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Jack grimaced, the memory still fresh. “They called my parents. Afterwards, Dad gave me a lecture about turning the other cheek and told me Jesus was disappointed in me, and they took all my Hot Wheels off me for a month.”
Harry hissed between his teeth. “Harsh. Probably justified, though.” He picked up a paper plate and waggled it. “I’ll be sure to check my class for potential scissor-wielding maniacs before I let them make these, then.” He picked up a pair of scissors and held them out. “Wanna help? Recapture your lost youth?” His eyes danced with mischief.
Jack took the scissors, grinning. “Hell, yeah. Who doesn’t wanna be a blue lion?”
Harry turned his attention back to the screen where the presenter was cutting out eyeholes, and, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth, started to follow the instructions. Jack did the same. They spent the next half hour perfecting their technique while they shared the toasted sandwiches Jack had made.It was the oddest Friday night Jack had spent in a while, but also possibly the nicest.
At the end of it they’d managed to make several almost-presentable masks—well, presentable by preschool standards, which were admittedly low—and Harry somehow had blue paint on his cheek. Jack couldn’t resist leaning in and dragging his thumb across it, wiping it away. Harry’s eyes widened, and his lips parted as though he’d just discovered something startling, but he didn’t pull away from Jack’s touch.
God, Jack wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him so badly. But he wasn’t that guy, wasn’t someone who kissed first and asked later. Harry hadn’t given any indication he was interested, and Jack sure as hell wasn’t going to ask and possibly jeopardize his new living situation. So he just drew his hand back, held up his painty thumb and said, “You looked like you were auditioning for Braveheart.”
Harry swallowed, a strange look flitting across his face, before he extended a pair of scissors skyward and said in a thick brogue, “Aye! They can take our safety scissors, but they’ll never take our freedom!”
It took Jack a second to translate through the accent, but then he couldn’t help but cackle, and whatever had been brewing between them dissolved in the face of Harry's pleased grin.
Still, the moment had stayed with Jack long after they’d cleaned up and gone to bed. And now, lying in bed and listening to Tristan rattle the headboard, he had to admit to himself that he was far more attracted to Harry than he’d previously thought. And apparently, the attraction only went one way.
Well, shit.
Chapter Five
Acrimson spurt of juice hit Harry square in the chest, like something out of a horror movie.
“Shit!” Jack stared at him, aghast. “I’m so sorry!”
Harry looked down at his formerly white tee and grimaced. “See what happens when you try and put beetroot in burgers? The universe punishes you with a dodgy Tupperware lid.”
The aforementioned lid lay on the floor in a pool of deep red that matched the stains all over Harry’s shirt.
“Shit,” Jack repeated, waving the lidless container about and slopping more beetroot and juice all over the lino. Harry grabbed it off him and set it firmly in the sink before he ended up with red hair as well as a red shirt. He grabbed a roll of paper towels—because that was a thing they had now—and soaked up the worst of the mess from the floor. He peeled his shirt off and gave a sigh, not sure whether it was even worth trying to save. He was pretty sure that if the recommended cleaning method for beetroot stains didn’t consist of “ignore until laundry day, throw in the machine, and hope for the best,” his shirt was fucked. He dropped it in the bin and chucked the paper towels on top of it.
He caught Jack’s stricken look. “It’s fine. I was going op shopping this weekend anyway. It’s been weeks since I terrorised Beryl, and I don’t want her to think she has the upper hand.”
“I’m really not out to kill you or your wardrobe,” Jack said. “Let me pay for that one at least?”
God, he looked like someone had kicked his puppy—or him, if he was a puppy, Harry wasn’t sure which. Regardless, Harry really needed to get that look off his face.
Harry laughed. “Jack, it’s been weeks since you tried to kill me. I’m over it, I promise.”
Jack didn’t look convinced.
Harry tilted his head, considering. “Tell you what. Come to the op shop with me on Saturday morning, and we’ll get something there.” He’d tried to explain the tackiness of the op shop and Beryl and her reign of terror, but Jack had just looked disbelieving, and Harry had concluded that it was something that couldn’t be described, only lived. He found himself eager to share the experience with Jack. He was finding himself keen to spend more time with Jack in general recently, for reasons he didn’t quite understand and was choosing not to examine too closely.
Jack raised his eyebrows, and Harry could have sworn he was offended. “I might only be an apprentice, but I can afford to buy you a new shirt. A nice shirt.”
“I mean you could, but we could also get four awful shirts at the oppy,” Harry countered, grinning. “And you’d get to meet Beryl. She’s amazingly terrible. She has an eyepatch and an attitude that could curdle milk, and I think I might be winning our ongoing war right now.”
Jack wrinkled his nose. “O…kay. But you could also get a nice, normal shirt?”
“I have plenty of normal shirts,” Harry said, confused. “The other ones are for work. They’re Bad Boyfriend shirts.”
Jack’s face lit up with understanding. “So you wear awful shirts like that Hawaiian disaster as, what? Your professional persona?”
“Something like that. Dressing badly on my dates is very effective.” He frowned as something occurred to him. “What, have you spent the last month thinking I wore stuff like that as a matter of taste?” He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might be vaguely offended by that.
Jack hesitated a second too long before answering, “No?”
Harry fixed him with a stare.
