i’m not an open book that you can rifle through

@mightymiller: The nails suit you.

@mightymiller: The nails suit you.

@mightymiller: The nails suit you.

@mightymiller: The nails suit you.

@mightymiller: The nails suit you.

↳INSTAGRAM: @fizzybank uploaded a photo:

Pride, his ever-faithful companion in life, told him that he shouldn’t make it obvious how much Percy’s words had affected him. He didn’t need to give the other man the upper hand when Percy had had it their whole life. Or, at the very least, since the night they’d kissed. Percy had run out after and Holden had spent the years following beating himself up for pushing his friend into something he hadn’t wanted. Maybe Percy had kissed him first - Holden’s recollection of the night was a mosaic of jumbled memories, and he’d never been able to pin down that precise detail - but he’d been mourning. In the throes of grief. Devastated about his sister and blaming himself and Holden hadn’t meant to at the time, but he’d taken advantage of him, hadn’t he? It hadn’t been a shock when Percy never contacted him again.

Holden had tried to make his peace with it, covering his hurt and embarrassment with false bravado and chirping-slash-flirting with Percy on the ice every chance he got. Anything to make himself seem like he wasn’t the one who’d been burned. 

Not a lot of people would call him dignified, but he thought he’d been doing a good job of it. Now, Percy implying that he might want someone was enough to unravel him completely, and that was before he had the other man’s thumb in his mouth.

He heard the quiet noise Percy made and a shudder coursed through him. He wanted to keep Percy’s thumb there, suck on it until Percy was begging him to wrap his mouth around something else. But he knew he was getting ahead of himself. Soon, Percy pulled his hand away with a wet pop and Holden stood there, mouth open with his bottom lip glistening. He had to remember that they were standing on an open balcony in the middle of the Olympic Village and while they could count their lucky fucking stars that this wasn’t fucking Sochi, it would still be damning if anyone saw them. He didn’t particularly care, but he figured that was probably the only thing on Percy’s mind.

His eyes widened at his friend’s confession, something that might have once been hope but now surely couldn’t be stirring in his chest. He stared at Percy as the other man knocked their foreheads together.

The words were on the tip of his tongue. I missed you too. Or maybe, Then where have you been? Part of him was tempted to say, Fuck you, it’s been years!

Instead, he reached out, gripping the front of Percy’s shirt, the stars and stripes of their dumb Team USA tracksuit, and panted hotly, their breaths mingling together.

“Prove it.”

The thought circulated in the forefront of his mind, a voice that didn’t sound like his own reverberating through his skull, images of his sister forgotten and discarded flashing through his memory. He should turn on his heel and leave, he knew that. Bad things happened when he wasn’t careful, when he let his guard down. Bad things happened when Percy caved to his greatest desires, especially when they took shape in the form of Holden Gold. Which they always did. They always had. 

Instead, he waited. For Holden to say something, do something, and turn all his wildest dreams into a reality. One kiss shared in the throes of grief should not have been enough. It wasn’t, it had never been enough, and now they could fix that. They could make up for lost time and make up for all the time they’d lost in Percy’s grief and Holden’s bitterness. The firm grip of Percy’s hand against his tracksuit seemed to ground him, pulling him back down to earth hard and fast as he allowed himself to savour their closeness. He wondered, a little absently, if his watch was yelling at him right now, tucked away beneath the cuff of his sleeve. His heart rate was no doubt accelerated, far more than it ever was when he was on the ice. He could feel the heat of Holden’s breath against his mouth, a tingling sensation swiping along his lips, begging for something more, something concrete. 

Prove it. 

Percy’s hand was on Holden in seconds, roughly grasping his chin as he tugged the other man forward and against him. He dipped his own head, their mouths crashing together in a clumsily, unrehearsed kiss. Percy hadn’t kissed anyone since Holden, and it felt like coming home. In all its reckless awkwardness, there was still something so right in the middle of all that wrong. 

He groaned desperately, blundering his way through the best and worst decision he’d ever made, his tongue swiping ungracefully along Holden’s lower lip. His free hand palmed at the front of Holden’s hoody, fingers inexperienced as they slipped past the hem of the sweater, tickling the brief expanse of his stomach that he had managed to reach. It wasn’t enough and yet it was everything all at once. Touching Holden felt like a total fever dream, as though he’d dreamed him up after all these years and let him materialise into his wildest fantasies. 

“Is this proof enough for you? Am I enough?” Percy gasped, tongue darting out to coax Holden’s mouth open further. 

For Percy, it was different. He had plausible deniability here. As far as everyone else in the world was concerned, Percy Miller was your usual upstanding heterosexual hockey player. And he wore that well. It might not even be a facade, Holden realised. The only reason Holden thought that Percy could like men was because of the one, fleeting kiss they’d shared when Percy had been in the throes of grief.

Well, that and the way he was looking at him right now.

Percy could still hold onto his identity as a straight man. That had been lost to Holden long ago. But the tension between them was thick and crackling, lightning in a storm cloud, and Holden knew he’d leave unsatisfied if Percy turned him away now. He wasn’t used to rejection but it had happened on the odd occasion and he liked to think he bounced back well. Unsure if the same could be said about Percy shoving him away, he pressed anyway, picking at a scab he’d lied about healing ages ago.

His grip tightened on Percy’s wrist as he held eye contact with the other man. Shockingly, Percy didn’t look away, but then Holden felt the other man’s hand on his stomach and he braced himself for the harsh shove that was sure to follow. He’d gone too far, he realised.

Instead, there was a shove, but it was gentle, and Percy followed as he walked Holden backwards against the wall, tucking them neatly into a corner of the rooftop where nobody could see them. Not that there was anyone else out there at this time.

“No one will see,” Holden responded quickly, and too confidently for someone who hadn’t properly thought about the repercussions of this. He was too busy thinking about Percy’s pulse jack-rabbiting under his fingertips and the insatiable want that had curled up in his own gut.

“Besides, it’s the Olympics,” he said, instilling a lighter tone into his voice. “We could have a fucking orgy on the ice with the Slovaks tomorrow and they’d spin it as us uniting the nations. Brotherhood. Camaraderie. Whatever the fuck they wanna call it.” He grinned at Percy, far too pleased with his own reasoning.

The smile slowly faded as he held Percy’s gaze for a little longer though and, almost cautiously, checking that the other man wasn’t going to suddenly pull away, he lifted their hands up to his mouth. His tongue darted out first, gently touching the tip of Percy’s thumb before his mouth closed around it. The smudge of Nutella was barely-there and then gone as Holden licked it away, but he didn’t stop there. He sucked Percy’s thumb further into his mouth, cheekbones hollowing out as a low moan vibrated in the back of his throat.

He’d been hungry for this for years. It was going to be cruel when Percy came to his senses and took it away from him again. Eyes dark, he lifted his gaze to look at Percy again, thumb stroking over the other man’s knuckles.

His greatest champion had also been his greatest distraction. 

The only person Percy had ever kissed was stood mere inches away from him, his wrist in a tender grip as his lips chased Percy’s skin for the first time in about 9 years. Only this time he wasn’t trying to kiss him but instead was trying to chase some kind of sick and twisted high that the two had conjured up of their own accord. They were both acting on nothing but pure, unconcentrated arousal, and shame seemed to be trying its hardest to creep its way inside of Percy’s chest to reclaim its home there. 

“It’s not the Slovaks I’m interested in,” Percy found himself breathing, almost against his will. 

His lids were heavy as he stared back at Holden, maintaining full eye contact as Holden slowly, erotically wrapped his lips around Percy’s thumb. He could feel heat pooling between his thighs as the other man’s tongue glided along his digit, the sheer rasp of his moan tickling along Percy’s skin, sending a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cool, Milano air. There was nothing he could say or do, his body rooted to the spot as he quietly wondered just how far Holden could take this. How far did Percy want him to take this? 

As though answering his own, silent question, he carefully withdrew, pulling his hand back as a soft pop echoed through the tiny space between them as he freed his thumb. It was slick with saliva, a detail that should have made him feel uncomfortable, but the sight of it only further stoked the fire that was now building in his chest. Delicately, he swiped his wet thumb along the line of Holden’s jaw, his own head dropping low as he pressed their foreheads together. 

He could smell the familiar scent of his old friend, their breath forming soft, icy whisps in the air, nutella wafting through it so sharp he could practically taste it. His own breathing was shallow as it seemed to slow to match Holden’s, their pulses racing as one. It was a silly, childish whim, a sentiment he’d probably loathe himself for come morning. All Percy had to do was tip his head just so, and he could have everything he’d ever wanted, but something made him pause. Fear, or maybe self-preservation, he had no idea, but he hoped he could overcome whatever it was sooner rather than later. 

“I’ve missed you, man.” The words left him in a flash, surprising Percy with how entirely true they were. He had missed Holden, so much so that he’d barely even noticed that there was still a growing cavern in his chest from where his best friend had once resided. 

Hockey had been that one thing where they could meet in the middle. There was no divide between them when it came to hockey and he’d loved staying up late and watching old game videos way past his bedtime. His dad would even tuck him under his coat during a play-offs game so he could sneak Holden into a sports bar to watch another team lift the Stanley cup, both of them knowing that could be him someday.

Eventually though, hockey stopped being the thing that bridged the gap between him and his dad. They still talked about it but it was less of a conversation and more like an interrogation. Why had Holden missed that pass? Why hadn’t he worked on his backhand? Why had he compromised his own points by taking an assist rather than scoring himself? Soon, hockey just became a way for Bill Gold to measure his son against his peers, a means of benchmarking where he was falling short and going wrong.

And sure, his teammates could talk about the sport they all played just fine, but it was never like it was with Percy. Percy could recite stats off like machine gunfire. It was insane, and Holden had always fucking marvelled at how easy it was for Percy to remember the final score from a game that happened before either of them were even born. He’d never been jealous of a talent like that, just enthralled.

Getting even a scrap of that back made everything about Milano pale in comparison. For a split second, the crowds, the medals, the glory, even the Nutella fountain, all dimmed when placed side by side with his old nickname coming from Percy’s mouth.

Holden’s grin tried to stretch further, something warm settling in his ribcage when Percy called him Booster. Nobody had called him that in years. ‘Goldie’ was the go-to now, which made sense for anyone who’d spent five seconds in an NHL locker room. Low hanging fruit and all that. He’d heard a few people on Team USA refer to Percy as ‘Millzy’ but that one didn’t sound right. Percy didn’t really respond to nicknames all that much.

“Yeah, well, I knew I couldn’t have made the shot. You were our best hope,” he shrugged, still preening under Percy’s compliment.

He frowned, only a little bemused, when Percy quickly scolded him right after. He hadn’t expected to stay in the other man’s good graces for too long, but he’d thought he could bask in the glow of Percy’s praise for at least a few more minutes.

But then Percy was stepping forward and wiping at Holden’s chin with his thumb. At once, he froze. Not daring to move a muscle, just in case Percy realised what he was doing, got spooked and ran. Holden stayed exactly where he was as Percy ran his thumb along Holden’s skin, touching him for the first time since college.

You know, not including all the bodychecks in the years in between then and now.

He felt the other man’s thumb skim his bottom lip. His mouth parted slightly, without his own say-so.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the minute that Percy licked the Nutella from his thumb. It was the single most erotic thing Holden thought he’d ever seen in his life - and he’d fucked models. 

His eyes dipped down to Percy’s mouth. He’d never been one for subtlety and the open way he was staring at his ex-friend told the other man everything he needed to know about Holden’s reaction to what he’d done. Pupils blown wide, he dragged his gaze from Percy’s lips to his thumb. A stubborn smudge of Nutella still resided there and before he could stop himself, Holden reached up and caught Percy’s wrist.

His fingertips pressed against the other man’s pulse point.

“You’ve still got a bit there,” he said huskily, lifting Percy’s hand closer to his own mouth. He still left enough distance between them to claim innocence (at a push), and he lifted his eyebrows, asking Percy the silent question, for permission.

And yet. 

None of this was real, was it? It couldn’t be. There was no way in hell that Percy Miller had found himself standing inches away from his ex-roommate, ex-best friend, ex-everything, and was now licking nutella from his own thumb. Nutella that had been on the other man’s face just seconds before. And there was definitely no way in hell that his wrist was now trapped in the other man’s hold, a silent plea on his teammate’s lips as he lifted the sudden phantom limb. Because that couldn’t be Percy’s hand, could it? The same hand he was watching edge ever closer to Holden’s lips, the thumb jutting out, practically inviting the press of his lips. 

Fuck. 

He didn’t say a single word of encouragement, but he didn’t try to dissuade him either. He couldn’t pull away; He was practically rooted to the spot, some invisible force fixing his feet to the ground and holding him there, an immovable object against the unstoppable force that was Holden. Instead, he gave a meagre nod as his eyes flitted shut, quietly waiting for the moment that would no doubt permanently alter his brain chemistry. 

Because Percy wasn’t stupid, he couldn’t afford to be. The way Holden was looking at him now was pointed, it was obvious. Arousal was etched deeply across his features, an almost visceral response to Percy’s own behaviour carved out on his beautiful face. It took him back to their years in college when Percy had first started to suspect his feelings for the other man. They’d genuinely been best friends, with no agenda whatsoever, but the tension had grown steadily across their time together. They’d spent hours at night battling it out on Mario Kart and laughing until their stomachs ached, dropping down onto Percy’s tiny, twin mattress as their arms and thighs brushed, his pulse in his throat as he’d contentedly allowed Holden to pull him in, warm and safe in the other boy’s arms. Something as simple and as innocent as a hug had felt so dangerous to Percy back then – and he still felt the same now – but he’d welcomed that embrace, just as he’d savoured each and every touch they’d shared. He recalled mornings spent discussing hockey stats and sharing tactics ahead of practice, or afternoons lounging on their tiny, shared sofa with their legs tangled as a movie played, all plot and dialogue lost to the loud, booming inner monologue that occupied Percy’s mind. Mercilessly, his traitourous mind even recalled snapshots of Holden coming out of the shower, hair slicked back as water droplets dripped down his naked torso, his gaze firm on Percy’s as they both quietly ignored the obvious elephant in the room as Percy covered the growing tent in his shorts with a random cushion. 

As Holden drew his hand in, Percy’s own hand pressed firmly against the other man’s abdomen, settling against his stomach as he begun to calmly guide him backwards, nestling them into a shadowed corner of the rooftop. They were shrouded in darkness now, but he still felt exposed, still felt as though his entire body was on fire. 

“What if somebody sees us?” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer. Not really. His voice was distant, lost to the carnal desire that was coursing through his every limb. 

The grin froze on Holden’s face, Percy’s words echoing around his mind. He knew that he was just repeating the same sentiment that everyone with a lick of interest in hockey droned on with. Holden Gold, the player who had everything handed to him, even after his hiccup in college. Everyone thought that Holden had coasted by on money and good looks, and who was Holden to take away someone for them to hate? People thought everything came naturally to him, that he had talent, sure, but it reflected no inner warmth. Plenty of people probably thought he did have people to wipe his mouth for him.

But Percy knew that hadn’t always been the case for Holden. Fuck, he’d been there. When Holden paced the length of their dorm room, tugging at his hair as he voiced his concerns about not being able to return to college next semester. About money being tight at home. About his mom’s treatment getting more expensive and how that took priority over his hockey career. Percy had even stood by him, told him that he understood why Holden did what he did when he was throwing games, his promising start in the NHL circling the drain but putting money in his dad’s pocket. Money that he thought was going to help his mom. 

Surely Percy remembered all of that. Still, Holden supposed, that didn’t mean that his ex-best friend wasn’t now buying into the idea that Holden needed someone to wipe his ass for him these days.

Swallowing the bitter pill that was Percy’s presumed new perspective of him, Holden tightened his hold on the handkerchief.

“You know what, I think I got it.” He fixed Percy with a heavy look, quirking an eyebrow. “Unless you’re offering to help?”

He still didn't wipe his mouth, and not because he was trying to piss Percy off. He genuinely didn’t want to dirty the other guy’s dumb bit of cloth. The last thing he needed was to be the reason Percy landed himself in hot water with his sponsors. Maybe they would get cranky if he muddied their precious handkerchief and it would affect future deals. Reebok has always been pretty strict with him. They were happy to have him wear their shit when he was out on a run or doing a Whole Foods shop, shopping cart piled high with high-fiber food and protein bars - an athlete’s diet. But sporting his Club C’s on a walk of shame? He’d had to endure a long, monotonous video call about image and decorum after that one.

As Percy took a step forward, Holden’s eyes widened. Fuck, maybe he was about to wipe his mouth for him. It wasn’t like Holden would say no but he had to wonder if Percy’s brain was like, actively atrophying right now. 

Quickly, he set his bowl of Nutella down on a ledge and stared at Percy, only for his expression to cross further into disbelief when Percy complimented his playing that day.

“Really?” His voice was small, surprised. 

Then, he couldn’t help it. A pleased, boyish smile spread across his face, genuine and sincere. His teeth were bared in a grin, eyes tightening at the sides as he beamed at Percy. Plenty of people had commended him on his skating before, but it actually meant something coming from Percy, who was the only person who could ever match his skill on the ice. From other people, he could thank them, often with a cocky, arrogant response. When it came to Percy saying the first nice thing he’d uttered to him in years, something that was a complete turnaround on the chirps they were always slinging at the other to throw him off his game, Holden was practically glowing under the praise.

“Thanks, man,” he said, ducking his head. Almost bashfully, as if someone like Holden Gold had ever genuinely considered the concept of modesty.

“I mean. You too. Your second goal was insane. I’ve never seen someone drop it down from the crossbar like that since, I dunno, Gretzsky? You had to have known what you were doing with the angle and shit before you even got near the net,” he rambled, his hair bouncing as he bopped his head enthusiastically. 

None of the airbrushed Gold suaveness. Just a hockey fan talking puck with his old friend.

But that was then, and this was now. 

A warm glow settled in Percy’s chest as he watched the other man talk. There was something so exhilarating about the way Holden was looking at him right now, his eyes wide and bright with pure, unadulterated enthusiasm. No fans, no cameras, no sponsors. Just Percy Miller and Holden Gold, two best friends who’d lost their way falling back into step, that same familiar wave of comfort washing over Percy as it had every time Holden had entered their dorm room. Right now, Holden looked younger than ever.

“Gretzsky, huh? That’s high praise coming from you, Booster,” Percy smiled softly, cheeks dimpling in the process. 

The old nickname fell from his lips so effortlessly, though he hadn’t uttered it in years. It had always been a running joke between he and Holden, both on and off the ice. Whenever things looked tough on the ice, in swept Holden, like a burst of energy bolstering the team, all power and grace as he, quite literally, boosted their chances of a late win. If Percy was flagging from a difficult visit back home, or a particularly strenuous exam, he had Holden, like a shot of espresso bathing him in sunlight. 

“It’s whatever, man,” Percy shrugged, humble in ways that he never usually was. It wasn’t whatever, it had been something. “You set me up perfectly, so it wouldn’t have happened without you. We always did play best side by side.” 

His stomach churned at the low admission, suddenly feeling a little too raw and real. It was one thing to compliment each other’s game – they were athletes, and athletes could always recognise a good play no matter where it came from – but it was another to start reminiscing of times long since past. It was a dangerous road to go down, especially given their history, but he’d be remiss to deny it. Percy had always been at his most impressive with Holden playing alongside him, and he didn’t give a shit how cocky it made him sound to admit that Team USA wouldn’t have bagged the win without them. 

“Fuck, you look ridiculous. I can’t take what you’re saying serious with you looking like that,” Percy breathed, unthinking as he flushed every productive thought he’d just had down the toilet. Whatever alarm bells were ringing in the back of his mind, Percy had already hit mute on them as he lifted a hand to drag his thumb along Holden’s chin, swiping away residue nutella until he felt the plush, wet dip of the other man’s lower lip beneath his touch. Retracting his arm, he continued along on his journey to psychosis as his tongue darted out to lick his thumb clean, washing away the evidence, both his pride and diet be damned. Fuck. He hadn’t had nutella in years, and it tasted particularly sweet and sinful right about now. 

If that meant Percy yelled at him on an empty terrace or let his eyes burn with righteous fury after a particularly solid bodycheck on the ice, so be it. Holden was one step away from waving his arms and chanting look at me, look at me, please look at me, Percy. If he could save himself that little humiliation ritual and use his god-given gift of getting under a person’s skin to prompt some sort of reaction from Percy, then he wasn’t going to turn his back on an opportunity like that. If Percy was mad at him, it meant that Holden was still on his radar. He’d rather be a rival to the other man than nothing at all. Better to be his enemy on the ice than be reduced to someone Percy Miller used to know.

“You’re sitting there after we won looking all sullen and sulky. If that ain’t brooding, I dunno what is,” he smirked, each word hopefully landing on another of Percy’s pressure points.

When Percy stood up, he thought he’d pushed him to the brink. Was this the moment the other man finally turned around and socked him? Holden only hoped he would avoid his face. The press loved his face.

Instead, he heard Percy absently scold him before pulling an honest-to-god handkerchief out of his pocket, flicking it Holden’s way as if something that light and flimsy would make it that far.

The wind caught in it, predictably. Luckily, as much as half the hockey world despised him, they couldn’t deny the lightning-fast reflexes he had been sharpening ever since he was a kid who skated the way most people simply breathed, a simple necessity he didn’t have to think twice about. He just did it.

With the Nutella bowl still cradled in one hand, Holden lunged forward and snatched the handkerchief out of the air before it could flutter to the snow-covered ground. Drawing himself back up to his full height, his fingers closed around it, thumb idly rubbing over the embroidered pattern. It was a nice gesture, he supposed.

One he shouldn’t be a pill about.

“What the fuck is this, man?” he grinned.

He pinched the handkerchief between his thumb and forefinger, making a whole show of dangling it above his face and inspecting it. “Where’d you get this? The 1920’s? Do you actually use this shit? Miller, come on, you can’t tell me you like, blow your nose in this. Isn’t that kinda gross? At least with a Kleenex you can do whatever you want to it and then throw it away. But this? Seriously? You’re letting me cover it in chocolate and then give it back to you?” 

Letting out an amused cackle, Holden fixed Percy with a look, eyes sparkling. “Really?”

Instead, he watched as the handkerchief pathetically billowed in the wind, a strange feeling jolting in his chest as he watched Holden lunge forward and snatch it out of the air. His reflexes were as fast as ever, even after playing such a grueling game of hockey, and Percy couldn’t resist the way his lips lifted into a tired, amused little smirk. If there was one thing about Holden, it was that he didn’t do things without a little flare. He was as smooth and fast now as he’d always been, and it was just one thing in a list of many that Percy had always found impressive. 

Naturally, whatever fondness that he’d just been feeling had soon evaporated the moment Holden opened that damn mouth of his. 

“No, jackass. It came with the suit,” he pouted, lower lip jutting out petulantly. 

It probably didn’t make a whole lot of sense, given his current attire. Usually, after a game, they were required to suit up on leaving an arena. It was the done thing in hockey and, as much as Percy felt a whole lot better in a hoody and some sweats, he abided by those rules. The suit he’d had dry cleaned and pressed ahead of their journey to Milano had come with an embroidered handkerchief. He guessed it was a good look for most designers if Percy Miller himself was wearing their shit, and even moreso if he had personalised kit that he was taking to the Olympics. Not that anybody had seen it, obviously. The minute he’d laid his hands on the personalised tracksuit that had been provided for Team USA, he’d been hellbent on cosying up in it. The suit hadn’t left the bag it came in, but he’d held onto the handkerchief. Something about the soft, lightweight feel of the silk had appealed to him, and now he was living to regret it. 

“You gonna wash that shit off or not? Or, let me guess, y’need someone to come over and do it for you?” Percy snorted, rolling his eyes again, already growing a little tired of this weird back and forth they had going. 

Truthfully, he didn’t know why he kept letting Holden get under his skin so much. Usually he just tried to ignore him – it had been working well enough all weekend, up until now. But there was a strange, nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him that he wanted the other man to stay. He didn’t want to see him run off and disappear with the pretty redhead who’d flown out especially for him, whoever she was. He didn’t much wanna hear about his escapades with the other guys on the team. There were already a ton of blind items circulating about a certain hockey player flirting up a storm with various different athletes across the Olympic village. 

Instead, he took another few steps closer, noting the way the glow of the moon seemed to bounce off his golden locks. His heart constricted in his chest as it occurred to him just how much he missed his friend. He wondered if that same yearning was etched along his features now, overriding the look of irritation that he should have been wearing. 

“You looked great out there today,” Percy murmured, convinced that the topic of hockey might be a better, safer bet. The quiet yearning in his voice, in great contrast with Holden’s teasing cackle, was proof enough that it was not.