The thing was, when you were best friends with Adam Birkholtz, you tended to live half your life in fantasy.

And not in a fun, sexual way. Hell, not even in a regular fun way most of the time. Holster consumed media the way most people consumed oxygen: constantly and effortlessly. And he exhaled commentary on it like it was carbon dioxide. Ransom knew far more about Netflix shows and web comics and sci fi novels he'd never even seen than he felt was appropriate or even possible.

So it was really all Holster’s fault when he started noticing the signs.

The first was the most concerning, in the beginning. After a year of team meals and literal buffets of pie in the kitchen, Ransom looked across the dining hall table one morning to realize he had never seen Bitty eat. Bitty baked and cooked constantly, attended every team meal, even made himself plates of food, but he never, ever put anything in his mouth. Ever .

Ignoring his own dirty joke setup, Ransom continued to spiral down this path. Bitty was super thin, he already knew that. Jack was always harping on Bits to eat more protein, to Bitty’s annoyance. But Ransom had met Mrs. Bittle and she was tiny too; he'd just assumed Bits was naturally... bitty.

Now, Ransom wasn't Holster. His first thought wasn't some grand conspiracy theory. Instead, he approached Bitty on a sunny September day, a baggy of kolaches from Svoboda’s in hand. No one could resist Svo’s jalapeño-cheese kolaches. No one.

Except Bitty, apparently. Ransom found him lounging on a blanket by the pond, textbooks open but blatantly tweeting instead of studying. Bitty was stretched out like a cat, languid, and his tank top was rucked up a little to show off the thin, blonde happy trail running down his stomach and disappearing beneath the band of his shorts.

“Bits, bro,” Ransom said, plopping down next to him, shoving one of the books away. “Have some kolaches with me, man. They're fresh.”

Bitty grinned up at him, wide and amused. “Those are klobasneks, you heathen.”

Ransom, who already had one shoved into his mouth, barely managed to say, “But the sign-”

“It's not uncommon to lump the two together,” Bitty continued, tucking his phone back into his pocket and turning to better look at Ransom. “Especially since the Svobodas are from Texas and it's a whole, complicated thing there. But kolaches have fruit filling; klobasneks have sausage or cheese or eggs.”

Ransom was a bit taken aback. Swallowing the half-chewed pastry roughly, he asked, “How did you know these were cheese and not fruit?”

Bitty shrugged. “I could smell them. Plus you and Holtzy love the jalapeño ones.”

Ransom couldn't argue with that. He held out the bag to Bitty, shaking it a little. “Eat me, Bitty!”

Bitty laughed and shook his head. “I'm good, thanks.”

Ransom frowned. Maybe Bitty’s food issue were worse than he thought. “Dude, I don't wanna sound, like, intrusive, but honestly...I have never seen you eat. Is it…? Do you need to talk to someone? You can always talk to me.”

Bitty’s smile turned endeared, and he shook his head. “I can smell garlic in those.”

“Huh?”

“I'm allergic,” Bitty clarified. “I have quite a few food allergies. It's why I have a mini fridge in my room, it's stocked with things that are safe. I really can't eat most of what I bake, but I love baking so much I do it anyway. And I go to team meals to socialize, not eat. I promise I don't have an eating disorder,” he said, touching Ransom’s arm gently. “But thank you for being concerned.”

“Oh.” Ransom frowned, then gasped and tossed the bag of kolaches away from Bitty. “Shit, dude, I'm so sorry-”

“Ransom, it's okay.” Bitty laughed again. “There isn't a whole lotta garlic in there, being near it won't kill me.”

“You've really got a strong nose, eh?” Ransom asked, leaning back on his elbows. Bitty shifted onto his side, and Ransom couldn't help but note the sharp lines of his silhouette, the stark brushstrokes of muscle in his shoulders and arms, the thickness of his thighs in contrast to his small waist. When they were on ice, Ransom was guilty of thinking of Bits as small and fragile; it made him a more ardent d-man, for sure, being on Bitty’s line, always looking out for his bittiest bro. But here, in the reddish sun of early Fall, Bitty was nothing if not a perfect specimen of raw, compact power. It unsettled Ransom, mostly in a totally gay way, but also, a little, in a way that made something small and primal at the back of his mind cower in fear.

“Ha, yeah,” Bitty said, in response to the question Ransom had forgotten he'd asked. “Survival instinct, I guess. You know, because of my allergies,” he added quickly.

“Right,” Ransom said, feeling hot and awkward under the gaze of Bitty’s dark brown eyes. “Allergies.”

When he eventually excused himself to go to class, Ransom didn't even remember to grab the bag of kolaches from the ground. It wasn't as if he had much of an appetite anymore.

After that, it was little things that made Ransom wonder just what Bitty was hiding behind his sunny, southern facade. Though he wasn't proud to admit it, Ransom had started an Excel doc just to keep track of everything, titled ERB and hidden deep in his pirated comics folder on his laptop (labeled PORN, of course, just in case).

Bitty wore sunscreen constantly. He tried to claim it was a southern thing, but Holster had family in Texarkana and claimed that they all had nasty, leathery skin because they literally never wore sunscreen ever and that Bits was full of shit. And he didn't just wear it in the summer—Bitty showed up to morning practices in January smelling like Coppertone. It was one of those quirky things about him. Absolutely no cause for alarm.

But then there was the way he was always cold. Bitty’s hands could rival ice cubes, even in the heat of August or after working out. “Poor circulation,” he'd explained once while drunk. “What can you do?”

Except, it wasn't just his hands. Bitty didn't let people touch him often, but Ransom had held his legs for kegstands and clapped his shoulders and even, once, slapped his bare back in the locker room and every time it had felt like Bitty had just stepped out of an ice bath. That couldn't be normal, could it?

And there were other things: his freakishly good sense of hearing and smell; how silent and still he was when he slept on roadies, barely seeming to breathe; the way he went on and on about his church back home but didn't attend at Samwell. Ransom had them all marked down in his spreadsheet, and on nights when Holster was dead to the world and Ransom sad supposed to be studying, he'd make whole charts of possible ailments, disorders, and lifestyle choices that could add up to the enigma that was Eric Bittle.

A small part of him—the part that had been forced to binge-watch those godawful Twilight movies with Holster and Shitty—whispered that there was another answer, one far simpler than the impossibly rare diseases he’d researched.

But that was the same part of him who believed he was being haunted by two dead sororities girls, the same part of him that got scared when Lardo and Nursey exchanged their favorite urban legends, late at night. There was no fucking way Bitty was a v-

He couldn't even think the word, it was so ridiculous. Bits was just a quirky dude with health problems; there was nothing paranormal about it.

Still, there were times Ransom felt Bitty’s gaze on him, and a chill would involuntarily run down his spine. And only a little in a gay way.

Everything came to a head when Ollie got decked in the face by a puck.

The dipshit had removed his helmet in the middle of drills, so Ransom didn't have that much sympathy for him, but it still looked like it hurt like a bitch. His nose broke with an audible crunch and Ransom saw the blood on the ice before he even realized what had happened.

“Shit, fuck, man, I'm so sorry!” Wicks called, skating over as fast as he could. “Bro, are you okay?”

But Ransom didn't hear Ollie’s answer; he was too distracted by Bitty.

Bitty was staring at Ollie with his mouth agape, eyes large and- not scared, or angry. Shocked seemed a closer description, but didn't feel quite right. Determined, maybe. His hands were shaking in his gloves, and his knees were bent, like he was poised to rush over to Ollie at any second. What was most unsettling, however, was the fact that Bitty didn't appear to be breathing at all.

Before anyone could blink, Bitty was in front of Ollie, half-crouched, eyes black in the weird light of the rink. He opened his mouth, but said nothing, and everyone fell deathly silent in their confusion.

Then Bitty was gone, sprinting from the rink faster than anyone on skates should be capable of. Ransom stared after him, unsure of how to process what he just saw.

“That was weird,” Holster said as Wicks moved to get Ollie off the ice. “Li’l dude can't handle the sight of blood?”

“I guess,” Ransom murmured. “Weird.” 

As soon as practice ended, Ransom rushed to the Haus. Normally he hung out at Founders until class in the mornings, but today he was on a mission. One way or another, Ransom was going to figure out what Bitty was hiding from them, from him.

Without even bothering to check the kitchen, Ransom sprinted up to the second floor, throwing his bag to the side of the hall and knocking on Bitty’s door. “Bits, bro, you okay?” He called. When there was no reply, he pushed open the door.

Nothing could have prepared Ransom for the sight in front of him.

Bitty’s room was a mess. Books had been knocked off his desk and the chair was overturned. His mini fridge was wide open and empty, cool air drifting to brush past Ransom’s shins. Several IV bags and plastic tubs were scattered across the floor, empty but stained pink by something . And Bitty-

Bitty was curled into a ball in the corner, half hidden by the bed, face pressed into his knees. His whole body was shaking like a leaf in the wind. He hadn't even changed out of his under armor.  

“Bits?” Ransom moved around the bed slowly, lowering himself to his knees in front of Bitty. “Hey, are you okay?”

Bitty raised his head from his arms slowly, and Ransom almost screamed. Bitty’s lips were stained red, and protruding over them, just slightly, were two fangs, clear as day. But the fear in Bitty’s eyes kept Ransom from running. He'd never seen Bitty look so small.

“I nearly attacked Ollie,” Bitty whispered, not meeting Ransom’s gaze. “I...I thought I was getting better. I thought I could handle things like that.”

“But you didn't attack him,” Ransom said, trying desperately not to let any hysteria seep into his voice. “You ran away. That's…that's good, isn't it?”

Bitty groaned and covered his face in his hands. “Not good enough. I can't just run away every time there's blood…”

“Is it-?” Ransom paused, grimacing. “Are you-?”

“It’s a rare disorder,” Bitty said quickly, voice monotone. “Porphyria. It’s why I wear sunscreen all the time, why I don’t eat with the team-”

“You don’t have any of the other symptoms though,” Ransom interrupted. “Pain, seizures, vomiting. And it doesn’t make you crave human blood . Bits.”

Bitty looked up at his name, shaking a little with...fear?

“It’s okay if you’re a vampire,” Ransom continued, not missing the way Bitty flinched at the word. “I mean, as long as you’re not killing anyone.”

“Ransom,” Bitty said glibly. “You’re pre-med, you don’t believe in- in monsters .”

Ransom shot him an unimpressed look. “I live with Holster. I’ve seen Twilight. And, like, weird shit happens to me all the time.”

“The ghosts?” Bitty asked softly.

“Yeah, them,” Ransom huffed. “Pretty sure my neighbor growing up was a werewolf. Or maybe just a hairy alcoholic.” At Bitty’s confused and horrified look, he added, “Dude woke up naked in our backyard, like, a hundred times.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Bitty pleaded. “Please.”

“Of course,” Ransom said, sitting back on his heels. “Not that anyone would believe me…”

“I need to clean up,” Bitty said after a moment, looking around the room. “If MooMaw hears about this…”

“She won’t, because nothing happened,” Ransom said, standing and holding out a hand to Bitty. He took it and rose, slowly. “You just got nauseated at the sight of blood and left practice early. Tomorrow you’ll take a pie down to the coaches and apologize. Bits, it’ll be okay.”

Bitty sighed and began picking up plastic tubs. “If I end up killing someone again, the Council is gonna make me go back home to Georgia and live in the compound. I can’t be out there, or bake for anyone, or even listen to my music. There’s no skating, no hockey, nothing .” He sighed and sat down on the bed, face distraught. “If I go back there I’ll die .”

“Then, we’ll...work on it,” Ransom said with a shrug, feeling a little too much like Jack in this moment. “Somehow.”

Bitty’s lip quirked up at one corner. “Sure. We’ll just run some drills, learn not to murder people. Easy.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ransom said, clapping Bitty on the back. Bitty flinched involuntarily, then let his shoulders droop.

“You’re a good friend,” he said quietly, picking at some dirt under his nail to avoid looking up at Ransom. “And weirdly okay with... all of this .”

Ransom shrugged and picked up a few scattered IV bags. “Got your back, bro.”

Bitty laughed and Ransom’s heart skipped a beat. Definitely in a gay way.

The hair on Bitty’s arms prickled up as he reached the front porch of the Haus. He sensed something was amiss, so he slowly opened the door. When he did, he came face to face with his beautiful boyfriend, Ransom, in red plaid, tight jeans, cowboy boots and hat, smiling at him. “Oh, hell no.” He said and tried to turn around to leave.

Ransom reached out and grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the living room where cacti, cow skulls, and everything straight out of a western movie were up on the walls. “Come on, Bitty! Lets have a good ol’ fashion hoedown!”

Bitty was fighting for his life to be cut loose from this awful hellhole. Why him? Why did God forsake him in particular? What happened to their last shred of class? Unfortunately, there was rope and Ransom tied his boyfriend to a chair and placed his booted foot between his legs. Had this been any other time, Bitty could’ve thought it was hot, but not now. Not here. It was like his worst nightmare had happened. It was like Country Threw Up in here. He had been so distracted by everyone’s costumes and the decorations that he didn’t realize that Kenny Chesney was playing in the background, and he had to forcefully keep himself from shouting. Every single member of the team was here and dressed up like a cowboy and he was pretty sure that he could hear people in the kitchen.

Ransom motioned to Ollie and Wicks over at the music station and Shitty and Holster joined him on the dance floor in front of Bitty. A devious grin crept up on his face and Bitty’s eyes grew three sizes too big that day. All of a sudden, Big and Rich’s “Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy” started blaring through the speakers, and three hockey players in front of him began to dance. They started their choreographed dance and began swaying their hips, holding their belts and tapping their boots. It wasn’t long before their shirts started being unbuttoned as they gave Bitty a strip tease.

Eric’s mind was literally in overload mode at the moment. Everything he hated about the south was right in front of his eyes and he couldn’t avoid staring at Ransom’s glistening abs as he opened his plaid shirt and did a stomach roll. Bitty’s inner voice was screaming at the top of its lungs trying to break free from the ropes as Ransom ground down on his lap and gave him a kiss on his neck.

When the strip tease ended, Ransom untied his boyfriend and Bitty looked up at him and said, “If you ever do that again, I will take your life quicker than Carrie Underwood can dig her keys into the side of your car.”

Ransom was silent.

“But, Honey, thank you so much. It was so dorky and amazing. I really needed that.” And Bitty got up on his tiptoes and wrapped his arms around Ransom’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

The song changed, and “The Devil Went Down To Georgia” intro started playing. Bitty pulled away, “Pause the music! Let me go change and grab my fiddle!”

“Bits. You have a fiddle????” Holster was shocked.

“Yes I do. And this is the only time you will hear me play. IF you keep the chirps to a minimum.”