what the music gives me
title: six moments in six worlds.
pairings: (in order) joe thornton/evgeni nabokov, one-sided jonathan toews/patrick kane, sheldon souray/jose theodore, thomas greiss/antti niemi, jordan eberle/taylor hall, glatt/laflamme (goon)
rating: idk it ranges from T to R?
warnings: none. wait, is ‘cristobal huet’ a warning? also, i haven’t ever written, um, four of these pairings before.
summary: small moments in the lives of five couples and one moment in the life of someone who wished to be half of a couple.
top of the world (dixie chicks)
thornton/nabokov
Joe never thought Evgeni would ever be taken from him. Part of him stupidly and selfishly thought that there was no way they’d be split, no way either of them would leave. He lived within his head in a little bubble where he and Evgeni would always share a condo and neither of them would go anywhere because they’d spend their whole careers together in San Jose.
Joe was also incredibly naive.
When he got the news in June, when Evgeni himself sat down with him and grabbed his chin and told him, told him that he’d been let go, that he wasn’t coming back next season, Joe couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t look into Evgeni’s blue eyes, couldn’t cope with the façade of strength that his boyfriend had. He couldn’t even pretend to be ok.
He didn’t want to kiss Evgeni, he didn’t want to hold him, he didn’t want to touch him because every time felt like goodbye. Every brush of his lips against the Russian’s skin felt final, felt like the end, and his heart felt like it was breaking, dissolving into a million pieces.
He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what they’d do, he didn’t know how to handle it, so he didn’t. He refused to answer questions, acknowledge his teammate’s pity-filled looks, ignored the tearstained faces he saw from some of the younger guys. If he ignored it all, it’d be like it didn’t happen, and he could ignore the fierce nausea he got every time he walked in their- his- front door and saw the piles of boxes and watched Evgeni’s things leave from the places he’d been accustomed to seeing them.
Captaincy felt like a fucking slap in the face and the fucking Stanley-Cup winning goaltender that they got to replace the perfectly fucking good one they already had felt like a sucker punch to the gut and fuck him if Coach thought Joe would be ok with any of this.
He wasn’t, he just wasn’t, and he forgot that Niemi had lost a team too, lost a city, been thrown out the door after leading his team to the grand prize. He purposefully ignored the fact that he knew all of this and proceeded to treat the Finn like utter, complete, absolute shit.
Anything he could think of that would cause pain to flash across the open-book face of the new goalie, he did. Anything that would make the fucking eyes that were the same damn color as Yevi’s close up, look down, he took vicious, cruel joy in inflicting upon the blond.
(He regrets now what he did, but at the time all he felt was anger, pain, anguish, and he just missed Evgeni.)
He hated this fucking team. He hated the NHL, he hated the salary cap, he hated Doug Wilson, he hated the fucking KHL for taking Evgeni so far away, but most of all, he hated Antti Niemi for thinking he could come in and take a spot that didn’t belong to him, like everything was fine and dandy, like nothing was wrong.
He hated him.
He hated everything.
Late at night, he’d dream of what Evgeni’s skin felt like, how warm he was, what it sounded like when he mumbled in Russian in his sleep, the look on his face when he came. Joe felt like he’d never heal, he’d never feel better, the numbness that was taking over would never clear, and every conversation he had with his boyfriend just made him feel worse because he could hear the pain and the loneliness mirrored perfectly in the other man’s voice.
He lashed out, worse and worse, his level of playing dropped like a stone, and he alternated between snarling insults that cut unfairly deep or just not speaking to the struggling Niemi. His team flourished under his captaincy, goals were being scored, plays made that impressed the hell out of the coach, but Joe was empty and Niemi was losing it.
He thought he was doing a pretty good job of hiding his utter contempt for the Finn, but he really should have known better, and when Ryane and Patty cornered him and began lecturing him on putting the past behind him and spouting all sorts of shit about “not Nemo’s fault” and “unfair”, he just spat furious protests at every word until Niittymäki had had enough.
The slap across his face was the first thing he’d felt in months, and the completely fed-up and pissed look on Finn Number Two’s face was the first wake up call he got that, yeah. He was an asshole.
But how the hell did he fix it?
thema nr. 1 (tokio hotel)
jonathan toews/patrick kane
(for gretchen)
It was kind of like a game to Patrick by now-in his head he called it the How Many Times Can I Look at Jonathan Before He Catches Me? game.
His record is ten. He blames the fact that Jonathan must have a freaky sixth sense about him- like, seriously, who the fuck could always tell when someone was watching him unless they had crazy voodoo powers? That must be the answer. Voodoo powers.
Rationally, Patrick knew it was just a matter of chance, but he was a pro at ignoring the rational part of his brain anyway, especially where alcohol was concerned, and to be honest, he’d been having quite a bit more of that than usual. He just insisted it was because his job was so fucking stressful and absolutely not because he was in love with his stupid best friend.
His best friend was fucking stupid. Or maybe blind. Or possibly both, because everyone and their fucking mother could tell how Patrick felt by just glancing at him, and Jon had somehow managed to go for, like, a billion years without fucking noticing. Ok. Whatever. Pat assumed it had something to do with his seriousness and/or his Canadianess (was that even a word? whatever.) and Pat tried to let it go, he really did, but every so often he’d unintentionally say something that made Jon smile, or worse, laugh, and Pat was right back where he started before he tried to stop. Only this time, he usually had something alcoholic.
So he played the game of watching Jonathan and that worked for a while, until Jon caught him and gave him that fucking look, the one with his eyebrow up that clearly said “I know something is up and I will figure it out” and then Patrick basically wished the locker room floor would open up and swallow him whole so he didn’t have to look into the stupid face of his stupid best friend that he was stupidly in love with.
Patrick kind of hated his life. He hated loving someone, he hated loving someone he wasn’t supposed to love like this, and he hated not having anyone to talk to, hated the fact that Jonathan was subjects 1, 2, 3, 4 and everything in his brain lately.
He really couldn’t handle this.
Fuck everything.
He threw his gear across the room, glaring at it as it fell everywhere, and groaning as loud as he possibly could when he remembered he wasn’t at home and would have to pick this up.
“You, um, dropped this?” Pat turned to see a slightly-frightened looking Nemo handing him his helmet. He took it with a sigh.
“Sorry, Nemo,” Pat said quietly. “I’m just being.....”
“I understand,” Nemo said in that funny accent. “Do you.... do you want to talk about it?”
Pat shook his head vehemently, because even though the entire team knew Nemo was the best listener of anyone, he didn’t even want to think about the shitstorm his life was turning into.
Thankfully, Nemo didn’t look offended, just silently helped him gather all the shit he threw back to Patrick’s stall. Pat was grateful for the help, grateful for the nonjudgemental silence, and he sank to the bench, head in his hands.
Nemo threw his jersey into the hamper and sat next to him.
“Just......before I let you leave like this, um, one thing?” Nemo was looking at him, concerned, and Pat nodded, sniffing back tears.
“Um, maybe you should tell him,” Nemo offered quietly. “Because, sometimes things work out better than you expect.”
Pat wouldn’t, but he nodded anyway, accepting the one armed hug from the Finn.
He watched the man go, biting his lip, and closed his eyes again.
Fuck everything.
Seriously.
you found me (kelly clarkson)
sheldon souray/jose theodore
Jose didn’t need anyone. He never needed anyone, he could do everything on his own. It was his mantra, his motto- it helped him through everything and he didn’t need anyone. He’d gotten this far without needing anyone and it would continue, he swore it would.
He would appreciate it if this fucking teammate of his would just stop testing him. It was a lot harder to maintain that he needed no one if this asshole would stop being so affectionate and nice and attractive, seriously. He needed to stop.
He sent a friendly glare to Cris, who raised an eyebrow at his stormy expression following his shutout performance. Cris put his hands up in the universal signal of surrender and Jose stormed right by him and sat at his stall, still pissed.
“Um,” Cris began, gingerly sitting next to him as if he might bite with no warning. “Not that it’s my business, but I’m just wondering why you look like we got shut out instead of the other way around?” He spoke in French, obviously wither hoping to lull Jose into some sort of state of calm or give the illusion of privacy. Either way, it didn’t work.
“Damn straight it’s none of your business,” he snapped and Cris slid down the bench, away from him.
“I was trying to help, but obviously you’ve got this one covered,” he answered, sarcasm evident. Jose instantly felt bad, but before he could answer, the other man stood and wandered away and Jose sighed, dropping his head into his hands.
Fuck this shit, seriously.
His mood was not improved by annoying teammate in question dropping into the seat vacated by Cristobal. He sent Souray a scowl that said as much but, to Jose’s utmost irritation, Sheldon seemed unfazed.
“What do you want?” Jose demanded, injecting as much malice as he could into the question. Again, he was denied the reaction he wanted and he groaned, slumping back against the bench, glaring at the now-empty locker room.
“Just checking up on you,” Sheldon answered easily. “Seeing as you managed to scare off our entire team after you earned a shutout.”
“Whatever,” Jose muttered, looking steadily around, anywhere but at Sheldon. The other sighed.
To his horror, Jose felt an arm dropping around his shoulder and he tried to throw an elbow at the asshole that was ruining his life but of course it didn’t fucking work.
Because obviously, God hated him. Ugh.
“I don’t know how I’m offending you so badly,” Sheldon began, holding Jose still and ignoring Jose’s muttered threats and oaths. “But I guess, seeing as how nothing I could do could possibly make you hate me more, then there’s nothing to lose by-”
He cut himself off by pulling Jose’s face up and kissing him hard, shocking the man into silence for once. He pulled away and Jose didn’t move, heart absolutely pounding in his chest. Goddamnit. Fucking asshole, and now he was walking away, oh hell no.
Jose reached out, grabbing Sheldon’s arm, and yanking him back to plant his lips against the other’s again.
He was fucked, that’s for sure, because this time his motto wouldn’t help him at all, but it didn’t really matter at the moment, because apparently Sheldon was a great kisser, and Jose smiled into his lips, ignoring the enthused fist pump and closing his eyes against everything but how it felt to have Sheldon kiss him.
easy silence (dixie chicks)
thomas greiss/antti niemi
Antti hated talking to people he didn’t know. He really hated it, and he despised the fact that he had to talk to the media after every game, good or bad.
There was no doubt that it was worse when he played terribly- got pulled halfway through, allowed four goals on ten shots, was generally a shitty player all around, and the stress of having to control himself and give his usual blank-face explanations made him want to throw something hard across the room.
Not many people could see that kind of reaction, because he usually just bottled it up, kept it far inside, didn’t let it escape. It was a debate between the team whether or not Antti actually felt anger, and he let them continue guessing.
It didn’t work on Thomas. Thomas had this uncanny ability to look into Antti’s eyes and know immediately what he was thinking, how he was feeling, and what Thomas could do to best help. Antti would be creeped out if he didn’t love Thomas so much.
Antti sucked hard tonight. He was all over the place, he could feel his form fading away quicker and quicker as the game went by, and it was like he couldn’t even control what the hell he was doing. In the locker room, his teammates sent him side glances, some of apology for their shitty help, some questioning why he wasn’t a raging pile of Finn like a certain other goaltender from the same country as him. He ignored them all, wanted to shake his head at the media, but somehow found himself giving the same monotonous answers that were long familiar now.
When it was over, he methodically showered, grabbed his things, and walked to Thomas’ truck.
The man in question was leaning against the passenger door, watching his approach with eyes that said I know you’re upset, even if your face won’t show it and Antti wanted to push him aside angrily.
He couldn’t. As usual. He threw his bag into the bed of the truck and stood in front of the German, arms folded and waiting for him to move. But Thomas never made it that easy, oh no, he had to go and do something perfect because that’s just how he was and Antti didn’t deserve someone as wonderful as him.
“Stop,” Thomas mumbled into his ear, arms warm around Antti. Antti sighed, burying his face into the other man’s shoulder, slipping his own arms around his torso. He was so warm.
“Stop what,” Antti countered, knowing it was useless. He felt a kiss on his forehead and he could just lose it right there, who the fuck did Thomas think he was, how the fuck did he know what to do?
“I love you,” Thomas answered without really answering. “And stop telling yourself that you don’t deserve me because you do, you deserve better than me, but I’m the one who’s here, and I’d rather die than not give you everything.”
Antti slid his hands up and cupped Thomas’ face, bringing him down to kiss. He wasted to cry, to scream, to bitterly yell as loud as he could- he wanted to punch the world in the face, but right now, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because Thomas was kissing his cheek now and bringing him closer and Antti just held on like Thomas was the last life preserver on board and the ship was sinking.
He was safe in this little bubble Thomas made for him in the parking lot. He had Thomas to hold him and he didn’t have to talk to anyone, he didn’t have to explain his play or give answers he didn’t have, he didn’t have to think about the goals he let in and the frustrated looks he was getting from his coach. None of that mattered because he was safe here. He was safe.
Antti closed his eyes and breathed.
you’re my best friend (straight no chaser)
hallberle (for sammi)
Ebs felt stupid around Hallsy, but the good kind of stupid, the kind of stupid where he just wanted to smile all the time and eat ice cream and hold hands and that everything was sunny and he loved it.
Hallsy had ice cream on his face and Ebs barely restrained himself from reaching out and licking it all off. Barely, and only because they were in public and he’d get that glare, the one that he didn’t like, the one that said I’m mad at you and you can’t fix it.
He hated not being able to fix it.
So he didn’t lick the ice cream off Hallsy’s face, even though he really wanted to, damn it, and instead he stared across the table at his boyfriend with a really stupid look on his face that he didn’t even care about because Hallsy had the same look on and Ebs was happy and he couldn’t imagine anything really better than this, except maybe winning the Stanley Cup, but even that would only be great if Taylor was right next to him, screaming with him. Otherwise, nothing could beat the was he felt right now and he wasn’t even ashamed to admit it.
He kind of loved Taylor Hall, and fuck whoever said you can’t love your best friend this way, because damnit, he did.
Taylor looked up, smiling at Ebs scrutiny and laughed a little when Ebs handed over a napkin.
“Ice cream, right cheek,” Ebs said sternly, and Taylor smirked.
“Thank you for not licking it off,” he teased and Ebs flashed a pout.
“Only cause you’d be mad,” he complained and Taylor blushed.
“Well, maybe at home....” he trailed off and Ebs stood.
“Um, what?” Taylor asked, confused, and Ebs gave him the best sex eyes he had.
“Right, let’s go,” Taylor nodded and stood, grabbing Ebs hand and pulling him out of the ice cream shop, laughing as they ran to the car.
Yeah, Taylor made Ebs stupid. But maybe Ebs liked being stupid.
fix you (straight no chaser)
glatt/laflamme (goon)
Doug hesitated outside the closed door to Xavier’s room. He wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to enter, despite the conversation they’d had last night. Doug wasn’t very good at reading people- his brother had told him so repeatedly after he was the last in his family to realize Ira was actually gay and the only one to openly wonder what the big deal was about it.
He wasn’t good at reading that Ira liked guys, couldn’t tell that his father was disappointed in him, and worst of all, could never really tell what Xavier was thinking or feeling and always invariably said the wrong thing.
He hated that the most. He wanted more than anything to be able to know what Xavier wanted so he could do it, every fibre of his being wanted to make Xavier happy. Obviously, he was bad at reading himself, too- he couldn’t even tell why he felt the way he did, just that he did.
He stared at the wooden door, slammed often and repeatedly in his face. He hesitantly raised a hand to knock and dropped it, not sure, never sure. Was he asleep? Doug didn’t want to wake him if he was, he already didn’t sleep enough. Was he awake? Doug didn’t want to talk to him without knowing how he was feeling and get something wrong, again.
For the love of God, Ira’s voice said to him, and he nodded at nothing and reached for the handle, slowly pushing the door open and standing awkwardly in the entrance. The room was dark- well obviously it was dark, it was night- and Doug could just barely see the outline of Xavier, his back to the door.
Ok. So he was asleep. Doug quietly turned to go, a bit disappointed. He really wanted to talk to Xavier, get him to explain what he’d meant last night, make him translate the French he’d said, but he refused to interrupt his sleep for that.
“M’not asleep,” and Doug jumped a little and turned back around. Xavier had rolled onto his back and was staring up at Doug, an even more unreadable than usual expression on his face. Doug wrung his hands- now he didn’t know what to do.
He didn’t quite understand why Xavier had spoken- clearly, he’d tried ignore him all day and probably didn’t want to talk, and could have easily pretended to be asleep, but he hadn’t.
Why?
Doug was so stupid. He still hadn’t spoken or moved from his anxious spot by Xavier’s door and he was so nervous and he just wished he was normal.
“Are you ok?” Xavier pushed himself up to a sitting position. His eyes didn’t leave Doug’s and it made Doug feel worse. He really wanted this to go ok. Doug opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again when the words refused to sort themselves out in his head. He wouldn’t sound like an idiot, he’d rather never say anything than humiliate himself. Xavier cocked his head, expression changing. Doug still couldn’t read it, but at least this one didn’t look like Xavier was scared of something he couldn’t name.
“Is that a ‘no’?”
Doug bit his lip and still didn’t say anything. He felt even stupider now, and this was a bad idea.
“Come here,” and Doug felt his feet move, like Xavier controlled everything about him, could make him do things when Doug couldn’t do it on his own. Like walk the few feet to the bed and sit next to Xavier.
His heart pounded.
He felt Xavier just inches from him, could hear him breathing, could see him face more clearly now, but he still didn’t know what to say or what to do, and he almost jumped again when Xavier put a hand over Doug’s, stilling the anxious movements instantly.
“Just say it,” Xavier urged quietly.
“It’s stupid,” Doug tried to argue, voice matching volume with Xavier’s unconsciously.
“No, it isn’t.”
“It’s confusing?” a question this time, like Doug was wondering if it would pass as an excuse.
“I’ll understand,” Xavier promised, and Doug believed that. He knew Xavier understood everything, said or unsaid, like he could look into your mind and pull out what you were trying to say, and give you an answer.
“It’s...it’s just....”
“Uh-huh.”
“And that....I’m not good at....”
“Mmm.”
“And I don’t understand and I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Xavier answered automatically and Doug sighed a little. He chanced a glance at Xavier’s face and the other man gave him a small smile.
He really, really wanted to kiss him, and another thing Doug was bad at was controlling himself, so he gave up and did it.
He expected to be shoved away, yelled at, even punched again, but none of those happened and Doug felt his heart kind of stop in surprise when Xavier kissed him back, and now Doug understood what Xavier was trying to say last night.
He understood because he was trying to say the same thing, and now it was working. Doug let Xavier lay back, dragging him with him, before pulling his face down to kiss again.
Doug liked understanding for once if this is what he got in return.