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According to historians, giving and receiving soul marks goes as far back as early humans, as evidenced by cave-drawings featuring multicolored human figures. This has shaped the way that people communicate, personal interactions, and social norms.
In the professional opinion of sociologists and psychologists, when skin-to-skin contact reveals the depth of feeling between two people and the potential that exists between them, people will generally react in one of two ways.
Some will wear their hearts openly, colors patterning their skin like an open book, detailing the connections they share with others for the world to see. There’s a certain kind of bravery required to bare your soul that openly, and some stubbornness too. Open honesty like that can be refreshing, but it can also be intimidating, and it’s been known to lead people into trouble.
Others run in the opposite direction: they’ll close themselves off, let only very few people leave a mark on their skin and, by extension, their lives. This, too, requires stubbornness as well as a measure of strength and reserve. The connections these people foster are few but deep, and the colors they leave behind on others, as well as the ones left on them, are vibrant and long-lasting.
There are many factors that will push people in either direction; local culture, philosophy, religious background, and sartorial preference are just a few. However, as with all things, very few people fall completely into either end of this spectrum. It’s difficult to navigate a world so flush with color, and people will do the best they can to fit into it, even when it’s overwhelming.
You’d think it would be easy to figure out where on this spectrum Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle fall.
You might be surprised.
---
Hockey is a contact sport.
In other news, water is wet.
Jack Zimmermann has never wanted for contact in his life. From the moment he could toddle onto the ice and not immediately land on his butt, he’s skated into people. First by accident, then, when he got bigger, on purpose. More than that, he’s never wanted for the other kind of contact either. For all that both his parents were only children, their extended hockey family has always been large. Combine that with the networks of peewee teams, families from their temple, teammates from the minor leagues, billet families, and more, Jack’s skin has been more colors than he could possibly count, an entire spectrum contained within his edges.
It’s easier to be more than just himself. It’s easy to sink into their expectations and let them carry him, with the help of hard work and natural talent. Easier to focus on everyone else when Kent acts distant, albeit perfectly friendly, towards him in public and will only pull him close when they’re alone. His grey handprints are easy to hide among sweeps of other colors.
(When they’re particularly bold or incriminating, he just wears long sleeves. Some of the benefits of living in Canada.)
He’s not quite so open with giving his own marks, but more so than people might expect for such a quiet guy. He’s always been able to communicate better with touch than words; unlike words, touches are straightforward and won’t get stuck in the back of his throat or come out all wrong.
That’s probably why he and Kent get along so well, they understand each other so well after all this time that they don’t need words at all. They get by with pointed glances and touches that speak volumes, and it’s pretty much all Jack needs.
It had been a shock to both him and Kent when they realized their first marks weren’t permanent. Jack had hoped that he’d found his soulmate, how was he supposed to find someone more perfect for him than Kent? Books and movies and pretty much everyone say that you’re supposed to find your soulmate so you can love each other forever, and they don’t really talk about the people who don’t. Everything Jack does is so he can be the best he can be, so why can’t he be the best for Kent?
That’s why getting shrugged off hurts the most. As the draft approaches, it starts happening more and more, and he starts seeing Kent less and less. In the weeks leading up to it, Jack spends his days with his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, desperately trying and failing to find the words to make it better. Is hockey worth this, losing the best connection he’s ever had? He and Kenny aren’t soulmates, fine, but that’s not the only kind of love that’s out there, and he knows they could be something great. The question sends his thoughts spiraling and his hands trembling, and he reaches for the only thing that will make them stop.
----
It’s a shock when he wakes up in the hospital after the overdose. The stress his body went through, as well as the coma they tell him he dipped into, caused all of the colors to leech out of his skin. As per regulations, none of the doctors or nurses who have been treating him touched him without gloves. He looks down at the clean slate of his skin with a choking ball of feelings rising in the back of his throat, half horror and half fascination.
He’s almost glad, then, that he hasn’t found his soulmate yet. He doesn’t know what he would do if he woke up to find that their mark had been erased too.
His father cries when he sees how pale Jack is. Maman hugs him a little too tightly and he lets her, grateful for the splashes of color she leaves behind. He’s even more grateful for Bob taking his face in his hands and kissing his forehead.
He doesn’t speak for three days, not until after he watches Parse get picked first in the draft.
----
He spends a few months in rehab and intensive therapy, then more time training and emailing back and forth with the coaches of Samwell University’s hockey team. There’s something comforting about the possibility of going to his mother’s alma mater that helps lift the suffocating weight that’s seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his chest.
He's anxious going into the first practice alone but he arrives a few minutes early so he can get the lay of the land and inspect his new home rink, which helps. Stepping onto the clean ice feels like a breath of fresh air. He takes a few minutes to skate lazy figure eights, just breathing and trying to get more comfortable. Since he’s alone, he feels comfortable speeding up to sprint across the ice before skidding to a stop with a spray of ice.
“I’ve seen some beautiful things in my life but goddamn.”
Jack whirls around to see someone else in the rink, leaning up against the boards and watching Jack skate. He’s got an impressive mustache and an equally impressive flow, but what makes Jack relax is the honest smile he’s wearing.
“Euh. Thank you?”
“Nah, believe me bro, it’s my pleasure.” He skates over and holds out his knuckles for a fist bump that Jack returns, gloves on. “Shitty B. Knight. That was some absolutely gnarly shit.”
“If you say so.” Jack shuffles a little on his skates. “So, you’re on the team too?”
“Yeah, man. You know it.” Shitty (that cannot be his real name) claps him on the shoulder. “I’ve got your back.” Jack actually manages to return his smile before the rest of the team arrives at the rink.
Their first practice is hard, but in a way that leaves Jack with his muscles aching in the best possible way and a smile on his face. The team is good, or has the potential to be good anyway, and everyone’s a little more relaxed than in the minors. It feels like a little more of the weight on his chest is lifted, and by the end of practice he’s got a couple new marks from taking his gloves off and exchanging handshakes, fist bumps, and high-fives with some of the guys, including a vibrantly magenta one from Shitty.
It feels good to be more colorful again, to be able to look down and see splashes of pigment on his skin. He gets another very strange looking mark when Shitty hooks an arm around his neck to pull him in for a noogie after practice, then drags him to lunch.
It’s not – he’s not trying to replace Kent. He couldn’t replace Kenny, even if he wanted to. But his therapist has helped him realize that there will be other meaningful connections for him to find, if he just tries to look. So, he’s looking, he’s trying.
Shitty, despite being a hockey player and following the NHL avidly, doesn’t seem to give a single shit that he’s Jack Zimmermann™. Shitty asks him which Muppet is his favorite and if his ass is a result of genetics or hockey or both. Things that clearly matter to him, but not the same things everyone else wants to know. Jack’s heard enough people dance around those questions to know the difference between when someone wants to ask and when they don’t. Shitty doesn’t, and it’s incredibly refreshing.
He gets to laugh and talk and spend time at the Haus, just like any other student who happens to play hockey. He focuses on playing better, ever better, and on doing well in his classes. He collects more marks: magenta ones from Shitty, and soft lavender from Camilla from his Modern World Civilizations class. He doles out his own, too, in deep navy.
And so, his first year passes.
---
Sophomore year brings dibs in the Haus, probably because of his name but Jack’s certainly not going to argue. He gets to live with Shitty and his other teammates and it’s like being home or back in his favorite billet family’s house, but better. His skin is multicolored all the time now, the easy warmth and casual touches of the team more welcome than they’ve ever been.
They start practicing with their new recruits, including two huge defensemen Coach Murray has paired up together. Oluransi and Birkholtz meet for the first time on the ice, and greet each other with a gloveless fist-bump and murmured “hey”s. Everyone gets in place to start drilling, only to realize that the two are frozen in place, staring at their hands.
The front of Oluransi’s fist is painted in sky blue, the pigment so strong it can only be a soulmate mark. Birkholtz’s mark is matching but is a shimmering spring green. They both look a little dumbfounded.
“Bro.” Birkholtz stares at his hand and then back at Oluransi. “What?”
“Bro.” Oluransi grins a little and stares back. “Wild.”
“Alright!” Murray skates over and claps them both on the shoulder. “Do you boys need to be excused?”
They both shake their heads, Birkholtz looking a little panicked.
“Good. Play on.”
The rest of practice goes fairly smoothly. Everyone gives Birkholtz and Oluransi a wide berth for approximately ten minutes before they’re all checking and joking as usual. It’s surprisingly comfortable.
The whole team goes for lunch after, jostling each other for seats and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jack watches everyone, a little quiet in such a large crowd, but happy all the same. Ransom and Holster (as Johnson had declared them at the end of practice, and no one tends to argue with Johnson about stuff like that) sit next to each other and as Jack watches, Holster throws an arm around Ransom’s shoulders and laughs at something Shitty is saying.
Jack’s pretty sure he’s the only one who catches the look Ransom gives Holster, a brief flash of want before he laughs, too. He’s sure he’s the only one who makes eye contact with Ransom and sees that flash again while Holster is calling them “bromates” and “platonic besties”. Ransom gives him a small, sad smile before poking Holster in the ribs and laughing along with him.
Some soulmates aren’t meant to be romantic, no matter what the stories all say. Jack’s not sure what to do, or say, to help, but they’re soulmates, they’ll figure it out. Hopefully it’ll make them both happy. Jack turns back to his food and pushes down his jealousy.
---
Sophomore year they also get a new team manager, introduced to them as Larissa. She sets them all straight on a number of things pretty quickly.
“You can call me Lardo.” She somehow manages to be intimidating at five foot two inches and radiates a very strong vibe of ‘don’t fuck with me’, glaring at them from the penalty box in lieu of Hall and Murray. “This isn’t my first rodeo. Now give me twenty-five sets of sprints.”
Shitty falls in love instantly.
“Dude. She’s amazing,” he pants at Jack when they collapse against the boards, “She looks like she could break me in two. Do you think she plays flip cup?”
Jack snorts. “She would destroy you.”
Shitty nods, resigned and content. “But what a way to go.” Jack laughs and shoves him back onto the ice.
They find out after their first win and subsequent kegster that Lardo does play flip cup. She crushes them all with absolutely no remorse, but a lot of good humor. When Shitty picks her up to spin her around in celebration, she laughs and leaves deep plum handprints on his naked shoulders. They’re not quite deep enough to be soul marks, but they’re close.
Lardo extends a hand for Shitty to mark in return, and they share a hearty forearm handshake which she examines and deems acceptable with a nod and a quiet “Dope.” After that, it’s rare to see either of them without magenta or plum marks, and more often than not they’re attached at the hip whenever they’re together.
---
“It’s really not that big of a deal.”
Jack jumps at the voice behind him, feeling guilty for no particular reason. Something about the flashing lights and the pounding bass of kegsters always puts him on edge, and voices coming from where he doesn’t expect them doesn’t exactly help with that. He turns and sees Ransom has come up behind him, standing behind his shoulder. “What’s not a big deal?”
Ransom jerks his chin towards an even darker corner of the room, where Holster and a pretty brunette have been getting closer as the night progresses. “You were glaring, had your stern face on. Just wanted to let you know you had nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, no. That’s – my face always looks like that.” Jack leaves the doorway he’d been hovering in and goes back into the kitchen.
Justin winces as he grabs another beer from the fridge. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean anything by it.”
“No, it’s fine. I know it can be confusing.” He frowns, thinking and looks back over his shoulder at the living room. “But, it’s not? A big deal, I mean. Which is great, if that works for you. I just know if it was me, well. It’s none of my business, actually.”
“Ahah. Yeah. It’s, well, it was weird, for a little while. But Adam’s straight, you know? He’s never gonna feel that way about me. Which is fine! I’d never want to make him uncomfortable or anything. He’s my best friend, and that’s more than enough.”
Jack nods along and makes encouraging noises at all the right places.
“Sorry for assuming you had something to say about it. People have been weird about it, they accuse us of cheating on each other, so usually it’s best to head it off at the start. I know my mom hasn’t been thrilled, I might have Shitty record one of his lectures to send to her. But I’m sorry if I was a little aggressive.”
“No, it’s fine.” Jack waves his concern away. “I’m glad you feel comfortable talking about this. I haven’t met too many platonics, but it’s not a big deal. You two have worked things out, right? So, it’s really none of my business. But if anyone’s bothering you, or if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
“Right.” Ransom smiles more easily, less tense than he had been coming into the kitchen. “Thanks, Jack.”
“Of course.” Jack reaches out and clasps Ransom’s shoulder, leaving behind a dark navy handprint. “Got your back.” He heads upstairs, partied out. The last thing he sees before his view is cut off is Ransom laughing, dancing, someone’s arms around his shoulders.
---
“Do you care?”
The question slips out in the quiet hours of the early morning, coming back from a weekend roadie. Jack’s in a set of seats by himself, looking over at Shitty and Lardo sharing a set across the aisle. Lardo is asleep, mouth open on Shitty’s shoulder, and Shitty has been watching her with an expression full of endless affection.
He looks up at Jack in surprise. “Care? About what?”
“That she’s not – that you’re not soulmates.” It’s an awkward question, but it’s been on Jack’s mind for weeks.
“Nah, dude.” Shitty frowns at him. “Lardo’s not less amazing because she’s not my soulmate. She’s a whole ass person, man, regardless of what she is to me, and I want her in my life. That’s not contingent on whether or not the universe decided she’s my other half.”
“How do you know? If you don’t have the mark to tell you, how do you know?”
Shitty shakes his head before the words are all the way out of Jack’s mouth. “You have to trust, Jacky boy. The universe didn’t necessarily know you and I were gonna be besties, but we figured that out anyway, didn’t we? This is the same; it’s work and it’s figuring who you are to each other without a step-by-step guide, but it’s worth it because I get to know her.”
Jack closes his mouth when he realizes it’s fallen open. He nods and watches as Shitty settles down in his seat, falling asleep cuddled around Lardo. He leans his head back against the cold glass of the window and closes his eyes.
----
Sophomore year finds Jack more colorful than he can ever remember being. The neutrality of freshman year has blossomed into quiet happiness somewhere during his second year. He hasn’t found his soulmate, but he’s full of color nonetheless. Most of his color comes from the team, but he’s made and kept friends in his classes, and though their marks might be infrequent, they’re still there.
They give him something to hold on to, particularly when his anxiety spikes or after a bad loss. They are a tangible, physical reminder that there are people who care about him, who don’t hate him, and who will help him be better.
Shitty in particular is very cuddly after a loss, and he’s very good at making sure Jack doesn’t retreat too far into his head. He’ll quietly situate himself in Jack’s space, on the bus or back at the Haus, and he sticks around. If Jack wants to talk, that’s fine, but more often Shitty will ramble as a way to take both their minds off the loss, or they’ll sit in silence that shifts from tense to companionable.
----
It’s not without its challenges. His overdose was big news in the hockey world, but it hadn’t gone very far in the mainstream media, and the exact circumstances surrounding it aren’t exactly common knowledge. But people talk, and facts get misconstrued, and he ends up cornered at one of the few Haus parties he let Shitty drag him to by some kid who wants to know if he’s still doing coke and whether or not he was fucking Kent Parson.
It’s enough of a surprise that he freezes, mind going blank with panic. He stands, warm ginger ale in a solo cup, and genuinely can’t move a muscle.
But Shitty, bless him, comes crashing through, somehow manages to elbow the guy in the face and also spill a beer on him, and drags Jack along to partner with him at beer pong. Jack protests halfheartedly on the way over, but Shitty says he’ll drink for the both of them and smushes Jack’s face with his hands before proceeding to absolutely crush some guys from the soccer team with no help at all from Jack.
He watches out of the corner of his eye as the kid is strongly encouraged to leave the party by Johnson and a couple other seniors. Johnson comes over and claps Jack on the shoulder, apologizes for the kid and says something about it being necessary to round out his character experiences, and wanders off. Jack’s never really sure what’s going on with Johnson.
Lardo absolutely wrecks them at pong after the soccer guys sulk off, and Jack is completely okay with that.
---
Jack’s pretty sure his parents send Shitty regular gift baskets to thank him for being there for Jack so much, which is embarrassing but not unexpected. He just enjoys the chocolate that Shitty shares with him and pretends he doesn’t know where it comes from.
---
The thing about soulmate marks is that they’re everywhere.
Not just in the physical sense, although that’s true as well. It’s hard to hide the physical representation of your other half, and most tend to be in public places, where people are more likely to be touched by strangers. A lot of people have them on their hands, like Ransom and Holster, or otherwise on elbows, shoulders, and other very neutral parts of their bodies.
Jack’s parents are a special case. Alicia and Bob met when they were at an award show after party, and Alicia slipped in something while walking near Bob and some of his friends. Bob saved her from a nasty spill with an arm around her waist, and thanks to her cropped sweater and high waisted trousers (very fashionable for the time, thank you very much) Bob left a long, crimson soul mark along her waist.
Alicia blinked at it while Bob stuttered out an apology, incredibly shy and gentle for such a large man. She rubbed at the mark as though it might come off on her fingers and then looked back up at Bob. She smiled up at him in the middle of his apologies and put a palm to his cheek, silencing him. She left a large, icy blue mark that almost matched her eyes, and looked remarkably smug about it. Bob blushed violently and smiled at her in return, and they never looked back.
The thing about soulmate marks is that romantic ones are actually rarer than the media would have you believe. Especially ones that manifest as a soul-bond immediately, rather than ones that deepen over time. The stats say that roughly two in three married couples are soul-bound, and of those only half were immediately known.
Shitty has lectured the entire team on the marginalization of both platonic soul bonds and non-soul bonded romantic and sexual relationships on multiple occasions, and for good reason. Even though both types of relationships have similar divorce rates, the soul bond is held to the highest standard and it’s seen as the ideal relationship by the media and most of the world. Younger generations are increasingly liberal in their acceptance of alternative relationships, but soul bonds are still prioritized in many cultures.
The fact that Jack desperately wants to find his soul mate is one of his most closely guarded secrets.
With everything that happened while he and Kent were – together, and just from knowing people in alternate relationships, obviously he’s not going to discount finding someone that he loves some other way. But he’s still desperate to know the person who’s supposed to be perfect for him.
He’s decided it doesn’t really matter what kind of person they are. He would rather they just be kind, and really, truly love him, because he wants to love someone back just as hard.
And if they liked hockey, that would just be a bonus.
---
“Hey y’all!!”
Jack…isn’t really sure what to make of Eric Bittle.
He’s small, and he’s fast, and yes, he’s kind of cute, not that that’s a priority. He’s good at hockey but he’s also…not good at hockey? Or at least, he can’t take a hit.
He’s chipper and he shows up to practice with pie and he’s apparently a nervous talker. And he seems to be nervous a lot.
He’s also completely blank.
“Dude, are you – do you not live around other human beings?” Shitty’s voice is laced with concern, and it does make Jack feel better to not be the only one unsettled by Bittle’s appearance.
Bittle kind of laughs, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Don’t you worry, I’m normal people, just like you. We’re just not nearly as touchy-feely where I’m from as you all up north seem to be. Maybe it’s because it’s so dang hot and humid in Georgia, who knows. Who wants pie?” This actually works as a very effective distraction technique.
To be fair, Bittle isn’t completely blank: for the first week he’s got a chocolate colored streak on his cheek (which, now that Jack is thinking about it, might just be from the chocolate pecan pie), like someone was wiping away lipstick. After that fades, there’ll be no color on him at all.
Jack frowns and shakes his head at the slice of pie he’s offered. Holster just shrugs and eats it along with his own.
---
Bittle doesn’t seem to want to touch anyone, ever, and he wants to be touched even less. He’s more tolerant when they’ve got gloves on during practice, but in general, not at all.
Not at team breakfast, not after practice, not even when they’re just hanging out in the Haus. Bittle projects a very strong bubble of personal space, rivaled only by Lardo’s, though he covers it well with a mixture of southern charm and careful deflection. But he still freezes up if anyone comes within a foot of him, and he shies away if someone even gestures in his direction.
Be that as it may, Bittle’s personal space bubble doesn’t last long, and it doesn’t end well. Hockey is a contact sport with no respect for boundaries and unfortunately, southern charm can’t do a damn thing about it.
There’s not much Bittle can do from where he’s curled up on center ice after receiving a relatively gentle check from one of the other frogs, for all that Ransom makes a case to the coaches about turning it into a play.
And it’s infuriating because Bittle is fast and he’s got good puck handling skills, and he could be a really, really good player but he won’t let anyone help.
Jack’s worried, and yes, frustrated, and he feels like all the things he wants to express are bottled up inside him with no way to let them out. He tries, but they get all tangled up in his frustration and it comes out all wrong. Which he knows is not even remotely like an adequate apology, but it is an explanation.
---
“This isn’t a joke. Either get with the program or quit.”
---
Shitty finds him out on the loading dock after a particularly brutal practice. He’s fiddling with his phone, trying to figure out how to text his dad to ask for advice on how to fix the whole situation, when Shitty plops down next to him with a surprising amount of grace.
“Jack, you know you’re my main bro –“
Jack sighs, “I know, you don’t have to say it.”
“No, dude, it has to be said. You need to go easier on Bitty.”
“Go easier on him? Shitty, he’s collapsing on the ice, we don’t have time to go easier on him. It’s not safe, he’s going to seriously hurt himself or others, and right now he’s an injury waiting to happen and worse than useless as a player.”
“Jack. Seriously uncool.”
“It’s true!” Jack pushes his hair away from his face and sighs again. “But it’s not – I think he could be an asset to the team, I really do. But he needs to get over this touch aversion because it’s affecting his game, and it hasn’t been good off the ice either.”
Shitty looks away and frowns. “I know. Little dude completely ducked out of our celly last week and I don’t think I’ve been able to catch him in a hug since he got here. It’s weird, man, human beings require like two hours of touch per week to stay sane, I don’t know how Bits does it.”
Jack shakes his head, “It’s not sustainable. He needs help, whatever he’s getting now isn’t enough.”
Shitty claps him on the shoulder and stands. “Sounds like a job for his captain. You’ve just gotta communicate with him, Jack. Let him know you care and that you’re here to help.”
He accepts Shitty’s offer of a hand pulling him to stand. “Communicate? Shitty, I don’t think we even speak the same language.”
Shitty’s got an arm around his shoulders and a tone that allows no argument. “Good think you’re multilingual, bro. Time to put in some goddamn effort.”
---
For all that he griped to Shitty about it, Jack actually comes up with a pretty good idea for how he’s going to try and help Bittle. He just has to get Bittle to agree. He accomplishes that pretty easily, when they’re just talking in theory. When reality looks more like Jack dragging Bittle out of bed at 4:30 in the morning so they can go to the rink, Bittle complains the whole way out of the Haus.
He looks even more dubious when he steps out onto the ice and Jack isn’t in pads, just a long-sleeved shirt and gloves.
“I figured – it might go better if we started small.” He nods at Bittle and just starts skating, big long loops around the rink. Bittle follows him after a moment, quickly catching up and they spend a few minutes skating together, a couple feet apart. Slowly, Jack reaches out and puts a hand on Bittle’s shoulder as they skate, and Bittle looks at him in confusion, almost hiding the instinctual flinch. Jack sighs and comes to a stop.
“Bittle. I’m not – I don’t know if you do things differently where you’re from, or if this is something else entirely. But I want – I need to help you. Because you’re a good player, and I want you on my team, and the only way that is going to happen is if we work on you not letting anyone touch you.”
Bittle nods, and something makes him seem smaller in the quiet early morning light of Faber; his gear and the quiet desperation in Jack’s voice make him curl in on himself, but he pushes through. They skate with Jack’s hand on Bittle’s shoulder for a while, Jack edging closer at the end of every lap until they’re shoulder to shoulder. Jack can feel Bittle shaking where their arms press together, but he grits his teeth and presses even closer.
Their laps aren’t perfect ovals now, Jack pushing the two of them closer to the boards until Bittle’s other shoulder hits the glass. He collapses to the ice in a heap, shaking even more violently now, and Jack crouches next to him, close but carefully not touching.
“Stop, stop, I need a minute, please.” For all that his voice is shaking, Bittle sounds fiercer than Jack has ever heard him.
“That’s fine, take your time.” Jack settles with his back against the boards, feeling the chill of the ice through his joggers. “Though, there’s a youth hockey tournament here today, so we do need to be out by seven.”
Bittle chokes out something that might be a laugh and pushes himself up into a seated position. “Was that – did you just make a joke?”
“Me? Never.” He schools his features into his bland media face and it only makes Bittle laugh harder.
“Of course not, Mr. Zimmermann, I don’t know why I even asked.”
“Well, you’ll know better for next time.” Jack gets up and extends a hand. “Come on. We’re going to go again.”
Bittle frowns, but something like determination has settled in his features, and he accepts the help to get back up to his feet. “I don’t suppose I can ask you to go easy on me?”
Jack stares. “Bittle, that was me going easy on you.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
---
They continue practicing, and Bittle does get better. It’s still not great, he’s definitely still skittish and stunned after taking hits, but he can take them and keep skating now and that’s a major improvement.
He’s also started gaining a little color, mostly from Shitty, Lardo, Rans, and Holster, who have taken him under their collective wing. They still chirp him for how blank he is, but it’s good natured and makes Bittle smile.
Bittle finally sheds some light on the subject when the team is back at the Haus after break, after the apparent disaster that was Bittle’s Winter Screw. Ransom and Holster are dogpiled on the couch with Shitty sprawled on the floor and Bittle holding court from the armchair. They were watching a movie, but it devolved into gossip some time ago, which was about the time Jack moved his studying to the kitchen table.
“Bits, I know you have delicate Southern sensibilities, but our sources say that you would barely let this guy hold your hand! Our epic matchmaking skillz can’t have failed you that badly.” Holster curses and there’s a loud thump from what Jack would guess is him falling or being shoved off the couch.
“Your matchmaking ‘skillz’,” Bittle says the word with such derision that Jack snorts into his textbook, “ended with vomit on my best dress shoes, so I’ll thank you to not try that again, mister Adam Birkholtz.”
Ransom points a finger at Bittle, “But did you or did you not hold this boy’s hand? Because the terms of the matchmaking contract clearly state that we, as the matchmakers, have executive deets privileges. And we are being denied those privileges in a flagrant breach of contract. Shitty is minutes away from calling the ACLU.”
“Yes, I’m sure the American Civil Liberties Union will support your invasive questioning about my date. That’s a great idea, honey, you go ahead and call them and let me know how that goes.”
“Biiiiiiits,” Shitty whines, drawing out the name into a four-syllable word, “Tell us about the booooooy.”
Bittle sighs and gracefully stands from the arm chair, crossing through the doorway and meeting Jack’s gaze with an overdramatic eyeroll that has Jack snorting into his textbook again. “Yes, I held his hand, but I’ll ask you to remember the vomiting, which I do believe outmatches his talent at hand-holding.
“And in regard to my ‘delicate Southern sensibilities’,” he continues, tying on his apron and pulling some pie dough out of the fridge, “Just ‘cause we don’t go around markin’ everyone we meet on the street doesn’t mean we don’t have relationships. We’re just a bit more discreet, is all.”
Jack keeps very still because this is an unprecedented amount of personal information to get out of Bittle and that probably means it’s something significant. He’s itching to know more but he also doesn’t want to do anything to make Bittle retreat again.
“So, do you just walk around with gloves on all the time? Or does no one touch each other until marriage?”
Thank God for Holster’s utter disregard for personal boundaries.
Bittle hums and focuses on rolling out the pie crust, strong and steady. “A little of the first, a little of the second. If there’s any touchin’ happening, it’s usually in private and in places usually not shown in polite company.” He picks the crust up delicately and drapes it over the pie tin. “But I guess – I would say that y’all are a bit more demonstrative than we are, overall. There are a few people – not many in my town – who still believe in wearing gloves until marriage. The rest of us mostly keep our hands to ourselves.” He shrugs a little and pours in the filling that’s been bubbling on the stove. From where Jack is sitting, it looks like apple.
Shitty comes into the kitchen and stands behind Bittle, putting a light hand on his shoulder. It’s a testament to how hard Bittle has been working on overcoming his touch aversion that he doesn’t flinch at Shitty’s arrival and only goes still for a short moment before moving with the same grace as before. “Thanks for sharing, Bits. And if there’s anything that we can do to help make the transition easier, just let us know. We’ve got your back.”
“Well thank you, mister Knight, but what would really help is if you would stop stealing my pie crust, you heathen!”
Shitty laughs and dances out of the way, but Bitty’s swat catches him on the wrist before he can move out of range. And Jack stares, which he knows is rude, but he’s never seen Bittle leave a mark on someone before.
And he’s also never seen a soul color like that. The mark on Shitty’s wrist is shimmering gold, bright and shining like he’s never seen. Jack’s even more shocked at how calm Shitty is about the whole thing, when Eric’s never been one for casual touching. He just chuckles and goes back into the living room, and Jack has to force himself to look away. He feels a spark of envy and pushes it down deep, focusing back on his textbook rather than fixating on imagining that color pressed into his own skin.
---
Later, Jack will feel incredibly guilty that he doesn’t even see Bitty get hit. He’ll go back and run that five-minute span over and over in his mind and try and see where he could have stepped in and stopped it from happening. In the moment though, he’s focused on shooting the puck into the top right corner.
But once the puck leaves his stick, his gaze slides back behind the net and to where Bittle is suddenly airborne. His heart clenches because he can see the terror on Bitty’s face, can almost feel his own body hitting the ice instead. When Bitty’s helmet comes off and he lies motionless on the ice, the bottom of Jack’s stomach drops out, and he doesn’t really remember anything else from the rest of that game.
Bitty ends up being fine, just a minor concussion and no broken bones, but Jack still feels like a failure. The whole team forms a protective huddle around Bittle to get him back to the Haus after he’s checked out by the medics and trainers back on campus. He is eventually settled in an armchair in the living room after having violently refused to get near the green couch.
He stays there for the weekend, partly because the trainers wanted someone to watch over him while he sleeps that first night and partly because it seems like everyone is reluctant to let Bitty out of their sight. Holster and Ransom attempt to make Bittle a pie in a well-intentioned but, admittedly, still ill-advised gesture that ends with everyone evacuating the Haus while Jack tries to wrangle the fire extinguisher. Ransom and Holster don’t look even remotely apologetic from where they’re carrying Bitty out of the disaster zone on their shoulders. He’s somewhere halfway between laughing and horrified at the state of his kitchen and he scolds them the whole way out and for a good while after from the safety of the lawn.
It’s funny until Bitty starts shivering while they wait for the smoke to clear, and Jack slips his hoodie off so he can put it around Bitty’s shoulders. The team in its entirety clusters around him, making sure he’s okay, and Jack finds himself amazed again by how comfortable Bitty is around all of them. He’s still not overly touchy, but he’s not as closed off as he used to be and he accepts touches more naturally and more comfortably than he has before. By his own admission, Bitty is more colorful now than he’s been his entire life.
Jack watches as Shitty slings an arm around Eric’s neck and pulls him in close, as Eric physically pushes Ransom and Holster out of the kitchen, leaving colorful handprints and streaks on them all. Even as Bitty high fives Johnson, Jack can feel something inside him ache. It’s a yearning for something he’s not sure he’s ever been starved for in his life, and it sits uncomfortably beneath his ribs. Leaving for the summer feels like putting a Band-Aid over an open wound, but there’s nothing more he can do.
He thinks, he hopes, that it won’t have all been for naught when they come back in the new year for preseason, but there’s no way of knowing. So that summer, Jack goes to prospect camps and keeps pushing himself to be better, and promises that next time he won’t let his teammates down.
---
Stepping back into the Haus for the fall of his senior year feels like a very special type of coming home. Jack’s trying not to get too sentimental about it being his last fall in the Haus, but it’s hard when there’s so many people he loves under that one roof.
It helps to have checking practice with Bittle, it’s a great distraction and it gives him something else to focus on. Bitty’s completely different than the boy Jack met just over a year ago, more confident and comfortable on the ice, even after recovering from a concussion.
He’s chirping Jack even while they skate with their shoulders pressed together, mostly about Jack’s terrible texting skills and his lack of pop culture knowledge, both of which Bitty experienced first hand over the summer. Jack shoves him a little with his shoulder in retaliation and where there once might have been hesitation or a fall, Bitty now recovers quickly and laughs in Jack’s face. Bitty’s laughter does something strange to Jack’s stomach and he can only grin helplessly in response.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Bitty asks with a smirk. “Bring that big ass over here and really hit me, Zimmermann.”
And because he’s an idiot, Jack does. He doesn’t even really think about it, just skates up next to Bitty and shoulder checks him, surprising him so badly he jumps. This happens to coincide with an imperfection in the ice, and Bitty stumbles sharply. His arms flail as he fails to right himself on his skates, and Jack instinctually shoots an arm out to steady him.
Except instead of a casual steadying hand on his arm, he ends up grabbing the front of Bitty’s jersey and pulling him in close in an effort to stop him from face-planting on the ice. This brings them to a harsh stop, Jack’s hand knotted in Bitty’s jersey keeping them face to face. Jack looks down into Bitty’s shocked expression, his big brown eyes wide and surprised and closer than they’ve ever been before. They’re both breathing a little heavily and Jack thinks he catches Eric’s gaze flicker down to his mouth. If Jack just tilts his head and leans down a little –
Jack clears his throat and releases Bittle from his hold. Bitty blinks at him and smiles again, wicked and just a little forced. “I should’ve known better than to disrespect your ass, Jack.”
Jack snorts unattractively and starts skating backward. “Well, now you know better. Let’s do a few more laps, seems like you need a refresher on how not to trip over your own skates, eh?” He turns and sprints across the rink, the flimsy excuse justifying putting some distance between them.
Jack can hear Bitty grumbling and just skates on with a smile.
---
“I can’t believe you, Jack! You were plannin’ on missing the biggest Epikegster of your college career, Shitty would be ashamed.”
Jack smiles bashfully down at the drink in his hand, overwhelmed by how excited Eric is to see him. It’s not like he did much, he just came downstairs instead of staying up in his room or leaving the Haus entirely, and he says so.
He’s somewhat nervous which is probably what makes him keep talking about dragging the football team’s entire offensive line out of the house his freshman year. But Eric keeps looking up at him with those big brown eyes, and all he keeps thinking is that he wants to get closer, so what comes out of his mouth is: “We should take a selfie, or something, eh?”
Eric looks stunned for a second and then that same smile from the rink makes an appearance, both sunny and sly but not forced this time. He ducks his head before looking up at Jack through his lashes. “Jack, I didn’t think you knew what a selfie was.” But he takes out his phone anyway and leans closer.
“Yeah, haha.” Jack chuckles and leans down to get in the shot, chirping Bitty gently for fumbling while flipping the camera to face the front. He says Hush, Mr. Zimmermann and laughs again and then –
“I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t seeing it myself. Jack Zimmerman. At a party. Taking a selfie.”
Jack’s breath catches and his whole body reacts as the sense memory of his name in that voice ripples through him. “Kent.”
“Hey Zimms.” Jack turns and confirms that he’s not having a stroke, that Kent Parson is, in fact, standing in the living room of the Haus. He’s standing there with that smile and that goddamn eyebrow and Jack is about eighty percent sure he’s losing his fucking mind. “Didja miss me?”
---
“It’s nice.” Kent’s hard to read at the best of times, and being in Jack’s brightly lit room, away from the pounding music and flashing lights of the first floor of the Haus surprisingly doesn’t actually help all that much. “No, really. It’s very ‘Animal House.’”
“Don’t. Just – please, don’t.” Jack’s standing with his back against the door and his hands clenched into fists. The feeling of his short nails biting into his palms grounds him as he watches Kent poke around his room. He fights down the distinct sense of wrongness caused by the sight. “Parse, what do you want?”
“Just checking in, you know. I was in the area.” The look on Jack’s face must be pretty fucking skeptical because Kent just sighs. “Fine. I wasn’t in the area, but you haven’t been answering my calls.”
“Yeah, because there’s nothing to say –“
“I just want you to talk to me, Jack!” Kent comes to a stop right in front of Jack. He looks at Jack like he’s searching for something, and based on his expression, he doesn’t find it. “I just want to know what you’re thinking. And if you wanted – “
“I said no, Kent – “
“Just a conversation! Just have a conversation with our GM –“
“That’s not what I want anymore – “
Kent slides a hand around the back of Jack’s neck, but where it used to make Jack light up it now sends a chill down his spine. “Jack, c’mon. We could be us again. I – I miss you, okay? Is that what you want me to say? I miss you, and I want…“
Kent trails off and his gaze catches somewhere around Jack’s mouth. Instead of finishing the sentence, he leans forward to press their lips together. Jack closes his eyes and leans into it, into the security of Kent’s body in front of him and his hand on the back of Jack’s neck. Kent’s other hand lands on Jack’s bicep as he’s pulled in close, and Jack loses some time to some inelegant fumbling, so comfortable and familiar from their days in Juniors.
He pulls back, breathing heavy, and his gaze catches on the marks he’s been leaving on Kenny’s lean hips. The navy marks that stain his skin are paler than Jack has ever seen, and he knows in his bones that this isn’t what he wants.
“Kenny…I can’t do this.” He pushes back to put some space back between them, Kent’s grip on his neck squeezing once before dropping away entirely.
“Jack, come on.” Kent frowns at him, brushing a finger over Jack’s jawbone. His chin falls and he seems to get distracted by the marks Jack’s left on Kent’s sides, frowning even harder at the sight of them.
“No, I – “ Jack drops his arms and looks away, shutting his eyes tight. He’s already missing the warmth of another body pressed against his, but that feeling of wrongness hasn’t subsided and he just can’t. “You should go.”
“Oh, I should go?” Kent hasn’t looked away from him, but his gaze is ice cold now, sharp and glittering which never means good things. “Fine, I’ll go. But you should remember that I’m the one who vouched for you, I’m the one who’s always vouched for you; I came here to offer you a chance to get off this shitty team – “
“Get out.”
“To give you the chance to play in the big leagues, on your own terms, on a team that would appreciate you – “
“I didn’t ask you for any of this!”
“But I shouldn’t have bothered, I should have known you’d rather play make believe with your little team here, pretending that they give a shit about you, that anyone is going to care about you the way I do – “
“Fuck you –“ His hands are shaking and there’s tears pricking the backs of his eyelids and he’s never been this furious but it hurts to have Kent stand there and say these things he’s thought but never said out loud.
“Because they don’t, Jack!” Kent’s voice breaks on his name. “You want them to care about you, but they don’t and they never will, and you’re not going to find your fairytale true love because they don’t exist. All you have is me, and all I’ve got is you and –“
“You don’t have me, Kenny.” It’s quiet, no longer shouting and almost mumbled, but it makes Kent stop in his tracks, mouth hanging open. “I’m not a thing you can have, Parse. Not anymore.”
Kent blinks at him, and the walls go back up. “Sure, fine. Message received, Jack. Good luck with your mediocre college team, I’m sure that’ll make your dad real proud.”
He grabs the door handle and yanks it open, startling Bittle, who’s standing across the hall, fumbling with his key. Kent barely spares him a glance before he walks out, adjusting his snapback and running a hand over his face.
Jack watches him go and lets out a bone rattling sigh. He turns and doesn’t quite make eye contact with Bittle, but he can imagine what Bitty sees when he takes in Jack’s rumpled form. Tears that he hastily brushes away slipping down his face, swollen lips, mussed clothes, and damning marks on his neck and face and arm. He doesn’t think he can stomach seeing the pity on Bitty’s face, so he just turns and ignores his whispered “Jack,”, shutting and locking his door and crawling under his covers to wipe away more tears.
It takes a very long time for sleep to find him.
---
He spends a long time in the bathroom the next morning, first looking in the mirror at the dark grey marks Kent left on him, so much richer than the ones he left on Kent. Pigment imbalance, it’s called, when one person has significantly stronger or weaker feelings than the other, and the marks they trade reflect that. Jack isn’t sure if this makes things easier or harder.
He spends the rest of the time in the shower, scrubbing at the grey stains as if it could make them come off, or at least fade a little. But they don’t, they never do.
At least he’s going home for winter break soon, and no one will look at him funny if he wears long sleeves for a while.
---
There’s something very special about playing hockey outside on a frozen lake. It always feels like that’s how it’s meant to be played, and the bite in the air just makes it that much sweeter.
The whole team is in high spirits, gathered on the Pond for a game of shinny, roughhousing a bit before they start anything serious. Jack is leaning against a tree, taping his stick when Bitty sidles toward him, faux casually.
“Hey, Bittle.” Jack focuses very carefully on getting his tape straight. It’s been difficult to look Bittle in the eye after the night of the Epikegster; he’s afraid of what he might see there, and he hasn’t had time or the words to explain exactly went down between him and Kent. Bitty cornering him like this doesn’t bode well for his self-imposed avoidance.
“Jack, I just. Well, I suppose I wanted to check in, see if you were alright after the…party. It seemed like you had, uh, not such an epic time.”
“Hah. You could say that.” Jack smiles a little in Bittle’s direction. “Kent has always known how to push my buttons, and that hasn’t changed over time. It might not seem like it, but he does mean well.”
Bittle looks doubtful, which is rather flattering. Jack hadn’t realized Bitty was so concerned about him. “I may not be an expert, but none of that screamed well-meaning to me. And even if it was, you still don’t deserve to be talked to that way. No one does.”
Jack sighs and leans down to toss the tape in his bag and rearrange the contents a little. “You’re not wrong, but it’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Then uncomplicate it for me.”
He huffs an uncomfortable laugh and looks Bittle in the eye for the first time in a month. Instead of the pity he feared, he just sees worry and fierce indignance, and it makes the next part a little easier to say. “Kent and I have always been close, all through Juniors and up until the draft. For a long time, I was convinced that he was my soulmate, regardless of whether or not we had the marks. I loved him then and I think I’ll always love him a little, but we weren’t good for each other. He thinks he’s protecting me and helping me by giving me an in on his team. It makes sense, I played some of the best hockey of my career with him. Well, until I played with you.” Bittle blushes bright red and it gives Jack a little more confidence. “Kent’s always been possessive, and he wants to go back to what we were before the draft and – and my overdose. But I can’t go back, I wouldn’t want to even if I could. I wasn’t in a good place there, but now I’m in a much better one, and the best thing for the both of us is to move forward, even if it’s not necessarily together, or, euh, at least not together in that way.”
Looking around at his team and breathing in the fresh air, Jack’s heart feels unbelievably full. He smiles, drinking it in a little, and turns back to Bittle, who’s watching him with big eyes. He smiles a little wider and Bittle looks a little stunned.
“When I was fourteen, I was locked in a supply overnight by some of my daddy’s football players.” Bittle looks just as surprised as Jack at the words that tumble out of his mouth.
“What?”
“They – they didn’t like me because I was –“ he makes an expansive gesture at himself, “You know. So, they were roughing me up a little and then they thought it would be funny to lock me in the closer for a bit, closet jokes for the gay kid, you know. But they didn’t realize, or at least didn’t care, that the janitor had the night off. No one found me until the morning and I sat there all night, trying to get my broken phone to work or to unlock the damn door, and all I could see were the marks they left on me, not just the bruises but the colored ones too. And they faded pretty quickly, just over the weekend, so no one at the school could identify who it was that did it, but it didn’t matter because we moved pretty soon after that anyway. And my mama and daddy have been treating me like glass since, so –“ Bittle finally pauses for a breath. “So that’s why I don’t – didn’t like people touching me. Because the last time I had a bunch of people I didn’t really know touching me, well. But y’all are so nice and kind and gentle, it’s been a huge help, especially you, Jack. I just wanted to say you’ve been the most help of all. Just touchin’ me again with kindness instead of hate has made such a difference and the way I feel here, I haven’t felt that in a long, long time.”
Jack is dumbstruck. “Bittle, I –“
Bittle shakes his head and skates closer, and putting a hand on Jack’s arm, “I just wanted you to know. How much you helped me, and how loved you are by all the members of this team. Y’all are really something special, and I’m so glad I get to be a part of it. So just, remember that, y’hear?” Even though he’s in his gear, Jack swears he can feel a rush of electricity where Bitty is touching him, and he’s helpless fighting against the bright smile Bittle pulls out of him.
“Yeah. Yes, I’ll remember.” He holds out a fist and Bitty bumps it with his gloved one solidly. “Got your back.”
Bitty peers at him closely before smiling and skating away to join the game. Jack watches him go and runs a hand over his arm before pulling on his gloves and skating off to join in.
---
Jack’s in the kitchen, drinking coffee after his run, when the front door almost bursts off its hinges. The sudden crash of sound in the silence makes him jump, sloshing coffee out of his mug and onto his hand.
“Jack Laurent Zimmermann.”
Something about Lardo’s tone of voice makes Jack immediately look out the window to see if the sky is falling or something similarly disastrous. Satisfied that the outside world is intact, he turns to see Lardo, overtired and undercaffeinated, squinting at him from the doorway of the Haus.
“…yes?”
“I need you.” Lardo walks into the kitchen, takes the coffee pot that Jack has just filled and proceeds to drink directly from it. Jack watches in fascinated horror as she drains the entire thing. She takes a deep breath and turns back to Jack, replacing the pot casually, “More specifically, I need your camera.”
“Euh, okay, you want me to take photos of something?”
“Please. The junior art show is in a month and my regular photography guy canceled on me this morning.” She scrubs her palms over her face, slapping herself a little and smearing the splotches of paint that cover her face and hands everywhere. “When do you have class today? If you say you have class all day, I may cry. Also, I am not above bribing a teacher, multiple teachers, to get you out of class.”
“Well, it’s Saturday.”
Lardo doesn’t seem bothered, just blinks and then waves a hand dismissively. “Maybe. But you’ll be there. The visual arts studio, as soon as possible.” It’s an order, no question about it.
“Sure.”
Lardo nods and punches his arm lightly, leaving a dark purple stain. She stares at it for a second and then takes a photo of it with her phone, walking back out of the Haus and mumbling about depth and shading.
Jack watches her go and shakes his head, leaving his mug in the sink before heading upstairs for a shower.
---
Jack arrives at the studio about an hour later with his camera bag slung over his shoulder. The studio itself is part of the larger art complex at Samwell; a bright, airy room, currently draped in fabric across one wall, black in one half and white across the other, creating a neutral backdrop.
“Jack, hey!” Bitty calls out to him and waves and Jack finally realizes that there’s a cluster of at least ten people kneeling on the ground around a…body? Lardo hisses at Bitty and slaps at his wrist, causing him to yelp and turn back to the figure. Lardo herself gets up and shows Jack where she wants him to shoot from for each backdrop, mostly using gestures. She seems to be having difficulty forming complete sentences due to an incredible amount of sleep deprivation, but he just nods and stays out of her way.
He finishes setting up and fiddling with his camera just in time to see the crowd disperse a little, and then move like locusts over to Holster, who’s leaning against the wall watching the whole proceedings. He yelps and disappears under the crush of people, Bitty included, who all seem to rearrange themselves according to where Lardo is pointing and occasionally physically moving them.
The body they left behind is actually Ransom, who stands very carefully and gives Jack a thumbs up. He sits on a bare stool that’s been placed in front of the backdrop, waiting, and Jack actually gasps when he sees him.
Lardo has made Ransom into a work of art. (He’d say he already was one, but the point still stands.) Jack understands now why there’s an entire cluster of people: Lardo is having them use the colors of their soul marks to paint Ransom’s body like a canvas. Jack can see Lardo’s deep plum purple deepening the shadows of Ransom’s collarbone, Nursey’s burnt sienna and Dex’s olive green making faux highlights and shadows, Bitty’s shimmering gold giving the impression of gilding across Ransom’s skin, as well as other colors he can’t identify.
But the crowning glory is Holster’s sky blue marks. More intense and more vibrant than everyone else’s, they stand out and almost seem to be alive on Ransom’s skin. The mark on the front of his fist is the brightest, but the rest complement it from where they poke out among the riot of other colors.
It’s…he knew that Lardo was accomplished, Shitty has raved about her art enough and he’s seen her pieces before, but this is something else entirely. This is the essence of team and family and home, and it’s making him emotional just looking at it. Jack is struck dumb again at the beauty and intimacy that comes through and he’s absolutely floored and honored that Lardo asked him to be a part of this.
“You doin’ okay?” Jack jumps a little and turns to look at Eric, who’s looking back at him with a concerned expression on his face.
“Yeah. Yes, euh.” Jack gestures at Ransom, who blows him a kiss in return and starts flexing exuberantly. “You did a good job. He looks really – really good.”
“Oh! Well thanks.” Bitty actually looks a little embarrassed. “Y’know, I used to get made fun at school of for how – sparkly I was. But I’m glad some good is coming out of it.”
Jack stares at him. “Some good? Eric, don’t you know– “
“OKAY!” Lardo shouts and everyone startles, “Zimmermann, I need your hands for a minute, I need that sweet, sweet navy action, and then we’re gonna be ready to roll.”
Jack clears his throat, face heating, and looks away from where he and Eric were staring into each other’s eyes a little. “Yep. Sure thing.”
Jack lets Lardo maneuver him, even when she has to physically draw him a picture of what she wants him to do, and ends up adding some low lights to Ransom’s pectorals while Ransom winks outrageously at him and, for some reason, Bitty.
Holster comes over and Lardo directs everyone for finishing touches before sending everyone else out of the room so she and Jack can shoot without everyone crowding around.
Lardo must get some wild second wind because she directs Ransom and Holster with a ruthless grace, somehow managing to maneuver them into the precise positions she wants without touching them or allowing them to touch each other until she wants them to.
The models themselves are comfortable in a way that Jack envies, moving around each other with a grace and awareness that has proved eminently useful on the ice. For all that they’re platonic, the amount of open affection between them makes Jack smile and ache, and for some reason reminds him of the way Bitty will sometimes look at him during their early morning practices.
It ends up being one of the most surreal and beautiful things that Jack has ever been a part of.
---
Walking around the junior art show is an exercise in restraint. Jack is trying very hard not to criticize his own choices and focusing more on the content and the editing that makes Lardo’s work shine. He walks with Bitty and takes photos of Lardo interacting with the crowd and her art, trying to highlight the joy and connections there.
He also manages to capture some photos of Bitty with Ransom and Holster, comfortable and close. Eric is never going to be awash in color the way Jack is, he’s not quite that comfortable with touching, but he’s got splashes of his own now and doesn’t look quite so blank next to Ransom and Holster, who still bear the fading marks from the photoshoot. He’s been giving more marks too, Shitty and Lardo in particular have a smattering of them and most of the team has at least one. Which is great, it’s great that Bitty is more comfortable with the team.
Jack isn’t jealous that Bitty hasn’t marked him.
Really.
He’s not.
It’s fine.
Shitty’s phone call and subsequent announcement are a good distraction from this unhelpful line of thinking. The group hug in the middle of the art show is even better, and completely worth all the weird looks they get.
---
Jack closes the front door behind him gently, smiling at the quiet singing coming from the kitchen. He pokes his head around the doorway and huffs a laugh when he sees Bitty mixing some kind of bubbling filling and dancing along to his music. In the soft spring sunshine coming through the window, Bitty is illuminated in a way that makes Jack itch for his camera. Bitty whirls around at some small noise Jack must make, and beams when he sees him.
“Hey! Come give me a hand, mister, instead of lurkin’ in the doorway.”
“Sure, just let me put this down.” Jack takes his bag up to his room and changes into an old t-shirt before he heads back down; baking with Eric usually gets a lot messier than planned so it’s best to be prepared.
“We’re making cherry pie, honey, so roll out the crust and I’ll let you practice your lattice skills.” Eric gestures to the fridge and Jack takes out the chilling dough.
“Please don’t. It looked awful last time and it will look awful again.” Jack is pretty proud that he remembers to flour the counter before he starts rolling things out.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, you did just fine.” Eric waves him off and goes back to stirring the filling he’s got cooking. “How was your meeting?”
Jack takes a fortifying breath and scratches an itch on his cheek. “It was good. I, euh, I was meeting with George, I think you met – “
“Good lord, yes, I remember.”
“You ran into her while we were running? Fully ran into each other and knocked yourself over.”
“Yes, thank you, I really appreciate you bringing that up again.”
“You’re welcome.” Jack huffs a short laugh. “We were just going over the final contract changes with my agent, it should be announced tomorrow.”
Eric gasps and turns, slapping at Jack’s chest. “Jack, don’t downplay stuff like this! That’s so exciting! We should do something to celebrate, you know the boys will want to throw a party and I’ll make you anything you like.”
“Haha. Don’t worry about it.” Jack focuses on rolling out the crust with no rips or tears. “I think it’ll be good. The guys on the team all seem cool, and George said she’d be looking out for me, which is nice.”
Eric turns to him with a soft look on his face. “I’m so glad. I just – I hope you’re really happy there.”
“Thanks. And I’ll still be close, so we can keep up with our checking clinics, eh?”
“Absolutely not, Mr. Zimmermann,” but Eric’s laughing and so Jack looks over at him and smiles back. “Oh lord, you’ve got flour everywhere Jack, c’mere –“ And Eric leans over and brushes some flour off of Jack’s cheekbone and then –
Jack’s breath catches at the rush of energy that streaks through him at Bitty’s touch and his vision whites out for a second. He hears Eric gasp as well and somehow feels a little colder when Eric puts some distance between them.
“Eric –“
“Oh, Jack.” Eric steps back further, hands over his mouth and his eyes huge. “I’m – I’m so sorry.” And he turns and runs up the stairs.
Jack stands in the kitchen dumbfounded, blinking at nothing. He touches his own cheek before his eyes widen in realization. “Oh.”
He takes out his phone and opens the camera to check what he suspects to be true. Jack’s breath catches at the vibrant gold mark spanning the length of his left cheekbone. He turns and starts up the stairs before coming back down to turn the stove off under the cherry filling, then goes back up to Bitty’s door. He knocks softly and waits until he hears shuffling on the other side.
The door opens and Eric’s there, red eyed and sorrowful. “Jack, I didn’t mean – I’m sure it’s platonic, that happens, Shitty’s been telling me about it and I’ve been talking with Ransom and Holster a bunch, and of course I’m not gonna force you into something you don’t want so nothing has to change I swear –“
“Eric.” His mouth shuts abruptly. “It’s not platonic.”
Somehow, Bitty’s eyes get even bigger. “What?”
“Or at least, I don’t want it to be. I want –“ Jack clenches his fists and breathes out shakily. Although he hasn’t said the words out loud to himself yet, he knows that they’re true. “I’ve been falling for you – I love you. And I want to mark you back? And kiss you – if that’s okay with you.”
“If I – oh, Jack.” Eric steps closer and wipes at his eyes, hands still trembling. “That’s – yes, I want that. Please.”
Jack nods and goes to close the rest of the distance between them, but he hesitates. He’s in a unique position, most people don’t get to choose where they leave their mark. But he knows Bitty, knows how private he is even with the people he cherishes, and knows he won’t want a mark like the one Jack’s sporting; something bright and bold and in your face.
Jack steps closer and slides a broad hand under Eric’s shirt to settle on his hip and feels Eric shudder under his touch at the electric current that runs through them both. Using his grip on Eric’s hip, Jack pulls him closer and settles his other palm on Eric’s neck, tilting his face up for a kiss.
Eric is warm and willing where he presses towards Jack, arms coming up to wind around his neck and slide into his hair. He tastes like spice and honey, and Jack is helpless against the pull that’s holding them close together.
When they break apart, Jack keeps his eyes closed and basks in the moment. He can feel Eric pull back a little and his gentle fingertips land on Jack’s cheekbone, tracing over the mark and down to his jaw. Jack opens his eyes when Bitty’s fingers brush over his lips, and he bites at them gently, making Bitty jump and laugh.
Jack smiles back and kisses him again, wanting to taste Bitty’s laughter on his tongue. Eric sighs and kisses him back intently before pulling away and looking up at Jack with a wry smile. “So, not platonic, then?”
Jack snorts and says, “Definitely not.” He laces their fingers together and watches in satisfaction as sweeps of color cover Bitty’s fingers. “And that’s okay with you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Bitty pulls Jack further into his room and kicks the door shut behind them. “You might have to convince me a little more.”
Jack grins and presses his face into Bitty’s neck. “I can definitely do that.”
---
“I’m not gonna lie, this is a little surreal.”
“What is?” Jack gets that feeling again, where his fingers itch for a camera, watching Bitty play with his mug in the light streaming in from the window next to their table at Annie’s. He takes out his phone and snaps a few pictures, a poor substitute. He waits for Eric to respond and plays with the saturation in the photo.
When he looks up again, Eric is watching him with enough open affection to make Jack blush and look back down at his phone. Eric’s smile grows wider, just a touch smug, and it makes Jack want to kiss him again.
“Sitting here, with you, on a date. I was so convinced you were straight, this seems like some kinda fever dream.” Eric sips his sugary coffee nightmare and eyes Jack again. “Lord, are you sure I didn’t faint dead away in that kitchen?”
“Haha,” Jack laughs awkwardly, thumb coming up to rub over the mark on his cheekbone, “Yeah, pretty sure.”
Eric’s eyes soften again and he leans up out of his chair to quickly kiss Jack on the cheek before settling back down with a sigh. “Guess I’ll just have to get used to it, then.”
“Guess so.” He looks down again, fiddling with his own iced tea. “I feel like I should warn you, or give you a way out. With signing to the Falconers and getting back into hockey, I’m not exactly going to be low profile and I know you don’t – that you might not be comfortable with that kind of attention. And there is going to be attention, if people know and I can’t – I can’t stop that from happening and I don’t know how to make that easier for you. So, preemptively, I’m sorry.”
“Oh, honey.” Eric reaches over and takes Jack’s hand. “Sweetheart, I know. I figured being with you wasn’t going to be kept quiet, and I’m okay with that. You’ve helped me so much, with getting more comfortable with touch and other people and making me feel like part of the team. This is new, but – Jack you’ve been one of my best friends for months before any of this happened. I love you, honey, and I trust you. We can do this.”
Jack blinks at him, first in shock and awe and then to keep the tears from falling. “That’s – euh, sorry I’m. You didn’t seem so confident back at – at the Haus.”
Bitty sighs and looks away, but keeps a tight grip on Jack’s hand. “I never wanted to find my soulmate, have I ever told you that?” He looks back at Jack, his mouth tight and eyes deeply sad. Jack wants to kiss that expression off his face, but he stays quiet and just squeezes Bitty’s hand. “There are so many people that I knew growing up who were unhappy ‘cause they met their soulmates too young and never went outside the county lines or were trying too hard to force themselves to be perfect for their soulmates. My mama and daddy, they’re not unhappy, but they’re not happy either, they marked and got married before Mama even finished college. But everyone is so damn fixated on the idea of this perfect soulbonded love, the kind that only exists in movies and books that they’ll do anything to convince people, to convince themselves, that this is what they want. They’ll break themselves down piece by piece to fit into a mold that wasn’t even made for them, because that’s what they’ve been told their love should look like. It ends up destroying everyone involved, but no one can see it.
“I was so scared of being trapped like that; being in a relationship with someone I didn’t want to love but felt forced to. But Jack, this doesn’t feel like that. The way I feel about you, I just – I love you to pieces, honey, and I want to make you happy, but I don’t feel like I’m sacrificing any part of me to do it. It’s gonna take work, but lovin’ you has already made me a better person, and I don’t feel like I’m losing anything to do that. You’ve been helping me build myself up, because before anything you were my friend. Don’t get me wrong, I’m beyond happy to have you as my soulmate, but darlin’, I fell in love with you long before that. Soulmate or not, I was determined to have you in my life. I was so terrified because I thought I was forcing you into something that you didn’t want, and I didn’t want us to be stuck like that. But if you say you love me back, that you want to be with me? Then you know I’m gonna fight for you. I’ll fight the whole fuckin’ NHL if I have to, you’re mine.”
Jack closes his mouth where it’s hanging open and breathes through the tears that are threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. “Well. I’m definitely not going to argue with that.”
Eric laughs and uses one hand to wipe at his eyes, keeping the other firmly in Jack’s grip. “Good, you’re learning already.”
“And I’ll keep learning,” Jack brings Eric’s hand up to kiss his palm and holds it to his cheek, “As long as you’ll let me.”
Eric’s eyes are dark and endless, filled with love and affection. “You ridiculous man.”
---
“BRO.”
“WHAT?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
To say that the Haus reacts strongly to Jack and Bitty’s return is an understatement.
Jack only makes it partway into the living room before he’s accosted by Ransom and Holster, taking turns poking at his cheek and also the love bite Bitty seems to have left on his neck. Bitty doesn’t even make it that far, getting scooped up by an overly enthusiastic Shitty Knight and then body slammed onto the green couch. Bitty’s screech of violation is lost to laughter as the Frogs pile on as well. Jack cracks a grin at the spectacle and then smacks Ransom away from his neck.
“Alright, alright! Y’all need to get off of me, good lord. And get me off of this damn couch before I contract something.”
“I demand deets! When did this happen? Why wasn’t I invited to this momentous occasion? Did Jack cry? Where’s your mark, Bitty-Bits?”
“All of those things are private, mister Knight, which means none of your goddamn business. Now let me go.”
The room dissolves into bickering, Holster and Ransom pouncing on Bitty where he’s wiggled down onto the floor, the frogs and Shitty adding commentary from the green couch. Lardo ambles downstairs and stands next to Jack, patting him on the arm before wading into the fray to sit on Shitty. Jack watches, and smiles to himself. He meets Bitty’s eye, and his smile grows even wider.
He’s got all he needs, right here.
---
Having a soulmate while in the NHL is…challenging.
Not that being with Bitty is challenging, beyond normal relationship difficulties. It’s been hard not living in the same Haus anymore, because for all that Eric is averse to touch from strangers, he’s an incredibly affectionate boyfriend. But it just means that they treasure their weekends together even more and, well. There’s a reason Jack didn’t find a roommate.
The family aspect wasn’t challenging so much as nerve-wracking for the both of them. Jack’s pretty sure Bitty had baked pies into the double digits before dinner with his parents after graduation, and he knows he himself had to do breathing exercises to calm his anxiety the whole flight down to Georgia. In the end, his parents were delighted to get to know Eric better and ecstatic with how happy he made Jack, and while Mrs. Bittle was…enthusiastic, Coach was also quietly supportive. They both had come out of both experiences with some stress, but in the end, happy.
The problem is with the NHL and how invasive everyone is.
Jack had been under the impression that the only thing that would matter would be how well he was playing. To be fair, he’s been doing well and people have been taking notice, but a significant amount of attention has been diverted to the soul mark on his face and speculation about who put it there.
Which is particularly frustrating because all of the potential candidates are women. Or Kent Parson.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” Jack growls over the phone to Eric, as another byline scrolls by on the muted NHL channel, “It’s ridiculous, and heterosexist, and just – stupid.”
“I know, honey,” Eric sighs, “And I’m glad you’ve been talking to Shitty about this. But it doesn’t matter. I know you’re not dating any of those women, or Kent, which is what’s really important.”
“But it makes it seem, I don’t know, incomprehensible, or something. That I could be dating a man. Like they wouldn’t be as supportive if I wasn’t dating a female supermodel, or Kent, so we could stir up some league drama.”
“I’m sure they would love that, two soulmates on opposing teams. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often, to be honest. All the sexual tension out there on the ice coming to nothing? What a waste.”
Jack frowns at his phone. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Maybe a little.” Eric laughs at Jack’s offended huff. “Sweetheart, don’t let it get to you. They’re going to find more interesting things to talk about eventually. Or, they’ll finally get a picture of us out to dinner and then they’ll start speculating on whether I’m improving your game or hurting it.”
Jack frowns even harder. “You’re not hurting my game.”
“Of course, that’s what you heard out of that.” He sighs again. “You know I have no problem waiting until after your first year to make an announcement, if you think they need one. I’m also fine just waiting for them to finally realize what’s been in front of them the whole time. All that’s important is that I love you and you love me, no matter who the news is telling me your soulmate is this week, and that you have fifteen minutes to listen to the latest incident in the Georgia jam controversy. The Phelps women are out for blood, I’m tellin’ you.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world for you, mon lapin.” Jack settles against the back of the couch with a grin and lets Bitty’s voice wash over him.
---
They don’t make it to the Finals that year, knocked out by the Pens in the playoffs. They worked hard, it just wasn’t quite enough this year. That’s what they keep telling reporters in the press conference after the game, when they’re all tired, cranky, and just want to go home.
That’s why, when a reporter asks Jack what he’s planning to do for the rest of the season, in what’s probably in some kind of dig, Jack answers, “Spend more time with my soulmate, I haven’t seen him much recently, and I miss him.”
The reporter is visibly taken aback and she freezes a bit before saying, “Is he – was he here tonight? To see your game?”
“No, he’s in Boston, but I’m going to see him this weekend.”
“Would you tell us a little about him?”
“We’ve been bonded for about a year now, he’s met and gets along with my teammates, and he makes me very happy. We’d ask you to respect our privacy, and if you don’t have any more questions about hockey, it’s been a long day and I’d like to get home.”
He’s finally able to leave not long after that, and the first thing he does is check his messages. He’s got a few from his parents, consoling him on the loss and asking to come down in the next few weeks to visit him and Eric. The SMH group chat is flooded with messages, mostly angry about some of the calls the referees had made and then flipping out about the press conference, but he checks the ones from Bitty first.
Bits: I’m sorry about your loss, sweetheart. You played a good game, you’ll get them next year. Give my love to all the boys.
Bits: Just saw your press conference, I’m so proud of you. Everyone here is freaking out, but I’ll call you later. I love you.
Jack smiles.
Hockey is a contact sport.
Water is wet.
And Jack Zimmermann loves his soulmate.