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Shitty’s laying on the couch downstairs when Jack finds him. The dude’s wearing a sweatshirt and gym shorts, like he’s going on a winter run or something, and it’d be embarrassing if it weren’t so god-damned endearing. Shitty points to him with one of his bare feet, red-and-gold painted toes dangling off the couch.
“Zimmermann!” he calls. Jack comes over, his brow cut up into little angry lines.
“You ready to go?” he asks.
“I may need some help,” Shitty says. He holds his arms out, wiggling his fingers.
“Really?” The little anger lines get deeper. “You have puke on your arm, man.”
Shitty looks down at himself. Right Jack is — he puked on the couch at least ten minutes ago, and it’s since seeped into his sleeve. He wipes it uselessly against the cushion.
“C’mon, handsome,” he says. “Be my knight in shining gymwear.” He exaggerates his pouty face, fighting back a laugh at Jack’s expression. The dude looks annoyed more often than not, but now he just looks flat-out resigned to his fate.
“Fine,” he says, crouching in front of the couch. “Hop on.”
Shitty forces himself to sit up, ignoring the vaguely blurry nature of the world around him. Now that he’s noticed how wet and sticky his sleeve is, he can’t get it out of his head. It clings to his skin like a fucking straitjacket.
“I need to take off my shirt,” he insists. Jack looks back at him and shakes his head.
“Don’t do that Shitty,” he says. “Just get on my back.”
“Don’t be such a priss,” Shitty says. He fumbles with the hem of his t-shirt, conscious of Jack’s impatient stare. His eyes are boring into him like a fucking… drill, or some other thing that bores. Something really intense and sort of uncomfortable. “Just give me a second.”
“I’m waiting,” Jack huffs. His eyes are still all heavy, and Shitty’s spine tingles when he finally gets the damn shirt off his head. He wraps his arms around Jack’s neck.
“Let’s go,” he says. Jack reaches back to grab his legs and stands up, looking grumpily around the party. His back is cold against Shitty’s too-warm skin, and Shitty hides his face happily against his neck. “Giddyup, horsey.”
Jack shakes his head quietly. The campus is loud tonight, all blaring music and crowds outside frat houses. Shitty waves at a girl from his freshman seminar and keeps his chin tight against Jack’s shoulder blade.
“We've gotta get into that Haus next year,” he says. “This street is the shit."
"We've gotta get to the dorm," Jack says in lieu of an answer. He stops for a second to adjust his hold on Shitty's legs. “Besides, Marsh’ll never give you his room.”
“Yes he will.” He turns his face towards Jack’s ear, lips grazing the cartilage-y part as he whispers. “I have a secret weapon.”
“Which is?” Jack’s voice sounds tense, like he’s experiencing more than his typical dose of uptightness. Shitty grins.
“Back rubs,” he says. “Want a demonstration?”
He unlinks his arms from around Jack’s neck, and Jack yelps, reaching back to keep him from falling. Shitty’s barely gotten his hands onto Jack’s shoulders before he’s scrambling to hold on again.
“That was a terrible idea,” Jack says. He’s breathing heavier. “Listen, we’re almost back, can you just be normal for a second?"
“I’m normal all the time,” Shitty says. He rests his chin on Jack’s shoulder again, frowning. “You’re the one being all weird about back massages.”
Jack ignores him. His pace is steady, rhythmic. The campus grows darker the farther they move from the frats. Academic buildings lay dormant along the roadside, solitary lights blinking in the occasional window. Even the dorms are half-dark and sleepy.
By the time they reach their building, Shitty’s feeling calmer. The lawn is empty but for a few errant smokers, and the wind’s just brisk enough to keep him from falling asleep right then and there. Jack sets him on the ground, turning to stare disapprovingly at Shitty’s bare chest.
“You ready to look sober for the RA on duty?” he says. Shitty makes his hands into little guns and shoots him twice. His fingernails are painted to match his toes.
Jack frowns. “You’re not ready."
"I've just gotta access my sober self," Shitty says. He reaches for Jack's hand, eyes already closing. He can't see the other dude's expression, but he can certainly hear his annoyed exhale. Shitty squeezes his hand. It's warm and rough and real, and his scratchy callouses ground Shitty better than anything.
"Alright," he says, formulating the word carefully. He opens his eyes, and the short, stunted shrubbery of their dorm lawn seems clearer. "Let's do this thing."
He fumbles with his ID when he checks in, and the RA gives him crap for not having a shirt, but he still makes it into the elevator unscathed. Jack hits the button for their floor and turns to him.
“Where are your keys?”
“Why do you need my keys? I’m not a drunk driver, Jack.”
Jack shoots him a bitchy look. “I know. But you’ve gotta get into your room.”
“Room, shmoom,” Shitty says. His buzz has mostly faded by now, leaving him sleepy and the slightest bit silly, but he’s having fun playing with Jack. The guy could stand to loosen up. “I think it’s time for the oft-promised Knight-Zimmermann sleepover.”
“I have literally never promised you that,” Jack says.
“It was implied.”
“I have literally never implied that.”
"Maybe it's time to start then," Shitty says. The elevator dings and opens to their floor. "C'mon, you know my roommate's asleep already."
"Wake him up," Jack whispers as he steps into the fluorescent lights of the hallway. "You do it enough anyway."
"C'mon," Shitty whines. He trails Jack towards his room. "Just this once."
Jack doesn’t even turn around as he unlocks the door, his shoulders slumping in his typical terrible posture. As he pulls it open, he gestures quietly for Shitty to go inside.
“Score,” Shitty cheers. The room’s sparsely decorated, just a single picture of Jack’s family and a rather depressing motivational poster. He glares at it as he works the button on his pants.
“No pants, no bed,” Jack warns as he closes the door behind him. He crosses his arms all serious, and Shitty smiles. “I mean it.”
"Why?" Shitty says, his fingers still in his waistband. He cocks a hip. "Afraid of your love for me?"
"Ha," Jack says humorlessly. "Keep your pants on."
"Your lust, then," Shitty decides. He shifts in the too-tight denim, button pressing uncomfortably into his stomach. "What about if I leave the underwear on?"
"You were going to take the underwear
off
?" Jack says, alarm rising above his typical monotone. Shitty laughs.
"No other way to sleep," he says. He shimmies his jeans down past his knees; easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, he figures.
"Fine," Jack says. He turns into the closet to pull his shirt off, hiding his abs behind the beige door. It's a goddamned travesty.
"You know I've seen it all before," Shitty announces as he slips into Jack's bed. The sheets press starchy against his skin, and Jack ignores him, pulling pajama pants up muscled legs. Shitty watches the stiff line of his back, the nervous hunch in his shoulders. He looks self-conscious in a way he never had in the locker room.
"I can put my pants on if you really want," Shitty says. He rolls onto his side, tugging blankets along with him. "Or I can go."
"I thought you wanted to stay." Jack turns towards him, all his lines softer in cotton and fleece. Even his confused scowl looks warm in the dim light of his desk lamp.
"I do," Shitty says. "Just... Not if you don't want me to."
"It's fine," Jack says. He makes a little scoot gesture with his hand, and Shitty wiggles back until he's laying on his side, back pressed against the drywall. Jack lifts the covers carefully and lays next to him.
Silently, he closes his eyes, leaving Shitty to stare at him. Jack’s still but not restful, his breathing too steady to be anything but feigned. From this angle, his cheekbones cast their own little shadow across his face. He has faint razor burn, small red bumps lying solid and real along his too-perfect jawline, and Shitty finds himself fixating on his lips. They're pulled into a thin line, more nervous than irritated. Shitty takes a deep breath and elbows him lightly.
"Jack," he says. He can feel his pulse in his fucking toes.
"Yeah?"
"Open your eyes."
Jack does, slowly but not sleepily. He's looking at Shitty with that same super intense drill-stare from earlier, and Shitty lets himself feel eager as he leans forward.
"Let's hook up," he says.
"What?" Jack blinks at him.
"Let's hook up!" Shitty says again, adding enthusiasm to make up for his faltering confidence. He nudges closer to Jack and rests his hand on his arm. "You know, if you want to."
Jack's eyes stay on his hand, distracted. "Your judgement’s impaired," he says.
"Barely," Shitty scoffs.
"You just made me carry you all the way here," Jack says. "And then you insisted I let you sleep in my bed."
"Yeah, but that wasn't because I was fucked up," Shitty says. "I just wanted to sleep with you." He pauses. "Sleep like sleep. And now sleep like... you know."
“You want to sleep with me.” Jack's gaze moves from Shitty's hand to his face. Still, he avoids eye contact, fixating somewhere around his chin. Shitty's beginning to regret this, certain he misread something.
“Only if you wanna sleep with me,” he says anyway. His voice catches. “Do you? Want to?”
Jack stays quiet for a long time. His eyes flit from Shitty's chin to his eyes to his lips, resting there a moment too long. Hot and damp, his breath beats against Shitty's face. His hand twitches towards him, grazing his arm.
Then he pulls away, moving as far back as the twin bed will allow him. The mattress shifts as he turns onto his other side, and Shitty exhales.
“If I weren’t a feminist, I’d call you a tease,” he says, settling into his pillow. He can practically hear Jack rolling his eyes.
“Doesn’t saying that kind of defeat the point?”
"Touché, Zimmermann." Shitty pauses for a second, his hand bent awkwardly in the space between him and Jack. If it were earlier today, he would put his arm around him and be done with it, but he's not sure what Jack would think of that now. Quite frankly, he's not sure what Jack will think of anything now.
Before he can contemplate any longer, Jack reaches behind him and grabs his hand.
"It's digging into my back," he says, pulling it over his side. Shitty wraps his arm around Jack's torso.
"Sorry," he says.
Jack sighs, patting his hand quickly. The touch is fleeting, but it stays with Shitty, somehow more important than the press of Jack’s biceps against his arms. He closes his eyes.
“Good night,” Jack says finally, all Canadian politeness. The words fall on deaf ears.
\_ \_ \_
Shitty wakes up not much later, jostled from sleep by the absence of his bedmate. Jack's already standing by the closet, his hair all pushed to one side like a cartoon character. By the time Shitty brings himself to sit up, he's got his gym shorts on.
Shitty swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Hey," he says, wincing at the way Jack jumps. "Going for a run?"
"I didn't think you'd wake up," Jack says. He turns to look at Shitty, face red. He’d stopped just short of pulling his t-shirt on, and his arms are half in his sleeves, chest covered by the bunched fabric. Shitty smiles reassuringly.
"It's all good." He plucks at the comforter absentmindedly as he watches Jack tug his shirt over his head. The movement's smooth, as mechanical as Shitty would expect from his hockey robot. He frowns. "You really never take a break, huh?"
Jack reaches for his tennis shoes, eyes turned towards the floor. "What do you mean?"
"Just that it's god-knows-when on a Saturday and you're about to drag yourself through the snow," Shitty says. "That's fucking dedication."
Jack huffs. "You only think that because you don't run enough," he says. "You should start going out in the morning too. It'd help with your endurance."
"Nah," Shitty winks. "Endurance is hardly my problem."
Jack ducks his head. His fingers fumble with his shoelaces.
"Is it... okay?" he asks. He unties yesterday's knot and pulls the shoe on. "That I was leaving?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" Shitty says. He knows what Jack means, feels anticipation quickening his heartbeat, but he doesn't want the dude to feel bad or anything. Not everybody wants to sleep with Shitty.
Jack doesn't say anything. Instead, he focuses on his double knot.
"You mean because I hit on you," Shitty pushes. His stomach churns, and he’s honestly not sure if it’s the shame or the alcohol. "I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."
"You didn't make me uncomfortable," Jack says immediately. He pauses, thinks. "No more than you usually do."
"Well that's good I guess," Shitty says. Jack has hella bedrisers, and Shitty's feet don't quite reach the ground. He swings them nervously.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jack says. “I know you weren’t sober, and—”
Shitty holds a hand out, and Jack effectively freezes. His guilt does another backflip in his chest.
“Look, dude, I appreciate your obvious concerns about consent,” he says. "And good move last night, really. But I didn’t hit on you because I was drunk.”
“Why did you then?” Jack says. He stops, mouth still open. Shitty waits for him to continue, but he never does.
"The same reason most people hit on you," Shitty says, feigning a sly grin. "I wanted to have sex with you."
"You wanted to have sex with me." Jack stands, resolutely avoiding Shitty’s eyeline. He's only wearing one shoe.
"Yeah," Shitty says. Jack’s shallow inhale sucks the air from the room. Watching him bite his lip, Shitty feels hyper aware of his lack of clothing.
Carefully, he reaches forward and takes hold of Jack’s shirt. “I still do,” he says
Shitty’s fingers barely pull at the fabric, less of a tug and more of a soft suggestion. Jack steps forward anyway. He's taller than Shitty usually, but he towers over him now, too tall to kiss without a little participation. Shitty looks up at him, and the view makes his breath catch.
He has the same look on his face that he gets right before a win, the same look he got last night just before Shitty propositioned him. His eyes are intense and focused and so warm Shitty feels like he's burning up. He raises his chin. Closes his eyes.
Then Jack's leaning down, his shirt shifting in Shitty's hands, and then they're kissing. Shitty can feel Jack's chapped lips against his own, firm and flaking and kind of unbelievable. It’s softer than he would’ve expected. Jack’s kiss is exploratory, a gentle press giving way to a half-open mouth, to capturing his bottom lip between his own. It’s a real first kiss, full of promise and excitement, and it’s so sweet it makes Shitty’s chest hurt.
When he feels Jack starting to move away, he shifts his hands from his hips to his hair. They breathe for a second before Shitty pulls him close again, his fingers tugging lightly at his scalp. Jack grabs his hips in response, stepping into the space between Shitty’s legs. They’re pressed together from chest to thighs now, Jack’s t-shirt soft against Shitty’s bare skin. He can feel Jack’s dick hard against his hip.
Then his phone rings, and Jack breaks the kiss again. “You should probably answer that,” he says.
Shitty rolls his eyes, still caught up in the solidity of Jack’s body against him. He spares the screen a fleeting glance.
“Fuck,” he says, silencing the alarm. The words ‘TEAM BREAKFAST’ fade from the screen. “Cancel your run. The dining halls just opened.”
Jack stares at him with half-lidded eyes, his hair ruffled from sleep and Shitty's hands. "What do you mean?” he says.
“I mean we’ve gotta go get the good seats before they’re taken,” Shitty says. He pushes Jack away lightly, nearly falling off the bed as he grabs his pants from the floor.
“We're just gonna go?" Jack blinks.
Shitty stifles his grin and pulls on his pants. With his knit brow and open mouth, Jack looks less hockey robot and more lost puppy.
"It's team breakfast, man,” he says. “If we don't go now, we might as well give up any chance of getting dibs."
"But we just..."
Shitty looks at him. The boy's a complete mess, insecurity and competitiveness all mixed together in a deeply anxious package. He’s picking his nails to shreds even as they speak.
Grinning openly now, Shitty leans forward and pecks his lips. “We’ll pick it up some other time, alright?” he says.
"Just like that?" Jack replies, half-frozen.
"Just like that," Shitty smirks. He stands up, pants on. "Now come on. I still have to tell Marsh about the back rubs plan."