Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"What are you drawing?"

Jacob Palmer is five years old when his dad finds him drawing in his bedroom. He has a little wooden desk by the window in his room, hand carved by one of his dad’s coworkers.

It came with a matching chair, both pieces of furniture made with the size of a child in mind. He’ll outgrow it by the end of the year, but it makes him feel grown up. His dad has a desk too, in his office upstairs, and sometimes Jacob likes to spread his papers out in front of him and pretend he’s working just as hard. 

It’s important business, after all. Someone has to decorate the fridge. Even if he hasn’t been successful in that endeavour just yet. 

And while he knows the kitchen must be kept clean, kept spotless as he’s been reminded, maybe if he makes something pretty enough it’ll earn a spot hung up where company can see.

Jacob hadn’t heard his dad come upstairs. He hadn’t even known he’d come home from work yet. For a long time he’d be home at 5 on the dot, never late, never early, and Jacob would be waiting on the stairs, calling to announce the arrival to his mom already at work in the kitchen. 

It had been a little routine, for a while. Something he got to look forward to when he came home from school. He’d be the first person to greet his dad, and he’d get to spend the next few hours before bed attached to his hip. 

Lately, he’d been coming home later and later. His mom said he was busy with work, but she’d always sound so angry when she said it, and Jacob wasn’t sure if he was in trouble for asking or not.

She’d always be doing something in the kitchen regardless of his absence, too busy to talk for long, but it had stopped tasting the same as it used to. 

‘Food has to be made with love,’ Jacob’s grandmother had told him once, before she’d stopped coming around. ‘Or it just doesn’t taste right.’

He wonders if his mom doesn’t love food anymore. 

She did once, he knows that. The house used to always smell of something new, baked bread, a new meat sauce, fresh pasta, a familiar seasoned meat. Breakfast would always be waiting in the morning, lunches would be packed, and dinner would be spent together. Always together, with smiles and laughter and stories. 

But now it was like everything had lost its flavor. Like the absence of his dad at the head of the table lingered on the food they ate without him. 

He’d asked once, asked his mom why dinner felt so strange sometimes when it was just the two of them, when Dad’s food was getting cold in the fridge on a plastic wrapped plate. 

Because surely there had to be a reason. Things didn’t just change for no reason. 

His mom had just given him a strange look, and ushered him off to bed. 

But maybe things will get better. 

Because his dad is home now, and a glance at the clock hung above his door tells him it’s only just past 4. His heart does something funny, an excited little dance at the prospect of spending the rest of the day with his dad and not fighting with drooping eyelids in his bed waiting to hear him come home. 

He’s only successful half the time. Every morning he wakes up without getting to say goodnight, or even hello, and just has to hope he’ll have better luck next time. 

His dad steps into his bedroom now, still in his work clothes, his collar undone at the top and his tie loose over his chest. 

Jacob looks up at him with big eyes, his smile only brightening at the question. He sets down the crayon clutched in his hand, one of his many shades of blue that he cherishes like treasure, and picks up the paper. 

He’s happy to show it off, he’s never gotten to show his dad anything he’s made before. Most of his drawings are at school, held onto by the teacher, or tucked away in one of his little cubbies inside his desk. 

But he’d been making this one for a reason. He’d been planning on holding onto it, waiting for the next time he got to see his dad. Jacob knows he’s been stressed, so maybe it would help ease his mind a little if he had something to hold onto when work got hard.

He’d drawn two figures (Stick figures, really, but he was trying really hard to get better at drawing people. People were hard!) and colored them in with his favorite light blue crayon. 

The two blue people were identical. The same hair, the same clothes, the same smile. The only difference was the height, one bigger and one much smaller. Their hands were outstretched, stick fingers reaching out to hold onto each other. 

He’d put the most work into the people, but he’d drawn a house behind them too, colored in brown scribbles. A big house, with flowers growing out front, and big windows on either side of the front door. 

He’d finished it off with clouds in the sky, and a shining sun colored in pink, because Jacob hadn’t been able to find his yellow crayon. He’d have to see if he could take one home from school tomorrow, maybe. 

His dad kneels down beside the little desk, one bracing a hand on the back of Jacob’s chair while the other carefully takes the drawing for a better look. 

Jacob watches him a little anxiously, something always squirming in his stomach whenever he waits for his dad’s approval. 

“Look at that,” he says, voice low. He has that smile on his face, the one that pulls at the corners of his lips like he’s fighting for it. It might be impossible to catch if you weren’t Jacob, who was so hopelessly in tune with every little twitch from his dad, clinging onto anything that might be happiness. “Who is it?”

“Dad,” Jacob says, a little offended. Is his drawing not very good? “It’s us. See? That’s you, you’re the big one. And that’s me. And that’s our house, and the sun is pink. I don’t have any yellow.” 

His dad’s smile grows a little, and Jacob takes pride in that. It’s a rare feat, he really doesn’t smile much, but it’s an achievement he takes very seriously. Like a game he’s learned to be very good at.

His dad just looks so tired all the time. It’s not something Jacob should notice, not at five years old, not for so many more years, but he does. He’s noticed it for a long time now. He’s noticed it getting worse. 

“Oh, wow,” he says. “So it is. This is really good, pal.”

Sometimes when Jacob’s dad praises him, it makes his mom upset. He doesn’t understand why, but she’ll sometimes drop what she’s doing to make her way over and slap lightly at his arm, her face twisted. 

‘Don’t baby him,’ She always says, in the same tone she uses when Jacob is in trouble. ‘That’s not good for him. I’m not going to raise a boy with your ego. If he’s not good at something, you tell him. He’ll learn.’

‘He’s a baby, Barbara,’ his dad had snapped back once. ‘That’s what you do. You baby them.’

Jacob doesn’t know how to tell the difference between real praise, and the apparent fake praise that he hadn’t even known existed until his parents had started arguing about it. 

But real or fake, it comes sparingly, so he cherishes it either way. There’s no harm in that. 

Still, Jacob can’t help but ask, like maybe he can see through it this time. “Really?” 

His feet just barely brush the carpet from where he sits, and he kicks a little anxiously, rubbing his socks against the floor. 

“Really,” his dad says, and Jacob decides he believes him. There’s no real reason not to. “I didn’t know you liked to draw.”

He nods, swinging his legs a little faster. “I draw at school a lot. And Miss Keplar says I’m really good. She says if I keep practicing I can be like… like, uh…” 

“Like Picasso?” 

“No,” Jacob says. “The other guy. The weird guy who took off his ear.”  

“Ah,” Jacob’s dad says, and he sets the paper back down on the desk. “Van Gogh.”

“Yeah. Van Gogh.” He does pronounce it Van Gagh, at the time, but his dad seems not to mind too much. He knows what he means, at the very least.

“He’s my favorite,” his dad says, settling a little more comfortably on the floor. Jacob hadn’t known he had a favorite artist. He didn’t know many things his dad liked. “He was… a very sad man.”

Jacob frowns, reaching up to fiddle with his crayons. “What was he sad about?” 

His dad is silent for a long moment. He’s looking at Jacob’s drawing again, laid out on the little table, but it’s like he’s not really seeing it at all, something cloudy settling over his blue gaze. He does that a lot, Jacob’s noticed. Takes a minute to just stay silent, just look at nothing. 

He doesn’t understand why he does it. He wonders where he goes. 

“I’m not sure, Jacob,” he says, when he’s ready. “Life, I guess. Life can make men very sad, sometimes.” 

“That’s silly,” Jacob decides. “He got to draw all day long. He could do whatever he wanted. I wouldn’t be sad if I got to do whatever I wanted all day.” 

“It is silly, isn’t it?” His dad blinks, like he’s coming back to himself, and taps at the corner of the drawing. “Do you think I could keep this?” 

Jacob lights up like a Christmas tree, bouncing in his chair. His face splits into a grin, outshining his dad’s by a mile. “Yeah! Are you gonna put it in your office?” 

“I’ll find a good spot for it,” he says. “Thank you for drawing me.” 

He says it like it had been a surprise, like Jacob would really want to spend his time drawing anything else.

His dad is the easiest subject he has. He’s his favorite thing to draw. He’s practiced with some other stuff, he wants to be good at drawing everything one day. But it’s easiest to close his eyes, picture his dad’s face when he misses him, and put him on paper. It helps, a little. 

“Do you think if I draw Mom she’ll want it too?” He asks. “She hasn’t wanted any of my drawings yet.” 

He’s tried to draw his mom a couple times, tried to color her in with purples and greens, but it just hadn’t looked very good. He could never get her eyes right. 

For some reason, the question makes his dad look sad. He's looking at Jacob strangely, his jaw a little tight. 

He gets like that sometimes, too. Just sad, for no reason at all, even when they’re just talking about something normal. He’d asked his mom about that too, and she’d said it was impossible to understand his dad’s moods, but he's not really sure what that means either.

He guesses he’s just sad sometimes, and that's okay. Jacob gets sad too. He just has to find a way to keep making him happy. Maybe drawing more will help. He seems to like it. 

“She might,” he says. “We’ll see. Your mother isn’t exactly a big fan of art. Don’t take it personally.” 

Jacob doesn’t understand how anyone couldn’t love art. Art could be anything, from anyone. It was colorful and fun and pretty. He wishes they could decorate more, with all the famous paintings he’s started to read about, right alongside his own crayon doodles. But the walls in their home were blank, painted white, not a dent in sight. 

He’d tried to take a purple crayon to his bedroom wall once. 

All he’d wanted to do was draw some little flowers by his bed, bored to tears of empty whites and grays, but his babysitter had caught him before he could even start. She’d thrown his crayon away, scooped him up despite the way he’d started wailing, and brought him downstairs to watch television instead. 

He doesn’t understand what had been so wrong about wishing for some color. It was his room, after all. But he hasn’t tried again since. 

And his babysitter must not have told his Mom, because she never scolded him for it. 

“That’s okay,” Jacob says, even if it doesn’t feel okay at all. Maybe one day he can change her mind. “I like to draw you best, anyway. I draw you a lot.” 

It doesn’t make his dad smile again, not like he’d been hoping it would. But he does look surprised, raising an eyebrow at Jacob when he finally looks back at him. Blue eyes meeting blue eyes. Jacob has always loved that he has the same eyes as his dad. 

‘Oh, he looks just like his father,’ adults say to his mom sometimes, when she drags him along somewhere.‘The girls are gonna love that in a few years, aren’t they?” 

Jacob doesn’t know what that part means, or why it makes his mom squeeze his hand and pull him away. But he ignores it, and preens under the praise regardless. 

“You do?” His dad asks, still staring at him. "You don’t want to draw something a little more exciting?” 

That’s a silly question. It’s another thing Jacob has noticed. Sometimes his dad says things that are just silly. 

"Well, I love you," Jacob says, making a face. "Duh. That's what you're supposed to draw. Stuff you love."

He loves a lot of things. Characters from his books, drawn with bright reds and oranges, trees and flowers drawn in pink and green, some animals in browns and blacks. But he always ends up picking up his blue crayon again and drawing Dad. He loves his dad the most. 

But he’s doing that thing again, where he goes silent after Jacob says something. Like he’s stepping aside to go into his own thoughts, taking a minute to sort through the, 

Talking to him is so much different than talking to his mom, the way she won’t let a conversation linger, always sharp, always looking right at him when she speaks. She’s always said it's impolite not to hold eye contact. His dad can never seem to meet anyone’s eyes. 

Jacob tries to make his smile bigger, tries to look happier, in the desperate hope that his dad might mirror it now. He doesn’t. 

“Hey,” he says, after a moment. “Come on upstairs with me, alright? I want to show you something.” 

Jacob is happy to follow, as always. 

His dad’s office is on the third floor. Away from the bedrooms, away from the noise of the kitchen and the living room, down at the very end of the hall. Jacob isn’t allowed inside unless invited, and approaching the doorway always feels daunting, like he’s doing something forbidden. 

He’d invited a friend from his class over once, and the boy had wrinkled his nose when Jacob showed him around and asked ‘Why is your house so big? It’s weird. It’s all empty.’ 

Jacob hadn’t had a good answer for that, he’d never seen anyone else’s house, so he’d just shrugged and said he didn’t know. They hadn’t hung out again. 

He’d asked his dad that night, when he’d seen him, and he’d gotten a frown in response. “I used to live in a very small house,” he’d said. “So I bought something nice as soon as I could. The space is good for us. We don’t want to get cramped, living all together. Your mother would get sick of me.” 

Jacob never feels cramped. In fact, he wishes his bedroom was closer to his parent’s. It’s a long trek down the hall to their room when he has a nightmare.  

He follows his dad into the office now, trailing at his heels. It’s nothing like the rest of the house. The walls are painted beige, instead of white, and there’s a dark brown rug under the wooden desk by the window, taking up most of the room.

And it’s cluttered. Unorganized bookshelves on either side of the room, his desk littered with papers strewn about, and framed photographs of worlds Jacob doesn’t recognize around the walls, photos of green scenery and oceans and bright cities. 

Jacob’s dad moves around to his desk, and pats the big black leather chair. “C’mon. Come sit.” 

Jacob quickly obeys, and the huge chair practically swallows him whole. His legs can’t reach the ground at all, left dangling in the air, and he tries to imagine being as big as his dad, with important work to do at his real desk. 

He watches him open one of the bigger draws towards the bottom, leaning forward to get a better look when he pulls out–

“Woah,” Jacob breathes, and makes grabby hands immediately. “Did you make that?”

It’s a little canvas, just a simple square that fits in his dad’s hands. 

The painting is… it’s pretty, Jacob thinks. 

It’s all blues, lights and darks, and splashes of blacks and whites. He can see the brush strokes individually, he can see each second of effort into crafting the image. It looks like waves, like an endless expanse of inky dark water. Restless, moving, gentle waves running along the edge of the canvas. 

He can imagine his dad, restless energy and all, hunched over his desk and letting his paintbrush do the work. 

“I did,” he says, and he doesn’t look nearly as proud as Jacob had been of his art. But he should be. Jacob loves it. “I paint sometimes, when I’ve got a night off.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Nobody does,” he says, and it feels important. “It’ll be our little secret, alright?” 

Jacob nods, but disappointment prickles at him. “But I like this. I wanna hang it up in my room.” 

“Maybe some day,” his dad says, and gently takes it back from his little hands. “I’ll make sure it’s yours. I have to pay you back for mine.” 

He slips the painting back into the drawer, and Jacob watches his own drawing, colored in the same blues, follow. It rests carefully on top, and the drawer closes. 

He tries not to feel sad about it. He doesn’t want his dad to see him do anything but smile. But he hopes their drawings can be hung up on the wall someday. He doesn’t understand why you would keep art in a drawer, hidden away like it’s a secret. 

“Can we draw together sometime?” Jacob asks, hopeful. “Please?”

His dad’s eyes linger on the closed drawer, just for a moment, before he finally does smile again and usher Jacob up from his chair. 

“Sure, pal,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sure. “Sometime. I’d like that.” 

And just like that, Jacob is quickly led back out the door, and the warmth of the office is shut out behind them. He looks at their blank white walls and feels cold. He’s never been in the office for more than a few minutes at a time.

“We should head downstairs,” his dad says, a hand settling on his shoulder. It makes him warm up a little. Not a lot, but a little is good. “Your mom’s making dinner.” 

“She makes dinner every night,” Jacob says, just in case he’d forgotten. “She misses you.” 

“I know.” That seems to be all he’s willing to discuss about that. “You hungry?” 

“No,” he says. He’s stopped being hungry for his mom’s cooking weeks ago. “But she’ll be sad if we don’t go. She’s been sad since you got all busy.” 

“I know,” his dad says again. “That makes two of us.” 

Jacob feels a little sick, because he just doesn’t understand. They have a big house, and Jacob behaves, and his parents love each other. 

So why is he so sad all the time? Why can’t Jacob just be good enough to make him smile? 

He’ll just have to try harder. It’ll be good enough eventually. 

That makes two of us. 

Jacob keeps smiling when he follows his dad downstairs, and tries to pretend it doesn’t make three of them. He thinks that would only make it worse.

////

A girl had once, in that bland offhandedly disinterested way that people did when they didn't actually care about the answer, asked Jacob Palmer if he had any hobbies.

He hadn't answered, because he's a gentleman and he knows not to talk about himself when he's trying to sweet talk someone into his bed. 

He'd turned the question on her, and she'd grinned like she'd forgotten she was pretending to care in the first place, and had talked about her extensive rock climbing career right up until she was tangled up in his sheets. He’d been listening, but she’d stopped being able to form words pretty quickly after that. 

She'd been gone before he'd even woken up, which was usually the way it went. He’s always willing to cook breakfast, but usually the women he picks up are on the same page as him. One night, one and done.

It does make him think for a second, when he's making himself eggs with a slightly sore back, what he would have answered with if he'd been willing.

He looks around his empty kitchen with its blank white walls, and finds it's a little disheartening to realize he doesn't know.

Cooking, maybe? He's cooking right now. He likes to cook. He's decently good at it. He’d taught himself years ago, and it was always gratifying to make something that looked as good as it tastes. 

But is it a hobby if he sort of has to do that or starve? It's not like he really branches out and tries new recipes, or goes out of his way to learn about the food.

And it's not like he ever cooks for more than one. He always buys enough for two, just in case, but they don't typically stay for breakfast. He doesn't mind.

And sometimes he just… can’t really stand to cook.

He ignores the fact that he’s lonely, for the most part. It’s something to bury deep, deep down and fill with one night stands and clothes that cost more than most people’s rent. 

But sometimes when he’s cooking for no one and sitting at his kitchen counter in complete silence, he thinks he’s more miserable than he’s ever been. 

So he avoids it. He tries new restaurants. He eats at the bar. Or sometimes he doesn’t eat at all, and he drinks or works out or sleeps until he forgets he’s hungry. 

And then there’s Hannah. 

And Hannah was home with him, and she liked being with him. She wasn't a huge fan of his house, of its big open windows and limited decor, but she still had her own apartment, and they hadn’t had a talk about moving in together, so she didn’t push about making changes.

Which was good. He didn’t like to think about change. Loving was change enough. 

But when Hannah was here, she loved his cooking. She’d been shocked, actually, that he knew how to do it. Something about how he seems like he’s never learned a useful skill in his life, and she would have assumed he had a private chef cooking all his meals for him.

Which. Fair. He guesses. Whatever. 

The point is, he cooks more with her. He tries new recipes, at her request. And she’s pleasantly surprised every time. They sit at the table together, they talk and laugh, and Jacob is eating properly again without even thinking about it. 

He gains a couple pounds, which doesn’t make much of a difference on his figure but makes him nervous regardless. But it’s worth it, when it makes his house feel a little more alive. It’s worth it when he can feed someone dinner, and know that in a few hours they’ll be right there waiting for him to feed them breakfast too. 

It’s nice. It's good. Terrifying, new, and he’s so clumsy when it comes to a relationship, but it’s perfect. 

He thinks it's perfect, at least. It feels perfect. But he’s painfully aware he doesn’t have anything to compare it to, other than being unhappy. 

But he loves her. It feels like walking a tightrope to think it, much less say it, but he does. He loves her.

A few months into their relationship, Hannah asks him the same question his hookup had, however many months ago.

“What do you even do all day?” She asks. It’s not judgemental, not really. But she’d come home from work, and he’d been at home making a grocery list for a new recipe he wanted to try, and she’d sounded honestly curious. Maybe a little worried. “You’ve gotta have some hobbies, right?” 

He thinks for a second. Before, his day had revolved around preparing to go to the bar and find another girl. Making himself busy so the time he spends being alone passes faster. But he doesn’t do that anymore. 

He can’t say shopping, because they’re both aware that it's not a hobby. He’d been a little too honest about that off the bat, about the void he was trying to fill, about the compulsions to purchase purchase purchase and not being able to stop.  

He looks up and proudly says, "The gym."

That’s a perfectly reasonable answer to him. Working out is a hobby. Most people work out, and it's productive and healthy and it keeps him to a routine. 

But Hannah’s face does something funny. "The gym isn't a hobby, Jacob. That's just something you do."

Jacob makes the same face back at her. “That’s what a hobby is, Nana. Something you do.” 

"No it isn't,” she says. “You go to the gym every day because you think you have to. A hobby is like… like something you love. Something you do to relax. It makes you feel good and you get to annoy other people by talking about it all the time."

Jacob knows all about Hannah's hobbies. She loves photography, and he thinks she's brilliant at it even if she insists her photos aren't anything to hang up on the wall (He has several of her shoots hung up on his wall, thank you. It had been the first time he’d hung something up in years) and she loves to hike, even though Jacob insists that hiking is a form of torture, and she’s been talking about picking up yoga. 

And sure, yeah. Those are hobbies. Those are things she likes, that she goes out of her way to do because she enjoys it. Time set aside for her days off. And she talks about the intricacies of her photos with a glint in her eyes that makes Jacob fall deeper in love with her every time, and she researches hiking trails and buys new supplies and drags Jacob along no matter how often he complains because he really does hate hiking. 

“I don’t know,” he says, and the words taste bitter on his tongue. He shrugs. “I guess I don’t have any hobbies.” 

Hannah’s brow pinches together. It’s a familiar look, he thinks, but he can’t quite place it. 

“Jeez,” she says, a little soft. “That’s kind of sad, Palmer.” 

He looks at her then, properly, the way he always does. With fond, softening eyes and a smile that crinkles around his eyes. A smile he saves just for this, just the two of them, lifetimes away from the fake, beaming grin he gives everyone else in a desperate effort to blind them before they can see through his disguise. 

He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her close, warm and solid against his chest. She tilts her head to smile back at him, and then that smile is laughing against his lips and it really doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but this. 

“I don't need a hobby,” he says. “I have you.” 

He has her. 

He has her, and the sketchbook behind his bookshelf that he’s pretty sure ruined their entire relationship. 

He knows that’s not really the case. It had been coming for a while. It had been a slow build up. The way they drifted apart, the way it was so obvious Jacob just… just couldn’t give his all. 

He tried. He tried to be real, he really did. But he’d spent so long being fake, being something good only for one night, and he didn’t know how to stop. 

And he knew that took a toll. So he understood, when Hannah had stepped away. When she’d said maybe they’d be better as just friends.

But he knows, he just knows, that she’d seen that wall he’d built around himself, seen how truly impossible it was to break down, and that had been the beginning of the end. Over something so stupid. 

She'd found his sketchbook. 

A few months into their relationship, she’d somehow stumbled upon it. And he’s sure it wasn’t hard, it’s not like he’d hidden it particularly well. He keeps it out of the way just in case, tucked behind the bookshelf in his living room. But he doesn’t try much harder than that. He hadn’t thought about it in months, and it wasn’t like his hookups spent a lot of time examining his space. They’re usually busy.

So he just hadn’t thought to move it somewhere more secure, when he’d had someone actually living here. Someone who took an interest in him and who was, affectionately, a little nosy. 

And Hannah really is a snoop. He's never minded, he hadn't had anything else to hide from her, and it had been comforting to have someone existing in his space.

He'd been making them breakfast, pancakes on the stove and fresh fruit already on the table, when she'd wandered back into the kitchen. It was an easy morning routine they’d fallen into, during the good days. He’d get up first, because he always got up early. He’d take care of himself, do a few laps in the pool, shower, and have breakfast on the stove by the time Hannah wandered down half-dressed and groggy.

But she’d been up early that day, and when she’d turned the corner to the kitchen she’d held up something familiar. A blue, old, worn down sketchbook. 

She'd had it opened to the first page, staring at it in awe while she walked. He knew exactly what it was- just a pencil sketching of the skyline outside his window, the trees and the buildings in the distance, a well loved sketch he'd long since perfected. She was smiling. 

"Did you draw this?" She had asked. "I didn't know you were an artist."

There were a million ways to respond to that. One million appropriate, normal ways he could have responded. He could have lied and said no, no of course he didn’t, that wasn't his. It was a friend's. They'd left it here. It was from a hookup. Family. Anyone. 

He could have laughed it off. He could have ignored her. He could have told her to put it back. He could have snapped, even, and said he didn’t want to talk about it.

He could have told her the truth. Because it really was such a silly thing. It was his sketchbook, and the pages were mostly empty. He could grin and bear the embarrassment and let her flip through it, explain each piece, and try to explain why he’d been embarrassed enough to hide it in the first place. 

He could have told her everything. For the first time, he could have tried. She deserved someone who tried. Someone who would do the work. The dirty, grueling work of being real.

Jacob hadn’t done any of that. 

Jacob had a panic attack instead. 

Which was ridiculous, and completely insane, and sort of the worst possible option. Anything else would have been better. 

And he’d known that. He’d known all of it, including how absolutely pathetic he was being, even when he’d forgotten how to breathe. Even when his lungs seized and his throat went tight and it felt like he was going to die. 

He’s had a panic attack before. He’s not exactly new to it. He knows what they feel like, he knows how to get through them, and he knows they don’t mean the world is ending. 

Knowing it never makes it any easier. And it doesn’t make it any less mortifying to have one in front of Hannah. 

He'd dropped the spatula and gripped the countertop so hard he thought he might crack the stone. He’d doubled over himself while his chest squeezed and squeezed, his body telling him to turn tail and run, his brain shutting off in mindless, numb panic.

Every breath had come out a wheeze, short and shallow and frantic, eyes wide and unseeing. He felt too small for the kitchen, too big for his skin, too scared to do anything but stand there and curl in on himself and–

And hadn't known what to do when Hannah had rushed over. When he’d remembered she was here with him, watching this, seeing something he’d prefer to keep long buried. 

“Jacob?” She’d called, frantic, leaving the sketchbook behind on the counter. Open to the world. “Jacob, hey hey, it’s okay. I’m so sorry, hey. Just breathe, just breathe with me, come on.” 

Her hands had found his face, small and warm, framing his jaw and running her thumbs over his cheeks, wiping away tears he hadn’t meant to let fall. He’d stayed there, frozen, and let her. Let her ramble soothing words, let her coax him back into being human. 

And they’d never talked about it. She’d tried, but when Jacob’s eyes had glazed over and his breathing had picked up again, she’d let it go. But that had been the first sign, he’s almost positive of it. 

The first sign for both of them, maybe. That Jacob just wasn’t ready for this. Maybe he’d never be. Not everyone was built to love, even if they fell hard. 

So they break up, and Jacob still doesn’t have any hobbies. 

So that sucks. He’s a wreck for a while, he knows. And he knows Hannah is worried about him, so that makes everything worse. 

But it gets better. Slowly but surely. She’d pushed to be friends, if Jacob wanted that, and he had. He really really had. He’d missed her almost immediately. He’d been desperate to have her as much or as little as he was allowed. 

So when things settle a little, they start talking again. About their days, about Hannah’s work, about her family. He keeps the conversation on her, and he knew she doesn’t like that, but she doesn’t have the right to push anymore. 

But it’s better than nothing. Maybe this is better for him, anyway. Just like it’s better for her. Jacob can’t hurt anyone at arms length. 

And she's never brought up the sketchbook again, not even after they fall into something like a friendship. Not once. 

It had been right back where he'd left it the next time he checked, tucked away behind the shelf, and he leaves it there to keep collecting dust. Where it belongs. 

So he doesn’t think about it. And he goes right back to what he’s good at. Smiling, flirting, pretending. Filling that void with shopping and girls and meaningless sex.

Waking up in an empty bed and eating dinner anywhere but his own kitchen table. 

He has to stop cooking, for a while. He keeps accidentally making enough for two, and there’s never anybody waiting at the table for him when it’s done. 

So he doesn't think about it. He doesn't offer up the information, because it doesn't matter. It was an overreaction. Nothing else.

A girl asks at the bar, "So, what do you do for fun?" And she's looking anywhere but his eyes. He knows she's not listening to the answer, anyway.

He grins when he pulls her closer by the waist, and tells her he likes to hike. He thinks about Hannah and feels sick for the rest of the night.

////

Hannah is apparently getting into Jazz. 

Which is… which is great. He’s happy for her and whatever she wants to do. He just didn’t know jazz was something people were capable of getting into.

“Oh, shut up,” she says, when Jacob tells her exactly that over the phone. “Jazz is great. It’s music. You like music.” 

“Not really,” he says, because he’s completely impartial to music. He's got a decent speaker setup, but he barely uses it unless it's for a hookup. “Jazz is a choice.” 

“It’s great,” she says again, but it’s starting to sound like she’s trying to convince herself. He stays silent on the phone, waiting, and he can just picture the way she’s smiling into her hand. “Okay, fine. Yeah. I don’t give a shit about jazz.”  

“Shocker,” he says. “I really thought you were a seventy year old man.” 

“Careful,” Hannah says. “You better change your tune. This is Liz’s thing. And if I have to pretend to be into old man music, so do you.” 

“Liz is into jazz? Since when?” 

“Since… like, last week,” Hannah says. Jacob has his phone on speaker on the dresser while he picks out his suit for the night, meticulous as always, color coding, smoothing out every wrinkle. “I don’t know. I think she’s full of shit.” 

“That’s new.”

“Be nice,” Hannah chides, but she’s laughing. They both know he adores Liz, even if they aren’t close. “She got dragged to this jazz club last weekend. I’m pretty sure she just thinks the owner is hot.” 

“Ah.” Yeah, that made more sense. He’s faked countless interests for the sake of keeping the attention of someone pretty. “So what, does she want us to wing man?” 

“God, no.” Hannah snorts, and for a second Jacob’s chest aches when she smiles. Just a second. It’s been getting easier. “You know her, she’s not actually going to talk to him. She just wants an excuse to go stare.” 

“Right,” Jacob says. “And I’m involved… why?” 

“Because you need to get out of the house,” Hannah says. “And you can’t keep going to that bar, Jacob. Seriously. It’s getting sad.” 

He wants to argue with that. He likes his bar. It’s close by, it’s routine, and it’s never steered him wrong before. 

But it is getting a little sad. The bartender has started giving him looks that remind him a little too much of Cal, and ever since Hannah things just feel… they feel stale. The hookups, and the flirting, and the endless game.

He doesn’t think he can stop, because the nights where he comes home alone are worse than the nights he spends being a fake version of himself, but a change of scenery might do him some good. 

He’s not sure how much luck he’ll have in a jazz club, but it’s him. He’s sure he’ll manage somehow.

“C’mon,” Hannah says. “It’ll be fun. I’ll buy you a drink and everything.” 

He laughs, loud enough for the speaker to pick up on, and ignores the twinge in his chest. Can I buy you a drink? Permission to approach the bench? But he knows better than to argue with her when she’s got her mind made up, and she’s got her mind made up about this. 

And this is good. Progress. He can do the friendship thing. 

So he ends up at a jazz club, on a Friday night, instead of doing quite literally anything else with his time. To be fair, if he wasn’t at his old bar he was usually just sitting on his couch watching reruns of reality shows he swears up and down to Hannah he’s not actually into. 

The place is nice. Dimly lit, with live music and a significantly younger audience than Jacob had been anticipating. 

A younger audience who, for the most part, glance his way with appreciative, excited smiles. Who stare a little too long when he walks past their tables, gazes lingering on his tailored suit, on board shoulders and pants that hug his ass. He’d done it on purpose. He always knows how to make an entrance. 

He’d taught Cal the same tricks. Clothes are important, hair is important, accessories make the man, but it all comes down to the walk. The way you enter a room, the way you take up a space. 

Make them look. Make sure they can’t take their eyes off. And when they do, if they have to, make sure they can’t stop thinking about you. 

He’d had a rough couple of weeks after losing Hannah, where the thought of anyone looking at him for a single second made him want to crawl out of his skin. He’d felt small again. Like a scared, unwanted little kid. 

He’d quickly corrected that. Clearly he hadn’t lost his touch, thank god. Getting back on the horse was easy, all his old quips and charms coming back like second nature. 

The bar is called Seb’s, and Jacob thinks he could have some fun here. 

“Oh my god, you’re insatiable.” Hannah has clearly caught him already scoping the place out by the time she and Liz settle into the booth next to him. “You can’t help yourself.” 

Jacob is a little worried he’ll find jealousy there when he glances back at her, and is equally relieved and disappointed to find she’s only teasing. But she’s smiling, like she’s happy for it, like she’d been hoping for just this when she’d invited him out. 

He’s not actually sure how he’s supposed to feel about that. It’s his first breakup, and his first real friendship in a long time all in one. Nobody gave him a manual for either. 

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Jacob says, deflecting with an easy smile. “Isn’t Liz’s puppy crush the reason we’re listening to jazz in the first place?” 

“Hey, shut up,” Liz says, but she isn’t looking at either of them. She’s on a mission, like she often is with the latest man to catch her eye. She’s very particular about it, he’s learned. 

She has no desire to fuck them, or flirt with them, or even talk to them. She just likes to look. Or, in Jacob’s case, she likes to shove them towards her best friend and live vicariously through her.

She’s got her eyes set on someone new now, which Jacob can admit he’s silently grateful for. Not that he doesn’t think Liz is beautiful, but he just hadn't had eyes for her then, and he definitely wouldn’t try now. 

He’s actually pretty sure she might like women. But they aren’t close enough to get into that, and it’s not really his business either way.  

Liz’s eyes are on the stage, and Jacob lets her be. It’s surprisingly crowded tonight, for a jazz club. Most of the tables are occupied, they’d been lucky to get a booth. There’s a few older folk, people he’d expect to listen to this kind of music, but most of it seems to be people his age. The club does seem to be catered towards a younger audience, with its comfortable seats and low, moody lighting. 

And the music playing is upbeat, exciting. It’s loud, loud enough to overtake the room, but not so loud you have to scream to be heard by the person next to you. 

“Go ahead,” Hannah says. “Which one is he?” 

“The pianist,” Liz says, while Jacob’s gaze slows on a young woman in a short red dress. She’s alone, watching the performance like everyone else, and Jacob wonders if she’s bored enough to entertain him. “He’s the owner, I think. God, he’s fine.” 

Jacob doesn’t even mean to look beyond a brief glance. He’s not particularly interested in the band, other than an offhanded appreciation for the vibe of the place. 

But it’s kind of hard not to stare. 

He sees exactly who Liz is so enamored with almost immediately. It’s hard not to, with the spotlight right on him. 

There’s a beautiful piano center stage, surrounded by the rest of the band in a semi-circle. Jacob knows exactly nothing about music, especially music like this, but he knows a beautiful performance when he sees one.

The man at the piano hardly seems to know there’s an audience at all. It’s like he’s in his own little world, like the music is a physical thing he’s crafting with his own two hands, something to rise up and surround his stage and swallow him whole, to block out the world with beautiful, beautiful sound. 

His eyes are closed, his face relaxed, but he’s smiling, grinning, like this is the only place in the universe he belongs. Like he’s giddy over it, hands flying over the piano keys, swaying along to his own music. 

Jacob’s throat feels tight. 

He doesn’t get a lot of opportunities to see someone do something and do it with love. So much love that they’re lost in it, made of it, like it’s the very blood in their veins. 

He lets people talk about themselves, when he picks them up, because he enjoys it. He enjoys hearing about what makes them tick, before he takes them home. What they do, what they love, what they’re passionate about, where they came from. Everyone’s different, and it helps to know the pieces that put them together, so that he can know how to undo them, please them, get them to give themselves to him just for one night. 

But that’s bar talk. And bar talk, as he’s told Cal, is boring. It’s just talk. He never sees them long enough to see those passions and interests at the wheel, never gets to see their eyes light up when they have their love in their hands. 

The other musicians on stage are clearly enjoying themselves too, lost in their music, dancing to their beat while they entertain the room, but it isn’t the same. They aren’t made of this. 

He’d seen his dad passionate exactly once, he thinks. The memory comes unbidden, burned bright in the back of his mind, pushing its way to the surface. 

They’d only painted together once. Once, when the house had been quiet, and they’d been alone. Up in his office, closed off from the rest of the world. 

Jacob had his own little canvas on the office floor, settled comfortably on his dad’s brown rug, a towel laid out beneath him to keep the paint from staining it. He’d only been six, so he’s sure his painting hadn’t been anything more than splotches of color and vague shapes, but he’d been elated. He’d been painting with his Dad. 

And he’d glanced up, braced for his dad’s stern, faraway face–

And he’d seen him smiling. Really smiling, something bright and real and so, so alive. His paintbrush had been flying over the canvas like it had a mind of its own, like it couldn’t rest until it created something beautiful. 

Like he was right where he was supposed to be. The rest of the world gone. Gone, except for his paint and the paper in front of him, while he did exactly what he was meant to all along. 

“Hello? Earth to Jacob?” 

Jacob blinks, and the world restarts around him. The bar comes back to life, and the music continues, settling over the crowd like a comfortable blanket. “What?” 

Hannah and Liz are both grinning at him, like they’re sharing some kind of inside joke. Which, to be fair, they usually are when it’s just the three of them. He tries to brush off the lingering warmth in his chest, the phantom feel of carpet under little hands and the smell of paint. 

“Uh oh,” Liz says, grinning into her drink. “Someone’s in love.” 

Jacob makes a face, and carefully doesn’t look at Hannah. “I’m listening to the music. I thought that’s why we were here.” 

“We all know why we’re here,” Liz deadpans. “Do you think he’s hot or not?” 

Jacob stalls by taking a sip of his drink, barely tasting it as it burns the back of his throat. He turns back towards the stage, and tries not to be a complete psychopath about it this time around. 

He looks at the pianist in a much more appropriate way- as in he takes the time to give him a proper once over, head to ass to shoes. 

He’s a slender man, maybe about Jacob’s age, maybe around his height, though it’s impossible to tell for sure with the way he’s curled over his piano like someone is going to take it from him. Relaxed as his smile may look when he plays, it’s clear he’s a tense man, coiled tight, like he’s going to spring up and start a fight. 

He’s dressed in a way that doesn’t make Jacob cringe, at least. His dark blue suit shapes him nicely, though not perfectly, and his shoes look worn, but his clothes look loved. He probably cycles through a few outfits for his shows every night, culminating a certain aesthetic for the dimly lit club. 

And Jacob can appreciate a strong jawline, a concentrated furrow of the brow, and long, skilled fingers dancing along the keys. 

It’s not like Jacob had never admitted to himself that he found men just as attractive as women, when the right one came around. He’s not blind, and it’s not like he’s avoided it completely. He’s experienced. He’s tried things. 

He likes men, sure. Just because it’s not something he’d ever felt the need to share with anyone doesn’t mean it isn’t true, he’d come to terms with that years ago. 

He just hadn’t really worked them into his routine, is all. He couldn’t at his bar, not when he’d crafted a very specific image he intended on keeping. 

And the opportunity doesn’t arise often. He’s a little pickier with the men he’s willing to invite over than the women. Clearly. 

The point is- sure. Okay, fine. He sort of gets it. The pianist is good looking, and he can maybe understand Liz choosing him as this week’s eye candy. 

Jacob personally wouldn’t have come all the way here just to pretend to like jazz to be near him, but to each their own. 

“He’s okay,” Jacob says. And then he looks away from the stage, because something in his chest feels weird. “You could do better.” 

Liz and Hannah both groan into their drinks, and Jacob smirks. 

“You’re impossible,” Liz says. “Just because a guy doesn’t look like you doesn’t mean he’s not dreamy.” 

Jacob shrugs. “I’m still your favorite.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Liz says, and settles back in her booth. “Go do your thing, Palmer. Put on a good show.” 

“It’s a jazz club,” he says, eyes already wandering back around the room. “I don’t think I’m gonna have much luck.” 

////

Okay. 

So, Seb’s is a fucking goldmine. He’ll never doubt Liz and Hannah ever again. 

He tends to have a stroke of good luck no matter where he goes. It's been a long time since he’s left anywhere completely unsuccessful, but the patrons here are practically throwing themselves at him. 

He only stays with Liz and Hannah for an hour or two that first night before he sidles up to the blonde sitting by herself with a well versed line about her dress, and in another fifteen minutes he has her giggling in the passenger seat of his car.

One hand crafted drink later, and that beautiful red dress is missing somewhere on his floor, and she’s arching her pretty back for him, leaving black makeup smeared on his white sheets. 

She really is beautiful. Her nails dig into his bare shoulders, and she presses her face to his collarbone when he fucks slow, talking her through it when her legs shake around him.

She falls asleep when she’s done, and in the morning she’s calling herself a car home before he’s even out of bed. 

He tries to remember her name while he waves her off. She doesn’t seem to remember his, either.

When she’s gone, Jacob hesitates by the doorway and debates making himself breakfast. He goes to the gym instead. 

On a hunch, he heads to the jazz club again two days later. Hannah and Liz are busy, but he’s never had any qualms about taking himself out for a night. He dresses in one of his sharpest suits, a deep black that always makes his eyes pop, makes people stare and wonder, and settles himself in one of the leather booths. 

The pianist, who must be Seb himself, is back on stage just where he’d been before. He’s wearing blue again, his suit a lighter shade this time, and he’s still smiling, still relaxed into his music. 

Jacob spares him one appreciative glance, and gets to work. 

If there’s one thing Jacob Palmer is good at, it’s finding a routine and sticking to it. If there’s two things, it’s finding a routine and getting the prettiest woman in the vicinity into his bed. And the little jazz club slots right into place. It’s the same game, just with a live performance in the background.

He doesn’t go every day, he’s trying not to fall into the exact same habits as before, but it’s a few times a week now, whether Hannah and Liz join him or not, and three weeks in he’s yet to leave the place alone. 

He’s got rules, of course. Just like he’d had at his old place. Before Hannah, before… before whatever. It doesn’t matter. 

He steers clear of anyone who even remotely looks like they might have eyes for someone else. A jealous boyfriend is something you avoid like the plague. He’d played the role of homewrecker a few times, unwillingly, and he needs his face intact if he wants any of his lines to work. 

He doesn’t fuck the bartender, either. He never fucks the bartender, unless he’s willing to never come back to the establishment ever again. He’d like to avoid saliva or poison slipped into his drinks. 

Honestly, that goes for anyone who works here. No bartenders, no waitresses, and no musicians. He sticks to the people he knows he’ll never see again. The ones who look like they’ll be gone before he even wakes up. 

Which makes his most important rule pretty easy to follow. He doesn’t ever sleep with the same person twice. 

Sure, he has. A handful of times, if a girl had been a good time, and they’d run into each other again, as long as they were both on the same page of how little it meant. On rare circumstances, he’d take her home and show her a good time all over again. He’s got plenty of tricks.

But the only person he’d ever wanted to see again had been Hannah, and that had left him right back where he’d started. 

And now the thought of seeing the same girl twice makes something curl up tight in his gut, his skin prickling, so he’s going to stick to the rule. No repeat customers. 

And with all that settled, he lets himself have a good time. 

He takes home a beautiful girl with long black hair during his second visit, chats with her long enough to hear about her degrees, her pets, her family, and sends her off in an Uber the next morning. They don’t exchange numbers, and she calls him Josh without realizing it’s not correct. He tells himself he doesn’t care. 

On his third visit he catches a pretty girl with light brown hair staring at him before the door even closes behind him, and he makes one pit stop at the bar before settling himself at the table for the rest of the night. 

Her friends are nice, fawning over him, but he doesn’t take his eyes off her. She’s inexperienced and nervous, and he shows her a nice time at her pace. She isn’t willing to spend the night, so Jacob grabs her a water bottle and drives her home. 

It goes on like that for a while. A new normal, that makes him feel a little less like he’s going insane inside his empty house. 

He shows up when he’s in the mood, gradually more frequently. He vaguely makes note of whatever song Seb is playing on stage, and he makes his entrance. He knows how to pull eyes away from the stage to bring the focus onto him. 

And he knows how to sidle up to a pretty girl and talk just right to be heard over the performance, to keep her attention away from the music and on something far more interesting, like what Jacob can promise for one night only. 

It’s easy. Really, he hates to use the word, but it is. It’s right back to his old script, his old lines, his old routine, Just the way he likes it. And he… wishes he was having more fun. 

He is having fun. Obviously. He wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t having a good time. This is his thing. It’s the one thing he’s good at, the one thing he’s perfected about himself. Playing the role, because that’s who he is. It’s easier to perform than it is to do anything else. 

And it’s the only way he can have anyone, really. And it’s so much better than being alone for every waking minute. 

It’s just that after Hannah, after getting a taste of what was on the other side… It's hard. It’s just hard. 

And he knows he could try again. Go on dates, actual proper dates where he sees them again and talks about himself and waits to take them to bed. But the thought of doing it all over again, of trying to peel back his layers and being thrown away for what’s underneath, is more terrifying than anything else. 

Because he will be thrown away. If they see it, if they see him, they’ll back off. Change their minds. The second the performance stops, so does everything else. He’d known that before Hannah. He knows it even better now. 

He’ll take mindless sex and that ache in his chest over rejection. He’s tasted both, and he knows the lesser of the two evils. 

He can feel that hole opening back up again, that aching black void in his chest that he’ll try and try to fill with sex and shopping and booze. It’s bigger this time, harder to ignore, but he’ll make it work. He always makes it work. 

Jacob realizes he does actually enjoy this club, though. He’s tried plenty of places, but besides his old haunt where he’d found Cal, nothing was ever exciting or reliable enough to keep him coming back. 

He misses that bar sometimes, the familiarity of it, the warm lighting and quiet conversations. He’d stopped needing the company of strangers and the crutch of a drink in his hand when he’d had Hannah, but it had almost felt like a second home. As sad as that was. 

But then he’d seen Cal sitting there, all alone, day after day. No one to go home to, nowhere to be, no one to talk to. And he’d thought about his dad, and the look in his eyes those last couple years, and the way he’d stopped coming home for dinner. 

So the change in scenery was nice. It was still the same old same old, falling back into the comfortable habits that might not be so healthy, he was self aware enough to recognize that, but it was what he had. 

He knows he’ll run Seb’s dry eventually. There’s a smaller market for a jazz club, and he’s more likely to run into an old hookup here if he keeps it up. But so far, it’s just been a nice change of pace while he gets back into the swing of things. 

The live music is nice, even if it’s not his first choice. The people are fun and happy and engaged, and so easily swept away by his charm, no matter how beautiful the song might be. 

The club has an almost comforting energy about it, welcoming, like the music is trying to draw anyone it can in through its doors, to usher them to take a seat, to stay and listen and dance. 

It puts the customers at ease, which makes Jacob’s job easier. He’s gotta thank the owner sometime. 

Except maybe he won’t do that. Because somewhere in the middle of all this he makes himself a new rule: Don’t make any eye contact with the club owner who’s started aggressively glaring at him from the stage. 

He’s not even trying to be subtle about it, either. Jacob had caught his eye one day when he’d made his entrance, effortlessly pulling most of the attention his way like he always does.

All he’d done was walk inside, and the song doesn’t miss a beat, but the pianist stares him down like Jacob was dragging a dead animal behind him, leaving a trail of blood and guts in his wake. 

Something in the air had shifted, and the man’s lips had curled in annoyance, turning away with a roll of his eyes and stiff shoulders, that relaxed smile nowhere in sight. It had happened two more times since then, and he’d only seemed to get more annoyed when Jacob had just smiled back and raised his glass in a silent toast.   

So that was weird. 

He doesn’t really care if the owner likes him or not, and he’s never been one to dwell on things like this, but he has absolutely no idea what he did. 

So he makes his new rule. Ignore him. Don’t make eye contact. Avoid the attention of the stage, don’t cause a scene, and have his fun while he can. He’ll back off and find new territory eventually. 

Except he thinks about the flash of annoyance on the pianist’s face when Jacob had grinned in the face of his ire, and something self satisfied and smug had blossomed in his chest that had nothing to do with the beautiful red head who was telling him all about her small business. 

Nobody else on stage even seemed to notice Jacob was in the building. It was just the pianist, the owner, and Jacob had clearly pissed him off so badly he’d successfully distracted the man from enjoying his own performance. 

He was the only person in the building who wasn’t fawning over Jacob’s charm. And Jacob is nothing if not a bored addict at heart. 

So he amps it up a bit. 

He starts picking out girls sitting closest to the stage. Making a big show of walking past the performance and settling down at the table, stretched out and comfortable like he’s the one who owns the place. And he starts introducing himself a little louder than necessary. So he could be heard over the music, of course. No other reason. 

And it’s always the same, every time. “You wanna get out of here?” He says, grinning, and jerks his chin towards the stage. “Away from all the noise?” 

It always works. She nods and smiles and lets him take her hand, guiding her away from the performance that had her so captivated just a few minutes ago. 

And, because he might be an asshole, he always breaks his own rule and glances over his shoulder to the stage while he guides his date to the exit. 

And it’s a little gratifying to see the guy staring back at him every time, with what’s quickly becoming a permanent scowl. His eyes narrow every time their eyes meet, his frown deepening, and Jacob always makes sure he grins right back at him. 

As far as Jacob is concerned, he isn’t the problem here. He’s being perfectly polite in response to contempt he’s done nothing to deserve. 

When he tells Hannah about it, she tells him he’s being a bitch. 

“I’m not being a bitch,” Jacob argues, even though he’s definitely being a bitch. “I’m never a bitch.” 

“Oh, please,” Hannah says, while she scrapes up the last of brunch off her plate. She won’t let Jacob cook for her anymore, but once in a blue moon she agrees to come out to eat with him. “My dad has plenty of stories, you know. You’re bitchy.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“You’re like… the cattiest person I know,” she says, and Jacob almost chokes on his drink. “Seriously, I thought you were gay when I first met you. Even after you tried to sleep with me.” 

He’s decently sure she’s joking, but it’s hard to tell. And he thinks about telling her that he’s not not gay, that it just hasn’t come up, that he’s never really been picky. 

He’s thought about doing it a few times, but he’s never found the right words. And today is no different. He keeps it to himself. 

It feels too personal. He’s been avoiding talking about himself as much as possible when he’s with her. They can be friends, he can keep her in his life, but not if he starts showing her the things she’d been looking for when they’d been together. 

It wouldn’t be fair to her to do the work now, when it’s already too late. He can stay like this. Just the guy who had been fun for a while, the guy at the bar, the guy who just wasn’t long term material. 

So he doesn’t bring up the fact that he’s been somewhat bisexual this whole time. Especially since he’s never told anyone before. It’s not a secret, especially not to the few men he’s fucked, but it’s not exactly something he advertises when he wants to be seen a particular way. 

He knows she wouldn’t care. It’s Hannah. But that wall is still there, the one that makes him feel paralyzed, frozen to the spot, at the very idea of talking about himself. 

The one he’d only been able to breach once, drunk on his bed, smiling and laughing like he never had before, talking about his life, his happiness, his parents, until he fell asleep. 

He doesn’t even make the attempt to climb that wall again. That had been a one time thing. He doesn’t regret it, he’ll never regret her, but sometimes he wishes he didn’t know how nice it felt to be known. 

“Hilarious,” he says instead, and finishes his mimosa. “Keep talking like that and I’ll make you pay the bill.” 

“You’re a monster,” Hannah says, but she’s grinning. “Just try to play nice with the guy, okay? Or just ignore him. You can do that, right? Ignore people who don’t like you?” 

“No,” Jacob says. “If I could, you and I never would have dated.” 

“Well, try anyway,” Hannah says. “Seriously. Please. Liz really likes that place, and she’s going to be pissed if you cause some kind of scene.” 

“Alright, alright.” Jacob motions for the waitress, and she comes running with a giddy smile that makes Hannah roll her eyes. “I’ll try to behave.” 

“Uh huh,” she says, disbelieving. “Maybe try to learn a little about music if you’re going to start spending all your time at a jazz club.” 

////

Jacob does learn plenty, actually. There’s a few repeat songs by now that he can’t name but can recognize when they start up, and he can hear the differences in style when some of the musicians swap out for someone else. 

Nobody else touches the piano, he’s noticed. Just that angry looking owner guiding the band through their performance, captivating the room. 

He also learns that he starts playing slightly more aggressive sounding songs once he’s realized Jacob is in the building. 

He’s actually starting to get kind of flattered. It’s nice to know he can change the entire atmosphere of a club just by existing. He wonders if the piano man realizes he’s spending all his nights giving Jacob the same amount of attention that the girls do, no matter how pissed off he seems to be about it. 

And Jacob might be a hypocrite. Because lately, he’s started thinking about what would piss the owner off the most when he’s supposed to be thinking about the girl he’s got in front of him. 

It’s entertaining, is all. Jacob’s not the one with a problem. 

He also learns, nearly a month into his little endeavour, on where the line apparently is. Really, he’s just surprised it took this long. 

It had been such a little thing, too. He must have just slowly picked away at the owner’s patience, although he still really isn’t sure exactly what it is he’s done to warrant so much disdain other than come to a public bar and have some fun. 

Was it some sort of unspoken rule in jazz clubs that you were supposed to leave alone? Sit quiet and miserable? Is no one allowed to have a good time so long as Seb is on stage playing his heart out?

Apparently, actually. 

The owner isn’t at the piano now. It’s getting late, the night winding down gradually, and the pianist is on the mic to thank the crowd and the band, something Jacob has seen him do a handful of times if he’s still here around this hour. 

He’s clearly proud of what he has, his club, his music, his audience. His eyes light up and that smile is back, though not nearly as vibrant as the first time Jacob had seen him play. 

“Thank you all for coming out tonight,” he’s saying, his voice just as dark and sweet when he talks as when he sings. He’s scanning the the tables, relaxed under their polite applause. “Seriously, it means a lot.”

Jacob hasn’t gotten to work yet. He’d come in later than he normally would, and he’d settled himself at the corner of the bar. Alone, but not for long, nursing his drink while he watches the stage. 

Seb’s eyes are wandering while he talks, and for just a second they land on Jacob. His face twists, his hold on the mic stand tightening, and Jacob has to give him credit for trying to continue on despite his obvious annoyance. 

Jacob should look away. He’s barely welcome here, clearly, and there’s no need to create more drama. He’s getting too old for that. He’s here for a good time, nothing more and nothing less. 

But maybe something possesses him. Something bold, something curious. Maybe he can’t help but try to flirt his way through any interaction, no matter how much worse it might make things. Maybe he’s just been getting bored. 

He holds Seb’s stare, longer than he ever has before, and winks. 

He hadn’t actually expected anything to come from it other than another glare, but apparently he’d crossed some kind of invisible line. 

“Please, another round of–” The musician jerks back, like Jacob had just thrown something at him, choking on his own words with a strangled cough. He tries to cover it up with a nervous laugh, and Jacob blinks in surprise. “Guh, I– woah. Sorry, uh- let’s have another round of applause for the band, yeah? We’re uh… we’re gonna take five.” 

The crowd claps, still chattering amongst themselves, and the pianist quickly excuses himself, disappearing off the side of the stage. 

Jacob watches him go, mildly amused at the bumbling display, and turns back to his drink. He’ll stay another few minutes, at least. He’s seen a few girls giving him eyes, and he knows it won’t take too much effort to have someone under his arm by closing time. 

But then he sees a blur of movement, someone practically storming right to the bar from the other side of the club. He turns, and raises his eyebrows when he sees the pianist heading right towards him. 

He looks pissed. Maybe justifiably so. Something had been bound to snap eventually, but that doesn’t mean Jacob is going to act guilty. He smiles again, raises his glass in greeting, and feels a little spark of satisfaction when it only makes the other man angrier. 

He watches as the pianist slows. He leans against the bar beside Jacob’s stool, and motions for the bartender. Maybe he’s trying to look nonchalant about this, but his shoulders are tense and his jaw is clenched tight. 

“Okay,” Seb says after a moment. He’s still resting on his elbows against his bar, but he finally turns to look at Jacob, unimpressed. “What’s your fucking problem, man?” 

Jacob stares blankly back. “Excuse me?” 

“Is the music not your scene?” Seb asks. “Or are you just too busy ogling me to even try to pay attention?” 

Jacob pulls a face, confused. He amps it up, tilting his head like he couldn’t understand the words at all. “Sorry… are you saying something? I’m just so busy ogling you, I'm not getting it.” 

Jacob had once told Cal he’d considered euthanizing him. He hadn’t looked nearly as offended as Seb does now. 

He laughs, an ugly humorless thing, and shakes his head like he can’t believe Jacob is real, let alone someone with the audacity to say such a thing. 

“Oh, Jesus,” he sneers. “Is that the kind of shit you’ve been saying to my customers? Maybe I should start tracking them down and apologizing.” 

“Hey, I’m serious,” Jacob says. “That’s a nice suit. Fits better than the one you were wearing yesterday. You wanna give me a little spin? Show me a better angle?”

Seb straightens up like he’s been electrocuted, and Jacob notes the flush of red across the back of his neck, barely hidden by his shirt collar. He’s fuming, coiled tight like he’s ready to throw a damn punch. And Jacob doesn’t let himself falter visibly, but he does acknowledge that he might be pushing this. 

He has to remind himself sometimes that his charm isn’t foolproof. Almost, but not quite. Some people just really do not like him. 

And some men (maybe most men) don’t actually take kindly to being talked to like this. This is how you get yourself punched out. 

But Seb doesn’t punch him. Just squints his eyes and stares Jacob down like he’s talking to someone who might be genuinely stupid, like Jacob is doing nothing but talking unintelligible nonsense. 

“Mr. Palmer,” Seb says, and it’s good to know Jacob’s voice carries. He’s introduced himself a dozen times to a dozen women within earshot of the stage, and he was right in assuming the musician had been listening. “I don’t think this is the establishment for you.” 

Jacob keeps the easy smile on his face, and doesn’t look away from Seb. “And why’s that?” 

“Every time you’re in here you cause a scene,” Seb says. Jacob can tell he’s trying to stay professional, cool and collected, but it’s all over his face. He’s annoyed and frustrated and wants Jacob out of his damn bar. “You’re harassing my customers and interrupting the performance. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

A normal person might take the polite way out while they could. Cut their losses, maybe even apologize, and bow out with their dignity still intact. 

Jacob doesn’t do that. He leans forward a little in his barstool, props his elbow up on the bar and rests his chin in his palms so he can blink at Seb.

“That might be a bad idea,” he says. “If anything, I think I’m helping your business.” 

Seb honest to god looks like he takes a breath, counts to three, and then lets it out. “What?” 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I tend to draw in a crowd.” He pulls his gaze away, just long enough to glance at the table of girls across the way who were definitely not here for any kind of jazz performance. “I keep people coming back when they’re not here for the music. You’re welcome.” 

“Not here for the music?” 

“And don’t worry about your customers,” Jacob continues. “They all had a good time. Trust me. I’m sure you can ask them if they come back for seconds.” 

Jacob truly has never seen anyone look so offended in his entire life. He might feel bad, if Seb wasn’t currently trying to kick him out for no good reason. 

“What do you mean not here for the music?” Seb sputters, like it's the most incomprehensible thing anyone has ever spoken into existence. “That’s- that’s the whole point of coming here in the first place!” He talks with his hands, Jacob notices. Wild, unpredictable gestures that come a little too close to smacking him right in the face. “Who goes to a jazz club and doesn’t like jazz?” 

“Hey, don’t take it to heart,” Jacob says. “You weren’t half bad up there.” 

“Not half– what is your deal?” Seb sputters, eyes going a little wide. “Huh? If you don’t care about the music why do you keep coming back? There’s a hundred clubs you could go to. Places where the owners actually want you there.” 

So much for professional and polite. What a way to run a business. 

He doesn’t even have a good answer. Why does he like Seb’s so much? It’s nothing special. It’s just a jazz bar. The music is nice, and it was welcoming and warm, and the crowd was attractive, but that’s all. 

Well. It had been welcoming, when he’d first arrived. Not so much anymore. 

He doesn’t hate the change of pace of live music, but he’s sure there’s plenty of places in the area that can offer that. At first it had been for Liz, but she’d lost interest about a week in. She was in love with some sushi chef across town now, and was quickly draining her budget eating there every week. Jacob had no plans to accompany her. He doesn’t really like sushi. 

It had just become routine. To come here, to bother the owner on stage, to flirt and leave. A little extra spice compared to his old haunt.

“Maybe it’s the view on stage,” Jacob says, pushing his luck yet again. “I bet that brings in a lot of revenue.” 

Seb’s face twists in disgust. His lip curls, and he turns away. Jacob watches him carefully, still amused despite himself, turning his own glass in his hand. 

“Fuck off,” he snarls. “Seriously, Palmer. Watch it. Stop fucking around with me, or I’ll have my bouncers throw you right on your ass.” 

“You can’t just kick me out for being nice to people,” Jacob says, even though Seb can. It’s his bar. “It’s not my fault your patrons are practically throwing themselves at me.” 

“God.” Seb barks another laugh, and Jacob’s perfect smile tightens. “The fucking ego on you. Are you for real?” 

Jacob is well aware he’s not everyone’s cup of tea. He can smile and flirt and charm his way out of every situation all he likes, but the confident playboy is going to put some people on edge. Especially men like this, with their own fragile egos and pride. 

He’s just not used to being spoken to like this. He won’t stoop down to Seb’s level, won’t let it show that it’s getting to him, but he feels his own annoyance grow sharper in his chest, a little indignant at the tone. 

“Oh, I’m real,” he says, leaning a little closer. “What, did you want to take me for a test run? See what all the fuss is about? Is that it?” 

Seb straightens up even more, and Jacob is more than a little bothered when he has to dart his eyes up to meet his glare so he isn’t staring straight at his lips. Seb is tall, maybe a few inches taller than Jacob. And normally that wouldn’t bother him, but every little detail about this guy is just starting to piss him off. 

Seb keeps one hand curled around the neck of his beer bottle, knuckles white. His free hand jerks forward and points a finger right at Jacob’s chest, like he thinks it might be threatening. Jacob doesn’t move. 

“I said don’t fuck around with me.”

Hey, maybe Jacob hadn’t been fucking with him. He doesn’t want to have sex with this guy, and he’s almost completely positive Seb would puke if Jacob so much as breathed too closely in his direction, but it sure would shut him the hell up. 

He also has eyes. Seb is hot, and he can dress, and Jacob is a little intrigued by how riled up he’s getting. 

He shakes the thought away, hides anything real behind a brighter smile, because again, he really would like to avoid getting punched in the face. He likes his perfect teeth. It’s part of the package. 

“Come on,” Jacob says, switching tactics. He really could just leave it alone, slip on his jacket and head out the doors and never come back. But where’s the fun in that? He hasn’t done anything wrong. “You can’t actually want me gone that bad.” 

“You’re a nuisance,” Seb says. “And a distraction.” 

“Oh, I’m a distraction?” Jacob grins wider. “Who am I distracting?” 

“The- you’re distracting from the performance,” Seb says, stumbling briefly over his own words, and Jacob watches him look away again, like he needs to distance himself from Jacob to get his thoughts together. “People come here for the music, Palmer. Not for your cheap pick-up lines.” 

“They can come here for both,” Jacob says. “I haven’t gotten any complaints yet.” 

“I’m complaining.” 

“Right,” Jacob says. “So it seems like the only person I’m distracting is you.” 

“You–” Seb stops and takes another breath, and Jacob quietly notes the way his cheeks flush. “You are such a dick. How do people fall for this?” 

Jacob shrugs, something easy and relaxed, still resting his elbow against the bar. “I’m good at what I do. You’re the one who didn’t want a demonstration.” 

“Do you usually flirt with people by pissing them off?” 

“Sometimes,” Jacob says. “Depends on what they're into.” 

“Right,” Seb drawls, his face twisted back into what must be a permanent scowl. Jacob’s never seen anyone look so comically annoyed in his life. It's hard to picture this as the same man who had looked so lost, so happy and relaxed in his music the first time Jacob had seen him. “Well, I’m not into any of it.” 

“Well your customers are,” Jacob points out. “Clearly. You can’t be mad at people for having a good time.” 

“It’s my bar.” 

“And you can’t pretend like I’m not good for business,” Jacob says. “Whether they’re here for me, or for your show, you’re making money. And I’m sure you’ve seen the bills I rack up.” 

Seb’s face twists, and Jacob sees him share a silent glance with the bartender. Jacob doesn’t even bother looking at his bill half the time. He buys his own drinks, he sends drinks to tables of pretty girls, and he always gets his date whatever he thinks she’d like. What’s the point in having money if it’s not for a good time? He knows for a fact he’s the highest spender in the building.  

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Seb says. “You ever worry about running out of money throwing it away like that?” 

“No.” 

Seb scoffs again, apparently only even more irritated now. “Of course you don’t.” 

It’s his turn to give Jacob a once over, eyes trailing from his face to his suit to his shoes, like he’s finally allowed to take him in, make his judgements up close, decide for himself the kind of man he believes Jacob is. 

Jacob lets him. He doesn’t have anything to hide. He’d dolled himself up the way he always does, not a seam or hair out of place. He’s in one of his nicer suits, a charcoal gray with dark, polished shoes, his shirt unbuttoned, chain resting against his exposed chest. 

He’d eased up a little on dressing himself up when he’d been with Hannah. It had started feeling stuffy. It had been too obvious that it was fake. And it hadn’t felt so terrifying to relax a little, when she’d still been willing to hold his hand.

But now she was gone, and nobody was allowed to see him undone. It had been easy to fall back into this. Flawless, easy to look at, mesmerizing. 

He’s pretty sure Seb is seeing nothing but a rich douchebag with endless money to throw away on whatever he wants. That’s fine too. 

“Just stay away from the stage,” he finally says, shoulders dropping some of their fight. “Okay? Just back off a little. Stay near the bar and don’t harass my regulars.” 

“Sure,” Jacob says. “No problem, Seb. I’ll be on my best behavior.” 

“Wilder,” Seb snaps, and Jacob raises an eyebrow. “Sebastian Wilder. You’re not my friend, Palmer. We aren’t on a first name basis.” 

“Well you put it in neon lights over your door,” Jacob says. “I assumed Seb was fair game.” 

“Not for you.” Wilder rolls up his sleeve a little and checks his watch, frowning again. “It’s getting late. Going home alone tonight?” 

“Aw. It’s sweet that you care.” He ignores Sebastian’s ever present glare to look over his shoulder, scanning the slowly quieting club, to find– yep. Exactly what he’s looking for. 

He makes eye contact with one of the girls at the far table, one of the many who had been giving him eyes all night, and watches the way she blushes and quickly looks away to whisper to her friends. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. He finishes his drink and gets up from the bar, straightening his collar. “I’ll be out of your hair in five minutes.” 

Seb follows his gaze, and somehow manages to look even more annoyed. “Jesus. Has anyone ever told you no in your whole life?” 

“I’ve yet to leave your bar alone, haven’t I?” He starts forward, and doesn’t bother turning back around. He’s got a busy night ahead of him. “See you tomorrow, Wilder.” 

“Fuck off, Palmer.”

Charming.

But, true to his word, Jacob is only in the club for another five minutes. He strikes up an easy conversation, introduces himself with that smile and gentle handshake.

He compliments her dress, the way the dark green brings out the makeup around her eyes, and tells her she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen step into this bar. 

And she melts with it, and by the time the five minutes is up Jacob is paying off her tab and guiding her to the exit. 

For some reason, he finds himself glancing back over his shoulder to the bar. Sebastian is still there, frowning, his shoulders bunched up to his ears while he pretends to look busy watching the bartender close out his last few customers.

He meets Jacob’s eyes briefly, and he wrinkles his nose and turns away again. 

And there it is again. That annoying, empty, gnawing feeling in his chest. He doesn’t know why. He’s doing what he’s good at. He’s doing exactly what he was made for. Why won’t it go away? 

“Hey,” his date says, with a hand on his arm. He hadn’t realized he was still hesitating at the door. “You okay?” 

She's clearly eager, and excitable, and so so sweet. Too sweet to be going home with a guy like Jacob. She's grinning, a little tipsy but not so bad that Jacob doesn't think she’ll sober by the time they make it to his place. 

He suddenly wishes he were a lot more drunk.

"Course," he says, smooth and easy, that smile right back on his face. "You ready to go, baby?” 

It’ll be a good night. 

Her name is Kristy, and she's smiling at him like he's the sun and her cheeks go red when he looks at her. And she really does look beautiful. He tells her so two more times before they're out the door. Laying it on a little thick, maybe, but he needs to distract himself with sweet words and careful touches. 

Maybe they'll get to know each other on the drive back to his place. He doubts it, with the way he already feels like clamming up and the way her hands are wandering up his back, but it's a nice thought.

It’ll be a good night. Of course it will. This is what he likes to do. 

And Kristy does try. They always do, a little bit. Conversation is expected, small talk, bar talk. Deflecting it comes like second nature, the avoidance as easy as breathing. 

She marvels at his car, settles into his passenger seat, and takes off her heels while he drives. A few minutes into the drive she asks, "So, what do you do?"

It's an innocent question, but a hard one to answer without revealing too much. Where his money came from, why he doesn't have to work, who left it behind.

For a moment, he thinks about telling her. Just for a moment. And then he glances at her, and she isn't looking at his face. They never are. He’s made sure it’s the least interesting thing about him. 

"Nothing exciting," he says instead. "What do you do?"

He learns a lot about her after that. Her eyes light up and she sits up a little, brushing her hair out of her face when she talks.

Kristy is a vet tech. She loves animals. She grew up with two dogs and four cats in her childhood home, back in Virginia, and she'd always dreamed of being a vet. She wants to go back to school in the next few years, get her doctorate, make some more money. She struggles with her work life balance, so she's been trying to be more adventurous, more open, which apparently involves coming home with the cute guys she meets at jazz clubs.

She likes jazz fine, but it's not her choice. She'd been at Seb's with a group of coworkers, because she desperately wants to make real friends but can't find the time to socialize properly anywhere but the clinic.

Jacob tells her he has no idea how she doesn’t have a bigger circle. She's the most charming girl he's met in a long time. 

It's an old line too, but it's not entirely a lie. She is charming. Jacob doesn't mind learning all about her. 

They keep talking, between the car ride, and kisses and hands on waists and unbuttoned shirts and unzipped dresses. He learns as much about her as he can, anything to make her night as perfect as possible, and offers as little information about himself as he can, when she thinks to ask. 

At some point in the night, somewhere around getting through the front door and getting her in his bed, Kristy asks him what his favorite color is. A breathless, absently curious thing. He knows hers is green.

And maybe she really wants to know, or maybe it's just the easiest thing she could think of to ask in return while she's trying to breathe around his tongue. 

He lies to her, and says it's red.

He doesn't know why he does that.

It doesn’t really matter in the end, anyway. She doesn’t do much talking other than calling his name for the next few hours. He knows she’s happy, that she’s having fun, and he stops thinking so hard and lets himself enjoy it too. 

When she’s done, she doesn’t want to spend the night. She’s breathless and giddy and she’s looking at him like she can’t believe he’s real, but she wants to go home. 

He kisses her, and orders her a car that arrives in ten minutes, and knows he’s never going to see her again. 

And that’s fine with him. He’s gotten used to the empty house again, the way the world around him is dead silent, completely still, like he’s the only thing that exists in it, the rest of the universe down the road forever out of reach. 

He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the painting hung up on the wall, the only one in the house, and tries to keep himself convinced. 

The painting looks back at him, all blues, lights and darks, splashes of blacks and whites, and his dad’s tiny signature at the very bottom.