Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bitty looked around his room and smiled.

Sure, it was a little smaller than his room at the Haus, but it wasn’t held together with layers of grime. The hardwood floor had a soft gleam, and the walls were gentle cream color. After graduation, his mother had presented him with a new handmade quilt, a pattern of dark reds and not-quite-white, that she and his MooMaw had started as soon as Bitty announced his intention to stay in New England after graduation.

Mama’s chin had quivered at his declaration, and her smile was watery, but she had said, “Of course, Dicky, I understand. There must be a lot more … opportunities up there for you.”

Coach hadn’t said much at all, just asked if Bitty wanted to take his old truck.

When Bitty shook his head and said, “Parking alone would cost me a couple hundred a month, never mind insurance, and Shitty has a car he’ll let me borrow if I need to,” Coach said, “You’re welcome to keep it here, of course, until you need it. Or I could fix it up -- nothing big, it’s been maintained -- and sell it for you. Probably get 25, 28 hundred for it.”

Bitty had agreed gratefully, and not told Coach that when he got the check for the truck it made up more than half his savings.

But he had a job, doing community relations and social media for WBUR, and he had a place to live. This place, in a Cambridge townhouse that he never could have afforded on his own.

When Shitty asked him in December what he planned to do when he graduated, Bitty grimaced and said he’d probably have to go back to Madison, at least for a while.

“I just can’t afford to stay around here,” Bitty told him. “It’s like Samwell’s financial aid department knows how much I have in the bank -- like, to the penny -- and I won’t even be able to put a deposit on an apartment around here unless I get a job first, but there’s no way until the season ends.”

“But what if you didn’t have to worry about that?” Shitty asked. “Would you want to stay here? Or close to here?”

“Instead of moving back with the homophobic cockholes, I believe you once called them?” Bitty raised an eyebrow.

“I know, I was pre-judging,” Shitty said.

Eric grinned. “You were more right than wrong. And I’d much rather stay here, but I don’t see how. I’d say I should have been an econ major like Holster, but we both know that much math was not going to happen.”

“You could live with me,” Shitty said.

“You and your two law-student roommates?” Bitty asked.

“Nah, brah,” Shitty said. “My old man doesn’t want me in crappy student housing, and he sees an opportunity to make money in real estate. He said he’d buy a place in Cambridge that I can live in until … well, if I stay in Boston after I graduate, whenever. I make minimal payments to him, which gives me some equity, but he gets his original investment back plus a share of the profit when I move.”

Bitty thought the idea through.

“But you hate your dad,” he finally said.

“Yes,” Shitty said. “But I like you. And this way, we could share a place, and you could pay like $500 a month in rent -- but only once you get a job -- which I would roll into what I pay my dad, and everyone’s happy.”

“Does he know you’ll have a roommate?” Bitty asked.

“Maybe,” Shitty said.

But it was a better offer than Bitty was likely to get anywhere else, even if Shitty’s enthusiasm could be a little overwhelming. And once Bitty committed to staying in the Boston area, things fell into place more easily that he would have expected.

His job wasn’t a dream job, but he could see ways to move forward, maybe to more interesting organizations or doing something that called for more creativity, and it would more than cover the rent Shitty wanted and keep Bitty in baking supplies for his vlog, which also gave him a little extra each month.

Once his bed was made and his clothes were put away, Bitty took his time stowing his supplies and equipment in the kitchen, as he mentally plotted out how to best use the limited space. He would have liked more room to record, but it wasn’t like he could insist on a bigger kitchen. This one had a window that brought in natural light, at least, Bitty thought, looking out onto the sidewalk.

The sidewalk was occupied by one of the most attractive men Bitty had ever seen. Or he would be, if he didn’t look like he was going to throw the large box he was carrying through the window of the house across the way.

Bitty took a moment to watch as the man (whose arms definitely were something to write home about — if he ever got around to telling his folks that he liked men) carried the box up the steps to the front door of the house.

Just as he reached it, the door opened to reveal a petite woman with shiny dark hair in an asymmetrical cut.

She said something, maybe teasing, with an almost-smile, but the man didn’t respond in kind. He just shouldered past her with the box, which must have weighed a ton.

Bitty wondered what was in it; it didn’t look like the couple in the house next door was just moving in, but maybe? What weighed that much? Books, maybe. But the man looked too old to be a student, too young to be a professor. Maybe a grad student? With arms like that?

“Shitty?” Bitty called.

“Yeah, brah,” Shitty called from where he was setting up the Wii in the living room.

“Have you met the neighbors yet?”

“No, brah,” Shitty called back. “Worried that they’ll complain if you play Beyonce too loud?”

“Hush,” Bitty said. “There’s no such thing when it comes to Queen B. No, I was just wondering if you met the people next door. After all, you were here a few times before your dad bought it, right? And you moved in two days ago.”

“I did run into a couple of girls who live on the other side of the wall yesterday,” Shitty said, jerking his head toward the wall of the living room that was shared with the unit next door. “Jenny and, uh, Melissa? Mandy? Something like that. Said they’d lived together since they were sorority sisters in the ‘90s.”

“So they’re what, in their 30s?” Bitty asked archly. “And you’re calling them girls?”

Shitty blinked. “Damn, Bits, these Harvard douches are rubbing off on me. I mean, they didn’t look that old, but if they were in a sorority 20 years ago they’re definitely women.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Bitty said. “I was going to make them a welcome-to-the-neighborhood pie anyway. It can also be a sorry-my-roommate-used-infantalizing-and-misogynistic-language-about-you pie.”

“But they don’t have to know that!” Shitty said.

“Of course not,” Bitty agreed.

“Anyway, they said we shouldn’t expect to see them very often,” Shitty said. “I guess they travel a lot or something. Besides, why are you welcoming people to the neighborhood? You just moved in. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

“Because if I wait for someone to bring me a casserole or a plate of cookies in this puritanical, Godforsaken state, I will starve to death. And never meet any of our neighbors,” Bitty said. “I figure it’s better to meet over baked goods than over a dispute about trash day or something, and if that means I have to make a pie, well, I can make that sacrifice.”

Bitty heaved a dramatic sigh.

“You mean you need to find more people to eat the things you produce so we don’t get blocked in by pastry,” Shitty said.

“That too,” Bitty giggled. “Have you met the people across the lawn, in the next house?”

“I don’t think so,” Shitty said, settling back on the couch and handing Bitty a controller.

“Big guy, dark hair, smaller woman?” Bitty said. “The guy was carrying in this huge box. I wondered if they just moved in, too.”

“One way to find out,” Shitty said. “And that involves pie. But not until I wipe the floor with you.”

He held a controller out to Bitty.

It was still acceptably early when Bitty buttoned a clean shirt and picked up the two just-slightly-warm peach pies off the kitchen counter.

Well, if 8 p.m. on a Sunday was acceptable. But it was still fully light in late June, so that had to count for something, Bitty thought.

“Peach?” Shitty asked, when Bitty collected him from the living room and handed him one of the pies. “I still remember that pecan pie you brought to your first team meeting. It was the food of the gods. Why mess with a classic?”

“Peaches are in season,” Bitty said. “And I don’t know these people. One of them could have a nut allergy.”

“You didn’t know us, either,” Shitty pointed out.

“You think I didn’t email the coaches ahead of time to find out about any food allergies or dietary requirements on the team?” Bitty asked.

“Really?” Shitty actually looked surprised. “Anyone have any?”

“B. Shitty Knight, are you going to be cooking for any of the current or former members of Samwell Men’s Hockey in the foreseeable future?” Bitty asked.

“I might make you a sandwich or something,” Shitty said.

“Then I don’t mind telling you I have no food allergies or dietary issues,” Bitty said. “But to tell you about anyone else would be a violation of their privacy.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Shitty said. “Where to?”

“The women next door first?” Eric said. “Seeing as we actually share a building with them?”

But when they rang the bell, no one answered. Bitty pressed the doorbell again, and then Shitty knocked and hallooed (“I didn’t know anyone actually said that,” Bitty said). When no one came after that, Bitty looked at the gathering dusk and said, “Let’s try the other house before it gets too late.”

Bitty scrawled a note on the sticky pad he brought just in case, attached it to the plastic wrap covering one pie, and left it on the doorstep.

At the other door, the bell was answered within half a minute. Bitty told himself he was hoping the woman he had seen would open the door. In his experience, women were just better at the social give-and-take that came with a courtesy call -- especially involving food. After knowing Shitty for four years (after listening to Shitty rant for four years), he wouldn’t say women were innately better than men at polite niceties, but he firmly believed that most people who identified as women were raised with more attention to good manners than most people who identified as men.

He told himself he was hoping the woman he had seen would answer the door, but he was lying to himself. Sure, the guy he had seen (had feasted his eyes on from behind the kitchen curtain and, no, that wasn’t too creepy) was big and buff, probably some kind of athlete at least through college, probably still spent a significant chunk of time maintaining that physique. Of course, Bitty found him good-looking. But in his experience, Samwell men’s hockey notwithstanding, guys like that didn’t take kindly to guys like him looking at them. It was a lesson that had been pounded into him -- literally, unfortunately -- during his formative years in Georgia, and while none of the Wellies on his team had ever seemed the slightest bit uncomfortable with Bitty in the locker room, Bitty had always made sure his eyes stayed below his teammates’ knees or above their necks.

Despite that, if Bitty was honest, he was hoping to get another glimpse of the man, if only to see if his memory was playing tricks on him. No one could seriously be that attractive, right?

When the door swung open, Bitty’s cheerful greeting was swallowed with a gulp. It was the man he’d seen in the afternoon, and with the slanting light highlighting his cheekbones and blue eyes, he was even more gorgeous than Bitty remembered.

Before Bitty could recover, Shitty jumped in.

“You’re Jack Zimmermann,” he said. “What are you doing in Boston?”

The man nearly flinched as he stepped back and swung the door a few inches in front of him.

“Um, yes,” he said, in a quiet voice. “I live here. In the summers.”

“Bitty, do you know who this is?” Shitty said. “This is Jack Zimmermann.”

“You said that,” Bitty said.

“Alternate captain of the Providence Falconers,” Shitty went on, as though Bitty hadn’t spoken. “Took them to the conference final this year.”

“I’m aware,” Bitty said, because, yes, he watched hockey. He was -- or had been -- a hockey player, hadn’t he? But he hadn’t recognized Jack Zimmermann, maybe because he had looked relaxed, not like the always-serious player he’d seen on TV.

Bitty saw Jack Zimmermann’s posture stiffen in response to his words, almost like he was turning into the robot the media made him out to be.

Bitty rushed to try to explain.

“I mean I know the Falconers went to the conference finals,” he said. “We’re not stalking you. I just moved in and I wanted to bring a pie to my new neighbors.“

He lifted the pie, still in one of his Pyrex pie plates.

“We left one at the house over there too —“ Bitty gestured towards Jenny and Mandy’s (Melissa’s?) door, but the pie was gone. “— well, I guess they found it. But I thought maybe you just moved in because I saw you carrying a big box in today,” he said.

“No, I’ve been here a couple of weeks,” Jack Zimmermann said, relaxing a bit, but not reaching for the pie. “That was scrap metal for Larissa. She’s in the back. Why don’t you come in and I’ll call her?”

He stepped back to let them in the foyer, then turned and called. “Larissa! We have visitors.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, until Larissa -- the woman Bitty had seen at the door -- appeared from the rear of the house, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts overalls, a bandana tied around her head.

“This is Larissa,” Jack Zimmermann said, unnecessarily.

Bitty stepped forward, pie in his left hand, right hand extended.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “Eric Bittle. I just moved into the house over there. I made a peach pie for you and Mr. Zimmermann.”

Larissa snorted a bit at “Mr. Zimmermann," but reached for the pie. “This smells delicious,” she said. Would you and --”

“Shitty Knight,” Shitty helpfully supplied.

WIthout so much as a raised eyebrow, she continued. “--Shitty like to have a slice with us? Jack, would you put some coffee on?”

“Isn’t it a bit late for coffee?” Jack asked.

“Not for me,” Larissa said. “I’ve got of hours of work yet. But make decaf if you’d rather.”

That was how Bitty found himself sitting around a kitchen table with Shitty, Larissa, and Jack Zimmermann on his first night in his new home. At the second “Mr. Zimmermann,” Jack made a face and said, “My name is Jack.”

When Bitty reached for a topic and said, “Jack said he was bringing you scrap metal, Larissa. What do you use it for?” Larissa started talking about the sculptures she made with found materials.

Bitty was impressed, but that didn’t stop him from noticing the fond expression on Jack’s face when he looked at her. Shitty, who had an arm around Bitty and had all but hooked his chin over Bitty’s shoulder, also looked enamored, Bitty noticed. It was like he was a child gone shy and hiding behind his mother, all because because this tiny person was making a statement by building art pieces bigger than her -- what was Jack to her? Husband? Boyfriend? Clearly more than a roommate.

Then they were done eating and Larissa wanted to take the rest of the pie out of the plate so she could return the dish, and Bitty was telling her to please not worry about it, just bring the plate back when the pie was gone, of course that’s okay, and Shitty was jumping in and saying, “Bitty here has like a dozen pie plates. Maybe more. I promise we won’t run short.”

After, when Bitty and Shitty were crossing the small patch of grass, Bitty ventured, “So, Jack Zimmermann was nice.”

“Yeah, Bits, he was,” Shitty said. “And Larissa is the coolest person I’ve ever met. Guess what, Bitty? We have couple-friends.”

With that, he swept Bitty into his arms and twirled him around before they entered their new home.

Chapter Text

“I’ve got these,” Jack said, stacking the dessert plates and coffee cups and carrying them to the sink. “Go ahead and get back to work.”

“Oh, Jack,” Larissa simpered, batting her eyelashes. “You make the best house-husband.”

Then she broke down in a fit of giggles.

“Chirp me all you want,” Jack said, rinsing the plates before putting them in the dishwasher. “But my reading can wait. You said that commission was supposed to be done July 1.”

“Fine,” Larissa said, pulling the plastic wrap back over the pie and setting it on the counter. “He said not to refrigerate this, right?”

“Uh, yeah, as long as we’ll eat it within a few days,” Jack said. “He said putting it in the fridge would ruin the texture. Guy seems serious about his pie.”

“And thank whatever God you want that he is,” Larissa said. “This pie might not make it to morning.”

“What did you think of his — Knight?”

“Mustache man? Guy who’s studying to be a lawyer and calls himself Shitty?” Larissa said, and made a thinking face. “Unusually self-aware, wouldn’t you say?”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “I mean, lawyers are necessary sometimes. And from what he said, he intends to be one of the good ones. He’s interning for a public service firm this summer at least. But he just seemed to be a little handsy, don’t you think? For being out at someone else’s house?”

“Some people are just like that,” Lardo said. “If PDA isn’t your thing, that’s fine too. If it bothers you, you can say something. But you really aren’t obligated to spend any time with them.”

“I know,” Jack said, resolving to keep the friendly new neighbors at an arm’s-length distance, because their relationship wasn’t any of his business. Even if he had wanted to remove Shitty’s hand from Bittle’s person and remind him of his manners. “I guess it would be too much to hope that we’d get people like the women in the other unit there.”

“What, you mean keeping the place up but disappearing like ghosts?”

“Exactly,” Jack said.

Of course, it wasn’t that easy.

First, Jack ran into Knight when he went to leave the pie plate on the neighbors’ front step the next day. It was late -- after 10 a.m. at least -- and Jack thought most people who had jobs (or law students trying to impress possible future employers) would be safely at work by then.

“Hi, Knight,” Jack said. “I brought this back.”

“Thanks, brah, but I’m Shitty,” Shitty said, still tying what might have been the ugliest necktie Jack had ever seen. And Jack had seen pictures of his dad and grandfather from the 1970s.

“Okay, you’re Shitty,” Jack agreed.

Shitty smirked, as though it was a good joke, and said, “Now you’ve got it. Listen, I’m late for a meeting. You mind putting that in the kitchen? Right through there? The door will lock when you close it. Thanks, man.”

And then Knight -- Shitty -- was gone, and Jack was alone in their house.

It looked like Bittle had more influence over the decor than he did over his partner’s behavior. Nothing looked too ostentatious or expensive, but it was neat and clean, with splashes of color from throw pillows and area rugs. It looked like it would be a comfortable place to live.

The kitchen was spotless, too, with everything put away, except one clean coffee mug in the dish drainer. Jack couldn’t help but think Bittle trained Shitty well.

It would definitely be snooping to check out what was in the cabinets, so Jack didn’t, although he did notice there was a distinct lack of pie on the counter. Apparently, Bittle either used the fridge for his own pies, or just believed in baking for other people. Nope, no pie in the fridge. Yes, definitely snooping.

Jack left the empty plate on the counter, and, before he could think better of it, wrote a short thank-you on a yellow sticky note. Was that weird? To use their own paper for a note?

He signed it, “Jack & Larissa,” so it wouldn’t seem like it was just his idea.

Then he went home to work on his essay that was due before classes started Monday. That would finish off the one pre-requisite that he was taking as an independent study before summer session began.

He felt fortunate, though. That class would make it three credits he was earning this summer, up from the two he earned last summer. He’d done well enough then that the professor was willing to make an exception and let him do one on his own that he could squeeze in after the end of his season. Doing the first part of the international relations track meant he would be ready for International Relations from 1945 to Present, Mondays and Wednesdays from 1 p.m. to 4:30, and War in Literature and Film, also Mondays and Wednesdays, from 6 to 9:30 p.m.

“My God, Jack, what are you doing to yourself?” Larissa said when he told her his schedule. “Seven hours of classes two days a week? You’ll be jumping out of your skin.”

“I can get a good workout in the morning,” Jack said. “They said I could use the varsity gym while I’m enrolled. And I’d like, maybe, someday, to get a degree.”

“You do realize that you have to take more than history to get a degree in history,” Larissa said.

“I know, and maybe I can do some of the general requirements online,” Jack said. “Knock out one or two a year during the season. Other guys have done it. I already have an art credit.”

“Really? You checked if it would transfer?” Larissa said. “You said you were taking that photography class for fun.”

“And because my therapist suggested it,” Jack said. “I told you that.”

“Yeah, you did,” Larissa said. “Maybe you should take another one. You did really well.”

Jack met Larissa when he enrolled in a nature photography class at Rhode Island School of Design. She turned into the kind of friend he never knew he needed. She was getting an art degree, and she helped him with his photography, showing him which pictures worked and why. It wasn’t until the Falconers got knocked out of the playoffs that she ever mentioned hockey to him, and all she said was, “Tough luck, bro.”

Over the next couple of years, Larissa was the one Jack turned to when he needed to get away from hockey just for a bit, for coffee, for a gallery visit, or just to sit in a studio and watch her work. She listened when he wanted to talk, which he knew was rare enough that some people would have found him to be closed off, but she didn’t seem to mind. He listened when she wanted an ear, which was almost as rare.

A few months before she graduated, she told him she was dreading moving home. She loved her parents and her grandmother, but they didn’t have the physical space for her to make her art, and, reading between the lines, it sounded like they wouldn’t give her the mental or emotional space she wanted either.

“I can help with that,” Jack said. “I was thinking of buying a place outside of Providence for the off-season, someplace where not everyone would recognize me when I go grocery shopping. It’s really gotten to be a lot since we won the Cup, but I don’t really want to go back to Montreal all summer either. So if I buy a house near Boston, you can move in and keep an eye on things when I’m away. Then in the summer, I’ll have my pick of colleges to take classes at.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” Lardo said, remembering what it was like applying to colleges.

But it did pretty much work that way for a millionaire athlete who -- surprise -- had decent grades in secondary school and from the couple of classes he took at RISD.

Jack kept his condo in Providence, but he spent almost the whole summer in the small blue house he bought in Cambridge. It was close enough that he could keep in touch with the Falcs, even skate over the summer, and far enough -- and in a different team’s market -- that most people couldn’t attach his name to his face, even if he did look familiar.

Larissa tried paying him rent, but he just turned around and used the money to buy her art, so she started giving him his favorite pieces instead. Some were displayed in his condo in Providence, some stayed in the house in Cambridge, and a couple had made their way to Montreal, to his parents’ house.

This year, Larissa was in more demand, with a couple of significant commissions over the summer, so she wouldn’t be able to do as many personal projects. That was fine with Jack. He was happy just knowing he could show up at the house at the end of the season and the lights would work and the water would be running, and no one would be knocking on the door clamoring for an autograph.

But now Shitty and Bittle knew who he was, and Bittle seemed like a talkative guy, turning up on people’s porches unannounced with pie. Really good pie. Jack hoped that it didn’t mean the end of his peace and quiet, if word about who he was got around the neighborhood.

Of course, if Jack went through with his plan this year, he probably wouldn’t have the luxury of anonymity at all next summer. He knew it wasn’t his responsibility to be the first out player in the NHL, but it felt like he should, if only to make it easier for others to come out later. He knew he wasn’t the only queer player -- he’d known that since before he was signed, thanks to his disaster of a teenage relationship with Parse. But he’d also grown up in locker rooms where “gay” was still an all-purpose insult, and where the defense was, “but I didn’t really mean you were gay!”

Even this situation -- if the press got hold of the fact he was living in a house with woman, they would assume that meant he was in sexual relationship with her. If he bothered to say they were simply good friends, no one would believe him. Unless he also said he was gay, which wasn’t exactly true anyway, because Jack was attracted to some women, even if his only really significant relationship had been with a man.

Most of his team already knew, and the Falconers were better than most about discouraging the rampant homophobia that seemed to root itself into hypermasculine sports. He’d come out to George last season, when he floated the idea of doing something next year, probably during Hockey Is for Everyone Month. He thought that with the support of his team, and after leading them to five playoff runs in a row, and one Cup win, well, no one was in a better position. Certainly not Parse, despite having two Cups to his name. When it came to being accepting, the Aces just couldn’t compare.

Still, George had advised caution. “We’ll stand behind you proudly,” she said. “But remember, you have to play in every rink. It won’t always be pleasant, and once you come out, you won’t be able to take it back.”

That was kind of the point, though. Once it was out, he could go on living his boring life and not explain it anymore.

No one else approached him that first week after he met the new neighbors, who had the good fortune of not having to hide their sexuality. No one in Cambridge would look twice at two men together. Maybe that was what was weighing on his mind, why he couldn’t stop thinking about them.

Bittle waved to him a few times as Jack was finishing his morning run and Bittle was leaving for work. Bittle cleaned up nicely, especially compared to Shitty. His neat button-downs were paired with coordinating ties -- bow ties, on two occasions -- and his trousers were always neatly pressed and well-fitting. He was small for a hockey player (the only hockey they’d talked about that night in Jack’s kitchen was Samwell University hockey, where Shitty and Bittle met. And apparently Bittle brought a pie to the first practice.), but he was clearly fit, and he left the house each morning as bright as a shiny new penny.

There had been one more instance of unexpected baked goods (“I was thinking about this project at work, and these lemon bars … just kind of happened,” Bittle said one evening, holding the plate on Jack’s front porch). Shitty wasn’t with him -- he had to work late that night, Bittle said -- and it was only neighborly to invite Bittle in. After all, Jack didn’t want to feed his reputation as a hockey robot.

Bittle had seemed reluctant.

“I really didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said. “I was just going to ring the bell and leave these here.”

“It’s no trouble,” Jack said. “I’m sure Larissa could use a break. Come in and sit down.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Bittle said, but he didn’t take a seat until Larissa came in from the studio.

The way she made a beeline for the lemon bars seemed to reassure Bittle, who was off and talking about how he learned to make them from his grandmother and how the boys at Samwell always liked them.

After, Jack had wondered about how Bittle fit into that team, being so small and baking, and, well, he probably wasn’t the only queer player on Samwell’s team. Of course, there was Shitty, Jack remembered.

He found some YouTube clips of Samwell’s games and was surprised to see how fast Bittle was, and how good his hands were. Definitely an asset to the team. More of an asset than Shitty, honestly, and Shitty wasn’t bad. But Bittle would have been better if he didn’t spend so much time trying to avoid getting hit. Someone should have helped with that.

But it wasn’t Jack’s business.

So when Jack was pulling away from his house early on his first day of classes, set on getting a couple of hours in the gym before sitting in class the rest of the day, and he saw Bittle tromping down the street, head down to keep the rain off his face as much as possible, messenger bag cradled to his chest in hopes of keeping its contents dry, Jack felt like he owed it to his neighbor to help.

Maybe Bittle didn’t know he’d been snooping, online and in his kitchen, but still.

He pulled alongside Bittle and rolled his window down. “Hop in,” he said. “You work at BUR, right? That’s only a few blocks from where I’m going.”

“That’s alright,” Bittle said, the rain already plastering his hair down. “It’s only a couple of blocks to the T.”

“And then a wait for a bus after,” Jack said. “Really, I owe you. For the lemon bars. Let me return the favor?”

Bittle huffed a breath out and said, “Fine, but you don’t owe me. You were doing me a favor by eating them.”

When Bittle got in the car, he sat as close to the passenger door as he could, shivering.

When Jack looked at him, Bittle said, “I don’t want to drip on you. It’s bad enough I’m getting your car all wet.”

“It really doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “Are you cold? Do you need the heat?”

“Well, maybe turn off the air conditioner?” Bittle said. “I never knew it could be this chilly in late June. In Georgia, when we get a summer rain, it makes the streets steam it’s so hot.”

“I don’t think I’d call anything in the 70s chilly,” Jack said, switching the AC off and Bittle’s seat warmer on. “But let’s get you warm and maybe a little dry.”

Bittle had only nodded his thanks, so Jack kept quiet while he drove into Boston and pulled up outside the radio station.

“Uh, what time do you get out of work?” Jack asked.

“Five,” Bitty said. “Maybe it won’t be raining by then.”

“I think it’s supposed to rain all day,” Jack said. “But my class ends at 4:30. Meet me at the library, and I can drive you home, if you want.”

Bittle bit his lip, like he was trying to think of a reason to say no. He didn’t seem to come up with any. Finally, he said, “OK. Thanks, Jack. What’s your favorite kind of pie?”

Chapter Text

After their first meeting, Bitty tried to stay out of Jack’s way.

It wasn’t that Jack had done anything or said anything to make Bitty feel unwelcome that night in his kitchen. But Jack hadn’t volunteered any information about himself, and hadn’t really asked anything about Bitty or Shitty. They had carried the conversation with Larissa, who talked about her art, and how it helped her express how someone who was an outsider could create their own space both within and outside the bounds of society.

Bitty felt an instant bond with her, and had visited once or twice after he saw Jack leaving the house. The first time, she invited him to look at a couple of her finished pieces displayed in the house; the next time, she was busy, so she let him sit in the corner of the studio and prattle on about the people at the radio station while she worked.

So it only seemed natural to head next door when he found himself alone in his own kitchen with a plate of his award-winning lemon bars. Somehow, it hadn’t crossed his mind that Jack might be there.

When Jack answered the door, Bitty had startled, because his memory once again hadn’t done Jack justice. Sure, he looked good jogging down the street, but it wasn’t until Bitty came face to face with him again that he remembered the clarity of those blue eyes, the way they focused so intently, even when he was just saying hi … and asking what Bitty was doing on his porch.

Then Bitty realized what it might look like if Jack realized Bitty had been visiting Larissa on his own, which was ridiculous, because he was gay, hello, and because it was 2016, and who said men and women couldn’t be friends?

But he knew in his bones that Coach would have raised an eyebrow at any man who made a habit of calling on his mama when no one else was home, and that many of the people he grew up with would have done more than that.

Or what if Jack thought Bitty had come looking for him? Lord, he should stop staring.

He tried to hand over the lemon bars and leave, but it turned out Jack had some manners (maybe from growing up in Canada?) and he invited Bitty in with that soft accent, and Bitty couldn’t say no, especially when Jack said he’d call Larissa.

Jack was once again mostly silent while Bitty chattered away and Larissa asked an occasional question. Bitty couldn’t quite understand their relationship: Was the house always quiet? Were they more demonstrative and affectionate in private? When Jack wasn’t there, Larissa barely mentioned him at all. Bitty supposed that made sense, since Jack clearly valued his privacy -- which Bitty had invaded twice now.

When Bitty returned home, Shitty was standing in the kitchen eating lemon bars from the plate Bitty had left on the counter.

“Dude, lemon bars,” Shitty groaned. “Good choice. I was starving. What happened to the rest? I know there’s more than this when you make them.”

“Did you even eat anything else?” Bitty asked, pulling some turkey and lettuce from the fridge and plucking a ripe tomato from the windowsill. “Let me make you a sandwich at least. I took the rest of the bars over to Larissa -- or, I guess, to Jack and Larissa. I’m not one to talk down sweets, but there’s really only so much we can eat ourselves, and Larissa likes to work late. I thought she’d appreciate something for a snack later.”

“But you’ve been gone at least like 20 minutes,” Shitty said.

“Well, Jack answered the door, and he asked her to take a break and invited me in,” Bitty said, hoping he wasn’t blushing, because maybe he found his straight, partnered (married maybe?) neighbor attractive, but he really didn’t want to share that information with the world.

If Shitty saw that Bitty was uncomfortable, he had the wrong idea about why.

“He did say anything nasty to you, did he?”

“What? No,” Bitty said. “He was just real quiet. But Larissa’s quiet, too.”

“Not that quiet,” Shitty said. “Y’know, you’d think people would know if Jack Zimmermann was married, or even in a relationship serious enough to be living with someone and not even trying to hide it.”

“You don’t hear much about him off the ice,” Bitty said. “I didn’t even recognize him.”

“Maybe so,” Shitty said. “He’s done a good job of living down his past.”

“He has a past?” Bitty said.

“Brah, where were you living in 2009?”

“Georgia. And that was the first year I picked up a hockey stick.”

“RIght,” Shitty said. “Well, there was a huge scandal because our neighbor Jack was supposed to be drafted first and go to the Aces, but he pulled out of the draft the day before. It came out later that he’d OD’d on something -- some people say coke, but that doesn’t seem his style -- and after rehab, he went to play in Europe for a year. He was drafted the next year.”

Bitty considered for a moment. That would make Jack’s commitment to privacy and to living a quiet life make more sense. It must have been awful for him.

Shitty broke into his thoughts with a change of subject.

“Larissa is something, isn’t she?” Shitty said, and Bitty was suddenly aware he wasn’t the only one with an inappropriate crush.

“Sure is,” Bitty said. “There’s something about the way she listens to you -- to me, I guess I mean. Like she’s really paying attention.”

“Yeah, little brah,” Shitty said. “And she’s wicked smart, too. We were talking the other day while you were at work. She said Jack goes months without coming up here during the season.”

“I’m sure he’s got a place in Providence,” Bitty said.

“Yeah, but it’s not that far,” Shitty said. “If I was with her, I’d want to show her off, you know? Just because she doesn’t look like every Barbie doll in the WAGs section …”

“The blonde in me is offended, Shitty,” Bitty said.

“No, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with pretty blondes,” Shitty said. “Especially not you, who are the prettiest of all the pretty blondes. Just that it seems like most hockey players don’t look any deeper than that.”

“That applies to a lot more than hockey players,” Bitty said. “And now you’re complaining because Jack found someone who didn’t fit the mold?”

“I am if he doesn’t want to be seen with her,” Shitty said.

“Shitty,” Bitty said. “Listen to yourself. You just said he was living with her and not trying to hide it. You don’t know that’s what’s going on. Larissa’s pretty private, too, and maybe she just doesn’t want the public attention. You can’t just assume things about other people’s relationships.”

Great. Here he was, defending Jack, who still hadn’t so much as smiled in Bitty’s direction.

Which is why, when he left the house and immediately got caught in a downpour on Monday morning, he was surprised to see the black SUV roll up next to him. The driver’s window came down and Jack looked out. He still wasn’t smiling when he said, “Get in,” but he didn’t sound threatening either.

Bitty figured he was already wet, and there was no point messing up Jack’s car, but Jack asked again, saying he wanted to repay him for the lemon bars. Which hadn’t really been for Jack at all, but Bitty couldn’t say that. Besides, when he talked about the lemon bars, Jack almost smiled.

So Bitty got in and tried to stay as far from Jack as he could, the better to not drip on him. The car was immaculate on the inside, and once Jack turned off the air and turned on the heated seats, Bitty was blessedly warm.

It wasn’t until they were approaching the radio station that Jack mentioned he could drive Bitty home after he got out of class.

“Class?” Bitty said, looking like a fool. But what 27-year-old (yes, Bitty had looked it up) NHL hockey captain took college classes in the summer? Maybe it was a blow-off? Just a way to pass the time?

“International Relations since 1945,” Jack said. “Monday and Wednesday afternoons.”

Not a blow-off.

Bitty didn’t want to put Jack out any more than he already had, but they were going home to the same place, so finally he agreed.

When he found Jack reading -- an actual book, probably checked out from the very library he was standing on front of -- Bitty walked up and said, “Just so you know, this is an extra favor, so you have to let me make you and Larissa dinner.”

Jack nodded seriously, and said, “Fine. If there’s protein involved. But tonight might not be the best night -- I have to be back here in an hour for another class.”

“Oh, then I can grab the bus,” Bitty said. “It’s even stopped raining.”

“I’d rather drive you,” Jack said. “Then I can collect on that dinner tomorrow, eh?”

And he actually smiled.

Bitty swallowed and followed Jack to the car.

This boy was going to be the death of him.

Tuesday meant the T again, but in the evening, Larissa and Jack showed up at Shitty and Bitty’s for grilled fish with rice pilaf and a salad, with homemade sorbet for dessert. Bitty did know how to feed someone on a nutrition plan, after all his years of figure skating and hockey. It was mostly fine, except Shitty kept grabbing Bitty whenever Jack said or did anything that Shitty thought showed he didn’t value Larissa as much as he should. Which, well, asking her to pass the water was really not treating her like a servant, and Shitty should figure that out.

On Wednesday, Jack was waiting for him when he left the house. This time, Jack told him a little bit about his classes, and why he liked Cambridge in the summer, when most of the students were gone. When Bitty asked, he said he’d only seen Bitty’s other neighbors, Mandy and Jenny, once in two years, but the grass was always cut, so who was he to complain?

Bitty absolutely refused a ride home, though. Jack really should take his break time to eat, especially if he did a two-hour workout in the morning.

When Bitty saw Jack coming back from his run on Thursday, Bitty flagged him down.

“Do you have any plans for the Fourth?” he asked.

Jack shook his head. “Canadian, remember?”

“Larissa’s not,” Bitty said. “Would you guys want to join us for a barbecue the day before? A couple of the boys from Samwell who are in the area are going to come. I promise they’ll behave.”

Jack looked at him.

“They won’t say anything to anyone else about you being here,” Bitty clarified. “But they probably will set up beer pong, even if we all are adults.”

Jack snickered. Really snickered. There was no other word for it.

“If there’s beer pong, Larissa will be there,” Jack said. “Maybe I’d better come to keep an eye on things, eh?”

Bitty was surprised when Jack knocked on the kitchen door on Saturday, the day before the barbecue, toting flats of strawberries and blueberries.

“I was at the farmer’s market and when I saw these, I thought you might like them,” Jack said. “If you’re having people over, you’re making dessert, right?”

“You never told me your favorite pie,” Bitty said. “Is it blueberry? Strawberry rhubarb?”

“I don’t really know,” Jack said. “I never ate much pie. The peach you brought over was really good, though.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep trying things out on you,” Bitty said.

Jack asked what he was making, and Bitty tried not say Shitty wanted cookies because he always got the munchies when he smoked. He was pretty sure Jack got the idea anyway.

Jack left Bitty to it, but he was back with Larissa the next day as soon as Ransom and Holster arrived. Bitty had already warned them not to spook Jack, and their more obnoxious puppy fanboy behavior died down within minutes.

Bitty didn’t really have time to sit and visit with anyone, what with making sure the chicken and beef made it onto the grill at the right time, doing last-minute assembly on the salads, making sure everyone knew there was water available, offering blueberry pie and strawberry tartlets around.

He noticed Jack watching him a few times, but it seemed like Jack was content enough to stand to the side and observe. True to Bitty’s prediction, Ransom and Holster insisted in setting up beer pong. When Shitty tried to pull Bitty out of the kitchen to play, Bitty just held up his marinade-covered hands and said, “Not now.”

Shitty must have found Larissa, because the next time Bitty checked, Larissa and Shitty were well on their way to absolutely destroying Ransom and Holster.

Bitty took a moment to lean against the wall next to Jack.

“You okay?” he asked. “I can get Shitty to let you play with Larissa if you want. No one will make you drink if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jack said. “That’s more her thing.”

Maybe it was the two beers Bitty had already had, but he nudged Jack and said, “Sometimes it’s more fun just to watch the pretty people, huh?”

Jack looked at him, his face unreadable, and said, “Yes, it is.”

Chapter Text

Jack felt sweaty and gross on Thursday morning as he headed back up the block toward home. The cool, rainy weather from early in the week had disappeared, and now he was dripping with perspiration even though it was barely eight o’clock in the morning.

Which should be about the time --

Yes, there was Bittle, looking clean and fresh in navy trousers, a pale yellow dress shirt -- short-sleeved, probably because of the weather -- and a deep red bow-tie. If Jack had to bet, he would wager that there was a sweater of some sort in Bittle’s messenger bag. He didn’t have the sort of job that required bringing a lot of work home, so there would be room for a sweater and lunch.

It would be a delicious lunch, too. Not just because Bittle seemed determined to blow Jack’s nutrition plan out of the water with his baked goods. No, Bittle could seriously cook, finding ways to add flavor to the foods Jack had been making for himself since he was 16. The only difference was that when Jack made chicken or fish with rice, it tasted roughly like wallpaper paste. When Bitty made fish and rice and vegetables for dinner, each dish had its own taste, but they all worked together, and Jack had left the table feeling more satisfied than he had in a long while.

It annoyed him to see the way Shitty bounced around through the meal Tuesday night, grabbing Bittle’s arm or nudging his shoulder when Bittle was trying to eat the food he himself had prepared. Shitty didn’t appreciate the quality of the dinner anywhere near enough. Shitty and Bittle had known each other for four years; maybe Shitty just took it for granted?

Well, he shouldn’t.

Then the next day, Bittle had packed some of the leftovers for Jack to eat between his classes, and they were still good. Jack would think Shitty was spoiled, but when Bittle handed him the insulated bag in the car Wednesday morning, Bittle had said, “I packed these up for you. There was just enough left for my lunch and your dinner.”

“Didn’t Shitty want it?” Jack asked. Bittle was his partner, and the food was in their house. It seemed like Shitty should have dibs.

“Oh, no,” Bittle said. “I tried packing him lunches but he never takes them. This way, if you eat it, it won’t go to waste.”

Jack had assured Bittle that he would eat it, and silently cursed Shitty for his lack of appreciation.

He smiled and prepared to wave as Bittle passed him, but Bittle wasn’t continuing down the sidewalk. He was waiting for Jack to reach him. Jack slowed to a stop, wiping his face on the hem of his shirt. When he pulled the shirt back down, Bittle wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“Uh, did you need something?” Jack asked.

Bittle’s eyes snapped up, and he said, “Did you have plans for the Fourth? Or the third, really. Me and Shitty are having a little barbecue, if you want to come. You and Larissa both, I mean. Or either one of you, if the other one is busy.”

“I don’t really celebrate the Fourth of July,” Jack said. “Tomorrow’s Canada Day.”

“I know you’re Canadian, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle said with a grin. “But Larissa’s not. Besides, this is America. You might as well celebrate if you’re here. That’s what Ransom says.”

“Uh, Ransom?” Jack asked.

“I mean Justin, I guess,” Bitty said. “One of my old hockey captains. He’ll be there for the barbecue with Holster. They were co-captains.”

“Oh, um, we wouldn’t want to intrude,” Jack said. “Not if you have old friends coming.”

Nothing sounded worse than a gathering of not-quite-professional hockey players, no doubt armed with beer and fireworks, who wanted to know if everything they’d heard about Jack Zimmermann, hockey’s prodigal son, was true.

Bittle’s face fell, just for a moment, but Jack saw it. Then Bittle had his smile pasted back in place as he shrugged and said, “That’s fine. Shitty told me you probably wouldn’t want to come anyway. I just thought I’d ask. Ransom and Holster are kind of loud sometimes, but they’ll behave if I tell them too.”

Jack wanted to groan -- the barbecue still sounded like three hours of torture. (Was that how long they’d have to stay? Maybe they could leave after two hours.) But Jack couldn’t stand here and disappoint Bittle, especially if it meant Shitty would get to be right.

“No, it sounds great,” Jack said. “I just don’t want to be in your way.”

“You won’t be,” Bittle assured him. Then he promised Ransom and Holster wouldn’t let word of Jack’s presence spread, but allowed that they might bring back the college tradition of beer pong.

That was what made Jack sure about going. He’d watched Larissa play beer pong on a handful of occasions in Providence. She would absolutely love the opportunity to dominate a houseful of hockey players.

The next day, Jack wandered through the farmer’s market and couldn’t help thinking of Bittle and what he would do with the food there. There was no way Jack could make anything good enough to bring to Bittle’s house -- wine and beer would work well enough -- but maybe he could bring Bittle something to bake with.

That’s how he ended up with a huge box of strawberries and one of blueberries that were barely even in season. But blueberry pie was a thing, and if it could go in a pie, Bittle could probably make it.

When Jack approached the house to drop off the berries, a faint odor of marijuana hung in the air. Jack spied an open window on the second floor; that was probably where it was coming from. He doubted the almost-never-present girls next door were smoking.

Jack was hoping Bittle would answer the door right away, hoping his eyes wouldn’t be rimmed in red, hoping he wouldn’t be giggly or speaking in disjointed sentences. At least not more than he usually did.

Not that it should matter to Jack. It really shouldn’t matter at all what Bittle did, and Jack knew a little recreational weed wasn’t a big deal. But given his past, given his position in the spotlight, Jack shied away from the use of any kind of illegal substance. He hardly even drank alcohol. And if Bittle was a regular user … it shouldn’t matter. Bittle was just his neighbor who occasionally brought over baked goods.

But Bittle answered the kitchen door as soon as Jack knocked, clearly elbows deep in some kind of dough. The only scent in the kitchen was something sweet baking.

“Oh, my gosh, Jack, you didn’t have to do that,” he said when he saw the berries. “Just put them over there. I haven’t made a blueberry pie in months. What’s your favorite pie? You never said.”

Jack really couldn’t answer that, so instead he asked what Bittle was baking.

“I’m just kneading some baguettes now, but there are oatmeal cranberry cookies in the oven. They’ll be out in a just a couple of minutes -- if you want to wait you can take some home. Shitty doesn’t need all of them.”

“Shitty gets … hungry, does he?” Jack asked.

Bittle blushed. “Only when he’s not working. Is it a problem?”

“Not for me,” Jack said, feeling lighter. “I just try not to be around it too much.”

The friends who arrived at Bittle’s house for the party turned out to be former D-men, both bigger than Jack. The blond one -- Holster, Bittle called him -- was frankly enormous. Jack saw them both hug Bittle on the front step (Holster actually lifted him off the ground) before Shitty emerged from the front door and tried to tackle them, with limited success.

Jack stepped back from the window and saw Larissa watching him.

“Ready to go?” he said.

“Sure,” she said. “But before we leave, it’s Bittle, right?”

“What?”

“The one you’re pining after,” Larissa said. “I mean, you haven’t really said anything, but you’re always looking over there. And Shitty’s not your type.”

Jack shrugged. He’d been denying it to himself for days, but if Larissa saw it too, there was no point.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “He’s got someone. I’m not going to get involved.”

“It does matter,” Larissa said. “Even if you don’t do anything about them, your feelings matter. You still want to go? I can say you’re sick, or some sort of emergency hockey thing came up.”

“In July?” Jack asked. “No, I said I’d go, and I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“Okay,” Larissa said. “Got your back.”

The barbecue was surprisingly easy. The other two guests almost vibrated with excitement when they saw Jack -- apparently no one said he was expected -- and started talking about the last season and the Cup year at a pace that left him dizzy. Soon enough Bittle broke in and said, “Five minutes are up. Time to stop fanboying and treat him like a normal person -- because he is -- or I’ll put you to work cleaning.”

Shitty backed up Bittle, saying, “C’mon, dudes. You know that’s not cool.”

Jack thought Bittle’s method was probably more effective. He cracked open a LaCroix and took a seat near the edge of the back patio. Bittle was doing something in the kitchen, Ransom and Holster were indeed setting up for beer pong, and Shitty was regaling Larissa with stories from his work.

When the pong game started, it was Ransom and Holster against Shitty and Larissa. Both teams had asked Jack to join, but he shook his head. He liked where he was, able to watch them and see Bittle through the patio door.

When Bittle came out with a tray of meat for the grill, Shitty -- already a little drunk-- grabbed him and smashed a kiss against the side of his face.

“You’re our hero, Bits,” Shitty said.

Bittle grimaced and pulled away, saying “Let go. My hands are full. And your mustache has beer foam in it.”

Shitty just laughed and turned back to the game. Bittle put the first batch of chicken on the grill and came to stand near Jack.

“You could play with Larissa if you want too,” he said.

“No,” Jack said. “That’s more her thing.”

“Sometimes it’s more fun to watch all the pretty people?” Bittle said.

Jack knew he looked at Bittle a beat too long when he answered, “Yes, it is,” but he couldn’t help it.

Bittle blushed -- the same rosy pink in his cheeks from yesterday -- and then there was a whoop from the pong table.

“Three games in a row!” Shitty yelled. “Larissa, Lars, Lardo -- Lardo, that’s it! -- Lardo, you are my queen!”

Larissa had a smug grin on, Bittle was next to Jack, smiling fondly at the group at the table -- which included two consternated former D-men -- and somehow, it all felt right.

It couldn’t last. Maybe it was because everyone except Jack was already several drinks in. Maybe it was just the strange combination of people. Maybe Jack didn’t belong here, with this group of old friends. They had their own ways of being together, and he was taking everything too seriously.

As the meat started to come off the grill and the game was abandoned, Bittle said, “Ransom, Holster. We don’t need to trip over your stuff all day. Take it upstairs and put it in my room.”

“Yes, Mama Bittle,” they chorused, making Bittle shake his head and Shitty say, “We’re all grownups. Stop playing mother hen and enjoy yourself a little bit.”

Then Shitty plopped himself down between the two bigger men at the picnic table and planted kisses on both their cheeks, proceeding to wax eloquently about how much he missed their college days. Larissa, who was now answering to Lardo, apparently, tried to direct Shitty’s attention to how good the food was, but only succeeded in drawing his attention to herself, as he told the guests how amazing she was.

“Bro,” she said. “Show a little love to your boy. He worked hard on this.”

Shitty said, “Bits knows I love him, but I see him every day. And he seriously cooks to relax.”

Bittle looked like he wanted to hide under the table.

Ransom and Holster covered it by going overboard on the food, making frankly obscene noises over the steaks and corn on the cob.

The moment passed, but the awkwardness remained, and when dinner was over, Jack tried to slip away. He was ready to go home.

“Wait, Jack!”

Bittle caught him by the corner of the house.

“We haven’t even had pie yet,” Bittle said. “Please stay. I’ll tell Shitty to leave Larissa alone.”

That was enough to make Jack at least pause. Shitty and Larissa had been with the group the whole time. Shitty had been overbearing maybe (“Lardo”? Really?), but Jack had the impression that was just the way he was.

“She’s fine,” Jack said. “She’s having fun, and she can take care of herself. Let her stay and have a good time.”

“You’re sure?” Bittle looked uncertain. “Because I can tell Shitty he’s paying too much attention to your …”

“My what?” Jack said. “Larissa’s not my possession. She’s my friend.”

“If that’s what you’re calling it now,” Bittle said, with a little smirk.

Crisse, not this. Jack expected it from the press and from the gossip sites, but not from his friendly neighbor. His friendly neighbor whose boyfriend railed against heteronormativity like he got paid for it, while acting all possessive at the same time.

“No, really,” Jack said. “Larissa and I are friends. And even if she was my girlfriend or whatever, that wouldn’t give me the right to decide who she talked to and what she did. Or to act like what she did wasn’t important.”

Bittle had gone still, and his face was doing something complicated.

“What do you mean by that?” he said,

Maybe Jack should have had a beer or four. Then he could blame what he was about to say on the alcohol.

“I don’t like how Shitty treats you,” he said. “All possessive one minute and dismissive the next, when all you do is take care of him and everyone else. You deserve better, and you should know that.”

Jack couldn’t hide his surprise when Bitty responded with a long, clear, ringing laugh.

Chapter Text

Bitty wasn’t sure what happened.

The barbecue had been relaxed and fun while Bitty cooked and the beer pong table was going. Then there was the usual bustle while everyone cleaned up and carried food to the table.

Shitty chirped him -- again -- for being a mother hen, like that joke wasn’t old four years ago, but Bitty just rolled his eyes and insisted Holster move his bag out of the hall before someone tripped.

But once they sat down, the golden bubble broke. Jack was on the bench between Bitty and Larissa, and his frown was mostly directed at Shitty. Which, fair, Shitty and the boys had reached the exuberant stage of drunk, and the food was flying. Bitty was glad to be out of spitting -- or kissing -- range.

Bitty noticed that Larissa (Lardo now?) had switched to water after the game, as had Bitty, and she really hadn’t had much to drink anyway, between the way she ran the table and having Shitty volunteer to chug any beers that their side had to down.

Maybe Jack wasn’t used to being around people who were drunk? Bitty knew Jack had a good reason to limit his own alcohol intake, but he was the captain of a hockey team. Surely he’d seen people under the influence before.

Then Larissa, God love her, told the boys they should take the time to taste the food Bitty had spent the last two days preparing.

Shitty acknowledged that the food, as always, was good, but then he went on to praise Larissa.

“Where were you when we were at school? With Lardo, queen of the pong table in the Haus, we would have eternal domination over the LAX bros,” he said. “M’dudes, let’s all raise a glass to Lardo!”

Shitty lifted his own cup in the air, followed by Holster and Ransom and Bitty. Larissa’s face pinked, but Bitty thought she looked more pleased-and-embarrassed than humiliated. Then she tried to turn the attention back to Bitty, even though he was more than happy to avoid it.

“Bro,” she said to Shitty. “Show a little love to your boy. He worked hard on this.”

Shitty said, “Bits knows I love him, but I see him every day. And he seriously cooks to relax.”

Bitty had never been as thankful for Ransom and Holster’s rowdiness, as they started slobbering over the corn and making sex noises at the steak, effectively deflecting the attention off him. Or at least he thought so, until he snuck a glance at Jack. Jack was looking at him, one side of his mouth still tugged down.

When everyone had their fill, they all cleared the table by dumping paper plates in the trash and carrying their utensils to the sink. Bitty was filling the basin with soapy water to let them soak when everyone else found seats around the fire pit. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jack go past the chairs toward his own house.

Jack had been uncomfortable during dinner, but Bitty didn’t want him to leave yet. It went against the grain of everything he’d ever been taught to let a guest go away unsatisfied. Maybe it was a little awkward, with Shitty’s crush on Larissa, but Bitty didn’t think Shitty had gone too far overboard, at least for him. And Bitty was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything to offend Jack, even if he’d been caught looking once or twice too often.

“Jack, wait,” Bitty said, “We haven’t even had pie yet. I’ll tell Shitty to leave Larissa alone.”

Jack turned and looked down at him, like he was trying to figure out what Bitty meant.

“She’s fine,” Jack said. “She’s having fun, and she can take care of herself. Let her stay and have a good time.”

“You’re sure?” Bitty asked. He didn’t want to be the cause of any trouble between Jack and Larissa, and even if Shitty was being Shitty, Bitty had invited them over. “Because I can tell Shitty he’s paying too much attention to your …”

“My what?” Jack said. “Larissa’s not my possession. She’s my friend.”

Right. His friend that he lived with for the whole off-season, toted loads of scrap metal for, looked at so fondly …

“If that’s what you’re calling it now,” Bitty said.

Jack’s frown deepened, and a furrow appeared between his eyebrows.

“No, really,” Jack said. “Larissa and I are friends. And even if she was my girlfriend or whatever, that wouldn’t give me the right to decide who she talked to and what she did. Or to act like what she did wasn’t important.”

Well, Bitty supposed, it was nice to know Jack intended to treat any future girlfriends like human beings. He wasn’t sure why it was his business. Unless … Jack seemed annoyed with Shitty for something. Maybe it was just that Shitty was a little too bombastic and loud for Jack’s taste. Or did he think not think Shitty was treating someone right? But Shitty didn’t have a girlfriend, hadn’t even hooked up recently as far as Bitty knew. Did he think Shitty wasn’t, what, showing enough deference to Bitty?

“What do you mean by that?” Bitty said.

Jack’s eyes shifted to the side, like he was plotting an escape. But he swallowed and said, “I don’t like how Shitty treats you. He’s all possessive one minute and dismissive the next, when all you do is take care of him and everyone else. You deserve better, and you should know that.”

Bitty threw his head back and laughed. He tried to catch his breath and wiped his eyes, and then he laughed again.

Finally, he said, “You think we’re dating? Good Lord, whatever gave you that idea? He’s not at all my type, and I’m surely not his, given that I’m, y’know, male. Shitty’s about as straight as a piece of uncooked spaghetti.”

“But you’re gay,” Jack said.

“I am,” Bitty said. “Doesn’t mean Shitty is. I guess I thought you got the memo that gay guys and straight guys can be friends. Since you’re here at our barbecue and all.”

“But he’s all over you all the time,” Jack said.

“He’s all over everybody all the time,” Bitty said. “Look.”

Jack looked over his shoulder to see Shitty reclined against Holster’s legs while Ransom tried to light a fire in the fire pit. Larissa was standing over him, clearly thinking how much better she could do, but enjoying the spectacle.

“That’s just Shitty,” Bitty said. “He really is straight, although he had enough queer friends at Samwell that I think maybe sometimes he felt a little left out. Anyway, sometime before I got there he decided to mount a one-man revolution against the social norms that say men can’t be affectionate with each other. Against wearing clothes, too, but Harvard has helped with that.”

Jack snorted.

“Thank God for small blessings,” he said.

Bitty nodded solemnly.

“Anyway, if you think he’s being too overbearing with Larissa, I really can say something. Sometimes he forgets social boundaries.”

“Only if you want her to bite your head off,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t try it. If she doesn’t like it, she’ll say so. I learned that lesson the hard way once.”

“So you were just upset because you thought my boyfriend wasn’t being nice enough to me?” Bitty said. “He’s my best friend, and it’s fine. What he said at dinner is true -- I do know he loves and appreciates me. Sometimes he just forgets to show it the way you might expect. It might not look like it to you, but he’s under a lot of pressure.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Jack said.

“Jack, I said it’s fine,” Bitty said. “Please show me the same courtesy you show Larissa and let me decide if it’s a problem, and if it is, let me decide how to handle it. I get so tired of people thinking I need some knight riding in to defend me or save me. It’s not like I’m weak just because I’m small.”

Bitty paused, but Jack didn’t say anything, so he continued.

“And I’m not really that small. It just looks that way when I’m with all you humongous hockey players. It’s just, I know when someone is being disrespectful or dismissive. That’s not Shitty. Sometimes he’s a bit oblivious, yes, and sometimes he likes to push just to get a reaction from people, but his heart is softer than ice cream in August, and he would never hurt me on purpose. He was the very first person I ever said the words ‘I’m gay’ to, and the way he reacted made it seem like it was okay. As far as I’m concerned, he’s family. And you would have known there wasn’t a problem if you had only asked me.”

Jack stood as the torrent of words washed over him. Bittle stopped himself from apologizing at the end. Maybe he had been a little more vehement than he needed to be, but he wasn’t in the wrong here.

Jack looked down at his hands, and then back at Bitty.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. It just seemed like, if Shitty and you were together, he was taking you for granted, and it rubbed me the wrong way.”

Jack paused like he wanted to say something, then stopped, then started again.

“Maybe it’s from hockey,” he said. “You know how it is -- you stand up for your teammates. And it doesn’t mean they’re small or weak or incapable of defending themselves. And they do it for you, too.”

“But Jack, it’s not like Shitty checked me into the boards or anything,” Bitty said. “He just failed to appreciate my cooking enough to meet your standard. But your standard really doesn’t count between me and Shitty."

“I know,” Jack said. “I overstepped, and I am sorry.”

“Well,” Bitty said. “I guess I can forgive you. You know, for caring too much.”

“Haha,” Jack said. “So, at the risk crossing more lines, are you dating anyone?”

He was looking at Holster when he said it.

“Me and Holster? No. Just no,” Bitty said. Why would Jack want to know that? Could he -- Was it possible that he was interested in Bitty? Bitty told himself he was jumping to conclusions again. Friends asked other friends about significant others, didn’t they?

But now that the idea that maybe Jack wasn’t as straight as Bitty assumed had been planted, it took root and refused to be brushed aside.

When Jack smiled at Bitty’s response, and Bitty giggled and put his hand on Jack’s arm, Jack didn’t pull away.

“Come on back?” Bitty said. “It’ll be getting dark soon, and I’d bet there’s some fireworks in Holster’s bag. You really don’t have to defend my honor from Shitty. If he gets too bothersome, I can always cut off his supply of baked goods. And don’t think I let him forget it.”

Jack followed Bitty back past the fire pit and into the kitchen.

“Need help with the pies?” he asked.

“You really don’t have to do that,” Bitty said. “There’s not that much.”

Jack look pointedly at the three pies -- blueberry, apple and strawberry -- as well as the stack of plates and utensils that sat on the counter next to them.

“Fine,” Bitty huffed, but smiled. “Grab those two? I was just going to set them on the table outside and let people serve themselves.”

“Really?” Jack said, his tone and face serious. “Are you sure there’s enough to let them do that? I mean, there’s six of us, and only three pies.”

“Chirp, chirp, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty said. “I can cut you off too.”

Bitty watched Jack serve himself slivers of all three pies before encouraging everyone else to help themselves. Once they were done, he cut himself a wedge of the blueberry and took the last chair around the fire, next to Jack.

“So Shitty,” Bitty said. “Jack tells me that we were completely off-base. He and Larissa are not and never have been dating.”

Shitty, who had moved so he was next to Larissa, turned to look at her.

“Is that so, Lardo? Do I owe you an apology for thinking you might be?”

Larissa snorted. “Jack’s a good guy,” she said. “But way too moody for me. I’m a free agent.”

Shitty inched his chair closer to Larissa’s.

“Hey, Larissa,” Jack said. “Did you know Shitty’s not dating Bittle?”

That made Shitty spit out his beer.

“You thought me and Bitty?” he said. “I mean, I’d be honored, if that was something that I could do. But the door just doesn’t swing that way for me.”

Ransom and Holster were watching, wide-eyed.

“You really thought Bits and Shitty were dating?” Ransom said.

“I mean, bro, he can do so much better than that,” Holster said.

Bitty giggled. “You’d better be talking about me,” he said.

“Of course,” Ransom said. “No one ever had to persuade you that it was good idea to wear clothes in the kitchen. Or to have a sense of style.”

“I resent that,” Shitty said. “I have style. Or I had style, when I had the flow. Besides, you’ll give Lardo and Jack here the wrong idea.”

“What, that you’re loud, can be abrasive in pursuit of social justice and like to flout convention wherever possible?” Jack said, grinning just a bit.

“Fine,” Shitty mock grumbled. “And an extra point for using flout correctly.”

When the rest of the group was distracted by Ransom and Holster pulling out a meager collection of fireworks, Jack scooted his chair a little closer to where Bitty sat, wrapping his unzipped hoodie around his knees.

“So, Bittle,” he said, his voice low. “You said Shitty’s not your type, or Holster. What is your type?”

Bitty looked at Jack, the firelight dancing across his cheekbones, and he wanted to borrow a move from a romance novel and say, “You,” and leap into his arms.

The truth was, he was a little disappointed in himself. If Jack wasn’t straight after all -- and that seemed to be the case, with his adorably awkward flirting -- Bitty had a chance with him. Well, maybe more than a chance, given the way the Jack was looking at him. But until a few minutes ago, Bitty had never seriously considered the possibility.

“My type --” is tall, muscular, hockey-playing, history-loving dorks, who are generous to their friends even if social interaction is sometimes a bit of a mystery to them, is what he wanted to say. He wanted to see how Jack would react.

Bitty didn’t get a chance to find out, because Shitty was suddenly right there, lying on the ground between them.

“So, Jack, trying to get to know Bits here?” he said. “Because he’s a fucking prince among men. He’s more than his cooking, y’know?”

“I know that,” Jack said. “Bittle’s a great guy. I’m really glad you guys brought that pie over and introduced yourselves.”

“It’s nice of you to give him rides to work, too,” Shitty said. “You think you can keep that up all summer? Because it would be cruel to create expectations you can’t meet.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” Jack said, using what must have been his face-off glare.

“Shitty, cut it out,” Bitty said. “Jack driving me to work is none of your business.”

“It’s not just rides to work,” Shitty started, but Bitty cut him off.

“That’s enough, Shitty,” Bitty said. “I can handle my own life.”

“Fine, brah,” Shitty said. “I believe you. Just be careful.”

Shitty could be overprotective. But so could Jack. Really, they were more alike than either of them would probably admit.

Lardo flipped an empty cup at Shitty’s head. “Listen to Bits, dude,” she said. “If he needs help, I’m sure he’ll ask.”

“Fine, I know when I’m not wanted,” Shitty harrumphed and went back to his chair on the other side of the fire.

Bitty turned to Jack again.

“Sorry about him,” Bitty said. “My type is … basically you.”

Jack reached out and took his hand, and Bitty almost missed what Jack said next, he was so distracted by the size of Jack’s hand, the calluses on his palm, the warmth that enveloped Bitty’s hand.

When he caught up, Jack was saying, “I’m just going to say it: I have the worst crush on you. You’re smart and funny and kind and you do kind of take care of everyone, and you’re gorgeous too.”

Bitty took a breath and tried to commit this moment to memory before he responded.

“That’s good,” he finally said. “Because I have the worst crush on you too.”

Jack let out a breath and grinned, a new smile that Bitty hadn’t seen before.

“What do you say we leave the cleanup to Shitty and get out of here?”

Bitty hoped the firelight covered his blush and he said, “Give it a minute. Rans has the bottle rockets set up.”

As soon as Ransom had the first fuse lit, Bitty and Jack pushed their chairs back into the shadows and got up. With everyone else’s attention on trying to make sure nothing caught fire or exploded, Bitty reached for Jack’s hand and they ran into the darkness.

One they reached the corner of the house, Jack tugged on Bitty’s hand to stop him. He pulled Bitty close and cupped his face before he said, “Bitty? Can I kiss you now?”

Bitty responded by pushing onto his tiptoes and bringing his lips to Jack’s, seeing the colors of the bottle rocket wash across Jack’s face.

“Anytime, Mr. Zimmermann,” “Bitty said. “Any time at all.”