Chapter Text
It all starts innocent enough, as these things often do. It’s not really peer pressure so much as it’s peer curiosity, Eric reasons. Ransom and Holster are, honestly, just impressed by the videos of Southern Junior Regionals they found on YouTube and they want to see the routine in real life.
“The Full Eric Bittle Experience,” is what Holster called it.
That's all good and fine, except for the part of Eric’s chest that aches with something a little darker than nostalgia as he remembers the the spins and jumps that made him feel like he was flying, and everything that broke it down. There’s still a part of himself that’s furious he was driven to give it up, and another part that’s ashamed he cared so much about the opinions of bullies that he abandoned his passion. There’s also a whole lot of something that dries out his mouth and makes his throat hurt, but he doesn’t really have a name for that.
So the third or fourth time Ransom and Holster bring it up-
“Pleeeease, Bits. You know you want to bring some culture to Faber.”
“Holtzy is right. Faber needs you. All she’s seen is sweaty hockey jocks.”
-he might come off a little harsh. But it’s only because they should have dropped it after the first time he laughed them off. Or the second, or third. Can’t some bros take a hint?
“Listen here: I’m. Not. Doin’. It. It’s not some kind of show-and-tell game to me. I hate that those videos are even on YouTube. Drop it. And get outta my kitchen.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds before scrambling over themselves to get back to the living room and away from the danger of the angry southerner. If there’s anything they’ve learned since living with Bittle, it’s that when he tells you to get outta the kitchen, you damn well better get out, even if it means walking straight into the arms of satan himself.
Jack, who’d been listening to the whole conversation despite the history textbook propped in front of him on the table, glanced up after Ransom and Holster left. Bitty was turned away from him, bent over the counter next to the pre-heating oven, his forehead resting in his palms. His shoulders moved just slightly with deliberately measured deep breaths.
Jack meant to say something like, “It’s fine, Bittle. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I’ll get them to lay off if they bring it up again,” but what actually comes out is:
“I almost quit hockey. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I had. Or if it was just too much of who I am to even really quit, ever.”
Eric spins around as if he’d forgotten Jack was even in the room. His eyes are a little bright and his cheeks are red, but it’s clear that he’s not quite crying. He stares at Jack with his mouth hanging open, just a bit- Moomaw used to say he’d let the flies in if he kept that up, but here he is at 19 with the same damn look on his face- and honestly can’t figure out what to say to that. Fortunately, Jack keeps going when he realizes Eric is listening but not answering.
“I mean, maybe it isn’t the same for you and figure skating. But seemed to me like it was, yeah? Just, the way you look when you talk about it reminds me how I felt, talking about hockey when I was… um. Not playing. When I wasn’t sure I’d ever play again at any level- college, NHL, whatever. So, I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I just kind of figured something happened. And it might have been pretty serious, for you to, um. To stop. Because I’ve seen the videos, too, ya know? And you were great. Could’ve had a figure skating scholarship somewhere. I’m talking so much, wow, I didn’t mean-”
“Jack, it’s fine. Thank you. I think you’re the only person who gets it,” Eric interrupts, and sits down in the chair across from Jack in a way that distinctly reminds Jack of melting butter. His head is back in his hands- a pattern Jack is finding he’s not a fan of- and he speaks directly to the table, not particularly interested in meeting Jack’s eyes. “I just… ugh. The problem is that I want to. I want to dig my figure skates out of the closet, and use them at Faber, and try out some of my old routines. I miss it. I loved it. But I ruined all of it, and every time I think about it now, just… ugh. Uuuuugh.” Bitty let his head slide ungracefully out of his hands and land on the table top with a dull thump.
“Do you wanna talk about it, Bittle?”
“I don’t really know how.”
“Why do you think you ruined it?”
“I’m too gay.”
“What does being gay have anything to do with figure skating?”
“It doesn’t. Unless you’re a football jock looking for reasons to beat the shit out of the gay figure skater at school.”
“That’s not your fault, Bittle,” Jack said with a fierceness that got Eric’s attention.
Eric cracked an eye open to peer at Jack from the table, and decided to chirp him instead of mentioning that Jack sounded like he’s speaking from experience. “You sound like you went to the same school my high school counselor did.”
“I’m serious. They used something you loved against you. You didn’t make them do that.”
“I know that. It’s just- Everything is- It’s all jumbled together. I shouldn’t have been so… obvious. I shouldn’t have cared what they thought. I shouldn’t have let them bully me. There’s so many things that I-”
“Stop it, Bittle. You did what you loved so you could be happy. And then you did whatever you needed to, to survive. I get it. But you can’t go back in time and change it, not that you did anything wrong anyway.”
“You really should have gone to school to be a therapist, not a history major.”
“I’ve just had a lot of therapy. It wears off on you after a while.”
Eric looked back up at Jack, and held his eye contact for a few moments. Right as Jack looked back to his textbook, Eric piped up again.
“How did it feel to play hockey again, the first time?”
Jack’s eyes darted back to Eric’s quickly, but he pressed his lips in a thin line, trying to decide how to put the feeling into words. In the end, it’s more gruesome than poetic, but it gets the job done.
“It was like- Um. Well. Like if somebody ripped off my arm and then sewed it back on my body. It hurt a lot, but it was supposed to be there the whole time.”
Eric seemed to think about this for a few minutes, and Jack returned to the paragraph he’d been trying to read before Ransom and Holster had gotten themselves thrown out of the kitchen. He finally gave up entirely when Eric took a deep breath and asked a question.
“Since you’re the Captain, can you get into Faber this late at night?”