Chapter Text
Sid has been in love with Geno for ten years.
He accepted this fact a long time ago, and he’s made his peace with it.
Geno doesn’t feel the same way, and that’s okay. Sid doesn’t need him to, most of the time. He’s okay keeping his secret, holding it close to his heart. It’s only sometimes, when his house feels especially empty and cold, or his bed especially large, that he wishes—quietly, so quietly even he can barely hear it—that Geno liked men, that Geno liked him, that he had someone to hold. To hold him.
Then he shakes it off and puts on his captain face and focuses on what matters. Hockey. The Penguins. The Cup. Everything else is a distant second.
They win a Cup. And then they win another one. Sid allows himself the brief loss of self-control of pressing his face into Geno’s throat as they hug afterward, telling himself he’s drunk and so is Geno and it doesn’t mean anything.
He’s there for Geno after Sochi, sitting quietly beside him and letting him cry, one hand steady on Geno’s back.
He’s there when Anna leaves Geno, getting him thoroughly drunk. Geno talks in a mixture of slurred English and incomprehensible Russian as Sid listens and pours more vodka.
He’s there the next morning when Geno wakes up with a violent hangover, ready with Gatorade and Tylenol and greasy food.
“Just this once,” he tells him when Geno protests, and Geno sits at Sid’s counter and eats bacon and flapjacks and eggs fried in butter, until the tightness around his eyes has eased and his smile almost appears once or twice.
He watches Geno pick up a pretty girl at the bar after a win months later, watches Geno laugh at her jokes and tell his own, long arms waving to emphasize the punchline.
He’s ready for it when Geno leaves with her, face schooled when Geno scans the room until he finds Sid, and lifts his beer in silent encouragement when their eyes meet.
Geno smiles and leaves, hand on the small of the girl’s back, and Sid turns his attention to getting well and truly drunk.
Sid will never have Geno, and he has to be okay with that, because it’s not going to change. He already has so much, and he chides himself for wanting more, being greedy.
He’s never understood the locker room talk of sexual conquests, boasting about the women in their beds, the not-so-subtle competitions for the attention of the prettiest woman in a room. Sid lets them talk, keeps his mouth shut and stays out of it unless someone says something degrading. Then he steps in, shuts it down hard, leaves them chastened and silent.
Sid doesn’t date. He’s never gotten the point, why the guys enjoy it, what there is to be gained in the relentless pursuit. If and when he needs to get off, he has a perfectly good right hand. He doesn’t think about anyone when he’s doing it, either—it’s simply a quick and easy stress relief fix for him. Which is why he’s more than a little flummoxed the first time he fantasizes about Geno while jacking off.
It takes him a while to be able to look Geno in the eye after that, convinced Geno will read the guilt on him. It takes him even longer to touch himself again, but eventually the stress is too much, exhaustion and frustration and all the million tiny things that chafe his nerves driving him to wrap a hand around his length just long enough to bring himself off.
He won’t think about Geno this time, he tells himself, and that was exactly the wrong way to go, because now he can’t think about anything but, Geno’s big hands and lush mouth and long legs, Geno looking at him, Geno worshiping Sid’s body, and Sid is arching and coming on a muffled whimper before he knows it.
So that’s a thing.
Sid does his best to roll with it. It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. Doesn’t have to mean anything. He’s not going to act on it, after all. And if it helps to think about discovering and exploring Geno’s body during his rare moments of downtime, well… he keeps it to himself, makes extra sure he doesn’t look at Geno in the locker room, and puts it to the back of his mind as best he can.
They’re not having a good season so far. A string of losses in a row, some of them brutal. A trade that shocked everyone, even those who knew it had been considered. Sid set aside some extra time for Horny, who took it even harder than the others.
Sid is kept out of play for a week with an upper body injury, forced to watch the team lose and lose again, grinding his teeth with frustration until he’s finally allowed back on the ice.
“There’s plenty of time,” he tells the rookies. “So much more of the season still to come. What matters is that you do your best.”
He notices, of course he does, that Geno is sticking closer to him than usual. Sits beside him when they go out, one long arm slung along the back of Sid’s chair as he talks to their teammates. Ends up across the aisle from him on the plane more often than not, even if they don’t speak. The silence is comforting, somehow. As is the way Geno falls into step beside him when Sid takes his circuitous path to find the visitors’ locker room on an away game.
“You don’t have to—” Sid starts.
Geno gives him a look. “Don’t have to. Want to.”
There’s a small part of Sid that feels guilty for making Geno wander seemingly endlessly through a confusing maze of halls. But there’s another, bigger part, that is comforted by his silent, steady presence at Sid’s side, so he shuts up and concentrates on finding their way.
After that, Geno comes with him every time. They don’t talk about it, but he picks up his bag and follows Sid through the halls without speaking. Sid can’t help the relief that hits him like a slap every time Geno catches up to him, every time wondering if this is the day he’ll decide to take the easy route instead. But he doesn’t ask, and Geno doesn’t offer anything.
Sid doesn’t read anything into it. Geno’s a friend—a good friend, someone Sid trusts implicitly, but he also never does anything he doesn’t want to do. If he’s there, it’s because it suits him to be there, and Sid will take it at face value.
Geno hates losing. They all do, of course, but Geno takes it especially hard. So Sid is wary, when he shows up at Sid’s house one night after a particularly rough loss, shoulders drooping and mouth set. But Geno doesn’t say anything. He grabs a beer from the fridge and collapses on the other end of the couch from Sid and they watch House Hunting episodes together until Sid’s eyes are gritty and he’s biting back yawns.
“Go to bed, Sid,” Geno finally says. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, okay,” Sid says, levering himself up from the couch.
Geno doesn’t look at him when he leaves. He just flips a hand in a vague wave and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him, but somehow, Sid feels better anyway, lighter. He sleeps soundly that night, something he never does after a loss, and wakes feeling refreshed.
Which is why Sid isn’t really surprised when Geno knocks on his hotel door after an away game that they’ve also lost. Sid steps back silently and Geno shuffles inside. He’s in his sock-feet, carrying his shoes in one hand, his game day suit disheveled and tie hanging loose.
They don’t speak. Geno takes his jacket off, slings it over a chair. Sid gets back into the bed and picks up the remote to resume channel surfing as Geno rolls his sleeves up and rounds the bed to climb in the other side, sitting up with his back against the headboard.
After a minute, he makes an annoyed noise and grabs the remote from Sid’s hand.
“Hey!” Sid protests.
Geno slants a look at him and begins scrolling more slowly through the channels. He stops on a blockbuster action flick with a lot of explosions and puts the remote down, pointedly on his far side, away from Sid.
Sid huffs, but he’s still too beat up from the loss and emotionally raw to argue. Instead he slumps down against the pillows and does his best not to notice how close Geno is, just a few inches away on the bed, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
He falls asleep to the sound of gunfire from the TV and Geno’s soft breathing beside him. He’s alone in the bed when he wakes up, but the extra blanket has been draped over him and carefully tucked in.
Back home in Pittsburgh, they hit a hot streak and start winning games again. Kessel carries a game nearly on his own, then Sid and Geno snatch another out from under the nose of the Stars.
They’re still at the bottom of the standings but this is a start, this is good. Sully’s still glowering but he’s not shouting as much. The mood is cautiously hopeful as December blows in cold and wet.
Sid goes to the Christmas party, having begged Taylor to help him find the ugliest Christmas sweater possible. He thinks he’ll probably win the competition this year.
He’s greeted by Letang in a blinding neon yellow and orange monstrosity.
“Cath found it,” he tells Sid proudly.
“It’s terrible,” Sid says, shielding his eyes, and Letang laughs as they head into the building where everyone is gathered.
The children are milling around, getting underfoot, and Alex runs up and flings his arms around Sid’s knees before he’s even through the door.
Sid pretends to stagger and sweeps him up into his arms. “Hey you,” he says, poking Alex in the ribs and making him squirm and giggle. “Whose sweater is better, mine or your daddy’s?”
Alex regards Sid’s sweater with its Christmas tree complete with tiny blinking lights and real ornaments hung on the knitted branches, the entire thing festooned with tinsel. “Yours,” he says gravely.
Sid crows with delight as Letang mock-glowers at his son and Alex giggles again, then squirms to get down. Sid scans the crowd as Alex scampers off. There are a few partners he hasn’t met yet—he’ll need to do that tonight, make sure he gets their names.
“How many came without dates?” he asks Letang, who hands him a cup of punch.
“Besides you?”
Sid ignores this as not worth his time.
“Tristan, Zach, and Geno.”
“No date for Geno?” Sid asks, genuinely surprised. Geno always brings someone to the Christmas party—the last few years it had been Anna, of course, but even before that, he invariably had someone on his arm.
Letang shrugs. “He’s stopped picking up recently.”
“Wait, really?”
“You haven’t noticed?” Letang says, narrowing his eyes. “You notice everything, Sid.”
“You make me sound like Sherlock,” Sid mutters. “I’ve been busy, okay? Keeping tabs on Geno’s love life isn’t really part of my job description.”
“Sure,” Letang says. “I know he’s tried a few times since Anna, but it’s been about a month, I think, since he’s closed it.”
Huh. Sid really should have noticed this. He ponders it as he works his way through the crowd, smiling and hugging those he’s willing to have touch him, holding out his hand to others. Occasionally a new wife or girlfriend will ignore his physical cues and hug him anyway, and he always has to fight to not pull away, to smile and stand still until they release him.
The memo must not have gone out this evening, though, because no fewer than three throw their arms around him.
By the time Sid’s finished his circuit of the room, he’s twitchy and tense, and he hasn’t seen Geno at all.
He slips into a dark room for a quick breather and is startled by Geno, sitting in a chair in the corner.
“G?” Sid says, squinting in the dark. “Why are you in here with the lights off?”
Geno mutters something, and Sid crosses the room to sit on the chair next to him, perching awkwardly on the edge.
“You okay?”
“Needed break,” Geno says. He sounds tired. “Lots of hugging. Have to smile. Pretend I know them.”
Sid snorts. “Like you’ve ever bothered to memorize a name that’s not relevant to you personally.”
Geno’s eyes glint briefly in the dim room, but then he looks down at the punch he’s holding loosely in one big hand.
“What’s really going on?” Sid asks.
Geno sighs. “Nothing, Sid. Am okay.”
“No you’re not,” Sid says. “I know you. And I know what you look like when you’re okay. This—” He gestures. “—isn’t it.”
“I thought I could make work with Anna,” Geno blurts, and Sid freezes. Geno sounds heavy with misery, and Sid holds very still, letting him sort through and choose his words.
“I’m know she’s not happy, long time now,” Geno continues. “But I try, I do—”
“I know you did,” Sid says gently. He’d seen Geno trying; the flowers, the jewelry, the lavish vacations.
“We ask so much,” Geno says. “Is hard life, you know? Money—” He shakes his head. “Not enough.”
“It’s not your fault,” Sid says.
Geno blows out a breath and drains his punch. “Sorry, Sid. I’m stupid, drink too much, get sad.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Sid says. He takes a chance and puts one hand on Geno’s knee. “Everyone’s a little stupid sometimes.”
Geno looks down at Sid’s hand and up into his face. His eyes are liquid pools in the dark, and Sid can barely make out his face.
“Sid—” Geno says, and the door swings open, lights flicking on.
Olli is standing in the doorway, eyebrows high as he takes in the tableau in front of him, and Sid jerks his hand back and stands.
“I found them,” Olli calls to someone behind him. “Sorry, Sid,” he says when he turns back. “Geno. Didn’t mean to interrupt but we’re about to eat.”
Geno nods and stands, and Sid gets his first look at his sweater. He groans out loud.
“Oh come on, you’re definitely going to win.”
Geno looks down at the stuffed deer head protruding from the Christmas wreath on his chest and gives Sid his first real smile of the night. “You like?”
“No, I hate it, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen and you’ll give the kids nightmares.”
He counts Geno’s laugh as a victory as they head for the common room where the food is waiting.
January brings freezing rain and wind that tugs at Sid’s coat with icy fingers. They’re winning more than they’re losing, but Sid isn’t sure it’ll be enough, that they’ll make it to the playoffs at this rate.
He doesn’t say that out loud, of course—he’s not an idiot.
Anyway, the team is coming together, and as much as Sid wants another Cup, dreams of hoisting it again, the simple truth is it’s not always about winning. It’s also about the way the team meshes, how they communicate on the ice. They’re playing excellent hockey, and that’s what Sid wants, what he pushes them for every day.
He settles a dispute between two rookies, sitting them down and mediating as they talk out their grievances. When they’re done, the air cleared, Sid puts them on a line together and is delighted to see the chemistry that sparks immediately.
Geno still comes to him after losses. They don’t speak, don’t acknowledge it, but Sid knows now to expect a knock on his door, at home or away.
Geno is still not picking up, now that Sid is watching for it. He sits close to Sid when they go out, smiles and talks and drinks, but he shows no interest in the pretty women bold enough to make advances.
Sid doesn’t know what it means, but he knows Geno won’t talk about it. So he does the next best thing. He calls Flower.
“‘Allo, cher,” Flower says when he picks up, and Sid has to squeeze his eyes shut against the stinging in them. “Sid?” Flower sounds alarmed now.
“Sorry.” Sid clears his throat. “Um. Hi.”
Flower laughs quietly. “How are you? Freezing that giant ass off?”
“Every damn day,” Sid says, smiling. “I heard the news, congratulations.”
“Merci,” Flower says, and he sounds proud and delighted.
“How’s Vero?”
“She’s a champ, that one,” Flower says. “Better than I deserve.”
“Definitely,” Sid agrees. “Are the girls excited?”
“Oh, oui,” Flower says. “Estelle wants to name him. He would be Prince Twinkleshine or something if she had her way.”
“I miss you,” Sid blurts, and immediately wants to take it back. This is the name of the game. He knows it. Flower knows it. It’s selfish and ungrateful to wish for more than he’s got.
Flower just sighs. “I miss you too, cher. The team here is good—they’re good to me, make me feel so welcome, but….” He trails off.
This is the part about hockey Sid hates. It makes him feel guilty wishing anything about his beloved sport would change, but if he could choose, he’d choose to have his best friend back in Pittsburgh with him in a heartbeat and damn the consequences.
“You didn’t call me to talk about trades or pregnancies,” Flower says. “How’s the team?”
“The team is good,” Sid says. He leans back on the couch, staring at the episode of River Monsters without really seeing it. “The trade hurt, but the new guy’s doing well. Found his footing right away, dove in. Gets along well with the others.”
Flower hums. “How’s Matt?”
Sid winces. “IR for awhile longer. Tristan’s really stepped up, though. He’s a good kid.”
“And Geno?”
Sid hesitates.
“Ah.” Flower’s voice is soft with understanding.
Sid closes his eyes. “It’s—Anna leaving hit him hard. He said he thought he could make it work with her.”
“And you, cher?” Flower asks gently. “How are you?”
Sid grinds the heel of his hand against his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says. The silence tells him how much Flower believes him, and Sid sighs. “I’m not fine,” he admits.
“Tell me,” Flower orders, and Sid does.
He spills it all out, how Geno’s been acting, him coming to Sid after games, the way he’s not even trying to date, his odd, melancholic turn at the Christmas party.
Flower lets him ramble, asking questions occasionally and listening intently. When Sid falters to a stop, Flower sighs.
“You’re still in love with him.” It’s not a question.
“Pretty sure that’s not going away,” Sid manages around the lump in his throat. “I was handling it, I was, but now he’s there every time I turn around and i-it’s so much harder to deal with when I can’t even get away from h-him, I want—” He breaks off but it’s too late.
“You want?” Flower’s voice is sharp. “What do you want, Sid?”
“Him,” Sid whispers, and it feels like stepping off a cliff, like plunging into icy water, the admission hanging raw and hopeless in the air as he falls.
Flower swears quietly in French. “That’s new, yes?” he says after a minute. “You never wanted… before.”
“I don’t know when it happened,” Sid admits. “It’s been growing for a while, I think. But I can’t stop thinking about—things. Him. What it would be like.”
There’s a rustle, Flower protesting sharply in the distance, and then Vero’s on the phone.
“You have to tell him, Sid,” she says.
Sid can’t help the laugh, shaky as it is. “Hi, V. How are you?”
“I’m good,” she says. “Don’t change the subject. Tell him how you feel.”
“Not happening,” Sid says, and it’s too harsh but he can’t figure out how to soften it.
Vero makes a soft noise. “You deserve so much, Sid. You deserve happiness.”
“I am happy,” Sid protests, but his traitorous eyes are stinging again.
“You could be happier,” Vero says gently. “Don’t you think you owe it to the team to be the best version of yourself possible?”
Sid feels like he’s been punched. “That’s unfair,” he manages.
“Is it?” Vero says. “Who is it unfair to? Because from where I sit, you’re the one suffering. You’re the one who can’t move forward, get on with your life.”
“Are you saying the team isn’t winning because I’m not happy?” Sid asks, anger trickling through the misery filling him like cotton wool. “That’s bullshit, V, you know that’s—”
“I’m not,” Vero says sharply. “I wouldn’t, Sid. You know that. The team….” She sighs. “You’re the heart of them, we know this. When you’re happy, they’re happy. It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about finding your peace. Not everything is about hockey, ami. You deserve happiness off the ice as well.”
Flower says something in the background and Vero replies softly in French.
“I’m giving the phone back,” she tells Sid. “Please know that I love you and I only said anything at all because I want you to be happy.”
“I love you too,” Sid whispers, and then Flower is back.
“Sorry, cher, she’s impossible. You see what my life is like.”
“It’s rough,” Sid agrees, an unwilling smile tugging at his mouth. “You know I can’t, though, right?”
“I know you think you can’t,” Flower says.
“It would upset everything,” Sid says. “Even if he—say he did feel the same way. What happens when it goes wrong? What happens when he can’t stand my ‘quirks’ any longer? Am I still supposed to put myself ahead of the team when that happens? We both signed contracts, Flower. We can’t get away from each other, and if I did something stupid like telling him how I feel and then it goes sideways? You know it’ll fuck everything up, you know it will.” He falls silent, gulping air.
Flower doesn’t speak for a moment. “I know,” he says finally. “But I want to ask you something. Why are you so sure it will go wrong?”
“Because I’m me,” Sid bursts out. “I’m awkward and neurotic and demanding and sooner or later he’ll have enough of it and want to leave but he won’t be able to and then we’ll be trapped together while he hates me and the team will—”
“Stop,” Flower orders, and Sid sucks in a ragged breath. “How little you think of yourself,” Flower murmurs, and there’s something like grief in his voice. “Sidney, listen to me. Geno’s had plenty of opportunities to walk away from the team, from you. He could have made his mark with another team, stepped out of your shadow anytime he wanted to. He chose not to. He chose to stay. With you. You think he doesn’t know you by now? You think there’s anything about you that would scare him away? If it hasn’t happened yet, it’s never going to happen.”
Tears slide down Sid’s face, scalding hot, but he doesn’t move to wipe them away. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispers. “Because even if—” He swallows hard and tries again. “Even if that were true, he’s not attracted to men. So it’s a moot point. It’ll never happen, and it’s stupid and useless to talk about it like there’s a possibility.”
“Sid, you know how Russia feels about gay people, yes?”
Sid nods, even though Flower can’t see him.
“Did you ever think maybe, just maybe, if someone is attracted to more than one gender, and one of those genders is ‘safe’ to be attracted to but the other is not, the other could cause you to lose your citizenship, your chance to represent the country you love at Worlds and the Olympics, and never see your family again—don’t you think it would be safer to hide your attraction to that gender? Pretend it’s not there?”
“He’s never said anything,” Sid says, and he knows it’s weak.
“Why would he?” Flower counters. “It’s not worth risking, from his perspective. And you—” He breaks off.
“What about me?”
“You don’t date,” Flower says. “You don’t sleep around. Why would he even think of trying, when he already knows these things about you?”
“What are you saying?” Sid asks.
“I’m saying talk to him,” Flower tells him. “Trust him enough to give him at least some of your secrets. Perhaps he will trust you in return.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he doesn’t,” Flower says simply. “But he will still be your teammate, your friend. And I think you will not fully begin to live until you say something.”
Sid closes his eyes. "Tell me what the girls have been doing."
Flower laughs quietly and obeys.