Selfish Love Is The Type We Share (1/2)
Selfish Love Is The Type We Share
Dion Phaneuf, Luke Schenn
R || 12 000 words.
Disclaimer: Intended for entertainment purposes only. Title is borrowed from Riz MC's All of You No profit is being made, no libel intended.
note: conser requested an "angsty Dion-centric sequel" to In Transit, so she gets this, aka the Didi Phanneugle fic from hell. This was originally intended to follow the Leafs’ season but, due to the time it took to finish the damn thing, timelines have been thrown out the window.
Thanks to conser and saturnial for the hand-holding and beta help. Leftover typos are mine, corrections appreciated.
Selfish Love Is The Type We Share
October sucks the heat from the sky like air from a balloon in a rush of crisp winds and curled leaves. The mornings turn damp and cool, hinting at the frost to come. Heavy dewfall burns off by noon, leaving bright cerulean skies and red leaves in its wake; the air just a little too warm for jackets but too cool for t-shirts. Evenings segue into night with whipping winds and big, rolling grey clouds.
Whereas summer in Toronto made him feel too big for everything, autumn leaves Dion feeling small; like a cog in a wheel. (Like a pawn to be crushed the moment he steps out of line.) Everything he does is driven by the desire to get out and play.
Toronto, he discovers, isn't cold like Calgary is cold, like Edmonton’s cold, like PEI gets cold. It’s thick, cloying. In Alberta, leaving the locker room was like walking into a dry vacuum. Now going out into the night brings the darkness crashing down, wringing the warmth from his body cell by cell. The only cure for Ontario cold is a scalding hot shower, a finger of whiskey and someone to help warm the bed.
It was Luke who taught him that last bit.
::
"A little chilly for you?" Luke asks. Dion shakes his head, an action dwarfed by the uncontrolled shivers in his limbs. "Aw, baby, if you wanted my letter jacket all you had to do was ask."
"Shut up."
Luke eyes him critically, mouth tightening in what Dion thinks might be a flash of concern, then grabs Dion’s keys right out of his hand. “Seriously,” he says, “let’s get you warmed up before you pull something.”
::
Dion doesn't know how to describe this thing with Luke, what it is they have - if it’s anything at all. They haven’t known each other for very long, barely saw each other over the summer. He’s still not entirely sure how or why they even fell into bed in the first place. It seems like it's a new thing and at the same time like Luke's been there forever.
::
The first time, a late night in March, they’d been drinking on his balcony, not-talking about the season, how the media was skewering them, just blowing off steam. Luke had maybe been a little bit drunk when he pushed Dion back into one of the wicker deck chairs and dropped to his knees on the concrete. He’d looked up at Dion through dark lashes and told him to stop thinking. Dion had maybe been a little bit drunk as well, because it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to let himself nod and follow Luke’s lead. Dion had looked out at the dark sky, bright lights of satellites overhead and planes off on the horizon while Luke sucked him off, and he’d lost himself in Luke’s mouth, Luke’s breath, the feel of Luke's hair tangled around his fingers. His thoughts had drifted into a pleasant haze of white noise and he’d found himself truly relaxed for the first time in what felt like years.
::
If Luke were a girl, Dion thinks, they'd meet for coffee in the afternoons. Luke would sweep his hair - a pixie cut, maybe some sort of mod mop - out of his eyes with bobby pins that he'd never stop playing with. He’d wrap himself in oversized knit sweaters and shrunken designer leather jackets, like the girls Dion sees on Cumberland Street, and giggle into the rim of his cup. His kisses would be sticky sweet with plum-coloured gloss. He’d sleep curled on his side with one hand tucked under his cheek. He’d wake up with smudged mascara, pull on one of Dion's sweaters and wander around in black cotton panties while making breakfast.
Sometimes Dion hates Luke for making things difficult.
As it is, Dion sees him at practice or out with the team or whenever Luke stops by on a whim. Luke wears the same workout clothes, ball caps, and tailored suits as Dion. On the nights Luke stays over he sleeps sprawled out on his back or his stomach; wakes up with wrecked hair and stubble. He wanders around Dion’s place in his own sweatpants or boxers without a shirt, and while he sometimes brings two coffees to the pregame meeting Dion knows allowing him into a kitchen in any state of dress is a recipe for unmitigated disaster.
And as it is, the times when Dion gets out of the shower and sees Luke still sprawled in his bed; wakes from a pre-game nap to him reading the paper with his glasses; catches a hint of a smile when they pass each other in the weight room, have become the moments of warmth he wraps himself in like so many blankets from home.
It’s a little unnerving, to say the least. Dion tries not to think about it too much.
::
The preseason starts off better than the last. The media hounding’s worse, the play a little better and so long as it stays that way everything will be fine. Dion can't control who goes on the ice with him, only what he does with what he's given.
The team is like a newborn foal, gangly but surprisingly agile and developing faster than anyone dreamed possible. Even Dion is taken by surprise when they start the season 4 and 0. Only where the team is hopeful, their new record makes the media nervous for reasons Dion has no patience or inclination to decipher. His point total isn’t as high as expected, the pundits are quick to point out (and, yes, Dion was already aware of that) but they're winning and at the end of the day that's all that matters in a city that's gone without for so long.
The morning of the fifth game dawns crisp and clear, with mile-high skies that whisper of the coming cold in a way that reminds him of home. It's still dark enough to see the stars twinkling over the skyline when he gets to the rink for morning skate. He takes a minute and tries to find the Big Dipper after he parks his car, then gives up when a wall of wind nearly knocks him over. By the time he leaves there’s only a light breeze, the frost has burned off and the few clouds in the sky are wisps of cotton-white far overhead.
They lose to the Islanders in overtime. The fans are furious, calling for Lebda's head on a platter and Bay Street's ass over a fire. The team’s not much better. Versteeg bloodies his knuckles on the shower tiles. Kessel and Bozak’s banter is subdued. Wilson loosens the leash on his frustration towards the officials for the cameras but saves the real seething for the moment the dressing room doors close.
The next game is another loss, this time to the Rangers in regulation. The fear that settles over the room is cold, greasy. It’s unspoken but looking around the room Dion knows what’s going through everyone’s mind: it's only going to get harder. They’re being held to expectations higher than any team could possibly match and while they’d pulled it together for a little while those first wins had brought with them the weight of an entire city's illusions.
They fall to the Flyers, 5-2, on Hockey Night. The score sheet lists Dion at -3 with no shots recorded.
::
It's pissing rain when he gets off the plane at Pearson. The humidity makes his bones hurt, relive every hit, but he’s too keyed up to just go to sleep like he knows he should. He’s sitting in his car debating whether he’ll be okay jerking off in the shower at home or if he’ll need a couple hours of mindless video games to settle his nerves when the passenger door opens and Luke slides in beside him.
“Good, you haven’t left yet,” Luke says. “I need a ride.”
Dion snorts and shakes his head. “Don’t you have a car?”
“Yeah, but I carpooled to the airport from practice with Bozie and his place is off in the other direction from mine so I figured it was better to ask you.”
Dion draws in a deep breath. “It’s late,” he tries to say.
Luke’s smile grows wider but Dion can see that it’s brittle. “What, past your bed time, old man?” he jokes. Dion raises his eyebrows, tries to ignore the breadth of Luke’s shoulders and the pout of his lips. A second later the smile cracks. “Yeah, sorry.”
Dion shifts his gaze to window behind Luke and says nothing. He still hasn’t started the engine and the glass is starting to fog as the rain on their clothes mixes with the warmth of their bodies. The itch under his skin is still there, Luke is still there, and he’s not sure how he should be dealing with either but he can’t shake the feeling he’s doing it wrong.
Luke looks down at Dion’s right hand clenched around the gearshift and licks his lips, a faint blush staining his cheeks.
“Look, I know my place is out of the way, so if it’s easier to go back to yours, you know I wouldn’t mind that,” he says. “Or I could call a cab, if you want.”
He shouldn’t want this, they shouldn’t keep doing this, but Dion can’t really pretend that he doesn’t and they won’t.
“Whatever you want.”
Luke’s smile is instantaneous. He melts back into the passenger seat, shooting Dion a wink as he shrugs out of his coat and loosens his tie. “Your place then.”
Dion flips the key in the ignition and tries to keep his head above the rush of arousal.
It takes a little over forty minutes to drive to Dion’s from the airport. Luke’s naked with Dion buried inside him in fifty.
Neither of them gets much sleep that night. Dion feels guilty about it the next morning. The lapse in focus is going to catch up with him later, but his legs feel light and quick when he steps onto the ice so he’s able to sweep that trepidation into the back of his mind.
::
The media paranoia crescendos to fever pitch, and as much as the team tries to ignore it the extraneous anxiety only serves to fuel their own. Dion's as nervous as any of them. He tries his best to mask it when he steps onto the ice but he’s certain everyone can see right through him.
Luke handles it best. There's less spotlight on him this far from trade deadlines - besides which he’s been their best defenseman so he’s really only competing against himself. In games he’s calm and composed, always mindful of his opponent’s space and rarely letting his frustrations develop into more than a grimace or a muttered string of curses. Even off the ice Luke handles everything in stride, seems to have grown into his media persona. He comes and goes by Dion’s place as he pleases, smiles and teases and prods when they're alone; plays it cool and aloof in public like a perfect professional. Dion doesn’t know how he does it.
::
“Okay if I drop you here?” Dion asks, allowing the car to start drifting towards the curb as they coast through an intersection. It’s the morning after another night with too little sleep. Dion remembers a late dinner, a single drink, Luke’s skin under lamplight; he’d closed his eyes for a minute, expecting Luke would leave soon after.
They’d woken entangled, though, piling into the car with just enough coffee to keep their eyes open, and Luke cracking a joke about making sure they hadn’t swapped clothes before falling asleep in the passenger seat.
Luke hasn’t moved. “Luke,” Dion repeats, nudging his shoulder for good measure, “Luke, we’re here.”
“Already?” Luke blinks sleepily at the buildings around them. They’re still six blocks from his condo. “Oh. You want me to walk?”
He doesn’t, not really, unless the alternative is the two of them arriving at the rink together despite living in different neighbourhoods - with Luke still wearing yesterday’s clothes. They could lie, maybe. Luke’s place is sort of on the way, if Dion loops around the longest route and takes the more congested roads, but Dion doesn’t want to take that risk. Even the classic “sleepover after all-night Call of Duty battle” excuse would backfire given the team’s lackluster performance of late.
Luke sighs. Dion realizes for the first time that Luke’s only wearing long-sleeved t-shirt. “Look, I just don’t want people to-”
“No, you’re right,” Luke says. He points to a tiny parklet twenty meters up the road. “Just there’s good.”
Dion pulls over, checks the review; the streets are empty and they’re not in one of his flashier SUVs but they could still be recognized if a jogger came by. Luke seems anxious as well, but instead of scurrying out of the car he’s just sitting, picking at a loose thread in the hem of his shirt.
“Luke?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you, uh -”
Dion tries to bite his tongue but, “Look, can it wait?” slips out before he can stop himself.
“Yeah, for sure,” Luke replies quickly, deflating a little. “Well, okay no, it’s just-”
“Just?”
Luke doesn’t say anything for a second, just sort of shrugs and shakes his head, then says, “You know, you’re great in bed but you drive like an old man.”
Dion blinks at him, failing to find a response beyond a blank, “What.”
“Okay, maybe just above average,” Luke continues solemnly. “But you do drive like a little suburban grandpa - and your music is really bad. If I can’t hear Bozie calling for the puck tonight I’m blaming it on your speakers.”
He starts to splutter some sort of retort but Luke cuts him off, twisting to one knee and stretching across the console. He fists one hand in the collar of Dion’s shirt and curls the other at the base of his skull, tugging him forwards to fit their mouths together with surprising grace. Dion groans in surprise before giving in. He can smell his soap on Luke’s skin, tastes his own toothpaste on Luke’s tongue when he nips in past his lips. It takes him a moment to come back to himself when Luke pulls back, cheeks flushed and eyes alight with mischief, still so close their noses are nearly touching.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters.
Luke smirks and kisses him twice more anyway. Dion feels him whisper, “See you at the rink,” against his lips and then he’s gone, darting off into the morning air.
::
One of the first things Dion realizes when they start sleeping together is that, unlike the girls Dion’s dated, Luke really likes giving head. He’s got an enthusiastic mouth and he’s not shy with his hands, whether he’s rolling Dion’s balls in his palm while sucking lightly at the head of his cock, or pinning Dion’s hips to the bed and driving Dion mad with his teasing little tongue.
He’s also good with holding hands, which is good because for some reason Dion’s always liked that kind of connection. Luke’s got his forearm braced across Dion’s stomach; Dion has his left arm folded behind his head and his right stretched down, fingers tangled with Luke’s.
Dion blinks at the ceiling as he comes back to himself. “Holy shit,” he breathes, feeling a stupid grin spread across his face. “Holy shit. How do you do that?”
Luke laughs and presses a quick kiss to Dion’s hip. “Practice, I guess.”
“No really. That was-none of the other people I've dated have been able to do that."
“I’m flattered,” Luke replies. Dion can feel him grinning against his skin. “And, hey, does that mean we’re dating now?”
It takes a minute for the question to penetrate his orgasmic haze. “What?”
Luke chuckles again. “You heard me.”
"Yeah, I just. No, of course not,” he stutters. It’s really not fair of Luke to tease him like this, when he feels like his brain’s just been liquefied. “It's just a blowjob, kind of like advanced kissing or whatever. Relax, it doesn’t mean anything."
Luke sort of blinks at him and doesn’t say anything, and for a minute Dion worries that he’s angry, but then Luke tilts his head and says, “Okay, then how about you?"
“How about I what?”
“Well, just, if it’s nothing.”
Dion says, "I've never," when he really should be saying no but he's curious about the sounds Luke would make, what it would feel like to have the weight of him on his tongue; whether he’d be able to feel Luke’s muscles tremble under his hands. Luke's already crawled up the length of Dion's body to straddle Dion's chest, staring down at him like he’s got all the time in the world for Dion to make up his mind.
Dion swallows thickly. "Probably won't be very good."
Luke drags his thumb across Dion's lower lip then curls his hand at the back of Dion's neck, encouraging him to tilt his head back. I'll teach you,” he says. "Just open your mouth."
::
"…three games in a row. I just can't believe one man could possibly be this stupid!"
Dion turns off the TV, barely resists throwing the remote at the wall. He's never seen anything like it. Florida goes down 3-1 and the media are still lambasting the Leafs - specifically the Captain himself - for poor play. He’d logged a single shot and an assist but they won, they’d proved two games didn't make a slump, and still all he gets is a blank, "yeah, and?"
Winning is expected. Dion understands, agrees, but in Calgary a regulation win had always brought momentary relief and congratulations. Now his team is on pace for a playoff spot and two points only buys him jaded scorn and heightened expectations at best. It's like sweating his ass off for a 50 in calculus only to be compared to the MENSA brat.
::
“You’re brooding. It looks painful.”
“You’re bringing this up now?”
“Well, yeah. You’re ignoring me.”
Dion gapes at him, chest heaving as he gasps, “Jesus, Luke, I’m definitely not ignoring you.”
“Alright, we’ll talk later,” Luke smirks. “You think I should finish this first, huh?”
Dion’s nod turns into a low moan, head thrown back against the pillows as Luke shifts his weight and their cocks brush together in a deliciously slow drag. There wasn’t enough lube left in the bottle of the nightstand and they’d both run out of condoms so they’d ended up sprawled across Dion’s bed. They’re both just shy of naked, with Luke straddling Dion’s hips while they grinded against each other like a couple of teenagers, skin slick with sweat and precome.
Dion tries to grit his teeth so his mouth isn’t hanging open like a dying fish but his jaw doesn’t seem to be cooperating. He opens his eyes, focusing on the way Luke looks in the dim light instead. Predictably, he looks much more appealing than Dion thinks should be allowed, wrecked in only the most attractive ways.
It’s a little unnerving the way Luke never hesitates to meet his gaze in bed. It only reinforces the way Dion’s world narrows to Luke and Luke only when they’re together. It’s not something he’s used to, feeling exposed with nowhere to hide. It’d be even worse if Luke ever mentioned it, but he never has.
Dion smoothes his palm up Luke’s thigh, across his stomach and up his chest. He traces the play of bone and muscle over Luke’s sternum with his knuckles and presses his hips up to meet Luke’s. Dion rolls Luke’s nipple between his thumb and third finger, pinching until Luke’s gasping and finally collapses forward. He braces his weight with his forearms on either side of the pillow and pants desperately into Dion’s mouth, tongue darting out to trace Dion’s lips while they struggle to retain the rhythm between their hips. Dion doesn’t last long after that; hides his face in Luke’s neck as he comes between them, senses blurring into a pleasant haze of static.
“We should get some sleep,” Dion says when he finally regains control of his higher functions.
Luke breathes a sated, “Yeah,” into Dion’s neck and shows no signs of moving from where he’s slumped bonelessly atop Dion.
“Luke?” Dion shifts a little under Luke, feels like a bit of an ass for doing so, but it’s late. They’ve got practice in the morning. Sex is a great pastime but Dion really does need some time alone to think about things and work himself into the proper Captainly headspace.
“Huh? Oh, right, just a second.”
Luke collects the rest of his clothing from where it’s strewn about the room as quickly as he can with wobbly legs. Dion props himself up on one elbow and watches him dress. He catches Luke glancing at him from the corner of his eye a couple times but Luke doesn’t say anything.
“I can’t believe we didn’t even get out of our clothes,” Dion says finally, just to break the silence.
Luke smiles tiredly as he climbs back on the bed. He reaches across Dion to grab his tie from the nightstand, kisses him and sneaks in a lazy grope for good measure while he’s there.
“What can I say, those mismatched socks of yours really do it for me, you know?” he replies.
Dion closes his eyes, thinking Luke’s on his way out the door. A minute later there’s a quiet, “Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“What would you think about…” He trails off. Dion cracks one eye open, waiting for the rest, and catches Luke staring at him with a hungry expression, seemingly lost in thought. It’s satisfying knowing he can have that kind of power over Luke, and for a minute he even considers telling Luke to stay the night so he can fuck him again, but it’s late and they should both be sleeping.
“About?” he prompts.
Luke snaps out of his daze. “Nevermind,” he says, “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
::
Dion always feels like he's failed some sort of test when Luke leaves and has to remind himself that Luke is a man and men don't do tests. It’s nothing he can pin down, exactly, just a little twist in his stomach sometimes when it’s late and the place feels more empty than it used to. He takes an antacid before bed and resolves never to let Luke order pizza toppings ever again. He thinks about getting a dog for the emptiness.
::
Two weeks later Dion opens the door to his condo and has to double-check that the number on the door is actually his, because the first thing he hears is an unfamiliar voice echoing from his living room.
“I am still a growing boy, Lucas.”
“Growing sideways, maybe,” Luke retorts. “I don’t know how anyone can drink that much Coke and not explode.”
“Screw you, man. I’ll have you know I worked very hard for this cup of perfection.” Obnoxious straw noises punctuate the silence before the tinny voice continues, “So was there anything in particular you wanted to bitch about, cause I gotta say, it’s fucking early over here.”
A webcam, Dion realizes. It still doesn’t explain why Luke’s at Dion’s place instead of his own, but at least Dion doesn’t have a herd of strangers trampling around his place. He’s about to stop lurking in his own hallway and announce his presence when something in the way Luke sighs makes him pause.
“Nothing, just. Wanted to say hi.”
“Bullshit.”
“Fuck you, I’m serious.”
“Yeah, no, you’re not, but my ESP craps out past two time zones. So are you gonna tell me what’s wrong or am I going to have to call Stammer and tell him to hipcheck it out of you next week?”
Dion might be staring at the baseboards in his entryway but he can imagine how unimpressed Luke must look. The idea that Steven Stamkos could hipcheck Luke into anything is kind of flawed.
“Come on, man, what’s up?”
“Just, you know,” he says carefully. Dion can hear him fidgeting with something, keys, maybe, or a handful of coins. “There’s this. This thing. And I think maybe I-”
“A thing?”
“Kind of,” Luke hedges.
“What’s his name? I know a guy.”
“Yeah, okay, Drew Doughty knows a guy.”
“I do,” Drew replies, sounding very pleased with himself. “And he actually doesn’t even need a name, just give me a partial license plate.”
“You’re not putting a hit out on anyone, Doughboy.”
“But I could.”
Luke chuckles a little. “But you won’t. We need him.”
“Oh, so he’s team!”
“I didn’t say that!”
“A player in both senses, hey, Schenner?” Drew just laughs harder, voice fond and teasing. “Dude, I’m impressed. I bet it’s that new equipment manager. He looked pretty interested in grinding your skates last time I saw you guys.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Yep.” Drew takes another obnoxious slurp of his Coke. “So there’s this guy, who’s with your team, and you two have been-”
Oh shit, Dion thinks. He is so fucked. Trust Drew fucking Doughty not to understand the gravity of the situation.
“Wait, stop,” Luke cuts in, sounding even uneasier than Dion feels. “Forget I said anything.”
“Luke-“
“I mean it.”
“Okay,” Drew replies seriously. “But, you know I’m not going to tell anyone if you don’t want me to. Try to relax, okay?”
“I still shouldn’t have said that.”
“Jesus, what’s up with you?” Luke’s quiet. Dion can hear him still hear him fidgeting and wonders if he’s chewing his lip like he sometimes does when they’re on the bench during a bad game.
Drew tries again. “Where are you now?” No response. “His place, then. I-look, has he done something? Because I swear if he-”
“No,” Luke insists, “it’s nothing like that, I just. It’s a bad week, lonely on the road. Losing skids, you know, I’m not used to them like you are,” he adds, aiming for teasing and landing just off mark.
“I can tell when you’re lying, Schenner, I’m not stupid. This guy-” A thud followed by a muffled chorus calling Drew’s name interrupts him. “Shit, I’ve gotta go but I’m here if you need me, buddy. You know that, right? Text me or whatever, any time.”
“I will,” Luke replies with only a smidge of sincerity. “Have Perry say hi to the boards for me.”
Dion can hear the Luke tapping at the keyboard to cut the connection as he creeps back down the hall. He opens the door, making sure to rattle the knob before he lets it fall closed and turns back, as though he’s only just walked in.
Luke doesn’t look up when Dion plops down onto the couch beside him. He looks pretty much the way he always does, Dion thinks - a little worn out, maybe, but probably nothing he’d have noticed if he’d come home five minutes later.
He wonders if he should say something, tries to think of what he’d say if they actually talked to each other like that and can’t come up with a damn thing. In the end he lets Luke poke at his laptop for another thirty seconds before he curls one hand around Luke’s jaw and his other around Luke’s hip and sets about distracting him in the best way he knows.
::
That night Dion dreams of what things might be like if Luke had told Drew. Maybe Drew would keep his mouth shut, maybe he wouldn’t and everyone would find out. Maybe it would be easier with just the two of them and Dion could relax in public. He could stop counting seconds to leave a safe amount of time for him to entire a room after Luke; stop keeping track of the number of times they looked at each other in practice. They could go to a coffee shop in the afternoon on an off day and sit at a table by the window. Luke could look at the pedestrians while Dion just looked at Luke, and everyone else could look at them and know that Luke belonged to him.
Then he dreams about everything else. How management and media alike would scorn the distraction of such a relationship as theirs. How his teammates would see him, see them, and no matter what Dion said they’d see betrayal. They would see Dion as a man who slept his way to the top and became a Captain who favoured some teammates more than others. After every loss the fans in the bars would point to the screens and tell each other, see, this is what happens when a guy like that is in charge. The weight of endless scrutiny would grow infinitely heavier around their necks until one day when Luke would call, and they’d meet for coffee by the window so Luke could tell him it was over.
Dion dreams of having Luke as he dreams of having nothing, and when he wakes he can hardly breathe.
They’ve turned to face each in the night, almost but not quite touching. He pushes up on one elbow and watches Luke sleep in hopes that the sight will instill the peace he needs to go back to sleep himself. Dion brings his left hand up and hesitantly begins tracing Luke’s skin, fingertips feather-light from his chapped hands up to the soft skin of his shoulders.
Luke sighs in his sleep when Dion reaches the hollow of his throat and Dion pauses, waits for him to settle before moving on. He traces Luke’s jaw, his brow, the slightly crooked line of his nose, swipes the pad of his thumb across Luke’s lips to set the picture in his mind. When he’s done he lowers his hand to the sheets between them and goes back to watching.
There’s something about Luke in his bed with a black eye, Dion thinks, all fresh purple bruises shades of regal against the blue of his sheets. The fight hadn’t seemed like much at the time, the shiner had taken a while to set in, but seeing it now makes something twist and grind deep in Dion’s chest. Luke’s sleeping with his hands curled up in front of his face, boneless and still like a doll; only the scratched knuckles and kiss-split lips give him away.
It’s a nice thought: the two of them, together, tangled in spite of what anyone else might think. Luke already leans into his palm instinctively when Dion reaches up to brush his hair off his brow; and his breath naturally slows when Dion rests his hand in the cradle of his neck. Dion wants to pull him close, protect him; feels his cock twitch at the fleeting images of Luke coming to him in the night and wordlessly asking Dion to do just that. He imagines holding Luke so tight he can’t move, how Luke might fight, then go still and be his. Dion can feel Luke’s pulse fluttering gently under his index and middle finger, it would be so easy to just-
Luke frowns in his sleep, kicks the covers off his feet and shifts away, breaking the image. Dion startles, yanks his hand away before he shoves Luke out of bed in his panic. He staggers out of bed and into a shower so cold his skin stays numb and his breath tight long after he turns the water off.
::
Dion spends the rest of the week on edge, alternately terrified that someone might know about them and annoyed that Luke doesn’t seem to share his panic. It’s insane, really. There’s no way anyone could know because he’s been careful enough for them both and he hates what this has turned him into.
(And perhaps most frustrating is the fact that nobody can know Luke is his, but that’s such an uncomfortable realization that Dion does his best to forget it immediately.)
::
The visitor’s locker room at Verizon Center can feel kind of like a dungeon at times, but for once Dion is glad for it. The low ceilings and cement walls amplify the ambient noise enough that it’s possible to have a relatively private conversation without leaving the room.
“Coming over tonight?” Dion asks as they’re changing back into street clothes after their morning skate.
Luke looks surprised. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “What room-oh, no, wait, some of the guys are going out after the game.”
“Really,” Dion says. It’s the first he’s heard of it. “Who’s going?” he asks, even though he shouldn’t really care. He’s not invited, after all.
Luke shrugs. “Clarke and Army, maybe Kuley, Grabbo. I think that’s it. Oh, and Steeger.” He leans over and nudges Dion with his shoulder. “You should come, too.”
“No, not tonight.”
“Sure?”
“Yep.”
“It won’t be late, are you sure you don’t-” Luke cuts himself off and shrugs. “I’ll swing by after we’ve eaten.”
Dion shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Oh,” Luke says. “Okay, well, uh, see you later.”
Dion nods and leaves without another word. He’s got eight hours until puckdrop, he can’t afford to be distracted.
::
Dion sleeps alone that night, obviously. Luke doesn’t talk to him after the game. He shouldn’t worry. He doesn’t need to worry - doesn’t even have anything to worry about, really. He’s always thought there was something implicit in every gasp between the sheets but then again they’ve never really talked about it. Dion’s just always sort of figured that they didn’t need a name for it because they both knew where they stood.
(He’s doesn't know why that bothers him; Dion’s never been a jealous person and it’s ridiculous, the way his gut twists and his vision goes red when he even thinks about the possibility someone else seeing Luke like he does.)
And there’s one thing, a little tiny sock wrinkle in a new boot kind of thing (one of a handful of wrinkles that keep Dion from falling asleep immediately on nights he’s alone): Luke slept with Versteeg. Dion knows it and he’d bet that both Luke and Versteeg are aware that he knows. Dion isn’t sure exactly when or how it happened, only that he went away for a week or two and when he came back Versteeg was nervous and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Luke had been loose, relaxed like Dion's only ever seen in bed. He’d had no problem meeting Dion’s gaze straight on, like he was waiting for an answer.
Dion wonders, on the nights he’s alone, what that answer should have been, if he’d got it wrong. Maybe Doughty could tell him.
In spite of everything, he thinks he’s doing an admirable job of keeping his internal crises off-ice and under wraps. He goes right on thinking so until morning skate before a Saturday game, when someone chooses to disabuse him of his illusions. And of course that someone is no one other than fucking Kris Versteeg.
“Hey, Dion, do you have a minute?”
“Yeah, sure,” Dion says. “What’s up?”
Kris shakes his head. “Not here,” he mutters. He leads Dion to an alcove a ways from the empty locker room, eyes darting around like a startled squirrel.
“Well?”
Kris jumps right in. “Are we okay?”
“Are we okay?” Dion repeats, taken aback. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Yeah, just. Me and Luke, after, uh, in the summer. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay because you two-”
“Me and Luke?”
“You and Luke. Just,” Kris licks his lips, hesitates. “You’ve been snapping at him lately and. And me. I wondered if it was because of, you know.”
He really doesn’t like where Kris is taking the conversation and tries to feign ignorance before replying. “I still don’t know what you mean but if you feel that I’m out of line I’ll definitely take it into consideration. Still haven’t got the hang of this whole ‘C’ thing yet. I know I’ve been putting more pressure on you guys than normal but it’s just, you know, trying to get something going here.”
“No, man, that’s understandable. We’ve got to kick things into gear, probably no one more than me, I was just wondering,” Kris stops speaking abruptly, finally meets Dion’s eyes and gives him a shaky smile. “Anyway. You sure we’re good?”
“Yeah, for sure,” Dion replies, smiling back through clenched teeth, “we’re good. Try not to read so much into things, yeah? I’m not a real deep thinker.”
Versteeg doesn’t look like he believes him. Dion doesn’t care.
::
Another bad game at home, another loss. Dion tells the media he’s taking it game by game and wouldn’t call it a streak but he feels each of the last three games like broken ribs. They’d even had a chance to tie it at one point, only to drop two on the penalty kill; Dion had been caught pinching again. Twice.
And then there were waffles. Luke, of course, was a little shell shocked by the indignity but still able to meet the reporters’ eyes and crack a joke after the game.
Dion refuses to be held responsible if he ever gets hold of the asshole who threw them.
“It’ll get better,” Luke says on the drive home. “We’ll get better.”
“It’d be hard to get much worse,” he grouses.
Luke frowns. “I mean it.”
Dion sighs and scrubs one hand across his mouth, wincing at a bump he’d taken from a high stick. Of course Luke means it, because he’s not the one at the bottom. Kulemin and Grabovski had built those plays off Luke’s stick. Luke had saved at least as many goals as Dion had managed to incur, drawing a couple penalties and a heap of praise in the process. Luke is going places, Dion thinks, whereas he’s just plummeting aimlessly downward.
"I could take your mind off it for tonight, if it’d help."
It’s such a little thing, he knows, but it brings everything that’s been seething inside of him to a head, and Dion can’t stop himself snorting derisively. "Help. What, like you helped Versteeg?"
Luke doesn’t say anything. From the corner of his eye Dion sees him in the passenger seat, stricken. His mouth’s open, flushed lips frozen in an attractive little ‘o’ that gives Dion’s id all sorts of nasty ideas.
The light takes a good three minutes to change. Luke licks his lips and makes a couple noises in the back of his throat like he’s going to say something, but never manages it.
“Versteeg,” Dion repeats finally. All the ugly things he keeps inside, all of his frustrations and anxieties are boiling over and Dion doesn’t have the energy to hold back. “Kris Versteeg. This summer. I’m not stupid, Luke.”
"Jesus, is that what this is about?" Luke isn't laughing at him, if anything he looks confused and a little bit hurt. Dion feels the burn of humiliation staining his cheeks. "It was nothing."
Dion tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The leather squeaks under the force of his grip. His knuckles are white. “Nothing,” he echoes. “What’d you do, blow him on the train?”
Luke blanches. Dion thinks he might be sick. “You had sex with your NHL teammate in public-”
"It wasn't like that. We were careful, there’s no way anyone could’ve seen.”
“While I drove through three hours of traffic to pick your sorry ass up. I don’t believe this.”
“Dion, it was just a one-time thing. It-"
"Oh, for sure, and it didn't mean anything."
"Of course it didn't mean anything!" Luke snaps. He’s nervous, Dion realizes, voice tight and muscles tense, one hand hovering over the gearshift like he wants to touch Dion but isn’t sure if he can. "It was just a stupid fantasy. And I mean, you were gone and he needed to relax and I."
"You were lonely.”
Luke's shoulders hitch. "What?"
"That's it, isn't it. I was gone and you were lonely. You couldn’t go without for two weeks so you went and fucked whoever was closest. Who else on the team have you helped?"
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Was he even any good? He wasn’t, was he. Did he make you feel like I do, huh? Did you whine and moan for him? Did he make your toes curl until your foot cramped up and it hurt but you wanted his cock in you too much to stop?”
It’s silent for a long moment inside the car, broken when Luke laughs, a sharp bark entirely without humour. "You narcissistic son of a bitch.”
Dion knows he’ll probably regret this later but he can’t stop himself. "Just say it. Say I'm right."
“You aren’t.”
“Goddamnit, Luke, just say it.”
"Stop the car."
"What?"
"Stop the car, asshole."
They’re coming up to a red light and Luke's got his hand over the door handle. Dion reaches over and lays his palm on Luke's forearm in a last-ditch effort to save the situation. “You know that's not what I meant. Just calm down and--"
Luke stiffens at the touch. "And what, you want me to calm down and bend over, is that what you want?” he snarls. “You want to even the score? You need me to suck you off in the driver's seat so you can save face in front of the team?"
“Luke, don’t be like this,” Dion groans. He's lost control of the conversation, words aren't coming out the way he means them and he doesn't know how to fix it.
"No. Fuck you," Luke spits. He fumbles with his seatbelt in his anger, stumbles out of the car and slams the door behind him.
If Luke were a girl Dion would be able to pull the car over and run to catch up with him. Dion could pull him close right there on the sidewalk and murmur in his ear that it was okay, he was sorry, hadn’t meant what he’d said and they'd fix things. But Luke isn't a girl. Dion doesn't know how to fix things.
Dion swears and throws the car back in gear. He peels away from the curb into a sharp u-turn (doesn't watch Luke slip away in the rearview mirror) and nearly turns the wrong way on a one-way street.
::
He lets Luke sulk for a little over a week. The third morning he wakes up before his alarm, bleary eyed, cock in hand and driven from sleep by memories of Luke’s freckles and thighs, though, he decides something needs to be done. Luke can’t possibly still be in a snit; he must need him by now.
Dion waits until after practice. Luke’s on his way out the door, laughing and joking with Kaberle and a couple of rookies when Dion calls him back. Luke nods amiably, which has to be a good sign. Dion finishes tying his shoes and goes over his speech in his head while Luke tells the others to go ahead without him.
As soon as they’re alone, though, Luke’s expression changes. “What?” he asks flatly. The change is so sudden, so complete, that it knocks Dion off-balance.
“I just. Just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Dion doesn’t know what Luke wants to hear. He licks his lips and fumbles for words but Luke doesn’t wait for an answer. “No, seriously, sorry for what?”
“I’m sorry you felt-“ he starts.
“You’re sorry I felt. That’s not an apology.” Luke’s changed again. His words are deceptively light in contrast with the edge of his smile and the mutinous tilt of his chin.
It’s confusing and feels like their last night all over again and Dion feels his blood start to boil. “Fine. I’m sorry, but if you hadn’t-“
“Nothing I might have done gives you the right to say that shit.”
“What you might have done?” Dion starts, much louder than he’d intended. He steps forward until they’re nearly chest to chest and whispers, “You might have bent over for the first guy to look at you after I left, but I’m the asshole for calling you on it?”
“I never fucked him,” Luke replies, something sharp and defiant shadowing his expression. “I blew him. Fine. But you’ve said yourself that doesn’t mean anything, right? Barely more than a kiss.”
Dion does vaguely remember saying something to that effect around the fourth time Luke sucked him off - when he’d been desperately trying to reconcile toeing the party line with the fact that Luke knew some fucking fantastic yoga poses - but that doesn’t mean Luke can use it against him like this.
“That’s totally different.”
Luke shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He pushes Dion away and heads for the door.
“But-“
“Fuck off, Dion.”
Luke won't even look at him at practice the next day, or the day after that. After four days Dion stops trying and tells himself it's for the good of the team. He doesn't want to draw attention to the rift between them.
::
The first time they fuck is ostensibly a result of Luke being bored and horny, but the truth is Dion’s been trying to tease Luke into it for a while and thinking about it for even longer. It starts with the two of them on Dion’s couch watching golf on a Saturday afternoon in May, then after a few offhand remarks and careful touches Luke finally laughs and says, “So why don’t you?” And so one Saturday afternoon in May they end up on Dion’s couch with Luke sitting in Dion’s lap and Dion’s chin hooked over Luke’s shoulder, fucking up into him nice and slow while the guys on the Golf Channel add commentary.
“You want me?” Dion presses his lips to Luke’s throat and mutters an affirmative. He can feel Luke’s answering moan reverberate through his chest. “How much?”
“What?”
“How much do you want me?” Luke repeats, all low and teasing.
“A lot.” It’s easier to admit when Luke can’t see his face.
“Show me.”
Dion curls his hand and around Luke’s cock, flicking his wrist in time with the cant of his thrusts until Luke’s breathing almost as hard as him. Luke interrupts his rhythm then, shifting forward to give them an angle that’s tighter but not as deep, more teasing, and it doesn’t take long before Dion’s panting senselessly and scrabbling at Luke’s thighs.
“Feels good?”
Dion presses a kiss behind his ear. “So good,” he says, “Luke, please just,” already moving to clamp on hand over Luke’s left hip, bringing him back down so that Dion bottoms out when he pushes his hips up. He wraps his right arm around Luke’s stomach, pulling him back against Dion’s chest. They’re sweating enough to make their skin stick together and Dion can feel the thrum of Luke’s heartbeat under his hands.
He wakes with a start, skin damp and sticking to the sheets as he fumbles for his alarm. He’s hard, but he’s due at the arena and there isn’t time - he’s not about to jerk off to thoughts of Luke in the shower like some kind of wimpy kid. He’s just not. The shower steam doesn’t completely cloud his memories, though, and he still thinks about Luke on the drive in. He turns up the radio when he hears the start of a song he likes, one Luke hates, and doesn’t realize until the first chorus that Luke isn’t bitching about the noise is because he isn’t there.
He’s able to leave everything at the dressing room door, thankfully, and for the next few hours he doesn’t see anything but a sheet of ice and a fleet of familiar white-and-blue sweaters.
::
As a kid one of his coaches had told him there were two types of fear. The first kind - the good kind - made a person’s heart pound, blood rush, forced them to dig deep and confront it. The second kind made people shirk away, hide in bed, give up. Bad fear, he'd said, didn't make bad people. But it didn't get you to the Show.
Dion lies in bed after a 5-2 win over the Edmonton Oilers and wonders if his coach was only telling half the truth.
::
"Huh."
"What's up?" Bozak asks. Kessel shakes his head, sharp gaze cataloguing every detail while they wait in line for a drill. There’s a trainer stationed behind the net, rimming pucks around the corner and forcing them to find the angle in a bid to ‘refine their lost hockey sense.’ Phil could do it in a coma.
"Ah,” Bozak says after a beat, “of course. Didi's still got his panties in a twist."
Kessel snorts. "Probably comes from working with assholes like you."
"Shut up. Hey, Schenner, know what's up with Captain lately?"
"Nope.”
"Maybe someone should talk to him," Bozak says quietly, once Luke’s skated to out of earshot.
Phil snorts. “Yeah, I’ll pass."
"For once."
"Fuck you. Try staying open for more than a third of a second, huh?"
“Oh, tough guy. How about you try not aiming for head more than a third of the time, huh?”
“If I’d aimed for your head it wouldn’t still be on top of that skinny little neck of yours.”
“At least I have a neck, Midget McCaveman-”
Dion grits his teeth and takes his shot, a one-timer off Kaberle’s pass. The puck ricochets high and wide off the glass. He swears, and there’s a perverse pleasure in his continued poor play providing him with an excuse to break his stick over the boards.
::
The next few weeks pass like a fever dream. Practices pass by in a blur. Games start and finish in a blink without Dion remembering a single thing in between. It feels every time he blinks he’s back sitting in his stall; if he thinks about it too hard he forgets whether he’s supposed to be putting his gear on or taking it off.
The team falls into a win-loss drone, mostly losses at first but gradually it becomes more of a coin toss. Eventually the puck starts bouncing their way again and the proverbial coin lands in their favour more often than not. There’s even a chance the team could steal a spot in the top eight if they keep it up. Dion’s been a part of that - he’s scoring more, doing better defensively - but every time he finds himself in danger of feeling reasonably good about things a little voice in the back of his head reminds him that this is exactly what Luke had said would happen before Dion-
Before.
Dion concentrates on keeping his mind blank and not fucking things up again.
::
Clarke MacArthur holds back Dion after practice one day about two weeks later. He says he’s fed up and needs to talk; Dion figures it’s probably just something little Clarke needs to rant about - probably his in-laws breaking his balls over something trivial, again - so he doesn’t see any harm in letting Clarke drag him to a bar just off the main strip downtown.
He’s right, at first. Clarke carries the conversation, tells Dion a story about his family. Apparently there’s some kind of disagreement between his cousins that’s got the rest of his family picking sides for an impending feud. Dion offers monosyllabic agreements when he thinks the conversation needs it but mostly downs his drink in silence. The bar is really nothing more than a sheet of tin bridging the gap between two buildings, but there’s beer and nobody but them and a bartender who’s more interested in a Serie A match on a grainy television at the far end of the room. It’s nice.
The atmosphere shifts sometime between the first beer and the third - maybe fourth, Dion hasn’t been counting, just let his thoughts drift off on a tangent. Clarke’s been quiet for a while; Dion looks up and wonders if Clarke had been studying him that closely the entire time he’d been prattling on.
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on now?” Clarke asks.
“Nothing’s going on,” Dion says, maybe just a little too quickly.
“You need to stop clenching your jaw when you lie if you want to win a poker hand any time soon.” Clarke’s still staring at him like he’s one of Wilson’s diagrams.
“It’s none of your business.”
Clarke shakes his head. “Wow. You know, I’ve mostly just been saying it for laughs but you really are still the same miserable sonofabitch I’ve always known.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. You preach on and on about bringing our best and team before individuals but I’m not seeing you putting it into practice. Hell of an example you’re setting.”
“My private life is none of your business.”
“If it’s between you and Luke, though,” Clarke counters, “then that’s team. And my business.” He doesn’t even sound angry, just resigned, and that sense of weary superiority is too much for Dion.
He throws a couple bills on the table and reaches for his jacket. “I’m telling you I’ve got it under control.”
“No, you don’t. Even if you’re not on the ice together the two of you pretending each other don’t exist doesn’t help us. The whole team knows something’s up, so sit the fuck down so we can fix this before it gets any worse.”
Dion weighs his options, then drops back into his chair and crosses his arms, fully aware that he must look like a petulant five year old.
“Well?” Clarke asks.
“We had a thing,” Dion says. “Now we don’t.”
“A thing?” he laughs. “What, you mean like a sex thing?”
Dion fiddles with the label on his beer bottle and says nothing.
For a long moment Clarke blinks at him. “Right,” he says finally. “So, that’s definitely not nothing. We’re obviously going to need more beer.” He goes and grabs two more bottles from the bartender. He hands one to Dion and takes a long pull from his own.
“Right, tell me your boy troubles. We’ll save the nail painting for next week.”
Dion gives him a withering look.
“C’mon, man, seriously. I’m all ears.”
“We-it’s stupid.” Dion sighs. “Doesn’t matter now anyway.”
Clarke just shrugs. “Helps to tell someone,” he says.
Dion ends up telling him everything, from the first night on the balcony to the last time Luke had told him to go to hell. He glosses over some of the details, but anything he-said-he-said that might offer some perspective is laid out, no matter how much Dion stumbles over his words. At first he’s pretty sure it’d be less painful to pull out his own teeth, but Clark is a good listener and, really, if people have noticed something is wrong and it’s bad enough that Clarke had felt the need to stage an intervention like this, then it’s Dion’s responsibility to comply. For the good of the team. It’s even a bit cathartic, laying it all out and letting someone else sift through the mess.
When Dion finishes speaking all Clarke has to say is, “Seriously.”
Dion stares at him for a long minute before surrendering. “What?”
“You really are an asshole.”
“Thanks,” Dion says, “I sort of figured that out on my own.”
“So how are you going to fix it?”
“What, like get him back?”
Clarke shrugs. “Whatever makes you two less,” he gestures vaguely. “Like I said, it’s not really my business if you want to be a dick and ruin all your relationships-“
“Hey.”
“-only Luke is team and that’s just not cool.”
Dion’s head is swimming. He’s teetering between morose-drunk and sleepy-drunk. He’ll probably pass out on the way home, and then the cab driver will probably drive out of his way to jack up the bill. Again. “If I’m such a dick what makes you think I can be the one to fix it?”
“Dunno about can but since I’m pretty sure this is all your fault to begin with, I think you should be the one to try.”
Try and fail, Dion thinks. And yeah, he’s definitely going to fall asleep in the cab. “So how do I fix it?”
“Saying you’re sorry is usually a good place to start.”
“I did that already.”
Clarke shakes his head, lips quirking into a grin as finishes the last of his beer. “Try saying you’re sorry in a way that speaks less to your being a repressed asshole.”
“Oh, for sure, I’ll get right on that,” Dion says, and buries his head in his hands.
Clarke, the bastard, just chuckles. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, but look at it this way,” he says, “if the kid was crazy enough to like you before it could happen again.”
Part 2
Dion Phaneuf, Luke Schenn
R || 12 000 words.
Disclaimer: Intended for entertainment purposes only. Title is borrowed from Riz MC's All of You No profit is being made, no libel intended.
note: conser requested an "angsty Dion-centric sequel" to In Transit, so she gets this, aka the Didi Phanneugle fic from hell. This was originally intended to follow the Leafs’ season but, due to the time it took to finish the damn thing, timelines have been thrown out the window.
Thanks to conser and saturnial for the hand-holding and beta help. Leftover typos are mine, corrections appreciated.
Selfish Love Is The Type We Share
October sucks the heat from the sky like air from a balloon in a rush of crisp winds and curled leaves. The mornings turn damp and cool, hinting at the frost to come. Heavy dewfall burns off by noon, leaving bright cerulean skies and red leaves in its wake; the air just a little too warm for jackets but too cool for t-shirts. Evenings segue into night with whipping winds and big, rolling grey clouds.
Whereas summer in Toronto made him feel too big for everything, autumn leaves Dion feeling small; like a cog in a wheel. (Like a pawn to be crushed the moment he steps out of line.) Everything he does is driven by the desire to get out and play.
Toronto, he discovers, isn't cold like Calgary is cold, like Edmonton’s cold, like PEI gets cold. It’s thick, cloying. In Alberta, leaving the locker room was like walking into a dry vacuum. Now going out into the night brings the darkness crashing down, wringing the warmth from his body cell by cell. The only cure for Ontario cold is a scalding hot shower, a finger of whiskey and someone to help warm the bed.
It was Luke who taught him that last bit.
::
"A little chilly for you?" Luke asks. Dion shakes his head, an action dwarfed by the uncontrolled shivers in his limbs. "Aw, baby, if you wanted my letter jacket all you had to do was ask."
"Shut up."
Luke eyes him critically, mouth tightening in what Dion thinks might be a flash of concern, then grabs Dion’s keys right out of his hand. “Seriously,” he says, “let’s get you warmed up before you pull something.”
::
Dion doesn't know how to describe this thing with Luke, what it is they have - if it’s anything at all. They haven’t known each other for very long, barely saw each other over the summer. He’s still not entirely sure how or why they even fell into bed in the first place. It seems like it's a new thing and at the same time like Luke's been there forever.
::
The first time, a late night in March, they’d been drinking on his balcony, not-talking about the season, how the media was skewering them, just blowing off steam. Luke had maybe been a little bit drunk when he pushed Dion back into one of the wicker deck chairs and dropped to his knees on the concrete. He’d looked up at Dion through dark lashes and told him to stop thinking. Dion had maybe been a little bit drunk as well, because it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to let himself nod and follow Luke’s lead. Dion had looked out at the dark sky, bright lights of satellites overhead and planes off on the horizon while Luke sucked him off, and he’d lost himself in Luke’s mouth, Luke’s breath, the feel of Luke's hair tangled around his fingers. His thoughts had drifted into a pleasant haze of white noise and he’d found himself truly relaxed for the first time in what felt like years.
::
If Luke were a girl, Dion thinks, they'd meet for coffee in the afternoons. Luke would sweep his hair - a pixie cut, maybe some sort of mod mop - out of his eyes with bobby pins that he'd never stop playing with. He’d wrap himself in oversized knit sweaters and shrunken designer leather jackets, like the girls Dion sees on Cumberland Street, and giggle into the rim of his cup. His kisses would be sticky sweet with plum-coloured gloss. He’d sleep curled on his side with one hand tucked under his cheek. He’d wake up with smudged mascara, pull on one of Dion's sweaters and wander around in black cotton panties while making breakfast.
Sometimes Dion hates Luke for making things difficult.
As it is, Dion sees him at practice or out with the team or whenever Luke stops by on a whim. Luke wears the same workout clothes, ball caps, and tailored suits as Dion. On the nights Luke stays over he sleeps sprawled out on his back or his stomach; wakes up with wrecked hair and stubble. He wanders around Dion’s place in his own sweatpants or boxers without a shirt, and while he sometimes brings two coffees to the pregame meeting Dion knows allowing him into a kitchen in any state of dress is a recipe for unmitigated disaster.
And as it is, the times when Dion gets out of the shower and sees Luke still sprawled in his bed; wakes from a pre-game nap to him reading the paper with his glasses; catches a hint of a smile when they pass each other in the weight room, have become the moments of warmth he wraps himself in like so many blankets from home.
It’s a little unnerving, to say the least. Dion tries not to think about it too much.
::
The preseason starts off better than the last. The media hounding’s worse, the play a little better and so long as it stays that way everything will be fine. Dion can't control who goes on the ice with him, only what he does with what he's given.
The team is like a newborn foal, gangly but surprisingly agile and developing faster than anyone dreamed possible. Even Dion is taken by surprise when they start the season 4 and 0. Only where the team is hopeful, their new record makes the media nervous for reasons Dion has no patience or inclination to decipher. His point total isn’t as high as expected, the pundits are quick to point out (and, yes, Dion was already aware of that) but they're winning and at the end of the day that's all that matters in a city that's gone without for so long.
The morning of the fifth game dawns crisp and clear, with mile-high skies that whisper of the coming cold in a way that reminds him of home. It's still dark enough to see the stars twinkling over the skyline when he gets to the rink for morning skate. He takes a minute and tries to find the Big Dipper after he parks his car, then gives up when a wall of wind nearly knocks him over. By the time he leaves there’s only a light breeze, the frost has burned off and the few clouds in the sky are wisps of cotton-white far overhead.
They lose to the Islanders in overtime. The fans are furious, calling for Lebda's head on a platter and Bay Street's ass over a fire. The team’s not much better. Versteeg bloodies his knuckles on the shower tiles. Kessel and Bozak’s banter is subdued. Wilson loosens the leash on his frustration towards the officials for the cameras but saves the real seething for the moment the dressing room doors close.
The next game is another loss, this time to the Rangers in regulation. The fear that settles over the room is cold, greasy. It’s unspoken but looking around the room Dion knows what’s going through everyone’s mind: it's only going to get harder. They’re being held to expectations higher than any team could possibly match and while they’d pulled it together for a little while those first wins had brought with them the weight of an entire city's illusions.
They fall to the Flyers, 5-2, on Hockey Night. The score sheet lists Dion at -3 with no shots recorded.
::
It's pissing rain when he gets off the plane at Pearson. The humidity makes his bones hurt, relive every hit, but he’s too keyed up to just go to sleep like he knows he should. He’s sitting in his car debating whether he’ll be okay jerking off in the shower at home or if he’ll need a couple hours of mindless video games to settle his nerves when the passenger door opens and Luke slides in beside him.
“Good, you haven’t left yet,” Luke says. “I need a ride.”
Dion snorts and shakes his head. “Don’t you have a car?”
“Yeah, but I carpooled to the airport from practice with Bozie and his place is off in the other direction from mine so I figured it was better to ask you.”
Dion draws in a deep breath. “It’s late,” he tries to say.
Luke’s smile grows wider but Dion can see that it’s brittle. “What, past your bed time, old man?” he jokes. Dion raises his eyebrows, tries to ignore the breadth of Luke’s shoulders and the pout of his lips. A second later the smile cracks. “Yeah, sorry.”
Dion shifts his gaze to window behind Luke and says nothing. He still hasn’t started the engine and the glass is starting to fog as the rain on their clothes mixes with the warmth of their bodies. The itch under his skin is still there, Luke is still there, and he’s not sure how he should be dealing with either but he can’t shake the feeling he’s doing it wrong.
Luke looks down at Dion’s right hand clenched around the gearshift and licks his lips, a faint blush staining his cheeks.
“Look, I know my place is out of the way, so if it’s easier to go back to yours, you know I wouldn’t mind that,” he says. “Or I could call a cab, if you want.”
He shouldn’t want this, they shouldn’t keep doing this, but Dion can’t really pretend that he doesn’t and they won’t.
“Whatever you want.”
Luke’s smile is instantaneous. He melts back into the passenger seat, shooting Dion a wink as he shrugs out of his coat and loosens his tie. “Your place then.”
Dion flips the key in the ignition and tries to keep his head above the rush of arousal.
It takes a little over forty minutes to drive to Dion’s from the airport. Luke’s naked with Dion buried inside him in fifty.
Neither of them gets much sleep that night. Dion feels guilty about it the next morning. The lapse in focus is going to catch up with him later, but his legs feel light and quick when he steps onto the ice so he’s able to sweep that trepidation into the back of his mind.
::
The media paranoia crescendos to fever pitch, and as much as the team tries to ignore it the extraneous anxiety only serves to fuel their own. Dion's as nervous as any of them. He tries his best to mask it when he steps onto the ice but he’s certain everyone can see right through him.
Luke handles it best. There's less spotlight on him this far from trade deadlines - besides which he’s been their best defenseman so he’s really only competing against himself. In games he’s calm and composed, always mindful of his opponent’s space and rarely letting his frustrations develop into more than a grimace or a muttered string of curses. Even off the ice Luke handles everything in stride, seems to have grown into his media persona. He comes and goes by Dion’s place as he pleases, smiles and teases and prods when they're alone; plays it cool and aloof in public like a perfect professional. Dion doesn’t know how he does it.
::
“Okay if I drop you here?” Dion asks, allowing the car to start drifting towards the curb as they coast through an intersection. It’s the morning after another night with too little sleep. Dion remembers a late dinner, a single drink, Luke’s skin under lamplight; he’d closed his eyes for a minute, expecting Luke would leave soon after.
They’d woken entangled, though, piling into the car with just enough coffee to keep their eyes open, and Luke cracking a joke about making sure they hadn’t swapped clothes before falling asleep in the passenger seat.
Luke hasn’t moved. “Luke,” Dion repeats, nudging his shoulder for good measure, “Luke, we’re here.”
“Already?” Luke blinks sleepily at the buildings around them. They’re still six blocks from his condo. “Oh. You want me to walk?”
He doesn’t, not really, unless the alternative is the two of them arriving at the rink together despite living in different neighbourhoods - with Luke still wearing yesterday’s clothes. They could lie, maybe. Luke’s place is sort of on the way, if Dion loops around the longest route and takes the more congested roads, but Dion doesn’t want to take that risk. Even the classic “sleepover after all-night Call of Duty battle” excuse would backfire given the team’s lackluster performance of late.
Luke sighs. Dion realizes for the first time that Luke’s only wearing long-sleeved t-shirt. “Look, I just don’t want people to-”
“No, you’re right,” Luke says. He points to a tiny parklet twenty meters up the road. “Just there’s good.”
Dion pulls over, checks the review; the streets are empty and they’re not in one of his flashier SUVs but they could still be recognized if a jogger came by. Luke seems anxious as well, but instead of scurrying out of the car he’s just sitting, picking at a loose thread in the hem of his shirt.
“Luke?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you, uh -”
Dion tries to bite his tongue but, “Look, can it wait?” slips out before he can stop himself.
“Yeah, for sure,” Luke replies quickly, deflating a little. “Well, okay no, it’s just-”
“Just?”
Luke doesn’t say anything for a second, just sort of shrugs and shakes his head, then says, “You know, you’re great in bed but you drive like an old man.”
Dion blinks at him, failing to find a response beyond a blank, “What.”
“Okay, maybe just above average,” Luke continues solemnly. “But you do drive like a little suburban grandpa - and your music is really bad. If I can’t hear Bozie calling for the puck tonight I’m blaming it on your speakers.”
He starts to splutter some sort of retort but Luke cuts him off, twisting to one knee and stretching across the console. He fists one hand in the collar of Dion’s shirt and curls the other at the base of his skull, tugging him forwards to fit their mouths together with surprising grace. Dion groans in surprise before giving in. He can smell his soap on Luke’s skin, tastes his own toothpaste on Luke’s tongue when he nips in past his lips. It takes him a moment to come back to himself when Luke pulls back, cheeks flushed and eyes alight with mischief, still so close their noses are nearly touching.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters.
Luke smirks and kisses him twice more anyway. Dion feels him whisper, “See you at the rink,” against his lips and then he’s gone, darting off into the morning air.
::
One of the first things Dion realizes when they start sleeping together is that, unlike the girls Dion’s dated, Luke really likes giving head. He’s got an enthusiastic mouth and he’s not shy with his hands, whether he’s rolling Dion’s balls in his palm while sucking lightly at the head of his cock, or pinning Dion’s hips to the bed and driving Dion mad with his teasing little tongue.
He’s also good with holding hands, which is good because for some reason Dion’s always liked that kind of connection. Luke’s got his forearm braced across Dion’s stomach; Dion has his left arm folded behind his head and his right stretched down, fingers tangled with Luke’s.
Dion blinks at the ceiling as he comes back to himself. “Holy shit,” he breathes, feeling a stupid grin spread across his face. “Holy shit. How do you do that?”
Luke laughs and presses a quick kiss to Dion’s hip. “Practice, I guess.”
“No really. That was-none of the other people I've dated have been able to do that."
“I’m flattered,” Luke replies. Dion can feel him grinning against his skin. “And, hey, does that mean we’re dating now?”
It takes a minute for the question to penetrate his orgasmic haze. “What?”
Luke chuckles again. “You heard me.”
"Yeah, I just. No, of course not,” he stutters. It’s really not fair of Luke to tease him like this, when he feels like his brain’s just been liquefied. “It's just a blowjob, kind of like advanced kissing or whatever. Relax, it doesn’t mean anything."
Luke sort of blinks at him and doesn’t say anything, and for a minute Dion worries that he’s angry, but then Luke tilts his head and says, “Okay, then how about you?"
“How about I what?”
“Well, just, if it’s nothing.”
Dion says, "I've never," when he really should be saying no but he's curious about the sounds Luke would make, what it would feel like to have the weight of him on his tongue; whether he’d be able to feel Luke’s muscles tremble under his hands. Luke's already crawled up the length of Dion's body to straddle Dion's chest, staring down at him like he’s got all the time in the world for Dion to make up his mind.
Dion swallows thickly. "Probably won't be very good."
Luke drags his thumb across Dion's lower lip then curls his hand at the back of Dion's neck, encouraging him to tilt his head back. I'll teach you,” he says. "Just open your mouth."
::
"…three games in a row. I just can't believe one man could possibly be this stupid!"
Dion turns off the TV, barely resists throwing the remote at the wall. He's never seen anything like it. Florida goes down 3-1 and the media are still lambasting the Leafs - specifically the Captain himself - for poor play. He’d logged a single shot and an assist but they won, they’d proved two games didn't make a slump, and still all he gets is a blank, "yeah, and?"
Winning is expected. Dion understands, agrees, but in Calgary a regulation win had always brought momentary relief and congratulations. Now his team is on pace for a playoff spot and two points only buys him jaded scorn and heightened expectations at best. It's like sweating his ass off for a 50 in calculus only to be compared to the MENSA brat.
::
“You’re brooding. It looks painful.”
“You’re bringing this up now?”
“Well, yeah. You’re ignoring me.”
Dion gapes at him, chest heaving as he gasps, “Jesus, Luke, I’m definitely not ignoring you.”
“Alright, we’ll talk later,” Luke smirks. “You think I should finish this first, huh?”
Dion’s nod turns into a low moan, head thrown back against the pillows as Luke shifts his weight and their cocks brush together in a deliciously slow drag. There wasn’t enough lube left in the bottle of the nightstand and they’d both run out of condoms so they’d ended up sprawled across Dion’s bed. They’re both just shy of naked, with Luke straddling Dion’s hips while they grinded against each other like a couple of teenagers, skin slick with sweat and precome.
Dion tries to grit his teeth so his mouth isn’t hanging open like a dying fish but his jaw doesn’t seem to be cooperating. He opens his eyes, focusing on the way Luke looks in the dim light instead. Predictably, he looks much more appealing than Dion thinks should be allowed, wrecked in only the most attractive ways.
It’s a little unnerving the way Luke never hesitates to meet his gaze in bed. It only reinforces the way Dion’s world narrows to Luke and Luke only when they’re together. It’s not something he’s used to, feeling exposed with nowhere to hide. It’d be even worse if Luke ever mentioned it, but he never has.
Dion smoothes his palm up Luke’s thigh, across his stomach and up his chest. He traces the play of bone and muscle over Luke’s sternum with his knuckles and presses his hips up to meet Luke’s. Dion rolls Luke’s nipple between his thumb and third finger, pinching until Luke’s gasping and finally collapses forward. He braces his weight with his forearms on either side of the pillow and pants desperately into Dion’s mouth, tongue darting out to trace Dion’s lips while they struggle to retain the rhythm between their hips. Dion doesn’t last long after that; hides his face in Luke’s neck as he comes between them, senses blurring into a pleasant haze of static.
“We should get some sleep,” Dion says when he finally regains control of his higher functions.
Luke breathes a sated, “Yeah,” into Dion’s neck and shows no signs of moving from where he’s slumped bonelessly atop Dion.
“Luke?” Dion shifts a little under Luke, feels like a bit of an ass for doing so, but it’s late. They’ve got practice in the morning. Sex is a great pastime but Dion really does need some time alone to think about things and work himself into the proper Captainly headspace.
“Huh? Oh, right, just a second.”
Luke collects the rest of his clothing from where it’s strewn about the room as quickly as he can with wobbly legs. Dion props himself up on one elbow and watches him dress. He catches Luke glancing at him from the corner of his eye a couple times but Luke doesn’t say anything.
“I can’t believe we didn’t even get out of our clothes,” Dion says finally, just to break the silence.
Luke smiles tiredly as he climbs back on the bed. He reaches across Dion to grab his tie from the nightstand, kisses him and sneaks in a lazy grope for good measure while he’s there.
“What can I say, those mismatched socks of yours really do it for me, you know?” he replies.
Dion closes his eyes, thinking Luke’s on his way out the door. A minute later there’s a quiet, “Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“What would you think about…” He trails off. Dion cracks one eye open, waiting for the rest, and catches Luke staring at him with a hungry expression, seemingly lost in thought. It’s satisfying knowing he can have that kind of power over Luke, and for a minute he even considers telling Luke to stay the night so he can fuck him again, but it’s late and they should both be sleeping.
“About?” he prompts.
Luke snaps out of his daze. “Nevermind,” he says, “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
::
Dion always feels like he's failed some sort of test when Luke leaves and has to remind himself that Luke is a man and men don't do tests. It’s nothing he can pin down, exactly, just a little twist in his stomach sometimes when it’s late and the place feels more empty than it used to. He takes an antacid before bed and resolves never to let Luke order pizza toppings ever again. He thinks about getting a dog for the emptiness.
::
Two weeks later Dion opens the door to his condo and has to double-check that the number on the door is actually his, because the first thing he hears is an unfamiliar voice echoing from his living room.
“I am still a growing boy, Lucas.”
“Growing sideways, maybe,” Luke retorts. “I don’t know how anyone can drink that much Coke and not explode.”
“Screw you, man. I’ll have you know I worked very hard for this cup of perfection.” Obnoxious straw noises punctuate the silence before the tinny voice continues, “So was there anything in particular you wanted to bitch about, cause I gotta say, it’s fucking early over here.”
A webcam, Dion realizes. It still doesn’t explain why Luke’s at Dion’s place instead of his own, but at least Dion doesn’t have a herd of strangers trampling around his place. He’s about to stop lurking in his own hallway and announce his presence when something in the way Luke sighs makes him pause.
“Nothing, just. Wanted to say hi.”
“Bullshit.”
“Fuck you, I’m serious.”
“Yeah, no, you’re not, but my ESP craps out past two time zones. So are you gonna tell me what’s wrong or am I going to have to call Stammer and tell him to hipcheck it out of you next week?”
Dion might be staring at the baseboards in his entryway but he can imagine how unimpressed Luke must look. The idea that Steven Stamkos could hipcheck Luke into anything is kind of flawed.
“Come on, man, what’s up?”
“Just, you know,” he says carefully. Dion can hear him fidgeting with something, keys, maybe, or a handful of coins. “There’s this. This thing. And I think maybe I-”
“A thing?”
“Kind of,” Luke hedges.
“What’s his name? I know a guy.”
“Yeah, okay, Drew Doughty knows a guy.”
“I do,” Drew replies, sounding very pleased with himself. “And he actually doesn’t even need a name, just give me a partial license plate.”
“You’re not putting a hit out on anyone, Doughboy.”
“But I could.”
Luke chuckles a little. “But you won’t. We need him.”
“Oh, so he’s team!”
“I didn’t say that!”
“A player in both senses, hey, Schenner?” Drew just laughs harder, voice fond and teasing. “Dude, I’m impressed. I bet it’s that new equipment manager. He looked pretty interested in grinding your skates last time I saw you guys.”
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Yep.” Drew takes another obnoxious slurp of his Coke. “So there’s this guy, who’s with your team, and you two have been-”
Oh shit, Dion thinks. He is so fucked. Trust Drew fucking Doughty not to understand the gravity of the situation.
“Wait, stop,” Luke cuts in, sounding even uneasier than Dion feels. “Forget I said anything.”
“Luke-“
“I mean it.”
“Okay,” Drew replies seriously. “But, you know I’m not going to tell anyone if you don’t want me to. Try to relax, okay?”
“I still shouldn’t have said that.”
“Jesus, what’s up with you?” Luke’s quiet. Dion can hear him still hear him fidgeting and wonders if he’s chewing his lip like he sometimes does when they’re on the bench during a bad game.
Drew tries again. “Where are you now?” No response. “His place, then. I-look, has he done something? Because I swear if he-”
“No,” Luke insists, “it’s nothing like that, I just. It’s a bad week, lonely on the road. Losing skids, you know, I’m not used to them like you are,” he adds, aiming for teasing and landing just off mark.
“I can tell when you’re lying, Schenner, I’m not stupid. This guy-” A thud followed by a muffled chorus calling Drew’s name interrupts him. “Shit, I’ve gotta go but I’m here if you need me, buddy. You know that, right? Text me or whatever, any time.”
“I will,” Luke replies with only a smidge of sincerity. “Have Perry say hi to the boards for me.”
Dion can hear the Luke tapping at the keyboard to cut the connection as he creeps back down the hall. He opens the door, making sure to rattle the knob before he lets it fall closed and turns back, as though he’s only just walked in.
Luke doesn’t look up when Dion plops down onto the couch beside him. He looks pretty much the way he always does, Dion thinks - a little worn out, maybe, but probably nothing he’d have noticed if he’d come home five minutes later.
He wonders if he should say something, tries to think of what he’d say if they actually talked to each other like that and can’t come up with a damn thing. In the end he lets Luke poke at his laptop for another thirty seconds before he curls one hand around Luke’s jaw and his other around Luke’s hip and sets about distracting him in the best way he knows.
::
That night Dion dreams of what things might be like if Luke had told Drew. Maybe Drew would keep his mouth shut, maybe he wouldn’t and everyone would find out. Maybe it would be easier with just the two of them and Dion could relax in public. He could stop counting seconds to leave a safe amount of time for him to entire a room after Luke; stop keeping track of the number of times they looked at each other in practice. They could go to a coffee shop in the afternoon on an off day and sit at a table by the window. Luke could look at the pedestrians while Dion just looked at Luke, and everyone else could look at them and know that Luke belonged to him.
Then he dreams about everything else. How management and media alike would scorn the distraction of such a relationship as theirs. How his teammates would see him, see them, and no matter what Dion said they’d see betrayal. They would see Dion as a man who slept his way to the top and became a Captain who favoured some teammates more than others. After every loss the fans in the bars would point to the screens and tell each other, see, this is what happens when a guy like that is in charge. The weight of endless scrutiny would grow infinitely heavier around their necks until one day when Luke would call, and they’d meet for coffee by the window so Luke could tell him it was over.
Dion dreams of having Luke as he dreams of having nothing, and when he wakes he can hardly breathe.
They’ve turned to face each in the night, almost but not quite touching. He pushes up on one elbow and watches Luke sleep in hopes that the sight will instill the peace he needs to go back to sleep himself. Dion brings his left hand up and hesitantly begins tracing Luke’s skin, fingertips feather-light from his chapped hands up to the soft skin of his shoulders.
Luke sighs in his sleep when Dion reaches the hollow of his throat and Dion pauses, waits for him to settle before moving on. He traces Luke’s jaw, his brow, the slightly crooked line of his nose, swipes the pad of his thumb across Luke’s lips to set the picture in his mind. When he’s done he lowers his hand to the sheets between them and goes back to watching.
There’s something about Luke in his bed with a black eye, Dion thinks, all fresh purple bruises shades of regal against the blue of his sheets. The fight hadn’t seemed like much at the time, the shiner had taken a while to set in, but seeing it now makes something twist and grind deep in Dion’s chest. Luke’s sleeping with his hands curled up in front of his face, boneless and still like a doll; only the scratched knuckles and kiss-split lips give him away.
It’s a nice thought: the two of them, together, tangled in spite of what anyone else might think. Luke already leans into his palm instinctively when Dion reaches up to brush his hair off his brow; and his breath naturally slows when Dion rests his hand in the cradle of his neck. Dion wants to pull him close, protect him; feels his cock twitch at the fleeting images of Luke coming to him in the night and wordlessly asking Dion to do just that. He imagines holding Luke so tight he can’t move, how Luke might fight, then go still and be his. Dion can feel Luke’s pulse fluttering gently under his index and middle finger, it would be so easy to just-
Luke frowns in his sleep, kicks the covers off his feet and shifts away, breaking the image. Dion startles, yanks his hand away before he shoves Luke out of bed in his panic. He staggers out of bed and into a shower so cold his skin stays numb and his breath tight long after he turns the water off.
::
Dion spends the rest of the week on edge, alternately terrified that someone might know about them and annoyed that Luke doesn’t seem to share his panic. It’s insane, really. There’s no way anyone could know because he’s been careful enough for them both and he hates what this has turned him into.
(And perhaps most frustrating is the fact that nobody can know Luke is his, but that’s such an uncomfortable realization that Dion does his best to forget it immediately.)
::
The visitor’s locker room at Verizon Center can feel kind of like a dungeon at times, but for once Dion is glad for it. The low ceilings and cement walls amplify the ambient noise enough that it’s possible to have a relatively private conversation without leaving the room.
“Coming over tonight?” Dion asks as they’re changing back into street clothes after their morning skate.
Luke looks surprised. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “What room-oh, no, wait, some of the guys are going out after the game.”
“Really,” Dion says. It’s the first he’s heard of it. “Who’s going?” he asks, even though he shouldn’t really care. He’s not invited, after all.
Luke shrugs. “Clarke and Army, maybe Kuley, Grabbo. I think that’s it. Oh, and Steeger.” He leans over and nudges Dion with his shoulder. “You should come, too.”
“No, not tonight.”
“Sure?”
“Yep.”
“It won’t be late, are you sure you don’t-” Luke cuts himself off and shrugs. “I’ll swing by after we’ve eaten.”
Dion shakes his head. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Oh,” Luke says. “Okay, well, uh, see you later.”
Dion nods and leaves without another word. He’s got eight hours until puckdrop, he can’t afford to be distracted.
::
Dion sleeps alone that night, obviously. Luke doesn’t talk to him after the game. He shouldn’t worry. He doesn’t need to worry - doesn’t even have anything to worry about, really. He’s always thought there was something implicit in every gasp between the sheets but then again they’ve never really talked about it. Dion’s just always sort of figured that they didn’t need a name for it because they both knew where they stood.
(He’s doesn't know why that bothers him; Dion’s never been a jealous person and it’s ridiculous, the way his gut twists and his vision goes red when he even thinks about the possibility someone else seeing Luke like he does.)
And there’s one thing, a little tiny sock wrinkle in a new boot kind of thing (one of a handful of wrinkles that keep Dion from falling asleep immediately on nights he’s alone): Luke slept with Versteeg. Dion knows it and he’d bet that both Luke and Versteeg are aware that he knows. Dion isn’t sure exactly when or how it happened, only that he went away for a week or two and when he came back Versteeg was nervous and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Luke had been loose, relaxed like Dion's only ever seen in bed. He’d had no problem meeting Dion’s gaze straight on, like he was waiting for an answer.
Dion wonders, on the nights he’s alone, what that answer should have been, if he’d got it wrong. Maybe Doughty could tell him.
In spite of everything, he thinks he’s doing an admirable job of keeping his internal crises off-ice and under wraps. He goes right on thinking so until morning skate before a Saturday game, when someone chooses to disabuse him of his illusions. And of course that someone is no one other than fucking Kris Versteeg.
“Hey, Dion, do you have a minute?”
“Yeah, sure,” Dion says. “What’s up?”
Kris shakes his head. “Not here,” he mutters. He leads Dion to an alcove a ways from the empty locker room, eyes darting around like a startled squirrel.
“Well?”
Kris jumps right in. “Are we okay?”
“Are we okay?” Dion repeats, taken aback. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Yeah, just. Me and Luke, after, uh, in the summer. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay because you two-”
“Me and Luke?”
“You and Luke. Just,” Kris licks his lips, hesitates. “You’ve been snapping at him lately and. And me. I wondered if it was because of, you know.”
He really doesn’t like where Kris is taking the conversation and tries to feign ignorance before replying. “I still don’t know what you mean but if you feel that I’m out of line I’ll definitely take it into consideration. Still haven’t got the hang of this whole ‘C’ thing yet. I know I’ve been putting more pressure on you guys than normal but it’s just, you know, trying to get something going here.”
“No, man, that’s understandable. We’ve got to kick things into gear, probably no one more than me, I was just wondering,” Kris stops speaking abruptly, finally meets Dion’s eyes and gives him a shaky smile. “Anyway. You sure we’re good?”
“Yeah, for sure,” Dion replies, smiling back through clenched teeth, “we’re good. Try not to read so much into things, yeah? I’m not a real deep thinker.”
Versteeg doesn’t look like he believes him. Dion doesn’t care.
::
Another bad game at home, another loss. Dion tells the media he’s taking it game by game and wouldn’t call it a streak but he feels each of the last three games like broken ribs. They’d even had a chance to tie it at one point, only to drop two on the penalty kill; Dion had been caught pinching again. Twice.
And then there were waffles. Luke, of course, was a little shell shocked by the indignity but still able to meet the reporters’ eyes and crack a joke after the game.
Dion refuses to be held responsible if he ever gets hold of the asshole who threw them.
“It’ll get better,” Luke says on the drive home. “We’ll get better.”
“It’d be hard to get much worse,” he grouses.
Luke frowns. “I mean it.”
Dion sighs and scrubs one hand across his mouth, wincing at a bump he’d taken from a high stick. Of course Luke means it, because he’s not the one at the bottom. Kulemin and Grabovski had built those plays off Luke’s stick. Luke had saved at least as many goals as Dion had managed to incur, drawing a couple penalties and a heap of praise in the process. Luke is going places, Dion thinks, whereas he’s just plummeting aimlessly downward.
"I could take your mind off it for tonight, if it’d help."
It’s such a little thing, he knows, but it brings everything that’s been seething inside of him to a head, and Dion can’t stop himself snorting derisively. "Help. What, like you helped Versteeg?"
Luke doesn’t say anything. From the corner of his eye Dion sees him in the passenger seat, stricken. His mouth’s open, flushed lips frozen in an attractive little ‘o’ that gives Dion’s id all sorts of nasty ideas.
The light takes a good three minutes to change. Luke licks his lips and makes a couple noises in the back of his throat like he’s going to say something, but never manages it.
“Versteeg,” Dion repeats finally. All the ugly things he keeps inside, all of his frustrations and anxieties are boiling over and Dion doesn’t have the energy to hold back. “Kris Versteeg. This summer. I’m not stupid, Luke.”
"Jesus, is that what this is about?" Luke isn't laughing at him, if anything he looks confused and a little bit hurt. Dion feels the burn of humiliation staining his cheeks. "It was nothing."
Dion tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The leather squeaks under the force of his grip. His knuckles are white. “Nothing,” he echoes. “What’d you do, blow him on the train?”
Luke blanches. Dion thinks he might be sick. “You had sex with your NHL teammate in public-”
"It wasn't like that. We were careful, there’s no way anyone could’ve seen.”
“While I drove through three hours of traffic to pick your sorry ass up. I don’t believe this.”
“Dion, it was just a one-time thing. It-"
"Oh, for sure, and it didn't mean anything."
"Of course it didn't mean anything!" Luke snaps. He’s nervous, Dion realizes, voice tight and muscles tense, one hand hovering over the gearshift like he wants to touch Dion but isn’t sure if he can. "It was just a stupid fantasy. And I mean, you were gone and he needed to relax and I."
"You were lonely.”
Luke's shoulders hitch. "What?"
"That's it, isn't it. I was gone and you were lonely. You couldn’t go without for two weeks so you went and fucked whoever was closest. Who else on the team have you helped?"
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Was he even any good? He wasn’t, was he. Did he make you feel like I do, huh? Did you whine and moan for him? Did he make your toes curl until your foot cramped up and it hurt but you wanted his cock in you too much to stop?”
It’s silent for a long moment inside the car, broken when Luke laughs, a sharp bark entirely without humour. "You narcissistic son of a bitch.”
Dion knows he’ll probably regret this later but he can’t stop himself. "Just say it. Say I'm right."
“You aren’t.”
“Goddamnit, Luke, just say it.”
"Stop the car."
"What?"
"Stop the car, asshole."
They’re coming up to a red light and Luke's got his hand over the door handle. Dion reaches over and lays his palm on Luke's forearm in a last-ditch effort to save the situation. “You know that's not what I meant. Just calm down and--"
Luke stiffens at the touch. "And what, you want me to calm down and bend over, is that what you want?” he snarls. “You want to even the score? You need me to suck you off in the driver's seat so you can save face in front of the team?"
“Luke, don’t be like this,” Dion groans. He's lost control of the conversation, words aren't coming out the way he means them and he doesn't know how to fix it.
"No. Fuck you," Luke spits. He fumbles with his seatbelt in his anger, stumbles out of the car and slams the door behind him.
If Luke were a girl Dion would be able to pull the car over and run to catch up with him. Dion could pull him close right there on the sidewalk and murmur in his ear that it was okay, he was sorry, hadn’t meant what he’d said and they'd fix things. But Luke isn't a girl. Dion doesn't know how to fix things.
Dion swears and throws the car back in gear. He peels away from the curb into a sharp u-turn (doesn't watch Luke slip away in the rearview mirror) and nearly turns the wrong way on a one-way street.
::
He lets Luke sulk for a little over a week. The third morning he wakes up before his alarm, bleary eyed, cock in hand and driven from sleep by memories of Luke’s freckles and thighs, though, he decides something needs to be done. Luke can’t possibly still be in a snit; he must need him by now.
Dion waits until after practice. Luke’s on his way out the door, laughing and joking with Kaberle and a couple of rookies when Dion calls him back. Luke nods amiably, which has to be a good sign. Dion finishes tying his shoes and goes over his speech in his head while Luke tells the others to go ahead without him.
As soon as they’re alone, though, Luke’s expression changes. “What?” he asks flatly. The change is so sudden, so complete, that it knocks Dion off-balance.
“I just. Just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Dion doesn’t know what Luke wants to hear. He licks his lips and fumbles for words but Luke doesn’t wait for an answer. “No, seriously, sorry for what?”
“I’m sorry you felt-“ he starts.
“You’re sorry I felt. That’s not an apology.” Luke’s changed again. His words are deceptively light in contrast with the edge of his smile and the mutinous tilt of his chin.
It’s confusing and feels like their last night all over again and Dion feels his blood start to boil. “Fine. I’m sorry, but if you hadn’t-“
“Nothing I might have done gives you the right to say that shit.”
“What you might have done?” Dion starts, much louder than he’d intended. He steps forward until they’re nearly chest to chest and whispers, “You might have bent over for the first guy to look at you after I left, but I’m the asshole for calling you on it?”
“I never fucked him,” Luke replies, something sharp and defiant shadowing his expression. “I blew him. Fine. But you’ve said yourself that doesn’t mean anything, right? Barely more than a kiss.”
Dion does vaguely remember saying something to that effect around the fourth time Luke sucked him off - when he’d been desperately trying to reconcile toeing the party line with the fact that Luke knew some fucking fantastic yoga poses - but that doesn’t mean Luke can use it against him like this.
“That’s totally different.”
Luke shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He pushes Dion away and heads for the door.
“But-“
“Fuck off, Dion.”
Luke won't even look at him at practice the next day, or the day after that. After four days Dion stops trying and tells himself it's for the good of the team. He doesn't want to draw attention to the rift between them.
::
The first time they fuck is ostensibly a result of Luke being bored and horny, but the truth is Dion’s been trying to tease Luke into it for a while and thinking about it for even longer. It starts with the two of them on Dion’s couch watching golf on a Saturday afternoon in May, then after a few offhand remarks and careful touches Luke finally laughs and says, “So why don’t you?” And so one Saturday afternoon in May they end up on Dion’s couch with Luke sitting in Dion’s lap and Dion’s chin hooked over Luke’s shoulder, fucking up into him nice and slow while the guys on the Golf Channel add commentary.
“You want me?” Dion presses his lips to Luke’s throat and mutters an affirmative. He can feel Luke’s answering moan reverberate through his chest. “How much?”
“What?”
“How much do you want me?” Luke repeats, all low and teasing.
“A lot.” It’s easier to admit when Luke can’t see his face.
“Show me.”
Dion curls his hand and around Luke’s cock, flicking his wrist in time with the cant of his thrusts until Luke’s breathing almost as hard as him. Luke interrupts his rhythm then, shifting forward to give them an angle that’s tighter but not as deep, more teasing, and it doesn’t take long before Dion’s panting senselessly and scrabbling at Luke’s thighs.
“Feels good?”
Dion presses a kiss behind his ear. “So good,” he says, “Luke, please just,” already moving to clamp on hand over Luke’s left hip, bringing him back down so that Dion bottoms out when he pushes his hips up. He wraps his right arm around Luke’s stomach, pulling him back against Dion’s chest. They’re sweating enough to make their skin stick together and Dion can feel the thrum of Luke’s heartbeat under his hands.
He wakes with a start, skin damp and sticking to the sheets as he fumbles for his alarm. He’s hard, but he’s due at the arena and there isn’t time - he’s not about to jerk off to thoughts of Luke in the shower like some kind of wimpy kid. He’s just not. The shower steam doesn’t completely cloud his memories, though, and he still thinks about Luke on the drive in. He turns up the radio when he hears the start of a song he likes, one Luke hates, and doesn’t realize until the first chorus that Luke isn’t bitching about the noise is because he isn’t there.
He’s able to leave everything at the dressing room door, thankfully, and for the next few hours he doesn’t see anything but a sheet of ice and a fleet of familiar white-and-blue sweaters.
::
As a kid one of his coaches had told him there were two types of fear. The first kind - the good kind - made a person’s heart pound, blood rush, forced them to dig deep and confront it. The second kind made people shirk away, hide in bed, give up. Bad fear, he'd said, didn't make bad people. But it didn't get you to the Show.
Dion lies in bed after a 5-2 win over the Edmonton Oilers and wonders if his coach was only telling half the truth.
::
"Huh."
"What's up?" Bozak asks. Kessel shakes his head, sharp gaze cataloguing every detail while they wait in line for a drill. There’s a trainer stationed behind the net, rimming pucks around the corner and forcing them to find the angle in a bid to ‘refine their lost hockey sense.’ Phil could do it in a coma.
"Ah,” Bozak says after a beat, “of course. Didi's still got his panties in a twist."
Kessel snorts. "Probably comes from working with assholes like you."
"Shut up. Hey, Schenner, know what's up with Captain lately?"
"Nope.”
"Maybe someone should talk to him," Bozak says quietly, once Luke’s skated to out of earshot.
Phil snorts. “Yeah, I’ll pass."
"For once."
"Fuck you. Try staying open for more than a third of a second, huh?"
“Oh, tough guy. How about you try not aiming for head more than a third of the time, huh?”
“If I’d aimed for your head it wouldn’t still be on top of that skinny little neck of yours.”
“At least I have a neck, Midget McCaveman-”
Dion grits his teeth and takes his shot, a one-timer off Kaberle’s pass. The puck ricochets high and wide off the glass. He swears, and there’s a perverse pleasure in his continued poor play providing him with an excuse to break his stick over the boards.
::
The next few weeks pass like a fever dream. Practices pass by in a blur. Games start and finish in a blink without Dion remembering a single thing in between. It feels every time he blinks he’s back sitting in his stall; if he thinks about it too hard he forgets whether he’s supposed to be putting his gear on or taking it off.
The team falls into a win-loss drone, mostly losses at first but gradually it becomes more of a coin toss. Eventually the puck starts bouncing their way again and the proverbial coin lands in their favour more often than not. There’s even a chance the team could steal a spot in the top eight if they keep it up. Dion’s been a part of that - he’s scoring more, doing better defensively - but every time he finds himself in danger of feeling reasonably good about things a little voice in the back of his head reminds him that this is exactly what Luke had said would happen before Dion-
Before.
Dion concentrates on keeping his mind blank and not fucking things up again.
::
Clarke MacArthur holds back Dion after practice one day about two weeks later. He says he’s fed up and needs to talk; Dion figures it’s probably just something little Clarke needs to rant about - probably his in-laws breaking his balls over something trivial, again - so he doesn’t see any harm in letting Clarke drag him to a bar just off the main strip downtown.
He’s right, at first. Clarke carries the conversation, tells Dion a story about his family. Apparently there’s some kind of disagreement between his cousins that’s got the rest of his family picking sides for an impending feud. Dion offers monosyllabic agreements when he thinks the conversation needs it but mostly downs his drink in silence. The bar is really nothing more than a sheet of tin bridging the gap between two buildings, but there’s beer and nobody but them and a bartender who’s more interested in a Serie A match on a grainy television at the far end of the room. It’s nice.
The atmosphere shifts sometime between the first beer and the third - maybe fourth, Dion hasn’t been counting, just let his thoughts drift off on a tangent. Clarke’s been quiet for a while; Dion looks up and wonders if Clarke had been studying him that closely the entire time he’d been prattling on.
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on now?” Clarke asks.
“Nothing’s going on,” Dion says, maybe just a little too quickly.
“You need to stop clenching your jaw when you lie if you want to win a poker hand any time soon.” Clarke’s still staring at him like he’s one of Wilson’s diagrams.
“It’s none of your business.”
Clarke shakes his head. “Wow. You know, I’ve mostly just been saying it for laughs but you really are still the same miserable sonofabitch I’ve always known.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. You preach on and on about bringing our best and team before individuals but I’m not seeing you putting it into practice. Hell of an example you’re setting.”
“My private life is none of your business.”
“If it’s between you and Luke, though,” Clarke counters, “then that’s team. And my business.” He doesn’t even sound angry, just resigned, and that sense of weary superiority is too much for Dion.
He throws a couple bills on the table and reaches for his jacket. “I’m telling you I’ve got it under control.”
“No, you don’t. Even if you’re not on the ice together the two of you pretending each other don’t exist doesn’t help us. The whole team knows something’s up, so sit the fuck down so we can fix this before it gets any worse.”
Dion weighs his options, then drops back into his chair and crosses his arms, fully aware that he must look like a petulant five year old.
“Well?” Clarke asks.
“We had a thing,” Dion says. “Now we don’t.”
“A thing?” he laughs. “What, you mean like a sex thing?”
Dion fiddles with the label on his beer bottle and says nothing.
For a long moment Clarke blinks at him. “Right,” he says finally. “So, that’s definitely not nothing. We’re obviously going to need more beer.” He goes and grabs two more bottles from the bartender. He hands one to Dion and takes a long pull from his own.
“Right, tell me your boy troubles. We’ll save the nail painting for next week.”
Dion gives him a withering look.
“C’mon, man, seriously. I’m all ears.”
“We-it’s stupid.” Dion sighs. “Doesn’t matter now anyway.”
Clarke just shrugs. “Helps to tell someone,” he says.
Dion ends up telling him everything, from the first night on the balcony to the last time Luke had told him to go to hell. He glosses over some of the details, but anything he-said-he-said that might offer some perspective is laid out, no matter how much Dion stumbles over his words. At first he’s pretty sure it’d be less painful to pull out his own teeth, but Clark is a good listener and, really, if people have noticed something is wrong and it’s bad enough that Clarke had felt the need to stage an intervention like this, then it’s Dion’s responsibility to comply. For the good of the team. It’s even a bit cathartic, laying it all out and letting someone else sift through the mess.
When Dion finishes speaking all Clarke has to say is, “Seriously.”
Dion stares at him for a long minute before surrendering. “What?”
“You really are an asshole.”
“Thanks,” Dion says, “I sort of figured that out on my own.”
“So how are you going to fix it?”
“What, like get him back?”
Clarke shrugs. “Whatever makes you two less,” he gestures vaguely. “Like I said, it’s not really my business if you want to be a dick and ruin all your relationships-“
“Hey.”
“-only Luke is team and that’s just not cool.”
Dion’s head is swimming. He’s teetering between morose-drunk and sleepy-drunk. He’ll probably pass out on the way home, and then the cab driver will probably drive out of his way to jack up the bill. Again. “If I’m such a dick what makes you think I can be the one to fix it?”
“Dunno about can but since I’m pretty sure this is all your fault to begin with, I think you should be the one to try.”
Try and fail, Dion thinks. And yeah, he’s definitely going to fall asleep in the cab. “So how do I fix it?”
“Saying you’re sorry is usually a good place to start.”
“I did that already.”
Clarke shakes his head, lips quirking into a grin as finishes the last of his beer. “Try saying you’re sorry in a way that speaks less to your being a repressed asshole.”
“Oh, for sure, I’ll get right on that,” Dion says, and buries his head in his hands.
Clarke, the bastard, just chuckles. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, but look at it this way,” he says, “if the kid was crazy enough to like you before it could happen again.”
Part 2