#bitwriting

until it’s not. the bulb flickers off and bitty drops the socks from his arms, because the feeling is immediate. creeping in, squeezing his throat, taking his head and spinning it around. the fuck was he thinking? this closet is small. tiny, even, and he can’t breathe. he left his phone on the bed and his eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness -- or maybe he shut them tight and hasn’t been able to open them yet. it’s so fucking dark in here, and he remembers, he remembers --

he turns, nudges a sock with his toe as he does, and. and there’s some light from the windows in the bedroom creeping in from the cracked door, so he runs, and makes it to the bed gasping for lungfuls of air. the first thing he sees is his phone lit up with a text from jack: radio said the power’s out. i’m on my way home. be there soon. and one from his mom, from earlier, asking about how his weekend went. he hesitates, and looks back at the door now thrown wide open, then picks up the phone.

“dicky! i was just going to call. i saw something on the news about a storm and was wondering if you were bundled up,” mama says before he can even greet her. he takes a breath as the last of the dizziness fades away.

“not dicky anymore, mama,” bitty says. 

“oh,” she says. she’s frowning, he can tell. “alright. everything okay, baby?”

“yeah, mama. everything is good. is daddy around? i’ve got,” he says, and in the kitchen the microwave beeps in time with the closet light stuttering back on, “i’ve got something to tell you.”

holster:

“tommy?” holster says before he can stop himself, and the man in front of him turns and stares. still, after all these years, unmistakeable. a slight twist to his lips from a cleft palate long since fixed by surgery, and a scar on his chin from -- “tommy bennett?”

“big adam,” tommy bennett says. no one’s called holster that in years. he’d almost forgotten.

almost.

the pepsi fridge he’s standing next to hums and the door to the bodega tinkles but they just stare at each other. 

“i haven’t seen you since, since -- well, how are you,” holster says. tommy is still half a foot shorter than holster is, but he’s standing straight and his shoulders are square.

“what do you want,” tommy says. which is, well, fair.

“nothing,” holster says. “nothing. or, well -- ”

“i just want some sprite, man,” tommy says. he gestures to the fridge holster is blocking with all his bulk. 

“oh. i’m sorry,” holster says. “like, not just about the sprite. about the, the, the, you know. the everything. i’m sorry.” his hands move to point to his own chin but he drops them halfway through the motion. “i’m sorry.”

tommy stares. “okay.”

“okay. really though, i’m --”

“sorry, i get it. can i...?”

“yeah. yeah,” holster says. he moves away from the glass, leaving a space in the condensation the shape of his hand. “i hope. i hope you’re doing well,” he says. 

he gets no answer.

when he opens the door to the car, stomach twisting in nausea, ransom just raises an eyebrow at his empty hands.

“the fuck took you so long? and you didn’t even get any snacks,” ransom says. 

holster turns on this car. “i’ll tell you later,” he says. “i think we’ve got chips at the haus, anyway.”

“alright, bro,” ransom says. “whatever you want.”

the neon lights of the store illuminate the rearview mirrors when holster looks back and the snow starts to fall.

shitty:

the envelope is addressed to mr. bishop knight in unfamiliar handwriting and the return address is one shitty’s had memorized since the month after he turned 12, though his mother hasn’t even looked at it once. he knows what it contains without even opening it: a birthday card and a signature. once there would have been thirty bucks too, but that stopped when he turned eighteen.

“hello-o-o,” lardo says from her bed. “coffee?”

“oh. right.” shitty’s still dressed from his solo trip to annie’s, so he sets the coffee tray down with the envelope on his desk and slowly unwinds his scarf, lovingly knitted by alicia zimmermann as a christmas gift. he unbuttons his jacket slowly, ignoring lardo’s impatient huffs.  

“you got snow in your hair,” lardo says, rolling her eyes. “it looks like dandruff.”

“hm?” shitty carefully strips himself of his shirt and pants and brings over the cups to the bed. it’s warmer in here, with lardo, than outside. “oh, yeah. it’s messy out there."

“what’s that,” lardo says, gesturing to the desk with the hand that’s holding her cappuccino. 

“christmas-slash-birthday card,” shitty says. “from my father.”

“oh. a little late for that.” then, slowly, “you gonna open it?”

shitty can’t help but lean into lardo’s side, and lardo lifts the arm not holding the coffee and wraps him up. takes him in. 

“no,” shitty says, and closes his eyes, smiling, “not this year.”

jack:

la route de la patinoire jusqu’à la maison n’est pas longue, mais avec la neige devenant de plus en plus épaisse, et bittle seul chez lui dans la noirceur, elle semble interminable. les tempêtes lui ont toujours fait sentir impuissant, mais – bref, ils ne sont pas uniques dans la catégorie.

son père lui a souvent dit qu’ils ont tous deux un « esprit cartésien », et c’est peut-être vrai, mais ce n’est que dernièrement qu’il le prend vraiment à cœur. étape par étape, sa thérapeute et ses parents lui répètent. donc, voilà : prends une droite après le stationnement ; continue lentement pour trois kilomètres ; attention à la glace ; maintenant, arrête à l’intersection ; compte un, deux, trois ; avance ; une gauche, et ensuite une droite ; un autre arrêt pour la vieille qui veut traverser le chemin ; quatre kilomètres, puis l’immeuble droit devant.

rends-toi au stationnement souterrain et trouve l’espace qui vous a été désigné. éteint le moteur. prends ton sac du siège à côté et va à l’ascenseur. fais-le vite, quand même – il ne faut surtout pas oublier qui t’attends. et puis cinquième étage, deuxième porte à la droite. ouvre-là.

– jack ? bittle dit. oh, i’m glad you’re home.

sa voix, douce et familière, provient du salon. le salon qui a de la lumière, donc la coupure n’aurait pas duré longtemps, jack suppose.

– me too, jack répond. roads are getting pretty bad.

bittle apparait dans sa vision, avec sa couverture la plus chaude autour de ses épaules et un grand sourire peinturé sur son beau visage. il tend une main vers jack, qui la prend fermement. voilà une chose qui ne lui a jamais fait sentir comme s’il ne pouvait rien faire.

un nouveau plan, alors. étape un : prend la main de celui que tu aimes. étape deux : respire, respire, respire…

dex:

nursey stops him at the door, which is just as well, probably, because he's been staring at it for five minutes, trying to decide if he’s going to go this week. like he does every week.

“where the fuck are you going like that?” nursey asks. he crosses his arms and dex can’t even meet his eyes. he’s been having trouble meeting them for a while, now. “it’s a storm out there. you don’t even -- fuck, dex, you don’t even have gloves on.”

“i’m fine, nurse,” dex says down at his shoes. 

nursey exhales, then shakes his head. “it’s not like i haven’t noticed you go out this time every sunday, you know.”

“i -- oh. um. i didn’t think you would.” dex bites his lip hard, then looks at the door. he hasn’t told nursey where he goes. or anyone at all. 

“fine. if you’re not going to take care of yourself...”

when dex looks up, nursey is pulling his jacket off a hook on the wall and stuffing his arms into it, then pulls out a pair of gloves from the pockets. 

“what are you doing?” dex asks. he feels panicked, suddenly, and reaches out to stop nursey’s hands. nursey just catches his and holds them tight.

“it’s non-denominational, isn’t it?” nursey asks. he brings dex’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them with a gentleness dex will never possess. 

fuck. 

“um.”

“i was waiting for you to tell me,” nursey says. “i figured you’d do it on your own time, or whatever.”

“oh.” 

he’s never really been one for words, anyway.

“dex,” nursey says. “can i come with you?”

dex looks back at the door, then at nursey, with a smile tentative and soft against dex’s hand.