i’m not trying to find you, babe, you’re just around - shayvrides (2024)

NOW. FEBRUARY, 2027.

—

The bar is fine.

As far as the long list of mediocre, hipster bars in Hoboken goes, this one is totally fine. It’s one he would never step foot on with the team, so it’s double-fine. Seriously. Fine.

Luke brushes his thumb over the rim of his glass, wiping the condensation off of it before he lifts the pint to his lips.

He takes a slow sip of it, feeling the cold liquid working all the way down his throat, expanding through his chest and sitting heavily on his gut.

It’s already embarrassing enough that he’s being -maybe, possibly- stood up by a Tinder date. He’s not going to be tipsy, too, on the off-chance that she ends up showing up.

Luke drums his fingers against the table, and takes the room in. A guy with at least ten different versions of Snoopy tattooed on his left arm on what’s undoubtedly a second, maybe third date, with some finance dude. A young mom wrangling two toddlers by herself. The bartender, who discreetly checks her phone and suddenly goes to hide out in one of the personnel-only doors, probably meeting one of her co-workers back there.

When he’s bored of people watching, he takes a napkin and folds it in half for something to do with his hands. Then, he decides to turn his phone over, tapping on the screen twice so his lockscreen stares back at him pathetically.

There’s no new messages. Luke unlocks it anyway, and opens iMessage. John’s chat is still pinned to the top, his name saved with the red heart emoji, even though they haven’t talked in months.

Their last conversation is from September. John wished him a happy birthday and Luke, petty and stupidly full of pride, hadn’t even replied.

Luke opens the chat back up. His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He can’t excuse himself behind being barely grown up and definitely clueless anymore. He’s on the wrong side of twenty to still be texting the guy who broke his heart after having half a beer.

Leah from Tinder is a pretty brunette who works as a middle school teacher and has nothing in common with Luke. They live near each other, though, and Luke thought —

He swipes the notification away and then he deletes the message to John. Two birds, one stone. He saves himself the trouble of making two colossal mistakes at once.

Instead, Luke calls Nemo. He picks on the second ring and it sounds like he’s somewhere busy. God, Luke’s life is pathetic.

“Hey, man.” Nemo greets him. It doesn’t matter how many years Nemo has been living in Jersey, how many years Luke has known him for, Luke is always surprised at how not-American Nemo sounds even when he’s saying the most American phrases of all time. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a date right now?”

Luke winces. “She was a no-show.”

“Ouch,” Though Luke can’t see him, he knows Nemo is pouting. If Luke had wanted to be coddled, he would’ve called Jack. Or Quinn. Maybe even Nico. He wants Nemo to laugh at him and then offer him a joint, or something. “At least you put yourself out there, bud.”

“Yeah, yeah. I guess.” Luke rolls his eyes. “What are you up to? There’s so much background noise, bro.”

“Oh, dunno. Daphne and I are just hanging out at this new place near my apartment. D’you wanna grab a beer with us or something?”

If Luke was less selfish, he would kindly refuse the offer and let Nemo enjoy the afternoon off with his brand, shiny new girlfriend. But he’s not. “Yeah. f*ck it, alright. Text me where it is? I’ll come to you.”

“Yeah, dude. See you in a bit.”

*

Luke hadn’t had the chance to meet Daphne yet, because Nemo believes in curses and relationships going south the more intertwined their lives are, so it’s easy to circle around Luke’s pathetic mess of a life and make small talk instead.

They make a great job out of not making him feel like he’s third-wheeling.

Once again, everything feels — fine. Maybe Luke’s destined for a lifetime of being just fine outside of hockey.

At least, it’s okay until Daphne mentions something about growing up in Massachusetts and Luke freezes.

He suddenly feels like an open wound again. Everyone who walks past him could dig their fingers in his bloody flesh and poke and prod at his pain, and he’d do nothing but hiss through it.

Luke’s thumbnail scratches at the label on the neck of the beer bottle until he peels it away.

His heart is still stuttering in his chest at the sudden mention of Massachusetts, and he fights the urge to rub his chest to soothe himself.

“Uh,” Luke coughs. He peers up at Daphne through long lashes, his own words blurring together and coming out without Luke wanting them to. “You grew up in Massachusetts? Which part?”

“Yeah, just outside of Boston.” Daphne peers up a little. God bless her soul, she leans forward interestedly and asks: “You too?”

Nemo analyzes the interaction, looking between them like it’s a tennis match. There’s probably a joke to be made there, but Luke can’t bring himself to be the one who makes it.

Luke politely corrects her and offers that small detail about himself -first, Florida ; then, Toronto and lastly back home to Michigan- because it’s kind of refreshing to talk to someone who hasn’t read his Wikipedia page before talking to him.

Then, he says, “I had a — Uhm. Y’know. Friend of mine? He was from North Easton. I visited a couple of times, and it’s kinda cool.”

THEN. JUNE, 2024.

—

Luke all but squeals walking into John’s childhood home, having been invited to celebrate his late birthday in the midst of the off-season.

“Look at you,” He coos, stifling a giggle when he leans over the first framed picture in the hallway. He’s standing so close to it that his nose is almost pressed to the frame. The miniature version of John with tiny skates and a hockey stick captured on film becomes blurred at the edges, and Luke realizes that he’s fogging it.

In a flat tone, John deadpans: “That’s Paul.”

“The f*ck it is.” Luke argues. He has seen pictures of John as a baby before. Despite being twins, Paul and John have never looked alike enough to mistake them for each other. He grabs John’s arm and pulls him back, tugging him closer to Luke’s chest. He pinches his cheeks, mock-pouting and batting his lashes to act out confused. “You were so cute. What happened to you?”

John bats Luke’s hands away with a roll of his eyes. One second, he’s digging his fingers between two of Luke’s ribs, right where he’s ticklish, making him squirm away. The next, he’s pinning him to the wall, bodies flush and picture frames rattling with the force of it when John kisses Luke.

It’s the filthy kind, forcing gasps out of Luke, hungrily, sloppily, even though they are in no rush at all.

Luke doesn’t have much room to make anything happen himself, and that’s not a new thing. They are the same height, but John has a few pounds of muscle on him, and his body is blanketing Luke against the wall, making his skin thrum with anticipation. One of his hands is cupping the back of his neck, and the other holding on to his hip bone. Luke scratches John’s back with one of his own, and he uses the other one as leverage to push into John’s body, digging blunt nails into the meat of his ass when Luke bucks his hips up, desperate for some friction, a way to relieve himself.

The sound that comes out of John is ungodly. Luke feels it reverberate from the point of his toes to the last hair in his scalp. He’s a master at knowing when John’s eyes are rolling back with pleasure for the little moan he always lets out, and Luke had made a throaty sound of his own, hips hitching involuntarily again.

Somebody whistles. Luke cracks one eye open before he even peels away from John, mortified that John’s parents might’ve walked in on them, and sees John throwing his middle finger up in the air and a blurred version of Paul right behind them.

Oh my God. Luke can feel his cheeks reddening. When they pull apart, he hides his face in the crook of John’s neck, whining. “I thought no one was home.”

“No one was supposed to.” John tries to sound annoyed, but there’s still a giddiness to it. He’s happy to be home. Happy to be caught, even.

John lingers for a moment, nosing at Luke’s hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head -an apology of sorts- before turning to greet his brother.

He wraps Paul in a bear hug that almost knocks him over, and Luke is suddenly very glad that he’s still leaning against a wall because he feels short of breath about having a front seat ticket to this version of John that he’s never seen before. He feels as though his knees might buckle under him with how nervous he suddenly is about meeting John’s family, something he’d failed to consider until now.

When John finally lets go of Paul, shoving at his chest in retaliation for something he mumbles in his ear, Paul grins at Luke. “And you must be the kid my brother has wife’d up.”

“Yup. That would be me.”

*

Meeting John’s extended family isn’t what Luke had accounted for.

But birthdays are big in the Marino household, just like they are within the Hughes, and all of John’s uncles and cousins barely catch him during the season, if at all.

So, like, it makes sense. Luke’s not angry about being wrapped into this with minimal detail, even though they are a big family and at least ten of them are below thirteen.

“You know,” Jen, John’s mom, cups Luke’s chin in between her fingers when he’s offering his help in the kitchen. They haven’t eaten yet, but he’s already sweaty from a busy morning. He’s been carrying around the other set of twins in the family, two of John’s youngest cousins, because they want to be ‘so, so tall, like Lukey.’ and he and Layla, another one of John’s cousins but this time from his mom’s side, has won a hard-fought game of mini sticks. His jeans are stained green from playing in damp grass, and his hair is a mess, but his belly hurts from laughing with all of the kids and that has to count for something. “You can say no. They’ve all been hanging off on you, like, quite literally.”

Luke is still a bit shy around Jen. He’s met Paul before, at the Fathers and Mentors trip thingy this season, and he and Jim had hit it off instantly. Paul Jr. had made it to the family skate in February, so he’d met him as well. But Luke had never seen Jen before. She reminds her of the best parts of Ellen, and makes him ache for home a little.

He huffs out a laugh, and shakes his head. “I love kids. I don’t mind hanging out with them.”

Jen moves her hand to Luke’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, pulling him into a hug that Luke kind of stumbles over, not expecting it. “You’re good, Luke. Really good.” She whispers before she smacks a kiss on her cheek and rubs her thumb over the stain of lipstick she leaves behind, smiling kindly at him, “You take care of my boy, hm?”

All of the sudden, Luke’s throat feels like he’s just swallowed a ton of bricks, his stomach heavy. He roughs out, “Yeah.”

*

After leaving the kitchen with another kiss to his cheek and an uncapped beer that Jen practically shoved in his hand, giving him an excuse to hang out with people his age, Luke checks that the children have found another adult to climb up to -this time, John’s sister in law- and makes his way back to where John and most of his family are gathering around a table, drinking and snacking on the appetizers.

The closer he gets, the clearer the conversation becomes.

Paul is looking over Aunt Eva’s -Jen’s youngest sister- shoulder, laughing at something in her phone. John is adorably glaring at both of them.

“Someone needs to bring Luke over here,” Paul’s tone is teasing but Luke’s pulse jumps all the same, his stomach swooping like he’s riding a rollercoaster or an elevator has dropped ten floors at once. “At least, he’ll smile for real.”

“Aw,” Eva coos enthusiastically when Luke appears by the crook of John’s elbow, hooking his chin on the nook where his neck meets his shoulder. “There he is.” She brings her camera phone out again, pointing it to them, “Smile for a picture, boys.” Only addressing Luke, she adds, “Do us a favor, will you? We can’t get John to pose for us.”

If Eva takes a picture now, there’ll be evidence for years to come of how the top of Luke’s cheeks were bright red and the tip of his ears burning up, looking feverish.

He still tucks himself into John’s side, shivering when John’s hand slips around the small of his waist, bringing him even closer. John mutters: “Sorry about this.”

Luke glances down at him and offers him a goofy grin, shaking his head like he does when John is being particularly dense about something. “You’re sorry? This is definitely going on my IG dump, dude.”

*

When Paul airdrops him the pictures later that day, Luke unilaterally decides that those are going nowhere near his public Instagram unless he’s planning on coming out soon.

In the first one, they have their bodies angled towards each other, genuinely laughing at something they’d whispered to one another. It makes Luke’s chest do something funny.

In the next one, John has his hand on the small of Luke’s back and he is glancing down at him in what can only be described as adoringly. His eyes are crinkled, a smile coming easily to him while Luke is goofing off with the camera, already tired of his pictures being taken and throwing a thumbs up but remaining completely serious otherwise.

Luke hesitates, stealing a look at John who is animatedly talking to one of his uncles - Luke knows he’s from his father’s side, but it’s impossible to remember his name- and upon the smile that fights its way through his face, he goes back to the first picture and sets it as his lock-screen.

*

When everyone has left, wrangling the littlest ones into the backseat for a sleepy ride home and some of the adults ordering cabs because they’ve had too much to drink, they sneak out to have a moment for just themselves.

It feels like the first second of peace they have gotten in the entire weekend.

Luke sits on the step under the one John sits on, and then fits himself between his legs, his eyes fluttering closed when John burrows his fingers in his curls and starts to scratch his scalp.

“I rolled it this morning.” Luke says about the joint hidden in John’s wallet. Because he can think ahead, and he’s also the best boyfriend in the world. He wants that on a tee or a mug or something. “Happy late birthday, you loser.”

“Thanks, babe.” John mumbles against the crown of his head when he leans in over his head to press a kiss to his hairline.

John lights it up over Luke’s head and then they slowly pass it back and forth between the two of them in comfortable silence.

They left the window cracked open, and it’s nice to listen to the sound of cutlery clinking together as Jen loads the dishwasher with Paul humming a pop song out of key, keeping her company but still mindful of not getting in her way.

It feels, a little, like a summer night in Michigan, where he could do something stupid like lifting a rock and he would find somebody he loves ready to talk his ear off.

Yeah, Luke knows they are in John’s house and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t feel comfortable, but he feels warm, giddy, with how genuinely at home he feels.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Luke hums, pensive. He turns the lighter over in between his fingers and offers John a one-shouldered shrug. “Do you think we’re going to be like your parents some day?”

“Old and bickering?”

Luke wrinkles his nose, thoughtful. That is going to happen, for sure. John is already old and they’re at each other’s throats often over the smallest things.

He was thinking more along the lines of being in their late fifties and still so disgustingly in love with each other that they’re dancing around the kitchen without any music on. But admitting that he wants to be old and still bicker with John is, somehow, less lame to admit out loud.

Before any of them can say anything else, though, Paul peeks his head out the window with a wide grin and proudly says: “Busted.”

For a moment, Luke has deja vu — like he’s a teenager again, listening to Ellen’s car pulling up on the driveway and having to scramble to hide all of the friends he had over after curfew, the cheap vodka they’d managed to buy underage and the empty beers he’d stolen from Jim’s side of the refrigerator.

He looks down at the neatly hand-rolled joint John is holding between his fingers and then back up at Paul, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

Then, Luke miraculously remembers he’s twenty-two and his boyfriend’s dad can’t police whether he smokes pot on a night off or not.

Paul opens the door wider, stepping out to the porch and sitting beside them.

“No, Dad, you’re not interrupting anything.” John says sarcastically. It’s funny to watch how, even at twenty-seven, being around his dad brings out the rebellious and pent-up, teenage version of John that Luke sometimes still is with everybody around him.

“Come on. How often do you get to smoke with your dad, eh?” Paul nudges his knee with John’s. The elbow Luke has propped up on it falters. He tips his head up to watch, stunned, as John takes one more puff and then hands it over to his dad.

*

John excuses himself to go to the bathroom after less than an hour. To be more specific, he leaves after the fifth time Paul jerks his head to the side signaling the door, lacking subtlety when he clears his throat or innocently asks Do you hear your mother? I think she’s asking for you even when the inside of the house was in complete silence.

It’s clear that Paul has been waiting to get Luke alone, and Luke is just glad his father in law has coordinated the shovel talk with the time where he’s high.

At the very least, Luke won’t panic about it until tomorrow.

Before he says anything, Paul’s hand lands heavily on Luke’s knee, curling around it. His blunt fingernails dig exactly on the spot where his knee hurts if the weather changes abruptly or when he pushes himself too hard, an old injury from juniors still bothering him.

“Are you happy?”

Luke is not entirely sure that Paul has smoked weed in the last twenty years, let alone ever, and the effect is strong on him. His eyes are half-lidded ; his smile, loopy. Luke feels pleasantly relaxed even though he knows he’s still trying to pass some kind of f*cked up test that consisted in John’s entire family trying to scare him off with their loudness and enormity, like Luke doesn’t come from a similar household.

“Am I happy?” Luke asks, a little philosophical and a lot dumb. For a moment, he thinks Paul has mistaken him for his own son and then, he jostles his knee, urging him on, and Luke’s stumbling over his own words in his haze to give an affirmative response. “I’ve got John.” He admits with a shy smile, and he’s not trying to kiss anybody’s ass when he says that. He wholeheartedly means it. Maybe he’s too honest when he adds: “And I survived my rookie year. My brothers are okay and mostly healthy…Yeah, I’m happy.”

“Good,” Paul pats his knee, shortly, sharply. He moves his hand up to cup Luke’s chin, forcing him to look him in the eye - he’s all pupils, gaze lost somewhere else entirely- and with a slight slur, he says: “My son is, too. I’ve never seen him happier. It’s always ‘Luke did this’, and ‘Luke said that’. He’s twenty—” Paul falters, frowning at having forgotten how old his sons are, but quickly shrugs it off. “He’s twenty-something and he’s never been half as serious about anyone he’s been with. He’s never even brought a guy home!”

“Really?”

“Really.” Paul pats Luke’s cheek hard enough to sting. He takes it, and swallows his wince. “You’re special, kid.”

NOW. FEBRUARY, 2027.

—

At Daphne’s anecdote of spending a summer in North Easton when her parents got divorced, Luke’s hand goes in search of the chain, tucked somewhere under his shirt and jumper, and anxiously twists it between his index and the pad of his thumb.

THEN. JANUARY, 2025.

—

Being twenty-one, Luke has never been one to worry about being on time. In fact, one thing about Luke is that he will be late. All the time. Fashionably and unfashionably. Often miscalculating commuting time on purpose.

But he bull-dozed his way through getting a reservation at a brand new, stupidly fancy restaurant close to their apartment where the waitlist is three months long.

Booking that table had taken sweat, blood and tears out of him — the third time he’d called so someone would even check whether they were booked or not, he’d stopped playing nice and had just thrown his last name around, had mentioned the Devils in casual conversation. It was surprisingly easy from that angle. Still, though, he’s pretty sure they won’t hesitate to give their table to someone else if they’re even a second later than seven o’clock.

By the time Luke finally got the reservation done for their anniversary, he was so over it that he didn’t even want it anymore.

Honestly, he would’ve been happy with their usual burger joint around the corner of their apartment, where the staff already knows them and they know to give them a booth by the back of the restaurant where no one ever sits.

If the place isn’t too packed, he can step on the pointer of John’s trainers until John traps Luke’s ankle in between his legs under the table and keeps him there. He can laugh at John when he inevitably takes a bite too big of his burger and ends up with mayo dripping down his chin.

But —

It’s their anniversary. One whole year of being serious about each other, even if they started fooling around earlier. And Luke wants to make something special out of it.

Alas, the douche-y restaurant.

“Babe, we’re gonna be late.” Luke warns when he peeks his head into the room and watches John in front of their full body length mirror, checking himself out. Sometimes, pet names still sound foreign in his tongue, weird, like he’s playing a part and everybody is going to end up finding out sooner rather than later.

John looks at him through the glass. He has one hand stuffed in the pocket of his chino pants, toying with something inside of it, and with his other one he’s trying to tame his curls but ultimately making a mess out of them.

Luke is so, so fond of him.

“C’mere.” John requests when he turns around, making grabby hands at Luke so he comes closer.

“They’re gonna give our table to someone else.” Luke whines. He wants this night to be perfect, but John is making it very difficult with his insistence on keeping them behind schedule. “Seriously.” Luke says when he meets John across the room, wrapping his arms around his waist and peering up at him through his lashes, mock-serious, “I can drive over the speed limit to get us there in time, but we’re gonna be cutting it close, for sure.”

John’s mouth twitches, curling into a dumb smile before he matches their mouths together. Luke hums, melting into the kiss even as he tries to play it cool.

“Hi.” John says, ignoring Luke’s complaints. “How was your first year ever of monogamy?”

Tilting his head, like he’s making a mental inventory of all of the things he’s gone through in the past year and grading them, Luke wrinkles his nose, pretending he is going to start listing all of the things that went wrong -being completely honest, there weren’t many, even if it was uncharted territory for Luke- and then says: “Kinda cool.”

“Yeah?”

“Would definitely be cooler if my boyfriend got a move on, or he’s gonna make us late for our anniversary dinner.”

“Ah. Not yet.” John clicks his tongue, going in for another kiss. The distraction tactic is working on Luke, but the reason why John is trying to make them late is starting to make him uneasy. “I’ve got something for you.”

Luke’s voice surely goes high-pitched. “What? But, dude, I didn’t get you —”

John cards his fingers through Luke’s hair gently, soothing, caring. Luke’s eyes flutter closed for just one second before they’re snapping open again. He’s opening his mouth to complain that they agreed not to give each other anything for their anniversary since it was too close to Christmas, and there was no need. But John goes first: “You almost fought a guy to get us a spot at this place —”

“And we’re gonna miss it.” Luke mumbles under his breath, trying and failing to sound annoyed. He looks down at his feet instead of at John, because he’s — Well. Scared isn’t the right word to accurately describe how he’s feeling about the softness in John’s face, all the love written in it ; but it makes him uneasy, somehow. He doesn’t want to wake up one day and find it gone.

“I love you,” John says, enunciating every word like it’s crucial that Luke doesn’t miss a single syllable. All of the tension building up in Luke’s shoulders finally crumbles, like the strings holding him up have been cut. “I’ve been alive for twenty-seven years, Luke, and this one has been my favorite yet. I — It’s not anything huge, but I walked by again and I thought of you, so I bought it. No biggie.”

It is a big deal. It’s such a f*cking big deal that Luke closes the case immediately after opening it, startled. He looks at John with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, shocked.

They had walked by a jewelry store a few months ago and Luke had dumbly made a joke about engagement rings, even though it was definitely too much, too soon, too fast. John had laughed it off, because of course he had, and then Luke had ended up knocking one of his knuckles against the glass, pointing at a chain out in display and offering: I’d put it in one of those, though. I’m not a big ring guy.

So. John doesn’t buy him a ring on their first anniversary, because that would be crazy and Jack would probably kill the two of them if that were to happen without his blessing, but he bought the chain. A promise before the real thing.

Luke’s heart is racing and the ringing in his ears is insufferable. He swallows, hard, and his voice comes out even rougher after taking in John’s earnest expression, with his glistening eyes and excited little smile. “Dude.”

Even though money isn’t an issue for any of them, Luke still feels a wave of guilt humbly simmering in his gut. It’s too much, and he shouldn’t accept it.

As soon as he opens his mouth to say just that and because John knows him better than anyone in the world, maybe even better than Jack and Quinn, he rolls his eyes. “Shut up, and stop thinking about how much it cost. That doesn’t matter.”

“But —”

John shakes his head. He gently takes the case from Luke’s hands and pries it open again, forcing Luke to face the thin, silver chain in it one more time. “Do you love it, or what?”

“I love it,” Luke says quickly. “I love you.”

“Good.” John hums, looping an arm across Luke’s shoulder and bringing him in for a kiss. He knocks their foreheads together and says: “You left me hanging for a while, there.”

Luke winces. He could have been faster and said it back when John said it, but he wasn’t really thinking at all. In fact, he might’ve blacked out. “Sorry.” Luke kisses him again, and again, and again. “I love you.” Another kiss, “Can you put it on for me?”

After John carefully retrieves the chain from the box, like it’s going to shatter between his hands, he has Luke spin around so he can put it on for him.

Luke shivers when he looks down and watches the silver piece of jewelry pooling above his collarbones. John’s fingers are freezing when he purposefully makes them brush against Luke’s sensitive skin after he’s done the clasp, and it raises goosebumps across his shoulder blades. Luke shivers again when John presses a kiss to the back of his neck and then under his ear.

“Perfect.” John marvels, his voice low and husky. Luke fights off another shiver, but his spine feels like it’s turned into liquid. He leans his back against John’s front, pressing the back of his head to John’s collarbone so he has more access to the long line of his neck. John indulges him, huffing out a laugh when Luke can’t stifle a moan, “See? Now we’re going to be late.”

“I’ll speed,” Luke promises, his voice turning into a pathetic croak of a thing when John’s hand reaches to the front of his pants, roughly cupping his already half hard dick through the fabric of his clothes.

To no one’s surprise, they don’t make it to dinner.

NOW. FEBRUARY, 2027.

—

The elbow Nemo takes to the ribs is everything but gentle, and the glare he sends Daphne in response rolls off her back easily.

Luke has to hide a grin into his bottle at how well they compliment each other.

She’s not discreet about the way she tilts her head to the side, pointing it in the direction he wants him to look in. Nemo is definitely not well known for his subtlety, and Luke is curious, too. Sue him. So now, the three of them are staring at a guy three tables to the right of them without a clue as to why they are looking at him.

“A man after your own heart, honey.” Daphne points out, “Batman shirt and a tattoo.”

“Hey.” Nemo protests half-heartedly, knocking his shoulder against her own in retaliation. She doesn’t even wobble. By the second half of his sentence, Nemo is already smiling fondly. “There’s nothing wrong with liking superheroes.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t lame.” Luke teases, even though he knows Nemo has more than enough evidence to make fun of him right back. Daphne lights up, beaming at him and holding her hand up for Luke to high five her. Luke laughs, and doesn’t leave her hanging.

Nemo narrows his eyes at them, and childishly rubs the back of his own arm where the Batman silhouette has been a permanent fixture for the last month and a half.

“Like you’re one to talk,” He glares at Luke. “You also have a tattoo, asshole.”

“Okay, but we got them together.” Luke argues, although that doesn’t leave any of them in a better position. Daphne looks like she’s having the time of her life being an observant in this conversation. “And mine was, like, a break-up slash mental breakdown thing. I didn’t force you and Holzy to do it.”

“I thought it was a celebration of our friendship.” Nemo mocks, making air quotes and everything. Luke might’ve said that the night before they decided to get their bodies altered forever, having had two fingers too many of rum in a glass that had been filled one too many times. Again, it’s not entirely his fault. Luke had an excuse — he’d just gotten dumped. Unceremoniously, heartbreakingly. One day you’re desperately trying to make long distance work, and the next you’re going no contact because it’s ‘too hard’.

“Yeah, sure. That, too.” Luke shrugs.

“Oh, God. I feel like I’m trapped in an episode of The Big Bang Theory. I love this.” She snorts, covering her face with her hands and then peeking at Luke through her manicured fingers. “I didn’t have you pegged for a nerd, too.”

It’s been a while since this has happened, but he finds himself looking to his right and hoping to find somebody sitting next to him. Luke hates knowing exactly what John would say if he was there.

Luke lags for a moment, waiting for John to chime in that Sheldon Cooper would never get a tattoo, or go near somebody who had one, and then snaps out of it.

“He is.” Nemo says, at the same time Luke admits: “No, unfortunately I am.”

“So, what? You’re a Batman guy, too?”

“No. God, no.” Luke snorts, “Not at all.”

Nemo grins, like he’s finally letting her in on a secret and divulges: “Lukey has a Spider-Man tattoo.”

Before Luke can add that Holtzy has a Bucky Barnes tattoo and that they all went through a Marvel phase while Luke was navigating the lowest point of the breakup, Daphne clicks her tongue and shakes her head like she’s disappointed in him. Luke straightens immediately.

“All of you Gen Z straight men…” Daphne tuts, “Always with that spider-web tattoo between your shoulder blades.”

Immediately and because he is the worst friend in the world, Nemo lets out a sharp bark of laughter, wheezing. Luke chokes on his own spit and rasps: “Not straight.” because that’s the only part of the sentence he can deny.

“Oh.” Daphne roughs out, carrying on with the conversation smoothly after she says: “Alright, man. Cool.”

Luke lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, relieved.

THEN. FEBRUARY, 2024.

—

“I’ve never seen Batman.”

They have been playfully arguing over what to watch post-org*sm while they wait for their delivery guy to bring dinner over.

John has been super into Suits lately and Luke likes it well enough, but he’d wanted to watch something that wouldn’t make him feel like his brain was suddenly going to melt and come out of his ears halfway through an episode. He doesn’t want to have to think, so he’d been pleading his case to rewatch The Big Bang Theory for the eleventh time.

He’s not sure how Batman comes up. But judging by the way John turns to look at him, it’s clearly a personal offense to John that Luke hasn’t watched it.

John blinks once at him, slow and so stunned that if the terms of their arrangement were still as precarious as they had been two months ago, Luke would be saying goodbye to John’s bed. He looks like his soul just left his body for a moment, like he’s rethinking how worth it the age gap between them is. Pausing between each word, carefully, John echoes, “You’ve never seen Batman.”

Luke hooks a leg over John’s knees and props his head up on his chest, hiding a smile when John’s hand squeezes the dip of his spine and then lets his hand linger right there, over the curve of his ass.

Luke is honestly digging this whole dating thing. He was starting to get too clingy, craving the most affectionate parts of John, for it to only be a friends with benefits situation.

“I’ve never seen Batman.” Luke confirms, in case John had only been repeating it because he thought he’d misheard him and not because he thinks Luke is the lamest person on Earth for not watching Batman before. “Do you want to watch it now?”

“No,” John says, sharply. When Luke frowns, John clarifies: “I want you to watch it when you’re not five seconds away from taking an I-just-had-an-org*sm nap. I know you, and you’re gonna fall asleep before our dinner is even here, and then I’m gonna have to reheat it for you in the middle of the night.”

John definitely has a point. “I promise I won’t.” Luke says, his voice edging towards a whine. “Come on, dude. You wanna watch it. Just put it on.”

“We can watch it some other time.” John shrugs, though now that the possibility of watching it is on the table, there’s a soft rumble of excitement overcoming him. It’s so cute that Luke might die about it. Instead, Luke makes a show out of opening his eyes really wide to show he’s awake and ready for it. “Fine. Whatever. But you have to watch the good one. All of the other guys kinda suck.”

A little dumbly, Luke says, “Oh, do different guys also play Batman? Like Spidey?”

John turns to look at him again, slightly exasperated, and Luke suspects he’s missing crucial information about the Marvel Cinematic Universe and how actors rotate through the movies.

To be fair, it’s not really his issue. He doesn’t care about any superhero other than Spider-Man, and even so he’s pretty sure he hasn’t watched every movie.

“Yes,” John finally confirms with a small huff, like he’s trying very hard to respect Luke’s dumb questions and not laugh at him. Then, he adds, “And Christian Bale’s Batman is the best. Like, by miles. It’s not even a competition, really,”

“Christian Bale,” Luke hums. The name sounds familiar, but he can’t pinpoint where he’s heard it before. He lifts his head up from where it had been pillowed on John’s chest and frowns at him, “Wait…Isn’t that a soccer player?”

“What? No?” John sputters, “Baby, that’s Gareth Bale.”

“Oh.” Luke snorts. He places his head back on John’s chest, humming when he starts running his fingers over the back of his shoulders and up the nape of his neck, making him shiver and feel feverish all at once. He lets his eyes flutter closed only for a millisecond, knowing John is going to be upset if he falls asleep without even trying to start the movie, and quietly adds: “Same person to me.”

“You don’t know how either of them look, right?”

“No f*cking shot I’ve ever seen any of them.”

John puts Batman on while Luke finds his phone tangled somewhere in the sheets and googles Gareth. He considers, thoughtful and after a minute of scrolling through awful soccer shots and red carpet looks, Luke finally delivers: “Hot.”

Turns out, he did know who Christian Bale is. Vaguely and not because he’s watched any movie he’s been in, but it’s definitely a face he’s seen before.

Luke is still more of a Spider-Man guy, no matter what John says about the level of coolness Batman handles, but he still lasts a whole thirty minutes before he succumbs to sleep.

NOW. FEBRUARY, 2027.

—

After they finish their last round and not a second later, Daphne straightens, desperate to catch the waiter’s eye over Luke’s shoulder. When she does, she doesn’t even wave the dark-haired, dark-eyed man over to their table even though Luke would love the chance to talk to him.

He’s had John in his mind too often today. He could use the distraction. (Meaning he could use a clone of John to take home tonight, if the stars align.)

The place is packed now that the game has started, though, and he’s busy. It’s not necessary for him to deviate from his way to the bar if they can help it.

So Daphne throws three fingers up in the air, smiling kindly at him before she loses his attention again. She uses her other hand to lift her empty beer bottle, so he remembers what they’re all drinking, and lastly gives him a thumbs up when the waiter nods in confirmation.

Daphne turns her attention back to Luke across from her. She pats Nemo on the thigh and says, “Simon says you’re his best friend on the team.”

Luke’s chest warms at that, even though he’s also considered Nemo his best friend for some time now. Still, he laughs when the top of Nemo’s cheeks start reddening. Daphne’s attempt at embarrassing him has clearly worked.

His friendship with Nemo was tentative for the very first few hours, jealousy and uncertainty harboring between them, but once they got over the initial ‘I’m not trying to take your spot or the spotlight away from you’ debacle, they were inseparable ever since.

They would have become best friends no matter what, because they are the same age and they were going through the same stuff at the same time, but their bond grew since Nemo was there for the aftermath of it all.

Luke would have been embarrassed to be that raw with anybody else, would have found it difficult to show other people that vulnerable part of himself, how miserable he was even when he was playing some of the best hockey of his career.

But not with Nemo.

He answered the phone when Jack was desperate to help but didn’t know how, saying I don’t know what to do with him like he thought Luke was out of earshot. He geared up, side by side with Jack, and forced Luke to allow himself to be held through the worst part of the breakup.

At one point, it had been the three of them curled up in bed, because Luke childishly refused to let Jack go far, but he wanted Nemo there, too.

Hey, Nemo had said back then. Is this a little weird for anyone else or is it just me?

And even though he’d been teasing, the comment had weirdly made Luke snap out of it. He couldn’t put people he loved in uncomfortable positions just because he was heartbroken.

“Yeah,” Luke roughs out, grinning at Nemo goofily but still a little too honest. “We’re pals.”

Nemo rolls his eyes. He looks like he’s going to say something but before he can, the bar erupts in boos, insulting whatever call the ref just made against the Rangers.

All three of them snap their eyes up to the screen just in time to watch the repetition. Adam Fox has just tripped somebody and the stick between their feet, getting caught in their skates, can’t be justified as an accident.

In the next frame, when the Kings player gets back on his feet, Luke recognizes the 6 on his jersey, John’s side profile as he gets all up on his face, not quite having let go of his rivalry with the Rangers even though he doesn’t play for New Jersey anymore.

“Are you —”

Nemo gets interrupted by the waiter depositing a new round of beers on their table. Luke’s never believed more in God than he does right now. He takes his beer and takes a long sip of it, swallowing through a wince. “Fine.”

THEN. OCTOBER, 2026.

—

Puck drop is at 8 p.m. and Luke’s patience is wearing thin.

He has emptied out his closet, completely trashing his room in his desperate hunt for a hoodie, panic clawing at his throat when he considers the possibility of having lost the green, Celtics-branded sweatshirt he’s looking for.

His chest is heaving when he opens Jack’s door with enough force that it bangs against the wall and then almost hits him on its way back to closing again.

Whether it’s from the exertion of searching and not finding it or because he might have a heart attack if it’s gone missing, Luke is not entirely sure.

He knows he got ketchup on the hem of it at some point a few weeks ago, but he hadn’t wanted to put it away with the rest of his dirty laundry because he didn’t want John’s cologne to wash off.

Jack lets him be for a few minutes, observing Luke with mild curiosity as he grumbles under his breath, until he’s emptied out half of Jack’s own closet with no luck.

“Can I help you?”

Luke narrows his eyes at Jack over his shoulder, glaring. His hands are shaking now that he’s stopped roaming through items of clothing. He realizes his chest doesn’t feel any less tight, even as he forces himself to breathe in through his nose and out his mouth. “Did you take my hoodie?”

“Uh.” Jack falters, which would usually mean an affirmative response. Jack stretches and then tugs the duvet all the way up to his chin again, still shaking off sleep from a late afternoon nap. Thoughtfully, he asks: “Which one?”

“The f*cking green one.” Luke snaps, like it’s obvious. “It used to be Johnny’s.”

“Oh. It’s in the dryer.”

Luke’s eye twitches, he’s pretty sure. “You washed it?”

“Yeah?” His voice tilts up towards the end like he’s asking a question. “I was going to wear it the other day, but it had a stain.”

“Are you f*cking with me?” Some part of Luke knows that he is blowing things way out of proportion, edging insanity. If he wasn’t self-aware, though, Jack blinking at him, shocked, would do the trick. Quieter, Luke adds, “I need to watch the game.”

Luke can’t be sure if Jack knows and wants Luke to say it out loud or if he’s as clueless as he sounds, eyebrows pinched together in a confused expression. “What game?”

“The Kings are playing.”

“And you have to watch it.” Jack pieces together slowly, “With Johnny’s hoodie on.”

“Yup.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because.” Luke snaps stubbornly instead of admitting that he doesn’t have a real answer for that question.

Because he’s too superstitious for his own good, and he won’t survive the guilt of watching John get hurt if he’s not wearing a stupid hoodie John purposefully misplaced when he moved out?

Because he misses him so much he can’t breathe half of the time and turning on a Kings game is the only way he ever sees him at all anymore?

Because he doesn’t know how to stop rooting for him?

“Moosey.” Jack sighs, a serious edge to his voice when he sees right through him. He pats the empty side of his bed, not coming off across any more condescending than he usually does. “Come here.”

Luke opens his mouth, but he falters at the last possible moment, only a croak of a thing coming out before he snaps it shut again. He narrows his eyes at Jack, eying him suspiciously. “Uh.” He hesitates, “Why?”

“Because I’m your second favorite brother, and I’m asking really nicely.” Jack urges him on with a vague gesture of his hand, his patience already wearing thin. Luke is running out of time to accept Jack’s offer, and a part of him is jumping with joy at the chance of hanging out with Jack. Luke has been having a hard time trusting his nervous system lately, but he listens to it when it says Jackie-and-Moosey time is exactly what he needs. Despite having moved in with him again, he’s been shutting him off. “Get your ass over here.”

Luke tips his head back, making a show out of sighing dramatically before he jumps over the mess of clothes that he sprawled over Jack’s floor. He pretends to be reluctant about it when he walks over to Jack’s bed, unceremoniously dropping on the vacant spot next to Jack.

“Okay, I’m here. Now what?” Luke asks, looking at Jack out of the corner of his eye. Being on the same bed is not exactly uncomfortable, but Luke’s fight or flight response kicks into motion before he can stop himself, and he tenses up when Jack slips a hand under the back of Luke’s shoulders and tilts him to one side. He relaxes again when the only thing Jack does is tug him closer to his own body.

It’s not that Luke has suddenly grown out of cuddling with Jack, because he loves his brother to death and he’s missed spending time one on one with him like they did in Luke’s rookie season, but he doesn’t know why Jack is choosing this course of action when Luke was very clearly trying to stir sh*t up a minute ago.

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, clearly bracing himself for whatever reaction his next words get out of Luke, and mutters: “You need to let him go.”

Oh.

Luke swallows hard, trying to stop feeling like he is the one being swallowed up by a world too big for him, too ruthless.

He doesn’t know how to let go of John. He doesn’t even know if he wants to learn to live without holding on to him or the embers of hope that tell him he’ll come back.

“f*ck, Jackie.” Luke says, rough and a little helpless.

Luke doesn’t know how Jack manages to move the dead weight of his body as he pleases, but before Luke can think of get his limbs to cooperate, Jack has already shifted him. He’s gathered him closer so he’s almost half on top of him.

His brother squeezes him so tightly that it’s almost painful, but ultimately perfect. Luke still feels like he’s going to shake apart, but he doesn’t think he’ll bolt, and that’s a good thing.

“Hey.” Jack mumbles, his lips pressed to Luke’s hairline. His voice is a low rumble, and if Luke closes his eyes and focuses on the tone of it, its warmth, he feels like Jack is seven years old and he’s trying so hard to be a good big brother, comforting and sweet, even though it’s entirely his fault that Luke almost lost a tooth playing mini sticks while Quinn and Ellen were at a dentist’s appointment and Jim was locked in his office. “You can cry, you know?”

Oddly enough, that specific memory or Jack’s words or maybe the combination of the two is what finally sends Luke over the edge. The first sob climbs all the way from his stomach, and then ripples through Luke’s chest. It makes him so uncomfortable that he thinks he’s going to throw up.

Jack soothes him the best he can, holding Luke’s trembling body together, muttering sweet nothings that won’t mend Luke’s heart but that make him hurt a little less right now.

*

For the next three weeks, Luke doesn’t leave Jack’s bed for anything other than practice.

He only manages to keep down McDonalds fries and some cereal on particularly good days.

NOW. FEBRUARY, 2027.

—

Luke can tell that Daphne has been trying to be respectful. She doesn’t know Luke at all, so she’s not poking and prodding the way Luke sees that she so clearly wants to.

At least, not until the game goes to intermission and she narrows her eyes at him. “Alright,” Daphne claps her hands together, looking between Nemo and Luke, trying to intimidate one of them into giving her an answer. “Which one is he?”

Flatly, Luke says: “What.”

“Team, number…” Daphne offers a vague hand gesture, “Give me something, man. He’s clearly playing tonight, so, c’mon. Which one?”

Luke licks his lips and looks back and forth at the two people across from him. On one hand, Nemo looks like he would rather tape Luke’s mouth shut than having him dig up old sh*t that Luke thought he wasn’t ready to discuss with people who weren’t there when his heart got broken. To Nemo’s other side, he’s looking at the opportunity to talk about John until he either gets his tab closed by someone else or until Daphne tells him to shut up and grow a pair.

“Six,” Luke says. “Kings.”

THEN. JULY, 2026.

—

Hockey is a business, and no one is untouchable.

Luke shouldn’t have trusted the first trade deadline they survived. He shouldn’t have gotten comfortable when they remained together an entire summer and the season after that, getting robbed of advancing to the finals on a terribly called Game 7 last month.

Halfway through July, the two of them lazing around at the lake house before anyone else wakes up, John gets the call.

It’s early in the morning and Luke would normally roll over to John’s side of the bed with a whine and try to pin him to the mattress instead of letting him sneak out of bed.

He lets him go today. He’s not the GM, and he’s given that answer to the press in more than one occasion since his first year in the league, but he’s also not an idiot.

A part of him just knows, and his nervous system confirms he’s not wrong when the feeling only intensifies after John comes back to the room.

He’s pale when he walks in, wholly out of it, looking like he’s seen a ghost. Luke tries to think of something -literally anything- else that would have John in such a daze: a car crash, some relative passing away unexpectedly. But he’s seen it happen a hundred times before, and he knows every micro-expression of John’s.

Luke doesn’t even recognize his own voice. It could easily belong to a stranger. “Where?” He roughs out.

Luke hopes it isn’t a Canadian team. He can barely catch Quinn at all during the season unless Vancouver is on a road-trip to the States, or Jersey is playing all the way over there. Time zones suck.

Selfishly, Luke wants him geographically close, where they can still see each other almost as often as they do now, even with the grind of the season and awfully scheduled games.

“Kings.” John chokes out.

f*ck.

Luke squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the lines of worry in John’s face, the layer of tears welling up on his eyes that he stubbornly refuses to blink away.

He can feel himself going into fix-it mode almost immediately. The gears in his head start to turn and his entire self is kicking into action before he can help himself, even though he knows John hates it when Luke tries to find a solution for things that don’t have any.

“Turcs has basically cracked the roster now.” Luke reasons. Alex is good, he tells himself. Alex can check in on John for him. “He’ll take care of you.” He adds, as though the idea of someone Jack’s age taking care of John isn’t laughable.

John nods, numb. “Okay.”

Luke doesn’t know how much time passes since John lays on his side and intertwines his legs with Luke’s, how long they stay holding on to each other with Luke’s body fitting around John’s, trying to make sure they’re still flesh and bone and together.

It could have been five seconds, a minute, ten hours.Every day until they’re heading towards different places at the end of the off-season is going to feel like an eternity and at the same time, like it’s slipping through his fingers with nothing to look back on or look forward to.

The only thing he is sure of is the fact that his throat feels like sandpaper, his voice sounding like it hasn’t been in use for a month when he says: “I don’t want you to go.”

Making a sound that is half a whine and half a sob, John pulls back to look at Luke’s face, one of John’s hands skirting down Luke’s ribs, tracing absentminded lines on his skin. He leaves his hand on Luke’s hip and blinks a few tears away.

It’s up to Luke to cup John’s face, smooth hands against stubble-roughened skin. He catches a tear, and then another, and by the third one he’s leaning forward to kiss him. Gentle, slow, like they have all of the time in the world.

The longer they kiss, drawing out tiny sounds from each other, the more John relaxes.

Easing himself into his back so they are more comfortable, he takes Luke with him by holding on to his shoulder blades and scratching at Luke’s melting spine.

John lets him straddle his thighs without ever breaking the kiss and despite Luke usually being the one who sits back and lets John do all the work.

“Like this?” Luke asks, his own voice horribly rough, thick with how hard he is trying not to start crying as well. John squeezes his eyes shut, as though it’s painful to look at Luke at all, and he nods.

Luke is very glad that he never got dressed last night, because there’s nothing separating him from John’s warm skin on his end. He lifts his hips a little, so John has space to wiggle out of his own sweatpants, and then kisses him again languidly and lazily. John moans when Luke worms a hand between their bodies, panting open-mouthed into Luke’s mouth, giving John’s dick a friendly squeeze.

When Luke sinks into John’s length, going hot and tight until he’s going on him, one of John’s hands remains on his hip bone, tattooing crescent moons with his fingernails, and the other one curls around the nape of Luke’s neck to kiss him. Luke sees stars behind his eyes with the change of angle and John’s tongue swallows his moans, over and over again, as Luke sets up a rhythm that works for himself.

“Let me…” John gasps out, eyes rolling back with the next stutter of Luke’s hips, his words dying on his tongue. John’s chest is flushed, heaving, and he’s peering up at Luke through long lashes again, mouth curling into half a smile when Luke slows down, changing the angle again, trying to go deeper and hissing through it.

John looks at Luke like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in the world, and Luke’s heart jumps on his throat, skin prickling with the knowledge that they’ll only get so many chances to do this before the summer ends.

When Luke braces himself on the headboard, the chain John bought him for their first anniversary hovers over his face. John’s back bows, one of his hands reaching for it, twirling it in his fingers as he kisses Luke’s lips, the corner of his mouth, his chin, the underside of his jaw.

Luke’s movements are frantic now, desperate, seeking a closeness that can’t be achieved in this lifetime beyond sharing a body the way they are currently doing. Anything he does, good as it feels, is not enough to shut his brain off.

“Hey.” John brushes the pad of his thumb under Luke’s eye, getting rid of the wetness around them. He knocks their foreheads together and then matches their mouths.

Luke wants to hold on as long as possible, in case John decides this was the last time -better cutting everything out right now than letting it linger-, but it doesn’t take much more than a few more strokes of John’s dick, a few more pathetic thrusts of his hips, and the moment is gone.

He collapses on top of John, unbothered by the splashes of come smeared over John’s stomach or the sweat sticking to both of their bodies or how they’re still coming down, muscles spasming and heavy limbs uncoordinated.

“Something got in my eye, I think.” Luke mutters when John kisses the crown of his head and asks if he’s alright. When John laughs, it’s also a broken sound, wet like a sob. He kisses his hairline again. And a third time for good measure.

“Yeah, me too.” John mutters.

THEN. AUGUST, 2026.

—

If this were a movie, Luke would sit on the floor in a packed up apartment with poorly labeled boxes dividing up their stuff, and he’d pretend his heart wasn’t breaking when he had to listen to John say something along the lines of I love you, and I’m never gonna feel the same way about anyone else.

Not only Luke would believe him, but he’d have his own devastating line to shake John to his core. He’d say: We’ve done so much good for one another, and he’d mean it.

One would go, the other would stay, and they would’ve made their peace with it right then and there. The world would go on, even if their relationship didn’t.

But this isn’t a Hulu production. So when Luke rubs at his left eye, John tries to go for a teasing tone, asking Luke if he’s crying when it’s obvious that he will be soon.

It doesn’t land nearly as well as it could’ve, because as he envelops Luke in a tight hug, John’s own soft laughter rings hollow. It’s wet around the edges as well, like maybe he’s holding back tears too.

”No,” Luke lies, blatant and stubborn. Still, he clings tighter to John’s solid body. He knows nothing he says could possibly make untangling from each other easier, but the faint plea he makes definitely has the opposite effect. “Don’t leave, though. Please?”

When John chokes Luke’s name out, it sounds like it physically hurts him to even say it out loud. Luke wishes he didn’t know the feeling.

John wraps his arms tighter around Luke’s body and presses his mouth to his hairline, kissing the top of his head over and over again.

For a moment, Luke is annoyed that he’s being handled with kid gloves. On the other hand, though, he doesn’t want to stop being treated like he’s one wrong move away from a meltdown, because it means John won’t make any sudden movements ; won’t pull away before Luke is ready to let him go.

He pulls back from the hug to take John in one last time before he’s meeting him across the ice, watching him wear different team colors, or just outside the visitor’s locker room at The Rock ; in an unfurnished apartment in California or in a random hotel room Luke will never set foot in again.

He wets his lips, though that doesn’t help with the heavy weight that seems to be pushing his entire body down. Luke can’t promise he won’t crumble to the ground once he starts to watch through the window how John’s car is driving off into the f*cking sunset.

“If you don’t call me, I’ll harass Turcs into giving me updates every half an hour.” The threat falls flat when Luke’s voice quivers, missing power halfway through the sentence.

John kisses him, and it’s more desperate than anything else.

He kisses him like he is trying to commit it to memory in a way he’s never had to do before, because kissing each other was as familiar as any other part of their routine.

For the last two years, their relationship has been a given. They’ve never been so close to falling apart as they are right now.

Every day, Luke knew that John was going to wake up when their first alarm went off but he’d still let Luke grumble through postponing it twice before he was shaking him awake himself.

He’d kiss Luke in bed, morning breath be damned, and then he’d go about his day as usual — the rink, most of the time. Occasionally a run, if it was nice out and they didn’t have a skate planned out. f*cking Luke awake, dragging it out, slow and filthy, whenever they miraculously had a day off.

Now, he seems to be overthinking every movement. He maps out the topography of Luke’s mouth, as if it’s the first time they kiss.

Luke tries, as best as he can, to catalogue every shaky breath of John’s, the twitch of his fingers and how his own spine melts.

He doesn’t know how much he’ll remember from this exact moment, how many gaps of it he’ll have to fill using the knowledge he gathered for twenty-four months instead.

John pulls away slowly when the kiss starts to taste salty, wet with more than just spit.

He knocks his forehead against Luke’s, and a laugh seems to be punched out of him painfully, self-deprecatingly. John takes a trembling breath and uses the pad of his thumbs to wipe underneath Luke’s eyes.

When Luke peers up at him through still damp lashes, he sees that John’s own eyes are red rimmed, tear tracks staining his stubble-roughened cheeks.

“You won’t have to harass anyone on the team.” John swears, his grip tightening on Luke’s face, “I love you. I swear to God I’ll call you every five minutes.”

Luke knows he won’t, no matter how badly they both want that to be their reality, but he doesn’t start an argument about it. He nods, albeit a little jerkily. “Okay. f*ck, come on. You’re gonna miss your flight and your brother is going to kill you.”

“I could.” John mumbles, hand tightening around one of the straps in his backpack, making himself linger even though there’s not a lot to stay for. “It’ll probably give us a couple of hours at best. Maybe a day. Just say the word and I’ll —”

Luke wants that.

He wants John to miss his flight and then throw his middle finger up to the entire Kings organization. To the Devils, too.

It’s a shame they won’t settle for a quiet life, that they’re both hungry for more, because Luke is pretty sure they would’ve been really happy in another life.

If only they could forget about hockey altogether, move to the outskirts of some town they’ve never even visited before and just be.

“Go,” Luke begs, because if any of them linger any longer, no one’s going to let go. Instead of pushing him towards the car, though, Luke tugs him closer. He hugs him tightly, his lips brushing against his neck when he says, “I love you, eh? I’ll see you around.”

*

It’s so cheesy that if Luke were to hear it from anyone else, it would make him cringe. But Luke grins when he sees John’s name and contact picture pop up not even five minutes after his rental car has disappeared out of sight.

“Miss you already.” John says, his voice sounding static through the speakerphone but still stupidly fond.

It’s as out of John’s hands as this whole situation has been from the beginning, but Luke still says: “Have a safe flight.”

“I’ll see you around.”

NOW. FEBRUARY, 2027.

—

“So you broke up.” Daphne guesses kindly after Luke recounts the trade, waltzing straight past the embarrassing parts that not even Nemo knows about - like, you know, crying while getting laid or desperately talking about marriage to save their relationship.

“Not back then.” Luke says. His voice feels rough. His throat is full, even as he manages to speak through the lump in it.

He doesn’t know why he’s rehashing history so openly and with someone he doesn’t know.

For all Luke knows, Daphne could break up with Nemo tomorrow and out Luke all in one swift movement, and neither of them would see it coming.

She doesn’t look like she would, but she could and Luke knows better than retell his entire life story to a perfect stranger. He’s not usually this trusting. If either Jack or Quinn end up hearing about it, they’ll tear him a new one.

But the way he misses John is an ache in his bones, a want in the pit of his stomach. He can’t breathe with it. It feels good to talk about it with someone who has never lived it up close, someone who doesn’t understand why long distance wouldn’t work even if they fought and scratched their way from Newark to California.

Talking about used to feel like poking at a wound, some sort of martyr complex. It felt like playing a cheap version of resuscitated Jesus Christ, spreading the palms of his hands out and wiggling his feet, walking around with gaping wounds all over his body, saying Come look at this, urging them to touch so everyone knows it’s real. A boy broke my heart, and it feels like I died, but I’m here and I’m still alive.

Now, it feels more like looking down at a scraped knee and immediately disappearing into the sea, because Ellen always made sure to tell them that salt water was the cure to almost everything in the world. It stings a little, and Luke still finds himself hissing through the worst parts of the break up, but the uncomfortableness doesn’t linger. The waves are breaking over the shore and splashing all the way up to his thighs while he squints against the sun, and the world opens up to him with endless possibilities.

Daphne’s grip on Nemo’s upper arm tightens, like she wants to say Are you listening to this sh*t? Wild! even though Nemo doesn’t need to hear all about it again. She leans forward, and rests her chin on the heel of her other hand.

“You tried long distance?” Daphne asks, curious.

Key word: tried.

At the time, it felt impossible to consider breaking up when they had been so happy before the trade was finalized. They were serious, committed to each other, and the Devils were heading in the right direction for them to be even happier.

Soon, Jack kept saying last summer, like he’d gone to a physic or got someone to read Tarot cards to him. He was giddy with it in a way he hadn’t been since the year before his draft, knowing he was going to go first overall regardless of what other people thought. Even in June, after their last season ended up on a disappointing note, he’d been excited about the next, practically bouncing off the walls for the entire summer, harboring high hopes for the season.

Luke had agreed. He had a good feeling about it, too. He just didn’t think they would have to do it without John.

“Just for training camp and barely half of the pre-season.” Luke shrugs, “It wasn’t going to work out.”

It wasn’t so much about them as it was about John settling into a new place. It’s hard enough getting shipped off somewhere entirely different and having to get used to the grind of a new team, only ever scratching at the surface of inside jokes that were built over bonding moments you weren’t there for. There’s no way anyone ever survives a trade with their heart still bleeding for an old team.

Look at Giroux, and a thousand other guys who would rather sink with the ship than learn how to swim.

Luke didn’t want that for John.

“That’s rough.” Daphne winces, looking between him and Nemo as though she’s trying to picture where they would stand if Nemo ever stopped wearing black and red. Luke brushes his knuckles against the edge of the table, even though no one has said it out loud, and it makes Nemo smile gently. Luke doesn’t say that it would be easier for them. That she could just uproot her life and follow him around, and no one would ask a single question. “Sorry.”

THEN. NOVEMBER, 2026.

—

John is late for their late night FaceTime call.

Not enough time has passed for Luke to start thinking of him getting spun out of the road while he was driving home from practice, or dead in a ditch somewhere, but John always texts if he’s running late or he’s gotten caught up somewhere, with somebody.

Luke fights the urge to text him about it, and forces himself to wait.

“Hi.” John sounds breathless when he finally calls Luke, thirty-five minutes later than the scheduled time and with his camera off. Something about this whole situation feels off. He sounds further away than usual. Luke doesn’t usually feel the hundred of miles between them quite like this. “Sorry. I was…Just, yeah, sorry.”

Luke tries very hard not to sound like the jealous, psycho teenager he very much feels like right now. A hundred different scenarios are running through his mind, and none of them leave John in good lighting even though he knows John would never cheat on him. Still, his voice comes out like nothing but a rasp, hoarse, “Where were you?”

“Home.” John doesn’t miss a beat, and he’s his reassuring self again, which soothes Luke, if only for a moment. John sniffs, coughs, and then takes a shallow breath, trembling. The f*cking trifecta. Luke knows how John sounds when he is about to cry, and it’s terrifyingly close to the noises he’s making right now. “I hate to do this over the phone.”

“Just one more month.” Luke says, naïvely. They’re set to play the Kings sometime in the next five weeks. He’s got it on his Google Chalendar. He feels sick with how much he misses him, too, but they have to hold on. They have to —

“No,” John chokes out. “No, I mean…I can’t do this.”

“Put me on FaceTime.” Luke grits out. Every single emotion in his body is suddenly replaced by anger. His hands shake with it, his skin prickling and feeling like a live wire.

It’s bad enough to get broken up with over the phone, but he’s not getting dumped without seeing John’s face as he throws two years and a half down the drain. John owes him that much at least.

John grumbles his protest, but he switches to FaceTime anyway. When the camera connects, Luke feels like he’s taken a fist to the gut. John’s eyes are red-rimmed and there’s snot running down his nose. His cheeks are glistening with tear tracks. John chokes on a cough, “I’m sorry. I love you. So f*cking much, Luke. You have no idea.”

“Shut up.” Luke spits. His eyes sting and his throat itches in that familiar way that his entire face prickles. “You don’t get to — No, okay? What the hell?”

“What.” John says faintly. “I love you. I’m not breaking up with you because I’ve suddenly changed my mind, dude. It’s just so f*cking hard.”

Luke feels hysterical. “We knew it was going to be hard.” He half shouts.

“I don’t want it to be.” John mumbles. His voice is soft and it splinters towards the end. Luke feels like his rib cage has been cracked open. He loves him so, so much. He doesn’t want to have to go through life without sharing every minuscule detail with him. The big stuff, the ridiculous stuff, the mundane, the good and the bad. He’s supposed to be his person. “You deserve better. You’re too important to me, and I don’t want to f*ck you up. I want you to have a real relationship instead of half-assing ours.”

Bitterly, Luke says, “I’m not half-assing anything.”

“I am.” John rubs at his eye. His voice is colder, a little calculating. He knows exactly where to hit Luke so it’ll hurt, and the worst thing is that it’s working. “I can’t keep getting caught between a new team and my feelings for you, or I’m never going to be happy. And I’m never going to make you happy.”

In a fit of rage, Luke hangs up.

He calls no more than five minutes later. After the screen glitches while it connects, John has a vague smirk, smiling at Luke through his own tears. Luke doesn’t realize he’s crying as well until he feels saltiness hitting the corner of his mouth. He snorts, because he doesn’t know what to do with himself and then lets out a long, defeated groan. “This is ridiculous.”

“Totally.” John agrees.

“I’m really gonna miss you.”

“Ditto.”

“And I love you.” Luke says honestly, “But if we break up…”

“Which, I’m pretty sure, is what we’re doing.” John cuts in unhelpfully. Oh, so now he’s trying to be funny. God help Luke. He’s still so in love with him. There’s only debilitating pain in his chest, where his heart used to beat for John.

“No offense, dude, but I can’t see your face. If we’re done, we have to be done” Luke chokes out, “I don’t want to try to be friends. I love you too much for that.”

A flash of hurt takes over John’s expression, but it’s gone before Luke can try to make it go away himself. John nods jerkily and dries his eyes for the umptenth time tonight. Then, he nods again, trying to seem more convincing this time. “Okay.” He says, “I love you, okay? I really, really, really f*cking love you.”

Love. Present tense.

Luke’s chest feels like it’s on fire. He nods, and then sorbs through his nose loudly. It makes him feel like that’s some funny Venn diagram where a disgusting eight year old and a twenty-three year old getting dumped by the love of his life meet.

“I love you. I’ll see you around.”

John laughs, wet around the edges. “I’ll see you around.”

NOW. FEBRUARY, 2027.

—

“I got stood up today,” Luke blurts out as soon as the line cackles alive. His heart is right on the center of his throat and his hands are shaking, but he pushes through the uneasiness in his stomach. He doesn’t give John space to reply before he continues: “And it’s the kind of sh*t I would’ve told you about if you were still here. You know, even way back in my rookie year, when we weren’t dating. I would’ve told you. And I hate that I can’t do that now.”

I miss you — the words are kicking at his gut, clawing at his chest, desperately, incessantly. They’re lodged somewhere under his skin, in the dirt of his fingernails. Luke can’t bring himself to say them.

John has always been patient, knowing how to even Luke out, handling him when he became too much or bounced off the walls with pent up energy.

He does that now, sensing that Luke is about to climb the walls of his own apartment or tear his skin to shreds if he’s left alone for too long. His voice is gentle, as if he was speaking to a spooked animal, though he does sound a little choked up when he says: “You can still tell me stuff.”

Luke wants to be childish, sulky, and cry out that he can’t. Because John is all the way in Los Angeles and they decided they weren’t even going to try to make it work.

Before he can follow through with his plan of being petulant and annoying John into picking an argument, John adds: “I’m going to be an uncle.”

The noise that escapes Luke at that is half rooted in his confusion and half surprised. Paul and his girlfriend have been trying forever. “No sh*t.”

A laugh is startled out of John, quick and weird, and so so John that Luke’s breath hitches on his throat. He’s not even exaggerating, he might die. “This is me telling you stuff. See? Easy.” John mocks, and it’s only mildly condescending.

The high of receiving good news dies down soon enough, and Luke sighs heavily. “I know I said I wanted no contact, and I thought it would be easier, but it hasn’t been.”

Luke doesn’t know whether he means that they thought breaking up was going to be easier than handling long-distance, or if he’s talking about making the decision to cut off all contact.

He hates either option and none of them were easy. Luke restents the people they were two summers ago, when they made those choices.

At the other end of the line, John sniffs. Luke’s chest twinges right after. He wonders if this is the pain one feels when they’re having a stroke, and should he be calling 911?.

“We were—” John pauses, collects his thoughts and starts again with a bitter bark of laughter, “I mean, dude, you already know this. You were my best friend. Do you seriously think I don’t hate not knowing anything about you?”

Luke presses the heel of his hand to his eye, because he refuses to let himself cry about this, even if it’s starting to feel like the last time they’ll ever talk at all, and tries to steady his breathing. His heartbeat is ringing in his ears and his throat feels itchy, painful.

He’s suddenly fifteen years old and has just kissed a boy for the first time. That’s how small he feels when he insistently croaks out, “Then why aren’t we talking?”

“Because.” John laughs humorlessly. It’s hollow, wet around the edges. Luke wants to crawl through the phone and smack him across the face for it. He only grips it closer to his ear. Any sound coming out of John, ugly or not, serves him right these days. “We agreed it’d be easier.”

Luke is glad John doesn’t put the blame of this solely on him. Still, though, it’s not enough for Luke to let go of the regret he feels eating at him for not having John in his life in any capacity. Again, more desperately this time, Luke swears: “I was wrong. It’s not.”

“Tell me more about you getting stood up.”

Funnily enough, Luke still hasn’t grown out of listening to John when he tells him what to do, how to do it.

So Luke starts talking about the date that never happened and then going out for a drink, or two, or five with Nemo and his girlfriend. At that, John sneaks in a joke about Luke being tipsy and that being the only reason why he’s calling. It feels like a dig aimed at him, something that would usually spark up Luke’s anger, but he doesn’t have it in him to pick up a fight today. Or ever. He doesn’t want a petty argument to be their last memory of talking to one another.

Luke ignores it, very maturely if he does say so himself, and then keeps going.

He talks himself out, his voice dying down when he realizes that he is not making any sense anymore and he has exhausted himself.

“What’s funny, though — Circling back to the date, I mean. I think she knew I wasn’t…I don’t know. Maybe it was too soon.”

John’s voice is curious, almost intrigued, when he tries to complete Luke’s thoughts, prodding, “You weren’t interested?”

“No, I was.” Luke clarifies, because Leah from Tinder might not have been familiar with hockey in the way Luke expects from the person he eventually marries and he may have been too similar to the pre-teenagers Leah teaches, but he’d felt confident that he could go out with somebody new and take them home without panicking or stumbling over the wrong name. She was, if nothing else, a rocket. “I don’t think I’m ready yet. I keep looking for you.”

Luke doesn’t have to be in the same room as John to know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, tilting his head up to the ceiling and considering the slowest, most painful way to die. He used to do that a lot, when Luke said things he shouldn’t, praying God for strength.

“Luke…” John sighs.

“I know.” Luke sniffs, “It just sucks that you were my first real relationship, you know? ‘Cause now the standard is ridiculous. Like, so high, dude.”

John laughs, but it’s self-deprecating and filled with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“No, dude. It’s a good thing.” Luke clarifies, though he’s not wholly convinced himself. “I don’t want to settle.”

“Yeah, well. You don’t deserve to.”

For some reason, that is what makes this phone call feel like too much, leaving Luke exposed and feeling too raw. “Hey.” Luke says, hoarse. “Tell me something.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Dunno.” Luke shrugs, “Whatever. Anything. Do you still stub your big toe on everything?”

John laughs -the real kind, straight from his belly-, and having been the one to cause it feels like springtime, all kinds of flowers blooming where Luke’s lungs should be.

“Oh, man. Every day.” John says, and Luke’s heart squeezes when he immediately knows that he’s not just indulging Luke. He’s being honest. “Do you still not drink coffee?”

“Actually,” Luke’s chest puffs out a little proudly. “Officially not a child anymore. I drink espresso now.”

“Can’t tell if that has a double meaning or not.”

Luke snorts, “No, no new man obsessed with me.” He laments in a teasing tone. Then, because no matter how hard he tries to turn his feelings off, he doesn’t know how to succeed at it, he says: “I told you, I keep looking for you.”

“You wanted me to tell you something?” John asks. It’s been a while since John has asked one of his rethorical questions, and Luke would have been inclined to give a sarcastic response if he’d had room to reply at all. But John sighs, the rush of air coming out of him setting a heavy undertone to their phone call, a serious change of topic, and Luke straightens in his bed to give him every ounce of attention he can muster up. “If something sticks from this whole thing, let it be this, baby. I want you to be happy.” Luke makes a wounded sound from the back of his throat. John keeps saying that, but if he wanted him to be happy, why would he break up with him? John, in return, makes a soothing noise, a wordless plea for Luke to keep listening. “I want you to go on dates if you feel that’s what you have to do right now. I want you to sign up for CrossFit or whatever, if you think that’s what you gotta do to get over us. Don’t think about what I’m going to think about what you do. I’m telling you — It’s okay. However you need to grieve our relationship, whatever you need to do, I’m not going to hold it over you. Nothing you ever do will make me care about you any less, okay?”

“f*ck you,” Luke says, but it’s fond enough to shatter his own heart. “God, I love you.”

John’s laugh sounds like it’s punched out of him. Sudden, sharp. “I love you, too, kid.”

“I’ll see you around?”

“See you around.”