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We've Had Heartaches That Hurt Bad (But I Won't Turn The Clock Back)

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It had been three to fucking one. Three to fucking one in the series. And Mitch? Yeah, sure he’d had points in the series, but he had not scored a single fucking goal, and he’d taken penalties when it had really fucking counted. Played like shit when it had really fucking counted and now, predictably, he knew that the fans, the media, the whole fucking city of Toronto, would be calling for his head.

Mitch glanced over at Auston who was sitting in his stall, shoulders slumped. Yeah. His teammates hardly had it better. They were going to have to face the media, their fans, and the whole fucking shebang. Not to mention an early summer.

Mitch blinked several times and swallowed past a heavy lump in his throat. He wasn’t going to-- no. He wasn’t going to be emotional. Not here. No.

 

He’d have plenty of time for that when he was back in his apartment, moping for months and months before skating even resumed. And Auston, Auston would probably hop the first plane back to Arizona before Mitch could even say goodbye. He’d probably take Freddy with him, too. God. Why did that make him want to crawl up his own ass and die?

Sure, they’d fooled around after game two when Auston had had that really fucking good game. And Mitch had promised him-- fuck. He’d probably jinxed them or whatever. But now Auston wouldn’t even look at him, so if he even remembered that blow job? He was doing a shitty job of showing it.

Not that Mitch was trying to remember shit from the past right then. He had a lot of shit from the past that he could remember that was really awful, and it was all losing. All of it. All of it in the first round. Every year of his professional career in the NHL. Either not making it to the playoffs, or failing in the first round.

And this year was supposed to be their year, but of course everyone said they had the Canadian Division handicap (which wasn’t fair, because it wasn’t like the East wasn’t playing against like fucking… Buffalo. Or the West wasn’t playing against like…. All of fucking California. And the Central? The Wings? Goddamn Columbus sucking again? Every division had teams that sucked like shit, like… okay, so it wasn’t just Canada. Stop shit talking Canada, everyone.) and then they’d shit the bed. So yeah. Just another year. But it wasn’t like they hadn’t had… bad luck? No. He couldn’t say that to the press. They’d eat him alive.

Okay. So the goal was to just… not make eye contact. To say as little as possible. And to not cry. Okay. Yeah, he could do that.

Maybe.

He glanced towards Auston again. He still hadn’t moved from his position before. Ah, fuck.

It was his fault, too. He’d promised Auston that he’d play better, and he… just hadn’t been able to. Regardless of what he’d tried to do, nothing had worked. That team was just… they’d just been-- had they been that good all season? He didn’t think they had? Besides, they had almost not even made the playoffs, but now-- and it wasn’t like the Leafs were the only ones that had shit the bed, he could practically hear the screams from Edmonton from his bedroom window.

So in the North Division, the number three and the number four seed would duke it out. How fucking stupid was that. It was not what anyone wanted. Well. Except for maybe the Jets and Habs.

Fucking Habs. God.

The room was thinning out quickly, quietly. Jumbo paused on his way out to clap Mitch on the shoulder, and something clenched in Mitch’s stomach as he tried not to think that that was probably their last game together.

Soon, it was just the two of them left. Just him and Auston. They sat there in silence, the hum of the lights familiar, calming. And, if nothing else, Mitch was glad that their loss was at home, because fuck. If they’d had to fly home with all the guys? He would’ve had to kill himself.

“Mitchy,” Auston’s voice sounded deep, cracked on the last part of his name. Mitch nearly gave himself a concussion lifting his head into that direction to face Auston, as though he were a sunflower, and Auston was the last iota of sunlight left in the universe.

“Matts,” And to his own embarrassment, his voice cracked as well. Fuck. They were a ridiculous mess.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t-- for you-- the media is going to eat you alive,” Auston surmised with a bit of an exhausted breath.

Mitch looked towards the crest in the middle of the floor, wondered if he wore it even beneath all of his layers of gear and shirts and uniforms, if he wore it on his bare skin somewhere, and nodded. “I know. I didn’t score.”

Auston shifted from his stall to sit next to Mitch. He looked… awkward, as he usually did when he was doing something that didn’t necessarily come naturally to him. Which, well. Mitch was aware this was one of those things. But he didn’t want to be consoled. He wanted someone to tell him that he… he didn’t suck, sure, but he didn’t need to be hugged and soothed and promised the world. He needed to feel this pain. He needed to know that he would feel this kind of pain until he was bigger, better, good enough to get through the first round.

He wanted to hurt.

And it was a realization that had him reeling. He’d never-- before, when he’d lost, and he’d lost badly, he’d always hidden away. Or gone somewhere where people would feel bad for him and would go out of their way to make him feel better (okay, so maybe that place was home. Or. McDonalds.).

But right now, he wanted to feel miserable, because he was realizing. And was this him maturing on the spot? That the misery would make him better. He would-- he would use that misry as a jumping off point, embrace it, and never want to feel it again. Just one summer of pain and maybe-- maybe it could make him a better player? He’d heard of it happening before.

“Auston.” He said quickly.

Auston’s dark eyes were suddenly visible from under the shadow of his ballcap. They were red rimmed, and Mitch’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He’d been thinking about his own misery, about how Auston was probably about to try to make him feel better-- but what if it was Auston who wanted to feel better?

Without thinking, Mitch lifted his hand to cup Auston’s beard rough cheek, sliding a thumb against his jaw. “Matts,” he breathed.

Auston blinked several times, but tilted his head into the touch. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he was murmuring.

Mitch didn’t know what to say. If he’d wanted to feel raw and exposed and miserable, well. It was working. Nothing the media could have said to him would’ve made him feel worse than the way Auston looked in that moment. He wanted-- needed-- to make it better.

“Don’t apologize to me, Aus,” Mitch said, his voice firmer than it had been all night. “You were-- you played-- you were good. Hard on the puck, hard on the body. You played like a motherfucking beast.”

Auston blinked down at Mitch, but he wasn’t really looking at him.

“It was me. I couldn’t get out of my head after we lost that first potential series clincher. I just-- the pit of my stomach- it was like I just knew we were gonna lose it. And then I just couldn’t claw my way back out.” Mitch was cradling Auston’s face with both hands now, like it was the most precious thing he’d ever held, and maybe… in this moment, it felt as though it had the potential to be just that.

“Mitchy. You’re not a bad luck charm, you didn’t jinx us. You made me want to be great every night. For you.” Auston said softly. “I wanted to win so fucking bad. Yeah, for the fans, but so that you would win with me. So we’d know what it was like to win something together.”

Mitch felt warmth rush through him and was aware, maybe for the first time, that he was dressed only in his shorts and socks. Auston was about the same. They’d showered (thank god), but the smell in the locker room would linger on them for days.

 

They were just staring at each other for a second, breathing the same air as they tried to just… adjust to their grief. It wasn’t as bad as say... losing someone you loved-- of course. But it still stung deep.

“Mitchy, can I…?” Auston asked, as his gaze dropped, perhaps obviously, to Mitch’s lips.

Mitch thought to himself for a second that this was not something he deserved. This was something that he’d intended to save for a big win, a series clinching win, a Stanley Cup win. Something like that. Something that felt, now, so far away. Never further.

But, as had become perhaps too normal for him, he couldn’t help himself. “Please, Auston…” he gasped only a quarter of a second before Auston’s lips were bearing down on his hungrily, searchingly, burning.

 

In the moment, the moment of that kiss, it was like he wasn’t the biggest failure the city of Toronto had ever known. Mitch clutched at Auston’s shoulder with one hand, scratching with blunt nails, and he also scratched at his bearded cheek with the same blunt nails on his other hand. He wanted to mark Auston, wanted to prove that he wasn’t losing his mind. Which was the state he was in, in that moment. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t having some crazy fever dream.

Was Auston really kissing him? He hadn’t even kissed him when Mitch had blown him, and now he was kissing him like he was going to die if he didn’t. Auston was biting at his bottom lip, and Mitch opened his mouth for Auston’s tongue which slid against his bottom lip first like an apology before he deepened the kiss and every bit of Mitch’s body was like fire, fire, fire.

Auston tangled a hand in the back of Mitch’s still shower-damp hair, tugging at the longer hairs of his playoff mullet, until he broke the kiss (almost a necessity as they both gasped for air) and Auston was dragging his lips down Mitch’s throat, sucking little marks into the pale skin, and Mitch was blinking beyond the thoughts of reminders that there would be no one to hide the marks from because the season was over, so they could do fucking whatever they wanted.

“Aus,” he was gasping, as his legs rubbed together, trying to find some kind of relief for his aching cock.

Auston pulled back, his ball cap hanging half off his head, his eyes a little wild. “Too much?” he asked huskily.

Mitch shook his head. “Not enough. I want you to-- to fuck me. Please.”

Auston’s breath escaped him in a whoosh and his eyes, which were already a little wild, went wider. “You-- but I thought you wanted-- when we… won?”

Mitch cleared his throat a little awkwardly, and ran his thumb over Auston’s spit, kiss slick bottom lip. It was a little swollen. Fuck. He was so hot. How, even? “Do I look like a winner to you?”

Auston seemed to pull himself together a little, licking his lips, and sucking his bottom one into his mouth, before chewing on it nervously, meeting Mitch’s uncertain gaze. “You always look like a winner to me.”

That made something come unhinged in his chest, and he went nearly blind with the need to do something, as his hands came down to tug at Auston’s shorts. “I need you, please Matts, please don’t say no.”

Auston was already shaking his head as he was pulling Mitch into his lap. “I want you, babe, Mitchy, I want you so bad, but I don’t have lube orcondoms. I could always… jerk you, or suck you, or we could…” he rocked his hips up, and Mitch could feel the thick hardness of his cock against his ass. “Everything but…?”

Mitch threw his own thick thigh more completely over Auston’s lap, and began rocking his hips a little. “I wanna at least feel your cock,” he panted. “Please, Aus…”

Auston nodded and lifted Mitch with one strong arm, using his other hand to shove his own shorts down, his cock bobbing up against his belly as he freed it from the constraints of his shorts. Mitch looked down hungrily, to see just how hard and wanting Auston was. This wasn’t how he had seen this night ending, but it would be better than leaving empty handed. With more regrets.

Mitch shoved his own shorts down as he held his weight up on his knees, shoving them down as low as he could manage, and once they were down, he reached up to lick a stripe up his hand, before spitting on it and lowering it to Auston’s cock. He was pleasantly surprised to find how wet it already was around the head, and he spread that wetness around a little, before lowering himself down, and rubbing the head of Auston’s cock between his asscheeks, gasping every time the tip caught against the rim of his hole. So close and yet-- not quite there.

“Auston--” he groaned, his head falling forward to Auston’s shoulder as he began to roll his hips forward, rocking his hips over Auston’s cock, the precome slipping between his cheeks, easing the way. He wanted to ignore all reason and ease his entire body down onto that cock, but knew it would be a near impossibility without at least lube, even with how wet Auston was. And without condoms-- if Auston wanted condoms, Mitch wouldn’t fight him. It was his right.

It just meant that Mitch might have to wait until Auston came back from Arizona and the season started all over again before he could get that thick, long, beautiful cock into him. It made him ache, but if this season had taught him anything, it was to live in the moment.

And that was what he was going to do.

“Mitchy, you feel so hot, and I’m not even inside of you,” Auston was breathing directly into his ear as his hips were rocking up into Mitch’s movements, cock sliding between his cheeks. “One day-- one day, I’ll fuck you for real and it’ll be the best day of my life,” he panted.

Mitch closed his eyes. “Shh…” he whispered. “Just-- just don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop.” His cock was so hard, aching, leaking.

Auston nodded. “Want me to…?” he offered as he reached down and wrapped calloused fingers around Mitch’s cock and began to stroke him quickly, his hand tighter around the base as he twisted on the upstroke. “I’ll never get tired of this…”

Mitch nodded, letting out a gasping sob as the pressure of the game, the feelings of the loss, knowing that this was the last time that he was going to see some of his teammates for the summer, some for the rest of his career-- or theirs--, it was overwhelming, but the pleasure as peaking just behind his eyelids. “Matts…!” he sobbed as moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes, squeezed shut. He didn’t want to cry. Not now, not ever. But he was vulnerable, and he knew it. He was going to drown in pleasure, drown in the knowledge that Auston still wanted him even if he was a loser. No one else might, but Auston did. Auston who he was… who he… who cared for him.

“It’s okay, Mitchy, I’ve got you,” Auston was panting as he stroked him, rocked his hips up, and now was kissing at the corner of his eyes, kissing away the hint of tears. “I’ve always got you. I’m here. Always. I’m not going anywhere.”

Mitch let out a hiccup of a gasp as his body trembled and, against his own will, bent nearly in half, and he let out a cry as he fell to pieces. Rope after rope of come striped his chest, Auston’s own chest, and the jersey that hung haphazardly behind them. Auston stroked him through his orgasm, whispering things that Mitch couldn’t decipher as he came down from his peak.

When he was sure that he could hold himself together, Mitch lifted his head and licked his lips. “I want you to come on me,” he breathed. “I want you to-- to come in me too. I’ll… hang on,” he murmured as he crawled off of Auston’s lap, and onto the floor. He positioned himself on all fours, but with his aching arms pressed to the floor, and his ass in the air. He didn’t care that it was probably making him look whorish. The only person he wanted to see him in such a vulnerable position was Auston. So it was okay.

“You want-- oh. I-- okay. Yeah.” Auston was swallowing hard, and when Mitch looked over his shoulder, hooking his chin over the bony muscle, Auston was red in the face. He didn’t look displeased. He looked… overwhelmed.

One of Auston’s big hands came up to cup at one of his ass cheeks, squeezing and massaging the sore muscle. “You’re beautiful,” he declared. Mitch flushed a little, hiding his face again.

“Thanks, I guess.” Mitch murmured.

Auston snorted softly. “You guess?”

Mitch sniffed lightly. “I mean. I’m a guy.”

“You don’t say? I thought I was jerking off a girl with a real big clit?” Auston retorted.

“Fuck off,” Mitch said with a belly laugh. He felt a little lighter, in a way that only Auston could make him feel. “Just do it.”

Auston was already jerking himself slowly, but as Mitch spread his legs a little wider and arched his back slightly, he heard his teammate draw in a shaking breath. “I am, fuck.”

“That’s the idea,” Mitch breathed.

It didn’t take long, the only sound in the locker room, the sound of Auston jerking himself off, and Mitch breathing harder at the sound of it. “Mitchy,” Auston gasped.

“C’mon, Aus. I want you to cover me in it, fill me with it… Come apart for me, babe…” Mitch was babbling a bit, but he wanted it. He really did. He felt like if he could do this for Auston, then maybe that would make up just a little bit for what he hadn’t done for him in the season. Score.

It didn’t take long from then on. Auston was shaking apart with a soft cry, and Mitch was gripping his own ass cheeks, spreading them open when he felt the first splash of come on his ass, and he could feel the hot wetness slipping into him, messy and so fucking good. He gasped, and lowered his head to the carpeted floor. He was going to have a hot carpet rash on his cheek but he didn’t care.

He felt string after string of come sliding along his lower back, his ass cheeks, and his hole, and it was hot hot hot.

When he was sure that Auston was done, he let his body unfold and he collapsed on the hot, uncomfortable carpet, the tips of his fingers brushing against the sacred crest of the maple leaf in the center of the room.

Auston folded his body to lie on the floor beside him, and they both looked ridiculous, shorts around their knees, socks to their knees. Come sticking and drying to their chests and stomachs. Auston reached for Mitch and just rested his hand on his hip for a moment.

“You going to bulk up for next season?” he asked as though they hadn’t just… done what they’d done.

Mitch stared at him. “You think I don’t fucking try to bulk up every season?”

Just as Auston was about to open his mouth to reply, the door to the locker room swung open, and Willy walked in. “Hey, guys, the media--- oh fuck. Oh, fuck, no way. No fucking way. You guys fucking suck.”

Mitch threw his arm over his face, but made no other move to protect himself. “Go away, Willy.”

“Do you have any idea how much money you cost me!?” he was becoming hysterical. “And the media is waiting for you, and right now, really? Right fucking now?”

Auston was moving to stand upright. “Wills. Right now is not the time,” Willy snorted. “You’re telling me.” “I’ll deal with the media.” “With your dick hanging out?” “Fuck you,” Auston said without heat. “No thanks, I don’t need sloppy seconds.”

Mitch sighed and lifted his hips to pull his shorts up. “Willy, do you have a problem?”

Willy blinked in surprise and glanced around to look at Mitch. “What, no? Not with… whatever the fuck is going on here, anyways. Aside from the sacrilege of doing it on the carpet in the locker room. Like at least go to the shower. Anyways, we just lost in a really shitty way. I get the need to fuck away your feelings. But one, or both, of you needs to do media availability.”

Mitch felt his shoulders relax a little. “Thanks Willy. Sorry you had to see… that.”

Willy shrugged as Auston tugged his shorts up, pulled on a shirt, and fixed his hat. “I thought it would happen in the off season. Freddie thought it would happen earlier.”

“Freddie took you for a ride. He knows Mitch gave me a blowie last week.” Auston mumbled. His cheeks were red.

Willy let out a scandalized sound, and whirled towards Mitch who shrugged. “I’m taking a shower. I’ll do media tomorrow. Thanks, Matts. See you… later?” he felt… unsure. But the look of understanding and-- and something else there-- that Auston sent him, settled the uncertainty in the pit of his stomach.

They’d lost, but now… now, he had something. Maybe something he could build on.