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check please | jack x kent | 30 drabbles x 100 words each
post-canon, established somethingship, non-linear, various ratings
original prompts from @monthlywritingchallenges "nostalgic november" list
pimms feels like a language i've gotten comfortable understanding but never really learned how to speak. that said, they've had permanent residency in my brain for something like a decade at this point, so i figured it was about time i tried!
-
Do you remember?
Jack whispers the words against the back of his neck, jaw rough where his morning shave has given way to stubble, and Kent presses his forehead more firmly to his arm as it braces against the back of the couch. He bites his bottom lip, forcing himself silent, denying Jack the answer.
Let Jack wonder. Let Jack have to ask.
But his body is easy to read, opening so readily under Jackâs touch, welcoming him back without reluctance. Jack kisses the knob of his spine and palms his hip, and the familiar, ever-present ache eases away for the first time.
-
Old letters
His mother has a box in her closetâornate, wooden with intricate corner joints, shiny with shellacâthat she takes out in February. The notes in his fatherâs handwriting, on card stock and on the backsides of receipts and on tattered-edged loose leaf, are weathered with age, but they bring a tender, misty-eyed smile to her face.
The box Jack has isnât a box. A stained drawstring bag lives in the shadows beneath his bed, heavy with an old puck, an unworn novelty snapback, and an undeveloped disposable camera. It smells like sweat. He tries to forget itâs down there.
-
First frost
Jack stays facing the wall after the door clicks shut, taking long, deep breaths. The silence prickles after so many hours of overlapping voices.
âItâll be worse next time,â Kent warns. He kicks off his shoes and sprawls across the couch, untucking the hem of his shirt. When he rests a heel on the coffee table, he knocks one of Jackâs oversized books askew. Jack turns to fix him with a flat look.
âYou could have just eaten the pie.â
Kent shakes his head, unyielding. "Not in my nature."
Jack sighs, coming close and bending to kiss him. âI know.â
-
Faded Polaroids
The shapes overlap in his vision, afterimage and reality in a standoff to see which can last longer. One has decidedly more practice. He rocks in his skates and sees double, one phantom twin miming the other, moving not quite like he remembers, moving exactly as he expects.
Gradually, the world clears like a focusing lens.
The arena noise rumbles. The lights and cameras swing. Jack wears a sweater that matches his own, again, finally, and it means nothingâa clown show, a cashgrab. But for ten minutes, in answer to an unspoken prayer, Jack is back on his line.
-
A song you havenât heard in years
When Jack first rouses, he groans in his throat, a husky, rough sound. He doesnât speak again until after he brushes his teeth. Kent watches, half-tangled in the sheets, as he scratches his hipbone on the walk to the bathroom. He leaves the door open as he plucks his toothbrush from the holder and lathers a thick foam against his molars. He hocks and spits.
On his way back, he catches Kentâs eye and stutter steps, soles squeaking. His knee cracks as he crawls onto the mattress. When he bends low, arms bracketing Kentâs hips, his lips smack against skin.
-
The kitchen light at 2 a.m.
A warm yellow bulb over the sink and the mechanical hum of the dishwasher are a homage to his motherâs mother, whose house always felt like a cozy Rockwell painting after dinner, two cookies on a thin silver tray as Jeopardy slid seamlessly into Wheel of Fortune.
âLeave it,â he tells Jack when his hand reaches for the switch plate.
City light bleeds across the room from the wall of windows and paints him in red and blue shadows. There are no cookies, no trays.
Jackâs brow lingers on confusion before settling into bemused indulgence. When Kent beckons, he follows.
-
Forgotten birthdays
Kent shrugs and says, âIn Jackâs defense, mineâs easy.â
âDonât help,â Jack warns lowly, hands resting in tense fists on the edge of the table. His knuckles brush the edge of his dinner plate. Conversation around the table dies deferentially, and he presses his knee into Kentâs thigh.
Kent cuts a pointed glance in his direction and arches a challenging eyebrow before saying, âNational holiday and all.â
âDonât,â Jack repeats with equally sharp edges, âhelp.â
âWell,â Bittle says, all teeth and lemon juice, âisnât that nice. He just had to remember mine.â
Kent sips his drink. âOr, you know. Not.â
-
The sound of your name
They're a matched set of short, hard consonants.
Jackâs tongue softens the vowels sometimes, lilting them rounder and changing them to something endearing, something that exposes the soft underbelly. Only sometimes, and largely by accident.
Kent says his name like itâs a knife, something to slip under his chin or between his ribs, something to slice through the noose or to carve initials into his chest.
From astride Jackâs hips in the dark, body curled low enough for their foreheads to touch, Kent says it like a dagger drawn across two palms. Jack, in turn, says it like a salve.
-
Things you never said
âI wasnât their kid,â Kent says stiffly as he drifts along the backyard ice. His blades grate against the choppy surface, unsteady in a borrowed pair of Bobâs old skates. Jack had sprung this on him, forgetting the difference in their sizes, and had to make do. Kent glances towards the house, towards the remnants of an awkward lunch. âI get it. It wasnât happening to me.â
Jack bats a puck from side to side. Jealously lives along his spine, a strangling vine woven between the vertebrae. He imagines sinking his teeth into the meat of Kentâs neck and tearing.
-
Dust on a bookshelf
Jack reaches back and shoves at his hip.
âSlow,â he rasps. âItâs beenâ a while. You gotta go slow.â
Kent bites back everything else and asks, âHe never wanted to fuck you?â
âWould it be better if he had?â
âYeah,â Kent says, stroking a palm up the line of his back, âbecause then youâd remember how to take it.â
âI remember,â Jack says, voice snippy. âIâm justâ hnnh.â
âOh,â Kent says, nudging forward like an overeager kid on prom night. He curls his fingers over Jackâs shoulder and tugs. âYeah?â
âYeah,â Jack breathes, head dropping low in supplication. âFuck, yeah.â
-
A sweater that still smells like them
Camilla once sprayed perfume on a card before giving it to him. Bittle wore his hoodies, scented them with spiced cinnamon and the cloying sweetness of baked fruit. He kept them each, for a while, until he didnât.
Just hockey, he lied once. Just hockey, he confessed.
There was no way to lose the trace, no landfill deep enough to bury it, no wash cycle strong enough to cleanse it. There was just hockeyâjust pads and plastic and blades and tape, just the boards and the crease and the zones and the box, just day, night, and everything else.
-
Lost numbers in an old phone
They come in from the evening air chilled and flushed to a delicate dessertâcoffee, a bowl of fruit, a neatly-sliced pound cake cut thinly, a can of whipped creamâspread across the dining table. Kent washes his hands in the kitchen sink as Jack heads for the first floor restroom.
While his fingers are wet with foaming coconut-scented soap, Bob claps a warm palm onto his shoulder.
âItâs good to see you, kiddo,â he says, thick fingers squeezing. âSeems like just yesterday you were spending the summer here.â
âYeah,â Kent says. He tips the faucet hotter until it scalds.
-
âIt used to be ours.â
He worries his teeth on the edges of Kentâs Cup tattoo and traces the lines with the flat of his tongue. In fifteen minutes, he needs to be in the shower, so that in twenty-five minutes he can be in the lobby, so that in thirty-five minutes he can be in a taxi on the way to the airport.
They had days in June, once, that belonged to them. Ever before and ever since, life is a timetable.
âGonna get me going again, Zimms,â Kent complains sleepily, fisting a hand in his hair. Jack grips him more tightly and inhales.
-
Empty train stations
âI hid in the coatroom too long,â Jack explains with a cough as the catering staff works, stripping tablecloths and stacking cloches.
Kent loosens his tie. âSeriously?â
âI didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. It was nice.â
âYeah, we raised some good money.â He arches a brow. âThe coat room?â When Jack shrugs, a slow smile creeps over Kentâs face. He laughsâexuberantly, infectiously, bringing Jack alongâand says, âZimms, you fucking weirdoââ
Jack pounces.
âYou want to grab something to eat?â
âI just spent fifteen-K on catering,â Kent says, rolling his cuffs up his forearms. âYeah, letâs go.â
-
Childhood
âSo all that stuff Rans and Holtzy found about you twoââ
âDonât,â Jack says to his interlocked fingers as he rests his forearms on the railing. The night breeze ruffles his hair. He never comes up to the roof. Itâs different from climbing out Shittyâs window and sitting on the Hausâ shingles. Higher.
âBrah.â A puff of smoke drifts out over the city. âThe dude is sitting in your apartment, watching playoff highlights. He's eating on the couch.â
Heâs wearing a pair of Jackâs sweatpants and a bruise on the inside of his thigh in the shape of Jackâs mouth.
-
Echoes of laughter
The house has three wings, so when Kent pulls him into a roomâa library, lined with history, choked in shadows and mahoganyâthe rest of the party falls away. Nobody will miss them so long as the groom and the beer and the strippers are around.
âIâm negotiating my contracts all wrong,â Kent says against his mouth as they stumble into the edge of a desk. Jackâs fingers dig into the backs of his thighs. âThis place is insane.â
âWho cares?â Jack mumbles back. âItâs in fucking Minnesota.â
Kent laughs, and the trailing noise of heavy base is eclipsed.
-
Unsent postcards
âWhat if I hadnât been as good as you?â Kent asks, water beating against his shoulders as the skin pinks.
âYouâre not as good as me,â Jack chirps with hard-won casualness.
âFuck off. Iâm serious. Would it have been different if I was just some guy going into the draft?â
A frown blooms. âParse.â
The conversation is old, already rehashed too often. Jack wipes the lingering drops of water from his face with an equally wet hand, and Kent waits.
âI donât know,â Jack finally says, taking a damp step forward. âBut this would be different. It wouldnât be this.â
-
Ghost towns and hometowns
âPeople live here,â Kent objects. Jack tilts his crown back against the headrest and waves his arm out the open window as though to use the desert landscape as his entire argument. The tires chew up the open road, a retracting tape measure carrying them back towards Vegas. âJust because your ass canât appreciate the beautyââ
âYouâre embarrassing yourself, Kenny.â
The hand cupped loosely around the gearshift darts over and slaps Jackâs chest. Jack catches the fingers before they can retreat.
âItâs mainly tourists,â Kent concedes as Jack puts his mouth to the dip between thumb and pointer and sucks.
-
Shadows on the wall
They take turns making assurancesânobody is going to care that itâs catered; that shirt looks fine; I can play nice, Jesus Christ; itâs not a big deal, youâve met them beforeâfrom the moment they open their eyes in the morning. Ten minutes before anyone even arrives, Kent slumps tiredly onto an island stool with a headache.
âI donât know how to do this,â Jack declares.
Kent stares at the neatly-set table, the folded napkins. âIt looks fine. This is for a guy that once tried to serve me alcohol out of an old bathtub. I think itâs fine.â
-
âI thought I saw you.â
âSingle and ready to mingle again, huh?â Kent greets when Jack joins him at the high top, squeezing his plate beside Kentâs own and shuffling around the narrow base until their shoulders touch. âI shouldâve seen this coming.â
âTell me to leave if youâd rather be alone,â Jack challenges.
Fire catches in the pit of his stomach and licks up his spine. Quietly, he reaches out and snags Jackâs neglected champagne. Jackâs eyes track the movement of the flute to his smirking mouth and the bob of his throat.
âAny good?â he asks.
Kent licks his lips. âTell me later.â
-
Abandoned houses
âNot as many as youâd think,â Kent says, fingertips strolling the curves of Jackâs shoulders. âMostly other athletes. It helped when it felt like mutually assured destruction.â
Jack keeps his head still so he canât be accused of digging his chin into Kentâs stomach on purpose. âAnyone I should know?â he asks. He plucks at the fine hairs on Kentâs thigh, golden-white in the morning sun.
âKeep dreaming. Iâm not giving you names.â
Jack protests, âYou know about my ex.â
âAnd he knew about me,â Kent says, a blunt instrument against Jackâs temple: accusation, indictment, judgment, and sentence. Jack winces.
-
A voice from the past
Kentâs invitationâgaudy, embossed, too thickâcomes with a plus one. Jack gets nothing.
âCan you blame him?â Kent asks, not entirely gently but not entirely maliciously. Itâs a fine line he walks with grace lately, but Jack feels ungenerous as he stares at the mini-itinerary now hanging from the refrigerator. Somehow, it feels like a failing report card, red ink and single-digit performances displayed for guests to tut over. âWhenâs the last timeââ
âI know,â Jack bites out. Nobody from the Q would have made his wedding invitation list either. He only ever really had the one friend anyway.
-
The last photograph
âI guess putting your shrine to yourself in the guest bedroom is technically a power move,â Kent says, dropping his duffel onto the floor. Jack nudges it aside with the toe of his sneaker as Kent crosses to the shelves and begins inspecting.
âShould I put it in the living room like you do?â
âOnly if itâs worth looking at.â Kent runs a finger down the side of a frame. When Jack steps closer, he sees the many faces of their Rimouski team smiling up at him. âWe were so fucking young,â Kent says in an exhale. âJesus fucking Christ.â
-
âI kept it, just in case.â
Poolside, Kent's sprawled on the lounge as he flicks through his phone. The deck is mobbed, so Jack ends up behind Kentâs chair, looking down at the humidity-frizzed hair of his temporary, one-weekend captain.
âIt wouldnât kill you to read a book,â he says.
Kent barely blinks. âBut then what would you get condescending about when weâre together?â Leaning over, he tugs the towel off the unoccupied chaise to his right and nods at it. âAll yours.â
Jack sits.
At the tail of a deep, meditative breath, Kent asks, âShould we have talked about this before today?â
Jack shrugs. âProbably.â
-
Coffee and quiet mornings
âI forgot you were funny,â Kent confesses in a syrupy whisper, his eyes a deep forest green in the shadowed hallway. Jack drifts too close for deniability, loose ends of his tie swaying forward, cross-contaminating their space. Over Kent's shoulder, the sharp corners of his front door loom, a threat and a promise. His cowlick curls up beneath the carefully layered gel, and he shrugs. âI donât know how, but I did.â
âItâs four in the morning,â Jack reminds him, âand youâre crashing.â
âIâm not,â Kent says. He stops, and Jack shuffles into him, and they domino through the door.
-
Old handwriting
Jack runs his fingertips across the notepad, tracing the ridges where the pen has dented and stained the paper.
âI remember you practicing,â he admits, lingering on the harsh points of the K as they cross the guide lines. Constantly, he had looked over and found Kent scribbling his name onto the edges of newspapers, across the backs of junk mail, and in the margins of to-do lists. Dread had sat in his stomach like a stone.
Kent taps the pen on the counter. âI remember you making fun of me.â
âIt felt like bad luck,â Jack says. Kent winces.
-
Fleeting summers
The notification slips onto Kentâs home screen while heâs in the shower, and Jack stares at the cheerful reminder from Jet Blue with sourness on his tongue.
When it fades to black, heâs left staring at his own bitter expression. A moment later, the reminder dings again.
âAre you going through my phone?â Kent asks, voice twisted with amusement. Water clings to his chest as he holds the too-small towel to his groin in the bathroom doorway. âI swear, that prince messaged me first, and he really needed the money.â
He acts surprised when Jack tows him in and down.
-
Left behind
âItâs embarrassing,â Jack says, thumb hooked into the hem of his shirt and holding it to his shoulder to expose the bruise on his pec to the computer. âI had to cover it with a gauze pad for practice.â
On screen, Kent lounges against his headboard and drags his thumb over the very teeth that burst the blood vessels in the first place. âWhat did you say it was?â
âNobody asked,â Jack says, tugging his shirt back down.
âWhat were you going to tell them it was?â Kent rephrases, smirking. âCurling iron? Cut yourself manscaping?â
Jack frowns, caught. âDermatologist appointment.â
-
âWe were happy once.â
Sometimes, and that turns out to be the key word, they are a toothache: a dull, throbbing pain that radiates, that makes it impossible to sleep, to eat, to breathe. They are phantom limbs, too: amputated and exorcised, still so real that the feeling clings to the mind like a scar on the gray matter. They are blistersâraw, open woundsâand ulcersâholes punched though, drowning in acid.
But not always, Jack reminds himself as he watches Kent dangle a leg off the hammock as he reads. His glasses sit low, and his mouth moves absently, shaping the words.
-
Home
They make it as far as the couch. Night has circled back to pre-dawn outside, spilling an odd blue glow through the windows and shadowing their faces as they tug each other free of their suits with eager fingers.
âDo you remember?â he breathes against Kentâs neck, decades unfolding themselves as his calloused palms drag against flushed skin. He tastes all the bitter words and broken promises along his spine, the lingering tenderness just behind his ear. âI used to wish I didnât.â
Kent says nothing, head hard to his forearm, but he melts like warmed-over wax under Jackâs hands.
ft. ALEXANDER WENNBERG as Kent Parson, BRANDON CARLO as RenĂŠ Mercer, CHARLIE COYLE as Jeffrey Troy, MIKA ZIBANEJAD as Ryland Glass, MATT GRZELCYK as Adam Banks, and JAKE DEBRUSK as Spencer Robbins
to the heartbroken kid who became something (Â g r e a t )Â and who learned to love himself along the way â happy birthday, kent parson (july 4, 1990)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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so you memorized those unscripted lines,
desperate for some kind of clue:
when the scale tipped, when you inherited
a fight that you were born to lose.