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Chapter Text

Tommy is four years old when he is woken up in the middle of his night by his mama screaming. Terror shoots through his veins until his dad comes into his room, letting in the light from the hallway when he opens the door and sticks his head in. “Wake up, Tommy,” he says, “We need to get you to Miz Archibald’s house. Your mama is having your baby brother.”

So Tommy grabs his little duffle bag that they packed weeks ago for this purpose, tucks his football under his arm, and then follows Miz Archibald from his kitchen to her home next door, where he waves from the front door to his mama and his dad as they drive away to get Tommy’s new sibling.

“Miz Archibald, do you have an siblings?” Tommy asks as Miz Archibald tucks him into the guest bed.

She smiles in the way that only wise old ladies seem to know how to do, and Tommy knows Miz Archibald is not as old as Moo-Maw is or anything, but she still seems wise when she says, “Of course I do, Tommy. And I still take care of them, just like you gotta take care of your new baby brother.”

Tommy nods without saying anything, just like he has seen his dad do when he agrees with something Mr. Pritchett says about football, and Miz Archibald smiles one last time before she turns off the lights and leaves Tommy in the guest bed.

Two days later, Miz Archibald takes Tommy to the hospital, where his dad is waiting outside the doors. Tommy runs up to his dad, giving him a big hug – he has not seen his dad in days – and his dad hugs him back briefly before saying, “You ready to meet your new brother?”

Tommy’s new brother is small and red and kind of mushy-looking. Mama is holding him as he cries when Tommy first follows his dad into the room, and the noise makes Tommy’s head ring a bit. “He’s loud,” Tommy complains to his dad, and his dad and his mama share a smile.

“He’s got nothin’ on you, Tommy,” Mama says, and Tommy frowns. That does not sound particularly nice.

“Go on,” his dad says, “Go say hi.”

Up close, his brother looks even more mushy. “What’s his name?” Tommy asks, staring at that screaming red face.

“His name is Eric Richard Bittle,” Mama says.

“Eric,” Tommy echoes.

Eric’s screams die down, and the sudden silence muffles Tommy’s ears. His dad sighs with relief, but his mama gasps delightedly and says, “Tommy! He heard you!”

Eric has really round eyes, big and still a bit watery. He isn’t that much larger than dad’s football.

His dad puts a large hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Now, Tommy,” he says, “you’re no longer the youngest in the family. Do you know what that means?”

Tommy shakes his head.

“It means you gotta look out for Eric, you hear? You gotta protect him, ‘cause he’s smaller than you and younger than you. Got that?”

“Like a linesman is in front of the quarterback,” Tommy replies, “‘cause he’s bigger than the quarterback.”

His mama laughs, and Tommy smiles. He must have said something right. “Exactly, Tommy,” his dad says, and Tommy sees the baby do something for the first time:

Eric smiles.

“What are you watching?” Tommy demands, leaning over the back of the couch.

Eric is sitting cross-legged in front of the television, his four-year-old face utterly captivated by what is on screen. Tommy doesn’t get it – it ain’t football, so it can’t be that interesting.

Mama comes in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “Dicky, whatcha watching, baby?”

“People wearing sparkles,” Tommy answers.

His mama gives him an unimpressed look, so Tommy shuts his mouth. “Is this the Olympics?” Mama asks as she takes a seat next to Eric.

Eric finally tears his eyes away from the screen. “It’s figure skating,” he says, breathless in an excited way. “Mama, I wanna do it!”

Mama looks surprised. “Skating?”

“Yes! Mama, please, I wanna skate!”

Mama’s always been a pushover for Eric, and this instance is no different – she smiles and pushes Eric’s hair back from his forehead. “We’ll see if we can find a rink nearby. How does that sound?”

Eric responds by shouting and wrapping his arms around Mama’s neck. Tommy smiles as he quietly leaves the room. It might not be football, but hey, that just means Tommy gets more time to talk to Coach about football.

It takes a few years of falling down over and over, but Eric actually gets really good at skating. Like, he might even be better at skating than Tommy is at football, now, but Tommy doesn’t like to think about that too much – as long as college coaches keep telling him promising things, he knows he’s doing all right, and Coach hardly ever looks disappointed at the end of Tommy’s games, so things are good.

Summertime is always harder on Eric than on Tommy. The months of oppressive, sweltering Georgia heat is a far cry from the chilled ice rinks that Eric has made his second home, but for Tommy, summer is the final sprint of his off-season training. Between early morning and late evening training seasons, Tommy burns his time swimming at the Pritchetts’ pool or playing touch with the neighbors (Tommy, of course, it always the QB).

One day, during the summer before Tommy’s junior year, Tommy and Eric and all of the neighbors are at Danny Pritchett’s pool when Lenny climbs out of the water with a huff. “I’m bored with swimming,” he announces. “Let’s play football.”

“All right,” Tommy agrees. “Touch, yeah? I got my ball –”

“No, not touch,” Lenny says. “I’m sick of touch.”

“Yeah,” George agrees, joining their conversation. “Touch is boring.”

Tommy hesitates. Coach warned him from playing any contact outside of practice – that’d be a damn foolish way to injure himself right before season, especially since they’re moving to a new town in a few weeks, which means a new team that Tommy has to try-out for – but Tommy supposes that one game can’t hurt no one. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll go get Ted and Eric –”

“Not Eric.”

Tommy freezes, halfway out of the pool, and stares in confusion at George. “Why not Eric?”

George makes an uncomfortable expression. “Well, he’s – y’know, he’s –”

“No, I don’t know,” Tommy says. He pulls himself out of the pool and stares down at George, crossing his arms. He knows it looks intimidating – he may or may not have tried out a few different poses in the mirror.

“He’s small, George means,” Lenny says in a rushed way that means small isn’t what George actually means, at all. “If we’re playing contact, he’ll get crushed.”

“He’s no bigger than Reggie,” Tommy argues.

George and Lenny exchange a look, and that’s enough – Tommy is fed up with them. “Whatever,” Tommy says, “We’re leaving.”

“Aw, Tommy –”

“Tommy, come on!”

Tommy ignores them, stalking to the other end of the pool. “Eric, we gotta go,” he says brusquely.

Eric looks at him with wide brown eyes. “What?” he asks. “Why?”

“Mama wants us back.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. Get out.”

Eric pouts as he gets out, but Tommy isn’t their mama – Eric knows his pouting is pointless. Tommy waits until Eric had grabbed his towel and sandals and has wrapped the towel around his waist before he grabs his own towel and slings it over his shoulder. “Come on, Tommy, George didn’t mean nothing by that!” Lenny calls, but Tommy ignores him, pushing Eric out of the Pritchetts’ backyard.

“What did George say?” Eric asks, twisting to look up at Tommy.

Tommy swallows. Eric is small, small for his age and small for a boy, and it is times like these that Tommy worries the other kids aren’t so nice to Eric, but Eric, eternal optimist that he is, just doesn’t mention it at home. “Doesn’t matter,” Tommy says firmly, and luckily, Eric takes him at his word.

They never go back to the Pritchetts', even though they’re the only ones on the street with a pool, but it’s only two weeks before they move. Once they do, pre-season starts right away, taking up all of Tommy’s time in a way that makes sure he is acclimated right away, and he is so exhausted for the next few weeks that he only vaguely registers the fact that Eric has to quit figure skating – the drive to Katya’s rink is just too far from their new home.

If Eric cries about it, Tommy doesn’t see, but he does see the spike in the amount of baked goods sitting around their kitchen. Some of it smells downright heavenly, and if it weren’t so close to season, Tommy would be tempted to sneak some of the pie after dinner. He’s on a strict diet, though, and he didn’t get this far by cheating his training.

His training pays off, too – he beats out two seniors for starting QB at his new school, and the people who complain it’s only because Coach is the new coach shut up when they win their home-opener against their rivals by a landslide, 56 – 7.

Eric bakes a pie with Mama to celebrate the victory, and Coach turns a blind eye when Tommy steals a bite or two from Eric’s plate.

“You’re gonna be in college in no time,” Eric says. He is smiling, but Tommy senses that there’s something else on Eric’s mind.

It comes up later that night, when Tommy and Eric are doing the dishes. “Do you know anything about hockey?” Eric asks.

Tommy shrugs, taking the plate Eric hands to him. “Some of my old teammates played it. Why?”

Eric takes a deep breath. “There’s a coed team, here,” he says quickly, “It’s pretty new, I guess, and there’s no checking or nothin’ – but there’s gotta be some contact, right? And I miss skating, but I figure Coach’ll be less disappointed with hockey than with figure skating –”

“What? Coach wasn’t disappointed –”

“Don’t, Tommy,” Eric says, voice uncharacteristically hard for a moment before it turns light and hesitant again. “Do you think I could switch this late? I wouldn’t be too far behind?”

Tommy sets down his dish. “Know what I think?” he asks and waits until Eric is looking at him. When he has his younger brother’s full attention, he says, “If you work hard, there’s nothing you can’t do. And does anyone work harder than a Bittle?”

Eric grins. “No, sir.”

“That’s right, Dicky.”

Eric squawks and flings soapy dishwater at Tommy, and Tommy laughs before pulling Eric into a headlock.

When Tommy comes back from his first year of college, he feels like a minor celebrity with all the attention he receives from the other people in his town. People he barely recognizes come up to him in the grocery store to congratulate him on an outstanding freshman season. His old high school teammates ask him for all the stories, from season and from college and especially from parties.

Tommy tries to hang out with Eric when he isn’t training with Coach and his ex-teammates. He missed his little brother a lot more than he thought he would. Eric is his usual chipper self on the surface, but for some reason, Tommy feels like there is something that Eric is refusing to talk about. The worst part is that Tommy has no idea what that something could be.

It doesn’t come out until the last week of summer. Late on a Tuesday night, Mama and Coach are out on a date night somewhere in town, and Tommy is bored with his book so he wanders downstairs to find Eric in the kitchen. He’s baking, yet again.

“Got any plans tomorrow night?” Tommy asks, taking a seat at the counter.

Eric shakes his head. His hair is getting long. “Whatcha got in mind?” he asks.

“How about the drive-in?” Tommy suggests. “Me an’ Dale an’ Max an’ maybe Roy were thinking about going. It’d be fun if you’d –”

“No,” Eric immediately says, his open expression shutting down.

Tommy frowns. “If the drive-in isn’t –”

“No, Tommy, it’s not the drive-in,” Eric says. “It’s – it’s those boys.”

Tommy grins. “What, because they were my teammates?” he asks. “I promise we won’t talk about football too much –”

“No, Tommy.”

Tommy finally realizes how distressed Eric is. Tears are welling in his eyes, his lips drawn tightly to keep them from trembling. “Eric,” Tommy asks, dread pooling in his stomach, “What did they do?”

Eric takes a shaky breath and wipes the heel of his palm under his eyes. “It – it wasn’t nothing big,” he starts out.

“Bullshit, Eric, if it wasn’t nothing big you wouldn’t be crying –”

“I’m not crying,” Eric says. “They – they locked me in the janitor’s closet overnight.”

Tommy’s blood runs cold, and then red-hot anger shoots through him. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” he demands.

Eric shrugs. “They’re your friends,” he says, “And besides, I haven’t told Coach or Mama, either. Didn’t see a point…”

“God, Eric, they’re not my friends anymore,” Tommy says viciously.

Tears finally spill onto Eric’s cheeks. “Please,” he begs, “please, don’t say anything – don’t do – I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

Tommy wants to argue with Eric or, better yet, go find his ex-teammates and give them a good beating, but Eric looks like he is seconds away from flat-out bawling, so instead, Tommy beckons his brother over until Eric abandons his baking and lets Tommy wrap his arms around him.

Wednesday morning, Tommy visits Dale, Max, and Roy individually. He doesn’t leave until he has given each of them a few bruises, and maybe draws a little blood. He comes home just before lunch, detours through the backyard to wash the blood from his knuckles, and enters through the front door to find Eric and Mama fixing sandwiches, Coach sitting in front of the television with an iced tea in hand.

“Where you comin’ from, Tommy?” Mama asks with a smile.

“Just exercising,” Tommy answers, coming to the kitchen to drop a kiss on his mother’s cheek. He reaches out and squeezes Eric’s shoulder, and when Eric smiles up at him, Tommy feels that familiar surge of protectiveness in his chest.

No one makes his little brother cry. No one.

Tommy never did find out why those boys went after Eric, and though this lack of information unsettles him, he never does ask Eric about it – he’s scared that Eric might start crying again, so Tommy settles for hugging Eric a bit harder and trying to call him more frequently when Tommy is away. Months and then years go by, and before he knows it, Eric is headed to college – up north, strangely, and even more of a surprise, on a hockey scholarship.

Eric comes back from freshman year still recovering from a concussion, but he is smiling and bright-eyed whenever he talks about his team. They all have weird nicknames, except for one called Jack, and they’re all crazy for Eric’s baking, apparently, and respect Eric’s vlog. Tommy’s had plenty of Eric’s baked goods, and though he has never seen Eric’s vlog (he doubts Eric wants him to), he supposes Eric’s teammates being supportive is better, even if weirder, than them mocking Eric.

Before that summer ends, Eric gets a new haircut, one of the strange ones with the short sides and the long top. One of Tommy’s teammates from Boston has a similar haircut. They both have preseason, so they are headed out on the same day. Mama and Coach take them to the airport, and Tommy pretends not to notice Mama’s teary eyes as she gives both of her sons a hug and a kiss.

“My boys,” she says, “So grown up – next thing you know, you’ll be getting married and having babies –”

Mama has her arms around Tommy, so she does not see what Tommy does: they way Eric flinches, the way his expression changes for just a split second, and it makes Tommy wonder, for a fleeting moment, how much there is that Eric isn’t tell any of them.

Tommy gives in. Sometime in the fall, on a Saturday when he doesn’t have practice and he doesn’t have any homework (and, honestly, is missing home a bit), Tommy searches his brother’s name on the internet. He finds a Twitter account and then a Youtube account – Eric’s vlog, Tommy reasons.

Tommy clicks on the first video and abandons his laptop to pick up his playbook. He’s only half-listening to the video, following the cadence of Eric’s voice more than the actual words. It’s not until one phrase jumps out at him, at least an hour later, that Tommy’s complete attention is drawn to his laptop:

“Never fall for a straight boy.”

Tommy is frozen for a moment, and the video ends, the autoplay screen coming up with Eric’s next video. Tommy scrambles off of his bed and stops the autoplay at the last second, then hits replay on the current video and watches the entire video with his full attention.

Eric is gay.

Tommy spends the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening really watching Eric’s videos, until he is able to piece together so much more of his younger brother’s life than he ever has before. He learns more about the oddly named teammates that were only ever mentioned in passing in the summer; he learns that Samwell’s hockey team is actually very good; he learns that the only nickname-less teammate, Jack, is good enough to maybe go pro after he graduates; and, most central to all the epiphanies Tommy is having this evening, he learns that Eric is gay.

Suddenly years and years of incongruities and small confusions make sense. It’s not things like Eric being small and ice skating and loving to bake and unashamedly enjoying pop music – those parts of Eric have always made sense, because they were just Eric. It’s the other things, the way other boys acted around Eric, the way Eric got bullied but never brought it up or fought back, the way Eric would always shut down a little bit whenever Mama or MooMaw started talking about girls and grandchildren or great-grandchildren.

Where they grew up, not everyone was nice about the gays. Coach and Mama never really voiced a strong opinion about it, and Tommy’s always thought it was mean to hate people for loving people, but Tommy can still imagine how scared Eric must have been – how scared Eric must still be, if he’s known all this time and come out to his team at college but still hasn’t come out at home.

Tommy knows Eric is technically an adult by now, but that doesn’t stop Tommy from feeling a flood of worry and love and protectiveness rush through him. He was supposed to look out for Eric, from day one, and look at how Tommy must have failed him: he doesn’t even know the people Eric loves.

Tommy glances at his calendar. He doesn’t have a game this weekend, and there’s an optional practice tomorrow, but then nothing until Monday. Tommy knows that for serious athletes, optional practices are never optional, but Tommy’s never missed one before. He can afford to miss one now.

Tommy quickly grabs his wallet and his water bottle and shuts his laptop before running across campus to Marissa and Brady’s apartment. His friends are watching a movie when he bursts in, and they jump with surprise at his entrance.

“Tommy? What’s going on?” Brady asks.

Tommy looks at Marissa. “Can I borrow your car for the weekend?” he asks, still catching his breath.

“Well – sure, Tommy,” Marissa replies, eyebrows furrowed. “What’s going on, though? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says quickly, “Just a family thing –” Marissa and Brady exchange an alarmed look, and Tommy rushes to add, “No one’s dying or nothing, I just – I need to get there. Quickly.”

“All right,” Marissa says.

She retrieves her keys and hands them off to Tommy, who feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his own skin, he has so much adrenalin. “Drive safely, okay?” Marissa asks, blue eyes wide and Southern drawl sweet with concern.

“I will. Thank you,” Tommy says, then sprints out of the apartment and towards the student parking center.

He finds Marissa’s car, adjusts the driver’s seat to accommodate his larger-than-average football player’s body, hits the gas pedal, and never looks back.

Chapter Text

Summer just doesn’t want to leave New England, this year, and for Shitty, if it’s above sixty-five, clothing is optional, so he doesn’t have a stitch of clothing on him when he opens the front door of the Haus to a complete stranger. The stranger double takes when he sees Shitty, then clears this throat and politely focuses his eyes solely on Shitty’s face. “Good mornin’,” the guy says, with a drawling Southern voice that might be as deep as Holster’s. “Is there a Mr. Eric Bittle in this residence?”

Shitty narrows his eyes. “You’re looking for Bits?”

“Eric,” the stranger says again, looking skeptical as if he’s trying to figure out if Shitty is on something (which Shitty isn’t, at the moment). “Eric Bittle.”

“He lives here,” Shitty confirms, “but he’s out, right now.”

The stranger nods. “May I wait for him?”

“You don’t have any bad intentions towards him, do you?”

The stranger looks horrified as he quickly says, “Lord, no. None at all.”

Good enough for Shitty. “You can come in,” he offers, holding the door further open. “I’d offer you a drink, but I think we only have beer left.”

The man walks in and follows Shitty’s gesture towards the living room. He sends the couch a skeptical look but nevertheless sits down, and Shitty takes a moment to dash into the kitchen and grab two bottles of beer and try to figure out what the hell this could be.

The first question is probably the easiest to answer: how does this guy know Bitty? Well, he has to be from Georgia – there are only a small number of Wellies with a Southern accent that strong, and Shitty is pretty sure Bitty identified every student from the South by the third month of his freshman year, if only to know who to talk to if he missed the sound of home.

So the stranger is from Georgia. The easy assumption would then be that he is a relative who’s come by for a visit. But Shitty is pretty sure Bits is an only child. He can’t remember Bitty ever talking about any siblings – cousins, yes, but siblings, no. And, besides, wouldn’t a cousin or a brother say they are a cousin or a brother when they introduced themselves? Which this guy didn’t do. Come to think of it, he didn’t even introduce himself!

Why would a friend from Georgia who isn’t a relative refuse to introduce himself?

Shitty leans back so he can sneak a look at the stranger. He’s perched on the edge of the couch, his hands clasped tightly together, his face pinched in an expression of something like concern or worry. The dude has several inches and at least fifty pounds on Shitty, so Shitty sure as hell isn’t the reason why this dude is scared of something. Unless –

Unless –

Unless Bitty has a secret boyfriend from back home and this is him and the boyfriend meant to surprise Bitty but he’s uncertain if Bitty is out to his teammates because Bitty doesn’t sound like he’s out back home and heavens to motherfucking Betsy, Bitty has a SECRET BOYFRIEND?

The boyfriend shifts, and Shitty quickly ducks back into the kitchen. Slow down, Shits, he thinks. He’s assuming a lot right now, and what’s the saying – something like assuming makes an ass out of you and me – so he tells himself to stop thinking about it and instead be a host that Bitty would be proud of.

Someone has left a pair of running shorts on one of the kitchen chairs. Shitty quickly puts them on – Bits would be horrified if Shitty were playing host with his junk out for everyone to see – and then grabs the two beers and brings them to the living room. “Beer?” he offers, and the stranger accepts it, though he doesn’t actually take a drink.

“What’s your name, again?” Shitty asks, perching on the arm of the couch, his feet on the seat cushions.

The stranger double-takes. “I – pardon me, I forgot to – I’m Tommy.”

He sticks out a hand, oddly formal, but Shitty takes it into stride. “The boys call me Shitty,” he says.

Tommy’s brows lower. “Are you on Eric’s hockey team?”

“Yup,” Shitty says, popping the p. “You’re sitting in the hockey Haus, right now.”

Tommy nods, his mouth still drawn in a thin line.

Shitty is just starting to wonder how long he’s going to have to entertain this maybe-boyfriend when the front door opens. Shitty mentally sighs in relief when he hears it is Bitty and Jack. Bitty is rambling about white flour versus unbleached flower, which confirms Shitty’s suspicion that Bitty had been at the grocery store.

Tommy also recognizes Bitty’s voice right away; he sits up straight, suddenly looking panicked, so Shitty takes pity on him and calls, “Yo, Bits, Jay-Z, get in here!”

“Whatcha hollerin’ about, Shitty?” Bitty asks. He appears in the doorway, Jack behind him toting grocery bags full of baking ingredients, and positively freezes when he sees Tommy.

“Eric?” Tommy asks, his voice nearly cracking.

Emotions are flashing across Bitty’s face so quickly that Shitty can’t process them in time. “Tommy?” he says quietly, then clears his throat and asks, “Wha– what are you doin’ here, Tommy?”

Jack shifts a step closer to Bitty, wearing that same expression he gets when he’s about to hit an opposing player that’s been a bit too rough on one of Jack’s line mates.

Tommy stands up, leaving his beer on the coffee table. “To see you,” he says and smiles weakly. “I, uh. I saw your blog. And I get – I get why you don’t wanna tell Coach or your Mama, but – I just wanted you to know that I still love you, Eric. I’ll always be there for you. Nothin’ could change that.”

As he is speaking, Tommy looks as if he is gaining more and more confidence in his words, and by the end, he has this look of such fierce protectiveness that it’s becoming really hard for Shitty to think this guy isn’t dating his little pie-baking Georgian friend.

Bitty’s lip wobbles; then he promptly bursts into tears and flings himself into Tommy’s arms. Tommy catches him, of course, and then wraps him in a hug that is strong enough to lift Bitty off the ground. “I love you, too, Tommy,” Bitty says, sniffling loudly.

Okay, time to abort.

Shitty quietly hops off the couch and pushes at Jack, who is stuck like some fucking mountain in the doorway. “Let them have a moment,” Shitty whispers, and Jack blinks and becomes unstuck. Shitty herds him towards the kitchen, where they start putting away Bitty’s groceries.

Shitty absorbs himself in the task, for once not wanting to get all up in Bitty’s business. Whatever just went down was wicked emotional, for both Bitty and Tommy, and Shitty has plenty of time to interrogate Bitty about his secret boyfriend later.

He and Jack are just about finished up when Bitty pokes his head into the kitchen. “Tommy’s gonna take me out to dinner,” he says, his voice a bit rough and his eyes red. “We’ll be back tonight.”

Shitty nods, giving Bitty what he hopes is a supportive smile, and he elbows Jack’s ribs until Jack says, “Don’t be too late. We have an early practice tomorrow.”

Bitty nods jerkily, then disappears from the doorway. Tommy looks in to nod at Shitty and Jack before following Bitty out of the Haus.

Shitty looks at Jack. “Holy shit,” he says.

Jack looks completely neutral. “What?”

“Jack. Jackie-boy. Zimmermann the man. Did you not just see that?”

Jack looks at the kitchen doorway with a slight frown, then turns back to Shitty. “Bittle stopped crying,” he says, genuinely confused, and Shitty sighs.

“I’m texting the team,” he says and leaves in search of his cell phone.

They’re all gathered in the living room later that night, waiting for Bitty to return from his dinner with Tommy. The two of them have been gone for several hours, now, and Shitty is vibrating with the need to know. Is this a date? Is Eric Richard Bittle currently on a date?

“What’d the boyfriend look like, again?” Holster asks.

“Really tall,” Shitty says. “And, like, fucking jacked.”

“Blond,” Jack adds quietly.

“Blond?” Holster echoes incredulously, then groans and shuts his laptop angrily. “Bitty has three Facebook friends named Tommy, and they’re all brunettes.”

“Only one Tommy follows him on Twitter,” Ransom adds, looking at his phone, “But that Tommy is a girl.”

“Guys, shouldn’t we just wait for Bits to talk to us about it?” Lardo asks. “If he hasn’t mentioned anything before, there must be a reason.”

Ransom and Holster exchange a glance. “Yes,” Holster agrees.

“But we’ve been trying and failing to set up Bitty for over a year,” Ransom continues. “We’re trying to figure out if our match-making system has a flaw –”

“If Bitty is a statistic anomaly and therefore our system does not have a flaw –”

“Or if there’s just no one in our Samwell database that fits Bittle’s perfect type.”

Shitty shares an amused look with Lardo and then asks, “Have you tried your system on the frogs, yet?”

The two d-men nod. “We have several matches for Chowder, but he’s too scared to talk to any of them,” Ransom says.

“We’ve been very successful for Nursey, but he goes through them pretty quickly.”

“And Dex?”

“Dex refuses to talk to any of the people we mention to him, out of principle.”

“Principle?” Jack asks.

“Yeah. He thinks the system is weird,” Holster says.

“Which only means we have to be more subtle,” Ransom adds.

They fist bump, and Shitty snickers. Ransom and Holster wouldn’t know subtlety if it punched them straight in the face.

“Hey!” Lardo says, perking up, “I think they’re back!”

A car pulls into the Haus driveway, and yup, that’s Tommy at the wheel and Bitty in shotgun. Tommy parks the car, and they both get out, Tommy following Bitty up to the Haus door just a half-step behind Bitty. They stop at the top of the porch, just within Shitty’s line of sight, and Shitty watches with bated breath. They’re talking to each other, just talking, but it looks like Tommy is talking more than Bitty, which, shocker. The amount Bitty talks is almost on par with the amount Shitty does.

They talk for only a minute or two, and then Tommy spreads his arms. Bitty steps forward and hugs him, and they stay like that for a long time, Bitty gripping Tommy’s shoulders and Tommy rubbing his hand up and down Bitty’s back. When they part, Bitty gives Tommy a watery smile, and Tommy smiles back before descending the steps of the Haus. Bitty watches Tommy leave and doesn’t turn towards the Haus until Tommy’s taillights are at the end of the road.

Bitty pokes his head into the living room once he enters the Haus. “What are y’all doing in here?” he asks.

“Waiting for you,” Ransom says.

“Bits, why didn’t you invite him to stay the night?” Lardo asks.

“He’s gotta get back to school,” Bitty says, walking into the kitchen.

They all exchange a look. Bitty sounds oddly … calm. Almost indifferent.

Bitty comes back. “He has football on Monday mornin’, and Carolina ain’t that close,” he finishes explaining. He takes a sip of his water and then asks, “Why are y’all lookin’ at me like that?”

Holster smacks his palms against the coffee table. “Bits!” he cries. “Why’ve you been holding out on us?”

Bitty looks utterly bewildered. “Holdin’ out?”

“You’ve failed to mention Tommy for – for however long you’ve been seeing him!” Ransom says.

Bitty spits his water back into his glass. “Seeing – sweet Mother Mary, that’s my brother!”

Oh.

The next week or so is full of terrible jokes about secret siblings and even worse references to the Lannister twins, but once the initial uproar dies down, Shitty finds Bitty alone in the Haus kitchen one day. There’s a pie cooling on a rack and Queen Bey playing softly from Bitty’s laptop, and Shitty figures now is as good a time as any to have a serious conversation.

“Bits!” he shouts as he comes into the kitchen. “Please tell me that’s mixed berry. I would die for mixed berry right now.”

Bitty smiles and replies, “It’s Aunt Jenny’s three berry pie recipe. Is that close enough?”

Shitty leans over the pie and inhales deeply. Fucking heavenly. “Honestly, brah, one berry would cut it at this point,” he says, reaching out to poke the crust.

“Don’t touch it! It’s still cooling.”

Shitty pouts but nevertheless withdraws to join Bitty at the island. “Out of curiosity,” he says, “and you totally don’t have to tell me anything – but why do you never talk about your brother?”

Because even though the cat’s out of the bag, and they all know Tommy exists, Bits still doesn’t really talk about him. Even now Bitty’s expression kind of shutters off, a bit, but he says anyway, “I don’t know. Habit? I think … I mean, I’ve always been … I don’t know. Jealous of him. And when I came here, to Samwell, I could pretend like – oh, it’s silly.”

“What you’re feeling isn’t silly,” Shitty says earnestly.

Eric huffs a laugh. “I feel silly,” he insists. “Tommy’s never been anything but a good brother, and it’s not like he’s good at football and is everything Coach ever wanted in a son just to make me feel –” He cuts himself off with a sigh. “I love Tommy. But his shadow feels pretty large, most of the time.”

Shitty nods. He might not be living in a sibling’s shadow, but his father and his grandfather and his uncles do a pretty damn good job at making Shitty feel … well, shitty, from time to time. And while his mom and his older sister are supportive of him, they have their own incredible accomplishments. Shitty likes to think he doesn’t give a damn about other people’s opinions, but even he sometimes feels the pressure of expectation.

“You know what’s funny?” Bitty suddenly says, expression brightening mischievously. “Tommy thought you were my boyfriend.”

Shitty bursts out laughing. “You know I was naked when I first opened the door to him?”

“Oh, yes. He told me.”

“That would’ve been a hell of a meet-the-boyfriend story.”

“Don’t worry. I told him we weren’t dating.”

Shitty grabs his chest, mock horrified. “Don’t worry? Bitty, if we were dating, I’d be shouting it from every fucking mountain top for everybody to hear. You’re a goddamn catch, Bits.”

Bitty blushes. “Thanks, Shitty,” he drawls, and Shitty flings his arms around his teammate.

“Any fucking time, brah. I love you.”

“Love you too, Shits.”

“Is the pie ready now?”

“Shitty!”

Bitty shoves Shitty away from him, but he’s laughing, and Shitty feels warm inside. There’s nothing quite like getting his friends to smile.

Chapter Text

It happened about a month ago, but Eric still kind of tears up whenever he thinks about it. Tommy found out in one of the worst possible ways, but – but Tommy still cares. Tommy still loves him. Eric is gay and his brother knows and his brother still loves him.

Eric shimmies a bit to get the weird feeling out of his spine as he finishes spooning cookie batter onto a baking sheet. It is the day before everyone starts leaving for Christmas break, and most of his Hausmates are out. Eric himself hasn’t packed yet – packing is so tedious and hard – so making a little something for the road is the perfect excuse to procrastinate further. And there’s no one here to call him out on the fact that that road isn’t to Georgia, but to Montreal.

Eric remembers the sound of muffled party music, the cutting tone of Kent Parson’s voice, and the way Jack was shaking like a leaf in the wind, and Eric seethes for a moment. It doesn’t matter how Eric might personally feel about Jack; Eric just knows that Jack doesn’t deserve to feel so bad that he’ll shut himself in his room for a week straight, only coming out for class, practice, games, or mandatory team meals.

Eric slides his cookies into the oven and pats Betsy before setting a timer. Theoretically, he could start packing now, but his mama always used to say that leaving an oven unattended was just asking for trouble, and Betsy has been acting up …

Eric takes a seat at the island countertop and pulls out his phone. There is not much happening on Twitter, and Eric scrolls mindlessly, wondering what else he should do to fill his time, when one tweet suddenly jumps out from his feed: Billy tells all! it reads, with a link to a Youtube video entitled MY STORY BY BILLY GILMAN. It catches Eric’s attention for two reasons: one, because Eric hasn’t heard about Billy Gilman for a while, and Eric’s always liked his music; and two, because the account that made this tweet is one of the LGBTQ accounts he follows.

The video is a little dated, from late November. It’s about five and a half minutes, and by the end of it, Eric is crying, because oh, Lord, Billy is out and Billy is gay and that’s terrifying and beautiful all at once. Eric might not know Nashville, but he knows the South, and to come out – to come out –

Eric takes a deep breath and wipes his eyes. He couldn’t imagine coming out. Not in his neighborhood; not in his town. He still remembers the cold of the janitor’s closet overnight, the way those lettermen jacket boys dropped cruel slurs as easily as a How d’you do?, the shattered windshield of Marcia Presley’s car the day after she told her best friend she’d been in love with her for years. And the way Coach and Mama would react – they’d –

Eric freezes.

How would his parents react?

He’s never considered coming out, before. He knew he was gay when he was very young, but not so young that he didn’t already understand that that was something he should keep secret. And Eric has kept it that way so long, that he just kind of assumed …

But now that he thinks of it, he’s never actually heard Coach or Mama say anything bad about people like him. They don’t talk about it as a family – even when Marcia’s ruined car was the talk of the town, Mama had only shook her head and said, “That poor girl.” And thinking of Tommy – Eric keeps coming back to Tommy’s visit, the words still echoing in his years, I still love you, Eric. I’ll always be there for you. Nothin’ could change that – and oh, Lord. Is he going to do this?

Even as he’s been thinking, Eric’s been playing around on his phone, and now that he really focuses on what his fingers are doing, he sees that he’s opened an article about Billy Gilman’s coming out, and there are comments – seemingly hundreds of them – voicing support and pride. Skimming through them brings tears to Eric’s eyes again, but at the same time, there’s a growing tidal wave of emotion and certainty within him. He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna do it.

Eric is going to come out.

Suddenly winter break cannot come quickly enough. Eric finishes his cookies and wraps them up and sneaks them into Jack’s travel bag, then packs his own bags in what must be record time. The flight down to Georgia feels longer than the drive usually does, and when Eric finally gets off the plane and sees Tommy waiting for him with his pick-up truck, it’s all Eric can do to keep from sprinting to his older brother.

“Dicky!” Tommy shouts when Eric is close enough, and Eric gives in, running to his brother and throwing his arms around him. Tommy picks Eric off the ground – he’s always eager to prove how much bigger and stronger he is than his younger brother – and when he sets Eric down again Eric punches him.

“You know only Mama gets to call me that,” he scolds.

Tommy ruffles Eric’s hair, and Eric shouts in protest. “Aw, Dicky, don’t be so pouty,” Tommy says teasingly.

“That’s it. Gimme the keys, I’m drivin’ us home.”

They talk about Tommy’s season on the way out of the city. For the second year in a row, Tommy lead his league in basically every QB statistic possible, and while that used to make Eric jealous (not for his football stats, but for the praise and approval it earned Tommy), now he’s just excited to see Tommy squirm when the neighborhood moms inevitably try to flirt with him about it. Tommy is as clueless with girls as Coach was, Mama always says, much to Tommy’s embarrassment.

“How about you?” Tommy asks when they hit the highway. “How’ve things been since I visited you?”

Eric readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “It’s been good,” he says shortly. “Um. I –” 

Want to come out to Coach and Mama, his brain supplies, but his tongue won’t move.

From the corner of his eye, Eric can see Tommy watching him closely. Tommy is like Coach and even Jack, in that way: when he gives his attention, he gives his full attention, and his attentive expression is sometimes scarily intense. Tommy will also do that thing that both Coach and Mama do – stare silently until you say the thing you want to say.

“I want to come out to Coach and Mama,” Eric says in a rush.

Tommy doesn’t say anything right away, which makes Eric want to fill the silence. “I mean, I thought about it only a few days ago, and it seemed like a good idea then, because – I mean, I know the Westons and the Havermeyers don’t like people like me, but Coach and Mama have never been like that – at least, not that I remember, so I was thinking – I mean, only if you think it’d be okay – that I could –”

“Eric. Breathe.”

Eric sucks in a deep breath and then taps the brakes a little. He’d been speeding up as he rambled, and this is why Coach told him he should shut his trap whenever he was driving on the highway.

“If that’s something you wanna do,” Tommy says, “If you wanna – wanna come out –” His mouth works wordlessly for a moment before he settles on saying, “I’m gonna be there for you.”

Eric glances at Tommy, and Tommy smiles at him. “Thanks, Tommy,” he says, looking back at the road ahead, a smile twitching on his lips.

“Anytime, Dicky.”

He chooses to do it the morning after Christmas. Coach and Mama are sitting on the loveseat in the living room; Coach is reading the newspaper, and Mama’s curled up with the book that Tommy got for her. Eric pulls his head back into the kitchen and breathes deeply.

“You sure you’re ready?” Tommy asks quietly, his eyebrows knitted together with concern.

Eric sets his jaw. “Yes,” he says, voice low but firm, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Tommy squeezes his shoulder supportively. “I’m right behind you.”

Eric takes one more deep breath and then marches out into the living room. Tommy is right behind him, shadowing Eric’s every step as Eric says, ‘“Coach, Mama? I’ve something I’d like to say.”

His parents exchange a surprised look, but they both set down their respective reading. Eric takes a seat on the armchair across from them and then immediately shifts to sit at the very edge. Tommy is standing behind Eric, his arms crossed, and it’s such a huge comfort to Eric that he almost wants to cry. But he can’t; not now.

“What’s going on, Dicky?” Mama asks.

Eric grabs his own kneecaps. “Um,” he says, his tongue suddenly way too dry. “I’ve – well, I haven’t been fixin’ to tell you and Coach for too long – mostly because I never really thought I could – but then Tommy found out, and that – that was okay –”

He’s stammering, his words as shaky as the legs of a newborn colt, but now that he’s started, he can’t very well stop. Mama’s hands are also fluttering – she’s picked up on Eric’s nerves – and Coach takes her hand to soothe her jitters. “Go on, Junior,” he says.

Eric licks his lips. “I – I’m gay.”

The silence lasts for two, maybe three seconds. For Eric, it feels like an eternity. His heart thuds wildly in his chest as he watches, wide-eyed, as Mama presses a hand to her mouth, as Coach’s eyebrows lower as he looks up at Tommy, who’s still behind Eric. There’s just enough time for the most dreadful thought to cross Eric’s mind – oh, Lord, this was a mistake – when the moment is broken by his mama’s cry.

“Oh, Dicky, come here,” she says even as she rises from her seat and walks around the coffee table to wrap her arms around Eric. Tears are falling down her cheeks, and Eric starts crying too when she says, “Oh, Dicky, we still love you. We love you.”

“I love you, too, Mama,” he says into her hair, hugging her back as tightly as he can.

They spend a minute in that awkward but loving hug – Eric is still sitting and Mama is in a half-crouch – before Eric lets her go. He looks at Coach, still apprehensive, and though Coach has a pinched expression, Eric hopes it’s only because of all the tears. Coach is allergic to emotions.

“Coach?” he says cautiously.

“Can you tell Tommy to quit glarin’ at me?” Coach says gruffly. “We ain’t gonna turn you out of this house. You’re still our son.”

Eric surprises himself by laughing, and Coach smiles at him. Tommy must relax, because in the next moment he’s got Eric in a headlock and he’s mussing Eric’s hair. “I’m proud of you, little brother,” Tommy murmurs in Eric’s ear, and Eric smiles even as he bats Tommy’s hands away.

It’s gonna be okay.

It’s only the first morning back at Samwell, and Eric is already so sore he could curl up in a ball and never get up again. “Is it really worth it?” Eric whines into Holster’s shoulder. 

Currently, Holster is giving him a piggy-back ride back to the Haus from the SMH morning conditioning session. Last night had been the first official workout of the #BetterBittyBootyBureau2015 with Rans, and now Eric’s butt is on fire.

“Bitty. Think of the booty,” Ransom urges from next to Holster.

“Think of your booty,” Holster amends.

Eric groans.

They make it to the Haus in one piece. Shitty and Jack show up a few minutes later (Jack had stayed late, as usual, to talk to the coaches, and Shitty waited for Jack), by which time Eric has managed to get off of the kitchen floor and start making breakfast for everyone. “Eggs, Jack? Shitty?” he calls.

“You beautiful Southern jewel,” Shitty says passionately and darts into the kitchen to kiss Eric’s cheek before booking it up the stairs, already pulling off his shirt.

Jack wanders into the kitchen, glances at Ransom and Holster doing Lord-knows-what on Holster’s laptop, and comes to hover at Eric’s shoulder. “Scrambled?” he asks.

“Yup!”

“Do we have any bacon?”

“That depends on if you’re talking about real bacon,” Eric replies with a grin.

Ransom immediately sits ramrod straight. “What do you mean, real bacon?” he asks. “There’s only one type of bacon.”

“And it comes from Canada,” Jack says.

They high-five, even as Eric rolls his eyes and Holster shouts, “Canadian jokes! Ahh!”

Eric pulls both real bacon and Canadian bacon out of the fridge as Shitty comes back down the stairs, clad in nothing but a fresh pair of boxers. “Yo! Lardo’s coming over,” he says, sliding into the last seat at the counter.

Jack is still hovering by Betsy, so Eric, with his hands full, has to bump him out of the way with his hip. “Move it, you,” he says, and Jack grins at him but nevertheless moves.

“HOLY SHIT!”

Eric yelps and barely keeps the bacon from falling onto the floor. Jack snickers, and Eric glares at him before turning and asking, “Holster, what in God’s name –”

“I missed it!” Holster cries, head in his hands.

“Missed what?” Jack asks.

Ransom drapes himself over Holster and looks at his laptop screen. “Oh, dude,” he says, “Into the Woods. You’ve been talking about that forever.”

“It’s still showing, isn’t it?” Shitty asks.

Holster traps Ransom’s arm in a death grip. “You don’t understand,” he says to Shitty. “It’s been out for weeks and I haven’t seen it.”

“So?”

“It has ANNA KENDRICK.”

“When did it come out?” Shitty asks.

“I came out.”

The words are out before Eric even realizes what he’s saying, and Ransom and Holster immediately shoot him finger guys, shouting in unison, Eyyy! Eric laughs but shakes his head. “No, I mean, like – I came out to my parents.”

Ransom and Holster stop. “Dude!” Ransom exclaims, even as Holster shouts, “Bro!”

“How did it go?” Shitty asks.

Eric smiles down at his pan of scrambled eggs. “Well, actually,” he says. “I mean – it helped that Tommy was there, and all –”

His sentence is cut off by Shitty tackling him with a hug. “Bro!” he shouts right into Eric’s ear, “I’m so proud of you –”

In a moment, Holster and Ransom have joined the hug, and the four of them do an awkward toddling dance around the kitchen before Eric is released. Eric is breathless from laughing, and when he turns back to Betsy, Jack has taken over the eggs.

“Thank you, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric says, nudging Jack’s hands out of the way.

Jack doesn’t leave his space right away, though. “Congratulations, Bittle,” he says quietly, a small but proud little smile on his lips.

Warmth floods through Eric, and he prays that he’s not blushing too hard. “Thank you, Jack,” he says, earnestly, and Jack musses his hair (despite Eric’s squawk of protest) before leaving Eric’s side to go to the fridge. 

Eric watches Jack from the corner of his eye as the Canadian pulls out a Gatorade. Eric’s ears are full of the sound of his teammates talking excitedly over each other, his nose is overwhelmed by the smell of home-cooked breakfast, and Lord. He’s never felt so happy.