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Brendan gave him an adoring look, and for just a split second, Jack wondered what, exactly, Tris did to earn those looks, and if he’d missed out by turning Tris down the night before. Only for a split second though, because then Harry shuffled through the door, and Jack’s gaze was drawn to him like an iron filing to a magnet, or maybe like a dog to the contents of a litter box.
Whatever. The point was, he couldn’t keep his eyes off him.
Harry was rumpled and half asleep still. His hair was messed up, and his glasses were askew. He blinked when he saw that Brendan had claimed his usual spot at the tiny kitchen table and swayed a little bit. Maybe not half asleep at all. Maybe still three-quarters asleep. But, standing there, listing back and forth a little in his Mr Men pyjama pants and a threadbare old T-shirt, he was the most beautiful guy Jack had ever seen. And that was including Tristan.
Jack gave him a smile and poured him a coffee.
Harry took it, but didn’t quite meet his gaze, which was weird. “Breakfast?” Jack asked, pulling out a dozen eggs.
“Yeah, thanks,” Harry said quietly, still avoiding Jack’s gaze. He took his cup and went into the lounge, settling himself on the couch and scrolling through his phone, like he was deliberately avoiding conversation. Definitely weird. Jack glanced at him furtively before going to make breakfast. Maybe he knows you’re into him and he’s not interested. Good job, you made it awkward, a tiny, mocking voice in his head jeered.
Jack ignored it. Harry couldn’t know, could he? Jack hadn’t said or done anything. He beat the eggs vigorously, the steel whisk clattering angrily against the side of the bowl, in an effort to work off some of the sudden tension he felt and get the knot in his stomach to unclench. It worked, at least partially. He distracted himself further by loading the toaster and scrambling the eggs to perfection, then plating them up. He hesitated before he carried Harry’s through to him, bracing himself for—well, he didn’t know what he was bracing for exactly. It wasn’t like he’d done anything. It was just his overdeveloped minister-kid’s guilt complex kicking in again. There was nothing wrong with liking someone who didn’t like him back, not if he didn’t act on it. It was just awkward, that was all, and if he didn’t mention it, Harry never needed to know.
He let out a long, calming breath, then took Harry his eggs—scrambled just the way he liked, no pepper, extra butter.
“Thanks.” Harry stopped whatever game he was playing on his phone and shoved it in the pocket of his pyjama pants. He took the plate. He looked Jack in the eye and gave him a smile, and Jack’s gut unclenched further.
Nothing to see here, except paranoia and wishful thinking.
“These eggs are amazing,” Tristan yelled from the kitchen. “Food of the gods, Jack.”
“They are good,” Harry said. He glanced towards the kitchen. “And this one is?”
“Brendan,” Jack said with a grin. “And given the way Tris is looking at him, I’m guessing there might be a post-breakfast round two.”
Harry wrinkled his nose. “Do you think so?”
“Maybe.” Jack shrugged. “He gets this look in his eye, you know?”
“Um…not really.” Harry dug his fork into his eggs and stirred them around. He didn’t look up at Jack. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“No problem.” When it became apparent that Harry wasn’t going to say anything else, or even make eye contact, Jack headed back to the kitchen and ladled a pile of eggs onto a plate for himself. He was upset that he’d made Harry uncomfortable, and annoyed with himself. He wanted nothing more than to go and sit beside him and apologise, but he knew that would only make things worse. If Harry was uncomfortable with his attention, then forcing more of it on him wasn’t going to help.
He squeezed into a space at the tiny kitchen table between Tris and Brendan and shovelled his eggs into his mouth. He glanced up when Harry came in to leave his plate in the sink and looked away guiltily when Harry caught his gaze.
“Um, Jack?”
He looked up again. Harry was staring at him, pink faced. “Yeah?”
“Can you…?” He made a vague gesture that Jack took to mean to meet him outside.
He stood, ignoring the rest of his breakfast.
“Puppies,” Tris whispered to Brendan. “See?”
Brendan made a sound of agreement.
“Shut up,” Jack muttered, his ears burning, and stepped out into the hallway. Harry followed close on his heels, ducking his head. This is it, Jack thought. This is where he tells me I'm making him uncomfortable and I have to leave.
But Harry just stared at Jack like he was trying to fathom the secrets of the universe, or maybe how Excel spreadsheets were meant to work, then his lips parted, he stepped close, and suddenly his mouth was on Jack’s, hot and wet and messy and terrible. Jack had once been French-kissed—also an ambush that time—by a Labrador with better technique. But it was Harry. Harry was kissing him, and Harry didn’t kiss anybody, yet here they were. The shock of it had Jack freezing in place.
Harry pulled back, eyes wide. “Oh, fuck. Sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
“No! It’s—” But Jack never got to tell Harry it was fine, that he liked it, because Harry backed down the hallway like a spooked horse and bolted out the front door.
“Huh,” said Tris, leaning out into the hallway. “How far do you think he’s going to get before he remembers he’s not wearing any shoes?”
Harry still wasn’t back an hour later, and Jack had walked around the block twice. Tris had even gotten rid of Brendan, citing a flatmate emergency, and walked with Jack. Jack sat on the crumbling front steps of the house and tried Harry’s number again. It rang out again.
