Jack thinks a lot about the kind of person he wants to be. Is. To the world. it would be nice to identify himself simply, commercially even. A Coke person. As opposed to what? A Pepsi person, of course. A stereotype, even. But sodas burn Jack's mouth and he worries about them on his stud. And he's never fit into a stereotype, for all the years he spent wishing he fit somewhere. Jack isn't a lover or a fighter, isn't a--a cat person or a dog person. Not even gay stereotypes fit; he isn't an arse man, doesn't judge by cock either. Jack isn't a quiet person. He isn't a loud person. Jack isn't a rugby person, Jack isn't a football person, Jack doesn't know what he is and it frustrates him more than he'd care to admit. But sometimes he forgets about the labels, the this person or the that person because really there's only one sort of person Jack is.
"I'm an Avery person," he declares, and Avery giggles and bites his shoulder, but Jack is content that he's finally realized who he wants to be.