A rough week, with nights spent under his desk at work, was finally at an end. It was Friday and everything would stop until Monday. No more take-out lunches and cold left-over dinners from the breakroom fridge. He was getting home-cooked meals all weekend, even if he had to make them himself. Which he usually did. Because his lover, bless his artistic heart, would completely forget to feed them.
So when Jack stepped over the livingroom threshold and found Pitch, dear lord, right there at his writing desk, coffee mugs stacked three high, looking like a deer in the headlights with one of those stupid dried fruit strips literally hanging from between his lips, he wasn't even a little bit surprised.
Jack closed his eyes for a second, dropped his head in his hand, then dared to ask on a sigh, "Did you even eat dinner? You know, real food?"
But he already knew the answer.