Archive of Our Own ^beta

Something’s been wrong all summer.

It’s a slow, subtle slide down into this kind of pervasive misery that creeps up so quietly Sid almost misses it happening. He flies home from Worlds, expecting to ride a euphoric high until the season begins again, but the buzz of the victory is gone as soon as he lands in Halifax. He can’t go twenty feet without someone stopping him to talk about the win, about the triple gold club, but he doesn’t feel the warmth of their genuine joy. Every congratulatory handshake seems to point out there’s something missing from his list of accomplishments, like there’s a missing piece to the puzzle he’s been working on for years, his whole life, and he can’t figure out what it is.

By the time he’s reached his birthday, he’s barely managing to wake up in the morning without falling apart. There’s this itch under his skin that he can’t alleviate, putting him on a constant edge, just keeping his head above the waves and not feeling like he’s going under. Grinning and bearing it for the kids at camp as they crowd in to sing happy birthday is manageable; it’s not so easy later, sitting at the kitchen table he’s spilled his heart out more times than he could ever count. He doesn’t know how long he pushes icing around his plate, smoothing it until there’s a flat lake of buttercream over the sailboat print. When he comes back to himself, Mom’s face is something he’s seen before, but not for a long time. It’s a look that says, I’m here when you need, because she knows and respects his need to be the one to open up.

Taylor’s face is something else completely.

“Where’s Dad?” he asks, suddenly overwhelmed by the kitchen, the table, the way the overheard lamp shines like a spotlight over him. Taylor gets up, takes their plates and turns toward the sink, making a production out of cleaning them. Mom frowns for a moment, then tilts her head towards the sliding glass doors. “He’s outside- cleaning off the grill.”

The water’s running, but Taylor’s hands are still, head tilted back to listen to the conversation. He realizes Dad must have said that, must have gotten up from the table and say he’d be back in soon and he was so gone he didn’t realize. He pushes his chair back, scraping over the hardwood, and Taylor bends over the sink again.

The air is warm, thick like a quilt as the sun starts to dip behind horizon. It’s almost 9, and he’s still got an hour drive back to his house; Mom will probably ask him to stay anyway, but he’ll say no, and she knows that. He’s exhausted, but he needs to be away just so he doesn’t have to keep the act that he’s alright, even though everyone’s figured out he’s not. Dad squints up at him when he stands next the grill, line of sweat across the crease of his forehead. Dad still looks the way he remembers as a kid, same downturned eyes, same wide mouth, but he’s different now, gray hair and wrinkles and a little slower to get up the steps, and it makes him feel so old.

“You alright, bud?” Dad asks, chipping away at charcoal stuck to the grate, and it’s meant to be an opening, not prying; Dad’s not trying to drag it out of him right now. He looks over the back lawn, at the houses across the way, the familiar sights he’s seen a thousand times. Something deep within him twists, like a flutter in his stomach, and there’s a wave of both relief and uncertainty. This place feels like home, because it always has been, but not like home home, and he doesn’t know when he stopped thinking of it like that.

“I’m gonna-” he starts, thumb motioning over his shoulder toward the driveway with intent. Dad wipes his hands off on his shorts and waves him in, and he goes without hesitation, pressing his head into the crook of Dad’s neck, and Dad tenses for a moment before placing a warm hand on his shoulder, giving him a shake. Dad smells like he always has for the last 28 years, like Brut and peppermints, but there’s something else that’s not there, and he doesn’t get that. Like something’s missing, but he’s not sure what else there would be.

He leaves an hour later, a kiss on each cheek from Mom before she holds him still, looking at him. She’d pleaded for him to stay, but he had made his excuses, and her and Taylor and Dad stand at the front door, waving him down the driveway. He chases the setting sun down the street, turning out on to the highway and letting the wind from the open sunroof whip through his hair.

He doesn’t remember getting home. He knows he drove the hour without even music to help pass the time, but he doesn’t remember consciously taking part in any of it. It’s the same thing that’s been happening all summer, the daydreaming, the lapses. Being home only does so much to make everything a little less hazy, and he sits on the couch staring at the ceiling fan make revolutions for a good thirty minutes before opening up the back doors, leaving his shoes and shirt on the patio and heading down the dock.

He hears her pull up the driveway sometime later, headlights illuminating down the lawn before they cut off. It takes her a few minutes to walk through the house and down the dock to him. She doesn’t say anything as she kicks off her sandals, sliding her feet into the water beside him as they stare out at the reflection of the moon over the middle of the lake.

“You could have called, I would have gotten the spare room set up for you,” he says, and Taylor snorts.

“If I called, you would have brow-beaten me into staying at Mom and Dad’s. And since when is the spare room not set up anyway?”

Her presence both eases his mind and puts him back on edge. There’s always something comforting about her being around, but he also knows she’s here because she’s worried, and probably Mom and Dad, too. He can’t stand the idea they’re sitting around the kitchen table, discussing how he’s been since coming home, how they’ve had to worry about him. He feels regret, an emotion he’s not exactly been unfamiliar with all summer, and it blooms into something overwhelming.

He keeps waiting for Taylor to speak, at least to explain her reasons for coming out here, but she just lays an arm around his shoulder instead, making little ripples in the lake with swirling feet. The warring forces of the warm comfort of love he feels from her and the internalized anger that he’s making her worry to begin with explode in his chest, and he takes a deeply unsteady breath, hands biting into the edge of the dock as he tries to stay grounded.

“I know what you’re worried about,” Taylor says evenly, and he makes a noise that’s half-confusion, half-amusement.

“Taylor, I don’t even know what I’m worried about,” he says, and she shrugs.

“Yeah, I know that. But I do.”

He’s wound too tight to get words out, and instead tilts his head toward her, still watching the moon’s reflection float on the lake’s surface. Taylor’s proud and headstrong, just like he knows he is too, and he works out she came all the way here just to do this.

“You’re not done yet,” she says, digging into his shoulder. “So stop beating yourself up about it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“Look, I know pretty much every playoff series you’ve had since the Cup has gone wrong. I get that. But like, you’re 28. As of today. You’ve still got time. You know you’re not going to win every year. You’ve still got like 10 years left,” she says, staring down at him as if daring him to argue against this, but yeah, that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

“You don’t know that,” he shoots back, turning to look at her. “I almost didn’t come back once. I could go out on the ice first game back and blow out my knee or my shoulder and never play again. I want to win now while I still have time. I’m not fucking invincible.”

Taylor rolls her eyes and ignores the irritated look he sends her way. “That’s like saying you could get in a plane crash on the way back and die. If that’s the case then you should also be spending your days a little better than moping around your cabin the whole summer.”

“Taylor!” he interjects, and he can tell she’s not going to stop until she’s made her point. She swings her legs out of the water and kneels besides him, putting a hand to his cheek, and they both settle down a little.

“I know you want to win more cups. I know you want to win every single season, and fuck the rest of the league. But you can’t beat yourself up because it hasn’t happened. You know how many things go into winning a cup. You just won Worlds, for fucks’ sake. And how? Because of your team. We all know your team in Pittsburgh hasn’t been the team to get you to the Finals. Not recently, at least. But it will be, eventually. And you’ll lead them through to the Cup, just like you did at the Olympics, and Worlds. Just like you did before. Stop blaming yourself, Sid. Just let it happen.”

“Don’t you think that’s what I’m trying to do? I don’t get a say in who my team is, but I still have to lead it no matter what,” he tries, feeling like she’s touched a raw spot.

“C’mon, you’re not the fucking coach, that’s not your job, bud,” Taylor counters. “No one’s blaming you. If anyone tried, everyone else would call them out on their bullshit. You’re doing everything you can and that’s enough, Sid. It will happen again. You and Geno aren’t going to go down with one cup. There’s no way.”

Just hearing Geno’s name makes something spark inside of him, a kindling of the need to be better. He wants to give Geno everything that Russia can’t, and hasn’t for a long time. He wants to give Geno an undisputed place in history, a name synonymous with distinction, with victory. He wants that almost more than he wants it for himself.

Taylor’s fingers brush against the back of his neck, the same place as his fracture from years ago, and there’s something about that that makes him feel so fragile. He leans into her, feeling like he has no fight left in him, like two months of exhaustion has finally caught up with him. He feels paper-thin, in body and spirit, like he could shatter at one more word, at one more weighted thought.

“Just take care of yourself,” Taylor says, rocking with him. “Just take care of yourself and everything else will fall into place. You just have to believe it, bud.”

He couldn’t put words to thoughts even if he tried; he sits with Taylor on the dock until he feels that he can breath without feeling like his lungs are three sizes too small. Eventually they go to bed, Taylor promising she can set up the guest room herself, god, Sid, she’s not that simple, and he lays down with his thoughts, ready to battle her words against his lingering emotions.

He flies out nine days later, and feels like he does a much better job concealing his worries for the duration of the time he stays, if Mom’s reduction in concerned looks is any measure. Taylor, for her part, seems unconvinced at his sudden happier demeanor, and whispers in his ear “call me, anytime, whenever, just please let me know how you’re doing, okay?” when she hugs him goodbye. Mom and Dad drop him off at the airport with hugs and kisses and promises they’ll see him when they fly down in November.

The woman behind the counter can’t contain herself when she checks his bags. “Mr. Crosby, I hope you have a nice flight,” she says, handing over his boarding pass. “I’m sure you’ll be bringing home a little more baggage when you come back next summer.”

He gives her his most public-friendly smile and heads for the gate. He just hopes it’s not his own emotional baggage.

The air feels strange when he comes in through the garage, shoes kicked off haphazardly by the door as if he were never away. Ann, his housekeeper, had stopped by to turn the AC down to the temperature he liked, left some groceries in the fridge, and gotten the house back in feeling alive again, but something seems off still. He sets his keys on the island in the kitchen and feels the noise echo through the empty house like a volley of a cannon. A deafening silence haunts him around the house, constantly over his shoulder as he tries to get back into feeling at home, unpacking his luggage, turning on the TV upstairs and downstairs just to make some sort of feeling come awake. Around him, the house seems closed off, turned away from him, not welcoming him with open arms like in seasons past.

He watches two episodes of Sons of Anarchy repeats, debates texting the guys to let them know he’s back and seeing who’s up for dinner, and finally drags himself to the fridge to check out what Ann had left. There’s a rotisserie chicken and a piece of rainbow trout, but he’s craving something heavy, burgers, or a steak maybe, with potatoes. He rests his head against the fridge door, working up the energy to get back in the car and drive to the store; there’s a lethargy deep in his bones, something he attributes to the travel, and it’s questioning why he doesn’t just order a pizza. He gets himself into the car and heads down to the closest store, one that might not have organic, grass-fed beef, but has the good fortune of being less than five minutes from the house. He picks out the biggest baking potato his can find and settles on a porterhouse steak he’d usually balk at when not halfway through the season and trying to battle inevitable weight loss. Only three people stop him to chat about the upcoming season, and the teenage cashier stumbles over his words as he says this will be their year, before turning red. Sid’s home less than twenty minutes after he left, and the steak’s done less than thirty minutes after that.

He barely even seasons it. Doesn’t waste time with making that garlic aioli sauce Vero had showed him. Just gets it done, rare, and throws it on the plate with the potato and goes to town. He’s not even hungry as much as he’s just craving the sensation of meat, and he eats until there’s nothing left, feeling relieved more than satiated. He washes the dishes from dinner and puts them in the dishwasher, and checks the corner of the counter where Ann left fruit, picking out an apple. He eats it quickly, juice dripping over the sink and hip digging into the counter’s edge as he looks around the kitchen. He can’t get to the store for a thorough shopping trip for a few days, and the idea of the barrenness unsettles him. He takes the rest of the fruit out of the corner and arranges it into a neat pile in a glass bowl, placing it in the middle of the kitchen island. It’s better, but he still takes a candle out of the junk drawer and puts it next to the bowl, turning it out so the ‘Fall Apple Orchard’ label is displayed. He wipes down the kitchen counters with the lemongrass verbena spray Mom had left under the sink, and turns out the lights.

He makes it halfway through another episode when he starts worrying at the corner of a throw pillow absentmindedly, twisting a loose thread around his finger. Within a minute, he’s abandoned the show completely, pulling at the string until it tears off. There’s not an obvious mark where it was, but he still notices how ragged all the pillows have become. It’s been a few years since the interior decorator made the final touches to this part of the house, and it’s started to show the wear and tear. The pillow in his lap still has a soda stain from one of Duper’s kids from movie night last year, and the pillows at the end of the couch lay flat, never recovered from an extended pillow fight Tanger, Flower, and Geno had had two Super Bowls before. He shoots Taylor a text, asking her if she thinks he should stick with this color scheme or change it up, and heads upstairs.

The bedroom feels comfortable, normal, and he’s glad for that, at least. The towels smell like his usual fabric softener when he gets out of the shower, and the sheets on the bed are soft and warm. It’s barely nine o’clock, but he’s exhausted, and doesn’t feel bad at all for shutting off the lights after just one chapter of the Civil War book he’s been reading. He tucks the blankets under his arms and closes his eyes, knowing sleep isn’t far off. He makes a mental note to text everyone in the morning, and drifts off.

He wakes up just before noon, feeling like hell. After sleeping restlessly all night, he wakes up to the covers rumpled on the bed, a pillow thrown halfway across the room, and the top sheet twisted in his arms, wrapped like a cocoon. There are a few texts from various people, Mario and Tischy and Kuni, all some variation of ‘you are back in town, right?’ and ‘are you alive/okay?’. They all get the same reply of yes, but he must have caught something traveling back, and that he’ll catch up with them in a few days.

He takes his temperature twice, mostly to be sure the first reading is correct. He hasn’t been sick in forever, and the last time he had a fever this high, he had the mumps. He manages to pull himself out of bed long enough to take a lukewarm shower, and sits on the edge of the bed in his towel while he calls Mom. She tsks over him, mentioning how she always comes down with something after flying, advising rest and Tylenol and a doctor visit if the fever doesn’t go down by tomorrow. He grabs two water bottles from the fridge, drops the thermostat a few degrees on his way back to bed, pops three pills, and lays on the top of the covers, too hot to get underneath.

He drifts after a while, exhaustion finally overcoming the pervasive heat he’s giving off. He’s not quite asleep, not quite awake, and his mind wanders down its’ own hazy trails of thought, thoughts slow and incoherent. He’s had fever dreams before, all sorts, some aided by painkillers, some by stress, or, worse, concussions, but the places his mind takes him to now he’s never been before. Images of big hands, holding his thighs up and open, pressing him down into the mattress, overwhelming him. He can’t make out anything except the power in their body, the way they use their hips to pin him down when he arches up into them, needing more, needing something he doesn’t even understand.

He wakes up shivering, skin soaked with sweat and a damp spot the size of a toonie on the front of his briefs. A hand down the front of them does no good; he chases completion furiously, bringing himself so close to the edge his stomach clenches, bowing him off the bed, but it evades him. He gets back in the shower and washes off the sweat, freezing water coaxing his dick to stand down, and manages to down a protein bar and some jerky before he gets back into bed. This time, he sleeps straight through the night.

In the morning, he realizes has to go in to be checked. There’s no way around it - he brushes his teeth and watches the way the vanity light highlights the flush spread across his cheeks and his neck, creeping down to his chest. Every part of his body aches, and nausea’s set in overnight. While he’s irritated it’s happening during camp, he’s relieved that it’s probably something manageable like the flu. They can stock him up with Tamiflu and he’ll suck it up. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s puked and rallied before, or even during, practice.

He knows he’s running on pure adrenaline, turning up the music loud to distract himself as he heads toward their new training rink in Cranberry. If he can just get his energy up, maybe get in a few laps of a skate, he knows he’ll be on the mend - his mistake yesterday was spending all day in bed. He sees a few guy’s cars in the lot, here for PR or final assessments before training camp starts, and tries to let the excitement of a new season distract him.

The smell hits him first, making his throat move as he almost gags on it. It’s the first time he’s been in the facility, and something about it seems peculiar as he heads toward the dressing room. He’s overwhelmingly aware of how much it smells nothing like hockey, no underlying hint of sweat that can never be truly eradicated from even the most deep-cleaned locker rooms, no traces of newly cut sticks, of body spray and soap, and some part of him gets anxious at the thought, like it’s somewhere he and the whole team don’t belong. Like the fruit bowl on his kitchen counter, he needs something to anchor this place and make it feel like it’s a home, and he ends up dumping his entire bag out along his bench, digging through tape and laces, searching for it.

Duper comes in, dressed from head to ankles in gear with a pair of slide sandals, just finished with PR shots for the roster and the year. Duper waits while Sid clears off the overflow of shit that’s spilled over to his stall, and flashes him a cheeky smile that falls away just as quickly as it appeared.

“Shit, bud, you were not kidding about the fever thing,” Duper says, looking more concerned than Sid would like; he swallows a lump in his throat with some trouble, and Duper puts the garbage pail at his feet. “Aim for the can, bud.”

“Have you seen Dana?” Sid asks, pressing his face into his knees, trying to take a steadying breath. His stomach is cramping, but he’s not sure he’ll actually be sick.

“I think you probably need Stewie more, but they’re both busy with Kessel right now,” Duper answers, rubbing his back in a way Sid’s seen him do with his kids. Sid allows it for a moment, wanting it to help, but it makes him feel even uneasier. “Do you want me to take you home? I’m done for the day,” Duper starts when Sid shakes him off. “We’ll bring the trashcan with us.”

Scuds pops in, dressed out like Duper. “You alright, Sid?” he calls from the other side of the room, and Duper answers for him.

“I think he’s gonna hurl. I’m going to try to take him home,” Duper explains, and Scuds makes a face, keeping his distance while offering an apologetic “sucks, man, hope you feel better.”

“Stay here for a minute, I’m going to go find Stewie,” Duper says when it’s apparent this isn’t something he can suck up and deal with, and he makes a non-committal noise. Duper’s gone for a few minutes, and everything starts to fall apart in the meantime. The cramping in his stomach has gone dull, almost like a throbbing ache, and he’s absolutely dripping in sweat.

He feels it in the tips of his fingers first, like the blood there is illuminated, spreading through his hands and up his arms into the rest of his body. There’s this heady scent that appears out of nowhere that smells like fresh powder on ice in winter, like the surface of the lake on the hottest day in summer, like home when he comes back from a three-week road trip. It’s familiar and completely new, something he’s definitely smelled somewhere, and something he’s never encountered before in his life. His mouth opens, more involuntarily than anything else, and he pants at the air, reveling the way it sits on his tongue, thick and sweet like honey, almost cloying. He craves it, breathing in deep gulps to get closer to it.

When the door opens, the smell rams into like a wave, rushing into every cell of his body until he feels that he’s alive with it. He squirms on the bench, trying to sit up straight, and feels damp between his legs. There’s another smell, something much more minute, something that smells safe, and Sid realizes that it’s Dana as he kneels down beside him. Dana puts a hand on his knee, the touch giving Sid this pervasive sense of calm, but Sid realizes he’s not looking for calm right now. He wants to strip off his jeans and his t-shirt and lay on the floor, get on his knees, put his chest down. None of that makes sense, but his hands reach for his hem anyway, only to be blocked by Dana.

“Hey, Sid, listen to me, okay? Look at me Sid,” Dana says, so softly, and Sid tries hard to listen, having trouble following Dana’s words. His hands and legs are asking things of him that he’s not really understanding, and he doesn’t think he has the ability to stop them. “Sid, listen buddy, I need you to get up, okay? I’m going to get you somewhere safe.”

“I’m sick,” Sid tries to explain, words coming out slurred, hazy with fever. The dampness is all around his ass, and he presses his knees together to stop the restlessness. “I don’t want to mess up your car.”

“It’s okay, Sid, that’s okay. Just come on with me, we’ll get you cleaned up at home,” Dana says, pulling him up to stand. Home sounds like a fantastic idea, and Sid agrees, wondering why he ever left his house this morning in the first place.

There are noises coming from outside the room, voices that are getting closer. Sid gets another wave of that smell and feels his knees buckle, dropping him to the ground and almost taking Dana down with him. His arms come down, hands scraping over the carpet, and Dana tries to pull him up, tugging hard.

“Sid, I need you to get up now, okay? I know how you’re feeling, I know what you’re body is telling you to do, but you need to get up. Try to resist it, Sid. Try.”

Dana is almost pleading, kneeled down beside him on the ground. Sid watches the concern in his eyes, they way they turn toward the door when there’s a slamming sound not far down the hall. He smells the laundry detergent calm of Dana and a spiced, almost dark chocolate aroma somewhere far off - it’s not as deep as the smell he’s been trying to drink in, but he can still sense it; it almost burns when he breathes it in through his mouth, like stepping too close to a fire. If Dana is calm, this one is angry.

When he takes a deep gulp of air through his mouth once more, the scent that’s been enveloping him shoots messages to every part of his body.

mine.

He breaks, allowing his hands to get the shirt off, and Dana seems to give in with him. “Sidney, if you can understand me right now, I want you to know what’s going to happen. He’s going to come in here, okay, and your body will-”

Dana never gets to finish that sentence, at least not that Sid will be able to remember. The scent seems to be pouring in the room, coming in through every vent and door, and Sidney presses his face into the floor, one hand awkwardly unbuttoning his jeans and trying to slide them down. The fever within him no longer feels uncomfortable, but instead as if his body has always needed this, like this is what’s right.

The door to the locker room slams open right as Sid manages to free one leg, and Sid’s knees spread at an angle with the floor, chest dipped low and face turned down.

“Go.”

Sid’s body goes taut at the growl of Geno’s voice, entranced by the way the sound of it sends jolts of electricity down his spine, how strong and possessive it sounds. There’s something warm and wet dripping down his thighs, but Sid doesn’t care. The beginning and end of every thought now is need.

Dana stands up stiffly, walking out of Sid’s peripheral vision slowly. He gets one last hint of Dana and the smell of dark chocolate before his world tunnels in on what it wants. The smell is so palpable he’s sure he could reach out and touch it, cup it in his hands and drink his fill of it.

“Sid,“ Geno groans, and Sid moans into the hands he’s pressed his face into. It all connects so perfectly, how Geno is so perfect for him, and Sid drops his shoulders even lower, offering himself.

“Please, Geno,” Sid begs, not even sure what he’s asking for. “Please.”

He doesn’t remember what Geno says, after that. He doesn’t remember what he says, or how Geno comes to him from across the room, or anything. What he remembers is the the feeling of Geno, caging him in with his size, one hand placed flat upon his back like he would have ever tried to get up, like he didn’t want this feeling to last forever. He remembers the most intense feeling he’s ever experienced, so overwhelming his vision goes white and he just feels. He remembers the final moment, the demarcation of who he had been and who he became. The door of his previous life before slamming shut in the storm of the moment, and with that, the door to the next part wrenching open, throwing light into each dark corner. Before, he had belonged mostly to himself, to the city of Pittsburgh, and, at times, to the people of Canada.

Now, he belongs to Geno.

Sid can smell Geno, or, more like, can sense him come into the showers, before Geno even speaks.

“Socks still on.”

Sid’s aware; he can feel them squelch along the tile of the shower floor every time he moves. It’s a horrible sensation, but, in hindsight, he’d been a little too distracted to realize they were the only clothing he hadn’t gotten off when he’d turned on the water, desperately scrubbing at the slick and cum dripping down his legs. He’s more than sure some of it got on the socks. They’re definitely going in the trash, later.

“Won’t work,” Geno says, and Sid’s hands still for a moment, lathered in body wash that won’t do a bit of good to remove omega slick. Just the thought of it makes Sid recoil, and Sid realizes Geno doesn’t really say you’re okay, i’m here with you as much as he thinks it across the room to him, something Sid just automatically comprehends.

None of this makes sense. None of this is good. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

Sid turns, feeling soap slide down his fingertips to the shower floor, and looks at Geno for the first time in what feels like hours. It’s a mistake. A feeling blooms between his hipbones, deep within him, and his brain is shooting off millions of synapses, all rejoicing in the fact the person standing in front of him is his.

No, that’s not quite right. The alpha before him. His alpha.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

The anxiety sets in right as he feels a wave of Geno’s emotions, pride and possessiveness and something almost smug, a response to what Geno saw and smelled and felt coming off of him just before, and Sid’s brain gets jammed in a gear between fight and flight, wanting to run away from the reality he’s quickly going to need to accept, and an in-born desire to have Geno bring him down to the floor again, right here. Geno has an impressive set of bruising beginning to blossom along his upper arms, and Sid doesn’t remember doing that, but he knows it must have happened when Geno had flipped him over on the changing room floor and-

The thought makes his body yearn, and Geno’s got him pinned up against the wall in a second, moving faster than he could probably even manage on skates. Geno’s nose is pressed in the space between his shoulder and neck, and Sid realizes Geno is fucking scenting him between the waves of thought Geno is pushing at him, a barely coherent mix of best and mine and smell so fucking good and need you need you need you. Sid can’t think when Geno’s touching him like this. Some base level of his biology takes over, spreading his legs in welcome, and Geno takes him right there, pressed against the shower wall, wet socks and all. He has no idea what the fuck they’re doing, only that he needs it so badly he clings to Geno long after they’ve both cum again, unable to let go. Geno, on his part, seems content to hold him up all day, without the slightest hint of exhaustion.

That’s impossible. It should be impossible. Sid doesn’t know a lot about dynamics, but he knows alpha’s lack lactate threshold during heats, one of the reasons they can’t be on the ice during their times.

Also, the aggression streaks.

Slowly, parts of Sid’s brain work together what’s happening. Geno’s very obviously in the middle of a heat. Sid’s never seen him in a full-blown one, but he’s seen Geno transitioning into it, seen other guys break into heat in the room before, and it’s pretty much the same thing he’s looking at now - the blown-out pupils, the seeming inexhaustible strength, a driving need to rut.

What doesn’t make sense is why Geno’s heat is being fulfilled by him. He’s a beta. It’s just not biologically possible.

not beta

Sid hears Geno’s voice interrupt his thought process, but he’s right at eye level with Geno’s mouth, and it definitely didn’t open. He heard Geno’s voice, in his fucking brain. It takes him another moment to realize he wasn’t speaking either, and Geno knew what he was thinking anyway. This phenomenon isn’t fitting anywhere into the puzzle he’s sorting out here, and it’s more than a little disconcerting.

“Put me down,” Sid says, panic washing over him, and Geno obliges without hesitation, staying within arm’s reach, but not touching him. Sid can still feel waves of emotion and thought pouring off Geno, but it’s a lot less when they aren’t touching. “What do you mean, I’m not a beta? I’ve been a beta my whole life. Every single person in my family is a beta,” Sid asks, and it doesn’t take a mental connection to read Geno’s expression. Geno looks between his legs and back up to his face in a look that clearly says “well, obviously…” and Sid turns away toward the wall, pressing his face into it just to not have to look anywhere else.

“I’m a beta,” Sid says pleadingly, trying to convince himself more than Geno. “I’ve always been a beta.”

“Get tested?” Geno asks, and Sid turns back to look at him, uncertain. Back when they were born, it wasn’t common practice to test for dynamics, especially with an established family history. His parents were betas. His grandparents, and aunts and uncles, his cousins, everyone. Taylor, who had been tested when it became standard practice by the time she was born, was a beta, too. There had been no reason to think he was anything but a beta.

And besides, there were signs. This didn’t just happen overnight. Dynamics became present over time during puberty, first heats, alpha and omega scenting. No one went through a first heat at 28 years old. Even when slick drips down the inside of his leg, Sid tries to convince himself of that. In his head, this is all just a very strange incident. Maybe the strength of Geno’s heat made him have a sympathetic heat or something. There’s an explanation, and they’re going to get cleaned up and go find a dynamicist who can figure this out.

Geno’s got him crowded against the wall the second he thinks it, and there’s pulsating waves of a defiant no floating the air. Sid opens his mind and understands that Geno is absolutely not going to allow anyone within a 20 foot radius of him anytime soon.

space, need space Sid pushes back, or maybe says, he doesn’t know how he’s communicating anything right now, and Geno backs away, face dark and irritated. Sid knows Geno’s going to listen to him no matter what he asks, but Geno’s not going to be super happy about some of it. Maybe all of it. Fuck if he knows.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Sid makes sure to say out loud, because this telepathic thing is fucking with his brain, and Geno looks at him obviously.

“Do quarantine at home until everything okay,” Geno responds, and Sid understands the idea as a concept, but it’s not something he’s ever had to think of for a second in his life, and he doesn’t really get what Geno means by that. Geno seems to pick up on his confusion, and there’s the beginning of a thought, a fragment of annoyance, should have listened in dynamics class- before Geno realizes Sid’s never had to go to a dynamics class in his life, and then Geno’s mind is just blank for a moment.

Sid shoots him an unamused look while Geno seems to digest that bit of information.

There’s radio silence coming off Geno after that, and he turns and heads back to the change room without a single further thought. As soon as he’s out of sight, Sid’s heart starts thumping, way too fast, and his mouth goes dry. Geno sends out a hey, come on, i’m not leaving you from wherever he is, and Sid’s feet listen before his mind even gets a say in the matter. Geno’s waiting for him by his stall with a towel, and motions for him to sit on one he’s placed on the bench. Some deep, instinctual part of his being couldn’t refuse that if he tried, so Sid turns off his mind and lets Geno take care of him.

Sid doesn’t expect the tears. He doesn’t expect any of how this feels, and every new feeling is like the worst, most hormonal moments of puberty condensed down into mere minutes. Sid tenses when Geno rubs down the inside of his legs, wiping away slick, and gently pats on baby powder. “Helps not be sticky,” Geno explains, softly, “we clean you up when we home.” It’s impossible not to cry at that, at how tender Geno is being when he strips off his wet socks without the slightest hint of disgust, when he rubs his feet with the towel, bringing some warmth back to them. Geno helps him dress, and as confusing as it is, that doesn’t make him feel helpless as much as it makes him feel something like cherished. He turns his head to the side and cries as Geno continues, because there are just too many emotions for him to deal with at the moment, and Geno sends out a constant stream of you’re okay, i’m with you, you’re safe.

Geno pulls a t-shirt over his head, and his hand flies up to the back of his neck, feeling like he’s been stung. There’s a fresh cut there, and Sid pulls away fingertips that are bright with blood. He reaches back and feels it again, and it makes him shiver, feeling cold all of the sudden.

“You bit me,” he says, and Geno looks something between defiant and embarrassed. “Why did you bite me?”

bond instinct, a feeling sent out so flippantly it feels like a careless shrug.

This is something Sid knows about, well enough. He’s seen plenty of bonded omegas with marks, mostly around the neck. It’s like the wedding band of dynamics, a visual sign to any other alpha that this omega is bonded, and off-limits. Not everyone does it, but it’s common enough it’s not really strange to see. It serves it’s purpose well.

But he’s not an omega. He’s a beta, and he doesn’t bond.

“I don’t understand why you did this,” Sid says, trying not to sound irritated but knowing from Geno’s pinched expression he’s failing miserably. “I can’t hide this. Everyone’s going to see it.”

It’s apparently the wrong thing to say. Geno’s turned around and punched the locker door three times before Sid even processes what’s going on. He wades through the cloud of smoky anger to understand what went wrong, and bumps into the feelings of rejection and inadequacy. Geno’s instincts can’t understand why he’d be upset for people to see the mark, and Sid tries to push through, at least enough to get Geno to stop punching the door before he breaks his fingers.

that’s not what i meant, Sid pushes at him, and then says, because Geno doesn’t seem to hear him, moving on to shattering the trash can with repeated kicks. “Geno, listen,” Sid tries, feeling a little scared, and he finally throws an arm out, wrapping around his waist and trying to pull him back, and that makes Geno go still. Sid can feel Geno’s heartbeat racing under his palm, but the storm of Geno’s fury seems gone as soon as it came. When Sid realizes it’s because Geno finds his touch just as reassuring as he found Geno’s before, it makes him feel like the most powerful person in the world.

“This is all so fucked up,” Sid says, “I have no idea what’s going on. But breaking your hand won’t do either of us any good.”

Geno sits on the bench, looking wrung out. Sid doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do know, and debates over whether he should say something before Geno reaches out for his hand. Sid takes it, because he feels like it’s the right thing to do, and Geno settles again a little at the touch.

“We bond, Sid. Things I feeling now, can’t explain. Can’t control. Want to protect you, you know? Need to keep you safe, because you mine. Don’t want anyone see you yet. Want to go home, until we better,” Geno says, and there’s an unspoken feeling of please just let me take you home lingering as well.

It’s not what he should do, but Sid pulls back. Geno doesn’t stop him yanking away his hand, even though it obviously hurts his feelings, and Sid feels the walls closing in. This isn't possible. It can’t be happening. But Geno’s so sure.

“This is just a heat,” Sid tries, wanting to reassure himself this is temporary, a blip in the grand scheme of things, but Geno’s not going to let him be in denial about this.

“No, we bond Sid,” Geno corrects.

He mostly thinks how? to himself, but Geno’s hearing him, feeling his every feeling. Not a heat, I wouldn’t be able to sense you like this if it were just a heat, is the first point Geno counters with, and Sid knew that, even though he’s never been to a dynamics class, even though he’s never needed to know anything more than alphas and omegas go through heat and bond, he knew all of this wasn’t a heat. Geno in his head isn’t a fluke. This isn’t a weird coincidence.

Somehow, for reasons he can’t even begin to comprehend, they’re bonded.

I can feel you inside me, down in my blood, Geno thinks, thought wrapped up in feeling of almost profound wonder, and Sid’s so moved by that, despite the distress raging in him, his body calls out for Geno, and Geno’s there, pulling him in tight, wrapping around him until every sensation begins and ends with Geno.

“What are we going to do?” Sid asks, faced pressed into Geno’s shirt because the smell of him is the most stabilizing thing he’s felt in his entire life, and Geno strokes fingers through his hair, thinking.

“We go home,” Geno says, and there’s nothing Sid wants more. 

Getting out of the training center is easy enough. Dana texts Sid a detailed plan while he and Geno are still getting cleaned up, letting him know the area has been cleared out and they should be able to make it out to the parking lot without running into to anyone that might trigger Geno’s urge to protect. Sid feels uncomfortable at the very thought this was all needed, and when he looks up from his phone, Geno’s giving him that look Sid feels like he’ll see a lot in the near future, a struggle between discomfort and willfulness.

Geno insists on driving, and Sid mentally reminds him that pushing 90 down the interstate isn’t going to get them home any faster if he ends up getting them pulled over. Geno begrudgingly sets the cruise control to 80 and grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. The close proximity of the cabin makes everything seem that much more intensified, and Sid almost feels motion sick watching Geno weave between car, constantly picking up on his inner monologue of fucking move and need to be home, need to be home. Geno is overwhelmingly anxious, and Sid surprises himself when he says “just touch me”, holding his hand out for Geno to grab. The rest of the drive is a little calmer after that, and the relief Sid feels when they turn down his street is borderline euphoric. Geno seems to respond in turn, a little less pent up than before, and Sid picks up Geno’s emphatic appreciation for his front gate and the way it closes off the world from them as they pull into the driveway.

Geno makes a noise almost like keen when they get inside, a sound that turns Sid’s insides to mush in response. Geno struts through each room, head bobbing up and down with each breath as he scents at every space, rubbing off on walls and beds and couches. Sid follows him around, a deep instinctual pleasure blooming at his alpha marking the space, mingling their scents together.

They end up in the kitchen, and Sid throws open the door to the fridge, yanking out whatever he can grab, throwing it all on the island. Between the two of them, they demolish the chicken Ann had left, a carton of strawberries, a cucumber, a loaf of bread. They eat from the containers, without plates or utensils, feeding each other by hand. Sid finds some ice cream from before summer, half-eaten and slightly frost-bitten, and they at least break out the spoons for that. Sid is truly ravenous, in a way he’s never felt before, and they finish off everything with two protein bars a piece.

The exhaustion sets in immediately. Geno’s leaning against the counter, eyes drooping, and Sid pulls at him, toward the stairs. By the time they’ve reached his room, they’re both dragging, and they just manage to dump themselves on top the duvet, curled into each other for warmth before sleep drags them down. Sid feels as if he was more unconscious than asleep when wakes up disoriented, Geno wrapped around him. It’s dark in the room, and he fishes his phone out from his pocket; it says 5, and Sid figures they’ve been asleep for the last 13 hours.

There are texts and missed calls from Dana, and he lays in Geno’s arms for another hour before he has the courage to open them. In the end, his concern was for nothing - Dana’s first text, from the afternoon before, promises someone will stop by and leave a box of things they’ll need for the next few days. The next text, a few hours later, is an update, mentioning he dropped it off by the front door. A third, sent right after the second, asks them to contact him if they need anything, and to take care of each other.

Geno is breathing, but it’s the only real sign he’s still alive. Sid slips out from under his arm, not even gentle, and Geno doesn’t stir. He heads downstairs and brings the package inside, taking it to the kitchen. In a peculiar, Dana way, it’s very thoughtful, some cans of soup, a gift card to the pizza place down the street. Every item has a sticky note on it, explaining its' importance. Sid picks up the intimate soap to clean up slick with a feeling of hesitation - the packaging is euphemistic at best, but it’s obvious what the real purpose is; Dana's been bonded for a long time now, but there's something that touches Sid deep down, that Dana bought this for him knowing he wouldn't have it himself. Dana also added a used copy of “On Alpha-Omega Bonding”, as only Dana would, as Sid leafs through the chapters, flipping through "Mating Rituals" before dropping it back in the box.

Sid pushes the book aside to get to the box underneath it, and pulls up short, unable to bring himself to take it out. There’s a note, in all caps, almost yelling up at him THE SOONER YOU TAKE IT, THE MORE EFFECTIVE THE PILL IS, but it’s not a reality he’s ready to accept. Beta men don’t get pregnant. Yet, Sid also knows not to be fucking stupid - it’s smarter to just take the pill, better safe than sorry and all. He swallows it down with one of the Gatorades and pushes the packaging all the way to the bottom of the trash can, throwing a napkin on top so he doesn't have to look at it again.

By the time Geno comes down, Sid’s already been torturing himself for at least an hour over everything that’s happening, feeling torn between the instincts telling him he's bonded, battling against the logical part of his mind that says this whole situation is impossible. He senses Geno coming before he sees him, a black storm of irritation and anger coming closer, and Geno stares at him from the doorway, mouth pressed tight.

“You stay by me,” Geno commands, something he’s obviously not willing to discuss or compromise on, and something in Sid’s body tells him even if he doesn’t like it, he’s going to listen to that no matter what.

The next three days are both dragging and a blur. Sid doesn’t leave Geno’s side, not even because Geno asked, but because Geno walking out of the room is enough to make him tear up with separation anxiety. Geno acts like a guard dog, hackles raised by the sound of car passing close by, and Sid wonders if they’re going to go crazy before the quarantine breaks. They order more take-out than Sid’s probably eaten in the last two years combined, but at least it’s a sign of their progress - by day three, Geno is no longer fighting down the urge to punch the delivery guys who dare look at Sid when they drop off food.

They nap almost constantly, because building a bond is apparently exhausting work. It’s also the only real peaceful time of the day, and Sid comes to treasure it in almost a fond way. When they sleep, curled in next to each other, everything seems like it might turn out okay. And then they wake up and Geno is angry that Sid answers Mario’s text asking how they are, because aged, bonded alpha Mario is apparently a threat, and they go back to square one.

They don’t bicker, or fight. They both pout around the house, eating Chinese and watching Russian movies and practically living in each other's heads. Sid learns very quickly that he understands Geno’s inner monologue immediately, regardless of the language Geno is thinking in. It makes Geno that much more coherent, especially with the more intricate needs of emotional expression, but frankly, it’s weird as fuck. Sid tries some obscure French and reaches similar result, Geno completely comprehending without need for translation.

Sid feels like he’ll never get used to this.

By day five, everything feels okay, not great, but Sid hasn’t felt like crying when Geno goes to the bathroom alone in over 36 hours, so it’s a sign of progress. He hasn't told himself he's a beta in a few days either, something that seems to put Geno's mind at ease. Geno, for his part, isn’t shooting daggers at the people jogging in front of the house through the blinds in the living room anymore, and it feels like it's time to meet with management to discuss their plan of how to approach this moving forward.

At the door, Geno snatches the keys out of his hand, and Sid gets in the car without a word - if he's learned anything, it's that some battles are probably better left alone.

There’s a line of untouched water bottles and paper cups dividing the conference table. Sid wonders who had the idea to set out a tray of cookies in the middle, like anyone could stomach to eat during this discussion. Geno catches a drift of the sentiment and seems to find it funny, and Sid bristles at the intrusion - shuffling through his thoughts at home is one thing, but it feels like an invasion of privacy here. Geno, on his part, seems to be handling it much better, but he had learned from the book Dana had left for him alphas are better are filtering. It doesn’t make Sid sleep any better at night knowing Geno’s biologically programmed to ignore him at will while he picks up on Geno’s slightest inclination.

No one tries to talk to them. Bill fiddles with his phone, Morehouse drums fingers on the table top. Travis is talking to Ron about the Sabres, but Sid knows it’s just to fill the silence. Mario and Rutherford are 15 minutes late, and Sid doesn’t try to imagine what they’re discussing that’s keeping them so long. Every few minutes, someone across the table will slide a look their way, but the second they meet his eyes, they drop their gaze.

Geno stiffens beside him, going rigid, and Sid can smell what must be Mario coming down the hall. It’s the same kind of intensity as Geno’s smell, but it’s hints of mahagony, of earth, of citrus. Sid could recognize that scent anywhere, and for a moment, he’s transported back to being 18, walking into the Lemieux house for the first time. It’s comforting for a moment, before Geno’s hackles are raised by the presence of another alpha, and Geno’s wariness is dumped upon him like a heavy rain shower.

Mario doesn’t look directly at either of them as he sits down at the table, but Sid is well aware it’s mostly to avoid upsetting Geno even more. His scent is even, unthreatening, but it does little to placate Geno’s protectiveness. Even though the rest of the room is made up of betas who are missing out on the finer intricacies of non-verbal exchanges going on, they seem to be well aware at the triangle of tension between them. Rutherford clears his throat, and everyone turns their attention to him.

“I think we are all already well aware of why we are here today, as well as the circumstances that led to the need for this meeting, so I think we can skip right ahead to what our plan is from here,” Jim begins. No one moves to speak, and Jim’s eyes roll upward for a moment, as if beseeching the heavens for assistance.

“Well,” Jim says shortly, “I think our first step will be informing the media before even the slightest hint of a rumor is spread. Within the next fourty-eight hours, at the latest.”

“There’s absolutely no way we can play it off, or ignore it? For their sake at least,” Morehouse tries, head nodded in their direction, but Mario makes a noise, something like a laugh without humor.

“Any alpha or omega would be able to tell before they even got into the room that Sid has been mated,” Mario explains, “and if they’ve met Geno as well, they’ll know it was him. Rob Rossi is an alpha. He alone would be able to pick up on it immediately. And that’s not a story he’s going to skip out on writing just to be kind.”

“Surely it can’t be that noticeable…,” Ron tries, looking incredulous, and Mario raises an eyebrow.

“Sid has been- particularly well scented,” Mario says, emphatic. “It is extremely noticeable.”

The feeling of shame that streaks through Sid’s veins is so strong both Geno and Mario turn to look at him, concerned. Until last week, Sid would have thought the same thing as Ron, ignorant to even the most basic parts of dynamics. Now he’s living it every moment; he can’t get Geno out of his head, off his skin. Geno leaves the room and he starts to panic. Geno said hi Carrie from finance on their way in and he began to worry something was wrong with him. The book had told him this was normal, a part of bond stabilization that would subside over the next few weeks at their bond strengthened, but Sid’s not sure how he’s going to go a whole season like this, much less the rest of his life.

Bill is suggesting they follow the same method the Ducks had followed with Selanne and Kariya, a simple announcement to the public followed by a private warning to the media to avoid any dynamics questions in the room on the threat of having their media access revoked. The room seems to agree it’s the best option available, but Sid can’t overlook how the media still portrays Kariya’s extended absence post-retirement as some dynamics fuckery, staying in the kitchen at home where he belongs because that’s what Teemu wanted the whole time.

He feels like he’s suffocating silently. The table is congratulating themselves on their plan, pats on the back passed around like there will be no consequences, no backlash at all, and no one even asked how he felt. How either of them felt. Sid looks at Geno, mind closed and face thoughtful, and pushes a question at him.

what are you thinking?

Geno doesn’t send an answer back. “If end bond now, what happen? We be back for season, yes?” he says to the room, and Sid feels his heart stop. No one seems to know what to say, faces torn between confusion and shock. Mario is staring Geno straight down, furious. The tension is like thick, overwhelming humidity, dampening the room. Sid tastes tears in the corners of his mouth.

“Is best time, yes? Before bond done, easier to get over? If we do now, we only gone like three, four weeks, yes?”

No one speaks, moves, breathes. Geno’s locked down like the fucking Treasury, and Sid knows he won’t pick up on anything pushed his way. Sid sends why are you asking this? is this what you want? at him anyway, for his own peace of mind. He’s tearing up enough he can’t even look across the table and make out the guys’ faces. It’s almost a relief that he doesn’t have to see their pity.

“I think we should allow Sid and Geno time to discuss if this is the option they want to pursue moving forward,” Jim finally says, and everyone stands to follow him out. Sid drops his head to his hands, because he can’t believe this is happening, already. He’s been bonded for barely a week and his alpha is already tired of him. Something overwhelming and pervasive is taking hold, and Sid can’t fight back whatever part of himself that is screaming you’re not good enough.

Sid can still smell Mario, even though he doesn’t see him, and he shivers when Mario speaks, voice dripping with anger. “I realize this is all very new to you, but you should know better than propose breaking a bond in front of a group of people. Much less when Sid’s not even stabilized yet.”

Geno doesn’t reply to that, but there’s a strong enough scent of defensiveness and embarrassment that permeates the room that he doesn’t really need to. Sid glances over at him for a moment before dropping his eyes; something about seeing Geno like this, clenched jaw and balled fists, makes him feel even more sorry, as if this were his fault.

It feels like it is his fault.

“I’ll break it if you want,” Sid gets out, as soon as Mario closes the door behind him, and Geno drops his head to his hands, scrubbing his face.

“Thought you want this,” Geno says, “you not happy since first second we bond. You not even look at me. Smell sad all day, like miserable. Fuck, I want you be happy, Sid. You not happy like this.”

For once, Sid finds relief in being able to scent Geno, as well as be attuned to what’s going on inside his head. Geno may be a lot of things, temperamental and moody, but he’s not a liar, at least not in this. Geno seems to understand Sid’s going looking through his head, and pushes thoughts to the foreground that Sid hadn’t picked up before. Sid gets stuck on how can i make you feel okay and just want to protect you, and he knows it’s mostly biology feeding into that, but it’s like finding a life raft while lost at sea. It’s just enough to help him keep his head out of the water for a moment so he can try to take a breath.

“I don’t know,” Sid says, “I really don’t know.” He’s not in any state to be making serious emotional decisions right now. The bond fluctuates being feeling like subtle coercion at best and complete emotional manipulation at worst, and he can’t think clearly. He thinks i don’t want to do this without you, and that’s the most coherent thought he can pull together, to give Geno any semblance of an idea of what they should do going forward.

Geno takes a moment to think about this, watching him the entire time. He pushes his chair back, giving him room to kneel, and later, Sid will realize what that took for him, and what that meant, but right now, all he can focus on is Geno taking his hands, Geno looking up at him because he’s still having a hell of a time picking his head up to look at an alpha directly, Geno sending out his feelings along the bond.

i’ll stay with you. i’ll be with you. i’ll protect you. as long as you want me there.

That’s enough for Sid.

The bond specialists come to them, because management arranges it, and Sid’s fine with that; he doesn’t exactly want pics of him sitting in the OB-GYN’s waiting to pop up on Deadspin. Bill lets him know that there will be bond specialists coming a few days after their board meeting, and Sid just prays Geno doesn’t try to rip someone’s head off when they stop by.

He’s more than a little uncertain when they do come, because they’re immediately split up, taken to opposite ends of the house for initial examinations. Sid hesitates, feeling Geno’s own reluctance radiating off of him, but they are reassured this is normal procedure, and is due to the fact the examinations are completely different for each of them.

Sid’s specialist dives right in to asking questions, notepad propped on her leg as she goes through the list, and Sid answers honestly, because she’s a beta who can’t smell the turmoil he’s feeling inside anyway, and he doesn’t want to fudge answers and get the wrong information in return. He can just sense Geno, upstairs in the study, and is at least reassured that Geno is feeling neutral of all things. He’s not near enough to pick up on what Geno’s thinking about his own questions; he sees the logic in why they had split them up.

The specialist doesn’t shy away from the gritty details of heats, pregnancy, and how to control both. She has diagrams and charts, pictures Sid barely glances at before looking away. She reassures him that his birth control should work effectively enough that pregnancy is almost out of the question unless he’s actively trying, and he stares at the ground, wishing he were anywhere else, wishing he didn’t ever have to worry about this.

“Lets talk about how you’re feeling about the bond,” she says, changing the subject when she’s covered all the bases on omega mechanics, and he’d honestly rather stay on the subject of pregnancy than this. She goes through a list of questions he answers yes or no to, and flips her notepad shut after the last question, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose and giving him a forlorn smile.

“From your responses, it doesn’t seem like you’re feeling very secure in your bond. As you know, the first few months of a bond are particularly volatile, emotionally speaking, and the bond does require a great deal of emotional investment to settle. But it seems like you are having an exceptionally hard time feeling comfortable. I think it’s important for us to discuss what is making you feel negatively about this.”

He looks down at his hands, and back at her, not wanting to sound like a dick, but somehow incapable of stopping himself. “I was told I was a beta for 28 years, and now everyone keeps telling me I woke up one day suddenly an omega and I have to deal with that. I think anyone would feel pretty negative in those circumstances.”

She doesn’t even blink at that, and he has to give her credit where it’s due - she's probably seen some shit. “You were never a beta, and anyone who tries to tell you you changed into an omega overnight is greatly misinformed about how dynamics work. You’re going through a textbook case of paroxysmal bonding, almost to the letter. Everything you’re experiencing is completely normal, although I know it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

“I don’t understand what that means. I’ve never heard of that before,” Sid says, and she nods, as if she expected it.

“It’s incredibly rare. I think it’s about as common as 1 in every 500,000 bonds. So you’re looking at about 1 in a million people experiencing it. Basically, what it boils down to is someone like you, who presented without a dynamic for a period longer than expected, say after about 20 or so, has a sudden, intense bond with someone. It almost always coincides with their first recognized heat. The bonding is made more difficult by the intensity of the hormones present in the person. In your case, it seems brought on by the fact that you began bonding without realizing it, and were then separated from your mate without the bond securing itself. This created the intense heat and immediate completion of the bond when you were in proximity to each other after being reunited.”

He says “what?”, because it’s the only word he can manage at first. There’s so much going on in what she just said, too much to take in all at once, but he’s stuck on her statement that they started bonding months ago. “I don’t understand how we could have bonded without realizing it.”

She flips open her notebook and turns a page, eyes scanning the lines. “You said that the last time you saw each other before your bonding experience was at a worlds competition in May. You went on to say that after separating and remaining in different countries for the summer, you experienced symptoms such as anxiety, restlessness, cold sweats, detachment, and depression. These are common symptoms of an interrupted bond. Not that it’s my place to ask, but I think if you were to look back at your time together in May, there would be a defining moment that maybe stands out, some moment you felt particularly connected. I think that is the key to understanding the initial bonding.”

The thing is, Sid knows exactly what moment it is. He remembers lifting the cup over his head, feeling the absolute rush of adrenaline, and looking down ice, Geno standing there, watching him, almost the rest of his team turning to head back to the locker room. He remembers the look that Geno had given him, wounded and yet still proud. He somewhat remembers being drunk, tripping through the hotel, Geno’s room number written on his hand because he was having a hell of a time getting clumsy fingers to unlock his phone and read the text Geno had sent him. He remembers the sobering moment of seeing Geno’s face at the door, beckoning him in. Then they’d started drinking and things had gotten hazy again. He remembers Geno starting to cry, slurring words mostly in Russian, but he had somehow understood what he meant. Geno could not understand how a team of so much talent could so consistently fall short, and shouldered the blame. Sid had done an absolute shit job of trying to talk him down, but Geno had seemed to calm when Sid had laid Geno’s head in his lap and played with his hair until he had settled into like hiccuping sighs. Eventually, Geno had fallen asleep, and Sid had left then, and flew home the next morning with the rest of the team, without a word of goodbye to Geno.

No, wait, that wasn’t quite right.

He had laid Geno’s head in his lap, and stroked his hair until he had settled down. Geno had been looking up at him, and he had felt so overwhelmingly fond, it had come out. He had been twisting a strand of Geno’s hair between his fingers, looking at Geno’s sad, wet eyes, and he had said it. He’d looked right at him and said “I’m in love with you.”

He doesn’t really remember Geno’s response. There hadn’t been words involved. There might have been a nod of understanding. Geno had been asleep a minute later. Sid had taken that as a dodged bullet and left Geno without looking back, planning on spending the summer trying to forget it had happened.

And he’d done a pretty good job of that, actually.

“Oh, Jesus,” he says, and she gives him a sympathetic look of understanding.

“There’s no point in worrying about it now,” she brushes off, “just remember to keep pushing through. Your bond will stabilize with time, with touching, and with familiarity. Try to do things you enjoy together, it will help both of you feel secure.”

By the time Geno finishes up and comes downstairs, Sid’s already dug a hole in his head where he can hide this away from Geno. He feels Geno pushing at his mind, and brings forth the other things they talked about besides that, giving him enough to look through to distract him from digging deeper. There’s a pervasive, nagging guilt that starts growing and growing in Sid’s head, that they fucking bonded because of his stupid, drunken need to spill his heart out to an already emotionally wounded Geno, and it fucks with his mind.

Sid thinks of it often over the coming days, as he and Geno try to adjust. Sid is more than aware that Geno misses his house, and is less than pleased they won’t be able to return to stay in it for months, until their bonding is completely finished. When quarantine had broken, Geno had had to go pick up the things he needed from his place, and Sid had laid on their bed with a scent-drenched shirt Geno had worn pressed to his face, anxious if Geno were going to come back ever again until he had heard the garage door open downstairs. While Geno had showered later on, Sid had dumped out his bags on their bed, feeling guilty as he rubbed everything down into the sheets until it all smelled of their co-scent. Geno hadn’t said a word about any of it, but Sid had been able to sense how strange he found it all. Geno doesn’t seem to dwell on what ifs, but Sid can’t stop thinking about how much more comfortable Geno would be at home, in his own domain, if Sid hadn’t brought about this fucking bond.

There are moments of calm, interspersed between the usual up-and-down of settling into the bond. Sid wakes in a panic on day 13, knowing Geno’s gone. The bed is empty beside him, apparently not slept in for the better part of the night, and Sid flails out of the sheets, headed for the door. Geno’s scent isn’t too distant, a relief in itself, and Sid finds him in the guest room, looking restless in his sleep. Geno stirs, and Sid feels a wave of uncertainty off him that he realizes is a response to his own anxiety - he’s about to break down, and Geno’s on the immediate offensive, looking for the source.

why did you leave me? Sid thinks, and flinches at how pathetic he feels. Geno begins apologizing, acknowledging he should have told him he was going to sleep in a different room, but it doesn’t explain to Sid why he wanted to sleep without him.

do you not like sleeping with me? Sid thinks, and Geno’s immediately denying that.

Sid doesn’t follow what Geno’s thinking at him. Sid knows he’s working on how to say why he left, but Geno’s eyes keep pulling back to him, to his body, staring at his hips, his chest. There’s a hint of something coming off of Geno, and it takes Sid a moment to realize it’s want. Sid goes down into Geno’s thoughts and finds Geno thinking about watching him sleep, about how he had been so beautiful, moonlight across his skin, and how Geno had wanted to wake him up and-

“No,” comes out of Sid's mouth before he even really comprehends how he’s feeling about this, and Geno recoils at the rejection, like a slap across his face. i can’t do this, i can’t right now, Sid pushes at him, wanting him to understand without explaining why, and Geno finally gets irritated, a mix of tired and spurned.

“Why you think I sleep alone? I know you don’t want me,” Geno snaps, turning over in bed, away from Sid. Sid feels helpless, torn between needing to be reassured he isn't making this worse but wanting to keep his distance, and Geno’s scent goes weary.

just go back to bed, Sid, you’re fine.

It doesn’t feel fine.

If home is bad, getting back to practice is awful. Sid’s still getting used to being able to scent the feelings of every alpha and omega he’s in the room with, and the locker room is like a fucking onslaught of emotion. He has to build up his tolerance, getting ready in a room down the hall when the atmosphere's too much, and though the team is really trying to be great about this, Sid feels like he’s the biggest fucking distraction.

Geno tries to reassure him, but it’s half-hearted. Sid knows he’s stopped trying to reach out because Sid’s been shutting him down at every turn, and while Sid thought that would make things better for some reason, like he’d feel less guilty if Geno didn’t have to spend the energy to constantly pull him out of the dark pit of his misery, it doesn’t. Sid’s got walls up in his head so much Geno just stops trying to help coax him out of his brain, and it feels like they’re glorified roommates who happen to share a bed.

A month into the season, Sid doesn’t remember the last time he and Geno touched. The only time he can think of is their handshake, and it doesn’t even count; without the direct skin-to-skin contact he so desperately needs, it's pointless to even count it as a touch.

It’s so obvious, what's going on. Sid’s struggling so hard on the ice, just an absolute inability to get anything to stick, nothing on 5-on-5 or the PP. The media, for their part, hasn’t dared ask him outright how this is affecting him, but there’s a real lack of subtlety in some of their questions. Someone asks if he thinks Geno’s play is influencing his own, and he gives back a flat “not at all.” It’s a goddamn lie, and at least two alphas and an omega in the scrum can tell he’s lying.

Sid problems is that he feels like he’s living in Geno’s head on the ice. He’s still shit at blocking Geno out, and he keeps picking up Geno’s perspective through his eyes, even when Geno’s not out there on the ice with him. He can’t spend the energy to block Geno out during the game, not when he’s trying to concentrate on how to get around a defender, how to set up Pascal for a shot. He’s getting too much unnecessary feedback, or worse, completely unrelated information, Geno discussing with his line mates what their next play should be while Sid’s trying to get to the goal.

Sid doesn’t know why anyone would believe the myth that having bond mates on your team would be an advantage.

By mid-November, the speculation is running rampant. Sid’s heard there are rumors he’s set to retire, to stay home and allow Geno to take the C. Headlines are churning out drivel, debating if he’s washed up because he’s getting old, or because he’s bonded now. Geno seems to be his regular self, still averaging a PPG, and it just seems natural the story writes itself, that the alpha is taking the lead, and the omega is settling into the background. Geno catches him reading an article on his phone while they’re waiting to fly out to the west coast, and tells him to ignore that shit, but that’s the extent of the conversation they have about all of this. Sid doesn’t remember the last time they openly spoke to each other about anything besides dinner plans and who's folding the towels from the laundry.

At some point, it kind of feels like he’s barely existing.

Sid’s not sure how much longer he can stand living like this. It seems like it would be better for everyone if he just toughed it up and broke the bond, and he regrets not taking Geno up on the offer months ago. The very idea kills him to think about, so much he has to wait until Geno goes to sleep so he can sit in the bathroom alone and cry over it, turning the thoughts in on himself so that Geno won’t wake up worried. Geno knows something is bothering him, more than usual, but doesn’t try to pry after Sid rebuffs him, making excuses about being tired and worrying about the game. He decides on Thanksgiving break, when they’ll have a few days off to discuss everything they’ll need to do to ensure they can both recover. It’s still almost two weeks away, and Sid absolutely doesn’t know how he’s going to hold it together until then.

Tanger asks him to lunch in mid-November, and Geno barely has a response of emotion when Sid lets him know Tanger will drive him home, as if another alpha taking his omega out is irrelevant to him. Tanger smells like chilis and chocolate when they get in the car, and Sid rolls the window down to get away from it. There’s something overwhelmingly familiar about that scent, and they’re driving for at least ten minutes before Sid remembers why.

“You were there,” Sid says, and Tanger looks over at him before looking back to the road. Tanger understands instantly what he means, and nods, mouth turning down. “You’ve never said anything,” Sid adds, and Tanger shrugs.

“It’s obvious you weren’t ready to talk about it,” Tanger explains, but there’s something off about this all. "Besides, it's not exactly a happy memory for most of us."

“You were angry. I remember smelling you, like dark chocolate, but it hurt to scent. Like, it burned.”

"Bonding like that, it's not good for anyone. I wanted to try to stop it so you guys had a choice in it, I guess. Geno was really hard to hold back, is all. There were a lot of emotions."

Tanger flips his turn signal, and Sid looks around, just noticing they’re in the middle of nowhere. “You’re angry now, too. What’s going on, Kris?”

Tanger turns off into a dirt parking lot before a trail sign. Sid looks over at him, confused, and Tanger motions to the door. When Sid hesitates, Tanger’s scent goes dark. “Get out of the car, Sidney.”

Sid follows, and Tanger leads them down one of the paths that veers off from the parking lot. They walk a few minutes, until Tanger’s scent doesn’t feel like it’s going to reach out and suffocate him, and Tanger stops them at a lookout spot. Sid can see the city, and Tanger waits until they’re both a little calmer before he speaks.

“You’re probably wondering why I brought you here,” Tanger muses, and Sid gives him an obvious look that Tanger counters with a little smirk. “Hey, I figured if you say something real dumb and I kill you, I can just hide the body right here.”

Sid doesn’t find it nearly as amusing as Tanger does.

“You’re being really stupid,” Tanger says abruptly, serious again. “Like, really, really dumb.”

Tanger’s pretty well known for his bold statements, but this is a lot for even him.

“You brought me out here to tell me I’m stupid?” Sid asks, just to clarify intentions, and Tanger rolls his eyes.

“You’re being stupid. I brought you out here because everywhere you go with a bunch of people freaks you out, but every time you go to one of our houses you get all feelsy and shit because you're scenting everything. I thought you needed a moment of clarity, and I figured away from everything else was better. Look, I put a lot of work into planning this, okay?”

“Right,” Sid says. “So, was that it? Or was there something else you wanted to say?”

“Sid, do you know why people bond?” Tanger asks, and Sid’s still not sure if Tanger’s fucking around or not.

“Well, it’s a chemical reaction. Hormones, pheromones. All of that.”

Tanger bites at his cheek, as if weighing his next words. “When else does that happen?”

“I don’t know?” Sid says, uncertain. He wishes Tanger would just say what he wants to say, instead of all the questions, and Tanger must get a whiff of frustration off him.

“When they fall in love, Sid,” Tanger starts, and Sid turns away, walking a circle before turning to look back at Tanger. Tanger’s so mellow, he’s almost melancholy, and Sid’s afraid of what Tanger will say next.

“We all knew, Sid,” Tanger says, and Sid can’t look him in the face. He’s constructed this world view that loving Geno was his deep, dark secret, something that he needed to conceal, because it would make things awkward, or ruin the team dynamic. In a strange way, Sid was sure even if Geno found out, it’d be okay, because Geno’s a good guy, and he’d take it in stride. But keeping it hidden meant he didn’t have to admit it to himself, of all people, and that was how he kept himself safe.

“Okay, so, great, it makes sense then. We bonded because I loved Geno. I don’t understand how I’m being stupid.”

Tanger laughs, and Sid doesn’t understand where this is all coming from. “You didn’t bond because you were in love with him. You bonded because you were in love with each other. Sid, I know you never went to a dynamics class but this is like the basic shit. People bond because they’re in love. Or, sometimes, because they’re falling in love, I guess. But the start has to be there.”

“What?” Sid says, honestly feeling kind of stupid at the moment, and Tanger laughs again.

“I think I kind of figured it out a few weeks ago. Geno- look, don’t be angry, he asked me what I thought. Because, you know, Cath and I took a long time to bond, like years. He asked me if I had to like, I don’t know, like make a choice to love her? Because Alex was already here and everything. And I said no, that honestly I didn’t really love her at the beginning, even though she loved me for a long time. And we didn’t bond until I did. But the second I felt it, it happened. Sid, people only bond when they both love each other. But you didn't think he loved you, right?”

Sid can’t even think about Tanger’s saying. “I need to go home now. Kris, I need you to take me home.”

Tanger’s so relieved all the way back to his house, smelling like champagne and sweet chocolate. Sid bounces his leg the entire ride, holding on to the door handle to stay stable, and turns to Tanger when he pulls up to the gate, one last thing he wants to ask.

“Did everyone know Geno loved me, too?” he asks, and Tanger gives him an obvious look.

“Oh, everyone. Though we all figured because of the alpha-beta thing it wasn’t going to work, so there was no point discuss. It was very tragic, really. Hopeless love and all. Like a soap opera,” Tanger says, and Sid slams the car door to his laughing.

Sid takes the front steps two at a time, throwing open the front door and scenting the air, trying to find Geno. He’s in the kitchen, feet propped up on the breakfast nook bench, apparently just finished with lunch. There’s this calmness about Geno that Sid hasn’t felt in a long time, and Geno looks at him evenly, like he didn’t just come rushing in.

“Lunch was good?” Geno asks, and Sid’s almost speechless.

“I didn’t go to lunch,” he replies, and Geno raises an eyebrow. There’s a bit of confusion there, a question wanting to be answered, and Sid realizes Geno wasn’t aware of what was going to happen, even if he did have an idea Tanger might bring up their conversation. 

“You love me,” Sid cuts right to the chase. “You’ve been in love with me.”

Geno looks around the room, like he’s not sure if he’s hearing correctly. “Yes. I’m think for a long time you know and never say anything because you think you beta. Then last month I’m think, he not know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?” Sid asks, exasperated, and Geno’s face falls.

"Then, you barely look at me. Almost like you hate me. I think if I tell you, you think I say it to lie. Try make you feel better by pretend,” Geno answers, and, honestly, that’s exactly what he would have thought.

“I thought I forced you into this. I thought we bonded because I was so in love with you for so long, that you got dragged along for the ride. Did you know I felt that? I couldn't look at you because I felt like I ruined your life.”

Geno looks pensive for a moment. no, not really. I thought you just hated every part of being bonded, he thinks. I thought you resented me for that. You were so closed off I didn’t know anything, just that you were so unhappy.

“I was going to ask you to consider breaking the bond,” Sid admits, and Geno’s scent goes hurt. “I thought that was the only way I could protect you.”

“Sid, come over here,” Geno asks, gently, and even though Sid would rather maintain the distance between them until he understands what’s going on a little better, because that’s his coping mechanism, he goes, because his alpha is asking him to, and he can’t say no to that.

Geno’s hand is reaching for him, palm up, and Sid just hesitates before sliding their fingers together. The straight shock of endorphins is enough to make him feel breathless for a moment, and when he looks at Geno, Geno’s mouth is parted, pupils blown wide. Geno’s fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging once, and he falls into him like a wave crashing upon the shore. It's enough to make Sid regret avoiding Geno for this long.

“What do you want, Sid?” Geno asks, tucking his chin over the crown of Sid’s head, and Sid picks at his nails, knowing he’s giving off a strong sense of uncertainty that he could never mask.

“I want to be good for you, in a way that makes you happy,” Sid says, and Geno’s doing a really great job of keeping his emotions in check so he doesn’t bleed through, but Sid still picks up a hint of irritation that’s just strong enough to make him uneasy.

“Explain good,” Geno pushes, and Sid drops his hands in his lap.

“I don’t know. Not make you worry. Not make you upset all the time.”

“Stop,” Geno interrupts. you keep saying how you want to act a certain way to make me happy, but i want to know what will make you happy, he thinks.

“If you were listening, I just said I want to be good for you,” Sid snaps, but Geno doesn’t get defensive at that.

“Good is all change yourself? Not care about own feelings, just mine?” Geno asks, and Sid doesn’t know what the answer to that is. “No good for me if you unhappy.”

when have i asked you to change, when have i been unhappy with you for being you? Geno asks, and Sid doesn’t know if he ever has, not since they bonded.

Sid slides off Geno’s lap and paces around the table, feeling overwhelmed at the thought. Geno is the very virtue of understanding at the moment, arms crossed low on his waist as he watches Sid walk the room, not even the slightest hint of impatience or annoyance, and Sid turns to look at him, thoughts twisting in his head.

“What if I said I didn’t want to act like an omega?” Sid asks, trying to make a point, and Geno shrugs.

“Not big deal. Every omega different. Not one way to be omega.”

On some level, Sid’s aware his own education about omegas is founded largely in stereotypes, but he knows there are tendencies, ideas that omegas should live in deference, and he’s not really comfortable with that idea. He wants it to be like before he was bonded, when he had to work to understand someone without being able to scent every emotion, to know every word they were thinking that they weren’t actively working on keeping to themselves. He wants to play hockey, just get through a day sometimes without Geno constantly being in his head.

“Okay, yes, that part difficult, can’t change though,” Geno agrees, obviously following along in his head, and Sid frowns.

“Case in point,” Sid says, pent-up.

“Reality,” Geno responds, unaffected. “You know how close off mind. Don’t be mad at me you don’t do it.”

Sid slams his mind shut and Geno smiles up at him in what must be fondness.

“I just want it to be like it was before,” Sid starts after he’s collected his thoughts to himself. “I know, you’re going to say it’s can’t be like that, and I understand I can’t go back. But I guess, I don’t know, I want to do things not because some fucking, like, chemicals in my brain are telling me to do them. I want to touch you because I want to, not because I haven’t touched you for an month and I feel like I’m going to die. Does that make sense?”

i have a few thoughts, Geno thinks, and Sid nods to give him the floor. i understand what you’re saying, that you feel compelled to bond in a way that seems out of your control. of course, dynamics intensifies these feelings, but even betas that feel attraction and love are responding to pheromones and hormones, not unlike us. but you want more control, i feel is what you’re saying. i think that just has to get better with time. you’re never compelled to do things you don’t want. i want you to know i will never ask you to do things you don’t want to do.

“But the issue is when you ask me to do anything, I can’t say no,” Sid says. “Even to the smallest thing.”

“So I don’t ask you things,” Geno suggests, and watches his face change. “Or not?”

“I mean, it’s just that-” Sid starts, feeling his cheeks go hot. “I like doing what you ask. Sometimes.”

Sid can’t stand Geno’s fucking smug little face sometimes. Geno’s absolutely beaming at him, and Sid gives him a pointed look. “Geno, seriously.”

“Okay, yes, serious,” Geno says, eyebrows pulling down into a frown. “Very serious. So I’m very careful what I ask, okay? I’m not ask all the time, just sometimes. You get used to it, feel like it’s okay to like it. It’s natural.”

Sid supposes that’s not necessarily wrong, that his natural tendency will be to feel pleased when doing something for Geno, but it’s going to take a major adjustment. Deep down inside, he wants to know he’s doing things to make Geno pleased, but he wants to do that out of his own free will. He knows it’s a contradiction and a half, but he’s at least glad Geno is being sensitive to how precariously he’s balancing on the wire about what he wants.

“What else?” Geno asks, and Sid needs a moment to think.

“I just want to know that, I don’t know. I’m not making your life worse. I guess it goes with making you happy. That you’re here because you want to be.”

“Okay,” Geno says, with a smile. “I try remember tell you.”

“If you would- tell me what you want,” Sid asks, and Geno really looks thoughtful now, no longer playing.

“I’m want you be happy, no more,” he says immediately, and Sid doesn’t quite believe that’s it.

“Okay, but what else? There has to be more,” Sid says, and Geno remains unchanged.

“If you happy, I’m happy,” Geno reiterates, and Sid feels more frustrated than anything.

“You haven’t always been happy when I needed space, like when I didn’t want to be touched. That’s what I wanted and you can’t say you were happy about it,” Sid points out, and Geno takes a breath.

“Not wrong. But you wanting this and being happy doing this not same thing. I’m sad because I’m feel you not want me. Hard to feel, you know? Harder because you so sad, I feel you sad all the time, make me feel like I’m bad alpha, feel like I’m fail you. Start of bond always hard, for everyone. Just bad everything. Now it’s better, I feel happy when you do things you want.”

“So I can do whatever I want, and that’s fine? What if staying away from you made me happy?” There’s a streak of pettiness in that he immediately regrets, but he wants Geno to take him seriously here, and he knows he’s got Geno’s attention with that question. Geno’s deadly calm, sliding out of the chair and coming to loom over him. Sid’s got his chin up, but it’s hard to look at Geno like this, not when Geno is watching him like he could devour him.

“I know you. I know when you sad, when you happy. If you not want me, I’m feel it. But I see you watch me, I know what you want. Don’t forget. I’m your alpha and my job is make you happy and safe. I’m happy when you safe and feel like you loved. Nothing better. But I have feelings, and not nice to play with them. I hope you know this. I want peaceful house, and bond who helps me make dreams happen. I’m simple guy, Sid, don’t need much to be happy. Just know you love me, and that I love you, and we work on rest.”

Sid drops his gaze, feeling admonished, but Geno places one finger under his chin, bringing it back up. Sid can’t breathe when Geno’s looking at him like this, and he’s forgotten he still has walls up in his head when he thinks god, please kiss me. Still, Geno’s nose flares a little at the sudden scent of want, and he leans forward, mouth brushing against Sid’s cheek, lifting off just before their mouths meet, making Sid shiver. Geno’s breath is warm and damp on his skin, and Sid’s getting lost in the scent Geno’s giving off, until his knees are weak with it.

i’ll always be here for you, with whatever you want, Geno pushes at him, and leaves him standing there to think about that.

 It starts so slowly.

Geno is so god damn affectionate in ways Sid never even thought to expect. Geno’s never been one of those guys in the room that hangs off of other people at every opportunity, who plays grab-ass or slings an arm around someone while they’re watching tape. He’s got his moments, mostly playful, where he pushes someone around a little, here and there, but Sid really didn’t know what he was getting into.

Geno’s hand seems to finds his across the center console, fingers laced tight, wherever they drive. In the kitchen, brushing past each other as they get lunch ready, Geno’s hand settles on his lower back as he reaches around him for an onion, gone as quickly as it appeared. When he’s sorting out the laundry in the washer, head bent low, Geno traces the bond mark on the back of his neck with his fingertips, before handing off another towel he found to be added.

Sid knows exactly why he’s doing it, because he gets the same jolt of sensation every time Geno puts his hands on him - it’s something possessive, something content, comfortable in finally being able to rejoice in the bond. Geno’s hands cup his face when they wake up in the morning, his fingers draw lines down his arms mindlessly when they’re watching TV on the couch together, Geno’s hands can’t stay off him for a second.

It takes Sid a few weeks to realize he’s been encouraging it himself. That, maybe, when Geno stops rubbing circles on his back when he gets lost in the show they’re watching, he wiggles against him just enough to remind Geno he’s there, until Geno gets back to it. Or maybe he inches his feet closer and closer to Geno’s under the table until they bump and Geno crosses their ankles together. Sid knows he’s sleeping better because Geno’s right there with him every night, arm thrown over his waist.

Sid’s washing off the egg pan from breakfast when Geno reaches an around an arm around him to drop in his plate and fork. Sid sends a thought at him jokingly, of course you’re gonna make me do your dishes, and Geno pinches his side in return, making him squirm and giggle. Geno stays there, not quite touching him, and Sid’s breath catches in his throat waiting, feeling Geno all around him. Geno’s fingers come up to trace the raised bond mark, warm and rough, and Sid’s head stays bent to allow him access, eyes fluttering closed.

are you proud of it? sid pushes, honestly curious, and gets back an instant wave of joy.

Geno doesn’t send out thoughts as much as feelings, a tinge of regretfulness at leaving as big of a scar as he did, but the overwhelming happiness of what it means every time he sees it. That no one would ever be able to look at Sid and not know he belonged to someone who was honored enough to be bonded with him.

Sid’s watching the water run and trying to digest that all when he feels Geno’s mouth settle over the scar, gentling it. It’s such a juxtaposition to last time Geno had his mouth on him, an apology and a promise, to be good to him, and Sid feels like his whole world begins and ends on the very spot they’re occupying, and that everything else has fallen away to unimportance.

“Geno,” he says, more like a question, asking where this is going, and Geno presses the length of his body against the back of Sid, covering him from bottom to top, overwhelming every last one of his senses. He can smell Geno, can feel him, groans at the sound of Geno’s breath panting in his ear as Geno leans down to press his mouth to the spot behind it, tongue making slow circles against his skin. Sid grinds back into him, Geno’s hands finding their way to his hips to keep him close and buck up against him, and Sid gets one last coherent thought of take me to bed before everything kind of gets fuzzy.

“I don’t know what- tell me what I’m supposed to do,” Sid says as Geno gets him upstairs and undressed, coaxing him to raise his hips so he can drag his sweats down his legs. Sid can feel he’s already dripping, but before he even gets the chance to be embarrassed over it, Geno’s pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh, nose brushing up just below where the slick is.

Geno speaking makes everything so much more intense, voice low and husky when he reassures “smell so fucking good for me, Sid,” and Sid’s not sure he’s going to make it through this without his heart stopping.

Geno sits back on his knees, pulling his shirt over his head, and there’s something powerful about the way his body moves. Sid so hard he’s throbbing just looking at him, and Geno surveys the sight before him, scent of satisfaction and approval rolling off him in waves. Geno places one hand on Sid’s thigh, and tilts his head, as if thinking.

“Spread your legs for me,” Geno says, and Sid whines, shifting them just open and looking for Geno’s approval out of the corner of his eye. Geno hums, walking on his knees forward, but stops with enough distance they aren’t quite touching.

“Need more, Sid. If you want me, need to spread bigger,” Geno says, reassuring him with positive encouragement when he spreads himself open inch by inch, until his thighs feel tightly drawn. Geno coos at him, thinking you doing so good, listen so good for me, and Sid feels a pleased flush spread all the way down to his chest. Geno presses himself down between his legs, and Sid holds his breath, waiting, when Geno takes his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before placing it flat along the inside of his thigh.

“Feel yourself,” Geno urges, and Sid doesn’t move, unsure of what Geno’s asking. Geno reassures him, looking at the slick collecting between his cheeks, and Sid whines when he slides two fingers through it, meeting no resistance. It’s a truly unbelievable sensation, nothing he’s ever experienced before, and Sid can see himself doing it through Geno’s eyes, Geno’s body thrumming with pride and want. It’s one thing feeling he’s this slick, but what guts him the most is that he’s this wet solely because he wants Geno that bad, not because he’s got a heat running through him, urging him on.

“Is good thing. Your body get ready for me. Best welcome. Best feeling,” Geno says, and Sid almost comes when Geno pulls his fingers away from his ass, drawing them into his mouth and sucking off the slick, appreciating Sid’s taste with such enthusiasm his dick twitches dangerously, begging for release. Geno rises up over him, pressing their mouths together, and Sid’s so grateful that Geno doesn’t stop kissing him for a long time, letting him enjoy the experience for itself. Geno kisses him and kisses him until Sid’s squirming under him, hands raking down his back, across his chest, needing more, and Geno presses his cock against the inside of Sid’s thighs, asking for entrance.

Sid opens his legs just a little bit more, giving him a silent welcome, and Geno sinks right in, like their bodies were made to be an exact fit, a perfect match. Sid reckons there’s some truth to that.

It takes a long time for Sid to recover. Geno tries twice to get up, wanting food, and Sid clings to him, not ready to leave the sanctity of their bed and break the spell he feels he’s under. Here, it feels like time has stopped, that everything has ceased to matter in the world that isn’t in this sacred space of theirs, and Geno laughs, air blowing over Sid’s cheek.

“Start thinking like that, we never leave bed.”

It’s a tempting thought.

Eventually, Geno convinces him there is a life outside of their bed, but in the coming days, Sid feels like he’s a teenager again, calculating how much time they have before they need to leave for practice, urging Geno to come to him in the morning, in the afternoon, almost addicted to the things Geno makes him feel, how Geno can bring him out of himself with his hands and mouth and words.

That lasts for a few days, the constant longing and daydreaming, just waiting until he can get off the ice and get off on Geno, at least until Tanger tells him every alpha and omega within a mile radius can smell how slutty he’s feeling, and he dials it down a bit after that.

In early December, he at least waits until Tanger’s gone to start playing mind sex with Geno across the room as they get dressed after practice, but Mario steps in the room, looking for him. Sid blanks his mind as fast as possible, trying to dampen his scent, but can tell Mario still gets the tail end of it. Mario tries to ignore it, but Sid almost laughs at the slight hint of how weirded out Mario is that he walked into that, as if thinking about one of his own kid’s mating practices. Geno watches them leave the room together, and Sid feels relief wash over him that Geno’s settled enough to not view it as a territorial dispute.

Away from the room, Mario’s scent is a little tense, and Sid’s still not sure how that makes him feel, how they’re relationship is changing now that he can scent at Mario’s moods. Mario looks at him, knowing he’s going to ask what’s happening, and takes a deep breath, popping the knuckles on one hand like he always has when keyed up, a sign Sid can read even without needing to smell him.

“Johnston’s on his way out,” Mario says, and though it’s not surprising, not really, Sid still has the punch in the gut reaction. It’s never easy, firing a coach, no matter how badly it’s needed. This isn’t his first or second time with this, but it feels different now, maybe because it’s in the middle of the season, maybe because of everything that’s happened already up until now. Sid’s been called a coach killer before, and he’s sure this one won’t go down without the same headlines speculating.

He wants to start dwelling on how this is his fault, but he remembers what Taylor had said back in summer, on the dock, about how the team has to be better, not him. Johnston isn’t out because Sid hasn’t been putting up points, he’s out because the team has been losing stupid games, because no one’s cohesive on the ice at all. Everything’s bad, top to bottom, and for the first time all season, Sid chooses to not blame himself for what’s happened.

Mario watches his emotions changing with a lot of interest and a bit of amusement, and Sid asks “who’s filling in? Sullivan?” to move the conversation right along.

“Sullivan is getting the nod, for good. He’s done some good work in Wilkes-Barre. We think he can turn this season around.”

Mario’s confidence in this fills the room, putting Sid at ease. Meeting with Sullivan himself when he comes in two days later kind of seals the deal, even though Sid can scent him a mile away. Sully’s this room-filling type of alpha, a presence known well before he’s physically arrived, but Sid doesn’t find it nearly as intimidating as he would have thought it would make him feel. Sully absolutely drips in security, in optimism, and Sid feeds into it immediately.

“I think you’ve been micro-managed,” Sully says to him, when the team has their first practice together, “and I want to talk about how we’re going to work on that.”

Sid’s expects him to bark out orders, tell him where’s been screwing up so far, but he realizes Sully’s waiting for him to start the discussion with his own ideas, and he stumbles over his words. “I think- that is, a lot of our set plays up until now I feel utilized my line in ways that don’t reflect our styles.”

“Here’s what we’re gonna do then,” Sully says, “you’re going to talk with your line right now about a play you do think works for you, and then I want you to run it and see how it goes. That’ll give me an idea of how you guys feel comfortable playing.”

Everything doesn’t fix itself overnight, but it does build slowly, more points on his score sheets, more Ws than Ls on the board they keep running in their locker rooms. It feels like the hockey they’re supposed to be playing, and Sully reminds them every day this is their game, and to constantly chase the way they want to play it. It seems like such common sense, but Sid can’t help but feel like his appreciation for the game has been completely reborn.

Geno’s excitement comes off him in waves, strong enough to drown out the music that Dumo’s got blasting in the room. Sid opens his mind and lets it course through him as he gets ready, feeling the arena come alive around him; he gets hints of Tanger and Sully and Stewie’s own fears and worries and excitement, but Geno’s is overwhelming, something he can cocoon himself in. Geno’s few superstitions are all in order, and he’s sure they’ll win tonight, because they won away from home last time. Sid wouldn’t dare openly agree with that, but the intensity of Geno’s emotions are enough to make him almost believe it.

When he holds the Cup over his head, it’s the most overwhelming thing he’s ever done. There’s a thousand different emotions around him that he senses, Thornton’s disgusted misery as they shook hands, the elation of a fan banging on the glass as the Cup is brought out, Mario and Tanger and Dana’s joy exploding like fireworks in his mind, so his navigates through the cloud of it all, seeking solace in Geno’s head as he skates around for his victory lap. proud Geno thinks to him fondly, and he pushes back i hope you mean about yourself. A hint of a denial blooms before it turns into i mean philsy and Sid laughs, because that’s what Geno wants from him right now.

Much later, Geno is closed off. Sid sits on the edge of the bed in their hotel room, finally washed clean of sweat and beer, and watches Geno watching the Cup, softly reflecting the low light of the bedside lamp from atop the room’s desk across the room. Geno’s leaned back in his chair, ankle rested up on the other knee, face cupped in hand. Sid watches him just to be able to remember this moment forever, of Geno looking lean but soft, dressed only in a pair of pajama bottoms that allows Sid to appreciate how the long season and the journey they undertook has changed his body.

Geno opens his mind slowly, and Sid starts picking up emotions floating between them like music filling the room. Geno’s apparently too tired for coherent thought, and Sid appreciates his feelings alone, content, victorious, grateful, overwhelmed. Sid realizes he’s never asked how his own line of thought sounds to Geno, and Geno grows fond and humored, obviously listening in on him in turn.

“Like swimming,” Geno says, completely endeared, “like, you know, in water, you hear other things, but they far away. You just hear sound of water around you. When I hear you, everything else far away. I’m hear it, too, but I feel-”

submerged in you

“How eloquent,” Sid muses, feeling secretly pleased. It’s not exactly a secret Geno’s happiest when he’s in the water, and Sid accepts his explanation as the compliment that it is, that he finds Sid reminds him of the things he most enjoys in life.

Speaking of the water has got Geno thinking of Miami, and Sid watches Geno’s daydream like a movie, images of himself on the beach in Geno’s imagination, growing tan under the noon sun. Geno’s mind strays, thinking of his tan skin in stark contrast to white sheets, balcony doors open to the wind and rain of a mid-summer storm, the smell of earth and skin mixing together. Sid feels a hint of interest at this train of thought, but Geno comes out of it with a shake of his head and a smile.

“Too tired for sex, Sid. Need to sleep for three days first.”

Sid wakes up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and can hear Geno dreaming inside his head. He’s found listening in on dreams to be a complex and trippy experience, but Geno’s mind is pretty coherent for now. Sid slides back into bed and places a hand to Geno’s skin, tapping in to his subconscious. Geno is dreaming about them holding them cup together, what seems like a cup day maybe, standing before their friends and family. In a sudden moment, Sid’s breath is almost knocked out of him when he realizes this is what he was waiting for, and Geno murmurs in his sleep, reaching out and pulling him in close. Sid doesn’t sleep for a long time, tracing Geno’s face with his fingertips, knowing everything he’s got now is better than any dream he could ever have.