Archive of Our Own

Once, while sneaking into the Haus kitchen after labs to investigate the sweet promise of fresh cookies, William Poindexter caught Bitty and Jack Skyping…about him. Well, about him, Nursey, and Chris Chow, but the surprise was the same. Will didn’t really think he was much to talk about, especially not to Bitty’s super-important-busy-NHL-star-boyfriend, but here they were, discussing the epic throw-down that Will and Nursey had narrowly avoided at practice that morning. He and Nurse had been ready to take gloves off, forget whatever Rans and Holster had been threatening them with, when—

“And then sweet, precious Chowder—well, he came out of the goal looking right determined, and those stubborn boys stopped in their tracks,” Bitty marveled.

Will, who had stopped himself from entering the kitchen in favor of eavesdropping, rolled his eyes at how awestruck Bitty had seemed. He and Nursey were not that bad. At least not lately. And of course they had stopped when Chowder left the poles. He was making such big eyes at them, and they had promised that they were going to try to fight less. For the most part, they had kept that promise. The influence of Chowder as their boyfriend (their boyfriend, Will still had a lot of panicking to do about that phrase, but for now he was ignoring it in favor of being suspiciously happy and content with his life) had been markedly positive.

And now Will had an epithet that he would never, ever say out loud, but that he appreciated the accuracy of nonetheless: sweet, precious Chowder indeed.

Chris Chow was a lot. If Derek Nurse thought that he was the embodiment of cool composure (and he wasn’t. Derek could shout down Will with no trouble any day) then Chowder was his opposite of unbridled enthusiasm. It was he who, on a rainy Saturday, had shown up to their informal “watch-hockey-and-pretend-to-do-homework” group with two bouquets of flowers and a truly concerned expression and asked Will and Nursey to date him.

Will had thought, at first, that Chowder had been talking just to Nursey and felt inutterably awkward. Then he realized Chowder meant them both and felt even worse.

At least, he did until the silence stretched too long and Chowder’s face started to get red and blotchy with nerves, and Nursey was too busy trying to seem cool and collected to actually respond to Chowder’s earnest declaration.

Which left Will to do something. He wasn’t sure what until he’d already done it. He took the huge spike of fear and hope and incomprehensible feeling in his stomach, and used it to move his body forward, grabbing Chowder’s hand where it closed around one of the grocery-store bunches of tulips. When no one else moved for another beat, Will sighed and grabbed Nurse’s hand with his free one, drawing Nurse in until the three of them were just…touching, all awkwardly holding the bouquet. Will didn’t say anything about how hard Nurse’s hands were shaking.

“U-uh, guys?” Chowder asked, his voice small and strained. “Is that—is that a yes?”

Was it? Will hadn’t…he hadn’t thought even for a moment that this was something wanted or could ever have at all. The guys had chirped him and Nurse sometimes for being an old married couple, sure. And people looked askance when Nurse bought Chowder coffee before his early Tuesday class or when Will patiently held Sharky the stuffed shark out of the way of Chowder’s wild flailing during San Jose games. But until now, until Chris had come to them with his heart, as always, on his sleeve, Will couldn’t have imagined—

“It’s a yes,” Will said, not looking at either of them because he didn’t know why or how or when he had started wanting it, maybe it was only this moment, but he did want it and they had to know.

Nursey’s hand jerked for a second, and when Will looked up at him, his eyes were flipping open in surprise like he forgot the world was still spinning around him and he should probably participate in it. “Yes—shit, yeah, of course it’s--.” He took a breath, visibly calming himself, then looking at the both of them in turn. “Yeah. Dunno what you have in mind, but I’m game.”

That was about all the restraint that Chowder had left to his name, clearly, because suddenly all the tulips were on the floor and the boy was trying to wrap his lanky arms around both defensemen at the same time, whooping and drawing them into something that was part celly, part embrace, and all limbs and enthusiasm.

“Okay, good, ohmygod, I’m sorry, that was so awkward, but I couldn’t figure out how to explain it and if I tried to tell you both what I liked about you I’d have to start with someone first, right, and then it would be awkward for the other person, and I wanted to ask you, like, both, at the same time, right? Because you’re both my best friends but I also want to touch both your butts—sorry, that was weird—and I want to do it at the same time, you know, because maybe it’s kind of greedy but also, I thought, maybe, you both would like it too, and then we can all be happy together, maybe, if it goes okay, and—“

“C, dude, it’s okay, everything is good, so you can—“ Nursey began, and Will knew he was going to say it, but, for once, didn’t try to stop him, “—just chill.”

Chowder’s quick, sparkling smile lit up the whole room.

So Chowder was the reason they were together, and Will was…constantly overwhelmed, actually, but beneath it all gloriously, disgustingly happy. Chowder and Nursey were both egregiously aggressive cuddlers and ended up in Will’s space all the time. Rather than feeling suffocated, however, Will began to feel more at ease. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would initiate that sort of thing, but having grown up with four brothers and sisters in a three bedroom home, he knew loud affection and how to exist in his own space, even when that “space” was a third of a twin bed in a college dorm room.

It was just that he was terrified that he could fuck it all up—that he’d piss off Nursey or make Chowder cry—and the first time he did both he was such a wreck of fear that it made him even more aggressive and awful.

What had happened was that he had been about to haul off and hit Nursey when he cracked the face of Will’s grandfather’s watch by dropping it even though Will asked him not to touch it. Maybe somewhere in his head he knew he shouldn’t get mad, should fix what he could and then let it go, but the rage and helplessness of losing something so valuable, arguably the most valuable object in the whole Poindexter family, overwhelmed him. He’d only stopped his yelling and frozen, his fist tangled in Nursey’s T-shirt and Nurse’s hands shoving his biceps and reaching for his neck, when Chowder’s voice cracked.

“G-guys!”

There was something so off about the quality of Chowder’s voice that both Will and Derek halted what was shaping up to be a particularly bad scrum, and turned to look at their boyfriend.

Chris’ eyes were red-rimmed, and his distress was all over his expressive face, so much more immediate and desperate than when he tried to break up their usual fights.

“You don’t. Hit. Your boyfriend,” Chowder croaked, and it wasn’t until right then that Will realized that was exactly what he had planned to do.

He dropped Nurse’s shirt like he’d been burned, backing away from both guys until he hit the edge of Chowder’s lofted bed. His stomach, which had just moments before been boiling with frustration and rage, dropped like a stone. He felt the blood drain from his cheeks and into his hands, which felt suddenly hot and heavy. “Oh god, Chris, I’m—“ He turned to Nurse. “Shit, Derek—“

And this was it. No more than six days into their new relationship, and Will had fucked it all up. It was done. He was done. They’d known, they’d must have known, that his temper was uncontrollable, but now that they’d seen it… sure, they’d known for the past year and a half, but it was different, now, wasn’t it? He’d threatened Nurse, and done it right in front of Chowder’s face. “I’m sorry,” his voice came out in a whisper. “I’m gonna go.”

Derek was staring at his own hands like he’d never seen them before, but he looked up when Will moved to make a break for it. “No, man, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched it. And I was ready to fight right back.”

There was a silent moment after that, even though Will’s ears were ringing with alarm bells, his brain screaming emergency warnings that the best thing that had possibly ever happened to him was over.

And then Chris Chow was in his face, poking his chest with a very determined expression, which Will might have found adorable if he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. “So you know what you did wrong?”

Will just nodded, trying to look away. It was hard when they were almost the same height and Chowder was right up in his space like this. The next moment, however, Chowder had whirled away into Derek’s space. “And what about you?”

Nursey shifted his stance, shrugging. “Yeah, bro. I didn’t listen to him when he told me something. And…I am going to get that fixed for you, Dex. I was trying to tell you that when you started yelling over me.”

Will was sure his flush was incandescent. Just adding insult to injury; he’d fought even though Derek was trying to fix things. “Shit.”

“Your problem is that you don’t listen to each other!” Chowder announced, waving his arms for emphasis, his eyebrows drawn down into a solemn line.

“Good thing we have you then, huh?” Nursey said seriously, although a tiny smirk was working its way onto his face. “Cuz we both listen to you.”

Chowder rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t one to begrudge a small smile in response. “So what did you both learn?” Chowder asked, the serious façade suddenly looking like it was taking more effort to maintain.

“Yeah, yeah. Listen,” Nurse said, trying to look dismissive but instead appearing earnest.

Will felt like he was being let off too easy. “I really…am sorry. Both of you. I promise not to fight with Nurse anymore.”

To his surprise, Chowder snorted. “Oh yeah, I’ve heard that one before. You two are always going to butt heads. But you have to do it like adults. Who are dating. Right? Sorry, but I gotta set some rules. Talk first. And no hitting.”

“Seems reasonable.” Nurse shot Dex a look, then crossed the space to Chowder and pulled him into a side hug. “Right, Dex?”

William knew forgiveness when he saw it, and his swooping, terrible roller coaster of emotions was replaced by a deep and uncomfortable affection for the two men in front of him, who gave out second chances like pennies instead of the gold they were.

“Right,” Will sighed, taking up Chowder’s other side and ruffling his hair.

“No hitting—unless we’re in bed and we all want it,” Nurse supplied, winking. Will groaned, and just like that things were back to normal.

Or they almost were. “Now you two have to kiss and make up,” Chowder prompted gleefully.

Dex and Nursey looked at each other overtop Chowder’s precious, oblivious head. As one, they both leaned in and smooched Chowder loudly on either cheek. His surprised laughter was worth it, and when Nurse and Will tangled their fingers together as they kissed their boyfriend, everything felt alright again.

On some days, though, there was this ache in Will’s chest when he came back from his evening computer labs and found the two of them already in his room, spread out on the floor among the remains of a pizza and watching ESPN on Nurse’s laptop; or when Chowder’s pre-game couch nap roped Nurse in as a chagrined lap-pillow. They looked so good together, warm and solid in a way that Will could not qualify.

Will was not warm. His hands were always cold, so much so that Chowder bought him three pairs of gloves at the first sign of November chill. And some days, when his code homework wasn’t right or it was raining too hard or he had tanked practice, his chest filled up with fire and not warmth, no matter how calming or right it felt to cram onto Chowder’s bed and watch a movie or listen to Nursey chirp him for how badly his League of Legends campaign was going as he played, Will couldn’t be tangled with them.

Those were the days when, just weeks before, he’d pick a fight just to be able to yell and even if he didn’t do that anymore (tried not to, and mostly succeeded) he couldn’t handle being touched or loved on as hard as the boys were capable of.

It was those days that Nursey would put a hand on Chowder’s shoulder before he could sprawl all over Will, and Chowder would nod solemnly and sit with their knees barely touching instead, and sometimes Nursey would sit on Will’s other side and link their pinkies and they’d let Will sit and struggle until he could breathe again.

And that, too, Will felt was forgiveness. Somewhere, hidden from himself as so many things were so he didn’t have to think about or face them, he wondered if Derek and Chris just might be better off without having to juggle a ball of fire that burned just as often as it shone. His chest ached when he saw them together because they were so good and deserved so much and still, when they saw him, every single time, Chowder’s metal grin would light up like a jack-in-the-box springing out and Derek’s eyes would heat and he’d un-chill long enough to move over and make room and let Will in. They let Will in, even when he was afraid he took up too much space.

And then Chris would get impatient and wiggly and end up across both Will and Derek’s laps and Derek would fall asleep with his fingers buried in Chris’ hair and his head on Will’s chest and they’d all take up too much space together, falling off the bed, close and warm and clinging to each other.

Derek Nurse was stressed.

He was doing a very good job of hiding it, of course. That was a bit of a source of pride, actually—things might be going to shit, but at least Nursey was still chill.

It didn’t help that it was finals season-for the NHL, NCAA, and Samwell academics. The real problem, however, was not the incredible pressure of sophomore year. It technically didn’t have anything to do with Derek at all, except for it was his teammate, dammit, and who didn’t want to watch out for Eric R. Bittle?

The very same Bittle who, while in Providence to watch Jack’s last home game before finals, had been outed in a spectacular display of bad luck and paparazzi intrusion as one intrepid reporter with a camera camped out in front of Jack’s apartment and caught them good-luck-kissing on the balcony. The news had broken during the pre-game, while the entire Haus was drifting in and out of the living room, toting alcohol and sneaking snacks that would make the team nutritionist furious. Holster had only to yell “HAUS MEETING” in a stunned, strangled voice before everyone was clustered in horror around the television, all seeing the same heartbreakingly hyper-focused picture of the team’s favorite baker and most famous alumnus snogging purposefully and blissfully.

The press conference waited until after the game. It was all they could do, the news coming just as the team was taking the ice for their warmups. Bitty was mysteriously absent from the team’s cheering section, and it wasn’t hard to figure that it was because he had checked his phone at just the wrong moment, and knew it was coming. Lardo had tried texting, tweeting, and even calling him, but he didn’t respond for the most agonizing two hours and twenty-four minutes of play that anyone on Samwell Men’s Hockey had ever witnessed.

And for all that warning, Jack hadn’t known what was coming.

Georgia had gotten to him, barely, just he got off the ice, his jaw tight already because they’d lost, but the press junket wasn’t taking no for an answer. She barely got to brief him in a low, serious voice while the PR manager fed him stock phrases telling him to get it over with, come back to the locker room, and she’d run them off.

He’d hadn’t had time to think about it, the team could tell. Nursey could tell. Everyone in the room but the tadpoles had seen this Jack before, but it had been so long that the reappearance was like a kick in the gut. This was hockey-robot Jack, canned one-line answers and cold blue eyes. He wasn’t panicking, not yet, but everyone in the Haus who considered Jack their friend watched him trip over his words just once.

“Y-yes. Bits—Bittle. Eric. He’s my boyfriend.”

It had been enough to stir the reporters into a frenzy, but as they were distracted by their own distraction, the coaches and Georgia herself were there to physically escort Jack out.

The only sound in the room was the manic buzzing of the ESPN commentators, and then nothing at all as someone—Ransom—had the presence of mind to shut the chatter to mute. The screen still flashed, concerned faces of news professionals, and that same damned perfect photo, but at least they didn’t have to hear.

Derek’s phone buzzed, at the same time as all the others’ did. The team chat.

EB: We’ll be okay y’all. I’ll be back tomorrow.

No emoji, no explanation. Derek hoped the use of ‘we’ meant Bitty was with Jack somewhere. Maybe even in the locker room. It was all they could hope for.

The sound of phones vibrating was the signal for the Haus to absolutely lose its collective shit.

“FUCK,” yelled Dex, throwing his cap to the floor in disgust as he stood up. He didn’t go anywhere, just started pacing in front of the couch where he, Holster, and Ransom had crowded.

“I gotta call Shitty,” Lardo muttered, rising to her feet and streaking out of the room.

“Wait, where is Bitty? Is he with Jack? What’s this going to mean for them? Are they going to be okay?” Tango started. Whiskey, who had taken a seat on the floor next to the kitchen chair Tango had dragged in, just shook his head wordlessly.

Derek had been sprawled in front of the couch, between Dex’s legs, before he’d been jarred out of the way by the initial outburst. He turned to look at Chowder, who had curled his lanky frame into a camping chair that had been pitched between him and Tango. Chowder was alternately typing and erasing what was clearly an answer on the group chat, and trying to cut into Tango’s string of questions with wails of “This is what they were worried about when they told us not to tell anyone!” 

On Derek’s other side, Ransom and Holster were eyeing the closed captioning on the screen, muttering to each other under their breaths.

It was loud. Everything was loud and it was bad and two of Derek’s friends, people who had been there at his side while he sweated and bled and celebrated, were suddenly outed on national television like the whole world had a right to their lives.

“Fuck,” he muttered, quiet, but with feeling. He let his head fall back against the couch arm, then knocked it again because it felt appropriate somehow. “We gotta do something.”

“We’re gonna close ranks,” Holster boomed above the low din, and everyone stopped to listen to him. “The Coaches will have something for us to say, but you listen to me right now, you little shits—we are going to have Bittle, and Jack’s, back.”

“No shit!” Dex yelled from where he had paced himself almost out of the room.

“Sure, and we need a battle plan for how we are going to handle internet trolls,” Ransom interjected. “Something that doesn’t made Bitty look bad either, people, so don’t even think of trying to fight fire with fire.”

Immediately, everyone started talking again. Chowder kept trying to text Bitty, but was still on the group chat, so Derek’s pocket kept vibrating. Derek couldn’t think, he didn’t know what to say or do, but he could sense the edge of righteous anger and protectiveness radiating from the group. Dex was pacing again, the baseball cap in his hands a twisted victim of his frustration.

The Chill was seriously in danger. In a last-ditch effort to keep it together, Derek levered himself off the floor, heading to the kitchen for—well, he wasn’t sure what, an excuse to get out, maybe. He also really wanted a beer.

Of course, the only thing left in the Haus fridge was a reject can of Miller Lite that had been there since before Frog year. It was stupid, but just that fast, Derek was overwhelmed, and he rested his forehead against the freezer door, staring down at the almost-empty fridge.

“Alright, grab your fucking boat shoes or whatever, we’ve gotta go.” Derek startled hard as there was a sudden warm, broad hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even heard Dex come in, but the D-man was right there at his back, gently closing the refrigerator door as he steered Derek firmly away from it. Dex was trailed by their own goalie, who was texting with one hand while trying to wiggle on his Nikes with the other.

“….Going….?” Derek tried to pull a mask of firm nonchalance over his face, but it felt like it got stuck halfway on, leaving him both bewildered and somewhat numb and unable to quite understand the situation.

“Murder Stop-N-Shop,” Dex told him. Derek noticed in a detached way that the tight line of anger that had ridden Dex’s shoulders only moments before had smoothed out. His voice was calm, even placating, which should probably be insulting. Derek made a mental note to be offended later

“Bitty’s coming home tomorrow and there isn’t any butter in the whole Haus. The best thing we can do is let him cope however he needs to, and my guess is that is stress-baking.”

“Oh, gosh, okay, that’s a really good idea,” Chowder said, miraculously putting away his phone so that he could tie his laces. “Should we get vanilla extract? I think he’s out of vanilla extract.”

Derek heard Dex mutter under his breath, “How the hell should I know?” before using his broad grip on Derek to steer him gently away from the fridge. “We should pick up a six-pack, too, Nurse.”

“Cool,” Derek agreed, not really paying attention to anything but Dex’s hand on his shoulder and Chowder bouncing in front of him.

It was cold outside still, the tatters of winter still clinging around the shoulders of spring. That, more than anything, started the process of clearing Derek’s head.

The three of them moved in a long-practiced pack, Dex and Derek more-or-less side by side, Chowder bouncing ahead, then doubling back, getting distracted for a moment before settling back between the two of them.

The streets were lively, the “Thirsty Thursday” night crowd prowling for parties. Dex seemed to glare at every passer-by from overtop his tightly-wrapped scarf, and that soothed Derek for some reason. The air, the night, Chowder’s energy and Dex’s solid, protective irritation all were working wonders to balance Derek’s mood.

They split up when they got to the convenience store. Chowder streaked off to go for the vanilla extract but got immediately sidelined at the checkout display when he realized they’d gotten in a shipment of gummy sharks. Dex stalked with purpose over to the dairy section, and Derek trailed after him, coming up short when Dex stopped to pull a six pack of Yuengling out of the fridge to shove at him. “Go take this and make sure Chowder doesn’t buy the entire stock of candy,” Dex told him gruffly.

“Cool,” Derek said, managing a smug smile and enjoying the way Dex rolled his eyes.

Chowder had six bags of gummy sharks in the crook of one arm, and a bottle of imitation vanilla in his other hand. Derek carefully plucked it from his fingers, replaced it, and grabbed an absurdly expensive bottle of bourbon vanilla instead, adding it to his own pile.

“Ohhh, good idea!” Chowder agreed. “Booze and baking!”

By the time all three of them met up at the registers, Derek felt like his feigned Chill was finally more than a façade. Dex had an unholy amount of butter in his hands—the store had to double their inventory after Bitty’s freshman year.

“Can we take this back to the Haus tomorrow?” Chowder asked plaintively as they tumbled out into the night.

Derek agreed. “Want to come back to my dorm?” he asked. He had a single, and even though it was tiny, it was better than the big double room Dex shared with one of his comp-sci buddies, who coincidentally never left it and could almost always be found on his ridiculously jacked desktop setup in the corner of the dorm room. Anton was cool, never asked questions or even usually paid attention to them, but it wasn’t what could be described as private, either.

“Are you trying to pick us up?” Chowder teased wickedly, arching a thick eyebrow for effect. “Two men, Mr. Nurse?”

Derek’s grin was so wide it almost hurt. He was about to tease back when Dex elbowed his side. “I don’t know if I should be offended that you think I’m so easy,” Dex added to Chowder’s chirping.

“If the two of you don’t behave, neither of you are getting laid,” Derek sniffed, “I feel like I’m being ganged up on.”

“Who said we needed you to get laid?” Dex and Chowder said at the same time.

Derek threw up his hands and walked away from the two dickholes laughing their asses off in the middle of the quad. He wanted to yell something both snarky and sexual back at them but there were too many people around, and Dex would get uncomfortable. He compromised by throwing them both middle fingers as he walked backwards, sticking out his tongue.

He should have known that he’d fall on his ass in a hot second.

The howling from the peanut gallery became louder as they got closer, not to help him up but to chirp forever. Derek glared pitifully until Chowder broke—as he knew he would—and helped him up. Chow didn’t stop grinning, though.

Derek didn’t want him to. As they gathered themselves up and managed to make it back to Derek’s dorm without further incident, he realized that his shoulders hurt—it was the tension that had been riding them all night, a tension that was gone now, and he’d barely noticed it leave.

That it was thanks to Dex getting them out of the Haus, giving them something to do, some time to be together did not escape Derek. As soon as they were behind closed doors, Derek dropped his bags and crowded Dex against the wall, relishing the blush that crept up Dex’s neck. Dex was still so surprised when he or Chowder came onto him, was always so caught off-guard. It made him fantastically responsive, and slowly Derek and Chowder were going to socialize him to being aggressively loved-on when he was up for it. It was their joint mission.

“You’re something else, starshine,” Derek murmured in his ear, knowing that the one-two punch of compliments and silly petnames would fire Dex into nonverbal incandescence. “You made our night bearable, so how about we make yours out-of-this-world?”

Chowder, not one to be left out of these things, immediately came at Dex from the side and started kissing his neck, which was guaranteed to turn Dex’s big brilliant brain all the way off. Derek was smiling as he kissed Dex’s lips, swallowing a decadent noise. He could only hope he and Chowder made Dex as happy as Dex made them.

Dex clutched both of their shirts tightly as they worked him over, and Derek thought maybe the answer to his hope was ‘yes’.  

Chris was worried when Bitty came home shaky and wan.

Sure, he put on a good face for the team. Exactly no one bought it, of course, but neither did they call Bits out. They simply supported him in whatever way they could manage, well-thought-out or not. (Butter, great idea. Trying to bake for Bitty, terrible idea, although Tango tried so hard that, despite the inevitable mess, they could all tell that Bitty was charmed.) If Bitty spent even more time than usual on his phone or locked in his room on Skype, no one mentioned it, because he was eating and sleeping and going to class, and the rest of it could be worked out on Bitty’s time and in Bitty’s way.

The week was exactly as rough as imagined, of course, but the spotlight was mostly on Jack Zimmermann, first Out hockey star of his caliber in the NHL. Shitty was the first to tell every professor at Harvard that his father’s best friend’s uncle’s boyfriend, a very close friend of the family, had died in a tragic yacht accident and had immediately fucked off to Providence.

There wasn’t much else that anyone could do. Ransom and Holster had bus tickets down that weekend, but the fatal combination of midterms and a huge away game that Saturday mean that Sunday night was as early as anyone could get to Jack. Chris couldn’t leave as easily as Rans and Holster could, but he did make them promise up and down they wouldn’t forget to give Jack the falcon plushie he’d specifically picked up at the toy store for him. Chris’ shark always made him feel better when he was stressed, even if it was a silly juvenile thing. He figured it would help Jack, too.

The mood team-wide was dour as they boarded the bus to New York for their game against Clarkson University. Bitty had made snack bags for the bus, mostly consisting of everything he had overbaked that week, and the team did pass a companionable time trying to hide the sheer amount of sugar from Murray and Hall. However, as they boarded, the coaches and Lardo called Bitty aside anyway. They looked stern, which was actually Murray’s default look anyway, and by the time they were done with him, Bitty looked dejected and tense as he slumped into a seat near Ransom and Holster.

“Dude, who ratted on you about the cookies?” Holster demanded. “I’ll make him do burpees for the rest of his life.”

“What--? Oh, no, honey, this wasn’t about the food,” Bitty shook his head, looking distracted.

“What was it, then?” Chris asked, trying to be gentle and not too nosey and not sure if he succeeded.

There was a pause as Bitty’s incredibly expressive face screwed up in concentration, clearly debating telling them, but by that point Ransom and Holster both had the gleam in their eyes that promised they would never let it go, so he ended up sighing and giving in. “It’s just…George called. She called me first, but she called the coaches, too, which I guess I should have expected. There’s a big anti-gay protest planned at the game this weekend.”

“That’s fucked,” Ransom said passionately. “Everyone knows that’s fucked, right?”

Nurse nodded, patting Bitty’s arm across the back of the seat that he was leaning over. “It’s fucked that Jack has to go through that, but their PR team is gonna deal with it, you know? And then you and Rans and Holster can go down there and make sure Jack and Shitty are okay.”

Bitty shook his head vigorously, eyes squeezed shut. “No, they’re…they’re coming to our game. They’re coming for me.”

A roadie bus filled with 23 half-grown men was never a quiet place, but as soon as Bitty confessed, it erupted into noise. Chris saw Coach Murray roll his eyes, stand up, and yank the bus PA system down from where it was holstered above the long-suffering driver. He passed it over to Lardo.

“QUIET!” she roared into the mic, before handing it back in smug silence as the bus, miraculously, did quiet down.

There was a long speech about safety and being careful and not engaging, about teamwork and just letting it all go and playing a damn good game of hockey. Chris tuned most of it out. He was more focused of climbing over where Dex was sitting so he could sprawl in Nursey’s lap. Cuddling Nursey was an accepted Roadie activity, partially because What Happens on a Roadie, Stays on a Roadie, and partially because no one ever questioned what Chowder did because Goalies were known, as an objective fact, to be Weird.

If there was ever a time that Chris needed to hide behind the curtain of Goalie Oddity, it was now. He was so worried. Bitty had already gone through so much, and it was affecting the rest of the team to have her sunshiney, sugar-scented locus possibly in danger. And besides, Bitty wasn’t the only gay guy on the team. He just happened to be the most visible one. Chris hated to think of how Nursey, a firm pansexual, or Dex, unsure of who he was but desperately in love with the two of them, might feel to be in the middle of something that could get Really Bad.

Chris sighed, stretching out further so his knee knocked unobtrusively against Dex’s, trying to comfort both his boyfriends at once (and stretching his quads, which he normally liked to do before games). Well, he wasn’t going to let any pucks past him tonight, or anyone who wanted to hurt his team, either. Chris smiled as he heard Ransom, Holster, and a few of the second-string forwards discussing in not-so-low voices strategies for keeping Bitty in the middle of them at all times while Bitty curled up in his seat and stress-tweeted.

Teamwork was going to solve this, Chris decided. He was sure of it.

­­­­­­­­­

Clarkson University ice rink wasn’t built to handle this volume of people, that was for certain. Will took to the ice for warm-ups with a side-eye to the spectators spilling out over the sides of aisles and pressed all the way up to the area behind the benches. College hockey was a big deal around here, sure, but no one was laboring under the misapprehension that the crowd was there to see them play.

For their part, the Clarkson captain and the team manager had met the bus at the away side of the rink with a stricken expression. They’d seen crowds at the rink entrance as they drove in, but the bus had been able to scoot around the back with little trouble and everyone was offloaded as quickly as possible.

“We are doing our best to contain this, and confiscate any signs before anyone enters the rink,” the captain, a dark-haired boy built like a college linebacker, had updated them. “Campus police have loaned us as many officers as they can spare. But we can’t do anything outside of the rink, and we can’t stop people with tickets from coming in. We’ll do our best to get you all out the loading bay when it’s over.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “For what it’s worth, we’re all sorry this shit is happening. Clarkson isn’t like this, and we think most of the troublemakers are from outside campus.”

Lardo had thanked them and in the same breath told the team to get their act together and get their uniforms on. The Captain’s apology had brought down a little of the tension in the locker room, but Will wasn’t soothed in the least. He’d seen the crowd outside as the bus had turned in, seen the signs just outside the building gates. He’d seen Bitty clock them, too, and that thought alone made him sick.

Ransom and Holster’s pre-game music mix was not welcome this time around. They’d last-minute shoehorned in a liberal amount of Beyonce, which was thoughtful of them, but Will could recognize when he’d tipped over the edge of being okay. There was a heaviness in the back of his head and a buzzing in his ears that made every note, every accidental touch, every slap on the back from his team, grate just a little harder, make him flinch and clench his fists.

Chowder was across the locker room, gearing up in one of the goalie stalls, but Derek had taken up his place next to Will. He should have known that Nursey would pick up on it.

Nursey didn’t try to touch him, just knocked on the inside of his stall to get his attention. It was better than saying his name or getting in his face, but at this point anyone needing anything from him was a bit much to handle.

“Dude,” Nursey began, and Will tensed all the way up, ready with a prescient rage for Nurse to tell him to chill. He was blindsided when he was wrong.

“Wreck them,” Nursey told Will. “We’re going to kick their asses, and then we’re going home.”

Well that was something that he could do. It was just the reminder that Will needed, to turn his building energy into aggression. He could give it all to the game, and when the gay guys (they were all here for Bitty, but Will felt every slur, every shout) shut out their opponents, every homophobic mouth-breathing troglodyte in the audience could rot in the hell they so readily professed. Will would send them there himself.

By the time the whistle blew, Will’s ears were roaring and his eyes were trained on the puck and nothing else. He and Nursey sat on the sidelines for the first third, letting Ransom and Holster shut out Clarkson’s first line, but Will never stopped clocking the puck.

And then it was his turn, and Will was ready, not acknowledging the exhausted back-slaps from their captains as he streaks out onto the ice on a mission. He startles a bit, though, when Nursey smacks their sticks together just before the puck is dropped.

Wreck them, Nurse mouthed, and so Will does.

He’s in the penalty box minutes later.

It wasn’t his fault though—they’d gone after Chowder. Gameplay had been stopped and Chowder had been taking a lap around the goal to loosen up between plays and someone had checked him hard enough that he lost his footing and Will saw red and decked the guy.

The scrum that had ensued, everyone was quick to tell him later, out of earshot of the coaches, was legendary. The refs hadn’t seen the check, but the Wellies had.

But that didn’t matter, because the refs had seen Will’s punch and pulled Will off the guy and all he had to show for it was a set of bloody knuckles and a fucking misconduct penalty and nine minutes left in the game.

Derek was still out there. Chowder was pulled soon after but he wasn’t close enough for Will to talk to, alone in the box. All Will had was the puck and the ice—

--and the fans in the stands and the yelling and the booing, the slurs Will could pick out (or was he imagining them? Could they really be saying such things every time Bitty took the ice?) and the anger on the spectator’s faces.

Will’s fists clenched and his chest burned and somewhere in the burning the game ended, they’d lost, they’d lost one-and-oh, and that one point had been while Nurse was on the ice and Will was not. If they’d been together, if Clarkson hadn’t had a powerplay in the last ten—

He’s not holding it together well when they get to the locker room.

­­

Chris hated losing, and he especially hated losing like this. It would be okay if it was a good game and everyone played hard, if there was a give and a take. Sometimes, being on ice was magic and razors, and whether they win or lose it’s the time spent between the poles that mattered.

This game hadn’t been like that.

He had a lot of time, as goalie, to watch. He watched the puck. He watched it the whole time. But sometimes it was very far away, keyed up at the other goal (and he had a twinge of sympathy for the poor bastard when it happened, because it’s a nightmare to have guys take shot after shot after shot on him) he had time to focus on other things, too. He saw the stands. He saw the faces. He saw Nurse in front of him and Dex with his hands clenched on the stick like he wanted to break it in half, and he worried. He saw Bitty, sometimes in front of him and sometimes on the benches, looking pinched and determined and stony, and he worried then too.

And then the guy tripped him—it was an accident, he would have sworn by it—and he realized he hadn’t been worrying the right way because no one had thought to grab Dex until it was too late. He and Nurse exchanged a look as Dex got hauled off. They should have seen it coming. They needed to get Dex alone after the game, because he wasn’t okay.

Chris didn’t worry about the puck enough, though, maybe, so when it got past him he was okay with being pulled. He deserved it, probably. Ransom told him that it was because he looked like he needed a break, and Chowder decided to believe him because it would be too sad not to.

All in all, it was a rotten game, and they all just wanted to get out of uniform and onto the bus.

Chris had almost forgotten that they would still need to run the gauntlet until he heard Holster and Tango putting together what sounded like hockey plays—but this time, it wasn’t about keeping the puck out of sight.

“But what if they get past me?” Tango asked, earnest.

“That’s what the D-men are for,” Holster assured him. “You’re a distraction, make them think you and Whiskey have Bitty, and then Rans and I and Ollie will meat-shield him onto the bus.”

Tango nodded hesitantly, and Chris remembered that the game wasn’t really done yet.

He went for Nursey and Dex, but Lardo stopped all of them as she yelled across the locker room. “Onto the bus, guys, no dawdling. Rans, put your pants on, move it, we’re rolling out in five with or without you.” She looked stressed, but firmly in charge, so Chris took her words at face value. She was clearly more distressed by Ransom’s dick out than about what was outside waiting for them.

Chris’ own street clothes were on in a second, and he grabbed his bag and jogged out after the rapidly dissipating team. He spotted Nursey first, hustled over to him, and right before they stepped out into the night, he grabbed Nurse’s arm and they stood together.

“I lost sight of Poindexter,” Nurse muttered, running a hand through his hair, his eyes not quite focusing on Chris. Chris frowned. “He got roped into whatever Rans and Holster were planning, and I couldn’t find him—“

“He’ll find us on the bus,” Chris assured Nurse, although he too would be happier if they found their boyfriend sooner rather than later. The look on Dex’s face when he sat in the penalty box, the way he was so detached from the game, eyes flicking to the crowd in awe and disbelief and helplessness…it had really spooked Chris. Dex needed them.

Apparently, so did Bitty, because their plan wasn’t as good as they had thought and the loading dock was mobbed.

It was a shock to walk out into, the artificial green of cell phone screens and the dizzying spiral of red and blue police lights momentarily blinding Chris. He was shocked by the faces outside; a crowd had clearly gathered while they had been playing.

There was a line of tape and officers marking a clear path to the bus, but it was invaded over and over by flashbulbs that turned the night a dazzling strobe-scape. Chris craned his neck to look for Bitty, grateful for the firm grip Nurse had on his bicep, dragging him along so he couldn’t get lost in the chaos.

It turned out that Bitty and the group protecting him were behind them. Chris sighed in relief when he saw Dex striding purposefully in the back of the crowd, his glare in full fury. “He’s got Bitty,” Chris told Nurse, who nodded curtly and kept them moving forward.

The last hundred feet to the bus were totally clear – no crowd, no police, just pavement and the bus. The sudden dark in contrast to the flashing lights was both disconcerting and comforting, but Chris was just eager to board at that point. He kept an anxious eye at the little knot behind them, his gaze catching the glint of Bitty’s hair and his chest hurting just a little that their friend had to go through all this.

When they boarded the bus, Nurse went for his and Dex’s usual seats, and Chris streaked to the one in front of them, knowing that he would end up wedged on someone’s lap by the end of the trip. He pressed his face to the window, and that’s when it happened.

There were people moving around in the dark between the crowd and the bus, and Chris didn’t know how they’d gotten there, but they did. The small knot of hockey players had Bitty surrounded just fine, but one of the strangers said something to Bitty that made his face go white before he took a sharp breath, stood his ground, and yelled something Chris couldn’t hear but looked horrific. One of the men in the dark moved forward menacingly, half a shadow, but Bitty was already being dragged into the bus, along with the rest of the stragglers on the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team.

Except Dex.

It all happened in the half a moment that Chris took his eyes off the crowd to instead track the boys loading onto the bus. He caught a glimpse of Bitty, red-faced and expression crumpled, and was just about to go and see if he could do anything, when a roar echoed from outside. Chris threw himself back toward the window more out of instinct than coordination, but that meant he saw everything.

He saw Dex’s face expression break into something that Chris couldn’t help associate with danger before he stalked toward the wayward knot of bullies.

“Derek!” Chris yelled across the bus, but of course it was too late. Dex was yelling, and then the grown man in front had thrown a punch, and even though Dex was fast and scrappy, it got him in the side of the head and then Dex’s blood was up and he had thrown himself into the fray.

Nurse, for his part, was quick. He heard the thread of fear in Chris’ voice and understood what he’d meant when he used his real name, coupled with the fact that Dex was the only one not on the bus. Nurse understood, and he moved, but Chris was faster and was in the aisle and trying to shove his way out of the bus in an instant. He got past the first few hockey players, but then Holster was at the head of the aisle and Ransom was still on the stairs, and they were big and their adrenaline was pumping and they had caught Chris’ sweatshirt before he could bolt out of the bus.

“No, let me go—Will!” Chris protested, voice high and cracking like it hadn’t since sophomore year of high school. He was going to panic, he’d watched Will go down, and the police were too busy holding back the crowd and did anyone see that he was in trouble?

“Wait, Dex?” Ransom was the first to realize why Chris was in such a state, and twisted around to look outside the bus, eyes widening as he saw the scene outside. Chris saw it too, and twisted and kicked and somehow got free of Holster, tumbling down the bus steps.

Police were there now, pulling several grown men away in cuffs. They were yelling words that Chris had only seen on message boards in dark corners of the internet, never said in anger in real life. It didn’t feel like real life. It couldn’t be real life, because where was Dex? Chris couldn’t see him, just his sweatshirt laying on the –

-- No, that wasn’t his sweatshirt, that was Will, laying on the ground.

Chris had no idea what sound came out of his mouth, but it was swallowed up by the whine of the ambulance that was coming through. It must have been waiting outside the crowd for just this kind of terrible thing to happen, and somehow that made the situation even more painful, even more surreal.

Chris pushed himself to his feet—when had he fallen, scraped his knees? Had he fallen out of the bus?—and tried to race over, but he was caught again, this time with long arms wound firmly around his waist, tucking him immobile against a strong, wiry body. Paramedics were leaning over Will’s unmoving body, shining lights on him, rolling him onto a backboard.

“Let me go--!”

“C, Chris, it’s me, come on, we can’t go over there, C, listen to me.”

Nursey’s voice was in his ear, low and pleading. He was talking fast; Chris wasn’t sure if he understood all the words.

“Chris, we gotta let the paramedics work. We can’t get in their way. They’re gonna let one of the coaches on the ambulance, maybe, but you know they won’t let us get on there. It’s going to be okay, C, but we need to grab an Uber and get to the hospital so we can be there when—“

“I need to get to him—he’s gotta be okay—Derek they hit him, they hit him and they kept hitting him and now he’s on the ground and they’re okay, they’re yelling, getting into police cars but they’re okay and Will isn’t, how could they—“

And then Chris couldn’t breathe anymore, he was hiccupping too hard, realized he was sobbing and couldn’t get air. He sagged in Nursey’s arms, still straining but not really sure what direction or why or how or what was going on around him.

“C, I’m gonna let you go, because I need to call a cab, and we need to get there to be with Dex, but you gotta take a second and chill—“

Rage spun through Chris like white-hot fire, and as Nursey released his grip, Chris whirled around and socked him hard somewhere on the abdomen. He was furious, desperate, how could anyone tell him to chill when—

“Ohmygod,” he said immediately as Nursey let out a hurt breath and clutched his side. “Ohmygod Nurse-Derek—I hit—Derek I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry—“ and that was it, he was crying again, crumpled over and sure he was going to die because why couldn’t he breathe?

Everything was coming in pieces, but he felt his body pushed and shoved, and he couldn’t resist but he couldn’t help either. After either year or a second, he was sitting on the ground with his head between his knees, clutching his ankles, his stomach swooping like the moment where you leaned too far back on a chair and it toppled over, only it wasn’t stopping and he wasn’t hitting the ground. There was warmth wrapped around him and a murmur in his ear and Chris was dimly aware that it was a long time before he could make out the words.

“…In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three…”

Immediately, Chris sagged into the warmth around him. It was Nursey, he knew that in his bones, because he could smell him and it was all so familiar because usually Chris did this for Nursey when he got panic attacks. Nursey needed to be held tight through it, needed his breathing regulated, and Chris would hold him while Will counted…

When Chris finally had enough breath to speak, he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Chris,” Nurse murmured in his ear.

Chris shook his head, because it wasn’t okay, but he was exhausted and couldn’t explain that now. He wanted to cry more, but all his tears were gone. “Will,” he said instead, miserable and stuffed up.

“We gotta—the cab is probably here. Can you stand? We have to go out to the curb to get it, okay?”

Chris recognized Nursey’s tone as just a little pedantic but he was so gentle and Chris couldn’t care, after all, he’d just gone to piece on the cold asphalt. Now that it was over, Chris felt empty and almost embarrassed, but not quite. There wasn’t much left in him to be embarrassed. Maybe later.

Chris only remembered pieces of getting into the cab. Coach Murray was saying something to them, and so was Lardo, but then the cab door was closed and they were going. He sagged against Nurse and closed his eyes as the streetlights flashed him. His stomach hurt so much he thought he was going to throw up and his eyes stung.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered, only half-sure it was out loud. Derek let out a low, awful sound, and threaded his hands through Chris’ hair.

They were as close as they could be, and it wasn’t enough, because even skin pressed to skin, the emptiness stretched between them.

Derek had lost sight of Will, and that’s why it had happened.

It had all started on the ice. Ransom and Holster had drilled it into their heads so many times—don’t lose your man. For the tadpoles, that meant eyes-on when they didn’t have the puck. For Dex and Derek, for any other D-man team worth their skates, that meant knowing where your partner was just as surely as you knew where the puck was.

Somewhere in the milieu, though, Derek had stumbled. He’d missed the puck completely, much less his partner, in the rush of distraction that such a terrible night had embroiled in him. It was only what felt like a second later that Dex was benched, and Derek had missed it.

And then missed him again after the game.

And then again when Dex needed them, right when the tension that Derek knew had to be tearing at him reached its breaking point. Derek didn’t even see Dex go down, that had been all Chowder. Derek hadn’t seen anything but the aftermath, the clear vision of Dex lying on the ground, surrounded by the flashing red and blue that flickered everything into strobing slow motion.

His guilt threw him into motion. He had to get a cab, get Chowder, get to the hospital. He had to keep it together, be the strong one.

Chowder was next to him, tucked into a chair, but unable to mash into his side like he so obviously wanted to because of the hard plastic arms of the waiting-room chairs. Instead, the goalie was hunched over miserably in his own chair, red-rimmed eyes on the floor, breathing shakily but steadily.

Of course they would have to wait. Derek had known that they would. Dex had been in such bad shape. He’d let Chowder ask the front desk where Dex was, because he needed something to do and he was secretly hoping sympathy might get them more information.

Derek quickly regretted his curiosity.

“He’ll be in surgery for awhile yet,” the tired-looking nurse had been able to tell them. “Your friend came in with severe abrasions, a cracked rib, and we are worried about several bruises to his face and head.” Chowder’s face had paled, and Derek wasn’t sure what expression he was making, but he felt as though his stomach was squeezed in an unrelenting fist. “He needs stitches in a few places,” she continued, reading off her computer. “And then we will need to keep him for observation until we are sure there is no internal bleeding.”

“We need to see him,” Chowder had breathed out.

The nurse had looked sympathetic. “Not until he is out of the ICU.”

Of course not. They settled down to wait, alone in the harsh fluorescence.

“I should call his mom,” Chowder said into the static of the tiny TV screen that was running subtitled late-night shows in the corner. There were very few other people in the waiting room and they were hushed, barely talking among themselves, all waiting for someone.

Derek opened his mouth to be practical, to tell Chowder that the coaches had probably already called, and that if the Poindexters could, they’d be on their way here right now.

Instead, nothing came out, and Derek started to silently cry.

Chowder looked up, alarmed, scrambling out of his chair and dropping to his knees on the floor in front of Derek. “Derek?” He reached up like he wanted to take Derek’s face in his hands, but wasn’t sure if it was okay. Derek wasn’t either. The tears were falling fast and hot, and his face was already a mess, that fast—his nose was running, his chin was trembling. He hugged himself around the middle, lost in the complete helplessness of the moment.

Derek could hear when the team showed up from all the way down the hall. Holster’s demand of “where’s our D-man?” reverberated against the bland tile. His hand jolted down to hold one of Chowder’s against the top of his thigh.

“I don’t…I don’t think I can talk to them,” Derek said tightly, eyes flicking around for an escape. “I can’t—Bitty’s gonna ask how we are and Tango’s gonna ask everything else and Rans and Holster will—“

Chowder’s eyes darted around the room before he turned back to Nurse, chewing on his bottom lip. His eyebrows were furrowed in determination.

“Up,” he ordered. “Sorry, but—can you stand up for a second?”

Derek did, and as the SMH came barreling around the corner, Chowder had maneuvered Derek into an empty corner of the waiting room, shoving aside a low table to be able to box Derek in. With the walls around him on three sides, Derek already felt better, safer. Tired and overwhelmed, he sank to the floor. He watched as Chowder just…

Squatted.

Oh.

Chris Chow in his Vans and loose jeans and godawful Sharks sweatshirt, stood over him in perfect goalie form. 

Derek wasn’t sure that he’d ever felt safer.

Ransom and Holster pounded up to thm then, but Chowder shited slightly so his whole body still blockd Derek into the corner.

“Yo, Bro—“

“How is he?”

“Are you--?”

Bitty, Lardo, and the others weren’t far behind—half the team was there. Derek stared at the backs of Chowder’s thighs and pretended they couldn’t see him.

“We’re okay, we don’t know how he is, please back up,” Chowder said in one breath. He sounded calm and tight and focused, just like he got between the poles.

“Dude, are you okay, though,” Ransom started to press Chowder. “You looked really bad out there.”

“Guys, we’re okay, but I really need you to back up.”

Ransom seemed to see something on Chowder’s face that told him not to argue. Holster didn’t have any such reservations, but Ransom dragged him away with a hissed, “Dude, you’re a puck right now, okay?”

Derek relaxed. The team was there and that was good, but he didn’t have to deal with them right now. Lardo was taking her turn to talk quietly to Chowder, expression calm and blank, before nodding over to where Coach Hall was in conference with one of the nurses—not the harried one at the desk, but a young man with a serious expression. The coach turned to look at Chowder for a second.  He wasn’t looking at Derek. Derek was behind Chowder and no one was going to get to him back here.

No one but the tired nurse, the one who had told him and Chowder to wait, who had been watching them both break down in the waiting room. Chowder let her by, because she came to speak to both of them.

“William Poindexter—you’re his friends, right? He’s out of Intensive Care. I can let you see him, for a few minutes.” She glanced around at the suddenly-full waiting room, at all the hockey players looking-but-not-looking at them, the way Lardo was subtly trying to get the Coach’s attention on her and away from the scene. Derek got that she shouldn’t be doing this.

If she hadn’t he might not have been able to get through the rest of the night.

Derek scrambled to his feet so fast that he ended up overbalancing and falling into Chowder, who caught him with strong, trembling shoulders. Their hands found each other’s—no one looked or seemed to care.

Derek was so anxious to see Dex that he hadn’t even taken a breath to steel himself, and then breathing just wasn’t an option.

Dex was so hurt.

The black eye was the first thing that he noticed, stark against the unnaturally pale skin and bright freckles. Some kind of splint stretched across Dex’s nose, over discolored bruises. There was a huge swatch shaved into his head where stitches sat perched, fat and greedy, across Dex’s scalp. His hands and arms were covered in gauze and wires and an IV for saline drip.

He was beautiful. He was breathing.

Derek didn’t notice the nurse leave and close the door—he was already across the room. Dex’s right hand lay palm-up on the bed, uninjured except for the gauze on his knuckles. Derek slid his own hand across it, heart both painfully tight even as he was filled with relief.

He was breathing.

Dex was breathing.

Derek had not allowed himself to put to words his fear that Dex would not be, but it had crouched over him nonetheless. Dex may not yet be awake, but he was alive, and Derek didn’t know how to hope for anything more in that moment.

But then he heard it, the deep sound from beside the door, and looked up to see Chowder still standing there. He was tensed as if to run, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles bruised white His teeth were bared in a metallic snarl that Derek had never, ever seen on Chowder’s open face before. There were tears on his cheeks again, and he was shaking.

“Chowder?” Derek asked, immediately torn. He couldn’t let go of Dex’s hand, not now, not yet, but Chowder needed him, too.

“They hurt him so bad,” Chowder said from between clenched teeth, voice harsh. “They hurt him but they didn’t get hurt back. They need to be punished for this. They have to be.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “They have to.”

Derek knew that he was staring, but he hadn’t known that rage was an emotion that Chris Chow could sustain. “Chowder—“

“I wanna—“ Chowder’s expression twisted helplessly. “I want to hurt them back. I know it’s bad, but I want to and I—“

“…C?”

A weak squeeze to Derek’s hand accompanied Dex slowly slitting open his eyes.

“Oh shit,” Chowder whimpered, face doing something complicated that bounced back and forth between a grimace and a grin. He was across the room that fast, and Dex shakily reached out to him with the hand that Derek wasn’t already holding. Chowder grabbed it with as much gentleness as he could muster, and then he and Derek only had eyes for Dex.

“….they’re gone?” was the first thing that Dex asked, and Derek felt his heart beat hard, once, down in his stomach.

“You’re safe,” Derek promised him, as he and Chowder exchanged a look. “Those fuckers got arrested.”

Dex looked like he was trying to smirk, but the smile slid into a wince as moving his face dragged against his split lip. “Fuck,” he said meaningfully. “S-shit, this hurts.”

“I’ll call the nurse!” Chowder offered, standing up fast, hip-checking the bed. His face fell when Dex let out a pained noise at the jostling.

“Not yet,” Dex said, his voice just on the wrong side of pleading, reaching for Chowder again with obvious effort.

Chowder looked panicked, but he did settle back down, sitting gingerly on the mattress and letting Dex’s hand fall to his thigh.

“You should go back to sleep, babe,” Derek told Dex, just for something to say.

Dex looked like he agreed, but he shook his head just a little before realizing that was a bad idea as well and letting his eyebrows settle into a discontented look. “You both look awful,” he said roughly. Derek had a million comebacks, from look who’s talking to this should be literally the last thing on your mind but Dex just continued, looking between Derek and Chowder. “Are you okay?”

Chowder’s mouth fell open, and he stared at Dex.

Derek was equally thrown off. Trust Dex, only Dex, to ask about them when he had just gotten out of surgery. Derek felt that he was shaking his head wordlessly, and when Dex looked even more concerned, he hurried to wipe that look off his face. “We will be, now that we know you’re going to be okay, too.”

Dex let out what sounded like a painful breath, then grimaced. “Good. I’d fight them again if you weren’t.” Derek didn’t know what to do with that, not sure how to even look at Dex for too long. “Don’t let Bits or Jack blame themselves. This one’s on me.” His voice was slurring and his eyes were sliding closed.

Chowder gave into what had been clearly holding himself back from holding, sliding his fingers with infinite care through the hair on the uninjured side of Dex’s head.

“You don’t have to fight anymore,” Chowder told him. “You just have to sleep.”

Dex murmured something that sounded assenting, and then it was clear that he was out again.

Lardo texted Derek and Chowder not long after to warn them that the team was going to stay at a nearby hotel for the night. Apparently there had been a mutiny, and no one was going to leave without checking on Dex.

(Lardz): also hall and murray are gonna kill u

(Lardz): but since no one came to drag you away i don’t think its that serious

(Lardz): team is coming as soon as visitor hours start. jack is driving shits up too

Derek and Chowder had both abandoned the awful visitors’ chairs and instead were sprawled on the linoleum floor, exhausted but unwilling to leave the line of sight of the slowly-breathing boy on the bed. Derek checked his messages with Chowder on his lap, both reading at the same time.

(Me): Thanks for covering our butts

(Lardz): just doing my job

(Lardz): What else can we do for u two tho?

Trust Lardo to cut right to the chase. Derek paused, and let Chowder sag back against his chest so that Derek could nose at his cheek.

“What do you need, C?”

Chowder paused and seemed to really think it over. “Time,” he finally sighed.

Derek knew exactly what he meant.

(Me): We’re okay for now

(Lardz): If ur lying I’ll ask c instead

(Me): : )))))) its chowder now hi. nurse is right we r ok. I mean I’m a little sleepy but its okay because dex is here and he opened his eyes even. please make sure the coaches don’t bench us forever : ((((

(Lardz): Noted. Get some sleep.

Ransom and Holster had both also texted about 16 times each, but Derek didn’t have the energy to respond, and it seemed that Chowder didn’t either. They would talk to Lardo, he was sure.

They probably wouldn’t get any sleep on the floor, but the clock was creeping close to 4 am, and so the two of them settled as comfortably as they could, half leaning against the wall and half against each other. They’d get yelled at when the next nurse came in.

“…I take it back,” Chowder whispered into the darkness. His fingers were around Derek’s wrist, smoothing a pattern up and down the veins that beat close to the surface there.

“…hm?” Derek asked, half on the hazy edge of drowsing.

“I don’t want to hurt them anymore. I’m just glad Dex woke up. I don’t want anyone to hurt like that.”

Derek had always thought that Chowder had the biggest heart out of anyone he knew. Derek knew that for all he himself spoke prettily, he would have no such problems beating the crap out of the men who had hurt Dex. However, something about Chowder letting go of the rage that had wracked him was a relief to Derek.

“You’re a good person, C,” Derek told him, sighing it out like a promise.

Chowder’s voice, when he replied, was small.

“…even though I lost it a lot tonight?” he asked. “I almost left you alone to deal with it all yourself. And…I broke my own rule. I hit you. I’m sorry.” A pause. “I’m really, really, really sorry,” he finished, breathless like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

Derek wondered how much of this they were going to have to talk about again in the morning, but right now he was emotionally exhausted and the darkness loosened his lips before he could think too hard. “You were right there in front of me when I needed to be. We took care of each other, and now we can take care of Dex. And I’m not going to hold anything—anything, C—that happened tonight against you.”

Chowder stiffened. “Nursey, you can’t. There’s absolutely no excuse for doing—doing something like—like that—“

Derek interrupted him though. “You’re right. But I forgive you anyway.”

The steady hum of the machines Dex was hooked up to were the only sounds in the room for a long time.

“…you do?”

“I do,” Derek promised. There was fairness, and there were the boys he loved. He knew what came first.

They didn’t sleep, but they drifted off for a while. It was good enough.

Dex woke another time in the early hours of the morning, breathing heavily and disoriented. Chris and Nurse scrambled to reassure him where he was and why “Ungh, I feel like I did after first conditioning practice Frog year, except if there was more boxing involved.” Chris was grateful that they could calm him down just by being there, and that he seemed to really want to keep a hold of Chris’ hand. Chris didn’t want to pull away, but he would have if this was one of the times that Dex didn’t want to touch anyone.

Instead he ended up falling asleep a little against Dex’s own pillows, leaning there after he had perched on the bed to better hold Dex’s hand.

He woke the heck up at 9:00 AM exactly, though, when a quarter of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team and two former members all converged on Dex’s hospital room.

Dex took it all in good stride, if under the aid of a lot of intravenous painkillers and some bullying from the day-nurse to keep several large hockey players relatively quiet and mostly under control. He didn’t let go of Chris’ hand, though, and kept his eyes on Nurse whenever he could. He was mostly high and out of it, and fell asleep after only an hour.

Jack had driven up, with Shitty. Of course he had—Chris was really grateful, too, because clearly Bitty really needed someone too. He had almost forgotten, in all of the mess, that it had started with someone threatening Bitty. He felt bad as soon as he realized he had forgotten his friend, and slipped away to catch him out in the hallway.

Bitty greeted him with a furious hug. Chris smiled a little, happy to return it in force, before asking, “You’re okay, right?”.

Bitty’s face did something funny that looked like both surprise and a frown that was marred by a smile that was very fond. Bitty liked Chris, and Chris liked knowing that. He also liked Bitty. Bitty was like an older brother he’d never had and he always looked out for Chris. It just reinforced the fact that Chris should have been looking out for him too.

“Now, honey, I’m fine, don’t you worry about me. I have the team, and Jack, and I had a nice long chat with the head of PR and the head of Falconers’ security late last night.”

Chris nodded, because he could imagine. He was glad he didn’t have to deal with it the way Bitty did. Chris had sort of felt like his world had fallen apart last night. Bitty had to deal with his world and everyone else’s, too.

Bitty patted his shoulder. “Now don’t look like that. The worst I have to deal with is not being able to supplement hospital cafeteria food for you boys.” It was an understatement, but Chris appreciated what Bitty was trying to do. “Have you even eaten yet?”

Chris couldn’t help it. He started laughing, long and loud in the hallway. It hadn’t even been funny but suddenly all the air in his body wanted to leave and it was better than shouting. It made him feel better, too, a little…even if it also made him hungry.

Will's head pounded, which was how he knew he was awake rather than in one of the freakishly realistic dreams that the pain meds were giving him. The last few had consisted of him trying to walk somewhere but repeatedly falling on his face, hard, like he'd tripped over his feet or taken a check onto the ice.

The indistinct murmur of voices slowly morphed into something recognizable, helped by their volume -- Will recognized Holster first because, even though he was clearly trying to be quiet, his voice carried.

 "We know you have Chowder to lean on, but don't forget you have the rest of the team, too," Holster was saying very seriously. Will wasn't sure if he'd ever heard that tone of voice before, even during pre-game speeches or when he was being chewed out for fighting with Nursey at practice. "All three of you do."

"And us D-men gotta stick together," Ransom chimed in without pause. "We're not just your captains, bro. We know what was at stake here." Will idly wondered if they did, to that extent. He had definitely had suspicions.

As his brain slowly caught up to his surroundings, he was aware of someone sitting close to his other side, someone not participating in whatever weird bonding moment the captains were having with Nursey. Will fought for a moment to open his eyes, but when he managed it, he was staring at the intense blue gaze of Jack Zimmermann. Once, Will would have been--had been--freaked out by the man with "Ghost Eyes" as his superstitious and very Irish Grandfather would have called them. Will knew better now. He couldn't fathom, even now, what Jack was thinking when he stared like that, but the regard was comforting and hawkishly protective rather than threatening.

"Sleep more, if you can," Jack told him in a low voice. His hands were in his lap, one thumb rubbing over the opposite knuckle.

"Is everything...okay?" Will asked, as low as he could, trying not to interrupt whatever was going on with Rans and Holster. He wasn't sure what he meant by the question, only that nothing felt alright right now and he couldn't figure out why.

Jack, bless him, started listing. "Bitty and Shitty and Lardo are taking Chowder to get food. Rans and Holster have Nurse. I think the coaches are talking to your doctor; they want you released tomorrow so you can ride back with the team. They called your parents; your mom is taking the bus to Samwell right now."

The talking in the corner stopped, but Will was still listening to Jack. "The rest?"

Jack nodded seriously. "The Falcs are taking over the legal proceedings. There is some stuff for you to decide when you feel like you can. This will never--" the word came out hard and with just the edge of a stutter, "happen to anyone on the team, ever again." He closed his eyes briefly. When they reopened, Will caught something hot and beating behind the icy stare. "I'm so sorry it happened this time."

"Jack, it's my fault--I don't remember much but I know that I provoked--"

Jack shook his head just once, but Will remembered the look, the gesture from his Captain days. "No. The fault is not, and will never lie with you, no matter what happened."

Will didn’t argue. He didn’t even know if he could—all his thinking was in bits and pieces. He lost time, somewhere after that. People came and left. Nurses took his blood pressure, and the doctor came to shine a light in his eye sand do something to his chest that hurt like fire. Will didn’t take in much, except for that either Chowder or Nursey were always by him, and if he woke with a start, like he did twice more, someone always grabbed his hand.

When he finally opened his eyes again for what felt like would be more than a few minutes, it was because there was shouting in the hallway. He startled hard, and then was startled again to realize he was alone, truly alone in the room for what might have been the first time all day.

He realized why a few moments later. Both of his boyfriends were shouting, really shouting, outside his door. He tried to hear what was being said, but it was muffled by the closed door. He didn’t think they were shouting at each other—Nursey would never, ever do that to Chowder and Chowder only really yelled when Will and Nurse had been arguing too long and he wanted their attention.

“…guys?” he croaked into the empty room. It wasn’t nearly loud enough to do anything but make him wince at how rough he sounded.

He looked around the room to see if there was a cup of water anywhere. Sideways orange light was filtering in through the window beside him, bending the spare furniture into long shadows against the linoleum. There were at least four plastic chairs scattered around the room, as well as a canvas cot shoved into one corner.

A grey plastic cup of water was on a tray just out of reach, and Will was debating whether or not his aching ribs were going to hold up to him sitting up to get it, when the door slammed open.

“Oh, shoot, whoops, I didn’t mean to swing it that hard!” Chowder announced as he and Nursey entered the room. Nursey was stalking and looked furious. They were alone.

Will blinked at them both, still feeling a bit like he was moving underwater. He knew he would be in a bad place when they stopped letting him have drugs for pain, but he was done with the fuzziness that came with it.

“…guys?” he said again, feeling inane but unable to think of anything else to break their stunned expressions.

“Hey, babe,” Nurse said, throwing his disgruntled expression into something that, Will thought, might have been approximating a smirk. It wasn’t working. “How you feeling?”

“You’re awake!” Chowder said over him, bouncing over.

“…sorta,” Will agreed. “And I’m feeling—fuck, hell if I know, but can someone hand me that water?”

Chowder, clearly pleased to feel useful, brought it over and even sort of helped Will get to the straw. The attempt was more or less mortifying, but Will figured that it was allowable because a) he had seen both of his boyfriends, at various times, vomity-schwasted, crying uncontrollably, and stark naked (and for Derek, that had been all in the same half hour) and b) he really couldn’t have managed without the help.

He was still pleased to settle back to his pillows, sighing as he let his eyes drift closed. He wasn’t in danger of falling asleep again, not yet, but the fluorescent lights were continuing to hurt his eyes and squinting them just made his face ache.

“Was that you two yelling outside the door?” he asked, even though he knew it had been. It was almost funny to see the deer-in-the-headlights expressions on both of their faces. Chowder was even starting to blush, which seemed like an out of place reaction.

“…sorry,” Chowder mumbled. “We didn’t want to wake you, that’s why we were outside.”

Nursey just shrugged. “I would be disappointed if you hadn’t heard us. I’ve been cultivating that volume for the next time you say something stupid on the ice.”

Next time. Yeah, Will was pretty sure he was going to be out for the rest of the goddamn season. The doctor had given him a rundown of his injuries, and they were not fun. The stitches and broken nose might not stop him from playing for long, but there was some bad damage to his ribs that was going to take weeks to heal properly, not to mention be ready for him to take a hard skate or even a glancing check.

Will sighed. “So are you going to tell me why you were yelling?”

Irritatingly, Nurse shrugged again. “It’s not important.”

Clearly, Chowder thought that answer was just as dumb as Will did, because he elaborated with a glance at Nursey. “We just…had to talk to the coaches. It wasn’t a big deal. They went back to the hotel now to get the rest of the team ready to leave tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you going back to the hotel with them?” Will asked. His heart sped up as he asked, and he realized with a start that he was dreading the answer. He didn’t want to be alone—even the few moments before had been, if he was being honest, really fucking scary. He couldn’t even get his own water, for God’s sake. He was completely alone in a new state, badly hurt and still really out of it. He didn’t know if he could handle not having someone with him who he knew was going to look out for him.

Chowder and Nurse must have seen those emotions all over his face, because they both crowded closer to him, one on either side, Nursey perching himself on the mattress and Chowder going for his hand.

“Bro, no way. That’s what the yelling was about,” Nursey admitted. “One of them was gonna stay with you. But we—“ he faltered.

“—but we aren’t leaving and we made sure the coaches knew that,” Chowder concluded. “Um. Loudly.”

Will groaned. “They’ve got to be so pissed at me.”

“What? No way,” Derek said, eyebrows furrowing. “Why the hell would you think that?”

Will hoped his expression conveyed how stupid he thought that question was. “I think I just caused the worst weekend of their careers, what do you mean ‘why would I think that’?”

Will wasn’t out of it enough to miss the look that Chowder and Nurse exchanged above his head. He looked up grumpily from one to the other. “Don’t tell me what Jack did. Sure, those guys were assholes, but I provoked them. Go ahead, tell me I didn’t.”

There was silence for a long time. Will felt fingers run through his hair, barely brushing against his scalp—it was Chowder, who Will knew wouldn’t keep his hands to himself. Will was glad he didn’t. The boys were ridiculously gentle with him, and Will needed it for a second, needed the forgiveness.

“You wanna tell us why, then?” Derek finally asked softly.

“Why what?” sniffed Will. Chowder stopped stroking his hair, and they were both looking so Serious. Will wished he hadn’t said anything. He wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t think he ever would be.

It was the memory of just last night lurking behind the drugs and the pain. Will hadn’t just gone off without provocation and he hadn’t just done it to defend Bitty. Sure, that had been his game at first, but even when Holster recruited him, he’d gone because he had needed to. The protective stance, the readiness to fight--he’d needed that to shed some of the energy of the night. And Bitty had looked so sad, so nervous, like he had at the beginning of last year coming off a concussion and fear of contact that the coaches had talked about in low voices, thinking that no one would hear.

It was pure selfishness that caused Will to leap into action, though.

“Um…” Chowder said. “Why you fought.” He must have seen Will tense but he continued on. “I saw—I saw Bitty yelling at those guys after something they said. What about it made it so much worse than everything else? Why did you do it?”

Will wanted to be mad, wanted to feel accused. He wanted to lash out and yell and make them forget about it.

But Nurse and Chowder looked like hell. They’d slept on his hospital floor. They wouldn’t, couldn’t stop touching Will and Will could tell, he’d scared them.

And that was the whole point. Because he never ever wanted them to be scared like Bittle was. Like Will was.

Will closed his eyes, and said, very matter-of-factly: “Fags won’t be happy, and one less in the world won’t matter.”

He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to see. The words came off his tongue clearly annunciated, because he would not forget them. Maybe the verbal abuse was garden-grade. Will had certainly heard worse, in the locker room in high school, in the back rooms of Kegsters. He’d heard worse on TV and seen it on the internet. But this was it, what gave him pause.

He didn’t know why it had hurt Bitty so much. Maybe it was for the same reasons it had hurt Will.

For Will, it was this: Derek and Chris were queer, open and proud. Derek and Chris loved men, and women, and other people. Derek and Chris loved. The crowd in front of the ice rink that shouted hate wasn’t just shouting at the fragile blonde object of their ire. They hated with a seething passion everything that made Will’s life seem like it could be worth it, some days. They hated the reason Will strove to be a better person every day. They were threatening and hollering about the reasons Will had been watching mindfulness meditation videos to curb his outbursts, and remembering to be kind to strangers. They weren’t just out for Bitty, they were out for everyone who stood in their way. They were out for people like Derek and Chris.

So Will had to fight them.

He didn’t open his eyes. He could hear the hitch in Chowder’s breath and the stunned silence from Nurse. He knew he’d dropped more than a bomb, but he just kept going. “I mean, what was I going to do,” he said defensively. “It wasn’t just about Bitty—it never has been. It’s about everyone they hate. And I just kept thinking, they hate all of them, and that meant that they hated you two, too.” He sighed, or tried to, but his deep breath caught at his ribs and he wheezed instead. “Fuck, but, I couldn’t let guys like that just walk around and think that they could hurt you.” The pain was really getting to him, but he wasn’t going to get anymore drugs except for ibuprofen from here on out. “Ah, Jesus fuck, I need some water.”

There was a scramble, and when Will was able to open his eyes, the plastic straw was in front of him. So was Nurse, half-kneeling on the edge of the bed. He was looking at Will with something akin to wonder on his face, half-grimacing, half-thoughtful.

Chowder was sniffling on Will’s other side. “You know—snnh—you know the only thing,” he took a sharp breath, “that would hurt us worse than—than actually getting hit—would be hurting you. You know that, right?” Will was silent for what must have been a moment too long, because Chris wiped his nose on his sweatshirt sleeve and then tried glaring. “You know that, right?”

Will didn’t know why that was the last straw. He gulped tiny sips of air for a moment, then asked. “Can you keep…doing that thing with my hair?” he asked, his voice coming out much smaller than he’d even thought. “And—Nurse, come here, can I—can you hold my hand?”

Nurse’s grin was instant and broke over his tired face like a wave, “Sure but—like, you never ask.”

Will answered honestly. “I’ve never been sure what I could ask for.”

“Anything,” Chowder promised.

“Everything,” Nurse agreed.

Will let out a long sigh and felt something settle inside himself as seamlessly as he’d settled his extra running shoes in Nurse’s closet and his CS notes next to Chowder’s in the attic. As easily as three idiot boys had crushed a bouquet of tulips all over the dorm room floor in their haste and their fear of the future.

Will hadn’t known he could want these things, and he hadn’t known he could ask for them, but now that he had them anyway, he was never letting go.