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A fun time, he had said.
It will be a fun time, Eric had said. And, Jack, weak as he is, believed him. For Eric, it’s the strobes, and the lights, and the neons, and the way people’s press together, that energize him. He’s invigorated by the feel and smell of sweat jumping from person to person, almost to the beat of whatever Top 40 song is playing. Could be TLC, could be Britney Spears. Jack doesn’t really remember, because these things do not invigorate him. He wishes he could be more like Eric—no care in the world, other than the maximize how good the time he is having is—but, as it stands, Jack does not have that superpower. The only thing he has is a weakness, and that weakness, is Eric Matthews.
More specifically, this weakness entails having the total inability to say “no” to the guy. So, yes, Jack will gladly stand there, on the slippery dance floor (he can’t dance, so he starts by vaguely swaying), enduring the slimy perspiration that hops from body to body, braids and curls and waves whipping in his face. Because Jack, ultimately, has a one track mind. Eric dances around (he can’t dance either, but he was also can’t be shaken out of the belief that he can), and Jack grins. Eric grabs his hands, and then, they’re jumping together. Eric doesn’t just hold, but he squeezes, sliding his hands up to clutch Jack’s elbows, pulling him closer.
Feeling other people’s sweat, and dirt, and heat, is not so desirable to Jack. And in fact, he wishes it weren’t a factor entirely—as if everyone in a club should be locked into their own individual little bubbles, bumping and bouncing like balloons—but, he doesn’t mind it so much when it’s Eric’s sweat. Or his dirt, and least of all, his heat. He can see the sheen coating Eric’s forehead, sticking dirty blond strands of hair to it, a tiny fringe, and Jack is overcome by the desire to brush it out of the way. That tiny fringe says everything. Because, while they may be weaved through a sea of lives they do not know, and will never know, a whole mass of nefarious activity, people out of control, Eric is entirely pure. Self-actualized, even. Jack wants; to be like, and to have. Both, in equal measure. He curls his fingers over Eric’s shoulders, and pulls him even closer.
It had been a fun time, indeed, although Jack did not want to admit it. His shoulder had been hurting days prior, following a session at the gym that went a bit too far. Yet, with the elevator pulling them up—first floor, second floor, third floor, where’s our floor?—that same pain is conquered by Eric’s warm weight. His cheeks are rosy, thanks to one too many drinks—cut him off, he should have. No, he should have said, not one more—but, so goes Jack’s weakness. Shot after shot, Eric had downed, laughing until his sides burned and his jaw ached, and Jack had been just happy enough to enjoy the view. Now, a drunk Eric was using Jack as a substitute for a crutch, entirely reliant on him to stay upright. Of course, Jack would never let him fall, and Eric knows this. A bit of Eric’s frizzy, damp hair is tickling the corner of his eye, but Jack makes no effort to move it out of the way. In fact, he turns his head slightly, causing the piece of hair to poke him in the eye. He tilts his head, trying to dodge it, without having to lift a finger.
All of a sudden, Eric—who had been unusually quiet, and, Jack had assumed, half-asleep—prompts, “Jack?”
“What?”
“Jaaack...”
He repeats, “what?”
Eric sniffs, “I forgot.”
Jack exhales from his nose, and Eric giggles. It’s so undignified. Everything he does is undignified.
“Great,” Jack says after many moments, and he internally feels that it had been too much of a delayed response to even be worth saying. Still, he said it, and Eric did not acknowledge it.
Upon reaching their floor, Jack brings his right arm—which had been hanging uselessly—up, and touches Eric’s shoulder. Eric wiggles involuntarily, like a lump of gelatin in Jack’s hold, complying.
Despite the weight—taller, and bigger, than he—Jack feels relaxed. More relaxed than ever, actually, and the sound of Eric’s out of tune humming only enhances this feeling. As he grabs his keys from his pocket, which jangle musically within the vacant hallway of theirs, Jack doesn’t even try to identify what song Eric might be attempting.
The keys, “mmmmm,” are snatched from Jack’s hands before they can enter the keyhole.
“Eric.:
“Weeee,” Eric shakes the keys in Jack’s face. But, when Jack’s hand shoots out to retrieve them, Eric’s arm drops ded. And, of course, his grip is shit, so the keys clatter to the carpet below, as though escaping Eric’s kidnapping. Or, keynapping, to be more specific.
“Ha,” Jack quirks a smirk; not really laugh, but more a declaration of satisfaction. Eric is already uncoordinated as is when he’s sober, let alone under the influence.
“Jackieee,” Eric whines, “get ‘em.”
“You get ‘em, you dropped ‘em!”
Strained, Eric replies, “ooh-kay,” stretching his arm as far as it could possibly go, until he nearly tips over, like a tea kettle, nearly finishing with the same fate as those keys.
“Okay, okay, hold up,” Jack presses his hands against Eric’s middle, keeping him from falling. “I’ll get ‘em,” he announces, gentle.
Holding a fistful of Eric’s blue shirt, Jack bends forward, and he picks up the keys. The act is punctuated with a grunt, and a, “there.”
“Thank you,” Eric mutters, kind of uselessly, but his tone of voice makes Jack’s stomach flutter. Bringing him inside, Jack feels a subtle shiver travel up and down his body; head to toe, toe to head.
The second they step foot inside the apartment, Eric pushes away from Jack, launching himself toward the couch. The red leather, it groans, but Eric, he sighs, content. He knocks a pillow out of the way, letting it fall between the couch and the coffee table, sliding back.
Jack doesn’t look right away, closing the door, and placing the key—placing, not throwing—inside its own bowl, hanging his jacket up. But, once he has no more activities to busy himself with, he has no choice but to place those hands on his hips, and look down at the man below.
He steps forward once. Then, Jack steps forward twice, and a third time, until all he can see is Eric.
“Y’okay?” Jack says, not quite at full voice, yet not quite a whisper, either. He’d tried to strike a balance, wondering if its what Eric needed.
The only sound Eric utters is, “mmm...,” arching his back, and stretching his arms all the way up above him, squashing the couch for every bit of comfort it can offer him. And a little more, too.
Jack knows he’s losing him. To sleep, that is. Eric’s drifting. But, Jack—in spite of the few drinks he’d consumed himself—is wide awake. And, he stands there, watching.
His brain shut off momentarily; as in that, all the actions that he is about to take next are not a result of extensive planning, or ruminating, unlike most, if not all, of his other actions. He’s a planner, Jack knows, but when he slowly drops to his knees, this isn’t part of any plan. Instead, it’s instinct, and he allowed it to happen. He lowered himself to his right knee first, keeping his balance, before lowering his left knee, as well. He reached out, hand feeling stiff, before letting it wrap around Eric’s ankle.
Jack remains immobile, gauging any reactions. He does not blink. And, Eric does not move, nor does he say anything. So, Jack carries on, squeezing Eric’s ankle, the bottom of his jeans bunching up under his palm. He brings Eric’s leg upward, and he uses his other hand to hold Eric’s calf. He slides one shoe off.
Again, that same shiver from before returns, only much stronger. The silence in their apartment no longer feels like the result of there being no one but them inside, but rather, a consequence of a spiritual connection. Jack hasn’t been present in a church since he was in middle school. Still, there is no other way he can describe it. The sense of magnitude feels totally inadequate coming from the simple act of taking off somebody’s shoes. But, Jack reasons, it’s who is wearing the shoes that matters. Taking off the shoes is just the first stage of undress, and Jack, now, cannot stop thinking of the other stages; what it would be like to be able to keep going, and never stop.
He does the same for the other shoe, pulling it off. And, then, he plucks up both shoes, intending to put them away neatly near the entranceway.
The moment Jack stands normally, he hears, “hey.”
He looks down, and, “Jack,” Eric calls, with about the quietest voice Jack has ever heard come from him.
Eric’s eyes are tired, half-lidded, using every bit of energy he has left just so he can look up at Jack.
“Come closer,” commands Eric.
Without a word, Jack listens, and, perhaps he should have considered what Eric wanted before adhering the command.
The shoes, they run back to the gap between the couch and the coffee table, while Jack falls smack on top of Eric. Actually, he doesn’t fall, but rather, Eric’s fingers snagged onto the sleeve of his top, forcing Jack down with all the might he had. Which clearly, was too much for a man in his state. It’s like, Eric could be asleep, and yet, he has a stocked battery of crazy energy, just in case he needs to employ it/ And usually, he saves it for Jack; for moments just like these.
“D’ya have fun, Jackie?” Eric asks, and his lips are so close to Jack’s ear, that he can feel them move while he speaks, a butterfly against his lobe.
Jack replies, “no,” voice strained, trying, and failing, to pull himself up.
He tries again, but Eric’s arms snake around his torso, like a damn anaconda, “you’re such a liar.”
“Okay,” is all that Jack utters, because he certainly can’t say that he isn’t, without confirming that he is.
Eric murmurs, “tell me t’truth.”
“Okay.”
Their stomachs are pressed together, as close as they can be, and they push against each other. Together, they’re like a beating heart.
“Wha’do you want?”
“You had fun,” Eric says; a statement, not a question, because he never fails to know. Jack is always a step ahead, but Eric is always a step above, and trying to get a hold of him is like grasping smoke.
Jack confirms, “I did,” and he fights a smile.
“I like being with you” Eric tells him.
Eric’s arms may have stopped resembling snakes, but still, his hands slide, and they cup Jack’s hips, squeezing and rubbing in a way that makes Jack ache. He presses himself harder, feeling himself grow harder.
“You do?”
“M’do,” Eric’s head nods a small amount, “do you?”
Jack does not hesitate; “I do.” You may now kiss the-
“Jack.”
“Yeah?”
“Kiss me?”
At that, Jack gulps. As it is, the scene plays out in his head, with Jack falling down to his elbows, arms digging into the leather of the couch while he presses his lips to Eric’s. His lips would probably be wet, and a little bit hot, and Jack would relish every sensation, licking them and sucking them like a desperate gasp for air after having been underwater for too long. He’d tilt his head to deepen this kiss, gripping Eric’s hair and giving it a firm tug, because he knows, that Eric would squeal, and he’d squirm, and their bodies would begin to rock against one another. He knows, all this could happen. But, it shouldn’t.
Jack shuts his eyes momentarily. “No,” he says, finally.
Eric predictably whines, “whyyy?”
In reality, Jack does lower his head. Instead, though, he presses his own wet, hot, lips to Eric’s pink cheek, kissing it firmly. He tells him, “I’ll kiss you tomorrow.”
Eric places his hands right on top of where Jack’s dimples puncture his back. He replies, “you better.”