It's super cheesy but far away by Nickelback for Jack and Bitty
I love you
I loved you all along
And I miss you
Been far away for far too long
I keep dreaming you'll be with me
There’s a postcard on the counter, and Jack freezes, staring. It’s Love from Paris in looping cursive over a photo of the Eiffel Tower and he should put down his grocery bags and he should ask Shitty if he’s seen this, if he brought it inside after class, if reading it will break Jack’s heart.
That’s the funny thing about being in love too late. All these little things — Bitty’s name in the group chat, a Samwell hockey highlight reel, a postcard from a friend studying abroad — all these things are prickling reminders that he didn’t run fast enough, that he didn’t get to explain because he didn’t really know until it was too late, that for some people, life just goes on, and Jack’s stuck in the in-between. He’s been in love for a while now. It hasn’t gotten easier.
Jack sets his grocery bags down gently, gently. For a brief, impossible second he tells himself it’s a postcard from someone else. For a brief, heart-stuttering breath, he believes it.
He’s gotten good at living in denial these last couple of months, that’s all. Oh, Bitty’s gonna come to a home game, and they’ll find each other in the tunnel afterward. Oh, he’ll go to a kegster at the Haus, and they’ll find a way upstairs. Oh, he’ll open the door one day, and Bitty’ll be waiting in the hallway, and they’ll kiss Paris off his lips. Jack’s still got a shot in his head. There’s still a chance in his head.
Jack picks up the card and he is — heart in his hands again, out of breath again, sprinting across the Quad again. He turns it over, and he is in love, searching an empty Haus, reading a goodbye note he’s memorized between house hunting and preseason drills and Shitty’s law school rants.
Same handwriting. Same stomach-dropping ache. Same oh, I missed it. We could’ve had a moment and I missed it.
And then he’s inhaling sharp, flipping the card over and back again. Bitty’s postcard says, I’m in Paris and I’m in love with you. I don’t wanna pretend anymore, and Jack’s so in love it hurts.
It’s midnight in Paris, but Bitty picks up at the second ring.
“Jack?” he says, sleep-raw and surprised, and Jack holds the card so hard it starts to bend.
“Your postcard,” Jack says. “Do you still mean that?”
Time is a honey-slow thing; he sits on the floor, listening to Bitty breathe. He closes his eyes and leans against one of his lower cabinets and waits, imagines a postcard sailing across the ocean. It’s dated three weeks ago. Surely he still — in three weeks, surely that’s still true, surely there’s still hope—
And Bitty says, soft enough to be a whisper, “Yes.”
And Jack’s laugh is halfway to a sob and it makes no sense why he should be crying right now when he’s in love and beloved but he is and he is and he says, “I love you too,” and it’s relief but it’s also heartbreak at the same time, and it doesn’t make sense how both of those things can be true.
“I love you, I — graduation, I ran after you,” Jack says, wiping his face, “but I missed the moment, and I’ve been wanting to — I’m sorry for missing the moment, Bits. I’m sorry for making you feel like you had to pretend.”
“You love me,” Bitty whispers. “Jack. I’m sorry for taking a semester away instead of telling you sooner.”
The pain in his voice … Jack wishes he could hold him, wishes he knew exactly what to say to soothe it away. Relief and heartbreak at the same time. They could’ve been doing this for ages if he’d only been quick enough.
“How many weeks until you’re home?” Jack asks, opening a new tab on his phone.
“Six,” Bitty says. It sounds like he’s trying not to cry. “Why?”
He says, “I wanna be with you,” and pauses over a direct flight. “Do you — would it be okay, if I came to be with you?”
“They’ll be okay without me for a week,” Jack says, then frowns. “I know that’s not a lot of time—”
“I want you to.” Bitty’s words rush together like he’s racing to get them out. “Please.”
Jack says, “I’ll be there in ten hours.” He says, “I’ll be there, I won’t miss this again.” He says, heartbreak melting away to a burning kind of joy, “I love you, Bits.”
And it’s I’ve been loving you, sweetheart and it’s I’ve missed you, and he’s packing a carry-on and his entire heart, chasing down a dream and a taxi at the same time, in love and loving and running towards it with everything he has. It’s been a long, long time.
He watches the lights of the tarmac fade away as the plane rises higher, postcard tucked neat between the pages of his passport, love growing quietly and steadily as the distance disappears between them.
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