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There’s something distinctly off about Shitty. Not necessarily in a bad way, Jack supposes, even if he can’t quite put his finger on what’s different between him and any of the other incoming freshmen at Samwell. Maybe it’s the aura that comes off from him in waves, reeking of cheap beer and unfortunate facial hair; at least, that’s what he thought Johnson was mumbling about. Jack’s mostly been trying to tune him out since he started rambling about fourth walls and an audience of some sort.
Shitty’s got long, brown hair tied up into a loose ponytail. His shirt has the sleeves cut off so that you can see his entire chest from an angle, and on the front it says “explore my body” in purple text with a unicorn underneath it. He might stand out slightly due to his appearance, but that’s not what weirds Jack out. It’s none of his business anyway, so he stops that train of thought and hurries to catch up with the rest of the group touring the Haus.
The tour is currently exploring the kitchen. The dimly-lit room is furnished with a sad-looking oven, a sink, some other appliances, and a fridge. Further exploration reveals that, as expected in a frat house, the fridge is mostly stocked with cheap liquor. The guide pushes aside the beer to reveal a meal that appears to be a plate of soggy Waffle House pancakes drenched in syrup, possibly more than a few weeks old. The group collectively gags.
To Jack and the rest of the group’s relief, the fridge is shut and forgotten about as the tour continues through the rest of the Haus, with Shitty occasionally whispering witticisms under his breath to Jack. Jack imagines playing alongside this strange, gangly manchild and can’t say he isn’t looking forward to it.
Shitty goes running at four in the morning, every morning. Jack only knows this because once when he couldn’t fall asleep he decided to take a walk on the nature path of the park, and ran into Shitty. Literally. He had his bangs tucked aside in a tacky sweatband and was listening to music on his phone. Jack had looked down for just a second to check his own phone when he felt himself collide into Shitty. Shitty quickly jumped up and offered Jack a hand, laughing and stumbling through an apology.
They spent the rest of the morning walking back to the freshman dorms and chatting quietly. When Jack asked Shitty whether he ran every day at unreasonable hours or if they were simply meant to be, Shitty explained how he just liked to release some pent-up energy before he started the day. In hindsight, Jack finds this hard to believe considering how hard it is to wake Shitty up on mornings that he doesn’t do his routine run, such as when the team is on the road. Especially every four weeks or something when there are days he sleeps through all of his classes.
There are some nights that Jack feels as if there is a dense tension surrounding him, filling his lungs and making his heart race. When he swears he can hear some sort of growling, deep from the shadows of his room. He turns on a light but the growling doesn’t stop; instead, it surrounds him, and he cowers, curling into his sheets and willing the low noises to stop. They get louder, until he can almost feel the humid, damp breaths of something looming over him. He wakes up the next morning, shivering, and there are tufts of fur scattered all over his bed and floor. He vacuums and heads off to class. That day, during practice, it seems as if he isn’t the only player feeling out of it. Johnson asks Jack what’s wrong, and he isn’t quite sure how to answer. Before he has a chance to reply, Shitty is skating over and face washing him while Jack sputters.
The incident is otherwise forgotten, but Jack doesn’t miss the confused look on Johnson’s face, or the occasional nightmares he experiences. They always end the same. Jack wakes up with the scent of the forest lingering in his room and smudges of dirt all over his bedding. His roommate stops asking why he has to do his laundry so frequently.
Animals growl at Shitty and hide from him when he’s anywhere near. At the dog park he frequents, they bark and howl and growl until their owners are forced to drag them away as he laughs and laughs and apologizes. His excuse is always different when someone brings it up. Maybe it’s the facial hair, or his long limbs, or like Johnson says, his aura. Jack, once again, isn’t sure what to think, a common occurrence for him in regards to Shitty. It’s times like these when Shitty makes Jack anxious, with an undercurrent of fear and curiosity. His smile seems wooden, his eyes appear hollow, staring into his soul unnervingly. Jack smiles back, uncertain. It feels like a stark contrast from the beginning of the season, before Jack knew anything about the strange man beyond his odd sense of fashion and wicked sense of humor.
The chatter in the locker room goes on and on but Jack can’t focus. In the background, he can hear Shitty complaining about having stayed up too late, without giving any reason as to why he did so. On the other end of the locker room, Ransom and Holster are explaining to a frog some piece of hockey lingo. Jack’s mind shifts back and forth between the separate conversations, the plays on the board, and to his own legs, where his shin guards are still strapped on and his skates are untied. His socks are rolled up, uncomfortably tight. His mind wanders back to the nightmare he’d had the night before.
It started the same as all the others that came before- he’s dozing off, until he hears his door softly creak open. He hears something sniffing and pawing at the ground and his nearby possessions. The creature makes its way over to Jack’s bed, where he lies still and silent, hoping he’ll go unnoticed. As always, his luck runs out. The monster begins to growl, louder and louder until it is right beside him, droning into his ears and making beads of sweat drip down his cold forehead. His eyes open unwillingly. In the darkness, it is hard to make out anything except for a pair of yellow, sharp eyes. They’re the last thing Jack sees before he wakes up, unable to distinguish what is real from what is imaginary.
His socks are still uncomfortably digging into his upper thigh. He sighs, and goes to remove his skates and finish undressing.
Jack isn’t a huge fan of Mario Kart. Unfortunately, that’s basically how most of the disputes in the Haus are settled. As captain, he’s sure it would have been much more direct and efficient if he’d just settled the debate himself, but according to tradition, this is the way is has to be done. Through a duel. He sighs, and settles himself into the old, nasty couch. Next to him, Shitty is glaring at the television as if that could make Wario go any faster. His mouth is hanging open, to the point where Jack thinks he might see fangs. He feels fully rested, which is has been a rare occurrence for him these last three years, but he has a feeling he knows exactly who’s been behind these rude awakenings.
Shitty, much like Jack himself, seems awake and focused. He could use a haircut- his sideburns are growing out to be cartoon-like, and his hair is now long enough to tie into a complete bun, rather than just a silly ponytail. Under certain lights, his eyes seem illuminated, almost a yellow hue. His smile turns sharp, dangerous. His nails might have dirt caked under them. Jack shudders and hopes it isn’t noticeable. Later that night, right before he goes to sleep, Jack takes out his phone and Googles “could my teammate be a werewolf?”.
When he wakes up the next morning, he checks his phone. He still has various internet tabs open, all having to do with the possibility of being teammates with a werewolf. In the daytime, the idea seems ridiculous. He shakes his head and closes the tabs before checking his notifications. It’s 9:04, and he’s got a couple unopened text messages including one from Shitty, asking if he’d be interested in a late brunch, accompanied by a poodle emoji and a bread emoji. Jack only recently got “in touch with the future”, as Shitty would say, and got a smartphone, so he’s not exactly sure if the emojis are supposed to mean anything. He responds with a quick sure and meets him over at Waffle House.
Shitty’s already been seated and is browsing the menu, looking at the selection of french toast. He smiles, in a less-than-predatory way. Shitty’s whole appearance, between his crinkled eyes, youthful spirit, and confusing taste in emojis, is disarming and Jack allows himself to relax. Shitty nudges him and asks what took him so long. Jack shrugs and mumbles something about forgetting to set an alarm. Shitty laughs and laughs and laughs some more.
That’s something else Jack has noticed about Shitty- he’s always giggling and smiling. He never seems downtrodden or melancholy. Even after a loss, he smiles, and if there’s a sort of manic look to his eyes, or if his hands seem to be shaking, who really needs to know? Or care.
Animals might be afraid of Shitty, but children aren’t. They flock to him, and hang from him, and look up to him. Littler children like grabbing his long hair and his silly, bushy mustache with their small, pudgy hands. Adults also like Shitty, for the most part. Those who aren’t dissuaded by his rebellious appearance view him as a positive role model. He’s double majoring and plans on going to law school after he graduates from Samwell. He spends his weekends volunteering at shelters and soup kitchens, and alerts strangers when they drop spare change in the line at the supermarket. It’s hard for Jack to imagine him as anything other than a good person. Yet there are some days Shitty looks exhausted and bitter, walking briskly past students desperately gathering loose papers and old folks struggling with their shopping carts. These days multiply as the weeks and months go on.
Jack thinks his nightmares might be getting worse, more vivid than ever.
He might be screaming, but he isn’t sure. His entire body is sore and sticky. He’s breathing heavily, but he can’t quite process what is going on. He thinks he might have broken a rib, and there’s a deep scratch along the side of his face, narrowly avoiding his eye. His vision is fading. In his peripheral vision he can see this huge wolfish monster chewing on something- its teeth and fur are stained maroon and its yellow eyes gleam in the light that floods past Jack’s bedroom curtains. Jack tries to sit up but can’t find the strength to move. Static crowds the corner of his vision, his ears are ringing, and the scent of iron fills the air around him. Everything is fading into black. Fading and fading into black black black black, deep and empty like voids in space. He tries to shout but his throat is dry and scratchy so he thrashes and cries and-
-takes a deep breath, tightens his grip on his stick, and takes a confident step onto the ice. It is his first official practice at Samwell, and he can’t decide whether he’s more nervous or excited. He doesn’t know everyone’s names yet, let alone their positions, but from a quick glance at the ice during warm ups, he can tell that there are some players that stick out more than others. One of those players is the strange freshman he met at orientation, Shitty. Shitty’s currently juggling with a puck, bouncing it between his skates and the edges of his stick. He takes a swing at it and it ricochets into the net, going bar down. He cellies excessively and laughs, and laughs, and laughs. The corners of Jack’s mouth turn upwards. Jack imagines playing alongside this strange, gangly manchild and can’t say he isn’t looking forward to it.