Chapter Text
It is a basic fact of the universe that Kent Parson is going to fuck things up.
He doesn’t try to, despite anything his long list of ex-boyfriends might say. It’s not like Kent wakes up in the morning and thinks, Gee, how can I ruin everything good in my life today? He just finds himself replaying the same mistakes, no matter how hard he tries to be better, to be worthy.
Today is no exception.
Kent finds himself flat on his back in the snow, his arms too shaky to push himself up. The slam of the door rings in his ears, and he stares blankly at his house, as if looking will be enough to convince Jared to let him back in.
The door does not open.
It takes him five tries to call Swoops, mostly due to his inability to stop shaking. It’s because of the cold and the lack of coat and the fabric wet from snow sticking to his skin, and it has nothing-- nothing-- to do with the echo of Jared’s voice in Kent’s mind.
Swoops doesn’t answer on the first ring or second or third, and Kent knows. He knows he used up all his chances with Swoops, just like he used up his chances with every single other good person in his life. Kent should have known not to call. Kent should have known Swoops wouldn’t want to speak with him--
There’s a soft click, and Kent hears Swoops draw in a breath.
“I know,” Kent says frantically, before Swoops can tell him all the things he did wrong. “I know, Swoops, I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m sorry--fuck, I can’t--I don’t--I don’t have my coat, and my--my wallet is still in there, and my keys—Swoops, he took my keys, and he won’t unlock the fucking door, and please, Swoops, I’m sorry--”
“Parse?”
Kent freezes.
Two facts that lead to Kent’s inevitable destruction:
- Bittle’s contact information is saved under Smartass Southern Pie Fucker, which places him right above Swoops.
- Swoops is not the one who answered the phone.
Kent nearly drops his phone in his haste to hang up.
He makes sure this time that he has his finger on Swoops’s number before hitting call. It goes straight to voicemail.
Kent rests his forehead on his knees and breathes. And breathes. And breathes. His lungs are burning, and no matter how much air he inhales, it’s not enough.
He’s fine. He has a sweater. He doesn’t need Swoops to come pick him up because Jared is going to let him back in, and Kent shouldn’t have bothered to call after everything he said to Swoops, even though Swoops was wrong, and--
Kent’s phone starts to ring, and he answers without thinking (just like he does everything else because that’s his problem; he never thinks ).
“Parse, hon?” Bittle says. “Are you at your house right now?”
Kent should hang up. Nothing good will come from running to his ex’s boyfriend for help, especially now that Kent has finally managed to talk to Jack like a normal human being instead of the embodiment of toxic clinginess he was all those years ago.
“I can’t go in,” Kent says. “He won’t--the door’s locked, and I--”
“I’m drivin’ to your house,” Bittle says, calmly, slowly, every word deliberate. “Do you need to call the police?”
“No!” Kent shouts. Bittle inhales sharply, and Kent pushes his hair out of his eyes, his hands trembling. “I mean--no. No. Don’t call the police. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
Bittle’s silence is telling, and Kent can picture the thin-lipped look of disbelief.
“Stay on the phone ‘til I get there,” Bittle finally says. “Do not hang up on me.”
And Kent presses the heels of his palms into his eyes because he is not going to start crying while Jack’s boyfriend is on the line.
Also, it’s cold, and the tears might freeze to Kent’s skin, and then he would get frostbite on his face and be hideous forever.
Not that he isn’t already hideous. But. Frostbite would hardly help.
(He’s being melodramatic. The snow is melting, and it therefore can’t be that cold out. Kent is making a big deal out of nothing once again.)
Kent stays this way, face buried in his knees and his arms wrapped around his legs.
He hears the screech of tires.
“Lord!”
Kent looks up to see Bittle sitting in his car with the window rolled down. Kent scrambles to his feet, brushing the snow off his pants.
When Kent tries the door, it’s locked. For a moment, panic shoots up his throat because, for all he knows, Bittle just won’t unlock the door. And that’s fine; Bittle has every right not to let Kent in, but—
“Sorry,” Bittle says. “Forgot to unlock the door.”
The door swings open under Kent’s hand, and he slides in. Bittle’s car is warm—much warmer than Kent expected—but he can’t stop shivering.
As Bittle drives home, Kent waits for the questions to begin. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Kit to hold and to bury his face in her fur. But even that small comfort is too much for Kent, and so he sits in Bittle’s car with nothing to hold onto but air.
Kent wraps his fingers around his seatbelt tightly, the edges biting into his skin.
“What happened?” Bittle asks softly.
Kent stares out the window and swallows. Trees fly by, their empty branches blurring into a portrait of brown. His eyes are stinging, and he is not going to do this right now. He has managed thus far to keep from crying, and he refuses to start now.
“I fucked up,” Kent says, his voice cracking on the last word.
He waits for Bittle to probe further. Maybe Bittle sees how much Kent doesn’t want to talk about it, though, because he lets the matter drop.
They spend the rest of the car ride in silence.
When Bittle pulls into his driveway, Kent snaps back into focus.
“I can stay at a hotel,” Kent says.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bittle says.
He steps out of the car, and Kent trails after him up to the house.
“I’m not being ridiculous,” Kent protests. “I—Zimms—look, you guys won’t want me around, and I get that. I just need—“
His wallet. His keys. His clothes. His car.
Kit.
A wave of grief crashes over Kent for all the things he let Jared take away. While Kent is aware that he let them slip through his fingers, it still feels like Jared ripped every single one from his grasp.
“Jack won’t mind,” Bittle says, opening his door. “Besides, hon, you don’t even have a coat on.”
It is telling that this is all Bittle needs to say to get Kent to cave.
.
At 11:40 PM, Bitty is baking cupcakes.
Jack used to tease Bitty about the way he processed emotions through baking. Jack was always able to tell what mood Bitty was in, based on the baked goods. Pies are for good days (with a hierarchy from lemon meringue to rhubarb for how good). Cookies are for mediocre or low-energy days. Muffins are for days when Bitty feels like crying into a pillow while listening to Marina on loop.
Cupcakes, though. Cupcakes are for when Bitty is ready to kill.
Bitty pops the tray into the oven and exhales heavily.
As far as lists of favorite people go, Parse wouldn’t make the top ten--if Bitty is being honest with himself, he doubts Parse would even make it on the list.
Jack asked him once why he disliked Parse so much, and Bitty had quipped back that he didn’t need a reason to hate someone and, anyway, Bitty didn’t hate Parse so it wasn’t like it mattered.
Bitty does, though, which is completely justified. Because. He’s Parse.
At least, Bitty did hate Parse. Right now, Bitty has the sinking suspicion he’s starting to feel sorry for Parse instead, which is humiliating on so many levels. Also, Parse would most certainly turn up his nose at Bitty’s pity, and who can blame him? Bitty knows he wouldn’t want pity from Jack’s new boyfriend.
Not that Jack has a new boyfriend. Bitty is just preparing for the inevitable.
Maybe Bitty has nothing to worry about, though--after all, history professors are hardly in the market right now. But then, Bitty doubts bakers are climbing the ranks on the dating apps, so who is he to judge? And apparently, some people (definitely not Bitty) find it incredibly attractive when Jack pushes back his hair, with his tie loose and suit jacket rumpled, as he rambles on about World War I and various societal factors at play. Marissa from the Communications department certainly thought so, judging by the looks she constantly sent Jack’s way, even when Bitty was right there--
Bitty starts another batch and whisks a tad more harshly than necessary.
It’s always the Communications majors. Bitty doesn’t even need to ask what Parse studied in college--a snippy editor who gets paid to point out what writers get wrong? Classic Communications vibes.
Bitty glares at the batter as if it is to blame for Parse’s unfortunate personality.
Lord, Parse looked so small, huddled up in the snow. Bitty didn’t like the way Parse tensed up in the car, he didn’t like the fact that Parse didn’t have a coat on, he didn’t like the panicked jumble of words Parse let out over the phone about a locked door and stolen keys, and--
Bitty sets the mixing bowl on the counter and inhales sharply. He needs to stay calm. He is calm.
Bitty pours the batter into a new muffin tray, all the while trying his best not to seethe.
It could have been worse. It was over forty degrees out, the snow was more slush than anything, and it could have been so much worse.
The oven beeps. Bitty peers at the cupcakes before pulling them out and sliding the new tray in.
It doesn’t matter how hard Bitty tries to keep a positive attitude. Tonight has been a string of disasters and stupidity, and Bitty doesn’t know if he will ever recover.
“Jack won’t mind.”
Bitty wanted to slap himself the second those words left his mouth. Jack won’t mind? Bitty truly is an idiot.
He can make a long list of reasons why he shouldn’t tell Parse why Jack won’t mind, the altruistic end of the list about how Bitty’s relationship issues are paltry in comparison to Parse’s and it’s none of his goddamn business being near the front.
It’s not like it matters. Bitty will drive Parse off to one of his many friends in the morning, and then Parse will be none of Bitty’s business.
A part of Bitty wonders if that’s really true. He’s not an idiot--he knows Parse meant to call someone named Swoops. There was panic in Parse’s voice while he thought he was talking to Swoops, but there was also trust, like Parse had absolute assurance that Swoops would come.
And yet, Parse accepted Bitty’s call, and this Swoops was nowhere to be found.
.
The guest bed is so soft that Kent fears it will melt away.
Kent stares up at the ceiling. The guest bedroom is all pale blues and soft whites, and they are probably supposed to make him feel calm. Bittle’s influence, Kent supposes.
Kent’s mind is a racetrack, though, and his thoughts are cars. Around and around they go, whizzing by with high-pitched whines.
He needs to call his bank and his credit companies to cancel his cards. He needs to get his stuff. He needs to call Swoops. He needs to get out of this house. He needs to get his cat.
He needs he needs he needs--
Kent has two missed calls from Jared.
He should call back.
What the fuck, Kent should most definitely not call back, what the fuck?
Kent’s phone starts to ring again. He digs his fingers into the floral print comforter and inhales a few shuddering breaths. He is not going to answer because it’s not like he lacks self-control instincts entirely, no matter what Swoops might say--
“What,” Kent snaps, his phone in hand.
Damn it.
“Where are you?”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Jared repeats through gritted teeth, “Where are you?”
“I’m--” Kent presses a fist into his thigh. “I’m not. I’m not coming back to the house.”
“You always say that,” Jared says dismissively.
A strangled noise rises up Kent’s throat.
“I know,” Kent says. “But I’m not--I can’t. I need--”
“Shut up, Kent,” Jared says. “You sound like an idiot when you can’t string a sentence together.”
Kent looks back up at the ceiling, his throat burning. In the darkness, the ceiling looks as if it will float away at any moment.
And God , Kent wants to do the same--if he floated away into the sky, then he wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. But he’s trapped by gravity, by the sound of Jared’s voice grating in his ear.
“I’m gonna come tomorrow,” Kent says. “To get my stuff. I--I want my keys back. And--”
“Kent,” Jared says, and oh, how soft and sweet his voice is, “do you really think this is going to last? You really think this one is gonna stick around?”
Kent shoves his hair back, his throat tightening.
“It’s not--he’s not--” Bittle isn’t a friend. He isn’t really anything to Kent, if he’s being honest. But Kent doesn’t know how to explain this to Jared. He doesn’t even know what this is. “It’s just--”
“Remember Andrew?” Jared asks. “You really want this to end the same way?”
For a moment, it feels like Kent can’t even breathe, as if Jared punched him in the throat and Kent is choking on blood.
“Fuck you,” Kent whispers.
Jared starts to talk, but Kent hangs up before he can hear what Jared has to say. For a moment, all Kent can do is stare at his screen, at the white of his knuckles as he clenches his phone.
Kent collapses back in the bed, his phone slipping through his fingers onto the floor. His eyes are burning, and he can barely breathe, and why won’t his hands stop shaking?
He’ll call Swoops in the morning.