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It's probably a bad sign that he feels the need to lie about it. No, it's definitely a bad sign, but it gets so exhausting sometimes, the accountability, the questions, the gentle judgments about whether or not something is "good for him". Jack is never going to go to Cancun for spring break or let an anonymous hand lead him off a dance floor but if he wants this one little escape, this one little indulgence, is that really so bad?
So he tells his parents he's staying at the Haus for two days longer than he is, and he tells everyone in the Haus he's going to Chicago two days earlier than he is, and the flight he boards in Boston is going to Las Vegas. Just a tiny detour on the way from junior year to prospect camp.
Parse doesn't meet him at the airport, but he comes down in the elevator to meet him in the lobby.
"Jeez, pack heavy enough for a weekend?" he says, instead of "hello".
"I - prospect camp - " Jack says, wrong-footed already.
"Aw, it's okay," Parse says in the elevator. "Can't blame me for getting my hopes up for interesting props." He does the raised-eyebrow thing he always does. It works on Jack like it generally works; he blushes a little.
"So," Parse says, when they get into the condo. "Who am I pretending to be this time? Moustache? The high-strung nerd again? I've been brushing up on my biochemistry terms, maybe you can help me... study." He smirks, and then smiles, much more open if you don't know it's just as deliberate.
"Um," Jack says. "New one? He... bakes."
"Ooh," Parse says. "Do I get to wear an apron? Maybe nothing but an apron, I could do that."
"Um," Jack says again.
The first time, it had been Parse's idea. "You're into him, aren't you," he'd said to Jack, the first time he came to see him at Samwell. "You want that nasty moustache all up on you," and Jack had said, "Kenny, what - I didn't think you - " and Parse had said "No Kenny here" and put his hand over Jack's eyes until Jack kept them closed when he pulled it away. "Jack, you motherfucker," he'd said, loud and exaggerated, drawing Jack's hands to his waist, "Of course we can do this, you freakish Canadian Superman," and Parse had always had a bit of a knack for impressions, back in the Q; Jack had kissed him.
They hadn't talked about it for over a year, until Parse had called Jack in Montreal and said he'd been about to shave post-playoffs, but could wait, if Jack wanted. If Jack was interested. "Oh," Jack had said, embarrassed, "I, no, I'm - not anymore - " and Parse had said "oh" and Jack had said "But - actually, if - " and Parse had said "Yes?" and coaxed Jack into telling him about the gorgeous frog with test anxiety and the ways Jack wished he could help him unwind, and Jack had spent a day with him in a hotel room in Montreal, home by dinner and his parents none the wiser.
So this was the third time, and Jack had asked. Hadn't told Parse much, just asked if he could come; had spent most of the flight from Boston trying to figure out what he would say, what kind of scenario could possibly get this latest stupid crush out from under his skin.
"Do I have a name?" Parse asks now.
"Bittle," Jack says, closing his eyes and letting himself picture him, the way he'd smiled in the hall when they said goodbye for the summer. "I want to take you on a date." It pops out without him meaning to say it, his guiltiest fantasy yet.
"A date?" Parse asks, very much Parse and not anybody else. "A fake date? Like, out of the condo? In front of other people?"
"In front of strangers," Jack mumbles, "No, that was stupid, I'm sorry - "
"You want to show this boy of yours off," Parse says sympathetically, "Maybe show him you appreciate him?"
"I guess," Jack says, still feeling stupid for coming, for thinking -
"We can have a nice dinner right here," Parse says, "He bakes, he wanted to bake for you, show off for you a little. I think I have some candlesticks somewhere, tell me about him while I set us up."
It's impossible to explain Bittle's Bittle-ness, but Jack's never gotten to talk about him before at all and he keeps thinking of more things to say. Parse asks leading questions about his hockey, his looks, his classes, and at some point slips back into the first person, "tell me more about my phone addiction". Jack shivers when he mentions Bittle's accent and Parse drawls "ooh, ah'm a Southern boy" without missing a beat. He's been on his phone non-stop since Jack mentioned it, giving Jack little glances over the top, somehow simultaneously shy and inviting. Nothing at all like Parse - maybe nothing like Bittle, either, if Jack is honest with himself, but that's the exact opposite of what this is about. So.
Parse has ordered them blackened catfish, cornbread, and green beans; it's nothing Bittle would ever make (at least, he's never cooked fish in the Haus) but it's close enough. The blueberry pie, arriving in a separate delivery, isn't nearly as good as Bittle's - the crust is tough and the filling is too sweet - but Parse babbles, across the table, about how he'd been fiddling with the recipe and he wanted to impress Jack and it was okay, wasn't it, until Jack has to come around the table and kiss him quiet.
"Finally," Parse says, "Ah wanted this," and Jack says, "Bittle."
"Uh huh," Parse says, "Take me to bed, sweetheart."
Parse is too solid to hoist and carry, like Jack would try with the real Bittle; they stumble down the hall holding hands instead. Parse hesitates when Jack sits down on the edge of the bed but lets Jack draw him onto his lap; he settles his hands tentatively onto Jack's shoulders.
The secret, Parse had told him the first time, when Jack's second thoughts had started building up behind his lips, the secret was that it wasn't about trying to imagine what it would really be like with the real person, it was all about fantasy. "Honestly most of my sex is like that," Parse had said, "Now, with the Cup and everything, everyone's looking for number 90", which, oh - Jack had reached for him, but Parse had just laughed. "Maybe your face needs a break from moustache burn," he had said, and guided Jack's head down.
Real Bittle may or may not be a virgin; is not, technically, even out to Jack, although Jack has overheard things. Ransom and Holster have very carrying voices. Fantasy Bittle is eager but inexperienced, says yes to Jack's mouth on his dick and asks Jack to coach him through returning the favor. Jack doesn't think that's his thing - he always hated it when Parse tried to get him to talk - but with his eyes closed, pretending his hands are in Bittle's hair, letting himself groan Bittle's name, it's easy to put Parse's hands where he wants them, to answer "so good, Bittle" when Parse asks how he's doing.
Parse kicks Jack out to the guest room, once he breaks character for the night. When Jack wakes up, he finds a note in the kitchen (things to do, back late afternoon) which Jack had half-expected; he can't imagine Parse wants to be Bittle for hours on end, and Jack doesn't know what he would do with Parse himself all day, any more. He has plenty of thesis reading along to keep himself busy.
When Parse gets back they have another dinner and another round of make-believe blow jobs, this time in the kitchen, involving whipped cream. There's a nominal pie purpose but Parse got four cans and they end up basically fighting for awhile, chasing each other around the kitchen and spraying each other. Real Bittle would be aghast over whipped cream from a spray can instead of lovingly whisked by hand. Real Bittle avoids mess. Jack could never actually have this kind of lightness with him, or anyone, now, but he daydreams about it sometimes.
"So," Parse says, when they're sprawled on the kitchen floor, naked and sticky. "Aren't you going to want to do this for real someday?"
Jack says, "What?"
"I know you said you didn't want to get mixed up with the nerd and his dude," Parse says, "But you talked about this Bittle kid for an hour, you never thought you could, like, actually try something with him? Have sex with an actual second person, if nothing else?"
"No," Jack says shortly. "Look. Maybe you - live in Vegas somehow, but I can't, I can't... move to Cancun, that's not how that - no." He scratches at the whipped cream drying on his stomach. "That's, uh, not what I thought you meant about doing it for real."
Parse frowns. "What - oh."
"I mean," Jack says, "What if - " He thought he had maybe gotten mixed up with the names, when silly had given way to deliberate, although Parse hadn't called him on it, if he had, if he'd heard it.
"No," Parse says. "Jack. I, you, and all interested parties know that Kent Parson is no good for you."
"This was - " Jack starts.
"This was Bittle," Parse says, flatly, definitively, kicking at an empty spray can with his toes. He pushes himself to his feet. "Ugh, shower."
Jack gets up too and looks around the kitchen. "Should we, uh - "
"My cleaning service will get it," Parse says. "Even if your Bittle would mop."
"He does," Jack says. "But - "
"Look," Parse says, over his shoulder. "Real for me would be you on the ice with me."
"Really?" Jack says. "Number 90, that's what you - "
"Fuck," Parse says, turning away completely. "Go - imagine your Southern afterglow, I'll call you a cab in the morning."
Afterglow. Right. Jack feels empty, disbelieving, like he's waking up hung over from the past day and a half. He's not sure why he thought that part of the classic Vegas holiday wouldn't apply, or why he thought this was a good idea.
Although... that hot, mindless moment, eyes shut tight, chasing a line of whipped cream up a thigh - no. He's not going to recall that to fantasize about Bittle, or Parse. He's not going to think about that at all.
He reports on time to prospect camp, and anything else might as well have never happened.