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If he’s asked, he’ll say they did it for the charity, but that’s not really true. In truth, Jack can hardly remember what the gala was for. It happens when Bitty is sprawled across Jack’s lap on the couch, scrolling through Twitter while Jack watches How It’s Made, and he puts his phone down and presses his face into Jack’s thigh. Jack’s been with Bitty long enough to know when something’s wrong, so he mutes the TV and gently scratches the back of Bitty’s head. “What’s up, bud?”
Bitty mumbles something unintelligible into Jack’s leg, lets out a slow breath, and turns over. He licks his lips and asks, “Have you ever gotten a death threat?”
Jack chokes on his gum.
Because yeah, he’s faced some comments by over-enthusiastic fans, nothing serious but still scary. It’s a world he never wanted Bitty drawn into. “Bits,” he manages, “what are you talking about? Are you okay?” He presses his palm against Bitty’s cheek, trying to express as much comfort as he can. “Hey, what is it?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Bitty grabs his phone from the coffee table and opens his photos. He pulls up a folder and passes it to Jack to scroll through. It only takes one or two for Jack’s stomach to drop.
@omgcheckplease kill urself fag
if i see one more photo of zimmerman and his butt buddy @omgcheckplease im gonna find my fucking gun
@PR_NHL FAGGOT ZIMMERMAN IS A DISGRACE TO HOCKEY
It’s a punch in the stomach. He scrolls through as many as he can—there must be hundreds— before he starts to feel sick. “How long have you been getting these?
Bitty shrugs. “Probably since we went public? I got some before that—you know, for existing while gay—but none of it was directed at you. But the whole NHL-boyfriend thing brings out the more violent fans.”
“Crisse, Bits, why didn’t you tell me? Have you been dealing with this by yourself?” Jack threads his fingers into Bitty’s hair and tugs a little, just enough to for him to look Jack in the eye. “We’re a team.”
“We are,” Bitty mumbles. “I didn’t want to annoy you, it’s just Twitter idiots. Most of them are just eggs anyway.” He takes Jack by the wrist and kisses his palm, blinking slowly as he does it. The distraction is appreciated, but, it doesn’t take Jack’s mind off the ugliness of the comments. Even as Bitty trails light kisses along the inside of his wrist, he knows it’s not something he’s going to forget.
* * *
When the next invitation for a gala comes, Jack goes to throw it away, but Bitty grabs it before he can. “Hold up, Jack.” He rips the envelope open the envelope and skims the contents before glancing up at Jack. “Honey, this is in a week. We still have time to RSVP.”
Jack can’t help but laugh a little at the thought. “Bits, we never go to those. Is it that important?”
“Don’t be silly, it’s for a good cause. Of course I care about—” he glances down at the envelope—“heart disease awareness. I’m Southern. Half my family’s got high blood pressure. Besides…”
The paper twists a little in his hands, and Jack’s suddenly aware that Bitty’s trembling. He steps forward and gathers both Bitty’s hands in his, kissing his laced fingers. “Bitty?”
For the first time, Bitty looks at Jack with absolute determination. “I think we need to go.”
Jack quirks an eyebrow. Bitty exhales and continues, “I want to go to this stupid gala for a charity I don’t know, and I want to dance with my boyfriend, and I want the world to see us and understand that their stupid threats aren’t worth anything because we love each other too much for that, and I’m aware that’s over the top and political but I really won’t feel right unless I do something about them. And I want a chance to see you in a nice suit, because we both know what they do for your butt. And who knows, maybe Beyoncé will be—”
Jack kisses him. He brings both his hands to Bitty’s face, trying to convey every bit of love he possibly can in it, and Bitty smiles against his mouth. “I love you,” Jack whispers. “You think we can do this?”
Bitty nods. “You and me, sweetheart.” Jack goes in to kiss him again, but Bitty leans back a little and puts both hands against his chest. “Later, honey. If we’re going, we’ve gotta look good. I’m gonna make some calls.”
* * *
They arrive in Dior. Bitty in navy blue, Jack in deep grey (and “a pair of pants that actually fit, my goodness”, according to Bitty), and there’s the usual flash of cameras as they walk in. For half a second, Bitty flinches, something Jack didn’t expect.
It hits him that Bitty’s used to being in control of how he’s seen—his vlog and Twitter give of a strategic image. This many paparazzi is still a somewhat new experience. He presses his hand into the small of Bitty’s back, feels him relax into it, and imagines anchoring himself there. “Breathe, bé,” he whispers, receiving a slightly shaky smile for his efforts. “Just another minute. I’ve got you.” It feels a little unusual to be the one soothing Bitty for once, but Jack’s been dealing with paparazzi his whole life. This is hardly a first.
As soon as they’re past the doors, Bitty’s entire posture relaxes. Jack, on the other hand, scans the room for anyone he might want to avoid. The gala is exactly the kind of thing his mom used to love: glitzy celebrities and free champagne, both of which Jack’s always found a little too sticky-sweet. They circle the room once to pick up drinks as Bitty visibly starts to slip more into his element. “Look, Jack, there’s Miranda Lambert,” he stage-whispers, pointing to a crowd of faces Jack vaguely recognizes. “And Kerry Washington, you know, from Scandal, and oh my stars is that Viola Davis? Can I ask her for an autograph, or is that weird?”
The chatter grounds Jack in the buzz of the room, and he presses a fond kiss to Bitty’s temple. “I don’t have a pen on me, but you could ask her for a selfie? I hear they’re all the rage these days.”
Bitty giggles and nudges Jack in the ribs, breaking any spell the gala still had over them. There’s a light flush in his cheeks, either from the drink or sheer excitement, that makes his freckles stand out like stardust. And if Jack falls a little more in love every time he looks at him, well, that’s just a plus.
They mingle with the rich and famous for a bit, Bitty practically giddy when he finds out Carrie Underwood watches his blog when she’s homesick. Their discussion of southern food and her praise of his galette leaves him silent for a solid ten seconds. As they’re walking away, Jack runs a hand down Bitty’s arm, partly to feel him shiver, and whispers, “Feel like dancing yet?”
Bitty shakes his head a little, gnawing his lip nervously. “Not yet. There’s still…” He gestures to the paparazzi scattered around the room trying to get the best shot. Jack hates the tightening of Bitty’s shoulders under his fingers, but he nods.
“Let’s go get a drink, bé. You gonna be okay?”
Under his arm, Bitty relaxes a few degrees. “Look,” he says, pointing across the room, “there’s Snowy. Let’s go say hi, I’ve been meaning to talk to him about finding a decent eyebrow freeze. I will never understand how someone with eyeliner that good can be such a disaster.” It’s a diversion, and they both know it. Subtlety is hardly a strong point for either of them, never has been. Even if they came to make a statement, Bitty matters more than that right now.
But the night progresses, the music turns from NPR background music to what can really only be described as sex jams circa 1940, and it can only be ignored for so long. As the singer croons, “I’m not to clever, I just adore you”, he catches Bitty’s eye and mouths, Now?
Bitty nods, the slightest motion. Wordlessly, he laces his fingers with Jack’s and tugs a little, leading him onto the floor. They don’t stop until they’re almost dead center, where Bitty guides Jack’s hands to his waist and loops his arms around Jack’s neck as if he’s done it a hundred times.
He hears whispers. It occurs to him, somewhat vaguely, that he can’t remember the last time he danced—not kegster dancing but the kind you do in front of people you actually want to impress. He’s not even sure he remembers how. This feels ten times worse than stepping onto the ice after his overdose, a hundred times worse than his first game at Samwell. With even more people to see it this time.
The room starts to spin, and for a second, Jack wonders if he’s about to pass out. He imagines another round of cocaine headlines, complete with more blurry shots of his nose as clues. He can't handle it again. Can't come back from that again. Everything he's worked for would be over.
Hands. Soft hands cupping the sides of his face. A whisper, barely audible, “Jack,” and then again, “Jack, honey, look at me.”
He opens his eyes. From where he is, Bitty’s face is framed in a halo of gold, and the way his thumbs trace Jack’s cheekbones feel like home. The world smells like citrus shampoo and expensive moisturizer. “Do you need to go?”
In lieu of a response, Jack smiles and leans down to kiss away the crease in Bitty’s forehead. “I'm good,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you so goddamn much.” He kisses Bitty once gently on the mouth, pulls away to see him smile like Madison in July. Bitty’s here, he reminds himself, as the knot in his stomach starts to dissolve. He lets himself fade into Bitty, who despite how it might appear is definitely leading. Everything is Bitty’s breath on his neck and fingers playing with his hair and lips pressing a soft promise to his jaw and Jack can hardly remember the last time he felt this present—or, for that matter, this comfortable. He's here.
So they dance. This song fades into “The Way You Look Tonight” which, Jack thinks as he presses his hands a little more against the small of Bitty's back he can definitely get behind. It's such a delicate thing, this peace they've found, that he doesn't dare disturb it by ending the dance. This song becomes the next becomes the next becomes an infinite blur of soft piano and warm whispers until suddenly, Thirdy is tapping his shoulder and whispering, “Hey, lover boy, everyone’s clearing out.”
He glances at the clock and nearly does a double take when he realizes it’s almost one in the morning. Jack “my bedtime was five minutes ago” Zimmermann starts to panic, but that part of him is quickly squashed when he looks back to Bitty to find what can only be described as bedroom eyes staring back at him.
“We should get home,” Bitty agrees, without taking his gaze away from Jack. “It’s pretty late.”
Jack nods once, jerkily, and reaches for Bitty’s hand. “Yes. We, um. Late. Yeah,” he manages, because now Bitty is giving him That Look and biting his lip a little and yes, they have to leave Right Now Immediately because frankly it’s a wonder they’re not already on the nearest table. Or against the wall. Or on the floor, for that matter. Whatever’s nearest.
Thirdy seems to notice, because he coughs a little awkwardly and says something Jack doesn’t quite hear about there being a limo outside for them. In return, Jack mumbles some sort of goodbye over his shoulder when Bitty starts hauling him outside.
On the sidewalk, Bitty stops directly in front of the limo and throws his arms around Jack’s neck and bursts into a flood of words Jack is about sixty percent sure he understands. “Honey—oh, sweetheart, that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe you did that for me. There were so many cameras and so many people and it must have been so hard for you and I can’t believe you did that for me and Lord, Jack, I love you so much, are you okay? Please tell me if you’re not okay and I swear to god we’ll never do that again but even one time was more than enough and I’m so proud of you, Jack, I just—thank you. That’s the bravest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
He trails off as Jack skims his hand down Bitty’s side, letting it settle into the soft curve where hip met thigh, and without warning Bitty grabs Jack’s tie and yanks him into a kiss. They stay there for what seems like hours until the click of a camera shocks them out of it. The photographer is young, maybe 25, and blurts an apology before either of them can respond. She backs away almost comically quickly, nearly tripping over her stilettos in the process, and Jack shakes it off the second Bitty pulls him into the limo. They have much more important business to attend to.
* * *
The next day, the pictures of them dancing go viral. A bit of hate comes with it, which is nothing if not expected, but the support they receive from the NHL and fans alike is almost overwhelming. But the really unusual thing is the email Jack opens the next day, one from an address he doesn’t recognize.
Dear Mr. Zimmermann, it reads,
You probably saw me take a photo of you and your boyfriend outside your limo last night. I know it’s my job to take photos, but this one seemed a little personal. So I’ve decided not to publish it. That said, I figured you’d like a copy, you guys look really nice. Sorry if this seemed invasive at all. Have a nice day.
Sincerely,
Rosa Vasquez
Photographer, US Magazine
There’s a file attached. Jack clicks it to find a photo of Bitty and him wrapped up in each other, and in all honesty, it’s not a bad photo. On the other hand, he’s really glad she didn’t publish it—not for the content, but because in that light, you can just make out the outline of a ring box tucked in the inner pocket of Jack’s suit.
As he closes his laptop, it occurs to him that they really should hire her to do their wedding photos. She knows Bitty’s angles almost better than he does.