#turifer

He swings his feet to the floor and presses his bare toes on the cool wood. He doesn’t like carpets because cold feels friendly. He likes sun and warmth too, but cold is reassuring.

He stretches and pads into the kitchen, rubbing the sheet marks on his shoulder. Bitty is perched on a stool at the kitchen island, drinking from a mug that says, “cutie π.” His hair is sticking straight up on one side like a pale fin. His cheeks are pink. He looks so wholesome and sweet, which he sometimes is. But three hours ago? Not so much.

Bitty’s feet dangle a good 8 inches off the ground. He doesn’t tuck them onto the rung the way a lot of people would. The sight makes Jack’s heart tight, which makes no sense. He didn’t expect being in love meant you’d care about the way someone’s legs take up space.

Bitty looks up and smiles, lopsided and tired. There’s no need for him to say he couldn’t sleep. Jack shuffles over and wraps his arms around Bitty, crossing them at the front. Bitty leans back into Jack and the magazine falls closed. And. It’s a wedding magazine. Jack’s lips twitch and he clamps them shut before he says something stupid. His boyfriend of two years is reading a wedding magazine. Should he be freaked out? In a rom com he’d freak out now, but this isn’t a movie. He’s not going to freak out.

Bitty offers Jack his mug. It’s warm milk with nutmeg and a splash for Frangelico. Jack shakes his head and waits for Bitty to finish it. The bride on the cover is wearing a very short white dress and a floor length long veil. She looks familiar. Jack scans the headlines and recognizes her name. Her wedding is featured in this. That’s why Bitty is reading it. Jack is... relieved. Or maybe disappointed? The reasonable part of his brain asserts that he’s not publicly out yet. There’s no rush. Bitty needs time to figure out what he wants and who he wants to be.

Bitty washes his mug and yawns. He holds out a hand to Jack who takes it and follows Bitty back to bed. In this moment Jack knows for certain that if Bitty holds out his hand, he will always take it. Whatever that means.

Over the next week Bitty amasses stacks of wedding magazines. He’s marked pages with post-it flags. They’re fanned across the coffee table. Jack wonders if it’s a hint. Is he supposed to ask why Bitty has them? Is he supposed to propose? Do you give a dude a ring? Do you need to rent a hot air balloon, or some horses? Does Bitty like horses? Should he propose on skates? The reasonable part of Jack’s brain reminds him that there’s no rush, but the reasonable part is shrinking about as quickly as the ice sheet around Greenland.

He returns home after a roadie to find Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, Holster, and Chowder arguing at his dining room table. There are five cakes in a line down the center of the table. Everyone has five paper plates in front of them and partially eaten slices.

“Come on, man. The lemon curd is bright. Perfect balance of sweet and tart. It’s symbolic.” Ransom is shaking his head in disappointment. Holster is smirking, which means he’s been winding Ransom up.

“Zimmermann!” Shitty launches himself at Jack like he hasn’t seen him in three years. It’s been three days. Bitty wriggles in between them and Shitty hugs them both.

Everyone else calls, “Hey, Jack!” But he can hear the extra exclamation points from Chowder.

“Jack,” Lardo says, slapping her flat hands on the table. “Get your ass over here. You have to settle this.”

Jack lets Shitty push him into a chair. Bitty presents Jack with five neat slices of cake and a sheet of paper to rank them. He’d been looking forward to unwinding with Bitty, but he loves his friends. He should be happy to see them, it’s just been a long week and he lost two games.

“Here’s a glass of water for palate cleansing.” Bitty says, wiping a large serrated knife clean. “Be honest. This is no time to be all polite and Canadian.” 

Jack looks at the cake slices and then back up at the others. They’re all watching him like hawks. Is he choosing his own wedding cake right now? He hasn’t proposed, or been proposed to. But Bitty might choose a wedding cake before anything else. He might just plan the cake for his wedding before he has a groom.

“Oh, honey.” Bitty slips his arm around Jack’s shoulder. “You don’t have to finish each slice. I know that’d screw up your nutrition plan. But just take a little bite. Your opinion is important.”

“Yeah, and we’re deadlocked.” Shitty crosses his arms and Lardo shakes her head like whatever.

Jack dutifully eats a forkful of red velvet cake. It’s perfect. Melt in your mouth cream cheese frosting, velvety red cake with the tiniest hint of cocoa. It’s the worst thing Jack’s ever eaten, because it comes with a horrible realization. He could be helping Bitty pick a cake for a wedding Jack won’t be a part of. He gives the red velvet the lowest score, 5.

Mutters go round the table. It’s weird to be eating cake while five people stare at you and Jack is used to people staring at him. Ransom looks smug about the red velvet, but a divot of worry sneaks between Bitty’s brows.

Jack takes a sip of water and tries the next cake: yellow sponge cake, with fresh strawberries and vanilla buttercream. The buttercream is silky and light, which means it’s the kind with egg whites and no yolks. Jack has attended the Eric Bittle lectures on cake frosting several times.

He rates it a 3 and Bitty’s divot eases. Shitty and Lardo whisper furiously to each other. Shitty looks disappointed. Jack notices that Shitty made about 20 exclamation points on his score card next to the red velvet.

Jack tries the yellow cake with apricot jam and mocha buttercream. It’s divine. He holds off on giving it a rank and moves on to the chocolate mousse cake, which is obscene. Jack wants to take this cake into the other room and do unspeakable things to it. He marks it a 4 because there’s no way Bitty is marrying some other guy with this cake. After a second, he swaps the red velvet’s 5 with the mousse’s 4. He’d give the mousse a -300 if he could. Shitty doesn’t look much happier.

Holster grumbles, but Ransom looks delighted. Lardo glares at Jack like he just threatened to make kittens illegal. Bitty hovers next to Jack and twists his apron like he’s wringing it out. It’s bone dry.

Jack is exhausted. He wants everyone to go home. He wants the cake to go away. He wants to curl up on the couch with Bitty. Nap in the sunlight that’ll only be around for another hour or so.

But he her tries the white cake with lemon curd and vanilla buttercream. It’s fine, but it’s not in the same league as the mousse. He nods. Bitty can marry the asshole lawyer that Shitty will probably introduce him to and eat this cake. Jack will hire a plane to fly over with a banner that says, “Enjoy your lemon cake, dickface. It’s not the best.”

Ransom elbows Holster and says, “See. Jack gets it. It’s a metaphor. Marriage means taking the sour with the sweet.”

Holster rolls his eyes. Jack marks the lemon cake a one and Ransom cheers and drums his hands on the table and then on Holster.

“Really,” Bitty leans over the back of Jack’s chair and frowns. “You don’t like lemon normally, or full on buttercream.”

Jack shrugs. He doesn’t like the way it coats his mouth and lingers. It’s assertively creamy, like the insides of truffles. 

They order pizza and drink beer. Jack laughs when he’s supposed to and answers questions on autopilot. It takes forever, but finally everyone leaves. Bitty packed up the leftover cake for Chowder to take back to The Haus. Good riddance.

Bitty finishes wiping down the dining room table and hurls the sponge at the sink, narrowly missing Jack who is rinsing out empty beer bottles to recycle.

“Jack.” Bitty shakes his head. “Why are you being so weird about this?”

Jack has reached his limit. He’s been on pins and needles for weeks. He’s googled gay engagement tokens, which confused him to no end. He hasn’t slept well the last few nights, worrying. And earlier, while Shitty told a long story about copyright law, Jack fleshed out Bitty’s future husband. He’s a lawyer named James who reads post-modern novels and lives in Beacon Hill. He has one of those adorable brick homes with flower boxes in the windows. Jack also drank 2 beers, which 1.5 beers more than he usually has. His head is a little muzzy.

Jack stands up and coldly says, “I don’t know why you’re making me pick out a wedding cake for James! You haven’t even met him yet!”

Bitty throws up his hands. “James who?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says. “When you meet him, you tell me.”

“Jack, you’re not making any sense.” Bitty rushes him and grabs Jack’s face. Tilting it toward the light. “You said you didn’t hit your head that hard last night.”

Jack shakes Bitty off and ignores the hurt on Bitty’s face. “I didn’t. I’m not concussed.”

Jack storms off to the bedroom and starts pulling off his clothes and hurling them on the floor. Bitty follows and puts each thing in the appropriate laundry baskets, which annoys Jack deeply. But he’s not 8 years old. He’s absolutely not going to go over and dump out all the laundry on the floor. But oh, how he wants to.

“My head is fine!” Jack is wearing his boxers and a single sock.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bitty holds his hands out palms up.

Bitty sits on the side of the bed, fighting to stay calm, but he’s got the duvet clutched in his fists. “Who is this James?”

It’s like Jack can feel the ice cracking on a pond beneath him, but he stomps on it anyway. “Your future husband.”

“My what?” Bitty squeezes one eye shut like he’s trying to look down a microscope.

Jack sits on the very edge of the bed and stares at his hands, which are shaking. “You know. The guy you’ll end up with. Eventually.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Bitty scrambles onto his knees, next to Jack. His knee collides with a bruise on Jack’s leg.

Jack practically shouts, “No. Of course not.”

“Then what’s this all about?” Bitty lays one hand gingerly on Jack’s shoulder. “I thought you wanted me to find my thing. Something I’m passionate about. After I quit the café you convinced me to take my time and figure out what I want to do.”

It’s not the other shoe that drops. An entire shoe factory collapses. Jack flops back on the bed and covers his face with his hands. His fingers are cold and his cheeks are hot. He can imagine how red he is.

Through his hands he says, “You want to bake wedding cakes. Like. For other people. Merde.”

Bitty leans over him and pries Jack’s hands off his face. Bitty still looks confused, but not mad. So that’s not so bad.

“Why would I make people try five different kinds of ca-- Oh.” Bitty sits back on his knees. Eyes round. Not blinking. Mouth open. He blinks. “Oh.”

Jack slaps his hands back over his face. Okay. Now it’s that bad.

“You thought I wanted to get married?” Bitty’s voice gets higher with every word. “And maybe not even to you?!” He thumps Jack across the chest with a pillow. “You! Ugh.” 

“I know you want to get married some day,” Jack says. He rubs where the pillow hit him, even though it didn’t hurt.

“I’d like to be old enough to rent a car before I plight my troth.” Bitty curls up next to Jack, on his side, like an apostrophe.

“I panicked.” Jack reaches for Bitty’s hand. He squeezes it and waits for Bitty to squeeze back. He doesn’t. Jack keeps going. “I saw you reading wedding magazines and I don’t know. I had some kind of irrational fit. I love you so much and I worry. You know? Having to keep us secret from most people is too much to ask. And eventually you’ll realize you deserve better. You’ll go off and find a James who can marry you on a beach and eat that chocolate mousse cake.”

“Not lemon curd?” Bitty says innocently, the little shit.

“No. Not the lemon curd.” Jack sighs. “Ransom may think sweet and sour is a metaphor for love, but it’s not how I feel about you. The mousse is how I feel.”

Bitty presses his face into Jack’s shoulder. He lets Jack hold his hand, but he’s not holding it back.

“The mousse cake is intense, but not heavy. There couldn’t possibly be a better cake. It’s so good I didn’t want to share it. And I kind of wanted...” Jack laughs a little.

Bitty squeezes Jack’s hand: what?

“I kind of wanted to make out with it.”

Bitty laughs and squeezes Jack’s hand again. He sits up and pokes Jack in the chest. “Well, it’s good I kept a piece, huh?”

They race each other to the kitchen. Jack loses his footing at the end of the hall because he’s still wearing one sock so he doesn’t get the first bite.