#i needed more nursey + team content in my life

[cornsobsessions]

It's the end of 2022 so here are my favorite fics that I read this year! These weren't all written in 2022, in fact many of them were not, but I did read all of them this year. 

They cover a wide range of ratings and topics so please read any of the writers tags and content warnings before reading. a * means you need to be logged in to ao3 to read. 

Anything in Italics is my thoughts.

1. consider the hairpin turn (do not choose sides yet) by jjcofeesa (@30samwiches) zimbits, holsom, shardo, pimms | 50k You are not in a car with a beautiful boy. You are in a car next to a beautiful boy. And in a car behind your ex. And in a car ahead of your best friend. If you're Jack Zimmermann, current World Driver's Champion, that is. If you're Eric Bittle, you're too nervous about your rookie season to be thinking about what the boys in the other cars look like. (You tell yourself you're too nervous, anyway. You do think about it.) If you're on Twitter, well. They're all beautiful boys, and you wish you could be in the car with them. I don't know when this became a comfort fic for me but I have read it several times now and it has been wonderful every single time

2. action painting, abstract in the making by unconventionalturtle (@watermelonmountaindew) zimbits | 35k A stolen painting. A forged painting. A mysterious blonde. That's how it all begins.Jack Zimmermann thinks he’s set himself up for a nice, simple life when he quits playing hockey and gets started on his degree. But for the grad student, and night shift security guard, the summer of 2015 seems to have other plans. A fun story about the gang and you get to learn about some cool paintings along the way!

3. Defining Expectations by cricketnationrise (@cricketnationrise) nurseydex | 32k When Will joins the team at Samwell Dictionary, he doesn't know what to expect about anything other than his job description. With the help of good friends (and good pie) he might just have a shot at defining his expectations.

4. Got Your Back Means I'll Get You Out by cricketnationrise (@cricketnationrise) bitty and shitty | 17k Bitty Comes Out. Shitty Comes To Get Him. heartbreaking, wholesome, and full of platonic love

5. getting used to letting go by jennycaakes nurseydex, farmer | 37k Dex was supposed to have a fancy job in some city upon graduation, but his plans changed once his uncle died and left the family home in Maine to him. Without immediate obligations of their own, Nursey, Chowder and Farmer follow Dex up there to help him clear it out and clean it up. The way this feels so true to life is insane

6. I Don't Know What I Would Do by specklesandflowers jack and shitty | 57k The adventures of first-year Shitty Knight and Jack Zimmermann and the beauty that is their friendship I love Jack and Shitty’s friendship so much and this was so fun to read

7. The Gay Favour by FightMeImSmall nurseydex | 43k “I need a favour.” Will said intensely to the group of people assembled before him. “Okay so last year my brothers were ragging me about going to a liberal arts college and just generally being dicks. Sibling stuff, and like, that was fine. But then Christopher was like ‘found yourself a boyfriend yet?’ like as a joke and I’d had it up to here with their shit and replied, ‘so what if I have?’ So now my family think I’m gay and expect me to bring a boyfriend to this big ole reunion. If I don’t bring one they’re just going to get worse.” His friends all blinked at him, surprise evident in each of their faces. “I’ll do it.” Nursey said slowly The OCs are amazing and it was just so fun to read

8. Breathe With No Air by bluflamingo parswoops | 25k After Jack kisses Bitty on the ice, Kent's attacked one night by drunk, homophobic hockey fans. He's got no memory of the attack, but that doesn't make it any less traumatic. Fortunately, he's got his friends to get him through, in more ways than one. Pain but its also so beautiful

9. got the feeling you're the right thing after all by bisexualnursey nurseydex | 74k Two and a half years after he breaks up with Dex to go to grad school across the country, Nursey runs into him again when he visits New York for the holidays. What starts as them just rekindling their friendship quickly turns into a whole other thing: a 100% no-strings-attached friends with benefits arrangement while they’re in the same city. Which is totally chill because Nursey is definitely over Dex. He swears. He’s going back to California soon anyway.

10. (simply having) a WTF christmas time by loud_as_lions * whiskeytango, wtf | 17k All the Ford siblings are home for the holidays. Denice’s brothers are more than a little surprised when their sister brings not one, but two men home for Christmas. Logically, they assume she’s dating one of them. Which one, though? Just so much love can be felt and the OCs are wonderful

11. write our names in the wet concrete by MyCupOfTea zimbits | 20k “Oh my God, has it? Been ten years already?” The Olympics are never without their fair share of drama, scandal, and movie worthy storylines. However, the 2018 Winter Olympics remains burned into the sports world’s memory especially bright. And the sports world, despite their somewhat recent retirement, includes Eric Bittle and Jack Zimmermann. I love the way this is written

12. I've been waiting for a lifetime, for a moment just like this. by pandabob parswoops | 25k It's Jeff's last Christmas hospital visit before he retires so Kent is determined to make sure that he visits everyone, little does he know that this visit will change their lives forever.Heart wrenching and beautiful

13. Your heart hurts, mine does too by the_p_in_raspberry zimbits | 19k Shitty had always thought that because of Samwell’s LGBTQ+ friendly rumor, if one of his teammates weren’t straight they would come out eventually, only waiting because they weren’t ready yet, but never waiting because they were scared. He could see now how his logic was flawed. heartbreaking and heartwarming, all at the same time

14. From the Ground Up by Rianne kent/omc | 167k Kent has a pretty good life. It’s been a couple years since the Aces last won a cup, but he’s still at the height of his career. He has an apartment with a stunning view over Vegas, a best friend who’s always dragging him to basketball games, a cat to cuddle with, and more money than he could ever spend. Everything is fine. So it won’t be a problem at all if he strikes up a friendship with that guy he meets at the All-Star party. ---- Tomas enjoyed the years he spent in Minnesota, but he’s ready for a new life in a different city. It means he’ll be even further from his friends and family in Quebec, and he’s not sure he’s going to adapt well to the desert. But he’ll have his new job to distract him, and he’s never minded the challenge of developing a new circle of friends and acquaintances. He doesn’t expect Kent Parson to be part of that.

15. mon pays by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (@weneedtotalkaboutfic) zimbits, shardo, farmer, zimmerparents | 41k He didn't suggest they come to the cabin because he misses home, not really. At first, it was a senior thing between Shitty and him, one last weekend together before their final semester at Samwell, before graduation, before their lives inevitably change and diverge in ways Jack doesn't want to think about too much. Shitty suggested that Lardo and Bitty should tag along, and Jack agreed. Having them at the cabin… it was a good thought. He'd have them for his own, for a few days. But then, four became six, when Holster and Ransom heard about their plans, and cherry on top, the Frogs tagged along as well after that. So much for a quiet weekend between friends. snow filled shenanigans

16. four calling birds by wit (@parvuls) zimbits, shardo | 11k "You are now listening to Shits and Bits on Hub 98FM!" In which four radio hosts and one medical emergency result in Jack and Bitty co-hosting a show the night before Christmas Eve.

17. Friend Request by WrathoftheStag (@wrathofthestag) zimbits, shardo, nurseydex, fordtango | 26k When Eric Bittle was 18, he made out with 20-year-old hockey player, Jack Zimmermann, at an Olympic after-party. 25 years later, an unexpected friend request from Jack throws Eric for a loop. What’s a guy to do?

18. Time and Hearts by rickysims katyageorge, zimbits | 16k In 2002, a figure skater from Russia and a hockey player from Canada met at the Olympics. They fell in love. Jack and Bitty know that part. What they don’t know is what happened next and why Katya and George might not want to rekindle flame that went out 20 years ago.

19. Becoming Lardo by loud_as_lions * shardo | 9k Larissa was different with these boys than she was with anyone else. She had always thought that all the talk about finding yourself in college was bullshit, but these boys were making her wonder just how much of what she had previously believed might be changed by this place. An absolutely wonderful lardo character study

20. Like Our Own Private Island by imafriendlydalek * zimbits, shardo | 85kAfter Eric loses his spot on the SMH team and Lardo graduates, they're both left floundering with few options. So when the opportunity comes up to manage a cafe on a remote island in Quebec, it seems like as good a place as any to figure out their next steps in life. Even if it does mean he'll need to brush up on his French. The last thing Eric expects to find in a place like this, reachable only by ship in the warmer months or tiny little tin-can airplanes, is a town full of people who welcome them like family. Well, everyone except one: the enigmatic, irresistible Jacques Laurent.

21. Eric Bittle, NBC 10 by foryouandbits zimbits | 82k In 2009, Jack Zimmermann was drafted 2nd overall to the Providence Falconers. After a tumultuous first season in the minors, Jack returns to the NHL and is named captain within a year. Known to the media as the "hockey robot," no one seems to be able to break through the polite barrier that Jack has built — no one until Eric Bittle, newest intern at NBC 10. Bitty, interning as a requirement for his journalism degree at nearby Samwell University, forms an instant connection with Jack. Throughout the rest of the season, and the rest of Bitty's junior year at Samwell, the two grow closer while learning how to both trust each other and succeed in their respective careers. A fun alternate meeting AU

22. thinking outrageously (I write in cursive) by bumblegremlin (@bittysthesis) pimms, zimbits | 15k Jack was glad Bitty wanted a long engagement. It gave him time to address the very large, very pressing issue at hand. Eric Bittle was Jack Zimmermann’s fiancé. Kent Parson was Jack Zimmermann’s husband. A fun and funny fic in which Kent is a little shit and so is Jack

I read so many awesome fics this year and like last year making this list was very difficult! I can't wait to see what all you write in the future (or have written in the past) that I will get to read!

[likeshipsonthesea]

okay so legit one of my first-ever nurseydex posts was this one right here and while i still agree with/hc parts of it i have to admit it’s a bit outdated for how i see nurseydex’s relationship now so i thought why not make a new “why i ship nurseydex” post three years later to explain my own rambling understanding of them??

so, anywho. imagine a dex-- back when he was just will-- growing up with this huge weight of expectation around him, about every aspect of his life-- expectation of what a man ought to be, expectation of what a student ought to be, a worker, a son, etc-- and despite what he wants and feels, striving to meet/exceed this expectation to satisfy his parents and make them proud and be who they want him to be. like, following his ma around when she does chores might be fun and helpful, but a man is supposed to be doing the dirty, heavy work, no baking or doing laundry (at least that’s what his brother says) and from the time he’s little he knows that college means money and they don’t have that, but education is also very important and college is how he gets a better life for him and his family, and so from elementary school he’s studying his spelling words and times tables and striving to be the best student he can be because scholarships and respect and expectation. and yeah, maybe there’s other expectations, around who he can and cannot like, and maybe that doesn’t always fit the way he thinks it’s supposed to, and he allows himself little indulgences knowing one day that he will do what is expected of him and make his parents happy, and the crushing weight of that-- of knowing what the future will force him into-- has him frozen between the need to be what he’s supposed to be and the want to be free, and these warring ideals within his own mind leave him grasping and uncertain and--and angry at everything (family, town, society, himself) for putting him there to begin with and then-- and then-- he goes to samwell

MEANWHILE there’s a little nursey, small and surrounded by smiling parents and nannies and love, and somehow, despite it all, he’s anxious. it’s his brain, probably, but at four, nursey doesn’t know anything about brains, all he knows is that his parents aren’t home and maybe that’s his fault and before he can understand how jobs work and how their importance doesn’t outweigh his parents’ love for him, he’s sitting at home wondering how to be better, how to be enough to keep them there, how to be good. and he excels in all his classes, gets bored sitting there with all his fancy private school kindergarten work finished on his desk, and his parents bring him to the doctor’s thinking it’s an attention disorder and he gets diagnosed with anxiety. at eight. and his parents-- mama gets mad (and nursey hasn’t yet learned to distinguish anger at the world and anger at him) and mom becomes focused, ready to fix it (not realizing, really, how nursey sees it as a need to fix him) and dad is maybe the best, he just buys some puzzles and makes hot cocoa and sits with nursey when the world gets too tough, and still nursey leaves thinking i’m a burden, he has to take the time to do this, i’m a burden, and he grows up with the idea that he has to be good, can’t be broken, has to pretend to be perfect even if he isn’t otherwise his parents will be sad and it will be his fault, and it works (until it doesn’t) and he thrives (until he doesn’t) and everything is happy and perfect and wonderful (until it isn’t) and things break apart and nursey decides perfection is impossible to fabricate but pretending to be chill, pretending to at least be okay is enough, and so he moves on with this veneer of okayness and this mess of anxiety and apprehension and worry underneath and it’s such a delicate balance he somehow manages to handle until samwell

(under the cut bc, well. it got a little long. oops?)

and there it’s like-- they’re both at the perfect point to just completely explode one another. nursey sees this walking ball of seemingly together person and pokes at it, this kind of self-projection thing really, trying to break the outside and see the mess within, and meanwhile dex looks at nursey and sees someone perfectly content with everything in life and turns on every probing question like it’s an attack, and maybe it takes a few terms-- maybe all of their frog year-- to start seeing past the cracks. maybe a few of nursey’s questions poke at places more sensitive than he’d meant to see, and maybe dex calls nursey out on things his anxiety has whipped out of control, and maybe after they lose the playoffs and dex is angry and violent and not enough and nursey sees that-- feels the ache of imperfection, too-- and somehow the knowledge that he’s not alone makes it better? and suddenly he wants to make it better for dex, too? and so they go into the summer after frog year with the beginnings of an understanding and things are-- tentative, but they know how to deal with fragility better than most, and it survives the break, survives the infrequent texts and tangential group chat conversations

and sophomore year they have rooms across the hall from one another, randomly. they walk together to practices, because why not, and tag along on team breakfasts (dex is a morning person, nursey is not, dex likes being helpful, nursey likes making it to bfast before holster eats all the waffles) and maybe they start talking-- actually talking, not barbs and banter and chirps just a bit too sharp to laugh at. it’s like an actual conversation for the first time since they’ve known each other, and c’s ecstatic and their hockey’s great and things are going wonderful.

until one of them catches feelings.

it doesn’t quite matter which one of them-- maybe dex falls in love with the way nursey gestures with his hands too much as he talks and how he waxes poetic about everything, but mostly nature and books and how it feels to smile without knowing it, and maybe dex falls in love with the way he feels around nursey, like he could say anything and nursey wouldn’t- he’d judge, maybe, because nursey likes doing that, but it would never be maliciously, it would always be out of a want for dex to grow, learn, be himself more. and seriously, that wouldn’t be hard to fall in love with

or maybe nursey falls in love with the weird bits of knowledge dex drops about any and everything, always attributed to an aunt or uncle, of which he likely has an unlimited stock, and the way that dex catches him when he trips on the sidewalk and the strong, sure way his hands curl around nursey’s body, and how when he gets flustered or embarrassed or angry or happy, his flush is a different shade depending on the emotion, and how nursey-- when he’s around dex-- doesn’t wonder if dex thinks what he’s saying is dumb-- he probably does-- because dex cares anyway and isn’t that just completely and wholly unavoidably wonderful?

so. one of them falls in love. there’s a dib flip. dex goes a little overboard. so does nursey. neither of them reacts accordingly and it’s nearly impossible to say which one reacts to the other’s overreaction. one person has their heart beat up (he still doesn’t like me, he still thinks i’m just someone to annoy) and then they lose before they even make the playoffs and then jack and bitty come out on live tv and dex’s parents infer things that break expectations and nursey’s parents start fighting (unrelated) and nursey wonders if it’s his fault (it isn’t) and they come back to samwell in the fall poised to break one another apart.

if in frog year it was an explosion, in junior year it’s a careful disassembly. they poke at the soft spots they’ve learned in the past year until the whole living situation comes crumbling down and, in the rumble, everything is silent and so much clearer. nursey is alone in a top bunk with a broken wrist, isolated from the team and his parents, scattered across the globe for work in an effort to get away from one another. dex is tucked away in the basement, sucking at hockey as his body refuses to get used to a different d-partner and his conversations with his parents consist of short sentences and loaded silences, and he has no idea what to do with either.

spring comes early that year. flowers poking up amongst frost-bitten blades of grass, birds chirping in the early hours of practices. nursey is back on the ice. he and dex don’t speak, except to work through plays. it begins to come back-- their understanding-- if only on the ice.

bitty starts visiting jack more on the weekends and chowder is off with caitlin and doing compsci homework and talking to recruiters. whiskey usually isn’t there anyway and tango is off doing everything and the waffles are cool but suddenly they seem so young.

on saturday nights, dex cooks and nursey sits at the table with him and complains, mostly to himself at first, about his writing prof. as the weeks wear on, dex adds his own complaints, too. sometimes nursey will throw in something good that happened. sometimes dex will tell a joke (usually a pun, usually horrible, usually inducing belly-aches in nursey regardless). afterwards they do the dishes. dex mentions how he used to love doing the dishes, how it calmed him. how his brother used to comment on it disparagingly. nursey mentions, another time, how his roommate at andover would hate the impromptu headphone dance parties he’d put on-- how it was something he’d do with his dad, when he was young. how it made things better, for a while.

(they never really talk about when happened, dex’s parents or nursey’s, the ache of loneliness that fall term, not until very later, after samwell, after-- well. it takes a while, but when they finally do talk about it, it hurts less if only because of the delicateness with which they’ve learned how to handle such things, by then)

 by the time the end of the year arrives-- when they win  the fucking playoffs and hoist bitty onto their shoulders with a burning pride in their chests-- nursey and dex would call one another friends. to their faces and everything. and then there’s a banquet and dex gets the c and-- as a twist-- nursey gets the a (maybe coach and hall approached dex before the banquet, explained how close the votes were, asked him if he’d mind, and dex gave the most honest answer maybe he’d ever given in his life-- it would be an honor)

they go into the summer with one another at the top of their messages. they call nearly every week, snapchat daily, about nursey’s internship at a publishing house, dex’s at a tech company in boston. maybe nursey panic-calls dex at three in the morning going on about the publishing process and how crazy it is and how i’m never going to be published and dex calms him down with some seriously misinformed words about the literary business that make nursey breathe easy anyway, and maybe dex goes home one weekend and there’s radio silence until dex calls him on the way back home and asks nursey to just talk and so from maine until massachussetts it’s nursey’s voice rambling about pears and children’s books and cooking equipment until dex gets back to the apartment his internship is paying for and simply says thank you

and they go into senior year this unquestionable team with a legacy to uphold. dex works through plays without hesitation, showing the baby frogs (juniors, they call them) the ropes and silently making the team a warm space, while nursey inspires and comforts and corrects the little things, and they run the haus in the same way-- nursey planning movie nights and board game nights (now that holster and jack are gone and there are strict rules in place) and dex is usually there in the kitchen, cooking and baking and willing to listen to anything the players have to say, and if you asked any of the baby frogs what they thought of dex and nursey’s relationship, they would’ve said that their captains had been friends for years (and maybe, in the right light, that would be true)

how they get together at this point is not important. whichever one didn’t catch feelings sophomore year found them, sometime afterwards, behind a box of forgotten things, forgotten only because they’d been there quietly for so long that no one had every thought to question their presence, and so, in senior year, when they are both in places where things are no longer fragile, where “broken” is a word easily thrown away, they come together with little fanfare.

over a pie, one softly raining afternoon, or in a slipped-into-snowbank on the way back from practice, or in the library over an open textbook or between laughter or in the moments before sleep embraces them on a roadie, or any number of other things.

that is not the most important part-- it’s important, of course, but not the most-- the most important part is that they were, are, together long before any moment like that occurs. because they both learned, grew from the volatile, fragile people they arrived as. grew because they forced each other, became better, stronger, with the guidance and comfort and assurance the other offered. because that is what makes a partnership, a bond of the souls, a love like theirs. it is not being perfect, not even being perfect for one another, but being there and willing to grow.

maybe it’s samwell-- got your back-- that puts them in a place where this kind of process can work. maybe it’s the nature of college itself. maybe it would’ve happened regardless of where they were. but it happened, and it’s wonderful, and that’s what matters.

[sinbinsidney]

NurseyWeek Prompt #3 - Challenge.

“Oh, it is fucking on, bros,” Lardo shouts over the incessant thumping of the bass. “You two are going to get obliterated.” She points an emphatic finger at Ransom and Holster, who stand shoulder to shoulder on the other side of the beer pong table. Holster cups his hand over his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully, and side-eyes Ransom.

“She shouldn’t be able to say words like ‘obliterated’ three cups of tub juice in,” he says. Ransom is just beginning to nod in agreement when he’s beaned smack in the middle of his forehead with a ping pong ball. Holster gets hit in the same spot half a second later, sending both of them reeling back, spluttering.

“You know, I figured four years was enough time for the two of you to learn not to underestimate my abilities,” Lardo says, tossing another ping pong ball up in the air. She cocks an eyebrow and catches the ball, meeting their gazes. “My mistake. Clearly, you need another lesson.”

She turns and scans the crowd briefly, letting Holster and Ransom set up beer pong on the table behind her.

“Nurse!” She calls, beckoning. “Get your ass over here, we’re playing beer pong.” Nursey grins as he sees their opponents.

“Oh, hells yes,” he says. The kegster hasn’t been going on for too long, so he’s not too schwasted. Lardo looks him over solemnly and places a hand on his shoulder.

“Young padawan, you have learned well. It is time for you to come into your own,” she says seriously. Nursey bows his head, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

“I won’t let you down, master. I promise.” Lardo nods and pats him twice on the bicep. She and Shitty had invested hours into teaching Nursey how to properly play last year, explaining the different techniques and strategies they’d tried throughout the years. Now, her little baby bird was ready to get kicked the fuck out of the nest and play for real.

“Yo, we gonna play, or what?” Holster calls, smiling when he sees Nursey next to Lardo. “You ready to get your ass kicked, Nurse?” he chirps.

“Try me,” Nursey says back, flipping his snapback backwards on his head. Ransom laughs and does the same, white cloth standing out brightly among the flashing lights and moving figures behind him.

“Rock, paper, scissiors?” he asks, holding out a fist to Lardo. She nods, and the battle commences.

Ten minutes later, Ransom and Holster have a solitary soldier standing at the edge of their side of the table. Holster is kneeling on the floor, face level with the table surface, pleading with the cup to “stay strong, little buddy, we’re gonna make a comeback.” Ransom is chugging the last of the beer in Nursey’s last victim, hand on Holster’s shoulder.

Nursey shares a look with Lardo and can’t help but laugh at his captain’s antics. Lardo shakes her head and claps her hands together, gathering the attention of the crowd and their opponents even over the noise of the kegster. She picks up the ping pong ball with the gravity of an executioner.

The ball arcs perfectly over the table, shining brightly in the lights. Derek thinks someone is playing the Chariots of Fire theme song in the background, which, objectively, is hilarious but, really, all he can think is that it just feels right.

The ball lands smack in the middle of the cup, not even brushing the rim. The crowd goes nuts around them, seeing as the hockey captains have only managed to sink one cup, which Nursey happily drank. Lardo raises her arms up in an imitation of Christ the Redeemer, grinning as Holster and Ransom wail in the background. She turns to celebrate with Nursey, pouncing on him in a hug and clinging to his back.

“That’s my baby bird! Way to fly!” She cheers in his ear. “Fucking destroyed them!” Nursey laughs and yells back.

“All you, babe! All you!”

God, she loves her team.

Nursey is staring blankly up at the sun-filled windows of Faber after practice when he hears someone slow to a stop next to him. He turns to see who it is and finds Whiskey leaning on his stick. His face is in sharp profile as he follows Nursey’s gaze towards the light.

“Top shelf, from the top of the circle,” he says quietly, still not looking at Nursey.

“What?” Whiskey turns to meet his quizzical gaze.

“We’re gonna play P.U.C.K.” he says. “Or B.E.A.U.T.Y., whatever works.” Nursey tilts his head.

“I don’t think I’ve played P.U.C.K. since I was in mites,” he replies. Whiskey shrugs.

“Loser does puck clean-up after next practice,” he offers.

“You’re on,” Nursey says, narrowing his eyes.

He and Whiskey skate back to the bench, toss off their helmets, and knock a few pucks over to center ice, companionably quiet in a way that the two of them had eased into over the course of the year. As cliché as the whole rookie-mentor thing seems to be, it really does hold true on the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team. Just like Chowder became Bitty’s to take care of (not that he doesn’t take care of everybody, because, you know, it’s Bitty), like Dex matched up with Ransom and Nursey with Holster, the newest tadpoles found their way to an upperclassman to watch their backs and help them out.

Whiskey, for some reason, had gravitated to Nursey right off the bat. He’d sat down next to him during team lunch one day and took one of Nursey’s chicken fingers, leaving behind one of his biscuits n’ gravy things for him instead. Nursey had blinked down at his plate, looked at Whiskey, and shrugged, continuing to eat. It had evolved from there until they were comfortable bitching to each other – Nursey about his various run-ins with assholes on campus, Whiskey about the idiocy of the lacrosse team. They’ve gotten pretty good about picking up on each other’s moods, at this point. Whiskey, apparently, figures that Nursey needs a distraction, a bit of fun to drive away the buzzing of anxiety about testsreadingspaperspoemsfriendsfamilywork that’s hovering over Nursey’s head.

He’s right.

Nursey sucks in a breath before he releases a wicked slapper from the faceoff circle, slamming it home in a snap of twine.

“Nice,” Whiskey comments, lining up his own shot as Nursey skates backwards to get out of his way. His shot rings home, too, though with a little less power.

The shots get increasingly elaborate – “coast to coast, between the legs three times, wrister”, or “using your off hand, from the dot”, or “spin-o-rama backhander.” Nursey basks in the sounds of hockey in the quiet arena, leaning back and listening to his skates carve into the ice, the thud of his stick as he lets it drop, the echoing snap of a shot as it hits the boards.

“Damn,” Whiskey whistles as Nursey lets a beauty of a shot fly from the blue line, eyes closed. Nursey grins at him.

“You’re up,” he says. Whiskey takes a deep breath and lines up the shot before squeezing his eyes shut, nose wrinkling up slightly.

The puck flies just left of the post, slamming into the far boards and ricocheting back out into open ice. Whiskey groans the second he hears the puck hit, leaning back on his skates and pressing his stick flat against his thighs, tipping his head back to look forlornly at the ceiling. Nursey grips him by the shoulder and gives a little shake.

“P.U.C.K. Better luck next time, broski,” he says, laughing. Whiskey shoves him off good-naturedly and goes to collect the pucks they used. Nursey follows after and taps his legs with his stick. “Hey, Whiskey,” he starts, hesitating as Whiskey looks at him over his shoulder.

“Thanks, man. I needed this, today.”

Whiskey gives him a rare smile, the standoffish exterior he keeps up completely melted away.

“Anytime, Nurse.”

“Motherfucker, how dare you!? Fuck. You.”

“My god, Nurse, is this what it takes to push you over the edge?”

“Fuck you!”

“Wow, holy shit, Dex, what did you do?”

“I blue-shelled him.”

“Like a little bitch,” Nursey spits out vehemently. He can hear Ransom and Holster laughing as they wander away from the living room and into the kitchen, but he’s so focused on getting back into first place that he doesn’t dare look away from the screen.

“You know, if I had known that MarioKart was the thing to make you break, we would’ve played this a long time ago,” Dex says conversationally. Nursey can feel the muscles in his shoulder bunching when he twists the Wii remote sideways to avoid a stray banana. He leans into Dex for a second, shoving him just slightly out of the way and hitting a mushroom boost to bypass Princess Peach.

“Hasta la vista, Peachy.” He can see Dex out of the corner of his eye, mouthing “Peachy” to himself incredulously. He jumps as Nursey abruptly lets out an “Aha!” the second he sees Yoshi up in front of him.

“Nurse, let’s be reasonable about this,” he warns, making Yoshi perform evasive maneuvers up on the screen as Nursey fires off two green shells in his direction, keeping the third circling around him as protection.

“Bud, we passed reasonable five minutes ago. Nobody blue shells Toad and lives.” Dex cracks up, eyes crinkling as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. Nursey hits the jump and flips the Wii remote up, nearly smacking himself in the face, but he manages a trick before he lands, so he gets the boost bonus. It rockets him forward until he’s just behind Dex. Quietly, he starts humming the Jaws theme song, steadily increasing in volume as Dex concentrates next to him, biting at his lip.

“Nurse, fuck off! Get away!” He yells, laughing as he catches on to what Nursey is doing. “Oh, shit,” he continues as they both see the finish line appear in the distance.

“It’s on, fucker!” Nursey shouts, leaning forward so he’s pressed shoulder to shoulder with Dex again, like that’ll make his character move any faster. Slowly, bit by bit, Toad comes neck and neck with Yoshi, the smaller character moving just the slightest bit faster.

“Come on, come on,” Dex chants under his breath. Nursey’s face splits into a grin as the whirling sound effect of the finish line happens twice, practically overlapping – appearing on his half of the screen just a millisecond before it appears on Dex’s.

“Toaaaaaaad, mothafucka! Take that!” He crows, tossing his controller up in the air and throwing  himself to his feet, beginning to dance around the room. He’s almost immediately tackled as Dex launches himself at his midsection, wrapping both arms around Nursey’s chest as he wrestles him down.

Nursey begins laughing almost as hard as Dex is swearing at him, trying to block as many swats as he can, even as Dex flips them over so he’s sitting on Nursey.

“Aw, come on, Dex! No one likes a sore loser!” He chirps, grinning up at his defensive partner.

“Yeah, well, no one likes you,” Dex says. Nursey pouts exaggeratedly.

“Now, we all know that’s not true,” he says. “You looooove me.”

“God help me.”

“Admit it!”

“I hate you. You’re terrible.”

“Dex!” Nursey gives a toss of his hips, impatient.

Dex isn’t expecting it, though, letting out a little gasping noise at the sudden movement. He ends up kneeling over Nursey, straddling his legs, hands on either side of Nursey’s head as Nursey’s own automatically go to Dex’s narrow waist in an attempt to steady him. Dex’s eyes are wide with shock as he gets much closer to Nursey’s face than is strictly buddies, a red blush rushing up his cheeks.

“S-sorry,” he stammers out, blinking rapidly. Nursey is just as surprised as he is, but he hides it better, keeping an easygoing expression on his face.

“No problem. It’s my b, Poindexter.” He grins. “Though, if you wanted to get all up on this, you could’ve just asked.”

Dex goes firetruck red, mouth dropping open as he stammers through the start of a few sentences, all the while sitting back on Nursey and letting him prop himself up on his elbows. Dex looks down at his own chest and takes a breath.

“Is that – is that a challenge, Nursey?” Nursey smiles at this ridiculous idiot and reaches up to wrap a hand around his neck, pulling him down as he leans back against the floor again.

Their first kiss is a little rushed, a little nervous. Nursey keeps his hand on Dex’s neck, weaving his fingers into the short hair he can reach, letting the other curl over Dex’s lower ribs, feeling the warmth of him through his t-shirt. He controls the kiss as Dex flails a little, keeping it chaste until he feels Dex begin to settle into it.

Dex gets one hand onto the floor, balancing himself, and flattens the other just over Nursey’s heart, feeling the nervous, thumping beat of it as he leans into the kiss, leaving a little kitten lick on Nursey’s lower lip, asking permission. Nursey’s mouth drops open on a little gasp, heart going thump-thu-thump in his chest.

It feels like hours, but the kiss lasts maybe thirty seconds. Dex lifts his head slowly, eyes still closed, feeling Nursey press a palm to his cheek. When he opens his eyes, he sees Nursey smiling up at him, green eyes sparkling in the afternoon light.

“Yeah, Dex. It’s a challenge.”

[randomnoteforfuturereference]

It’s the Little Things: I

ForFutureReference

Words: 1525

Summary: It’s common knowledge that Dex has a multitude of skills tucked away. That doesn’t mean there aren’t times when he brings out a skill that catches Nursey off-guard. Especially when Dex helps Nursey with said skill. 

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | …

Author’s Note: Finally made my first CP fic (and my first fic in a while), and of course it’s a Nurseydex (though pre-romance). While Year Four hasn’t happened yet, this is vague enough to hopefully be canon-compliant. Special thanks to @kleeklutch for beta-ing. Hope you enjoy!

A bump�� A snag… A tear…

At the sound of ripping fibers, blood drains from my face, and my chest constricts as I peer hesitantly at my sleeve and hope against hope that what I think just happened didn’t.

Despite that hope, a small jagged hole mars my sleeve and sends a jolt as painful as a check to the solar plexus.

I take a few steadying breaths as I trudge the rest of the way to my room. No big deal. No big deal at all. Doesn’t matter that this is the cardigan that my grandma gave to me right before I went to Samwell. Doesn’t matter that it provided comfort on days when I didn’t feel like facing the world. These things happen. It’s alright. It’s fine. It’s…

A bump… A snag… A tear…

At the sound of ripping fibers, blood drains from my face, and my chest constricts as I peer hesitantly at my sleeve and hope against hope that what I think just happened didn’t.

Despite that hope, a small jagged hole mars my sleeve and sends a jolt as painful as a check to the solar plexus.

I take a few steadying breaths as I trudge the rest of the way downstairs. No big deal. No big deal at all. Doesn’t matter that this is the cardigan that my grandma gave to me right before I went to Samwell. Doesn’t matter that it provided comfort on days when I didn’t feel like facing the world. These things happen. It’s alright. It’s fine. It’s…

“Chill.”

Of course I utter that word in the threshold of the basement while it’s occupied by my new roomie.

The word might as well be Pavlov’s bell. As if by instinct, two rings of molten metal look up to shine at me from darkness beyond a window. Dex says nothing, but he probably wishes that he could make the figurative flames in that glare literal.

And things just keep getting better…

I hoped that it wouldn’t be this way. I’ve been hoping that we figured things out by the end of last semester. Nope. The semester started as an uneasy truce. Then I had my little spill, and the whole situation deteriorated exponentially. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, Dex moved out. I mean, yeah, I told him that he'd leave by fall, but I didn't think he'd actually do it.

Whatever. Right now I’m tired and don’t have time for this shit. Instead of acknowledging Poindexter’s perpetual pissiness, I move for the washing machine so I can get things over with, call it an afternoon, and be done with this day.

“Wait.”

Dex’s word, and the sound of his window being slid up, is a barrier that stops me before I can even take two steps forward. It also makes me stumble and almost crash right into the washing machine.

If he notices, he makes no mention as he usually loves to do. In fact, I notice that his eyes no longer point at my face but have shifted down to torso-level.

Before I can blurt out an obligatory chirp, Dex beats me to the punch: “You hit that spot by the top of the stairs, didn’t you.”

It draws me up short. “Yeah. How—“

“I need to fix that soon before somebody ends up cutting themselves open,” he sighs before nodding at my sleeve. “You have some way to fix that sweater?”

“It’s a cardigan.” Because a petulant correction is really the only reasonable way to deal with this surreal scenario.

Surprisingly, Dex doesn’t take the bait. “Whatever. Question still stands.”

“Not really.” I’ll probably find a place to get it fixed once I return home. I know Geema’s not going to be angry or anything, but that doesn’t lessen the feeling that I’m letting her down.  

Dex stares at me for a couple seconds before heaving another sigh and looking back down to his computer. “Lemme finish this paragraph first.” Without looking up, he makes a grabby motion in my general direction.

My body responds before my mind can catch up. As soon as the cardigan’s off, I lob it towards Dex, who snatches it from mid-air with one hand while using the other to save whatever he’s working on.

With his full attention now on the cardigan, Dex’s eyebrows furrow into another scowl — more confused than the previous pissy —  as he handles the garment.

“The fuck is this? Alpaca?”

I have to keep my eyes from widening at the fact that Dex even knows what alpaca fleece is like. “Qiviut, actually.”

For a second, Dex freezes. Then grumbles, “Of course.” Great, is this going to be a rich people thing? Because— “Leave it to you to wear the fluffiest shit.”

“What can I say, Poindexter?” I lean up against the surprisingly sturdy wall of his subterranean bungalow and offer what I hope is an easy grin to masks my continued shock. “It’s the fine things in life.” It also helped got me through today, which was just… off for no real reason. It goes without saying that I’m not going to blurt that fact out. At least not now.

Dex snorts at my comment but, at the same time, still runs his hand along the fabric and nods in clear appreciation. Unaware of how much those little reactions reveal. Then again, William Poindexter always seems to have surprises up his sleeve.

“Should be an easy fix.”

Dex’s voice knocks me out of my reverie, and I respond accordingly: “Wha?”

“I said that this should be an easy fix,” he huffs while holding the now-inside-out cardigan up. “I mean… if you want me to…”

For a moment, all the hard lines and jagged edges melt away, leaving Dex looking strangely hesitant and vulnerable. As if he’s unsure where to go from here and is leaving the choice up to me. I have a foreboding feeling that the choice I make will either open a door for me… or lock it forever.

“Sure,” I drawl and pull up a box to sit right by the window. “I’m up for it.”

I don’t know if my choice is in the right, but either way the moment passes, and Dex gets up and strides with business-like purpose over to a shelf that holds his toolbox.

“Going to nail it closed, Poindexter?” I chirp. Because I have to.

He puts minimal effort in flipping me off before grabbing a different container. It’s one of those fancy assorted Danish cookie tins. Before I can ask, he sits back down by the window and pops the lid off to reveal what might as well be an entire craft store.   

Without pause, Dex grabs two spools of thread of similar color, holds them up to my cardigan, tosses one back into the tin, and cuts a length from the other before tossing it back in as well.

“Not a single word,” he growls while plucking a needle from a pincushion. A lobster pincushion.

“Hmm…” My not-word doesn’t make Dex stop, though he still narrows his eyes at me as he needles the thread. Or is it ‘threads the needle’?

Then he gets to work.

It’s hypnotizing to watch. When you see Dex’s hands, it’s hard to not notice the calluses, cracks, and scars. Things that hint of hard work and strength, be it hauling lobster traps, hammering out a stubborn nail, or hitting an accurate slapshot.

However, those same marred hands move with a swift but delicate grace as they guide the needle where it needs to go with little pause. A fluid elegance that hints at the softness of his puck handling and precision of appliance repairs.

The whole time, Dex wears yet another scowl. The same focused glare he brings to the ice to concentrate on the puck and intimidate the opposing team. It’s as if he’s daring the ever-closing tear to resist.

These little connections to what I know about Dex don’t lessen the wonder that I feel in watching him now.

“It’s a useful skill. ‘Be prepared’ and all that.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d mistake Dex’s mumbled comment for mind-reading. “You better stop reading my mind.”

Another huff. “Like I’d want to hop into that hipster hellscape,” he says before wincing at his own words.

I don’t let it go: “Aaww… that almost sounds poetic, Dexy.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he shoots back. “Anyways you were just very obvious in your surprise when I brought out my kit. That’s all.”

“Oh…” It still catches me off-guard whenever he gets a read on me. “How long have you been doing this?”

Dex shrugs as much as he can without disrupting his work. “Long enough. How else do you think I’ve kept the same clothes going?”

I don’t have any answer to that. Instead, I continue watching him work. Before long, he creates a knot, pulls it taut, and trims away dangling ends.

Dex declares completion by sending the cardigan flying straight into my face.  

As I unwrap the garment from my head, he’s already going over the contents of his kit. “Hope it works,” he mutters while shutting the tin and putting it back in place. “Let me know if anything’s off. It’s my first time handling qiviut, so…”  A shrug.

It actually takes me a while to relocate the tear. When I find the little wrinkle that betrays the now-closed hole, it’s obvious to me that the blemish will become lost within the overall texture of the fabric.

“It’s… It…” It’d be great if my damn throat could open up and actually allow me to say something. “Thanks,” I finally breathe out, holding the cardigan tight to my chest.

The only affirmation I receive from Dex is a dismissive wave and grunt as he grabs his window and slides it shut.

If I notice some redness creeping up his ears, I make no mention of it.     

Continue on to Part II

[whatwouldfrogsdo]

Peeling Back the Layers (Part i: Chowder’s birthday)

“He didn't say for a reason and you forced it. Birthdays can be sensitive for some people, you know?”

Dex and Nursey talk after their fight on Chowder's birthday (parallel to Fresh Chapter 4)

This is the last day I'll be participating in NurseyDex week, because of various reasons, but to make up for it I'm posting two! (and who knows maybe I'll finally write these hockey games into the next chapter of Fresh to be posted and get it up before NurseyDex week is over because... reasons.)

Anyway, nominally the first is Nursey comforting Dex and the second is the other way around but actually this one I've tried to focus on both of them, and the next has some comfort from someone else as well

Content warnings for this chapter: - Grief//discussion of parental loss//mention of loss of a sibling - Implied family neglect (it's actually not true, but more on that next chapter) - Discussion of race and privilege etc. - Mention of homophobia

AO3

Will had figured out fairly early on that Nursey was messing with Chowder. It was slowly becoming their favorite game — to chirp their best friend who got worked up but still knew they liked him, while staying away from arguments with each other. Chowder didn’t seem like the sort of person who would hide his birthday for any reason other than to stop people making a fuss, so they figured that they could tease him about it without it causing any harm, and his reaction, though typically exaggerated, confirmed their suspicions. When Bitty found out anyway, though, more by their being too loud than anything else, Will suddenly doubted himself. He didn’t know everything about his new best friend and what if there was a reason that he had kept today a secret? What if their ability to turn the simplest of things into a competition and a fight had actually upset him? Will found himself struggling for breath as all the reasons he hated his own birthday flashed through his mind. So, he did the only thing that he could think of to keep his attention off his heart rate: he blamed Nursey.

“What the fuck. Chill, Poindexter, it's not—”

“He didn't say for a reason and you forced it. Birthdays can be sensitive for some people, you know?”

“For fuck’s sake, I know.”

“Oh, Chowder, honey did you not—” Bitty cut in.

“I just didn't want anyone to make a fuss. I do like my birthday.”

Will wanted to relax, but now that the doubts were swarming around his mind, he couldn’t help but worry that Chowder was just saying that, and the worst thing was that Nursey was still looking at him with that intense stare that he got sometimes when he wanted to make Will admit something. “Still your fault,” Will muttered in response to the stare.

“Lay off it. I wasn't even actually going to say anything. I'm not kidding when I say I know birthdays can be a sensitive thing.” When Will snorted, Nursey snapped. “Go on, then. What's your issue with birthdays? My parents have literally given each other presents on my birthday before and forgotten me. So don't try and preach to me about how they can be 'sensitive for some people'.”

His breath caught. It was the worst question to be asked for him anyway, but how could he reply when it would only look like he was trying to one-up Nursey? Not to mention that it was something he never talked about, and he definitely didn’t want to start here, with an audience no less. “I don't— Fuck you,” he stormed out, letting the door slam behind him.

Nursey’s words echoed in his mind as he walked down the road. Could it be true that the boy he had considered a spoiled brat, had actually been forgotten by his own parents on his birthday?

“Dex!”

It was Nursey’s voice, and Will scowled because this was the last thing he wanted to deal with when he had the alternative option of curling up in bed and crying because he missed his twin sister.

“Will, wait up. Please. I was just saying—”

Will snapped. “You were just saying what? That your parents don’t always buy you everything? Well at least you have fucking parents, Nurse, okay? You didn’t spend your twelfth birthday thinking about their funeral.  You haven't spent every year since reliving their death. ”

Will closed his eyes as soon as he had said it so that he didn’t have to look at Nursey’s reaction, or see that pitying look he knew all too well. He heard the scrape of pavement as if Nursey had started to trip, but the thud of him hitting the ground never came.

“Will.” Nursey’s voice was close. “Will, look at me, please.”

Will squeezed his eyes tighter and shook his head. Warm fingers brushed against his cheekbone, and then he was pulled into a hug where he ended up crying into Nursey’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Nursey murmured.

Will hiccupped. “Me too.”

“Can we — Will, we really need to talk about this. Not about your parents, if you don’t want to, but about us fighting like that when C—”

“Yeah.” Will pulled away. He felt sick to the stomach. “Yeah, let’s go home and talk.”

It had now been almost two months since they had shared a bed, despite having vaguely talked about a potential friends with benefits situation, but they now both curled up on Nursey’s bed, close enough that they didn’t have to watch the other’s expression when dealing with the difficult conversation.

“If we’re going to keep fucking, we have to sort our shit out in private and talk about things before we end up yelling at each other,” Nursey said into Will’s hair. “You’re the one who said that when we first started.”

It was a funny thing to say when they still hadn’t had sex since that first time; still not done more than occasional kissing after a fight or a kegster since that conversation. Will knew what Nursey meant, though. “I’m sorry. I think one minute we were just messing about and the next I was thinking about— Did Bitty come and talk to you earlier?”

“This afternoon? Yeah.”

“You think I’m privileged. You’re always going on about it around other people in the team, but—” He screwed his eyes up as tears threatened once more.

“But at least I have parents,” Nursey finished, with a bitter tone.

“Yeah. And you have money, too. And yet you still applied for the scholarship.”

“Shit.” Nursey leaned his chin on the top of Will’s head. “That was— Look, I know you see me as privileged and entitled, but you’re probably the first person I’ve ever spent a lot of time with who thought that. I grew up around people who were more privileged and more entitled and if not richer, at least in the same class, except that they were usually white. I heard you bring up the scholarship and I thought here we go, here’s another white kid who thinks he’s entitled to the world, and I got angry, because I’ve spent my whole life with people assuming all sorts of things about me and then taking opportunities like that away from me because of those bullshit assumptions. I— I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to make you feel like you might lose out on the scholarship just because of a rich kid trying to prove a point, but yes you're privileged. And the fact that I'm rich is not the same as you being white. It just isn't. They're not things we can compare. It's not like I get so many privilege points for my parents' incomes, and you get some for the color of your skin and being Christian, and then I get a few more for going to a private school. That's not how it fucking works.”

Will nuzzled closer to Nursey's collarbone. “Sorry,” he croaked.

“You have a lot of privileges, which I don’t know if you always realize,” Nursey continued. Will bit on his lip to stop himself from replying too soon. “I thought you were starting to try but then you go and put a Republican sticker on your laptop and I don’t know what to think of that.”

“I did that because my foster family rang.”

“What?”

“My foster family. When I said I was going to Samwell, it was only ever because of the scholarship, but they still made sure I knew that they didn’t really approve. But that they’d still let me go back there at Christmas, and next summer and see my siblings, because they knew it wasn’t like I was one of— one of ‘those gays’ or anything.”

Nursey sucked in a breath. “That’s why you won’t come out? Because of some asshole—”

“Because my sisters need me. I mean… they're not really my sisters, just foster siblings but I always considered them more than that. I was even there when Chloë was born. But sometimes I worry. At any time, they could stop letting me go back. It’s not like they signed any contract or anything to still have me around after I turned eighteen.”

“So the sticker—” Nursey trailed off, waiting for an explanation.

“I thought if I can go back over break and show them that I got involved in Samwell Republicans, it would be okay. I’m not political. I’ve never had time to even think about it. I guess, yeah, I’m a Republican because that’s what I grew up with the most, and as far as the Buchard family are concerned that’s what they have to think I am. They don’t need to know that I just stole the sticker and that I’m really fucking gay. Of course it makes them assholes that they’d care, but—”

“Okay. I get it. It doesn’t— I’m— I’ll lay off about the whole coming out thing, at least?”

Will let out a sigh, and sat up so that he could look Nursey in the eyes. He had ended up so far down the bed that he had to turn around completely to be able to look at him. “Thank-you. I will try more to understand with the whole privilege thing. And I guess we all have our family issues.”

Nursey sighed. “I don’t have family issues. Not really. Not— But privilege— yeah, if you can understand that. Not just relying on me and Ransom to inform you on issues, or thinking you can get away with ignorance. It’s kind of a privilege you can be unpolitical in the first place.”

Will bit his lip. He hadn’t considered it like that before. “Right. So I’ll read more about it, and educate myself on all the civil rights stuff. And I’m sorry you got treated like that, and that I brought those memories back. That I contributed to that. That I still am. You— You deserve to be appreciated.”

The silence that followed dragged on for so long that Will had to put a hand on Nursey's cheek and turn his head to check if he was crying. He wasn’t, but when their eyes crossed, he offered up a strained smile. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. We, uh, we should go and apologize to Chowder?”

“Mm. Hey, one other thing first? Putting all the blame on me for fights? I know it's self-defense or whatever, but—” He shrugged, and never finished his sentence.

Will shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I don’t know— No, that's a lie, I do know why I did that, but it was shitty and unnecessary. I won’t again, I promise.”

“Thanks. What should we do for Chowder’s birthday?”

“That’s today.”

“And Target should still be open if we take my car.”

Will jumped up suddenly. “Oh my God, they had shark-themed dinnerware last time I was in.”

“Perfect. We could do an aquarium trip, too? I think he’d appreciate it if he thought we were trying to be friends.”

Will pulled a face. “How much does that cost?”

“Okay, so the aquarium trip is my present to Chowder, and I’m paying for us to go and be good friends there, as well. You can buy the shark things.”

“Derek—”

“Will.”

“ Fine. ”

Nursey smiled smugly. “Good. Now how about I go and pick them up, and you can go to the Haus first. We should probably apologize separately, and no offence but you are the one who left all angrily so you should probably clear the air first.”

[chirpingisflirting]

Sleepless nights (ii)

Continuation of this! I have a couple more nights of sleeping difficulty planned for poor Nursey, and eventually the whole thing is going up on ao3. This one got long. And if someone could help me figure out how to make the “keep reading” work for mobile...that would be GREAT - the internet is failing me.

***

Nursey’s bus leaves for Maine at 9:45am from Port Authority, and Nursey finds himself sprinting through the uptown building at 9:40 after initially going to the wrong gate. His duffle bag bounces against his side as he clambers down the escalator, finally arriving at his gate two minutes before the bus is supposed to depart. Panting, he hands his ticket to a very bored-looking driver, and hauls himself onto the bus. He finds a seat near the back, wanting to avoid the inevitable fall on the way to the shitty on-bus bathroom later on. Stowing his bag overhead, Nursey finally drops into his seat and lets out a long breath.

Me: made it :)

Dexyyy: Proud of you.

Dexyyy: What’s your ETA again?

Me: supposed to be around 7:30 I think? Bus takes fucking forever. Stops and shit

Dexyyy: Got it.

The bus leaves five minutes late. Nursey puts his headphones on and stares out of the window at the passing buildings. The bus meanders through the city, lurching through the Thursday mid-morning traffic. Nursey lets his thoughts wander according to the music that is valiantly trying to make a cohesive soundtrack for his life.

30 minutes later and the bus finally trundles out of Manhattan, picking up speed as the traffic lengthens out to create an ever-moving ribbon flying down the road. Nursey’s Spotify is on a metal kick, and he goes to change it to his running playlist, but sees that he has a missed text from Dex.

Dexyyy: Ma wants to know what you want for dinner. I told her about your peanut and tree nut allergies, but I forgot if you like burgers or beef stew more.

Me: mmm stew sounds great but burgers are probably easier

Dexyyy: Okay but which one would you prefer?

Me: oh my god decisionsssss

Me: why do you do this to me

Dexyyy: Nursey just pick a food

Me: ...stew

Dexyyy: Fuck yes

Me: lol

Nursey spends the next three hours alternating between reading Holster’s accounts of his and Ransom’s adventures (which are increasingly entertaining and implausible) as texted to the group chat, scrolling through Instagram (and rolling his eyes at all of the photos posted by his Andover classmates), and staring out at the passing scenery. He eats a quick lunch, gulps down a bottle of water, and naps. He jolts awake when a song from his angsty teenage days blasts through his headphones, and somehow manages to make it to the bathroom and back without faceplanting in the middle of the aisle. Nursey glares at his phone when it tells him that it is only 3:26. Four more hours. Nursey’s butt is going numb.

Me: dexxxxx

Dexyyy: What’s up?

Me: im boreddddd

Dexyyy: Well, I can’t help you with that

Dexyyy: Remind me why you decided to take the bus and not Amtrak? It takes like 6 hours on the train, the bus takes almost 10.

Me: idk

Me: i thought it would be prettier

Me: more whimsical

Dexyyy: Oh my god you’re such a poet

Me: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Dexyyy: NURSEY

Me: tis my name

Dexyyy: Oh my god I can’t believe I willingly invited you to stay with me for a week. What was I thinking???

Me: dunno man

Me: but I’m excited

Me: TO GET OFF THIS BUS

Dexyyy: You suck.

Me: you love me

Dexyyy: Do I

Dexyyy: Do I though

Me: :)

Dexyyy: Anyway

Dexyyy: Ma forgot to get the beef for her beef stew so I have to go get it, I’ll text you in a bit

Me: drive safe!

Dexyyy: I’ll try.

Nursey drops his phone into his lap and tells himself to stop grinning like an idiot. Four more hours until he gets to see Dex, four more hours until what he knows is going to be the best week of his summer, four more hours until he can get off this fucking bus. Spotify chooses to play Sam Cooke’s What a Wonderful World.

Dexyyy: I’m at the store, do you want anything while I’m here?

Me: edibles

Dexyyy: If only

Me: could you get me a few vitamin waters or something?

Dexyyy: The pink ones? Power-C?

Me: yessss

Dexyyy: Ok, will do.

Dexyyy: How’s the ride?

Me: Dex

Me: I am. So. Bored.

Dexyyy: Write something?

Dexyyy: Oh wait, you can’t write in moving vehicles.

Me: yeah :(

Dexyyy: Can’t you type on your phone or something?

Me: idk it doesn’t work as well, I feel like I don’t usually like what I end up writing, you know?

Dexyyy: I guess? Yeah I kinda get it

Three hours later, exhaustion hits Nursey like a truck. Dex texts him to let him know that he’s leaving his house to make the hour-long drive to get Nursey from the bus stop, and Nursey valiantly tries to nap again but he is listless and dehydrated from being on the bus for nine hours. He checks his phone every 15 minutes and each time only five have passed, and the sun seems stuck in place, hovering over the edge of the world but refusing to go down. Time passes slower than when you’re high, and ten times more aggravatingly. But finally, finally, they’re pulling off of the main highway and onto a slower, smaller road, past a small town and coming to a stop in a parking lot, and Nursey can see Dex leaning against his pickup and suddenly his heart is in his mouth. Nursey shoots out of his seat and grabs his things, waddles down the aisle, thanks the bus driver, and trips down the stairs. Dex is laughing at him from where his is standing, and Nursey attempts to flip him off but ends up dropping his duffel and his phone, making Dex laugh harder.

“C’mon Nursey, Ma’s stew is waiting, we don’t have time for you to be a walking mess.”

“Hello to you too, Dex,” Nursey grumbles as he picks up his things.

“Mm. How’s your ass?”

“Still fine as hell.” Dex glares at him. “After sitting on it for that long, I’m surprised it’s not flat.”

“We’ve had roadies that take almost as long to get to.”

“Yeah but when you’re with the team, everything is so much more fun.”

“True.”

Dex starts his car and rolls the windows down. The air is sweet, lighter than what Nursey is used to. He takes a minute to just breathe, getting used to the quiet noise of wheels turning on the tar, the wind rushing past, music drifting quietly out of the car’s speakers. The sun has resumed on its path to give the moon authority, and Dex looks peaceful. They don’t talk for the hour-long ride back to Dex’s house, Dex content to focus on the road, and Nursey content to focus on Dex. He doesn’t know when he first started seeing calm in his defensive partner -- he didn’t think it was possible -- but more and more he’s been seeing Dex as a person rather than a flame. It’s nice. Nursey figures that he must be really, really tired, if he’s allowing himself to think like this.

Meeting Dex’s family, the tour of the house, and dinner passes in a haze for Nursey. He knows the stew was amazing, he knows he is surprised that Dex’s brother doesn’t have red hair, he knows that he is welcomed as a friend of Dex’s but treated only as a guest. He knows that he reverts back to some of his Andover ways (his white-people parent-pleasing ways), and he knows that Dex is frowning at his changed behavior. But Nursey is too tired to deal with anything, and dinner finishes late at nearly 10. Dex pulls Nursey up to his room, where an air mattress has been set up next to Dex’s bed. Dex and Nursey get ready for sleep, switching off in the bathroom in the rhythm they established for roadies, and Dex sets an alarm for 4:30am (“Why, Dex, why.” “I have to work, Nursey. You can sleep in, I’m not expecting your ass to last on a boat for more than five minutes.”) while Nursey smushes his face into his pillow.

It’s not until he turns onto his back that Nursey notices the glow-in-the-dark stars pasted onto the ceiling, and here is another fucking problem. The light from the stars is nothing like the street lamp outside of Nursey’s window at home, and he knows that they will fade out soon, but they are somehow distracting nonetheless. Nursey shifts onto his side, and then flips onto the other, trying not to make too much noise but suddenly unable to get comfortable. After five minutes of waiting to fall asleep, Nursey sits up and stares out into the darkness, sighing deeply.

Dex moves on his bed, and then whisper-shouts, “Nursey, why the hell aren’t you asleep?”

“I don’t fucking know, Dex. I want to go to sleep, it’s not like I’m like, ‘oh yeah, let’s just stay up all fucking night!’”

“Well what the fuck do you need?”

“I dunno!”

“Jesus Christ, I have to be up in six hours, I am not dealing with this,” and then flying out of the darkness comes a pillow, aimed straight at Nursey’s head. He catches it full in the face, and it startles him enough that he flops backwards. Dex chuckles.

“The fuck was that for, man?”

“You always sleep with two pillows, Nurse, and Ma only gave you one. Plus it was really satisfying to throw that at you.”

“Fuck you, Dex. I did not sign up for this.”

“Too bad, Nurse. You can’t get home unless I drive you to the bus stop, so you’re stuck with me until I get sick of you. Or next week, whichever comes first.”

“You don’t think you’ll be sick of me before that?” Nursey asks incredulously.

“Meh, we’ll see. Now go to sleep, Nursey, seriously, before I come knock you out.”

Nursey heaves yet another a put-upon sigh and lays back, sandwiching his head between the two pillows. The top one smells like Dex, and Nursey finds his breathing slowing as he takes in the new but not unfamiliar smell. The star stickers become a distant thought, and Nursey feels himself slowly being swallowed by a welcome sensation -- comfort, his tired mind supplies. Comfort and calm, it says. Dex, it breathes. Nursey falls down, down, down, to sleep.

[bluegrasshole]

Adam Birkholtz’s Foolproof Guide to the Perfect Birthday

because i never posted it on tumblr in full and i’m craving that sweet validation. holsom fluff ???? two words i never thought i’d say. there are dick jokes tho so don’t worry i haven’t been kidnapped. 6k and rated T for “total drama holster”. content warning: ABBA

ao3

As far back as he can remember, people have told Adam Birkholtz that he is too dramatic. It’s usually said in an exasperated tone, by his parents and schoolteachers and coaches -- that Birkholtz boy is quite the character, or Adam, do you have to be so loud? they say, and then sigh. Sometimes it’s said with amusement, often when he first meets new teammates or people at parties -- is he always like this? And someone -- ok, usually Jack or Dex -- nods and rolls their eyes and says you have no idea. Point is, people say it all the time, even though it’s definitely not true. And now he’ll never, ever get the chance to prove them wrong, because on March 28th, 2016, Holster’s going to die.

March 28th, 2016, Justin Oluransi, co-captain of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team and love of Holster’s life, is turning 23, and Holster doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s in a week, and he’s got nothing.

They’ve long since had a rule for holidays and birthdays and anniversaries to forego gift-giving in favour of less stressful things like dates and hat tricks, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about that. It’s just, he’s been busy – being co-captain and co-Haus-supervisor is a lot of work, and his fourth year classes have been kicking his ass, and they’ve been practicing more than ever trying to rebuild the team post-Jack, and playing too, and he and Ransom been having like, a lot of sex, and – fuck. So he hasn’t had much time to plan anything for Ransom. And it’s kind of freaking Holster out.

The thing is, he wants it to be perfect. Because, well, he loves Ransom. Duh. They’ve only been together for 152 days (and 3 hours) but really, they’re both on the same page about the whole together-forever thing. Even when they weren’t dating, being apart for any length of time was never going to be an option. They’re like, soulmates or something. Swolemates, if you will. They put the romance in bromance. And the sex is swawesome. Double duh. So Holster just wants this birthday to be unforgettable, because it’s a first out of many firsts and also their last year as students in the place they met, and just – he needs it to be good. Alright?

On the 20th, Holster does what any desperate man in his position would do: he turns to sitcoms for help.

It only takes four episodes of Full House, six of Modern Family, and a whole season and a half of Friends to conclude that really, Ross never deserved Rachel at all, and that this plan is a totally inefficient use of his time. He’s still exactly where he started, with his heart rate sitting between light jog and Chowder touching a puck off the ice, and getting closer to that time Nursey spilled some vodka-cran on Dex’s laptop by the minute.

He walks into the Haus after his afternoon class on the 22nd to find Bitty struggling through some French grammar with Jack on Skype, as has become a normal sight in the past few months.

“Hey guys,” he says, properly dejected, and throws his bag down and thumps into a chair. It creaks ominously but he ignores it to lean his chin on his arms and sigh.

“Holster?” Jack says. Bitty nods and turns the screen so it captures half of each of them. Jack waggles his fingers at him and Holster can only muster up the will to show his teeth and nothing more.

“Everything alright?” Bitty says.

“No,” he says, and then, like a stroke of brilliance, it comes to him. Why does he have to do all the thinking and planning? He’s surrounded by people who know Ransom nearly as well he does, isn’t he? He sits up fast, and both Jack and Bitty blink at him, frowning.

“It isn’t?” says Bitty slowly.

“Uh, not yet, but it’s fine, I think. Hey,” Holster says, “what is like, your ideal date? Hypothetically.”

Bitty reddens instantly and glances at Jack, whose frown has turned into a confused smile.

“Oh,” Bitty says, “um. Hypothetically? Maybe, uh, cooking together, then bringing what we made to have a picnic in the sun. You know. Bring a few beers, some sandwiches, pie. There’s a nice river by my house with a clearing that’s kind of hidden from -- oh. Um. Hypothetically, that kind of thing.”

In Providence, Jack coughs. “We did that this summer,” he says.

“And wasn’t it nice?”

“It was,” Jack says. They share a heated glance, which is impressive given that Jack’s face is on a computer screen. Sounds like it was probably nice and naked, Holster thinks, which honestly sounds like right up his and Ransom’s alley. Except, well, they don’t cook much, and it’s March. There’s snow on the ground. So. That’s out of the question.

Bitty’s phone trills and he jumps up. “Alarm for my laundry. I’ll be right back.” He pats Holsters shoulder quickly and leaves.

“Nothing planned for Rans’ birthday, huh,” Jack says, leaning closer to the screen. Holster knows for a fact that Jack has all his friends’ birthdays in his phone and the alarms are set to ring a week in advance, the day before, and the morning of. Goddamn organized bastard.

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Holster grumbles, crossing his arms. “What’s your answer?”

“Okay, okay. Don’t tell Bittle but,” Jack says, lowering his voice, “I’ve rented out the rink at the Rockefeller for a private hour-long session for us around midnight on New Year’s Eve.”

Holster isn’t able to describe the sound that comes out of his mouth -- half laughter, half squeak, half snort. Oh, whatever. So he’s never been that great at fractions.

“How much did that cost you?” he says, his voice sounding strangled even to his ears. “That’s in nine months!”

Jack just shrugs. “Think it’ll top a picnic?”

Holster gapes. “I -- Jesus, Jack. I can’t do that for Rans.”

Just then, Bitty walks back into the kitchen with a laundry basket full of hot clothes and sets it down with a clatter next to the table. He cracks open a can of beer he must have brought from downstairs, and takes another from the top of the basket and waves it at Holster. A drink sounds nice right about now, actually. He takes it gratefully.

“Hm? Can’t do what?” Bitty asks.

“Hiking,” Jack says rapidly.

“It’s true. I hate hiking,” Holster says. “And nature. Fuck trees.”

Bitty frowns. “You and Ransom went on a camping trip in August. You said, and I quote, that you are the Kings of the Forest, Sires of the Squirrels, and Lords of the Leaves, and that if you could take the earth’s hand in marriage, you would, and you’d ask the rivers to marry all three of you as Justice of the Peace. Actually, I think I have a screenshot. Here, look--”

“Uh, I developed an allergy to dirt over the winter. Gives me this rash, like, down there. Super painful.” Ignoring once more the creak of the chair under his weight, Holster slides it back. “Gotta go. Thanks for the help!”

He drains the can of beer in thirty seconds -- not quite a record but fast enough that he’ll have to tell Rans about it later -- and runs out to the tinny sound of Jack’s laughter before Bitty can ask any more questions.

The next day finds him following the frogs to Annie’s after practice, because Dex has a shift and Chowder and Nursey need to study, and Holster still has a capital-P-Problem.

“Oh! I’m so excited you’re going to study with us,” Chowder says as he pushes the door open to the sound of the tinkling bell. The warmth and the scent of coffee wraps around them and Holster breathes in deep. “I’ve been meaning to pick your brain actually, about this stats project I think you did last year? With that cool prof, Daigle?”

“Hm?” Holster’s momentarily distracted by the sweets display, but shakes his head to clear his head of chocolate chips and turns back to Chowder and Nursey. Dex goes behind the counter. “Oh, yeah, I’ve still got it on my computer. Yo, uh, I’ve got a question.”

“So do I,” Dex says, tying his apron around his waist and making his way to the register. “What do you want?”

Nursey leans on the counter and winks. “Surprise me.”

“You’re getting black coffee,” Dex says without pause. He types it into the POS quickly and doesn’t look up.

“With a surprise?”

“No.”

“A surprise shot of hazelnut?”

“I guess you’ll find out,” Dex says. “What about you two? Nursey’s treat.”

Holster orders something sweet as Nursey splutters a half-hearted protest and Chowder gets something that has a colour vaguely reminiscent of milky tub juice (never again, he reminds himself), and they stand at the counter watching Dex make their drinks with the same agility and confidence that makes him a great player on the ice. For a second, Holster is envious of that calm, because he himself hasn’t felt very calm lately, and then remembers that this is Dex, and calm is the opposite of his natural state of being anywhere else.

Five days, he repeats over and over in his mind. Five days left to plan something for Ransom.

“What is like,” Holster starts, readjusting his laptop bag on his shoulder, “your ideal date.”

“Sharks game!” Chowder says immediately, to no one’s surprise. “Or, huh, maybe bowling. Bowling’s fun. Cait and I love bowling.”

“Mm, nothing says romance quite like putting your feet in stinky shoes worn by hundreds of other people,” Dex says. He hands Nursey his drink -- decidedly not just black coffee -- and starts in on whatever grassy thing Chowder wants. It probably has kale or something in it. Ew.

“What do you know about romance?” Nursey asks.

Dex ignores him. “Look, Holster. It’s easy. Go to Jerry’s. You can sit for a while, it’s cheap, there’s food, good beer, a pool table for when the conversation gets awkward, and if you’re lucky there’s live music. Dinner and entertainment, all in one place,” he says.

“Hm. A truly optimal bird-to-stone ratio,” Holster says. “And I do appreciate efficiency. I’m just looking for something a bit more, uh, special? Rans and I go to Jerry’s all the time.”

“You asked, bro,” Dex says, shrugging. He scoops something neon green into a cup of ice and Holster barely holds back a grimace, choosing instead to turn to Nursey with what he hopes is a beseeching look on his face. It’s one thing practicing your most convincing expressions in the comfort of your own shared bathroom in a frathaus, but it’s another to actually use them.

“Derek Malik Nurse. My favourite, most fanciest man. What about you?”

Nursey barely has the time to open his mouth before Dex and Chowder answer at the same time: “Poetry reading.”

“Hey! That’s not -- it’s -- okay, yeah, probably.” Nursey takes a sip from his mug and comes away with a whipped cream mustache on top of his regular facial hair. “But in my defence, it’s a nice relaxing environment and a great opportunity to move past small talk and delve into the deeper questions of essentialism and our purpose in life and what comes after death.”

“In reality nothing gets him hot like a poem with a good rhyme scheme,” Chowder fake-whispers into Holster’s ear.

“Second only to one without a rhyme scheme at all,” Dex says.

“Aw, fuck you guys. Who paid for your drinks again?”

“And left me a nice tip. Twenty-five percent, Nursey? Maybe you’re not so bad after all,” Dex says. “By the way, you’ve got a little -- yeah -- oh, no, you made it worse. Oh well. Tough luck.”

“Goddamn it!”

Chowder laughs all the way to their table, and Holster, well, Holster still has nothing.

He corners Ollie and Wicks behind the cafeteria salad bar at suppertime when he tells Ransom he’s going to get more tartar sauce for his fish sticks, and asks them his question. They hesitate for a second, nod simultaneously, then fist bump without even looking at each other. A level of synchronicity he and Ransom strive to achieve, but probably never will.

“Paris,” they say together.

Holster snorts. “For real, come on.”

“Bro,” Wicks says, “you said ideal, not realistic.”

“Yeah. That Eiffel tower shit is like, wicked ideal. The ultimate.”

They fist-bump again, of course. In his amusement and slight confusion (amusion, he decides in his head -- or, confusement, maybe), Holster forgets the tartar sauce completely, but distracts Ransom with a well-timed kiss and the whispered promise of a backrub when they get back to the Haus. Across the table Bitty rolls his eyes at the sight and opens his mouth to say something that will most definitely start with F and rhyme with Chris Pine, and in his haste to stick his tongue out at him, Holster accidentally puts it in Ransom’s ear. Instead of the expected indignant squawking he gets a half-shiver which is like, ok, weird, definitely getting filed in his head for... later.

“You doing okay?” Ransom asks that night, after later. “I feel like we haven’t seen each other much these past few days.”

They’re naked and sweat-sticky but warm and wrapped up in each other and blankets in the bottom bunk, Holster’s feet hanging off the edge through the hole they cut in the frame for this specific purpose. He feels like he’s the sleepiest he’s ever been, probably, so he burrows his face deeper into Ransom’s neck and sighs.

“M’just busy,” he mumbles, unwilling to put the effort into making himself more understandable than he has to. Ransom will get him. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Ransom says. Holster doesn’t remember answering -- the next thing he knows, it’s morning, and Ransom is scrambling to turn off their alarm as George Michael asks them to wake him up before he go-goes. After a second of relative silence -- there’s the shower squealing below them and a few loud thumps of someone coming up the stairs and Bitty singing Ariana Grande somewhere -- Ransom groans, leans over to kiss Holster on the cheek, then rolls out of bed to get ready for the day.

Holster’s walking to class an hour later with March and one of their other econ friends, regretting mostly every decision in his life that has led him to this point. He’s only got a few days left and is no closer to finding anything worthy of Justin-Love-of-Holster’s-Life-Oluransi. Actually, he’s less and less sure that anything worthy exists.

“--and then the prof said… Adam! Holster?” March says, and Holster shakes himself.

“Huh?”

“What’s up with you, bro?” says Jimmy Jeffers. Nice guy, but what else would you expect from a guy named Jimmy? It’s a good name. There’s a shortage of Jimmys in the world, Holster thinks.

“Adam!” March repeats.

“Oh, shit. Sorry. I’ve been distracted lately, I guess,” he says.

March squints up at him then nods decisively. “Justin’s birthday,” she says, though it seems to be mostly for Jimmy’s benefit. “Next week. He’s got nothing.”

“Who’s Justin?” Jimmy asks.

Holster gasps and brings his hand to his heart. “Bro, how can you not know who Justin is? Everyone knows who Justin is. I can’t believe this.”

“Check your Facebook, he’s on there,” March says, rolling her eyes and waving a hand in dismissal at Jimmy, who immediately takes out his phone. “Talk to me, Birkholtz.”

“You dated him. What do you think I should do?” Holster asks, recognizing the desperation in his tone and unable to stop it.

“Weird,” Jimmy mutters.

“Dated is a strong word for what we did,” she says, “which, by the way, you were there for most of.”

“Weirder,” says Jimmy again, jumping over what looks to be a fallen snowcorgi and twisting to avoid someone on a bicycle riding by. The sidewalk is filling with people making their way to and from class, kicking their way through the slush and salt that’s built up on the ground.

“Don’t bring the fact that we’ve seen each other naked on multiple occasions into this. I need help!” Holster cries. He buries his face in his hands. “If I don’t find something to do for Ransom’s birthday, I’m going to die, plain and simple!”

“Adam, watch--”

March’s voice cuts off abruptly as Holster, still hiding behind his fingers, collides with another body -- a man’s, slightly past middle-aged, in a well-fitted navy suit and fluffy green earmuffs. The man blinks up at him, rubbing his forehead -- he’s very short, even by Holster’s standards, and vaguely familiar in the way that a man you’d seen on a Febreze commercial a couple times might be familiar if you walked by him in the street -- and smiles.

“Laser tag,” the man says.

Holster’s hands fly to his mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

“Excellent,” the stranger says, reaching up to pat Holster on the shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Holster can see March hit Jimmy’s arm repeatedly, gaping, and Jimmy whispers something furiously and pulls out his phone. “Laser tag!”

“What?” Holster asks. Because, well, what?

“There’s a great place in the north end of town that rents out a room for birthday parties. I’m a regular there -- I go every weekend. Here, do you want their card?” The man is beaming, adjusting his suit and hitching his leather messenger bag back into position, the reaches into his breast pocket to pull out a stack of business cards, every one the same. He hands one to all three of them. “Gotta run. Good luck!”

The man dashes off into the snow and Holster is left with his mouth open, brow furrowed in confusion, unsure whether or not that was just a fluffy green hallucination. Except, well, he is holding a business card, and March and Jimmy are too.

“Oh my god,” March breathes, then bursts into laughter.

“That -- that was the president. Samwell University’s president,” Jimmy says, turning his phone around for Holster to see. Sure enough, there he is, with his own Wikipedia page and everything. “Weirdest.”

“You know,” March says later, once they’ve finally slipped into the back of their lecture hall only two minutes later, “it’s not such a bad idea. Want me to send a message?” She points to her laptop, where the laser tag place’s Facebook page is open, and Holster shrugs, because what else can he do?

Concentrating on class isn’t happening, so instead he texts Ransom a dirty limerick which could probably give Nursey a run for his money in the poetry department (There once was a d-man named Ransom / Who Holster thought very handsome / He had a big dick / Enjoyed a good lick / One half of the sexiest twosome), and doodles aimlessly in the margins of his notebook. Laser tag could work, he thinks, as long as they’re not like, in a game with a bunch of kids… but maybe he could bring the others along for some surprise team bonding, which could be fun. Ransom would enjoy the couple hours of distraction from his homework and it’s competitive enough that it would hold everyone else’s attention. Also, like, shooting shit is fun as fuck. Maybe it’s not romantic or anything, but --

“Aw hell,” March whispers. She points to her computer screen. “It’s booked up until Tuesday.”

Holster all but collapses onto the desk.

“Well, there’s always dinner and a movie,” Jimmy says, patting Holster’s arm gently.

It’s time, Holster thinks, to haul in the big guns.

Lardo’s studio space is on the other end of campus, in an old convent repurposed in the 70s as first the building for Samwell’s secretarial sciences then later as the art department. General consensus is that it sees as many if not more portraits of Jesus and Mary now as it did as a convent, because, well, art students. When Holster knocks on the door of Lardo’s designated space, he’s totally unsurprised that Shitty is the one who opens it, dressed only in what looks to be a fuschia jock strap. That probably wasn’t a very common sight for the old nuns, anyway.

“Holster! The man, the myth, the -- are you still growing, dude? I swear to fuck you weren’t this tall last time I saw you. Hey, Lards, Holtzy’s here. Seriously, brah. What’s Bitty putting in his pies?” Shitty says, mostly all in one breath. He steps aside to let Holster in, who enters to see Lardo lying on a paint-splattered tarp, an arm thrown over her eyes, a googly eye stuck to her wrist and a bag of two-bite brownies half-empty beside her. There are crumbs on her mouth, and three cans of Redbull on a table in the corner.

“You alright?” Holster asks, poking her with his toes. He plops down next to her and crosses his legs, really hoping the paint on the tarp is dry. It makes a crinkly, plasticky sound as he arranges himself.

“Just brought a piece down to the kilns,” Shitty says, falling too, more gracefully than is generally expected from a man of his aesthetic. He lays his head on Lardo’s stomach. “She worked on it for weeks.”

“Tired,” Lardo says. Her voice is hoarse. “Art. Hard.”

“Believe me, I know,” Holster says.

Lardo’s arm lifts slightly so she can squint at him. “How,” she says. “You’re not an artist.”

Holster pffts. “Just because you don’t appreciate my Abba fanfiction doesn’t mean no one does.”

“I’m more of a One Direction guy myself,” Shitty mumbles. Lardo begins petting his mustache with her thumb which would be sweet if Shitty didn’t moan softly with each downstroke (and if he wasn’t ninety five percent naked).

“Right. Okay. Well.” Holster clears his throat. “What is your ideal date?”

“Are you propositioning us? I swear I had a recurring dream of this exact situation in two different languages last year, neither of which were English. Do you speak Dutch, by any chance?” Shitty says, and Holster doesn’t quite know how to answer. Luckily, Shitty has never needed a response to continue his ramblings. “Nevermind. Stoned stargazing, definitely. Looking up at the universe, feeling small, but like, connected. Because you’re together. You feel me, brah? Like you’re part of a community. More than the sum of your parts. God, that’s beautiful. Should I write that down? Remind me to write that down.”

There’s a pause, a silence filled only by the steady drip-drip of the sink in the corner of the room and the noise of the tarp moving with each breath Lardo and Shitty take.

“Is he well?” Holster eventually asks Lardo. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“The doctors say there’s nothing we can do,” Lardo says. Her hands move up to scratch at his hair. “So, there’s this park uptown, right? Across the street from this laser tag place, I think. D’you know it?”

“I’m... familiar, yes.”

She pushes Shitty’s head down to her thighs and sits up sleepily, like a mummy awoken from her slumber. “Okay, well, it’s super gorgeous in the summer, with this river running through it,” she says. “You can rent a swan boat and shit. They have little food dispensers so you can feed the ducks. And in the winter they have an outdoor rink run by the town, and a bunch of snow tunnels at one end of the park, and like, snowman-making competitions. There’s a hot chocolate vendor too. So I always thought… No, no. It’s stupid.”

“What! What!” Holster straightens his back. This could be it.

“Well, alright… Uh, there’s this bridge at one end of the park. Beautiful wrought iron, overlooks these ice sculptures that light up when the sun sets. Super pretty.”

Of course Lardo would figure it out for him. Why did he ever ask anyone else? “Oh my god, is it one of those bridges you can put a love lock on?” he asks, incredibly excited. It might be the answer to his desperate calls for advice to the universe.

She frowns. “What? No. I’ve just always wanted to spraypaint a dick on it.”

“Nice,” Shitty says with emphasis.

“You know, bring some rum to keep you warm, go at like two in the morning, and just fucking paint it on there. It would represent how the bourgeoisie --”

Alright, so Lardo isn’t any help. Why was he kidding himself that it would be so simple? He doesn’t bother listening to the rest, choosing instead to turn and fall face forward onto the tarp. His nose lands in a splotch of paint that is definitely not dry. Just his fucking luck.

He texts his family group chat that night, because sitting across from Ransom at the library and watching the fucking adorable way he bites his lip when he’s concentrating hard isn’t accomplishing anything. In fact, with every lip-bite, Holster feels his soul hurtle towards death even faster.

Me [7:43]: Friends, family and acquaintances, what would be, in your opinion, the most romantic date ever? This is by far the most important question I have ever asked you.

TyrANNAsaurus Rex [7:43]: dibs on being an acquaintance

Mama B [7:43]: Ooohhh!!!!

Mama B [7:46]: Maybe a fancy homemade supper, some good wine, then a walk downtown

Mama B [7:47]: That’s how your father proposed, twenty-five years ago last January!!! :-)

Ransom barely looks up when Holster snorts, only furrows his brows deeper and bends so close to his paper his nose is almost touching. Which is so cute. God, his boyfriend is fucking gorgeous. Ugh. Holster feels like he’s going to explode.

TyrANNAsaurus Rex [7:49]: yikes lol

Rebecky with the good hair [7:52]: going to a fair. winning stuffies for each other. funnel cakes. kissing him at the top of the ferris wheel

Me [7:53]: It’s March

Mama B [7:54]: I thought you were dating Justin, not March????

Holster sometimes regrets telling his mother everything about his life (or, like, almost everything). This is one of those times.

TyrANNAsaurus Rex [7:55]: what’s this for anyway

Me [7:56]: It’s for Ransom’s BIRTHDAY. You should KNOW THIS. I THOUGHT I told you to put his birthday on the family calendar MOM

Rebecky with the good hair [7:58]: she just got up from the couch to go check it

Rebecky with the good hair [8:00]: ok she’s back, she says it’s not there. whoops

Rebecky with the good hair [8:01]: we’re going to the mall to get him something before it closes. anna you coming

TyrANNAsaurus Rex [8:02]: only if u buy me a pretzel. extra mustard

Rebecky with the good hair [8:03]: fine. come downstairs. i’ll go get dad in the garage

Me [8:03]: what about me!!!

Me [8:06]: UGH I’M DISOWNING YOU ALL. YOU WERE MY LAST HOPE

Me [8:07]: goodbye

Me [8:07]: f o r e v e r

“Holster?”

Holster nearly drops his phone at the sound of Ransom’s voice, and scrambles to catch it, fumbling a few times.

“Babe! It’s not time to stop yet, is it?” he says, smiling widely with his phone precariously caught between his pinky and ring finger.

“You’re. You’re humming that song,” Ransom says. His voice sounds strained. “The sad Abba one. Slipping Through My Fingers.”

“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry, Rans,” Holster says, wincing. Abba has betrayed him again. “The Winner Takes It All would maybe be more appropriate thematically in this situation. Or Knowing Me, Knowing You? Actually, no, I got it. SOS. A classic. Wait, who am I kidding? They’re all classics.”

Ransom looks pained. “Babe.”

Right. Time to go be distracting somewhere else. Holster kisses Ransom on the cheek with a gentle reminder to text him when he needs a few minutes break before moping off to the Haus, determinedly in silence.

Friday they have practice again, and Saturday is spent on a bus to Connecticut, then playing, then sleeping, then driving back the next morning. Everyone’s exhausted, even on the trip up, and Holster caught the bus driver’s questioning eyes in the mirror when they first climbed aboard.

“Long season,” he said, shrugging. “And midterms.”

That’s not really the reason he’s struggling now. He’s just, well, tired, mostly. Frustrated with himself. He’s the worst boyfriend in the world probably, and should just go curl up into that weird crawl-space behind the washer and dryer in the basement that Ransom swears is where the ghosts go during the day. It’s true that it often smells like berry Lip Smackers down in that general area, though Holster’s not sure that isn’t just Chowder’s laundry detergent.

Whatever. Point is, Holster should know what to do for his boyfriend’s birthday, shouldn’t he? He knows Ransom better than anyone in the world (he knows this for a fact because he once sent Ransom’s family a questionnaire about Ransom, so he could compare answers -- none of them got Ransom’s favourite Yankee Candle scent, which is Honey Clementine, and only Dami, the eldest Oluransi sister, knew that number three on Ransom’s bucket list is to touch Serena Williams’ right bicep).

When Holster wakes from his nap on the bus, his forehead wet and cold from where he was leaning on the rattling window and a funny feeling in his stomach, he realizes there’s only one thing left to do: give up.

The bus driver drops them off at the rink, and it’s Nursey and Ransom’s turn to bring the equipment in. Normally Holster would stay and help, but it’s snowing hard and Tango looks like a puppy left out in a storm, so Holster rolls his eyes and asks if he and Whiskey would like a drive back to their rez. He can come get Ransom later. One of the only things he can do for him, apparently.

“How are you doing, Holster?” the unfailingly polite Tango asks as soon as he climbs in the back seat of Holster’s old-ass maroon Sunfire.

“Why? Does it look like I’m doing bad?” Holster says. In the rear-view mirror, Tango’s eyes go wide and concerned. Whiskey, of course, only snorts.

“Well, it does now,” he says in that drawling, bored, monotone voice of his. Though his eyebrow twitching does indicate slight interest, maybe.

“Oh no!” Tango gasps, then scoots up in the middle seat as far as his seat belt allows him so his head is nearly level with Holster and Whiskey’s. “What’s wrong, Captain?”

“I don’t deserve to be called that right now,” Holster grumbles.

“But we won yesterday,” Tango says. He sounds confused, but Holster can’t confirm if his face matches it, because it really is snowing pretty hard and he has to focus on not hitting any students or university presidents that might be out for a stroll. It probably does, though. Perpetual confusion is like, most of Tango’s personality. Sweet kid, though.

“I’m no longer captain of my own life and relationship, so I’m demoting myself. Well, metaphorically-speaking.”

“Holy fuck,” Whiskey whispers, and hits his head on the back of the seat a couple times.

Since he’s got nothing left to lose, Holster decides to ask one last time. It’s not like he’s going to get a good answer, not from a couple eighteen-year-olds, but fuck it. Right? All in.

“Um. Hey. Okay, first of all, if you tell anyone I asked you this I will, uh, turn you both upside down and pour Pepsi up your nose,” he begins, to cover his bases.

“I prefer Coke,” Tango says promptly.

“I know. So, it’s Ransom’s birthday tomorrow, and I don’t have anything planned yet, so… what sounds like the perfect date to you? I’m pretty fucking desperate.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Tango’s practically vibrating in his seat. “I love the aquarium. There’s one in Boston! Oh my god. If you go, can I come?”

Whiskey twists in his seat and rolls his eyes. “This is stupid,” he says.

“Aquariums aren’t stupid,” Tango says.

“Not that,” Whiskey says. “I mean, you’re asking the wrong question. Why does it matter what we think is the best date?”

“I don’t think I understand,” Holster says. He pulls into a parking space near the residence.

“I know I don’t understand,” Tango says.

It’s only later, when he’s picked up Ransom and Nursey from Faber and brought them back to the Haus, and he’s in the kitchen watching Ransom talk to Bitty about the moisturizing benefits of coconut oil versus shea butter, that he thinks he finally gets it.

The chair creaks one last time as he leans back to enjoy the image, and gives out under his weight with a crack! and followed by the heavy thump! of his tailbone hitting the hard floor.

“Oh my god!” Bitty cries. Ransom looks like he’s torn between laughter and concern, and the giggles are winning out. “Are you alright?”

“You know, Bitty?” Holster says, sprawled out on his back with shards of wood poking his ass and back, and Ransom’s eyes crinkling in mirth and something even warmer. “I really think I am.”

In the end, it takes a couple hours of work, some very important phone calls, and much begging and chore-switching with the other Haus-mates, but when Ransom comes home from afternoon class on March 28th, 2016, the attic has become a giant, structurally-sound blanket fort, the Haus TV has been moved upstairs along with all game consoles, there’s four different kinds of takeout on the desk, a grocery bag full of snacks, a variety of condoms laid out on the bed, and Holster, sitting in the nest he made of pillows, waiting with a birthday cupcake and a party hat, beaming.

Ransom drops his bag and immediately crawls up next to Holster. The cupcake barely makes it out of the way before Ransom attacks Holster’s mouth with his mouth.

“Babe!” he says between kisses. “This! Is! Amazing!”

“You think?” Holster says. He’s so, so happy.

“Yeah. Look at all this! Is that green curry and chicken wings? And you got me a cupcake instead of regular cake? God, you know me so well.”

Because he can, Holster kisses him again. “I know you like how tiny they look in your big hands,” he says. “Oh, and everybody cleared out for the night, so it’s just us.”

“I can’t believe you did all this,” Ransom says, collapsing onto the bed of fluffy pillows and smiling up at the polar-fleece ceiling. “How long have you been planning?”

“Oh, a little while,” Holster says, which is not even a lie. “You wanna play a round of Super Smash Bros? Winner gets to pick the sex playlist later.”

Ransom sighs happily and holds out his arms, and Holster goes easily. “Not yet. Come here and bask with me.”

“Happy birthday,” Holster says. He snuggles closer.

Everything is right in the world once more: Ransom is happy, Holster has accomplished something great, and no one died. Only one chair was harmed in the making of this birthday gift. Why did he think he needed a grand, romantic date or a fancy night out or any of those things the others suggested? This is what Ransom wants, this is what he wants, and this is just… them. Together.

As far back as he can remember, people have told Adam Birkholtz that he is too dramatic. Which actually, is kind of fine, as long as he’s still got Ransom.

“Best birthday ever,” Ransom says.

That’s all Holster ever wanted to hear.

[birlcholtz]

Ch. 8: come home (to you, to us)

ao3 | ch. 1 | part of the zimbits airport au

About half an hour later, Bitty hears the garage door open and close, and then Coach and Suzanne’s muffled voices. Nobody comes upstairs to find him, so he disregards it and goes back to rambling in the old group chat that Shitty had insisted on keeping around— even once he, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster had graduated and Bitty was the only group chat member still at Samwell, Shitty claimed it was ‘his duty’ to give them updates on what was going on.

Bitty: i mean what am i even supposed to do now that i don’t have hockey as motivation to exercise

Bitty: running is gross

Bitty: punching bags are just.... ew, not good

Bitty: weights are meh

Bitty: i can’t just do squats???

Ransom: well jack’s solution to that problem was to join a pro hockey team

Bitty: i’m not getting paid to exercise

Holster: u should like

Holster: join an amateur league

Holster: or smth

Lardo: dude just accept that you can’t afford a car and public transportation is expensive and you’re gonna have to walk everywhere

Lardo: gettin those 10000 steps a day

Lardo: millennial exercise

Shitty: stop being depressing in the group chat LARDO

Shitty: (but she’s right)

Bitty: ew reality

Ransom: can u get a gym membership?

Bitty: not until i have money

Holster: burn calories by running away from your problems

Holster: zoom

Shitty: hOLSTER

Holster: shits ur literally still in school u don’t have to deal with this yet

Shitty: truE BUT STILL

Holster: u small bean

Shitty: ...bitch???

After that, the group chat moves at lightspeed, and Bitty’s content just to sit back and watch it happen. He counts no less than eight invocations of Holster’s age and size advantage and three of Shitty’s mustache. It’s only when there are soft footsteps in the hallway and a knock on Bitty’s door that he realizes how long he’s been sitting there watching his fellow alums (oh God) descend into a near brawl.

“Hey, Dicky,” his mother says when he gets up and opens the door. “Dinner’s ready, if you want it now. If not, we’ll save some for you and you can heat it up when you’re hungry. Your father told me you’re having a rough day.”

Bitty sighs. “It’s been a trying one,” he offers, and Suzanne nods in acknowledgement. He takes the now-empty plate of pralines, since there’s no point in leaving it in his room, and they walk downstairs in silence.

Dinner is interesting in that it’s so different from usual. Suzanne is willing to avoid making Bitty talk, but for once it’s Coach who carries the conversation. He carefully steers it away from Bitty at every opportunity, which is nice of him, but Bitty is completely verbal, he’s just... well, he’s tired. The tears left him feeling dried-up, almost, and Bitty doesn’t have enough energy to be emotional. He probably should’ve taken a nap before dinner, but it’s too late now. He can just go to bed early and hope that sleep serves as a reset of some sort— maybe he won’t wake up feeling so drained.

“Oh, and I’m hoping you can tell me what happened to all of those pralines that we made,” Suzanne says to Coach with a faint smile as she takes the third-to-last piece of garlic bread. “Funnily enough, a lot of them seemed to have vanished by the time I got home.”

“That was mostly me,” Bitty speaks up. His parents glance over at him in surprise, probably because he hasn’t been saying anything. “But Coach started it.”

When Suzanne looks over at Coach to confirm or deny that, he just shrugs.

“Well, alright then,” she says, and moves on while Bitty is still wondering if he should take the opportunity in front of him. She’s asking Coach about the plans for new locker rooms at the high school before he can say anything else.

Bitty finishes his food in silence, and then sits and stares at the table, not wanting to go to bed with the prospect of telling his mother still hanging over his head, but not wanting to say the words either. There’s no lead-in this time, no convenient discussion of roommates that he can use to bring it up. So how?

Coach must have assumed that Bitty’s not going to tell Suzanne tonight, because he’s still determinedly talking at length about how the team will have more locker space to store their gear. He’s only just started extolling the virtues of the new lighting when Bitty folds up his napkin and sets it neatly on the placemat. When he stands up, both of his parents look at him in surprise, and the force that he pushed his chair back with probably was surprising.

Bitty picks up his plate and cup to take to the dishwasher before saying, “Mom, I’m gay.”

The words come out calmer than he’d expected.

Suzanne blinks.

“I’m gay,” he repeats. “And I’m dating Jack Zimmermann.”

Then he puts his cup and plate in the sink and goes up to his room and shuts the door and sits on his bed and squeezes Señor Bun’s paw with one hand while he unlocks his phone with the other and composes three texts and sends them off.

The first one is to last year’s starting line. Chowder, Nursey, Dex, Whiskey, and Tango. Bitty reserves more personal things for this group chat instead of the team-wide one— not just because he was the captain, but also because there are only so many people he actually wants to vent about his life to. Hey y’all, just came out to my mom, send good vibes my way pls.

The second is to the same alumni groupchat that only just finished calming the fuck down. sooo now my mom knows im gay and that i have a boyfriend, am currently waiting in my room hoping that when i come back down things will be ok. left b4 she cld react.

The third is to Jack. told my mom, went to my room without waiting to see how she reacted. gonna go back down and see what the fallout is in like half an hour. i have a bag packed just in case, i’ll let you know if i’m coming over.

Jack responds immediately, as do other people who’d gotten one of his first two texts, but Bitty answers Jack’s first.

Jack: I have a rental car if you need a ride. Just let me know.

Bitty: i don’t think i will, but i’ll call and give u an update once i know more

Bitty: rn i’m just killing time

Jack: I’ll call you in an hour to check in if I don’t hear from you before then.

Bitty: talk to u in a lil bit

The two group chats that he’s texted have blown up over the course of his short conversation with Jack, mostly expressions of hope from the frogs and tadpoles and calm texts from the other alums meant to reassure. Bitty sends the frogs and tadpoles a quick thank you before turning to the other group chat.

Bitty: i have a contingency plan if things go horribly bad

Bitty: but my dad is ok w it

Bitty: so im giving him and my mom time to talk before i go back down there

Lardo: i think that’s a good idea

Holster: Pls. keep us updated about what’s happening.

Holster: Ransom is in the shower but he says if you need help w. anything hit us up.

Holster: (I concur)

Lardo: same, i already said u can crash on our couch, it’s ok if u want to stay here for a while

Lardo: but if ur dad is fine w it then i’m sure ur mom will be too

Shitty: ^^^^^

Shitty: dw

Shitty: #smhgotyourback

Holster: shitty i have been a college graduate for over a year and i’m crying over a gd hashtag.

Holster: why

Shitty: u know it’s true brah

Bitty’s stomach hurts when he walks downstairs, nauseous anticipation. He feels tense. His shoulders are hunched practically up to his ears.

He drops his bag in the front hallway before turning and walking into the kitchen. Suzanne and Coach are there, still sitting at the table. There are three glasses of sweet tea. Without that clue, Bitty wouldn’t have thought that they’d gotten up at all.

“Please sit down, Dicky,” Suzanne says when she sees him standing in the doorway.

Bitty sits, and for a little while, that’s what they do. Sit in silence. Until she sighs and says, “I will admit that whenever I pictured my future family, I always thought that my child would be straight.” She looks tired. “Although I can’t say I’m exactly surprised, either.”

Coach takes a sip of his tea.

“I’m not going to pretend to understand, because I don’t,” Suzanne says. “But I love you. You’re still my son, Eric Richard Bittle Junior. You still bake and you still skate and you’re still going to Boston to find a job in a week. None of that has changed.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Bitty agrees quietly.

“And I don’t want you going halfway across the country thinking I don’t love you, or you’re disowned, because neither of those things are true. I won’t lie to you and say it’s a great idea to tell the rest of the family— I’m sure you’ve already thought about that— but when it comes down to it, family you see twice a year aren’t as important as family you’re with every day, and I’m sure you know that too.” She drinks some of her tea. “I just hope that home doesn’t become such a painful place for you that you can never come back. Even if it’s just for a visit.”

“I haven’t left yet, Mama.”

Suzanne sniffs. Coach silently gets up and brings back a box of tissues, setting it on the table equidistant from his wife and his son. “That is true, isn’t it. I’m not letting you leave without trying that pot roast.”

Bitty smiles a little. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Bitty: it went ok

Chowder: that’s great!!!! congratulations!!!!!!!

Nursey: good to know

Tango: are u still coming up to mass. for the summer or are u staying there??

Bitty: still coming to boston!

Dex: see you soon then!

Whiskey: :) :) :)

Bitty: she’s not thrilled but she’s ok w it

Lardo: fuckin called it

Holster: excuse u u did not call anything

Lardo: umm yes i did???

Ransom: that’s good to hear bitty, we’re v happy for u except holster is busy being irritated at lardo? apparently?

Shitty: congrats brah, that’s a big thing you just did

Shitty: totally celebrating when u get here

Bitty: so overall everything went fine, my mom is not exactly ecstatic but she’s happy i told her

Bitty: oh and my parents want to meet u since i mentioned u were staying in madison for a little while?

Bitty: ur officially invited to the bittle residence on tuesday for pot roast

Jack: I’ll be there. How do you feel?

Bitty: lighter i guess?

Bitty: it hasn’t sunk in that i’m rlly out to both of my parents and it went ok

Jack: It’ll sink in eventually.

Bitty: yup

Jack: And you also never have to come out to your parents again.

Bitty: that’s a definite plus

Jack: Go to sleep early okay? You sound exhausted.

Bitty: i am

Bitty: yeah i’m gonna do that now. gn, ttyl, love you <3

Jack: I love you too. <3 <3 <3 <3

Jack: Talk to you tomorrow.

Bitty: :)

Jack: :-)

[jackzimmermannn]

Would you be up to making a St.Patricks day au? Like it's a holiday that basically celebrates getting drunk and kegsters plus our fav ginger is totally Irish and would totally start making corned beef at 2 in the afternoon cause to make that shit right, you let it simmer for 4 hours.

Sooooo this is really interesting for me personally, because it’s something I’ve thought about a number of times. I’m about to meander away from the original intention of this but I want to be super clear that there is NOTHING wrong with your prompt at ALL. For real y’all, send me prompts.

So, I don’t drink.

It’s not because I have an unhealthy relationship and/or negative experiences with alcohol. To begin with, I don’t like the taste. It doesn’t do anything for me. I’d rather spend money and calories on something tasty than a drink. The second reason I don’t drink is because I really, really personally take issue with how alcohol-obsessed people (in particular, young people) are. Again, my personal thoughts on the matter, not a direct aim at anyone. I’ve never actually written (as far as I can remember) Check Please content that took place at a kegster or with copious amounts of drinking. A large portion of that is due to my inexperience with alcohol, and I think my disinterest in those kind of situations.

So let’s tie this into Check Please, since that’s why we’re all here. As much as I theoretically love and would like to think that the Samwell Crew and I would get along, I really don’t think we would. Obviously certain characters and I would be better suited than others, but generally speaking it would probably be a no go. I think the general disdain people have for the hockey team is how many of us would actually feel if we didn’t have the omniscient view into the characters that we do. Just base level, I know I’d be really bothered by how they talked in the library or during lecture. This has sort of wandered off on a tangent, but the general idea here is it’s been interesting for me to consider the compassion and love I have for characters fictionally versus if I interacted with them in real life.

Now Dex is a different issue. I have another Nursey/Dex prompt sitting in my asks that I’ll (hopefully) get around to at some point. They’re not my “favorite” characters. This is fine, it’s enjoyable to develop my personal understanding of everyone in CP, but since I’ve spent wayyyyy less time thinking and writing about them, which means writing stuff with them as the primary focus makes me nervy since I don’t think it’ll be as developed as I’d like (That’s not a reason to not send it prompts with various pairings! Usually I sift through them at my leisure when something sparks me creatively! I’m not picky!)

So TLDR; I have some strong, personal feelings about drinking which means St. Patrick’s Day really isn’t a holiday I’m enthused about or could write about well (atm), I would passively resent the SMH irl and Nursey and Dex are mysterious beings who I need to learn more about. Also, you taught me something new about corned beef. Who knew?