this feeling called home (is it here or is it you)
i’ll probably rewrite most/all of this but here it is for now. unbetaed.
Bits was already in bed when Jack returned from a long roadie. He closed the door quietly behind him, dropping his bag of clothes onto the floor next to the entryway table Bits had said they needed. Which, Jack figured, they did, because Bits was forever losing his keys in the apartment if he didn’t drop them into the bowl sitting on the end of the table. The constant rotation of fresh flowers and the framed pictures definitely made their home a home, not just the place they stored all their shit.
Jack gently laid his keys in the metal bowl and winced a bit when his big car key clanked noisily. The apartment was dark save the strings of fairy lights across the mantle and above the kitchen cabinets. They offered just enough light to show the edges of the kitchen bar and the couch which was his pathway to the bedroom. The other leather living room furniture in the open space glowed softly.
Jack ran his hand along the back of the couch as he passed it, remembering how proud Bitty was when he bought the set with his first cookbook advance. In his entire life Jack had never been prouder of someone. Bits had worked so hard for years on the carefully crafted recipes. His face was so red as he tried to hold back the tears. Jack pressed a kiss to his overheated forehead and held him close.
On his other side was the kitchen, filled with every imaginable baking tool. In the drawer to the right of the oven was a stack of hand-crocheted pot holders from MooMaw. One in every color of the rainbow. And another one that was a violent shade of pink that apparently was Bitty’s favorite color as a child.
On the wall leading to the bedrooms were a series of pictures Jack had taken over the years. First, a shot from Jack’s senior year of college. Bitty stood at the sink, hair backlight from the rising sun in the window behind him. Next was Bitty and his parents on Bitty’s graduation day. Everyone had red eyes and Bits had somehow managed to sneak in two dozen chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies for his family. Jack suspected that there were really closer to four dozen made, but Bitty shared them with his classmates as they waited their turn to be called. The third picture showed Bitty struggling to hold onto a small, wiggly puppy as it licked his face. Butterscotch would eventually grow into Jack’s second favorite running partner, but the first year and a half had been a struggle. Butters was a rescue from a case of neglect and spent weeks terrified of his new owners. If Jack could guess, the pup was exactly where he wasn’t supposed to be- in bed with Bitty. He always seemed to know when Jack was out of town for long and would sneak under the covers after Bitty fell asleep.
The last picture was his favorite. Admittedly, it was a recreation of an important moment and not the actual thing, but Bitty’s open and earnest expression was exactly the same both times. The camera angled down at him as he knelt in front of Jack, a small black velvet box open in his hands. The silver and diamond band glinting in the setting sun was now on his finger. There was a terrible tan line from it now and whenever he had to take it off he couldn’t shake the feeling of being incomplete.
The rings were just a symbol. He knew that, logically, because the marriage license was the official piece. Still, Jack twisted his ring around his finger. The Bitty in the picture still looked nervous as to Jack’s answer, as if he hadn’t already heard it an hour before. As if they hadn’t had the marriage conversation several times. As if Jack was anything but completely and utterly hopeless for Bits.
Jack twisted the ring one more time before letting his hands drop. Not hopeless, he amended to himself. That’s close to what he had been before Bitty, before Samwell, before coaching, and before his overdose. Now it felt like he had nearly too much hope living inside his heart. Hope that Butters would stop peeing on the balcony after the one time they let him do it in the snowstorm. Hope that the Falcs would win the game against the Aces next week just so he could make Kenny take him to the disgustingly expensive steakhouse in town. Hope that Maman and Papa would be able to go to Georgia for New Years with the in-laws.
Hope that, for every day of his life, Jack could wake up feeling like there was no way life could possibly get any better, but then it does. Not that his life was perfect – the ache in his shoulder and the lingering smell of burnt sugar proved that not everything in life was going right – but him and Bitty? They were never going to be anything but good. The trust and respect in their relationship were a solid foundation on which they built a house all by themselves. Earthquakes could come. Tornadoes could threaten. Hurricanes could linger. None of them would matter.
Because this? What he had with Bitty?
There was the love Jack had for hockey and the love he had for his friends. He loved his parents more than either of those and above all of it was the brightest star Jack had ever wished on.
“Sweetheart?” Bitty appeared at the doorway, his hair mussed. He rubbed at one eye with the palm of his hand, mid-yawn. He wore one of Jack’s old Samwell t-shirts that had more than a few holes in it. “What is it?”
Jack had to swallow against the rush of love surging through him. He reached out and touched Bitty’s sleep-soft skin. “Hey bud,” he whispered. “Sorry if I woke you.”
Bitty relaxed into Jack’s hand. “You didn’t. Butters farted so bad it woke me up.”
The laugh erupted from Jack loudly enough to wake the neighbors.
Bitty grinned. “If we ever have to change his food again he’s sleeping on the couch. Oh, and he’s on your side of the bed so you get to wrangle him off.”
“Thanks,” he replied dryly but couldn’t remotely hide his grin. Bitty was half-turned back to the bedroom when Jack pulled him into his arms.
“Hi,” Bitty said softly as he buried his face in Jack’s chest, his arms sliding under Jack’s sport coat to press against his back. “I missed you. Good job this week. I’m glad you’re home.”
Jack pressed a kiss to Bitty’s adorable and even-worse-than-normal cowlick. “I missed you too.”
@sharkboyes asked for some Ronan and Adam meeting for the first time...here’s my interpretation on how that might have gone!
“The fuck are you?”
The freckled boy jumped at his words, tired backpack nearly falling out of his lap. Ronan knew Gansey would chastise him for sneaking up on the kid, but he was in Ronan’s seat at the still-empty lunch table. Ronan bothered to show up to school that day so he was going to get his damn seat, pre-warmed or not.
“Uh, a person?”
Ronan cocked an eyebrow. “No shit.”
A thin, wiry hand reached between them. “Adam Parrish.”
Ronan let his hand linger there for a second just to be a dick. Parrish wore his uniform like it was made of metal plates, not woven fabric. His tie was evenly perfectly done and tucked tightly against his collar. It was that perfect every morning in Latin class too, when Ronan sat three rows behind Parrish on the other side of the room.
Dick would be delighted. Both were, apparently. The one with two legs who was fuck-knows-where and the one attached to his own body. Ronan coughed and shook Parrish’s hand quickly. “Lynch.”
“Are you friends with Gansey too?”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” So Parrish did recognize him from Latin class. It was the one class of the day Ronan attended with any regularity. Parrish never talked much but Ronan had caught him glancing back at Ronan more than once.
Parrish blushed. “He asked me to come eat with him. I didn’t think he’d be so late.”
“He’s not late, he’s on Gansey time.” Ronan dropped into the seat a few chairs away from Parrish and propped his feet up on the table. He pretended it wasn’t because it was a better angle to be admired, but Ronan found honesty to work better for him than lying. Combat boots were definitely not part of the acceptable uniform but Ronan rather liked the way they looked against the stark white cafeteria table. Parrish did too, if his wandering eyes were as honest as Ronan. “He’ll show up when he’s finished saying hello and good day to half the fuckin’ school.”
“And you don’t join him on his promenade?”
Ronan snorted. “Do I look like I give a fuck what a bunch of stuck-up, richer-than-God idiots think about me?”
Those eyes raked over him again, blunt and unforgiving. Ronan’s top two shirt buttons were open, his tie technically correctly knotted but hanging low on his chest. His tattoo stretched up the back of his neck. His pants were on and zipped, thank you very much, but definitely lower cut and more fitted than most of his classmates. He bit the inside of his lip to keep the sharp grin from his face when Parrish’s gaze stumbled on the muscular thighs under those perfectly tailored pants. Years of sports had helped Ronan out there and at that particular moment Ronan was very glad for it.
“You look like you’ve just been debauched.”
Ronan’s laugh was loud, harsh, and honest. “I hope Gansey keeps you, Mr. SAT vocab section,” he stated. And just to see what it did, Ronan dragged his tongue slowly over his bottom lip before pulling his lip between his teeth. Parrish’s pupils dilated wildly. Ronan attempted to not be proud. He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “So what did Dick want with you?”
Parrish coughed. “Oh. Um, he mentioned something about his car?”
“Mmm,” Ronan said, like it meant anything.
“Mmm,” Parrish said back, to be an ass.
Trouble, Ronan’s mind supplied. He could be trouble if he hangs around. And not K’s brand of trouble. There wouldn’t be any violent flirting or drag racing between he and Parrish. There couldn’t be a him-and-Parrish.
Ronan only had a few months left of stuffing himself in Aglionby-sized clothes. Then he would be free; spending Gansey’s last summer before college getting Dick into as much debauchery as Ronan could manage. None of that would include Parrish, of course. He was just the new toy of the week.
Ronan settled back in his chair as Gansey finally appeared. He was followed by a bunch of preppy assholes, most of which Ronan never bothered to know. He watched as Gansey’s face lit up when he saw Parrish and had to look away. That wasn’t the expression he used for fucks who didn’t matter. That was the real one under the Richard Gansey III mask. It disappeared quickly, since they were at Aglionby and not home, but it still grated Ronan’s nerves.
He stood with enough clatter and flourish that everyone nearby stopped to stare. Parrish finally looked away from fucking Tad and raised his eyebrows. Ronan was pointedly not looking at either of them. He only nodded at Gansey and took off for the BMW. None of this afternoon classes mattered anyway.
Parts One & Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six
/ Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten /
NGL i’m not super sold on this section. It’ll probably be either heavily edited before going up on AO3 or deleted all-together. TW anxiety/concussion stuff
It took three days until Jack could go into his bathroom without the nightlight setting off a migraine. Eric had to help a few times, much to his horror, and Jack made sure to turn on the water while he peed because he knew Eric waited just outside the door, listening in case he fell. It was too early in the relationship (was it even a relationship yet?) for learning each other’s bathroom habits.
“I don’t have regular ol’ job,” Eric had said when Jack worried about the days he spent in bed. “I work from home every day anyway so as long as I tweet once a day no one will think I’m dead and right now, that’s good enough.”
He’d cooked them brunch the first day Jack managed to be in his kitchen. All the curtains were closed until only narrow beams of light brightened the space. Omelets and biscuits, the latter of which Jack was quickly realizing was a new favorite food. He’d eaten one layer by layer as Eric cooked. Shitty had been delighted to come home from class to find leftovers waiting in the fridge for him.
The Falconers had two away games and won them both. Jack breathed a bit easier after the first game, a matchup with the Bruins. Teams that close to each other always formed intense rivalries and he’d dreaded not being on the ice with Marty and Tater. But a win was a win no matter who was on the ice. Or if a rebounded shot had ricocheted off the leg of a Bruins player and bounced into the goal. A win was a win.
Over glasses of orange juice Eric scrolled through Jack’s phone and read him well-wishing texts and emails. He pulled out his own phone and talked about tweets and tags and reblogs. Jack pretended his headache returned and Eric pushed his phone away, brows creased with concern. Jack wanted to scoop Eric from his stool and carry him to the couch, to hold him tight like in that last dream.
Instead he stole both phones from the counter top and stuffed them into the couch as quickly as he could. Eric was laughing too hard to stop him even though Jack was clumsy enough still that it took much longer than it should have. His phone had a thick rubbery case but Eric’s was protection-less and slippery in his fingers so he’d been extra careful.
They sat on the couch for a few hours as Eric read 1776 aloud. As the time passed Jack found himself leaning more and more towards the man he was so convinced was just a dream but every time their shoulders nearly brushed Eric would shift away.
Jack pushed the coffee table away with his foot and slid onto the floor. Eric paused in his reading. Waving him on, Jack sat in the figure-four position and began to stretch. If Eric wasn’t going to let him touch him then he was going to listen. He couldn’t help that he was drawn to brushing against Eric. He would have to keep himself away even though it felt like the scrape of a knife on a dinner plate.
Eric finished the chapter. He marked the spot with the scrap of paper Jack usually used and set the book on the empty couch cushion beside him. “How are you doin’?”
Jack shrugged. “That first night was rough but overall I’ve felt better than I did during my last concussion.”
“You don’t feel upset about missin’ games?”
Jack shrugged again and then felt stupid. Who shrugs that many times in a conversation? “Eh, yeah, but I’ve learned the hard way about taking care of myself. A few weeks of games isn’t worth my safety or my life.”
“My dad could take some points from you. He’s of the belief that the Player’s Safety Commission over exaggerates the danger of concussions. Says they’re tryin’ to make the game so weak MooMaw could play.”
Switching outstretched legs, Jack frowned. “Is he really ignoring all the research?”
“He’s been coachin’ football since he graduated his high school team. He’s a bit set in his ways.”
“Yeah, but there are even players who have talked about how post concussive syndrome and how it’s wrecked their lives-”
Eric held his hand up. “You’re preachin’ to the choir.”
Eric cooked dinner while Jack slipped back into the nearly black bedroom to rest. Jack’s appetite hadn’t even partially returned so he picked at most of his plate before Eric shooed him off. He lay in bed and drifted in and out of work, the sound of Eric typing on his computer drifting through the cracked door.
They’d unplugged the clock that sat on his bedside table. The neon green light had burned even though his closed eyes but now Jack wished it worked. He’d know when Shitty was going to be back or he’d know when there would be a game on.
He rolled over. Pressing his palm against the cool, empty space where Eric had spent the last several nights. He understood Eric’s hesitations. He did, really, and he’d back off on the touching. He just didn’t necessarily like the hesitations.
Jack had four things in his life that he knew were true: His parents loved him. Shitty loved him. His team had his back, no matter what. Hockey was his number one love.
He felt a fifth truth forming the past few days. Eric (Richard, he’d learned during one late sleepless night chat) Bittle was important. Jack didn’t know how yet, if Eric would let them be more or if they’d just be friends, but those dreams had brought them together for a reason.
Eric smiled when Jack emerged. It was toothy and free and Jack wanted to do whatever it took to make him do it again. He crossed the cold tile floor and sat on the barstool across from him, his hands firmly tucked under his legs. Shitty was snoring so loudly it was surprising he hadn’t woken himself up yet.
“Can’t sleep?” Eric asked. He hit a few buttons on his computer and then closed the lid. He’d lit several candles and left them burning in the center of the counter. The firelight darkened and brightened Eric’s hair, hid and showcased the freckles across his nose. Jack felt his breath disappear from his lungs. He searched Eric’s face with hungry eyes, mentally cataloguing every inch of him. His fingers pressed hard into the soft padding but he didn’t move them.
Eric tilted his head to the side. His lips pursed into something between a smirk and a grin. Jack had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from leaning over the wide countertop and kissing him.
“Jack?” The amusement was still evident in Eric’s voice but concern laced his voice.
He cleared his throat. “Eh, yeah. Hi.”
“It’s nearly three.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Aren’t you?”
Jack shrugged- god, Jack, enough with the shrugging- but said no. “I think I’ve slept enough the last few days that I’m gonna stay up the next week.”
Eric shook his head the tiniest bit. He stood and offered Jack his hand. Without thinking about it Jack went around the edge of the counter, taking his warm hand. “Do you have any more of that sleepy tea?” he asked. He began to walk back to their- Jack’s bedroom, Jack falling into step beside him.
“Yeah, eh, I think so.”
Less than ten minutes later Jack was sitting in bed clutching a half-empty mug of warm tea. Eric was beside him with his own mug, talking quietly about how he and his MooMaw came up with the recipe when Eric was young. The kitchen candles were blown out save the one Eric brought into the bedroom.
Eric finished his tea first. He put the mug on his bedside table and flopped down on his back, arms spread wide. One hand hung off the edge of the bed and the other arm was pressed against Jack’s leg. Jack quickly chugged the rest of his drink and turned away to put his mug down, hiding his blush. Eric moved his arm as Jack slid down until his head was on the pillows.
He was expecting Eric to pull away again so Jack turned away, pulling off his t-shirt and dropping it over the side of the bed. When he lay on his back Eric was watching him, the earlier amusement on his face gone.
“Sorry, I normally don’t sleep with one on. I’ve been really hot at night with it on. I can put it back-”
“Oh hush. You should be comfortable. Don’t worry about anythin’ but that.”
“But-”
“It doesn’t bother me, Jack.” His words were quiet but still cut through the growing fog in Jack’s head. He reached over and brushed the tips of his fingers over the back of Jack’s hand.
His heart pounded at the touch. Eric’s face was mostly in shadow and unreadable. It remained that way when Jack turned onto his side facing him, and laced their hands together.
The silence in the room was heavy. Breathable but malleable, depending on what came next. The tea began to weigh on Jack’s eyelids but he forced them open. The distant Eric was gone and the warm, open, I’m –right-here Eric was in his bed. He didn’t want to miss these moments.
“How come you’re fine with me touching you now but you weren’t earlier? When we were on the couch?” He hadn’t meant to ask it. He was going to respect boundaries and limits. He was.
Eric played with Jack’s fingers. “Can you blame me for not wanting to get used to something I might not get to have for real?”
His words rang in Jack’s ears, sounding loaded and false and just…wrong. “How come this is okay?” He wiggled their hands. His mind raced as he tried to figure out why what Eric said bothered him.
“I-” Eric sighed. “Two reasons. One, I know how important it is to be comfortable when you’re healin’ so I’m here to make sure you’re doin’ okay and aren’t over exertin’ yourself. As for the second…don’t be makin’ fun of me for this, but if we’re lyin’ down and gettin’ ready to sleep, I can pretend it’s one of our dreams.
In daylight things get…messier. More real.” He avoided Jack’s eyes. “Now, I know how stupid I’m soundin’ but it’s workin’ so far so I’d appreciate any cruel opinions not bein’ voiced.”
Jack protested. “Eric, do you seriously think I’m going to be cruel to you?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Lord, even my momma doesn’t call me that. And honestly? No. I don’t think that, but I shouldn’t be relyin’ on my gut for major life decisions. I need talkin’ and trust and all the other important stuff.”
“I think you talk enough for both of us,” Jack chirped.
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Eric said dryly.
“As for the other part,” he said, wrapping his fingers firmly around Eric’s and bringing his hand to his mouth. As he brushed his lips across each of his knuckles Eric’s mouth parted with a quiet gasp. “Don’t you know you already have it?”
In the dim light Eric blushed. “Lord, you keep harpin’ on this.”
Jack’s heart squeezed. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to force anything on you, I just don’t understand.” He inhaled as quietly as he could, held for four, and exhaled. Eric noticed and sat up. His movements dislodged the blankets from his chest.
“Darlin’, you haven’t done a thing wrong, okay? None of this apologizin’.” Eric hauled himself out of bed and filled the empty glass in the bathroom. Jack sat up in bed, the blankets falling away from his bare chest, and took the offered glass and pills. He swallowed them easily. When he handed the glass back to Eric he saw the hunger and longing in Eric’s eyes. They stared at each other for what felt like minutes until Eric broke away. He was muttering under his breath when he put the empty glass on his bedside table and slid under the covers. Jack couldn’t hear what it was.
Maybe he was regretting coming over to wait on Jack hand and foot. Maybe he regretted ever saying his name in that dream. Maybe he regretted ever moving to Providence because now he knew Jack and would see his face on promo material throughout the city. He was never going to be able to get away from Jack no matter how this ended. Maybe he didn’t know how to say that so he was just waiting here until he figured it out.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Jack had spent enough time fraying at the edge to know what a too-close spiral felt like. He glanced at Eric, who was curled on his side facing Jack with his eyes shut.
Tell him?
Don’t tell him?
Tell- no- don’t- don’t show him all the fragments of your heart because that’s how people get cut and don’t want to come back or help him clean it up. Why should someone stick around to love a heart that’s more in pieces than not? He’d repaired much of it himself, using tape and Elmer’s glue and what tiny bits of forgiveness he could manage but so much of himself was shattered beyond repair.
“Brah.” A hand, large and rough-skinned, rested on his shoulder. “You’re sitting in bed at home. It’s….it’s almost four in the morning. You’re safe.”
There was something in Jack’s hand. When he squeezed it, it squeezed back. Person. Who, though, no clue.
2.7k, concussion/illness/asshole jack returns for a hot second. Not sure if the ending is logical for a concussed/ emotional reaction?
Parts One & Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six
/ Part Seven / Part Eight /
“You can’t tell me you’re not mad and then avoid me for nearly a week.” Shitty stood in Jack’s darkened doorway, the light behind him blacking out his features. He must have heard Jack’s pre-game nap alarm go off because the second Jack hit dismiss Shitty was there.
“For the fourth time, I’m not mad. Having to repeat myself so many fucking times is getting really old.” Jack tried to keep his movements slow but he still found himself practically ripping the sheet off. “I’d think you of all people listen to me. Guess not.”
He crossed his bedroom to the bath and shut the door against Shitty’s continuing argument. The little box of tea Eric had sent with Lardo sat on the counter next to his toothbrush and toothpaste. The leaves inside were loose so he’d had to go and get one of those little metal ball things but Eric was right, one cup of the stuff and Jack felt more relaxed when he got into bed than he normally did. He kept it in his bathroom to keep Shitty from trying to mix it with his weed after a bad week of classes.
Splashing cold water on his face, Jack brushed his teeth to get rid of the funky sleep breath he always got. Shitty was waiting for him by his bedroom door, wearing pajama pants (Wonder Woman) and his arms crossed over his bare chest. His mustache twitched when he caught Jack’s glare.
It wasn’t often that Jack tried to intimidate people off the ice. But with three inches and nearly fifty pounds on Shitty, Jack stood right in front of his friend. “Either you start trusting what I’m fucking saying or you can stop calling me your friend. You don’t get to pick and choose what you’re going to believe.”
As expected Shitty wasn’t intimidated. He glared right back. “And maybe I know you well enough to know that there’s something ribbing at you and you aren’t the kind to fucking play this shit as close to the chest as you are. You of all people know how dangerous that is for you to do.”
Jack snorted, loud and rude. He moved into the kitchen and pulled the bread and peanut butter out from the cabinet next to the fridge. “Fuck off, Shits.” He said it with his back turned because at the end of the day, Jack Zimmermann was a coward in many ways. He read texts from Eric and made himself put his phone down without responding. He started running more on the treadmills at the gym than risk running into him on the street. When Jack did have to venture outside he did so with a baseball hat pulled so low his eyebrows were nearly covered and he never looked up from his feet.
“Call Wade,” Shitty said. Jack heard him walk across the hard floor of the kitchen over the plush carpet of the living room and then the shutting of his bedroom door.
Jack’s shoulders were so near his ears he could feel his muscles trembling. The jelly jar was cold in his hand and he tried to keep from panicking as that sensation clung to his fingertips and slid, so slowly, up his forearm. He made his sandwich quickly and left the condo. When he got into his car to drive to the arena he realized he’d left his phone on his bedside table.
Jack huffed loudly. He wanted to rage against this growing cold, this feeling like the chance for something so close to perfect was so near his grasp but it turned at the last moment and he was left with an outstretched hand and an empty heart. The scrapes on his hands were nearly healed but he pressed the remaining scab on the base of his thumb into his steering wheel. The dull ache grounded him a bit, but there was wildness under his skin he couldn’t leash.
He put his key in the ignition, turning over the engine, and pulled out of his parking spot.
The next day Jack woke up in his bed unsure of how he’d gotten there. His curtains were closed against the bright morning sun which was normal, but the searing pain cleaving through his head when a tendril of sunlight reached through the narrow slit and onto his darkened bed was not. He swore loudly and then again internally when the noise and the action was another pair of knives in his skull. The second pillow was cool against his skin when he pulled it over his pounding head.
Someone knocked on the door like they were trying to be quiet but also trying to be heard. Jack grunted. It was apparently loud enough for them because a few moments later his door squeaked like it always did when opened too slowly. Soft footsteps on thick carpet.
“Hey man.” Shitty sat on the empty side of the bed.
Jack knew he was supposed to be mad but he couldn’t really remember why. He ached too much to care.
“Try breathing something other than polyester stuffing for a second and take some meds.”
“No weed,” Jack mumbled.
Shitty chuckled. “Nah, just the shit your doctor gave me. Come on, sit up. I even brought water so your perfect ass doesn’t have to get out of bed.”
Getting into an upright position was an ordeal. His body couldn’t decide if it wanted to puke or pass out. His left shoulder and neck felt like someone had taken a few swings of a baseball bat to them. He cursed under his breath and reached for the glass of water Shitty offered.
“How much do you remember?” he asked. To Jack, it was an unnecessary confirmation of a concussion. Possibly a bad one.
Jack grimaced but forced his brain into action. It took longer than it should have. “Flashes of...eh, earlier? Yesterday? Driving through the intersection of Wright and Williams on the way to the rink. Snowy on the ice during warmup.” Beyond those glimpses he had flashes of memory, single shot images that left him more confused than aware. He had no context for them beyond being during the game. “Did…eh…did I get in a fight?”
It was too dark to see Shitty’s face but Jack had the feeling that might have been a good thing. “By proxy,” he said. “But no, not you specifically. You got fuckin’ boarded by Pierre a few minutes into the first period.”
Jack cursed again. The medication took the sharp edge from the pain but he was still left with the heaviness of it. “Did we win?”
“Jesus, dude. No, it’s fine, don’t ask me what the very mad doctor said about the state of your brain. But no, the team didn’t win. Tater spent more time in the box than I’ve ever seen and he didn’t even care when he busted three of Pierre’s teeth out. The Terriers won in the shootout.”
“If my head was that bad I’d be in a hospital not my own bed,” Jack pointed out. “How did I get back here? Marty?”
“Oh, uh, nah man. I was at the game.”
His words caused a wild maelstrom of thoughts to race through Jack’s head. “Did I know that? Did you tell me you were gonna go?”
“Uh, no, I didn’t. Tater got us tickets. Lardo and me,” he added as if sensing Jack’s next question. He hesitated.
“What,” Jack said.
“So I talked to Tater about the tickets a few days ago and he said he could get us three so-”
The pain jabbing at his muscles and brain turned to ice. The words bubbling in his throat turned into frozen bile.
“Please tell me he wasn’t there to see me go down like that.” Jack didn’t have to explain who exactly he meant by he.
“He was really worried about you, man. Said you stopped responding to his texts. And by really worried I mean like, freaking out because he thought he did something wrong and was terrified he’d upset you.”
Sliding back down into bed was only marginally less painful than getting up had been. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“Bra-”
“Goodnight, Shitty.” Jack curled on his side, facing away from Shitty and away from his still-cracked-open bedroom door.
Shitty got up, mumbling about it only being three in the afternoon and not night. He fixed Jack’s curtains so that no sunlight breached the safety of the dark. And then he left, quietly shutting the squeaky door behind him.
The next time Jack regained consciousness he was so disoriented he couldn’t tell where his bed ended and the sky began. Everything was black and spinning. The air in his lungs became too thin to breathe. He fought with the blankets tangled around his ankle, a feeble attempt despite the strength lining every inch of his body. Sweat coated his skin. One of the thoughts floating through the murky black of his confused mind was about how he was going to puke all over his sheets because his trembling body wasn’t going to let him get up.
Cool, light hands that were not his own released his ankle from its trap. Jack groaned and heaved into the trashcan suddenly shoved in his face. Sweat poured down the back of his tender neck. When he finished the can disappeared.
Moments or minutes later there was a cool wash cloth pressed against his forehead. Jack sighed at the shock it sent through his overwhelmed system. The person he figured was Shitty murmured something as Jack fell asleep.
The next time the dark depths of too-heavy sleep released him Jack lay on his back, aware of which way was up. He could hear Shitty in the kitchen, talking to someone- Lardo? – but then another voice joined. The shut door between them kept any conversation from reaching Jack but he knew the cadence of that muted voice.
Bathroom, his brain helpfully supplied before Jack could spin back into the abyss. As long as he didn’t move his head or left arm too much it wasn’t terribly painful to move although his stumble through the dark definitely would have failed a sobriety test. The small plug-in nightlight in his bathroom set off a pain in his head that had him nearly down on the tile. He kept his eyes slitted to barely nothing as he brushed the vomit funk from his mouth. When he put his toothbrush down on the side of the sink he hoped the toilet seat was already up.
He knew he should eat. The walk back to bed had left Jack so exhausted that he wasn’t sure if he could make the walk to the kitchen. It would be too bright anyway.
Jack wasn’t sure how long he sat there when someone knocked on his door.
“Yeah,” he said, voice raw and rasping. He grimaced, suddenly aware of how sore his throat was.
Shitty’s head poked inside amidst the brightest light Jack had ever seen. He winced enough that Shitty slid inside quickly and closed the door so that only a sliver of manageable light shone through.
“How’re you doin’?” he asked, sitting on the end of the bed next to Jack.
The water and meds in Shitty’s hand were some of the best things Jack had ever seen. He downed them before answering. “Like shit.” He handed the glass back in case he dropped it.
“Want some food? Bitty made dinner and there’s tons of leftovers.”
“Shits. Jesus.”
Someone in the kitchen howled with laughter. It stopped quickly, muffled under a silencing palm.
“Which part of that was bad? The food or the leftovers or the Bitty part?”
Jack knew exactly which one pulled at something in his chest. “I can’t eat anything substantial,” he said. “I’ll just puke again.”
Even in the low light Jack could see Shitty’s eyes flare. “Again? When was the first time?”
“What do you-” Jack closed his eyes and groaned. “That wasn’t you earlier, was it.”
“Lardo and I went and got stuff from her apartment. She’s gonna be here when I have to go to class so that you’re not alone.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Jack snapped.
“No shit,” Shitty replied. “You need someone who isn’t going to let you stay in here every hour of the day and wallow.”
“I’m not wallowing.”
The light from the kitchen shut off suddenly. Jack could feel Shitty shift toward the door. A few moments later Lardo appeared, carrying a small candle. The light was gentle enough that Jack’s head didn’t rebel from it.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “We raided the candles from the cabinet over the fridge. Hope you weren’t saving them for something special.”
Jack didn’t even know he’d had candles up there. He told her so, and she smiled. “I didn’t think so. You have some weird ass taste though. Although the penis-shaped one made Bits laugh so hard he had to go into the hallway.”
“Crisse. I remember. Those are from the team, right after I came out. Said my game on the ice was good enough but my game was lacking so they got those to help.”
She grinned. “You’ll have to thank them for me. I now have the mental image of an overjoyed Bits lighting a rainbow-colored dick candle.” The candlelight softened her already beautiful face. There was a glow to her that jack didn’t think was caused by the candle.
“Is Eric okay?”
Lardo blinked. “He doesn’t have a concussion so I’d say he’s doing just fine.”
“No, I…” the words he thought he wanted to say slipped from his mind. “Nevermind.”
“Do you want him to come in and say hi?” Lardo tried to keep the hope from her face but Jack could see it.
He shook his head, barely moving it because of the stiffness setting in his traumatized muscles. The physical pain was easier to focus on than the raging storm within himself. He’s right there, part of him screamed. He’s right fucking there. The other part of him turned away from that begging voice.
Lardo deflated a bit. “Okay,” she said. “But your stomach just growled loudly enough they could hear it outside so I’m gonna go bring you something. A biscuit okay?”
“I have biscuits?” He’d had enough concussions through his career to know that his sense of smell was always affected by the injury but he’d never resented it before now. His condo must smell heavenly.
Lardo smiled, getting up. The knees of her jeans were covered in what might have been dust. That explained how the two shortest people got candles from a cabinet even Jack could barely reach. “You do now. Butter or honey on top?”
His hair had smelled like honey. Faster than a heartbeat Jack could feel himself imploding, breath too loud and the pain in his system not yet covered by his medication. Shitty’s arm was around him immediately, other hand reaching for his in the wavering candlelight. Jack felt so stupid, for such an innocent question to set him off.
That screaming, brave part of him continued to rage. Stop running from what you know is right, it yelled. He squeezed Shitty’s hand and noted that, this close, he could smell Shitty’s hair.
“Eric,” he rasped. Lardo was gone instantly, the room darkening into oblivion. She murmured to Eric in the kitchen and Jack could hear bare feet crossing the tiled floor.
Jack wanted to stand up, to greet Eric properly with a handshake or a quick hug but when he shifted his legs to stand pain that was more than his injuries shot through him.
When Eric opened the door, candle in hand, something in Jack collapsed. He looked at Eric with a suddenly tear-stained face and pulled his good arm from Shitty’s hold. Eric crossed the room and laced Jack’s trembling fingers with his own. He offered Shitty the candle, who took it and got up to slide it onto Jack’s bedside table. He shut the door when he left.
Eric stood between Jack’s spread knees, gentling his free hand through Jack’s hair. Hot tears still poured from Jack’s eyes so he pressed his face into Eric’s shirt. Eric curled around him, murmuring softly, as the shield Jack had been working so hard to create crumbled away.
if only i wrote this much this quickly for my original fiction.
2.2k! juuuust shy of 20k with this update. There’s still a lot of time i want to cover so we’re def gonna hit at least 30 but no promises i’ll stop there.
Parts One & Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six
/ Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine /
“I’m sorry,” Jack mumbled sometime later. They were in bed properly, bodies tucked under the covers and Jack’s head tucked under Eric’s chin. In the dim light Jack could see the goosebumps that rose on Eric’s collarbone every time he exhaled.
“Hush now. No one gets to decide when their emotions are gonna hit. Do you want more water?” he gestured to the fresh glass and the biscuit Shitty had brought in and left on the table behind Jack. “You’ve gotta be dehydrated from that jag.” Eric pulled away to reach for the water, making Jack groan. “Oh stop it, you silly man. You’re gonna make that headache worse and I know it’s gotta hurt somethin’ sinful right now.”
He was right, so Jack sat up gingerly and drank down the glass. The moment it was back on the table Jack pulled Eric close.
So much of Jack was warm. Not in the sense of peeling off his shirt and sweats, though with Eric’s added body heat it was a little too much. Jack clenched and flexed the fingers of his left hand. He groaned at the pain that radiated down from his shoulder, but that was it. The icy discomfort that had been eating at him for so long was…gone. Instead Jack felt as if his core was made of something light and airy.
Breathing in Eric’s scent Jack labeled this feeling joy and decided he never wanted to let it go. He grasped Eric’s shirt in his hand and pressed himself closer. With the fabric in his hand he paused. “Is this my shirt?”
“Oh, um, yes?” A pink flush slid across Eric’s skin. “I was just so worried, you see, so when Lardo went back to our apartment she grabbed it for me.”
“I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“Goodness, Jack. I don’t think you should be apologizing for some idiot nearly breaking your neck. None of it was your fault!”
“No, no, I mean before that.” Jack shrugged, hoping that acting nonchalant would make him actually feel nonchalant. “For not texting back and stuff.”
“And stuff?” Eric echoed. Jack could hear the smile in his voice but still pulled back to see his face.
In the candlelight Eric looked like a Renaissance painting: soft, inviting, perfect. Jack wondered if touching him would smudge any still-damp paint, ruining the final product with the wild desperation he’d been fighting for over a week.
“And stuff?” he prompted again.
“Yeah. Eh, like, letting Lardo call you that day and barging in on your conversation. And for just being a crappy person, I guess.” He filled Eric in on what he’d done to avoid running into him in public.
“Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric started, and Jack wanted to hear him say that every day for the rest of his life. “We already talked about the video call and you know you’re forgiven, so I hope you’ll be able to let that go soon so it’s not hangin’ on you. And if it makes you feel better, you wouldn’t have run into me anyway. I’m usually up much after that and spend a lot of time on my computer. Indoors, and away from any beautiful men I’d be completely distracted by.”
This time it was Jack who blushed. He looked down and traced the letters on Eric’s – his – shirt. The bottom hem must hang past mid-thigh, he figured, if Eric were standing. He didn’t notice when Eric had come to him earlier but the man was proportioned exactly like his- their- dreams.
“Sorry,” Eric said.
Jack looked back up, a question on his face.
“I think…when you’re feelin’ better, of course, we need to sit down and talk about what we want from this. If,” he hesitated, biting at his lip. “If anything. Right now we will do whatever we need to do to help you get better, but I wanna make sure we’re on the same page after that.
Jack had read every page of so many books and he was so desperate to know what words Eric was reading at this exact moment. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” His voice was barely a whisper.
Eric shook his head. “Not like that, no. Lord, Jack, please don’t look at me like that, you have no idea-” He broke off with a frustrated groan. Moving to grasp Jack’s wrist, Eric flattened his hand against the letters he’d been tracing. The thrum of Eric’s heart under his palm brushed away the crumbled bits of that shield Jack had tried so hard to create.
Jack memorized as much as he could- the way Eric was looking at him with those beautiful eyes, the pressure of his hand, the floral shampoo and honey scent that seemed to find Jack anywhere. Eric’s breathing was normal but his heart seemed to be pounding under Jack’s hand.
“I’m not gonna say too much ‘cause this is definitely not a conversation to be havin’ with a concussion,” he repeated. “But there’s something there. There’s something between us that I want to understand. I’ve never been so drawn to someone like this before.” His eyes darted to Jack’s and up to the candle. “I don’t know if you feel the same but I don’t want you worryin’ your already hurt head with such thoughts.”
“I want to take you on a date,” Jack said. He hadn’t been expecting to say that, because really he wanted to kiss Eric and see if he tasted like honey too, but a date seemed like a better first step.
The curve of Eric’s lips was so enticing that Jack nearly kissed him anyway.
“I’d like that.”
“But you’re sure though, that this,” he wiggled his fingers against Eric’s chest and nudged his ankle against his where they were linked under the covers, “is okay?”
“Well I do have to say that it’s a little weird to be in bed and still wearing socks but that’s about the limit of my discomfort.”
When Jack smiled Eric’s eyes dropped to his mouth. Jack’s stomach chose that moment to rumble again, making Eric laugh and Jack wondered if he was hungry for food or for the continued closeness of this maybe hope. Still, he let Eric sit up and give him flakey layers of the best biscuit he’d ever eaten.
“I’m sure this isn’t exactly in your nutrition plan-”
“I’m a professional hockey player,” Jack replied. “I can eat anything I want to as long as I’m not stupid about it.”
“What is considered stupid?” Eric asked, peeling another heavenly layer.
“An entire keg in one sitting,” Jack offered. “Three XXL pizzas with half a dozen toppings each.”
“Good God. Please tell me that wasn’t you.”
Jack shook his head, wincing at his neck. He probably should have iced it. “The beer was Reynauld and the pizzas were Tater.”
Eric stifled a laugh. “I can totally see Tater doin’ that,” he said. “I don’t know Reynauld though.”
He wanted to tell Eric to not quiet his laughter. Jack wanted to know what it sounded like. He didn’t though, he only talked of his teammates until his eyes drooped. He was mostly asleep when he felt soft lips press against his forehead and a strong arm rest across his ribs, pulling him close.
The sun was glowing behind Jack’s curtains when he woke. He’d shifted in the night so that his head wasn’t level with Eric’s chin anymore. Instead they were eye to closed eye. Eric was curled on his stomach with his feet still tangled with Jack’s. His breathing was even and deep.
Jack couldn’t smell much still. He slid his hand under the covers until he found Eric’s wound in the blankets. The movement made his neck and shoulder ache but as long as he didn’t actually lift his arm it was manageable. Gently, he slid his fingers between the fabric and Eric’s warm palm.
He shifted a bit at Jack’s ministrations but didn’t wake. Maybe it was a trick of the dim light or the concussion, but Jack swore Eric’s lips pulled into the tiniest smile as he slept.
It couldn’t have been much longer until Eric shifted again, his finger’s tightening around Jacks. When he opened his eyes that kind-of smile turned into a real one.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled.
After so many years on the road, rooming with various teammates, Jack knew the sound of a man newly awake. The way their voices were somehow so much deeper without trying to be. The rawness of their speech and the way it had the potential to make Jack’s very bones yearn to pull them close, turn out the light, and let the world continue without them for a few hours.
The feeling hadn’t happened in years and even then, it had only been once before. Jack was glad the lights were already out and he knew the world at large already didn’t care that he was downed by a concussion. He pulled his hand from Eric’s and carefully pressed it against his check. Eric’s skin was supple and soft against Jack’s scratchy callouses. He stiffened slightly, enough that Jack pulled away. Eric grabbed Jack’s hand.
“I don’t want you to do something you might regret when you’re not concussed,” he whispered. “Hell, I don’t want to force you into something regrettable ever.
Jack had a sudden flashback to that campfire dream where whispered truths were the only thing worth listening to. Where he heard Eric’s name for the first time, where he knew the hope growing inside him might have a permanent place in his life one day.
“I’m scared you’ll find out how much of a mess I am and never want to see me again,” Jack replied softly.
Eric laced his fingers with Jack’s. “I could say the same ‘bout me.”
“Not possible.”
“Jack, we don’t even actually know each other. You could end up hating me.”
“Is that the truth for any relationship though?” he pointed out.
“Maybe,” Eric conceded. “But that’s why I want to talk when you’re feelin’ better. Set ground rules, blah blah.”
“What kind of rules?” He pulled himself forward until his nose brushed against Eric’s. His breath hitched but he didn’t pull away.
“Lord, Jack. You ain’t gonna make this easy are you.”
Jack hummed. “Might as well learn that now.”
Eric’s hand threaded through Jack’s hair but didn’t push him away. “We can’t do anything until you’re better, okay?”
He groaned. “But I really wanna kiss you.”
“I know, darlin’, and I really wanna kiss you too. But if I’ve learned anything from Shitty it’s knowing when to take a step back and breathe.”
“Just one kiss?”
“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that, right?”
“Mmm…good.” Jack winced as he lifted his hand onto Eric’s hip.
“See?” Eric pointed out. He was still breathless with Jack that close. He moved his hand to gently brush against the wrecked muscles. “You need more pain medication. I should get up and get it for you.” He licked his lips. “I’m… I’m gonna do that now, okay?”
“No.”
Eric huffed a laugh that brushed Jack’s mouth. “Charmer.”
He eventually pulled away after lingering a few quiet, tense moments longer than he needed to. Sitting up, he flicked his wrist and his face lit up from his watch. “Goodness, it’s already near ten.” When he turned to look at Jack he realized Jack had buried his face in his pillow. “Oh shit,” he said, quickly covering up the brightness of his watch. “I’m so sorry.”
“’s okay,” Jack mumbled. It still awoke the throbbing in his head to a level he couldn’t ignore anymore. It radiated down his spine and through his damn shoulder and he just wanted it to stop.
Eric was back moments or minutes later with water and his meds. Jack groaned as he sat up but obediently swallowed the pills. He lay down on his back, eyes closed and wishing for some level of unconsciousness until the meds kicked in.
“Do you want some food?” Eric whispered.
“Non.”
Fingers brushed the hair away from his face. Jack turned so Eric’s palm cupped his cheek. It was colder than he was expecting but felt wonderful.
“Oh, here, I got you some ice for your neck. I know you can’t see it but it’s turnin’ like a damn rainbow.”
Jack groaned. “Great.” He hissed when the towel-wrapped pack pressed against the tender skin.
“We should have done this earlier,” he admitted, “but we were more worried about the concussion than the bruising once we knew nothing was broken. You’ll be right as rain soon,” Eric promised. He began to pull away but stopped when Jack let out a noise that might have been a whimper. “Are you o-”
“Stay.” Eric had said we like this mattered to him, like one day it wouldn’t mean Lardo-and-Shitty-and-Eric taking care of Jack but Eric-and-Jack taking care of each other.
Even with his eyes closed he could feel Eric’s gaze dart over him: his eyes, his injured neck, the rise and fall of his chest.
“One minute and I’ll be back, okay?”
Jack grunted softly. Eric’s hand disappeared. Light flared and was gone as he quickly slipped out of the room.
Jack was in and out of sleep for what could have been moments, minutes, or hours. He clenched his good hand in the covers like it would anchor him to the bed. At some point Eric returned and replaced the blankets with his hand and Jack finally felt like his feet weren’t about to touch the ceiling.
“Sleep,” Eric whispered in his ear as he settled in close. “I got you.”
Shitty found him leaning heavily on the kitchen sink, the coffee pot beside him gurgling quietly.
"You okay?"
Jack glanced over his shoulder at his roommate. "Had another weird dream," he said. "I was-" he waved his hand in front of his face and he turned to lean against the sink. His eyes were shadowed and bloodshot. "-blind. Stumbled around for what felt like hours, bumping into shit and nearly breaking my ankle falling off what must have been a curb or a rock." He cursed quietly. "There were other people there too, loads by the sound of all the voices. All blind and bitching about it."
Shitty hopped onto the island counter. His ass was a little closer to the corner than he had intended, but Jack's reoccurring-but-not-exactly-the-same dreams had been happening for months.
"And remember how I had that dream where everything was black and white until I met someone and then everything was in color?"
Shitty nodded. That was three months ago, and not even the first dream Jack had told him about.
"It was the same idea, but I guess I bumped into the right person and suddenly I could see." Jack frowned. "There was a lot of trash littered all over the place.” The crease between his eyebrows deepened. "I was wearing mismatched sneakers."
"Brah," Shitty said. "But what did they look like? Did you see them this time?"
The coffee pot chirped and Jack pulled two mugs from the cabinet. "No, but I'm starting to think it's a man," he said.
"Any reason why you might think that?"
Jack handed Shitty his Harvard Law mug and wrapped his fingers around his own Falconers one. "Just a feeling."
"Is this a...good feeling?"
Jack's right eyebrow rose.
"You know what I mean, man."
Jack hummed. "Yes, Shitty. It's cool that this mysterious person who may or may not be real but that I keep dreaming about may be male. I’m well aware I haven’t publically dated someone of any gender in years but I’m still okay with this dream person being a dude."
"Asshole."
It made Jack smile and when he glanced out the window over the sink again he saw a flash of honey blonde hair before it disappeared in the rush of the morning commute sidewalk below.
"Tell you what," Shitty said. "Start writing this shit down and I'll have my girlfriend paint you a book of these bizarre-ass dreams."
"Girlfriend? When did that happen?"
"Get that shit-eating grin off your beautiful face. It's the girl I told you about weeks ago."
Jack hid his smile behind another sip of coffee. "Eh. She needs to pass the bathroom test."
Shitty's mustache dipped into his light coffee, leaving the hairs looking like a paintbrush dipped in dirty water from a too-much-white canvas. "The fuckin what?"
"Bathroom test. Marty told me he started doing it with his girlfriends over the years and his wife was one of the few who passed."
Shitty frowned. "This isn't some sexist shit is it?"
Jack shook his head. "When she comes over for a long weekend, how much of her girly crap takes over your bathroom?"
"Literally none of that matters," Shitty protested. "She can do whatever she wants to feel good about herself. Why even do something this stupid anyway?"
Jack rinsed his empty cup and tucked it into the top shelf of the dishwasher. "You're right, overall it doesn't matter. But you're not the kind of guy who wants a super high maintenance chick making him late all the time cause she’s still getting ready. You're more of a 'sorry we're late, we got stoned and were halfway through a box of donut holes before we realized the time.'"
It made Shitty chuckle, but he shook his head. "While that last part may be true, I don't give two shits if she wants to use fruity body wash or wear makeup."
Jack shrugged. "It's not a pass/fail text, eh? Just something to notice."
Shitty hummed before pouring himself another mug. He’d decided, way back in high school, that relationship tests were stupid. A decade and a degree-and-a-half later, he hadn’t changed his mind. Jack, sweet, stupid Jack, hadn’t sat through entire semesters of Women’s Gender and Sexuality classes. Maybe there was a book Shitty could get Jack, maybe something comparing women’s rights from the American Revolution to modern day. It wouldn’t be as educational as having to sit through many classmates’ personal stories that still clung to his mind and changed the way he treated everyone around him, but maybe it would open the door for more conversation.
It was barely a week later when the next dream happened. Two days after that, another. Then another and another and- Matching birthmarks, coincidentally identical tattoos, first words memorized by longing hearts. Palms that warmed when held by a soulmate.
The dreams didn't bother Jack, per se, but the way he felt after was enough to pull him from bed and turn on the bathroom light. Dark shadows had been lining his eyes for most of his life but these dreams made it harder to pretend they weren’t there. It wasn’t sleeplessness that caused the shadows, either; Jack had always been too close with the ache in his chest. Sometimes he could keep it at an arms-length away. Sometimes it grabbed him by the waist and held him tight no matter how much Jack fought.
Jack sat up, sheets falling to his waist, and buried his face in his hands. Breathing deeply for a few moments, Jack focused on the things he could feel and hear to ground himself in reality. He switched on the light when he finished. A history book titled 1776 sat on his nightstand and Jack pulled it off, opening it to his marked chapter.
The words blurred after a few pages. He sighed, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids.
He was Jack Zimmermann, the first out bisexual NHL player. He’d never had to go a day without food or shelter and had gone to the most expensive rehabilitation center in Montreal after his accidental overdose. His parents ended each twice-weekly phone call with a we love you and we are so proud of you. And Shitty, who ran into Jack in a bar bathroom after a Falconers win talking himself through the beginnings of a panic attack, had quickly turned into his best friend. He was a good roommate too, prompt with the meager rent Jack charged and ready for a snuggle when Jack’s anxiety climbed to a suffocating level. Jack could hear him snoring from across the condo; the noise had been one of the things he’d used to center himself in the now.
Jack dropped his book back on the nightstand, tossing his bookmark on the cover and turning off the light before turning away. He grabbed the extra pillow from the other side of the bed. He hugged it against his bare chest, squeezing tightly until his lungs reminded him to exhale. The cool fabric sent a ripple of goosebumps down his back and arms. Pulling the covers over his shoulder helped, but that coldness had settled into his chest a long time ago and no amount of distant lovers, platonic snuggles, and proud parents had ever been able to warm it. They stopped it from getting worse, from every ounce of his insides turning into a deadly winter storm like the ones he weathered inside a warm home, but sometimes…sometimes his feet were too numb to walk toward the laughing brunette at the cookout Marty had over the summer and his fingers were frostbitten when he thought about reaching out to the tan-skinned man with the sweet smile at the last Pride Parade.
The morning summer sun found Jack wearing thick sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, eyes open and body shivering underneath enough blankets to melt ice.
When he finally emerged from his room, still wrapped in one of the blankets, Shitty poured him a coffee and slid it across the island.
“What was it this time?”
Jack held the too-hot mug between his palms. “No dream,” he said.
Shitty’s eyebrows rose as they drank in silence.
“My last class is over at 12:30 and I could be back by 1:15,” his friend offered.
“I thought you were hanging out with your girlfriend?”
He spread his arms wide. “Brah. You come first.”
“Bros before hoes?”
“Yes, that’s right, brothers should always come before gardening tools.” It was a familiar banter. Jack’s shoulders lowered a few inches.
“Hang out with your girl. I have meetings all day anyway.”
It wasn’t a lie. He just had an hour and a half between his three meetings. Maybe he could manage a nap in the team room after morning skate.
His skin prickled the second he locked the condo door, body unhappy with the lack of thick clothing in the hallway air conditioning. The few minutes he spent getting into his car and then out of it again at the rink was the only time he felt relatively warm.
Jack’s teammates were familiar enough with his not-very-god days that no one bugged him about his sloppiness on the ice. He showered and changed quickly after Coach called the end of practice. His first meeting was with some journalists from Samwell, the college his mother went to. If he’d gone to college, Jack imagined he would have gone there. A couple of their guys had been drafted in recent years so clearly they were of elite caliber. Johnson and Oluransi, if he remembered right.
The journalism students were nice; professional and understandably nervous. Jack made sure to chat with them for a few minutes before the interview started. Idle chit chat to get them used to him, to the way he spoke, to get over the fact that on my god that’s Jack Zimmermann. Their questions were ranged: everything from how he managed to still be drafted six years ago despite missing a full year of competition, to the charity he started in Providence.
“So much of my life has been obsessed with hockey. I wanted to create something that had nothing to do with it. This Colorful Home is about finding safe, long-term foster families for queer youth. No one deserves to become homeless or forced into unhealthy and dangerous living conditions because of their orientation or identity. I was raised by amazing and supportive parents who love me, not despite my mental health issues or my sexuality, but including them. They are the majority of why I'm still alive today. And-and the thought of children not having the same support system because of who they are-” He shook his head. “It's unacceptable.”
The students were all leaning back in their seats, faces paler than earlier. Jack huffed a quiet laugh. After a silence that had Jack reaching seven before anyone spoke again, there were a few more questions until the students were finished. He made sure to take photos and pass out signed t-shirts.
When they left Jack retreated to the team room. There was no one else around to notice when he stopped hiding the way his hands shook. No one saw him go through his grounding routine or press the heels of his palms in his eyes. He'd gotten good at making people believe his anxiety was well-controlled and easy to live with. It's part of why he almost always agreed to interviews; the more normalized he can make bisexuality, the more people will realize he’s not a walking petri dish of STIs. The more normalized he can make anxiety, the less it will involve silent, life-long struggles. Maybe he could keep someone else from overdosing, someone who doesn’t have a teammate to find them before it was too late.
He was back to his media-ready façade for his next interview. It’s with a reporter from the local newspaper, an older woman Jack respected more than most people who got one-on-ones with him. Her questions always required more than the blanket “Well, we need to get the puck in the net” kind of responses. She never looked annoyed when he took too long to respond. Hopefully she wasn’t just pretending to be fine with it but calling him an idiot in her head.
Jack didn’t tremble as much after this interview, but it’s easier to handle a smaller chat than one with a bunch of people he didn’t know. There was still no chance of a nap. He sat on the overstuffed couch again, lights off, and did enough deep breathing that he got lightheaded.
His last interview was to brainstorm ideas for his upcoming You Can Play campaign. A few other guys in the league were out – Oluransi being one of them – and Jack wanted to do something with all of them. For starters, they’d all been using pride tape for every game. The tape company had even started making more color pairings for more sexualities.
That’s where Jack had gotten the idea for the name of his charity. Most non-LGBTQIA people didn’t realize the amount of colorful flags made for specific orientations. Jack had googled them and scrolled through for nearly two hours, reading the descriptions and history of all of them. So many colors, so many people, choosing to celebrate themselves. Jack had bought a bisexual one immediately.
His sticks were always wrapped in the blue, purple, and pink tape made especially for him. Trilman, a forward on the Schooners, used it too. Oluransi used the rainbow as did four other players. The Devils’ goalie used a black, purple, and white tape for asexuality.
By the time Jack dumped himself into his car a lose plan had been formed: This summer, post-Cup, all the out players would go on a US and Canada tour to speak to youth teams. Jack wasn’t sure how much it would help, to speak out against homophobia, transphobia, and racism in sports, but he had a list of colleges and junior teams to call over the next few weeks. It was a start.
Shitty found him less than an hour later, curled up on the couch in the blanket Jack had left there that morning. Jack wasn’t asleep – far from it- and his eyes ached as Shitty wrapped himself around Jack. He smelled faintly of weed and hot wings and cheap beer. When Jack could finally feel enough of himself to speak again his voice was hoarse.
“How as your date?”
“Fun. You’ll like her. She’s cool as hell.”
“Hell is hot.”
Shitty patted his cheek with a condescending touch. “It’s a good thing you’ve got that wonderful hockey ass,” he said, smiling.
Jack hummed, wishing he could rub his eyes but Shitty was latched on too tightly. “I think my baby cup pictures negate any attractiveness.”
After a pause Shitty rearranged himself so he straddled Jack’s lap, weight carefully held off of the knee that had been plaguing Jack for several years. Holding Jack’s face in his hands, Shitty told him, softly but firmly, “Everyone is embarrassed by shit they did as a kid. Your brain likes to remind you about it more than the non-mentally-ill person’s brain, yes, but what you did as a baby- or even something you did last week- doesn’t detract from your attractiveness.”
Jack opened his mouth to protest but Shitty continued. “Brah, you didn’t kill anyone or steal candy from any babies. And while we are definitely going to have a talk about that stupid bathroom test you’re not any less attractive or less worthy of love because of the struggles you’ve gone through.”
He felt the immediate tension in Jack’s jaw. “You’re my best friend, and nothing is going to change that.”
Jack had to pull his face away. Shitty pressed his hands on Jack’s shoulders instead. The pressure was enough for Shitty to feel the way his friend’s heart was pounding in his chest. Jack’s expression wasn’t one he recognized though; years of friendship and all he could tell was that Jack’s heart was breaking, and he didn’t know why.
“Brah,” he said, squeezing his hands gently. “You can talk to me about anything.”
Jack kept his mouth firmly shut but nodded. His gaze was hard, directed over Shitty’s shoulder. The only thing for him to stare at there was a blank section of the wall. Maybe he would put his next photo print there.
Twenty minutes later Shitty was sitting beside Jack, watching Netflix with Shitty’s legs draped over Jack’s lap. The blanket was spread over them, jostling every time Shitty laughed.
Jack was asleep before the end of the third episode.
crossed 28k with this so i’m thinking we might end up several thousand over my goal. yay!
also i realize that having so many parts is a little obscene but hey that’s what happens when you start writing with zero planning. when it goes up on ao3 it’ll be more logically spaced.
Parts One & Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six
/ Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve /
The next week passed easily enough. Jack felt better every morning. He wasn’t sure if it was because his head was healing or because every time the sun came through the curtains to their- his, he reminded himself belatedly - bed Bitty was there too. He’d even been there the morning Jack got the final okay from Liam to begin full practices again. Jack’s lips were halfway to Bitty’s cheek when he remembered he wasn’t supposed to do that. Bitty had pretended not to notice but a flush spread across his cheeks. Liam, the asshole, had just grinned at Jack. Thanks to Tater, everyone in the building now knew who Bitty was and, also thanks to Tater, was rumored to be Jack’s boyfriend.
No one had actually asked Jack about it, so he didn’t correct the story. He didn’t want to either but the guilt was beginning to eat at him. The Falconers had a game two nights from now that he could stand in their pre-game meeting and announce the truth. And probably flip Tater off in the process.
“Do I really need three different kinds of pasta?” Jack asked, looking at the boxes Bitty had dropped in his cart.
“Depends,” Bitty responded as he scrolled through the list on his phone. “Do you want your dinner to look right and taste good?”
“Eh,” Jack trailed. “I mean…”
“Mr. Zimmermann.” Bitty cocked his head to glare at Jack. “You best be about to say yes.”
Jack fought the grin threatening to break his face in two. “Yes.”
Bitty hmmphed and pulled the front of the cart down the aisle. “That explains why you had one container of cooking spices and six bottles of siracha.”
“Those are Shitty’s!” Jack protested, allowing himself to be pulled along.
“Uh huh.”
“I also ran out of a few spices the week before my concussion so in my defense-”
“Don’t even try,” Bitty drawled. “And get those two jars of that off the top shelf, will you?” He pointed to some sauce Jack had never heard of. The glass jars clinked against each other as Jack put them in the cart.
“Guess it’s a good thing I’ve got you, eh?”
If Jack hadn’t been looking at Bitty he would have missed it: A pause in motion, a freezing of Bitty’s heart, the white-knuckled grip on his phone. It disappeared with the grace of someone getting up after a pad-less slip on ice. Bitty put on a smile that didn’t make the corners of his eyes crinkle like it should have.
“Sure thing.”
Over dinner (grilled chicken with a brown sugar rub? Jack couldn’t figure out why someone would even consider trying that but it was delicious.) Jack brought up his upcoming game. He and Bitty sat at the kitchen bar/counter area Jack never really knew how to label. Bitty could sit comfortably on his side, but Jack, on the other side, had to either twist his legs to the side against the cabinets or spread his knees and scoot as close to them as he could. Neither were particularly comfortable, but at least this way he could pretend this was a meal between friends. Sitting next to him would have been too much temptation. Jack knew himself well enough to know he’d spend even more of the meal looking at the bare skin of his legs below those damn shorts.
“Shits and Lardo will be there. Want me to grab you a ticket too?”
Bitty put his fork down. “Jack…”
The perfectly sweet chicken soured in Jack’s stomach. He hadn’t meant to do anything romantic, he was honestly just asking if Bitty wanted to come to the game. Was it too much? Did he- God, did he have a date with someone else?
Bitty stared at the table, his napkin twisted between his fingers.
After a too-long pause Jack spoke. “I – I need you to say it. Good or bad, please, just – just say it.”
“This mornin’ when we went to your appointment I heard Tater when we passed the locker room and he was tellin’ everyone I was your boyfriend.”
That old guilt ricocheted up Jack’s spine. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t tell him you were. He…” Jack waved his hand in the air. The words stuck in his chest so he swallowed his heart from where it’d lodged in this throat. “Assumed. I should have corrected him and I didn’t. That’s my fault. I’m sorry. I was planning on making an announcement before the game so that the guys would back off.”
If anything, years of therapy had taught Jack how to make a thorough, concrete apology. When he glanced at Bitty he expected to see a soft smile edged with relief, but Bitty was still staring at the table.
Jack clenched his jaw. He ached to put his hand on Bitty’s. He wanted to pull him from the confusion and hurt that flickered over his face but he couldn’t, he promised he wouldn’t. So he quietly put his fork down and waited.
Minutes passed.
If Jack waited any longer his heart was going to shatter his bones with the force of its pounding. “Bud, I’m sorry to interrupt-” Fuck, what was Bitty even doing? Thinking about Beyoncé? Trying to come up with a way to get out the door without Jack knowing? “Well, I want to help. With, eh, whatever is bothering you.”
Silver lined Bitty’s eyes. Within a single beat of his too-anxious heart Jack was on the other side of the counter, sliding onto the stool next to Bitty.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Hey, it’s okay.”
Bitty seemed to melt a bit. His shoulders slumped forward, his head hanging low between them. The wrecked napkin shredded between his fingers. He sniffed.
Jack’s hand was on Bitty’s back before he comprehended what he was doing. Bitty stiffened for a second but didn’t pull away.
“It’s stupid,” Bitty said. It was barely a whisper.
“If something is bothering you enough to cry it’s not stupid,” Jack pointed out.
Dark eyes met his and Jack thought his heart might have been breaking for a new reason. Seeing Bitty like this, halfway to broken, hurt more than anything Jack had been forced to deal with. The problems Jack had dealt with had been ones that he’d had an immediate hand in and knew how to fix. But this? A crying Bitty in his kitchen, of all places? Jack was standing on the edge of a sea-side cliff, screaming to an ocean that roared back with noise and violence but no answer. No fix. No idea how to make it – Bitty- better.
“I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to talk about it now,” Bitty admitted, wiping at his face. “I keep thinking about the ways this could go and all of them leave me lookin’ pathetic.”
“How about this: you tell me whatever it is that’s bothering you, even if it takes all night, and I’ll just sit here and listen until you get it all out. I won’t laugh at you. I won’t think you’re pathetic. I promise I’ve been feeling the exact way you are right now and I know it’s not fun.” He slid his hand up to gently squeeze the muscles of Bitty’s shoulder. “I’m here for you, no matter what.”
A strangled noise escaped Bitty’s throat. He clapped his hands over his mouth as more tears spilled from his eyes. Jack stood and slid his free arm under Bitty’s knees, picking him up and walking to the couch. Tears dampened his t-shirt before he could sit them on the cushions. Jack was more concerned with that than the twinge that still stabbed in his knee.
Jack sat with his arms still around Bitty. He kept Bitty’s legs bent across his lap and Bitty’s head on his shoulder. He moved his hand up and down Bitty’s back again, trying to be soothing but also wait out the pain that was so built up inside Bitty.
It didn’t take long, thankfully, for the tears to slow. Jack grabbed Bitty the box of tissues off the side table. Bitty tried to lean away to wipe his face and blow his nose but Jack’s gentle hand on his back didn’t let him go far.
“Sorry I ruined your shirt,” Bitty mumbled into Jack’s collarbone. Jack glanced down because he didn’t even remember what shirt it was. Plain white crew-neck he’d gotten a pack of from Target a few years ago.
“It’s okay,” Jack promised.
A few moments later Bitty spoke again. “I’m gonna say this in a rush otherwise I’m not gonna be able to get it out so listen close cause I can’t say it twice.”
Jack nodded.
“I’m gonna open this with I know it’s stupid but it’s all I’ve been able to think about for a week so please don’t hate me for it. And then I’m gonna say that like, two week ago, you were begging me for a date and I said not until you were better so I waited and now you’re healthy and it doesn’t seem like you still want me now that you know me a little better. It’s stupid I know and I’m not asking for a pity date cause that would be terrible for both of us, this is just what’s been in my head all day so I needed to get it out.” He shifted against Jack’s side, swinging his feet to the floor. “I’m just gonna clean up and then I’ll head out, okay?”
Jack’s fingers snagged in his shirt. “Wait, where are you going? Why are you leaving?”
Bitty wouldn’t even angle his face toward Jack. “I’m embarrassed as hell, Jack. I’m not gonna stay and have my heart break even more but my momma raised me better than to leave dirty dishes behind when I’m a guest.”
“No, no, I mean,” Jack started. His mind still raced around the words Bitty had said. Not wanting him? “Bitty, wait, I didn’t think you wanted me to.”
That made Bitty look over his shoulder at Jack. “I’m in your bed every night,” he pointed out, face flushed.
Jack was sure his cheeks matched. “I know, but, eh, you don’t lie close to me anymore. And if I wake up before you think I’m awake I can feel you pulling away.” Because even though their nighttime chats hadn’t stopped, Bitty had stopped reaching across the bed for Jack’s hand. He’d stopped sharing the same air as him. But every morning so far they’d woken up so tangled in each other that whenever Bitty had to separate himself it woke Jack. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable so I didn’t say anything.”
Bitty’s eyes finally met his. He chewed his bottom lip but didn’t say anything.
“Go on a date with me,” Jack said in one quick breath. “Please. I want to take you out to dinner or to a movie or to do anything you want.”
The beginnings of a smile touched Bitty’s lips. He nodded, still biting his damn lip, and when Jack glanced down at it he couldn’t look away. Bitty’s cheek was warm and just barely damp against his palm. He brushed his thumb over Bitty’s lips, the bottom one slightly swollen.
In the dreams they’d shared Jack had always felt some sort of indescribable connection to Bitty. It’d been why he wanted Bitty after his concussion and why he felt so comfortable around him so quickly when most of his teammates hadn’t even been to Jack’s condo yet.
But now? On top of that initial connection there were so many more threads pulling him toward Bitty. The late night talks, the way Bitty’s hair glowed in the daylight, the way he’d quietly but completely turned so much of Jack’s life completely upside-down; they may have met because of those dreams but they sat on the couch, Bitty’s face cradled in Jack’s hands, because of everything that had come after.
Jack moved slowly enough to let Bitty pull away as he leaned in. Bitty’s fingers tangled in Jack’s still-damp shirt. After two shared breaths Jack pressed his lips against Bitty’s.
Warm, gentle, perfect. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds but Jack pulled away, nearly gasping. He was sure Bitty could hear how hard his heart pounded, but for once it wasn’t because of his anxiety. He searched Bitty’s face for any signs of discomfort but Bitty just stared back, just as breathless.
“I haven’t kissed many people,” Bitty admitted quietly. “But that didn’t feel like a regular ol’ kiss.”
There were no words fighting to escape Jack, no emotions threatening to spill over until he spiraled. He dragged his thumb over Bitty’s cheekbone and kissed him again. And again. And again.
Jack wasn’t sure how many minutes passed when they sat back. Bitty pulled his legs up and across Jack’s lap, snuggling into Jack’s shoulder like he had been earlier.
“It wasn’t,” Jack said. At Bitty’s cocked head he continued. “I’ve kissed a few people,” Jack admitted quietly. “Not many either, but enough to know that…” He shook his head. “I feel like I just skated an entire period by myself. I never really believed in the magical fireworks that fairy tales tell you happen with a first kiss but now,” he said, pressing a kiss to Bitty’s forehead. “Now I’m second-guessing that.”
Bitty exhaled and melted into Jack’s side. “Oh thank God. I thought it mighta just been me feelin’ that way.”
“Not at all,” Jack said. He laced his fingers with Bitty’s, smiling at the way their hands seemed to fit together perfectly.
It was the truth. Maybe those shared dreams and that initial connection had something to do with it, but Jack’s entire heart and soul responded to that kiss. And the ones after. There was a sliver of something bright shining within himself now, radiating from somewhere that had been so tough and guarded before. Every nerve in Jack’s body seemed to be zinging from one end to the other.
He wrapped his arm tightly around Bitty’s back and pressed another kiss to his forehead. Bitty tilted his head back and wrinkled his nose at Jack, smiling. Jack kissed that, too.
Changes to what’s been written so far: Jack doesn’t call Bitty Bitty. It’s too familiar a name for two people who haven’t actually met, so he calls him Eric and will probably do so until/if Eric tells him to call him something else. So pretend Jack’s been calling Eric Eric this whole time. It’ll be corrected when i post the final version on AO3.
Parts One & Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six
/ Part Seven
(fixed the links for the new username)
Jack sat in his car, tapping the side of his phone on the wheel. The message arrived sometime in the middle of the third period and now, hours after the game had ended, it still hadn’t been read. He should be in bed and probably even asleep but he was torn between opening the message now and possibly not being able to see straight to drive home or to just drive home and open it there where he could fall apart from the probable rejection in private. But every time he reached for where his keys were already inserted in the ignition his breathing became difficult and his hands shook too much for him to feel comfortable driving.
His phone buzzed again. This time it’s Shitty, wondering where he was.
Stuck, he responded, careful to not check the other message. Too panicked to drive. Come get me?
A tired Honda pulled up next to his car and Jack tried to smile as Lardo waved. Shitty was at Jack’s door a few moments later, pulling it open and wrapping an arm around Jack in the same motion.
“Thanks,” Jack managed, hugging him back. He could see the light of the arena, smell Shitty’s shampoo which was unusually floral, hear the rumbling of Lardo’s engine as she idled, feel Shitty’s arm tighten around him before letting go.
Lardo peeled off half a dozen blocks from Jack and Shitty’s street. Jack had been watching her in the side passenger mirror, hoping he’d be able to know a little more than he probably should. Jack held his phone screen-down against his leg.
Shitty waited until they were changed into sweats and drinking a too-late beer at the kitchen counter.
“So,” he prompted.
Jack tried to bite back his sigh. “You are my therapist more often than my own therapist.” He shifted his weight back on his barstool to bring his bare feet onto the lowest rung.
“Dude. Do you seriously think I mind when you talk to me about your shit?”
Jack picked at the corner of the label of his IPA, stubbornly and stupidly refusing to look up.
“Bro. Jack. My forever love. My perfect soulmate. The ass I’d go at least bi for if I had a shot.” Shitty grinned as Jack smiled at his beer. “There’s a whole fuckin’ lot of shit I don’t know about mental health cause I’m not qualified. There’s a whole fuckin’ lot of shit that I know about because it’s part of life, no matter your mental health status. And this?” Shitty said, nodding to Jack’s phone. The little notification light blinked blue again. “This is shit I know. Well, besides the whole we-had-dreams-about-each-other shit. That’s something that your therapist isn’t gonna know either.”
“I didn’t even tell you what happened,” Jack pointed out.
Shitty shrugged. “Lardo told me Bitty may or may not have sent a text as a heads up in case you needed me around for support.”
Even though his beer was nearing lukewarm, Jack shivered. “Did she seem okay? Eh, like, if Eric were upset she would be upset, right?”
Shitty drained his drink and crossed the kitchen to drop the empty bottle in the recycling bin. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But she didn’t seem upset when she told me, so hopefully that means good things.”
Jack picked up his phone but didn’t press the home button. He flipped it over and over in his hands.
“Do you want me to read it first? Give you a heads up?”
“I’m not a teenage boy,” Jack replied, cheeks warming.
Leaning against the counter with a shrug, Shitty continued. “Offer still stands.”
Jack dropped his phone on the counter and buried his face in his hands. “If I can’t read a text from him I don’t deserve anything from him.”
“Bullshit,” Shitty said firmly. “This is scary for me, and I’m not even the one being texted. I want him to feel better too. I want him to ask you on a damn date and possibly fall in love with you and maybe one day I’ll get to announce ‘and I now pronounce you husband and husband.’” Even with his palms pressed against his face Jack rolled his eyes. “But,” Shitty said, “you’re allowed to need help. You’re allowed to let me read texts from him because you’re stuck in Schrodinger’s quicksand and the more you fight yourself the worse you’re going to feel.”
“Schrodinger’s quicksand?” Jack asked, picking his head up. “Nice one.”
Shitty grinned. “I figured you’d like it, you nerd. Now give me your fuckin’ phone.”
Jack handed it to him and wrapped his arms around his legs as he pressed his face against his knees.
Shitty was the only person (besides his parents) who knew his phone passcode. He had it unlocked in seconds and pulled up the message. Jack didn’t see him smile even bigger but could hear the brightness in his voice when he nudged Jack with the phone.
“Hey. Someone’s waiting up to talk to you.”
They moved to the couch, pressed together under a thin blanket Shitty bought at the Harvard bookstore.
Still up? Jack asked.
The response was nearly immediate. Yes! Just editing a vlog. You aren’t too tired to talk?
Inhale-two-three-four hold-two-three-four exhale-two-three-four. A nagging thought in his head finally cleared. “Shitty,” Jack said as his thumb hovered over the call button. “Either you got new shampoo or you showered at Lardo’s and used stuff that wasn’t hers.”
“The fuck, dude?”
Irritated, Jack glanced at his confused face. “I just realized it. You used Eric’s shampoo. You’ve been to his place. In his shower. And you didn’t tell me.” Ignoring Shitty’s gaping mouth Jack hit Call.
There were two rings and then silence.
“Jack?”
He had to shut his eyes against the flood of emotions that wracked through him. “Hi, Eric.” God, even the way his name sounded off Eric’s tongue warmed him enough to smile.
“Oh lord, nobody but my Uncle Larry calls me by my Christian name.” A pause, soft and warm. “I don’t mind it one bit though. I also …I don’t really know what to say right now. Not in a bad way, I mean,” he added, as if he could feel the way Jack’s chest hollowed out at the words. “I’m just….overwhelmed, I guess. Too much butter in the recipe.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Mr. Zimmermann, I’ll have you know that I can bake a pie that’s won awards all over the state of Georgia so don’t come at me with this ‘too much butter’ nonsense. If a recipe isn’t balanced it won’t come together.”
Jack smiled as Eric harrumphed into the phone.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Eric said.
“Sorry. This is just….”
“Surreal?”
“Yeah. I still can’t believe you’re real.”
A soft chuckle rolled from the earpiece into Jack’s heart. “Tell me about it. I was mopin’ around here heartsick on a figment of my imagination until Lardo calls me up and sets me on my rear!”
“Eh, yeah, I wanted to apologize for that,” Jack said. “I didn’t help that situation.”
“Oh honey, don’t you fret. I’m right as rain now! But you have to be exhausted!”
Jack shrugged. “A little. Games usually keep me up pretty late. Adrenaline and all that.”
Eric hummed. “Next time Lardo heads over to visit Shitty I’ll send her with some sleepy-time tea my momma had me drink growin’ up. It’ll put you right under.”
“Do- do you think you’ll want to visit? One day?”
This time the silence was cooler and longer. “One day,” Eric agreed. “I’m not sure if I can handle anything too soon. I’m still reelin’.”
Nodding, Jack agreed. “No, no that makes sense. We don’t even actually know each other.” He hoped his bravado carried well over the phone because none of him actually felt it.
“Don’t we though?” Eric said. “I mean, sure, I don’t know you from Adam in terms of personality, but…” He trailed off and Jack’s fingers tightened around his phone as he silently begged him to continue. “Oh lord, listen to me rambling. I don’t know how you deal with stayin’ up so late, but I’m near half-asleep right now.”
Jack didn’t call him on the lie. “Okay. Well, can I call or text you or something?”
“Textin’ can’t do no harm,” Eric agreed. “I’m usually too busy for phone calls though. You’re welcome to try but I might be filmin’.”
“Okay,” Jack said.
“Okay,” Eric said. “Sleep well Mr. Zimmermann.”
“Bye, Eric.”
Shitty had moved a few inches away during the phone call, face drawn. “Look man, Lardo gave you time to deal with all this shit by not telling Bitty so I was doing the same for him. Please don’t be mad at me for that.”
Jack rubbed his eyes. “I’m not mad, Shits. Promise. I am, however, exhausted. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He left Shitty on the couch and padded to his room. His bed was cold as ever but the embers of hope in his chest were still burning. He fell asleep with his phone cradled in one hand, the other outstretched into the empty space.
