Jack wishes he'd suggested they meet at a bar instead. His nerves are jingle-bell-jangling and alcohol would help with that a hell of a lot more than coffee.
The only thing that helps is watching the snow; thick gentle flakes pirouetting through the darkness. His window-seat was occupied by the red-haired woman last time. He remembers his story for her: that she was seeing where she fit into the city before calling it home. It seems appropriate for him, too. While Jack's always lived in New York, it's never really been home. Not that warm, fuzzy sitcom version of home, anyway. It's been a place he's lived. A place haunted by his mother, where every sibling-smile is accompanied by memories of their mother that he can never share, leaving him feeling more a ghost than she is.
Jack's never really fit into the jigsaw puzzle of this city, but maybe he's just been trying to fit in the wrong places. A city like this, there's got to be somewhere he belongs.
Maybe that somewhere is an apartment on the fifth floor of the Dakota.
Jack rolls his eyes at his thoughts. He doesn't bother telling himself he's only known Pitch a few days; he's been reminding himself on the hour, every hour all weekend and it's not done much good yet. The best thing to do it just roll with it, he's decided. Or tried to decide.
When the door opens Jack feels a one-two punch of panic and relief to see Pitch walk in. Today's outfit is a woollen greatcoat and fitted trousers – all black, of course. Those same battered Docs that could really do with a good polish. Snowflakes like stars against his dark hair. Jack's throat feels a little tight as he shoves a smile into place.
"Hey," he says, lifting a hand in a wave. Pitch's eyes find him and Jack's throat tightens a little more. Please don't let me screw up again.
"Hello," Pitch says, and shrugs off his coat. Beneath he's wearing a black sweater that clings to his arms, emphasises his lean strength. "How are you feeling?"
"Nervous," Jack says. There doesn't seem to be much point hiding it. Pitch pauses, his hands on the back of his chair, before excusing himself to go and get a drink. It feels good to be honest, Jack realises. So used to wearing masks everywhere, honesty is a novelty.
"So," Pitch says when he returns with a coffee, starkly black against the white mug. "Why are you nervous?"
Jack shrugs, swirling his coffee clockwise. "Because…" He decides to keep up with the honesty. "Because I don't know what you want from me. Because I don't know what I want from you. Because I've been reading those books and some of it sounds awesome and some of it sounds scary and some of it sounds both-" He pauses to take a breath, and Pitch puts a hand over his. His fingers are warm from being wrapped around his coffee mug. Jack's words flutter away like butterflies.
"Let's start with what I want, because that's something I can tell you. As much as I want you, I think we need to take it slowly – no, Jack, let me speak. I think we need to take it slowly because this isn't just about sex. Not for me, anyway. I'm surprised by how much you've affected me, so quickly. It's not often that I take anyone back to my apartment."
"It isn't?"
"No. But before you start to worry, I definitely plan on taking you back there again. Although perhaps not today."
"No?" Even Jack couldn't say if that's disappointment or relief in his voice.
"I was thinking we could go and watch a film."
Not what Jack was expecting, but he'll take it.
The dark helps, and the popcorn-and-candy cinema scent is familiar enough to smooth down the edges of his anxiety. Before the trailers are even over, Jack has relaxed enough to glance at Pitch's hand on the armrest and wait only a few seconds before he takes it, sliding his fingers between Pitch's.
Pitch glances at him, pleasantly surprised, and Jack grins up at him.
"This was a good idea," he whispers as the title spreads over the screen like an oil spill.
"Of course," Pitch says, and gives him a brief kiss, lingering to bite his bottom lip before sitting back to focus on the screen. Jack watches him for another moment before resting his feet on the chairback in front of him, settling into his seat for two hours of explosions with Pitch's palm warm against his.