Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is a Thursday morning at the Haus, and everyone but Bittle and Jack have classes before noon. Bittle’s economics class had been cancelled, and Jack’s Thursday mornings are usually dedicated to lifting and calisthenics. The rarity of such a quiet morning doesn’t go unnoticed, and Jack finds himself in charge of making coffee and frying up sausages as Bittle pulls little puffed croissant pastries out of the oven. They don’t say much. They don’t even listen to music. They just leave the windows open and let the calm of the day wash over them.

The curtains Bittle bought for the kitchen don’t exactly block out the light, but Jack finds himself momentarily distracted by the way the diffused sunlight plays off the cheap water glasses on the table. He feels entirely at peace, an uncommon thing as his finals creep closer, and Bittle appears to notice because he doesn’t try to strike up a conversation just yet. They drink their coffee and eat their sausages and croissants in amicable silence.

“So I was thinking,” Bittle starts off, “that I could come visit you. After you graduate, I mean.”

“Oh.” Jack blinks, slowly and full of consideration. Bittle doesn’t wait for a proper response. In a moment he has cleared the table and unfurled a map of the United States across it. The plate of croissants holds one curling edge down. Their coffee cups secure the corners.

Bittle sounds inordinately fond of road trips, at least when he talks about driving to Providence over the summer. Jack hums an agreement every other sentence just to let Bittle know that he’s listening, even though his eyes are focused on the map laid between them. There is jam smeared over Philadelphia. Bittle’s fingers are sticky-red as he traces the highways he would need to take from Georgia all the way to Rhode Island.

“It’ll only take maybe seventeen hours,” Bittle tells him, absentmindedly tapping the star-marked Providence, “depending on the construction on I-85.”

“That’s too far to go alone.” Jack says. Bittle visibly deflates, his gaze flitting between Jack’s face and the plate of croissants sitting on top of the west coast. “I’ll make the drive with you.”

He doesn’t know why he suggests it. It’s not impossible; in fact it’s not a terrible idea at all since Bittle has been trying to convince him to visit Madison for the past three months. It’s only three weeks until finals, and just a week after that is graduation commencement. Although Jack will be leaving almost immediately to begin off-season training with the Falconers, George has assured him that he will be able to take some time off so long as he gives advanced notice. Jack already knows where he’ll be living in Providence, has already signed the lease on the apartment just three blocks from the Falconers’ facility. It shouldn’t be too difficult to join Bittle on his return trip to Samwell about halfway through the summer, and Bittle can stay in Providence for a little while if he likes.

None of that is exactly relevant though, because at this moment Bittle is beaming at him like a small sun. A jam-covered sun with pastry flakes on his chin.

“Road trip!” Bittle cheers. There are raspberry seeds in his teeth and Jack knows it's likely that he will not survive the drive. He points at DC with a butter knife anyway, resigned to his fate. At worst, Bittle will be overly eager to leave for Samwell and never text Jack a photo of a freshly baked apple pie again.

At worst, Jack will fuck up and Bittle will never speak to him again. But there’s time until the trip, and four days alone with Bittle is enough. It will have to be.

The week before graduation is a bit of a blur and that’s partly because of Shitty’s insistence on getting absolutely schwasted during senior week. The Haus steadily grows quiet as the frogs head home, finals having been completed and commencement rapidly approaching. Ransom and Holster throw themselves into senior week festivities wholeheartedly, helping Shitty procure what is probably an illegal number of kegs for possibly the last Haus party that Shitty and Jack will ever be a part of.

Bittle keeps making cookies and Jack isn’t sure how many more of them Ransom and Holster can eat, no matter how good they are, but the treats are excellent for trading with the lacrosse seniors when Shitty declares they need several more funnels and an inflatable kiddie pool. Jack has no idea what the kiddie pool is for and he has no real intention of finding out, as Haus parties have never really been his thing. It may be the last one, but there are only so many things he will do at Shitty’s behest. Getting shitfaced two days before commencement is not one of them.

“Hey, man, you seen Lardo anywhere?” Shitty calls up from the living room. Jack looks away from his laptop, where an email from Georgia outlines the Falconers training schedule that will consume most of his summer. His shoulders have been tense all day, even though his finals are over. He takes a moment to close his eyes, and his chest loosens. Jack takes a few deep breaths.

“Last I saw, she was with Bittle.” He hollers back, and there is some muted grumbling as Shitty presumably gathers his things to finish prepping for the party. Jack rolls his eyes, but he finds himself smiling anyway. Nervous energy flutters just under his skin, like a faint current of electricity. The hairs on his arms are actually standing up. Just a few more days and he’ll be in Providence, Rhode Island. He has to close his eyes again.

Sharp knocking on his window startles him. Jack twists at his desk, back rod straight, and Lardo holds a finger to her lips from where she’s perched on the windowsill. There is a bandana tied around her head. Bittle is behind her, crouched down with a pair of shutter shades on and a plate of cookies in his hands. He sets them just inside Jack’s room, and the pair of them scramble across the porch roof towards Bittle’s room.

When Jack looks down at the cookies, he realizes that he is no longer tense. He has no idea what he is going to do when they all finally leave.

“It’s bittersweet.” Bittle says a few hours later, more than a little tipsy as he leans against Jack’s arm. They’re both holding beers but Jack is only on his third, and Bittle is...well, Jack stopped counting after five. Bittle’s cheeks are slightly flushed and even in the dim light Jack can see the small freckles on his cheeks, his neck.

“Graduation?” Jack hazards a guess, and Bittle gets this crosseyed look before he puts down his beer and presses more firmly into Jack, steadying himself.

“‘M too drunk for an actual, honest to goodness, heartbreaking conversation about how you’re leaving us.” Bittle gives his solemn retort. Jack feels his breath hit the bottom of his lungs, a moment of nausea as anxiety tries to roll in. He sets his own beer next to Bittle’s and guides him outside of the Haus to sit at the furthest end of the porch, where it’s relatively quiet and the air isn’t as stale. He tells himself it’s for Bittle’s sake, but it’s not.

“Your room’s packed up.” Bittle isn’t looking at Jack, he’s gazing out across the road with glazed eyes that are caused by either alcohol or tears, it’s hard to tell. Jack freezes up a little, because no matter how much Shitty says he’s improved, Jack is still terrible at handling emotions. Especially emotions belonging to others. Especially emotions belonging to Bittle.

“Yours is, too.” Jack points out instead, and Bitty gives a long-suffering sigh as he lolls his head onto Jack’s shoulder. This is the closest they’ve ever been, discounting postgame hugs through layers of padding, and Bittle is warm against Jack’s bare arm.

“Yeah, but not for good. I’ve still got dibs on my own room. Yours is--” It’s going to Chowder, because Jack can’t bear the thought of leaving Bittle in a house full of rowdy college boys who don’t have either the common sense or the responsibility that Jack and Shitty have. Shitty’s leadership at the Haus is a bit questionable at times, but the man knows what he’s doing and always makes sure everyone else is alright. Ransom and Holster are good guys, but they get in over their heads too easily. Chowder will grow to be a wellspring of common sense, under Bittle’s watch. Probably. One can hope, anyway.

Bittle has gone quiet, his breathing shallow but even as he continues to rest on Jack. There isn’t a need for words at this moment, not when Bittle is likely drunk enough that this will all be hazy in the morning, but Jack finds his voice anyway.

“I’m not leaving your life forever, you know. I’m not….I’m only going to be 40 minutes away.” It’s a pretty straight shot from Samwell to Providence, Shitty and Jack have gone over the route a few dozen times and unless there’s traffic out of Providence, it’s not too hard to shave off a couple extra minutes.

“I googled it the day I met George.” Bittle admits, and for some reason Jack is so completely unsurprised by this that he just ruffles Bittle’s hair and leaves his fingers woven through soft bangs. Bittle tilts his face into the contact and Jack almost, almost leans his head against the one on his shoulder. But he doesn’t, because in two days he won’t be here anymore, and he is more afraid of that than Bittle is.

The next morning Jack wakes up alone, and the smell of pancakes coming from the kitchen most certainly does not bring a few tears to his eyes.

Commencement itself goes by at an appalling, agonizingly slow pace. Jack and Shitty are nowhere near each other, because Knight and Zimmermann are are far enough apart that even Shitty can’t make it look like an accident to stand near each other. Jack easily spots his parents in the crowd and is surprised to find Bittle sitting next to his mother, an unreadable expression on his face despite the plastered on smile. Jack doesn’t really remember the ceremony itself. He is handed his diploma, he shakes some hands, he smiles for cameras and then it’s over.

His mother is crying when she hugs him and his father looks so proud that Jack has to look away, has to ground himself in some way. His gaze lands on Bittle, who looks exhausted but happy, and Jack smiles back at him. He tries not to think about the goodbyes that are coming.

In the end, it’s not as difficult as Jack had dreaded it would be. Shitty hugs everyone and is unapologetic about the few tears that do fall from his eyes. He doesn’t let go of Lardo for a solid hour, and she doesn’t even complain. Chowder cries. Ransom and Holster do not, but Jack has a feeling he will be receiving a lot of ‘I miss you, no homo’ texts in the near future.

Bittle...does not cry. Jack hadn’t expected him to. He hadn’t really known what to expect, actually, so when Bittle reaches up to Jack for one final hug before his parents drive him down to Providence, he doesn’t even think about it. Without all the padding it’s easy to feel how small Bittle is. Jack could crush him right into his body, could leave a lasting imprint and have an excuse to chirp Bittle for days. He doesn’t do that. Instead he basks in that gentle pressure, memorizes the feel of Bittle’s arms around his neck, and tries not to be obvious about how much he’s going to miss him.

“I’ll see you in two months.” Bittle reminds him. Jack’s smile is a little bit tremulous, but no one mentions it.

Ten minutes down the road, Shitty texts him a photo of Bittle silhouetted by the sunset in the Haus kitchen along with the caption ‘thought u needed this’ and Jack can’t explain to his parents why his face is so red.

The Falconers are...great. Jack enjoys training with them, and George assures him that the other guys like him just as much. They like that he’s humble and they like that he’s open to their advice. He feels like he’s improving quickly.

‘how’s practice?’ Bittle texts, and Jack texts back a quick ‘great’ when the team goes on lunch break. He doesn’t get a chance to look at his phone until late in the evening, and he’s almost too sore and tired to bother. But it’s worth it to find a silly smiley face emoticon from Bittle, along with a few progress photos of some new pie recipe that looks delicious.

If there is a jam smeared map tacked to the wall of his apartment, Jack doesn’t explain the meaning of it to anyone.

The practices fly by but Jack’s trip to Madison, Georgia, feels like it’s growing further away. The days are like miles and they stretch on in curving roads, each practice and interview another bump along the way. He has to fly to Atlanta, where Bitty will be picking him up at the airport, and the next day they will be heading out to Washington DC. Jack is already used to long days of travel, so the thought of spending two consecutives days sitting down doesn’t bother him much. It helps and harms in turn knowing that Bittle will be there for the majority of the trip.

“Do you need to me to drive you to the airport?” George asks after practice one day, and when Jack gives her a blank look she pulls up her calendar on her phone. “Your flight to Atlanta is next week, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Jack confirms. He pulls out his own phone, which automatically opens up to his texts with Bittle, and he realizes that he’d been so focused on living in the moment that he hadn’t realized exactly how fast time has gone. It’s a disorienting reality check, and George reaches out a hand to steady him when he suddenly sways into the wall.

“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” Everything crashes down for a moment, the dates crossed off on the calendar at his apartment and the weeks worth of laundry he still needs to do, and all he ate for breakfast that morning was a power bar because he couldn’t stomach anything else.

Jack sits down. He breathes. It’s just him and George in the hallway, and it’s all going to be fine. He breathes, and eventually his head feels less stuffy and his stomach feels less queasy. George sits down next to him and tentatively puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Will you be okay for practice tomorrow?” George is prepared to call him in sick, and Jack appreciates that more than she could ever know. He nods.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

‘will you be okay?’ Bittle asks after Jack mentions it in passing.

‘yes.’ He responds, and means it.

George ends up being the one to drive Jack to the airport, and after a slightly embarrassing mother hen moment she releases him to the mercy of Gate E. It’s still early enough in the morning that not many people are catching flights. It’s mostly business men and exhausted looking families. Jack feels a little out of place, wearing an old Samwell sweatshirt with his Falconers cap pulled over his eyes. George had made fun of him for looking so ‘grungy’ but Jack only packed one bag for the trip, and it’s his carry-on. He can impress people later, when he isn’t so jittery about flying.

A pill of ativan and 30 minutes later, Jack is boarding his flight with boneless exhaustion. He’s asleep the second the turbulence is gone. It’s only a two and a half hour flight so he’s awake in time for landing, and Jack stumbles as quickly as he can into the nearest bathroom.

‘here’ He texts, his shirt halfway on and his pants still unbuttoned. He gets no response, because Bittle doesn’t text and drive.

It’s not that he’s trying to impress Bittle. He just doesn’t want to look like a slob. This has the unfortunate side effect of getting him recognized by a group of tourists on their way to their connecting flight to Nashville, and after some awkward selfies and an autograph Jack hurries to the airport pick up in hopes that Bittle hasn’t had to make another drive around while waiting.

’zone 3’ Jack’s phone says, and sure enough Bittle’s got his window rolled down so that he can sit on the door and wave to Jack.

For a moment Jack freezes, terrified that Bittle will run out to hug him, but that doesn’t happen. Jack walks over to the car and throws his bag into the backseat, and although Bittle is practically vibrating with how excited he is, he waits until Jack is sitting in the passenger seat before he nearly launches himself over the divider to hug him. Jack immediately relaxes, all but the faintest trace of anxiety vanishing from his chest.

“I missed you!” Bittle’s voice is right in his ear, Jack can feel his jaw moving over his cheekbone, can see freckles he doesn’t recognize smattered over Bittle’s neck. Just as soon as it came it’s gone, and Bittle is putting his seatbelt on back on the driver’s side.

I missed you too, Jack doesn’t say, but when Bittle looks over at him and smiles Jack knows he doesn’t have to.

Suzanne “Call me Mama!” Bittle greets them at the door when they pull into the driveway an hour later, a huge smile on her face as she ushers Jack in. Bittle’s smile is more subdued now, but his pleasure is genuine when Jack settles himself into the guest room.

“Coach’ll be back tonight.” Bittle says, sitting next to Jack on the bed. “There really aren’t any plans for the evening--and when I say that, I mean practically the whole damn county is gonna be makin’ ‘surprise’ visits until it passes acceptable visiting hours. Those hours depend entirely on how much wine makes the rounds.” Bittle’s accent was never very strong, but it’s definitely more pronounced here than it was at Samwell.

“Sounds busy.” Jack chooses the words carefully, feeling them in his mouth and hoping they don’t come out as anxious as he is. Bittle shakes his head and leans back on his arms. Jack observes him as subtly as he can, noting the way Bittle’s white polo stands out against the pale neutrals of the room and how Bittle keeps himself tight, not sprawling out like he does at the Haus.

“I’ll make sure we’re out of the house. I don’t much like that sort of attention, and I’m bettin’ you appreciate it even less. I know a place in town you’ll just adore, their burgers are damn near the size of Lardo’s head.” Jack just smiles at him, and Bittle coughs as he stands up. “Well, I’ll let you alone for a while. Mama and I will just be finishing up lunch in the kitchen, so come on out whenever you’re ready, alright?”

“Alright.” Jack doesn’t bother unpacking, but he does wash his face in the hallway bathroom. There are family photos along the walls and Jack finds himself examining each and every one. Seeing someone grow up through photographs gives a strange sense of distance. It’s forced awareness that although Jack may think that he and Bittle are close, he has known Bittle for only a small fraction of their lives.

He doesn’t find that disheartening. Jack stops at the photo of Bittle and his mother during his freshman year at Samwell, reaches out to the touch the frame. ‘Samwell 2013’ is written in the corner of the photograph.

“Your father took that photo.” Suzanne says from where the hall connects to the kitchen. She is holding a stack of dishes to set the table, and Jack reaches out to take them from her.

“I know.” He smiles, and together they set the table.

The rest of the day goes by slowly, hazily, and the heat is nothing Jack is used to. Bittle laughs when Jack ends up lying shirtless under a tree in the backyard, glaring up at the leaves and reaching blindly for the sweet tea Suzanne had sent them out with. Bittle nudges it towards him and Jack mumbles a thank you before chugging it.

“You are so very, thoroughly, Canadian.” Bittle jabs at Jack’s shoulder with a bare foot from where he’s leaning against the tree trunk.

“Shut up, Bits.” Jack sighs, and Bittle laughs again. True to Bittle’s word, neighbors have been popping up every hour to say hello. Coach, which is all Jack has known to call Bittle’s father, has yet to arrive. The heat prevented them from leaving earlier, but Bitte assures Jack that once the sun starts going down it will cool off.

“We could’ve just met halfway, you know. In DC.” Bittle says, breakng the silence that had comfortably stretched between them. Jack throws an arm over his eyes.

“I don’t mind. I wanted to see where you live.” Jack hears Bittle shift somewhere behind him.

“Oh. Well, thank you.” He doesn’t think that he’s imagining the smile that he hears in Bittle’s voice.

When the sun settles just over the rooftops of the houses and the air gets a bit cooler, Bittle suggests that they go grab dinner. They walk to a diner called Betsy’s, and Jack chirps him about it for a solid hour while Bittle turns bright red and stuffs a massive burger into his face. The guys would never let Bittle live it down, Jack thinks, and he decides that it’s something he’ll keep to himself. For now.

"What are you doing?" Bittle's expression is both horrified and fascinated. Jack pauses with a French fry halfway to his mouth, part of it covered with his chocolate malt.

"Eating?" Jack offers up the obvious, and Bittle makes a disgusted sound.

"You dipped your fries into your shake." He points accusingly at the malt on the table and Jack shrugs one shoulder before eating the fry. “Oh, my goodness. That’s terrifying. What is wrong with you, bless your sweet little Canadian heart, what is wrong with you.”

“One day I’m going to make you try poutine.” Jack tells him. Bitty’s face twists into a few different expressions, like he can’t decide on what emotion to feel. He seems to settle on exasperation before he shoves the last of his burger into his mouth. Jack considers the lack of witty response a win, and tucks into the rest of his meal. They leave when the sun has set completely, and Bittle holds the door for Jack as they walk out.

When it’s not sweltering outside, Georgia is actually very pretty. Jack had never been further south than Chicago before this, and he finds himself charmed by the sprawling landscape. Bittle fits in perfectly with the colonial style homes and the historic shops lining the streets downtown, blond hair turned gold in the lamplight and his vowels dragging out as he grows tired.

“--So there we were in the middle of that forsaken peach tree orchard, positively drenched, and my dear Auntie Louisa--God love her--she forgets that the wagon has a loose wheel--”

“Eric?” Someone calls out, and Bittle immediately falls silent. It’s strange to Jack, the way that Bittle withdraws into himself so suddenly. It’s not a complete change, Bittle is still smiling and he looks genuinely glad, but it’s guarded now.

“Coach!” It clicks into place, and Jack straightens so that he can look at Bittle’s father head on. The man is not entirely what he expects.

“Jack Zimmermann, right? It’s a pleasure to meet you, my boy here heaps all kinds of praise on you.” He offers a hand and Jack shakes it firmly, wanting to leave the best impression he can. He glances at Bittle from the corner of his eye at the mention of praise and smirks when Bittle blushes.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Bittle.” Jack says. He mostly means it.

“You can call him Coach,” Bittle interjects, trying to save his own skin by shifting attention, and Coach smiles as he shrugs.

“Whatever suits you. I didn’t think I’d catch you boys out around town, I’d figured our neighbors would have claimed a monopoly over you, God bless’m.”

“We made quite the grand escape.” Bittle says drily, which makes Coach snort.

“So I see. Anyhow, I can give y’all a ride back to the house. I’m all done at the high school and your mama tells me you’ve got plans to make some of your tri-county winning pies?” He leads them off the sidewalk towards the parking lot of an Ace Hardware store. Bittle’s walk has changed, now straight-backed and almost militant with measured steps.

“I see how it is. Only use me for my pies, don’t you.” The banter is the only thing that hasn’t changed. It throws Jack for a loop, and then he realizes--it’s not that different from his relationship with his own dad. He relaxes after that, understanding. Bittle looks up at him for a moment, then stares ahead again.

“I’m caught.” Coach spreads his hands and laughs. “Let’s get a move on then, boys, those mini-pies are a-callin’.” Jack can’t tell if Coach is laying the accent on thick because Jack is there or if he genuinely just talks that way. They pile into a well-loved station wagon that has stickers placed on the back seats, which Bittle only mumbles about when Jack points them out.

Suzanne is waiting for them with apple pie moonshine and cans of preserved berries, which has Bittle jumping right into making mini-pies. As the evening drags on, Jack realizes where some of Bittle’s sharper wit really comes from. Jack doesn't end up saying much, only answering questions about hockey and complementing Bitty's baking when appropriate. It’s a mix of comfortable and reserved, and Jack finds himself fitting easily into their dynamic. They don’t push, and he doesn’t feel the need to offer more of himself than they do of themselves.

Jack eats mini-pies with Suzanne and Bittle, and drinks moonshine with Coach, and it feels like family.

At 11pm they all call it a night. Jack and Bittle go to their separate rooms, where they spend a solid twenty minutes texting each other before Jack passes out into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Jack’s cell phone alarm goes off at 5am, like normal, but he ends up laying in bed for half an hour before Bittle knocks on the door to get him. They finish packing up the car in about fifteen minutes while Suzanne makes breakfast, still wearing her peach-printed pajamas and yawning into her hand over the grits. Bittle is still groggy when they head out at 6:30am, which means that Jack is driving Bittle’s second hand Kia and the radio is set to a news station that Jack is only half listening to.

“I get carsick.” Bittle confesses an hour into the drive. They'd stopped once for coffee at a drive through Starbucks, and the car still smells like whatever sugary latte Bittle had. “That’s why I listen to music.”

“Have you tried audiobooks?” Jack used to listen to hockey podcasts while driving.

“I have the first two Harry Potter books, the Lord of the Rings Trilogy as well as The Hobbit, and Tina Fey’s Bossypants.” Bittle pauses between each suggestion and Jack wonders what other books are on there.

“Better put on Bossypants.” Jack tells him, partly because he knows it will make Bittle happy, and partly because he likes Tina Fey. Bittle lets out a surprised, pleased little puff of noise and plugs in his iPod. They spend the next five hours of the trip having a Shitty-style discussion on feminism, the right to breastfeed in public, and whether or not it should be legal to kick a man in the balls for preventing a woman from entering an abortion clinic. Lardo would have been so proud. Shitty would have been more proud to learn that they ate an entire box of Hostess zebra cakes and several nutty rolls after one of their gas stops.

It’s a ten hour drive from Madison to DC and once they’ve finish Bossypants Bittle takes the wheel for the last four hours.

“This is more uneventful than I expected.” Bittle turns down the music, something by Nickelback that Jack had picked. It’s about two in the afternoon now, and they hadn’t stopped for lunch since the zebra cakes had left them with sore stomachs.

“We’re on a time crunch,” Jack reminds him. “Maybe next time there will be more time for stops.”

Bittle doesn’t call him out on the fact that he’d implied there will be future road trips. They spend thirty minutes in silence before Bittle decides they need to play I Spy, which they both fail terribly at. They resort to another audiobook, The Hobbit, to kill time before they reach their middle of the road destination.

They’re almost bored to sleep by the audiobook when traffic finally slows them to a near halt. Bittle looks distressed, his hands clenched tightly to the wheel, and Jack grimaces as rush hour puts them at a standstill about an hour from their exit.

“Here, we can just--swap.” Jack gestures between their seats.

“Jack, honey, we are in the middle of the freeway.” Bittle shoots him the dirtiest look, but Jack is caught on the term of endearment that Bittle had sarcastically thrown in. Jack clears his throat and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“We’re swapping.” Jack insists. Bittle splutters at him, waving a hand in protest, but when traffic doesn’t move he gives in and unbuckles his own seatbelt.

“There’s not much room for this,” Bittle eyes the backseat, which is full of his college things.

“Just crawl over here, you can fit partway onto the dash.” The Kia is small but Bittle is compact enough that it should work. Bittle hesitates, then crawls over the divide between their seats and settles awkwardly over Jack’s knees.

“This is the worst idea.” He complains. Jack just lifts him up, gingerly folding him into the space between the windshield and the dashboard. Bittle is glaring like Jack has just informed him that his award winning pies lost at the fair.

“It’ll be fine. Hold the top of my seat, I’m going under your arm.” Bittle does as Jack tells him to, reaching above Jack’s shoulders to hold onto the headrest. Someone behind them honks. Jack ducks under Bittle’s arm and clumsily scrambles into the driver’s seat just as traffic begins moving again.

“We are never doing that again.” Bittle says as slides off the dashboard. His face is turned away, so he doesn’t see Jack nodding in agreement.

The capital of the United States is beautiful, Jack has to admit once they’ve finally managed to park. Bittle looks awestruck, blonde hair catching in the early evening sun. Jack’s fingers itch; he snaps a photo with his cell and tucks it back into his jean pocket.

“We get to spend a whole day here.” Bittle turns and says to him, disbelief plain across his face. Jack can’t help but laugh.

“That was the plan, yes. Thank you for the reminder.” Bittle swats at his arm but there’s a smile on his lips that doesn’t leave for the rest of the night. They’re both exhausted from the drive, especially the last hour of traffic, but they manage to visit the Smithsonian for a little while and then they grab dinner at one of the cafes on the museum grounds. Jack had booked a room at a Holiday Inn with two beds, mostly at Bittle’s insistence that they didn’t need two separate rooms that they would only be sleeping in. He’s not wrong, the second they lay down in their beds they’re completely out.

Jack is actually woken up by Bittle instead of the other way around, a hand gently shaking his shoulder until Jack opens his eyes. He squints up at Bittle, trying to make a face out of the shapes in front of him.

“The continental breakfast is subpar at best,” Bittle whispers, “I googled a crepe shop down the street. Let’s go.” Jack stumbles out of bed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but that’s he manages before they’re out the door. Bittle looks slightly less worse for wear than Jack does, but only because he’d actually managed to comb his hair before leaving the hotel.

‘Down the street’ turns out to be several blocks through the residential outskirts of DC, but when they get there the crepes are worth the trek. Bittle steals bites of Jack’s scrambled egg crepe and Jack retaliates by swapping their coffees while Bittle isn’t paying attention. The confused look on Bittle’s face when he tastes two-sugars-one-cream coffee has Jack laughing around bites of hashbrown.

“You play dirty.” Bitte complains.

“All’s fair, eh?” Jack tells him. He doesn’t finish the proverb. He doesn’t trust himself enough for that. “Let’s head back to the hotel.”

“I do feel disgusting.” Bittle stands up to stretch and grimaces when his back pops. “I could use a good, long shower.”

“Just remember that we want to be out of the room by noon.” Jack smiles. Bittle snorts at the half-hearted chirp, and then they’re off to the hotel.

Chapter Text

It takes Jack all of thirty seconds listening to Bittle sing in the shower before he needs to leave the room and stand in the elevator for fifteen minutes to contemplate his life choices. It takes about twenty more minutes for Jack to shower and wait for Bittle to style his hair before they’re out the door again. Bittle has several maps and even more pamphlets on all the things they can do in DC, but as they navigate the train system they lose about four pamphlets and accidentally tear a map in half.

“Let’s just see what happens, eh?” Jack suggests, and Bittle throws away all but one map.

“There’s no jam on this one.” Bittle smiles, folding it into his bag. Jack feels dreamlike for a moment, thinking back to a sunny morning in the Haus, and he laughs as they board their next train.

The day is a complete blur of touristy photos and missed stops and deeply unhealthy street food. It’s perfect. Jack scrolls through the photos he’s taken through the day and isn’t surprised to see hints of blond hair in almost every single one of them. For their last meal Bittle chooses the Old Ebbitt Grill, babbling on about oyster riots as they walk from the White House, where Bittle had taken cheesy photographs of Jack holding a small Canadian flag in front of the gate. It’s a cool, historic place and Jack is far more interested in surreptitiously taking photographs of the bar while Bittle ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ over the menu.

“I am going to live under this table and eat scraps for the rest of my life.” Bittle groans. Jack can’t bring himself to finish the last of the pork belly tacos they had been splitting, or the crab and artichoke dip, or the chocolate chip bread pudding. They put everything that’s left into a to-go box after arguing over the check, which Jack pays for because he can afford it, and just for good measure he orders a slice of the pecan pie and an entire bottle of sauvignon blanc.

They don’t drink the wine or eat the pecan pie but they do sit at their booth by the window and watch traffic go by, bright headlights streaking across the neon roads. It had rained sometime during their dinner and the reflections are surreal. Bittle’s eyes are at least thirty different colors and while he’s still distracted by the window, Jack steals another photo.

“Ready to go?” Jack asks, and Bittle slowly nods. Neither of them want to leave, but they pack up the food and squirrel away the wine before flagging down a taxi anyway. They sleep in separate beds, and Jack is out of the shower and dressed before Bittle is awake the next morning. Two days gone, only two left.

He feels his head grow heavy. He pulls out his phone, looks at the background, turns it off. He breathes. Two days to go.

They take muffins from the continental breakfast for the drive and Jack watches DC disappear in the rearview mirror. There’s a brief debate over going to New York City for a few hours, but when they encounter traffic at the exit they both decide that NYC would be better left to a different trip. The drive from DC to Providence is only 7 hours, and they eat the leftovers from Old Ebbitt instead of stopping for lunch. The Hobbit is still playing over the speakers, but neither of them are really paying attention to it. Eventually, Bitty takes Jack’s iPod and plugs that in instead.

Four more hours until they reach Providence. At some point during those four hours, ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd comes on and Bittle gives Jack a devastated expression on par with the way his face looks when Betsy burns a pie. Jack wordlessly pulls over at the next gas station so that they can fill up and switch seats. Once Bittle is behind the wheel, he controls the radio. The next hour is dedicated entirely to Nicki Minaj.

They swap seats one last time at a gas station at the edge of downtown, because Jack knows the streets better and Bittle hates city driving. They are both quiet, Bittle eerily so as he takes everything in. Jack has no words, all of them dried up on his parched tongue. He drinks his water but it doesn't seem to do much more than fill up his stomach and make him feel a bit nauseous. When Jack pulls into his building’s parking ramp, he feels like he’ll never be able to shift gears to park.

Somehow he does it. Bittle is out of the car immediately, grabbing his bag and babbling in his nervous-excited way. Jack moves more slowly. The end of the road trip brings him back to reality. The possibility that Bittle will be out of his life forever in just a few days is a crushing, heavy weight that drags behind him as they enter the building.

“—and I’m so darn excited to see your place, you know, because it’s such a change from the Haus and don’t get me wrong, I do love the Haus but it’s not like this, you know?”

“After you,” Jack says instead of responding to any of what Bittle said, not that he’d heard most of it. Bittle doesn’t need to be told twice; the second Jack has the door unlocked he’s bouncing through the threshold and examining everything from the linoleum to the furniture.

Jack panics for a moment before he remembers that the road trip map with the jam smears and the dog-eared corners has been tucked away in a closet.

“Simple, clean lines!” Bittle observes, approving in that way that says he’s actually judging everything a little bit. It’s sparse, because Jack has never had much interest in decorating and it’s not like he has the eye for it anyway. They don’t talk about it. Instead, Bittle throws himself onto the gray sectional with an exaggerated sigh.

“The night is still young! Whatever will we do?” He groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. Jack can still see him peeking from beneath his forearm and he stifles a smile.

“Want to celebrate the end of our first road trip?” He digs up the bottle of sauvignon blanc from the Old Ebbitt Grill, buried at the bottom of his satchel, and the two of them share a slow grin.

“One glass,” Bittle says. That ‘one glass’ ends up being mismatched beer pints, since Jack realizes too late that he doesn’t actually own any wine glasses. They eat mac and cheese that Bittle produces from the small amount of groceries that Jack actually owns, and it’s probably the best mac and cheese that Jack has eaten in his life.

“I’ve never had wine with mac and cheese before,” Bittle muses, “you’d think we would’ve pulled something like this at the Haus.”

“Half the team wouldn’t touch wine if it was handed to them in a beer can.” It’s not a lie: boxed wine was fair game until the Tour De Franzia debacle.

“So very, very true. I’m certain Shitty would have something to say about the illusion of masculinity and its role in alcohol marketing.” They pause, taking in the validity of that argument. Then Jack raises his beer glass full of wine in a toast.

“And we would tell him to shut up and eat his mac and cheese.” Jack announces, and Bittle raises his own glass so they can clink them together.

The next day is spent mildly hungover and tiptoeing around goodbyes, until Bittle eventually leaves and Jack has only half a cold slice of pecan pie to show he was ever there to begin with.

“You were alone with Bitty for at least, like, 36 waking hours.” Shitty’s voice echoes over the phone, like he’s in a lecture hall or a library. When Shitty suddenly gets quieter, Jack believes it to be the latter of the two. “And you’re telling me you didn’t make a single move. Not a one.”

“We were in a car.” Jack says in his own defense. If it had gone all wrong, there wouldn’t have been anywhere to escape to.

“Your phone background is of Bitty in a romantic looking restaurant.” Shitty points out as though Jack hadn’t made the conscious decision to put it there.

“How do you know about that?” Jack asks suspiciously. He hasn’t seen Shitty in person since graduation, there is no way Shitty could know that or even guess that so specifically.

“I have my methods. And Lardo may or may not have accidentally seen it when you met her for lunch, because you never lock your phone and she has the same model as you. Who knows, really, just be aware that I have eyes, my man, and they are watching you. Judging you, in fact.”

“I’m learning how to lock my screen.” He is googling it on his laptop right now.

“That’s for the best if your background is gonna be Bitty’s pretty face. So aside from your failure to land yourself an Eric Bittle, how was the trip?” There is no bite to Shitty’s words.

“It was...good.” Jack doesn’t go into detail, because there isn’t a single part of the trip that Shitty hasn’t seen from Bittle’s snapchats or Instagrams.

“That’s good. I’m really glad for you, Jack.” Shitty means it, Jack knows he does. He smiles even if no one can’t see it.

“Thank you. I’m glad, too.” It feels like a confession. Maybe it is one. All Jack knows is that it feels good to be happy.

Training and school and preparing for their respective hockey seasons has Jack and Bittle engaging in some kind of phone tag dance. It’s one that Jack had struggled with before, never really able to maintain constant dialogue with anyone else, but of course with Bittle it’s easy. Pretty much everything is easy, with him. But that doesn’t stop him worrying when Samwell’s first game rolls around.

‘how’d it go?’ It takes him a while to type out the question, but he really wants to know.

‘can I call soon’ is the response, and Jack grimaces because that can’t be good.

"We lost." Bittle sounds tired and not entirely miserable, but it's always been difficult to tell when Bittle is feeling wrecked.

“Ah,” Jack says, the epitome of articulation and comfort.

“It was my fault. I froze up, even though I spent half the summer practicing, and I want to be better and get over this silly mental block but I can’t, not without--” Bittle cuts himself off and before Jack can ask he’s moved on. “There’s just so much I want for this team, you know? These boys are family now, and I want to do my best for them. I want them to be proud.”

“They are.” Jack interrupts. “I know I am.”

He hears Bittle’s breath catch over the phone and he presses onwards, knowing full well that his former 15 is crying.

“All you’ve done is improve. You’ve worked hard to get to where you are now. It’s just the first game, you know? It’s the first real test. Now you know what you need to do, and you know what it will take to improve even more. I have faith in you.” It’s hard to distinguish his feelings as former captain from the other decidedly less platonic ones, but he means every single word of it. He hadn’t coached Bittle through his checking-anxiety on a whim. He had always seen the potential.

“Thank you, Jack.”

“It’s not a problem, Eric.” Bittle’s first name slips out so naturally, it doesn’t hit Jack right away.

“...Thank you.” Bittle repeats, his voice considerably softer. “I’ll text you later?”

“Yeah,” Jack breathes out, “that’s fine. Talk to you later.”

They hang up and Jack wonders what the hell just happened. Later that night Bittle sends photos of the frogs drunkenly crying over Marley and Me, and Jack assumes everything is fine. They don’t talk about the phone call.

It’s after the first Samwell hockey win that things take a turn. The 40 minute drive between Samwell and Jack’s apartment in Providence is nothing compared to the 17 hour drive Jack and Bitty endured, even if it had been spread out over the course of a few days. For Bitty, 40 minutes is easily grounds for a day trip. At least that's what he tells Jack when he shows up unexpectedly at the apartment, disheveled and holding an overnight bag.

"Can I stay the night?" He asks, his voice strained as Jack ushers him inside.

"Yes." Jack doesn't even think about it, just throws Bittle's bag into the couch. "What happened?"

"Haus victory party." Bittle turns and gives Jack this deer in the headlights expression. There is dried dough in his hair. "The first one of the year. Ransom and Holster want so many pies. So. Many."

"Too many?" It doesn't even seem real. This is probably a dream, because Bittle literally running away from Samwell to avoid baking is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Bittle looks haunted, with dark circles under his eyes and what is likely red food coloring under his fingernails.

"Too many."

“I have a guest room.” Jack says, pointlessly. Bittle sways a little, and veers off in the direction of the kitchen. “Um. Bittle?”

“The Haus kitchen can’t handle that many pies.” Bittle announces, distracted as he opens up his bag. Out comes a warehouse box of pie tins, multiple bags of sugar and flour, jars of Bittle’s homemade preserved pie filling and cans of regular store-bought pie filling.

“You’re baking here?” This is definitely less dreamlike. This actually veers closer to normal than Bittle actively attempting to avoid baking.

“I’m making mini-pies. My tri-county winners are going to your team.” Bittle tells him. “The store-bought ones—Jack, where are your mixing bowls—are going to the Haus, because once everyone is that drunk, they won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“Fair enough.” The mixing bowls were a housewarming gift from Suzanne. Jack has only used them once, and he keeps them in one of the tall cupboards. Bittle doesn’t notice, or if he does he’s too absorbed in taking over Jack’s kitchen to care.

“Oh, God bless a spotless kitchen.” Bittle stares lovingly at Jack’s kitchen appliances before setting to work. Jack is, of course, dragged into it. It goes just as poorly as their women’s studies recipe final does, at least in terms of Jack’s inability to create a proper lattice crust, but at 9pm they pull the last tray of mini-pies out of the oven.

“Bittle. Want to come to the facility with me tomorrow to personally deliver these pies?”

“Oh. I, um. Goodness.” Bittle is shell shocked, his mouth flapping uselessly, and Jack takes an embarrassing amount of pleasure in leaning over to physically press on Bittle’s jaw just to get his mouth closed.

“Great. I’ll wake you up at 6am.” Bittle makes a distressed noise that doesn’t manage to become actual words. Jack helps cover all of the pies and separate them into piles on the counter, the ones for the Falconers wrapped neatly in tinfoil and displaying sharpie drawings of the team logo. He’s drawing the last one while Bittle digs through his bag, which is still sitting on the kitchen floor.

“Jack.” Bittle zips up his bag, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t pack clothes.”

Jack wants to laugh, not because it’s funny, but because he’s completely out of his depth. Instead he clears his throat and grabs Bittle’s bag off the floor.

“I’ll lend you something.” He says, the words grating against his teeth. Bittle appears completely unaware of what’s going on in Jack’s head as he stands up and brushes nonexistent dirt from his jeans.

“Thank you. Goodness, that’s embarrassing. I was in such a rush that it completely slipped my mind.” Jack tosses Bittle’s bag into the guest room as Bittle keeps rambling on, then enters his own room across the hall and grabs the first thing he sees in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

An old Samwell Hockey shirt hits Bitty in the face, finally shutting him up, and a pair of old joggers follow right after.

“Sentimental.” Bittle teases as he disappears into the guest room. Jack feels immediate regret once he sees Bittle wearing them.

“Those are way too big.” Is all Jack manages to say.

“Because you are a giant.” Bittle patiently explains.

“Right.” They both fall silent. Jack can’t look at Bittle, because it’s distracting to watch him fidget with the tie on the waistband of the joggers.

“Soooo…” Bittle drags it out, and Jack is forced to look at him again.

“Cutting Edge is playing on HBO.” He says. Bittle’s face lights up and the two of them stay up talking about the differences between figure skates and hockey skates, Bittle sharing stories of getting his skates confused as a child and falling on his face numerous times due to the toe pick.

Jack wakes up on the couch at about 2am, blinking into the darkness of the living room and wondering about the soft snores coming somewhere from his right. He remembers that he is in his apartment, and then he remembers that Bittle is over and they both fell asleep after splitting a bottle of wine. Weak, but understandable.

Jack stumbles off the couch and stretches. His entire body is tense and sore from how much working out he’d done in the past few days, and he knows he needs to stretch or it’ll hurt like a bitch later, but for now he’s got more pressing matters on his mind.

“Bittle,” He calls softly. “Bittle, get up. Let’s get you to bed, eh?”

Bittle mumbles at him incoherently. Jack weighs his options. He knows he can carry Bittle to the guest bedroom, he’s lifted Bittle before and it’s not exactly a chore. But Bittle isn’t drunk this time, so the excuse isn’t really there. Jack shakes Bittle gently, and that gets him to crack an eye open.

“...’time is it? Checking practice?”

“Just sleep time.” Jack stumbles over his words, knowing deep within himself that he is very much fucked. With some help from Jack, Bittle manages to crawl into the guest bed, and then Jack exiles himself to his own room.

The next day, three completely predictable things happen. The first is that Bittle is absolutely adored by everyone and his pies are the star of the week. The second being that Jack is nearly catatonic with how very, very fucked he is. The third thing is how at the end of the day, Bittle goes home and Jack is alone in his apartment again, waiting for a text that always comes and always makes his heart skip a beat.

Bittle sends him a string of texts during fall break, mostly copy-pastes from the tweets that Jack doesn’t read, along with a few photos of geese that end with a blurry video of Chowder screaming. Jack laughs out loud in the locker room, which prompts the rest of the Falconers to crowd around him to see what made him laugh, which further prompts the younger guys on the team to follow Bitty’s twitter and has the older players asking if Bitty will be around again sometime soon. With pies, of course.

He does come around again soon. Sooner than Jack is emotionally prepared for. There’s not really that much time between practices and training and games, but the second there’s a free day, Bittle is on the road to Providence. And it happens every free day or weekend after, Bittle making the trek out to Jack’s apartment and Jack pushing gas money on him and promising to come to the Haus, which he does, but it’s never quite the same as when Bittle’s in the apartment in Providence.

He’s got curtains now, which is an improvement. He’s got a lot of other things that Bittle’s had a hand in, too. George eyes a smaller pair of shoes by the door a little strangely, and Jack shrugs.

“Bittle forgot them last weekend.” He tells her, and she makes a sound that might be an aborted laugh.

“He should really just move in with you, considering.” George mutters. Jack pauses, allowing himself to dream about it for just a moment, then brushes it off. It won’t happen, but it’s a nice thought.

It’s a thought he ends up thinking about a lot. Enough that he doesn’t even bat an eye when Bittle is over and digging through the hallway closet to make room for an ironing board.

“Oh, Jack.” Bittle sounds surprised from where he’s got his head buried behind several coats, and Jack doesn’t know what the cause for alarm is until Bittle’s unfolding a familiar map on the hallway floor. “You still have it!”

“I do.” Of course he does, though he’d thought it had gotten lost with all the other boxes he hasn’t been sure where to put. Bittle smooths out the crinkled paper, tracing the route they’d taken so many weeks, months, ago.

“I’m glad. I thought it was lost.” They stare at it, not looking at each other, standing at opposite sides of the map.

It takes Bittle leaving again for Jack to realize how fucking ironic that is.

"Have you thought about a roommate?" George asks next time she's over, eyeing the wrinkled map tacked to the wall. Jack looks out the window like it's not obvious he's avoiding her very pointed question. He's not that obvious, is he? He must be. He wonders if that makes Bittle—Eric, uncomfortable.

"A little." He mumbles, and George just gives him an encouraging grin.

"Tell Eric hello for me when he's over this weekend." He agrees without thinking about it. That weekend, Eric comes over with a dufflebag and some kind of potted greenery. Jack watches as it ends up on the kitchen table.

“Bittle,” Jack says, then corrects himself. “Eric. What is that plant doing here.”

“It’s a baby ficus.” Eric says, as though that explains everything. Jack nods, as though he knows what a ficus is. This does not get the reaction that Jack is expecting; Eric frowns and sighs with something like fondness.

“What?” Jack asks a bit defensively.

“Nothing. Well, I mean,” Eric tugs at one of the weirdly shaped leaves and adjusts the ficus so that it sits in the sun. “I wasn’t expecting calm acceptance. You realize I’ve got a toothbrush over here, right?”

“Of course you do,” Jack’s eyebrows furrow and Eric gives an incredulous little laugh.

“I have a toothbrush here. I use your shampoo, I’ve started leaving one of my own pillows here, and when I do laundry back at the Haus I find your clothes mixed up with mine. You sat through an entire episode of Real Housewives with me, and we haven’t even kissed.”

“Um.” Jack says.

“Yeah.” Eric agrees.

“May I—” Jack gestures at the chair between them and Eric very nearly throws it aside in order to give Jack a clear path towards him. It’s a surprisingly fluid motion, Jack thinks as he leans down: the way Eric’s arms loop around his neck and his own go around Eric’s waist. It’s no different from the way they hug and it hits Jack like a 200lb winger.

There is nothing electric in the way they kiss. There is no resounding epiphany or angelic choir. Eric tastes like the larb gai they had for dinner and like cheap fortune cookies and he smells overwhelmingly of Jack’s body wash.

It’s perfect. It’s home.

“But why is there a ficus.” Jack asks after they finally stop kissing, and Eric laughs himself hoarse.

“It was the only thing I could think of to get you to notice that I’ve pretty much moved in.” Eric says. Jack hasn’t relinquished his grip yet, so the words are mostly muffled against his chest.

“I figured you would be. Moving in, that is.” Jack admits. Eric goes still in his arms, like this is any sort of surprise. Jack realizes that maybe he's been obvious to everyone but Eric himself.

“Then I guess now is a good time to tell you that I’ve been talking to George.”

“What.”

“Yeah. Um. She said she would pull some strings? And that public relations was looking for an intern to play errand boy?”

“The whole summer?” Jack can scarcely believe it. Eric is trying not to grin.

“The whole summer.” He confirms. He’s trying to look solemn but his whole face is twitching with the desperate need to smile. Jack runs his fingers over Eric’s forehead, smoothing out the forced frown lines.

“Good.” Jack says, and Eric leans up to kiss his smile. At best, Eric will move in at the beginning of May.

At best, Eric will never leave.