#jackshitty fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

parvuls · 3 years

Text

fic: kintsugi

summary: The day after brunch at Jerry's, Jack and Shitty have a raw, much-needed conversation over the phone. Some issues need to be addressed before they can head down the road to patching things up.

word count: 6k

tags: year 3, post-comic 3.12, phone calls, friendship, canon compliant, apologies, introspection

notes: based on the prompt ‘providence + family’ by @atlasthemayor.

read on ao3

Jack’s stomach churns strangely when he sees Shitty’s name flash on his caller ID.

It’s a disconcerting feeling, a slight jolt and twinge in his gut, both reminiscent of when anxiety coils low inside him and distinctive in some way. It makes Jack frown and set his heated dinner aside on the coffee table with the hand not holding the buzzing phone. He’s not sure he ever had this foreign reaction to Shitty calling him before, so after a brief moment of puzzlement he decides to write it off as a side effect of the exhaustion weighing him down.

The phone vibrates once more in his palm before Jack slides his thumb across the screen to accept the call. “Hey, man,” he greets, balancing the phone between his cheek and shoulder so he can pick his food up again. Shitty won’t mind the sound of his chewing, probably. “Staying up late to study?”

It’s coming up to half past eleven on Saturday night. Jack dragged himself through the front door and into the dark apartment at around ten forty-five, his muscles sore and his body beat from over twenty minutes of ice time. He dumped his gear bag in the entryway next to his shoes and headed straight into the kitchen without flicking any of the lights on, shoved one of his frozen meal plan boxes of grilled chicken and brown rice into the microwave without pausing.

The yellow glow of the microwave was the sole source of light in the room as Jack strapped an ice pack to his shoulder, still aching from Ericsson’s high-stick, stuck Bitty’s handwritten PB&J note on the fridge, and waited. The only thing he really wanted to do was fall face-first into his bed, text Bitty that he was home, maybe break down the game over the phone if Bitty wasn’t too busy -- but his regimen had taken precedence. He knew he needed to put in some calories and take care of his pain if he wanted to get up for his six a.m. run. By the time his phone started ringing, Jack was mechanically chewing on his food in the living room. His couch was more comfortable than a dining chair, plush upholstery engulfing his tired limbs, and it only distantly occurred to him that there was something sad about eating dinner alone in the dark.

Shitty’s call, when it came, was unexpected.

“Hate to tell you this, but eleven thirty is not late," Shitty replies, the familiar timbre of his voice tinny due to cell reception. It's an effect Jack is closely acquainted with after months of daily phone calls with Bitty, so he knows that's not all there is to it when he notices something else amiss about Shitty’s voice; like the rhythm of his speech is slightly off. He registers it as abnormal, but before he can figure out if he wants to ask about it Shitty carries on talking. “How’s everything going for ya?”

“Okay,” Jack answers plainly, piling rice onto his fork. He doesn't have the energy to think of anything more gripping than the truth. “Eating post-game dinner.”

Shitty pauses on the other side of the line, makes the creases in Jack’s forehead deepen. Something feels weird, but Jack doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it if nothing is really wrong. Sometimes people act in ways that confuse him for any number of reasons, and he’s not always good at telling them apart.

“Yeah, yeah, I saw,” Shitty says, clearing his throat quietly. “The Red Wings. Great game, brah. Your shoulder doin’ okay?”

Jack’s mouth slows down his chewing on instinct, and he swallows the rice with difficulty. Shitty never just tells Jack great game. Shitty talks about hockey like he’s the narrator in a porn film, with an enthusiasm unmatched by anyone Jack has ever met. Shitty once sang Jack’s praises for half an hour after a game against UND in which Samwell lost 2-0. That, combined with his tone -- something isn’t quite right, Jack thinks. He's more confident in that observation now, but his brain feels slower than usual and he’s too tired to connect any dots.

“Euh, yeah. I’ll be alright. Really have to shake it off and make sure I’m all there on Monday night, eh? We’ve had a good streak, but it’s always about how we play the next game. We’re getting better as a group.”

Jack’s tongue slips into hockey speak naturally before he can do anything to stop it, but instead of chirp him, Shitty makes a vague, throaty noise and doesn’t comment. “Yeah, I get what you mean. You and Mashkov really seem to hit it off out there, heh. Uh, listen -- I know you had to drive back for your practice, but. We didn’t really get the chance to talk much yesterday, and I guess…” Shitty pauses again, and Jack lowers the box to rest against his knee, apprehensive. “Well. D’ya have a moment? Because I’d really fuckin’ like to apologize for some shit.”

Jack’s hand clenches convulsively around his fork, a piece of chicken breast sliding off the tines and falling back into the box with a dull noise.

The early morning and then noon hours of Friday were an emotional blur. From the anxiety spike when Jack stepped off the plane to the car ride on the flooded highway; from the sleep-deprived, tearful conversation in Bitty's narrow bed to the cathartic brunch at Jerry’s with their friends. Jack drove straight home after his nap and stepped out of the car back in Providence to find his phone overflowing with chirping text messages. The chirps haven’t really died down over the weekend, but Jack doesn’t mind them, and he doesn’t think Bitty does either; it feels good to have a subject that’s been burdening them both treated lightheartedly. Trusting their friends with this secret isn't as heavy on Jack's shoulder as he feared it might be.

Shitty is the only one who hasn’t written much in the group chat. He and Jack talked briefly on the lawn outside the Haus after the six of them had returned from brunch, and then they resorted to roughhousing when the mood got too somber. Jack hoped that it’d be enough to put everything behind them, but if he pushes himself to think it through, a part of him has known that this conversation was coming. It wasn’t like Shitty to let things go so easily.

Jack's glad that Shitty can't see his face right now, because he can feel himself grimacing. He hopes his brief silence hasn’t been too revealing. “Shits -- it’s cool, yeah? We’re cool.”

“I don’t think we are, actually,” Shitty argues. His voice is growing strained. “You don’t have to talk, even --”

“C’mon, man, there’s really not much to say. Everything is good now --”

“Jack,” Shitty cuts him off, and the tone of his voice shuts Jack right up. Shitty can get wrapped up in things, can lose himself in long tirades about rights and wrongs and justice, but this tone sounds different than it has through the hundreds of rants Jack has been witness to. Shitty sounds dead serious. Jack blinks, and realizes: this isn’t Shitty being his normal self. He’s genuinely torn up about this. “Just -- will ya let me…? Please.”

“I…” Jack starts, but he doesn’t really know what he wants to say. He’s never been skilled at these kinds of conversations, and the odd feeling he got when he saw Shitty’s name on his screen squeezes even tighter than before, making him feel slightly nauseated.

“It’s -- I --. Jack, what I said in front of everyone during the home opening kegster… and all the other times I... That was some fucked up shit. I fucked up real bad, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jack tries again, but this time the words feel so wrong in his mouth that he has difficulty shaping his tongue around them. It tastes like an outright lie, although he wasn’t aware he was even lying at all.

Jack hadn’t recognized the churning in his gut until now, but Shitty’s steadfast apology intensifies the feeling and dredges up what Jack has clearly failed to notice. He wants to tell Shitty that there’s no need to apologize, but apparently that’s just not true; it’s only now that he realizes the sharp response he had to Shitty’s call is bitterness. Jack’s feelings actually were hurt by Shitty. Maybe he should be startled by discovering wounded feelings he wasn’t cognizant of for over a month, but if this past summer has taught Jack anything, it’s that sometimes he manages to overlook the most substantial of things.

“-- and it’s not enough to be chill about it now,” Jack blinks out of his thoughts and tunes back into Shitty’s distressed train of words, coming chopped and fast through the ear speaker. “I should’ve -- before, too, I should’ve created a safe enough fuckin’ environment --”

“You were always talking to us about creating safe environments, Shitty,” Jack interrupts him. His voice sounds hollow to his own ears, and he puts his fork in the box and the box back on the coffee table to free his hands. He��s still making sense of his own mental state, and he knows that whatever is going to come stumbling out of his mouth will be barely coherent at best. “It’s not -- it was just that -- you’re always saying it’s important, and then, câlice… It was hard enough, hiding, and then with you as well --.”

Everyone was allowed to be queer, for Shitty. Jack remembers how in sophomore year Shitty marched into the Haus, ecstatic about the five different people who had come out to him that same week, babbling about how great it was and how different Samwell was to Andover. He mentioned sexuality labels Jack had never even heard of, had accepted so effortlessly those borderline strangers who had trusted him with their identities. Shitty has always been the most open-minded person Jack knows, the one to talk endlessly about the inherent toxicity of heteronormativity and to lecture the team about never labeling others without their consent.

Jack’s not always good at pinpointing the root of his own feelings, but the moment he thinks of that thrilled look on Shitty’s face almost three years before, he knows, like a lightbulb going off, why he was hurt. Because it seemed like everyone was allowed to be queer, for Shitty -- except Jack. Like Jack wasn’t queer enough to warrant the same respectful treatment. Like he wasn’t really allowed to be queer at all. Jack had never felt particularly close to his sexuality, but when even Shitty assumed so assuredly that he couldn’t be anything but straight, it stung. He just hasn’t registered it until now.

There’s a split second of tense silence, and then Shitty says, “I didn’t even know you were having a hard time, brah,” the pace of his speech slowed down.

Jack’s eyebrows draw together. His right hand, absentmindedly, pinches the fabric of his suit pants and rubs the smooth texture between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t -- what does that mean? It’s not like you asked.”

Shitty’s breath comes out in a harsh exhale, crackles in Jack’s ears. Jack can hear springs squeaking and sheets ruffling, the sounds of Shitty dropping heavily onto his bed. “Brah. How was I supposed to ask? You never pick up the damn phone anymore. Shit, man, I know fuck all about your life lately."

The fabric of Jack’s pants stretches in the tight grip of his fingers as he blinks, takes in Shitty’s accusation, and realizes he’s right all in the space of two and a half seconds. He can recall a few missed calls that he never got around to returning, but it didn’t seem so important at the time. He was, and still is, in the midst of his first NHL season, trying so hard not to get so lost in hockey and his own worries that he drowns in it and forgets to be a good boyfriend to Bitty.

It never occurred to him that he was investing so much effort into being a good boyfriend to Bitty that he wound up forgetting to be a good friend to everyone else. He knew Shitty and he weren’t talking as often, that things between them haven’t been great lately, but the truth is he had so many other things to worry about that he let it drift to the margins of his mind.

Jack lets go of his pants, rubs his palm down his thigh to smooth the creases away. His momentary bout of anger deserts him with the release of a slow, purposeful exhale. "You’re right. I’m sorry."

"No, no, shit,” Shitty says immediately, switching back from resigned to guilt-ridden in the matter of nanoseconds. “Don’t -- damn it, don’t apologize, oh shit, I’m victim blaming aren’t I, I totally didn’t mean to put this on you --"

"Shitty --"

There’s the sound of bed springs creaking again and then loud footsteps hitting a floor, which Jack assumes are the background sounds of Shitty rushing up from his bed to pace the length of his room. He’s seen Shitty do it across his small room in the Haus countless times, and it feels strange now, having it happen forty miles away. "It’s just, you know, I tried and you didn’t pick up and I get it, fuck do I get it, remember how in freshman year you forgot to talk to anyone for like a week during the preseason stress?"

Jack cracks a tiny, shaky smile that he knows won’t make it into his voice. His first few months at Samwell were a horrible time, fraught with loneliness and frequent panic attacks, too absorbed in thoughts of the path he was supposed to take to function in the path he ended up taking. His therapist helped with that, later, but before that there was Shitty. Determined to be Jack’s friend for no good reason at all. "Yeah. And you broke into my dorm room to make sure I wasn’t dead."

"So it wasn’t like I was offended you didn’t pick up or some bull,” Shitty hurries to finish, “I know you, I get it --"

But that’s wrong, Jack thinks, frowning deeply. Surely, Shitty must know that. "Shitty."

"What? No, seriously. It’s not the first time it happened, and with the pressure of playing in the league and all, I totally get it -- it’s just --"

"You’re allowed to be offended, Shits." Jack says quietly. His hand reaches up to curl around the phone and tug it away from the crook of his shoulder, but his muscles remain tense even when his shoulder drops down. His other hand is still fisted on top of his thigh and the purple shadows cast by the faint stars outside the windows heighten the grooves of his veins. "I know I -- I know it can get difficult -- with me --"

"No," Shitty interrupts, sounding even more emotional than before, a penitent snowball that keeps on rolling down the hill. Shitty’s capable of rolling on forever, if he thinks something is truly wrong. "No no no, Jack, I didn’t mean --"

"Shut up, Shitty." Jack says firmly. He preserves, reminding himself forcefully that the sentiment he wants to establish is too important to be derailed by Shitty’s atonement. His hands have begun to shake slightly, but he needs to get it out. "I know I’m worthy of love and friendship and all the crap you were about to say. I’m just saying --. You’re allowed to be hurt even if it isn’t new behavior. Just because I -- my anxiety -- y’know. If it hurts you, you’re allowed to be hurt."

The other side of the line goes quiet for a long moment, not even the sound of breathing coming through. Jack closes his eyes, counts to ten, tells himself that it’s Shitty and that the two of them are going to figure it out. Fighting with Shitty has always been mentally hard on Jack, has always felt like shaking the only foundation Jack had to stand on. It didn’t happen often, but Jack tries to remind himself that whenever it did they always came out intact on the other side. Arguing was a healthy way to understand your needs and the needs of the other person, his therapist told him.

When Shitty speaks, he sounds awed. "Christ on a cracker, man. That was fuckin’ wise. That Bits’ influence on you?"

Jack pauses to consider it seriously, taking time to recompose his brain. Being with Bitty -- it has taught him so much, about his own feelings and others' and how to put them into words, the importance of open communication. He told Shitty that the previous day after Jerry's -- feelings could easily not occur to him, even if he felt them very strongly. He coexisted with them without acknowledging their existence a lot of the time, and this phone call is only one example of it. Being with Bitty, having to be aware and give name and give value to his own feelings to make things work between them, has changed the way he interacted with his emotions. Made him understand himself better. He’s not at all sure he would’ve been capable of articulating himself in a conversation like this if not for the progress Bitty and he have made together.

But being aware of his worth as a person, and learning that his disorder didn’t define him but shouldn’t be brushed aside either, that wasn’t Bitty. “No, Shits. That’s your influence on me.”

This silence is even longer than the one before it, and then it’s broken by muffled sniffles on the other side. Jack's heart leaps, panic building in his chest -- but then Shitty says, throat choked up, “I thought -- fuck, Jack, this is gonna sound so motherfucking stupid. But I thought you didn’t, y’know. Need me anymore. I know this is on me too, I’m barely keeping my head above water here and the whole -- fuckin’ Harvard situation, it’s not… but each day we didn't talk and I saw your game scores, or I would see those Falcs vids… it looks like you have this spankin’ fuckin’ brand new life that I know shit about. And you’ve got Mashkov, and St. Martin, and…”

Jack can’t find adequate words for a long moment, and once he opens his mouth he’s surprised to hear his voice is thick, surprised to feel hot tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. “Shitty. Tater is great. And Marty is great, and -- Thirdy, and all of them. But.”

None of them are you, he wants to say, but that sounds too dumb to utter out loud. That’s not how Shitty and he talk to each other, or at least, it’s not how Jack talks to Shitty. Shitty is good at phrasing his feelings in ways Jack can handle, but Jack can’t ever make the right words come out of his mouth.

There’s another pause, his mind blanking, and then he says, “Tater didn’t make me sign a friendship contract.”

Shitty snorts, but it isn’t a happy sound. “Jacko --”

“No. Shits --. Tater didn’t make the effort to be my friend even when I was doing everything I could to push him away. He didn’t drag my ass to the Haus my freshman year after I hadn't talked to anyone but faculty in two weeks. He didn’t argue with Bergey until we were banked together on every roadie and was heartbroken when no one spread rumors about us hooking up.”

That shot goes wide. “Oh fuckity fuck, Jack, I’m a fucking dickhead --”

“Bordel de merde, Shitty, will you fucking listen?” Jack rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose, feels his skin crease between his brows. “Tater didn’t make me go to Gender in Warfare in Early 20th Century America because he knew it’d end up one of my favorite classes, or learnt my story about the fire extinguisher and the football team by heart, or -- or have been defending me behind my back since the first week he knew me. Tater’s great. I’m -- you know, uh, thankful, for having people on the Falcs. I didn’t think it could be -- after the guys at Samwell, no team would ever be the same.”

“Yeah,” Shitty says, sadly, in the tone of someone who knows exactly what Jack means.

Jack’s throat bobs when he swallows, chest aching. “And they’re great. But Tater -- or Marty, or any of them -- they’re not...”

None of them are you, Jack wants Shitty to hear, gripping his pants in his hand again to balance himself. He doesn’t know how to say it in a way that would make Shitty hear him. None of them could ever be you.

There’s once again silence between them, only interrupted by Shitty’s quiet sniffles and the erratic beating of Jack’s heart. His phone is too warm on his ear, clammy from sweat smearing over the screen, but he can’t bring himself to put Shitty on speaker. It feels like they’re too far apart to have this conversation already, like Shitty should be sitting here on the couch next to Jack in flimsy underwear like he was every time they needed to talk like this over the past four years.

After a long moment, Shitty makes an ambiguous rasping noise and admits, “I was jealous.”

Jack winces. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Yeah, I mean, apology accepted, whatever, just. I was jealous they got to be there for you every day, really be there in the moments I used to live through with you that I now know zilch about. I was used to that being me.” He then adds, much more grimly, “Except apparently I sucked ass at being there for you at all when it counted.”

Jack sighs. They veered off topic to talk about something Jack considers more important, but now they were back to that and he knows in the pit of his stomach that they, both of them, won’t be able to move on until they talk this through. This is a conversation they need to have, even if it would be easier for Jack to not have it at all. “Shitty. I need to tell you something.”

The thing about Shitty is that he has faults like the rest of them, but Jack has always known that he’d drop anything if Jack needed him. He knows because it goes unconditionally both ways. Shitty’s voice goes immediately even and he wastes no time before saying, “I'm listening.”

Jack swallows. It feels -- heavy, on his breastbones. It didn’t before, it didn’t at Jerry's. He doesn’t remember this weight from years ago, when he first talked about it with his parents, and then -- later, too much later -- with his therapist. His chest was so laden with other concerns then that there was no room for anything more, and this burden was only ever an afterthought. At Jerry's he was thinking of Bitty, of Bitty’s happiness and Jack's own happiness with him, and the necessity of the action for their joint happiness. It didn’t leave any space for this weight.

Now he can feel the weight. It’s stupid. Shitty already knows, and besides, it’s Shitty. Jack knows Shitty so well that he can practically predict the exact words he will use, and even if he couldn’t, he knows Shitty would never turn him away. Yet his chest feels tight, like he’s holding in all of his air, and his fingers are again shaking against his thigh. “Shitty, I'm dating Bittle.”

Shitty makes a baffled sound, clearly not expecting this choice of confession. “I -- yeah, dude, I know.”

“I’m dating Bittle,” Jack reiterates determinedly, eager to get it over with. “He’s a guy.”

Shitty goes quiet for a moment, and then he says, voice low, “Okay.”

Jack wasn’t sure he was going to say it, but now that they’re here, this is something he wants Shitty to know. “He’s not the first guy I’ve been with.”

Shitty’s sharp intake of breath at this is audible even over the phone, but other than that he doesn’t react outwardly. Jack's shaking hand lifts up to rub over his chest while he waits for Shitty to say something, and Shitty doesn’t keep him waiting long. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

That’s almost exactly the reaction Jack expected to hear, but for some reason he doesn’t feel settled. “It never came up before.”

“That’s okay, buddy,” Shitty reassures him. Jack’s not sure what Shitty is thinking, if he’s thinking anything at all. This probably isn’t as big a deal to him as it feels like to Jack.

Jack frowns down at the shadows of his socked feet in the dark, thinks it over, and then corrects, “No, actually -- no. It never came up with anyone else. But I did think of telling you. More than once. You were the only one… but I had reasons not to. Or, I thought I did.”

“That’s still cool, brah,” Shitty hurries to interrupt. “You don’t have to --”

“No, because,” Jack sighs, trails off midsentence. He doesn’t want Shitty to make this easy for him, to allow Jack to take the exit he’s being offered. He knows they could stop the discussion right there and Shitty would never say a thing, but he doesn’t want this to hang over their friendship for the rest of time, and he knows that it could if he doesn’t force himself to dig deeper. “Because when you assumed that if I had someone it must’ve been a girlfriend, it hurt. I didn’t realize before -- I thought I was upset because Bitty was hurt, and I hurt him even more with my reaction, and it mattered more at the time. But it hurt. And that’s not entirely fair to you, because you had no reason to think otherwise. Because I didn’t tell you.”

There’s more rustling in the background, and Shitty talks over him before the last word is out of his mouth. “Jack, no, you’re under no obligation to disclose your identity to anyone and it doesn’t give them any right to assume -- I assumed and it was so fucking wrong --”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees, because it was. He’s not trying to argue that it wasn’t. Shitty was wrong, but that’s not the point Jack is trying to make.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Shitty sounds contrite, and Jack can almost imagine the look on his face now. The small wrinkle in his forehead, the downward slope of his mustache, the sharp angle of his jaw. Shitty always looks older when he feels guilty about something. “So fuckin’ sorry.”

“That’s okay, man. Eh. Well, it's not, but it's forgiven.” And it is, Jack knows. He’s already forgiven Shitty, would have to try so hard not to forgive Shitty. They’ve hurt each other in the past and they’ll most likely hurt each other again in the future, but it’s never done intentionally. Shitty’s friendship is worth all of this crap and always has.

“I guess I just... “ Shitty lowers his voice, and Jack has to press the phone harder into his ear to hear him. “Fuck, I don’t want to excuse my actions, this does not in any way justify the shit I said. But I guess, in my mind, even though I know you should never assume about anyone, I did think that because it’s you… that you’d tell me. If there was ever anything to tell.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says this time. He’s not sure Shitty knows this, but this is what he was trying to get to before. What Shitty is saying is reasonable even if it isn’t ideal.

“Fuck no. What the fucking fuck are you apologizing for, you idiot --”

“I’m not apologizing for not telling you, Shits,” Jack stops him before it becomes another rant. He’s growing tired of using so many words at once, feeling the toll of the unexpected emotional turmoil he’s dragging his overworked body through. “I know what you said was wrong, and I know I didn’t have to tell you. I’m saying I’m sorry if you were hurt by it. And I'm apologizing if it made you feel like I didn't trust you, or. Or some shit.”

Another pause follows Jack’s words, and he has to stifle the urge to collapse sideways into the couch and shove his face into a cushion until everything goes away. This conversation, as necessary as it is, doesn’t come naturally to either of them. They’ve been talking about their feelings for too long now and it’s starting to get awkward and overwhelming.

“I’m not saying I wasn’t super touched by your previous comment,” Shitty says, suddenly. “Because stereotypical masculinity is complete bullshit and I’m not ashamed to admit I teared the fuck up. But Jack -- Bitty has done some serious work on you. Or, like, you know, healthy relationships and all, you two worked on yourselves with each other to be better and all that, but. Man, I don’t think that’s a distinction you would’ve made six months ago.”

Jack considers it. The idea of someone’s hurt being valid even if the reason for it didn’t make sense probably isn’t a concept he would’ve been able to grasp, or at least would not have paid much thought to. Looking back, he was probably hurt dozens of times by little comments in the Haus, or things he heard around campus, or moments of feeling left out by his team; but when the reason for his hurt wasn’t completely logical it was harder for him to allow himself that pain. He would usually distract himself from it, instead. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

“But can I just say again -- I'm so fucking sorry for being a heteronormative jackass. I’m sorry for hurting you, I’m sorry for hurting Bits, I’m sorry for --”

Esti de câlice de tabarnak. Jack drops his face into his palm and sighs over the string of Shitty’s rapidly escalating apologies. Jack is fully aware that Shitty is just going to apologize until they’re both old and gray if Jack doesn’t stop him. “Shitty, can you knock it?”

Shitty hesitates, but the flood of his words stops. “I miss you,” is what he says eventually.

Jack drops his hand down, leans his weight on his elbows and blinks at the dark room. Shitty used to tell him that all of the time. When they were apart on school breaks; when they were separated on roadies; when Jack had two lectures and a senior workshop on Wednesday nights and Shitty wouldn’t see him for several consecutive hours. Shitty’s affection was always abundant and inescapable, and Jack didn't know it was something he was lacking until he finally hears it. “I miss you, too, man.”

Shitty lets the gravity of it, the seriousness in Jack's voice settle between them, the earnestness he wouldn’t usually hand over easily when they were back at school. And then he says, “It’s hard as fuck, man. It’s hard to admit that it’s hard, too. It’s hard to see Lards’ pics from kegsters I can’t attend anymore, and it’s hard to find friends in this pretentious shithole full of pretensions dicks, and -- Harvard is fucking hard, Jack. And I hate being away from you guys, but I don’t wanna bring you down with my sad. You assholes are my goddamn family, there’s nothing that’s ever gonna replace that. It sucks knowing that I'm stuck here. I miss you so much it drives me fuckin’ insane.”

Jack knows, instantly and wholeheartedly, what Shitty is talking about. He’s living his dream and he loves the Falcs and he’s sincerely grateful for all of it even on his worst days. But sometimes stepping off the ice after a grueling practice and getting pictures of Bitty, laughing with Holster and Ransom on the ice at Faber -- it aches somewhere deep inside him. Sometimes he lies awake in foreign hotel rooms in foreign cities, and while most nights he longs for nothing more than Bitty’s presence, others he closes his eyes and wishes Shitty was there to crawl into his bed again. Sometimes he puts on his jersey before games and imagines the blue and yellow are red and white. His team from Samwell is his family, too, and sometimes missing them feels like missing an amputated limb.

“I wish we got to see each other more,” Jack squeezes out. His windpipe feels strangled, and for a moment he thinks that if he blinks too hard tears might well up again. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so tired his body is shutting down, or because he’s been holding on to more emotions than he previously thought. “I didn’t know --. I feel the same way, Shitty, but I didn’t know you felt like that. I’m sorry we didn’t really talk much lately.”

It wasn’t something Jack was consciously aware of, but he more or less assumed that if Shitty was ever struggling he would just reach out for help. Shitty was always the better one of the two of them at communicating his feelings, at saying when he needed something or was going through a rough time. It never occurred to Jack to reach out and ask because he always figured that Shitty would come to him first. It's a startling realization. He really isn’t as good a friend as Shitty deserves.

“‘S not your fault,” Shitty objects, even though in some ways it really is. But Shitty means it, Jack knows, despite the lingering hints of anxiety. Shitty wouldn’t say it if he didn’t honestly believe it wasn’t Jack’s fault.

“Maybe, but you should make time for the things that matter to you, right? I’ll try to be better about that. I wanna be there for you, too.”

Shitty sighs, and the tails of it turn into a breathy, weary laugh. “Fuck, Jacko, this is a fuckin’ sobfest. Shit, man. Yeah. I’ll try, too. We could Skype, even. You know I miss that mug of yours.”

Jack finally pulls the phone away from his ear, wipes the sweat tracks away and switches the call to speakerphone. His calendar app is full of cute little reminders Bitty leaves anonymously, like 06:30 work hard and have fun! or 11:11 someone is thinking of you. He’s developed a habit of checking his calendar often these past six months, counting down the days until he gets to see Bitty next. He’s sure it won’t be easy, especially with the progression of the Falconers’ season, but from now on he’ll have to make every effort to fit more people into his schedule. Bitty makes him happy, but he’s not the only one who does.

Jack scrolls through the events logged into his upcoming week. He’s got a game on Monday and one at home on Wednesday, and then Thursday is American Thanksgiving. Bitty is throwing together a whole meal for the Samwell team. He told Jack that he’s under no obligation to come if practice time doesn’t allow it, but... “Are you going to Hausgiving on Thursday?”

Shitty curses loudly. “Fuck, I fuckin’ wish, but I don’t know if that’s smart. I’ve got this fuckin’ test coming up. But I promised Lar-- uh --”

Jack smirks, even if it’s only to himself in an empty apartment. Lardo texted him after Jerry’s to let him know that the two of them will exchange deets privately like civilized bros, but Shitty still seems to be under the illusion that he’s fooling someone. Like his heart-eyes haven’t been obvious from space -- and Jack is painfully aware that if he noticed, that really says something. “Lardo, eh? Not getting out of that one.”

He can almost see Shitty’s answering furious blush from all those miles away. “Fuck you, Zimmermann, don’t make this about me. What I was sayin’ is, I wanna be there super freakin’ bad -- we all know I will gladly sell my right leg for Bitty’s cooking --”

“And for Lardo’s company,” Jack chirps, incredibly satisfied with this turn of conversation.

“I will fuck you right up, don’t you think I won’t!” Shitty threatens emptily, even though Jack takes him down every single time. “Seriously. Your bro becomes a pro athlete and suddenly he thinks he’s a goddamn comedian. Anyway. For Bitty’s cooking, I will make an effort. You got team stuff?”

“No,” Jack says with finality, swiping his calendar closed. He always feels better when things are put into action. “I think I’m going.”

“For Bitty?” Shitty asks, most likely trying to chirp Jack back.

“Well. Yes,” Jack says, perfectly honest. He’s not in any way ashamed of how much he wants to be near Bitty all of the time. He doesn’t think he can remember ever being less ashamed of anything in his life. “But also for you. Think you can meet me there?”

Shitty’s quiet. And then he says, “For my best friend? I’ll meet you halfway across the universe, Jackabelle.”

After the two of them hang up the call, Jack doesn’t move, his eyes fixed blindly in the direction of the windows across the room. His food is growing cold on the coffee table, but Jack thinks that at this point he might genuinely be too tired to eat. Whatever little energy he had left after the game was spent on this conversation with Shitty. He doesn’t regret it; they needed to say all of those things. Jack needed to hear all of those things, both so he could forgive Shitty for something he didn’t know he was holding onto, and so he could work on being a more considerate friend.

The game plan is solid, though, Jack decides. Thanksgiving dinner at the Haus will bring the opportunity to be completely honest with his friends after months of hiding a big aspect of his life from them. And it’d be fun, too. Ransom would put together actual charts for the seating arrangement, and Holster would draw everyone into a betting pool on the football game results, and Bitty would inevitably prepare insane amounts of food using the frogs as his sous chefs. He would probably insist that they’d hold hands around the table and say one thing each of them wants to give thanks for, as well.

Jack doesn’t mind American Thanksgiving, but he’s never really seen the point of that ritual. He’s known for a long time now what he's truly grateful for.

#omgcp #jackshitty #jackshitty fic #omgcheckplease #pavfics #i decided not to wait for friendship day because i'm not sure i'll be around to post then #but i hope you'll enjoy this anyway?#i wanted to write something about their friendship in early y3 in forever

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petals42 · 7 years

Text

in which jack and shitty accidentally date

based on a dream I had, I present: a short semi-fic about Jack and Shitty and their day-long, beautiful relationship.

Basically, this is what happens:

At a kegster during their freshmen year, in which Shitty is running around being the life of the party even though he’s a freshman, Jack is also in attendance-- talking to Berger and Marsh in the kitchen. Jack is there, partly to keep an eye on Shitty, partly because he is surprised by how much he does like some of the guys on his team, mostly because they had won today and Jack is in quite a good mood. Not a good enough mood that he is going to risk going into the living room where music is blasting, but in a good enough mood that he is holding a solo cup of beer and chilling in the kitchen, chatting with Berger and Marsh. He is at ease as Jack ever is-- laughing good naturedly as they tease both him and each other and of course, this is when the trouble starts.

The trouble is this: Marsh is drunk and excited that Jack has actually shown up to a Haus kegster and since Jack seems to be in a good mood, Marsh decides to take a risk and ask Jack a Question. More specifically, Marsh rams an friendly elbow into Jack’s ribs and goes:

“Yo, Zimmermann, you like anyone on campus yet?”

A few months prior, that question would have made Jack freeze up. But now, Jack smiles easily (because honestly, it is a rather respectful question-- “like” instead of “fuck”; “anyone” instead of assuming “girl”) and he certainly doesn’t want to get into his romantic history or lack of crushes so he smiles, shrugs, and says

“Nah, love’s shitty,” It’s still friendly and he smiles and asks Berg about his crush that the whole team knows about and that should be that.

The problem, however, is that what Alex Berger and Carter Marsh heard was not “Nah, love’s shitty,” but “I’m in love with Shitty.”

Which, of course, is a much bigger deal.

Berger and Marsh manage to hold it together for the next five minutes. Then Jack disappears to go make sure Shitty is okay and they, as bros do, freak out. Because the whole team knows that Jack and Shitty are best friends and, let’s face it, most of them have heard enough of the Jack/Parse rumors to sorta maybe think that maybe sorta Jack isn’t straight but it is still hell of a way to come out, in their opinion. Guys have been gay on the Samwell Men’s Hockey team before but this would be their first in-team relationship. Like, holy shit!

And, of course, Berger and Marsh think this is both the best and worst thing to ever happen. Worst, because no one really knows Shitty’s sexuality and omg what if this ruins the epic bromance those two have going on?; Best because, hell, Shitty talks so much about all these issues so he must be a little bit not-straight and omg what if they get TOGETHER?!! Berger and Marsh are romantics. That would be fucking adorable.

But also, what if Shitty didn’t love Jack back? That would be fucking terrible.

Berger and Marsh do what any two bros would do in this situation: They decide that they have to tell Shitty. Because he will know what to do with this information.

Fast-forward: The next morning Shitty wakes up, not as hungover as he should be, because the boy is 18 and 18 year olds don’t get hungover. Also, Shitty never drinks as much as people assume, he just is that hyper. So when Shitty wakes up, he checks his phone and sees a text. The text says:

Bro, Jack told us he likes you last night. Like LIKES you likes you. He actually said the L-bomb. We won’t tell anyone. Just thought you should know. -- Berg and Marsh

PS- We have your back. Either way.

Shitty sees these texts, stares, and then calls Marsh because, frankly, this is the most surprised he’s ever been in his life. Somedays he is still amazed that Jack even likes him as a friend. And now he is apparently in love with him? This... this makes no sense.

So Shitty calls Marsh and they tell the story and Shitty thinks: Shit. I think I’m straight. But... Jack is my boy soo... maybe not? Like maybe i don’t have to be... I don’t know. I--

And then Jack calls. Right in the middle of Shitty’s “Could I be in love with Jack?” emotional crisis.

Jack says: Breakfast?

Shitty says: Yeah, sure, bro.

Because Jack and Shitty often go to breakfast just the two of them and Shitty has decided that he is going to Act Natural for as long as possible until he figures his shit out.

However, to back things up, this is how Jack’s morning went: Jack woke up, also hangover free because he only had one beer. Jack checks his phone, just like Shitty. Jack has an e-mail.

The e-mail says that Sports Illustrated wants to run a little piece on him now that he is playing hockey again. The e-mail includes a note from his old publicist saying that she thinks it would be a good idea-- great for his image and all. The e-mail tells him to let her know and maybe get a nice suit since they want to include a picture. The e-mail tells him it will be lowkey and not stressful, but that the reporter is in town only for a day so it will have to be tonight and he should let her know as soon as possible.

The e-mail stresses him out immensely.

Jack’s go-to response to stress at this point is to meet up with Shitty and talk it out.

So the two head off to breakfast. Jack is trying to wait until after Shitty has had coffee before talking it out because he is trying to be a good friend. And good friends don’t open conversations by dumping their problems on other people. Good friends wait until their friends have had caffeine.

Shitty is trying to act As Normal As Possible. Because good friends don’t make their good friend feel bad about their romantic feelings and also good friends prove to their friends that romantic feelings will not make things awkward and also good friends also do their friends the honor of seriously considering whether or not they want to date them.

But, the awkwardness does build. Jack is tense, Shitty is a hair too loud and finally, finally, Jack clears his throat and says,

“So, I- uh- I have something I want to run by you.” Shitty goes perfectly still. Jack finds this alarming and fumbles over his words more, “I mean, I- well, I guess it’s a bit awkward but I-- er I mean you... you always give good advice so, I just wanted to... uh. Well, I mean--”

Shitty decides to put him out of his misery.

“I already know,” he says. Jack’s eyes squint in confusion. “Don’t ask me how,” Shitty continues because maybe Jack was drunk when he told Berger and Marsh?? Whatever, he’s not going to worry about it now. “I mean- I just do. I know.”

“Oh,” Jack says and he is relieved. Because he has been trying to be Not-Famous at Samwell and telling his friend about how Sports Illustrated wants to write an article on him feels awkward, even if it shouldn’t. It’s just to... it’s something famous people do. He’s happy not to have to spell it out. “Okay. Well... what do you think?”

Shitty probably should say: Let me think about it. He probably should say: It’s a big question and I’m not sure yet. He probably should say: I’m worried I’m straight so can we just talk this out.

But Jack looks so worried and concerned and earnest in wanting Shitty’s opinion, that what Shitty says is: “Bro, I think it’s great. Really. I think... Yeah. It’s good.”

“So you think I should go for it?” Jack clarifies.

Again, Shitty should say any of the other responses.

Again, he says: “Yes. Totally.”

Jack pauses and then nods seriously as if all he needed was Shitty’s opinion. It’s... Shitty feels the same rush of warmth he feels whenever Jack makes it clear that Shitty matters. And, okay, before he would have said that Jack is just the first real friend he’s ever had but maybe...

Look, he’s the one who’s always saying that sexual attraction is fluid. Maybe he hasn’t been particularly attracted to men before but, fuck it, Jack is his best bro and dammit, he can push himself across the Kinsey scale if he wants to.

“Alright,” Jack says as if it’s decided. And then picks up his cellphone and sends off a text of some sort. Shitty isn’t sure what’s up with that. Then, “Will you come shopping with me? I need a suit.”

Shitty thinks, Oh my god, he is asking me on a date right fucking now. Jack Zimmermann is not playing around. Shitty says, “Yeah, sure!”

Jack thinks, I hate picking out clothing-- it is nice of Shitty to come help me find something that will look nice. Jack says, “Cool. I’ll call an Uber.”

And they’re off. Because money is still not an issue for Jack, this is how this goes down: Jack pays for them to go to the Nice Mall 45 minutes away and Shitty actually relaxes enough to stop being awkward because the driver gives them the phone and he makes Jack listen to music the kid missed. Jack then takes them into the Fancy Stores and Shitty thinks maybe he can be Jack’s boyfriend because damn the kid looks good in these clothes and he certainly has no problem telling Jack this.

Jack thinks: Oh my god, Shitty is way too nice to me but also this is more fun than it would be if I were alone and okay I am not wearing this shade of green but I think Shitty would look great in it. Jack says: “Dude, you try this on-- it will look better on you!”

Shitty thinks: Goodness gracious, Jack must have forgotten that my dad majorly cut down my allowance after I chose Samwell over Harvard. Shitty says: “Haha no way, bro. Let’s keep the focus on you.”

Jack thinks: Shitty is wasting his whole Saturday with me and he deserves a killer suit. I have lots of money. Jack says, “Dude, go try it on. My treat.”

Shitty thinks: Holy shit, being Jack’s boyfriend involves getting hundreds of dollars worth of clothing. I must not take advantage. I just will say I don’t like anything. Shitty says, “It’s not gonna fit anyway, but if it will make you happy.”

So Jack calls for the person helping them (it’s that kind of store) to bring stuff for Shitty and Jack is learning a lot about how to be a good friend from Shitty and part of that seems to be complimenting your friend as much as possible so Jack is sure to tell Shitty how good he looks.

Shitty finds himself blushing and stammering and protesting because holy shit Jack is laying it on thick and he’s never really thought about the muscle he’s gained playing hockey more seriously but now Jack Zimmermann is telling him seriously, “Your arms look good in that shirt, Shits-- your lifting is paying off” and “Good job with the squats” and “Maybe with clothes like these, you’ll keep ‘em on, eh?”

And then the worst part is Shitty feels himself getting flushed and he thinks the person helping them out gets the idea that Jack is like his sugar daddy or something (and dammit, he is growing some sort of facial hair. Because, sure Jack is a few years older than him but this is ridiculous) and then Jack insists on buying everything that he says looks good and yeah, Shitty, does think he looks good but this is the most stressful first date ever and it doesn’t help matters that they go to the food court and Jack insists on buying there too.

Jack thinks, Shitty is such a good friend and since he is helping me, I should pay for everything. Especially since his dad keeps threatening to cut him off completely.

Shitty thinks, Jack Zimmermann believes in spoiling his partner like holy shit this kid is too much.

Shitty keeps mentally telling himself to chill; Jack tells himself that he really is so much more at ease with Shitty. Jack is having a great day. In fact, Jack thinks, he is having such a good day and so happy and maybe Shitty wouldn’t mind going to the interview with him. Obviously, it would be a bit unorthodox but it wasn’t supposed to be a long column and it’s not like Shitty would be in the pictures just... there... for moral support.

“Hey, Shitty,” Jack says, feeling a bit nervous to be asking. “Would you mind coming with me?”

Shitty blinks at him.

“To dinner,” Jack says. “I think it would be better if you were there.”

Again with the earnestness. And the slightly shy way he looks down. And the nervous way his fingers drum against the table just once.

Shitty blushes down to his toes. He doesn’t know if he’s in love with Jack, but dammit he loves the kid.

“Of course,” he says. Jack beams at him.

“Thanks,” Jack says. “Uh- I know it might be a bit awkward but...”

“Hey, no,” Shitty says. “It’s going to be great.” Jack takes a breath and gives a pained expression.

“I hope so,” he says. “I mean it’s just... it’s been a while, you know?”

A reminder: Jack is talking about being interviewed. Shitty thinks he is talking about dating.

“Psh, it’s you and me, brah!” Shitty says, putting on his best smile. “What could go wrong?”

Jack smiles. “I feel like the answer to that is: A lot.”

“You wound me.”

“You’ll have to not curse so much.”

“What? Why?” Shitty says, half-pretending, half-honestly worried that dating Jack involves cleaning up his dirty mouth.

“It’s going to be a pretty nice restaurant,” Jack says.

“Oh, thank god,” Shitty replies. “As long as it’s not all the time.”

Jack barks a laugh. “No, not all the time. Just tonight.”

Shitty would have assumed that Jack was done with shopping, but they pass a Lush and Shitty exclaims “Oh BATH BOMBS” without thinking about it and, seriously, Jack has some sort of problem because before he knows it, they’ve purchased like $150 dollars worth of bath products and Shitty keeps trying to reassure himself that some of it is for Jack and Jack keeps smiling and saying, “Yes, of course I’ll use it, Shits,” but he is hundo p lying and Shitty knows that it is going to be up to him to use all of this. Unless... oh god, does Jack think that maybe they are going to be using this stuff together??

Shitty is barely holding it together by the time they get home.

Luckily, he gets a bit of a break. He and Jack separate for what’s left of the afternoon (”I gotta get ready” Jack says and Shitty isn’t not quite sure what that means but good lord, if Jack is off to “get ready” for their date, Shitty is going to do the same.)

Of course, figuring it out is a fair bit of stress. But he takes a shower and puts on cologne and, look, this is awkward and probably very unnecessary because he does not think they are going to go this far on their first date because, for fuck’s sake, he’s not going to be ready but he has the extra time so fuck it. He makes sure he is extra clean. Everywhere. Just cause, fuck, who even knows what his life is at this point.

A distant part of his mind knows that he is not being fair to himself. That he needs to talk with Jack about what this means for him and that he is allowed to slow this down if he needs to. That there is a difference between being supportive and not seeing to your own needs. He knows all these things and has preached all these things and yet--

And yet, when he comes down and meets Jack who is wearing the dark royal blue (but not navy) suit that Shitty had said he liked the best and who is looking positively pale with nerves, Shitty promises himself that he will not let Jack down. He is going to give this kid the best first date he’s ever had. He’s going to--

God, Jack looks nervous. Shitty puts on his best smile. Tells himself his emerald suit brings out his eyes.

“Hey, man,” he says. “You ready for this?”

Jack’s smile looks a bit sick. “Uh... Yeah. I mean, I think--” He fumbles for a bit and then gives up talking altogether. He does that sometimes. Shitty knows. Shitty is Jack’s best friend.

Shitty may or may not be Jack’s boyfriend at this point. He’s not sure.

“Dude, it’s gonna be fine,” Shitty says, stepping forward. “What part are you most nervous about?”

Jack blinks at him. “I don’t know? Uh... all of it? Or, I mean-- I guess the end? Like, you know, how it ends up.”

Jack is thinking: I don’t want it to be a big deal. I want it to show that I’m doing okay. I want people to know I’m not a drug addict anymore. I want people to know that I am happy.

Shitty is thinking: The end? Like... the goodnight kiss? Is that what he’s thinking about? Fuck, he looks so nervous. I don’t want this whole date for him to be too nervous to enjoy it. Oh, fuck, I’m just gonna... Fuck, let’s just try this.

Shitty says, “Okay, deep breath, bro,” he reaches out and tangles his hands in Jack’s (and he’s done that part before during panic attacks so he’s all good, for real, and he thinks Jack relaxes a little bit) and hoooollly shit, he’s gonna do this. To be honest, he’s not entirely sure how he feels but Jack has been so nice and bought him so much stuff and he looks so scared and-- “Let’s just skip to the end then.”

And then Shitty kisses him.

It is... not great.

Jack freezes. Shitty had to come up on his toes a little bit because Jack is a smidge taller (and is not leaning down to meet him halfway here) and suddenly Shitty is very uncertain of how long a kiss is supposed to last and also, to be honest, he hasn’t made out with that many people and, crap, this has been going on too long hasn’t it? Especially since Jack still hasn’t moved??

And Shitty hates to admit it, but he thinks he really is quite straight.

Shitty pulls away, wincing a little bit. Just because... shit this was awkward.

Jack is staring at him. Jack is currently thinking: What the fuck is happening?

“I’m so sorry!” Shitty blurts, looking away and covering his face. “Jack, I love you so much, man, but I just-- I think I am straight. I’m so sorry. I-- we can return all the stuff you bought me, because I just-- I just don’t think I can date you!”

“What?” Jack says.

“I tried, really!” Shitty continues. “I’m just-- I’m just fucking straight as shit and you are objectively beautiful and I want to be in love with you but I’m not but I still want to be best friends! Please tell me we can still do that!”

“What?” Jack repeats. “What are you talking about?”

“Berger and Marsh told me,” Shitty says, calming down a little just because he should try to hold it together for Jack here. “That you’re-- that you like me. And I was hoping that--”

“Shitty,” Jack says, cutting him off before he can get ramped up again. “Shitty, I don’t like you. Like that.”

Shitty stills. “What? You don’t?”

“No,” Jack says. “No, they must have misheard me. I mean, I don’t even know where-- Oh.”

“Oh? Oh what?”

“Last night, “Jack explains. “Last night I said that love is shitty. Like... I don’t like anyone on campus. They must have misheard.”

“But then... why are we going on a date?” Shitty is still so confused.

“I have an interview,” Jack says. “With Sports Illustrated. In-- fuck, in half an hour now. They want to do dinner, a couple pictures and a short segment on me now that I am in college. I thought I would have more fun if you came along. I checked with the guy-- Dan Erikson. He said it was okay.”

“So you... you invited me to an interview,” Shitty repeats slowly. “We are dressed up for an interview. With Sports Illustrated.”

“Yes,” Jack says. “I’m sorry, Shits. I just-- fuck, I really have to go. I understand if you--”

“No!” Shitty says. “No, I’ll come! Let’s... Let’s go do an interview!”

The climb in the uber and the beginning is a bit awkward, both trying to put together exactly what happened and then about five minutes in, Shitty starts giggling. And then Jack starts laughing and then they start comparing notes (”Brah, you told me my ass looked good! What was I supposed to think?” “Shitty, you tell me my ass looks good almost every day!” “Well, your butt is like... scary beautiful, you know that.”) And Jack chirps Shitty about his mistake until Shitty starts chirping Jack about how much money he dropped on a friend and how, excuse me, the person at the store totally thought the same thing, and Jack replies that there was still no reason for Shitty to just kiss him and Shitty grumbles about all the extra time he took to take a shower and Jack finds that hilarious and--

In the end, Jack is still to busy laughing at the whole situation to even be nervous about the interview.

For years, Shitty still refers to that day as the best date he’s ever been on.

#check please fanfiction #my fic #BEEN A WHILE HELLO EVERYONE #enjoy this jackshitty date #jackshitty #but jackshitty friendship #miscommunication to the max #check please

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