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Eric Bittle was a master of the single Valentine’s Day. He would lock himself in his room with a sufficient supply of chocolaty products, Ingrid Michaelson songs, and the comfiest socks known to man. He’d had years of practice, and this one was going to be no different.
The Haus was blessedly quiet for once. Ransom and Holster were out on a double date with some girls they had been talking to since Epikegster 2014. Nice girls, a little eerily familiar, but still nice. Shitty had left about an hour ago to meet up with Lardo, insistent that “It’s just two bros hanging out on a completely normal Saturday, Bits. Bros don’t leave bros alone on days like this. I don’t like the tone of your eyebrows.”
Bitty hadn’t seen Jack yet. He was probably out on a date, as well. Lord knows that boy had enough admirers around campus.
So Bitty was more than a little confused at the smell that was drifting up from the kitchen. It was like burnt strawberries and a sugar explosion had collided to form the most nauseating sweet and noxious smell to ever grace the halls of the Haus.
Poking his head out the bedroom door only made it worse. What in the name of her majesty, Queen Bey was causing this odor? Had one of the Frogs come over without realizing anyone was home? Or, oh god, had he left Betsy on after making that breakfast quiche?! It’s not like anyone else used her frequently. Dear Lord, Bitty was going to blow up the Haus, and he’d only been living there a year.
Disregarding the fumes, Bitty broke into a sprint, rounding the banister at top speed and practically flying down the stairs.
“I’ll save you, Betsy! Don’t you dare blow up on me, girl!”
Just as he reached the bottom steps, Bitty’s gloriously fuzzy socks betrayed him. His right heel slid too far forward, leg shooting straight out before he had a chance to catch himself. Landing on his back, Bitty could feel all the air leaving his body with a thick “Oof.”
“HOLY SHIT! Bittle!” So apparently there was someone in the kitchen. Someone who sounded suspiciously like Jack. What was he doing home?
Bitty lay spread eagled on the wood floor, convinced he would never move again. Nope. This was it. He was done, betrayed by fuzzy socks. His mother always warned him against running in the house. Poor Mother, she would be so angry when she found out he died like this.
“Jeez, Bitty. Are you okay?” And suddenly there was a big, doe-eyed Canadian leaning over him.
“Leave me here to die,” he tried to say. It came out more like an extended wheeze. Jack obviously didn’t get the message, because he immediately started gathering Bitty up off the floor.
With a hand on his back, Jack led him over to the disease-ridden green couch. Bitty was helpless to resist. “Just try to breathe, okay? Slow breaths,” Jack said amidst Bitty’s strained gasping.
As his breathing slowed, his cheeks only got redder, embarrassment setting in. This was great. Valentine’s Day and here he was looking like some godforsaken trout that had been dropped on land in front of the most gorgeous man in the history of Samwell hockey. Just great.
“You knock the air of yourself?” Jack asked concernedly. His hand was still rubbing Bitty’s back, and oh god, that just made everything so much worse. Why did it have to be Jack?
Bitty nodded, cheeks on fire. “I’ll be fine in a minute.” His voice was thin and reedy. “Slipped on the steps.”
Jack’s brow furrowed. “What were you running for anyway?”
“Betsy.” Bitty gasped. “Something burning.” Jack went paler than a sinner in church. His hand dropped from Bitty’s back as he launched himself off the couch, dashing for the kitchen.
“Shitshitshitshitshit,” he cried. As Jack disappeared, a grey cloud of smoke billowed from the kitchen doorway.
Rubbing his chest, Bitty got up to see what was happening. From the hall, he could see Jack wrenching the window open to let some of the smoke out. Betsy had transformed into some kind of fire breathing monster, and there were baking ingredients scattered all over the visible counter space. Jack grabbed an oven mitt and dropped a steaming muffin pan into the sink.
“Jack Zimmerman,” Bitty said, “ You better not be in the process of destroying my kitchen.”
“No, I just – “ Jack grumbled, shoving his hand through his hair. “You make this look so easy.” His shoulders slumped. Jack ripped off his remaining mitt, crossing to lean on the counter.
“It takes years of practice to become a master like me.” Bitty smirked. “If you wanted to bake something, why didn’t you just ask?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Jack mumbled. Now he was the one with red cheeks, and wasn’t that an interesting development.
“I’m sure any girl would much prefer a nice bouquet of flowers to whatever mess is happening here,” Bitty said, gesturing to the flour spilled everywhere and the general smell of burnt sugar hanging in the air.
“Wait, what?” Jack looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Your date?” Bitty said slowly. “You just said you wanted to surprise her – “
“Bittle, I don’t have a date.” Jack cut him off. He brushed some of the flour off of his sleeve. “Where did you get that idea?”
Bitty blushed. “I just assumed…” he trailed off, glancing at the floor. “Then who are these for?”
“They’re uh…” Jack apparently found the floor just as interesting as Bitty did. “They were supposed to be for you. I mean, you just, you’re always doing things for everyone all the time, and I figured that today is kinda special so I’d do something to say…thanks.” Jack looked about ready to pass out.
“Oh,” Bitty choked out. He shifted, burying his hands in the pockets of his Samwell hoodie. “You didn’t have to do anything.”
“I know.” Jack’s blue eyes looked sharp for about two seconds before he started fiddling with the cracked remains of an eggshell.
Bitty couldn’t stand the silence. Or the mess. Dear Lord, what was even happening?
“What were you even trying to make?” Bitty picked the, now cool, muffin pan out of the sink. Though everything was covered in a layer of burnt black and brown, there were little traces of pink peeking through at the edges.
“I found this recipe for strawberry cupcakes online.” Jack emerged from his place by the counter. “I’m not really sure what happened.”
Bitty touched the top of one of the less burnt ones. Flakes of black broke off in his hand. This would not do.
“Alright.” Bitty clapped his hands together. “We’re gonna fix this.”
Jack looked down at him with big eyes. “We are?”
“Yes!” Bitty said with a flourish. “We’re going to get rid of the atrocity that has taken over this kitchen and start over.” Jack looked slightly like he’d been stabbed. Bitty paid no mind. “We’re going to need trash bags, cleaning supplies, and more ingredients. But first, dinner.”
“Dinner?” Jack questioned. Damn adorable Canadians.
“I’m starving,” Bitty admitted, smiling. “We can’t cook anything here, and all the restaurants are probably filled with Valentine’s dates. So, Chinese?”
“I’ll call.” Jack smiled. “You want an egg roll?” He went to grab his phone off the cluttered table.
“In what world could just one egg roll be enough?” Bitty answered, as Jack laughed at him. “I’ll make a list for the grocery store, while you do that.”
“Oh, and uh, Bittle?” Bitty looked up at Jack. “Batteries. We need batteries.”
“What do you mean?” Bitty asked. Last he had checked, all the appliances were still working fine.
“The smoke detector never went off,” Jack said, phone pressed to his ear, nodding in the direction of the device on the wall.
“Oh Lord.” Bitty sighed. Someday the Haus really would explode. He just hoped it wouldn’t smell anything like burnt sugar when it happened.