Work Text:
Bitty's studying with Ransom and Holster in the library, and Ransom's in the bathroom. Holster looks up from his laptop and says, apropos of nothing, "Have you ever dated anybody, Bits?"
Bitty drops his pen. He managed to come out to Ransom and Holster in the face of their ardent but misplaced matchmaking, but they haven't really talked about it since. It was a non issue: he went to Winter Screw with some nice but dull boy he didn't talk to much afterwards, and that was that. So what's this?
"Um. No. Why?" That's the truth. Not being out, there was no way he could have dated anyone before coming to Samwell, and it's not like anyone's shown any interest here, either.
"Just thinking about it. Not your thing?"
"I—no, I don't know, it just. No one at home knows, about me, so it wasn't really an option."
"Aw, Bits."
"It's fine." Bitty looks down at his notebook paper, scratches his pen along a margin. "It's different for everybody. Some people date all the time, like—well, like you and Ransom, honestly, and some people don't. I'm just not that person, I guess."
"That's unreal," Holster says, and he sounds genuine. Bitty looks up. Holster's wearing an old high school sweatshirt and he has his contacts in, and his hair is freshly washed and kind of fluffy. Holster is ... big. Holster is reasonably good-looking. He's not good-looking like how Jack is good-looking. Bitty would venture to call Jack pretty, for all his muscles; he's got delicate features and high cheekbones, where Holster has a strong jaw and a big, straight nose and other hard, bold things about him. He's not pretty, but he's handsome. And incredibly large. "Are you sad about it?"
Bitty can't remember what they were talking about. "What?"
"Not dating anyone. Do you want to?"
Bitty doesn't mean to laugh. "I don't think it's my choice. If anyone wanted to date me, they'd probably ask. And yet—" He gestures at the table, spreads his arms wide. "Here we are."
"Dude, no. You're just busy."
"You're busy. Ransom's busy. But you're always—"
"Wait." Holster stops him. His eyebrows are raised. "Does that mean you haven't ..."
Bitty gets it instantly, and feels a blush spread like fire down his neck.
"Shit," Holster says quickly, "Sorry, I shouldn't—"
He stands up, chair squeaking on the floor, and starts shoving his books into his bag. "I'm gonna go. Sorry. I just. Sorry."
He doesn't know how Holster manages to be so friendly about offering.
If they'd been drunk, Bitty would have thought it was a bad joke, but as it is, he just thinks he's making fun of him.
"I mean, only if you want," Holster says afterwards, leaning in the doorway to Bitty's room, apparently unfazed by Bitty's undignified mid-self-destruct sputtering. "Otherwise, consider this water under the bridge. I just thought I'd ask."
"But—" He's still not convinced this isn't a very, very weird wet dream. "Why would you do that? It's not—is that normal? Do people do this?"
"Dunno." Holster shrugs. "Like I said, I'm just asking."
"But, you'd actually be okay with that? Having a ... a thing?"
"That's why I offered."
"With me?"
"Yeah, with you, I—why d'you think no one likes you? It's super sad, and super wrong."
"I don't think ..."
"Yeah, you do. Date-wise, anyways. Don't you?" Holster peers into the hall, then steps into the room, motions shutting the door and gets a nod from Bitty. He shuts it and leans against it. "You always say all these little things about being single, or boys or whatever, and I thought, whatever else, it'd be cool to let you know you're not totally undateable. Even if you don't actually want to. It's nice to be liked, right?"
"Yes," Bitty says slowly, cautious, watching him. It doesn't seem like a joke, he's not chirping him. He's got his hands jammed into his pockets and he looks absurdly big standing in Bitty's small room. He tries to imagine it—Holster, showing him the metaphorical ropes, how to eke a life out of the weirdness that comes with being a queer athlete, older than him and theoretically wiser, socially capable and so insanely nice and protective and genuine. Holster, in his bed. Holster's enormous hands on him. "I just ... I guess I kind of can't believe this."
"Think about it," Holster offers. "I'll be around."
Bitty blurts out, "Do you think I'm cute?" and regrets it when Holster laughs, booming and loud.
"Bits, honestly? I think everyone here would be doing the exact same thing I am if they'd thought of it first."
Bitty thinks, Jack. But he says, "Wow."
"Yeah. Think about it," Holster says again. "Might be helpful, for when you like someone later. If it's stressing you out."
It is. Bitty wants to say, I like you, because he does, but he knows what Holster means by that. It's the same, but it's different. This would be so, so safe. Holster's kind of like his big brother, but also kind of not. But it's something like that.
He gives a little wave and turns to go, but Bitty says, "Wait," and gets out of his chair. Holster raises his eyebrows. "Um, sit. If you've got a sec."
The eyebrows stay raised. Holster comes into the room and sits on the end of Bitty's bed, hands clasped politely between his knees. Bitty stands in front of him so they're eye to eye, and clears his throat. "Can I just ..." and Holster nods, heavy-lidded eyes fixed patiently on Bitty, surprised. Bitty leans in. He can do this, he's kissed people before, at least, but it's still scary—which, he supposes, chalks one up for Holster's argument. Maybe he could get to a place where kissing isn't a big deal.
He gingerly cups Holster's shoulders, slides his hands up his neck into his hair, to see how it feels. Holster makes Jack look almost petite. Bitty's hands look so small on him. Holster touches his hips, holds him there, and then they're kissing, noses bumping for a second, the cool edge of his glasses pressing into his cheek. It's slow. His lips are so soft. He tips his head, presses closer and nips at Bitty's lips, draws the lower one between his, then stops. Leans back, and breathes.
He whispers, "Tah-dah!" and Bitty starts laughing. He thunks his head down on Holster's shoulder.
"This is so insane."
"It happens all the time."
“Are we being stupid?”
“No.” Holster’s hand wanders up his back. "Just—friends helping out friends. The two cutest blonds on the Samwell Men's Hockey Team."
Bitty looks up. He doesn't know how Holster is so good. Bitty doesn't feel good, not always. Sometimes he feels petty and small and bitter, especially about things like this, whether he really is or not, but Holster's so—open. He's a good person. Maybe some of it will rub off on him.
"Okay," he says softly, and Holster's eyes light up. "Sure, let's. Yeah."
When they're on their way to Annie's with Ransom, after practice but before breakfast, Bitty says, "You realize we're both the tallest and the shortest members of the entire team," and looks up at Holster, all the way up. His head is about level with the top of Holster's shoulder, if he's being generous.
Holster says, "I think Wicks is taller than me."
"He is not. Dude's my height," Ransom interrupts. He leans forward to look down at Bitty. "What does it matter?"
Bitty adjusts the strap of his bag and doesn't meet his eyes. "Just weird, is all."
Bitty fails a midterm and is completely inconsolable for two hours after he gets his grade. He gets halfway through making a pie, then throws the filling in the trash with a huff, knocks the garbage bin over, picks it back up, and storms out of the kitchen.
"Poor kid," Ransom says from the couch. Holster turns around and watches Bitty stomp upstairs.
"I should say something."
"Don't, bro. He'll be embarrassed."
Holster says, "It's fine," and Ransom watches, dumbfounded, as he climbs the stairs.
He knocks gently on Bitty's door and gets a loud, irritated, "What?" from the other side.
"It's Holster." He debated on Holtzy, but referring to yourself by any nickname is weird, so he picks the least weird one.
"Oh," Bitty says. "Come in."
Holster peeks into the room. Bitty's lying in bed, an arm thrown over his eyes. He's got a little stuffed bunny under his arm, so Holster says, "Cute rabbit."
"Señor Bun.” He makes his ears wag with his fingers.
"Can I join you?"
"Whatever."
Holster in no way fits into Bitty's bed, but Bitty rolls on his side to let him try, and he manages to tuck in next to him, knees bent, curled towards him.
"C'mon," he says, "Cuddle me. I'm good at it. You'll feel better."
Bitty sighs, tries not to laugh, and squirms closer to Holster, who drops his arm over his side. He's right. There's something comforting about being touched, of feeling someone's chest move as they breathe.
"It was just a test," Holster says. "No big deal."
"If I get on academic probation, I can't be on the team."
"That's—"
"And I'm on an athletic scholarship."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
Holster puts his chin on top of his head. He can feel Bitty breathing against his chest, slow and steady and warm.
"It'll be okay. It was only one midterm, I'll help you study for the next one. We all can."
"And y'all are gonna stop making me get drunk with you the days before I have stuff due?"
"That, too."
Bitty sighs. Tentatively, he reaches up and touches Holster's side, which has absolutely no give, just muscles and bone under his thin t-shirt. He moves closer, tucks his head into Holster's chest, feels his heart thud against his forehead. "Thanks."
"Anytime, bro."
"Stuff like this should feel easy," Holster says against his hip. The attic's cold and lamp-lit and the sheets on Holster's bunk are all messed up. He's got his hands at the small of Bitty's back, arching Bitty's naked body towards his mouth; his hand spans the better part of Bitty's back, from the heel of his palm to his fingertips. He drags his teeth against Bitty's hipbone and it makes him squirm, in equal parts because it tickles and because lord almighty. "I wanna make you laugh."
Bitty does, if only because that sounds so silly. "You're so weird."
"Am not. You should have fun. Like, actual fun, not just coming." He kisses at his lower belly, faint pink tracks in his skin where his briefs sit. "But that's a bonus."
"Right," Bitty breathes. Or tries to.
"You good?"
"Yes," he says, but it comes out all high, and Holster laughs.
"You'll get used to it. Deep breath."
Bitty breathes in. Holster licks him slowly. "Oh." He does it again, the flat of his tongue impossibly soft and wet against the underside of his dick like nothing's ever been, like he didn't think anything could be. He moves his feet against Holster's back, his legs hooked over his shoulders. He hardly believes it but he can feel himself getting close already, hot and unbearable tension building in the pit of his stomach, and he tries to hold it off, but when Holster's not licking him he can feel his breath, and this is all so, so much. Holster presses a wet kiss to the head of his dick and Bitty laughs, surprised, and stops abruptly when he sucks, lips closing over him.
He doesn't know the etiquette on this, but he's going to come. He doesn't know if he's supposed to say something or if that's just something they do in porn and he doesn't want to make it awkward, but then it's too late and he's coming, body arched up against Holster's mouth, head back, hand digging into his arm just to have something to hold onto. Holster pulls off and laughs softly, jerks him through it, come dripping down the back of his hand.
Bitty's jaw trembles in shock and dissipating adrenaline. "S-sorry."
"Nope. No apologies here. That was hot." He kisses the crux of Bitty's thigh, keeps his hand around him a moment longer, pulling to hear him sigh.
"Okay," Bitty says, voice tiny and far away to his rushing ears.
"But, damn. I think that was my personal best." He pretends to check his watch, which he isn't wearing. "Five seconds? Ten?"
Bitty covers his face and tries to kick him away. "Why are apologies not okay but chirping is?"
"Have you met me?
"How d'you get your hair so soft?" Holster asks. They're huddled on the couch, Bitty curled up against his side, reading for class, and Holster's been running his fingers through his hair for a few minutes, more absent-minded than romantic.
"Just conditioner. Obviously." He moves his arm from where it's pressed to Holster's side and brushes Holster's hair back. "Your hair's pretty soft."
"Not really.”
"We share the same bathroom, you can use mine. It's the orange bottle."
"Oh, thanks. I might." He gives him a noogie. "You're gonna turn me into a pretty boy. Like you."
"Ugh, conditioner is a normal human thing!" Bitty laughs. "I'm sure Axe makes conditioner. You can keep your fragile masculinity intact, they use ‘boy colours’ on the bottle."
"Excuse you, I'm so fuckin' comfortable with my masculinity."
"Uh, you and Ransom are the biggest no homo perpetrators I know. Shitty's entire thesis paper could be about the way you two interact."
"You know Rans and I are slightly homo, that doesn't count."
"You could stand to be more homo."
"Wouldn't you just love that."
"Yes."
"You're such a brat."
It’s Spring C and Bitty feels stupid about his shorts. Lardo forced him to wear them because he bought them just for today, but when she drags him out on the porch, he hopes no one notices them. Everyone’s sitting on blankets on the lawn, significantly drunk, even though it’s not even noon, and, of fucking course, Holster sees him first and wolf whistles. Bitty goes red, but he’s drunk, too, so he puts his arm around Lardo and says, “Great, right?” and they get a (probably ironic) round of applause.
He sits on the blanket next to Holster, who presses a cold beer can to his thigh, like an asshole, and Bitty hits him in the arm.
“It’s like watching a fly try to swat you back,” Shitty says, pointing at them, and everyone cackles. Holster puts Bitty in a headlock and he laughs and laughs and tries to struggle.
“I hate you!”
“You do fucking not.” Holster gets his arm around Bitty’s middle and lifts him into the air like he doesn’t weigh anything at all, and everyone cheers and hollers while Bitty shrieks. He’s not sure if it’s in fear or joy. “Oh my God, you’re like, a football.”
“Put me down! You’re drunk, you’re gonna drop me!”
“Never! Have faith!” He hoists Bitty onto his shoulder, like he’s a sack of flour, or a cat. “Who votes we chuck Bits in the pond? Show of hands?”
Everyone raises a hand enthusiastically, even Jack, and Bitty screams.
“Adam fucking Birkholtz, if you throw me in the pond, we—”
Holster grins up at him, waiting. Bitty stops.
“—I am never talking to you again, and you will never sit at team breakfast without ketchup on your goddamn shoes.”
“You’re on my team for chicken fights, then. You know, since you’re up there.” He maneuvers Bitty to sit on his shoulders, instead of thrown over one. He snaps his fingers at Ransom. “Rans, Lardo, up. Let’s do this.”
“Not fair, bro, you’re both bigger than us.”
Bitty paws down Holster’s chest. “Well, someone pass me my beer, at least.”
Jack corners Holster when they're alone in the Haus one day, and if he's being completely honest about it, it's pretty scary. Jack's got such an edge when he's mad.
He says, "Why're you flirting with Bittle?" Not are you, but why. "It's not funny. Just because he's—"
"It's not supposed to be funny." They're in the hallway, the space between the kitchen and the living room and the door, and if he didn't know that Jack was harmless, would never really do anything to hurt anyone, he'd feel trapped. It's not like he's leaning in, looking for a fight. "Why do you care?"
"Are you fooling around?"
Holster says, "That's personal," but he doesn't really mean it; he's never been one for secrets, a chronic over-sharer. He narrows this situation down to several possible sources: Jack's mad that they're compromising team or Haus chemistry. Or, he's looking out for Bitty. Or, he's jealous that Holster and Bitty are able to do something like this, so easily, that he's never been able to do; he's never talked about sexuality with Jack, obviously, because he'd have an easier time talking physics with a brick wall, but Jack's always pinged his gaydar in some small way. Or, he's into Bitty and is jealous, much more specifically, of Holster.
He goes with the safe choice. "I know you're looking out for him, but it's really fine."
"He's nineteen," Jack snaps.
Holster says, "And you're twenty-four," before he thinks better of it, because that's pretty mean, or if not mean, then wildly inappropriate and accusatory in what it's suggesting. Jack's shocked at first, and then something else, and this awkward energy crackles between them, through everything that what Holster said implies. "Sorry," Holster says quickly, guilty. "Never mind."
Jack's fine with leaving it after that.
They nap in Holster's bed one afternoon, but Holster wakes up to shower and leaves Bitty there, asleep and wearing one of his Waterloo Black Hawks shirts and not much else. And then Ransom comes home.
Bitty wakes when he hears the attic door, expecting Holster, and then it's—not.
Ransom goes, "Woah."
"I'm sorry." He's not totally sure what he's apologizing for, but it seems appropriate.
Of all the things to ask, Ransom says, "Does Holtzy know you're up here?" which at first sounds ridiculous, but then, Bitty realizes, so does the truth.
"Yes?" That sums it up neatly enough. No, I'm not sleeping in his bed without permission implies everything that sleeping in it with permission does.
"Right." Ransom doesn't seem mad at all. He didn't expect him to be, but it's nice. He sounds puzzled. His eyes flick to the shirt. "Okay, cool. I'll, uh, leave you to it."
He leaves, and Holster comes up five minutes later, in a towel he drops as soon as the door's shut. Bitty still isn't used to looking, so he stares fastidiously at the underside of the top bunk as he says, "Ransom saw me."
"Just now?"
"Yeah, he came up."
"Oh. Well. Shit." He goes over to his phone, on the edge of his desk. "I have three texts. Four. Five, six—hm." He picks his phone up and swipes it open; Bitty watches out of the corner of his eye. "Welp. He told the boys."
Bitty bolts upright. "What?"
"Group chat's blowing up."
"He didn't seem mad!"
"He's not mad, they're making fun of us. Wait, no, mostly just me. Wow, it's weird being on the receiving end of this." He waves his phone at Bitty. "Grab your phone, you're missing it!"
"I don't want—who's saying what?!"
"Well, Rans said, 'Bitty and Holster are hooking up,' all caps—pretty uninspired, honestly—Shitty gave an all-caps 'lol' with ... six Os. Lardo says, 'you're fucking joking,' aaand Rans replied ... 'shit you not, in his bed, right now, napping like a tiny little cherub.' Okay, that's pretty funny, I'll give him that one."
"What do we do?"
"I'm gonna ... wait—" He types something out. "Okay, I said, 'hahahahaha.'"
"That's not helping!"
"I wasn't trying to help."
"Oh my God, where's my phone?"
"Floor. Oh, Shitty sent five winking-face emoji. That's good, right?"
"Holster!"
"Dex says, 'oh my fucking God what is wrong with this team.' Aaand now they're all chirping him." He gives Bitty a thumbs up. "Crisis averted."