There Are So Many Ways Can I Read These Two Falling In Love

hockey rpf, sidgeno, nsfw (seriously dont wander here if you're not an old person like me) How can they not be shipped?!

[diana-fortyseven]

Quick PSA, if you get one of those "Work scanned, AI use detected" comments on AO3, just mark them as spam.

Some moron apparently built a bot to annoy or prank hundreds of authors.

There is no scanning process, your work doesn't actually resemble AI writing, it's all bullshit. Mark the comment as spam (on AO3, not the email notification you got about the comment!) and don't let it get to you.

[harrimaniac27art]

✨ Pinup boy ✨

Sid has that one hoodie. That exсlusive one with the wolf on it? You know the one. That’s why this happened.

С днём Святого Валентина! 💖

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[chaoschalcedony]

Well soooOOOooorry for wanting to fuck my friends! As if creating a warriors bond is soooo fucking wrong of me. Jesus Christ.

[brinnanza]

finished a cross stitch after a million years! pattern courtesy of @shitpostsampler

[ticklefighthockey]

none of the sports men can process sid wearing the 71 jersey… it’s clear they all expect geno to take sid’s last name

[archaicbro]

i was doing so good actually trying to predict plays and now my brain is just. stuck here

[suiheisen]

that’s his spot…

[reavenedges-lies]

Evgeni Malkin 1000 games tribute video

[hockeyheart]

beautiful

[8771eh]

I swear if you can watch Sid’s video and not have at least 50 plot bunnies surface I am astounded

[icedbatik]

[beggingwolf]

“You’re not going anywhere, go back to bed.” For Sidgeno (maybe Geno can be the stubborn one)

Zhenya stands on the last landing and stares down at the first floor. Twelve steps, with a slight curve. Manageable. Easy, even.

His knees wobbles, and his grip on the banister tightens.

It's taken him close to seven minutes to even get this far. Getting out of bed had been the hardest part; the elaborate pillow structure built around his back and under his knee had been entirely destroyed as he shuffled to the bed's edge. The journey down the hall had been laborious, but it's this, the stairs, that are making Zhenya veer dangerously close to regret.

Downstairs, the scent of the Crosby family lasagna recipe beckons.

Sid had been skeptical when Zhenya asked for it. Zhenya had gathered a small collection of family recipes over the years and an even bigger collection of take out mainstays, but when Sid had driven him to the hospital, Zhenya had asked for the Crosby lasagna.

"Like your mama make," he'd said, to drive the point home.

His guilt over delaying Sid's summer plans had been poorly disguised. Sid's trip out to London had been canceled entirely. Visiting Andy out on Colorado was still up in the air. And as for going home...

"I can go home anytime," Sid had told him simply a few nights before the surgery. "It doesn't matter. I want to be here to help you out. Who else is going to haul you to the bathroom to shit?"

He was a master of romance. Zhenya loved him desperately.

And now, here, with Sid cooking him dinner and fluffing his pillows and playing husband, Zhenya was spoiled rotten. He missed Sid already. He wasn't ready for them to go their separate ways for the summer, as they always did.

Thus: the stairs.

Zhenya steels himself and starts shuffling toward the edge of the landing. He grits his teeth in anticipation as he lifts his foot. When he puts it down and shifts his weight onto the next step, he lets out his breath in a long hiss. The meds they'd given him had worn off an hour ago.

He quickly yanks his good leg down to join the first. His grip on the banister shakes as he gathers himself. He can feel sweat starting to gather under his armpits.

And then Sid, frowning down at his phone, walks out of the kitchen and right in front of him.

Sid looks up at him with an expression of disbelief. His gaze immediately drops to Zhenya’s knee, then slides to his white-knuckled grip on the banister, then settles on Zhenya's face.

"Hi?" Zhenya says. His wobbly smile is met with a flat-eyed frown.

"Nope," Sid says as he shoves his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and immediately starts up the stairs.

"Hey," Zhenya protests, but it doesn't stop Sid as he sidles up next to Zhenya and throws Zhenya's arm over his shoulders.

"You're not going anywhere," Sid says, turning them around to face back up the stairs. "You had surgery today."

"Getting water," Zhenya mumbles.

"I told you to text me."

"I can do."

"Like I said, nope. Ready, step."

It's demeaning to be helped up the stairs like this, but with his weight on Sid, it's worlds easier. They shuffle up the stairs one by one until they're back in the hallway.

"Sid."

"Geno," Sid mimics, because he's deeply annoying, but he stops to look at him.

"I'm okay."

"No you're not. But I've got you, eh? Come on. Lasagna will be ready in twenty."

Sid deposits him back into his bed with brisk efficiency and immediately starts rebuilding his pillow fortress. Before he can jam another pillow beneath Zhenya's elbow, though, Zhenya grabs his wrist.

He doesn't need to say a word.

"I'll get my iPad," Sid tells him. "Be right up. Okay?"

"Okay," Zhenya murmurs. He lets go.

Sid smiles a small, private little smile, and leans in for a kiss.

[malk1ns]

Ooohh those gesture prompts? 6 for SidGeno?!

gesture prompts are here

6. Checking in on them after a rough event.

Sid doesn't expect Geno to want to talk to him, after the contract is signed and it's all over.

Their last call hadn't exactly ended pleasantly—Geno had been screaming at him, practically choking on his tears, and Sid hadn't been able to say anything except please, please, please sign it. Not his proudest moment, to be sure.

It had been Kris who finally texted Sid to let him know it was done. Sid had sent Geno a single heart, but it's been a whole day with no reply.

He figures he'll give Geno some time to cool down, let him get past his embarrassment at blowing his top at Sid of all people, who was just trying to help, and then he'll call—but then he opens Instagram.

Sid doesn't remember the last time he saw Geno looking so sad.

The phone rings for so long that Sid's afraid Geno's actually going to send him to voicemail, but at the last minute he picks up. "Sid," is all he says, and Sid's heart twists. He sounds so tired.

"Hey, G," he says, putting his phone on speaker and texting Nate to cancel their tee time. "Just wanted to see how you were doing."

The silence is heavy, and Sid holds his breath, but finally Geno sighs. "Fine, Sid. Just tired."

"Yeah," Sid says lamely, casting about for something to say. "Well, hey, at least you don't have to be dealing with contracts coming in from JP today, eh, you're all—oh, hey, no," he says, alarmed, when Geno inhales wetly over the phone. "Don't—are you still—don't cry," he finishes helplessly, listening to Geno breathe deeply for a few minutes, getting himself back together.

"Sorry, Sid," Geno says dully.

Shit. "Baby," Sid says desperately, "no, you don't—don't apologize. You—I mean, you shouldn't apologize for being upset, I get it, and—"

"You don't get," Geno interrupts with a trace of yesterday's anger. "How you get? This ever happen to you? You say, I want eight more years, they give you no problem, no matter what. You don't know."

Sid lowers himself onto his couch. "You're right," he says softly, curling onto his side and putting the phone on cushion near his head. "Why don't you tell me?"

"You have golf with Nate," Geno snaps, the thread of jealousy he always gets when Nate comes up sneaking into his voice.

Sid smiles. "I canceled," he says, tucking a pillow under his head. "I want to talk to you instead."

[partingglances1986]

[harrimaniac27art]

O no help me lads I let the yearning set in again

Знаешь, я люблю тебя = you know, I love you

[harrimaniac27art]

Apparently it’s the thirsty-for-Geno hours so anyway here have a doodle

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[harrimaniac27art]

Hey, Sid, why do you have such a big couch? For when company comes over, of course.

Happy Canada Day, folks

[ticklefighthockey]

death would honestly be kinder

[mypantsflewoff]

Oops, I wrote a thing. 

Zhenya is wheeling his suitcase down the hall towards the elevators when the hotel room door opens.

“Hey, G, can I talk to you for a second?” Sid is clearly ready to walk out the door to head down to the bus, but his tie is loose around his neck.

“We talk on bus, Sid,” Zhenya says. He doesn’t know if he can deal with Sid trying to captain him before they even get to the rink. Zhenya is already high-strung enough about tonight as it is.

Sid makes a face. “No, uh, that won’t work. Just come in for a second. We still have like fifteen minutes.” And he actually reaches out to tug at Zhenya’s sleeve.

Zhenya sighs. “Okay, Sid.” He allows himself to be tugged into Sid’s hotel room. The door clicks closed.

“So what you need —” Zhenya lets out a small oof as he’s cut off by Sid throwing his arms around Zhenya’s torso, face pressing into the center of his chest. For a moment he doesn’t know what to do or where to put his hands. Sid doesn’t embrace people like this. This isn’t a “hey, let’s kick some ass and knock heads tonight” slap-on-the-back kind of hug.

This is an emotional Sidney Crosby. Zhenya hasn’t seen him in a while. Not since the last Cup win anyway.

Zhenya tentatively puts his arms around Sid’s shoulders, hands resting in between his shoulderblades, one on top of the other. Sid exhales in his arms.

“Sid?”

Sid pulls his head back and looks at Zhenya, then drops his eyes. “I — I don’t want this to be the end.”

“You play tonight, yes? Tristan play. Rakell maybe too. We win. Not have to —”

“No, this isn’t about the game.” Sid shakes his head and sighs, then leans his forehead against Zhenya. “I don’t want you to go.” His voice is small. Zhenya has only ever heard him sound like this months into the post-concussion treatments. When nothing seemed to work and Sid started wondering out loud to Zhenya if he would ever play again.

Zhenya feels the bottom of his stomach drop out. He hates that voice and had promised himself that he’d never let Sid feel or sound that way again. He hugs Sid a little tighter. “Sid, I’m say so many time. I’m not go. Want to stay. But maybe new owners don’t want. Maybe I’m expensive, too much penalties, broken.”

“You’re not broken,” Sid says into Zhenya’s chest, “and I’ll fight anyone who says so.”

It’s me AND Geno. Zhenya remembers that well too.

“Sid, you know I do anything for you, yes? Look to me, you know this?”

Sid’s eyes are red when he looks at Zhenya. He’s about 20 seconds from crying and Zhenya knows that if Sid gets teary, he’ll follow right after. He sets his jaw and gently pushes Sid back, holding him tightly by the shoulders. “I say to you now. This not goodbye. Tonight I’m run through wall for you, battle for you. For team. And when playoffs over for us, I’m still not say goodbye.”

This seems to spark some resolve in Sid. The furrow between his eyebrows appears — the one he gets when he’s about to put the whole team on his back. Zhenya is already there. He wants to win tonight.

Zhenya gives Sid’s shoulders a little shake. “Never say goodbye to you, Sid. You too important to me.” Sid’s eyes snap up to meet his and there’s something searching there — something neither of them have time to think about now. “We go to bus, play asshole Rangers. Not think about goodbye, because not happen.” He releases Sid and gently tightens his tie, patting the knot flat. “There, now you ready, armor is on. We go?”

The muscle in Sid’s jaw flexes. He nods. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The ride down in the elevator is quiet, but Zhenya feels his own adrenaline starting to spike. He is ready to run through a wall for Sid.

For the team.

For Pittsburgh.

[ticklefighthockey]

don’t look at me sometimes you need to write a tiny little slice of insanely indulgent hurt/comfort.

“Hey,” Sid said quietly. He leaned his forehead against Zhenya’s, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of Zhenya’s skull. “It’s okay.”

Zhenya’s eyes were shut. He could feel the heat of Sid’s breath against his cheek, and beneath his hand the slow, steady rise and fall of Sid’s chest. His own face was wet. He was ashamed, but only distantly—everything seemed very far away, except for Sid, who was holding him close, cradling the curve of Zhenya’s skull. Sid, who had shut off the lights and drawn Zhenya away from the fretful, disjointed work of packing, down onto the hotel bed.

Gentle fingers stroked Zhenya’s hair.

“We can’t do.” Zhenya’s voice was ragged. “We can’t win, Sid.”

It was over. And now he would have to say them out loud at last, the words that had been stuck in his throat for months, a lump he couldn’t swallow around. He would have to speak them aloud, here in the hushed quiet of a hotel room, and feel his world tilt sideways on its axis—everything sliding away from him, no hold left to scrabble for.

There isn’t a deal.

They don’t want me.

Sid knew. Of course he knew. But when Zhenya said it aloud, it would be real. A breath caught in his throat, choked as a sob. “Sid—”

“Shh,” Sid whispered. “Shh. It’s okay.”

He drew Zhenya closer then, cradling the back of Zhenya’s skull. His nose bumped against Zhenya’s. In the dark, in the hush, Sid kissed Zhenya’s closed eyelids, and Zhenya’s damp cheek, and the line of Zhenya’s jaw. Then he found Zhenya’s mouth and kissed that too, slow and careful, as if all they had was time.

“Not yet,” Sid murmured. “Not yet.”

His lips tasted of salt.