#jonnysharpy

[nebulein]

"So," Sharpy says, hand on Jonny's thigh, just those couple centimeters too high.

Jonny takes another sip of whiskey, lets the liquid sit in his mouth until the flavor of smoke coats the back of it, wood chips and pears filling his nostrils. Good stuff for good friends. "So."

Sharpy's smile gains an edge, dangerous and pleased. He always did like the game. And unlike Seabs, whose voice is always tinny over the facetime connection, Sharpy is real and here, a warm weight against Jonny's side.

It's late, Jonny's tired. His bones ache in that way that makes him feel old beyond his years, the times when he could absorb a hit and not even feel it later long behind him. These days the tiredness clings to him like a shroud, like a thick fog he has to wade through, too easy to lose himself in it. It's only October.

Sharpy's hand tightens on Jonny's leg. "For old times' sake?"

Jonny's knees pop when he stands, just another reminder that they aren't twenty anymore. But Sharpy's hair is still thick and his eyes still muster Jonny with the same mix of challenge and promise, like they did back then, when Sharpy staying after dinner wasn't a rare occurrence yet.

"You know the way," Jonny says, clapping Sharpy on the back, lets his hand linger a second longer than strictly necessary. "Or are you old enough to have forgotten it?"

"I'll show you old," Sharpy mutters, mock-affronted, but Jonny's answering laugh is real. It earns him a glance over Sharpy's shoulder, a split-second appraisal, eyes fond but voice exasperated as he shakes his head. "Just for that I'm putting you on your knees, boy."

It's baseless threats, easy banter, Jonny's knees definitely not made for that anymore, but something pulls tight in Jonny's gut nonetheless, a first spark of arousal. "Promises, promises."

"Don't worry, Jon." Sharpy turns around, quick enough that Jonny almost barrels into him. Sharpy's chest is right there. Jonny resists the temptation to rest his hands on it. "We'll find a better use for your mouth than all this talk."

The heat in Jonny's stomach ratchets up a notch, Sharpy close enough that Jonny can smell his aftershave, see the small cut where he must've nicked himself with the razor this morning.

"I can definitely think of one."

There's lines on Sharpy's face that didn't use to be there, both of them with a couple more scars and aches and grey hairs than the last time they did this, but Sharpy's gasp when Jonny slots their mouths together--that first sharp intake of breath like he didn't think Jonny would take him up on his dare, like he's surprised anew every time that Jonny wants this for real--that's old and familiar.

One of them will remember the way to Jonny's bedroom sooner or later, but Jonny's in no particular rush to get there. They may be old, but they've got time.

[nebulein]

"We won," Jonny grins, happy and loose, because it might've only been the preseason but a win is a fucking win. They're gonna need all of them they can get this season.

"I saw." Sharpy's leaning against the door jamb to the locker room, Jonny still steaming from the game after his presser, the towel wrapped around his shoulders doing nothing to catch the slick lines of sweat sliding down his temples, his cheeks flushed with color, a big red line across his forehead making where his helmet sat. Jonny's objectively disgusting, but he's beaming, practically brimming with a job well done, and Sharpy wants him more than anything else right now, has to stuff his hand in his pocket to keep from reaching out for Jonny. "I was there."

Jonny hums happily and leans in closer. "So what's my reward?"

"Your reward," Sharpy says evenly, leaning back because Jonny's sweaty and gross and this suit is raw wool, "is a shower and some dry clothes."

Jonny narrows his eyes, lower lip jutting out in a pout (not that Jonny would ever admit to something so childish), clearly displeased with Sharpy's answer. Sharpy contemplates briefly keeping up the front, letting Jonny stew on that while he gets ready, but Jonny did have a great game--one assist and a whopping 68% on face off wins--and Sharpy doesn't want to discourage him this early in the season.

There'll be plenty of opportunities to wind Jonny up this year, and as much as Sharpy loves making Jonny sweat for it, tonight he deserves a reward.

He darts a quick eye around, but nobody's paying them any mind, most of the boys too eager to get out of their sweaty gear and run through their post game workout routine to care about two old guys in the corner. Two years ago any kind of private conversation would've been impossible, too many nosy teammates around, but today Sharpy only recognizes most faces in here from the call up sheet he memorized.

"Get dressed and come find me after, we'll go to yours," Sharpy murmurs.

Jonny's face practically lights up at that, the promise of Sharpy coming back to his enough to get him going. "Gimme, like, 25."

And with that he's off, already working on loosening the rest of his gear before he's even at his locker. Sharpy lets himself watch Jonny go for another moment before turning around to steal a plate from the player's buffet, knowing full well it's gonna be at least 40 until Jonny's likely to actually emerge. But that's okay, Sharpy can use the time. He's got a game plan of his own to devise.

the image of pristine, buttoned-up announcer sharpy and sweaty, exhausted post-game jonny is doing things to me