Archive of Our Own ^beta

"We can get another opinion," Jack's father tells him in the elevator, not even waiting until they're in the car. Jack clenches his hand into a fist, blunt nails digging into the meat of his palm, heartbeat already unbearably fast.

He doesn't understand how he's supposed to live like this.

"The doctor seemed sure," he manages to say, eyes straight ahead. He doesn't want to see his father's disappointment.

"We can find you another doctor," his father pushes, insistent, and Jack has to remind himself to breathe. "These types only see what they're looking for, it doesn't mean — there are plenty of teams who would still sign you, Jack. You don't have to do this if you don't want — "

"I do want," Jack interrupts, voice way too loud, the sound of it seeming to echo. How long is this elevator going to take, anyway? His mother's down in the garage getting the car. She'll smooth it over, maybe, or maybe she'll get upset again, like she did when he first woke up. Maybe she'll even cry. Jack had only ever seen her do that at funerals, before he went and caused all this trouble.

"Jack," his father protests, sounding thunderstruck. The elevator doors slide open, and then closed again. There isn't anybody outside waiting. "All you ever wanted was to play hockey. All this time, that was always the goal. I don't understand…."

It's killing me, Jack can't bring himself to say. His fist clenches, unclenches, clenches again, until his knuckles ache from the strain. I can't remember the last time I could breathe.

"I want to do the program," he manages, staring at the line between the elevator doors, chest so tight it hurts. If he feels like this just talking to his father, what would it be like out on the ice? Everyone watching him, waiting, always waiting. Jack honestly thinks it would kill him. "I don't want to sign with a team."

Not yet, he'd add, if he were feeling optimistic, but right now that kind of hope would only make him feel worse.

His father doesn't understand, Jack knows. Will maybe never understand. He's taking it personally, probably, all the ways Jack's let him down.

"Alright," is all he says, though, reaching for the button to reopen the elevator doors. "If that's what you want. We'll discuss it with your mother."

His hand feels heavy on Jack's shoulder, like Jack's knees could buckle under the strain.

"Are you kidding? I should be thanking you for the checking clinics."

Jack grunts and says nothing, can't even manage a thank you.

"You'll do great." Bittle tells him anyway, and then he slumps backward, letting out a quiet sigh. "I'm serious. If my daddy was here… good lord. You're braver than me, for sure."

Jack forces himself, with effort, to focus on what Bittle's saying, not on the million thoughts racing through his head. The game, mostly, but also the way father's voice had sounded on the phone. He's trying so hard to keep it together, but it still feels like Jack can't do anything right.

"Your dad's not coming?"

When Bittle laughs it sounds a little weird, but maybe that's just the way Jack's pulse is roaring in his ears. Everything sounds a little weird right now — like he's on a plane, or something.

"No, no, Coach has a team of his own to worry about," Bittle says. Jack frowns, trying to follow — Bittle's dad plays hockey? No, not possible. "Football," Bittle clarifies, while Jack's still forcing his slow-moving brain to try to puzzle it out. "High school. When we were closer to the city his team'd make it all the way to state, sometimes, but Madison's a real small town, you know, and the money's just not the same. But they still care an awful lot, down there. You ever watch Friday Night Lights?"

Jack blinks, overwhelmed by that rush of information, before slowly shaking his head.

"Well, I tried, but — it was way too close to home. Only that coach had a daughter, not a son, which would probably be — oh, I'm rambling. I do this when I'm nervous, you know."

Jack does know. Which is strange, a little, because it's not like he really knows Bittle particularly well at all. They play hockey together, and Bittle causes trouble. That's pretty much it.

Only — Bittle's not causing much trouble now, is the thing. He's sitting next to Jack, smiling at him, blinking a little in the glare of the sun. His hair looks very, very blond, eyebrows so pale they're almost white. There are freckles on the bridge of his nose.

"We should get back in," Jack says. His heartbeat has settled, sort of — as close as it's going to get, without medication. His hands aren't shaking anymore. "Those jock straps aren't going to wear themselves."

Bittle huffs out an irritated breath, that funny little scowl he gets when the guys chirp him, like part of him doesn't mind it, not really. Like maybe he's just happy to be included.

He keeps up the chatter all the way back to the Haus, but Jack isn't as annoyed as he usually is.

It's a distraction, at least.

"Yo, Lards, seriously, that shit's dope."

Lardo, having been retrieved from where she'd ducked outside — She said our B.O. was making her nauseous, Shitty'd reported loudly, prompting five minutes of armpit sniff-checks before Bitty got upset at the racket they were making and Jack had to yell at them to stop — grins and holds her hand out for a low five, dropping her knees at the last minute so he'll stumble reaching for it.

"Not cool, bro," Ransom objects, hurt, while Holster cackles behind him, head thrown back with the force of it — and it's Holster, so the sound really carries.

"When future art historians look back on these works, they'll caption them Lardo's Red Period," he says, once he's recovered enough to fake a somber, newsreader's tone. "A turbulent, yet prolific era."

Bitty raises a tentative hand from the back.

"I don't think future art historians will be calling her Lardo?"

"Nonsense," Shitty says, draping an easy arm around her shoulders, more ebullient than ever after their impromptu celebration, cheeks still red from laughing. "What the hell else are they gonna call her? Larissa?"

"L. Duan," Jack offers, trying to copy Holster's serious tone from earlier. It mostly just comes out sounding like his regular voice.

"Oh, shit, yeah," Shitty says eagerly. "Ambiguous, yet professional. What do you think, Lards? …Lards?"

Only Lardo has, in the thirty or so seconds since Jack spoke, managed to duck out from under Shitty's arm and disappear completely. Impressive, especially given that they were actively talking about her.

"How the hell did she manage that?" Shitty asks, arm still held out to the side, nothing under it but empty air.

"Maybe she headed for the bar?"

"Second time tonight she's disappeared," Shitty says, frowning. "Do you think it's part of the exhibit?"

"L.H. Duan," Holster adds. "The H is for — "

"Houdini, yeah, yeah. Good one."

"Maybe she's in the bathroom?" Chowder pipes up. "I always have to go sooooo many times when I'm nervous."

"We're aware," Dex says, voice flat.

"Okay, okay. Holster and I will check the bar," Ransom says confidently. "Bits, you — okay, that's not funny."

Bitty's disappeared too, Jack realizes, gone from where he'd been crammed in next to Chowder at the back, making disgruntled noises about the breadth of Holster's shoulders.

"Bro, this is just like in Final Destination," Ransom whispers.

"No, stupid, it's more like — "

"It's not like anything," Jack interjects, before Holster really gets going. He'll wind them both up for nothing if Jack lets him. "You guys check the bar, Shitty will check outside. I'll go look by the washrooms."

"Sir, yes, sir," Shitty drawls, punctuating his lazy salute with a wink. Jack rolls his eyes and waits for him to head for the door before he turns back towards the washrooms, hidden down a hallway at the back of the gallery.

The two single-use washrooms are tucked away around another corner, presumably to discourage wayward drunk students. After four years of witnessing places those very same drunk students have found to relieve themselves at kegsters, Jack isn't too sure about the soundness of that decision.

He tests the men's room first and finds it open and empty, which leaves him with the questionable task of rapping on the door of the women's washroom.

There's no reason to feel weird about it, Jack reasons with himself. Even if he knocks and it's some random girl, he'll just apologize and say he's looking for his friend. It won't even be a lie. It makes absolutely no sense that he's this nervous about it, palms starting to sweat as he forces his hand up to knock.

"Lardo?" he calls, clearing his throat when his voice comes out all strangled and weird. "Lards? You in there?"

He can hear quiet voices coming from inside, which means either someone's in there on their phone, or —

"Jack?"

Bitty's in there with her, apparently, the door open just enough to show his face, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Oh," Jack says intelligently. He was so caught up imagining what he'd say if he found some random woman in there that now his words are all tangled up. He stares down at Bitty's familiar face for probably way too long, trying to recalibrate. "Um. Is Lardo with you?"

"She sure is!" Bitty says, sidling around the edge of the door to close it behind him, obviously trying to hide her from view. "She just needed a moment to freshen up, that's all!"

In the three years Jack's known her, Lardo has never once needed to go freshen up. His mom freshens up. Lardo goes to take a piss — her words, not his — and announces it loudly before she goes.

"…together?"

"What?"

"You were in there, too," Jack points out, his discomfort increasing, somehow, against all odds.

"Oh."

Bitty's eyes widen slightly, clearly panicked, just as clearly searching for an excuse. If they were both different people there'd be a joke in there somewhere, but they both know that's not what Bitty was doing, and Jack's heart's not in it, anyway.

The door opens behind him before Bitty's managed to make his excuse, sending him stumbling forward when it hits him in the butt, the force of it propelling him right towards Jack's chest.

"Whoa," Jack says, grasping for his forearms to keep him upright. "Are you — "

"Sorry about that," Lardo says loudly before he can finish, a raised eyebrow as she takes in how the two of them are standing. Jack lets Bitty's arms go like he's been burned, ears red for a reason he doesn't even really understand. It isn't like he was doing something wrong. "Eyeliner emergency. Bits was helping me get the perfect wing."

Jack has no idea what that means, but Bitty, having regained both his balance and his confidence, nods emphatically.

"Yes," he agrees loudly. "That sure is what we were up to."

"Okay," Jack says into the lengthy silence that follows, absolutely no idea how he's supposed to respond to any of that. "Well. The guys are looking for you at the bar."

"Oh, lord," Bitty says, one hand coming to his chest. "We'd better go stop them before there's property damage. Lardo, you want to hang back while me and Jack take care of it? Maybe powder your nose?"

Another thing Jack's pretty sure his mom does — and definitely sure that Lardo doesn't.

"Jesus, Bits, you really suck at this," she tells him, flat, rolling her eyes. She nudges his elbow before she strides ahead, though, and Jack thinks he hears her murmur a quiet thanks.

"You sure everything's okay?" Jack asks quietly as they follow her back to the gallery space.

"Of course!" Bitty says brightly. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Unable to find the words for what he's really asking, Jack looks meaningfully towards Lardo and then back, hoping Bitty will fill in the blanks. Bitty can always guess his next play. It's why Coach put them on the same line, why Jack —

"She'll be fine," Bitty tells him, putting a merciful end to that line of thought. "Just had a little hiccup, that's all."

Jack has no idea what that means, either, but he trusts Bitty's judgment better than his own, for things like this. Lardo's one of his closest friends, but they don't really — well. He's never camped out in a single-use bathroom to help her freshen up.

"If you're sure."

"I'm — oh, good lord." Jack follows Bitty's line of sight to find the entire of the Samwell men's hockey team waving energetically at them from the bar. Lardo's tucked back under Shitty's arm again, somehow, which — when did she get so far ahead of them? Jack could have sworn they were right behind her. "One nice night," Bitty moans dramatically. "That's all I was askin' for! For Lardo's sake!"

"I don't know, Bittle," Jack says, watching Lardo energetically slam back whatever Holster's just handed her. "Looks like she's right where she wants to be."

"Well," Bitty says, on another, even more dramatic sigh. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, I guess. You coming?"

"Yeah," Jack tells him, turning back from where he'd twisted to get one last look at Lardo's painting, all those splashes of red. Fear, the little placard underneath it had read. He was the only one close enough to see. "Yeah, Bittle. I'm with you."

The morning after they unveil the new oven, Bitty convinces Jack to drive him to some grocery store across town, claiming they're the only ones who stock — well. Bitty spent a good few minutes explaining what exactly it is that he needs, but Jack, distracted by his soft hungover drawl and softer pyjama shirt, hadn't processed enough to understand.

Graduation's right around the corner, though, and he'll be leaving soon. He's aware of it, all of a sudden, like he was in a haze all through finishing his thesis and signing the contract, and reality's just now slamming into him.

He's supposed to be headed towards a new beginning, but Jack keeps thinking about endings instead.

Bitty can feel it too, he's pretty sure. More and more often these days Jack glances over only to find him looking right back, eyes full of emotion — it's just a split-second, every time, before he forces a bright smile and acts like nothing's wrong. But Jack knows he sees it.

"Jack," Bitty says now, clearly exasperated, after Jack's followed his instructions and flicked on the CD player, the low sounds of Lyle Lovett's large band filling the empty silence in the car. He's wearing sunglasses to hide his hangover, clutching a tumbler full of coffee to his chest like a lifeline.

"Hm?"

"When I said put on music, this isn't really what I meant."

"Something's wrong with my music?"

He's teasing, obviously. They've been living together for a year, now, and Bitty chirps him for his old-man music every chance he gets. Jack just likes to see him riled up a bit. And sure enough —

"Well, don't say it like that! Everyone marches to the beat of their own drum — lord knows I know that better than anyone — it's just… you're French-Canadian, aren't you? Can't you at least listen to Celine Dion or somethin'?"

"Ha. My mom does."

"I knew I trusted that woman."

"She lost a bet with my dad, back when they first started dating. Started listening as a joke, and now she loves her for real."

He braces himself for more chirps, but instead Bitty just sighs, soft, and when Jack chances a glance over there's a wistful little smile on his face.

"That's so sweet," he says, turning to look out the window. Not much of a view, honestly. The snow's all melted but the grass is still scrubby, nothing really green yet. Bitty seems captivated, though. Jack guesses it's different when you aren't so used to it. "Real sweet," Bitty repeats, almost to himself. "Wow."

It's funny — Jack's never really thought of it like that. He's heard them tell that story so many times he hardly even registers it at this point, as familiar as discussing the weather.

"Papa took Maman to Vegas for their anniversary," he offers, because that also seems like it might be sweet, now that he's seeing it through Bitty's eyes. "She has that show there? They have the picture framed in the house."

"No," Bitty says on a dramatic gasp, turning his attention from a particularly sad-looking strip mall to gape at Jack properly. Or at least — Jack assumes that's what he's doing. The sunglasses make it kind of hard to tell. "That is so romantic, stop."

"Um. Yeah, I guess."

"I wish…." Bitty says forlornly, and then he's back to gazing out the window again, exuding melancholy. How he's managing that in a pair of Holster's borrowed sunglasses, Jack really has no idea, but the sight of it makes his heart clench nonetheless. "Nevermind," Bitty says before Jack can think of something to comfort him, wiggling in his seat a little, like he can physically shake off a weird mood — and hell, maybe he can. It's not something Jack's ever managed, certainly, but Bitty's made of different stuff. "Gosh, I'm bein' silly. Must be an emotional hangover, or something."

"You sure it's not just a regular hangover?" Jack teases. "You were going pretty hard last night."

"Well, it was a special occasion," Bitty says, all huffy, and whatever he was doing earlier, it clearly worked. He doesn't seem sad at all anymore. Looking at him, you'd never even know. For the life of him, Jack can't figure out how he does it. "Betsy's fond farewell, and all."

"Right."

He'd cried into Jack's chest for what felt like hours last night, Jack's hand resting between his narrow shoulder blades, Bitty's arms trapped between them, something tangled inside Jack's chest the whole time. Pride, maybe, at having made the right call, getting it for him. Jack's not usually good at stuff like that.

He clears his throat, eases off the brake as the light changes.

"The new oven's good, then?" he asks awkwardly. "It's what you wanted?"

"Jack." Bitty actually takes off his sunglasses to stare him down properly, gaze both bloodshot and unimpressed. "Did I or did I not spend the better part of an hour usin' you as a human kleenex last night?"

Jack chuckles, remembering it all over again.

"I didn't mind," he says, and then he clears his throat, uncomfortable, feeling as though he's shared too much.

"You're sweet, sayin' that," Bitty tells him, fumbling the sunglasses back on. "You're real sweet."

Not generally, no.

Not until he met Bitty.

"I'm really sorry," Bitty whispers in his bedroom in Georgia. "I don't mean — I mean, that is — "

What that is, he can't quite seem to make himself say, faltering mid-attempt, staring helplessly across the pillow. They're on top of the covers, because the room is warm with the door closed but also because it feels less illicit, somehow, like if Mrs. Bittle knocked on the door they'd be able to play it off as — hell, Jack doesn't even know. Wrestling, or something. Honestly, she'd probably buy it.

"It's okay," Jack tells him, meaning the words more as a general sentiment than anything — whatever it is, it's okay that Bitty can't say it. Some things are bigger than words, or — the wrong shape, or something. Jack understands better than anybody.

"I really wanted to be braver," Bitty tells him, still frowning. "To just — tell them, you know? Be loud about it."

Jack gets why he says it, he thinks, but — being totally honest, that sounds terrible. There's no way to say that without sounding like a tool, though, like he's asking Bitty to stay in the closet just because he's too scared to look Mr. and Mrs. Bittle in the eye as Bitty tells them the truth.

Which is stupid, because he already is asking Bitty to stay in the closet, just for different reasons.

"You can tell them at your own pace," he says quietly. "It's no rush."

Bitty sighs, eyes sliding shut. Jack watches the thin skin of his eyelids, the shadow of his pale eyelashes, and wants him so enormously it feels like a hole's been carved out of his chest.

"My own pace is a snail's pace," Bitty says forlornly, eyes still closed. "A turtle, even."

"I think the snail's slower, actually," Jack teases, to see if it'll get him to open his eyes. "And don't you know about the turtle and the hare?"

"That's a tortoise," Bitty says, unimpressed, but his eyes are open, now, and fixed right on Jack's. "Or did y'all learn it different, way up there in Quebec?"

Jack huffs out a laugh, shifting one hand free from where it'd been pressed under his cheek to reach for Bitty's hip. Bitty inhales at the touch, eyelids fluttering nervously as Jack's thumb slides under his T-shirt and finds bare, warm skin underneath.

"We didn't," he tells Bitty, even though he knows it was a joke. "We learned it in French, though. La lièvre et la tortue."

Bitty's eyes narrow, the way they always do when Jack tells him something in French, like he thinks he's switching languages just to chirp him.

Which, to be fair, he often is.

"I'll ask Maman to send my old copy," he tells Bitty seriously. "You can read it and practice."

"Jack. I know merci and bonjour and croissant, and that's about the whole sum of it."

He butchers the pronunciation, same as he always does, and it shows how far Jack's gone on him that it doesn't even bother him.

"Say tabarnac," Jack tells him. "You'll fit right in with my dad and his friends."

Bitty's eyes narrow even further, a look on his face that says he'd have his hands on his hips if they were standing. He's cute when he's a little mad, is the problem.

He's cute all the time.

"Don't teach me words you wouldn't say in front of your mama," Bitty tells him sternly, in a voice Jack's sure will make frequent appearances when he's coaching elementary schoolers at summer camp. "Jack Zimmermann. I'm trusting you."

Bitty's voice is light — he's obviously joking — but Jack feels the weight of it regardless.

"Maybe we should make a schedule."

"A... schedule?"

"Like, a timeline," Jack explains. "Or a — a flowchart. For the future, I mean. Like — we'll wait three years, unless I win a Stanley Cup, and then I'll do it sooner. Something like that."

"Do what sooner?" Bitty sounds dazed, obviously not following. Jack strokes his thumb along his hipbone just to watch him react, a little shiver that makes him want to roll over and press him right down into the mattress, plausible deniability be damned.

"Tell people," he says, then has to take a shaky breath before he can clarify. "Publicly, I mean." He'd hoped it was obvious.

Only it wasn't, apparently, because Bitty's eyes widen in abject shock.

"Oh, lord," he breathes. "That's — wow. You mean that?"

"It's easier when there's a schedule," Jack tells him. "For me, I mean. Would that be — okay? For you?"

"Wow," Bitty says, blinking, still looking vaguely stunned. "Yes, honey, that's — so I've got three years to tell Mama, that's what you're tellin' me?"

"It doesn't have to be three years," Jack rushes to correct him. They haven't really talked about this yet, not seriously. He was moving, and then Bitty was in Georgia, and they sent messages, sure, called whenever they could, but it felt — presumptuous, still, bringing it up, when all Jack had really actually done, in reality, was kiss him one time and then run. "It could be more, or less, or — " Those are really the only two options, he realizes, neck heating with embarrassment. "Well. One or the other. We could decide together."

"Lord," Bitty repeats, dazed. "That's — wow. You'd do that for me?"

Jack can't think of much he wouldn't do for him, short of — god, he doesn't even know. Quitting hockey?

But Bitty'd never ask him to do that. So.

"I want to do more than that," he settles for telling him, and it still doesn't feel like enough. He watches Bitty's throat jump as he swallows. His skin is warm, so warm, under Jack's thumb.

Jack can't understand how it took him so long to figure it out.

"I never would have guessed you'd be like this," Bitty whispers. Jack hesitates, then slides his hand from Bitty's hip up his side, across his chest, up to his jaw. His thumb brushes the edge of his mouth, heart thundering in his chest.

"Like what?" he murmurs, hardly daring to ask.

"All… romantic," Bitty murmurs. "I don't know. You were always so…."

He doesn't finish that sentence, which is probably a blessing. Jack doesn't really want to hear about the person he used to be.

"Romantic?" he teases, instead, jostling Bitty's knee with his own. Bitty huffs, just like he knew he would.

"Well, don't get too cocky, mister. You sounded like Ransom, earlier, I hope you know that," he manages, finally, as his wits make a slow return. "A flowchart. Honestly, honey. Are you going to make a powerpoint, too?"

"Maybe a spreadsheet, while I'm at it," Jack jokes, grinning in satisfaction when Bitty huffs out a reluctant laugh. Their legs are tangled together, although he couldn't say for sure when that happened. Bitty's still wearing socks, cotton smooth against Jack's ankles, the feeling of it driving him insane, a little bit. If he doesn't head back to the guest room soon, they'll be in trouble.

Bitty's having a nightmare, but Jack's the one who wakes up first.

There's that second, there always is, where he doesn't know where he is or what's going on, half awake and scrambling to catch up, before Bitty whimpers again, restless, and awareness slams into him like a truck.

"Hey," he murmurs. Bitty's curled up next to him in a tight ball, feet pressed to Jack's thigh, digging in with enough force that almost hurts. "Hey," Jack says again, shaking Bitty's shoulders, trying to keep it gentle. It's not something he's good at, generally. Off the ice he feels clumsy, too large. He doesn't have any of Bitty's grace. "Bitty. Bits, c'mon, wake up. You're dreaming."

Bitty jerks awake on a gasp, one hand flailing out towards Jack's face, uncoordinated enough that it's a simple thing for Jack to grab it and redirect.

"Oh," he says faintly, the wild look in his eyes fading as he realizes where he is. "Hi, honey."

"Hi." Jack keeps his voice low, squinting at him in the darkness. Bitty's hand is clammy in his and he's breathing too fast, still, a funny little hiccuping sound. He's uncurled, a little, knees pressing into Jack's. "You okay, bud?"

Bitty takes in a shaky breath, gives Jack's hand a feeble squeeze.

"Sure," he says, obviously aiming for casual, like he isn't still breathless, hand still shaking in Jack's grip. "Sorry about that, hon. I didn't mean to — gosh. I woke you up, huh?"

"It's fine." Jack's voice sounds harsh in the silence, and much too flat; he rubs his thumb along the jut of bone at Bitty's wrist in silent apology. "What were you dreaming?"

Bitty's pressed all the way against him, now, and when he breathes Jack can feel it, rising and falling against his chest.

"Oh, you know." He's still faking, his voice far too bright. "The usual."

Jack tightens the arm he has wrapped around his waist, gives him a reassuring squeeze.

"Bits." He sounds better this time, he thinks. Softer. Closer to the way he means it. "You can tell me."

"Oh, lord. It's so embarrassing."

"It's not."

"It is," Bitty insists, his voice gaining confidence, the hand resting on Jack's chest curling into a fist. "It's like I'll never outgrow it, you know? Like I'll always be that runt out on the field, getting called a — "

Jack's glad when he doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't want to hear that word out of Bitty's mouth.

"It's like I'll always be afraid," Bitty whispers. "I've tried so hard to change, but maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe I'll always be a coward."

"You're not a coward," Jack tells him, voice sharp, the way it gets when he forgets himself. "You're not," he repeats, quieter. He wishes the lights were on, so he could see Bitty's face. He takes in a shaky breath of his own, trying to line up his thoughts. "Bittle. Look at me."

Jack lets go of his wrist, reaches to cup the side of his face instead. It's shadowed in the darkness, difficult to see.

"Do you think I'm a coward?"

"What?" Bitty gasps out a surprised laugh, brow furrowing in confusion. "Of course not, why on earth — "

"I'm afraid, too," Jack confesses, heart in his throat. "All the time. Does that make me a coward, too?"

"No," Bitty whispers. "No, honey. You know it doesn't."

"So you know what I'm trying to tell you. Right?"

Bitty leans his head back down and sighs, warm against Jack's collarbone.

"Well, when you put it like that, Mr. Zimmermann, I suppose I do."

"Will you be able to fall back asleep?" He huffs out a laugh at Bitty's put-upon sigh, gives him a gentle jostle just because he can. "Do we need to get up and bake something first?"

"We? No, no, I couldn't — you need to rest."

"And you don't? If you're up, I'm up."

"…maybe just somethin' small. No lattice work."

"There ya go."

In the kitchen Bitty sets out a bowl, measuring cups, ingredients Jack recognizes. Flour, shortening, salt. Sugar. Evaporated milk. He stands a little to the side, awaiting instruction.

"Bits."

"Hm?"

"Do you remember Spring C?"

"Do I remember Spring C. Well, being fully honest here — not a lot of it, actually. It wasn't my proudest moment." Bitty pauses in the middle of his search for the can opener, wrinkling his nose. Jack tugs the can of evaporated milk closer as Bitty searches, one finger fiddling with the edge of the label. "Or my soberest."

"It was cute," Jack assures him, holding his hand out for the can opener when Bitty finds it.

Bitty scoffs as he passes it over.

"No, it was not. I was a hot mess! And I still never figured out what happened to that dang shoe, by the way. It's probably polluting the pond as we speak."

"Haha. Well. I carried you home, do you remember that?"

Jack doesn't think he's imagining the flush that starts to bloom on Bitty's face. He busies himself setting a pan on the stove instead. Jack sets the opened can on the counter next to him before he has to ask, drops the can opener in the sink, and waits.

"Hard to forget that part, sweetheart."

"Yeah?"

Jack's chest puffs out, just a little. Bitty flushes harder when he notices, reaching out to swat his bicep.

"Oh, hush. You already knew."

Maybe.

But it's funny — when Jack thinks about it now, he remembers it the same way Bitty does. His hands gripping Bitty's thighs, warm with sweat, as Bitty's voice slurred nonsense in his ear. He swears he could feel Bitty's heartbeat through his ribcage, they were pressed together so close. His own heart races just thinking about it.

Back then, though, he hadn't known at all. He couldn't think about it, so he just — didn't. It wasn't even a conscious decision.

He doesn't know how to explain that in a way that doesn't sound ridiculous.

"I wanted it, you know," he tries anyway, which is such an understatement he might as well have said nothing at all. "To be close to you," he forces out. "I just didn't — I didn't even realize. I couldn't let myself realize. But I think I wanted you for a long time."

As confessions go, it's mostly useless. Bitty doesn't even really need to hear it — Jack's made it clear how he feels now, time and time again, and that's what matters more.

He just — he doesn't know. He wants Bitty to know everything.

Bitty, who's still blinking at him, not a hint of his earlier embarrassment to be seen. He mostly looks shocked.

"Oh," he says faintly, hand resting lightly, forgotten, on Jack's bicep. "Well. That's — you sure know how to charm a guy, Jack Zimmermann."

Jack snorts. That's patently untrue, he's fairly certain, but it's nice that Bitty never seems to mind.

"Lord. If I would have known back then — I thought I was the stupidest boy in the world, you know, falling for you."

"You weren't," Jack tells him, frowning.

"Well, I know that now." Bitty turns his attention back to the mixture in the pan, giving it a slow, careful stir, at odds with the impatience in his voice. "But at the time, it felt like I was just… repeating the same old patterns. You know? Wanting something I knew was gonna hurt me."

It aches when Jack swallows, like he's trying to force down something sharp.

He does know. He wishes he didn't.

"I wanted to fall in love so bad," Bitty tells him, still very focused on the pot in front of him. "But I was scared of it, too. It felt like — I dunno. Like I was sabotaging myself on purpose, because in some way that was easier. At least then I had an excuse not to try."

Jack swallows again, throat so dry it sticks.

"Get a start on the crust, would you? You remember how."

"Um."

"I'll help you you the measurements," Bitty hurries to reassure him, as though that's the part Jack was worried about.

"Um."

"You got it, honey. I trust you."

Bitty's voice is encouraging, even as he turns back to focus on the filling.

Jack does not got it, he's pretty sure, but he dutifully starts to measure out the flour anyway.

"I'm sorry I didn't figure it out sooner," he says, very carefully scraping off the top. Salt next, and then sugar, and then the butter's in the fridge, and the water. He took Bitty to pick out a stand mixer the first weekend he visited, but Jack likes the physical aspect of mixing by hand.

"Oh, hush. You got there eventually, didn't you?"

Jack shrugs his half-hearted assent, focused on the dough as it starts to shape, thinking about all Bitty's warnings not to work it too hard.

"You really weren't scared about it? When you knew." Bitty chances a glance up, looking nervous all of a sudden. "About yourself, I mean. It didn't scare you?"

Jack shrugs uncomfortably.

"I figured it didn't matter," he says slowly. "That I could just — not do anything about it, ever, and then no one would have to know. I was young enough that it made sense, I guess."

"And then with, um. With Kent?"

His stomach twists, goes sour.

"I was medicated by then," he says bluntly, wincing at Bitty's surprised inhale. They've talked about his overdose, a few times, but not about what came before it. Jack knows, objectively, that Bitty won't judge him for it, but he still feels ashamed. "Out of it, most of the time. After roadies I'd tell my doctor I lost the bottle so he'd give me more. And I drank a lot. It was hard to make myself care."

About anything. He treated Kenny like shit — he knows that now. Kenny could — can — be a real asshole, sure, but Jack was using him to self-destruct, and he didn't deserve that. And the shit he said to Jack afterward — Jack deserved it, he really did. No matter how many times Bitty's tried to tell him otherwise.

"He cared more than I did," Jack says, staring very carefully down at where he's laid out the pie dough in front of him, consciously forcing himself to loosen his grip on the rolling pin. Bitty will chirp him to hell and back if he breaks another one. "I think. We've never really talked about it. We were both too stupid, back then and I didn't even — I was so out of it, Bits. And then it was over, so it didn't seem like it mattered either way."

Bitty makes a soft sound — commiserating, Jack thinks. Now he's the one too scared to make himself look.

"Even without all that, it would have been different," he says, forcing himself back on track. "Maman had lots of friends, people she'd met working — there was this one gay couple, I think they were designers? Maybe one of them was a model. They'd come over for dinner, you know, and my dad never acted like it was a big deal. I was afraid of a lot of things, but. That wasn't the reason – I mean. I always knew it would be hard, but. That wasn't the part I thought was going to disappoint him."

He does look over, now. Bitty's looking at him, eyes wide and sad. Jack gives up on the dough and pulls him in close, pressing a kiss to his hair. The little tuft at the back tickles his nose.

"It was different," he repeats. "It is different. For everyone."

Bitty sniffles into his shirt — a real wet one, snot and everything, but Jack can't quite bring himself to chirp him for it.

"What you said before — that you thought maybe you could just ignore it 'til it went away. I used to want to do that, too. Only problem was, everyone seemed to just look at me and — know."

"Bits."

"I know Coach loves me," Bitty says as he draws back, finally, the heels of his palms pressing against his eyes. "But I just can't — he's always saying those things to me. He was so happy when I started hockey, 'cause then it was like I was finally a real — you know. 'Cause maybe then people would stop looking at me and — and knowing. But what if I hadn't? What about all the other parts of me? He never…."

Jack reaches for his wrists, gentle, tugging until Bitty moves his hands out of the way. His eyes are red, and a little bloodshot.

"Every part of you is good," Jack tells him urgently, knowing it isn't enough, but wanting Bitty to hear it anyway. "If he can't see it, that's on him, not you."

Bitty's chin wobbles as he nods, mouth twisted into a frustrated grimace.

"I know that," he says, before he straightens his shoulders and repeats himself, voice stronger this time. "I do."

"Good." Jack risks a little shoulder check — affectionate, no real force behind it. "Now. No crying into the filling, Bittle. What would your mother say?"

"Oh, lord," Bitty says dramatically, wiping away the last of his tears with a brisk jerk of his forearm. "This boy…."

Jack did overwork the dough, it turns out, but the filling tastes good enough to make up for it.

"Nonsense," Bitty says when Jack voices this thought. He stifles a yawn as he chews his next bite, swallowing before he continues, Southern manners ingrained to his bones. "You did great, honey. You're really pickin' it up."

He most definitely is not, but it's a flattering thing for Bitty to say.

"I'll try you on a lemon meringue, next," Bitty tells him, voice so serious Jack can't tell if he's teasing or not. "Get you using the mixer, for once. I know you're scared of it, don't think I don't."

Jack laughs and slings an arm over his shoulders, tugging Bitty right into his side.

"Sure, Bittle. Whatever you say."

When Jack finally stops shaking Bitty slides off his lap, settles in next to him instead. Jack doesn't want him to, particularly, but it's not like they can sit like that all night.

"I'm still talking to my therapist twice a month," he tells Bitty seriously, because he doesn't want Bitty to think he isn't trying. "She lets me do my appointments over the phone if I'm traveling."

"Okay, honey. That's good."

Bitty looks a little confused, like he isn't sure why Jack felt the need to tell him that. Jack would feel frustrated, maybe, if he didn't get that response so often, from most of the people he meets. At least with Bitty, Jack knows he's trying to understand. He talks about it with Dr. Klein, sometimes, how it feels like the things he says aren't the same things people hear. How the things he says aren't really even the things he thinks at all, his thoughts transforming into something unrecognizable somewhere on the journey from his brain to his mouth.

"You don't talk about her too much."

There's a silent question at the end of that, an invitation to keep speaking, and Jack has to fight back the instinctive urge to shut it down immediately. He breathes through his nose and reminds himself where he is, who he's talking to, that Bitty doesn't mean it as a criticism. That Bitty's voice is tentative, but warm. His body is warm, too, pressed right up against Jack's side. All of it is a comfort. Even if Jack can't be sure Bitty really understands him, at least he can be sure Bitty's here.

"I guess not," he says. "She's good. She used to play lacrosse. NCAA."

"Um." Bitty sounds like he's stifling a laugh. "That's — well. If that's important to you."

"Yes," Jack says again, feeling stupid after Bitty's reaction. "After I, you know, I — I wanted. I needed someone who could understand."

"Understand what, honey?"

Jack takes a few shaky breaths, trying to line up his thoughts, determined to get them out right this time. His hands are still trembling, but only a little.

"Hockey was hurting me," he says carefully, ignoring the tiny sound Bitty makes in response. "But I still wanted to play. I had to find someone who could help me do that. Safely."

Bitty isn't laughing anymore. He's pressed even closer, somehow, reaching for Jack's hands when Jack wasn't paying attention. His hands, like the rest of him, are smaller than Jack's. Jack chirps him for it, sometimes, but he likes it. He doesn't really know why.

"Safely," Bitty repeats, eyes darting all over Jack's face. Jack doesn't know what he sees. He hasn't ever been any good at letting his feelings show. Most of the time he doesn't even know what it is, exactly, that he's feeling. Not until much later, when it's already too late. "Well. Well! I'm happy you found someone who can help you, honey. I really am."

"Yeah," Jack agrees, voice quiet, tugging gently at Bitty's hands until Bitty gets the hint and straddles him, huffing out a quiet laugh as Jack drops his hands to his hips, leaving Bitty free to reach up and cup Jack's jaw, thumb stroking a slow line across his cheekbone. "I am, too."

He'd never have met Bitty, if he hadn't. He'd be — god. Where would he be? It scares him to think about it, a little, but that isn't so unusual. A lot of things scare Jack. That's always kind of been the problem.

"Bits," he says into the quiet. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, sweetheart. You know that."

"Shitty said something to me, way back — we first started checking practice, do you remember back then?"

"Do I remember — sweetheart, I swear, you ask me the most ridiculous things."

"So… yes?"

"Yes, I remember you banging on my door at the crack of dawn. You took years off my life, probably."

Jack winces — that's pretty much exactly what he'd been hoping Bitty wouldn't say. He steadies his shoulders and forces himself to ask his next question anyway.

"Can you tell me — were you afraid of me?"

Jack keeps his breathing steady through a combination of practice and sheer will, waiting for Bitty's response, watching him waver between sugarcoating it and giving Jack the honest truth.

Jack already knows the answer, is the thing. He knows why Bitty doesn't want to say it.

"Yes," Bitty tells him finally, honestly, and Jack already knew he was the brave one, between the two of them, but it sends a jolt through him nonetheless. "A little. But, honey, you have to know it wasn't your fault."

"Bittle. I was an asshole to you."

"I mean, okay, yes, that is certainly true, but — but! — you weren't totally wrong, sweetheart. Hockey's a contact sport. I had to be able to handle it."

"I rammed you into the boards."

"Yeah, but you were real gentlemanly about it."

"Bittle."

Bitty shakes his head, mouth pressed together in a firm line.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Jack. I was scared of the whole dang team! Every one of y'all was about six inches taller than me, rowdy as all get out, and you were actin' like the kind of guys who put me through hell in high school. Of course I was freaked out."

Jack's silent, digesting that. It doesn't really make him feel any better. Put him through hell, he knows now, isn't even the half of it. Bitty doesn't like to bring it up.

"Did Shitty tell you I was scared of him, too? 'Cause I was. It wasn't just you. Ransom, too, and lord, before I knew Holster knew the lyrics to every Katy Perry single…."

Jack's pretty proud of himself, actually, for knowing what that means.

"But you stuck it out."

"Well, what the hell else was I gonna do?" Bitty's voice sounds different, now. Stronger, but brittle at the edges. "Pack it up and move on back to Madison? I couldn't do that. And I couldn't lose my scholarship, either. So."

"You did great." Jack shakes his head at the look on Bitty's face, pinched with disbelief. "No, I mean it. You — I'm really proud of you, Bits."

Is that weird to say? Condescending, maybe, or —

"I'm proud of you too, honey. I'm real proud of both of us."

They curl into each other after Bitty hangs up the call with his mom, so close their noses nearly brush. Jack's hand rests heavy on Bitty's waist, fingers settling in between his ribs. Bitty still hasn't really said anything.

"Bitty," he says, finally, voice hushed in the quiet of the room. "Are you okay?"

"I mean, it could have been worse," Bitty tells him, eyes already half-shut. It isn't a real answer. "It could have been way worse."

"Bitty."

Bitty huffs out a frustrated sigh. Jack holds his ribcage a little tighter, reminding him — something, he doesn't even know.

"What do you want me to say?" Bitty asks, still not quite looking at him. "Mama said she loves me, that they — they both love me. I guess that's the best I coulda hoped for, right?"

Jack isn't actually sure that's true.

"I'm sorry," he says, useless, and Bitty's eyes snap back open, a frown on his face.

"Lord, Jack Zimmermann," he sighs, and he's obviously trying for indignant, but he's too exhausted to really pull it off. "What on earth is there to be sorry for? Besides, this isn't — you should be celebrating, hon. You shouldn't be worrying about me."

"I'll always worry about you."

Bitty stops short at that, mouth dropped open, whatever he was going to say clearly forgotten. Jack ducks down and kisses him, quick. Just to show him he's still there.

"They're good people," Bitty says, drowsy, probably emotionally exhausted more than anything. "Maybe I should be able to just — but I want them in my life. I love them."

It's different, Jack knows it's different, but at the same time — is it?

He thinks about his father, teaching him to skate, picking him right back up when he fell over on the ice. What's one more try, eh, bud? His father, voice raised, Jack unable to look him in the eye. So I can't even talk to you, is that it? Crisse. Every damn thing I say sets you off. He'd turned the other way when Jack's mom took him to get his first prescription. He'd hired a tutor to help Jack pass the SAT, paid to have her drive out to the house three times a week because Jack's palms still sweat when people looked at him in public. Quizzed him over breakfast every morning.

There's no neat ending — not a happy one but not a tragic one, either. There's only Jack and his father, disappointing each other in turns, loving each other through all of it.

"Then you should keep trying," he tells Bitty, feeling stupid, as he always does, trying to offer him life advice. Stanley Cup or no, Jack doesn't consider himself much of a shining example. He values effort, though, and he knows Bitty does too. "If they're trying, too, then… then I think that's worth it. Don't you?"

Bitty lets out a shaky breath and Jack can feel it, the rise and fall of his ribcage, as precious as the rest of him.

"You're right," he says, finally. "It is worth it. It will be. I really do believe that."

"Good," Jack says, voice firm, and then he moves his arm to drag Bitty in for real, shifting to his back so Bitty can lie on his chest. "Now get some sleep, you're exhausted."

"You're exhausted."

"Ha. That's a good one, bud."

Bitty only hums, half-asleep. Jack lets his eyes drift shut.

"You sure, dude?" Lardo asks, when Jack calls her up to check if she still has any of the pieces she'd shown in her junior art show. "I mean, like, yeah, I've got it, but — that's really the one you want?"

He had a few of her paintings in his first apartment, including a large one in the living room. Marty's wife, clearly expecting the typical first-year-in-the-NHL apartment setup — leather couch, big screen TV, three gaming consoles and very little else — had been very impressed the first time they came over for dinner.

"Yeah," Jack tells Lardo now, remembering those angry streaks of red, and the way he'd felt when he looked at them. "That's the one I want."

Bitty falls silent when Jack shows it to him, later, mouth pursed in an expression that's not quite a frown.

"Well, it won't match our bathroom," he says, after a long moment's contemplation. "Maybe the guest bathroom? Or the game room?"

"Either one," Jack says, relieved, a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying lifted off of his chest. "Whatever you want."

"Well, you're the one who wanted it, honey," Bitty says, an exasperated little smile on his face. "I'm not gonna relegate it to the guest bathroom if you wanna be able to see it."

Oh. Jack hadn't thought of that.

"Game room, then," he says. "Do you hate it? Be honest."

Bitty hesitates again, a look of concentration on his face.

"I don't," he says, finally. "It's not really my style, maybe, but I'm not the only one livin' here. And I do like that it's Lardo's. I guess I'm just not sure why you picked it."

Looking at him Jack's sure, suddenly, that Bitty read the placard too, all those years ago.

"I'm always going to be afraid," Jack tells him, blunt, because he doesn't know a better way to say it, so he might as well just force it out. Some part of him hoped the fear would go away: he signed with a team, he fell in love. Or he fell in love and then signed with a team, depending on how he looks at it. There's a cup ring on display in his house — or there will be, just as soon as they get that box unpacked. But he wakes up in the morning some days — some, not all — and the feeling is still there. That familiar weight on his chest, pressing down. "It's about living with it, I guess. Do you think that's stupid?"

"Of course I don't," Bitty says immediately. "I think you should do whatever you need to do. And I think whoever doesn't like it can go play pool somewhere else."

"And are you included in that whoever?"

"No!" Bitty says, laughing now, pushing at Jack's chest only to change his mind as soon as Jack steps back, tugging him closer by the forearms instead. "I'm not lookin' to play pool anywhere, sweetheart, you know that."

For now, maybe, although Jack's working on it. If Bitty can get him whipping egg whites, Jack can get him to enjoy a game of pool.

"Well, as long as you're here," he says, and Bitty grins up at him, arms around his waist, now, cheeks a little pink. Happy.

Not scared at all.