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It’s hot the day Bitty is due to return to the Haus, the kind of sweltering mid-August heat that tends to make Jack claustrophobic, like the very air itself is trying to hold him hostage. So when Shitty finds him parked in front of a box fan in the kitchen in the dark and asks him to tag along for a beer run, Jack agrees without a second thought. Driving around in Shitty’s beat up hatchback with the windows down knocks it all loose: the air, the knot in Jack’s chest, and the ever-looming dread of his final year lurking just around the corner.
So they return having taken more than twice as long as necessary, but just long enough that Jack’s mood is very much improved. He has a case of beer in each hand as he approaches the front door, when suddenly Bitty steps out onto the porch, the screen swinging open with a creak, and retracting with a sharp little snap. At least Jack thinks it’s Bitty, but he slows down his steps while he looks, because Eric’s in a tiny pair of blue and white running shorts and a yellow crop top, and he’s tan all over. Then there’s his hair, buzzed short above his ears and combed over longer on the top, lightened significantly from the summer sun. His fringe falls over his freckled forehead and he has huge sunglasses on, and he just looks so-- different. Jack tries to make sense of the way his heart rate kicks up a notch, then again when Bitty spots him, smiling huge and waving enthusiastically. Jack looks down as he breaks into a grin, and Bitty descends the porch steps quickly to meet him in the yard.
“Hey Captain, need some help with that?” Bitty asks, and he takes one of the cases of beer right from Jack’s hand.
“Thanks, Bittle,” Jack smiles.
He follows him back into the Haus, and Bitty’s rambling at him already, asking a hundred questions about Jack’s summer and his class schedule and giving Jack no chance at all to answer. They go directly to the kitchen, and Jack still can’t figure out how Bitty bakes things so quickly, but there’s already a pie on a cooling rack on the counter. The air is sweet with the sugary scent of pastry and cinnamon, and there’s a crowd gathered to investigate-- Shitty, Ransom and Holster.
“I’m gonna need y’all to take about ten steps back,” Bitty announces to the group, hefting the case of beer onto the counter. “That pie is not for you.”
They all look up before making a hasty retreat, and Bitty looks proud when he turns around to smile at Jack again. He pushes his sunglasses up onto the top of his head.
“Happy belated birthday,” Bitty says, and then takes Jack’s remaining case of beer from his hands. “It needs to cool a little longer, but.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “The pie’s for me?”
“Well duh,” Bitty replies, and then busies himself with tucking beer into the fridge. “It’s the best of both worlds, okay? Maple sugar-crusted apple.”
Jack stands there, empty-handed now, and stares at the line of Bitty’s spine where his lower back is exposed.
“Thanks, Bittle,” he says for the second time in five minutes.
The party that night is, by Haus party standards, a fairly low-key affair. Jack decides again he’s not going to drink, and once there’s a decent crowd gathered, he starts slipping away to his known hiding places. He ends up in the kitchen just after midnight though, seeking out another piece of his maple sugar-crusted apple pie. The kitchen is blessedly empty, the majority of their guests having opted to retreat to the cooler night air outside.
Jack’s just standing there thinking about Bitty, spearing a bite of pie and tucking it into his mouth and savoring the spicy apples and the tender crust and the warm finish of maple sweetness. Like magic, Eric appears in the doorway, red plastic cup in his hand.
“Oh hey,” he grins as he steps closer, and his cheeks are pink enough that Jack knows he’s at least a few beers in. “I was looking for you.”
“You were?” Jack says, and Bitty leans back against the counter beside him, their arms touching.
“Well-- kind of. I mean I noticed that you left. You okay?”
He can tell Bitty is looking at him, and he keeps his gaze firmly fixed to his plate. “I think so,” Jack says, using the long edge of his fork to scrape up a bit of filling where it fell out. Bitty’s shoulder is pressed against his bicep, all warm and solid.
“Gosh, I can’t wait to get back on the ice at Faber,” Bitty says. “Thought about it all summer long.”
“You cut your hair,” Jack says, his fork sinking into the pie again.
“I didn’t think you noticed,” Bitty says, and Jack can hear the smile in his voice. He nudges Jack with his elbow, jostling him a little.
“Course I did,” Jack replies. “It’s good. You look good, Bits.” He risks a glance sideways, and Bitty is grinning up at him. Jack shifts his weight so their arms are pressed together again. “We can skate tomorrow, if you want.”
“Could we?” Bitty asks excitedly. “I don’t have any plans. Well, I mean, not set ones. The boys were talkin’ about maybe trying to barbecue or something but I doubt that’ll happen before supper time. Especially with the way Ransom and Holster are tearing through that beer tonight-- oh, that reminds me, I came in here for something, what was it? I lost it. I’m useless.”
Bitty slumps a little, and Jack holds his plate and fork in one hand so he can put his arm around Bitty’s shoulders.
“I’ve missed you, Bittle,” Jack says, out of nowhere, surprising himself.
Bitty turns toward him, slipping his arms around Jack’s waist in an awkward side-hug, squeezing tight. Jack tilts his head so his cheek is resting on Bitty’s hair, and he closes his eyes.
“Me too,” Bitty mumbles, and Jack hopes that Bitty can’t tell how his heart starts to thud a little harder again.
To his credit, when Jack wakes him up the next morning at a quarter to six to go skate, Bitty doesn’t complain once. He doesn’t say much at all until they’re laced up and out on the ice, gliding across the long rectangles of early-morning sunlight that stretch against the surface. Jack’s in a grey v-neck t-shirt and dark blue track pants, and Bittle’s in skinny jeans and a red hoodie, the loose oval of it framing his face. The white strings of it swing as he takes off, speeding to the far end before spinning sharply and heading back just as fast as he went.
“Feels good to be back here,” Bitty says, falling into stride beside Jack as they make a lap around the rink.
“Yeah,” Jack says, almost a sigh, but a happy one. For the first time, the thought of the approaching season sparks a little glimmer of hope inside him. He tends to be the most optimistic in the mornings.
Bitty hurries ahead enough so that he can turn around, skating backward so he can tell Jack stories from his job at summer camp, silly things that his mom did and said, and all the latest Bittle family gossip. He’s got his hands tucked in the front pocket of his hoodie, and he keeps slowing down when he gets excited about his anecdote, and Jack drifts closer until Bitty speeds up again. They make lap after lap like that, and Jack can’t remember the last time he smiled so much, so genuinely.
Bitty glances back over his shoulder just as they approach the long stretch beside the boards again, and before he’s even thought it through, Jack speeds up, suddenly crowding in close.
“No--” Bitty says suddenly, putting his hands up in self-defense. “No, no, no-- don’t--”
“Don’t what?” Jack says, and he takes hold of Bitty’s hands, lacing their fingers together.
“No checking,” Bitty says, his eyes still wide and panicked. “You promised.”
Jack steers Bitty toward the boards, but slowly, keeping a tight hold of his hands. “Just trust me, okay?”
When he gets Bitty up against them, bumping to a halt, Jack drifts in until they’re pressed close. Bitty looks up at him, and his eyelashes are all golden, and there’s a swath of freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose, like the sun itself just decided to take up residence there on his face. His lips are parted slightly in surprise, and Jack ducks in to press his mouth to them, slow enough that if Bitty really wanted to, he could protest. Jack pulls back slowly, the sound of his pulse rushing through his ears, and Bitty’s eyes are closed.
“Jack,” Bitty says, all thin and breathless.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Jack replies.
Bitty just tries to stretch taller, seeking out another kiss, his eyes flying open when one of his skates slips suddenly and he flails a bit to stay upright. Both of them laugh a little, and Jack leans in to kiss him again, holding him tighter.
When he finally pulls away it’s only to catch his breath a little, to snag the abundance of excitement before it becomes too much to bear. He keeps one hand linked with Bitty’s, tugging him out onto the rink again, starting another lap. Bitty’s hoodie sleeves fall all the way to his knuckles, but he clasps Jack’s hand and doesn’t let go.
“So what happens now?” Bitty asks as they glide into the curve.
“I dunno,” Jack says honestly, turning his gaze toward the windows. “Breakfast, maybe?”
“What I mean is,” Bitty says, quiet and careful. “Do you-- are you my boyfriend now?”
Jack didn’t think that far ahead, not even close. He ponders his response for a moment before answering. “Maybe we could, you know, go on a date?”
When he looks over, Bitty is smiling. “I’d like that, very much.”
“I was serious about breakfast, though,” Jack adds.
“Well, duh,” Bitty replies.