#anyways the aces coming into the playoffs winning is kind of making me side-eye

[kdsburneraccount]

I think if the wings play the fever they probably shouldn’t keep putting Sheldon on Clark if they want to stop her

[jessieliveblogs]

Aces in Hockey

Written for the prompt: Total au! 2.9k (Ao3)

Four was quiet by nature. He was a classic former victim of child abuse: strong, silent, enigmatic. He didn’t mean to be. He didn’t try. Any first-year psych student could tell you about the conditioning environment in his formative years to make him like this. And more than one first-year psych student had.

He was allowed to be quiet on the ice.

Not during actual play, obviously. He was the captain – constantly making calls to his team and conferring with coaches. But he stayed out on the ice after practice, letting everyone else go shower in the locker room as he made lazy circles on the ice. It was a calming cool-down, reminding him of times when he would spend hours on the pond just to be out of the house. He’d skate circles until his feet were way past aching and chew up the ice far past what was safe. He no longer had to worry about falling through the ice in the rink but there were other dangers.

“Please tell me your dramatic brooding is coming to a close. We do need the ice, you know.”

Four kept his head ducked, concealing the slight smile that he could feel quirking his face.

“Just because I’m the strong and silent type doesn’t mean every one of my actions is brooding,” he answered before turning to the voice.

She stood just inside the door on the ice. She was half-dressed in her skates and hockey pants but she hadn’t put her pads on yet, standing there in Under Armour and a backwards snapback pulled over head. He was glad to see she looked more teasing than genuinely angry: a recent development he was more than happy about.

“Well now I just feel lied to,” she said. “You think every young-adult book and movie in existence would just lie?”

Four shook his head, his chuckle probably too low for her to hear. He knew she knew he was laughing anyway.

“I still have twenty minutes before your practice, Tris,” he reminded her.

“No, the ice crew has twenty minutes before my practice to fix this mess your team left us.” She crossed her arms in an intimidating display no one who was that small should pull off. “But they can’t do that until you get off the ice.”

Four sighed, skating toward her. “I don’t know why none of them could tell me that.”

Tris backed up to let him through the door, following him out. “They’re all afraid of you. Duh. Remember the dramatic brooding I mentioned?”

Four leaned against the wall, putting on his skate guards, and watched Tris as she did the same. “Not you, though.”

Tris looked over at him, balancing on the blade of one skate. She smirked. “What do I have to be afraid of?”

He smiled back.

This easy camaraderie between the two hockey captains was not always so easy. They started out in pre-semester barely acquainted yet antagonistic.

It was August and Four had been doing his same slow circles on the ice when this tiny, angry girl stormed onto the ice.

“Hey hot-shot! You mind getting off the ice? Your time ended an hour ago.”

Four skidded to a stop, more confused than anything by this interruption. “So?”

She dramatically rolled her eyes. “So, it’s my ice time now. Move.”

Four assessed her. Slight build, powerful looking legs. Figure skater?

“You can have this half,” he offered, diplomatically. “I’ll stay on the other side.”

She looked furious. “Are you an idiot? We need the whole rink! What do you think we’re trying to do here?”

He was even more confused now. “Who is we?”

“The women’s hockey team!” She seethed. “I know there’s a sexism problem at this school – and in sports as a whole – but I would think that the captain of the men’s team could at least acknowledge that the women’s team might need to practice, too.”

“Oh!” He would never have pegged this small girl for a hockey player. He’d seen them play but he was sure he’d never seen someone this small. “The women’s team don’t usually practice this early.”

“Well, we do now. And if you’d bothered checking the rink schedule, you’d know that.”

Four looked at her some more. She wasn’t wrong: he shouldn’t be on the ice this long after their time ended. But he didn’t like the way she talked to him.

“Does your captain know you’re out here?”

She seemed to grow three whole inches.

“I am the captain,” she told him, her voice low and dangerous.

Four’s eyebrows shot up. He gave her another once over. “You’re Prior?”

“Tris,” she said by way of a yes. “So you have heard of me.”

He had. A sophomore being voted captain was incredibly rare. She’d been the lead scorer last season, earning herself a hat trick in the playoffs. Four himself had seen it happen. But he couldn’t reconcile this tiny angry girl with the fast and ruthless number 6 he’d seen play last spring.

Well, maybe the ruthless part.

He took off his glove, extending his hand to the diminutive captain. “I’m Four.”

She took his hand, squeezing roughly. “I know who you are, Tobias Eaton.”

He looked squarely into her eyes, squeezing her hand back so he could feel her knuckles grinding together. “It’s Four.”

Tris didn’t flinch. He actually thought he might see the beginning of respect behind her eyes.

“Get out of my rink, Four.”

 And he had. They had a grudging respect for each other since that day, calling each other on their bullshit and supporting each other’s teams through the season. Four was a fifth year Criminology student and managed to hold onto the captaincy in his final year. Tris, too, had held onto her title and Four suspected she’d keep it until she graduated. What could be said? They were good at their jobs.

Despite the grudging respect, Four wouldn’t have thought of he and Tris as friends. Not until Tris invited him out for trivia night.

“It’s just my brother,” she’d said, rolling her eyes. “I invite him because he’s smart and I’m in it to win, but he’s awkward around girls. Will you come and be a buffer?”

“Come with you and your friends?”

Tris had snorted. “You’re my friend too, doofus.” And then she’d punched him on the shoulder.

So he’d gone to trivia night.

 It wasn’t as awkward as he’d feared. He hadn’t really spent time with anyone since his best friend, Zeke, had graduated last year. The problem with a 5-year degree is that all of your friends are done in 4. Luckily, it seemed Four now had younger friends.

He knew Tris’s friends, Christina and Lynn, from the women’s hockey team. He only knew their numbers, of course, and had never spoken to them, but they could all fall back on hockey discussion if there was a lull.

Caleb Prior was a completely different story.

“It’s not that I don’t believe in total egalitarianism but the state of equity is completely dependant on the will of a nation’s constituents, and the arc of apathy in this nation in particular will drive us to total corruption. Socialism is a pipe dream, and without financial equity, the opportunity of total egalitarianism is just not feasible.”

Four threw back the rest of his whiskey. “Right.”

Trivia hadn’t even started yet and Caleb had ranted about six different political issues he felt were of the utmost importance. He also had mentioned that he was a Libertarian no less than 15 times.

Four eventually understood why Caleb was there when the trivia started. He may be a pseudo-intellectual – a pretentious blowhard who tried too hard to seem smart – but that definitely lent itself to him knowing a lot of menial shit.

And, for whatever reason, Caleb had decided Four was his new best friend.

“I just don’t get it,” Caleb had said, hair a little more disheveled than when he’d come in. Four had discovered early that he got more tolerable the more he drank so he had kept buying Caleb sea breezes. “I never got it when Beatrice wanted to play as kids. What’s so great about hitting things with sticks and getting hit by bigger people who also have sticks?”

Caleb was the only person that called her Beatrice. Her teammates called her 6. Everyone else called her Tris. But Caleb seemed to have that family privilege.

Four shrugged. He’d started responding to Caleb’s questions halfway through trivia which only made Caleb talk to him more but Four was drunk enough not to care.

“Why do people want to be gladiators?”

“Well, historically, the Roman gladiators were actually sold into it through the prison system or as some kind of raid against Christianity–”

“Fun,” Four told him, deadpan. He took another shot. “Glory.”

“But no one remembers the specific gladiators,” Caleb shot back, almost smug. “We remember the politicians and scholars of that time.”

Four snorted. ���What use is glory once you’re dead?” He asked. “Back in ancient Rome, women would buy vials of the sweat of their favorite gladiators to wear around their necks. That kind of devotion is what real glory really is. And it can help you while you’re alive, even.”

Caleb reeled back, impressed. “There’s something to that argument.”

Four raised his glass in acknowledgement, shooting it back in one.

He hadn’t meant to get that drunk which meant when the party at the bar broke up, and Caleb had left, Tris treated him with simultaneous guilt and annoyance.

“Jesus Christ, I know my brother is hard to put up with but was this much alcohol intake really necessary?”

Four chuckled, much looser around her than he normally would be. “He’s not so bad.”

This only seemed to alarm Tris. “Oh God, it’s worse than I thought. Come here.”

She slung Four’s arm around her shoulder and started frog marching him out. He’d been more drunk before. He figured he could probably walk under his own steam without embarrassing himself. But he let himself be manhandled because a) Tris may be tiny but he knew she was strong enough to handle his weight and b) it was a good excuse to be close to Tris without all the gross implications that would normally come with Four intentionally getting close to her.

This had been a problem for him for a while. He had a crush on Tris – of course he had a crush on Tris – but he couldn’t have crushes like normal people. Because crushes come with expectations of follow-through. And Four could only follow-through so much.

What he could do though was enjoy the movement of muscles beneath Tris’s skin as she maneavoured him. That he could enjoy a lot.

She dropped him bodily into the passenger seat of her Prius and it became a game of Tetris trying to fit all of his limbs in the tiny space. Four pretended to be more drunk than he was so he wouldn’t have to do any of the work. He wasn’t proud of it. But it was funny to see Tris struggle.

She didn’t seem to have any reservations about touching him – grabbing his thighs and shoulders in a perfunctory, practical way. He appreciated that but he was curious about it. He knew now that they were friends now but he also might have thought that they had… maybe… been flirting a little bit. Was he reading things wrong?

Sober Four might have ruminated on that. He might have anguished over it, brooded over it, considered it thoroughly before dismissing it entirely.

Drunk Four did no such thing.

“I probably could have done that,” he told her as she herself collapsed into the driver’s seat. “I’m not that drunk.”

Tris snorted as she started the car.

“I’m too drunk to drive my bike home,” Four corrected, grimacing. He hated leaving his bike overnight. “But I can move my own body.”

Tris raised her eyebrow at him, not looking away from the road. “Then why didn’t you?”

Four shrugged, his body doing this weird tilting thing in his slump. “You were doing such a great job.”

Tris snorted again, but this time she was smiling.

“I actually had a question about that,” he continued, his brain vaguely yelling in the distance.

“Oh?”

Four nodded, pulling himself more upright. “We’ve been flirting and stuff, right?”

Tris’s head jerked back a little, a subtle sign that she was surprised he’d brought it up. “Yeah. Yes, we’ve been flirting.”

“Right.” Four nodded. “So did you manhandle me so impersonally because you were being respectful or because you’re not attracted to me?”

Her surprise was more pronounced now. “Uh…”

Four waited, staring beningly at the side of her face while she drove.

She seemed to puzzle over this question for a while before slumping in her seat. “I’m not sure what answer you want. Because my answer is a little of both.”

Four nodded again. “That is pretty close to the answer I want.”

Tris looked over at him in a double take before looking back to the road. “It is?”

“Yeah,” Four said, slumping into the seat again. “For one, it’s honest. And I like honesty.” He lolled his head to look out the window. “But also I’m asexual so I’d rather you weren’t sexually attracted to me. That would make things easier.”

The voice that had been vaguely yelling at him was now very present in the middle of his forehead. Intellectually (or as intellectually as he could be in his drunken state) he knew there was very little risk in coming out to her. She’d basically admitted the same thing. Well, she hadn’t – she could just mean that flirting with him meant nothing and she wasn’t attracted to him, even romantically. Maybe he didn’t think this through. Maybe that’s why the voice was yelling.

Because he’d never come out to anyone. Not to any girl, anyway. Not anytime it mattered. Zeke knew but only because Zeke had helped him figure it out. No one else knew.

He’d had crushes but he’d let them go, not bothering to take things further knowing he could never go far enough. This thing with Tris felt a little more high stakes. For one, they were both captains of their respective teams that worked very closely together. Four had spent more time with Tris over the past year and a half than anyone else he went to school with. It would be super awkward if things didn’t work out between them.

But also, he had feelings for Tris. Real feelings. It felt high stakes because he’d graduated from casual crush sometime last spring. He was in full-on-infatuation land now. He’d get through a rejection but it would be ten years, probably, before he put himself out there again.

He definitely shouldn’t have gotten so drunk. He shouldn’t have agreed to come out with her in the first place. He should have just pined his way to graduation. That would have been better, probably.

All of this internal turmoil happened between breaths. Between him speaking and Tris asking, “Things like dating?”

Four’s nod was strained, already regretting his entire life and feeling more sober than he’d felt before he’d even left for trivia night. “Things like dating. And the whole ‘asexual’ conversation.”

“Oh, you mean the conversation where people ask if you’re a plant? And that’s if they’ve even heard the word ‘asexual’ before. Usually it’s ‘what’s that?’ and ‘You’ll grow out of it.’ Or, my favorite, ‘All women feel like that but you have to have sex if you want to get a boyfriend.’”

Four blinked. “Yeah.”

Tris snorted. “Yeah. I’m familiar.”

Four sat up, slowly. “So we don’t have to have that conversation.”

“No. I would rather we didn’t.”

Four watched Tris drive. Her cheeks had pinked slightly but she was smiling, softly.

He waited until she’d parked outside of his apartment. He hadn’t known she knew were it was.

“I’ll see you at the rink?”

Tris turned to him, smirking in full force. “Yes, you will.”

 And she did. She barged onto the ice during his post-practice cool down, as usual, but instead of yelling at him, she smiled.

“Let’s go out.”

Four could feel his mouth start to spread in a grin. He bit it down. “Like a date?”

“Like a lot of dates,” she answered. She needed to crane her neck to look up at him but her confidence and her presence made her fill up the whole room. “Be my boyfriend. Let’s be that cliche. The captain of the girl’s and boy’s team are boyfriend/girlfriend. It’ll be gross. We have to.”

Four’s stomach jumped at the word ‘girlfriend.’ He’d given up a long time ago on ever having one of those.

“Well, if we have to.” He grinned.

She grinned back, reaching up (and up and up) to cup his cheek. “Can I kiss your face?”

“I would love for my girlfriend to kiss my face.”

Which was a good thing too because he had to do most of the work to bend down to her. Her lips were soft and undemanding.

Which was exactly what he hoped the rest of their relationship would be.

[zombizombi]

hummingbird heartbeat - pt 21

( missed the beginning? catch up on AO3! )

When Jack texted, he didn’t mention the kiss.

Bitty went back to Georgia for the summer. He wasn’t sure how to talk to Kent about Jack’s farewell; after all, Jack hadn’t really said anything. Bitty was pretty sure he knew what it meant, but how could he possibly tell Kent that he just had a feeling that Jack was maybe sort of in love with both of them? He didn’t really have anything to base it on other than a kiss in the hospital that Kent likely didn’t even remember.

Kent had already tried to back off in favor of Jack once before. They needed to talk about Jack -- actually, seriously talk about him -- but every time Bitty thought about bringing him up, he couldn’t seem to find the right words. The most Kent had ever mentioned Jack was in the beginning of their relationship, before Bitty knew who he was. Bitty hadn’t forgotten those conversations or Kent’s last birthday. There was a lot to that backstory that he was sure he didn’t know.

At home, it took Bitty a little while to work up the right way to talk to his mother about Kent visiting. Eventually he started the conversation with Jack and let that lead into Jack’s new NHL career and the people he knew and oh, by the way mother, Kent Parson, you know of him? He’s so nice!

Suzanne listened to Bitty talk about how he’d gotten to know Kent -- half truths, really, but only in the beginning -- and after about a week, she asked if Kent wouldn’t like to come visit that summer. It sounded like they were good friends, after all, and hearing that Kent hadn’t had a homemade apple pie on the fourth of July shocked Suzanne just as much as it had shocked Bitty. Something just had to be done about that.

Kent laughed when Bitty told him. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll buy a plane ticket tonight. How long d’you want me to stay?”

“Forever,” Bitty said, without thinking. He sucked in a sharp breath as he realized what he’d said.

There was a small pause before Kent said anything. “Uh -- that might be difficult to arrange,” he said, “’cause I have this cat…”

Bitty laughed, rubbing his face with one hand. “How about a week?”

“Whatever you want, sunshine,” Kent said. “I can do a week.”

A whole week! Bitty would have to think about what they could do. Madison wasn’t that exciting, and besides the fireworks on the fourth, he couldn’t think of many things that’d be going on. It was a good thing he had a bit of time -- after all, Kent needed to bulk up for the season, and he couldn’t just feed him pie. He’d have to think of acceptable foods. “That’ll be great. You’ll send me the information for your flight, right, once you have it? ’Cause I’ll have to come and get you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Kent said. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll email you the itinerary.” He laughed. “You’re so cute.”

Bitty rolled his eyes. “Okay, sweetheart. How’s Vegas?”

“Boring, mostly,” Kent said. “I mean, aside from the Troy brigade.” He liked Mrs. Troy and her three children -- they were still spending time at Kent’s house, checking on him and making sure he was doing all right. Kent sent Bitty silly snaps of the kids and their outings. “But, you know. I can’t really do anything? They won’t even let me work out. I’m gonna have to work my ass off later to make up for this. And I already binge-watched like, every single episode of Golden Girls.” He paused. “But, um. Jack’s been calling me.”

“Oh?” Bitty sat up. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Kent sighed. “It’s weird, right? I -- for a long time I would’ve given anything for him to call me. Nightmares and all. Fucking stupid. And now, it was just -- you know he signed with Providence?”

“Yeah,” Bitty said, “I knew that.”

“Alexei plays for Providence,” Kent said.

Bitty knew Kent was friends with Mashkov. He’d been so supportive on Twitter when Kent came out, it hadn’t been much of a surprise to Bitty that they’d struck up a friendship. Kent didn’t really tend to have real friendships with people very often, so Bitty had encouraged him to try just a little. It was good for Kent -- Bitty had plenty of friends, but Kent often seemed so… isolated. “Yeah,” Bitty said. “I know. Maybe he and Jack will get along. What else did you guys talk about?”

“He just kind of asked how I was doing. Checking up on me, I guess, which is weird because I didn’t think he gave a fuck. We talked about the playoffs a little bit. He asked about my cat. It’s --” Kent let out a long sigh. “I don’t know, babe. Why is he calling me? I don’t know what the fuck he wants from me.”

“Maybe he just wants to be a part of your life again,” Bitty suggested.

Kent laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “right.”

“I’m serious,” Bitty said.

“I know you are,” Kent said, “and I love that about you.”

“Flatterer.”

“Is it working?”

Bitty laughed.

Kent was still recording new videos. He was actually doing them faster than normal, which Bitty chalked up to all the extra free time. He’d done several Britney songs already. The latest was one of the only songs on the channel not in English. Bitty pressed play, tilting his head.

“Привет. Боюсь, что я очень плохо говорю по-русски,” Kent said, speaking very slowly. “I, uh. I don’t know how to say the rest of this in Russian, so, uh -- sorry. Прости, пожалуйста. I only know, like, three phrases? And one of them is really rude.” He laughed and gripped his guitar. “So, anyway, I, um. I practiced this a lot and I’m sure my pronunciation isn’t perfect, but it’s my first try singing a foreign-language song.” A pause. “French doesn’t count.”

It was a Russian folk song. The title translated to Beyond the Quiet River, and Kent had posted a translation of the lyrics into the “about” section on the video. He’d recorded it at night in his living room, the windows large and dark behind him. Only the body of the guitar and Kent’s arm were really visible; he’d sat far off to the side, letting the camera mostly focus on Kit.

The song was beautiful. Bitty knew from listening to Kent practice that he must’ve worked on his version of the song for quite a while -- it was very practiced, very smooth. Several commenters praised Kent’s attempt at Russian and mrpotatohead7 left an excited comment half in Russian and half in English, obviously elated by the choice. In comment replies, Kent promised to attempt more languages soon, but pointed out that it took a lot of practice time and he didn’t always have that kind of motivation. Bitty left a comment full of hearts and a request for more songs in French.

Playoffs were still on. The Aces had advanced to the finals through what seemed like sheer force of will. Kent was, in the end, only able to attend games in Las Vegas -- the severity of his concussion kept him from traveling to away games. He went to every single game in Vegas and called Bitty after all of them, reporting on his team’s progress. His frustrated commentary when the Aces lost and his observations about what could have been better in games they won were both accurate. Bitty had never discussed hockey at length with Kent. He was so… passionate.

It was cute.

The Aces faced the Montreal Canadiens for the Stanley Cup finals. Despite the fact that the Canadiens’ goalie was injured and they were relying on a backup, the finals went to seven games. The Aces had lost at least two other players to injury during the Cup run, and they’d scraped by with one-goal wins in many of their games. They’d had to shuffle some of their lines without Kent, but they came out and played fierce, but clean, hockey for every game. The last one took place in Las Vegas.

They won by a single goal made in the last minute of regulation time. The stands erupted with cheers and Troy pulled Kent out on the ice in his street clothes, dragging him over to hold the cup. Kent’s smile was wide and bright and Bitty thought he’d remember the image of him standing in the middle of a rainbow ace of spades, holding the Stanley Cup, forever.

“So I was thinking about the awards,” Kent said, a week later. They were video chatting quietly after Bitty’s parents had gone to bed, both of them curled up in their rooms. “It’s coming up soon, and I was talking with Alexei -- he was sincere about going with me, when he tweeted it?”

“Oh, yeah!” said Bitty. He remembered the tweet. “That’s great.”

“So I thought I’d take him up on it,” Kent said. He toyed with Señor Bun’s ear. “Is that okay?”

“Of course, sweetie,” Bitty said. “Unless you want to go alone, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go with him. You don’t need my permission.” It was nice of Mashkov to offer. He’d been so great to Kent on Twitter and other social media -- it warmed Bitty’s heart to see another player being so vocal about his support.

Kent laughed. “You’re my boyfriend,” he said. “I think it’s polite to ask you how you feel about it before I publicly attend an event with another guy.”

“Sorry,” Bitty said. “Did you want me to be jealous?”

Kent laughed again. “No. God, it’s like I made you in a computer. Okay! Fine.”

Bitty watched the NHL awards with the rest of the guys -- including Jack -- on a group Skype call. It was tradition! They had all placed bets on who would win what a week prior.

Kent was wearing a gorgeous burgundy suit, which he'd paired with a tie pin shaped like the ace of spades and a pocket square striped like a referee's jersey. He arrived with Alexei Mashkov, both of them strolling casually up the red carpet. Mashkov’s navy suit wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Kent’s, and it was clear that both of them knew it. Kent’s smile was his perfect, practiced media smile, but Bitty noticed that he looked a little thin. So many of their video chats took place at night while snuggled under blankets that he hadn’t realized before.

He’d have to do something about that.

They stopped for pictures on the red carpet like all the other players. Kent had something tucked under his arm, but he consistently turned so that it was just out of camera shot. An interviewer commented on Kent’s suit first, stopping both of the men before they could get inside. “You two are looking very sharp tonight,” she said.

“Is good, right?” Mashkov smiled. “Maybe should be more careful, though, not put all the good looks in one place.”

Kent laughed. “First time I’ve brought someone to the awards I actually liked,” he said.

“I think I’m bringing you,” Mashkov said, “not the other way around.” The look he gave Kent didn’t escape Bitty’s notice.

“Fair point,” said Kent. He grinned.

The interviewer laughed. “And whose is this rabbit?” she asked.

It was Señor Bun under Kent’s arm. “Oh,” he said, giving her a winning smile, “he belongs to my biggest fan.”

The camera clearly showed Mashkov’s hand on Kent’s lower back as they stepped inside. Both of them showed up in further footage, signing autographs or talking with other players. They were almost always together, and Bitty was sure it would be all over the internet within minutes. Kent and Alexei were ushered up to the front row, a position likely decided by their stellar skills on the ice as much as by the reporters clamoring for shots of Kent's recovery. Kent sat down first.

As expected, the camera panned to the front row often. Kent and Mashkov were sitting close together, Mashkov’s posture relaxed. He was looking at Kent like he’d rather eat him than dinner, almost always turned toward him, arm slung over the back of Kent’s chair when the camera showed them. Every now and again one of them would lean into the other, murmuring something. Sometimes Kent laughed.

It took a while for the players to settle down. Kent and Alexei were caught in audience shots from time to time, applauding for other players and grinning. They seemed comfortable together. The Calder and the Art Ross had been determined prior to the Cup finals, and so -- while they were still a big deal -- they didn’t have quite the same air of anticipation around them as the other, more disputed awards. Trophy after trophy went out, each player making a small acceptance speech. Most of them thanked family, significant others, their teams, and their coaches.

Bitty had just gotten back from a quick run to the kitchen for a soda when the announcer stepped up to award the Lady Byng. “And this year the Lady Byng Award for sportsmanship and gentlemanly conduct goes to -- Kent Parson.”

Mashkov hugged Kent, laughing at the look on his face. He leaned forward, murmuring something in Kent’s ear, and then Kent laughed, too. He shook hands with several other players and hugged Troy before making his way up to the podium to accept the award, Bun under his arm.

“I, um.” Kent looked at the trophy. “God. I -- thank you. I just, um. I had this whole acceptance speech planned, but I can’t remember any of it.” He smiled, eyes shimmering. “You know, hockey hasn’t always been the most accepting place. And this year has been… tough. I’ve been lucky to receive the support I’ve had.” His hand hovered near Señor Bun. “From lots of places.” Kent smiled. “Thank you for making our sport better.”

He returned to his seat, pausing to shake hands on the way with a few other players. Bitty was disappointed when the camera cut away from Kent, but the groupchat was alight with speculation on the winners of the next awards. He lost track of time when he had to defuse a squabble between Dex and Nursey.

“They gave Parson the Lady Byng?” Dex said.

“Well, yeah,” said Nursey. “He displayed sportsmanlike conduct -- he hardly said a word about that attempted murder on the ice. That’s what it’s for.”

“I’m just saying,” Dex said, “that the award should be given based on good play, not politics. You know?”

“It’s not politics, dude,” Nursey said. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“It is politics,” Dex countered. “The NHL doesn’t want to look bad by ignoring the incident, that’s what --”

“Dude, are you saying Kent Parson’s, like, blackmailing the NHL into giving him an award? It’s not even that hard to make the League look bad --”

“That’s not what I --”

“Boys,” Bitty said, “please. Nobody’s blackmailing anyone. They voted. Let it go.” The announcer had gone through several awards during the argument. When he turned his full attention back to the video, they were on the King Clancy.

“The King Clancy Memorial Trophy is presented annually to a player for leadership qualities both on and off the ice while making a significant humanitarian contribution to his community. Let’s take a look at this year’s winner,” the announcer smiled. “Kent Parson.”

A video detailing Kent’s captaincy of the Las Vegas Aces as well as his work with the C.O.P.S. organization began to roll. Bitty knew that Kent spent time and money helping other police survivors -- families who’d lost a loved one in the line of duty -- but they didn’t talk much about it. Kent volunteered with an outdoors program in the summer as well as attending support group meetings and donating money to the organization.

“I didn’t know Parson’s dad was a cop,” said Dex. “That’s cool.”

“He died a long time ago,” Jack said. “Shot on duty.”

“He doesn’t talk about it very much,” said Bitty.

On stage, Kent took the trophy, looking down at it for a moment. He set Señor Bun on the podium next to the cup in full view of the camera. “I’ve already thanked you all,” Kent said. His voice was steady. “And I’m so grateful. I think it’s obvious by now that what we do off the ice matters just as much as the game we play on it. And I think that a lot of us understand that being in the public eye carries some amount of responsibility with it, so. I’d just like to say that tonight, this is for every gay player before me, every player who wasn’t able to be open about his life, his love, his experience. I know you were here. We are here. And for those of you who, I know, must still be in the closet, I just want to say that that’s okay, too.” He was looking directly at a camera. “When you’re ready -- if you’re ever ready -- I’ll still be here.” Kent smiled. “Thank you.”

Bitty scrubbed tears off his face.

“Aw, Bits,” said Holster.

“Classy as fuck,” Shitty said. “Goddamnit. He does not give a shit. Jesus fucking Christ.”

Jack didn’t say anything.

“There’s your backup plan, Bitty! Just, you know. Graduate college first,” Ransom said.

“Shut up,” Bitty grumbled, wiping at his face.

They didn’t show Kent on camera again. The rest of the awards went by in a blur, and all Bitty could think about was how long it might take Kent to get home and how soon he would call. Kent put Bun on the podium. Everyone saw it. And for him to basically say I’ll wait for you, it just -- if he thought about it too long, Bitty’s throat tightened right up again. When he said goodnight to the rest of the team, his face still felt vaguely damp.

The phone rang once Bitty was already in bed, lights out.

“Baby!” Bitty’s face hurt from smiling. “You were perfect! Lord, you were just -- that suit and your speech, you were just… just amazing! Lord. I wish I could’ve been there!”

“Eric!” Kent’s voice came down the line, a bit frantic. “Thank god. Listen --  please don’t be mad, okay, it wasn’t my idea -- I didn’t know it was a -- I thought it was just a friend thing, or just a supportive thing, and then --”

“Sweetie,” Bitty said, stomach sinking, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“He kissed me!” Kent said. “Fuck. I didn’t know. I swear to god. I’m sorry. But it’s not cheating if I didn’t kiss him back, right? Or -- or if I only accidentally kissed him back for like, a half a second? Because I would never --”

“Who?”

“Alexei fucking Mashkov!”

[zombizombi]

hummingbird heartbeat - pt20

( missed the beginning? read it on AO3! )

Bitty switched his phone back on as soon as the plane landed in Boston. He had a bunch of text messages, six Twitter notifications, and one Snapchat. He opened the snap first, smiling softly. It was Kent, curled up in bed with Señor Bun. He was shirtless and he’d turned his face just so to hide his bloody eye, and he still looked tired, but he was beautiful all the same. Across the bottom of the picture he’d written I miss you already.

Smiling softly, Bitty sent a quick snap back, writing I miss you, too along the top. He checked Twitter, frowning when he saw activity on Kent’s account. He was supposed to be resting!

A few moments later, his phone flashed another notification: SweetiePie90 took a screenshot! Shaking his head, Bitty pressed the button to call Kent rather than text him. Kent wasn’t supposed to be looking at screens that much! Screen time strained the eyes and could make headaches much worse. Bitty knew he knew that.

Kent picked up after one ring. “Hey, you.” His voice was soft.

“Hey, baby,” Bitty said. “How’re you feeling?”

“The same,” Kent said. “Just kinda tired, you know? Slow.”

“You’ll probably feel that way for a few days.” Bitty adjusted his bag on his shoulder and followed Jack out of the terminal.”You know what would help?”

“Mm?”

“Not looking at your phone so much!” Bitty sighed. “I know you’re probably bored, but it really is bad for you.”

“I really didn’t use it that much,” Kent said. “I just sent you the one picture, damn. Pot. Kettle. I’m in bed with the lights off.”

“But I saw your Twitter!” Bitty protested, cheeks burning.

“Sara’s running it for me for a little while,” Kent said. “’Cause I can’t do it and she thought people would want to know how I’m doing. I didn’t touch it.” He paused. “Why? What does it say?”

“It just says you’re appreciative of well wishes and that you know the Aces will still play great while you’re off.” Bitty leaned on a wall while Jack figured out the fastest way to get them back to school. “Nothing too personal. Very professional. That’s how you like it, right?”

“Yeah,” Kent said. He sighed.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay,” Bitty said. “I --”

“Oh, Eric,” Kent said. “Don’t apologize. I didn’t expect you to come at all. It was great of you, and I just -- it really, um. It meant a lot to me. And I probably didn’t tell you, did I?”

“I knew,” Bitty said. Jack was motioning to him. “Baby, I gotta go. I still have to get back to school. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, Eric,” Kent said. “Really. Get going. I, um.” He swallowed. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Bitty said. “Can I call you later?”

Kent laughed softly. “Yeah, sunshine. I’m not gonna be busy.”

Bitty and Jack got back to the Haus with enough time to shower, dress, and head straight to the team banquet. Jack sat next to Shitty, who gave Bitty a single worried glance before conversations enveloped them both. It was good to be home again, but Kent’s well-being stayed on the edge of Bitty’s thoughts through the co-captaincy announcement for Ransom and Holster and the rest of the awards at the dinner. He could tell by the way Shitty kept looking over at him that he’d have some explaining to do -- Jack, too -- but after trying to explain why he hadn’t baked a pie to everyone at the banquet without also revealing that Kent Parson was his boyfriend, Bitty hardly had the energy. He escaped to his room, dodging more conversations by claiming exhaustion.

Once he’d gotten ready for bed, Bitty called Kent and settled back into his pillows, lights already off. The phone rang three times before Kent picked up. His voice was rough with sleep. “Mmm?”

“Hi, baby,” Bitty said. “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“It’s no big deal,” Kent said. He yawned. “How was your thing?”

“The banquet? It was great! Ransom and Holster are gonna be co-captains, I think we all kinda think of them as a team anyway, and…” Bitty rattled on about who’d won what award and what finals he had coming up for a little while before realizing he hadn’t asked how Kent was doing without him. “A-anyway, sweetheart, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” Kent said.

“I’m keeping score,” Bitty said, “so I know how much money you owe me when you visit, sweetie.”

“Oh,” said Kent, “is that a real thing? I mean -- you really want me to come to Georgia?”

Bitty flushed, even though he knew Kent couldn’t see. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll -- I’ll think of some way to explain it.” It would probably be pretty easy, even though he’d likely have to use Jack’s name to do it. It was likely that his mother, at least, would know who Kent Parson was. He could say he’d met him through Jack. It wasn’t that much of a stretch, right?

“But --” Kent paused. “Eric, what if, um. What if your parents don’t like me?”

“What?” Bitty laughed and rolled over onto his side. “Baby. They’ll like you. I promise.”

“Okay,” Kent said. “If you say so. I just didn’t know if you were serious, because I’m, y’know.” Out. They’d discussed it enough for Bitty to take Kent’s meaning. It made them both nervous, and Kent often worried about outing Bitty by association. “But yeah. Yeah, I’ll come. I’ll buy a ticket whenever I can use the computer again.” He paused. “Oh, yeah. I’m supposed to tell you that Troy’s wife is gonna come over to check on me. Sara asked her to come.”

Bitty let out a soft sigh of relief. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s great.” Troy was one of the oldest players on the Aces team and Kent had lived with him and his wife for a while as a rookie. Bitty could trust Kent in Mrs. Troy’s hands.

“Yeah.” Kent was quiet for a little while, just the sound of his breathing filtering through the line.

“What is it?” Bitty asked. “You lonely?”

Kent swallowed. “Um,” he said, “kind of. Not exactly. It was just... really nice having you here. And now I just...”

“I miss you, too,” Bitty said. That wasn’t the only thing bothering Kent, though, and they both knew it. “And I’m sorry you can’t play for the rest of the season.”

“How did you -- never mind, I --” Kent let out a frustrated noise. “Whatever. I’ll get over it. You know? It fucking sucks. But I’ll, y’know, go to as many of the games as I can, once they say I can travel.”

“Right,” Bitty said. He wouldn’t have expected any less from Kent.

New videos began appearing on Kent’s channel -- the latest was R.E.M.’s Losing My Religion, and it was… an odd choice for him, because he almost always did current pop songs, but something about it reminded Bitty of being in the hospital. The video was a simple recording on the sofa, nothing fancy, but Kent was finally singing in his videos again. Bitty watched it three times.

Kent sent him one Snapchat per day. Señor Bun at the breakfast table with Kent under a “Kent said I had to tell you I took this” caption. Señor Bun under Kent’s arm in the Aces locker room. Señor Bun sitting on Kent’s guitar. Kent took pictures -- or had pictures taken -- of the stuffed bunny hanging out in his locker, in his garden, at a cafe, at the doctor’s office. He took a picture of him outside the parish where he went to mass. Bitty saved them all, creating a little album in his phone just for the photos that seemed, somehow, to be a manifestation of Kent allowing Bitty into his life.

The Aces continued their playoff run with Swoboda taking Kent’s place as alternate captain. For the first game in Chicago, the Aces players all came out with new patches on the shoulders of their uniforms -- a rainbow ace of spades crossed with a banner reading ‘fight’. They crushed Chicago in the first match but lost the second. When they returned to Vegas, the team had had the center logo in the ice repainted in rainbow as well. Kent was nowhere and everywhere all at once, constantly referenced in articles, team interviews, and commentary.

The battle for the Stanley Cup was more important than ever, more personal. An intense discussion over which team would take the cup started at breakfast and had continued raging through dinner. Jack and Bitty were rooting for Vegas, of course, and Shitty had declared himself for Vegas on principle. Ransom and Holster were still engaged in a debate with Dex and Nursey over whether or not Vegas could take the cup without Parson. Nursey thought no. Holster thought yes. Chowder sided with Jack and Bitty because “the Aces deserve to win after what happened.” That night, Bitty watched the game with the rest of the guys, all of them crowded around the television at the Haus.

Kent had agreed to an interview at that next game back in Vegas, his first since the injury. He’d attended wearing a game day suit, eye still somewhat bloody behind his glasses, the bruise around it a sickly, fading green. He answered questions about his physical condition easily, confirming rumors that he’d gone back to the hospital once with recurrent symptoms and that he would not be able to play the rest of the season, but remaining confident about his recovery overall. When asked about the hit in particular and his thoughts on the punishment, the corner of Kent’s mouth curved in a smile. “Wolves don’t lose sleep over the affairs of sheep,” he said, voice steady. “I have nothing to say about Mr. Kane.”

Lardo let out a low whistle. “Clever,” she said.

“Damn,” said Holster.

Bitty grinned and glanced to the side only to find Jack already looking his way. Jack smiled.

The Aces won again that night.

Finals loomed on the horizon, and with them came an increase in schoolwork and the heavy knowledge that Jack and Shitty would be gone soon. Coming home from class, Bitty pressed play on the video of Mariah Carey’s Always Be My Baby, more than ready to relax and listen to Kent sing for just a moment. The video was just Kent, sitting in his living room in a tank top and shorts, camera catching him from the shoulders down. The curve of his bicep on top of the guitar almost distracted Bitty entirely from the fact that Señor Bun was next to Kent on the sofa, hiding almost out of sight behind the guitar.

Almost. He smiled, leaning his chin in his hand.

Bitty had a busy birthday. He spoke to his mama first thing in the morning and the guys kept him out of the Haus all day before surprising him with a new oven. It was so much and so nice and Bitty couldn’t really contain himself, ending up crying into Jack’s shirt in gratitude. With all that excitement it took a while for Bitty to realize he had another package waiting for him, tucked out of the way on the kitchen counter. After getting a pie into the new oven, Bitty carried it up to his room, narrowly avoiding having to open it in front of the rest of the hockey team.

Opening his laptop, Bitty sat down at his desk. The package sat on the bed behind him -- he wanted to open it on Skype with Kent. He’d left Kent’s YouTube page open the night before, and it loaded as soon as the computer came out of sleep mode. A new Happy Birthday video had been posted. It was the first one on the channel not posted on August third.

He sang it in French. Kent had obviously covered it as soon as he’d gotten up. Soft, early morning sunshine pouring in windows and the steaming mug next to him on the table gave the video a soft, sweet atmosphere. Bitty could almost smell the coffee, feel the sunshine. Watching it was like waking up with Kent in the morning. Bitty Skyped him as soon as the video ended.

When the video connected, Kent was in bed, Señor Bun in his lap. His playoff beard was coming along pretty well. “Hey, you,” he said. “Happy birthday.”

“Baby,” Bitty said. “I saw the song. It’s beautiful! Thank you.”

“Did your present come?” Kent stretched.

“It’s right here!” Bitty turned around to get the box off his bed. “I wanted to open it with you!”

Ripping into the box, he pulled out -- a bag of flour? Laughing, Bitty turned it over in his hand. “Flour?” Looking back into the box, he saw more small bags of flour, each a different type. “Kent Vergil Parson. Did you --”

“I got you flours,” Kent said, running a hand over his beard.

Flours. As opposed to flowers. “Of course you did,” Bitty said. “And I assume the email I got this morning about an Instacart account is from you, too, then?”

Kent coughed. “Yeah,” he said. “I told it to send you that Irish butter you like every couple of weeks. That way, you know. You don’t have to go on late-night butter runs.”

God. Bitty could just kiss him. “I --”

“Keep looking in the box,” Kent said.

A glass mason jar, nestled in the bottom under all the flours, was full of folded up pieces of paper. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up. “What are these?”

“Um,” said Kent. He looked down at Señor Bun, fiddling with one of his ears.

Bitty unscrewed the lid and pulled out the first scrap of paper. Unfolding it, he read off Kent’s neat handwriting: your smile. He frowned. Opening the next one, he read kindness. Looking up at the camera, Bitty tilted his head. “I don’t --”

“It’s things I love about you,” Kent said, still looking down. “In case you forget, y’know. Since I can’t, um. Since I can’t be there to tell you how amazing you are all the time.”

Bitty’s throat felt tight. “Honey,” he said softly, looking back down at the jar. How many pieces of paper were in there? How long had that taken?

“Some of them are probably stupid, but at least maybe you’ll laugh,” Kent said. He glanced up from Señor Bun, smiling a little.

“I love it,” Bitty said.

“Yeah?” Kent’s smile widened. He hugged Señor Bun a little tighter.

Bitty gently rotated the jar in his hand. “Does one of these say pie?” he asked, after a long moment of silence.

Kent laughed. “One of them,” he admitted, “might say pie.”

The semester ended so fast. Before Bitty knew it, he was dressed up, watching Jack and Shitty both walk across the stage in their gowns and mortarboards. His eyes burned a little, but he took as many pictures as he could anyway. And after? When everyone was standing together, taking proud group pictures? Bitty made sure he had a smile on his face.

He was going to miss Jack so much. Shitty, too. He knew they’d both be close by, but the concept of not seeing them every day, of not playing hockey together, seemed impossible to grasp. The thought of not having Jack just across the hall made his chest ache.

Back at the Haus, Bitty scrubbed at the tears on his cheeks as he folded Chowder’s clothes, irritated. Jack was only going to be in Rhode Island! It wasn’t that far away! Certainly not as far as Las Vegas, where, he reminded himself, his actual boyfriend lived.

Still.

Bitty sniffled a little and scrubbed at his tears with one wrist. This was ridiculous! He’d checked to see how far Providence was. It wasn’t that bad. He could still see Jack sometimes, it wasn’t out of the question. So…

A hand on his shoulder startled him. Bitty turned around, pulling one earbud out. “Hello! Jack?”

Jack was panting just a little, his cheeks flushed. What was he doing in the Haus?

“Oh my goodness -- why are -- is everything all right? You’re all out of breath!” Bitty stood up quickly. “You could’ve texted --”

“Bitty,” Jack said, grasping at Bitty’s shoulders with both hands. “I…”

Bitty swallowed, waiting. Jack was so much taller than Kent, his eyes so much more blue.

Leaning forward, Jack pressed a gentle kiss to Bitty’s forehead, one hand lifting to cup the side of Bitty’s face. “Take care of yourself,” he said, voice thick. “I -- you --” his phone buzzed, interrupting his sentence. A muscle jerked in Jack’s jaw as it buzzed a second time. “I gotta go,” he said.

“I know,” said Bitty, swallowing against the lump in his throat. Why did this all seem so familiar, so tender?

“I’ll text you,” Jack said, pulling away. He squeezed one of Bitty’s hands before turning away.

“Okay.” Bitty dragged in a breath. “Okay.”

Dropping into a chair, Bitty stared at the door. What was that? Why would Jack --

It hit him all at once, pieces locking into place. He knew why Jack’s kiss felt familiar. He knew what it meant. After all, Bitty had seen it before, at the hospital.

Jack had kissed Kent that way, too.