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The first time it happens, it’s actually kind of funny. Not funny ha-ha, but funny like, there’s something about this that feels strange funny.
So Claude’s at a bar, chatting to this little brunette who keeps touching his arm and laughing at his admittedly juvenile jokes. He’s learned that she’s twenty-two, a veterinary student who has a parakeet, and who doesn’t watch a lot of hockey. She asks if they can go somewhere quieter, and the boys are at Sylvie's tonight, so he takes her home.
It’s easy and simple, which is why Claude should have should have been prepared, honestly, for the way her eyes widen when she trips over the sneakers Caelan (or maybe Cameron, judging by the size) left tumbled in the entryway.
He offers her some wine, which in hindsight was also kind of stupid of him, given the stuff plastered across the fridge.
“This is your son?” she asks, delicately prodding a picture of Cameron making a horrible face, stuck to the fridge with a magnet painted like a puck. Claude has told him over and over that if he keeps doing that it’ll stick that way, and Cameron had asked if that was what happened to Claude. The little shit, Claude thinks affectionately.
“Um,” he says, wondering how she could’ve come to that conclusion. “No. He’s the son of my roommate.”
“Oh,” she says, and retreats to the bar stool she’d hung her bag and coat on. “Well, he’s very cute.”
“Thank you,” he says, and even he’s surprised by the faintly proud note in his voice. It’s not like Cameron is actually his kid, what the fuck . He moves to sit beside her, wineglasses cupped in his hands. He asks her something off-hand and small-talky, but she’s looking at another picture, this one stuck under a cookie jar on the counter. He hadn’t even noticed it until she tapped it, saying, “Was this supposed to go on the fridge too?” He looks down at a picture of Caelan and Carson sitting on him, sticks raised and grins wide. Danny’s standing over them, shaking his head so his face is a little blurred in the picture. He can’t help the fond grin that stretches over his face while he recounts the story to her, almost upsetting the wineglasses when he tries to re-enact the greasy play the boys had attempted.
“And this is their dad?” she asks, when he finally subsides and takes a swig of wine. Claude nods, mouth full. “Your roommate?” she asks, and there’s something in her tone Claude can’t read. He just nods.
“Right,” she says decisively, and she pats him lightly on the cheek, twice. “It was very nice meeting you, Claude,” she says, swinging her bag and jacket off the chair in one easy movement. Her heels click against the marble as she makes her way to the front door. Claude swallows his mouthful of wine and dashes off after her.
“Wait, what?” he says, as she’s opening the door. “Did I say something wrong?”
She glances back at him, a funny smile playing about her lips. “You might have, yes.” A cab conveniently pulls up just then, out of which comes Danny, charmingly mussed and with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Claude looks at him automatically, perplexed, as Danny says, mock-snippily, “So thank you for leaving me at the bar,” and the woman shakes her head, saying, “See?”
Claude honestly doesn’t get it.
“Good night, Claude,” she calls back, and she shuts the door of the cab.
Danny follows the taxi with his eyes. He whistles before he says, “Though admittedly, I should have guessed it was for something like that.” He claps Claude on the shoulder. “You could have said though,” Danny scolds good-naturedly, walking into the house.
Claude’s still looking at the headlights of the cab, perplexed. What the hell just happened?
---
The second time it happens, it’s at the grocery store, which is a pretty unusual place to be picking up girls anyway. He and Danny tend to not go out too much with the team when they’re having the boys over. And technically, it’s a Saturday afternoon, so Claude could totally go out tonight if he wanted to. Though to be honest, he’d much rather just stay in and help Danny put freshly laundered sheets on the boys’ beds and set up the net in the driveway.
Claude’s waiting with the cart in one of the aisles, trying to remember which cereal Caelan likes and which one he won’t touch with a ten foot pole, and which one Carson will eat, long-suffering, while whining loudly for a proper breakfast, Claude , and which one Cameron likes to eat out of the box, and he’s staring at the profusion of colored boxes proclaiming flavor and nutritional facts loudly, when a cart bumps into the backs of his legs. He nearly drops the cereal boxes stacked in his hands.
He winces and turns. There’s a tiny boy, maybe around five or six, pushing the cart. “Hey,” he says, squatting on his haunches. The boy looks at him wide-eyed, just as a blonde woman rounds the aisle, bearing down on them with the singular intensity unique to mothers who know their children are up to something .
“Trevor,” she says, part-relieved, part-exasperated. The boy lets go of the cart and runs to her, clutching at the hem of her shirt. She looks at Claude and puts a hand on his arm and gives it a little rub, as if to calm or comfort him. “I’m sorry, did he push the cart into your legs?”
“No harm done,” he assures her, and Trevor clutches the woman’s leg, still looking up at Claude.
“At this age, they’re so hard to keep track of,” she continues.
“Even when they’re older,” he replies wryly, thinking of the last time he and Danny had gone grocery-shopping with the boys and had ended up paying for several crates of canned ravioli, a stacked pyramid of which the boys had knocked over while racing their carts down the aisle.
She smiles at him then. There’s a small gap between her front teeth that Claude finds sweetly attractive. “Preparing for an army?” she teases, pointing at the boxes in his hands. Her hip is cocked a little to the side, and her fingers are tangled in Trevor’s blond curls, combing the knots out almost absent-mindedly.
“Three boys,” he admits. “They can be quite a handful, but I love them.” He starts stacking the boxes of cereal neatly into the cart, moving the other contents easily around to make space. “And luckily, none of them are picky eaters, so they’re easy to feed.” He starts telling her about one of their grocery trips, not the one where the boys were too much fun for their own good and dared each other to poke at the lobsters in the seafood tank (though that had been fairly hilarious in its own right), but the one where he demonstrated his omelet-making skills and how they’d scoffed until he’d plated a perfect, golden omelet right in front of them. “Of course afterward, all of them wanted to try it, so we had to make an emergency run to the supermarket to get lots of extra eggs. I must have had a million different versions of scrambled eggs that week. But now all of them can make omelets, so I count that as a win.”
The woman pushes a lock of blonde hair over one ear, still smiling, and Claude ducks his head, a little surprised over how enthusiastic he’d gotten in the retelling. He rearranges the food in the cart again, straightening a toppled jar and saving the grapes from getting squished. She watches with the same small smile playing about her lips, drumming her fingers on the handle of the cart.
“Your wife must think you’re a godsend,” she says, a little wistfully, eyeing Claude’s meticulous cart arrangement. “My ex hated coming to the supermarket with us.” She shakes Trevor lightly, and grins up at Claude again. “So it’s mostly just the two of us.”
Claude opens his mouth to correct her, but just then, Danny, comes up from the other end of the aisle, balancing three cartons of ice cream (the boys can never agree on one flavor), a bags of chips, some frozen salmon, and a small net bag of tomatoes (the only vegetable the boys will eat willingly). He dumps all of it into the cart and takes a look at the boxes of cereal Claude had just finished placing into the cart, and shakes his head.
“Caelan likes the honey-nut, not the fruit,” says Danny, switching one of the boxes for another on the shelf. “And Cameron has that thing this week where he only wants to eat things that are colored blue,” he continues, swapping the most violently-colored one with one that boasts an even more explosive color scheme.
“How could I forget,” Claude says, sighing, as he makes a mental note to swap the strawberry yogurt for blueberry and maybe pick up some food coloring before they leave. Danny snags another box from the shelf, and Claude asks, “Okay, which one of the kids needs more fiber?”
Danny squints at him. “This is for us.”
“Okay, ew,” Claude says, and makes a face. He’s startled when someone giggles. He glances down at Trevor, who’s ducked behind his mom again, curls visibly shaking with laughter. “Oh, Danny, this is—,” he trails off abruptly when he realizes he’s been flirting with a complete stranger. She’s blushing a little, which is kind of cute, and she’s looking from Danny to him with wide, amused eyes. He’s seen that look before, Claude thinks. But he can’t really remember where.
“Anna,” she says finally, shaking hands with Danny, and then with Claude, who grins sheepishly and says, “And I’m Claude.”
“Well, it was nice meeting the two of you,” she says, taking hold of the handle of her cart with one hand, the other still holding Trevor to her leg. “It was nice hearing about your boys,” she tells Claude. “They’re very lucky to have you.”
Danny waits until she’s rounded the corner before knocking his elbow into Claude’s ribs. His eyebrows are nearly at his hairline. “ Your boys, huh?” Danny says.
“Shut up,” says Claude, knocking into Danny, who swears at him as his hip connects with sharp corner of the cart. “Nobody likes your fiber-enriched breakfast choice, old man.”
“Whatever,” Danny replies, and they argue about it good-naturedly all the way to the register.
---
The third time is when it actually hits Claude, because it’s so blatantly obvious he can’t think why he never saw it before. It’s a week or so after their playoff run ends unspectacularly at the hands of the Bruins, and everyone’s ready to forget the mess of it all and set their sights on next season.
The boys are at Sylvie’s for the weekend, so he and Danny are at a bar with the rest of the team. JVR’s holding court in a corner, and Claude has a pretty redhead pressed up against his side at the bar. She was ordering her drink as he was ordering his, and took a sip of his before she realized it wasn’t what she’d ordered and handed it to him, shrugging sheepishly. He’d handed it back to her with a grin, and it was easy enough to make conversation after that.
Bars aren’t the best venue if you want to just talk though, and soon enough, Claude’s leaning in to kiss her, when she suddenly stills him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Is there something wrong?” he asks, over the roar of the music.
She squints at him.
“You’re Claude Giroux, right?” she yells. He nods.
“You’re sweet,” she says. Her next statement comes at a lull in the music, that split-second where everything is still and crystalline (or maybe it’s just because Claude really heard the words, loud and clear as they tumble out of her mouth— “But I don’t mess around with married men.”
“What?” he asks, confused, and he notices she’s looking at someone over his shoulder. Danny’s doing shots in the corner with Chris and Scott, but he meets Claude’s eyes just then and raises his shot glass in a toast before knocking it back.
Afterwards he winks at Claude, though that may have been just the light.
“What?” he says again, turning to the girl, but she’s melted back into the crowd.
No, seriously. Married?
---
He stumbles out of the bar and the crisp, cold air outside has an unsurprisingly sobering effect on him. He feels thunderstruck. He almost wanders into the street as a taxi comes careening around the corner. He’s pulled to the curb by a hand on his elbow, warm through the cloth of his coat. It’s Danny.
“Claude,” he says, brow knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?”
The streetlights and the bar sign cast a weak, colored glow on his features, suddenly strange to Claude in light of his epiphany.
“I want to go home,” he says, and Danny’s mouth forms a moue, fond and exasperated all at once.
“When did you turn into a lightweight?” he ribs Claude good-naturedly, lifting a hand to hail a cab. He bundles Claude into the backseat and, to Claude’s surprise, climbs in after him.
“You don’t have to come,” Claude says weakly. Danny rolls his eyes at him and shuts the door.
“Oh, and if I come home later tonight and you’ve choked on your own vomit, yeah, that’s a fun conversation to have with Coach.”
“I’m not drunk ,” Claude says indignantly, rearing up. Danny has one hand on his knee, and he squeezes it.
“It’s all right to admit defeat, Claude,” he says seriously, but with that funny little grin that always gets Claude smiling involuntarily as well. “I won’t judge you for it.”
Claude groans and leans back. Danny’s hand is still on his knee, and he can feel the warmth of it, even through the cloth of his pants. He wonders if Danny’s hands would feel as heated on other parts of his body. The thought has him flushing, and he’s grateful for the cab’s lack of lighting.
“No, but seriously,” he tells Danny. “The boys aren’t home tonight. I’m just going to go to bed. You could’ve brought someone home if you wanted to.” He’s said it to Danny maybe half a dozen times or so since he moved in, but he’s always been relieved that Danny never has, and that the night ends with just the two of them shooting the shit and re-hydrating in the kitchen, trying to stave off hangovers the next morning.
Danny laughs at that, and they’re close enough in the back of the cab that Claude can feel the vibration through his skin. It makes him want to press his mouth against Danny’s shoulder. He leans into Danny, almost unconsciously, and Danny gets an arm around him to tug lightly on the long hair at the nape of Claude’s neck.
“I’m not interested in taking anyone home,” says Danny. He glances at Claude and grins. “Unless it’s you.” He sounds like he’s kidding. He and Claude flirt jokingly all the time, usually when one of their teammates is giving them shit for being the “Brioux family”, but even when Danny’s chirping him there’s a layer of affection underneath it all, and Claude wonders how he could ever have missed it before. He can’t tell if Danny’s serious. Shit, he hopes Danny’s serious.
Claude doesn’t know what reply to that. His tongue feels like it weighs a ton. Thankfully, the cab’s pulled up outside their house. He stumbles out of the cab and up the walk as Danny pays the driver. He fumbles in his pocket for his keys, and his hands are shaking a little as he tries to slip it into the lock.
“Let me,” Danny says, taking the keys from him and opening the door in easy, practiced motions.
“Are you really all right?” Danny asks, concerned. They’re in the front hall taking off their coats and shoes, and Danny’s unwinding his scarf from around his neck like a stranger form of burlesque. His throat is pale but his cheeks are a little flushed from the cold.
In answer, Claude pushes Danny up against the wall and kisses him, hands cupping his face. Danny makes a shocked sound against his mouth, and Claude swallows it down. He runs his tongue over Danny’s lips and Danny parts them in an exhale. His hands are on Claude’s shoulders. He jerks Claude back.
“Claude?” Danny asks, but he doesn’t sound angry or disgusted, as Claude feared he would be. Instead, he sounds almost worried. Danny reaches out and runs his thumb over Claude’s lips, and Claude sucks it into his mouth, biting lightly at the pad. Danny groans.
“I didn’t know,” Danny continues, in that same careful tone that has Claude’s heart clenching painfully. “Are you sure?”
Claude turns his face into Danny’s hand and nods. “I want to,” he says, looking Danny straight in the eye. “I want you.”
Danny groans again, and Claude takes that as permission to slide his hand down Danny’s sides and pull his shirt from his pants. He runs his fingers over the warm skin he finds there. He’s so hard and he can’t help bucking his hips into Danny’s, feeling him hard as well.
Danny grabs his hands and Claude stills, thinking he’s gone too far. When he looks up though, Danny’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide in arousal. “Bed,” Danny bites out, and drags Claude up the stairs and into his bedroom. Claude kicks the door shut behind him and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Danny sits on the bed and watches him, making Claude self-conscious. Danny’s eyes are fond though, and it only takes him a moment before he starts shedding clothes as well.
And then they’re both naked and on the bed, Claude pressing Danny into the mattress, kissing him. Danny’s combing his fingers through Claude’s hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. Claude drapes himself over Danny, reveling in the feeling of skin against skin. When their erections press against each other Claude has to muffle his shout in Danny’s shoulder. Danny’s hips are bucking up, looking for more friction, so Claude licks his hand and wraps it around Danny’s dick, sending a stream of dirty endearments flying out of Danny’s mouth.
Claude watches Danny avidly, drinking in the sight of him losing control. He never gets to see Danny like this—from the moment he first arrived in Philadelphia, Danny seemed to have all the answers, always knew the proper thing to do or say at any time. The closest he’s come to seeing Danny like this was on the ice, which was probably when he first started falling for Danny, long before Danny offered him a place to stay. Offered him a home.
Claude’s on his side, braced up on one arm, and he catches a flash of teeth as Danny grins up at him before rolling them over so Danny’s on top, their erections flush against each other. Claude jokes, “If you wanted to be on top, old man, you could have just said.”
“What can I say,” Danny says, grabbing for Claude’s wrists and pressing them down, over Claude’s head. Claude catches his breath in surprise and Danny rolls his hips. “Actions speak louder than words.”
Claude laughs at that, or tries to, but it feels so good that what comes out instead is a moan. Danny grins at that and bends down to kiss Claude, one hand pressing his wrists into the mattress, the other sneaking down to roll one of Claude’s nipples between his fingers. Claude’s hips buck up at that, and the kiss turns into a hot, messy slide of lips and tongue, battling for dominance.
“Is this okay?” Danny asks him, pulling back. Claude nods vehemently. “Because we can do something different, if you want,” Danny says. His eyes drop to Claude’s mouth, which is slack with pleasure. “Anything.”
“This is good,” Claude says, because he hasn’t really done much else with a guy, save for a few handjobs back when he was in Juniors. He looks up at Danny, who’s still moving his hips in slow, tantalizing circles into Claude’s. “We can do whatever you want.”
“Good,” Danny says. His eyes are so dark. His voice is deeper when he tells Claude, “Keep your arms there.”
Oh god. Claude’s used to being the one in control in bed, but it is so hot to be told what to do. He fastens his hands around his elbows to keep himself from moving as he watches Danny inch down until his face is level with Claude’s dick. One of his arms is over Claude’s abs, holding his hips down. His other hand is forming a loose fist around the base of Claude’s dick, and Claude can’t breathe as Danny leans over and licks the head of his dick before taking it into his mouth and sucking at it lightly. He bobs his head over Claude’s lap, and Claude tries to follow the warm heat of Danny’s mouth but he can’t because of Danny’s arm across his pelvis, forearm digging into his hipbones.
Danny’s fingers are playing lightly with Claude’s balls, pressing against the sensitive spot behind them. Claude catches Danny’s eye as his fingers pause in the cleft of Claude’s ass, and he nods once. Danny can’t do much without lube, but the feel of his fingers against Claude’s ass is promising. Claude groans as Danny takes more of his dick into his mouth, the stubble on his cheeks rough against the sensitive skin of Claude’s inner thighs.
“Danny,” Claude warns, as his hips try to move off the bed. “Gonna come.”
Danny doesn’t appear to have heard him, but moves his hand and mouth even faster. Claude’s eyes widen as Danny’s fingers press into that spot behind his balls again and he comes with a shout, spilling into Danny’s mouth. His throat feels hoarse after. Danny moves up until his face is level with Claude’s again, and he kisses along Claude’s jaw, down his throat, running his teeth along Claude’s collarbone. Claude assumes that he’s allowed to move his hands now, and he wraps his arms around Danny, lifting his face up to kiss him. Danny hums into the kiss. Claude can feel Danny’s erection pressing into his hip, and Danny seems okay enough with that. Claude feels boneless with pleasure, and he can taste himself on Danny’s lips. It’s that thought that has Claude pulling away and whispering hotly into Danny’s ear, “Want you to fuck me.”
Danny freezes as he looks into Claude’s eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks in a hush. He sounds wary, so Claude nods vigorously.
“Do you have—,” Claude gestures, unsure about what he’s even asking for. Danny grins at him, amused, and rolls away to fumble in a bedside drawer. He comes back with a bottle and a handful of condoms. Claude’s mouth drops open. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Brière.”
“You don’t know half of it, Mr. Giroux,” Danny replies, and Claude thinks that it’s so nice to be able to speak French with someone in bed, and not have them reply, “That’s so sexy,” even as they understand none of it. His reverie is broken as Danny wraps a hand around Claude’s dick and gives it a couple of pulls.
“Have you done this before, cher ?” Danny asks, and Claude’s heart seizes at the endearment, even though Danny’s called him that jokingly a bunch of times since he’s moved in. Claude bites his lip and shakes his head. The look in Danny’s eyes at his reply has him shuddering. It’s proprietary and greedy and affectionate all at once.
“Hands and knees then,” Danny says decisively, and Claude rolls easily into the position. He braces his forehead against his arms as Danny runs a hand down his spine. The finger that presses into him is slick, almost gentle, and Claude finds himself relaxing almost involuntarily. Danny’s other hand is still around Claude’s dick, and Claude focuses on the pleasure of that instead of the alien pressure of Danny’s finger. Fingers, Claude thinks, as Danny adds another and twists them in a scissoring motion. There’s something almost pleasurable in the burn of it, and Claude supposes that’s the appeal, but really, the main thing about all of this, for him, is that it’s Danny . The thought of that has his hips moving back, meeting Danny’s fingers.
“You’re doing so well,” Danny croons. “You’re so good, cher .” He crooks his fingers as he says it, and as he does, he touches something in Claude that has Claude shuddering as a wave of pleasure washes over him. “Oh,” Danny says, and presses into the spot again. Claude starts swearing as he does, incoherent, and Danny presses an affectionate kiss into Claude’s hipbone, adding another finger. Three feels almost too much, but Danny’s careful to run his fingers over Claude’s prostate again, and Claude’s so hard he can’t even think.
“Danny, please,” he begs. “Come on.” Danny twists his fingers again before pulling them out, reaching for a condom. Claude hardly has time to miss the careful presence of Danny’s fingers before there’s Danny’s dick pressing bluntly against Claude’s hole.
It feels unbearably good. Danny has both hands braced on Claude’s hips as he enters him, rubbing soothing circles into the small of Claude’s back. Claude exhales through the pressure, and then Danny’s moving his hips experimentally, careful sawing motions, trying out different angles until he finds the one that has Claude groaning into his arms. He reaches down to touch his own dick as Danny starts moving in earnest, hips slamming into Claude’s. He leans until he’s draped over Claude, chest against Claude’s back, and Claude turns his head to kiss Danny. Danny breaks it off to bite at Claude’s shoulder, the sharp flash of pain mixing with the sensation of Danny’s dick hot in him. Claude comes into the circle of his fingers, groan muffled against the pillows, and it’s enough to drive Danny over the edge too, gasping in Claude’s ear and falling forward. Claude can feel Danny come, a sudden pulsing warmth inside of him, and he grinds his hips back as Danny bucks erratically. They stay pressed together like that for a long moment, after, until their panting breaths even out.
Claude feels strangely bereft as Danny pulls out and ties the condom off. He moves off Claude to throw it away and to grab a washcloth from the bathroom. He runs it gently over Claude’s skin. When Danny comes back from the bathroom, Claude’s moved out of the wet spot and he pulls Danny back down to the bed, kissing him. Danny goes easily, draping himself half over Claude, one hand on Claude’s neck.
“That was amazing,” he says into Claude’s ear. His breath is warm against Claude’s ear, but it sounds awkward to Claude, almost perfunctory. Like Danny feels he needs to reassure Claude that nothing’s changed.
“I know,” Claude replies, and Danny opens his mouth like he’s going to say something more, but Claude shakes his head and pulls Danny to lie down. He lays his head on Danny’s shoulder, feeling Danny’s arm wrap around his back and stroke lightly at his arm.
“Good night Danny,” Claude says, slinging his arm around Danny’s waist in an unconscious movement. He should go back to his room. In a minute. He’ll move when he’s ready.
“Good night, Claude,” Danny replies softly, and Claude’s eyes are already drifting closed.
---
It’s early when Claude wakes up, judging from the light streaming weakly through the windows. He lifts his head up to look at Danny. The lines of his face look gentle in the light of dawn, and Claude’s chest constricts with an emotion he can’t name. He pulls himself carefully from Danny’s arms and Danny doesn’t stir. He picks his clothes gently off the floor and makes his way quietly to the door. Danny hasn’t moved at all, and his deep breaths signal that he’s still asleep.
Claude drinks the sight of it in—Danny boneless and sated on the bed, the tumbled sheets, the trail of clothes leading to the bed. The room still smells like sex and sweat, and it’s enough to make him dizzy.
He hastily starts reviewing the events of last night. He was drinking. Danny was drinking. Danny flirted with him in the car and he took it as an invitation to… he runs a hand over his face. On the bed, Danny stirs, hands opening and closing like he expects something to be there. Someone .
Fuck.
He stumbles out of the room and into his own. What the fuck was he thinking? Danny has kids , Danny was married. Danny can’t possibly feel the same as he does. He probably went along with it because he didn’t want to reject Claude, didn’t want bad blood between them. Or maybe it was just… convenient. They were both going to end up in the same place, after all, at the end of the night. He’s heard about guys all over the NHL with the same kind of arrangement. Now that he thinks about it, some of the comments he’d gotten at the All-Star Game made sense now (“Bragging rights, huh?” Kesler had asked, elbowing him during the skills challenge. “Man, that’s a helluva way to put it.”); maybe the other guys had thought he and Danny had had this arrangement all along. Claude groans, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation.
Claude realizes, as he pulls his jeans back on, that he’s shaking. He takes a couple of deep breaths and goes into the bathroom to wash his face. There are marks all over his neck, and when he turns around he catches his breath at the sight of scratches down his back, Danny’s bite mark livid on his shoulder.
He goes back into the bedroom and sits down on the bed. He can’t stand thinking of how Danny will look at him this morning, a little pity mixed in with a complicit understanding. Claude can’t—he can’t stay and have Danny let him down gently over that stupid fiber-enriched cereal Danny always makes him eat. It was convenient for Danny, is all. It’s not like they’re suddenly in a relationship or anything—Claude can’t imagine Danny picking up the boys today from Sylvie and sitting them down to explain that he and Claude are. He and Claude have. Claude can’t even fucking explain it to himself. But he knows that it probably didn’t mean the same to Danny as it did to him.
It’s that thought that has him going to his closet to fetch his duffle bag. He packs methodically, taking only what he needs. When he’s done, he slings the duffle over his shoulder and goes down, careful to avoid the creaky second step. He’s not running away, he thinks defensively. He’s doing what’s best for Danny and the boys.
He thinks about leaving a note for Danny in the kitchen, and he picks up the marker to scribble across the whiteboard Danny keeps in there to keep track of the their and the boys’ schedules.
Have to go somewhere for a few days. Don’t worry. See you. – C
It’s vague, but Claude can’t bring himself to write anything more. He leaves the house through the kitchen door and doesn’t realize he was holding his breath until he’s in his car, hands braced against the steering wheel. He glances up at Danny’s window as he starts the car, and would have continued staring up at it if he hadn’t had to reverse the car out of the driveway. When he’s pulled onto the main road, there’s really nothing to do but keep driving. So he does.
---
He doesn’t get that far, just to Cherry Hill. He checks into a hotel and collapses onto the bed once he gets to his room. The adrenaline rush from leaving seeps away from him then, leaving him wearied, so he rolls over to take a nap.
When he wakes up, his phone tells him that it’s midday and he has seven missed calls. They’re all from either Danny or the landline, and Claude can’t deal with that right now, so he buries his phone at the bottom of his bag and calls for room service. He wonders if it’s too early to start drinking. They don’t have practice for another month or so, and he’s allowed to disappear off the face of the earth for a while if he wants to. It’s a tempting thought.
While he’s waiting, he fishes his phone from his bag and texts Holmgren that he’ll be away for a bit. He thinks for a long moment before sending the same text to Danny. His phone starts ringing almost immediately, and Claude drops it from the shock.
He’s tempted to answer it, but instead he just stares at it until the ringing dies down. It pings with a message.
please pick up , Danny’s texted. Claude’s hands are shaking as he taps out a reply.
can’t talk. Claude hesitates, before continuing. it’s for the best.
Once he’s sent the text, he turns his phone off and buries it at the bottom of his bag again. There’s a knock on the door as he straightens up, a voice calling out, “Room service!”
Perfect timing, because Claude’s ravenous. He averts his face as he lets the guy in, but the attendant doesn’t seem to have noticed, or if he does, he doesn’t react. He tips the guy extra though, just in case he has and he feels like telling the media about it.
He pours himself a cup of coffee before digging into the omelet. It tastes like ashes in his mouth, like he thought it would.
The scotch though, goes down smoothly. So Claude just keeps drinking, and then he has to get back into bed. Just for a little while.
---
The little while turns into a major part of their month off. Claude hardly leaves the hotel room. His phone battery runs out and he realizes he’s left the charger behind on his bedside table. He has his laptop though, and when he opens his email, it’s filled with cheery reports from the boys about how their summer is going.
We wish you’d said good-bye before you left for Ottawa, Caelan writes. Claude feels a pang when he thinks Danny’s lied to the boys, but he realizes that he hasn’t really told anyone where he is. For all they know, he did fuck off home for the summer, but scrolling down his inbox, he spots an email from his sister.
Where are you? she’s written. Danny called, looking for you.
He checks the time and deduces that she’s probably still awake. He calls her using the hotel phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi Isabel,” he says.
“Claude!” she replies. “Did you get my email? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
“I got your email, yeah,” he says. “My phone died, I left my charger at Danny’s.” He carefully doesn’t say, I left it at home . He has to start getting used to that.
“But where are you?” she asks insistently.
“The Crowne Plaza in Cherry Hill,” he replies, and she gives a snort of disbelief.
“And here we were thinking you’d fucked off to Tibet or something,” she says. “Why didn’t you say good-bye to Danny and the boys, at least?”
“You’ve talked to Danny?” he asks, deflecting.
“Yeah, he’s called every few days, looking for you,” she says. “You should call him.”
“I can’t,” Claude says, voice breaking with nerves. “Isabel, I can’t, I just—,” He bends down and puts his head between his knees.
“Breathe,” she commands him, and he takes a deep breath. “Claude, what the fuck happened?”
“I slept with him,” Claude confesses, and Isabel gives a bark of laughter at that. “It’s not funny, Isabel!”
“It really kind of is,” Isabel says. There’s a long pause, and Isabel asks delicately, “Weren’t you already sleeping with him before?”
“Oh god,” says Claude. “Not you too.” He explains about the girls and the club, and realizing that it would be for the best if he just left, sparing Danny and the boys a big blowout argument, a bad scene.
Isabel’s silent after he finishes, and then she asks shrewdly, “How do you know Danny doesn’t feel the same way?”
“He just doesn’t, okay?” Claude explodes. “He has a family to worry about, the boys—,”
“The boys love you,” Isabel says. “And, wild idea, I know, but maybe you’re part of Danny’s family too?”
Something clenches painfully in Claude’s chest at Isabel’s words. “I don’t want to put him in that position where he has to choose. If someone finds out about us, it would be the end of our careers.”
“Claude,” says Isabel. “You two can’t possibly be the only gay players in the league.”
“I’m not gay,” Claude says. Isabel huffs in disbelief. “No, I’ve been thinking about it. It’s just all so new. If anything, I’m bi. I’m attracted to women. But with guys—it’s only Danny. I can’t imagine being with anyone else, wanting anyone else.”
“Oh Claude,” Isabel says sadly. “Oh little brother,”
“I know,” Claude says. The bottle of scotch on his bedside table is empty. He should order a new one. “What should I do, Iz?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “You have to do what you feel is best.” Her tone turns brisk. “I still think you should talk to him though.”
“I can’t,” Claude says. “I just. I just can’t.” Because if he does, Danny will ask him to come back, and Claude will agree, and he and Danny will go back to being friends, maybe, and now that he knows, he’ll just want Danny so badly, all the time , that when Danny inevitably finds a nice girl to marry again Claude will probably be too busy being his best man to shoot himself in the face like he’ll want to.
“I’m out of suggestions,” Isabel says apologetically.
“It’s okay,” Claude says. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime, little brother,” Isabel says, then deftly turns the conversation over to other topics.
---
The days blur together in a mix of bad daytime television and good scotch. Very good scotch. He goes out a few times to eat or to go for a run, and when fans stop him they look around as if they can’t believe that he’s alone. Some of them ask about Danny and the boys. He manages to smile through it, give bland answers to the questions.
He’s been hiding out for exactly one month when the phone rings. The only people who know the number are Isabel and Paul, so he rolls over in bed to pick it up.
“A Mr. Brière to see you,” says the concierge in his dry manner.
Claude peers blearily at the clock. It’s four in the afternoon. He has no idea how Danny even found him, because Isabel wouldn’t break her word. He can’t run anymore; he doesn’t even want to. He supposes this was inevitable.
“Tell him I’ll meet him in the lobby,” he instructs the concierge, looking at the tumbled, still-warm sheets, far too close to the tangent his dreams have taken involving Danny.
“Very well sir,” replies the concierge, and Claude puts the phone down. He gets up from the bed and heads to the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror is haggard, bags under his eyes and a seam from the blanket leaving a red welt across one cheek. He scrubs at his face with one hand before bending to wash the sour taste from his mouth with a handful of water.
In the room, he roots through his bags for a clean shirt, and runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous—Danny has seen him in worse conditions than after he’s just woken up. He rolls his eyes at himself. Danny’s seen him bleary and half-awake more times than anyone he’s ever had a relationship with his entire life.
“Get it together,” he says to his reflection in the mirror.
He exhales roughly and leaves the room.
---
When he gets out of the elevator, the concierge catches his eye and nods toward a couch, where the back of a dark head is visible. Claude takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and rounds the couch to get a better view of—
Carson, who has Cameron half-sprawled in his lap, playing on his Nintendo DS, and Caelan leaning on his other side, reading a book, one Claude remembers from the list that Caelan had brought home at the start of the summer.
Carson looks up at Claude, eyes wide, then nudges his brothers. Cameron shrieks and nearly drops his game, but Caelan carefully marks his place in his book and stares up at Claude. All Danny’s boys have the same eyes as him, and Claude is struck, for the nth time in his self-imposed exile, that he misses them all so much. Cameron straightens up and makes a space for him on the couch, as if they were at home and watching a movie on the widescreen TV. Claude smiles at him and sits down, looking from face to face.
“Hi guys,” he says. “Does your Dad know you’re here?”
“No,” says Carson. Claude’s eyebrows knit in concern.
“Maybe you should call him,” he suggests, and Carson waves the suggestion aside as if it were irrelevant.
“He thinks we’re at the library,” Cameron says, and grins up at Claude, pleased at the deception. Claude shakes his head.
“And he believed it?”
“To be fair,” says Caelan. “I told him I was going to the library, and these two just tagged along.”
“Ah,” says Claude. They’re getting some interested glances from the restaurant patrons, so he switches to French. “What are you doing here then?”
The three boys exchange glances, holding a spirited conversation silently, with eyes and eyebrows and pointing.
Finally, Caelan huffs and says reproachfully, “We thought you were in Ottawa . Isabel got so mad at us calling all the time, asking for you, that she finally spilled the beans.” That explained it. Isabel promised not to tell Danny , but she didn’t say anything about the boys. Claude has to admire his sister’s sneakiness.
Claude opens his mouth to reply, but the boys aren’t done, apparently.
Carson crosses his arms over his chest like it makes him look tough instead of darling. “You’ve been gone for a month,” he announces. “Are you moving out?”
Claude freezes, unsure about how to answer the question. He clears his throat, but before he can, Cameron pipes up.
“All your stuff is still at home,” he says. “We can always hold it hostage. So you have to come back.”
Claude laughs, throwing his head back. “Naughty,” he says, ruffling Cameron’s hair. Cameron looks kind of serious though, and worried. They all do, actually, so Claude stops laughing. “I’m not sure,” he answers Carson seriously. “I’m sorry, buddy.”
“Is it because Papa is in love with you?” says Caelan delicately, like he’s skating on thin ice. His voice is reedy with nerves.
Claude gapes at him in surprise.
“Because we all thought you loved him too,” says Carson.
At some point, the kids had switched back to English, and Claude wishes that they had said it in French, where the degrees of love are much more clear-cut than the blanket use of it in English.
“I think,” he says carefully. “That the way I love your Papa, and the way your Papa loves me, are two completely different things.”
“Care to place a bet on it?” says a voice from behind them, and all four of them whirl around to face Danny, who’s standing behind the couch with his arms crossed over his chest. He, unlike Carson, actually looks pretty threatening.
The kids start talking over each other, shocked at being caught.
“Papa,” says Carson. “I can explain—,”
Caelan, more savvy, says in French, “We finished early at the library, and we decided that—,”
Danny holds a hand up, trying to still the rush of explanations, but not before Cameron can say, loudly, “We missed Claude, Papa.” Cameron’s statement has the opposite effect of a ripple—it sucks up all the other sounds and leaves Claude’s ears ringing.
At that, Danny’s face softens, and he rubs a hand over his face. Claude notices that Danny looks tired himself, bags under his eyes. He’s unshaven. Claude’s chest tightens and he looks down at his clenched fists in his lap.
“Boys, go wait in the car,” he says finally. “I need to say something to Claude.”
The boys almost fall over each other in their rush to leave. Claude moves to stand up but Danny waves at him to stay seated, and sits down beside him.
“They do miss you,” he says, without any preamble. His eyes search Claude’s face, and Claude hopes the large welt is gone from his cheek. Danny smiles a little, but it’s not the cheeky grin Claude knows and loves so well. It’s more the smile of a weary general at the end of a long campaign, thankful that it’s almost over.
“I miss them too,” Claude says softly.
“Me too?” asks Danny. He reaches out and takes one of Claude’s clenched fists into his hand, working at the fingers until Claude’s hand falls open and he can slip his fingers between Claude’s. It’s sweet, and Claude can’t help but lean into Danny a little. He inhales the scent of Danny’s shampoo, his cologne, the musk underneath that’s all Danny. It brings him back to that night, and he has to pull away before he kisses Danny or something.
“Of course,” Claude says.
“So come home,” Danny says. He sounds like he’s at the end of his rope.
“I can’t,” Claude replies, tensing. Danny has a grip on his hand though, in case he decides to bolt.
“If it’s about that night,” Danny says. “If you regret it—,”
“I don’t,” Claude says, more viciously than he’d expected. “That’s the problem.”
Danny just looks at him.
“I don’t regret it at all,” says Claude. “I want it to happen again and again.”
“Oh,” Danny says. The tone of his voice is familiar. “Claude.”
Claude forces himself to look into Danny’s eyes, and Danny says, “I love you. I’ve been replaying that night over and over in my head since you left, and there’s nothing about it I would change.” He makes a face. “Except maybe not waking up with you the next morning.”
Claude’s shaking a little, but Danny’s hand around his is sure. His voice is steady, as he continues, “I want to be with you, Claude. I want to go to bed with you, and wake up with you, and take showers and walks and cook breakfast with you. I’ve wanted that for a while.”
“Danny,” Claude says. “But the boys—,”
“You heard them,” Danny says. “They don’t have any problem with it. They’ve asked me about it before, actually,” he continues wryly. “And wow, was that a conversation I wasn’t expecting to have with them. But it doesn’t mean I never wanted to have it. You’re my best friend, Claude.” He squeezes Claude’s hand. Claude laughs, in spite of himself, and Danny looks relieved.
“So what do we do now?” Claude asks softly.
“We go home,” Danny says. “With the kids. We’ll feed them, and put them to bed, and then we can have a repeat of that night, only tomorrow morning you’ll still be there when I wake up.”
He makes it sound so easy. It makes Claude’s heart hope.
“Okay,” he agrees. Danny laughs before leaning forward to kiss Claude, briefly. It’s nothing but a press of lips against lips but it’s more than Claude ever expected to get from Danny again that he goes weak with it.
“We went through this whole thing backwards, didn’t we?” Claude says, letting Danny pull him to his feet. “I mean, other people get together before moving in and having kids and dogs and a life together.”
“Would you change anything?” Danny asks.
Claude grins at him, wide and bright. “I really wouldn’t.”
“I thought so,” Danny says, smiling back. “Neither would I.”