Archive of Our Own

Holster first notices unusual activity in the Haus not three weeks into the first semester of his senior year. At three in the morning, he expects the Haus to be relatively quiet on a Tuesday night. Ransom might be awake and scribbling frantically, or perhaps Chowder will have passed out on the couch while coding something for his latest problem set. Either way, he’s not anticipating what appears to be a partial-Haus pow-wow in the kitchen judging by the three figures huddled around the table in dim lamplight.

He shuts the door quietly and stills himself in the living room, listening carefully to the hushed voices which drift through the room. He thinks he recognizes Nursey’s voice, and that has to be  Lardo as well (she’s the only girl who would be here); he definitely recognizes Bitty—no one else he knows sounds like Georgia peach syrup in the way Bitty does.

“Just seems like it’s been a while since March,” says Bitty quietly. “Normally he and Holster would have found something by now.”

“Maybe he’s happy,” says Lardo. “Maybe he was feeling tied down.”

“That was never the issue,” says Nursey. “I just think if he and Holster would just, you know, realize—

“Realize what?” says Holster loudly.

Lardo swears loudly, and by the time Holster’s hackles are firmly raised. He eyes all of them suspiciously as he stands behind the couch. He can’t see Nursey or Lardo’s expression, but but Bitty’s face is in full view, and he’s plastered on a smile as sugary sweet and fake as the corn syrup flavoring he so detest. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, so he just closes it once more. Lardo takes over, and turns to face him.

“You know, that we’re seniors,” she says, and her drawl is impressively, overly casual. “And we should be doing certain things our senior year.”

“Okay,” he says. “Like what?”

“Like that mixer that’s senior’s only next week. I know you all have practice the next day, but that’s never stopped us before.”

Holster shrugs. “Sure. Rans and I were planning on going anyways, at least for a little bit. There’s also something at the crew house that night, so we figured we’d play it by ear.”

Lardo smiles brightly. “Great. Perfect.”

No one else chimes in with further input, so he offers a half-hearted salute. “I’m beat, so I’m going to bed. And since I’m captain now, I guess maybe it’s part of my duties to tell you to do the same, especially if you’re not working. Or something like that.” He frowns. “Justin’s going to be so much better at this than me.”

“Nonsense,” says Nursey. “You two balance each other out.”

Holster yawns widely. “Yeah, ‘spose we do. Night everyone.”

He trudges up the stairs quietly, mindful of Chowder and potentially Ransom as well. The light seeping through the cracks in the attic indicates that Ransom is still awake, but when he actually steps into their abode, he finds that Justin has passed out once again on the bottom bunk with his biology textbook flat over his face.

“Pretty sure that’d be the saddest way to die,” he murmurs as he carefully removes the textbook from Ransom’s loose grip and places it gently on their desk. “Smothered by a textbook. Not a good look at all.”

He slides into his pajamas quickly, and after a short face-cleansing and teeth brushing session, he climbs into the bed next to Ransom, nudging him over to make some more room for his oversized body.

“These beds weren’t made with two six foot plus dudes in mind,” he mutters as he shoves Ransom firmly several inches over. Ransom responds by unconsciously wrapping his arms around him and planting his face directly into the nape of his neck. “Whatever, bro,” he says to Ransom, who’s apparently decided to play octopus for tonight despite the lingering summer heat.

“Missed you,” whispers Ransom, who has apparently risen however briefly from the depths of sleep to greet him. He plants a sloppy kiss on Holster’s shoulder.

“Go back to sleep,” says Holster. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Beneath the attic, he hears the creak of floorboards which indicates that Lardo and Bitty have finally decided to hit the sack for the night. He remembers to wonder briefly what they’d actually been talking about, but it’s too much effort too late into the night, so he files away the question for later thought.

By morning, he’s forgotten already.

“So I was thinking,” says Lardo as they stroll down the sidewalk after practice, “Screw’s gonna be a little different this year.”

“What, you mean with Bits and Jack and you and Shitty?” says Holster. “I must say, I’m going to miss setting you up.”

“The last time I let you set me, you picked that asshole architecture dude.”

“He does art like you.”

“Do you know how many asshole artists there are?” she says. “Almost as many of them as there are asshole hockey players.”

“I’m going to set that comment aside for now,” says Holster reasonably, “and point out that it didn’t matter who you went with because you and Shitty were just going to spend the whole time together anyways.” He nods at her. “Better to blow off an asshole than someone you actually like.”

Lardo actually pauses. “Huh,” she says. “That actually makes some sense.”

He smirks at her. “See, Rans isn’t the full brain of the operation. I’ve got something going on up here too.” He nudges her gently with his elbow, which means that he actually has to be careful not to hit her head too hard, so great is the height difference between them. “I’m a little offended you didn’t have more faith in me.”

“I have exactly as much faith as I need,” she says stiffly. “Speaking of which, I assume you and Ransom are taking care of each other. Because if you need someone else—

“I think we’ve got it under control,” he says. “We definitely don’t need the help this year.”

“Right,” she says, although a note of suspicion enters her voice. “You, uh, you sure about that?”

He shoots her his best skeptical look. “Of course I am.”

“Well, if you change your mind, just know that Bitty and I would be more than happy to arrange something.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says slowly. He glances down at her. “Speaking of screw, I know Jack’s out of town, so should we try to find something platonic for Bitty? Like maybe someone else in a long distance relationship?”

“Well, Shitty can’t make it that weekend either, so I kind of figured we could just go together,” she says.

“Swawesome,” he says. “Oh, there’s Rans.” He gestures out to a figure with his face pressed firmly into a rather heavy looking textbook who is also weaving dangerously through a small crowd of people while resolutely keeping his head down.

Lardo furrows her eyebrows. “You sure that’s him?”

He just rolls his eyes. “Please, I could recognize that ass and that snapback from a hundred feet even if I were blindfolded.”

“That doesn’t—that—never mind,” she mutters to herself. “Yo, Ransom!” she shouts across the street.

Ransom snaps his head up with alarming speed, but quickly relaxes when he spots Holster and Lardo. With a quick look at the road for oncoming traffic, he darts across the street and joins the two of them in their stroll, positioning himself just so that Holster can sling his arm around him. Ransom leans into the touch briefly, nudging Holster’s collarbone with his head, but then straightens himself so that all three of them can walk more efficiently.

“Lardo was just saying that she and Bits are probably going to screw together, since both of them have long distance shenanigans going on,” he informs Ransom.

“It’s not shenanigans,” says Lardo.

“Well, I have yet to hear one of you actually define it, so I maintain my right to call it shenanigans. If either of you decide to actually label your shenanigans as something else, I will consider.” He bares his teeth in his best sleazy grin. “But I make no promises.”

“And Holster assures me that you are all set with each other,” says Lardo. “So Bits and I are off the hook.”

He senses Justin’s hesitation as the two of them brush shoulders carefully. “Right. Of course we’re all set.”

“Which just leaves Nursey and Dex,” he concludes. “Don’t know about some of the other tadpoles, but I feel like someone else is more suited to dealing with them than us.”

“I think I have someone in mind for Nursey,” muses Ransom thoughtfully. “She’s this girl in my lab who’s a lit double major, and she’s super chill all the time. To an almost alarming degree.”

“We’ll just have to work our magic, bro,” he says, holding up his fist. Without missing a beat, Ransom pounds it and the three of them, Ransom, Holster and Lardo chat companionably all the way to Faber.

Two weeks later, and Ransom is making out with him at Screw and they’re both balancing very precarious at the edge of we’re-fucking-seniors drunk and about-to-puke-like-the-frosh wasted, so all in all, a good time.

Holster pulls away and shakes his head. “Dude, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I actually need a break. Or water. Or something to stop my head from spinning. All three, maybe.”

Ransom’s nearly as wasted as him, but he gets the message. “Uh, sure,” he says, and his words only slur a little, for which Holster gives him credit. “I think the bar was that way?”

The stumble together, and he’s grateful for the hundredth time that Ransom is nearly as large as him. If he needed to rely on someone like Lardo to get from Point A to Point B in a situation like this, all the inner frat boy in the world still wouldn’t be enough to bench press his two hundred plus pounds across a crowded dance floor. Ransom holds him up just fine, and he feels like he should tell him something corny about all the support he provides, something truly gag-worthy. But then he decides he really shouldn’t be thinking about anything vomit-related and settles for being gently shoved to the bar counter where at least he can support himself while Ransom waves down the bartender for a glass of water.

“Did your date ditch you already?” comes a familiar voice from far beneath him.

He looks to the side, and then looks down. “Lardo!” he exclaims loudly, and her expression turns from amused to preparing an entire scrapbook of blackmail material. Wow. He must be really, truly sloshed. “No, no, of course not. Rans is right here.”

He gestures to the side where Ransom ought to be, but now instead stands a rather petite blond woman. He turns back to Lardo, who now has a filthy, shit-eating grin on her face.

“I’m impressed,” she said. “Truly. Losing not one but two people already.”

He doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “Just lost one,” he tells her. “But he’ll come back.” He glances around and frowns. “Where’s Bits?”

Lardo sighs. “He heard a Georgian accent, and now he and this sophomore girl are talking about peach pie. If she knows anything about pie crust techniques, I wouldn’t expect to see him again until morning.”

“Lardo!” The voice which shouts it from behind is both familiar and very welcome.

“Rans!” he says loudly. “Look who I found!”

Ransom sets down two glasses of clear liquid on the bar surface and winks at Lardo. “I’m sure she feels lucky for being found. Where’s Bits?”

While Lardo explains the situation to Ransom, Holster picks up his water and shoots it back. It doesn’t taste much like water, though, as it slides down his throat. In fact, it tastes a great deal like vodka, maybe a martini or something. He wonders why Ransom brought him martini-flavored water. Ransom’s hand grabs the other cup and sips at it, before his eyes widen and he turns to Holster with an expression of disbelief.

“Did you just take my drink?” he asks. “All of it?”

“Thought it was water, so I just did it in one go,” he says. Then he stares down at his now empty cup in slow-realization. “That wasn’t water, was it?”

“No, it was not,” says Ransom.

He suddenly feels very queasy. “Rans, I think I should probably get to a bathroom.”

Ransom places one of his oversized hands on Holster’s back and wastes no time in steering the two of them away from the bar and directly towards the restroom sign glowing softly in the back. Advantage number fifty-five of having a large, hockey d-man as a boyfriend: crowd navigation. Despite the mob of drunken, grinding students around them, Ransom pushes them through with ease and they arrive at the men’s room just in time for him to puke up his not-water and what appears to be their pre-game chips and guac.

Ransom pats him on the back. “This is like our first kegster all over again.”

“Yeah,” he agrees in between retching. “Except, this time I’ve got you.”

“You had me back then too.”

“Different now,” he says, and then spits into the toilet bowl, waiting to see if his stomach has settled for now.

“Well, now you’re not embarrassing yourself in front of that sophomore girl you were trying to hook up with.”

“I did hook up with her the week after,” he says. “So it wasn’t too bad.” He looks up at Ransom’s face, all its sharp cheekbones and gorgeous smooth skin. “Don’t I’ve embarrassed myself too much in front of you now?’

“There’s nothing you could do that you haven’t already done,” says Ransom. “I think you’re safe.”

He spits one last time into the toilet bowl, flushes, and then goes to the sink to rinse out his mouth and wipe off his face. Ransom stands next to him, a hand on his shoulder, and Holster thinks back to freshman year. Aside from the extra inch he grew the summer after their freshman year, a slightly different hairstyle, and the extra bulk in Ransom’s ass from his and Bitty’s squatting adventures the two of them look remarkably unchanged. Even with their futures uncertain and the definitely non-platonic aspects of their relationship, they’re still Ransom and Holster.

The idea dawns on him slowly. “Hey, Rans?” he says quietly.

Ransom’s eyes dart to Holster’s face in concern. “What is it?”

“Do you—do you think they don’t know?”

“Who doesn’t know what?”

He shakes his head to try to regain some sobriety, but all he accomplishes is a return of the dizziness. So scratch that. He tries again, clears his throat. “Do you think the team doesn’t know about us?”

Ransom stares at him in disbelief. “How could they not?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “But thinking back to tonight, to the first couple months so far, it seems like they don’t know about us. Or at least Lardo doesn’t. She kept asking me where my date was and didn’t seem to think it was you.”

“That’s absurd. Absolutely absurd. We live in the same house!”

“Yeah, but like, if you think about it, we don’t act any different. We just sleep together in the attic now instead of, well, sleeping together literally. And we make out in dark corners at screw.”

“But I kiss you all the time!”

“Neither of us are big on PDA, and I refuse to pay fines. So we’ve been keeping it quiet, thinking that we were just being too good for them to fine us. But I think they legitimately have no idea.”

Ransom stares at his reflection in the mirror long enough that Holster thinks he might have to make some joke about narcissistic tendencies (though, to be fair, he would definitely stare at himself a lot if he had that facial structure), but then he whispers, low enough that Holster can barely hear him, “Holy shit. I think you’re right.” He turns to Holster. “What does this mean?”

“What it means,” says Holster, “is that we have to make the next move.” Something in his stomach shifts unpleasantly, and he blanches. “But first, I’m going to throw up again.”

He does. But Ransom is still there for him, so everything is still okay.

They don’t begin discussing next steps until the next morning. Ransom, because he is an amazing boyfriend, brings coffee and a freshly baked Bitty croissant up to the attic along with a large water bottle and two tablets of advil. Holster is still partially tucked beneath the covers, but Ransom sits on top of them and absentmindedly traces his thumb across the plane of Holster’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” he mutters and downs the advil with some of the water before sinking his teeth into the croissant. He groans loudly, and Ransom rolls his eyes. “Seriously, isn’t he ever too hungover to make these things?”

“Not everyone was trashed like you were last night, Adam,” says Ransom knowingly.

“Please,” he says. “Like you were so much better.”

“Only one person in here puked last night, and it wasn’t me, so I think you’re just going to have to accept that I come out on top this time.” Ransom ruffles his hair, which Holster hates, but he has to admit that Ransom might actually be right. He settles for taking another bite of the dangerously buttery croissant.

He clears his throat and brushes some of the crumbs away from his face. “So, uh, do we tell them? About us?”

“I don’t know,” says Ransom. “To be honest, that just seems a little…”

“Anti-climactic? Boring? A waste of an opportunity?”

Ransom grins. “Exactly.” His expression grows more serious. “But like, I also don’t want to lie to them. That would make me feel a little bad, especially since Bitty and Jack were so nervous about coming out to us.”

“So rule number one: no lying. But we haven’t been lying at all so far, and none of them have picked up on it, so I don’t think that’ll be a huge problem.”

“Right. We can drop hints though. I can say things like, oh, Holster looks sexy when he wears his glasses with his hockey uniform.”

Holster just stares at him. “You’re so weird.”

“What? Like your things for my salmon shorts isn’t any weirder.”

“I don’t have a thing for your salmon shorts.”

“Then why do you keep trying to undress me when I’m wearing them?” Ransom flashes a quick, knowing smile. “One day. Just watch me; I’ll wear a salmon tuxedo to our wedding.”

“I would leave you,” he says seriously. “At the altar. In front of our entire families. Don’t test me, Justin.”

“Fine, fine,” Ransom says, waving his hand. “But back to business. Do we just drop hints? If one of them guesses but the others don’t, do we tell them to keep it a secret?”

“If Dex figures it out, it’s over. Man can’t keep a secret to save his life. Same with Chowder. But I bet it’ll be Lardo or Bitty to figure it out first. Probably Lardo.”

“So it depends on who figures it out. If they haven’t figured it out by April, we tell them. I want at least one month of their reactions.”

“Fair enough.” Holster holds out his fist. “We’ve got a plan then.”

Ransom fist bumps him and then bends down for a gentle kiss. It’s times like these when he thinks, yeah, he liked the old Ransom and Holster just fine, but this is better. So much better.

“Should’ve brought you a toothbrush,” mutters Ransom. “You taste like ass.”

“You like my ass,” Holster replies indignantly.

“Yeah, well,” says Ransom. “It’s no Jack Zimmerman.”

“It’s not fair to compare mortals to gods.”

“True.” He kisses him again, despite his earlier complaints. “And believe me, your personality more than makes up for whatever extra muscle Jack could offer.”

“Glad to know it,” Holster says drily. “And thanks for the coffee. I’m probably going to want to another croissant soon.”

Ransom rises from the bed. “You can get it for yourself then.”

Ransom might be as close to perfect as Holster could imagine, but he’s no Jack Zimmerman’s ass. But like he said, it was unfair to compare mortals to the divine. So he drags himself out from beneath the covers and stumbles down the stairs, following the magical scent of croissants.

They almost make it to winter break without any shenanigans. Almost.

They spend most of late November slowly dropping hints. Nothing outright, but Holster doesn’t hold back in his verbal appreciation of Justin’s abs and Ransom makes at least three separate comments about how soft Holster’s hair is. When Bitty asks Holster about his latest date night with Ransom (presumably under the impression it had been a double), Holster just talks about Ransom with no mention of girls or other human beings. Bitty narrows his eyes suspiciously, but seems to accept his description with remarkably little pushback. It’s laughable, really. He only almost sort of feels bad when Chowder asks him for advice for a Christmas present for Caitlin, apparently under the impression that Holster knows what presents to give to a girlfriend. But he doesn’t feel bad at all when he kinda sorta comes out to Dex by the washing machine, talking about how that one guy in juniors he hooked up with. Dex’s freckles seem to leap off his skin in surprise.

“I have to—I have to…” he says, scampering away from the laundry.

“Have to what?” he says, but Dex is already up the stairs and slamming the door. He figures out what Dex had to do the next day after a belligerent Shitty calls him and demands to know why he hadn’t revealed this information during one of their many, in depth conversations about sexual fluidity. Then he tells him to ask Justin about a certain guy named Kevin who played with him in high school, and Ransom’s high-pitched swearing from across the library tells him that Shitty’s moved on to his next target. Bitty just bakes them both coming out cakes, which is sweet, but entirely unnecessary. Delicious nonetheless.

In early December, Holster walks up the stairs of the Haus to see Justin staring at the ceiling with intense conversation.

“They’ve evolved,” Ransom says, gesturing upward.

Someone has apparently gotten the bright idea to place mistletoe just next to the attic entrance. It hangs there innocuously, entirely unaware of its implications.

“Does this mean…”

“…that they’ve moved on from not knowing we’re together to still not knowing we’re together and trying to set us up?” He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t see this coming.”

“If they’re trying to set us up, they’re doing a pretty terrible job at it. Mistletoe? Like we would just come to some sudden realization and decide we need to make out beneath this random plant which has some weird, pagan historical meaning, I’m sure. Like who actually does that?”

He awaits Ransom’s response. When there’s only silence, he looks carefully at Ransom and spots a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “No,” Holster says. “You’re joking.”

“It’s a little romantic.”

“How is a plant romantic?”

“Flowers are plants!” argues Ransom.

“Flowers are pretty at least. Mistletoe has nothing going for it.”

“Fine, fine,” says Ransom, and he turns away. “You’re right, it’s stupid.”

But the tone of his voice implies that maybe it’s not so stupid, and Holster knows that while he and Ransom have the whole Bros with Benefits part of a relationship down pat, romantic relationships have, well, romance. Which, according to Ransom, apparently includes plants. So he shoves his misgivings about mistletoe aside and strokes the edge of Ransom’s jaw carefully with his thumb. “No, I suppose you’re not entirely off base,” he says and leans down those oh-so-important two inches to kiss Ransom slowly, thoroughly, like they’re not two jocks just messing around but two people who are genuinely, deeply in love. Not Ransom and Holster, but Adam and Justin.

Ransom’s eyelids flutter beneath the mistletoe, and Holster reminds himself to buy some goddamn flowers for their next date.

“It kind of worked, didn’t it?” he says gently. “Their plan, I mean.”

“No, it was a stupid plan, and I’m very disappointed in them,” says Ransom. “But we’re doing this for our benefit, so if part of it happens to work, then so be it. But that was nice.” His smile turns mischievous. “Everyone else has class for at least the next hour. Do you want to have really loud sex on your bed?”

“If I could carry you up to the attic right now, I would.”

Ransom kisses him. “Now we’re talking.”

As is now tradition, Ransom and Holster split the holidays between Buffalo and Toronto. Two days after Christmas, Ransom makes the drive back to the states and shows up at Holster’s door with four wrapped boxes in hand which he promptly shoves into Holster’s arms before greeting the rest of the Birkholtz clan affectionately, leaving Holster to lug his suitcase up the stairs.

Julia, Holster’s youngest sisters, appears to be even more excited than him about Ransom’s arrival.

“Can we go to the rink? Holster always makes me play goalie whenever we play,” she whines.

Ransom turns to him, appalled. “Are you saying you’re shooting full force at a fourteen year old?”

“No, I’m not,” he says. “But we do a faceoff to decide who has to play goalie, and I always win.”

“She’s fourteen! You’re twenty-four!”

“So? It’s good experience for her. And we don’t have any goalie equipment that fits me anymore.”

“Actually,” cuts in his dad, “I think we might have some of my brother’s stuff in the closet. I could probably dig it up.”

The look of sheer delights which crosses his sister’s face only fuels the murderous rage already kindling in his core. Ransom just looks like Christmas came again. “Well,” he smirks, “I think that settles that, don’t you?”

Three hours later, and Holster has never felt more respect for Chowder. He’d managed to stop a decent number of pucks (he was still an athlete so his reflexes were well above average, thank you very much), but after the fiftieth puck in a row left a burning trail beside his ear, his heart had begun to thud a little too rapidly for his tastes. Sure, he blocked shots on the ice. But those shots were never directed at him like these were.

“I hate you both so much,” he complains as they head back.

“That was the best thing ever,” says Julia, and Ransom takes the opportunity to leer at him lasciviously.

“You might be able to backup Chowder, you know,” Ransom teases. “That one save at the end there—pure magic.”

“You mean the one where you shot it directly at my face? I think I’ll pass, thank you very much.”

“Hey Ransom, can we play video games once we get back?” asks Julia.

“Sure,” says Ransom. “Why not?”

Holster feels more vindicated than he probably should after he and his sister crush Ransom at FIFA. But Ransom makes up for the earlier goalie fiasco late that night when it’s just the two of them in bed together. They’re careful to be quiet, and it feels amazing.

“I’m glad your family knows,” whispers Ransom just as they’re both finally drifting off. “It’s nice.”

“Yeah, it is,” says Holster. He thinks for a second. “Does this mean you want to tell the team?”

“No, it’s still a bit too much fun. But maybe we throw a little more caution to the wind? It could be nice.”

“Sure,” Holster says in agreement.

On New Year’s Eve, Ransom posts a picture of the two of them, faces pressed together, with the caption: Wonder who’s gonna kiss me tonight?

“That’s lying,” says Holster.

“How is that lying? It’s a question!”

“Oh please, like you’re actually wondering who’s gonna kiss you.”

“Well maybe I am,” says Ransom. “You know, what’s-her-face from down the street was giving me the eye as I walked over from the car.”

“Cathy? She’s married. With a kid.”

“Well, I guess it’ll have to be you then,” Ransom says.

Holster sighs heavily. “One way or another, we’re going to hear about this photo from the team.”

Sure enough, within the hour, both of their pockets start buzzing frantically.

Lardo: well aren’t you two cute

Nursey: if you need someone to hook up, i know ppl in Toronto

Chowder: NURSEY!

Nursey: wut, i do

Shitty: go forth and break down heteronormativity

Jack: …

Shitty: shut up Jack, you already graduated

Lardo: so did you!

Shitty: stop arguing with me, I’m in the next room over from you

Dex: all of you stop

Dex: my grandfather wants to know what girl is texting me so frantically

Dex: I don’t know what to tell him

“Are you happy now?” says Holster. A circle of some of his high school friends are all drinking beer in the living room, half-paying attention to the screen of the television.

“I’m not not happy,” says Ransom in return.

“Yeah, okay, whatever.” He turns away for a moment, stares vaguely out the window where it has begun snowing quite rapidly.

“What?” says Ransom. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” he says. “I’m just glad you’re kissing me at midnight. That’s all.”

Ransom’s expression softens. “I could kiss you right now too. If you wanted.”

He nods, and Ransom presses a gentle kiss to his lips and nuzzles their noses together. It’s by far the most disgustingly sweet thing that Ransom does, and one of the biggest surprises since they began dating, and he’s one hundred percent okay with this development.

“One more hour til midnight!” shouts Isaac. “Save it for then, yeah?”

Ransom pulls away. “One more hour,” he whispers, and then winks.

Holster’s kind of regretting inviting other people over.

Once they return back to school, Lardo, Shitty and Nursey begin acting, for lack of a better word, odd. While Bitty is ostensibly baking at all hours of the day as usual, now Lardo appears to be joining him in his baking. Dex often hangs around, but he’d begun baking with Bitty earlier on, so his presence was less strange. Nursey, they assumed, was angling for dibs. Still, the hushed voices when they walk into the room and the furtive glances Chowder’s been prone to shooting at them indicate that something has been disturbed in the balance of the force.

Their second week back, Bitty proposes going to a movie as a team. There’s only one theater in town, and it shows only three movies at a time, but apparently he’s suddenly keen on seeing the sequel to a shitty action flick, a movie exactly no one was ever going to like. But then Bitty’s eyes turn big as dinner plates, and Ransom’s always nursed a soft spot for Bitty long after he stopped needing their protection, so the two of them agree to the outing.

When they arrive at the theater, there’s only Bitty waiting for them, and he doesn’t appear to be searching for anyone else. Holster’s hackles instantly rise.

“Bits, where’s everyone else?” he asks.

Bitty blushes and rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, well, Lardo has some bit critique tomorrow,” he says—Ransom knows Lardo’s critiques fall on Tuesdays, not Fridays, so Bitty’s already lying—“and I guess there was some sort of sophomore event tonight, so Dex, Nursey and Chowder are all at that thing.” He plasters on a brilliant smile. “But I’m here.”

“Yes, you are,” says Ransom carefully, sliding a quick look in Holster’s direction. “No reason for us not to see it while we’re here, right?”

Bitty nods fervently. “Absolutely. Now let’s get tickets.”

Just before previews begin, Bitty scoots out of his seat. “I’m just going to grab something to drink,” he whispers, and scrambles away. Without Bitty there, the theater is almost entirely empty except for what appears to be two local high school kids seated several rows ahead. Holster slips his hand into Ransom’s.

“Does something feel fishy to you?” he whispers as the first preview begins.

Ransom’s eyes flicker between him and the screen. “How long has it been since Bitty left?”

“More than five minutes,” says Holster. “And how much of a line can there be?”

“Maybe he’s just using the bathroom,” suggest Ransom, and the two of them leave the matter alone.

By the fifth preview, he feels the need to glance around the room, see if Bitty has accidentally sat himself next to another interracial couple of jocks, but it’s still just them. Then the movie begins, and Ransom’s nudging him hard with his elbow.

“Should we worry about Bits?” Ransom asks in a low voice.

Holster glances at his phone to see if a text from anyone has come through. No individual text, but Bitty appears to have written something in the groupchat not five minutes ago. Something about looking for the good whisk.

“I don’t think Bitty is any trouble,” says Holster, shoving the phone in Ransom’s lap. Ransom reads the message skeptically, and then looks at him with a frown.

“Why would he abandon us? He was the one who wanted to see this movie in the first place.”

The realization sweeps over him like a cold wave of saltwater, and suddenly his vision has cleared. “Oh, no, Rans.”

“What?”

“This is supposed to be a date.” Ransom clearly doesn’t understand, so he continues. “This is supposed to be a date for the two of us, to set us up together. Bitty literally had no intentions of ever seeing this movie.”

Ransom seems gobsmacked. He takes a minute to recover, and they’re both firmly ignoring the movie at this point, which a quick glance confirms isn’t going to be a real tragedy for them. “We watch movies together all the time,” says Ransom.

“I know.”

“This is possibly the least romantic movie ever made.”

“I know.”

“What, did they think we were going to get turned on by the sight of an exploding car and start making out?”

On screen, a car explodes violently, propelling several people an improbable distance down the street. The main character stands up, apparently unharmed, and he begins shooting at several large men who are all holding assault rifles.

“Huh,” says Ransom.

“What, did it actually work?”

“No,” says Ransom in bewilderment. “I’m just thinking I might actually enjoy this movie.”

Holster rolls his eyes so far back into his head that he can practically see the part of his brain designated especially for being disappointed in Ransom’s taste in film.

“Whatever, bro,” he says. “It’s only been five minutes.”

They end up making out anyways. Ransom swears the explosions aren’t a turn-on, but Holster’s beginning to suspect otherwise.

Valentine’s Day, surprisingly, passes uneventfully. It’s a Tuesday, but he and Ransom spend the whole day together, culminating in a dinner at one of the nicest restaurants in town where he proceeds to stuff his face with the finest filet-mignon he’s ever had the pleasure to taste while Ransom at least has the decency to look repulsed at the sigh before him.

The week after, however, the two of them return from an evening study session to find the Haus completely empty. Normally, Bitty would be in the kitchen, or Chowder would be passed out on the couch, or even Lardo would be causing a ruckus in her bedroom upstairs while she experimented with her so-called “art supplies” (Ransom like to call them trash). But nothing, no one. The Haus is also entirely dark, until they take a closer look into the kitchen and spot two fully loaded plates lying untouched on the small table in the corner. Four candles flicker softly, providing a gentle light to the room and illuminating the two wine glasses tucked off to the side.

Ransom sniffs deeply. “Why does it smell like a maple tree in here?”

“I think it’s the candles,” says Holster. He inhales the scent himself. “Definitely the candles.”

“But why are there candles, is the real question,” points out Ransom. “And why is there a fully cooked salmon just waiting for us?”

He wanders over to the table and pokes at the fish, which is actually still quite warm. It’s also lying on a bed of some sort of rice, but the main attraction is clearly the fish. Another attraction is the rose lying off to the side.

“You don’t think…”

“They wouldn’t…”

“This is too obvious.”

They look at each other in unison. Holster shrugs. “The fish’ll get cold unless we eat it soon.”

Ransom nods uneasily but sits down at the table nonetheless and pours them each a glass of wine. Holster sips at it carefully—he’s never been a huge wine drinker—but it’s actually not bad. The fish, on the other hand, is superbly delicious.

“So,” says Ransom after a couple of minutes.

“So,” he agrees.

“This is romantic.”

“Oh shut up,” he says, but he’s too busy enjoying the meal to even feel a twinge of annoyance.

“Seriously, how long have they been planning this?”

“Probably a few days at least. There’s some lemongrass on this fish, and Bitty usually like to use the winter farmer’s market for his herbs when possible. That’s on a Friday.”

Holster can’t help but chuckle a little. “It’s really amazing,” he says. “We have the best friends.”

“Or the worst. I mean, they still haven’t figured it out by now?”

“I guess not. Hey, Rans, would you mind passing me the—shit!”

Ransom is vaguely alarmed at his outburst. “What is it?”

“Don’t look,” says Holster slowly, “but I’m pretty sure I just saw the top of Chowder’s head through the window.”

“What would Chowder’s head be doing by the window?”

“There’s no reason for it, unless…”

“Unless?”

“They’re spying on us,” he finishes with a grimace. “They want to see what we’re doing.”

“What, like I’m going to make out with you across the dinner table?”

“Apparently so.”

The two of them stare at their food for a long time. First Ransom, then Holster, breaks into uncontrollable laughter.

“It’s like two degrees outside!” he wheezes. “Are they going to wait there the whole night?”

“That’s entirely up to them,” says Holster. He grins wickedly. “But what do you say we make them wait as long as possible? Really take our time with this meal?”

Ransom smiles broadly. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

The next day, Chowder begins sneezing rather loudly during practice, and he complains of being outside for a long time. Ransom just fistbumps him and returns to leading the drills.

The first thing Ransom does in March is get sick. It happens with little warning, except for Ransom going to bed oddly early night before, given that he has a quiz the next day. Holster raises an eyebrow when Ransom calls it a night around eleven, but far be it from him to discourage a healthier academic mentality, especially in their last semester at college. He raises his other eyebrow when he finds Ransom in his own bunk, but again, a good night’s sleep without overcrowding a twin bed with two oversized hockey players is sometimes a good thing. Wherever they end up next year, they’re definitely buying a king-sized mattress.

In the morning, though, Ransom doesn’t stir when Holster nudges him awake for their morning run. In fact, it appears that he’s slept entirely through Holster’s four separate alarms, which is vaguely concerning since normally Ransom is the one dragging him out of their far too warm, far too comfortable bed.

“Rans,” he says. When he receives no response, he says more loudly. “Rans. Ransom. Justin.”

At long last Ransom rolls over to gaze blearily at him, and he blinks slowly, clearly not fully aware of the situation.

“Adam? What is it?” he mumbles incoherently.

He presses his hand against Ransom’s forehead and winces when he feels the unnatural heat emanating from him. “Damn, you’re hot,” he says to himself. When Ransom fails to respond to that comment, his concern grows. “Hey, Rans, how are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” says Ransom, and his voice sounds hoarse.

“Do you feel like you’re going to puke?” Ransom shakes his head slowly. “You clearly have a fever, but headache? Sore throat?” Ransom nods at both. “So the run is definitely out of the question. Do you think you could take some Tylenol? It’ll probably help with the fever.”

Ransom just droops, but Holster makes an executive decision and marches downstairs in order to find the first aid kit. He’s rummaging through the drawers in their bathroom when Bitty finds him intently tossing crap out from beneath the sink. “Why do we have all this shit?” he mutters in frustration as he chucks what appears to be an old, half-empty tube of cinnamon toothpaste over his shoulder.

“Holster, is everything okay?” asks Bitty timidly from behind.

“Yeah, it would be, if I could find the damn Tylenol in this Haus.”

He can sense Bitty’s frown, even if he can’t see his face. “Why do you need Tylenol? Are you sick?”

“No, but Rans is. Fever, headache, but he says he’s not gonna puke.”

“Oh, jeez,” says Bitty. “Well, I’ve got a first aid kit in my room, and I think I’ve got something in it.”

“Thanks, Bitty,” he says, and within two minutes he’s back up in the attic, shoving a glass of water and two pills down Ransom’s throat. Ransom appears to have drifted off in the short time that he was away, but Holster wakes him up nonetheless. After that, he opens his laptop, logs into Ransom’s email (he’s known the password for ages) and shoots a quick email to the professor to inform him that Ransom would not be coming into class or taking the quiz that day.

After an hour, it’s time for him to go to class. He presses a quick kiss to Ransom’s forehead and promises to be back as soon as his class has finished.

Class ticks by sluggishly. It’s a senior econ seminar, and while normally he manages to muster some engagement for advanced game theory, today the professor might as well be writing in hieroglyphics on the board as he scribbles out one last equation. Because it’s a seminar, he spits out some response which is far more bullshit than usual, but whatever, it doesn’t matter. What matters is getting back to Ransom. Something in his gut is telling him that there’s a serious problem.

He bursts into the attic after nearly sprinting back from class. Ransom doesn’t appear to have moved at all, and Holster takes the steps down two at a time until he reaches Bitty’s room where he barges in without knocking.

“Holster, what are you—

“Do you have a thermometer? In your first aid kit?”

Bitty’s wearing a look of extreme alarm. “Yeah, I do.”

“Give it to me. I need it for Justin.”

Bitty blanches slightly, but hands over the thermometer without further question. Bitty also follows him up the attic stairs, and hovers in the background while he sticks the tube into Ransom’s mouth. The thermometer beeps.

“102.8,” he reads off.

Bitty gulps. “That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.” He steels his resolve. “We’re taking him to Samwell Health. Now.”

Between the two of them (but mostly him, because Bitty’s like seven inches shorter and seventy pounds lighter), they haul Ransom over to Samwell Health and deposit him in acute care. Ransom leans up against Bitty while Holster retrieves all the necessary forms and begins flipping through them, filling them out as needed.

“What are you doing?” asks Bitty.

He’s almost too distracted by a question about family history of heart disease (was the Aunt Rachel with the heart murmur a blood relative or relative by marriage?) that he barely considers his answer. “What does it look like? I’m filling out his forms.”

“But like, his medical history?” Bitty seems unnecessarily confused. This really shouldn’t be that hard to understand, he thinks.

“Yeah, of course.”

“You know that?”

Holster spares Bitty a quick glance over the edge of his glasses. “Yeah, I do,” he says. He flips over another page. “I’m listed as next-of-kin, so it’s helpful to know these things.”

It takes him longer than it should to realize that Bitty is openly gaping at him. “What?” he says, checking off the box marked diabetes (Ransom’s second youngest sister, Eliza, has Type I).

“You two are really close then,” says Bitty in an almost strangled voice. “Really, really close.”

It’s times like these that he wishes they’d just decided to up and tell the team months ago. “Yes, Bitty, we are,” he says slowly. Ransom slumps down even further in his chair, and Holster glares at the receptionist who’s controlling admittance.

“But next-of-kin? That’s super serious. That’s for people who are married or engaged. I mean, I wouldn’t even dream of talking about that with Jack right now, and it’s been nearly a year for the two of us—

“Well, if you must know, we’ve been like this since sophomore year after a late night anxiety attack he had.” He slams the pen onto the clipboard. “And if it makes any difference, I fully intend on marrying him at some point in the future, so why bother waiting?”

Bitty sucks in a quick gasp of air. “You’re going to marry him?” Bitty’s voice sounds tight. “Holster, are you saying that you’re in love with him?”

“I’m right here,” interjects Ransom unconvincingly.

“He knows,” says Holster.

“He does?” says Bitty. “And that’s cool? Like it doesn’t interfere with friendship or anything?”

He has his mouth half open to answer…something, though he hasn’t quite decided what yet, when one of the nurses calls out for a Justin Oluransi. He hauls Ransom to his feet, and turns to Bitty. “I’m going with him.”

Bitty nods with wide eyes, and Holster spots him pulling out his phone as they disappear from the waiting room and into the corridor. Whatever. He follows Ransom and the nurse into a room, where Ransom just collapses onto the bed. Without even thinking, Holster reaches for his hand and grips it tightly, holding on for dear life. A nurse begins checking vitals, things like blood pressure and temperature. When he reads the thermometer, he frowns.

“Do you recall what his temperature was before?” the nurse asks.

“102.8,” he says, and a cold pit forms in his stomach. “Why, what is it now?”

“103.3” says the nurse.

“Shit, Justin,” he murmurs. “What’s going on, man?”

He stays as long as he can, stroking the back of Ransom’s hand, until a doctor arrives and he needs to vacate the room so she can do a thorough, private examination. He relays the details he does know (which isn’t very much, just that this whole thing came on suddenly) and then retreats back to the waiting room for the time being. A quick glance at his watch tells him that it’s been nearly forty-five minutes since they arrived.

He’s half expecting to see Bits still outside, waiting for his return, but instead he sees Lardo, who’s wearing an uncharacteristically severe expression on her.

“Hey Lards,” he says quietly as he take a seat next to her.

“How is he?” she asks without any buildup.

“Sick. Beyond that, I have no idea.”

She nods unhappily. “And you?”

“I’ve been better.”

She looks at him strangely. “You’re a good friend, Holtzy. The very best.” She even pats his hand. “And I hope he knows that, even if he’s not, well…”

“Did Bitty tell you about our conversation earlier?”

A guilty look flashes across her face. “It might have…just…come up.”

“Well, trust me, I’m doing just fine in that regard,” he says. “Rans knows how I feel, which is a probably a pretty good thing considering he’s in love with me too.”

“You—I—what?” she says. “You’re both in love with each other?”

“I thought you guys already knew that?”

“We did, it’s just—we didn’t think that you knew that!”

“Lardo,” he says tiredly, because he needs to get this out, and he’s done fucking around with them. He’s genuinely, deeply worried for Ransom, and any more bullshit and it’s going to give him an aneurysm, which would definitely impede his ability to take care of his boyfriend. “Rans and I have been together since last June. We’ve made our feelings for each other pretty clear.”

Lardo is quiet for approximately ten seconds before whispering, “Oh my God.”

He can’t help but smirk a little at her awed and horrified expression. “We weren’t trying to hide it, you know. We couldn’t believe it when you all didn’t know.”

“All this time,” she mutters. “Ten months.”

“The best ten months of my life,” he says seriously. “Made all the better by watching you guys try to set us up on every occasion.”

Lardo actually blushes at that comment—he didn’t even know she could blush like that—but she doesn’t even both denying it.

“Well, we all picked up on something, you know. We knew you two were into each other.”

“Ten brownie points to you,” he says halfheartedly. “For excellent observation skills.”

She glares at him for a solid minute, but eventually admits defeat in the face of her obvious failure. He half expects a comeback, a retort, something biting to come from her mouth, but instead, all she does is hug him tightly, all five-foot nothing of her pressed against his gigantic body. Somehow, though, he immediately feels better than he has since night before.

“You’re a good boyfriend,” she tells him. “And an excellent friend. Ransom’s going to be fine.”

He clutches her closer to his chest. “I know he will be.”

She doesn’t let go of him until the doctor come back into the room and tells him that he can rejoin Ransom in the room. And even then, she stays, waiting in case he’s kicked out again. And he doesn’t regret telling Lardo at all.

Three days later, when Ransom has sufficiently recovered enough from what turns out to be a severe case of the flu, Holster calls an emergency team meeting, with mandatory attendance and bag skates for those who miss it. The two of them stand in front of a captive audience at the Haus, Ransom still a little peaked but well enough to be vertical, and Holster levels his best imperious stare at them until Chowder has begun quivering a little in fear.

“Alright, peons,” he says, arms crossed as he surveys them all. “This is a very important announcement, and it will not be repeated.” He grabs Ransom’s hand and yanks him closer. “For the past ten glorious months of your foolishly oblivious lives, I, Adam Joshua Birkholtz, fiftieth captain of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team, and Justin Aguzani Oluransi, fifty-first captain of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team—

“He means we’re dating,” interjects Ransom. “And we have been since last June.”

The room explodes.

“What?!” shrieks Dex. “What did you just say?”

“There will be no repetition of this announcement,” he says firmly. “We already established that.”

Chowder is sputtering to himself on the couch, while Ollie and Wicks appear to have surpassed their programming and are staring blankly at the two of them, clearly not processing the information fully. Lardo smirks, Bitty beams, and Whiskey is…unamused.

“Why are you guys making such a big deal out of this?” he complains. “I’ve known for ages.”

All faces swivel to stare at Whiskey, and the room has suddenly become deathly quiet.

“You have?” says Lardo, her voice drenched in skepticism.

Whiskey shrugs, undeterred by the scrutiny. “I mean, they were making out pretty hard at Screw. It wasn’t that hard to figure out.”

Chowder has planted his face firmly in the palm of his hand. “We’ve been such idiots.”

“Yes you have,” agrees Holster, but Ransom takes a softer approach.

“You know now,” he says. “And, now that you do, you all can stop with your ridiculous attempts to set us up.”

“They weren’t that ridiculous,” mutters Bitty.

“Mistletoe?”

Bitty shuts up.

“Now,” announces Holster loudly, “if that is all, Rans and I will be going up to the attic so that he can get his beauty sleep. And I’ll see the rest of you at practice tomorrow morning.”

Thirty seconds after Ransom has crawled into bed, he receives a text from Jack.

Congrats, it says. Bitty just told me.

Thanks, he replies.

He receives a much longer text from Shitty that he ignores and settles, finally, into bed with his boyfriend.

“I love you, Justin,” he murmurs.

“Love you too,” says Ransom back. “Glad we told them all.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

And then they fall asleep together.