“Yo, the politicians are yelling at each other again.”
Kent takes another bite of the chunk of bread he’s got, watching the television. The bread is amazing. When Jack had pulled it from the cloth grocery bags, the brown paper it had been wrapped up inside of was spotted with grease stains. Kent had pressed down on it, and the flaky outside had crumpled with a delicate noise, and he’d nearly jizzed his pants. The inside is soft and layered and buttery.
“That’s a given,” Jack calls from the kitchen.
Kent loves weekly “Canadian politicians shrieking at each other in a dark and fancy chamber-looking room built in the 1800’s” time. He settles into the couch, tossing the remote to his side and propping his feet up on the coffee table. He knows it’s only a matter of minutes before Jack strolls into the living room and knocks them to the floor again. “They look really mad,” he remarks, polishing off the last bit of bread and rubbing his hands together to brush away any crumbs.
“When are they not,” Jacks calls again. Excellent commentary from an excellent boyfriend.
“I dunno, you tell me,” he says, cocking his head. An older blonde white woman with glasses is gripping a stack of papers in her hand so tight they’re crumpling. She’s waving with her free hand, pointing accusingly at a man on the other side of the aisle and yelling. The man’s face is contorted. He has his arms crossed over his chest, like he’s trying to give off a visage of calm and collected coolness, but it’s failing pretty miserably.
“They’re always mad,” Jack supplies again helpfully, but this time his voice is closer. Much closer. Kent looks up and Jack’s by the arm of the couch, eyes on the television before they drop to where Kent’s feet are resting on the coffee table. He grunts but makes no move to push them down. Kent wiggles his toes in his socks, satisfied.
“We should have this in the States,” Kent replies.
Jack looks surprised. “You...don’t?”
“I honestly dunno,” Kent admits. They might have weekly “American politicians shrieking at each other in a dark and fancy chamber-looking room built in the 1800’s” time but it’s not like he’d know. He never watched anything on the television except Spongebob Squarepants or Fairly Odd Parents back home. He was an outdoors kid, always on his bike or at the local rink. He was also an infamous staple at football games, middle row on the bleachers, booing until either his throat went hoarse or some football dad grabbed him by the sleeve of his shirt.
“I’m surprised,” Jack says, settling down on the couch beside Kent, their knees knocking together. He smells good, like coffee. Kent waggles an eyebrow at him.
Kent drops his head on Jack’s shoulder, following the screen. They’ve stopped screaming, but the atmosphere is tense. Kent knows he’s never been very observant but even he can tell that a few of them want to throw chairs across the room at each other. Sad for them -- there’s no chairs, just chaise-looking sofas that appear to be screwed to the ground.
“What even is this?” Kent asks after a moment. Jack glances at him questioningly and he waves in the general direction of the television. “What’s going on? Why are they broadcasting this? Who watches this? What are they talking about?”
If he squints hard enough he can see the gears in Jack’s head working to sort through his question-vomit. “Parliament is in session. This is...question period,” he says finally, narrowing his eyes at the television. “It’s streamed by CPAC, I think.”
“Mmm,” Kent nods seriously, like he’s getting it. Which he’s not, exactly.
“Yeah,” Jack continues, and scratches the side of his neck. He’s got a shadow of stubble. Kent’s thoughts sort of drift from Canadian politicians towards that. “They’re not always yelling. There’s just certain bills that get them all riled up. They’re usually civil, or well -- they pretend to be.”
“Mmmmmm,” Kent repeats, and nuzzles his face against Jack’s cheek. Jack’s breathing hitches.
“...Yeah, that’s basically it,” he finishes, sliding an arm between Kent’s back and the couch to wrap around his waist, pulling him in closer. “They play it so the public can watch because...transparency is important and all, or that’s what they say at least. But really, mostly the elderly watch it.”
“Ooh, you’re so smart,” Kent drawls, “talkin’ ‘bout transparency and stuff, huh?”
Jack seems to take this the wrong way, but, like, when does he not. “Oh, I didn’t --” he says hastily, pulling his arm back, and Kent instantly misses the warmth, shit-eating grin slipping off his face. “--I didn’t mean it to come out cocky or anything. My parents --”
“Holy shit , dude,” Kent says, and pushes Jack down against the couch as much as he can in the available space, “you didn’t come off as cocky at all, okay? I was joking. Dumb joke.” He ducks in and kisses Jack quickly, a sweet peck, and gives him a soft smile. Or at least what he hopes is a soft smile. “The problem is me, sorry. I guess I’m not funny and my jokes suck.”
Jack huffs, and this time he wraps both arms around Kent’s waist so Kent counts that as a major win. “You’re funny,” he murmurs, pulling Kent in close until they’re chest to chest and the mix of English and French coming from the television turns into background noise in Kent’s head. “Sometimes,” he adds.
Kent huffs. “Oh, okay, wow,” he says, and he tries to sound affronted but he knows he’s failed. “Thank you so much, honey.”
“You’re welcome,” and then, “mon ange,” with a straight face.
Kent flushes, and shakes his head. “No, not fair,” he says, and goes back in for a kiss. It’s longer, slower, fitting their mouths together warmly.
It’s innocent and sweet for only about a minute, just enjoying the closeness, the heat of their bodies and skin so close. Jack’s got one big hand roaming over Kent’s back, rubbing into tight spots. It feels good. Kent’s mind goes a little lax, and he pushes his tongue past Jack’s teeth, muscles in his lower stomach clenching at the sound of Jack’s breath hitching.
“You know what,” Kent mumbles into Jack’s mouth, before cupping his cheek and nosing along his jaw. “We should...we should go to bed.”
“We just got out of bed,” Jack says, but it’s weak and not even really a rebuttal. He’s got one hand gripping Kent’s thigh so hard Kent’s about to lose circulation. “And. Coffee.”
“Fuck the coffee bro,” Kent says wetly against Jack’s skin, before pulling back and staring into his eyes. “Sorry. But like.”
Jack cracks a smile. Kent wants to kiss him literally forever. “Alright,” he says, “bed it is.”
“Damn right,” Kent says, pushing himself from the couch and dashing down the hall. “I’d race you but I’ve already won!” he yells over his shoulder. He can practically hear Jack’s eye roll. He loves it.
Later, when Kent’s sweaty and content, kissing sloppily up Jack’s chest to gently sink his teeth into Jack’s chin and feel Jack shiver in reply, he mumbles, “you know what?”
“What?” Jack breathes out, tipping his head back so Kent can suck a bruise into his neck easily.
Kent complies, and replies a moment later, “I was thinking that maybe we shouldn’t do question period in the states.”
Jack looks at him incredulously, as if he can’t believe that that’s what’s on Kent’s mind at the moment. “Really,” he says. Kent shrugs, flopping down beside him and reaching for his hand, gripping his fingers.
“Yeah, like, think about it,” he says seriously, “someone would probably get shot, you know?”
Kent kisses him through a smile.
“Can’t believe I’m about to say this,” Kent says lazily, tapping the butt of his pen rhythmically against the spine of his textbook, “but I can’t wait for the snow to start falling.”
Jack gives him a look over his laptop like he can’t quite believe Kent just said that either.
“Listen, I have good reason,” Kent continues, slamming his textbook shut with a little more force than was probably necessary. “I’m not just talking crazy.” He points his pen towards the fireplace, a little dusty and very unattended to. “I wanna lay a blanket down right here and fuck in front of the fireplace.”
Jack eyeballs him.
“But,” he says, “we can’t turn on the fireplace when it’s hot as freaking balls out.” He rubs the sweat gathering at his temple. “Bro, this city is whack.” Jack gives him what is most definitely a warning look. Kent holds his hands up in surrender. “Nothing personal. For real. It’s just, I’m sweating my face off right now but tomorrow there’ll be icicles in my hair, you know?”
“That’s part of its charm,” Jack tries. Kent snorts, flopping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling.
He loves their condo. It’s so much more spacious than he’d thought it could have ever been on their budget -- “you’re not aware of the Canadian home market,” Jack had told him, back when they were searching for a place together. Kent had popped his head back out of the fridge he was inspecting and blinked at Jack, because duh, he didn’t -- and it has so many windows. Jack had said that might be a problem for heating, which Kent hadn’t even considered because, like, windows . Bomb as hell.
So he wheedled for lots of windows and Jack gave in.
It’s super close to downtown and it’s only a five minute walk to from gare centrale, plus a seven minute walk to the metro. All of their neighbours are older people who refuse to be put in care homes by their children; all the young adults live in school residence downtown.
(Kent has a secret sneaking suspicion that no one actually lives in the city; during the year it’s overrun by students, and over break it’s swamped by tourists. He’d never tell Jack that, because Jack probably wouldn’t take the comment at face value and start rattling off population stats and stuff.)
The condo is definitely going to sink into the ground sooner than later. It was built a billion years ago and renovated a million years ago, so it’s definitely peeling everywhere and the kitchen looks like it somehow wandered out of an American suburb from the 1950’s, but upon discussing it with their realtor and then having it confirmed by Jack, all the homes in Quebec generally have that same vibe. For million-dollar mansions, you need British Columbia. Cookie-cutter suburbia is in Ontario. Coziness with character is located in Newfoundland and Labrador.
(“What’s in Saskatchewan?” Kent had asked. It’s the only province other than Quebec he can ever remember off the top of his head because the name doesn’t exactly let him forget it.
“Land,” Jack had said, flipping through a thick booklet with local home listings, “lots and lots of flat, barren land.”
“Dope,” Kent had replied.)
“You said that the windows would let in the cold,” Kent says now accusingly. Jack closes his laptop. “Liar.”
“Kent,” Jack says, in his fully-patented you know we’ve gone over this, [insert whatever French pet name fits best for the specific scenario] voice, “windows will also let the heat in. I was just thinking about winter specifically, but windows will let in whatever weather --”
“Except rain,” Kent reminds him, just to be an asshole. Jack gives him a flat look. Kent throws him a kissy face.
“-- except rain, right,” Jack continues, and then pauses. “If you’re lucky.”
Kent pushes himself up on his elbows, giving Jack an appraising look. “I don’t like the implication of that.”
Jack smiles at him. It’s closed-mouthed, and his eyes crinkle. It’s so fond, even Kent can tell. He’d vomit if he didn’t want to scooch right across the living room and clamber into Jack’s lap and kiss the look away.
“I’m just saying,” Jack says, and opens his laptop again. Damn it. Kent lost his attention. “You have to be prepared for anything.”
“Like it raining particularly hard, as it does in Montreal, because this city is a horrifying amalgamation of all the worst things about North America and Europe, and the windows exploding?”
Jack ignores the dig at Montreal. “You know how to properly use the word amalgamation?” he asks instead, face faux-surprised. Kent scowls.
“Oh, dude, that was low .” He moves his arms and drops to the floor again, back flat against the threadbare carpet, eyes closing.
He’s surprised when, a moment later, the floor shifts and Jack’s body is pressed against him, one arm across him, Jack pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks. Kent’s hands meet across his lower abdomen, squeezing, and he grins up at Jack pleased once he’s pulled away.
“I was kidding,” Jack says apologetically as if Kent didn’t know. Kent’s heart grows fifty times larger. He wants to cry. He wants to eat his boy up.
“I know, dumbass,” he says instead, pushing Jack flat against the floor instead and curling up into his side. Jack’s wearing a thin long sleeve shirt and, combined with the hoodie Kent pulled on earlier for whatever reason, it’s honestly a little too hot to be cuddling. He doesn’t care though, and judging from the way Jack sinks into the floor, eyes fluttering shut, he doesn’t mind either.
Or maybe he does.
“Jesus,” he mumbles, unmoving. “It’s fall, but it doesn’t feel like it.”
“Right?!” Kent whisper-yells, clutching Jack’s shirt and peering into his face, brushing their lips together. “Hot as balls .”
Jack voices his agreement into Kent’s mouth then.
By the time fall weather really starts showing itself, it’s October. Jack had left an hour earlier for his classes, so Kent takes his time sweeping across the condo in his too-long plaid pyjamas, scratching his belly and blinking blearily at the shadows playing across the walls.
It’s 11am on a Monday and outside the sky is dark blue, so he has to turn the lights on while he changes his clothes. He opts for the deep red basketball shorts with the golden Concordia crest on the cuff of the left leg, and steals Jack’s big white soft school sweater with McGill stitched across the chest in red. Once he’s certain that everyone will breathe out, aghast, while he passes, he grabs his backpack, throws on his snapback and heads out.
“Oh, non, non,” says Manon when he arrives at the library. Iseul and Harpreet turn around on cue to look at him, shielding their eyes. “What are you wearing?”
“It’s Jack’s,” Kent replies easily. He moves to sit beside Harp but he shoves his bag onto the chair.
“Can’t sit beside me, sorry,” he says solemnly. Manon laughs. Kent rolls his eyes, moving to the chair across from her. “Not when you’ve got that... word ...splashed across your chest.”
“Are we doing this today, y’all?” he drawls, pulling his laptop from his bag. Harp nods. “Well, look.” He points to various stains on the shirt. “See this big faint brown spot? Diet coke I spilled when me and Zimms were on a Mister Steer burger run. See this ugly red and yellow spot? Ketchup and mustard that fell on me when I was having fries at Jack Astor’s. I put all these on here. I ruined this shirt. I’m on your team, you guys, you see?”
“All I see is that you eat too much and are a slob,” Manon says primly. Kent gives her the finger. “I can’t believe you and Jack are still together. You’re polar opposites. I thought it would be over by now.”
Kent smiles at her as sweetly as he can muster. He knows she’s secretly been in love with Jack since before Kent was ever in the picture and the two met back in Québec City. He knows they’d probably fit together better; born and bred in the same city, same mother tongue, same cool uninterest in most things. But it turns out Jack wanted the exact opposite of himself. The friendship Kent has with Manon now is strictly flamed by animosity.
“I’m just surprised you still can’t speak French,” Iseul pipes up. “I thought that would have had Jack giving you the boot a long time ago.”
“I can speak French!” Kent exclaims. He, in fact, cannot. “You know, me and Jack are going to be participating in sept à cinq after classes tonight. I’m ordering.” He winks.
The table is quiet for a moment, and then Harp asks, “did you just say sept à cinq ?”
Kent blinks. “Yes?”
Manon shriek-laughs. Kent’s face goes red.
“Fuck you guys!” he says, hiding behind his laptop. “Okay, fuck, my accent is off, yeah, I get that, but --”
“Homie, it’s cinq à sept ,” Harp sighs. “It’s all over signs downtown. How do you mess up that badly?”
Kent rolls his eyes. “I don’t see the problem,” he says. He knows it’s a losing battle, but he’s never gone down without a fight, no matter how embarrassing it gets. And it usually gets pretty embarrassing. “ Sept à cinq, cinq à sept, it’s all the same thing, dude.”
“It’s really not,” Manon stifles from behind her palm. Kent wonders if now’s the time to tell her about how Jack fucked him so hard last night the headboard nearly caved the wall in to Miss Oullette’s living room next door. It’s a remarkably thin wall but still. Manon wouldn’t know that. “But I didn’t expect different from you, so don’t worry chéri.”
“Screw you guys,” he moans, closing his laptop. Harp and Iseul are grinning like asses. “Fine. Y’all suck. I’m going to class.”
“What about our assignment?” Manon asks, suddenly serious. Look at that. “Did you do your portion?”
Kent gives her a weird look, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Isn’t it due next Friday?”
“It can’t hurt to have it done now,” Harp offers. Kent rolls his eyes, heading towards the exit.
“I’ll do it later!” he calls back. The head librarian shushes him.
“They’re so mean to me,” Kent whines, afterwards, into Jack’s collarbones.
They’re on the subway, swaying back and forth next to the doors. Behind him some teenagers have their overly-stuffed backpacks pulled into their laps, chattering away in French. To their side are two girls, probably early twenties, who look a little stoned. On the seats a lady in business attire and heels is slumped over, eyes closed, mouth drooping open a little. The straps of her handbag have been slipping off her shoulder a little more with every violent stop the trains make.
“It’s because you’re wearing that sweater,” Jack says, stroking his side. It feels good as hell. “They’re joking anyway. But you have to stop giving them incentive, you know?”
Kent does not tell Jack that he pulled on the sweater earlier that day solely to give everyone incentive to chirp at him. He instead looks up at Jack, eyelashes fluttering, and says, as meek as he can surmise, “but I just want to wear your sweater. I always want to be close to you.” It comes out sad and hurt and miserable. Jack swallows, and Kent watches his Adam’s apple shift underneath his smooth skin.
Jack’s such a perverted sucker for the act. Kent tamps down the grin threatening to split his face.
“I have other sweaters,” Jack says after a moment. Kent isn’t sure how to refute that without saying yeah but none of them make my friends as blisteringly mad as this one.
He changes the topic. “Wanna ditch cinq-à-whatever the fuck and just grab something from SAQ?”
He was excited for cinq à sept but now he just wants to get drunk in the privacy of his own home so he can grope Jack’s dick in peace. He pushes himself closer in to Jack, which is easy enough because the train car is pretty cramped anyway, and tells him as much.
Jack swallows visibly again. Kent lets himself smirk this time. “Sure,” he murmurs, and sweeps a hand through the fringe sticking out from underneath Kent’s snapback, cupping his cheek.
They stop at SAQ first and Kent beelines towards the beer. Jack peruses the cheap wine because of course he does.
Once Kent’s armed with a 10-pack he found for $10.97 and Jack’s got two bottles of whatever tucked underneath his arm, Jack suggests stopping for grub.
“Notre Boeuf De Grâce?” he asks, and Kent barely stops himself from salivating.
“Yes,” he hisses, ushering Jack down back to the subways from the chilly sidewalk. He’s running over the menu in his head, barely noticing each time he jostles into Jack whenever the subway makes a stop. Does he want the Montreal hamburger steak with caramelized onions and house gravy? Does he want golden honey basil chicken strips? Does he want a basket of hot jerk fries with spicy mayo?
He thinks of Manon and how disapproving she’d be, and then looks down at the McGill sweater, stained and bruised. He thinks about how many more grease stains he’s going to add to its already disheveled state tonight.
“We should get an order of fried cheese curds,” Jack muses.
Kent smirks at him. “Fried cheese curds it is.”
They grab the fried cheese curds with two extra packs of spicy mayo. Jack goes for the Holy Swiss burger and Kent decides to opt for Tropical Temple. He’s never had it before but god, he needs variety in his life, which really means he needs to stop ordering the Cheese-Us burger whenever they go. Jack said it’s getting a little worrying, and the Tropical Temple sounds good as fuck. It has, like, grilled pineapple and hot banana peppers and ranch chipotle.
They get two poutines on the side for good measure, and get home around an hour later, arms full. Kent doesn’t change his clothes or even put his bags away; just stomps straight to their living room with the food and drinks, spreading it all out over the coffee table while Jack washes his hands.
A moment later, he’s halfway through his sandwich. “Oh my god,” he says happily, mouth full of jerk chicken. “Jack. Zimms. I’m gonna die .”
“Don’t die on me just yet,” Jack says. There’s gravy on his chin. Kent is suddenly tempted to take a photo of him and send it to Manon through Snap. He suddenly wants to take photos of Jack whenever he’s disheveled and snap it to Manon, and Iseul, and Harp, and then to all of Jack’s McGill bros that think they’re a weird couple. They just don’t get to see the sides of Jack like this -- when his hair is in disarray, and he’s still wearing his outdoor clothes during the evening on the couch with gravy on his chin, some Marvel film rerun on the television playing in French dub.
But on the other hand, he wants to keep this Jack just for himself, really.
“Not yet,” he says, pulling a fry from his poutine. A melted cheese curd stretches along with it from the container. “After I’m finished eating, maybe.”
They shower afterwards, separately, because Jack insists on cleaning up the coffee table and stacking all the extra dishes in the kitchen into the dishwasher. Kent can hear the dishes clicking against each other even under the hot water, scrubbing the grime of the day of his face and making sure every part of him smells like -- he checks the bottle -- fresh cool cucumber with hints of mint.
Kent’s waiting in bed, toweling off his hair and only in a pair of briefs, nearly vibrating out his skin when Jack steps out. He’s got his towel wrapped around his waist, dark hair slicked back wetly, drops rolling down his abs. Kent nearly lunges for him.
He doesn’t in the end though; just wiggles onto his back and pushes his briefs down, tossing them to the ground and fisting his dick. He’s been half-hard for the past thirty minutes, and he gives himself one, two strokes, watching Jack watch in return.
Jack clears his throat. “So.”
Kent arches an eyebrow. “ So .”
“What do you want tonight?”
So polite. “I dunno,” Kent says, because he really doesn’t. He settles back against the pillows, hand still wrapped around his dick, loose. “I just -- you?” He clarifies, “I want you in whatever way, doing whatever, I just -- I just wish you’d get over here already, jesus, Zimms.”
That gets Jack moving; Kent watches him attempt to dry off the wetness before he hangs the towel neatly off the back of the chair tucked beside the study table. He knees onto the bed, and Kent’s eyes drop from his slick and tempting clavicle to his dick. It’s heavy, hanging between his thighs, and Kent tucks his tongue between his teeth, waggling his eyebrows and moving to grab it.
He just holds it, enjoying the warmth and fullness of it pressed against his palm, thumbing at the head. Jack has kind of stopped breathing, watching his hand, so Kent lets go and reaches for the bedside table.
The lube is still out from last night, never having been returned to its home in the third drawer, resting beside the lamp. He studies it, and decides that they should grab some more next time they’re at Pharmaprix.
He’s surprised then when Jack grabs it from his hands, settling beside him on the bed. “Lay on your side, baby,” he murmurs, and Kent obliges easily. He shudders when Jack attaches himself to Kent’s back, bringing a hand around to grip his cock. It’s wet with lube now but it’s not cool because Kent knows for certain that Jack probably warmed it in his hands first. He’s considerate like that.
“Missed you,” he says, low, licking the tender skin behind Kent’s ear. Kent shivers, curling a hand up in front of his mouth, tongue running over his teeth and bones sagging into the bed. “Je te manque?”
Kent’s at least intelligent enough to use the inferencing skills he was taught in third grade. “ Yes ,” he hisses, a muscle in his thigh twitching without his control. His free hand comes to rest on Jack’s wrist. Jack’s touching him slowly but tightly, grip firm around Kent’s hard cock, each stroke slow and deliberate. He can feel Jack’s dick hot and heavy against his lower back, and he doesn’t know whether to rock his hips forward into Jack’s fist or stay still.
Jack noses against his neck, licking at the sweat gathering there. Then suddenly his hand is gone and Kent’s wet cock is assaulted by the cool air. He cups his hand over it protectively, gasping when Jack’s cock nudges between his thighs.
“ Yes ,” he says again, eyes fluttering shut. He squeezes his thighs together as best he can. His muscles are all drawn tight and his nerves are completely alive. Jack’s hand returns but this time to sweep over Kent’s belly, groping his chest and then pinching his nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. Kent whimpers despite himself.
Jack’s cock feels so good and warm between his thighs. It slips back and forth easily with every stroke, bumping up against Kent’s balls and the underside of his dick. Kent’s got his hand around his dick too so he brushes his fingers over Jack’s head, fingertips coming off with precome. Jack swears in French, and Kent loves that, so he does it again.
He liked sex good enough, before Jack -- he’d never gone all the way until Jack, anyway, and he still hasn’t told Jack that he took Kent’s virginity. He doesn’t think it’s all that necessary and he doesn’t see Jack as the type of guy to be overly creepy about that stuff.
(Also he’s slightly embarrassed, no matter how hard he tries not to be, and how many times he’s reminded himself that Jack wouldn’t laugh at him, obviously .)
Yeah, sex was fine. It was, more often than not, with closeted boys back home who wore soft Lettermans (a stark difference to Jack’s slippery navy blue Bauer jacket with his hockey team stamped across the back from high school). They’d kiss him roughly and then threaten him to never tell anyone, and he’d watch them stalk off with his neck on fire from glaring red marks and his briefs dirty.
That was all sex was before. And then Jack came into his life, with his warm calloused hands and his soft mouth and his kindness and understanding. Kent spent his time watching porn where boys were brutally nailed into mattresses so he wasn’t in the know on exactly how hot kindness and understanding could be, combined with some pleasantly hard sex. He didn’t know he could gently be called mon pitou with a big dick crammed inside of him instead of having you little whore spit on him or whatever.
Now that he’s aware though -- it’s all he wants. He always wants to be turned inside out with Jack’s hot mouth pressed against the shell of his ear.
“I’m gonna,” he says faintly, and Jack’s hold on his chest becomes a little tighter, squeezing his flesh. Kent spreads the leg he has pressed against the bed out a little further and tips his hips up a little. It’s kind of awkward but the angle makes the head of Jack’s cock catch against his rim, wet from sweat.
“Oh my god,” he whispers hoarsely, hole clenching. Jack pauses, and the line of his body disappears from behind Kent as he reaches for the lube, coming back and letting it drip between Kent’s crack and over his dick. Kent shivers because it’s cold this time, but the drag is slick and perfect when Jack begins to move his hips again, the length of his dick sliding between Kent’s cheeks in a tantalizingly similar motion to when he’d tease Kent before fucking into him.
“You smell so good,” Jack mumbles into his skin, and Kent thinks hazily that that’s a win for fresh cool cucumber and a hint of mint body wash. “You feel so good, baby, so soft.” He thumbs over Kent’s nipple once, twice, and then drops his hand to Kent’s hip, squeezing tightly to keep him firmly in place. His thrusts speed up, a little sloppy, rubbing against the crease of Kent’s thigh and ass, Kent’s taint.
Kent’s rubs his cheek into the cool plush of the pillow. He’s drooling a little bit but he can’t bring himself to care. He grips Jack’s fist, stroking himself quickly. He can feel his hole clenching and unclenching. His belly and thighs and ass all feel so wet; it all feels so good, and when Jack bites at his jaw gently, Kent’s hand stills on his cock and he comes, shoulders caving inwards.
He’s mumbling Jack’s name, fingers falling from Jack’s wrist and to the mattress. His come shoots off over his caving belly and the sheets in front of him, and when Jack’s cock slips back between his thighs a string of come dribbles down the red head. Kent closes his eyes, turning his face into the mattress because he can’t watch it anymore, knows his dick will twitch so hard it’ll flare his groin in pain.
Jack is mumbling a stream of mixed English and French damply into the crook of his neck. Kent, eyes still closed, reaches back to stroke his hair as best he can, tightening his thighs so it’s warm and wet and tight around Jack’s cock. Jack presses his cock in only halfway on his next stroke and comes there.
Kent’s eyes flutter open and he gasps a little. It feels different but good; the muscles in his legs relax and Jack’s warm come spills over his thighs to the sheets.
Kent’s a fucking mess. His lower body is glistening with lube, sweat and jizz, and he yelps when Jack’s fingers swipe through the mess between his legs, thumb sinking into Kent’s hole easily. Kent’s body flexes around the intrusion, not to cast him out but welcome him. Kent’s body is a traitor.
“Hold on there, big boy,” he says, trying his best for it to come out casually but mostly just sounding hysterical. He moans when Jack’s thumb sinks in to the webbing of his hands. Jack’s breathing is rough, heavy, and it turns Kent on way too much. He’s always been into being taken almost animalistically, but at the moment his whole body is so sensitive he feels like he’s on fire.
“Just a bit?” Jack asks, and rubs Kent on the inside with the pad of his thumb. Kent groans, rolling forward onto his belly and fisting his hands into the sheets. Jack slips his thumb out and replaces it with two fingers, fucks them in and out in a steady pace, crooks them, and Kent cries out, hips chasing the feeling, pushing until he’s up on his knees, rocking back onto Jack’s hand. “God, Kent…”
“Jack,” he sobs, “ Jack ,” and he’s not ashamed at all as he rolls his hips back, meeting Jack on every thrust. His dick is half-hard between his legs, leaking everywhere. He honestly doesn’t know if he can come again, but it feels too good to stop. He thinks he’s maybe overly addicted to the feeling of Jack inside of him, but there’s not much he can do to change that, especially since he plans on spending the rest of his life with the guy currently mouthing sloppily at the curve of his ass.
“Bien?” Jack asks, and reaches between Kent’s thighs to grip him, stroking him fast and hard. The pace of his fingers go sloppy and come to a stop, so they’re just there filling Kent up and stretching him out as Jack thumbs over the head of his cock roughly. “You feel so good inside, so soft and warm.” He noses against Kent’s ass, presses his face close and kisses over Kent’s hole. “So tight. Wish I was inside of you.”
“Fuckin’ --” Kent swears, whole body stuttering as he comes. It’s not much that dribbles out over Jack’s hand but it wracks his whole body and he collapses to the mattress. His face is smushed against the pillow, pooling with his drool, and his hole is still rippling around Jack’s fingers, but Jack slips them out easily, smoothing over the goosebumps that have appeared all over Kent’s skin.
“Are you alright?” he asks, pressing himself along the length of Kent’s back and kissing his cheek. He sounds genuinely concerned, as if Kent didn’t just happily turn himself inside out on his hand. Kent lifts his face from the pillow, blowing his hair from his face.
“How do you say hell yeah in French?” he croaks, reaching behind himself for Jack’s hip and squeezing gently. Jack buries his mouth into Kent’s sweaty hair, laugh vibrating down Kent’s spine and, shit, yeah, he’s alright. He’s more than alright.
He lets Jack rearrange them on the bed, face-to-face, arm draped over Kent’s waist, and he drifts to sleep with Jack’s lips against his forehead.
Fall flies out as quickly as it had flown in. Kent only realizes when he's walking past la Cathédrale Marie-Reine-du-Monde for the hundredth time that month; the trees lining up the sidewalks which had been full with rich orange and red leaves pouring off the branches for the last few weeks were now mostly naked.
He snaps Jack a pic. These trees r naked knowing this shits illegal bruh
Jack opens the snap but doesn't reply, because obviously.
The last couple of months probably went by in a blur because everyone had been so busy; classes started up again, and then midterms happened in the blink of an eye. Everyone he knew, himself included, was in a state of flux, coming back to the city from summer internships and now finding placements to settle into for the next little while. There were also the events of Canadian Thanksgiving and Halloween.
They went to Jack's parents' house in Québec City for Thanksgiving and it went pretty great. Jack's parents were super chill and kind of well off so the spread of food was awesome. Kent even enjoyed the wine. He's never been a wine person really, much preferring to shotgun twenty beers in a row and pass out in a stranger's rosebush, which had been a common occurrence at house parties back in the States.
Sitting in Jack's warm childhood home in Canada, watching Jack's father swirl expensive wine in his tall and delicate glass and copying him discreetly, eating expensive French cheeses and crunching grainy crackers and discussing the last federal election that had just passed (minimally, on Kent's part) and feeling pleasantly buzzed by the end of the evening felt like literal worlds away from whatever he'd been in the States. He'd stared at the tenderly worn family photos propped up on the dark wooden accent tables and wondered if he was growing, maturing; if this was adulthood.
They'd helped with cleanup of course, shared idle chit chat that weirdly enough didn't appear stilted on anyone's part, and then bid Jack’s parents goodnight and headed up the stairs to Jack's childhood bedroom.
It looked the same way it did a Thanksgiving ago, and before that, exactly how Kent had always imagined it would look. Minimalist, with a double-sized bed and dark sheets done neatly. A table by the windows with a desktop computer and a black wire chair. Cold hardwood floors underneath Kent’s feet, and barren walls save for a few posters with various hockey players and the provincial flag of Quebec.
They’d pulled the clean sheets up and crawled underneath. The wind howled outside and the big oak tree swayed, casting shadows across the room. Kent had pushed his warm fingers up Jack’s shirt, licking into his mouth and tasting grape.
He’d fucked Jack, arms braced on the mattress, Jack’s hands scratching up his back, foreheads pressed together and breathing in each other’s gasps. He’d rocked into Jack slowly, trying to make sure that the headboard wouldn’t bang into the wall and the floorboards wouldn’t creak. They had forgone a condom, and Kent came while rutting his dick into Jack, moaning softly, cock jerking inside of Jack. Jack came shortly after, bearing down on Kent’s cock and fisting over himself quickly, eyes squeezing shut and mouth moving over nonsensical words. When Kent had slipped out his come leaked from inside of Jack and onto the sheets, and they’d freaked out a little until they realized there was nothing they could do until the next morning, when they woke up in the early hours and switched the bedding out with clean linen from the closet in the hallway.
Halloween was a crazy time because everyone was either laser focused on studying or already freaking out over their marks. He and Jack cleaned the condo thoroughly before winter rolled over, when they’d be too cold and busy to do anything other than dishes and a weekly sweep and dusting. Kent also spent most of the week leading up to Halloween drunk, because everyone wanted to throw a party but had to throw it on different days so as to be successful.
The official party he had gone to with Jack was one thrown by a few rich McGill students that pretty much everyone went to: Concordia kids, Université de Montréal kids, and even the college kids too. Jack put on an old hockey jersey with some rugby joggers and let Amélie run fake blood down his chin and neck.
“I’m a hockey player and a vampire,” he’d told an unimpressed Kent, arms spread out as if he possibly wanted to showcase his costume. Kent wasn’t sure what there was to show off.
Kent had worn a thin creamy white cashmere sweater that drooped when he bent over, showing off his collarbones, with some skinny jeans. He had noticed Yahya and Jeanne slathering themselves in some sort of glitter liquid and let them spray it all over him till he glinted. Then he had slid on the pair of fluffy white angel wings he’d bought a month beforehand.
He was letting some beyond drunk girl he’d never seen in his life before grind against his ass as she shrieked incomprehensibly, cup in the air, watching through his sticky glittery lashes as Jack’s McGill bros bumped his shoulders, gave Kent a look, and then leaned in to whisper in Jack’s ear.
“Pardon me,” he had told the girl, slipping away from her and stalking towards them. He was about to give the McGill bros a piece of his mind when Jack had swayed forward, beer on his breath, and mumbled in his ear, “you think those pretty fairy wings will stay tall and perky when I got you on your hands and knees? While I fuck you into the mattress, baby?”
Kent was torn between dropping to his knees and sucking Jack’s dick right then and there, and asking Jack on which damn planet did he come from that fairy wings were small and white and fluffy.
He’d damn near gotten his soul nailed out that night, bent in half with his knees flat to his chest and Jack’s big dick shoved up inside of him so fully he couldn’t stop shaking and coming all over himself.
He thinks, now, in the library with books piled up past his viewpoint and his laptop running on seventeen percent of battery, that he’d really like to redo fall all over, because he’s not sure how exactly he got to this point and he really needs to know.
“That’s something you don’t see often,” Harp says from behind him, pulling the chair next to Kent out and sliding in. Kent pulls the collar of his -- Jack’s -- sweater up over his chin, shivering. The library’s not warm enough. “Kent in full-on study mode.”
“Fuck you Harp,” he says, and leans over. “You got notes though bro?”
Harp laughs. “Nah, sorry.” He doesn’t look very apologetic. Kent pouts at him.
His phone vibrates. He glances down at it; it’s a message from Jack.
My parents invited us over for the winter holiday
Kent blinks and picks up his phone. Another message appears a moment after he swipes it open.
I know they kind of invited us over during thanksgiving
But they just emailed me
Kent snorts. They emailed him.
They wanted to make it official right
Like an official invitation if it wasn't clear last time
You’re going down to the states yeah?
Don’t make me force you
Don’t make them force you actually
It’s nothing ignore me
Jesus. Kent’s never gotten so many texts from Jack at a time. Jack’s never really adopted a dependency on electronics; Kent’s pretty certain that if they were long-distance, Jack would, like, mail him letters and shit. Parcels.
He pushes his chair back, whispering I’ll be back in Harp’s direction before fleeing to the encyclopedia section.
No one is there; no one’s ever there, and he knows this, has known this for a while, because he gave Jack a handjob back here a few months after they started dating, Jack’s face smushed against his shoulder and hands gripping Kent’s biceps.
He calls Jack. It rings once before he picks up.
“Baby,” he starts, and Kent cuts him off.
“Dude,” he says, and bites his lip. “Sorry. Babe. You don’t have to apologize, you know. Like, you do know, right?”
“And you know I wish I could,” Kent interrupts again, scratching his temple, eyes slipping shut. “God, I wanna spend the whole two weeks there. I want to -- I wanna go over there right now, and just drink wine and chill with your dope ass parents and fuck you in your old bed.”
Jack’s silent, just breathing. Kent goes on.
“But you know my mom,” he says finally. “Kind of. Alone and stuff. And I skimped out on American Thanksgiving and shit, and like.”
“Absolutely,” Jack says, voice firm. “I know. I understand, you know that.” He sucks in a breath. “I mostly texted you because...because I wanted you to know.”
“I wanted you to...I wanted you to know that my parents really went out of their way to invite you because they really, really liked you.”
Kent’s whole heart melts. The library is suddenly a little too stuffy.
“Oh,” he chokes out.
“Yeah,” Jack says. “Yeah, no, baby, they -- they really aren’t the type to do that sort of stuff. They liked you for real. You just have to know that. Because I know you weren’t sure.”
Kent never told him that. He groans. “Was it that easy to tell, christ?”
Jack chuckles. “Yeah, a little bit.” Then, hastily, “but it’s not your fault at all. It’s always hard to tell in those situations. You never know. But you shouldn’t have ever worried, because you’re -- fuck.”
Kent smiles, glancing behind himself to make sure no one’s suddenly gone insane and has decided to peruse the encyclopedia section. “I’m what?”
“You know,” Jack says, sounding a little shy. “Perfect.”
Kent doesn’t know why, because it’s not the first time Jack’s gasped that at him, but his breath catches a bit. It’s only slightly embarrassing. “Really, huh?”
“Yes,” Jack says, “so perfect. And amazing, and beautiful, and kind -- or, well, not kind, exactly --”
“Literally fuck off to fucking Nebraska , bro --”
“-- but you’re still -- perfect,” Jack finishes, and Kent can hear the soft grin in his voice. “The greatest person I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.”
“Well,” Kent drawls, “as we say down in the States --”
“Here we go --”
“-- aka the greatest nation on the entire freakin’ planet --”
“-- Really? I haven’t heard that one before --”
“ -- with so much fuckin’ freedom --”
“-- Kent --”
“-- you ain’t so bad yourself, Zimmermann,” Kent declares. His face is red and he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. It’s weird, because it's a blissful happiness combined with the little ache deep in his bones that he’s subconsciously trying to desperately tamp down, knowing that he won’t be with Jack during winter break.
But that’s fine. They shouldn’t become overly dependant, or -- well, they shouldn’t become more dependant than they already are.
And he does miss his mom, and he’s sure she misses him too, no matter how nonchalant she tries to play it off over their phone calls.
“I love you,” Jack says then, and every excuse Kent tried to muster up shatters along with Jack’s words. He sighs, pressing his palm flat against the wide smooth spine of a large encyclopedia.
“I love you more,” he says, fingers curling, nails gently scratching the leather exterior. “When will you get home? I’m at the library now.”
“I’ll be back around seven, I think,” Jack says. “Want me to grab anything from Provigo?”
“Nah, we’re all stocked up, bless. Just…” He bites his thumb. “Don’t take too long.”
“I won’t,” Jack promises. He bids farewell and once the line has gone dead, Kent pockets his phone and stares at the far wall. There’s a big massive world map hung up. His eyes are drawn to the yellow shape of the Russian Federation first, because Russia is just so mind-bogglingly huge , and then they drift across the Atlantic Ocean, fixing on Canada and the States.
Canada is a salmon pink colour, and the USA is green.
He spaces out, blinking at the map, until his eyes begin to burn. He heads back to the main level. His table, previously vacant of anyone but himself until Harp had showed up, now has at least five other people -- he’s pretty sure Iseul’s got Janna, Noel, Mac and Guia in tow --, and his things have been stacked on top of each other and moved to the side. When Harp notices Kent approach the table he immediately looks sheepish.
“Dude,” Kent says, lifting his binder -- which weighs approximately fifty pounds -- off his laptop. “Not cool.”
“Sorry man,” Harp says. Iseul waves at Kent, pushing her glasses up her nose. “There wasn’t a lot of desk space left, and we didn’t know when you’d get back. Took a long time there.” He studies Kent. “Hey, are you alright?”
Kent stares at him. “Yes?”
“Yeah, cool,” Harp nods slowly.“Your face is just kind of red.”
“Your eyes look like they’re about to tear up,” Iseul adds. Harp glares at her. She grins back.
Kent scrubs his hands over his cheeks, eyes widening. “Fuck. Really?”
Kent can make out every thought filtering through Harp’s mind at the moment. He dares him to say it.
“Was it Jack on the phone?” Harp asks.
Kent raises his eyebrows. He really said it.
“Yes,” Kent says, voice higher than he’d like it to be. “But he was just telling me about how much his parents love me, so. You guys haven’t won yet.”
Harp and Iseul exchange looks. “Won?” she asks, mouth turning down.
“Yes?” Kent says, starting to feel a little hysterical. He was so happy a few seconds ago and now he feels like shit. He just wants to go home and crawl under the blankets in two more of Jack’s sweaters and cry over winter break. “Jack hasn’t broken up with me. That’s what you guys want, right?”
“No?” Harp says, face screwing up. “What the fuck?”
Janna, Noel, Mac and Guia are quiet, watching them. Guia is twirling a strand of her dark hair around her finger, staring up at Kent with wide eyes and chewing her gum noisily.
“You all want Jack to break up with me because you think he deserves better, I know,” he says slowly. “And Manon wants to get with him. She thinks she gets dibs because she’s known him since they lived in Québec City together --”
“Manon is a lesbian,” Iseul says.
Noel slumps lower in his chair. “Oh shiiiiiiit .”
Kent and Iseul glare at him. “She’s got a girlfriend too,” Harp says patiently. “Back in Québec City.”
Kent wants the ground to open up underneath him and just swallow him whole. “Oh,” he says, because he has nothing else to say, except -- “uh, sorry?”
“That’s fine,” Harp says. He’s always calm in the face of adversity, that one. “But what would even make you think all of that in the first place?”
“Because -- !” Kent explodes. “Since I met you guys, you’ve been, like, ribbing me about Jack, and reminding me you knew him before I ever did, and calling me sloppy and shit and I don’t fuckin’ know and I feel like you’re all joking sometimes but it’s -- it’s really pisisng me off now and shit.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. “Also -- why is Manon always so goddamn rude ?”
“That’s just how she is, I think,” Noel says helpfully. Kent glares at him again.
“Well, it’s gotta be genuinely fucking exhausting, to be like that all the time,” Kent tells him. He pulls the last vacant chair out and slides down into it miserably. “Just. Will you guys cut it out?” He looks at Harp and Iseul pointedly. “I never fuck around with you guys.”
The two of them look lightheaded all of a sudden. “Huh?” Iseul asks.
Kent shrugs. “You know, I never say you two aren’t right for each other. I support you and all. I’d like some support in return, s'il vous plaît.”
Noel cringes at his pronunciation. Kent loudly ignores him. Janna’s cringing too, which is fresh, because she doesn’t know a lick of French either. He kicks her ankle underneath the table. She scowls at him. He smirks.
Harp and Iseul are flushing quickly. “We --” he says, pointing between them a little frantically. "-- We're not dating."
Kent raises his eyebrows. “For real?” he asks, sitting up.
“For real,” Iseul repeats. She’s clutching her cheeks. “What -- why would you think that?”
Noel snorts. Kent agrees with him for once. “Uh, because you’re both always hanging out and shit?” he says.
“That doesn’t mean we’re dating!” Iseul exclaims.
“And Harp stares at you during lecture hall?”
Noel’s shaking with silent laughter. Harp winces. “That’s --” he says. Iseul’s pushed her glasses up into her hair, hands covering her face. “Jesus. Fuck. You suck, Kent.”
He grins widely, suddenly feeling weirdly better. “I know.”
“But I’m sorry,” Harp continues. He’s rubbing his shoulder. He’s shifted away from Iseul a little bit and Kent feels a little guilty. “You’re right. It’s supposed to be jokes and all, but when it drags on…” His eyes glaze over a bit like he’s recalling a specific memory. “It really gets you down.”
“Well, I accept your apology,” Kent says. He begins to put his things away. It’s nearing six o’clock. He wants to grab a big box of Mr Puffs’ loukoumades with the chocolate hazelnut and biscotti and arrive home before Jack. “Thanks Harp.”
“And I’ll even try to talk to Manon,” he says, standing up and walking Kent to the exit. Kent pulls his toque down over his ears. He can feel the cold through the glass doors. “It’ll be a bit difficult but I’m sure she’ll come to her senses. She’s just protective of Jack and all.”
“Well, let her know I’d never do anything to hurt him,” Kent says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like he wouldn’t be able to fend me off anyway, if she couldn’t see that with her own eyes.”
Harp scratches the back of his neck. “I think she’s more worried about him, um, emotionally.”
Kent pauses. “Well,” he says slowly. “I’d never hurt him that way either.”
Harp smiles at him. “I know. And Manon will too.”
Kent can only hope.
Winter break wasn't completely awful.
It was, mentally, a lot more difficult than Kent initially thought it would be. It had been a while since he’s not been in the same general area as Jack, and now he’s in a different country.
His mom’s place was more or less the same as it was the last time he’d been round. She herself was still the exact same too. She had hugged him, lips pressed against his forehead, and taken him out to the car. She’d asked a few questions during the ride home, but they ended up mostly just discussing the new recipes she’d been trying out. She let him know that she'd made a batch of chocolate chip cookies with shards of salted caramel baked in and they were waiting on a plate with his name on it.
The neighbours asked him how Canada was, as if it was a foreign land far away from whatever they could comprehend. They'd ask about his boyfriend too, and the man who lived across the street watched Kent with an uncomfortable look as Kent told his wife Jack was doing great.
He talked to Jack over the phone every single day. He snapped him photos of everything, and Jack would reply with a photo of the back of his parent's heads at the museum or a shot of old government buildings with overarching domes and waving flags.
But it was nice all in all. The guys he had sex with in high school who worshipped football as if it was a religion were all flunking uni. Kent relished in the fact; he didn't feel guilty about it either, because he had never pretended to be a good person and never said he was one either. He enjoyed having his mom's home cooked meals well enough, because it wasn't as if he wasn't eating good in Montreal.
But he still couldn't wait to go back, and it made him wonder if he'd ever feel at home in his -- in his real home anymore, or if this house he had grown up in didn't hold that mantle anymore.
He wondered if that mantle had been passed on to the condo he and Jack had in the city.
The thought wasn't as terrifying as he would have thought it to be.
Jack meets him at Trudeau International when he arrives back in the city, all dressed up nice in his old Canada Goose and plaid scarf and worn jeans. His dark hair is slicked back and he looks so fucking handsome Kent could truly cry.
"Bonjour!" he shouts up the escalator, where Jack waits at the top. The group of middle-aged women in front of him look back to glare. He ignores them. "You look so fucking hot!"
Jack rubs his temple. Kent grins, and once the escalator delivers him to the landing, he tackles Jack, duffel bag smacking his hip.
"Missed you so much," he says, and Jack cups his cheeks and kisses him slowly. Kent's surprised only momentarily -- Jack has never been one for PDA -- but kisses back, barely holding himself from gripping Jack by the lapels and licking into his mouth fiercely.
When they part, panting a little, Jack strokes a hand over Kent's cheekbone and follows the touch with a kiss. Kent preens.
"We should go home," Kent says, stepping back and squaring his duffel bag properly over his shoulder. "And, uh, y'know."
Jack smiles. "Sounds good," he says, snaking an arm around Kent's waist and pulling Kent snug into his side. "I got back two days ago. It's not the same without you."
Kent's insides flutter. "Really," he says, trying valiantly and failing to sound unruffled.
Jack nods. "I'm being honest. You look beautiful."
Jesus. "Really," Kent repeats, flushing. He rests a hand on top of the one Jack's got on his waist. He's not sure if he wants to be held against Jack right now or if he wants to twine their fingers together, swinging their interlocked hands back and forth as they head to the subways.
Jack gives him a leveled look, and only then does Kent notice the heat in it. "Really," he says, voice a little rough, and Kent thrills inside.
The subway ride home and the following walk feel charged. They stay pressed together, leeching warmth from each other in the face of brutal cold. The city is blanketed in white and Environnement Canada has sent out notifications warning for a blizzard. Kent nuzzles closer to Jack as they run across the sidewalk to the condo.
“Fuck,” Kent exhales, rubbing his raw cheeks as Jack holds the door open for him. They climb the stairs to their level, and by the time they push into their foyer Kent is warmer and half-hard.
Jack pushes Kent up against their front door and kisses him, holding him by his neck. Kent moans, clutching Jack’s shoulders and kisses back. It’s not romantic this time; it’s sloppy, wanting.
Jack pulls back, shucking off his jacket and Kent follows. He’s surprised then when Jack heads towards the living room instead of down the hall to their bedroom. He lets out a small noise, trailing behind him.
“Oh shit,” he gasps, “you didn’t, you cheesy motherfucker .”
Jack laughs. “You wanted it, didn’t you?” and yes, he’s technically right. Kent did want it, but not like this. He wanted the fireplace on and shoddy blanket on the floor.
This -- this is so much better.
The fireplace is on, and there is a blanket spread out on the floor, but it’s not thin and prone to carpet burn; it’s a thick comforter. There’s rose petals everywhere, and candles -- not too many candles but just enough to make the room look exotic, and they’re all placed at various heights so as to not be a possible safety hazard. Because of course.
Kent then notices the lube and box of condoms.
“You’re literally the best,” Kent says, stripping himself entirely. He doesn’t have the least bit of desire to shed their clothes while they fuck. He wants skin-to-skin contact now . “And literally the cheesiest but that’s cool, because I fuck with that.”
“Yeah?” Jack asks. He’s started to pull his sweater over his head and Kent pauses his erratic shucking of clothing to admire his boy’s chest. God. He wants to run his hands all over it and follow up with his tongue. He wants to come on it. He wants Jack to come on it. He wants it sticky and slick and sweaty.
His dick throbs.
“Heavily,” Kent replies. He slips a finger underneath the elastic of Jack’s briefs, catching Jack’s mouth in a kiss and palming Jack’s dick. Jack groans, hips hitching forward, and Kent pulls back, tongue running over his teeth as he pulls Jack down to the comforter.
“This thing is gonna be hell to wash once we’re done,” he mumbles, kissing down Jack’s throat. Jack lets out a low hum, his hand coming to fist in Kent’s hair gently. “But I really don’t care.”
He pulls Jack’s briefs off, tossing them to their pile of clothes and then leans back up to grab the lube. He slicks up his hand generously and then grips their dicks, getting them wet. Jack rocks up against him and the drag sends sparks up Kent’s spine. He leans over Jack and kisses him, pushing his tongue into Jack’s mouth and sliding their hips together.
He wants to keep rutting their cocks together like this, kissing lazily, until there’s a mess of come and lube all over Jack’s abdomen, but he wants more too. He licks down Jack’s chin, sucking on his neck, and brings a hand down between their bodies to rub over Jack’s hole.
It’s already a little wet from the dripping lube and he just pushes the tip of his finger in. Jack’s head falls back against the comforter with a thud, and he draws his arm over his eyes, burying his face into the crook of his elbow. He’s so sensitive. Kent licks over his nipple which has already drawn tight, pulling his finger back out and fumbling for the lube from wherever it is beside him.
“You should ride me,” he suggests, swallowing hard as he slicks up his fingers again. Jack looks incredible laid out in front of him like this. “You wanna?”
“Yeah,” Jack says, and clears his throat. “Yes, please.”
Please. Kent’s groin tightens. “Fuck,” he says, pushing his finger back in all the way this time. He wants to see Jack like this all the time. He shifts back, ducks down to suck on the head of Jack’s cock, tonguing the precome. Jack’s hand finds its way back into his hair as he mouths lower, licking around where his finger is sunk into Jack.
He loves this. He loves being eaten out, Jack’s big hands pinning him down by the hips and leaving him with absolutely nowhere to escape, Jack’s stubble rubbing against the insides of his tender thighs, mouth warm and ticklish against his hole. He loves eating Jack out too, his boy open and vulnerable and stretched out for him. He loves talking about it, loves settling in Jack’s lap on the couch and jerking him off while mumbling I wish I were between your legs right now, wish we had time so I could lick you open right now, you love it so much, always begging me, you want it all the time, want you to sit on my face too until Jack comes all over Kent’s hand, his wrist.
He knows Jack loves it too because his fingers tighten in Kent’s hair and he lets out a little short breath. Kent pulls his finger out and presses his face closer, replacing it with his tongue, licking over and over the tight furl. Jack’s hips are shifting and his breathing is loud when Kent presses the tip of his tongue inside, nudging in as far as he can.
“Kent,” Jack says. His voice is shot to rubble. “Kent, I want to -- I need you --”
“Mmm,” Kent mumbles. He pulls back, pushes two fingers back in and fucks them steadily, hurriedly. He’s the worst at this, he knows, but when his dick is hard like a rock it’s all he can focus on. Jack’s amazing like that -- he can lick Kent out for hours, finger him leisurely, even while his dick looks painfully red between his thighs. Kent admires his sheer patience and self-control, but he doesn’t have any himself, and he can readily admit that.
“I think I’m ready,” Jack says, shuddering when Kent firmly strokes him on the inside with the pads of his fingers. He pushes up on his elbows, exhaling shakily when Kent pulls his fingers back out again, and as soon as Kent’s laid flat on his back he shifts forward and straddles Kent’s hips, gripping Kent’s dick loosely.
“Condom?” Kent asks, reaching for the lube and handing it over to Jack. He doesn’t want to use them, but Jack had brought them out, so maybe he didn’t want to bareback.
Jack shakes his head tightly, lubing up Kent’s cock. “No,” he says, “want you to fill me up, shit.”
Kent grips Jack’s hips. He’s so turned on he feels lightheaded. “We can arrange that,” he says weakly, and Jack lets out a short laugh before he’s lifting onto his knees, pressing the head of Kent’s cock to his hole.
It’s invitingly warm, and Kent moans, head falling back as Jack sinks down slowly. He’s unbearably hot on the inside, pulsing and tight as a vice. It feels so fucking good around his dick, but it might be painful. Kent really should have stretched Jack out a little more.
“God, Jack,” Kent babbles, fingers digging into Jack’s sides tightly. “So tight, are you sure it doesn’t hurt --?”
“Feels good,” Jack bites out. His eyes are closed, and when his ass settles in the cradle of Kent’s hips, Kent’s cock nestled all up inside him, his mouth goes slack. “Shit, Kent.”
“Yeah,” Kent breathes. He doesn’t want to sound pushy but he needs Jack to move , to ride him into the fucking floor.
And Jack does. He braces his hands behind himself on Kent’s knees, grip tight, and rolls his hips a bit, like he’s trying to loosen himself up on Kent’s cock this time. Kent lays there unmoving, lets him get used to the stretch, and when Jack lifts up a little before sliding back down, he lets out a breath he hadn’t known was lodged in his throat.
“Oh god, I’m not going to last long,” Kent croaks. Jack smiles a little, eyes still closed, starts moving steadily. He starts by rocking his hips in little back-and-forth motions, Kent fully inside him, before he switches to sliding up and down on the length.
Kent is so fucked. His dick is throbbing, his orgasm feeling like it’s imminent in the damn tip, and he doesn’t want this to be over but he’s going to have to get the first one out of the way.
He reaches out to stroke Jack’s cock, so heavy and hard it’s curved against his flexing thigh, at the exact moment he can tell his dick rubs against Jack’s prostate. He flinches but doesn’t slow down, picks up his speed instead.
Kent grips Jack’s thigh with one hand, fingers digging in roughly, jerking his dick with the other hand. His hips rock up a little to meet Jack, and when he thumbs over the head, Jack’s body tightens around him, hot hot hot and pulsing, and Kent comes with a quiet gasp, vision going white for a second. His back arches, shoving his cock up inside Jack, and he comes inside of him in trembling pulses, filling him up.
Jack groans, head falling back. He keeps riding Kent through it and by the end Kent’s shivering with the overstimulation. Jack knocks his hand away and starts stroking himself, his movements coming to a halt. He’s just bearing down on Kent’s softening cock, enjoying the warmth Kent spilled inside of him, just needs something to come on. He needs that sometimes, something inside of him, stretching him out and keeping him full, and when Kent shifts his hips involuntarily he spills over his fist, shoulders curling in.
“Fuuuuck,” Kent hisses as Jack pulls off. His soft cock slips from Jack’s warm body and slaps against his wet belly, the cold air unwelcome. Jack flops beside him, panting, and Kent pushes up on his elbows, reaching between Jack’s legs to grope his dick, and then slipping further down. He can feel his come spill from his hole, and he slides a finger in to his knuckle, stoppering it from leaking out. Jack nearly sobs, gripping Kent’s shoulder.
Kent nearly passes out, it’s so hot. “One minute, or maybe five,” he says, leaning down to lick at Jack’s jaw, “and we go again, yeah?”
Jack nods wordlessly, eyes bright, and Kent’s body thrums electric as he goes in for a kiss.
It’s date night and they’ve splurged. They go to Damas for Syrian food; Jack gets eggplant stuffed with lamb and pine nuts, drizzled in tahini yogurt. Kent goes for the shish taouk with grilled chicken, pickled vegetables and garlic fries. It comes to their table hot and sizzling; Kent swears it all melts on his tongue.
They go to C’Chocolat for dessert afterwards and share a crêpuccine. Kent’s swirling the noodle-dough around his fork, licking chocolate off his fingers, when he looks up and notices Harp and Iseul seated at a table across the room. It’s just the two of them, bent over their dirty plates, holding hands and grinning at each other like sappy idiots.
Kent croons. That was him and Jack a few years ago. “Zimms,” he whispers, and Jack looks up from where he was stabbing a brownie meatball. “Look at ‘em.”
Jack follows his gaze, squinting. “Is that...Harp and Iseul? I haven’t seen them in a while. Should we go say hi --?”
“No!” Kent whisper-shouts. “They’re on a date.”
Jack looks confused. “Yeah --”
“No, Zimms, honey buns, my darling,” he says, leaning in close. “This is their first date.”
Jack’s eyes widen comically. Kent gets it. “I thought they --?”
“They weren’t! I just found out a couple weeks ago.”
Jack sets his fork on his plate, leaning back in his chair, grinning at Kent. “Well, I’m certainly happy for them.”
Kent grins back. He is too. They look -- gleeful. He likes it. “Ready to go?”
They head to the subways, and Jack suggests reloading their metro passes so they’ll be ready before Monday, which leads to them detouring to the ticket counter.
A young guy smiles at them. “Hello bonjour.”
Jack’s about to reply, but before Kent can think, he nudges forward and trills, “salut. Une billet s'il vous plaît.”
Jack stares at him. The guy does too. “Hebdomadaire ou mensuel?” he asks slowly.
Yeah, Kent’s out. He steps back and waves Jack forward. Jack’s got his hand curled over his mouth. The motherfucker’s laughing silently. Kent punches his arm.
On the platform, a train roars in the opposite direction. Kent grabs Jack’s arm. “My French has gotten good!” he says. Jack’s eyes dart around the cavernous area, like he’s looking for an out to this conversation before it starts.
“...Oui?” he says after a moment. Kent glares at him.
"I can speak French too," he says haughtily, eyes narrowing at the warning sign pinned to the wall behind Jack's head. " 'Sous peine de...poursuites...?' What? Bro, is that sign talking about prostitutes?"
Jack sighs, and kisses him. Kent thumps his chest, as if trying to get away, but still kisses back.
“Okay, fine,” he says when they pull apart. “I can’t. But I will one day. I swear.”
“Absolument,” Jack says. “You’ve got a couple years left in the city, don’t you?”
Kent takes his hand, shrugging. “Well, if things go well, I was thinking maybe I’ve got the rest of my life in the city, really.”
When he looks back at Jack, he’s got that soft grin Kent adores so much spread across his face, eyes glinting.
“I’m sure everything will go just fine,” he says, and Kent grins at him.
He has a feeling they will, too.