Keep Me Close chapter XVII- READ THIS PART FIRST
Team: San Jose Sharks
Pairing: Joe Thornton/Evgeni Nabokov
Rating: NC-17 for language, situations, and all around darkness.
Summary: Not all in San Jose is sunny as the path to the Stanley Cup proves to be as difficult as ever; falling in love might be the simplest task on this year’s agenda.
Editor: Sherlockelly
Note: READ THIS PART FIRST. Once again, the chapter is too long.
Last chapter
Disclaimer: Nope
Chapter XVII
He shuddered and soon their pace had no pattern. It was needy and hot, their rocking bodies fitting against each other sinfully perfect. Joe smiled through his clenched teeth when a guttural moan ripped from Evgeni’s throat. The lean body tensed, and every muscle shone like a statue’s under the slick skin.
Evgeni’s cock twitched and Joe bucked his hips into the spot that made the man writhe in a hot, fumbling mess. Joe watched through hooded eyes when Evgeni opened his mouth wide in a silent scream, and ribbons of come shot from his trembling dick. It splattered on his stomach and clung to his hair. He continued riding Joe through his orgasm, and he gasped for air through his flared nostrils. Then he bit his bottom lip and glanced down through his lashes almost shyly.
Joe came with a whimpered moan into the bundle of heat of Evgeni’s body. He jerked his hips off the bed as his seed was punched out of him; he felt it dribble out from Evgeni’s cheeks and cake his skin. He kept his eyes open the whole time before he was spent, enraptured by the way Evgeni was looking at him and the way that his body shook from the aftershocks of their sex.
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The air turned the sweat covering Evgeni’s body into crystals of ice. He gripped Joe’s hands at his hips and shivered, the cold sinking through his pores and settling into his bones. His eyelids were so incredibly heavy, and he could feel his head tip forward in exhaustion.
Joe’s softening cock twitched as it was still buried deep inside Evgeni’s tired body, and he lifted his hips languidly, the slick organ slipping out of his hole with a pop. Falling limply beside the other man, Evgeni gasped in wheezing breaths through his parted lips, the thick air bubbling in his chest.
He fucked Joe.
Limbs tangled together in a mess of sweaty skin and delicate bones as their frantic heartbeats escaped them in a melody of disjointed beats.
‘Sex.’ The word was tattooed in the forefront of Evgeni’s brain. ‘I just had sex with Joe.’
Evgeni knew that he was supposed to feel something other than utter tiredness. He knew he should be overwhelmed with some emotion, be it dread, or shock, or disappointment in himself. He knew that he was supposed to feel, but he could not pretend that he actually felt any of those things.
And truthfully, he did not know what to feel now.
He had a moment of weakness, and Joe was there to give Evgeni the support that he did not have when the world came out from under him last May. Joe brought the control that Evgeni craved, and really, that was all he cared about.
The mattress bounced when Joe kicked off the jeans that were wrapped about his ankles, the clothing falling off the foot of the bed and onto the carpeted ground.
Evgeni turned his back to the other and curled his still quivering legs up to his chest, slinging a clumsy arm around them. He shivered as the bitter air gusted over his flushed skin, but he was just simply too tired to care. So the rumpled sheets remained undisturbed.
A sharp pain erupted from inside him and ripped up the length of his spine, every bone rattling in the shock. Evgeni hissed and clenched his jaw, wishing that he could numb the pain away. Through the fog of hurt, the twinge of emptiness lay heavily in his heart ever since Joe’s flaccid dick was pulled out of him.
He had filled Evgeni to the brim literally, but Evgeni was flooded with so much more than just the throbbing flesh.
He needed to feel the complete wholeness once more, to take it all of what Joe was giving him. But now, all he wanted was to succumb to the seductive call of sleep that was hovering before him. He relaxed his jaw and exhaled softly through open mouth, the taste of blood dull on his tongue.
Joe shifted next to him, and a warm weight snuck around his waist. Evgeni’s abdominal muscles squirmed under Joe’s fingertips as they soothed the angry marks on the skin.
A hum of approval drifted from Evgeni’s throat at the caring touch, and the man allowed himself to loosen his body. He curved his spine back, each muscle flexing until every inch of his cold skin fit into the spoon of Joe’s bare chest. Hesitantly, Evgeni unfurled his long legs, the thin flesh at the back of his calves aligning with the bent knees behind them.
Warm air whistled over his ear in calming puffs, Joe’s gentle breathing a soporific lullaby. Nuzzling his face into the covers under his head, Evgeni laid a tentative hand over Joe’s, a silent acceptance for everything the other had done.
A wave of regret surged in his body, and a sob wracked through his chest. Joe had done so much for him, and now he could not find the emotions within himself to feel anything. And Joe deserved so much more than what Evgeni had offered him.
That man cooed hushed words into the light hairs behind Evgeni’s ear, and the doubt that scabbed over his heart flaked away, as if the soft breath repaired the weakened muscle itself. Evgeni listened intently as the airy words left Joe’s mouth, like he always did.
“Let me… let me help you take the pain away. But right now… right now ya need to go to sleep, Evgeni.”
Biting his lip, Evgeni nodded, the words becoming the warm blanket that settled over his chilled body.
The man holding Evgeni to his chest was always there. Ever present, ever rational, ever constant. He was the strong resolve that Evgeni had before the summer. Joe was everything that Evgeni was, but at the same time, he was so much more.
He was Joe Thornton.
And in the early days of the season, Joe got tangled up like a fly in Evgeni’s web of lies, secrets, and pain. He struggled, loosening the weave until they all unknotted, and he broke loose from the hold.
But even when Joe was freed, he never once left, even though his chances to escape were numerous. Joe never left. And it was too late for Evgeni when he finally realized that Joe’s fighting had unraveled him, thread by thread. Now he was merely fragile pieces, floating pitifully in the wind, vulnerable to the attacks that the days rained upon him. He held his breath, waiting for the final push that would snap him.
It nearly happened that night, but once again, Joe came and shielded the raw form of his body and soul from the harsh reality.
Evgeni calmed his lower back, all of his sticky skin finding a place on Joe’s hardened stomach muscles. His exhausted thighs ceased their shivering, allowing Evgeni to be pulled down deeper into the dark hole of sleep.
Swallowing dryly, he shifted his hips back to finally set them in a comfortable spot. The bedsprings moaned under every stretch and every flex of Evgeni’s muscles as he pushed back into the warm, cupped lap. Joe’s thighs were strong and stable against the underside of his own. And Joe’s soft dick, sticky with the drying cum, prodded innocently into the groove of Evgeni’s sore cheeks.
With Joe’s body and words wrapped around him, Evgeni noticed how warm he felt again; the cold receding into the back of his hazy mind. Evgeni sighed, squeezing Joe’s hand at his waist weakly, and fell to sleep.
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Cold.
A cold that snaps the brittle bones as it snakes over the ground as a white fog.
It is everywhere.
The roar comes as an aftershock in waves, churning violently in Evgeni’s stomach as they pound into his weary body. It is now that he feels the utter disappointment sink into him.
They lost.
He lost… for everyone.
It feels as though the entire world is crammed into the American Airlines Center, and ever single person’s mocking laughter spirals Evgeni deeper into the shame and humiliation that he created himself.
His tired legs weaken as he watches the Dallas Stars surround their goaltender, tears of elation streaming down their faces without care. Evgeni asks why it is not his team celebrating, but acknowledging his failure is too much. He will dwell on every wrong turn of his head, twitch of his stick, and pivot of his skate later. Now is just a moment to grieve.
Evgeni waits impatiently for her white arms to break free from the ice and wrap around him, to pull him down and take him away from this place.
But she never comes.
She leaves Evgeni stranded, left to die slowly as the other team, the wrong team, soaks in her undivided love. And watching it hurts so much.
Ryane tries to comfort him. He takes Evgeni by surprise when he grabs a hold of the front of the goaltender mask from behind. The back of Evgeni’s head is tipped into Ryane’s lowered brow, and he blinks past the disappointed tears that well up behind his eyes.
He is not going to cry. But damn if the heavy hand on his mask makes it that much harder to keep his raging emotions at bay.
Ryane mumbles something half-heartedly about the loss not being Evgeni’s fault.
Bullshit.
Evgeni knows that it is his fault. Whose fault is it then, if he is not the one to blame? He is the last line of defense. Of course it is his fault every time the puck goes into his net. That is Evgeni’s position; stopping the puck is what he is supposed to do, and it is what he is entrusted to do every single game.
Why could he not have stopped just one, or two more shots? Or however many it took until the puck was buried in to back of the other net?
Why could Evgeni not have been better?
He bites his bottom lip as he shudders against Ryane’s equally tired body, and his knees finally give way. Falling back into the hard chest, Evgeni silently pleads for a stable foundation to lean on. He may not want one, but Jesus did he need one.
The other shifted uncomfortably with the added weight, and he skates back, the ice snapping as the metal cuts into it. Evgeni clenches his jaw and scrunches his eyes tight, anything to avoid the celebrating mass of green before him. The crowd still roars in approval by the time Ryane leaves, and by the time Joe appears in front of Evgeni.
His large body stands awkwardly slumped, and his head is bowed when he takes the goaltender’s head carefully and tucks it under his cheek. They stand with each other, their slow, uneasy breathing filling the limited space between them.
A haze spreads through the rink, and the stands fall silent. Evgeni hesitates before he moves in Joe’s arms, the arms which are normally so strong, so hard and sure. The same arms now shake with jealousy, resentment, and complete sadness.
Evgeni sighs ruefully, ignoring the lone tear that squeaks through the cracks of his shuttered eyes, and seeks for the support in Joe’s hold.
The other does not move from his spot, rather, he pulls Evgeni in closer. Their sorrow mingles together and all Evgeni can think of is how he is the reason for Joe’s misery.
He knows that the blame is placed on him. The goal that ended the Sharks’ 2007-2008 season is his own fault. The defense was in position, and all he had to do was keep control of the puck until they killed the penalty, just as Dallas had done earlier in the seventh period.
Evgeni lost the game, but despite that, all he wants to hear is the denial of his thoughts. He wants Joe to voice them, because he can believe Joe, even if it is a complete lie, even if he does not believe the words themselves.
But Joe does not say a thing. The muscles in his face twitch, as Joe attempts to school the last barrier from the truth and the dream. Twisted metal hides Evgeni’s face; it is the mask that shields him from facing the truth right now. With his mask, no one can see that Evgeni’s eyes never once glance at the final score, never once scan the crowd, and never once leave the safe path of Joe or the ice.
It may be true, but Evgeni does not have to accept it. The finality is just too hard to bear.
Joe finally manages to croak out something, but now everything becomes a blur. All colors, all sounds, and all emotions collide catastrophically, leaving nothing overturned. They spiral inside Evgeni, a destructive mass of everything coming together, and in their wake, only grey remains.
Evgeni says something back, but he does not remember what he says. It probably is not important anyway.
The ice under Evgeni’s skate shifts, Joe’s sad face warps, and the cage around Evgeni’s face melts away. Marty Turco stands proudly before Evgeni.
He feels lost and naked, for the cover of his mask is stripped from his person. The beaming smile Turco is sending him is impossible to hide from.
Clammy from being suffocated inside the leather nest of his blocker, Evgeni’s hand is taken roughly by the other goaltender. Turco shakes it roughly, and his heavy arm is nearly jarred from its socket at the uncontrolled emotion.
“That was a great game.” ‘That was a horrible game.’
“I couldn’t believe ya made the save in the first overtime! I thought we would’ve won there for sure.” ‘I didn’t make the last save, and look at that, you did win.’
“The Sharks are every bit deserving of going to the next round.” ‘Hmm, funny how it didn’t turn out that way.’
“These were the hardest fought games I’ve ever played. The Wings can’t be as hard to play against as you; we’ll remember ya when we beat ’em.” ‘I hope they destroy you.’
But Evgeni keeps his thoughts from the other, the truth masked behind a straining smile. He grumbles his congratulations after every word uttered from the man’s mouth, desperate to end the conversation which stirs the acid in his stomach painfully. Then Turco slings his arm around Evgeni’s shoulders in a one-armed hug. He stands stiffly under the added weight, bites back his grimace and pats the helmet resting on Turco’s brown hair awkwardly.
It is now where the Stars go on; to keep on fighting for the same title as the last four, and as the rest, the Stars believe that it to be theirs. But the Sharks’ dreams are snapped. After building a team in eighty-two games and clawing through the playoffs their hard work goes unrewarded, and the question of their dedication will surface once again.
Right now the battle could be seen as impressive, but soon Evgeni knows, this jarring loss will be just one of the many that his team has come to during the Stanley Cup final. Nothing will be spectacular about it, nothing noteworthy.
Because no matter how many minutes the game lasts, the loss is still a loss, and the end of the season is just as heartbreaking.
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Evgeni stares listlessly at his feet as they clash unpleasantly against the pale yellow tiles. Streams of water pound into the back of his scalp, weaving through his sweaty hair and trickling over the convulsing muscles of his back. The spasms quake through his body and leave just as quickly, though every fiber within him is left sore, as if anticipating the shockwaves to return at any moment.
Although in a way the pain also comes as a release, and Evgeni just feels so incredibly empty. The pain is a reminder that he is still here, even if all he wants do is to spiral down into the drain with the grimy water that runs from his body.
It stabilizes him, in the most sadistic of ways.
One by one, the other men enter the showers and leave again. The air is silent, for no one knows exactly what to say. No one voices their concern for Milan, because the hit still weighs heavily on their minds. No one speaks of the game, because it has scarred too deeply on everyone’s hearts.
Evgeni stands stone still as his ears perk every time the door swings open or clicks shut. The water cascading down his back has cooled from its scalding hotness by the time he counts the eighteenth pair of padding feet head towards the shower’s exit. He is uninterested, and he keeps his hooded gaze pointed to the ground.
But the echoed steps come to a halt, and the door remains untouched.
Shooting a fleeting look through his lowered lashes, Evgeni sees Joe standing opposite him with his arms crossed loosely and his head cocked to the side. The steam stirs like clouds around them; the thick, grey clouds that transpire just after a dreadful storm.
Evgeni tips his head back in acknowledgment, his wet bangs plastering to his skin as the water rains down upon him.
The side of Joe’s mouth quirks and he looks away as a huff exhales through his nose. Looking back, a wistful smile plays upon his thin lips when he begins to speak.
“Tough luck, eh?” His voice rumbles in Evgeni’s chest, the deep tenor and emotion swelling in his chest with the wisps of clouds surrounding them.
Evgeni swallows and takes his bottom lip between his teeth, anything to slow the memories from crashing into him. Finally he releases a shaky sigh, nodding reluctantly at the same time. “Y-yeah…” he replies, his throat raw from the strain, much like the rest of his body.
Evgeni should be surprised, if not offended, when Joe chuckles and looks away again. He should be surprised, but he is not.
“Next time we’ll win… I can feel it.”
Beads of water fly from Evgeni’s hair when he shakes his head partly in amusement, partly in annoyance at Joe’s ever-present optimism. He just does not want to think about it right now.
“You say that ehvery year,” he whispers, his words becoming lost among the steam.
Joe’s hand rests on the plane of wood ready to push it open by the time he responds with a smile.
“Then one year it’s gonna be true,” Joe laughs, pushing the door at the same time. He looks out into the hallway, the steam escaping through the sliver between the wood and the tile, the yellow lights turning the gloomy clouds a soft gold. Joe glances back, the smile absent on his face, a somber expression a true reflection of his feelings replacing it.
“I’m sorry, Nabby.”
And with that, he grabs a towel next to the door and slips out, the fake smile growing on his lips once again.
Evgeni sighs and turns back towards the lukewarm stream of water.
“I’m sorry too.”
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