Chapter Text
All Jack Zimmermann wants to do is go to sleep.
Usually, the high of winning a game keeps Jack awake for hours. If this were any other game, he’d head home and at least stay up rehashing the game with the guys, maybe have a beer and play a few games of Mario Kart. But the day spent with his father, followed by that humiliating moment after the game with the Bittles, has left him exhausted. Not in the way hockey makes him tired, but in a soul crushing, bone deep way that makes him want to curl up under his weighted blanket and sleep for days. The only thing standing between Jack and his bed is …
“Hey! Jack! Wait up! ‘Cause um. I just wanted to say again, good game, and thank—”
Bittle.
Bittle is the last person Jack wants to deal with right now.
“Bittle,” Jack hears himself say. “It was a lucky shot.” It’s mean and undeserved, and Jack knows it. As captain, Jack should have been the first to congratulate Bittle, who has had such a hard time finding his footing this season, on his goal. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not tonight.
He doesn’t look back as he continues his walk back to the Haus, certain that if he does he’ll see something on Bittle’s face he doesn’t want to see.
Back at the Haus, he’s greeted by the smell of spilled beer and the heat of too many bodies. Apparently Ransom and Holster invited the rest of SMH and the entire women’s volleyball team over to celebrate.
“It’s family weekend,” Jack reminds Shitty as he brushes past him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“One drink, brah. Have one beer with us,” Shitty pleads, pressing a bottle into his hand. “We beat those Yale motherfuckers!”
Jack sighs and hands the bottle back to Shitty. “I’m tired.”
“Let him go man,” Jack can hear Holster say as he retreats. “You know he gets like this when his dad is here.”
Jack closes his door with a little more force than necessary. He sheds his clothes, steps into an old pair of sweatpants, and collapses into bed.
*
It’s still dark when Jack wakes, which is normal. Getting up before the sun is all he’s known for years. His head feels a little achy though, like he might be dehydrated or coming down with something. He reaches for the water bottle on his nightstand and takes a large swig before burrowing back into his pillow. It won’t hurt to sleep in a little. He’ll just cut his run short before breakfast with Papa.
When Jack wakes again, it’s to somebody climbing into bed next to him and snuggling close. He opens his eyes. The room is bathed in sunlight but something feels wrong. The light isn’t hitting the floor at the correct angle, his pillow doesn’t smell faintly of Shitty’s weed, his head and body still feel mildly off.
Also, there’s a hand on his waist.
“Get off of me, Shits,” Jack grunts, swiping at the hand, which only digs in, gently poking at the ticklish spot just above his hip. “I mean it. I have to run before breakfast with my dad.”
Shitty stirs beside him and snuggles closer. His hand finds Jack’s hip again and gives his ass a little squeeze. “Let’s not get up just yet, Sweetpea,” a sweet, sleepy voice says. “You deserve to relax on your big day.” His hand creeps lower, toward Jack’s inner thigh, and …
Suddenly, Jack is wide awake. The person beside him — a man, definitely a man — is almost completely buried under blankets, but he doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s not Shitty. Shitty doesn’t call him ‘Sweetpea.’ Shitty is never this handsy. Shitty doesn’t have a Southern accent.
Jack sits up, heart racing, and realizes he not in his room. He’s not in any room he recognizes as being part of the Haus. This room, with its matching furniture, large windows, and soft gray walls, may be larger than the entire second floor.
“Honey?” The man next to Jack shifts and lifts his head. Slowly, a face comes into focus; Jack recognizes the eyes first. Bittle. His teammate Bittle, who is probably gay, but he’s never said anything and Jack has never asked. Even if he had, there’s no way Bittle would know that Jack —
Jack swallows down the bile rising in his throat and it’s all he can do to avoid a full-on panic attack. He can’t let Bittle see him like this. Whatever happened last night seems to have been okay for Bittle, but shame and humiliation eat away at Jack. How could he have let this happen again?
“No!” Jack yelps, breathing heavily. He can’t take his eyes off of Bittle’s. A voice in his head is telling him Bittle has really nice eyes even as a louder voice is telling him that everything about this is wrong.
Bittle places a gentle hand on Jack’s arm and smiles tenderly. “I know we had a late night, but I just put Daniel Tiger on. We still have a little while before —”
Whatever nonsense Bittle is spouting is cut off by a crash and a cry from somewhere down the hall. He frowns a little. “Or not,” he says wryly. “You stay put, I’ll deal with it. We can pick up where we left off after your parents leave tonight.” Bittle gives him a positively dirty smirk and it’s all Jack can do not to scream as Bittle rolls out of bed and pulls a pair of gray joggers over his boxer briefs (Jack is not looking at Bittle’s ass, he is not) before exiting the room.
Jack’s heart is still racing. What the hell did he do last night? He remembers returning to the house, refusing the beer Shitty offered, going straight to bed. Did he go back downstairs for a drink? Did he have more than one? Is that why he can't remember?
He scrambles for the phone on his nightstand. It feels too large in his hand and he fumbles with it for a moment, nearly dropping it, but it unlocks easily enough and he quickly finds his father in his contacts.
“Jack?” Papa’s voice is gravelly, like he’s just woken up. “It’s early, what’s going on?”
Jack tries to swallow down his panic. “Papa, I … I messed up. Bittle, I —” Jack takes a deep gasping breath and tries again. Though they still have a way to go, the fact that he’s about to confess to his father that he got blackout drunk and fucked a teammate is a testament to just how much their relationship has improved. He wouldn’t normally talk to his father about his sex life, but he also doesn’t know who else he can talk to at this point. For all he and Shitty tell each other, Shitty is only partially aware of his history with alcohol and not at all aware of his history of sleeping with blond teammates. No, Papa is the person he needs to talk to right now.
“Jack, slow down, I can’t hear you,” Papa says, and his gentle tone gives Jack time to collect his thoughts. “Can you take a few deep breaths?”
Jack inhales and exhales deeply, eight times. “Bittle and I … I think —” his voice breaks again.
“Did something happen to Bitty or one of the kids?” Papa asks sharply.
Kids? Oh god, what happened last night? Were the other frogs involved?
“I don’t know, Papa,” Jack says, tears beginning to prick behind his eyes. “I don’t remember last night. After the …”
“That must've been some party last night if you can't remember it, eh?”
What? No. Why is his father being so cavalier about this? Jack tries again. “I think I ...”
“Jack. Is Bitty with you? Can you tell me where you are right now?”
“I’m —” All Jack knows is that he’s in a strange room he has no memory of bringing Bittle to.
“Hey, hang on, I just got a text from Bitty,” Papa says. “Wow, lucky you. I’d say in a few seconds you’re going to get a huge —”
“Surprise!”
Jack nearly drops the phone as the door flies open and two tiny things hurl themselves at him, knocking (what’s left of) the wind out of him. Bittle’s standing in the doorway, grinning and holding a tray piled high with what appears to be breakfast: eggs, muffins, a bowl of fruit.
“Papa! Happy birthday!” the larger thing (it’s a child, Jack’s brain helpfully supplies) shrieks.
“Papa birfday!” parrots the smaller child.
“Papa, I think I should call you back,” Jack says, now even more confused than before. Where did Bittle find these kids?
Papa chuckles. “Happy birthday, son. Your mother and I will see you at dinner.”
Jack lets the phone drop to the floor as the children continue to pin him to the mattress.
“All right, you two, let Papa breathe,” Bittle says through laughter. “Carter, would you like to help me serve breakfast?” He winks at Jack. “Someone was so tired after his big party last night he didn’t even notice we got up early to bake.”
The larger child scrambles off the bed and runs toward Bittle, who hands him a muffin. He races back to Jack and climbs onto the bed, more carefully this time. “We made these, Papa,” the boy — Jack isn’t a great judge of age, but he must be about four — says. “Cherry chocolate chip. Your favorite.”
Jack is one hundred percent certain he has never eaten a cherry chocolate chip anything in his entire life.
“My muffin,” the smaller child, who might be a girl, says. She rolls over onto her back and bats dark eyelashes up at Jack.
“Yours is right here, sweetie pie,” Bittle says, crossing the room and setting his tray at the foot of the bed before coming around and sliding back into bed next to Jack. “Carter, hon, sit right here,” he says, making a space between himself and Jack. The little boy climbs over Jack and his sister (?) and settles into the spot. To Jack’s horror, the girl has begun to climb into his lap.
Bittle leans forward and picks three more muffins off of the tray. “See, there’s enough for everyone,” he says as he hands one to each of the children. Immediately, Jack is covered in crumbs as the girl shifts a little and crushes her muffin against his chest.
To be fair, they are adorable children, even Jack can see that. The boy has a cap of golden curls and giant brown eyes. The girl, in contrast, has blue eyes and darker hair, though both have the same dimpled, round cheeks. They’re dressed in coordinating, rainbow-striped pajamas — the boy in soft shorts and a t-shirt, the girl in a one-piece that snaps over her diaper.
“Happy birthday, old man,” Bittle says, and the look he gives Jack terrifies him more than anything else about this morning — the waking up together, the forgetting last night, the children — because it’s a look of pure love.
And also because the words “old man” trigger something. For the first time, Jack really looks at Bittle and sees, beyond the smile and affection, signs that more than just a night has passed. Because when Jack last saw Bittle his hair was longer, his were cheeks slightly fuller, his body was slight and scrawny. The Bittle sitting next to him is still lean and compact but there’s a bit of heft to him now, his clingy t-shirt hinting at the broader chest and solid biceps beneath. And the little lines in the corners of his eyes that Jack initially mistook for smile lines are, he realizes, tiny wrinkles. Now that Jack has noticed it’s impossible not to notice.
“Bittle, you —” Jack’s words catch in his throat. He will very much not think about how attractive he finds Bittle right now.
“You didn’t think last night was the only party you were gonna get, did you?” Bittle bumps his shoulder. “The kids wanted to do something for you too. As soon as everyone is dressed we’re going to the zoo. Get that over with before it gets too hot, then Carter asked if we can go to the pool after Birdy’s nap. Of course, it’s your birthday, so just let me know if you’d rather have a quiet day at home. We have dinner with your parents at five-thirty, and they said they’d keep the kids for the weekend because I got us a room at —”
“Bittle,” Jacks says, hoping his voice conveys every bit of the urgency he feels right now. “How old am I?”
Bittle giggles and bumps shoulders again. “Papa’s so silly, isn’t he?” he asks the kids. “How old is Papa today?”
Next to him, the little boy — Carter — giggles. “Forty-four!” he shrieks, waving his muffin in the air. Crumbs rain down onto the bed.
“Four!” the toddler — Birdy? — in Jack’s lap says.
“No, Birdy, forty-four,” Carter says in exasperation. “Daddy, she keeps saying —”
“I know, Carter,” Bittle says patiently. “Your sister’s little, she’s still learning. Birdy, hon, Carter is four. Papa’s forty-four today.” Bittle primly takes a bite of his own muffin.
“How old are you again, Daddy?” Carter asks.
“Younger than Papa,” Bittle says smugly. He winks at Jack.
Crisse. It seems impossible, but this is too elaborate to be a prank and it doesn’t feel like a dream. It also doesn’t seem to be a mistake. Somehow, this is Jack’s life. A very much planned-for and wanted life, by the looks of it. A happy life.
“Oh! I almost forgot!” Bittle pulls the tray closer and plucks a single blue birthday candle from it. “Birdy, can you put this in Papa’s muffin?”
Jack watches the little girl carefully stick the candle in the top of the muffin while Bittle rummages in the nightstand. “Knew I left one of these in here!” he says happily, brandishing a lighter. “Where’s that muffin?”
“Here!” Birdy says, holding out the now-candle-topped muffin.
“Thank you, Birdy. Can you give that back to Papa? Now, I’m going to light this very carefully while we sing.”
What follows is a hybrid English-French version of the birthday song, sung slightly off key by Bittle and Carter. Birdy sways back and forth and cheerfully singsongs “birfday.”
“Now you have to make a wish, Papa,” Carter says.
“Oh, I think I know what Papa’s gonna wish for,” Bittle says, hand creeping under the blankets and coming to rest on Jack’s thigh.
“What are you gonna wish for?” Carter asks.
Jack swallows hard and looks at the tiny flame burning in front of him. I wish I knew what the hell is going on.