#bv2018

Kent hadn’t had the best day so far.

All things considered, though, he was doing a pretty good job of holding it together. In fact, he was actually proud that he hadn’t snapped at his boyfriend at all despite his bad mood, because he was still feeling rational enough to know that he didn’t actually want to push Bitty away or do anything to make things worse. Instead, he was trying to ignore it and go about his daily routine as usual.

And sure, maybe it wasn’t the best thing in the world for Kent to push down all his feelings and frustrations, but Bitty had a tendency to pick up the moods of the people around him, and Kent didn’t want to make Bitty grumpy just because he had the misfortune of being both physically and emotionally close to a particularly pissy Kent Parson on what could otherwise be an entirely pleasant Friday night.

So Kent had texted Bitty during work and suggested a low-key dinner date, because enchiladas and a couple happy hour drinks from Cactus Cantina across the street from their apartment certainly couldn’t make things worse. All Kent knew was that the place was casual, the dessert menu was up to Bitty’s standards, and the drink selection rotated often enough to keep him happy, so it was a win for both of them, and they usually ended up there at least once a week.

And that’s what brought Kent to where he was currently, sipping a half-priced strawberry swirl margarita and pouting because his boyfriend wasn’t paying attention to him. This was particularly offensive to Kent since Bitty was busy looking over Kent’s shoulder at some hot guy who’d sat down on the other side of the room around when they’d arrived. The nerve of it all. Sure, Kent and Bitty had an open relationship, but that didn’t mean that Kent never got jealous-- especially when he was two margs in and in need of attention as he tried to tell an entertaining story about Jenna from Marketing.

Bitty rested his chin on his hands and made heart eyes in the hot guy’s direction again, and Kent finally gave up and sighed as loudly as he could get away with in public. “Come on,” he said, sounding only slightly whinier than he’d intended. “Is this guy really that hot? You’ve been staring at him for ten minutes.”

He began to turn, but Bitty darted his hands out and grabbed the collar of Kent’s shirt to keep him from doing it. “I swear to god, Kent. Do not look at him right now. It’d be so obvious that we’re staring.”

Kent threw his hands in the air. “Alright, alright! I’m not looking, okay? You can describe him to me.” He stared in front of himself instead, at the turquoise accent wall and exposed brick and generic cactus-themed decor. “See, not looking, so paint me a damn picture. But make it a sexy picture, at least.”

Bitty leveled Kent with a stare. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but he did take another good look over Kent’s shoulder. “He’s got gorgeous blue eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass. Honestly, he looks familiar. I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

“What kind of familiar?”

“Like, B-list reality TV star famous. Or maybe some kind of modeling? He has the bone structure for it. He’s easily the hottest person here, other than us, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Kent repeated. “And he’s seriously been alone this whole time?”

“Yes! The waitress has checked up on him, like, five times. Poor thing,” Bitty said, frowning. “Someone definitely stood him up. We should go see if he wants to come sit with us to take his mind off of it.”

“Are you kidding me? I bet he got stood up because he’s an asshole.”

“Kent.”

“What if he’s a serial killer?” Kent said, then sat up straighter and poked at Bitty’s forearm. “Even worse-- what if he’s the kind of guy who golfs on weekends?”

“Oh, shush. You’ve been such a grump today,” Bitty said, which, ouch, but true. Maybe Kent wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he thought, which was possibly something that he should talk to his therapist about. “We’re going to do something nice and we’re going to feel good about it.”

Feel good. A Freudian slip, or maybe a complete coincidence, but it was enough for Kent to jump to a conclusion that he felt pretty good about. He grinned.

“You just want us to have a threesome with him, don’t you?”

They stared each other down for a few moments. Bitty had a decent poker face, but Kent had known him for long enough to recognize the faint pink blush on his cheeks as a dead giveaway that he was right.

Finally, Bitty gave in. “Okay, fine, I think we should invite him home with us. But once you see him, you’re gonna agree with me. He’s exactly your type.” And before Kent could speak, he added, “Your other type, sweetheart. Not like me at all.”

“Big guy?”

“Mm,” Bitty hummed, gazing over Kent’s shoulder and nodding, chin resting in his hands again. “Thighs for days. Dark hair, very mysterious. Could definitely play a vampire in a movie, but like, a vampire who works out.”

“Fuck, okay. Invite him over,” Kent said, just as their waitress passed by again. While Bitty stood and headed out of Kent’s view, Kent waved her over so she could get him another margarita. She brought the drink out immediately. Kent was just lifting it up to his mouth for a sip when Bitty returned, smiling and bouncing on his toes as he sat back down across the table from Kent.

And then next to him, because Kent Parson’s life was a nightmare or at least a mildly uncomfortable stress dream, Jack Zimmermann sat down, looking stunningly handsome but also sheepish and shy right up to the moment when he met Kent’s eyes. Immediately, Jack’s annoyingly perfect face collapsed into a frown, looking for all the world like he’d seen a ghost.

At least, that’s what Kent felt like, because here was the same Jack Zimmermann who Kent had been moping about all day, after seeing on Facebook that morning that he’d moved back to town after more than five years away. Kent hadn’t seen him in person for nearly as long, since the last time he’d made a pitiful attempt to win Jack back at the Zimmermann family holiday party was just a month before he’d met Bitty. This was that Jack Zimmermann, back in his life without any warning.

It was all Kent could do not to spit out his entire mouthful of tequila and sugar, and the only reason he didn’t was because his shirt was white and he didn’t feel like spending his evening trying to remove a pink stain from it, but God, he wanted the drama of it.

Bitty dove right into introductions, seemingly unaware of Kent’s hopefully well-disguised mental and emotional crisis. “Jack, hon, this is my boyfriend, Kent. Kent, this is Jack. He just moved in across the street from here.”

Kent swallowed. His drink felt like it had gone stale in his mouth. “We’ve met,” he said, dry.

“Oh, really?” Bitty asked, looking up at Jack again, narrowing his eyes.

Jack didn’t say anything at all. Instead, while he sat there slack-jawed and wide-eyed, Kent had to explain what was going on. “This is Jack Zimmermann,” Kent said, trying to use his eyes to convey his sheer panic to Bitty. “I played hockey with him in high school,” he said, because that was easier than saying that Jack was the one who broke his heart, and anyway, Bitty knew the entire story and would be able to infer.

Bitty continued to force a smile. “Goodness! Well, I really walked right into that one, huh? No wonder you looked so familiar,” he said, patting Jack’s arm in a way that Kent knew was meant to be both comforting, but actually made Jack look like he was about to implode.

“Eugh,” Jack started, helpful as ever, and something about his rich tenor made Kent’s blood feel warm. It was also possible that the tequila had just hit. “I can go. I don’t want to, um, upset anyone. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to! We’d still be glad to have you join us,” Bitty said. “I know that Kent has so much he’d love to talk to you about, and I’m sure it’s the same on your end of things!”

“Bits,” Kent hissed. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been betrayed this badly. Bitty was definitely sleeping on the couch tonight, but he couldn’t say that right now, because that would probably look bad in front of Jack.

Kent didn’t want that, probably. In fact, he wasn’t at all sure what exactly he did want from Jack now, at this point in his life, at age 25 and happy with his boyfriend, job, cat, apartment, and basically every other aspect of life that showed that he had proudly moved on from Jack Zimmermann.

And yet Kent couldn’t help but let his mind drift to how happy he was that he hadn’t had time to change after work, because he looked pretty damn good in his slacks and button-down. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but he had spent a very long time in front of the restroom mirror touching up his hair after his lunch break, so he felt pretty confident that it looked good right now. Comparatively, this was a much better way of running into Jack than, say, running into him during a late-night grocery run when Kent was wearing ratty sweatpants and a shirt with a picture of his cat on it.

Kent thought he looked okay. And he did want Jack to know that he was okay.

Jack was still frowning, and the worry lines in his forehead and around his eyes were deeper than they used to be. His eyes were also, somehow, so much more blue than Kent remembered, as if time had somehow erased their intensity. After a moment, Jack cleared his throat, stilted and awkward, and said the one thing that could convince Kent to give this a shot: “I’ve missed you.”

It was too much.

“Yup,” Kent said, standing up fast enough to knock into the table and jostle it, loudly shifting the plates and glasses and fake cactus on top of it. “I gotta hit the bathroom. Bitty?”

Bitty stood, much more graceful, and slid out of the booth. “It seems like I also have to use the restroom. Stay here and we’ll be right back,” he said, and something in his tone was commanding enough that Jack obediently remained seated and didn’t argue.

Kent pushed through the main room of the restaurant and back to the hallway where the restrooms were located and closed the door once he and Bitty were both in the one-stall men’s bathroom. He took stock of the situation: shockingly he wasn’t having a panic attack, but he was still feeling thrown off and almost dazed.

“I think I’m in shock. Could I literally be in medical shock right now? Am I crying?” he said to his own reflection in the mirror, eyes wet and hair wild. His hair had cowlicks, it seemed, remained tamed. Over his shoulder, he could see mirror-Bitty facepalm, then move closer so he could pat Kent’s shoulder.

“Kent, honey,” Bitty started, then paused as Kent leaned over the sink and splashed water in his face, hoping to refresh himself. “I love you, but you really have zero common sense. You’re getting your shirt all wet.”

“Good!” Kent said. “Does it look like I’m crying? Because I’m totally not crying.”

“You don’t look like you’ve been crying because you’ve basically trained yourself not to cry properly, which is absolutely not healthy, but I’m not going to lecture you about it right now,” Bitty said. “But even if you were, it’d be fine! I’m sure he’s freaking out just as much as you are right now!”

“Is this a pep talk, or are you trying to make me feel guilty?” Kent asked. “Because I don’t feel guilty. He ignored me for years, Bits. It never meant anything to him.”

“Kenny.” Bitty grabbed Kent by the shoulders. Kent could feel them flex and press into his shirt as Bitty raised up slightly onto his toes. It was a habit he’d developed from years of trying to close their three-inch height difference, and the familiarity of it lulled Kent’s pulse to a more reasonable pace. “You’ve been wanting closure with him for as long as I’ve known you. I know he broke your heart. But you’re both adults now and I think you’re finally mature enough to talk about it, so why don’t we give it a try?”

Kent leaned forward until Bitty understood what he wanted and wrapped his arms around him in a proper hug. He sighed. “Yeah, okay. Even though I hate it when you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Bitty said, giving Kent’s back one final pat and then gently pushing him back out of the restroom and into the main floor of the restaurant.

For the first time, Jack smiled. “Did you spill a glass of water on your shirt?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Kent said. “What really matters is that my boyfriend thinks you’re hot. Can you buy him a drink and also explain why the fuck you’re back in town?”

“Oh,” Jack started, then faltered. “I guess, I-- well. I got a new job.” He took a deep breath, then turned to Bitty. “Sorry, what would you like to drink?”

“Just a regular margarita, thank you,” Bitty said, sliding into the booth next to Jack. “So, Mr. Zimmermann. Please tell us all about this new job of yours.”

And so Jack did. Kent was quiet during their first round of drinks, listening and watching and learning about this new, older Jack Zimmermann. He was still reserved and still a little bit slow on the uptake when it came to the jokes and slang that Kent and Bitty easily tossed around, but he also cracked a few jokes of his own, which was something he never used to do when they were teenagers. He was more relaxed, too: although Kent spent several minutes watching Jack’s hands, he didn’t see them shake at all.

Their conversation flowed easily enough that two hours passed without Kent noticing. He only realized that it was close to ten-- closing time-- that their waitress had started to hover around the table, pacing at the edge of Kent’s line of vision. At ten, she shuffled up to the table, but didn’t say anything yet. The girl was young, probably in high school, and Kent felt bad for her. He’d hated waiting tables, too, back when he’d done it in college. He looked at Bitty, then at the waitress, trying to subtly let him know that it was time to go.

Bitty nodded, and then, under the table, kicked Kent. It was all Kent could do to keep from yelping, but he somehow managed it and shot a glare in Bitty’s direction, thankful that Jack was oblivious and rambling happily about his photography. Bitty kicked Kent again. Clearly, it was up to him to decide how they were going to end the night.

“Alright,” Kent said, before his leg had to sustain any more damage. He waved the waitress closer and motioned for the check. “How about we move this to our place? You can meet my cat, Zimms.”

Jack looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he said, accepting the check and sliding his card into the holder before either of them could stop him. It was a convenient way for him to avoid eye contact.  “I don’t know if you want anything like that, and if you want to just ignore me so we go back to pretending each other doesn’t exist, I could get over that too.”

“But,” Bitty prompted, kicking Kent again.

“But I’d like it if you’d come home with us,” Kent said, finally looking up from where he’d been fidgeting with his debit card.

It was dim in the restaurant this late at night, the colorful string lights and candles doing little against the dark outside, but Jack’s eyes were shining. He nodded, thoughtful. “This was nice. I’d like that too.”

“Thank God,” Bitty said. “Okay, let’s get out of here. I’m dying to get out of my work clothes,” he said, giving Jack a wink that made him choke on his last sip of the single pint of beer he’d been nursing all night.

As they left the restaurant, Jack and Kent walked on either side of Bitty, who looked as pleased as the cat who’d gotten the cream. “Told you we’d feel good about this,” he said, knocking his hips against Kent’s own and smiling, and that’s when Kent realized what should have occurred to him the moment that Bitty invited Jack over to their table.

That little shit knew who Jack was all along.

_/\_ “So, a fan hopped into your car and gave you butter?” Marty asked, frowning down at a very simple butter cookie that Jack brought in to practice. . “No. Some guy hopped in my car. I think he thought I was someone else. The butter was an accident.”

“As far as pick-up lines go…” Thirdy began, in-between bites of his cookie.

Jack shook his head, “I don’t think he was a fan. I think he was just some guy taking advantage of the buy-one-get-one free sale at the grocery store.”

“But what I don’t understand,” Tater said, mouth full, “is why did you keep the butter?”

Fair question. Jack walked his teammates through the boring rationale that the store wouldn’t take the butter back without a receipt and they wouldn’t store it in case somebody came back for it. And being practical, Jack wasn’t going to just throw the butter away, so he left a note with the manager, ‘I took your butter. If you want it back or a refund, leave your number with the store. I’ll check back in a week.”

Thirdy laughed so suddenly, he snorted his water. “Man, that note sounds ominous as hell.” He mumbled over the lip of his cup, “If you want the butter back, meet me in a dark alley around midnight.”

Tater licked his fingers, “So, you are a butter bandit. You dress like one.” “No.” Jack stated as he packed up the rest of his cookies. He did not look down at his yellow shoes. This wasn’t complicated. “I’m trying to compensate him for the butter. It was a simple mistake, the guy shouldn’t lose out because of it.”

And if he got to see the guy again, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But he wasn’t going to say that part out loud to these guys.

But Tater had already zeroed in on the chink in Jack’s armor. “For shame, Jack. Holding butter hostage so that you can see that poor man again. He may have been baking for his grandmother or a classroom of children. You think of that? No, because you are a Butter Bandit. You steal his dreams.”

Jack threw up his hands while his teammates laughed at him. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

A chorus of “NO” followed him out the door.

And true to their word, they didn’t let up during practice, the team lunch, and the chirping even showed up in a ‘Meet the Falconers’ segment that PR kept insisting that Jack participate in.

Tater held up his camera with his long arm and aimed it at Jack who was cutting his stick. “Jack needs a nickname, something that will stick. Maybe…”

He trailed off, and Thirdy picked it back up again, face completely innocent as he continued to tape his stick. “He’s so slick on the ice. Smooth even. Smooth like butter.”

Marty poked his head into the camera’s frame. “It’s true, and the way that he steals the puck on the ice, he’s like a bandit, he’s so fast.

The video cut off to the sounds of three grown men cracking up while Jack looked at the camera stone-faced and finished checking his equipment.

_/\_ Evenings off were so rare, that Jack appropriately hoarded and cherished them with a mild glee. After he begged off of a team dinner, he hit the grocery store to purchase a few snacks, some more eggs, and some flour for crepes. And, perhaps, maybe the butter guy had stopped in and left a message and Jack could at least satisfy his curiosity and cross off that lingering to-do item on his mental list.

With his hat pulled down low, he pushed his cart around the perimeter of the grocery store, finally ducking into the baking aisle to replenish his stash of flour, when he saw a shock of familiar blond hair crouched down looking at the two different brands of finishing sugar. He was squatting down flat on his flip-flop covered feet in a pair of joggers and a grey tank top with Samwell writes in red across his shoulders. He hadn’t looked up yet, and so Jack took a moment to confirm his initial assessment of the guy. He WAS unfairly attractive and Jack was staring. When the butter guy stood up, Jack shook himself from his stupor and in a fit of action he couldn’t even begin to explain to himself, fled the aisle. Without his cart.

Jack rubbed his hands over his face and gave himself a stern talking to. The bottles of artificial pancake syrup even appeared to be judging him. When he finally had enough of being a coward, he walked back into the baking aisle with renewed determination to wrap up this entire awkward exchange.

But of course, the butter guy and his cart were gone.

Jack shuffled over to his shopping cart and grabbed a sack of flour before realizing that he had the wrong cart. It looked similar, yogurt, a package from the butcher’s counter, whole milk, and eggs, but he hadn’t picked up blueberries, pickles or any wine. Momentarily confused, Jack startled when he heard a very quiet clearing of a throat behind him.

“Um, excuse me. But I think I stole your cart?”

Jack turned around and locked eyes with the brown eyes he had last seen in his car a week prior.

“I think I have your nine pounds of your butter.”

He was delighted in seeing the pink rush into the guy’s face from his neck and ears before he responded. “Hey, wait, I thought I had 10 pounds.”

“I used a pound - finders fee.” Jack said easily despite his sweaty palms.

They stood frozen, looking at each other, before Jack held out his hand, “I’m Jack. I apparently have a car similar to one of your friends?”

His hand was met with a warm firm handshake and a self-deprecating smile. “I’m Eric, and I need to look before I just hop into a stranger’s vehicle.”

“Probably for the best, eh? Not everyone is as nice as I am.”

Jack earned a full smile in return and it felt like a goal.

“Umm, I can return your butter. And your shopping sack - I mean, I don’t have it all right now. It’s in my refrigerator at home.”

Eric nodded. “Well, let me make it up to you. Can I buy you a burger as a thank you? You could have just tossed it or donated it. It was kind of you to try and get it back to me. Most people don’t usually need that much butter.”

The question must have flitted across his face because Eric merely laughed. “I work over at the University in the anthropology department, and I bake cupcakes, cookies, and pies on the side. I had a party order for that Sunday.”

“And I stole your butter?”

Eric waved his hand, “No! I broke into your car, dropped my butter and then it served me right that I had to go across town to buy 10 more pounds.”

Feeling bolder than he had all week, Jack removed his hat and pushed his hair back. “You know, if you don’t mind, I had all this extra butter I didn’t know what to do with, so I tried to make some cookies but they were kinda dry. It sounds like you might be able to help me perfect my recipe, yeah?”

Jack watched as Eric preened for a second, his eyes darting up at Jack’s face, trying to read something that Jack really hoped was he clearly projecting back at him. Eric, straightening his shirt, “I think I can do that.”

Jack beamed, “Okay, let’s wrap up here and grab that burger? Do you need a ride?”

Eric, ears still pink, “Yeah, I typically walk to the store. I don’t have a car right now.”

“That’s fine. Plus you are already familiar with mine.”

Eric groaned. “I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

“Just like you did to my car last week.” Jack chirped with a huge smile as Eric slapped his arm playfully.

“Ugh, you think you are so funny don’t you.”

There was a Summer Nursey, too. He had both known and not known this. Summer Nursey was productive, in the best and most unpredictable way; he was at the mercy of his impulses, but he was a better poet than Samwell Nursey, or even New York Nursey. There were a whole host of possible reasons for this. One was that the scenery here was new, rainwashed greens and silvered crumpling blues. Another was that nobody was watching, particularly, the way there always seemed to be someone watching elsewhere. He supposed Dex was watching. He suspected Dex was watching. But nobody else, nobody on the subway next to him or in the elevator getting off at the seventh floor with him, and certainly nobody waiting for him to get up from his table at the diner.

The third reason made something squirm in his chest to think about. The third reason bumped Nursey's boney elbow with his, then complained about losing feeling in his arms. The third reason had gotten tipsy last night and planted his forehead directly onto Nursey's shoulder and smelled like linen and fire.

He tried to conjure his first-year self, tried to describe to him the sensation of lying next to Dex on Dex's uncle's boat-- but the speedboat, the fun one, not the lobster boat-- and feeling content but also desperate to cross his ankle over Dex's and hold him there. A younger Nursey-- a Samwell Nursey or an Andover Nursey-- would have screamed at the prospect. He felt like a disoriented compass. Drawn, and strongly, but certainly not in the right direction.

i wonder what it would be like and the wonder pulls itself out of my skin when i try to contain it and it curls around you.

"That's kind of nice," Dex murmurs, cheek only a few centimeters away from contacting the skin on Nursey's shoulder.

Jesus Goddammit Christ Fuck, Nursey thinks.

Dex relaxes in Nursey's direction, and his foot rests against Nursey's ankle. Nursey considers throwing his notebook and pen into the water next to the boat. He lays them, instead, on his bare stomach.

"Done writing for the day, Walt Whitman?" Dex teases. His eyes are still closed, and his face is now so near to Nursey that he can't focus on the small and delicate veins in Dex's eyelid. He knows, because he is Dex's only window into the literary world, that Dex is aware of the implications of Walt Whitman.

When Nursey closes his eyes, lets himself melt into the top of the boat and Dex next to him and the water below all of it, he feels like he hasn't been born. The sway of the waves is unnerving, in a way; it's more like a roller coaster when Nursey can't orient himself by seeing the tilt of the horizon. On his shoulder, he can feel Dex's breathing. The exhales travel all the way to Nursey's elbow.

He opens his eyes and picks the notebook back up.

Will. Please.

Nursey waits for Dex to look up. He waits with his eyes open, following the parabolic path of a seagull through the sky over them. Then he waits with his eyes closed, and can hear the distant roar of a birthday party further down the marina. He considers falling asleep, but his heart thrumming in his stomach keeps him from it.

And then he can feel it-- Dex shifting next to him, Dex's hair brushing the canvas boat cover as he sits up a little. For a hundred and thirty years, there is nothing, and then he can feel Dex's hand on his wrist.

He turns his head slowly, opens his eyes, takes his time looking at everywhere on Dex's face but his eyes.

"Derek."

Nursey scrambles to prop himself on his elbows and kiss Dex on his beautiful, frustrating mouth.

For a few seconds, he is unsure whether he'll have to sit up, to follow Dex away from the beating heart of the boat and the water, but then Dex leans over him and he lays back. He can feel his spine against the white plexiglas hull, and he wraps both his arms-- lazy-- around Dex's neck. There is one hand, a fist, next to Nursey's ribs, and another open but no less insistent on the back of his neck. There is the sound of the seagull, the water, and both of their breathing. Nursey draws Dex's lower lip into his mouth, then releases it.

*

 The stadium was enormous and darkened, so Jack didn’t look up, just watched the few feet of space in front of him, making sure he kept his feet and stayed in the light, taking the steady pace they’d suggested during rehearsal.

 He'd marched in with the team during the Parade of Nations and then been hustled out to quickly change and make his way to the tunnel for his run. There was hardly time for a breath.

 He’d been here before, of course, four years ago. But he’d needed to be so stoned on benzos to make it through the Opening Ceremonies, he didn’t remember much, just an exhausted and colorful blur.

 He’d come a long way since then. Far enough that he was ready to be back here, through rehab, finally on the right meds, in regular therapy, three years of progress, fully vetted by the Olympics committee. Captain.

 But still, it was impossible to look up.

 “I’m here, Jack.”

 His father’s voice, so close. Jack looked and there he was, his hand outstretched, eyes shining.

 “Here you go, Papa.”

 “Run with me?”

 Jack felt himself smile a little.

 “Yeah. Okay.”

 They took a few steps together and then a few more at a run before Jack let go and watched his father jog away from him, all of the spotlights and cameras following and leaving Jack alone in the darkness.

 It had all happened so fast, he wasn’t sure what to think.

 “You can go in through the athletes now and rejoin your team, Mr. Zimmermann.”

 The same helpful woman who had assisted him getting into place was suddenly at his elbow, holding out his team hat and sweater so he could change. “Canada is just on the other side of the U.S. here, through Norway. Would you like me to take you?”

 “No, I’m fine.”

 She led him to the edge of the roped in area that was swarming with American athletes, most of whom were still watching the torch’s progress towards the cauldron on the big screen, but several of whom were ignoring that in favor of taking pictures of Jack or shouting congratulations. She held the rope up for him to join them.

 Pats on the shoulder (and ass) from familiar faces and a couple of teammates who stopped him for hugs and chirps, fist bumps and high fives from random skiers and bobsledders, Jack threaded his way through the Americans. He’d almost made it to the next rope when one more voice managed to call out to him, distinct from the general din.

 “Jack Zimmermann? Hey. That was amazing!”

 A shorter blond man, familiar. Maybe from TV? Jack wasn’t sure.

 “Thanks.” Jack stopped in his tracks. The guy’s face was framed with little curls peeking out from his under his hat, cheeks flushed and lips red. Jack felt himself staring.

 “Glad we get to bump into each other again. Four years, oh lord.”

 The man was having to shout to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

 Jack wracked his brain trying to remember. “We met last time,” he shouted back.

 “We sat together at that athlete’s breakfast thing? Remember? I think I talked you to death. Sorry we never got the chance to meet up again.”

 Jack’s brain made the connection. He’d just watched an interview with the US Figure Skating Silver Medalist two days ago. “Eric Bittle.”

 A smile lit up Bittle’s face. “Yep. That’s me.”

 The holes in his memory from his first Olympic experience suddenly gaped open, vast chasms of people and events that Jack desperately wished he could somehow get back.

 Eric Bittle was still talking, his hands rubbing together in what looked like nerves. “I just wanted a chance to tell you… how much it meant, in my sport, that you were willing to do what you did in yours. You know. Coming out. It just was a… life changer. Really.”

 At that moment, the crowd around them started to roar, far louder than before. Jack swung around to look at the big screen.

 Eric Bittle leaned in close. “Oh lord, we did not just miss the cauldron lighting! I’m so sorry. I’d best stop distracting you, honey.”

 Jack shook his head, and shouted back, right in to Eric’s ear, “It’s fine.”

 The noise started to die down.

 “You get yourself back home to Canada, before I make you miss anything else.”

 Eric Bittle patted him on the arm and gave him a sweet smile. Jack could feel himself still staring.

 “Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.

 Bittle had already turned back to a group of athletes behind him to gawk at the spectacle unfolding around them.

 Jack slunk under the ropes between nations, ignoring the fireworks, and started to make his way across Norway.

 *

 Jack met up with his parents after the ceremony, still in the sea of bodies as it started to disperse.

 “Glad I roped you into this, kiddo?” his father asked with a gentle punch to the shoulder. “That was quite a ride.”

 “It was great, Papa.”

 Oddly, Jack had hardly thought about his torch run since it happened.

 Someone tapped Bob on the shoulder and he was cheerfully dragged aside into an interview, already offering sound bites as he turned to their camera. Jack’s mother pulled Jack into a hug then, her hands softly rubbing circles on his back.

 “I’m so proud of my boys,” she murmured.

 “Maman, could you see whether my schedule conflicts with men’s singles figure skating?”

 She pulled back to look Jack in the eye, brush a stray hair out of his face. “Sure, honey. If it works, do you want me to get tickets?”

 Jack thinks back to those little blond curls, wide brown eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”

 His father turned to them at that moment and gestured for Jack to join him in the interview.

 Jack took a deep breath, and went.

 *

 Back at his room in the gorgeous building where the team was being housed, Jack collapsed into a chair, wrung out and exhausted.

 He’d had a vague memory as he’d walked back across the plaza: of four years ago, standing in the cold, freezing his ass off while someone short and blond used his phone. But he was probably remembering wrong.

 Jack scrolled through his contacts anyway. He had hundreds, and he never sorted through them, even when he’d changed phones. Years of “we should get together” and “text me some time” merged into a huge list of unfamiliar names and numbers he’d never used once.

 There it was, partway down the list. Eric B. Jack’s heart picked up its pace a bit. It couldn’t be him.

 Jack Is this Bittle?

 Jack hit send and then twitchy panic flooded his legs. It was probably someone else that he’d forgotten, some prospect named Eric he’d housed for a night or some trainer who’d hoped Jack would call him for another session.

 The panic was electrical; he had to hop up and do something with the charge in his body. He did twenty push-ups and then changed into his pajama bottoms and brushed his teeth. When he came back to his phone, there was a response waiting.

 Eric B It is. Who’s this?

 Jack froze and read the text five times, slowly.

 Jack Jack

 Jack Zimmermann

 Eric B Jack Zimmermann?

 Jack I think you gave me your number four years ago, and I’m finally using it.

 Eric B Well that’s a kick! Better late than never, as my MooMaw would say

 Jack could feel his face heat at Eric’s conversational tone. Like he might be happy that Jack had gotten in touch.

 Jack I didn’t get to thank you for what you said tonight. Thanks.

 Eric B Oh honey. There’s so many of us this year, Jack. I can’t tell you enough how much your coming out meant to us.</I>

 Eric B To me.

 Jack had to stand up again for a moment. He walked in a quick circle around the room before he could answer.

 Jack It was the right thing for me to do for myself. I’m glad it helped you too.

 There was long pause after Jack sent this message. Maybe that was all either of them had to say?

 His text alert went off again after a minute.

 Eric B So, when’s your first game?

 Jack settled down and leaned back in his chair, pulling his feet up to tuck under him. Was this an actual conversation?

 Jack Thursday. When do you start?

 *

 Jack had gotten to sleep finally, way too late, after an extended text exchange with Eric in which he’d learned quite a lot about the upcoming figure skating schedule, good recipes for jam, and the story of Eric’s own tricky public coming out last year.

 He grabbed his phone in the morning and looked at the last text Eric had sent, just to be sure he was remembering correctly.

 Eric B Hope we can talk more soon. Anytime, okay?

 Eric had to compete today, day one. Jack’s hands got clammy just thinking about it.

 He stood in the hot shower for a long time, pondering his day: breakfast with his parents, team skate, interviews at one o’clock, and then, if his mother had worked it out, tickets to the figure skating venue in the afternoon.

 He needed to get his head around being here, get focused the series of games in front of him, because honestly right now, his mind was full of nothing but Eric Bittle.

 *

 Interviewer: So Jack, you carrying the torch into the stadium was a huge moment for the LGBT community. What has it been like since you publicly revealed your sexuality last spring?

 Zimmermann: Huh. Been like? Euh, the main difference is that I get asked about it in interviews all the time.

 Interviewer (laughing): Fair enough.

 Zimmermann: People just know a little more about me. Like knowing I’m Canadian, or six foot one.

 Interviewer: But it must be interesting to be here with a larger community of athletes who are out?

 Zimmermann: Yeah, sure. There are some great role models out there, like in... lots of different sports. And there are people who aren’t ready to be out, too, which is fine. The main thing is to improve the atmosphere so people can be themselves.

 Interviewer: Indeed. Do you think that’s happened?

 Zimmermann: It will have happened when we don’t have to talk about this in interviews anymore.

 *

 Eric Bittle was very flexible.

 That was what Jack had noticed a few seconds into Eric’s short program. Well, flexible and fast. And strong. Also, really slender. And his hair fluttered in a interesting way.

 Maybe he’d noticed a few things.

 Jack’s hackles were still up from his hours with the press after lunch. It had gotten a little better once he’d been able to join a few teammates in a group interview that was almost entirely fluff about the best places to visit in Canada, but before that he’d had three interviewers in a row ask him about his sexuality, and only one of them ask him anything specific about hockey.

 He’d stewed next to his mother for several skaters before Eric’s name was finally announced. He was fully aware of the cameras that were probably seeking out familiar faces in the crowd, and would no doubt find him, and then speculate.

 However, Eric’s leg could (apparently) extend entirely above his head in more than one direction, and honestly, that thought alone wiped clean Jack’s entire frustrating afternoon in one stroke.

 At the end of Eric’s program, as the crowd waited for the scores, a few people threw stuffed animals or flowers onto the ice. Jack watched as they got gathered up.

 “I should have brought something,” Jack muttered to himself, out loud.

 His mother looked at him, her brows raised. “You... wanted to… ?”

 Jack felt his cheeks go hot. “Oh, no. I just… I know him. Eric. But I’ll just send him a text.”

 Jack’s mother stared at him for a long moment, biting her lower lip. “Oh. Well when you do, tell him I thought it was a beautiful skate.”

 Jack’s cheeks got hotter.

 *

 Jack My mother loved your performance.

 Jack Oh and I did too. A lot.

 Eric B Wait? Are you here???

 Jack Yes

 Eric B Come say hi!!!

 “Honey?”

 Jack stared at his screen and then met his mother’s curious expression. “I just… Eric is asking… if we could meet up.”

 His mother’s eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

 “I thought he’d be busy… so. But it’s fine, never mind.” Jack looked back at his phone and then tucked it quickly into his pocket.

 “No. Go see your friend, honey. Papa and I will find you again later.” Jack wasn’t sure how he felt about the little knowing smile on his mother’s face.

 *

 “Jack Zimmermann, what in heck are you even doin’ here?”

 Eric pulled away from a gaggle of people and came dashing over to him in the cold concrete corridor, fully decked out in a cute zippered Team USA hoodie and some extremely form-fitting leggings that Jack had to look away from quickly.

 A huge set of badges were clattering against his chest as he ran over to him and pulled him into an enthusiastic hug. Jack’s body froze for a moment in surprise before his stubborn arms agreed to wrap around Eric’s back for a moment.

 The official who had led Jack back to the skaters’ area looked rapidly between the two of them, gave a quick nod, and left.

 “I got tickets. To…” Jack hesitated just a moment, but he’d already started the sentence so there was no going back. “... see you. Uh. Skate.”

 Eric’s cheeks pinked up and he shook his head. “Well that’s just a hoot and half cause you won’t believe what I finagled this morning? Tickets to your first game!”

 Jack thought his heartbeat might be visible through his skin. “Huh. Really?”

 Jack’s brain was flooded with the fact that now he was gonna have to score at least one goal on Thursday.

 Eric smiled then, his entire face lighting up. “Great minds, I suppose!”

 Jack couldn’t stop staring at him. The silence lingered just a bit too long before Jack managed to clear his throat and say, “Congratulations, Bittle. You were really great.”

 Eric shook his head, still grinning. “Lord, Jack, it went so well. I mean, I’m skatin’ in the goldarn Olympics. The team is fourth after the shorts! I cannot believe it!”

 Eric’s enthusiasm was so infectious, Jack found himself laughing a little. Eric’s eyes were so deeply brown, and he could not stop looking at them. Shit.

 “I should let you get back,” Jack managed.

 Eric licked his lips, and then said, sort of tentatively, “Jack, uh, you must have practice and all sorts of stuff you gotta do, right? Torch-guy interviews and all?”

 “Euh, when?”

 “Later?”

 “Today? No. I don’t have anything else today. Why?” Jack had hopes, but he didn’t want to even hint at them.

 “Well, Katya will literally murder me if I do anything right now but go back to my apartment and stay there, probably to use the crappy-ass oven to bake something so I don’t pass out from stress...” Eric’s cheeks were so pink Jack wanted to touch them just to see how warm they were. “But, well. She never said I needed to be alone, if you wanna keep me company.”

 Jack’s ability to communicate had been reduced to head nods and single syllables. “Huh. Sure.”

 Eric smiled and rested a hand on Jack’s forearm. “I gotta warn you, though, after I’ve skated, I don’t stop talking for hours.”

 Jack laughed and swallowed. “I won’t be a distraction?”

 Eric leaned in conspiratorially and said under his breath, “Well shit, Jack, I was kinda hoping you would be.”

 The official-looking group of people that Eric had been with were now all looking over at them with interest. A photographer down the hall had his lens pointing right at them.

 Jack felt like he was on the edge of something, a steep cliff, ready to fall or fly. But this was it. He’d come out so he didn’t have to pretend anymore, so he could march into a stadium of thousands of people, into a world of millions, and not have to pretend. Seemed like Eric Bittle was done with pretending, too.

 “I do like baked goods,” Jack said.

 Eric waggled his eyebrows. “Match made in heaven, honey.”