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Day 0
No matter how many games he plays, the rush of endorphins that follows the sound of the final whistle marking the end of a won game is always special. And yes, the excitement of it can lead to a somewhat freer expression of emotions than usual, thank you very much Shitty, and no he doesn’t need another speech about toxic masculinity and just how it is linked the repression of emotions especially in men that deal in the traditionally masculine field of sports, yes Shitty, even though you are his soulmate.
Still, on the ice, with his teammates, in this moment that follows a won game, for just a small instance there are no expectations weighing down on him, no anxiety, no fear, just breathless happiness.
So really, it’s just somewhat representative of his life that in one of these moments things go all wrong. Again.
One moment he’s playfully trying to wrangle himself out of Shitty’s bear hug - eyes sweeping over his teammates (all of them more or less part of a giant celebrating pile) and the cheering audience - and then the next moment the world is tilting and suddenly he’s staring at the ceiling with its blinding floodlights, Shitty at the edge of his field of vision yelling something at someone out of his sight.
He tries to push himself up, but Shitty puts a firm hand on his chest to keep him down. The audience has gone quiet, cheers replaced by hundreds of voices murmuring.
“Shitty, I’m fine!” he hisses, and somewhat belatedly realises that he actually is. Shitty’s unbelieving look tells him that he doesn’t share his revelation, and really, Jack wouldn’t either. Usually. There are enough instances of players getting injured but playing on without noticing because of the adrenaline, until it wears off and they collapse out of nowhere. And Jack would share the theory if he wasn’t so busy noticing just how red the Samwell Hockey Team’s uniforms look.
Coach Hall’s face appears above him, followed by one of the medics, who’s already whisking out a small pocket light with the hope that he gets to shine it in someone’s eyes.
“Now Mr Zimmermann, can you tell me where it hurts?” the medic asks.
“I’m not injured,” he bites out.
“Mr Zimmerman-“ both Coach Hall and the medic start, while Shitty just raises an exasperated eyebrow.
“I can see red,” he blurts out, and in hindsight – well, actually just a moment later – he knows that this is the moment where things went from bad to I Really Fucked Up. Coach Hall and Shitty are staring at him with eyes wide as saucers, while the medic at least seems to be better at rolling with unexpected thing than he is with doctor-patient interaction, as he turns around towards the two other medics already coming with a stretcher and yells: “It’s alright, he only just had his colour bleed.”
Normally it is very hard to understand the words your immediate seat neighbour says to you when the stadium is full, but when most of said stadium is currently whispering about where one of the team captains is currently on the scale of fine to dying, then words carry very, very well.
The whole stadium erupts in an uproar and Jack would strangle the man if he wasn’t so busy wishing that the ice would swallow him up. Above him Coach Hall is glaring daggers at the medic while Shitty mutters a long string of expletives into his beard and grabs onto Jack’s arm to drag him up. Jack tries to be as helpful as possible, but most of his efforts go towards making sure that his shaking legs don’t give out under him as Shitty steers him to the rink exit. The rest of the way passes in something of a blur until he finds himself deposited on a bench in the team’s locker room, his and Shitty’s ice skates discarded somewhere along the way.
“Jack, hey, breathe with me,” he can hear Shitty say and it’s only then that he notices just how too fast his breath is coming, how there suddenly doesn’t seem to be enough air in his lungs, how his chest seems to be squeezed by some giant hand, how-
And then Shitty’s hand is warm in his and Jack shakily inhales and forces himself to exhale as slowly as he can. Breathe in. Breathe out.
It takes ten minutes until his breathing starts to feel less of an effort and more like something that is actually supposed to be natural. They had sunken somewhat on the floor, Jack’s head on Shitty’s shoulder and Shitty’s right arm wrapped around Jack’s middle. The edge of the bench is uncomfortably pressing into his back and the floor is cold but right now Jack feels exhausted enough that he could fall asleep even here.
“So,” Shitty starts, “you found our number 4 then?”
Jack quietly shakes his head. “I didn’t see them,” he says. “It just…” He makes a waving motion with his hand that doesn’t actually explain anything, but Shitty nods in understanding.
“Lardo’s gonna be hella pissed that she missed it,” Shitty says and Jack chuckles weakly.
*
In the picture painted by media and society, each person is supposed to have their one soulmate, the other half to their soul and the one true love of their life. Emphasis on one. The two lucky people would have their romantic first meeting, where they would look into each other’s eyes and the first thing they’d see in colour would be the other person.
In reality there were rarely any colour-at-first-sight occurrences. People could get their colour bleed if their soulmate was less than 200 metres away (though it could vary from person to person) and there were entire newspaper columns and internet forums dedicated to finding out who else had gotten their colour bleed while standing in a crowd of a few hundred people at some concert or who else had been walking down that one busy road in New York city at such and such time. There were also people who wouldn’t get their colour bleed at the first meeting, but only years later. Or couples who had been bound soulmates for years who would suddenly start to lose their colours. Or sometimes people would only get halfway bonded, being somewhat able to see colours but only muted.
And then of course there was the thing with multiple soulmates.
When Jack had met them, Lardo and Shitty had already known each other for three weeks and could both see most green and yellow hues. Up to the moment they met Jack. Shitty liked to joke about how maybe some of the clichés were true because the first blue he had seen had been indeed that of Jack’s eyes.
It had taken a lot of trying (and failing and sometimes succeeding) to get their relationship into some kind of working arrangement. Jack hadn’t exactly made the process any easier. Back then he had barely been half a year out of rehab and all he had wanted from Samwell was as much of a quiet and normal life as was possible. Suddenly finding not only one, but two soulmates messed with that plan a lot. His first approach to the whole situation had been the classic ‘Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away’ tactic, which he had stubbornly clung to. Luckily (or back then, unfortunately) Lardo and Shitty were just as stubborn as he was, with the added bonus that there were two of them. So, after a lot of wheedling, underhanded tactics like using hockey practices for something other than practicing hockey, and on one memorable occasion Lardo nearly dumping a small bucket of paint over his head, he agreed on one date. It ended with Jack losing one shoe, Shitty falling into the pond on the Samwell campus, and Lardo finally snapping and deciding that trying to get dinner together was a lost cause, so she dragged the two of them to her apartment where she proceeded to heat three frozen pizzas. They watched three Die Hard movies (Lardo’s choice), Shitty fell asleep halfway through and Lardo and Jack had a silent fight where they tried to push Shitty towards the respective other so that he wouldn’t drool on their own shoulder.
It was probably one of the most awkward experiences of Jack’s life (which was quite the achievement), so he had no idea why exactly he agreed on a second date. And on a third. And before he had really realized it they had fallen into a pattern. He didn’t really notice when exactly his protests against Shitty’s (very insistent) kisses on the cheek at unexpected times had grown from “half-hearted” to “just for appearances”. When exactly he started having a toothbrush at Lardo’s flat, lying on the sink just next to Shitty’s. When exactly the presence of Shitty and Lardo at his side turned from strange to natural.
Sure, there were moments that were less smooth transition and more stumbling steps, like when Lardo had first kissed him. The proper kind of kiss, on the mouth, in an unmistakeably non-platonic way. Shitty was still indignant over this long past happening, as he insisted that Lardo had timed her approach on purpose to the moment just after Shitty had finished his tzatziki and had therefore been banned from coming closer than one metre for the next ten hours. Or the first time they tried (and more or less failed) to have sex. Because pornos made managing a threesome look a lot easier than it actually was. Had this kind of dilemma happened with any other partner, Jack was sure that he never would have tried again, but in this case… it was Shitty and Lardo. Who seemed to have quite the knack for making him try when otherwise he never would have bothered.
He had never believed the perfect rose tinted picture that books and movies liked to paint of soulmate relationships, the ideal partnership where all soulmates seemed to have the ability to read their chosen one’s mind and their lives were filled with bliss and happiness. And he had been right in that aspect. There were enough times were Shitty would push Jack too far and make him revert back to his antisocial tendencies, times were Jack would say something without thinking and tread on Lardo’s toes, or times were things could get too emotionally tense and Lardo would shut them both out and bury herself in her art.
But they managed. Jack didn’t always know how exactly they did it, but somehow against all obstacles, they had a working relationship. So far at least.
*
“Sex is gonna get even more complicated, I’m calling it now,” is the first thing Lardo says once Jack has finished recounting the events. She sneezes three times, which causes Shitty to declare that obviously her words had been the truth, according to the urban myth of sneezes.
“It’s got nothing to do with truth,” Jack argues.
“The bacteria armies have spoken,” Shitty says.
“It’s just gross,” Jack says.
“You’re both gross,” Lardo says, and demonstratively wrinkles her nose. “I may not be able to smell anything right now, but I remember well enough how much you both stink after a game.”
The mention of the game creates a moment of tense silence as everyone is reminded of their current predicament.
“I’m fucked”, Jack finally says.
“You don’t know that yet,” says Lardo, “I mean, surely not everyone at the rink could’ve heard that, right?”
Jack extricates his phone from his jacket and turns the screen on.
“I have two missed calls from my parents, one from The Swallow, and 52 new facebook messages all from people I don’t know.”
“…well, that was fast,” Shitty says. “Wait, you have a facebook account?”
“For the facebook group for the Hockey team.”
“But the messages don’t have to be bad right?” Lardo says. “Maybe one of them is even your-and-therefore-also-our soulmate.”
“Maybe not,” Jack says.
“How would you know? Surely trying to find out couldn’t hurt, you grumpy pessimist,” Lardo shoots back.
“I’m certainly not going to meet up with 52 strangers on the off chance that they might be my slash our soulmate.”
“You could meet them all at once,” Shitty says.
“That’s even more awkward, thanks no.” Jack shudders at the mental image of being surrounded by 52 hyenas in human form.
Shitty rolls his eyes. “Not face to face of course. But instead with the sacred, ancient gathering celebrated by college students around the world.”
“Shitty no.”
Shitty grins. “We’re gonna throw the biggest party the Haus has ever seen.”
Day 1
Shitty’s words are still echoing in his head as he walks to the ice rink the next day. Even though he had immediately voiced his concerns about how absolutely fucking ridiculous this idea was, Lardo, the traitor, had against his expectations taken Shitty’s side and argued that maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
“Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal,” he mutters under his breath as he changes into his training outfit in the team rooms. Picking up the skates, he makes his way towards the ice. It’s seven in the morning, a time when no college student was voluntarily awake, so he used the time to have the rink to himself to get some training done before the place got swarmed.
Usually at least.
It says something about the power of habit that it’s only when he’s already down at the lower rows that he notices that rink is in fact not as abandoned as it usually is. Luckily he isn’t the only one who is unobservant this morning, as he hasn’t been spotted yet by the other person.
Said other person is a boy, blonde haired, with the kind of round face that means that he will probably still be asked for his ID even when he is 25. He’s wearing a shirt with the Samwell colours but Jack hasn’t ever seen him before, which is somewhat of a surprise as he tends to keep track of anyone who is half-way decent on the ice. And the boy is a lot more than half-way good. Speedy, with a good solid stance and excellent balance. His moves don’t have the economy of a hockey player though – too many flourishes, too much arm movement. A figure skater then. And he must be part of Samwell’s figure skating team if he got access to the college rink.
It’s in that moment that the boy notices him. His body briefly freezes in surprise and then he’s stumbling and only barely avoids slamming face first on the ice. Which would’ve been quite a shame with that face.
“Sorry,” Jack calls over, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The boy has managed to regain his balance and skates over to the rink entrance, halting and holding onto the edge of the ice rink glass that frames the entrance.
“It’s alright,” he says, chuckling somewhat awkwardly. “I tend to get single-minded on the ice, so, yeah…” He trails off, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Did you- er, do you need the rink? I didn’t think anyone would be here so early, so I kinda assumed- anyway, I’ll be out of your hair, I’ll just-“
“It’s fine,” Jack interrupts him before the poor boy starts further panicking or whatever it is he is doing. “I didn’t book the rink if that’s what you think, I just wanted to train a bit myself.”
“Oh, okay,” the boy says, calming down somewhat. “Okay. So, would you- would sharing be okay with you? To do your… whatever you do.”
“Sharing is fine,” Jack says, not able to stop himself from being slightly amused by the boy’s behaviour. “And I play hockey, but I just want to do some basic exercises, so half of the rink is more than enough for me.”
“Okay, cool. I don’t need much space anyway, I do figure skating – but I guess you already know that. Oh, the name’s Eric by the way.”
The boy- Eric holds out a hand, which Jack shakes. “I’m Jack,” he says. Eric gives him a small smile and gets back on the ice.
It takes Jack some time to get used to training in the presence of someone who isn’t part of his team and he has trouble keeping his attention on the actual training and not on Eric. So instead of some basic and rather mindless speed and strength exercises, he starts building obstacle courses from pucks and spends an hour manoeuvring around them at various speeds and angles. At the end he’s drenched in sweat but a lot less emotionally tense than he was before he got to the rink. He collects the pucks and skates over to the rink entrance, where he spots Eric sitting in one of the seats and drinking from a water bottle.
“Hey again,” Eric greets him as Jack sits down on the seat next to him to take off his skates. He does his best to busy himself with the laces from the skates, but out of the corner of his eye he can still see Eric shifting in his seat and fiddling with his water bottle.
“Just say it,” Jack tells him and Eric jumps slightly, a guilty expression flickering over his face from being caught.
“It’s just-“ Eric coughs awkwardly, “I just wanted to ask, er… you wouldn’t happen to be Jack Zimmermann?”
Jack briefly entertains the idea of crawling under the seat rows and never resurfacing again.
“Yes, I am. Why do you ask?” he snaps, his annoyance and frustration from earlier that morning returning.
“Oh, I just… well, when I looked up Samwell, before I enrolled here of course, I did a bit of searching about the hockey team and one of the first google results was a tumblr page and it was about… your ass?”
Jack stares dumbfounded at Eric, not knowing whether he should be relieved or annoyed about the fact that that damn tumblr page still gets so many clicks. Eric meanwhile seems to be regretting several crucial life choices.
“Oh god, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help but wonder- wait, you did know about the tumblr page right? Please tell me I’m not the first one telling you about it.”
“You’re not,” Jack replies semi-automatically, his panicking mind only now catching up to the idea that he is in fact not going to be questioned about yesterday’s incident. Eric breathes a small and badly hidden sigh of relief.
“Are you a frog then?” Jack asks, belatedly going over everything else Eric had managed to say in an astonishingly short amount of time.
“A frog?” Eric asks in confusion, “Oh, you mean freshman! Yeah, I am, just moved here about two weeks ago. Guess it’s pretty obvious, haven’t really had that much time to settle in, things have been a bit crazy lately.”
“And you’ve already joined the figure skating team?” Jack asks. For hockey the season has of course already started again, but if he recalls correctly figure skating was a bit more adherent to college holiday schedules and therefore most of their members haven’t even returned to Samwell yet.
“Ah, well, not exactly joined… more like a probation period? I don’t know if I really want to join them, I’ve only always done solo figure skating, but I need a sport for my scholarship and it’s either hockey or figure skating, and I’m not really cut out for college hockey.”
Jack frowns. “Why not? You seemed fairly proficient on the ice… though I suppose that you should try to eat more protein to build up more mass…”
Eric splutters, levelling Jack with a glare. “It’s genetics, my parents were both rather small and I’m certainly not going to get a growth spurt at 20.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, hockey. I played quite a bit in high school, but I just… I can’t really deal with the whole checking bit?” He glances over at Jack, like he’s expecting him to judge Eric, but Jack just keeps quiet. It would be hypocritical of him to say anything after all. “So, hockey being a contact sport, it’s not exactly a good requisite to be afraid of said contact…”
“Aren’t you in just as much danger of injury when you’re doing figure skating?” Jack asks, recalling at how much more at risk figure skaters were to fall and hurt themselves on the ice.
Eric grimaced. “It’s not about the injuring… if I would be afraid of that I’d have to stay away from ice sports in general. It’s just… I guess mostly it’s about loss of control? When you get checked by someone twice your size and it literally knocks you off your feet… and once you’re off the ground you know that the fall is gonna hurt a lot, but there isn’t anything you can do to prevent it at that point... I’m sorry, there isn’t really a rational reason for this, it’s pretty dumb.”
“Fear is rarely rational, there is nothing dumb about being afraid,” Jack tells him. Eric turns to look at him and Jack has to do his best not to squirm in his seat. He never was a people person. He doesn’t know how to cheer up or help people. Sure, he has gotten better with social interactions since he started at Samwell, but talking to people he doesn’t really know and therefore can’t predict is still something he prefers to avoid. Especially since he has a talent for putting his foot in his mouth.
Just when he’s sure he has fucked up for good, Eric breaks into a brilliant smile that seems to light up his whole face. There are dimples, Jack notices distractedly, while the rest of him is chanting and demanding an immediate repeat.
Eric breaks eye contact a moment later, looking down at his hands in his lap, but the smile stays.
“Thank you,” Eric says, sounding way too sincere for a human being living in this cynical world.
“I could help you,” Jack blurts out and god, he sounds like a total idiot. Eric looks at him in confusion and he adds: “With the checking. Practice could help you get a handle on it.”
Eric winces, wringing his hands. “I don’t know if that… would be a good idea,” he says and yes, Jack doesn’t only sound like one, he is an idiot.
Abruptly Eric straightens, the grimace on his face smoothing over into a look of determination.
“No, no wait, you’re right. I shouldn’t let this hold me back,” he declares, fire in his eyes as he looks at Jack. Then he deflates. “But, I can’t possibly ask this of you! I mean-“
“Nonsense,” Jack interrupts him. “I come here nearly every morning. Might as well spend some of it helping you out.”
“Oh… okay then.” And there’s that smile again. If he does his best, Jack can tell himself that he’s only doing this because letting Eric’s talent go to waste would be absolutely unacceptable. It is totally not because of that smile.
Telling isn’t the same as actually believing though.
*
Jack returns to the Haus with Eric’s number in his phone and an agreement to meet with him at the rink the next morning at 7AM. It’s only 9 AM and, for most inhabitants, still semester break, which means that he is spared from any kind of interrogation regarding the end of yesterday’s game for now.
Everyone in the Haus knows about his, Shitty’s and Lardo’s relationship – there is no possible way to hide something this big from the people you live with and who sometimes barge into your room unannounced at 3AM because they were drunk and chose the wrong door. And all three of them trust every Haus member to not make something like this public.
Jack enters the kitchen and sets out to try and procure a breakfast from the meagre ingredients the refrigerator and cupboard have to offer. He settles on pancakes, which is a bit more extensive than he was planning on, but at least it’s not three-week-old crackers with sriracha.
It’s actually not as bad as he had feared, he realizes as he waits for the pancakes to fry. If it weren’t for his still-fresh memory of yesterday he would say that this morning was just like every other.
*
Three hours later he vows to never tempt fate like that again.
All he had wanted was to collect some additional reading material for his semester break project (comparison of news media throughout the centuries). He never should have left the safe haven of the library to get a cup of coffee. At least in the library no one can bother a reading student without getting stared down by the head librarian. In coffee shops, all bets are off. Which is how Jack finds himself in one of the small booths, bracketed by two women he has never seen before who are both wearing so much perfume that he is wondering if they are trying to gain advantage by rendering him unconscious.
He stopped listening to them several minutes earlier, when they started gushing about how wonderful seeing in full colour was, which was really all the evidence he needed to know for sure that neither of them were his soulmates (not that there had really been a need for that anyway).
All his polite attempts to extract himself from the situation have been unsuccessful thus far, mostly because the moment one of them takes a breath, the other immediately starts talking.
With no real options left, Jack downs his still way too hot coffee in one go and abruptly stands up. That makes both women pause for a moment, which is all it takes for him to climb out of the booth while muttering false excuses about how he really needs to be somewhere else under his breath.
He doesn’t run out of the coffee shop, but it’s a near thing.
*
By the time he has gathered everything he needs and talked with his professor about the further progress on his paper, he has been approached by a total of 11 women and even one guy. His nerves are frayed and the coffee is sitting heavily in his stomach. He foregoes walking back to the Haus and instead opts to crash at Lardo’s again.
He rings the doorbell and is greeted by the sight of one Lardo with clay all over her forearms and apron, holding down the door handle with her mostly clean elbow.
“There you are,” she says after she opened the door. “We had been somewhat afraid that you had fallen into a well somewhere.”
“Why?” Jack asks as he steps into her flat, hanging up his jacket and dropping the heavy bag with the books.
“You haven’t been answering your phone,” Lardo says as she walks to the bathroom to wash her arms. “And Shitty has been in something of a fit, apparently the Haus mailbox is overflowing with all kinds of stuff for you.”
Jack sighs. Another thing to look forward to. “I turned off my phone last night,” he says. “And I haven’t really had any incentive to turn it back on yet.”
“You won’t see me judging you for any avoidance tactics,” Lardo calls out of the bathroom. She walks out, drying her hands with a towel that’s more dirty than clean. “Okay, but seriously, how bad is it?”
Jack flops down on the couch. “Oh, just a dozen people who approached me on the campus and were all very convinced that they were the love of my life. And I don’t even want to know how bad my phone looks.”
“This is all really fucked up,” Lardo says as she sits down next to him. Jack just hums in response.
“So, how are you holding up?” she asks.
“Well, I have yet to change my name and move to South Africa, so it could be worse.”
“But it could also be a lot better.”
Jack snorts. “That too.” He leans back on the couch. “But really, I had expected it to be worse, but so far - it’s by no means good, but it’s also not…”
“A complete clusterfuck,” Lardo finishes for him.
“What a way with words. Are you sure you don’t want to deal in poetry instead of art?” Jack deadpans, which earns him a punch to the arm.
“Don’t pick on sick people or they might spit into your food to ensure that you share their suffering,” Lardo threatens.
“You can’t be that sick when you’re already walking around and arting again.”
“And here I had been thinking about offering you some of the pasta I was gonna make for dinner, but alas, I can’t share my food with people who use art as a verb.”
“Pushy.”
Lardo stands up and pats his shoulder. “I’m going to make pasta now. People who help might get pasta even if their language skills are abysmal,” she says. Then she adds in a softer voice: “It’s going to be okay, Jack. We’ll find them and in due time this’ll all blow over.” She presses a soft kiss on his forehead.
“And now come. Those spaghetti aren’t going to cook themselves.”
Day 2
It’s six in the morning when Jack arrives at the rink. Since Eric isn’t there yet, Jack starts with his usual warming up and then busies himself with doing laps around the rink.
Eric arrives three minutes before seven, his outfit from yesterday modified by the addition of knee, elbow and hand protectors. He looks visibly nervous, but his stance on the ice is still balanced and sure.
“Hey,” he greets Jack, a small smile briefly overshadowing the anxiety on his face.
“Hey,” Jack says back. “You good to go?” he asks and Eric nods.
Here’s the thing: every team captain has to be at least somewhat decent at instructing and training his team or individual team members, even when the team has its own coach. So really, how hard can helping someone deal with checking possibly be?
Half an hour later he has to conclude that yes, it can be very hard.
He can’t even really blame Eric for it – the guy is obviously doing his best, but even so, they are only progressing at a snail’s pace.
“Let’s take a break,” he finally says and carefully herds Eric to the benches. They sit down and there’s a brief moment of silence, which Jack uses to take a few swallows from his water bottle while resolutely not looking at Eric, who seems to be in deep psychological conflict. Or maybe he is just tired. Jack was never that good at reading people.
“This was a stupid idea,” Eric says suddenly. Jack pauses, and then sets down the water bottle.
“Well, that’s just insulting,” he says.
“It’s- wait, I- what?” Eric splutters next to him.
“Since it was my idea to do this, I am now taking personal offence at you calling it stupid,” Jack says flatly.
“What are you- you’re just messing with me aren’t you.”
“Very much so.”
Eric groans, but Jack can see the corner of his mouth twitching.
“I am talking about legitimate concerns here.”
“And I’m telling you that if I thought this was a stupid idea and complete waste of my time, I would have already walked out of here.”
“Why isn’t it then? A complete waste of your time, that is. What do you get out of this?” Eric asks, fixing Jack with a challenging glare.
“Maybe I’m just trying to be nice and get some karma points?” Jack says. Eric raises an eyebrow.
“Look, I really don’t mind, okay? It’s not exactly a burden. In fact, with how chaotic my life has been recently, this is actually quite relaxing.” And that is a bit more over-sharing than he had meant to do. Too late to take it back now, though. However, Eric finally seems rather satisfied with his answer, so not that much damage had been done, hopefully.
“You have a weird understanding of relaxation techniques,” Eric tells him, half-grinning.
“I never claimed that I hadn’t,” Jack retorts. “And now let’s get back on the ice.”
“Bossy,” Eric grumbles, but he still gets up.
They have to end their training at eight, their progress small and only won by the sheer stubbornness of both of them, but it’s there.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at seven again,” Jack says as they exit the rink, doing his best ‘I’m the captain and don’t you dare even think about saying any buts’ impression. It isn’t very effective on Eric, who rolls his eyes at Jack, but since he does response with ‘See you tomorrow’ Jack counts it as a win.
*
“Someone’s cheerful today,” Holster says when Jack enters the Haus kitchen. Ransom looks up from the pan where he is currently frying enough eggs and bacon to feed a small family. Or in this case, one hockey player. Jack briefly thinks of Eric and how much too forward it would be to bring a proper portion of fried eggs to their next training.
“I thought you were being sarcastic, but he actually does look the Jack-equivalent of cheery,” Ransom says and Jack glares at them both as they start to giggle like the five year olds they secretly are.
“So really, how come?” Ransom asks as he shovels the eggs and bacon onto a plate.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Jack says as he hides his face in the fridge under the pretence of looking for breakfast.
“Wait, did you find your third soulmate?” Holster suddenly asks, mouth half full with the eggs he has stolen from Ransom’s plate. Jack halts momentarily from where he was taking out the cheese and ham, which is all the evidence Holster needs.
“Oh my god, you totally did!” Holster exclaims. “And now just when Shitty had everything set up for the party-“
“Holster, I didn’t, please calm down already,” Jack cuts in. Holster stops in his rant and squints at him, disbelief written all over his features.
“Don’t tell me you’re still mad that we didn’t immediately tell you about our relationship,” Jack says.
“It wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t found out by seeing all of you naked! Doing things that are now featuring in my nightmares!” Holster exclaims.
“It could have all been avoided if you had knocked before you threw open the door to my room at 3 AM,” Jack shoots back.
“I was drunk! And I thought it was my room! Haven’t you ever heard of putting a sock on your door?”
“This conversation is pointless,” Jack says, going back to putting his sandwiches together.
“So, really not?” Ransom asks. Jack glares at him and Ransom puts up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, no soulmate meetings, got it.” He’s then distracted by Holster stealing another strip of bacon from his plate and the two engage in a fork battle. Jack ducks out of the kitchen before he gets egg bits on his shirt and carries his sandwich plate up the stairs.
He wonders how it would be if Eric were his soulmate. He knows that he isn’t – he would have recognized him, if not by face then at least by name, since he would’ve been at the game too. First and foremost, it would solve the big problem of finding his soul mate, and having to endure the party idea Shitty is still determinedly planning out. Of course, since everyone knew that he had sort-of found his soul mate, there would be no way to pretend that he was in a perfectly monogamous, heterosexual relationship. And while homosexual relationships were somewhat accepted even by conservative people as long as they were soulmate bonds, polyamory was decidedly less popular with certain parts of the public. But then again, maybe having no alternative to not pretending wouldn’t be all that bad.
‘But then again, he isn’t you soulmate,’ Jack thinks to himself and decides to stop planning out impossible scenarios and instead bury himself in the biography of Guttenberg he loaned from the library.
*
He’s halfway through the book when Shitty bursts into his room. He flops down on Jack’s bed and Jack looks briefly up to check if he’s wearing any pants. With Shitty it’s always about fifty-fifty.
“I am wearing pants,” Shitty says as he notices what Jack is doing, then rolls his eyes at him. “I really don’t understand what your hold up is. We had sex in this bed. Many times. Where I was very, very naked.”
“Except for that one time you tried wearing Lardo’s panties.”
“How can you say that you do or don’t like something when you haven’t ever tried it?”
Jack gives up trying to focus on his book and turns around to look at Shitty who is lounging in his bed, wearing a pair of red boxer shorts and nothing else.
“Shitty, just say what you want to tell me.”
“Who says I’m here to tell you something? Maybe I just wanted to see my favourite grouchy Canadian hockey player who is not Ransom?”
“Well, now I know for sure. So, out with it.”
“I promised Lardo that I would wait ‘til she’s here. Which she should be in about two minutes.”
“Is this one of those ‘We need to talk’ things?”
“’We need to talk’ things are only ‘We need to talk’ things when you lead them with ‘We need to talk’,” Shitty says, using a copious amount of air quotes.
“That was one of the most redundant sentences I’ve ever heard.”
“I don’t know, I’ve heard worse in television football commentary. Oh, don’t give me that look, it was for an essay.”
Three knocks come from the door to the hallway.
“Come in!” Shitty yells. The door opens and Lardo steps in.
“Oh, Shitty’s wearing pants for once,” she says in lieu of a greeting.
“My thoughts exactly,” Jack says, while Shitty pouts at them both.
“So, now that you’re here, what is it Shitty’s keeping from me?” Jack asks Lardo, and Shitty’s face lights up with excitement.
“Don’t worry Jack, it’s nothing bad. Nothing too bad at least,” Shitty says.
“I wasn’t worrying before, but now I am seriously reconsidering that attitude.”
“Shitty has finished organising the party,” Lardo cuts in.
“The party?” Jack asks blankly.
“The party,” Shitty says proudly.
“The ‘Find number 4’ party,” Lardo clarifies.
“Oh hell no,” Jack says.
Lardo sits down on the bed next to Shitty. “Told you he’s not gonna be too thrilled.”
“Why, who would’ve thought,” Jack deadpans. “I’d really rather be pretty much anywhere else that is not a party with dozens of people who look like they want to eat me alive.”
“Which is why you’re not going to be there,” Shitty says. “Tadaaa!”
When Jack just continues looking blankly at Shitty, Lardo adds: “We’re still going to tell everyone you’ll be there, but in the end you don’t have to be, since me and Shitty will know if number 4 walks in by default. All the while you’ll be, don’t know, staying at my place or somewhere else that is not the Haus.”
“…and how exactly do you plan on ‘telling everyone I’ll be there’?”
“Via the magic powers of facebook!” Shitty exclaims.
“You do know that I don’t actually use my facebook account, right.”
“What Shitty wants to say,” Lardo says, “is that the two of us will spread the news that there’s gonna be a Haus party, and then we’ll post on your facebook page that you’ll be there.”
“No one who even remotely knows me is going to believe that.”
“Ah, but they don’t have to!” Shitty cuts in, “After all we can safely assume that none of us have ever crossed paths with number 4, so whoever they are, they wouldn’t know that you’re a party pooper!”
“Thank you for that compliment, Shitty.”
“This is not the time for chirping boys. So, Jack, what do you say?” Lardo asks.
“…it could work, I suppose,” Jack says, causing Shitty to start doing a little victory wiggle on the bed.
“Of course it’ll work, our plan is a strategic masterpiece!” Shitty exclaims.
“I couldn’t come up with a simpler plan if I tried,” Jack says.
“Don’t be so overenthusiastic Jack, you’ll strain something at this rate,” Lardo chirps.
“I’ll do my best. So, what is the schedule on your plan?”
Shitty looks at his watch. “Well, it’s 3 PM now. We’ll start with the whole news spreading thing now, and then the party’ll start at 10 PM on Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” Jack repeats, “As in, the day that is tomorrow, as in very very soon?”
“You gotta strike the iron while it’s hot, brah,” Shitty says.
“And it means that hopefully only people who are actually from Samwell and vicinity will come,” Lardo adds.
Jack sighs, resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Did I ever mention how much I hate it when you two team up against me?”
“That’s just because you’re a sore loser,” Lardo says cheerfully.
Day 3
It isn’t like Jack doesn’t know that the party is, in theory at least, a very good idea. Thanks to Lardo and Shitty’s scheming he can stay away from the chaos, so really the whole plan has only up - and no down - sides.
He still doesn’t like it.
Even training with Eric can’t really take his mind off the fear of this evening. He doesn’t let it affect his skill on the ice – he’s played and won games with mental states far worse – but still Eric must have noticed something, because he stops Jack before he can dash to the locker rooms.
“Is everything alright with you?” he asks. There’s a slight concerned frown on his face, which creates a small dent between his eyebrows.
Jack considers just denying everything, but then he ends up merely shrugging in a somewhat helpless gesture.
“Nothing that time won’t solve,” he tells Eric, who purses his lips but doesn’t push it, but instead changes the topic.
“Y’know, I was planning to get a coffee after training, would you like to get one too?”
Jack is silent for a moment, unsure how to answer. Eric is looking at him patiently and Jack is certain that he wouldn’t mind if Jack told him no.
“Yeah, why not,” Jack says, surprising himself probably just as much as Eric. Eric regains his composure soon enough though and grins at Jack.
“Cool, I’ll just get changed and then I’m good to go. Oh, and it’s totally my treat by the way.”
Jack nods and then flees before another opportunity for a similarly questionable decision can arrive.
*
Eric is already waiting outside by the time Jack is finished, a frown of concentration on his face as he taps around on his phone. He looks up as Jack approaches and smiles at him.
“Looking up coffee shops on yelp?” Jack teases and Eric chuckles as they start walking.
“Nah, I already found a nice place near here during my first few days that serves all the fancy lattes a guy can wish for. I was actually writing with my mother. She’s been fretting since I moved here and keeps demanding constant updates about my uni life. Not that there is really that much to report. The semester hasn’t even started yet after all. And she keeps sending me hats and scarves, because the winter here are so much colder than back home.”
”Where are you from?” Jack asks.
“Oh, Georgia, the state where temperatures under 30 F are a newsworthy story. And okay, I’m probably going to spend most of autumn and winter wrapped in at least two jackets, but there is only so much space I have for hats and scarves in my flat,” Eric says, gesticulating with his arms. “Where are you from then? Somewhere in Canada, right, at least you sound like it.”
“Yes, I’m originally from Montreal.”
They keep up a steady stream of chatter on the way to the coffee shop, with Eric doing most of the talking and Jack just occasionally answering his questions or adding a tidbit.
“Tadaaa,” Eric says and they halt in front of a small shop with big windows over which the name ‘The Bean’ is written.
“You ever been here?” Eric asks and Jack shakes his head.
“I went past it quite often, but I always get my coffee from the shop on the Southern Quad.”
“Are you one of those people who take their coffee black only because they like to keep their lives devoid of any joy?”
Jack laughs at Eric’s scandalized face. “I simply don’t drink coffee that often, and when I do it’s mostly because of the caffeine and not for the taste of it.” And because his nutrition regime only allows for so many sweet things per day.
“As I said, devoid of any joy,” Eric says as he pushes open the door to the shop.
It’s mostly empty inside, except for the barista and an elderly man sitting at one of the tables reading the newspaper. A giant black chalkboard hangs above the counter, and Jack had never known that there were even this many latte variations in existence, let alone served by one coffee shop.
Eric must have noticed his silent panic, as he pats his arm and offers to order one for him too.
In the end, Eric gets himself a pumpkin spice latte and an apple pie spice latte for Jack. They sit down at one of the tables in the corner of the shop, Jack taking the seat that faces away from the door to avoid any unfortunate encounters with people who recognize him, mindful of his last coffee shop visit.
Eric is looking at him expectantly as Jack takes a small sip from the latte. It’s sweeter than any coffee he’d ever had before, but it isn’t overpowering. The sourness of the apple pie spice mixes surprisingly well with the coffee, and the sweetness takes the edge of it. His appreciation must have shown on his face, as Eric leans back with a look of satisfaction on his face.
“It’s… good,” Jack says, and Eric grins at him.
“Of course, you can never go wrong with apple pie,” he says smugly. “I can’t believe you’ve never had a fancy latte before… how long have you been studying here again?”
“Two years,” he says, which causes Eric to enquire about his field of study. They delve into a discussion about 20th century history, with Jack sharing a few fun trivia bits he learned in his history courses.
“So, do you know what you want to do?” Jack finally asks and Eric sighs.
“Not really. I do find cultural studies very interesting, but there are so many options here at Samwell, so I don’t know yet.”
“Few freshman already have their courses chosen, plus freshman year can be great for trying things out. I spent quite some time on a photography course back before I settled for history.”
“Why didn’t you continue photography?”
“I decided I’d rather do it as a hobby than as a whole study course. Plus I would have had to pick another art field like sculpturing or painting and those fields just didn’t interest me.”
“How very hipster of you,” Eric teases, making Jack chuckle. “Though I’d like to see some of your work some time. I’ve never been a making-art person myself, but I still enjoy looking at it. I’ve been considering taking a course that’s about comparing art for bonded and unbonded people, but it sounded very science-y and I’m even less of a science person. Plus, I’d find it weird talking about the nuances of colours when I can’t see them.”
Jack winces internally at the additional reminder that Eric is very much not his soulmate, and decides to change the topic by asking Eric about his sport scholarship and figure skating, which causes them to get into a lengthy discussion about the differences in techniques between figure skating and hockey skating.
It’s only when Eric says that he has to go because he has an introductory seminar in ten minutes that Jack notices that it’s already nearly 10 AM. They gather their jackets and bags and step outside the now moderately-filled coffee shop.
“Jack,” Eric starts and Jack turns around to see him fiddling with the strap of his bag. “You know, if you ever need someone to talk, you- well you already have my number, but yeah. You can call or… something.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you,” Jack says, and is surprised to find that he actually means it. Eric shoots him a small smile and then dashes off to his seminar.
*
When Jack returns to the Haus, everyone is already in a flurry of activity, motivated by the prospect of lots of alcohol. Shitty is standing on the balcony, using the megaphone to yell orders at the group of people that is currently busy unloading a few cars and one large truck full of beer kegs and other party essentials.
“Yo, Jack!” yells Shitty, luckily without the megaphone. Jack waves at him and enters the Haus, walking to his room to unload his training equipment. There’s a knock on the window and he looks up to see Shitty motioning for him to open it.
“How’s it going brah?” Shitty asks as he squeezes himself through the small frame. “Where’ve you been for so long?”
“Enjoying the quietness and calm of nature,” Jack chirps.
“You socialite,” Shitty chirps back. “By the way, I wanted to tell you that the party might get a bit bigger than just the Haus. Even though you won’t be there to see it.”
“How?”
“Well, once Ransom and Holster found out that the party is a go, they started talking to the other frat houses in the street and somehow the party grounds got somewhat… expanded.”
“How many of the frat houses are we talking here?”
“About 100%,” Shitty says proudly and Jack lets out a groan – there are more than a dozen frat houses in their street. “Now, don’t be like that, the more grounds we have, the more unlikely it is that people will notice that you aren’t even at the party.”
“I’m very sure something this big is illegal.”
“Come on Jack, half of college life is illegal. And in this case it’s just mere coincidence that everyone has decided to celebrate the start of the new semester on the same night.”
“Shits, you’re going to be an absolutely terrible lawyer with arguments like that.”
Shitty clutches his chest dramatically. “How dare you, Mr Zimmermann. You wound me deep inside my poor heart.”
“Shut up,” Jack says fondly and Shitty grins at him.
“So, you gonna be staying at Lardo’s?” Shitty asks, and Jack nods.
“I’m just here to collect some books I need for my paper and my laptop and then I’ll go into hiding.”
Shitty tuts. “Always working.”
“Look who’s talking, Mr. Double Major.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shitty says, and silences any further chirps from Jack with a kiss on the lips.
“That’s just playing dirty,” Jack says after they part.
“Oh, I can show you playing dirty, love,” Shitty says, exaggeratedly wiggling his eyebrows even as Jack playfully shoves him away.
“I’m gonna go now, to places with more sensible people,” he says. “You’ll keep me updated during the party, won’t you?”
“Of course. Though I take no responsibility for how much sense my messages are going to make after 1 AM.”
*
It’s 2 AM and Jack can’t sleep. He managed to distract himself for most of the day with his paper and watching history documentaries, but now that he’s lying in Lardo’s bed, the restlessness that’s keeping the sleep at bay just won’t leave.
He rolls onto his side, once again switching on his phone and squinting at the bright screen. No news from Lardo and Shitty. With a sigh he climbs out of the bed, giving up on sleep for now. Instead he gets his spare set of training clothes out of Lardo’s closet and then on a whim grabs the bag with his camera. He pockets the phone and leaves the house.
The night air is cool and fresh and burns in his lungs during the first few hundred metres until his body gets used to it. He sets a fairly slow pace as he jogs down Samwell’s street, opting to just enjoy the quiet that has settled over the city at this hour.
There’s a hill just at a bit outside of town, where one can overlook most of Samwell. On warm days couples and hikers frequent the place, but at night it’s deserted. The city stretches out before Jack, lights from streets and houses gleaming in the darkness. He extracts his camera from his pocket, adjusts the lens to compensate for the low light, and starts taking a few pictures. Using the Bluetooth function of the camera, he transfers them over to his phone. He sends one of the pictures to Eric – after all, he had asked for some of his photographs back at the coffee shop. And he probably wouldn’t see it before sunrise, as Jack doubted that he was still awake at half past 2.
He sits down on one of the benches that have been built on the hill, simply taking in the view.
His phone vibrates in his pocket and he switches the screen on expecting another of Shitty’s half-drunk texts and is surprised to find that the message is from Eric.
‘Wow, gr8 pic! You doing a night shoot? Or whatever the term is in photography’
Jack starts typing: ‘No, I was just out for a run. What are you doing being still awake at this hour?’
His phone vibrates again in what feels like an immediate response. ‘my sleep schedule has been screwed for the last week so I’d rather stay awake instead of frustrating tossing & turning. I’ve been watching jamie oliver videos on yt but its pretty boring’
‘you can join me here if you want’ Jack types and hits reply before he can delete the message.
‘sure thing! youll need to tell me where exactly u r tho, im not familiar enough with Samwell yet to deduce ur location from a photo’
Jack gives him the name of the street at the bottom of the hill and instructions on where to find the small stairway that leads up the hill.
It takes Eric only ten minutes to get here, which was a lot sooner than Jack expected.
“Hey there,” Eric says, a small grin on his face as he climbs up the last few steps of the stair.
“Hey,” Jack greets him as Eric flops down next to him on the bench. “How close exactly do you live that you got here this fast?”
Eric laughs. “Not really, I just got here with my bike. It makes backtracking when you take a wrong turn a lot faster.”
Jack sighs dramatically. “But running is much better exercise.”
“Mr Zimmermann, I will not hesitate to shove you down this hill,” Eric threatens, a twinkle in his eyes. He turns to look at the panorama before them. “It really is beautiful here. I’ve never seen such a big city at night from a viewpoint like this – my hometown has a meagre 4,000 inhabitants, so it’s much less impressive even if you find a hill somewhere to look down on it.”
Jack inquires after his hometown and soon they have started a discussion about the merits of living in small cities versus living in big cities. They both wind down after about ten minutes, leaving a comfortable silence between the two of them.
“I’ve always wondered if it’s true what they say about cats at night,” Eric suddenly says and Jack looks at him in confusion. “You know, all cats are grey, that stuff. But recently-“
Jack looks at him with even more confusion.
“I kinda can see blue but no other colours,” it suddenly bursts out of Eric. “And it’s been driving me up the wall, it’s just… so weird you know? I didn’t even really realize that I was seeing a colour because obviously I had never seen a colour before and I’ve never heard of anyone who gets only one colour and I have no idea how this happened and I’ve been thinking of going to a specialist but that’d cost a lot of money I don’t really have and can you please stop staring at me like that it’s freaking me out.”
Jack does his best to stop staring but only partially succeeds, his mind whirling with this new bit of information.
“I’m sorry,” Eric says, taking his silence the wrong way. “I shouldn’t have dumped this on you like that but I haven’t really had the chance to talk about it with someone else, my mum would probably have half a heart attack and I don’t really know anyone else here yet.”
“When exactly did that happen?” Jack interrupts him, causing Eric to be the one whose turn it is to look confused.
“About four days ago, why?”
“I think I need you to meet someone,” Jack says.
*
Eric was quiet during their walk towards Lardo’s apartment, but Jack could feel his questioning stares weighing on him while he did his best to keep his eyes focussed ahead. He hadn’t really wanted to say anything yet, not if he might be completely wrong in his assumption. The message he had sent to Lardo and Shitty before they left had been equally vague and Jack just hoped that the two of them would find enough soberness between them to make their way to the meet point fairly quickly.
The block with Lardo’s apartment was dark when they got there, but then it was nearly 4 AM in the morning.
“Whoever your someone is, they better not be a serial killer or I won’t hesitate to make use of the checking practice I got,” Eric deadpans.
“I’d like to see you try with your 100 pounds,” Jack chirps back, causing Eric to give him a small shove.
“It’s 125 pounds, you lump.”
“Soaking wet I suppose,” Jack says, grinning, which earns him a glare from Eric.
“Eyy, Jack!” someone yells from the end of the street and Jack turns around to see a somewhat unsteady Shitty walking down the sidewalk supported by Lardo.
“Is that your-“ is as far as Eric gets before he nearly falls flat on his face, injury only prevented by Jack’s quick reaction to catch him. Up ahead he can hear Shitty exclaiming a long string of expletives and superlatives.
“What the fuck?” Eric is murmuring where his face is half-smashed into Jack’s chest. And then Shitty and Lardo are upon them.
“Is that…?” Lardo asks, who seems at least mostly sober. Jack nods at her unfinished question and Shitty lets out a long whoop and breaks free of Lardo’s hold to do a little victory dance that nearly leads to him cracking open his head on the pavement, causing Lardo to push him into lying down on the pavement.
“I can’t believe we went through all this effort and then you just find him like that. What the fuck bro,” Shitty says, stretched out on the ground. Meanwhile Eric has somewhat gathered his senses again as he does manage to stand without Jack’s support.
“Someone please tell me what’s happening,” he says in the false calm voice people do when they are deep down just a few breaths away from freaking out.
“It appears that you are our soulmate,” Lardo says. Eric turns around to look at Jack, who nods, and then at Shitty, who gives him a thumbs up.
“Our?” Eric asks. “Like, all three?” He sounds slightly overwhelmed.
Lardo and Jack exchanges glances.
“Y’know, I live right up here, how about we go inside and talk about it?” Lardo suggests and Eric nods weakly.
“Fuck yeah!” Shitty yells.
“Shut the fuck up!” someone yells from the other side of the street.
*
Lardo makes tea for all of them except Shitty, who still seems a bit too weak to fight against gravity. It takes them almost an hour to lay out the whole thing before Eric, but at the end of it he looks a lot less sceptical, though still rather overwhelmed.
Shitty is snoring in one of Lardo’s armchairs, and Jack and Eric have both been having trouble to keep their yawns at bay, so Lardo decides that they’ve all had enough for now.
“You sleep on it,” she tells Eric. “And take your time to think about it and then we’ll see, okay?”
Eric nods, somewhat unsure but at least not as afraid as before, and stands up.
“I’ll just…” he motions towards the door. Both Lardo and Jack nod at him encouragingly and he gives them a small smile before leaving the flat.
“You think he’s gonna be fine?” Lardo asks Jack after the door closes, and Jack nods.
“He’s just as stubborn as we are. He’ll sort it out in time,” he says, and Lardo nods.
“Okay, now help me get this big lump into bed.”
Day 38
“Isn’t popcorn traditional for movie nights?” Shitty asks as Bitty carries a whole plate of fresh cupcakes into the Haus’ living room.
“You don’t have to eat any if you don’t want to,” Bitty tells him, sitting down between Lardo and Jack and purposefully holding the plate as far away from Shitty as possible, who lets out a whine.
“You brought that on yourself,” Lardo says as she takes a bite from one of the cupcakes.
Shitty does his best puppy eyes expression and Bitty’s resolve crumbles in the span of a few seconds, and soon Shitty is munching happily on his own cupcake, getting cream all over his mustache. Jack lets out a sigh, which earns him a messy cream-kiss on the cheek from Shitty.
“Rank, Shitty,” Jack grumbles as he tries to wipe the cream off as best as he can, while Bitty and Lardo laugh at his misery. “Can we start the movie now?”
“Your wish shall be my command,” Shitty says, but nonetheless presses the play button on the remote. They all lean back against the disease-ridden couch, feeling content and warm.