fic: everything will be all right (if you keep me next to you) // dress for the weather // pat/sid
HI 
tea IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY!!! i hope your day is amazing and you are having the best of times. i'm super glad we're friends & it's been really awesome getting to know you!!! you're a really cool person - smart and funny and so, so talented - and if you ever leave me i will cry SO MANY BITTER TEARS. basically, have the best of years, have the best of lives, you're SO AWESOME &you;;;;; HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
so, i made you a thing? halifax is how we met (BEST THING ABOUT IT) and we always talk about how the pat/sid au would be lovely! so. this is not the porn i think we both want. BUT THERE IS PAT/SID.
everything will be all right (if you keep me next to you)
pat/sid, >1k, not explicit enough, lbr.
“Do you regret Halifax?” Patrick doesn’t have to look up to feel the intensity of Sid’s gaze.
“No,” Patrick says, too fast. “Fuck, no. Never.”
“So,” Patrick says. Sid kicks his foot against Patrick’s.
“You okay?”
“Always,” Patrick says. Reaches out, tangles his fingers up in Sid’s.
Sid’s got big hands. Big, warm.
- Sidney Crosby is the best ice hockey player of his generation. Patrick grew up watching him play, grew up being near him but never touching. They were never friends.
Now, Sidney Crosby might be his friend.
Might be his best friend, even.
When Patrick was a kid, he did this thing: took anything that might be good for him, fucked it the hell up.
When Patrick moved to Halifax, he said, no, Patrick. He hadn’t felt the urge in years but it was Jonathan, who had always brought out the worst and the best in him. It was so easy to slip back into old habits.
But Sid was there.
Sidney Crosby.
Sidney Crosby, who took Patrick home and kept him.
-
It’s not like. Halifax is special; Sid’s house is special. Patrick’s doing something amazing, something important, for the first time in a long, long time. He’s not gonna fuck that up.
But they’re in Buffalo.
Just for the weekend.
It’s a nice hotel.
-
“Wanna come up?” Sid asks, and his eyes are bright, and it’s not - Patrick’s not pining, Patrick loves having a best friend, loves having it be Sid. Patrick’s got enough pining to do with Jonny just down the hallway.
Patrick’s mouth is dry anyway, dry as a desert, dry as a joke Jonny would hurl in a meeting nobody wanted to show up for. “Yeah,” he says, but his voice cracks and he has to say it again, “yeah, Sid.”
-
Sid’s got this way of looking at Patrick, though. Like he can see everything that’s true about Patrick, everything he tries to hide. Like he sees it and loves it anyway.
Patrick’s always been a sucker for clear eyes, dark hair, people calling him on his own bullshit.
“Hey,” Sid says. Soft, careful.
“I should go home,” Patrick says.
Sid swallows. “Okay,” he says.
Patrick closes his eyes. “I don’t want to.”
Sid’s fingers are rough on his cheek. “I don’t - want you to, either.”
Patrick opens his eyes. “Okay.” He takes a slow, hitching, halting breath. “Okay, Sidney.”
Sid laughs, low and sweet. His breath puffs warm across Patrick’s lips.
Patrick leans forward, and swallows it whole.
-
Patrick almost kissed him in December. It would have been easy; it would have been reach across the couch, fuck up the friendship. Sid doesn’t know how to sleep with his friends.
Sid knows how to go all or nothing; Sid doesn’t do greyscale.
(Patrick has a type.)
Patrick. Patrick knows how to commit, but Patrick hasn’t gone all-in in years. Except for that time he picked up his entire life and moved to Halifax, Nova Scotia.
That was kind of a big deal.
Not that it seemed like it, at the time.
-
Sid is cautious, mostly. Good at reading Patrick.
Good at hookups, Patrick takes from it. Good at looking at Patrick, at running his hands all over Patrick, quick, and figuring out what he wants.
(Jonny wasn’t like this, not the first time. Not the first forever.
Jonny was pretty bad at sex, if Patrick’s being honest.
To be fair, Patrick wasn’t great either.)
Patrick’s good, though. He has, like Sid, had practice.
This is what Sid is good at:
- pressing his fingers against Patrick’s sides, finding the spots that make him moan and then digging in
- kissing Patrick, long and hot and dirty
- sucking Patrick’s dick, those lips, Jesus fuck, does Sid even have a gag reflex?
This is where Sid could use improvement (gotta draw up plays; gotta be better, always be better than you were):
- looking at Patrick, not just - the collection of pieces that make up Patrick’s body, make up Patrick’s orgasm
(Patrick’s had quite enough of that, thank you very much)
“Hey,” Patrick says, catching Sid’s hair, holding him still.
Sid blinks.
“Hey,” Patrick says. “Sid. It’s me. Stop showing off.” He lets his fingers rest on the line of Sid’s jaw. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sid pulls off, breathes in. Shudders.
Patrick grins, settles his other hand on Sid’s shoulder, keeping him still, keeping steady. “Yeah,” he says, looks right at Sid, at his eyes huge in his flushed face. “That’s what I thought.”
-
It’s better, after that. Not - not as good, Sid keeps stopping, staring, fumbling his hands - but Patrick. Patrick likes it better.
Patrick likes it best when Sid comes, gasping, around his name.
-
“So,” Patrick says. They are sitting side-by-side on Sid’s huge, dishevelled mattress. Sid is warm against Patrick’s side.
Patrick isn’t quite sure how to play this. They’re friends. Not with benefits. This isn’t new territory for him but he’s pretty sure it’s not in Sid’s repertoire; fair, the dude does have three Cups.
Whatever. Patrick loves Sid, loves him entirely even if he isn’t sure - exactly how. There’s time. There’s always time.
They survived November, survived NHL integration; they can survive anything.
“You okay?” Sid asks, slow, shy. He’s not asking Patrick, not really. He’s asking himself.
Patrick breathes in, reaches out. Catches Sid’s hand, draws it into his lap, locks their fingers together. “Always,” he says. We’re gonna be just fine.
They’ll figure something out.
They always do.
“Good,” Sid says. His eyelashes flutter.
Patrick laughs. “Okay,” he says. Kisses Sid, soft, chaste. “C’mon, we can freak out in the morning.”
“Okay,” Sid says. Loops his arm around Patrick and drags him down.
It’s good, Patrick thinks. New, but. That’s not bad.
Not at all.
tea IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY!!! i hope your day is amazing and you are having the best of times. i'm super glad we're friends & it's been really awesome getting to know you!!! you're a really cool person - smart and funny and so, so talented - and if you ever leave me i will cry SO MANY BITTER TEARS. basically, have the best of years, have the best of lives, you're SO AWESOME &you;;;;; HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
so, i made you a thing? halifax is how we met (BEST THING ABOUT IT) and we always talk about how the pat/sid au would be lovely! so. this is not the porn i think we both want. BUT THERE IS PAT/SID.
everything will be all right (if you keep me next to you)
pat/sid, >1k, not explicit enough, lbr.
“Do you regret Halifax?” Patrick doesn’t have to look up to feel the intensity of Sid’s gaze.
“No,” Patrick says, too fast. “Fuck, no. Never.”
“So,” Patrick says. Sid kicks his foot against Patrick’s.
“You okay?”
“Always,” Patrick says. Reaches out, tangles his fingers up in Sid’s.
Sid’s got big hands. Big, warm.
- Sidney Crosby is the best ice hockey player of his generation. Patrick grew up watching him play, grew up being near him but never touching. They were never friends.
Now, Sidney Crosby might be his friend.
Might be his best friend, even.
When Patrick was a kid, he did this thing: took anything that might be good for him, fucked it the hell up.
When Patrick moved to Halifax, he said, no, Patrick. He hadn’t felt the urge in years but it was Jonathan, who had always brought out the worst and the best in him. It was so easy to slip back into old habits.
But Sid was there.
Sidney Crosby.
Sidney Crosby, who took Patrick home and kept him.
-
It’s not like. Halifax is special; Sid’s house is special. Patrick’s doing something amazing, something important, for the first time in a long, long time. He’s not gonna fuck that up.
But they’re in Buffalo.
Just for the weekend.
It’s a nice hotel.
-
“Wanna come up?” Sid asks, and his eyes are bright, and it’s not - Patrick’s not pining, Patrick loves having a best friend, loves having it be Sid. Patrick’s got enough pining to do with Jonny just down the hallway.
Patrick’s mouth is dry anyway, dry as a desert, dry as a joke Jonny would hurl in a meeting nobody wanted to show up for. “Yeah,” he says, but his voice cracks and he has to say it again, “yeah, Sid.”
-
Sid’s got this way of looking at Patrick, though. Like he can see everything that’s true about Patrick, everything he tries to hide. Like he sees it and loves it anyway.
Patrick’s always been a sucker for clear eyes, dark hair, people calling him on his own bullshit.
“Hey,” Sid says. Soft, careful.
“I should go home,” Patrick says.
Sid swallows. “Okay,” he says.
Patrick closes his eyes. “I don’t want to.”
Sid’s fingers are rough on his cheek. “I don’t - want you to, either.”
Patrick opens his eyes. “Okay.” He takes a slow, hitching, halting breath. “Okay, Sidney.”
Sid laughs, low and sweet. His breath puffs warm across Patrick’s lips.
Patrick leans forward, and swallows it whole.
-
Patrick almost kissed him in December. It would have been easy; it would have been reach across the couch, fuck up the friendship. Sid doesn’t know how to sleep with his friends.
Sid knows how to go all or nothing; Sid doesn’t do greyscale.
(Patrick has a type.)
Patrick. Patrick knows how to commit, but Patrick hasn’t gone all-in in years. Except for that time he picked up his entire life and moved to Halifax, Nova Scotia.
That was kind of a big deal.
Not that it seemed like it, at the time.
-
Sid is cautious, mostly. Good at reading Patrick.
Good at hookups, Patrick takes from it. Good at looking at Patrick, at running his hands all over Patrick, quick, and figuring out what he wants.
(Jonny wasn’t like this, not the first time. Not the first forever.
Jonny was pretty bad at sex, if Patrick’s being honest.
To be fair, Patrick wasn’t great either.)
Patrick’s good, though. He has, like Sid, had practice.
This is what Sid is good at:
- pressing his fingers against Patrick’s sides, finding the spots that make him moan and then digging in
- kissing Patrick, long and hot and dirty
- sucking Patrick’s dick, those lips, Jesus fuck, does Sid even have a gag reflex?
This is where Sid could use improvement (gotta draw up plays; gotta be better, always be better than you were):
- looking at Patrick, not just - the collection of pieces that make up Patrick’s body, make up Patrick’s orgasm
(Patrick’s had quite enough of that, thank you very much)
“Hey,” Patrick says, catching Sid’s hair, holding him still.
Sid blinks.
“Hey,” Patrick says. “Sid. It’s me. Stop showing off.” He lets his fingers rest on the line of Sid’s jaw. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sid pulls off, breathes in. Shudders.
Patrick grins, settles his other hand on Sid’s shoulder, keeping him still, keeping steady. “Yeah,” he says, looks right at Sid, at his eyes huge in his flushed face. “That’s what I thought.”
-
It’s better, after that. Not - not as good, Sid keeps stopping, staring, fumbling his hands - but Patrick. Patrick likes it better.
Patrick likes it best when Sid comes, gasping, around his name.
-
“So,” Patrick says. They are sitting side-by-side on Sid’s huge, dishevelled mattress. Sid is warm against Patrick’s side.
Patrick isn’t quite sure how to play this. They’re friends. Not with benefits. This isn’t new territory for him but he’s pretty sure it’s not in Sid’s repertoire; fair, the dude does have three Cups.
Whatever. Patrick loves Sid, loves him entirely even if he isn’t sure - exactly how. There’s time. There’s always time.
They survived November, survived NHL integration; they can survive anything.
“You okay?” Sid asks, slow, shy. He’s not asking Patrick, not really. He’s asking himself.
Patrick breathes in, reaches out. Catches Sid’s hand, draws it into his lap, locks their fingers together. “Always,” he says. We’re gonna be just fine.
They’ll figure something out.
They always do.
“Good,” Sid says. His eyelashes flutter.
Patrick laughs. “Okay,” he says. Kisses Sid, soft, chaste. “C’mon, we can freak out in the morning.”
“Okay,” Sid says. Loops his arm around Patrick and drags him down.
It’s good, Patrick thinks. New, but. That’s not bad.
Not at all.