Work Text:
Bitty’s hands shook as he tried to get the key into the lock. He always forgot just how cold northern winters could be after the practically mild chill of Georgia. He struggled with the cold metal for a few long moments before sighing and thumping his forehead onto the solid door. Deep breaths, he reminded himself. The faint prickling sensation behind his eyelids was sharp and sudden.
He just wanted to be curled up in bed and covered by an absolute mountain of blankets, and he wanted it about three days ago. But family obligations and long flights had made that impossible, and now, he was so close. If it wasn’t for his shaking fingers, he’s sure he would have been in his ratty pajamas a solid ten minutes ago.
It was a tough week, being home with his family. It always was, but this year was tougher. Even though he’d come out last summer, with Jack by his side on the fourth of July, his entire family acted as though it’d never happened. Rather than asking about girls that caught his eye or the shenanigans he and his team were getting up to at Samwell, he got nothing. Polite nods, the general “how-do-you-do,” and compliments on his pies was about all the warmth his family could muster. It was better than the few aunts who sharply steered their children away from him and his pies, but not by much. It was the first time since he was twelve and burned the crust on his blueberry pie that he came home with an almost full pie tin. Even his father refused to acknowledge any of it: the rudeness, the newfound distaste for pie, Jack.
So he packed up early and made a call to the airline. And he was off. His mother cried, but she was the only one who would miss him for New Years anyway.
Shaking his head and clearing his thoughts, he brought his slightly steadier hand back to the door. Finally, he slipped the key into the lock, breathing a sigh of relief at the soft scrape and click of the lock sliding into place.
Grabbing his duffle bag with one hand and turning the handle with the other, he shouldered his way into the entryway. The door shut behind him loudly in the silence. He dropped his keys onto the side table and shucked off his coat right onto the hardwood floor. Vaguely, he promised himself he’d pick it up tomorrow, though whether or not he would was still up for debate with his future self.
Jack was still in Montreal with his parents, but Bitty didn’t think he could handle emptiness of the drafty and creaky Haus. At least Jack’s place had friendly little lived in reminders that weren’t sticky beer stains or smelly unwashed hockey equipment. Their place, Bitty thought to himself. Or nearly. One more semester, and then he could move in and get a job at that cute little bakery down the road or the PR department of that fancy company he interned at over the summer or something else entirely.
Even being in their shared space, he felt better. Closing his eyes, he paused to let the tension drain out of his shoulders. It was warm, and he could almost swear he could smell food cooking. He paused and sniffed again. He frowned. It smelled suspiciously familiar, like Jack’s favorite chicken and vegetables.
“Bitty?”
Bitty opened his eyes and standing in the middle of the space between the kitchen island and the sofa was Jack. His dark hair was tousled and his arms were full of tinsel and twinkle lights.
“Jack? What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were back in Montreal?”
He looked sheepishly down at his socked feet.“I-I knew your Christmas wasn’t . . . great, so I wanted to make up for it, but I’ve never--it was probably a dumb idea anyway, eh?”
“Mr. Zimmermann. You better put down all that real quick.”
Jack looked up. A half smile slipped onto his face. “And why should I, Mr. Bittle?”
“Because I don’t wanna taste tinsel when I hug you, you silly--silly Canadian goose, you!”
Bitty could feel tears forming at the edges of his eyes as Jack hastily and unceremoniously threw the pile of decorations over the back of the sofa and opened his arms. Throwing himself forward, Bitty wrapped his arms around Jack’s sturdy torso. He felt Jack’s arms come up around him, and the rough stubble of Jack’s cheek laying softly on the top of his head.
“I missed you, Eric,” Jack whispered against his temple.
“I love you so much, honey,” he said wetly to Jack’s worn Samwell shirt.
They stood like that for a quiet moment. Neither wanted to break the spell in the soft glow of the setting sun, but eventually, Jack pulled back and shuffled Bitty into the kitchen. He climbed up onto the counter as Jack started pulling out mugs and milk. Bitty watched his boyfriends large, calloused hands gently mix the warmed milk and chocolate powder into two mugs.
“Sorry. I don’t have anything besides the cheap stuff,” Jack said as he passed Bitty a big blue mug.
“Sweetheart, you made me hot chocolate. I couldn’t care less how expensive the mix was.”
“I know how you get about your hot beverages, Bittle.” Jack hid a smile behind his mug.
“Oh, are we chirping each other now? I didn’t realize you had that authority, Mr. real-grade-A-Canadian-maple-syrup-only-please.”
Jack laughed and plopped his mug onto the counter. He wrapped his arms around Bitty, dragging him to the edge of the counter. On instinct, Bitty’s legs opened to allow Jack’s hips room, and Jack quickly stepped forward to fill the space made for him. He landed a large, wet kiss right on the tip of Bitty’s nose.
“Ugh! Gross!” Bitty giggled, pushing away Jack’s laughing face. His hand landed on Jack’s stubbly cheek, and he patted it firmly. “Your beard is so itchy!”
Jack crowded up against Bitty and rubbed his cheek firmly against Bitty’s. “But you like it.”
Laughing uncontrollably, Bitty clutched at Jack’s shoulder with his free hand and firmly placed his untouched mug next to Jack’s on the counter.
When Bitty finally controlled his laughter and Jack pulled back, he said softly, “I do, you big lug. I do.”
Jack smiled smugly and stepped back. “Come on. Come see my terrible decoration job.”
“Have you never decorated for Christmas before?” Bitty asked as Jack helped him down off the counter and led him into the living room. It was a mess of partially unpacked boxes and randomly scattered knicknacks.
“Not as an adult. I did when I was little, and then my mom made me stop when I got old enough that I should have been able to hang ornaments without breaking them and could light the menorah without burning off my eyebrows,” Jack said as he pulled Bitty into his lap and pulled the quilt off the back of the sofa.
“And when was that?”
“When I was 20.”
Bitty laughed and then twisted in Jack’s lap until they were face to face. “You’re too cute for your own good, you know that?”
Jack smiled smugly. “I try.”
Bitty smacked at Jack’s chest and then snuggled down onto it. “You know we left our drinks in the kitchen. They’re gonna get cold. And your chicken’s gonna burn.”
Jack brought his hand up to rest on the base of Bitty’s head and scratched absentmindedly at the short hairs there. Bitty felt his legs turn to jello and his question fly from his mind.
“We can reheat them, and I’ll get the chicken. Just-- Can we lay here a little longer?”
Bitty, whose eyes had long ago fallen shut, let out a murmur of assent and snuggled closer to the sound of Jack’s gently beating heart.