Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shadows all around you as you surface from the dark
Emerging from the gentle grip of night's unfolding arms
Darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel all alone?
The subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone

 - You Are the Moon, The Hush Sound

The sight of his own reflection made Bitty sick to his stomach.

Every morning he got dressed in his closet and glanced at the mirror only long enough to pat down wrinkles and straighten collars. Bitty brushed his teeth facing the shower and styled his hair from muscle memory, thankful for his lack of facial hair and need to shave. He kept his eyes away from dark computer monitors and car doors, avoided puddles on the sidewalk and freezer doors at the grocery store; when alone, Bitty’s preferred routes around campus avoided all of the buildings with tall, reflective windows.

Sometimes Bitty saw himself as a ghost, nothing more than a jumble of thoughts and memories, completely intangible. He was a momentary spark of life in a world filled with bodies, writhing and lashing and screaming.

When he was young, Bitty would spend hours sitting on the second-floor landing of his parents’ house on the nights they threw grown-up parties, watching the guests as they mingled and drank and danced around each other in the cramped living room. No one ever saw the small child in pajamas curled up by the railing, clutching a stuffed bunny to his chest. He’d been entirely invisible, an outside observer to their drunk, giddy, human interactions.

That feeling stuck with Bitty as he grew up: when he perched at the top of monkey bars on the playground to watch the others play tag; when he sat alone at a table during Homecoming as his classmates danced and snuck swigs of their flasks; when he hid under the bleachers during football practice, longing to be one of the players, if only to earn a smile from Coach.

Bitty was a ghost to the world around him, and most days he preferred it that way.

Everything about Bitty felt too large - his personality, his emotions, his body, Lord was his body too big, too clunky and in the way -

He liked watching the numbers on scale drop, liked watching as his body shrank and took up less space in the world around him. Bitty couldn’t control his voice or his flamboyance or heart, but he could keep himself small.

Bitty dreamt of curling in on himself, tucking between his own ribs and disappearing inside himself, a black hole, an empty space. He’d be safe in that nothingness, away from the world and the hungry, angry predators of the world, like a rabbit in its nest far below the earth.

When he ate - when he felt full - there was a heaviness to his body, a solidness that he couldn’t ignore. It was the feeling of gravity, he supposed, like being tackled to the ground, the weight of the world pulling him towards the earth. So Bitty didn’t let himself get full, didn’t let himself feel heavy. He was small and he was nothing, and those were the things that kept him safe.

When Bitty drank he felt lighter than air.

His motor functions were the first thing to go, long before his speech or inhibitions. Sometimes his hands and face went a little numb, like they’d fallen asleep. It was a nice feeling, a fuzzy disconnect from his body, and Bitty found he could dance without embarrassment, without the usual hyper-awareness of himself that tended to make him self-conscious.

This wasn’t his first Haus party, but Bitty was still just a Frog and he’d never dreamed of touching alcohol back home, so it only took a few kegsters and some suspiciously strong mixed drinks for Bitty to reach that that blissfully disconnected level of drunk .

Then he ran into the doorframe, and realized he might be a little past that point. He laughed.

“Brah,” Shitty said, sidling up to Bitty and wrapping an arm around his waist. He looked almost concerned. “I think that last kegster was a mistake.”

“ No-o-o ,” Bitty said, barely stifling his giggles. “It was ‘swa-’swawesome!” He was vaguely aware that his head was resting against Shitty’s collarbone, but Bitty felt too far removed to really feel it.

“C’mon, Bits,” Shitty said softly, herding him towards the stairs. “I think you better sleep this off.”

“Shit- ty ,” Bitty whined. “They’re playing Beyonce . I can’t leave now .”

Shitty snorted. “Bitty, if you try to dance right now you’re gonna end up hitting someone in the face or, like, breaking something. Possibly your whole body . Let’s go.”

Shitty all but carried Bitty up the stairs, and once Bitty’s legs gave out from under him. He’d thought it was hilarious, but Shitty grimaced and tucked his arms under Bitty’s armpits to haul him upright.

Bitty felt the telltale lurch of his gut as they reached the landing. “Bathroom,” he said, his vision starting to spin. “Gonna puke.”

With a sigh, Shitty shoved him through the bathroom door, and Bitty collapsed against the toilet just in time to empty the contents of his stomach. Shitty scrunched his nose and looked away for a moment, then back to Bitty. He pursed his lips as Bitty finished, a little too interested in the toilet Bitty leaned against.

“Brah, not to be, like, weirdly invasive, but...what did you have for dinner?” Bitty realized he was peering into the toilet, where Bitty had just vommed. Shitty was a weird dude.

“Um.” Bitty scrunched up his face and thought very hard. He’d been in the library with Ransom that evening, then he’d wanted to record a vlog in his room before changing for the party, so he’d grabbed a banana from the Haus kitchen when he’d arrived and some leftover muffins- no, he’d decided against that, too sweet…

“A banana?”

“ Bits ,” Shitty admonished. “You can’t do kegsters on an empty stomach!”

Bitty could feel his pulse pounded behind his eyes. He groaned and leaned against the toilet. “I wasn’t hungry…”

“Bitty.” Shitty knelt down next to him on the tile and rubbed his back. “You’re a hot mess, bro.”

Despite himself, Bitty laughed. “I am,” he said, rubbing a hand across his face. “I’m a hot mess .”

“C’mon, let’s chug some water and go to sleep. You can take my bed tonight.”

Bitty rose on shaky legs and let Shitty manhandle him across the hall. He dutifully drank an entire glass of water as Shitty cleared the candy wrappers and dirty laundry off of his bed, then curled up against Shitty’s pillow, eyes drooping with fatigue.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow,” Shitty said, not unkindly. “Try and get some sleep. I put my trash can right here in case you need to ralph again.”

“Thanks, Shitty,” Bitty mumbled. As he mind slowly started to clear, the situation was growing more mortifying. He felt tears begin to well up in his eyes and his limbs sunk into the mattress like lead weights in the ocean.

“Aw, fuck,” he heard Shitty mumble. “Alright, comin’ in, bro, guard your gnads.”

Bitty squawked as Shitty climbed over him, slinging an arm over Bitty’s waist as he settled on the bed behind him. Bitty froze, muscles tensing, face burning hot.

“Brah, c’mere,” Shitty said. “You’re gettin’ weepy, that means it’s time for cuddles.”

There was something soft in the usual roughness of Shitty’s voice, something kind. Bitty let Shitty spoon up against him, some of the tension dissipating from Bitty’s spine as he was enveloped in the warmth of another person. So this was the reason everyone loved cuddling so much. Bitty couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held like this - perhaps as a child, by his mother?

A few more tears leaked from his eyes at that thought. Eighteen years in the closet, eighteen years of alienation and loneliness. An entire lifetime lived in the shadows, in the corner, staring down at the world from the top of the stairs with stuffed bunny clutched in his arms.

But now? Now there was a strange boy drunkenly snuggling him because he was crying, no questions asked, no gay panic. Maybe he was safe here. Maybe he had friends here. Maybe...

Bitty woke up alone, a sharp pain in the back of his skull and knots in his gut. Groaning, Bitty pulled himself from Shitty’s bed. His tongue was thick and cottony and everything tasted like bile and roadkill.

“Never drinking again,” Bitty grumbled to himself, only to be met by soft laughter.

Jack stood in the bathroom that connected his room to Shitty’s, toothbrush in hand. “Rough night?”

“I’m not a hundred percent convinced I’m alive right now,” Bitty said, rubbing at his temples. Everything was too loud and too bright and the scent of Jack’s toothpaste was making his stomach churn. “Please tell me heaven doesn’t look like the Haus. Please.”

“Sorry, Bittle,” Jack said, placing his toothbrush back into the cup that balanced on the edge of the sink. “If anything, this is what hell looks like.”

Bitty laughed, then regretted it as he head began pounding in double time. “Okay, I’m gonna go back to my dorm and pass out or die. See you, Jack. Tell Shitty thanks for me.”

Jack smirked. “I will when he wakes up.” With a look of fond exasperation, Jack jerked his head back towards his bedroom. Bitty stepped into the bathroom and caught sight of Shitty curled over 70% of Jack’s bed, snoring loudly.

“You’re not the first person he’s given his bed to,” Jack said softly. “I think he likes the excuse to steal mine.”

Bitty smiled. “Y’all are close, huh?” He couldn’t even fathom his daddy’s boys willingly sharing a bed. These hockey bros were so familiar to Bitty in some ways, yet so completely alien in others.

“Yeah, Shitty was my first friend at Samwell,” Jack said with a shrug. “He has a way of forcing his way into your heart, whether you want him to or not.”

Jack turned to wash his face and Bitty took that to mean he was done with the conversation. Bitty thought about his words the entire walk home, thought about the casual intimacy of Shitty’s friendship, about the possibility that maybe he could be himself with these boys. Or, at the very least, one of them.

That afternoon he baked his finest strawberry cream pie and snuck it into Shitty’s room as a thank you.

A week later, he asked Shitty to meet him outside Founders, index cards tucked into the pocket of his new winter coat, and a secret on his lips.

When Bitty was eight, he played football.

(He was known as Junior, then, or sometimes Eric. Only his mother and Moomaw ever called him Dicky.)

He liked football alright. Eric was an energetic kid and could outrun all the other boys. He loved playing tag, and the junior peewee football team was no more than a variation on that. They chased each other around and held a ball and sometimes (purposefully) fell into damp spots on the YMCA field so they could throw mudballs at each other when Coach Montgomery wasn’t looking.

Then Coach Montgomery’s sons graduated to the middle school team, and all the parents begged Daddy to take over. He’d done such good work with the high school - wouldn’t it be great to work with the little ones, to mold them into the star athletes the school district deserved? A little discipline would be so good for those boys.

Eric liked that Daddy was going to be coaching him; it made him feel like one of the big, popular boys on Daddy’s high school team. Eric started calling Daddy “ Coach” to make him chuckle, ran harder and faster at practice to make Daddy proud.

But Coach wasn’t happy with the junior peewee team. No matter how fast Eric ran, Coach still yelled at them, still made them run suicides until they felt sick, still refused to praise them no matter how hard they worked. The mud fights ended. The roster slowly shrank as the weaker or less interested boys begged their mamas to let them quit. And then, Coach decided they were old enough for tackling.

Eric overheard an argument between Coach and Mama one night, when he was supposed to be asleep. He was sitting at the top of the stairs, drinking the glass of water he’d gotten up to fill, when voices drifted up from the living room.

“Richard,” Mama was saying, voice thin and strained like when she was really tired or mad at Moomaw. “They’re too young.”

“I was younger’n them when my brothers started tacklin’ me.”

Mama huffed. “You were a big kid, honey. Dicky...Dicky’s so small .”

“They’re all small ,” Coach said gruffly. “It’ll be good for him, toughen him up.”

“I don’t like this, Richard,” Mama mumbled. Eric couldn’t see her, but he imagined her crossing her arms. She always did when she and Coach fought.

“It’ll be fine, Suzanne. Junior’s fast, the other boys can’t never catch him in practice. He’ll make a fine running back one day.”

This made Eric smile. Coach never talked about how fast Eric was - he sounded so proud!

“Of course, boy flinches every time the ball comes near him. Getting hit’ll be good for him.”

Eric smile fell. He sighed and stood up. Maybe if he got tackled, Coach would be proud of him. Eric had started going to the skating rink in Atlanta with his cousin, Jenny, and even though he fell a bunch he didn’t cry at all! Making getting tackled would just be like falling on the ice rink. If it made Coach proud, then he could handle some cuts and bruises.

Eric first got tackled during a scrimmage at the end of practice. Mikey passed Eric the ball, and Eric actually caught it, and so Eric began to run. Eric loved this part of the game, dodging the other team, dancing just out of reach, sprinting towards the goalposts like a bat outta hell. He could hear Coach yelling at him - “KNEES UP, JUNIOR! ELBOWS OUT!” - but it was the good kind of yelling, when Coach was excited. Eric soared down the field. Nothing could stop him now.

Then Hunter Long, the only 11-year-old on the team, came out of nowhere. Time slowed down for Eric, as Hunter’s shoulder slammed into his lower gut. Eric hit the ground with a thud, all the air pushed from his lungs, his bones reverberating with the force. His eyes watered involuntarily and he gasped for breath. Coach was yelling again - not the good kind - and Hunter was trying to help him up but Eric couldn’t , was shaking too hard.

Someone was picking him up, and for a brief moment Eric hoped it was Daddy, but he smelled Mama’s perfume and heard her soft voice in his ear, and Eric clung to her as she carried him away from the field.

“It’s okay, Dicky,” she murmured. “That was a hard hit, but you’ll be okay.”

When practice ended, however, and Coach drove them home without saying a single word, Eric wondered if things would be okay.

That was the last time Eric ever played football.

It was also the last time he ever thought of Coach as Daddy again.

Bitty didn’t procrastinate because he was lazy.

(Well, maybe a little, sometimes. Everyone had their lazy days.)

But Bitty liked his classes and was fascinated by the subject matter in most of them. He could work for hours perfecting his pie recipes and figure skating and video editing. And yet…

Bitty sat at a table in Founders with Ransom, Holster, and Jack. Shitty had already been asked to leave by one of the librarians for getting into an argument with one of his Comp. Law classmates (“FIGHT ME YOU BIGOTED DICKFACE COCKHOLE!”) and Johnson...well, Bitty wasn’t entirely sure Johnson actually studied.

At the moment, Ransom was staring at his notes with his head clutched in his hands. It didn’t look like he was actually reading, but Bitty had seen Ransom’s graded exams and knew that he must be absorbing all the material somehow . His lips were twitching a little, almost forming words. Bitty looked away, a little unnerved.

Across from Ransom, Jack was typing furiously at his laptop, pausing only to check a quote from one of the ten books on the table in front of him. His entire essay outline flowed tidily across two pages in his notebook. Bitty couldn’t help but stare at the neat, blocky letters and highlighted sources and - did he use a ruler on those lines?

Bitty looked up to see Holster smirking at him. The two of them sat a little separated from the other boys, and though Holster seemed concentrated on his reading, he was more restless than the other two, fidgety in his seat and occasionally checking his phone. Now, though, his attention was on Bitty.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” He asked, eyes darting over to Ransom and Jack. “They’re like anxiety-driven machines.”

“Huh?” Bitty frowned. “What do you mean?”

Holster shrugged. “It’s like...I don’t ever want to see the day one of them actually fails a test or something - God forbid an entire class. The idea of it freaks them both out so much, it’s like Red Bull or something. Powers their stressed-out little engines, y’know?”

“Oh.” Bitty looked over at Ransom again, watching as his wide, sleepless eyes scanned every row of text, completely focused on the work. Jack was the same, his features schooled into the tense, serious expression that Bitty recognized from pre-season practices. “Oh, wow.”

“Chyeah, man,” Holster said, turning his eyes back to his book. “You never really get used to it. Kinda puts the rest of us to shame, huh?”

It amazed Bitty, that Ransom and Jack could funnel their fears and anxieties into something productive. Here he was, scared shitless of doing poorly in his intro Communications course, and subsequently putting off the paper he should’ve started weeks ago.

And that was always Bitty’s biggest problem, all through high school and now, at Samwell: academic stress debilitated him. His SAT scores had been decent, good enough for Samwell, but he’d always tested well. Doing readings for class discussions, writing papers, studying for exams that made up huge percentages of his grade? It was all so terrifying he didn’t even know where to begin.

Guilt slowly welled up in his chest, tightening around his lungs. If Jack and Ransom could focus their anxiety into studying, could overcome that paralyzing fear of failure, then why couldn’t Bitty?

“Bittle,” Jack said, looking up from his laptop. “Stop tweeting and do your assignment.”

Bitty looked back to Holster, raising an eyebrow. His expression must’ve been incredibly unimpressed because Holster burst out laughing, voice booming and reverberating throughout the library.

“Great,” Jack muttered, turning back to his paper. “We’re all getting kicked out this time.”

In the Bittle household, food was love.

Mama Bittle cooked every meal to be the very best for her boys, made soup for sick neighbors, whipped up batches and batches of Christmas cookies to send to family every year. Bitty’s frog year, she sent monthly care packages, filled to the brim with homemade trail mix and energy bars and his absolute favorite brownie bites. Suzanne Bittle fed the people she loved.

Bitty was the same way. Everything that came out of his oven was crafted with care for his teammates, his friends. When Ransom was panicking over an upcoming exam, Bitty whipped up his favorite honey-peach pie. When Shitty and Lardo were disgustingly hungover, Bitty left a tray of mini quiches and Advil outside Shitty’s room for them. When Jack was in a mood, Bitty would make peanut butter cookies, if for no other reason than to get a signature “protein” chirp out of his grumpy captain.

Bitty wasn’t the most tactile person. He didn’t hug people at random like Shitty and Holster, nor did he clap people on the back (or the ass) like Jack and Ransom. Even Lardo liked to snuggle up against her friends, which Bitty just- he couldn’t do that. Didn’t know how.

So Bitty baked. Baked and cooked and blended and mixed, his only outlet for the immense love he felt for his team. And they loved him for it, praised his name every time they came into his kitchen. No one who ever crossed the threshold into his domain left without a full belly and a warm heart.

No one, that is, except Bitty himself.

He and Jack were sitting at the kitchen table one evening in early October, both tapping away at essays and enjoying the relative peace that came on Wednesday nights in the Haus. (Rans had a study group, Holster worked at the tutoring center, and Shitty holed himself in his room to work on his theses and law school applications. Bitty was just finishing a paragraph when his stomach rumbled loudly . For about the tenth time in as many minutes.

Jack looked up from his laptop with a huff.

“Bittle, when was the last time you ate anything?”

Bitty shrugged. “Team breakfast, probably.”

Jack stared at him, mouth pressed in a thin line. “You need-”

“To eat more protein, yadda yadda, I know , Jack.” Bitty laughed and rolled his eyes. “I had eggs for breakfast.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Jack said with a sigh. “I was going to say you need to eat more than one meal a day.”

Bitty froze; this was going to be like Katya all over again, being watched at every meal, having food forced on him like he was a child. He wasn’t sure he could handle that from Jack.

“I do,” he said, returning his attention to his laptop.

It wasn’t that Bitty had an eating disorder. It’s just that Bitty and food...didn’t have the healthiest of relationships. But that was certainly none of Jack’s business.

“This isn’t figure skating,” Jack snapped. “You need to be eating three meals a day.”

Bitty bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something rude. “I don’t appreciate the implication that figure skaters are - what? All anorexic? Somehow not working just as hard as hockey players?” He packed up his books and laptop with a huff. “I don’t even know how you were trying to insult figure skating, but congratulations! You didn’t even need to specify to make it clear you have zero respect for us.”

“Bittle, I didn’t mean it like that,” Jack said, scowl disappearing. “I’m just concerned-”

“I left some notes at the library,” Bitty said, hoisting his backpack over one shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Jack.”

Bitty wasn’t sure what he was really mad at  - Jack’s comment about figure skating or the fact that a second person in his life had caught on to his eating habits.

Well, second-and-a-half. Mama bugged him from time to time about his weight, concerned he wasn’t eating enough, but that was as natural to southern mothers as breathing. She plied him with pies and cookies and all manner of delicious, deadly treats. Bitty always took a bite or two, to be polite, to assuage her, but never could quite finish. Everything she made felt heavy on his tongue, hard to swallow.

Katya had seen right through Bitty’s excuses, had known one too many anorexic skaters in her time to see his prominent ribs and collarbones as any else. But she couldn’t prove it and Bitty was stubborn so her concerns never amounted to more than protein bars shoved into his hands before practice and stern glances when his stomach rumbled.

Bitty didn’t actually need to go to the library, but it was closer to his dorm than the Haus for sure and if his roommate, Devin, still had his “friend” over, then Bitty probably needed to give him a few more hours.

Powered by his frustration with Jack, Bitty managed to get three pages of his paper written and most of his readings done by the time he started feeling sleepy. Devin tended to go to bed early, so Bitty wandered back to the dorm, shivering in the chilly, Autumn night.

His stomach growled loudly as he hiked up the two flights of stairs, but Bitty ignored it. He’d done pretty well, at the library, despite his fading irritation with a certain captain; maybe he deserved a snack when he got in.

Bitty opened the door slowly, surprised to still see lights on in the room. Devin waved at him, typing away furiously at his computer.

“Hey, Eric,” he called, chugging something from a thermos. Bitty hoped it was coffee. “Your friend dropped some groceries off, I put ‘em on your desk.”

“What?” Bitty set his bag down and reached for the plastic Stop n’ Shop bag that sat next to his books. “Who?”

“Didn’t tell me his name,” Devin grunted, backspacing angrily for what must have been several lines. “Tall, jock-y. Kinda rude, honestly.”

Bitty bit his lip, pulling out the contents of the bag one by one: a couple of apples; a six-pack of instant ramen; a jar of peanut butter; a bag of whole-wheat pretzels; and a box of protein bars, the type that Bitty always saw lying around the Haus kitchen. Despite himself, he smiled fondly at the food.

“Hey, do you mind if I steal some ramen?” Devin asked, shoving some of his books off his desk to make room for others. “I’m starving.”

“Sure.” Bitty tossed him one, then started tucking the rest away on shelves and in drawers. The apples he lined up on his desk in a neat, little row.

“Oh, hey, dude, there’s a sticky note on this,” Devin said, peeling a yellow square from his ramen packet. “It just says, ‘Sorry.’ That’s kind of weird.”

Bitty laughed softly and took the sticky note from Devin. “Yeah, Jack’s kind of a weird guy.”

He grabbed an apple from the row and bit into it. They were in season right now, small and crisp and bursting with flavor in a way he’d never known in Georgia. But there was something else, too, in this apple that made something soften in his chest, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Bitty ended up eating two apples, a ramen pack, and a handful of pretzels dipped in the peanut butter. In the morning, when he walked with Jack to checking practice, he munched on a protein bar. Jack said nothing, but smiled the whole way to Faber.

Bitty and Ransom were at the mall, trying on shirts for Lardo’s upcoming sophomore art show. Bitty was used to shopping with his mother or Lardo, someone who would stay in the changing room with him and tell him if things fit well so he wouldn’t have to glance in the mirror longer than necessary. But as cool as Ransom was, Bitty wasn’t Holster , he couldn’t just ask Ransom to be his mirror, to change with him in a cramped space, just the two of them.

(A part of him was just waiting for the team to wake up and realize Bitty was the enemy. He loved his boys more than he’d ever loved friends before, but they were a pack of wolves and he was a rabbit - it was only a matter of time before they realized he was prey.)

The shirt he’d pulled on was nice, though a size too large. It’d been awhile since Bitty had needed a new size in anything, but while it was snug around the shoulder, the fabric was baggy at his waist.

As he adjusted the collar, Bitty looked up and met his own gaze. His blood ran cold.

“Bits!”

Ransom popped his head through the curtain of Bitty’s changing room without warning and Bitty jumped in the air. “Oh, sorry bro, should’ve knocked. Dude, looks good!”

“Um, thanks,” Bitty said, hand to his wildly beating heart. “Let me see yours.”

Ransom shoved his way into the dressing room and posed, flexing his arms. Despite the uncomfortable tingling in Bitty’s fingers and face, he laughed. “You look very dashing. I’m sure you’ll be fighting off hordes of art majors.”

Ransom laughed and slung an arm around Bitty’s shoulders and steered him around so they were both looking in the mirror. Bitty cast his eyes away.

“Look at us, Bits,” Ransom said with a grin. “Two handsome motherfuckers.”

Bitty laughed nervously. “We’ll certainly be the best-dressed members of the hockey team, that’s for sure.”

“Always are, bro. Always are.” Ransom finally let him go and Bitty found himself unconsciously stepping away, crowding himself in the furthest corner of the very small dressing room. “Five bucks says Chow wears his Sharks hoodie.”

Bitty let out a dramatic sigh. “That boy’ll be the death of me.”

Ransom slapped him on the back and chuckled, ducking back out of the dressing room. “I’m gonna look at shorts while we’re here,” he called. “I think Holster threw out my last pair of Nantucket Reds.”

“Okay,” Bitty called back, voice a bit uneven. When the curtain fell again, he realized his hands were shaking.

He nearly ripped the shirt in his haste to pull it off, and all but ran from the dressing room to the cashier. By the time Ransom finished his shopping ten minutes later, Bitty had calmed down enough to suggest hitting up the Starbucks next to Forever 21. He couldn’t finish his latte, though, for the heavy knot in his gut.

Growing up in Georgia, Bitty learned from a young age to be fake.

It’s not as if anyone called it that - it was being polite, composed - but it was what it was. He learned to fake interest in boring people’s conversation. He learned how to fake pleasure in seeing one of his father’s rude friends in the grocery store. And he learned how to fake happiness, so as to never be ungrateful or a burden to those around him.

Even after getting a taste of the north, of brisker interactions and blunter people, Bitty didn’t resent this upbringing. He knew that his polite chit-chat with the bagger at Murder Stop n’ Shop made her job a little less tedious, and he never wanted anyone to walk away from an encounter with him disgruntled or disappointed. Bitty wanted people to like him, wanted to make them happy with him, proud of him. If putting on a smile after a grueling checking practice made Jack think highly of him, then by gum he would do it.

But some days...ooh, some days he wanted to give Jack Zimmermann a piece of his mind.

“Bittle, get it together ,” Jack barked as Bitty crumpled to the ice. It shouln’t’ve taken Bitty by surprise, he knew Jack was coming his way, and yet…

“I can’t control whether or not I faint,” Bitty snapped, tossing his helmet to the side. “It just happens .”

Jack gave him a long, hard look. He still looked angry, but Bitty suspected that was just how his face was all the time.

“You’re fainting because you’re scared,” Jack said finally. “We just need to get to the point where you’re not scared.”

“Right,” Bitty said, rolling his eyes. “Because having my huge, angry captain slam me into the boards and yell at me is gonna help me not be scared. Genius.”

Jack looked genuinely shocked; Bitty didn’t talk back to people. (His mama had raised him right, thank you very much. ) But it was early and Bitty was tired of being pushed around, literally and emotionally, and Jack was just going to have to deal with the fact that Bitty wasn’t getting better .

“We’re done for today,” Jack said, voice dangerously quiet. “I’ll see you at practice this afternoon.”

Bitty wasn’t quite sure how to feel as Jack skated off the rink. Sure, he was relieved that checking practice was over early, but the look of disappointment in Jack’s eyes-

No. Nope. He was not going to feel guilty just because he finally told Jack what he needed to hear. No one ever told Jack off for being rude or mean, not even the coaches, so it would do that boy some good to realize he wasn’t the center of the universe . He wasn’t the only boy on the team with personal problems.

In the end, Bitty did feel guilty for how he’d acted, and spent the entire day in an anxious haze. He skipped breakfast and forced himself to choke down an apple for lunch, but his stomach was tight and unsettled from the shame. Practice began at 4:30 on Wednesdays, and Bitty was the last one into the dressing room, hands twitching as he changed.

“You feelin’ alright, Bits?” Shitty asked, clapping Bitty on the back. Bitty flinched, but forced a smile.

“Right as rain,” Bitty replied easily.

Practice was a mess. Their drills were sloppy, their scrimmage was pitiful, and the coaches made them skate suicides at the end of practice as punishment for their lackluster performance.

Surprisingly, though, Jack didn’t scream at anyone. Even when Bitty crumpled to the ice after a check, even when Random and Holster smashed into each other, even when Johnson let in every goal, Jack did not lose his temper. He seemed tense, though, maybe angry, but more...sad.

The coaches wrapped practice up and sent them to the showers. The team shuffled off the ice, a tense sort of disappointment lingering between all of them. Bitty was following Shitty into the dressing room when he heard his name.
“Bittle.”

Jack stood behind him, still in gear, leaning against the wall. He looked serious - he always looked serious - but not angry enough to start screaming at Bitty. Maybe.

“Yeah?” Bitty turned to fully face Jack.

“About practice this morning...”

All of the shame and guilt that had built up inside Bitty bubbled to the surface, and he could feel his face turning pink as he blurted out, “Jack, I’m so sorry , that was completely out of line for me to say, you’ve been taking extra time to help me with this stupid problem and I shouldn’t’ve been so ungrateful, I’m sorry, I’m just so frustrated with everything right now but I shouldn’t’ve said you were scary, you’re just trying to help-”

“ Bittle .”

Bitty looked up. Jack looked bewildered, eyes wide.

“No, Bittle, I’m sorry.” He looked down at his feet, and Bitty could almost swear he was embarrassed. “I’ve been going about your...checking issue the wrong way. It was stupid to assume that you were just scared of getting hit. It’s clearly more serious than that and I’m sorry for thinking I could just...check it out of you.”

This was certainly not how Bitty had imagined this conversation going. He honestly was unsure of what to say.

“Oh.” Bitty bit his lip. Jack looked remorseful and sullen, shoulders hunched and tense. “Um. I’m still sorry for snapping at you.”

Jack shrugged. “I deserved it. Besides, it got me thinking about how we can help your issue.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I called my therapist and talked to her about it.” Jack shrugged casually, but Bitty could see he was anticipating some sort of response to the word therapist . Bitty schooled his features into what he hoped was a warm, understanding look and nodded. “She thinks we need to find the root of the issue.”

Bitty grimaced and Jack actually laughed, soft and low. “Yeah, I told her I wasn’t going to psychoanalyze my teammate. So then she suggested we try to make the practice environment, um...friendlier?”

“Friendlier.” Bitty raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugged. “I was thinking we could maybe play some of your music? If that would make you more comfortable. And…” He took a deep breath, cheeks flushing a little. “I’ll try not to yell as much...or at all…”

Bitty smiled. “Thanks, Jack. That would help a lot, I think.”

“Good.” Jack attempted to return the smile, but he just looked uncomfortable instead. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow morning then?”

“Yeah, see you in the morning,” Bitty said softly. Then, because he couldn’t resist. “I hope you realize what you’ve signed up for, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack looked wary. “Um…?”

“My game day playlist is a work of art,” Bitty said, hands on his hips. “And it’s 90% Beyonce.”

“Well, then,” Jack said with a huff. “I guess I’ll finally get to hear a Beyonce song, eh?”

Bitty’s smile fell. “Are you being serious right now?”

Jack just grinned and pushed past him into the dressing room. Bitty chased after him, hand over his heart. “Jack Laurent, if you’re chirpin’ me right now, I swear-!”

Jack laughed again, louder, and the tension in the dressing room broke. Despite being worn out and disappointed, the boys all seemed looser, happier, and Bitty wondered just how much of an influence their captain really had on them.

In the end, the concussion wasn’t the worst part of getting checked in playoffs.

It wasn’t the pain, either, or the way he couldn’t breathe properly for minutes afterward. It wasn’t even the way that, for weeks afterward, he flinched away from men on the sidewalk, in hallways, in his own dorm.

No, the worst part was the shame that lingered in his stomach, shame and guilt.

He couldn’t tell if he blamed himself for the team getting eliminated in the next round - morale had been low, after he’d been benched, at least among his friends - but it didn’t matter. Anyone would feel guilty if they saw the devastation on Jack Zimmermann’s face when they lost.

Idly, Bitty wondered if Coach had been watching the game with Mama. Had he been proud when Bitty skated off the ice? Or disappointed that he hadn’t finished the game? Probably the latter, Bitty mused. Every single one of his teammates who’d been knocked down by Spencer had kept playing. But Bitty was smaller than them, weaker and wimpier and no matter how hard he and Jack had worked, he just hadn’t been able to take that check like a real hockey player.

That night there was a mourning party at the Haus. Ransom and Holster seemed determined to get everyone hammered, and invited as many people as they could on such short notice.

“You don’t wanna come, Bits?” Holster asked, frowning.

Bitty slowly shook his head. “No, the doctor told me not to listen to loud music, dance, or drink with this concussion. Looks like I’m benched for the rest of the kegster season, too.”

“Aww, Bits.” Ransom patted him gently on the back, pouting a little. “Won’t be the same without you there.”

Bitty found this oddly touching. “Have fun, y’all. I’m just gonna go sleep everything off.”

Bitty’s room was empty when he arrived. Devin had been dating this girl, Erin, for a few months now, and he tended to sleep at her place most nights anymore. (If Erin had a roommate, Bitty pitied her.)

It was...unnervingly quiet after all the time Bitty had been spending with the team. It should’ve been a relief - Holster’s voice was so loud and with the concussion it hurt Bitty’s head so much - but instead it just felt lonely.

It was still pretty cold out, but Bitty couldn’t sit still in his cramped dorm room, no matter how tired he felt. So he pulled on an extra sweatshirt and his jacket, grabbed a beanie from the drawer, gloves from his pockets, slipped on his boots and left, ignoring the anxiety that was tickling the back of his neck.

The river was pretty this time of night, twinkling under the streetlights that littered the walkways around campus. Bitty strolled alongside it, occasionally pausing to skip a rock across the surface.

There was a shout across the bridge as Bitty got closer to North Quad, and he saw Shitty waving at him. Lardo and Jack trailed behind him, in the midst of one of their silent, eyebrows-only conversations. Jack was shaking his head, an intense look of sadness on his face. Bitty’s heart sank.

“Ey, Bits!” Shitty jogged across the bridge, smiling too widely for someone who just lost playoffs. His eyes looked a little bloodshot, but Bitty wasn’t sure if that was from weed or if he’d been crying. Given his smile, Bitty hoped for the former.

“Hey, Shitty,” Bitty said softly. “Thought y’all would be at the party.”

“We’re having our own party, Bitty Bits,” Shitty said, slinging an arm around Bitty’s shoulder. Bitty shrugged him off gently and Shitty took a step back, still smiling easily. “A big, ol’ pity party, featuring our beloved captain. Would you like to join us?”

“What does a pity party entail?” Bitty asked carefully, watching as Lardo and Jack approached. Lardo had tucked herself under Jack’s arm, forcing him into a side hug as they walked. Jack didn’t look any happier, but the tension in his shoulder dissipated a bit.

“We try not to define it,” Shitty said, stroking his mustache. “But mostly we just try to make Jack do something dumb.”

“Last time, we got him to go skinny dipping with us in the pool,” Lardo said with a grin. “I guess the stupid part was breaking into the pool building.”

“Oh, my,” Bitty said with a grin. “How reckless, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack grunted, but made no real reply. The guilt in Bitty’s gut swelled and he looked away. If only he’d been tougher, been strong enough to fight off Spencer, he could’ve at least made Jack proud, could’ve been on his line for the next game and shared the shame of losing.

“We could break into the art building and play with paints and stuff,” Lardo suggested, looking up at Jack, eyebrows raised.

Shitty scoffed. “It’s not breaking in if they leave the studios open 24-7, Lards.”

“Well, we need to choose something quick, I’m turning into a popsicle out here,” she retorted. “The art building’s warm. So is the pool building. Or, hell, even Founders…”

“What about the student kitchens?” Bitty asked, surprising himself. “Uh, I don’t know if it’d be open right now, but they usually forget to lock it up. We could bake something?”

Shitty grinned at him. “Bits, always looking out for our poor, empty stomachs.”

“That’s the munchies, talking,” Jack chirped softly. “You ate an hour ago.”

“Ooh, Bits, will you teach me how to make those rad snickerdoodles you made for the Yale away game?” Lardo asked, tugging on his sleeve. Bitty wasn’t close to Lardo, but he found friendship came easy with her, and he smiled as she made puppy-dog eyes at him.

“Alright, alright. C’mon, let’s go before my fingers are too frozen to hold a whisk.”

They trooped across campus to the kitchens, which were thankfully open, and Bitty set to work immediately. He put Shitty to work cracking eggs and pushed Lardo towards the flour and sugar, digging around for the proper measuring cups. Jack stood by the counter awkwardly, still sad and mopey. Bitty debated internally for a moment, then said, softly, “Jack, would you grab some butter from the fridge for me? Unsalted.”

Jack looked up and nodded, moving towards the large refridgerator. Shitty gave Bitty a thumbs up when Jack’s back was turned and Lardo smiled at him.

Baking always relaxed Bitty, no matter what, so he let himself fall into the rhythm of it all, dancing around Shitty and Lardo and Jack to mix this and measure that, directing the others like the conductor of an orchestra, the anxiety in his mind washed out by the heat of the oven and the chemistry of a few simple ingredients blooming into something wonderful. For the first time since he barely skated himself off the ice, head pounding and bruised, Bitty felt content.

As he slipped the cookie sheets into the oven, Bitty caught a glimpse of Jack and Shitty from the corner of his eye. Shitty had his arms around Jack’s chest, holding him close, head tucked under Jack’s chin. Jack wasn’t even pretending to be annoyed; he leaned into the touch, the harsh lines of his face softening, thawing.

Bitty was jealous of how easily physicality came to them, how Jack could hug Shitty like that when he felt bad. Bitty had gathered from conversations and ESPN articles that Jack had issues - anxiety, maybe? - and that they were probably linked to his overdose - surely not coke, like everyone said, that didn’t seem Jack’s style - but he’d never witnessed this kind of vulnerability in Jack, not even during Family Weekend. It was shocking, really, to see Jack Zimmermann looked small and sad and wrung out.

“I have to say,” Bitty started, a little tentatively. “Y’all were surprisingly helpful.”

Lardo snorted and Shitty huffed indignantly. “ Bitty , I am very helpful all the time- ”

“Okay, okay,” Bitty said, holding up his hands in defense. He met Jack’s eye and winked. “Let me rephrase: Jack and Lardo were surprisingly helpful. Shitty, all you did was crack eggs and lick the bowl.”

Shitty, who still had cookie dough stuff in his mustache, turned away dramatically, sticking his nose in the air. Jack laughed, softly, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Bitty’s stomach lurched with a sense of victory.

Once the cookies were out of the oven and cool enough to pack, Bitty sectioned them off into four plastic bags. Everyone took one, and they found themselves wandering along the river again, eating warm cookies and goofing off.

“We should piggyback race,” Shitty said suddenly, nudging Lardo with his hip. “Two tiny bros and two big bros? This is a primo piggybacking situation.”

Lardo rolled her eyes. “You’re, like, an average-height bro at most, Shits.”

“No, Bittle needs to rest,” Jack said sternly. He turned to Bitty, face serious and severe. “No matter how minor, a concussion is something to be taken seriously.”

Bitty frowned. “Yes, sir ,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. Jack’s face fell and Bitty bit his tongue.

“Jack, you need to eat, like, ten more of these cookies,” Lardo said suddenly, shoving her baggy into his hands. “Seriously, Bits’ cooking is magical, this shit’ll heal your soul .”

Jack huffed a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards, and - to everyone’s surprise - he took another cookie and bit into it.

“These are really good, Bittle,” Jack said, voice softer than before. “Thanks.”

Bitty felt his face heat up from the praise. “Oh, don’t thank me! You all helped.”

Lardo took his hand and began swinging their arms back and forth. “The power of teamwork!” She said, grinning at him.

“Jack-a-belle, carry me to the Haus,” Shitty said, listing into Jack’s side. “I can’t go any further. I’m too full.”

With a laugh, Jack hoisted Shitty over his shoulder like a gangly, stoned sack of potatoes. Shitty yelped at the sudden movement, but settled down once he realized how close his face was to Jack’s ass.

“Hello, old friend,” he cooed. “Ain’t you a beaut?”

“Stop talking to my ass, Shits,” Jack said with such a weariness that Bitty wondered if this was a common occurrence.

“I will when it stops being so goddamn magnificent,” Shitty replied easily. Yeah, this was obviously a conversation they had frequently.

“C’mon, guys, let’s walk Bits back to his room,” Lardo said, still swinging their arms. “And also go through all his personal things and invade his privacy.”

“I’m in!” Shitty yelled. Jack sighed.

“You’re in Hancock, right?” He asked Bitty. “Or...Morton?”

Bitty was stunned silent for a moment, taken by surprise that Jack remembered which dorm he was in. “Hancock, yeah.”

“Is your roommate asleep?” Jack asked, shifting Shitty to a more comfortable position over his shoulder. “Keeping these two from one of their plans is a hassle, but if it’ll cause issues with your roommate…”

“Oh, no,” Bitty said quickly. “Devin’s spending the night at his girlfriend’s place. Got the room to myself tonight.”

“Ye-e-es!” Shitty yelled. “Party at Bitty’s!”

Shitty and Lardo had not been kidding about going through Bitty’s things. As Bitty shucked off his boots and coat, they went right to work, picking up his books and pictures to examine. When only Jack was looking, Bitty squeezed past them to tuck Senor Bunny under his pillow. Jack chuckled when he noticed, but mimed zipping his lips.

“Nice Beyonce poster, brah,” Shitty said, nodding appreciatively. “Ooh, is that Michelle Kwan?”

Bitty nodded. “I loved her when I was a kid. Still do, obviously.”

“Aw, Bitty, is this your mom?” Lardo held up a framed picture of Bitty and Mama at his high school graduation ceremony. Moomaw had taken it, claiming her makeup was too messed up from crying to be in the picture as well. Coach was notably absent. “You look just like her.”

“Ah, man, Lards, you totally missed meeting Mama Bittle during family weekend,” Shitty said, coming over to look at the picture. “She was so great, baked like ten pies with Dicky here and bossed Ransom and Holster around.” He paused, smiling. “She calls me Mr. Crappy.”

Bitty and Lardo laughed at that, but Jack had gone noticeably sullen. Maybe he was remembering family weekend - his father, the game, the things he’d said to Bitty…

Bitty waved the thought away. Jack was just being pissy, mad about playoffs. Well he could join the fucking club.

“Are you sure you should be sleeping alone tonight?” Jack asked suddenly, face unreadable. “Your concussion’s still so fresh…”

That...wasn’t what Bitty had been expecting. “Oh, um, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll set my alarm for every couple hours-”

“Nah, bro, one of us can stay,” Lardo said. “Ollie and Wicks took turns checking on you last night, right?”

“Yeah,” Bitty said. “And Johnson. But I’m fine, really-”

“Slumber party!” Shitty shouted, pumping his fist. “Bits, do you have a sleeping bag?”

“That’s…” Jack faltered, holding up a hand. “That’s not what I meant…”

“Well, I’m not hiking across campus every hour to check on Bits,” Shitty said. “Not that you’re not worth it, bro, but this is way easier.”

Bitty smiled shyly. “There’s a sleeping bag under the bed, and I have some extra blankets. I don’t think Devin would mind if someone camped out on his bed, he never sleeps there anyway.”

“Sweet, brah.” Shitty pulled out the sleeping bag. “You two don’t have to stay,” he added. “But it would be way more fun if you did.”

Lardo grinned and Jack nodded tersely. “I’ll set my phone alarm,” Jack said. “Every hour.”

“Dibs on the bed,” Lardo said quickly. Then, slyly added, “ One of you nerds can join me. The other gets the sleeping bag.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ll take the sleeping bag.”

“Aw, but Jack,” Lardo said with a teasing grin. “I wanted to snuggle.”

With a manic grin, Shitty tackled her onto Devin’s bed, wrapping his arms and legs around her like an octopus. “Say no more, Lards. Jack’s bad at snuggling.”

“With you , maybe,” Lardo said, but nuzzled up against Shitty anyway. Bitty smiled and draped his extra blankets on top of them.

“Seriously, y’all-” Bitty began, but Jack cut him off.

“We’re doing this, Bittle,” he said, voice as stern as before but gentler. “It’s the least I- we can do.”

Bittle frowned, but let it slide. “Alright. Do...do y’all wanna borrow any pajamas?”

“No,” Jack said as both Shitty and Lardo shouted, “YES!”

“Bitty, your pajamas are super cute,” Lardo said as she rifled through the drawer. “Oh, my goodness, do these have bunnies on them?”

Bitty felt his face turn red and he nodded. “Yeah, my moomaw got those for me a couple years ago. They’re, uh, really comfortable.”

“Careful, Bits,” Shitty said with a soft smile. “She might steal them.”

Everyone got changed - even Jack, who relented and let Bitty hand him the biggest pair of sweatpants he owned - and settled into their sleeping arrangements for the night. Lardo and Shitty drifted off pretty quickly, Lardo more or less curled on top of Shitty’s chest, but Bitty wasn’t quite ready to fall asleep.

“Jack?” He whispered, peering over the edge of his bed. Jack looked up, wide awake. “Do you...now this might sound silly, but do you feel guilty for what happened? Me getting checked?”

Jack didn’t answer for a long time, and if Bitty hadn’t been able to see his eyes he might’ve thought Jack had fallen asleep. Eventually, he murmured, “Yeah.”

“Well, don’t, okay?” Bitty said forcefully. “You just overestimated me, that’s all. I should’ve been able to take the hit-”

Jack sat up, frowning. “That check was rough, Bittle. It would’ve taken Holster down. I knew it was a risky play and I called it anyway.” He ducked his face away. “I said I had your back. And I didn’t.”

Sighing, Bitty leaned over and flicked Jack in the head. “Hockey’s a contact sport, Jack. I knew what I was signing up for. It’s not your job to follow me around on the ice and keep me from getting hit. Now stop being silly and go to sleep.”

Jack didn’t lie back down right away, instead giving Bitty a long, curious look. Then, he smiled, a little sadly, and settled back against his pillow.

Bitty followed suit, chest feeling a little bit lighter, and quickly drifted off to sleep.