#a short and mostly fluffy one for today due to: emotional strife

[malk1ns]

december fourteen: "can i get some more whipped cream?"

“Oh god, that’s so good,” Sid moans, licking his lips.

Zhenya has to try very hard to not choke on his coffee.

He automatically glances around the restaurant, but this diner lets them in an hour and a half before their posted hours begin, have for years; it’s empty, except for the cook back in the kitchen, prepping for the Saturday morning brunch rush.

And thank god for that, because Zhenya can’t stop himself from staring helplessly at Sidney Crosby, really enjoying his breakfast.

There’s no skate today; they’ve got video review and gym time, then straight to the airport to start their roadie, so when Sid had called and asked if Zhenya wanted to grab something to eat before they headed out, Zhenya had no reason to decline.

Sid’s weird about nutrition. On the one hand, he’s fanatical about finding ‘healthy’ alternatives to stuff (even though Zhenya privately is pretty sure that organic peanut butter is basically the same as the stuff in plastic jars) and had gone through that awful green juice phase that he tried to rope Zhenya into; on the other hand, he never denies himself a treat, never misses a cheat day (and probably indulges in more than he should).

And now, he’s ordered himself a stack of pancakes with bacon and chocolate chips baked right into them, with whipped cream piled on top. Zhenya’s pretty sure it’s from the kids menu. It looks awesome. If he could eat like that without regretting it for a week, he totally would.

“Fuck,” Sid sighs, swirling the piece of pancake on his fork into the lake of syrup on the plate. “Are you sure you don’t want some of this? It’s so good.” He swipes the sodden cake through the last glob of whipped cream and slides the whole mess into his mouth, closing his eyes blissfully as he chews and swallows.

His lips are shiny with tacky processed sugar. Zhenya wants to lick them clean.

“Uhhh,” Zhenya says dumbly, looking down at his sensible, nutritionist-approved omelet. “I have food.”

“C’mon,” Sid says coaxingly, cutting a piece of pancake off and pushing it towards the edge of his plate. “Just a bite. I know you’re all into the healthy stuff now, but a few pieces won’t kill you.”

“First is one, then is few, then it’s like the other day when you’re give me whole bottle of wine for self and I wake up dead next day,” Zhenya grumbles, eyeing Sid’s plate. The pancakes do look good, the chocolate chips all melty with the pieces of bacon, the whipped cream only just starting to melt from the heat of the food.

When he was 22, he could have eaten two plates of that and had no problems. Fuck, he probably had, maybe at this very table. Life is hard on the other side of 30.

“Fine,” he finally concedes, reaching forward to stab at the first piece Sid cut for him. “But you’re have almost all of cream, need more.”

Sid’s smile creases his face, and he taps Zhenya’s ankle with his foot before he gets up and meanders over to the kitchen to ask for more.

a series of ficlets based on the prompts in this post—with a few added and modified to suit my purposes :)

december one: A lends mittens to B even though they are way too big but B is blissfully happy and doesn’t plan on giving them back

Sid’s insistence on being the most Canadian Canadian to ever live is gonna kill him one day, Zhenya thinks, watching idly from the bus as Sid subtly flexes his bare fingers after pocketing his sharpie, shifting back and forth on his feet and gamely making conversation with the fans who’d found where their bus was parked at the arena and asked for autographs.

They’d hit the jackpot—everyone was in a good mood after the win, so Jason had the group of three stand near the bus door, and as the team filed in they all paused to sign something, endure a little small talk, and maybe take a picture or two. Even Zhenya had ducked down and done his best to smile naturally for a selfie, trying not to grimace even though his knee was aching at having to crouch so low to get in the frame.

Sid, though. Sid had been last in line as always, darting outside with his curls still wet against his jacket collar, and of course he’d been stuck with the brunt of the fan adoration—and he didn’t have on gloves.

Finally, Sully leans out of the bus door with a smile Zhenya knows is as fake as Sid’s jawline, saying something Zhenya can’t quite make out; whatever it is, the fans disperse, and Sid finally gets on the bus, scowling at the sarcastic round of applause Zhenya leads.

“Fuck you all, sorry for being nice,” he snaps, which is weak even for Sid.

He makes his way unsteadily down the bus aisle, holding onto the seat backs as the bus rumbles into motion; a particularly strong jolt as they go over a speed bump almost sends him toppling into Zhenya’s lap.

Zhenya steadies him, but instead of leveraging him back into the aisle, tugs him down further, scooting over to the window and pushing Sid down into the aisle seat.

“Hey,” Sid protests, but it’s perfunctory, and as soon as Zhenya pulls his hands back Sid relaxes into the seat, curling up a little into himself.

Zhenya opens his mouth, a chirp about how Sid being too bottom-heavy to be so clumsy at the tip of his tongue, but he stops, eyeing Sid’s trembling hands with disapproval.

“Sid,” he scolds, hooking his foot around the strap of his bag and tugging it out from under the seat in front of him, “where gloves? Hair all wet, no hat, no gloves—you gonna freeze. Not smart.” He bends down, splaying his knees out and knocking into Sid’s, pawing through his bag until he finds his own gloves. “Here, put. Stupid, Sid.” He shakes the gloves in front of Sid’s face.

Sid wrinkles his nose and snatches them away from Zhenya, dropping one in his lap and examining the other. “I was fine, G, stop fussing, you’re turning into your mom. It’s warm in here anyway.”

“Put,” Zhenya insists, staring down his nose at Sid until Sid slips the glove on with an aggrieved sigh, tugging it as far down his wrist as he can.

He wiggles his fingers at Zhenya, then jabs his hand into the seat back in front of him. The material collapses until his fingertips hit the seat. “Jesus, your hands are big,” Sid observes.

Zhenya’s glad the bus is warm and he’s still got his coat on—an easy way to explain the sudden rush of heat to his face. Because that’s—Sid doesn’t mean it that way, Zhenya knows that, but when he says it like that, with his voice all low and raspy from yelling during the game, looking at Zhenya from the corner of his eyes, it sounds like a come-on. Zhenya’s heard less blatant lines in the gay bars he sneaks away to sometimes.

Sid’s still looking at him. His cheeks are still pink and chapped from the chill outside, and his hair is curling as it dries. Zhenya swallows, forces himself to poke his tongue through his teeth. “No, is normal, you’re just smallest,” he says, jostling Sid with a sharp elbow.

Sid rocks away, then back into Zhenya’s side. “You can think that,” he says casually, working his bare hand into the other glove. “Thanks, G. I’ll give them back to you later.”

“Okay,” Zhenya says, looking out the window and trying to ignore Sid’s thigh pressed along his like a brand. Sid isn’t cold at all.