#hrfic

His eyes are deep pools of love and something that still hasn't made it out, so Kip intertwines their fingers together, and kisses his knuckles back.

“If-” he says, “if there's something that's not fun, you know you can tell me that too, right?”

“Oh, that's not...” His eyes fall away from Kip's face. “It's been a long time since sex has been fun for me, that's all.”

“Oh.”

Scott blushes furiously, and buries his face in Kip's shoulder, and Kip strokes his hair and tries not to squeeze so tight that their molecules merge. Sometimes he forgets how different their lives are. When Kip was growing up he had resources, he had partners who were comfortable and open and safe, and he had a network he could rely on if they weren't. Scott had none of that. Only loneliness. Desperation. Shame.

“Sorry,” Scott mumbles, “I didn't mean to bring the mood down.”

“And I told you, you can tell me stuff that isn't fun. I love you. I want you to feel safe.”

Kip wishes he could wrap Scott up in it like a blanket; that he could reach back in time, even, and protect him, and let him know he deserves better. He settles for kissing the top of his head, and that seems to help.

“... Can I tell you stuff that is fun?” Scott requests, after a moment, and it brings the smile back to Kip's face.

“Sure,” Kip invites. “Like what?”

Scott props himself back up on one arm, and traces a line along Kip's cheekbone. “It's fun when you put your reading glasses on before I get home even when you definitely weren't reading, because you know I think they're sexy.”

“Guilty.”

“It's fun when you wear my Admirals stuff, and send me pictures when I'm away. My little puck bunny.”

“You know it.”

“It's fun when I drop you on the bed and you laugh. Every time. I don't even know if you know but you always do it, and it's the cutest fucking thing I've ever heard.”

“Every time?” Now it's Kip who's blushing. “Well I- I think it's fun when you drop me. Just a little bit. I know you'll catch me.”

“You're cheesy.”

“You're cheesy.”

They're both beaming now, and when they kiss their teeth knock together, and that's fun too. Jarring, and messy, but it makes them laugh, and Scott lets himself flop back to the mattress to stare up at the roof with Kip, feeling a whole lot lighter.

“Alright,” he asks. “What do you like better: blowjobs or handjobs?”

Kip muses. “Are we talking giving or receiving?”

“Either.”

“Mm. I think giving, blowjobs, receiving, handies. No offence, but you can be scratchy.”

“Wow.” Scott scoffs. “I'll have you know I enjoy beard burn very much. And I like to kiss you when you cum, so.”

“So we're meant to be?”

“I guess we are.”

It's sweet. But as Kip feels the tingle of arousal pick up again, he only has so much time for sweet.

“Jersey or glasses?” he asks.

“That's cold. But jersey.”

Kip snorts. “You are such a fucking hockey player.”

“I'm sorry!” Scott protests. “You are very smart, and very sexy when you're being very smart, but it's a hard-wired evolutionary impulse to be horny out of your mind about your boyfriend wearing your kit. It's outside of my control.”

“Oh, poor baby.” Kip bites his lip. Takes a breath. Tries something. “Do you like it, when things are outside of your control sometimes?”

“I-I don't know what you mean.”

That thing creeps back in. Kip can see it. Hesitation. Shame. He pulls himself up over Scott this time, straddles his thighs, and brushes a careful finger over the little frown between his eyebrows.

“That's okay. That's what this game is for, right?”

“Dominance. Submission," Kip nudges. “Could be fun?”

“I haven't... really done that. I wouldn't know.”

Slowly, carefully, watching Scott's face the whole time, Kip slides his hands down to Scott's wrists. He moves them both to rest above Scott's head, and holds them there, so that his whole body is hovering over him too. Scott's skin is tingling, his pupils are blown wide, and in spite of himself, he asks -

“Which do you prefer?”

“A bit of both,” Kip says, and he starts to grind down with his hips. “But with you... Domming, I think. First of all, I mean, there's something that just drives me fucking crazy about having all the power over you, my big strong major league boyfriend. But it's more than that, you know? It's about someone trusting you absolutely, to take them as they are, and make them feel so fucking good.”

Scott moans, and Kip leans down to capture it between his lips.

“Man, you can't say that shit to me right now. I'm exhausted.”

“I swear, I would make you feel so good, baby.”

“Fuck.”

And the fact that Scott's even thinking about it, is enough to re-light the fire in Kip's rapidly recovering cock. The fact that he notices, and takes the opportunity to pry a hand back from Kip's grasp and wrap his fist around said cock and stroke and tease it – he might be down, but not out.

“Told you,” Kip pants, with an impish grin. “With someone you trust, it can be really fucking fun.”

“I trust you,” Scott says. “Absolutely.”

“Man. You cannot say that shit to me right now.”

Scott laughs, and the sheer adoration in his eyes is indescribable. Incandescent. Kip can barely look. So he throws his head back and grinds down harder and Scott obligingly gives him more friction. He's starting to strain and whimper now, and buck up into his hands, and his need is beautiful and- apparently, distracting.

“'s your turn,” Kip prompts.

“Couch sex or kitchen sex?”

“Kitchen. Especially the bench. Kitchen or shower?”

“Fuck no. No showers.” It blurts immediately right out of him and Kip blanches for a second. Scott shakes it off. “Kitchen. Kitchen any day. Morning or evening?”

“Both. Any. All of it. Want you all the time. Fuck, Scott.”

Kip's eyes fall closed, overwhelmed, careening closer to the edge. His pelvis has a mind of its own by now, and it's fascinating to watch. Scott should really watch it more when they're actually fucking. God. He'd let that man wring the passion out of him til there's nothing left. Still. They're in the middle of something, so.

“Your turn.”

Kip makes a little choked-off noise, that would have been a laugh if he wasn't so frazzled. There's so many things he could say. Tits or ass? Spit or swallow? He's rapidly losing the ability to make actual words come out of his mouth.

“Chest, or-” he stammers. “Chest, or – Ah, fuck it-”

He grabs Scott's arm, and Scott grabs him back, crashing their lips together just in time to catch the gasping, stuttering throes of orgasm, the whimper, the sigh. And now not once but twice satisfied, Kip is putty in his hands. He doesn't stop kissing, or touching, or smiling, for a long while after that.

When Alex’s hand joins his, the contrast is electric. Larger fingers sliding in alongside Henry’s own, moving in a careful, unhurried rhythm. Alex is thorough—curling and scissoring just right, watching closely for every change in Henry’s breath, every small shift of his hips. It makes Henry’s thighs tense around Alex’s ribs, his head tips back, a soft noise spilling out before he can catch it. The third finger feels decadent, stretching him until his toes curl, his spine arching in a shiver that rolls all the way up to his throat. He pulls Alex’s hand free, not because he wants less, but because he wants different. He slicks Alex’s cock with the same careful thoroughness, his hand slow and steady, coating every inch before positioning himself above him. The first push down is glacial—Henry sinking inch by inch, the stretch and heat drawing a quiet gasp from him as he takes Alex fully. He doesn’t move right away, instead resting there, hands braced on Alex’s chest, breathing through the fullness.

An audible shrug. He can picture the swagger of the shoulders.

“Is big trophy,” Rozanov says. “I can help you carry?”

It's not his best. Scott snorts.

“Calling me old again? Come on. Here I was thinking I'd given you some new material.”

“Material?”

“Something to work with. You know, call me a faggot or whatever. Trust me, I've heard it.”

“I do not use this word.”

Now, that's a surprise. Scott's eyes jump off the pavement to where Rozanov is standing. He's got a black tank top and big black headphones and his jaw is stiff and serious, like he's just walked out of a fucking Depeche Mode poster. Except for the fact that he's currently strangling the handle of a roll-along suitcase like he's terrified to be here. It kind of undercuts the whole aesthetic.

“I mean,” Rozanov continues, “I can still tell you to suck my dick, if you want.”

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“Probably, yes.”

He says it like it's not a word of a lie. Not a flicker of a smile. He doesn't break eye contact until it sinks into Scott's bones. Oh.

“Fuck.” He lets out a shaky sigh. Rozanov. Fucking Rozanov of all people.

“Yes. Fuck.”

Uncharacteristically quietly, Rozanov helps himself to the other seat on the bench, on the other side of the big red trophy. He uncouples his hand from the poor suitcase and massages it, worrying at it the way he worries at his stick when a game is going badly: vulnerable, and pissed about it. Scott feels a knot of sympathy in his gut. Can he put a hand on the kid's shoulder? Tell him it's all going to be okay? No. That would probably scare him off – it would have done Scott, the first couple of times he did this - so he looks away, to ease the pressure, and waits for whatever is bubbling up inside of Rozanov to either spill out or die in his throat.

(Scott tries to imagine what they look like from the end of the alley. Two bros, sitting two feet apart on a bench staring at the concrete instead of each other for whatever this is, because they're not gay. Jesus.)

So he waits. But Scott's not immune to the agitation of vulnerability either, and he can feel it clawing up his legs til his knee starts to bounce, clawing up his torso til his chest tightens and it feels like he's the one coming out all over again and -

“Fuck, I need a drin-”

“I am not gay.”

Scott fights the urge to look at him again. Let it come. And if he's taking the piss, so help him, Scott can always punch him later.

“I like women too.”

A future together. For another hockey player? For another kid like him, yes, and that will never stop feeling like the best kind of punch in the gut. But for another major league, top of the sport hockey player? Maybe even two, if Scott's suspicion about this special person is right, and fuck. That's powerful. That feels impossible. It wasn't so long ago, when the best he thought he could have hoped for, was to wait until he'd faded away.

“You're bi?”

“Yes. That.” Rozanov swallows hard, pushing through, fighting every instinct, and man, Scott's been there. “So I was thinking maybe I never tell anyone, it would be okay. But there's this person. This... man. He is special to me. And I didn't think we had a future together, until you did what you did. So. Thank you, Scott Hunter.”

“I...”

He can't help it this time, he looks. And Rozanov is already looking. Smirking. The motherfucker has turned the tables on him and he knows it, and Scott can't even be mad.

“Um. You're welcome,” he manages instead.

Rozanov snorts, and settles into his seat a little. He doesn't look as much like he wants to disappear into a hole in the earth anymore. Scott's been there, too, and he can't help smiling back. Good for you, kid.

“So your... Kip is not here?” Rozanov asks. “For your big night?”

“No,” Scott says. “He couldn't fly out.”

They both know that's a lie. Rozanov raises an eyebrow. Scott thinks about the future he (they) are maybe thinking of building, and confesses.

“Look. Truth is, things are kind of intense. With the League, with the press. With the fans. A lot of it's been great, but... I really meant it, it's been a month. A crazy, complicated month. Plus, Kip's kind of become super famous super suddenly because of all this too, so that's been a ride and a half-”

“Oh, well at least that will not be a problem for us.”

It's Scott's turn to raise an eyebrow, and Rozanov realises he's said too much. He holds his breath, digs his thumb into the palm of his hand again, and Scott tries to clamp down on his smile before it sends him running for the hills. Good for them. Fucking hell, it makes so much sense. With this whole rivalry business the sexual tension is right there, first of all, and it all spirals out from there: the rebel and the golden child, 1221, where's your boy, all of it. Chemistry at the All Star Game. The way Rozanov looked like someone had ripped his heart out when Hollander got laid out on the ice.

He is special to me.

“Anyway. We just didn't want to poke the bear,” Scott finishes, giving Rozanov a place to hide. The kid lets his breath out, his shoulders settling again. There's a long stretch of silence – of distant crowds, traffic, wind. Then:

“Is it worth it?”

His voice is quiet, but hopeful. Curious. Soft. It's a side of World-Famous Asshole Ilya Rozanov that not many people get to see – one which asks less if I do this, am I going to want to break your jaw next time I see you? and more, what you've been through, would you inflict that on me?

Well, I'm not from Russia, Scott wants to say, because he has to imagine that has a few more stakes to it than what some kid from Brooklyn is going to deal with. I'm not at the height of my career, not anymore. I don't have anything to prove.

But then he thinks of Kip. And how it felt to hold him and everybody cheering and Kip and comfort in the evening and peace in the morning and Kip and blue banana smoothie and yapping about light sources and serial killer podcasts and not being so lonely and finally, finally feeling like he's not ripping himself in half anymore and Kip, Kip, Kip, and what comes out is -

“Yes.”

And Rozanov's face lights up. He beams, even his eyes shine, full of love, and he tries to cover his mouth but it does little to reduce the luminescent joy. For himself. For Shane. For the reassurance that all the hiding, the lies, the shame, the slurs, the dirty hits, the invasive questions, it will all be worth it one day. He can have what he wants. What he deserves. He shines so bright it hurts, and Scott's almost jealous for a moment, of what he could have had all this time if he'd been the one in that seat ten, fifteen, twenty years ago.

(Almost? He's definitely jealous. But he's here now and he wouldn't change it for the world).

Rozanov splays his arms across the bench then, and pokes Scott firmly in the shoulder.

“First Cup for the Admirals in 28 years, hm? You would not have won if Hollander did not get concussion.”

It's almost a change of subject. But not quite.

“Well, you could have trounced us yourself anytime you wanted,” Scott retorts.

Rozanov shrugs. ”I let you win. Before you retire.”

“Mm, so kind of you.”

“Mm, yes I think so.”

Asshole. Scott chuckles.

“Come on, Rozanov. You gonna buy me a drink or what?”

“Ilya. But no. I have a plane to catch.”

Oh.

“Back to Moscow?”

“No.”

He keeps Scott's eye a little longer. To make sure he knows. He knows he knows.

Montreal.

“Alright, well. Look out for the loons for me, right?”

“The what?”

“Never mind.” Scott shakes his head. “Have fun, kid. See you in October.”

“See you in October, Brave Scott Hunter. I look forward to wiping the floor with you.”

He chatters away with them, and something warm blossoms inside Shane's chest. He's a bit of a lightweight, sure, but that's not it. It's Ilya, soaked in joy and glowing like the sun; free and open like he doesn't get to be with a lot of people. It's his parents, reciprocating, even though he'd feared for so long they would not. Maybe they can't tell the world, or not yet, but inside these walls, it's everything.

Shane drifts into the kitchen, and he wonders if they can feel all of it radiating from him.

“Do you want fish with glaze or without?” Ilya offers his parents. “Shane is having without.”

“I'm boring, remember,” Shane teases.

“Oh, with, definitely,” Yuna insists.

“I will pass,” David says. “I'm not much for the, uh, Eastern European pallet. Except for sour cream. Someone really knew what they were doing with that.”

“Smetana!” With the tongs he's using to cook the fish, Ilya gestures to the tub of it he's got sitting on the bench. “My sour cream, is your sour cream, Mr Hollander.”

“Oh, David, please,” David brushes him off, and just for a moment the shine from Ilya falters. The smile flickers in his eyes. Shane wonders if a man who never even called his own father Dad can fathom such a thing. He intertwines their fingers.

“Ilya loves to cook,” he offers up, by way of distraction. “There's so much food. Seriously.”

He leads them through to the living room, where the spread is so generous it takes up most of an already generous dining table. His parents' eyes go wide, and the sails of Ilya's pride tentatively flicker in the wind of it.

“Is not just me,” Ilya protests. “I find deli bakery who also likes to cook. There is roast turkey. Chicken pie. Pirozkhi – is cabbage, is pretty Russian, be careful.”

David laughs, and Ilya laughs, but it's not as bold as it was before. He shows off his table, but clings to Shane's hand, and if not that, to his immediate orbit. Joy battles desperation - be proud of me, be proud of me - and if Shane hadn't spent so much time with him, he never would have known how it seeps out of every pore. Is it harder for Ilya, he wonders, to pretend not to care? Or to try and be honest without letting slip just how desperately he wants it? Either way, he soldiers on, and Shane hopes something's healing.

-

“Now, Ilya-”

It doesn't take long before they're fed and happy, coming to rest on the sofas nursing impending food-comas. Shane's mother digs out from her handbag, a red box just a little larger than her hands.

“- I'm sure Shane told you, we don't usually do gifts. But since it's your first Christmas with us and everything we wanted to get you a little something. We hope you don't mind.”

It's got little white decorations on it, like the box itself is iced, and it's tied with a thin red and white string.

“We didn't know you're such a chef,” David continues, “I'm sure you could make it, but one of my old colleagues is from just outside of Tula and he swears by this place.”

“Ah, Tula!” Ilya beams, delighted as he pulls at the strings. “I know this place, that is so-”

Shane feels it hit Ilya like a truck.

The words die on his lips. Even his breathing clenches right up, like he's just been dunked in cold water. Tears spring to his eyes and if he could have fled he would but his body won't move.

Shane takes the box from his hands. Inside it is a little pile of ginger-bread figures, each crafted with artisanal perfection and care, on the very top of which is a horse of that sort of Nordic-drawn style, with intricate patterns in pastel colours dotted and swirled across it. It's beautiful. But it takes more than beauty to make Ilya Rozanov cry.

“Um. Thank you for these,” Shane attempts. “I think Ilya is... missing home, a little.”

“Of course, we should have thought-”

“- we're so sorry.”

Ilya shakes his head again, cutting through their apologies, and they wait as he tries to put a sentence back together.

“Kozuli,” he manages eventually. “Is lucky. My mother used to make for me.” Then something breathy and choked in Russian. Then:

“I have not had since I was twelve.”

He covers his mouth with his hand after that, and finally gets up and flees, behind the couch and out the back of the house to where the garden is quiet.

“Twelve?” Yuna whispers quietly.

“Geez,” David breathes.

I was young, Ilya had said. Tears prickle at Shane's eyes too, and at the back of his throat.

“I- I'm gonna go,” he says, nodding out the back after Ilya.

“Of course. We'll clean up in here a bit and get out of your hair.”

“Thanks. Sorry,”

His mother shakes her head, and Shane feels possessed to throw his arms around her. It's a surprise, he feels her jolt – he's the first to admit, he's not much of a hugger. But nor does he have the words to explain the overwhelming love, and pain, and gratitude.

Scott looks like he's been hit by a bus. He has bruises where the helmet would have lined his cheeks, stiffness in his shoulders, and a limp he's doing a bad job at hiding. He sees the concern scrunch Kip's eyebrows, but nevertheless, tries to stifle a grunt when he pulls open the fridge.

“Stop,” Kip orders in a whisper. “I'll get it.”

“You don't-”

Kip stares.

Scott folds.

“Fine. Thank you.”

Kip lifts the duffel from around Scott's neck, and trades it for a glass of carbonated electrolyte drink. The bubbles pop alone in the silence, baffled and overwhelmed.

“Rough game?” Kip has to ask, eventually.

Hockey's violent. Kip knows this. It's not the first time Scott's come home looking a little worse for wear. But this- this is-

“Fine,” Scott says again. “We won.”

Doesn't look like it, Kip stops himself saying, as his fingertips trace the raw skin along Scott's cheekbone. Scott conjures a shallow smile. The tension in his shoulders doesn't leave.

“Seriously, babe,” he promises, “I'm fine. They're just razzing me 'cause I'm getting old.”

“Are you sure that's all it is?” Scott steps away, Kip steps closer, determined not to let him put the island bench between them. “Because it's your first season out and-”

The smile drops.

“Jesus, Kip, if I wanted the third degree I would have let Wilson get a shot at me.”

“What did Wilson say?”

“What the fuck do you think? You think I let him see me like this? That he'd let me leave like this?” Scott throws his arms out, shoving Kip away. “I fucking got out of there like a bat out of hell, didn't I? I can't limp, I can't whinge, I sure as hell can't go running to the club or the refs. I can't show any weakness, anything at all, that's what they want, I have to prove I'm not just some -”

Kip winces like the word burns his skin. He stops chasing, stops reaching, after that.

Scott swallows the rest of whatever he was going to say.

“Sorry,” he mutters instead. “Old habits. I'm... going to take a shower.”

The apartment is dead quiet, save for the pounding of Kip's heart in his ears, and the carbonated bubbles. The raw agony in Scott's voice tears at him. Then the water clicks on, roaring and strong, and Kip takes a deep breath.

-

Scott turns the water as high and hot as he can stand it.

“Fuck,” he curses himself. Then, louder, because who the fuck else is going to hear. “Fuck!”

Maybe they should take him out back like an old farm dog and shoot him after all. Between the game being a playoff qualifier and, well, the other thing getting him checked into the boards left right and centre all night, there's not an inch of him that doesn't hurt. There's bruises all over – knees, hips, blooming across his rib cage – but worse is the fact that even here, in his own house, with his own Kip, it's only with the plausible deniability of the running water that the tears of pity, fury, pain start to bubble to the surface. Even then, his breath hitches trying to hold it in, and he looks to the sky, begging himself, don't cry, don't cry. Why the fuck not?

He puts his head in his hands, and roars wordlessly at everything.

Then, quietly, the shower door opens.

Kip steps into the steam. Touches his elbows. Takes his hands, and cradles them. Presses their foreheads together, so they can watch each other breathe.

“'m sorry,” Scott says again, more honestly this time. “I didn't realise this was going to be so hard.”

“Yes, you did,” Kip reminds him, with tears in his eyes, and a whisper of a smile, in spite of everything. “And you did it anyway. Because you love me. And you love yourself. And you're very brave.”

Scott tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. He doesn't feel brave. He feels like a fucking idiot.

Kip pulls him down into an embrace, and holds him there until everything comes out and the water's running cold around them. Even then, he only pulls back enough to kiss his hair, his forehead, and then his lips as Scott looks up again, letting the real world creep back in. It's not so sharp and hostile now.

“I really do love you,” Scott breathes. “So much.”

“I know, babe.” Kip presses one last, lingering kiss to Scott's lips, before moving away to rummage through the bathroom drawers. “Now, where's that muscle rub stuff you like? I hope we've got enough, because it's going to take all night to get those knots out.”

“Don't you have something due?” Scott protests. “Colour theory? They're going to start docking points...”

Kip shakes his head.

“It can wait,” he promises. “Everything can wait. Come to bed.”