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Having a longtime crush on your best friend, who happens to be unfairly gorgeous? That’s pretty par for the course. Not ideal, mind you, but also something that thousands of people are dealing with at any given time. As much as Dave’s chest feels a bit like caving in anytime Jack throws an arm around his shoulders, or practically lounges against him when they’re sitting on his beat up couch, it’s livable.
Getting snowed in at your best friend’s apartment, who you have a longtime crush on, and who’s unfairly gorgeous? Now, that’s just not playing fair on the universe’s part.
In the universe’s defense, it is half his fault.
He’d known about the impending storm before coming over, and his mom had warned him to be home before it started. He really had meant to listen. It’s just - being around Jack has this effect on time, like a little bubble around the two of them while the world passes on by outside without warning.
He’d lost track of time, hadn’t noticed his mom’s five texts over the past hour, or the missed call from his dad. He’s got very little excuse, really, he’d just been working on his course work for college, Jack pressed up against his side and “helping” (which, in actuality, means reading over his shoulder and asking about five questions a minute), and by the time he’d looked up at the window, it had already been whited out.
It’s not really all his fault. How was he expected to notice the incoming cold with Jack’s warmth pressed against his side like a firebrand?
“Shit,” he says, dislodging Jack in his haste to get to his feet. “Shit. My mom’s gonna kill me.”
He grabs his phone from where it lay on the coffee table, his screen lit up with unread messages.
Ima 2:30
Please start heading home if you’re not already. Storm should hit soon.
Ima 2:41
The snow will start soon, let me know when you’re on the way home.
Ima 2:43
Unless you’re driving. Do not text me if you’re driving.
Ima 3:04
David the roads are closed down. Where are you?
Ima 3:10
Please let us know you’re safe.
And a missed call from his dad to top it all off. His heart might actually beat out of his chest. God, he’s dead.
“I can’t drive in this,” he says, with a longing glance out the window to where he knows his car is, if he could see it past the blizzard. “Do you think the buses are running?”
Jack, propped up on an elbow against the couch, is lit up with the odd, almost eerie glow that can only come from a total whiteout, amusement playing around the edges of his smile. “In a blizzard? With the roads closed down? No, Davey I don’t think the buses are runnin’.”
Right, yeah. Fair. Shit.
“Hey,” Jack says, pushing himself up to his feet and reaching up to grasp Dave’s shoulder. He makes eye contact, eyebrows raised, and Dave’s gonna have a heart attack and die right here, snowed in at Jack’s apartment.
“’S fine. I stocked up a few days ago. Call your mom, let her know you’re not dead, and we’ll hold out here ‘till the storm ends.”
Which is fine. Mostly. It’s not like he hasn’t crashed on Jack’s couch before, and with any luck it’ll only be for the night and then he’ll get a reprieve (as much as going back home to his mom, who will actually kill him, can be a reprieve).
“Yeah,” he says, already pressing the call button on his phone. “Yeah, okay.”
Jack smiles reassuringly, and then wanders off toward the kitchen with one last pat on his back. Dave watches him, the loose line of his retreating back.
He’d just moved into the apartment a few months back, a little studio in Upper Manhattan, and it suits him. Having a steady home, a place he can depend him. He’d spent so much time getting bounced around between foster homes, Dave sort of feels like he’s only just now coming unraveled from it, only just now putting down roots and relaxing into his life.
His mom picks up after two rings, frantic.
“David? Are you okay? Where are you?”
He hears Sarah in the background saying something he can’t make out, probably trying to reassure her, and his heart sinks a bit. He really hadn’t meant to worry her.
“I’m okay, Ima,” he says, voice pitched low and gentle. “I’m at Jack’s. We lost track of time, but I’m safe."
“Oh. Oh, Jack’s, that’s good,” she says, calming down at least past the frantic mess of worry she’d been when she picked up. “He could use the company, I’m sure. Does he have enough food and water for the both of you? They’re saying the storm could last for a week.”
Dave winces. A week. Less than ideal, but fine. He can manage being normal around Jack for a week.
“He’s got plenty, Imi. We’ll be fine.”
He’s actually not sure that’s true, but Jack’s always got as many non-perishables as he can manage anyway, so he figures it can’t be too far off. And even if he didn’t, it’s not something he would tell his mom.
“Be safe, David. Call me if you guys need anything.”
“Okay,” he says, even though he has very little intention of doing that, if he’s honest. “Love you.”
“Love you!” Jack calls from the kitchenette, hands busy filling up pots with tap water to boil. Dave grins at him, and his mom laughs on the other end.
“Love you both,” she says, and then the line clicks, and Dave’s heart swells a bit in his chest. Of course his mom loves Jack, he’s been a permanent fixture of the Jacobs family since they were both 16, but it never hurts. To know Jack’s got someone else in his corner.
The pot on the stove starts bubbling, and Jack leans against the kitchen counter, his smile bright and loose.
“So,” he says, arms folded across his chest. “Any ideas so we don’t bore to death?”
Dave laughs, but it’s a fair question. Privately, he can’t imagine any scenario where he would ever get bored with Jack, but he’s also never been snowed in with him for a week, so. His therapist has been saying he should push himself into new experiences.
“Movie night?”
They should probably make use of Jack’s DVD player before the power goes out, and with the way the wind is howling by outside, it’s only a matter of time now.
Jack moves the pot to a cold burner, and the sets the next full pot on the stove.
“Sure. Horror?” he asks, back still turned, and that really isn’t fair, when Dave knows that’s his go-to move. Not that Dave thinks he’s making a move now, but. Yeah. Yeah, he’s so fucked.
“Horror’s good,” he says anyway, because Jack is one of those people it’s nearly impossible to say no to, and starts flipping through Jack’s DVD collection. It’s pretty extensive actually, mostly burned discs, but he’s gotten some more legitimate ones more recently, gifts from his most recent foster.
“Texas Chainsaw?”
It’s one of the burned discs, a plain silver DVD, the title written on with sharpie in Jack’s loud, brash handwriting. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but Dave’s got a soft spot for the pirated part of Jack’s collection, just because of how Jack it is.
Jack laughs. “Trashy slashers? You comin’ on’ta me, Davids?”
It’s not true, but it’s not not true, and Dave feels his face heat up.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t betray how badly he does, in fact, want to be coming on to Jack. “Please let me be one of your one night stands. I’ll even watch Slumber Party Massacre for you.”
Jack laughs, a weird edge to it, but he’s continuing on before Dave can dwell on it. “Put it in, I’ll start the popcorn,” he says, moving the second pot to cool and grabbing a bag of microwave popcorn from a cabinet.
Dave does, and then settles back on the couch. His phone buzzes in his pocket.
Racetrack 4:06
heard you got trapped with your bf lol
Racetrack 4:06
img.jpeg
twins
It’s a picture of Race, sitting on a couch and grinning at the camera, with Spot sitting behind him, talking to someone off-screen. Probably Albert, if they’re at Spot’s place.
It’s no wonder his mom had been in such a panic, if Race hadn’t made it home before the storm hit either. He gets how she feels, actually, the worry surging under his own skin. Spot’s usually pretty well-prepared, but he and Race get so caught up in their own little world sometimes, and planning isn’t Race’s strong suit in the first place.
Dave 4:07
Do you guys have enough food for everyone? And start boiling water if you need it now, no telling when the power will go out.
Dave can almost see the eyeroll that he’s sure accompanies the next two pictures, sent in rapid succession: the pantry at Spot and Albert’s apartment, fully stocked, if a bit less nutritious than Dave would’ve liked, and then a picture of three milk jugs full of water sitting on a kitchen counter.
Racetrack 4:10
we’re fine mom
Racetrack 4:11
go get laid and stop worrying about me
Dave feels the tips of his ears go a bit warm, and then Jack’s shoving in next to him, a bowl full of popcorn in hand.
“Who’s that?” he asks, and Dave mashes the power button on his phone so hard he’s afraid it might break.
“Race,” he says and hopes that Jack doesn’t catch on to the break-neck pace his heart beat has risen to. It’s not like it’s anything to be embarrassed by, anyway. Just another of Race’s stupid jokes. “He’s stuck at Spot and Albert’s.”
“No wonder your mom was freakin’ out,” he says, around a handful of popcorn. “Both’a the wonder twins snowed in with bad influences.”
He laughs, lightening a bit. “My mom loves you more than me, Jackie. She told me it was good I’m snowed in with you ‘cause you could use the company.”
Jack smiles at him, the light from the window glancing off his skin, so that he almost glows, and he’s absolutely breathtaking. He throws an arm across the back of the couch, right behind Dave, and Dave knows him well enough to take the invitation, sidling a bit closer and tucking his legs underneath him.
“Yeah,” Jack says, pressing a button on the remote, and the TV screen starts playing the opening credits. “The company could be worse, I guess.”
It’s dripping with fondness, though, and Dave can feel his voice rumble up through his chest, warm where Dave’s rested against him. He spares a longing glance out of the window, still snowed out.
He’s so fucked.
—
The power holds out all throughout Texas Chainsaw, Opera, and the first Scream movie, but finally gives in halfway through Scream 2, the TV cutting out and bathing them in darkness. Everything’s eerily silent, save the howling of the wind outside, and Dave’s all at once aware of Jack’s heartbeat in his ear.
He’s not sure when, but at some point during the night, they’d gotten even closer together, Dave’s head rested on Jack’s chest, Jack’s arm curled around him, hand lying on his shoulder.
For a long minute, neither of them move, the air pulled so tight that Dave can nearly see the cracks forming around them. A particularly strong gust of wind hits the window pane, so it creaks violently, and Dave’s hit with a rush of cold air.
He shivers, despite the fire-warmth of Jack beside him, and it’s enough to break whatever tentative still had settled between them.
Jack stands and stretches, his shirt riding up just enough to bare a strip of skin, and Dave itches to press his hands to it, or to run his tongue along it, maybe.
He relaxes, and then turns, and Dave’s eyes shoot up to his face. For a second, he’s sure he’s caught, heart beating in his throat. But Jack just grins and holds his hand out to help Dave up.
“C’mon, Davey-boy,” he says, and his palm is warm and rough when Dave grabs his hand and pulls himself to his feet. “We should hit the hay.”
“Right, yeah,” he says, because it is already ten, and honestly, the less time he spends conscious the easier this is gonna be. “Can you spare a pillow?”
An odd look crosses Jack’s face, but smooths out so quick Dave’s not sure if he’s imagined it.
“You’re not takin’ the couch, Davey.”
He says it like it’s obvious, and maybe it is to him, but Dave’s not sure where else he would sleep.
“Power’s out, so the heat won’t run. You’ll freeze to death out on the couch; you’re takin’ the bed with me.”
Dave feels a little unsteady on his feet. Scratch what he’d said earlier, about this being easier the more time he spent unconscious. Nothing about this is going to be easy.
It doesn’t really feel like Jack’s opening a conversation about it though; his voice has got that frantic edge to it, eyes just a bit wild. And the thing about Jack, as much as Dave likes to think he understands him, is that he’s a bit of a minefield.
There’s a lot, so much that Dave hasn’t been privy to, so much that sets Jack on edge, and this is one of those things, it seems.
“Davey?” he asks when Dave doesn’t move, pulling him forward a bit from where he hasn’t let go of his hand. “C’mon.”
He looks a bit lost, in the dark of his own apartment, and Dave smiles down at him, aiming for gentle. “Okay. I’m coming.”
Jack nods, and the tension seems to bleed out of him.
Jack’s bed’s a full, so it’s crowded, but not an uncomfortable fit. Well. Not physically uncomfortable, at least, Jack warm and sleep-soft and pressed against him. He’s not sure it could be physically uncomfortable, truthfully, but he’s fairly sure that Jack’s going to give him a heart attack at this rate.
Jack pulls the blankets tight around them, rests his head on top of Davey’s chest. Tentatively, Dave draws his arm around him, and Jack cuddles further into him, and Dave’s going to die, right here.
It’s a bit hard to breathe, past the jackhammer heart in his ribcage.
“Night, Davey,” he says, like he isn’t even aware of Dave’s steadily growing aneurysm.
This is going to kill him. This is going to kill him, and then he won’t have to worry about making it through the rest of the storm because he’ll be dead.
“Goodnight,” he says, and tries not to think about every inch of Jack lined up against him.
—
Sleep doesn’t come easy, and he doesn’t finally drift off until long after Jack’s breathing evens out. It’s just - difficult not to think of him as some precious, fragile thing in his arms, like he might accidentally break him if he dozes off.
When he wakes, it’s to an empty bed, and the soft sounds of Jack in the kitchen across the room, moving around and singing softly, lyrics Dave can’t quite make out.
He opens his eyes, squinting against the light of morning, and tracks the soft lines of Jack’s movement, back turned and whisking something together on the counter. The lack of sleep pounds behind his eyes, but he can’t bring himself to be bothered by it.
It takes another second for Dave to realize why he can’t make out any lyrics, because Jack’s singing in Spanish. His heart feels a bit too full for his chest.
Jack’d spoken it fluently when he was small, Dave knows, but he’s lost a bit, after after being bounced around between families who didn’t speak it, and it’s only more recently that he’s started picking it back up again.
He’s doing really well with it, says it feels natural, and it suits him, too. Makes him settle bit, grounds him.
Jack turns around and cuts himself off when he sees Dave, but he grins, so Dave can’t even be too sad about the loss.
“Mornin’, Sleepin’ Beauty,” he says, and Dave groans, pulling the blankets up over his head. He’s pretty sure there are more blankets on the bed now than there had been when he’d gone to sleep, but he doesn’t mention it, the thought of Jack’s panicked assertion that he’d freeze to death on the couch still fresh in his mind.
Jack laughs, the sound of his footsteps coming near, and then the blankets are pulled back unceremoniously, leaving Dave exposed to the cold.
“Nope,” Jack says, backlit by the cold, white light coming in from the window. Still snowed in. Great. “Time to get up, Davey-boy. I’m makin’ pancakes.”
Dave readjusts so he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, and pulls the blankets back around him. He’s not sure how Jack, even in the two sweaters he’s wearing, isn’t freezing. Then again, Jack runs hotter than anyone he’s ever met, so maybe it isn’t as bad for him.
“Power’s back on?” he asks. With any luck, they can turn the heat back on, and Dave can spend the next night or two on Jack’s couch, instead of slowly working his way to a heart attack on Jack’s bed.
“Nah,” Jack says, and the hope sinks from his chest. “But the stove’s gas, so I just gotta light the pilot.”
“Right,” Dave says, and starts getting to his feet, a blanket still pulled around him. “Can I borrow a sweater?”
He’s already heading toward the closet when Jack agrees, rifling through his wardrobe, and Jack returns to his task in the kitchen, minus the singing. Dave tries not to be put out about it.
His eyes catch on a dark grey sweatshirt, the words “Manhattan High” printed in bold letters on the chest. It definitely won’t fit him, Dave’s already quite a bit taller than Jack, and he’d been scrawny back in high school, but it does send a rush of fondness through his chest.
He’s not sure he even understands it enough to explain it, really. Just the reminder of how far Jack has come, since then, and how entwined Dave is in his life.
The sweater he does settle on is plain red, just barely short on him, which is as much as he can ask for. It’s soft, and smells a bit like Jack’s detergent.
“How come I’ve never seen you wear this?” he asks, already pulling it on over his own sweater.
Jack turns to look at him just as Dave decides pulling a smaller sweater on over his own is a stupid way to do this, and takes them both off so he can switch the order.
“It’s, uh, it was a birthday gift. From Stray.” When Dave’s got his vision clear again, Jack’s looking at him, unreadable. It’s not really an answer, but Jack’s a bit weird about his most recent foster.
Medda’d taken him in when he was seventeen, a couple months from aging out, and she’d already had three adopted kids, Charlie, Specs and Stray. Dave doesn’t know all the details, but he does know that she’d offered to adopt him when he turned nineteen, but Jack had turned her down.
They do keep in touch, and sometimes Dave thinks they might be closer than he and his mom are, but it’s odd. He thinks Jack might be incapable of emotional transparency, though, so he’s never been able to get the full story out of him.
“Medda says hi, by the way,” Jack says.
He’s turned back to the stove, and Dave hears the click, click, click of the gas, and then a whoosh when Jack holds the lighter to it.
“She called?”
He makes his way to the kitchen, close enough to the stove that he can at least feel the heat coming off of it. Jack leans to the side and bumps their shoulders together before grabbing the batter he’d been whisking together earlier and pouring a bit out into the pan.
It starts sizzling, and the smell of cooking pancakes fills the air. Dave looks down at it, and realizes he’s mixed in chocolate chips too, but he hadn’t been expecting much else.
“Yeah, before you woke up this mornin’. Said she wanted to be sure we were bein’ safe.” The grin he angles toward him is sharp-edged, and Dave’s face heats over the unintentional double entendre.
“Checked on Racer for ya, too,” he continues, and Dave smiles, warm despite the temperature in the apartment. “Him and Spot are gettin’ up’ta more than you wanna know about it, but they’re good.”
Dave’s nose crinkles. Yeah, more than he wants to know about. “Well. I guess they’re staying warm then, at least.”
Jack laughs. “Yeah? You wanna try it out, Jacobs?”
It’s a joke. Dave knows it’s a joke. That doesn’t stop his heart from trying to beat out of his chest.
Dave shoves him lightly, and Jack continues flipping the pancakes. He tries not to notice how warm he is.
“Hey, listen,” he says, eyes trained on the pan, and Dave is all at once aware of how stiff he’s gone. “I’m sorry about last night. Didn’t mean’ta… pressure you or nothin’.”
The idea that he needs pressure to share a bed with Jack is almost laughable. That’s the exact opposite of his problem, really.
“’S fine, Jackie. You were right, woulda been way colder out on the couch.”
“Yeah. It’s - didn’t mean to freak out on ya, ‘s all.”
Dave takes him in, every guarded and stress-lined inch of him, and decides this is one of those things he needs to push on, or Jack will never be able to open up about it.
“What was that about?”
Jack’s silent for a long moment, focused on the cooking, and then starts talking, soft, the planes of his face lit from the flame of of the stove.
“I ran away when I was eleven, but I didn’t go into the system ‘til I was twelve,” he says, and Dave’s afraid to breathe and break the fragile tone in his voice. “My Dad was never father of the year or nothin’, but he didn’t really get violent ‘till my Mom died. Started drinkin’, and…
“Anyway, it was winter when I left. Was really cold out, y’know, and I didn’t really have anywhere to go, so I was jus’ sleepin’ where I could, in alleys mostly, stealin’ blankets whenever I had the chance. And I met this other kid when I was out there. Michael.”
Dave’s never heard the name before, and he’s fairly sure Jack doesn’t know anyone named Michael now. He doesn’t see this going in a happy direction. The pancakes continue to sizzle, and Jack flips them almost by rote.
“He was a few years younger. Had it pretty bad at home, I think. So we started hangin’ out together. Watchin’ each other’s backs, findin’ places to sleep and huddlin’ together for warmth.
“And then Mike started gettin’ sick,” he says, and swallows hard. Dave feels a bit like he’s in a free fall, and his heart sinks down to his stomach. “And it was- It was nothin’ at first, ‘cause we were always gettin’ sick. But he never started gettin’ better. Just kept gettin’ worse and worse, and neither of us wanted to go to a hospital, ‘cause what’s a hospital gonna do with a couple’a kids right off the street, y’know?”
He thinks he might be sick, and his chest threatens to tear apart from the inside out. He yearns to reach out and touch him somehow, pull him into a hug or clasp a hand to his shoulder or do anything to help lighten the load. He’s afraid, though, that any movement might break the moment.
“He kept gettin’ worse. There wasn’t- Davey, there wasn’t nothin’ I could do,” he says, almost pleading, like he’s asking Dave to believe him. He does, and the crack in his heart widens. “And one mornin’, I woke up and he was just- He was jus’ lyin’ there, and he wouldn’t wake up, and he wasn’t breathin’ or nothin’, and what was I supposed to do?
“I couldn’t- couldn’t- There wasn’t no one to tell, so I just- I just left. And if I had just- I dunno, I coulda got him to a doctor or a shelter or- or somethin’, someone who coulda done somethin’, but I just- I just let him freeze, Davey. He was so cold.”
Dave reaches in front of him to turn the gas on the stove off, slow, like Jack might spook. He’s pretty sure he’s going to cry, the unshed tears burning around his eyes.
“Jackie,” he says, and then pulls Jack gently into a hug. He’s stiff, reluctant for half a second before relaxing into him. He goes boneless, a hand grasped onto the fabric at the back of his sweatshirt, and Dave cradles the back of his neck, thumb brushing along the ends of Jack’s braids. Dave feels his breathing pick up against him.
“That wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done about that.”
Jack shudders, and Dave scratches his nails lightly against his scalp.
“It makes sense, that you’d get jumpy about it now, but there’s no way you could have prevented that.”
It was just- just another terrible thing that had happened to him, another to add to the long list. He drops a kiss to the top of Jack’s head, and then Jack pulls back, pulling his forearm across his eyes and turning away back toward the plate of pancakes so that Dave can’t see the red of his eyes.
“Syrup?” he says, trying for casual and coming up so short Dave almost wants to laugh.
He doesn’t, though. If Jack wants casual, wants to pretend like he didn’t just pour his heart out all over the kitchen floor, he can play along.
“Sure,” he says instead. “Syrup’s good.”
—
Jack does settle back down throughout the day, but Dave still feels a bit like he’s buzzing, nervousness surging under his skin. It’s got a bit to do with Jack, but mostly he’s pretty sure it’s about Race, about him being trapped in an apartment an entire borough away and Dave not being able to do anything about it.
It makes him jumpy. More than is probably warranted, if he’s honest, but he can’t help it.
It doesn’t help that Race isn’t picking up his phone. Which means nothing, probably. He’d been able to get ahold of everyone back at the apartment earlier in the day, but the power’s been out since last night, and he doubts that Race remembered to charge his phone beforehand (he should’ve brought that up, when they were texting yesterday, he realizes).
It’s the third time he tries to call and gets sent to voicemail that Jack finally calls him on it.
He doesn’t bother leaving a message, just hangs up the line and groans. Jack looks up from the scrabble game they’re working on, lit only by the candlelight, amusement clear along his smile.
“He’s fine, Davey. Give your brother some credit. His phone’s probably dead.”
Which, yeah. Dave knows that. Doesn’t help the worry down to his bones.
“Yeah. Yeah, probably,” he says, and plays “oxidize” off of Jack’s “tunient.” They’re pretty well matched in scrabble, but that’s only because Jack had long ago implemented a rule that they weren’t allowed to look up any words to confirm their legitimacy. For some reason, that rule never seems to work in his favour.
He’s a little floaty, both of them drinking hot chocolate that Jack had spiked with fireball, because they’ve gotta stay warm one way or another, and past the ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach, the only other thing he can focus on is how pretty Jack looks in the soft warmth of candlelight.
Jack squints down at his own tiles, rearranging them, and then plays “xynep” off of the x in Dave’s “oxidize,” hitting the triple word score with it.
“No, c’mon,” he says, Jack grinning wildly. “What is a xynep?”
“What, you’ve never heard of a xynep? ‘S an instrument. I got one in the closet right now.”
Dave laughs and clambers to his feet, a bit more unsteady than he’d realized, and makes his way toward the closet.
“Right in here?” he asks, and Jack follows after him, sliding to a stop in front of the closet door a half-second before him.
His back’s pressed to the closet door, and Dave’s close enough to feel how he’s gone a touch warmer from the alcohol in his system.
“Nah, I think I left it in my other apartment,” he says, just slightly breathless, and Dave’s going a bit lightheaded.
His laughter dies down, leaving something soft in its wake, and Dave feels his chest start to cave in.
“Didn’t have to run all the way over here and block the door then, didja?” he asks.
“No,” Jack says, and licks his lips. Dave watches, magnetized. “Guess not.”
The silence pulls tight, tight around them, and he imagines it snapping, imagines leaning down and kissing him, how soft Jack’d be, how full of passion.
Jack reaches out to grab a handful of his sweater, a gentle pull, and Dave retreats, makes himself take a step back. Jack’s had a bit too much, probably, and he’s not looking for this, anyway. A one night stand that doesn’t mean anything. Not from Jack
“Alright,” he says, shaky. “You can have xynep.”
Jack’s face falls, for just a second, before grinning bright. “Yeah, ‘cause you know I’m right.”
When he sits back down, he can’t keep himself from checking his phone again. Nothing. It’s fine.
He tries not to sigh, but something must show on his face, because Jack laughs a bit, not unkindly.
“He ain’t made a’ glass, y’know. And he’s with Spot; he’ll be fine.”
“I know,” Dave says, maybe a touch more defensively than he needs to.
He lies down the tiles for “pilates” and takes another drink from his mug, the hot chocolate sending warmth throughout his chest.
“Y’know Race and I aren’t really related, right?” he asks, and it’s a bit of a non-sequitur, but Jack just laughs.
“What, you mean you aren’t secretly Italian? How many lies have you been livin’, Jacobs?”
Dave rolls his eyes, but fondness pulls in his chest.
“Shut up,” he says, and Jack’s brown eyes are warm with amusement. “He was left in the drop-box the day I was born, and Mom and Dad decided we couldn’t just leave him there, so they took him in.
“He was really sick, though. Which is why his biological parents gave him up, I guess, because it was bad. They wouldn’t let him come home ‘till he was six months old, and he was in and out of the hospital yearly while we were growing up. Anything could set him off. Getting too hot, or too cold, or running around for too long, which was the worst ‘cause it’s nearly impossible to get Race to sit still for more than a second.”
He rearranges the tiles in front of him idly, listening to them clink against each other, and pitches his voice a bit softer, for the next part.
“I really thought he was gonna die, a couple of times. He didn’t, obviously. And he’s a lot better now, but it’s sort of- hard to shake, y’know?”
He smiles, a bit sadly, and Jack’s looking at him with some odd sort of understanding.
He smiles at him and reaches across the board to lay a comforting hand on Dave’s shoulder. “You’re a good brother, y’know,” he says, and then ruins the moment by playing “storsed.”
“Past tense a’ storse,” he says, before Dave can call him on it.
Dave shakes his head, but lets it go, and he does actually feel a bit lighter, now.
“Have ya tried Spot? Race’s phone’s dead, but Spot probably remembered to charge his. ‘Less your brother distracted him, I mean.”
That’s definitely not something Dave needs to hear, but he actually hadn’t thought about that, and perks up at the idea.
“Gross,” he says, already scrolling through his contacts to find Spot’s number. “Don’t talk about my brother and his boyfriend having sex.”
Jack laughs. “Hey, I didn’t say nothin’ about them havin’ sex. You added that all on your own.”
He brings the phone up to his ear and sticks his tongue out at Jack, which just makes him laugh harder.
It starts ringing through instead of going straight to voicemail, which is promising.
The line picks up on the fifth ring, and it’s Race’s voice on the other end.
“Hey, Davey!” he says, and Dave’s so relieved to hear his voice it’s almost palpable. “Can’t you take a hint? I don’t pick up and you go botherin’ my boyfriend?”
He’s in good spirits, and Dave’s about 80% sure it’s a joke, but a brief flare of annoyance hits him anyway.
“I was worried, asshole.”
Spot’s muted voice in the background, and then Race laughs. “Kidding, Davey, geez. My phone died. I’m fine, mom.”
“You guys aren’t running low on food or anything, right?”
He sees Jack raise his eyebrows, shooting him a pointedly amused look. Shut up, he mouths back and Jack cackles.
“You’re askin’ if we’ve eaten through the whole pantry in a day? We’re fine. You and Jack finally get it together and have sex yet?” he asks, because as much as Dave does not want to think about his brother’s sex life, it seems Race does not share the sentiment.
“That’s not- We’re- No,” he finally settles on, and Race and Spot both laugh on the other end, because they’re terrible, and Dave is rapidly regretting the decision to call him.
There’s some shuffling, and then it’s Spot’s voice coming through the line, with his thick Brooklyn accent. “Youse guys better get it together soon, ‘cause if I gotta listen to Kelly goin’-”
Another shuffle, and then Race’s voice again, lined with laughter. “Don’t listen to him, he can’t stop meddlin’. Go get laid, Davey.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says, and then backtracks. “Not- Not okay, I mean, but. Y’know. Bye.”
Race laughs, and then the line clicks.
Jack grins at him. “Not dead, then?”
“Alive, and a pain in the ass.”
He drops his phone back onto Jack’s coffee table. He’s been good about conserving battery, but his phone’s dropped down to about 30% throughout the day, and he’s pretty sure it’s gonna be dead by tomorrow.
If he has any luck at all, it won’t be an issue, and he’ll be out of here by the time that’s a problem.
But Jack’s smiling at him, soft and loose-limbed and warm, and Dave’s not at all counting on any kind of luck.
—
They don’t even talk about it that night, just crawl into Jack’s bed, and Dave’s just drunk enough that the sleep comes a bit easier, with Jack wrapped up in his arms. He’s a little bit worried he might start getting used to it, the soft weight of Jack laid on his chest, the up-and-down rhythm of his breathing. It’s more intoxicating than the fireball had been.
He wakes up halfway through the night, though, to an empty but still warm bed.
The hardwood is cold when he pushes himself to his feet, and it creaks underneath him. He draws a blanket from the bed around himself like a cape and stumbles forward toward the couch.
Jack, from where he’s sitting, turns around to face him, breaking out into a soft smile.
“Hey, Davey. Sorry, couldn’t sleep. Didn’t mean’ta wake ya up.”
“’S fine,” Dave says, because he’s pretty sure the thing that woke him up was Jack not being there anymore, not anything he actually did.
He drops down onto the couch next to him, and Jack flips to a clean page of his sketchbook, pencil sketching idly along the paper.
The silence envelops them, comfortable and broken by the soft sounds of Jack's pencil scratching along the page. He presses up against him, desperate to soak up the warmth that Jack puts off near-constantly.
As Dave watches, it starts to shape into a face, rough and a bit off-kilter in the dark, but recognizable all the same.
“’S that Medda?”
Jack tenses, like he’d forgotten Dave was there, and then continues with the sketch.
“Yeah. Gotta do it from memory, but ‘s alright.”
He’s quiet, soft against the darkness.
“It’s good.”
Jack smiles, a bit self-conscious, and leans into him. The lines of the sketch are soft, love poured into every inch of it, and it’s not his business, but it’s- it bugs, in the back of Dave’s mind.
“Why don’t you let her adopt you?”
Jack goes still, and he’s worried for a moment that he’s pushed too far, and that Jack’ll freeze back up, but he doesn’t.
“I just. Don’t wanna belong to anyone, y’know? Medda’s- she’s great, but I don’t want someone else to have control over my life.”
It makes a weird sort of sense, for someone like Jack, who hadn’t had control of himself for so long. And his view of family, between his time in the system and his time with his biological parents. It’s no wonder is it, that he’s boiled it down to control?
“Belonging to someone isn’t about control, Jackie,” he says, and Jack shoots him a look. “Okay, it’s not just about control. She’d have some more say, maybe, but. Listen, if you got hurt, or sick, you’d want Medda at your side, wouldn’t you?”
Jack nods. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“And if something happened to Charlie? Or Specs, Stray?”
Jack’s biting his bottom lip, still devoting half his attention to the page in front of him. “Yeah. I’d wanna be there.”
“Then that’s what it means. You belong to people. And they belong to you, whether you go through with the adoption or not. This just means - means it’s protected. Means no one can tell you otherwise.”
Jack turns his attention away from his sketchpad, looking up at Dave with an expression he can’t quite decipher. “When’d you get so smart, Jacobs?”
Dave laughs, soft, and the night tenses around them.
Jack’s eyes glance down to his lips, and Dave’s heart picks up in his chest, lungs filling with awe.
“Davey,” he mutters, and there’s something warm melting in his chest and down into his stomach. “That joke you made.”
Dave tries to think back, but they’ve been making jokes the whole time, and he’s got no clue what Jack might be talking about.
“Hm?” he hums, trying not to disturb the night settled comfortable around them.
“About bein’ one’a my one night stands,” he clarifies, and Dave feels the air in his lungs tighten. Ages ago now, and just days back. “You wouldn’t. I wouldn’t do that to ya, Davey.”
And it’s one thing, to know Jack has no interest in sleeping with him. It’s another to be told point-blank.
Dave forces himself to smile and be still, not to turn away and give up the game. Because this, having Jack in his life, this close to him, is plenty. This doesn’t change anything. How could Dave hold it against him?
“I know,” he says, past the lump in his throat. For a single, horrifying second, he thinks he might cry, right here on Jack’s couch. “It’s okay.”
Because Jack knows, doesn’t he? Why else bring it up?
Jack knows, and Jack doesn’t want him.
He doesn’t think that should hurt as much as it does, but he’s suddenly and acutely aware of why they call it “heartbreak,” because he thinks his chest might actually crack open.
“We should go back to sleep,” he says, and Jack wilts a bit, in relief.
He tries not to read into it.
—
The next morning is - not awkward, because Dave’s pretty sure there’s no awkwardness on Jack’s side of things, but he feels a bit like he’s tiptoeing around, not sure how to be around him without being in love with him. He sort of feels like he’s not allowed to be anymore, now that there’s no chance Jack’s in love with him back.
Jack smiles at him when he wakes up, though, as at ease as ever. He’s in the kitchen again, but just eating a granola bar this time.
“Mornin’. Power’s back on,” he says, because the universe seems to have finally decided to give Dave Jacobs a break.
Outside, the storm has slowed to a stop, but it doesn’t look like the plows have been around yet, everything still buried under about eight feet of snow. Still stuck then.
“Morning,” he says, and he thinks it must show, somehow, the fact that his heart is lying in pieces in his chest, like anyone could take one look at him and just know.
He’d left his phone on the charger overnight in case the power came back on, and it’s coming in handy now, his phone lit up and fully charged.
“I’m gonna- Gonna go call my Mom,” he says, and it’s a flimsy excuse, because he’s been making calls in front of Jack the whole time, but Jack, thankfully, doesn’t call him on it.
He steps out into the hallway and walks over to the staircase up to the roof, sitting down on the second step, and dials Sarah.
She picks up quickly, voice clear and light.
“David, hey! How’s it going with Mr. Charming?”
It’s a joke. One she’s made a hundred times, but today it feels - it hurts, like poking at a fresh wound.
“He’s- It’s-” He takes a breath. “Bad, Sarah.”
A beat of silence, and then a door clicking shut on the other end of the line. “What happened?”
“I made some stupid joke, and he-” He cuts off, a small, humourless laugh. Rejected feels too big a word. “He made it clear that he’s not interested.”
“He- What? You’re sure?”
He picks at the carpeting beneath him. “It’s a bit hard to misinterpret ‘I would never do that to you,’ Sarah. I’m sure.”
She hums. “I’m sorry, David. Do you need me to beat him up for you?”
He laughs wetly. “Yeah, sure.”
“Seriously, that’s so his loss,” she says, and it’s a bit cliché, but it does actually make him feel just a little better. “We’ll have ice cream and chick flicks when you get home. And I’ll beat him up.”
“Thanks,” he says, and he can picture the warmth of her smile. She’s only a few years older than him, but he’s never felt so much like a little brother. “How’re things at the apartment?”
“I think Les is gonna drive Ima and Aba insane if he has to stay cooped up in the apartment one more day.” She laughs, and Dave smiles, the shards in his chest starting to slowly knit back together.
He can make it through this. Another day, and then the roads will be plowed and he’ll be able to leave and watch cheesy rom-coms with Sarah.
Just another day.
—
The irony is, he doesn’t actually notice when the roads get plowed. He might be heartbroken, but Jack’s still Jack, and he still loses track of time, just a bit, when he’s around.
They’re sitting around on Jack’s couch, an episode of Parks and Rec playing on the TV, when Dave’s phone vibrates.
Racetrack 1:01
buzz us in
Racetrack 1:01
me and spot and albert are outside
Dave sighs, and Jack looks over and grins at him. Dave’s heart skips a beat in his chest, before he can remember why it’s not allowed to do that anymore.
“Race?”
“Yeah. He’s outside.”
He stands, the loss of Jack by his side settling the chill back against his skin despite the fact that the heat’s kicked back on by now, and presses the door button on the intercom.
“They plowed the roads?” Jack asks, and Dave spares a glance out the window. His car’s still buried, but the roads and parking lot are cleared, speckled white with salt.
“Looks like it,” he says, and wishes belatedly that he’d been paying better attention. Now he’s gotta sit through Race making his stupid jokes about him and Jack, with the knife still fresh in his chest.
He’s barely sat back down when their voices start carrying down the hall, loud and boisterous, and he braces, Jack a small comfort beside him.
The door slams open, and then Race slings his arms around him from behind, his chin resting on top of Dave’s head. Albert shoves onto the couch on Jack’s other side, Spot perching on the arm beside him.
“Hey, Davey,” Race says. “Didja miss me?”
Dave rolls his eyes, and Jack pushes lightheartedly at Albert sitting beside him. “What’re you, tryin’a break my door? Be considerate, asshole.”
Albert snorts a laugh. “Like you got anythin’ in here worth stealin’.”
“Most expensive thing in here’s the door. ‘S why he cares,” Spot says, and he feels Race’s head shift above him to turn toward Spot.
“Not true. Who invited you, Conlon?”
Spot shrugs. “No one. But you’re sweet on my boyfriend’s brother, so you ain’t gonna kick me out.”
Dave goes stiff. He’s not gonna make it through this.
“That means I ain’t gonna kick Racer out,” he says, moving thankfully past the joke without comment. “Got no problem kickin’ you out.”
“Davey, why’re you- are you serious?” Race asks, clearly picking up on his tension, and Dave is pretty sure the universe actually, viscerally hates him. “Y’all didn’t work this shit out while you were trapped together for two days?”
Jack, beside him, finally shows some acknowledgment of the situation. He freezes for half a second, and then pushes against the side of Race’s head. “He ain’t interested, Racer, knock it off.”
Everything screeches to a halt, including the record skip in Dave’s mind, and then explodes.
“Whaddaya mean he ain’t-”
“Davey, what’d you tell-”
“-the stupidest thing I ever heard-”
“-you serious? He’s-”
“Okay. Okay, everyone hold it!” Dave shouts above the din, and they fall back quiet. Race had been dislodged in the chaos, made his way over to Spot’s side instead, and he’s looking at Dave like he wants to strangle him. Dave turns his attention to Jack.
“Jack, what are you talking about?”
Jack smiles, weak and unsure, like he’s not sure if there’s some joke in there. Something dangerously close to hope is starting to build in his chest.
“What’re you- I- I told you. What I wanted, and you brushed me off.”
Dave’s head is spinning, and he’s very aware of the prying eyes on them. He stands, and motions for Jack to follow him.
“We should have this conversation in private,” he says, with a pointed look toward Race, who doesn’t even have the good grace to look ashamed, just shrugs.
They make their way out the door - not broken, despite Jack’s worries - and into the hallway. The fluorescent above them hums, bathing Jack in a harsh, biting light, but he manages to look breathtaking despite it, the shine of his hair, the warm glow in his eyes a steady reminder of how badly Dave's in love with him. How badly he's been on love with him.
“I didn’t brush you off,” he says, as soon as the door shuts behind them.
Jack starts, looking small and wrong-footed. “I told ya I wanted more’n a one night stand with you, and you said ‘that’s okay,’ and told me to go back to sleep. Thought you were lettin’ me down easy.”
Dave’s mouth goes dry. “No, you. You said you didn’t want- want to sleep with me.”
Jack’s eyebrows shoot up. “I can promise you I didn’t say that to ya, Davey. How could I? Christ, Jacobs, everyone knows I’m in love with ya.”
Dave’s heart threatens to beat out of his chest, and the whole world shrinks down to five words. I’m in love with you.
“You’re in love with me?”
Jack laughs, bright, and Dave’s soaring. “Of course.”
“You’re in love with me,” he says again, grin spreading wildly across his face. It’s almost impossible to believe, but here’s Jack, right in front of him, asking him to believe it. “I’m in love with you too, Jack.”
Jack’s grinning back at him, so beautiful, and every single emotion in his chest surges forward, threatens to spill out of him, and Dave leans down to catch him in a kiss, soft and relieved and so, so in love.
He cradles a hand on the back of Jack’s neck, pushing forward to lick into his mouth. Jack yields beneath him, and he tastes like toothpaste and the granola bar he’d eaten that morning. He rests his hands on Dave’s waist, one palm, rough and warm, sneaking underneath his sweater to press against his skin.
When he pulls back, Jack’s still grinning, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it, Jack looking at him like this.
Soft, so he doesn’t break the moment, Dave says, “We should go back inside. You know they’re listening at the door, right?”
“No, we aren’t - Ow!” Albert’s voice rings out from the other side of the door, and he and Jack both devolve into laughter, Jack pressing his face into Dave’s chest.
He feels a bit overcome, like he’s full of so much fondness that it must show through, but he’s a little too preoccupied to care. How could he? Who could blame him, even if they can see how hopelessly gone he is?
Jack Kelly loves him. Nothing else in the world matters.