A random scene from my Maxiel hockey au just because
“Why the fuck does this team give us perfectly identical sweatshirts? How am I ever meant to find mine?” Daniel asks, pawing through the clothes piled precariously on one of the barstools.
“It’ll probably be the one with your number on it,” Max says drily. “And teams tend to have matching clothing.”
Daniel looks up from his careful searching and tosses Max the finger. “Just for that, I’m wearing yours.”
Max’s hoodie is technically the same size as Daniel’s because Daniel prefers to size up, but it’s stretched out around the shoulders in a way Daniel’s isn’t. There’s a small stain by the left cuff whereas Daniel keeps his pristine. Most notably, there’s a 33 over the left chest instead of a single digit. It feels more lived-in and comfortable than Daniel’s, even though Daniel probably wears his jumpers twice as often as Max does.
He pops his head of the neckline and adjusts the strings. “Alright. I’m set. Let’s go.”
Max is paused with his keys in hand, mouth slightly parted and eyes burning holes into the number screenprinted on the fabric.
“You can’t get mad. I told you I was taking it,” Daniel says, even though Max doesn’t seem upset. Daniel can’t quite identify the expression crossing his face, but it’s definitely not annoyance.
“Don’t spill anything on it,” Max finally says.
Daniel catches up to him at the door and sticks the stained arm in Max’s face. “Don’t worry. You took care of that first.”
Max shoves his arm away, rolling his eyes playfully. “I’m not driving you anymore. You can hobble to the rink.”
Daniel switches positions to wrap his upper body around Max’s broad back, clasp his hands around Max’s neck, and jerk one leg up as if he’s about to jump for a piggy-back ride. Max elbows him off, giggling and pink-cheeked.
“Fine, I suppose I can give you a ride, but I’m not buying your tea,” Max warns. He undercuts his threatening words by instinctively holding Daniel’s hip, pale fingers pressed into plush fabric and waiting in case Daniel’s ankle gives out. Daniel has been successfully walking with no problems for a full week now, but Max is always hovering and holding.
“But I’m cold,” Daniel pouts, dramatically sticking out his lower lip. He’s just being annoying, but a gust of chilly air actually hits as he says it. Daniel shivers, pulling the jumper tight over his hands and moving closer to Max to try and leech some of his body heat. “I need this. Respect those of us from hot countries who played in hot states for ages.”
Max laughs, slinging an arm around Daniel’s back and tugging him into a mocking hug. “Poor Daniel. You only have to play in the NHL for the most iconic team in the craziest hockey city. Your life is very hard because it’s sometimes below zero and I don’t buy you tea.”
Daniel pulls his hands upward and dramatically rubs them together, then huddles into Max and presses his clasped hands between their chests. He doesn’t care if the hug is teasing. He’s genuinely fucking cold.
“You’re not allowed to be mean to me. I’m still injured.” He pokes out his healed ankle and lightly kicks Max’s leg with it. Max is in shorts, exposing fuzzy, muscled calves to Canadian January because he’s batshit insane.
“I’m hugging you,” Max says, rubbing his free hand up and down Daniel’s back. “I am very nice.”
Daniel presses his face into Max’s shoulder, just for a second. “Yeah. You’re not too bad, I guess.”
Shortly into their drive, Max detours, parallel parks, and comes back with a massive tea and crinkly brown bag.
“Their tea is shit and the donut is vegan,” Max says. His furrowed brow is aiming for admonishing, but the tugged edges of his mouth and dramatic tone give him away. “That’s your punishment.”
He still accepts the torn pieces of donut Daniel presses to his pink mouth and licks off the crumbs that decorate the sweet freckle on his upper lip.
“Wait. You have —” Daniel covers his thumb with the blue fabric of Max’s sweater and wipes one last sprinkle away as Max pulls into a parking space.
Max catches Daniel’s wrist before he can pull it back to his own body. He stares Daniel down with big eyes and long lashes and plucks the sprinkle where it’s caught on the ribbed cuffs. Max places one hand on Daniel’s chin and pulls down his lower lip, then places the sprinkle into Daniel’s salivating mouth.
“Don’t waste food.”
Max’s hands linger for one heated second before he drops them to turn off the ignition. Daniel tries to calm the thud of his straining heart, breathing in then out in an attempt to regain some normalcy.
He takes long enough that Max knocks on his passenger-side window, peering in and making little glasses over his eyes and waving all goofy, like nothing had just happened.
He eventually pulls open Daniel’s car door for him, gesturing out to the grey pavement. “Are you planning on showing up to practice today?” he teases.
Daniel recovers enough to slide out, though not gracefully, and heads into the rink to get chirped into oblivion over the 33 that feels throbbing and alive over his still-racing heart.
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Kim kissed him.
Kim kissed him.
Kim kissed him.
Porchay can’t stop thinking about it, that sweet, wonderful kiss in the studio. He can’t stop wanting more. Kim’s lips had been so soft and warm against his cheek—what would they feel like against his own?
Kim takes him home that night. They pick up dinner on the way. Kim spends the entire drive looking lost, his eyes open and nearly dazed, like he can’t believe what he’s done. Chay can’t quite believe it either. But he can still feel it like a brand against his cheek.
Kim kissed him.
They don’t talk about it.
Chay wants to, desperately—wants to ask if they can do it again—but Kim looks so scared and skittish, Chay’s afraid of chasing him away. So for once he keeps his questions, and his hands, to himself. They have an uneventful dinner. They wash and put away the dishes. They sit together on the couch playing guitar until they settle back into a comfortable familiar rhythm.
“P’Kim?” Chay finally asks, laying his hand against the vibrating strings to quiet them.
“Hmm?”
Kim is making that face he always does when they play. Soft and warm and content. It’s the most relaxed Chay ever sees him.
He wants to ask Kim to kiss him again, but he doesn’t think Kim would appreciate it. He’s learned by now that Kim communicates through actions, not words. Questions make him nervous.
So Chay leans in—not far, they’re already almost shoulder to shoulder—and presses his lips to Kim’s. They’re just as soft as he remembers. Kim makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, and his eyes go wide, and stay wide when Chay pulls back with a bashful little smile a second later.
“Is that okay?” Chay asks.
Kim just watches him. Right when anxiety is climbing into Chay’s throat, and he’s thinking he shouldn’t have done it at all, what was he thinking—Kim gives a small nod. Barely tips his chin towards his chest, but it’s enough.
Porchay lays his guitar aside, on the floor beside the couch. It means he has to lean across Kim, who leans back to give him room, and respectfully keeps his hands to himself. Chay doesn’t. The second he releases the neck of the guitar, he puts his hands on Kim, on his shoulders, and leans in for another kiss. Kim expects it this time. He returns it.
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