Work Text:
Eric Richard Bittle was in love.
Stupid, over-the-top, head over heels, in love.
The kitchen was without a doubt, the fanciest kitchen he had ever been in. Viking double ovens, a double door fridge with a bottom drawer freezer, smooth white granite countertops, cupboards full of mixing bowls, and it was all his.
He pressed his hand against the granite, getting a feel for the cold surface. "I'm going to bake so much pie," he stated out loud.
Kinda. It was Jack's, but since Jack was at morning skate for at least another 2 hours, Eric had free reign.
Eric surveyed the kitchen: what to make first? Maple-crusted Apple pie? Lemon-blueberry crumble pie? Pecan pie?
He tapped his foot. Maybe he should text Jack and see what he was feeling? Though he might not answer for another couple hours....
To: Jack<3 9:38am
What type of pie do you want today? Also butter?
From Jack<3 ️ 9:41am
There's butter in the freezer.
From Jack<3 ️ 9:42am
I don't know? Maman put some cookbooks in the living room in hopes that I won't starve. Maybe look for inspiration.
To Jack<3 ️ 9:44am
Lol. Thanks honey!
Problem solved , Eric thought as he made his way into the living room. He could choose a recipe and then doctor it up however he wanted.
Jack's living room was just was impressive as the kitchen; a wall of windows, a massive built in entertainment center with bookshelves, and in the center of it all sat an extremely comfortable couch. Glancing over at the couch, Eric could feel his face redden.
Coming to Providence for the two weeks before the semester started was, without a doubt, one of the best decisions of his life. Jack had picked him up from the airport and -- mindful of the public setting and the phones pointed their way -- they had exchanged a friendly hug. The drive in Jack's truck was its own special type of torture as they chatted about the latest adventures in the group chat, and by the time Jack shut the door to his apartment behind him the tension was palpable. They didn't make past the foyer.
After catching their breathe and dumping Eric's suitcase and duffle in the bedroom for a quick change of clothes, they had made sandwiches. Which had been eaten.... eventually. Really, watching Jack make sandwiches should not have been that attractive. Of course, it helped that he was dressed in a sinfully tight shirt that proclaimed 'Falconer's Hockey'.
Eric shook his head, focusing back on his mission. He was going to find a pie to make if it killed him. Stepping over to the bookshelves, he ran his fingers across the titles. Most were history books, probably the sources for Jack's final paper, but some were on hockey strategies, photography, a couple of biographies, and-
His brained stuttered.
There nestled between 'Home Game: Hockey and Life in Canada' and 'Geese: A Pictorial Study', was ' The Seven Principles For Making Marriage Work'.
He could feel his pulse in his hands and hear it pounding in his ears.
The book had creases in its spine and sticky notes poking out of the top. The cover was still glossy with newness.
Eric thought wildly that he might be having a stroke.
It’s not that he hadn’t thought about his future with Jack. A future with a dog, a cat, and -- just maybe -- a little girl with Jack’s eyes. A future with a spacious house and a backyard to have get togethers in. A future where he could walk down the street holding Jack’s hand and go to his games to cheer him on without worrying. A future that had him waking up next to Jack for the rest of his life. A future that came with a ring on his finger.
But. That future was one of fleeting thoughts, and daydream fantasies. This was not a daydream, and this was not a fantasy.
He could feel the goosebumps down his legs and up his back. He wanted to text Lardo. Wanted to text his mother. Lardo didn’t know about Jack and him though, and his mother...didn’t know about him.
Still, he could feel an involuntary smile creeping onto his face and a giddy feeling washing over him. This was proof -- as indirect as it was -- that this relationship, full of hiding and uncertainty at times, was serious. Serious enough that Jack saw that book, bought it, and in true 110% fashion took notes on it as he read. That boy.
Eric allowed himself one minute of full body wiggles, that may have included some jumping up and down on his toes, before forcing himself to be calm. Jack hadn’t hidden the book, hadn’t tried to deflect attention from the bookshelves.
This was his future, Eric thought, Jack playing hockey, and Eric making pies in their kitchen, and Jack coming home with soft kisses and waking up next to each other, and a feeling of giddiness that would last.
Eventually, he did pull a cookbook from the shelves, and make his way back to the kitchen.
Eventually, he pull out butter and flour, and discover a brand new stand mixer tucked away in a cupboard with a sticky note that read “For Bittle; Enjoy the Kitchen” . This boy…
Eventually, he had a sour cherry pie and an apricot blackberry pie cooling on the counter.
Eventually, Jack would come through the door with a bag of groceries for dinner, full of bread for garlic bread and kale for his frankly disgusting morning protein shakes. And Eric would feed him a bite of freshly cut pie and Jack would wrap his hands around Eric’s waist like he never wanted to let go, his fingers laced together.
Until then though, Eric pulled out his phone and sent a text.
To Jack<3 ️ 10:36am
Have a great time at skate! <3
Eric Richard Bittle was in love.
Stupid, over-the-top, head over heels, in love.