Archive of Our Own ^beta

Holster doesn't fit into economy class. Holster doesn't fit into most things.

Bitty feels bad; Holster’s knees are pressed right up against the seat back in front of him, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's been reading for the past hour, sharing Bitty's iPod earphones, and their knees are pressed together but it's more out of necessity than anything romantic. But, he's also had his hand on Bitty's leg since their ascent to cruising altitude, on and off, and that's definitely romantic. Which is fine, because it's supposed to be. But, if you'd told Bitty in freshman year that he'd be bringing that blond, bespectacled bro he overheard talking about pussy at team breakfast home to meet his parents, as his "boyfriend" (which, yes, requires air quotes, because they aren't, not really, but you try explaining 'we're friends and he's really sweet and also we fool around sometimes, or, most of the time' to anyone's conservative southern parents), he'd have slapped you in the face.

Three months ago, Bitty had been outed to his parents by his own vlog, which, in retrospect, he should have expected. His mother didn't know the internet very well, so he thought he'd be safe (stupid, stupid), but a family friend had found it while looking for updates on Bitty's life at Samwell, and. Well. It went about as smoothly as he could have expected, which was a Skype call that was half tears and half yelling, none of it particularly malicious, but all of it incredibly awkward. Coach pulled the "I'm not mad, just disappointed" line, word for word, Bitty had screamed at him and stood up for himself, explained how insane it would be for them to be angry, and in the end they reached a weird, precarious place where they assured him they loved him no matter what, but would need time to get used to it.

A month after that, his mother asked, as casually as she could, if he was seeing anyone. He got a weird flood of emotions, because he couldn’t believe that this was a question he didn't have to be afraid of anymore, and after so many years of saying no, no, not seeing anyone, as if he were some kind of failure, he could finally say something.

He blurted out, "Yes," because he'd started hooking up with Holster week before last.

Not that his mother needed to know that part, or that it was a weird, funny, sort of awkward thing that started at a party, where they were talking about dating and Holster said, "I don't know how you're single, you're cute as fuck," and Bitty was drunk enough to say, "Oh yeah?" and laugh, and maybe get right up next to him in a way that was way more flirt than it was fight. And then Holster said "Yeah!" even louder, and it turned into this childish shouting match, then some of the most unevenly matched roughhousing, and then, somehow, making out on the front porch longer than either of them could casually play off, with Bitty sitting up on the railing to bring their faces anywhere near each other.

The next night, there was another party, and before either of them even had anything to drink, they were flirting blatantly enough that Shitty started booing. In the attic an hour later, they were tearing each other's clothes off when Ransom caught them and laughed until he couldn't breathe; Bitty was mortified, Holster thought it was funny, and Ransom high-fived him. The next week, he spent four of seven nights crammed into Bitty's bed with him, which was a baptism by fire in learning how to keep quiet, and they stayed up arguing about whether being attracted to a friend automatically meant you had feelings for them, if all it took was physical attraction and some kind of camaraderie, or if romantic feelings were something else entirely. They reached some kind of consensus that could be paraphrased as "you’re not seeing anyone and I’m not seeing anyone and I like you so let’s just do this.”

"His name is Adam," Bitty had told his mom. "I don't think you’d remember him. He's—" So many words came to mind. Holster was smart and hilarious and loud and a little annoying and unbelievably strong and generous and protective and so, so sweet to him. He had big teeth. He had beautiful shoulders. He liked to pick Bitty up and Bitty liked pretending to hate it. He was bafflingly good at giving head. None of these things were anything he felt like telling his mother. "—a defenseman. On the team."

"Oh!" his mother had said. "Gosh, I don’t think I met him."

She did, but Bitty said, "He's blond."

"Right." She still didn't know. "Well, you oughta bring him down next time you visit."

For some reason, Bitty had agreed to bring him. It was sort of petty, but since he was out to his parents, he didn't care who else in Madison knew. He couldn't imagine ever moving back there, not really, and he just ... Well, he wanted to rub it in people's faces, honestly. It was different now that he was twenty and lived elsewhere. There were no lockers, no forced interaction, just passing by people on the street on the arm of a lovely and incredibly built young man, grinning sunnily. It helped that Holster was who he was; he'd seen him get into enough fights on the ice that he knew he could hold his own if anything happened, not that he thought it would. And if it did, he didn't really care: he'd spent five years of high school being viciously bullied, he was allowed be triumphantly petty now.

So now they’re somewhere over Washington, DC, and Holster has his hand on his leg, and they’re listening to M.I.A. It’s weird, being away from the boys, where no one knows the two of them from anyone; they’re not Bitty and Holster, they’re Eric and Adam, two young men of opposite sizes who may or may not be dating. Bitty leans into his shoulder.

“Is this, um. Escalating things?”

Holster takes his earphone out. “What?”

“You meeting my parents. Is it weird?”

“I’ve met Jack’s parents.”

“You’re not sleeping with Jack.”

“Not yet,” Holster says, and grins and snaps his fingers, and Bitty punches him as hard as their close quarters will allow.

“You’re awful,” he says, then stops. “Just, uh, warning you, but I might have used the word boyfriend.”

Holster laughs.

“Shut up!” Bitty hisses. “It’s not funny!”

“I’m not laughing ‘cause it’s funny, I’m laughing at you.” He takes Bitty’s hand and presses it flat between both his own. “It’s not a big deal. Call me whatever you want. I’ve got your back, bro.”

Bitty thinks, this should be embarrassing. He’s pretty sure Holster’s just humouring him. Sometimes he wonders if this whole thing is just Holster humouring him, being too nice to say no, wanting something fun and easy even if it’s not what he actually wants. Because everyone knows what (or rather, who) Holster actually wants. But then he’ll come home from class and kiss the top of Bitty’s head when he’s standing at the kitchen counter, and there’s no one around, so it’s not a joke, and then Bitty can’t imagine him not wanting it. Whatever it is. He’s not dishonest, anyways.

“Alright,” Bitty says, and relaxes. “You remember what I said about Coach?”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, my dad’s a hard-ass, too. Yessir, nosir, nothing below the waist, sir.”

Bitty laughs. He sticks Holster’s earphone back in. “He’ll love you. You’re like the big, buff son he always wanted.”

Holster sniggers. “What are you gonna do if someone thinks we’re related?”

”Ugh, I’m gonna burst into flames, that’s what.” He slumps down in his seat and mutters, “We’re different kinds of blond.”

Mama Bittle picks them up at the airport in Athens. She’s waiting by the baggage claim, nervously jangling her keys in her hand, when the boys come up behind her.

“Mama?”

She spins around. She takes one look up at Holster and says, “Oh my lord.”

Holster looks down at her and sticks his hand out. “Adam. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

She recovers quickly. “Adam! Sweetheart, it’s nice to finally see you,” she says, as if Bitty’s raved about him. She bats his hand away and puts her arms out for a hug, and Holster has to bend at the knees to get low enough; he's a full foot taller than her. Bitty stifles a laugh. “And you, Dicky! Oh, come here.” She hugs Bitty and he swears all the tension drops out of him at her touch. It’s the first time he’s seen her since she found out and he sort of wants to cry, for all the time he spent worrying about this; he hasn’t seen Coach yet, no, but even if this is all he gets, all he needs is his mom.

“It’s good to see you, mama,” he says into her shoulder. He lets her go. "Is Coach with you?"

"No, no, he's waitin' at home. You boys check any bags?" Bitty shakes his head, Holster jostles his duffle bag. "Great. We'll stop on the way if you need anything, but your father's already fixin' dinner, so we should be good." She looks at Holster again. "Adam, you get the front. You're not gonna fit in the back seat of the pickup."

The ride isn't tense, exactly, but it's something Bitty's never experienced. It sounds stupid, but he's never really been with anyone other than Holster—that was part of their getting together, too, a semi-spoken 'let me help you out,' because Bitty was twenty and if he was being perfectly honest, his virginity had been grating on him—so he's never had the extreme displeasure of having someone you've slept with sitting right next to your mother, and being forced to think about both of them at the same time. Holster, tense with need under his thighs as he rides him, sweating. Holster, sitting in the truck his mama used to drive him to figure skating practice in, his knees crammed against the dashboard. Also sweating.

"It's smaller than I thought," Holster says as they drive into Madison, and Mrs. Bittle laughs.

"You got that right. Sleepy li'l Madison." Bitty sees her look at Holster out of the corner of her eye. "Where you from, Adam?"

"Buffalo, ma'am. Originally."

"Oh, goodness, that's about as north as north gets."

Bitty thinks about Jack, but he doesn't say anything.

"I've never really been this far south," Holster says. It's jarring to hear him being so polite, zero 'bros' or 'dudes' or cussing. "It's nice. It's, uh, really hot."

Bitty laughs. "Yeah, get used to that."

"It's not so bad,” Mrs. Bittle says. “You should have felt it last week, lord, I thought your father was going to have a heart attack. We had the A/C running full blast twenty-four hours a day, I swear."

Bitty's looking out the window, startled, as always, by how strange it is to come back here. The truck turns down their street—and he sees a pack of cars parked at the curb, all the way down the lane.

"Why's there so many trucks here?" he asks. Mrs. Bittle says nothing. "Mama? Are—these aren't for our place, are they?"

"Well, I don't—you know—"

"Mama, is this a gathering?"

"I'm sure I mentioned that."

"Oh my God, mama, tell me this isn't about me."

"No! No, of course not, it's just—you know, it's summer, and it's been so nice, we thought we'd have the family over."

"When Adam's here."

"Dicky, it's—"

"Mama, if you get us lynched, I will never forgive you."

"Dicky! For goodness sakes, they're family, they'd never—"

"Never what? Scream at me, like Coach did?"

"He was just surprised!"

"You don't scream when you're surprised!"

Holster reaches into the back seat and touches his knee. He starts to say 'bro' and stops himself. "Hey. Whatever. Don't sweat it."

That almost helps, somehow. He's so embarrassed. Holster meeting his parents is one thing, but Holster meeting his entire extended family, getting roped into awkward conversation after awkward conversation all day, is something else entirely. This is not who he thought this would be happening with, but in a weird way, he's glad things worked out the way they have. He's not sure anything could phase Holster.

"Alright." Bitty shifts in his seat. "Mama, do they already know? Or is this gonna be like, surprise, here's our gay son."

"They know," she says quietly. "We war—told them."

"Mm." He thinks about his cousin Mitch, who plays football, who used to take his things and play keep-away until he cried, with their other cousin, Rodney, who also plays football. He thinks about another cousin, Bianca, who used to ask him if he wanted to borrow her dresses. They're all adults now, but Bitty's palms sweat anyways.

They pull up into the driveway too soon. Holster gets out before him, leans the seat forward and offers a hand to help him out. He wants to say, "I've been getting out of pickup trucks longer than you have," but he doesn't, and takes his hand. He hopes he doesn't notice its clamminess.

"We've got this," Holster says as they go around the front of the truck. "I'll tell you horror stories about my exes' families later. You'll feel better, trust me."

Bitty snorts. "Thanks, babe."

"Anytime, sweetie."

Bitty's heart beats in his throat as they walk up to the front door; he can see movement behind the front curtains, hear bluegrass and chatter and laugher from inside, smell Holster's cologne, feel his mom's little hand on the crook of his elbow. "It's okay, Dicky," she says, but it doesn't feel okay.

They step inside.

He's never heard the sound of a room full of people collectively ceasing to breathe, until now.

Everyone looks at Holster. And then down at Bitty. If this were a cartoon, there would have been a record scratch, and the music would have stopped, but as it is everyone just goes quiet and the stereo keeps on.

"Hullo," Holster says.

Bitty says, "Hi, y'all."

There must be a dozen people in his living room, spilling into the kitchen. He doesn't see Coach. His shoulder is pressed into Holster's arm but it would be petty to move it now.

His mom saves him. She presses a hand to his back. "Get in, get in, go find your father."

That's the last thing he wants to do, but he does it because she's right, he has to. He must be out back. He slips by Holster and touches his wrist to get him to follow, not sure who sees, or if anyone sees, or if he wants them to.

"Your house is cute," Holster says as he follows Bitty into the kitchen. Bitty doesn't know what 'cute' is supposed to mean and he tries not to dwell on it. He can see his dad's mop of greying blond hair out the kitchen window, and his throat gets tight.

They step out onto the back patio and the heat and light hits them like a train. Holster shields his eyes; Bitty doesn't even blink. Everything smells like steak. Coach is standing in front of their blackened barbecue in a polo shirt and cargo shorts, twice as wide as Bitty but only a head taller, mustached, an aged quarterback and the epitome of a high school football coach. Staring up at Holster.

"Hi, Coach," Bitty says, his voice different, a little firmer and guardedly polite.

Coach nods. "Junior."

Bitty reaches up and puts his hand on the small of Holster's back, urges him forward. "This is Adam Birkholtz."

Holster falters when Coach doesn't go for a handshake, and instead puts a hand to his brow so he can peer up into his face.

Coach says, "You don't look queer."

Bitty shrieks, "Dad!" and he's absolutely mortified, but Holster just laughs.

"Believe me, sir, I'm as surprised as you are." He sticks his hand out.

Coach blinks. The silence stretches like a waiting room, like a pregnancy test, like when the doctor comes out with a clipboard, Holster just standing there with his extended hand. It's so fucking hot out. 

After an eternity, Coach laughs, a bark of laughter that echoes through the backyard. He shakes Holster's hand extremely hard. "That's funny, son. Alright."

Bitty starts breathing again.

"Thank you, sir," Holster says.

"You old enough for a beer?"

"Yessir, thank you."

"Cooler's just behind you, grab whatever you want." He turns back to the grill. "No sharing with Junior, here."

Bitty huffs. "You know I drink."

"Not under my roof, you don't. We got laws for a reason, son."

Holster sticks his tongue out at Bitty, who scowls, and cracks the cooler and takes a beer. Bitty doesn't know which would be worse: going inside and mingling with his extended family, or staying on the patio making awkward small talk with Coach and the other shirt-tucked-into-jeans dad figures that are mulling around.

Holster says, "Shit, it's hot," and that's enough of a decision for Bitty.

"Let's go in." 

He's pissy that Holster gets to drink and be once-removed from the situation through the fuzziness of alcohol. But then Holster nudges his cold beer against his bare arm and says, "C'mon, you're not serious," and Bitty grins. He takes a swig when no one's looking. "We're sharing that," Holster informs him. "I refuse to see you sober at a party."

"You're a bad influence."

"You're into it."

Bitty knows he doesn't have to say anything. They peek into the living room and several pairs of eyes turn on them, because Holster can't subtly exist anywhere. Half the people in the room are blond and the people who married into the family mostly aren't, and three of Bitty's youngest cousins are squished onto a couch. There are aunts and uncles and cousins of varying ages, some family friends, and also Bitty's mom, and most of the people in this room are looking at Holster. The Boyfriend.

The first one to come talk to them is Mitch, a little older than Bitty and one of the premier jocks in a family of pretty jocky people, despite being too fat to play any good football anymore. He's wearing a trucker cap indoors, and True Religon jeans. Bitty can see Holster trying not to smirk.

"Hey, Junior." Bitty's grateful that he gets addressed first, anyways. Well, sort of—Coach's name is also Eric, obviously, hence 'Junior,' and Dicky, but only ladies over forty, his mother included, say Dicky.

"Hi, Mitch. How's it going?"

"Hot as hell, but, surviving." Normally, this is where Bitty gets asked about football or, by nicer relatives, gets asked about hockey or Samwell. But this time, Mitch looks up at Holster. The Bittles are a small people, and Holster is taller than Mitch, too. "You the boyfriend?"

"Adam." Holster puts his hand out for another handshake, and gets one. Bitty thinks it's like a polite version of a feat of strength, gripping each other's hands, holding. If it were socially acceptable, he's pretty sure most men would arm wrestle on sight. "And, yes," Holster adds, an afterthought.

"Dang," Mitch says, and Bitty watches his eyes track over Holster, pecs and biceps under a faded blue tee. "They make 'em big up north."

Bitty goes very, very red. Holster laughs. "They sure do."

Another cousin, older than them, steps closer and lingers on the edge of the conversation. "You play football?"

"Hockey," Holster says, "same as—Eric." Bitty could hear the beginning of the nickname on his tongue.

"Oh, right, yeah. Y'all got NCAA up there?"

"Yeah, but I used to play in the USHL." At their blank faces, he adds, "Juniors. Pre-NHL."

"Oh, wow. Ain't that something." The other cousin elbows Bitty. "How's our littlest Bittle doin' on the team, then? If the boys're as big as you I figure he's keepin' that bench pretty warm for y'all."

"Uh, he's a starting forward, actually." Holster doesn't miss a beat. Bitty grins, leans into his arm, and notices everyone  else notice the movement. "Got two assists in the last game of our playoffs. Fastest guy on the team, easy."

Bitty beams. He looks up at Holster. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

It's not romantic, not really, but it must come off that way, because Mitch sputters. "We don't, like, have a problem with any of that, by the way, Junior—me 'n Tom 'n mama, I mean—the whole, you know, gay thing."

He's not sure if he'd be saying that if Holster wasn't so imposing, and he says the word 'gay' like he's never heard it out loud before. Bitty has no idea how to respond to that, so he says, "Thanks," and Holster passes him his beer, which he drinks. Holster also says, "Thanks," in solidarity.

"Gotta say, though," Mitch says, after a swig of beer, "didn't fully expect, like, someone so—I mean—" He gestures at Holster, who's not smiling anymore. "I gotta say, no offense, but, you don't look like you'd—"

"Like dick?" Holster snaps, too loud, and draws up to his full height. Bitty grabs his wrist.

"Yeah," Mitch says, shrinking back. "I just ... sorry."

"It's okay," Bitty says quickly, all to Holster. "It's alright, whatever. You—another beer?"

"Yeah. I'll come." Bitty pulls him into the kitchen and it's a little cooler and the air is thinner. "Fuck," Holster says, moves his jaw back and forth. "Sorry. I don't normally—"

"I know."

"I'm just so fucking sick of hearing that."

"I know." Bitty touches his hands, the inside of his arms, looking cautiously out the window for Coach. "Me too. It ... doesn't matter. Fuck 'em, right?"

"Right." Holster runs a hand through his hair and Bitty's caught by it, in a way he never thought he'd be; his strong profile, crystal blue eyes. Shit. "Okay. We cool?"

"We're cool." 

There's more small talk, most of it more tame, then dinner, which is extremely tame, and after another ten minutes of couch-soft small talk and no discreet sharing of beer whatsoever, Bitty excuses himself. Holster meets him in the hallway upstairs and grabs him by both shoulders.

"Bits, if I get one more person telling me I should be a quarterback or that I'm 'big for a gay boy,' I'm gonna crack some fucking skulls."

Bitty pushes up on his toes and kisses him without warning. Holster catches him in his hands, runs them up his neck and into his hair, makes a soft noise in his throat. When he pulls back, he looks into the dark of his eyes, hard to see in the dim hallway. When Bitty speaks, it's low and hushed. "Let's go for a walk."

It's cool and dark out but they don't need sweatshirts. Holster nabs a beer from the kitchen and they slip out before anyone notice, walking down the street together passing the can back and forth. The parked cars are still hot from the day and the asphalt feels sticky under their sneakers.

Holster says, "Sorry for for freaking out."

"It's okay, you didn't."

"I kind of did. I said I liked dick in front of your whole family. I just." He takes a swig of beer. "I'm so fuckin' sick of hearing I don't look like I like guys. I can like whatever I fucking want, I'm not trying to look straight, it's fucking—it's bullshit."

"Yeah." Bitty puts his arm around his waist, and after a beat, Holster drops his arm across his shoulders. He's always so, so warm. "I feel the same way, but the other way. Being the epitome of, you know, what gay guys are supposed to look like. People roll their eyes, say all this stuff, like—I'm not trying to be like this, it's just ... what comes out."

It's Holster's turn to say, "I know." He squeezes his shoulder, and Bitty thunks his head against his chest. "Everyone's got their shit, right?"

"Yeah."

He drops his arm from around Holster's waist and passes him his beer, keeps walking close enough for their arms to touch. "It's stupid."

"Your family's cool, though."

"Oh, shut up."

"Yeah, alright, they're a little ..." He doesn't know how to put it nicely. "I like your mom."

"Yeah?"

"Seriously. So sweet."

"Yeah, she is."

"But I'm glad you're at Samwell."

"Me too. God." Bitty shakes his head. When he hands Holster the beer, he lets their fingers touch. "I can't imagine what would have happened if I'd stayed here—it's only been two years, but I feel like a different person."

"You are pretty different," Holster admits. "Well. You don't babble half as much, and you've grown up a shit ton."

"Oh. Thanks."

"'Specially, like, here." Holster reaches around and holds his shoulders. "And here." He grabs his ass.

Bitty laughs and bats his hand away. "Shh!"

"I mean it, you're looking fine."

Bitty scrubs at his blush; Holster watches him. "Whatever. You're just ... fun to work out with."

"Told you it'd pay off. You're gettin' built."

"I am not."

"You totally are, we've all noticed." Holster looks around; it's dark and they're next to a park, with no one around, just all these same-same looking houses. He scoops Bitty into his arms, despite his giggles and shrieks, presses his face into his neck and kisses his throat, under his ear. "You're growing into a real-ass hockey player and we fucking love it."

"Oh my God, stop, you're messing with me!"

"Totally not, you look so fucking good."

He's still a couple feet off the ground and trapped in Holster's arms when he sees a group of people coming up to the sidewalk from a nearby house.

The house is packed, music pumping, lawn strewn with empties, and the people in question were on his high school's football team at graduation, so, Coach's boys. Of course. And they see him, hoisted up in Holster's grip, his arms wrapped around his neck, and all the joy that was never meant for them. There's maybe four boys he knows, all with interchangeable names; Ryan, Tyler, Kyle, Kevin, something like that.

He says, "Shit."

Holster sees where he's looking, puts him down on the sidewalk and takes half a step back, but not a whole one. Bitty looks up and admires how Holster can square his jaw when he's mad and get giant and hard, but how he slouches and relaxes when he's at ease to make himself smaller. Not wanting to intimidate his friends, but being incredibly aware of the way he intimidates people. He thinks, in all honesty, about how much a situation like this might stress Jack out—the tension, the judgment, the recognition—not that he has ever, ever pit them against each other, not that they've ever been in the same arena.

"Bittle?" one of the guys says. "Hey."

Someone else says, "What?" and he clarifies, "Coach's kid."

"Hi," Bitty says, trying not to let his voice shake. He's older and he's smarter and more confident, and his shoulders are wider and his butt is better, and he's had the unparalleled honour of being with someone older and stronger and prettier than him, and if that doesn't count for anything in front of guys like this, it can't be worth much. "How's it going?"

"Great, good." They're visibly drunk and, like everyone at the Bittle household, they can't stop looking up at Holster. "You, uh, back for the weekend? Heard you moved away."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm—I'm going to school in Massachusetts, playin' hockey. This is, um ..."

He knows this is the moment he introduces Holster. He knows this is the moment he comes out to the high school acquaintances that bullied him for years, where he feels confident with this smart, beautiful, funny older boy on his arm, but—it doesn't come. He's sweating. He's back in a locker like he's thirteen again, and they haven't even said anything, but he's imagining their next words and their laughter and it's getting harder and harder to—

Holster puts his hand out, again, another handshake, just as fluid as if he were still back at home and talking to one of Bitty's aunts. "Adam," he says, and adds, "Boyfriend," as if it's a title. 

There's a stunned silence.

Bitty tries to will himself not to blush and he has no idea who he should be looking at. 

The guys look from him to Holster, and slyly at each other. "Oh."

"Yeah," Bitty says. Fess up, he tells himself, a mental slap. You've got nothing to be ashamed of. "Sorry, this—is my boyfriend, Adam." He feels like he should tack something contextual on the end, he's from New York, he plays D, he likes 30 Rock, anything. He could be any Adam, but he's not, he's Holster, and he's extremely important. For him to be reduced to 'Bittle's boyfriend' just seems wrong.

The boy closest to Holster shakes his hand. Bitty thinks his name is Kyle, a linebacker, or, he used to be. He seemed so big when they were all seventeen, but now, watching him get his hand intentionally crushed by Holster, he's not that big at all.

"Wow, uh, good for you, Bittle." It sounds a little sarcastic, but Bitty can’t fucking care. He stands next to Holster close enough to touch, and resists the show-boating urge to hold hands or something equally ridiculous.

"Yep," he says, so obviously done. "Well, we've gotta, uh ..."

"Yeah, us too. Say hi to Coach for us."

They start to turn away. "Will do. Take care, y'all."

"You, too."

They start off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, a little faster than before. A few paces down, Holster says, "Bitty?" and looks, but he's got his head down. "Bits? You alright?"

Once they get around the corner, Bitty stops, and when Holster turns towards him, he launches into him and presses his face into his chest. "Wh—" Holster hugs him back, stoops down a little to make it easier. "What's up? You okay?"

Bitty's face is muffled in his shirt. "I have been worrying about that moment for my entire life."

"Aw, Bits." Holster picks him up again, arms wrapped around his middle, because it's easier than bending down. Bitty puts his arms around his neck and buries his face in them. 

"Thank you."

"I didn't do anything."

"You came here with me," Bitty says, "And you said something to them, and I know if anything had happened, you would have—"

"They wouldn't have done anything."

"You don't know that." Bitty laughs and rubs at his eyes. "God, it's so stupid, I spent so long thinking about that exact thing, and it's over. Kaput. Easy."

"That'll happen sometimes." Holster kisses his hair and puts him down. "Don't worry, I've got your back. Obviously."

Bitty beams up at him, this thousand watt smile. "You're—ugh." He laughs at himself, shakes his head. "Can I show you one of my favourite places? If you're not too tired?"

"Nope. Lead the way."

Bitty's favourite spot is out behind an old ice cream shack. There's a narrow dirt path that cuts through a tall, unkept grass field, dead and prickly with the summer drought. The path stops, and then they cut through the grass, and just when Holster's about to ask what they're doing, Bitty stops.

"Here."

"What's here?"

"Absolutely nothin'." He takes a deep breath and sighs. It's finally cool out, air impossibly fresh and unsullied like you only get in small towns. "Lie down?"

He kicks grass over and they lie down to stare up at the stars, Holster's arm under his head.

"Why specifically here?" Holster asks.

"Dunno. That path doesn't go anywhere, and I found it one day, and I used to just—come out here." He talks softly, as if someone else can hear. "No one can see you from the road if you're lying down."

"Damn."

"Yeah." Bitty snuggles closer. "'S nice, right?"

"Yeah. God, these stars."

"Right? Y'don't see that up north."

"Nope. I think I see a galaxy."

Bitty sighs again. His hand wanders across Holster's side and down his soft t-shirt. "Those guys used to mess with me real bad when I was a kid."

"Uh, I figured. They looked like total d-bags. Who has frosted tips in 2015?"

"They didn't seem like d-bags when I was fifteen. They were football boys. And I—well, wasn't, to say the absolute least."

"Yeah, and now they're a bunch of losers still living in their hometown, and you're going to a great school and getting some pretty magnificent tail on the regular, so, I think we all know who won that round."

Bitty chokes on laughter. "Oh my God, Holster! Shut up."

"Dude, you should be proud of yourself. You're doing great."

"I guess."

The grass rustles around them as a breeze comes through. Bitty thinks he could fall asleep like this, tucked against Holster's side. He certainly has before. He turns and presses into him and sighs contentedly as his arm comes up around him. Holster's good at this, the way they fit together. It's a few minutes before either of them say anything.

Holster starts, "I know we said we wouldn't talk about this," and Bitty knows exactly what he's going to say. "But this isn't who you thought you'd be here with, is it."

Bitty closes his eyes. He tries to figure out how to word this, tries to imagine what Holster's thinking and why he'd ask. He knows he's not being malicious, not pining, because it's not like that. Maybe Bitty was texting too much earlier. Maybe he had a look on his face every time a family member asked about their teammates.

"I'm not upset."

"I know. But ..."

"But, no, I guess it's not ... Things don't always—it's different. And I don't mind that it's different."

Holster doesn't say anything. Bitty feels him run his thumb along his hairline, and the first bumps of his vertebrae before the collar of his shirt.

"You've gotta tell him before he leaves, Bits."

Bitty buries his face in his shoulder. "I do not."

"You really, really do, bro." His hand comes up to his hair, scrubs through it. "You can't tell me you've never seen how he looks at you."

"I don't know."

"Or how he looks at me. Which is like, three times more murderous than normal, lately. Or else just sad."

Bitty sits up. "I didn't mean to—I know you're friends with him, too, I didn't want to ruin anything with—"

"It's his fault as much as it is yours. And mine."

"I do like you," Bitty says quickly. "Really. I'm happy you're here. I like you so much."

Holster laughs. "I know. I like you, too."

Bitty huffs and lies back down. "You're making fun of me."

"I am not."

"Well, if I have to talk to Jack, you have to talk to Ransom."

Holster goes still. "About what?"

"Oh, come on. We all think you're being ridiculous."

"It's not that easy, Bits."

"Is it harder than telling a twenty-five year old future NHL star, who is also your team captain, or used to be, that you're in love with him?"

"It's as hard as telling your best friend on the planet that you've been in love with him since freshman year." He sighs angrily. "It's a lot to give up if it goes bad."

"Haven't you already slept together?"

"We were drunk."

"That counts."

"I don't think we're on the same page."

"Holster, y'all are always on the same page, are you joking?" He puts his chin on Holster's chest and looks up at him. "There's no way he doesn't ... you're you guys. I ... never know what Jack's thinking." He puts his head down. "I mean this in a nice way, but—you're so easy to be around."

"Yeah. You, too."

"This is really, really great. It's been really great."

"Sure has."

Holster's quiet for a moment. He's fiddling with the hem of Bitty's shirt. He eventually says, "You're gonna go for it with him?"

Bitty sighs. "I don't know. The thought of trying makes me literally ill right now, but, I don't know. Maybe."

He sits up again and Holster says, "Man, just pick a spot, ugh," but then Bitty leans up and kisses him. It's deeper than before, when they were crammed into a hot hallway in his parents' house, not desperate but very, very present. Bitty had never really kissed anyone before him, not at any length, so he kisses exactly the same way Holster does and it's fucking intoxicating. Kissing the perfect kisser, someone he molded, who kisses exactly like him. It's the best.

He rolls Bitty over and braces his forearms on either side of his head, as his arms come up around his neck and his hands move through his hair. There's the smell of warm dirt and sunburnt grass, summer night air, Bitty's shampoo, and everything's still and silent, except for a rattling truck going by on a road behind them and the wet click of their kisses. 

Bitty's nowhere near drunk off the half-cans of Holster's beer he drank, but it's just enough of a buzz that he's okay with leaning in and whispering, "I somehow doubt he'll fuck me as good as you do," even though his face is burning in embarrassment, and Holster fucking lights up.

"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Bitty laughs, still too embarrassed to look up at him, so he lets him kiss up under his jaw and tugs him down. "Please don't repeat it."

"Not even for bragging rights?"

"Well, it ... we don't, y'know, know.”

"What, you'd actually tell me which one of us is better?"

"It's not—" Holster scrapes his teeth down his throat and he gasps. "It's not about better, it's just—different, probably—God, I don't know, I've never ..."

"I'm not too worried about it," Holster laughs, and the thought of being with Jack like he is with Holster is making him weird and dizzy, but it's not bad. The possibility of talking to Holster about sex with Jack later, dishing like friends, is unreal. He likes it.

Holster presses his thigh between his, and on one hand, fooling around in a field that is essentially public would be ridiculously stupid, but on the other hand, today was crazy. He faced his entire family and his dad and the idiots who used to bully him, and he lived to tell about it, and it was all so anti-climactic that he's sort of wound up now, and how many times did he lie in this exact spot as a kid and wish he had a guy like Holster lying next to him? Or on top of him?

He ventures, "You don't have ...?"

Holster laughs into the crook of his shoulder. "You did not just ask me if I have sex stuff, on my person, when we just spent all day around your family."

"No! Well—"

"Imagine I get my wallet to show your mom baby pictures or some shit, condoms and a packet of K-Y tumble dramatically to the floor. She starts crying. Your dad beats me up."

"I don't know! I thought maybe when we were upstairs, you might've ..."

Holster's grinning like this is the funniest thing. "I didn't think you'd be taking me out back to fuck, Bits. Oh, is this you being rebellious? Is that why you brought me here?" 

Bitty can't stop laughing. "Oh my God, shut up! You're ruining it!" He yanks on his shirt until he can kiss him again, all toothy through a grin, but it's easy enough to steer it into something else, pushing up, letting Holster grind into him like they're a couple of stupid, horny teenagers, and it's so, so nice.

Holster gets his hand down his jeans and he sighs, so unbelievably pleased like he always is by how big Holster's hands are, pleased by how pleased Holster is, kissing his throat, smiling against his sweaty skin. He never thought he'd get to be with someone who would know his body this well, who'd make a concerted effort to study and catalogue what he likes and map him out with his hands and tongue just for the sake of making him feel good. He's never explicitly said so, but Holster definitely gets off on getting him off, which is the sweetest, hottest thing. Like how Holster is, in general.

He sucks him off infuriatingly slowly and Bitty runs his hands through his hair, tugs, digs his sneakered heels into the grass. When he’s so close that he can't stop his back from arching, he says, "I haven't called you Holster all day." Holster almost laughs, sucks harder, and Bitty says Adam when he comes, mostly as a joke, and both of them are confused about why it's sort of hot. Holster was jerking off while he was going down on him so it only takes a couple seconds for him to come into Bitty’s hand after, his face buried in his hair.

He rolls onto his back next to him, dirt stirring in the air around them. Bitty wipes his hand awkwardly on the grass and Holster tries to get his pulse to slow. After a moment, Bitty scrubs his face and laughs.

"Okay, is it romantic or pathetic that I ... sort of don't want things to change?"

"Given the situation, both," Holster admits. He plays with Bitty’s hair and Bitty wonders if he’ll say something about what he wants, but he knows Holster’s too nice. Or something like that. Eventually, he groans and sits up. "We should go back, I'm gonna fall asleep here."

"My parents would love that." Bitty struggles to his feet and Holster lets him pretend to pull him up. "Show up tomorrow morning all rumpled and covered in dirt."

"Just what they always wanted for their baby boy. That and, like, getting a BJ in relative public, obviously."

Bitty laughs. They find the path again and start heading back to the road, and when they're back on the asphalt, Holster slips his hand into Bitty's. He tries to remember if they've done that before, which seems stupid after touching each other’s dicks, now and pretty frequently.

"Okay, so, what about this." Holster runs the pads of his fingers across Bitty's knuckles. "We make a pact to talk things out with, uh, our respective Canadian heartthrobs." (Bitty snorts.) "And until then, we, you know. Keep playing boyfriends."

"It's not playing."

"You know what I mean. Well. If you want. I get if you'd rather not, if you think it's fucking stuff up, that's cool, too. It's all on you, bro."

Bitty smushes his face into Holster's arm. He thinks about earlier, Holster hugging his mom, making Coach laugh, elegantly fielding personal question after personal question with ease, even though he never really likes being around anyone. He thinks about going for runs with him, working out, dancing and getting drunk and falling into bed together, moving under him, learning, trying, breathing. Say what you want, but your first always leaves some kind of indelible mark on you. He wonders how much of him will always be Holster-ish.

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, what you said. Talk to the Canadians, keep boyfriending 'til then. You ...” There’s a lot he could say. He knows there’s feeling between them, and that the only reason they don’t talk about it is because they don’t need to, because it’s just there and they’re okay with it. “Being with you is the most fun I have ever, ever had.”

Holster squeezes his hand. He looks up at him and, for someone who has grass in his hair, who had to get up at an ungodly hour this morning because he hadn't packed yet, and who has to spend five more days in rural Georgia, he looks pretty giddy.

"Sweet," Holster says, trying to be cool about it. Bitty laughs and presses his face into his warm, bare arm. “You too. Let’s just ... yeah.”

"Yeah. There are worse things."

"There are way worse things."