Chapter Text
Moving was supposed to make things better. Eric knew it was supposed to make things better, and he told his parents that it had. He couldn’t bear to tell them the truth, not after everything that had happened. He couldn’t tell them the truth after everything he had put them through. He had encouraged the move, had wanted to move desperately. He had been miserable before the move. It had gotten worse and worse in the two years since the utility closet incident.
His Mama still got teary-eyed when she thought about the day; how they hadn’t known where their baby was, had searched and searched for him all night. They had issued a police report for a missing person and everything. Coach told Eric Mama had been hysteric by the time the janitor found him in the morning, battered, bruised, and bleeding, but completely silent just sitting in the corner of the closet. Eric never told his parents the details of what happened. He didn’t tell them who did it. He couldn’t, he was too afraid of what would happen if he got the boys in trouble. When they asked why he wasn’t making any noise in the morning he just shrugged. He didn’t tell them that it was because he had already screamed himself hoarse the night before and then completely broken down when no one answered. He didn’t tell them that he hadn’t even realized it was morning, or that he had stopped feeling the pain of his bruises, by the time they found him. He didn’t tell them that he had flinched from the janitor, hardly seeing the man himself where he was hidden behind Eric’s memories of the boys who had hurt him and locked him up.
The thing was, his parents knew that it had been awful but they thought it was over. It had been two years. After two years Eric didn’t know how to tell his parents that the memory never faded, that every time someone moved towards him too fast he saw the face of one of the boys for a moment. That every single time he had a moment of complete terror, remembering the broken fear of being alone and in pain, convinced that no one was ever going to come back for him. He didn’t tell his parents that he couldn’t go into his closet anymore. Instead he had gotten an extra dresser for all his clothes and told his Mama he just preferred it. He didn’t tell his parents that even bathrooms sometimes made his breathing quicken, the space too small for him.
When they had suggested the move Eric had jumped at the chance. Coach had a good job offer, so it would be great for him, but more importantly he could get away from where it happened. When they had asked all he had thought of was never having to walk through the school again. All that mattered was never having to see the door to the utility closet again; never having to see the faces of those boys in real life; getting as far from what had happened as possible. He had been convinced that it would make things better. Except he hadn’t thought it through. Moving meant leaving the familiar comforts of home too. It meant leaving Katya. Leaving his coach meant giving up figure skating, there was no point trying to find a new one since no one could compare, and no point trying to continue without Katya. At the time Eric had been in a dark enough place that he thought it was the right idea. He was exhausted from working harder than ever to get to Junior Regionals. Then he got bullied for skating at all. He was sick of all of it. He was sure that it would get better if they moved.
It took until they actually moved and were in Madison for Eric to realize that he couldn’t just run away from trauma. He couldn’t move and just expect to leave everything that had made life difficult behind. He was still a closeted gay boy in Georgia. He was still small and gentle, liked to bake, used to figure skate. He had escaped one set of bullies but that didn’t guarantee that there wouldn’t be others. It was good for a while, to be free of the specific people, to be free of the school where it had happened. There were less triggers in Madison, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. Sometimes Eric wondered if it was almost worse here. At least back home he had known where everyone stood, he knew the bullies and the people who were, if not his friends, at least friendly to him. At least at home he had been able to skate out all of the anger and fear, to let it drive him harder so he could turn it into something beautiful. It was hard, hard not to get angry and want to grab the nearest baseball bat and take it to the nearest homophobe’s head. The only thing was if he did that he’d better be ready to fight at least half of Georgia, and they would send him to jail. So instead he had poured all of his anger into his skates, let it push him forwards and into the air where no one could touch him. Now that was gone.
Eric couldn’t tell his parents that he felt more alone than ever, not when he had asked for this, not when his parents were so happy in Madison. When his dad told him about the local club hockey team, co-ed, no checking. Eric leapt at the chance. He just wanted to get back on the ice. He was better at hockey than he was expecting, and he enjoyed it more than he had ever thought he might. Still, it wasn’t the same. Back home Katya and the other people who trained under her had been his friends. They had understood him, accepted him for exactly who he was. He had never told any of them he was gay but he thought Katya knew. He had never minded, Katya would never out him, or care what gender he fell for as long as nothing got in the way of skating. On his hockey team he had… acquaintances. They were polite to him, friendly even but he just didn’t know who to trust. He felt stranded and alone, which was how it started.
Eric had always maintained his tumblr obsessively. Mostly he posted about food, recipes and reviews, but occasionally he would talk about his life. He had a few followers, not many but enough that he felt encouraged to continue. It was one of them that gave him the idea that changed his life. He had posted about hockey, and one of his followers had messaged him. He wasn’t used to that, no one ever talked to him directly.
‘Do you think you’d ever consider making videos? Like a vlog or something? It would be so much easier to follow along and understand your recipes. (Plus I kinda want to see the miraculous human person who can bake as much as you and still be an athlete!). You could tell us about you too! Anyway just a thought! Hope hockey is good!’
When he first got the message he replied thanking them for the thought but advising that he didn’t think it was likely. He dismissed it. It wouldn’t be his thing. No, talking at a camera, or his laptop anyway, would just be weird. Still the thought remained at the back of his mind, and sprang up insidiously at the worst moments. He even went as far as to try recording openings a couple times. He would set up his laptop and start it recording, try to talk, only to fumble over words, or just feel like an idiot and give up. It was silly. Who wanted to watch him talk about his boring life, and demonstrate his recipes? He always thought it was easy to follow plain old written instructions. ‘Except,’ whispered the insidious voice, ‘you know all the terminology, all the ways to do things recipes tell you to do. Not everyone does. It would help to see it demonstrated.’ He ignored it. ‘If people watched it would almost be like human interaction, but without having to deal with the people.’ The voice reminded him. He put his headphones in and let Beyonce drown out his own thoughts.
Then one day one of the boys in his class called him a f*&got, hissing it under his breath at Eric in the hallway. It was the first time he had heard the word in Madison, the first time anyone here was openly hostile instead of indifferent. Eric shrank in upon himself as his mind flashed with memories of violence. Suddenly the crowd of bodies around him was far too much, and he kept thinking he saw his old enemies among them. He couldn’t bear to stay in the crowded hallway. He managed to make it to the nearest classroom, blissfully empty except for his Geometry teacher, but the fear running through him was followed by nausea and he had barely been in the room a moment before he was vomiting his breakfast into the trashcan. Mrs Thompson, a sweet lady despite the fact that she taught math, rushed to his side and patted his back gently.
“Oh you poor thing, are you alright?” She asked, offering him a tissue to wipe his mouth with. He accepted it gratefully.
“Sorry, I just… don’t feel well.” Eric offered, not even trying to explain. She nodded.
“Yes, well I saw that. Come on dear, why don’t you go get your things and head on down to the Nurse’s office. Call your folks to come get you, unless you drove?”
“Not sixteen yet.” Eric muttered. She nodded and sent him off to the office. Part of him wanted to protest. He hated himself for getting sent home over something so small. He had dealt with that and so much worse every day at his old school. Except he hadn’t been ready for it here. He had let himself hope that he wouldn’t find the same treatment here, so when the word came it triggered a stronger response than he was ready for. In the end he just let everyone make their own assumptions. His Mama when she arrived, took one look at him and knew he wasn’t just sick.
“Dicky, did something happen?” She asked.
“I just got really claustrophobic in the hallway. It wouldn’t have happened normally but I didn’t eat a good breakfast.” This was a lie, Eric knew the most important meal of the day. “And I was dehydrated, so I was already dizzy, then it just got to me and I ended up throwing up. It’s nothing.” He told her. She frowned at him.
“Okay Dicky, I just worry. I haven’t seen that look on your face since right after… Well, if you’re sure you’re alright.”
“I’m fine, Mama, this has nothing to do with that. I’ve always been claustrophobic.” He told her. Somehow over the past few years he had convinced his parents that this was true. It wasn’t entirely false, he had been mildly claustrophobic since he was young, but it was the closet that made it bad. He didn’t let them think about that part. His Mama drove him home and made sure he was alright before returning to her studio where she painted furniture into art.
Eric cleaned himself up, a sense of purpose he didn’t really understand driving him. Then he brought his laptop into his kitchen and set out everything he would need for Moomaw’s Apple pie recipe. Without letting himself think to hard about it he started his laptop camera recording and smiled at it.
“Hey, y’all Eric Bittle here. Someone suggested to me a while back that I should make a vlog so I can show you how to use the recipes I put up best. I figured I’d give it a shot so today I’m gonna show you how to make the perfect apple pie…” He started. He narrated his actions as he made up the pie dough and set it in the fridge to chill, then as he chopped apples, and added ingredients. He wasn’t sure exactly how much he would keep in and how much he would edit but he recorded it all. Once he had a fresh pie, steam rising from the small holes in the perfect lattice he smiled at the camera again and lifted a hand in a tiny wave.
“Thanks for watching! If you liked it maybe I’ll see you again.” He told the anonymous potential future viewers.
He spent the afternoon editing the video so it showed only the important parts of the process and was of a decent length. He created a new youtube account for it, with a pie for an icon and posted the video before he could decide against it. Then he waited.
Over the next few days his video got a few views, and more importantly, comments.
‘Oh my god this came out so perfect! I’ve never baked anything right before but you made it so simple!”
‘Are you an actual literal pie angel?!”
‘Thank you so much for this video! My family loved this!’
There were only three that first week but Eric found that they stuck in his head. When he was sad, or even just bored, he remembered the words. He kept checking his view count, thinking about the people who made his recipe, wondering who they were, who they had made pie for, and whether they liked it. He found himself with his laptop in the kitchen a week later, everything laid out to be prepared for a blueberry crumble. That was how it all started.