pizza and revolutionaries night! [dates to 2/1]

When I hear the knock on my door, I just assume that it's Bittle. There's no one else that I know here well enough to come over unannounced. I've met a lot of nice people here, but none that I've really bonded with yet. I know that Bittle is different. He has all sorts of friends, so I try not to bother him too often. I also don't go out too much, because I just don't trust myself that much yet. It's better to stay inside, away from temptation.

I do perk up a bit at the sound of the knock, and I pause the TV and stand up. I'm already showered and dressed in a t-shirt and flannel pants, because that's how exciting I am. When I open the door, I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. The pizza smells amazing, and my eyes light up at the box in Bittle's hand. It's so thoughtful of him, but that isn't exactly a surprise.

"I think I'd be a fool to say no to that, Mr. Bittle." I step aside and gesture for him to come in, ducking my head to hide my smile.

He looks comfortable, his hair all wavy and flannel pants loose on his hips. I've seen Jack like this only a couple times before, mostly those few instances when I actually managed to make it to the Haus early enough to whip up some pancakes for the boys. Not being much of a morning person myself, it hadn't been all that often, and Jack was usually already awake before I got there. And grumpy.

He's smiling now though. And letting me into his apartment, which is a great sign.

"Now I couldn't remember exactly how you like your pizza so I took my best guess," I admit, handing Jack the DVDs before carrying the pizza into his kitchen and setting it out on the counter. "So I sorta tossed just about everything on here. Pepperoni and nearly every veggie I had on hand in my fridge. Mushrooms, peppers, olives, spinach. Are the olives okay? Those can be a bit contentious, I know. You can pick 'em off if you don't want 'em."

“I don’t have any strong feelings either way, but that looks pretty good,” I say, smirking in amusement as he sets the pizza down. The DVDs in my hand distract me and I turn them over to read the back with a studious expression on my face, quirking one eyebrow interestedly. I’ve never seen this one before.

The smell of pizza finally gets me to tear my gaze away, and I set the box down on the coffee table before following Bittle into the kitchen. He’s helping himself to plates, and I scratch the back of my neck self-consciously as I open the fridge. “Uh, all I have to drink is water and Gatorade.”

I don’t drink soda and there’s no beer, for obvious reasons. There’s a box of Sleepytime tea in the cupboard, but that doesn’t seem like something to offer to go with dinner. “So, do you want water, purple, or red?”

Jack has his head ducked to peer into the fridge, his free hand curled around the back of his neck like he's embarrassed. I can't help but smile over at him before turning my attention back to serving up our pizza, giving us both two slices each to start with.

"Water's just fine, Jack," I tell him. "I'm the one who just barged his way into your apartment, after all -- you don't have to worry about tryin' to accommodate me. Also, there's a fresh over at my place if we're still hungry later. It's a meringue. Two slices is good for now, yeah?" I ask him, grabbing both our plates and heading back toward his living room.

“Water it is.” I grab two bottles out of the fridge and straighten up, tearing a few paper towels off to use as napkins. The pizza really does smell incredible, and I nod as he loads up the plates. “You didn’t barge in. I opened the door.”

He heads for the living room and I follow with the water and the paper towels, suddenly ravenous. All I had for dinner was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because those ingredients have been on my shopping lists for as long as I could remember, and then I got sad because my body was suddenly ready for a game that I would never get to play.

“You’re trying to fatten me up, eh?” I toss a teasing smile his way and then grab the DVDs, popping the first disc out and going to load it into the DVD player. The menu loads and I sit down on the couch next to Bittle, looking over at him skeptically. “Are you sure that you want to watch this?”

"You're a metabolic machine, Jack," I say with a smirk as I take a seat on his couch, carefully placing my plate on the coffee table as he puts the first disc into the player. (And let it not be said that just because Jack is my teammate and straight, that I can't appreciate that rather impressive ass of his when he puts it on such nice display.) "I honestly don't think I could fatten you up even if I tried."

He takes a seat next to me as the disc loads and I scoot back a little and toe off my shoes so I can sit cross-legged on the couch, pulling my plate up into my lap. The couch isn't the biggest, but it's a good sight better than that ugly thing they had in the Haus. I can feel Jack's warmth all along my left side even though we're not touching. It's nice, actually. A little thrilling, though I'm sure that's because I'm still a little uncertain of where we stand. Jack does seem a lot more comfortable around me than I ever remember, which makes it a lot easier to be comfortable in turn. But I know I still slip up sometimes, that we're not really... in sync, I guess.

Shrugging, I smile over at him. "Just prepare yourself for having to sit through Life is a But a Dream with me at some point. Besides, I've been out of school now for nearly six months -- it's about time I try to learn something again."

"It's all about balance. I can't just eat whatever I want all the time," I tell him, smiling wryly as I sit down next to him. The scales have been pretty tipped since I got here, and I press my hand to my stomach. It's still flat, abs hard and defined, but I don't want to get soft. But then again, what's the point?

No. I'm not going to do that tonight. I'm not going to spiral, not when Bittle went through all this trouble to make it a pleasant evening. His warmth is shining bright at my side, and I settle in next to him, shoulders brushing.

"What is Life is But a Dream?" I ask curiously, looking over at him as I take a bite of pizza and press play with my other hand.

I don't miss the way Jack's face flickers with discomfort for a second as he rests a hand against his belly. I'm sure I can only guess at what he's thinking, but I shift a little all the same, pressing my arm right up against his. As far as comfort goes, it's small beans, but I'm not sure what else to do.

Changing the topic is probably a good start, though.

"Goodness, Jack, one day I'm gonna sit you down and teach you a thing or two about cultural icons," I tell him, watching as he takes a bite out of his pizza. I'm smiling though too, so he hopefully knows I'm kidding. Mostly. "It's Beyonce's documentary. She directed and produced it and it's incredible." I settle back a little, taking a bite of my own pizza and talking around it, "I'm telling you, George Washington had nothin' on her."

"Excuse-toi, George Washington was the father of your great nation," I say vehemently. "Do you have any idea how--"

I'm distracted by the start of the documentary, and I cut my gaze to the screen before twisting to face it. The pizza is warm and delicious, and when the narrator mentions just how great a man George Washington was, I say ha! with such vigor that sauce goes all over my chin.

Shitty once told me that I watch history documentaries the way that some people watch sports games, or the Oscars. He might have been right.

As expected, Jack erupts into a flurry of indignation and I have to hide my smirk behind my slice of pizza. Luckily, he gets distracted by the DVD soon enough and I shut my own mouth for a change, happy to let him sink into mind-numbing history talk for awhile as I munch on my pizza.

He lets out a shout a minute or two in, eyes flaming with vindication and I actually snort, especially at the smear of red on his chin.

"Yes, Jack," I say, grinning as I grab a napkin from off the table and use it to clean his face, "George Washington was a great, great man. But he isn't a platinum-selling, Grammy-award winner, is he? Let's just put it into perspective."

"Well, this is undignified," I say as Bittle reaches over to wipe at my chin. I reach up to take the napkin myself, chuckling as I wipe my face and fingers. But then Bittle says that Beyonce is better again, and I just can't let that stand. "It's like comparing apples to oranges, Bittle!"

The documentary plays for another few minutes, and I cut him a sly look. "Maybe Washington could carry a hell of a tune. You don't know."

I know I shouldn't be getting so much enjoyment out of this, but it's just so easy.

"It's like comparing slave owners to goddesses," I correct him with a smirk, but I settle back on the couch all the same and do my best to pay attention. It's impossible not to grin when Jack makes a further remark.

"You're right," I concede, picking an olive off my slice of pizza and popping it into my mouth. "I suppose we'll never know. But I'm also pretty certain Beyoncé could lead a nation if we just gave her the opportunity."

My mouth snaps shut at the mention of slavery. It's a touchy subject, and a terrible blight on America's past. I could tell him how Washington worked towards abolishing slavery, or how he educated his slaves and refused to break up families, but I don't bother. There is no excusing it. He was a great man, for his time. But he wasn't perfect. That's for sure.

"Johnson used to say that she led the Illuminati," I say, frowning in confusion. "I don't know what the Illuminati is and to be honest, I wasn't even sure that she was a real person until you came along."

Johnson was always sort of strange, and said a lot of things that didn't make sense. I found it best at most times to just smile and nod.

"Jack Laurent Zimmerman, how on earth could you not believe Beyoncé's a real person?" I blurt in a tumble of indignation. I can't seem to help but laugh; it's such a ridiculous idea from an utterly ridiculous boy. "Did you think were were all just makin' her up?"

Despite my outburst, I remember that Jack's still not having the easiest time here and I don't really want him thinking I'm really making fun of him, so I wiggle my foot a little where it's crossed under my leg and nudge my toes against his knees, light and companionable.

"Also, Johnson we're all being manipulated by some higher power behind a computer screen so I wouldn't take anything he says too seriously. Though if Queen Bey is secretly a lizard person intent on controlling the world, I will eagerly bow before her. She need only say the word."

"She isn't exactly my genre," I say, laughing at his reaction. Bittle presses his little toes against my knee and I don't really think about it before I'm letting my hand curl around the top of his foot, thumb pressed to the arch.

"Yeah, see. That sounds like something Johnson would say," I tell him distractedly, slumping against the sofa and absently rubbing Bittle's foot while the narrator talks about the Battle of Yorktown.

I'm not really expecting Jack to react to the little nudge other than to maybe nudge back with his knee. I'm certainly not expecting him to rest his hand over my foot, his thumb expertly sliding right in the arch where I've been sore from standing in the kitchen all day.

I'm also not expecting his hand to stay there.

Something about it makes my face feel warm, but I don't pull away. I don't really want to. Instead, I just fall quiet, letting Jack concentrate on the television as I finish my pizza, setting the plate on the arm of the couch once I'm done so I don't risk calling attention to Jack's hand and accidentally making him pull away.

"Did they teach you this stuff up in Canada?" I ask him, settled back in the couch and warm all over. I'm starting to get a little drowsy, but it feels strangely nice. Comfortable. "Or did you just learn your own country's history?"

"Hm?" I've been eating pizza with one hand, and apparently giving Bittle a foot rub with the other. My cheeks go warm and I nearly pull my hand away, but something makes me leave it. Maybe it's the way that Bittle doesn't seem to mind, or the way that he seems to have relaxed into the corner of the sofa, looking sleepy and warm.

It takes a moment to remember that I've been asked a question.

"Oh, heh. Well, I never really went to an actual school," I explain. "I had private tutors growing up so I could stick to my training schedule, so I learned about American and Canadian history. English as well. I couldn't really tell you what the average curriculum is like in Canadian schools."

His hand twitches on my foot for a second, loosens, and I hold my breath expecting him to pull away. He doesn't, though he stops massaging like he was, mostly just resting it there. It still feels nice.

"Mmm," I reply with a nod as I listen to his explanation. It occurs to me that there's really a whole lot I don't know about Jack Zimmermann. I know him as a hockey player, as a captain, and a little bit as a college student. I think... I think I'd call him a friend now, but aside from the stuff I've read in the Swallow and on NHL websites and the stuff Shitty and the others have occasionally divulged, I really don't much of anything at all.

"That sounds like it woulda been hard," I manage a moment later, my words slower, too drowsy to try curbing my accent too much. "And lonely. But you had friends on your teams, right?"

"Il faisait beau," I say with a shrug. "I didn't really know any different."

While I'm deeply interested in the documentary, Bittle looks like he's about to fall asleep. Maybe that means he misses the deep frown that takes over my face, or the way I swallow hard.

"Sort of," I tell him. I was always sort of the weird kid, the one who took everything far too seriously. A fair few of the people I thought were my friends growing up just wanted to get to my father, or they gave up on me when I proved to never be any fun. "I never really had any good friends until Kenny."

Part of me isn't expecting him to respond, thinking he might be too engrossed in the DVD to be listening much at all. So when he does, I feel my eyes sliding open again -- I didn't even realized I'd closed them -- and I look over at him.

He looks a little subdued, but not sad, exactly. Contemplative. The light from the TV is casting all sorts of lovely shadows across his face.

"Who's Kenny?" I ask, knowing even as the words are falling from lips that it's probably something I should've already known.

Well, that's a loaded question. Even the Bittle I knew didn't know everything that transpired between me and Kenny. Nobody knows everything, not even Shitty. I try not to sigh at having to explain myself again, and I do my best to push aside the deja vu I feel whenever something like this happens.

"Kent Parson. He's the captain of the Aces," I explain, swallowing hard. So much happened between us and Kent, and to this day I don't really know how to process it all.

I know who the Aces are, of course. And once he says "Kenny's" full name, I know exactly who he's talking about. Somehow, in all those few articles I've read, I don't remember any of them mentioning him.

Somehow, in a weird way, it makes sense that they're friends.

"I've never heard you mention him before," I tell him, quietly, but not accusing. "Do you still talk?"

I remember that night at the Epikegster all too well, even if it did end with me in bed after getting a Klonopin from Shitty after Kenny left. I remember Bittle being there outside the room after me and Kenny argued, and then Bittle cautiously saying my name through the door while I had a panic attack.

He seemed so worried about me, even after we got back from winter break. It was such a big deal, and this Bittle doesn't even remember.

"Parse and I have a... complicated history," I admit, squirming uncomfortably. "We haven't talked since he showed up at Epikegster. You and him took a pretty good selfie."

That's enough to wake me up for a moment, my eyes falling wide as I glance over at Jack.

He isn't touching my foot anymore and I don't know why that's so disappointing. He at least hasn't kicked me out yet, though that may or may not be because the documentary isn't over yet.

"I took a selfie with Kent Parson?" It comes out a little squeakier than I realize and I cringe at the sound. "Goodness. Did you invite him? I bet the boys were falling all over themselves to meet him!"

My expression goes a bit strained when Bittle gets so visibly excited over meeting Kenn-- Parse. I wonder if Bittle thought he was attractive, and then I wonder why thinking that he probably did makes me feel vaguely ill.

"Ah, no. He surprised me-- all of us," I tell him. "The guys seemed to get a kick out of it."

The topic makes me squirm a bit and I set the rest of my pizza aside, appetite gone. Parse is such a big part of my past, in both good and bad ways. The good was pretty good, but the bad was really bad. Just thinking about him stirs up a complicated set of emotions, let alone seeing him.

"Anyway," I say after a moment, crumping a napkin in my fist. I search to think of a different topic, and I look over at Bittle after a moment. "I hope that I'm not getting in the way of your social life too badly."

For a moment, Jack's expression darkens, his brow furrowing and lips curling into a frown. Whatever it is that happened between Jack and Kent Parson, I get the feeling that it was a really big deal, and that it's something Jack still struggles with. It's also obvious it's not something he wants to talk about, so I don't push it.

I'm curious though. Of course. Not for the first time, I wish Shitty were here. Even if it wouldn't be quite right to ask about Jack behind his back, it'd be nice to know something so I might be able to help him better.

But maybe I can ask him myself later.

Jack sets his pizza aside, that dark look still on his face and I feel my frown deepen when he speaks again. "My social life?" I ask him, almost wanting to laugh, though it feels strained. "Jack, I work five days a week and spend most of my free time baking special orders. If anything, I imagine Derek would like to personally thank you for getting me out of his hair for awhile and freeing up his kitchen space."

I do, of course, spend some time skating and cooking meals for Lee, but there's no need to share that. Neither really count as social.

"I don't know," I say, grateful that he seems willing to switch topics. "Derek seems pretty happy to have you working for him."

I can't say that I really understand the appeal of Bittle's friend and boss, but he seems to treat Bittle well. And who wouldn't be happy to profit from food as good as Bittle's?

"Oh. Well, I heard that you had been dating some guy," I say easily, shrugging one shoulder. "But you haven't really gone out since I got here, and I just wanted to make sure that I'm not getting in the way."

For some reason, it's strange hearing Jack say his name. I'm not sure why, exactly. They've met each other already and seemed to get along well enough. Or at least as well as can be expected fort two men who both outwardly sort of lean a little on the inherently grumpy side of the spectrum.

Of course, part of it may be that I've never talked to Jack about my feelings for Derek. Obviously, it's not really his business and I never, ever would've been comfortable talking about any boy in front of Jack back at Samwell.

Which is why I can feel my face go bright red when Jack mentions Simon.

"I. Uhm. I mean, I was. For awhile." I have no idea why this feels like a confession. Then again, I'd only come out to Shitty back home and, while I sorta got the feeling he'd quietly let the rest of the team know, it's not something that was ever really talked about. "It was really only for a month," I hurry to add, tugging the sleeves of my sweatshirt further over my hands as I shrink in on myself. "And it wasn't very serious at all. I've barely seen him since we broke up so there's certainly nothing you're not taking up anymore time than I'm willing to give. No one's breakin' down my door or anything."

Bittle starts to get nervous and fidgety, and it takes a moment for me to realize why. We never really talked about his sexuality back home, but it was a known thing.

"You know I don't care that you like guys, right?" I say gently, curling my hand around his foot again. "No one on the team cared. You brought a guy to the last Winter Screw and none of us batted an eye."

I could tell Bittle about my own preferences, but I'm still so confused about them myself. It's like I don't even know what I want. Hockey was my one great love, and it's been taken from me. I'm still getting over that.

Once again, Jack rests his hand on my foot. It's warm and comforting, but I'm tense all over now, huddled down in my hoodie, my heart hammering something fierce.

And, thing is, Jack honestly sounds like he means it. Everything I remember from Samwell supports it, too. Even after I came out to Shitty, no one on the team ever treated me any differently, not even in the locker room. They didn't so much as start turning their backs when they stripped down, didn't make sure to leave a shower between themselves and me, didn't tone down the chirps.

I'm not sure why it still makes me so anxious.

"Was I dating him?" I ask, my brief panic subsiding enough to make way for surprise. It occurs to me that maybe I know him already, maybe he was a boy from one of my classes and I suddenly ache a little bit in the weirdest way. "Do you remember his name?"

Bittle is tense, looking nervous, and that wasn't my intention at all. I thumb at the knob of his ankle, doing my best to reassure him.

"Uh, no. I don't think so," I tell him. Bittle didn't talk about the guy much, and admittedly I didn't ask. "He was a rugby player, and I didn't see you with him after the party. You weren't-- I mean, it wasn't serious as far as I know. I think Ransom and Holster set you guys up."

I squeeze his foot, pressing my thumb up into the arch. "You didn't talk about it much, and I'm admittedly pretty obtuse, but as far as I know you never had a boyfriend or anything."

It's dumb, I know, but there's some part of me that's disappointed. Apparently, I can't even get my own date to Winter Screw on the most gay-friendly college campus in the country. It's a miracle Simon ever looked twice at me here, even someone like Baz is a better prospect.

Of course I wouldn't have a boyfriend, here or there. Simon doesn't even really count, I don't think.

Jack's trying to be supportive though, his hand lightly squeezing my foot again, so I do my best to give him a smile. "Well, I guess if he played rugby, he probably at least had a nice body. Maybe I got a good hug by the end of the night."

Bittle's face goes through a range of expressions that I can't really begin to decipher, but I know that they aren't good. His words make me frown, and I squeeze his foot hard.

"Hey, don't talk like that," I say in my best Captain Voice. "You guys went on dates, but I don't think you were into him."

That seemed to be the case, I think. I was trying hard not to pay attention when the guys were gossiping about it like teenage girls. Bittle's attitude doesn't seem very, I don't know, self-complimentary? I don't like it.

"Don't at like you aren't good enough," I tell him sternly, squeezing his foot again before letting go. "Because you are."

Jack squeezes my foot again, warm and reassuring and when I manage to glance over at him, he's frowning. It's not quite the frown I remember so well, though. Not disapproving so much as... concerned, maybe. That doesn't seem right, but it's the closest thing I can figure.

As nice as he's being, I wish I could believe him.

"You're my captain, you have to say that," I say eventually, staring back down at my hands where I've pulled them completely inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt. "And not to argue your authority, but it's hard to believe when all the evidence is to the contrary. The really frustrating thing," I continue with a quick breath, "is that this didn't used to bother me at all. I used to think I didn't need a boyfriend, didn't even really want one. I was so busy at Samwell, you know? There was always so much going and then I got dropped here and that all went away and suddenly it mattered. It's stupid, isn't it? I feel so pathetic."

"I'm not your captain anymore," I say thickly, doing my best not to let any pain seep into my voice. "We're just friends now. We pinky promised, remember?"

Bittle lets out this rush of words and I listen intently, brows furrowed as I nod along. I am, probably, the worst person to be giving out relationship advice. But maybe my inexperience is a good thing here.

"It's not pathetic. You're young," I tell him, thinking about what I want to say. It seems like standard teenage angst, which isn't to say that it isn't valid, but perhaps I can turn it around on him. "I've never been in a real relationship either. Do you think that means it'll never happen for me?"

There were girls back in the junior league days. Lots of girls, actually. More girls that I'm proud of, or can even fully remember through the haze of alcohol and medication. And then there was Kenny. What we had wasn't a relationship, not really. It could never have been one.

Something catches in his voice and he suddenly looks sad. Guilt washes over me a second later and I reach over quick, pushing my fingers out of my sleeve to touch his arm.

"No, you're right, we're friends. Of course we're friends. But I think... I don't know. I feel like you'll always be my captain, too. Is that bad? And honestly, Jack, look at you. You're smart and so talented and driven and gorgeous -- the only reason you don't have a girlfriend is because you've been so focused on other things. You haven't had time for a relationship. I mean, who would?"

I suppose now that he's here, he as the time. Except I think he's still busy just trying to figure out how to let go of everything he's ever wanted. I doubt he's in the right frame of mind for anything like a relationship.

And I'm definitely ignoring that weird voice in the back of my head that's grateful for that because why should it even matter? It's probably just latent jealousy anyway.

"Comparing you and me is like comparing apples, which are good for you and almost everyone likes to... I don't know. Kiwis, maybe. Small and annoying and sometimes leave a weird aftertaste."

He says that I'll always be his captain, and something in my chest clenches and twists uncomfortably. It's a nice sentiment, and one that I do genuinely appreciate, but it sort of makes me sad at the same time. It's not like I would have been team captain for much longer, anyway. I would have graduated, and the captaincy would have gone to Ransom or Holster (or more likely both of them together). I was mentally preparing myself for that, but it's different to have it ripped away from me earlier than I was ready to let go.

"You think you have me so figured out," I say quietly, but he's sort of right. Relationships, and by extension sex, were so far off of my radar during my time at Samwell. They were distractions that I couldn't afford, and I guess I'm still stuck in that mindset. It's like I don't even know what I want.

My cheeks flush when Bittle compliments me so thoroughly, but I can't even revel in it because he immediately turns it around to dump on himself in a way that is becoming frustratingly familiar. I don't know what to do when he gets like this, and he always seems to be like this. I try to reassure him, but it never seems to stick.

"I like kiwis," I tell him quietly. "Apples are boring. They're routine. Kiwis are different and fun, and they're like-- harder to find. They're special."

Jack's voice is quiet enough that I almost miss the first thing he says. When I do I realize he's probably right. I'm not a Jack ZImmermann expert by any stretch of the imagination even if I maybe know more about him than anyone else here in Darrow. But he probably knows more about me than I do him and that's... that's weird, actually. A little unnerving.

Not for the first time, I wonder exactly how much I've shared with Jack that I'll never remember.

I think maybe I'm still stuck on that because when he speaks again, his voice still quiet, something weirdly hopeful clenches in my chest. It's dumb, of course, he's just following my metaphor. But it feels nice for a second or two all the same.

"They're not that hard to find if you know where to look for them," I tell him with a small smile. It doesn't feel like an argument anymore and I bring my hand back to my lap, pulling my fingers back into my sleeves with a shrug. "I just think it'd be nice is all. To know how it feels. I mean, I sorta got a taste of it with Simon, even if..." I trail off, my cheeks heating as I shake my head. "Oh, goodness, nevermind. I'm sure you don't wanna hear about any of that."

Feeling awkward and more than a little dumb for accidentally letting myself actually talk about this stuff with Jack of all people, I push myself to my feet, grabbing my plate. "Do you want anymore pizza? Or another drink?"

"That just means that they're worth the effort," I argue, frowning a little as Bittle retreats back in on himself again. He starts to share something about that boy, and I want to hear it. I want to be someone that Bittle trusts again, someone that he can talk to.

But then he's getting up and moving away, and my lips thin out into a flat line as he once again seems to think he knows what I'm thinking, what I want.

"I'm fine, thanks," I tell him, turning back to the television. I feel like everything I said was meaningless to him, in one ear and out the other. All I can do is bite back a sigh and curl up in the corner of the sofa, eyes drooping as I listen to the narrator talk about the Battle of Yorktown.

There's a part of me that still wants to argue a little bit. I know that, in this metaphor we've created, I'm the kiwi and he's being a good captain and a good friend in trying to make me not feel quite so awful. But I want to point out that no one really puts in the effort for kiwis. They appeal to very few people and those few people, who are usually like Connor and just want to try something a little different in their fruit basket, know exactly where to find them.

No one really looks for kiwis all on their own. And no one's gone searching for this one in particular.

I'm glad I don't say anything though, especially when his reply is short and guarded, a brush off if ever I've heard one. It's a little like being back at Samwell, a little glimpse of the Jack I remember and not the one I've started to call a friend. I don't know what I've said wrong, but I know he's upset and I quietly rinse off our plates in the kitchen and set them in the dishwasher before packing up the rest of the pizza for later.

When I come back, Jack's curled up in the very corner of the sofa, looking both sleepy and irritated. "Should, uhm... should I leave you with your documentary?" I ask, tucking my fingers up into the sleeves of my hoodie again.

"You should stop being so hard on yourself," I find myself saying without even meaning to. "It's just like your block with checking. If you stay tensed up and waiting for it to hurt, that's all it will do."

I reach out and grab his arm to tug him down onto the sofa next to me, giving him my best stern captain face. "Quit acting like you aren't worth anyone's time, because it isn't true. And Bittle, if you keep basing your self worth on how others perceive you, you'll never be happy."

I swallow hard. "Trust me, I know."

I'm not expecting Jack to reach for me and when he does, I resist for a second, so out of sorts that pure instinct takes over, my brain clicking back to high school for half a second, to rough, teasing hands masking ugly thoughts, to pushes and shoves and a dark, smelly closet.

But it's just Jack and, however upset he might be with me, I know he'd never actively hurt me. So I force myself to breathe and drop back onto the couch beside him.

It's a lot easier to not talk about me so I'm grateful when he mentions his own struggle. And he has a point, too. If anyone has faced severe scrutiny in this apartment, it's Jack. Sometimes I don't know how he can even breathe through some of the things people have said about him, the things they've written.

"So how do you do it?" I ask him, drawing my feet up onto the couch, sitting cross-legged with my hands in my lap. "How do you ignore all that stuff and just be?"

I kind of want to ask him if that aspect is easier here, at least. If finally being in a place where no one's even heard of him is at all freeing. But I'm a little afraid to remind him; I know how hard he's struggling as it is.

The last thing I expect is for him to flinch, and it sort of breaks my heart. It's just the worst kind of reminder of where we are, where we aren't anymore, and I completely deflate. Does he trust me so little? I keep my hands in my lap, not reaching for him again.

"Well, it's not like I've done it well," I say, sounding just a little bitter. My eyes aren't quite on Bittle, but not on the television either. I'm uncomfortable and tense, and my jaw twitches. "I just try to get by the best I can, and be the kind of person I want to be. It's-- I do a lot of pretending."

I don't miss the way Jack pulls away from me, hands falling to his lap. And I don't know if it's because he caught my slip or because... because of something else. Something I spent awhile agonizing over after I came out to Shitty.

Except Jack hasn't really been hesitant to touch me at all until now. Until this.

Taking a breath, and taking a chance, I unfold myself a little and reach out to lightly touch his shoulder. My heart aches because even if I'm not the friend Jack remembers, even if I can't remember even half the things he's maybe told me in the year I have missing, I do know that Jack's a good person with a good heart. I do know he deserves to be happy.

"You don't have to pretend with me, you know," I tell him, keeping my voice quiet. "I'm... I'm sorry if I've made you feel like you do, and I know I've been lettin' you down here left, right, and center, but I don't want or expect you to be anyone but exactly who you are, Jack Zimmermann. Because you're pretty amazing, all told."

Bittle's hand settles on my shoulder and I manage a small smile, looking over at him as he speaks. A huff escapes me and I shake my head immediately. "You haven't let me down, Bittle. I probably would have lost my mind already if you weren't here."

Something warm settles in my chest and my smile goes a bit more wide and genuine. I don't know why Bittle, this Bittle, thinks that about me, but I'm not going to argue. "Thanks, Bittle. You're not too bad yourself, you know. And if you argue with me, I swear I will put you in a headlock."

Jack smiles little by little, eyes crinkling just at the corners and I feel my stomach go warm with relief. I'm still not sure I believe him entirely; even if he won't say I've let him down, I know that I have. Try as I might, I can't remember the things that he can and I make little missteps all the time without even realizing, reminding him over and over that we're not quite the same.

It's like we're two separate ear pods in the same headphone set, just a little out of sync with each other.

But sometimes, even out of sync, we hit the same note together.

"You'd have to catch me first," I tell him with a grin. He and I both know he could easily catch me on dryland, but I've got him beat on the ice. Not that Jack's even set foot on a rink since she got here, but still.

The tension between us broken now, I shift on the couch, resting my back against the arm and brink my knees up. I'm careful of Jack's personal space, making sure my toes don't quite touch his thigh as I look back over at the TV. "Should we rewind some of this? I feel like we missed a bunch of stuff."

"Gonna make me chase you, eh?" I grin at him and relax back against the sofa again. Bittle's (short but shapely) legs slide towards me and I rest my hand on his foot again, curling my long fingers around it.

"Willingly offering to rewind a history documentary?" I ask in surprise, chuckling a little. "J'ai tout vu."

Once again, Jack rests his hand on my foot and my eyes are immediately drawn to it as I ignore the annoying little flip in my belly. I know it's only 'cause I'm so touch-starved, and that he probably is, too. Our team back home had never really held back on casual touches, not even with me.

I hadn't really realized how much I missed it.

"You'd better not be cursing at me in French," I tell him with a smirk before reaching for the remote on the table and hitting rewind, my feet sliding under his thigh just a little in the process.

pizza and revolutionaries night! [dates to 2/1]

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