did him well.
Eric wasn't far distant from the man he left behind either, still that same lovable yet empty-headed idiot, wearing the perpetual arched brow or staring brain-dead into the void like a continuous dial-up tone. But Eric wasn't bothered about himself, though, instead greedy over every story of Jack's, listening faithfully as he wove him pictures of ancient landscapes or spoke long of his most treasured memories overseas. He leaned in on his swivelling bar stool, hungry, curious, where his drunken thumb braved to roll Jack's thigh, and worked those dimples to an endearing permanence. Hours had elapsed like this, their close intimacy in the packed lounge, drawing closer with underlying words only their eyes could speak.
And when the hours in the yellow light met the 2 AM closing, Eric whispered, "Come to my place?" And hardly innocently, Jack did.
It had been long since he last slept with someone, and the absence of it left every touch amplified as Eric kept him perpetually on the edge. But Eric was still Eric, and he found that his signature idiocies miserably followed themselves into bed, too. He paused a fair few times — whether it be while burrowed into Jack's lap or between tender kisses along his spine — to tend to the displayed family photos one by one, facing them down. And in crawling back to a flushed and greatly annoyed Jack asking "why?" he'd admit, "they won't stop staring."
Sleeping with him felt like home as much as his apartment did too, not far different from the space they had shared their time in Penbrook. He was still as messy as ever, looking over the innumerable dirty mugs or laundry strewn about. But then there were the books, too, the spines of which he read from afar: 'Outwitting Squirrels 101' was one, and another, 'What Makes Me Amish?'.
But in his absence, Jack can't help but wonder just how long he's been alone for. The space beside him where he slept is cold; not a single note left or a sign of where he left to, and self-consciously, he begins to wonder if he's still welcome at all. After 4 long years, they were almost strangers.
And he winces.
Strangers.
So Jack decides on a middle ground.
He grabs his clothes from the floor in a bid to make himself decent, turning them right side out and smoothing the wrinkles, deciding he'll lounge about as he waits, cool and casual; he puts on his boxers.
But he pauses, and the word 'strangers' rolls round once more, and he thinks, this was just a hookup no different than what he's used to — a quick lay inspired by some cheap shit whiskey and a miserable dry spell. He remembers his hotel room, which he abandoned last night, and reasons it might be best to head back; he puts on his pants, too.
But that indecisive mind of his would be hard-pressed to even try to stay on the right track, because the pendulum swings once more, this time landing horribly into his lap, because God forbid he think with anything other than his dick.
Jack liked the mouth, no, loved the mouth; the stubble scraped along his jaw and his own name breathy from his throat. There was something so complimentary about sleeping with a man, feeling the firm, rigid muscle just as his own, and the bassy groans that sent shockwaves through him pulsing in time with his heart. He'd goad for those noises again and again for that extra hit, then again and again, to watch Eric unravel under his touch.
So, as easy as that, he was back to square one, and decided to flop onto the bed… again — waiting out for the hopeful chance, and quite possibly, the love.
Jack wrings his fingers in his lap, his eyes fixed on the door as each second dragged. It was a little pathetic sitting here too, not even expectant, just… unsure.
He had never been the most openly tenderhearted, always safeguarded, but he thinks he could admit he was perhaps a little in love then, maybe a little in love still. Things like that don't just go away.
But at its core, all he wanted was his best friend back — his faithful ride or die with the awful jokes, perpetually driving him up the wall, and wanting it no other way.
And in the twisting yearn, twisting and twisting just as they had in this very bed, "Oh, Christ," he whispers, realization wearing his fingers into his temples. "I'm not that desperate."
Yet he remembers the sweat-slicked skin.
"Oh no."
The panting.
"Oh, god."
Jack's eyes widen.
"I am."
He leaps from the bed, a bit queasy now, and in the spirit of avoidance, he hastily puts his sweater on as clarity begs for the hotel.
Or maybe not.
He takes his sweater back off.
Or maybe yes.
He puts it on again backwards.
The push and pull of it is unending, running laps throughout the apartment, neatly clothed before the door one moment, then half-dressed at the bed the next. Jack has created a whirlwind worse than the mess Eric had left scattered about, and soon, he loses a sock in the war of indecisiveness.
Jack looks about as rough as a toddler tasked with dressing himself for the first time: his lone sock risen over the cuff of his jeans, his belt half on and fly undone. He wanders cluelessly when there is a sudden click — he pauses, turns, watching the jingle of the knob before looking over himself, where there is not a second left to even appear somewhat decent. So he stands, watches as the door opens, and forces a pained smile. This was not his best moment.
"Hey!" Eric beams as he walks through, looking positively warm and bundled in his thick coat, snow still flecked along the shoulders. "Thought I'd get us some hot cocoa and— Oh." He pauses, looks down, and points. "That's backwards."
Jack looks down at his sweater and hurriedly shrugs his arms out, twisting it around.
"Inside out, too." He corrects again, and Jack thinks execution might be better than this.
He takes it off entirely this time, and it feels akin to a walk of shame as he's being watched sorting himself.
"Were you about to leave?" Eric asks, to which Jack offers a long sigh.
"I was thinking about it. I'm sorry," He says. "Just… figured maybe you were at work or something? Or, actually — gotta be honest, I had no idea." He winces at himself. "Did you want me to stay?"
Jack doesn't know why he prepared himself for anything other than the smile he gets, filling him with warmth, the same favored dimple staring right back.
"Of course, man. I just went to the cafe a couple blocks down! So, listen, we both know how Cory makes a mean hot cocoa, but don't tell him this," he whispers. "I think Nico's down the street miiiight make it a little better," and with two lidded cups in his hands, he pushes one out. "Try it."
Love spells itself in his heart again, louder this time, and Eric watches as he takes careful sip by careful sip.
"Thought it'd be nice with it being cold and all; I know you said you weren't used to winters like these anymore." Then Eric perks up, brimming with excitement. "Ooh, you know what — I've got a fireplace now, too! I haven't used it yet or anything, but it could be cool to sit around it like a couple of cavemen… unless you don't want to, which, hey! Totally okay, too! I've got some heaters, and some blankets; and I'm still pretty garbage at cooking, but there's a sick Chinese restaurant around here that I like, and I hope maybe you'd like it too, even if it doesn't compare to actually being in China, y'know? But there's also—"
Jack can't contain himself any longer.
He lunges for that stupid rambling mouth he's spent all this morning thinking of, needing it like air, needing him like air, and steals those last words from his lips and claims him for himself as he should have years ago.
Eric's skin feels nearly frostbitten beneath his fingertips, his own hand like a comforting furnace as he cradles his jaw, smoothing it with a thumb. Kissing him is different in sobriety with a clear head — better, even. And with a table beside them, they set their drinks down, leaving them free to tug and pull as this cold, cold winter needs the warm, warm breath, and even hotter hands.
It's with a bit of hesitancy that Eric pulls, mouth flushed pink, and asks, "So does that mean you'll stay?"
"To eat cheap American Chinese in a big bed with hot cocoa?" He watches the way Eric holds his breath, a worry that does not belong. Jack flicks the last gathering fleck stuck in his hair and smiles. "Wouldn't miss that for the world."