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Of all the places Bitty thought he’d be on his birthday, inside Jack Zimmermann’s embrace was not one of them. Face pressed into Jack’s chest, hands fisted into the back of his T-shirt, Bitty inhales Jack’s clean scent and exhales, choking on another sob. It’s overwhelming to think that not even two years ago Bitty wasn’t even sure he’d last on this team and now these boys—his boys—have gone and given him the best birthday gift he’s ever received.
“Bittle,” Jack murmurs, voice a little gruff but not his “let’s-get-down-to-business” captain’s voice. There’s something fond in the way his voice breaks a little around Bitty’s name. “Bittle, it’s your birthday. You shouldn’t be crying.”
“Oh, you.” Bitty releases a shaky breath and lets a few more tears fall. He’s not sure he’s ever been held by Jack like this, without layers of pads in the way; they’re so close he can feel Jack’s heartbeat.
There’s a warmth in Bitty’s chest, a little flame that ignites whenever he’s near Jack…or when he thinks about Jack, or rolls his eyes at Jack from across the room when Ransom and Holster are being particularly ridiculous, but tonight it’s something else, too. Maybe it’s the feeling of being loved back. Not in a romantic way, but in a way that reminds Bitty his team has his back. And yes, maybe there is a little bit of longing there, an acknowledgement that Bitty feels the most for Jack, but he’s learned to live with that truth. “These are happy tears.”
Jack keeps patting Bitty’s back and who knows, maybe they would stay like this forever, but Bitty only turns twenty once, as Ransom and Holster keep reminding him, and there’s a cup of tub juice with his name on it. As they pull apart, Bitty notices the darker patch of gray on Jack’s shirt where his tears fell and wonders if Jack’s embarrassed about it.
Is it rude to leave your own birthday party to bake? Well, it’s not anything Bitty hasn’t done before. It’s sweet, the way everybody keeps wishing Bitty happy birthday and asking him to pose for selfies like he’s some sort of campus celebrity—like he’s Jack. He wants to enjoy it, but he also longs to get his hands on that oven and christen her with an inaugural bake. Poor Betsy II must be feeling terribly cold and neglected in her new home.
He waits an acceptable amount of time to sneak back into the kitchen. “You’re the only girl I’ll ever love,” he whispers as he runs his hand along Betsy II’s smooth white control panel. “Not to speak ill of the dead,” he adds, “but your predecessor didn’t really know how to please a man.”
From the doorway, a throat clears. “Bittle? Are you talking to the oven? How much tub juice have you had?”
Bitty startles, almost loses his balances as he pivots to see Jack standing in the doorway, mouth quirked up in an almost-smile.
“Mister Zimmermann, you darn near gave me a heart attack! You’re interrupting a private moment.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “Between you and, uh—does this one have a name yet?”
“Betsy II,” Bitty informs him.
Jack pulls a glass from the cupboard and fills it from the tap. “Well, I’ll leave you and Betsy II alone to get back to … whatever it was you were in the middle of. I’m glad you like the oven.” As Jack raises his glass in an awkward farewell, that flame in Bitty’s chest heats up by a few degrees.
“Pie’ll ready in a bit,” Bitty tells Jack’s retreating back.
Bitty can’t stop thinking about it as he looks over every inch of the oven, testing the stovetop knobs and admiring its perfectly clean inside. Despite everybody’s insistence that it was a group gift, Bitty only knows one person who can actually afford this type of extravagance. And it is an extravagance. As much as an oven is a necessity for any functional kitchen, well, this kitchen wasn’t all that functional before Bitty got here, and somehow they managed.
Dex is always stressing about how to pay for the things his scholarships and financial aid won’t cover. Lardo bought the store brand of colored pencils last week because they were cheaper than the fancy art ones she likes. Chowder was disappointed that he couldn’t afford to get Cait roses for their three month anniversary. Nursey and Shitty don’t want for anything, it’s true, but how much would they really contribute to this gift?
Which leads to Bitty’s final and most pressing question: Why did Jack Zimmermann buy him most of an oven?
Suddenly, pie can wait. Right now he has bigger fish to fry. Bigger Canadian moose to hunt? Bitty whispers a hasty goodbye to Betsy II and does a quick circuit of the first floor—narrowly avoiding getting introduced to a cute soccer player by Ransom and Holster, who keep chanting “birthday sex” in his ear—but Jack is nowhere to be found. He spots Camilla Collins hanging out near Shitty and Lardo and instinctively looks around for Jack, but he’s not there.
“Bits! Birthday boy!” Shitty slings an arm around Bitty’s shoulder and pulls him close enough that Bitty can smell the beer on his breath. “Did you see Rans and Holster? A little birdie told me they have a birthday surprise for you.”
“Get it, Bits.” Lardo says encouragingly.
“Is Jack here?” Camilla asks, addressing Bitty, and isn’t that the question of the night. Bitty takes small comfort in the knowledge that if Camilla doesn’t know where Jack is, it probably means she isn’t here with him. Probably.
Shitty starts to say something about Bitty being too sober for his own party and calls to the frogs to bring them another rounds of beers, but Bitty mumbles an excuse about needing something in his room and dashes upstairs before anybody can bring him anything.
And now, he’s standing in front of Jack’s closed door. “Jack? You in there?” he asks, knocking lightly. Shitty would barge in, but on the off chance Jack brought some girl up here, Bitty would prefer not to know; the memory of the first time Bitty caught Jack in the middle of a moment that was supposed to be private is still seared into his brain.
“Euh … you can come in, Bittle.” Okay, well, it doesn’t sound like Jack is preoccupied with somebody else. Bitty tentatively opens the door and peeks inside.
Jack’s slouched in his armchair, chin in hand, legs spread in a way that makes it impossible to ignore how thick his thighs are. And it’s not like Bitty hasn’t seen them before; shoot, he’s seen Jack in just his underwear in the locker room dozens of times. But there’s something about the way he looks now, so relaxed and comfortable even in old jeans, that makes Bitty’s face heat right up when he thinks about what he wants to do to those thighs.
Jack’s full attention is on something on the laptop balanced on one of the chair’s arms. Hockey, by the sounds of it. His eyes flick up toward Bitty and then return to his screen. “Wanna see this play?”
“You left my party,” Bitty accuses. He doesn’t realize how hurt he is until he hears it in his voice. Jack must hear it too, because he snaps the laptop shut and sets it on the shelf to the side.
“So did you,” Jack notes, and Bitty suddenly wants to shake him. “Weren’t you having fun?”
Oh, this boy. Does he really not get it?
“I was having fun!” Bitty protests. “But …”
“But?”
Bitty takes another step forward. One more step and he’ll be in the space between Jack’s legs, close enough to…
“I think we both know why I’m here instead of down there,” Bitty whispers, digging deep within himself to find the words that have been on the tip of his tongue all evening. All semester. Ever since that day in the kitchen, which seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago.
Jack sits up, all but eliminating the distance between them. “Do we?” And that’s a question, but somewhere in the back of Bitty’s mind it registers that Jack doesn’t seem at all surprised that Bitty is here. Somewhere in the back of Bitty’s mind, he thinks Jack was waiting for him.
And maybe that’s what does it, pushes Bitty through the underlying fear that rejection lies on the other side of confession. It’s his birthday. Jack bought him an oven. He can be brave.
“We do,” Bitty says, more confidently. One more step and now Jack’s legs bracket Bitty on either side. “But I don’t want to be the first to say it because if I’m wrong this will be a whole lot more embarrassing for me than it is for you.”
“Bits,” Jack says. His voice sounds hoarse, raw.
“Jack, sweetheart, you bought me an oven.”
“Everybody chipped in,” Jack insists, and oh, this boy is stubborn, isn’t he? Well, that’s Jack Zimmermann for you.
Bitty rolls his eyes in exasperation. “I know how much ovens cost, Jack. I made a whole Pinterest board of models I like just in case we ever collected enough fines to buy a new one.”
“I know. How do you think we knew which one to buy? Lardo showed me,” he adds, confirming Bitty’s suspicion that Jack wouldn’t have known what Pinterest is without some outside help.
Bitty takes another step forward. “Why?”
“Because you deserve it,” Jack says simply.
Bitty can’t get any closer without ending up in Jack’s lap, so he places a hand on Jack’s shoulder. They’re so close, yet Bitty doesn’t know if they’ve ever felt farther apart. The distance between wanting and having is going to kill him. And all the while, Jack’s eyes have never left him.
The opening notes of “Single Ladies” waft up from downstairs and Holster’s bellow of, “Bits! Bitty, get your tight little booty over here, it’s our song!” startles them. Bitty jerks his hand away and stumbles backward. Jack throws himself forward and grasps Bitty’s wrist, preventing him from falling on his ass, but he sits back so quickly that Bitty stumbles forward, unable to stop himself from landing in Jack’s lap.
(Jack’s thighs are so firm, is Bitty’s first ridiculous thought.)
“Hi,” Bitty whispers, forehead inches away from Jack’s. A hysterical giggle rises in his throat.
“Bittle.” As much as Bitty has become so fluent in deciphering Jack Zimmermann’s microexpressions over the last six months, he detects nothing on Jack’s face that might give him insight into how Jack feels about this.
Except for this one thing: the way Jack is looking at him, so intently, is the way he looks when he’s focused on making a goal. It occurs to Bitty that two years ago he probably would have mistaken this look for anger, or at the very least indifference. Now he knows it’s the way Jack looks when something really matters.
Let me say what I need to say, Bitty thinks, because if I don’t tell you how I feel right now then I never will.
It kills Bitty to think Jack might reject him, but it kills him even more to think Jack might never know how he feels. That Jack will graduate, and move to Providence, and start a new life with new friends and eventually somebody who feels about him the way Bitty feels about him, and they’ll never even know what might have been because they never let themselves have a chance.
“Jack, honey,” Bitty says, more gently this time. His eyes never leave Jack’s. “You bought me an oven.”
And before he can overthink it or talk himself out of it, Bitty surges forward and kisses Jack.
At first, he thinks he’s misread the whole situation. Jack is so stiff; he’s holding back, Bitty can tell. This is not the loose, relaxed Jack who just hours held Bitty like he was something he wanted to hold onto.
“I’m sorry,” Bitty says, rocketing back, almost sliding off Jack’s lap and onto the floor, but Jack hooks a strong arm around Bitty’s waist and steadies him. “I thought—”
Jack cuts Bitty off with a kiss, this one full of feeling and intent. It takes some time, but Bitty can feel Jack relax by degrees. He melts into Bitty’s arms, solid and heavy but never suffocating.
If Bitty were asked, right now, to list his top five moments as a member of Samwell Men’s Hockey, this would definitely be in the top two. His coaches and parents would probably not want to know that the pinnacle of his hockey career to date happens to not involve playing hockey at all, but rather making out with his team captain, but who cares about their opinion? Not Bitty. Not when Jack’s got one hand on Bitty’s thigh and his lips on Bitty’s neck
How many times has Bitty fantasized about this moment, about kissing (and, if he’s honest, doing other things to) Jack in this very chair? The fantasy was nice, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the reality because in the fantasy Bitty couldn’t feel Jack’s heartbeat under his soft worn T-shirt, or hear the low moan Jack makes in the back of his throat when Bitty reaches around to curl his fingers through Jack’s hair.
This is them, Bitty and Jack, and it feels so right to be here in this moment that Bitty can’t imagine his birthday ending any other way.
“I hope that was okay,” Bitty whispers when they finally break apart. All the times Shitty’s lectured him about getting consent from his partners, and it all goes out the window the first time Bitty has an opportunity to put it into practice.
Jack’s smile is fond; there’s no sign of anxiety in his eyes. “I think I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he confesses.
“You know you could’ve told me,” Bitty scolds, “instead of buying me an oven.”
“Had to,” Jack insists, burying his face in Bitty’s shoulder. “You know what they say about the way to a man’s heart.”
“I certainly do, and that is not how that saying goes,” Bitty laughs.
“Well, close enough.” Jack nips at the tender skin at Bitty’s throat, drawing out a surprised giggle. It’s less ticklish than arousing, and Bitty realizes he’s probably going to learn a whole lot of things about himself—and Jack—tonight.
Like how Jack really seems to like touching Bitty everywhere: his thighs, his butt, the small of his back, the back of his neck. Who knew Jack would be so handsy? Bitty doesn’t mind; he wants this boy’s hands all over him, all the time, second only to his desire to have Jack’s mouth on him at all times.
In time, their frenzied explorations become more controlled as they both seem to realize they have time, neither of them is going anywhere.
“Did you get everything you wanted for your birthday?” Jack asks later, when they’re stretched out next to each other on the bed, curled into each other like parentheses. He’s such a little shit because his self-satisfied little smirk (oh, how Bitty loves it when Jack knows exactly how amazing he is) tells Bitty he already knows the answer.
“And then some.” As birthdays go, this one will be hard to top.
“Good,” Jack murmurs into the space between Bitty’s neck and shoulder. And then, so quietly that Bitty almost doesn’t hear him, “If this is your reaction to the oven, I can’t wait for you to see the stuff I picked out for my kitchen.”