word count: 4,907
ship: Garrett Graham x reader
rating: PG-13
summary: Your brother's best friend should be off limits. Probably. Right?
TW: slightly uncomfy situations for reader at a party
notes: idk seeing belmont dance to 'girls' unlocked something in me, enjoy i guess (along with the three anons who've been asking lol)
notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :)
notes3: wrote a lot of nick leister x reader (my fault london) fics, if that's your thing
One thing about Briar U is that they know how to throw a party.
This isn’t your school, but since your brother has been going here since he was a freshman, you’re practically a connoisseur of these house parties. You know your junior year should probably be spent locking down your future but…there’s something about being tucked into an off-campus residence, loud music pulsing in your veins, familiar tipsy faces you’ve gotten to know over the years, drinks that are always too sweet and snacks that are always too salty—you love it. You fucking love it.
Wearing a silky black slip dress and a jean jacket, paired with your favorite high-top Converse, you head through the open front door of where your brother stays with some of his hockey teammates. You smile when you spot Dean and Logan playing an intense game of air hockey, moving towards the kitchen to see if you can find your brother or anyone else you might recognize. The place is packed, bodies shuffling through various states of being drunk. There’s too loud laughter and conversation and the utter, familiar chaos pulls the corners of your lips up in amusement.
Shifting past a couple that won’t stop making out against the fridge, you peruse the open bottles of liquor, grabbing a random red cup to look in. Seems clean…ish. Before you can pour something inside of it, a hand comes from your right and yanks it right out of your hand.
“I wouldn’t, ribbit.”
You roll your eyes towards the ceiling at the familiar nickname that’s been yours for the past three years. Turning, you lean your body against the counter, face to face with Garrett Graham.
Hockey legend. Your brother’s best friend. Your utter pain in the ass—and completely off limits (and probably out of your league).
“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”
Garrett purses his lips, pretending to think about it, “You ever going to stop rescuing frogs roadside?”
Your cheeks pink, “That was one time.”
He smiles, something warm and affectionate that reaches directly between your ribs and threatens to tug them apart. You’ve known Garrett as long as you’ve had the nickname, as long as your brother’s been going to school here. They’re both on the same hockey team and became close friends. Garrett has been to family dinners, he’s been to holidays, he’s gotten you birthday and Christmas gifts, he’s comforted you over ex boyfriends who didn’t deserve your attention, he’s walked you to your car on late nights at Malone’s, he’s bought you coffee with that sixth sense that knows when you need a pick-me-up, he’s shared inside jokes and driven you home when you were too drunk to get there yourself. Hence the frog nickname.
One ride a few years ago, one frog in the middle of the road rescued, one nickname tied loosely to your entire being forever.
You can pretend you hate it. But you don’t.
You glance down at the closed can of alcoholic seltzer as it’s placed into your hand, “I saved you a grape one.”
You really hate that, however. How thoughtful Garrett is, how kind and silly and funny he can be. It’s truly unfair. That you’re friends with someone your brother considers his bestie and that he…he can’t be anything else to you. You’re pretty sure your brother wouldn’t care but Garrett doesn’t see you like that. Why would he?
It’s a bad day to have eyes. You trail them over his form, trying not to be obvious. He’s wearing something that shouldn't be so groundbreaking, and yet the black jeans paired with a simple black tee somehow makes your entire body throb. Heat skitters right through your veins like liquid honey, gaze snagging on the gold chain he’s always got on resting on his sternum and tight curls brushing against his forehead.
Your fingers itch to tuck them out of the way. You instead pop the seltzer can open; much safer. “Thanks. Have you seen my brother?”
Garrett inclines his head down the hallway, “Think he’s outside losing in a game of flip-cup.”
“Amateur.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh and he reaches to tug the end of your jean jacket, pulling you closer. You convince yourself it’s so that you can hear him over the loud music, “You want to be on my team then? We’ll crush him.”
“Oh so you want an easy win, captain?” You tease, “That doesn’t sound like you.”
Garrett scoffs, leaning his head down, eliminating the height difference that he has over you. You draw a breath into your lungs, ignoring how the cologne mixed with familiar laundry detergent slips straight up your nose,
“Just one time won’t hurt, will it ribbit?”
Despite your better judgement, you find yourself smiling.
—
As suspected, you absolutely dominate flip-cup. There’s three rounds and a lot of laughter and when you get to the finish line (again, utterly victorious), you tip the contents of the red cup (which you’ve filled with the grape seltzer that Garrett gave you) past your lips. There’s obnoxious cheering and arms over your shoulders and you’re giggling at your brother gaping at you from his third cup (two behind).
“You didn’t tell me that’s what you were going to college for,” He tosses out but he’s laughing. “Professor of Flip-cup.”
“Shut up,” You laugh at the play-on words for the teaching degree you’re going after, shaking your head as you set the cup down.
You feel a gaze tied to you, like the pull on some sort of invisible string, glancing up to the other end of the table where Garrett is watching with a fond smile. He crinkles his nose, making a soft laugh flutter out of your chest before your attention has to go back to your brother—who is stumbling towards you and placing both of his hands on your shoulders.
“I’d say you cheated but I feel like that goes against sibling comradery."
You shake your head, “You’re the only person I know who can use ‘comradery’ in a sentence while fucked up.” It’s practically been straight liquor in the other cups he was playing with, “How bout some water?”
He shakes his head, taking a step back and nearly drawing you over with him, “Don’t kill my buzz.”
Another laugh spills out, “What about enjoying your buzz horizontally?” You look over your shoulder to call for Garrett but he’s already there, a warm weight behind you, reaching for your brother’s one arm.
“C’mon, let’s get you to your room, champ.”
You skirt under Garrett’s grasp, letting him step forward to support your brother’s weight by guiding his arm around his shoulders. Tucker, nearby, steps in on the other side to help. You smile gratefully at them, following them inside as your brother rambles about the unfairness of his younger sister beating him in flip-cup.
“Has to be against the rules somehow.” He grumbles.
“She’s like a year younger than you, dude.” Garrett defends your honor with a laugh before you can step in. He tosses you a wink and then helps your brother maneuver the steps towards the upstairs bedrooms.
A soft hum leaves your chest, wanting to follow them but then realizing it’d probably be best if you got your brother some aspirin. There really is nothing worse than a hangover. You wander towards the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and the bottle of pills before heading upstairs. When you get to the doorway of your brother’s room, you can hear him talking to Garrett, which is somehow him thanking his bed for not spinning like the entire room is.
But then you catch the tailend of another comment— “Keep an eye on her. Please? She’s—”
Garrett is quiet a moment before you can picture him nodding, “Yeah, you know I will.”
You swallow over something familiar that curls up from your stomach, something that gets caught in your throat and tastes too much like acid. You try to blame it on the amount of alcoholic seltzers you’ve had but you know it’s not that. The thing is, comments like that between your brother and Garrett shouldn’t bother you. Your brother has always been protective of you; you’re incredibly close, you look out for one another. You’ve got matching feather tattoos on your arms because ‘birds of a feather flock together’.
It’s not what he says, exactly. It’s moreso…it’s Garrett’s reply.
Garrett, who’s always been your friend too in a lot of ways. Him keeping an eye on you shouldn’t dig under your skin either. There’s nothing wrong with that, with Garrett having your back. But it’s…it’s because your brother asks, because you’re the ‘little sister’ in this situation, because Garrett is unwillingly making you sound like some sort of responsibility he has to take on—
It feels like bugs crawling under your skin. It feels like disappointment and guilt. It feels like feelings never reciprocated sagging like a heavy load.
Turning to head back downstairs, you disappear into the havoc of the downstairs party before Garrett and Tucker come out of the bedroom.
—
Despite the sourness sitting in the bottom of your belly, you spend the night with other friends. There are plenty of girls that also go to Briar U that you’ve interacted with over the years, a solid three faces that you wish you saw a lot more often than you did. Going to a different school usually doesn’t bother you, even though you feel like you have a lot more connections here than your own college. It’s not too far from Briar U, but the small distance is probably a blessing in disguise …otherwise it’d probably be way more obvious that you have a crush on someone you can never have.
You’re not saying you don’t believe you’re a catch for anyone who might want you, it’s not that at all. You consider yourself someone who’s pretty and smart and capable of standing up for themselves. You don’t take shit from anyone, you laugh freely, you enjoy what you enjoy without apologizing for it. But…
Sometimes it feels like Garrett is so far out of your league, someone who fills up an entire room without trying, who smiles easily and flirts and makes jokes that shouldn’t be funny but somehow are. He’s gorgeous—dark bedroom eyes, tall with broad shoulders, someone filled out athletically thanks to years of training his body, and curly hair that is somehow never styled yet always attractively a mess. Unfair really. Because it’s not just his looks, which somehow makes it worse. He’s a gentleman; he’s thoughtful and actually listens to you when you talk; he remembers things, things you’d never think were important but are. He’s kind and soft and incredibly loyal.
And…
And he’ll probably never see you as someone other than your brother’s younger sister.
Your smile is pulled into a full grin when your friend, Mya, tugs your arm above your head to spin you on the dance floor. A laugh leaves your chest, the bass of the music pulsing and living under your skin. You close your eyes to it, moving along with the beat, taking a shot from your other friend Stella when she hands them out.
You tip it back, a cough following, shaking your head as you set the small cup down. The liquor sits like a weight in your belly and you know you should balance it out with water, not wanting to be completely trashed at this party. The last thing you want to do is have to spend the night by sleeping on the couch (questionable) or on the floor in your brother’s room (uncomfortable).
You pull yourself away from your friends, slipping into the kitchen. You’ve lost your jean jacket a while ago, just the slip dress clinging to the curves of your body. You hum, running a hand along the side of your neck, reaching for a clean cup in the cabinet to grab yourself some cold water from the fridge.
A body comes up behind you, too close, almost pressing into your spine. You turn a little, frowning at the unfamiliar guy that’s standing near you like he knows you. You blink, sipping on your water, leaning your back into the counter,
“Sorry, did you need in the fridge?” You ask.
He shakes his head, his gaze slipping down your body. He’s handsome in that sort of cookie-cutter way—short brunette hair, glazed blue eyes, full lips. He’s drunk or high, or a combination of the two, grinning lazily at you in a suggestiveness that makes your stomach clench.
Clearing your throat, you’re intent on moving but he sidesteps you, his body blocking your own. He’s much taller than you, towering in a way that’s supposed to make you feel small. And you hate that it does. “I saw you dancing. Those moves are something else.”
Your eyebrows draw together, not bothering thanking this guy for a terrible pick-up line, “Yeah,” You clear your throat, “Well, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Wait, I was thinking you could teach me some moves—” His hand comes down onto the counter, boxing you in.
“No,” You cut him off. A full sentence. You don’t owe him an explanation.
Which he clearly doesn’t like; his entire demeanor changes. His eyebrows draw together, his hand wrapping around your wrist, “Don’t be fucking rude.”
You open your mouth to say something else, trying to pull your arm out of his grasp but Garrett comes up behind him, seemingly out of nowhere. He clamps a hand down on his shoulder, yanking him backwards. He’s at least a head taller than this guy, manhandling him like a ragdoll.
“Are you deaf?” His voice is as cold and unforgiving as ice, “Because she was pretty clear with the word ‘no’.”
You draw in a breath, your heartbeat in your ears because despite holding your ground, you hate that you were beginning to feel panicked. Even though the party is packed, even though you know people here, no one enjoys the feeling of being ignored, of being backed into a corner. Claustrophobia unwinds from your ribs as Garrett creates that distance again between you and this asshole. He steps closer as silent support, yet doesn’t invade your space.
The guy stumbles back, annoyed and scoffing in your direction, “Maybe tell your girlfriend not to wear a dress that’s an open invitation next time.”
You can tell the exact moment that Garrett sees red. His nostrils flare, his shoulders straighten, the muscle in his jaw flexes and even though you’re reaching for him, even though you’re saying his name, Garrett turns in a quick snap. His fist goes flying, connecting with this dick’s nose. You wince, hearing the crunch of bone, the guy folding like a cheap shirt. He crumples into the island counter, whining about his face and you reach out to gently wrap your arm around Garrett’s forearm to keep him in place.
“Fucking bitch.” The jerk spits, though you’re not sure if it’s directed at you or Garrett. You hold onto him just in case, not wanting things to get worse.
Garrett’s chest is heaving, barely controlled anger once again fizzling directly underneath the surface, “Get the fuck out of my house.”
Nearby, Dean and Logan hear the commotion and what Garrett says. They reach for the idiot who’s moaning about his nose and hustle him towards the front door. Swallowing over an emotion in your throat, you tug on the bottom of Garrett’s shirt.
“Garrett.”
But he won’t stop watching the guy getting kicked out of his house, like he needs to see it in order for it to be true. You reach up on your toes, touching his jawline. His gaze instantly comes back to you, softening when he realizes how shaken up you are. Putting on a tough front is one thing but…you can’t hide the after effects of adrenaline crackling underneath your skin.
Your fingers tremble as you trail them along his cheek, eyeing his knuckles, “You’re bleeding.”
He flexes his fingers, shrugging his one shoulder. He doesn’t talk for a moment and you wonder if that’s because he’s still too angry. You’ve seen him like this a handful of times on the ice, the way a shadow passes over his eyes, the way it lives on his face, like it’s somehow sucking the life out of him. You know about the relationship with his dad, the broken pieces that his parents have left behind, the way Garrett thinks that no one will be able to handle those shards with their bare hands.
You guide his chin between your fingers, forcing him to look at you, “Come with me.”
“I’m fine.” He manages to say.
“Did I make it sound like it was a choice?”
A flutter of a smile pulls the corners of Garrett’s mouth, the tension in his shoulders dissipating as he nods and follows you towards the bathroom. You step to the side so that he enters first and once you’re inside, you close the door behind you.
Motioning him to lean against the sink, you draw in a breath that centers your nerves, trying to ignore how massive Garrett feels tucked into this space with you. His tall and lean body rests against the sink, flexing his fingers again as he looks at his bloody knuckles. You tap his leg so he shifts and you’re able to look under the sink for washcloths—perfect.
“You’re okay?” He asks.
A small smile at your success lives on your features as you wet the washcloth in warm water. You can feel Garrett’s gaze on your face, tracing over your form. It’s intimate in a way you wish it wasn’t. You clear your throat, moving to stand in front of him, gently picking up his large hand in yours to look at his knuckles.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” You assure him, the shaking from before mostly disappearing. “You didn’t need to do that.”
A scoff leaves his throat, “Don’t, ribbit.”
“I’m serious. I can take care of myself.”
And you don’t think Garrett is somehow questioning that? Maybe it’s not about that at all. His eyebrows draw together and he winces as you begin cleaning his knuckles, “I’m not gonna let any asshole talk to you like that. I’m just not.”
Distantly, you know that’s not what set Garrett off in the first place; that this guy put his hands on you and wouldn’t take ‘no’ as an answer. Could you have handled it? Probably. Was it good that Garrett stepped in?
You nod softly, letting out a slow breath, “Would hate for you to do something stupid like break your fingers on an asshole’s face, lose your prince of hockey reputation.”
A laugh slips out of his mouth, seeming to wrap around your entire body with warmth, “Oh so you think I’m a prince.”
Your cheeks pink and you really hope that the blush isn’t visible in this dim-lit bathroom which, once again, feels far too small. You can feel the heat of Garrett’s body along your own like an intimate caress.
“I think you’re an idiot,” You mumble, chewing your lower lip. You’re satisfied that his knuckles don’t look too bad, setting the washcloth aside.
“Am I gonna make it, doc?”
A small smile twitches at your mouth, “Might have to amputate the whole arm, just to be safe.”
He raises his eyebrows, a laugh stumbling out, “Probably best you’re not going to college to be a doctor.”
You hum, your chest feeling warm. Your gaze snags onto his for a long moment and you can’t stop yourself from lifting your hand and touching some of the curls near his forehead, “You don’t have to throw your fist at anyone just because my brother said to keep an eye on me.”
Garrett’s eyebrows arch, “You think that’s why I did that?”
You shrug your one shoulder, unaware of what other reason there could be. Your gaze averts down to your wrist, red marks on your skin from that dick grabbing you. You run your fingers over the touch, clearing your throat in the silence.
Garrett shifts, reaching out and touching your chin. He clasps it between his fingers, tipping it up, forcing your eyes to meet his. His thumb draws a shape along your jaw, his mouth parting as he looks at you, really looks at you.
“You think the reason I do anything is because you’re my friend’s younger sister?”
For once, you find yourself sort of blinking at him, words caught somewhere hiding behind your teeth and under your tongue. You think about moments you’ve had with Garrett, things over the years that have felt insignificant but…maybe they’re not. The way he’s constantly giving you his jacket when you forget your own, or picking food up from Malone's when he knows you’ve got a big test to study for, the way he’s tucked you into into his chest when you’re biting your lip hard, trying not to cry, the way he’s danced with you to ridiculous songs, or has always had your favorite snack on hand at his place, how he’s taken you to horror movies your friends won’t see with you, how he’s held your hand, a lazy intertwining of fingers, for no point other than to just have that contact between the two of you.
–all these things you thought Garrett might be doing because you’re his friend’s sister, because you and him are friends too–
And yet, he seems to be telling you that…
Garrett smiles a little; can see the moment where the spark of a thought catches fire, his thumb tracing over your lower lip.
“Just one time I wish your thoughts weren’t so loud in your head,” He teases, both of his hands cupping your face.
Well he’s finally got his wish. There are zero thoughts spinning around in your brain, just a warm static, like the grayish snow that falls over the TV when a channel is lost. A roaring of flames. A washing machine spinning sounds between your ears, a wave crashing over a shore. Absolutely nothing other than the heartbeat on your tongue, the warmth of Garrett’s hands covering your skin, and the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt to pull him close.
The way you kiss him.
There’s the tiniest moment of hesitation before Garrett is standing to his full height from where he was leaning against the sink, his arms wrapping around your waist. Your body molds to his, your fingers threading through his hair. There’s a full bodied shudder when Garrett’s tongue slips into your mouth, when he rolls it against his own, when he lifts you up and turns to place you onto the sink.
The entire thing creaks under your weight and soft squeak leaves your throat as you think it might come crashing down underneath you. A laugh slips out, joining with Garrett’s, his hands on your hips to keep you in place.
“Bad idea.” You mumble.
Garrett steps between your legs, his nose brushing yours in a bunny kiss, “The sink or the kiss?”
You chew on your lower lip, shrugging your one shoulder, “I dunno, I’ve probably had better kisses than that one.”
He scoffs out a laugh, running a hand through his curls, pursing his lips, “Damn alright,” His gaze falls back to yours as he leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “Guess I’ll just have to try harder.”
“I guess you will.” You smile, the words barely out of your mouth before he’s kissing you again.
—
You try to convince yourself that kissing Garrett will just be the one time. This one night.
He’s given you a t-shirt to wear to sleep in, he’s given you his bed, insisting he’ll sleep on the floor (he won’t—you pull him to the other side where he sprawls out on top of the covers). You stare at the ceiling and count the glow in the dark stars that are stuck to paint, a small smile pulling at your mouth. Your lips are buzzing with the sensation of his kiss, skin warm with where his hands were lingering.
His hand rests along your hip, trailing to rest on your stomach until you turn and tuck yourself back against him. He molds himself along your body, his chin resting on your shoulder, planting kisses on your neck that tickle but the last thing you want him to do is stop.
And it’s then you know that it’ll never be just this one time.
—
The morning comes slow and the house is quiet. You head downstairs while Garrett is still sleeping, intent on making coffee. Tucker has already made a pot and is wandering around the living room and kitchen collecting trash from the party. It’s not as bad as you’ve seen it before but still, you wince. There’s nothing worse than waking up to a mess left behind by a bunch of strangers.
You grab a trashbag in solidarity after adding cream and sugar to your mug. While you take a few sips from your coffee cup, Tucker offers you a small smile when you go to pick up forgotten red cups and empty bottles. You fill up one trash bag, moving to take it outside. Garrett intercepts, coming down from upstairs. He’s in a pair of gray sweatpants, no shirt, and half asleep. He rubs his one eye before reaching for the trash bag,
“Don’t worry about it, ribbit.” His voice is gruff from sleep, stoking heat in your lower belly.
Pushing that aside, you insist, “I want to help,” and look over your shoulder at what’s left. They could easily crank out a clean house in like…two hours, if they all pitched in.
He smiles, stepping down all the way to where you’re standing. His fingers brush through your hair, pushing it over your shoulder, “I got you, go see if Tucker is into making pancakes this morning.”
You purse your lips, Garrett’s gaze snagging on your mouth. He leans down and presses a soft kiss there; seems like something he’s unable to stop himself from doing. He pulls away, going to take the trash to the back to toss it out—
And your brother stands there on the steps, raising his eyebrows at the soft interaction he’s caught.
Your heart hammers in your chest, your mouth opening and ready to…explain somehow. Not to apologize, because you’re not sorry for this fading line in the sand completely disappearing. He shakes his head, raising his hand to stop you,
“I thought it would have been sooner.”
You blink at him because what? That’s…really the last thing you expected him to say. “Are you fucking kidding me?” You let out a laugh, your hand settling on your chest, resting over your fluttering heart.
Your brother shrugs, glancing down the hallway to where Garrett is coming back inside, “Just seems like something’s been going on for a while, I was just trying to see who made the first move.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, “Me, I guess. Or…I dunno. It was a joint effort.”
He makes a face, “Damn. I owe Dean fifty bucks.”
Your mouth falls open even though a scoff of a laugh tumbles forth. Garrett slides up beside you, hooking his arm around your shoulders, taking a long look at your brother, “You look like shit.”
“Fuck you, Graham.” There’s warmth as he speaks, an amused eyeroll following as he passes you both to head into the kitchen, “Tuck, please tell there will be pancakes.”
You can hear Tucker chuckle and you turn underneath Garrett’s arm to face him. He looks down at you with a small smile, leaning until his nose brushes yours. You can’t stop yourself from threading some of your fingers through the curls near his forehead, pushing them back even though you know they’re not going to stay.
“Apparently there was a bet going on,” You say wryly.
“Unsurprising.” He comments, glancing into the kitchen as your brother helps Tucker with breakfast, “Though disappointing I couldn’t put money towards it.”
You smack his chest, a laugh bubbling out of his lungs as his fingers hook around your wrist, bringing your hand to his lips. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, keeping you close. A slow breath leaves your chest, your arm loosely wrapped around his waist, thumb tracing up and down his spine along his lower back. It’s like you both were waiting for this moment, a wave of everything that was unspoken settling against your skin. Something that somehow has always been there yet tucked behind uncertainties and doubt.
“I guess we’re kinda bad at this.” You joke, watching Garrett resting your shared hands against his chest. Your stomach flutters when you feel the beat of his heart underneath your fingertips.
He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I dunno, I think I’d rather be bad at this together than good at it with anyone else.”
A smile threatens to split your face in half at his ridiculous promise, shaking your head, “That is—”
He cuts you off with a kiss, his one hand squeezing yours while the other holds itself to your waist. You’re so glad this isn’t just a one time thing.
While there are countless things to love about Ilya, Shane always circles back to something simple: his smile. There are so many different versions of this that he can’t hold them all in the palms of his hands, so many smiles that he’s seen over the years that are his favorites for different reasons. The pull of Ilya’s lips into a smirk, the soft hidden quirk when he’s thinking about sex, the corner tugging up when he’s about to chirp back at someone on the ice mixed with the cerulean amusement of his eyes, the unabashed boyish grin when he’s excited about something—when he feels completely relaxed and able to be himself.
Lately, though, Shane thinks his favorites are when Ilya is looking at their son.
—
There’s high-pitched laughter coming from the yard.
Shane moves from the kitchen to lean against the patio door, smiling as he watches Ilya scoop three year old Rowan up and into his arms. He’s not sure what the game is, but Ilya is making dinosaur noises, carrying their son upside down by his legs before gently settling him on his back in the grass.
“Again!”
“Snova!” Ilya repeats, huffing out a laugh before gathering him up again. He rushes through the yard, Rowan’s laughter emptying into the wind. Ilya roars like a dinosaur and Rowan copies, making Shane’s heart soar in his chest.
Ilya spots him as he turns away from the lake, grinning at his husband. He walks over to the patio stairs as Shane moves to step down them, feet in the grass.
“I have caught rare dinosaur.” He turns, Rowan hanging down over Ilya’s shoulder and down his back upside down. Rowan giggles, his shirt spilling over his face. “What should we do with him?”
Shane hums, pretends to think and then blows a raspberry against Rowan’s belly. Rowan squeals, making Ilya laugh.
“Exactly what I thought.” Ilya agrees.
He sets Rowan down gently again, who instantly gets back up. His eyes are bright and wide, curls frizzy with random blades of grass sticking out of them. He hugs around Ilya’s leg and looks up at him.
“Again.” He insists.
Ilya smiles down at him, affection clear on his face as he runs his hand through his hair, “Snova.”
—
Sometimes Shane will decide that he needs to clean out closets and sets of clothes that Rowan’s grown out of. It’s the perfect opportunity to take into account what things can be resold or donated and it makes him feel more balanced and in control of the unknown path he’s traveling down with Ilya in being a parent. He boxes up things Rowan’s not wearing anymore, keeping a few pieces as momentos along with baby blankets and tiny socks, and then moves onto his own closet that he shares with Ilya.
Rowan sits in the corner of the walk-in closet as Shane works, reading one of his books. He points to a page every so often and talks about an animal on there, currently something about jellyfish and sharks. Shane will smile over his shoulder and add commentary like ‘so cool, buddy’ or ‘I didn’t know that’ and Rowan is more than pleased to talk his ear off every single time.
Shane tugs a small plastic bin out from underneath piles of shoes, popping it open to look inside. He assumes it might be sweaters or something else out of season but it’s…
He grins as he pulls out Ilya’s Boston Raiders jersey tucked alongside Shane’s Metros one. Jesus, he feels so old looking at these, even though it wasn’t too long ago. Long enough, he figures.
Rowan comes up alongside him, leaning into his leg. Shane brushes his hand through his curls and when he refolds the Metros jersey, Rowan tugs the Boston one over his head. Amusement flutters warmly in Shane’s chest and he crouches so he can help tug Rowan’s small arms through the sleeves. His hair is a mess of frizzy ringlets when his head emerges but…
“Want to go show papa?”
Rowan grins, turning on his heel, running out of the room with practically a ROZANOV blanket over himself. Shane sticks close behind, making sure he doesn’t trip as he finds Ilya cooking in the kitchen.
“Paaapaaaa look!”
Years of practiced reflexes has Ilya turning quickly, wooden spoon abandoned in the pot of sauce he was stirring. There’s a moment in which he just sort of…stares, glancing up and locking eyes with Shane, who is smiling as he leans against the island counter.
“Looks good, right?” Shane teases, “Think we could get him on the ice soon.”
A soft laugh is tucked away in Ilya’s chest as he leans down and picks Rowan up into his arms but Shane can see the heavy emotion in his gaze, the words he doesn’t say, the connection he undoubtedly is making to his own father and their relationship with hockey.
Ilya places a hand on Rowan’s chest, running his thumb over the top of the Raiders logo, “Practically already best in league.” He eventually says, tickling Rowan’s side until their son squirms with laughter to be put down.
Ilya kisses his forehead before he sets him on the floor, Rowan rushing to grab a toy hockey stick that lights up from his toy chest in the living room. Anya chases the puck around that he moves haphazardly across the floor. Shane and Ilya watch him from the kitchen, a soft smile pulling at his husband’s lips.
Shane leans into him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Ilya draws in a breath, turning his head to look at him, “I will have to show him what strong backhand looks like,” Shane scoffs out a laugh, reaching up to tap Ilya on the cheek, “You can not be trusted.”
“You’re an asshole,” He whispers against Ilya’s lips, making his husband’s smile radiant, before pulling Shane closer for a kiss.
—
One of the most beautiful things about Ilya is how expressive he is, he lives in his emotions to the fullest. Shane thinks it stems from the fact that he was told by people like his father and brother that he was weak for showing ‘undesirable’ feelings, that certain things were frowned upon in the imaginary stature they built up of a man. Shane remembers how long it took for Ilya to become comfortable to cry in front of him. Even now, sometimes, he dips his chin to shadow his face before Shane won’t allow him to hide.
It’s a knee-jerk reaction, Shane thinks, to pretend those emotions don’t exist because he’s learned he should be ashamed of them.
Ilya never makes their son feel that way.
It’s been a long day out and about doing different errands that he and Ilya have put off until a Saturday when they’ve had the time—there’s a cafe they wanted to go to, grocery shopping, a farmer’s market, meeting Hayden and family at the park and seeing his parents for dinner.
Shane can tell the exact moment Rowan begins to become restless and cranky. He’s missed his afternoon nap and starts to crash right when Ilya is paying for the bill, putting his card back into his wallet. It doesn’t take much, just a blue crayon breaking that he was using with David and—
“Uh oh,” Yuna smiles a little knowingly as Rowan hiccups. There’s a soft whine, big tears as he looks down at the broken crayon. “You know Shane, you used to do the same thing when we’d go to the park. You’d collect leaves and then cry when they were blown away.”
“Thanks, mom.” Shane deadpans and Ilya smirks before setting the pen down, reaching for their son.
“Okay, is okay,” Ilya settles Rowan on his lap, which is when the crying actually starts. Big gulpfuls of air as he wails, that bone-deep tired sort of sobbing that Shane feels like all parents in the general vicinity can recognize. He draws him close to his chest, rubbing up and down his back, Rowan’s crying muffled against his shoulder.
Not once does Ilya try to quiet him or worry about the other people around their table who might be staring. Not once does Ilya chastise him or pass him onto Shane because Rowan isn’t quieting down.
“I know, malen'kiy zhuchok,” He soothes, little beetle, pressing his lips into his curls, “You’re tired. You sound just like daddy when he doesn’t get a nap.”
Shane narrows his eyes at him, gently flicking Ilya in the back of his neck when he stretches his arm out across the top of his husband’s chair.
Rowan curls up against Ilya’s chest, grabbing onto his frog stuffed animal that Shane hands to him. Ilya’s begun a slow rocking motion, keeping him close, lulling him to at least close his eyes. Rowan sniffles, hiccuping as his breathing slows down, Ilya leaning down to brush a kiss to his wet cheek.
And it’s almost exactly how Rowan falls asleep when they get home. Ilya lays down on the couch, positioning Rowan on his chest as they put a Scooby-Doo movie on. It’s barely through the opening credits before Rowan’s out like a light. Ilya doesn’t get up right away to put him to bed, he readjusts his arms to hold him, a gentle and fond expression on his face as he looks down and strokes through his mop of curls.
Shane’s heart feels so full.
“Got room for one more?” He asks, hovering near the couch.
Ilya purses his lips, “If you pay toll.” He touches his fingers to his mouth.
Shane grins, shaking his head as he leans down to kiss him and carefully puts himself on the other side of his body, tucking himself between Ilya and the couch. His arm stretches overtop of Rowan’s back, Ilya dipping his head down and pressing a few lazy kisses to Shane’s forehead.
Shane can feel him smiling.
(if you liked this hollanov parent microfic, you might like my other ones :))
Belmont taking up residence in your mind is so real. That happened to me, as well. Didn’t even think he was that cute in the beginning and then now think he’s so attractive. I’m obsessed with your writing and can’t wait to read your Garrett fic. I’m so greedy bc I hope you’ll write more for off campus and I haven’t even read the first one yet 😅
😭😭😭it legit came on so suddenly lol you know it's bad for me when i begin writing. that's how you know SOMEONE is living rent free. anyways, i don't think it'll be as big as the MFL fics were but I think there definitely could be a handful of other garrett moments. i appreciate you showing interest 🥹
Absolutely FLIPPING out seeing you writing for off campus. I’m a long time reader of your Nick leister fics and was SO SO SO excited to see it. Thank you so much for sharing it with us. I would love to see more off campus fics from you in the future, if you feel so inclined. Was so so good. Loved it so much.
🫠🫠🫠 crying, thank you. i just felt inspired! wouldn't say no to having more garrett graham in my life tbh
If Ilya’s being honest with himself, he never pictured what it’d look like to have a long-term relationship. His life always felt like it was moving too fast in order to settle down, he never considered people he hooked up with to be someone who’d stick around longer than the sheets cooling. Even with Svetlana, when they were consistently sleeping with one another, a part of him wondered if he’d just wake up one day and she’d stop messaging him. That she’d stop caring. Relationships always felt like something out of reach, something he convinced himself he wasn’t interested in. He was too busy, too lazy, too fussy—why have one of something when he could have many? Too unlovable. Too scared.
He never pictured being someone’s boyfriend because he didn’t consider himself someone who could be good at it. In turn, who would want to be with someone like him? Who would want to be his girlfriend or boyfriend when they peeled back the mask he always wore and saw what was underneath? A gruesome painting hidden in someone’s attic. A haunted house. Something broken.
Shane, as his boyfriend, has never once looked at him like that.
Shane never treats him like he’s too much—no matter what emotion he might be embracing. Even if it’s something wholeheartedly ridiculous.
Ilya lifts his foot in the air as he stands on the patio, a huff leaving his lips as he tries to squint in the sun to see the damage. This is what he gets for caring about the variety of animals that live around the cottage—he’s pretty sure a dog would never do this to him but—
A frog ribbits from where Ilya set it on a rock near the lake before jumping right in. He narrows his eyes at it, “Yes, you are welcome.”
“Are you arguing with that frog again?”
Ilya turns his head to look up at his boyfriend, leaning his hip against one of the patio chairs because he doesn’t want to put his foot down. “No.” Then, “He keeps getting stuck in flower pot.”
Shane smiles a little, “Maybe he wants to live there, Ilya.”
“He’s too fat to live there, Shane. Ribbits all night in distress.”
“Oh, so you speak frog now?”
Ilya crinkles his nose, waving his hand at him, “Well no more rescues because now I’m injured.”
Shane gives him a onceover before taking a few steps closer, attempting to figure out what he’s being dramatic about, “I’ll call the paramedics immediately.”
“There is large splinter in my foot.” Ilya whines, bending his knee to try and get a good look at the pad of his foot again.
He nearly loses his balance and Shane’s hand comes down on his waist to steady him, “Alright, c’mon. Let’s go inside and take a look.”
Ilya pouts, “Carry me.”
Shane snorts, “Come on. Big baby.” But his voice is warm and soothing as his hand slides down Ilya’s spine and back up to massage the muscles near his shoulders.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, wobbling inside and making his way to the couch. He plops into the corner, waiting for Shane to come back with the first-aid kit. “Your big baby.”
His boyfriend hooks his fingers around Ilya’s chin, drawing him into a soft kiss that confirms that statement before he sits on the coffee table. He digs through the first-aid kit for tweezers before picking Ilya’s ankle up and examining his foot. He squints at his skin, drawing his thumb down the arch in one fluid motion—
And Ilya nearly kicks him, “Ostanavlivat'sya.” He huffs.
Shane grins— “Stop? Are you ticklish here and never told me?”
“I’m about to lose my foot and this is how I am treated?”
A chuckle sounds out of Shane’s throat, “Oh my god.” He doesn’t tickle him again but he does hold his foot closer, trying to find the splinter Ilya’s talking about. Then… “Okay here…” He purses his lips, “You know what? You’re right, we mise well just amputate. Can’t be saved.”
Ilya covers his face with one hand, “I knew it. Just—ouch!” Shane pulls the splinter right out, a smug look on his face when Ilya’s gaze falls to him again.
“This is the tiniest splinter I have ever seen.”
“Lzhets,” Ilya shoves at Shane’s knee with his other foot. “Good thing you are not real doctor, terrible bedside manner.”
Shane smirks, setting the tweezers down in the first-aid lid. He does grab a small antiseptic wipe and very gently (with much care and affection that’s obvious in his hands) cleans where the splinter was before pressing a kiss to the top of Ilya’s foot.
“Don’t need a band-aid, I think.” Shane raises his eyebrows, closing the first-aid box.
Ilya purses his lips, “Think the kisses have healed me, maybe one more.” He hooks his fingers onto Shane’s shirt, tugging until he’s leaning over him on the couch, their lips joining in a smile.
word count: 4,907
ship: Garrett Graham x reader
rating: PG-13
summary: Your brother's best friend should be off limits. Probably. Right?
TW: slightly uncomfy situations for reader at a party
notes: idk seeing belmont dance to 'girls' unlocked something in me, enjoy i guess (along with the three anons who've been asking lol)
notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :)
notes3: wrote a lot of nick leister x reader (my fault london) fics, if that's your thing
One thing about Briar U is that they know how to throw a party.
This isn’t your school, but since your brother has been going here since he was a freshman, you’re practically a connoisseur of these house parties. You know your junior year should probably be spent locking down your future but…there’s something about being tucked into an off-campus residence, loud music pulsing in your veins, familiar tipsy faces you’ve gotten to know over the years, drinks that are always too sweet and snacks that are always too salty—you love it. You fucking love it.
Wearing a silky black slip dress and a jean jacket, paired with your favorite high-top Converse, you head through the open front door of where your brother stays with some of his hockey teammates. You smile when you spot Dean and Logan playing an intense game of air hockey, moving towards the kitchen to see if you can find your brother or anyone else you might recognize. The place is packed, bodies shuffling through various states of being drunk. There’s too loud laughter and conversation and the utter, familiar chaos pulls the corners of your lips up in amusement.
Shifting past a couple that won’t stop making out against the fridge, you peruse the open bottles of liquor, grabbing a random red cup to look in. Seems clean…ish. Before you can pour something inside of it, a hand comes from your right and yanks it right out of your hand.
“I wouldn’t, ribbit.”
You roll your eyes towards the ceiling at the familiar nickname that’s been yours for the past three years. Turning, you lean your body against the counter, face to face with Garrett Graham.
Hockey legend. Your brother’s best friend. Your utter pain in the ass—and completely off limits (and probably out of your league).
“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”
Garrett purses his lips, pretending to think about it, “You ever going to stop rescuing frogs roadside?”
Your cheeks pink, “That was one time.”
He smiles, something warm and affectionate that reaches directly between your ribs and threatens to tug them apart. You’ve known Garrett as long as you’ve had the nickname, as long as your brother’s been going to school here. They’re both on the same hockey team and became close friends. Garrett has been to family dinners, he’s been to holidays, he’s gotten you birthday and Christmas gifts, he’s comforted you over ex boyfriends who didn’t deserve your attention, he’s walked you to your car on late nights at Malone’s, he’s bought you coffee with that sixth sense that knows when you need a pick-me-up, he’s shared inside jokes and driven you home when you were too drunk to get there yourself. Hence the frog nickname.
One ride a few years ago, one frog in the middle of the road rescued, one nickname tied loosely to your entire being forever.
You can pretend you hate it. But you don’t.
You glance down at the closed can of alcoholic seltzer as it’s placed into your hand, “I saved you a grape one.”
You really hate that, however. How thoughtful Garrett is, how kind and silly and funny he can be. It’s truly unfair. That you’re friends with someone your brother considers his bestie and that he…he can’t be anything else to you. You’re pretty sure your brother wouldn’t care but Garrett doesn’t see you like that. Why would he?
It’s a bad day to have eyes. You trail them over his form, trying not to be obvious. He’s wearing something that shouldn't be so groundbreaking, and yet the black jeans paired with a simple black tee somehow makes your entire body throb. Heat skitters right through your veins like liquid honey, gaze snagging on the gold chain he’s always got on resting on his sternum and tight curls brushing against his forehead.
Your fingers itch to tuck them out of the way. You instead pop the seltzer can open; much safer. “Thanks. Have you seen my brother?”
Garrett inclines his head down the hallway, “Think he’s outside losing in a game of flip-cup.”
“Amateur.”
His chest rumbles with a laugh and he reaches to tug the end of your jean jacket, pulling you closer. You convince yourself it’s so that you can hear him over the loud music, “You want to be on my team then? We’ll crush him.”
“Oh so you want an easy win, captain?” You tease, “That doesn’t sound like you.”
Garrett scoffs, leaning his head down, eliminating the height difference that he has over you. You draw a breath into your lungs, ignoring how the cologne mixed with familiar laundry detergent slips straight up your nose,
“Just one time won’t hurt, will it ribbit?”
Despite your better judgement, you find yourself smiling.
—
As suspected, you absolutely dominate flip-cup. There’s three rounds and a lot of laughter and when you get to the finish line (again, utterly victorious), you tip the contents of the red cup (which you’ve filled with the grape seltzer that Garrett gave you) past your lips. There’s obnoxious cheering and arms over your shoulders and you’re giggling at your brother gaping at you from his third cup (two behind).
“You didn’t tell me that’s what you were going to college for,” He tosses out but he’s laughing. “Professor of Flip-cup.”
“Shut up,” You laugh at the play-on words for the teaching degree you’re going after, shaking your head as you set the cup down.
You feel a gaze tied to you, like the pull on some sort of invisible string, glancing up to the other end of the table where Garrett is watching with a fond smile. He crinkles his nose, making a soft laugh flutter out of your chest before your attention has to go back to your brother—who is stumbling towards you and placing both of his hands on your shoulders.
“I’d say you cheated but I feel like that goes against sibling comradery."
You shake your head, “You’re the only person I know who can use ‘comradery’ in a sentence while fucked up.” It’s practically been straight liquor in the other cups he was playing with, “How bout some water?”
He shakes his head, taking a step back and nearly drawing you over with him, “Don’t kill my buzz.”
Another laugh spills out, “What about enjoying your buzz horizontally?” You look over your shoulder to call for Garrett but he’s already there, a warm weight behind you, reaching for your brother’s one arm.
“C’mon, let’s get you to your room, champ.”
You skirt under Garrett’s grasp, letting him step forward to support your brother’s weight by guiding his arm around his shoulders. Tucker, nearby, steps in on the other side to help. You smile gratefully at them, following them inside as your brother rambles about the unfairness of his younger sister beating him in flip-cup.
“Has to be against the rules somehow.” He grumbles.
“She’s like a year younger than you, dude.” Garrett defends your honor with a laugh before you can step in. He tosses you a wink and then helps your brother maneuver the steps towards the upstairs bedrooms.
A soft hum leaves your chest, wanting to follow them but then realizing it’d probably be best if you got your brother some aspirin. There really is nothing worse than a hangover. You wander towards the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and the bottle of pills before heading upstairs. When you get to the doorway of your brother’s room, you can hear him talking to Garrett, which is somehow him thanking his bed for not spinning like the entire room is.
But then you catch the tailend of another comment— “Keep an eye on her. Please? She’s—”
Garrett is quiet a moment before you can picture him nodding, “Yeah, you know I will.”
You swallow over something familiar that curls up from your stomach, something that gets caught in your throat and tastes too much like acid. You try to blame it on the amount of alcoholic seltzers you’ve had but you know it’s not that. The thing is, comments like that between your brother and Garrett shouldn’t bother you. Your brother has always been protective of you; you’re incredibly close, you look out for one another. You’ve got matching feather tattoos on your arms because ‘birds of a feather flock together’.
It’s not what he says, exactly. It’s moreso…it’s Garrett’s reply.
Garrett, who’s always been your friend too in a lot of ways. Him keeping an eye on you shouldn’t dig under your skin either. There’s nothing wrong with that, with Garrett having your back. But it’s…it’s because your brother asks, because you’re the ‘little sister’ in this situation, because Garrett is unwillingly making you sound like some sort of responsibility he has to take on—
It feels like bugs crawling under your skin. It feels like disappointment and guilt. It feels like feelings never reciprocated sagging like a heavy load.
Turning to head back downstairs, you disappear into the havoc of the downstairs party before Garrett and Tucker come out of the bedroom.
—
Despite the sourness sitting in the bottom of your belly, you spend the night with other friends. There are plenty of girls that also go to Briar U that you’ve interacted with over the years, a solid three faces that you wish you saw a lot more often than you did. Going to a different school usually doesn’t bother you, even though you feel like you have a lot more connections here than your own college. It’s not too far from Briar U, but the small distance is probably a blessing in disguise …otherwise it’d probably be way more obvious that you have a crush on someone you can never have.
You’re not saying you don’t believe you’re a catch for anyone who might want you, it’s not that at all. You consider yourself someone who’s pretty and smart and capable of standing up for themselves. You don’t take shit from anyone, you laugh freely, you enjoy what you enjoy without apologizing for it. But…
Sometimes it feels like Garrett is so far out of your league, someone who fills up an entire room without trying, who smiles easily and flirts and makes jokes that shouldn’t be funny but somehow are. He’s gorgeous—dark bedroom eyes, tall with broad shoulders, someone filled out athletically thanks to years of training his body, and curly hair that is somehow never styled yet always attractively a mess. Unfair really. Because it’s not just his looks, which somehow makes it worse. He’s a gentleman; he’s thoughtful and actually listens to you when you talk; he remembers things, things you’d never think were important but are. He’s kind and soft and incredibly loyal.
And…
And he’ll probably never see you as someone other than your brother’s younger sister.
Your smile is pulled into a full grin when your friend, Mya, tugs your arm above your head to spin you on the dance floor. A laugh leaves your chest, the bass of the music pulsing and living under your skin. You close your eyes to it, moving along with the beat, taking a shot from your other friend Stella when she hands them out.
You tip it back, a cough following, shaking your head as you set the small cup down. The liquor sits like a weight in your belly and you know you should balance it out with water, not wanting to be completely trashed at this party. The last thing you want to do is have to spend the night by sleeping on the couch (questionable) or on the floor in your brother’s room (uncomfortable).
You pull yourself away from your friends, slipping into the kitchen. You’ve lost your jean jacket a while ago, just the slip dress clinging to the curves of your body. You hum, running a hand along the side of your neck, reaching for a clean cup in the cabinet to grab yourself some cold water from the fridge.
A body comes up behind you, too close, almost pressing into your spine. You turn a little, frowning at the unfamiliar guy that’s standing near you like he knows you. You blink, sipping on your water, leaning your back into the counter,
“Sorry, did you need in the fridge?” You ask.
He shakes his head, his gaze slipping down your body. He’s handsome in that sort of cookie-cutter way—short brunette hair, glazed blue eyes, full lips. He’s drunk or high, or a combination of the two, grinning lazily at you in a suggestiveness that makes your stomach clench.
Clearing your throat, you’re intent on moving but he sidesteps you, his body blocking your own. He’s much taller than you, towering in a way that’s supposed to make you feel small. And you hate that it does. “I saw you dancing. Those moves are something else.”
Your eyebrows draw together, not bothering thanking this guy for a terrible pick-up line, “Yeah,” You clear your throat, “Well, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Wait, I was thinking you could teach me some moves—” His hand comes down onto the counter, boxing you in.
“No,” You cut him off. A full sentence. You don’t owe him an explanation.
Which he clearly doesn’t like; his entire demeanor changes. His eyebrows draw together, his hand wrapping around your wrist, “Don’t be fucking rude.”
You open your mouth to say something else, trying to pull your arm out of his grasp but Garrett comes up behind him, seemingly out of nowhere. He clamps a hand down on his shoulder, yanking him backwards. He’s at least a head taller than this guy, manhandling him like a ragdoll.
“Are you deaf?” His voice is as cold and unforgiving as ice, “Because she was pretty clear with the word ‘no’.”
You draw in a breath, your heartbeat in your ears because despite holding your ground, you hate that you were beginning to feel panicked. Even though the party is packed, even though you know people here, no one enjoys the feeling of being ignored, of being backed into a corner. Claustrophobia unwinds from your ribs as Garrett creates that distance again between you and this asshole. He steps closer as silent support, yet doesn’t invade your space.
The guy stumbles back, annoyed and scoffing in your direction, “Maybe tell your girlfriend not to wear a dress that’s an open invitation next time.”
You can tell the exact moment that Garrett sees red. His nostrils flare, his shoulders straighten, the muscle in his jaw flexes and even though you’re reaching for him, even though you’re saying his name, Garrett turns in a quick snap. His fist goes flying, connecting with this dick’s nose. You wince, hearing the crunch of bone, the guy folding like a cheap shirt. He crumples into the island counter, whining about his face and you reach out to gently wrap your arm around Garrett’s forearm to keep him in place.
“Fucking bitch.” The jerk spits, though you’re not sure if it’s directed at you or Garrett. You hold onto him just in case, not wanting things to get worse.
Garrett’s chest is heaving, barely controlled anger once again fizzling directly underneath the surface, “Get the fuck out of my house.”
Nearby, Dean and Logan hear the commotion and what Garrett says. They reach for the idiot who’s moaning about his nose and hustle him towards the front door. Swallowing over an emotion in your throat, you tug on the bottom of Garrett’s shirt.
“Garrett.”
But he won’t stop watching the guy getting kicked out of his house, like he needs to see it in order for it to be true. You reach up on your toes, touching his jawline. His gaze instantly comes back to you, softening when he realizes how shaken up you are. Putting on a tough front is one thing but…you can’t hide the after effects of adrenaline crackling underneath your skin.
Your fingers tremble as you trail them along his cheek, eyeing his knuckles, “You’re bleeding.”
He flexes his fingers, shrugging his one shoulder. He doesn’t talk for a moment and you wonder if that’s because he’s still too angry. You’ve seen him like this a handful of times on the ice, the way a shadow passes over his eyes, the way it lives on his face, like it’s somehow sucking the life out of him. You know about the relationship with his dad, the broken pieces that his parents have left behind, the way Garrett thinks that no one will be able to handle those shards with their bare hands.
You guide his chin between your fingers, forcing him to look at you, “Come with me.”
“I’m fine.” He manages to say.
“Did I make it sound like it was a choice?”
A flutter of a smile pulls the corners of Garrett’s mouth, the tension in his shoulders dissipating as he nods and follows you towards the bathroom. You step to the side so that he enters first and once you’re inside, you close the door behind you.
Motioning him to lean against the sink, you draw in a breath that centers your nerves, trying to ignore how massive Garrett feels tucked into this space with you. His tall and lean body rests against the sink, flexing his fingers again as he looks at his bloody knuckles. You tap his leg so he shifts and you’re able to look under the sink for washcloths—perfect.
“You’re okay?” He asks.
A small smile at your success lives on your features as you wet the washcloth in warm water. You can feel Garrett’s gaze on your face, tracing over your form. It’s intimate in a way you wish it wasn’t. You clear your throat, moving to stand in front of him, gently picking up his large hand in yours to look at his knuckles.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” You assure him, the shaking from before mostly disappearing. “You didn’t need to do that.”
A scoff leaves his throat, “Don’t, ribbit.”
“I’m serious. I can take care of myself.”
And you don’t think Garrett is somehow questioning that? Maybe it’s not about that at all. His eyebrows draw together and he winces as you begin cleaning his knuckles, “I’m not gonna let any asshole talk to you like that. I’m just not.”
Distantly, you know that’s not what set Garrett off in the first place; that this guy put his hands on you and wouldn’t take ‘no’ as an answer. Could you have handled it? Probably. Was it good that Garrett stepped in?
You nod softly, letting out a slow breath, “Would hate for you to do something stupid like break your fingers on an asshole’s face, lose your prince of hockey reputation.”
A laugh slips out of his mouth, seeming to wrap around your entire body with warmth, “Oh so you think I’m a prince.”
Your cheeks pink and you really hope that the blush isn’t visible in this dim-lit bathroom which, once again, feels far too small. You can feel the heat of Garrett’s body along your own like an intimate caress.
“I think you’re an idiot,” You mumble, chewing your lower lip. You’re satisfied that his knuckles don’t look too bad, setting the washcloth aside.
“Am I gonna make it, doc?”
A small smile twitches at your mouth, “Might have to amputate the whole arm, just to be safe.”
He raises his eyebrows, a laugh stumbling out, “Probably best you’re not going to college to be a doctor.”
You hum, your chest feeling warm. Your gaze snags onto his for a long moment and you can’t stop yourself from lifting your hand and touching some of the curls near his forehead, “You don’t have to throw your fist at anyone just because my brother said to keep an eye on me.”
Garrett’s eyebrows arch, “You think that’s why I did that?”
You shrug your one shoulder, unaware of what other reason there could be. Your gaze averts down to your wrist, red marks on your skin from that dick grabbing you. You run your fingers over the touch, clearing your throat in the silence.
Garrett shifts, reaching out and touching your chin. He clasps it between his fingers, tipping it up, forcing your eyes to meet his. His thumb draws a shape along your jaw, his mouth parting as he looks at you, really looks at you.
“You think the reason I do anything is because you’re my friend’s younger sister?”
For once, you find yourself sort of blinking at him, words caught somewhere hiding behind your teeth and under your tongue. You think about moments you’ve had with Garrett, things over the years that have felt insignificant but…maybe they’re not. The way he’s constantly giving you his jacket when you forget your own, or picking food up from Malone's when he knows you’ve got a big test to study for, the way he’s tucked you into into his chest when you’re biting your lip hard, trying not to cry, the way he’s danced with you to ridiculous songs, or has always had your favorite snack on hand at his place, how he’s taken you to horror movies your friends won’t see with you, how he’s held your hand, a lazy intertwining of fingers, for no point other than to just have that contact between the two of you.
–all these things you thought Garrett might be doing because you’re his friend’s sister, because you and him are friends too–
And yet, he seems to be telling you that…
Garrett smiles a little; can see the moment where the spark of a thought catches fire, his thumb tracing over your lower lip.
“Just one time I wish your thoughts weren’t so loud in your head,” He teases, both of his hands cupping your face.
Well he’s finally got his wish. There are zero thoughts spinning around in your brain, just a warm static, like the grayish snow that falls over the TV when a channel is lost. A roaring of flames. A washing machine spinning sounds between your ears, a wave crashing over a shore. Absolutely nothing other than the heartbeat on your tongue, the warmth of Garrett’s hands covering your skin, and the way your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt to pull him close.
The way you kiss him.
There’s the tiniest moment of hesitation before Garrett is standing to his full height from where he was leaning against the sink, his arms wrapping around your waist. Your body molds to his, your fingers threading through his hair. There’s a full bodied shudder when Garrett’s tongue slips into your mouth, when he rolls it against his own, when he lifts you up and turns to place you onto the sink.
The entire thing creaks under your weight and soft squeak leaves your throat as you think it might come crashing down underneath you. A laugh slips out, joining with Garrett’s, his hands on your hips to keep you in place.
“Bad idea.” You mumble.
Garrett steps between your legs, his nose brushing yours in a bunny kiss, “The sink or the kiss?”
You chew on your lower lip, shrugging your one shoulder, “I dunno, I’ve probably had better kisses than that one.”
He scoffs out a laugh, running a hand through his curls, pursing his lips, “Damn alright,” His gaze falls back to yours as he leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “Guess I’ll just have to try harder.”
“I guess you will.” You smile, the words barely out of your mouth before he’s kissing you again.
—
You try to convince yourself that kissing Garrett will just be the one time. This one night.
He’s given you a t-shirt to wear to sleep in, he’s given you his bed, insisting he’ll sleep on the floor (he won’t—you pull him to the other side where he sprawls out on top of the covers). You stare at the ceiling and count the glow in the dark stars that are stuck to paint, a small smile pulling at your mouth. Your lips are buzzing with the sensation of his kiss, skin warm with where his hands were lingering.
His hand rests along your hip, trailing to rest on your stomach until you turn and tuck yourself back against him. He molds himself along your body, his chin resting on your shoulder, planting kisses on your neck that tickle but the last thing you want him to do is stop.
And it’s then you know that it’ll never be just this one time.
—
The morning comes slow and the house is quiet. You head downstairs while Garrett is still sleeping, intent on making coffee. Tucker has already made a pot and is wandering around the living room and kitchen collecting trash from the party. It’s not as bad as you’ve seen it before but still, you wince. There’s nothing worse than waking up to a mess left behind by a bunch of strangers.
You grab a trashbag in solidarity after adding cream and sugar to your mug. While you take a few sips from your coffee cup, Tucker offers you a small smile when you go to pick up forgotten red cups and empty bottles. You fill up one trash bag, moving to take it outside. Garrett intercepts, coming down from upstairs. He’s in a pair of gray sweatpants, no shirt, and half asleep. He rubs his one eye before reaching for the trash bag,
“Don’t worry about it, ribbit.” His voice is gruff from sleep, stoking heat in your lower belly.
Pushing that aside, you insist, “I want to help,” and look over your shoulder at what’s left. They could easily crank out a clean house in like…two hours, if they all pitched in.
He smiles, stepping down all the way to where you’re standing. His fingers brush through your hair, pushing it over your shoulder, “I got you, go see if Tucker is into making pancakes this morning.”
You purse your lips, Garrett’s gaze snagging on your mouth. He leans down and presses a soft kiss there; seems like something he’s unable to stop himself from doing. He pulls away, going to take the trash to the back to toss it out—
And your brother stands there on the steps, raising his eyebrows at the soft interaction he’s caught.
Your heart hammers in your chest, your mouth opening and ready to…explain somehow. Not to apologize, because you’re not sorry for this fading line in the sand completely disappearing. He shakes his head, raising his hand to stop you,
“I thought it would have been sooner.”
You blink at him because what? That’s…really the last thing you expected him to say. “Are you fucking kidding me?” You let out a laugh, your hand settling on your chest, resting over your fluttering heart.
Your brother shrugs, glancing down the hallway to where Garrett is coming back inside, “Just seems like something’s been going on for a while, I was just trying to see who made the first move.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, “Me, I guess. Or…I dunno. It was a joint effort.”
He makes a face, “Damn. I owe Dean fifty bucks.”
Your mouth falls open even though a scoff of a laugh tumbles forth. Garrett slides up beside you, hooking his arm around your shoulders, taking a long look at your brother, “You look like shit.”
“Fuck you, Graham.” There’s warmth as he speaks, an amused eyeroll following as he passes you both to head into the kitchen, “Tuck, please tell there will be pancakes.”
You can hear Tucker chuckle and you turn underneath Garrett’s arm to face him. He looks down at you with a small smile, leaning until his nose brushes yours. You can’t stop yourself from threading some of your fingers through the curls near his forehead, pushing them back even though you know they’re not going to stay.
“Apparently there was a bet going on,” You say wryly.
“Unsurprising.” He comments, glancing into the kitchen as your brother helps Tucker with breakfast, “Though disappointing I couldn’t put money towards it.”
You smack his chest, a laugh bubbling out of his lungs as his fingers hook around your wrist, bringing your hand to his lips. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, keeping you close. A slow breath leaves your chest, your arm loosely wrapped around his waist, thumb tracing up and down his spine along his lower back. It’s like you both were waiting for this moment, a wave of everything that was unspoken settling against your skin. Something that somehow has always been there yet tucked behind uncertainties and doubt.
“I guess we’re kinda bad at this.” You joke, watching Garrett resting your shared hands against his chest. Your stomach flutters when you feel the beat of his heart underneath your fingertips.
He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I dunno, I think I’d rather be bad at this together than good at it with anyone else.”
A smile threatens to split your face in half at his ridiculous promise, shaking your head, “That is—”
He cuts you off with a kiss, his one hand squeezing yours while the other holds itself to your waist. You’re so glad this isn’t just a one time thing.
If Ilya’s being honest with himself, he never pictured what it’d look like to have a long-term relationship. His life always felt like it was moving too fast in order to settle down, he never considered people he hooked up with to be someone who’d stick around longer than the sheets cooling. Even with Svetlana, when they were consistently sleeping with one another, a part of him wondered if he’d just wake up one day and she’d stop messaging him. That she’d stop caring. Relationships always felt like something out of reach, something he convinced himself he wasn’t interested in. He was too busy, too lazy, too fussy—why have one of something when he could have many? Too unlovable. Too scared.
He never pictured being someone’s boyfriend because he didn’t consider himself someone who could be good at it. In turn, who would want to be with someone like him? Who would want to be his girlfriend or boyfriend when they peeled back the mask he always wore and saw what was underneath? A gruesome painting hidden in someone’s attic. A haunted house. Something broken.
Shane, as his boyfriend, has never once looked at him like that.
Shane never treats him like he’s too much—no matter what emotion he might be embracing. Even if it’s something wholeheartedly ridiculous.
Ilya lifts his foot in the air as he stands on the patio, a huff leaving his lips as he tries to squint in the sun to see the damage. This is what he gets for caring about the variety of animals that live around the cottage—he’s pretty sure a dog would never do this to him but—
A frog ribbits from where Ilya set it on a rock near the lake before jumping right in. He narrows his eyes at it, “Yes, you are welcome.”
“Are you arguing with that frog again?”
Ilya turns his head to look up at his boyfriend, leaning his hip against one of the patio chairs because he doesn’t want to put his foot down. “No.” Then, “He keeps getting stuck in flower pot.”
Shane smiles a little, “Maybe he wants to live there, Ilya.”
“He’s too fat to live there, Shane. Ribbits all night in distress.”
“Oh, so you speak frog now?”
Ilya crinkles his nose, waving his hand at him, “Well no more rescues because now I’m injured.”
Shane gives him a onceover before taking a few steps closer, attempting to figure out what he’s being dramatic about, “I’ll call the paramedics immediately.”
“There is large splinter in my foot.” Ilya whines, bending his knee to try and get a good look at the pad of his foot again.
He nearly loses his balance and Shane’s hand comes down on his waist to steady him, “Alright, c’mon. Let’s go inside and take a look.”
Ilya pouts, “Carry me.”
Shane snorts, “Come on. Big baby.” But his voice is warm and soothing as his hand slides down Ilya’s spine and back up to massage the muscles near his shoulders.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, wobbling inside and making his way to the couch. He plops into the corner, waiting for Shane to come back with the first-aid kit. “Your big baby.”
His boyfriend hooks his fingers around Ilya’s chin, drawing him into a soft kiss that confirms that statement before he sits on the coffee table. He digs through the first-aid kit for tweezers before picking Ilya’s ankle up and examining his foot. He squints at his skin, drawing his thumb down the arch in one fluid motion—
And Ilya nearly kicks him, “Ostanavlivat'sya.” He huffs.
Shane grins— “Stop? Are you ticklish here and never told me?”
“I’m about to lose my foot and this is how I am treated?”
A chuckle sounds out of Shane’s throat, “Oh my god.” He doesn’t tickle him again but he does hold his foot closer, trying to find the splinter Ilya’s talking about. Then… “Okay here…” He purses his lips, “You know what? You’re right, we mise well just amputate. Can’t be saved.”
Ilya covers his face with one hand, “I knew it. Just—ouch!” Shane pulls the splinter right out, a smug look on his face when Ilya’s gaze falls to him again.
“This is the tiniest splinter I have ever seen.”
“Lzhets,” Ilya shoves at Shane’s knee with his other foot. “Good thing you are not real doctor, terrible bedside manner.”
Shane smirks, setting the tweezers down in the first-aid lid. He does grab a small antiseptic wipe and very gently (with much care and affection that’s obvious in his hands) cleans where the splinter was before pressing a kiss to the top of Ilya’s foot.
“Don’t need a band-aid, I think.” Shane raises his eyebrows, closing the first-aid box.
Ilya purses his lips, “Think the kisses have healed me, maybe one more.” He hooks his fingers onto Shane’s shirt, tugging until he’s leaning over him on the couch, their lips joining in a smile.
hate when you find a character whose so infuriatingly Your Type that its embarrassing like yeahg no one is gonna be surprised when i announce this is my new Guy Of The Month
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