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It’s raised there, the skin set right between Tyler’s shoulderblades. And the thing is, the scars look fresh; Jamie’s seen enough of them to know. He’s got his own, ones that can be hidden under the cuff of his shirt-sleeve or the stretch of his underarmour. It doesn’t look like a hockey injury, two line-thin parallel scars that are almost perfect in their straightness. They look unnatural and out-of-place.
Jamie doesn’t mean to look and Rouss should know better than to ask.
Rouss is sitting off to Tyler’s other side, watching the pull of his back with a tight frown. “Seggy,” he says, tapping himself on the shoulder. “What is that?”
Tyler’s shirt is caught around his wrist, twisting clockwise down the length of his forearm. Face in profile. He looks at Rouss. “What?” Sees where he’s gesturing. “Oh, that. Birthmark.”
Jordie sits down beside Jamie, skin sheened with water. He’s got his hand on the knot of his towel and he shakes out his hair wetly. Jamie flinches. Tyler’s shirt stretches tightly down his back, smooth glide of fabric, marks disappearing.
“They’re like, crazy-straight. Kind of freaky, man,” Jordie says, shrugging his shoulders.
Jamie bites his lip. They’re scars, too deliberate to be anything else. There’s one of Jamie’s, it runs horizontal over the top of his thigh, this jagged little line. Sometimes when his shorts ride up, Jamie will trace over it. It’s just above the knee, a rouge skateblade in minor-juniors. It doesn’t feel like much under his thumb.
Tyler grins, crooked. “Freak of nature, eh?”
Jordie nods. “Beauty kind.”
-
He accommodates Tyler easily when he slumps into his space, focused on the TV. Their shoulders touch. The cleft of Tyler’s knee to his. His thumbs move across the controller with precision, elbow pressing into Jamie’s side. Jamie’s mouth burns with fizz and citrus. The contact quiets the sharp edge of pain, dulling it.
He’s a little surprised when Tyler disrupts the semi-silence, asks, “How’re you feeling?” Inquisitive tilt of his head. The press of his body tighter somehow.
Jamie makes a small noise. “Headache. It’s easing up, though.”
Tyler’s fingers are light on his thigh. “Shit, maybe we should shut this down.” He gestures out at the screen before running his fingers over Jamie’s thigh.
Jamie shakes his head. “It’s cool. We don’t have to.”
But Tyler’s already sitting up, feet on the ground. He takes the controller from him and powers off the TV, the console. He moves through the living-room with ease. Jamie likes it, his fluidity. A change from his first few weeks in Dallas—waiting for him or Jordie go first, give him a nod. Tyler almost tiptoeing through their apartment.
He reaches for the blankets piled on the arm of the couch. “C’mon,” Tyler says, “Lie down.”
He knows where this is going. “We’re not going to fit,” but it sounds more skeptical than Jamie feels. He lies down.
“We will,” Tyler says, before moulding himself along Jamie’s back. His headache starts to disperse when he closes his eyes, the feeling of sleep making Jamie feel numb all over. The heat of Tyler’s body warms the space between them.
-
Jamie groans. “You’re a complete asshole.”
Jordie straightens up. The sun behind him is too bright and Jamie has to close his eyes again, shutting out the light. Jordie smug look. He burrows farther down underneath the blankets.
“And you guys are adorable, napping together.” He leans back down, bypassing Jamie to flick Tyler just off his temple. “Aren’t you, Seggy?”
“Jordie, man, shut up,” Tyler says and Jamie can feel the words on his neck, rough. Jordie laughs, loud and long. Tyler pulls away with a huff and it leaves Jamie feeling cold. “Ugh, whatever. ‘m gonna go walk Marshall.”
He lets his hand linger on the curve of Jamie’s hip, gaze resolute and dark. His head is quiet. “See you, Jamie.” He looks up at Jordie. “And fuck you.”
Jamie sits up slowly, caught in fleece and sleep. He can see crease-folds up his arm. It’s already after six, light gathering itself in the corner of the room. Jordie waits him out. His seriously face as judgemental as always. The one that crops up with bad odds and half-drunk decisions.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks. It’s not unsympathetic.
Jamie shakes his head. Nothing to talk about.
-
There are pistachios, unshelled, waiting on the cutting-board. Jamie directs Tyler there, a hand to his back, when he comes a little farther into the kitchen, asking, “Can I do anything?”
He takes the knife Jamie hands him. He looks down at the board, thinking, before separating out a few nuts and pressing the blade through the meat. Jamie nods with the rhythm. “Yeah,” he says, “like that.”
He’s just pulling the quinoa off the stove, draining the excess water, when Tyler lets out a hiss of pain, a deep one that he pulls in through his teeth. It looks like his index finger, a nick, from where Jamie’s standing. Tyler covers it up too quickly for him to really see.
“Let me take a look at it.” He reaches out towards Tyler, waiting. “We’ll run it under the tap.”
Tyler hesitates for a moment before he shakes his head, skin gone white in his grip. “Think I just need a bandaid. You got some in the bathroom, right?”
“Yeah, man. Go ahead. I’ll clean up here.” He watches Tyler’s retreating back. “Wash it out first.”
Tyler nods. Jamie goes over to where he was working and picks up the knife. There’s no blood, but something gold and opaque glints off the tip of the blade. It doesn’t look like oil, ginger-coloured. Jamie shrugs at Jordie’s raised eyebrow. He rinses the blade clean and sets it down on the cutting-board. The silver of it looks dull in contrast to the white tape pressing up against Tyler’s knuckle. His smile embarrassed.
-
Jordie coughs behind them. “You losers ready for skate?” He’s got his bag slung over his shoulder, loose, and he’s wearing socks and sandals. He still manages to look smug.
Tyler blinks at him. “You sure you’re ready, bro?” He looks Jordie up and down, once and final. “Might wanna rethink your clothing game.”
Jordie shrugs. “That cut still giving you trouble, Seggy? Think you’d lost a finger or something.”
Jamie rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay.” He pushes at Jordie’s shoulder. “Drop it and let’s go.” Tyler’s half-open mouth closes with a click and he nods, curling his hand into a fist. Jamie guides Tyler towards the door, hand to his waist. Thumb trailing down to the inside of his wrist.
Tyler pulls away, out in front of him.
-
The feeling stays with him into the first period—sees it in Eaks’s assist, Whits’s goal. They change lines, Tyler heading out first. Fast.
Scheifele gets the puck on his tape, close to the boards. The angle’s off when Stuart checks Jamie into the glass, just outside of his periphery; a black speck. Stuart’s not that much bigger, more solid maybe, but Jamie catches the ice on the wrong part of his blade, shaking. He slides heavily down the boards, Stuart coming with him.
Tyler’s there to help him up, elbowing Stuart out of the way. Bare hand, no glove. His skin is clammy, cold-hot. The ice is firm underneath him. Val’s close by, too, skating along the outside of their circle. There’s glare coming off his visor and it makes his eyes unreadable. Stick dropped low across his body.
There’s no call. Doesn’t need to be.
Tyler hitting Stuart on the next play, then, doesn’t make sense. His face is livid and red, teeth tight together as he clips him with his shoulder. Tension rippling across the ice. The refs get in there before any real fighting breaks out. Ruff yelling from the bench as Tyler gets two minutes and gives away a powerplay. His eyes dark as he looks at Jamie.
He can feel that, too. Joined by Val’s narrowed and claustrophobic one, a dry exhale.
-
Jamie shakes his head. “There wasn’t much behind it, you know?”
“Did not think either.” He looks up and over Jamie’s shoulder. Tyler’s across the room, surrounded by media and phones blinking red. He looks serious, a bit hollowed out. “Why Tyler hit Jet then?”
Jamie shrugs. “Dunno. Trying to return the favour, maybe?”
Jamie honestly doesn’t know. He can hit, but he can’t fight. Helmet always strapped tightly under his chin. Anger usually turned into an unmatchable pace, one that even Jamie sometimes struggles to keep up with. The naked frustration is clear on Tyler’s face now, mouth moving tersely.
Val nods, sage. “I see.”
-
“Good fight back there, man. What’d he have on you? Five inches and thirty pounds?” Jordie’s voice is good-humoured. He clasps Jamie by the shoulder, other hand on the steering wheel. “Leave that to Chubbs here.”
Tyler nods, but his mouth doesn’t change. An unhappy curve. He keeps looking out the window, the blackness there. “Yeah. Next time, I guess.” Fingers curled over his knees.
Jordie gives him a look. Jamie shrugs.
-
Jamie grabs the table’s first round. They have a late practice tomorrow, so the guys load him down with a bunch of ridiculous drink orders. A few beers, yeah, but also a handful of cosmos, gin-and-gingers, and three shots of Jag. The bartender takes it without giving him much grief, probably because Jamie’s hands him entirely too much money and tells him to keep the change.
He waits, phone in hand—drinks sliding their way onto twinned trays. Sugar-rimmed and pink, viscous and dark. He’s flicking through his Twitter feed when someone coughs and puts a glass down by his elbow. It startles Jamie enough into looking up. Loud even over the music, his guys.
“Those all for you, man?” the guy asks, thin lips and off-kilter smile. His hair’s got that half-shaved thing going on, but it works for him; close-cropped and shorn. Winding tattoos down to his wrist. He’s not totally Jamie’s type, but he’s close enough. Can already see the kind of bruises he’d leave down Jamie’s chest, maroon and blooming black.
Jamie shakes his head. “No,” he says, tipping his head back, “for the guys.” He traces the lip of his glass with his eyes, the tack there. “You drinking alone?”
The guy smiles at him, eyes crinkling up at the corners. Catches his tongue between his teeth. “‘m not now, no.”
He laughs, wetting his lips. “I’m Jamie.”
He gets a head nod in return. “Scott.” He holds Jamie’s gaze for a few beats, amusement flickering across his face. He lets out his own small laugh, the silence stretching.
Jamie ducks his head, just about to buy him a drink. Dredges in his glass, probably warm. Warm on Scott’s lips, bitter and clinging to the corner of his mouth. He looks up to see Scott’s eyebrows pulled down in confusion, though, the slight drop of his head. The tips of his ears are a muted pink.
There’s a hand on Jamie’s waist, someone pressed along his back. Fingers thick, sleeve ending just above his wrist. Dark licks of pattern.
“Jamie, man. What’s taking so long? The guys are getting restless.” Tyler squeezes his waist once where his hand is resting before offering it out. “Hey, I’m Tyler.”
His voice is equal parts playful and sharp. It causes something to prickle uncomfortably across the back of Jamie’s neck. Scott shakes Tyler’s hand in a cold, uniform fashion. A guarded look clouds his features, hurt.
“Scott,” he says, before tipping the rest of his drink back. He moves off of the bar. “Nice meeting you both.” His face completely closed off as he leaves. Jamie looks over the curve of his spine, his ass; mouth dry. He would have.
Tyler picks up one of the trays. “What was that about?” he asks, airy.
Jamie takes the other one. “Nothing,” he says and he knows it comes out as harsh, abrasive. “That was nothing.” The glasses chime loudly, a little unbalanced where the tray’s caught in Jamie’s hands.
Tyler looks at him with half-lidded eyes. The smallest glimpse of being chastised hidden underneath. “Oh,” he says, in-step with Jamie. “Oh,” he says again, setting the drinks of the table. Barlight catching his cheekbone. It makes him look gaunt, skin cleaved by the shadow. “I didn’t…,” he says, enough so that he can’t be heard over the loud din of the table. “I’m sorry,” he says.
It’s sincere, weirdly heartfelt, and Jamie doesn’t really know what to say. It was just some guy, it’s not like. It wasn’t important enough for Tyler to sound so fucked up about it. Thumbnail tearing through the label of his beer, something in green glass. He slides his hip away from Jamie’s.
Jamie moves in closer, seeking out contact. Tyler lets him. He nudges him with his shoulder, a soft pressure, and Tyler meets his eyes reluctantly. “Hey, it’s fine. There’ll be others, yeah? Tonight can just be about the team?” He shimmies his shoulders a little bit. “Our win streak.”
Tyler shakes his head, but he’s holding back a smile. One of the sweet, quiet ones. The ones that Jamie keeps track of, not with his fingers or pencil marks, but distantly. Reminded of the last one with the next. He dips his head down low between his shoulders. “Okay.” And then, “Thanks.”
-
“I guess it’s not true, what they say. Eaks and Gogs where lining him up with fuckin’ cosmos.” He laughs. It’s reflexive.
Val makes an unhappy noise and tries to stand up on his own, shaky. “Jamie,” he says, biting down on the ‘J’. “Why won’t tell me? Why…” he says, snapping his fingers. Searching for words. “Why… Почему? Tyler…”
Dills looks just as confused as Jamie feels. “What’re you trying to say, Nishky?”
“Почему?” His eyes clear and blue. “Я…”
“Better get him to Gonch. I think our boy Nishky’s done for the night.” Pink sugar melted in the far corners of his lips, sticking.
Val’s head snaps up at that. “Не Серёжа.”
“Too bad,” Dills says, leading him out of the hallway. Loud, miscalculated footsteps. Jamie takes a deep breath and feels the exhale throughout his entire body.
-
Tyler watches with his eyebrows knitted tight together. “Isn’t that kind of weird? I can’t even imagine letting some dude whisk one of my sisters off with like, the intent to, you know?” He purses his lips, shudders. “You know?”
Jamie laughs. “I don’t even want to think about that.” And he claps Tyler’s shoulder in solidarity. “Here’s hoping?”
“Don’t,” Tyler says, leading the way towards their vehicle, keys weighing down Jamie’s pocket. “Well, actually, you’re a better fighter than me, so.” He looks over at Jamie as he slides into the passage seat. “If I need your services, hey?”
“You got ‘em, man.”
-
Tyler’s doing way too good for that.
“Hey,” he says, hand to the back of his neck. “About earlier? It’s really not a big deal. I wasn’t looking to pick up. You looked pretty upset about it, though, and I don’t want you to have to like, feel bad about that.” Tyler’s not looking at him. The floor’s dull and dusty. “Don’t, okay?”
Tyler is gripping the inner-dip of his elbow, hard enough that Jamie can see the pull of tension in his fingers. He swallows and tips his head back, righting it on his shoulders. “I didn’t want you going home with him.” He looks at Jamie level, then, eyes hot and too much. He holds Tyler’s gaze, the smoke of it. Short, choppy breaths. “Not when you can do this.” He takes a step closer. “I’ll be better than him. I’ll take care of you.”
It doesn’t entirely make sense to Jamie, what he’s saying. The need in Tyler—patch and repair. He looks completely different here, coiled strength of his body. Ready. Jamie’s breath hitches in his chest and it hurts. “That’s… I want that, Tyler. I do.” It’s gotten them this far, weaving across the ice together, seeing Tyler comfortable with himself even if he doesn’t really know what Tyler looked like before, in Boston. Acting out.
This isn’t that.
Jamie holds his arms out. “C’mere,” he says. “Like, right now. C’mere.”
Tyler’s grins, tentativeness shed like second skin. He’s thrumming under Jamie’s hands, blood moving so fast. He can barely keep up. He puts his mouth to Tyler’s clumsily, catching the scrape of stubble across his chin and the cold spot just left of his lips. Tyler shifts up to meet him proper and it’s better, way better. He lets Tyler push him back against the wall and the paint’s cool under his hands until he gets them on Tyler. Moving up under his shirt and the muscle there.
“You wanna?” Tyler asks when he pulls back, just enough to tip his head down the length of the hallway. “We can…”
Jamie nods, cutting him off. “Yeah, we can.” He gives Tyler what he thinks is a reassuring smile, and lets him lead the way, reveling in the way he keeps looking over his shoulder. Like he can’t believe Jamie is still there, holding on. Holding on tighter. Like there’s ever been anyone who wanted to let go.
He’s never actually been in Tyler’s bedroom before. The blur of his unmade bed, clothes, and TV. Tyler pulls off his own shirt before he gets on the bed. His tattoos visible all at once. He likes the contrast of the ink spilling down over his arms, pulled tight over his ribs, and the warm flush of freckled-dotted skin. He doesn’t like that the Bruins have got their name there, no, not when they were never what Tyler needed. Dallas can be what he needs, what he wants.
He wants Jamie and that alone makes Jamie’s head spin. He’s already got his thumb and index pinching open his jeans, pushing them off. His boxers so tight that they shift down with them, just a little. Thin wisps of pubic hair visible. He looks so fucking good and he’s not even showing off. This small deferring look when he stops.
He’s lost.
Jamie strips off his own shirt, giving Tyler something else to focus on. Likes the way his eyes change—the same blackness from before, the white cut of his teeth. He settles more comfortably onto his elbows, waiting. Jamie doesn’t take long, pushing his jeans off his hips with ease. Underwear, too. Tyler sucks in a gasp at that, mouth open and wet.
He crowds Tyler back farther onto the bed, getting his hands around Tyler’s thighs. Tyler lifts his hips obediently when Jamie goes to pull off his boxers. His cock curves nicely up towards his stomach, almost all the way hard. Tyler lets him look, parting his thighs more, pushing out Jamie’s hold. He traces lightly over Jamie’s flank when he moves in closer. Curious.
“What do you wanna do?”
There’s so much he wants from Tyler, now that they’re here. He can have. The stuff Jamie’d push to the very back of his mind when he’d get his hand on his cock in the shower, early morning in bed. Rolling out his hips and imagining the hot pattern of Tyler’s fingertips over his body.
Tyler bites his lip, arms stretched above his head. He looks Jamie up and down and laughs, disbelieving. “Uh, shit. I really want you to fuck me,” and he closes his eyes at the thought, “but not with skate tomorrow.” He moves his arms from where they’re resting on the pillows behind him, up against the headboard. He pulls Jamie in towards him, thumb pressing to his bottom lip. “Blowjob?”
He takes Tyler by the wrist, drops it to his stomach. “Yes, yeah. Whatever you want.” He taps Tyler’s hip. “Sit up a little straighter for me, hey?”
Tyler does, pulling the sheets with him. There’s no way Jamie can do this without his feet falling off the edge of the bed, tucking them up too uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter all the much when he puts his hands on Tyler’s hips. The deep cuts there. He pushes down and Tyler flexes underneath it, but he’s not actually trying to move away. He sucks a mark into the space close to the web of his thumb, Tyler twitching and whining.
Tyler’s ticklish under the spread of his hands. His leg kicks out and the look he gives Jamie is pleading, fingers gentle behind the curve of his ear and the hair tucked there. He nods up at Tyler and moves to lick over the tip of cock, already wet at the slit with precome. He tongues at it, bitter and off-putting, but the sound Tyler makes is worth it. The hitch-gasp in his throat.
Jamie takes the head of Tyler’s cock into his mouth, licking over it wetly and sucking. He keeps his suction relaxed, Tyler already so warm and keening. His hands stay anchored on Tyler’s hips and Tyler reaches down to circle his wrists. Jamie likes the intimacy of it, even if it means that the way he’s blowing Tyler can only be messy and spit-slick. Splits his attention between his cock-head and his balls. It doesn’t take long.
Tyler grabs tightly at his wrists when he flicks his tongue right underneath the head, body seizing up. His forehead is tipped right back against the headboard and his panting is loud and staccato’d. “Jamie, I… gonna come.”
He slips out from Tyler’s grasp and pulls off his cock. He spits in the palm of his hand, gets it as wet as he can with Tyler looking on impatiently, before wrapping it around his dick and working him with too-fast strokes. Tyler comes soon after that, whole body going still as he pulses over Jamie’s hand, his own stomach. It slips against his skin. He opens his eyes slowly, unfocused and lazily, and his grin is bright.
“Hey,” he says, when he sits up, abs flexing. He reaches out for Jamie, pulling him in with his fingertips pressed to the tendons of his neck, and kisses him thoroughly. He nips quickly at the corner of Jamie’s lips. He looks down at where Jamie’s flushed and hard against his own stomach. “I got an idea.”
Jamie nods dumbly, can’t track Tyler’s movements now that he’s actually focusing on how hard he is. How he needs to come. Tyler twists out from where Jamie’s straddling him, stretching towards his nightstand. He digs through it noisily, whispered fuck when he bangs his hand against the thin wood of the drawer. He comes back with a mostly-full bottle of lube, cap flicked open, and watches attentively as Tyler pours what’s probably too much into the dip of his hand. Thinks he’s going for his cock but, instead, he slicks up just below his spent cock and across the inside of his thighs.
He’s still doesn’t get it, thumb pressed to the slit of his cock, not until Tyler turns over onto his stomach. Jamie tries to give him space, but he’s distracted by the curve of Tyler’s ass and the corded outsides of his thighs. How they’re pressed tightly together. He reaches back for him and oh. Okay. Jamie’s definitely not against that.
“You get it now?” Tyler asks, but he’s too breathless for it to be a chirp. Face thick with red.
He doesn’t answer, just slips his cock between the tight press of Tyler’s legs and gets his hands on his hips. The marks on Tyler’s back are a red blaze and Jamie reaches out to touch them as he starts to pump his hips. Tyler shivers with it, pushing back against him. He does it again, pressing down firmer, and Tyler lets out a harsh moan. Coughed out. He pushes down on them with the flat of his palm, watching as they go from white to pink to red again. Choking sob. It doesn’t sound good and Jamie moves his hands away, grabbing Tyler’s ass. He speeds up his thrusts, friction perfect on his cock. He comes pretty quickly, right between the smooth skin of Tyler’s thighs. Their legs slotted together. He gets one more look at the scars, doubled and parallel, before Tyler’s turning over onto his back. A blissed out look on his face.
A self-satisfied smirk replaces it, changes his face. Tyler’s covered in come, too, and he stretches out, stomach going concave. Knees bending. It’s a good look for him, but Jamie’s not going to let him fall asleep like that.
“You got washcloths in your bathroom?” he asks.
“Hmm?” Tyler asks. His look is soft, eyes fanned in black. “Oh,” he says, “Um, there should be? You can always just get a towel if there isn’t.”
Jamie nods and heads into Tyler’s bathroom. He turns on the light to see bottles of plastic and glass spread haphazardly across the counter. Dryer resting on the lip of the sink, unplugged. There’s a stack of folded washcloths on one of the shelves—Tyler’s maid service, no doubt—and takes it rinsed and lukewarm back out to Tyler. Eyes closed again.
They slit open, though, when Jamie starts to wash down his chest and stomach, clean up the lube and drying come. Tyler makes these sighing noises, but he’s mostly still. Sinks a little farther down into the mattress as Jamie cleans off his own cock, his hips. Tyler takes it from him when he’s done and tosses it off the bed. Tyler’s going to regret that tomorrow—well, at very least, Jamie will—but he goes willingly when Tyler pulls him down. Body warm. He lets Tyler get them under the covers, moving the sheets around. He takes the blanket from the end of the bed, clinging to the very edge.
He feels safe, Tyler a solid weight at his side.
-
It puts his back on display. Tyler’s firmly enough asleep that the whisper-touch of Jamie’s fingers don’t wake him. He skims over the raised curves of his shoulderblades and down. Tyler’s hips move against the mattress, just once, as he touches the small of his back. He can’t avoid the scars, though. The skin there is thick and rough, pale, and Tyler lets out a surprised gasp when Jamie thumbs over the first one.
Tyler turns to him, sleep-bleary. “What?” he starts, pushing himself up into a half-rise. “Jamie?” His eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is unkind. He looks over his shoulder, an awkward line of sight down his back. Two high spots of colour on the apples of his cheeks. “Oh.”
Jamie’s hand is cold, ice-tinged. He doesn’t move.
Tyler jerks out from underneath it. “Just… don’t, okay?” He sits up, tucking his knees up, too. “Please.”
Jamie nods. “Okay, I didn’t…”
He doesn’t finish his thought, doesn’t necessarily know how, but Tyler relaxes and lies down again. He gets onto his side, facing towards Jamie, and gestures for him to do the same. Jamie sprawls out on his back and lets Tyler curl in around him. He keeps his arms at his sides, caged, but finds himself falling asleep regardless. Lingering sense of guilt and wrong growing and dissipating, just a little.
-
He raps lightly on the door, only walking in at Tyler’s muffled, “Yeah?”
His face and neck are covered in lather, thick over his jaw and under his nose. Mouth shaped into an ‘O’. He raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement, face frozen. Jamie watches Tyler for half-a-second, the razor in his hand, before looking back out at the bedroom.
“You got anything to make breakfast with?”
The long line of Tyler’s throat, the interruption of his adam’s apple.
Tyler dips the razor in the sink. Little water rivulets curling down his fingers, streaking his wrist translucent. His eyebrows knit together, thinking, but he nods. Which means that he might, maybe, possibly, have something edible in the freezer. He sits right of Jamie at their table, usually, curled down over his plate and looking grateful.
Jamie sighs. Jordie probably isn’t home yet, so they can always go just up to theirs, if there turns out to be nothing. Tyler lets him go with a hand to his shoulder, trailing down his back. The gesture’s a little distracted, but Jamie likes the warm feel of it, anyways. The way Tyler watches him from the mirror, the inverse of himself.
Tyler has eggs and breakfast sausage, the latter stuck so far down in the freezer-drawer that it’s covered in a thumb-thick crust of ice. It’s not inedible and, after some digging around in drawers, Jamie finds a decent-size frying-pan and sticks the sausage in the microwave to defrost. He can hear the sharp, quick sounds of Tyler moving in the bathroom, the bedroom, over the murmur of the microwave and the butter in the pan.
He cuts through the frost-wet plastic with his nail and puts what’s there in the pan. He can hear Tyler talking, two sets of footsteps on the hardwood. Marshall beelines for him as soon as he’s onto the tile, tail wagging. He noses at the back of Jamie’s knee, his thigh. Sausage crackling, now. Tyler’s smile is fond from over Jamie’s shoulder, the way he buries his hands into the fur around Marshall’s neck, balancing on the tips of his toes.
“Sweet, I did have food,” Tyler says, straightening up. Marshall whimpers. “Smells good, too.”
His grin is wide and unrestrained. It hides the shaving nick curling up over his chin until Tyler relaxes into a close-lipped smile. A trickle of blood, the cut angry. Jamie takes his hand off the pan, transfixed by the gold colour. It’s not, not right, and he reaches out to touch. Tyler stills completely, mouth turned down, but he doesn’t stop Jamie.
It thins out like blood across the pad of his thumb. He has no idea what to think, what to say.
Tyler moves before he can, circling Jamie’s wrist with the tight pinch of his fingers. Whatever it is smears across his knuckle and Jamie flinches. Doesn’t know why. Tyler drops his hand heavily, the sound of a slap on skin.
There’s something very wrong between them. Even Marshall’s gone quiet, sitting at Jamie’s feet. “Can you…” Tyler starts, and it sounds like it’s being pulled from the very bottom of his throat. Rough-sad. “Can you go?” He looks up, eyes that selfsame dark. Wide. “Please, Jamie.”
The burned smell is getting stronger, oil and garlic. Sizzling insistent and angry. It tastes acrid on Jamie’s tongue. “I, uh. Yeah? Yes,” because Jamie doesn’t know what he can say to get that look off Tyler’s face, to bring back the easiness from earlier. He turns off the burner on auto-pilot, moving the pan to the counter. It spits.
He goes to get his clothes, spread out across the floor of Tyler’s room. His keys are still in his pocket, his phone. Tyler’s waiting by the foyer and thumbing at the cut. Where it used to be. And that’s, that’s just another question, one he’s not really sure how to ask. He doesn’t say what he wants to say.
“You can tell me,” he says, “Whatever it is. If that’s what you want.”
Because he wants Tyler to want that.
-
On Tyler’s.
Jordie’s in a pretty good mood, rolling his shoulders out easy, and singing along to the radio in the car. He breaks away almost immediately when they get to Frisco to get Dills in a head-lock, yelling and fighting to stay on his feet. Their moving bodies give way to Tyler, sitting on the edge of his stall. He does up his skates with too-tight pulls on his laces.
He ends up getting into a stunted conversation with Val about stick-handling, moving his hands for articulation. The stuttered start and stop of the conversation gives Jamie something else to focus on, his patience pushing out everything else. He nods along, Val still definitely hungover and drawing invisible diagrams in the space between them. All that concentration’s broken when Tyler walks past, moving behind Val almost timidly. Jamie watches him go to his stall and turn his head down again. Brushes off Eaks when he tries to get his attention.
Val snaps his fingers. He looks amused, lips thinning out. “What? I not interesting?” That teasing lilt to his voice undercut by tiredness. Something, too, like frustration.
“That’s not, uh,” and he has to shake his head. Tries to clear it. “Sorry, Nishky.”
Val shrugs. “Is fine. You are concerned. Normal, no?”
Jamie swallows. “Yeah, I guess.”
Val’s eyes hood at that, but he doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes Jamie’s shoulder and walks off, raising his voice in loud and fast Russian, calling for Gonch. His steps steady. So much poise in the way he carries himself.
Tyler’s gone when Jamie turns around.
-
Jamie dry-swallows. Jordie skates over from where he’s farther up the boards, mouth in a flat frown. Spray of ice when he stops. He follows Jamie’s eyeline over to where Tyler and Chaser are, pushing against each other. He makes a popping noise, a quick huh. “You think it’s because Boston’s in town tomorrow?”
It might be why Tyler had more to drink last night than he’s had in a while. Pushing aside beer bottles to curve his fingers around small shotglasses, sticky with rum and Sourpuss and leaning heavily into Jamie’s side. He wasn’t drunk. It didn’t feel like he was, wrapped around Jamie and responsive. Selfishly thinking Tyler was upset about him entire. Shots two and four.
He shrugs. “Maybe. He hasn’t said anything about it.”
“Really? You’d think, out of anyone, he’d say something to you. I thought he was still pretty fucked up about Boston.”
“He doesn’t talk about it.”
Jordie taps his stick against the boards as he gets it between his knees, a glove, too. He takes a long drink of water and wipes his mouth with his wrist. “That’s not a good thing, Jamie.”
Jamie nods, taking the proffered bottle. “I know.”
-
Val’s hands are slicked with soap and they push uniformly through his hair, sticking straight up. It’s ridiculous and Jamie laughs. Val’s eyes a bright shine. “Ah, you can laugh. So serious today.”
Jamie ducks his head, twisting underneath the spray. He shrugs. “Didn’t mean to be. ‘m sorry that it felt that way.”
Val disappears behind steam and water, tipping his head back. “You and Tyler. Need talk. For you and for me, too.”
Jamie grips the taps, fingers going numb. Val did his best today, trying to read through the tension. It wasn’t fair and Jamie’s nod is heavy, accepting that. Heat making it difficult to think. “We will, Nishky. For you. Thanks, by the way.”
Val waves him off. “Is fine. Sort out and I thank you.”
-
It wouldn’t be nearly so bad if he and Tyler could talk this through, but he needs Tyler to trust him and to figure out how to do that on his own. He thinks about his marked skin and what moves underneath it, about what it means to play this game tonight.
Tyler puts those same skates on, newly-sharpened blades, and Jamie has a rough-cut stick in his hands when they take to the ice amidst darkness and muslin-dulled lights. He wants Tyler to know that he’s there, just in front of him, looking ahead.
-
-
Tyler looks at him as he does up the buttons. Jamie feels cold, sweat going tacky, and his mouth’s dry. “Tyler,” he says, coughing it out, “your back. All up and down.” He waves his hand over his shoulder. “It doesn’t look good. I think it might be infected.”
Tyler shakes his head. “I know. And it’s not infected.” He does up the last button, the one just below his throat. He doesn’t wear a tie, not for walking out.
“Are you sure?” Jamie asks. “I don’t want you walking around, with that. Hurting. You know?”
Tyler sighs, picking up his bag roughly. It makes Jamie start, but his words come out as resigned. “Why do you care?”
Jamie narrows his eyes. The bleached, plastic wood of his stall, catching the light and reflecting it. He pulls his shirt off by the neck, the torn edge. It sticks to his skin, a wet line of sweat thick down his spine. “You know why. And it’s not just that, or what happened yesterday. Those things.”
Tyler stops moving. A hopeful look on his face. “Come home with me,” he says. “Come back.”
Jamie nods. “Okay.”
-
“Hi.”
Tyler steps back to let him in, hand loose on Marshall’s collar. Jamie drops down to skim his fingers over Marshall’s head and behind his ears. He barks again, quieter this time. When he looks up at Tyler, he’s smiling down at them. Jamie stands up to pull Tyler into a hug, better than the one he gave him on the ice. He’s mindful of Tyler’s back because, no matter what he says, it looks like a problem. It looks like a huge fucking problem.
Tyler untangles himself carefully, hand soft where it drags over Jamie’s collarbone. It’s a little reluctant, but that’s okay. Tyler can take as much time as he wants. What he wants, though, is for Jamie to follow him to the couch. It’s small in the space. Marshall goes ahead of them, circling around until he settles down right in front on the blanket set out there. It’s worn and damp under Jamie’s feet, sticking.
He watches Tyler and the deferent bow of his head. He takes a deep breath, deflating with it. “It sounds stupid out loud.”
Marshall paws at Jamie’s ankle. The dull-sharp scratch of his nails unsettles him. “Take your time.”
Tyler sniffs and wipes his nose before reaching back for the collar of his shirt. It comes off in an easy pull. Tyler’s scars face towards him, still blood-red, but the surrounding skin’s less irritated. Jamie doesn’t stop himself from reaching out and touching, doesn’t think he has to. Tyler shivers under it, back twitching. White where he’s touching him, smooth and translucent, almost like there’s nothing there. Tyler rolls his shoulders out, one at a time, and Jamie drops his hand.
He puts his shirt back on, long stretch of his torso, and moves to face Jamie. Marshall gets louder, nose cold against the taper of Jamie’s ankle. “I, uh, lost my wings. In Boston. I didn’t know, when it was happening. There wasn’t anyone…,” lost trail of his voice, “…I woke up one morning and they were gone.”
Jamie whites out for a moment, vision narrowing down to a single fixed point. Wings crosshatched with feathers, numerous and pure. He opens his mouth, but his jaw clicks, a sick sound. He can’t imagine how they’d look, bracketing the wide expanse of Tyler’s shoulders. How they’d spread out behind his body, catching and seizing light. He doesn’t know.
“You lost your… wings?” Jamie doesn’t mean to doubt him, just. “Sorry, but like, what? Are you kidding me?”
Tyler shakes his head. He looks so unhappy, making himself smaller and frowns like it’ll never leave his face. “No, ‘m not.”
“Oh,” Jamie says. Movies and half-remembered fairytales, scripture. Messengers and the ones that protect. “The wings and the blood, the healing? You’re an angel?”
Tyler’s right, it does sound stupid out loud.
“Yeah, I’m. That.” He cracks his knuckles, one-two. The sound hurts. “I used to watch over my family. My teams.” Tyler looks down at his hands, self-effacing. “It didn’t work out so well, with Boston.”
“What about us?” Tyler lifts his head at that. “I mean, the team. The Stars. Is it possible…?”
Jamie doesn’t care about Boston. Not now, not then. He needs to know about Dallas and their hockey. What Tyler can give them. What he can give to Tyler to make it right.
Tyler bites his lip, shrugs. “Don’t know.”
Jamie’s mouth open, dropped. “You…?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
Jamie moves closer, but they’re still not touching. Marshall’s dropped off with the exchange of their voices. Head on his paws. “Try,” Jamie says, reaching out. He puts his hand on Tyler’s knee, the skin there rough.
“It’s intuition, I guess. I can feel when one of my guys needs something and I make sure they get it, whatever it is.” He pulls at the leg of his shorts, the other one. “You get better at it as you get older, learn more. Can tell more quickly.”
Jamie swallows. “And you don’t feel that anymore?”
Tyler shakes his head. “No, now that my wings are gone, I can’t.”
“Is that…?” he starts, squeezing Tyler’s knee. “How do you get them back?”
The sigh Tyler lets out is broken, hitching high. He slumps against Jamie’s shoulder and Jamie puts an arm around him, keeping him upright.
“You don’t.”
His eyes might be wet, but Jamie’s not looking. Doesn’t want to. His fingers, his neck—they burn with the effort.
-
Jamie’s met with no resistance as he sits up and pulls Tyler to his feet. He blinks sleepily at Jamie, vision clouded and unfocused, but lets himself be led to the bedroom. He doesn’t have to worry about getting Tyler into more comfortable clothes, no need to trace his fingers over his ink or push back the hair curling down towards his forehead. Jamie has him crawl under the covers.
Jamie gets up. He’s turning off the light, going out with a hush, when Tyler shifts on the bed. A confused, “Jamie?”, loud between them.
“Yeah, Tyler?”
“You can stay, if you want.” A sucking sound, like he’s got his lip caught between his teeth. It’s too dark to tell, to know what his face looks like.
“Okay.”
Jamie feels a little weird skimming off his shorts, his shirt, but Tyler doesn’t say anything. He stays sitting until Jamie makes his way over to the bed, holds up the sheets for him. They’re cool, a counterpoint to the flame of Tyler’s skin, when he fits along his back. Warms him from the inside out.
-
Tyler’s feeding Marshall from his fingers, down on his knees. Potatoes, sweet orange ones, frying loudly in the pan and something green wilting in with them. He looks at the stovetop curiously, stepping in closer. Tyler stands up quickly, muscles stiff-straight. He looks uncomfortable.
“What’re you making?”
Tyler rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Um, sweet potato and kale hash.” He walks over to the stove and peers into the pan. “It’s just about done.”
Jamie sits down at the little table Tyler has, Ikea flatpack with two chairs, while Tyler awkwardly handles a spoon. Marshall comes over to him and sits down between his feet. He looks up at Jamie with his dark eyes, wuffling. “Where’d you learn to make that?”
Tyler takes the pan off the heat with a clatter. “Ferry taught me.” There are two plates set out on the counter. “Andrew Ference. He’s kind of obsessed with like, health food and stuff. Even more so than other hockey guys.” He arranges the plates as carefully as he can, tongue sticking out of his mouth. It’s cute and Jamie can’t help smiling.
“What?” he asks.
Jamie shakes his head. “Nothing. You don’t know how to cook anything else, do you?”
Tyler laughs, exposing the long line of this throat when he tips his head back. “Not really, no. This is pretty good, even if I made it. Ferry’s wife actually walked me through it. Ferry just kind of stood there, chirping.”
He takes the fork and knife Tyler hands him, the plate. Marshall makes a sad noise, but Jamie ignores it. Tyler’s got mostly-strict rules about feeding him, ones even he has a hard time sticking to. A warm weight resting on his feet. He nudges Marshall off, tags jangling. Tyler sits down across from him.
“You guys close?”
Tyler makes a non-committal noise. “Yeah, he used to have me over a bunch during my rookie year. We had like, a Sunday dinner thing going on. But then they got busy with the girls, so I’d just spend time with Freddy and Marchy. My guys, when they could get down to Boston.”
“Oh. I was pretty lucky, having Jordie here. I mean, he wasn’t always here, but. You know what I mean?” He takes a forkful from his plate, starch and greens. Rich and bitter on his tongue.
Tyler nods. “My sisters are still at home. I think that helps my mom a lot, but I just wish they were closer.” The tines of his fork scrape loudly across the porcelain of his plate. Jamie twitches at the sound, grating.
“You’ve got us, though. Dallas.” Jamie tries to keep his voice light, but he wants. “Me.”
Tyler looks at him, face smooth and clear-eyed. “Yeah, I do.”
-
Tyler shrugs. “My mom told me, when I was little. I felt… I’ve pretty much always known.” His fingernails scratch underneath the collar of his shirt.
Jamie follows Tyler out of the kitchen and into the living room. Room hot with the afternoon sun, the light spread out across the floor like a tattoo. Tyler turns on the TV and his Xbox, flipping through to Netflix. Jamie sits down on the couch, watching him scroll aimlessly. Calves and ankles caught in the sun.
“Your mom told you?”
Tyler nods, setting the controller down on the coffee table. “Mhmm. She’s my mediator.” His footsteps are quiet, soft on the air, as he walks over to where Jamie’s sitting. “Well, was. When I lived at home.”
Jamie’s interrupted by the movie on-screen, noise loud and bracing. Tyler laughs, but he doesn’t get up to turn it down. It’s not a happy sound. Jamie sighs and fumbles for the remote. Tyler doesn’t stop him, letting the volume level out to whisper. He shifts against the arm of the couch.
“At home? What about…”
“I didn’t have one in Boston.” His eyes are an angry black, so dark, and Jamie can see the beginnings of a rash crawling over Tyler’s shoulders, where his shirt’s slipped. The back of his neck. “Don’t need one now, anyways.”
It pushes upwards underneath his chin.
A cold feeling settles in Jamie’s stomach. “What does a mediator do?”
The red pales, but there are still angry licks of pink, broken up into patches, at the base of Tyler’s throat. Waxing and waning. “They communicate for us.”
“So, you don’t talk to, uh.”
Tyler shakes his head. “No, we don’t. It’s mostly like, instinctual. We need help sometimes, though.” He rolls the joint of his ring finger between the pads of his thumb and index. A nervous tick he must have picked up.
Jamie frowns, the pull of it at the corners of his mouth. Twisting it out of shape, ugly. “And your mom can’t do that anymore?”
Tyler’s head dips down towards his chest, hanging there. Jamie traces over the curve of his neck with something that feels like guilt, hot and wrong in the pit of his stomach. The uncomfortable feel of fresh sweat thick on the palms of his hands. He reaches out for Tyler’s knee, but he flinches away.
“Not since I left home.”
When he looks up, Tyler’s eyes are wet. It’s the barest sparkle along his lash-line. Jamie reaches for him again and, this time, Tyler lets him. He looks bloodless, light pushing out all the hurt with the touch of Jamie’s hand to his wrist. The contrast is stark, vividly so. Tyler shivers in his grasp and Jamie can feel it run up his own arm, this electric little touch.
He doesn’t mean to let go.
Tyler slumps against him, his body heavy. White spreading out over what skin Jamie can see, all over his thighs and the hard curve of his knees. His breaths are deep and deliberate. His eyes close and his head falls to Jamie’s chest when he slides his hands into the hair at the base of Tyler’s neck, leaving pathways in the red. Little trails.
He’s not breathing.
-
Jamie’s blood spikes cold every time it happens. His grip is probably too tight on Tyler’s shoulder.
He can’t do anything to make it better because he doesn’t know what it is. The rippling hot-cold of Tyler’s skin. He cups his hand over his heart, his throat to make sure Tyler’s still breathing. His colour eventually comes back and, when Jamie lifts up his shirt, there’s a distinct lack of redness. The tightness in Jamie’s lungs loosens as he smoothes the fabric back down, so white.
He slips out from underneath him, careful of Tyler and Marshall. He guides Tyler back down to the couch and watches him melt into the cushions. Jamie walks out to the kitchen and finds a handful of clean glasses tucked into one of the cupboards. The water flows, cold. Colder in his hand. Tyler’s still lying face-down, shoulders moving with each inhale. Jamie shakes him awake gently and his lip curls as he lets out a tired whine, but he lets Jamie get him into sitting position. Back to the couch.
Tyler’s voice rough around his thanks as he takes the glass Jamie offers him. He drinks, adam’s apple working with each swallow. He sets it down heavily and tucks his hands between his thighs, goosebumps covering the skin high on his arms.
“Do you want me to stay?”
“I think ‘m okay. I have to pack, for tomorrow.” He rubs the ball of his foot over Marshall’s stomach, smiles at the content noise he makes. “And I’ve got company.”
Jamie smiles, too. “But call me, you know, if you need anything. Okay?”
“Okay. See you tomorrow morning?”
If.
“Yeah, tomorrow.”
-
Jamie shrugs, coming in closer to where Jordie is, looking over his shoulder. Sauce thick and warm, another pot roiling with pasta and water. Doesn’t realize how hungry he is until he’s hit with the smell.
“Tyler’s Tyler.”
Jordie lets out a short laugh. “What’s the supposed to mean?” He moves the spoon he’s holding between hands. “Also: can you grate some parmesan?” Doesn’t wait, snap-click of his fingers. “Thanks, you’re the best, bro.”
Jamie goes over to the fridge, amenable, before finding the grater and setting up beside Jordie. “I don’t know. I think he’s still trying to process the Bruins game?”
Jordie stops what he’s doing, the out-of-rhythm rap of his knuckles on the stovetop. “Really? Even with the win? He had a hell of a game.”
Jamie flattens the pads of his fingers against the metal of the grater. The dull drag. “Still difficult, you know? Remember your first game against the Wild?”
“Yeah, but that was different.” Jordie turns the burner off. “I get what you’re saying, though.”
“He just needs some space. Probably a little more time, too.”
Jordie shrugs. “Yeah. Let me know how it goes.”
He nicks his nail on the sharp catch of metal. Spike of pain. “‘Course.”
-
Jamie’s already pushed hard enough, asked Tyler for what was probably too much. He’s still a little disappointed when he takes his seat and Jordie sits down, a graceless collapse, beside him. He nudges him with his elbow and gives him what Jamie’s always known as his reassuring look, how his head’s tilted.
“You good?” he asks, digging out his iPad and a pair of tangled headphones.
Jamie nods and forces himself to do the same. Fingers moving disinterestedly across buttons. “Yeah,” but the sun’s hot where it plays across his face, catching the corner of his eye. He looks up and there are sun-spots curling over Tyler’s neck and the line of his jaw, head turned. He’s leaning into Val, a serious set to his mouth.
Jamie blinks hard.
“Well, don’t think too hard or anything. Might sprain something,” Jordie says, chucking him lightly under the chin. He fits his headphones over his ears, blue-light playing across his face.
Val’s mouth is moving slowly and his brow furrowed. His hands are spread in a half-gesture. Tyler’s expression is unreadable, furled and closed off. Val’s hand suspended above his shoulder. Jamie closes his eyes and leans back into the headrest, fingers gripping tightly at the plastic-leather there. Can feel Jordie’s laugh moving under his skin.
-
Jamie nods. “Yeah, ‘course. See you down there.”
He watches Dills’s retreating back, the easy glide of his footsteps down the hall, before turning the other way. His own are a little heavier as he rounds the corner. His knock sounds too loud in the quiet hall, and Tyler’s, “Be right there!” is clear through the door. The shuffle of feet moving, a dull thud.
He opens the door and looks up in one smooth movement. Tyler’s shirt is slung over his shoulder, white and stark against his tanned skin. His face slips from surprised to neutral in the span of a moment. The navy-purple bruising thick under his eyes is worse than Jamie thought. He wants to reach out and touch, soothe, but Tyler’s already shying away from him, taking a step back into his room.
“You ready for lunch?” he asks, carefully not looking at the lines of Tyler’s chest, his abs.
Tyler puts a hand to his mouth, catching his bottom lip. “Oh, yeah. Just let me grab my wallet?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jamie says. He doesn’t stop himself from looking at Tyler’s back. Can’t do that anymore. The scar-lines are pink, faded a little at the edges. The rash-like redness gone. He feels lighter somehow, but the thrumming of his pulse undermines it. He wants to know what Tyler looks like, complete. Thankful when Tyler comes back with his shirt on.
He holds up his wallet. “Ready when you are.”
Their arms brush as Tyler slips out of his room, pulling the door tight. Jamie steps back a little too quickly and falls awkwardly against the wall. Tyler gives him a look, one that’s caught between wanting to laugh and something more hurtful, a little wounded. Jamie straightens up, using Tyler’s shoulder. His face softens and his mouth drops open.
“Thanks,” Jamie says, thumb pressing a hard circle to the corner of Tyler’s collarbone.
He shakes his head. “No problem.”
-
“Hello,” he says. He pronounces it with a smirk, Gonch shaking his head behind him. “How are you?”
“‘m good, Val. How was your flight?”
Jamie flushes as soon as he says it, wanting to take the words back onto his tongue. Tyler doesn’t look up from his phone, though. Val’s face changes after a moment, processing the words. There’s nothing amiss to him.
He shrugs. “It was okay,” and he waits for Jamie’s signalling nod before continuing, checking-in. “Very early. Tired, but no sleep.”
“Couldn’t sleep? You should ask Jordie for advice,” he says, smiling. Val laughs and it’s a nice sound, covers up Jordie’s indignant hey! easily. Tyler stares at them, eyes blank, before he goes back to his phone, fingers quick on its screen. “You can nap this afternoon, though.”
Val nods. “Yes. I want.” He tilts his head, thumbing behind his ear. “You good captain. Take care.”
Jamie can hear Gonch’s snort from Val’s other side. He’s looking at Val, though, not Jamie, and says something in Russian. Repeats it and punctuates it with the pinched tips of his fingers.
Val sighs, waving him off. “Yes, Seryozha. I understand.” He leans closer into Jamie, elbow on the table. Eyes clear, tongue touching the bow of his upper lip. “Jamie, you are a good captain.” He throws a look over his shoulder at Gonch, who’s got his hands raised in deference. “I forget other. Not very good teacher.”
Gonch’s laugh is short and loud. “You’re not a great student. Average, maybe.”
Val grins.
It startles a laugh out of Jamie and he looks to Tyler almost immediately, like a sixth sense, only to find that he’s touching his forehead to the table, eyes closed. Taking deep breaths through his nose. He looks back at Val and his face has become something analysing.
“Tyler not like?” he asks.
Tyler lifts his head at that, resting his chin on the cup of his palm. “You don’t do too bad, Nishky.” A genuine note in Tyler’s voice.
“You either,” Val says, sitting up in his chair.
Jamie stares down at his menu and tries to figure out what that means.
-
He walks over, only to be met halfway. Tyler licks at the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking up at Jamie. Residual feeling of Tyler’s warmth across his skin. He doesn’t know what to say—he’s still waiting on Tyler for his cues—but asks, anyways.
“Are we okay?”
Tyler reaches for his hand, fingers fumbling over his dry knuckles and vein-creased skin. He tilts his head, showing off the strong cut of his jaw; it’s not quite a nod. “Come to my room?”
Jamie can feel his mouth going tight. He catches Tyler’s hand in both of his, but lets it go almost immediately. Aiming for reassuring. “You… that’s what you want?”
Tyler’s nod is jerky, stutter-stop of his head. “Yeah.”
He touches Jamie’s shoulder before turning towards the elevator. A little pin-prick of light nestles itself underneath Jamie’s skin, moving down the inside of his forearm. Sharp pleasure-pain, this burst of feeling curling out from the middle of his palm and down each of his fingers. His breath speeds up, just for a split-second, before evening out into another.
He follows Tyler.
-
“Naptime?” he asks. Face going pink. “You look like you need it.”
The scars are white, drained of their red-pink colour. Healing into the skin of Tyler’s back, almost. Jamie nods, and watches as Tyler unzips his jeans and steps out of them. He gives Jamie another look, a c’mon, amused press of his mouth. It’s nice, the easy way Tyler takes care of him.
He pulls his hat off first, putting it down on the desk. He picks Tyler’s shirt and jeans up off the floor, dropping them onto the other bed, before pulling off his own. Stomach flexing under Tyler’s gaze. He’s tucked up underneath the comforter, hands smoothing over the turned-down sheet. He’s more fixated on the spot to the left of him, the pillow. Waiting and wanting.
The shifting is a little awkward, moving around elbows and tangled feet, but it ends with Jamie’s arm over Tyler’s waist, the smell of his hair in his nose. Floral. He likes to think he can feel the little raised scars down the center of his chest, but he can’t, not even when he moulds himself more tightly around Tyler. Listening to the near-breathless sigh he makes, dropping off to sleep.
Jamie doesn’t know why he’s trying so hard, anyways.
-
Tyler’s still in his underwear, sitting cross-legged on the bed, when Jamie shoulders the wedged door open. The bowl dipping into the space between his knees, twirling the fork in his hand. He points to the cart, the covered plate there, mouth full.
Jamie picks it up and moves to sit beside Tyler, legs out in front of him. Shakes out the wrinkled catch of his pant-leg. Tyler watches with his mouth quirked up before pinching out the other leg.
“Thanks, man. For this, too,” Jamie says, raising the plate carefully.
Tyler shrugs. “You’re welcome.”
-
Val looks back at him, his own underarmour stretched down over his knuckles, down to the crease made by his palm and fingers. It’s that small, aloof smile he has, but his eyes are shining. “We have good game tonight,” he says, voice a loud whisper.
Jamie makes an mmm-noise in agreement, watching the empty doorway for a moment, before turning back to Val. “Yeah, hope so.”
Val shakes his head. “Not hope.” He taps his index to his temple. “Know.”
He’s distracted enough that he doesn’t notice Tyler at his side until he can see the shadow-weight of him across the floor, sandaled feet. Val’s face changes, too, concerned twist of his mouth replacing the smile from before. If Tyler notices, he doesn’t show it.
“Ready, Jamie?” he asks, squeezing his hip.
Thrum of electricity dulled by the fabric of his shirt, the calluses on the tips of Tyler’s fingers. His smile is bright and happy, like it hasn’t been lately. The giddy one, with the deep laugh-lines. The dimples.
He nods. “Yeah, I am,” Jamie says, before looking over at Val. “You, too?”
His gaze is intense, a sharp line. “I am ready.”
-
He’s just turning out of his faceoff with Kopitar, when Jordie fires the puck up to Tyler, toeing the blueline. He’s alone there, the shadow of Quick behind him. His body moves in one fluid half-turn. The tone of the crowd changes with every one of Tyler’s strides, the pace of his breakaway. Jamie can’t hear them when Tyler gets in front of Quick, not over the onslaught of blood through his ears and the crystal silence that follows. Tyler finds the back of the net and Jamie imagines that he can feel the hard jar of the net itself. He doesn’t have to imagine the spread of Tyler’s arms, how wide and endless they seem as he skates towards Jamie. Body charged with light.
Tyler knocks his visor against Jamie’s helmet. “Your turn,” he says. “Let’s see what you got.”
He doesn’t get to reply, not with Jordie coming around to Tyler’s other side. He knocks his glove against the top of Tyler’s helmet, shifting it, voice an indistinct scream.
-
He saves the dip of Tyler’s dimpled smile, the flush across the bridge of his nose. He can take them anywhere on the ice. Half-remembered as he feeds a pass through the skates of a Duck and watches Val find it. He follows a curved line of his own making, one skate in front of the other. Tyler’s grin sudden just like the puck coming off Val’s tape, a brickwall of a sound. The goalpost rings. Val’s shocked look settled by realization. Hiller digs the puck out and pushes it across the crease.
He hears Tyler’s, “Just like I told you!” clearly.
Val’s responding, “No, I tell you!” even clearer, maybe.
-
It bubbles out of Tyler’s throat the same way his laugh does. They get mixed up with one another. He already had his attention, but Jamie likes the gentle ripple of it against his lips. “Kiss me, c’mon.”
He puts his thumb to the spot behind Tyler’s ear. Their noses brush. Tyler pushes up on his toes to meet Jamie and his hands slide down to Tyler’s hips as he does. He kisses Tyler for the first time in what feels like months and it’s soft and a little wet. The slip of his tongue. Tyler keeps a hand fisted in Jamie’s hair, but it doesn’t hurt.
The game’s still fresh on Tyler’s skin, that stifling smell of sweat, and Jamie chases after it with his fingers. Tyler opens a little more, letting Jamie control the kiss. His hand still anchored in his hair. Jamie didn’t learn enough the first time and he wants to take his time; he wants more. They don’t have a lot, though, and Tyler’s already rutting up against leg, seeking friction there. The roll of his hips smooth.
“We don’t,” Jamie says, “we have to fly tomorrow, Ty. ‘m not gonna fuck you.”
Tyler shakes his head. They’re so close together that he feels it more than he sees it. “Don’t want you to, just.” He finds one of Jamie’s hands, the one tight around his shoulder. “Help me out.”
“Okay,” he says, dipping down to bite at the underside of Tyler’s jaw and draw up his face. “You got anything?”
“No, but here.” The sound of him spitting isn’t the harsh and sudden one Jamie’s expecting. Instead, it’s a slow trail. His hand slick enough to jerk Tyler off once they get his pants and boxers out of the way. Rush of post-game adrenaline overtaking everything else. Tyler’s hard upward thrust. The red flush of his cock.
“‘s good?” he asks, when he wraps his hand around Tyler. Too dry for how he likes it. Tyler mewls into it, head falling back into nothing. Tip-toes. He gets his arm firmly around Tyler’s back to keep him upright, knees bending with it. “Yeah?”
“Mmm, yeah.” He puts his forehead to where Jamie’s jacket is pushed back. “I missed this.” Face clouding over, pink. “Being with you.”
Jamie groans at that, low. The twitch of his cock, pushing up against the fly of his dress-pants. Tyler looks up at him, waiting. Little tilt of his hips. He pulls Tyler in closer to him. “Me, too.”
Tyler lets out a quiet moan as Jamie thumbs at the vein on the underside of his cock. “Fuck. We gotta move this to the bed.” His toes are arched in a way that looks uncomfortable, pressing hard into the carpet. Slipping. He slumps into Jamie when he gets his feet flat on the floor.
He lets Tyler go just enough so that he can get up on the bed. Shirt half-pushed off his shoulders, pants open and underwear mostly down. He leaves the shirt, stripping the rest of Tyler’s clothes off of him. He looks good, dishevelled this way. Fading bruise discolouring the skin high on his hip. Tyler’s breath hitches as Jamie crawls between his thighs, dipping more with his weight.
“Good?” Jamie asks, putting his hands to the inside of Tyler’s knees and pressing down. Tyler pulls him forward by the back of his neck, mouth sliding over the faint curve of his jaw, lips hard on his. He bites down. Catch-and-release.
“Yeah,” Tyler says, “it’s good.” His hips shift, knees trying to bend upwards. “Better, though, if you could,” and he grabs hold of Jamie’s wrist, “help me out, yeah?”
Jamie snorts. “Mmm, you gonna help me out, too?” He brushes over his half-hard cock when Tyler moves his hand, letting it rest on his bare skin, the shirt-tail there.
Tyler tries to nod, but he’s interrupted by Jamie’s hand curling around his cock, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the head. Tyler’s breath catches and his own hand stops in mid-air, reaching out. Jamie moves in a little closer, spreading Tyler’s legs as he does, so that Tyler can jerk him off, too. It’s clumsy, the way Tyler tries to undo his pants one-handed.
Tyler licks over his fingers, taking each one into his mouth, spit slicking his bottom lip and chin. It’s obscene, that sheen of wetness. It’s even better, when Tyler finally gets a hand on him. Nice and damp. Pinch of sweat-warmed skin. He’s spread out below him, relaxed and panting. Jamie feels the same way; Tyler’s playing with his foreskin, pushing it up over the crown of his cock. Feather-light. He’s careful but teasing and it causes these little shivers to run up and down Jamie’s legs. He’d have more trouble focusing on Tyler if he weren’t making noise after desperate noise, broken moans curving his bottom lip. Drawing Jamie back to him with sound.
It doesn’t take long, not with all adrenaline left in his system. Tyler rocks his hips up to meet Jamie and his own hand falters around Jamie’s cock. Jamie leans down onto his elbow, pressing Tyler farther into the bed, to get a better rhythm going. Tyler grabs hold of his forearm. The splay of his fingers anchors him. The skin goes white as Tyler arches up, extreme curve of his back, and his cock twitches. Burst of precome. Jamie loses his grip.
Tyler comes across his stomach in thin stripes, lungs expanding. Stretched tight. Tyler blinks up at the ceiling. Jamie takes a deep breath and watches him come down in one-two-three. He rolls his hips lazily, getting some friction, not enough, from his underwear. It makes him moan and turns Tyler’s attention back to him, licking his lips. Tyler watches the sputter of his hips, how he sways on the bed. Knees tucked next to Tyler’s. The hand he has on Jamie’s thigh tightens once before he moves it away all together.
Tyler taps his stomach, fingers moving through the mess there. “Up here, c’mon,” he says, voice gravel-laced. Jamie nods and sits back to get his pants off. Tyler watches with open want, reaching out for Jamie before he’s done. Jamie smiles at the gesture, the amused tug of it.
He wants this exactly as much as Tyler does.
Tyler’s hand is slick with spit and come, and he lets Jamie fuck into the tight circle of it. Mouth bright pink from Jamie’s own lips and Tyler’s teeth, dry. His thighs burn with the exertion, his exhaustion edging out the overwhelming immediacy of it. Jamie’s far gone enough that he comes with a weak stutter of his hips soon after. Tyler loosens his grip and lets Jamie ride it out.
Tyler sighs contentedly as Jamie crawls off of him. He pulls his underwear down and off, throwing it away from the bed. Joins the haphazard pile of clothes there, too. He reaches for Tyler’s shirt after, easing him out of it.
There’s a bruise between his shoulder and his breastbone, a gray-black colour. Jamie thumbs over it absently as he curls around Tyler, still spread out on his back. Tyler lets out a hiss, but he doesn’t stop Jamie from putting pressure on the blood vessels, broken, there. Rewards him, almost, with a kiss to the underside of Jamie’s chin.
“Ty,” Jamie says, when the silence starts to stretch out. “What was that about?”
He can feel the heat of Tyler’s face against his skin. Tyler clears his throat wetly, mumbling into the hollow of Jamie’s neck. “Val, uh… he asked why I hadn’t told him, about my… you know, being an angel.”
Jamie presses down hard on Tyler’s shoulder. He doesn’t mean to and he doesn’t realize he has, not until Tyler sucks in a sharp-edged breath. “How would he know that?”
“When I told you. He, uh, found out. They do.” He lifts his head. “He’s a mediator, Jamie. He’s my mediator.”
There’s a hopeful gleam caught in the corners of his eyes. Bright, too bright, even in the half-light of Jamie’s hotel room. It makes it hard to breathe, every exhale sluggish. He doesn’t want ask, recount a history that breaks Tyler’s heart, but he needs the how. How he can help. “I thought you didn’t need one anymore? Not without your wings.”
It’s a whisper.
Tyler’s smile doesn’t dim. “I can get them back. Val said that it’s, that it can happen. I can have them.”
Jamie leans down to capture Tyler’s mouth in a hard kiss, swallowing the tenuity in his voice. He feels it thrum through his own body, feels it weave around every cell and atom inside of him. Tyler gasps and it’s such a sweet sound that Jamie has to chase after it, too.
He puts his forehead to Tyler’s. “You deserve them,” he says. “You’ve earned them. You’re so good, Tyler.”
Jamie can’t see Tyler’s face anymore; it’s caught between his shoulders and the sheets. “Thank you.”
-
Val brushes Jamie’s side with his bag as he makes to go past. He smiles, his own eyes lined and tired. Fingers loose on the waterbottle he’s holding. “Good?” he asks.
Jamie nods, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Bit of a long night.”
“Yes, yes. I know.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, staring up at the ceiling of the plane. The strips of light there. “We talk later, okay? When have time.” He elbows Chaser away from his back, his attempts to move Val along. “When teammate not so hurry.”
“Sounds good, man.”
Tyler sits up, back straightening out. Jamie puts a hand to his arm, keeping him there. His head is tilted in its inquisitive way, never wanting to be left out. Trying to follow Val over the back of his seat. Jamie squeezes around the bone there.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Go to sleep.”
Tyler makes a complicit noise. “Okay.”
-
Val’s stretched out on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table; Jordie in a chair off to the right, controller in hand. There’s a cup balanced carefully between Val’s knees, warm. The bitter smell of black tea and astringent lemon becomes stronger as Jamie gets closer. It’s comforting just like Val’s presence is comforting, knowing what he does.
Jordie doesn’t turn to look at Jamie as he sits down. Val makes space on the couch, socked feet sliding over the surface of the table. He tilts his head in greeting, but his full attention is on the TV and the syndicated sounds of hockey coming from it. Jamie almost nods off again, cataloguing the familiar sounds of skates and stick-taps.
Good sounds.
He’s startled by the lukewarm press of Val’s mug to his cheek—the warmth as affecting as a cold shock. Jordie laughs, says, “I definitely need to try that,” An appraising lilt to his words.
Val shrugs and lifts his wrist, touching the back of it. “We go eat? Is not too early, I think.”
“Is Jordie coming?”
Val gives Jordie a cursory glance. “No, is for forwards only.”
“Yeah, okay. You guys go and do your weird line-bonding thing. I’m getting pizza.”
Val flicks him in the ear as he gets off the couch, long reach of his arm. “No extra cheese. Too slow already.”
A mock-scowl creases Jordie’s face, and he follows Val, raising his voice in challenge. Jamie laughs, a hiccup more than anything. They’re still trading chirps when Jamie comes back from his room, fully-dressed. Easy. Fits right in between the kettle on the stove and the drape of the blankets over the back of the couch.
Just like Tyler.
-
“What?” Jamie asks.
Val makes a noise of frustration. “He tell you.”
Jamie sets his fork down. Hands falling to his lap. He crumples the napkin there, the fabric rough between his fingers. Starched. “Yeah, he did.”
“He is good, even if not think so.” He shifts in his seat a little. “Make mistakes, is okay. Can always fix.” His face is earnest. Wise. It takes Jamie a moment to catch up, to process it all together.
“I know,” Jamie says, firm. With as much conviction as he can.
“He need to know, too.”
“I’m trying.”
Val nods. “With time, it comes.” There’s enough weight behind Val’s gaze that the din of the room quiets around it, muted. The tap-touch of cutlery and the music.
“Val … Will he ever get them back?”
Val carefully wets his lips and Jamie’s scared of the answer. It makes his pulse speed up, suspended in a fear too big to realize. It stills the shake of his legs and the minute pull his fingers. The seconds between Jamie asking and Val answering seem to stretch out, not moving past the first one.
Val’s smile is gentle. His fingertips are pressed to the lip of his water-glass. They interrupt the light there. Jamie swallows. “He is closer than you think.”
-
“Yeah, yeah. I was. We went for supper.”
Tyler nods his ascent, letting Jamie move past him. The curtains are closed and the air is cool. Marshall looks at him from where he’s halfway across the room and gives Jamie an acknowledging bark. His tags sound, nails clicking on the hardwood.
“We talked about you.”
Jamie crouches down to get his fingers under Marshall’s collar, fur soft and warm. His tail wags. He scratches him behind the ears, left and right, before standing up to look at Tyler. Bottom lip white under the weight of his teeth. The open neck of his hoodie.
“And…?” It hangs there, tentative.
Jamie puts his hand Tyler’s shoulder, thumbing over the ripples of fabric there. “You’re so good, Tyler. Good at being…” He squeezes around his bicep, just a little. Loses his nerve. “You’re closer to getting them back than you thought you were.”
Tyler doesn’t say anything, but he sways into Jamie, and he has to use both hands to steady him. “Hey, no. That’s what you want, yeah?”
Tyler nods, but he keeps his head on Jamie’s chest. A pained noise. Jamie waits him out, kneading his fingers into the taught pull of Tyler’s back. Right underneath the base of his neck. The skin there is hot, but not pink. “If I got them back, I’d be yours.”
He looks up at Jamie, clear-eyed.
“My what?”
Tyler tries to move back, put some distance between their bodies, but Jamie holds him tight. It takes him a moment, but he meets Jamie’s gaze. “I’d look after you, just you. It wouldn’t be like before. That’s… that’s what Val said.”
Something hot rushes through Jamie’s body from his toes to the crown of his head. It’s like affection but fiercer. He pushes his thumbs hard into Tyler’s biceps. A warm flush across the bridge of his nose. Tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
He unsticks it.
“Yeah? I’d like that.”
Jamie can barely has time to take in the complete stretch of Tyler’s smile before he’s being pulled into a kiss. His mouth is dry and cool. Jamie licks at his bottom lip. The dull edge of his teeth. Tyler pulls at the collar of his shirt, the hair at the nape of his neck. It sends a shiver down Jamie’s spine. He pushes against the angled lines of Tyler’s body and reaches down for the zipper on Tyler’s hoodie.
Tyler’s mouth slips on his, breath warm across his cheek. “Really?” he asks.
Jamie nods, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. You’d be good at it.” He bumps his nose against Tyler’s. “You’re always are.”
Tyler leans in for another kiss, helping Jamie get his hoodie off. His skin’s flushed everywhere. Sweats clinging to his hips. Jamie pushes them down easily and wraps his arms around Tyler’s waist so he can step out of them. Fingers playing across his back, just under where Jamie knows his scars are. He doesn’t touch them.
“I want to,” he says, touching the hem of Jamie’s shirt. He pulls it off for him and Tyler reads the encouragement for what it is, working open the button and fly of Jamie’s jeans. He leaves Jamie to take them off; his feet getting caught briefly in the legs. Tyler’s quick to lean in again, getting his mouth to the smooth skin above Jamie’s heart. Bite and suck. Jamie gasps, arching into it.
Tyler’s eyes are dark when he looks up. “You should fuck me,” Tyler says, “we can. No skate tomorrow.”
“You sure?”
Tyler licks at the bruise, blossoming red-purple under his tongue. “Yeah, ‘m sure.” He untangles himself from Jamie and whistles for Marshall, holding out a hand. Marshall makes his way over and lets Tyler take him by the collar with a slow look. Tyler gives him a sheepish smile. “Meet you in my room?”
Jamie laughs. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
Tyler makes cooing noises at Marshall as he walks him towards the laundry-room, a little jog in his step. Jamie watches the flex of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, before heading from Tyler’s room. He stretches out on Tyler’s half-made bed, blanket tucked into the sheets. Pops his back when he hears Tyler moving down the hall.
Tyler stops just inside the door, fingers hooked into the waistband of his underwear. Easy stretch of it. He raises his eyebrows at Jamie. There’s something on the tip of his tongue, mocking, and Jamie pulls off one his socks to throw at him. It misses, but his expression changes; Tyler ducks his head with a smile and takes his underwear off.
Jamie licks at the corner of his mouth. Cracked.
His fingers slip on Tyler’s tailbone once he’s on the bed, knees on either side of his hips. Tyler rocks his hips down against Jamie’s, the friction of it perfect. Tyler’s mostly hard already and Jamie’s getting there, rubbing off against Tyler’s stomach, his cock. Their kisses are messy and uncoordinated. Jamie walks his fingers down farther, pressing, dry, against Tyler’s hole. Surprised when Tyler pushes back into it, whines into his mouth.
Jamie nips at his chin, the facial hair there. He presses a second finger against Tyler’s hole and he slips down heavily on his elbows, tucking his head into Jamie’s neck, arching his back and getting his chest to Jamie’s. Mouth near his temple.
“Where’s your stuff?” Jamie asks, hand already wandering across the pillows.
Tyler’s stubble scratches roughly against Jamie’s neck. He groans, eyes closed. “Ugh. Bathroom, just.” He rolls off Jamie and give him a remorseful look, feet unsteady. He traces over the warmth of Tyler’s left behind on his skin. Tries to convince it not to cool.
There’s the sound of something being fumbled and falling over in the bathroom. Tyler’s whispered, “Fuck it,” startles a laugh out of him and he comes back into the bedroom with a strip of condoms in one hand and lube in the other, looking embarrassed. Cheeks pink and lips together; it’s deliberately not a smile. His throat tightens.
“Got everything,” Tyler says, lifting up his hands.
Jamie grins. “I can see that.” Sits up and makes space for Tyler, getting up on his side. “Now, c’mere. Lay down.”
He looks a little uncomfortable settling in. Jamie puts a hand on his side and noses at his hairline. “You all right?” He rubs loose circles into Tyler’s stomach, tracking the in-and-out of his breathing. “S’okay. We’ve done stuff like this before, yeah?”
Tyler nods, shrugging his shoulders. “I think this is against the rules somewhere? Not supposed to like,” and he claps his hands together, once, “with your charges, you know? I don’t want to fuck up again.”
Jamie’s mouth goes tight. “You won’t. You can’t mess up with me. You didn’t before. And besides,” Jamie says, “you’d have to ask Val. That something you really want to do right now?” His laugh goes loose. Tyler makes a face, but he starts laughing, too. Jamie can feel it.
“Okay, nevermind,” Tyler says, taking hold of his hand. He relaxes down into the bed. “We should,” and he moves it down to his cock, blood-red and hot. Gasp of breath when the tips of Jamie’s fingers brush over the head.
Jamie moves to straddle him. He squeezes Tyler’s calf before gesturing out for the lube. Tyler reaches for it like he’s on time-delay; a moment too late and a second too slow. It’s amazing, almost, how fluidly he moves between being there and not. The click of the lid wringing a noise out of him. The lube’s cold and Tyler hisses when Jamie gets a slick finger to his hole.
He tips his head back into the pillow, thighs stretched wide. Jamie swallows and gives him the finger, working his index up to the first knuckle. Tyler’s tight around him and his knee twitches under Jamie’s hand. He hooks an ankle over Jamie’s calf, holding him there, and pushes back against it. Tyler looks relaxed when he gives him a second, thumb pressing against his rim, tugging.
“Mmm, another,” Tyler says. His mouth swollen around the words.
“Yeah?” Jamie asks. He pulls his thumb back and slips a third finger in, watching the stretch of it. The way Tyler takes it. How his breath goes from laboured to out-and-out harsh. He pushes in to the second knuckle and can feel Tyler’s ankle bruising his skin, a dull pain spreading out across it.
“Think you’re ready?” he asks, punctuating it with a twist of his fingers. Brushes up against Tyler’s prostate.
He nods his head, little circle of his hips. “Yes, Jamie. Please.” He reaches out ineffectively, hand falling short of his cock. “Please, fuck me.”
Jamie takes his fingers out, wiping them off on the skin of Tyler’s inner-thighs and the sheets caught between them. He leans in to kiss him as he searches for a condom, half-hidden under the pillowcase. Tyler’s warm and responsive, hands curling over the raised blades of Jamie’s shoulders. Reluctant to pull back. His soft mouth.
Jamie fumbles with it, foil caught between his slick-tipped fingers. Tyler takes the packet from him, a small smile, and opens it with ease. Jamie gives him another kiss, just quick, and rolls the condom on. Shaky breath at the feeling of someone touching his cock, pinching the head lightly. His hips twitch and his cock catch Tyler’s hole. Twinned gasps.
Tyler’s just as hot and tight as he was around Jamie’s fingers. Sweat crests along his hairline, darkening it. Jamie traces along it clumsily, coordinating his push into Tyler at the same time. Overwhelmed by Tyler’s eyes slipping shut, how he trusts Jamie to treat him right. His fingers skim down Tyler’s cheek and he takes a second to revel in their flush bodies once his cock is all the way in.
“Fuck, Ty.” Voice cracking.
Tyler doesn’t say anything, but he grinds back against Jamie, making him groan. He pulls out almost all the way before thrusting back in, a quick snap, moving Tyler up the bed. It’s not much, but enough. The hand he’s got curled in the sheets is displaced and Tyler wraps it around his cock. Letting Jamie control the pace with his thrusts.
It’s good like that, watching Tyler respond to him. He plants his feet and arches his back. Jamie grips at the strain of muscle and watches, transfixed, as Tyler jerks himself off, keeping time with Jamie. He doesn’t have enough coordination to do it for him, but he wants to. Wants to do everything for Tyler. Swallow all his little desperate noises. One right after the other, his mouth opening and closing. Speeding up and up.
Tyler’s near-silent as he comes, body loud with movement. He squeezes the circle of his fingers hard around his cock’s tip and keeps Jamie’s legs pinned to the bed with his ankles. So, so tight around Jamie’s cock. There’s come all up his chest, dripping down towards his cock. His body burns bright red, just for a second, so quickly that Jamie’s not sure it even happened. Blood pushing against the surface of his skin.
Jamie’s close enough that Tyler reaching for him—the hot and possessive spread of his fingers across Jamie’s cheek—is all it takes. Dull bite of Tyler’s nails when Jamie falls forward, orgasm wrung out of him. He holds himself up on weak arms and kisses at the centre of Tyler’s chest. Tastes the sweat there. Tyler scratches across his scalp.
He pulls out, Tyler wincing as he does it. Jamie ties the condom off before curling up against Tyler, arm slung low across his stomach. His breathing evens out into a steady rhythm almost immediately, eyes lidded. Tyler probably feels about as gross as Jamie does, come- and sweat-slicked, but exhaustion wins out. Head tilted towards Jamie’s on the pillow.
His face is pale like that, a stark contrast to the colour of his hair. Light and shadow. He looks younger than he is, but it doesn’t take much. The stress and intense blood-rushes, the anger and frustration contained within them. His mouth doesn’t move, even when Jamie thumbs over it. Peaceful.
-
He puts the cloth on the nightstand before moving off the bed entirely. He looks down at Jamie with an expression on his face that Jamie’s not seen before. Doesn’t think he has, anyways. “Hey,” he says, “I need to change the sheets.”
Jamie nods in response, letting Tyler pull him up and off the bed. His limbs too heavy. Tyler kisses him, saying, “Just, I’ll take care of it,” before Jamie can move to help.
He’s not really efficient, but it’s cute to watch Tyler struggle with the fitted sheet and again with the pillowcases. He manages to collect the bedding up with ease, taking it down the hall. His voice is sweet with the turn of the lock. Too-quick.
Marshall is first in the room and he gets on the bed before Jamie can, settling himself at the end and stretching his front paws out. Tyler’s there a moment later, fresh boxers stretching across his hips. He hands Jamie a pair, too. Rough-cut cotton ones that fit loose. Right.
A warm feeling blooms in his chest. He lets Tyler arrange him on the bed, feet tucked up under Marshall’s stomach. He disappears into the dark of the room, the sound of a tap running, and he comes back with a mostly-full glass of water. He sets it down by the left side of the bed. His side.
“Let me know, okay?”
“Yeah,” Jamie says, quiet. “I will.”
-
He scratches at the back of his neck and Jamie’s distracted enough that he misses the light change—the car behind him loud on the horn. Tyler’s amusement thick as he touches Jamie’s wrist, nodding at the traffic-light.
“You don’t stop at green lights.”
Jamie shakes his head, flicking Tyler in the shoulder. “That was weak, Ty. What else? Sky is blue, grass is green?”
Tyler shrugs, pleased. “Angels have wings.”
-
“Hmm?” he asks, distracted by the knot of his tie. Stares down at it with his eyes crossed. “What for?”
Val’s face is wiped cleaned by disbelief. “You know know?”
“Know what?”
He taps his back. “Congratulations on Tyler. On…,” he looks around first, before lowering his voice. Sweet Russian. Every word clear and precise. “On крылья.”
-
Tyler looks over his shoulder. His smile the exact shape of Jamie’s questions.