“Skate Fast, Eat Ass” -Eric Bittle

we joke about how jack will eventually be bitty's trophy husband and be thrilled about it, but it definitely has a giant grain of truth in it. it's how they're characterized. bitty is an extrovert; jack is an introvert. bitty reached out and built himself an online audience to deal with his trauma; jack shut himself out and started avoiding the public to deal with his.

bitty finds comfort in being able to talk to others and (as seen in spotlight on eric bittle) considers being a public figure a sort of healing experience: coming out and being a public person (in every manner of speaking, not just sexuality wise) and putting himself in the limelight is such an important part of his journey because he sees it as a way of helping others who were in his situation.

jack grew up in the spotlight as the only son of two prominent figures. he grew up as a child with anxiety with the media's eyes on him as he was compared to his father. he grew up as an overweight teen featuring in trashy gossip columns as he was compared to his mother. he got into rehab in part because of this attention and it only attracted more attention to him. a lot of jack's anxiety stems from the notion of people looking at him and thinking about him and talking about him and judging him, and it's unfortunate because jack's dream is to play hockey, and that comes with even more attention.

but that's the thing: jack and bitty's story is (once again) a demonstration of two people making each other's lives better.

jack's fame thrusts bitty into the spotlight post-cup, and it's a giant push forward in helping him reach a bigger audience and thus grow his independent fame. bitty's growing fame slowly overshadows jack, to the point where ngozi says they'll one day be Eric Bittle and his Athlete Husband. and that means jack gets to play hockey, and win cups, and achieve fame in his own field, but the media's attention slides off him to his husband, and the fans on the street gradually approach bitty more than him, and jack is free to have his success with less of the personal scrutiny.

two fics in two weeks who AM I

“Daddy?”

Engrossed as he is in editing a couple of photos for the bakery’s Instagram, the sound of his daughter’s tiny voice makes Bitty jump about a foot in the air. Sophie’s standing in the doorway to their bedroom when he looks, blanket trailing behind her, rubbing at one sleepy eye.

“Hi, sugar,” he says, a little faintly, resisting the urge to clutch at his metaphorical pearls. Every day that passes lately makes him understand his mama better and better. He gives Sophie a cursory once-over—no blood, no broken bones, no tears—and feels his heartbeat subside in his throat. The worst he can say is that her pajamas are getting to be a little too small. “What’s the matter?”

She scuffs one foot nervously on the carpet. “Are you still taking me to Papa’s game on Saturday?”

eric bittle + taylor swift, you’re on your own, kid

the jokes weren’t funny, i took the money my friends from home don’t know what to say i looked around in a blood-soaked gown and i saw something they can’t take away

Lardo doesn’t wanna get up yet. Getting up means getting out of bed means running into Jack in the bathroom he and Shitty share, means that look on Jack’s face when he doesn’t ask but makes space to talk if she wants, means going downstairs and slipping out the back door, means hurtling into an ending that never had a proper beginning. It’s too much for this early in the morning.

What she wants is to eat fro-yo in a slightly too-sticky booth. What she wants is junior art show and no one leaving, no one left. What she has is a tear-stained mess on Shitty’s pillow and his Boston t-shirt on her body and his heart steady against her back and he’s leaving he’s leaving he’s leaving in her ears and it’s too — too damn early for this, for them, a lot and too little at at once, and—

“What you thinking about,” Shitty mumbles. 

His lips brush her ear. Lardo carefully does not cry about it. 

And Lardo’s a liar, she is — she’s gonna lie about this and say something about her art prof’s praise last night or the other art students and their projects or the drama her roommate keeps getting into. In a couple seconds she’s gonna lie and pretend like she won’t miss him every second he’s gone. Harvard isn’t far but when she doesn’t have a car, he might as well be on Venus. 

What she says is, “You snore,” and he stretches over to scratch his chin on her shoulder and holds her tighter and maybe she is just so in love—

And it’s a hitch in her breathing followed by a hey, I’ve got you, tears pouring thick and fast and silent sideways over her nose, chest caught in a suspended inhale, heartbreak splashing into her hair, and he’s no good with tears, not when it’s serious, and usually she’s a better liar than this.

Fuck, she thinks. Fuck.

Shitty’s voice, hesitant, low. “Lards?”

Lardo shoves the tears off her face. Slowly, achingly peels herself away, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t wanna see the expression on his face; it’ll be confused and too earnest, worried and too close to saying something she’s suddenly not sure she wants to hear. He’s still leaving. What does it matter if he loves her too? 

“I’ve gotta,” she says, pulling on her sweatpants, “go,” and Shitty says, “Lards.”

His shirt off and her bralette on. Her sweatshirt off the ground and his socks left next to the bed. Shitty sitting up, hair mussed and lips unkissed, and he’s saying, “Lards.”

There’s a hair tie she forgot a couple months ago still sitting on his bedside table. She glances at it, at him, swallows hard, opens her hands helplessly. She’s never been good with words.

He reaches for her. She lets him draw her closer to the edge of the bed, lets herself sit, settles herself against his chest. “Do you want to stay?” Shitty asks, hands careful on her knees. “I want you to, if you do.”

And oh, she loves him for that. Asking her to stay so she doesn’t have to. Holding her close but sparing her the eye contact. Steady and sure. She nods, just once, and he says, okay, and she turns and buries her face against his neck and his fingers are in her hair and she melts against him and it’s too early, it is, but maybe that’s why it’s okay that he says, I got you, love, I’ve got you.

dex bets the new freshman backup goalie if he shuts out during his ice time in the next game he’ll let the team roast him for exactly 5 minutes in the locker room after.