Chapter Text
The morning of the 4th, Jack wakes up to find a warm and mostly-naked Eric Bittle sleeping under the protective curve of his arm. His need to pee is going to become critical shortly, but as the dawn light filters into Eric’s childhood bedroom Jack just wants to lay still and let this particular moment sink into his bones.
Jack realizes, laying there, that despite the pressure from his bladder he actually feels utterly at rest. He’d thought, upon first waking, that there was something about the quality of air or the sounds in an unfamiliar house that had pulled him from sleep. But instead what’s surprised him into wakefulness is the fact that he’s comfortable where he is, disinclined to get up and go out for a run or get a start on the day’s activities. It’s an utterly alien absence of the restlessness that usually dogs Jack’s waking moments, something he has to continually work to keep at bay.
This -- stretched out with Eric's head tucked under Jack’s chin, his hair tickling Jack’s nose -- is, in fact, the only activity Jack’s sleepy, contented mind considers worthy of consideration.
oOo
“...and this is the guest bedroom,” Eric says, turning the knob on the door next to the bathroom and pushing into the room. There’s a ceiling fan whirring above their heads and a neatly-made bed with a cotton bedspread turned down and a stack of towels stacked on the end. The sewing table in one corner and the shelves across from the bed stacked high with pattern books, fabric, and other supplies betray the room’s dual-purpose.
Eric hangs back in the doorway as Jack lifts his suitcase over the rag rug that covers the bare floorboards and drops it at the foot of the bed next to the stack of towels. He unzips the suitcase and digs out Monsieur Éléphant from underneath his toiletries kit.
He sits down on the edge of the bed and holds up Monsieur Éléphant, making him nod slightly at Bitty who’s still watching him from a good six feet away.
“Monsieur Éléphant approves but asks what you’re doing all the way over there.”
Eric rolls his eyes but does step into the bedroom. “You can explain to Monsieur Éléphant that my parents are expecting us to join them for lunch in just a few minutes.”
“There’s a lot can happen in just a few minutes,” Jack points out. He puts out his free hand to reel Bitty in between his knees, still marveling at the fact that it’s really this easy -- that he puts out a hand and there Eric is, letting Jack reach out to catch and hold him.
He settles his hands on Eric’s hips as Eric leans in to steal a kiss. “Don’t you think that I dragged you all the way down here to Georgia just to steal a few kisses here and there Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric says against Jack’s lips. “Maybe -- maybe I was standing over by the doorway because I don’t trust myself to make it to lunch if I come any closer.”
Jack’s fingers dig into the flesh of Bitty’s thighs as he returns Bitty’s kisses and tastes the harsh aftertaste of the macchiato, the salty sweat on Bitty’s upper lip, absence of liquor on their tongues. He’s had time to worry, in the intervening weeks, that the awkward rightness of kissing Eric had been some sort of fluke -- a lucky shot that just happened to bounce off the post into the net. But every time they’ve made contact (and, truthfully, they’ve rarely stopped touching) since Eric reached for him in the airport all his body says is yes yes yes.
“I -- I could live with that,” Jack says, breathlessly, as Eric slides a knee up onto the bed and leans in closer.
oOo
When Jack returns from the bathroom, Eric is awake and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Jack slides back under the sheet, bending down to kiss him good morning.
Easy.
“Morning, Bittle.”
“Good morning Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric grins up at Jack, reaching up to run his fingers through the hair at the back of Jack’s scalp. His fingers are confident, now, and as he fists his hand and tugs, gently, Jack lets his eyes fall shut and mmms his approval.
“You’re gonna have to be careful not to call me that in public, Bits, if you insist on molesting me on a regular basis.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining yesterday, Mr. Zimmermann.”
“You don’t hear me complaining now.” Jack slides a palm down Eric’s chest, where a fine dusting of blond hair trails downward and gathers with an intriguing admixture of auburn at his groin. “But your mother can’t be the only one in this town who remembers my dad and who might put two-and-two together.”
“So how’m I supposed to introduce you, then? People will notice if you have no last name.”
“Laurent? Amory?”
Eric wrinkles his nose, “Wait -- does this mean if we ever go on vacation we get to check into a hotel under a false name? Has your dad ever done that? Have you ever done that?”
Jack laughs, “No, I’ve never done that. Mostly because I don’t stay in hotels when I’m on vacation. But when we do go on holiday, I’ll just make you sign in at the hotel. We’ll just go by Mr. and Mr. Bittle.” He slides his palm over the muscled curve of Eric’s thigh and down, encouraging Eric to shift and spread his legs enough to allow Jack access to the soft warm skin of his inner thigh, slip his fingers up to curl under Eric’s balls and run his thumb idly up the underside of Eric’s dick. Eric’s already a little hard from either sleep or Jack or a combination of the two -- Jack can feel his own body waking up in response, as if it’s himself he’s touching not Bits -- and he arches into Jack’s touch with approval, throwing an arm up across the pillow and anchoring himself with a hand wrapped around the bed rail.
“God, Jack,” he says. And Jack doesn’t stop.
oOo
“Come to bed, Jack,” Eric says, sleepy yet not sleepy at the other end of the couch.
After dinner they’d watched Jaws with Coach and Suzanne, and then the Bittles had said their "good nights" and drifted upstairs. While they waited for Eric’s parents to finish with the bathroom for the night, Eric flipped aimlessly through Netflix offerings with his eyes on the television but his attention very clearly on Jack.
They’d started the movie at opposite ends of the couch, Rich in a Laz-E-Boy armchair and Suzanne rocking gently in wicker rocker, working steadily away on a piece of intricate cross stitch while the movie played. But they had barely made it to Richard Dreyfuss’ first info dump about sharks before Eric had slid down against the arm of the sofa and pushed his bare feet into Jack’s lap.
Jack had drawn his right hand in a firm sweep up Bitty’s calf from knee to ankle and then begun working the tension out of his arches and balls of his feet, first one foot then the other. As he does this, he realizes all over again how patently obvious he and Eric must have been to everyone around them (except, it seems, themselves) because this is a position they’ve assumed on countless nights since January on the sagging Haus couch while watching whatever movie had been decreed by Ransom and Holster.
The first time had been, tacitly, because Eric had slipped during practice and turned his ankle. Not hard enough even to bruise but there had been some swelling and Coach Hall and strongly suggested icing and elevation. So Jack had offered his thigh for Eric to rest his ice-wrapped ankle on while they watched The Philadelphia Story.
That had been the first time.
The second time Jack hadn’t questioned Bitty’s motives when Bitty slid his feet into Jack’s lap fifteen minutes into Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion.
And the third time Bitty certainly hadn’t voiced any objections aloud when, halfway through Sunshine, Jack had pulled Bitty’s feet across his lap and started working the knots out of Eric’s calf.
At the time it had felt nice, undeniably, but also within the realm of normal in the Haus where physical boundaries were casual and relationships confusing enough to Jack that he’d filed it all away as a part of college culture he would never understand but which he let his teammates get away with.
Bittle was one of his teammates, right?
Now, looking back, he sees the flirtation for what it was -- and this moment for what it is: Eric openly flirting with Jack in front of his parents in their own living room. It feels like Eric claiming him and Jack lets himself acknowledge the fact that -- like Eric asserting his right to kiss Jack in the airport -- this does something deep in the part of Jack that’s always felt profoundly alone.
And when Eric says “Come to bed, Jack,” Jack isn’t under any illusions that they haven’t started down that road since the minute Eric pressed his heel a little more firmly than necessary against Jack’s groin.
oOo
“So what are we doing today?” Jack asks, watching from the bed as Eric towels his hair dry and pulls clean clothes from his dresser. It’s Jack’s turn in the bathroom and he knows he should be taking it, but he likes the intimacy of watching Eric get dressed. Now he’ll be able to spend the day knowing that apart from Bitty, only Jack knows what color briefs are underneath those ass-hugging shorts that Eric is pulling on.
“Pancake breakfast down at the firehouse.” Eric grins. “It’s a family tradition. And then there’s a parade, but we don’t have to stay for that -- and there’ll be fireworks tonight. Oh! And then tomorrow night the Bittle clan all gets together at Aunt Josie’s for a picnic? My parents have offered to cover for us if you don’t want to risk it, but --”
“I’d like to meet your family,” Jack says, firmly, rolling over and sitting up. “Do you … am I going as your boyfriend?”
Eric comes back over to the bed and climbs into Jack’s lap, which is -- Crisse -- something Jack is pretty sure he will never get enough of. “I’d .. I’d like to take you as my boyfriend,” Eric says, rubbing noses with Jack and then kissing the tip of his nose. “But if you think it’s too risky --” Jack pulls him in so he can bury his nose into the freshly-showered scent of Eric’s throat. His skin is still damp along his collarbone where he’s been sloppy with the towel and Jack licks the moisture from Bitty’s skin, feeling Bitty shiver under his tongue.
This isn’t actually helping them have the discussion they need to have, though, so he pulls back and looks up into Eric’s face, reaching up with a hand to pull Eric’s eyes down to his own.
He takes a deep breath, then shakes his head in frustration at his own internal monologue of anxiety.
“I don’t want this -- it shouldn’t be a conversation about risk,” he says, pressing his forehead into Eric’s shoulder.
“I know, honey,” Eric says, instantly soothing, sliding a hand up over the back of Jack’s neck.
“No I mean --” Jack stops, then starts again. “When I talked to Marci on Tuesday she reminded me that no one’s entitled to this, to you, to what you mean to me. But -- there are people who do feel entitled to me. To their story about me. That’s been true since before I was born and the tabloid photographers were taking photographs of my mother in her maternity clothes and demanding to know the sex of the baby.”
“That’s not --” Eric starts, but Jack presses a finger to his lips to cut off the outrage. He'll let Bitty get outraged at celebrity journalism another day, but right now he doesn't want what he has to say derailed by righteous anger, however hot he might find it.
“My point is,” he says, when Eric subsides, “is that at some point they will tell stories about me, and about us. And there are people who should hear our story from us before then. The rest of the team -- the Samwell team -- we should tell them before school starts. And I’d like to talk to Georgia, and the guys. If you want me to come to the picnic tomorrow as your boyfriend, we’ll take our chances. But I think -- I think that means I talk to Georgia when I get back to Pawtucket. And I tell the team. Not just that I’m gay -- but that I have you. In my life.”
Eric looks down at him with an expression on his face that Jack struggles to parse, and for a moment he thinks Eric is going to say no, he’s not ready. That’s it’s all going to fast. That he’s having second thoughts. That --
“Yeah,” Bitty says softly. “Yeah you're damn right you do.”