(no subject)
Title: Responsibility.
Author: me, more_unknown
Pairing: Brooks Orpik/Evgeni Malkin. A festival of manliness. Brooksie's POV.
Summary: Taking place in an alternate universe that I never want to visit, where the Penguins are out of the playoff picture by the end of March and Malkin breaks his hand on Scott Hartnell's head, among other things. Brooksie has a broken orbital bone because some goon from the Kings punched him in the face. The loneliness of injury leads to god knows what.
Rating: PG-13 for now. Smut will happen later, promise.
Chapter: 1 of 3 or 3-ish
Disclaimer: Not mine. Didn't happen and won't.
Dedicated to jisforjane, because without her I would be sleeping at night.
You'd think I'd be the one watching every game for the last bit of the season in a suit because I had to fuck someone up. But no, I was doing it because I got fucked up. By John Zeiler, of all people. Has anyone even heard of him outside of Los Angeles? Or even in Los Angeles. Let's be honest here, the Kings franchise is kind of a joke. But John Zeiler punched me in the face and there goes the rest of my season. Not like we're making the playoffs.
But that's the thing about Malkin. He's full of surprises. I saw him drop the gloves on Hartnell after that dirty hit to Gonchar in the neutral zone. No one got hurt except him. What a fucking idiot. Hartnell turtled and Evgeni broke his hand on the guy's thick skull, and there goes the rest of his season. Not like we're making the playoffs.
Everyone else had gotten better, finally. The injuries had seemingly been avoiding the two of us, but our numbers had been drawn, apparently. Evgeni's hand won't be better for over two months. Me? Zeiler broke my orbital bone and I had to have six stitches. My eye is constantly swollen, lopsided, and I can barely blink. I don't even have a normal eye left as my other eye just pops out there like it's coming to get you. So, one scary eye, and one eye that looks like a close-up from a morgue photo. Take your pick.
The worst thing about this injury is that I can't train and condition to get over it. My body has to heal itself. The vision will come back on its own. I can't help it if I get lonely and I wish I were skating and the eye just looks worse some mornings than it did a week ago. I can skate on my own before practice but it of course isn't the same. And for whatever reason I'm trying to stay in shape. God forbid anyone try to keep me company.
Malkin wasn't doing much either. The guy is deadly quiet sometimes. And now that he was hurt he was even more withdrawn, staring at the cast on his hand like he was trying to run away from it. One day I texted him and told him to come to my place for a beer. Because we were both at home and nothing was going on. Because I needed something to do with my life and Malkin is one of the only guys I work with who doesn't buy into any crap, who tells it like it is and makes sure his actions always show his feelings. It's like me. If I don't like you, you'll know about it. I wouldn't think for a second of doing anything to you, but you'll know. I'm a courteous guy. But I'm not nice. There is a difference. Maybe Evgeni is nice, but at least that's who he is. I can't stand the fake smiles sometimes. I know there's nothing malicious behind them, but do you always have to smile? I only smile when I mean it.
But I'm rambling.
Me. Malkin. My living room. Yuengling. With me so far?
We were watching TV, specifically a late night replay of a Pirates exhibition game, specifically the Pirates losing. I wanted to change it, but he didn't want me to. "I like Pirates," he said. "And baseball helps me with English. I get. . .interested. Please, don't change it." Sometimes he would repeat words the announcers said, randomly, and purse his lips afterwards in satisfaction. I imagined a tally in his head for each one he got. It was like watching a fucking spelling bee.
Watching the Pirates of course means that you drink, though. A lot. I know I do. I wasn't particularly drunk, though, just a little buzzed, sitting on the couch at the bottom of the seventh and Malkin looking at me from the other couch rubbing his eyes, one at a time. I sat up. "You look fuckin' tired," I said. I smiled. Maybe I didn't quite mean it.
"I am tired," he said. His tolerance was way lower than mine, though we'd had about the same amount of beers. The cast on his hand looked heavy as he carted himself up off of the low seat of my couch. I hastened over to guide him towards the place where we'd put his hoodie and to help him remember how to open the door--I was glad he hadn't driven himself, that he would probably be able to walk home. As I opened the door for him, he reached out a hand to touch my injured face.
"You look horrible," he said, the "h" sound coming out of his throat smokily, as he caressed the stitch ever so slightly, not enough to hurt me. I paused because I knew he was doing what he meant to do. I paused because I did feel good, suddenly.
"I know," I said finally. "Always do."
"Maybe," he said. He was still touching me, and I wasn't sure what to do about it. Touching him back would have been a novel idea. I'm not used to being touched outside of being taken down onto a sheet of ice. Gentleness does not come into my world frequently. But he had to be gentle to do what he was doing or I would have punched him, probably.
His hand, the one that wasn't damaged, moved from above my eye to the side of my face, and it stayed there. Still, I wasn't sure what all of this was supposed to mean--he was a little drunk and may have not known where he was. But I did notice that I was drawn forward by his touch, as it was subtle, soft. It was so very comfortingly like him to do what he was doing, something awkward or inexplicable or wordless--I don't know the word for Evgeni's actions, but it's something difficult yet somehow normal. Something I appreciate.
I know how to respond to signals, I know how to respond to my feelings. I'm that kind of guy.
I kissed him. And for the first time I felt that summer was coming, that the Columbus Blue Jackets had a better chance of lifting the Stanley Cup than we did, that it was getting hot outside and I would be home before I knew it. These realizations, well, they got me angry, to say the least. I put that anger into my kiss, which went from a relatively harmless touching of lips to a full-on tongue-down-his-throat-and-groping-his-ass kind of kiss. He was responding. Drunkenly and sloppily. I didn't stop.
I took a handful of his thigh and moved my hand heavily to his crotch. He was wearing wool trousers for whatever reason, with an old soft cotton t-shirt, like he'd gotten dressed in a hurry. I could feel the firmness underneath my palm, and I held steady there, breaking the kiss and trying to find his eyes in the dark corner we'd pressed ourselves into. He had a doleful lopsided smile on his face and his eyes were drunkenly lidded.
I'm no stranger to this type of situation. I don't take advantage. Granted, I hadn't been in this situation with many men before, but I simply don't take advantage. And admittedly, I'd never been in this situation with a teammate. I'm so fucking private that the only people I've had sex with in the past few years are mature women who I actually have a chance of falling in love with. And I've had one night stands with men who have no idea that I'm an NHL defenseman so there's no story to tell your friends the next day. I follow my heart and my erections, and both to a point. You can't say you're a good and responsible lover if you don't.
But what's weird about staring Malkin drunkenly in the eyes is that it will probably put your heart and your erections in perfect harmony. You might not know it by looking at him, but he's heartbreakingly intelligent. Just perhaps not in English. And when you see a man half-naked on an almost daily basis for months at a time, you notice his body. Above all you notice his passion, and you envy it. I'm always so together about things, you know. Always looking like a fucking serial killer mechanically dissecting his next victim. I don't smile much. Malkin's mood is all over his face.
And right now the face said "horribly, hopelessly drunk." Dilemma alert, Brooksie.
"Listen to me," I said to him. My hand was absentmindedly stroking his hair, which was soft, curly, about due for its next haircut that he would never schedule because he is an absentminded son-of-a-bitch. The sudden warm-up in the weather outside had done strange things to it, and it was supple, good to hang onto. I ran my fingers through it, and he twitched and twisted into the touch, like a cat just awakened from a long nap. I figured he was listening as well as he could.
"Listen to me," I repeated, and our eyes met to the extent that they could meet. He was a few millimeters off. "If you remember this in the morning and you still want this, we should talk."
He nodded, sleepily, and I turned him around and opened the door. I hoped that I wouldn't regret it. I hoped I wasn't trading a potential night of great sex for several years of blurred memories and awkward moments. Evgeni was my friend, we were both lonely, these things happen. I told myself over and over again that it was okay. I told myself over and over again, Maybe he is a lot like you.
Author: me, more_unknown
Pairing: Brooks Orpik/Evgeni Malkin. A festival of manliness. Brooksie's POV.
Summary: Taking place in an alternate universe that I never want to visit, where the Penguins are out of the playoff picture by the end of March and Malkin breaks his hand on Scott Hartnell's head, among other things. Brooksie has a broken orbital bone because some goon from the Kings punched him in the face. The loneliness of injury leads to god knows what.
Rating: PG-13 for now. Smut will happen later, promise.
Chapter: 1 of 3 or 3-ish
Disclaimer: Not mine. Didn't happen and won't.
Dedicated to jisforjane, because without her I would be sleeping at night.
You'd think I'd be the one watching every game for the last bit of the season in a suit because I had to fuck someone up. But no, I was doing it because I got fucked up. By John Zeiler, of all people. Has anyone even heard of him outside of Los Angeles? Or even in Los Angeles. Let's be honest here, the Kings franchise is kind of a joke. But John Zeiler punched me in the face and there goes the rest of my season. Not like we're making the playoffs.
But that's the thing about Malkin. He's full of surprises. I saw him drop the gloves on Hartnell after that dirty hit to Gonchar in the neutral zone. No one got hurt except him. What a fucking idiot. Hartnell turtled and Evgeni broke his hand on the guy's thick skull, and there goes the rest of his season. Not like we're making the playoffs.
Everyone else had gotten better, finally. The injuries had seemingly been avoiding the two of us, but our numbers had been drawn, apparently. Evgeni's hand won't be better for over two months. Me? Zeiler broke my orbital bone and I had to have six stitches. My eye is constantly swollen, lopsided, and I can barely blink. I don't even have a normal eye left as my other eye just pops out there like it's coming to get you. So, one scary eye, and one eye that looks like a close-up from a morgue photo. Take your pick.
The worst thing about this injury is that I can't train and condition to get over it. My body has to heal itself. The vision will come back on its own. I can't help it if I get lonely and I wish I were skating and the eye just looks worse some mornings than it did a week ago. I can skate on my own before practice but it of course isn't the same. And for whatever reason I'm trying to stay in shape. God forbid anyone try to keep me company.
Malkin wasn't doing much either. The guy is deadly quiet sometimes. And now that he was hurt he was even more withdrawn, staring at the cast on his hand like he was trying to run away from it. One day I texted him and told him to come to my place for a beer. Because we were both at home and nothing was going on. Because I needed something to do with my life and Malkin is one of the only guys I work with who doesn't buy into any crap, who tells it like it is and makes sure his actions always show his feelings. It's like me. If I don't like you, you'll know about it. I wouldn't think for a second of doing anything to you, but you'll know. I'm a courteous guy. But I'm not nice. There is a difference. Maybe Evgeni is nice, but at least that's who he is. I can't stand the fake smiles sometimes. I know there's nothing malicious behind them, but do you always have to smile? I only smile when I mean it.
But I'm rambling.
Me. Malkin. My living room. Yuengling. With me so far?
We were watching TV, specifically a late night replay of a Pirates exhibition game, specifically the Pirates losing. I wanted to change it, but he didn't want me to. "I like Pirates," he said. "And baseball helps me with English. I get. . .interested. Please, don't change it." Sometimes he would repeat words the announcers said, randomly, and purse his lips afterwards in satisfaction. I imagined a tally in his head for each one he got. It was like watching a fucking spelling bee.
Watching the Pirates of course means that you drink, though. A lot. I know I do. I wasn't particularly drunk, though, just a little buzzed, sitting on the couch at the bottom of the seventh and Malkin looking at me from the other couch rubbing his eyes, one at a time. I sat up. "You look fuckin' tired," I said. I smiled. Maybe I didn't quite mean it.
"I am tired," he said. His tolerance was way lower than mine, though we'd had about the same amount of beers. The cast on his hand looked heavy as he carted himself up off of the low seat of my couch. I hastened over to guide him towards the place where we'd put his hoodie and to help him remember how to open the door--I was glad he hadn't driven himself, that he would probably be able to walk home. As I opened the door for him, he reached out a hand to touch my injured face.
"You look horrible," he said, the "h" sound coming out of his throat smokily, as he caressed the stitch ever so slightly, not enough to hurt me. I paused because I knew he was doing what he meant to do. I paused because I did feel good, suddenly.
"I know," I said finally. "Always do."
"Maybe," he said. He was still touching me, and I wasn't sure what to do about it. Touching him back would have been a novel idea. I'm not used to being touched outside of being taken down onto a sheet of ice. Gentleness does not come into my world frequently. But he had to be gentle to do what he was doing or I would have punched him, probably.
His hand, the one that wasn't damaged, moved from above my eye to the side of my face, and it stayed there. Still, I wasn't sure what all of this was supposed to mean--he was a little drunk and may have not known where he was. But I did notice that I was drawn forward by his touch, as it was subtle, soft. It was so very comfortingly like him to do what he was doing, something awkward or inexplicable or wordless--I don't know the word for Evgeni's actions, but it's something difficult yet somehow normal. Something I appreciate.
I know how to respond to signals, I know how to respond to my feelings. I'm that kind of guy.
I kissed him. And for the first time I felt that summer was coming, that the Columbus Blue Jackets had a better chance of lifting the Stanley Cup than we did, that it was getting hot outside and I would be home before I knew it. These realizations, well, they got me angry, to say the least. I put that anger into my kiss, which went from a relatively harmless touching of lips to a full-on tongue-down-his-throat-and-groping-his-ass kind of kiss. He was responding. Drunkenly and sloppily. I didn't stop.
I took a handful of his thigh and moved my hand heavily to his crotch. He was wearing wool trousers for whatever reason, with an old soft cotton t-shirt, like he'd gotten dressed in a hurry. I could feel the firmness underneath my palm, and I held steady there, breaking the kiss and trying to find his eyes in the dark corner we'd pressed ourselves into. He had a doleful lopsided smile on his face and his eyes were drunkenly lidded.
I'm no stranger to this type of situation. I don't take advantage. Granted, I hadn't been in this situation with many men before, but I simply don't take advantage. And admittedly, I'd never been in this situation with a teammate. I'm so fucking private that the only people I've had sex with in the past few years are mature women who I actually have a chance of falling in love with. And I've had one night stands with men who have no idea that I'm an NHL defenseman so there's no story to tell your friends the next day. I follow my heart and my erections, and both to a point. You can't say you're a good and responsible lover if you don't.
But what's weird about staring Malkin drunkenly in the eyes is that it will probably put your heart and your erections in perfect harmony. You might not know it by looking at him, but he's heartbreakingly intelligent. Just perhaps not in English. And when you see a man half-naked on an almost daily basis for months at a time, you notice his body. Above all you notice his passion, and you envy it. I'm always so together about things, you know. Always looking like a fucking serial killer mechanically dissecting his next victim. I don't smile much. Malkin's mood is all over his face.
And right now the face said "horribly, hopelessly drunk." Dilemma alert, Brooksie.
"Listen to me," I said to him. My hand was absentmindedly stroking his hair, which was soft, curly, about due for its next haircut that he would never schedule because he is an absentminded son-of-a-bitch. The sudden warm-up in the weather outside had done strange things to it, and it was supple, good to hang onto. I ran my fingers through it, and he twitched and twisted into the touch, like a cat just awakened from a long nap. I figured he was listening as well as he could.
"Listen to me," I repeated, and our eyes met to the extent that they could meet. He was a few millimeters off. "If you remember this in the morning and you still want this, we should talk."
He nodded, sleepily, and I turned him around and opened the door. I hoped that I wouldn't regret it. I hoped I wasn't trading a potential night of great sex for several years of blurred memories and awkward moments. Evgeni was my friend, we were both lonely, these things happen. I told myself over and over again that it was okay. I told myself over and over again, Maybe he is a lot like you.