Chapter Text
Bitty’s phone buzzes.
His heart is pounding. He almost doesn’t feel the vibration. He unlocks his phone and looks.
Eat more protein, it says.
And he laughs, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. His heart flutters and he feels lightheaded but he can’t stop laughing, can’t catch his breath. Jack Laurent Zimmerman. That boy.
And just when Bitty’s heart couldn’t race any faster—
I miss you.
I miss you, too. Jack, lordie, I miss you, too.
Bitty pulls a shaky hand over his eyes, a watery grin plastered on his face. How long had he thought about this? (“Never fall for a straight guy …”) He wishes he could rewind time and stop Jack from running. What kind of gentleman kisses a boy and then dashes? He huffs a little. Indignant.
His lips are tingling a little and he presses his fingers to them.
How was he going to get through the summer? Now that he had kissed Jack? Now that he had tasted Jack’s lips? Before he knows it, he’s typing out that exact question. And hitting send. Jack’s response is immediate.
When can I see you?
Bitty’s eyes widen and he lets out a long, shaky breath.
When he closes his eyes, he sees Jack’s face before the first kiss. Their first kiss. His eyes were wide, his lips parting slightly before he took a step towards Bitty. (Was he going to say something?) Then it was Jack. It was all Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, and oh Jack. Gracious Jack. Quiet Jack. Soft Jack. Bitty, shrouded in the memory, hears Jack inhale through his nose when he finally kissed back. His cheekbone is warm with the brush of Jack’s thumb ghosting across it. His ears echo with his own name on Jack’s lips.
As soon as possible, Mr. Zimmerman. We have some talking to do, young man.
Good talking, I promise, Bitty amends.
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and it feels like a balloon deflating in his diaphragm. Somehow he still can’t get enough air. It’s all he can do not to whoop and holler for joy.
I like good talking. What about good texting?
Bitty smiles to himself. Goodness gracious he was far gone for this boy.
Yes, absolutely.
So they texted. Jack and Bitty. Heading to Montreal. Heading to Georgia.
I forgot the good ol’ Georgia humidity. Save me Jack Zimmerman, you’re my only hope.
Very funny, Bittle.
Heading to training. Headed to camp.
It’s not Samwell. It’s not Haus. It’s not with you.
You sap, you. They’ll be good for you. Tell me more about Tater before the cell service gets shot.
In good times.
Bitty the team is like, finally clicking. It’s amazing. I feel, I feel like this was … a good decision.
Jack, darlin’, it warms me to hear you say that.
In not so good times.
The people here, Jack … I guess I got used to Samwell … I forgot how Southerners can be.
Bitty … I wish I was there. Soon I’ll be there.
The two were in near constant communication when signal would permit it. And Bitty found it comforting. But he also wanted—no—needed Jack to be there in person. Under his hands. Against his lips. He needed to see his shy smile, the tips of his ears, his eyes.
Bitty’s stomach does somersaults every time he looks at his calendar. He had purposefully packed his summer, signing up to counsel a few camps back to back. But the Fourth. Well, his Momma would never have forgiven him if he had missed the Bittle family barbecue. Nor would she have forgiven him if he had not kindly extended an invitation to his friend Jack Zimmerman.
Three weeks. In three weeks he’d drive the truck back home, barely sleep, and rise early to drive to the Atlanta airport to pick up his … boyfriend? Is that what they were?
Bitty reaches for his phone, immediately wanting to ask Jack. But he catches himself, remembering that his phone never had the best service at the S’mores camp. He wants to have that conversation the right way. Face to face.
The other counselors, and even the kids, tease him mercilessly about his distracted smiles and antsy hands. More than once (heck, more than a dozen times) Bitty has needed a nudge to snap out of a daydream. The kids in his cabin are used to hearing “Halo” being belted in the showers. His supervisors catch him reaching for his phone during breaks, frowning slightly, only to hold it up to the sky hoping for some kinda miracle. Usually such an endeavor ends in a shrug and a sigh. But every now and then, those supervisors witness such pure joy as Bitty gasps and types something out and laughs.
Sometimes, Bitty feels like he’s hurtling towards the Fourth. The days fly by. Each passing moment is as fast as his heartbeat. One minute he’s at the lakeside with the kids, thinking about Jack in swim trunks, the next he’s singing campfire songs with all his might and realizing the countdown is one day less.
But sometimes, Bitty can’t help but slow down. And maybe the kids and counselors notice his good moods, but his bad ones slip by without a glance. He’s good at putting on a smile, keeping the energy up. But maybe he doesn’t sing as loudly. Or maybe when he reaches for his phone, he stops short and clenches his fist. Little things.
On days like that, well, on days like that Bitty’s heart beats fast for all the wrong reasons. He’s not out at home. Jack’s not out to the team, let alone to the world of hockey. A world of bigots and slurs and beatings and aggression and—
Bitty has to catch his breath. He has to sit down behind the supplies shed. And as much as he tries, he can’t help but think about all that could go wrong, and how he wouldn’t be able to fix it. He alone would not be enough. Samwell was a whole hour from Providence and Bitty didn’t have a car. If Jack needed him … if Jack wanted him, could Bitty get there in time? See, now that Bitty could, he wanted to be there to rub Jack’s back and calm his breathing. He wanted to kiss his neck and breathe him in. And he can’t. And while the Fourth will be a respite, Providence is an hour away.
On these days, after a little bit, Bitty picks himself up and gets back to his routine. It moves a little slower but it keeps moving. And he tries to resolve to take the entire … thing … relationship, blow by blow.
But if Bitty is anything, he is optimistic. Or he tries to be. So when it’s time to start packing up and sending the kids off, he lets small smiles slip and brushes his lips with his fingers.
Waving goodbye to the yellow school bus full of kids feels surreal. Picking up his bag and throwing it into the back of the truck is fuzzy in his memory. The drive back is in slow motion. His truck constantly humming and rattling. The radio is quiet in the background. For once, Bitty doesn’t feel like listening to music. He doesn’t want the soundtrack.
He quietly allows himself to imagine a future where things work well. He imagines a future where he visits Jack every other weekend. He imagines a future where they pad around his apartment, laughing and throwing each other glances. He imagines waking up to Jack. He imagines telling Shitty and Lardo and the rest of the team. He imagines going to Epikegsters holding Jack’s hand. He imagines coming home and holding Jack.
He shakes himself, almost missing his exit.
He needs to stop. It’s not smart to think like this. The future isn’t knowable. It’s not something that can be promised. He knows that. He does. He’s learned that lesson.
Bitty’s mouth is set in a firm line.
Who can know? Who can know that they don’t crash and burn? (Bitty shakes his head, they won’t.) That they’re being foolish even trying? (Bitty bites his lip hard they aren’t.) That they won’t ruin each other? (Bitty exhales quickly, they’ll make each other better.) That they won’t fuck this up? (Bitty pulls over and slams on the breaks, they have to try.) That they won’t—
“Honey, I’m so glad you’re home! How were the kids?” And his train of thought screeches to a halt.
“Momma! Oh Momma, it was lovely. Sorry, I’m a bit outta it. Bless their hearts, the kids were lovely.” He hops out of the car quickly and hugs her tightly.
“I’m so glad, honey. Now you go get settled in but in a bit you want to help out in the kitchen? ‘M getting some baking done before everyone comes.” Bitty nods and follows his Momma into the house. Dropping his bag in the hallway, he tries to shake the jitters he felt.
(Jack would be here tomorrow. Bitty was going to pick him up from the airport. They were going to spend almost a week together.)
He nods resolutely. A chance. Without second-guessing anything before it’s happened, this, he and Jack, they deserve a chance.
“Dicky?” Bitty jumps.
“Yes, yes, here I am. Sorry. Goodness, I don’t know where my head it today.”
So Bitty helps his Momma, throws some loads of laundry in the washer, and then promptly panics at the state of his room.
It’s not … well it’s not a complete mess. His duffel from camp is sort of overflowing in the corner. There are some boxes from Samwell stacked haphazardly against the far wall. His bed’s not exactly made. His bed. Oh lord, where was Jack going to sleep? Was he … would he …?
Bitty takes a deep breath and sets that thought aside. Now, well, now he has to straighten up. He has a guest coming; it’s time to get to work. So obviously some Beyoncé is in order.
Bitty focuses on the music and on his task. He doesn’t let his mind wander, no. He doesn’t think about Jack’s hands, the callouses on his fingers. He doesn’t recall the muscles on his back. His laugh. How the corners of his eyes crinkle. His soft eyes.
So much for focus. It’s nearly suppertime and his room looks exactly the same. Bitty sighs and drops onto his bed. He closes his eyes, only for a second. A smile plays across his face and he presses his hands into his eyes until he sees sparks. Jack’s going to be with him tomorrow. His fears still simmer below the surface, but Beyoncé must have some sort of healin’ effect because they’re quashed by the anticipation of hearing Jack’s laugh. After a month of sporadic texting and patchy cell service, Jack’s going to be next to Bitty, bumping his shoulder, holding his hand. Maybe—
“Dicky, honey! Your Daddy’s home, supper’s ready!
Bitty sits upright and shakes himself. Tomorrow. It’s a promise.
By midnight, Bitty does get his room straightened up. He carefully rolls up a sleeping bag and sets an extra pillow in the corner. Just in case.
Lying in his bed, Bitty can’t stop smiling. He feels weightless. He pulls out his phone.
Sleep tight, he types out. He’s barely pressed sent when he receives a reply.
As if I can sleep.
Bitty practically squeals.
Jack Zimmerman you’re making me blush.
That’s the goal.
At that Bitty laughs out loud.
You’ve always scored goals.
Bittle, was that a pun?
You bet it was.
:) See you tomorrow morning, Bittle.
Sweet dreams~
Bitty forces himself to put his phone down and pull the covers up. It’s not like he isn’t going to wake up in a few hours to make the drive out west to get Jack. (Why that boy had grabbed such an early flight, Bitty would never know. Not that he was complaining, the sooner he could see him the better.)
He falls asleep thinking about just how fast he could drive on the highway to get to the airport on time. And maybe a grimace falls across his face for a second, maybe darker thoughts cross his mind momentarily, but they are gone in a flash. Because there’s a warm feeling in his heart.
And he thinks it might just be okay.