title by @wholockviantime. 1.6 k of ??? epiphanies ??? and some in french too. also posted on ao3.
bitty:
the closet in jack’s bedroom is big -- cavernous, almost -- and new, and clean, and mostly empty. overwhelmingly empty, maybe. bitty can picture it, though, with its shelves and hangers full of clothes that belong to him too and shoes and jerseys and extra sheets, but the image is not for right now. jack doesn’t say anything but bitty knows he’d like to buy bitty new things to fill his closet with, make it theirs, but. for now, he’s content with his one drawer.
and the thing is, it really is big. so big bitty doesn’t mind going in there to put the laundry away while jack’s at practice. there’s a storm picking up outside but it’s warm in here, and jack’s got a big truck so he’s not too worried about him driving in the snow. he folds it all neatly, precisely, which he sure as hell doesn’t do for his own clothes. the closet even has a light, which turns on from the outside, so bitty doesn’t have to spend any time in the dark. it’s warm and comfortable and bright and
until it’s not. the bulb flickers off and bitty drops the socks from his arms, because the feeling is immediate. creeping in, squeezing his throat, taking his head and spinning it around. the fuck was he thinking? this closet is small. tiny, even, and he can’t breathe. he left his phone on the bed and his eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness -- or maybe he shut them tight and hasn’t been able to open them yet. it’s so fucking dark in here, and he remembers, he remembers --
he turns, nudges a sock with his toe as he does, and. and there’s some light from the windows in the bedroom creeping in from the cracked door, so he runs, and makes it to the bed gasping for lungfuls of air. the first thing he sees is his phone lit up with a text from jack: radio said the power’s out. i’m on my way home. be there soon. and one from his mom, from earlier, asking about how his weekend went. he hesitates, and looks back at the door now thrown wide open, then picks up the phone.
“dicky! i was just going to call. i saw something on the news about a storm and was wondering if you were bundled up,” mama says before he can even greet her. he takes a breath as the last of the dizziness fades away.
“not dicky anymore, mama,” bitty says.
“oh,” she says. she’s frowning, he can tell. “alright. everything okay, baby?”
“yeah, mama. everything is good. is daddy around? i’ve got,” he says, and in the kitchen the microwave beeps in time with the closet light stuttering back on, “i’ve got something to tell you.”
holster:
“tommy?” holster says before he can stop himself, and the man in front of him turns and stares. still, after all these years, unmistakeable. a slight twist to his lips from a cleft palate long since fixed by surgery, and a scar on his chin from -- “tommy bennett?”
“big adam,” tommy bennett says. no one’s called holster that in years. he’d almost forgotten.
almost.
the pepsi fridge he’s standing next to hums and the door to the bodega tinkles but they just stare at each other.
“i haven’t seen you since, since -- well, how are you,” holster says. tommy is still half a foot shorter than holster is, but he’s standing straight and his shoulders are square.
“what do you want,” tommy says. which is, well, fair.
“nothing,” holster says. “nothing. or, well -- ”
“i just want some sprite, man,” tommy says. he gestures to the fridge holster is blocking with all his bulk.
“oh. i’m sorry,” holster says. “like, not just about the sprite. about the, the, the, you know. the everything. i’m sorry.” his hands move to point to his own chin but he drops them halfway through the motion. “i’m sorry.”
tommy stares. “okay.”
“okay. really though, i’m --”
“sorry, i get it. can i...?”
“yeah. yeah,” holster says. he moves away from the glass, leaving a space in the condensation the shape of his hand. “i hope. i hope you’re doing well,” he says.
he gets no answer.
when he opens the door to the car, stomach twisting in nausea, ransom just raises an eyebrow at his empty hands.
“the fuck took you so long? and you didn’t even get any snacks,” ransom says.
holster turns on this car. “i’ll tell you later,” he says. “i think we’ve got chips at the haus, anyway.”
“alright, bro,” ransom says. “whatever you want.”
the neon lights of the store illuminate the rearview mirrors when holster looks back and the snow starts to fall.
shitty:
the envelope is addressed to mr. bishop knight in unfamiliar handwriting and the return address is one shitty’s had memorized since the month after he turned 12, though his mother hasn’t even looked at it once. he knows what it contains without even opening it: a birthday card and a signature. once there would have been thirty bucks too, but that stopped when he turned eighteen.
“hello-o-o,” lardo says from her bed. “coffee?”
“oh. right.” shitty’s still dressed from his solo trip to annie’s, so he sets the coffee tray down with the envelope on his desk and slowly unwinds his scarf, lovingly knitted by alicia zimmermann as a christmas gift. he unbuttons his jacket slowly, ignoring lardo’s impatient huffs.
“you got snow in your hair,” lardo says, rolling her eyes. “it looks like dandruff.”
“hm?” shitty carefully strips himself of his shirt and pants and brings over the cups to the bed. it’s warmer in here, with lardo, than outside. “oh, yeah. it’s messy out there."
“what’s that,” lardo says, gesturing to the desk with the hand that’s holding her cappuccino.
“christmas-slash-birthday card,” shitty says. “from my father.”
“oh. a little late for that.” then, slowly, “you gonna open it?”
shitty can’t help but lean into lardo’s side, and lardo lifts the arm not holding the coffee and wraps him up. takes him in.
“no,” shitty says, and closes his eyes, smiling, “not this year.”
jack:
la route de la patinoire jusqu’à la maison n’est pas longue, mais avec la neige devenant de plus en plus épaisse, et bittle seul chez lui dans la noirceur, elle semble interminable. les tempêtes lui ont toujours fait sentir impuissant, mais – bref, ils ne sont pas uniques dans la catégorie.
son père lui a souvent dit qu’ils ont tous deux un « esprit cartésien », et c’est peut-être vrai, mais ce n’est que dernièrement qu’il le prend vraiment à cœur. étape par étape, sa thérapeute et ses parents lui répètent. donc, voilà : prends une droite après le stationnement ; continue lentement pour trois kilomètres ; attention à la glace ; maintenant, arrête à l’intersection ; compte un, deux, trois ; avance ; une gauche, et ensuite une droite ; un autre arrêt pour la vieille qui veut traverser le chemin ; quatre kilomètres, puis l’immeuble droit devant.
rends-toi au stationnement souterrain et trouve l’espace qui vous a été désigné. éteint le moteur. prends ton sac du siège à côté et va à l’ascenseur. fais-le vite, quand même – il ne faut surtout pas oublier qui t’attends. et puis cinquième étage, deuxième porte à la droite. ouvre-là.
– jack ? bittle dit. oh, i’m glad you’re home.
sa voix, douce et familière, provient du salon. le salon qui a de la lumière, donc la coupure n’aurait pas duré longtemps, jack suppose.
– me too, jack répond. roads are getting pretty bad.
bittle apparait dans sa vision, avec sa couverture la plus chaude autour de ses épaules et un grand sourire peinturé sur son beau visage. il tend une main vers jack, qui la prend fermement. voilà une chose qui ne lui a jamais fait sentir comme s’il ne pouvait rien faire.
un nouveau plan, alors. étape un : prend la main de celui que tu aimes. étape deux : respire, respire, respire…
dex:
nursey stops him at the door, which is just as well, probably, because he's been staring at it for five minutes, trying to decide if he’s going to go this week. like he does every week.
“where the fuck are you going like that?” nursey asks. he crosses his arms and dex can’t even meet his eyes. he’s been having trouble meeting them for a while, now. “it’s a storm out there. you don’t even -- fuck, dex, you don’t even have gloves on.”
“i’m fine, nurse,” dex says down at his shoes.
nursey exhales, then shakes his head. “it’s not like i haven’t noticed you go out this time every sunday, you know.”
“i -- oh. um. i didn’t think you would.” dex bites his lip hard, then looks at the door. he hasn’t told nursey where he goes. or anyone at all.
“fine. if you’re not going to take care of yourself...”
when dex looks up, nursey is pulling his jacket off a hook on the wall and stuffing his arms into it, then pulls out a pair of gloves from the pockets.
“what are you doing?” dex asks. he feels panicked, suddenly, and reaches out to stop nursey’s hands. nursey just catches his and holds them tight.
“it’s non-denominational, isn’t it?” nursey asks. he brings dex’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them with a gentleness dex will never possess.
fuck.
“um.”
“i was waiting for you to tell me,” nursey says. “i figured you’d do it on your own time, or whatever.”
“oh.”
he’s never really been one for words, anyway.
“dex,” nursey says. “can i come with you?”
dex looks back at the door, then at nursey, with a smile tentative and soft against dex’s hand.
“Bits, does my mom have a blog?” Jack asks from the couch.
“Um,” Bitty says, wiping his hands on a tea towel, “I don’t think so, but maybe. Why?”
He pulls off his apron and begins walking to Jack, but stops in horror when he sees what Jack is scrolling through on Bitty’s laptop. A tumblr blog, left open accidentally when the kitchen timer rang out, with pages and pages of Jack’s face and butt, all captioned “MY SON”...
bittyjohnson "lush" bc everything is so doomed and I want them to come alive together for a minute
The sun beats down almost uncomfortably outside of their little shaded bubble by the pool, surrounded by lush palm trees and drunk octogenarians in fanny packs. Ransom and Holster are splashing around in the water, and Jack’s found a shuffleboard tournament to play in, and Shitty and Lardo are off-resort walking through the town. John looks down at Bitty, who’s in a lounge chair half-dozing in sunglasses with a light smile on his face.
“Everything is doomed, you know,” John says. He traces a hand around sun-reddened Bitty’s face.
“That’s nice, sweetheart,” Bitty mumbles. “Will you get me a daiquiri?”
send me a word and a character/pairing and i’ll write 100ish words
Zimbits - bitty still thinks Jack is straight but he's buzzed and he's a bit of an affectionate drunk !!!
Jack's having something of a hard time. Bittle is -- warm. Drunk. Hitched on Jack's back like a school bag and holding on tightly. And his breath is hot against Jack's neck, and Jack has no choice but to hold him up under his butt lest he fall to the ground, which is... good. But difficult.
"It's not fair," Bittle slurs into his ear. "It's like... Romeo and Juliet. Except the Capulets are all gay and the Montagues are straight."
"That doesn't make sense, Bittle," Jack grinds out. Bittle's legs are so nice around his waist. "And they die in the end."
"Augh!" Bittle wails. "Exactly. It's tragic."
Jack's having a really hard time.
send me a word and a character/pairing and i’ll write 100 words
Hi! I love your writing! Could you do Zimbits+12 (things you said when you thought i was asleep)? Thanks!
Thanks :)
Prompt me!
Eric is floating somewhere, though he’s not sure where. It’s warm, at least, and smells like lemons, which is a bit confusing because he doesn’t usually use lemon-scented cleaning supplies.
The place is also soft, maybe, or maybe that’s just because he’s floating and not really touching the ground. He can’t really remember how he got here, but it’s pretty nice, if a bit lonely. He strains his ears because he thinks he maybe hears some words, and a deep voice:
“Bits, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can.”
Does he have a hand? He doesn’t think so. Silly voice.
“The doctors are going to bring you to an operating room now, alright Bits? You’ll be fine. They’ll take care of you.”
Of course he’ll be fine. He doesn’t need doctors, does he?
“I love you, and I’ll be right here when you come out.”
Come out, pfft. He wants to laugh because he did that years ago, didn’t he? Anyway, the voice is so nice he doesn’t say anything, and wouldn’t even if he could. He thinks maybe he loves the voice too.
He’s really tired though, so he doesn’t dwell on it, and slips back into whatever space he was in before.
Sometime later, probably, maybe, possibly, he hears the voice again. There’s other voices too, and it’s hard to focus, but if he tries really hard he thinks he could listen. So he does, because he loves the voice, and now the lemon is tinged with lavender, which is, oh, nice and familiar, somehow.
“I’m so glad you’re here. He’s been asking for you in his sleep.”
If Eric could, he’d frown, but he doesn’t think his face is cooperating at the moment.
“Oh my poor baby, what happened?” The lavender is stronger now, soothing and sweet. He’s feeling a bit cold – he wishes he could ask for a blanket.
“Landed badly on a jump, broke his leg. Had to operate. Doctors put him under for now, he can sleep through the worst of the pain.” The voice – that voice – speaks in short sentences, like he’s in pain. Eric wonders vaguely who they’re talking about – surely not him, because he doesn’t feel hurt. Just a bit cold.
“Jesus H. Gretzky, he looks even smaller than usual,” says another voice – New England accent, he’s heard it before somewhere. Muffled. Well, they all sound a bit muffled, like he’s listening to them through a cotton wall.
Eric drifts away again.
He wakes to more voices, louder this time, clearer.
“You take good care of him, Jack.” Gruff voice, deep, older. Feels like authority.
Wait, Jack? Eric knows that name. He sees a face in his minds eye, and oh, that’s why he loves the voice, because it’s Jack’s voice, and he loves Jack. Things are starting to make sense now.
“I try, sir. He’s usually the one taking care of me.”
He thinks maybe if he tried he could wiggle his fingers now. Not his toes though, there’s something weird about his leg.
“A healthy relationship always goes both ways.”
“Sir–” Jack’s voice starts, but he’s cut off.
“Call me Rich.”
“Uh…”
Eric wants to laugh.
A sigh. “How about Coach?”
“Uh, okay. Coach, sir, I’d like to ask you something.”
“Alright, son.”
A pause. Eric tries to scrunch his nose to no avail, but he’ll keep trying. He feels a bit like he’s wading through water, but thicker. Like molasses. Mm. Molasses.
“I want to ask your son to marry me.”
Maybe he could make molasses cookies when he wakes up, with extra ginger like Jack likes.
“Are you asking me for my blessing?” says the older voice. Coach, that’s right. Coach? Eric’s dad?
“Uh, yeah, I just thought, the Southern thing, you know.”
Bless Jack’s little awkward heart. Eric feels like giggling, and a muscle moves in his jaw. Success!
“Son, I’m giving you my blessing.”
Oh. Oh? Oh.
Eric really wants to wake up now, but he’s feeling so sluggish from all the concentrating he’s been doing. Jack’ll probably be there later, won’t he? Yeah. He wouldn’t leave. So Eric falls back into sleep, and he thinks maybe now his face is doing what he wants, because he’s pretty sure he’s smiling.
