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The night had only just drifted in, a fog of dark and future memories and full houses and glasses filled to the brim with cheap beer. It was nights like this that snuck up on Jack, as he worked on his schoolwork—well, he didn’t really have schoolwork to work on at the moment, but he always had something to do when the cups were full and the night was young.
Midnight. Well, not quite young, then. Jack re-read the passage on trench warfare; he always returned to this war in particular whenever these parties raged on downstairs.
1918. Both sides were at a standstill—what was the point, Jack would always think. What was the point when the only thing you knew was mud, and dirt, and worn leather boots, and cold bullets that felt like condemnation? What was the point, when your enemy was the same as the guy lying next to you, but with a different uniform? What was the point, when you already knew your fate and your future was unforgiving?
Midnight. But what was the point of wondering what the point was, when you’ve already asked yourself that same question over and over until the path of thought became memorized and grotesquely familiar? There was no answer to that question; why did Jack even bother to ask it?
1776. There was a question.
Midnight. Americans and their liberty, as Jack sat immobile at his desk, under the weight of the night as the sounds billowed beneath him, almost until it felt as if he was being pressed into the ceiling.
A few years ago. “You should really learn to lighten up, don’t you think, Jack? If you came down and hung out with us, partied with us, drank with us, you could probably feel better about things.”
Midnight. What was the point, when you already knew your fate and your future was unforgiving?
Jack tapped his pencil on his desk (he never used pen) as he contemplated the same questions. It didn’t necessarily bother him, these questions. Sometimes they would catch up to him, but right now, it was only routine, and they were only questions to distract him from the emails that glowed a silent crime, ignored on his laptop screen, from the NHL, his dad, et cetera, might as well ask what the point was.
As he tapped his pencil, he felt reverberations that made him stop—those definitely weren’t from his pencil. Someone was coming up the stairs, heavily.
The steps came down the hallway and stopped in front of his door. Jack turned to stare as Bittle burst through, with no mind to knocking—as he usually did, and as he should.
Midnight. There was a question.
“Are you okay, Jack?” The door swung shut behind him.
Jack scrunched his eyebrows before tilting his head amusedly. “I should ask you that same question.”
Eric rolled his eyes, as if in slow motion, before stumbling towards him, a bottle in hand.
Jack had meant to sound light, but he couldn’t help his captain voice taking control as he pulled the bottle from his hand as Eric almost spilled it all over the floor. “You getting drunk as hell, and then you burst into my room unannounced, and you’re asking if I’m okay. Jesus, Bittle.”
“My name’s actually Eric Bittle,” Bittle sounded genuinely concerned as he gripped Jack’s arm, tighter than he would’ve expected. “I’m mighty sorry about bursting in your room, but you’re no fun, Jack.”
“That… doesn’t relate.”
“I meant! I meant! Sorry, I’m quite sorry. I meant that you have no fun.” Bittle waved his hands, almost hitting Jack in the face, who leaned away at the last second.
Jack shrugged, as he pinned Bittle’s arms back down to his sides and steered him back to the door. “Just go back and have ‘fun’, or sleep, or something.”
“Don’t you like having me here?”
He was thrown off by Bittle’s sudden question, as his brown eyes, pupils dilated, stared intensely into his. “Well, o-of course, Eric, but I don’t think…”
“I’m going to ask you to not think very much at all right now, Jack.”
When he said his name like that… with his cheeks flushed like he was his own revolution, like he had just sprinted just to talk to him, like—it was just the alcohol.
1918. Both sides were at a standstill…
“Why?” Jack whispered—he hadn’t meant to.
“I’ve always had questions for you, Jack, so it’s okay if you just keep some of your own to yourself.” Bittle’s eyes, they were so dark, they were so dark, endless, like a full night, ripe with sounds and silence and he was falling and it was as hopeless as 1918 and as bright as 1776 and as terrifying as 1793 and…
Suddenly, it was today, it was tonight, it was now, and those eyes had vanished into the history of a few seconds past, and something feverish pressed itself on Jack’s lips and it was everytime and anytime and it was now.
He didn’t realize how much he had dreamed about this moment until it happened, when the history of him finally caught up with him and all those lone moments tucked away in late hours, pies, and downcast eyes finally came crashing down with the weight of the night.
He had dreamed it this way, because it was all soft and warm and silent (though there was music still playing downstairs), and all Bittle, and his waist felt as nice as he had always thought it might be, and his hair felt golden, if gold could have a feeling. Like some sunrise on a revolutionary morning, when Liberty won—that kind of feeling.
They were suddenly up against the wall, and Jack thought in some sublayer of his mind, of how this was exactly like it was in checking practice—except damn it, Jack, this was completely different, you’re against him and you’re kissing him.
Now. You’re kissing him, damn it.
Now. What was the point, when you already knew your fate and your future was unforgiving?
Jack shoved roughly away, Bittle caught himself on the wall. “Jesus, Bittle.”
Bittle was nearly incoherent now, shining damnation in the dark room, with Jack backlit by his laptop screen. He was giggling. “I told you, my name’s Eric Bittle! Not very gentlemanly of you to not remember the name of who you’re kissing.”
Now. What was the point, when you already knew your fate and your future was unforgiving?
Jack kissed him again, hand knocking awkwardly on the door that Eric was leaning against, grinding into him.
Eric tasted like pecan (pecan? pecan?), warmth, and… and… alcohol.
“Shit, you’re… you’re drunk,” Jack drew back as if he had just been slapped, sounding relieved and disappointed at the same time as he pulled back. “I won’t take advantage of you… and we have to… we have to talk about what just… happened.”
“No homo?” Bittle tried in a Ransom/Holster-esque voice before laughing.
“Oh God.”
“Don’t worry,” Bitty drew back, tilting his head lazily, smiling slyly. “Mr. Zimmerman, I don’t put out on the first date.”
Jack felt the blood rush to his face. “I—we weren’t going to go that far anyways! And this isn’t even a date.”
“You have no imagination, Jack,” Bittle rolled his eyes. “It can be one. Fine, let’s dance.”
He placed Jack’s hands around his neck, where he could feel Bitty’s fast pulse against his skin. Bittle meanwhile grabbed Jack’s hips, pulled him closer, and started swaying to the music pulsing downstairs.
He couldn’t help himself—Jack started laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Here was Bittle, several inches shorter than him, swaying vigorously and off-beat to the tune, as Jack had his arms around his neck, despite the fact that Jack’s hand easily was almost the size of Bitty’s head.
He kept laughing quietly into Bittle’s neck, and when he finally drew back to stare at the flushed and delightful Eric Bittle, he almost giggled—Jack Zimmerman, giggling. “Bittle, if we’re going by dancing standards here, I think your hands have to be up here. You reversed our roles.”
Bitty looked tragically offended. “What would Shitty say?” By this time, he could barely be understood, and everything started slurring together.
Chuckling, Jack sighed and watched Bitty sing quietly along to Beyonce, or whoever was playing. The room was almost dark, but his hair caught the remaining motes of light, and the gold strands flickered like embers in the almost-quiet. Jack was tired, and unsure of himself, and he had NHL things waiting for him back at his desk, but he felt as if he could just keep watching this fire burn forever, the moment would never end, and he’d never have to be tired, or unsure of himself, or return to reality again. If he could just hold onto this moment, with obnoxious music turned pleasant, realities turned enigmas, sunsets turned unknowns—
Now. It was all happening now. It was all real.
He felt a new heavy weight on his chest, and it wasn’t this feeling that was coursing through him. When he looked down, it was Bittle, who was still humming along to a song that wasn’t playing—it wasn’t the right song, it was never the right song, it had never been the right song. He had stopped moving, however, and had seemingly fallen asleep, completely upright, on Jack’s chest, hands still draped around his waist and fingers comfortably lodged in Jack’s belt loops.
Jack cursed quietly in French before carefully shaking Bitty’s shoulders to find that he was dead asleep. He cursed again, but he didn’t feel mad. Propping Bittle up, he reached to fumble for the doorknob. When he finally got the door open, bringing in a sliver of light, he debated how to go about things.
He wanted to bring Bittle to his bed—it wasn’t far, just across the hall. But if someone saw him—
“Jack!”
Shit. Shitty.
It was literally Shitty. The situation also, but. “Jack! I’ve been trying to look for…”
He trailed off when he saw Bittle in Jack’s arms, half propped, and half in almost a bridal style carrying position; Jack had been in the middle of trying to figure out how best to carry him surreptitiously across the hall.
“Bitty? Yo, do you want me to put a sock on your door or something? Be decent and at least close the door, would you?”
“Shitty!” Jack was horrified. “He’s drunk, out cold. We were—are not doing anything. Now help me get him into his bed.”
He didn’t make any move to help him. “Why move him all the way to his room when your bed is literally right there?”
“His bed is literally right across the hall,” Jack gritted out, as he got Bittle into his arms bridal style after a solitary, unaided struggle.
“Easy access, right?”
Jack glared at Shitty, who grinned stupidly.
“Open the door for me, Shitty.”
As Jack carried then gently laid Bittle on his bed, Shitty watched him.
“Hey, Jack,” Shitty was still standing at the doorway, silhouette outlined by light. “You’re my best friend.”
“Okay? Same… I guess.”
“No but for real though. You’re my best friend, and I was messing earlier but if you take advantage of Bittle, I swear, or if you fuck around with him, I swear to his fucking pecan pies, I will end your life. Love you though.”
“Pecan?”
“I swear to God, Jack Zimmermann.”
The Next Morning
Bittle showed up in the doorway. Well, not all of him. Only the tips of shoes could be seen through the crack.
“If you’re going to come in, come in,” Jack said at last, after a few minutes of staring down the shoe.
“Good morning, Jack,” Bittle said sheepishly, barely looking up. His hair was tousled and his skin glowed something horrible. Jack felt his mouth go dry; he couldn’t speak. He wanted to feel Bitty’s hair through his hands like he had last night, and feel that skin under his own.
“It’s afternoon,” He finally managed to get out.
Bittle ignored him, stuttering. “S-so I came here to talk.”
Staring at him solemnly, he repeated. “To talk.”
“Yes,” Bittle stepped through the doorway, raising his eyes. “To apologize.”
Jack was confused now, and leaned back in his swivel chair, turning around completely to look at him.
“I-I… I can’t believe that I… I did that yesterday, I mean…”
“It’s okay, I mean it’s not like it was horrible,” Jack blushed as he realized what he had just said.
Eric stared at him. “It… wasn’t?”
He suddenly felt a plummeting feeling in his stomach. “You thought it was?”
Bittle was flustered. “Well—you know. I was so rude. Making you do all that for me. So of course I hated it!”
“Oh, you hated it,” Jack turned back to his desk. “Well, okay.”
1918, or some sort of standstill, or sometime, or now.
Bittle was silent for a long while before coming over to lean on the desk and watch Jack work. Jack could practically feel his legs radiating heat on his arm. He was tempted to just grab his hips and—and—do something, anything. Instead, he kept twirling his pencil, not working—how could he possibly work when Bittle was staring down at him? When Bittle hated… hated… kissing him?
“Wait, Jack, I’m just a little confused.”
Jack looked up at him, but he couldn’t stand looking at him for too long because that messy hair was just a reminder of what he had done last night. “No, Bittle, I’m the one who’s confused here… I just… Why did you have to… why did you even do it if you didn’t want to?”
“You know how I get when I’m drunk. I didn’t mean to, I swear!”
“You didn’t mean to?”
“Why, I would never want to, Jack, I promise.”
“Not even when you’re sober?”
“I said I promise,” Bittle looked confused now. “Jack, are you okay?”
He suddenly felt sick, angry. Everything came crashing down. Now. Last night. Some day in the past, Kent told him he regretted everything and Jack had forced his feelings on Kent and he was disgusting and Eric Bittle regretted it and Eric Bittle hated it. “So you’re saying I took advantage of you.”
The blond stared back, struck in shock. Eyes wide, he grabbed Jack’s arm. “Wait, what? Jack, what—what are you talking about? What do you mean taking advantage…?”
“That’s what you mean, didn’t you?” Jack shot back bitterly, not knowing what to do with his hands now that Bittle had grabbed ahold of his arm. “You wouldn’t ever want to kiss me, while drunk, or sober. You hated kissing me. So the only way that last night could’ve happened is if I forced myself on you.”
“Wait, Jack, wait,” Bittle had let go of his arm and walked back several steps, sitting on the edge of the bed. His head was in his hands, ears bright red. “Wait. What did you say happened last night?”
“I’m not going to say it again,” Jack said solemnly.
When Bittle didn’t respond, didn’t move, didn’t speak, Jack sighed and made his way over to sit cautiously near him. “I’m sorry that you didn’t want to do it. I thought that… well, I guess… I guess it was my fault to assume anything…”
“Jack, did I… Did we do things yesterday?”
“W-well, when you put it that way,” Jack’s eyes flickered distractedly across Bittle’s horrified face. “We did do things.”
“Jack, how… how far—?”
“Do you not remember?”
Bittle sprang up, hands shaking. “I was coming in to apologize about bursting into your room unannounced yesterday. That’s all I remember, that’s all I thought had happened! But obviously, there were more things that happened that I have to apologize about, and I’m so sorry, oh God, I’m so sorry.”
“Jesus, Bittle.” Jack could feel his cheeks flame.
“My name’s…”
“Eric Bittle, I have a question.”
1776. 1793. 1861. 1914. There is a question. Both sides are at a standstill.
“Okay, ask me.”
And these questions, they don’t have answers. They only have conclusions. Life, death, liberty, tyranny, all, none.
Now. “What’s the point… of not being straight with each other at this point about things?”
What’s the point of asking questions that have no definite answer? What’s the point when you already know your fate, and your future is unforgivable?
“I’d say, based on cumulative evidence, that we’re… pretty gay…”
“That’s true,” And it felt weird admitting to it. “Something’s been bothering me about history since last night, Bittle. About it…”
Now. What if, there doesn’t need to be a point? Why 1776, why 1918, when today exists, when--
“Right on,” said Johnson from the corner of the room.
“Damn it, I was just trying to finish with a cheesy ending here, Johnson.”
“But now, by pointing out that it was cheesy, you’ve established a sort of ethical moral understanding with the reader by acknowledging that you’re indeed cheesy as Swiss cheese. Or should I say French Canadian cheese?”
“There’s no such thing.”
“There is, in a world where Jack Zimmermann questions the point of history just for an anticlimactical answer of there is no point anyways. Which, is a rightful question and assertion, everything aside.”
Bittle turned back to Jack, and the golden hair is on fire again (“Technically his hair is not on fire”). “It’s best to ignore him. Where were we in history again?”
Now.