Jack's Rules for Being Friends with Benefits and Alex's Guide to Breaking Them

It’s summertime in Baltimore when it starts, the night air unusually hot and heavy; a Saturday night that hints at thunderstorms, anticipation dense in the darkness. And Jack is, predictably, already pretty drunk.
“I can’t believe you invited him!” He shouts over the thumping bass, directly into Rian’s ear, who winces. They both look across the large living room, packed with sweaty dancing teenagers, to see Alex. He’s deep in conversation with someone Jack doesn’t recognise, his hair tousled and skin flushed as he takes a sip of his drink.
“I had to, man, he’s in the band now,” Rian replies mildly, “and he’s a nice guy. You should give him a chance.” Jack grumbles to himself a knocks back another swig of his beer. Rian sighs a world weary, put-upon sigh, the universal language of those whose friends are massive idiots. “Get over the eyebrow thing!”
Jack throws his hands up in the air in despair, narrowly missing hitting someone in the head. “I’m fucking over it!” he yells, as Rian apologises profusely to the glaring girl that just got soaked in Jack’s drink. “I was totally kidding about the eyebrow thing, okay, I don’t not like him because his eyebrows are better than mine, because, okay, one,” Jack raises an unsteady finger in front of Rian’s bemused face, “that’s dumb, I don’t not like him at all, I’m just. Shy.” Rian rolls his eyes, but Jack doesn’t notice as he raises another finger, “and two, his eyebrows aren’t better. Mine are better. Best.” He closes his eyes for a second while the room spins, then lowers his hand and uses it to grab another beer off the nearest person offering him one. “Fuck.”
“You should go talk to him, then.” Rian says, discreetly helping himself to Jack’s other beer while he’s not looking. “Go say hi! Introduce yourself, stand your ground, enforce your place in the band, all that stuff!” Jack nods, but Rian’s not paying attention anymore, his gaze fixed on the other side of the room where Cass is being, well, Cass and thereby short circuiting his brain. If he had been paying attention, he would have seen the twinkle in Jack’s eye, the one that normally means he’s about to do something incredibly, hopelessly stupid. He would have seen Jack catch Alex’s eye from across the room, would have seen him, honest to God, actually lick his lips and ruffle his bangs and heard Jack yell back in reply,
“Great advice, dude! I’m gonna do it,” just as Alex winks at him. And that’s, well. To Jack, that’s the deal breaker.
He leaves Rian behind (“Cassie! Hey, Cass, is that a new dress?”) and begins to delicately yet drunkenly pick his way across the party, pushing away people who try to talk to him and forcing his way between kissing couples, all “excuse me,”s and “kind of busy right now, dude,”s and “seriously just fuck off Matt,”s and has just enough time to solemnly register that he’s basically acting out that scene in Spider-Man where Peter crosses the road to get to Gwen, only with angry drunk people instead of honking cars, before he’s suddenly in front of Alex. Recovering himself speedily, because he is The Man and this is His Moment he says, “Hey. I’m Jack,” in what he hopes is an Alluring and Sensual voice. He grins.
“I’m Alex.” The other boy says, and smiles. Then he glances at Jack’s Marty Mcfly tee-shirt in appreciation. “Back to the Future? The cowboy one is so the best, man.”
And that’s how it starts. (And it’s so, so not a love story. Not yet, anyway.)
Somewhere in Baltimore, a couple of miles away, there’s a crash of thunder and the first of the rain falls, hard and fast.
--
“Fuck, you’re so hot. Fuck. Fuck.” Alex slams Jack into the door of the closet, hands on his chest and under his shirt and on his ass and curled into his hair, everywhere, all at once, tugging him down to touch lips on lips. It’s all teeth catching and the taste of tequila and spontaneity and everything Jack loves, Alex’s skin hot and soft under his touch as he pants, shamelessly grinding against Jack’s thigh.
Jack giggles breathlessly and lightly shoves Alex away, just far enough to get some air. “You’re eager,” he says over the muffled music and laughter from the party going on beyond the door and down the hall. Their little cupboard feels almost underwater as Alex laughs excitedly, almost like it was startled out of him, and it sounds like bells. His hair is dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead, brown eyes sparkling almost gold in the low light and face flushed with exhilaration. His smile is goofy and pretty and Jack’s breath catches for a second. He looks beautiful. “You look like a mess,” he jokes.
Alex laughs again, mutters a soft “shut up,” and pushes him back up against the door, dislodging something on a shelf above them to fall at their feet with a clatter they don’t even hear as their lips crash together once more.
It’s over almost embarrassingly fast, in a drunken blur, and before they know it they’re sitting on the carpet with their backs against the door, gasping, Alex grinning at him lopsidedly in sporadic bursts of mixed elation and awkwardness as they catch their breath side by side. Jack smiles back, all goofy teeth and crinkly eyes, and doesn’t let himself think about what’s to come.
Because Jack Barakat Does Not Date. He has no desire to, never has, rolls his eyes when people talk about finding ‘The One’ and ‘Love’ and ‘All that bullshit no one actually believes in,’ and definitely does not cry at The Notebook. He’s 18. He hates Valentines’ Day, and the whole prospect of being someone’s boyfriend, of having to actually remember anniversaries and buy flowers and all that shit, seems less appealing than basically anything else in the world to him. And that’s okay.
Jack has come to accept that he’s just not the dating type. He’s more for discreet handjobs in the back of movie theatres than kissing over popcorn, and steamy make outs in the backseat of cars and grinding in closets at parties. He prefers a good old fashioned one night stand to playing footsie under the breakfast table the next morning, and that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just his style. Like Rian’s is pining over Cassie and doing literally anything to win her over, Cinderella’s prince style, Jack’s is, well, not. There’s nothing wrong with it. He knows there’s not, but when Alex is peering up at him from under his eyelashes, hair ruffled from where Jack had been running his hands through and tugging on it just minutes before, sleeves pulled over his hands and smile dancing on the corners of his lips, asking him whether he wants to “go and get a smoothie or something sometime, you know, talk more about which Back to the Future movie is best,” Jack kind of wishes he was the dating type.
“Um,” he says, high and panicked, biting his lip and trying not to look at Alex’s face because it’s kind of like looking directly into the sun and he’s worried it’d do his eyes permanent damage. “No thanks.” He replies. And then, “But I’ll blow you in the bathroom if you want.” He raises his eyebrows hopefully, and there’s a pause while Alex just gapes at him, and Jack thinks, oops.
And honestly, it should have been awkward for longer than it is. He’s had girls slap him for less when he was (basically) joking, but Alex visibly recovers himself pretty quickly, takes a clumsy moment to brush himself off and stand up, mumbling things that sound to Jack like, “I should have known,” and “I should have listened,” and “didn’t wanna go anyway,” before turning back around to face Jack, flashing him a smile and a hand up off the floor. “Sure.” He says, and smirks cheekily, unabashed, eyes sparkling once again. “Okay. For now,” and with that, he kisses Jack sweetly on the lips, flashes him a dazzling smile, turns around and leaves Jack alone in the darkness.
“Fuck.” Jack says quietly to himself. The door slams shut and something else falls off the shelf with a bang, narrowly missing his head. “Fuck,” he says again, quieter this time, before following the other boys’ footsteps and going to find another drink.
--
Jack half braces himself that Monday for some kind of hellish onslaught of torment from the entire school, or at least his friends, before realising that Alex hasn’t told anyone what happened.
“You’re not mad at me?” He asks in a hushed tone one day after band practise as Alex is packing up his guitar. Zack and Rian are noodling around behind them, talking about the bass line they’d been working on. Alex glances up at him, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
“Why would I be mad at you? You were no more shit today than usual.” He jokes as he twists up his amp cord. Jack rolls his eyes.
“That’s not what I mean. I know we’re friends now, but I just wanted to make sure you weren’t, like, I dunno…” Upset? No, Alex wouldn’t be upset Jack didn’t want to go out with him. Disappointed? Hardly. “Embarrassed, or whatever, about what happened.” Good, Jack thinks. Embarrassed was a good choice, this way Alex could take it as though Jack was talking about the whole getting off in the closet thing instead of the awkward let down, and it could save a whole lot of cringe. He looked at Alex earnestly. “I’m really sorry.”
Rolling his eyes again, Alex replies, “It’s fine. I know you have a thing about dating, Rian told me.” And Jack bristles at that, fumes, because he doesn’t have a Thing About Dating, what the fuck, and is just about to say so when Alex shoots a glance behind them to make sure the others are still deep in conversation and drops his voice, raising one eyebrow flirtily. “We can do casual if you want.” Jack’s heart skips a beat.
“Okay,” he replies breathlessly, about a second too late, because Alex is smirking at him knowingly as if he can tell from Jack’s face what he’s thinking. Smirking as if he knows that he can pull that face and get whatever he wants from Jack, that he could say “jump,” in his casually seductive voice and Jack would just say “how high?” Shit, Jack thinks, as Alex flings his guitar case onto his shoulder and practically struts, Christ, what has he got himself into, out the door, throwing a cheerful “later guys!” to the others as if nothing had happened. Shit, Jack thinks again. And then, something has to be done.
--
That’s when Jack shows Alex The Rules.
“You can’t be serious, Jack.”
“I am.”
A muffled snort of derision. “You can’t be. You’re kidding.”
“I never kid, Alex. Sex, or the lack thereof, is never something to kid about.”
Alex rolls his eyes and looks up from where he’s reading the printed out list of Rules, sprawled on Jack’s bed. Jack spins on his desk chair again and wonders, not for the first time, if it’s possible for someone to roll their eyes so much their eyeballs fall out of their face. Jack wonders, not for the first time, why no one seems to take him seriously. He spins the chair again.
“’1. No holding hands. 2. No pet names. 3. No dates,’” Jack nods solemnly. “’4. No making out with good music on-‘ wait, what?” Alex laughs incredulously. “Are we only allowed to make out to like, the Eagles or something? What the fuck? Why?”
Jack sighs patiently, as if educating a very small, very irritating child. “Because, Alex, if you make out to a good song, then after we go our separate ways or whatever, that song will be ruined forever.”
Alex just stares at him.
“Trust me. It happened to a friend. He can’t even listen to Whenever Wherever by Shakira anymore. It’s like, a tragesty.”
Alex just carries on staring, lips twitching, “… a friend, huh?”
“Stop changing the subject, come on. You need to memorise this list. There will be a quiz.”
“But this list is bullshit, Jack! ‘5. No making pancakes, 6. No touching each other’s hair, 7. No kissing with feelings, 8. No talking about it, like, ever, seriously,’” Alex exclaims, voice getting more shrill and disbelieving with every Rule, “’9. Thou shalt not text unless it is a sext,’ I mean, what!? It’s just stupid!”
Jack bristles uncomfortably but carries on spinning in his chair, his insides churning hot and uncomfortable. He tries not to let it show, and his voice is pretty even when he says, “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to. I told you I didn’t want a relationship. I want casual.”
A pause. Alex’s voice is calmer and suddenly close when he speaks again, twisting Jack’s chair around to stop where he’s standing in front of him between his knees. His eyes are gentle and he almost appears to reach out for Jack, before thinking better of it and dropping his hand to his side. “You realise this is like, the opposite of casual, right?” He murmurs softly, leaning down so that his breath brushes Jack’s ear delicately. “Casual isn’t getting the other person to sign a literal contract before you go any further.”
“The contract bit was a joke, you don’t actually have to sign-“ The rest of Jack’s protest is cut off by the warm press of Alex’s lips to his own and Jack melts into the kiss against his own better judgement. He files that away for later, to add to the Rules, ‘No melting into kisses,’ before Alex lightly smacks him upside the head and plonks himself in his lap.
“Stop thinking so loudly,” he whispers, as the printed sheet of paper flutters to the floor, and Jack can’t even find it in himself to protest.
--
And so, that’s how it goes.
And it’s great.
Alex, on all accounts, is the perfect not-boyfriend. He follows every single rule, faultlessly. Even when it means having to stop mid-hand job just to turn the music off because Pokerface comes on shuffle. (“I can’t do it with Gaga on, Alex. I just can’t. She’s iconic.” “For fuck’s sake, Jack if it were Bad Romance I could understand it.”) Alex comes over for afternoon sex (“Afternoon delight,” Jack giggles deliriously, earning himself a smack in the head for his troubles,) and doesn’t stay for dinner, despite Jack’s mother looking at him Really Earnestly. He doesn’t say a word of their endeavours to the rest of the band, to whom they suddenly appear to have gained sudden interest in “helping around the house tonight,” and “going with my dad to play golf this weekend, sorry,” and taking really long bathroom breaks at the same time by complete coincidence. For two straight months everything is going, well, brilliantly, if Jack is totally honest, because he can’t stop smiling and he has Alex all to himself, whenever he wants. And then, suddenly, it’s not anymore.
“I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s like all of a sudden it’s not enough. It’s not like I want to do all that coupley stuff, because, like, ew, but sometimes I wanna text him about something else, you know? Like, I love sexting, but the other day I nearly messaged him saying Paranormal Activity was on so we could watch it together. I so nearly did it. I couldn’t believe it. Had to breathe into a paper bag for like five whole minutes. I’ve never wanted to do that before, ever. Not with a friend with benefits. I just. Fuck. Sometimes I want to hold his hand in public, fuck everything else. I’ve never wanted to do that before, either. This is crazy. What do you think, Kevin?”
From his spot on the Home Alone poster on Jack’s wall, Kevin McCallister stares down at him silently with some unspoken wisdom Jack can only aspire to. And Jack realises that that’s what makes the fact that Alex is so good at following his rules so irritating. Because for the first time, Jack can feel himself start to resent them and their limitations. “Yeah. I know, Kev. I really am in the shit. Anyway, goodnight. Amen.”
Little did he know, this wouldn’t be a problem for long.
--
The first time Alex does it, Jack almost doesn’t notice. They’re hanging out with Zack and Rian in his basement, noodling around with their cover of All the Small Things out of pure boredom, when Alex stops them and declares loudly and dramatically, “Jack, you’re doing it wrong.”
Jack pauses, hand over the strings. “Can I help you, Hermione?” He turns, quirking an eyebrow and widening his eyes as Alex quickly strides across the room to stand behind him, smooshing himself up close to his back and Jack really, really hopes that’s Alex’s belt buckle because seriously, Zack and Rian are standing right there.
Alex snakes his arm around Jack’s chest to grab his hand where it rests on his guitar and murmurs, voice all low and gravelly and heavenly into his ear, “You keep getting the chord progression wrong. It’s like this,” and moves his hand in time, whispering in that seductive voice, “Keep your head still, I'll be your,” a pause. Jack holds his breath, and finally, finally Alex continues, “thrill, the night will go on, my little windmill.”
It’s only later that night, when he’s lying in bed and staring up at his glow in the dark ceiling stars, thinking about how nice his hand had felt in Alex’s that he sits up with a start and a muffled, “What the fuck?” and realises. Alex had broken rule number one.
After that, Jack is more cautious; cautious in that he keeps his hands well away from Alex’s grasp. It works, Alex doesn’t try and hold his hand again, and Jack tells himself that he’s smug, pleased. He almost believes it, for a second. “Oh, shut up, McCallister,” he mumbles, rolling over to get Kevin’s condescending look out of his sight.
--
The second time is a lot less subtle, and it becomes pretty obvious what Alex is up to.
“Where is everyone?” Jack exclaims in dismay, checking his phone for the umpteenth time. “They’re so late.”
It’s a Friday night, and the movie theatre lobby is crowded with people, the smell of cheap hotdogs and popcorn filling the air. The place is filled with that weird neon light that always seems to remind Jack of American Idiot, and it’s giving Alex’s light brown hair a blueish tint where he stands under the film listings. Alex shrugs, seemingly unconcerned, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “I dunno, man. Hey, maybe we should just. Go.”
“What, leave?”
“No, dumbass, go see a movie together. They’re clearly not coming; it’s been like, half an hour.” Jack frowns at his phone again, opens his mouth to respond, when Alex suddenly exclaims, looking at his phone.
“Oh, look, I’ve got a text from Zack, it says, ‘sorry can’t come Rian neither have a good time bye.’” He pockets his phone swiftly and efficiently, turning his back on Jack to look up at the titles. “Well, I guess that settles it. What do you wanna see?”
Jack steps up to stand beside Alex, frowning thoughtfully at the titles. “That’s weird that they just ditched like that, did he say why?”
Alex shrugs again, “Nope.” He tilts his head to look at Jack, flashing him a mischievous grin and says, “Maybe they’re having a secret affair,” which makes Jack snort. “Hey, what about Mamma Mia?”
Jack raises his eyebrows.
“What? You like ABBA, right? It’s got Meryl Streep in it.”
Jack considers this, trying not to smile too widely. “I do love Meryl…”
“Cool, okay. I’ll go get the tickets.” And, yeah, Jack maybe thought it would be awkward just the two of them, but obviously he was wrong because this is fine, this is- “You can get the popcorn, babe.”
And Jack’s brain explodes.
He’s somewhat recovered by the time he finally catches up to Alex by the entrance to the screens, but his neck feels hot and his collar too tight and his stomach is doing this weird fluttery thing as he passes the popcorn to Alex, scared he’ll drop it.
“You can’t do that,” he hisses quietly as the guy rips their tickets and they make their way into the theatre, Jack stumbling to try and keep up as he follows Alex up the stairs. Jack can just about make out the glint of Alex’s teeth as he grins in the darkness. “It’s not funny! You just broke a rule!” He exclaims as they take their seats, huffing sulkily.
“So?” Alex whispers as the trailers start, smiling away like he has a secret as he helps himself to a handful of popcorn from the box sitting on the arm rest between them. “Rules were made to be broken.”
And not only was the ‘No pet names’ rule broken, but also the ‘No dates’ rule, because, really, and as soon as Amanda Seyfried started singing Honey, Honey and Alex leaned over to kiss Jack, so was the ‘No making out to good music’ rule. Because. Well. Jack wonders what he’s got himself into, and tries not to make his smile too noticeable and goofy.
--
“You should see yourself. You’re a joke.”
“I know.”
“Just a shadow of the man you once were.”
“Do I have dye on my face?”
“Only everywhere.”
“Great.”
“It becomes you.”
Alex closes his eyes and leans his head back on the front of the dishwasher, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “Well,” he says, quietly, almost to himself, “that’s okay then.”
The kitchen is almost silent; the only sound the dull whirring of the fridge and the boys’ soft breaths, Alex’s hair cap and Jacks gloves crinkling occasionally. The cold of the tiles is seeping slowly through Jack’s jeans as they sit on the floor, backs to the counter. Alex has his legs outstretched in front of him, bare feet twitching lazily in the sun.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and once again Jack wonders what he’s got himself into.
“You’re quiet. What’s wrong?” Alex says, tilting his head and peering at Jack from under his lashes, eyebrows raised, making the plastic hair net thing rumple from its precarious perch on his head. A beam of sunlight breaks its way through the blinds above them to highlight his face, pink smears on by his jaw, his nose.
Jack swallows. “Nothing,” and as Alex smiles, and Jack’s heart feels like it’s going to burst.
Alex adjusts his hair net and sits back again, looking up at the ceiling. The tap drips slowly and idly from above them, as if it has all the time in the world. Nowhere to be. Nothing to hide. As if right now could last forever.
It feels almost as if they’re the only people in the universe, in that strange way being home when you’re supposed to be at school feels. It reminds Jack of being a kid, faking sick to watch cartoons all day just because, back when skipping school was still new and exciting and bold. Alex’s house is spacious and modern, silent, making Jack’s mind feel uncharacteristically peaceful and quiet. He almost doesn’t want to speak; scared it will break the spell. The tap drips again.
“How much longer?” Alex murmurs, scratching his right ankle with his left foot.
Jack checks his watch, where the timer says five minutes. “Ten minutes,” he lies. Five more won’t hurt.
It’s times like this that Jack almost completely forgets about real life. It’s dangerous waters, he knows it is, because it’s times like this where he allows himself to forget, just for a second. To pretend. Right now, it doesn’t matter when they get back to doing what they do.
Jack imagines breaking the rules. He imagines reaching over and holding Alex’s hand. Alex would look up at him in surprise as Jack gently, so, so gently, runs his fingers over the soft curve of his wrist, over tanned skin and veins and bones. Jack’d lean close, use the hand that wasn’t holding Alex’s to lightly brush his jaw, drop some suave line like, “you’ve got some dye here,” or “you’ve got something in your eye,” or “I love you I love you I love you I’ve always loved you I’m sorry I’m an idiot” or even just “humour me, please.” And Alex, obviously, would kiss him back when Jack does, all soft and sweet and golden, major keys. He’d probably taste like liquorice or summer or doritos or something else so profoundly Alex that Jack’s heart would skip a beat in that mildly horrifying way that genuinely feels like a heart attack, until Alex would laugh slightly and pull away, smiling the rare smile he does when someone genuinely surprises him, the kind of smile that Jack collects like gold stars in Mario Kart.
“Yo. Jaaaack?” and suddenly Jack’s back in reality, the acrid smell of hair dye persistent, drowning out any lingering golden feelings from his reverie. “I think my scalp is burning.”
So Jack gets up, pulling Alex up as he stands, his daydream gone as quickly as it had come. “Oh my God, what if your hair’s falling out?” Alex’s eyes widen in exaggerated (but not really) horror. “What if it’s seeping into your head and you get even more brain damaged than you already are?” He teases, giggling, as he manhandles Alex over to the kitchen sink and starts to run the tap. “Head. Sink. Now.”
Alex smirks and rolls his eyes, dipping his head awkwardly under the stream of water. “Yes, sir.”
--
In hindsight, Jack thinks, as he watches Alex blow-dry his hair in the mirror, now streaked with blonde and pink across the top, his Rules were kind of dumb. In hindsight, he thinks, he probably should have just said yes to the smoothie date with Alex that night at the party. In hindsight, he thinks, I’m an idiot.
“I’m an idiot.” Jack declares to Alex’s reflection in the mirror. Alex switches off the dryer and frowns, hair slightly damp and rumpled, stuck to his forehead just like it was that night in the closet, and Jack can’t help it. “Screw the rules,” he says, rushed, and then, “I love you,” and then, “like, a lot,” and then, “I’m going to kiss you now. With feelings.” And Alex beams, dropping the dryer to the floor, and says, breathless, “Okay. Do it.” And Jack does.
--
“Well?” Jack demands the next day, while Zack and Rian sit opposite him, staring blankly. “Aren’t you going to say something? I just told you I’m dating Alex.”
Zack frowns contemplatively. “Yeah. We knew that. You’ve been dating since after that party, right?”
And Jack is about to say no, not at all, really, really, no before Rian pipes up, saying, “I think the real question here is, why are your hands pink?”
Jack opens his mouth to reply, when; “Hey, babe,” Alex says, sneaking an arm around Jack’s neck and dropping a kiss on the top of his head before sitting beside him, and Zack and Rian breathe a collective, “oh.”
Alex gives them a funny look before shooting Jack a questioning glance, who replies with a sigh and a “don’t worry.”
“Sure,” Alex shrugs and reaches over to steal a chip off Jack’s plate, who blocks his hand with a melodramatic gasp.
“Dude, don’t make me write out the Boyfriend Rules. Jack doesn’t share food.”
So, really, it’s not a love story. Only, yeah, Jack thinks, and smiles at his boyfriend, who grins back and squeezes his hand before stealing a fry. It kind of is.
FIN.