#moving day

Tommy's still familiar with the cadence of Hen and Howie, ribbing and mocking a form of endearment for them both, so he's not exactly shocked when Bobby just rolls with it and starts listing off the last fifteen calls they've needed it for. None of those things particularly improve the red rising up Evan's cheekbones, but Tommy catches the grin Bobby's hiding while he sets boxes of pizza up at the kitchen table, cleared of the latest seasonal decor Evan had dragged him through three different department stores to find, not that he could be bothered to care when the very existence of them was all it took to shift Maddie's opinion of him from tolerantly friendly to encouragingly approving.

("This loft was a minimalists wet dream before you were in the picture," she'd told him one evening, after she'd manipulated him into admitting he was terrified this didn't mean the same thing to Evan as it did to him. "He started nesting a month after my wedding, Tommy.")

And now they're here. Watching Evan pretend to be miffed by the teasing while he fights a roll of packing tape.

He's going to miss the upstairs shower, wide enough for two grown men to fit more than comfortably; and the balcony on cooler nights when he could tempt Evan out for a slow dance set to the late-evening traffic; the kitchen island at the perfect height to lift Evan onto and tilt his head up for an angled kiss.

He won't miss the open plan that makes it impossible to do much of anything with a snoring Eddie right below them, the tuba player two doors down who only seems to practice the moment Tommy's head meets the pillow at the end of any random days-long shift, the way the elevator always smells like tuna on Thursday afternoons.

There are things he won't have to miss, of course. Evan, on nights when they just can't make their schedules align well enough to justify the drive time. The extra fluffy towel set Evan had refused to reveal the origin of ("You'll buy your own and leave me, I know you're only with me for my towels."). The pictures plastered to the fridge that Tommy's spent the last few weeks plotting out space for on his own before deciding he'd need a new fridge just to fit them all. The plant he'd bought Evan to appease the grump, the first time he'd dragged him to the farmers market at the ass crack of dawn, lovingly named Herbert. The fancy adjustable bedside lamps Evan had bought the last time he'd caught Tommy squinting down his reading glasses at the book in his hands. Evan.

Christ, he wouldn't have to miss Evan anymore. They'd synched up their schedules more or less as well as they could, but Tommy's spent months now trying to ignore how quickly a sleepless night could turn restful with Evan in his bed - how fitful a night without him there had a habit of being.

Most of the loft is already packed. Evan's wardrobe has been dwindling for weeks now, a box at a time carted from the back of the Jeep up Tommy's drive, through the mud room, down the hall and straight to the closet that had never seen such a shock of color or variety of fabric. They'd sprung for a bigger mattress, once they'd gotten over the sticker shock and remembered how much they'd be saving by paying half a mortgage each with no rent to speak of, and other than the kitchen table most of Evan's other furniture was being donated.

All that really remained were the kitchen supplies Evan hadn't been willing to move until he handed over his keys, a few toiletries, a single drawer of clothes just in case he needed them. Pictures on the walls and stacks of books on the bookshelves - half a decade of life lived in this apartment and most of it was already half unboxed and slowly integrating into the fifteen years Tommy had put into his own solitary life.

Evan finishes taping boxes and makes a beeline for his itemized list, and Tommy has to pretend it's giving him as much grief as Evan's sister and best friend to see the clipboard in action. He's not entirely sure how well he sells it, when even Bobby's shooting him aggrieved looks only to grimace at whatever he finds in Tommy's expression.

And just like that, an hour passes and the pizza disappears; the boxes are loaded into the back of his truck; the kitchen table in Eddie's; and Maddie tugs her brother in for a hug, drags Tommy in for good measure too, kisses them both on the cheek as she leaves; Bobby tucks a wooden box filled with handwritten recipes on note cards into Evan's hand and Tommy pretends not to notice either of their teary eyes; Eddie hefts a six pack out of the otherwise empty fridge and promises to meet them at the house in forty-five.

There's still one picture stuck to the fridge - a candid from the first barbeque Athena and Bobby had hosted after their move, Tommy and Evan backlit by a setting sun, tucked up against each other leaned against a porch railing, and Tommy knuckles at it while Evan does a slow introspective spin to take in the wide expanse of windows and brick. He's still staring when Evan finishes and drifts towards him, hands tucking in at Tommy's waist, chin hooking over his shoulder.

"Is this one staying?"

Evan shakes his head, nose digging into the side of Tommy's neck. "Just wanted to keep it out so it could be the first one we put up."

He remembers the night. Karen had gotten him drunk and added him to the wives group chat. May Grant had stolen half his slice of cake right off his plate and dared him to protest. Jee had spent the entire night calling him Uncle Tommy and thrown a massive fit when she realized he wasn't going home with her to read a bedtime story. Christopher and Denny had spent half an hour trying to teach him how to play Fortnite and then been mystified when he trounced them in Mario Kart. He knows exactly why it's significant to him. "Why this one?" he asks, curving into the cradle of Evan's arms.

“You know you don’t have to do that.”

It wasn’t a question, and Alex didn’t take it as one—just smiled at him, a little out of breath, and stepped sideways around the kitchen island to drop the box on the floor by the couch. He radiated heat when he passed behind Kasey with a squeeze to his shoulders and a kiss to the top of his head. Short and sharp, sweetened by the tang of sweat. Kasey watched him half-jog back into the hallway. Hockey looked good on Alex. It always had. The media called them twins but he was so much bigger than Finn, thick in the shoulders and waist and thighs. Finn didn’t fight because he had a knight two steps behind him. Alex didn’t fight because everyone else knew he’d win.

“Al,” Kasey called at the next small huff of effort. “Come on.”

“Right here, baby.” That smile. Goddamn. Kasey crossed his arms over his chest to trap the flutter inside.

“Give me—” He checked his phone. “Five minutes. For the sake of your back if nothing else.”

“No can do, sugar-sweets.” Alex left the box on the countertop, though, and was at his side in moments. The freckles on his knuckles stood out when he braced his hands on the back of the couch and leaned over Kasey. Sweaty, indeed. It darkened his shirt and the roots of his hair, still a little longer than he usually liked it. His kiss was brief and hard. “Mwah. Two more boxes.”

“Let me help you.”

“Kase.” Alex knelt on one knee. His fingers found Kasey’s hair; his eyes flickered dragonfly-fast over Kasey’s face. “Kasey Winter, Winter Kasey, the most beautiful brick wall in the league and love of my fuckin’ life. No.”

“Why?”

“Hmm, let’s think about that one.” Alex widened his eyes for a moment, teasing, and he swept his index finger down Kasey’s nose until he wrinkled it. “My lover’s moving in, he’s got a bum leg, and I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in. Three strikes, you’re out.”

“If you give me five minutes—four, now—”

“You will still be my lover, who is still moving into my apartment.” Alex tucked his hair behind his ear and scuffed his thumb against Kasey’s cheek on the way. Impossibly gentle. Everything about Alex had always felt impossible. “Let me do this,” he murmured. “Boyfriends are supposed to do the heavy lifting, right? Move all your shit in for you, ‘cause it’s my place and I want you here?”

“Eighty percent of that is Nat’s.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one that gets to look at my muscles while I do it.” Alex tapped his nose again. “Let me boyfriend, winterlong. I’m good at it.”

Kasey arched a brow. “Your job is boyfriend?”

“My job is boyfriend,” Alex said, solemn as the grave. “Stanley-Cup-winning, MVP boyfriend. I’m the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

Kasey bit his smile into the inside of his cheek and knew Alex saw it by the glimmer of his eyes. “You’re the only boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Kasey hooked his finger in a hole at the neckline of Alex’s shirt. He’d chew on them while he scrolled his phone, sometimes. Absolutely insane. Kasey had never seen Finn do that even once. “You really, really don’t need to move all my boxes for me.”

Alex squinted at him. “Mmmm, yeah, pretty sure I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I wanna.” He dashed a kiss to the inside of Kasey’s wrist. “I love ya. I want to go lift heavy things for my boy and my girl so they can live in my house forever and ever and ever.”

“And ever?”

“And ever. I haven’t told you the best part yet.”

“Oh?”

“My boyfriend objectifies me when I lift heavy things for him.” Slowly, tenderly, Alex took Kasey’s hoodie sleeve between his teeth. His pointed canines flashed.

Kasey narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think he does that.”

“He does. I can tell. He’s really, really bad at hiding things.”

“Hmm.”

“He also joins me in the shower when I’m done.”

Kasey gave his shoulder two sturdy thumps, then dragged his hand through thick red waves with the kind of pressure that made Alex grin. His copper eyelashes flashed in the afternoon light. Outside, a car horn blared. He’d missed it. He’d missed all of this so, so much. “Two boxes. Get moving.”