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Bitty is a lot of things these days: a boyfriend, a captain, and (as of three weeks ago) officially a second-semester senior. He's—what is it that Ford would say? He is booked and blessed. Lord knows that at this point in his college career, he hardly needs an excuse to waste away in his bed every so often. The fact that he has this nasty cold that’s been going around campus is just the icing on the cake.
So when he wakes up well into Friday evening with a pounding headache, partially because he’s running a fever of unknown heights and partially because he’s just dropped his phone on his face, he’s kind of grateful that, for once, the Haus is silent around him.
Dizzy, moving slow, he fishes through his sheets for his phone, squints at the brightness of the screen. Apparently Apple doesn’t recognize whatever fresh hell is going on with the dark circles under his eyes, because Face ID doesn’t go through and he has to free one hand from the recesses of his sleeve to shakily put in the passcode.
He scans his notifications for some recollection of what he was doing before he passed out. Since all his accounts have been private for months, they’ve been a lot drier than usual, though he honestly can’t say he minds. There are a few likes on his Instagram, an ESPN article on the Schooners' midseason coaching shakeup, and a couple of texts from Jack.
Today 6:42 PM
you should take something for your head
instead of tweeting about it
Had he tweeted about it? Lord, that's embarrassing. He needs his Twitter privileges revoked when he’s sick. Lardo used to be really good about barging in and doing it for him, until… well, until.
Bitty blinks, stubbornly avoiding the rest of that line of thought, and swipes over to Twitter. Sure enough, the offending tweets are close to the top of his feed. Sometimes it’s still kind of a novelty that Jack has a Twitter now, and follows him, and can read what he writes.
He deletes them decisively and means to go back to his messages, but there's a new video from the Falcs’ account of the team getting off the bus in Buffalo—and, well. Bitty isn't dead quite yet, so he hits play. Jack’s the fourth one down the stairs, wearing a sharply-tailored gray suit and a charcoal tie and a platinum watch. It catches the light from the cameras as he buttons his coat, shoulders his bag, and strides out of frame. If Bitty were playing him tonight, he'd be intimidated as all hell—Jack looks good. Focused, ready, in control.
Sweet Jesus.
Okay, so Bitty might die, actually, and it won’t be because of the fever.
Today 7:18 PM
Mr. Zimmermann.
A) You look so handsome and it is KILLING me that I can’t take that suit off you right now.
aw. haha. thanks bud :-)
B) I swear I was getting to it and then I ~fell asleep~
it’s off already but i’ll make sure you have the honor next time we’re home
i’m glad you were sleeping
how are you feeling
Bitty bites his lip, sniffling, and weighs which of his possible answers will scare Jack the least.
Worse, kinda?
Trying to muster up the courage to make it to my Tylenol stash but the bathroom is SO far away.
Please send help. ~(>_<~)
He barely has a chance to hit send before his phone starts vibrating in his hands. So much for not scaring the poor man. He picks up with a hoarse “Hello?”
“Bits,” Jack says. There’s a pause, and then a swell of noise: someone opening and closing the door to the locker room. Bitty can picture him in the cold concrete hallway under the rink, halfway into his pads, brow furrowed. “Hi. You sound terrible.”
It’s funny how much different Boyfriend Jack sounds saying these words than Captain Jack would have, three short years ago. There's a distinction to be made, Bitty has learned, between the things Jack says and what he means. Once he would have thought that Jack was angry, or accusing him of something. Now it's obvious that he’s just worried. It tugs on Bitty’s heartstrings a little.
“Yeah,” Bitty says, for lack of anything more eloquent. “I, uh. Yeah.”
Another long pause, in which Bitty imagines Jack fighting down the urge to apologize. Bitty's been down and out for a couple days; Jack's been on this roadie most of the week, won't be home until well into next. There’s not much they can do at times like this, when life gets in the way of being there for each other. They try their best to make peace with it.
Sometimes that's easier said than done.
“Do me a favor?” Jack asks.
“Sure,” says Bitty immediately.
“Stand up.”
On autopilot, Bitty swings his legs out of bed. If he'd felt like death warmed over lying down, it’s a million times worse to be standing; he's stuffy and shivery and wildly uncomfortable. He lets out a raw-sounding cough, fervently wishing he’d thought this through a little more. “Honey, what? I—don't you have to—?”
“Yes.” Jack sounds utterly unconcerned with wherever he is or isn't supposed to be at the moment. “Are you up?”
“Barely.”
“Be careful.” The words have barely left Jack’s mouth before Bitty wavers a little on his feet and has to grab the back of his desk chair for support. “Now go find your Tylenol.”
Bitty groans at the ploy. "Jack Laurent," he rasps, trying and failing to put a little snap in it even as his body starts dragging itself towards the bathroom one baby step at a time. "That was awful sneaky."
“C’mon, Bittle, motivate,” Jack says dryly. “You asked for help and I’m on the clock, here.”
“You’re very helpful, you ridiculous man.” Bitty hits the speaker button, puts his phone on the bathroom counter, and pulls the cabinets open. “I'm findin' it. Hey, while I have you, I watched their game last week and the Sabres keep trying this weird thing on the—”
"Oh, God," Jack says, and then abruptly bursts out laughing. Bitty waits, bemused. “I owe you an apology, bud. I’m rubbing off on you if I have you talking strategy while you sound like you’re at death’s door.”
Bitty draws himself up, which would feel a lot more impressive if he didn’t have to use the doorframe to help him do it. “Hey, now, not too much on yourself. Part of my dedication to being the best boyfriend I can be is to—”
“—put yourself to bed with plenty of fluids and let me worry about the Sabres’ forecheck?” Jack interrupts. “That's funny. I'd love to have a boyfriend who can do that.”
Bitty goes to pull in a whistle through his teeth and coughs again instead. “Damn, honey, low bar. How’d you know I was gonna tell you ‘bout the forecheck?”
“Because I was thinking about it, too,” Jack admits, which makes Bitty laugh. "I'll keep an—"
In the background of the call, the locker room door opens again, and a voice says something in French—Marty, then—to Jack, who responds in kind.
“Bits?”
He finds the Tylenol at last, adds it to his growing stockpile. At least he's got the entire CVS cold and flu aisle in this damn bathroom. “M'still here.”
“Hey, sorry. I’m running out of time. Got what you need?”
“Mhm.”
“Okay, aweille, back into bed. You’re making me nervous.”
“You started it,” Bitty grumbles, but he takes his phone and his armful of drugs back across the room and sinks gratefully into his bed again. “Happy now?”
“Very.” Jack’s tone goes a little wistful. “Be happier if... well. I miss you.”
Bitty’s chest and throat feel suddenly hot, heavy with unshed tears. “Me, too, honey,” he whispers. “Skype tomorrow?”
“Yes,” says Jack. "Whenever you want. I want to see you."
“‘Kay,” Bitty says softly. He takes a deep breath in, out. “Go score me some goals.”
He can hear, rather than see, that Jack is smiling. “Thought you knew by now,” he says. “They’re all for you.”
Bitty chooses to blame the weird dreams he has that night on the cocktail of drugs that are keeping him from melting into a deep-fried hot mess.
He's a frog again, small and insignificant, and the only thing he knows for certain in the world is that Jack Zimmermann is meaner than a boiled owl. He greets Bitty at breakfast with you need to eat more protein. He chews him out in front of half the team: This isn’t a joke. Either get with the program or quit. He knocks on Bitty's door at 4:30 in the morning, speaking only in monosyllabic French like he's trying to win the Douchebag Olympics. On the ice he loosens up a little, starts to show Bitty how to fight back; once or twice he even smiles. Bitty isn't stupid, though. He knows that sooner or later he’ll stop being Jack, his teacher, sleep-soft and patient, and go back to being Jack Zimmermann, his captain, sharp and acerbic and absolutely off-limits.
Bitty steps out of the trainers' office, officially concussed. The hallway is empty except for Jack—hair wet, head down, hands clasped—apparently waiting for him. He doesn't say much, just points Bitty into his waiting truck and drives him home. It's not until they stop moving that Bitty realizes that home means the Haus, and that Shitty's already got his room ready for Bitty to take over, and that Jack is going to sit up all night with him. Bitty is finally allowed to sleep, but it doesn't come easy until Jack turns away from the paper he's writing at Shitty's desk and murmurs, I didn't have your back tonight, Bittle. It won't happen again.
It's his sophomore year, the week before finals, and Jack finds him shivering in the snow outside Screw. Bittle, what are you doing? You'll catch a cold out here. He smells good and looks expensive, with a new suit on and his hair done and a date that apparently barely managed to peel herself away from him; Bitty is a failure and a loner with some sweaty guy's vomit on his nice dress shoes, which is going to take forever to get out. Jack gives him a hand, says put my jacket on, your teeth are chattering, and walks him all the way back to the Haus. In the morning, Bitty finds the jacket hung over his desk chair and his shoes at the foot of his bed, scrubbed clean.
Jack is standing on the porch of the Haus in the pouring rain, telling him he's not doing this alone. Jack is holding out an extra set of keys to his new apartment. Jack is kissing him at center ice in front of God and the news cameras and everyone. Jack is on SportsCenter calling Bitty his boyfriend. Jack is in bed, above him and below him and beside him, chin hooked over Bitty's shoulder, hands fisted in the sheets. Jack is holding him as he cries about all the lies he's had to tell his mama lately. Jack is on the couch in a pool of lamplight, hands trembling in Bitty's, telling him the story of the night he overdosed and the long months in rehab after. Jack is saying I think my parents could protect me from everything but themselves. Jack is saying I'm sorry that your parents are hurting you. Jack is saying Bits, come here, c'mon. I got you.
Jack is holding out the blueberry pie that Bitty had left abandoned on the counter. It's warm and golden now, lattice finished with clumsy but painstaking care. Their fingerprints dimple the crust side by side. Jack says I thought we could eat it together, and what he means is I love you. I love you. I'm not going anywhere.
Bitty wakes up in the middle of the night to tearstained cheeks and the sudden certainty that Jack has cared about him for a really long time.
He just needed to know what to listen for.
When he wakes again the next morning, it's late. Weak winter sunlight is pushing its way around the edges of the curtains, and someone (Bitty would put money on Dex) has left a foil-covered plate of something on the nightstand.
He stretches experimentally; he still feels like he got hit by a bus, but a good night’s sleep didn’t hurt. He thumbs open his text conversation with Jack.
Yesterday 7:42 PM
sorry to run bud
get some rest
Yesterday 10:56 PM
3-1 :-)
you were right
Today 12:13 AM
hopefully you're sleeping but just wanted to say
take it easy tomorrow
i love you