Chapter 5
Chapter Five
A crimson spurt of juice hit Harry square in the chest, like something out of a horror movie.
“Shit!” Jack stared at him, aghast. “I’m so sorry!”
Harry looked down at his formerly white tee and grimaced. “See what happens when you try and put beetroot in burgers? The universe punishes you with a dodgy Tupperware lid.”
The aforementioned lid lay on the floor in a pool of deep red that matched the stains all over Harry’s shirt.
“Shit,” Jack repeated, waving the lidless container about and slopping more beetroot and juice all over the lino. Harry grabbed it off him and set it firmly in the sink before he ended up with red hair as well as a red shirt. He grabbed a roll of paper towels—because that was a thing they had now—and soaked up the worst of the mess from the floor. He peeled his shirt off and gave a sigh, not sure whether it was even worth trying to save. He was pretty sure that if the recommended cleaning method for beetroot stains didn’t consist of “ignore until laundry day, throw in the machine, and hope for the best,” his shirt was fucked. He dropped it in the bin and chucked the paper towels on top of it.
He caught Jack’s stricken look. “It’s fine. I was going op shopping this weekend anyway. It’s been weeks since I terrorised Beryl, and I don’t want her to think she has the upper hand.”
“I’m really not out to kill you or your wardrobe,” Jack said. “Let me pay for that one at least?”
God, he looked like someone had kicked his puppy—or him, if he was a puppy, Harry wasn’t sure which. Regardless, Harry really needed to get that look off his face.
Harry laughed. “Jack, it’s been weeks since you tried to kill me. I’m over it, I promise.”
Jack didn’t look convinced.
Harry tilted his head, considering. “Tell you what. Come to the op shop with me on Saturday morning, and we’ll get something there.” He’d tried to explain the tackiness of the op shop and Beryl and her reign of terror, but Jack had just looked disbelieving, and Harry had concluded that it was something that couldn’t be described, only lived. He found himself eager to share the experience with Jack. He was finding himself keen to spend more time with Jack in general recently, for reasons he didn’t quite understand and was choosing not to examine too closely.
Jack raised his eyebrows, and Harry could have sworn he was offended. “I might only be an apprentice, but I can afford to buy you a new shirt. A nice shirt.”
“I mean you could , but we could also get four awful shirts at the oppy,” Harry countered, grinning. “And you’d get to meet Beryl. She’s amazingly terrible. She has an eyepatch and an attitude that could curdle milk, and I think I might be winning our ongoing war right now. ”
Jack wrinkled his nose. “O… kay . But you could also get a nice, normal shirt?”
“I have plenty of normal shirts,” Harry said, confused. “The other ones are for work. They’re Bad Boyfriend shirts.”
Jack’s face lit up with understanding. “So you wear awful shirts like that Hawaiian disaster as, what? Your professional persona?”
“Something like that. Dressing badly on my dates is very effective.” He frowned as something occurred to him. “What, have you spent the last month thinking I wore stuff like that as a matter of taste?” He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might be vaguely offended by that.
Jack hesitated a second too long before answering, “No?”
Harry fixed him with a stare.
Jack raised his hands in surrender. “In my defence, you did wear the Hawaiian thing home from the hospital. In broad daylight.”
“Because my other one was ruined, and I didn’t want to get my tits out on the bus!”
Jack grimaced, and Harry hoped he didn’t apologise again—it was wearing thin after a month—but instead he sighed and ran a hand through his scruffy blond hair. “Okay, fair. And it does sound like I might need to see this Beryl in action.”
“Oh, you do,” Harry assured him. “Beryl’s the worst. She hates people. I’m pretty sure the only reason she still has a job there is that you can’t sack volunteers.”
“In that case, it’s a deal,” Jack said. “Saturday, we meet the great and terrible Beryl, I buy you the tackiest thing we can find and you let me buy you lunch after.”
“It’s a date,” Harry said, and wondered why, exactly, his heart thundered in his chest at that.
“Don’t stare at the eyepatch but do maintain eye contact. Don’t let her know you’re afraid but also don’t turn your back.”
Jack laughed. “She’s a person, not a Rottweiler, Harry. You’re being dramatic.”
“You don’t understand,” Harry said. “Beryl is a mysterious eldritch figure with unknown powers who exists to make my life miserable.” Okay so he was being dramatic, but it was making Jack smile, and he was quickly becoming addicted to Jack’s smile. It made his blue eyes sparkle, and his whole face lit up in a way Harry didn’t think he’d ever noticed on anyone else. It was mesmerizing.
Jack parked the ute outside the op shop, and they got out. He tilted his head back in the weak sunshine and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Harry couldn’t help but notice the way the light breeze ruffled his blond hair, making tendrils dance around the tops of his ears. Other people’s hair didn’t dance, Harry was pretty sure. Or perhaps it did, and he’d never bothered to notice.
Jack turned to Harry and nodded. “I’m ready,” he intoned.
Harry squared his shoulders and pushed down the impulse to take Jack’s hand. Just for moral support, of course. No other reason. He pulled open the door of the shop, and the bell over the door tinkled merrily. Beryl spun on her heel, and her expression darkened when she saw Harry.
“Any trouble and you’re out,” she growled.
Harry raised his hands in surrender. “Just browsing, same as always.” He paused and peered at Beryl, momentarily confused. Was that…he could have sworn her eyepatch had been on the other eye last week. He shook his head. No. Im possible. It had always been the left eye. He was certain of it.
Well, almost certain. He dragged his attention away from Beryl and to the rack of new arrivals. Latest Men’s Fashions! the handwritten sign lied boldly.
Beside him, Jack looked around, eyes wide. “Wow,” he breathed. “It’s like a time warp.”
“Right? Nothing past the nineties allowed.” Harry sorted through the rack and pulled out a dirt-brown corduroy vest with sparkly gold fringing along the lower hem and held it up against himself. “What do you think?” Jack pursed his lips and Harry could see he was struggling to find words. “It’s okay, you’re allowed to say it’s ugly. That's the point.”
“Oh, thank fuck, because that’s really awful,” Jack blurted.
Harry hummed. “Oh, I don’t know. I think we can do better. Or worse.” He draped the vest over one arm and kept looking.
“Do you have any sort of criteria?” Jack asked, wandering over to the suit rack.
“Not really,” Harry said. “I work on gut reaction.”
Jack laughed and pulled out a deep blue velvet blazer with wide, silver-sequinned lapels. “This?”
“Ooh, yes.” Harry added it to the vest. He found a putrid green skivvy that looked like it belonged to a Wiggles reject and hung it over his forearm, as well as a short-sleeved button down with a pattern of hot pink piglets on a purple background.
It was then that he glanced up and saw it—the most tasteless suit known to man. He grabbed Jack’s arm without thinking.
“Look!” he gasped. “Oh my God, it’s awful! I love it!”
Harry grabbed the suit off the rack and held it up to better appreciate its unabashed ugliness. It was made of some sort of velour, had a background of deep teal green and was covered with a garish pattern of giant peacock feathers. The lapels and pockets were trimmed in a dark blue satin that matched the peacock print, and there was even a matching tie. Harry couldn’t decide if it was high fashion or a bad joke. He only knew he needed it, desperately.
“Wow,” Jack said, awed. “It’s really something.”
Harry noticed he was still holding Jack’s arm and let go hastily to add The Suit to his stash.
“Only two items allowed at a time,” a voice snapped in his ear. Harry yelped in shock and swung round to find a familiar baleful eye glaring at him from three inches away. He stepped back and bumped into Jack, whose hand landed on his shoulder, steadying him. Beryl looked between them, lips pursed. “ Two items,” she repeated, arms folded across her chest.
Harry drew himself up to his full height. “Beryl.”
“Mr Townsend. Do I have to eject you for breaking the rules again?”
“I’m not breaking the rules,” Harry said. “I haven’t gone near the change rooms yet.”
“But you intend to,” Beryl said, eye narrowing.
“Actually, these two are mine,” Jack said, grabbing the pig shirt and the blazer. “Harry was just holding them for me.”
Harry nodded along gratefully. “What he said.”
“Well get on with it, then,” Beryl said.
“Um, pardon?” Harry asked, and dammit, he’d forgotten the cardinal rule. Show no weakness.
“Two customers, four items. You can’t have any more until you’ve tried those,” Beryl said, and made a shooing motion towards the cubicles with the badly fitting curtains. She snatched the suit from Harry. “Go on, then.” She got an evil glint in her eye. “And you’d better hope nobody buys this while you’re busy.”
Harry glared.
Beryl glared back.
“Actually,” he said, “I've changed my mind about this one.” He held up the fringed vest. “I’d prefer to try the suit.”
“Too bad,” Beryl said. “I think I’ll put it in the window display. I might mark it as ten dollars, just to get rid of it.” Her eyes narrowed. “I might even buy it myself. For my nephew.”
“You wouldn’t!” Harry gasped. That would mean Beryl was winning.
While he was still trying to figure out how to get his hands on the suit, Jack stepped forward and, in a frankly stunning display of fearlessness, extended a hand to Beryl, “Hi. I’m Jack. Jack Windsor. And I’d like to thank you for spending your free time to help the community.”
What?
Beryl was obviously thinking the same thing. “Are you making fun of me, young man?” she demanded.
“Not at all,” Jack said, flashing her a winning smile. “My father always said volunteers were the lifeblood of his church and the community.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Isn’t it amazing, what some people donate? I must have spent hours helping my mum sort stuff for the parish op shop when I was a kid. Everything from wedding dresses to old underwear.” At her confused expression, he said, “My dad’s a minister. Uniting Church. And he loves people like you who are willing to help out.”
Beryl faltered, obviously uncertain how to take that. Then, impossibly, her face did something that Harry had never seen it do before. It took him a moment to identify what it was, because it looked so wrong, but he had to hold back another gasp when the penny dropped. Beryl was smiling. It was awful and awkward, like a snake with dentures, but it was definitely a smile, and Harry wasn’t sure which had his head spinning more—Beryl smiling, or Jack being a minister’s kid.
Beryl’s eye flicked between Jack, the pile of clothing and the change rooms. “Three items, just this once,” she declared. Harry grinned in victory, right before she poked him in the chest. “Not you. Only him. I like him.”
Something suspiciously like a snicker escaped Jack but he hid it with a cough. “Thank you,” he said from behind his hand, and grabbed the vest from Harry’s hand, which meant Harry was free to snag the suit.
Beryl’s smile disappeared, and her eyes widened. “Wait, that’s not—” But it was too late, because Harry had already bolted for the changerooms.
He dived into the cubicle clutching his prize, wrestling out of his jeans before Beryl came to bodily separate him from the suit, and wiggling his way into the slim-legged suit pants. He put the jacket on over his tee and stared at himself in the mirror. Oh , it was awful. The sleeves were a full inch too short, and so were the pant legs. It fitted badly in the best way, but it was still technically a suit, which meant he could wear it on bad dates with a dress code, and he’d get to see the specific eye-twitch that him wearing this would doubtless evoke in potential fathers-in-law.
“Jack, you have to see this!” He stepped out of the change room and pulled back the curtain of the one next door—and promptly lost the power of speech, because Jack was naked from the waist up, and Jack?—
Jack had tattoos.
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Jack wasn’t particularly buff, and he had a tradie’s tan that stopped halfway up his biceps and gave way to pale skin, but the dark ink twisting across one shoulder and down onto his right pec was fascinating. He was somehow beautiful, attractive in a visceral way that evoked feelings Harry had never had for anyone else.
“Um,” Harry said, face heating. “Sorry. I’ll just?—”
“Oh wow, that suit really is terrible,” Jack said. He made no move to cover up, apparently unaware of the short circuit he was causing in Harry’s brain right now. “You definitely need to buy it.”
Harry blinked and remembered why he’d opened the curtain in the first place. “Oh, right. Yeah, I’m gonna get it.”
“Will you wear it tonight?” Jack asked, oblivious to the chaos his naked torso was unleashing. Harry wondered if it would be rude to ask him to put a shirt on. Then he wondered if it would be rude to ask him to never wear one again. Then he wondered what the fuck was wrong with him. Jack was staring at him, brow furrowed. “On your date?” he prompted. Oh right. Jack had asked him a question.
Harry dragged his gaze away from Jack's inked chest and managed to answer. “Nah, I’ll save this for a top-level date. A wedding, maybe.”
“You do weddings? ”
“Not yet, but you never know,” Harry said, and this, this was good. He was acting like a normal person, and not like a weirdo who was perving on his roommate at all.
“My turn,” Jack grinned, pulling on the purple pig shirt and buttoning it. Harry really kind of wished he hadn’t. It was slightly too small, which didn’t detract from how it looked in the least. If anything, it made Harry’s brain fizz and spark even worse, because the snug fit meant the fabric pulled and clung to the curves of Jack’s torso in interesting ways that Harry normally wouldn’t notice, except it was Jack, and apparently that made all the difference.
Harry cleared his throat. “ It doesn’t fit.”
Jack peered down at himself, and his nose crinkled. “It really doesn’t. It’d fit you though. You’re leaner.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “When Ambrose did the dating thing, he was built enough that he could pull off ‘attractive asshole.’ I have to settle for ‘awkward and obnoxious’ but it still seems to work.”
Jack’s brow furrowed. “But I mean, you could pull that off?”
“What, awkward?”
Jack bit his lip, and the tips of his ears went pink. “No. You’re, um. You’re attractive. You’ve got a nice body, and you’re good-looking in a hot nerd kind of way, and it…it really works for you.”
Harry stared, open-mouthed, because what?
Jack bit his lip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. And I’m not hitting on you, I swear. I just thought someone should tell you that you’re kind of hot, in case you didn’t know already.”
Harry blinked and tried to think of an answer. In the end he settled for “Thanks?” It came out more like a question, but it was the best he could manage right now.
It seemed to satisfy Jack though, because he nodded, then turned his back and stripped out of the shirt before handing it to Harry. It was warm to the touch, and Harry tried very hard not to think about the fact that it had just been pressed against Jack’s bare skin.
You’re being ridiculous , he told himself sternly. He’d seen plenty of half-naked men, what with living in a share house full of guys and Tristan’s constant parade of conquests. This was no different.
Except for the part where it was.
Beryl’s sour expression could have pickled onions as she rang up the shirt and the suit, but since Jack was the one paying and he was being disgustingly pleasant, she couldn’t really say anything, so she settled for glaring at Harry instead. Harry, for his part, was too busy mulling over the concept of finding someone attractive to engage with her for a change, and he was fairly certain that his disinterest annoyed her even further—but ironically, he was too distracted to enjoy it.
“Are you okay?” Jack asked as they climbed into the ute.
“Yeah, fine,” Harry lied. He stroked the bag in his lap. “Thanks for this. I might wear the pigs to dinner tonight.”
“You were right,” Jack said, grinning and pulling out into traffic. “Beryl was something else.”
“She likes you ,” Harry pointed out, still frankly baffled by that fact.
Jack shrugged. “Yeah, well. Every parish has a Beryl. She’s lonely—that’s why she volunteers. But she’s also lonely because she’s objectively a terrible person. So you tell her she’s invaluable, and she’s putty in your hands.”
Harry felt something like admiration stirring in his chest. “I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or impressed that you possess biddy-wrangling skills. Mostly impressed, I think.”
Jack laughed. “I picked it up watching my dad do it for years.”
“You never mentioned he was a minister before,” Harry said.
“It’s not like you’ve mentioned your parents either,” Jack said, his tone suddenly clipped. His shoulders tensed and his hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“My dad’s a barrister and Mum’s a teacher, in case you were interested,” Harry offered quietly.
Jack sighed, the tension leaving him in a rush. He gave Harry a wobbly smile. “Sorry. It’s—people get weird when they find out, like they think I’m going to judge them by proxy, just because of what my parents believe.”
Harry could only imagine. “Are they…?” He paused, trying to find the words. “I mean, obviously they’re religious, but what, um? What flavour of religious are they?”
Jack’s smile was more genuine this time. “They’re not the ‘hellfire and brimstone’ variety, more the ‘soup kitchens and jumpers for the homeless’ type. Like, when I told them I thought I was gay, my mum just looked at me like I’d announced I was going to take up rhythmic gymnastics for a living, and asked ‘Why?’ Like it was something I’d weighed the pros and cons of, and decided to do for fun, not part of who I was.” He shrugged. “I love them, and they’re good people, but they’ve lived in a country town all their life, and that means they have a very specific worldview that’s set sometime around 1983, and anything that falls outside of that confuses the hell out of them. I mean, you’ve met them. You know what I mean.”
And Harry did. The impression he’d taken away from that one intentionally disastrous dinner with Mia was one of people doing their best to be polite while simultaneously being horrified to the core. Mia had hired him on the strength of them not coping with her current boyfriend being a tattoo artist , like that was even an issue nowadays, but at the same time, it didn’t sound like they’d cut Jack off for being gay or anything. “So, well-meaning but buttoned-up?” he summarised.
“That’s them,” Jack agreed wryly. “Pasta for lunch?” he asked, deftly changing the subject. Harry took the hint.
“Sounds good. If I eat something with plenty of garlic, I can be really offensive at dinner with Tracy tonight. She wants unwashed and unemployable, so it fits right in.”
Jack’s laugh was rich and warm, the sound of it settling over Harry and taking up residence somewhere in his chest, like a small furry animal making itself at home. Not something creepy like a rat, though. More like a kitten. And possibly he meant a kitten curling up on his chest, not in his actual chest cavity. It made him warm and fuzzy, was his point, and Harry liked it.
He liked it a lot.