#it's gen

If he wanted further proof that Jack was an idiot, his expression right now was the only answer he would have ever needed.

Charles couldn’t remember any other time he had looked so utterly ridiculous - and talking about Jack it was a lot to say, but not even his brightest pink shirt or those golden trousers that only a moron would have worn at school could compare in stupidity to the expression he had on his face as he climbed carefully the steps of Charles’ house to reach his well-lighted front door, with his eyes raised and his mouth half-open as if in front of a breathtaking sight.

Perhaps all that reverence would have flattered someone else, but he only felt like rolling his eyes.

“Just get in and stop acting like you are passing through the gates of fucking Buckingham Palace, I’m freezing out here.” he called as he switched the lights on, lightening up the empty house and enjoying the familiar warmth after spending so much time outside with only a sweatshirt and a leather jacket, hardly the best things to wear in December – but his original plan was to just grab a couple of beers and come back home without any stops, so he hadn’t bothered wearing anything more. He couldn’t imagine he would have found Jack sitting under the bus shelter freezing down to his bones. Regardless of Jack’s reassurance that everything was fine he couldn’t just leave him there to die, not after he forced him to admit that he couldn’t go home, even though he had stubbornly refused to tell him why. He was still too young to live with a death on his conscience, not Jack’s at least he thought as his friend followed him in the kitchen where from the table the glass baking pan with his untouched dinner reminded Charles he was starving, so close to him he could feel his breath on his shoulders.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Are you sure your father isn’t at home?” he asked under his breath with a nervous glance around, as if he was expecting him to appear any moment with the frown on his face he always had any time Jack had the misfortune of meeting his father and his clear disdain for him and disappointment for Charles’ choices in friendship that he could show with a simple hum and looking at him up and down, effectively terrifying Jack. One of the main reasons why Charles avoided inviting him over, but thankfully they didn’t have to worry about it this time.

“Yeah, don’t worry. He’s away, I think Constance wanted to see her nieces and bring them her presents - the fuck I know. They’re coming back tomorrow.” he shrugged, shoving the pan and a pack of beers in Jack’s hands and gesturing him to follow him to his room upstairs.

“Here. Put your things wherever you want - it’s not big, but we’ll have to make it do.”

“It’s okay. I like it.” Jack assured him taking his way too large jacket off with a soundless groan and a grimace on his face that Charles pretended not to notice. He still had no idea of who might have been the responsible for his bruises - he had a faint suspect that had been fuelled by Jack’s reticence to answer his questions about what had happened and who had hit him so badly, but he preferred to keep it for himself in the unlikely case he might have been wrong so he only waved towards the bathroom door and said: “There are bandages in the bathroom if you want to, mh- if it still hurts.”

But Jack shook his head, acting way too laid back for someone who looked like a second-hand heavy bag. “Nah, I’m alright. I just needed a place where to sleep tonight, that’s all- I don’t want to make a fuss over nothing. It’s cool.”

Even though Charles knew very well he was just pretending he let him do, taking his own jacket off and sitting on the bed next to Jack. “Just don’t bleed in my bed, I don’t want to wake up in a pool of blood tomorrow morning.” He warned him examining the uninviting dinner trying to figure out what it was supposed to be – a sort of meatloaf, he guessed, or at least there was meat in it though it looked more like a brick. There must have been a couple of forks somewhere, he thought looking around and noticing Jack’s surprised expression.

“Are we-” he asked cautiously, clearing his throat and fixing his way too big and thick glasses on his nose: “Are we going to- sleep here?”

“Where do you sleep usually, in the shower?” “I mean- in the same bed together?”

“Well I don’t have a room for guests if that’s what you’re thinking about- do you want to sleep in my father’s bedroom?” he asked knowing very well what the answer would have been.

Jack looked at him with a terrified expression as if he had just proposed him to tie a noose around his neck and jump down the window.  “Well, you could…”

“I don’t like it as much as you do, but if they come back and I’m not here you’ll have to climb down from the window on your own if you don’t want to be found here. We’ll just have to share the bed.” He shrugged. The idea of his father finding Jack, the weird kid Charles should have kept at distance, sleeping his bed…perhaps he would have taken it better than finding them sleeping together, but he'd rather never finding out.

“Alright, I mean- it’s not gay if we keep our clothes on, right?” Jack half-asked half-stated (he always did that when he spoke to him as if before saying anything for certain he needed to know if Charles agreed with him, which was idiotic since Charles was way too aware that Jack was much smarter than him. Again, maybe he should have been flattered by it instead of annoyed) torturing his sleeve nervously: “And we’re not going to tell anyone about this anyway.”

The nervousness in his voice made Charles wonder what he didn’t want anyone to know, that he had been wandering around on Christmas by his own or because he was afraid of what other students might have thought knowing they had slept in the same bed, but it did sound like the best thing to do. To the wrong ears it would have turned into stupid rumours about him or both of them that Charles would have had to silence with fists.

Because Jack wasn’t able to defend himself obviously, not against some of the older students that attended their hellhole of high-school, and Charles had resolved that if he wanted a lab partner that didn’t ask for any active participation and someone to share lunch with that he could tolerate he had to keep him alive and well enough that he could have been able to write their essays down. More than a friendship their relationship was born as a partnership to survive high-school: Charles was more of Her Majesty Prison’s material and Jack would have probably felt more at ease in some private school like the one Flint’s friends attended or some shitty place with uniforms and music lessons or whatever they did in there, and together they had successfully got through three years relatively well and were set on making it to the end, if they would have managed to avoid getting into troubles too big for them.

And regardless of that, Jack was okay enough he didn’t deserve to be hit too hard by someone that wasn’t him.

“But if you do something weird during the night I will kick you out of the room, do you understand?”

“Ehi, I’m not going to do anything- who do you think I am?” Jack answered offended, kicking his shoes off and standing up to give Charles room to reach for the pillow on the floor and the blanket he had kicked off the bed that morning to make the bed look less of a battlefield, eyeing Jack as he took his shirt off and remained in his vest, an utterly pitiful sight - he was too tall and lanky with impossibly long legs and his pale chest almost hollowed. Even his glasses looked too heavy for him sometimes. No wonder he was always nowhere to be found during P.E., while Charles had been courted by all the teams of their school since his second year and the results of his training was clearly shown on his body: it had made his life much easier, being able to instil fear in people with just one look - he had many more afternoons to waste somewhere better than the detention class now, though there were idiots in their school who were willing to try to fight him just for the sake of doing it.

He couldn’t help the grin on his face as he remembered his last brawl, lost in the memory until he noticed Jack’s amused expression.

“What?”

“And it’s me the one who might do something weird?”

“Oh, fuck you Jack- don’t flatter yourself.” he growled wiping the smile off his face and ignoring Jack’s smirk as he sat back on the bed with his legs crossed and taking the fork Charles offered him, throwing himself on their dinner like a starving man without a complaint about how cold and rather disgusting it was. Must have been as hungry as Charles was, he reckoned offering him a beer that he took like it was a forbidden treasure.

“Try not to be sick.”

“I’m not going to be sick- I drink beer. A lot.” he lied again with a proud tone, though the disgusted expression he wasn’t able to hide after the first sip said otherwise. Charles had to bite his tongue not to laugh in his face, hiding a smile behind his fork and asking: “You want to call your parents?”

For the first time that night Jack seemed unable to hide the sadness on his face, as if Charles’ words had hit him right in the chest. He remained with his fork half-raised and his eyes open and fixed on the baking pan for a moment before shaking his head.

“It’s fine.” he answered, for once without lying or without pretending to look older and tougher than he was and looking more mature than he ever did. For the first time Charles couldn’t say whether he was bullshitting him or not - he had no idea of what Jack’s parents were like, aside from a vague memory of a woman kissing him on the cheeks outside elementary school when Jack was around five or six. She looked nice enough to worry about the whereabouts of her son on Christmas night, he reckoned.

While his father, well- if half the things Constance and her friends said while leafing through their glossies in his living room were true he could imagine why Jack never mentioned him, he thought with his eyes fixed on the bruise underneath his eye that was slowly turning to a bad shade of blue. Those the moments in which he was glad of his own father – he might not have been the warmest family one could wish for (because he was his family, and that was it: he couldn’t really call Constance his mother, not after three other “call me mom” in the span of sixteen years and three consequential divorces and relocations after his father lost the house in the divorce settlement every single time), but he knew he would have been worried about him if he had suddenly disappeared and was nowhere to be found. Not in the hugging and kissing after coming back home way, but worried nonetheless.

“Don’t get in trouble with your parents.” he insisted trying to keep his tone casual and his curiosity hidden from him: “I don’t want to find your mum screaming at my door tomorrow after yo-”

“Believe me, it won’t be a problem at all.” Jack assured him with a staunch tone, raising his eyes to meet Charles’ and smiling with his head tilted when he realised Charles did not understand. “She’s- gone.”

Fuck. Great.

“Sorry.” he mumbled awkwardly, taking a sip of the beer to hide the embarrassment as Jack shook his head again with another smile, trying again to look more laid back than he clearly was.

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. It’s been a long time ago.”

“Still. You never told me anything about it.”

“Yeah, I- don’t talk about it.” he answered sounding horrifyingly close to do something like break into tears and making Charles hope he was choking on his food instead (he would have handled that much better), but thankfully he only shrugged again and concluded: “Anyway, my father’s not going to worry so he won’t come here screaming any time if you fear that.”

“No, I- if you don’t want to call it’s alright.” he sighed in relief glad they could drop the subject, moving the now-empty pan on the floor and switching the lights off, handing Jack the remote and sitting next to him careful not to make their arms touch in any way.

“Here- find something you like, but no shitty Christmas movies.”

“No Christmas movies on Christmas, you’re definitely not an easy man to please.” Jack said under his breath zapping through the channels filled with happy people kissing in the snow or impossibly large families sitting in cosy dining rooms eating turkey and cakes that made them both cringe. It was bad enough that he had to share his bed with a guy, he didn’t want to do so while watching a sugar-coated movie.

“Wait- go back to that one. See, that’s a good Christmas movie.” he said as he finally found a satisfying channel on which a psycho Santa Claus was chasing a screaming girl with a chainsaw: “No lies. Let’s watch this.”

“Sure, what’s more realistic than a fake Eleanor Guthrie in a tank top being dismembered by Santa Claus?” Jack asked with a horrified grimace on his face.

Charles tightened his jaw. “Shut up, she doesn’t look like Eleanor.”

“Yes she does, and I don’t know if you like the fact that she’s wearing that top or the fact that she’s going to die soon.” he looked at him up and down: “You two broke up, right?”

“Yeah.” And she broke my finger too, but he refrained from reminding him of that: “Yeah we did.”

“Not that I care, I mean- not in that way. She’s not my type.”

Well, that was suspicious. “You’re sure you like girls, right?” Charles asked shifting an inch closer to the wall.

“Of course, I do, you idiot- I have, many…” he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say some kind of lie, but then wisely decided to drop it, probably realising Charles wouldn’t have bought it and just waving his hand distractedly: “There’s Anne, for example.”

“Who?”

“Anne. Red hair, and-”

“The one who knocked you down during the dodgeball match? That Anne?“

Jack opened and closed his mouth, cheeks flushing and crossing his arms.

"You know she charges like a panzer, and I was distracted.” he protested, and Charles had to admit that was true: had it been another girl it would have led to endless mocking, but the only reason why she hadn’t unseated Charles from being the captain of the football team was that she didn’t care about sports, so no one had dared to tease him about being knocked down by a girl. Not that girl.

But the idea of her and Jack together- he had to choke back a laugh. “She’s never going to like you.”

“We’ll see.” he put a hand on his stomach, shifting uncomfortably: “I wonder what she’s doing now.”

“Killing someone in a Santa Claus costume probably.” Charles smiled, ignoring Jack’s angry glare and focusing on the movie despite the loud grumbles from his stomach and forget about the lavish tables from the movies they had avoided filling his mind: “Christ, that thing was horrible. We should have called for a pizza.”

Jack grunted in agreement. “Wait- I think I might have-” he shoved his hand in his pocket, taking a pair of squared shiny things out that he realised were badly shaped chocolates.

“Here, take one.” “How long have you been keeping them in your pocket?” “Did I ask you how long have you been keeping that fork on the floor?”

Fair enough, he decided taking the less liquefied-looking one and throwing the wrapping aside to suck it from his fingers rather than actually eating it. It was far from being a proper Christmas dessert, but then again this was far from being a proper Christmas at all he guessed.

“Thank you.” Jack said after a while exploiting the first commercial break. Despite the darkness, Charles could see the genuine smile on his face lightened up by the streetlights: “You weren’t obliged to.”

“To do what?”

“Invite me over. Care about me at all- I know that you, you know.” he shrugged, like he couldn’t find the words to express his thoughts: “That you don’t- that I am not your, I mean- not in the way-”

“Have you forgot how to talk? Would be a first.” Charles cut him off sucking the chocolate off his thumb: “And don’t be an idiot. You’re a weirdo, but- we’re friends.” he mumbled with his eyes fixed on the TV screen to ignore Jack’s stunned and bright smile.

“We are- friends. Of course.” he repeated again, as if entranced by the sound of that word and apparently unable to wipe his bright smile off his face: “Sure- friends.”

A dark blue sheen, almost metallic, seemedalmost to brighten underneath the soft lighting in the attic. A small, blackbrush flicked over clear nails, applied with a quick neatness that only camefrom long nights of practice.

Midnight Skinny Dip. It happened to be Mabel’s favourite nail polishat the moment and no one could really convince her otherwise. TARDIS blue, herbrother kept saying and she had laughed—God,what a nerd—with a metallic sheen to it andPacifica Northwest was currently in the attic (sitting on a pillow because she was not a slob) hand held out so that the other girl could paint her nails.

“It’s not like I wanted to go, you know?” The blonde was saying, twirling a strand of hairaround one finger, eyes on the ceiling and—dear lord, was that mould?—avoiding Mabel’stongue poking out from between her lips, the furrowing eyebrows, her brown eyesnarrowed in concentration. “Relatives are always so obnoxious.”

“Awww,” Mabel grinned, her braces flashing in the dim light of thelantern. “I bet you had a good time.”

Pacifica huffed and rolled her eyes again. “Puh-lease,” she pulled back her hand whenit was done and offered the other one. The polish was cold on her nail,chilling the skin underneath as Mabel continued to paint. “It doesn’t help thatour cousin always begs us for money then has the gall to show up in a brand newcar.”

Mabel winced and turned the hand she was holding to get at thethumb. “That’s awful,” she murmured, letting Pacifica take her hand back when she was done to wave them around to dry. “Does he do that everytime?”

“Pretty much,” Resting her chin on her knees, the blonde placed herhands on the floor and watched Mabel do her own fingernails with swift strokes.“It gets annoying after a while, right? People asking for money.” She watchedthe brunette struggle a bit with her other hand and gently took the brush andbottle of polish. “I’ve got it.”

The answering smile was bright. They settled in silence for a while;plastic clinking against glass. An owl hooting outside. Mabel’s pinkie wasfinished in one, smooth stroke, and the blonde put the brush back in thebottle. “Done,” her blue eyes moved up to glance at the brunette sitting acrossfrom her.

“Thanks!” Mabel’s hair was falling past her shoulders, trailing downthat ridiculous purple sweater that hung over one shoulder, showing off paleskin and a tank-top strap that matched their newly coloured nails. Sleepovers.This… was normal, wasn’t it? Pacifica frowned, fighting the urge to pluck ather own pyjamas.

Around them, the light flickered as a breeze swept through the openwindow, making the lantern flicker before it steadied. Pacifica realized shewas leaning forward—just a bit too close, were people supposed to get thisclose?—still holding on to Mabel’s hand, and she cleared her throat, her facegrowing warm as she looked away. “Yeah, so, um—”

“You’re really cute.”

Pacifica felt her neck crack as she spun around, eyes wide andstaring at the girl sitting across from her. She took in the wide, earnest eyesand kind, bright smile. 

The blonde opened her mouth and closed it, blinking rapidly beforefrowning. “Cute?” No one had ever called her that before. Beautiful, sure, head turner, yeah, but cute? No, no that wasn’t really in herfamily’s vocabulary.

“Uh—” Mabel frowned for a second. Hesitation passing over her faceas if not really sure how the other girl would react to the term. The sameexpression had been on her face when she pressed a taco into the blonde’s hand. “Well…”

The smirk that crossed Pacifica’s face was wolfish. “Just cute?” Painfully aware of her wetnails, the blonde wrapped her hands around the brunette’s wrists and pulled herforward.

Mabel yelped and barely managed to catch herself in time. It didn’tend up like the movies, though, as she sprawled across Pacifica’s lap, theirknees knocking and foreheads almost knocking like a couple of coconuts.

“M-maybe a bit more than ‘c-cute’,” thebrunette managed through some giggles, fluttering her eyes dramatically. “Ihave succumbed to your wiles, temptress! Oh no!” Mabel pressed the back of herhand to her forehead and mock-swooned to the side as the other girl laughed. 

Pacifica pressed one hand against her cheek, staring down at theother girl with half lidded blue eyes—made darker by purple eye shadow andblack eyeliner. “Oh, Mabel!” She flipped her hair. “I knew you couldn’t resistmy charms!” The smell of chemicals hovered under the brunette’s nose, tips ofblue nails tracing the curve of Mabel’s jawline. “Well,” Pacifica leanedcloser. “I—”

“OH GOD!” Both girls whipped around,staring at the open door where one Dipper Pines was standing, clad in just hisboxers and a green t-shirt. “I’m so sorry!”

“DIPPER!” Pacifica screeched as the boy made a hasty retreat,apologizing as he went. Mabel grunted as she fell to the floor, watching theblonde tear after her twin brother with wide eyes, not fully registering what,exactly, was going on for a moment—

She shot up to her feet, scrambling after both of them, followingthe sound of screaming as it echoed through the Mystery Shack. “Don’t kill eachother!”