#bv2018

[bittysvalentines]

The Stranger the Better

From: @hockeydyke

To: @bitty-smol

Summary: Kent’s had a bad day and he figures date night with Bitty will improve his mood. But when Bitty watches a hot stranger get stood up, he decides to invite the man over to join him and Kent for the night. The only problem? Kent knows the guy.

Rating: T

Tags: Alternate universe- no one plays hockey, Established Eric “Bitty” Bittle/Kent “Parse” Parson, Eric “Bitty” Bittle/Kent “Parse” Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Misunderstandings

Kent hadn’t had the best day so far.

All things considered, though, he was doing a pretty good job of holding it together. In fact, he was actually proud that he hadn’t snapped at his boyfriend at all despite his bad mood, because he was still feeling rational enough to know that he didn’t actually want to push Bitty away or do anything to make things worse. Instead, he was trying to ignore it and go about his daily routine as usual.

And sure, maybe it wasn’t the best thing in the world for Kent to push down all his feelings and frustrations, but Bitty had a tendency to pick up the moods of the people around him, and Kent didn’t want to make Bitty grumpy just because he had the misfortune of being both physically and emotionally close to a particularly pissy Kent Parson on what could otherwise be an entirely pleasant Friday night.

So Kent had texted Bitty during work and suggested a low-key dinner date, because enchiladas and a couple happy hour drinks from Cactus Cantina across the street from their apartment certainly couldn’t make things worse. All Kent knew was that the place was casual, the dessert menu was up to Bitty’s standards, and the drink selection rotated often enough to keep him happy, so it was a win for both of them, and they usually ended up there at least once a week.

And that’s what brought Kent to where he was currently, sipping a half-priced strawberry swirl margarita and pouting because his boyfriend wasn’t paying attention to him. This was particularly offensive to Kent since Bitty was busy looking over Kent’s shoulder at some hot guy who’d sat down on the other side of the room around when they’d arrived. The nerve of it all. Sure, Kent and Bitty had an open relationship, but that didn’t mean that Kent never got jealous-- especially when he was two margs in and in need of attention as he tried to tell an entertaining story about Jenna from Marketing.

Bitty rested his chin on his hands and made heart eyes in the hot guy’s direction again, and Kent finally gave up and sighed as loudly as he could get away with in public. “Come on,” he said, sounding only slightly whinier than he’d intended. “Is this guy really that hot? You’ve been staring at him for ten minutes.”

He began to turn, but Bitty darted his hands out and grabbed the collar of Kent’s shirt to keep him from doing it. “I swear to god, Kent. Do not look at him right now. It’d be so obvious that we’re staring.”

Kent threw his hands in the air. “Alright, alright! I’m not looking, okay? You can describe him to me.” He stared in front of himself instead, at the turquoise accent wall and exposed brick and generic cactus-themed decor. “See, not looking, so paint me a damn picture. But make it a sexy picture, at least.”

Bitty leveled Kent with a stare. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but he did take another good look over Kent’s shoulder. “He’s got gorgeous blue eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass. Honestly, he looks familiar. I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

“What kind of familiar?”

“Like, B-list reality TV star famous. Or maybe some kind of modeling? He has the bone structure for it. He’s easily the hottest person here, other than us, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Kent repeated. “And he’s seriously been alone this whole time?”

“Yes! The waitress has checked up on him, like, five times. Poor thing,” Bitty said, frowning. “Someone definitely stood him up. We should go see if he wants to come sit with us to take his mind off of it.”

“Are you kidding me? I bet he got stood up because he’s an asshole.”

“Kent.”

“What if he’s a serial killer?” Kent said, then sat up straighter and poked at Bitty’s forearm. “Even worse-- what if he’s the kind of guy who golfs on weekends?”

“Oh, shush. You’ve been such a grump today,” Bitty said, which, ouch, but true. Maybe Kent wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he thought, which was possibly something that he should talk to his therapist about. “We’re going to do something nice and we’re going to feel good about it.”

Feel good. A Freudian slip, or maybe a complete coincidence, but it was enough for Kent to jump to a conclusion that he felt pretty good about. He grinned.

“You just want us to have a threesome with him, don’t you?”

They stared each other down for a few moments. Bitty had a decent poker face, but Kent had known him for long enough to recognize the faint pink blush on his cheeks as a dead giveaway that he was right.

Finally, Bitty gave in. “Okay, fine, I think we should invite him home with us. But once you see him, you’re gonna agree with me. He’s exactly your type.” And before Kent could speak, he added, “Your other type, sweetheart. Not like me at all.”

“Big guy?”

“Mm,” Bitty hummed, gazing over Kent’s shoulder and nodding, chin resting in his hands again. “Thighs for days. Dark hair, very mysterious. Could definitely play a vampire in a movie, but like, a vampire who works out.”

“Fuck, okay. Invite him over,” Kent said, just as their waitress passed by again. While Bitty stood and headed out of Kent’s view, Kent waved her over so she could get him another margarita. She brought the drink out immediately. Kent was just lifting it up to his mouth for a sip when Bitty returned, smiling and bouncing on his toes as he sat back down across the table from Kent.

And then next to him, because Kent Parson’s life was a nightmare or at least a mildly uncomfortable stress dream, Jack Zimmermann sat down, looking stunningly handsome but also sheepish and shy right up to the moment when he met Kent’s eyes. Immediately, Jack’s annoyingly perfect face collapsed into a frown, looking for all the world like he’d seen a ghost.

At least, that’s what Kent felt like, because here was the same Jack Zimmermann who Kent had been moping about all day, after seeing on Facebook that morning that he’d moved back to town after more than five years away. Kent hadn’t seen him in person for nearly as long, since the last time he’d made a pitiful attempt to win Jack back at the Zimmermann family holiday party was just a month before he’d met Bitty. This was that Jack Zimmermann, back in his life without any warning.

It was all Kent could do not to spit out his entire mouthful of tequila and sugar, and the only reason he didn’t was because his shirt was white and he didn’t feel like spending his evening trying to remove a pink stain from it, but God, he wanted the drama of it.

Bitty dove right into introductions, seemingly unaware of Kent’s hopefully well-disguised mental and emotional crisis. “Jack, hon, this is my boyfriend, Kent. Kent, this is Jack. He just moved in across the street from here.”

Kent swallowed. His drink felt like it had gone stale in his mouth. “We’ve met,” he said, dry.

“Oh, really?” Bitty asked, looking up at Jack again, narrowing his eyes.

Jack didn’t say anything at all. Instead, while he sat there slack-jawed and wide-eyed, Kent had to explain what was going on. “This is Jack Zimmermann,” Kent said, trying to use his eyes to convey his sheer panic to Bitty. “I played hockey with him in high school,” he said, because that was easier than saying that Jack was the one who broke his heart, and anyway, Bitty knew the entire story and would be able to infer.

Bitty continued to force a smile. “Goodness! Well, I really walked right into that one, huh? No wonder you looked so familiar,” he said, patting Jack’s arm in a way that Kent knew was meant to be both comforting, but actually made Jack look like he was about to implode.

“Eugh,” Jack started, helpful as ever, and something about his rich tenor made Kent’s blood feel warm. It was also possible that the tequila had just hit. “I can go. I don’t want to, um, upset anyone. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to! We’d still be glad to have you join us,” Bitty said. “I know that Kent has so much he’d love to talk to you about, and I’m sure it’s the same on your end of things!”

“Bits,” Kent hissed. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been betrayed this badly. Bitty was definitely sleeping on the couch tonight, but he couldn’t say that right now, because that would probably look bad in front of Jack.

Kent didn’t want that, probably. In fact, he wasn’t at all sure what exactly he did want from Jack now, at this point in his life, at age 25 and happy with his boyfriend, job, cat, apartment, and basically every other aspect of life that showed that he had proudly moved on from Jack Zimmermann.

And yet Kent couldn’t help but let his mind drift to how happy he was that he hadn’t had time to change after work, because he looked pretty damn good in his slacks and button-down. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but he had spent a very long time in front of the restroom mirror touching up his hair after his lunch break, so he felt pretty confident that it looked good right now. Comparatively, this was a much better way of running into Jack than, say, running into him during a late-night grocery run when Kent was wearing ratty sweatpants and a shirt with a picture of his cat on it.

Kent thought he looked okay. And he did want Jack to know that he was okay.

Jack was still frowning, and the worry lines in his forehead and around his eyes were deeper than they used to be. His eyes were also, somehow, so much more blue than Kent remembered, as if time had somehow erased their intensity. After a moment, Jack cleared his throat, stilted and awkward, and said the one thing that could convince Kent to give this a shot: “I’ve missed you.”

It was too much.

“Yup,” Kent said, standing up fast enough to knock into the table and jostle it, loudly shifting the plates and glasses and fake cactus on top of it. “I gotta hit the bathroom. Bitty?”

Bitty stood, much more graceful, and slid out of the booth. “It seems like I also have to use the restroom. Stay here and we’ll be right back,” he said, and something in his tone was commanding enough that Jack obediently remained seated and didn’t argue.

Kent pushed through the main room of the restaurant and back to the hallway where the restrooms were located and closed the door once he and Bitty were both in the one-stall men’s bathroom. He took stock of the situation: shockingly he wasn’t having a panic attack, but he was still feeling thrown off and almost dazed.

“I think I’m in shock. Could I literally be in medical shock right now? Am I crying?” he said to his own reflection in the mirror, eyes wet and hair wild. His hair had cowlicks, it seemed, remained tamed. Over his shoulder, he could see mirror-Bitty facepalm, then move closer so he could pat Kent’s shoulder.

“Kent, honey,” Bitty started, then paused as Kent leaned over the sink and splashed water in his face, hoping to refresh himself. “I love you, but you really have zero common sense. You’re getting your shirt all wet.”

“Good!” Kent said. “Does it look like I’m crying? Because I’m totally not crying.”

“You don’t look like you’ve been crying because you’ve basically trained yourself not to cry properly, which is absolutely not healthy, but I’m not going to lecture you about it right now,” Bitty said. “But even if you were, it’d be fine! I’m sure he’s freaking out just as much as you are right now!”

“Is this a pep talk, or are you trying to make me feel guilty?” Kent asked. “Because I don’t feel guilty. He ignored me for years, Bits. It never meant anything to him.”

“Kenny.” Bitty grabbed Kent by the shoulders. Kent could feel them flex and press into his shirt as Bitty raised up slightly onto his toes. It was a habit he’d developed from years of trying to close their three-inch height difference, and the familiarity of it lulled Kent’s pulse to a more reasonable pace. “You’ve been wanting closure with him for as long as I’ve known you. I know he broke your heart. But you’re both adults now and I think you’re finally mature enough to talk about it, so why don’t we give it a try?”

Kent leaned forward until Bitty understood what he wanted and wrapped his arms around him in a proper hug. He sighed. “Yeah, okay. Even though I hate it when you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Bitty said, giving Kent’s back one final pat and then gently pushing him back out of the restroom and into the main floor of the restaurant.

For the first time, Jack smiled. “Did you spill a glass of water on your shirt?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Kent said. “What really matters is that my boyfriend thinks you’re hot. Can you buy him a drink and also explain why the fuck you’re back in town?”

“Oh,” Jack started, then faltered. “I guess, I-- well. I got a new job.” He took a deep breath, then turned to Bitty. “Sorry, what would you like to drink?”

“Just a regular margarita, thank you,” Bitty said, sliding into the booth next to Jack. “So, Mr. Zimmermann. Please tell us all about this new job of yours.”

And so Jack did. Kent was quiet during their first round of drinks, listening and watching and learning about this new, older Jack Zimmermann. He was still reserved and still a little bit slow on the uptake when it came to the jokes and slang that Kent and Bitty easily tossed around, but he also cracked a few jokes of his own, which was something he never used to do when they were teenagers. He was more relaxed, too: although Kent spent several minutes watching Jack’s hands, he didn’t see them shake at all.

Their conversation flowed easily enough that two hours passed without Kent noticing. He only realized that it was close to ten-- closing time-- that their waitress had started to hover around the table, pacing at the edge of Kent’s line of vision. At ten, she shuffled up to the table, but didn’t say anything yet. The girl was young, probably in high school, and Kent felt bad for her. He’d hated waiting tables, too, back when he’d done it in college. He looked at Bitty, then at the waitress, trying to subtly let him know that it was time to go.

Bitty nodded, and then, under the table, kicked Kent. It was all Kent could do to keep from yelping, but he somehow managed it and shot a glare in Bitty’s direction, thankful that Jack was oblivious and rambling happily about his photography. Bitty kicked Kent again. Clearly, it was up to him to decide how they were going to end the night.

“Alright,” Kent said, before his leg had to sustain any more damage. He waved the waitress closer and motioned for the check. “How about we move this to our place? You can meet my cat, Zimms.”

Jack looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he said, accepting the check and sliding his card into the holder before either of them could stop him. It was a convenient way for him to avoid eye contact.  “I don’t know if you want anything like that, and if you want to just ignore me so we go back to pretending each other doesn’t exist, I could get over that too.”

“But,” Bitty prompted, kicking Kent again.

“But I’d like it if you’d come home with us,” Kent said, finally looking up from where he’d been fidgeting with his debit card.

It was dim in the restaurant this late at night, the colorful string lights and candles doing little against the dark outside, but Jack’s eyes were shining. He nodded, thoughtful. “This was nice. I’d like that too.”

“Thank God,” Bitty said. “Okay, let’s get out of here. I’m dying to get out of my work clothes,” he said, giving Jack a wink that made him choke on his last sip of the single pint of beer he’d been nursing all night.

As they left the restaurant, Jack and Kent walked on either side of Bitty, who looked as pleased as the cat who’d gotten the cream. “Told you we’d feel good about this,” he said, knocking his hips against Kent’s own and smiling, and that’s when Kent realized what should have occurred to him the moment that Bitty invited Jack over to their table.

That little shit knew who Jack was all along.

“Oh, man,” he said, throwing his arm around Bitty’s shoulder. He nuzzled his nose against Bitty’s ear before blowing in it and laughing when Bitty squealed. “You’re lucky I love you.”

[sissalage]

Equipa maravilha! 😍😘❤ Saudades destas noitadas!!! #friends #firefighters #firegirls #bvalcochete #bv2018 https://www.instagram.com/p/BmXGKuNjJRo_NpYftKzYZk4y72YKnbJfeFC-tg0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=9v5j3bssmqxp

[bittysvalentines]

Home is whenever I'm with you

And to close off what has been a wonderful event, here’s a gift to all of you!

from: @parrishsrubberplant

to: OMGCP Fandom!!!!

summary: Hope you enjoy! Title from “Home” by Edward Sharpe & The Magentic Zeroes.

Bitty is getting on the train when it hits. One moment he’s fine, just a little tired, looking forward to a long weekend with Jack. The next moment, he’s taking a sip from his water bottle and swallowing hard through the pain in his throat.

Damn it.

He texts Jack that he’s on the train and drinks more water. Wincing as he swallows, he leans his head back against his seat and closes his eyes. He really wanted to have a sexy Valentine’s weekend and now he’s getting sick. Life isn’t fair.

It’s their second Valentine’s Day together. Last year, the kitchen was like a rose garden for weeks. Bitty ended up giving roses to everyone else on the team, including the boys who needed flowers for their dates. This year, Jack was more restrained. There’s only one (albeit very fancy) bouquet on the Haus kitchen table.

But there’s also a letter from Goals & Dreams Fund, thanking Bitty for the donation made in his name. And another letter from Leveling the Playing Field, containing similar thanks.

It’s the kind of present his parents would have never given him nor thought to give him. They tend to be more…concrete with their presents, especially his mother.

When he had first opened them, Bitty had had to silence the voice in the back of his head. The one that sounded like his mother, that said, This isn’t a gift. But it was. He already had a lot of baking stuff. And Jack’s other Valentine’s gift (okay, there were three gifts, maybe Jack still was incredibly extra this year after all) was a box full of Valrhona chocolate and fancy extracts and flavorings. And donations to charities (the smaller, more specific, and more closely aligned with the recipient’s interests and values, the better) were a tradition in Jack’s family, so.

So Bitty tacked the letters to his bulletin board, and put the extracts in the baking supplies cupboard, and hid the chocolate in his room (he didn’t trust Dex–who’s secretly a chocolate fiend–not to carve little pieces of it off with a knife and eat them). And he stayed up all night working on his paper.

He edited the paper, submitted it, and he thought he was going to get away with the all-nighter, except now he is on the train and his throat hurts and he’s headed off to a romantic Valentine’s weekend with his boyfriend who has back-to-back home games.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the weird-looking paper towel-thing draped over the top of the seat. Maybe if he naps for the entire forty-five minute train ride, he’ll feel better.

When he wakes up, his throat still hurts and his mouth tastes like something died in it. He drinks more water. He takes his duffle bag down from the rack and moves to the front of the train car.

He calls Jack as he leaves the station. “Zimmermann,” Jack says.

“Hey, sugar.” Bitty would be embarrassed about the pet names, but it’s clear–really, really clear–how much Jack likes them.The condos that are being built up by the train station have grown since he last visited. They look almost liveable now, rather than bare skeletons of metal.

“How was your trip?”

“Quiet,” Bitty says. He walks out of the train station. “Just looking around for my Lyft now. I was going to just go to your house, unless you want me to come to the Dunk.”

“House is good,” Jack says. “I’ll be home for a nap pretty soon anyway. We’re almost done here.”

“Get off your phone and go back to strategy,” Bitty says, but he’s laughing as he says it. He sees the silver Honda. “Bittle?” the driver asks. “Yes,” Bitty says, and gets into the backseat, putting his bag on the floor by his feet.

“What?” Jack asks.

“Nothing, honey, I’ll see you later. Love you.” The driver pulls away from the station, driving around the back of the State House.

“You too,” Jack says.

Jack ended up buying a house in Providence, on Blackstone Boulevard, at the end of last year. It’s not as private as he would have liked, but it does have a gated entrance and Providence sports fans have been good about pointedly Not Knowing Where Zimmermann Lives. Bitty thinks maybe the Rhode Islanders got it all out of their systems when Taylor Swift bought her Watch Hill beach house.

The driver pulls up in front of the house. “Thank you,” Bitty says, and gets out. He enters the code for the gate (it’s the date of their first kiss, which made him laugh. Jack had looked extremely sheepish then said, “I needed four numbers I can definitely remember that aren’t my birthday or any other publicaly available information!” which, okay, fair).

He walks up the driveway. There’s a lawn with a big oak tree in front of the house, and a two-car garage behind it. Jack’s truck is gone, of course. Bitty goes around the back of the house. He notices the bulbs that are trying valiantly to poke their way up through the dirt.

Too soon, he thinks. It’s just going to snow again.

He unlocks the back door with his key and listens, but the alarm chirps once and doesn’t continue beeping. Jack hadn’t left the system armed, then.

He checks the fridge. Jack has chicken marinating in a Pyrex bowl. Bitty pokes through his crisper drawer. He takes out the bag of Brussels sprouts and the package of bacon. He also gets out a pot for brown rice.

He leaves the rice to soak and preps the Brussels sprouts. When they’re finished he leaves the tray on the stove. He checks his phone but there’s no message from Jack. He flops down on the couch and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t mean to sleep for very long but he must have been tired, because the next thing Bitty knows he’s starting awake to the sound of the alarm chirping as the back door opens. He hears the jangle of Jack hanging up his keys on the rack by the door and the thump of Jack’s bag hitting the hall bench.

Bitty rolls himself up and over the back of the couch. He lands on his feet and stumbles into Jack, who starts laughing.

“Shut up,” Bitty says into his chest. “It was graceful in my head.”

Jack kisses him. “You’re very graceful.” He looks at the couch, and then back at Bitty. “I’m going to walk around the couch now, because if I try what you just did, we’ll break the furniture.”

“Are you calling me short?” Bitty says. Jack walks around the couch and sits down. “Or are you calling yourself uncoordinated?”

“Both,” Jack says, and so Bitty vaults over the back of the couch and lands on him in revenge. Jack wrestles him down.

“Oh hi,” he says. Jack kisses him again, more thoroughly this time. Bitty pulls away. “Sorry, I think I’m getting sick.”

Jack shrugs. “I don’t care, I’ll kiss you anyway.”

“I don’t want to get you sick,” Bitty protests.

“Cold sick? Flu sick?” Jack stretches out on the couch. Bitty rolls onto his side and leans against him. Jack is warm, and he smells like locker room soap and deodorant.

“Cold sick,” Bitty says.

“Still don’t care,” Jack says. “I miss you.”

“Miss you too,” Bitty says, and then, “I’m right here.”

“I know,” Jack mumbles into his hair. “I just miss you when you’re not here.”

Bitty adjust himself so he’s pillowed even more comfortably against Jack’s chest. “I’ll be here this summer, I hope.” If he can get an internship in Providence or (more likely) in Boston. Which, it would maybe make slightly more sense to live in Boston, in that case, but the fact that he wouldn’t be paying rent would more than cancel out the transportation costs and…it’s still too early to think about that.

Only like a month too early, but still.

Jack sighs. “Pillow?”

“Do you want a bed pillow?”

“I want your butt as a pillow.”

Bitty swats him. “I’ll fart on you.”

“I’ll fart on you back.”

Bitty gets up. “I’ll get you a pillow because I love you.”

He comes back with one of the memory foam pillows from the guest bedroom, one of the ones that feels like falling into a firm cloud. Jack arranges it under his head. “Come back,” he says. “I love you.”

“I’m getting us a blanket too,” Bitty says. “Okay if I nap with you? Even though I’m maybe sick?”

“Yes,” Jack says.

And, like, okay, in his head Bitty knows that Jack’s family has a lot of money. But it’s one thing to know that and another that the blanket draped over the back of Jack’s couch is a Swan’s Island blanket that Jack’s mom gave him as a housewarming present. (It’s a beautiful blanket, and very cozy–and washable!–but. Expensive.)

Jack reaches out with one hand and pulls Bitty closer to him. “Want to ask…how your class was, and how your paper went,” he says.

“Sleep first,” Bitty says, and yawns. He tucks the blanket around them. He didn’t think he was actually tired, but faced with the prospect of a warm and snuggly boyfriend he suddenly feels more than capable of getting his nap on again. Jack kisses the nearest part of Bitty he can reach–which turns out to be his earlobe–wiggles one more time to get comfortable, and falls asleep.

They cook together when they wake up. Jack heats the grill pan and adds a slosh of olive oil. Bitty slides the Brussels sprouts into the oven and turns on the water for the rice.

“Timing,” he says. “The chicken is going to cook through before the rice is done.”

“It’s quick-cooking brown rice,” Jack says.

“But the Brussels sprouts, though.”

“Fair.” Jack takes a spoon rest out of the kitchen drawer and rests his spatula on it. “We can just have an asynchronous meal, it’s fine.”

Bitty gets placemats from the drawer and plates from the cupboard and begins to set the table at the breakfast bar. He sets out silverware and two glasses of water.

“Thanks,” Jack says.

Bitty presses himself against Jack’s back. “Welcome.”

Jack twists in his hold. “Glad you’re here,” he says. He rests his hands on the small of Bitty’s back, just above his hips. “What work do you have to do while you’re here?”

Bitty leans back. “Well, I have to support my NHL star boyfriend through two back-to-back games, that’s very important.” Jack makes a face at him. “Okay, I know that you meant. I brought some reading to do for my senior seminar. I have an appointment next week at Career Services to talk through summer internships. Dex said maybe I should make a list of the internships I’m applying for, to bring to that appointment, so I should start that. I have a paper due next Friday.”

Jack kisses his forehead. “Sounds good.”

“And I have a new recipe for a pear persimmon pie I want to try. I was thinking I could borrow the car tomorrow morning to go to Dave’s Market?”

“Sure,” Jack says. “I won’t be up.”

There’s a pretty even chance Jack will wake up before Bitty does, but he doesn’t call him out on it. Jack lets him go and flips the chicken. Bitty leans around him to stir the rice.

“Sorry that we’re not going out to a fancy Valentine’s dinner or anything,” Jack says.

Bitty laughs. “We did that last year,” he says. “Besides, you have a game later. A game that I am really excited to go see. And–” what the hell, he thinks, and lets himself be sappy. “I really like this. Cooking, I mean, with you.”

Jack smiles, and it’s the sweetest thing Bitty has ever seen.

“Do you want to talk about the game?” Bitty asks.

Jack shakes his head. “Tell me how the Samwell team is doing.” He taps Bitty’s butt. “Captain.”

Bitty smirks. “Well, Captain…” and they both laugh, and Bitty tells him how his team is doing.

[bittysvalentines]

To: @mouse-the-hat

From: @brain-patterns

Happy Valentine’s Day my friend :) I hope this is what you were hoping for (and I apologize for the mass amounts of cursing and oc’s)

Eric Bittle did not know what he was doing. To be fair, he hadn’t known what he was doing for a good long while. Not since he had dropped out of the University of Georgia after one semester and spent the last cent in his savings to buy a food truck and fix it up enough to run a mobile bakery out of. He thought that may have been the best decision of his life, so maybe not knowing what he was doing was a good thing.

That life philosophy, however, likely shouldn’t extend to taking in cats off the street while he was living in a food truck. Well, not cats plural. Just one cat. In particular. A lovely, though thin, black cat that had been following him around Cincinnati, Ohio for the better part of the afternoon.

“Oh, Eric, what’re you gettin’ yourself into,” Eric muttered, thumbing through his wallet to see how much leftover tip money he had from that week’s work.

Glancing back at the cat and meeting its large green eyes, Eric said, “Now you stay right there, I’ll be out again in just a minute.”

Three hours and a bag of cat treats later, Eric held a now clean cat up to his eyes. “My oh my, you do clean up nice. I guess we’ll have to stop for some cat food and litter before blowing town.” He sighed. “And we should start saving up for a visit to the vet.”

The cat mewed back at him, blinking her eyes sluggishly. Eric opened the door the to the cab of the truck and set her down, throwing his backpack behind the seat back. When he looked back to her, she had curled up among his spare sweaters. Under the lights of the truck stop he was at, her fur shone black, with wisps of purple.

Eric smiled. “I’m going to call you Plum.”

Plum blinked and mewed at him again, and Eric pulled out of the stop to seek out the nearest grocery store that would carry the feline fundamentals.

~~~

It was October Kent Parson heard the first whispers. And by whispers, he means locker room shouts.

“Holy fuck!” A voice shouted from across the locker room, and it managed to quiet the majority of people. When Kent looked over, it was Candy who was waving his phone and bouncing where he sat half dressed in his street clothes. “It looks like Erb’s Bakery is heading west! And southish!”

“You’d better not be shitting with me, Candy, you fucker,” Harpy said, lunging from where he’d been pulling on his shirt. Candy relinquished his phone without a quarrel, and after a moment, Harpy whooped. “Saint Louis! It is! Holy fuck!”

Kent took in the mix of chaos and exasperation that spread through the room, and he decided to bite. “What the hell are you dweebs talking about?”

Harpy, Candy, and a good portion of his teammates all looked at him in varying stages of dismay and disbelief. “Cap, have you not heard about Erb’s?” Harpy asked.

Kent let his silence speak for him.

Candy spoke up quickly. “Parse, it’s like the most legit bakery. All the East Coast teams are talking about it.”

“Well,” Diva interrupted, “not all of them. It hasn’t been down to Miami.”

“True,” Harpy said.

“Anyways,” Candy said pointedly, “it’s a bakery run out of a food truck, and I heard from some of the Islanders that the mini pies are to die for.”

“Yeah,” Harpy said. “But, like, it’s not a chain or anything. It seems like it’s just this guy traveling around the country in his food truck, and no one ever knows where he’s going to end up next. God, I hope he comes to Vegas.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled around. Kent felt his brows furrow slightly, how was he just now hearing of this?

Sonny, Kent’s A, and a forward nearly to retirement, spoke up. “If no one knows where he’s gonna be, how does he get any business?”

“He’s on the social media, Pops,” Candy said, with the barest hint of sarcasm. “Whenever he sets up shop, he’ll snap it—”

“He’ll tweet it,” Diva said.

“He’ll gram it,” Candy said.

“Hell, he even facebook’s it!” Harpy chimed in.

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it, Cap,” Swoops said from next to Kent and with an elbow in his side. “He’s got an up and coming feline on Instagram.”

“What’s the name,” Kent said, already pulling his phone out. “I need to follow him right now.”

His teammates laughed at him, but once Kent got home from practice, he spent a shameful amount of time digging through @ERBbakery to see all the pictures of the gorgeous black cat, apparently named Plum.

~~~

“Dicky, I know you don’t follow sports much, but your Aunt Judy just told me that your cousin Tris told her that Kent Parson talked to you on the Instagram,” Suzanne said, and Eric resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he wiped down his countertops, Plum weaving her way around his feet.

“Mama, I’m sure I’d be a lot more excited if I knew who Kent Parson was.”

“He’s a hockey player, sweetie, the captain of the Las Vegas Aces. He’s quite the cutie, if your cousin can be trusted at all.” Eric bit back a snort, as Suzanne’s tone implied how trustworthy she thought Tris was. “Anyhow, you’ve just got to talk back to him on Instagram. He’s quite a bit famous, he could help out your business a bunch.”

This time Eric had to snort. “My business is doin’ just fine, Mama, and without a hockey player’s endorsement.”

“I’m just thinking, Dicky, some extra cash can’t hurt, especially if you decided to stop being a traveling circus for a while, maybe rent out an apartment and stop livin’ in the cab of your truck for a while.”

“I like my truck! It’s fun to travel, see all these cities and people.”

Suzanne snorts at him. “Mhm, and I’m sure you’ll keep thinking that when you aren’t nineteen.”

“I know it’s not a forever gig, Mama, give me more credit than that. Now, let me put you on speaker phone, and I can take a look at Instagram.”

“You do that, Dicky. And did you see that new cobbler recipe on our Pinterest? I was talking to your Aunt Mel earlier, and she was just going on about some blackberry peach cobbler her neighbor Sally had made for their neighborhood potluck, so I just had to figure out how to make one. The recipe I pinned…”

Eric would be slightly ashamed to admit that he zoned out a little then, but he had opened the picture he was tagged in that seemed to have exploded his Instagram.

kitpurrson: @ERBbakery I hear there’s some competition growing for best insta-cat. In unrelated matters, LOOK AT THIS CUTE FLUFFBALL

The picture it was attached to showed an incredibly fluffy calico stretching in a patch of sun on a table. Eric frowned. “Plum’s much cuter than this kitpurrson character,” he said, and during Suzanne’s shocked laughter, he realized he had cut her off. “Sorry, Mama, but you know I’m right.”

“Well, maybe you should tell her owner that. He seems to think she’s the best thing since sliced bread.”

Eric was scrolling through the account, looking at the pictures of the calico, apparently called Purrs, and trying to see his competition. “Mama, are you encouraging me to start a cute cat war with this professional athlete?”

“I’m certainly not advocating against it. You’ve got a cute kitty there, and if it weren’t for your father’s allergies, I’d have gotten us our own by now.”

“You hate cats.”

“I know! That’s why it’s impressive that I like yours.”

“Oh, Mama, I found the link to the hockey player’s Instagram. Should I stalk him?”

Eric was already clicking the link when his mom agreed. “Well, Jiminy Cricket,” Eric breathed. The first picture on the page was a selfie of a lean man wearing sunglasses, his blonde hair a chaos of cowlicks, with his hands propped behind his head. He was also shirtless. Eric felt the blood flood his cheeks.

“What’s that, Dicky?” Suzanne asked, and Eric scrambled for a decent response.

“That, he certainly is… an NHL star, isn’t he?”

“Ooh, honey, what’re you goin’ to say back at him?”

“I don’t know yet,” Eric said, and he kept looking at more of this Kent Parson’s pictures, maybe paying more attention to the selfies. Whatever. It wasn’t like anyone had to know.

~~~

[a picture of a presumably all black cat covered in flour, the light catching on puffs of flour suspended in the air. The cat’s eyes are looking directly at the camera.]

ERBbakery: Well, if @kitpurrson thinks there’s any competition for cutest insta cat, he is sorely mistaken

~

[a picture of a long haired calico cat curled up in what looks like a hockey bag, as the cat is surrounded by hockey pads, pucks, and a hockey stick.]

kitpurrson: Baker cats aren’t the only ones who can tag along to work @ERBbakery @JeffTroy43 do you think the coaches will let her watch?

JeffTroy43: If I see her at practice I will take her home with me

kitpurrson: :( please don’t

heaththehockeyhunk: @JeffTroy43 you could almost say you would catnap her

JeffTroy43: @heaththehockeyhunk you can sleep at the rink tonight

Heaththehockeyhunk: :(

~

[a picture of a sleek black cat pawing at her nose as soft snowflakes fall around her.]

ERBbakery: I think Plum has the same opinion as I do about snow…

prissytrissy93: You HAVE to bring her to Georgia soon! Also, I think Aunt Suzie would love to see you

heaththehockeyhunk: @ERBbakery you know where it doesn’t snow? Vegas

~

[a picture of a fluffy calico cat, focused on her face, which is pressed on a man’s face right in front of his ear, her fur mingling with his blond hair.]

kitpurrson: Shame her for mistaking me for her scratch post and getting mad at me while she’s using me as her jungle gym.

dropdeaddiva87: I would never shame Purrs

M.S.Harper: ^Diva knows who the real captain is

ERBbakery: Plum often has those same misconceptions lol

~

[a picture focused on a black cat perched on a chair back, the background is full of warm colors and a Thanksgiving Day feast]

ERBbakery: Home for the Holidays

moomawmarjorie: Eric! Tris made me an Instagram account so I can see your cat. It’s good to have you home. I’ll be over to your house later today, so you can show me that new custard you were going on about.

ERBbakery: Thanks @moomawmarjorie I can’t wait to see you :)

kitpurrson: …

~

[a picture of a calico cat sprawled out next to a plated turkey sandwich and potato chips]

kitpurrson: Even though my dinner isn’t comparable to @ERBbakery at least Purrs blows his cat out of the water.

ERBbakery: Fight me.

heaththehockeyhunk: @ERBbakery I will pay you to come to Vegas and fight him

kitpurrson: @heaththehockeyhunk @ERBbakery I’m a professional athlete. He’s a traveling baker.

M.S.Harper: @ERBbakery don’t listen, @heaththehockeyhunk just wants you for your pie

heaththehockeyhunk: @M.S.Harper shhh I almost had him

~

[a picture of a black cat weaving through chair legs on a picturesque patio]

ERBbakery: Plum and I are loving New Orleans

prissytrissy93: try the beignets

moomawmarjorie: Oh, New Orleans is just one of my favorite places! Make sure to stop and listen to the music, Eric!

~

[a blurred picture of a calico cat curled up on someone’s chest]

kitpurrson: the only good thing about coming home with a lose

dropdeaddiva87: We’ll get ‘em next time Cap

JeffTroy43: The Avs won’t know what hit them

heaththehockeyhunk: ^^

M.S.Harper: ^^^

~

[a picture of a black cat sitting on the sill of the order window of a food truck, busy streets and a long line in the background]

ERBbakery: Can’t say Plum and I are rooting for the home team tonight in Denver, CO

kitpurrson: You know they’re playing the Panthers, right? The Avs will definitely win

prissytrissy93: You holding a grudge there Eric?

delarosedawn: OMG I don’t care WHO you’re rooting for, just please don’t run out of pie before I get there!

~

[a picture of a silhouette of a cat backlit by the setting sun]

kitpurrson: Purrs is embracing her romantic side

dropdeaddiva87: I’m in love with your cat.

~

[a picture of a black cat leaning out a truck window, the pink of sunset taking over the sky]

ERBbakery: @kitpurrson Plum as well

kitpurrson: <3

~

[a picture of a calico cat laying on a locker room bench between two men who look ready to skate]

kitpurrson: we’ve got our good luck charm in the house tonight

heaththehockeyhunk: omg don’t let coach see

M.S.Harper: You can’t let Purrs be kicked out!!!!

JeffTroy43: @kitpurrson I guess Purrs is going to have to come to all our home games now :)

ERBbakery: Good job tonight boys!

~

[a picture of a black cat laying on a truck dash, a city sprawled in the distance beyond]

ERBbakery: Vegas, here we come :)

JeffTroy43: @heaththehockeyhunk

heaththehockeyhunk: aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA

dropdeaddiva87: thanks @ERBbakery you broke him

~~~

Kent saw ERB Bakery post, at six a.m., that he had officially set up shop for a few days in Las Vegas. Kent ignored the sudden butterflies in his stomach. More accurately: a stampede of elephants in his stomach. Actually, Kent couldn’t really ignore them, but acknowledging them would mean that he would have to also acknowledge his fondness for the man, Eric, who ran the food truck.

To deal with his feelings, he ran, and by 7:22 he had returned to his usual state of successful repression. That is, until he saw Swoops standing outside his house.

“The fuck are you doing here, man?” Kent said, short of breath, as he let himself (and subsequently Swoops) inside.

“Take a shower, and I’ll get Purrs all leashed up.”

“Why,” Kent sighed, but he was already pulling off his shirt and walking towards his bathroom.

Swoops didn’t answer, opting instead to grab the cat treats from under the sink to lure Purrs down from her perch on top of the bookshelf.

Twenty minutes later, Kent met Swoops in his entry way, and Kent may have been dressed up slightly, with his hair slicked into order. He knew what Swoops was doing.

The three of them piled into Swoops car, and within thirty minutes, they were standing in a lot, the only fixture in which being a truck, and a short line of people leading to it. The food truck was painted a nice dark blue, the name of the business painted in swirling light blue, and there was a light- yellow awning suspended over the window. Standing inside the window was a blond man, who smiled at his customers with as much welcoming spirit as Kent had ever experienced before, and the man’s hand that wasn’t scrawling out orders or counting money was absent-mindedly scratching a black cat between her ears.

Kent’s heart beat stuttered as Swoops guided him into line.

In the back of Kent’s awareness, he recognized that Swoops was carrying on a very one- sided conversation, but he also recognized it didn’t matter, as sooner than he thought possible, they had reached the front of the line.

“What can I do for y’all today?” the blond man— Eric— said, half turned to prepare some part of a previous order.

Kent couldn’t breathe, and Swoops elbowing him in the side was not helping.

Then Eric turned all of his sunshine to face Kent, and he looked down and saw Purrs weaving around Kent’s legs. Eric looked at him again, softer this time, less preformed, more genuine, but he still smiled like the last puzzle piece of his life had fallen into place.

“Kent Parson, I presume?”

~fin~

[bittysvalentines]

From: @katiewont  

for: @greenerbucket  I hope you enjoy this, one rarepair heart to another.

“What am I looking at?”

Lardo wasn’t sure what the actual question was, so she decided to treat it like a game of I, Spy. “My… closet?” she guessed.

“No,” Ford huffed, grabbing a handful of fabric, from the right side of Lardo’s closet, all polyester and shiny athletic gear. “This! These! Is this some sort of taxation?”

“Oh, that,” Lardo said. “Taxation’s a good word. Tribute? I don’t know. I just end up with a lot of their clothes.”

Ford was quiet for a while, and Lardo wondered if this was going to be the point where things got awkward. She didn’t know if Ford was the kind of girl that needed to be the only girl, or failing that, the favorite girl. Lardo had known all of her gross boys long enough to know that there’s enough room in their sweaty hearts for more than one person. She’d invited Ford over because she wanted to use the end of her last semester making sure the team was in good hands, and because she and Ford had been growing into friends. Lardo liked her energy, but it was new enough she was suddenly nervous at the wobble.

“Did you. I don’t want to be gross, but I do want to know, because I’m trying to fill your shoes but in my own way and if I’m going into a situation where there are expectations —” and here’s the thing about Ford. She’s cute as hell and Lardo likes her a lot, but when she gets going, she’s something like a fast-talking cartoon.

Lardo is trying not to laugh. “No, wait, stop. None of them expect you to sleep with them. I’ve never hooked up with any of them, I just end up with a lot of their clothes.”

“Oh,” Ford said. “None of them?”

It’s not like Lardo’s never answered that question before, but the answer used to be different. “Well. One of them, but not while he was on the team. Oh! And I made out with Jack once, but that was kind of an accident.”

“That sounds like a good story. You should tell me about it sometime.”

“Sorry, Ford, no dice. My man Jack is too private for that. I have power of attorney over Shitty’s deets, though, and he’s kind of an exhibitionist besides.”

“Ew,” Ford said, and Lardo burst into a single quick laugh. “I mean — no thanks.”

“Not your type?”

“He seems great.” Ford said. “But he’s no Ransom.”

Lardo wanted to laugh again, but didn’t want Ford to think she was the brunt of the joke. Instead, she said, “He is great. He can also be an ass. And he’s a lot, but he’s growing. Also, not to get NSFW or anything but like, close your ears if you want to opt out because one time I told him I was too stressed and tense and generally unsociable to see him and he literally offered to go down on me for an hour and specified that I did not have to talk to him or look at him at any point.”

Ford had her hands over most of her face, and was peeking out from between her fingers. “Oh my God,” she said, looking delightfully scandalized. “Did you let him?”

“I’m not proud,” Lardo said, grinning and ducking her head a bit. “I super did. I made it up to him after all the semester’s final projects were in.”

“I literally don’t know what to think about that.”

Lardo shrugged. “I find him incredibly attractive, in a Furby kind of way.”

“That is a bananas sentence. Please never explain.”

“Fair enough. I want you to explain something though.”

“...”

“You said Shitty’s no Ransom.”

“Oops. I guess I did. No offense to your man.”

“None taken. Ransom’s an attractive dude. He’s got, like, those shoulders.” Lardo said. “And, FYI, you’re totally his type. I feel totally comfortable sharing that information with you.”

“No way.”

“Yeah. You and Adam are two sides of the same musical theater coin.”

“Stop,” Ford said. “I’m going to die.”

“Ford,” Lardo said. “You’re … easier to fluster than I realized. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No, you’re fine.” Ford said, giving her own hair a tug. “I did decide this year was my year. Twenty isn’t too late to bloom.”

“Definitely not,” Lardo agreed, “if that’s what you want. But, you know, if you do set your eyes on the man, you should probably wait until you’ve established dominance with the team.”

Ford wrung her hands. “I don’t know. He doesn’t really seem like a starter boyfriend.”

“He’s probably not,” Lardo said. “But also, not to get too blue, there’s no way he’s not great at … all of it. I have personally heard some tales that seemed like they had to be exaggeration, but then they were not the statistical outlier. And also I talked to a girl who has now slept with, I don’t know, at least four D-men, she ranks him at number one for overall package.”

Ford let out a little squeak.

“ — not that kind of package.”

“That’s not what I was thinking!” Ford insisted, and Lardo raised a single eyebrow. “Okay, but only because you totally were talking about it. Anyways. I kind of always thought my starter boyfriend would be a starter girlfriend, if that makes sense.”

Lardo gestured at her own haircut, grinning. “Nope,” she said. “Not a bit. I’ve never had a girlfriend. Never been attracted to women. Never had a dumb crush on the future manager of my team.”

“Now you’re just teasing me,” Ford said. She looked bashful.

“Not just now,” Lardo said. She got up and strode over to the closet, fishing for something. “Anyways. I’m passing the torch in a few weeks. I think maybe I should start your collection.”

Lardo found her an artfully chopped t-shirt that she had made herself. It just big enough for a little bit of a careless slouch while still being sort of fitted. There was a little bit of silver spray paint on the hem. “Here. I want you to have this.”

“It's already my favorite,” Ford told her, and held it up to her face.

Lardo felt, suddenly, a little feverish. And forty five percent more bi than usual.

[bittysvalentines]

To: @cecilwhats

From: @dievampiredie

Happy belated Valentine’s Day! Enjoy nearly 3000 words of Dex struggling with being romantic on V-Day. There might be a sequel on the way soon as well!

____________________

January 14th. One Month ‘til V-Day. Start making plans now.

Will has a countdown in his planner. He started it during the fiasco that was Christmas shopping for Nursey, with the hope that time and forethought would make planning and shopping for Valentine’s Day a little less anxiety-inducing. But of course, the stupid fucking heart at the bottom of the page with the words “ONE MONTH ‘TIL V-DAY” in the middle, the first in a series of thirty, just makes him want to throw up.

Thirty days. He, William J. Poindexter, has thirty days to figure out how to make the most romantic day of the year not suck for his amazing, wonderful, practically perfect in every way boyfriend, who reads and writes poetry on a daily basis and is unfairly good at shopping and has a goddamn trust fund. It’s their first  official Valentine’s Day together, but that’s not all. Of course not. It also happens to be Derek’s 22nd birthday. And their one-year anniversary. No pressure, Dex. Don’t panic.

January 24th. Three weeks ‘til V-Day. You’re going to hate yourself if you don’t get your ass in gear soon.

Will is an asshole. He got home from his last class of the day, and his brain felt like somebody had put it in a blender on high, then dumped the resulting sludge back into his skull. It’s only the second week of the semester. Classes shouldn’t be this hard yet.

After stopping in the kitchen to steal a few of the cookies from Bitty’s latest care package and make himself a cup of tea, he carefully carried everything upstairs and hip-checked the door to his and Derek’s room to open it. Derek, nestled on their bed with his own mug of tea, looked up from the notebook in his lap and smiled.

“Hey Dexy,” he said.

Will set his things down and stepped over to the bed, crawling over and dropping his head down in Derek’s lap. Derek’s fingers immediately started carding through his hair, practically a reflex after almost a year together.

“I hate Wednesdays,” Will muttered. “Also, hi.” He pulled Derek down for a kiss despite the awkward angle. “How was your day?”

Derek shrugged. “Uneventful. My afternoon class got cancelled, so I’ve been here trying to do homework for the last couple hours. What made your Wednesday so awful?”

Will sighed and closed his eyes for a minute, just soaking up the feeling of being being close to Derek, of having someone to come home to at the end of days like this.

“All my hardest classes are on Wednesdays, and it’s my longest day. Plus I overslept this morning and missed breakfast, so I was hangry all morning and didn’t get to eat lunch ‘til almost 1:30. I have a feeling shitty Wednesdays are just going to be a thingI have to get used to this semester.”

Derek stroked his cheek in sympathy. “I’m sorry, babe. At least you know there’s going to be one good Wednesday in the next few weeks.”

Will raised an eyebrow, trying to puzzle out what could possibly redeem a Wednesday at any point in the near future.

“Valentine’s Day?” Derek reminded him. “Kind of a big deal since it’s also, ya know, our first anniversary, and-”

“And your birthday, yeah. I swear I didn’t forget, just wasn’t thinking about the fact that it’s also a Wednesday.”

Derek smiled. “Good, because the other thing I did with my extra free time today was research B&Bs in Boston. I booked us a room for the night at this cute little-”

“Wait, what?” Will cut him off.

And then, of course, they had a stupid fight because it’s really more Derek’s day than Will’s, and shouldn’t Will be the one making big plans like that? But Derek wanted to do something special for them, because it’s their anniversary and that matters more than a silly birthday, and he knows money is tight for Will right now.

At the mention of money, Will had stormed out, because he didn’t want to have that conversation again. Derek’s not wrong. He couldn’t afford that kind of extravagance right now. But it would have been nice if Derek had at least checked with him. What if Will had been planning his own surprise?

It only takes about three blocks of walking down fraternity row for Will to acknowledge that he’s being irrational. And an ungrateful asshole. So he turns around and walks to Annie’s, orders two hot chocolates, and heads back home.

“Hey,” Will says, as he tentatively enters their bedroom and finds Derek sitting on the bed, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Hey,” Derek responds quietly.

Will passes him one of the hot chocolates. “So I’m a hotheaded asshole. We knew that. I’m working on it, and I’m sorry.”

Derek takes a sip of the hot chocolate and scoots over on the bed to make room for Will.

“Thanks for booking the B&B,” Will says as he sits down and nudges Derek’s shoulder. “I’m actually really excited about it, now that I’m done being an idiot.”

That pulls a smile from Derek. “Me too. Thanks for the hot chocolate.”

“Any time.” Will leans over and kisses him. “Love you.”

Derek kisses him again. “Love you too, babe.”

“Even when I’m being a hotheaded asshole?”

“Even when you’re being a hotheaded asshole.”

February 1st. Thirteen Days ‘til V-Day. Get your shit together, Poindexter.

Will only has one class on Tuesdays and Thursdays and is finished for the day by 11:30. Since Derek has an evening poetry seminar on Thursdays, Will has a standing weekly dinner with Bitty. He’d driven down to Providence earlier in the afternoon and wandered around a few shops downtown, searching for a birthday/anniversary/Valentine’s Day gift for Derek. Once again, he’d come out empty handed and annoyed.

Now, sipping tea in Bitty and Jack’s kitchen and waiting for the pie they’d made to come out of the oven, Will decides it’s finally time to ask for advice.

“Hey, Bits?” he starts, setting his mug down on the island.

Bitty looks up. “Yeah, honey?”

“What did you and Jack do for your first Valentine’s Day?”

“Haha, well, you weren’t living in the Haus at the time so you may not remember, but I woke up that morning to literally hundreds of roses. It was completely ridiculous.” Bitty smiles fondly at the memory.

“Right, I remember Chowder telling me and Nursey about it at breakfast that day. What did you do for Jack?”

“He was on a roadie and didn’t come home ‘til a couple days later, but that weekend I made us dinner here at the apartment, with his favorite pie, of course. Oh! And I made him a playlist!”

“A playlist?”

“Mhmm. I was a flat broke college kid and he was living on an NHL salary. I was so intimidated by the idea of giving him gifts, because what could I possibly get him that he couldn’t just as easily go out and buy for himself?”

“Right?! I mean, Derek doesn’t have quite that much money, but he has more than enough to buy anything he could possibly want or need. It’s infuriating.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Bitty tips his mug toward Will, who gently clinks his against it. “You wouldn’t think having a rich boyfriend would be in any way difficult.”

“But it is!”

“Exactly. So anyway, I spent ages stressing over it, then we watched some indie romcom during Haus movie night, and this guy kept making mixed CDs for his awful girlfriend.”

“Oh, was it Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist? Nursey loves that movie.”

“That’s the one! So I guess I was inspired, and I made him this playlist of, like, a hundred songs so he had something new to listen to during roadies. I made another one last year, and I’m planning to make it sort of a tradition.”

“That’s really sweet, Bitty.” Dex frowns slightly. “But I don’t know if Nursey would really appreciate a playlist from me. I’ve been listening to the same bands since middle school.”

“Hm, well I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” Bitty reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. “You’re a real thoughtful guy, Dex.”

Will slumps down and puts his head in his hands. “Ugh, I don’t know. Did I tell you he booked us a room for the night at some B&B in Boston? How am I supposed to top that?”

“Stupid rich boyfriends.” Bitty rolls his eyes, and Dex huffs in response.

Bitty gives Dex a one-armed hug just as the timer for the pie dings. “Remember, honey, it’s not a competition. It’s just another way of showing Nursey that you love him.”

February 7th. One Week ‘til V-Day. Do you see that, asshole? One. Week.

Dex (7:34pm): Hey Jack. Any chance I could take advantage of your minor celebrity status for a bit?

Dex (7:56pm): I promise I will never ask again. Or at least not for another year.

Jack (8:40pm): Maybe? I’ll certainly help if I can.

Dex (8:41pm): I’ve called every nice, romantic restaurant with good vegetarian options in Boston about getting reservations for dinner on Valentine’s Day, and they’re all telling me they’re booked.

Jack (8:46pm): Okay. So you want me to try? Because you think my name will do something to make them magically have a table open?

Dex (8:47pm): It’s worth a shot?

Jack (8:50pm): Why did you wait so long to make reservations? And why not come to Providence? It’s closer to Samwell.

Dex (8:51pm): Because I’m an idiot who fails at romance.

Dex (8:51pm): And we have to go somewhere in Boston because my perfectly romantic, wonderful boyfriend booked us a room there for the night.

Jack (8:53pm): Bitty says hi. And that I have to help you.

Jack (8:53pm): So who do you need me to call?

Dex (8:54pm): Link: Buzzfeed Boston’s Twenty Best Places to Take a Date

Dex (8:54pm): Numbers 3, 8, 12, 17, and 18. It says they’re the best ones for vegetarians.

Dex (8:55pm): I owe you. And Bitty. I promise I won’t make a habit of this.

Jack (9:00pm): I’ll do my best. No promises.

Dex (9:01pm): Thanks, man.

Jack (9:23pm): So remember when the Falcs beat the Bruins last week?

Dex (9:25pm): Yeah! Bits came up to the Haus to watch the game with us, and you scored the winning goal in OT. Pretty sure a couple of us cried.

Jack (9:28pm): Yeah well, the restaurant workers of Boston apparently remember that game pretty well too.

Dex (9:29pm): Shit.

Jack (9:33pm): Two people hung up on me as soon as I said my name. One laughed. The others just very politely but abruptly told me there was nothing available.

Dex (9:34pm): Fuck.

Jack (9:35pm): Sorry.

Dex (9:37pm): No, it’s okay. Thanks for trying anyway. I appreciate it, Jack.

Jack (9:40pm): Good luck. Bitty says to call him if you need help coming up with alternative dinner plans.

Dex (9:41pm): I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again. See you guys soon.

February 13th. One Day ‘til V-Day. You should NOT need a reminder at this point.

Will sits in class, his knee bouncing as he waits for Lardo to reply to the text he’d sent after morning practice.

Dex (8:10am): Help! What kind of stuff do I need to make a decent Valentine’s Day card?

Lardo (11:16am): Bro. Valentine’s Day is TOMORROW.

Dex (11:31am): I’m aware. Thanks.

Lardo (11:35am): You’re hopeless, dude.

Lardo (11:36am): But here’s what’s gonna happen. I’ll email you a list of the shit you need for some basic, even-a-hockey-player-can’t-fuck-it-up Valentines. Then you can Skype me after you go shopping and I’ll walk you through making them.

Dex (11:40am): You’re my hero.

Lardo (11:41am): I know.

Will hasn’t been in a craft store since he was a kid tagging along with his Gran, but once he sees Lardo’s email, he figures he can get most of the stuff at Target anyway. When he gets there, he discovers he’s not the only one frantically trying to shop at the last minute. Although most of those other people are probably only celebrating one thing.

Amid the cardstock and glitter and glue sticks and sharpies, a few extra things end up in his cart. He finds a cheesy birthday card with a cat on it that he knows Nursey will appreciate. Just in case Lardo’s plan isn’t as foolproof as she thinks, he grabs a sappy anniversary card too. He’s not sure if they have any birthday candles left at the Haus, so he picks up a box of them for Derek’s cake.

On the way to the checkout lanes, he passes the seasonal aisles and figures it couldn’t hurt to give them a quick look. Everything has been pretty picked over. There’s a little girl crying in the second aisle because they’re out of Star Wars valentine cards, and the candy selection is seriously limited at this point. It’s in the third and final aisle, just as Will is starting to get overwhelmed at all the red and pink and saccharine romance, that he spots a shelf of stuffed animals. Ordinarily he’d pass right by them, but nestled in the middle of them is one fluffy, sleepy-looking little raccoon.

For some reason, Derek is obsessed with racoons. He sends Will  videos of them being weird and adorable, and when Will knows he’s sad or stressed, he googles “cute raccoons” and sends the resulting pictures to Derek. Will picks the little guy up off the shelf, doesn’t even bother to look at the price tag, and heads to the checkout line, grabbing a small bouquet of flowers on the way.

Thankfully, Derek has class until 3:30 and a meeting with a study group after that, so he shouldn’t be home until 5 at the earliest. Will pulls out his craft supplies and lays them out on his desk once he gets home, then turns on his computer and logs into Skype. He sees that Lardo is already online and clicks the call button.

“‘Sup, Poindexter,” she says when the call connects.

“Hey Lardo. Thanks for helping me out with this.”

“No problem. You got all the stuff?”

“Yeah, I think so. And I looked up some simple card ideas. I really liked the animals made out of hearts that I sent you the pictures of, but um…do you think you could help me make something a little different?”

She tilts her head to the side a bit. “You wanna go off-book? Gutsy move for a first timer, but okay. What do you want to make?”

“Um…” Will mumbles the answer under his breath.

“What was that?”

Will squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for impact. “Uh…a lobster?”

And there’s the laughter he was waiting for. When Will opens his eyes, Lardo is grinning. “Dude, really? After all these years of Nursey giving you shit?”

He can feel the heat of the blush on his cheeks. “We’ve been watching a lot of Friends lately…”

“And he’s your lobster. Of course. God you guys are so cute, it’s gross.”

“So do you think I could do it? Make a lobster card, I mean?”

“Yeah, Dexy. We can make a lobster card.”

An hour and a half and several failed attempts later, Dex is sitting in the midst of a pile of cardstock scraps, and there’s red glitter sticking to his hands. But he finally has a card he’s satisfied with. He holds the finished product up to the camera. “What do you think?”

“I think that is the most fucking disgustingly adorable thing I’ve ever seen.” Lardo smiles and holds up her own creation, a monkey with a giant moustache. “You like mine?”

Will laughs. “It’s great. Shits will love it.”

“Well, I think our work here is done, then.”

“Yeah, I need to get cleaned up before Nursey gets home. Thanks again for your help, Lardo.”

“Thanks for the entertainment, bro. Happy V-Day.”

“You too. Bye!”

“Later.”

Will disconnects the call and starts quickly throwing out all the scraps and failed cards. He wipes down his desk to get rid of most of the glitter and thoroughly scrubs his hands of the rest of the evidence, then ties up the trash and takes the bag to the bin outside.

Once he’s back upstairs, he turns his finished card over and carefully writes: Derek, you’re my lobster. Happy Valentine’s Day. Love, Will. He draws a little heart next to his name and  stows the card in the back of the desk drawer. He wraps the little plush raccoon in his Target bag and slips him into his dresser for the night. There’s a cake in the fridge downstairs, Bitty’s recipe baked by Will this morning, and a bouquet of flowers being kept fresh in a box next to it. It might not be the perfect gift he was hoping for, but he hopes that it will show Nursey just a little bit of how much Will loves him. Despite the odds, Will thinks this Valentine’s Day is going to be pretty okay.

[bittysvalentines]

Hey everyone!

This is an open call to anyone who can help us by Pinch Hitting in the next 24/48 hour period!

We need people to create 3 gifts for us. If you are okay with creating content for any pairing / ratings, please get in touch with us through our askbox or our email bittysvalentines@gmail.com as soon as possible!

Thank you to all the people who participated in our event and thank you in advance to anyone who can do this for us!

Love,

Silvia & Georgia 

[bittysvalentines]

The Quiet Moments

To: @snowycities From: @thecamocrusader

Holsom - Accidental clothes sharing and room sharing

_____________________

It’s hot, way too hot. Why is it so hot? Ransom wiped a hand across his sweaty face before dropping his arm back to the bed. His shirt was soaked through and clung to his chest uncomfortably. With a heavy breath, he hauled himself out of his bunk and headed for the closet, stripping off his shirt and dropping it on the pile of other discarded clothes in the process. There has to be something other to wear than jeans and a t-shirt. ____________________

Later in the day found him on the couch with all of the surrounding windows open as wide as their old frames would let them go. A weak breeze carried through the room. Ransom had his head leaned back, on the edge of a light doze when the door opened, signifying the end of Holster’s final class of the day. Placing his bag to the ground with a dull thud, Holster dropped himself onto the couch, laying his head in Ransom’s lap and let out a quiet sigh when Ransom ran his fingers through his hair.

“We really need a fan for the attic,” Ransom said quietly, not wanting to break the rare silence, “It’s way too hot up there.”

“Yeah, okay, man,” Came the whispered response.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

_____________________

“Hey Rans?” Came Holster’s voice from the bottom bunk. Ransom rolled onto his side before peeking over the side railing. “Yeah Holtsy?” “What are we going to do after college? Where are we going to go?” He was hyper-aware of how his voice reverberated through his chest, quieter than usual, but no less deep. Ransom was silent for a moment, all that was audible was their breathing, “I don’t really know. We’ll have to get jobs and find somewhere to live, but we have our budget mapped out and we have an excel of cities that match our budget. We’re Ransom and Holster, man. We’ll make it work, we always do.” “Thanks, needed that,” Came the mumbled reply. “‘Course, man, I know you’d do the same for me in a heartbeat,” They lapsed into silence after that. Ransom dropped onto his back and Holster’s even breaths lulled him into a sort of trance. “Justin?” “Mmm?” “I love you,” Ransom could barely hear his words. “I love you too.” ______________________

Holster pulled back from Ransom’s mouth with a hand on his stomach. Adam’s lips felt warm and oversensitive from Justin’s stubble that he hadn’t gotten around to shaving off yet. Adam felt his partner’s stomach rise and fall with every breath.

“Holtsy…” His voice was soft, but carried a faint wine as he pushed himself up a bit, “C’mon…”

“Just hold up a minute, yeah? I wanna look at you,” Ransom was shirtless beneath Holster as he straddled his waist, “God, you’re beautiful.” Beautiful was a bit of an understatement, a line of golden light from the sunset filtered through the old window and blanketed Ransom.

Yeah, he was beautiful, sure, but he was damn near glowing, right now. Beautiful could never begin to cover how Justin looked. He was brilliant, stunning, breathtaking, gorgeous even. Every muscle was highlighted just for Adam’s eyes and he was enthralled. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss just beneath Justin’s naval and another one just above. Higher and higher still, he kissed, just barely a brush of lips, leaving Ransom with goosebumps, not from the cold. Reaching his face, Adam placed a final kiss on his nose before smiling at his partner.

With a gentle hand, Justin cupped Adam’s cheek and pulled him in for a soft kiss. When they pulled away, both sported wide grins, stretching across their faces.

“I love you, Justin Oluransi.”

“I love you too, Adam Birkholtz.” ______________________ Holster was lounging on the couch when Justin got back from class, he had a bio test that day that he had been stressing about and Adam was hoping he got a score he was happy with.

“Hey Rans, how’d it go?” He said while twisting in his seat to look at his partner, before zeroing in on one article of clothing that Ransom was wearing, “Wait, is that my shirt?”

Ransom glanced down at the blue striped tank top he was wearing, “What, this? I thought it was mine. It’s hard to tell, though, we wear the same size and only have one dresser.”

Adam smiled at him, “No worries, man.” He said before taking a moment to look at his boyfriend, “It looks good on you, keep it. I’ll just steal it back later, anyway,” he added with a wink.

[bittysvalentines]

Just Breathe

To: @effyeahzimbits

From: @maramcgregor

Summary: Bitty has a PTSD induced episode. Jack finds him and brings him back.

Content Warnings: Description from perspective character of a PTSD attack. No two attacks are the same, this one is using personal experience as a base model.

Message: I hope this hits the spot for you! I took the angst, dealing with mental issues, and domestic prompts.

Shit. Fuck. Why wasn’t that stupid video tagged? Who would decide not to leave a warning on that mess? How did so many people post it with nothing in their descriptions besides the unhelpful comments of “wow” and “that took a left turn”. Oh God. Bitty could feel his heart start to climb up his throat. Not now. No no no no no no. Bitty glanced around, but it felt like his head was moving through sludge. Crap that was weird.

The apartment was empty and he was sitting in bed. It was just a stupid little video. It looked like a cute romance reveal. But the end … hoo boy … Bitty shut off the video as quickly as he could, pushing past the first burst of panic. But he wasn’t fast enough. Everything slowed down except for his heart. It was in full flight mode, but his body was in pretend-you-aren’t-here mode. His brain almost felt detached from it.

Bitty sat and stared at the screen, trying to force his fingers to operate and move. Just, move the mouse, scroll to something fluffy, something happy, anything. But they were unresponsive. It felt like his body hit the bottom of a pit of depression and his heart went into full blown panic. It was weird and making his brain buzz. It had been so long since he had felt like this. And usually he was so careful. He was careful. Where was the tagging?

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. That’ll make it worse. Shit. His heart was beating rapidly in his throat. He could feel the blood coursing through his body. Move on. Force different thoughts in. It’ll be fine. Calm down. Fuck. What time was it? How long had this been going on? It couldn’t have been that long. 5 minutes? Maybe 10 on the outside?

Bitty glanced down at the corner of his computer screen. Three hours. Where had the time gone? Oh shit. Nope, that didn’t make anything better. He heard the door to the apartment open. It had to be Jack. Jack was supposed to be home around now. Right? Bitty wanted to say something, to call attention to himself, but he couldn’t get it out. He couldn’t force the breath through his vocal chords to produce anything more than a small rasp. Lord, he wanted to cry, but it was like everything was frozen. His mind was fully there, but his body refused to cooperate.

“Bits? You in the bedroom, bud?”

Bitty wanted nothing more than to call out, to tell Jack he needed him, needed to be held. But nothing happened. He gripped the sheets between his fingers tight enough that he could feel his knuckles creak.

The door slowly opened inwards and Bitty could see Jack peering in quietly.

“Hey bud, you okay?”

Bitty wheezed and tried to force his throat to cooperate, but it felt like his heart was pressing against his vocal chords, preventing any sound from escaping.

“Is it okay if I sit next to you on the bed?”

It felt like the seconds stretched on before Bitty was able to get his head to nod. But Jack was quiet and patient. He waited for Bitty’s nod and gently sat next to him. Jack’s large physical presence loosened something in Bitty. He wasn’t sure what the exact reason for it was. Maybe it was because Jack equaled safety in his mind. Or maybe it was because he finally wasn’t alone. Bitty honestly had no clue why Jack sitting next to him let his pulse slide down his throat. He flexed his fingers that were tangled in the sheets and the resistance was significantly lessened.

“Can I hold your hand?”

This time, the nod came easier. He still had to fight for it, but he was able to dip his head further and more fluidly.

Jack’s massive hand gently pried his fingers loose and wound them again around his own.

Bitty’s breathing started to slow, the buzzing started to feel better and worse. It was like coming out of a nightmare, but he had been awake for all of it.

“Can you take some deep breaths for me? Just try to match mine.”

Jack moved close enough that Bitty could feel the rising and falling of his chest and he tried to follow along. It was hard. It was so, so hard. But the tightness was lifting. His muscles were responding to him again. He finally managed one full, deep breath.

“That’s it. Good job, Bits. You got it.”

Bitty felt his consciousness finally take full control of his body again. His muscles crumpled. He pressed his face into Jack’s chest and let the tears fall. Lord, he was sore all over. His muscles must have been tense for that whole time.

“I’ve got you. Just let it out.”

“Why? Why didn’t they say it was that? I don’t - they just needed to say.”

“Who needed to say what, bud?”

“The video. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have watched if I knew what it was going to be about. But no one said.” Bitty could feel his whole body shake as the adrenaline was being metabolized out. It left him feeling weak and woozy.

Jack tilted the computer screen towards him and saw the image Bitty had managed to stop on. It was clearly a PSA about bullying in school and was originally designed to warn people to be on the lookout for homophobic behavior. But all the good intentions in the world didn’t help when those that actually suffered it had it sprung on them with no warning. “I got you. And when you feel up to it, I’ll run us a bath and we can cuddle in the strawberry scented bubbles. How does that sound?”

Bitty’s breath was ragged, but stronger. “I love you so much, sweetpea. That sounds like heaven right about now.”

Jack pressed a kiss on the top of his head and closed out the window with the offending video. “Then maybe I can get some take out and we can have dinner in bed. Something from that restaurant on Exchange Street. They absolutely adore you there. I’m sure I can talk them into doing us a favor.”

Bitty nuzzled into Jack’s chest and curled up so that he could fit fully on his lap. “As long as they bring that Walnut Turtle Pie.”

Jack chuckled, “I will try. But, they may not be willing after the last time we went there and you suggested several improvements to their recipe.”

Bitty sniffled. “Their loss.”

Jack pulled him close and held him, physically demonstrating what words could never convey.

[bittysvalentines]

Love's Light Wings

To: @halfabreath <3

From: @ivecarvedawoodenheart

You mentioned how you liked aus, so I tried my best at one :) I hope you like it! 

This is teen and up, for implied underage drinking. 

Happy belated Valentine’s Day!!!

________________________

It is times like this that Holster thinks the earth in his limbs is holding him back. Ransom laughs again, airy and so happy, and he’s never felt more stuck to the ground than he is now.

“You wanna explain that one to Jack?” Ransom says. His eyes are crinkled in that smile that says he’s truly amused. Holster wonders if he knows he’s floating two inches off the ground.

“You can tell him,” Holster says. His eyes are even with Ransom’s ears. “It’s better from you.”

They’ve reached the Haus now. Ransom shakes his head, still smiling, and flicks his wrist at the front door. A breeze curling past Holster’s cheek wraps around the handle and gently drifts it open.

Or that’s what Ransom said it did when they first met. The year after — the night they got dibs and moved into the attic — they were awake until the sun first cracked the horizon, Ransom explaining the dance of the currents with flowing hand gestures Holster was too tired to see clearly. He’d stayed up though. It was the first time they’d slept in the same bed.

In the morning, he’d had to concentrate harder than he’d ever had to in order to hold in an earthquake. He hadn’t felt this way since the day he found his brother’s porn file on his computer; he’d been fourteen, and the tremor that split the earth uprooted a tree into their power line.

Holster’s better about holding it in now. He’d only split the sidewalk in front of Faber once.

He reaches out now for Ransom’s elbow, gently tugging him back to the ground. Ransom throws him a grateful look. They step through the door and Holster waits for Ransom to speak; he knows what he’s going to say.

“Hadn’t realized,” he says. And then he adds, like always, “You’re so good at anchoring me.”

“You make me lighter,” Holster says back, like always. And that’d be all of it, if he didn’t love him, if Ransom knew.

But he does and Ransom doesn’t know so Holster stands and laughs when Ransom tells Jack about the Chads setting their house on fire, on purpose, to practice for their upcoming games and how the dean hadn’t been at all pleased to see fireballs whipping back and forth the lawn.

____________

Living with so many different elements in one Haus is a lot on Holster’s nerves. Most of the time, when he’s not pretending to not be in love with Ransom, he’s on the hammock with Lardo in the backyard. She’s better at hiding it, but he knows it gets to her too.

Lardo stomps her foot and jerks her chin upward and a wall of clay grows steadily out of the ground. Holster does the same, and soon they have a makeshift tent burying the hammock in shade. It’s a little wet, smells a little crisply earthen. It’s perfect.

“Dex and Nursey?” Lardo asks, curling against his side. He shifts to adjust for her and the hammock swings just enough to be comfortable.

He hums. “I don’t get it,” he says. He twists his fingers lazily; below them, a thin column of earth stretches up and starts massaging the knot just below his shoulder blade.

Lardo asks, “Don’t get what,” in a way that suggests she knows what he’s about to say. She probably does. They’ve had this talk before.

“They’re supposed to be good d-men, they’re opposites, so why—?” Holster breaks off in a sigh that borders on a yawn.

“Get me one,” Lardo says. He doesn’t say anything. He can tell without looking that she rolls her eyes before saying, “Earth-massager. Get me one.”

Holster drums the fingers of his other hand in the air and smiles when she sighs at the pressure.

“Better,” she says. There’s a silence in which he thinks she’s weighing something. “Shitty’s been trying to figure out where he wants to go next year.”

“Thought he decided on Harvard?”

“Mm. Me too. But he’s not sure, it’s his parents’ idea, and you know what he says about following his parents’ ideas.”

“‘Only dead fish go with the flow,’ right,” Holster says. He closes his eyes.

He’d made one of these earth tents for Ransom once. For Canada’s independence day. There’s a park nearly halfway between Buffalo and Toronto with the exact curling slide Holster always swears was in his middle school playground, and that Ransom always says was in every middle school playground everywhere. They’d climbed to the top of the play structure and everything was so small and Holster wanted to kiss Ransom so badly he nearly caused a cave-in.

Ransom had wanted to see what it was like inside one of them and Holster was, as always, so sunk for him that he made one. Ransom had taken one breath inside before he’d started panicking.

Earth and air don’t always balance, his mom said when he’d told her. She’d meant it romantically, but it works for hockey too. There’s a give and take that opposing elements are supposed to have with each other that the frogs lack.

“Maybe they’re too different,” Holster says now.

He feels rather than sees Lardo yawn at him. “Shitty and his ‘rents?”

“Well. Yeah,” he says. He yawns. Lardo elbows him and this time he looks and she’s so pleased with herself he sticks his tongue out. “Dex and Nursey. Water and fire don’t always balance, sometimes they make each other worse.”

“Maybe,” Lardo says. He doesn’t like how she seems to know what he’s not saying. Water and fire is an easy parallel with earth and air.

She kicks the wall and they swing, swing, swing for a long time.

____________

Another breeze slides cool hands down Holster’s face. He sucks in his lip, smoothing out the page of his econ book again, and tries not to sound like a dick when he says, “Hey, Rans?”

Ransom doesn’t turn around. Holster sighs and pushes and the clay ball Ransom has on his desk rocks back and forth slightly. Ransom takes out a headphone as he swivels around in his chair. It’d be a smoother action if the headphones hadn’t caught on the arm of the chair, yanking his head down.

“Ow. What’s up?”

Holster squeezes his eyes shut as another breeze skims his jaw. “Will you stop? Please?”

Ransom frowns. “Stop what,” he says.

“Wind,” Holster says, awkwardly waving a hand around his face. “It keeps touching me.”

“Air tends to do that, Holtzy.”

Holster asks, “Please,” softly.

Ransom nods, still looking confused, but he says, “Sure, bro.”

They turn back to their desks. Holster tries to forget how the air had smelled like Ransom’s cologne, the kind he wears when he hooks up with March. He aims his desk fan straight at himself to blow the smell away but it’s like it’s trapped in the pages of his book right next to asymmetric shock. A part of him thinks it fits there. A small thing affecting him more than Ransom.

Thirty minutes pass and the amount of gusts that ruffle his papers and don’t touch him pricks steadily at the back of his neck and underneath his shoulder blade. Holster shifts in his chair experimentally. The resulting squeak cracks the silence and he winces, but Ransom’s stuck in his music and in his bio slides and Holster’s not sure just yet if it hurts that he doesn’t look up.

There’s a gap between Ransom and his chair. Holster pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales once, quickly, and stands up.

Ransom jumps when Holster pushes down on his shoulder. “You were floating again,” Holster says. The pricking’s moved to his eyes now. “I — sorry, I’ve gotta—”

He practically jumps down the attic stairs before Ransom can say anything more than “Holtz?”

____________

Jack and Bitty both stare at him when he bursts into the kitchen. He ignores them in favor of the blueberry crumble sitting on the counter. Bitty stops him before he can take the whole dish, handing him a metal pie server that’s still just too warm from his fingers. Holster takes it gingerly, then wraps his sleeve around his fingers.

“Sorry,” Bitty says. The way he holds himself, curled inward like he’s burning out, makes Holster feel like dried soil. Crumbly.

Holster deliberately holds the handle with his bare fingers. “Takes a lot more than this to bother me,” he says. Bitty’s smile widens when Holster scoops out an extra large slice of pie. Jack doesn’t move, but the pie server cools a fraction of a degree until Holster really could hold it all day. He mouths a thank you once Bitty turns back to his French homework.

He smashes the pie in a minute exactly. “Thanks, Bits,” he says, making Bitty and Jack subtly lean back from the resulting spray of crumbs.

“Any time, honey,” Bitty tells him warmly. Bitty meets Jack’s eyes and they have a conversation without words that doesn’t last long enough for Holster to wonder at. “Thought you might need it.”

The prickle at his neck starts up again. “Why would you—”

Bitty just stares at him, unimpressed. Jack says, “We’re not blind, Birkholtz.”

“What do you. What,” Holster says, before the prickle travels up his spinal column to the base of his skull. He jams the palm of his hands against his eyes.

Cool fingers press the back of his neck. Holster lurches into a seat at the table and bows his head, letting Jack quietly ease the knots away. Warm hands slide up and down his back now, tap lightly along his shoulders. There’s an occasional hiss of steam when Jack and Bitty bump into each other, but other than the dishwasher laboring away, it’s the only sound in the room.

____________

Most days Holster’s fine but most days he doesn’t wake up to Ransom bobbing against the ceiling in the middle of a wind storm. It takes him half a second to figure out what to say, but even that’s too long; the wind rips the sound from his throat the moment he opens his mouth.

He tries again but the only sound is the air whipping their room into a cyclone and Ransom’s feet against the attic ceiling.

Holster stretches as tall as he can and reaches. His fingers brush the edge of Ransom’s hideous salmon boxers, but the fabric slips easily out of his grasp.

He’s on Ransom’s bunk in an instant, gathering his blankets in both hands, and tossing them over Ransom’s arm. Ransom snatches them when they flap against his ankle, and Holster nearly cries in relief. He tows him in, slowly, steadily. If nothing else, he must be steady.

Ransom tumbles bodily back onto his bed. He’s on Holster’s leg, but Holster can’t bring himself to care just then.

“Hey, I’ve got you,” he whispers. Ransom scootches in closer at the sound of his voice. “I’ll anchor you.”

There’s a pause. “Thank you,” Ransom whispers back. “Thanks.”

____________

They fall asleep with elbows in stomachs and knees uncomfortably under thighs and there’s a drool splotch on Holster’s chest and he knows he snores and must wake Ransom up, but he doesn’t complain.

A breeze caresses Holster’s jaw. When he opens his eyes, he’s alone in the bed.

Rain makes the Haus windows shiver.

There’s another blueberry crumble pie on the counter.

____________

Three weeks after he pulled Ransom down from the ceiling, Ransom passes Holster a puck he should easily catch. It slides between his skates.

“What’s the problem, son?” Hall asks him after practice. There’s a small puddle forming under his skates; after the pucks are all collected, the fire elements relax their hold on their heat. Dex always says it’s to help the zaboni. Everyone else always rolls their eyes.

Hall doesn’t roll his eyes. He keeps his gaze centered on Holster until Holster feels like an excavation site.

“Just an off spell,” he mumbles. He puts pressure on his neck before the discomfort start up again; he really can’t afford to pay to fix the sidewalk again.

“Make sure you take care of that,” is all Hall says. He claps Holster on the shoulder.

Holster says, “I’ll try, Coach.”

____________

It’s so, so unfair how good Ransom looks in their fratty party lighting. Bits and pieces of purple and green flecks bounce off his cheekbones, hiding now and then along the side of his nose and under his collar. Holster thinks he’d quite like to find them.

His empty cup seems to want to collect the light of Ransom’s skin, too. An empty cup, he thinks, he can fix. He dunks the ladle into the tub juice.

“Go easy on that,” Lardo yells to him. He blinks until he realizes she’s wearing glitter; he’d been trying to figure out how she made the lights stay on her like that. “Shitty made it real strong this time. I’m on patrol tonight, I’m not afraid to ground you.”

But Holster’s been grounded his whole life. Tonight he wants to fly, so he tips the cup back and downs it in one.

The party passes in a blur. He thinks Kent Parson might show up, maybe; the air gets cold like it does when Jack’s nervous about a test or something. Last time it affected everyone like this was Parson’s Cup day. Holster thinks icicles lean down from the ceiling but that could just be him leaning down for more juice.

“Think that’s enough,” someone’s voice says in his ear. Beautiful hands take the cup out of his fingers and he reaches for it — he’d just passed the Rockies, he wants to fly a little longer, a little higher — but the beautiful fingers twist and a gust of air sends the cup rattling across the floor. He thinks maybe it rattles. It’s too loud to tell.

The beautiful hands sling his arm over beautiful shoulders. Holster turns his head, and there’s a purple fleck on the beautiful mouth. He kisses it.

“Yeah, definitely bedtime,” the voice says. It becomes Ransom’s voice when they get to the attic.

Ransom gently eases him out of his shoes and jeans and tucks him into his bottom bunk. Holster smiles at him dreamily; there’s a smudge on the corner of his lips.

“Rans,” he says, flopping a hand toward him. Ransom takes it. His eyes look amused. “I flew, Rans. Over the Rockies.”

“You’re drunk, Holster.”

How had he never realized how comfortable his bed is? Holster burrows into the pillows. He says, “Going to Everest next.”

“Get some rest, idiot,” Ransom tells him. Holster closes his eyes when he’s told to. He thinks, maybe, someone kisses his forehead, but then a breeze comes and whisks him off to sleep.

____________

Holster regrets last night as soon as he opens his eyes the next morning.

“Turn off the sun,” he mumbles through a mouthful as heavy as earth.

Ransom’s laugh is a lot closer than Holster thought it would be so he opens his eyes again and then immediately regrets it. He compromises for squinting. Squinting’s safe; there’s a Ransom-shaped blob on a chair by his bed and less light piercing his retinas.

“When the sun wants to turn off,” Ransom says, feeling Holster’s forehead, “she’ll do so on her own.”

“What time is it?”

“Somewhere around one-thirty.”

“Can you—” Holster twiddles his fingers in a way that on some level he knows doesn’t at all resemble air manipulation, but Ransom sends him a subtle stream of cool air anyway. It brushes over his lips. He frowns. “Did I kiss someone last night? It feels like I kissed someone last night.”

Ransom’s hesitation is so slight Holster wouldn’t have caught it had they spent the last three years, forty days being friends, or had he not spent the last three years, thirty-five days being in love with him.

“I did, didn’t I.” Ransom still doesn’t say anything. “Just so long as it wasn’t April, the volleyball team’ll kill me.”

“It was me,” Ransom says now, and now Holster feels like he’s floating next to the ceiling. Apprehension curls up next to his spleen. “Don’t worry though, it’s fine. You were drunk. That’s all that happened.”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” Holster says automatically.

“Holtzy,” Ransom says. There’s a reluctant smile dawning on his face. “You asked Jack if his Ice Town cost him, an ice clown, his town crown. I still have no idea what that means.”

“You still haven’t watched Parks and Rec.”

Ransom says lightly, “There’s been a lot going on.”

“There has.”

A pause. Holster uses it to study Ransom, to look at the dirt smudges still on his face and hands that he must have gotten from carrying him up the stairs. He must’ve sat here all night. Just the idea of it makes Holster clench his hands to avoid an earthquake.

He sits up carefully. “Justin, there’s something I should tell you.”

Ransom doesn’t say anything. Holster’s profoundly grateful for it. It takes him time to speak, he has to build momentum — it’s a shared earth element trait, he supposes; Lardo’s the same way. Rockfalls building to a landslide. These rocks have been falling for longer than three years.

He is going to start small. Something about the way Ransom looks when he asks the wind to work with him, about how it felt when the perfumed gusts of wind kissed his cheek. Maybe the way they connect on the ice, about how the balance each other in the Haus and locker room and buses. How those flecks of light looked darting here and there across his nose.

These are his rocks. These little things that build up his rockslide.

But the rockslide wants to be heard first, so Holster says, “I’m in love with you.” He shuts his eyes.

Ransom doesn’t say anything, but the next wind that comes ghosts over Holster’s mouth like a kiss.

When Holster opens his eyes Ransom traces the path the wind took with his lips.

____________

It is times like this that the Holster thinks the earth in his limbs have weighted him so he’s exactly where he should be. Ransom’s walking an inch off the ground as they step over the newly misshapen sidewalk in front of the Haus, and this time Holster doesn’t pull him down. This time, Holster tugs him in for a kiss, and Ransom lifts him up.

________________________

[bittysvalentines]

A Sorta Fairytale (With You)

To: @crashing-into-the-sun

From: @missweber

Happy belated Valentine’s! I was thrilled to pick up this pinch hit for you, and I hope you enjoy it! Anyhow, here’s some soulmate AU femslash (Georgia Martin/Alice Atley) with a side order of Zimbits, a heaping dollop of angst, and a completely fluffy ending.

Warnings for discussion of divorce and an implied instance of biphobia. Also, many thanks to @aishuu for speedy yet thorough beta-reading.

***

In fairytales, the prince kisses the princess, waking her from deathlike sleep. Then, like magic (because it is magic) soul-rings bloom around their fingers, and they live happily ever after.

Everyone knows that’s not how it really happens, but that never stopped anyone from hoping it would happen to them or from being disappointed when it doesn’t.

***

If anyone asked, George was checking her phone for a text from Jack telling her he was in the building or at least on his way.

The truth was, she knew damn well Jack would be there for the presser. Jack wasn’t who she was waiting to hear from. She glared at her screen, but it remained frustratingly clear of alerts. There was only the photo of her and Mark, both smiling like a promise of forever.

Mark took that photo a year ago. Today, she wondered if she would hear anything from him beyond the perfunctory congrats he’d texted last night.

She rubbed a thumb over her wedding ring, but before she could think too much about how there was still no sign of a soul-ring underneath, she heard the commotion as Jack finally arrived. She pulled herself together.

She had no choice. She had a press conference to manage and Jack had history to make.

***

Hard truths come with growing up. The original fairytales weren’t in Technicolor with Oscar-winning soundtracks. Sleeping Beauty wasn’t woken with a kiss, the hunter didn’t save Red Riding Hood, and wedding rings were first worn to hide the fact that princes and princesses were married to bring nations together because who gives a shit about love and soulbonds when empires are at stake?

Besides, soulbonds don’t happen with a kiss like they do in fairytales. They take hard work and good luck, and sometimes princes and princesses find happiness despite everything.

And sometimes they don’t.

***

Getting ready for her run that morning, George finally understood why Jack set so much store by routine.

Every little action, whether it was applying anti-chafe balm or adjusting her laces, was a moment of focus that kept her from dwelling on a doubly bare ring finger and the ache of failure and loss. It helped her stay calm.

Or numb. Numb was close enough to calm, wasn’t it?

When she got to the park, Jack was stretching. A run would do her good, she told herself, but when Jack saw her, his eyes narrowed.

“Non,” he said. “We’re going back to my place.”

George didn’t care enough to argue. Jack must have called Eric on the way, because when George walked in, the smell of coffee and chocolate was almost enough to shatter her control.

She did lose it when Eric pulled her into a hug. He just let her take what time she needed before getting her settled on the couch with a box of tissues. It wasn’t as embarrassing as it could have been, even when Jack sat awkwardly next to her and Bitty disappeared into the kitchen to ‘give them a moment.’

Jack clearly didn’t know how to start, so George spared him the trouble.

“Mark called last night. We’re done. I’ll be served papers later this week.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head and rubbed her thumb over the blank skin where her wedding ring sat just yesterday. “I kept telling myself it was just a break and we’d be stronger for it. That maybe our soul-rings would finally appear, but…”

Some couples didn’t get their soul-rings until after ten years of marriage or more. Or ever. Seven years and still blank wasn’t a failure - except when it was.

She clenched her fists in her lap. “He’s seeing someone. Another coach at Brown.”

Jack’s mouth tightened in anger. “Do you think they started before - ”

She held up a hand (a bare hand) to cut him off. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. It won’t change anything.”

That March, right after the Falcs clinched a playoffs spot, Mark said they needed a break. George hadn’t agreed, but what could she do? Besides, it wasn’t like she hadn’t noticed the growing strain in their marriage. So, Mark moved out and George threw herself into work.

Only Tom, Thirdy, and Jack knew what had happened and they also knew not to ask about it.

At first, she and Mark talked most days, and he even stayed over a few nights because habit was habit and comfort was comfort. But as time went on, he pulled further and further away. In the end, she got congrats and, the day after the draft, a call telling her it was over.

Eric returned with coffee doctored with cream and chocolate syrup, and what looked like pain au chocolat. “Here you go, darlin’. You look like you could use some TLC.”

George gave him a wobbly smile and took a bite of the pastry.

For a few blessed seconds, everything was right with the universe.

“Holy hell! What is this?”

“Homemade pan o’ chocolate,” Eric said, and George wasn’t sure if he was butchering the pronunciation on purpose or not, but the pained look on Jack’s face was a treasure. “Except instead of plain chocolate, I used a Snickers bar.”

George hummed with pleasure and took another bite. “That should be illegal.”

“I’m certain Nate thinks so,” Eric sniffed. He and Jack exchanged looks, and Eric nodded in response to whatever cue he picked up. “Just holler if y'all need more coffee or anything. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” George said once she and Jack were alone. “It’s not that I don’t adore Eric, but there’s only so much of other people’s domestic bliss I can take right now.”

Jack ducked his head and gave his usual monotone chuckle. “Sorry.”

“I kept telling myself it was okay we didn’t have soul-rings,” she said after a stretch of quiet. “Plenty of couples don’t have them. And the ones who do, most aren’t like you and Eric and have them show up right away.”

Jack gave her a strange look.

“What?” she asked.

“Euh, we didn’t get ours until right before I told you about us.”

Now it was George’s turn to display what was probably a very strange look.

“I’m not surprised you didn’t notice when it came in.” Jack’s soul-ring was a delicate filigree of rose-gold that almost vanished against his skin, unlike Marty’s crimson bands or Thirdy’s electric blue swirls. In public, Jack wore a silicone ring the way most unmarried celebrities did to ward off speculation.

“I just… I can’t imagine the two of you not together.”

Jack laughed again, and this time it was rich and not at all monotone. “Oh, no. God, no. We hated each other at first. Hey, Bits!” he called out, “Tell George what I was like when we first met!”

“He was a Grade A, pie-despising jerk!” Eric shouted from the kitchen, but it sounded more affectionate than not.

“So what happened?”

Jack shrugged. “Time. Me getting my head out of my ass. Honesty. Lots of work.”

“I feel like you just told me Santa Claus wasn’t real,” George joked, but she also wanted to cry.

If three years of dating and seven years of marriage didn’t count as lots of work, then what the hell did?

***

In her teens, George discovered other women who had crafted fairytales for themselves and each other. Stories. Poems. Songs. She devoured Angela Carter and Anne Sexton and Alice Walker while listening to Tori Amos and Tracy Chapman on constant repeat.

She read how Beauty could find joy in becoming a Beast. She studied the different, secret, ways women craft soul-rings for every one of their fingers or instead carve them away and cauterize the wounds with pitch. She saw how some women change pain into pearls while others shout it as a war cry or wind it around themselves like a shroud.

She learned there are worse things out there than the gory tales of Grimm, and while you could survive these things, not everyone does, so you have to be stronger, work harder, skate faster, shoot for the goal…

She also learned that sometimes what a princess really wants is another princess.

***

On a stagnant night in late July, George lay in bed, thinking about Nichole. She knew Nichole was coaching women’s hockey at Cornell - but knowing where wasn’t the same as knowing how.

She wondered if Nichole ever remembered cuddling in a narrow bed in the Olympic Village, or if she ever looked at her gold medal and had a sudden, knee buckling recollection of joyful, filthy, celebratory sex.

They hooked up again a year later at Worlds, and the year after that, and the year after that, with a few chance weekends in-between. They were hardly exclusive, and the second time they were both on Team USA for the Olympics, Nichole kindly rebuffed George’s advances because she was seeing someone and it was serious. How serious? She blushed as she showed George the faint green curl of a young soul-ring.

George hugged Nichole, and was genuinely happy for her. Disappointed for herself, yes, but happy. (It helped that Canada’s goalie had been shooting her meaningful looks that George was happy to follow up on.)

At the 2006 Olympics, George met Mark and Nichole stopped talking to her.

George used to wonder if they would have done better than bronze if her liney hadn’t frozen her out.

Tonight, her wondering took a new path.

What would have happened if Nichole hadn’t found her soulmate and she hadn’t met Mark? Could they have been happy?

Why did it only now bother her that she had spent hours consoling Mark over the men’s eighth place finish while he barely acknowledged her third Olympic medal?

Maybe that’s what happened when you were falling out of love.

Her thoughts spiraled inevitably onwards.

At the 2009 Worlds, the last they attended together, the press had buzzed about the newlyweds who played for Team USA, and everyone was primed to crown Curran-and-Martin as hockey’s fairytale couple when they inevitably both came home with medals.

The women got gold.

The men got fifth.

George’s team got a spread in Sports Illustrated. Mark’s got a sidebar.

In 2011, the Islanders placed Mark on waivers and the new Providence franchise offered George a job. Things were rough between them for a while, but the Falcs’ GM helped Mark get a coaching gig at Brown, and the ice was smoothed over again.

Or not. She now saw how the cracks had been patched but were still there. And how as her dreams came true and Mark’s withered away, cracks became chasms above deep water, and why oh why couldn’t he just be happy for her?

She was sad. She was angry. She was tired of crying.

George pressed the home button on her phone and looked at the two of them, happy. They had been so happy, once. She wished she could just forget it or pretend it wasn’t true, but she couldn’t.

She deleted the photo and turned off her phone.

“Fuck him,” she whispered into the dark.

***

Once, while babysitting for the Robinsons, she let Angel talk her into a Disney marathon. As she watched, she wished movies like Brave and Frozen had been there when she was a little girl. But the third movie was Cinderella, which Angel declared was her most favorite of all her favorites.

Angel said it was because the mice were funny, duh, but her squeal of delight when the animated soul-rings sparkled into life in the last scene (one she had watched dozens of times) told a different story.

A simple, familiar story that inexplicably retains its power no matter how many times it is shown to be pure bullshit.

***

Their court date was August 31st. After that, their story would be over.

The weekend before ’D-Day,’ as Carrie had dubbed it on a recent ‘Wine and Whine’ night, George let herself be talked into going to a party at Jack’s even though she wasn’t feeling up it, just as she hadn’t felt up to the two dates she’d gone on that summer.

As with those dates, she’d probably end up wishing she’d stayed home.

At least the party was, with a few exceptions, all new people. The Robinsons were there, because Carrie had been the one to convince George to go, and Tater was there because god forbid you try to keep him away from Eric’s cooking. Everyone else was from Samwell and wouldn’t know to pity her or ask how she was doing.

The only rough moment was when Ben Murray came over to say hi - as coaches in the ECAC, he and Mark knew each other professionally. If he’d heard what had happened, the only sign was that he didn’t ask about Mark.

It was okay, though. Okay enough that instead of leaving early, she retreated to the kitchen.

She didn’t expect the kitchen to be empty, and it wasn’t. Eric was cutting brownies into perfect squares and chattering away at a woman George had never seen before. She wasn’t George’s usual type, but George found her attractive in a cozy, comfortable way she thought she could learn to appreciate. 

“Oh, there you are!” Eric said as if he had been waiting for her. “I need to deliver these to the ravening hordes, but George, this is Alice Atley. Professor Atley, this is Georgia Martin. I’ll be back in two shakes!”

George raised an eyebrow at the other woman. Alice. “Did he really just leave us with no brownies?”

Alice smiled slyly and tilted the brownie pan so George could see. “No, he left us with all the edge pieces.”

“Sweet,” George gloated. She pulled out a five-inch slab of crispy, chewy, chocolatey goodness.

Alice chuckled and took a piece for herself. “That young man knows what side his bread is buttered on.” Her Southern accent was a different flavor than Eric’s, with traces of New England around the edges.

“Bread he’s baked himself, no doubt,” George said. She bit into the brownie. Her eyes fluttered closed at the hit of chocolate, butter, sugar, and other things she refused to feel guilty about just then. “How Jack doesn’t weigh five hundred pounds, I have no idea.”

“I dread what’s going to happen to me with all the stress baking that’s gonna go along with that boy’s thesis. They’ll have to roll me into class on a dolly.” Alice shook her head and rubbed her hand across her plush belly with a sigh.

Delicious, George thought before she could stop herself. Yeah, it had been far too long since she had gotten laid, but this was not the time. She forced her eyes back up and hoped her blush wasn’t as visible as it felt. “Eric called you ‘Professor.’ Are you…” She circled her hand, unsure how to finish that sentence without sounding like an idiot.

“I’m Eric’s thesis advisor, sweet Jesus have mercy on my soul.” She tsked, but George saw the affection twinkling in her warm, dark eyes. “I’m just hoping we can come up with some way to have him write a cookbook and disguise it as a thesis. It’s the only way either of us will survive the experience. So how do you know the boys?”

George grinned at the way Alice referred to Jack and Bitty, and something in her stomach flipped over as Alice’s expression shifted from amused to considering.

“It’s a long story.”

Alice laughed knowingly. “With those two? Of course it is.”

The next three hours went by far too quickly. George felt it down in her toes when Alice touched her arm mid-story to emphasize a point. They both laughed themselves sick when Eric came in at just the right point in Alice’s tale of senior seminars and bribery pies, but he gave them a pleased smile along with the pointed side-eye.

It was easy and it was comfortable, just the two of them sitting at Jack’s kitchen counter, and George was glad she hadn’t stayed home.

By the time they left the party - the last two out the door - they had exchanged numbers and made plans to meet for dinner next weekend. George tried not to think about how she’d be officially single by then.

It was easy, so easy, to share a quick kiss at Alice’s car. It was harder not to do more than that, but George reminded herself she was still on the rebound. So, she pulled Alice into a hug, enjoying her strength and softness and the feeling that this was right, and left before she could do anything stupid.

As she walked to her car, she realized she hadn’t felt this happy in a long time. A very long time. So, if she broke into a little dance step along the way, that was no one’s business but her own.

Once in her car, she put her hands on the wheel and took a deep breath.

“Calm the fuck down, George. You just met and you - ”

She looked down.

Her eyes went wide.

Her phone rang.

A scroll of sunset orange circled the fourth finger of her left hand and her phone was ringing and ringing.

She grabbed the phone before it went to voice mail.

“Alice? Oh, my god!” she laughed. “Oh my god!”

She was laughing and crying and she couldn’t stop looking at the soul-ring that had bloomed on her finger like magic.

***

In fairytales, two lovers kiss for the first time and their soulbond forms like magic (because it is magic).

As people get older and consider themselves wiser, they scoff at childish stories and wonder why anyone believes them anymore.

If they were truly wise, they would know it is because sometimes, just sometimes, the stories are true.

[bittysvalentines]

To @thetimetravellercat

From @uarewell

________________

Jack’s fingers fly over the keyboard, shoulders hunched in nervousness.

 “I have about 50 boxes of pie crust mix and an ungodly amount of fruit. We need to start making pies ASAP. Where are you?” He shoots off the text to Tater without a second glance, before letting his phone clatter to the marble countertop in front of him.

 The boxes of crust mix sit on the counter in front of him, mocking him.

 It was T-24 hours until the Falconers’ Bake Sale. Jack wasn’t really sure why they were making the players actually bake their own goods, seeing as the most cooking he’d ever experienced from them had been some burgers Marty had cooked up at a team barbeque a few weeks back. He was pretty sure it had something to do with the recent surge of mid-game fights. The Falconers themselves weren’t incredibly prone to fighting, but some other teams seemed to have a personal vendetta against them. Especially against Jack. It seemed that everyone and their goalie was eager to get the famed Jack Zimmermann to snap and throw a punch. None of them had been particularly successful, but that didn’t seem to stop them from trying.

Nevertheless, Jack was screwed. Why he had promised pies, he had no idea. Even with a box of mix, there was room for failure. And even with Tater’s help, Jack wasn’t feeling too optimistic about the future of their pies.

 Jack was so engrossed in his whirling thoughts that he nearly missed the buzzing of his phone. It was a call. From Eric.

He took a deep breath before answering, hoping to play it cool. “Hello?”

 “Hey sweetheart! I’m about 2 minutes away, have you preheated the oven yet?”

 Jack blinked. He wasn’t expecting a visit from his boyfriend for another week at least. “Preheat? For what? You’re in Providence?”

 Eric laughed, his voice bringing a gentle warmth, “Yeah! I was going to surprise you, but then I got your text! What’s all this about baking pies? And without me?” His voice had taken on a fake-scandalous tone.

 “I, uh… meant to text Tater,” Jack said.

 “I figured you got the wrong number. But count me in anyway, it sounds like fun!” Eric replied, sounding slightly out of breath, “Also, open up. I’m just about home.”

 Jack walked, smiling to himself, and opened the door just in time to see Eric turning the corner to meet him. His face was tinged pink from the brisk wind outside, but his eyes were as warm as ever, and he closed the distance between them in a few long strides.

“Hey handsome,” he said, grinning up at Jack and already leaning in for a kiss.

 “Hey Bits,” Jack replied, tugging him into a quick kiss before pulling Eric’s knit hat off his head and guiding their lips together again. With the hat no longer in his way, Jack carded his fingers through Eric’s hair, enjoying the soft texture under his hands.

 When they broke apart again, Eric smiled widely at Jack before tapping at his chest, pushing him gently back into the apartment. “So… why the pies?” Eric asked, shedding his outer layers and arranging them neatly on the coat rack.

 “Falconers are having a bake sale tomorrow, and they wanted us to bake for it.” Jack explained, “I figured after watching you I could handle a boxed mix, but now that I actually have to bake I am seriously doubting my abilities.”

 “We did make pie together for your final that one year,” Eric reminded him.

 “That was ages ago, Bittle.” Jack laughed.

 Eric chuckled at him, “Don’t worry about it, handsome. With my help, you can crack out dozen or so pies in a few hours.” Jack smiled, stepping into Eric’s space again.

 “Did I ever tell you how lucky I am that you’re my boyfriend?” He grinned down at him.

 “About six times a week, but I still like to hear it,” Eric chirped, pecking Jack’s lips before he moved towards the counter. He plucked one of the boxes off the counter, examining it critically, pursing his lips in concentration. Jack stepped up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and nestling into his shoulders.

 “At least you picked a good box mix,” Eric said, dropping one of his hands to lay on Jack’s. Jack gave a small kiss to the warm skin of Eric’s neck. “I can work with these.”

 “I would expect nothing less from the world’s greatest baker,” Jack chirped. Eric rolled his eyes and turned in Jack’s grip.

 “Oh, I’m not going to be the one baking.” Jack blinked in confusion, “You’re going to be making these, mister.” Before Jack could protest, Eric tapped his nose. “If the Falconers want you to bake, then you’re going to bake.”

 Jack rolled his eyes and groaned, already waddling the two of them over to the fridge to gather ingredients. “Am I getting a personal tutorial at least? Or do I have to check YouTube?”

 Bitty giggled, swatting at Jack’s test, “I think I could arrange that. Just for you.”

 “I appreciate it,” Jack replied, pressing another kiss against his lips.

 They separated enough to pluck supplies out of Jack’s kitchen cabinets, Eric knowing better than he did where to look for the pie tins and mixing bowls. Once everything had been gathered, Eric set to laying out the ingredients in an easy to follow pattern, just like his Moomaw had done when he was first learning how to bake.

 Eric made the first pie with Jack carefully watching over his shoulder. He demonstrated how to carefully handle the dough, make a tasty filling, and reminded him how to properly embellish the final product.

 Once the first pie was set to cool, Eric set him loose. The time passed quickly, the two of them fading into an easy routine of mixing and kisses. Jack updated Eric on the goings-on of the Falconers, and detailed some of the more recent plays they had been learning. Eric, in turn, shared more about what had been happening at the Haus, which led into a long story of the newest petty pranks in the re-ignited feud with the lacrosse team.

 Jack was laughing along to one of Ransom’s more brilliantly concocted pranks to trap the whole lacrosse team in a single supply closet when Eric’s phone rang. Eric pulled it out of his pocket and let out a delighted shout. “Hold on, I really have to take this.” He swiped to accept the call and pressed it against his face eagerly.

 “Hello? Yes this is him…,” he listened intently for a moment before his face lit up, “Oh, really? Of course! Yes, thank you!” He flapped a hand excitedly at Jack, who was watching with a neatly arched brow. “Yes, that’s perfect! Thank you. I’ll be there on Wednesday!” He ended the phone call and laughed.

 “Good news, I take it?” Jack asked.

 Eric nodded, “Remember how I told you I submitted an audition tape to that food blogger site?” Jack did recall. The website was a smaller branch off of Food Network, where up-and-coming chefs could share their recipes and upload videos and, if they were good enough, got picked up by Food Network to host their own shows. “They accepted me! They want me to start making content for the blog on Wednesday!”

 Jack’s eyes widened in surprise, “Really? Bits, that’s great!” He dropped the dough he’d been handling and wrapped his arms around Eric, lifting him in a bone crushing hug. “I knew you’d make it!”

 Eric was laughing right by his ear, wrapping his legs around Jack’s waist so he couldn’t be put down. Jack adjusted his grip, cupping his butt and grinning at him.

“I mean, I thought they might, but I didn’t think it would be so soon!” His eyes sparkled.

 “You’re going to be famous,” Jack told him.

 “Well, I don’t know about that…” Eric drawled, but Jack silenced him with a kiss.

 “You’re gonna be bigger than Gordon Ramsey,” He said confidently, “Bigger than Rachel Ray. You’re going to get discovered by Food Network and blow them all away and make millions of dollars and we’re going to buy a big house with an ice rink and a kitchen the size of a small country.”

 Eric laughed, combing his hands through Jack’s hair, “You are absolutely ridiculous.” He said, fondness coloring his tone.

 “You are absolutely wonderful.” Jack shot back.

 “So are you, sweetpea.” Eric kissed Jack again, fingers cupping his jaw. “So are you.”

[bittysvalentines]

"Sweetheart"

To @happyzimm From @pieandpucks

[bittysvalentines]

About a bo(ner)y

For @polaroidpidge

From @fanaste

Pairing: Kent Parson/Jeff Troy

 __________________

Kent flops down on the bed and it collapses beneath his weight.

 Literally.

 Kent flops down on the bed and it collapses beneath his weight.

 Literally.

 There’s a sharp snap half a second after Kent’s back hits the mattress and then the top right corner drops sending him rolling towards the side table at the head.

Both men freeze…well Kent has to stop rolling first but when he does he stares, stiff bodied, up at Jeff who stares back, wide eyed, and red faced.  Both men blink shocked into silence until Jeff burst into peels of laughter.  It bubbles up from his chest like champagne and Kent would enjoy the sound if he wasn’t so busy worrying about not only what they’re going to tell the hotel but what the other guys are gonna say when they find out.

 Of course, in typical Kent fashion he’s not worrying about the right thing.  The right thing being what Jeff’s going to say.

 “Dude.” Jeff gasps bent double now to emphasise that it’s so hilarious it’s physically killing him, “No stop, stop.” He pants as if Kent is doing anything other than lying on the bed, one hand bracing himself so he doesn’t roll and hit his head on the headboard, and the other gripping the rucked-up comforter.  “I can’t breathe.  Stop.” Jeff wheezes.

 Kent tries to roll the other way but the bed creaks dangerously.  He tries it slower this time, but the creak persists.

 “Dude.” He flaps, “Help me up.”

Jeff shakes his head wildly miming that he can’t.

 “Fuck Swoops just help me up already.  Suffocate on your own time.” Kent snaps though he knows it’ll only make Jeff laugh harder.

 “Oh man.” Making a show of how much effort it is Jeff straightens up and wipes honest to god tears from his eyes, “I can just see the headlines now- “

 “Don’t- “Kent moves but there’s an ominous creak from the left side.

 “Kent Parson, glutes so ginormous standard hotel beds just won’t cut it.”

 Kent dares to flip him off.  “Your ass is bigger than mine man.  The bed was obviously broken before we got here.”

 “No one will believe that.” Jeff threatens.

 “It was!” He squeaks.  “Help me up man, before the Aces have to pay for a new bed.”

 “Pretty sure it’s not gonna break the budget.”

 “Dyson will think we were goofing around and won’t let us share again.”

 Jeff hesitates, and for an awful second Kent thinks he’s gonna shrug like it doesn’t matter, like Kent can share with anyone else.  He knows it wouldn’t be Jeff’s fault if he didn’t know how stressful that would be for Kent but at the same time he finds Jeff’s ignorance (entirely assumed and wholly unsubstantiated) irritating.

 Instead of giving him more shit about being a fuss pot Jeff lopes around to the top of the bed and hoists up the right side so Kent can carefully (soooo careful) but quickly roll off.  When his feet make contact with the carpet he feels like a sailor finally finding land after choppy seas.

 No longer horizontal Kent can survey the scene in it’s ridiculous entirety.

 “Shit.”

 “Maybe if you sleep on the end, like across the bottom?” Jeff puts his hand on the base of the bed and the right bottom leg gives out.  They exchange a look.  “Or not.”

 “The fuck were the people before us doing?

 Jeff shoots him a ‘seriously?’ look.  “Fucking probably.”

 Kent makes a sound in the back of his throat.  “It’s always fucking with you.”

 “You don’t break a bed just by sleeping on it.”

 “They could have been jumping on it…” Kent doesn’t know why he’s fighting with Jeff.  It doesn’t change anything.  “I can’t sleep on that.”

 “Then I guess you better get right with the floor.” Jeff sniggers.

 Kent looks at him brows drawn up in an incredulous arch, “I better what?”

 Jeff doesn’t catch the vibe, “You better,” he throws his bag on his bed which mockingly stays sturdy beneath the weight, “start making a palette on the floor.”

 The statement computes about as well as the first time he heard it.  “Oh no.  No, no, no.” Kent whistles, “I am your captain.”

 Miss the hint once, shame on Kent, miss it twice and shame on Jeff.  Jeff doesn’t miss the implication a second time.  “What?” he does a double take, “No way.  I am not sleeping on the floor!”

 “I am your captain.” Kent repeats.

 “You are also younger than me.  Your back is better! Mine can’t take a hard floor.” He almost sounds smug about it like he’s so sure Kent gives a shit about his old man bones.

 “Captain.” Kent points to himself.

 “Older than you.” Jeff points to himself.

 “Captain.” Kent repeats again.

 “Fuck.  Off.”

 “Suicides or you give me the bed.”

 Jeff’s outrage gives way to genuine uncertainty.  “How about you knock it off man you’re starting to sound like a dick.”

 Reluctantly Kent stops.  He looks at the other bed and then at ‘his’ broken one.  His back aches from rolling across the mattress and his butt and shoulder hurt from sitting on the plane for six hours.  He sleeps like shit on planes he always has and a lifetime of being sent across state and country lines to various family members every holiday hockey would permit his mom hasn’t changed that.  Kent sleeps in total silence, in complete blackness and on a bed that doesn’t make him feel like he’s on a tilt-a-whirl.  He looks at the floor and his muscles groan just imagining the hardness of the ground beneath.

 “I’m gonna have to get another room.”

 Jeff’s unzipped his bag and started to shed his clothes in the time Kent’s taken to reflect on his woes.  “All the rooms are booked up.” Jeff says from inside the collar of his shirt.  Kent’s gaze gets caught on Jeff’s abs.  His eyes briefly follow the trail that his navel hair marks all the way to his waistband and down.  When Jeff frees himself from his clothing Kent’s expression betrays nothing.

 “Seriously?”

 “Yeah.  Dyson picked the smallest hotel he could.  He’s filled it with Aces personnel only.  After the Hudson debacle he isn’t taking any chances.”

 Kent stares, “Debacle?”

 Jeff pulls his pyjama top down, “It’s my word of the day.” He says defensively.

 “Word of the day?” Kent repeats.

 “Jas got me an app on my phone.  It gives me a word to use every- don’t look at me like that you’re just jealous.”

 Like Kent Jeff chose the NHL over college.  It’s not a difficult decision.  When scouts come calling, blowing smoke up your eighteen-year-old ass about money and fame, offering a life of eternal hockey everything else loses its appeal.  Kent doesn’t regret it.  College was never going to be for him, but Jeff does.  Get him drunk enough and he’ll confess that against some of their higher educated rookies he feels like a dolt and with every year that passes he fears his lack of education is going to haunt him.  Kent can imagine Jas passing the app off as a joke so that Jeff could easily accept it without having to admit that using these words makes him feel smart.  Jeff would admit it’s silly really.  The kind of education he missed out on can’t be encapsulated in a random word generating app, but Jas knew it would make him smile.  Kent’s mad he didn’t think of it first.  Not that he’s trying to out romance her or anything…

 Of course, Kent doesn’t let on that he knows any of this and instead replies, “Of sounding like a giant nerd? Hardly.”

 Jeff flips him off, “Whatever man.  What if you took the mattress off?”

 “There’s not enough room on the floor.”

 “You could make a bed out of the blanket and duvet I guess…” Jeff says considering.

 Kent scoffs, “Like a dog?”

 Jeff gives him a smart grin “Exactly like a dog.”

 Kent flips him off.  “I’m not sleeping on the floor, so you better not fidget in the night.”

 “You’ll never know.” Jeff replies decisively.

 Just for that Kent gets into the good bed.  He expects Jeff to run out of the bathroom as if he senses what Kent’s done but instead he hears the thunk of the toilet seat raise and then the familiar sound of Jeff peeing (it brings a certain clarity to your life when you realise the sound of your friends urinating is familiar).

 Face pink from a fresh scrub Jeff emerges from the bathroom.  “You’re not seriously suggesting we share?” He gapes.

 Kent’s more than a little offended that Jeff sounds so horrified.  It makes shrugging unapologetically and simply snapping, “Captain,” in answer, easier.

 “This is an abuse of power!” Jeff declares.

 “There’s no official rule book.  How I captain is my prerogative.” He adds with a sniff.

 The other man makes a protesting noise.

 “Get over yourself Troy it’s one night.”

 Jeff glances at the broken bed, then at the floor, then back at ‘their’ bed.  “Move over Parson.”

Twenty minutes later one six feet and one five feet eleven, both two hundred pounds plus, hockey players are still trying to occupy a small double together.

 “Scooch over!”

 “Ugh you’re such a bed hog.  I’m at the edge!”

 “You are not! I’m hanging off the god damn mattress here.”

 “This bed is too small for the both of us.” Jeff snaps.

 “As your captain I demand you.  Move.  The.  Fuck.  Over.”

 “As a tired man I demand you stop.  Fucking.  Trying to boss me.  Around!”

 “Jeff!”

 “Kent!”

 “You’re impossible.”

 “Turn on your side and you’ll have more room.”

 “I sleep best on my back.” Kent argues.

 “I’ve shared a room with you enough times to know you always end up rolling onto your side.  Just skip a few moves and do it now.”

 “Why don’t you?” Kent snaps brattishly.

 “I will but to fit we’re both gonna need to roll over.”

 There’s a pause and then Kent feels compelled to say, “I’m not spooning you.”

Jeff makes a sound in the back of his throat, “Spare me the no homo bullshit Parson everyone knows you’re a cuddler.”

 “The only thing I cuddle is Kit.”

 “Not according to Watty.”

 “He was cuddling me!” Kent squeaks indignant.

 “Now how he tells it.” Jeff sniggers.

 Kent puts his foot on Jeff’s leg.  “Yow! What the hell? Get your ice toes away from me!”

 “Both of us roll over so we’re back to back.”

 The bed groans as both men turn.  Kent has more of his body on the bed now, but he doesn’t have any less of Jeff’s.  He feels Jeff’s not inconsiderable ass against his and it’s weird.  Too familiar and yet…he doesn’t want to call Jeff out in case he moves.  Besides if he moved they’d be back to their original problem and they can’t face each other because then their dicks would be touching.  Not that Kent is averse to that, he reluctantly admits…okay not reluctant in the sense that he doesn’t want to fancy Jeff but in the sense that acknowledging it makes it harder to deny and, eventually, get over.

 “Don’t hog the sheets.” Jeff says tugging the duvet over his side.

 Kent tugs back, “Don’t fidget.”

 - - - - -

 Kent wakes up with a hard on.  This in itself isn’t unusual.  He’s young, he’s fit, he’s healthy and his libido is incorrigible.

 But this hard on isn’t his.  It’s Jeff’s and its pressed into his ass and Kent doesn’t find it unpleasant.  In fact in that brief liquid moment between sleep and wakefulness he almost pushes himself back into it.  He almost revels in the sensation of the hardness between his cheeks.  Kent almost forgets that he and Jeff don’t share a bed.  They don’t cuddle, or kiss, or rub up against each other in the night.

 As the room solidifies around him he freezes with the reminder that he may be nursing a pretty stupid crush but that’s all it is.  That’s all it’ll ever be.

 Kent spends a few moments taking shallow breaths desperately trying not to move.  He wonders if it’ll go away quickly but it feels like times determined to drag this moment out.  He debates his options.  To physical move will land him one of two places, on the floor or further into Jeff’s embrace.  He knows which one he’d prefer but it isn’t going to happen.

 It can’t.

 The only thing left is to try and wake Jeff, so he takes a deep breath and sighs it out making sure to make it long and loud.  He expands his ribs until they hurt and exhales until his belly touches his back.

 Jeff doesn’t stir so Kent tries again.  Except it doesn’t work, again.  He moves his leg a fraction and it takes barely any distance before it slips out from under the covers to be kissed by the icy lips of the air.  He brings his foot back with a gasp.

 “Dude stop.” A voice croaks behind him.

 Kent jumps and his foot jerks back out into the tundra.  “shit.”

 His exclamation is met with silence and then a mumbled “Crap.” From behind him.  “So that’s happened.” Jeff tries to turn but Kent grips the covers.  “I need to turn over.”

 And I need to avoid frostbite, Kent thinks.  “It’s fine.” He says rushing to reassure him even though a minute ago he was begging to have Jeff’s hard on far from him.  “It happens.” He shrugs striving to sound unbothered.

 “Yeah but- “

 “But what?” Kent prompts only he’s met with more silence.  “But what?” He thinks, “But it’s weird to have a boner in bed with your gay best friend? But it’s weird because you know I’ve got a thing for you, that sometimes I’m terrified I might be in love with you? But it’s weird because you don’t think I can control myself?”.  Kent starts to spiral so he forces himself to close his eyes and imagines shutting the poisonous voice behind a steel door.  “But what?” He asks again his belly clenching in anticipation.

 “It’s not exactly cool to wake up pressing your stiffy into your best friends back.” Jeff says, and he sounds like he’s laughing.  “There’s hardly any room in here as it is.” He snickers.

 Kent’s whole body immediately relaxes.  “It’s not that big.”

 “Oh, you’ve had bigger?” Jeff snorts.

 “Fuck off.” He presses his toe into Jeff’s calf.

 “Ow.” He jerks and knees Kent in the ass.  “Asshole.”

 Kent laughs.

 “I am sorry though.” Jeff says after a beat.

 “Don’t be.  It’s a testament to your youth.”

 Jeff makes a doubtful little noise, “Or a sign of my desperation.”

 Kent doesn’t say anything.

 “Shit I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”

 Kent scoffs like a part of him isn’t insulted, “You’d be lucky to attract me Troy.”

 “Whatever,” Jeff says after a moment, “you’re still hung up on Zimmermann anyway.”

 Kent feels the air around them start to shift.  Maybe it’s the hour and the orange glow of the street lamps through net curtains that softens not only the edges of their room but also the edges of their walls, or maybe Kent really does hear the faint sound of mournfulness in Jeff’s voice.  Whatever it is it makes him say, “Not really.”

 “Not really?” Jeff sounds sceptical.  “He seemed pretty important at New Year’s.”

 True.  “I was pretty fucked up at New Year’s.”

 “So now you’re over him?”

 Kent considers this before replying.  Zimmermann was Kent’s first everything.  First friend, first crush, first kiss then love.  First everything.  Jack and Kent used to mean something to each other.  They were always together that even when people spoke about them they spoke about them as a pair.  When Jack went to rehab and cut Kent off completely it felt like his heart had been blown up and his arm torn off.  He alternated between frantic worry and numb disbelief that the boy he loved had abandoned him without a word.

 But then he met Jeff and things changed.

 He can’t even put his finger on how it changed but eventually his zombie days stopped and the frantic worry in his mind only ever came out after too many drinks.  Of course, then he watched Jack Kiss Eric on the big screen in front of his whole team and that knocked him for six, but Jeff was there to help him pick up the pieces (read feed him bread in a bath tub until he sobered up).

That night between retches in the toilet Kent promised to really try and live life ‘after’ Jack Zimmermann.

 The only problem was without Jack to moon over Kent had more time to realise that his feelings for Jeff were changing.

 “Kent? You still awake?” Jeff whispers.

 “Yeah.  And…yeah, I think I’m closer to it now.  Getting over him I mean.”

 “Oh.  Cool…I mean…that’s great.”

 “Yeah.”

 He hears Jeff take a big breath behind him.  “So hypothetically.”

 “Hypothetically? Is that another of your words of the day?” Kent teases.

 Jeff pinches him.  “Hypothetically if this boner was…personal what would that mean?”

 Kent blinks, “What?”

 “Do you really need me to repeat it?” Jeff huffs and Kent can imagine his ears growing red.  He can hear the embarrassment he feels.  But he doesn’t care, well he does but Jeff’s just said something that could potentially change everything.  He needs to be sure of what he’s heard.

 “Yeah I do.”

 “It can be personal if you want.  If you’re, like…into it.”

 “Into it?”

 “Fucking Christ Kent do you need me to spell it out?”

 “Jeff all I know right now is that I woke up with your boner trying to poke a hole in my back and now you’re telling me that it might be personal but only if I want.”

 “That about sums it up yeah.”

 Kent considers this a moment.  “If I don’t? Want it to be personal.”

 “Then you’ll hang onto those covers and when I turn over I’ll try not to fall off the bed.  Then in the morning we’ll pretend this never happened.”

 Kent imagines that being about as possible as him going a whole shift without getting checked by the behemoth that the Kings have collared as defence.  “And if I want it to be personal.”

 “Do you?”

 “Do I what?”

 “Fuck Kent.” Jeff sighs.  “Do you want it to be personal?”

 When Kent pauses this time it’s not because he isn’t sure but because he never let himself dwell on it because Jeff’s straight, and Jeff has a girlfriend right now, a girlfriend that Kent loves and would never want to disrespect.  “What about Jas?” He asks.

 “We’ve talked about it.”

 “You have?”

 “All the time.”

 “Wh- why?” Kent stutters.

 “Because she knows what you mean to me.  She knows that I- “he takes a deep breath, “That I want you.  That I have for a while now.”

 Kent wonders if Jeff’s ‘a while’ is the same as Kent’s a while.

 “Same.” Kent whispers.

 Jeff shifts behind him and the mattress rocks as he props himself up on an elbow, “Really?”

 Kent fights not to turn his head, too afraid of rejection to look Jeff in the eye right now.  “Yeah.”

 “Kent?”

 “Yeah?”

 He feels Jeff’s hand on his shoulder and the next thing he knows he’s on his back and Jeff’s leaning over him and they’re kissing.  It only takes Kent half a second to get with the programme but when he does Kent’s whole body feels it.  Their tongues slide sensually together and Kent’s heart thunders beneath the palm Jeff’s laid on it for balance.

 They break apart slowly, in increments, inch by inch until Kent can see the smile on Jeff’s face.  

 “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.” He confesses.

 Kent blushes.  “Yeah?”

 “Yeah.” Jeff laughs softly.

 Kent breathes into the space between them then says, “What about Jas?”

 “She wants me to be happy.  She wants you to be happy.”

 “And she thinks us together will make that happen?”

 “Yeah.  I think so.  Don’t you?”

 Kent wants to say yes.  Honestly, it’s his first instinct to just agree but he knows himself.  Kent knows what he does to the things that make him happy.  He has a predisposition to ruin.  “Is it okay if I say I don’t know yet?” he asks carefully.

 “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.  I know you Kent.  You don’t believe in happiness.”

 Kent pouts childishly, “I do.”

 “Not for yourself.”

 That’s a truth Kent can’t deny.  “So, about this boner.” Kent says instead.

 “Oh, it’s gone now.”

 “That was short lived.”

 Jeff laughs.  “Well it’s game day tomorrow so it’s probably a good thing.”

 “Oh.  Okay.”

 “Relax we’ve got ages.  Tomorrow we’ll get up and hash it out yeah? Right now, I just wanna sleep with you in my arms.  Sound good?”

 Tomorrow the sun will rise, and the first thing Kent will do is worry that this moment never happened, that the spell of the dark will have worn off and Jeff will pretend this never happened.  In the morning Jeff will reassure him with a kiss, with a lot of kisses and after the game he’ll invite Kent home for dinner where they’ll talk the whole thing to death and when it’s all finalised they’ll kiss and fall into bed together and Kent will eventually know what it’s like to be in a healthy relationship.  But the dawn is four hours away and so right now Kent closes his eyes and cherishes the feel of Jeff’s skin beneath him, of his arm around his shoulder and his lips pressed to his forehead.

[bittysvalentines]

Tilting

To: @dievampiredie

From: @storytruths

Happy Valentine’s Day, darlin! I hope you like it! 

“I’m calling in a favor.” 

Derek feels the sigh start in the pit of his stomach, long before it reaches the cresting waves of his shoulders. He knows that tone of voice. That cheeky, commanding, I’m-calling-the-shots-here swagger layered over the wobbly insecurity of knowing you’re asking for too much. When Derek dies and stands at the edge of the river Styx, waiting to be ferried across to the underworld, Chiron’s voice will sound exactly like Dex’s voice does right now. 

Derek lets the sigh heave out of his chest with the fatalistic drama of someone who already knows they’re about to get fucked.

“A favor.”

“Yes.”

Derek leans backwards in his chair, tipping his head until it hangs upside-down between his shoulders. Dex’s freckled, anxious face appears above his. 

“And what favor would that be, on this, the day we agreed would be spent in silence and solitude as per Article C of our cohabitation treaty?”

Dex’s nose wrinkles in annoyance, scrunching up like bunny. 

“Well, nothing, if you’re going to be a dick about it.”

Derek swings around in his chair until he’s nose-to-looming-chest with Dex. All he wanted this Valentine’s day was to be left alone.

You know. To mourn for his hopelessly unrequited crush on his roommate in peace.

But here he is, in all his ginger headed gangly glory, asking Derek for a favor on Valentines Day in direct violation of Article C, and really, Derek can only be expected to withstand so much.

“Sorry. Dick mode deactivated. What do you need, bro?”

Dex blinks, obviously surprised by the change of tack. 

“Um. Well.”

The blustering pause that follows is unfortunately charming.

“It’s. Well. There’s no good way to say this. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

Derek…thinks he might have blacked out there, for a minute, actually.

“What?”

Dex’s blush is a sweet sweep of pink under his freckles. I’m dying, Derek thinks. This is my brain’s final attempt at simulating euphoria at the time of death.

“I need you to pretend to date me. Tonight.”

“I’m… I think I missed a step, there. Maybe.”

Dex huffs in frustration. He scrunches one hand up in his hair, tugging at the roots. He looks anxious and jittery, and more than a little irritated, and frankly this is not at all how Derek imagined being asked out by William Poindexter would go. 

“It’s a long story.”

“Sounds like it’s worth the wait, there, bud.”

“Look—“

“No, seriously, I’ll make time.“

“Nursey—“

“I mean if I’m going to be taking you on a Valentine’s Day date I’d expect there to be a little backstory—“

“Would you just let me talk?”

Derek relents a little, easing back in his chair. He stretches his long legs out in front of him, forcing Dex to take a step back. Dex narrows his eyes at him, and then sighs again.

“It’s… do you know that girl Lisa? In Ancient Civ?”

“The one with the curly hair?”

“Yes.”

Derek nods. He does know Lisa from Ancient Civ. She’s pretty, in a comfortable kind of way, with her big dark eyes and her big curly hair. She’s a hugger. 

“She asked me out.”

Derek blinks.

“Lisa from Ancient Civ asked you out?”

“Right.”

There’s another pause, as though somehow Dex believes this serves as explanation enough. Derek raises an eyebrow.

“…..And?”

“And I told her I was gay.”

Derek can’t help the laugh that comes ugly-snorting out his nose. He really can’t. One minute he’s facing down almost certain heartbreak— or at the very least humiliation— at the hands of his roommate who also happens to be the love of his life, and the next minute he’s picturing William deer-in-the-headlights Poindexter outing himself to Lisa from Ancient Civ because she dared to ask him out.

It’s not Derek’s proudest moment, he’ll admit it. But karma so rarely throws him these kinds of bones.

Dex’s face manages to be both unimpressed and unsurprised at the same time.

“Lisa asked you out on Valentines Day. And you just… told her you were gay?” 

It’s possible he’ll break a rib from laughing. Isn’t that something that happens to people?

“I panicked.”

“Clearly.”

Dex scowls. It makes the lines on either side of his nose get deeper. Derek loves him so damn much.

“I’m still not clear on how we get from your impromptu coming-out to me pretending to date you on what is possibly the most cliché and dramatic day of the year.” 

Dex sighs again. Derek starts to worry if he keeps it up, he’ll hyperventilate. 

“She asked me to the girls’ soccer party tonight. When I told her I was gay, she said I should bring my boyfriend. I didn’t… it happened really fast, okay?”

Derek has to actively clench the plane of his abdomen tight to keep the hysterical giggle from bursting out of him. 

“Can’t you just not go?”

“Don’t you think that’d be adding insult to injury? She asked me out on Valentine’s Day.”

There are moments, Derek thinks. Every once in a while, there are moments when the entire world tilts on its axis. Like when he was five, and he saw his kindergarten teacher at the Olive Garden. Or like when he learned that the seasons go backwards in Australia. 

Falling in love with William Poindexter has been a constant flow of those moments. Every minute shifts the paradigm, every interaction changes the shape of the solar system. Every new thing Derek learns about Dex, it moves the foundations of the Earth a little more— a couple degrees here, a couple inches there, until all of a sudden Derek’s on a path he didn’t even see. 

Like now, with the discovery that even an anxious, embarassed William Poindexter would bend himself into a pretzel before he intentionally caused another person pain.

You may as well, says the voice of Chiron, paddling Derek’s canoe down the river. You’re already doomed. 

Derek sighs. He tilts his head up at Dex, sees the lamplight in his hair, sees the freckles on his long nose. 

“Alright,” Derek says. “Lead the way, Princess.”

~

The party is about what you’d expect for a college soccer team’s Valentine’s Day soiree.  Red streamers, glittery heart-shaped cutouts suspended from the ceiling, a punch in a truly violent shade of pink that Derek refuses to touch on principle. All in all, it’s nothing too outrageous.

Or at least, it wouldn’t be, if he wasn’t also holding William Poindexter’s hand.

The music thumps low in another room when he and Dex walk in. Almost immediately Lisa is on them, pushing beers into their hands and beaming.

“I’m so glad you came! One of us should get to dance with our Valentine tonight at least, right, Will?”

Derek sympathizes with her in the worst way.

“I guess, yeah. I’m sorry, again, about—“

“Oh no, stop! I’m just teasing you. I had no idea you two were together!”

Neither did I, Derek thinks. He takes a long pull on his beer to avoid answering. Next to him, Dex gives a kind of nervous half-chuckle, flexing his fingers convulsively around Derek’s hand.

“Yeah, it’s, um. Recent.”

The giggle is back in Derek’s throat. He coughs it out as best he can, trying to stay cool.

“Thanks for having us, Lisa,” he says, as if forcing the hysteria in his chest into word-shapes will make it less unbearable. 

“Any time!” Lisa says. She cranes her head around Dex’s shoulder then, someone in the room beyond catching her eye. “Sorry, excuse me, you guys. I’ve gotta go make the rounds. Go on, enjoy the party!”

She’s gone in a bounce of brown curls, and Derek is left with the acute sensation of Dex’s fingers in-between his and the growing sense that this might really be his last night on the Earth.

Next to him, Dex sags minutely in relief, exhaling in a whoosh.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. It’s not quite too quiet for anyone else to hear, but Derek’s sure no one else is listening to them. It feels private, secure. 

“No problem, bro,” Derek answers. Even though it’s rapidly becoming the biggest problem of Derek’s entire life.

“She doesn’t seem too put out, does she?’

“Nah, she seemed okay. Plus, look at her. She won’t have any trouble finding someone else.”

Dex goes strangely tense next to him, and all of a sudden Derek’s hand is empty. He blinks at the loss. When he finally shakes himself back to reality, Dex is stiff and somehow distant.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “If I’d known you were interested, I wouldn’t have—“

The giggle comes back too quickly for Derek to stop it, this time. It comes out though his nose almost like a sneeze, a wild puff of disbelief in a higher register than Derek’s hairline. Dex is blushing, scuffing his shoe on the ground, that irritated hunch already curling around his shoulders. 

May as well, Derek thinks. He stuffs the giggle back down. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all.

“Dex,” he says. Derek reaches out and laces his fingers back firmly into Dex’s, squeezing them tightly under the Cupid cut-outs and the lace doily hearts in the windows.

“I’m not interested in her.”

When Dex squeezes back, Derek feels the world tilt on its axis, a few more degrees towards the sun.

[bittysvalentines]

a playlist about sexual awakenings and romantic bliss

for @zimboooty

from: @abominableobriens

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