“Hi,” Kris’ lips quirked, lips slightly parting to show the gap between his teeth, shoving his hand forward, “Kris Letang.”

His hair was short, although the bangs were kept long. It was a style Zhenya was familiar with—Kris often reverted to this look whenever Cath wanted him clean. He was in a Team Canada jersey, bright red and painfully familiar, a gold medal hanging off his throat. Deja vu washed over Zhenya in one brisk motion, and he swayed on his skates, surprised. A quiet, unfamiliar voice supplied what Zhenya’s mind couldn’t: Vancouver. Canada. 2006, WJC.

His body moved without his input, reaching forward to take Kris’ hand and giving it a firm shake. “Tanger, we play together,” he heard his own voice say, could feel his tongue poking between his teeth. Despite all this, there was no panic, no fear, just straight confusion. Was this a dream? It had to be, right?

It’s what you could have, that unfamiliar voice spoke again, almost too soft to be heard. Zhenya tried to look for the source, but his gaze remained steadfastly forward, eyes locked with Kris’. I can give you whatever reality you want.

"Oh, I know," Kris cocked his head back, playful smile on his lips. "I just wanted to remind you." His eyes dragged over Zhenya, want plain as day in them. "Come to my room, yeah?"

The insinuation left Zhenya hot, burning beneath his layers. His lips moved, readily agreeing despite his inner turmoil. If he went back with Kris now, if this had been how it all went down, would he still have Nikita? Would Kris still have his kids?

Kris' palm was hot in his, his eyes locked on Zhenya's lips. No, Zhenya thought, focusing on how this really went down. Kris had paid no mind to him, celebrating with his team instead, arms wrapped around the boys he'd grown up with. They'd played together, sure, but they weren't remotely on each other's radar, purely focused on their own goals. Kris was still going back and forth between the Pens and Wilkes-Barre.

 No, Zhenya thought, yanking his hand back. This wouldn't happen this way.

No? The voice questioned, displeased.

Kris’ image evaporated in a swirl of dust, all the air sucked from Zhenya’s lungs, his hands clawing. A sharp, high-pitched wail reverberated between his ears, and it took a moment for Zhenya to realize no, his ears weren’t ringing, it was the sound of a stadium.

A body slammed into him, arms wrapping around him, the stench of sweat flooding Zhenya's nostrils.

"God damn, G!" Kris shouted against his ear, "We did it!"

Zhenya curled around Kris, face buried in his shoulder. 2009, Stanley Cup finals. The first time Zhenya had ever looked Kris' way and felt the stirring of something in his groin, a deep seated feeling of want. At the time, he just chocked it up to the adrenaline, the pure ecstasy running through his veins, but he knew better now. Whether he knew it or not, he wanted Kris so deeply, would've done whatever he wanted in that very moment.

Pulling his head back, their noses brushed together, Kris' breath hot on his face. Kris' eyes crinkled at the corners, a disbelieving laugh flooding the small space between their lips, Zhenya leaning in—

Stop, he thought, desperately, stop, stop—

Bright hospital lights burned his vision, Zhenya squinting determinedly. He swayed, flanked by Rutherford, Johnston, Doctor Vyas, another doctor he didn't know. "He had a stroke," the unnamed doctor said, voice fuzzy, "he'll be fine, but we—"

Why am I here, Zhenya thought, I shouldn't be here, where's Cath—

"You should go in, Geno," Johnston gently touched his arm, like he was a startled deer. "He'll want to see you."

What? Zhenya tried to ask, but all that came from his mouth was, "Yeah, yeah…" stunned, scared, his legs moving without his consent.

Pale, Kris laid back on the hospital bed, staring vacantly. Zhenya dropped into a chair, taking Kris' limp, trembling hand. "You're going to be okay," Zhenya said, softly. He couldn't control himself, anything he was staying, just forced to sit back and watch as this—this hallucination did whatever it wanted.

"And what if I won't be?" Kris turned, blinking tiredly.

"You'll have me." Zhenya squeezed his hand, tight and grounding.

Alex was born by now. Alex was—God, he was two. He should be here. Where the hell was he?

Kris smiled, tiredly, before making space in the bed, gently patting the mattress. Zhenya couldn't fight it as he climbed in, their bodies slotting together like a puzzle piece.

I don't want this,Zhenya thought, stop, fucking stop—

An irritated hiss sparked by his ear, smoke flooding his nostrils, choking and thick. Fine, the demon snarled, one more.

No more— Zhenya begged as the hospital bled away, the vortex swirling around in him in array of colors, nausea sweeping through him as he tried to regain his footing. Please, I can't take anymore—

A shaky exhale left him as his house came into view, the Penguins recliners, the taxidermied shark over the mantle. The smells of home greeted him, eyes growing wet as he looked around. Silently, he prayed that the demon had taken pity on him, listened to his pathetic pleading. He'd do whatever it wanted, just as long as it stopped.

"Hey, you."

Zhenya whipped around, voice catching in his throat.

Kris stood in the entryway, an amused smile on his face, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looked—God, he looked like he did now. There was a bit of gray in his beard, left arm lined with tattoos. He was—God, he was Zhenya's Kris.

"What're you doing?" Kris asked, breaking him from his stupor, "I thought you were going to the gym?"

Slowly, tension bled from Zhenya's shoulders. Everything—fuck, everything felt the same. Exactly as it could have been. "You know me," he said, casually, "hate gym. Not want to go."

Kris chuckled, quietly padding over, reaching up to cup his face, gently thumbing his cheeks. Zhenya leaned into the touch, gently turning his face into his palm. "So hard being you," Kris said, teasingly, "forced to go to the gym."

"Be nice," Zhenya said, nipping at the heel of his hand, "not everyone like gym like you do."

God, Zhenya thought as Kris laughed, stroking his thumb across Zhenya's lips, I could do this. I could—this one—

"I know another way for you to get a workout in," Kris pulled his hand away, letting them drop to Zhenya's waist. "Unless that's too much work for you."

"You call me old?" Zhenya scoffed, body already responding. His gaze dropped to Kris' hands, he loved watching them work, how quickly and desperately he pulled at Zhenya's belt—

The tattoos were different.

"Hey," Kris grumbled as Zhenya snagged his wrist, everything growing still. Zhenya yanked his arm up, staring.

He knew these tattoos, had kissed and studied every inch of them, spent hours tracing them with his eyes long after Kris fell asleep. There was no tattoo for Alex, for the children that had left too soon, the ink that replaced it meaningless and bland, stereotypical white boy designs that bled into the familiar memorial tattoos for his grandmother and Luc.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kris asked, disgruntled. "I know you don't like them, but I thought—"

"Kris," Zhenya interrupted, frog in his throat, "where Nikita? Alex?"

Kris' frown told him everything he needed to know. "I don't know what your Russian friends are doing, babe, and I don't really care." He yanked his arm free. "Is this some kind of weird foreplay?"

They didn't exist. Was this what the demon thought he wanted? How—what had he done that made him think that? Was

“No—” Zhenya choked out as Kris dropped to his knees. He felt tilted, off balanced, stuck in some horrible nightmare that he couldn’t comprehend. “No, I’m not want it like this.”

No Anna, no Cath, no Alex or Victoria or Nikita—this was wrong. In every conceivable way, this was not a reality he could live, one he could accept. Being with Kris, having him, wasn’t the only thing he wanted, the only thing that made living worthwhile. Zhenya’s life wasn’t complete without Nikita, knew in his bones that Kris would say the same.

If this ever goes anywhere, Kris had once said, back pressed against a random nightclub wall, their faces obscured by their ball caps pulled low, just know that they’re going to be a part of it. Every second. No excuses.

Zhenya had just laughed, still so firmly believing that they were only friends with benefits, nothing more (and he’d never want more). Still, he’d bit the cut of Kris’ jaw, and muttered, I’m never expect anything less.

He knew Kris would never make him choose. That Kris, if he could love Zhenya, would treat Nikita as his own. There was no future, no reality that Zhenya wanted to be in, without that. A makeshift family they’d be, but a family nonetheless.

Between his knees, Kris hissed, lips curling. Smoke spilled between his lips, eyes glowing a nauseating amber as he snarled, “You can’t have what you want,” his nails dug painfully into Zhenya’s thighs, “accept this, or you’ll have nothing at all.”

Sibilated cursing flew from Kris’ mouth, a mix of French and English and something entirely foreign. Zhenya stumbled, hands flying back to catch himself. His feet tangled in the equipment, head hitting the bench with a sickening crack.

JANUARY

twice speared sparrow • tristan jarry/alex nedeljkovic

FEBRUARY

lost in your head • kris letang/evgeni malkin first impressions • kris letang/evgeni malkin the worst is you and i • kris letang/evgeni malkin pull the blanket tight • kris letang/evgeni malkin locker room of voyeurs • kris letang/evgeni malkin forgotten company • kris letang/evgeni malkin lesson in peer review • kris letang/evgeni malkin

APRIL

return to sender • kris letang/evgeni malkin only for, always with (forever without) • cuniculus • kris letang/evgeni malkin let me help you be selfish • kris letang/evgeni malkin

MAY

iris sibirica • kris letang/evgeni malkin

JUNE

go down swingin' • kris letang/evgeni malkin bridging between the two (me and you) • nolan arenado/willson contreras

JULY

fourteen • brad marchand/aleksander barkov black sheep, no wool • kris letang/evgeni malkin astral bodies • kris letang/evgeni malkin reverence • kris letang/evgeni malkin

AUGUST

THANKS FOR PLAYING • kris letang/evgeni malkin

SEPTEMBER

pretty is the flesh • kris letang/evgeni malkin

OCTOBER

...and never rise • sidney crosby/kris letang, kris letang/evgeni malkin

NOVEMBER