Chapter Text
The night is nothing more than the flickering glow of the TV, casting soft light that etches over the living room, an echo of dialogue and the gentle rhythm of background music.
It was a hesitant invitation from Rachel when Jack and Eric made their way back home together — something that mumbled like "you guys probably won't like this" and another more direct warning of "you understand this is a romance between men ... right?" Eric heard her loud and clear, and utterly unbothered, made a home reclined on his favored corner of the couch. But as for Jack, the wooze of the night's shots of bottom-shelf vodka blurred her words like mumbled incoherence to his ears, he was just happy to be there.
It was another night that had initially found Jack and Eric pressed into the furthest booth at Chubbie's, buried beneath piles of schoolwork and stacked textbooks. But hopeful study sessions planned with Eric will never be as intended — why would it ever be? Spiralized notebooks and concentrated nibbles over #2 pencils turned to long games of pool between a shared basket of fries and quick puffs of Marlboro Reds in the back alleyway.
This is how it always ended, and neither of them would ever complain. And for as gratingly idiotic as that man is, it is equally as endearing being in the world with him, where he's free and goofy and so unashamedly himself, and even with Jack's played-upon eye rolls, he loves it all.
So, naturally, with the ask of a movie that gifts them extra time lounged together, who is he to say no? Again, he's not sure of what they're watching; he couldn't really hear, but how much of it matters when he's still running off the buzz of liquor and the high of raucous laughter?
Rachel is intent where she sits in the center of the couch, leaning onto her elbows with popcorn pinched between her fingers, eyes positively glued. And just to her left is Eric, similarly entranced and crossing an arm over her lap in a hopeful search for the gluttonously butter-soaked goodness resting just beside her.
But the further things develop, the further Jack seems to connect the dots on what is playing out, and those gleeful laughs shrink into something of horror. He's slowly begun to wither into himself, sinking into the couch like making himself small enough would finally see him disappear entirely. And with the display of the men on the TV, their hands firmed over their waists, the hopeful tease of a kiss on their lips, and 'I love you's' pouring from their hearts, he finds he feels a bit queasy.
He wishes now more than anything that he had heard her the first time.
Rachel turns to stare at the discomfort etched into Jack's face, the displeased downturn of his lips, and the way he refuses to stare at anything other than the dance of shadows on the floor.
"You alright, Jack?" Rachel looks on, amused.
And at a time when the wood grain on the floor has never been nearly this interesting to him, "Yep, all good here." He gives a simple thumbs-up. And Jack is caught between wanting to be left alone once more, sinking back into nonexistence, and wanting nothing more than for Rachel to keep babbling to cover the noise of the escalating kisses. He dreads what's next.
"We've been watching this movie for the past half hour, and you haven't even looked up once."
"Oh, come on, Rachel — I did! ...Once." He pauses; grimaces. "...And I haven't looked up since. Okay, look — I'm not a fan of watching dudes kiss, alright? It's weird. I mean, you understand, right, Eric?"
Jack watches as Eric peels his back from where he rests into the couch, a lean in to look at him, feeling a swell of confidence where he just knows he's about to be justified in his words, this hopeful sense of camaraderie. It is immediately thrown out the window the moment Eric surprises him with a scoff, pairing a long, incredulous stare.
"No, it's not weird, Jack." He defends. "What are you, repressed?"
This takes a turn he wasn't expecting, 2 vs 1, and pelted with hard gazes he doesn't understand and is confused by — why isn't he agreeing? But the real ego-shattering wound was the pelted questioning of his own sexuality. It's as if there was suddenly collective amnesia around his short-lived relationship with Rachel, or as if they'd never witnessed the embarrassing restrained muffles of late-night hookups from behind his door.
He straightens, looks Eric dead in the eyes, and points at him sternly, because goddamn it, he is going to defend himself until his dying breath if he has to.
"I am not repressed, Eric."
"Seems like it to me." He shrugs, trying to restrain the smug little tug of a smile when he knows the fire of words sit in wait.
"Okay, you know what? Actually, you're totally the repressed one, dude." He gestures between Eric and the still playing movie — he catches a glimpse where they're shirtless now, and he shudders. "No straight guy wants to see this. I want to see a woman — long hair, curves, a short skirt, all of it. Yeah, but sure, I'm repressed when you're the one who's into it."
But Eric is as cool and level-headed as ever. None of this bothers him, because why would it?
"I probably wouldn't have chosen this movie, but at least I'm someone confident enough in myself that watching men in love doesn't bother me. But you…," he drags out and lets his smirk freely paste across his face when he knows the bullet of words in the chamber is threatened by the trigger of his own tongue. "Do you even see yourself right now? Why are you so uncomfortable? Are you that fragile that seeing two men kiss is the end of the world?"
"You're ridiculous, man."
"Well, prove me wrong, then!" Eric holds up his hands in exasperation.
And meanwhile, just between them, Rachel has traded her view from the movie to darting glances between the two, a real-life drama unfolding right before her eyes. Nothing has ever been more popcorn-worthy than this, and she cradles the dwindling bowl, hanging off of every last word.
"What do you want me to do then, hold your hand?"
And that joking laugh Jack gives drops into vacant blinks when he hears Eric's enthusiastic "yeah!" shouted in response, Eric closing in a distance that smothers Rachel back into the couch to clear room for them; she is enjoying every last second of this.
"Better yet, let's make it a challenge, Jack, because I bet you won't last."
"...You think I can't hold your hand?"
Eric laughs when he clarifies, "No, I know you can totally hold my hand, dude — that's nothing. I'm talking about gay chicken."
"Cut it out, seriously." He throws up his hands in disbelief, because there is no way they are fighting over a hopeful dare of… gay chicken? "This is all over the fact that I didn't want to watch this movie?" He looks to Rachel for reassurance. "It's ridiculous, isn't it?" Jack smacks the back of his hand against her shoulder, where again, assumption of common thought fails him when she instead raises her brows and, to his annoyance, goads him.
"And so, you're just gonna back down from the dare and prove his point?"
Jack has just about had it.
It's impulsive when he bridges the gap separating them, closing in distance when he roughly grabs Eric's wrist, a grounding swallow as he firms his gaze. "Fine. Tell me the rules, and I'll do it."
Eric's got him right where he wanted him, and he can't wait to watch him squirm.
"We start small." He pries his wrist from his grip to clasp his palm in his, watching the restrained disgust on his face, and he is positively giddy over it. "But every time we do something, it escalates. It doesn't have to be anything crazy, but it has to get gayer."
"…Gayer?"
"Yeah, that's kinda the whole purpose of it, Jack. Why else do you think it's called gay chicken?"
Their hands are flushed together, palm to palm, where they rest over Rachel's lap, and Eric insists. "Anyway, I wanna finish the movie. You can, too, unless you're, you know," he pauses as he leans in. "Too chicken."
There's determination in Jack's eyes — he will not be undermined, he refuses to be, and squeezes his hand even tighter, grudgingly pasting his eyes to the film. Jack promises he'll win this, even if it's to his detriment, even if it takes him to places he doesn't want to go, because one thing about Jack Hunter is he will not lose a dare. Not now, not ever.
Now all he has to do is finish the movie, and he's counting down the seconds.
And thankfully for him, the movie was only a blur behind the simmering heat of frustration, where he cannot be happier for it to finally end, because Eric is now rubbing his thumb over the edge of his wrist, and he wants to punt him across the room for it. He hasn't looked at him, but he knows the wear of smugness; he can see it out of the corner of his eyes, that look so positively tickled to challenge each and every facet of his discomfort.
He will not let him win.
Jack spreads his fingers to interlace his, winding their hands together into something so much more tender than palm-to-palm, and there is this swell of confidence, like he's done his part, like this whole charade can be done and over with by the night's end. How's that for repressed?
But, truthfully, how much more could they even do when Rachel still sits squished between the two? All 6 foot of her having to somehow fold into something tiny, even smaller now when Eric crosses a leg between them, a subtle rub of his foot over Jack's ankle, and he groans.
"Foot stuff, Eric? We're doing foot stuff?"
But he shrugs his shoulders. "With Rachel between us, this is the best I've got." He adjusts his fingers where they rest between his, clammy and warm, and he crooks his head. "You're like, really sweaty."
"Shut up."
Obviously, he knows — his whole body heats with nerves, betraying him with the heated slide of his fingers in his, and he tries his best not to think about it.
It felt torturously long as Jack awaited the end, loosening with the release of that held breath with the roll of credits. This punishment was long enough, and he's more than happy to pry his hand from within his and tuck his leg far from Eric, enjoying the cold emptiness of losing his touch, and it feels like a slice of heaven. Jack reclines into the side of the couch, a soft smile that he is finally awash in relief. It's another day done and gone, where tomorrow will be normal as it always is.
But yet,
"So are you quitting?"
Jack's face drops. "Quitting? What do you mean quitting?"
And Rachel pops in from between them, a brow raised. "Do you not realize this is a challenge? It doesn't end just because the movie does."
It's here that it finally sinks in that this is more than what he had bargained for, and he pales, a ghost of himself, when he sits with it. Because how much more would 'more' even be? How much more would things further than just his clammy hand in Eric's, or the graze of their heels against each other?
He stares at the challenging arch of Eric's brow as he awaits an answer, but he knows he's too far in now. There is no going back.
Jack sucks in a long breath that gives way for that faked confidence and forced nonchalance when he shrugs his shoulder as he gets up from the couch. "Nah, I'm not quitting. Just, uh… Just… taking a break." He gives himself a moment, nods like he's trying to convince himself. "I've gotta go to bed — wake up early. But tomorrow I've got you." He points at Eric like he's testing him, but it is so weak around the edges, and he knows it.
"Just remember, the ball's in your court now!" Eric shouts to him as Jack slowly trails himself back to his bedroom, putting a pause on everything that has transpired, leaving the room with simply a stunned Rachel and a pleased Eric, reclining where he sits.
"…He's got no idea what he's gotten himself into, does he?"
"Not a clue."