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1.
For Kent’s sixteenth birthday, he gets a growth spurt and a hickey from Jack Zimmermann under his collarbone.
For his birthday, Jack gets a panic attack.
It’s past midnight. Kent is drunk and he keeps trying to hop into Jack’s arms. “ Pleeease , Zimms? You’re so strong. I know you can carry me!”
Jack is drunk too, off the bottle of vodka they’d smuggled into the house a week ago. He has to be, or he never would’ve agreed to sneak out like this. He keeps laughing, and Zimms laughing might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to Kenny. “No—ha—stop—aha—Kenny, I—” Jack’s phone buzzes. Kent reads the message over his shoulder.
Papa (12:34 am): We know you aren’t home.
“Oh my God, he’s going to kill us,” Jack whispers in horror. He turns to Kent with wide eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists repeatedly. “He’s going—this can’t be happening.”
Kent says something that gets swallowed up by the sound of Jack’s hyperventilation. Jack wheezes out one, two breaths and then drops to the ground. Kent is trying not to cry but he’s not doing a very good job of it because what the fuck is happening he’s so scared is Jack dying Jack is dying.
“He’s going—to kill me—Kenny—we’re dead I’m—dead I can’t breathe—Kenny my chest—hurts—why can’t I breathe?” Jack is wheezing, squeezing his words out between breaths so hoarsely Kent can barely understand him. “It hurts—do something—Kenny—help Kenny—help—help—”
Kent snatches Jack’s phone and tries to call Mr. Zimmermann. It takes him a while because tears keep on dropping onto the phone and he has to wipe them away so he doesn’t ruin the buttons. Finally, he hits dial and the line clicks open after just one ring.
Bob answers in French and asks, “Jack, where are you?” He sounds tense, a little angry but mostly worried.
“I don’t know but please help there’s something wrong with Jack I’m so sorry please I’m sorry.”
“Kent? What do you mean—son, where are you? ” Now Bob is panicking too and Kent doesn’t know what to do about that, because anyone over the age of eighteen is supposed to have answers.
“The—the big hill—near the running trail—” Kent tries to explain where they are, but he doesn’t really know because they just started walking and they ran off the trail at some point because Kent wanted to do that thing in movies where you make-out against a tree, and then the woods seemed more fun than a trail and then there was a hill and then Jack started dying.
“Kent, give the phone to Jack.”
Kent is sitting next to Jack on the ground, who is curled up into an impressively tight ball and shaking, eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t.”
“ What? Look, Kent, we’re coming to find you, but we need a better idea of where you are. Maybe Jack—”
“He can’t talk anymore he won’t even breathe right he’s just—”
“ Tabarnak Kent, you aren’t making sense, just—”
The voice on the line changes to Alicia who soothes, “Hi, Kenny. We’re going to be okay, alright? Can you tell me how you got where you are?”
Kent does the best he can to describe the area and tries to pull Jack’s head into his lap. That’s mostly a failure, because Jack is 180 pounds of deadweight and Kent is still bulking into his new 5’8” frame, so he just runs his fingers through the part of Jack’s hair that isn’t pressed against the grass instead.
Alicia says they’re on their way and hangs up. Tears roll off Kent’s cheeks and splatter onto Jack’s face.
Kent whispers, “I love you, Zimms. Please don’t die,” and then falls silent. He’s not sure if Jack hears or if he wants him to.
By the time the Zimmermanns find them, Jack is breathing normally again and talking. He lets Kent help him up to a sitting position and slouches against Kent’s shoulder.
Bob stares at them blankly, at his son’s relatively normal appearance and Kent’s red eyes. “What the—Kent, if this was some sort of prank —”
“It’s not, I—” Kent scrambles to explain, silently praying Jack will say something.
“You said he wasn’t breathing , Kent. We called a fucking ambulance!” Bob waves his arms around, pacing back and forth in front of them.
Alicia touches her husband’s arm gently, crouches down in front of the two of them, and asks softly, “Boys, just tell us what happened, okay?”
“I thought he was dying,” Kent says, begging her to believe. “He—he wasn’t breathing right and—and—Zimms?”
Jack sucks in a shaky breath. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “My chest…and I couldn’t breathe, Maman, and…I’m so scared. What’s wrong with me?”
Alicia smiles sadly, presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead. Sirens blare somewhere not quite there and Kent can pretend that the noise isn’t for them.
2.
“Kenny, I—I don’t want to hurt you.” Jack has a finger pressed against Kent’s hole, and his eyes are starting to go all panicky and scared.
Kent should be the scared one. He’s the one spread out naked on his bed, hands behind his head because he doesn’t know what else to do with them and dick going kind of soft because no one’s touched it in almost ten minutes. But Kent’s not allowed to be the scared one and he’s not sure how many more ways he can say, you won’t hurt me, I trust you, I want this.
Kent leans forward, resting on his forearms so he can look Jack in the eye. “Zimms, it’s okay. I love you.”
It’s like that moment when you’re driving down some dark road at night and there’s a deer on the edge of the woods, and by the time you think, ‘it’s going to run,’ you’ve already driven straight past.
Jack slams the door when he leaves and all that’s left is the t-shirt he forgot to grab off the floor.
Kent is mostly asleep when Jack comes back that night, opening the door slowly so it doesn’t creak. He pads over to the bed and curls up behind Kent, pulls him in close and whispers, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Kent lies. He doesn’t think they can handle any more true things today.
3.
Jack is fucking him like he wants to snap him in half.
“I love you,” Kent moans, desperate and unhinged and a little like he’s begging. Jack bites into his shoulder instead of answering.
4.
Kent wakes up shivering. The clock says it’s four AM but that can’t be right. Kent doesn’t wake up shivering at four in the morning because he’s curled up next to Jack by that time, recycling body heat under the bedspread and snoring gently. Maybe this is a dream. Jack is gone, so Kent gets up to look for him because dreams are better with Jack in them.
He finds him on the balcony, where wind is whipping leaves up from way down below in erratic spirals. Jack is standing on the banister with a hand braced against the building wall, watching the trees dance and shed their skins for the wind. Kent climbs up onto the railing and sits down next to Jack, asking, “Whatcha doing, Zimms?”
Jack doesn’t turn to look at him. His voice is shaking, maybe from the cold. It’s winter and Jack is just in an old shirt and boxers. “I was thinking I’d jump, maybe.”
This isn’t a good dream. Kent rubs his eyes like that could wake him up, maybe, and looks up at Jack through the thick fog of half-sleep. “You’d die,” he points out.
“Yeah,” Jack scoffs, “duh.”
This isn’t a fucking good dream. Kent pinches the skin on the underside of his elbow as hard as he can. He’s not waking up, he’s just in pain and Jack is still watching the trees like he wants to be down there with them. He’s not really sure what to do, so he just says, “I don’t want you to die.”
Jack whispers, “Sorry.” He leans forward a little and Kent panics, then, because this is the exact moment he realizes maybe this isn’t a dream. Maybe it’s four AM and Kent woke up alone and Jack wants to die and shit shit shit does that mean Jack isn’t in love with him, because how could you want to die if you’re in love and Kent isn’t sure what’s worse, the not being in love or the wanting to fucking die.
Kent grabs Jack by the wrist and squeezes. There are tears in both their eyes that could be from the sting of the wind but could also be from all the wanting to die. Kent isn’t sure he’s got anything in him to dedicate to crying right now, because his whole body is screaming fuck fuck fuck so loud that he can’t even say it, so he just sits there on the balcony with his hand on Jack’s wrist and his mouth gaping like a fucking fish trying to talk and being so useless he can’t even do that.
“I can’t do it,” Jack tells him, and Kent wants to ask which part Jack means, but he’s been trying to make words come out for a while and he shouldn’t waste them on that.
“I love you,” Kent says instead, because that would be the last thing he’d want to hear if he was the one dying.
“Don’t tell me that,” Jack begs, and Kent can feel him trembling from inside his bones. “I can’t do it.”
“Please,” Kent says and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. He’s asking for everything and anything and it’s not even a question, just the way he lives now. Please don’t jump please don’t die please love me please please please.
Jack makes a noise that could be a sob. He reaches to grip Kent by the shoulder. Kent wonders if Jack is doing that because he wants them to jump together. He thinks about what the headlines would say about that and wonders if any of the reporters would know they were in love.
Jack steps down onto the balcony. He tugs his wrist free and walks inside.
5.
Kent runs his fingers through Jack’s hair, scratching gently at the scalp. “I love you,” he says matter-of-factly, like it’s the only thing he’s ever known how to say.
“Sometimes I hate you,” Jack says back, the exact same way. He gets out of bed and slides his underwear on. “I need another drink.”
+1
“I’m sick and fucking tired of being half of something!” Jack snarls. He’s trembling all over like he’s phasing in and out of their dimension. “You’ve attached yourself to me like—like a leech and I don’t want to be a part of you!”
His fist hits the wall so hard it blows right through. Kent crumples in sympathy with the drywall, dropping onto the bed, and watches chalky dust particles scatter around Jack’s fist, and he’s scared, maybe, or turned on—probably both because he can’t tell the difference around Jack anymore anyway.
“We’re supposed to be a team,” Kent whispers. He’s pushing Jack on purpose, wonders if Jack’ll have it in him to hit him.
Jack doesn’t. He brushes the dust off his knuckles, taps idly at a place where he drew his own blood. His pupils are wide like he’s high again, maybe, or horny—probably both because Jack’s usually both if he’s decided to be alone with Kenny. He walks over and sits down on the bed, still shaking, staring at his hand like it grew there while his back was turned. Kent leans gingerly against Jack’s shoulder, wonders if he’s going to fall right through and off the bed. He hits flesh, like of course he would—of course, because Jack is here, he is, even if Jack is also gone.
Kent can feel the dust from the drywall scratching against his throat and he knows, dimly—in the part of his brain that still thinks instead of pretends—that the dust can’t make him bleed but he feels scraped out and raw, like he’d cough up blood if he tried to speak.
So Kent doesn’t say anything when he stands, knees threatening to give out from underneath him, and makes for the door.
“Where’re you going?” Jack asks. He sounds far away and kind of petulant. No, he—he sounds like a fucking brat and Kent wants to rip himself apart into confetti.
“I’m leaving,” Kent answers, eyes fixed on the doorknob like maybe he can move it with his mind and he won’t have to use his hands because they’re shaking so hard it hurts and he’s not sure if they work anymore.
Jack is quiet for a minute and Kent turns to look at him, takes in the way his eyes are wet and wide with shock and his chest is heaving. Finally, Jack manages, “Are you coming back?”
“Not this time, Zimms.”
One of them whimpers. Kent is pretty sure it’s Jack, but he can’t be sure.
“Kenny, you—you can’t leave,” Jack whispers. His whole body is shaking and his head drops down into his hands like his neck can’t hold up. “The—the draft is tomorrow. I can’t do this without you.”
There’s nothing left in Kent’s chest to hurt. It’s an empty ache, the kind of lacking he imagines people feel when they’re buried in an avalanche and are about to die and have already forgotten that you can be warm.
“Sure you can,” he says softly. “Just take another pill.”