Bittle’s head lolls to the side as the bus climbs the on-ramp to the freeway, thudding softly against Jack’s shoulder. He shifts, too, readjusting his hips, turning toward Jack’s body the slightest bit. His hand finding a place on Jack’s forearm. His shoulder prodding into Jack’s bicep. He doesn’t wake, though, and Jack finds he doesn’t want to wake Bittle up either.
Using his thumb to bookmark the page in the book he’s reading, Jack drops it to his lap and looks over at Bittle. There’s nothing but the passing city lights that illunimate all his soft features, features which never seem to callous over: the jut of his jawline, the bow of his lips, the point of his nose. Hair just long enough to fall across the tip of his forehead. Eyelashes so pale Jack can barely make out their curl.
Jack can’t explain it. Can’t explain the inexplicable comfort that settles deep in his chest, the warmth that blossoms across his cheeks. He drops his gaze further to the stretch of cotton that sculpts Bittle’s thighs, the faint hairs on his arms that come and go, glistening under the fading lights.
Slowly, subtly, Jack shifts his body, drops his shoulder to allow Bittle a more comfortable position. His hand on the armrest between them comes alive with nerves, feels everything, and his pinky twitches. Reaches out. Nears Bittle’s own.
Bittle shifts again, then, suddenly enough that Jack jerks his hand back and face up to look straight ahead. His heart’s pounding. His breath is caught in his throat. He hears Bittle hum, feels Bittle bury his face further into his arm, tightening his shoulders. The grip on Jack’s forearm grows stronger for the longest of moments and afterward, Bittle mumbles: “Light. Turn…turn it off.”
Reaching up, Jack breathes out a quiet euh and turns the reading light strapped around his forehead off. Another moment lingers, strewn together with held breath and wide eyes, before Bittle relaxes against Jack again and evens his breathing back out.
It’s not until they’re halfway back to Samwell, somewhere deep in the suburban woodlands of Massachusetts, that Jack allows his eyes to finally close. He didn’t feel exhausted before, not even when they all climbed back onto the bus after the game; yet, sleep comes gently, quick, pulls him down with the weight of Bittle againt his side.
Jack hasn’t found sleep that easily in a long time.
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