
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7926709.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Check_Please!_(Webcomic)
  Relationship:
      Kent_Parson/Jack_Zimmermann
  Character:
      Jack_Zimmermann, Kent_"Parse"_Parson
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Sharing_a_Bed, Photography
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-01 Words: 3409
****** A Quiet Kind of Intimacy ******
by alpha_exodus
Summary
     Jack doesn't really care about having a roommate on this roadie -
     that is, until he heads to his room and finds out his roommate is
     Kent Parson.
Notes
     for the lovely Madelaine's birthday!!! I hope you've had a great one
     dear :D
     feat. underage pimms (age isn't specified but I picture it being
     earlyish in their Q time so? they could be close to 18 haha) and cute
     selfies
See the end of the work for more notes
“Why do you keep staring at me?” Jack tries to say it gently, but he thinks his
frustration comes through in the set of his mouth nonetheless.
Parse—Kent Parson, Jack thinks. The other guys call him Parse, and Jack’s not
really sure he calls him anything—but anyway, Parse gives him a guilty look as
they set their bags down on their respective beds. It’s the first roadie
they’ve gone on that involves staying the night in a hotel. Most of the guys
had elected to choose their roommates, but Jack hadn’t cared—until now, because
his roommate is Parse and Parse had been shooting him not-very-discreet glances
all throughout dinner. “You’re kinda hard to talk to, you know,” Parse says,
sitting on the side of his bed.
“What—why?” Jack’s brow furrows. The whole thing is making him a little
nervous, because he’s noticed Parse, out on the ice—it’s impossible not to
notice someone of his speed. And noticing had lead to watching, although he’d
forced himself to keep the watching to a minimum, and the watching had lead to
thinking thoughts—and God, those thoughts hadn’t exactly been appropriate, had
they?
“You’re always so quiet,” Parse shrugs lamely. “And none of the other guys talk
to you.”
“They could if they wanted to.”
“Does that mean I can too?”
“Well—aren’t we?” Jack stares at him, puzzled.
Parse chuckles. “I guess we are. Kind of, anyway. I dunno. Tell me about
yourself.” He kicks his shoes off, swinging his legs up onto the bed so that
he’s leaning on his side against the pillows.
And that’s—huh. Jack’s never really been asked that question before, at least
not in that way—everyone wants to know what it was like growing up with Bad Bob
Zimmermann as his father or how Jack’s going to follow in his legacy, over and
over until he feels sick from it. But Parse is asking like he actually wants to
know the answer, and for once that answer doesn’t have to involve Jack’s father
at all.
Jack finally lowers himself onto his own bed, though he doesn’t make any more
effort to get comfortable. He doesn’t want to lure himself into a false sense
of security, because feeling safe means becoming more vulnerable and becoming
vulnerable means—well. He doesn’t quite know what it means, but it’s making him
nervous, prickling at his fingertips and down his spine.
It’s not a bad kind of nervousness though, at least not as bad as other kinds
he’s experienced. It feels new.
“I play a lot of hockey,” he says eventually, and Parse starts laughing. “What?
I do,” Jack frowns at him.
“Sorry, sorry—I mean, I know you play hockey. That’s why we’re here, yeah?”
Parse’s smirking now, but not in a mean way. Jack kind of thinks he likes it.
“I—“ Jack swallows. “I like, um. Taking pictures,” he says, voice sticking
because he knows that isn’t the manliest of hobbies and he’s not sure if Parse
is the kind of person who’s going to give him shit about it.
But Parse doesn’t. Instead he props himself up on his elbow, raising his
eyebrows. “That’s interesting. Like, portraits and shit? Or the outdoors?”
“A little of both. Not like—posed portraits, mostly candid stuff,” Jack shrugs.
“It’s fun.”
“I bet,” Parse grins at him. “I can never hold cameras steady, man—hey, do you
have one?”
“A camera?” Jack asks, and Parse nods. “I do, but I don’t have it with me. It’s
at home.”
“Aww, that’s a shame. I was gonna ask if I could see.” Parse looks genuinely
disappointed, as if he hadn’t been asking just to be polite.
Maybe that’s why Jack shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls his phone out,
even though he never shows people his photos, not even his parents. Slowly, he
says, “I took some on my phone. Um. If you wanna look. You don’t have to.”
“Awesome,” Parse’s half-smile brightens.
Then before Jack can protest, Parse sits up and moves to Jack’s bed, plopping
down close beside him, too close—Parse’s knee is brushing lightly against
Jack’s, and Jack can’t keep the flush off of his face so he forcibly looks
away, God. Not appropriate not appropriate not appropriate—
“You all right? I don’t have to look, if you don’t want,” Parse says, and Jack
realizes his hand is frozen midair, halfway through unlocking his phone.
He swallows and takes a long breath, looking back at Parse. “It’s okay,” he
says, retyping his passcode, even though it’s not okay because Parse is so
close that Jack can clearly see the color of his eyes—flecks of green ringed by
a color that’s almost grey. Ah, fuck. He’s not going to be able to stop
thinking about that later, when he’s trying to fall asleep with Parse in the
other bed, is he?
Heart beating so loudly he’s sure Parse can hear it, he nonetheless taps at his
phone until he finds his gallery, then scrolls through the pictures there,
picking the first one that catches his eye. “I took this outside the rink,” he
moves the phone to show Parse. It’s a picture of a grove of trees at sunset,
and he’d taken about a dozen to get this particular shot—it’s gratifying, to
finally get the angle and the lighting he wants, especially with a phone-
quality camera.
But then—oh God, Parse leans even closer so that he can see, and now his
shoulder is brushing Jack’s and Jack’s this close to flushing again—fuck, fuck,
okay. It’s all right. The guys sit up next to each other like this all the
time, it’s not an issue. Jack can deal with it.
“That’s fuckin’ gorgeous,” Parse murmurs, looking back up at Jack.
Oh. Jack feels a shiver of pleasure roll through his chest. “You mean it?”
“Hell, yeah,” Parse shrugs. “I would’ve sworn that was like some expensive-ass
print or something. The way the lighting is patterned here—that’s really
great.”
“O-oh—thank you,” Jack lets himself smile, and Parse smiles back and it would
be exquisitely easy to lean just that little bit closer and—
And no. Nothing. Jack is not going to let himself go there.
“Can I see more?” Parse asks, brows raising in interest, and Jack nods and
shows him, shots taken on roadies and around his home and one of his mother
laughing, his father only recognizable by an arm that’s extended toward her at
the edge of the photo.
They must’ve gone through about thirty pictures when Parse observes, “There
aren’t any of you in here.”
Jack blinks at him. “I don’t—really take selfies,” he says slowly.
“Huh. Not with your buddies or anything?” Parse leans back on his hands.
The true answer is that Jack doesn’t really have many friends—at least, not the
kinds of friends who take selfies. He gives Parse the easy answer instead. “I
feel weird staring at my own face,” he shrugs.
“Here,” Parse leans forward, and Jack lets him take his phone—it’s not really
like he has anything to hide. All of his secrets are safely trapped inside his
skull. Parse hits the menu button and then finds the camera button, and he’s
flipping it to forward-facing mode before Jack can even ask him what he’s
doing. (He actually hadn’t known how to switch modes like that, but that’s not
something he plans on revealing.) “Smile,” Parse tells him, and Jack only has
time to give a sort of half-grimace before Parse is hitting the button.
“See? I look like an idiot,” Jack grumbles as Parse lets out a laugh.
“Hey, no, no worries. The first one always looks bad,” Parse nudges him with
his elbow. “Here, let’s take another.”
This time, Jack has time to prepare himself—or so he thinks, because at the
last moment, Parse leans closer and presses the side of his forehead to Jack’s.
Jack lets out a surprised laugh, and Parse hits the button at that exact moment
so when the camera clicks, Jack is nearly smiling, flushed in a way that even
he can admit looks kind of attractive.
And then he looks at the photo of Parse, and Parse—Parse is looking at Jack.
He’s smirking and he’s got his eyebrows raised and he’s giving Jack a sidelong
glance, making it look like they’re way better friends than they actually
are—like Parse actually likes him.
“Perfect,” Parse pronounces it.
Jack squints at him. “You aren’t even looking at the camera.”
“That’s fine,” Parse shrugs, handing Jack his phone. “Send that to me, okay?”
“I don’t—have your number,” Jack swallows.
Parse grins and waggles his eyebrows—Oh God. “You want it?”
That has to be a chirp. There’s no way that cannot be a chirp of some kind,
because if it isn’t a chirp then that means Parse is flirting with him—but try
as he might, Jack can’t think of what Parse might be making fun of him for. So
he just nods, trying his best to keep his breathing under control, and Parse
steals Jack’s phone again.
“Ah, shit, it locked—help?” Parse asks him, and Jack has to lean closer and
type in his passcode, and he can fucking smell Parse, the slightest scent of
what might be cologne but is probably his shampoo. “Thanks,” Parse mumbles, and
then he finds Jack’s contact list three times faster than Jack would have on
his own, typing in Kent in the name space and thumbing in his cell number.
Aiming for easygoing, Jack nudges him. “What, no last name?”
Parse—and he supposes this means Parse wants Jack to call him Kent—Kent
chuckles. “Know any other ‘Kent’s?”
“Maybe,” Jack takes his phone back.
“Well, you don’t have to put a last name in for a repeat if they’re the most
important one,” Kent smirks.
Jack licks his lips, looking at him, at the mess of his cowlick barely obscured
by the hat he’s wearing and the casual way he’s sitting on the bed. “Who says
you’re the most important?” Jack says slowly, and the huskiness in his voice is
no longer from frustration—he’s not sure if that’s better or if it’s worse.
“I dunno,” Kent shrugs, some of the bravado sliding off of his face. “Am I?”
They’re still very close. Jack very desperately wants to kiss him.
But he can’t make himself lean forward.
“I guess you are,” he says quietly, dropping his gaze—he’s been defeated, he’s
not strong enough to do this, even though he so, so wants to and he’s fairly
sure Kent really had been flirting—and fuck, how had that even happened? One
moment, Jack’s back on home ice, trying his best to be subtle as he watches
Kent fly across the ice with the puck—and then Kent passes him the puck and
Jack shoots it in, his first goal of the season, and he’s so fucking elated—
And now they’re here, alone in a hotel room, and Jack has no idea how it’d
happened.
“I didn’t request you as a roommate,” he blurts out quietly, because he doesn’t
want Kent to think too much of him, doesn’t want Kent to chalk random chance up
to effort on Jack’s part.
“I know,” Kent blinks at him. “I did.”
Jack’s heart is beating faster, faster, and he’s looking at Kent—and he could
swear that Kent’s eyes are bluer than they’d been minutes ago. “Oh,” he
breathes, and then he doesn’t know who leans in, only that their lips are
smashing together like a controlled explosion, as if this has been coming for a
very long time. Kent’s mouth is soft and he’s all squirmy, hands sliding up
Jack’s back, and Jack groans and kisses him again, again, oh God.
He doesn’t quite know how they end up horizontal, only that Kent has somehow
pushed him over, and now Kent’s straddling him in a way that forces their hips
to press together. Jack tries very hard to be quiet, because he’s so fucking
nervous and elated and really, really turned on, but then Kent licks his way
back into Jack’s mouth and Jack moans unabashedly. He doesn’t even plan to roll
his hips up into Kent—he just ends up doing it, and Kent whimpers against his
lips. “Here, can I—?” Kent asks, voice raspy, gliding his hand down Jack’s
chest, lower, lower. Jack nods helplessly, lets Kent undo the front of his
jeans and roll them down his hips, shifting so Kent can pull at his boxers.
And then Kent just stares at him, eyes gliding over Jack’s body, over his erect
cock that’s pressing toward his stomach and the bare, exposed skin of his hips.
Jack turns his head and stares at the wall, because God, he’s so
embarrassed—he’s got muscle now, but he knows he has stretch marks from his
growth spurt, from losing weight, and he wouldn’t blame Kent for wanting to
stop—
“Hey… look at you,” Kent gives him a soft little smile. “You’re so sexy, God,
Zimms.”
Jack laughs, and it comes out sort of throaty in a way he didn’t know he was
capable of. “Zimms?” he questions.
“Jack,” Kent sighs.
Jack’s voice cracks. “Wh-y—why’re you doing this?”
Kent’s brow creases at that, little wrinkles creating waves in his brow-line.
“I wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles. “Why else?”
Jack can only manage a nod.
And then Kent leans down and—oh God oh God, the last thing Jack had expected
was for Kent to be kissing the skin below his belly button, nipping over to his
hip, his thigh, and then—oh fuck, Kent’s touching his dick, stroking him,
tugging lightly at the foreskin with a gentle firmness.
“Hnngh—“ Jack tries to stifle his moan and it doesn’t quite work, and Kent
gives him a cheeky smirk before opening his mouth and—oh God, fuck, Kent’s
lickinghim, lapping little circles around the head of Jack’s cock, and Jack
rocks his head back into the mattress because he’s fairly sure watching it is
going to kill him. And then Kent takes the tip of it into his mouth and sucks
down, down, and Jack sobs—“Fuck! Fuck, Kentkentkent—“ God, it’s all wet heat
and obscene sucking noises, Kent bobbing up and down around him, and when Jack
dares to look down it’s only to meet eyes that are now blue, so blue—“I
can’t—I’m too close,” Jack tells him in a strangled voice.
Kent pulls off, gasping a little. “Want me to swallow?” he smirks, and Jack
nearly comes right then, God.
As it is, he can only manage a desperate little, “I-if you want,” and then Kent
sucks him down again, faster this time, and Jack’s dying, dying—“Ke-ent!” he
chokes out, the wave of pleasure trapping him against the bed, anchoring him to
the place where Kent’s lips meet his dick, where Kent keeps sucking him down,
where Kent swallows like it’s nothing. Jack can’t help but slip a hand into
Kent’s curls, noting dimly that Kent’s hat had disappeared sometime in the last
half hour, and when Kent pulls away he fixes Jack with a smirk that Jack can
only describe as satisfied. “Kent—“ Jack reaches for him, pulls him up by the
arm, and he’s too embarrassed to ask out loud but Kent has no complaints as
Jack reaches for the drawstring of his basketball shorts.
“Aww, fuck,” Kent groans when Jack slips his hand into the waistband, tugging
it down with his other hand so he can pull Kent’s cock out. He strokes it
tentatively, becoming more accustomed to the feel of its warm weight in his
hand as Kent starts rutting into him with a shaky sigh.
“I—I dunno if I want to, um,” Jack swallows, face blazing. “To do what you
did.”
He pulls his fist up, then back down again, the pre-cum easing his way, and
Kent shivers. “Nah, you don’t have to—this is good—oh, yeah, fuck, like that,
oh. Uhh, I’m gonna have to—move,” he says, his arms shaking as he holds himself
up above Jack. “I don’t wanna, um, mess up your shirt.”
Jack blinks up at him, then arches his back and lifts off the bed so he can
ruck his shirt up to his armpits. He could take it all the way off, but that
would mean taking his hand away from Kent, and he doesn’t want to stop touching
him at all because this is—nice. More than nice. Brilliant, if he’s being
honest with himself, because seeing Kent’s eyelashes flutter because of him is
twisting up his insides in a very good way. “There,” he says, “You can’t mess
up my shirt now.”
“Oh God,” Kent laughs slightly. “You want me—on you? Oh my God, Zimms, that’s
so hot—fuck, you feel so good, I’m—fuck, I’m so close, keep going—“ Jack speeds
his hand, sliding his thumb over the head of Kent’s cock with every other pass,
and then Kent starts falling apart and Jack feels so, so lucky that he’s
allowed to watch this. “J-Jack,” Kent shudders, “Jack,” and he’s squeezing his
eyes shut, spilling over Jack’s hand, his stomach, his chest.
Kent sways dangerously when he’s done, looking like he wants to fall over, but
he doesn’t. Instead, he manages to sit up, glancing over the mess on Jack’s
chest before reaching up and pulling off his own shirt. He uses it to clean
Jack off, wiping away the slick evidence of his orgasm, and then when he’s done
with Jack’s chest he picks up Jack’s wrist too. Jack can’t stop staring at him,
at the way his eyes have gone all soft and the way the corner of his tongue
peeks out as he wipes each of Jack’s fingers gently clean.
When Kent gets up to toss his shirt on top of his duffel bag, Jack feels the
loss in his bones. He wants Kent to come back, but he also doesn’t want to
suffer the embarrassment of asking for it if it turns out that Kent had only
wanted him in the sex way. By the time he reaches the end of his train of
thought, Jack’s worked himself into such a nervous mess that he can only say,
“We should—go to bed.”
“Oh,” Kent says. He looks disappointed, and Jack has to look away as Kent
crawls into his own bed.
He straightens his pants and shirt and tucks himself under the covers, rolling
so that he’s looking at the wall and not at Kent, breathing quietly on the
other side of the room. He closes his eyes.
But he can’t sleep. He tries and tries and all he can think about is how Kent
was touching him, and now he’s not. And Jack wants to be touching him, and not
sexually—he just wants to wrap himself in Kent’s arms and hide his face in
Kent’s chest instead of the pillow.
The silence is slowly killing him. Just when he’s reached the point where he’s
suffocating, choking for air, Kent rolls over and says, “You awake?”
Jack doesn’t hesitate to say, “Yes.”
“Okay,” Kent says, and Jack can hear him swallow. “Was that—had you done that
before?”
“No,” Jack admits, voice gravelly. He hopes Kent’s not judging him for it.
“Oh, wow,” Kent sighs. “That’s—wow, Zimms. Thanks—for trusting me.”
Jack shivers. “You made me feel good,” he mumbles, voice thick. “I’m—I’m glad
you asked to room with me.”
He hears the sound of the sheets on Kent’s side being thrown back, and he rolls
over just in time to see along with hearing the ‘thump’ of Kent’s feet hitting
the floor. Kent pads over and slips into the bed next to him, winding his limbs
around Jack’s body, and Jack tugs him closer and presses his face into Kent’s
neck and breathes.
His exhaustion falls over him then like a soft blanket. Slowly, he leans up and
presses his lips against Kent’s, just a gentle, short kiss.
He pulls away and sees that Kent’s grinning at him, eyes bright as the moon out
the window, and Jack realizes that Kent’s lopsided smile means more to him than
any of the touching they’ve done tonight.
End Notes
     hang out w/me on tumblr <3
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
