All I'm writing is zimbits I have so many other projects someone help

I tried something different this time - everyone gets a tattoo of the first words they exchange but only after they've said them. So like, if you meet someone for the first time and they say 'hello' then as soon as they've said it you'll find a tattoo saying 'hello' somewhere on your body. Hope that makes sense.

Jack Zimmermann lived in a world that thrived off anticipation. Everyone was thrumming with anxious energy and wherever you turned there would be someone thumbing the skin of their wrist or raking their fingertips over their necks. The world revolved around anticipation and skin.

Of course skin would be on your mind if the words a total stranger said to you could appear on your person at any time.

Jack's parents had described the sensation as burning without fire, and he hadn't understood then, being only a child. He doesn't understand now, either. He can't fathom how the words might burn across his skin unlike the people he seems to be surrounded by.

He just… couldn't.

So he focused on hockey. People made jokes that he didn't take to heart, and they jostled him about spending all of his spare time at the rink but he went along with it, because he just didn't care. He was different from his classmates, and they were different to him.

They spent the start of every conversation with their eyes closed, reaching out desperately with all their senses for that flameless fire they coveted. Jack preferred the cool bite of the ice on his skin. And that was fine. He was fine, alone.

Kent Parson came into his life like an explosion. It felt like he had fallen through thin ice and into the frigid water. The first time they talked, Jack felt the whisper of something brush his heart, and he smiled. He wanted more.

They got close. Very close. Dangerously close. They were Hockey's Power Duo™ and nothing could stop them-

Except Jack.

Except the pills.

Except the constant waves of crushing fear and worry and I'll never be my father.

Jack woke up in an unfamiliar room, and unfamiliar smell stinging his nostrils and weighing down his shoulders. His parents were bent over, arms crossed beneath their heads, their torsos rising and falling in exhausted rest.

And it was all his fault.

His mothers' words - hi, oh gosh you're beautiful, I mean, how are you? - were proudly in full view and for the first time in his life, Jack's heart lurched in his ribcage. He was scared. Anxious. Nothing new, usually, but… it was different. For the first time in his life, Jack was anxious over his soulmate.

Kent Parson had left him behind, joined the Aces. He was gone, soaring high while Jack had fallen, fallen fallen… and he was scared. What if he was always going to be alone? What if his soulmate didn't want him? What if they were disgusted at the way he treated his own life?

He ended up recounting these thoughts in a drunken stupor - honestly, fuck tub juice - to Shitty in their first year of college. They were hiding in their embarrassingly small campus rooms, drinking to a fuckin' job well done - Shitty's words - on getting into the Samwell Men's Hockey Team.

"Don't worry brah," Shitty had placated, throwing an arm around his shoulders, "everyone's got one. It don't matter if they're a girl, boy, or anything in between- you got one."

Something in Jacks' chest and risen up to his throat. Something light, and happy, and something he hadn't felt in a long time. He had liven a life of anticipation since that day in the hospital, and Shitty's presence sated it for now. It was nice, he decided, not being alone.

"Jack you shithead," Shitty laughed, "who knew you were such a soppy drunk!"

"M'not drunk."

"Sure you're not buddy. More tub juice?"

—

The world moved on. No one cared about Jack Zimmermann anymore, and he could finally breathe. He was captain of the hockey team, he hadn't seen a reporter in ages and everything was okay.

Until a tiny southern figure skater barged into his team. He was fast, true, but he fainted whenever someone brushed past him and in a contact sport like hockey that wasn't allowed.

"Bittle," he said, wanting to just make him hang up his skates and go, "if you can't take a check you can't play hockey."

"Yes!" Bittle squeaked, "I'll- um, well.. I'll… get better?"

Jack nodded, deciding to just give up rather than argue with him. If Bittle continues like that he'll get kicked off sooner of later. A tiny sliver of guilt pricked his gut, but he ignored it. If the kid was going to join a hockey team he should have made sure he could take a hit, and it's not Jack's responsibility to help him.

They finished up the first training session of the season with minimal incident- well, as minimal as you can get with someone like Eric Bittle on the team.

Jack sighed and headed to the locker room. He couldn't deal with this. With him. He was captain this year and he needed to make it into the Frozen Four if he had any chance of playing professionally. He didn't have time for a figure skater.

Opting to take a shower back at the Haus, Jack said a terse goodbye and headed back, shouldering his bag and trying not to sigh for the fiftieth time. Something about that figure skater just… got on his nerves.

Jack didn't know whether it was the checking or the skating or his skittish attitude but everything about Eric Bittle seemed to be filling his head, consuming his thoughts. He couldn't think of anything else. It's probably because I'm captain this year, he reasoned, feet pounding at the pavement, I can't have anyone hindering the team like that kid will.

He knows Bittle isn't going anywhere - he's got a scholarship, and scholarship students to everything in their power to hold onto that. This leaves Jack with two options: bench him, or train him.

He climbs up the stairs and opens the front door. Well for starters, he needs to eat more protein. Across the living room. He can't initiate a check or take a check with that physique. Up the stairs. Checking practice? Probably not. Into the bathroom. Stop overthinking. Just get in the damn shower.

He took off his shirt and inspected his torso for bruises, after all he had fallen pretty hard on his stick-

Oh merde.

Everything made sense now. In a horrible, dreadful way everything made sense because right there, stretched across the left side of his ribs were the words 'yes I'll well I'll get better.'

Jack's heart plummeted to his stomach. No. Not him. He couldn't deal with this. he was captain and he had Responsibilities and Expectations™ to shoulder. The world had forgotten about Jack Zimmermann, but he knew it was only temporary. He's got to make it to the Frozen Four- he's got to be the best captain- he's got to set himself up for the NHL, show them he's not as mentally unstable as he was (is).

He's got to be Jack Zimmermann, son of the hockey legend Bad Bob and he can't deal with this right now (ever).

So he doesn't.

He brushes it away, he doesn't talk to Bittle about it even though they probably should. He ignores the way heat bubbles under his skin when he hears Bittle's voice and he doesn't acknowledge it, doesn't talk about it, doesn't think about it.

Focus on hockey, he tells himself. Over and over and over again as he catches himself tracing the outline of Bittle's smile with his eyes and wishing he could- don't wish. Focus on hockey. That's all you need to do.

While technically focusing on hockey - despite the assist, Bittle does need the extra practice. Hockey stuff. No feelings involved. - he invites (commands) Bittle to do early-morning checking with him.

Bittle improves. And smiles. And laughs.

It's… good.

They talk. They don't talk talk, but they chirp each other and Bittle will push back some of his hip checks now and again and he feels like they've both come down to the same level. Bittle's easy to talk to.

Bittle scores. He fucking scores and it's like everything shatters. The figure skater won the game and if Jack doesn't step it up he isn't going to make it very far. He's jealous and angry and too stubborn for his own good and so he-

"Bittle. It was a lucky shot."

The words on his ribs burn like they're trying to make him turn around, realise what he said and all it does is remind him of all the things he can't do.

He can't have a boyfriend in the NHL. He can't confront this. He can't stay on this level.

Hockey. Focus on hockey.

—

Shitty blasts through his door, slamming it open and Jack winces at the doorknob-shaped dent he knows is now on the wall.

"Jaques Laurent Zimmermann!" he yells, spitting out his middle name like a curse, "I can't believe you!"

Jack stares, not knowing what to say.

Shitty sighs, long and hard, and closes the door. He flops down on the bed and pats the space next to him.

Jack, still utterly confused, sits.

"you- I know you can be- that you're-" Shitty stopped, puts his face into the mattress and groaned loudly before propping himself up on his elbow and trying again, "I know you and Bitty aren't on the best of terms-"

Ah shit.

"-But you think even an emotionally repressed ass like you would have the balls to talk to him over the fact that you're soulmates?"

Jack didn't reply.

"I mean, you didn't even tell me dude! I'm like, you're best friend! I had to hear it from a tiny nervous baker who was ranting because first of all he came out to me and I'm very proud of him and secondly that you two were fucking soulmates and he was worried because he has no idea what the actual fuck is going on in your head and frankly neither do I!"

Shitty was looking him straight in the eye. Jack lowered his gaze.

"Ok I'm done, you can tell me what's wrong now."

"I'm captain," Jack blurts, looking down at the faded blues and yellows of his duvet, feeling the words rise up in his throat uncontrollably, "I have to make it to Frozen Four. I have to win Frozen Four because if I don't I won't be able to play pro or I'll get stuck in minor league and you can't have a boyfriend in the NHL, Shitty-" he looks up, pleadingly, "- you just can't and I have to… I can't…"

Shitty sits up and holds out his arms. "C'mere you unfairly hot mess."

Jack gives a huff of a laugh and leans into him.

"Now that you've got that out, you'd better fucking talk to Bitty before I let Ransom and Holster shove you into a closet like they've always wanted to."

—

Jack finds Bittle in the kitchen, humming softly. The sunlight seems to dance along with his lazy movements and for the first time Jack allows the soothing warmth that comes hand-in-hand with Bittle to flow into his chest. He smiles, watching for a few moments before clearing his throat.

Bittle whirls around, and stops. He stands stock-still and eyes wide just like he does when facing a check.

"Jack," he greets.

Jack enters the kitchen awkwardly, fiddling with his hands. "Hey. Bittle. Can we- can we talk?"

Bittle relaxes, posture slumping down into something resembling accepting patience as he pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and sits down, smiling slightly.

"Yeah Jack, we can talk."

This took me like two fucking weeks and you can tell because the beginning and the ending don't match up lmao I can write stuff