#ericbittlle

Bitty hadn’t had a nightmare that bad for awhile now and it’s absence only amplified its unexpected return. He’d talked to Coach that night and as far as phone calls with his father went, it had actually been going fairly well. They’d traded their long winded opinions of the Falconers competition going into the playoffs, and Coach had provided Bitty with some stray leadership tips he’d conjured up within the past few days. It wasn’t until his father was saying goodbye, that the Bitty’s confidence had hit a snag.

“I’m so glad you’ve found your groove, Dicky.” Coach said, yawning into the speaker of the phone, “Figure skating never toughened you up. I mean, hockey’s no football, but I think it’s surely done the job, you know?”

And with that, an incessant spike of insecurity buried deep inside Eric Bittle grasped ont tightly, because yeah, he did know. He knew no matter how hard he worked to get better at hockey, it still wasn’t football, and that might never be enough.

Bitty had hung up in a hurry, tears already prickling his eyes when he entered the bedroom. Jack had already fallen asleep and Bitty, resolved to work through this minor blip alone, had allotted himself five minutes to cry in the bathroom before bed. It’s what he had always done- hidden away until he could push his emotions back into working order.

Yet here he stands, twitching fingers grasping a glass of water far tighter than is necessary, and trying to make his body feel close to normal again. The water does nothing but feel like it’s clogging up his throat further so he sets it.

Bitty takes in the apartment surrounding, picks out the pieces of himself and Jack’s life together, and tries to ground himself. He’s safe here, he’s always known that, and yet his skin still crawls with alarm.

He hears the soft creak of Jack’s bed- their bed- in the other room and braces himself against the kitchen counter. His knuckles press into the tile until they’ve gone white, his breathing hitching at the thought of confrontation. Which is ridiculous, he thought. Jack would never hold a moment of vulnerability like this against him and Bitty knew that, but still, old habits die hard and the ones he’d fostered in Georgia all the more so.

“Bits?” The soft light of the city passes in through the window, settling on Jack’s taut look of worry and Bitty sighs into his shoulder. He should’ve been more quiet.  

He turns around, throwing secrecy to the wind as he wipes at the tears crowding the corners of his eyes.  “Just a silly little dream, sweetpea. Nothing to worry your little head over.”

Jacks “You were on the phone with your Dad.” They both let it hang in the air before Jack reaches a hand out and stops before grazing Bitty’s cheek, wary of his fragile state. He looks to his boyfriend for permission and Bitty reaches out a hand, desperately latching onto Jack’s. They both wrap their arms carefully around the other and Bitty can feel his heartbeat steadying in his chest.

Bitty chokes out a forced laugh, an attempt to lighten the moment. “Pee Wee football, again! I, um, woke up and felt a bit overwhelmed, I guess.” He shrugs and Jack frowns.  

Bitty rambles on, relieved at Jack’s contact. “I’ve had bad nightmares like that before, but I don’t know, I never get used to the feeling.” Jack hums as he listens to Bitty, thumb rubbing carefully over the spot of skin on Bitty’s hip.  

Bitty lets his eyes fall shut and a tear rolls out, only to be swept away by Jack’s deft finger. “You’re safe here, bud.” Jacks murmurs, kissing the top of Bitty’s forehead.

When Bitty replies, it comes out scratchy, but he smiles at the warm press of Jack’s hands. “I know, honey.”

“I can give you space if you need, or-”