70 - you're warm ---- jackshit (are you surprised.... :P)
This is a personal attack.
There are new shingles on the Haus roof.
Jack runs his fingers over them, hyperaware of the roughness under his fingertips and the furrows on his forehead. His mother always told him he’d have wrinkles by forty if he kept frowning so much. He’s on the wrong side of thirty-five to start worrying about it now.
“Whatcha doing, Jackabelle?”
Jack doesn’t look up; he doesn’t need to, to recognize Shitty’s voice. He presses the pads of his fingers harder against the grit. “I’m…ah. I don’t know.”
Shitty sits down next to him, dangling his legs off the edge of the roof. He’s still in his slacks and dress shirt, but his suit jacket’s been lost since they left the reception. Most of the other alumni have gone home. Jack thinks the current Haus residents would ask him to leave, if he were someone else.
“They painted over the bylaws,” Shitty says. “Ungrateful fuckers.”
Jack huffs out a laugh. He has a flash of half a memory—Shitty in less clothes with more hair, blowing pot smoke out towards the stars.
“Do you think they remember us?” he asks, and then frowns around the words. They aren’t right. He can’t remember the question he was trying to make.
“How could they forget you, bro?” Shitty retorts, and pulls Jack into a headlock to fuck up his hair. “You’re Jack fucking Zimmermann, hockey legend.”
Jack shoves Shitty away and then wishes he hadn’t. He mumbles, “That’s not what I meant.”
Shitty pries at one of the shingles with his thumb and forefinger. “What’s up, Jacko?”
“This school was—” Jack sighs, frustrated again. “No one will know what it meant. To us. The team that lives here now, they don’t know.”
Shitty has long eyelashes. They flutter while he watches Jack, blinking slowly. “But we will, brah. We’ll remember.”
Jack surges down and presses his face into Shitty’s neck, arms wrapping around his torso, whole body shuddering. He thinks of fireworks, Sunday mornings, coming down from panic attacks. Smoke dissolving into the air before it reached the sky.
Shitty’s hand is already in his hair by the time he asks, “Jack?”
“You’re warm,” Jack murmurs. Shitty is always warm.