On the Outside Looking In - Lost - Jack/Michael
Title: On the Outside Looking In
Pairing: Jack/Michael
Word Count: 3831
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written using one of writing_rainbow's prompts. Set during S1.
Summary: Jack and Michael start golfing together to take their mind off their situation, but both are taken by surprise when a stronger connection grows.
They stay out on the golf course together long after everyone else has retreated back to the beach. Even Kate has left, but with the soft grass beneath his feet and the golf club waiting in his hand Jack isn't ready to leave just yet. Beside him, smiling and relaxed for once, Michael doesn't appear to be in a hurry either. Their scenery in the dimming sunlight is beautiful and it's at rare times like this that Jack can appreciate that they've landed in a paradise. They're the luckiest survivors in history. They must be.
"If you miss this one I win," Michael says, his smile enough to make his eyes shine with delight.
Glancing up at him, Jack gives a dry, short laugh. "I'm not gonna miss."
"Yeah, yeah: your track record says otherwise," Michael points out.
Jack looks down at the ball sitting on the grass and tries to ignore that. He's lost the last two casual games he's played against Michael. He should probably be thankful that they aren't betting anything - and that they aren't being watched. Losing is painful enough without an audience. He studies the white ball, cushioned by the green grass. The hole is close and all it will take it one short putt to sink it and win the game. With Michael nearby, watching him with a smile, Jack's palms feel sweaty where they grip the handle of his club.
He lets the air stream out of his lungs in one long blow, then draws his club back. Smooth and easy, he putts the ball and -
Misses.
Misses by a mile, actually. The ball goes nowhere near the hole and instead rolls to a lazy stop at least a pace or two to the left from where he'd been aiming. He bounces his club against the ground and stares at the ball as if waiting for it to course correct.
It doesn't happen, and Jack slowly becomes aware of the sound of Michael laughing. "Ouch, that's three-nothing to me," Michael crows - and maybe Jack would consider refusing to play with him ever again, but there's something warm about the sight of Michael's smile that makes losing okay.
"Yeah, well, I'll beat you next time," Jack says. He walks towards Michael after retrieving the ball, and places the equipment away in the golf bag. "That's a promise."
"I'll just kick your ass again, man," Michael says. He looks happy and carefree: Jack thinks that he rarely sees him like this. With Walt to take care of, Michael usually acts like the world is ending all around him. Even with the stress that Jack knows their situation places on Michael's shoulders with his son to worry about, there's a part of him that envies what he has: a son, a family. It's something that's been notoriously absent from his life for years now.
"It's getting late," he says, looking at the sky. It's dyed pink and orange with the beginnings of sunset. "We should get back."
He pretends not to notice the way that Michael's smile fractures with the suggestion. Going back to the beach means returning to the responsibilities that await them there. Jack has the leadership of the camp to worry about, and Michael has a smaller but more important leadership role to fulfil.
"Same time tomorrow?" Jack asks, smiling because it's not as if time even matters in their lives any more, not on a desert island - but if they come up here in the late afternoon they're usually the only ones around. It gives him a buzz in the pit of his stomach, and he finds Michael's presence more calming than that of nearly anybody else on the island.
"I'll be here," Michael promises. Together they begin to walk back to the caves, but they split apart once they reach them. There is already a warm fire crackling and Michael walks away to retrieve Walt from Sun's care. Jack's gaze lingers on the family for a few moments, and can't help but wince at the sulking expression on Walt's face. Looks like Michael will be having a tough night.
*
The following day he's set upon by hypochondriacs and people who don't have enough sense to stay out of the sun at midday. If he'd thought that his job as a spinal surgeon was stressful then he's had one hell of a wake-up call since landing here. This is his job, his place, and these are his people to protect. He does what he can. He wants to be his best for him.
Yet there's a sense of relief that washes over him when, in the late afternoon, he makes his way towards the clear, open space where Hurley built his golf course. Michael is already there, already practicing. As Jack approaches he can see the way the sun shines onto the tanned, dark muscles of his arms. Michael's a lot stronger than Jack had realised before, but when he notices that he's staring he finds a blush colouring his face for no reason he'd care to explain. He speeds up so that when he approaches Michael it's at a jogging pace.
"What's the hurry?" Michael asks, looking up at him.
Jack makes a concerted effort not to look at the way that Michael's hands hold onto the shaft of the club; it's all a little too phallic for him right now. Trapped on the island away from civilisation, he knows that the heat is beginning to get to him. "Just been one of those days," he answers.
"I think every day is 'one of those days' here," Michael sighs.
"Definitely seems that way," Jack agrees. He runs his hand over the lengthening buzz cut on his head. It prickles at his palm and he takes a deep breath of the island's green air. "Has Walt been causing trouble again?"
"He's a good kid, really," Michael says. He leans against the club and looks up at Jack with a wistful smile on his face. "That's what his mom used to tell me, anyway."
"You two weren't together?"
"She left," he says, his voice crisp in a way that tells Jack this is a deeper story than Michael could - or would - ever tell him. "She took Walt when he was a kid."
"I'm sorry."
Michael shrugs. "It was a long time ago now," he says, but Jack hopes that one day he'll get to hear the full story.
But not here and not now: on the golf course in the late afternoon there is no room for sad pasts. Just the pair of them relaxing away from the stress of life at the camp. Jack feels as if he's on a retreat away from work instead of stranded and in trouble. He hangs back and watches as Michael takes his shot: he won't admit, not ever, that Michael is actually better at golfing than he is.
They talk music and work and friends: they talk about before. Jack thinks that maybe Michael is someone he could have been friends with in the real world, in another life. He likes hearing about Michael's work in construction, like to imagine him in charge on a site: bossy, demanding, and bitched about behind his back. He thinks that, once they're rescued, he ought to ask Michael to come out for a drink with him and his friends.
"Hey, Jack," Michael says, faux-casually after they've been out here for a while. Jack tenses, stress creeping into his shoulders once more, as he waits for whatever it is that Michael has been waiting to bring up. "Have you talked to Locke much?"
"Not really," Jack answers with a frown, thinking of the hunter. He knows - without truly knowing how - that Michael doesn't get along with him. There's conflict there, tension. "Why?"
"He keeps hanging around my boy," Michael says. "I don't like it."
"He's harmless," Jack says, with rather more conviction than he actually feels. Locke unsettles him, but it isn't something he's had to think too deeply about before now: once they're rescued, he knows that he will never think about John Locke ever again. His thoughts work like that now, a constant cycle of when we're rescued and hopeful fantasies.
"Yeah," Michael says. "I hope so."
There's steel in his voice, a protective strength that Jack's father never directed at him as a child. Walt's a lucky boy, but Jack imagines he doesn't feel like it. He allows Michael to steer their conversation away from these issues again, retreating back into cosy familiarity. Nothing real should penetrate these games. It's irresponsible, and Jack thinks that he was half as good a leader as the people at the camp seem to expect him to be then he'd offer to tackle this issue for Michael.
He does no such thing. When it comes to Michael, he trusts him to take care of himself and his son.
*
Michael's fuming the next time they meet on the golf course. Anger steams from every inch of his body: it looks as if he might ignite at any second. All logic and instinct say that Michael ought to be avoided when he's stuck in this kind of angry mood, but Jack moves forwards all the same, drawn in by worry and the impossible to fight desire to help in any way that he can. That's always been his way, getting involved even when he shouldn't.
"Michael?" Jack asks, halting a few paces away.
Michael looks up at him, and Jack thinks that the fierce expression on his face softens just a bit when he sees that it's him. He likes to think that perhaps he is the snake-charmer to Michael's python, but that is the sort of wishful thinking that he tries not to get carried away with these days: after the disaster with Sarah, Jack decided that it's better for him - and for everyone else involved - if he keeps his distance.
"Is something wrong?" he asks, though it's clear that something is and it'll be a lie if Michael claims otherwise. It would be a lie that Jack would accept, though. Maybe he'd go back to the beach and leave Michael to stew by himself or maybe he'd stay here by his side to jostle him out of his bad mood. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Michael's shoulder twitches. Jack thinks that's a shrug. "It's Locke, man. Again." No surprise there. Jack's been keeping an eye on them now, ever since Michael's mentioned it, and Michael's growing hostility towards and mistrust of the hunter is plain to see now that he knows to look for it.
"What about him?"
"He's hanging around Walt," Michael says. He swings at the ball in front of him with his club but only manages to churn up the grass. Jack doesn't comment on it, and when Michael looks up at him the anger in his eyes hasn't lessened at all. "Do you think I'm a bad father?"
"Of course not: no." Michael does a better job at it than Jack could ever hope to manage himself. "Did Locke say something to you?"
"No. He doesn't have to say anything." Michael shifts his grip on the club and tries to hit the ball again. Misses again. "I'm trying. I am trying, but Walt doesn't make it easy, y'know? And it's not like I even know the kid. Susan didn't want me in his life - I wrote letters and she never even bothered handing them on to him. I'm doing the best I can." He stopped, holding his fist in front of his mouth for a few moments as if using it as a stopper to prevent the flow of angry, frustrated words. "Locke thinks he knows better than me, man. He's just - he's always there, around my boy. If we weren't on this island…"
If they weren't on this island then Michael could take his son far, far away from any negative influences, or he could get outside authorities involved. Here there is nothing, no higher authority to turn to. Sometimes Jack thinks of Sawyer saying they're in the wild now - and it makes him shiver.
"Michael, calm down," Jack says, soft as he can. It still comes out edgy, frustration peering through. He steps forward, hands reaching out for Michael of their own free will. They land on Michael's shoulders, holding him as he refuses to meet Jack's eyes. "It's alright, okay? Locke is not going to do anything to Walt."
"You don't know that," Michael snaps, but already some of the sharp tension has begun to fade from his voice, evaporating slowly. "We're on a goddamn island and that's hard enough without having him sniffing around Walt all the time."
"Michael." This isn't about Locke, not really. Not at the heart of it at all. "Michael, it's okay. It's alright."
And he'd say anything right now to get the rest of that anger away, but he doesn't have to. With the slightest pressure on his shoulder to guide him, Michael drops his golf club to the ground and draws himself in, his forehead resting upon Jack's shoulder. Jack's arms curl tentatively around him and he can feel his heart racing in the way that it did when he was a teenager on his first dates: the thrill of being caught when they're out in the open, even though there's nothing going on here. Friends. Comfort. It's normal, natural, but he can imagine his mother's disapproving expression when he closes his eyes.
The fuzz of Michael's hair, beginning to grow unruly, tickles against the side of his face and Jack can breathe in the scent of him. It shocks through him - want and need and warmth - and he isn't sure if he'll be able to let go when the time comes.
Michael's hand pats his back. "Thanks," he murmurs. Jack thinks that maybe that isn't a word Michael lets himself say too often. "Thank you for, y'know, being here. Think I'd have gone crazy by now otherwise. Seriously."
"You're sure you've not?" Jack says, smiling, and he's relieved to feel a puff of air - laughter - against his neck.
"You trying to say something, Jack?"
"Maybe," he says. It feels like they're flirting but he doesn't know: he's never been good at this kind of thing. All he knows is that this hug, originally a gesture of comfort, has gone on for longer than he's sure is normal. "What do you think?"
"Sounds like you're trying to say I am crazy," Michael says, raising his head from Jack's shoulder and pulling back from their hug just enough that they can see each other's faces. Jack loses all awareness of their surroundings. "Is that it?"
But he never answers, never gets to think about answering. He isn't sure which one of them does it, him or Michael, but maybe that doesn't matter: they kiss. That's the important part. Mouths meeting; lips touching. Jack's arms stay around Michael, holding on as if he's worried that this entire moment will disappear if he loosens his grip. Michael's lips feel softer than they look and his hand rests on the side of Jack's jaw, neither of them dominating the kiss they share. Jack's heart beats wildly - this can't end well: it never ends well - and he thinks that maybe this is the most dangerous thing he's done since they landed here.
It ends, as all things do. Barely two seconds pass before Michael pulls back, staring at Jack: the very picture of surprise. Jack lets his arms drop to his side and he clears his throat, able to feel the ghost of Michael's mouth against his skin.
"I've gotta go," Michael says.
They just got here so Jack knows it can't be true. "Michael..."
"I left Walt with Claire. I should go and get him." Michael shakes his head and walks away, back turned to Jack within seconds.
Jack has to stop himself from chasing after him, even though he wants to. He wants to yell at Michael for being an idiot or apologise for the kiss. Either option is fine. Instead he looks down at the ground and stoops to pick up the dropped golf club. It's still warm from the grip of Michael's hands. As Michael begins to fade into the jungle, Jack squares his shoulders and golfs by himself.
*
It's no surprise, not really, that Michael avoids him after that. It's hard to avoid anyone on this island so Jack thinks that he should be impressed by Michael's ability to do so. He hardly sees him, other than awkward glances across the caves: always averted, and Michael's always gone again by the time that Jack screws up the courage to go over there.
He sees Michael after four days have passed. He's crouching by the small water pool, refilling empty bottles. Walt sits beside him on one of the larger rocks, swinging his legs and dipping his fingers in the cold water occasionally. He looks bored, even when Michael looks towards him mid-sentence. There's an indescribable heat in his chest when Jack watches the pair of them, something that he doesn't want to examine too closely.
"You should talk to him."
He looks up, startled, and finds Rose standing beside him. The smile on her face is all too knowing, and if Jack was any younger then he thinks that this is the point where he would start blushing.
"Talk to who?" he says with a smile.
The back of Rose's hand bumps his upper arm and she shakes her head. "Michael," she says, humouring his pretence at innocence. "I don't know why you two aren't talking, but you should patch things up."
"Nothing happened." Too fast, too defensive, and it only serves to make Rose smile. "It's nothing, really."
"Then it should be no problem patching things up, should it? The pair of you have been sulking for days, honey," she says.
Sulking? Really? Jack wants to ask, but he holds his tongue. He has been a little snippier than usual, but he hadn't thought it was noticeably so. Really, he has no way of telling if Michael has been in the same cloudy mood as him. He'll have to take Rose's word for it.
His gaze lingers where it shouldn't, and he has to look away sharply when Michael glances over his shoulder. Their eyes only meet for an awkward moment. Jack wishes that kiss had never happened. Life on the island is complicated enough with confusing romantic entanglements.
As he tries to look innocent, he becomes aware of Rose watching him with a warm smile. "Talk to him," she advises, patting her hand against his shoulder. "It'll make you feel better."
He thanks her for the advice but doesn't follow it: he's found through careful trial and error that in such situations the best thing to do is pretend nothing is wrong. Denial is something that his family is remarkably adept at. Ignoring problems is a skill passed down through generations.
He turns his attention away from Rose and from Michael and his son, allowing his attention to be stolen by Charlie and his frequent worried questions about Claire's pregnancy. There's nothing wrong with her so Jack can't help but smile at Charlie's concern. He lets himself be brought to the beach by Charlie to check up on Claire again: she's been getting cramps, but that's to be expected. There's very little he'd be able to do if it was anything more serious anyway, but his fellow survivors seem reluctant to face up to that. They expect him to work miracles with few supplies, and - yeah - he does the best he can for them.
It's rarely enough.
His shoulders are heavy and his mind is tired by the time he's finished running chores for the day. Without conscious thought he allows his feet to take him on the well-worn path through the jungle towards Hurley's golf course. The sunlight has taken on a warm, golden colour that seems almost tangible, as if he could run his fingers through it like water.
There shouldn't be anyone on the course - he isn't expecting anyone - and so his footsteps falter when he is close enough to spot someone sitting near the first hole. Not just any 'someone': Michael himself. He's sat with his knees bent, arms looped loosely around them. Jack halts near the tree line, unsure whether to continue on or retreat, but the choice is taken out of his hands. The trees don't offer sufficient cover and Michael's attention drifts towards him. Even from a distance Jack can see the way his back straightens and his shoulders tense.
Time to leave. Time to get out of here. Escaping is -
"Jack," Michael calls out to him before he can even turn. "Are you joining me or not?"
'Not' would be the safest option by far, but Jack finds himself nodding and moving forward all the same. It's a bad idea, an incredibly bad idea, but he walks forward until he reaches Michael's side and then he sits down beside him on the grass. The grass is soft and a wonderful green colour in a way that Jack's never seen before off of the island. It's the sort of thing that fake grass always aspires to be but never quite manages.
He stays quiet, lips pursed, and it's Michael that speaks first.
"I've never done that before, y'know," he says. "I've never kissed a man."
Jack's hands move restlessly, though he tries not to let them. "I have." He can see from the corner of his eye Michael's head turning to look at him in surprise, but he says nothing further.
"Huh," Michael says quietly, almost to himself. "It was kinda a surprise to me. Not a bad surprise. I don't think so, anyway."
"It was a good surprise for me too." Better than he ever could have anticipated; he dares to look towards Michael now, turning his head so that their eyes meet. Michael's eyes are warm and brown and Jack doesn't know why he never took the time to study them before. They were hidden away from him, shielded by friendship. "So where's that leave us?"
"Right here, man. Right here. Let's just - take it slow. See how things go."
"There's no rush. I got it." He's not the kind of man to rush into things like this anyway: everything needs to be carefully considered and deliberated, weighed and judged. The world usually moves on around him.
Now, sitting side by side, he's got quiet confirmation that Michael's going to wait with him. Together they sit on the green golf course until the sun begins to set - and Jack thinks that tomorrow is going to be so much brighter than today.
Pairing: Jack/Michael
Word Count: 3831
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written using one of writing_rainbow's prompts. Set during S1.
Summary: Jack and Michael start golfing together to take their mind off their situation, but both are taken by surprise when a stronger connection grows.
They stay out on the golf course together long after everyone else has retreated back to the beach. Even Kate has left, but with the soft grass beneath his feet and the golf club waiting in his hand Jack isn't ready to leave just yet. Beside him, smiling and relaxed for once, Michael doesn't appear to be in a hurry either. Their scenery in the dimming sunlight is beautiful and it's at rare times like this that Jack can appreciate that they've landed in a paradise. They're the luckiest survivors in history. They must be.
"If you miss this one I win," Michael says, his smile enough to make his eyes shine with delight.
Glancing up at him, Jack gives a dry, short laugh. "I'm not gonna miss."
"Yeah, yeah: your track record says otherwise," Michael points out.
Jack looks down at the ball sitting on the grass and tries to ignore that. He's lost the last two casual games he's played against Michael. He should probably be thankful that they aren't betting anything - and that they aren't being watched. Losing is painful enough without an audience. He studies the white ball, cushioned by the green grass. The hole is close and all it will take it one short putt to sink it and win the game. With Michael nearby, watching him with a smile, Jack's palms feel sweaty where they grip the handle of his club.
He lets the air stream out of his lungs in one long blow, then draws his club back. Smooth and easy, he putts the ball and -
Misses.
Misses by a mile, actually. The ball goes nowhere near the hole and instead rolls to a lazy stop at least a pace or two to the left from where he'd been aiming. He bounces his club against the ground and stares at the ball as if waiting for it to course correct.
It doesn't happen, and Jack slowly becomes aware of the sound of Michael laughing. "Ouch, that's three-nothing to me," Michael crows - and maybe Jack would consider refusing to play with him ever again, but there's something warm about the sight of Michael's smile that makes losing okay.
"Yeah, well, I'll beat you next time," Jack says. He walks towards Michael after retrieving the ball, and places the equipment away in the golf bag. "That's a promise."
"I'll just kick your ass again, man," Michael says. He looks happy and carefree: Jack thinks that he rarely sees him like this. With Walt to take care of, Michael usually acts like the world is ending all around him. Even with the stress that Jack knows their situation places on Michael's shoulders with his son to worry about, there's a part of him that envies what he has: a son, a family. It's something that's been notoriously absent from his life for years now.
"It's getting late," he says, looking at the sky. It's dyed pink and orange with the beginnings of sunset. "We should get back."
He pretends not to notice the way that Michael's smile fractures with the suggestion. Going back to the beach means returning to the responsibilities that await them there. Jack has the leadership of the camp to worry about, and Michael has a smaller but more important leadership role to fulfil.
"Same time tomorrow?" Jack asks, smiling because it's not as if time even matters in their lives any more, not on a desert island - but if they come up here in the late afternoon they're usually the only ones around. It gives him a buzz in the pit of his stomach, and he finds Michael's presence more calming than that of nearly anybody else on the island.
"I'll be here," Michael promises. Together they begin to walk back to the caves, but they split apart once they reach them. There is already a warm fire crackling and Michael walks away to retrieve Walt from Sun's care. Jack's gaze lingers on the family for a few moments, and can't help but wince at the sulking expression on Walt's face. Looks like Michael will be having a tough night.
*
The following day he's set upon by hypochondriacs and people who don't have enough sense to stay out of the sun at midday. If he'd thought that his job as a spinal surgeon was stressful then he's had one hell of a wake-up call since landing here. This is his job, his place, and these are his people to protect. He does what he can. He wants to be his best for him.
Yet there's a sense of relief that washes over him when, in the late afternoon, he makes his way towards the clear, open space where Hurley built his golf course. Michael is already there, already practicing. As Jack approaches he can see the way the sun shines onto the tanned, dark muscles of his arms. Michael's a lot stronger than Jack had realised before, but when he notices that he's staring he finds a blush colouring his face for no reason he'd care to explain. He speeds up so that when he approaches Michael it's at a jogging pace.
"What's the hurry?" Michael asks, looking up at him.
Jack makes a concerted effort not to look at the way that Michael's hands hold onto the shaft of the club; it's all a little too phallic for him right now. Trapped on the island away from civilisation, he knows that the heat is beginning to get to him. "Just been one of those days," he answers.
"I think every day is 'one of those days' here," Michael sighs.
"Definitely seems that way," Jack agrees. He runs his hand over the lengthening buzz cut on his head. It prickles at his palm and he takes a deep breath of the island's green air. "Has Walt been causing trouble again?"
"He's a good kid, really," Michael says. He leans against the club and looks up at Jack with a wistful smile on his face. "That's what his mom used to tell me, anyway."
"You two weren't together?"
"She left," he says, his voice crisp in a way that tells Jack this is a deeper story than Michael could - or would - ever tell him. "She took Walt when he was a kid."
"I'm sorry."
Michael shrugs. "It was a long time ago now," he says, but Jack hopes that one day he'll get to hear the full story.
But not here and not now: on the golf course in the late afternoon there is no room for sad pasts. Just the pair of them relaxing away from the stress of life at the camp. Jack feels as if he's on a retreat away from work instead of stranded and in trouble. He hangs back and watches as Michael takes his shot: he won't admit, not ever, that Michael is actually better at golfing than he is.
They talk music and work and friends: they talk about before. Jack thinks that maybe Michael is someone he could have been friends with in the real world, in another life. He likes hearing about Michael's work in construction, like to imagine him in charge on a site: bossy, demanding, and bitched about behind his back. He thinks that, once they're rescued, he ought to ask Michael to come out for a drink with him and his friends.
"Hey, Jack," Michael says, faux-casually after they've been out here for a while. Jack tenses, stress creeping into his shoulders once more, as he waits for whatever it is that Michael has been waiting to bring up. "Have you talked to Locke much?"
"Not really," Jack answers with a frown, thinking of the hunter. He knows - without truly knowing how - that Michael doesn't get along with him. There's conflict there, tension. "Why?"
"He keeps hanging around my boy," Michael says. "I don't like it."
"He's harmless," Jack says, with rather more conviction than he actually feels. Locke unsettles him, but it isn't something he's had to think too deeply about before now: once they're rescued, he knows that he will never think about John Locke ever again. His thoughts work like that now, a constant cycle of when we're rescued and hopeful fantasies.
"Yeah," Michael says. "I hope so."
There's steel in his voice, a protective strength that Jack's father never directed at him as a child. Walt's a lucky boy, but Jack imagines he doesn't feel like it. He allows Michael to steer their conversation away from these issues again, retreating back into cosy familiarity. Nothing real should penetrate these games. It's irresponsible, and Jack thinks that he was half as good a leader as the people at the camp seem to expect him to be then he'd offer to tackle this issue for Michael.
He does no such thing. When it comes to Michael, he trusts him to take care of himself and his son.
*
Michael's fuming the next time they meet on the golf course. Anger steams from every inch of his body: it looks as if he might ignite at any second. All logic and instinct say that Michael ought to be avoided when he's stuck in this kind of angry mood, but Jack moves forwards all the same, drawn in by worry and the impossible to fight desire to help in any way that he can. That's always been his way, getting involved even when he shouldn't.
"Michael?" Jack asks, halting a few paces away.
Michael looks up at him, and Jack thinks that the fierce expression on his face softens just a bit when he sees that it's him. He likes to think that perhaps he is the snake-charmer to Michael's python, but that is the sort of wishful thinking that he tries not to get carried away with these days: after the disaster with Sarah, Jack decided that it's better for him - and for everyone else involved - if he keeps his distance.
"Is something wrong?" he asks, though it's clear that something is and it'll be a lie if Michael claims otherwise. It would be a lie that Jack would accept, though. Maybe he'd go back to the beach and leave Michael to stew by himself or maybe he'd stay here by his side to jostle him out of his bad mood. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Michael's shoulder twitches. Jack thinks that's a shrug. "It's Locke, man. Again." No surprise there. Jack's been keeping an eye on them now, ever since Michael's mentioned it, and Michael's growing hostility towards and mistrust of the hunter is plain to see now that he knows to look for it.
"What about him?"
"He's hanging around Walt," Michael says. He swings at the ball in front of him with his club but only manages to churn up the grass. Jack doesn't comment on it, and when Michael looks up at him the anger in his eyes hasn't lessened at all. "Do you think I'm a bad father?"
"Of course not: no." Michael does a better job at it than Jack could ever hope to manage himself. "Did Locke say something to you?"
"No. He doesn't have to say anything." Michael shifts his grip on the club and tries to hit the ball again. Misses again. "I'm trying. I am trying, but Walt doesn't make it easy, y'know? And it's not like I even know the kid. Susan didn't want me in his life - I wrote letters and she never even bothered handing them on to him. I'm doing the best I can." He stopped, holding his fist in front of his mouth for a few moments as if using it as a stopper to prevent the flow of angry, frustrated words. "Locke thinks he knows better than me, man. He's just - he's always there, around my boy. If we weren't on this island…"
If they weren't on this island then Michael could take his son far, far away from any negative influences, or he could get outside authorities involved. Here there is nothing, no higher authority to turn to. Sometimes Jack thinks of Sawyer saying they're in the wild now - and it makes him shiver.
"Michael, calm down," Jack says, soft as he can. It still comes out edgy, frustration peering through. He steps forward, hands reaching out for Michael of their own free will. They land on Michael's shoulders, holding him as he refuses to meet Jack's eyes. "It's alright, okay? Locke is not going to do anything to Walt."
"You don't know that," Michael snaps, but already some of the sharp tension has begun to fade from his voice, evaporating slowly. "We're on a goddamn island and that's hard enough without having him sniffing around Walt all the time."
"Michael." This isn't about Locke, not really. Not at the heart of it at all. "Michael, it's okay. It's alright."
And he'd say anything right now to get the rest of that anger away, but he doesn't have to. With the slightest pressure on his shoulder to guide him, Michael drops his golf club to the ground and draws himself in, his forehead resting upon Jack's shoulder. Jack's arms curl tentatively around him and he can feel his heart racing in the way that it did when he was a teenager on his first dates: the thrill of being caught when they're out in the open, even though there's nothing going on here. Friends. Comfort. It's normal, natural, but he can imagine his mother's disapproving expression when he closes his eyes.
The fuzz of Michael's hair, beginning to grow unruly, tickles against the side of his face and Jack can breathe in the scent of him. It shocks through him - want and need and warmth - and he isn't sure if he'll be able to let go when the time comes.
Michael's hand pats his back. "Thanks," he murmurs. Jack thinks that maybe that isn't a word Michael lets himself say too often. "Thank you for, y'know, being here. Think I'd have gone crazy by now otherwise. Seriously."
"You're sure you've not?" Jack says, smiling, and he's relieved to feel a puff of air - laughter - against his neck.
"You trying to say something, Jack?"
"Maybe," he says. It feels like they're flirting but he doesn't know: he's never been good at this kind of thing. All he knows is that this hug, originally a gesture of comfort, has gone on for longer than he's sure is normal. "What do you think?"
"Sounds like you're trying to say I am crazy," Michael says, raising his head from Jack's shoulder and pulling back from their hug just enough that they can see each other's faces. Jack loses all awareness of their surroundings. "Is that it?"
But he never answers, never gets to think about answering. He isn't sure which one of them does it, him or Michael, but maybe that doesn't matter: they kiss. That's the important part. Mouths meeting; lips touching. Jack's arms stay around Michael, holding on as if he's worried that this entire moment will disappear if he loosens his grip. Michael's lips feel softer than they look and his hand rests on the side of Jack's jaw, neither of them dominating the kiss they share. Jack's heart beats wildly - this can't end well: it never ends well - and he thinks that maybe this is the most dangerous thing he's done since they landed here.
It ends, as all things do. Barely two seconds pass before Michael pulls back, staring at Jack: the very picture of surprise. Jack lets his arms drop to his side and he clears his throat, able to feel the ghost of Michael's mouth against his skin.
"I've gotta go," Michael says.
They just got here so Jack knows it can't be true. "Michael..."
"I left Walt with Claire. I should go and get him." Michael shakes his head and walks away, back turned to Jack within seconds.
Jack has to stop himself from chasing after him, even though he wants to. He wants to yell at Michael for being an idiot or apologise for the kiss. Either option is fine. Instead he looks down at the ground and stoops to pick up the dropped golf club. It's still warm from the grip of Michael's hands. As Michael begins to fade into the jungle, Jack squares his shoulders and golfs by himself.
*
It's no surprise, not really, that Michael avoids him after that. It's hard to avoid anyone on this island so Jack thinks that he should be impressed by Michael's ability to do so. He hardly sees him, other than awkward glances across the caves: always averted, and Michael's always gone again by the time that Jack screws up the courage to go over there.
He sees Michael after four days have passed. He's crouching by the small water pool, refilling empty bottles. Walt sits beside him on one of the larger rocks, swinging his legs and dipping his fingers in the cold water occasionally. He looks bored, even when Michael looks towards him mid-sentence. There's an indescribable heat in his chest when Jack watches the pair of them, something that he doesn't want to examine too closely.
"You should talk to him."
He looks up, startled, and finds Rose standing beside him. The smile on her face is all too knowing, and if Jack was any younger then he thinks that this is the point where he would start blushing.
"Talk to who?" he says with a smile.
The back of Rose's hand bumps his upper arm and she shakes her head. "Michael," she says, humouring his pretence at innocence. "I don't know why you two aren't talking, but you should patch things up."
"Nothing happened." Too fast, too defensive, and it only serves to make Rose smile. "It's nothing, really."
"Then it should be no problem patching things up, should it? The pair of you have been sulking for days, honey," she says.
Sulking? Really? Jack wants to ask, but he holds his tongue. He has been a little snippier than usual, but he hadn't thought it was noticeably so. Really, he has no way of telling if Michael has been in the same cloudy mood as him. He'll have to take Rose's word for it.
His gaze lingers where it shouldn't, and he has to look away sharply when Michael glances over his shoulder. Their eyes only meet for an awkward moment. Jack wishes that kiss had never happened. Life on the island is complicated enough with confusing romantic entanglements.
As he tries to look innocent, he becomes aware of Rose watching him with a warm smile. "Talk to him," she advises, patting her hand against his shoulder. "It'll make you feel better."
He thanks her for the advice but doesn't follow it: he's found through careful trial and error that in such situations the best thing to do is pretend nothing is wrong. Denial is something that his family is remarkably adept at. Ignoring problems is a skill passed down through generations.
He turns his attention away from Rose and from Michael and his son, allowing his attention to be stolen by Charlie and his frequent worried questions about Claire's pregnancy. There's nothing wrong with her so Jack can't help but smile at Charlie's concern. He lets himself be brought to the beach by Charlie to check up on Claire again: she's been getting cramps, but that's to be expected. There's very little he'd be able to do if it was anything more serious anyway, but his fellow survivors seem reluctant to face up to that. They expect him to work miracles with few supplies, and - yeah - he does the best he can for them.
It's rarely enough.
His shoulders are heavy and his mind is tired by the time he's finished running chores for the day. Without conscious thought he allows his feet to take him on the well-worn path through the jungle towards Hurley's golf course. The sunlight has taken on a warm, golden colour that seems almost tangible, as if he could run his fingers through it like water.
There shouldn't be anyone on the course - he isn't expecting anyone - and so his footsteps falter when he is close enough to spot someone sitting near the first hole. Not just any 'someone': Michael himself. He's sat with his knees bent, arms looped loosely around them. Jack halts near the tree line, unsure whether to continue on or retreat, but the choice is taken out of his hands. The trees don't offer sufficient cover and Michael's attention drifts towards him. Even from a distance Jack can see the way his back straightens and his shoulders tense.
Time to leave. Time to get out of here. Escaping is -
"Jack," Michael calls out to him before he can even turn. "Are you joining me or not?"
'Not' would be the safest option by far, but Jack finds himself nodding and moving forward all the same. It's a bad idea, an incredibly bad idea, but he walks forward until he reaches Michael's side and then he sits down beside him on the grass. The grass is soft and a wonderful green colour in a way that Jack's never seen before off of the island. It's the sort of thing that fake grass always aspires to be but never quite manages.
He stays quiet, lips pursed, and it's Michael that speaks first.
"I've never done that before, y'know," he says. "I've never kissed a man."
Jack's hands move restlessly, though he tries not to let them. "I have." He can see from the corner of his eye Michael's head turning to look at him in surprise, but he says nothing further.
"Huh," Michael says quietly, almost to himself. "It was kinda a surprise to me. Not a bad surprise. I don't think so, anyway."
"It was a good surprise for me too." Better than he ever could have anticipated; he dares to look towards Michael now, turning his head so that their eyes meet. Michael's eyes are warm and brown and Jack doesn't know why he never took the time to study them before. They were hidden away from him, shielded by friendship. "So where's that leave us?"
"Right here, man. Right here. Let's just - take it slow. See how things go."
"There's no rush. I got it." He's not the kind of man to rush into things like this anyway: everything needs to be carefully considered and deliberated, weighed and judged. The world usually moves on around him.
Now, sitting side by side, he's got quiet confirmation that Michael's going to wait with him. Together they sit on the green golf course until the sun begins to set - and Jack thinks that tomorrow is going to be so much brighter than today.