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Sid’s hip adductors ache as he hauls himself to his hotel room. 

He kneads his thigh in the elevator, working his thumb into the muscle and drifting inwards after he’s glanced up to check that there are no cameras watching from the corners. He grazes the edge of the bruise Geno left on him. It’s still tender enough to hurt. 

He pauses, his thumb teetering on the edge of it, before he slips lower and presses directly on the still-mottled skin through the fabric. 

The memory of Geno’s mouth, of the wet press of his tongue and the blunt, painful edges of his teeth, has Sid straightening up. He shakes out his hand and slips it into the pocket of his dress pants. 

He can be good. He can wait until he’s in his room, for sure.

The game had been a slog—a lifeless effort that was lost before the third period even began. The team was sapped without Geno; Sid hadn’t even managed an assist. After the final buzzer, Rusty had done his part by extending an invitation to drink. The younger guys have been passing around the chance to play host in their hotel rooms, desperate to foster some sense of normalcy during the season. The team was willing to look the other way if a few guys and a few bottles of wine disappeared behind a door on the road.

It had been fun in a teasing, naughty way in the beginning. It reminded Sid of sneaking around Shattuck after curfew, giggling with Ryan as they ducked out of their dorm through a back stairway, or drunkenly stumbling back home to the Lemieux house during his rookie year. It feels good to see all the guys squirreling away in Rusty’s room, or Dumo’s, or even Geno’s on a memorable night in D.C. so they can drink and talk and imagine, just for a moment, that things are normal again. 

In D.C. Geno had tugged Sid onto the bed, both of them leaning against the headboard and passing a bottle of red Port back and forth. Sid had almost waved him off, but Geno had tilted his head and offered Sid a small, secret smile, and Sid was done for. The sugar raced through his system in an excited zip that would make him feel like garbage the next morning, but it wasn’t enough to stop him, not when he could lean back, his shoulder tucked against Geno’s bicep, and laugh as Tans wildly gestured his way through a story from college, a mostly-empty bottle of Merlot sloshing around in one of his fists. 

Sid had turned Rusty down tonight. He wasn’t the only one; Kappy was so banged up that he was ready to drop on the spot. When Rusty asked Dumo if he wanted in, a soft, private expression had warmed Dumo’s face. It made Sid pause and watch as Dumo turned Rusty down. He had a call planned with his wife; apparently his son wasn’t enthusiastic about bedtime without getting a glimpse of Dumo’s face first. 

Jake had stopped by the hotel’s bar to forage for wine on his way in from the bus, so Sid doesn’t feel too bad about leaving the younger, newer guys to fend for themselves. He can’t keep pace with them anymore, not if he wants to feel half-human at practice. Even if it makes him wince that Jake isn’t truly one of the younger guys anymore, he knows Jake and Rusty will have everyone in hand.

In his room, Sid tugs off his mask and then his gameday suit piece-by-piece, enjoying the ritual of hanging it up. He smooths down the lapel and dips his fingers into the fabric, feeling the body-warm burgundy lining on the inside.

Geno had grinned at him when this suit came in for the season. Geno had been lounging on Sid’s couch, flicking through the TV stations too fast for Sid to even catch what was happening on any of them, when the delivery had arrived. Unsurprisingly, Geno had taken it upon himself to ruffle through the new pieces and offer commentary—most of it prodding and mean in the way that made Sid’s belly fizzle with pleasure.

Geno had actually smiled when he got to this suit, though. He’d tugged open the jacket, scraping his short fingernails over the carmine-dark silk inside, and turned to raise his eyebrows at Sid.

“They do it wrong? Or did you choose?” he’d asked, his voice quiet in delight.

“Daphnée thought I should branch out,” Sid lied. Daphnée had taken a full half-hour to respond to him instead of her usual zippy ten minutes when he’d texted her about it.

“You pay her extra,” Geno had said, his eyes crinkling into happy crescent moons. The crow’s feet at their corners made Sid’s heart tighten with a decade-old wound that he had been picking at for years, first with scared fingers and then with fond touches. The tenderness of it felt good and comforting, only eclipsed by the feeling of Geno reaching for Sid’s waist and hooking his fingers into the loose hem of Sid’s shirt. 

“Pretty,” Geno had hummed as he reeled Sid in for a kiss. 

Kissing Geno is a novelty, even four months in. Sid hopes it feels that way forever, that every time Geno and his elegant hands grasp at Sid, it’ll make Sid’s heart sputter like an old engine. He’d thought it might temper with time, the electrifying feeling of having Geno against him, on him, in him, but it swelled inside him instead. It had built for so long, half a lifetime of sideways glances and half-formed thoughts before the tension snapped and broke in the hockey bubble—a single kiss in Toronto, ill-advised and the best thing Sid’s ever felt. 

They had been bounced from playoffs pathetically and too quickly, but Sid flew back to Halifax knowing that Geno would be waiting for him in Pittsburgh. They’d agreed on spending a few months away from each other just to think and decide if they were going to go ahead with it. There was risk and danger and a sharp shot of fear through the whole thing, but there had been no doubt in Sid’s mind. With the way Geno watched him walk back to his car in the Penguins’ parking garage, Sid knew he had him. He had Geno, finally, and he wasn’t letting go.

The emptiness of his hotel room is unsettling, a new feeling that Sid ponders as he strips off his dress shirt. Sid is used to cramped spaces: his childhood bedroom, the close quarters of the Shattuck dorms, the tiny room he’d been tucked away in while playing for Rimouski. When he got his own place, he’d done his best to fill the walls with photos and art, anything that would hem him in and make him feel coated in home. He’d had his parents scouring art festivals up in Halifax just to find pieces that fit right.

He’s not sure where Geno’s big plastic shark is going to go, but the thought of arguing over its placement makes him smile. Geno’s got it strung up front and center in his foyer at the moment, and Sid is already looking forward to what he’s going to have to barter in order to put it further back in the house. 

In just his boxers and a ragged old t-shirt, without Geno to crowd him and drag him into his embrace, the hotel room feels cold. Geno has that effect on rooms; he fills them up easily when he’s comfortable, his voice loud and booming in the locker room, or soft and tender in the blackout dark of Sid’s bedroom. It hadn’t been hard to sneak into Geno’s room on the road, not once all the other guys were furtively ducking in and out of doors with wine or beer in hand. 

He doesn’t think they’ve escaped entirely without notice—he’s caught Tanger’s eyes on them once or twice, with a happy, strange little smile on his lips—but for the younger guys, it’s normal enough to see them together. It’s just what Sid and Geno do. They’re a paired unit, one after the other. 

With Geno injured back in Pittsburgh, grumpily laid up on his couch looking like a sodden cat, Sid is alone in New Jersey.

Luckily Sid’s imagination is sharp, whetted over years of practice and fed by drunken conversations around bar tables and clandestine glances in the locker room.

The bed’s sheets are cool and crisp, familiar from a decade of hunkering down in hotel rooms. They’re nothing like the smooth sheets Geno uses, or Sid’s flannel sheets he hasn’t yet changed off his bed for Spring, but Sid doesn’t need his sheets for this. It’s a well-worn fantasy by this point, the idea of Geno ducking into Sid’s hotel room after a loss, seeking comfort and a warm body that Sid is more than willing to provide.

Now Sid has gotten to experience it firsthand, and the memory lights the wick inside his stomach so quickly. Their losses to Philly in the beginning of the season had weighed heavily on them both, and the sensitive, inflamed newness of their relationship meant that Sid had been deadly serious as he pulled Geno down into the sheets. Sid had made Geno come twice that night in an exhilarating rush, even as Geno groaned and pushed him away and complained about being too old for it.

They weren’t too old for it, for any of it. Not yet. They had so much life left in them.

Geno had prepared so fastidiously for their trip to Philly; he’d bought Sid’s favorite type of lube in a travel-sized container, ordered ahead for dinner to be delivered to their room.

Geno had packed his preferred brand of condoms, too.

Sid had discovered early on that his style of sexual negotiation was less about laying out his likes against someone else’s and seeing what overlapped, and more about Sid clamoring for whatever he could be given. It had started with furtive handjobs in Rimouski, with other guys who were eager and hard up for it and willing to deal with Sid’s maleness by virtue of his quick hands and big lips. 

That had progressed to Sid getting down on his knees faster than he’d admit to good company. And, in his defense, it made him very, very good at it. Geno certainly wasn’t complaining. 

Sid turns off the bedside light, and he considers reaching for his phone before he leaves it on the nightstand. His hand comes to rest on his torso instead, his thumb petting over the fabric of his shirt in the way that Geno fidgets with things: his clothes, his necklaces, Sid.

Sid slides his fingers over to his nipple and lets out a breath of air. Geno touches him like this, is interested in parts of Sid's body that Sid had never paid much attention to. Sid rolls his head back, exposing his neck as if Geno could mouth at it. Geno lazily hunts gratification instead of chasing it, so willing to luxuriate over the smallest things until he's plumbed every last drop of pleasure.

He'd given Sid his newest bruise like that, three fingers pressed deep into Sid's ass. His other arm had been a solid bar across Sid's hips, pinning them down as he teased at Sid's swollen prostate. Sid had been oversensitive, sloppy and loose from how hard Geno had fucked him, left hanging brutally on the edge of orgasm when Geno had come. 

Sid hadn’t been able to feel it inside him, but he’d known it was happening when Geno pressed Sid's chest into the mattress and held his hips remorselessly still. It was obvious in the crushing grip of Geno’s fingers, in the way his belly shook with his gasps until he finished.

Sid had moaned, pushing back into it, desperate and needing it, but Geno had pulled out, leaving Sid empty and gaping while he stripped the condom off.

Then he had reached around Sid, gripped his chin, and pressed his lips to Sid's ear.

"I'm make you come just on fingers," he had promised, voice dark and so pleased, and Sid had flipped over onto his back without a moment of hesitation. 

Geno never lies to Sid, and Sid had gasped and thrashed, fisting his hands in Geno's soft sheets as Geno's fingers sought out his prostate in deep, searching thrusts. Geno’s lips dragged over his hipbones, his thighs, his balls, pressing filthy words into his skin. It was like this was as good for Geno as fucking Sid, like Geno couldn't get enough of it. Geno steadfastly ignored Sid's pink, aching dick, sliding three fingers into Sid's ass so quickly that it made lube dribble out around his knuckles in a fat gob.

"Oh shit," Sid had gasped, and Geno's teeth and tongue dug into his skin.

Sid doesn't have Geno's appreciation for his body like this; he uses it to play hockey and he uses it to get himself off. The details of it aren't so important unless he’s training or until Geno's the one taking Sid apart in the sheets, so Sid's hand darts down quickly to the bruise. He jabs his fingers in hard, rough enough that he hisses and his legs slide open. It's a matter of seconds before he plunges his fingers down beneath the waistband of his boxers.

Geno gets him so right. He's heartbreakingly attentive in bed, always watching Sid's face, eager to see what he can do to Sid. He takes every victory like a playoff win, like another chip he can dangle in front of Sid as a reward. The day after he found out Sid liked giving head almost more than receiving it, he'd pressed up close to Sid on the stationary bikes and told him that if he won the keep-away game at practice, he could suck Geno's cock. It was teasing and fun and Geno's mischievous smile had been the same one he'd used at twenty-two to get Sid to answer media questions on his behalf.

Sid wraps his fingers around his dick and lets out a soft sound. He's never been loud, conditioned from years of thin billet walls and minding the Lemieux family's innocent ears. Geno had taken it as a personal challenge, crowding Sid in and whispering the dirtiest shit to him like it was a game, panting eagerly into Sid's neck as Sid shook apart. 

Sid's noisier with the next stroke of his hand, trying to be good for Geno even like this, even here. The day he'd won the keep-away game, Sid had sucked Geno's cock in his mudroom, unwilling to wait any longer as Geno moaned and begged Sid to hold on, to let him get to the bedroom. Spit had slicked the corners of Sid's mouth, and then his chin, and just as Geno's balls tightened in Sid's grasp, Sid had pulled his mouth off of Geno’s cock and closed his eyes.

Geno came onto Sid’s face in hot spurts, the cum thick and bitter. Sid opened his mouth, letting some of it drip off of his swollen lips and onto his tongue. His own trapped cock ached in his sweatpants. He took in deep breaths, taking in the taste and warmth of it. 

A wounded sound tearing out of Geno's throat finally spurred Sid to wipe at his eyes and open them. Geno leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, staring down at Sid with wide eyes and slack lips. Once he'd recovered himself enough to reach a hand up and brush careful, wondrous fingers over Sid's cheekbone, Sid had jolted his head to the side, dragging Geno's fingers through his cum before sucking them into his mouth.

The salty taste and the wet stickiness was exactly what drove Sid to his knees back in juniors. It's the heat, the tacky smear it leaves on his skin, the way guys look at him when he does it.

Sid rocks his hips into the movement of his hand, curving his fingers around himself with just the right amount of pressure. It's teasing in the way Geno does it, coaxing sounds out of Sid's mouth until Geno is satisfied. His other hand rubs over the head of his cock, fingertips brushing along the sensitive underside before he gathers the wetness at the tip and dives his hand down.

He'd forgotten the lube, tucked away in Geno's luggage. It's careless of him in a way that makes him feel wild. He expected Geno to get it, to take care of him. Geno has it covered. He's often late to practice, he always forgets when he needs to be at team dinners, but when it comes to fucking Sid, he covers all of his bases.

Sid grips his cock as he teases at his hole. It’s too tight and too dry to take anything. He wants it wet. He wants it soaking. Geno had to learn to start throwing down towels in hotels because Sid always begged for more and more lube, until his ass and thighs and cock were slicked with it.

The memory of the wet, filthy sounds it makes when Geno fucks him has Sid’s hips jerking up into his hold. 

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself before he sets his teeth into his lip. 

The last time he’d done that, Geno had leaned down and teased Sid’s lip out from between his teeth with his tongue, sucking on it gently and sweetly once he’d claimed it for himself. 

“Geno,” Sid whimpers, and it’s pathetic and dirty-sounding and he slips just the tip of his finger into himself, enough to tease at what he really wants.

He wishes Geno were here with him, whole and uninjured and healthy, pinning Sid down to the hotel sheets and slicking him up and then crooning over it, like Sid had gotten wet for Geno all on his own. He’d press his lips to Sid’s temple, then his cheekbone, then his jaw, ghosting along Sid’s skin until Sid demanded a real kiss. Sid strokes himself harder, dragging the leaking precum down the thick shaft of his cock before trailing back up and teasing at his foreskin. 

Maybe it’d be a night where Geno tries to go down on Sid, spreading him out and burying his face between Sid’s legs, his clever lips and wicked tongue dragging over sensitive skin. Sid wouldn't have the patience for it tonight, would dig his fingers into Geno’s hair until Geno relented and swatted Sid’s hands away. 

Maybe he’d hold Sid’s hands down. 

They’ve never wrestled, not really. Sid doesn’t know, if it came down to it, who would win. If Sid’s hips were pinned, Geno might have him. 

Sid loses his breath as he thinks of Geno crushing him to the bed and pushing inside.

Like this, he thinks as he shifts his legs wider, the sore muscles in his thighs aching as he digs his heels into the mattress. Geno wouldn’t know he was sore, not if Sid kept his mouth shut, and Sid thinks he’d enjoy the dull pain. If Geno folded him in half, pressing Sid’s knees up to his chest and holding Sid down with his big body as his cock rubbed along Sid, Sid would enjoy it.

When Geno would finally press the tip inside, Sid would make sure it was bare. 

He’s sick of it, of Geno fussily demanding a condom every time he fucks Sid. They both get their health screenings done multiple times per season; if they wanted to, they could throw the condoms in the trash, but Geno has it burned into his brain. It could be a habit, or something from his past with women, or it could be from some deep corner of Geno that Sid hasn’t excavated yet, but Sid wants it to end. 

The condoms don’t matter. They don’t—Geno could fuck Sid with nothing between them, just skin on skin, and nothing would change, not really, except that Sid could wrap his arms and legs around Geno and hold on while Geno filled him up.

Sid lets out a wordless cry against the pillow, twisting his face into it like he can muffle the sound. 

Sid and Geno are young yet, no matter what Geno says, and Sid could be so good, his body could be so good for Geno if Geno gave him the chance. The raunchy way that Geno grinds his hips against Sid’s ass when he comes lets Sid know that Geno would come in him so deep, would fill him just like he needs. 

Once, when Sid had been braced on his hands and knees until his wrists gave out on him, he had reached back, his hand feeling down his body, past his cock, all the way to where Geno was pumping in and out of him. Geno’s hands had been tight on Sid’s hips as Sid’s cheek rubbed against the flannel. 

Sid’s uncoordinated fingers slipped around where Geno’s cock was opening him up, long and curved and perfect, and he’d pressed back into Geno when Geno started to come.

He’d felt the pulse of Geno’s dick under his fingers as Geno filled the condom. It was strong, and it had made Sid’s knees slip out from underneath him until Geno was pressing him fully into the mattress, crushing Sid beneath his weight, pinning him on his cock. 

He’d sucked Sid’s cock after, and Sid had come so hard down Geno’s warm throat, but it hadn’t been what he really wanted.

He wanted to feel Geno’s lightly-haired thighs boxing his own in, cradling his hips. He wanted to feel Geno’s cum, hot and wet, inside him. He wanted to feel it leaking out from around Geno’s girth. He wanted to have Geno pull out—Sid would gasp noisily, just for Geno—only for Geno to scoop it up from where it dripped onto Sid’s skin and press it back inside.

He wanted it to matter. For Geno to be worried about it like he was with his old girlfriends. He wanted Geno to need Sid enough that it wouldn’t matter, that Geno would throw caution to the wind and come deep.

Or that Geno would want it like Sid wants it.

Sid keens as he lets himself think about it, lets himself crack it open where it rests, hidden in his gut away from the outside world except for when it flutters in his throat when he sees his teammates with their young families. 

Maybe then, Geno could fuck Sid bare. He’s massive, just an enormous man who looks even bigger when he’s on the ice, and he deserves it, to press deep inside someone and fill them up. Sid wants it to be him, to be folded up however Geno needs and pumped full, Geno murmuring dirty things into his ear. 

Things Sid has heard him say, like you take me so good and so tight and perfect. Things Sid hasn’t heard him say, like look so good all full of me and can take more, Sid and keep it inside.

He wants Geno to look Sid in his eyes and tell Sid he wants to breed him.

Sid’s whole body jerks as he comes. He rocks his hips up off of the mattress and he comes in thick, hot streaks that smear between his boxers and his skin. He cries out helplessly, his breath shaking out of him until he’s empty and collapsing back down onto the pillow.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Oh, fuck.”

The deep, gulping breaths he takes fill the room. Sid’s heaving chest feels good, like he’s just done sprints on the ice and is struggling to take in enough oxygen. He takes one more huge breath before turning his head to the side and imagining he’s nuzzling up close to Geno, pressed up against his bicep or his ribs.

It settles more heavily on him now that he’s felt the real thing. Sid frowns, closing his eyes and trying to clear his mind. The fantasy is so old it’s rote by now. He knows what he’s constructed, and it doesn’t line up with the real thing; Geno’s hands and feet aren’t as cold as Sid always thought they’d be. He doesn’t splay out for Sid to cuddle up against, either. He wraps himself around Sid like he’s drowning and Sid’s a life preserver. 

His breath always smells like shit in the morning, but Sid’s isn’t any better, and Sid lets out a soft sigh. 

His heart still pounding laboriously beneath his ribs, Sid wipes his hands on his shirt before peeling it off. He kicks his boxers off next, and then he gropes at the nightstand for his phone.

“Алло,” Geno says when he picks up, which means he’s gaming and not looking away from the screen when he answers calls.

“Hey,” Sid murmurs, and he hears Geno mutter in Russian.

Sid waits, and eventually, once Geno’s yapped at his teammates enough to extricate himself, Sid hears a happy, low, “Hi, Sid.”

“Hey,” Sid says again, smiling up at the ceiling. 

“Sorry about game.”

“I got your text,” Sid tells him, and he rolls over onto his side. 

It’s how they usually wind up, Geno pressed all along Sid’s back, his long limbs tucked around Sid’s boxy body. Sid misses it, and he holds onto the dull pain in his heart like a lifeline. He spent so long living with Geno-shaped aches inside of him, and he has to cling to this newer, smaller soreness out of familiarity. It feels at home among the quiet, recognizable points of discomfort that litter his body during a season: bruises, cramps, all the badges Sid wears with pride. 

“You wearing your glasses?” Sid asks, and he hears Geno’s amused chuff through the line.

“Why you ask? Is sexy? Gonna ask if I wear pants?”

“No,” Sid says tiredly, the word tugged out through his smile. Geno’s glasses do funny things to Sid’s heart and his dick, but right now Sid just pictures Geno’s drooping eyes from behind the lenses. “I just don’t want you falling asleep with your contacts in.”

“Not gonna sleep yet. You’re sounding little bit tired, maybe you sleep?” Geno asks, his voice slipping into the gentle tone that Sid had fantasized about, had always hoped to hear for himself. 

“Yeah,” Sid says, and he lifts his free hand to scratch at his sternum. 

His hand drifts lower, down onto the firm muscle wrapped around his torso. A few inches lower, and it hovers over his belly. 

“Tell me more about your video game, it’ll put me right to sleep,” he sighs, and Geno’s exasperated noise makes him grin.