Chapter Text
"All is quiet on New Year's Day … Nothing changes on New Year's Day / On New Year's Day" – New Year's Day, U2
December 31, 2014 – New Year’s Eve.
The Haus is empty. It was not supposed to be – Jack and Shitty had agreed to return to the Haus on the thirty-first, so they could celebrate the start of 2015 together, but at the last minute Shitty had been roped into family plans, so even though Shitty is only in Boston (come on, Knight, Boston to Samwell is nothing compared to Montreal to Samwell), Jack is alone for the coming of the new year.
Jack sighs. He is sitting on the couch that Bittle calls a biohazard, the Times Square ball-drop on the television in front of him, a lukewarm beer in his hand. It is his only bottle of the night; he rarely drinks, for a multitude of reasons, and getting schwasted alone on New Years sounds pathetic enough for even Jack to cringe.
The clock shifts to 12:59, and the people on the television begin chanting the countdown: fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven. Jack dully watches the numbers pulse and disappear on the screen, running his fingertip through the condensation of his bottle. He struggles to connect to the excitement of the thousands in New York City. As everyone is hurtling towards the new year, their hearts racing and their heads dizzy with giddiness, Jack feels immovable. The Haus is quiet. The television is quiet. Alone, he is quiet, nothing but the even draw of his breath breaking the heavy winter silence.
The ball drops. The screen is a burst of light and colors, couples kissing and symphony music soaring in the background.
Jack exhales and shuts off the television.
For a moment, he is tempted to simply sit in the pitch-dark living room, soaking in the silence and the loneliness, but then his phone buzzes, and he is pulled from his thoughts. There is a new message to the Samwell Mens’ Hockey group chat from Bittle.
Happy New Year!
There is a long line of celebratory emojis following the words, and responses from the rest of the team quickly appear on Jack’s screen. Jack cannot help smiling. He might be alone, but he is certainly not on his own. He has his team.
Happy 2015, Jack sends, then heaves himself off of the biohazard couch and heads upstairs to bed.
February 14, 2015 – Valentine’s Day.
“Remember how I was bothering you about not having a date for tonight?”
Jack looks at Shitty from the corner of his eye. They are at center ice, waiting their turn to launch a three-pronged weave attack at Chowder. The ice is a place for hockey and only hockey, and Shitty knows Jack lives by that rule, so Jack is not sure why Shitty is bringing up something so blatantly not-hockey.
“Why?” Jack asks shortly.
“We’ve found one person who’ll definitely say yes to a date with you.”
Shitty’s eyes flick towards the stands, and Jack follows his gaze. There is already a decent crowd of Samwell supporters, and it only takes Jack a moment to find what Shitty is referencing: a group of Samwell students are holding up a large sign that reads, Yo, marry me Jack Zimmermann!
Jack’s cheeks flush, and Shitty cackles. “They’re missing a comma,” Jack mutters before taking a puck and rushing forward. He is on ice. Hockey. No thinking about anything outside – no thinking about Valentine’s Day – no thinking about two weeks ago, when he found Bittle hiding under the table as Ransom and Shitty searched for a date for the Georgian boy –
Jack’s shot clangs against the pole. It ricochets into the back of the net, but the noise is enough to return Jack’s focus. Hockey. He is on ice. This is about hockey.
––––––––––
They have a great game, and he scores twice, and after that, it is a pretty normal day for Jack. It does not feel like Valentine’s day. The Haus is not decorated – granted, the Haus never really was decorated for holidays until Bittle moved in, but Bittle has been oddly quiet about this particular holiday. Holster and Ransom leave for their double date, Chowder and Farmer have plans, and Nursey goes into the city to meet up with his family. Dex is dragged out by Shitty to help Lardo with her latest behemoth of a sculpture, and Bittle disappears somewhere, so Jack has the Haus to himself for most of the evening.
Around ten-thirty at night, Jack is preparing to go to bed when his Hausmates begin returning. The Haus is old and not quite soundproof; Jack can hear Ransom and Holster talking as they march up the stairs to their attic, the opening and closing of the front door and the refrigerator. As Jack begins brushing his teeth, he hears Shitty and Bittle beyond the bathroom door that leads to Shitty’s room, and eventually Bittle leaves. Jack walks over, knowing Shitty will want to check in on him. He opens the door just in time to hear a voice say, “Where do I put th–"
It is not Shitty. Bittle whips around, eyes wide, and dangling from his hands is that damn poster.
Yo, marry me Jack Zimmermann!
For a moment Jack stares at the poster. He clearly recalls Shitty demanding that poster after their game, but at the same time, this is Bittle, looking only half-awake and a pretty flush spreading across his cheeks –
Whoa, wait. Pretty?
Jack quickly returns to the bathroom and finishes brushing his teeth. He takes care to floss and to use mouthwash, and he does not think about Bittle. He can hear Shitty through the door again, but Jack still does not think about it. Nope. Not at all.
Jack is a terrible liar.
He opens the door again, and both Shitty and Bittle immediately turn to look at him. Jack nods at Shitty, who salutes him, and then turns to Bittle. That ridiculous cowlick is sticking up again. “Good night, Bittle,” Jack says and then quickly slinks back to his room.
Valentines Day, he decides, is awful.
March 16, 2015 – Saint Patrick’s Day.
Here is the problem:
Jack knows he needs sleep. His body physically functions at its best when it is well-rested, and well-rested means an adequate number of consecutive hours of sleep. But late at night, in that state between consciousness and unconsciousness, Jack’s mind becomes more alive than ever. Every little doubt, every fantastical daydream, comes out of the woodwork and consumes Jack’s thoughts. Distracted, Jack cannot fall asleep – and then he starts worrying about not getting enough sleep, and worrying essentially ensures he will not fall asleep.
They are in the middle of the playoffs, and the team is playing well, and Jack is playing decently, but there is always that doubt: what if it is not enough? What if Jack is not enough? What if someone has a freak accident and it causes everything to go completely wrong?
Nights like this, Jack wishes he had a reset button, but contrary to what Shitty says, Jack is not a robot, so he has to resort to the nearest thing. With a sigh, Jack rolls out of bed and heads downstairs to grab a glass of water.
If he is expecting anything downstairs, it is definitely not to find the kitchen light already on. Inside, Bittle is turned away from him, spine curled over whatever he is working on.
Jack clears his throat, and Bittle jumps. “Jack!” he gasps quietly. “You – goodness, don’t do that!”
“Sorry,” Jack says earnestly. “What are you doing?”
Bittle’s expression turns sheepish. “Finishing some cookies,” he says. “I tried making those leprechaun pies Ransom and Holster requested, but they were absolute disasters, and I still wanted to do something for Saint Patrick’s Day…”
Jack smiles slightly. How characteristic of Bittle, to keep baking until he produced something satisfactory to his own high standards. Looking over Bittle’s shoulder, Jack sees some basic sugar cookies decorated in various Saint Patrick’s Day designs. They look delicious, but it is nearly midnight. Eating something now would screw up Jack’s entire routine.
Jack pulls away from Bittle and grabs a glass from the cupboard. “Make sure you get enough sleep, eh?” he says as he fills his glass.
Bittle snorts. “Aye, Captain,” he says, thickly drawling his words.
Jack grins and lifts his water to Bittle before returning upstairs. After drinking half of the glass, Jack lays down and falls asleep without a problem.
April 5, 2015 – Easter Sunday.
Samwell springs have a distinct advantage over springs back home in Quebec because by April, it is warm enough – and, generally, dry enough – to go running outdoors. As much as he lives and breathes the ice, running is a different kind of catharsis for Jack. The air rasping in his lungs is crisp, sharp, and fresh, and though his knees sometimes protest the repetitive pounding on pavement, there is a satisfying stretch and burn in Jack’s calves.
It is a Sunday morning, so Jack does not expect anyone to be up in the Haus when he returns, but when he sees a silhouette moving in the kitchen window, he remembers this is not any old Sunday. Today is Easter Sunday.
Sure enough, Bittle is flitting around the kitchen, buzzing with a level of energy he only every achieves before creating a feast of a holiday meal or before going on ice against a team notorious for checking. Bittle smiles when he sees Jack, his hands swiftly husking corn with a practiced ease. “Morning!” he says brightly.
Jack fills a glass of water and grabs a banana before sitting down at the kitchen counter. “Cooking for an army, eh?” he asks, taking off his hat.
Bittle smacks Jack’s wrist when he tries to put his hat on the counter. “No man-sweat on the cooking surface,” he scolds, and Jack grins. “And no chirping me if you want to eat any of this tonight.”
“What are you making?” Bittle launches into a detailed description of each dish he is making. Honestly, Jack does not listen closely. Sure, he hears words like ham and corn and Betsy and butter, but he is more absorbed in the animation of Bittle’s expression and hands, the unconscious half-smile on his lips even as he says, disgustedly, “And I’m making real sweet tea, not that revolting sugary sludge you northerns try to pass off as sweet tea.”
“Are you telling me I’ve never had real sweet tea before?” Jack asks.
Bittle glares. “No, you have not, Mr. Zimmermann. Not yet.” Bittle finishes husking the last ear of corn – he has three heaping plates of corn, now – and picks up his phone to tap something out. A text, maybe, or a tweet. Bittle is always tweeting.
“Can I help with anything?” Jack asks.
Bittle pauses, cocking his hip to the side as he contemplates. “Take a shower and come back in an hour,” he eventually says. “I’ll put your muscles to good use.”
Jack’s stomach swoops, but he does his best to ignore it. “Sounds good,” he says, rising from his seat. “Don’t burn down the Haus while I’m showering.”
“Jack, I am insulted that you think me capable of starting a kitchen fire!”
Jack grins at Bittle before leaving the kitchen.
May 5, 2015 – Eric Richard Bittle’s Birthday.
When Bittle starts crying, Jack cannot stop the feeling of victory blooming in his chest and the smile that curls his lips. Yeah, Jack did good.
Bittle has a hand pressed to his mouth. “I can’t believe y’all – How’d y’all – when did y’all –" He cannot make a full sentence or question, but he does not need to.
“You’ve been bitchin' about that oven for a month, Bits,” Shitty says.
“Dex and Rans and I installed it,” Holsters says proudly.
“Bro, you didn’t do shit –"
“Bro, I managed it all.”
“It was Jack’s idea!” Chowder gushes.
Bittle turns to Jack, and it hits Jack like an elbow to the gut, the flush high in Bittle’s cheeks and the watery glisten of his eyes. “Jack,” he says, exasperated and happy all at once, and Jack smiles.
“Happy Birthday, Bittle,” he says, lifting an arm.
Bittle throws his arms around Jack, pressing his face into Jack’s chest, and Jack is positively soaring. Bittle is getting tears and probably snot all over Jack’s shirt, but Jack could not care less, because Bittle’s tears are happy tears and Jack caused them.
The party, of course, morphs into some sort of halfway kegster thing because there is beer and they are on a college campus. The entire time, Jack sticks near Bittle, who sticks near the oven and occasionally strokes it. “I need to bake something right this second!” Bittle says at least fifteen times, and Jack has to remind him to wait until his kitchen is a little less crowded. When Jack is not talking to Bittle, he is taking photos – of his teammates, of his friends, of Bittle.
The party quiets down earlier than a full-blown kegster; by midnight, the Haus is occupied only by Samwell hockey men, and Bittle is whipping up a pie. It is the exact same pie as the first pie he baked this school year. Not that Jack is keeping track or anything.
“You want to set down that camera and help me with the lattice?” Bittle asks.
There is a smear of flour across Bittle’s cheek. Jack wants to brush it off with his thumb. “I think I’d best leave the baking to you,” he says.
Bittle smiles. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Jack does not admit that he prefers watching Bittle as he dances around the kitchen, singing along to his music and shutting drawers with little hip-checks. Bittle is always so relaxed in the kitchen, and it occurs to Jack that the kitchen is to Bittle as ice is to Jack: a home, an escape, a moment to pause and catch his breath in the middle of the chaotic stream of everyday life.
“Jack? Jack, are you all right?”
Jack blinks back to the present. Bittle’s countenance is one of perfect concern, and Jack smiles to reassure Bittle. “Never been better,” he says, and it is not until he is wrapped up in his own sheets at two AM that he realizes how true his response is.
May 18, 2015 – Graduation.
Graduation is at once too slow and far too fast. The commencement ceremony drags on, but lunch is there in a blink of an eye; Jack’s conversations with his teammates are quick, yet he spends forever talking to his dad’s ex-teammates and ex-opponents. Jack has just finished saying his goodbyes to Lardo – “You better keep in touch, Jack, I don’t care how famous you get” – when his mother comes up and lays a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“Your father and his friends are ready to go when you are,” she says. She is still wearing that small half-smile she has had since Class Day.
Jack looks beyond her shoulder and sees his father with a few of his ex-teammates. Their plan is to spend the afternoon and evening in Boston, then return to Montreal the next day, where Jack has a couple of weeks before heading to the Falconers’ training camp. Jack has said his goodbyes to nearly everyone, and he knows he will see Ransom and Holster when he returns to the Haus to grab the last of his things, so that just leaves …
Bittle.
“J’suis presque prêt,” Jack says, and his mother nods. She presses a kiss to his cheek before returning to his father.
Jack starts walking without much direction. The team had eaten together, and he somewhat assumes Bittle would stick around that area; Jack had only been dragged away by his dad’s friends and Coaches Hall and Murray, and then more people had come …
Suddenly Jack catches a flash of golden hair. He waits a moment just to confirm it is Bittle, and when he does, he picks up his pace. “Bittle!” he calls.
Bittle turns and immediately puts on the wobbly smile he has been using for the last three weeks. Bittle has been upset, no doubt, and Jack has not been able to figure out why, and it is driving him insane. He hates it when Bittle is upset. Bittle is the embodiment of energy and brightness and smiles, one of the brightest fixtures in Jack’s life – if Jack’s source of happiness is feeling sad, then where does that leave Jack?
“Congratulations, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bittle says for what is probably the tenth time in the last two days when Jack is near enough.
“Come here,” Jack says, opening his arms wide.
Their hug brings Jack back to Bittle’s birthday, when Bittle had cried because he was so overwhelmed. Bittle is not crying now, but he is shaking a little, and Jack wraps his arms around the smaller boy even tighter, curling his body protectively over Bittle.
He is leaving this. Jack is leaving this all behind.
It feels like that time that one Quinnipiac defensemen had executed a perfect hip-check and slammed Jack into the boards so hard that his breath had left him. This could be the last time Jack is at Samwell with all of his teammates. This could be the last time Jack sees Bittle – and Jack knows, instantly, that he does not want that.
“Bittle –” he says, his words muffled against Bittle’s neck.
“Yes?”
“I –” Mon dieu, Zimmermann. Just get it out. It may be your only chance. “It’s been a really good year.”
Bittle pulls back a little, and Jack reluctantly releases him. Bittle’s smile is still shaky, but it is more genuine now. “I’m glad you think so.”
Jack swallows. He reaches out to put a hand on Bittle’s shoulder, then stops, then thinks fuck it, and puts his hand there anyway. “Promise me something?” he asks. His heart hammers wildly in his chest, and he can only imagine what expression he must be wearing.
“Anything,” Bittle replies readily.
“Come see me sometime this summer,” Jack says. “Or I can come to you, in Georgia. Just –" Another hard swallow. “Don’t let this be the last time.”
Bittle’s whole face lights up even as tears well in the corner of his eyes. “I won’t,” he says fiercely. “But half of it is on you, okay? You have to promise to try and see me, too.”
Jack squeezes Bittle’s shoulder. “I promise,” he swears, holding Bittle’s gaze evenly.
Bittle nods his head jerkily, and Jack pulls him in for another hug. Bittle’s hands fist in the back of Jack’s graduation robes, and Jack closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of Bittle’s shampoo. Je te promets, he thinks. Je te promets.
July 4, 2015 – Independence Day.
Jack has spent the Fourth of July in the United States before, but nothing could have prepared him for the Bittle family celebration of their country’s independence.
Jack wakes up at five-thirty AM to the sound of electric beaters in the kitchen. When he pads out of the guest room, still half-asleep, he discovers that Bittle’s room is empty, his bed already neatly made (with Señor Bunny halfway hidden behind a pillow). Continuing to the kitchen reveals the blond boy already up and baking with his mother.
“Morning, Jack!” Bittle says, chipper as always.
Jack nods and smiles at Suzanne when she pats his arm as she walks by with a tray of some sort of unbaked pastry. “I’m going for a quick run,” Jack says.
“Jack, honey, it’s a holiday! You can take a day off!” Suzanne cries.
“Don’t bother, Mama,” Bittle says, eyeing Jack in a way that guarantees a chirp. “Jack’s a hockey robot. He’s been programmed to workout every day.”
Suzanne laughs, and Jack cannot help smiling too. “Don’t be gone for too long!” Suzanne warns. “Or there might not be any pancakes left when you come back!”
There are plenty of pancakes when Jack comes back, and there is also a multitude of Bittle extended family. It takes a couple hours for Jack to get used to tripping over the giggling packs of little blond Bittle cousins, and after a quick lunch of sandwiches and deliciously juicy peaches, Jack is dragged into a game of touch football. During the game he learns the name of some of the older cousins and the uncles, and it is not until he begs out of another game that Jack is able to return indoors and meet Bittle’s female relations.
Bittle is the only male in the kitchen who is over eight years old, but he seems as comfortable in this kitchen, surrounded by women, as he is when the Samwell hockey men are hovering over him in the Haus kitchen. Jack tries to help when he first comes in, but it quickly becomes apparent that he is more of a hindrance than a help, so he settles for taking up the least amount of space possible at the counter and listening to the general conversation. Every so often, he catches himself watching Bittle, and Jack has to look at the ground and slap his thigh a bit.
It has been about a month and a half since he last shared a physical space with Bittle; since graduation, they have kept in touch through texting and occasionally a Skype call. Jack misses him like hell, and he has started to get the sense that Bittle really misses him, too. Every time Jack initiates a video call, Bittle looks ecstatic when he answers, and even when they both have to go – to get sleep, to get to a commitment – neither of them wants to hang up.
Just a week ago Shitty and Lardo had roadtripped down to Providence to visit him at camp. Late one night, when Shitty was stoned and nearly naked on Jack’s living room floor and Lardo was stroking Jack’s hair as he used her lap as a pillow, Jack asked, “What does it mean that I’m constantly thinking about someone who is never around?”
“Depends on who this someone is,” Lardo said.
“Someone I know,” Jack murmured.
“Relative?” Shitty asked.
Jack could feel his cheeks starting to redden. “No.”
For a moment his living room was silent. Jack closed his eyes, thinking about nothing but Lardo’s fingers softly carding through his hair.
“My friend,” Shitty finally said, “you might just have a crush.”
----------
Dinner has to be the largest spread Jack has ever seen. Coach (Jack cannot call him Mr. Bittle with at least three other Mr. Bittles in the vicinity, and Jack still has not learned his first name) and his brothers and brother-in-laws drag out five picnic tables from the shed in the backyard, and one of those is dedicated just to food. Jack is dragged by the young Bittle cousins to sit with them on the grass to eat, so Jack eats a hearty dinner of burgers and coleslaw and potato salad with five different toddlers climbing all over him. Suzanne comes over at one point to rescue him, but Jack waves her off. He likes the kids.
Bittle finds him after dessert, a slice of pie in one hand and a smile twitching on his lips. “You holdin’ up all right?” he asks, sitting on the ground next to Jack.
“I’ll be fine,” Jack replies, “so long as I don’t have to eat that pie.”
Bittle pouts, and Jack laughs, insisting, “I’m full, Bittle. I’ve already had pie.”
“You haven’t tried this one.”
“I’ll explode.”
“Come on, Jack. I swear you’ll like it.”
Jack sighs. “Fine.”
It is delicious, like every other thing Jack has eaten in the last twenty-four hours. “Did you make this one?” he asks between bites.
Bittle hums, and Jack assumes that means yes. “You excited for the fireworks?” Bittle asks.
“You have fireworks?”
Bittle waves a hand. “Oh, sweetheart, no. Not here. Not with the kids around. We go to the golf course; you can see the ones in town real well from there.”
Sweetheart. The word echoes in Jack’s head for a moment. It is an innocent little sobriquet, but Jack immediately wants to see how many times he can make Bittle call him that.
“When do those start?” Jack asks.
“Ten. We’ll be leaving at half past nine.” Bittle gets up and takes Jack’s now empty plate with him. “I need to go help the aunts tidy up.”
“Can I help?” Jack asks. He has felt rather useless today.
“Sure,” Bittle says, and oh, his eyes are twinkling. Chirp coming soon. “You can let my cousins use you as a playground.”
Jack glares without any heat, and Bittle pats his head before heading back into the house.
An hour later the Bittle clan plus Jack have successfully made it to the golf course. Jack and Bittle are finally left to themselves; the younger cousins are pried off of Jack, and Bittle eagerly leads him further up the sloping golf course and towards a small copse of trees. “You get the best views from up here!” Bittle calls over his shoulder.
They get settled only five minutes before the show starts. They are sitting on a blanket with another one spread across their legs. Bittle is positively buzzing next to Jack, and Jack’s lips twitch into a grin. Bittle is happy. He is happy. It is a simple correlation.
Suddenly Bittle turns towards him, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry we didn’t spend more time together today,” he says. “And you’re leaving tomorrow –"
“Hey, I’ve had a good time,” Jack cuts in.
“Really?”
“Really.”
There is a boom, and Bittle jumps, causing Jack to laugh. “Hush, you,” Bittle scolds, “They’re starting.”
Jack looks out over the golf course. In front of him, the Bittle clan and other residents of Bittle’s town are camped out across the course; beyond them, in the night sky, bursts of colored lights explode in front of the stars.
The fireworks only hold Jack’s attention for so long. At some point Bittle heaves a sigh and relaxes, leaning against Jack’s arm, and Jack turns to watch him instead. Bittle is tired, no doubt – he has been up since dawn and spent more than twelve hours straight in the kitchen. Despite his fatigue, however, there is a contentment across his countenance, a relaxed and happy set to his brow.
Jack is not sure how for long he stares at Bittle. Eventually he finds the courage to lick his lips and say, “Bittle?”
Bittle turns to him and inhales sharply when Jack’s face is closer than expected. His eyes, now wide and alert, dart across Jack’s face; Jack’s pulse is skyrocketing, sweat beading on his forehead. He licks his lips again and chokes out, “Can I –”
“Yes,” Bittle exhales.
Bittle surges forward too quickly, and their noses crash a bit, but then Jack gets a hand on Bittle’s jaw, and it turns into a proper kiss. Something inside of Jack’s chest is positively singing, even as his mind refuses to believe this is happening. Complètement impossible.
He pulls away from Bittle, his eyes sliding open. Bittle sighs before his own eyes open. Instantly they fill with hesitation, and Jack’s stomach plummets.
“What … what was that?” Bittle asks shakily.
“I –” Do it, Zimmermann, fucking do it. “I like you?”
It was not supposed to come out as a question, but it makes Bittle laugh, and relief floods through Jack. “Sweetheart,” Bittle says, fondly exasperated, then leans into Jack’s space again.
Jack grabs Bittle by the waist and guides him to straddle Jack’s hips. They kiss, and kiss some more, and the fireworks are completely forgotten, until the faint sound of the Bittle clan’s applauding reaches their ears. Jack and Bittle reluctantly pull apart, and Jack takes his chance to reach up and push back Bittle’s hair.
“Incroyable,” Jack murmurs.
Bittle frowns. “Is that good?”
Jack laughs, kissing Bittle shortly once more. “It’s great,” he promises.
October 31, 2015 – Halloween.
“Hey, Jamie, look! It’s Jack!”
Jack looks up from the kid he is talking to to see Vicks, his teammate, walking over with his son, Jamie, in his arms. Jack cannot recognize Jamie’s costume, but then again, he has only recognized two costumes tonight, and one of the kids had chosen to dress as Bad Bob.
Jamie’s face splits into a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Jack!” he squeals, and Vicks sets him down to let him run to Jack.
Jack smiles and catches Jamie when the kid launches himself into Jack’s arms. “Hey, Jamie.”
Vicks crouches so he can be eye-level with Jack. “I don’t know why the kids love you, Zimmermann,” he says, shaking his head with mild amusement.
Jack shrugs. “I’d tell you if I knew,” he says, then squirms in the following silence. Vicks is nearly a decade older than him – old, for a hockey player.
“Jack! Jack, guess who I am,” Jamie demands.
Jack puts his hands on Jamie’s tiny shoulders and looks him up and down, furrowing his brow. “A robot?” he eventually asks, and Jamie giggles.
“No! I’m Bucky Barnes!”
“Of course! I can’t believe I didn’t know that.”
Vicks claps Jack’s shoulder and stands up. “Can I leave Jamie with you for a bit?”
Jack looks at the five or so other kids already gathered around him. “Sure. What’s another kid, eh?”
Vicks shakes his head again. “At this rate, you’ll be designated team babysitter soon.”
Jack spends the majority of the Falconers’ Halloween party with his teammates’ kids. He honestly has no idea why the kids love him so much, but he does not mind; talking to the kids is always easier than talking to the adults. Mostly, he just listens to the kids babble and gush about whatever comes to their minds and keeps them from spilling food or drinks.
Georgia finds him at one point when Carlie is arranging her Princess Tiana crown on Jack’s head. Immediately Georgia takes out her phone, smiling as she says, “This is too cute. Can I take a photo?”
Jack grins. “Sure.”
“Kids!” Georgia says, “Gather round, Georgia wants to take a photo of you and Jack!”
Ten small humans are instantly climbing all over Jack, and Jack is caught mid-laugh by Georgia’s camera flash. “Can I post this to the team Instagram?” Georgia asks. “You have to let me do it. This photo is gold.”
“Sure,” Jack says. Georgia is always on a million different social media sites for the Falconers.
Jack does not think much more about the photo until he arrives back at his apartment late that night and finally has time to check his cell phone. There are a few texts, from his teammates or his ex-Samwell teammates or his parents, but the one that catches his eye – the only one he really cares about – is from Bittle.
Still being a playground for little humans, are you?
Jack smiles.
Just fulfilling my teammate duties.
Bittle’s reply comes a few minutes later: Happy Halloween, sweetheart.
That night, Jack falls asleep with a smile on his face.
November 26, 2015 – Thanksgiving.
The Haus is as welcomingly dilapidated as usual when Jack pulls into the short driveway, and he only has to step out of the car to smell the rich scent of a Thanksgiving feast on its way to completion. Jack smiles as he walks up the steps and sees Bittle’s Haus Sweet Haus welcome mat, slightly more worn than it was the last time Jack stepped on it.
When he opens the door, Bittle immediately calls from the kitchen, “Dex, is that you? The blender is on the fritz again –“
“Overworking your poor blender, eh?” Jack asks, crossing the threshold into the kitchen.
Bittle whips around, eyes wide and hands covered in some sort of sauce. “Jack!” he exclaims.
He is quick to wipe off his hands and fling himself in Jack’s direction. Jack catches him and wraps his arms around Bittle’s middle, pressing his nose into Bittle’s hair. He smells like sweat and his kitchen, and Jack would not have it any other way.
“What are you doing here?” Bittle demands when he finally pulls away from Jack.
“We have a couple days off,” Jack replies, “and my parents have their own plans, so I figured I’d swing by. Maybe … stay the night?”
Bittle’s face flushes deeply, and he is saved from having to respond by the sound of two large defensemen clattering down the stairs. “I SENSE ANOTHER CANADIAN,” Ransom hollers, and that is all the warning Jack receives before Ransom and Holster sandwich him between them.
“Bro, you think you can fucking sneak in on us like that?” Ransom demands, ruffling Jack’s hair.
“Bitty can’t get all of you,” Holster stresses, his glasses digging into the side of Jack’s head.
Jack laughs. Man, he has missed his telepathic defenders.
Soon everyone else is piling into the kitchen, Chowder and Nursey and then the new frogs who have only ever heard stories about Jack, and then there are too many people, so Bittle shoos them out of his domain. Jack joins everyone else in the living room for a few minutes, but as soon as he can, he escapes back to the kitchen. “How can I help?” he asks, and Bittle immediately shoves a potato and a peeler into his hand.
As the two cook together, Jack listens to Bittle catch him up to speed on life at Samwell. Jack and Bittle try to make a point of calling each other once a week, but there is only so much that can fit into one call, and even Skype has nothing on standing next to Bittle as he recounts a harrowing tale about the frogs, his arms flying in every which direction as he tells his story.
Dex comes back to the Haus about an hour after Jack has arrived, and after saying hello to Jack, he is put to work on fixing the blender. Once he has the appliance up and running again, he joins Jack and Bittle in the food preparation.
“Bittle lets you into his kitchen, eh?” Jack asks the redhead.
Dex grins. “Yeah, he does. Nurse can’t cook for shit and Chowder –”
“My poor son Chowder,” Bittle laments, interrupting Dex. “He’s sweet and precious but he almost burnt down this Haus, and that earns anyone a lifetime ban from the kitchen.”
Jack grins. Bittle is fiercely protective of Chowder, but if there is anything he is more protective of, it is the Haus kitchen.
Dex is also smiling. “Anyway, I passed Bitty’s test in October, so I get free rein.”
“Almost free rein,” Bittle reminds him. “You aren’t allowed to do pies.”
“That’s only because Rans and Holster won’t eat them!”
“Bittle made you take a test?” Jack asks, lips curling with amusement.
Dex nods. “Oh, yeah. Five course meal, how to hold a knife and all the different ways to cut vegetables –”
“Don’t you dare start chirping me, Jack,” Bittle says, eyes narrowing sharply. “One word, and you’re out of this kitchen.”
Jack mimes zipping his lips shut and bumps Bittle with his hip, making Bittle’s fierce expression soften.
The entire Samwell team comes over for the feast. Jack helps Nursey and Rans set up two long tables in the Haus’s front yard as the Samwell men who do not live in the Haus start flocking over. More than a few of the freshman double take when they see Jack, but no one harasses him for autographs or photos – the work of his old Hausmates, Jack does not doubt. He is grateful that they still look out for him.
Dinner is superb, Bittle’s pies are somehow even better, and when Jack and Bittle are settled on the roof late that night, a contended warmth spreads through Jack’s body. He slides down in his chair, so he can rest his head on Bittle’s shoulder, and Bittle raises a hand to Jack’s hair, carding his fingers through the black mess.
“How long can you stay for?” Bittle asks Jack.
“I have to drive out tomorrow afternoon,” Jack mumbles, his eyelids threateningly heavy.
Bittle hums. “Let’s go to Boston tomorrow morning,” he suggests. “Shitty is in the city.” Bittle laughs at the unintentional rhyme.
Jack nods. “Isn’t Lardo staying with him right now?”
“I think so.”
It would be nice to see his old classmates again. Jack knew he would miss Samwell after he graduated, but he never imagined he would miss it this much. When he was living in the Haus, he never had to worry about getting out or talking to his friends – they were right there for him, and if Jack ever spent too long in his room, Shitty or Lardo would inevitably come drag him outside. He had his own little makeshift family to care for him here. In Providence, sure, he has his teammates, but his apartment gets lonely.
He does not even realize he is drifting off until Bittle is nudging his ribs. “You’re going to crush me, you hockey-playing giant,” Bittle grumbles. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
Jack lets Bittle maneuver him off the roof and through the window to Bittle’s room. Moving wakes him up a little bit; he is able to brush his teeth and change into sleepwear before collapsing in Bittle’s bed. Bittle joins him a minute later, burrowing himself into Jack’s chest. Jack throws the covers over them both and wraps his arms around Bittle, pressing a kiss to the blond’s forehead. Jack feels Bittle smile against his collarbone. “G’night, sweetheart,” Bittle mumbles, and Jack bumps his nose against Bittle’s head.
“Night, Bittle.”
December 25, 2015 – Christmas.
“– and when Mama Bittle was rooting around the attic earlier this year, she found a box of her grandmother’s things – that’d be my great-grandmother – and she found a notebook with handwritten recipes. Handwritten! And of course, most of them I already knew, since my mama learned them from her mama who learned them from my great-grandmother, but some of them are brand new! Well, not new. But I’ve never tried them before.”
Bittle looks ready to burst with excitement, and Jack wishes he could reach through his laptop screen and kiss him senseless. Jack recognizes Bittle’s bedroom from his visit this July; in the background, he can see Señor Bunny donning a Santa hat, and Bittle himself, who occupies the majority of the screen, is wearing a Christmas sweater, though Jack cannot imagine it ever really gets cold enough to wear sweaters down in Georgia.
“Will I get to taste the ones you like?” Jack asks.
“Of course,” Bittle says, waving his hand. He leans forward in his seat, closer to the screen. “Who’s in Montreal with you?”
“Just my parents,” Jack says, glancing at his bedroom door. It is only halfway open, but Jack cannot be bothered to take off his headphones in order to close it. “But some of my other relatives will be coming over for Boxing Day.”
Bittle nods, propping his chin on his fist. “That sounds like fun.”
Jack shrugs. “I don’t know. It gets kind of loud.”
“Can’t get to bed early, Grandpa?”
Jack glares, and Bittle laughs. “Just bake them a pie,” Bittle suggests. “You’re physically there, but you can claim to be too busy baking. And once you’re finished, the pie will distract them so much you can sneak away.”
Jack snorts, but nevertheless starts cataloging pie ingredients in the back of his mind. Bittle’s suggestion sounds legitimate enough, and Jack has been trying to learn to bake.
Jack glances at the clock. It is almost five in the evening, and his family is attending a church service at six. “I need to go,” he reluctantly tells Bittle. “Have to get ready for church.”
Bittle nods understandingly. “We’re going to Midnight Mass tonight,” he says. He smiles, cheeks rounding. “Look out for my package, all right?”
Jack nods. “And you watch for mine.”
“Of course.”
“I love you.”
Bittle’s cheeks redden, and Jack grins. Jack will never get over Bittle’s blush. “Love you, too,” the blond says and waves before ending the Skype call.
Jack pulls off his headphones and then nearly has a heart attack when he notices his mother standing in his doorway. His throat suddenly goes dry. “Tu as entendu?” he asks.
His mother nods. “Un peu. Je passais ta chambre –”
Tabarnac. Jack has to ask. “Et j’ai dit…?”
His mother’s eyebrows draw together. “‹‹Je t’aime››,” she says quietly.
His parents do not know about his relationship, and thus they certainly do not know that Jack spends most of his not-hockey time thinking about and talking to Bittle. Neither of them is out to their parents yet, though Jack is fairly sure Suzanne already knows about Bittle (not that he would ever tell Bittle that; Bittle would freak out). Jack has talked to Bittle about coming out, but that conversation was months ago, and at the time, Jack’s only plan had been eventually. Really, Jack has been waiting for the right time because he knows there is no such thing as the right time – but. But now is an opportunity, is it not?
Jack looks at his mother again. Her expression is one of concern and sympathy, her right eyebrow just higher than her left, and something settles in Jack’s gut. His heart stops pounding so quickly. His mother has supported him for twenty-plus years; she has seen him at his worst, and yet she is still standing at the threshold of his bedroom, ready to help him in any way she can. Gratitude and love for his mother swell in Jack’s chest, and suddenly he is on the verge of crying, so he blurts out the words before any tears can fall. “Je parlais à Bittle.”
Jack can see the exact moment when his mother puts two and two together; her eyebrows lifts and her mouth drops open. He cannot tell what she is thinking, though, so when the silence continues to drag on, Jack whispers, “Maman?”
The word unfreezes his mother, and she comes into his room and sits on his bed. “Mon fils,” she says, her eyes glistening, but – but that is a smile. Relief floods through Jack, and he slumps forward, dropping his forehead against his mother’s collar bone as his mother wraps her arms around him. In the dark cave of her embrace, Jack lets his own tears fall, sliding silently down his cheeks.
It is not long, however, before his mother pulls back. She puts her hands on either side of Jack’s face, gently forcing him to make eye contact with her, and she says, “Je suis fière de toi.”
Jack swallows.“Ne dis rien à Papa?”
“Absolument rien.”
His mother’s expression, determined and protective, assures Jack even more than her words. Somehow, she understands that Jack wants to come out to his father on his own. “Merci, Maman,” Jack whispers, and his mother gives him the gentlest smile, her thumbs sweeping across his cheeks to wipe away his tears.
December 31, 2015 & January 1, 2016 – New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.
Exactly one year ago, Jack was slouched in the biohazard couch, eyes glazing over as he watched the Times Square ball drop on television. And even though Jack is awaiting the New Year at the Haus once again, that moment feels an entire world away from his present.
He hears a window slide open, and then Bittle is slipping out onto the roof, two glasses of ginger ale in hand. “Mr. Zimmermann,” he says, handing Jack a glass before plopping himself down in Jack’s lap. Jack grunts, but then Bittle slings an arm around Jack’s neck and drops a kiss onto Jack’s nose, and Jack is mollified.
“Thanks,” Jack says, lifting his drink.
Bittle smiles at him. “You ready for 2016?”
Jack has always battled against time. When he was young, time seemed to him far too slow: he could not get to juniors quickly enough, and once he was in juniors, the NHL was the only thing on his mind – he wanted to get there as soon as possible. But then there had been the year of rehab (during which there were a few times Jack just wanted his time to stop), and once he got out of rehab and into Samwell, Jack wanted to slow down the rushing of the world as much as possible. Samwell was a bubble of comfort, a place where the pressures of the outside world could not reach him, and he only had four years in that bubble. Jack wanted four years to stretch on infinitely, but once again, the universe did not bend to his will, and time hurtled on without his approval.
Now here he is, just over half a year beyond Samwell, and Jack thinks he is finally getting along with time. He is still young, still has a long life stretched out ahead of him; he is playing professional hockey, he has friends and family to support him, and he has Bittle. He has Bittle.
“Yes,” Jack says. “I’m ready.”
Bittle bumps his nose against Jack’s ear. “I can hear them counting down,” he says lowly.
Jack can hear them, too – his old teammates, in the living room, chanting along to the ball drop on the television. They sound halfway to hella schwasted, and Jack’s lips twitch when Bittle begins to countdown with them, whispering the numbers into Jack’s hair: “Thirty-six, thirty-five, thirty-four …”
When Bittle hits ten, Jack turns to look his boyfriend in the eye. Bittle stops counting; they can still hear Holster’s drunken bellow, anyway. But all Jack really has attention for is the sparkle in Bittle’s brown eyes, the pink of his cheeks brought on by the cold, the glitter of the ginger ale that Bittle holds in his left hand. Jack leans in and presses their foreheads together, and Bittle’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.
“Four, three, two, one!”
Jack’s eyes slide closed as he kisses Bittle. In the chill of the New England winter, Bittle radiates warmth, and if Jack could absorb Bittle, his energy and positivity and affection, he would, in a heartbeat. When Jack pulls away to catch his breath, he opens his eyes again to see Bittle smiling at him from only inches away.
“Happy New Year, Jack,” Bittle whispers.
Contentment pulses warmly Jack’s chest. “Happy New Year,” he replies and raises his glass to Bittle’s.
They sit on the roof, sipping their drinks. From below rise the raucous shouts of college boys who have consumed too much alcohol and pie, and beside him Bittle breathes evenly, his exhales creating little clouds of condensation in the air. On the horizon, Jack can just make out the fireworks exploding over Boston Harbor, and far above those, a crescent moon hangs among the stars.
“I’m happy,” Jack suddenly says, surprising himself with the words.
He feels Bittle’s fingers nudging his jaw, and Jack obligingly turns his head to see a small smile dancing on the blond’s lips. “I’m glad,” Bittle says with utter sincerity, and Jack can only close the space between them and kiss Bittle again.
Yeah, he is definitely ready for 2016.
"I will begin again / Oh / Maybe the time is right / Oh / Maybe tonight / I will be with you again" – New Year's Day, U2