Chapter 3
Chapter Three
H arry didn’t remember going to bed. He squinted at the open door when he woke up. He also didn’t ever sleep with his door open, because Tristan was loud, and so were the guys he picked up. Tristan said that just meant they were doing it right. Harry just wished they could do it a bit more quietly. Except this morning he wasn’t waking up to a series of moans and grunts and groans that would put a warthog to shame. This morning he could hear, from downstairs, the sounds of a conversation.
He climbed out of bed, noting he was still wearing his jeans and his Hawaiian shirt. He shuffled out into the hallway and put a hand on the wall as he was going downstairs because he still felt a little dizzy.
The lights were on in the kitchen and the living room. The voices were coming from the kitchen. Harry rounded the corner and stared at the sight. Tristan and a guy in a sparkly silver crop top were sitting at the wonky little table, and Jack was at the stovetop, cooking something. Something that smelled much better than it had any right to, especially if he’d found the ingredients in their fridge .
“Hey! There he is!” Tristan exclaimed. “How are you feeling, Harry?”
Harry grunted.
“This is Matt,” Tristan said.
“Max,” the guy in the silver crop top corrected.
“Max,” Tristan repeated with an airy laugh like it didn’t matter. He had a crazy knack of not being punched in the face despite doing shit like forgetting the names of his hook-ups before they’d even left. Even Max was smiling back at him like it was no big deal. Harry could only assume Tristan had charmed him with his dick. It was a talent of his, apparently.
Jack turned, spatula in hand, and waved it in his direction. “Hey, are you feeling any better? You went downhill pretty fast last night.”
“Um, yeah,” Harry rasped, throat dry. “I don’t remember much once we got home.”
Jack filled a glass of water and handed it to him, and Harry drained it quickly, the water a relief on his parched throat.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I stayed in your spare room. I didn’t want to leave you here alone.”
Huh. That was…unexpectedly nice. Especially given that the spare room only had a crappy old double bed that sagged and squeaked, and the sheets hadn’t been changed since Ambrose had moved out. Now that he thought about it, Harry wasn’t even sure there were any sheets.
“Thanks,” he said. Jack smiled at him, his face lighting up with relief. Harry hadn’t seen Jack smile before now, and it was a good look on him. He smiled back.
“Jack’s making omelettes, because he’s a god among men,” Tristan declared.
Harry’s brow furrowed. “Since when do we have eggs? ”
“Since Jack went and bought some,” Tristan said. “Isn’t it great? He’s going to be an awesome housemate.”
Harry shook his head to make sure he’d heard correctly. “He’s what?”
Tristan grinned broadly. “Well, you said we needed a new housemate, and Jack saw the flyer and asked me about it, and I said yes. So, that’s that problem all sorted out.”
Harry’s jaw dropped. “Tris! He almost killed me yesterday!”
“ Almost! I only almost killed you!” Jack protested, then paused. “Shit,” he said with a sigh. “That doesn’t really sound any better, does it?”
Max watched silently, his mouth open and his mascara-rimmed eyes wide, as though he’d stumbled onto the set of an exciting soap opera.
“It’s not Jack’s fault you have a dangerous job,” Tristan said. Then, to Max, he said, “Harry is an escort .”
Max gasped.
“I am not an—” Harry groaned. “Okay, technically I am, but it’s not how it sounds!”
“He’s a terrible date, except it’s deliberate,” Tristan supplied. “People pay good money for him to be completely awful. He’s really good at it. He’s been banned from—how many restaurants is it now?”
Harry scowled at him. He wasn’t feeling nearly well enough for Tristan’s particular brand of bullshit. “Only one,” he grumbled, but then he stopped and thought. “Okay, two—but only if you count that karaoke bar.”
Max wrinkled his nose. “Why would anyone want a terrible date?”
“Actually…”Harry said, then had nowhere to go with that.
“Actually,” Jack said, and darted a glance at him, “it’s sort of brilliant. ”
Harry did not feel a warm glow in his chest at the unexpected praise. He did not.
“Except when it leads to getting assaulted by your client’s idiot brother,” Jack added. “With a smoothie it turns out you're massively allergic to.”
Max’s eyes grew wide, and Harry had the feeling that he’d be dining out on this story for weeks—which reminded him. “You can’t tell anyone I’m a bad date for hire,” he said. “It’ll wipe out my client base, and then Tristan will need another new housemate because I’ll be penniless.”
Max nodded and mimed zipping his lip. Tristan rewarded him with a kiss.
Harry looked away, vaguely uncomfortable. He’d never quite gotten the appeal of kissing. Or one-night stands. Or any night stands, really. “So, omelettes?” he said, addressing Jack.
Jack nodded. “Eggs, and cheese, tomato and spinach. Cooked with margarine, because that’s all you had.” He hesitated. “You’re not allergic to any of those are you?”
It was a fair question, Harry guessed. Jack probably thought he was one of those people who had to live on air and water and possibly kale. “Nah, just strawberries. So far, anyway.”
Jack smiled again as he slid an omelette onto a plate and handed it to him. Harry decided that, inadvertent assassination attempt notwithstanding, Jack might not be completely terrible, because breakfast looked fucking delicious.
Jack, it turned out, could move in straight away, since he was couch surfing at Mia’s. Something about losing his room at the uni because he’d dropped out—Harry’s head was still slightly fuzzy, so he hadn’t really grasped the details. He was too busy enjoying a meal that someone else had cooked that didn’t end in him getting slapped, insulted or asked to leave.
His own cooking skills were limited to add boiling water and microwave on high for three to five minutes, and Tristan wasn’t much better, but Jack had managed to tame their temperamental stovetop with the dodgy burner enough to produce food that was not only edible, but actually enjoyable. Harry thought that if Tristan hadn’t already offered, he might have invited Jack to stay on that basis alone, but it got better, because Jack was willing to pay rent in advance . He even asked them if there was a bank account he should put his rent into, as though that wasn’t what the old Milo tin in the kitchen was for. Except the old Milo tin also turned out to be for emergency groceries and beer, which probably explained why he and Tristan had spent rent day last month digging through the couch cushions looking for spare change before Tristan had managed to produce some stray cash from somewhere. Harry hadn’t been game to ask where.
Jack went to get his stuff from Mia’s, and Harry settled down on the couch to watch TV for a while. He didn’t have any tutorials today, only lectures, so he wasn’t going to bother going to uni. He’d nearly died, after all. That rated a day off. Just one, though, he decided reluctantly. He had a placement coming up next month, and he wanted to be prepared. Some people still thought he was weird for wanting to be a preschool teacher, but Harry didn’t care. He loved kids and wanted to work with them, always had, and he was happy with his choices.
Tristan left for uni and took Max with him. Harry doubted he’d see Max again. Tristan had a type, and that type was Teflon. And in all fairness to Tris, they all seemed to part as friends. They’d run into a few of his previous one-night stands before—it was statistically impossible not to, even in a city of over five million people—and it had never been uncomfortable. Harry had no idea how Tris did it, but, however it was, he did it over and over and over again.
Harry had never had a one-night stand. He’d never even had a girlfriend or a boyfriend. And when he tried to picture someone in his life, he didn’t even have a go-to gender in mind. Sex just seemed… unnecessary ? To him, at least. From the way Tristan wailed and moaned some nights, it was clearly fucking vital and incredibly urgent that someone fuck him “ harder, now, harder, there, oh God!”
Harry should probably get some earplugs at some point. Or a gag for Tristan. Although, judging from some of the things he’d heard through the paper-thin walls, Tristan might enjoy that.
Harry wondered if Jack was also the type to bring company home. If he was, Harry might have to invest in some of that soundproofing stuff he could stick to the walls. He wasn’t sure he could handle two Tristans in the house.
Jack didn’t seem like that sort, though. He didn’t give off that certain unmistakable vibe that Tristan did that suggested to all and sundry that he was—well, Harry hesitated to use the word slutty , even in his own head. Just because sex wasn’t his thing didn’t mean there was anything wrong with Tristan being a…hedonist. Yes, he decided. That was a suitable word for what Tristan was. And what Harry wasn’t, in any way, shape, or form.
Jack was back within two hours, and Harry watched from the couch as he went up and down the stairs a few times with boxes and bags. He wondered if Ambrose’s old house key was still in the bottom of the Milo tin and got up to check. He felt a lot better than he had yesterday, but he was still tired. He found Ambrose’s old key under the rent money in the tin and dug it out to give to Jack .
Jack joined him in the kitchen.
“So, house rules,” Harry said, handing the key over.
Jack nodded seriously.
“Um…don’t steal shit, don’t be a total dickhead, and pay the rent,” Harry said. He shrugged. “That’s it, really.”
“Is there a housework roster?”
Harry looked at the grimy floor. “Does it look like there’s a housework roster?”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “It looks like there should be.”
“Yeah, well, good luck getting the broom off the roof,” Harry said.
“Why is the broom on the roof?”
“Because we can't get it down, obviously.”
“But…why is it there?” Jack looked like someone who was seriously questioning his life choices right now.
“House party,” Harry said.
“That doesn’t answer the question though.”
“It doesn’t not answer it.” Harry shrugged. “I was drunk. I don’t remember. And it was three weeks before we missed it, so.” He shrugged again. “Clean if it makes you feel better, but you’ll only have to do it again a month later, so it seems like a waste of time to me.”
He watched Jack mouth the words a month to himself, his expression halfway between horrified and awed. It was almost endearing.
Jack took a deep breath. “Okay. No being a dickhead, no stealing, and pay the rent on time. Got it. I just need to bring the TV in and I’m done.”
Harry perked up at that. “What TV?” They were currently the owners of an ancient sixteen-inch set that lost sound sporadically. It was a remnant of housemates past.
“It’s not that fancy,” Jack said, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s newer than yours, so it’ll stream Netflix. ”
“Netflix?” Okay, Harry hadn't meant his voice to come out all high and squeaky like that, but this was a serious development.
Jack grinned. “Yeah. It’s my one luxury.”
“ Our one luxury,” Harry said, grinning right back.
“Yeah. Ours.”
This, Harry, decided, might just be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
By the end of the day, Jack was definitely Harry's new favourite person. Not only had he cleaned up the kitchen, he’d also gone to Woolies and done an honest-to-God grocery run—he’d even bought fresh fruit. Harry felt healthier just from looking at the string bag full of oranges. He might even eat one, at some point. Harry wasn’t sure if it was because Jack was just a decent person or if it was because he still felt guilty over the whole near-death thing, but frankly, he didn’t care. There was food in the fridge, and considering Harry’s feet weren’t making that weird sticking-to-the-lino sound when he walked across the kitchen floor anymore, Jack’s motivation was unimportant.
“I really appreciate this,” Jack said from where he’d plopped down into the ugly armchair after he’d finished cleaning. “Staying at Mia’s was starting to wear thin, and it’s super hard to find a rental.”
“Don’t I know it,” Harry said, still sprawled on the couch. “Our landlord only keeps this place and charges us low rent to spite his family. They want him to sell it, but he reckons they can wait till he dies, which might be never—it wouldn’t surprise me to learn he’s some kind of immortal. He gives off that vibe.”
“He sounds like a character.”
“Oh, yeah. He’s very old and slightly mad, and rich enough that his family has to be nice to him. He made his money in sex shops, I think. You know, back when the Cross was super shady and all the men had porn-star moustaches and wore gold medallions.”
“And before the internet.” Jack grinned. “When you needed a trench coat and a pair of dark glasses to buy a good-quality dildo.”
Harry almost choked on his spit. Despite the topic, for some reason the idea of Jack buying a dildo was unexpected, and he didn’t quite know what to make of it. He forced himself to laugh. “Right.”
Talking about sex made him uncomfortable. Not because he was a prude or anything. It just felt like accidentally sitting down with a bunch of science nerds on campus and listening to them talk about string theory. However hard he tried, Harry just didn’t get it. He always felt out of his depth and spent his time worrying that it showed. What if Jack asked him about his experience with dildos? What would he say? Was there some sort of sizing system or gradient scale he was meant to know about? Or was it okay not to know these things because he wasn’t gay? At least, he didn’t think he was. He didn’t think he was anything.
Wait, did that mean Jack was gay? He’d never even asked. Straight guys liked dildos too, right? At least, Tris claimed the straight guys he slept with did. Then again, if they were sleeping with Tris, maybe they weren’t reliably self-reporting their heterosexuality.
Why did sex have to be so complicated, and why the fuck did everyone always talk about it?
Jack tilted his head. “Are you okay?”
“Just thinking about dildos,” Harry blurted out, and felt himself flush red. “Nothing. Forget it.” He averted his gaze and studied the back of his hand, hoping Jack didn’t ask him to explain.
Jack didn’t. Instead, he said, “Um. Not to harp on or anything, but. I still feel bad that I put you in hospital. And I was wondering, are you going to get an ambulance bill now? Because I could help with that.”
It was a welcome change of topic and Harry seized on it. “Nah, Mum buys me and my sister a year’s worth of ambulance cover every Christmas. She says you never know when you’ll need it, and it turns out she’s right.”
Something like relief flitted over Jack’s face, and Harry wondered just how much of a strain it would have been on Jack’s budget if Harry had taken him up on his offer. He suspected Jack would have paid anyway though, because he was starting to get an inkling that Jack was just that sort of guy.
“I feel like I should replace your shirt at least,” Jack said, and Harry took a moment to appreciate that his assessment was correct, and that Jack was not, in fact, a bastard. Okay, maybe they’d both been quick to judge.
He didn’t want to break Jack’s bank, though. Jack was only an apprentice, and he’d already shelled out for groceries and EpiPens, so Harry shrugged. “It’s fine. It was from Kmart, so I don’t think the four bucks is gonna break me.”
“Are you sure? We can go shopping on Saturday.” Jack didn’t look convinced.
“It’s fine. Besides, I have a date on Saturday.” He couldn’t quite interpret the look that crossed Jack’s face at his mention of dating, but it made him feel awkward that Jack was awkward. “With this girl, Angie. It's a pretty basic level of bad-date bastardry. I should be kicked out and home by three, and it’s worth a hundred bucks. ”
He saw the second the penny dropped, and Jack went from awkward to…relieved? “Oh, one of those dates.”
“Yeah.” Harry sat up straight on the couch and concentrated on his feet, avoiding Jack’s gaze. “Anyway, I should go and do some work, I guess. I skipped uni today so I should at least do something.”
“What are you studying again?”
“Bachelor of Education, early childhood. I’m in my last year.”
He waited to see if Jack would give him that sideways look people sometimes did, but he just smiled and said, “Nice! My year two teacher was a bloke. It was awesome.” He looked at Harry consideringly. “You’ll be good at it, I think.”
“Yeah?” Harry wasn’t above fishing for compliments from someone he’d only known a day.
“Yeah. You’ve got this earnest educational vibe,” Jack said. “I feel like you’d be all, ‘ Hey, kids! Today we’re gonna learn about fungus!’ And they’d think it was cool because you were excited.” He flashed Harry a shy grin. “That’s meant as a compliment by the way. I’m not trying to imply you’re some kind of mildew-obsessed weirdo.”
Harry didn’t fight the smile spreading across his own face. “No, I get it. And that’s kind of what I’m going for. Kids are sponges, you know? They’ll soak up whatever’s put in front of them. I just want to give them the good stuff.”
“I can see it,” Jack mused. “You’ll be the teacher with a snake in the classroom.”
Harry shuddered. “I fucking well won’t,” he said firmly. “It’ll be pet rocks or nothing.”
“Whatever you say.” Jack prised himself out of the armchair, went to the fridge and got them both a beer, because his idea of groceries apparently involved a carton. “Are you allowed?” he asked. “After?— ”
“After my near-death experience?” Harry finished for him. Jack’s entire body stiffened, and great, now Harry felt like an asshole. “I’m fine, I swear. And I could murder a beer.” He reached out and grabbed the bottle, popped off the top, and, in an effort to smooth Jack’s ruffled feathers, he held it out and waggled it in invitation. “To second chances?”
The tension in Jack’s shoulders eased, and he clinked his bottle against Harry’s. “To second chances,” he repeated with an uncertain smile.
Harry would take it.
It was weird, living with Jack.
Mainly it was weird because it was so damn easy. They didn’t see much of each other—Jack got up before it was humanly decent for his eight a.m. starts, and Harry was a uni student and so considered it his duty to sleep in as long as possible. But Harry found himself looking forward to when their paths did cross. Jack was easy to talk to, he didn’t bring home a string of noisy sexual conquests—or any conquests, actually—and he had good taste in terrible TV. When Harry wasn’t out on dates, they spent the evenings watching Supernatural —but only the first five seasons, at Jack’s insistence—and talking shit about the plot holes and bad acting. Harry liked those nights.
And the cleaning turned out not to be a one-time, guilt-driven thing, either. About two weeks after he moved in, Harry came home to find Jack sitting at the kitchen table, a slightly glazed look on his face. “Jack?”
Jack grinned at him, sloppy and too-wide. “Pro tip,” he huffed out. “Open the bathroom windows when you’re using bleach. S’clean, though. I feel dizzy.” He blinked owlishly .
Harry’s eyes widened and he dashed to the bathroom. When he opened the door, he actually gasped—partly because the smell of White King nearly knocked him over, and partly because Jack had managed to get rid of the weird mildew that had plagued the bathroom since Harry had moved in. And the bathroom wasn’t just clean — it was mum levels of clean. Even the dried sliver of soap with the spider living under it was gone, replaced with a fancy pump bottle of handwash that purported to smell like lime and mint. Harry felt like he should take a picture and send it to Ambrose, because he’d never believe it otherwise.
He went back out to the kitchen and took in the sight of Jack sitting semi-sprawled in the kitchen chair. There were bleach stains on his singlet, his hair was wet with sweat at his temples and his cheeks were pink—whether from exertion or fume inhalation, Harry wasn’t sure. The sight caused a lurch of… something in his gut, like he might like to go and sit in Jack’s lap and touch his skin just to feel it under his hands or brush his hair back from his forehead.
Which was patently ridiculous, because Harry didn’t do that. He didn’t sit in people’s laps or brush their anythings away from their anythings.
He dragged his attention from the way the sweat was glistening on Jack’s biceps and opened the fridge door. After a moment’s indecision, he fished inside and held out his last can of cider to Jack, who beamed at him as he popped the top. Harry grinned back.
He’d been savouring the thought of that cider all the way home, anticipating the crisp coolness of it on his tongue, but suddenly it seemed more important that he show his gratitude. Jack had nearly gassed himself in pursuit of cleanliness, and that sort of foolish bravery deserved a reward.
That, and Harry liked seeing him smile.