Adam flies in straight from Rockford to Vegas which is enough of an excuse for the team to celebrate. They really have nothing else going for them these days, which is pretty bleak, but Kirby doesn’t protest when Jonny buys him a rum and coke under the table. Jonny usually frowns at all underage debauchery, but for the past few weeks he’d been tilting between telling everyone that they’ll make playoffs and threatening to suffocate everyone in their sleep with their own pillows, so Kirby takes his drink and makes a run for it.
Jonny disappears just before Kirby finishes his drink, but Patrick is there, nursing a beer at the bar and grinning at them slyly. “Need some drinks, eh?” he teases, but flirts with the bartender and gets them a round that turns into two and then three pretty quickly. Patrick’s not drinking a lot, but he is flirting with the bartender and other patrons, that is until his phone starts to buzz consistently.
Patrick’s face gets all weird, eyes hazy, which Kirby knows from personal experience means that he’s sexting.
“Let’s go,” Patrick says abruptly, standing up so quickly that he almost knocks over his stool.
“Go?” Adam repeats. He hasn’t been paying attention to Patrick because he’s been too busy getting handsy with Kirby while watching the game.
“To the next bar,” Patrick explains hastily. “Have to head up to my room first, but I’ll buy you more drinks at the next bar.”
Kirby waggles his eyebrows, ignoring the finger Patrick shoots his way as Adam grabs his hand and follows obediently behind.
Its crowded in the casino, but Patrick is small and weaves in and out of people like a man on a mission, which Kirby guesses that he is. Adam follows behind him just as quickly and Kirby tries to keep up, even though all the alcohol is starting to hit him really hard.
“Hey,” says Adam, stopping abruptly. Kirby runs into his back, almost toppling them both. “Hey, I love you.”
“I love you too,” Kirby says as the hallway spins a little. Everything is very bright and it’s kind of hard to put one foot in front of the other. He’s supposed to be following—Adam, he’s supposed to be following Adam, who’s supposed to be following Patrick.
Kirby squints. There’s no Patrick. Maybe they weren’t supposed to be following him in the first place. “Hey, where did—”
“We should get married,” Adam declares.
“We should get married,” Adam repeats. He’s not even trying to find Patrick. He’s staring at the entrance to the Little White Chapel; the one Jonny stopped them in front of when they first arrived in Vegas and told them in his best, threatening, I-will-end-your-life voice (the one he’s been using a lot in the locker room lately) that they were not supposed to go anywhere near.
“Why would we get married?”
“Because we love each other,” Adam says, matter-of-fact, eyes a little glossy. He takes Kirby’s hand, grinning wide. “Let’s get married.”
Instead of telling Adam no because it’s a really stupid idea, Kirby says, “You didn’t even get down on one knee.”
Kirby isn’t drunk enough for this. They have to find Patrick. Patrick can buy them more drinks even though Jonny told him not to. Patrick’s the only one who can get away with not listening to Jonny. “We need—where’s Patrick?”
“Why do we need—”
“More drinks,” Kirby interrupts. “We need more drinks.”
Adam looks like he disagrees, still frowning, but he doesn’t argue when Kirby takes his hand and starts to lead him away. “You don’t want to marry me?”
Kirby’s been in love with Adam since prospect camp where they made out in a closet and then spent every minute alone together swapping spit and giving each other handys. When he thinks about his future he doesn’t always think about being a Blackhawk, but he does always think about Adam. “Not right now.”
Something passes over Adam’s face, but Kirby’s too tipsy to place his finger on what it is. Usually he’s pretty good at reading Adam; he tends to wear his heart on his very thick, very tattooed sleeve, but it’s hard to know what he’s thinking when the room keeps spinning. “Let’s find Patrick,” Adam says and starts dragging him in the opposite direction.
Finding Patrick takes so long that Kirby manages to sober up, but then Patrick buys them a round of shots, a few tequila sunrises, and then another round of shots before Seabs finds them. Seabs wrangles a beer from Patrick’s hands and then manages to get all three of them away from the bar, pushing Kirby and Adam in the direction of the elevators. “We have a game tomorrow,” he says, which is the equivalent of saying go to bed, now.
Arguing with Seabs is fruitless, especially because he’ll tell Jonny who will then hit them with his I’m not mad, just disappointed speech the next day, which somehow manages to be worse than receiving the speech from their parents.
Kirby has every intent to go straight to their room, but Adam has a different idea. As soon as they’re out of eyesight of Seabs he drags Kirby away from the elevators and straight back out to the lobby where the Little White Chapel is waiting. Kirby’s just sober enough to realize that this is a really bad idea, but too drunk to disagree when Adam slurs, “Marry me.”
“Not—not on one knee,” Kirby insists.
Adam looks down at the floor for a long minute before he looks back up at Kirby. “I go down, I won’t come up,” he says, words all mixing together, his accent getting a little thicker, but Kirby’s too distracted by go down to really notice.
“You’ll go down?” he says, trying to lift his eyebrows suggestively, but he can’t quite feel his face.
Adam manages to roll his eyes. “I’ll go down when we’re married.”
Kirby wants to argue that Adam went down on him this morning, right when he got off the plane fresh from Rockford, and they weren’t married then, but that sentence is too long for his mouth to form, so instead he says, “we have no rings,” which is the best argument he has after the fact that Adam keeps refusing to go down on one knee and ask him. In the back of his mind there are other really valid reasons for them not to get married in Vegas, but they never quite reach his mouth.
“Later,” says Adam. “We can—I want you on my arm.”
Adam thrusts his arm out in front of him, the one that’s already decorated with tattoos. “My arm. Want to put you on my arm.”
“Oh,” says Kirby because that feels a lot more permanent than marriage. “You want—”
“You always with me,” Adam interrupts, grinning, “but first, marriage.” He takes Kirby’s hand, tugging him easily through the doors.
Kirby should say no. He should call Jonny who would put a stop to this, or even Mrs. Boqvist who would definitely put a stop to this, but instead he pulls out his credit card and pays for the marriage license while Adam chooses two rings from the display the chapel has to offer. Their witnesses are the crowd assembled in the chapel waiting their turn to get married, and he just knows that his mom is going to kill him, but he says I do anyway as he holds Adam’s hands.
They’re patted on the back and given a glass of champagne each before the chapel employees shoo them away from the altar to prepare for the next round of drunk idiots.
“We’re married,” Adam says excitedly, holding Kirby’s hand while also managing to scroll through his phone and pull up Uber. Adam isn’t drinking his glass of champagne so Kirby drinks it for him, and then his too, and another glass just because the bottle is open.
By the time Adam has the Uber ordered—to where, Kirby doesn’t know, but he doesn’t know where his left foot is or his nose either, so—Kirby’s managed to drink nearly a whole bottle of champagne by himself.
“No more champagne for you,” Adam says thoughtfully.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” says Kirby and throws up on his shoes.
- - -
When Kirby wakes the next morning his head hurts, which is a given, but his left thigh hurts too, and he wasn’t expecting that. Adam has his arm swung across his hips and it takes a little maneuvering to get out from under him and discover why his inner thigh hurts so bad.
It hurts, it turns out, because he as a fucking tattoo. A giant, fucking 27 inked into his inner thigh. A 27. Twenty-fucking-seven.
He turns over, smacking Adam on his shoulder repeatedly until Adam jumps awake, arms and legs flinging this way and that with a confused, “wha?”
“Don’t ‘wha’ me!” Kirby yells, punching Adam in the shoulder again for good effect. “Look at this shit!”
To his credit, Adam does have the decency to look a little guilty before he manages to manhandle Kirby onto his back. Kirby might be taller, but Adam is sneakier and quicker. He has Kirby’s legs up before he can even tell him to stop, spread wide so he can examine the tattoo better. “I like it,” he murmurs, swiping his thumb back and forth just below the tattoo, careful not to irritate the blemished skin.
“Of course you would like it,” Kirby mumbles, still angry, but embarrassed too, face hot. He’s been on his back with his legs in the air before, but usually by now Adam’s sticking his dick in, not staring at his thighs. He feels exposed suddenly, especially when Adam kisses the skin above the tattoo. “I’m always a part of you now.”
Kirby doesn’t reply. He crosses his arms against his chest, staring up at the ceiling.
Adam doesn’t like to be ignored. He leans in, kissing from the inside of Kirby’s knee down to his thigh. Kirby takes a deep breath, goosebumps rising on his skin, gasping when Adam manages to hitch his legs up a little higher, sliding down the bed. He knows what Adam’s about to do before he does it, but it still comes as a shock when Adam’s tongue glides wet across his hole.
“Shit,” he gasps, hips lifting off the bed before Adam pushes him back down. “Shit,” he repeats when Adam licks at his hole again.
Kirby’s never—no one’s ever—“Fuck.”
Adam moans, flicking his tongue back and forth teasingly before he circles it against Kirby’s rim, playfully pushing against the muscle before pulling away, biting meanly at the fat of Kirby’s thigh, just under the tattoo.
“Adam,” Kirby breathes, grasping Adam’s hair gently, tugging.
Adam doesn’t make him beg. He smiles sheepishly, looking at Kirby under his eyelashes as he leans in, licking wetly at Kirby’s hole. It feels—it’s the weirdest thing Kirby’s ever felt in his entire life and somehow the best, too. Adam’s eating his ass and it’s wet and it’s strange and it feels so fucking weird, but he moans, cock leaking pre-come against his belly when Adam pushes his tongue in.
Adam’s tongue is inside of him and all Kirby can do is moan and try and thrust his hips up against his mouth wanting more, begging for more. “Please.”
Adam licks hungrily at his hole, moaning like a man who’s eating for the first time in days. It’s his moans that make Kirby hot and bothered, and he tugs Adam up by his hair, kissing him square on the mouth. It should be gross—Adam’s tongue was just in his ass—but Adam kisses him like his life depends on it, pushing him down into the sheets.
It feels weird when Adam pulls away to fish lube out of his bag. He’s only on the other side of the room, but the space in front of Kirby feels distressingly empty until he returns. He watches Adam pop the cap on the lube before he drops it somewhere in the sheets with a flick of his wrist. It’s only a flash, but Kirby catches a 7 on the inside of Adam’s arm.
He grabs Adam’s wrist, tugging him down closer until he can look at his arm better. There’s a 77 where a blank space used to be, dark and a little irritated still. It’s not as easily hidden as the 27 on Kirby’s inner thigh, and someone’s bound to notice it eventually. They really haven’t been secretive about their relationship; the whole team knows, and their parents too, and with the way they carry on on Instagram their fans probably know too, but at least he has a way out. With a 77 on his arm, there’s no way Adam can reasonably deny their relationship.
“This is permanent, you know,” Kirby says, tapping two fingers against the 77.
Adam only hums, dragging his fingers down Kirby’s leg and to his thigh. He sneaks a finger lower, pushing it in past the first knuckle as he says against Kirby’s mouth, “so is marriage.”
It takes Kirby a moment to comprehend his words, distracted by Adam’s mouth and the finger in his ass that Adam’s working in and out. “Oh,” he says, head spinning as pieces of the night work their way back into the crevices of his memory. “Oh, shit, Adam we didn’t—”
“We did,” Adam agrees, working a second finger in alongside the first as he tugs on Kirby’s bottom lip.
Kirby means to argue about how stupid of a fucking idea that was, but Adam pulls his fingers out and pushes back in with his cock, and all coherent thought goes out the window.
Adam bottoms out, capturing Kirby’s mouth in a kiss as he fucks in. Kirby hitches his long legs up on Adam’s back, pulling him in closer as Adam moves his head and bites at his neck, starting up a pounding rhythm that doesn’t help the headache right behind Kirby’s eyes, but his cock is big, stretching just right, hitting the right spot on every other upstroke.
Kirby reaches a hand between them, thumbing the head of his cock to the rhythm of Adam’s hips, getting lost at the feeling of Adam inside of him until his orgasm sneaks up on him and he comes all over his hand and Adam’s belly too.
Adam gasps into his mouth, hips going erratic for what feels like forever, Kirby feeling oversensitive and worn out, but he bites at Adam's shoulders and neck until Adam looses his rhythm all together and slams up in him as far as he can go, coming with a loud moan in into his ear.
Adam pulls out, flopping onto his back, arm over his eyes as he breathes.
Kirby wipes his hand on the comforter before he scratches absently at the skin just above his tattoo. It itches, but he knows better than to scratch it.
“Our moms are going to kill us.”
“Jonny’s going to kill us,” Adam corrects.
Kirby stares at the ceiling. He lifts his left hand to examine it, understandably relieved to reveal that he's not wearing a ring. Adam isn't either, which means they lost them somewhere along the line last night. "No one has to know," he tries.
"No," Adam agrees, "no one has to know," and then he turns and flops his arm over Kirby's hips and buries his head under the pillow, and that's the end of that.