Dancing on the Ceiling | Gray & Jack
@graysonwells
Jack found himself surrounded by people he didn’t really know, his fourth, possibly fifth, glass of whiskey in hand. He had a dopey smile on his face, his eyes tracking their way around the modestly decorated distillery wing of the Wells Brewery, the space so fresh that the space still smelled faintly of concrete, wood, and varnish. He couldn’t help himself from looking around every few minutes, taking in every detail he could find. And this was all his. Well, not completely his, exactly, but still it was the most substantial thing to his name he’d ever had.Â
He realized his attention had drifted away from the conversation he was having, his gaze turning back to his brother to find a knowing smile on the other man’s face. 'You’re really fucking happy, huh, Jack?' Josh asked, a chuckle underneath his tone. Jackson took in a breath, a grin on his face as he let it back out, his split lip making him wince slightly. “Fuck, you have no idea. I still can’t believe this is all real, that this party’s kinda for me, you know?” he said shaking his head at himself as he glanced at the other guests, most of them friends or family of those involved in the construction, or longstanding employees of the brewery. His gaze eventually fell on a familiar face, and if Jackson were a more sentimental man, he may very well have shed a tear. There was so much to be thankful for, but perhaps most of all was Grayson. At the very least he wasn’t on the verge of crying from the throbbing in he left arm anymore - the booze saw to that. He knew better now than to go on a renegade mission the night before an evening of celebrations. Jack must have been staring a little too long, because there was a nudge against his elbow. 'Looks like your business partner’s looking to congratulate you, Jackie. I should probably get home anyway, it’s getting late.' And with a brief solid hug, Josh was heading towards the exit before Jack could argue, the sudden surge of pain blooming in his rib with the pressure. He turned back to look at Grayson.
Jack tugged at the lapels of his jacket as he made his way across the room, the feeling of being underdressed appearing again. No matter how hard he tried, he’d always feel more comfortable in his regular black tee and jeans, and a last-minute decision left him in exactly that, except with a tailored suit jacket thrown over top. The black shirt could at least hide the blood from any unhealed cuts and keep them from staining the jacket. As Jack approached, he decided against a standard greeting and closed the last few yards between them with a few quick strides and pulled Grayson into a hug. “Gray, I’m so fuckin’ pumped!” he said, his voice a little strained, not from the hug, but rather the fact that he forgot he may have broken a rib. He released the other man quickly and swallowed the urge to groan.
