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Regina Was Never Like This

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Hallsy shuffles into the kitchen just as Jordan is pouring himself a cup of coffee, because of course he does. It’s like he can fucking sense when Jordan’s made a fresh pot, Jordan thinks grumpily, though if he wanted to be charitable, he could admit that Hallsy’s always set his alarm a little after Jordan’s. Jordan doesn’t want to be charitable. He pours a cup for Hallsy anyway because he’s a fucking amazing roommate, okay?

Jordan stops short, turning around to hand Hallsy the mug, because the girl sitting with her head on their kitchen island definitely isn’t Hallsy. Which is weird: they didn’t go out last night, and he guesses that Hallsy could have booty-called someone after he went to bed, but it’s not actually like Hallsy to do that when they have practice next morning. Way to go, Hallsy, though. She’s pretty hot, even if her face is buried in her arms. What Jordan is pretty sure are Hallsy’s boxers don’t cover an awful lot of what are some crazy fit legs, and she just– she looks good.

Jordan shakes himself; he doesn’t want to be a creeper if this is actually Hallsy’s girl. He wishes that for once that he was wearing something more than ancient pajama pants. “Hey, uh, you want coffee?” he says, awkwardly, holding out the cup he’d poured for Hallsy.

She turns toward him, short blonde hair falling over her face. “Ebbyyyyyy,” she whines, and he’s trying to work out why this seems weirdly familiar, when she short-circuits his brain by following that up with, “we need to have sex.”

Jordan chokes on his coffee, spitting it across the floor, and coughing until his eyes water and his chest hurts. It’s not like either of them have never hit on girls who turned out to want to fuck both of them before, but he was not expecting it in his kitchen before practice, and he really isn’t awake enough to deal with any of this, especially now that she’s standing up and patting him on the shoulder.

He pulls away from her hand, wiping at his streaming eyes. “Uh,” he says intelligently, “maybe you should just go? I don’t know where Hallsy is, but we’ve got practice soon, and you’re being kind of weird.”

She punches him in the shoulder. It actually kind of hurts, which is totally not endearing this chick to Jordan. “Ugh, you non,” she says, “it’s ME, dickhead.”

Which, okay, Jordan meets a lot of people at bars and shit, but why do they always think he’s going to remember them? He definitely doesn’t remember telling any girls they could call him ‘Ebby’ because that’s kind of a hockey thing, and it’s not really a name he wants to hear in bed. Neither is ‘dickhead’ for that matter, which seems kind of confrontational for someone who supposedly wants to sleep with him.

He’s trying to formulate something tactful to say to her that will make her go away and not punch him more, when she punches him again, and growls, “It’s me, Taylor, you dick. Hallsy. Your best fucking friend.”

Jordan’s just really glad he put his coffee down the first time he almost choked to death, because this is seriously going to kill him. He doesn’t choke this time, but he does sputter, and rub at his eyes, hoping desperately that none of this will be true when he opens them.

It’s still true. She’s still standing there, arms crossed across her chest, which does fantastic things to her rack, though Jordan stops himself before that thought can go any further. He can kind of see it though, when he looks at her. She’s taller than Jordan, and pretty buff. Her hair is the same as Hallsy’s, though she doesn’t look like she needs a haircut the way Hallsy does, her hair just looks soft, curling messily around her face. Her jaw is more rounded, but Jordan thinks her mouth might look the same if it wasn’t so pinched and worried-looking, the way Hallsy’s almost never is. Jordan blinks, and can feel the tips of his ears going red. Fuck, she’d better be Hallsy because he’s staring stupidly at her, and he’s got to look like such a weirdo.

She rolls her eyes, and pushes her hair back off her forehead: there’s the barest hint of a scar where Hallsy took that skate blade. “I can also tell you what we had for dinner last night and exactly how embarrassingly drunk you were last weekend,” she says, “or we could just move on to fixing this shit. I would actually like to play some fucking hockey this week, okay?”

“But why are you a girl now?” Jordan says plaintively. He doesn’t think it’s an unreasonable question. He’s pretty sure he would have noticed if Hallsy had been a girl before. Hallsy’s clothes hang all wrong, his t-shirt looser in the shoulders and stretched over tits that Jordan is seriously not looking at, his boxers sit higher on more rounded hips, and there’s an awful lot of leg going on that Jordan really doesn’t remember Hallsy having quite so obviously in the mornings.

“I don’t fucking know!” Hallsy spits out, shoulders hunched, “But I’d rather not be, so do you want to help me fix it or not?”

“I don’t know how to fix it!” Jordan says.

Hallsy uncrosses her arms – his arms? This is majorly fucking with Jordan’s head – and flops back onto one of the barstools. He sighs. “We just need to have sex, okay?”

Which is not helpful at all. Jordan opens his mouths, but all that comes out are disjointed words: “But… why? …how?”

“It happened in Juniors once, okay?” Hallsy says, slamming his hands down on the island, “Henny helped me out, and it went away. I fucking need to not be a girl for tomorrow’s game, why is that so fucking hard to understand?”

Jordan thinks longingly of Regina. Tubes never turned into a girl before Jordan had had enough coffee to deal with it.

His phone beeps at him, he swears at it. “Fuck, we have to get moving, practice–”

Taylor looks back at him, unimpressed. “Yeah, practice is definitely the highest priority here,” he says, gesturing at himself.

Jordan rubs a hand against the back of his neck. “Look, I’ll tell them you have food poisoning or the flu or something and can’t come in?” he says, “We can deal with this later.”

“Ugh, fine, whatever. You’re not the one who’s going to be in shit for it, you non,” Taylor says, storming off to flop down on the couch.


Coach isn’t pleased when Jordan explains why Hallsy’s not there, but at least nearly everyone loses interest when he tells them that Hallsy was feverish and puking, though he suspects Hallsy’s getting some furious texts anyway.

He tries to put it out of his mind during the drills, and focus on the ice, the angle of his stick, the feeling of the passes. He thinks he does okay, though Renney does ask him if he’s sure he’s not going to come down with whatever Hallsy has, which stutters his mind to a halt before he remembers that Renney definitely means the flu, and he awkwardly assures them that he’s fine.

Jordan maybe spends a little longer than usual making sure he’s going through his post-practice workout routine as perfectly as possible, but he’s still surprised when he’s one of the last to leave. He tells himself that he’s not avoiding home, he’s just taking training seriously. He can’t, however, quite squash the flicker of hope that somehow everything will be fixed by the time he gets home– Hallsy will be back to normal, and they can just never talk about it again.

Neither is he avoiding home when he makes a detour to get takeout. He prefers this place, is all, and, actually, providing lunch makes him an awesome roommate.


“Yo, Hallsy!” Jordan shouts, trying to take off his boots without dropping the takeout bags, “I brought lunch!”

“In here!” Hallsy responds, and Jordan’s heart sinks because it’s still the wrong voice, just a shade too high, and clearer, like grit’s been cleaned out of it. It hadn’t seemed that implausible; Hallsy had become a girl without any warning, maybe the process of unbecoming would be equally inexplicable.

Hallsy is still sacked out on the couch watching tv. He hasn’t moved, is still wearing the same ill-fitting t-shirt and boxers. Jordan drops a bag of takeout on his stomach and dodges as Hallsy punches out at him. “Dick,” Hallsy mutters, opening the cartons.

Jordan keeps his eyes on the tv as they eat. He’s pretty sure Hallsy’s more upset than he let on earlier, he’s rewatching his DVRed episodes of Revenge which he only does when he wants something to feel smug about. Jordan’s not super into it, but he doesn’t care that much, and it does distract him from his desire to sneak sidelong glances at Hallsy. It’s weird. He knows Hallsy so well, and now Hallsy looks so different, and Jordan doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

There’s an awkward pause when they finish eating, and dump the cartons on the coffee table. Hallsy still seems to be focused on the tv, and Jordan doesn’t know what to say about any of it. It’s a relief when Hallsy lets out a long sigh and says, “So, yeah, we really should fix this, man, if that’s cool?” It’s also terrifying.

Jordan turns to look at him; Hallsy has his head tipped back on the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. “I still don’t understand…” Jordan says, trailing off helplessly.

“Neither do I,” Hallsy replies, shrugging without looking at Jordan, “but, like, when it happened in Windsor, Elly’d heard about it happening to someone else, and that maybe sex could fix it, so Henny got me off and I totally changed back. So, y’know, I was kinda hoping that it would work again? And it would be way, way easier if it was you, man, I don’t wanna pick some dude in a bar and have him tell the media and shit if I turn back right there.”

“I’m pretty sure the media wouldn’t believe it,” Jordan says, like that’s the important thing here.

Hallsy huffs a laugh at the ceiling. “Maybe, but y’know, figured I’d ask you first. ‘Cause you’re here and won’t get weird. Dude, if you’re not down, it’s cool, I can find someone else. Gags isn’t dating anyone right now, is he?”

“No, uh, I mean, I’m not saying no,” Jordan says, “but did you try…” He gestures, realises that gesturing ‘jerking off’ isn’t really applicable at the moment, but stops, hand in the air, when he realises that he doesn’t know what the equivalent gesture would be for girls anyway.

Now Hallsy’s actually laughing, which is more of a relief than it should be, but he’s turned back toward Jordan, and he looks a lot more like himself again, tits or no tits. “Shit, man, what do you think I’ve been doing all morning?” Hallsy says, “I definitely tried. That for sure does not work.”

Jordan can only gape at Taylor like someone sucker-punched him. Fuck, he can picture that, looking at Taylor now, the way he hasn’t let himself this whole time, and the image of Taylor, this Taylor, head thrown back, face flushed, hands in his pants, is doing some fantastic things to his dick. He can feel arousal coiled low in his gut.

Taylor grins at him. “Seriously, man, did you think I’d pass this up? I mean, look at me, girl-me has great tits, don’t lie.” He cups his tits together, and Jordan has to agree, throat dry, that those are in fact great tits.

He swallows, and says, “So, you still want to do this?”, feeling pretty goddamn proud of himself for getting any words out at all in the face of Taylor jiggling his tits thoughtfully.

“Yeah, man,” Taylor says, “awesome as my tits are, I want to not have them tomorrow so I can actually play.”

“Fair enough,” Jordan says, “so, um…” He leans in, stopping right before he actually kisses Taylor.

“Not actually a girl,” Taylor says against Jordan’s lips before fisting a hand in Jordan’s shirt and pulling him in for a kiss.

If Jordan had thought about it, which he hasn’t, he would have guessed that Taylor kissed like this. It’s enthusiastic, a little sloppy, all tongue and teeth. Taylor licks into Jordan’s mouth, sucks on his tongue, nips at his lips. Jordan thinks he makes a possibly embarrassing noise when they break apart, but he can’t really tell over the sound of both of them panting.

“You kind of are a girl now though,” he says, when he gets his breath back, and, when Taylor glares at him, “ok, so what do you--?”

“Just fucking touch me,” Taylor says hoarsely, “I got myself off like four times while you were at practice, I am good for foreplay, seriously.”

It’s basically the hottest thing Jordan’s ever heard. His throat works, but it feels like he has totally lost all ability to make words.

Taylor grins. “I miss my dick, man, but multiple orgasms are pretty excellent.” He pulls Jordan in for another kiss, and Jordan manages to unclench his fingers from the couch cushion long enough to slip them into Taylor’s waistband. Taylor moans into Jordan’s mouth almost at once, and Jordan nearly does the same because Taylor is fucking soaked, Jordan’s fingers slipping over his slick folds.

He needs to be closer, do something, and, fuck it, he wants to be good, okay? It would be totally pathetic to bone his best friend and be shitty in bed, plus Hallsy totally said that Henny got him off and Jordan can definitely do better than Adam Henrique. He slides to his knees. Taylor makes a protesting noise when Jordan moves his hand, but swallows it when he sees where Jordan is.

“You sure, man?” Taylor says, but his knees are falling apart, and his ankle curls around Jordan’s back to draw him closer.

“Unless you don’t-?” Jordan says, smoothing his hands along Taylor’s thighs, which are definitely hairier than he’s used to. He has the best fucking view here, Taylor’s kind of leaning forward to talk to him, the curve of his breasts filling out his shirt unexpectedly; his nipples look ridiculously hard under the thin fabric.

“God, yes, just fucking get in there,” Taylor says in a rush, “you fucking tease, jesus.”

Jordan pushes Taylor’s thighs further apart, leans in. Taylor’s boxers are visibly soaked, and Jordan doesn’t know how he missed that Taylor spent the whole damn morning fucking himself because he can smell sex all around him now. He could stay there forever, just breathing, but he’s pretty sure Taylor would murder him. He slides Taylor’s boxers off as he lifts his hips. Jordan’s pretty sure they’re still hooked around one of Taylor’s ankles in the end, but he doesn’t care because he can just lean in, nose in Taylor’s curls, sopping wet with slick, and lap at him, long strokes across his cunt that make Taylor buck up against him, pelvis grinding into Jordan’s face.

Which is uncomfortable, as much as he loves this, so Jordan puts an arm across Taylor’s hips, still narrow, though less sharp edged, and holds him down, runs just the tip of his tongue along Taylor’s folds until Taylor is struggling against his hold, simultaneously swearing at him and pulling Jordan closer with a knee over his shoulders.

“Fuck, get on with-” Taylor groans, the end of the sentence swallowed up in a throaty moan as Jordan starts to suck on his clit. Jordan’s face is wet, and he can feel Taylor’s thighs trembling on either side of his head. He has to press the heel of his hand against his dick for a second; he’s so fucking turned on that it almost hurts.

When Taylor keens and tenses under Jordan’s hands, hips pushing desperately against Jordan’s tongue, it’s a surprise: that seems too fast. He likes to think he does all right, but not usually that quickly.

Jordan lifts his head to look at Taylor. He’s still panting, head thrown back, and teeth chewing his swollen lower lip into something even more obscene than it usually is. It’s impossibly, ludicrously hot, and Jordan is stung by the knowledge that he really didn’t do enough to contribute to that, Taylor’s still keyed up after his whole fucking morning of getting off. Jordan licks his lips, still slick from Taylor’s cunt, can’t help the noise he makes in the back of his throat at the mental images of Taylor’s hands working on himself, cunt getting wetter and wetter.

Jordan just wants to see if he can do that all on his own, vaguely indignant about the – if he’s going to be honest – completely in-his-own-head slur on his abilities. Whatever. It’s not like he didn’t know he was this competitive.

He lowers his head again, tongue tracing tiny circles on Taylor’s clit, moves the hand not holding Taylor’s hips down to run, feather-light, against his slit, and ignores the mental fist-pump he can’t help when Taylor lets out a shivery moan and Jordan can feel his cunt flexing against Jordan’s fingertips.

He teases Taylor for a while, alternating flicks of his tongue with long sweeps at Taylor’s clit, stroking gently at his opening before Taylor starts to swear at him, words garbled, voice absolutely wrecked. Jordan smirks into Taylor’s curls, licks more firmly; Taylor’s hips buck unexpectedly and Jordan’s fingers slide in smoothly, wrenching a “yes’ that sounds almost like a sob from Taylor’s throat.

Jordan goes with it, fucking up into Taylor with two fingers, alternating thrusts with sucks to his clit. Taylor moans raggedly, breath hitching. He digs his heels into Jordan’s back hard enough to hurt – Taylor’s still fucking heavy – hisses, “harder, you non,” when Jordan pinches his hip in retaliation.

Jordan speeds up his hand and the counterpoint of his tongue. His jaw is starting to cramp a little, but he thinks he could stay here forever, buried in the smell, the taste. Taylor throws his head back, hips struggling against Jordan’s arm, and whines low in his throat in a way that goes right to Jordan’s dick and makes him feel light-headed.

He can tell this time when Taylor’s getting close, his thighs twitching, noises getting more and more high-pitched. When he comes, it’s nearly silent, Taylor’s whole body tensed around Jordan, mouth open on an exhalation too high to hear.

Jordan keeps twisting his fingers, slower now, presses the flat of his tongue to Taylor’s clit. Taylor can’t stop shaking, cunt spasming around Jordan’s fingers, hand tightening in his hair. He groans low and slow, more familiar than Jordan was expecting in his new higher voice, and tugs Jordan away from him by the hair. Jordan tilts his head back, looking up at Taylor, fingers still resting shallowly in his cunt. He licks his lips absently, and Taylor huffs out a breath, eyes zeroed in on the motion of Jordan’s tongue.

Jordan only has a moment to be intensely smug before he’s distracted by the sudden sharp pain of his zipper where it’s been pressing against his dick. His eyes fall shut as he unzips himself; it’s such a fucking relief.

They snap open when Taylor says, hand still in Jordan’s hair, “So, you should fuck me now.”

“…condom?” Jordan croaks. He doesn’t know if you can get dudes turned into girls pregnant, but he’s pretty sure if he knocks Taylor up, the entire city of Edmonton, and probably also his mom will conspire to murder him.

Taylor roots around in the couch, and triumphantly pulls a strip of them out from under a cushion.

“Have you been fucking girls in here?” Jordan asks, “Not cool, we agreed that the couch was too perfect for booty calls.”

“Dude, no, roommate pacts are sacred,” Taylor says seriously, “but, like, I planned this. We’re not fucking this up, I am going to be a guy again by tomorrow. I fucked Henny last time, and it worked, so we’re doing it now.” He nods firmly, and Jordan can’t really argue with his logic.

He takes the condoms from Taylor, but gets distracted when Taylor strips off his shirt. His breasts aren’t huge or anything, but breasts are always awesome and his nipples look really hard and Jordan just wants to touch them desperately.

He pushes Taylor sideways onto the couch and climbs up between his legs, managing to shuck his jeans in the process. Taylor looks indulgent when Jordan goes for his tits, but tenses, back arching, when Jordan mouths at their curves, flicks his tongue over one nipple, scrapes a thumbnail over the other. Jordan knows he’s rutting against the crease of Taylor’s hip; he can’t stop. Taylor’s wetness is soaking into his boxers, which is basically the hottest thing in the history of ever.

Jordan rests his head on Taylor’s collarbones and pants helplessly when Taylor actually gets a hand around his dick. He’s been waiting so fucking long, and god, it was fucking hot making Taylor come twice, but he is achingly hard, and Taylor’s hand is warm and firm around him, if agonizingly slow.

“Condommmm,” Taylor hums in Jordan’s ear, because he’s a dick like that. Jordan thinks he dropped it somewhere, but he can’t focus long enough to say anything about that, hips rolling with every too-slow stroke of Taylor’s hand.

It’s a physical ache when Taylor removes his hand and starts fishing around in the couch again, but at least Jordan can get himself together enough to actually get all the way naked. He takes the condom Taylor hands him, which turns out to have been a mistake as it leaves Taylor’s hands free to idly play with his own tits, cupping them, pinching his nipples. Jordan’s dick twitches at the sight and he has to grip his cock tightly when he rolls the condom on, kneeling between Taylor’s legs.

Taylor rolls his hips towards him, thighs rubbing against Jordan’s. “C’mon,” he purrs. His voice hitches as Jordan spreads his cunt with one hand, lips red and swollen, hips twitching with every touch of Jordan’s hand on over-sensitive flesh. He makes breathy noises every time Jordan’s hand slips because Taylor is still so impossibly slick, and exhales in a whine when Jordan finally pushes into hot, wet tightness.

Jordan wants to stop, collect himself, maybe try not to come at once, but Taylor is rolling his hips into Jordan, and it all feels so fucking amazing.

They’re pressed so close together in the small space of the couch, Taylor’s thighs tight around Jordan, Taylor’s heels digging into his ass as Taylor moans with every thrust. Jordan pants against Taylor’s neck, and Taylor’s nails rake across his back when Jordan gets a hand to his clit again.

Taylor comes with a slow exhale, groaning in the back of his throat, his legs loosening from around Jordan. His hips are still urging Jordan on though, and Jordan keeps going, thrusts increasingly ragged, so fucking desperate for this.

Jordan tries not to collapse on Taylor when he comes, though he thinks he makes a stupid face from the way Taylor is grinning back at him when he opens his eyes. He feels shaky, sparks still fizzing under his skin, and it’s easy to go with it when Taylor manhandles him into lying down, does something with the condom that Jordan can’t bring himself to care about yet, and snuggles into him, pinning him thoroughly to the couch.

Jordan means to ask if the cuddling is supposed to be part of the cure or what, but the words don’t come before sleep overtakes them.


Jordan opens his eyes into the fluff of Taylor’s hair. They’ve gotten twisted around somehow, his face smushed into the back of Taylor’s neck, Taylor’s ankles hooked in his. He wrinkles his nose, trying to get the hair out of his face, but eventually has to move his arm from around Taylor’s waist and brush it all out of his eyes.

Taylor stirs when Jordan moves his arm, and squints over his shoulder. Jordan’s stomach sinks. Taylor looks the same as he did when they fell asleep, the curve of his cheek and the sleepy flutter of his eyelashes soft and pretty. Jordan doesn’t know what they can do now; Taylor had seemed so completely sure that his solution was guaranteed to work.

He swears faintly into Taylor’s hair, and Taylor makes a confused noise. He’s only half-awake, Jordan can tell that much, and Jordan’s wondering how to break the news, when Taylor’s eyes snap all the way open, and he shrieks with delight.

He also falls off the couch, which is how Jordan can tell that Taylor is very much back to normal, all bits present and accounted for.

He looks back at Taylor’s face, confused. It’s like an optical illusion, sort of, because it’s definitely his Taylor, dude-Taylor, but he can kind of see girl-Taylor in his face, like if he squinted Taylor would switch back and forth in front of his eyes. It’s the shape of his eyes, all crinkled in joy as he smiles, and his lips still kiss-swollen and red. There’s more of his jaw, but it’s sort of the same.

It’s still…it’s still very attractive, and Jordan has no idea whether that’s the echoes he’s still seeing, or Taylor now, or sheer relief at having his friend back.

Taylor leans up from where he’s sprawled on the floor to press a smacking kiss against Jordan’s forehead. “Thanks, Ebby,” he says cheerfully. “I owe you one.” While Jordan’s still frozen, uncertain how he feels about any of this, Taylor gets to his feet and goes off in the direction of his room, ruffling a hand through Jordan’s hair on his way out.


It’s not like it matters. Taylor doesn’t seem to think anything’s changed. Jordan guesses it hasn’t, not really. It’s a little weird at morning skate the next day when Taylor’s getting lectured for skipping practice. Jordan feels like he should defend him because he had a really good reason, but he has absolutely no idea what he could possibly say. He settles for making a sympathetic face and escaping before Coach can decide that he should be doing laps too.


He has a stupid moment, once, a few days later, when he comes into the living room and sees Taylor sacked out on the couch, his seat reclined all the way. He’s drooling. It’s nothing like what he looked like when he came. Jordan doesn’t even know why it popped into his head. He wasn’t exactly relaxed then. Wrung-out, maybe, but excited, not this boneless sprawl of long limbs, Taylor’s hands twitching gently in his sleep.

Jordan can’t remember why he came into the living room. He stands there for a moment, looking at nothing in particular, and wanders off to have his own nap.


Taylor’s ass is the same, Jordan thinks absently, when Taylor bends over in the weight room. He’d had a great ass as a girl, but it’s still the same, so possibly he just has a great ass in general. Something like that. It’s not important.

Jordan just understands the impulse a little better now when the girl Hallsy picks up after a game gropes him on their way out of the bar. Hallsy laughs, startled, and bends down to kiss her delightedly, strong hands twisted in her hair, hers still in his back pocket.

If Hallsy’s expression, smug and sex-dumb, lips chewed to hell, when he gets back later that night, is familiar to Jordan, it’s only because he’s seen him pick up a million times.

Jordan picks up all the time, it’s fine, he’s not missing anything. He’d have occasional thoughts about any hookup that good, really. If it had been someone else, he’d have asked for her number, maybe.

It’s moot, anyway. Taylor’s still around, obviously, but he’s not what Jordan actually wants. He’s clearly just dwelling because it was so weird.

Taylor’s not being weird at all though, so Jordan’s pretty sure that he’s the one being dumb about the situation. Taylor’s just like normal at the rink and at home, flopping all over Jordan on the couch, leaning into his space to see if he’s watching anything good on the plane.

Jordan should probably do the same. He does try. He hugs Taylor back when he’s celebrating some dumb high score, and even falls asleep on him once on the couch when moving out of his orbit seemed like too much effort. He’s not going to let this mess with anything. If there was a this, which there isn’t.


Jordan is being so normal – he knows he is, because when he was idly looking at dudes at the bar, just to check, all he noticed was that they don't really have hockey ass – that he has absolutely no idea what to say when Taylor downs his water, leans against the kitchen counter, and says, "so, uh, dudes, eh?" with a toothy smile.

“What?” he croaks.

“You know, dudes.” Taylor says. “Are you into it?”

Honestly, as far as Taylor's lines go, Jordan's heard worse. He still doesn't know what the fuck to say to it. Taylor looks far too relaxed as he smiles encouragingly and takes a step closer. Jordan feels frozen in place, watching Taylor's smile, and the movement of his arms as they reach out.

Taylor gets himself another glass of water and chugs it over the sink. His throat bobs, and he seems unconcerned about being inches from Jordan, close enough to brush against each other. Or do something else. Jordan swallows. Taylor's lips are wet when he smiles at him.

"Um, what? Maybe?" Jordan says in a rush. He pauses. “Ah. You…?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Taylor says, shrugging, like this is no big deal. Repeat hookups aren’t, Jordan reminds himself. He’s done that. Easily.

He leans back against the counter. Casually, he hopes. “Okay,” he says, and smiles.

"Cool, good to know," Taylor says easily, and pats Jordan's hip as he leaves the room.

That’s– more subtle than Taylor usually gets. So much more subtle that Jordan is honestly not sure what’s going on. Taylor’s bedroom door clicks shut. Really not sure what’s going on.

Taylor's sometimes kind of weird when he's drunk. Maybe that's what's happening. Jordan's going to wait and see. It doesn't really matter. It was just an idea.


He refuses to dwell the next day. Drunk weird doesn't count, everyone knows that. Taylor's a dick at breakfast, but in a normal way, and Jordan isn't that much fun before he's had coffee either. They sulk at each other in dehydrated silence.

There's nothing to dwell on, and therefore Jordan doesn't. It's the same as before, when he also wasn't thinking about stupid things either. Taylor beams genially at Jordan in bars, keeps shoving him during NHL12, and slaps him on the back when they're playing two-touch before games. It's good.


Taylor's also not talking this time, but he's looking, Jordan thinks. Or something.

He keeps flipping through channels, too bored to stay on anything for more than a moment, but too stubborn to give up the remote. Taylor tackles him. It's not much of a tackle, not from six inches away, and they topple sideways on the couch, Taylor half on top of Jordan. Jordan elbows him away easily, and hooks his arm around Taylor's neck to drag him in again.

Taylor mumbles abuse into Jordan's chest as he administers noogies. "Fucker," he says decisively, lifting his head when Jordan releases him, hair sticking up all over the place, one side of his face pink and flushed. Jordan kisses him.

He wasn't expecting to do that.

Taylor should have been, maybe. It was his fault, he'd suggested it the first time, even if he'd done it in a weird way. He doesn't seem to, however, making a shocked noise into Jordan's mouth, Jordan staring awkwardly into his startled eyes. It's not even a long kiss, but Jordan was kind of going for it so it's a real one, open mouths, and Jordan’s teeth grazing the edge of Taylor’s lip.

Taylor swats at Jordan's side when they break apart. "Fucker," he says again, "you mean we could have been making out all this time?"

Jordan still doesn't know what he means because this was Taylor's idea and he was the one who bailed last time, but Taylor is kissing him again, hands firm on Jordan's jaw, tongue an insistent flicker against Jordan's lips, and they can probably argue the point later. At length.

Right now Taylor’s hands are sliding warm down his back, tugging him upright, pulling him closer. They’re still tangled together from Taylor’s original tackle and the subsequent wrestling match; Jordan inhales sharply when Taylor’s hips nudge up against him, and Taylor makes a delighted sound into his mouth.

He’s still not sure exactly what he wants and what they’re doing, but Taylor seems to have some idea, and Jordan can definitely deal with what’s probably Taylor’s dick against his thigh if Taylor’s going to keep doing that with his hands.

“Seriously, you couldn’t have said you were up for this this earlier?” Taylor says with a gasp as Jordan gropes his ass, and takes Jordan’s retaliatory pinch with a grin.