Rating: R, for language and non-explicit sex
Characters: Petr Sykora, Andy McDonald, Jason Arnott
Dedication: almightychrissy, frala, lastcatastrophe, joolzie, and of course, tamiflu. :)
Disclaimer: It's all lies!
Author's Notes: This is set just before Petr got traded from the Ducks to the Rangers and is written from Petr's POV.
Andy McDonald tasted like cotton candy.
I wasn't sure whether he tasted like blue or pink cotton candy, though.
So I kissed him again.
"Blue," I mumbled against his lips.
"What?" he asked, moving back a little to look at me.
"You. Blue." I smiled at him, too drunk to explain myself properly. A proper explanation would have just required more words anyway, and more words meant more time, and more time talking meant less time kissing, and I really wanted to kiss him some more.
"I'm not blue," he said laughing softly and smiling back at me with that shy, crooked little smile that I'd seen so many times before. His eyes were sparkling, and his smile was suddenly the thing I loved the most about him, the thing that made me want to kiss him so hard he couldn't catch his breath, couldn't pull away, couldn't do anything but kiss me back and let me do anything I wanted to him.
"I'm happy," he went on, trying to sweep the lock of hair out of my eyes with the back of his hand, but it sprang back into place as soon as he'd finished, the ends of my hair tickling my cheeks. I cupped his face in my hands and tried to talk, but I couldn't seem to, so I just thought to him, silly boy, I can see that you're happy, nobody smiles like that unless they're happy.
And then I kissed him, sloppily, lazily, greedily, my fingers finding the buttons on his shirt, his belt buckle, the zipper on his pants, the waistband of his boxers, and then my fingers found more and he was groaning against my lips, pushing me back onto the bed and rolling on top of me, mumbling and whispering words I couldn't understand anymore, but didn't have to.
I grabbed his hips, maybe a little roughly, and I guided him, our uncoordinated, desperate motions slowing, easing together, and we started getting used to each other, sizes and rhythms and skin, and I brushed my damp hair out of my eyes so I could watch him, and in the middle of it all, I was happy, just like him.
It wasn't a very good time in my life. In fact, it was a shitty time. I was in a horrible slump. Nothing was going in for me, no matter how hard I tried. Maybe that was the problem, maybe I was trying too hard, and that just made things worse. I liked to think that it was because the coach didn't like me, that he was playing me on checking lines, not giving me the chance to succeed, but it wasn't just that. Things were just wrong.
Things were just wrong. I guess you could say that about my love life at the time, too. It was a fucking mess.
I wasn't returning Jason's calls, and after a while he stopped making them. One moment, I missed him so much my chest hurt, and the next he pissed me off so much I wanted to throw something at the wall. We'd been breaking up and making up for months and I was just so sick and tired of it all that I wanted it to end. For real. Or he'd just keep fixing my broken heart, only to stomp on it as soon as he was done.
So I stopped answering his phone calls. That way I didn't have to talk to him, and that way we couldn't make up.
My clever plan worked for a while, where "worked" meant that I made it through each day thinking about him less and less, except of course when there was a hunting show on a sports channel and I remembered him sitting in a tree with his bow and arrow, or when I talked to Patty and he'd ask about Jason and I'd just stop talking and sigh, or when I found one of his old T-shirts in a dresser drawer and just stare it, wondering whether to throw it away or give it back to him, or just wear it because it was comfortable and I shouldn't let the fact that it was Jason's bother me because we were broken up.
All of that was working swimmingly, right up to the moment when I drove home after practice and found him sitting on the curb by my driveway, looking up with big startled eyes as I pulled in.
Jesus, he'd flown all that way to see me? He stood up, dusting his pants quickly, then hurried over to the car, peering down at me through the window as I finally realised that it was in fact him, and not a hallucination, and that I really didn't want to have to deal with him right after I'd spent an hour talking to my coach and trying to convince him to let me play on the top line instead of fucking around on the checking line where I had no chance to do what I was supposed to do, which was to score, or to help someone else score.
He rapped the window once, loudly, with his knuckles and I started, surprised by the suddenness of his motion.
"Petr, I need to talk to you," he said, his voice muffled by the glass between us, but clearly audible over the sound of the air conditioning.
I wound down my window a little so he could hear me, consciously leaving only a small gap at the top, as if I was afraid that he was going to reach in and grab me or something, which I knew he wouldn't do. I guess I wanted some sort of barrier between us, something external, like a guard, something that I knew would keep us apart.
"I don't want to talk to you. Can't you take a hint?" I snapped, the annoyance I felt about my conversation with my coach coming through in my voice. It didn't hurt that he'd probably think I was annoyed with him.
"Please, just hear me out, I just need to talk to you. That's all I want, just let me explain," he begged, and he raised his hand as if he wanted to reach in and touch me, but his fingertips just hit glass instead, and I was relieved.
"No, Jason." I felt sick inside, as if I was experiencing every single moment like this that had happened between us, all rolled into one. "There's nothing to talk about. It's over."
"I don't care that you fucked him." He said it firmly, and he looked me right in the eyes as he said it, and if he was lying, then it was a lie that he believed too, because I couldn't see the faintest trace of a lie on his face.
"You don't care? You called me a slut and threw me out when I told you!" Just like that, I was furious, and I was drawn into it again, as if we'd just fought yesterday, as if I could feel his hands on my chest as he pushed me out the door, and I felt hurt and guilty and angry at the same time, because who the fuck was he to do that?
"I know he didn't mean anything to you," he said quietly, not getting drawn into the past the way I was. "I know you were sorry."
"What if he did? What if he does?" I lied, averting my eyes.
"Does he?" he asked, his voice shaking a little.
I didn't want to look at him, didn't want him to read my face and know that he was the only person I'd felt anything for in five long years. I stared down my driveway, angry at myself for being that stupid for that long, not saying anything as he waited for me to answer.
"Just let me come in, we can talk, we can work this out. I know we can." How many times had I heard that before? And how many times had we worked it out? How many times did we end up fucking desperately, saying sorry with our hands and lips? I couldn't do it anymore. I didn't want to do it anymore.
I turned to look at him again, staring at him steadily, and his eyes widened in surprise. He looked uncomfortable and unsure. He was used to me giving in; he wasn't used to this.
"And after we work it out, then what next? You fly back to Dallas and you fuck Dina and everything is back to normal for a while? I pretend that I don't mind until one day I can't pretend anymore and Teemu happens to be pissed at Paul and we end up fucking again? You know the rest of this story." I could feel my face flush with anger, and I wanted him to be gone. Before he could bring back any more memories, before he could make me say something I would really regret.
He swallowed hard and looked down at his feet; he was remembering other things, too. He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then mumbled, "I'll leave her. I'll leave her for you."
My heart stopped just for a moment, and then I got angry. Angry at myself, because before I could stop myself, I'd hoped for a moment that it was true, that he'd really do it. He meant it, that I knew, he'd meant it every single time and that had me hope every single time. But he'd never done it, and I knew he never would.
"No, you won't," I said curtly, trying not to let him hear the way I felt inside. "You couldn't do it before, and now you're married to her, and you have Chase."
That did it. The name of his son defeated him, and he didn't say anything else or try to stop me as I opened the gate and drove away from him, watching him get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror.