“He take two pill?” Geno asks Harner.
“If he’s in pain, he can have two,” the doctor says. “Only once a day.”
Geno nods, peering down at the orange prescription bottle in his hand. The pills are large, meaning Sid’s going to be a baby about it. Geno sighs, tosses the bottle in his hand just to hear the pills clatter around, and pockets it deep into his sweatpants.
Sid historically is not one for pain medication. The shit they’d had him on for his knee after they won the Stanley Cup had made him so violently ill when combined with alcohol that he’d forgone the pills entirely until he’d been back up in Canada. He can take the Toradol shots in the athletic trainer’s room with a stiff upper lip, but something about pills hits him upside the head.
Between the puck and the pills, Geno’s sure Sid would take the puck to the jaw every time.
“How long he need?” Geno asks warily.
“Until the pain is manageable,” Harner says, and Geno grimaces.
It had been foolish, really, for Geno to expect Sid to be waiting at the player’s exit. He should have known better. He’s somehow not surprised when he walks into the locker room and sees Sid in his stall, his hat tugged onto his unruly hair, surrounded by reporters.
When he locks eyes with Jen, she holds up her hands like she’s warding off a charging bull.
“I couldn’t stop him,” she says. “He wanted to.”
Geno purses his lips and watches Sid goggle at the reporters and their cameras. He’s sweet to them, sweeter than he should be with a metal jaw and a cracked smile. When they get him to laugh, something jealous and stupid curls in Geno’s stomach, and finally he turns to Jen with a meaningful look.
Jen sets her shoulders and starts shooing the reporters away, directing them to the door so Geno can swoop in. Sid tilts his head up far, so he can see past the brim of his hat, and he smiles.
“Hey, G,” he says.
“We go home now,” Geno says flatly, tugging the hat off of Sid’s head and dumping it onto his locker’s shelf. Before Sid can even make a noise of protest, Geno’s grabbing him and helping him to his feet.
“I’m fine,” Sid scowls at him. The effect is ruined by the boyish, messy hair his hat had been hiding. “I can walk.”
“Yes, yes,” Geno says impatiently, because Sid like this—open, game for a little laugh—makes ugly things bubble up in Geno’s gut. He puts his back between Sid and the rest of the room; even though most of the team has already escaped for the day, he doesn’t want anyone else seeing Sid’s blown pupils and slack lips and taking advantage.
“Home,” he says again. “Come on.”
“I need…” Sid says, and he frowns. Geno’s grip on him tightens, the soft, worn fabric of Sid’s shirt gentle beneath his fingertips.
“...pills,” Sid finally finishes, looking up at Geno, evidently pleased he remembered.
“I’m have,” Geno tells him quietly, and he squeezes Sid before curling his arm around Sid’s back. They have nothing to hide from the team anymore, and Geno lets himself enjoy the happy, possessive flame that licks up his spine as he guides Sid from the Iceoplex.
Sid drifts on the drive back to his house. He’s quiet and doesn’t reach for the radio, choosing instead to stare out the windows at the dead gray winter landscape that Pennsylvania so stingily offers up until spring arrives.
At a red light, Geno looks over and finds Sid staring at him.
“Feel okay?” he asks, and Sid’s amber gaze slips down his body like syrup.
“I feel okay,” Sid says softly.
“No,” Sid murmurs, and Geno relaxes his grip on the steering wheel before reaching a hand over to rest on Sid’s thigh.
It had been painful, watching the injury happen. Worse, Geno thinks, was watching the athletic trainers pick up the shards of Sid’s teeth from the ice. He’d watched Sid spit one out before Dana had pressed a towel to his mouth.
“Good,” Geno says, squeezing Sid’s meaty thigh, and Sid’s smile is sweet and gap-filled and his hand moves to cover Geno’s, his fingers clumsy and warm on Geno’s skin.
The car behind them lays on their horn so aggressively it makes Geno jerk, and Sid’s stupid, airy giggle has him biting back a smile as he accelerates, speeding through the green light. The only thing stopping him from flicking off the impatient car behind them is the fumbling, happy hold of Sid’s fingers on his own.
“How you feel today?” Geno asks as Sid lumbers down the last of the stairs.
He gets a grunt in response.
“Cheer up,” Trina tells him, “I made Grandma Crosby’s fish chowder and blended it for you for lunch.”
The soup had looked good before she’d dumped it into the blender. Geno had watched in dismay as it turned a gruesome beige, but Sid’s sullen expression lifts just a bit at the mention of it.
Sid briefly rests his hand against the back of Geno’s chair as he passes by, but that’s all Geno gets as Sid makes his way over to his industrial-sized box of protein powder. Sid’s family has known about them for rounding on half a year now, and yet Sid refuses to offer Geno more than a high-five in front of them, like he’s greeting Nealer instead of his boyfriend.
Trina shuffles around Sid to grab the peanut butter from the cabinet, stretching to nudge it off of its shelf and leave it within Sid’s grasp. Geno likes seeing them like this—even though Sid had left home young, he slots back into place with his family easily. Trina is always eager to humble him, too, which Geno appreciates on an intrinsic level.
“I gave Geno all the dates for your doctor’s appointments,” Trina says, and Geno slumps back into his chair and gives her a dour look.
This, he supposes, is the price for being treated like family too. He can be sold out as easily as Sid is.
“Why?” Sid mutters as he dumps a mounded cup of powder into one of his shaker cups.
“So he can help you out,” Trina says. “I know you have him staying at his place while I’m in town, but I certainly hope he’ll be back here after I go home tomorrow.”
“Mom,” Sid says, and his voice is stern but Geno can see his ears turning pink against the long hair tucked behind them.
“I’m not my mother, Sidney,” Trina tells him bluntly. “I’m not going to be upset that your boyfriend is living with you.”
“Grandma,” Sid says under his breath, “doesn’t know I have a boyfriend.”
“I still think you should tell her. Maybe at Christmas,” Trina muses, and her sharp gaze dissects Geno. “Maybe you can invite Geno.”
Sid thumps his shaker cup down onto the countertop aggressively, and he turns his head to stare at his mother.
Trina stares back, and despite Sid needing to look down to meet her gaze, he breaks first with another wordless sound, shaking his bottle hard enough that Geno’s half expecting it to slip out of Sid’s grip and fly across the kitchen.
“Well,” Trina says with a winner’s glint in her eyes that Geno recognizes from her son. “How about we pick up our game of chess from last night, Geno?”
Geno puts on a smile, even if the emotion behind it is more pain than happiness. He’s won the last two matches, and he knows he’s going to have to throw this one to keep the relationship good. Trina, for all her lack of being a hockey player, apparently also lacks the ability to lose happily, though she manages it more gracefully than Sid.
At least this way Geno has someone to play with. Sid had suffered through two games before refusing to go for a third.
“Okay,” Geno says, hauling himself up and following Trina to the den.
He lets his hand brush against Sid’s lower back on the way there, only once Trina’s already disappeared around the corner. Sid stiffens under his touch, and Geno pulls away.
Geno does move back in after Trina leaves. He and Sid have lived in a gradually-intertwining life for the last year, and now Geno has half the closet in Sid’s master bedroom and Sid has three pairs of nearly-identical sneakers tossed onto the rug by Geno’s front door.
Sid goes to his appointments and takes his pills and tries to heal. Geno plays in games and goes on roadies and tries to win. Playing hockey without Sid makes Geno’s system flood with something—adrenaline, maybe, or anxiety. Whatever it is, it seems to widen his field of vision and narrow his focus, and the pucks keep finding the back of the net. It’s good. He’s playing well. He misses playing with Sid. It reminds him of Sid’s concussion, when Sid would disappear for days or longer, cropping up at doctor’s offices in Philly or in Florida to search for a cure.
Geno cradles Sid’s injured head gently, and he presses a kiss to Sid’s forehead every night in gratitude.
“Geno,” Sid complains, tilting his head up so his lips will be in range, and Geno pulls away.
“You’re hurt,” he says, and Sid’s expression turns sour.
“My lips are fine,” Sid says.
Geno thumbs at the sharp plane of Sid’s cheekbone. Sid’s already lost so much weight, and no amount of Grandma Crosby’s fish chowder or protein shakes can keep the muscle on. His face is starting to hollow out, and though he looks sleek and savage, Geno prefers the look of him healthy.
“Kiss with you and me never gonna be just lips, Sid,” Geno purrs, and Sid lets out a huff, breaking out of Geno’s hold to try and conceal the smile that reveals his gory mouth.
“You take pill yet?” Geno asks him, glancing at the clock. Sid’s mostly stuck to taking them after his liquid dinners because he needs them to fall asleep.
“About to,” Sid says. “We gonna finish that show you were watching?”
“Sure,” Geno agrees, and he watches fondly as Sid reaches for his pill bottle. Sid can’t even remember the name of the show because he hasn’t made it through a full episode. Geno has had to nudge him awake and help him up the stairs each night, and it sends an intense, protective streak through him each time.
“Pills working pretty good,” Geno hazards, the last good conversation he’ll be able to have with a sober Sid for the night. Sid peeks at him before grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
“Like, before, sometimes you’re get sick,” Geno says. “Now you just… silly.”
Sid lets out a pissy little sound that tickles Geno.
“I’m not…” Sid huffs, filling up his glass from the fridge’s water dispenser. “I’m still me. The drugs just make me tired.”
Tired and something else, but Geno knows better to push it, even though he likes it when Sid nettles him. Sid on the drugs is too sweet, too relaxed from finally being free of pain. He takes everything Geno gives him with a languid look and a slow tug up of his lips.
It makes Geno feel a little dangerous.
“Take pill, get pajama, we watch,” he agrees, leaving Sid to drug himself. He doesn’t need to be an accomplice to that.
Geno wakes up to a cold bed.
He wakes up quick, like from a dream, and he jerks before his brain catches up with him. As soon as he realizes what he’s doing he freezes his limbs, fearful of coming in contact with Sid’s face.
Sid’s gone, though. Geno sits up, groping for the light on the nightstand and then his glasses. The bedroom is empty, and there’s no light leaking from inside the bathroom.
Geno stumbles to his feet; he’s graceless when he wakes up, nearly getting a faceful of carpet as his foot gets tied up in a tangled sheet. He manages to catch himself on the bed frame and makes it to the hallway.
The house is quiet, and Geno treads downstairs.
Sure enough, when Geno steps into the media room, Sid’s there, sprawled out on one of the big sofas that populate the room. He’s got a blanket tugged over his lap and he’s wrapped around a pillow, his fingers fussing at the crumpled edge of it.
His hair’s a mess, and when he turns to look at Geno, he grins. The lopsided brokenness of his teeth makes Geno smile back.
“G,” Sid says.
“Why you not sleep?” Geno asks as he joins Sid on the couch. Sid’s got some aquatic nature program on, and Geno gently takes the remote from Sid’s side to mute it.
“My jaw hurt,” Sid says, and Geno can see, just at the corner of Sid’s lips, a bit of blood.
“Stitch open up again? Let me see,” Geno tells him, and Sid jerks back a bit when Geno reaches for his face before settling into Geno’s hands.
“Pills make you feel better?” he asks knowingly.
“Yeah,” Sid says, and he doesn’t protest as Geno presses his fingers into the cheekbone on the good side of Sid’s face, coaxing Sid into opening his lips.
Sid’s mouth is still a graveyard; the sutures along his gum are a little bloody in the back, like Sid had tried to grind his teeth in his sleep. Geno tilts Sid’s head gently, moving him to try and see better in the low, blue light from the television.
“You gonna be okay,” he finally says, and he slowly, carefully leans in to press a kiss to the corner of Sid’s mouth.
Sid lets out a soft sound. It might be surprise or it might be something more, but Geno pulls back.
Sid’s beautiful like this. His eyes are huge and ringed with thick lashes that flutter on Geno’s skin in bed. The dim blue light casts his lips as a dramatic purple, and Geno can still feel their softness on his own.
Sid slowly smiles at him again and leans closer.
“Sid,” Geno murmurs, tightening his grip on Sid’s shoulder. “Go back to bed, sleep, is gonna feel better.”
“Yeah?” Sid asks, and his voice is so low. It rakes over Geno’s stomach like claws, like searching fingers.
“Yes,” Geno says resolutely.
Sid looks at Geno like he’s rummaging through Geno’s appearance, his strong fingers digging into Geno’s nooks and crannies and mining up parts of Geno like they’re precious stones. Geno knows better than to underestimate Sid by now. Sid’s polite and sometimes too focused on doing the right thing, but he’s smarter than people think, and the drugs don’t change that.
“What you look for?” Geno asks Sid, and Sid’s brow furrows.
Geno gives him a moment more before he slides his hands to grip Sid’s biceps, and he gently lifts them both from the couch.
“Bed,” Geno tells him, and Sid makes a hum of agreement.
Geno doesn’t have to guide him back to the master bedroom—Sid knows this house by heart, had been able to navigate it in pitch blackness when he’d had his concussion and his light sensitivity had briefly turned him nocturnal. Sid tromps up the stairs slowly but confidently, and Geno keeps a hand at his lower back until Sid reaches behind him and winds his fingers between Geno’s.
Geno squeezes his hand, and Sid squeezes back.
Sid’s more cuddly than usual when he starts pushing Geno into place on the mattress. He presses the good side of his face into Geno’s chest, and Geno so, so gingerly brushes his fingertips over the still-purple shadow on Sid’s jaw.
He whispers his goodnight to Sid in Russian, quiet and sweet and offered like a healing prayer. Sid doesn’t say anything back, but his eyelashes brush against the sensitive hairless skin of Geno’s pec and his breath is warm.
It feels good to have something—someone—to care for like this. He hasn’t had the chance since Dixie died last summer, and even then Dixie had been judicious with her affections. She’d linger around the rooms Geno occupied, content to be near him but out of reach. It was only on rare occasions that she actually came to him for a warm, careful scratch down her back.
Geno smiles down at Sid.
Perhaps his type has always been a little predictable.
Sid eyes the container of mac and cheese that Trina stowed in the fridge before leaving for Halifax.
Geno wisely remains quiet. He’d eaten a sandwich for lunch on the way back from practice, throwing the fast food wrapper into the garbage can outside just so it wouldn’t draw Sid’s ire. Sid has already chewed Geno out once for refusing to eat around him, snipping at him meanly on Tuesday after Sid had taken the trash out and found an upsetting amount of McDonald’s paper bags crammed into the recycling bin. Geno doesn’t have the heart to tell Sid he hides his wrappers not because he’s afraid to make Sid sad but because the way Sid stares at him when he eats anything he needs to chew makes Geno feel like he’s being watched by a vulture.
A very, very hungry vulture.
He’d noticed a bit of saliva pooling in Sid’s mouth last time, when Sid got out of his doctor’s appointment early only to come home and catch Geno working his way through a bowl of chicken and rice. Sid had tried to be covert about wiping his drool away where it had leaked out of the corner of his numbed mouth.
“The flight to Raleigh is at noon?” Sid asks, the words bouncing around his mouth and coming out garbled.
Sid knows their schedule. He knows every single game he’s missing.
“Yes,” Geno says, carefully looking back down at his phone so Sid doesn’t catch Geno staring when he glances over his shoulder. “Tomorrow.”
Sid makes a sound in the back of his throat, and Geno grimaces as he looks up and sees Sid tug the casserole dish from the fridge.
“I’ve got another doctor’s appointment in the morning” he says as he grabs a serving spoon from a drawer and starts scooping pasta into a bowl. Geno isn’t going to say a word, even though he knows damn well that the doctor hasn’t cleared Sid for any solid foods yet. “I don’t need a ride. I can drive myself.”
“Okay,” Geno says as Sid pops the bowl into the microwave. Sid finally turns as the microwave hums behind him, and he glances over Geno with a scrutinizing look. Geno squints back at him.
“So,” Sid says, “we haven’t had sex in two weeks.”
Geno fumbles his phone onto the tabletop.
“We haven’t had sex in two weeks,” Sid repeats. “We’ve never gone that long.”
“Your mouth,” Geno says, baffled.
“I don’t need my mouth to have sex,” Sid says, and Geno wants to disagree on principle, but he holds himself back.
“Sid, you, like, hurt all the time,” Geno says, and he takes in the tight cross of Sid’s arms over his chest, the way he’s leaning back into the counter behind him. “Mouth always hurt.”
Sid doesn’t look like he’s worried. He doesn’t look insecure or nervous.
He looks intent.
“That’s what the meds are for,” Sid says, and he meets Geno’s gaze with a sure, steady look.
He only breaks eye contact when the microwave beeps. Geno feels like Sid’s dropped a glass onto the floor and asked Geno to pick up the pieces. Geno skirts over the sharp edges of what Sid’s implying to instead watch with growing dread as Sid decouples the pitcher from the blender.
“Meds make you, uh, tired,” Geno says, which is the most graceful way he can describe Sid’s dazed, wide-eyed high, and Sid dumps the entire bowl of steaming-hot pasta into the pitcher.
“Yeah,” Sid says as he clicks the pitcher into place and turns on the blender.
The sound Sid’s blender makes is incredible. It looks like something out of a health food shop, and it makes enough noise that Geno thinks the motor could power a small airplane. Geno sits, taut and tense, until the mac and cheese is nothing more than a yellow smear coating the sides of the pitcher.
The sound of the blender echoes in Geno’s skull for a few moments after Sid turns it off. Geno watches as Sid rummages around the cabinets and emerges with a wide-rimmed cup.
“...that’s problem?” Geno says slowly, his pitch rising, because it is.
“That a problem for you?” Sid asks, and there’s a challenge somewhere in his voice.
He pours his pasta—his smoothie—his pasta smoothie—into the cup and dumps the pitcher into the sink.
“It’s not a problem for me,” Sid tells him, and tilts the cup to his lips.
Geno’s face does something horrible, and so does his dick, so he stares at his boyfriend, watching him choke down the gunk and trying to let the sight kill the chub rising in his sweatpants.
The Pens sweep the roadie but pay the cost in blood. They’re in Carolina when they hear the news that Nealer’s been diagnosed with a concussion, and then in Tampa they get Tanger back and Geno gets nailed to the glass by Malone. He makes it through the rest of the game but sits in his suit during the game in Miami, his elbow banged up and sore.
Driving back to Sid’s house is a weight lifted off of his chest. He punches in the gate code and feels his mood buoy with each harsh beep of the buttons. There’s still salt on his lips from the burgers he’d scarfed down at a long red light in Mount Nebo, and he rushes as he pulls into his spot in the garage, grabbing his weekend bag and ducking into Sid’s house.
It’s dark, and Geno kicks off his shoes before he starts moving around, putting a pillow back into the corner of the couch, closing the blinds in the sitting room as he passes by. There’s a half-empty bottle of Gatorade sitting on the kitchen counter and he finds the cap in the trash. He puts it into the fridge anyways.
Sid has gotten by okay the past few days, it seems, but there’s no sign of life as Geno checks the media room and finds it empty.
He takes the stairs two at a time, and the bright light of the en suite bathroom draws him in from the master bedroom.
“Sid?” Geno asks as he steps through the doorframe and finds Sid on his hands and knees, poking around in the crevice between the sinks and the toilet.
Sid twists around, and as soon as he sees Geno, his holey smile stretches across his face.
“Geno,” Sid says, voice soft and gentle and happy.
He’s damp from his shower, his soft sleep shirt hanging loose on his frame. His hair is water-dark and curling wildly around his neck and over his forehead, cutting dramatically across his pale skin. He looks even skinnier than when Geno saw him last, his jaw sharp under his grin.
His pupils are huge, his gaze a little unfocused, and Geno’s heart throbs.
“What you do?” Geno asks, leaning on the doorframe and just taking the sight of him in. It’s been too long since he’s seen Sid on his knees. He misses the sight, even though there’s something different coloring this moment.
Usually Sid has a coy expression tugging up the corners of his lips, his eyes heavy-lidded and knowing and so sly as he tugs down Geno’s jeans or sweats. Now Sid looks at Geno with a simple happiness, his smile a little dopey.
Geno focuses on the slow intake of his own breath as he feels his cock start to swell.
“Sorry,” Sid says. Sssorry. “I dropped…”
He blinks up at Geno like a deer on the highway, and Geno lets out a soft sigh.
“Let me look, lapochka,” Geno says, and he crouches down next to Sid.
He has to gently nudge Sid out of the way, because Sid just kneels there and stares as Geno peeks between the fixtures and sees the box of floss wedged back against the wall.
“I leave you alone for four days,” Geno says through a smile, and he wedges his shoulder up against the sink cabinet and leans in to grab the floss.
“You got it,” Sid says, pleased as Geno emerges with the slightly-dusty box.
“Why you trying to floss, huh?” Geno asks, leaning in. “All your teeth gone.”
“Not all,” Sid says, and Geno loves how expressive his voice is like this, how it bounces up and down with every word just like his laugh.
“How long you trying to get floss? Is late,” Geno asks, reaching up to put the floss on the counter.
“Dunno,” Sid murmurs, and one of his clumsy hands lands on Geno’s thigh.
Geno slowly moves his own hand to cover Sid’s, and then he loops his fingers around Sid’s wrist. He presses his thumb into the strong curve of Sid’s radius and then starts skimming his palm up Sid’s forearm.
The thin hairs on Sid’s forearm catch on the calluses of Geno’s fingers. His skin is soft from his shower, body-warm and comforting.
Geno draws him in.
“Sid,” Geno hums, and he hooks his fingers behind Sid’s elbow and pulls him closer.
Sid comes. He’s easy like this, and when Geno slides his other hand around Sid’s neck, he only needs a nudge of his thumb to get Sid to tilt his head back.
“Miss you lots,” Geno tells him gently, and he takes Sid’s lower lip between his teeth.
The noise that comes out of Sid’s mouth is sweet and questioning, and it makes Geno want to press closer, to dip his tongue between Sid’s lips, to bite. He keeps it gentle, rolling Sid’s plush lower lip between his own, breathing in the mint on Sid’s breath and letting the salt from his tongue taint the taste.
When he lets go, he presses his lips against the corner of Sid’s again, the one safe place he can kiss, and Sid opens his mouth wider in offering.
“No,” Geno says, both to himself and Sid.
“Why won’t you fuck me?” Sid says, and Geno takes in a sharp breath.
“Because you tired,” he says. That’s not all. It’s because of the dazed expression on Sid’s face, the way he forgets what he’s doing if he stands in one place for too long.
“I don’t care,” Sid says, and he sways closer. Geno leans back, and Sid just keeps coming, heedless of Geno’s reluctance. A spike of want shoves through Geno’s guts, pinning him in place.
“I want you to—” Sid starts, stopping as his lips brush against Geno’s. He crowds in closer, speaking the rest against Geno’s mouth, “—come inside me.”
Sid swallows down the breath that escapes Geno but then he stalls out, his persistent pressure easing as he drifts. He lists into Geno’s hold, and Geno opens his eyes, looking over the hot flush of Sid’s skin.
He tightens his grip on Sid’s arm and stands, hauling Sid up alongside him.
“Take you to bed,” Geno tells him, and Sid’s bleary-eyed confusion melts into a pleased, hazy look.
Geno leads him back into the bedroom, and Sid sprawls out against the sheets, tilting his head to watch as Geno strips himself out of his plane clothes. He’s grateful not to be in his gameday suit, and in the seconds between him reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head, Sid’s eyes close.
Geno, for a scant moment, considers ducking into the shower to jerk off.
It would be the right thing to do. He’s done it plenty over the last few weeks, first just as a way to cope with his dead bed now that Sid was out for the count. They had been active—perhaps overly so—before Sid’s injury, and Geno’s dick hadn’t gotten the message that Sid was out of commission.
Apparently neither had Sid.
Is that a problem? Geno asks himself, and he lets his gaze rove over Sid’s prone form. He’s almost skinny now, in a way that’s distinct from the playoff grind that leans them all out. So much of his physical presence is in his width, his sheer weight.
He looks like Geno could hold him down to the bed and keep him there.
Geno’s rough as he yanks off his sweatpants and his socks. His fingers are indelicate and agitated, because he feels like a boulder that’s been rolled off of a mountainside, gaining speed with every meter until he feels unstoppable, like he would crush anything in his path.
When he gets into bed, he reaches for Sid.
His hand skims up Sid’s side, his long fingers slipping under the hem of Sid’s shirt and rucking it up. Sid’s ribs are pronounced against his warm skin, and Geno leans down to press his lips to the indentations in Sid’s chest, feeling Sid’s breath expand beneath him.
He pushes Sid’s shirt up high, up to his collarbones, and he leaves a gentle kiss right next to one of Sid’s nipples.
When he licks the flat of his tongue over Sid’s nipple, Sid lets out a sweet sound, something light and pleased. Geno wraps his lips around the hardening nipple and sucks, just enough to get a hitch of breath out of Sid, and Sid’s hand stutters over Geno’s scalp, scraping through his hair before tightening his grip.
“Sid,” Geno sighs, his cock hardening in his boxers as he pushes himself up.
Sid’s grinning, that ridiculous gap in his teeth making Geno want to lean in, to probe the wounded skin with his tongue. Even the rust of Sid’s blood wouldn’t deter him, not when Sid is vulnerable and easy beneath him. His gaze roves over Geno’s form distractedly, unable to concentrate on any part for too long.
“Feel good?” Geno whispers.
“Yeah, I want you to…” Sid trails off, and his hand skates up Geno’s bare chest, hooking in the pendants dangling from Geno’s neck.
“Sid?” Geno asks, and Sid weakly pulls him in.
Geno kisses him, letting Sid press his tongue into his mouth, letting Sid’s moans tumble from Sid’s lungs and into his own. Sid’s lips are softer than they’ve ever been, his skin no longer chapped from the cold arena air.
He’s soft and pliable and all Geno’s, and Geno pulls away.
“No,” Sid breathes, and he tightens his grip on Geno’s necklace.
“Sid,” Geno pleads, and Sid’s enormous eyes meet Geno’s. He’s not all there. His pupils are huge, swallowing up the flecked hazel of his irises, and Geno can see Sid trying to concentrate.
Sid shouldn’t have to concentrate. Not right now.
“Got you,” Geno says, and he lets Sid pull him back in.
He ducks down, and Sid’s disgruntled protest dies quickly as Geno starts kissing and sucking at Sid’s neck.
Sid won’t be at practice for a little while yet.
He has no reason to protest a few marks like he normally would, with a sigh and a you know we can’t do that, not where the room can see.
The room can see everything. They’re hockey players—nudity comes with the territory. But like this, Sid is all Geno’s.
Only Geno can see him like this.
Geno worries at the tender skin of Sid’s neck between his teeth, and Sid’s hips buck up against Geno’s lower stomach; he can feel Sid’s cock pressing hard and wanting against his abs, and it makes him suck harder.
“Want?” he pants out when he’s satisfied that Sid’s going to have a blatant purple mark decorating his neck tomorrow morning.
“Yeah,” Sid drawls, and he sounds drunk. Geno peers at Sid’s grin, his glassy eyes, and Sid’s hand ghosts over his face, his thumb lingering over Geno’s lower lip.
Geno nips at Sid’s fingertip, and the bubbling giggle Sid lets out has Geno’s heart clenching in his chest.
“Take care of you,” Geno says roughly, ducking his face to kiss Sid’s palm before he rocks back onto his knees, settling between Sid’s thighs.
He has to do all the work, hauling Sid’s legs to the side so he can tug off his shorts, gripping Sid’s still-big, naked thighs and settling them on either side of his body.
Sid’s chest shakes with his breaths, and he turns his face to the side, pressing into the pillow, stretching a lazy hand above his head.
“Can take?” Geno asks him, and Sid doesn’t respond, just lets his legs go lax as Geno’s hand trails down the fuzzy skin of his thigh to Sid’s cock.
Sid’s eyebrows tense for a second, like he’s not entirely sure what he’s feeling, but when Geno lifts his palm to his mouth, spits onto it, and strokes Sid’s cock, his lips part, and a half-breath escapes.
“Good, Sid?” Geno asks, and Sid lets out a whimper that has Geno stroking him harder.
“Sid, tell me, good?” Geno says, and when Sid’s silent, Geno plants his other hand next to Sid’s shoulder and leans over him, lips hovering over the pale skin covering the gruesome injury that Geno can’t see like this.
All he can see are Sid’s dark lashes, slack lips, and the glimpses of his unfocused eyes when those dark lashes flutter.
“I feel like shit,” Sid moans, and Geno’s hand freezes, “but you make me feel good.”
Geno’s breath leaves him like a wrecking ball has hit his spine. It gusts over Sid’s face and Sid turns into it, seeking, and Geno lets himself take. His tongue ghosts over the steep cut-off of Sid’s teeth, where there is a line of strong enamel and then suddenly nothing, and his tongue meets Sid’s.
The noises that come out of Sid are good, too good, and Geno knows that a handjob isn’t enough. Not like this, not when he could make Sid feel so much better. Not when he could pin Sid beneath his body and rock into his tight heat.
Sid protests as Geno gets off of him and rummages through the nightstand. Geno’s never heard his name like this out of Sid, a whine like a rookie, a plaintive complaint that makes Geno feel primitive.
When Geno’s lube-slicked fingers probe at Sid’s hole, it only spurs Sid on.
“Yeah,” Sid groans, his hips only rocking in tiny hitches as Geno works two fingers inside. Even after a few weeks of abstinence, their vigorous sex life has left Sid with perks. “Geno, oh, it… yeah, please.”
“Shh,” Geno whispers, and he pets over Sid’s thigh as he savors the feeling of Sid’s tightness around his fingers. Sid had taught Geno to appreciate fingering as more than a means to an end, but in this moment Geno has little desire to luxuriate in it.
He adds in a third finger, and Sid rolls his head on the pillow.
He looks young, Geno realizes, with his wild hair that, left ungelled, fluffs up on the pillow. His clean-shaven face, his huge eyes and trusting expression, make Geno’s emotions shake in his chest. Sid is too much. He means too much. It scares Geno sometimes, mostly because he sees it scares Sid. All Geno wants to do is pour his love into Sid until Sid can’t take any more.
“Sid,” Geno says a little desperately, and Sid’s lips quirk up.
“G,” he sighs, and his eyes open slowly. It’s late. By this point, unless the pain is troublesome for the night, he’s normally dead to the world in Geno’s arms.
Now he clenches around Geno’s fingers, his hard, pink cock bobbing and drooling pre-cum onto his stomach.
Geno can’t hold himself back for longer. He hooks his hands around the backs of Sid’s knees, hoisting them up, pressing close as Sid’s hips shift and bare him.
He locks Sid down like that, trapped beneath his body, and Sid’s lips part in a questioning, happy sound. Geno rocks his hips helplessly against Sid’s, and his cock slips along Sid’s slicked skin.
Sid’s arms, heavy and slow, shift on the bed, and he doesn’t even try to move his hips. Geno fumbles for the lube, slicks his hand and his cock, and he gropes at Sid’s softening dick, coaxing him as he nudges his hips closer.
“Fuck,” Sid whispers, and Geno can feel his cock starting to harden again beneath his fingers.
He knows he can get Sid the rest of the way there.
He fits the blunt head of his cock against Sid’s hole and coaxes it in gently, his eyes flicking between the sight of the tight clutch of Sid’s ass taking him in and the expressions ghosting across Sid’s face.
His eyes open, focusing on Geno weakly, like he knows who he’s seeing but not why, and his mouth opens, his expression concerned. Geno forgoes the amazing sight of Sid opening up around his cock and leans in to press his lips to Sid’s, kissing him and kissing him until Sid’s lips start going slack again, his breaths heavy and labored.
The keen he lets out when the ridge of Geno’s wide cockhead presses in has Geno fighting to keep his hips under control. He works himself into Sid gently, with slow rocks that make Sid gasp and try to lean up.
Geno keeps him pinned.
“Good?” he grates out when he’s fully seated inside of Sid, his balls nestled up against the curve of Sid’s ass.
“G,” Sid breathes, and Geno starts to fuck him.
He leans up, so he can see it, really see it—Sid laid out beneath him, recumbent and rocking with each forceful thrust of Geno’s hips, his eyes glassy and careless, looking at Geno’s face and chest and the ceiling and nothing at all. Geno balances all his weight on one arm, using the other to grip Sid’s jaw.
His broken jaw.
He’s careful, his thumb hovering over the broken side as his fingers dig into where Sid’s bone is whole and safe, and he tilts Sid’s head so that Sid has to look him in the eyes.
“Feel good?” Geno asks him, and Sid tries to turn his head and take Geno’s thumb between his lips.
“Sid,” Geno says, digging his fingernails in just as he grinds his hips against Sid’s. Sid’s mouth opens and a guttural noise comes out, something animalistic and not like the controlled, restrained panting Geno normally squeezes out of him.
Geno’s hips jerk without his permission, jolting Sid abruptly beneath him, and Sid whines.
Geno collapses on top of him, his fingers pushing Sid’s face up so he can bury his lips against the skin of Sid’s throat and feel every punched-out sound vibrate from Sid’s lungs.
“Gorgeous,” Geno pants into Sid’s skin, “fuck, Sid, you’re—”
He fits his hand around Sid’s cock again, and he’s unbelievably hard, his balls drawn up tight, and Geno works him over harshly, just like Sid likes it. It’s too easy—Sid lets out a few worried, uncontrollable sounds and then he’s spilling all over Geno’s fist.
His noises get even louder, more desperate, as Geno’s dirty hand fists into the bedding and he uses every inch of his athletic body to drive himself deeper into Sid.
Sid can take it like this, just take and take everything Geno can give, and Geno would give him everything. Kisses, orgasms, a ring, if only Sid would let himself have it.
Geno looks back up into Sid’s face, like he’ll find all the answers there. Instead, he sees Sid’s overwhelmed expression, his doe eyes wide. He looks bewildered, like his orgasm hit him just as hard as the puck to his face. He stares at Geno, only Geno, like Geno’s what’s grounding him.
That’s what breaks Geno.
“Malysh,” he gasps, and he pins Sid to the bed, presses his cock as deep inside him as he can, and pants against Sid’s skin as he comes.
“Yeah,” Sid warbles, and his hand comes up to tangle in the sweaty hair at the back of Geno’s head.
“Sid,” Geno breathes out, over and over. “Sid…”
He stays close, until he starts to soften inside of Sid’s body, and even then he pushes his luck until Sid’s hand goes limp and starts to slip from his scalp.
Geno pushes himself off of Sid, careful as he maneuvers Sid’s limbs back onto the bed. Sid’s face is still flushed, his cheeks and neck and chest pink with exertion. Geno reaches out to brush Sid’s curls away from his closed eyes, and his eyes open slowly.
“Okay?” Geno murmurs, and Sid’s smile is fragmented and perfect.
Two days later, Geno’s watching NFL highlights on his laptop when Sid pauses by the doorway to the den. Geno glances up, and Sid dumps his pills into his mouth and then lifts his glass of water to his lips, drinking the entire thing and keeping his gaze locked with Geno’s.
When he finishes it down to the last drop, he lets the cup fall from his lips, and he gives Geno a wink.