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As a hockey player, you quickly learned to set vanity aside. Well, some more than others, but even if the situation is temporary, there will inevitably come a time when one’s appearance will be compromised for the sake of the game. More importantly, of course, is the health risk, but even after bones have knitted and wounds have closed, scars remain. Toothless smiles shine out from the bench every night, and many players pride themselves on one particular scar, one particular patch of skin which serves as a reminder of his dedication and his perseverance through pain Sometimes those reminders are welcome, sometimes they serve as evidence of injury, and sometimes that evidence is essential. The muscle aches, the concussion-induced dizziness and wavering balance, the slow (but not slow enough) decay of the human body until joints ache in the cold and backs twinge in the morning--these invisible injuries are far more terrifying. When no one else can see them, when there is no scar or bruise or visible reminder, sometimes it feels like the only barrier to performing is your will, and when you fail, the blame rests solely on your shoulders. It’s more visible in the older players, those with more years on their bones, more aches accumulated. They struggle with their bodies, and they press forward despite the uphill battle. The younger players too, but the older ones most of all.
When Brendan undergoes surgery for his broken fingers, Alex worries as he might for any other teammate, but not excessively so. Brendan is young and able to bounce back quickly even from grotesque finger breaks. The row of stitches across his hand will leave scars, certainly, but they’re not on his face, so he needn’t worry about his vanity. Compared to other players, relatively few marks mar his body, he’s not missing any teeth, he has the body of a well-built albeit short professional athlete. He looks good, and his sunny disposition and perpetual smile certainly contribute to his appearance as a muscled, attractive golden retriever puppy.
But that’s just Alex’s impression.
When Brendan returns at long last from his time on the IR, Alex assumes nothing has changed, and Brendan initally gives him no reason to think otherwise. He dives back into the game with astounding vigor, chucking himself more enthusiastically than ever into the net (which is a surprise--Alex didn’t think he could surpass his previous levels of enthusiasm), and even when on the bench, he occasionally trembles with anticipation. On the bus and on flights during their road trips, he remains as pesky and obnoxious off the ice as he is on, and his presence lightens the mood in the locker room every day. With injuries plaguing their many of their team, particularly Carey Price, the return of one of their own is welcome.
Brendan is rarely quiet or solemn, and for the most part, he maintains his reputation as the Hab’s own sunny little ball of hate. But Alex spends more time with Brendan than without, it seems, and within three weeks of his return, worry begins to poke at Alex’s brain.
He first notices it on one of the bus rides back to a hotel after a game. They sit next to one another as always, although ride is light on conversation across the board. After a loss, a long hard one in overtime, everyone is bone-tired, and with the prospect of an early flight looming, most of the team is longing only for their beds. Alex doesn’t mind the quiet, relishes it from time to time, so he simply leans back and allows the steady thrum of the engine to lull him into a shallow rest.
When a bump in the road startles him awake, the first thing he sees is Brendan, face squashed against the window of the bus, eyes half-closed. Alex smiles at the sight, and settles himself back to resume his nap, but then a quick twitch of motion catches the corner of his eye. He looks down to see one of Brendan’s hand clutched tightly over his fingers, fingers which are flexing steadily. The thumb on the other hand absentmindedly runs along long scars traversing his skin. It moves with a clockwork precision which speaks to habit, and a slight grimace cross Brendan’s face as his thumb presses on a spot in between the bottom and middle knuckle on his hand, almost exactly in the center of his scar.
“You good, Chucky?”
Alex rips his gaze away from Brendan’s hand and redirects it to Brendan’s face. His eyebrows are quirked in a fond yet teasing expression.
“Just sort of drifting off,” he half-lies. “Probably won’t last long once we reach the hotel.”
“You and me both, buddy,” says Brendan, yawning widely. “No Bachelor for you tonight.”
“I don’t watch The Bachelor,” grumbles Alex. “You watch The Bachelor, and since we room together, you forcibly expose me to it.” They’ve had this conversation a dozen times before.
“One day you’ll man up and admit you love it,” says Brendan, and he yawns again.
“Whatever,” says Alex. He’s too tired to argue, and so is Brendan, so they pass the rest of the trip in silence, and true to word, both collapse in bed within ten minutes of their return to the hotel. Just as Brendan switches off the bedside table lamp, Alex catches a glimpse of his hand once again. The angry red lines flash at him just before darkness engulfs the room, and he falls asleep with the vision of Brendan’s hand seared across his vision.
It’s an odd image. In his dreams, Alex reaches out for Brendan’s hand on the bus, and he clutches it tightly in his own. Something pleasant bubbles in Alex’s stomach as Brendan smiles. An even odder dream.
Now that he’s seen it once, he sees it everywhere. Whenever Brendan’s hands are free and ungloved, inevitably his thumb finds his scars. Even when eating, his free hand will flex periodically. When they’re in the locker room, when they’re at a restaurant or at the hotel, when they’re on a plane or a bus, he sees it. The habit erodes his patience slowly, but inevitably in the end, his inquisitive nature reigns supreme.
“Is your hand okay?” he asks.
“Huh?” says Brendan, looking up in surprise. They’re sitting on opposite hotel rooms, preparing for an afternoon nap, and Brendan was clearly already in napping mode.
“I mean, is your hand hurting?” he repeats. “You’re always flexing it.”
Brendan clenches his hand reflexively and smiles faintly. “It’s fine. Just good PT, I suppose.”
“If fingers could build muscles like arms, your fingers would probably be the size of a large sausage,” says Alex.
Brendan regards him strangely. “Is that a Russian expression?”
“No, not everything I say is Russian,” retorts Alex. “I believe I just made a, metaphor? Simile? Something you ought to have learned in your English class.”
Brendan snorts. “When do you have time to learn all this crap?”
Alex grins. “I am very smart, remember? I can talk in English and Italian as well as Russian.”
Brendan grumbles something along the lines of “your face is Russian,” before rolling over into bed and wrapping the covers tightly around his body. Alex thinks about that statement for a while; while he as a person is American, he supposes his body might be considered Russian, or Belarussian. Bodies come from genetics, and genetics come from his parents, and his parents hail from Belarus, so…
He needs to nap as well, so he forces himself to drop that train of thought and attempt to drift into sleep. He’s trying to remember where Brendan’s family comes from--he’s Canadian, but has his family been in Canada long enough for his body to be considered Canadian. Either way, Canadian is inferior to both American or Russian, so Alex comforts himself with this superiority.
He dreams of his body painted with red white and blue, half American, half Russian. Brendan stands before him, the Canadian red maple leaf imprinted into his chest. He’s speaking French, or it sounds like French, which is odd because neither Alex nor Brendan really speaks French, but maybe dream-Brendan does.
It’s not the oddest dream he’s ever had, but it’s definite top five.
Every player has his own pregame routine, and they range from the simple (Alex’s own cycle of stretching and the two-touch soccer circle) to the ridiculously elaborate (Patches’ convoluted schedule of eating and dressing and eating again and then taping his stick and then eating again ), and while changes do occur, they’re not terribly common. Unless something isn’t working, most players simply feel comfortable with their routine and see no reason to alter an already functional system.
Brendan’s routine has changed, though, and Alex observes it every day with growing curiosity. He disappears after soccer and returns with only just enough time to dress himself in gear for the game. The first few absences aren’t notable, because Brendan tended to wander from person to person, place to place, in the time before the game with no discernable pattern, so sometimes Alex would see him and sometimes not. But then the absences become a pattern, and Alex pays attention.
One day, curiosity triumphs and Alex deliberately flubs the next touch to come his way after Brendan leaves. Free from the game, he surreptitiously follows Brendan down the hallway until he sees him turn into the trainer’s room. Alex strides in after him, determined to follow this plan to the bitter end, and greets one of their assistant trainers with a smile.
“Do you need anything?” Oliver asks, eyes flicking over Alex to assess for obvious injury.
“Just a knot in my calf.” It isn’t technically a lie, but normally Alex would simply work on the muscle with his own two hands, so his presence here is slightly unusual. Oliver leads him to one of the med tables and wastes no time in kneading his calf, feeling for the offending knot. While Oliver works, Alex allows himself a glance around the room, eyes searching for Brendan.
He finds him in the back, seated on a chair while one of the other trainers stands before him, blocking most of his view. When the other trainer (Robbie, he thinks, based on the crew cut from the back) moves aside, Brendan’s hand is spread across a small table. He’s staring intently at his fingers, frowning and moving each joint individually as if testing its mettle. He deliberately strokes a line across his hand, and the frown deepens further. Then he looks up and catches Alex’s gaze and his eyes widen. He quickly retracts his hand and shoves it beneath his sweater, out of sight from Alex’s view.
Alex just tries to impart his concern for his friend with his eyes, but Brendan refuses to make eye contact, so he considers his attempt a failure. Brendan remains in the training room even as Alex leaves, the pain in his calf relieved, and on the bench, he’s unusually reticent. When Therrien slaps them on the backs to send them to the ice with Pacioretty, he scampers over the boards and darts after the puck with a manic focus, but the second their shift ends, he resumes his silence. All of their shifts throughout the game proceed in nearly identical fashion--mania on the ice, stillness and quietude off of it.
After the game, both Brendan and Alex accompany the rest of the team out to a bar in celebration of the win. PK is exuberant, and his voice echos loudly around the crowded room. Nate finds himself a girl to talk to, and Emelin and Markov begin a subdued conversation in Russian which Alex half pays attention to. The other half of his attention is devoted to the almost sullen figure of Brendan Gallagher, who’s spoken at most two dozen words throughout the night. When Alex leaves the table and returns with two drinks, a beer for himself and one of those fruity margaritas he knows Brendan secretly adores and Brendan barely cracks a smile, he decides to lay down the law.
“When we go out, we have fun,” he says sternly, perhaps a little too gruff for the occasion.
“Well when you put on your Russian mafia impersonation like that, how can I not?” says Brendan sarcastically, sipping at his drink through a curly straw.
“I mean, what is wrong with you?” asks Alex. When he receives no response, he persists. “I’m not saying you have to be doing a striptease on the bar, but normally you’re not sulking like this.”
“I’m not sulking,” snaps Brendan. “Why would I be sulking? We won, I even got a point. Do I have to be perpetually smiling?”
No you don’t, but you usually do anyways , thinks Alex, and therein lies the crux of the matter. Brendan doesn’t have to be a fucking ray of sunshine all day (look at Markov--he smiles once a week at most), but he is anyways. He always is, but now even when Brendan plasters on a grin, something rings false, which is perhaps even more disturbing than his apparent unhappiness. More than anything else, Brendan is genuine. He feels without compunction, and he broadcasts his emotions across the airwaves boldly for all to hear. Lately there’s been static filtering through. Alex has come to rely on this version of Brendan Gallagher, and much as he hates to admit it, its absence has been gnawing doggedly at Alex ever Since Brendan’s return.
Well, something is eating away at Brendan, but if he won’t confide in Alex, then Alex will do the only thing he knows how to do: wear him away with the same tireless persistence he utilizes for every aspect of his life.
“You’re right,” he says finally. “Maybe if you’re not smiling, people will actually be as scared of you on the ice as you think they are.”
Brendan glares. “I’m plenty terrifying.”
“Yeah, the top of your head definitely haunts my dreams at night, seeing as that’s all I see when I skate with you.”
“Fuck you,” says Brendan, but a ghost of a smile passes across his face.
“And if you keep sipping on your margarita through a curly straw--well that’s really the stuff of nightmares.”
“You bought this for me!” Brendan sputters.
“But you’re the one drinking it,” says Alex sagely. “Hey, PK!” PK swivels around from his conversation with Patches. “Which is worse: buying a drink with a curly straw, or drinking a drink with a curly straw?”
“Definitely drinking,” says PK, then glances between the two of them. “It looks good on you, though, Gally. Don’t let Chucky tell you otherwise.”
Brendan’s face reddens spectacularly and he shoots an almost baleful look across the table at Alex, amplifying his already remarkable resemblance to a golden retriever puppy. Alex laughs at Brendan’s expression and he reaches out a hand to ruffle Brendan’s already mussed hair. “Well, seems you have Subby’s stamp of approval.”
“I hate you,” groans Brendan, but the faint smile widens and he actually seems to enjoy his drink as he slurps it through the bendy straw. The genuine pleasure he exudes warms Alex’s heart, and he realizes he wants to do this, needs to do this, at least until the chip on Brendan’s shoulder blows away. If only I knew what was wrong , thinks Alex with frustration, but since he’s succeeded in cheering up Brendan for the night, he decides to save his questioning for a later night. It’s been far too long since Brendan’s smile sparkled quite so brightly.
He’s missed that smile. He’s missed it so much, his heart skips a beat. But that’s probably just the alcohol and the joy of a surprise.
Whatever it is, he’ll take it.
While Alex has always seized every opportunity presented to him to tease Brendan, now he works hard to create those opportunities. On long plane rides, he eschews his usual silence for conversation. On the bench during games, he sidles close to him and slings an arm around his shoulders before pulling him into a headlock. He pies Brendan in the face with shaving cream after a two-goal night, and on one memorable occasion, he plasters Brendan’s entire stall with photos of his favorite country musicians, all of them posed either semi-nude or in extremely provocative positions. He includes both men and women in his collage, and the rest of the team delights in ribbing a furiously blushing Brendan long after he’s removed the pictures. Most days he succeeds in inducing at least one patented Gallagher sunshine smile; occasionally on the days after hard losses or a poor performance, Alex will fail, but well, a perfect record is a little ambitious.
Accompanying Mission: Make Gally Smile™ is Mission: Make Gally Confess His Problems™. Alex opts for a subtler approach, but after his first several pointed inquiries fail, he seeks external advice.
“If I need to make someone talk, how do I do that?” he asks Anna one day. They’ve both seated at the kitchen table, enjoying Anna’s decidedly superior cooking skills.
Anna quirks an eyebrow. “That wasn’t a creepy question at all, Sasha.”
He winces and rephrases. “I mean, if something’s bothering a friend and they’re hiding whatever it is, how do you get them to talk?”
“You could start by not being such a nosy asshole and leaving them alone,” she says drily, and Alex glares at her. “But if you’re going to insist on intruding into the personal lives of your friends, you might want to start with some self-assessment.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asks.
“It means,” she explains patiently, “that while I find you about as intimidating as a dried sea slug, you might occasionally come off as...unapproachable, I suppose is the best word.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she actually reaches across the table and places a finger across his lips to shush him. “I mean, how often do you discuss your feelings with this friend?”
“Discuss my feelings?” he echos in disbelief.
Anna shoots him a look of utter exasperation. “Feelings, emotions, tingly sensations, things most normal humans have. You do realize it’s possible to do more than just bottle them up?”
“I open up plenty,” he mumbles, but he knows that statement is a lie before it’s even finished coming out of his mouth.
“Well open up a little bit more,” she says, then pauses. “And finish your potatoes. You’ve been losing weight.”
Alex grumbles but complies because it is true--at this point at the end of the season, many players struggle to maintain their weight. Besides, Anna’s potatoes actually taste delicious, so it’s no burden to shove them down his throat with an animal-like gusto that causes Anna’s lips to curl in disgust.
“God help the person who ever marries you,” she sighs.
Alex ignores her, though mostly because he’s too busy choking on a potato to care.
It’s their last road trip of the season, therefore, Alex’s last chance to corner Brendan in a hotel room until training camp in autumn. With the Habs already eliminated from the playoffs, the offseason stretches depressingly long, and with Alex in Russia and Brendan in Vancouver, communication will be difficult. He needs to do this right, and he needs to do this now.
“Sucks about the playoffs this year,” he says as they’re settling in bed after the game.
“Yeah,” says Brendan, but offers nothing more.
“I mean, I don’t know about you, but I definitely feel disappointed.” He pauses. “It’s a shitty feeling .”
“I’m not disagreeing with you.”
“I know. It’s just, sometimes, I just feel things and, I...want to talk about them,” he deadpans. “You know, with friends.”
Brendan shoots him a vaguely concerned look. “Are you having a stroke?”
Alex practically growls in frustration. “No, it’s like I said, I’m trying to discuss my feelings.” When Brendan still stares blankly at him, he continues. “When something is wrong, it’s good to share them. Not bottle them up.”
Brendan just seems more confused than ever. “You know we have a team psychologist. I’m sure you could talk to her.”
“I don’t want to talk about them with her, though,” he says flatly. “I want to talk to you.”
“Oh,” says Brendan, though none of the lines in his forehead fade away. “I mean, yeah, it’s definitely been a shitty season. Definitely pretty shitty.”
“But we have next season at least, right?” says Alex, encouraged by his progress.
He expects Brendan to agree, to maybe even display some of his characteristic enthusiasm at the prospect of a fresh season. Instead, Brendan flinches and dips his head.
“Is something wrong, Gally?” he asks. “Gally, do you know something I don’t?” The thought of a trade flashes across his mind, but he suppresses the idea--no need to panic prematurely.
“It’s nothing,” says Brendan. “I mean, it’s just...nevermind.”
“No, what is it?” Alex persists. “You don’t get to just react like that and not explain anything.” He slides into the spot next to Brendan. “Gally, what the hell is going on?”
“There might not be a next season for me!” bursts out Brendan, then clamps his mouth shut.
A shiver trails down Alex’s spine. “What? You played well this year--there’s no way the Habs don’t keep you.”
“That’s...that’s not the problem,” says Brendan, and a tremor runs through him. He grips his fingers with his hand as if protecting them. “I haven’t really told many people this, but I’m getting more surgery this summer. On my hand, I mean.”
“Did they fuck up the first time around?” asks Alex, already formulating the beginnings of a revenge plot. It involves a rather large pit bull, barbed wire, a dark, secluded cabin and--
“No, no, nothing like that,” says Brendan. “It’s just, this surgery is a little more involved and a little riskier. I didn’t want it during the season because of that.”
“That sucks, dude,” says Alex, but then he frowns. “It still doesn’t explain why you would miss next season. How long is recovery?”
Brendan’s expression becomes almost pained, and the visible skin on his bad hand blanches. “It’s not even the recovery. It’s just...the surgery is to repair some nerve damage. There’s a chance it won’t work, or that it might even worsen the situation.”
“Do you really need it?” asks Alex, and Brendan looks up incredulously. “What? If it might be that bad, do you need it? It’s not like you’ve been playing badly this year. Not as good as me, sure, but…” he trails off, his feeble attempt at a joke falling flat on its face.
Brendan flexes his hand. “The pain’s actually not too bad--only comes in flashes usually, but, I, uh, I sort of can’t feel parts of my hand?” Alex gapes at him. “I mean, not large portions, but there are certain patches of skin which just...don’t...have sensation. I’ve been playing fine, but without the surgery, there’s an even greater chance the numbness will spread. Worst case scenario, it could prevent me from playing in a couple of years.”
“Holy shit,” breathes Alex.
“Yeah,” sighs Brendan. “I mean, we have the best doctors, but there’s always a possibility it won’t work. There’s always a risk.”
Without thinking, Alex pulls Brendan into the tightest embrace his muscles will allow. He squeezes Brendan breathless, and even then, the warmth of his body seeps into Alex’s heart. When he inhales, the soft, pine scent of Brendan’s shampoo floods his nostrils his stomach flips in a weird way. Whatever. He’s hugging Brendan, his friend Brendan, his friend who’s been suffering both physically and mentally for half the season, his friend who must have been so scared, and so alone, and no wonder he wasn’t smiling, and--
“Chucky, air,” gasps Brendan, and Alex pulls away quickly.
“Sorry,” mutters Alex, and he already feels his face burning in embarrassment. .
Then Brendan laughs, honest to God laughs hysterically and the force of it bows him over until Alex actually needs to place a hand on his shoulder to provide support. This reaction befuddles Alex, but he prefers it to tears or despair, so he simply pats Brendan on the shoulder and tries to prevent his friend from falling off the bed.
When at last Brendan regains control, Alex knits his brow. “What’s so funny?”
Brendan chuckles to himself and grins broadly, the lamplight shining off his white teeth in an almost cartoonish fashion. “You. I mean, that’s probably the most affection I’ve ever seen you display, and well, it’s kind of sweet. But mostly it’s hilarious.”
Alex’s frown deepens. “I don’t understand why it’s funny.”
Brendan reaches around and fluffs Alex’s hair. Alex grimaces--such gestures remind him that Brendan is shockingly the the older of the the two, despite his striking resemblance to Alex’s twelve year old cousins and his propensity to rival them in maturity levels. Still, he doesn’t shy away from the touch, even leans into it slightly. Brendan’s fingers scrape across his scalp, tingling as they card through his hair.
“Chuck, you know I love you, but you have to admit, you’re not the most expressive guy on the planet.”
“I can be expressive,” protests Alex. “I can!” he repeats vehemently.
“I know, I know,” says Brendan reassuringly. “I’m sorry for laughing at you too, because it was really sweet. I ought to reward good behavior, I suppose. Pavlov’s dog and all that.”
Alex resents that comparison because if anyone on the team is a dog, it’s definitely Brendan. Still, one question lingers, and reluctant though he is to turn to the conversation in a more unpleasant direction, he needs to know.
“When is your surgery?” he asks softly.
Brendan sighs gently. “A week after the season ends.”
So soon. “And what are you doing after?”
“Well, recovery at first. Then training as much as they’ll allow me. PT, of course, and I guess I just sort of thought I’d take by ear, really. So much depends on the outcome.” Brendan meets his eyes steadily. “You’re returning to Russia, right?”
“For a while,” says Alex. “I miss it there sometimes, you know. And in the summer, along the Neva nothing is as beautiful as St. Petersburg. Nothing.”
“It sounds lovely,” says Brendan wistfully.
An idea strikes Alex suddenly. “You could visit, you know.”
“What?”
“I mean, you could visit me. Come to St. Petersburg, stay with me for as long as you wanted.”
“Huh,” says Brendan. “I don’t know. I mean, like I said, so much depends…”
“I understand,” says Alex quietly. “But the offer stands, so if it works out, you let me know.”
“Thank you,” says Brendan, and the sincerity coloring his voice is overwhelming. This entire night has been far too serious for an evening with Brendan Gallagher.
“Don’t thank me until you speak Russian,” says Alex slyly.
Brendan laughs lightly. “Yeah, whatever.” His smile is blinding. “You’re still an ass.”
After the season ends, the team scatters across the globe. Alex lingers in Montreal for a week, but once Brendan flies to Vancouver for his surgery, he sees little point in remaining in a city devoid of hockey and his friends. He packs his bags and flies to St. Petersburg where he quickly settles into an apartment he’s rented for the summer. Fortunately, some Russian players have also returned to their native country for the summer, and while the majority of them reside in Moscow, some choose the smaller, albeit more beautiful city.
One of those people is Alex’s longtime friend and even longer time asshole, Nail Yakupov. Two weeks into his stay in Russia, Nail bursts through Alex’s door without warning, hauling several large duffel bags into the hallway.
“Sasha!” he crows. “I’m here!”
“What the hell are you doing here?” hisses Alex.
“Well, I had to ask around if you can believe, because you didn’t fucking tell me you were already in Russia, but a few words to your kind sister--” Alex groans--”and I figured out where you decided to hole up for the summer.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you opened my locked door.”
“The landlady recognized me,” he says simply. “And I may have promised her son an autograph, but, details, details, Sasha. What matters is that I’m here now.”
“And moving in, apparently,” notes Alex drily, gesturing towards the bags.
“Well, you can hardly expect me to commute between Moscow and here every day.”
“What makes me think I want to see your ugly face that much?”
“Your undying love for me,” deadpans Nail.
Alex rolls his eyes but shows Nail into the guest room and meanders into the kitchen to begin preparing dinner. He’ll need to double the recipe, and he’s not entirely sure he has enough ingredients to manage the adjustment.
“Cooking for me, Sasha?” asks Nail, poking his head around the door frame.
“For myself, but if I need to feed your fat ass, I might have to buy more food.” He grimaces. “I hate shopping.”
“Then let’s go out,” says Nail. Alex raises an eyebrow. “What, can you not afford it? Please, spare me. We’ll find something on the diet plan.”
In the end, they find something which probably would only give their nutritionists a minor seizure, and Alex scrapes off more than half the sour cream from his vegetables before diving in. Still, he insists on a particularly intense workout the next morning, and Nail suffers through their twenty-five kilometer run while complaining loudly the entire time. Alex enjoys distance running, but he knows not even fellow hockey players, who are all in exceptional shape, share his enthusiasm. However, if Nail is staying with Alex, he’s going to follow Alex’s lead.
Thought Alex would never admit this verbally, he actually enjoys Nail’s presence in St. Petersburg. The two share a fierce, competitive drive, and Nail’s presence pushes him harder, if only because he can’t bear the smug grin on Nail’s face whenever he bests him in any contest. So Alex runs faster, lifts heavier weights and stretches even further. After only three weeks, he thinks he’s begun to regain a chunk of the muscle lost to attrition throughout the season. Anna will be pleased.
Then one day he receives a text.
You still in St. Petersburg?
It’s from Brendan, and Alex blinks twice to clear his eyes. Since the end of the season, he and Brendan have exchanged only a handful of messages. In the days after surgery, Brendan provided a few brief updates, but refused to delve into specifics. The lack of confirmation concerned Alex, but thousands of miles away, he couldn’t badger his friend as he’d done in the season. Of late, Brendan had even left several texts unanswered.
Yes, will be for the next month at least , replies Brendan.
He awaits the response with baited breath. Then it comes.
Does the offer still stand?
Of course. Then, when are you coming?
I’m kind of at an airport right now? says Brendan. In Vancouver, so it will take me a while, but I should arrive tomorrow morning .
Alex actually falls of his chair. Nail looks up from his own phone with surprise.
Text me your itinerary and I’ll pick you up, he says, hastily pulling himself back into his seat.
Thanks Chucky . After another moment, he adds, plane’s boarding, so I’ll email you the flight info, but texting’s gotta stop .
Fly safe , he says, but there’s no further reply. Alex returns to the world of his apartment to see Nail eyeing him strangely.
“What?” he says.
“You want to tell me why you fell off your chair like a toddler?”
Alex shakes his head to clear his thoughts. “You’re going to have to find a different place to stay.”
“What?” exclaims Nail. “How soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? You’re kicking me out just like that?” he squawks indignantly.
“I never invited you here in the first place,” Alex reminds him. “And someone who I did invite will be arriving tomorrow morning, so he needs a place to stay.”
Nail clutches his hand to his heart. “So you throw me out into the cold, lonely streets of St. Petersburg.”
Alex rolls his eyes. “You have an apartment in Moscow, and you can find a hotel in St. Petersburg if you want to stay here. And my friend definitely needs help navigating the area, so I need to stick with him.”
“So not a Russian friend,” Nail surmises, and Alex nods. “Who is it?”
“Gallagher,” says Alex because Nail won’t recognize “Brendan.”
Nail’s eyes widen. “You invited that pest over here?”
Alex’s eyes flash angrily. “He’s my friend, and I can invite whoever the hell I want.”
“Chill, Sasha, chill,” says Nail, raising his arms defensively. “Only joking.”
Alex harrumphs and wanders over the fridge, inspecting it for food. It’s nearly noon, and he’s beginning to crave lunch. He feels Nail’s eyes on him as he pulls out a carton of eggs, a chicken breast and a pile of vegetables, and the feeling continues as he starts to prepare the chicken. After a minute of silence, he glances behind his shoulders.
“I know you want to say something,” he grunts. “Spit it out.”
Nail huffs out a laugh. “You’ve become more perceptive, Sasha.”
“And you’re as much of an asshole as you’ve always been. What else is new?”
Nail ignores his insults. “I was just surprised, I suppose. I knew you two were close, but I never imagined you would be this close.”
“We’ve roomed together on the road for nearly four years, and I see him nearly every day. Why wouldn’t we be?”
“I didn’t say you wouldn’t be. I’m just surprised that you are. I didn’t think you had enough emotional depth to actually realize you liked someone.”
“Have you been communicating with my sister?” asks Alex, refusing to bit at Nail's snide insult.
“Why?”
“She has this idea I don’t express my feelings well enough.”
“You don’t.” Alex turns around to glare at Nail. “Well, you don’t,” says Nail. “I had to invite myself here.”
“That’s just you.”
“I’m one of your closest friends--I know I am, don’t argue with me--and even when we’re in the same country, you don’t reach out. It took me years to wear you down, to get this far with you.”
“I’ve known Gally for a long time too,” argues Alex.
“True, but with your timeline of making friends, I wouldn’t place him at visiting status for another two years.” Nail’s gaze is challenging. “It’s not a bad thing, Sasha. Just different.”
“He’s had a rough year,” explains Alex gruffly. “I figured he could use the company.”
“And I’m sure your charming personality will be just the cure for all of his woes.”
Alex flips Nail off from behind his back, and Nail chuckles. He doesn’t say anything more as Alex continues to cut the chicken, layering the pieces in seasoning and placing them in a pot. Alex presumes he’s returned to scrolling through his phone, perhaps playing one of those stupid games which Brendan adores playing on plane rides and bus trips. Just as he’s setting the tray of chicken in the oven, Nail speaks up again.
“I think I’ll return to Moscow. That’s probably best.”
“You don’t have to leave St. Petersburg,” says Alex. “I just need to give the guest room to Gally.”
“No, it’s fine. You two should have some time alone, and I’ve been getting sick of your face as of late.”
“No one could ever be sick of this face,” retorts Alex.
Nail shakes his head. “No one likes a showoff, Sasha.”
“Well it’s no wonder no one likes you.”
Nail stands. “And this is why I have to go. You don’t respect me.” He walks out of the kitchen into the hallway. “Come find me when lunch is ready.”
Alex hums in response. He’ll certainly miss Nail, whose presence, no matter how irksome, is familiar and understandable. For all that he’s spent considerable amounts of time with Brendan in hotels and locker rooms and with the team off of the ice, living with someone is different. Especially for Brendan, a non-Russian speaker, life is Russia differs considerably from life Montreal. And he’ll be entirely responsible for Brendan at all times, unless he’s been underestimating Brendan’s language acquisition ability this entire time.
He hasn’t. When Brendan steps off the plane, the first thing he says is “ Kak dela? ”
“ Normalno ,” says Alex, assessing Brendan’s reaction carefully. “ Ti ponyal chto ya skazal ?”
The blank look across Brendan’s face speaks far louder than words. Alex sighs and continues in English, “Did you bring a phrasebook or something?”
“Oh, yeah, I did,” says Brendan, patting his backback. Alex follows the motion and notices for the first time the black brace covering his hand. Five weeks after the surgery, if he’s counting correctly, and the brace is still on. Ales doesn’t know what to make of the situation. Fortunately, Brendan smiles hopefully, ignorant of Alex’s concern. “I was kind of hoping you could translate, though.”
“Actually, I was thinking of dumping you in the middle of the city and watching from afar as you wander around helplessly,” he says deadpan. Brendan blanches, and Alex rolls his eyes. “Of course I’ll translate, idiot. Maybe you won’t make fun of my English after this experience, though.”
“We’ll see,” says Brendan. He shifts from foot to foot uneasily, and Alex realizes that Brendan Gallagher is actually nervous.
“Here, let me take this,” Alex says, grabbing Brendan’s suitcase and duffel before there’s any time for him to resist.
Brendan protests nonetheless. “I can handle it, Chucky.”
Alex tips his head pointedly towards Brendan’s hand. “I’ll be the judge of that once you tell me in detail what’s going on.”
That shuts Brendan right up, and Alex feels a little sympathy for him, although not enough to relinquish the bags or retract his earlier words. He’ll be damned if he allows Brendan to hurt himself any further or compromise his recovery. Besides, Brendan’s still carrying his own backpack, and Alex is more than capable of shouldering the duffle and dragging the suitcase behind him.
They take a cab back to Alex’s apartment, and Alex secretly enjoys the way Brendan’s eyes widen as they taxi carries them further into the heart of the city. When they pass through Nevsky street, Brendan tugs at Alex’s shirt sleeve excitedly.
“Is that an entire store devoted to chocolate?” he asks.
“They serve other types of candy too,” he says. “It’s kind of touristy, though.”
“Well, am I not a tourist?” says Brendan snidely.
“You’re with me,” says Alex. The words ring out with more finality than he intends. “I mean, if you want to do that sort of stuff then sure. But I can show you a part of the city you’d never see alone.”
Brendan’s expression softens, and some of the nervous, jittery energy drains from his body. “I trust you.”
“Good,” says Alex. “We’re almost here, just another five minutes or so.”
Alex insists on transporting Brendan’s luggage up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. When they step past the threshold, Brendan pauses and surveys the layout of the place. It’s not a terribly large space, but it’s certainly sufficient for two people, and Brendan’s expression is inscrutable. Alex dumps Brendan’s bags on the guest bedroom, belatedly realizing Nail’s used sheets still cover the bed. Brendan follows Alex in and notes the signs of habitation.
“Is someone else staying here?” he asks.
“Nail was, but I kicked him out once you said you were coming.”
“Oh,” says Brendan, scrunching up his face. “You didn’t have to do that. I didn’t realize I was interrupting someone else’s stay.”
“Like I told him, I invited you here. I never invited him--he just sort of showed up a few weeks ago and decided to stick around. He left for Moscow earlier this morning, but he might visit in a couple of weeks.” Alex studies Brendan carefully. “How long are you staying for?”
Brendan gulps. “I, uh, didn’t book a return flight, so whenever you get sick of me is good, I suppose.” He’s rubbing the brace on his hand. “I didn’t exactly plan this whole trip very well. All I knew is that I wanted to get away. I just needed to wait for my hand.”
There it is, the elephant in the room. Alex has skirted around this topic so far, but the question burns on his tongue, and if Brendan is living with him, training with him even, then they will need to confront the realities of the situation, whatever it may be.
“And your hand, how is it?” Alex says slowly.
Brendan wriggles the fingers within the brace. “Better. Most of the numbness is gone, but there’s still pain from time to time. PT is moving along, though it’s slower than I want.” He grimaces. “They’re optimistic about me playing in October, but no one’s made any guarantees.”
Alex exhales sharply. “Sounds like it could be worse.”
“It could be worse,” agrees Brendan, though his tone implies a great deal of frustration and impatience.
“So can you train? Are you allowed to run?”
“Yeah, I’m allowed to run,” says Brendan. He puckers his face. “For the first month, I couldn’t, so I feel like I’m just a slug now whenever I try, though.”
“Well,” says Alex, “since you’re going to feel the jet lag soon and I need to train too, we could go for a jog now. I can show you around the neighborhood so maybe you won’t be so helpless if you get lost.”
Brendan nods, and Alex leaves to allows Brendan space to change into appropriate workout clothes. For himself, he’s already wearing an acceptable shirt, but he exchanges his jeans for shorts. When Brendan emerges from the guest room, he’s sporting an old, remarkably oversized Habs t-shirt and a loose pair of shorts. The brace remains as well.
“You should buy a size down next time,” grunts Alex. “You know you’re short, no point in denying it. Did you borrow that shirt from Prusty and forget to return it?”
Brendan flinches. “It normally fits. I’ve just, uh, I’ve lost some weight.”
Shit. Alex realizes he’s pressed a sore point, and of course Brendan’s lost weight. Every player struggles to maintain their bulk throughout the season, and without the benefit of regular workouts in the offseason, Brendan hasn’t regained the lost muscle mass. He imagines that surgery and pain also exact their toll on a body.
“Sorry, Gally. I didn’t think--
“It’s fine.” Brendan waves off his apology dismissively. “Let’s just run, eh? I’ve missed it.”
Despite Alex’s intentions of making an actual workout of the outing, Brendan asks so many questions about the area around them that Alex needs to slow his pace simply to cram all of the information in. They maintain a regular jog, though, and if Brendan appears to struggle more with his breathing towards the end, Alex ignores it. He’s a little surprised at his friend’s decline in fitness--Brendan’s always worked exceedingly hard to compensate for his diminutive size--but the reason behind his odd behavior rapidly manifests itself the moment they return to Alex’s apartment.
Brendan shucks off the brace with impressive speed and beelines towards the freezer, emerging from the kitchen with an ice pack set against his hand and obvious relief in his posture. He collapses against the couch in the living room while Alex hovers over him, attempting to balance the line between overt concern and studied distance. Eventually, the concern triumphs.
“What the hell, Gally?” he exclaims. “You said you were good to run.”
“I am good to run,” insists Brendan, though he closes his eyes and clutches his hand to his chest. “This happens even without exercise, although movement can sometimes make it worse.”
“What happens? What exactly is happening with you?”
“Nerve pain,” says Brendan simply. Alex sucks in a breath. “It’s actually improving--this hasn’t happened in the past couple of days.”
Alex drops to the couch beside Brendan and instinctively reaches for Brendan’s hand. He removes the ice pack to reveal two jagged red lines bisecting the still-fading silver scars from his first surgery. His thumb traverses the length of these lines, slipping over each groove in the skin until the the markings taper away into unblemished white. He repeats the motion because he wants to feel, in some impossible, foolish way, what Brendan is feeling. Or rather, he wants to share the burden.
When he looks up, Brendan is staring directly at Alex’s face, and Alex freezes.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is kind of strange.”
Brendan shakes his head, an almost surprised, fond light in his eyes. “It’s actually helping.”
“Really?”
Brendan shrugs. “It feels nice, I suppose. Which distracts from the rest of it.”
Tentatively, Alex resumes the motion. He recognizes it belatedly as mirroring Brendan’s habit from the season, but when performed by another person, the action carries a different meaning. On some level, Alex is aware of the oddity of the entire situation, the way the scene would appear to anyone who burst through the door. Still, Brendan’s hand is soft beneath Alex’s thumb, and if he’s being honest, it’s been far too long since he performed so intimate a gesture. A tingling begins to traverse his fingers, then his arms.
“Better?” says Alex softly.
Brendan nods. “How do you say ‘thank you’ in Russian?”
“ Spasiba ,” says Alex.
“ Spasiba ,” repeats Brendan.
“ Pozhalusta , moi droog ” responds Alex. “You’re welcome, my friend.”
Brendan replaces the ice pack while Alex ducks into the kitchen to begin preparing an afternoon meal. The muted echoes of the television float through the walls, indicating Brendan has located the remote, though Alex doubts he will find anything in English.
He’s nearly finished with preparing his omelette when Brendan wanders into the kitchen, brace now covering his hand.
“Find anything to watch?”
“I think there was like, the Russian equivalent of Sesame Street?” Brendan squints into the kitchen light. “I learned that blue is, uh, is goboloi ?”
“ Goloboi ,” corrects Alex. “And that is only light blue. Dark blue is sinni .”
“You have two different types of blue?” Brendan slumps into a chair at the kitchen table. “Russian is weird.”
“And English is not?”
Brendan considers this statement for a moment before conceding. “Okay, yeah, it’s a little weird I suppose. But it’s not fair that you learned both when you were young. It’s easy then.”
“Maybe you try French,” suggests Alex. “It would make Montreal happier.”
“I’ll stick to Russian for now,” says Brendan. “One’s enough for me.”
Alex snorts, but he appreciates the idea of Brendan learning Russian, even if he thinks he’ll be lucky to learn a dozen words over the course of his time here. He finishes with the eggs and scoops them onto two plates, one for each of them, and places both plates on the table.
“You’re feeling better then,” he says.
Brendan shakes out his hand self-consciously, but smiles a little as he does. “Better, yes.”
“The next time it hurts, you tell me. No waiting until we arrive back home.”
“It wasn’t like telling you would get us home any faster,” says Brendan, though he refuses to meet Alex’s eyes.
“Tell me,” Alex emphasizes. “No hiding.”
Brendan rolls his eyes. “That’s rich coming from you, Chuck. You’re not exactly an open book.”
“Fine. It goes both ways. You be honest with me, I’ll be open with you.”
“Really?” Brendan peers at him intently. “You’ll be open with me?”
“Sure,” says Alex. “How difficult can it be?”
The answer, as it turns out, is very difficult. Though jetlag subdues Brendan’s normal energy levels throughout the first two days, he quickly regains his puppydog-like enthusiasm. He peppers Alex with questions almost constantly, about the city, about Russia, about the food and the language and about Alex himself. Even exercise, hard, laborious exercise fails to dampen the endless stream of inquiries on topics ranging from the incredibly particular (Why does Russian sour cream taste different from Canadian sour cream?) to the intimidatingly broad (What is Alex’s opinion on Russian politics?). Alex reminds Brendan he’s actually American but answers all of them by delving into the furthest depths of his well of patience, determined to keep the mood light. For some odd reason, Brendan is more animated and lively than he’s been since his injury, and Alex relishes the return of his friend to old form. He loves the eye-crinkling smiles and the body-shaking laughs, even if he needs to answer five hundred questions a day to earn them.
In return for his patience, Brendan responds to Alex’s (far less numerous) inquiries into the state of his hand with honesty. In addition to running, Brendan performs physical therapy two times a day, often with Alex observing quietly from the corner as he grimaces and swears at his own appendage. After each session, Alex drops an ice pack next to Brendan wordlessly, and he receives Brendan’s wordless thanks in return. Alex appreciates Brendan’s trust, and increasingly, he appreciates Brendan’s mere presence as well.
A week into Brendan’s stay, Brendan surprises Alex late at night by asking for help. While Alex has guided Brendan around the city, cooked meals for him, and repeated Russian phrases over and over until they latched in Brendan’s mind, Brendan has never requested help with something physical before. They’re sprawled across the couch, one of Alex’s Die Hard DVDs whirring softly beneath the explosive burst of gunshots. After a particularly loud boom, Brendan tenses and then he doesn’t relax.
Alex sense the tension as Brendan’s arm retracts, curling subtly into his chest. He glances over at Brendan and sees lines tightening around his face. He’s unsure of how to respond, whether he should respond at all, to obvious signs of pain in his friend.
But Brendan speaks first.
“Chucky?” he says softly, barely audible over the screech of metal echoing from the television.
“Do you need some ice? Your pills?”
“Could you--” Brendan hesitates, his voice catching. “Could you do what you did the first day? With my hand?”
Alex reaches for Brendan’s hand, which Brendan allows to be pulled away from his chest slowly. Even in the dark, Alex knows where the lines lie, and even if he didn’t know, he feels the indentations in the skin quickly enough.
Brendan inhales sharply when Alex strokes his thumb along his healing scars, but as Alex repeats the motion, Brendan’s body drains of the tension and his breathing changes from tightly controlled pain management mode to relaxed and comfortable, a normal respiration pattern. The movie continues on, casting dim flashes of light across their faces. Brendan stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the film, while Alex splits his focus between Brendan’s hand and the violent action splashed across the screen.
Eventually the movie subsumes his entire attention, and he’s swept away by the action sequences. During a lull in the plot though, he glances down and realizes he’s still touching Brendan. Even worse, he’s stopped moving his thumb, that he’s essentially holding hands with Brendan Gallagher and has been for a while. He wonders if Brendan’s as conscious of the touch as Alex now is, if the small fuzz of hair across his hand feel like a cluster of live electric wires, sparking with sensation. Maybe that’s just him.
Alex withdraws his hand, and Brendan’s hand twitches as if to reach out for Alex’s once more. Then Brendan turns to Alex and grins broadly.
“All good, Chucky?”
Alex feels like there’s more to this question than the obvious superficial inquiry. The exact meaning escapes him for now, though, so he just shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”
Brendan shoots Alex an impossibly fond and quizzical look. “It’s--never mind. Thanks for the help. Spasiba za pomosh .”
Alex raises an eyebrow. “Look at you. Markov will be proud.”
“Like I’m trying to impress Markov,” mutters Brendan, but he doesn’t deign to elaborate, so Alex settles back against the couch to watch the rest of the film. A prickle shoots across his arm--Brendan’s shoulder is pressed into the cushion with not even a centimeter separating skin from skin--but Alex decides the sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant. He doesn’t move.
By the time the credits roll, Brendan’s shoulder is fully touching Alex’s arm, and Alex is having a hard time explaining the squirming in his stomach. Whatever. Brendan’s still breathing evenly and apparently pain free, and Alex isn’t one to deny him that. If he’s being honest, Alex can’t think of much he would deny Brendan.
Brendan smiles sleepily, and the warmth travels straight into Alex’s core where it flutters softly against his ribcage.
In that moment, he can’t think of a damn thing.
Brendan is the one who breaks the news of PK’s trade to Alex. Alex is stretching intently after his early weight room session which Brendan skipped in favor of a run when Brendan emerges from the guest room, eyes wide and clutching his phone.
“Dude, PK got traded.”
Alex freezes midway into his squat. “Very funny,” he says.
“I’m not joking.” Brendan shakes his head in disbelief. “PK just texted me himself to confirm. We get Shea Weber in return.”
“And? Who else?”
“No one,” says Brendan and Alex’s heart sinks. If what Brendan’s telling him is correct, then not only is one of their best players and friends departing the team, but he’s not even leaving in a fair tradel. Shea Weber is an excellent player, but...PK is PK.
“Shit,” says Alex slowly. “Shit.”
Brendan drops to the floor next to him. “Yeah. Shit. This is fucked.”
“They said they wouldn’t trade him.”
“I know, believe me, I know.”
“They still did.”
“Chucky.”
“If he can go, anyone can go.”
“Chucky, you’re not going anywhere.”
“I thought the same thing about Subby!” exclaims Alex. “I mean, I know this is how the business works, but PK…”
Brendan wraps an arm around Alex’s shoulders, and Alex does not resist. It’s only one of a dozen trades he’s experienced with the team so far, and only one of dozens more he’ll likely experience throughout his career, but PK is by far the biggest, by far the most earth-shaking one yet.
“I’m really going to miss him,” says Brendan. “I mean, I miss a lot of guys, Prusty, Larry, you know. But I’m really going to miss PK.”
“Me too,” is all Alex can think to say.
“At least you’re still here,” says Brendan. “Man, if you were traded…”
“Then what?” prompts Alex.
Brendan looks Alex directly in the eyes. “If you were traded, quite frankly, I don’t know what I’d do. You’re...you’re probably one of the most important people in my life.”
“Am I?”
“This past season when everything went to shit, when I was dealing the uncertainty with my fingers, every day you made me laugh. And I know what you were trying to do with all your little questions about me, trying to figure out what was wrong.” He smiles, more to himself than to Alex. “You’re not very subtle.”
“I can be subtle,” responds Alex automatically, even though he knows it’ not true.
“No, you really can’t.” He pulls Alex in tighter, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s okay, though. Sometimes you were the only thing getting me through the day.”
It’s strange for Alex to be recognized in this way. All this time, he thought Brendan would never notice the effort he exerted in his attempts to return Brendan to his normal, naturally cheerful self. He feels naked, more exposed than he ever has in a locker room filled with prying eyes. Perhaps, he thinks, Brendan pays as much attention to him as he does to Brendan.
“Well, someone had to do it,” Alex huffs out gruffly. “It was painful to watch.”
Brendan remains silent for a long time, and Alex presumes he’s reflecting on these past months, these past years. As he’s come to understand Brendan over their years of playing together, Alex has seen a quiet, pensive maturity in Brendan which sits at odds with the rest of his personality. He doesn’t often choose to use it, but it’s there nonetheless. It’s one of the few times he actually believes Brendan might be older than him.
“Alex,” says Brendan softly, and Alex starts at the use of his first name. “I’m going to do something, and--I guess I can’t ask you to not freak out, but maybe, if you can--
“What are you going on about?”
Brendan inhales deeply. “I feel like, I just, I need--oh, fuck it.”
Then Brendan kisses him, mouth firm and unhesitating against Alex’s, and there’s such a warmth, such a sweetness to it that Alex can’t breathe for a moment, can’t think beyond, what is happening? and Gally, Gally, Gally .
Then his senses return and Alex yanks himself away. “What the fuck was that?”
A flash of hurt crosses Brendan’s face, but he maintains a surprising amount of composure. “I thought it was rather obvious.”
“You--you’re gay?”
Brendan makes a discontented, frustrated noise. “Something like that, I suppose.”
“You--you like me?”
“Something like that too,” says Brendan, and there’s so much in his face, so much hope, so much fear, so much uncertainty that it’s nearly crushing Alex and he isn’t even the one feeling those emotions. Except his own emotions are just as overwhelming. Then Brendan says, “I guess I would say I’m in love with you.”
Alex gapes at him, jaw practically unhinged as he opens and closes it like a goldfish.
Brendan sighs, clearly realizing Alex isn’t going to be speaking anytime soon. “I wasn’t going to tell you, I really wasn’t, but this whole year has just shown me how fucking fragile everything is, you know? Me, this team, my life. And PK leaving--I just can’t hold back anymore, right? Because what if tomorrow I’m traded? What if tomorrow you’re gone? And I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, I really didn’t, but these past months, all you’ve done for me, all the ways you make me smile and all the ways you care--I couldn’t help it. And last night, with my hand, I felt something. I felt a spark, as cheesy as that sounds, and I thought maybe you felt it too. So I’m in love with you.”
Alex closes his mouth. Then he opens it again and the words come pouring out of his mouth. “I’m not in love with you.” And it’s the truth, he’s not, but he knows the second he speaks that he’s spoken to harshly.
Brendan scoots away from Alex, and the space between them looms as vast and dry as the Sahara desert. “I guess not.”
“That was--I didn’t mean to say it like that,” says Alex quickly. He’s suddenly very aware of a few loose threads hanging off of his shorts, the way the frayed edges seem to tease him as they pop out the moment he presses them back into the fabric. “I just--I don’t know how I feel.”
Alex stands up. Brendan remains sitting on the floor.
“I think I need to go. Air or something.”
He grabs his keys, his phone and his wallet, and then he’s gone, taking the stairs two at a time, thoughts buzzing and skin buzzing and everything blurring around him in a hazy cloud until he reaches the city-breeze smell of the wind just outside the building. Then he runs. He runs and runs and it’s like that movie with Tom Hanks--Forrest Gump, he vaguely recalls--but he doesn’t know how to stop, and it’s all he can do to see the sidewalk in front of him as the world swirls and sways before his eyes.
Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out of his pocket expecting to see Brendan’s name flash across the screen, but instead, of all people, it’s Nail’s.
Without even thinking, Alex slows his pace to a walk and presses the accept button. He holds the phone to his ear, unsure of what to expect.
“Sasha, you have got to come to Moscow this weekend. I just heard that the Foo Fighters are making a surprise visit, and my friend Misha thinks he can get tickets.” Nail continues rambling excitedly in Alex’s ear until somewhere around minute four he realizes Alex has yet to say a single word in response.
“Are you there?” asks Nail. “Am I talking to the wrong person?”
Alex licks his dry lips. “I’m here.”
“Okay, so what do you think?”
Alex honestly hasn’t been paying much attention to anything Nail’s said (which is par for the course) and he has no energy or patience to pretend that he has. Instead, he says the first thing which comes to mind. “Gally’s in love with me.”
Nail laughs. “What? Do you want him to come too? If you’ve managed to trick him into coming here, I suppose you might as well invite him along.”
“No, you don’t understand. Brendan Gallagher is in love with me, and I have no idea what to do.”
Alex has never been able to get Nail Yakupov to shut up, but now that he has, he’s wishing for anything but the ominous silence on the other end of the line. Alex’s run has carried him to a small park, and he weaves in between several trees as he wanders across the grass.
“Like romantically in love with you?” says Nail at last.
“He kissed me, so I’m going with a yes on that.”
“Shit, dude. That’s intense. Where are you right now? Are you around him?”
“No, I, uh, I bailed. Took off running, literally. Now I’m in a park. Presumably Gally’s stick back at the apartment.”
“You mean he kissed you and you just high-tailed it out of there? Smooth.”
“Well, what should I have done?”
“I guess that kind of depends on how you feel,” says Nail with uncharacteristic sincerity. “I mean, do you like him?”
“Of course I like him. He’s my friend.”
Nail sighs the sigh of one who has suffered greatly in his life. “You know what I mean.”
Alex stops walking and plops himself onto the grass. The kiss from Brendan had been so unexpected, so terrifying, that Alex has barely given himself any time to process the barrage of emotions slamming from side to side in his mind, tearing him from thought to thought with impunity. He thinks about Brendan’s smile and the way its absence gnawed away at his core, the way his fingers tingled as they touched Brendan. He thinks about the kiss, about the way, for once in his entire life, he shut off his brain. He thinks about his earnest eyes, the hope in them, and those are wonderful, wonderful things, but in truth…
“I don’t know. I haven’t really had time to process it yet.”
“Then maybe you tell him that,” says Nail. “Gallagher owes you that much, at least. He can’t just spring something like that on you and expect you to know immediately how you feel.”
“Yeah,” Alex agrees reluctantly.
“And Sasha?”
“Yes, Nail?”
“Don’t be an asshole about it.”
“Why would I be?” says Alex.
He senses Nail’s frustration as it travels hundreds of miles across the Russian landscape right into Alex’s phone. “I guess, I should say, be careful. You don’t always think things through.”
“Why does everyone have so little faith in me?”
“I have faith in you. But mostly because you have me as your friend to tell you what to do.”
Alex hangs up.
He half runs, half walks back to his apartment, deliberately choosing long, circuitous detours which delay his return. He also realizes about ten minutes into his journey that he must have been running for a least an hour, judging by the distance he’s covered. Between stopping for water and bit of pelmeni on his way back, and a foray into an old bookstore, the trip home takes at least three times as long. The sun still hangs high in the sky--a product of the long Russian days this far north, but he knows later afternoon is still approaching, and he wonders what Brendan has done to occupy the time.
He steps cautiously into his apartment and finds it empty. Only the steady click of the ceiling fan provides any relief from the oppressive quiet of the apartment. He searches for anything, a note, a message, some indication of Brendan’s whereabouts. He wouldn’t be so concerned except for the fact that Brendan still can’t speak Russian, and if he becomes lost, he might not be able to find his way back. With panic beginning to rise in the back of his throat, Alex calls Brendan’s phone and nearly jumps when he hears the ringing from beneath a towel on the kitchen table. Perfect. Not only is Brendan potentially wandering the streets of St. Petersburg on his own, but Alex has no way to reach him.
The panic is really everything Alex deserves and more after he fled and abandoned Brendan.
A click at the door startles him. In walks Brendan Gallagher, a fresh water bottle clutched in hand. He hums absentmindedly to himself as he shrugs off a plaid shirt, leaving only a tank top behind, and then he sees Alex. The humming cuts off immediately.
“You’re back,” says Alex. “I was worried, when you weren’t here, I mean.”
“I can get a bottle of water on my own, thank you very much,” says Brendan a little snippily. “ Ya hochu voda .”
His pronunciation is atrocious, but Alex can’t stop the small quirk of his lips. Brendan’s trying, really, honest to God trying in his attempts to speak Russian. It’s endearing, and then Alex remembers Brendan’s in love with him, and the effort takes on an entirely new meaning.
“Still, I was worried.”
“Well, I didn’t know when you would be coming back.” Only through years of friendship does Alex detect the slight catch in Brendan’s voice. “I didn’t feel like waiting to boil water, so a bottle it is.”
“I was coming back,” says Alex defensively. “I just...I just needed some time. Some air.”
Brendan nods and fiddles with the hem of his tank top. It’s an old piece of Canadien’s merchandise, probably from the year Brendan was drafted or thereabouts since Alex can’t recall ever seeing it during his own tenure in Montreal. He remains silent, unnervingly so, and Alex realizes he’s going to have to be the one to talk.
“I mean what I said before, you know. I’m not in love with you.”
Brendan’s attempts at concealing his disappointment fail spectacularly, and Nail’s voice echoes in Alex’s ear. Be careful . Maybe this is what he meant--he needs to approach the situation with honesty, but maybe...maybe he can afford to be optimistic.
“But I could be,” he says, and Brendan’s eyes widen. “With time, I mean. This is all so new. I don’t know how to feel.” He frowns. “Emotions are hard.”
Brendan snorts softly. “You’re telling me.”
“So, what I’m trying to say is I don’t know what to think, how to react--anything. I don’t know anything, except...except I think I liked kissing you. I think that was nice.”
“Would you like to try it again?” asks Brendan.
“I think I would,” says Alex. “I mean, if that’s okay with--oomph!”
Brendan crosses the distance between them in three lengthy strides and smashes himself against Alex, using every inch of five foot eight body as leverage to shove Alex against the wall and pin his wrist against the cool brick surface. Alex cups Brendan’s face as he leans down in attempt to steady him, to control the rush of power and desperation flooding off of Brendan. He kisses urgently with the same drive he displays on the ice, tinged with a need to prove something to someone, to himself, to Alex, to Montreal. It’s all the same.
Alex curls his hand around the nape of Brendan’s neck and slows the kiss, moving his mouth with deliberation and purpose. Brendan’s throwing himself at Alex, baring everything he has, and Alex doesn’t need that. He’s not as impulsive or rash as Brendan. He needs time. Fortunately, Brendan obliges with the more languorous pace and even releases Alex’s wrist so he can wrap his arms around Alex and pull himself even closer. The sensation of Brendan, of his body and his energy and his overwhelming need, wraps around Alex like a warm blanket, but a charged one brimming with undercurrents of electricity.
After several minutes, Alex breaks away and uses his hands to physically stop Brendan from leaning in for more.
“Wow,” he says simply.
Brendan nods. “Did you like that?”
Alex studies Brendan carefully, noting the slight slump to his shoulders and the dip in his chin as he gazes up at him. Brendan is always earnest, always honest at heart, and the sight of him so vulnerable and hopeful has something in Alex’s chest aching fiercely.
“You know when you’re in the ocean and a big wave hits and leaves sea foam behind? If you hold your arm against the foam, you can feel it disintegrate, bubble by bubble.” Alex gulps. “I feel like there’s a cloud of sea foam wrapped around me, slowly melting away.”
Brendan frowns. “I don’t understand. Is that a good thing?”
“ Durak ,” says Alex softly. “Come here.”
He pulls Brendan in for another kiss, this one lazy and sunlit, and his skin tingles and his stomach lurches not unpleasantly. It’s not love, not yet, but Alex thinks maybe it could be. Brendan stands on his tiptoes as he wraps his arms around Alex’s neck, and Alex tastes the hint of desperation still there. Brendan’s still unsure, still doubting himself even after everything Alex has done. Words, words, he needs to use his words.
He breaks apart once again. “Kissing you is the best thing in the world right now,” he says, and Brendan’s eyes widen. “How long can you stay? In St. Petersburg, I mean?”
“Uh,” Brendan stumbles over the thought. “I have an appointment back home early next week, so probably until the weekend.”
“Then we have a week,” says Alex. “And after I come back to Montreal, we’ll have all the time in the world.”
A grin splits Brendan’s face open. “I like the sound of that.”
Alex just kisses him again, and when the kiss becomes more heated, he pulls Brendan to his bedroom and shows him exactly how he plans to use their time together.
Months later on the first day of training camp, Alex and Brendan sit next to each other in the locker room as the rest of the team mills around the area. Brendan has been cleared to play by his doctors, and Alex--Alex is exuberant at the news, perhaps rivaling even Brendan. The sight of his boyfriend (and they’d finally decided on that term once Alex returned to Canada midway through the summer) sitting beside him, leg bouncing on the floor with anticipation and untapped energy, relieves him more than he could have imagined. Brendan is here, and they are going to play together.
Absentmindedly, he traces the scars on Brendan’s hand, fingers barely brushing the skin. A wisp of a sigh escapes Brendan, and Alex smiles a small smile just for himself and no one else.
“Have a good summer?” asks Carey Price mildly from across the room.
Alex jerks away his hand and looks up to see Carey quirk his eyebrow in amusement. “It was fine.”
Brendan sticks an elbow into Alex’s ribs. Carey grins knowingly. “Just fine?”
Alex looks at Brendan, at the loose curl of hair stuck to his forehead. “If I’m being honest, It was actually pretty spectacular.” He smiles at Brendan. “Definitely top five.”
“Just top five?” pouts Brendan.
“Well, I was worried about you for most of it, so yeah.”
Brendan’s expression softens. “ Ya tebya lublu .” I love you.
From several spaces over, Markov glances up suspiciously. Now it’s Alex’s turn to elbow Brendan. He’s not a vain or prideful man, but he’d like to avoid any teasing inquiries from the man who’s acted like a mentor in so many ways over his years on the team.
When he says those words back, though, when Brendan hears him say “I love you” for the first time right there in the locker room, Alex feels that the warmth inside of his chest is worth it, is worth every ounce of ribbing and difficulty the team might inflict.
He’s very in touch with emotions now, after all.