ROCKET
Håkon passes out on my chest after a couple minutes of him just staring off into space. He needs it. That was probably emotional hell.
So now I'm watching Christmas movies as he sleeps on me. His soft breath fans out over the base of my neck, the most relaxed I've ever seen him. My fingers have been keeping a steady and slow pattern up his spine and back down again, feeling the heat of his skin underneath his shirt. It took me a couple minutes after we lied down to shift him into a good enough position. He's not a small guy in the least. Six and a half feet tall, broad, well built. Hell, he has to special order his skates, not like the rest of us don't, but they don't make skates in his size. The rest of us get stocked models with slight alterations in toe box and ankle support, but they at least make our size.
Point is, getting comfortable when a literal giant is laying on you like you're some sort of full-body pillow takes a little while. I tried having my legs under him, I tried one leg out, the other leg out, I tried with my ankles over the arm rest, I tried a lot of things. Eventually we shuffled into a comfortable position with my head on a pillow but not the arm rest and his legs settled between mine, which were just tossed out at random angles because I couldn't find a better position for them.
And, the best part, he let me play with his hair as much as I wanted once he was asleep. So I did. A lot. I don't know what type of conditioner this man uses, but his mop of snow white hair is the damn softest, thickest mess of hair I've ever put my fingers in.
So, one of my hands is running my fingertips up and down the curve of his spine and the other is in his hair. It's perfect. His arms are lazily draped around my waist, stuck in the crack of the couch cushions so I don't cut off his circulation.
And I don't watch a single minute of T.V. It could be shut off for all I care. I'm paying full attention to him laying on me. Wondering how this guy, the one I know from hockey, who can throw someone to the ice with a simple shove of his shoulder, who can light up an entire stadium with one raise of his arms, who wears the A for my team, who's got the second fastest slap-shot on record only losing to Zdeno Chara himself, who I've let in goals against (accidentally. it was back when I was in Boston. He's scary.), who I've seen quite literally knock other people's teeth out, who I've seen yell like a madman after scoring an OT winner; is also the guy who just let out a satisfied little hum in his sleep when I put my hand flat on his upper back and rubbed a little.
It's really just perfect right now. Everything is exactly how I want it. There's a shaggy looking Christmas tree in the corner that I put together with my mom in our usual style: too many hockey ornaments and none of the family tradition ornaments. The star on top is quite literally just the butt of one of my bantam goalie sticks that we sawed off one year and stuck on top as a joke. The TV is playing quietly in the back, it's dark out and I don't have too many lights on, the whole apartment smells like slightly burnt chocolate chip cookies, I'm only wearing one sock, just how I like it, and there's a very large very tired professional defenseman draped across my lap like an enormous throw pillow.
I spent the morning with my mom, filling up on vánoční cukroví, Czech Christmas cookies, her Stojanovič family recipe, with our own twist of too much sugar and not nearly enough of anything else. Then I came home and he showed up. I haven't dared ask what he did for Christmas, the last time I was in his apartment, two days ago, he hadn't even decorated. Come to think about it, considering what I know of him, he probably didn't celebrate at all. He told me he slept in and watched Christmas movies.
I probably should've thought harder and got him something. Damn it. To be frank, I'm not even sure what I would've gotten him. A shirt? But he only really wears dress shirts and athletic shirts and he's got a ton of both of those. Getting clothing normally sucks too. My mom got me Legos this year, which, you know, we spent the afternoon putting together, like every year. I doubt he would've been thrilled with legos either.
I stare down at him, running my fingers across the nape of his neck. Then I decide that maybe he's a heavy sleeper and I can wonder out loud. "Did you get what you wanted for Christmas this year? I feel like I should've thought ahead and gotten you something."
He doesn't respond, thank god, but he does shift a tiny bit, squeezing me a slight bit tighter.
So I set my head back down on the pillow, staring up at my ceiling, running my nails gently across his skin, then up into his hair again, feeling it filter through my fingers.
Then I get curious about that little spot on me that made me weak in the knees. His favorite spot. The little spot on my waist.
So I let one arm drop and I lift his long sleeve shirt just a little, feeling that spot. He was right. It's so soft. Then I'm just rubbing that spot mindlessly. God it's so soft. I set my head in his hair and breathe him in. He smells a little like pine and a lot like vanilla. Then I'm just breathing because he's soft and smells good. And he's gay. And he likes me back.
Then I'm getting a little too touchy with him. My hand is all the way up his hoodie and I'm touching all the ridges on his back. Don't blame me: Håkon's hot.
Then I'm staring down his back at that hockey ass and I just stare at it because I know if I put a hand on it he'll wake up.
Oh but I want to. Oh but I want to.
"Håkon, if I put a hand on your ass right now would you kill me?"
"Maybe." he grumbles.
"Oh shit, you're awake."
He hums a little response. "You rubbing my hip was nice." He breathes out and shifts a little more.
"So can I?"
"Not right now." He sighs, then he's kissing my neck real slow. Just mouthing me. Getting his lips everywhere and anywhere he pleases. Slowly. He's sleepy.
"Can I stay over?" He whispers against my throat, then sets his lips back over my adam's apple.
"Yeah, I kind of expected you to." I mumble over my building pressure.
"Great, you're the best pillow I've ever had," he kisses under my chin and then my lips and we french kiss briefly before he breaks off, flopping back flat, head on my chest. "I'm exhausted."
"I, yeah, that makes sense," I lean over and shut off the TV. "Come on, I'll get you some pajamas."
"Not yet." He mumbles, nuzzling his nose into the side of my neck. "I like this."
"I know you do." I snuggle him back, kissing his hair. "But it'll be more comfortable in a bed, not a couch."
He frowns. "This is perfect."
I feel a little dampness where his eyelashes are brushing my neck. "Are you crying?" I mumble, stroking his hair again.
"No."
"Mhmm," I kiss just above his ear. "When was the last time you were held like this?"
He just shakes his head, not responding. Something tells me it's been a long, long, time.
I smile a little. "Are you a cuddler?"
He doesn't respond again, instead tightening his arms around me.
"You are aren't you." I can't help but blush. "C'mon, get up, I'll let you be the little spoon if you come to bed with me."
I feel him frown against the side of my neck. "Hmph." He knows I can't move with him on top of me.
"Baby," I mumble. "Up. Come on."
That gets him up enough to make eye contact with me. "Did you just call me baby?"
"Why? Is that not-"
He cuts me off with another kiss. I'm taken completely by surprise, my eyes still wide open when he pulls back. "It's good." He mumbles. "I'm okay with it."
My mouth is dry, blinking up at him, completely lost. "Ah, okay, uh, it might not happen a lot, it feels weird in my mouth-" I pause, blushing. "But sure."
"It sounds better with your accent." He runs his tongue over the back of his retainer out of habit. Then he starts to shuffle to lay back down and I brace his shoulders with my arms, stopping him.
"Upstairs. I'll give you pajamas." I roll out from under him and scramble to standing, offering him a hand to pull him upright.
"I'm not going to fit in your clothes."
"I think putting some clothes between us is going to be a good measure for tonight."
"Okay, yeah," he laughs, rubbing his eyes and holding my hand. "I don't think I could handle a half naked Rocket next to me all night. It would be three am and I'd have my mouth on you."
"On second thought, maybe not." I pull him down to me and kiss him again. His lips are nice, that's something about Yeti Rex. He's got a beautiful mouth.
"Maybe not," he mumbles back to me.
As opposed to his townhouse style residence, mine is definitely an apartment. He's got two floors and a large amount of rooms. I have a somewhat expansive artist's loft type space. Steph's apartment stayed true to our old one in Boston. He likes consistency. Anyway, mine has a tall ceiling and a lot of exposed brick that I've been meaning to learn how to hang stuff on. My room is down a hall and has a deck off the back and connects to the bathroom. He follows me inside, where I've managed to make the bigger space seem cozy enough for my own standards. The bricks are painted black, the windows have blackout curtains because I can't sleep with light in the room and the floor is colonial hardwood: really big wide planks that for some reason I adore.
Håkon stops by my dresser, simply reaching behind his head and sliding his long-sleeve athletic weight shirt off. He was wearing a shirt with his name on it, long sleeve, lightweight, dry material, it said REX 74 across the back, just like a lot of our gear does. This shirt was older though, a little worn, definitely still a Wolves shirt, just not recent.
He grabs the back of the collar and pulls the core of the shirt up and off his body, leaving just his arms in the sleeves. I watch in absolute gay awe as the bottom lip of the shirt slips up and over his hockey abs. His fingers work, grabbing the sleeve of one side and pulling it down off his arms.
God, fuck, okay. That's something I could definitely get used to dating.
I swallow. Hard. And then I hope to a god I don't necessarily believe in that it didn't make any damn noise.
Judging by the way he looks over at me, it did.
"What?"
"Nothing." I scramble, then look away, pulling open the dresser drawer that I know holds the biggest shirt I own: an extra large that I got back in Boston. It was in the arrival package thingy they put together and all that the equipment managers knew was that I'm six foot three. They didn't consider how skinny I am. I wear a medium on a normal day and judging from him, he's a large or extra-large, just because of his structure.
"Boston? Really." He looks down at the black material, picking it up, mildly disgusted.
"Just for a night, nobody will see you wearing a Boston shirt." I can't help but smile at his distaste for the shirt.
"Ugh, fine." He grumbles, pulling it up over his head. "You sure you don't have any other shirts that will fit me?"
"Unless you want it to be tight as hell, yeah." I scramble to put on a cotton Firebirds t-shirt that I have absolutely worn the living shit out of based off how soft it is.
He's holding the lip of my shirt in his teeth, untying the drawstring on his joggers. I pause, looking down at the shorts I was planning on offering him. Then I look at my thigh, then his. It's no secret that he's one of the guys on the team that could crush a skull with their legs. Fen, Håkon, Steph, Finnican, a lot of the rest of them. He definitely shows it. I don't. I don't have to. My strength is based off speed, any additional weight makes moving harder. His strength is based off explosiveness. He could snap my neck with his legs. I'd probably say thank you.
Now he's looking at the shorts and sharing the same thought process as I am. Probably not the 'I could snap his neck and he'd appreciate it' thought process, but the one where we both come to the conclusion that there's not a big chance he's going to fit into my shorts.
"Just try it." I mumble. "Because most shorts are really big on me." That's not a lie. I have to roll up my shorts a lot of the time. "I'm skinny."
He sighs and drops his joggers. I look the hell away the second he does it. It's not like I haven't seen dicks before, quite a lot, considering most hockey locker rooms have a one-room communal shower, but never in a private setting, even if he does have boxers on.
"You're not skinny." He mumbles from behind me.
"What the fuck have you been taking?" I laugh. "LSD? Hallucinogenics?"
"LSD is a hallucinogenic." He says.
"You're not reassuring me."
"Right, but I meant that you're not skinny," he puts a hand on my shoulder, telling me it's alright and that I can turn around again. The shorts are a tight fit around the centers of his thighs but everything else seems to fit fine. "I meant that you're small-boned."
I frown. "That's the same-"
"It's not," he keeps his eyes up as I struggle to put on my own pair of pajama shorts, nearly tripping and eating shit right in front of him. "Your frame is smaller. I can be considered skinny for someone of my frame size, but that's because my shoulders and body tend to trend larger. Your shoulders are thin and so is your muscle tone. You're a healthy weight for your frame size."
I look down at myself. He's not wrong but, "I didn't need a full on analysis there, bud."
He shrugs, "I'm only three inches taller than you, but I weigh seventy pounds more. I get that I'm kinda a heavyweight, but you're just smaller."
I open my mouth to respond but he's made a good enough point. "Yeah, I guess. My parents are both kinda the same with it, you know, wiry and tall."
"So it's a Stojanovič thing?" He leans against the dresser.
"Nah, my mom's side of the family is way shorter. Wiry and tall is a Matějčková thing."
He blinks a couple times. "Huh?"
"Matějčková, that's my dad's side. My mom got my name legally changed to her maiden name when I got disowned." He's still staring blankly at me.
"It was nice that she did that for you, I mean, yeah, but," he pauses. "You know I really thought Stojanovič was violently Czech."
"Do you need me to write it down?"
"No, no," he waves it off. "I can picture all the accents from here."
"Yeah, you got lucky with three letters. The checked C doesn't exist on a ton of character forms. When I took the SAT they didn't validate my test answers because the machines didn't think I was real. Legally, I have the checks, but it wasn't available on their forms. Both, actually, the S check and the C check."
"And your middle name has one vowel and six letters and the vowel is at the end." He mumbles. "Ah, okay, do you have a toothbrush?"
"Yeah, I've got a spare, actually a couple. My mom buys in bulk." I take his hand and pull him into the bathroom. He winces when I first turn on the light but it wears off after a second.
Then I'm staring at him like an idiot. He looks violently weird in a Boston shirt. He's just so canonically a Wolves player that seeing him in the gear of another team is making by brain short-circuit. He's like what McDavid was to the Oilers, Chara to the Bruins, you know, the Mitch Marner of the Wolves. He's been there his whole career and it doesn't look like he's going to end up anywhere else.
"What?" He says, reaching up past his lip and popping something, then pulling out his retainer. "Sorry, that was gross."
"No problem, I've seen worse." He sets the retainer on the counter, two teeth on a metal bar, then looks back up at me, raising his eyebrows to ask 'what' again. "No, no, it's just that you look weird in Boston gear. You're like, ah, like what Chara was to Boston, iconically part of a team for so long that seeing you in a Boston shirt is giving my brain a hard time."
He looks down at it. "Ah, see, I thought you were having a hard time with the whole-" he spins, looking over his shoulder. "Stojanovič, 42, on the back. Considering that you've told me that the Stojanovič name is known for short and small-structured people, I don't fit the name all that well."
I have a half urge to ask him if that means I'll end up with his name if we get married. I don't. That's too far for five hours in.
I lean a little to catch his eye again. "Nah, I really like that part. You're cute in my shirt."
'Cute' gets a smile out of him. I decide in a millisecond that I like his real smile way better than the one where he has his retainer in. It feels way more like him.
I get a sudden thought.
"Do you need anything for, ah," I point to his retainer on the counter. "like a Tupperware or mouthwash?"
He looks down at it. "I can just brush it with the toothbrush and call it a night. It won't be that bad to skip routine for one day."
"How did you lose those two?" I ask, partially wanting to see him with his mouth open again, partially wanting to know, hoping to get a smile. I know he takes them out for games, some practices, and sleeping, but I've never been this close to him without those teeth.
He scratches the back of his head. "Fighting."
"With who, and I thought normally you have the upper hand in those?" I lean against the counter, wanting to see just a little.
"Normally is subjective," he mumbles. "I used to lose quite a bit. I've been missing these for going on three years."
I chew on my lower lip. "So did you do the gross bench-dentistry thing, or did they kill the teeth and then have you get them out later professionally, or-"
Bench-dentistry makes him smile, just a little, not enough to show teeth, but he smiles. "Bench-dentistry. It hurt like hell, but they were far gone and I knew I needed to do something about it if I wanted to get back in the game."
"Gross, so you just stuck your fingers in there and pulled?"
"Yeah, basically." He's pink around the ears. I find it absolutely adorable that he's getting bashful about pulling out his own damn teeth in the middle of a hockey game. Like, seriously, mainstream romantic comedy here we come!
"Both at the same time or?"
He looks down at his hands. "Uh, kinda. He got me really good in the mouth and knocked me over, when I got up I knew I was going to need to do something, one was cracked so bad it was in the wrong spot, so I pulled that out on the way back to the penalty box. The second one basically fell out into my hand."
That's fucking disgusting. "Sick. Did you have to go to a dentist after or-"
He rolls his eyes. "Yes. They had to get the second half of the first one and then sew shut the holes. It was gross as hell. You can look it up, it was actually quite a bit of blood all down the front of my jersey."
"I'm planning on not doing that." I mumble, still smiling because of how red he is in the cheeks. That he's absolutely top-to-bottom bashful about this. Not anything else, I've never seen him acting quite like this. Nooo, the only time he's bashful is when he's talking about pulling his own fucking teeth with his bare hands and no anesthesia.
Håkon tips his head at me. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"Oh, no, no reason." I break into a full grin. "You gotta give me a real smile, though, c'mon."
He shifts a little at that. "Why?"
"Because I've never seen you smile without those." I point at the little retainer, then look back up at him. He's not going to give me that smile, is he.
"I, Rocket, hm-" he's trying to come up with a good reason to protest this.
"C'mon you Swedish prick," I put my hands up, tapping my fingers together like a lobster. He backs away into the cabinet. "I'm gonna do it for you, I'm gonna do it!"
"Rocket!" He lets out a laugh, my crab claws latching onto his cheeks. "Rocket hey!"
"There it is!" I grin back at him. "There you are!" Håkon is trying to force the smile off his face but he's having a hard time with it. I like this smile a lot better than the one with the teeth. I can't explain quite why, but it feels more like him.
"Rocket what are you-" I bounce on my toes just a little bit, springing up to kiss him. For someone who's never really kissed anyone before three hours ago, I seem to be into it. I swear it's like every other sentence when my brain says 'ah, now kiss him.' Maybe it's me, or maybe it's that I need to find out what brand of chapstick he uses.
I fall back to flat feet after pressing my mouth to his for the hundredth time today. "Now we have to stop dawdling and brush our teeth." I hand him the tube of toothpaste and in a couple moments were staring straight ahead, knowing that any eye contact is going to make us both laugh. I focus on brushing my teeth, but his hand hits mine lightly, hooking his pinky into mine and I choke.
It makes him look at me.
I'm going to have to clean the bathroom tomorrow. I really tried to contain the laugh by closing my lips but a little toothpaste leaked out and now he's laughing, head back so he can keep the toothpaste in his mouth and still breathe.
I hastily finish brushing and end up bumping heads with him when we go to spit. After that, I rinse with mouthwash and he brushes over the retainer, then pops it back in for some reason.
"Wh-" I frown, unsure of how to ask.
"Just for a moment." He gestures for me to pass him the mouthwash. "If I can't soak it for one night, I'm going to do my best to give it a good rinse."
I watch in partial amusement as he unclips the retainer while it's inside his mouth, then swishes the mouthwash around, like his mouth is the tupperware instead.
I watch him poke the metal out his lips and then he uses the same mouthwash to rinse the rest of his teeth.
I wait for him to be done before saying anything. "I feel like you've definitely done that before."
"After I got them I forgot the container while on roadies quite a lot." He lets out a little laugh. "Mind if I just leave them there? I know it's gross but it's easier to remember where they are if they're on the sink."
"Ever lost them?" I ask.
"All the time in my first two months. I left them in New Jersey once, had to get them mailed back. It was a huge mess, but I learned to keep them around," he puffs out his cheeks. "Especially because I really don't like it when they're not in."
"Steph hates his too. He's not even missing whole teeth, just chipped. I assume it takes a massive number on your self confidence." I reach out and put my arms around his waist, settling my head over his shoulder. "If it makes you feel any better, I really like your smile. Especially when they're not in."
"Why?"
"Don't know. It just feels more like you. You know? Like it fits who I know you are better."
He hums a little in my ear, telling me he heard me but he doesn't know what to say in response.
"Alright," I tap his hips. "Let's sleep."
Again, he only hums in response, following me out of my bathroom and out into my room.
I'm a little more than nervous about this, but I guess acting like I know what I'm doing is going to have to cut it. So, I drop onto the mattress next to him and hope for the best.
He seems to think this is perfectly alright, slinging one of his tree branch arms over my stomach and pulling me into him. Håkon sets his forehead against the back of my neck and I feel him shift just a little before he stills, settling in.
I'm too attention deficit hyperactivity disorder for that. He's lucky he can crash and fall asleep immediately, I gotta go through war plans, run another ten miles, invent the next space shuttle and take over Poland before falling asleep.
I shift a little, stretching my legs out, tensing them, trying to get the itchy feeling out of my muscles. During the action, however, I don't know if I fuck up or do something that's alright. One of his legs is now between mine. Or maybe it's mine between his? I don't know.
"Miloš," He mumbles, shifting his arm to pull me a little tighter. I tip my head to look at him, not sure where to put my hands or my feet or anything. "Just relax."
"Uh, yeah, yeah," I put my head back on the pillow. His arm snakes under my pillow when he settles back down again, ending up under my head, his other around my body. It's an amazing feeling, really, I just don't know what I should be doing in return.
Oh holy shit my sleep-talking problem. Oh my god I hope he doesn't get mad about that. Steph can handle it but I've never really slept in the same room as Håkon.
I shift my hips backward, only realizing how big of a mess-up that was when my ass hits his groin.
He lets out a soft little groan at my movement, nudging his nose against my hair. I am not going to be sleeping tonight.
***
that's why they call it a ribcage
to lock all of our feelings up
to make sure the heart never escapes
i'll never be the same if it does
ribcage - plested
***
anyway this is an hour late enjoy