Who: Hockey and Figure Skating. What: Hockey hates Johnny Weir. Where: Figure Skating's apartment. When: Late evening; around 11:30. Warnings: Possible language, sports homophobia, will update as needed.
The first thing Hockey had done after the game against the Penguins was check his cell phone. The Garden, overly pleased at the return of its god, still gave a mental frown as anger coursed through Hockey's mind. Of course, that mental frown came with the creaking of the upper rafters and a slight flicker of the locker room lights. Hockey looked up from his seat on the bench, attempting to control his jealousy, his anger, his confusion, as he gave an offering in the best way he knew how; he'd fought that night - lost - but spat on the floor, blood red shimmering for a moment before sinking into skate-safe rubber. The lights stopped flickering; the Garden was appeased. And its god? Hockey left the locker room quickly, shrugging off Avery, who wanted to go get smashed and pick up chicks, shrugging off Lundvist, who wanted to babble at him about the Olympics, even shrugging off Tortorella, who looked absolutely livid about his star player's shitty performance against the Penguins. Hockey, simply put, didn't give a damn about the Rangers at the moment; Johnny fucking Weir was staying on Figure Skating's couch and, although his level of jealousy made Hockey uncomfortable, the only thought on his mind was of going over to Figure Skating's apartment and make sure that the flamboyant, horribly annoying mortal skater was keeping his hands to himself.
He barely noticed the cab driver's odd glance; even half-covered by a pulled low baseball cap, Stanley Wayne's face was very recognizable. He barely noticed the drive over. What he did notice, however, was his increasing proximity to the ice that was at the heart of them both. As he left the cab, started up the stairs, his hands balled into fists at his sides at the thought of Johnny fucking Weir in his brother's apartment, Hockey's breath was visible in the warm air of the staircase. Drawn to the one who made him so cold so easily, Hockey wasn't thinking about what he was doing or why he was doing it; he didn't want to want Figure Skating but he certainly didn't want anyone else close enough to his brother to want him or, even worse, draw Figure Skating's want. Thinking about wanting, however, was not going to be conducive to getting the information he needed; was Weir making a move on his brother at that very moment? The thought had his eyes taking an angry, icy sheen, had his skin going clammy cold, had too-sharp fingernails digging into his palm. The bruises all over his body, the split lip, all consequences of playing poorly against the Pens, were forgotten. And as Hockey knocked, waited a moment before barging in, everything save for the memory of Figure Skating beneath him and ensuring that Johnny didn't make any new, similar memories was forgotten. He entered the foyer with the intention of finding Weir on the couch, kicking his scrawny ass, and... well, that was as far as his plan got. But he frowned at the offending couch, finding it empty, and, suddenly, he realized with a sinking feeling that, yet again, he was a complete and total idiot; he was uninvited after hurting his brother, he had no reason to be there, and Figure Skating was liable to be very, very offended.
Face flushed but cold, hands still balled in fists, and chest rising and falling in angry, guilty, ashamed pants of icy breath, Hockey was considering backing out of the apartment and retreating to his own to curl up and sleep away thoughts of want and jealousy when he heard the bedroom door opening. Caught.