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It probably says something significant about Shawsy’s life that waking up hungover in a hotel bed with Bollig is already by far the least weird thing about his day.
The night before is mostly a hazy tequila blur, but Shawsy’s got the puzzle pieces even if his head hurts too badly for him to fit them together. Last night had been the final game of his suspension, and also the game Bollig had been out for thanks to an altercation he’d had with one of Houston’s d-men that the refs hadn’t been awfully fond of (not that the d-man had been suspended, which, fuck that). They’d spent the whole game watching in their suits and chomping at the bit to get back out there on the ice, and had afterward proceeded to get spectacularly blitzed with the guys. There had been shots. A lot of shots. And then they woke up and could read each other’s minds. What the fuck.
They’re in Bollig’s room, but Haysey’s nowhere to be found, which means he passed out somewhere else. Andrew hopes he passed out somewhere else. If they let Haysey get kidnapped and murdered, Tazer’s gonna be pissed.
“He ended up with Leddy, this isn’t CSI, dumbass,” Bollig groans, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow, and there it is again. That weird-ass mindreading thing.
“You’re a weird-ass mindreading thing.”
“Don’t try to chirp when you’re hungover, dude, you’ll hurt yourself.”
Bollig flings his arm out and smacks Andrew hard on the chest.
“Ow, fucker!”
“Whatever, you like it.”
“In your dreams could you maybe get up on this.”
Bollig snorts and thinks very loudly about how actually, by his own admission, Shawsy’s kinda easy. Shawsy takes the mature route and ignores him.
And like...that’s that? They don’t really talk about it, the whole being able to hear each other’s thoughts thing. They just roll with it, use it when it’s useful and ignore it when it’s awkward. It’s not just the mindreading thing, though-- it’s like Shawsy always knows exactly where Bollig is, and Brandon knows if he needs something, even before he does sometimes. It’s weird, but it’s nothing super life-changing.
Except, that is, on the ice.
They’re fucking machines. Seriously, it’s like they can’t be stopped. Shawsy sees plays that Bollig doesn’t, and Bollig makes plays that Shawsy can’t, and they always know where to find each other even when they’re not looking. As a result, they’re both racking up points like it’s going out of style and confusing the hell out of the rest of the team.
It’s pretty great.
“Hat trick, baby!” Shawsy crows as they walk into the locker room following a home game against Chicago. The win feels particularly sweet since apparently the Canucks brass were watching. Haha. Fuckers. Take that. As he makes his way to his stall, he gets several high fives, a fistbump from Haysey, and an eyeroll from Pirri, which, whatever, he just wishes he’d gotten a hat trick too.
Brandon catches his gaze from across the locker room and grins wolfishly, his still-fading black eye from their rematch with Bordeleau (totally legit this time, nothing worse than a fighting major for either of them) making him look way hotter than it has any right to, and right, mindreading, Andrew remembers as that grin only gets bigger.
Fuck off, I didn’t mean it like that.
Too bad, he hears. He blinks.
“Shawsy, you awake in there?” Haysey asks, shoving at his shoulder.
“Just flyin’ high, baby,” he answers, grinning up at his giant friend and ignoring the smugness he can feel radiating off Brandon from across the room. “Just flyin’ high.”
Brandon’s Too bad sticks in his head for the next couple weeks, though, until one day they’re sitting around his living room playing NHL 13 instead of taking their pregame nap and Andrew drops his XBox controller, turns to him, and says, “Dude, we should totally bone.”
Brandon at least has the presence of mind to pause their game before he stares at him like he’s completely lost his mind, which obviously he has not, because this is the best idea of all time.
“No, seriously,” he says, holding his hands up defensively. “Hear me out. We’re single. Neither of us are getting laid right now--”
“Speak the fuck for yourself--”
“--neither of us are getting laid right now,” Andrew repeats, rolling his eyes, “and we can read each other's minds. Why are we not taking massive advantage of this situation? Like seriously, dude, how many times have you wished the girl who was blowing you could read your mind? Don’t answer that, that was a rhetorical question.”
“You know what the word rhetorical means?”
“Fuck you. Seriously. Admit it. This is the best plan ever.”
“I am admitting nothing.”
“The person sucking your dick being able to read your mind. How fucking fantastic does that sound?” he presses, because hell, it sounds pretty damn good to him. Also Brandon’s hot. He has no qualms admitting that.
“Did you get high and not share?” Brandon asks instead of answering him. Andrew rolls his eyes, because again, mindreading, fuck no, he’s not high. They have a game tonight, he’s not that irresponsible. “Fine. But like, reading each others’ minds might make it awesome but that doesn’t mean we’ll actually like it.”
Andrew glares, offended. “What, are you saying that I would be bad at it?”
“Are you saying that you’ve actually thought about my mouth on your dick as something you would enjoy?”
“Actually, I was thinking the other way around.” When Brandon basically chokes on his own tongue, Andrew nearly falls off the couch cackling. “God, you’re easy.”
“Not as easy as you, apparently.”
In grand IceHogs tradition of How To Deal With Important Shit, they talk with their hands (and fists) rather than their mouths. As in, Bollig scores two goals and then beats the shit out of one of Milwaukee’s mouthy forwards, and what reaction is Shawsy supposed to have to that, really, other than “do me on it”?
That’s probably indicative that he’s got issues. He knows. He also doesn’t give a damn. He gives so little of a damn, in fact, that when he follows Bollig home after the game he doesn’t hesitate to pin him to the wall and drop to his knees. It shouldn’t be a surprise-- he’s been thinking about it the entire ride back from the rink, and he knows Brandon knows, because he’s flushed red and it’s not from embarrassment. He still makes a noise like he wasn’t expecting it, though, which is almost as hot as the way that his fingers tighten in Andrew’s hair, but not nearly as hot as when he comes, because Andrew can hear it out loud and feel it in his head and it’s a little overwhelming.
“God, c’mere,” Brandon groans, yanking him up to kiss him hot and dirty. “Are you kidding me?”
Andrew doesn’t bother responding to that, mostly because he’s too far gone right now to make complete sentences. Instead, he captures Brandon’s mouth again, sending every mental image he’s had all night and hasn’t acted on. He mentally cheers when that gets him another low moan.
“God, you just, ugh,” Brandon says intelligently, finally getting his fantastic hands right where Andrew’s wanted them since the end of the game. “Now you know how I felt during that damn Lake Erie game, you asshole.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Dude, focus.”
“Trust me, I am having no trouble focusing right now,” Andrew assures him. “Oh my god, fuck you, you fucking tease.”
Brandon just laughs.
“You suck so much.”
“Uh, that was you, remember?”
“Fuck you.” Andrew would be embarrassed by the whine he lets out, but he’s got this firm no-shame policy when it comes to sex. Brandon laughs again, low and rough, and then does something with his wrist and that’s it, Andrew’s done. Brandon swallows his groan, licking into his mouth slow and dirty as he strokes him through it until finally they both slump against the wall.
“See?” Andrew says when he finally catches his breath. “Awesome.”
“Oh, you know what, fuck you,” Brandon says, shoving at his shoulder, but there’s no heat behind his words. “Get off me, you’re all gross.”
“Dude, who’s fault is that?”
“You started it.”
“Are we twelve?”
“....usually, yeah.”
Andrew chuckles, pushing off Brandon’s shoulder. “I’m using your shower, and then I’m ordering us pizza while you use your shower." He’s starving.
So hooking up after games turns into a thing they do, and that’s pretty whatever because sexuality’s a fluid thing and he’s getting laid on the regular, so he’s really got nothing to worry about. If he was Kaner he’d probably say yolo.
What’s bothering Andrew is that ever since they hooked up that first time, the whole mindreading thing has turned into more of a constant presence in each other’s heads thing. He can feel, see, hear, even taste the stuff Brandon does, and it’s a little weird. Once they figure out the mental equivalent of closing the curtains, they can mostly shut it out, but that leaves Andrew feeling woozy and disconnected and unable to tell if Brandon is also feeling woozy and disconnected. It’s hard to find a balance.
It helps them out even more on the ice than it has been, though. They’re playing like they’re one person and putting up enough points that it becomes rare for Coach to put them on separate lines, and so this new level of connection that lets them make passes before the other teams can see them isn’t a problem until it is.
It’s a home game against Hamilton in mid-December, and they’re rocking it with a two-goal lead in the second period when one of Hamilton’s d-men comes out of nowhere and boards Andrew so hard he hits the ice face-first.
At least, that’s what he thinks happens before he realizes he’s still skating, albeit on autopilot, and it’s Brandon facedown on the ice. The refs call a timeout and the trainer almost beats Andrew to where Brandon is still lying beside the boards.
You okay? he asks silently, still breathing hard, but the question is unnecessary, because he can feel everything Brandon is feeling right now and the d-man got him in just the right spot. His ribs are fucked.
He doesn’t come back out with the rest of the team for the third period. Hutton keeps them at a two-goal lead, and Andrew makes it three before busting the d-man’s lip with a little under two minutes left in the game for good measure. The ref throws him out of the game, of course, but it was a clean fight so he’s not going to get into anymore trouble. He doesn’t want unsportsmanlike, though, so he manages to hold his laughter back till he’s almost in the locker room, and then he loses it.
“Nice,” Brandon says from the bench, rolling his eyes.
“You know how I do,” Andrew grins, shrugging.
It’s harder to make the hooking up work that night, but they manage, and if Andrew crashes and stays the night, well, Brandon’s not allowed to judge.
It honestly seems like being blindsided by each other’s injuries on the ice is gonna be the worst thing to come out of this, and they can figure out how to deal with that, no problem. But then it’s the two-game road trip to Milwaukee and Brandon’s not well enough to go with them. Andrew’s pretty bummed because that breaks up their line, but he figures he’ll survive. Except the farther the bus gets from Rockford, the sicker he feels.
“Dude, you okay?” Haysey asks from across the aisle. “You’re looking a little green.”
“Motion sickness or whatever,” he says, waving it off. Tell me you’re feeling as shitty as I am, he says to Brandon.
Brandon’s feeling so rough that he doesn’t even bother to call him an asshole, although the half-formed thought hangs there. Yeah. The fuck is going on?
Maybe it’s the mindreading thing. Whatever the fuck this whole thing is. Andrew closes his eyes, because pretending to sleep is a much better plan than staring morosely out the bus window, but he regrets it as soon as he does because this way it’s like he can see Brandon, or at least what he’s seeing, and that makes the gaping hole in his chest open even more. How the fuck am I supposed to play like this?
Maybe me being able to see what you see-- and what you don’t-- can help compensate for how you’re feeling. Brandon’s on his couch, ice on his ribs, but he’ll have the best seat in the game through Andrew’s eyes.
Isn’t that cheating?
No more than anything else we’ve been doing. There’s a flicker of unease there that Andrew recognizes because he’s felt it too, but it’s not like they asked for this, and turning it off leaves them sick and unable to play at all. Andrew’s not sure he can handle feeling worse than he does right now.
He makes it through the game, but just barely, and though he makes decent passes, he doesn’t put up any points. It’s only because of Brandon in his head that he manages to avoid getting completely flattened late in the third. When they get to the hotel, he doesn’t even fight Jeremy for the remote. He barely remembers to hang up his suit before he collapses.
Brandon’s snoring in his head is the last thing he hears before he passes out.
Christmas is a tough couple of days, too, but at least they’re prepared this time. It seems like, too, that the more they communicate and use the connection, the less awful it is, so it’s pretty much a steady stream of conversation the entire time they’re separated, except when they’re sleeping. There’s one spectacularly awkward moment when Andrew is at his grandparents’ and ends up witnessing his own private show-- at the dinner table. Thank God for hoodies is all he can think as he silently curses Brandon for his terrible timing.
Still, it’s nice, getting ready to fall asleep with Brandon in his head all drowsy and affectionate. That’s not normally his thing, but lately he’s discovered that Brandon is basically the best human body pillow to ever exist, and he could totally use that right now.
We’ll be back in Rockford soon.
Yeah, I know. Merry Christmas, man.
You too.
Except they’re not back in Rockford, because on Boxing Day the League announces that they’ve finally come to an agreement with the PA on a new CBA, and most of them are called up to Chicago with camp scheduled to start the first week of January. Camp is a crazy whirl that ends with him and Brandon just getting a place together, because they might as well since they’ve been informed they’re going to be up for the entire abbreviated season.
“Sauce! Baby! You miss me?” Kaner asks, tackling Andrew in the locker room their first practice after camp.
“Visa issues my ass, you and Segs just weren’t done partying,” he shoots back. “Got a lot to make up for, missing camp.”
“Eh, I’ve got an in with El Capitan,” Kaner drawls, slinging an arm around Tazer’s neck as he walks by.
“Get off me,” Tazer grumps, shoving Kaner away and stalking across the room to his stall.
Kaner shrugs, supremely unconcerned. “He’ll come around. He’s just all salty because I made a new friend who treats me better than he does!” he adds, pitching his voice louder as he goes.
Tazer flips him off without even looking up.
If they only use one of the bedrooms in their apartment, that’s just because it’s easier than one of them having to remember to drag his lazy ass back to his own room at the end of a long day. It’s a convenience thing. That Andrew is sleeping better than he maybe ever has is not the point.
Waking up warm and tangled up with someone else, both body and mind, in the cold Chicago January is just a perk, and a very nice one at that. Even though Brandon’s bigger than he is, Andrew has somehow ended up as the big spoon (fuck you up if you tell anyone filters hazily into his mind), his arm tight around Brandon and his face buried in his neck.
Seriously. Fucking kill you.
If you kill me, Andrew thinks, hand snaking down to wrap around him, I can’t do this. Brandon’s groan is out loud, but it echoes in Andrew’s head anyway, reverberating and surrounding him long after they go back to sleep.
It’s odd, being back. In Rockford no one so much as batted an eye at how things were between him and Brandon, but now that they’re back in Chicago Andrew feels like he’s always on guard waiting for someone to notice this, whatever this actually is.
“You need to chill,” Brandon tells him, tossing another folded towel onto the stack sitting beside their coffee table.
“You need to stop stress-laundering,” Andrew counters. It’s the night before they play the Blues, their first home game of the shortened season and both of them are on edge-- no matter how many times Stan and Coach Q have told them they’re up for the duration, there’s always that lingering anxiety and need to prove themselves that’s so shared between them that Andrew’s not even sure which one of them it originated from. “I’m pretty sure everything’s clean now, dude.”
He gets a towel to the face for that.
“We should go out,” he says, tossing it back. “I bet Kaner’s up for it.”
“The night before a game? No thanks. I need to get my beauty sleep. Captain’s BFF or not, I wanna make Oshie cry tomorrow night.” Brandon tosses the last towel onto the stack. “Done. Your ass is putting them up.”
It’s a mark of how pathetic his life is these days that Andrew doesn’t even bother to argue.
“Dude, you’re not even trying to pick up,” Kaner whines. A bunch of them are squeezed into a booth at State after a big win against the Flyers. After such a good game (final score of 4-1, and one of those goals had been Andrew’s, fuck you Bryzgalov), it’s hard not to want to celebrate.
“Yeah, Shawsy, what gives, dude?” Carbomb asks, picking up his beer.
Andrew just shrugs.
“So not an answer.” Kaner pouts. “I need a wingman.”
“So bug your hetero lifemate,” Andrew says. He hears Brandon snicker in his head, because he’s a dick who doesn’t think that particular relationship is so super hetero. Andrew figures it’s not their business, and also that they can’t really throw stones.
What does that mean?
Are you going out and picking up anyone else?
You know I’m not.
Well.
Something vaguely uncomfortable filters through the bond between them, but it disappears almost immediately. Andrew send a wordless question at Brandon and gets the mental equivalent of a shrug in response.
“...didn’t want to come out tonight for some reason. I’m not sure what his deal is,” Kaner’s saying. “Whatever, it’s his loss. Hey, that seriously stacked redhead’s checking you out, Shawsy.”
“Meh,” he says, not even bothering to turn and look. Kaner and Carbomb both gape at him. Hayesy’s snickering into his beer, whatever that’s about.
“Meh?” Kaner looks astounded. “What is with your apathy tonight, dude?”
“Really, Sauce, it’s like you haven’t even been trying,” Sharpy chirps as he and Stalberg slide back into the booth with the next round. “How am I supposed to mock your failure if you don’t try in the first place?”
“I like how you just assume that I’m always going to strike out,” Andrew grumps. “For your information, I have a sure thing waiting for me if I want it.”
You’re a dick.
Okay, because you weren’t thinking the same thing about me yesterday? Andrew reminds him. Besides, I didn’t mean it in a dick way.
You’re still a dick. And just for assuming I’m that easy, guess who isn’t getting laid tonight?
Um, uncool, man. He ignores the guys chirping him about his “sure thing” in favor of talking to said “sure thing”, though he does roll his eyes.
I think I may go to bed early tonight. Brandon sends him mental images of exactly what he’s going to be doing in that bed-- their bed-- and Andrew has to bite down on his lip, because that shit’s not fair.
Dirty pool, man.
He gets more images in response. His grip on his beer goes white-knuckled.
“I think I’m gonna head out,” he announces suddenly, poking Haysey in the side so that he can get out of the booth.
“Going to get that sure thing?” Carbomb asks. Andrew feels his ears turn red as he’s shrugging on his jacket, but he manages a smirk.
“Tell Bollig to bring my copy of Black Ops to skate tomorrow,” Haysey adds. Andrew freezes, his jacket half-zipped.
“Huh?”
“I mean, I assume you’re going home at some point,” Haysey says easily, and there is no way that shit-eating grin is a coincidence. Fuck.
“Uh, yeah. Right. Home. Sure. If I remember.” He’s gotta get out of here. “See you guys tomorrow!”
He flees.
“So Haysey probably knows,” he announces after he’s changed into sweats. He falls onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“And what does Haysey know? Besides how to tell the world’s shittiest jokes?” Brandon’s reading something on his Kindle, not even bothering to look at Andrew, who frowns (but doesn’t pout, because he’s not Kaner, okay).
“You mean besides the whole ‘we’re boning’ thing? I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume he hasn’t managed to guess the mindreading part.” He turns onto his side, scooting around till he’s got his head on Brandon’s thigh and his feet are hanging off the side of the bed. Despite how salty he sounded, as soon as Andrew’s settled, Brandon’s already got his hand in his hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp. All in all, it’s a damn good ending to a pretty terrific day.
“Not so much the ‘boning each other’ thing as the ‘not boning other people’ thing, which either stems from or segues directly into the ‘sharing a bed’ thing.”
“Huh.” Andrew rolls onto his back so that he can look up at Brandon. “When did this turn into an actual thing?”
Brandon snorts.
“No, seriously, dude, this is like, a relationship.”
“I’m aware. I’m laughing because apparently you weren’t.”
“Fuck you, why didn’t you tell me?” Andrew demands.
“Uh, I didn’t think I had to? You’ve been here for the whole thing, and also, you can read my mind.”
And okay, Andrew has to admit he has a point there.
“Okay, so...is it cool? That we’re like...doing the relationship thing?” He glares as he hears Brandon’s laughter both out loud and in his head. “Fuck you, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing here.”
“What, and you think I do?”
Andrew settles back down, waiting till he’s getting his head scratched again before he speaks. “Okay, so, to recap: we’re apparently in a relationship, and neither of us seems to have a problem with that. So what were we talking about?”
“You think Haysey knows.”
“Right.” Earlier, he’d been a little concerned about that. Now, laying here, he can’t really remember why. “Eh, Jimmy’s cool.”
“Okay.” Brandon yawns. “Then can we sleep now?”
“Yeah. Oh! And Jimmy wanted me to get you to bring his copy of Black Ops to skate.”
“Um, fuck no, that’s my Black Ops.”
“Hey, I’m just passing on the message.”
“Well, fuck him.”
“Goodnight, dear.”
“Don’t make me slug you.”