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I.
It’s not his earliest memory- that’s a recognition reserved for his first step onto an ice rink, his tiny toddler hands tightly gripped in father’s large grasp- but one of the most memorable from his childhood is of Maman deftly slipping a record out of its sleeve and onto the turntable. Jack isn’t quite sure where they are, whether it's their cabin in Montreal or house in Pittsburgh, but it's a rare moment where both of his parents are home and happy, their little family altogether. As the record begins to spin, the quiet air is punctuated by the chords of a piano melting into the warm sounds of bass and trumpet.
“A little Count Basie? Perfect choice, mon amour.” Papa grins, holding out a hand. Maman gladly takes it, allowing herself to be swept into his arms. Jack remembers her laugh as his Papa dips her, smiling like a mad man. The song is slow and quiet and makes Jack feel like he does when his parents snuggle him before bed, warm and at ease and at home.
The two sway for a moment, barefoot in the living room, slow and steady. Papa breaks away as the trumpet begins its solo, picking Jack up from the floor where he had abandoned his toys in favor of watching his parents in awe. Papa settles him on his hip, one arm wrapped around Jack, the other resuming its clasp with Maman, and now all three of them are swaying.
“What is this, Papa?” Jack remembers asking, resting his head against his father’s shoulder. It's nighttime and Jack is getting tires. The soothing sounds of the band are no help to his drooping, tired eyes.
“This is jazz, Jacky.”
“Your Papa and I danced to this song at our wedding, honey.” Maman says, sweeping the dark hair from his forehead before pressing a kiss to his temple.
“I like it. It sounds warm.”
Jack can feel his Papa’s laugh rumble through his chest. “Yeah, it kind of does, doesn’t it? Just wait Jacky- when you’re older we’ll introduce you to all the jazz greats. Miles Davis, Mingus, Billie Holliday…”
Jack drifts off right there, soothed by the smooth hum of the record player and his parents' quiet words.
II.
Jack is livid. What a stupid loss, what a stupid game. He’d been off the entire three periods, missing shots, making poor passes, not anticipating the teams next move. This loss was his fault. How the hell did he expect to get drafted when he couldn’t get it together in juniors?
Jack knows he’s spiraling- his head is racing, his heart is hammering, his breath is coming in short, painful gasps. He must have lost track of time too because the once bustling locker room is now empty. Nothing but Jack and his frustration filling the space.
He really doesn’t want to leave the room- leaving means the possibility of running into a teammate and worse, facing a disappointed Bad Bob. It's not even that he’d say something or go over what Jack should’ve done. It's the face he’d make, the tight grimace, slight shrug and the clap on Jack’s shoulder as they make their way out to the car.
Fuck, he thinks. He’s got to get this under control before he leaves the locker room. A panic attack is the last thing I need right now.
Jack reaches into his locker, blindly searching for his iPod. It's a stumble to find the earbuds and put them in with his hands shaking like they do when an impending attack is on the horizon, but he manages. The bright trumpeting of Miles Davis’s Walkin’ begin to take up space amongst Jack’s racing thoughts, allowing him a short reprieve.
It doesn’t make much sense; Jazz is messy, unorganized, unpredictable. It’s all solos loosely connected by a simple hook. It’s everything from slow, smooth brass to rapid, plucking strings. It’s a jumble of genres all grouped into one, a menagerie of instruments and voices and tones and styles.
But, Jack thinks, maybe this is exactly why jazz works so well to combat his anxiety. The unpredictability, not being able to anticipate the path the musician will take with the melody, is the perfect distraction. An ideal balance between control and uncertainty that allows Jack to drift away from the world for a moment.
As Miles Davis’s trumpet slowly overcomes the angry voice inside his head, as he follows the triplets and staccato runs, his thoughts of the game slip away. The music works like magic as the tension Jack had been carrying tight in his shoulders all day melts and his breathing even outs. For the first time in hours, Jack’s heartbeat slows its pace, and he is almost, almost, at peace.
III.
The days after being released from the hospital all blur together, a string of an indeterminate number of nights and days where Jack feels basically nothing. He feels empty- not in the same desperate, dangerous way he felt before- and drained of all emotion. A sponge rung dry and left disposed. Jack can’t tell which is worse either- the deafening silence in his once lively childhood home or the pitying looks his parents give him when they think he isn’t aware.
He knows this isn’t fair; for one, it's been years since Jack has been able to tolerate the once spirited mood of his Montreal home. On the rare occasion he was actually there rather than at a billet’s house, Jack usually secluded himself in his room, too overwhelmed by the constant stream of his parents' friends that stopped by unannounced, the noise that accompanied dinner parties and drinks. And two, he knows his parents are just worried, worried that if they aren’t watching their son he may slip away from them again- this time for good.
Jack is sitting on his parents couch, idly watching a hummingbird buzz from one of his Maman’s blooming lilacs to the bright red feeder she hangs right outside the large window, when his father walks into the room. Jack can feel his Papa’s eyes on him but Jack just can’t look back, not right now. Jack still feels completely scrubbed raw with the sheer amount of emotion he has had to face head on over the past few days and every word he exchanges with his parents works to cut him deeper.
His father turns away from Jack and towards the old record player in the corner of the living room. He crouches down, skimming his fingers along the spines of the records kept on the cabinet below, Jack now enraptured in his father’s odd movements. Papa picks an album out from the stack and stands back up, sliding the record out of the sleeve and onto the spindle.
A familiar, warm tune fills the room as Jack’s father moves to sit next to his son. Papa leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he looks out the window with Jack.
“Do you recognize this song?” Papa asks, his voice quiet and calm.
Jack looks down at his hands, wrapped tight around a couch pillow. “Yeah, I think so. I remember you and Maman dancing to it when I was younger.”
A fond smile creeps across Papa’s face. “It was our wedding song, Lil’ Darlin’ by Count Basie. This was the first album your Mémère ever gave me and your Maman would put it on everytime she came over. That album has followed us everywhere. ”
Jack takes a chance and looks over at his father. As the Count plays his slow warm melody, Papa continues to look down at his hands, his right thumb spinning the silver band on his ring finger round and round.
“I never knew that.” Jack whispers, continuing to stare at his father.
Papa shifts his gaze back to his son, a tight smile on his face. He reaches over and ruffles Jack’s hair, just like he used to when he was a kid. Jack can’t help but to smile, a small fragile thing, but a smile nonetheless.
Things aren’t okay, they’re far from it, but as Jack sits next to his father feeling something other than nothing for the first time in nearly a year, he truly starts to believe things might get better.
IV.
It’s a balmy November afternoon and Bitty, as per usual, is baking a pie. Jack watches as he deftly dices a couple of large honey crisp apples, babbling about which variety of apple is best for the perfect maple-crusted pie.
Bitty is giving Jack an in-depth demonstration of how to bake a pie for their Women, Food, and American Culture class so Jack doesn’t royally fuck up his project. Bitty doesn’t even have a recipe out, instead going from pure memory and skill to instruct Jack. Let it be known, Jack Zimmermann greatly appreciates competency.
“Alright, now that we’ve got the filling prepped, we can start the pie dough! Do you wanna put on some music while I get the stuff out?”
“Sure,” Jack says, pulling out his phone and connecting it to the bluetooth speaker, “but I get to choose the music.”
Bitty laughs, a bit muffled with his back turned to Jack as reaches into the shelves for the ingredients, his SMH shirt riding up and exposing a sliver of freckled skin. “Good lord, I can’t even begin to imagine what your playlist looks like. Is it just full of hockey podcasts? Are hockey podcasts even a thing?”
Jack can only smirk as the sweet, melodic piano solo begins, introducing Billie Holiday’s Blue Moon. Bitty whips around, hands on his hips, with a look that can only be described as a mix of dumbstruck and impressed.
“Jack Zimmermann, I this is taking your reputation as a grandpa to a whole new level! Who knew the reason you didn’t get pop culture was because you were just plain cultured!”
“What? I like it, I think it’s really interesting.” Jack smiles, watching as Bitty throws his hands in the air.
“You don’t know who Beyonce is-”
“That’s not true, I know who she is now.”
“But you find elevator music to be interesting?” Bitty laughs, abandoning his pie ingredients in favor of further chirping Jack.
Jack scoffs, “Bittle, this is not elevator music, this is real jazz. This is Billie Holiday.”
“Jack, this is old-people music! I don’t know a single person who listens to jazz on their own accord other than those pretentious art students who always come in after us at Annie’s.”
“I just really like it, is all. Have you ever listened to jazz before? Like Miles Davis, Cannonball Adderely, Ella Fitzgerald? They’re amazing- they pioneered a whole new way of playing music, of telling stories through sound. A great jazz song is unpredictable, full of new sounds and beats, almost impossible to predict. My parents used to listen to jazz all the time, we’d cook and clean to it. I use it to calm down after a big ga- what, is there something on my face?”
Bitty is looking up at Jack with wide eyes and a small, almost imperceptible smile. It causes a small flutter in Jack’s chest, a feeling he is unfamiliar with. Bitty quickly looks away though, rubbing a hand over his face. “Nothing, nothing. I just- I didn’t know it was possible for a hockey robot to like music is all.” he says with a weak laugh.
“Sorry, I was rambling-”
“No, honey, it’s alright. It’s sweet, really.”
Now it’s Jack’s turn to look away from Bitty’s bright smile, the fluttering feeling returning. “You think? I always thought it was weird.”
“It’s not weird, Jack. If anything, it’s nice to learn you may have a love that rivals hockey.”
“Yeah,” Jack laughs, beaming at Bitty, “it is.”
V.
Summers have become Jack’s favorite time of year. Yes, he still loves the snow and ice and all the wintry things that go along with the colder months, but summers? Summers bring the off-season, Bitty in short-shorts, and best of all, what seems like all the time in the world with his fiance.
Bitty and Jack are in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. After Bitty had officially moved in this summer, one day a week had been dedicated to the two of them attempting to cook a new recipe. Today had been chicken tikka masala, the perfect blend between protein (Jack’s requirement) and flavor (a must for Bitty). Jack is drying dishes and putting them away while Bitty washes, humming along to their music.
As Jack stands in his- no their- kitchen with Bitty by his side, he finds himself perfectly, stupidly happy. Sometimes it still strikes him just how lucky he is to be here, how lucky he is that he took his chance with Bits, that he chose to go to Samwell and get his degree, that he survived the overdose. With a smile, Jack rests a hand on the small of Bitty’s back and presses a kiss to his hair, Bitty laughing underneath him.
The universe must agree with Jack’s consensus, because as whatever current pop hit that was playing fades out, a familiar mellow piano intro fills the kitchen. Jack grins mischievously before using his grip on Bitty to spin him around into his arms.
Bitty is surprised, letting out a little yelp, but wraps his damp hands around his fiance nonetheless. “What’re you up to Mr. Zimmermann?”
“Nothing much, just dancing with you, mon lapin.” Jack whispers, capturing Bitty’s lips in a slow, passionate kiss. “This song is called Lil’ Darlin’. It was one of my parents’ wedding songs?”
Bitty takes a moment to take in the song, listening to the long trumpet notes seamlessly joining and changing chords to create a melody that fills Jack with a warm feeling no matter how many times he listens to it.
“Mm, is that so? It’s lovely Jack, really. Who knew you could get me to like jazz.”
The couple laughs quietly, swaying together as the sweet song plays out. Jack hums along with the trumpet solo and Bitty steps even closer to him, resting his head against Jack’s chest.
“Bits?” Jack asks, voice quiet and shy.
Bitty immediately looks up, a crinkle in his brow. “What is it sweetpea?”
“Would you mind if this was our first song? At the wedding?”
Bitty beams wider than Jack thought possible, a smile Jack thanks his lucky stars that he gets to see nearly everyday, a smile that makes him smile in return, even on his bad days.
“Of course honey. It’s absolutely perfect.”
Bitty leans up to kiss Jack, the kind of kiss that doesn’t really work because the couple can’t stop smiling. The bungled kiss causes the pair to giggle as they sway alone in their Providence kitchen, listening to the music of Count Basie fade into the background, happier than either though possible.