Chapter Text
This position is familiar. And all the sensations that come along with it — the bite of Parse’s teeth at the corner of his mouth, the warmth of Parse’s palms at his hip, the press of Parse’s thigh between his — yeah, he’s done all this before too.
Everything else is a white hot blur. Jack’s mind empties of all other thoughts – he forgets about the game, he forgets about last night and the night before and every night before that, any point in time where he wasn’t doing this. He forgets about everything else in the world except for what’s right in front of him.
Jack picked a fight. It was stupid. It was needless, too. He could’ve just let Parse pass him by in the hallway without so much as a single word or a sideways glance – it’s just, he didn’t want to. Not this time.
He caught sight of Parse in that Aces black and white sweater, shuffling along in his pregame slides, with that bright white C on his chest, and Jack’s spent so much time trying to avoid Parse, trying to ignore him, that this version of Parse – with his platinum gray gaze sliding right over Jack as he shifts to duck around him, like Parse was the one trying to avoid Jack, for once, and Jack – well, Jack has no excuse for what happened next.
Only that he couldn’t stand the idea of Parse ignoring him. Here, after everything they’ve been through, together and a million miles apart – how could Parse possibly walk by him in the hallway and not even blink twice about it?
And then somewhere within the deepest recesses of Jack’s mind, some long dormant instinct came to life and took control of his limbs, and then the next thing he knew, he was grabbing hold of Parse and dragging him out of the main hallway and into a small, sideways mechanical room, and Jack’s all impulse and need in this moment, and Parse – Parse seems pissed, almost, but he’s still biting at the corner of Jack’s lip, still pressing into him with the force of his well-muscled frame, still kissing Jack like it’s a face-off that he desperately wants to win.
This is how it starts.
(Again).
.
The puck drops. The Aces quickly gain possession, Troy slapping the puck to Kent who slickly maneuvers right through the Falcs defense, casting a warning shot across the bow of Snowy’s ship.
The rest of the game goes on like this: close battles, elbows to the gut and no matter where he is, always still catching sight of Kent through the melee. When they lock eyes, Kent’s platinum gray gaze darkens with an intent that Jack’s not used to seeing out on the ice and he grits his teeth, clutches tighter at the handle of his stick. Jack wins the next face-off, and something zings in the air between them when he twists out of Kent’s way, Kent giving chase immediately, slipping in close behind Jack against the boards and making a play for the puck.
“What’s the plan, Zimms, you gonna shove it in deep?”
Jack bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Gonna slide it right between his legs, Parse.”
“I don’t know, babe, I think you’ve gotta get a better handle on your stick,” Kent chirps, right as he jostles Jack’s elbow, hard, forcing him to drop his stick, and then all he can do is watch, dumbly, as Kent tears off down the ice, his breathless cackle still echoing in Jack’s ears.
A goal. And then another goal. And then — well, Tater doesn’t think it’s a goal and their arena full of screaming fans doesn’t think it’s a goal, but that’s the annoying thing about Kent. He knows where the line is and he knows exactly how to flirt alongside it, making the impossible suddenly seem possible. The goal is good, anyways, for all that now Tater’s gonna get a post-game talking-to from the ref.
And then, there he is: Kent Parson, clad in a matching black and silver Aces tracksuit, a snapback pulled forwards, casting shadows across his face. He’s slouching against the wall outside the Falcs home lockers, one leg hooked over the other.
“Hey, Zimms. So, loser buys dinner, that was the bet, right?”
“That’s right,” Jack says, tripping easily into the lie, careful to keep his back to Tater so he doesn’t have to see the look on his teammate’s face. Tater spits out something low and angry in Russian, something that sounds suspiciously like rat, which is a little much, especially for that play. Jack rolls his eyes, not caring who sees, knowing that the only one to see it, is standing there across from him, eyeing Jack up like a meal that he’s ready to devour.
See, the thing is, he always has good reasons for staying away from Kent. They can change, depending on the year or the season, but there’s a few that really do matter: there’s the pressure of staying hidden in the league together. The chasm between who they were as teens, and who they are now. There’s the queasy sick feeling that Jack gets in his gut, his most shameful of jealousies, watching Kent succeed in all the ways that Jack’s so desperately wanted.
And lastly, there’s the mystery that Jack’s never been able to solve: how it is that Kent can still want him, even after seeing him half-dead on the bathroom floor. Even after Jack walked away like he did. Even after he’s seen all the way through to the rotten core of Jack’s center.
The feeling sits too big inside of Jack’s chest but that’s okay, since that’s where most of his big bad feelings live. Mostly, he’s gotten really good at lowering their volume to a minimum over the years: he’s a real pro at mind over matter, at telling himself that it’s better this way.
A year ago, Jack got angry so quickly with Kent. He’d scoffed, so easily, and then let himself press on the bruise harder, just to see how far he could push, but then he got back everything ten-fold, with extra interest. He’s out of practice with Kent, is the thing. He’d forgotten how thoroughly Kent applies himself to being the best, even if it’s just the best at being a bitch.
Now, on the other side of their first game in the show together, all of that feels so far away. So small, in comparison to whatever’s thrumming through Jack’s veins right now. He clutches onto his own elbows, his arms wrapped around his chest, or else they’ll have a repeat performance of their pre-game kiss, and Jack doesn’t exactly want an audience for that.
So, he tilts his head in the direction of the Falcs parking garage. “Come on, Parse, I’ll give you a lift.”
.
They don’t make it back to Jack’s place.
Well, they do, in a way - they make it as far as the parking lot, as far as the dark spot in the back of the parking lot, furthest from the lights and the entrance, and anyways, this truck has dark, tinted windows, but Jack drove the whole way here with Kent’s hand on his thigh and the second Jack cuts the engine, the anticipation is too much already, and then he’s practically dragging Kent into his lap, up and over the barrier in between them.
“Zimms,” Kent breathes out, the curve of his smile pressed into Jack’s skin, “not that I’m not super on board with all this, but you do have a backseat.”
Jack hums, pressing another open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point on Kent’s neck, just the way Kent likes it, and some things never do change, because Kent lets out a low moan, his resolve crumbling, becoming weak and pliable under threat of Jack’s further ministrations, and Kent just mutters a quick fuck it under his breath before slinging himself over until he’s bracketing Jack on both sides with his thick, well-muscled thighs and there’s just — there’s so much of Kent, at this point of the season, he never used to be able to bulk up like this, and it’s overwhelming, the way Jack is pinned down by him, the way it feels like there’s just Kent, Kent, Kent surrounding him on all sides. Jack presses palm to the bulge in Kent’s tracksuit pants and Kent lets out a groan, rocking forward into Jack’s touch.
“You’re so weird, dude,” Kent mutters, but it comes out hoarse, so there’s no sting to it. “What makes you hornier, hockey or cars?”
What a stupid question, Jack thinks, still a little dazed, right as Kent’s fingers wind their way into Jack’s hair, tugging hard at the soft strands, leaving behind a sharp, stinging pain that’s practically Pavlovian for Jack’s dick.
Of course it’s hockey. The cars are just…conveniently located, that’s all.
“Kenny,” Jack breathes, tugging at the waistband of Kent’s track pants, “shut up, and let me touch you.”
Kent lets out another breathless little laugh, the sound a perfect match to the laugh that he let out earlier on the ice, and it’s every bit as sharp and close, only this time, he’s not just shy of scoring another one of his impossibly beautiful top-shelf goals.
Well, this is another type of scoring, at least.
Kent huffs, lifting himself off Jack’s laugh with a groan, and holding his hand to the ceiling of the truck for balance as he tugs down his pants the rest of the way. It’s a good thing that there’s nothing but trees behind them, because otherwise, tinted windows or not, Kent would definitely end up mooning somebody.
Well, they’d be lucky. It’s a great ass, anyways.
Jack desperately pulls down his own joggers, and it’s an awkward fit, a tight space, but if there’s one thing that they’re both good at, it’s finding success in tight spaces, and Jack laughs a little at the joke, for all that he only told it inside his own head.
“What, Zimms, is my dick that funny to you?” Kent snipes, even as he lowers himself back down onto Jack’s lap, even as Jack wraps his hand around both their dicks with a groan, pumping his hand slightly to gain some friction along sensitive skin, pre-cum beading at the tip of Kent’s dick and Jack swipes at it, using the barest hint of that glide to really get the movement going. Kent lets out a strangled gasp, his forehead falling forward into the curve of Jack’s shoulder and Jack holds him there with his other palm, the two of them rocking in motion together, and maybe they’re not on the same team anymore, maybe they don’t play together, but here, it’s like they’re one person, or maybe just two people who really really know each other, and Kent’s muttered curses and groans has Jack regretting their locale. If they'd made it upstairs, they’d have a whole bed to work with.
Kent lets out a low, breathy giggle, which usually means he’s tantalizingly close to the edge, and Jack’s not far behind him, still holding onto Kent firmly with his hand at the nape of his neck, pressing down with his thumb and index finger hard enough to bruise.
“Jesus, Zimms,” Kent wheezes, right after he comes, letting out another laugh. “Fuck. I can’t believe we just did that.”
Jack’s orgasm dulls his senses, smoothing out the wrinkles in his mind, and leaving behind nothing but a soft, pleasant buzz. “What, hook up in a car?”
It’s a rhetorical question, of course. They spent most of 2008 and a good chunk of 2009 hooking up in cars.
Kent shifts back onto his haunches, impatiently pushing sweaty bangs out of his face with the back of his hand. His hat fell somewhere, elsewhere, and his cheeks flushed a bright, tender pink, like a peach right as it’s about to turn. “Uh. Honestly, after last year, I’m kinda surprised we hooked up at all.”
Jack frowns, his consciousness starting to come more fully back online. He doesn’t want to talk about last year. Or that night.
Some of that must register on his face because Kent’s mouth twists, his expression souring ever so slightly. His eyes track back from a deep, dark navy blue, to a softer, more mutable gray. “I know I acted like a dick, Jack. You don’t have to forgive me for it.”
“I just don’t think it matters anymore,” Jack says simply, because that’s the easiest way that he can think to put it. That was last year, when Jack was just a college student.
Now, well. He’s a little more than that.
“So what, you’re finally in the show and that means I’m good enough to fuck again?” Kent says, his lips twisting further into a frown.
Jack feels a lick of irritation run up his spine. Kent always does this, always hears the exact opposite of what Jack means to say. “No, Kenny, that’s not — that’s not what I’m saying.” He breathes out a long, slow sigh, letting his head fall backwards into the headrest. “It’s just…it’s been hard, is all. With the Falcs, I mean. And uh…you know, the schedule, or whatever.”
Because that’s the truth, at the heart of all this — 82 games in a season and Jack isn’t even a quarter of the way through it and he’s already hurting. He’s wanted this so badly and for so long and it’s not like he was under delusions, he knew how hard it was going to be.
But he didn’t really know it. Not like he does now.
He wakes up, he trains, he plays hockey. He misses his friends at Samwell. He misses Kent, inexplicably, every single day, because he’s finally here, and there’s no one that he’s ever wanted to share this with more. Sure, Bittle tries to understand, but — and that’s where Jack’s train of thought skids to an unexpectedly sharp stop, a locomotive running full tilt at a brick wall, like in one of those old cartoons.
A fridge full of post-it notes. A jar of untouched homemade jam, sitting pride of place at the front of his cabinet. A different boy in a different car, not so long ago.
And at the end of that particular picture, there’s Eric Bittle, his…well, his friend first, sure, but also his boyfriend, but Jack’s not sure what that means, considering this is the first time Jack’s thought of him all night.
Because despite all that, here he is again, with Kent Parson still perched half-naked in his lap, with streaks of white up and down his shirt, his tanned skin still flushed from pleasure. Jack just…cheated on his kind, caring boyfriend with his ex, of all people, and what’s more, he didn’t even think twice about it.
Jack’s stomach turns over, that oil slick queasiness roiling deep in his gut. Well, okay.
It was a mistake, anyways. And isn’t this just the proof of it — of how easily he sees Kent and just forgets about everything else like it doesn’t matter at all?
Jack shakes himself, his shoulders now tight with tension, like he never came at all. “Parse. We, uh. This shouldn’t have happened.”
Kent slaps him. It’s a surprise, the way it burns so quickly and so immediately, Jack’s hand flying up to cup his cheek, but he can admit to himself, at least, that he deserved the blow.
“You came onto me,” Kent says, his voice going high and thin, the way it does when he’s more upset than he wants to let on. He lifts himself out of Jack’s lap, pulling his pants up as he goes. He drops down into the passenger seat with a thud, and then scoots away, towards the door, like he’s trying to get as far away from Jack as possible. “You fucking - manhandled me into a mechanical room earlier, dude.”
“I know,” Jack says, his voice heavy, because what else can he possibly say to that? Kent’s right. Jack wanted this so badly, he blocked everything else out of his line of sight.
He doesn’t know how to want things normally, is the thing. It’s always all or it’s nothing, with no room for moderation.
Jack turns to face Kent, taking in his profile. There’s a wobbly twist to his frown, his skin gone white and lifeless, except for two spots of pink high in his cheeks, like he’s embarrassed. He’s got both arms folded over his chest, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. And Jack — well, Jack still has this twinge deep in his gut, this urge to reach out and touch, to smooth out the lines between Kent’s eyebrows, to pry him away from the edge of the car seat.
All or nothing, eh?
Jack blows out a breath, turning the key in the engine. “I’ll drive you back to your hotel.”
“Sure,” Kent scoffs, folding himself deeper into the corner. “Whatever, man.”
They drive in silence all the way to the Marriott where the Aces are staying and it’s a heavy, weighted silence. They’re paused at a red, at one point, the early fall wind blowing a veritable parade of red-orange-yellow leaves across the window of Jack’s SUV, and the silence seems to expand, like a bubble that’s suddenly taking up all the air in the room.
Jack thinks maybe he owes Kent an explanation. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, the leather squeaking with the movement. ”Look, Kenny — “
“Don’t fucking call me that, Jack,” Kent snaps, and when Jack turns to face him, with the red glow of the street light filtering over his face, Kent’s anger is a real, physical sight, but it doesn’t hide the slightest trace of a tear that’s tracked its way down his cheek.
“I have a boyfriend,” Jack blurts out, the words spilling over before he can cram them back inside. He can’t help it; he’s never seen Kent cry before, is the thing.
Kent turns to face Jack, his expression frozen, and then just as quickly, it collapses in on itself, his mouth dropping open in shock. “What the fuck, Jack.”
“So that’s why…uh, that’s why it shouldn’t have happened,” Jack says, ducking his face forward to double-check the street signs before flicking on his turn signal, and then turning down the road to the hotel. “You didn’t, uh. Do anything wrong. I did.”
Kent is still staring at him, open-mouthed, with apparent incredulity as Jack pulls his car up to the hotel. Through the tinted windows, he spies a concierge desk and a man in a neat uniform, about to flag them down for parking.
The silence continues to stretch out between them, less like a bubble expanding and more like the weight of a storm cloud growing larger and larger.
And then, just as quickly, it pops.
Kent closes his mouth, but he’s still too-pale, and his rapidly thinning smile is entirely too brittle. He cocks his head to the side, eyeing up Jack less like a meal to be devoured and more like an enemy defense to be conquered. He’s out of practice with Kent, sure, but he’s not as rusty as he would’ve thought. He knows what comes next and when it hits, he’s not disappointed.
“You’re pathetic, Zimms,” Kent says, his voice toneless, like he’s commenting on the weather, or stating a simple fact. “Call me when that changes.”
And then he's out the door, slamming it shut behind him with a force that almost takes the door clean off.
.
Jack drives home, turning the radio on high to drown out the silence.
He parks his car at the front of the lot, directly under one of the street lamps, and takes the stairs up to his place in two swift, easy jumps.
Alone in his kitchen, he stares silently up at the fridge full of post-it notes. If they’d made it this far into the place, maybe those post-it notes would’ve stopped Jack in his tracks, would’ve forced him to course correct, to choose a different path.
Maybe. It’s a nice thought, anyways.
Jack’s not altogether convinced, though.
He checks his phone for the first time all night — the battery’s at 10% and he has a series of texts from Bittle, a long string of assurances punctuated by a simple “you’ll get ‘em next time, honey! 💝“
Jack puts his phone face down on the counter and slowly, solemnly, starts to peel the post-it notes down from the fridge.