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Mello rubs at his nose, stained thick, scarlet blush from the biting winter cold. Cold means figure skating and figure skating means hockey season.
Tremendous news for the town, who’s residents thrive off wintertime sports and the subsequent tourism. Tremendous irritation for Mello, co-captain of the town’s ice-skating team. Over the summer, the rink is their terrain. Skirting into fall means sharing and winter means all out territorial standoffs.
Last year, there had been two separate arenas—one for the men, one for the women. But even raising taxes couldn’t prevent budget cuts and one of the rinks was closed until further notice. Construction, they said. Mello knew better than to think it was anything other than a death sentence.
Compromises had been scarce and building managers were more than happy to leave it to the teams to sort things out.
“Sorting things out” is what leads to Mello, at seven in the morning with thick black leggings and a matching turtle neck, staring down the hockey team’s captain.
“Do I hafta say it again? The guys need the rink this mornin’. Gotta get our practice time in.”
They’re deadlocked at center ice, Mello snarling at hazel eyes trapped behind amber tinted safety goggles. He’s small, compared to many of the other players, standing just centimeters beneath himself. His visible skin is stained with a constellation of muddy freckles, red hair jutting out carelessly in waved chaos over his head.
“Over my dead body,” is the first thing to leave Mello’s mouth.
His body is burning. On the ice, sweat turns frigid, slicked down his neck, the dip in his back, the center of his chest and under his arms. Pulled out of his groove to deal with this shit.
“Aren’t girls supposed to be nicer?” he taunts, because he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Mello isn’t co-captain because of his skill, but because he doesn’t take shit from gnats like this guy.
Mello keeps his lips pursed.
“C’mon, there’s a big game comin’ up this weekend. You don’t wanna be difficult, do you?” he adds. One of the other players laughs, and it only eggs him on. “No one likes fussy women, yeah?”
Oh, fuck this guy.
“I’ll show you difficult you little—”
Halle sees it coming from a mile away. She’s co-captain for a reason—Mello’s headstrong loyalty turns to a furious temper in the blink of an eye. Someone has to take on the unfortunate job of talking him down. She’s the best at it, and she’s the second scariest.
“Why don’t we each take half of the ring?” It’s better than nothing,” she offers.
Mello doesn’t want to budge.
This guy’s got a shit eating grin that he wants to smack right off his freckled face.
“Yeah, let’s do half and half. My boys love a little competition.”
“That why you all bang each other’s girlfriends?” Mello quips.
“’Least we’re banging girls, yeah?”
“Yo, Matt! We good here or not?” a towering man with fluffed, black hair calls over.
It’s done, then, with Matt’s attention wavering. “Yeah, B, we’re good!” He shouts back, giving Mello a quick wink before making his departure. It’s Halle trying to cool him down and Wedy dousing gasoline onto an already volatile temper.
“It’s not a big deal. We don’t need that much space anyway,” Halle, the voice of reason argues.
“I think you should knock his face off,” Wedy counters. “You saw his teeth, right? You think he’d learn after getting popped that many times.” Half of his front tooth had been missing, a few others marred on the left side of his mouth. Either a fist fight or a puck to the face.
Or both.
Mello keeps his mouth shut when he takes to the ice. Well, tries to. He’s close to boiling over, but revenge is a dish best served cold and he knows that sometimes it’s all about the slow burn.
The boys peel by them intentionally fast, near enough that Mello can feel the whip of air against his face when they buzz past. A puck cracks itself just too close to the barrier next to Misa’s head. It should be the final straw, but she says it’s okay with tears in her eyes, and makes Mello let it go.
It’s a botched Axel jump with Matt’s skate bumping his that does it.
Mello tumbles, hands catching on searing ice. His knees scrape and it’s a miracle that his ankle doesn’t get bent out of shape.
The hockey team is howling and Matt, the aggressor, shoots his way back over while he picks himself up.
Wedy’s right.
“Looks like you took a pretty rough tumble—you gotta be more careful out there,” Matt cackles. “We wouldn’t want someone to get hurt,” he taunts, and Mello spills over, molten adrenaline that makes his skin crawl.
He swallows.
“It’s fine,” Mello dismisses, brushing at the wet stains seeped over his banged-up knees. He can feel the rigid confusion radiating from Matt’s clumsy body. “I get it,” he says with a clipped snicker.
Matt, dumbfounded, blinks at him, unlatches his teeth from his bottom lip. “You do?” It’s a different tune, far milder than anything he’d previously seen come from this menace.
“Yeah,” he confirms, gliding forward on the aching balls of his feet. “And hey, check this out.”
Mello’s wearing rings, and the backhand that catches Matt’s right cheek blasts black spots over his vision.
--
“What were you thinking?” Near, his roommate, chastises when he gets home. The smack turns to a purpled welt by the end of practice. It hurts like a bitch and he’s sitting at the kitchen table while his roommate tries to dab an ice pack at his face. “They got you good, your face is gonna look funky after this,” he mumbles. Yeah, not helping.
He presses just too hard against Matt’s face and he grits his teeth in protest. “Watch it, dude, that hurts.”
“That’s what you get. You always have to go around pushing everyone’s buttons, don’t you?”
That’s an understatement. Matt just shrugs and flashes his chipped teeth in a lopsided grin. “I didn’t think he’d have that much of a hook.” Maybe it’s an attention thing, maybe he just thinks it’s funny.
Near sighs, wide black eyes shining with less than refined disappointment. “He? You’re talking about the one on the skating team, right? That’s Mello.”
“Mello?” Weird name for a weird guy.
“He’s the only reason the team has its practices secured there. They’ve been trying to cut those girls out of the budget for years.”
That piques Matt’s interested. “Damn, seriously?”
“He’s the muscle and Halle’s the negotiator. They’re ferocious.”
Thanks for the heads up. Matt winces again. Tingling subsided to a stinging ache, waving flames through his face when he moved his jaw the wrong way.
Better than between the eyes. He’s had enough nose splints put on in his life that another more seems almost ridiculous. And it’s really only a matter of time before he’ll catch another one to the face. He thinks it makes him look like a professional.
Near says it makes him look reckless. “Seriously, be careful with him. He can hold a grudge like you wouldn’t’ believe.”
Whatever the hell that means.
With these types of things, “No” means “Do it.” He shrugs, readjusting the ice pack on his face. “He’s just puffin’ himself up.”
“Matt, he nearly slapped your head off your shoulders.”
Yeah.
Not so great at learning his lesson.
--
Mello decides that a slap isn’t enough and that he needs to take things into his own hands. This meat head wants to play hard-ball? No problem.
He shows up at the ass crack of dawn. Usually, by himself. It’s serene to practice without distraction, without music, without background noise.
This time, he brings company. Halle wouldn’t approve, but Wedy, filled with a similar spite, brings the bag of zip ties as requested. The boys won’t be around for a few more hours, giving them plenty of time to hone their craft.
Mello works quick, lacing the ties through each of the locker’s holes, zipping them tight as he can. “You’re positive they leave their shit here overnight?”
“The hell else would they have locks on there for?”
Mello peers inside for security. Yeah. The lockers fucking reek, and there’s the hint of equipment tucked behind the metal doors. No idea who’s whose, so better get them all. Just in case.
Do these guys just not do their fucking laundry?
“They’re gonna have to use more than scissors to get these off,” Wedy cackles. “You’re horrible.”
“I know.” Mello hums, never ceasing from his work. “Didn’t you say Matt left his car here overnight?”
“Yeah, him and B got plastered after practice. Saw ‘im stumbling out of here after I finished up with Halle. It’s a Red Camaro in the back.”
“Good.”
“The hell’re you gonna do?” She pauses for a moment. “Do not slash his tires—there’s cameras all over the place.”
“I’d never.” Oh, he absolutely would. “What gave you that idea?” he asks with a faux innocence.
“Well. It’s you.”
Mello shrugs. “Follow me.”
In the parking lot, he fumbles with a few more ties, looping them through the doors of Matt’s Camaro. “This bitch’s got a nice car.” He pulls at the handle. Fuck, not good enough. “That shopping cart still ditched around the corner?”
“It’s gotta be. Who else’d want it?”
“Bring it over.”
It’s rusty and the wheels don’t fucking work, and that helps it serve its purpose. Zip tie secured through the side door's handle, Mello sets it in place and pats his hands against his leggings.
“I think our work here is done,” Wedy hums, admiring their work.
“Back to practice?”
“Absolutely.”
When the boys finally show up, Matt’s red faced, hands balled into shaking fists at his sides.
If Mello’s going to start a war, he’s going to do it in style.
--
Okay.
Good news—he definitely got to Mello.
Bad news—Mello got him right back.
And he’s hungover as shit. His brain throbs behind his eyes, plagued with a never-ending cotton mouth despite how much water he’s put away since waking up. It was the whiskey that did him in.
The boys are close to throwing a fit, zip ties adding a half an hour to their setup time. None of them have scissors, and it’s only B’s pocket knife that ends up saving their asses.
Near, he’s learning, is right.
Mello’s the type to kill a fly with a sledgehammer.
Fuck.
B catches him on the shoulder with what’s supposed to be a reassuring smack. “Looks like we found someone even more hardheaded than you, huh?” he says, that ever-present wildness still bright in his eyes. How the hell’s this guy so chipper with the amount he drank last night?
Would have been funnier if his head didn’t feel like it was about to pop.
After practice, Mello makes sure to catch his gaze from across the ring and blow him a kiss.
Fuck ‘im.
Matt fights fire with fire and fills his locker with shaving cream. Ten cans of it, he and B slip back into the building that night and make their way into the women’s locker room.
“Can’t believe they let him change in here,” B points out. Much more organized, the women—and Mello—have their names taped to their rented lockers. They cut the lock and there’s nothing in there, but it’s a statement, nonetheless.
“I don’t think they have much to worry about.”
“I bet he’s a freak in the sheets.”
Matt barks out a laugh. “You think so?”
“C’mon, man, just look at him.”
“Would you give ‘im a go?”
“Would you?”
Matt snickers. “Nah, you kidding me? He’s fuckin’ crazy.”
“Man, I didn’t say you had to date him. We’re talking a one-night stand.”
“I’m tellin’ you, no way. I think he’d smother me with my pillow or somethin’ after I pass out.”
B takes a step back to observe the locker, now filled to the brim with foam. “After this? I think he’s going to kill you either way.” He slams the locker shut and slips the broken lock back on. “A little hair of the dog?”
“Yeah, dude, I’m hungover as shit.”
--
At first, it’s the whole team. Then, it whittles down to just Matt and Mello antagonizing each other. At first, it was about the space. Now, it’s personal. It’s a challenge, to see who can push each other the furthest.
It’s weeks of it. Weeks and weeks and weeks and finally, Halle can’t take it anymore. She’s sitting cross legged on Mello’s bed while he sits on the floor, her hands buried in his hair. She brushes through, then combs through again with her shaped, oval nails.
“Mello, you gotta chill on this,” she all but begs. “You talk about him more than Misa talks about her boyfriend. It’s driving me up a fucking wall.”
“I would just let it go, but he—”
“See? You’re doing it again. You two just egg each other on and it’s fucking ridiculous. You’re a bickering married couple.”
“No fucking way.”
“Yes fucking way. You two are obsessed with each other.”
Mello tsks, head jerking back when Halle tugs at his hair again. “Don’t joke about that. I don’t know anything about the guy.”
“Yeah?”
“Seriously, I don’t.”
“When does he get to practice?”
“Seven on weekdays.”
“Weekdays?”
“Saturdays he shows up at eight.”
“Jesus, Mello.”
His face is burning, and a twinge of defensiveness pricks at his gut. “Don’t ‘Jesus, Mello’ me! That’s not an abnormal thing to know.”
“When’s his birthday?”
“February first.”
“And his address?”
“It’s over by—”
“Mello.”
Okay, okay, maybe he’s been digging a little too deep. Mello’s blush is so furious that it starts to seep from his face to the back of his neck.
--
Rain, as they get further into the season, turns to snow that sticks more like a slush over the parking lot. Snow that leaves Mello, underneath his multitude of layers, still wet and frozen. Chilled to the bone, he’s rubbing his hands together, trying to puff hot air between them as he settles into his car and cranks the heat.
Fate’s a funny and infuriating thing.
Across the lot, he hears the whine of a car trying to start, reverberating over and over and never bringing the engine to life. He doesn’t have cables in the back, but with a roll of his eyes, he backs his car out of the spot and heads towards the noise.
As soon as he catches sight of the red Camaro, he groans. He should just peel out of the parking lot. But Matt’s hunched under the hood of his car, the snow sticking and melting down the back of his puffed winter coat. His hair, underneath his knitted grey beanie, is starting to plaster to his face. Even without the windows rolled down, he can hear Matt cursing.
A guilty conscience is a hell of a thing.
Reluctantly, he rolls down his window, pulling up behind Matt’s car. “Hey, jackass,” he says loud enough to grasp the hockey player’s attention. His lips are pursed, but he pulls himself away from his failed maintenance long enough to entertain Mello. “You need a jump?”
He can see the hesitation in Matt’s eyes, then a defeated sigh. “Don’t have any cables. I took ‘em out of my car when I was cleanin’ it out the other day.”
Mello rolls his eyes. “That was a stupid thing to do.”
“Tell me about it.” Matt’s fishing his phone out of his pocket, typing furiously away at it as he leans back against his Camaro.
“The hell’re you doing?”
“Callin’ triple A,” he says flatly.
Mello’s already kicking himself for this. “God damnit.”
“What?”
He groans, but waves Matt over. “I’m giving you a ride home. Get in the car.”
“What? No, I—”
“Do it.”
He doesn’t have much of a choice.
Matt finally relents and piles himself into the passenger seat, sopping wet with droplets from his hair streaking down his face. It’s one of the only times Mello’s seen him out of his practice gear. His face is flushed from the biting cold, hands protected only in a pair of ratty fingerless cloves. He hadn’t noticed the nail polish before, hands always hidden by his gloves during practice.
They drive in silence. It’s uncomfortable, a tense pause on their rivalry because it’s freezing enough that Mello’s not about to leave any idiot, even Matt, outside in the cold. From the corner of his eyes, he can feel the hockey player occasionally peering over at him.
It’s worse that underneath his gear and his arrogant personality he’s attractive. His teeth are a little janked up and his body’s littered with cuts and bruises, but his jadeite eyes shine against the constellation of freckles on his face, and the hint of a beard dusts ginger over his jaw. His features are gentle, unlike Mello’s sharpened cheekbones and slim, almost bony frame.
It’s better to keep his eyes on the road.
Matt clears his throat and props his elbow up on the window. “Uh, thanks for the ride.”
“Don’t mention it.” And then he adds. “To anybody.”
“You think I want everyone knowing I had to rely on you for a ride home?”
Mello rolls his eyes. What’s this guy’s deal? He hates the local sports players. Arrogant, rude, annoying as shit. Meat headed idiots that operated as a pack and hardly thought for themselves. And Matt, the king of those idiots.
In front of his house, he shifts in his seat. What the hell are they supposed to say to each other?“See you tomorrow,” Matt blurts out with an uncomfortable wave as he gets out.
Mello scowls. “Don’t remind me.”
--
Matt forgot his shit in the locker room. It fucking sucks, getting caught in the middle of a figure skating competition that has the rink just as packed as on the nights of his games. The women are beautiful, glistening, and stuffed into leotards managed only through impeccably miniscule diets and brutal workout regiments.
It’s easier to make his way around, climbing up the bleachers and sneaking around the back. No one wants to take those spots, and its far better than squeezing his way through competitive parents, ogling women, and screaming children.
At the exit, he can’t help but take a peek at the ice.
Mello.
Hair pulled into a tight braid, he glides across the ice with a flowing competence that captivates the crowd. His skin shimmers under the rink’s lighting. The aerodynamics seem impossible to Matt. He’s entranced, watching this boy take to the ice with spins and jumps that he could never imagine imitating.
He’s beautiful, Matt finds himself thinking. Wants to shake the thought away, but he’s trapped, eyes following this menace and striking an uncomfortable electricity down his spine.
Stunning.
He’s perfect. A God amongst men.
Until he isn’t and cuts it too close to the barrier. He scuffs it with his elbow and stumbles. Thank God, he doesn’t fall, but there’s a gasp that seems to ripple through the crowd.
Even Matt, peering on, feels his stomach drop.
Mello kind of sucks.
Mello works harder than anyone else he’s seen on the ice. Certainly, more than himself. By no means naturally talented, he’s gotten this far through sheer effort and endless hours alone. A hardheadedness that manifests on the ice and in cold personality.
Like this, he’s breathtaking. Ethereal, with honed grace and a concentrated set to his jaw. By the time his performance ends, Matt’s made his way to the front row. Leaning with a forearm against the barrier, he watches Mello, chest heaving, take his bow.
When their eyes lock, he coughs and jerks himself towards the door.
In his Camaro, he presses his forehead to his steering wheel and breathes out an infuriated “Fuck me.”
--
At practice, Mello doesn’t make eye contact. They hit the rink at the same time, and it’s always an opportunity to push each other’s buttons, to get that one up, that jab that always stings with a little too much truth.
Today is pursed lips, adverted eyes, and a glower that Matt by no means wants pointed in his direction.
Even more shocking is the dip of concern that’s lodged itself into the pit of his stomach. That’s no good, but there’s a guilty conscience that comes with the way Mello nearly pummeled onto the ice, his skates knocking together and his hip giving out against the barrier.
He’s arrogant, he’s vain, and when it comes down to it, he’s more insecure than anyone else Matt knows. With rigid posture and shoulders tensed up to his neck, he fumbles with his skates, pouring out more than a few choice words in the process.
When Matt plops himself down beside him, he doesn’t even look up. “Beat it.”
“I saw your performance last night,” he begins softly. It’s unexpected, and Mello’s shoulders buckle up that much more. He’s trying to decide if fight or flight is the better option. While he simmers and avoids eye contact, his fingers play halfheartedly with his shoelaces.
“Quit it with the pity,” Mello spits, tightening the laces on one of his skates.
“I know better than to give you the runaround.” Saying anything about his performance would be like talking to a wall. But there was a glide in Mello’s footwork that he would have killed for. Something that came only through grueling repetition and discipline that no one on the hockey team came close to.
Instead, he chooses to dig his grave in another direction. Didn’t think much about it, but the words were coming out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Your hair looked nice.”
Mello snorts a laugh that turned to an audible howl. “Excuse me?”
“The braid framed—you know what? I’m trying to be nice here, alright?” He doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he digs through his bag while he talks and pulls out a chocolate bar. “Want some?”
“The fuck is wrong with you? It’s six in the morning,” Mello criticizes, but still holds his hand out for his own piece. “And I told you—I don’t need you to throw me a fucking pity party.”
“Like I give a shit how you did,” Matt snaps back. “You’re just no fucking fun when you’re moping all over the place.”
Mello shoves the chocolate in his mouth to hide the hint of a grin on his face. “You’re a weird guy.” With a quick middle finger, he secures his skates and hits the ice.
He watches longer than he should before hitting the locker room.
After practice, digging through his jacket pocket, he bursts out laughing.
Mello stole his fucking chocolate.
--
The next day, Mello comes with his hair in a tight side braid and a little more mascara than he’s ever had during practice. Halle’s the first to catch on, but Wedy’s the first to pipe up.
“Didn’t know we were playing dress up today,” she teases, running a manicured nail down the center of the braid. Mello smacks her hand away.
“I’m just trying something different,” he shrugs off, instinctively glancing to the other side of the rink.
Matt, beneath his gear, has cheekbones that are a little too high and a jawline that’s sharp and decorated in bruises. Crooked teeth hide behind chapped lips and the freckles on his face make his eyes muddied instead of what would have been a stunning emerald green.
Naturally lanky with muscles forced over.
Misa would have called it butterflies. Mello calls it indigestion.
When he looks over, Mello smooths his hand against the braid and pretends to readjust his shirt.
The hell’s gotten into him?
Halle follows his gaze across the room and figures it’s best to mind her business.
--
A week later leads to the absolute polar opposite. Back with the other players, Matt has that infuriating, lopsided grin on his face.
It’s a façade, it’s bullshit, it gets right under Mello’s skin and lights the miniscule fuse that sends his temper to all hell.
He wants to keep his good standing? Mello sucks on the front of his teeth. Matt’s an idiot. Matt should stand up for himself. Matt is embarrassed to have anything to do with the skating team because the other boys will haze him.
Mello’s going to take that and slap that control right out of his hands.
Fists won’t work and he’s admittedly fed up with fights. He’s got a practice to get back to and an idiot to set straight.
He already knows they talk about his sex life. The girls are fair game, but it’s nothing new. Nothing like poking at the guy on the team, the Nancy Boy, the queer that hangs out with a bunch of beautiful women in his spare time and sleeps with none of them.
“Pitcher or catcher?” B snickers, and Matt scoffs beside him, giving an approving punch to his bicep.
Fine.
Mello will show him.
He wants to be a tough guy?
Mello ricochets across the ice and claps his hands on either side of the hockey captain’s head.
In a move he doesn’t think too much about but knows he’ll get a reaction from, he plants a kiss with an open mouth and just enough tongue to get the point across.
Matt’s mouth is menthol and the hint of sour watermelons, furiously heated against Mello’s lips. He pushes his tongue in, grazing the chipped tooth that sits on display whenever he smiles. Fingers tangled in wild, sweat stained hair, he ends the kiss with a definitive smack.
“Why don’t you stop by my place tonight and find out?”
First, silence.
Then, an eruption from around them. The men are howling, already clapping Matt on the back and railing into him for a stint that never, from here on out, will he be able to live down.
“That’s one way to do it,” Wedy leers, the same sly smirk as always pulling at her lips.
Mello wipes the back of his hand against his mouth. His lips are sticky, lingering with the taste of Matt’s mouth. Most notably, cheap cigarettes. And is that weed? He wipes again.
“You’re crazy! I’d never do something like that!” Misa squeals, twirling around them in casual loops on her skates. “That’s why you’re so cool, Mello.”
You totally humiliated that guy!
Damn, dude you just let him kiss you like that?
We were right about him, though, weren’t we? He was tryna suck your face off, man.
“See you around, tough guy,” he jeers, and with the same wink Matt had started this off with, he makes his way off the ice.
Even from there, he could see the burning red that had seeped to the tips of Matt’s ears and the forefront of his cheeks.
Wait.
Mello thumbs at his lower lip one more time.
For the briefest of instants, Matt’s mouth had twitched to life against his. Reverberations of nervous lips, the push of tongue against his, near begging him for more.
His heart catches in his chest.
Matt kissed him back.
--
“Don’t you have some jackasses to impress?” he grunts when he spots Matt in the bleachers the next morning. Here even earlier than Mello this time.
Matt looks fucking pissed. He’s elated because that means he’s gotten under this guy’s skin. Finally, laid back Matt is boiling, spilling over, with a darkened glare that almost has Mello intimidated but mostly brings the bubble of a laugh to his lips.
“The hell’s your deal? They won’t shut the fuck up about your little stunt yesterday!” Matt all but screams.
Hadn’t he been the one to cast the first stone? An eye for an eye, bitch.
“Everything’s on the table until you’re losing?” Mello shoots back. “Looks like you can’t take the heat.” He lets his gaze drop down Matt’s body and back up in its own time, drinking in his rigid stance. He settles on Matt’s lips, curved to a downward scowl on his freckled face.
Fight with me, he wants to challenge. Instead, he crosses his arms over his waist, hands lingering at his hipbones. Matt’s anger is overwhelming, palpitating, irresistible. Mello stomps up the bleachers, stopping just one short of his rival. Like this, Matt peers down at him, nearly a whole head above him. It’s different, it’s exhilarating, it has heat rushing to his gut and between his legs.
Matt’s squirming, and Mello wants to pounce. Put the final nail in the coffin.
Matt beats him to the punch, dipping down to mash their lips together in a kiss with an intensity that has Mello gasping, shivering at the tongue that pushes past his teeth and against his own. Gloved hands smooth up his back, catching his shirt and pushing fingertips into the knobs of his spine. God damn it god damnit goddamnit-
Matt pulls away, leaving him empty with only a hint of menthol rolling over his glossed lips. He wants to dive forward, yank this jerk down and push their hips together, have him slide his hands down, further.
More.
“Let’s take that offer up at my place instead.”
--
Mello’s as vicious in bed as he is on the ice. He pins Matt down on his bed, hips locked together and legs splayed on either side of him. Staring up with hazy, bloodshot eyes, he laughs, rolling his hips up and earning a sharp moan from the figure skater. Matt isn’t overly muscular, but his body is solid, firm under Mello’s rigid grasp.
The joint they smoked on the way over’s got his limbs tingling.
“You’re tryna make this a competition too, huh?” Matt grunts, bucking his hips to send him tumbling forward, catching his hands on either side of his head. “I’m still fuckin’ pissed at you, y’know.”
That gets a laugh out of Mello. “Show me,” he baits, his hand slipping beneath the waistband of Matt’s pants, nails teasing at the tip of his cock through his boxer briefs.
The hand is slapped away, pinned to the mattress so Matt can grapple him off and press the figure skater chest first into the mattress.
Mello inhales sharp. This is too much. Splayed out on the bed, Mello’s bare legs are pinned down by Matt’s hips, erection pressing hard and strained against his boxer briefs. Fire roars in crushing waves, licking heat through his cock and in the pit of his stomach. Matt rolls forward, length pressing against his ass. He shudders, and the hand, surprisingly gentle, that rolls up his back is driving him out of his mind.
Matt’s taunting him.
Mello is a demon beneath him. He wants the rest of his clothes fucking off of him. He makes sure Matt can see, when he cranes his neck, how he licks his lips a little too intentionally and lets his tongue show behind parted teeth.
“Woah,” he whispers, tracing down Mello’s ribs and over his toned stomach. “That’s a good fuckin’ look on you.”
The last of their willpower is stripped away with the press of Matt’s cock against his ass and his hand between his legs. “Touch yourself for me, Mel.”
The nickname knocks the breath from his chest and shakily, with a frantic nod, he does as he’s told. Matt all but tears the rest of the clothing from his body, forcing Mello’s hand between his own legs while using his knee to spread his limbs apart.
When lubed fingers push into him, and his hand’s starting to slip away, only to be forced back between his legs. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” Matt breathes against his ear, relishing in the way Mello tightens around his fingers.
He comes fast, spilling white over the crevices of his own fingers and over the sheets. “It’s rude to go first,” Matt growls into his shoulder blade, rolling himself forward. He pushes into Mello, slow, hands locked on his hips. “I haven’t even got to fuckin’ you yet.”. Beneath him, Mello’s sucking in shallow gasps, eyes rolling back when a hand clamps down on the back of his neck, pinning him down “Bur you can’t help it, can you?”
Down to his hilt, he pauses for a moment to make sure Mello’s adjusted. With bitten down nails, his fingers tangle into Mello’s bob and yank his head back. His throat is an unconquered map, blemished by the kiss of Matt’s teeth against his jugular. He sucks too hard and too loud, leaving glistening clots down his throat and the side of his shoulder.
He fucks Mello with his hips slapping loud against his ass, pushing this already spent boy to his limit. “C’mon, nothin’ to say?” he growls, jerking his head back and forth. He hits something inside the figure skater that makes him gasp, his back arching and pushing himself back against Matt. “See? There we go.”
“Fuck.”
“Tha’s all?” Another deep thrust and a roll of his hips has Mello melting into the sheets. “How many times’ve you thought of this?”
Mello whines, and Matt can feel the heat pool between his legs. Shit. “You think of me fuckin’ you all the time, don’t you? Like this.” The figure skater’s fingers are clawing at the sheets with white knuckles, chest heaving with desperate sucks of air.
He doesn’t get an answer, because he comes with a low groan, pushing Mello’s face into his pillow and spilling inside him.
When he rolls off, the other boy follows, trapping him in an exhausted kiss.
--
“Come to the game with me.”
Halle can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth at first. “The hockey game? Tonight?”
“What other game would I be talking about?”
He’d better watch it with the attitude. “I didn’t think hockey was your thing. Especially as of late,” she says sheepishly, holding her hands up.
“Will you go or not?”
“Relax, I’ll go.”
“Alright. I’ll pick you up at eight. I’ve got an extra helmet.”
“Wow, taking me on the motorcycle? Must be a big night.”
Mello laughs way too loud, and she finds herself following after him. “Should we invite the girls?”
“Fuck it, let’s make a thing of it. We’ll meet up at Tony’s beforehand. Pizza?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know, aren’t we supposed to be watching our carbs?” and snickers again when she sees him roll his eyes. “Pizza’s fine, they’ll love a night out.”
--
When Mello shows up to their small town pizza joint in a thick, black cabled sweater and grey skinny jeans, Misa’s the first one to be all over him. “Look at you, acting like this is a date!” she squeals, digging her manicured fingers into his shoulders in an awful pseudo massage. “Which one of us’re you trying to impress? You know I’m already with Light, so I’m off the list,” she chatters away. “Who’s it gonna be, Halle? Wedy?” she wriggles her eyebrows, and Mello tsks in distaste.
“Lay off him, Misa-Misa, you know he’s never going to swing this way,” Wedy says with a wave of her hand. “But wouldn’t it be fun? Which one would you pick?”
Mello knows this is a dangerous game. “Pass.”
“Smart answer,” Wedy reassures him with a wink.
Two pizzas and a mess of breadsticks later, Halle’s on the back of Mello’s motorcycle and the rest of the girls are in Misa’s car, following behind to the rink. It’s different, with the lot full of cars and the stands full of chattering, yelling patrons.
Mello gets a beer from the concession stand and trades Misa sips of it for the flash she’s got hidden in her purse. By the time the game starts, his chest is tingling with new warmth and his head’s lighter with an intoxicating confidence.
Matt ricochets down the ice. Their team is good, but these guys are the reigning champs, and they’re determined to put up a vicious fight.
And hell, it isn’t a game until there’s blood on the ice.
One of them takes a swing at Matt. That’s all fine and good until the swing’s returned by a slip of hockey stick into their rival’s shin. These guys have a temper that near rivals Mello’s when they’re in the thick of it and Matt’s not going to take the loss.
His back cracks against the barrier and Mello catches the air fluttering out of his body, knocked from his lungs in an instant.
“Hey!”
When Mello screams, it catches the girls by surprise. None of them say it, but something’s changed and they eye the way Mello so passionately shouts towards the ice, all but slamming his fist against the dividing glass.
“You son of a bitch, you’re going to take that? Knock his fucking teeth in!”
For once in his life, Matt does as he’s told.
--
His back is killing him. Matt’s all but limping out of the locker room after the game, rubbing at his chin where there’s sure to be a furious bruise tomorrow morning. By the end of the night if he’s particularly unlucky.
“You can’t talk a big game then go on out there and play like shit,” Mello criticizes, crossing his arms over his chest. He leans against the concrete exterior of the arena, watching the flock of people exit the stadium. Intermittently, hands slap on Matt’s shoulders and back to congratulate him on the win.
In these instances, Mello turns his head away, letting his hair fall into his face. And for Christ’s sake, why is he nervous? His stomach churns wildly, tossing an acidic paranoia to the back of his throat. He doesn’t belong here. A fucking thing to discover after he’d sent everyone else on their way.
“Yeah, yeah,” Matt dismisses, rubbing at his neck. “I need a fucking beer.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Do you, like, uh,” Matt starts, rubbing his hand haphazardly against the back of his neck. “Want to come?”
“Gross, is this a date?”
Matt snorts out a laugh. “Yeah.”
“Fine,” he huffs, but the grin is getting wider on his face as they head towards Matt’s car.
“We could, uh, hit my place later, too.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll let you give me a go instead,” Matt quips with a quick wink.
Mello swallows. Why the hell not? “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
Wedy sees them leave, and absolutely sees the hand that Mello has on the small of the hockey player’s back.
--
“You’re late, Mello!” Misa barrels at the top of her lungs. He exhales heavily. Yeah, he should have seen this one coming. He switches his latte into his other hand so he can check his watch.
“Practice doesn’t start for twenty minutes.”
“I’m saying late for you!”
“I wanted to stop and get coffee,” he tries to lie, but that’s not good enough for her. She’s not the smartest girl, but when it comes to stuff like this, she’s quick as a whip.
“With who?”
“What?” he sputters. “I just woke up late, relax.”
“But you never get coffee in the morning,” she prattles on. Jesus, when did this woman get to be so observant? She’s all over him, peering over his face for any hint of misinformation. He knows already that she’s not going to drop it. “Tell me!”
“Jesus, I’m telling you, I dropped Halle off and passed the fuck out last night, alright?” No way.
“Then why do you look so tired?” Gee, thanks.
“Can you at least let me go get changed before we get into this?”
“Nonsense, I’ll go with you!” Right. Girls never went to the locker rooms by themselves. And Mello, by proxy, had been absorbed into the women’s locker room with the rest of the team.
“It’s fine, I’m—”
“You’re hiding something!” She whines, and Mello knows this is it, this is how it ends for him. Or, he thinks it’s this.
The jury’s verdict is made the instant Matt comes prattling onto the ice, skating around lazily with a coffee cup from the same shop in his hand. Misa’s eyes light up, the satisfaction of victory and the absolute spectacle she’s seeing before her very eyes.
Matt, unbrushed hair, coffee, and tired eyes. Matt, with a mess of hickeys running down his jugular and likely beneath his shirt. He’s mortified, when this messy boy looks over at him and gives a quick, definitive nod before skating over to put his coffee at the edge of the rink.
“Oh. My. GOD!” Misa screeches in his ear. “You’re kidding me. You didn’t.”
She already knows from the panicked look in his eyes that he did. “No, I didn’t stay over his place last night, I—”
“I didn’t ask if you stayed over his place.”
Hook, line, and sinker. “No, I just—”
“How big is his dick? He’s one of those lanky white guys, I bet he’s huge, and—”
“I’m not talking to you about his dick.”
That only encourages her. “You totally banged him!” Misa’s mind is made up, and she’s not wrong. “The girls are gonna freak! I told them something was up. I knew it, I knew it!”
With that, she’s gone.
Across the ice, Matt gives him a less than subtle grin.
It’s the first practice in months where the teams leave each other alone.
--
The rink is closed on Sundays, reflecting the town’s still puritanical laws. This time, Mello doesn’t mind, curled up in a bed that isn’t his with a freckled arm draped over his waist. Matt’s dead asleep, face pressed half into Mello’s shoulder and half against his armpit, trapping him in place.
It’s bad enough that he’d tumbled himself into this situation.
It’s worse that Matt fucks him the way he does—with an insatiable hunger that leaves Mello flustered and near intoxicated from the taste of Matt in his mouth. Of the press of Matt’s hands down his body. And even now, like this, cramped up against him.
He shifts gently as he can, slipping his arm around Matt’s waist and pulling him closer. His skin is burning hot and absentmindedly, Mello traces lazy circles around one of the bruises that stains his hip.
When Matt pulls himself out of a heavy sleep, it’s with a pained stretch and another nuzzle against Mello’s body. “Hey,” he whispers, securing his arms around Mello’s waist to pull himself up and then pull the figure skater on top of him, near pressing their chests together.
Mello’s pulled down into a warm kiss, Matt’s fingers slipping into his hair and soaking him in, melting their bodies together in an embrace that has him hard all over again. It’s like this, that his hand is dragged down, lead to Matt’s cock.
“Fuck,” he gasps, rolling his hips up against Mello’s palm. “You, too.” He runs his nails up Mello’s length, earning a sharp inhale and another kiss full of tongue and a little too much teeth. He’s a little too slow and the figure skater’s a little too fast, tearing the orgasm from him before he can grit out for him to hold off.
“You always that fast?” Mello taunts, dipping to bite again at his bruised throat.
“No thanks to you,” Matt grunts, but moves to flip his lover over and smooth his hands down his chest. Mello’s pressed into the sheets, eyes dark and his cock strained hard between his legs.
Fuck.
He’s already done, but he’s enamored with Mello’s body. Fingers tracing over the golden blond hairs that dust underneath his navel and down his legs, he blows a mouthful of hot air over Mello’s cock that earns a choked moan.
More.
He tongues at Mello’s tip before dipping down and taking him to the back of his throat, lips nearly brushing at his hilt. It’s been a while since he’s done this, but he feels Mello throb against the back of his mouth and catches the flutter of his eyes before hands tangle in his hair and pull him back down.
Matt holds his hips down when Mello tries to fuck his throat. This is a boy that’s used to control and one that he wants so very badly to strip it from. More than intentionally, he slows himself down, bobbing his head and lapping his tongue at the underside of Mello’s cock with painstakingly slow swipes.
“Quit it with that,” he spits, trying desperately to thrust up for more against Matt’s lips.
He hums against Mello and takes him down the back of his throat again.
“Matt, you fucking—”
He replaces his mouth with calloused hand, rotating his wrist with frantic jerks that kill the words on Mello’s tongue. He comes with a guttural moan and rolled thrusts against Matt’s fist.
He smears the come over Mello’s lower stomach, laughing when the other boy gives him a dissatisfied wrinkle of his nose. “Love makin' a mess of you,” Matt slurs into his hipbone, and Mello, after running his hands through his hair, nudges him off.
“Holy shit,” is all Mello lets out when Matt curls back into him, nuzzling back into the crook of his neck. “Coffee?”
“Yeah. I just gotta shower first.”
Matt forgets to mention he has a roommate.
It’s in the kitchen, searching through yet another one of the cabinets for grounds while Matt is in the shower, that Mello hears the shuffle of feet behind him. “Hey, where do you keep your—”
The words die on his lips when he turns and sees a head of fluffy white hair and blank, onyx eyes. This kid, who doesn’t look a day over eighteen, peers through him with wide eyes and the hint of a smile curled on his lips.
His first thought is about his hair, knotted from the night before. Then, it’s about the fucking night before. They were not, by any means, quiet. And either way, the hickeys streaked down his neck weren’t doing him any favors.
“It’s in that one,” he says slowly, incredulously, with a finger extended towards the cabinet lined up next to the fridge.
“Right.” Mello clears his throat. “Thanks.”
This kid really rubs him the wrong way.
He’s saved, mercifully, by Matt shuffling out of the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist. There’s a bite mark on his left shoulder, and his throat isn’t looking any better than Mello’s. “Oh, shit,” he babbles, slipping into the kitchen. “Sorry, uh, this’s Near.”
“Mello.” So fucking uncomfortable.
“I heard.”
He wants to crawl in on himself and die.
--
Happens often enough that clothes start ending up at each other’s apartments, and Near finds an extra toothbrush hidden under the sink behind some of Matt’s extra shampoo. Mello’s apartment becomes an assortment of extra skates, padding that takes up the closet in his entry way, and more protein powders than any man should have a use for.
In the women’s locker room—the girls have become accustomed to dragging him along with them—he tears open his sports bag to find skates, his jacket, two shirts, hygiene products, and last but not least:
No leggings.
“Shit,” he groans, rubbing at the space between his eyes. “Wedy, did you bring extra clothes with you?”
“Sorry, babe.”
“Halle?”
“Zip.”
Son of a bitch. “Okay. I need to make a quick call.”
Misa, always the detective, is all over him. “Ooooh, someone has to call their boyfriend!”
None of them can keep their nose out of his business.
They have to quiet her down when he’s on the line, knocking his foot against his locker. “Yo.”
“It’s Mello.”
“You think I don’t have your number saved in my phone by now? C’mon, I’m not that much of an asshole.”
“So, uh.”
“What? I haven’t left yet. I’m runnin’ fucking late. No thanks to you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Can you grab my leggings on the way out?”
“They in the laundry?”
Misa’s burning holes through him, and Wedy all but has to slap a hand over her mouth to keep her from interjecting. He feels the heat start to creep onto his face and under his arms, threatening to break fire over his skin. He accidentally makes eye contact with her when a defeated “They’re uh…by the bed,” has to tumble off his lips.
She’s going to fucking explode.
“Yeah. Coffee?”
“Sure.” Why not put the final nail in the coffin?
“Thanks. Love you.”
“What?”
Wait.
Shit.
I’m a fucking idiot.
He snaps the phone shut and his heart sinks to the pit of his stomach.
The twenty minutes that he has to wait for his leggings are the worst of his life. Worse than his blunder on the ice and worse than Misa’s detective work into his relationship.
Wait, relationship?
Damn it.
And everyone’s got their eyes on him. Feels like it, anyway. But the girls already know what’s up, and the guys are lingering around, waiting for their captain to get started on practice. Absolutely Mello’s fault he was late. He knew where the leggings were—piled up into a ball and stuffed between Matt’s bed and the side table.
Matt shows up again with his hair a mess and two coffees in hand. It’s bad enough that he passes one off to Mello. It’s worse that he doesn’t bother to go to the locker room to pass off his clothes.
There’s no way to cover it up.
Mello’s face burns, a deep embarrassment that he’s not sure he’s ever felt before. He coughs awkwardly, tossing the pants over his shoulders and holding the coffee between his hands, trying to suck up the warmth as if it will help the predicament he’s gotten himself into. “Listen, I didn’t—”
This time it’s Matt, in front of everyone, that plants a firm kiss on Mello’s lips. For the attention. It’s a whisper that he keeps between them, shifting to ghost a mouthful of hot air against Mello’s cheek. “I love you, too.”
Is love supposed to feel so breathlessly nauseating?