#SidGenoFluffFest

[fanforthefics]

A Step Too Far

Geno pranks Sid. It...doesn’t go as planned. 

For the @sidgeno-fluff-fest prompt: comfort items. Not quite comfort, but it sort of centers around an item, at least? Comes in at about 8k. 

tw: bullying (sort of, depending on your POV)

Sid’s still talking.

He’s telling the story of some WWII pilot or something—he’s talking too fast for Geno to catch all of it—and he has been for the past ten minutes. It’s gotten bad enough that everyone other than Jake has started glazing over or has escaped to the bar, and Jake’s only still listening because he still has that hero worship thing going on.

Geno wasn’t paying attention that the beginning, to be honest—he was usually pretty good at figuring out when Sid actually cared if he paid attention or when he just wanted someone to nod as he talked at him—but it’s getting ridiculous. Sid is so intense even about this, talking a mile a minute with his whole face lit up even in the dim light of the bar, his fingers running over his chain like he can’t keep still. It’s at least distracting, watching that—Sid’s fingers and the chain, how the gold slips over his blunt, strong fingers.

Geno blinks. Sid’s still talking. He thinks there are submarines involved now? He’s not sure. Sid’s talking and he’s apparently noticed no one but Jake is really paying attention, because he’s reoriented himself from the table at large to mainly Jake.

“Yes, we get,” Geno breaks in, as Sid takes a breath. He’s taking one for the team, he decides, and that’s backed up by the thankful looks Flower and Tanger give him. “You big nerd, nothing new.” Sid’s head jerks to Geno. Geno smiles at him, all teeth. “Let talk about interesting things now.”

Sid grins, and laughs back. He’s always been able to laugh at himself; it’s one of the things Geno finds most endearing about him. Without that, he’s sometimes thought—usually when Sid was at his most stubborn and irritating—he’d be insufferable. With it, well. It made it easy to tease him. “I’m sorry I like to educate myself,” Sid retorts. He rubs the chain between his thumb and forefinger.

“Educate yourself, fine. Educate all of us…Maybe should quit hockey, be teacher?” Sid makes a face. “Then kids have to listen.”

“You’re free to leave,” Sid retorts.

Geno gestures to wear he’s pinned in by Sid on one side and the wall on the other. “Sorry, ass too big. Got me captured.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sid snaps, but he’s chuckling as he rolls his eyes. “You want out?”

Geno makes an exaggerated frown. “No use. Trapped here forever.”

“Maybe we can use that on the ice,” Tanger inserts. Geno glances across the table to wear Flower and Tanger are sitting, watching Sid with judgmental eyes. And maybe Geno too, but Geno knows them. Neither of them will miss an opportunity to give Sid shit either. “Trap Giroux in a corner with your ass.”

“Giroux? Think too small, Tanger.” Geno eyes Sid, who’s turning a little red but he’s smiling too, taking it in good sport. “Weber at least. Chara, maybe.”

“Sid wishes he could trap Weber with his ass,” Flower throws in, and Sid goes a bit redder. His fingers have slowed on the chain, now; they’re resting close to his chest, where his shirt is gaping open just a little.

“You guys can all fuck off,” Sid tells them. He’s always the least creative with his chirps. Then his lips curl into a smirk. “Anyway, Shea wishes I would trap him with my ass.”

“Ooh!” Tanger cheers, and Flower toasts Sid with his beer. Jake’s just watching them all with wide eyes, because it always takes a while for rookies to understand that Sid’s actually the dorkiest person ever and isn’t whatever hero they’ve been hearing about since they were born.

Sid’s still smirking. Geno wonders—he knows he and Weber are friends, they were roommates at the Olympics, they still hang out whenever they play each other. Sid…

“Is okay,” Geno says, patting Sid on the head in the way he knows Sid hates because it makes him feel short. Sure enough, Sid glares up at him. “Good to have dreams. Even if Weber, dream little small.”

“Oh?” Sid’s still glaring, but he’s got that tilt to his head that says he’s enjoying it too. His hands are on the chain again, idly stroking it. It’s almost a little obscene. “Isn’t Shea bigger than you?”

“No,” Geno mutters. “I’m definitely taller.”

“We can check,” Tanger suggests, going for his phone. That’s really not necessary, Geno thinks; he’s pretty sure he’s taller than Weber. Or maybe Weber just lied more on his stats.

“No, don’t think so.”

“Yeah, let’s,” Flower agrees, because all French Canadians are equal opportunity shit-stirrers. Geno glares, and Flower gives him his most innocent look. “What? I want to know for next year’s fantasy team.”

“You think you pick me, you crazier than I’m think.”

“Hey, did you see the Habs game last night?” Tanger puts in, still looking at his phone. “Looks like Shea did well.”

“Yeah—it was great,” Sid agrees, leaning in like he always does when hockey comes up. It’s like everything in him just gets a little bit more when hockey is mentioned. It’s another one of those things that should be insufferable but isn’t. “Their penalty kill…”

Geno lets Sid start talking again, even if this time it’s on something that they’re all actually interested in. Apparently all the Habs had a good night; Geno is despite himself drawn into the discussion of the Habs’ prospects, because he likes a good hockey talk as much as the next guy on the team, as long as the next guy isn’t Sid.

He goes to take a sip of his drink, and finds to his surprise it’s empty. That won’t do. They don’t even have practice tomorrow; he needs more. “Sid.” He pushes at Sid’s shoulder. “More beer.”

“Get it yourself,” Sid retorts. “No,” he tells Jake, who had been asking about the points overlay. “It’s—”

“Siiid,” Geno interrupts. “Beer.”

Sid turns his whole body to look at Geno, his eyes drawing together a little. Geno stares back. They both know who’s going to win this, because they’ve been doing this since neither of them could technically get each other beers.  

“Fine.” Sid huffs out a breath, but he gets to his feet. He turns to the rest of the table. “Anyone else?”

“So nice of you to ask,” Flower says with a mischievous smile, and Sid rolls his eyes and pretends to listen to whatever ridiculous drink Flower is going to try to make him order.

“You’re all dicks,” Sid announces, and turns to go to the bar. He greets a few of their other teammates on the way, slapping some shoulders and stopping to talk to some others, making his captain rounds. It’s always amazing, Geno thinks, watching him go, that people think he’s a loner; Geno’s never seen anyone who makes friends as thoroughly as Sid, at least on any team he’s ever been on.

He draws his attention back to the table. Tanger’s taken over Sid’s explanation, and apparently for him it requires props, including but not limited to Geno’s empty beer mug, Flower’s hand, and the menu on the table.

It’s amusing to watch and heckle, enough that Geno doesn’t notice that he remains drinkless until it’s over.

Then he does, and he’s not amused. “What take Sid so long?” he asks. Sid’s usually pretty efficient about completing tasks, even if he can be too polite to edge himself up to bars.

Flower looks around, then he laughs. “I think he started to dream bigger,” he chuckles, and waves at a corner of the bar.

Sid’s leaning against the bar, so from the table they can see his face, but he’s not looking at them. He’s looking at the guy next to him at the bar, whose face Geno can’t see but he can see he’s tall and broad and has thick dark hair, and he’s closer to Sid than is normally acceptable. And Geno wouldn’t even need to see that; he can see how Sid’s oriented himself, how he’s looking up at the guy with that look of his that’s half coy and half a challenge and all trademarked Sidney Crosby intensity, how Sid’s playing with his necklace again but this time it’s less like he can’t sit still and more like he wants to draw attention to the chest showing at his collar, to the deftness of his fingers.

“Well damn,” Tanger lets out a low whistle. “Well done, Sid.”

Geno’s beer is sitting next to Sid’s elbow, forgotten. The guy is leaning in, using the inches he has on Sid to loom just enough that Sid’s flushing. Geno knows that lean. This guy’s not that good at it.

Sid’s chain is wrapped around his finger, and then he lets it fall.

“I’m have plan,” he decides, not looking at Sid anymore. “For prank, on Sid.”

“Okay.” Flower perks up.

“No, I don’t—I’m leaving!” Jake shoves back his chair. “Don’t make me part of this.”

Geno considers dragging him into it, because he needs to learn how to do pranks if he’s going to survive in this locker room, but the kid’s clearly a little tipsy and Geno doesn’t really trust him to keep a secret from Sid anyway. “Fine, go,” he allows, waving Jake away. Jake doesn’t wait for Geno to change his mind.

“Anyway,” Geno goes on. “I prank Sid.”

“Okay.” Tanger nods, and gestures for Geno to go on. “Just, don’t fuck with his game.”

“Of course not!” Geno’s not an idiot. “Not anything with routines. I’m think, take necklace.”

Flower’s eyebrows go all the way up, and he glances at Tanger. It’s not the reaction Geno was expecting. He’d thought it was a great idea. Watching Sid run around like a chicken with his head cut off was always funny. Messing with Sid was always funny, because he took it in good sport and recognized that it united the room and raised everyone’s morale when they got one over on the captain.

But, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Flower asks slowly.

“Yes! Will be funny.”

“He really likes his necklace,” Tanger points out. Geno’s noticed. Sid looks like he likes his necklace a lot like now, still doing that idle stroking thing as he talks to the guy.

“Yes, is why it is funny,” Geno explains slowly, in case something’s getting lost in translation. “I take, he look everywhere, I give back.”

They exchange that look again. They’re going to start talking in French soon, Geno can tell.

“You could figure out another prank,” Flower suggests. “I’ve got one I’ve been thinking of, with shaving cream—”

“No, my prank good,” Geno decides. The guy’s even closer now. Sid would just have to turn his hand to touch his chest. Geno’s beer is probably getting warm by now. “Is what he deserve, for forget our drinks.”

Tanger says something to Flower in French. Geno knew it.

“I’m get my own drink,” Geno tells them, and slides out of the booth. If Sid forgot about him, he can get it himself.

He’s at the bar when suddenly Sid is at his side, and Geno nearly jumps. He’d been very pointedly not looking at where Sid was flirting.

“Hey!” Sid grins, and he’s clearly amped from his flirting, flushed and enthusiastic with the attention. “What are you doing?”

Geno raises his eyebrows. “Think you forget about us. Need beer somehow.” Tall guy is still standing where Sid left them, and he’s very obviously watching Sid. Now that Geno can see his face, Geno can admit that he is hot. It’s not like he expected anything else. Sid occasionally does have taste in men, even if not in footwear.

“I was going to come back,” Sid tells him, but then he’s sliding the beer into Geno’s hand, and Flower’s drink at him on the bar. “Here, see?”

“Take you long enough,” Geno mutters, but he glances over Sid’s shoulder at the guy, not trying to be subtle. Sid grins, almost a smirk.

“Yeah, well. Got distracted.”

“Choose boy over teammates?” Geno tsks. “Bros before hos, Sidney. Know that.”

Sid chokes at that. Geno’s always been thankful for Talbo for making sure he learned the right English first. “That’s why I was coming back,” he repeats, and shoves at Geno’s shoulder. He means it, Geno can see. He’s going to come back with Geno, because Sid takes team bonding seriously. Maybe he doesn’t deserve Geno pranking him. It’s not like Geno hasn’t ditched teammates to flirt a little.

“Anyway,�� Sid goes on, and he’s smirking again. “I got his number, so.”

No, Sid definitely deserves it. “Of course you get,” Geno tells Sid. “Now come, have to beat Horny in pool.”

“Geno!” Sid complains, but he lets Geno drag him away from the bar. “You know I suck at pool.”

“No, know you aren’t best at pool,” Geno corrects. “Not same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Sid asks, grinning and Geno grins back. No one’s ever understood him quite like Sid.

///

In the end, it’s not a hard prank to pull off. Sid takes the chain off to shower, so Geno takes a quick shower after practice, gets back to the locker room well before Sidney, and swipes it from his stall. It’s still warm, as Geno puts it carefully in his stall, so he can keep an eye on it while he gets dressed.

Sidney comes in from the showers a few minutes later. Geno’s gotten his pants on, but he’s delaying finishing by chatting with Horny. Horny doesn’t know what’s happening, but he’s on a run about his daughter so Geno can zone out a little, watch over his shoulder as Sid comes in from the shower. He’s laughing with Tanger, his chest flushed from the shower and his smile on from a good practice to lead into the game tomorrow. Tanger says something, then whips a towel at him; Sid snorts and bats the towel away before he goes to his stall.

Geno puts his hand in his pocket, where the necklace is coiled. It feels smooth and warm against his fingers—maybe like it feels for Sid; lighter than his own but still solid.

Sid reaches, like he always does, for the chain—then stops. His eyes narrow. The smile drops from his face, as he looks around the rest of the stall. It makes a little noise; Tanger and Flower look at him, then at Geno with matched skeptical expressions. Geno keeps his face innocent.

“Okay,” Sid suddenly says, loud enough that it cuts through the chatter of the locker room. He’s turned from his stall, and is giving the room his most intimidating captain look. “Does anyone know where my necklace is?”

It gets a number of confused looks. Connor actually looks at his hands, like it might have materialized there.

“Maybe you lose?” Geno suggests, still innocent. Sid’s glare turns to him, but then it skates back to his stall.

“No, I put it right here, like I always do.” Sid gestures at his stall, a choppier movement than he usually uses. “I didn’t lose it.”

“You double check?” Geno suggests.

“Yes, of course I did.” Sid turns back to the stall to triple check, the tension tight in his base shoulders and back. “It’s not there!”

“Sure?” Geno asks again. He’s trying to sound helpful, but he’s much better at bullshitting in Russian.

“I’m—” Sid pauses, then turns to look at Geno. All his muscles are still taut, and his eyes are narrowed into his faceoff stare. “Geno.”

“What?” Geno asks, his most innocent face on. Everyone else seems to be catching on; there are some low murmurs and a few giggles.

“Geno,” Sid repeats evenly. “Give me my necklace.”

“I’m not have!” Geno insists.

Sid’s chest expands with a breath. “Geno,” Sid says one more time, flat. He’s focused everything on Geno; staring at him like the rest of the locker room has dropped away.

Geno lets himself smirk, and he draws his hand out of his pocket, the chain dangling from his fingers as he raises it to chest height. “Oh, you mean this necklace?”

There are a few more snorts, more giggles. Geno waits. This is where Sid rolls his eyes and calls him a fucker and punches him and threatens to get him back, where Sid laughs at how worked up he’d gotten about it, where he makes some joke thanking Geno for keeping it warm for Sid. Where maybe Sid grabs the nearest object to throw at him, and Geno will throw it back and laugh and maybe buy Sid a beer to make up for it so Sid’ll have to spend the next time they’re out at their table, playing with his chain as he rambles on to Geno.

Geno waits, the necklace hanging in front of him. Except—Sid’s staring at the chain, and he’s not smiling, not laughing.

His gaze darts to the side, then to Geno, then back to the chain, and then his chin goes up and he’s got his media face on, his Sidney-Crosby-after-a-bad-game ™ face on. “Thanks,” he says, short and humorless, snatches the necklace from Geno, and turns on his heel to stalk back to his stall.

The room’s silent. The low murmur of amusement is gone, and instead everyone’s either looking or very obviously not looking at Geno, at Sid’s set back as he gets quickly, efficiently changed, packs up his bag, and leaves. Tanger gives Geno a glare to echo Sid’s, then hurries after him.

Geno stares after Sid. Apparently Sid wasn’t in the right mood. Maybe he’ll need to buy him two beers.

He rubs his fingers together, remembering the feel of Sid’s chain between them.

///

Geno doesn’t hear from Sid the rest of the day. That’s not unusual—sometimes they text, sure, but they both do other things too. Geno thinks, vaguely, of texting first—just something so Sid knows that Geno didn’t mean anything by it—but Sid’s never needed that before. He knows that Geno only teases Sid so much because—well, he just always does. Because he likes Sid’s smile when he does, and his goofy laugh. Because Sid has a tendency to take himself too seriously if no one stops him. Because it’s what Geno does. So he doesn’t text first.

The next morning, he gets to morning skate on time for him, which is five minutes late for everyone else. He’s got it down to a science at this point, just how early he needs to get to practice to get on the ice on time. It’s not his fault that he can do it in less time than everyone else.

Everyone’s already there when he gets in, so the locker room is full of the normal bitching about mornings and good-natured challenges. Sid’s already there too, halfway to changed and pulling on his under armor shirt as he chats with Kuni.

Geno drops his bag loudly in his stall, and waits for the shit to start. Sid almost always likes to give him shit about getting in late, because he thinks that just because he drives like a grandpa everyone else does. Geno’s turning to him, ready with his normal retorts on his tongue—but Sid hasn’t looked at him. Sid’s still talking to Kuni, and Tanger’s joined them.

It’s not in itself odd. Sid doesn’t always give him shit for it. But Geno knows Sid too, and he knows the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head, and he’s not just talking to someone else, he’s not looking at Geno.  

“Sid!” Geno says, loud enough that there’s no way he can pretend he didn’t hear. “Make me get up early, not bring coffee?”

Sid straightens, turns. His media face is back on, a smile like he gives to reporters, and nothing like the squinty eyed smile he gives to friends—to Geno. The chain hangs around his neck, barely visible under his shirt. “I couldn’t carry it for everyone, sorry,” he says coolly, and then turns back. Flower says something in French; Tanger laughs and Sid rolls his eyes and giggles like he usually does when anyone teases him.

Okay, so Sid’s mad. Geno’s not an idiot, he can tell that. Sid just needs to work it out. They always come together on the ice, and it’ll be fine.

Except it’s not. Sid spends all practice being perfectly himself with everyone else, chirping everyone and talking too much and being the good captain, and with Geno’s he’s—well, he’s treating Geno like anyone else. He tells Geno when he did well and when he thinks he can improve, he slaps Geno on the shoulder after a particularly nice shot on Flower, their passes connect like they always do.

But he doesn’t smile at Geno like normal, like Geno’s hockey is the best thing he’s ever seen. He doesn’t laugh or joke with Geno at all. He just—plays hockey with him. He’s never just played hockey with Geno, not even when they were kids and Geno didn’t speak any English.

Back in the locker room, Geno thinks about going over—about saying something. Apologizing, maybe? He’s still not sure what he did wrong, why Sid’s doing this. Sid doesn’t even get mad, not really. He gets hockey mad, sure, but unless you’re a Flyer, it doesn’t go more than a few hours off the ice—and he even got over that with Giroux. They’re friends now, Geno knows. Sometimes they text. Geno’s teased him about that too, about how Sidney has some sort of magic Canadian pheromone that makes all hockey players like him if he spends some time in a room with them.

But other than that, off the ice—Sid’s an even-tempered guy. He gets pissed like anyone else, and sometimes it’s easy to set him off if you mess with his routines, but Geno hasn’t, and anyway, this isn’t Sid’s pissy lectures that last for ten minutes then end. This is something else, something colder and harsher.

Geno gets out of his pads, and makes a move to go over to Sid. To do something, so Sid will stop just talking to everyone else and will start talking to him again. But then Sid turns to survey the room, and his eyes slow as they get to Geno—and then keep going, without even a smile.

Geno makes a face, and turns to Horny to start talking about their line. He doesn’t need Sid either. Horny doesn’t even call him on it, just lets him talk about plays until they’re interrupted by Sid, who’s leaving and does his usual captain not-quite-a-speech telling everyone to rest up and eat a good dinner.

“Like spaghetti?” Geno calls, partly before he can stop himself but also because Sid has to look at him then. And he does, his eyes settling on Geno, and Geno smirks back. Maybe—Sid will laugh and say at least he can cook spaghetti, which is a lie because Geno actually can cook but he likes pretending he can’t so Sid will come cook for him, and they both know it.

Except Sid just nods. “Whatever you want,” he says with a shrug. “See you all.”

He leaves. Geno takes a deep breath, and Horny lets out a low whistle. “Someone’s sleeping on the couch tonight,” he observes.

“I sleep in bed, not know what you’re talk about,” Geno retorts, because pretending he doesn’t get an idiom is always a good way to handle a situation where he doesn’t have a response.

///

He goes home, takes his nap, and gets into his game mode. That’s the same no matter what, and the routine is a comfort. Sid might be mad at him, but Geno still sleeps and eats and gets in his car, and the locker room doesn’t feel any different when he gets there from how it normally does. Sid’s set and as intent as he usually is, the beating center of the team as he moves around the room, talking to the guys who like to talk.

Geno usually doesn’t like to talk—he needs to get into the right headspace, and that means not shooting the shit with everyone else. So he’s not surprised when Sid doesn’t say anything to him, just passes him by. It still feels icier.

Sully comes in to say his piece, then they line up. Geno waits, and then it’s just him and Sid, and Sid looks up and their eyes meet for what feels like the first time in twenty-four hours.

For a second, a horrible, interminable second, Geno thinks Sid’s not going to do it. That Sid’s going to leave him hanging like this. That they’ve broken, utterly and completely.

But it’s Sid, and of course he’s not going to do anything to break his routine. Sid reaches out, and Geno’s hand pressed against his chest, then their heads knock together. It’s only for an instant, probably even less time than usual, but it’s contact. It’s still theirs.

And then Sid’s down the tunnel, and Geno after him, and Geno tries to stop thinking about what Sid’s shoulders are telling him. They’ve got a game to play.

///

They win in OT, on Geno’s goal, and Geno’s hit by four other bodies after it goes in. He doesn’t need to look to know who is who; he knows the one at his side is Sid, hugging him hard in celebration. It’s the icing on a game-winner cake, and Geno goes into the locker room smiling.

He comes out—not frowning, but dimmed. Sid hadn’t thawed. Whatever moment there was on the ice—Sid’s grin and the way he’d looked at Geno like he was the best thing there was—was apparently a one time thing, because when he’d tried to tease Sid about the scuffle he got into in the second, Sid had just brushed it away. It’s getting to the point where other guys on the team are starting to look uncomfortable.

They all end up going out, because they won at home and the rookies are into the idea. Geno gets there late, so people are already settled—the young guys are dancing, and so are some of the older ones but most of them are at a table, arguing loudly in different sets because hockey players are incapable of being quiet in groups.

Sid’s at the table, laughing loudly at something Dales had said. His face is scrunched up into his real smile, and he’s wearing one of his black shirts that always manage to look too small around the shoulders, and his hand’s twisted in his necklace again.

Geno orders two beers, and goes over to the table.

Sid’s not quite in the center, so despite the odd looks it’s easy enough to bully his way into the seat next to Sid, ignoring the wary looks assorted French Canadians are giving him. “Here,” he says, shoving the beer at Sid. “For you.”

Sid looks at it, then at Geno. The edges of his laugh are still in his eyes. “Thank you,” he says automatically. Then, less Canadian-polite reflexes, “I already have a drink, though.”

“I know. Get you another one.” Does Sid not understand peace offerings? When Sid still hesitates, Geno glares. “Sid, take.”

Sid’s eyes dart from Geno around the table, at the people watching them, and then he smiles, that perfect too bright media smile. “Okay, thanks.” He slides it towards himself, and takes another drink of what he already has.

Geno sighs, and starts up a conversation with Kuni across the table from him, because it’s better than thinking about how Sid’s inched his chair over so he’s farther from Geno.

He actually gets pretty wrapped up in that conversation, so he doesn’t really notice when things shift on the other side of the table, until he needs Sid to tell Kuni, Flower, and Tanger that he’s right and he turns to him—but he’s not there. Two empty glasses are, including the one Geno got him, which is something at least, but Sid’s not. Sid, Geno sees quickly, is across the bar, playing pool with Schultzy.

The last time they’d gone out, Geno and Sid had played pool together, and they’d lost but Geno had spent the whole time chirping everyone else as Sid leaned against him and tucked his giggles into Geno’s shoulder, and they’d done a parody of a celly when Geno had gotten a particularly good shot, and Geno was sure Sid hadn’t thought about the guy at the bar’s number at all because they’d been having fun.

Now, Sid is leaning over, that terrifyingly intense look on his face he gets when he’s going to win or god help the world, and Geno’s all the way over here.

He turns away from Sid, only to be met with three looks of varying forms of patience and amusement. He debates bullshitting, but these are actually the guys he probably needs to talk to. “Why Sid so mad at me?”

Tanger snorts. “Because you were a dick?”

“I’m always dick,” Geno points out, which gets a snort from Flower and a nod from Kuni. “Usually, Sid like. Think is funny.”

“He didn’t this time,” Flower informs him. Geno rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I’m notice. Why?”

“You should be asking him that,” Kuni puts in. He always makes what he’s suggesting sound so reasonable, Geno actually considers it for a moment before waving it away.

“Would have to get him to talk, first.” Across the bar, Sid’s shoving at Hags, his face set in that expression where he lost and he’s trying to go against all of his nature and be a good sport about it.  “Why won’t he talk to me?”

“You were mean,” Flower says, condescendingly patient in that way Geno hates. “He’s allowed to be hurt.”

“I’m not mean!”

“Seems like it.”

“I’m just tease! Is what we do!”

“Does he know that?” Kuni puts in, and Geno glares, outraged.

“Of course!” Of course Sid knows it’s just teasing. Of course Sid knows that Geno would do anything for him. Sometimes it feels like half the words out of Geno’s mouth are talking about how amazing Sid is, and he stands by every one of them. Geno would move mountains for Sid. Geno would—he would do a lot of stupid things for Sid. Even more than the rest of the team would, he thinks, and that’s a lot. None of Geno’s teasing counteracts that. “Of course,” Geno repeats, less sure. Sid has to know.

Tanger says something to Flower in French, and Flower replies in the same language. Geno glares. He knows that move. He’s done that move. That means they’re talking about him. “What?”

Another quick French exchange, then Flower smiles, all teeth. “Just saying, your pigtail pulling was a lot cuter when you were twenty.”

Geno decides not to humor that with a response. He just shoves away from the table. He needs another drink. He needs not to think about Sid and the wall that’s come down and stupid meddling Quebecois.

Across the room, Sid’s leaning over the pool table again. At this angle, his chain’s fallen out of his shirt, and Geno can see the 87, the glitter of the gold like a magnet drawing Geno’s eyes to the strong lines of his neck.

Geno definitely needs more beer. If he doesn’t, he’s going to go over to the pool table and do something stupid like yell, so. More beer.

///

Geno goes home disappointingly sober, though probably that’s good given they have another early practice then a game the next day, and then a roadie. But in that moment, it’s disappointing, because it means Geno can’t stop thinking. Sid has to know. Sid usually likes Geno’s teasing, and how he pushes Sid around a little bit and doesn’t let him get away with anything. It’s been a basic part of their friendship for almost ten years. Taking his necklace wasn’t anything different.

Except Sid had spent the whole evening away from Geno, circling between groups of teammates in a way that wasn’t abnormal except for how whatever group he was with was never the one Geno was with. Usually at bars, Sid’s the base that Geno always comes back to, going out to dance or flirt or drink and then coming back to try to coax Sid into one of those activities or just to talk with Sid, because that was always the best part of any night out—Sid with his cheeks a little flushed with alcohol and laughter giggling at something Geno had said.

Geno had missed that. And if Sid somehow fooled himself into not realizing Geno thought that, he’ll have to convince him of it again.

The next morning, he gets up inhumanly early so he can go half the city out of his way before practice. He actually gets to practice early, which earns him plenty of mock-gasps and a mimed heart attack, but he flips them all off and carefully sets down his acquisition in Sid’s stall, where he’ll find it first thing.

When he satisfies himself with the arrangement, half the locker room is gaping at him. He glares, his best Russian bear impression, and most of them stop.

Flower’s waiting near his stall, and he’s got his shit-talking smile on.

“Don’t start,” Geno warns, and Flower smirks and holds up his hands like he was never going to say anything at all.

Sid comes in a few minutes later. Geno watches him out of the corner of his eye, and he’s definitely not the only one, because no one’s tried to get Sid’s attention yet like they often do.

Sid sets down his back, straightens—and pauses, as he sees the box from his favorite bakery sitting on the shelf. “What?” he asks, leaning forward so he can open it. His eyes go big, then he twists to look at the locker room. The expression on his face is wavering between happiness and wariness. “My birthday’s not til August, guys.”

“Maybe you have a secret admirer!” Connor suggests, his face very carefully innocent. Geno shoots him a look that he hopes communicates just how much he’s going to fine him next time he has half an excuse.

“Maybe someone’s trying to fatten you up,” Tanger adds, pinching at Sid’s side. Sid bats him away.

“Maybe we stop asking about Sid’s present, and go play hockey?” Geno says, louder than he means to. Sid’s gaze flicks to him, holds. Geno wants to squirm. Wants to memorize how it feels, because Sid hasn’t looked at him in what feels like years.

“Oh,” Sid says, his fingers tangling in his chain and his teeth digging into his lower lip. He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look upset, either. Confused, if anything.

Geno decides to count it as a win, and goes to play some hockey.

///

They lose that night, which is a shitty way to go into a roadie and just compounds the fact that Geno’s offering didn’t immediately clear everything up and Sid didn’t immediately start treating him normally again.

Fine then. Sid’s not a subtle guy; Geno can be more direct, even if it hurts. It’ll be worth it, if Sid’ll smile at him again, and not spend all his time holed up with Flower and Tanger speaking in French so Geno couldn’t understand it even if he wanted to. Sid doesn’t even like French. Tanger and Flower always spend most of their time teasing him about how bad his French is. They’re apparently allowed to do that.

They’re in New York the next day, and the team apparently took the loss yesterday as a fire under them, because they’re playing like a team possessed, Sid most of all. He’s on the sort of tear he gets when someone threw him a challenge, and Geno loves when Sid’s like this, when Sid’s pushing them all forward, pushing Geno to match him, be better. It feels like magic when they’re on the ice together, like it has since they were twenty, and when Sid breaks the tie in the last thirty seconds of regulation off of Geno’s assist with one of those insane shots that make Sid who he is, Geno’s the first one who hits him, grabbing him and spinning him around with his momentum.

“Sid!” he yells, and Sid’s alight with victory and he’s grinning at Geno like nothing else could ever matter.

Then the rest of the guys on the ice are hitting them, and Sid’s accepting the pats from them and Geno lets them in.

He catches Jen’s eye, as they file down the tunnel. She gives him the special exasperated look she saves just for him, but she hangs back to talk. “What?” she asks, sounding harried. “We made a deal, you do—”

“I talk to media today,” he announces, cutting her off. He almost wishes he had a camera to catch her expression.

“Seriously?” then she shakes her head. “Never mind, not looking a gift horse, etc. Okay, you’re on.” She pauses, then raises her eyebrows. “Are you going to do something I should know about?”

Geno thinks about it, but he’s not going to do anything unusual. That’s the whole point. “No,” he tells her. Then, because it was an odd question—he and Jen trust each other generally, and he knows that she never puts his slips down to anything other than language—“Why?”

Her lips press together. “Well, if you were going to make a grand gesture, I’d want to be prepared.”

“Grand gesture?”

She pats his arm, all perfectly poised condescension. “Try flowers,” she suggests. “That’s what my husband does, when he messes up.”

“I’m not—” There were so many things wrong with that sentence, not least of which that Jen knew that something had happened. He hated all his gossipy teammates.

“Okay.” She clearly didn’t mean it, but she let him off the hook. “Be ready for questions.”

“I’m always ready!” he retorts, and she laughs and lets him go.

He gets a lot of confusion when he settles in to let the reporters talk without complaining, both from the team and from the reporters themselves, who basically all know him by now. He catches Sid giving him a sidelong look, that same wary confusion, though, so his plan is working.

He answers all the bullshit questions, the shit they always ask like he’ll say something different, waiting. They always ask him the question when Sid’s had a hot night, he knows it’ll come.

Finally, “So that last goal of Crosby’s was pretty impressive—how do you think it compares to McDavid’s gamewinner that everyone was talking about last week?”

Geno sits up straighter, and glances over to where Sid’s answering questions. They seem to be dying down; he raises his voice as he answers, so hopefully Sid’ll hear him. “I think—Sid best.” Geno shrugs. The reporters are crowding in, because Geno is giving them some great quotes, but it means he can’t see Sid, if Sid heard. “I’m say for years, is still true. New guys, they good, but is no one like Sid. On ice, off ice. Best captain. Best guy. Best player. After me,” he adds, to get the laughs. “But is no comparing. Not to me.”

“Geno—” the reporters start, but they’ve shifted and Geno can see Sid. Can see Sid watching him, his eyes big, before he blinks and goes back to his own media.

Geno gets done first, so he heads to the showers before Jen yells at him for something. Before Sid gets done, maybe, and asks him about it. Before it might not have been enough.

“So,” Tanger says, because he must have been waiting to ambush Geno when he was naked and at his most vulnerable. “That was quite a speech.”

“Not a speech.”

Tanger waves his hand, dismissive. “A gesture, then.” He’s smiling, but his gaze is sharp. “They’re going to get a lot of mileage out of that.”

Geno shrugs again. “Is—if Sid…is worth it.” It’s not like he was lying. Not like it’s anything he hasn’t said before. Everyone knows his position on this.

Tanger’s smile softens, and he claps Geno on the shoulder. “Bon chance, mon ami.”

Geno doesn’t think he needs luck, but he’s not going to say no to it, either, especially not from someone who might be able to push Sid one way or the other.

“Spasibo,” he mutters, and dunks his head under the spray so Tanger can’t talk to him anymore.

///

There’s noise about finding a bar in New York after, but Geno’s tired and he doesn’t feel like getting teased about his sound bite for the whole night, so he begs off. He can’t tell what Sid’s going to do—he’s talking with Flower up by the front of the bus, and Geno’s too far back to figure out what he said. If even after that speech, Sid’s still going to go out—maybe find a guy, in this city where he’s mostly anonymous; maybe even just stand at the bar and flirt with someone, his eyes dark and his fingers teasing at his necklace like a taunt of what else they could do—Geno can’t see it.

He gets back to his room and strips out of his suit, pulls on sweats instead and his laptop, so he can maybe fine something to watch. He’s debating how much distraction he needs when there’s a knock on the door—one of the kids, hoping he’ll go out with them, he bets, and so he’s already saying, “I’m say, I not go—” when he opens the door.

Then he stops. “Hey,” says Sid. He’s changed too, into one of his five million sweats and Pens t-shirt combination, and he’s still a little mussed from the shower, and he’s fiddling nervously with his chain and Geno’s heart thumps painfully. “Can I come in?”

Geno steps back to let him in. Sid pushes past him, getting to the center of the room then turning in a circle, like he’s realizing there’s nowhere really to sit other than the bed. They’ve sat on each other’s beds in hundreds of hotel rooms, but something in Geno’s stomach twists at the thought of Sid on his bed, here and now.

Instead, Sid leans against the desk, half-perching, and crosses his arms over his chest. Geno doesn’t want to sit on the bed, then, and the desk chair is too close to Sid, so he just sort of hoves in the center of the room. What does he usually do with his hands when he talks to Sid? He’s somehow forgotten.

“Um. So…” Sid starts, and it’s so Sid that Geno starts to laugh.

“Sid,” he chuckles, and Sid’s grin flashes, quick and sweet.

“Sorry, this is weird!” he protests. “We’ve never had to do this before.”

He’s not wrong. It’s still so very Sid, and Sid had smiled at him, and it drags something out of Geno that he doesn’t do often. “I’m sorry,” he says. Sid’s eyes immediately go wide, and his eyebrows go up. “For—still not sure why what I did was worse than usual, but am sorry it made you mad.”

“Yeah.” Sid uncrosses his arms so he can run a hand through his hair. “It really—I mean, it was mainly me, and you couldn’t no, so maybe I overreacted, sorry.”

Geno rolls his eyes. His ridiculous Canadian captain. “Can’t apologize for what I’m apologize for, Sid.”

“Apparently I can,” Sid retorts, and Geno relaxes even more. “But, like. I know. I heard you, today. And with the cake. And—it really was—like, it probably wasn’t any worse than the shit we usually give each other.”

Geno sort of wants to drag in Flower and Tanger to make them hear that, so they know he was right. But also, “And?” he prompts. “You take worse, so—why?”

Sid bites at his lip again. “It’s, well. You know how it was for me, when I was a kid? With, well. The locker rooms weren’t always friendly.”

“I know.” Geno has heard the stories. Geno has wanted to go hunt down every kid who ever hurt Sid or made him afraid or said anything cruel and punch them, then shove their face into Sid’s trophy cabinet.

“Yeah, well. Sometimes, they would take shit from my stall—like, normally just little stuff, but it was sometimes my clothes—and they thought it was funny when I freaked out, so.” Sid shrugs, matter of fact. “It just, you doing that…It made me think of you like them.” Sid lifts his head, and his eyes are very very serious, and still just a little hurt. “I know you aren’t, but it still was—that you’d do something like them.”

Geno is going to kill all of those kids, and then he’s going to get someone to punch him in the face.

“Sid, I’m not—I’m not mean—”

“I know.” Sid gives him a weak smile. “I do, and I heard you today, but…”

“I’m not mean,” Geno repeats, because Sid needs to understand this. He crosses the room, so he can grab Sid’s shoulders, make sure he stays here. “Not—not want to laugh at you, or be mean.”

Sid’s gaze is even, but his brow furrows. “Then—what’s the point of the prank?”

“Because—” and here’s the thing Geno’s never really said, never admitted to anyone, even himself, but Sid needs to know he wasn’t like those kids, because he doesn’t want Sid to cut him off again. “Because, I want you to look at me.”

Sid’s eyebrows go up. “G, I look at you all the time.”

Geno shakes his head. He knows he’s going red. “Not like—you at bar, using chain to flirt, and you—want you to look at me always,” he mutters, and lets go of Sid so he can duck his face. He can’t say this and look at Sid. “Not flirt with other guys. Just with me.”

“Oh.” Geno refuses to look at Sid, but he can hear the wonder. “Oh. Geno…”

“Is fine if—I stop, I know, I can be dick about it, and is not—”

“G,” Sid says, and then his hand’s on Geno’s chin, tilting it up so he has to look at Sid. Sid’s smiling—grinning, really, and he’s looking at Geno like the world could fall apart around them and he wouldn’t notice, like all of Sidney Crosby’s famous intensity is focused right on him. “I’m always paying attention to you.” He licks his lips, and Geno can’t help looking, and when he manages to stop Sid’s smirking. “You didn’t have to spend eight years pulling my pigtails—”

“You and Flower, so obsess with pigtails,” Geno retorts, but he’s smiling too, because he knows the look Sid is giving him, and he’d never really thought, but he doesn’t want to be anywhere but here. “You not have enough hair to pull anymore.”

“That’s not really true,” Sid replies, his face even other then his dancing eyes, and Geno chokes. “I mean, unless you don’t think you can—”

“Think you need to shut up,” Geno tells him, and Sid’s laughing even as Geno gets a hand in Sid’s chain to yank him in to kiss him.

///

After, they’re lying on the bed, Geno still has his pants on, but he’s shirtless and Sid’s propped up on one elbow, idly tracing lines on his chest. Sid is naked, though, so Geno thinks he’s getting the better part of this deal, because he can lie back and watch Sid, with his messy hair and swollen lips and the mark on his chest that is definitely going to turn into a bruise, and bask.

Sid drags his finger over Geno’s pec, towards where his own cross is lying against his chest, when he pauses.

“Wait, did you apologize?”

Geno narrows his eyes. “You make me!”

“No, Geno apologized! I’m telling everyone. This is a first.” Sid goes for his phone, and Geno lunges, gets his arms around Sid’s waist to pull him back. It also gets Sid squirming against him, laughing as he stretches. “Come on, I’ve never heard of you actually apologizing before!”

“I say never happened,” Geno warns. “You big liar, everyone knows. Maybe not hear right.”

“Nope.”

Geno tugs, and turns, so Sid’s underneath him, grinning up at him as Geno hovers over him. He’s laughing and his eyes are glinting with it as he looks up at Geno, naked but for the chain on his chest and one sock. “I’m say you apologize first,” Geno decides, and silences Sid’s giggles with a kiss.

[sidgeno-fluff-fest]

SidGeno fluff fest Week 12

We made it to the end everybody! The last week of the fluff fest is up to you! If you have an idea cooking that none of the prompts touched on this is your chance to include it in the fest. Nothing holding you back. Skies the limit.

Remember to tag your work with #SidGenoFluffFest and/or tag this blog so I can share it. If you’re posting to Ao3 add it to the collection here. Have fun, keep it fluffy.

[cakemakethme]

Week Five - Magic

Elemental Users Geno and Sid for the @sidgeno-fluff-fest

(Now on AO3)

One is fiery and passionate and the other is cool and controlled but both know there's more to each other than that.

[rain-drop-sky]

Do you know Sid? (Part 1/?)

“Oh hey,” Tanger says as he walks into the boardroom, looking thoughtfully at the scone in his hand. “Did someone bring in treats and leave them in the kitchen? Because this scone is fucking delicious.”

“Shhh!!” hisses Flower as Kuni frantically mimes zipping his mouth shut and slitting his throat while waving at Tanger to sit down.

“What?” Tanger mumbles as he took another bite, looking around to see what was causing the fuss.

“Tanger!” Geno booms, suddenly looming in front of him with a wide grin.

“Jesus fuck, where did you come from?” Tanger jumped back, grabbing onto a seat as he tried to calm his pounding heart.

“What you pick? Oh, blueberry lemon? Excellent choice? Very delicious, no?” Geno’s eyes seem to have a slightly manic glint.

“Yeah, it’s really fluffy and like, there’s so many blueberries it’s great. I hate it when places get stingy.” Flower is mouthing STOP TALKING and Kuni coughs and adds “Hey Geno, I noticed something in the surveillance reports on the Ortega Family's movement--”

“Is best, yes? Bakery is called Harbour Bakery and everything made from scratch by owner Sid, very talented. Do you know Sid?” Geno takes a quick pause to beam benevolently down at Tanger.

“You’ve done it now.” Kuni sighs.

Tanger squints at Geno’s face, down at his half-eaten scone, and back up. Oh shit, that’s not mania he sees in Geno’s eyes, that’s--

“Sid is owner of new bakery in town! Make lots of things, cakes, breads, cookies. Best is Sid make Russian treats too! He made this today too for me!” Geno shoves excitedly what smelled and looks like a small lemon pound cake under Tanger’s nose. “Limon Kek! Sid is so nice, so good, so smart. Have very cute smile.”

Ah, there it was. That glint in Geno’s eye was a crush. Shit.

“He so small, can fit in my pocket,” Geno rambles on though no one had asked for any details about this ‘Sid’. “Such cute curly hair, pretty eyes, cute laugh.” Geno sighs happily.

“We get it G, you met your one true love after talking him for twenty minutes.” Flower interjects dryly.

“Where is everyone?” Kuni wonders as he looks up at the clock. “We’re starting the team meeting in five minutes.”

Tanger jerked and double-checked the clock. “Wait, what, G’s in early? What the fuck, you’re never early G, is this guy’s ass magic or some shit.”

“Qu’est-ce qui ne vas pas chez toi? What the hell is wrong with you?” groaned Flower, pegging Tanger hard in the head with a wadded up napkin. “Why do you keep talking, just shut the fuck up--”

“Sid’s ass best.” Geno looked a bit fanatical now. “So big, no, huge. He bend over to point out where breads were and it was just.” He trails off in dreamy silence, hands pausing in the middle of outlining a large round shape.

“Okay, that’s enough. Thank you for sharing with the class the wonders of baker Sid’s ass, this is not inappropriate at all.” sighs Kuni. “Seriously, where is everyone?”

Right on cue, the door bangs open and the rest of the team jostles in, laughing as they all take seats around the table. Schultzy raises his hand and calls out around a mouthful, “So who made the muffins? Can you bring in more, these are fucking delicious.”

Flower repeatedly slams his head against the table while Kuni throws his hands in the air in frustration. “Fine, you know what, G, go for it. Give us the full rundown on your newfound love. You get five minutes. Go.” Geno shoots to his feet with a lovesick grin and proceeds to evangelize on the wonders of Harbour Bakery and it’s lovely owner, Sid.

Part 2

[bumblybee-fic]

The Great Canadian Bake Off

Words: 7,888 Relationship: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin Tags: Great British Bake Off AU, Baker Sid, Hockey Player Geno Summary: When it’s time, though, Sidney takes a deep breath, slipping his lucky NUTS About Baking apron, a gift from his grandmother, over his shoulders, and turns on the camera for his audition tape. 

“My name’s Sidney Crosby; I’m from Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia; and today I’m going to be making my grandmother’s maple butter tarts.”

here is my fic for the @sidgeno-fluff-fest!! it got really long so i’ve decided to only post it to ao3 in order to avoid dash spam. :)

[malkkins-blog]

dreams do come true

Summary: He woke up some morning and thought that it was all a dream, that he was still in Nova Scotia, not drafted and not playing hockey, have never met Geno, but every time, he felt the bed move and a strong arm wrap around him. It wasn’t a dream, it was never a dream. He’s married to Geno and together they have the two most beautiful little girls Sidney has ever seen.  AO3 Words:1,114 Author’s Note: this was written for week 3 of the @sidgeno-fluff-fest !

“Papa, Papa!” Anya is screaming, tugging on Sid’s shirt. “That’s Cinderella’s castle!”

Sid lets out a soft laugh, picking his daughter up. “You get to meet Cinderella.”

“Really Daddy? We get to meet Cinderella?” Tasha exclaimed before her perch in Geno’s arms.

“Da, get to meet all the princesses,” Geno responds, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I wanna meet Elsa first!”

“I wanna meet Cinderella first!”

Sid and Geno share a laugh as they both set their daughters down. “Cinderella first, then Elsa.” Tasha lets out a grumble but nevertheless takes her sister’s hand and heads towards the castle. The twins are six now and Sid and Geno have been retired for nearly eight years. Sid got another awful concussion and Geno’s knee gave out shortly after their fifth Stanley Cup win. After retirement, word came out that they had been married since Sid was twenty-six and, now that they no longer had to live under the rule of the NHL and they’re both too old to compete in the Olympics, coming out was something that opened their minds. Since coming out, they have both been advocates for LGBTQ hockey players. The names Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin have come to stand for more than Hall of Fame players and the face of Penguins hockey for twenty years, they stand for acceptance and inclusion. After two years of speeches and working for the Pens, they both decided that it was time to start their family. They adopted a set of twin girls and they fell in love with Anastasia and Natasha the moment their eyes laid on them. They still live in Pittsburgh, both holding jobs within the Penguins organization and they wanted their daughters to experience the city that brought them together.

They’re standing in line to meet Ariel when Anya lets out a yawn. They’ve been at the park all day, switching off between meeting characters, riding rides, and eating mounts of snacks. “Sleepy Anya?” Sid asks, squatting down to his daughter’s height. She shook her head, her braided ponytails hitting the sides of her head.

“No, Papa. Not tired.” At that moment, Tasha lets out an even louder yawn which causes Sid to look up at Geno.

“Think we call it day,” Geno states, a twinge of sadness in his voice. Both girls looked up at him before back at Sid with pouty faces.

“I agree with your Dad. We meet Ariel and then head back. Tomorrow, we’re going to meet with Buzz and Woody!” Sid is trying to get the pouting looks off of his girls’ faces and the mention of their beloved toys make them smile.

“Well, hello there little princesses!” The cast member working the front of the line smiles at the four of them. “Are you ready to meet Princess Ariel?” Both the girls scream in excitement. “She’s very ready to meet you!” The cast member lets them through and both the girls go running towards with Sid and Geno close behind. The photographer takes a few shots as the girls get their books signed and talking to Ariel about their love of dinglehoppers before turning to look at Sid and Geno.

“Why don’t you two get on up there and I’ll take a few family shots? New picture for the mantel?” They look at each other before joining their daughters. They pose for a few shots, Anya still going on about her love of all things shiny.

“Come on, Anya.” Sid says as he gets up from his perch on the bench. He takes his daughter’s hand as she waves goodbye with the other one.

They’re barely out of the grotto when Anya starts to drag her feet, so Sid picks her up and places her on his shoulder. A minute later, Tasha starts begging for Geno to pick her up as well.

Once back at the hotel, with the girls settled in their room, Sid and Geno fall onto their own bed. Their feet are in more pain than they can ever remember and Geno’s knee is acting up, but they’re wearing smiles. They would go through all the pain in the world just to make their girls smile.

“Thank you.” It’s a quiet statement falling from Geno’s lips as the silence seeps into the room. “Wouldn’t have this without you.”

Together, they had won five Stanley Cups, four Conn Smythes, three gold medals and countless other awards but nothing compared to the feeling Sidney Crosby had in his heart right now. He could win the Cup five more times, skate around the open ice- only him and the weight of cup- but it would never give him the same rush, the same level of love that Geno gave him. There was no way any award could ever match the amount of pure love and joy Sid woke up to every morning. It had taken him a long time to realize it, morning spent wondering if him and Geno were making a mistake by being together, worrying that Russia was going to find out or the NHL, then worrying that they wouldn’t be good fathers, that they shouldn’t be raising kids because they’re still busy.

He woke up some morning and thought that it was all a dream, that he was still in Nova Scotia, not drafted and not playing hockey, have never met Geno, but every time, he felt the bed move and a strong arm wrap around him. It wasn’t a dream, it was never a dream. He’s married to Geno and together they have the two most beautiful little girls Sidney has ever seen.

He cups his hand around Geno’s cheek, rubbing his thumb over the bone there. He stares into Geno’s eyes, wondering how he got to be so lucky. “G, you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. You and Anya and Tasha- well worth retirement. It’s such a dream that we’re here. Not just Disney, but we’re married, G.”

“Been married fifteen years, Sid.”

“It’s still a dream. Anya and Tasha just finish it off. We have the most amazing life, G.”

“Want another baby, Sid.” Sid drops his hand, his brows furrowing for the slightest second. They’ve talked about it, but it was always something for when the girls were older.

“Do you think they’re old enough?” Geno smiles and Sid moves to rest his head against his chest once Geno lays on his back.

“Da.”

“Then, we should enjoy this trip as a family of four. Won’t tell the girls til we get home.”

“Love you, Sid.” Sid presses a kiss where his head is resting against the other’s chest.

“Love you too, G.”

[fanforthefics]

For the @sidgeno-fluff-fest prompt “farming”. As per usual, went sideways. Comes in around 5k. 

Geno drives for hours before he gets to the farm. It’s not something he’s surprised about—he’d been warned that this was the middle of nowhere—but he’s still somehow taken aback, by the long rows of trees on either side of the road, by the few cars around him. There’s isolation and there’s isolation, and this is clearly the latter. He stops the car a few times to snap some pictures; the magazine will like that.

He knows before he sees the number that he reached the farm. There’s a stone wall around the edge of the property, not tall enough to prevent jumping but a clear barrier, and beyond it fields of something growing in neat rows. Geno sees a big red barn, then it falls out of sight around a curve in the road as he keeps driving until he reaches a gate. The gate is big and imposing, and it has a modern security system on it—clearly the best money can buy.

Geno rolls down the window to push the button. The humid summer heat blasts in, not quite kept at bay by the laboring air conditioner of his car.

“Yes?” a staticy voice comes over the intercom.

“Is Geno Malkin,” Geno tells the button. He’s not sure if there’s a camera, so he looks as trustworthy and as like the ID photo security had requested he send ahead of time as possible. “For interview?”

“Oh, yeah. Come on in.”

The buzzer sounds, and the gate swings open. Geno closes the window thankfully, and drives through.

The lane is long and winding, through more fields and what looks like a pasture, given that there are some sheep on it. Then Geno rounds a curve, and there’s the house. It’s an old sprawling farmhouse, somehow both utterly and charmingly cliché. To its side there’s a fenced off area with more things growing; next to that are some chickens. And on the porch is the man Geno came to see, leaning casually against a pillar in jeans and an old Habs t-shirt that’s barely holding on to his arms with a baseball cap over his head.

Sidney Crosby, the boy wonder who became one of the most solidly producing musician of the generation, whose face has been on billboards over Times Square and Vogue magazine and, admittedly, on Geno’s wall, stands on the porch of his farmhouse much like he once had a stage: confident, proprietary, and more attractive than he had a right to be.

///

Geno parks his car at the end of the driveway next to an old, worn-in looking pickup and a Chevy Tahoe. Even Crosby at his height—which, arguably, he hasn’t considerably dropped from—had never been one for flashy purchases, but still, part of Geno wonders if there’s a Mercedes in the barn of something. Or, realistically, this isn’t Crosby’s only house. He has one in New York, and there’s a rumor that he has one back in his Canadian home town, though no one’s been willing to confirm that to Geno. Maybe there’s more flash there.

Crosby’s come down from the house while Geno’s busy making sure he has everything, so he’s waiting a few meters away when Geno gets out of the car.

Geno’s seen him in person once before, at a concert years ago, and while he’d been in the press seats then he still hadn’t been nearly important enough to get close enough to really see Crosby. Up close, Geno can see that what everyone has always said about Crosby is true—he really is different in front of cameras. Geno’s always found all the pictures of Crosby a little endearingly awkward, like he’s not sure what to do with himself. But in person, Crosby’s a lot to take in.

“Hi!” Geno says, when he’s managed to get out of the car. “Geno Malkin.”

“Sidney Crosby.” Crosby reaches out to take Geno’s hand. He’s got a firm handshake, with callouses on his palms like he doesn’t just sing for a living. Geno very firmly tells the part of him that is still eighteen years old and dreaming of stardom and a place where he could be himself and dreaming about the boy on TV with his pretty eyes and solid ass to shut up. He’s a professional. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet,” Geno agrees. He lets go of Crosby’s hand before he holds on too long.

“Do you need a hand? Is there anything else?” Crosby asks, looking back at Geno’s car.

Geno raises his eyebrow. “You say no video.”

“You’d be surprised what interviewers will bring,” Crosby replies easily. “Come on, let’s go back to the house, it’s too hot out here.”

Geno, who’d been a little distracted by the heat by the way the skin of Crosby’s forearms glowed in the sun, nods a little sheepishly. “Yes, good.” He falls into step with Crosby. “What weird things interviewers bring?” he asks. He’s putting the interviewee at ease. This is his job.

Crosby shrugs. “The best was when they brought two Labrador puppies,” he says instead of answering. Geno doesn’t push right now, not when he’s still trying to get past that famed Crosby bland good nature.

“Puppies always best,” Geno agrees as they climb onto the porch.

Crosby smiles at him as he pulls the door open. “You don’t mind dogs, then? Good.”

He doesn’t explain more, but he doesn’t have to when the barking starts, and nails on hardwood herald the arrival of a yellow lab, who noses at Geno’s knees and keeps barking excitedly.

“Sam!” Crosby orders, but it’s softened by laughter, and the dog—Sam—ignores him. So does Geno, who kneels down to greet him properly.

“Hi, you good boy, yes,” he murmurs, petting the dog and laughing a little as Sam licks at his face. “Yes, best boy.”

When he looks up, Crosby’s looking down at them, and while his face is generally set in a neutral smile, there’s something that looks like more of a real smile at the corner of his eyes—the smile Geno had seen when one of his team had snuck videos of him in a recording studio, his guitar on his lap and his eyes half closed as he sang.

Geno swallows and stands up. He is a professional. This should be like any other interview he’s ever done.

“Had him long?” he asks, gesturing at Sam.  

Crosby’s eyes flick over Geno, like he’s evaluating. “A few years,” he says. “I got him a little after I got back into it.”

After the concussion, he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t have to. Anyone who follows the music industry even a little—or is a Sidney Crosby fan—knows about the accident that took him out of the game for almost two years, right at the height of his fame. Geno can remember seeing the youtube video that showed it—the light falling on stage, Crosby’s collapse.

But the Crosby now doesn’t look anything like the still figure on the stage that the video shows. This Crosby looks strong enough to lift an ox. “So,” he says. “Living room okay for the interview?”

“Yes, okay. Wherever you most comfortable.”

“Great.” Crosby leads the way to the living room, which looks, in all honesty, more like a decorator decorated than he did. It’s comfortable enough, but it has the slightly too-polished look Geno associates with rooms no one lives in. In a corner of the room, there’s a display case; Geno can just see some gold gramophones statuettes there.

Crosby takes a seat on the couch, gestures Geno to an arm chair. When he sits down, he spreads his legs a little, claiming the space. Geno doesn’t think at all about the strength in those thighs. Whatever Crosby’s been doing up here on the farm, it’s working for him.

“Oh, hey. Want something to drink first?” Crosby asks, just as he gets settled.

“No, good.” Geno shakes his head. “If you want, should get.”

Crosby shrugs. “I’m fine for right now.” He leans back in the couch, clearly waiting.

Geno had prepared questions—had worked hard on the questions, because he knew perfectly well that this interview could make or break his career. No one had really interviewed Sidney Crosby for years, not since he got enough fame that he didn’t need the interviews for promo. Certainly no one had gotten to come to his house. Geno’s doing okay for himself, but neither he nor his magazine are nearly at the level where they should be the ones here.

And yet. Here he is, with Sidney Crosby looking levelly at him. The boy Geno had been couldn’t even have conceived of this.

“Why farm?” he asks, instead of all of them. “Thought you would go back to Canada, to boat.”

It startles a laugh out of Crosby, something loud and unpracticed. It’s maybe the first thing about him Geno’s seen that didn’t seen polished; it’s incredibly charming, as is the color that dusts across his cheeks after.

“I, uh. Don’t know, really.” Crosby pushes his lips together. “I love Cole Harbor, and it’ll always be home, but it’s not exactly someplace I can disappear. Up here, there’s nothing.”

“Yes, I see.”

Another quick smile from Crosby. Geno isn’t keeping score, but he definitely thinks he’s winning something. “Are you going to write any of this down?” Crosby asks, nodding at Geno’s bag.

“Will write down when you say something interesting,” Geno replies, maybe too informal, but he sees the glint in Crosby’s eyes. Maybe he says he wants to disappear up here, but he doesn’t look like he wants Geno to stop teasing. He’s a reporter, he needs to adapt to the needs of the interviewee. “May take long time, but willing to wait.”

“We’ll see what wins, your persistence or my media training,” Crosby agrees. He settles back, and crosses his arms over his chest. If it’s a move meant to distract Geno from that persistence, it’s a good one; it pulls the fabric of his t-shirt taut over his arms and shoulders so that Geno could probably see every muscle there. Muscles that he’s definitely, under different circumstances, imagined licking. “I should warn you, people say I’m competitive.”

Because Geno is very tactful, he doesn’t make the obvious retort of ‘no duh.’ There are maybe three things the world is sure about Sidney Crosby: that he’s an amazing musician, that he will never say anything about his private life if he can say a bland nothing instead, and that he’s an awful loser.

That must play out on Geno’s face anyway, because Crosby gives a rueful half smile. “Yeah, I’m not very good at hiding that one.”

Geno shrugs. “Can’t hide everything,” he replies, though Crosby’s lived his life doing as much of that as he can. But people have asked him why he’s so private for years and no one’s ever gotten an answer. Instead, he asks. “You not go into something where get to win lots, though?”

“I almost did,” Crosby says, and Geno tries not to scramble for his notepad. It’s part of the mythos of Sidney Crosby—the hockey prodigy who chose music over the ice—but it’s not something Crosby talks about, really.

“Why not, then?”

Crosby hums. “A lot of reasons. Hockey had gotten…bad, around then. I mean, music doesn’t mean people are ever showering me with praise, but hockey—it got dangerous.” He doesn’t have any emotion in relating this, but Geno grits his teeth and tries not to think about that kid. “And there was a lot of family pressure, and hockey was always going to have a shelf life in a way that music doesn’t have to, and…” Crosby shrugs. “I think in some ways I loved hockey more, and I didn’t want to make that my life too.” He smiles again, just a little crooked. “Now I can just kick friends’ asses on the ice for fun.”

“Not kick mine,” Geno boasts, partly because he might be a competitive asshole too, but also because he isn’t thinking. This is so much more than the usual anodyne answers Crosby usually gives.

“Yeah?” Crosby asks. His eyes are glinting again, and they flick up and down Geno quickly. Assessing. “We’ll have to see.”

Geno refuses to blush. “So, music instead? Ever regret?”

The smile fades into thoughtfulness. “Regret’s not the right word. There’s always a path not taken, eh? Sometimes I wonder. My life would be pretty different. But if I’d gone the hockey route, I’d probably wonder too, so.” He shrugs fatalistically. “I’m happy. That’s what matters.”

Geno doesn’t say what he thinks, that he’s not sure Crosby does look happy. He’s a reporter, he’s not here to judge. But he is here to observe, and he hasn’t seen anyone other than Crosby’s dog—hasn’t seen evidence of another person, or of a house that’s really lived in. When Geno pictures happiness, it’s the noise and craziness of his parents’ house; it’s dinner with Gonch’s family and the girls talking over each other; it’s cuddling someone close.

But he doesn’t know Crosby, not really. No matter how often he’s listened to his music.

“Do you have questions about the album, then?” Crosby asks, and Geno starts. Right. He can be a professional.

“Yes, now you warmed up,” he nods. “So. Mr. Crosby—”

Crosby laughs, that same suddenly loud noise that makes Geno grin back. “Sidney. Sid. Seriously, Mr. Crosby?”

Geno’s still smiling, because of the laugh and because Sidney Crosby just told him to call him Sid. “Not want to presume,” Geno demurs.

Crosby shakes his head, and there’s a quick glance at Geno from those hazel-gold eyes. “I don’t mind you presuming,” he says, and Geno’s heart does something that definitely isn’t beating normally. “And anyway, don’t make me say the clichés about my dad. Sid.”

Geno had tried very hard to train himself into thinking of them as two separate people—as Crosby, who he was going to interview professionally, and Sidney, whose poster he’d had on his wall and whose songs he’d had memorized. If he did that, he wouldn’t get mixed up with those teenaged dreams he could never quite quash, of Sid murmuring to him to call him Sid and looking at Geno like he what he meant was kiss me.

But then again, Sidney had asked. It would be rude not to. “Sid, then. So, tell me about new album? Why now?”

Sidney straightens, and that honey-sweet look disappears from his face like it had never been.

They talk for a while longer, about Sidney’s music and his new scheduled tour and all of the conventional interview questions. It’s more of the same, that Geno’s read in every interview of Sidney’s since he was sixteen and had to use google translate to make sure he got everything.

When they’re done with questions, Sidney volunteers to show him around the house, and it’s not like Geno is going to say no. The rest of the house is sprawling, and it’s the same impersonal decoration until they get to the studio—that’s clearly where Sidney spends most of his time, professionally set up with all of Sidney’s instruments and recording equipment and a couch with a notebook on the seat and the pillows messy, like Sidney had just gotten up from it when Geno had rung the bell.

“You play something?” Geno suggests with his most innocent face on, once Sidney’s finished showing him the recording equipment—apparently it’s very good and Sidney’s really into it, which is another one of those inexplicably charming things about him.

Sidney snorts. “Yeah?”

“Need full experience, yes.” Geno nods very solemnly.

Crosby shakes his head, but he grabs a guitar. “Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“So you can’t record,” Sidney explains. He’s looking at Geno like this is a normal request. “I’ll play you something off the new album, but you need to give me your phone.”

It seems like a fair trade. Geno pulls his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Sidney, who puts it in his own pocket and sits down on the couch. He leans over the guitar, fusses a little with the tuning.

“Okay. So this is one of the newest songs,” Sidney warns. “I’m still working out some kinks. Just as a warning.”

“Yes, sure it will be very bad,” Geno agrees, and leans against the wall. “Sell no records, for sure.”

He’s not even sure if Sidney’s heard. He strums the guitar, then he starts to sing.

It’s—Geno’s loved Sidney’s voice for over a decade now, and he continues to improve and innovate on his music in ways that never fail to awe Geno. Geno’s a fan. Geno’s listened to his songs on CDs, on ipods, in person and in shitty youtube concert recordings.

None of that is anything like listening to him here. Like standing in this small room with just Sidney’s voice and the guitar to fill it, hearing Sidney sing about what it feels to always be searching and never finding. Watching Sidney’s fierce concentration on the song, how his tongue pokes out of his mouth even when he’s just playing, the way it fills his whole body. Geno doesn’t breathe for what might be hours, though its actually only maybe a minute.

When Sidney’s done, he glances up at Geno. His cheeks are a little flushed, and there’s a smile on the edge of his lips like just experiencing the music made him happy. “That bad?”

Geno draws in a harsh breath. This is the moment he’ll play over in daydreams, he knows—the moment when in his dreams he’ll know what Sid wants, and Geno will push him back into the couch and see if he can make him that happy too, see if he can communicate just how amazing Sid is with his body because words can’t be enough.

“Eh, all right,” Geno manages to say, and Sidney laughs. He sets the guitar back on the stand, and gets up. Geno can’t help watching the pull of his t-shirt, how he shakes out his fingers. His article is going to be a fannish mess and he can’t even bring himself to care.

“Want to see the good part, now?”

Geno is a professional, and doesn’t hit on his interviewees, or on international pop sensations who probably get hit on all the time and don’t want to deal with it from Geno. So he doesn’t make a quip about the bedroom. Instead,

“This not the good part?”

“Nah. Let me know you why I bought the place.”

///

Geno’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s definitely not for Sidney to take him outside and walk him around the fields and tell him about the new bean growing techniques he’s using. He gets really into it, too, more into it than anything else Geno talked with him about, his hands moving excitedly as he sketches things in the air, his eyes lit up. Geno’d always heard Sidney was a weird guy beneath the pop star polish, but he hadn’t expected farming.

It’s part of the whole realization of the experience—that Sidney Crosby is everything and nothing like he expected; as attractive and personable and good and self-contained, but also more than a little dorky and funny and more humble than anyone with a Grammy should be. And also more knowledgeable about beans than anyone else with a Grammy, probably.

“You really into this,” he observes, as they circle around to what Sidney called his personal garden—it’s the part the farmhands allow him to actually touch, he’d admitted with a sheepish smile that wasn’t helping Geno’s wanting to kiss him problem.

Sidney shrugs. “It’s cool, eh? To make something tangible. I didn’t really expect to actually run it, but.” He makes a face, and his cheeks are a little tinged with red. “I don’t exactly do things halfway.”

“So now you farmer.”

“I guess. When I can get up here.” They’ve made it to the pasture, and Sidney leans forward, bracing both of his forearms on the fence. Geno gets the no picture rule, but it’s such a waste to miss this—Sidney’s bare, muscled forearms gilded in the late afternoon sun, his hair just a little messy from the day, his ass even more too much than usual, all set against the backdrop of the green grass and blue skies. “I don’t spend as much time here as I’d like. And with the tour, I won’t be up here soon again.” He’s still looking out over the pasture, and his tongue flicks out to lick his lips. “Even when I’m not here, though, it’s nice knowing that it exists. That it’s a place for me to come back to. That even if everything else goes to shit, it’s here. The sun’ll come up, the grass will grow. I’ll have beans, come fall.”

He’s smiling a little again, and Geno is suddenly, viscerally struck by how abnormal this is. Sidney Crosby doesn’t say things like that to reporters. Sidney Crosby doesn’t sing new songs, he doesn’t invite reporters to his private sanctuary, he doesn’t tell them to presume. This is like something out of one of Geno’s teenaged dreams, but he’s not a teenager and he’s not dreaming.

“Why me?” he asks. “Why have me interview?”

He doesn’t fill in the blanks, and Sidney doesn’t ask him to. They both know that Sidney could have had anyone up here in an instant, and that he chose Geno instead of Rolling Stone.

Instead, Sidney nods slowly, though he doesn’t look at Geno. “During the concussion—a lot of people said I was done. That I’d never make it back.” His hands on the fence flex and close, the muscles working smoothly beneath his skin. “And when I was at my worst, I believed it. But you wrote an article—you probably don’t even remember it, I don’t know how I found it, but it talked about me coming back like it was a given. Like you couldn’t imagine me not coming back. Like it was important to you, and to everyone. It was—I could barely look at the screen long enough to read it, at that point. But it made me want to come back too.”

Sidney glances over at Geno then, and his eyes are solemn and the same honey-brown as the sun-warmed wood and he’s looking at Geno like there’s nothing else in the world. “That article meant a lot to me. And I wanted to help you out too.”

Geno’s heart is beating double time, or maybe not at all. He remembers that article. Maybe he could recite it. It hadn’t been much, just a few paragraphs, but—he remembered that time too, remembered Sidney unconscious on the stage, the few photos after of him, gaunt and somehow small, in a way Geno had never thought of him before. It had made Geno want to wrap him up in blankets and hold him tight and promise him that no one would ever hurt him again; failing that, it had made Geno hope someone else was telling him that. He hadn’t dared hope that his little article would have helped.

“Know article help you, that enough,” Geno says. Too honest, maybe, but true. “That what I want it to do. You best. Want to make sure everyone remember.”

Sidney smiles again, but it’s different from the shock of a grin before, or the media smile. It’s a slow, sweet smile, and it cuts through Geno more than any flirtation might. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Geno doesn’t break eye contact. Sidney’s smile lingers, then he glances back down at his hands.

“Also, I’ve read some of your other stuff. You’re really good. You should be doing more.” Sidney says. “This should give you a boost.”  

“Everyone want to read about you?” Geno teases, and Sidney shifts, clearly uncomfortable.

“I mean—or, I don’t mean. It’s not that—it’ll get you some viewership. I can send it to my PR people, they can spread it—”

“Sidney. Sid,” Geno interrupts, before Sidney can apparently turn full Canadian apologetic on him. “I tease. Of course everyone want read about you.”

“Well, I didn’t want to presume,” Sidney shoots back, though his cheeks are tinged red.

Really, there’s only one thing Geno can do with that. “Maybe I want you to presume,” he echoes Sidney from earlier.

Sidney smiles again, slow and a little less sweet—a little more of the confidence he has on stage, that this is his territory. It’s not necessarily how Geno had fantasized Sid looking in bed, but it definitely will be now.

Then a phone rings, and Geno jumps. It only makes him feel a little better that Sidney starts too. He digs in his pocket, pulls out a phone.

“This is my sister, sorry,” he says, the heat gone like Geno had imagined it. “I need to take this.”

Of course he does. Sidney’s never been shy about talking about how his sister is the most important person in his life. Of course he really meant that.

“Yes, take,” Geno agrees. Sidney give shim an absent nod, then puts the phone to his ear.

“Hey Taylor,” he says into the phone, and he’s smiling again as he wanders a little away.

///

Geno leaves not long after Sidney gets off the phone, with an apologetic speech from Sidney about how he has a call with his foundation he needs to get on soon. It’s not like Geno can say no to that, so he lets Sidney and Sam usher him back to his car.

He opens the door, and then there’s nothing to do but get in it. He takes one last look around the farm as he goes—for the article, he tells himself, but really he knows it’s for Sidney, standing easily on his land, looking less like a celebrity and more like someone Geno could imagine coming home to, with his dog at his feet and some dirt on his hands.

“Thank you for talk,” Geno says, sticking out his hand. “And for let me see farm.”

“Yeah, of course. Thank you for coming. I hope you got enough for your article.” Sidney takes his hand, shakes it. Geno tries to fix the feeling in his mind—what Sid’s skin feels like. What having him this close feels like. The exact angle of that crooked smile.

“More than enough,” Geno assures him. He doesn’t want to let go, but he does. Sidney doesn’t comment if the handshake went on too long, just hovers as Geno gets into the car and starts to closes the door.

Right before the door closes, Sidney straightens. “Oh, wait!” Geno freezes. Sidney digs into his pocket, and holds something out to Geno—his phone. “Don’t want to forget this.”  

“No, be bad,” Geno agrees, and takes the phone. Inexplicably, Sidney goes red again. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Sidney drops his hand when Geno has the phone. “Um. Bye, I guess.”

“Yes, bye,” Geno agrees, and then there’s nothing more to do but get in and drive back down the lane. He sees Sidney in the rearview mirror one more time, silhouetted against his farm with his dog at his feet, then he’s rounded the bend and he’s gone.

///

Geno stops for gas a few kilometers away, and pulls out his phone as he fills up to check in with his editor and tell him he’s got everything he could ever need while he’s at it, and also maybe to whine a little bit about how Sidney Crosby is actually perfect and it’s not fair why couldn’t he be one of those celebrities who are awful when you meet them?

There’s a notification waiting for him, from a—and he nearly drops the gas nozzle—Sid.

He fumbles his phone open, so the whole message shows up. It’s long. Geno can’t breathe.

This is Sidney Crosby, the text reads, and Geno manages a laugh through his shock. I took your number from your phone, I hope you don’t mind. You really should put a passcode on it. I just wanted to say that I enjoyed meeting you in person today, and that if you wanted, you could text me sometime. If you need some more for the article, or if you don’t. Now that you have my number.

Geno stares at his phone as the gas flow clicks off. He leave the nozzle in the car so he can compose a text with both hands.

Hi, he writes carefully. This is Geno. Are you serious about texting?

Three dots pop up, then, I told you. I’d like you to presume.

Geno closes his eyes, but the words are still bright in his mind. The part of him that is still sixteen slowly sinks to the floor in ecstasy. The part of him that is in his twentys replaces the gas nozzle and pays, then gets in his car.

Once he’s there, he gathers his courage. He doesn’t think there’s more than one way to read this. He doesn’t think Sidney would be too mad if he read it another way. Be careful. I might presume a lot.

Three dots, then.

Good.

[sidgeno-fluff-fest]

SidGeno Fluff Fest Week 3

Kids- Babysitting, single dads, tying bows and ribbons in their daughters hair for the first time. Family skates. Petty arguments over who is the better uncle to their teammates kids before they decide they should join forces and become the best uncles who spoil the kids and hold each others hands and stuff. 

Remember to tag your work with #SidGenoFluffFest and/or tag this blog so I can share it. If you’re posting to Ao3 add it to the collection right here

Have fun, keep it fluffy. .

A new prompt gets introduced next Sunday at 12:30pm EST.

[cakemakethme]

Week one: BAKING

Baker Sid for the @sidgeno-fluff-fest

(Now on AO3)

“Oh hey Geno!” Sid says as a blush spreads across his smiling face, “I’m almost done. I just have to clean up some stuff before I close up shop.”

Sid turns back around and places the pineapple upside down cake onto the counter before shyly looking back at Geno.

And if Geno wasn’t already in love with Sid… “Is okay Sid, have lot of time before we have to go to pick up game.”

“um.. did you want to help me out maybe?” Sid asks “Between the two of us it would go much faster?”

Geno would move the sun and moon for Sid if he asked him.

He sighs and laughs “You just make me do all the work. I know this your secret Sid!”

Sid blushes again and starts protesting, his laughter giving way how much he wasn’t offended. “Haha! You got me G!”

Geno steps right up to Sid and looks down at him, his eyes soft with fondness.

He can do this.

“Im have you Sid?” Geno gently cups his hand around Sids jaw. He hears Sid take a shuddering breath.

Sid looks back, eyes wide and hopeful “Yes.” he sighs out “Always Geno.”

“Then you have me too Sid” Geno leans down and finds out that kissing Sid is just as sweet as he imagined.

[rain-drop-sky]

Do you know Sid? (Part 2/?)

First off, thank you so much for all the love that’s been shown to my first attempt at hockey rpf fic! Y’all are so kind and wonderful :) Sorry about the delay for this chapter - I struggled a lot with how I wanted certain events to be conveyed and actually wrote around 4 different versions of this chapter. Hopefully this doesn’t disappoint. 

Part 1

Sid hums as he checks the dough. It has been a long hard year getting Harbour Bakery up and running. So much time and money was spent on negotiating, cashing in on favours, researching, renovating, and hiring. Not to mention packing up his life and starting over in a brand new city where no one knew who he was.

“Are you being emo again, old man.” Olli chirps from where he’s icing a cake for little Maria Wheeler’s sixth birthday. Sid laughs. Well, a new city where almost no one knew who he was.

But it was all worth it. Despite having been open for only a little over three months, reviews have been excellent so far and they are slowly building a decent fanbase and steady flow of clientele. Sid goes to take out the last batch of cookies for the day when Conor pokes his head through the door.

“Hey Sid? Geno’s back and is asking for you up front.” He smirks and gives his boss a thumbs up.

Olli laughs loudly but Sid smiles and steps away from the ovens. “Okay, could you take out the cookies for me and set them out to cool? Thanks.” He pushes through the door and the smile drops off his face as he gets a good look at one of his new favourite customers leaning against the cash register.

“Oh my God, what happened to your face Geno.” Sid blurts out.

Geno looks up, surprised, and reaches up to touch his cheek and hisses. He had forgotten about the neat row of stitches there, a remnant of an earlier capture and interrogation of a double agent who thought he could get away selling information on the Lemieux family.

“Is nothing, little accident at work.” He reassures Sid.

Sid looks at him dubiously but lets it go with a lingering look. “Well, good thing you got here before closing, I nearly sold out of all the bulochki.” Geno perks up despite wincing internally at Sid’s heavy Anglo-accented pronunciation.

“Look so good Sid!” He cheers as Sid pulls out two sweet sticky poppy seed buns. He feels a rush of soft affection as Sid pushes over the plate and ducks his head with a small smile. He takes a deep breath. “Sid, was wondering if you free--” A loud door slam and jangling chimes interrupt him.

“Is this it? Is this the famous Harbour Bakery we’ve been hearing about all week? It must be, Geno’s over there.” carols a mischievously grinning dark haired man with a soul patch while holding the front door open. Another dark head, this one with long locks, pops up behind the other with an equally cheeky wide grin and drags the other man forwards to squeeze up beside Geno and beam at a bemused Sid.

“Hi Geno. And you must be Siiid?” He dragged out Sid’s name cheerfully before hip checking a disgruntled Geno to the side and sticking out his hand. “Hi, I’m Kris. And that’s Marc-André.” He points with his thumb over his shoulder.

“Hi! We’ve heard so much about you and your bakery from Geno that we just had to come see where all the delicious food he brings in comes from.” Marc-André smiles and shakes Sid’s hand while Kris tussles with Geno off to the side.

“What are you doing here?” Geno hisses at his soon-to-be-dead friends. “Go away, no one likes you, you smell bad. Out!”

“Aw, Geno, are you going to turn away your friends? And here I thought you were introducing new customers for me.” Sid lets out a small goose honk giggle.

Two pairs of brown eyes zoom in on him. “You sound different.” Kris says.

“You sound right.” Marc-André follows.

“And you two sound Québécois, is this now a grand Canadian expat reunion?” Sid muses.

Marc-André’s mouth drop opens. “You said Québécois!” He says joyfully before grabbing Sid’s face and giving him two quick pecks, one on each cheek.

“FLOWER!” Geno shouts, outraged.

“This is how we say hello, Geno, stop being an uncultured swine. Parlez-vous Français, mon ami? Do you speak French my friend?” Marc-André coos while petting Sid’s hair fondly. Kris holds Geno back with one arm around his waist while furiously texting with the other. Sid’s eyes crinkle as he holds back laughter.

“I’m sorry to say that I’m one of those terrible Canadians who isn’t really bilingual.” He apologizes. “I do okay with my listening comprehension though.”

“Ah, well, we can’t all be perfect.” Marc-André sighs. He gives Sid a one-armed hug and grins at him. “Call me Flower! You’re Canadian and a baking god so we’re going to be wonderful friends. All my friends call me Flower.”

“I’m Tanger.” Kris’ reply is slightly raspy as Geno finally got him in a headlock and is dragging him towards the till.

“Geno, no, you’re going to scare away my other customers.” Sid scolds gently. The other three jolt guiltily and look around and see a few tables eyeing them warily. Geno immediately lets go of Tanger and starts to apologize when a muffled “Sid? Sid!” is heard through the kitchen door.

Sid frowns and disappears back into the kitchen. Geno, Tanger, and Flower look at each other, shrug, and scuttle around the pastry displays and poke their heads through the swinging door.

“Olli? Conor? What’s going on?” Sid strides over to the propped open back door where he can see his two employees huddled outside on the ground.

They look up and Sid sucks in a breath as he sees what they’re crouching around. A small cardboard box filled with tiny mewing kittens, so young their eyes still haven’t opened. “Where did they come from?” He asks, crouching down to inspect them.

“I heard them crying when I was throwing out the garbage.” Conor volunteers. “I don’t know how long they’ve been out here though.”

“At least it’s not raining.” Olli mutters as he lightly strokes the head of a ginger kitten. “Then this would really be some terrible rom-com cliché.”

“Because that’s really our main concern here.” Sid responds dryly. They all turn around at a strangled “Oh my God, kittens” and see Geno rushing over towards them while Tanger and Flower sigh.

“Who are you?” Olli says Geno carefully lifts up one kitten, whispering gentle nonsense as he carefully inspects its tiny limbs.

“That’s Geno.” Sid supplies. “Those two are his friends, Flower and Tanger. Guys, this is Olli, my assistant, and Conor. He works up front.”

“Someone abandoned kittens on your doorstep eh?” Flower sighs. “Don’t worry, Geno really does know what he’s doing. He rescues a lot of strays.”

“Sounds like Sid.” Olli shakes his head. “Conor here got his bike stolen not long after he started working here and looked so sad Sid would drive home the big mooch every day until he got a new one.” Olli smirks when Conor squawks indignantly.

“I’m not a mooch! You’re a bigger mooch, you still live at Sid’s! Sid says you keep saying you’re going to move out but it’s been more than a year since you guys moved down to Pittsburgh.” They start shoving each other, laughing.

“Children, please.” Sid sighs.

“Need round the clock care.” Geno interrupts firmly, laughter colouring his words. His insides feel gooey when he looks over and sees Sid shushing the tiny kittens and tucking his apron around them as a makeshift blanket. Under the cover of noise, he hooks a finger gently in Sid’s rolled up sleeve. “Hey Sid,” he starts. “Do you think--”

Bzzt. Bzzt.

He looks down at his pocket with a frown. 

“Hey G, it’s work.” Tanger’s voice is serious as he looks at his own phone.

Geno stands up and pulls out his phone.

Found the two extra rats Madri confessed about. Come back now. M wants all leaks eliminated tonight.

“Geno?”

He looks up and sees Sid standing, cradling the box of kittens to his chest and a slight curl to his lips. He looks so sweet and gentle. Soft. A regular civilian. Geno’s gut twists as he thinks about his job, a job he’s very good at and likes, and what it will seem like to someone like Sid. What he will seem like to Sid. His gut ices over.

“Geno? You were saying something?” Sid’s brow furrows.

“Nothing, sorry. Um, have work thing, need to go fix.” He waves vaguely only to remember he’s still holding a sleeping kitten. “Oh. Here, give me kittens.”

“Don’t you have work? I can bring them to a shelter.” Sid responds.

“No, most shelters can’t take care of kittens properly.” Shit, he has to complete those hits tonight though.

Flower steps in. “Let me take the kittens. Vero’s friend rehabs abandoned kittens and strays so she can take care of them. Vero is my wife,” he adds for Sid’s benefit. “You should come over sometime, have dinner with my family. An ‘A Canadian Has Been Found!’ party.” He laughs.

“You can meet my family as well as Duper and Kuni and their families. They’re also Canadian.” Tanger adds, clapping Flower on the shoulder. “We need to head out now.” He murmurs into Flower’s ear. He punches Sid in the shoulder gently. “Good to finally put a face to all the swooning we hear all the time.”

“Tanger.” Geno growls.

Flower juggles the box of kittens as he pulls out his wallet. He hands a card over with Marc-André Fleury, IT, Lemieux Intl. printed on it. “My personal number is on the back.” Flower explains. “Call me and let me know when you’re free. I’m serious about the Canada dinner!” He waves and walks away briskly with Tanger, following Olli around the building.

“Swooning, eh?” Sid looks up at Geno with a teasing smile.

“Sid.” Conor slips a small waxed paper bag into his boss’ hand and disappears back into the bakery with a smile.

Sid looks down and laughs quietly. “Here. Something sweet before you get back to work.”

Geno peers into the bag and feels his resolve weaken at the sight of two fluffy bulochki. “Give me your number.” He can’t help blurting. Sid’s face goes pink. “New to town, yes? Come meet my friends. We have barbecue next week.” If Geno can’t date Sid, Geno will be the best friend Sid has ever had instead.

“Oh. Um, I still don’t know my new number and my phone’s inside.” Sid laughs awkwardly.

“Geno!” Tanger beckons urgently from the corner.

“Okay, wait. Here.” Geno paws through his pockets and gives Sid a matching business card. “My private cell on the back.” He calls over his shoulder as he hurries towards Tanger. “Call me!”

----

Later that night, Sid taps the card on the table as the Skype ringtone trills. Evgeni Malkin, Security Advisor, Lemieux Intl.

“Hey, Squid.” Jack grins at Sid. “It’s Saturday, so tell me about your week, you boring old fart.” He cranes his neck. “Is Olli there? Hey Olli!” He yells.

Sid jerks back“Shut up, he went out.” He laughs. “God you’re loud. And to think I missed you.” He smiles fondly.

Jack squints through the camera. “What’s going on, why are you smiling like that. Sid.” He warns jokingly.

Sid ducks his head. “So there’s a cute guy who comes basically everyday to the bakery,” he starts. “His name’s Evgeni Malkin but everyone calls him Geno…”

[hockeyallthehockey]

Sid/Geno with #s 54 and 171

Okay, so this is for #54 (”I can’t stand the thought of losing you”), and also maybe for the fluff fest prompt “Illness/Injury”. I’m not a doctor, I have no idea if any of this is accurate, buyer beware and all that. =)Title: ObeshchaniyeRating: T for languagePairing: Sid/Geno, established relationship

Sound filtered back in slowly, snatches of conversation, machines beeping and humming, footsteps. He was floating, felt like he was wrapped up in softness, which seemed oddly wrong, but it was too comfortable where he was, and he didn’t want it to change. He thought he heard his name, and he knew that voice, he knew it, but the sounds were fading again…The next time he came back to himself, he wasn’t quite wrapped up in so much softness. Nothing hurt, but it would, if he moved. He tried to marshal his thoughts, but he couldn’t remember what had happened, where he was, why. Sounds filtered in again, and this time it was mostly a voice, a familiar voice, soft and sad near his ear, and he tried to focus on what the voice was saying. It took him a little more effort than he liked to translate the words in his head.“…weren’t moving, and I’ve never been that scared in my life. Tanger hit Niskanen so hard he knocked him out, and I think Ovi wanted to hit him, too. They thought you’d broken your neck at first, and you were bleeding all over the damn place, and… fuck, Geno, you weren’t moving, and I didn’t know if you were breathing, and I can’t, I… I can’t stand the thought of losing you, I just can’t.”He tried to open his eyes, and it was harder than it should have been, and then he couldn’t focus, not right away, but after a few minutes, he could see the dark mess of Sid’s curly hair. He wanted to touch it, but he couldn’t move his arm, and when he tried to make a frustrated sound, he couldn’t do that, either.He must’ve made some noise, because Sid’s head came up, eyes wide. “Geno? Oh my God, you’re awake, okay, don’t move, don’t try to talk, I’ll get the doctor, fuck, just, just stay there.”He didn’t see Sidney again until the next day - between the rush of doctors and nurses, the removal of some tubes (and wasn’t that unpleasant), and seeing his parents, he was asleep again before Sidney came back. He woke a few more times, and there was always someone there, his mother, his father, his brother, Tanger, but not Sidney.By the next afternoon, he was able to stay awake for more than ten minutes at a time, but he was also hurting more than he had been, both due to the careful reduction of meds. He woke slowly, again to the sound of Sidney’s voice, but this time he was… speaking Russian? Zhenya blinked his eyes open, focused slowly on the figure reading by dim lamplight beside the bed. The book was one Zhenya had been reading before, and Sid was carefully picking his way from word to word as he read.“Obeshchaniye,” he rasped, correcting Sid’s pronunciation, and like yesterday, Sid’s head came up, eyes wide.“Geno? Hey.” He put the book aside and leaned closer, his voice carefully soft and his movements slow. “How are you feeling? D'you hurt anywhere?”“Bolit vezde,” he managed, his voice grating over the word.Sid winced and nodded. “Yeah, okay, that was a stupid question. D'you want some water?”A few sips of cool water did wonders for his throat, and Sid turned off the little lamp to spare his eyes, and therefore his head. “What happened?”“Fucking Niskanen,” Sid bit out, and then puffed out a breath and shook his head. “He cross-checked the back of your neck, and you took a header into the boards. Broke your nose again.” He traced a light fingertip down said broken nose, carefully. “Split your lip. Blood everywhere. And you were out, unconscious, not moving. Fuck, Geno, I’ve never been so fucking scared.”“Don’t remember,” Zhenya told him. “Remember, uh… fistbump before game?”Sid nodded, and reached to curl his fingers with Zhenya’s carefully. “Yeah, they said short-term memory loss is pretty normal. And you have a concussion, for sure.”Zhenya tightened his fingers around Sid’s. “Sorry for scare you, Sidka.”Sid gave a wet-sounding laugh. “Oh my God, it’s so not your fault. Jesus. I just, when you went down, and you didn’t move, and I… I’m just, I’m really glad you’re gonna be okay.”Zhenya managed a half-smile, though it pulled at the stitches in his split lip. “Not lose me, Sid. Not going anywhere. Is like I’m tell reporters. I’m stay here, play hockey with Sid. Lots of hockey left.”

Sid smiled, then exhaled slowly and bent forward to press his lips to Zhenya’s brow. “Yeah, lots of hockey left, lyubov’. Lots of life left.”

–

Translations (per google translate):Obeshchaniye - promiseBolit vezde - hurts everywherelyubov’ - love

[shinpenguin]

Bake it off

Written for @sidgeno-fluff-fest the prompt was “baking”. 

This is ridiculous and also the first thing I’ve written in years. Eep. (AO3)

Of all the weird things Sid has ever done over the years, this really isn’t one of the weirder ones.

It starts right after Christmas, when Shearsy brings cookies with him - cookies that are not part of any nutritional plan they’re on, but they’re there before the game and then after they win - well.

There aren’t any cookies on New Year’s Eve, and Sid doesn’t notice their absence until Tanger brings some leftover cookies to taunt Sid with to their next game, and when they win that one, Sid knows what he has to do.

He asks Shearsy whether the cookies were homemade and earns an offended look. And Kris had been very vocal about his cookie-making prowess, so Sid googles for easy to make cookie recipes, makes a shopping list and then a spreadsheet - no way is he going to be able to bake cookies *all* the time; also, what if the point is that everyone chips in?

That’s what he tells the team when he shows them their baking schedule together with the slightly too dark peanut butter chocolate cookies he made. “I have some suggestions for recipes,” he says and points to a small stack of printouts sitting on the counter next to the cookies. “Phil, you’re next.”

There’s some grumbling until Geno stands up. “You heard Sid,” he says, “Is good plan.” Hearing Geno’s support always settles something in him, and he smiles at him gratefully. Geno smiles back and then reaches out for a cookie. Sid smacks his hand away. “You have to wait until after the game,” he tells him, and Geno’s smile transforms into a smirk, making him look both mischievous and fond. Sid looks at the rest of his team, who are all wearing the same long-suffering expressions.

Jamie turns to Shearsy. “I’ve never used an oven in my life,” he says plaintively.

“What, how do you make pizza?” Dumo asks him.

“I just get delivery,” Jamie explains, and that leads to chirping about his lack of cooking skills. “Like any of you are even better,” he tries to defend himself. “When do you even have time to cook?”

“Making cookies isn’t cooking, it’s baking,” Shearsy tells him.

“It’s weird that they’re called cookies, then, though,” Dumo says. “Shouldn’t it be bakies?”

Sid wonders whether this is also part of what he’s expected to teach the younger guys, but decides to leave them to it.

*

It probably shouldn’t surprise Sid that the whole thing turns into a competition, but Phil easily beats Sid’s attempt at baking with a batch of macadamia white chocolate cookies that aren’t burned and taste amazing. Horny returns from Bye Week with cookies he made together with Isabella, and while they’re kind of oddly shaped and Sid worries for a moment, they do win the game.

By the time they lose their first game after the cookie thing started, everyone is so fired up about one upping each other, there’s no stopping them. The cookies get more and more elaborate and there are basically two camps - the ones who go for extravagant ingredients like peanut butter cups and the ones who’re all about crazy detailed decorations. Everyone is surprised when Jamie shows up with cookies shaped like their logo, delicately iced in just the right colors.

Sid’s getting a little worried about how much time they’re spending on it, but they’re winning more often than losing for once, so he’s happy.

There’s just one thing that’s bothering him. Even though he’s sure he put Geno on the spreadsheet not too long after Phil, he manages to trade his turn over and over again. As they’re almost halfway into February, Sid is starting to get a little annoyed - Geno did say he thought it was a good idea, so why doesn’t he do his part? But whenever he asks Geno about it, all he says is, “Not my turn yet.”

When he’s at Geno’s, Sid surreptitiously starts looking for clues whether Geno is even trying - but once Geno notices, he insists they meet at Sid’s place instead. It’s not a big deal, Sid tells himself, but even if he pushes it to the back of his mind he’s reminded of it every time they play and someone who isn’t Geno brings cookies.

After they lose against St. Louis - again during overtime, damn it - Sid decides he has had enough. After practice, he drives home to pack some supplies before heading over to Geno’s. Usually he’d tell him he’s coming over, but he just knows Geno would try to get out of it if he knew what Sid’s planning. So he lets himself inside and toes off his shoes, listening for Geno as he closes the door. He’s about to call out a hello when he hears noises coming from the kitchen. Sid hasn’t come here to sneak up on Geno, but he’s curious about what Geno’s doing there, especially since it doesn’t smell like he’s cooking - it smells like he’s baking. Sid makes his way to the kitchen as quietly as he can, but once he sees what’s going on there, he almost drops his bag.

There’s flour everywhere, and what looks like cocoa powder. There are three baking trays cooling off on the kitchen island, and several bowls with what looks like icing sitting next to them. Geno is wearing an apron and wielding a whisk, and Sid watches the muscles in his arms move as he’s mixing together ingredients.

But then his attention is drawn to the counter. Sid cannot stop staring at are the rows of jars filled with cookies - it’s like one of  those scenes in movies where there’s a weird lab with shelf after shelf of jars with oddly shaped lizards and eyeballs, except here they’re just - cookies. Of all shapes and kinds.

“I thought you weren’t baking,” Sid says, his voice full of wonder. Geno freezes at the sound of his voice. Then he sighs. “Sid. ”

“I thought you weren’t baking,” Sid says again, “and so I thought we could do it together. I didn’t -” he stops as Geno turns around, and is relieved to see Geno looks embarrassed rather than mad.

Geno gestures with the hand holding the whisk. “I’m bake,” he says. “I’m always bake, but I just - want it to be good. Perfect.” He tilts his head and looks at Sid from behind his lashes. Sid puts his bag on the closest counter and moves to get a better look at the cookie jars.

“When did you even do this?” he asks. He opens a jar and smells cinnamon and something citrus-y. He closes it and checks the next jar, which has cookies that seem to be filled with jam and dipped in chocolate. The jar next to that smells like strawberry and white chocolate and it takes all of Sid’s willpower not to grab a cookie for himself.  

Geno shrugs. “After practice, when you’re busy. Wanted to find best recipe, then surprise.”

“I’m surprised,” Sid tells him. He walks over to Geno and looks up at him. “You have frosting in your hair.” He reaches up to brush it off, but it’s stickier than he expected. “What is this?”

“Peanut butter frosting,” Geno explains, and gets a dishcloth to wipe first his hair and then Sid’s fingers, but Sid pulls his hand back just in time. He experimentally licks at the bit of frosting. “That’s delicious,” he tells Geno, but Geno is frowning at him. “What?” he asks.

“Not done,” Geno says, and just then the oven timer goes off. Geno pulls out another baking tray with - heart-shaped chocolate cookies? Sid peers around Geno to get a closer look. They smell incredible fresh out the oven and a desperate sound escapes his mouth. “Are these for tomorrow?” he asks.

Geno shakes his head. “Tomorrow Dumo’s turn.”

“Why do you keep doing that?” Sid wants to know. “I mean, you have cookies. Lots of them. I’m sure the guys would love them.” He pauses. “I would, too.”

Geno busies himself with the cookies that have already cooled off enough and pointedly doesn’t look at Sid. “Will make cookies for game eventually, promise.”

Sid frowns. “What do you mean, eventually? What are these for?”

Geno makes an exasperated noise. “These are not for game. These are for Wednesday.”

“Wednesday? What’s Wednesday?” Sid asks, confused.

That’s apparently the wrong thing to say because Geno doesn’t answer and focuses on the cookies instead. The heart-shaped chocolate cookies he’s filling with the peanut butter frosting Sid tasted earlier.

Tomorrow’s Tuesday, which means the game against the Sens which means it’s February 13, which means - oh.

Sid feels himself flush. “Geno,” he says. Geno’s shoulders are tense and he keeps his back turned to Sid. Sid’s not sure what to do.

“Cookies are working,” Geno says finally. “So I thought…” He waves at the cookies surrounding them. “Might work for other thing, too.”

“What other thing?” Sid asks, unable to help himself. Geno goes back to filling the cookies, and at least a minute passes before he answers.

“Come again on Wednesday. Can show you then.”

While he really wants to know right now what Geno is up to, Sid can wait for two days, and he can tell it’s important to Geno. Whatever he’s planning, Sid doesn’t want to mess it up for him, and considering he’s been planning it for Valentine’s Day… Sid’s never been that into that sort of thing, but Geno is, and they usually manage to do a romantic dinner or something when they’re not playing a game.

“I’ll just leave then?” he says, and winces when he realizes how whiny he sounds.

Geno finally puts down his spoon and turns to face him. He manages to look both apologetic and determined. “Sorry, Sid.” He carefully picks up a finished cookie and presses it into Sid’s hand before leaning down to kiss him. “Hate to ask this, but is most important.”

Sid nods. “I get it,” he says, because he does, at least part of it. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, I guess?”

“Yes,” Geno agrees, and smiles when Sid presses a kiss against his lips in return. “See you,” Sid says, and then, just to make sure, “Wednesday too, right?”

Geno’s smile widens. “Yes, Sid, Wednesday too.”

“Good,” Sid nods again and picks up the bag he had brought with him, the cookie Geno gave him still in his hand. “See you,” he repeats, and Geno gives a little wave with a spoon. Sid returns to his car and sits in the driver’s seat. He’s torn between saving the cookie for later and eating it immediately, but he doesn’t want to risk it falling on the floor or something. Satisfied with his reasoning, he takes a bite, and has to suppress a moan, because wow. The chocolate cookie part is rich and just the right mix between soft and crumbly, and the peanut butter filling is one of the best things Sid has ever tasted. Part of him wants to go back inside and ask for more, but he’s pretty sure Geno would get mad at him then, and he’s not risking that because of cookies. So instead he texts Geno, These cookies are amazing! and smiles when he gets a Sid, so impatient in return.

*

Tuesday is a game day, and after spending the rest of the day before wondering what is going on, Sid is relieved he can just focus on hockey and his routines. Dumo brings banana oatmeal cookies with raisins and walnuts and chocolate chips - and some that just have chocolate chips - and while they look deceptively simple, they taste amazing. Dumo, Shearsy and some of the other younger guys have apparently formed some kind of baking club, which, okay.

They win, which means after cooldown and showers and interviews Sid can drive home and worry about whatever is going to happen the next day, and shit, should he get Geno something for Valentine’s, too? He panics and tries calling Flower, until he remembers he’s in a different time zone and probably is still busy doing his post-game stuff.

Sid still has the supplies he bought on Monday, so he gets them out along with the recipe he printed out. It’s getting late, and he’s tired, and he really should sleep, but for some reason it feels important to make these cookies, and he uses all his focus to measure, pour and and mix. The batter is supposed to rest for at least four hours once it’s done, so he sets an alarm and goes to bed.

Sid’s alarm goes off a bit earlier than usual because he wants to make sure he has enough time to bake the cookies and glaze them. He carefully shapes them into little balls and makes sure to set the time correctly. Once they’re done baking, he mixes the glaze - it hardens too much towards the end, but he figures he has enough cookies by then. It’s almost noon, and Geno told him yesterday to be there by two, so Sid goes to take a shower and get ready. It’s just - well, not dinner, but something at Geno’s house, so he doesn’t have to wear something nice, really, but he still picks out slacks and a button down. The cookies are dry by the time he’s ready, so he puts them into a box and heads over to Geno’s.

*

He’s a little early, but it feels silly to wait in his car. Also, Geno knows him, so just like Sid always expects Geno to be late, Geno probably expects Sid to be early. So he grabs the box of cookies and walks up to the door. Everything about today has Sid unsure what to do, so he wavers for a moment, trying to decide whether to just let himself in or to ring the bell. Apparently Geno knows him well enough to expect that, too, because after a couple of second the door opens and there’s Geno, barefoot, wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a fond smile. “Hi, Sid,” he says, raising his eyebrows when he notices Sid’s clothes, and Sid blushes. He moves past Geno so he can close the door and kiss him. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t actually distract Geno, though. “Hi,” Sid finally replies when he steps back. “What’s that smell?” Geno asks him, peering curiously at the box Sid is holding.

Sid hands him the cookies, and Geno opens the lid. Surprise and delight show on his face as he looks at Sid. “You make?” he asks, and Sid nods.

“Can I?” Geno has a cookie in his mouth before Sid can say anything, and he doesn’t have to wait long for Geno’s reaction. “Sid!” He’s smiling and still has his mouth half full of cookies when he hugs Sid, somehow managing to pull him in close even though he’s holding the box of cookies.

“These are for you,” Sid explains when Geno lets him go. “I mean, they’re - they’re not for the game.”

“No?” Geno says even as he’s getting another cookie from the box. Sid’s glad he likes them, but they’re still standing at the door. “They’re - Geno, can we do this somewhere that’s not your hallway?” Sid asks. Geno kisses him instead of an answer - the kiss is long and sweet and Sid can taste the allspice and nutmeg, and they’re both smiling when they finally pull apart. “Thank you,” Geno tells him, before taking his hand and leading him to the den.

Sid is surprised that’s where he’s taking him - it’s where they usually hang out, and it’s comfortable, but it’s not one of Geno’s typical Valentine’s locations. But there’s a huge plate of cookies on the table, and Geno tells him to sit before going to get them tea and coffee. Geno also gets a plate for the cookies Sid made him and makes a show of setting them out of Sid’s reach. Sid rolls his eyes and gets one of Geno’s cookies instead. It’s another of the heartshaped chocolate ones, and it’s just as amazing as it was two days ago. They curl up on the couch with their separate plates, although Sid would probably be willing to share if Geno asked. He doesn’t, though, so he enjoys himself trying all the different cookies Geno must have made during the last couple of days, or possibly weeks. Geno’s watching him closely as he makes his way through the plate - after three cookies, he only breaks off a small bite of the next. “I can’t possibly eat all of this, Geno,” he says as Geno protests.

“And I want to try them all.” He pauses. “How many different kinds did you make, anyway?”

“Twelve,” Geno replies.

“Twelve?” Sid asks.

Geno looks almost a little embarrassed as he says, “Is one for every year.” Sid blinks. Oh. He swallows. He looks back at his plate. Suddenly, it seems important to eat all of them, so he picks up the cookie already missing a piece and puts in his mouth. The white chocolate melts in his mouth, and the strawberry and lemon are a nice contrast to the sweetness.

“Thank you,” he says. “These are so good.”

“Of course,” Geno’s back to his usual smugness. “Know what you like.”

He does, Sid thinks, and every single cookie is proof just how well Geno knows him. The last one actually smells like - “Oh god, is that a cheesecake cookie?” Sid almost moans, and it doesn’t take him long to devour it. He smiles happily at Geno once he’s swallowed the last piece, and Geno reaches out to wipe his thumb over the corner of Sid’s mouth.

“Messy,” he tells him and Sid watches as Geno licks his thumb. He leans over to put the plate on the table and moves closer to Geno.

“Thank you,” he says again. “I think this is my favorite Valentine’s yet.”

“Next year even better,” Geno says. “We make thirteen kinds then.” Sid laughs, and nods. “Okay, but next year we make them together.”

“Together,” Geno agrees, and Sid doesn’t know whether he leans in to kiss Geno first or it’s Geno pulling him closer. The taste of cheesecake mixes with honey and anise as it turns into the taste of them, and Sid cannot wait for the year where even three plates wont fit all the cookies they’ll be making then.

[fanforthefics]

for the @sidgeno-fluff-fest prompt (gone a little sideways) “injury”. random medieval AU, because why not?

“Damn it!”

Zhenya lets the flap of the pavilion fall shut before anyone outside can hear or see what’s happening inside. The doctors see, by necessity; the Sidney’s squire sees, because Sidney trusts him as much as any of the knights. But no one else should see this—Sidney sitting on the table, his cuisses and greaves still on but the top of his armor stripped off, and blood staining the side of his tunic a bright, painful red.

Zhenya eyes the wound. Tries to watch it with the battlefield in mind; assessing what it means for the battle. Not to think about how that’s Sidney’s blood; not to think about how sickening twist of how Sidney had snapped back in the saddle at the errant lance. Sidney’s not supposed to bleed, not like this.

The doctors are still humming around Sidney, buzzing like bees and talking about something Zhenya doesn’t care to understand. He sidles over to Sheary, who’s still clutching Sidney’s breastplate like he can somehow use it to block out the hit.

“He okay?” Zhenya asks in an undertone.

“I don’t—yes,” Sheary concludes. He nods, sure. He’s a good man; he’ll make a good knight, soon enough. Sidney keeps on putting off knighting him because he doesn’t want to train a new squire, but they all know it’s time. “It was a lot of blood, but not…”

Nothing like the blow to the head, Zhenya fills in. That had been the kingdom’s nightmare; their prince sequestered for over a year, noise of appointing a new heir rumbling in the streets, and Sidney pacing the walls of the tower watching his knights drill on the grounds below with longing like a knight for his lady love.

This is a clean strike, at least, or so it looks from here; a lance to the side is not an easy wound, but at least it’s one they can see.  

Zhneya meets Sheary’s eyes and nods, understanding all of this.

But there are other things the boy doesn’t understand, not yet.

Zhenya puts a hand on Sheary’s shoulder and squeezes, a comfort, then makes his way to the crowd of doctors. They let him through easily enough; the whole kingdom knows he’s the prince’s man, and that Sidney trusts him.

In the center of the crowd, Sidney’s patience is clearly wearing thin, but nothing like that oath has come out again—instead, his teeth are gritted and his hands curled into fists at his sides as the doctors wrap the wound. His cheeks are still flushed from the joust, and he still wears the simple tunic and hose that go under his armor—he’ll have to replace the tunic, Zhenya notes absently; he’ll hate that. That tunic has brought him luck in many jousts.

He must make a noise, because Sidney looks up, and their eyes lock.

When Zhenya first came to Pittsburgh, ten years or more ago now, he’d already heard stories about their prince—cursed, one story had said, or blessed, said another. Uncanny, yet a third had said. The best knight in the land, most agreed and, maybe that was what Zhenya had believed most and least, newly exiled and searching for a quest to prove himself.

But then he’d come to the throne room, and seen the king on his throne and the man—barely a boy, younger than Sheary was now—standing to the side of the throne, straight backed and strongly built, and watching Zhenya walk towards him. He’d barely spoken, that presentation, but as Zhenya started to leave, to let Sir Gonchar take him to his quarters, the prince had stepped from the dais, and clasped Zhenya’s arm, and he’d met Zhenya’s eyes with his, a clear, bright hazel, and he had smiled—and Zhenya had known, from that first moment, that this was a prince he would follow anywhere.

Zhenya thinks of that first look now, as Sidney looks at him, pale from bloodloss and tense from pain, and a world of understanding passes between them.

“I can still do it,” Sidney says.

“Can’t.”

“I can, I can—”

“You’re not fighting again, my lord,” Vyas says, stern. He’s worked with the knights, and especially the prince, for long enough to perfect that tone. “Not today.”

Sidney ignores him, still looking at Zhenya. “I can do it.”

Zhenya looks down at him. Sidney’s always been strong, the solid bulwark like the foundations of the castle itself, and he’s fought wounded before—they all have, on the battlefield. But now, the bloodstain on the bandages are still growing, and he can see Sidney’s hand shaking. Not much—on anyone else, it would be unremarkable—but on Sidney, is said everything.

“Lift arm, Sid.”

“I—”

“Going to fight if can’t lift sword?” Zhenya interrupts, and ignores the murmurs. Everyone knows Sidney is informal with his knights, and Zhenya is his right hand. “Lift arm.”

Sidney scowls, never unable to take a challenge, and tries to raise his right arm. He doesn’t get to shoulder height before his breath catches in his throat and he bites down hard on his lip. Zhenya doesn’t feel good, for being right.  

“I’ll manage,” Sidney says. “I have to.” Zhenya looks pointed at his arm. Sidney’s face goes somber. “We both know what’ll happen, if there’s no one there.”

They both do, too well. A stupid, pointless ritual, Zhenya’s always thought; a holdover from the days when being a king meant nothing more than force at arms. It’s always been an exhibition before this; the crown prince fighting simply because the commons loved to cheer.

But now—if there is no one to fight, then the black knight wins be default. Zhenya would almost think this was his doing, a way to ensure his victory over Sidney, to ensure his path to the throne and the bloodshed he would bring beyond it. He was a spider, after all, spreading his lies and plots throughout the city until his claim felt strong enough that nothing but the challenge would do to prove Sidney’s rightful place. A foolish plan, Zhenya had thought, before Sidney’s last joust; the black knight was good, but not so good that he would win. And the challenge was a bloodthirsty one.

“If you fight now, you lose,” Zhenya tells Sidney, because he’ll be honest if no one else will. “You lose, he kill you.”

Sidney swallows. The room’s gone quiet. He tilts his head up, and his jaw is set stubbornly. “Then—”

“No.”

“Geno.”

“No,” Zhenya repeats. There are things he refuses in life, and Sidney’s death is one of them.

Sidney’s eyes glint warningly. If he had a sword in hand, if he weren’t injured, Zhenya might be worried. “Sir Malkin. You forget your—”

“I fight,” Zhenya announces, and Sidney’s mouth snaps shut on whatever he was about the censure Zhenya with. “You get champion, yes? I fight.”

A beat. Two. Then, “Everybody out,” Sidney orders—a battlefield order, not the polite requests he makes of servants in the castle. This is the commander at work.

“Your bandages,” Vyas objects mildly.

“They’re as good as they’ll get for now. Out. You too, Conor.”

The pavilion clears. Zhenya doesn’t move.

When everyone’s gone, Sidney’s eyes narrow again. “What were you saying?”

“I fight. You say I your champion, is allowed, yes? I fight.”

“No.”

“So you fight?” Zhenya retorts, getting angry now. That’s why Sidney had cleared the room, they both know; it’s important that Sidney’s command looks absolute to the public. But Zhenya’s never been good at taking orders. “You want to die?”

“Of course not.”

“You want black knight be prince of Pittsburgh?”

“No, I don’t, but—”

“Then I—”

“I won’t let you die for me!” Sidney hisses, but it feels loud as swords clashing.

Their breaths are loud, harsh. Far off, beyond the canvas walls of the pavilion, Zhenya can barely make out the sounds of the tournament crowds.

“I won’t let you die for me,” Sidney repeats, quieter. He looks at his hands, then back at Zhenya. He’s sitting, and so is even shorter than usual compared to Zhenya, but he’s always held himself like a prince, even when he doesn’t want to. “I knew what I was doing, when I took the challenge. I won’t make you do it.”

“Not make, Sid.” Zhenya lets out his anger with another long breath. “I your knight. Your second. Be your champion.”

Sidney’s face looks whiter than it did a moment ago. Zhenya really hopes its not more blood loss. If he gets the prince too angry and hurts him, then he’ll have all the knights after him. “I can’t lose you, Geno.”

Zhenya feels that all the way through to his heart. Packs it away, with all the other bits of Sidney that he can have, when the city takes so much. “Think I lose? Not good enough to beat black knight?”

“Of course you are,” Sidney replies, easy and confident as breathing. “But we both know, that’s not always enough.” His eyes are bleak. He reaches out a hand, so he can rest it on Zhenya’s arm, light as a feather, searing as a brand. “I don’t want to ask this of you. This is mine to bear, not yours.”

“Sid.” Zhenya drops to one knee. He’d knelt like this before, sworn an oath he’d taken into his blood and bones. He’d meant it then, as he meant it now—he was the prince’s, body and soul and heart, and whatever else his prince needed of him. He had been since that first smile, that first assurance when none was needed. “You not asking. I giving.”

Sidney shook his head, though there was a smile on his lips, something rueful. “Duty’s not worth dying for, not like this.”

A lie, Zhenya thinks; Sidney would die for duty and for loyalty and for what his people demanded of him. Zhenya’s not like that; he’s a knight and he keeps his oaths, but duty’s not written into him like it is with Sidney. It might be Zhenya’s duty to do this; he wouldn’t know.

Zhenya doesn’t look away from Sidney’s face. “Not doing this for duty.” He looks, and sees Sidney know—the thing they don’t talk about, the thing they’ve never said that was planted between them in that long-ago throne room.

“Geno,” Sidney breathes, and it feels like a prayer.

“I fight,” Zhenya says it, like that’ll make it true. “I fight, I win for you. You get better, be prince. Be king. Be best king.”

Slowly, Sidney nods, like even that motion hurts. Then, in a motion, Zhenya is fairly sure actually does hurt, he leans forward, takes Zhenya’s hand, and brings the knuckles to his lips. Zhenya’s whole world freezes.

“Not without you,” Sidney murmurs, so soft that it only lives in the space between them.

Then Sid drops his hand and looks away. Zhenya gets to his feet, happy of the reprieve.  “I—go say, I your champion?” he confirms. It feels right, in his mouth. Sidney’s champion.

“Yes.” Zhenya takes a step away, then, “Oh! Wait. Um.”

Sid glances around, looks down at himself, makes a face, and rips off a ribbon of his tunic. With his left hand still moving gingerly, he holds it out. “Here. If you’re my champion, you should wear a favor.”

It’s a bit sweaty, and Zhenya knows just how long Sidney’s had that tunic. He takes it anyway.

Sidney’s still eying him. “It’s always brought me luck,” he says, and now there’s all those things they don’t say in his eyes. “So win.”

Zhenya bows, as properly as he knows how, and brings the prince’s favor to his heart. “Yes, my lord,” he agrees, and tries to capture that image, of Sidney sitting straight and proud despite his wound, his whole focus on Zhenya, on believing in Zhenya, to carry with him as he leaves.

///

“Your prince too cowardly to fight his own battles?” the black knight mocks, as they circle each other on the field. It’s already hot in armor under the afternoon sun, and the dust hovers in the air. “Sends a foreign exile to fight in his stead?”

Zhenya shifts his grip on his sword. Out of the corner of his eye, in the royal pavilion, he can see Sidney, flanked by his knights; Sidney’s favor is tied around his arm under his armor.

“Prince too important to fight you,” Zhenya retorts, and he can feel himself smile. “My job take out trash for him.”

The black knight makes an inarticulate noise of rage and raises his sword, and Zhenya steps forward to meet him.

///

Later—after Zhenya’s sword rests at the black knight’s throat; after the black knight begs Sidney’s mercy on his knees, after Zhenya’s bruises are dressed, after the feast and Zhenya feeling Sidney’s gaze on him the whole time he drank and boasted among the knights—a rap sounds on the doors of Zhenya’s chambers. Zhenya should be surprised, but isn’t, when Sidney’s standing there.

Standing, or maybe more accurately leaning, like he if he let go of the doorjamb he might fall over. But he’s there, and watching Zhenya with something in his gaze he’s never seen before.

“Late, for visit,” Zhenya points out.

Sidney nods. “I know.” He doesn’t look away.

“You injured, should be resting.”

“Maybe.” Sidney shrugs, and then winces enough that it’s clear that he definitely should be resting, and not standing outside of Zhenya’s door. “Are you going to ask me in?”

“Sidney…” There’s a reason they’ve never said the words before, never addressed what lay between them.

“You could have died for me today. In my stead.” Sidney’s voice is even and sure. “You could have died, and I wouldn’t have said—and why?” He shakes his head, harsh. “I would have died for my people today, and done it happily. But this is—they don’t get you.”

He straightens, draws himself up ignoring how much it must hurt. Even there, dressed in a simple tunic that hides the bandages still around his ribs and holding himself upright by will alone, there’s no mistaking Sidney for anything but what he is: a prince. Zhenya’s prince. And a man, handsome and strong and better than anyone else Zhenya knows.

“I’m not asking as your prince, or your captain.” Sidney’s eyes in the torchlight are still clear and bright as they have been every day for the past ten years. “May I come in?”

Zhenya is the prince’s man, through and through, and has been from the start; and it has nothing to do with Sidney’s title.

He stands aside, and lets Sidney in.  

[sidgeno-fluff-fest]

SidGeno Fluff Fest Week 2

College- Do they meet at a frat party? Are they thrown together on a group project? Is Sid getting increasingly annoyed at the long legged guy behind him who keeps ‘accidentally’ kicking his chair and he’s just about to let him have it when he turns around and falls a little bit in love? Are they professors who flirt with each other between classes but worry that it won’t translate well off campus?

Remember to tag your work with #SidGenoFluffFest and/or tag this blog so I can share it. If you’re posting to Ao3 add it to the collection right here

Have fun, keep it fluffy. .

A new prompt gets introduced next Sunday at 12:30pm EST.

[cakemakethme]

This one is gonna be even more messy than the baker one…. 😱😱😱

Be on the lookout @sidgeno-fluff-fest 😬

[fanforthefics]

Take Your Time

My contribution to week 3 of the @sidgeno-fluff-fest, for the prompt “kids”. (Suspend your disbelief as to timing, okay? It’s for the story, go with it). Comes in at about 4k of ridiculous wishbaby fluff. 

“G, G! G, guess what!”

It’s a little like counting seconds after lightening waiting for the thunder; Geno has the amount of time it takes for five-year-old legs to cross the locker room to brace before he’s hit around the knees with fifteen kilograms of child. Geno takes the hit, stumbles back dramatically.

“What, solnyshko?” Geno exclaims, grabbing the boy by his waist and hoisting him into the air. Henry giggles, loud and endearing as his father’s. “What happening?”

“I’m going skating today!”

“Skating, yes?” Geno swings Henry back down. The other guys around the locker room are still changing, not paying any attention to the child running around their midst other than probably watching their language a little bit. Henry’s always had the run of the place, maybe even more so than any of the other Pens children. “Go skating before.”

“Dad says I can do it on my own today!” Henry informs Geno, grinning. He has his father’s smile, like he has his father’s hazel eyes that widen excitedly at the prospect of skating.

“Did he?” Geno asks.

“He did,” Sid agrees, coming in behind his son. He sets two gear bags down on the bench—of course Sid already has a full gear bag for his son, Geno can’t bring himself to be surprised—with a sign like they’re much heavier than they are. Geno gives him a quick, worried look, because he still remembers the exhaustion of those first few months with Henry, but Sid just looks the same sort of tired as he usually is late into the season. “If—”

“If I’m good for Tim during practice, and I promise to eat all my vegetables after,” Henry recites. He makes a face at Geno, who laughs.

“So many rules, Sid!”

“I’ve never been above bribes.” Sid shrugs. “Now let Geno alone, Henry. What did I say about running away?”

“It’s just the locker room!” Henry protests.

“Yeah, it’s just the locker room, Sid,” Tanger agrees, and Henry lunges from Geno’s arms into Tanger’s.

“Uncle Kris, Uncle Kris! I’m going skating!”

“Are you?” Tanger asks, as he and Geno manage the handoff with a little more grace. “Gonna be a D-man like your godfather?”

“Nu-uh. I’m gonna score all the goals, like dad!” Henry announces, which gets a round of coos and laughter from anyone listening.

Henry continues telling Tanger about how good he’s going to be at skating, and Geno drifts over to Sid. He hasn’t moved to get changed yet—there’s still time before the optional skate this morning, and he has to drop Henry off with the trainers who watch him when Sid’s at the rink and doesn’t have another babysitter. Instead he’s just watching Henry with Tanger and Shearsy and Muzz, who are all listening intently as Henry chatters at them. He’s as talkative as Sid in a good mood, just all the time. It makes Geno wonder about Sid as a kid; if he had this enthusiasm but was beaten down by the pressures of being who he is.

It doesn’t matter, really; Sid’s got soft eyes as he watches his son and his team, the same soft eyes he’d had four years ago when he’d called everyone to his home and presented them with his son, the basket he’d appeared in still in the corner of the room.

Geno watches Sid watch Henry, and doesn’t kid himself that his gaze is any less fond.

“Hey,” he says, nudging Sid with his hip. “Henry skate today? You decide is finally time?”

“Yeah,” Sid sighs. His lips twist for a second. Everyone’s been teasing him about when he’ll put his son on the ice since Henry turned two, but he’d been adamant he wouldn’t do it unless Henry asked. Everyone had been a little worried about if Sid would break, when Henry didn’t start asking immediately. “If he wants to, I’m not going to stop him.”

“He baby Crosby. He be fine.”

“That’s sort of what I’m worried about,” Sid admits, still watching. Tanger’s put Henry down, and now he’s helping Phil wrap his stick. No one on this team pretends that the captain’s son doesn’t have all of them wrapped around their little fingers. Those first few months, when Sid refused to put him down for longer than the space of a practice like the universe would take him away if he let go, really made an impression. “Or—what if he isn’t? It’s not like we really know his genetics.”

“Half you, at least,” Geno tells him. He’s not entirely sure of the science, but he knows that much. “And all Henry. He good.”

“Yeah,” Sid echoes. He worries, Geno knows; he’s worried since that first day, because Sid has been practicing parenting with the team since he got his first letter and having a son has just spread the fretting. He worries that Henry will want hockey, and that he’ll live his life with Sid’s name hanging over his head; he worries that Henry won’t want hockey and Sid won’t know how to relate to him. He worries that Henry’s missing something, growing up without another parent other than the universe; he worries that the ever-shifting Pens roster doesn’t give Henry enough stability.

“You good,” Geno repeats, nudging Sid again. “Best dad. Henry be fine. Great at skate, great at anything he wants. Maybe be goalie. Make Aunt Taylor proud.”

Sid actually knocks on wood, which makes Geno laugh. “God, don’t even. I told Flower we were doing this and he overnighted me the smallest goalie mask he could find.”

“Is cute?” Geno asks, and Sid shakes his head, grinning.

“It’s pretty adorable,” he admits, pulling out his phone. “Look, here.” He flips through to his pictures, and yeah, it’s adorable—Henry grinning through the mask, all dark curls and big eyes and chubby cheeks; the next one of him in Sid’s lap, Sid frowning a little like he’s trying to figure out the best angle for the selfie and Henry tugging on his dad’s hair. Something pangs in Geno’s heart, looking at it.

“Da-ad!” Henry whines, throwing himself at Sid. Sid hands the phone to Geno and lifts his son into his arms as smoothly as he’s ever put a puck into the net, then takes the phone back. “I want to show Tim my skates!”

“Okay, guess we’re going,” Sid chuckles. He looks over Henry’s head, to Geno. “Tell Dan I’ll be right out, eh?”

“Yes yes, know you won’t be late. Go!” Geno swats Sid’s ass, just because. Sid glares at him. They’ve never needed words to communicate, and that includes nonverbally swearing at each other because kids are in the room. “Sooner go, sooner Henry can skate. Show you how its done.”

“Yeah!” Henry agrees, and wiggles down from his father’s grip. Sidney gets a hand around his before he goes running, and they walk out together, hand in hand.

Geno watches. There’s that pang again.

“You know he’ll be back right after practice, right?” Horny says, straight-faced. “You don’t have to miss him.”

“Know,” Geno says, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t miss Henry. He doesn’t even—it’s not even envy, really. It’s just. Something. Something shaped like a night they don’t talk about.

///

After practice, some of the guys head out, but somehow the word went out that it was kids day, so Alex has been deposited on the ice, and Isabella, and all the other little ones. Geno’s not sure if Sid set a trend, or it’s a conscious thing to do so the reporters hanging around hoping for something to write about don’t focus on Sidney Crosby’s wishbaby son’s first steps on the ice.

“Ready?” Sid asks, hovering at the door with a hand on Henry’s shoulder. He’s still in full gear, minus his gloves, which makes Henry—in just his skates and a helmet—look comically small in front of him.

“Yeah!” Henry bounces a little. Geno pulls out his camera, trains it on them. Sid will want this. Not to mention Henry’s grandparents, aunt, and oceans of honorary uncles. “Dad, come on!”

“Okay,” Sid agrees, and steps onto the ice, pulling Henry with them.

It’s not dramatic, really—Sid’s holding onto both of Henry’s hands, skating backwards and tugging Henry along—but it is adorable, Henry’s brow furrowed and lips pressed together as he concentrates on staying upright.

“You’re doing great,” Sid murmurs, in what’s definitely the same tone he uses on scared rookies. His face, though—god, it’s the face he had the first time Henry walked, the first time he spoke. His face in that moment, when Geno’d come in with Tanger and Flower, debating with them about just why Sid had summoned them and wondering if it had anything to do with the night before, when they’d found him holding a baby in his arms. He’d looked up, and it had been with this face that he’d said, “this is my son.”

Henry pushes forward, a little stronger. “Let go,” he orders. Sid pauses. “Dad!”

“Okay,” Sid agrees, and lets go.

He stays close, hovering just out of reach—but Henry takes his first few faltering steps on the ice alone. Geno can’t breathe.

Then Henry’s arms start flailing, and he loses his balance and falls on his butt with a surprised ‘oof!’

Geno bites down hard on his lip so he won’t laugh. Henry looks like he’s not sure whether to cry or not.

“Diving!” Geno calls. He hits pause on his phone, skates forward. “That penalty, Henry. And bad habit. Not take after papa in this.”

“Hey,” Sid complains, but he’s not serious. Henry’s clearly distracted, watching them; Sid reaches down, and pulls Henry to his feet. “You okay, Henry?”

“I fell.”

“Yeah,” Sid agreed. “It happens.”

Geno leans down. “Want know secret?” he asks. Henry nods. “Your papa falls lots.”

“So does Geno,” Sidney adds, with a look that’s as good as a check. Geno pushes him. Sid lets him slide. “Hey! No penalties in front of my son.”

“Not penalty if you not get caught,” Geno retorts. He turns to Henry. “Want skate with me?”

“Okay,” Henry agrees, and holds out one hand to Geno. He keeps his other hand in Sid’s, so they skate a little way like that, Sid and Geno watching Henry closely.

A laugh and the click of a photo, and Geno looks up to see Tanger holding his phone pointed a them. “That’s one for the Christmas card!” he yells.

Sid makes a face, then looks around. “Hey, Alex?” he calls, to where Tanger’s son is taking shots on Muzz. “I think your dad needs practice blocking.”

“Okay!” Alex calls, and cheerfully charges his dad. Tanger cackles and skates away.

“Can I do that?” Henry demands, watching—he’s never liked that Alex is older and can therefore do more than him.

“Let’s get you going slow first,” Sid suggests, and Henry pouts.

“I don’t wanna go slow!” he protests, his whine just like Sid’s when told that no, IR means rest.

Geno swoops around behind Henry, grabs his shoulder. “We go fast then!” he says, and starts to go, pushing Henry in front of him as he gets up to speed, he focuses in on Olli, mainly because he’s closest and also because he makes eye contact at the wrong moment; he gets the picture quickly and starts going in front of them. Henry’s laughing madly, and Geno holds on tight.

Olli lets them catch him after a few minutes—it’s hard, skating with a kid—and Geno high fives Henry. When he looks up, Sid’s watching them. He’s smiling a little, nothing wary or unsure. Geno falters, not enough that Henry does but enough that he has to look away. Sid’s certainty has always been overwhelming, intimidating. Sid knows what he wants, with enough power that he wished a son from the sky. Geno’s never been able to be sure. If he had been—well, things might have gone different that night.

“G!” Henry stomps. It almost overbalances him; Geno steadies him. “Can I try on my own again?”

“Da, solnyshko,” Geno murmurs, and lets him go. He keeps his arms close; he won’t let Henry fall. “Good. Do so good.”

///

It doesn’t take long for Henry to tire and start getting fussy.

“Time for lunch and a nap,” Sid says, as he unties Henry’s skates. He’s swinging his legs in a way that’s making Geno nervous for father and son both, but Sid dodges the blades adeptly.

“Just like his papa,” Geno points out, which gets a snort from Haggy and a wrinkled nose from Sid.

“Is that joke ever getting old?”

“No,” Geno tells him. “Not until one of you is not cranky without lunch and nap. I think Henry stop first.”

Sid gives him another glare. Geno grins back as innocently as he can. After ten years, Sid isn’t fooled, but he usually gives in anyway.

“I hope he does,” Sid agrees, and tugs Henry’s second skate off. “Okay, bud. Just hang out with G while I get changed, and we can go home, okay?”

“But I’m hungry now,” Henry whines.

“Want play matching game?” Geno suggests. Sid sighs, but Henry perks up. Sid doesn’t approve of the matching game, a phone app Geno had downloaded on the advice of one of his friends in Russia who said that it could keep kids occupied for hours and was good for them, but it works in a pinch.

Geno opens the app and gives his phone to Henry. He keeps half an eye on him and half an eye on Sid as they change, quick and efficient.

“Coming for lunch?” Sid asks, as he pulls off his underarmor. Geno only looks a little.

“Yes,” Geno tells him. “Not let you give Henry boring food.”

“It’s healthy.”

“Boring,” Geno retorts. “Mama sends more recipes, she says good for growing boy. Make big as his papa. We try.”

“She did?” Sid smiles, like he’s surprised. Like Geno’s mother doesn’t send recipes and toys and whatever else she thinks of whenever she can, and demands pictures. Sometimes, Geno thinks she knows, too. “She didn’t have to—”

“She want. She steal Henry, if think she could get over border.” Geno isn’t entirely joking. “Is good for me. Stop ask me about grandbabies.”

“Well, you are’t getting any younger, G,” Sid observes, in his best media voice. Geno throws a sock at him, and gets a laugh in response.

He thinks about it though, on the way to Sid’s. He remembers being twenty-five and feeling like the world was open in front of him—he’d won a Stanley Cup and plenty of other awards; he was going to the Olympics to win, he’d been sure, a gold medal on Russian ice. He’d been ready to take the world by storm then, that evening as he’d pulled into Sid’s driveway. He’d wanted everything and nothing all at once.

Now, he pulls into Sid’s driveway. Sid’s only started driving slower since Henry, so he beat him back; Geno lets himself in anyway, and heads to the kitchen to start pulling together some sandwiches. For all his effort, Henry is his father’s son, and when he’s already in a mood presenting him with something new isn’t going to make it any better.

A few minutes later, he hears the door open.  “In kitchen!” Geno calls.

Sid appears a second later, Henry in his arms. His head is soft on Sid’s shoulder, his limbs limp, his body steady in Sid’s strong arms.

“Barely made it five minutes in the car,” Sid says quietly. “Now he’s out cold.”

“Wake up for food?”

Sid shakes his head. “He had a snack before skating, he’ll be fine. I’ll put him down.”

“I grab gear from car,” Geno offers, because he knows Sid won’t ask, but it needs to be done.

Sid smiles at him, all easy affection, his eyes as warm as they were ten years ago, five. “Thanks,” he says, and pets over his son’s hair, soothing, and Geno—something catches in him. Sticks. Holds.

“I’ll be right back,” Sid says, and heads upstairs.

Geno goes out to Sid’s car, gets the two gear bags, brings them into the mudroom where they belong. Then he goes upstairs.

Sid’s still in Henry’s room. Henry’s laying on the bed, asleep in the sweet way of kids, with his cheeks flushed and his thumb in his mouth. Sid, as Geno watches, leans down, brushes a lock of hair off of Henry’s face, pulls the blankets up over him. Soft, easy movements. He’s so good at this. He’s always been so good at this, at fatherhood, at anything he put his mind to. He’s never needed anyone else, really. Never asked for it. Not for the last five years, and before that—

Sid looks up, smiles at Geno again, puts his finger to his lips. Geno nods, and steps back out of the door. Sid’s there a second later, shutting the door quietly behind them.

That quiet follows them back down to the kitchen, even after Geno distributes the sandwiches he had made. It’s an easy silence. They’ve never needed words. Or at least, not usually.

“You ever think about that night?” Geno asks. He’s been eating standing up, and now he sets his empty plate down at the counter, leans against it so he can watch Sid where he’s sitting at a stool at the island.

Sid blinks. Chews his sandwich, swallows. “What night?”

Right. Not even Sid knows everything. “Night where—night before Henry come,” Geno says, because that’s easier then ‘the night we had sex and it was great and it might have been something except then the next day you had a baby.’

“Oh.” Sid sets down the sandwich. He’s eying Geno more in confusion than wariness. “That night.” He lets out a long breath. “What do you want me to say to that, G?”

“Not know, just—we never talk. I think, talk next day, but then—”

“Then Henry,” Sid fills in. “Yeah. I know it was weird, and it seemed like you were a little freaked, but by the time I’d figured stuff out with Henry, it didn’t seem like an issue anymore.”

That’s a fair description of what had happened. It feels paltry, though. Those few words can’t describe the feeling of Sid’s body against his, of laughing into Sid’s mouth and skin, of how he’d tasted; how his mouth had felt; how everything had felt, like it had all come together.

“He not issue. Henry never issue.” Sid’s smile flashes, quick and sweet, and Geno feels that thing in him settle more. “But—we have sex, then you get baby, Sid. Maybe we should have talk.”

“Talk now, or have talked then?” Sid asks. Geno makes a face, and Sid holds up his hands. “Just clarifying.”

“Then. Now. Sometime.” Geno shakes his head. English is the worst. “Sid, why Henry come then?”

Sid lets out a long breath. In another time, Geno might feel bad for pushing Sid like this—Sid, who hates to reveal anything—but Geno’s waited five years to be in a place where he wants to know this. And Sid’s not making a face like he’s mad, or uncomfortable. Just thoughtful, and almost wistful. “I don’t know. It wasn’t—like, it was you, but. It was everything, you know? The lock-out was done, the concussion was gone. Everyone I loved was there. I was ready. And then we, and…It felt like confirmation. That I was where I was supposed to be.” He looks up at Geno, his eyes calm and sure. “I’m not sorry. About that night, or Henry.”

“Me neither,” Geno agrees. He thinks Sid knows that, but it’s good to be sure. Sid doesn’t look surprised, at least.

“Good. Is that enough talking?” Sid looks hopeful, and it hits Geno all over again, how much he loves this man.

“Sid—why not ask?”

“Ask what?”

Geno takes a breath. “He come after we had sex. You alone with him, and is because of me. Could have asked.”

Sid presses his lips together, but he’s shaking his head, almost smiling. “He came with on name for a reason, Geno. I saw you, when I told you—there was a second when you thought he might be yours too, and you were freaked. I wanted him. I was ready. I didn’t need to pull you in too.”

Of course Sid saw. Sid sees everything, and he’s been Geno’s captain for years, long enough to read him.

“I’m not ready then,” Geno agrees, because he hadn’t been. Sid’s right. He takes a step closer. On the high stool, they’re the same height, and Sid’s gaze is watchful and ready, waiting for the puck to drop. “I am now.”

The only sound is Sid’s indrawn breath. “G.” His voice is rough. He swallows, and its clearer. “Geno, don’t say that if you aren’t sure.”

“I’m sure.” Geno steps forward against. His thighs are almost brushing Sid’s knees. Sid still hasn’t moved. “You not have to want, know you and Henry good, you not need, but—” Geno shrugs. “Love you. Love Henry. Want you both.”

“You’re sure?” Sid repeats. His eyes haven’t moved from Geno’s face. “This isn’t easy to walk away from.”  

Five years ago, he’d have run. Five years ago, he’d been young and stupid and hadn’t known that he’d never get his heart back from this man, or that the little boy upstairs would steal it just as completely.

Geno’s not as good as Sid at certainty. It takes him longer. But he can get there in the end.

“I’m sure,” he says again. Sid watches him for a second, for—something, Geno’s not sure what.

Then he nods, and suddenly they’re chest to chest, pressed close with Sid’s arms around Geno’s neck. “Good,” Sid says, and in that word and the moment after Geno can hear everything he doesn’t need to say. Then Sid’s lips curve up, heat coming in after the warmth. “Because we probably have about forty-five minutes to have sex before Henry wakes up.”

Geno yelps out a laugh, and grabs at Sid’s hips, pulling him even closer as Sid chuckles. “You not wasting time.”

“You take every minute you have with a kid,” Sid replies. “You’ll learn,” he adds, and cuts off Geno’s reply with his mouth.

///

They manage to make their time, though they’ve both only just finished pulling clothes back on when the door opens and Henry comes in. If he’s surprised about finding Geno in his father’s bedroom, he doesn’t show it, just climbs into the bed and settles between them.

“I wanna read fairy tales,” he announces. “G, please read?”

Sid’s grinning, but he shifts his arm so Henry can settle under it, and then Geno’s faced with two sets of big hazel eyes. It wasn’t like he was going to say no in the first place, but now it’s impossible.

“Okay,” he agrees, and takes the book Sid hands him. It only takes them a little bit of repositioning to get comfortable, then Henry’s sitting on Sid’s lap and Sid’s pressed up against Geno, so they can all see the pictures.

Geno takes a second to look at them—Sid and the son he wanted so certainly drew him from the sky. Then Sid looks up at him, and smiles, and there’s that same certainty in it. Geno would drop from the sky for that smile, he thinks. He’ll keep it as long as he’s allowed. 

“G!” Henry slams a heel into Geno’s thigh. “Read!”

“Okay, okay.” Geno opens the book. Sid rests his head on Geno’s shoulder, and Henry’s leaning forward, intent on the words he can’t read yet. “Once upon a time…”