Work Text:
Harvest Moon
October 6th, 2025
West of Boston, there is an enchanting neighborhood named Newton. Here exists an elegant home, overflowing with character. A prominent green garden receives you, the first leaves of Autumn slowly descending to the ground, marking the time to prepare for winter and collect what one has sown. Its face is decorated with red bricks, and the windows are like shining eyes, with warm light coming from within on a Monday evening.
Inside this little piece of heaven, we find our doves, our lovers. They have been together for so many years that they have now gotten used to their routines and mannerisms. They know what the other will do after dinner. The tall one, the man with the pin-straight hair and warm chocolate eyes, nicknamed Saint by his friends -with a good reason- will take a seat by their chimney as his husband, the shorter man with one of the most outstanding noses you will ever see. Do not let this distract you because you will miss the mischievous sparkle from his not-so-green eyes, the gentle way he prods his husband with a crooked smile until the other takes off a slipper and throws it at his head, barely missing. All this happens as he lights the chimney for the man with the book. This happens almost every single Monday, one of the few days they have free for themselves, but tonight is different.
Out of the window, he can clearly see their whole front yard and their whole street. High in the sky, closest he has ever seen this year, the most pearlescent moon illuminates the night. He remembers that some First Nations call this specific full moon “Harvest Moon”. It is the closest to the Autumn equinox, the time to prepare for the winter.
Instead of continuing to read on his blue armchair, Patrice has decided to get up. As he walks by his beloved, his wandering fingers graze his spouse’s back, pulling a questioning look out of him, yet no real inquiries come out of his mouth. He walks to the end of the room, away from the windows and his hands are drawn to the yellowed vinyl they found one scorching Summer day in an odd antique mall down in Rhode Island. Behind him, the cracking of the fire picks up, and so does his heart as the needle drops. If he calculated correctly, the music should start in any second now from the high-end quality speakers they bought. Who does not love music, even more when it is shared?
A pair of arms surrounds his waist, callous hands pressing into the fabric that covers his chest. The guitar strings vibrate, and he can feel the face squeezed between his shoulder blades smile broadly.
“What are you doing, eh?”
“It’s a full moon, Marchy”
“‘Y’gon’ turn into a werewolf?”
He can’t help but bark a laugh; his husband always says the oddest things.
“No, you asshole. It’s the Harvest Moon,” he says knowingly, turning around inside his lover’s embrace. “Dance with me”
They hold hands, pulling their bodies close, allowing the placid rhythm of the music to sway them side to side. Being so close to each other, even in the low light of the fire, Patrice could make out the gentle strokes of green in his eyes. His eyes couldn’t help but shy away from those shining gems; he could feel Brad examining his soul, every bit of him. So he observed his creamy skin. Neither of them was exactly young anymore; he could see the years of scars and worry carved into his flesh, but also the laughter and love. His chest painfully swells. This man had chosen him, this little rat of his. He bends and touches their foreheads together. Can he feel his adoration? His absolute devotion?
The years they had spent side by side, first as acquaintances, signed to the Bruins with years of difference. Patrice would be lying if he said he felt lonely, but certainly, it was not like he was complete. Then he met the little ball of hate. Four inches shorter than him, but five times more energetic and at least ten times more dangerous. Instant best friends. It was as if they were at both ends of the spectrum, a perfect match.
Not only did they party together for many years, but they also travelled the world together, ignoring the ever-growing tension until a fortuitous night down in Cape Cod, where they shared the last beer in the cooler, next to the bonfire after everyone else had gone to bed. The heavy silence fell over them as a weighted blanket, expectation making his skin prickle. His treacherous eyes just could not part from his linemate’s as he took the last swig of their bottle, settling in the sand. That night, under a July night sky, something truly changed, because in a decisive moment, Brad stepped into his personal space, took a good look at his face and kissed him. A sigh so deep it came from his soul, he kissed back.
Patrice did not think he was into men. Maybe it was just Brad. He was into Brad.
They got married in a private ceremony on October 11th, the same year they won the Stanley Cup together, still riding the high of lifting the heavy weight of it together. Finally, clean-shaven after weeks of itchy, irritating makeout sessions where they both would end up with sore mouths and rashes if they did not wash their faces fast enough. Their closest teammates, friends and family all in one place, surrounded by the most stunning blue and white hydrangeas. They both thought Tim wouldn’t have minded their relationship, but oh, how far from reality it was. They thought Tim was different, the not-so-right comments were not a reflection of who he was and how he thought of people like… Well, them. After their invitation came, his friendship was severed, and Tim’s disgusted looks commenced, and his not-so-right comments now included them, too. That one hurt, but Patrice and Brad had more support than a simple-minded person, and their support network worked to keep them away from his toxicity.
Concussions, broken bones, perforated lungs. Life had certainly tried to take them out of the ice early, but Patrice and Brad had fought nails and teeth until it was time to leave. It was now getting late, they were not so young, and he was glad they had gotten away in time to enjoy their allotment of life together. He was not afraid of dying; he was terrified of never seeing Brad again. Of never being able to hold his frame in the wee hours of the morning, when the sun is young and its light shy, when his husband has not risen from the depths of his sleep yet, but his insomnia has gripped his guts in tangles.
“-trice?” The soft voice of his dear brings him back to the present, to their joint hands, their warm home and Neil Young singing their first dance song. “A penny for your thoughts?”
“I’m just… I think of us”, he pauses as he weighs the music, the silence and the comfort between them. "I love you, Bradley"
With a gleaming beam, his husband deposits a kiss on his lips, never stopping their slow movements. The tension imprisoned in his body evaporates, he didn’t realized he was clutching his husband closer than before, harder than ever. The gentleness with which Brad caresses his face has no match; it is velvet soft, like crisp Autumnal wind. A solitary tear rolls down his cheek.
“I’m still in love with you, Patrice”, Brad says as he kisses the tear away.
“On this Harvest Moon?”
“On this Harvest Moon”
Winter has nothing on them. Patrice is ready.