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The Morning After
Jack groaned, a sound muffled by a pillow that smelled faintly of motor oil and cologne. His head throbbed in time with the apartment’s distant traffic, and a bright, unfamiliar ray of sun was trying to commit a violent assault on his blue eyes. He squeezed them shut, pulling the coarse, heavy blanket further over his head.
He was definitely not in his own bed.
The bed shifted beside him, and a deep, low rumble replaced the groan of his hangover. A very large hand, traced with dark, intricate tattoos and calloused at the palm, slid gently across his shoulder, pausing near his neck.
“Morning,” a voice murmured, husky and rough. It was the kind of voice that vibrated pleasantly in his chest, despite the crushing hangover.
Jack didn't move. He just wanted to dissolve into the mattress and stay there until at least Tuesday.
Across the bed, Hayden blinked his green eyes open, staring at the ceiling for a solid thirty seconds before turning his head. He took in the ethereal profile of the boy beside him; the spill of white hair against the pillow, the unusually pale skin dusted with a fresh flush of sleep, and the perfect curve of his brow. Cute, he thought, but utterly blank on the name.
Hayden, or Hiccup as his friends called him, was a man of action, not memory, especially not after a night of celebrating his buddy’s bar anniversary. Without pressing for a name, he carefully climbed out of bed, grabbing a worn T-shirt.
He noticed the delicate lines of muscle on the boy's exposed shoulder, which spoke of practiced movement and discipline. Definitely an athlete of some kind, he mused, quietly padding to the kitchen.
A moment later, a low, sleek black shadow darted from the corner. “Hey, Toothless,” Hayden whispered, scratching his cat behind the ears before setting a bowl of kibble down.
He returned to the bedroom, holding a glass of water and two ibuprofen. Jack was still buried under the covers.
“I don’t know your name, but I can tell you need this,” Hayden said softly, tapping the glass against the mound of blankets.
Jack slowly emerged, his face pinched with pain. “God, thank you,” he rasped, taking the pills and gulping the water down. His movements were fluid even when struggling, and Hayden watched, fascinated by the way his small frame seemed to carry such poise.
“Hayden. My friends call me Hiccup. Don't ask,” he offered, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
“Jack,” he replied, finally giving a weak smile. He looked around the room, the motorcycle magazines stacked high, the worn leather jacket slung over a chair, the industrial light fixture, it was definitively not a figure skater's environment. “What... what happened?”
Hayden ran a large, gentle hand over his jaw, the sound of his rough stubble catching against his palm. “I’m putting the pieces together too, buddy. My buddy’s bar? The anniversary party?”
Jack’s eyes widened slightly. “The one with the flashing neon sign... Oh, wait. My team. We were out celebrating my last competition.”
“You were definitely celebrating. You were challenging everyone to a dance-off on the bar,” Hayden chuckled, his memory clearing slightly. “I was sitting in a booth, and you kept trying to show me how to spin like… well, like a champion.”
They exchanged a look, and the reality clicked into place. They’d met, Hayden had been captivated by the tiny, fiery white-haired boy trying to out-drink his massive teammates, and one very drunk decision later, they had ended up back at Hayden’s apartment.
The realization hit Jack hard. He was suddenly overwhelmed with a fiery, sickening embarrassment. He had gone home with a total stranger, a giant man with piercings and a cat named Toothless, and he couldn't remember a single thing past two rum and Cokes.
“Oh my god,” Jack whispered, his pale cheeks turning a vivid crimson. He pulled his knees to his chest, shrinking under the blanket. “I am so sorry. I don’t - I don’t usually do things like this. I’m a mess.”
Hayden watched the way Jack crumbled in on himself, and found the overwhelming sincerity of his shame incredibly sweet. He reached out, his big hand tracing the delicate arch of Jack’s shoulder before gently cupping his flushed face.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Hayden murmured, his thumb brushing Jack’s cheekbone. He leaned in, his lips meeting Jack’s gently, a soft, slow press that was nothing like the wild heat of the night before.
But the kindness only amplified Jack's reaction. His entire body went rigid, and the red on his face deepened until his ears were burning. He was now thoroughly, entirely flushed.
Hayden pulled back instantly, his green eyes wide with concern. “Woah, okay, I’m sorry, I read that wrong. My bad, Jack. Too much, too fast.” He retracted his hand, letting it rest on his knee instead.
Jack took a shaky breath, pressing his hands against his hot face. “No, honestly, it’s not you. You’re… you’re really sweet. It’s just the situation.” He looked around the room again, the contrast of his world and Hayden's starkly apparent. “I don’t drink. Ever. My life is routine. I’m training for the World Championship selection trials next month. Waking up here, with you, not knowing anything… it’s just really overwhelming. This isn't me.”
Hayden nodded slowly, his expression softening with understanding. He hadn't realized the gravity of Jack’s world, the discipline, the stakes. “Got it. Routine is sacred. I respect that.” He stood up, offering a safe, non-intimate lifeline. “Look, let’s reset. Forget the kiss. How about some coffee? I make a mean cup, gotta fuel up for the shop.”
“Coffee sounds like a life raft,” Jack admitted, letting a tiny, grateful smile tug at his lips. He started to feel the immediate urgency of his life crashing back in. “Do you know where my bag is? I think my wallet and phone were in my gym bag.”
Hayden scratched his temple. “Uh, maybe by the door? We didn't make it that far, buddy. We crashed pretty hard on the way from the kitchen, I think.” He paused, then asked, trying to sound casual, “Do you need to take off now? Or… stay for that coffee?”
Jack threw off the blanket, suddenly all business despite the lingering haze. As he swung his legs out of bed, his eyes fell on his own pale skin. On his shoulder, just below his collarbone, and then further down his chest, were several angry, blossoming red-purple bruises. Hickeys. He didn't just have one; he had a collection.
His face, which had just started to cool, flamed crimson again, even more intensely than before. “Oh, god,” he choked out, pulling at his shirt to cover them. These weren’t just a fuzzy memory; these were physical proof, visible to anyone, especially his coaches and teammates. He could practically hear his coach’s lecture about maintaining a professional image.
Hayden, who’d been heading towards the kitchen, stopped at Jack’s horrified gasp. He turned, his gaze following Jack’s, and a slow, almost embarrassed smile spread across his face as he took in the tell-tale marks. “Looks like we had a good time last night, huh?” he said, trying to lighten the mood, though he felt a faint blush creeping up his own tanned neck.
Jack just buried his face in his hands. “I have to go. I have an ice time I can’t miss.” He retrieved his wrinkled clothes, dressing quickly and efficiently, acutely aware of the marks that were now hidden, but still there.
Hayden watched him, feeling an unexpected pang of disappointment at the haste. He was invested in this beautiful, flustered stranger. As Jack grabbed his coat, Hayden blurted out, “Look, if you want, you could, you know…” He trailed off, holding his phone out clumsily.
Jack froze, his hand on the doorknob. He looked at the phone, then at Hayden’s hopeful face, and took a deep, fortifying breath. The hickeys, the hangover, the sheer disruption of it all, it was terrifying. But something about Hayden’s steady, green gaze, so genuinely kind, made him hesitate.
“I… I have to focus on my trials,” Jack said, the words tumbling out quickly. “It’s everything. But…” He took Hayden’s phone, his fingers brushing against the mechanic’s warm palm. Quickly, he typed in his number. “Maybe after. After the trials are over. We could… talk more.”
He pressed the phone back into Hayden’s hand, a ghost of a hopeful smile on his face, before turning and slipping out the door before Hayden could say anything else. He left the biker standing alone in the quiet apartment with the scent of oil and cologne, a hopeful buzz in his chest, and the lingering awkward memory of a sweet morning kiss and a night neither could fully recall.
Three Months Later: The Collision
Three months had passed since that chaotic morning. Three months of Jack living by the clock, the gym, and the rink. He hadn't heard from Hayden. Hayden had honored his request, which Jack alternately felt grateful for and surprisingly disappointed by. He had just wrapped up the Sectional competition, taking second place, securing his spot for Nationals.
The trials were over.
Tonight, his team was celebrating at a cavernous pub a few blocks from the rink, the kind of place with exposed brick and deafening classic rock. Jack was leaning against the bar, sipping a bottle of non-alcoholic beer, enjoying the low buzz of victory and the comfortable weight of his hoodie and loose jeans. His life felt stable again, balanced.
He turned to laugh at a bad joke one of his teammates made and, in the motion, nearly walked straight into a wall of warm, tattooed muscle.
“Whoa, hey, watch it, bud-”
The voice cut off.
Jack’s laughter died in his throat. He looked up, up, and up, right into the familiar, startling bright green eyes of the giant man he’d spent one unforgettable, unrememberable night with.
Hayden was standing two feet away. He was dressed exactly as Jack had pictured him; a heavy, black leather vest over a thin grey shirt, exposing the inked sleeves of his arms, and a pair of perfectly ripped jeans. He looked rugged and powerful, completely out of place in Jack's usual clean, bright world.
Hayden, too, was frozen, a startled, joyful shock spreading across his tanned face, making the metal of his lip piercing glint under the dim bar light.
“Jack?” Hayden breathed, the sound barely audible over the music.
Jack felt that familiar, instant heat rush up his pale neck. All his composure, all the months of focused discipline, evaporated in a second. He was seeing the collection of faint hickeys on his shoulder, feeling the crush of the headache, and remembering the scent of motor oil all at once.
“Hayden. Hiccup,” Jack managed, the nickname slipping out naturally. He hadn't expected to see him here, not in this random bar, miles away from his apartment. “What are… what are you doing here?”
Hayden grinned, a flash of white teeth under his rough beard, having grown out a bit. He stepped closer, momentarily forgetting his own group of friends huddled near a booth. “My buddy Tuff insisted on trying out the wings. What are you doing here? Last I heard, you were focused on that ‘everything’ thing.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze warm and direct. “Did you make it through the trials?”
Jack nodded quickly, his white hair barely swaying. "I did. Sectionals finished yesterday. I got second," he said, the achievement making his cheeks tint a soft pink again.
"Second place, huh? That's incredible, Jack," Hayden said, his smile widening into a genuine beam that made his green eyes crinkle at the corners. The sheer pride in Jack's voice was infectious. He realized he still didn't really know what Jack did, just that it involved spins and champions. "Listen, this place is deafening. My friends are down there, but I don't want to shout across a mile of stale beer and bad decisions. You busy right now, or can we go find a corner to actually talk for a minute?"
Jack glanced nervously toward his teammates, who were currently forming a loud, tipsy huddle near the jukebox. He should probably stay and supervise, but the opportunity to talk to Hayden, to validate the promise he'd made three months ago, felt more important.
"No, I... I’m not busy," Jack replied, running a hand over the fabric of his hoodie. "Let's go."
Hayden led him away from the main crush of people toward a small, dimly lit booth tucked into an alcove. The moment they sat down, the intense background noise dropped to a tolerable hum. Hayden immediately leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his posture open and inviting.
"So, the trials are done," Hayden prompted, his voice low and comforting. "Tell me about 'everything.' Tell me what you risked our memory-wiping night for."
Jack took another sip of his near-beer, his initial shyness making him fiddle with the bottle label. "It's... I'm a figure skater. I compete in singles. The Sectionals competition was the last qualifier to get into Nationals, and Nationals decide the World team," he explained simply.
He waited for the expected, slightly mocking confusion, but Hayden just nodded, completely focused. "Figure skating. That explains the muscles," he said, indicating Jack’s arms beneath the loose sleeve. "And why you move like water, even with a hangover. So, Nationals. That's a huge deal. You okay with two months of pure routine again?"
Hayden's respect for the routine, instead of judgment, seemed to unlock something in Jack. He smiled properly this time, and his blue eyes shone with passion.
"It's not just two months, it's always," Jack confessed, his voice gaining speed and volume as he got into his element. "It's eight hours a day on the ice, gym work, nutrition, sleep, it's everything. But these last few weeks... after that night, and leading up to Sectionals, it was brutal. Every detail mattered. That second-place finish? It means I can breathe for a minute, and then I get to go and do it all again, but on a bigger stage."
As Jack spoke, describing the pressure of the triple axel, the precision of the choreographic sequence, and the sheer joy of landing a clean jump, his whole face lit up. The cautious, pale skater was gone, replaced by a radiant champion.
Hayden watched him, utterly captivated. His gaze moved from the excited sparkle in Jack's eyes down to the quick movements of his hands as he instinctively mimed a rotation. He saw the fire and the incredible commitment behind the shyness. He hadn't just gone home with a cute boy; he'd gone home with someone who lived and breathed dedication. He felt a fierce surge of admiration for the smaller man's intensity.
"Man," Hayden breathed, shaking his head slightly. "That's intense. I fix bikes and change oil. You live on the edge of a blade. Second place is massive, Jack. Congratulations. You earned the hell out of this night."
He raised his own bottle of dark beer in a silent toast. "So," he asked, a subtle shift in his tone, a new warmth creeping in. "Now that 'everything' is behind you, and you've got a number waiting in my phone... where do we go from here?"
Hayden’s question hung in the air, weighted with the promise of future possibilities. Jack’s excitement about his skating achievements instantly receded, replaced by the familiar, acute shyness. He ducked his head, focusing on the condensation dripping from his bottle.
“Oh. Uh, right. I guess…” Jack stammered, his cheeks darkening. “I mean, I don’t know. I’ve always been training. The past three months were intense, but even the years leading up to it… I don’t really do things outside of the rink and the gym. My life has been really small.”
Hayden waited patiently, watching the flush return to Jack’s neck. He wasn't flustered this time; he was curious.
“What I’m trying to say is…” Jack finally looked up, his expression a mix of embarrassment and honesty. “I’ve never actually been on a… a real date. Like, a sit-down, planned-out thing. I’ve never had the time. That night at the bar was the most impulsive, unplanned thing I’ve ever done.”
Instead of pulling away, a slow, delighted realization dawned on Hayden’s face. His green eyes softened with a look of pure tenderness.
“Well, Jack,” Hayden said, his voice dropping to a comforting register, "It sounds like you're way overdue. And it sounds like I have a really important job to do." He reached across the table, not to touch, but to lay his large, tattooed hand flat on the worn wood between them. "I want to take you out on a proper date," he announced. "No teammates, no hangovers, and definitely no triple axels required. Just us, sitting somewhere quiet, maybe getting some actual food."
Jack swallowed, his breath hitching slightly. The thought was terrifying and thrilling all at once.
"I know this is new territory for you," Hayden continued, pressing his advantage gently. "But I'm not going to rush you or pressure you into anything. I just want the chance to show you I'm not just some drunk decision. I want to show you how someone treats you when they actually want to spend time with you, properly."
He gave Jack a sincere, disarming smile. "What do you say, Champion? Let me be the one to break your anti-dating routine?"
Jack stared at the warm invitation in Hayden's eyes, realizing the "everything" he'd been focused on had just ended, leaving a vacuum perfect for something entirely new. He finally grinned, a genuine, joyful crack in his shyness.
"Okay, Hayden," Jack conceded, the word a soft exhalation of relief. "But you'll have to tell me what to do. I have no idea how these things work."
"It's easy," Hayden assured him, the victory sparkling in his eyes. "You just have to show up. I'll take care of the rest." He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "What's the one thing you haven't had time for in three months?"
"Staying up past ten, probably," Jack chuckled.
"Perfect. I know a late-night diner with the best milkshakes in the city. How about Saturday?"
fin.