All Saints

by orphan_account

Summary:

Halloween: the most wonderful time of the year

Notes:

this is an unbetaed monstrosity that was supposed to be a) approximately five thousand words and b) posted on october 30th. hopefully i'll be able to come back and polish it, but as it stands it's only been through one round of editing in my mad rush to post it by my self-imposed deadline.

this was written before David Bowie's passing. he was very important to me personally and even though he wouldn't have had any fucking clue why he was a motif in softcore porn about gay college hockey players, i like to think he'd appreciate the craft. rest in peace, and thank you for opening my mom's mind and her heart. tell freddie i said hi.

lines in french have translations available in hovertext as well as in endnotes; they are not québétaed, any mistakes are my own, etc.

September is a hellish month for all of them, and the only good thing about it is that they’re all too busy to think about how miserable they are.

Harvard is kicking Shitty’s ass in the worst conceivable way—from the limited information Eric’s wheedled out of him through text, he spends most of his time in the library neither naked nor stoned. His snaps, when he has the time to send them, are fit to break Bitty’s heart at the unkempt state of the stache.

In their years of friendship, Eric hasn’t ever seen the sides grow scraggly and long into the stubbled beginnings of a beard. Even during playoffs, Shitty had been a well-groomed gentleman.

He only has time to Skype with Lardo, and Bitty gets a word in if he ducks his head in at the right moment, but from what he’s heard, there’s a culture shock Shitty still hasn’t come to terms with that’s making his first semester a challenge.

Lardo doesn’t sleep because she spends her nights channeling her stress into her work. Bitty can hear squelching and dragging of paint against canvas when he’s in bed Not Sleeping Either. She and Holster are under enough pressure alone trying to balance their job searches with the preseason and classes. Ransom has all of that on top of the C.

And, not that Bitty wants to put too fine a point on it or anything, but his two best friends are still gone and he still isn’t sure what to do without them.

All their worries sort of pale when compared to Jack Zimmermann’s, who plays in and loses his first three NHL games in the span of a week and starts his regular season on an expansion team with a losing record.

He talks to Jack every day, but there’s only so much consoling he can do over the phone until Dex patents his sending-pie-via-text software. Bitty listens ineffectually while Jack recounts every single commentator’s smug dismissal of his team, listen to him worry about what kind of a player he’s become that his score streaks are more important than his wins. He’s never been quite so resentful of any road as he’s been of the stretch of highway between Samwell and Providence.

Eventually, though, Farmer bullies her lamb-shaped glass bottle of splintered sunlight boyfriend into brightening the gloom of the Haus. It takes roughly a month for his awe at living in Jack’s old room to wear off enough that he even dares to talk to Bitty about it, but given that he and Farmer basically live there, too, he thinks things could be a little more fun around here sometimes, maybe. Sorry, it’s just that Farmer doesn’t want to come over anymore and her roommate snores, and now that Dex moved in with Nursey I don’t feel like I have anywhere else to go, but I would also rather sleep in Faber than come here at night with you guys being the way you are.

“Chowder, I know we haven’t had any parties yet, but it’s not like we’re in mourning here,” Bitty tries to reason with him.

Christopher Precious Gift Chow fidgets and looks up at the ceiling while he rocks onto his heels before letting out in a huge huff of air, “When’s the last time you baked anything?”

The fact that he can’t remember immediately isn’t a huge problem. Sometimes he’s made so many things in a hurried daze that it takes a few minutes to figure out which batter was for which day.

But it takes forty minutes of going through his vlog, which has been downright morose since July, to figure out that it’s been almost three weeks since the last time he’s made so much as cookies.

His mother would be ashamed.

Everything gets easier once the halls smell like cinnamon again. Ransom doesn’t uncurl totally from his fetal position, but sometimes he curls up behind the couch instead of his and Holster’s bathtub. Slowly, their mornings off from practice start with the smell of bacon frying and the sound of Irreplaceable playing with as little irony as possible with Chowder in Jack’s old seat and Lardo and Holster on either side.

Dex and Nursey start sniffing around again. They win some games and have a kegster or two, and Jack and Shitty make it a point to stop down the weekend of fall break.

That first night with his boys (and Lardo) all under one roof—Nursey and Dex drunkenly nesting in extra blankets on the floor in Chowder’s room pretending to be put out by the arrangement; Shitty technically not under the roof so much as on the roof because he refuses to accept that Eric won’t get over it if he rolls off the reading room in his sleep; Jack valiantly attempting to take the couch until Bitty reminds him that he was more proportionately suited to sleeping on it than Jack is, and that with any luck if Jack sleeps in Bitty’s room, Shitty would crawl into bed with him at some point in the night—Bitty wraps himself up in his Falconers hoodie on the couch with Señor Bunny tucked tight under his chin and has to bite his lip to remind himself it’s not just a dream. He can barely keep himself from jumping up and checking on every one of them, and he certainly can’t sleep.

Some time around four in the morning Farmer comes down to the kitchen for a glass of water and catches his eye. She grins at him sweetly, and Eric thanks whichever stars were responsible for sending this volleyball player to his child.

“You know, I’ve been talking to the team about having a Halloween party,” she says in the raspy voice of the hung-over.

“You girls and every other house on frat row,” Bitty whispers back.

Her hair is a tangled mess that falls past her shoulders, and Bitty gives her a lot of credit that she’s comfortable enough around them all now that she walks around the Haus like she lives there. She pushes it all over her shoulder and sits on the couch at Bitty’s feet while she sips from a bottle of water.

“Just wanted to give you a little warning, Bits—costumes mandatory.”

Bitty snuggles further into the cushions and snorts, “You don’t know me nearly well enough if you think I don’t have a Halloween costume planned already.”

She laughs quietly, but with every peak in her arpeggio her voice cracks a little and it echoes in the silence of the night.

“Oh, you’re so cute; no, Bitty—every team has to dress according to a theme.”

“Well, that’s—“ it sounds like just the sort of thing he’d have tripped over himself to help Jack with last year just because he could. He’s suddenly exhausted, aching and heavy in his bones. “That sounds like fun.”

Farmer rubs circles on his ankle with her thumb, the weave of his cotton sock tickling in a subtle, unobtrusive way, and he falls asleep just as the den brightens with the morning.

When he wakes up, it’s to the smell of burning pancakes.

“Ce poêle marche pas ? Ça m’a coûté deux mille ! Quel morceau de—“¹

“Jack?”

Bitty had been sure (positive) that Jack was in peak physical condition this summer when he’d visited over fourth of July. Not that he had much time to think about that between thinking about how utterly charming it was that Jack got along with Mama Bittle and that Coach had made an effort to get to know one of Eric’s friends, but he has eyes.

Bitty had been wrong.

Training with his team and playing with a real NHL team have done wonders for the sturdy breadth of Jack’s shoulders, and the absurdly thick muscles of his thighs that somehow stand out in relief even when he’s just standing in the Haus kitchen making breakfast in an old t-shirt and boxer shorts.

Bitty’s not really one for math, but he is one for classic early 2000’s cinema. When it comes to Jack Zimmermann’s hotness, he’s pretty sure the limit does not exist.

“Morning, Bittle.”

“What are you doing to my kitchen?”

Months can pass and miles and states and borders can have separated them for the whole of it, but it’s reassuring to know that Jack’s I’m about to chirp Eric Bittle face will never change.

An eyebrow arches, his full lips, just beginning to chap with the change in the weather, tug up at the left corner and he doesn’t even need to say anything before Bitty feels his cheeks heat up worse than his good nonstick pan over a high flame.

“You don’t even live here anymore! You can’t tease me for being possessive about a kitchen that’s not even yours!”

Jack moves the skillet nonchalantly off the heat and turns off the range, leaning his hip against the counter and folding his arms against his chest.

“I did buy this stove, you know.”

Bitty chuckles to buy time and sits down at the table. “Just think what your mother would say if she heard you trying to act like you get custody rights on my birthday gift. I bet if I called her now, she’d be appalled.”

“Tattling. Very mature.”

It’s early enough that the rest of the Haus is still sleeping. Bitty’s probably only awake because the smell of charcoal being made is enough to make any Madison County baker snap to at least DEFCON 3 on basic instinct.

Jack’s hair is wet and there are patches of water where the thin fabric of his cotton t-shit has clung to his skin. Probably he’s been up long enough to have gone for a run and showered up too, and fondness hits Bitty in the gut worse than his hangover ever could.

“I thought I’d show off how good I’ve gotten at fending for myself in Providence, but something’s wrong with the burner.”

This, Bitty can handle. He can coach Jack through making whatever whole wheat, high fiber, unsweetened monstrosity he’s been feeding himself without Bitty around. He can correct whatever Jack’s done that’s turned it into a hockey puck and chirp him about it over a sink full of soapy dishes.

“Nothing’s wrong with the burner. This is the best oven I’ve ever used; including the ones on the Food Network set kitchen.”

Jack glares askance at him.

“You’re telling me it’s my fault?”

“I did not say those words in particular.”

There’s a hand in his hair before Bitty can muster up a proper defense, and the real tragedy is the leftover batter he can feel squishing between Jack’s fingers and his scalp, pasting his bedhead down.

“No roughhousing in the kitchen! By-laws!”

“Someone reminded me a little while ago that I don’t actually live here anymore,” Jack rumbles right into his ear, pulling Bitty into his chest for the most advantageous angle for styling the sticky mess he’s made.

“I’ll never forgive you if you give me a Mohawk, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“I was going to make you breakfast, you know. I was trying to be nice.”

Bitty pats his forearm tenderly. It sets his knees to quivering knowing that Jack is more than strong enough to keep him trapped tight in his grip for however long he’d want, but what’s making it nearly impossible to surge up and kiss the self-deprecating smirk off his chiseled face is knowing that he’d never do it.

“It’s the thought that counts. You throw out that bowl of nightmares and I’ll whip up something to say thanks.”

Biscuits and gravy is just about all Bitty’s capable of while his head’s full to bursting with distraction and he’s gotten about three hours of sleep, and it’s so ingrained in him that he gathers the ingredients without thinking a thing beyond the Haus is full of all the people I love.

If Jack notices his silly grin or his humming, he’s nice enough not to mention it.

Nursey is the first one to risk coming downstairs. Skeptically, he looks at the pan Bitty’s soaking in the sink, but his frown unknots when he catches the cooling rack stacked with two-dozen-and-counting biscuits and the pot of sausage gravy bubbling away while Bitty and Jack drink coffee at the table.

“If you grab a cup of coffee, the gravy’ll be ready when you finish,” Eric tells him.

“Nice,” he mutters, shuffling toward the pot gingerly. Over his mug, after a beat long enough for him to have drained half his drink, he snickers, “Great hair, by the way. Vintage Bowie looks good on you, dude.”

Bitty’s head thumps onto the table and his fingers trail along his hairline of their own volition to confirm that it does feel like it’s swooping in a very definitive, late-sixties sort of sprayed-into-submission way over his forehead. And he thinks there might be an oat in his part.

“I’m one bar fight away from marrying Iman,” Eric chuckles into the wood grain of the table.

“Did I miss something?” Jack hooks his foot around Bitty’s ankle when no one answers. “Why would you be marrying my mom’s French tutor?”

“Your—“

It’s an effective conversational ploy. Bitty manages to peel his cheek from the table and look at Jack with his mouth hanging open in shock. He’s gotten used to casual references to legendary athletes as close family friends, but somehow he hasn’t gotten quite as desensitized to Alicia’s side of the ludicrously famous family.

“Bits, you cool?”

“No, yeah. Of course Jack knows the most famous super model in the world. Why wouldn’t he?”

Across the table, Jack shrugs, “I’ve never actually met her, but she and my mom were on the same runway circuit right at the start of my mom’s career. She learned a lot from Iman. I’ve heard a lot of stories.”

“Well, alright.” Bitty’s eyes dart to Nursey for support, but his frog has abandoned him in his time of need, slathering one of the cooling biscuits with butter.

“Since you used your pancake batter to turn me into David Bowie, I guess I’m gonna be just straight enough to marry your mother’s mentor.”

“David who?”

Nursey blinks while his lips split in a cool grin. His mossy green eyes are practically backlit, glowing with the need to say something. Bitty’s still reeling, jaw slack and utterly speechless while he sees Derek bite into his biscuit pensively.

“As much as I wanna hear the rest of this, I think I’m gonna go upstairs and have morning sex before Chowder and Farms wake up.”

“If y’all are gonna use my bed, change the sheets this time!” Bitty hisses distractedly after him.

Jack cranes his neck over his shoulder to watch as Nursey waves a hand on his way out of the kitchen before he turns around. He chuckles; blinks slowly at Bitty.

“You let them—“

“No, but if they’re doing it anyway, I’m not cleaning up that mess.”

Before Jack’s even completely drawn breath to reply, Eric presses on.

“Nope, we’re not forgetting the fact that you don’t know who David Bowie is.”

“I know you’ve missed chirping me since I moved out,” he murmurs over the rim of his mug, eyes soft, pupils dilating in the light of the run rising through the kitchen window. Bitty makes a concerted effort not to swoon or interrupt by emphatically agreeing. “But are you really going to resort to nagging me about not knowing your new favorite singer?”

Lardo traipses next into the kitchen and hops onto the counter with her feet dangling like only Bitty’s ever otherwise done in the Haus of giants. She takes a sacrilegious bite of dry biscuit, and Bitty wonders why he even bothers some days.

“Who’s Bitty’s new favorite singer?”

Eric stares blankly past Lardo’s shoulder; he’s not totally confident he won’t start screaming with laughter and wake the entire block if he looks directly at her.

“David Bowie.”

Lardo coughs and crumbs spray across the kitchen. It’s impressive how far they reach—Bitty can see a few on the floor a few inches from the leg of the kitchen table.

“Alright, I get it; David Bowie’s the next Ke$ha and I have no clue who he is.”

“I—“ Lardo chokes and slips with a thud to the floor, doubled over.

“I have to—“ she’s laughing, otherwise Bitty would be worried. “Fuck, it’s too early; I have to go.”

“Biscuits are awesome, Bitty. Some gravy would’ve been killer, though.” She says in between fractured breaths where she tries to clear her throat of crumbs. Lardo stacks a half dozen biscuits on a plate without taking a second glance at the pot on the stove, and she kisses Bitty on the forehead before trapping Jack’s head into some kind of lazily affectionate headlock.

“You’re weird as shit, but I missed you so much,” she whispers into his hair until she leaves them alone in the kitchen, too.

Bitty shoves away from the table to turn off the burner while Jack gets the ladle from the proper drawer and some plates like he was never gone.

“Are you going to tell me who he is, or are you just going to let everyone on the team make fun of me until they run an article in The Swallow about it?”

“I just can’t believe it! You like rock music, don’t you?”

Jack’s arm knocks into his on the way back to the table.

“Sure; Lynyrd Skynrd, The Allman Brothers, Neil Young—“

“You couldn’t sound more like a middle aged dad if you tried, Jack!”

Jack’s face is far too benign for comfort as he scoops gravy onto his spoon with a chunk of biscuit, and Bitty really should have expected the devastating line, “Then I guess it’s a good thing I came home to June Cleaver, isn’t it?”

The only successful defense against a raging blush is a strong offence, so Bitty replies, “It’s not helping your case that you know June Cleaver, but not David Bowie.

“Honestly, though. Golden Years? Heroes? The Man Who Sold The World?”

“Are those songs or albums?”

Eric frowns. If Nursey weren’t busy violating his bed, he’d probably be the best one to walk Jack through this conversation.

“The last two were both, I think, but they were all songs.” He giggles nervously and huffs a breath, grasping at straws. “Oh, come on, Ziggy Stardust?”

The last time Jack looked so suspicious was the only time Ransom tried to shoe check him in Eric’s memory, and it had ended in Rans walking to their hotel from the rink after their game against Brown.

“What about Ziggy Stardust?”

“Well, you know. David Bowie—Ziggy Stardust.”

“They worked together?”

“They were the same person,” Bitty says very carefully.

“That doesn’t sound—“ Jack grunts a little, takes a huge bite, and chews thoroughly. It looks like he might be inspecting his feet under the table, but Bitty’s sure he’s just projecting. Jack’s not even wearing shoes to check, and they don’t keep ketchup in the Haus for exactly this reason.

(Bitty know Holster and Ransom have a stash in their closet. They know he knows, and they’ve reached an understanding. There will be hell to pay if Bitty’s trust is shattered.)

“Orange juice?” Jack asks, voice still thrumming with consternation, and Bitty can only smile helplessly and accept.

It takes until they finish their plates for Jack to come back to the subject. It’s nearly noon by this point, and Shitty has come in as naked as none of Bitty’s fondest memories, planting bristly kisses on both of their temples.

“Lardo had like two biscuits still in her room but she wouldn’t let me touch ‘em. Said she was carbo-loading for her next piece. Senior fuckin’ year, man.”

“So, what about Freddie Mercury?” Jack asks over his second cup of coffee.

“I don’t really think he’s worrying about his carbs anymore, but good talk.”

“Um. What about Freddie Mercury?” Bitty tries warily.

Shitty’s eyes are focused on them while he unerringly brings food to his mouth. His mustache suffers a little, but even drenched in rue it looks better than it had only a few weeks ago.

“You know, that song? Under Pressure? Is Freddie another stage name?”

“Are you asking me if Freddie Mercury is another one of David Bowie’s personas?”

Eyes widening, he looks over to Shitty.

“No.”

“Jack. Jack Zimmermann. This is a new low. Wasn’t Iman at your parents’ wedding? David Bowie’s her goddamn husband.”

“Why do you know so much about my parents’ wedding?”

“Your mom Skypes me sometimes,” Shitty waves a dismissive hand. “I’m gonna be a lawyer, jackass, you’re not distracting me that easy.”

“Of course I didn’t think they were the same person. You guys are too easy,” Jack says, voice clipped. He’s so monotone, so unconvincing, shoulders hunched defensively and chin tucked down toward his clavicle that Bitty can hardly stand to watch.

“You sure got me, Mr. Zimmermann. Like anyone would ever think something so silly! Now, why don’t we put this food in the fridge so it doesn’t go bad? I don’t think anyone else will be awake until the afternoon.”

Bitty says “let’s,” but he always only ever means himself when it comes to leftover storage. None of the boys really have the spatial reasoning skills required to play the expert level fridge Tetris Bitty keeps going on a daily basis, and Lardo can’t be trusted around the food to help. Vast quantities go missing whenever she offers, and it isn’t until she makes a stone-faced trip once a month or so to the kitchen with her arms full of crusty dishes that Bitty has hope of seeing them again.

Over the sound of scrubbing and running water, he can barely hear Jack and Shitty, and he likes that they have the time to themselves, limited though it is. He’s sure to be extra diligent with the pan Jack brutalized to give them all the time he can without being obvious about it, and he coughs to remind them he’s there before he turns the water off.

“It’s great; it’s just that it’ll never quite be home, eh?” Jack whispers, voice traveling all the way across the room. Bitty could probably be at the Stanley cup final in the nosebleeds and hear Jack calling plays from the ice after training his ear to listen for him for so long.

Shitty crawls into Jack’s lap, arms locked tightly around his head so Jack’s cheek is pressed to his bare chest.

“Home is where the fuckin’ heart is, my brother.”

It should be absurd—Shitty, stark naked on Jack’s lap like an exhibitionist child whose Santa has shed the bowl full of jelly. Eric’s enchanted, though, and when Jack’s head tilts just enough so he can roll his eyes to meet Bitty’s, he can feel himself getting weepy.

Jack’s eyes flutter closed and he breathes in deep against Shitty’s chest while his cheeks flush bright red as if it’s him who should be embarrassed but the whole situation.

“Get off of me and get dressed, you bag of milk,” he grouses without making any apparent effort to move.

Eric sniffles and knows he’s losing the battle of staying composed, but hopefully if he keeps himself busy tweeting about how appallingly Canadian Jack is the moment will pass.

___

“Chow, ask her now.”

Bitty doesn’t bother asking questions about his more senior frogs anymore. It had taken all of the spring semester for Dex to accept that he wasn’t going to get Jack’s dibs. It wasn’t any sort of mark against his character—Jack liked Dex just fine—but with three rising seniors in the Haus for the 2015-2016 school year it had seemed ridiculous to everyone to move in only one half of a defensive pair when there would be room for both of them soon enough.

And if it were his own subversive way of getting Dex and Nursey to admit that they’d be sharing a room, then no one but Jack and the clever mastermind behind the whole scheme would ever know. Once the dibs was sealed with a handshake, there were no take backs.

It doesn’t mean that the two of them have been any less contentious with one another, if the number of nights Nursey’s crashed on the couch is anything to go by, but Eric isn’t a relationship expert by any stretch.

“It’s eight AM on a Saturday. She’ll murder me.”

“It’s like two weeks until the party. They’re gonna announce the themes today.”

“What? Really?”

“Chyeah,” Nursey scoffs.

“Bitty, do you really think they’re giving the themes out today?”

He’s reheating the oven baked oatmeal he’d made yesterday as an incentive for Ransom to leave his room and seek sustenance, and the warm smell of apples and cinnamon rushes in a burst out of the oven door. If anyone has noticed that he doubled the maple syrup quantity since the last time he’s made this, they haven’t been foolish enough to mention it to Eric’s face just yet. He’s sort of coping.

“It’s getting awful close. If they don’t announce it today, they can’t really expect people to show up in costume.”

Not many people this far north have the same ideas of courtesy that Bitty’s been raised with, and the Men’s Hockey team tries his patience on its best days, but no one with any sense would leave only one weekend to shop for a themed party. He hasn’t met many of the volleyball girls, but Cait Farmer has a good head on her shoulders. If she weren’t already busy with her team, Eric would have put her name in to the coaches ages ago as Lardo’s successor.

Chowder whines disconsolately, pulling his phone out of the front pocket of his hoodie and dialing with morbid slowness.

“I’m not sure what this gallows march is about, but I’ve heard you’re supposed to get a last meal,” Eric says. He hands them each bowls with spoons tucked neatly into the sides and serves himself with a furrowed brow while Chowder waits.

“Hi Cait! Were you sleeping? Um, I’m sorry, but I had a question about the party?”

His eyes flicker nervously to Nursey and his mouth drops into a heartbreakingly dismayed frown.

“I’m so sorry! You can go back to sleep! It’s not impor—“

“Chowder, you pussy, let me on the line,” Nursey grunts around his spoon.

“She had a midnight assignment due last night, she—“

The bowl clatters dangerously at the edge of the table when Nursey lurches forward and snatches Chowder’s phone. Bitty’s heart stills for one terrified moment, and he heaves a huge sigh of relief when the bowl steadies.

“Derek, what do you want?”

“You need to make the SMH theme musicians.”

“Chris, is this why you called me on a Saturday morning?” Farmer’s voice resonates frighteningly through the phone speakers. Chowder’s hands flap urgently; he’s desperate to apologize, but Nursey slaps a hand on his shoulder and forces him still.

“Just agree and then you can go back to sleep,” Nurse reasons levelly.

Eric tries to be as unobtrusive as possible when he picks up Nursey’s oatmeal to put it somewhere safe, but his timing is off.

“My team’s doing musicians—we’re going dress up like the Bad Blood video. You guys’ll have to be something else.”

Nursey has a tab going of dishware he owes the Haus. Since his frog year he’s broken three glasses (the sum total of real glasses owned among seven total occupants), four mugs, four plates, two bowls, and the faucet in Jack and Shitty’s bathroom. Bitty’s pet hope is that the tab will run so high that the Nurse family will just have to renovate the whole building.

In the poor boy’s defense, this bowl full of hot cereal shattering on the kitchen floor wasn’t entirely his fault.

Chowder seems to have some kind of full-body reaction to the idea of the volleyball team in leather, and he wails, “Nursey, is it really worth it?” just as Eric’s arm is snaking between them to clear the table.

Nursey, failing to realize that he exists in three dimensional space off the ice, brings his arm up in a high arc, saying, “Haven’t you heard the plan? Of course it is,” as his forearm clips Bitty’s elbow.

“Oh no, “ Eric sighs, resigned.

His eyes meet Nursey’s, which to his credit seem just a bit repentant. Bitty’s not sure how much of that regret is for the wasted food, though.

“You hurt, Bitty?” Nursey asks under the noise of the impact.

“No, I’m fine. I’ll go get the broom.”

Chowder hurries to give Farmer the full play-by-play, reassuring her that everything is okay; no hockey players were harmed.

“I’ll clean it up, man.”

“Oh, hon.” Bitty grins and ruffles the soft peak of Nursey’s hair. It earns him an eye roll, but he feels entitled. “No you won’t,” he adds, and he heads out to the supply closet.

“Yeah, alright. Just add it to my tab,” Nursey calls out behind him, before returning to the negotiation that started all the trouble.
___

“Bits, I need you to do me a solid,”

“Ransom! Have a seat! I was just about to whip something up for dinner, and I haven’t had a chance to try out that poutine recipe on you yet,” Bitty says, hastily yanking a chair out from the kitchen table. It might be the first time Ransom’s voluntarily spoken to anyone but Holster since classes started.

Ransom looks at the chair like he’s not sure what it’s for (he might not remember—he’s been on the floor or on ice basically every time Eric’s seen him lately), but he does eventually sink into it.

“Yo, have we always had cushions on these chairs?” he asks.

Bitty bites his lip and gets the potatoes from where they’ve been soaking in the fridge, trying not to sigh.

“I brought them with me from home—Moo Maw’s quilting circle made them.”

“Right. That’s cool.”

Ransom holds his hands out in front of him and flexes his fingers, watching the tendons strain against the smooth skin of his hands. There’s a fine trembling that sets Bitty’s teeth on edge. Ransom’s a great player, of course, but he can’t help but wonder if the C is going to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

He plugs in an electric kettle to brew some tea before setting up his fry station.

“You wanted me to do something for you?” Eric asks.

“Yeah. So, you might’ve noticed that I’m sucking all kinds of ass at this captain thing.”

Eric drops his armful of utensils to the counter with a clatter and spins on his heel to give Ransom a stern look.

“You’re doing just fine! Practices are going well and the guys are really happy in their lines. We’re looking great for our first game!”

When Ransom looks up at him with a tight, tired smile, Bitty knows exactly what he’s about to hear.

“That’s not really what being captain’s about.”

He saw the same look on Jack’s face before Jack went and made the rounds before last year’s blizzard to make sure everyone who lived away from the Haus was prepared. He saw it when Jack had started up their checking practices again, and that, if anything, reassures him that Ransom was the right choice.

“Yeah, I know. And you know. That’s half the battle right there.”

“Dude, are you making me tea?” Ransom groans. He may be the most receptive to pumpkin spice, and so far the only convert to peppermint white hot chocolate come November, but when it comes to tea, Ransom holds onto his bro cred just as fiercely as Bitty would have imagined.

It doesn’t seem to matter that Bitty, Lardo, Chowder, and Nursey have weekly tea parties, taking turns brewing their favorite blends (Eric had put his foot down about bringing the snacks himself). Steeped leaf water is apparently just inherently less masculine than percolated bean juice. Bitty doesn’t need to understand.

“I’m concerned for your health. Your blood’s probably more taurine than plasma by now.”

Ransom’s left eye twitches.

“Taurine is a totally legit naturally occurring acid in the body, and it’s a goddamn building block for fucking life itself—“

“Guess if it came out of a bull’s testicles it’d better be,” Bitty mutters, turning his head quickly away to pour the boiling water so Rans won’t see the smirk stretching across his face. Eric’s shoulders are shaking from the effort of holding in his laughter; it’s probably a moot point, but he’s going to try.

“Ha fucking ha, Bits. If I weren’t trying to ask you for a favor I’d be schooling you on some basic-ass bio.”

“Right, avoiding that at all costs,” he confirms, placing a mug on the table. He points menacingly. “You’d better drain that cup, sir.”

Ransom rolls his eyes, but he takes a sip under Bitty’s gaze before Eric’s confident that he can start cooking without the Haus plant getting doused with boiling water.

“Huh. That’s like. Decent.”

“Have I ever steered you wrong?” Bitty asks sweetly.

“Two words: boat shoes.”

They both shudder at the unfortunate memory and spend a moment in silence. Bitty had had the best intentions, but Ransom’s wardrobe is nuanced beyond his understanding, and he’d let his bro down.

“Point taken. Now, get on with it, or I’ll have to find a way to ship these glorified cheese fries to Providence.”

Ransom’s eyes narrow fiercely, and his hand spasms around the mug, but he shakes his head at the last minute. It sets Bitty on edge.

“It’s basically impossible to follow an act like Jack Zimmermann, right?” he finally spits out after staring into space for a few moments.

Eric’s not blushing—he’s dumping his potato wedges into hot oil and they’re letting off a lot of steam. Anyone would turn bright red, and it wouldn’t have anything to do with thinking about Jack. Not about having a crush on him, or about the handful of dead end flirtations with cute boys who’d done nothing for Bitty because they weren’t Jack. He’s just the victim of some cosmic timing SNAFU.

“That’s not a fair question, Rans. No one’s comparing you to Jack.”

“Uh, what was that? That’s weird; I could’ve sworn Eric Bittle lived here but apparently I’m still Hausmates with Bull Shitty Knight.”

“Okay, fine, people are comparing you, but so what? You played on his team for three years!”

When your teammate is an NHL free agent and a minor celebrity you get used to people comparing your performance to his pretty fast. It’d taken only a few games of playing on Jack’s line hearing “Bittle’s only got half of Zimmermann’s size, and it shows in the scramble for the puck,” and “he’s almost like a Zimmermann satellite—small, speedy, and flashy, but definitely not the main attraction,” for Bitty to get used to the shadow.

And the thing was, those people were wrong. As amazing a player as Jack is, you can’t play hockey with only one player, and Bitty complemented Jack. They worked well together.

“I know. That’s not the problem. I just don’t…” Ransom trails off quaffs the remainder of his drink. Eric’s not sure it’s cool enough for that to be a good idea, but at least Rans’s hands have stopped shaking.

“Jack trusted me with the team, and I’m not holding up my end of the deal.”

Bitty stops in the middle of stirring his gravy base and takes a good, hard look at his new captain. He’s not quite as fond of Ransom, and certainly not in the same way, but he loves Justin, and he trusts him to lead their team just as much as he trusted Jack.

“You’re worrying over nothing. It’s only October, and you’ve got time to figure out how to balance your responsibilities. Besides, we’ve all got your back.”

“I’m not going to cry in the kitchen after you made me herbal tea. That’s not happening,” Ransom insists, but his voice is tight. He quirks his lips when Bitty looks over his shoulder to check on him, but Eric darts his eyes away quickly. He doesn’t want to embarrass him.

“Anyway, all I wanted to know was if you’d ask Jack to come to our opener on the thirtieth.”

“Why don’t you ask? I know he’s got a game that Thursday, but after that I don’t think he’s playing again until the second.”

“Nah, man, I can’t. If I ask him it’ll be like a favor. Like, a captain-to-captain thing.”

Bitty pulls his fries out of the oils and drains them, eyeing Rans warily.

“I don’t follow how this is all related.”

Ransom props his elbows on his knees and rests his chin on his clasped hands.

“I’m like, shitting myself twenty-four/seven because I know Jack’s gonna come to one of our games, and I can’t deal with wondering if you know, this is the game he’ll turn up at.” Ransom gnaws at the cuticle of his thumb, and Bitty’s wracked with déjà vu. Jack’s a habitual nail biter, but Eric’s never seen Ransom do it.

“So if I just get it over with, right? Then it’ll be done and I can stop stressing out about if Jack’s gonna witness me fucking up his team first hand. Like, even if we get the piss beat out of us, at least I won’t be waiting for it anymore.”

Bitty wordlessly salts his fries and plates them, worrying his lower lip while he scatters curds liberally on top. He doesn’t answer until he turns the last burner off under the gravy.

“Of course I’ll invite Jack to our game. I’m serious as a heart attack when I say I’ll do whatever I can to help you. But I’ve got some news for you first.”

“Is it about bull balls?”

“No, it is a very serious piece of information for you. You keep calling it Jack’s team. And Jack was captain for a long time—three years. And lord knows I love him, but you’ve gotta realize it’s not his team anymore. It’s your team now, Rans.”

“Shit. Shut up,” Ransom whispers, chin dropped to his chest.

Bitty drizzles his gravy as the final touch to his first poutine and presents it with a flourish.

“Here; eat your troubles,” Eric prompts, handing him a fork. “But make sure you at least manage to taste a little bit before you inhale the whole thing. I’m going to need feedback.”

Ransom obediently takes a bite and signs elaborately with his hands something that ends with a thumbs up.

“Mmm, so this feedback. Any reason you want to nail down this recipe?” he asks with a full mouth. Bitty rolls his eyes and gets him a cup of water from the sink.

“My marketable skills are limited to cooking and club dancing, and I think I’d send my mother to an early grave if I took to the latter as a career option.”

“Right, right. Yeah, makes sense. Guess it has nothing to do with how much you love Jack Zimmermann then.”

Bitty tries to remember why he ever liked Ransom in the first place; sees his raised brow and wicked smirk; thinks he deserved the boat shoes and salmon shorts after all.

“I—well—I mean I love all of you. The whole team! Everyone!”

His bluster is more telling than anything else would have been, and Ransom crows with laughter. His mouth, once again, is full.

“I’m not giving you the Heimlich if you choke,” Bitty sulks.

“You must not love me as much as Jack, then.”

Bitty snatches the half-full plate away from Rans and takes it over to the counter.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be like that, Bits. Who else in this Haus is going to appreciate that work of art?”

Bitty huffs.

“Who said anything about the Haus? One of the new frogs is from Winnipeg. And if he doesn’t want any, then I’ll just have to make good on my threat and mail poutine to Rhode Island.”

“Bitty, you can’t waste this on a kid from Manitoba. I don’t care if Berry’s big enough to make Holster look like you; that’s just disrespectful to the poutine institution. The poutinstitution!”

Louis Behr is a full foot taller than Eric and broad enough that in his padding he has to shimmy sideways onto the rink though the doors. Beyond that, he’s fast—fast enough that he’s replaced Jack on the first line as a freshman. The football team and the basketball team have both been after him since Berry shook off Ransom and Holster during practice when they’d gone in to check him simultaneously from either side. He’d gotten an assist right after that trying out a new play, and Bitty’s thick gloves were the only thing keeping him from pinching the round apple cheeks of his smile.

SMH is blessed by Behr’s diehard patriotism. The only other team that tempted him was Men’s Lacrosse, but none of them had made award-winning mini pies for their prospective students’ tour.

“I dunno, I like him a lot more than you right now, and he’s not asking for any favors neither,” he teases, but he doesn’t put up a fight when Ransom takes the plate back.

“I could ask someone else, but like, Jack never says no to you. I figured you were my best bet.” Ransom shrugs and stuffs about half a potato’s worth of fries into his mouth. “These are ‘swawesome by the way.”

“Thanks,” he says, a little distracted. “I think I’d double fry them next time, but the single fry didn’t turn out too bad.”

The thing of it is, thinking about it, he can’t actually remember a time Jack has said no to him about something. Not since they’ve been friends, anyway. Big or small, it’s been relatively painless getting Jack to agree to everything from installing Snapchat to spending a week of his summer in Georgia, of all places. The thought kind of niggles at the back of Bitty’s brain and makes his belly quiver—he remembers all the times he’s insisted on selfies or music or anything that might have pushed Jack out of his comfort zone and wonders if Jack ever wanted to say no and didn’t.

“Maybe Lardo can ask him? I’m not sure I—“

Rans frowns and puts his empty plate in the sink before looking Bitty up and down.

“You know I won’t tell anyone about your super obvious crush on Jack, right Bits?”

Bitty grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes in lieu of answering and makes some sort of moan in the affirmative.

“I’ll get Lardo to call him, but as your bro and captain, it’s basically my God-given duty to get you laid.”

“Oh, Ransom, no, you do not need to do that, please—“

“No matchmaking, I promise. Just do some introspection about why Jack pretty much turns into the heart eyes emoji whenever you guys are in the same room.”

Eric can’t bring himself to look up from the tiled kitchen floor, and his entire body is hot from the force of his embarrassment, but even though his eyes sting Bitty’s beaming with pride.

“Whatever you say, captain.”

___

“Bitty—life or death sitch here,” Lardo announces, kicking his door in with her laptop open in one arm and a bottle of wine filched from the bar at one of her friends’ shows in the other. From the way she’s carrying it, it looks about half full.

“What’s the matter?” He’d been filming, but he doesn’t actually know if he has anything useful. He doesn’t remember what he’s been talking about exactly, but he knows he sat down fifteen minutes ago intending to talk about a recipe for candy corn custard. Lardo’d interrupted him talking about a nasty hit Jack took in his last game.

He’s in for a long night of editing.

“Do you know what you’re wearing yet to the volleyball party?”

Bitty spins in his seat and leans his elbows on the back of his chair. Lardo’s made herself comfortable on his bed, and he can just make out Shitty’s bare shoulder from the distance.

“Shitty! Hi! You coming down this weekend, too?”

“Hell fucking yeah, man. Cambridge is a cesspool fifty-one weeks a year; I’m not hanging around when the Kennedys or whoever the shit decide to add anonymous sex and E to the mix.”

Eric gives up any pretense of keeping his distance after only a few second and curls onto his bed next to Lardo. Shitty looks amazing compared to the last time they’ve Skyped. He looks like he’s actually slept, for one thing, but more than that, talking about Harvard doesn’t kill the sheen in his eyes or set his jaw rigid in seconds flat the way it had only a few days ago.

“Focus, men. Costumes. Bitty, ideas.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know. There aren’t a whole lot of musicians I could pass for. I guess Bruno Mars and I are about the same height, but there’s not much of a resemblance besides. I could always go the Bieber route, but…”

He has too many people who love him to let them down that way. When Lardo pats him solidly on the shoulder, he knows he made the right choice.

“I really wanted to do a group costume, but the guys are being shifty as all get out with me whenever I ask what they’re wearing.”

“Yeah, the fuck’s up with Nurse? He asked me where he could get overalls from somewhere that wasn’t as morally contemptible as Urban Outfitters but wouldn’t make him want to puke blood. Y’know, in so many words.”

Eric furrows his brow.

“Does Nursey… how does he buy things? Exactly?”

Lardo shrugs languorously. “Thrifting mostly, I think. You know, the there is no ethical consumption under capitalism shtick. Bro’s rich enough to actually try to give a shit, so more power to him.”

“But—overalls? And why didn’t he ask me?” He cringes just a touch at the vivid memories of folks wandering around town clad shoulder to ankle in denim and resolutely doesn’t think about the years Coach tried to take him fishing at the lake to bond. Bitty’d hated fishing for the most part, and it took him a good long time to get over the squeamishness of the killing, but they found a happy medium when Eric would fry up the catch of the day for dinner.

“Aw, don’t feel bad. He probably just knew I had an in with the drama department. They did Oklahoma my freshman year and they hoard costumes like you wouldn’t believe.”

Bitty was a champion figure skater—he’s pretty skeptical and it shows. There’d been an entire room in their old house dedicated to his costumes before Coach got his new job, and those were just the ones he wore in a given season.

“Nah, she’s right Bits. It’s like Narnia except if the whole fuckin’ place was just more wardrobe,” Shitty’s gaze goes fuzzy and distant. “A timeline of gender performativity through United States history; got me hella honors and a dozen pics of me in corsets.”

“And the original files are stowed on a flash drive for a very rainy day,” Lardo murmurs; she’s just tipsy enough that she has to brace herself on Bitty’s shoulder and her lips brush his ear.

He snickers and wraps up her hand in his.

“I dunno about Nursey, but I tried to ask Holster if he had any plans and all he did was ask me who looked better with a beard—him or Ransom.”

“Dangerous territory,” Shitty says after a drawn out whistle. “Where’d you land?”

“I told him they both looked nice, of course, and he just threw up his hands and stormed off!”

Lardo shakes her head. “Dude. Justin Oluransi is the reason chins were invented. If he covers that up with scruff before playoffs, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Bitty tries to sputter an apology, but Lardo ignores him to check her phone when it buzzes.

“Alright, let’s get our act together. Holster just asked me if you can do frosted tips when you’re already blond. How are we gonna one-up these assholes?”

He gets the same ominous feeling in his gut he feels when the boys upstairs start looking at him speculatively while they’re scrolling through their Facebook friends, so be decides to help himself to the full bodied red Lardo’s been nursing.

It’s probably the best wine Bitty’s ever had outside of the glass of champagne he’s been allowed at New Year’s since he turned sixteen, and after a second sip he feels much better.

“Can you even one-up something when you don’t know what you’re supposed to be one-upping?” he asks.

“What the fuck are you guys doing down there? It’s like you’ve never done recon a day in your lives!” Shitty’s knee knocks his computer when he flails with his indignity and it clatters to the floor. Bitty looks dutifully away when it becomes clear that Shitty’s business is trying to acquaint itself with the camera, cackling when Lardo boos and heckles.

“Maybe we can’t do recon for shit, but at least we know how to dress ourselves,” she says, hiding her face in the side of Bitty’s arm while she shakes with laughter.

Shitty sits back in front of the camera and stares them down.

“The hell are you bragging for? I haven’t put on pants in two days and I still managed to find out Jack’s costume. That’s more than both of you put together!”

He takes another sip from the bottle and smiles broadly. No one told him Jack was staying for longer than just to watch their Yale game, but he’s been better about keeping his cards close to the chest since his slip up with Rans. He just makes a note to ask about it when he calls Jack tomorrow.

“Yo,” Lardo says heavily. “I just had, the best idea.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not even gonna ask what I found out? Let me feel a little useful, Lards.”

She waves a hand at him and hooks Eric around the neck with her other arm, dragging him close to the screen.

“I’ll probably have to smoke up the stage assistant, but we’ve gotta get our hands on some greasepaint and some temporary hair dye.”

“Uh, greasepaint?”

“It’s a miracle, Bits. Oh, and we’ll need spandex galore tout de fuckin’ suite. You know anyone from your figure skating days?”

The bottle must not have been as fully as he thought it was when Lardo first came in, because he drains it with one last drink and grins.

“I’m on it, y’all.”

___

Bitty’d called Jack the day of the Falconers’ first win. He wouldn’t have called before the game except under the direst circumstances, but Mama Bittle had send a care package to Providence and wouldn’t give Eric a moment’s peace until he promised to check to see if Jack had gotten it.

So, Eric called, and then later that night Jack scored his fifth, sixth, and seventh NHL goals, the Falconers won at home against Philadelphia and a tradition was established whether Bitty meant for it to happen or not.

It’s obviously a great hardship to spend a half hour two or three times a week just listening to Jack’s running commentary about whatever pregame prep he happens to be doing, but Bitty’s willing to make sacrifices for the greater good.

“If I told you I was making peanut butter and jelly, would you believe me?” Eric asks. His hands are busy with prep, so he has Jack on speaker.

“It’s a nice gesture, but I don’t think you’d be able to get it up here before I have to hit the ice,” Jack replies. “I wouldn’t believe you anyway. You know better by now than to challenge the tradition.”

Bitty scoffs. “Shows what you know, Mr. Zimmermann. Besides, just ‘cause I’m making it doesn’t mean it’s for you. I have other friends.”

“Have they invented a way to send food through twitter, then? I don’t follow tech news, but I think I would’ve heard about that.”

Some days, Bitty thinks back fondly to the days when Jack didn’t talk to him at all except to yell at him or tell him he wasn’t eating right. Then he either sees or thinks about the dopey face Jack makes whenever he thinks he’s being funny and he comes to his senses.

“I don’t know how I’ve made it in this Haus two whole months without you here to chirp me every time I so much as breathe.”

He redoubles his efforts in mixing the batter for what will eventually become peanut butter cookies with a raspberry reduction drizzle for Farmer’s party. Technically, if other people eat them, they can’t have been for one specific person, so Bitty won’t have been lying.

“That must be why you called before that Flyers game. You do have a habit of fitting yourself into my game day routine.” Jack chuckles while Bitty splutters some sort of defense.

“You never did tell me if you got that package—mother wouldn’t let me hear the end of it when she called me that night and I had to tell her I didn’t get a straight answer.”

“Oh, the sweater she sent? I wrote her a few weeks ago to thank her.”

Naturally, Mama Bittle’s left that information out every time she’s called to remind Bitty that he needs to keep better tabs on Jack; that he’s all on his own in Providence and if Eric isn’t checking up on him who else will be?

“Of course you did. You probably sent an actual letter on real stationery. Sent it down to Georgia by snail mail.”

“I’ve met your mother, Dicky, You were raised to send thank you notes just like I was.”

Eric figures the best option for his health is to completely ignore the way Jack uses his family nickname just as easily as anyone at Samwell has ever called him Bitty and groans.

“Georgians and Canadians, Jack. We’ve gotta stick together.”

A few moments pass in silence, Bitty trying to figure out the most casual way to ask for every detail about the upcoming weekend while he combines his wet and dry ingredients. So far, all he can think to say is, “How about when you stay down here this weekend you just don’t leave ever again?”

It’s not his best line.

“I really like the sweater. No one’s ever made me one before,” Jack finally says.

“Good! Mother would always knit when she was in the stands during my practices. She used to make sweaters for me all the time, but once I stopped figure skating I didn’t really need them anymore.” He’d thought about bringing them with him to Massachusetts, but in the end he’s glad he didn’t. The person Bitty’s been able to be at Samwell is so different from the person he pretended he was back home, and he doesn’t want to look any more like Madison Eric than he can help.

“It’s big on me. I didn’t think—I mean, you’re so small. The sleeves go past my hands unless I roll them up.”

“It’s been almost an hour since someone got me for being tiny. I thought maybe I was growing!”

“In your dreams, Bittle,” Jack teases gently, but he’s just a touch flat, and when his tone is more subdued, Bitty isn’t surprised. “The only clothes I’ve ever had that were too big for me were my dad’s growing up, and I’ve been bigger than him since I was sixteen. It’s just a little weird.”

The idea of a small Jack—relatively small, considering Bitty’s seen pictures, and Jack was a chubby bugger up until about fourteen—drowning in Bad Bob’s old practice jersey during a shinny squeezes Eric’s heart like a vice.

“It used to make me feel safe,” Bitty says. “All my clothes were too big unless we got them tailored, and when I could tuck my hands up in my sleeves and hide my knees under the hem I’d feel like a had kind of a shield.”

He’s not sure why he said it; he remembers feeling brittle and vulnerable back in Georgia whenever he wasn’t skating. It wasn’t like wearing a hand-knit sweater his mama made for him made the big, gay target on his back any smaller, but sometimes it made him less scared. Like if he got locked in another closet overnight, at least he’d be warm until the janitor let him out.

Jack’s quiet for long enough that Bitty checks twice to see if the call dropped, but after clearing his throat roughly he murmurs, “Yeah, safer’s a good word for it.”

While his cell is in his hand, the front door bangs open, and Holster bustles in with two stop and shop bags hooked on one wrist and his backpack sliding down his arm. His nostrils flare when he spots Bitty in the kitchen; he drops everything after a second’s pause and makes a b-line for him.

“Is that hockey legend, Falconers forward Jack Laurent Zimmermann you have on the phone in there?”

Eric bristles, but doesn’t deny anything.

“I don’t know why none of y’all believe I have any other friends,” he gripes when he puts his phone back down.

Holster drags a chair over to the counter and straddles it, staring seriously at Bitty’s phone like he expects Jack to be able to feel the gravity of his gaze through persistence along.

“I need you to bring some extra flannel shirts when you come down tomorrow.”

“Hey, Holster. What’s up?” Jack asks mildly.

“I NEED YOUR FLANNEL, BRO.”

The windows rattle in the frames as Bitty decides that he’s much more concerned with testing his recipe than investigating the short urgency straining coloring Holster’s plea.

Jack sounds nonplussed, saying, “You have twenty pounds on me, Holster.”

“That’s even better.”

“I—okay. Do you want anything specific?”

“Thanks, man. Just bring two or three different colors for me to pick from and it should be good.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow, then.” Jack says it sort of sharply, and Eric’s breath catches, realizing only at the last minute that Holster barging in on a phone call might make Jack’s apprehensive little heart anxious about playing later on.

Holster snaps his head around to watch Bitty’s alarmed shooing with smile that totally doesn’t suit the situation. He waggles his eyebrows even as Bitty tries to bodily shove him from the chair and can barely contain his laughter.

“Yeah, talk to you later,” he manages to cough out. He flings out an arm and gets to his feet, slinging Eric over his shoulder with insultingly little effort.

It’s not as unfamiliar a position as Bitty wishes it were.

“I get it, Holster. I’m a tall, and you’re a venti. Now, could you please put me down before you bruise my ribs along with my dignity?”

“Holtz?” Jack chimes in, and Bitty wails in defeat. “Do you have your phone on you?”

“Perk up Bits, it’s selfie time!”

He shoves himself up with one hand one the back on the chair and the other crossed under his stomach against Holster’s shoulder. His neck creaks worse than the attic floorboards, but he does get his face turned about halfway toward Holster’s ear and he can see the camera in his hand.

Eric gives his best withering glare, muttering too low for Jack to hear, “If you’re looking for perky booty pics, you shoulda picked someone else.”

“You’re delusional, dude. Let’s see what Jack thinks.”

Economics major and professional-grade menace Adam Birkholtz lets Bitty slide to the floor with a bark of laughter. He fiddles on his phone, high-tailing it out of the room, and all Bitty has time to do is consider the merit of crawling under the sink and staying there for a few years before Jack hums.

“One of the guys on the team showed me how to open texts while I’m on the phone,” he says smugly.

“How nice of him.”

“Oh.”

His student health insurance doesn’t cover Zimmermann-induced bouts of humiliation, and it’s just about the only thing stopping him from smacking his head into the counter.

“Why does Holster need my shirts?”

“Definitely for Halloween, I just don’t have a clue what he’s planning.”

Bitty goes over to the fridge and pulls the door open. He knows he needs something from inside, he just can’t remember exactly what it was right now. And, well, the cool air feels pretty good on his overheated face.

“Do you know what everyone else is going as?”

“This whole Haus is full of sneaks! Holster gets cagey, Ransom rolls his eyes, and Chowder and Nursey have been bringing home junk for the past two weeks and hiding it in your room. I have no clue what’s going on!”

“My room?”

Jack might not have been too far off before when he suggested moving Eric’s bed into the kitchen, but at this rate Bitty’s going to get frostbite and he can’t seem to remember whatever ulterior motive had him going to the fridge in the first place.

“Oh, you know what I meant. You’ll tell me who you’re going as, right?”

“Eh; it’s just some oldies guy. Probably no one you know anyway. What about you, Shits, and Lardo? He said the three of you had a group costume planned.”

Giggles peal high and bright out of Bitty, and he has to shove his knuckles into his mouth to keep them from echoing through the whole room. He’s going to have to scrap his batter, but he can live with that. A little spontaneity never hurt anyone, after all.

“Oh, no. I can’t be the only one going in unprepared! You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“I don’t know how I’ll bear the suspense. I do have to go down to the stadium now, though—“

“Sure! Of course,” Bitty replies, but a thought occurs to him just as he’s about to hang up, “Just, uh, where are you staying this weekend? And how long will we have you?”

“I would’ve gotten a hotel room, but Lardo told me just to stay at the Haus. I thought I’d sleep on the couch.”

“Like Hell you will, Mr. Zimmermann. You can have my bed.”

“I’m not going to put you out of your own bed again. I know how much you hate that couch, and I’ve had worse nights of sleep, eh?”

Jack has this way of knocking the wind out of you and making you want to cry with only a few innocuous words. Pursing his lips, he has to shake away all the different speculations of what sorts of worse nights Jack might be talking about before he can trust he’ll speak normally.

“We can make it work so neither of us has to sleep on that biohazard,” he says, voice careful and steady. He doesn’t even think about it until it sounds like Jack’s coughing up a lung over the speaker.

“Excuse you! I was talking about me doubling up with Lardo. Get your mind out of the gutter!”

“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t—“ Jack stops speaking at the least appropriate moment for Bitty’s sanity possible.

“Uh, Jack? You haven’t—?” he asks in his meekest voice.

“With Shitty. Doubled up. And back in Juniors sometimes. Uh. Right, I’m running late. Thanks for calling, I’ll see you tomorrow, Bittle.”

“Good—“ Jack hangs up, “luck.”

It takes him longer than usual to clean up after himself, trashing his desiccated peanut butter dough and soaking the bowl to work off all the dried edges, and he’s practically bogged down in his own thoughts, moving through molasses the whole time.

Mama Bittle forgive him, he decides to everything in the sink and sulk in Lardo’s bed until he snaps out of his sudden funk.

It doesn’t take long—she’s talking Shitty through last minute outfit details, and finally she Skypes him because she doesn’t trust him when he tells her he has something “close enough” to a yellow biking jacket.

“A windbreaker is not a fucking biker jacket, you asswipe,” she moans into her pillows.

“Lardo, you’re overthinking it. He has a white tank top and jeans. All he needs is a studded belt and his aviators really—“

She peers up at him with one eye, daring him to continue, and Bitty looks helplessly over to the screen.

“Fine. I guess if you don’t care about committing to your art you can do that. Bits, you take care of it, I’m out.”

Lardo kind of somersaults off of her bed, landing with her feet on the floor in a way none of the dedicated athletes she lives with could hope to do. When she opens her door, Ransom is blocking the exit.

“Swear I’m not spying on you guys, but I heard you call someone an asswipe, and I need to ask Shitty for a favor.”

“Rans! Save me!”

Lardo crosses her arms and Ransom shakes his head quickly.

“Nah, Shits. I was just wondering: do you have any of your super pretentious Harvard Law suits I could borrow?”

“I can bring one down with me tomorrow, but you’ve got hella muscle mass on me. And like, three inches.”

Just like he has every other time their costumes have come up, Ransom shrugs with fond exasperation.

“According to Holtzy that’s not going to be a problem. He said none of mine were tight enough.”

Bitty crawls onto his knees. He waddles over to the edge of Lardo’s mattress and clasps his hands together under his chin.

“Please, Rans. Please, just put me out of my misery. What are y’all planning?”

“The only reason I agreed to this is because Holster promised it’d get me hella pussy. I don’t even know if it’s worth it anymore.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

Ransom looks like he’s about to relent. He rubs his face with one hand and sighs, takes a breath, and then Lardo shoves him out of the room.

“I want you to sit in there and think about what you’ve done!” she hollers.

Shitty’s crowing laughter is poor consolation.

___

Providence wins Thursday night against Pittsburg, and Bitty only asks Jack once if it would be in bad taste to ask Sidney Crosby for an autograph. The answer, no, but I’ll see if Uncle Mario can figure something out for you, is unexpected and has Bitty asking for the first time what Uncle Mario’s last name is.

Classes drag by the way they always do the day of a home game on Friday, and Bitty’s only relief from the deadening boredom of a History of American Textile Production is his cell phone.

American Studies=more than just food? I’m doing a concentration, but there are only so many professors at Samwell who can be bribed with pie, he tweets during the lecture.

Maybe if you paid attention in class you wouldn’t need to bribe your teachers, Jack texts back less than a minute later.

Eric thinks George is great; she’s friendly and really takes care of Jack. However, she also set him loose on Twitter with no proper guidance except a PR intern from the team who asked Jack on his first day if he wanted to link his account to his Facebook. Eventually he did, but first he had to look up the password to the account he set up for Networking during his draft year and hadn’t used at all since.

In the intern’s defense, Jack doesn’t call Tweeting “texting” anymore.

Bitty takes a screenshot and posts it with the chick emoji.

Why couldn’t y’all’ve taken this class with me? It fills a social science credit, he types out morosely for the SMH group chat.

WD: social science credits are what ap classes are for
AH: bro. econ major. i’d make everyone in that room cry every week. including you.
JO: hahahahahahahahahahahaha
DN: ?
JO: “social science”
JO: lmao
JO: good one
WD: chill out rans, that’s pretty harsh.
DN: yeah rans
WD: FUCK
DN: chill out
WD: GET OUT OF MY HEAD
DN: :-*

When I win Jeopardy because I know when denim was first used to make blue jeans, you’ll be sorry.

He takes another screenshot and sends this one to Jack and Shitty. At the moment, he knows Shitty’s en route to Samwell, but he’d be mortally offended if he weren’t included in the text.

His phone buzzes against his desk and draws dirty looks from half the hall, so Bitty is careful to affect paying attention for a minute or two before he reads the message.

Interesting. When was denim first used to make blue jeans?

He’s not sure how he’s going to make it through the rest of this day and onto the ice tonight, but he’s got to; he’s got to do it without succumbing to the besotted flush trying to creep up his neck or without collapsing into chuckles at the tail end of a lecture about work trousers.

I’m sure it’s somewhere in my notes, he replies hastily.

___

“Jack goddamn Zimmermann is out there tonight, gents! The most famous person you’ll probably ever be near!”

Jack got caught in rush hour traffic on his way down, but Shitty’s there in plenty of time to give the team a pep talk.

Berry raises his hand and offers, “I sat next to Paul McCartney on a plane once.”

“That’s cool as shit,” Holster whispers even as Shitty’s jaw clicks shut.

“You taddies have one of the best professional players in the league out there watching, and he’s cheering for you.”

Ransom stands up and punches Shitty hard in the shoulder.

“Are you trying to make them piss in their jocks? Because that’s what’s happening with at least—“ he pauses and scans the locker room. “Two of them. I can’t tell if Chow has to pee or if he’s just bouncing like usual.”

Shitty blinks and grabs Berry by the shoulders, shaking him. It’s marginally less effective than Bitty’s attempts at hip checking Jack.

“No, listen to me, brah. You don’t have to be nervous. Jack’s not out there because you’re supposed to impress him. Jack’s out there because he loves you beautiful little dickweeds. He believes in you and shit!”

“Dude.”

“I’ll see myself out.”

___

They don’t win, but they only lose by a single goal in overtime, and Bitty refuses to be sad about the loss. Berry scored in his first game, Bitty shook off two checks, and even though Chowder looks like he might cry, a 1-2 game is nothing to sneeze at.

Dex took a nasty hit during the second period, falling flat on the ice after bouncing into the boards, but he got up right away and he and Nursey swapped out for the rest of the game. They got into a fight in the locker room about how quick Nursey was to start a scrum. As far as Bitty can tell, they haven’t spoken since, but they stick next to each other sullenly through the kegster anyway.

“Why is there a party if we lost?” Berry asks, carrying a keg up from the basement without missing a step.

“It’s the weekend of Halloween and this was a frat house. There are traditions to uphold,” Bitty explains, following him with the tap. He’s about to explain that one of those traditions will involve somehow keeping him vertical and upside down perched on the keg he’s carrying so unsuspectingly, but Shitty rams into him first.

“You’re damn right there are traditions! Thank God I left this Haus in capable hands!” He squeezes Bitty’s face into his chest and Eric melts easily into the hug.

“I don’t know. That crash course you gave me and Lardo in property law pretty much went in one ear and out the other.”

“Pfft! Details. Now, let’s you and me see how many of us it takes to get Andre over here on that keg.”

“Oh, no. I don’t drink.” Berry tilts his chin to the floor, but he’s so tall that Eric still has a clear view of his nervous brown eyes.

“No worries. No one’s gonna make you if you don’t want to,” he assures him with a pat on the arm.

“I mean, kegsters are a rite of passage, and that goal was a beaut, but you’re not the first Wellie to run dry.”

“How much pot have you smoked, dude?” Lardo sneaks up behind them and puts a hand on Berry’s elbow, jerking her chin back over her from where she came. “They want the beer over there.”

Shitty wraps an arm comfortably around Lardo and Bitty’s shoulders and grins serenely. “I have smoked the exact right amount, Lards. And now, I must drink the exact right amount.”

“Sounds like something that should be carefully supervised.”

Shitty’s hair tickles Eric’s face, the ends bristling against his cheek as he nods emphatically.

“Alright, I’ll just—“ Bitty pulls softly away.

“Jack’s up in your room. Wanted to drop off his stuff and avoid the fun.”

Bitty doesn’t even bother defending himself. He slips out from under the lead weight of Shitty’s arm, bare in the Massachusetts fall weather, and heads straight up the stairs.

The door to his room is ajar, so he tiptoes in and closes it behind him in case any amorous couples get up to some mischief. Jack is lying comfortably on his bed, feet still in their shoes hanging over the edge, and Señor Bunny is tucked tight in his elbow.

Eric’s little gasp is louder than he means for it to be, but Jack doesn’t stir. The tap is still in his hand, but there are at least two others in the basement if they can’t wait for him to come back, so he sets it on his desk.

He hasn’t had a chance to talk to Jack since he left Providence, and as much as he’d love to wake him just to say hello, Bitty’s not about to interrupt the poor thing’s sleep when he made a special trip to see them play the day after a game. He doesn’t look comfortable, though. He still dresses like a high school gym teacher, but his running jacket can’t be pleasant to sleep in, his SMH cap is endearing but absurd, and there’s still the shoe situation to address.

Bitty can do this stealthily. He creeps over to the foot of his bed and eases the knots out of Jack’s laces. Jack, of course, being the sort of person to double knot his laces, is at least the type of person who also unties and reties his shoes every time he changes them. The knot aren’t tightened beyond all hope; they come out easily enough, and Bitty sets the sneakers on the floor by his door way.

The hat comes off, too, but Eric has no earthly idea how to disrobe a grown man without waking him up. Frankly, he doesn’t have a lot of practice with it under any circumstances at all.

Someone raps on his door, and Bitty has to bite back every swear word his mother thinks he’s never heard her say.

“Hey, Bitty! Um, Berry told me you had a tap for the keg because I couldn’t find any in the basement, and Ransom is trying to find a screwdriver and a hammer, so—“

Eric cracks open his door solely because Chowder is an impressionable youth and Mrs. Chow has told Bitty how much she appreciates that he looks after her son.

“Here you go. Tell everyone to keep it down when they’re upstairs. Jack’s asleep.”

Through the closed door, Bitty hears, “I’m so sorry, Bitty, I’ll make sure every one knows you guys are up here, don’t worry!” and finds that Jack’s awake at the very same moment.

“I stole the keg tap on accident.” Bitty’s whispering.

“Ah. I’m sorry I fell asleep. It’s just been a busy week.” Levered up on his elbows, Jack either hasn’t remembered coopting Bitty’s stuffed animal or hasn’t thought to mention it yet. Regardless, Bitty does his best not to stare at the fraying cotton ears popping against the shiny black fabric of Jack’s sleeve.

“Don’t even worry about it. You’ve got no clue how much it meant to us that you came down to our first game. Our frogs couldn’t believe—and Lord, Rans’s face when you talked to him after he showered up. I can’t even imagine how tired you must be, but I don’t know how to thank you,” he gushes without an idea of how to stop. He knows he’s rambling, and Jack’s soft smile, muzzy with sleep isn’t doing him any favors.

Jack pushes himself up to sit and pulls his feet onto the mattress, resting his arms on his knees and shaking his head softly. “I wanted to come, but I was afraid I would throw off your game. I thought you’d have invited me ages ago if anyone wanted me down here.”

Eric’s jaw drops.

“That’s not it at all! I already felt like I was taking up too much of your spare time. You’re a pro athlete, Jack, it’s not like I expect you to waste whatever free days you do have humoring me.”

Jack’s brows furrow sharply and his lips turn down.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bittle. Samwell’s home, and you’re…” Jack reaches behind him and cradles Señor Bun in one hand, resting him gently against his other forearm. “You’re always going to be important to me.”

There’s no response Eric can make to that—nothing that won’t send Jack running for the hills, scrambling for a way to take back the heavy declaration he’s just laid out. It would be stupid for him to deny anymore that his heart belongs anywhere but with Jack; that Bitty’s home is anywhere but where Jack is. He’s gotten used to the Haus, learned how to function here and be happy, but it’s not the same.

“Are you okay?”

Jack’s Canadian politeness hasn’t extended to ignoring the way Bitty’s biting his lip and blinking back tears, but Eric isn’t going to go there right now. Instead, he hiccups and gestures limply to Jack’s knees.

“You must be tired if you found Señor Bunny and haven’t chirped me to pieces yet,” Bitty deflects. He leans against the door weakly, but Jack lets the subject shift.

“I might have known about your rabbit already,” Jack confesses with a coy grin.

That is nearly enough to snap Bitty back out of his embarrassing mawkish spell.

“You knew?” he squawks, bolting back to his feet.

“I lived across the hall from you for a year. I think it’s cute. It suits you.”

“Oh, my god, Jack if you laugh at me one more time about how small I am, I swear I’ll climb on Holster’s shoulders and fight you.”

His whole head tips back and he lets out a raspy laugh, throat going beautifully taut and sending Bitty’s whole equilibrium off kilter.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I meant it like with the sweaters, eh?.”

Jack offers his stuffed animal up to him with a rueful, apologetic look in his eye, and Eric takes him softly.

“Did he make you feel safe, too?” Bitty asks.

“He did.”

“If that’s the case,” Bitty says, “he can stay the night with you. I’ll probably just go sleep in Lardo’s room, so you go right ahead and stay here.”

The bed frame groans when Jack moves to get up, and Eric can sense the argument coming.

“I know I’m big, but I don’t take up as much room as you’d think if you’d rather sleep here.”

“What was that?”

Yawning, Jack stretches his arms out to their full span on either side and Bitty can hear the pops and cracks that come with exhaustion and overuse. Someday, he’s going to convince Jack to get a massage, and it’s going to be a huge victory for Bitty and for mankind alike. The team has a massage therapist, and Jack insists it’s enough, but Eric’s not sure what the point of being rich and famous is if you don’t occasionally spend an hour in a dimly lit room having someone’s hands work scented lotions into your muscles with lit candles and acoustic guitar playing softly in the background.

“There’s no way I’m going to stay awake until the couch is free, otherwise I’d fight you for it again,” Jack tells him, “I thought, you know, if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, sharing your bed wouldn’t bother me.”

Bitty is not nearly drunk enough for this.

“Oh, okay. Sure, that makes as much sense as anything else,” he stutters. “I’ll just get changed then.”

He resolutely reminds himself that he and Jack shared a locker room for two years, and that context is a silly, subjective thing as he slips out of his clothes and into shorts and a track style tank. Eric isn’t listening, either, to the rustle and slide of the fabric of Jack’s jacket as he takes it off. His breath doesn’t splutter to an incredulous halt when he hears him shuck his gym shorts and remember with stupid clarity that Jack sleeps in his boxer briefs.

“You’re not going back down to the party?” Jack asks when Bitty turns back around.

“No, I think I’ll make my bad decisions tomorrow.”

Jack looks like he wants to be awkward, but he’s just too bone tired to manage it. Eric takes his clothes and nudges him toward the bed.

“You get comfy. I’ll figure out how to fit myself in once you get your large behind situated.”

It’s not that Bitty is trying to look when Jack turns back to the bed and leans onto it, falling briefly on his hands and knees. It’s only that there aren’t many other places to look that aren’t Jack’s butt. It sort of dominates his field of vision, and Bitty is only human.

He folds their things distractedly, listening while Jack squirms on the mattress and arranges the sheets, and forces himself not to look back until there’s quiet.

“Alright, here goes nothing. I’ve never shared a bed, so I can’t promise I won’t kick you in my sleep.”

As Eric slips into the free side of his bed, Jack says, “Once Shitty reached across the bed in the middle of the night and grabbed my face in his sleep.”

It’s exactly what Bitty needed to hear, and he relaxes into his side facing Jack, giggling breathlessly, “Lord, how did he manage to do that?”

Jack reaches around Eric’s hip to cover them both with the sheet and the comforter and shifts so his arm is in the negative space between them.

“He said he was dreaming about grabbing my face. I didn’t ask anything else.”

“I’ll do my best not to dream about grabbing your face, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty promises solemnly, hoping the dark and the sheets hide the way his face heats up. It’s not entirely unlikely that he’ll dream about grabbing something of Jack’s, but his aim frankly isn’t that good when he’s awake.

When he goes to sleep, he lets his bottom arm trail against Jack’s.

___

He wakes up pinned to his bed, with NHL forward Jack Zimmermann’s arms on either side of his head and his knees tangled in Bitty’s legs. Jack’s eyes are huge, and his face, hovering inches above Eric’s, is tomato red.

“I wanted to go for a run,” he whispers.

“Oh.”

Jack adjusts his hands and licks his lips. His cupid’s bow is especially pronounced so close, and his lower lip really did not need to be glossier.

“I didn’t want to wake you up so early.”

Eric closes his eyes and snuggles deeper into his pillow.

“I have to bake cookies.”

That’s what breaks the spell; Jack huffs with amusement and manages to crawl the rest of the way to the floor, slipping on his clothes from the night before and sitting in Bitty’s recording chair to lace up his running shoes.

“Your cap’s on top of my dresser,” Bitty mumbles, rolling over into the warmth Jack’s left on his side.

“Don’t go back to sleep, Bittle. You’re making cookies.”

“You’re not my captain anymore. Can’t tell me what to do,” Eric says. He’s not sure he’s ever going to leave his bed again, actually. It’s warmer than he can remember it ever being, and it smells like Jack’s laundry detergent.

Every nice thought he’s ever had about Jack disappears in a second, though, when the boy in question snatches all the blankets off his bed and balls them up against his chest.

“You’ll never forgive yourself if you show up to the volleyball house empty handed,” Jack tells him, voice stern but with a soft smile. Through his sleepy eyes Bitty can see his mouth is still shiny.

“What’re you doing?” he demands weakly.

“I’m doing you a favor,” Jack replies, and he’s out of the room before Bitty’s tired mind and chattering teeth can frame up some kind of repartee.

___

That’s pretty much the last he sees of Jack until the party. His bedding found its way onto the kitchen table, folded in a neat stack beside Eric’s baking sheets and his big mixing bowl. He sends a snap captioned polite and rude at the same time? to Jack, then goes about his day. He doesn’t bother getting dressed, because he knows Lardo will want to be awake so they can check each other, but he takes his sheets back to his room and manages to power through a triple batch of his PB&J cookies on a hope and a prayer.

Farmer’s the first one awake, put together and ready to jet out the door to help her team set up, but not before Bitty uses her as a guinea pig.

“Amazing, Bitty. You’re perfect!” She gives him a peck on the cheek and nearly crashes into Jack coming back from his run.

“See you tonight, Jack!” Farmer yells over her shoulder and lets the door slam behind her.

Very briefly, Jack asks what’s so perfect, and Bitty tells him about his latest success.

“And I know how you feel about protein after a workout, so maybe you should have a few now,” Bitty teases.

He’s in and out to take a shower, and then the rest of the day gives way to chaos. Every time Bitty sees anyone, they give him a dubious glance and dart away, hiding whatever it is they’re carrying (Holster with mascara and a red and brown flannel shirt, Nursey with a broken violin) against their chests and hurrying into another room.

Dex comes over around eleven and is the only person who’s just as bemused by it all as Bitty.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” he gripes. “I was just going to wear a leather jacket and be a rock star or whatever, but Nursey got a bug up his ass.”

Bitty jumps when he hears Ransom yell, “We are not twins, Holster,” from their room all the way down in the kitchen and shakes his head.

“I’m just glad I’m not the only one who’s completely lost here,” he says, pulling his last sheet of cookies out of the oven.

Dex likes keeping him company while he bakes. Bitty’s gotten so used to his presence after his tribulations with Betsy that it’s like having his own little meditation fountain sitting in the corner and cussing at a mile a minute. He’s just content listening to the monologue about how annoying Nursey’s disaffected act is while he finishes up.

“Then, he’ll wail on the guy who hit me, but when I try to talk to him about it, he pretends it’s nothing—“

“Hey, Dex. You said you’d call when you got here,” Nursey pops his head into the kitchen. His lip tugs down at one corner a touch too far for his nonchalant cool look, and Bitty’s surer than he’s ever been that he’s been listening for a while.

“I was talking to Bitty.”

“Right. S’cool. Why don’t you come on up to Chow’s room to try on your costume?”

Dex scoffs, but he gets up.

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

Nursey’s tight eyes relax a little and he says, “Nah,” with a soft smile.

Rolling his eyes, Dex follows Nursey out of the room, and Bitty finishes cleaning up in solitude.

Jack is using his room to get ready, but Eric’s, Shitty’s, and Lardo’s things are all in her room anyway, so he doesn’t bother stopping when he sees his own door closed over. Instead, he knocks lightly on Lardo’s and listens for signs of life.

“Come on in, Bits,” she groans over the sound of a string of barely audible cursing from Shitty.

They’re curled toward each other on top of the sheets in mirrored fetal huddles, Shitty’s arm thrown over his eyes and Lardo’s head hidden under a pillow.

“We’re never throwing another party after a loss. People were lining up to commit pong hara-kiri just as an excuse to get blasted. I’ve never—God, I think I might’ve lost to someone.”

“Shh, Lards, don’t say it. We don’t know that for sure. There was a lot going on. Shit was weird, and that laxhole definitely faked us out.”

“He lied! That bastard!”

Bitty hustles Shits off to shower and takes his place in bed next to Lardo, combing through her hair with his fingers while she thinks of creative ways to get back at Men’s Lacrosse. Most of them involve itching powder in jocks. Bitty commends her commitment to widespread mayhem, but it’s not up to her usual creative standards.

“Nothing like a cold as tits shower to shake off a hangover,” Shitty whistles, toweling off briskly and kicking around the mess on the floor for the plastic bag he’d brought his clothes in. He makes it as far as his Black Widow briefs when a trio of frogs barge in.

“Tell them how stupid I look!”

Chowder shuffles in meekly whereas Dex and Nursey more or less trampled each other trying to get to Lardo first.

“Guys, come on; that guy from across the street beat her last night, she doesn’t care about this,” Chowder says, tugging on the hem of Nursey’s t-shirt.

Lardo writhes and burrows her face as far as she can in Bitty’s lap while Eric glares fiercely at his problem child.

“I’m not leaving until someone normal actually looks at what I’m wearing,” Dex barks.

And, well, perhaps Bitty had a bit of an advantage. At least he’d known overalls would be involved.

Dex is in a pair of overalls with one strap artfully unhooked. He isn’t wearing a shirt underneath, so the freckly expanses of his shoulders and chest are bared for the world to see, as well as the purple of his new bruises on his arms and ribs. He does have a red bandana tied around his neck like an ascot, and his baggy denim is cinched with a worn black belt at his middle. A beaten beret sits on Dex’s head with a red pompom like the cherry to top the sundae.

“Huh. You look. Really interesting. Who’s he supposed to be, Nursey?”

Bitty’d thought he’d been diplomatic, but Shitty can’t keep it together, and he falls to the floor laughing, sending blood rushing to color Dex’s cheeks a clashing shade of pink.

“I can’t fucking believe you thought—“

Lardo twists and turns around to see the fuss and says, “Holy shit, Nursey!” before she’s lost to her cackling, too.

“Shut up! I’m changing, and—“

Fast as a cat, she launches herself out of bed and puts her hands on Dex’s shoulders, shaking him.

“No, man, you can’t. Don’t you get it? You’re Dexy!”

Nursey huffs, “Finally. Took you guys long enough.”

“Yeah, I know, Lardo. I’m not still drunk.”

“Too rah loo rah, too rah loo rye aye!” Lardo sings, clasping Dex’s hands and pulling him out into the hallway. Bitty catches on quickly with a grin and rushes after them. He and Lardo take turns making up words to the verses they don’t know to Come on Eileen, forcing Dex to move and shushing him every time he tries to yank his hands back to himself and complain.

The little distraction gives Chowder and Nursey the time they need to dress themselves, and when they’re wearing their matching outfits, Chowder with the violin and Nursey with a washboard like Bitty hasn’t ever seen in real life outside the sticks, it’s picture perfect.

“You’re Dexy and they’re the Midnight Runners,” Lardo explains, guiding Dex over to frame him up with the other boys like they’ve just stepped out of the music video.

Dex blinks and turns to look at Nursey.

“Oh, my God, that’s who sings that song?”

“Dex’s knowledge of new wave pop is like, abysmal,” Nursey mourns, tugging him closer by the back panel of his overalls and nuzzling into the back of his neck.

Chowder and Eric exchange a proud look, and Chowder says, “Nursey wanted to do something nice for you.”

“It’s no bi—“

Nursey doesn’t finish his sentence, and Dex’s shoulders melt with relief. Bitty almost wants to take a picture, but he’s not about to spoil the moment.

“Don’t you eat my cookies—I have to get these two delinquents into presentable shape now that y’all are all settled.”

Bitty drags Lardo into her room and shuts the door behind him just in time to hear the wind beneath his wings, Chowder the goalie, say, “You guys aren’t going to like, do it right now are you?”

“Alright, Eric Bittle, break out those leotards, and I’ll go grab your shoes.”

___

Farmer agrees to show up at the Haus at nine so they’ll all be forced to get their butts in gear if they’re not already on their way over to the Women’s Volleyball house. If she were dating anyone on the team besides Chowder, Bitty’d wonder if maybe she were too good for them, but she and Chowder are just about as well-matched as you can get.

With fifteen minutes to spare, Lardo finishes the intricate line work of his makeup to her satisfaction. Bitty had thought it looked perfectly good at around five o’clock, but he really should have thought about the consequences of asking an art major to do his makeup earlier.

His lightening bolt is the last piece of their group puzzle, and Eric rushes down to the living room to prepare his party tray while Lardo and Shitty follow at a pace much better suited to them.

By mutual agreement, none of them speak until the den is full, so the room full of costumed people is utterly silent. Holster glares at everyone who makes eye contact, consciously flexing his biceps to strain the fabric of Jack’s shirt. The buttons gap slightly going down his chest to where he’s tucked his tails into a pair of inexplicably tight jeans.

A tool belt hangs crookedly across his hips, but the real show stealer is the brown mascara streaked through his stubble and his hair, giving him a surprisingly convincing fake set of frosted tips.

Ransom looks nice next to him, in an ironed shirt and a tie (where had he ironed it? Are these boys hiding an ironing board from him somewhere?) and Shitty’s charcoal gray suit. Even unbuttoned, the shoulders are visibly too tight, and Ransom grimaces as he tries to browse on his phone and can’t reach with both hands. The legs are a few inches too short, too, but overall, he looks presentable. Holster might not have been wrong about Rans’s hookup prospects for the night.

The frogs are piled up on the couch in a nondescript heap of limbs and ripped clothes; Nursey gets more enjoyment than Bitty’s sure is healthy from dragging Chowder into public displays of affection with Dex, but they’re quiet aside from the occasional buzzing of Chowder’s phone.

Eric’s the one who breaks the silence, and he really should’ve known better, because Jack makes his grand entrance coming down the stairs and he nearly expires.

Short hemmed black slacks, white socks, and patent leather loafers. A white suit jacket over a black button down left open at the collar. The long line of an exposed neck into a square jaw, a black pompadour with a spit curl styled just so.

“Just some oldies guy?” Bitty hears himself accuse sharply when Jack stops at the foot of the stairs and puts his hands bashfully in his pockets. “I probably wouldn’t know him?”

Jack squints while he tries to figure out who the hell Bitty’s supposed to be, but he gives up quickly and concedes a shrug.

“He died a while ago; I didn’t see why you’d know him.”

Shitty gapes between them, putting a much-needed supportive hand on Bitty’s shoulder.

“Jack. Jacky. Jackson,” Shitty begins. “Did you tell our Bits over here that he wouldn’t know who Elvis The Motherfucking King Presley was?”

“It’s possible,” Jack says.

“I think I need to lie down,” Eric murmurs, fanning himself with a hand under the pretense that shock trumps sudden, overwhelming arousal. He’s very lucky he thought to layer with all the proper supportive undergarments.

“Alright, so we’re all here. Spill!” Holster barks.

Chowder says, “Can’t we wait for Farmer? She’ll be here in a minute!”

“Chowder, run,” says Ransom.

“I’ve been staring at you losers for ten minutes, and Jack and Bits are the only people who look like anyone; what gives? Who are you?”

“We’re Dexy’s Midnight Runners! Dex even agreed to do it eventually!”

Surprised, Holster actually manages to stop frowning.

“’Swawesome. Whose idea was that?”

“Nursey’s,” Dex says. Bitty thinks he sees Dex’s fingers twine around Nursey’s, but really, those freckly fingers could be grabbing anyone’s broad brown hands.

“Who’s Bittle supposed to be?” Jack interjects, puzzled frown making his droopy eyes almost painfully sweet. Bitty doesn’t even have on his hockey gloves to keep him from pinching anyone’s cheeks.

Nurse snorts suddenly from the couch, reminding Eric that he, Lardo, and Shitty have effectively prepared the chirp to end all chirps. He summons every bit of vindictiveness he has, thinking of all the times Jack’s taken advantage of his naïveté and southern charm, and beams across the room.

“You already know me, Lards, and Shitty were doing a group costume,” he starts sweetly. Immediately, Jack’s wary, but absolutely on the hook. “In fact, we’re all the same person!

“Shits right here is Freddie Mercury,” Bitty says, gesturing at the late rockabilly ensemble, made more memorable with the mustache and aviator sunglasses, and doesn’t pause long enough to let Jack interject.

“I’m Ziggy Stardust,” he adds. Any of his old skating costumes were easy enough to rig into a stage jumpsuit, and he’d even had one cut the same way as the signature asymmetrical outfit—Ziggy’s one-sleeved, one-legged leotard. Coupled with a thrifted pair of thigh-high flat boots and Lardo’s handiwork on his face, he’s unmistakable.

“And Lardo’s my new favorite singer, David Bowie,” Bitty finishes with a flourish.

She looks cool and slick in her leather jacket over her starched collar, and when she pulls out a pack of candy cigarettes and lets one hang from her mouth, there’s a collective moment of appreciation.

“I totally see it now,” Chowder confirms solemnly.

Eric looks for a reaction from Jack, but all he sees is his standard brooding gaze. It isn’t until he meets Bitty’s gaze and raises a challenging eyebrow that he understands he’s won the battle, but the war is still on.

“Shits, you know Freddie never rocked the stache and the flow at the same time, right?” Ransom says leadingly.

Shitty’s tone is fierce when he replies, “There are a lot of things I’m willing to do for you and for a good chirp, but even hinting at what you’re hinting at is fuckin’ heresy.”

“Oh! Good!” Farmer lets herself in. “You’re all ready and…” she stops in her tracks, gaping at Ransom and Holster.

“The… Property Brothers?”

“It was his idea.”

Holster grins slyly, pushing his hair back with a hand and cocking a hip.

“I’m Jonathan, and this is my brother Drew.”

Farmer gawps a few more seconds, blinking, looking helplessly to the rest of the room for support. Now that he’s looking for it, Bitty sees the resemblance, and he’s watched enough HGTV with Holster to know Rans wasn’t kidding. Still, he’s not really sure what he can do for Farmer to help her now.

“The hockey team was all supposed to dress up as musicians,” she argues.

“They were in a rock band, Farmer, with their brother.” Holster stands up to his full height. Farmer’s a tall girl, but she’s still no match. “It totally fucking counts.”

“Right. Of course it does.” She smiles weakly at Chowder and he gravitates toward her like she’s an irresistible force, leaving it obvious who was tangled with whom on the couch. “Nice Bowie costume by the way, Lardo,” she adds, more sincere with Chowder holding her hand.

Lardo winks and shoots a finger gun at her, biting off the end of her candy cigarette. She and Farmer corral their group out the door and onto the street with tag team efficiency that ought to be worrisome.

It’s only a few blocks to walk to the volleyball house, and on Halloween to boot it’s not as though there’s such a thing as a normal crowd, but especially with Bitty with them they draw stares from the other students wandering around. Even leaving en masse, they’ll all arrive staggered, Ransom and Holster’s long legs and quick strides eating up the distance while Lardo and Shitty’s tendency to mosey keeps them bringing up the rear as many as ten minutes behind.

They split off the way they always do in double and triple file, and Eric braces himself for the revenge he knows is incoming, catching only a snatch of Lardo asking Farmer, “Yo, where’s your costume?” and not hearing the answer over the rush of blood in his ears when Jack falls in step next to him.

“You’re gonna have to take like a million pictures tonight,” Bitty tries to preempt him. It’s not entirely selfish—he’s been worried about Jack visiting and having to deal with new people who haven’t been desensitized to his celebrity; more so since Jack signed and had “professional athlete” to add to his résumé.

“Almost everyone there knows me. I’d be happy to take pictures with the freshmen who don’t.”

“Some days I don’t think you’re real,” Bitty says wistfully.

Jack chuckles dryly. “You should lay off the pot, then,” he jokes, elbowing Eric in the shoulder.

“Please, my mother would kill me if I so much as looked at a joint,” Bitty says.

“Shits, your mother plays in a Joni Mitchell cover band. She’s probably okay with it,” Jack tells him enigmatically, thumping him on the back and wandering off to walk with Ransom and Holster. Bitty’s left at a complete standstill until Lardo and Shitty pass him and each of them grab an arm.

“Shitty,” Bitty says blankly. “I think Jack thinks I’m you.”

“I am he as you are he, Bits,” Shitty proclaims.

Lardo rubs Eric’s bare arm. “Shits may or may not have found a pot brownie among my possessions. Will you be my flip cup partner?”

“You don’t want to reclaim your title?”

“The girls don’t have enough room to set up a decent beer pong table. If I’m gonna trash that cheating piece of shit, I’m gonna do it right, Bitty.”

The music pumping out onto the street hits his chest percussively when they walk into the house, and Lardo steers him to where Ransom and Holster appear to be making the second string quarter back and his girlfriend regret ever coming to Samwell over near the kitchen.

Naturally, it becomes a showdown between them and Lardo and Bitty, but Ransom doesn’t seem too upset about it when they lose and a freshman from women’s track and field consoles him about his loss. It looks like track and field’s theme was animals, because she and the friend unsuccessfully flirting with Holster are dressed as a bumblebee and a bunny respectively.

“Lardo, I’m tipsy,” Bitty informs her gravely.

“One more round, Bitty. Honest Abe over here’s cruisin’ for a bruisin’.”

The captain of the varsity soccer team and the goalie (George Washington) go down like a house of cards, and Bitty drags Lardo forcibly away from the table.

“Oh, there you are, Bittle,” he hears Jack say, and he spins around to see him signing some poor Lacrosse player’s arm as Elvis Presley. Men’s Lacrosse seem to have been supposed to be monsters, but most of them have gone the Twilight route and come either as sparkly shirtless vampires or shirtless werewolves in their human form.

At least this one has fake fangs.

“Oh, good, Jack. I was afraid we lost you.”

“I almost did—you’re barely recognizable without your mustache.”

Lardo blinks slowly, staring hard at Bitty before frowning up at Jack.

“Hey, Jack,” she greets him slowly.

“Hey,” he replies softly as though nothing’s wrong. “I wanted to tell you before, those cookies you made were good. I just had a few more. It was pretty great of you to come up with a recipe like that for me.”

He’s not even looking at Eric. He’s speaking very clearly about Eric’s cookies, but he’s looking at Lardo, and he’s talking to Lardo, and he’s leaning into Lardo’s space instead of Eric’s.

Bitty boggles at Jack.

“Jack, are you drinking?”

“Hm? No, this is just tap water. You know better than that, Shits. I guess all your brains went when you got the chop for your costume. Impressive commitment there.”

Jack scans the crowd of the party, and he spots Shitty across the room.

“There’s Lardo. I want to go ask her a question about a new photo editing software,” he tells them, clapping them both on the shoulder, and then addressing a very befuddled Freddie Mercury.

“Oh, my god. That maple-syrup flavored bastard!” Lardo cries. Jack’s shoulders twitch, and she adds, “Yeah, I’m talking about you, Jack! I’m onto you, you francophone scum!”

To his credit, Jack only reacts by turning away from them. If Bitty hadn’t been looking for the reaction, he wouldn’t have noticed anything at all.

“Lardo, what’s—“

“He’s mixing us up on purpose, Bits.”

“He’s—“

“He can’t tell the difference between David, Ziggy, and Freddie.”

“This boy is going to be the death of me,” he says with utter disbelief. Bitty’s about to march over to give Jack a piece of his mind, but Johnson of all people steps in his path.

“Hey Bitty! Great to see you outside a panel!”

Johnson’s costume doesn’t look familiar, but he’s some kind of hair metal rocker. He pulls Bitty into a bear hug that lifts him off the ground and sets him back down carefully.

“Johnson! Hi,” Bitty says. Lardo fist bumps him and they talk about his costume for a few minutes.

“Totally didn’t come here to see you, but since I’m here, how’s the romantic subplot coming?”

Bitty shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Johnson, I never really got into those comics you were always talking about.”

Johnson shrugs.

“It’s cool, man. Sometimes, like, things are so obvious that they don’t even register as legit options until after the fact, you know?”

Lardo nods sagely.

“Anyway, you guys seen Ollie and Wicky? They asked me to come down. Holster and Rans said they thought they were around here as Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder, but I haven’t seen any nineties grunge around.”

“No, I saw Wicky. He was Ringo Starring it up over by the keg, I think.”

Bitty shakes his head and says, “No, wrong player and wrong Beatle. Ollie’s here as George Harrison. Wicky’s dressed up as Pete Wentz.”

Lardo side-eyes him.

“How drunk are you, bro? Ollie’s Macklemore.”

“What are you—“

“Don’t worry, you guys, I’ll figure it out. By the way, interesting move with Louis Behr over there. Original characters are pretty risky in fanworks. I hope it works out for you. It’s a shame you guys got stuck with musicians for your costumes—he’d be a dead ringer for Arron Asham if he weren’t a giant.”

“Yeah, I see it,” Bitty mumbles, squinting hard at Berry, hiding over in the corner of the room in a hoodie and a baseball cap, chatting with a very tiny ladybug.

Lardo lets Bitty alone to his own devices after Johnson wanders off, and he’s left to people watch for a few minutes, sipping cheap vodka and keeping tabs on his team as best he can.

The Women’s Volleyball theme was Victoria’s Secret Models, and Chowder hasn’t left Farmer’s Cara Delevigned side the whole night. They’ve never been an overly affectionate couple in public, but Halloween seems to bring something out in them, and Bitty never wanted to see Chowder’s tongue doing what it’s doing to her neck, so he hurriedly looks away.

Dex and Nursey don’t seem to be keeping their hands to themselves much better. Dex’s back is flat against the far wall from Eric and Nursey is crowded as close in as he can get, alternating between tucking his face in Dex’s neck and bringing their lips as close together as they can without touching, just whispering secrets to him.

Bitty, of course, isn’t jealous at all. That would be silly and petty. He’s just drunk, and maybe he needs to find someone who wants to kiss him back.

“Shitty, can I talk to you about something?”

Jack creeps up on him, pressing his back close along Eric’s side and wrapping an arm around his shoulder to be heard better.

“You’re very funny, Jack,” Bitty says with a little bitterness.

“It’s serious.”

The rest of his solo cup and a deep breath are fortifying enough, he thinks, and Eric does his best not to be the mopey drunk who ruined Jack’s night.

“Shoot,” he says, smiling up at Jack.

He’s being towed toward the door, and the cool night air pulls shivers from him, chilling him through his sweat-damp outfit in no time. Jack doesn’t even hesitate to slip off his jacket and help Bitty get his wobbly arms into the sleeves. Once he’s covered, he’s happier outside than he was in the sticky sorority house.

“So I slept with Bittle last night.”

Eric trips over his own feet and only manages to stay upright thanks to Jack’s quick reflexes. Big hands tighten on his upper arms, and Bitty doesn’t move a muscle.

“We didn’t have sex, but we slept in the same bed.”

He looks askance at Jack.

“Am I supposed to pretend to be Shitty right now? Jack, I’m barely sober enough to pretend to be Bitty.”

Jack won’t look at him, but his sharp cheekbones are rosier in the cold than any Canadian’s have any right being.

“Can you walk or do you want me to carry you?”

“I can walk.”

They head off slowly toward the Haus.

“Shits, I don’t know how to tell him, but… When I woke up next to him, I don’t know if I’ve ever been that happy.”

“Jack, I am drunk and if you’re still chirping me it’s not funny anymore—“

“I’ve never been able to figure out how to tell him. I want him so much. I don’t feel like I belong anywhere that’s not with him.”

“Fucking with the gay boy on the team isn’t a joke, Jack,” Bitty warns tremulously. His heartbeat is so shallow in his chest it feels like it should be visible if he’d just look down, but he can’t look anywhere but Jack.

Jack’s stupid, stoic face, with his stupid, beautifully styled hair and chiseled jaw that’s turned stubbornly away. His hands are starting to sweat, and he doesn’t want to be wearing Jack’s jacket anymore, surrounded by his smell, but the grip on Bitty’s arms tightens.

He wrestles his way free by the time they get to the steps of the Haus, and Eric doesn’t pause before he sprints to his room. He tears off his leotard and pulls on the first things he finds on the floor, ignoring the teary streaks of greasepaint he’s left on the collar of the t-shirt he pulled on.

Jack follows him up to the bathroom where he’s splashing his face urgently and sits calmly on the edge of the tub.

“Bitty, I swear I’m not kidding.”

Spinning in place, he faces Jack and is finally rewarded with a look back.

Jack’s concerned for him, mouth parted and brows slanted, but he doesn’t look like he regrets anything. He doesn’t look like he said something he shouldn’t have, and Eric doesn’t know what to do with that information.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Jack mentions carefully.

“It’s too big for me.”

Jack stands slowly and hold out his hands to clasp Bitty’s wrists, rubbing the joint in gentle circles with his thumb.

“Could we try to spend the night together again?” he whispers, bent low, hovering close to Bitty’s ear. Eric can’t stop himself from turning into Jack’s warmth and running his lips along the edge of his jaw.

“Please,” Bitty says.

Jack nods without breaking contact anywhere they’re touching.

“C’mon then, Bittle, you’re breaking curfew.”

“Jack, can you kiss me?”

His fingers spasm and Bitty flips their hands around so he’s the one holding onto Jack.

“Can you be patient?”

It’s not really what he expected to hear, and Bitty pulls back sharply to scold him, but Jack’s not teasing him. Jack looks more like he’s trying not to ruin the surprise, and it’s unexpected enough that Bitty agrees.

“Have a seat on the bed,” Jack tells him. “I’m just getting ready to go to sleep.”

Obediently and feeling a sobering rush of blood to his head, he goes across the hall and squeezes himself in tight against the wall when he lies down. Jack follows after him, unbuttoning his shirt without any artifice, but he flushes and smiles at Bitty anyway, and for that it might as well be a full blown strip tease.

He toes off his shoes and lets his pants slide down over his thighs when he unbuckles his belt, and makes to climb in the bed.

“Wait,” Bitty says. He tries not to coo when Jack stops right away, without a word of complaint. “You sleep in your socks?”

“You’d think you’d have noticed last night,” Jack laughs, sitting just close enough that Bitty can reach out and run his fingertips along his kneecap.

Eric groans. “I was trying so hard not to notice anything about what you were wearing last night, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack’s eyes widen.

“Really?”

“I’ve been in love with you for almost a year now, and you’re surprised I got a little antsy when you were sleeping next to me in your skivvies?”

The bed wobbles and bumps when Jack lowers himself right next to Bitty, not quite touching, but warming him from head to toe with his proximity.

“Tell me what it was you weren’t noticing last night,” Jack whispers, hushed, only an inch or two away from his face. If Bitty were braver he could dip in and kiss him himself, but Jack asked him to be patient, and Bitty’s not really very brave off the ice.

“You can’t be asking me to talking dirty to you right now,” Bitty stalls.

“I’ll tell you about what that photo of your ass Holster sent did to me, if you want to hear it.”

The way Jack says it is sweet. The words themselves are the lead-in to any porn Bitty’s ever watched, but he’s smiling earnestly and his hand is fluttering along Eric’s side like he’s trying to find a safe place to put it.

Bitty presses Jack’s palm onto his hipbone and rests the tips of his fingers on Jack’s clavicle.

“You sleep without a shirt. That’s not fair,” Bitty tells him. “I wasn’t paying any attention at all to the hair poking up from the top of your briefs, that’s for sure.”

“Bittle—“

“And the way the hems of your briefs stretch because of how strong your quads are is something I haven’t noticed either. I, Eric Richard Bittle, have never thought about feeling your thighs on either side of my face.”

“Crisse,² Bitty, you’re—“

“And, not that I’ve ever done this mind, but goodness, Jack, when I had that butt of yours in my own bed, it took everything I had not to eat it like a buffet. Lord, the things I’ve never thought about doing—“

Jack rolls over to completely cover Bitty with his body. He’s supporting enough of his weight that Eric isn’t feeling smushed, but he’s being pressed in from all sides and he could scream with how good it feels.

One of Jack’s hands snuck under Bitty’s shirt when he wasn’t paying attention, but it’s still soft against his hip. The other cups his chin.

“I’m kissing you now,” Jack announces, sealing their lips together. Bitty’s hands scrabble at his back for purchase, but he doesn’t find any handholds until he tangles one in Jack’s hair and grabs at Jack’s waistband with the other.

He hadn’t meant to be so forward on their first kiss, but what’s a boy to do?

Jack kisses like he’s trying to get inside Bitty, pressing closer every second that passes, changing angles whenever the opportunity presents itself. His lips are soft, contrasting dizzyingly when Jack nips with his teeth or when he strokes Bitty’s lips with his tongue. Eric hasn’t had much experience with this outside of hurried locker room encounters and under-the-bleacher trysts, but when Jack ebbs, he feels a natural flow. He isn’t worried about remembering any tricks he might have read online.

What he’s worried about is getting Jack out of his underwear.

“Bitty, stop,” Jack gasps, pulling away even as Bitty can see the tip of his erection peek out of the band of his shorts.

There’s a drawn-out whine that bounces through the room as Bitty squirms, seeking the friction of his cotton sheets on his cheeks as much as he is the pressure of Jack’s leg against his crotch.

“Lord, that was me,” he pants with a disbelieving laugh, winding his outside leg tightly around Jack’s so their hips slide together.

Jack’s hand travels assuredly toward Bitty’s knee and undoes all his hard work, and he’s barely mollified when Jack kisses his upper lip and slips his tongue in to trace the seam of Eric’s mouth.

“You’re not helping,” Bitty grumbles when Jack begins lavishing his jaw with kisses and suckling nibbles that are absolutely going to embarrass him in the morning. The tip of Jack’s nose caresses Eric’s cheek as he makes his way further from Bitty’s mouth, and somehow when Jack’s teeth close loosely on his earlobe Bitty doesn’t see it coming.

He makes the same desperate, practically pained noise he hadn’t even known he could make until a few moments ago, didn’t know existed outside of smutty videos, and his hips twitch of their own volition underneath Jack.

“Fuck, we need to stop,” Jack says into the collar of Bitty’s borrowed t-shirt. He’s not convincing anyone, what with the way he works his hands under the shirt and finds Bitty’s nipples with his thumbs. Without leaning on his elbows, most of Jack’s weight is pushing into Eric, but it’s only for a moment that Bitty’s seeing stars until Jack’s mouth meets his fingers through fabric.

The feel of wet cotton when his tongue drags across, and then the sudden cool when he closes his lips around and sucks almost robs Bitty of his senses completely. It’s only when Jack switches to his other nipple and Eric worries that he might come untouched that he gathers enough of his thoughts to string together a sentence.

“You said something about stopping,” he says, pausing to groan and arch his body when Jack hums during his ministrations. “I was just wonderin’ why the hell you thought that was a good idea.”

“Because you’re drunk, and I need to get a hold of myself,” Jack says, rolling off and away from Bitty so he’s all the way over on the other side of the bed.

“I’m not—“

Jack looks at him sternly. Eric would love to know how it’s possible for a man with an erect penis poking out of his waistband and his hair in a destroyed pompadour to look at anyone sternly, but Jack is nothing if not a marvel.

“Okay, I’m drunk. But I swear, I’ve wanted this for longer than I can even… I’m tipsy now, but I want you so bad.”

“I cropped Holster out of the photo.”

Bitty rolls over onto his side to get a better look at Jack.

“You know how to do that?”

“Once I got it into my computer’s software, I knew how to.” His head lolls over in Bitty’s direction, and his eyes flutter shut. “You really don’t know how wrong you are about your ass. It was always distracting. Even before you started your squat campaign.”

“Excuse me if I don’t believe it when you of all people tell me my butt was anything but tiny.”

Jack grunts.

“It was tiny, yeah, but it was nice. It looked good in your little shorts.”

“I can’t help but notice the past tense,” Eric points out, poking Jack on his bare pectoral muscle. A lazy hand tangles itself with Bitty’s.

“Those squats are working, Bittle. I’m starting to think you’re fishing for compliments.”

Eric neither confirms nor denies. Jack huffs and opens his eyes to make a point of looking right at Bitty when he says, “I’ve jerked off to that photo so many times that I’m sure just seeing the shorts you’re wearing in the picture would be enough to make me hard.”

Immediately, Bitty’s eyes flicker down Jack’s stomach and he can see his erection defined clearly and stray streaks glistening on his bottommost abs.

“Jack, fuck, please,” Bitty begs. Apparently, he’s not above begging.

Sweetly and carefully, Jack frames Eric’s face with both hands and kisses him. “I won’t have sex with you while you’re drunk. I’m not going to do it.”

“I wish I could resent that.”

“I knew you wouldn’t, though,” he says, letting go of Bitty’s jaw.

“Ugh, but what if I wake up tomorrow and I can’t remember everything?”

Jack goes rigid and his fists clench.

“Even more reason to wait.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Bitty rushes to explain himself, to erase the haunted cast from Jack’s face. “I told the honest truth every step of the way tonight, but tomorrow? It could seem just as likely to hung-over Eric that this was all a drunk dream, rather than you actually liking me back.”

The tension ekes out of Jack’s muscles, and he hums considerately.

“Tomorrow is La Toussaint. It’s a Catholic holiday. We don’t really celebrate it at home, but you can use that tomorrow to reality test.”

Bitty frowns.

“What?”

Jack reaches out for Bitty’s shins with his socked feet and smiles.

“It can be a code word. Wish me a happy La Toussaint, and I’ll remind you that tonight wasn’t a dream.”

“Okay. La Toussaint. Got it.”

He nods decisively and scuttles on his hands and knees, hovering over Jack in a turnabout of their morning.

“I’m gonna come in my shorts if I try to share a bed with you without doing something about this situation,” Bitty explains, pressing in languidly to demonstrate.

Under him, Jack bucks, moving with more precision than Eric, even in his most private moments.

“I’ll try to take my time in the bathroom, but if you want to take care of yourself, I wouldn’t beat around the bush.”

He lies, in that he doesn’t take his time at all, and he’s barely closed the door behind him before he’s sinking to the floor with his hand pumping in his shorts and his teeth sinking into his lips in a poor imitation of a fast fading memory.

In the mirror, he doesn’t recognize the boy with the love marks peppering his jaw, and with obscene wet patches placed symmetrically on the t-shirt that obviously isn’t his. He forces down a glass of water to fend off a hangover.

A few more milliseconds pass before Bitty decides he can’t stand idling in front of the sink, and really, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he popped back into his room earlier than expected.

“That was more embarrassing than it should’ve been,” Jack tells him when Bitty slips back in. It’s late enough that any of the team who are coming home at all will probably be coming back soon, and with that thought in mind, he locks his door behind him.

“For the record, I don’t care if I am drunk. I expect to be cuddled,” Eric says, chuckling when Jack immediately complies.

With arms wound tightly around his middle, Bitty doesn’t have much choice except to fold himself into Jack’s embrace. His own arms held tightly to his chest, and he presses every bit of himself he can manage to Jack’s skin.

“Where did your socks go?”

Jack coughs. “I, uh. I couldn’t find any tissues, so.”

Eric’s too comfortable to even take the opportunity granted him. Instead, he mumbles, “Either I need to stop blowing my nose with toilet paper or we need to get used to swallowing.”

“Go to sleep, Bitty.”

“You first.”

___

Jack’s not used to waking up with someone curled into his side, but it’s something he’s going to look into doing more often.

Two mornings for two, he’s woken up to the sound of Bitty’s snuffling snore, too quiet to be intrusive, but definitely too loud to pass for regular breathing. He’s going to have to specify that as part of the waking-up-with-someone-else deal.

Like he can sense he’s being watched, Bitty’s eyes open by degrees. Jack can see the effort he’s putting into thinking about how they’ve ended up holding each other in their sleep. There’s this fragile hope in the glint of his eyes that compells Jack to hold him tighter.

“Happy La Toissant? Did I say that right?”

“That depends, Bittle. Are you trying to order a pastry?”

“Oh, hush. The holiday? It’s something sant. La Toussaint? Was that it?”

The air Jack breathes smells like Bitty’s hair, and his chest hurts with how much he’s missed it while he’s been away.

“I love you. Bitty, I love you.”

Bitty surges into him and kisses him desperately, fingers clenched in the gelled remains of his styled hair and mouth open. Morning breath aside, Jack has started days worse than having Bittle tongue fuck him while his thigh parts Jack’s legs with a purpose.

“I didn’t think it was a dream, but then I thought that’s what someone in a dream would say,” he splutters in between kisses, rocking his leg into Jack’s dick.

“Not sure that’s how it works,” Jack says.

When Bitty pulls away, he has to work hard not to legitimately pout, but there’s a devious smirk that gives him pause.

“On your belly, if you please, Mr. Zimmermann.”

He doesn’t protest, but he does ask, “Do you have a plan, or are you just winging it?”

Bitty kisses each knob of Jack’s spine. Halting with his chin tickling the small of Jack’s back, Bitty says, “I have a plan.”

He eases Jack out of his underwear, guiding each leg out until he’s totally bare, and Bitty drapes himself along the bottom half of Jack’s body.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Jack snipes, urging Bitty into action through irritation alone.

Bitty’s hands are small and soft compared to what Jack’s used to, and one palms the inside of each of Jack’s thighs and parts them to make room for him to kneel between them. Jack may have underestimated Bitty here.

“Just call me Romaine,” Bitty laughs. It doesn’t matter that Jack has no clue what he’s talking about, because Jack’s entire grasp of the English language vanishes not long after that.

Notes:

1. "The stove doesn't work? This cost me two grand! What a piece of—"
2. "Christ." (quebecois expletive.)