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Jack reaches his hand out to turn the doorknob and freezes with his fingers grazing the metal. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the smooth, cool handle, then pulls away and pats his hands over both of his pockets in turn—twice, for good measure. Everything’s there that should be and it comforts him a little.
This time, Jack grasps the knob and swings the door open to find Kent waiting for him, socked feet kicked up onto the coffee table and a single eyebrow quirked at either whatever reality TV show he’s got blasting or the social media he’s scrolling through on his phone. Kent is in sweatpants that sling low on his hips—low enough that Jack’s eyes trace the soft line of pubic hair that dips out of sight just before he wishes it did—and one of Jack’s old Samwell t-shirts, slightly too tight across his shoulders, and— Crisse, could Jack come home to this—to Kenny—forever.
Kent looks up from his phone and smirks. “You were supposed to bring home wine, asshole.”
Shit, Jack knew he forgot something in the car. Rolling his eyes and slipping out of his shoes, he chirps back, “And you’re supposed to be cooking dinner, dick.” He ambles over to the couch and leans in for a kiss.
“Yeah but then I remembered Chinese food exists. I ordered your fave,” Kent says, and fists his hand in Jack’s shirt when he tries to pull away, yanking him back in for another round of kisses. He teases at Jack’s bottom lip with his teeth and murmurs suggestively, “We’ve got a whole forty minutes.”
Jack laughs nervously. “Good. I, ah—I’ve got something planned?”
Kent’s eyebrow shoots up in a perfect arch. “Seriously?”
“It’s my date night,” Jack answers defensively. His fingers graze over the folded up pages in his pocket, the velvet box.
“Says the dude who’s planned literally every fucking date night thus far by saying—,” Kent scrunches up his expression into Jack’s media face and intones flatly, in his awful French accent, “’let’s stay in and watch a movie.’”
Jack looks down, a little guilty. He knows, logically, that Kent doesn’t actually have a problem with that; some days, he kind of suspects that Kent enjoys nights curled up alone together under a blanket even more than Jack does. But—Jack still feels bad, because Kent is always planning these dates that are fun or romantic, and even though they’re both based on the east coast now it’s not like they have an excessive amount of time together, and maybe Jack should be making it count more than he is. Which is part of why he’s doing this tonight.
“Just—here, Kenny. Take it.” Jack pulls out the article he printed and hands it over; Kent unfolds it, lips twisted in curiosity.
"'The 36 Questions that Lead to Love'?” Kent reads the headline, his voice careful like it almost never is anymore. “Thought you already loved me, Zimms?”
He says it in a way that makes it sound like a chirp when it isn’t one at all, and Jack knows better, so he says matter-of-factly, “I do, Kenny,” and sinks down onto the couch next to Kent, close enough that their thighs touch.
And this is one of the other reasons Jack is doing this, now that he’s thinking about it; sometimes things catch up with him late, like that. But the point is, Kent—seems to have trouble believing that this is real, that Jack means I love you every bit that Kent does. And Jack doesn’t blame him, not after everything he’s done to let Kent down before. It’s just that—this is a sure thing for Jack now, and for all the things his anxiety has convinced him he’d lose, at one time or another, he’s never actually had to be afraid of losing Kent. Kent was always there, even when he wasn’t, and Jack thinks that’s part of why it took him so long to find his way back.
Not that being back has always been easy; so much has changed about their lives—about themselves —and in a lot of ways that’s good, but. It’s a little, Jack thinks, like reading two different autobiographies from soldiers in the same war. All the big pieces are the same, but there’s so much to relearn and it’s intimidating, and scary, especially for Kent. I feel like all I had was knowing who you were, he’d admitted one night, when the lights were dimmed low and the sheets had slipped off their sweat-slick skin, telling myself I still knew you better than—than fucking anyone. Now I don’t even have that. And Jack, fumbling and throat tight, hadn’t known how to tell Kenny that he had everything else. So:
“I just thought, um—since we talked about how things have changed,” Jack explains, suddenly feeling a little sheepish about his decision.
“Zimms, babe,” Kent says, thunking his head affectionately against Jack’s shoulder and looking up at him through his lashes, “I fucking love it. Let’s do it.”
Relieved, Jack asks, “Yeah?”
Kent smiles. “Yeah, duh.” He clears his throat and holds up the paper to read the first question. “Given the choice of anyone, who’d you wanna have as a dinner guest?”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “Lin-Manuel Miranda.”
“The dude who wrote Hamilton?” Kent asks, and flops down across Jack’s lap, “How come?”
“I love how he interpreted the history,” Jack explains with a shrug, “Maybe I could convince him to do something with World War Two.”
Kent snorts, “Nerd,” and Jack smiles fondly.
“Who would you pick?”
“Uh.” Kent hesitates. “Do they gotta be alive?”
Jack thinks about it; the question doesn’t really specify. “I guess not.”
“My dad, then,” Kent answers, and Jack probably should have predicted that. He feels a little guilty that he didn’t, like he’s failed some sort of test already. “I, um—fuck, fuck this—,” Kent breaks off in a self-deprecating laugh, wet and embarrassed, “I’d wanna tell him about my life. See if—if he’s proud of me.”
“He is,” Jack says immediately. And—Jack always hates platitudes like that, because it’s not like anyone could know and it’s such an empty comfort. But Jack feels like he does know. Because who wouldn’t be proud of Kent, after everything he’s accomplished, everything he’s overcome? He wonders if this is how people used to feel when they told him everything will be okay. It’s a strange thing to be on the other side of.
Kent laughs again, this time surprised but pleased. “Thanks, Zimms.” Jack nods and brushes his hand along Kent’s forearm. When he doesn’t say anything, Kent prompts, “Next question?” and holds the paper up for Jack to read.
“Um. Would you like—I forgot, this one’s, uh—would you like to be famous?” Kent snorts, but Jack stubbornly continues anyway, “And in what way?”
“I like being famous,” Kent says instead, which is basically the best way to answer the question, “Except for like, the whole closeted thing. You?”
Jack leans his head back against the couch. “I, ah—I’d prefer to not be. Maybe—if I were famous for something else? Photography, or something—with less pressure.”
Kent makes a sound of acknowledgement and moves on to the next question. “Before making a phone call, do you rehearse what you’re gonna say? Why?”
Jack says yes, because it makes him less anxious about talking to people; it’s the same reason he has media sound-bites that he relies on, and practiced lines he can say to fans. Kent only rehearses rarely, like when he has to break bad news to PR—which happens a lot less often now that he’s in his thirties and isn’t out partying every weekend.
The next question is about a “perfect” day, and Jack is kind of relieved when they both answer pretty similarly: play hockey, see friends, and spend time with each other. Jack adds getting to take some photography and Kent would want to snuggle with Kit and watch bad TV. After that, there’s a question about singing; Jack sheepishly admits that sometimes he’ll murmur old songs—lullabies his mother used to sing to him—after Kent has fallen asleep. He expects to get chirped for it, but Kent turns a lovely shade of pink and buries his face in the curve of Jack’s hip, so—apparently that’s a good thing.
Next, Jack finds himself asking, “If you’re able to live to ninety, and keep either the mind or the body of a thirty year old—for, uh, the last sixty years of your life—which would you choose?”
Kent tilts his head, an odd gesture since he’s still reclined across Jack’s lap, and considers. “Uh, body, I guess.”
“Really?” Jack frowns a little, tries to understand.
“I mean, yeah? Like, I could still play hockey and everything, and—who knows, maybe my shit brain’s gonna figure something out in the next couple decades and get the fuck over itself.” Kent makes a sound like he’s going to add something else, but he falls silent instead.
Jack argues, “But, what if you got dementia or something?”
Kent shrugs. “That mean you’d pick your mind?”
“Um. Yeah. I think—I’d rather…keep how I feel, and think.”
“Wouldn’t you miss—?” Kent ends the question by gesturing vaguely at Jack’s body, and Jack frowns in confusion. Sighing, Kent elaborates quietly, “Being strong, fit. And—attractive. Like, people wanting you.”
Jack kind of understands, he thinks, but it’s not something he’s ever managed to feel. “Um. I’m—used to not thinking those things about myself. I…still kind of don’t. I’ve always kinda felt like the fat kid.”
“I fell in love with the fat kid,” Kent points out, and presses a kiss to Jack’s stomach. It’s true, probably. Jack didn’t go through his “magical” transformation until after his sixteenth birthday, when he and Kent were already stealing kisses in darkened hotel rooms.
Jack smiles. “That kinda just proves my point.”
“For you,” Kent says, and Jack’s smile fades. He can tell Kent is hinting at something, in that frustratingly vague way that Jack can never untangle on his own.
He’s learned to ask for help, though. “What do you mean?”
Apparently reluctant to elaborate, Kent just cryptically adds, “I know what people like me for.”
Which isn’t particularly helpful, but— oh. “Kenny,” Jack says, reaching a hand out to cup Kent’s cheek and tilt his face so that their eyes meet. Kent turns with hesitation, but looks up at Jack anyway. “I like all of you. Not just your body—not just the sex.”
Kent’s eyes swim with something Jack can’t place and he glances away, pressing his cheek hard into Jack’s palm. He takes a shuddering breath and says, “Next question. Do—,”
Jack starts to protest, because he knows Kent is just avoiding something they need to talk about again, but Kent is sputtering over the question anyway, protesting, “Fuck—no, fuck this—I’m skipping this one.”
Jack’s read the list, of course. He’s gone over it more than once, first to plan and then as a comfort. He’d know the next question even if he couldn’t shift to the side and read it off the page: Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?
So Jack understands the urge to skip the question; he just can’t tell whose answer Kent is afraid of hearing. He shifts, temporarily dislodges Kent from his lap so that he can lay down on the couch too and urge Kent to curl into his body. Hooking his chin over Kent’s shoulder, he muses, “I think I’ll be one hundred or so. Hopefully it’d be in my sleep, at home.” No more hospitals.
Kent huffs and tries to chirp, “You picked keeping your mind, bro. All bets are off.”
“Kent,” Jack says softly. He can feel the nervous pattern of Kent’s breathing against his chest, the gentle jab of his shoulder blades when he exhales. A cowlick tickles at his nose.
There’s a fluttering silence and then Kent admits, voice detached, “I don’t get old. I—don’t actually want it, but—maybe it’s a car crash or something, or—maybe—maybe I just finally—you know—.”
Everything in Jack’s body aches all at once, like every check he’s ever taken on the ice is hitting him again. For all that he knows, for all that he’s felt the same, he still doesn’t understand how to look it in the face. “I hope not,” he says instead, his arms instinctively going tight around Kent’s waist, “I’d like to be one hundred with you.”
He feels the corner of Kent’s smile against his chin when Kent promises, “I’ll try, Zimms.”
That’s really the most Jack can ask for, and he rewards it with a series of kisses pressed to the side of Kent’s face. His forehead, cheek, jaw, the corner of his mouth all peppered by Jack’s lips until he’s wriggling a little in Jack’s arms.
“Quit it, asshole,” Kent whines, but he’s laughing when he turns his head to catch Jack in a real kiss, deep and hungry and—maybe grateful. Jack isn’t sure what he’s being thanked for, but he kisses back, sucking on Kent’s bottom lip and twisting to press him down into the couch cushions just a little.
Kent moans when Jack’s lips move down to his neck and suggests, breathlessly, “Zimms. Zimms, can we—answer the rest of these in—fuck, babe—like, thirty?”
Intent on the hickey he’s leaving under Kent’s jaw, Jack doesn’t answer right away. When he does, he nips at Kent’s earlobe and bargains, “Make it twenty-five.”
“Dick,” Kent snorts, rolling onto his feet and stifling a surprised grunt when Jack lifts him up and he has to wrap his legs around his waist.
“That’s the plan, Kenny,” Jack chirps, feeling a little heady already from the kisses and the way Kent is grinding his erection against Jack’s cock. It usually takes Jack a little longer to get going than Kent, but by the time he gets them into the bedroom—nudging the door open with a foot and shooing a disgruntled Kit off the bed—he’s mostly hard and panting into Kent’s mouth. He thinks maybe his nerves are all looking for somewhere to go.
“Zimms?” Kent asks, not sounding any more composed than Jack feels, “Whatcha wanna do?”
Jack answers by depositing Kent on the edge of the bed and dropping to his knees on the floor. Kent shudders appreciatively and slips out of his shirt, then braces his hands against the mattress so he can hitch his hips off the bed when Jack tugs at his sweatpants. For a moment they just sit there like that, Kent smoldering down and Jack gazing up at him from underneath his lashes, shifting his weight from side to side, hoping his knees will bruise. It’s the off-season; he’s allowed his indulgences.
“Well, come on, Zimms,” Kent taunts, and something hot flares in Jack’s gut. Jack surges forward and Kent fists a hand in his hair and Crisse, yes, God, it feels so good to take Kenny in his mouth like this, to suck him so well he can’t help but fuck his hips up into Jack’s mouth and choke him on it, just a little.
Kenny always runs his mouth just the way Jack likes it, too. Fuck, Zimms, you can—do better than that—work for it a little, yeah? He works his hands in Jack’s hair, scratches his fingers against his scalp so that it hurts just enough.
Sometimes, especially if Kent is standing, Jack likes to hold his hands behind his back while he sucks him off, and if Kent’s in the mood he’ll even tie him up. But today, Kent’s head is cracked back against the mattress and he’s barely keeping it together. Jack has to get up off his knees to fix the angle, brace himself against the bed to keep his mouth around Kent’s dick at all.
“Fuck—fuck, babe, I love how much you want it,” Kent babbles. His hands have slipped away to grasp at the mattress and Jack takes him down further, so his nose is brushed against the soft hair at Kent’s base. “You’re so—good—Jack, Christ, fuck—I—love—this—you, God—.”
This is the part Jack likes best. When Kent is about to come and Jack’s head is all a thick, pleasant fog and there’s no pretense anymore, no taunting because Kent is too high on whatever Jack is giving him to say anything but the truth. “Jack— Jack, I’m—coming, babe—Christ, God, fuck fuck I love you, Zimms, I—.” Kent’s voice cuts off in a keen that sends his body thrashing upwards one last time before he sinks down into the mattress, panting through his aftershocks as Jack swallows down the come still on his tongue.
Jack clambers up onto the bed and Kent sits up a little to kiss him, slow and with deep sweeps of tongue because he likes to taste himself in Jack’s mouth and Jack likes to feel the way Kent shudders when he does.
“Babe,” Kent murmurs, “you were so good. So fucking good. What do you want?”
Jack’s not ready to make words yet—everything still feels a little far away—so he settles for a non-committal sound in the back of his throat. Kent nods and hums back, like he understands perfectly, and leans Jack back against the pillows. Kissing him all the while, Kent works with reverent hands to undress him, tugging off his shirt and helping him shimmy out of his track pants. He leaves Jack’s boxers on and slips his hand underneath and oh, God does Jack love this.
It’s simple and—kind of quick and dirty, sometimes, getting jerked off—but there’s something about the protective curl and twist of Kent’s hand that Jack is almost always in the mood for. Which—is probably why Kent chose it, since Jack couldn’t decide himself. Jack moans and kisses Kent and the hand in his hair is gentle, fingers curling through the messy strands, and he manages to whisper, “I love you,” once before he comes all over his boxers and Kent’s hand.
Kent laughs and wipes his hand off on Jack’s underwear—because why not at that point, apparently—before helping him strip out of them. He flops back down onto the bed and nestles his head against Jack’s chest. “Love you too, babe.”
They lay there for a while, half-dozing and blissed-out, until Jack prods, “Kenny—the questions.”
Kent groans but shuffles off to retrieve the list, and Jack busies himself with tucking under the covers, too lazy to throw clothes back on but chilled by the AC. When Kent gets back they snuggle up together again, Kent tucked under Jack’s arm.
“Right. Ah. Name three things you and your partner have in common,” Jack reads.
Kent snickers. “My dick, as of recently.”
“Parse,” Jack admonishes, but he’s smiling and Kent just laughs harder, smooshing his face against Jack’s shoulder and shaking with the force of his almost-giggles. Rolling his eyes, Jack presses a kiss to Kent’s temple.
They run through questions for a while, mostly lighthearted—relatively speaking, anyway. One of the questions is to share their life stories in four minutes; they both agree to pick up after The Draft, since they basically know everything that came before it. Jack learns a lot about the Aces, a history he’s mostly missed, since he and Kent didn’t reconnect until Kent had already been traded to the Rangers, and Kent hears Jack’s retelling of the years at Samwell that sounds a little different when Shitty isn’t recounting it while high at Thanksgiving dinner.
There’s a knock at the door shortly after, and Kent sighs, exaggeratedly put out for someone who was pretty excited for Chinese food when he ordered it. “Can’t you go get it?” he whines, but he’s already rolling out of bed and snagging his boxers off the ground.
Jack points out wryly, “It’s technically your apartment, man.”
“You’ve had a key for like a year,” Kent mutters, and trudges off.
He comes back with two bags filled with food draped over his wrists and plates with silverware balanced in his hands. Jack lays out paper towels and starts unpacking the food; he kind of hates eating in bed, to be honest, but for some reason Kent loves it and he’s beyond making the argument at this point.
Kent frowns a little and tilts his head. “D’you think you’re supposed to have red or white with lo mein?”
“Red, maybe. I thought we were out of wine.”
“We’re out of shit wine,” Kent corrects, already wandering back into his kitchen, “But we’ve got the good shit and, dunno, feels appropriate.”
Jack smiles a little to himself and dumps out a container of rice.
When Kent gets back this time, it’s with an uncorked bottle, two glasses, and Kit at his heels. He pours himself a full glass, and a half of one for Jack—since he likes to nurse his alcohol—and sets the bottle on the nightstand. Kit hops up on the bed and kneads against the comforter, purring softly as she settles in.
“I should’ve told you white wine,” Jack grouses, “This is gonna be a disaster.”
Kent presses his lips to his glass and takes a long sip. “Probably. Where were we?”
Jack wipes his hands clean and snags the paper again. “Is there something you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”
“Hm. Uh, I—,” Kent buys time by shoving a large clump of noodles into his mouth and then proceeds to talk with his mouth full anyway, “I kinda wanna be a dad. But like, with hockey’n shit it’s—eh.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Jack and Kent have talked about kids before, but in the abstract sort of way. Not in a way that made Jack think Kent wanted them like this. “Have you…thought about how?”
Kent shrugs. “What—uh, what do you think?”
Jack stalls a little, taking his time with a drink of wine. “I—ah, surrogacy would seem nice? But I’m…not sure I’d want to pass on—,” he frowns, unsure how to phrase what he wants to say, and settles for tapping his glass against his forehead, “this. Maybe if you—?”
Laughing, Kent says, “Hate to break it to ya, buddy, but my gene pool’s just as shitty as yours.”
And, well, Jack has some trouble believing that. It’s hard to remember that the Kenny curled up next to him with a plate of greasy Chinese food is the same man whose temper cracked like a whip all those years ago, whose mood swings nearly shattered their relationship for good more than once. Jack loves that part of Kent, too—because he loves every part of Kent, with a quiet fervor he’s never managed to shake—but he’s glad it isn’t the part in control, anymore.
So Jack decides to let it go, even though now he has an image of a curly-haired toddler waddling around the apartment and—maybe they’ll talk about it more, some other time. “There’s adoption, then.”
“Mm, yeah,” Kent agrees, and rests his head thoughtfully on Jack’s shoulder. “Sure is.”
Jack ruffles his hair and stays quiet for a moment, until he remembers it’s technically his turn to share. “Ah, I wanna go back to school and get my master’s. Maybe even a Ph.D.”
“Now?” Kent lifts his head and blinks in confusion.
Chuckling, Jack explains, “Nah, after I retire, probably. I’d rather do it in person, and online would be the only option while I’m still playing.”
“Fuckin’ awesome. Go for it, Zimms.” Kent leans down again. They’ve gone through most of the food, but Jack is still munching quietly and sipping at his wine. “Lemme see the paper.”
Jack hands it over and Kent asks, “What’s your greatest accomplishment?”
“My degree,” Jack answers immediately, and then he kind of laughs at himself because—he’s won a Stanley Cup. But it was the first thing that came to mind and it still kind of feels true even after the fact.
He expects to get chirped for it but Kent just presses a kiss to his collarbone. “I—fuck, I should just say the Cup,” Kent says with a laugh. “That—would’ve been it, for a long time. But—fuck.”
Jack switches his wine glass to his other hand and slips an arm around Kent’s shoulders. “Kenny?”
“It’s you,” Kent mumbles, maybe a little fearful. His head is tilted down, eyes fixed on the plates of food in their laps. “It’s—everything it took to get us back here. The fucking years of therapy included.” Probably especially the therapy, Jack thinks, but he doesn’t say anything about that.
Jack loves him. So much. So he tells him, presses a kiss into his hair and says, “I’m glad we’re here.” It’s taken Jack a lot to be here, too. He’d always been so terrible with words—shutting down after his overdose, letting his jealousy color so many of the things he did say—and he’s still not the best at it, but—he’s trying pretty hard.
“Your turn,” Kent tells him, snapping him out of his little reverie.
“Right. What do you value most in a friendship?” Jack reads.
Kent smirks. “Someone who calls me out on my bullshit. But like, without making me feel gross about it. You?”
Thinking fondly of Shitty, Jack explains, “Hm. Kind of similar? I like people who pull me out of my head.”
Kent peers at the paper and smiles at the question, though his lips twitch like he’s not thrilled about something he’s seen lower on the page. “What’s your fondest memory?
“Hm.” Jack tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes while he thinks. “Two Christmases ago.” They’d spent it in Providence, with all of the SMH crew in attendance, and—
Kent snorts. “That was almost a fucking epic disaster. I thought Eric was gonna kill me.”
“Yeah, but he spared you,” Jack teases. He’s still kind of misty eyed over the memory. It was the first holiday Kent spent with Jack’s friends as his—well, they weren’t actually boyfriends, yet, but everyone kind of knew. Jack has a few patterns he hasn’t managed to break. And yes, things were rocky at first—especially with Bittle, which was more Jack’s fault than anyone’s, even if Kent caught the brunt of the fallout. But the good part—the part Jack sees in his mind when he closes his eyes—is the end of the night, reclined on the couch with everyone around.
He sees Shitty, very high, and Lardo, very pregnant and surprisingly not that grumpy about staying sober, and Ransom in an armchair with Holster at his feet, a child asleep in each of their laps. He can remember the sound of Nursey and Dex bickering over the last slice of pie from the kitchen, and Bittle turning in his seat to fuss at them. There’s the comfort of Kent’s body pressed up against his, the weight of Kent’s head on his shoulder that means Kent is dozing off, even though he’ll deny it later when Jack chirps him.
And he can conjure up how it feels the next moment, when Bittle turns back around, rolling his eyes, and smiles fondly at Jack—clearly laughing silently about the former D-men partners who still haven’t managed to admit to anyone else they’re together. Because there are some things they’ll always get to share, even though Bittle moved out and they both moved on and it felt like nothing could be the same. It can’t, but that was the first time Jack thought that maybe they could heal anyway.
“Zimms? Bud.” Kent prods at Jack’s cheek and Jack turns, blink rapidly to dispel his thoughts.
“Hm? Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly.
Kent just smirks. “S’okay. I was gonna say what mine was.”
Jack tilts his head to the side to press his cheek to the top of Kent’s head. “Oh?”
“Same night, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Kent hums. “And the next morning. When you kissed me.” He’s tracing lazy circles on Jack’s stomach with his hand, fingers stroking softly over the planes.
Jack remembers that part pretty well, too. Kent had crashed in the guest bedroom overnight and groggily trudged out the next morning—well, Jack is pretty sure it was actually the afternoon, but he’s not going to harp on the point—to help clean from the night before. There was somehow wrapping paper everywhere, and one of the kids had drawn on the kitchen table in crayon, and Kent kept complaining about how the coffee was too strong, and all Jack could think about was how this was the way every morning-after-Christmas should go.
“You tasted like coffee grounds,” Jack says, and Kent elbows him in the gut.
They tousle for a few moments before Jack remembers the food, and nags at Kent to move it all off the bed, which he begrudgingly does. They keep the wine, though, and while Jack’s on his first glass still, he thinks Kent is probably on his third. He likes Kent like this, just barely pink-cheeked and a little giddy.
Jack asks, “Ready for the next one?” and Kent nods reluctantly. “What’s—your worst memory?” Jack’s pretty sure he knows the answer, that Kent will say finding Jack—
“That big party at Samwell that I crashed. Back in ’14,” Kent says instead, without much hesitation.
Jack can’t help but startle a little. “I thought—,”
Quietly, Kent says, “Losing you wasn’t my fault, that time.” His eyes have turned blue and brooding, storming under his pale lashes.
Jack furrows his eyebrows and struggles to find words. “You didn’t lose me.”
Kent laughs wetly. “Felt that way. I’m—glad I was wrong.”
“Me too.” Kent looks up briefly, nearly smiles, and turns back away. His palm is splayed against Jack’s stomach, steady and warm. Jack inhales deeply just to feel the way their bare skin presses closer together.
There’s an awkward silence where neither of them is really ready for what has to come next. Jack kind of wants to get it over with, but he’s worried about upsetting Kent, so he waits. Finally, Kent clears his throat and finds the courage to say, “Tell me about yours.”
“It’s—the day after I woke up,” Jack answers, and he’d tried not to think too hard about the questions ahead of time, but this was one he’d planned for, a little. He was afraid of how it could all sound. “I—wanted to be happy I was still alive and I—couldn’t. I couldn’t feel anything, really, except my throat hurt and—I was kind of annoyed, that Maman was crying.” His chest is going tight and the words are starting to stick on the way out, but Kent is so warm and alive next to him and that makes it a little easier. “And I sort of—once I realized, I was so scared that that was the only way I’d feel forever.”
“Should I—,” Kent’s voices cracks and he starts over, “Should I have been there? They—everyone told me not to, and I—maybe I shouldn’t have listened. Maybe—maybe I fucked—,”
“No, I—I don’t know,” Jack admits. He scrubs a hand over his face and then drops his arm back around Kent’s shoulders. “I didn’t want anyone. I didn’t want me. I—don’t think it would have changed anything.” He thinks about when Kent finally did come, two weeks later when Jack was settled into rehab and allowed visitors. He thinks about three days after that, taking Kent Parson off the visitation list and blocking the number on his phone.
Jack feels a tear drip onto his bare collarbone. He knows better than to mention it. Kent whispers, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” he answers, pressing a long kiss to Kent’s temple. It’s hardly the first time they’ve gone over apologies for these same things, and he’s sure it won’t be their last.
Kent sniffles once and then grabs at the paper that Jack is holding loosely in his other hand. “What the—,” he laughs, “this shit doesn’t let up, does it? If you knew—Christ—if you knew that in one year you’d die suddenly, would you change anything about how you’re living?”
Jack thinks about it. “Not much, if anything. Maybe I’d come out. That—doesn’t feel like something I’d want taken to my grave.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Kent mutters, sounding a little absent-minded about it. “I’d want more cats. That—sounds weird, actually. But—cats.”
“So you’d leave me with a cat empire?” Jack deadpans, “That hardly seems fair. I don’t even like the one we have.” As if she can speak English, Kit grumbles from her corner of the bed, a little discontented mrow noise, and Kent laughs.
“Shh, Princess,” he coos, turning away from Jack to run a loving hand through her fur and scratch behind her ears, “He doesn’t mean it. He loves you.”
Jack smiles. “To the extent that I’m not dumb enough to make you choose between me and her, sure.” He’s mostly teasing; he and Kit formed an uneasy truce some time ago, even though she’s never really taken to him.
“Also, I’m not leaving you with shit. Jeff is getting all my cats, and the condo in Vegas.”
“I still don’t get why you haven’t sold that place.”
Kent rolls his eyes, presses a kiss to the top of Kit’s head—which she accepts with a begrudged ear twitch—and then curls back against Jack’s side. “I’m a sentimental bastard and you know it.”
“Right. Next question,” Jack says, thinking privately that he wouldn’t have it any other way. The questions ease up a little in their intensity, focusing on mostly positive things. They have to take turns complimenting each other, which makes Kent flush red and Jack stammer a little, and talk about their families. Jack never gets tired of how fondly Kent speaks of his mother, and freely admits he’s pretty grateful for her as well; she was the only person who knew about them as teenagers, until—well, until it was already over.
They’ve (read: Kent) gone through most of the bottle of wine when Kent says, “Ooh, this is great. Share an embarrassing moment in your life,” and waggles his eyebrows for good measure.
Jack chuckles. “Ah. When I was still in college, my senior year, I—man, this is awful. I took Bittle to coffee—which was kind of a date, in retrospect—and when I tried to show him some pictures I spilled his coffee all over him.” Kent snickers. Jack can feel his grin against his skin. “It was pretty awful. I don’t think he ever got the stains out of his sweatshirt.”
“Good to know that you’ve never, in your life, had any game, Zimms,” Kent chirps, and Jack smiles at him. Quieter, Kent asks, “How’s he doing, anyway? Eric, I mean.”
Jack’s smile turns a little melancholy. “He’s, ah—he’s good, I think. I talked to him last week.”
“Is he still dating what’s-his-name from the show?”
“Reed,” Jack supplies, “his producer? Yeah. Seems like a good guy.”
Kent hums thoughtfully. “I’m glad.” He sounds sincere, which Jack is happy about.
“Me too,” Jack says. He lets the contentment of that settle first before he prompts, “Your turn.”
“Ugh. Okay. Mom caught me giving a dude a blowjob—,”
“I know,” Jack deadpans, “I was there.”
“Fuck off, I mean since then. She’s got like a fucking sixth sense for when I’ve got a dick in my mouth,” Kent grouses, and Jack tries to stifle his laughter. “Don’t chirp me, asshole, it was fucking Christmas Eve and my sixty year-old mother—,”
Jack breaks, cackling loud enough to make Kit huff at him and resettle on her pillow. “Did you get coal in your stocking?”
Kent smacks the side of Jack’s thigh, but there’s no heat behind his glare. “You’re the worst.”
“I love you too,” Jack answers, and Kent finally cracks a smile. “Okay, next. When did you last cry in front of another person? And by yourself?”
Laughing, Kent says, “Uh, like five minutes ago, but you know that. By myself? Shit.” He goes quiet, and Jack isn’t sure if he’s trying to remember or just hesitant to say. Eventually, he admits, “I think it was like two months ago? After our fight.”
Jack tries not to wince. He and Kent don’t fight that often anymore, but when they do it usually ends with one of them storming off until they cool down enough to apologize. It’s better than the alternative, which is someone saying something they don’t mean. They’ve moved past their demons, but they haven’t quite managed to kill them.
This last time, Jack had been the one to flee, leaving Kent behind in the apartment with only Kit for company. He’d come back an hour later with milkshakes and burgers even though they’d just eaten, and they hashed everything out before the ice-cream even melted.
“Um. For me it’s—hm.” Jack doesn’t cry very often, so he kind of has to work to think of when—oh, nevermind. “Two weeks ago, with Shitty.”
Kent raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“It was—,” Jack hesitates, not sure how much he can get away with saying. He knows he can be kind of hard to read, but Kent can always tell when he’s lying, so he settles for explaining, “He—helped me with something important. It was good-crying,” which is definitely the truth.
Luckily, Kent lets it drop. “Uh, ‘kay. What about alone?”
That one takes longer to remember, but when Jack does he chuckles a little. “Oh, Crisse. Last year when I cat-sat? I—oh, don’t look at me like that—I thought I killed Kit.”
“What?” Kent reaches out instinctively to touch Kit’s fur; she purrs a little but doesn’t stir.
“I—she’s fine, Kenny—I accidentally fed her expired cat food. The wet kind, in the can?” Jack starts to get a little uneasy, because Kent looks legitimately horrified and he can’t tell how much of it is chirping. “A-anyway, I had the vet on the phone and I was crying and watching Kit, just, waiting for her to drop or something—,”
“What the fuck, man?”
“—and the vet told me canned stuff is actually good for fifty years or something. And Kit is fine, so.”
Jack stares at Kent and Kent stares back, and Jack is a little convinced that Kent might punch him or something, but then Kent cackles and buries his face into Jack’s neck.
“Um, Kent?”
“I can’t believe you deadass tried to murder my cat.”
“I didn’t, it was—,”
“Actually, I think that counts as an assassination attempt. Kit Purrson is a literal princess.”
Jack mutters, “Oh my God.”
“She’s also a goblin, though. You gotta try a lot harder next time.”
Smiling wryly, Jack muses, “I could go full Phantom, hang a chandelier in the living room.”
“You spend too much time with Holster,” Kent says, tilting his head up to read the next question. “Tell your partner something you like about them. Again, I guess.”
Jack smiles. “I like that you make me try new things. You’ve—always helped me out of my shell.”
“Mm.” Kent kisses the top of Jack’s shoulder. “I like your sense of humor.”
“Speaking of which,” Jack says, pausing to return Kent’s kiss with one to the top of his head, “The next question is: what’s something that shouldn’t be joked about, if anything?”
Kent gives a thoughtful hum. “Uh. I—that’s kinda weird, ‘cause I feel like you should be able to laugh about stuff? But I guess like, not everyone gets to joke about everything. Like, we can chirp about being batshit but it’s not—someone who isn’t—like us—shouldn’t.”
Jack turns his head to the side so his cheek presses up against Kent’s forehead. “That makes sense. I…guess I just think humor should be respectful. That’s kinda how Shitty always puts it.”
Kent nods, then starts to read the next question off the list. Jack notices they’re on number thirty-three out of thirty-six, and his stomach does a little flip. He’s trying not to get anxious, but. “Okay, if you were to die—Jesus fucking Christ, why do these people keep trying to kill us off?—If you were to die this evening with no way of communicating with anyone, what would you regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you said it?”
“I—I guess I’d tell my dad it wasn’t his fault,” Jack says, voice wavering a little. “I’ve tried to, but—it’s hard and I guess part of me did blame him, for a while.” He ruffles Kent’s hair ruefully. “I resented a lot of people I shouldn’t have.”
“You don’t think he knows?” Kent asks, seemingly surprised.
Jack shrugs and feels Kent’s head loll on his shoulder with the movement. “I think it’d help to hear, either way.”
“Yeah.” Kent fiddles with the paper in his hands thoughtfully. “I’d thank Jeff for all the shit I put him through, back in the day. I mean, I’ve done it before but—worth repeating.”
“Mhm,” Jack agrees. “How’s Vegas treating him?”
Kent snorts. “He’s over it, gonna retire when his contract’s up, move up North again.”
“Is he going back to Alberta?”
“Maybe. I’ve been harassing him into considering Providence.”
Jack smirks. “Not New York?”
Ducking his head in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his blush, Kent stammers, “Uh, I—I mean, New York isn’t—the kinda place… Jeff would settle down.”
“Right.” Jack is doing a decent job of toning it down, he thinks, but he’s really pleased. He likes that Providence is where Kent wants his friends to be, is the place he considers home. It gives his courage some fight against the nerves that are pushing their way through his body.
“God, Christ, next question,” Kent ushers, “Uh. Your house with everything you own is on fire. After you save your pets et cetera, et cetera, what one item do you save?”
“The photo albums,” Jack answers immediately. He’s not sure he’s technically allowed to pick them all, but it’s not like he couldn’t fit them all in his arms, so. And how could he choose just one?
Kent doesn’t call him out on it, though. He just grins and chirps, “Sap.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “What would you save then?”
“Our Rimouski jerseys.” Kent is drawing absent-minded patterns on Jack’s skin again. It’s ticklish, a little, but also grounding.
“And I’m the sap?” Jack teases.
“I’m sentimental,” Kent stubbornly reminds him, “You’re the sap.”
Jack kisses him twice, on his forehead and then his nose. “Whatever you say, Kenny.”
“Damn right,” he mutters back, and Jack has one of those moments where affection just gusts right through him, warm and nearly painful. He thinks, God, I love you— so he says it. Kent smiles up at him, bright and gentle. “Me too, Zimms.”
“Okay, almost to the end. Um. Of all the people in your family, whose death would be most disturbing?” Jack hates that this is the second to last question; it’s not really how he wants to end things, and he considers asking to skip it, but—they’ve come so far, through the entire list, and it would feel wrong to cut it short now.
The smile withers off Kent’s face. “Well, it’s kinda just Mom and Izzy, so. I guess Izzy. I mean, she’s—she’s so young. I can’t even—fuck.”
“Yeah, I—I get it,” Jack says softly, and squeezes Kent tighter against him. His skin is warm and bare and the elastic of the boxers he never slipped back out of rubs against Jack’s hip bone. He waits in case Kent wants to talk more about it, and then fills the silence on his own. “For me, it’d be Papa I guess. I think—it’s always felt like he’d always be right there—casting a shadow for me, for better or worse. I can’t picture him gone.”
“You should call him,” Kent says suddenly, like he was only half-listening to begin with.
“Ah, what?”
“Call him, say your shit,” Kent repeats, more insistently. He sits up far enough that they’re at eye level and his expression is glinting, determined. “Don’t—look, life is shit and we don’t know when it’s done. So fucking call him, asshole.”
Jack blinks, and takes in Kent’s face with a mystified deliberateness. He catalogues the freckles, the pale gray eyes and the sharp lilt of his nose. He blinks again, like he’s working the shutter of a camera, churning out polaroids to pin to a corkboard. The riled-up flush on his cheeks, the flicker of his eyelashes, the flop of a cowlick in his face.
“I will,” Jack says, a long time later. “Ask me the last question.”
Kent tilts his head a little but complies. “Share a personal problem and ask your partner’s advice on how to handle it.”
Jack’s stomach knots and his fingers tingle and his throat goes a little dry. He takes in the deepest breath he can manage and tries to mold his voice into something as casual as possible. He even manages to crack a smile. “Ah—yeah. I—maybe you can help me. I want to propose to my boyfriend and I don’t know how to ask.”
And, Crisse, Jack wishes he really did have his camera for this moment. He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything as perfect as the sudden realization on Kent’s face, the little slip from confusion—furrowed brow and a pert frown—into shock, eyebrows raises and lips just barely parted enough for Jack to glimpse teeth. His heart is pounding and it feels almost like a panic attack except good, better, the best feeling in the world.
Kent is crying. When they re-tell it later, they’ll both pretend he wasn’t. He’s crying and smiling so wide it looks like it hurts and his laugh is a little manic when he says, “Maybe you should just fucking ask, asshole.”
Jack’s brain stutters and restarts and he laughs too. “Yeah, yes—I— merde, I have a—,” he slips his hand down into a pocket that isn’t there because he’s still naked and his skin is vibrating against itself, God. So he hurries to turn around and find his pants, but he spins too quickly and fuck, his arm knocks into the nightstand and now the wine bottle is crashing to the ground, bleeding dark red all over his clothes and the porous hardwood floors.
Jack is hanging half-off the bed with his bare ass in the air while he fumbles for the ring box in a pair of track pants that smell like grapes while Kent laughs so hard it sounds like his lungs will burst, and none of this is how he planned it at all. After all this time, he’s still never been able to plan quite right for Kenny—but he’s come a long way towards realizing that maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
Finally, Jack manages to grab the box and rights himself on the bed, sitting up straight facing Kent. He clicks the box open to reveal the band inside.
“Kent Parson,” he tries first, but that sounds too formal so he starts over. “Um. Kenny. Will you—will you marry me?” Leaning in, he presses their foreheads together and brings his free hand up to Kent’s cheek. Fat, happy tears roll down Jack’s face and maybe they will tell people, about the crying.
“Zimms,” Kenny croaks, “yeah. Fuck, yes, Christ.” He laughs again and tilts his face up into a kiss. One or both of them tastes like tears and wine and a little like Chinese food, still, and objectively maybe that shouldn’t be the best kiss Jack’s ever had but it is.
They pull away long enough for Jack to whisper, “I love you, Kenny.”
He goes in for another kiss but Kent leans back a little, focused on sliding the ring onto his finger with trembling hands. He snorts a little and looks up with mischief in his eyes. “Wait, wait Zimms. You gotta help me with my personal problem.”
Jack squints at him suspiciously. “Uh, what is it?”
Kent smirks and wiggles his fingers, demonstrating how the ring jiggles around. “My fiancé doesn’t know my ring size. Should I dump him?”
Jack flips him off and Kent tackles him to the bed, and Jack’s not sure they’ll ever be finished falling in love.