Glance has returned! ;)
Title: Disenchant
Chapter: Four. Sequel to Glance, Scream, and Revel.
Author:
slasher48 /
bad_bad_books
Rating: R
Pairing: Sidney Crosby/ Alex Ovechkin, though for now, Alex is putting that on hold. ><.
Disclaimer: 68% of the NHL is gay. For those of you who can't count, that's the majority. Even so, I do not know whether or not this happened. I'm merely making fic out of my sordid imagination.
AN: Yes, I've returned! And with a new chapter of my very favorite story I've written! : D.
Dedicated to
ovielove, because, well, she passed the Crovechkin torch to me--*wipes tear from eye*--and she just fucking rocks. ;)
Glance
Scream
Revel
You roll over in Alex’s bed as the morning sun shines through the glass panes of his balcony and into your eyes. Your hand is already reaching for him.
You hear a crinkle as your fingers land on a piece of paper in Alex’s now cold space.
Your eyes do not fly open-they try to, but there is just too much sleep holding the lids closed.
Your fingers rub at your eyes to rid them of the sleep and you open an eye to read.
Sid,
Last night was a lot of fun. You are good lover. I hope we may do again sometime.
I ordered breakfast for you while you sleep. Eat well and you let yourself out, please.
Alex
You gasp and the paper crumples in your fist as you automatically clench it to- in some small way- ease the pain.
You were wrong. It is over. He never planned on staying with you in the first place, no matter how nice he’d been last night.
You are good lover-such empty words in the grand scheme of things, you muse.
Your entire body clenches like it’s being crunched by an enormous vice and you can feel tears start in your eyes. How could you have been so wrong?
He’s even ordered breakfast for you while you were sleeping. How can someone so kind be so cold?
You’re not sure how you’re able to move against the pain permeating every fiber of your being, but you do. You sit up, slide off the bed and retrieve your clothes. It’s time you dressed and were out of here.
Your eyes are overflowing; you blink repeatedly to try to clear the gloss and gleam as you lean down to the floor by the coffee table and pick up your dress shirt. You beat the wrinkles out with one shaking hand and pull it over your shoulders. You slip your boxers over your slim hips and slide into the kitchen.
It’s still hot-huh, how about that. There’s a tray of piping hot waffles with syrup, butter, and whipped cream, a tumbler of orange juice and a mug of coffee sitting on the kitchen table. You blink back another wave of misery in the form of falling saltwater at how bittersweet it all feels.
You have little desire to eat with the melancholy drenching you, but if you’re to stay the strong, healthy player you’ve always been, you need to eat. You know Coach would say the same.
So, you take a bite, then another, and another. Soon you’re practically devouring it, addicted to the sweet taste and the way eating cures your depression for a second.
You’ve finished the delicious meal and are sitting at the table still, licking your fingers of the syrup and sipping the dregs of the orange juice when your cell phone rings.
You know it’s yours-Alex wouldn’t have a ring-tone of Europe’s “The Final Countdown”-and you run to the sound. That’s Geno’s ring-tone and Geno doesn’t call you very often.
You finally find your pants and as you’re sliding them up your legs, you grab the phone and flip it open. “Hello?”
“Hi Sid.” Somewhere in the dictionary you can see your face next to the definition of ‘pathetic’- even Evgeni’s Russian accent makes you want to cry.
“Hey, Geno,” you say quietly, glad you’ve eaten already because you’re certainly not hungry now.
“You not make practice, Sid.” Geno’s tone is disapproving and you grimace, nodding your head though he can’t see you.
“I know, Ev. I’m sorry-was Mike pissed?”
“He still angry now, Sid. He make us do much drills for your badness.”
If it weren’t for your heart tearing apart in your chest at the moment, you’d laugh-Geno’s shortcomings when it comes to the English language are always hysterical.
“Tell the guys I’m sorry, Ev. I’m on my way back now.”
“Where you anyway?”
You bite your lip. Should you tell him? Even if Geno can barely stumble through your language, he’s always been your dearest friend on the team.
But you can’t. Alex and you will both be ruined if you don’t know how to correctly choose your confidants and you can’t be sure Geno won’t go to Staalsy or Flower to ask what your words mean.
“Let’s just say…somewhere I dearly wish not to be anymore.” That’s all you reply.
You hang up and pocket the phone once more-your frantic brown eyes are searching for your shoes while your frantic mind is searching for some sign you’d missed that Alex had been planning this all along.
Oh, how it hurts you just to remember his face. Maybe you were in too deep to begin with, even before he’d invited you here.
But what can you do about it?
Nothing.
***
It may have been a little short, but hey, it's something, right? Let me know you're still reading and liking? Leave me some love because I adore you all so much?
Chapter: Four. Sequel to Glance, Scream, and Revel.
Author:
slasher48 /
bad_bad_books
Rating: R
Pairing: Sidney Crosby/ Alex Ovechkin, though for now, Alex is putting that on hold. ><.
Disclaimer: 68% of the NHL is gay. For those of you who can't count, that's the majority. Even so, I do not know whether or not this happened. I'm merely making fic out of my sordid imagination.
AN: Yes, I've returned! And with a new chapter of my very favorite story I've written! : D.
Dedicated to
ovielove, because, well, she passed the Crovechkin torch to me--*wipes tear from eye*--and she just fucking rocks. ;)
Glance
Scream
Revel
You roll over in Alex’s bed as the morning sun shines through the glass panes of his balcony and into your eyes. Your hand is already reaching for him.
You hear a crinkle as your fingers land on a piece of paper in Alex’s now cold space.
Your eyes do not fly open-they try to, but there is just too much sleep holding the lids closed.
Your fingers rub at your eyes to rid them of the sleep and you open an eye to read.
Sid,
Last night was a lot of fun. You are good lover. I hope we may do again sometime.
I ordered breakfast for you while you sleep. Eat well and you let yourself out, please.
Alex
You gasp and the paper crumples in your fist as you automatically clench it to- in some small way- ease the pain.
You were wrong. It is over. He never planned on staying with you in the first place, no matter how nice he’d been last night.
You are good lover-such empty words in the grand scheme of things, you muse.
Your entire body clenches like it’s being crunched by an enormous vice and you can feel tears start in your eyes. How could you have been so wrong?
He’s even ordered breakfast for you while you were sleeping. How can someone so kind be so cold?
You’re not sure how you’re able to move against the pain permeating every fiber of your being, but you do. You sit up, slide off the bed and retrieve your clothes. It’s time you dressed and were out of here.
Your eyes are overflowing; you blink repeatedly to try to clear the gloss and gleam as you lean down to the floor by the coffee table and pick up your dress shirt. You beat the wrinkles out with one shaking hand and pull it over your shoulders. You slip your boxers over your slim hips and slide into the kitchen.
It’s still hot-huh, how about that. There’s a tray of piping hot waffles with syrup, butter, and whipped cream, a tumbler of orange juice and a mug of coffee sitting on the kitchen table. You blink back another wave of misery in the form of falling saltwater at how bittersweet it all feels.
You have little desire to eat with the melancholy drenching you, but if you’re to stay the strong, healthy player you’ve always been, you need to eat. You know Coach would say the same.
So, you take a bite, then another, and another. Soon you’re practically devouring it, addicted to the sweet taste and the way eating cures your depression for a second.
You’ve finished the delicious meal and are sitting at the table still, licking your fingers of the syrup and sipping the dregs of the orange juice when your cell phone rings.
You know it’s yours-Alex wouldn’t have a ring-tone of Europe’s “The Final Countdown”-and you run to the sound. That’s Geno’s ring-tone and Geno doesn’t call you very often.
You finally find your pants and as you’re sliding them up your legs, you grab the phone and flip it open. “Hello?”
“Hi Sid.” Somewhere in the dictionary you can see your face next to the definition of ‘pathetic’- even Evgeni’s Russian accent makes you want to cry.
“Hey, Geno,” you say quietly, glad you’ve eaten already because you’re certainly not hungry now.
“You not make practice, Sid.” Geno’s tone is disapproving and you grimace, nodding your head though he can’t see you.
“I know, Ev. I’m sorry-was Mike pissed?”
“He still angry now, Sid. He make us do much drills for your badness.”
If it weren’t for your heart tearing apart in your chest at the moment, you’d laugh-Geno’s shortcomings when it comes to the English language are always hysterical.
“Tell the guys I’m sorry, Ev. I’m on my way back now.”
“Where you anyway?”
You bite your lip. Should you tell him? Even if Geno can barely stumble through your language, he’s always been your dearest friend on the team.
But you can’t. Alex and you will both be ruined if you don’t know how to correctly choose your confidants and you can’t be sure Geno won’t go to Staalsy or Flower to ask what your words mean.
“Let’s just say…somewhere I dearly wish not to be anymore.” That’s all you reply.
You hang up and pocket the phone once more-your frantic brown eyes are searching for your shoes while your frantic mind is searching for some sign you’d missed that Alex had been planning this all along.
Oh, how it hurts you just to remember his face. Maybe you were in too deep to begin with, even before he’d invited you here.
But what can you do about it?
Nothing.
***
It may have been a little short, but hey, it's something, right? Let me know you're still reading and liking? Leave me some love because I adore you all so much?