Jack/Eric One-Shots

Mitchell.

Mitchell.

Mitchell, with a fucked up enough memory to be called Dory.

Mitchell, with his fucking smirk that could make anyone week at the knees.

Mitchell.

Mitchell, with his strange and somewhat dark humor.

Mitchell, with his ridiculous vendetta against everything that I am.

Mitchell.

Mitchell, with his annoying lack of verbal boundaries.

Mitchell, with his weird tan lines in random places.

Mitchell.

Mitchell, with his goddamned personality. 

Mitchell, with Eric attached to him like a puppy on a fucking leash.

Mitchell.

~~~

Mitchell.

Mitchell has been held back in almost every grade since sixth grade. 

Mitchell has notes scrawled all over his arms.

Mitchell.

Mitchell has a past with Eric that I will never be able to compete with.

Mitchell has his highschool diploma hanging on his wall.

Mitchell.

Mitchell has two jobs, one at Starbucks, and one at K-Mart.

Mitchell has therapy twice a week because he usually forgets to go the first time.

Mitchell.

Mitchell has a permanent place on our couch.

Mitchell has a sketchbook filled with drawings of Eric and me, along with several horses. 

Mitchell.

~~~

Mitchell. 

Mitchell knows more than he lets on, I think we all do.

Mitchell knows that I won't protest when he leans in.

Mitchell.

Mitchell knows that I wouldn't protest if Eric did the same.

Mitchell knows exactly what I want to talk about when I call a 'roommate meeting'.

Mitchell.

Mitchell knows, and he doesn't hide it. 

Mitchell knows so many things that I didn't, and I'm glad I listened.

Mitchell.

Mitchell knows how to make me feel all sorts of ways. 

Mitchell knows how to push all of my buttons, and I love him for it.

Mitchell.

~~~

Mitchell.

Mitchell is drawing me like one of his French girls. 

Mitchell is hanging that drawing on the wall. In the fucking hallway. 

Mitchell.

Mitchell is an amazing artist.

Mitchell is even better in bed.

Mitchell.

Mitchell is screaming incoherently at a grease fire in the kitchen. 

Mitchell is laughing over the burned remains of our long-lost breakfast. 

Mitchell.

Mitchell is an awful cook.

Mitchell is even worse at talking.

Mitchell.

A/N: So, I am in love with this format. You can pry it out of my cold dead fucking hands.