Work Text:
Jack knows a lot of things about himself from a logic point of view, and from a theoretical point of view, and from a common sense point of view.
Logic tells him he’s a good boyfriend, even if he and Bitty are always apart. He practises active listening—something he learnt in his therapy as a kid. He pays attention when Bittle speaks, remembers little things to surprise him with later.
Logic tells him he’s a good player, he’s a good athlete. He works hard, gives hockey his all, and he’s worth the hype surrounding his name on his own merits now, not just as the son of Bad Bob. He earnt that A, and it was hockey he played with his own two hands.
Theory tells him he’s attractive. He has a lot of bulk, and a lot of muscle. His boyfriend seems to appreciate his physique—whether it’s larger and harder in hockey season, or softer edges and thicker belly when he lets himself ease off his work-outs for the short period he’s allowed during off-season. Bittle never seems to be able to get enough, no matter what Jack looks like, and theoretically Jack knows Bittle will love him after retirement, and into old age.
Theory tells him if he keeps on this path, he’ll achieve his goals, and he’ll feel fulfilled in life. Maybe it won’t erase his anxiety—there’s not a cure, he’s not going to suddenly wake up one day with a neurotypical brain and it’ll all be over. But theory says that the way he’s working now, his coping methods will make things a little easier. Some days.
Common sense tells him that all those texts Bittle sends him, and the skype calls, and the phone calls, and the little notes left with his sandwiches means his boyfriend loves him. Bittle doesn’t hesitated with those words. Never has. He’s been open and sweet, and accepting. Common sense tells Jack there’s no rush in coming out to the world. Bittle isn’t out to his parents, and doesn’t seem in a rush to get to it—not just yet. Bittle doesn’t feel like he’s hiding—not now that he’s shared what he has with Jack with the people he’s closest to. Common sense reminds Jack to believe the things Bittle tells him.
But sometimes those things don’t apply. Sometimes Jack wakes up from nightmares of Bittle crying, of Bittle yelling and walking away. Sometimes the nightmares are people laughing, or telling Jack he was never actually good at hockey, they were just afraid to tell him the truth.
He wakes up those days with his anxiety and insecurity like fingers round his neck, not enough to cut off his air supply, but enough to make it harder to breathe, like every inhale is a struggle, and every exhale is through a cotton pillow.
A lot of those mornings he’s on his own, with only a good morning text to comfort him until the evening when he and Bitty can squeeze in a skype call.
This morning, Bitty’s beside him. It’s a Sunday—it’s his one free day he’s got per month during season, and he and Bittle had already agreed they weren’t going to squander it with stuff to do like errands or homework or anything even slightly resembling adult obligations. And Jack was fine with that.
If only he’d been able to wake up less…this. Less overwhelmed by nothing more than his subconscious trying to strangle him slowly.
Breathing out, he turned on his side and watched the sunlight through the blinds playing with dust motes hovering above Bitty’s hair. He’s beautiful in his sleep—as he is in everything else. Jack had never really been the sort of person that was caught up in the aesthetics of people. Objectively he understood beauty, but it was never the first thing he noticed.
With Parse, he had noticed eventually. His white-blonde hair, his freckles, the little smirk which lifted the left side of his mouth higher than the right. Eventually, Jack had come to love those things. But it wasn’t what drew him to Parse. It was the excitement, the way his eyes flashed with determination and a little cruelty as he looked at Jack like he was a challenge. Jack was overwhelmed with the need to understand it, and that’s what drew him closer to Parse. It’s what eclipsed all the other things that were bad and toxic until Jack was in too deep to get himself out before he was infected.
With Camilla, Jack saw that she was beautiful straight away. Nearly as tall as him, broad shoulders, bright eyes, a smile that lit up a room. But it wasn’t the way she moved, or the way she laughed that captured his attention. She was fierce, smart—being the first trans woman athlete on a woman’s team at Samwell, she was at the ready, prepared for any challenge anyone would throw her way, and Jack loved that about her. He understood it—the fundamentals of that mentality, knowing everything it would take to be recognised as your own self, was going to be a fight.
He noticed the little things about her later. The way she stuck her tongue between her teeth when she giggled, how she had a dimple in her right cheek, the way she always dragged her finger along the cut of his jaw when she kissed him. He liked the way she whispered his name when he made her come, and the way she’s look at him after—her eyes glowing with heat—which for Jack rooted him firmly in the bisexual category and made him proud of his sexuality, and proud to have dated her.
Even if it hadn’t lasted long.
The other dates he’d been on—few and far between—had been mostly obligatory. Had been mostly just taking up time, making sure people wouldn’t ask questions. The dates had come and gone based on theory, and logic, and common sense.
If he hadn’t been so focused, so fixated, he might have realised his feelings for Bittle a lot sooner. That swooping feeling in his gut as they baked together. Or the way he’d always wanted Bittle’s attention. The way he worked so hard to get him to laugh when Jack didn’t do that for anyone.
He just hadn’t let himself think, and there were times he wondered if Bittle was angry or frustrated Jack had wasted so much damn time not being aware of himself enough to be together sooner.
Part of him was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Bittle to realise he was worth so much more than Jack could give him. The morning when Bittle woke up and said, “I love you Jack, but it’s not enough.” Or, “I love you Jack, but I need more than this.”
The thought made him numb with panic, made him focus on his breathing, and count lines on Bittle’s palm which was splayed open against the pillow above his head.
He fought back the urge to wake Bittle up, to ask for comfort because he needed it. And the worst part was—Bittle wouldn’t have minded. He would, in fact, be annoyed Jack hadn’t done it, because logic reminded Jack that Bittle wanted to do those things for him. He’d said a hundred times in the past year, “I love you, I want to be there for you, whenever you need me. I don’t care where we are, or what time it is. It’s you and me, Jack. We’re a team, remember?”
Jack was usually comforted when Bitty used his own words. Because it was proof Bitty accepted them, understood them, applied them.
But right now he felt frozen, so he laid there and watched Bittle’s chest rising and falling with his sleep.
It felt like an eternity, but eventually Bitty did wake. A soft fluttering of lashes against his cheek, his eyes bleary as they opened, squinting against the morning sun. He groaned, and turned on his side toward Jack, shuffling and burrowing until his face was pressed against Jack’s collarbone, and his breath coming hot and humid against Jack’s chest.
“Mm. Time’s it?”
“Eight,” Jack managed, trying to sound sleepy instead of panicked.
Bitty hummed, stretched, pulled back. His hand toyed with a lock of sleep-mussed hair falling on Jack’s forehead, his dark eyes capturing Jack’s gaze. “I love you…”
“But?” Jack pressed, unable to stop the word.
Bittle blinked with early morning confusion. “But…? But nothing, Jack. I just love you.”
“Oh,” Jack breathed out, because of course he did, but he was so stupid, he was so…
A warm hand on his cheek stopped Jack’s spiral, and Bittle’s eyes were wide and confused, but warm and comforting and never leaving his face. He shifted closer to Jack, his fingers moving from Jack’s cheek to his hair, brushing through. “Bad night?”
Jack shrugged. “Not the best. You know how I get.”
“I do,” Bitty said softly, and Jack braced himself again for pity, or distaste, or…something else that told him Bitty was just so done dealing with all of this. “What can I do to help?”
Jack’s breathing was shaking a little, but he curled his arms round Bitty’s waist and tucked him close, burying his nose in the top of Bitty’s cowlicks. “This is good. Just like this.”
“You got it, sweetpea,” Bitty muttered, and drew soft lines up the back of Jack’s shirt, tracing the knobs of Jack’s spine with the tips of his fingers. “I love your off days. Getting this, for as long as we want. Long as we need.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you more of them,” Jack murmured.
Bittle laughed quietly into Jack’s chest. “Oh sweetheart. I mean, of course I’d love more, and there’s a bit of me that fantasises about when we’re your parents’ age and have this all the time. But at least season makes these moments sweeter. Easier to treasure.”
Jack couldn’t help a laugh, because only Bitty could make a moment like this feel wanted, and safe, and comforting. And logic told Jack he couldn’t rely on Bitty to always make these moments better, but he was allowed to appreciate when Bitty was here to comfort him, to take the pressure off, to give him reprieve from the constant coping mechanisms.
He closed his eyes and held tight. “Sorry I’m a mess today.”
“No need to be sorry. We’re all a mess sometimes, right? And at least this mess comes with a gorgeous hockey butt…” Bitty reached down to squeeze it, knowing it would make Jack laugh—beaming when he succeeded. Bitty pushed back, cupping Jack’s cheek again. “You’re allowed to have bad days.”
“But today is…”
“Today is just a day,” Bitty reminded him. “Whether it’s work or it’s being home together, it’s just a day. It’s allowed to be bad, or good, or a mix of both. You told me that, remember?”
Jack ducked his head with a blush, but nodded. Because he had, last month when Bitty had spent their day together crying over…well, everything. “I remember.”
Bitty tilted Jack’s head up, then came in for a kiss—soft and closed-mouth and everything Jack needed right then. “Why don’t I make us some breakfast and you can get your run in on the elliptical. Then…a shower.”
“Together?” Jack asked, hope now taking over any of the uglier emotions still sitting at the base of his spine.
Bitty laughed, and Jack delighted in it, and he delighted in the way Bitty feathered kisses across his cheeks, on the tip of his nose, at the corners of his lips. “Yeah. Together.”
Jack hummed, then burrowed his face against Bitty for a few more moments. Logic telling him it was okay, theory reminding him Bitty wanted this, common sense saying they had all day, and there was no rush for food, or work outs, or showers.
Bitty’s fingers brushed through Jack’s hair again, and he hummed with pleasure as his eyes drifted shut, and he settled back into his own skin.
It wouldn’t always be this easy, but logic, theory, and common sense reminded him to appreciate it when it was.