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Jack wakes up to the sound of sniffling.
The clock on his desk reads just after 3 AM, once he’s rubbed his eyes enough to see it. The draft from the window makes the whole room cold, and through it he can hear someone sighing every few seconds. The loud push of breath into the air, as if trying to keep some tears at bay.
Slowly, he edges his way out onto their “Reading Room,” the roof tiles creaking under his steps. They’ll have to replace them, or the roof will fall in on them, and even Shitty’s knowledge of the law won’t keep them from getting evicted. The wind carries a small bite to it, autumn on its heels.
In the light of the moon, he sees Bittle, knees drawn up tight under his chin, a bottle of beer hanging loosely from his finger tips.
“Bittle?”
Bittle looks up. He presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, but Jack can still see where they’re rimmed red. “Oh, hey, Jack. Sorry, did I wake you?”
“No,” Jack lies, coming closer.
“What time is it?” Bittle takes a small sip of his beer. Jack peers around and sees an empty bottle nearby.
“Three.” Jack sits down next to him, but not too close.
“Shit,” Bittle curses. His accent draws out the vowel a tad longer. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
They sit in companionable silence for a minute. Jack pulls his knees up and rests his forearms on them, eyeing Bittle out of the corner of his eye.
“Is…Is everything okay?”
Bitty scoffs, and it sounds bitter in the air. “I just…I was doing everything right. I was practicing; I was getting better about the checking and my parents were proud and, god, my dad was going to try and take time off to see a game this season and now—” His voice breaks. He takes another swig to cover it up.
Jack stares at him, sees him curled up on the ice, and chooses his next words carefully. “I know how you feel,” he says.
Bitty scoffs again, harder than before, his breath suspended in the air for a second.
“Bitty?”
He scoffs again. “Don’t do that,” he mutters. He picks up the bottle cap beside him and throws it across the Haus lawn.
Jack reels from the sudden hostility between them. “What?”
“Don’t give me that. You do not know how I feel.”
“Bitty—“ he starts.
“I mean, gosh, you have everything. Look at you! You were born for this—“
“Bits—”
“—Everyone loves you! The team, the coaches, even—“ he stutters over his words. “You don’t know what its like,” he shakes his head, cheeks flushed with either alcohol or anger. “You were born a Zimmermann!”
“Yeah, I’m a Zimmermann,” Jack uses his captain’s voice, and Bittle suddenly goes silent. “I’m the Zimmermann with anxiety,” he takes a steadying breath. “The one who didn’t make the draft. The one so fucked up in the head I overdosed on anxiety meds and got a two year stint in rehab for it.”
Bitty’s eyes are wide with shock, and Jack takes another deep breath.
“You’re not the only one, Bits.” The words are barely a whisper between them. “Most of the time, I’m…fucking terrified, okay.”
Something cold presses against him. When he looks down, he finds Bitty pushing his beer into his hand. He laughs despite it all and takes a swig.
“You never told me that before.”
Jack looks over and lifts the corner of his mouth in a smile. “We weren’t friends before.”
Bitty smiles back wordlessly, and accepts the beer when Jack passes it back to him.