stan (fivehole) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-03-01 01:09:00 |
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Current music: | O Canada! (French version) |
Who: Hockey and Figure Skating (partially AIMed scene to be finished via thread).
What: Gold medal celebration and the morning after.
Where: Motel just outside Buffalo.
When: February 28th/March 1st.
Warnings: A lot of alcohol, minor sexuality, likely language and homophobia within the comments.
Notes: Hockey's italicized dialogue is in French, as I am lazy and don't trust my high school French.
Hockey: It had been a close game - overtime, with Sid the Kid becoming the hero of a nation - but Canada had won and Hockey had jumped up from where he had been sitting on the carpet, surrounded by empties, and in his rush to hug Figure Skating, had spilled beer down his front. It necessitated a shower, but that didn't mean he had to stop drinking; he took his twenty-first beer of the day into the shower with him and his voice rang out happily over the noise of the running water, "Ton front est ceint de fleurons glorieux! Car ton bras sait porter l'épée, Il sait porter la croix!" Drunk on gold as much as he was drunk on the Molson Canadian, it was a flushed, obviously ecstatic, and very stumbly Hockey who left the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel as he continued to sing the French version of O Canada!, loudly.
He dropped his empty bottle on the carpet, almost falling as he dropped the towel, not caring that he was naked as he stooped, braced his hand on the top of the mini fridge for balance, and rescued one of their last beers from the fridge before opening it with his teeth and draining half of it in several humanly impossible chugs. He kept singing, in English this time and horribly out of tune, as he stumbled, swayed on his way to the bed. "Now the final flick of the hockey stick..." He set his beer precariously on the nightstand. "And a one gigantic scream..." He groaned, ran a hand through his damp hair and flopped down onto the bed on his stomach, mumbling into the pillow. "The puck is in, the home team wins, at the good ol' hockey game!" The grin on his face was huge, open, as he tilted his head, drunken hands plucking at the blanket underneath him. "Hi." He breathed out happily in the direction of his big brother, Figure Skating already safe under the covers. "Sidney Crosby is a fucking god." He tugged at the blanket in frustration; he didn't want to get up. "Help me with the blanket?" Singing in English was one thing, speaking in English was far beyond Hockey; he felt like Molson Canadian had taken over the blood in his veins.
Figure Skating: The moment team USA scored their final goal at the end of the last period, Figure Skating had grabbed hold of Hockey's hand and hadn't let go until Crosby brought the victory home to Canada. The rest was a blur, Figure Skating clinging too tightly to his little brother as they hugged and Hoceky's breath tickling the fine hairs on Skating's neck and making his skin tingle. It wasn't until they stepped back for room to breathe that Skating realized - not only did he smell - but the beer Hockey'd spilled had seeped into the fron t of Skating's shirt. So he'd showered first, only fair, and let his thoughts drift under the pounding of the water; they hadn't gone far, more of Glibt's insight chasing Hockey's smell around in Skating's head. It was a constant loop. Out of the shower, he grabbed the towel off the rack with a bit more force than necessary and padded back into the bedroom. Skating kept the towel around his waist as he nodded to his brother and then, alone in the bedroom, tossed the towel over the chair and curled up between the sheets. His eyes closed and all he could hear was the water pelting against Hockey, dripping down his hair, nose, eyelashes.
Skating's mouth dried as his little brother walked out - of course he'd use the towel for his hair, of course - but managed a smile that wasn't even a bit suggestive. Okay, so, it was a bit suggestive, but there were limits to self-control. And there was something about drunk, singing, happy Hockey that bent all of Skating's limits into bows. "No, you're a god, Sidney Crosby is just very, very good." Skating's eyes danced as he tugged at the covers, slipping them out from under Hockey and then comfortably over him; Skating took a second, as he pulled the quilt over Hockey's shoulder to run fingertips over the damp curve and then brushed the underside of his jaw. "What would you do without me, little brother?" There was an almost smile on Skating's lips, even if the tone was nearly sad- wistful, really, as he combed back Hockey's hair.
Hockey: "Mhm, but Crosby's as close as they come. They're not calling him the Next One for nothing, you know." Even Hockey's French was slurred, words running together due to the massive amount of alcohol and a simple lack of caring; Canada had just won the gold medal, Hayley had won the women's and that was all that really mattered to Hockey. His eyes were unfocused, his concentration shot and with that concentration went the attention needed to keep himself looking human; his eyes took on an icy sheen and his body temperature dropped a few degrees, even when Figure Skating pulled the blanket around his shoulders. Tipping his head toward Figure Skating's fingers, Hockey sighed blissfully, mind swimming in an alcohol and medal induced haze as he pushed the extremely quiet voice in the back of his head firmly down where it belonged; he didn't need to think about why his brother's touch felt almost as good as winning that gold.
What would he have done without his older brother? At Salt Lake, he'd had Hayley to escape to, with Torino, he had fallen asleep as soon as Russia had knocked Canada out of the running. But a gold medal game against the Americans, with yet another piece of himself, of his home and heritage on the line? The gratitude showed in Hockey's icy eyes as he reached out, his hand curling around the back of his brother's neck, resting there lightly as Hockey shifted forward, bumping Figure Skating's calf with a chilly toe. "Without you? I wouldn't have had anyone to hold my hand through these games, through that overtime period." Hockey's French continued to slip but his English wasn't likely to be much better. "I wouldn't have had anyone to hug after the Kid scored that goal." Hockey's smile was grateful and affectionate as he scooted forward again, his damp hand slipping down to press between his brother's shoulder blades, urging him closer; they were naked, yes, but they were gold medalists and brothers and Hockey didn't give a damn about propriety. "And you wouldn't have had a baby brother to hug when Lysacek won, so this goes both ways, brother." Hockey tipped his head back to look up at his brother, a slight touch of solemnity in drunken eyes. "Thank you, Figure Skating. For spending the Games with me."
Figure Skating: "Maybe. He came through when it counted - but still, I don't think anyone, Next One or not, can be as good as my brother." Skating smiled lazily as their foreheads bumped together and Hockey's breath brushed Skating's lips. It was because of the game, the gold; they'd never be so close without the buzz of Olympic power to lower inhibitions - Hockey's inhibitions, really, and Skating had to remind himself of that as he toyed with a lock of wet hair behind Hockey's ear. Space and time, distance to decide, Skating repeated the mantra and took the time to study his little brother's face. It wasn't as though he had many opportunities, for all the banter and bluff, starting at Hockey, tracing his nose, still damp from the shower, and touching the corner of his mouth went far beyond what their relationship allowed. Usually. Except when they were on the wrong side of the border from the Games, watching their athletes compete on a television screen and then the rules changed and they were stretched comfortably in a bed together where Skating could feel the coldness radiating from his brother.
Smiling, Skating exhaled and his breath was pale frost in the air. "I was thinking more along the lines of who'd tuck you into bed if I wasn't around, but I suppose having someone to hold your hand during overtime and hug when your Kid wins the game for Canada..." He sighed again and shut his eyes as he let his hand drift over the quilt to rest on Hockey's hip underneath the blanket. "Everything we do goes both ways, brother; we're family, and I always know that I can count on you - and I'll always be there for you." Licking his lips, Skating's fingers dragged along the quilt, tracing the line of Hockey's hip and side and then his shoulder, skin again, and lightly brushed over Hockey's lips. "Congratulations on your gold, little brother."
Hockey: The Games were a vacation when the Sports Gods of the United States couldn't compete; a vacation for Hockey's NHLers, a vacation for the injured Stanley Wayne, a vacation from constantly pushing for the Cup and constantly pretending to be something he wasn't. Hockey was all too aware that real life had to begin again, that his League began the playoff push on Tuesday, that lazy nights watching the best of the best compete stretched out on a couch with his brother, that it ended, all of it, when they left this hotel room. But Hockey didn't want it to end and it didn't have to, not with Figure Skating's fingers on quilt-covered hip and then bare shoulder... Hockey swallowed, his confusion over his deeply buried attraction rising up but quickly being extinguished by medal-gold and beer-amber. There didn't need to be any confusion; they were ice and the shower of snow sent up by a quick stop, they were dedication and loyalty and everything that came with being a Sport. They were also in male form most of the time. But thoughts of gender and ingrained sports homophobia had disappeared with the flick of Crosby's stick and the drain of at least twenty beers down Hockey's throat.
"Family." Hockey mumbled contemplatively, barely managing the English word as he smiled sweetly at his big brother. Hockey could feel the frost of Figure Skating's breath cooling his lips even further and when fingertips followed frosty breath, Hockey couldn't help but pucker his lips slightly, the slightest hint of uncertainty in his eyes as he kissed the tip of Figure Skating's index finger. "Merci, mon frère." He whispered, Hockey's hand sliding to cup his brother's cheek and it was the beer and the gold that shut up the voice inside Hockey calling him a queer and worse for even considering what he did next. Thank Orr for Molson Canadian and Sidney Crosby, Hockey thought drunkenly as he acted on barely acknowledged desire and leaned in. The first touch of lips to lips was tentative, searching, Hockey barely knowing what the hell he was doing as that first jolt of frost between them had him groaning lightly in the back of his throat. He gained confidence, though, when Figure Skating reacted, when what should have felt so wrong felt perfectly right instead and now he was very conscious of their nakedness as he pressed his body forward, deepened the kiss. His mind swam with simultaneous familiarity and unfamiliarity, his body reacted, and since he had already taken the plunge, Hockey barely blinked when, suddenly, Figure Skating was underneath him and he'd barely remembered rolling to stretch over his older brother. Hockey just abandoned all rational and homophobic thought and simply kissed his brother so their vacation away from reality didn't have to end.
Figure Skating: The thoughts which had spun in familair tracks finally quieted; Skating touched his brother's cheek and temple, caught in the ice-white of Hockey's eyes, the same ice that was part of them both. Family. The Ice Sports and their Games, sharing them, sharing a bed and winter cold breath. Skating swallowed silently as the edges of his lips turned blue and his fingers went white and cold against Hockey's lips. The sound of skates on ice, the scrape of the blade as it scarred the surface echoed in Skating's ears as Hockey cupped his cheek, drew him closer. "You're welcome, my brother," Skating whispered as he laid his kissed fingers over Hockey's hand. And then Skating's lips parted under Hockey's kiss, Skating could taste the beer and frost even at the first, hesitant touch and leaned closer to his brother and into the kiss. It was the start of winter again, the first frozen wind and snow as Hockey was there, on top of him and Skating slid his arms around his brother's neck. Fingers curled in the wet strands of Hockey's hair as Skating pressed up against his brother while they kissed and ran the edge of his foot along Hockey's calf.
Hockey: Cold bodies slid together - Hockey had lost all semblence of control, his body temperature was dropping steadily - and it was the taste of Molson Canadian on Figure Skating's blue-ing lips that really had Hockey feeling more comfortable ignoring more than a century of hockey homophobia. But it was the fingers in Hockey's hair that made his eyes shift again and, if his eyelids had been open, Figure Skating would have seen the slightest pinprick of blood-red surrounded by ice-white. But Hockey's eyes were closed, his true nature taking over and it was decades of being a violent, bloody Sport that had him nipping sharply at Figure Skating's lower lip, had his hips pressing down forcefully, wanting to make his brother quiver beneath him. One hand braced against the pillow beside his brother's head, one slid down Figure Skating's side, as Hockey leaned back enough to open his eyes and gaze down at his older brother for a moment, frost breaths mixing together as he pressed a soothing, apologetic kiss to Figure Skating's lower lip.
"Brother." Hockey sighed out simply, mind swimming and hazy and so intoxicated that he barely cared that 'brother' meant 'male', he only cared about the body beneath his own and the lingering taste of fellow Ice Sport on his lips. There was the slightest bit of confusion in his eyes - this couldn't really be happening, right? - but he dipped his head again to hide it and this time, cold lips pressed against the hollow of Figure Skating's throat, teeth that were just a tad too sharp scoring frost-ridden flesh. Hockey wanted to do so much, wanted to thoroughly take advantage of this drunken opportunity when the homophobic part of him was thoroughly drowned in booze and golden goals, wanted this break from reality, responsibility to last forever. But his mind swirled like a tempest, his stomach rebelled, the room spun around him and with one last vague thought of disappointment, Hockey slowly slid into unconsciousness, the fact that he had consumed almost an entire two-four finally catching up with him. Body slumping over his brother's, his forehead dropped down against Figure Skating's shoulder and light snores began to sound. There were some things even the personification of hockey couldn't do and one of them was drink twenty-two beers and be fully capable in bed, let alone stay awake.
Figure Skating Even Salt Lake - Alexei - faded, compared to a body just as cool as Skating's, leaned and honed for a different sport and tasting like the same beer they had drunk all night. Skating hissed as Hockey caught his lower lip and arched against his little brother, pushing up against Hockey's force and moaning. He was still catching his breath, making small noises as he tilted his chin up towards the lgihter kiss. Any doubts about how drunk they both melted away beneath Hockey, even the confusion in his brother's eyes only had Skating stroking his little brother's cheek and kissing him again, just as lightly, before he laid kisses to Hockey's nose, eyelids, temple, hair while Hockey's own kisses moved lower. Skating's breath caught in his throat and he moaned again, shifting restlessly underneath Hockey, their hips brushing against each other. If it never happened again - at least it happened, and Skating tugged lightly at his brother's hair when Hockey lingered over the bit. His breath tickled for a moment, and then all Skating could feel was the weight, less comfortably familair and more crushing as his brother snored. "Oh for fuck's sake -" He didn't even try to wiggle from beneath his brother, just closed his eyes and rubbed his hands resignedly over his face. Looking down, even passed out Hockey was handsome, sweet with his guards down and Skating smiled as he combed his fingers through his brother's hair again, enjoying the feel for as long as it would last. While morning was still just a distant nightmare.
Hockey: Hockey woke in an unfamiliar bed, feeling like the strongest slapshots in the NHL had been aimed at both his temples. His mouth was horribly dry, his stomach already churning, and even with the memory of Sidney Crosby's golden goal swimming in his mind, he felt like complete and total shit. The only saving grace was the naked body he felt spooning back against his own, was the bare backside pressed back against his hips and a familiar, though yet unidentified scent flooding his nostrils. Had he watched the game at some groupie's house? Hockey, eyes still closed against the light, sent a prayer to the hockey Greats that, at the very least, she was attractive and wasn't the sort to feel insulted when he told her to make him a greasy breakfast and gather up his clothes for him so he could escape once he'd inhaled the food she cooked.
It took him at least five minutes before he moved and any groupie of Stanley Wayne's could have told an outsider that his next move was typical of the hockey star; his hips rolled forward even though his eyes were still closed. An orgasm or two, breakfast, Gatorade - if the groupie had any and if she was worth her salt, she did - and a quick escape to attempt to feel more human before the afternoon skate; it sounded like a brilliant way to start a morning, even one plagued by the result of yesterday's drinking. "Mornin', darling." Hockey mumbled, though it was really more Stanley's voice; assured, smooth, even through the pain. "Quickie before breakfast?" There was something he should be remembering, though, and that thought was only strengthened when the hip he placed his hand upon was angular instead of curvy. Hockey finally opened his eyes in confusion, trying to blink away the last dregs of drunken sleep as the harsh morning light caused him to groan loudly. "Wait, wha-" Something was wrong, something other than the throbbing pain in his head and the churning nausea in his stomach, and Hockey, with a sinking feel deep in his gut, just wanted to go back to sleep and ignore whatever it was.