Chapter Text
Put up your dukes,
Lets get down to it
Hit me with your best shot
Why don't you hit me
With your best shot
Hit me with your best shot
Fire Away
-Pat Benatar
***
Maybe it was a product of his mother’s southern passive aggression and desperate need for neatness and order that had him wrinkling his nose at the state of the…well, it was technically a house, but he wasn’t entirely sure it should be called that. It was green, with a blue front door, and the roof shingles were tattered. There was a flat awning with four beat-up lawn chairs and a couple of tipped over beer bottles, and Eric was a hundred percent sure that the weight of a fully grown athlete would send them crashing through, let alone four. The front garden was unkempt, the shutters hanging on by threads, and even this far from the front door there was a certain…smell, like a mixture of weed, body-odour, and cologne.
He sighed, his palm sweating from clutching at the handle of his suitcase, his stomach in knots because this—this is what he’d given up everything for. This is what he’d changed his life, and moved away, and gave himself over to.
A frat house.
It wasn’t something he ever expected. Eric hadn’t ever imagined he’d play baseball, for one. His hands had been made for kneading dough, his legs for carrying him in spins on the ice fast and elegant enough to earn him medals. He’d only decided to take-up baseball at Georgia State because they didn’t have figure-skating and his dad always said he could throw a pitch. And frankly it was one sport Bitty could do that didn’t put him at risk of being flattened viciously by people ten times his size.
He hadn’t expected to be that good, to have a University like Samwell with one of the top rated collegiate teams, court him. Hell, he’d never been courted in any capacity ever in his entire life so…
It was all a bit…well. Unsettling.
It was more that he hadn’t been doing all that well socially—still too petrified to even look at another boy let alone date, and too afraid of setting a toe out of the closet to get close to anyone as friends—that had him moving. Because Samwell was a lot of things—expensive, prestigious, known for their baseball team—but more importantly their motto was One in Four, Maybe More. And Bitty thought if anywhere in the world would mean he wouldn’t get beat up because he wanted to kiss boys well, maybe it was Samwell.
Maybe.
From the state of this over-hyped masculine house he wasn’t so sure.
He was starting to look a little creepy, though, loitering on the front walk like this, so he squared his shoulders and tried to find the confidence he didn’t really have, to make it up the front steps. The porch creaked dangerously under his trainers, and he wondered exactly how this place wasn’t condemned—but all the same, he didn’t crash through as he turned the handle and pushed in.
The smell was worse on the inside, as Eric predicted. He took a breath, told himself there would be time to sort things out before start of term, and really no one caught bubonic plague from unwashed frat bros. Right?
Right?
He heard noises coming from round the corner, and ventured down the small corridor where he dropped his case, then walked through the opening to the kitchen. His breath caught. It was bigger than he expected—a total shit-show of dirty dishes and empty beer, and garbage piled in the corners. But there was an oven—a working range which just needed a little TLC, and massive amounts of cabinet space. The fridge in the corner looked like it had seen better days, but he expected the boys kept it in good working order to keep their PBRs chilled, so he’d be able to find room for the butter he’d need to store, and he didn’t think these boys—frat bros or no—would turn down a nice peach pie.
Just as he reached for the door to one of the cabinets, two of his new teammates walked round the corner from the second kitchen entrance. Eric froze, his eyes going wide at the sight of them. The boys on his Georgia team hadn’t been this…well…large. They were both at least six foot, the one on the right was taller by at least three inches, a white snapback turned backward on his head, his biceps bulging out of a Canadian Flag tank top.
The other well…Eric had never been so intimidated by a simple gaze. The guy’s sleepy blues were narrowed, his jaw set, one eyebrow arched. He was as broad as the other guy, only a little shorter, and his arms were crossed tightly over his chest.
“Can we help you?” he asked, his voice heavily accented with something Eric couldn’t quite make out straight away.
“Erm. I’m…”
“New guy! Hell yeah. You’re fucking small,” said the Canadian shirt guy. He held out a fist. “Justin Oluransi, but everyone calls me Ransom. Left field.”
Eric gave his hesitant fistbump, then glanced at the other guy who made it quite clear he had no intentions of offering the same. “Eric Bittle.”
“Bittle, nice,” Ransom said, stepping back as the other guy shoved past Eric to get two beers out of the fridge. “You what? In-fielder?”
“Pitcher,” Eric said, and the blue-eyed guy turned and stared.
“Merde, ça me fait chier,” he muttered. He dragged a hand down his face, then lifted it in an almost gesture of surrender. “Bittle, we need to get one thing straight here…”
Eric almost laughed at the irony. “Right…”
“I hate pitchers.” He said it with such finality, with such dry seriousness, it made Eric startled.
“He does, it’s true.” He eyed him. “Are you a lefty?”
Eric blinked. “A…uh. No, no I’m not, why?”
“Because leftys are fucking weird. Holster, he’s fucking weird.”
“Fuck you man, I love Holster,” Ransom snapped.
The guy rolled his eyes toward Ransom. “Yeah, I’m aware. He’s also fucking weird.” He sighed, then turned back to Eric. “Look, we’re teammates, and that’s…whatever. I can’t do anything about that. But just because you’re living here and on my team doesn’t mean we’re going to be friends. And if somehow you make it pro which, let’s face it—I mean, look at you,” he glanced Eric up and down once more, “don’t think you’re going to get an edge on me, okay? We’re not going to act like we know each other. Got it?”
“Um,” Eric said. It wasn’t entirely the welcome he was expecting.
“Is that your shit in the hallway?” he asked, nodding at Eric’s case.
“Oh, um…”
“You should take that upstairs.” He stared Eric down, and as Eric moved toward where he’d dropped his things he heard, “Oh and Bittle…you need to eat more protein.”
Shaking with confusion, a little rage, and a lot of embarrassment, Eric dragged his case up the stairs, and into a strange, curved maze of hallways. He didn’t stop until he smelt the heavy scent of what he’d come to recognise as bong-smoke, and he came to a stop in a doorway where two guys were staring at what looked like a poorly constructed bunk bed. There were bits and pieces lying around the floor, and Eric wasn’t sure it would have held anyone. The two guys were in the corner of the room—the one standing was drawing his hands back through his long brown hair, the moustache under his nose a thing of pride. The other was sat on a chair with a book on his lap, wearing a loudly coloured Hawaiian print shirt, his face so nondescript Eric was almost scared with how plain it was.
“…and it’s like…here I am in my element,” the moustache guy said. “I’m here doing what no one in my fuckin’ family ever had the balls to do, right? Break tradition, go against the grain. I’m just like youuuuu…” His word trailed off as he turned to see Eric there. “You! New guy. Shit, brah. How fucking long have you been standing there? You’re like a goddamn spy. Fuck.”
Eric flushed, but said a small prayer his welcome would be at least a little warmer with these two. “Sorry I uh…I’m not sure where I’m supposed to put my things. I’m Eric Bittle…”
“New guy. Catcher, in-fielder, pitcher?”
“Pitcher,” Eric said, holding out a hand which he was given a sort of make-shift high-five.
“Sweet. I’m Shitty Knight, short-stop, this is our catcher, Johnson…”
“I’m enjoying the meta in this AU. Pitcher suits you, Bittle,” Johnson said, winking.
Eric blinked at him. “Uh. Okay?”
“Catchers are always fuckin’ weird, don’t worry about it,” Shitty said, waving his hand at Johnson. “And since you’re the first Frog, you can pick whatever room you want. No one’s in a single, but Johnson’s always fuckin’ gone so if you room with him you’ll have the place to yourself a lot. Only caveat is that you’re across from our illustrious Canadian and resident haus grump, Captain Jack. Met him yet?”
“Maybe?” Eric said, shrugging. “I met two guys downstairs. The one with the accent told me he hates pitchers, even his own teammates. Then he told me to eat more protein.”
“That would be Jack. His sweet, gorgeous, Canadian ass is just like that. It’s a thing. You get used to it.” Shitty slung his arm round Eric’s shoulders. “Johnson, how do you feel about this?”
“Feels right,” Johnson said. “For the plot. You won’t see me much, no worries.”
Eric blinked, but Shitty seemed utterly unfazed as he ushered Eric out of the room, and down the hall to the place he would eventually call his own.
***
Eric had a lot of expectations about Samwell—the ability to be himself, even if he was still shaking in his boots at the thought of coming out to this house—or haus, as it had been dubbed—full of jocks. But he hung his Beyoncé without regret, put curtains up in the room after asking Johnson and getting a reply of, “Whatever, man. It doesn’t do anything for the narrative, but I like a good spring colour scheme.” He reorganised the kitchen cabinets—really, what did these boys need with so much sriracha anyway—and made up a list of things he’d have to pick up at the supermarket the moment he had free time.
Which should have been that afternoon, but he’d been cornered by Ransom and Holster who dragged Eric into Ransom’s old—well Eric wasn’t exactly sure what sort of car it was, but it gurgled from the back and had a faint smell of coffee—and headed down what Holster called Greek Lane. “This is the best way to get the hook up on all the pre-term parties,” he explained elbowing Ransom in the arm. “Seriously, if you walk into your first day of classes without at least a semi-epic hangover, then you’re not doing it right.”
“Y’all realise I’m not a freshman, right? I transferred here from Georgia and…”
“Oh my god he literally says y’all. Like…without any irony. God that is the best fucking thing I have ever heard. Shit.”
Eric sighed, sitting back in the seat, crossing his arms.
“Okay, so we need to focus here. You wanna get your dick wet, Bits?” Ransom said, “Holtzy and I are your best shot. We’ve literally gotten everyone laid. Even Jack.”
Eric almost choked on his own tongue, but it didn’t entirely surprise him that someone would want Jack. It only surprised him Jack would want anything to do with anything that wasn’t baseball. “Uh…”
“Seriously, what’s your goal here? You wanna top your freshman number of…” Holster asked.
“Zero,” Eric muttered under his breath.
It was obvious Holster heard him by the look in his eye, but he still twisted in his seat, demanding, “Say that again. Say that to my fucking face.”
Eric’s chin stuck out determinedly. “You know, not everything is about sex. Assuming that is offensive.”
Holster pinked. “Oh shit, bro. Are you ace? I totally didn’t mean to fucking…I just…oh my god Shitty is going to literally murder me for…”
“I’m not ace,” Eric said, putting Holster out of his misery. He was, all the same, at least grateful these boys seemed mildly aware of the other sexualities out there. “But I’m not…I’m…” He sighed, then went for it. “I’m gay.”
Holster stared at him expectantly, then his eyebrows flew into his hairline. “Bro. Are we your first?”
“Comin’ out?” Eric asked, then flushed and looked away. “I guess. I mean, the assholes on my daddy’s football team guessed, and they didn’t waste a single second of breath not tellin’ me what they thought about that but…”
“Man, ffffffuck the Football Bros,” Ransom and Holster crowed together, then fist-bumped. Holster then punched Ransom in the shoulder. “Pull the car over, dude. We need an emergency frog meeting.”
Eric didn’t know—nor did he really want to know—what all that meant. He’d been at the haus for less than three hours and apart from already having the ire of his captain for having the nerve to be a pitcher, he’d suddenly been taken in by these two very bro-y bros as if he were their personal project. He felt a well of fear because he realised that might very well be the case.
Shit.
Pulled up against the kerb, both Ransom and Holster spun round to look at Eric. “Okay, so first things first—no one—we mean no-fucking-one, messes with anyone on the team,” Ransom said. “We are family, we take care of our own. We will equalise anyone who comes at you. Secondly, we hate the football bros like…so fucking much. Epic fucking dickholes, seriously. But also like six of them are hella gay, two are bi, like another five unconfirmed. They don’t tolerate that kind of shit either, alright?”
Eric nodded, not feeling better exactly, but the squeezing weight on his chest was starting to feel less. “Got it,” he manged.
“We take party etiquette very seriously,” Holster added. “No fucking around with drinks. Ever. Anyone messes with anyone—team or not—it’s fucking over. You should be able to get schwasted and make bad decisions without you know…not being able to consent.”
“Consent is fucking sexy,” Ransom added.
Eric didn’t really have it in him to explain how there might be a problem with consent and schwasted in the same sentence. “Okay,” he said.
“You wanna hook up, you come to us. You need a safe space to crash, or if you’ve been sexiled, the attic is always open to members of the haus.” Ransom tapped his chin. “There’s like an entire novel of bylaws written in the basement which we’ll do during frog orientation. The others should be here by tomorrow, and Coach Hall wants like a full fucking haus and team meeting anyway. But that’s all you need to know for now.”
“So we good? You wanna scan campus for some sweet booty?” Holster asked.
Eric bit his lip, then said in a small voice, “Well…I mean, it can’t hurt, right?”
He winced at the sound of their high-five.
***
By the time they got back to the haus, Eric had a full taste of what it was like to be under the wing of Ransom and Holster. It was…interesting, to say the least. Less frightening than he expected, and when he’d reached the theatre house he’d ended up with an interested drama major, a phone number, and a promise he’d be at the haus opening kegster.
“We knew you had it in you, Bits,” Ransom crowed as they ushered Eric in through the front door.
“What’s he got in him?” Shitty called from the living room. He was upside down on the sofa with an empty Sherlock Holmes pipe clenched between his teeth, nearly naked except for a pair of threadbare boxers with prints of little teddy bears in bowties all over them.
“Potential sweet drama major lovin’,” Holster said, slinging his arm round Eric’s shoulders. “We were rounding up parties, and invites for the kegster. Sunday night, right?”
“Far as I know. Lards will be back by then, I think.”
“Lardo’s our team manager,” Ransom explained, which really explained nothing, but Eric had learnt so far that asking questions only led to more questions so…
He’d figure it out as he went along.
“If y’all don’t need me anymore, I think I’m gonna bake something.” He edged toward the kitchen, but met Ransom’s eye anyway.
“We’re going out tonight though, Bits. You wanna get loved on, we’re gonna get you loved on.”
Eric flushed, but nodded and hurried out. And it wasn’t that it sounded like a bad idea per se, but it was a bit overwhelming. He’d put a toe out of the closet and suddenly there he was covered in metaphorical rainbow glitter with men being thrown at him from all angles. Or as was more accurate, he was being thrown at men from all angles. It was just…new. It was a lot.
He took out his frustration on the butter and flour, on kneading the pie crust so when he got to the filling he could stir a little more delicately, and breathe a little easier.
He was just adding lattice to the top of the crust when he heard a voice clear itself from the doorway. “What is that?”
Eric glanced up and almost groaned at the sight of Jack. “It’s a pie?” he said, confused at the thought that Jack might have never seen a pie before. “Um. Apple.”
Jack scowled. “That’s full of sugar. You cannot just come in here and start filling my players full of junk, Bittle.”
“I…I’m not,” Eric said, flustered. “It’s just a lil pie, Jack. Lord have mercy, I mean, it’s not any worse than the cases of beer in the fridge, or the whatever sort of juice Shitty was talkin’ about for this weekend.”
Jack’s eyes flared wide, and his jaw tensed. “Fucking pitchers,” he muttered, then stormed off.
If Eric punched the dough for the next crust a little too hard well, no one would really notice.