#rowcan

It was his knee, again. 

Lorcan winced as he stretched out his leg in front of him. His teammates surrounded him with classic locker-room chatter, making plans and chirping each other for mistakes made in practice. He had an appointment with the team physiotherapist soon, and he needed to work up the energy to walk down the hallway. And then there would be the stairs.

He dropped his head. Fuck. He felt geriatric sometimes, but then again he’d had knee problems since he could remember. The doctors used to blame his pain on growth spurts, and then it was his intensity on the ice. So, he supposed he couldn’t really feel old about it if the injury’d been with him since childhood.

Someone came to stand in front of him. He looked up with a scowl that melted when he saw Rowan. “Hey, man.”

Rowan nodded. “Are you doing anything tonight?” He’d dressed after his shower, hair still shining with water, and had his bag and goalie pads slung over a broad shoulder.

He gestured at his knee. “Got a physio appointment, but nah. Nothing after that.”

“Hm. Wanna come over after? The game’ll be on.” Rowan’s lips twitched like he was trying not to laugh or smile.

His pulse jumps a bit, blood rushing with a thrill. Lorcan nodded. “Yeah, alright.” They knocked their fists together, keeping up a pretense like they were just pals making evening plans to sit on a couch, watch some more hockey, and drink a beer. “See you later, then.”

Rowan nodded and then slipped his headphones over his ears as he left.

Lorcan got up after another minute. He had something to look forward to.

<p>

He got into his far-too expensive car after his appointment, feeling both worse and better all at once. 

The car purred to life; like most eighteen-year-olds with too much fuck-you money, he’d bought the thing outright, in cash, after getting his first paycheque. His friends had loved it, and his grandma had given him a slap upside the head. He’d kept it even ten years later. Most people he knew—worked with—changed them out every two or so years.

Lorcan leaned back in his seat as he drove to Rowan’s house in his too-posh neighbourhood. When they were first starting on the team, they’d lived in the same building, but then Rowan went and bought a house off a former hockey player after they won the championship. It was nice, Lorcan had to admit. He spent a lot of his time there, these days.

At Rowan’s house, he waited for the gate to open before pulling in. He tucked his car in next to Rowan’s luxury yet practical SUV and left his gearbag stuffed in the passenger seat. His knee protested when he climbed out of the low-to-the-ground car door. “Fuck,” he groaned.

“Might be time to trade that in,” said a voice from the door.

He whipped his head up to see Rowan standing in his open doorway. Lorcan flushed a bit. He didn’t like when people saw him in pain. Especially not Rowan. “What, and get a boring car like you?”

Rowan shrugged, “Mine’s comfortable and fits passengers plus all my shit.”

Lorcan didn’t deign that with an answer, even though Rowan was right. And they both knew it. Apparently, Rowan didn’t think they needed any more conversation either, as he turned back in to his house. Lorcan followed him in.

After he shut the door, Rowan pushed him against it and kissed him properly. Lorcan tilted his head just right. He palmed the back of Rowan’s head and wrapped his other arm around Rowan’s shoulders. He loved Rowan’s shoulders.

Rowan gripped his hips, pushing them against his solid oak door. He knew how to kiss Lorcan. Lorcan was a good kisser, he’d never really had a bad one, but the rumours which had been circulating tabloids for years were true. Rowan knew how to kiss. “Fuck,” Rowan whispered. He pulled away but rested his forehead on Lorcan’s. Lorcan shifted his face to nip at Rowan’s soft bottom lip. He loved making Rowan’s lips pink. Rowan groaned, and they were back against the door, wanting one another closer closer. 

Lorcan sighed his mouth open. He wanted Rowan filthy, wanted the man to lick into his mouth, wanted his tongue down his throat. 

But Rowan pulled back again and just stood there, rubbing Lorcan’s side. “D’you eat yet?”

“Um.” Lorcan blinked. “A bit?” He pecked Rowan’s mouth. “Are you hungry? I could eat, I guess.” He thought maybe they’d eat later. After.

“Not now. Come in, though. I have some chores to do.” Rowan turned out of Lorcan’s arms and walked further into his house. Every room was on one level; when he first bought it, everyone had given him shit for buying a house without stairs, Lorcan included. He had to admit now that he appreciated the lack of stress on his poor overworked joints.

Chores was a weird term for hooking up, Lorcan thought to himself. Kind of offensive, when he really considered it. Fucking him was a chore?

He worked himself up, not even realising he had followed Rowan to his bedroom until he was standing at the foot of Rowan’s bed. He let himself fall to the mattress, his actions all a bit mindless, and settled against the plush pillows and duvet. 

Rowan looked at him with a small frown. “I just made that,” he said.

“Oh, I got a feeling it’s gonna be a lot more messed than this pretty soon.”

“Just– sit. Be still.” An alarm went off elsewhere in the house, Lorcan thought it might be laundry, and Rowan disappeared without warning. 

He could be odd sometimes. Particular, Lorcan corrected. He idly patted one of the pillows by him. He used to think it was ridiculous, the amount of assorted pillows Rowan had, but they’d proven useful.

Rowan caught him smiling to himself as he re-entered the room. “What’re you smiling at?”

“Nothing.” Lorcan pushed himself up to his elbows and quickly took in, then dismissed, the basket of laundry in Rowan’s hands. “C’mere.”

“No, you come here.”

“You come here.” Lorcan stood.

Rowan ceded a step. “Come here.”

They did that little dance until they were chest-to-chest. Or would be, if not for Rowan’s basket. Lorcan kissed him anyway, carding his fingers through Rowan’s hair. Rowan kissed him back easily, but Lorcan knew it’d be better if his hands were free.

He pulled back and glanced down at the basket. “You wanna put that down?”

Rowan hummed. He moved past Lorcan to set it down. Lorcan turned automatically—these days he seemed to orbit around Rowan—to see the man start to sort through his clean clothes.

Lorcan sighed a bit. Like he said, somewhat odd. He trailed after Rowan. “Whatcha doing?”

“Folding laundry.”

“Mm.” He stripped off his hoodie, t-shirt, and sweatpants, so he was only wearing a pair of intentionally-too-small shorts. Rowan had liked them the last time he wore them. Really liked them, Lorcan remembered. To avoid Rowan’s wrath, Lorcan folded his discarded clothes and stacked them on Rowan’s dresser. He retook his position in bed, now lounging on his elbows with his legs spread (indecently). 

Rowan peered down at him but only for a second before returning to the task.

Lorcan frowned a bit. “You, uh, want any help with that?” He didn’t know if he wanted Rowan to say yes or no.

“No, that’s alright,” Rowan replied mildly.

His response made Lorcan huff. Were his laundry folding skills not up to par for the great, magnanimous Rowan Whitethorn? Fucking prick.

“How was physio?”

“Uh- fine. Normal.”

“It’s your knee, right?”

“Yeah, always is.”

Rowan made a face. “Sorry.”

Lorcan shrugged. “‘s’not your fault.” 

In a way, maybe it was, though. Rowan had hit him just as many times as other players, he reckoned. They both retreated to silence. Rowan seemed perfectly fine with it, but Lorcan couldn’t stop fidgeting or staring at Rowan, who wouldn’t look back at him. 

“Did they give you exercises? You can grab my yoga mat and,” Rowan gestured to some space on the floor where Lorcan could stretch. 

“Uh, nah. Told me I should just rest, did all my exercises with’em,” Lorcan mumbled. He couldn’t parse Rowan’s mixed attention. He didn’t notice that Lorcan was half-naked in his bed, but he was practically appointing himself to Lorcan’s rehabber. “Yo, d’you wanna, like, listen to something? Music? Watch something?”

Rowan shook his head and said, sort of pleasantly, “I kinda like the quiet. It’s nice, right?”

No, it wasn’t. Lorcan glowered at nothing in particular. Rowan paired his socks and folded them. Lorcan hated his socks, the little pile he’d begun to amass. 

He resolved to lie there without moving or sighing or fidgeting or disturbing the quiet Rowan so clearly wanted.

Lorcan lasted another five minutes before he was ready to peel his own skin off. He was almost vibrating with how on-edge he felt.

The question exploded from his lips: “What is your problem?” He was willing and waiting and wanting—so bad—and the prick hadn’t done a thing. Rowan chose to ignore the hot, half-dressed man in his bed (the one he’d been fucking for months) in favour of matching and folding his socks. That part was really throwing Lorcan; he thought everyone just dumped their socks into a drawer, straight from the dryer. But no, not Whitethorn. 

What a prick.

Rowan blinked once. He glanced down at his hand with one sock. “I’m looking for its pair.”

Lorcan could kill him. “Did you really ask me around here just to watch you fold laundry?” he asked next. He wouldn’t even mention Rowan’s obsessive-compulsive-whatever because Rowan was being an ass. He knew how Lorcan felt. If he actually had asked him over to watch him complete his chores, Lorcan would still say yes. 

Rowan lifted an eyebrow.

Lorcan rolled his eyes.

“I asked you over ‘cause I like your company.” Lorcan thought he might see some blushing on Rowan’s tanned cheeks as he added, “I like having you in my space.”

And all Lorcan could say in response was: “Oh.” He forced himself to look at Rowan even through the feeling of his face warming. He fought the urge, again, to fidget. “So… no sex?”

He shrugged. “I don’t need it. Was thinking about sucking you off, if you wanted, but I’m tired, and I thought you’d be tired after physio.”

Lorcan was sore. And tired, too. And he realised while Rowan spoke, talking him off the ledge, that all he really wanted to do in that moment was sleep. A blowjob could be nice, later, maybe. “But my shorts.” He wore them on purpose. They barely fit over his thighs, showing off the thick, well-toned muscle, glowy brown skin, and his leg tattoos. Lorcan wanted them at least acknowledged.

Rowan finally turned his attention to Lorcan’s body. His green eyes lingered, darkening, over Lorcan’s legs. “I saw,” he said. “Hence the blowjob offer.”

“Oh,” Lorcan said again, just as dumbly as the first time.

“So, you want sex? Now?”

He shook his head. “I am a bit tired.” He always appreciated that even when Rowan knew he had been right about something, he never said ‘I told you so,’ and he didn’t when he could have.

“Are you sore, too?”

He flopped down, letting his elbows go. He was, and told Rowan so. “It’s good, though, ya get me? Like, it’s healing type of sore.”

Soft fingertips danced over his knee, the fucked on. “I get you. Why don’t you nap?”

A small yawn erupted from Lorcan, unexpected. He shifted onto his side and sought out a pillow for his head. He found a small, squarish one with a plush cover that wasn’t soft but perfectly firm to support his neck. “Just for a bit.” His eyes fell shut and then opened when Rowan moved. Lorcan couldn’t get a word out before Rowan grabbed another pillow. “Whassat?”

“Lift your leg a bit.” Rowan waited as Lorcan followed his instruction, a bit mindlessly, and he fit the pillow beneath his knee. “Good?”

“Mm.” Lorcan tilted his face up for a kiss. Rowan indulged them both. “You softie.”

Rowan kissed him again. “Go to sleep, dickhead.” He returned to his laundry, and Lorcan wanted to say something else, but he fell asleep instead.

<p>

Rowan puttered around for a while after Lorcan fell asleep. He put away his laundry, hung up another load, and tidied his kitchen before ending up back at his bedroom door. He watched Lorcan sleeping until Lorcan shifted, spooking Rowan. 

It scared him that Lorcan might wake up to discover himself being watched. Rowan rubbed his eyes; he was acting ridiculous. He stepped inside and his eyes stayed on Lorcan. The door shut quietly behind him. 

Rowan took off his clothes and uncharacteristically left them where they dropped. He crawled into bed next to Lorcan. Like ivy, he attached himself to the man. His arms like vines crept around Lorcan, warm palms finding rest against sternum and stomach.

As he buried his head in Lorcan’s warm neck, the man hummed and sunk back into him. He half woke up with a uninteligilble grunt.

“Shh,” he kissed the back of his shoulder, “go back to sleep.”

Lorcan turned his face back into his pillow and muttered, “Clingy fuck.”

Rowan grinned against his skin. He probably was, and Lorcan didn’t seem to mind it.

an: probably inspired by my newfound fixation w royjamie and heated rivalry. fandom and shipping is sooo back baby. also i graduated (!!) so have basically the next 6 weeks to hang w my family in my hometown + province and do whatever (write + read fic tbh)