Chapter Text
It’s March 1st, 2025. Game day. A game day that intends to latch itself into history. Yet, Pasta doesn’t know that yet. Boston is thriving on the ice. Penalties feel like a minor inconvenience in the wake of everything going on around them, and that’s Pasta’s favorite feeling. It’s just freeing for the soul, and even if they were to lose right now that feeling wouldn’t change at all. As he skates back to the bench to end his shift, he notices Brad following suit behind him. He heaves himself over the boards with a bit of wobble in his stance, and quickly settles himself down on the bench itself. He’s met with Brad at his side within seconds.Without a second thought in his mind, Brad earns a crooked smile and stupid laugh from Pasta.
“What the hell are you so joyous about, idiot?” Brad quips, but Pasta doesn’t waver in his joy. He’s just happy to be sitting at his side through such an interesting game.
“Because we’re so good!” It’s as if Pasta is at his best. And what he’s saying isn’t really too far off from how the game has opted to pan out. He, himself, has already scored a goal for the team and within 2 minutes of the game starting at that. But truly, as they stand so early in the first, that can’t really be confirmed or denied. Pasta is clearly just exciteable, given the next shift they’re going to run.
“Okay, okay,” Brad couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the other man's pure excitement, “You’re right. You’re right, Pasta.” That vague praise only further greased the already rapidly spinning gears in the Czech man’s mind. Brad earned an even wider, more crooked, smile from the other. Brad returned a gentle and sweet one. It was the opposite of their normal positions. Brad tended to be the overexcited party, in contrast Pasta tended to be the more calm one.
Maybe it should’ve been a sign the world intended to flip on its head in front of Pasta’s face. The balance was already thrown off. But Pasta had no room for something like that in his mind- He was happy! It was going great, and despite some pressure from the Penguins, the opposition had entirely failed to score upon Boston still.
The duo only have a bit of time before they’re back out on the ice for their shift, and they spend the time at ease with each other. Vague chatter and smiles back and forth, then they’re out again. On a powerplay at that, that’s something so fun and vital for the duo. Something they often reflect on with pure joy when it’s done and over with.
Though, this doesn’t run as smoothly as he had hoped it would. Not at all. Brad is suddenly shoved into the boards while skating forward, slamming into them hard. The offender, P.O Joseph, is greeted by Pasta skating over in a rush and shoving him out of the way. Brad is on the ice, struggling to move. Pasta tossed his stick to the side and kneeled down, quietly speaking to his captain.
“Are you okay, Brad? What’s wrong?” Brad groans a bit and bitterly glares in the direction of Joseph before his head drops back down. Pasta looks over to see trainers slowly making their way over on the ice, which only furthers his worry. He just holds a hand on Brad’s back, as if trying to offer comfort through something. He’s not sure if it’s doing much, but he knows Brad usually understands his intentions fairly well.
“My fucking shoulder-” Brad hisses, rage and pain laced into every single word, “I think I’m out, Pasta.” Pasta frowns and shakily nods, letting the trainer get over and evaluate before they both lift Brad up. Pasta takes all of his weight, Brad nuzzles into him at that. The trainer just has an arm now, and he seems to be alright with that. Pasta knows that he and Brad are. They depart at the bench, to the agony of the Czech. The trainer takes Brad all the way down, and there is where Pasta sees himself crack a bit.
He returns to the ice as ordered, and within a minute they’ve produced a goal. The rage burns down into a form of vague joy, which eventually springs back into motivation and energy for the man. He settles in with this, and the rest of the first goes smoothly for him. Though it does feel like a lot of penalties are thrown around. He walks off ice with his team, and into the locker room. His mind rattled still, at least until he sees Brad again.
The second he sees him, and the second Brad sees Pasta, they’ve pulled into a tight hug. Pasta is highly gentle, while Brad not so much. Pasta laughs, Brad follows. Relief washes over Pasta, and he lets the tension burn out of his body now that he has his captain in his arms. There’s a sense of safety that washes over him, a sense of home and belonging. He smiles his crooked smile and they stay like that the entire intermission. Burning through conversation topics as they come and go into their minds, mulling over the hit and his injury status, worried over the win, and gentle reassurances from the off-ice captain of their victory. It felt like the world’s greatest pep talk, all shared between them in each other’s arms. Eventually, Pasta is forced to let go and wave, wandering back to the ice and away from the only person he even wishes to be on ice with as is.
The second period seems to play in a blur, as Pasta’s mind lands mostly on his captain when he’s not on ice. Even when he is on ice, it lingers and slips into his every motivation. It’s why he’s playing so hard, honestly. When he seems to catch up to everything that’s gone on this game, they’re deep in the second, a mere 3 minutes before the third, and up by two full goals. It's still a two to zero game. A two to zero game through some intense penalties at that; Boston had gotten a full ten minutes worth of penalty time in comparison to the Pens getting only four. And at some point it had hit a four versus three on the ice, with Boston having the lesser amount of men, and still Pittsburgh hadn’t produced the puck.
Pasta was entirely valid in feeling so good about today. And valid in feeling good about this game. It was a pristine performance from himself and his fellow teammates. Pasta, in fact, had been involved in both goals. The scorer on the first, an assist on the second. It was only natural he was buzzing over this, even though Brad had shuffled off the ice harmed. That only prompted him to play harder, to live up to the honor of Brad. And to be angry within his joy, making him as dangerous as ever.
The Penguins miserably failed to produce on them in the second as it fizzled into the final minutes, and in the end the second period was goalless on both sides. It stayed 2 to 0, Boston up.
With that, the second ended, and they all shuffled into the locker room. Cluttered as they took in every word their coach said, drank water, processed their thoughts. It was full of chatter, the buzz seemed to not only live in Pasta’s soul. Everyone was as talkative as ever, if not more, except for Brad. He had stayed in the locker room despite the injury, and for some reason had selected a group of individuals to discuss with before Pasta could have even jumped in to join.
Brad had started some conversation in a smaller circle, consisting of Zacha, the two Lindholms, McAvoy, and the goalies. It was hushed, unlike the loud chatter surrounding the group. Not even Pasta had seemed to make it into the circle. It caused a slight damper on his mood. It caused some slight confusion. But he managed to twist it into an ideal for the best as is, putting a smile on and assuming it was some sort of surprise Brad was planning. Brad loved doing that for people, maybe Pasta was getting one of his own.
The third period’s start arrived faster than Pasta had expected, especially as he silently sat and kicked his feet. Yet, the adrenaline let his mind wander and think. He was basically having a conversation with himself up there, and that couldn’t make him happier, honestly. If he wasn’t talking to Brad, he’d rather be more reserved. For as joyous as he is, he could easily get overwhelmed. As he tightened the laces on his skates, he reminded himself to talk to Brad after the game about the strange intermission. Then he walked down the hallway and onto the ice as per usual.
Everything felt normal, but wonderful the entire period. Other than the fact Pasta got tripped on a breakaway which resulted in a penalty shot, it was fairly standard. The Penguins scored about 14 minutes into the period, then empty-netted to try and tie up the game. Boston responded with an empty-net goal, and then Crosby managed to score a power play goal at them right at the end.
None of that mattered- None of the Penguins displays against them mattered. Boston won. Pasta’s overjoyed premonitions about the game were true. Hugging his team as tight as ever had never felt better, really. He felt so safe in their arms. Safe, happy, excited. Home. He was home here. He started to laugh a bit, but caught his breath stuttering when he was pushed from the hug. Two arms had wrapped themselves around him and pushed him to the boards, wrapped tighter than any hug from the rest of the team. His arms reciprocated instantly, and then his head caught up. It was Swayman, their goalie, though not the goalie for tonight’s game. Sways was benched.
“Sways, are you-” Swayman cut him off with a squeeze, taking Pasta’s breath away again. Sways had nestled his head into Pasta’s chest, only looking up after a moment with a smile that almost made Pasta a bit nervous. It was shaky, wobbly, but so genuine and loving. It wasn’t a big game to win- So why was his goalie on the verge of tears as if it were playoffs? Pasta shook his head and just assumed maybe the stress had made it look worse than it was. Sways was likely just fine, though singling him out is still strange to him. Not that he minded at all. Goalie hugs so personal like this are always the highest comfort.
“Just a hug, Pasta!” Swayman seemed to be overjoyed, and Pasta knew that Sways would have just told him by now if something so major was bothering him about the game. Swayman, as cheery as he was, was always first to complain if something bugged him. As long as he was complaining to someone he trusted, he would go off without a single care in the world. “Man, we did it!!” There was so much joy all over the man’s face, it made Pasta melt a bit. Sways detached and Pasta stood there, still mulling over how personal that hug was. He watched Swayman just go back into the on-ice celebration, but Pasta opted to just go. He slid himself off of the ice and into the locker room, keeping ahead of the crowd in hopes to see Brad.
Brad was sitting idle in the locker room, in front of his locker, just kicking his feet. When he looked up and his eyes were greeted with Pasta, he smiled wildly. “You did it, Linguine!” Brad stood to his feet and gently hugged Pasta, making the alternate lean into him and wrap his arms around him. His stick dropped to the floor from his hands as he focused on the affection.
“Linguine is a stupid one, Brad,” Pasta quipped, though his voice was soft. “You always seem to have the dumbest nicknames for me.” Despite the little bite at the names, Pasta never minded them. Not in the slightest, truly. In fact, Pasta cherished the nicknames so dearly when it came to their relationship. It was one of his favorite things, shelved up in Pasta’s mind with their first game together, being named an alternate with him, and then being named his alternate, alongside other moments and quirks between them.
“Awh, come on, you know you love them!” Brad was ecstatic about the nicknames, and he always would be. A part of Pasta always wondered if, despite how much he mulled over them, Brad liked the stupid names more than he ever could.
“Well, yes, of course I do. I could never stop loving something so dumb,” Pasta smirked before continuing, “I would have to stop loving you then.” Brad gasped in feigned hurt, and quickly shoved a fist into Pasta’s shoulder playfully. The pair both giggling like fools now, smiles so wide you’d think the best joke ever was just told.
When the duo finally seemed to settle, Pasta was in the showers with Brad talking to him from the other side of the curtain. The rest of the team was handling their own post-game routine around them, but they were in their own world as per usual. Eventually, through the chirps, Pasta getting dressed again, packing up his gear, and so on Brad spoke up once again.
“You wanna go to dinner, Past?” Pasta chirped up, waiting to hear more names tailed onto the list of who was going, but none came. Brad blinked at him a bit, confused as to the lack of answers. “Yes, you and me. Just you and me, man.” Pasta blinked for a moment, processing, then smiled at him.
“Yes, I would love to!” A hearty laugh escaped Pasta, something that made Brad perk right up. The duo quickly focused on getting themselves ready enough to go out. The duo was sloppily pressed into suits not all the way done up, collars fucked up, ties clinging onto their necks awkwardly. That didn’t matter to either of them, not at all. They were, and always have been, stuck to each other like the pieces of a badly done children’s paper craft, despite how badly cut and glued they were. That was something they cherished as they drove to the restaurant, climbed out of the car, and walked in all while talking endlessly over absolutely everything.
When they finally sat down and ordered their dinner, the conversation trailed into the game, Brad’s injury, their kids, and everything in general. Their lack of wives, but enjoyment of their babies, was unmatched. They ended up on the subject of their kiddos for what felt like ages. Then it watered down into relationships, and then their relationship. Pasta didn’t really have a word for it other than ‘Brad’. Any explanation of them using traditional labels just tasted horrible in his mouth, and it felt wrong. He could gnaw at the words of ‘best friend’, ‘work wife’, and ‘my favorite’, yet nothing really worked. If he had to pick one, he’d make it simple. ‘My person’. That was it. Meanwhile, Brad seemed to use the terms all at once. It almost overwhelmed Pasta.
“You know, like. I see you as my best friend!” Brad started simple, and Pasta nodded with a smile. Then Brad kept going. “But you’re also absolutely my work husband, like. Like you’re my everything at work and shit, dude.” Pasta tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, but it wasn’t over quite yet. “But also, you’re my everything in general! You’re so good with my kids, and you cook great, and like-” Brad gasped as if exasperated, Pasta nervously swallowed. “Like, Pasta, I love you, man!”
Pasta blinked, processing everything Brad seemed to let pour over their dinners. Brad was all smiley, but clearly a bit anxious over his strange yet affectionate confessions. Pasta took a moment, but managed to speak up as Brad desired so greatly. “You are…” Past trailed off, a gentle blush flushing his cheeks as he got anxious. Brad nodded a bit, signaling that he was encouraging him to continue. Pasta sighed and swallowed hard, smiling a bit as he muttered, “You are my person. Brad is my person.” Pasta managed an anxious smile as he fidgeted with his hands.
Brad’s eyes lit up and he smiled so wide it almost hurt. The softest words fell from his mouth, “I am…?” Pasta nodded and quickly shoveled a bite of food in his mouth. He swallowed hard and then smiled again. Nervous. He was painfully nervous about admitting that, as if he was saying he had a crush or something. Brad was overjoyed. Before he moved on, as to assist Pasta with his discomfort, he opted to say one final thing.
“I’ll keep that in mind in everything I do, okay, Pasta?”
Pasta nodded eagerly, and they trailed off into newer subjects. Finishing up their food as they continued to talk. They could talk for hours, no, days without stopping. It was always one of their talents to enjoy themselves so happily without any hesitation. Before they both knew, dinner was over. They were going back to their home. Their place. They were graciously sharing, and that was something they were both endlessly comfortable with. Conversation within the car was just as excessive as the restaurant. Even after they had parked the car, they were sitting there talking, letting the last warmth of the heaters blasting fade away. When they both got cold, they got out and went into the house for warmth.
The duo quickly changed after shoving anything important onto the counters and table sloppily. They were far more focused on rest and relaxation as is. The game was settled as a win, and Brad was settled as a man who needed to rest now. Pasta was going to make sure he did rest, but he obviously needed to doze off just as badly after the stress of the game.
They settled onto the couch after changing into comfier clothing, and within seconds Brad had turned the TV on. The TV was quietly buzzing with sound as Pasta started to drift away, leaning onto Brad as he felt the man wrap a blanket then an arm around him. Brad also deliberately turned the TV down to accommodate the sleepy man nestling himself into his chest now. Pasta smiled and hummed a bit to show his gratitude, then he let himself drift away in this everlasting safety.
His final conscious thought was what Brad had said to him: ‘I’ll keep that in mind in everything I do, okay, Pasta?’ Pasta could only wonder how he supposedly meant so much to that man. To someone he cherished greater than himself at such a painfully large scale.
How much did he really mean that?