୨ৎ .ᐟ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 ── zowens.
. ݁₊ ⊹ plot: after a long night on the road, exhaustion leaves kevin owens and sami zayn stripped down to basic habits instead of defensive armor, moving through the assigned hotel on shared silence that only comes from years of knowing each other too well. however, a check-in mistake leaves them with one room... and one bed, forcing kevin into his usual self-erasure and sami into finally pushing against it.
. ݁₊ ⊹ notes: FIRST TIME WRITING A WRESTLER X WRESTLER SHIPFIC!!!! it is also for @wrestlezaynia based on @edgessunflower's secret santa event, so i sincerely hope you enjoy it, considering it is my first time writing about these two dorks. :D
kevin drops his bag a second too hard at his feet getting out of the driver's seat of the rental car. the dull "thud!" echoes more than it should. he rolls his shoulders once, then again, like he's trying to shake loose something lodged deep in his muscles and bones. it doesn't help. his boots scrape the concrete when he walks away, bag in hand; not dragging, but a thing close enough. the weight of the day sits in his joints.
meanwhile, sami's already pacing a half-step ahead, then circling back, restless. his leg bounces when he eventually stops, heel tapping against the pavement without permission. he's exhausted too—you can see it in the slump of his shoulders—but his energy won't power down. it frays instead.
kevin exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, like he's counting it out so he doesn't snap at anything, especially something fucking stupid. he rubs at the back of his neck, fingers digging in harder than necessary.
sami scrubs a hand through his hair, then immediately fidgets with the strap of his bag. he opens his mouth like he's about to say something... but doesn't. tries again two steps later, and still can't get whatever it is out.
the two stand closer than they need to. not touching, but just close enough that their bags bump lightly when one of them shifts. neither reacts and neither apologizes.
finally making it within distance of the hotel's entrance to see if anyone is at the front desk, kevin pauses at the automatic doors, waiting for sami without even thinking.
sami almost walks into him, but catches himself at the last second. kevin doesn't comment. just moves again once sami's beside him.
the hotel doors slide open. cool air washes over them; it may be artificial, but it's too clean for them to complain. kevin adjusts his grip on his bag, jaw tightening. sami's leg bounces again, faster this time, like his body already knows something's about to go wrong.
they walk side by side, bags slung low, footsteps syncing without effort. neither one of them reachers for their phones. no one fills the air with any kind of noise. the quiet isn't tense, like a tautened rubber band waiting to be snapped.
kevin's gaze stays forward, unfocused. it's the look of someone who doesn't need to be alert around the person beside him.
sami glances around the lobby, then forward again, content to let the current quiet moment exist without commentary. it was wordless; not awkward or heavy.
it’s the kind of silence that settles into your shoulders instead of pressing on your chest. kevin slows half a step when sami does.
sami adjusts without looking, matching kevin’s pace automatically. neither notices they’re doing it. a room service rolls past. someone laughs near the elevators. the sounds skim around them instead of through them.
they don’t let them intrude on their “bubble”. their arms hang close—close enough that fabric brushes fabric when one of them adjusts their grip. not a flinch nor an awareness spike.
they don’t know that this closeness has existed longer than either of them remembers deciding it was okay. kevin veers slightly left to avoid a column.
sami follows the adjustment without thinking. it’s muscle memory. learned over years of hallways, airports, and locker rooms. once they finally get there, they stop at the front desk. kevin sets his bag down with another dull “thud”.
sami rocks back on his heels once, then stills; the last moment of normal before a disruption. kevin’s lips tautens, then untightens, a conscious choice. after that, he rubs a hand down his face, slow and grounding.
he knows he’s close to freaking at absolutely nothing. that awareness is the only thing keeping him steady. his foot taps once.
he shifts his stance and rolls his shoulders again, like he’s bracing against the last inch of his patience slipping away. he doesn’t say anything yet. he doesn’t trust himself to yet.
sami glances over, just a quick look. not a look of concern, but recognition. he’s seen this version of kevin before. this is the kevin who sits after matches that didn’t go the way they were supposed to. not angry or sulking, just hollowed out.
his patience worn thin from holding himself together for too long. the version that rubs at his face like he’s trying to reset himself. kevin angles his body slightly away from sami. he’s restraining himself from… something.
he’s putting space between his mood and the person he refuses to take it out on. he opens his mouth like he’s gonna say something, maybe comment on something trivial:
maybe the line of people checking in, the wait, they day they’ve had. but, he closes it again. breath in. breath out. both hands draw tight on his bag handles. then he stills.
his irritation’s contained for now, but not erased. the silence stretches a beat too long. sami rocks back on his heels, then forward again. his fingers drum against the strap of his bag an uneven rhythm.
he glances at kevin’s jaw from the angle he can see—set, controlled—and something in the french-canadian twitches.
he subsequently exhales sharply through his nose and launches in without preamble.
“man, i swear every hotel lobby smells the same, right??” the words tumble out faster than necessary. he doesn’t wait for an answer.
he gestures vaguely around them, hand cutting through the air. “like, clean, but fake-clean. you know? like they sprayed something that’s supposed to smell like “rest.””
he makes air quotes with two fingers, already half-grinning at himself. his knee bounces harder now that he’s started. kevin hums noncommittally. “mm.” it’s not a dismissal of sami’s talking, but permission for him to keep blabbering.
sami nods like kevin’s fully engaged. “every time i walk into one of these places, even on vacation or a break, i’m like, yeah, okay, sure, i’m definitely gonna sleep great here. totally. eight hours. easy. he snorts at his own joke.
scratches at his beard, fingers restless. he shifts his weight again, words stacking on top of each other.
“and then it’s like: two a.m., ceiling’s got that weird stain, and i’m thinking about some dumb thing i said in catering three years ago.” he glances at kevin, checking for a reaction.
kevin doesn’t look at him when he answers. “you do that anyway, no matter what hotel we’re in.” flat delivery. familiar. a beat passes.
sami grins, relief flashing across his face, hearing kevin finally talk to him, showing him he’s not too mad. “okay, yeah, fair. that’s—yeah. that’s true.” he laughs once, quick and bright, then keeps rolling.
sami afterward motions toward the front desk line. “watch. i bet they mess up the reservation. they always do. it’s like a rite of passage for wrestlers traveling on the road.” he says it lightly, but his foot taps twice in quick succession.
his voice doesn’t slow. if anything, it speeds up. “not that it matters. i mean, it’s fine. worst case, we… whatever. we’ll figure it out if that happens.”
he shrugs too quickly, like he’s waving away a thought he doesn’t want to examine. kevin finally looks over.
he takes in sami’s bouncing knee and his rapid-fire delivery of his sentences. he doesn’t interrupt. “you’re wired.”, kevin says, neutral. sami scoffs, shaking his head.
“what? no. i’m tired. there’s a difference.” he pauses. then, he adds, quieter but still fast. “…okay, maybe i’m both.” he rubs at the back of his neck, eyes flicking away. “long day, man.”
the words land softer than everything else he’s said. the line to the desk inches forward. sami keeps talking, but smaller comments now; observations about the carpet, the lighting, the sign behind the desk.
kevin listens in that steady way he has, irritation held in check, letting sami burn off the last of his adrenaline.
once again, the line stalls. sami rocks back on his heels again. “you ever notice…”, sami starts, already half-smiling, “…how hotel lines always move slower the more tired you are??”
he gesticulates vaguely at the people ahead of them, palms up. “like, i swear, the universe knows. it’s personal.” kevin exhales through his nose. almost a laugh, but not quite.
“yeah. big conspiracy.” the words are right, but the delivery is still flat. sami chuckles anyway, nodding like that was enough. “knew it. knew you’d agree.” normally, he’d push it farther. normally, kevin would volley back. this time, there’s a pause.
kevin shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. he doesn’t add anything. the banter stalls. not dead, just… waiting. sami peers over, quick and subtle. he catches the lack of eye contact. the way kevin’s attention stays forward, inward.
he doesn’t call it out. doesn’t tease him for being grumpy. sami tries again, softer this time. “at least the carpet’s not that weird pattern that makes you dizzy.”
he squints at the floor like he’s evaluating it seriously. “that one with the swirls?? hate that one.” kevin grumbles.
“hm. that one sucks.” still no eye contact. sami smiles, but it fades faster than usual. he nods once, like he’s marking time.
“yeah.”, he says. he lets the joke die there. sami doesn’t push. he knows this version isn’t unkind and he definitely doesn’t hate him!! but, he’s just spent. the banter will come back later.
it always does. sami steps a half-pace closer, shoulder nearly brushing kevin’s arm. he’s not trying to comfort him, it just happens to be how close they are that makes it look that way!
but, kevin doesn’t move away. the line inches forward again. kevin finally peeks at sami; brief, acknowledging. “almost there.”, he mutters. sami agrees, easy.
“yeah.” the banter isn’t gone, it’s just weary. like them. the line stops again. sami shifts, craning his neck toward the front desk, then sighs. “this is starting to feel like—“, kevin cuts in immediately, without looking at him.
“don’t.” sami grins anyway.
“i didn’t even say it yet!” kevin gazes, deadpan.
“you were gonna say cleveland.” sami laughs under his breath.
“i was gonna say that cleveland.” kevin snorts, short and involuntary.
“yeah. that one.” no explanation nor context. just the shared understanding that that week was actual pure hell. sami adjusts his bag, eyes flicking toward the parking lot outside.
“at least you drove, but...” kevin’s mouth twitches.
“hey. that wasn’t my fault.” sami tilts his head, incredulous.
“you took a “shortcut”.” kevin winces slightly.
“it shaved off time.” sami raises an eyebrow.
“it added three hours!!!” kevin exhales through his nose.
“okay, yeah, but—“, sami cuts him off smiling.
“buuttt we saw that gooooaaaat.” kevin breaks then. just a little.
“that goat was aggressive.” sami nods solemnly.
“emotionally, yep.” anyone else listening would be lost. the column crawls onward. sami glimpses at a laminated sign behind the desk and looks with narrowed eyes. “hey.”
kevin hums in response. suddenly, this brings up another memory of the two on the road for kevin. he jumps on the opportunity to bring it up before sami does.
“if this place has—“ sami lifts a finger, already laughing. he already knew what kevin was thinking about.
“don’t!! don’t finish that sentence!” kevin smirks.
“i didn’t say it.” sami shakes his head.
“you know every time you speak about it, it just so seems to happen the next morning.” kevin shrugs.
“that’s not science, rami.” sami mutters, amused.
“tell that to the “complimentary breakfast incident.”” kevin groans quietly.
“we agreed to never bring that up again.” sami grins wider.
“you brought it up, kev.” kevin rolls his eyes. sami notices kevin’s shoulders ease, just a fraction. his irritability dulls. sami doesn’t comment.
kevin scans longer, holding the look a second longer. “you always remember the worst parts.” sami shrugs.
“someone has to.” kevin huffs.
“you enjoy it.” sami’s smile goes smaller, fond.
“only because you were there.” the line moves. finally, they’re the ones at the desk now. kevin steps up the the desk first, resting his hand on the counter.
sami falls in beside him without thinking. the rhythm from before is still intact: tired, automatic, familiar. “hey.” flat. polite with minimal effort.
the desk clerk smiles professionally, fingers already moving across the keyboard. “good evening. checking in??”
“yeah. should be under steen. there should also be another separate one under sebei. rami. we’re wrestlers with the wwe. they might’ve also listed us as owens and zayn.
might be grouped in with the uh, wwe company account.” sami leans his elbow on the counter, looking around the lobby like this is already a done deal. the clerk’s fingers pause.
just a second too long. sami can already feel kevin’s jaw tensing even if it’s not visible yet. “hm.”, the clerk lets out a noise of confusion. that sound, neutral, usually meant to be meaningless, lands wrong. the clerk clicks again. scrolls.
“okay, i’ve got… one reservation here under steen!” sami lets out a light laugh immediately, reflexive.
“yeah, that’s him.” he flashes a friendly smile, already smoothing the path he doesn’t know is rocky. kevin’s shoulders square, posture sharpening.
he doesn’t move closer, but braces. “there should be two rooms.” calm and controlled. not aggressive, but corrective. the clerk tilts the screen slightly, scanning once again.
“i don’t see a room booked under a “sebei” or a “zayn.” i’m… only seeing one room booked. one bed.” the words drop between them. sami’s laugh comes quicker this time, a touch higher.
“okay. cool, yeah, that’s—“, he gestures vaguely between himself and kevin. “—that’s probably just a system thing, right??” he’s still smiling, trying to make this situation easy. the clerk shakes her head, apologetic.
“i’m sorry, but it’s just the one room.” a beat. “and, we’re fully booked tonight with other guests and other wrestlers also with you guys.” another beat. “sooo, it’ll be one room.”
then, casually: “one bed.” kevin’s jaw locks. his shoulders square fully now, broadening unconsciously. his hand strengthens on the strap of his bag. he doesn’t look at sami.
sami catches a glimpse of kevin as he looks sideways, clocking the shift instantly. he laughs again, softer but forced. “right. yeah. okay.” he taps the counter lightly with his fingers, like this is nothing.
“there should be two separate reservations.” his voice is still even. but it’s firmer now. the clerk shakes her head once more, genuinely apologetic.
“i really am sorry. i can double-check, but…” a few more clicks on the desktop computer’s keyboard. “…yeah. it’s just the one.” silence stretches, heavier than before.
the lobby hum creeps back in; elevator chimes and distant footsteps. their bubble has now been popped. sami exhales through his nose, nodding quickly. “okay. yeah. that’s fine!!” he turns to kevin, grin still in place. “we’ll figure it out.”
the words are light, but his look is searching. kevin stares at the counter. then at the singular keycard in the clerk’s hand.
he’s already thinking three steps ahead: any alternatives, emergency exits if it gets too awkward, how close they’ll be next to each other in the room.
the clerk slides the keycard forward. sami reaches for it without thinking, but hesitates, hand hovering. kevin’s jaw tenses anew.
the elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. it’s empty. kevin steps in first, a habit, bag slung low.
sami follows a beat later, closer than necessary because there’s really nowhere else to stand, even though it’s empty. the doors close. the space shrinks.
the quiet here is different than the lobby’s quiet—tighter, less forgiving. no ambient noise. no distractions. just the hum of cables pulling the elevator up and the soft whir of movement.
sami opens his mouth like he might say something. but, he closes it again. he clears his throat, trying anyway. “well. at least the elevator’s fast.” the words echo slightly. they sound louder than they should. kevin responds, noncommittal.
“mm.” that’s it. the joke dies where it stands. the elevator mirror catches them both at once, standing shoulder to shoulder. too close… close enough that their reflections blur together at the edges. neither of them notices immediately.
kevin’s eyes flick up and catch the mirror. he freezes for half a beat. the proximity registers. he shifts his weight: subtle and careful. not away, just adjusted!!
the distance he creates is negligible. still close enough that their elbows nearly touch. still close enough that sami can feel his heat through the fabric of his clothes.
sami noticed kevin shifting away from him in the mirror, not directly head-on, though. he doesn’t move anyway. sami swallows, eyes fixed forward. kevin stares at the floor indicator lighting up one number at a time.
his jaw sets over again, that same controlled tension from the front desk. the elevator hum feels louder now. sami’s breathing is a little quicker; not enough to comment on, but noticeable if you know him. meanwhile, kevin’s is slow and deliberate.
they don’t look at each other. sami repositions his stance just a bit, feet moving for balance as the elevator rises. his shoulder brushes kevin’s arm. barely.
he murmurs, almost without thinking, “sorry.”
kevin answers immediately, “you’re good.” the words come too fast, like he was waiting to say them. the elevator slows between floors, signifying they were almost at their floor.
that brief weightless pause stretched longer than it should. sami looks briefly at the mirror again. their reflections are still close. still not touching, but still not far apart.
eventually, the elevator chimes softly as it reaches their floor. the doors hesitate—just a second. neither of them moves right away. then, the doors open.
they stop outside the room. the hallway carpet muffles sound; everything feels hushed. kevin adjusts his grip on the key card, thumb rubbing the edge once, twice. sami rocks back on his heels, waiting. neither of them speaks.
kevin swipes the card, the lock beeping. the door swings inward. light spills out—warm, neutral, impersonal. the room is visible all at once. one bed. centered. made too neatly. no divider. no corner to hide in. the room offers no alternatives.
the door finishes opening. no one steps inside right away. the space hangs there, waiting. kevin exhales: slow, controlled, heavier than before. not a sigh. more like… bracing.
his shoulders square, instinctively. like he’s preparing for something he already knows he won’t fight. sami’s gaze flicks from the bed to kevin’s posture. he stills.
the joke he might’ve made dies before it reaches his mouth. kevin steps into the room first, purposeful. “i’ll take the floor.”, kevin says. the words come out fast. too fast. sami blinks.
“what?? no!” he steps in after him, dropping his bag near the door. “that’s stupid.” kevin sets his bag down near the dresser. keeps his back to sami.
“it’s fine.” he gestures vaguely at the bed. “you take it.” the bed sits there, impartial and unforgiving. taking up too much space. demanding a decision neither of them wants to make yet. sami runs a hand through his hair, frustration creeping in.
“kev, there’s not even a big enough couch.” he glances at the floor. “you’re gonna wreck your back!” kevin shrugs, still not turning.
“i’ve slept worse places. it’s true. that’s the problem. sami stares at him. stares at the way his shoulders tense, the way he’s already decided to disappear into inconvenience.
sami’s voice drops. “you always do this.” kevin looks at him then. expression unreadable. tired, guarded.
“do what??” make yourself smaller, remove yourself first, don’t take up space. neither of them says it because they don’t have to. the bed remains untouched.
their bags sit abandoned. the room suddenly feels too small. sami doesn’t back down. kevin doesn’t move. “why is it always you on the floor?” his voice isn’t raised.
that almost makes it worse. “why is that your first move every time something’s inconvenient?” kevin exhales, controlled.
“because it’s easier.” he motioned loosely at the room. “we’re tired. it’s one night. this doesn’t have to be a whole thing.” sami laughs once; sharp, humorless.
“it already is a whole thing. you just don’t wanna talk about it.” he steps closer, hands moving now. “you act like you’re a guest in your own life.” kevin’s jawbone strains.
“that’s not fair.” his tone sharpens, just a notch. “i’m trying to keep this from getting weird.”
“it’s already weird, kev.” he waves between them. you sleeping on the floor like you don’t belong here? that’s weird.” kevin drops his arms, palms flexing.
“some lines exist for a reason.” he looks anywhere but at sami. “you don’t just… cross them because it’s inconvenient not to.” sami’s expression tightens; not angry, but struck.
“you mean this line??”, he signals at the bed. “or the one where we pretend we haven’t been doing this for years already?” kevin turns back to him fully now.
“doing what?” the challenging question is quiet. dangerous. sami opens his mouth, then hesitates. he changes course at the last second.
“being… this.” an indistinct gesticulation. cowardice masquerading as restraint. kevin’s eyes narrow slightly.
“finish the sentence.” sami shakes his head, frustrated.
“you know what, forget it.” he runs a hand through his hair. “i—i just don’t get why you always act like you’re the one who doesn’t belong in the room.” kevin’s voice drops.
“…because sometimes i don’t.” the words land heavier than either of them expects. the room goes still. even the hum of the AC feels intrusive. sami’s expression softens.
not victorious, not smug. hurt. “you belong with me.” he winces slightly, like he didn’t mean to say it that plainly. kevin scoffs softly.
“that’s not what this is about.” sami steps closer now, no retreating.
“then what is it about??” kevin looks at the bed again. then the floor.
“it doesn’t matter.” a lie. a tired lie. they stand there, too close now. the argument circling the truth without touching it. both are right.
both are avoiding the thing that would simply end the fight. sami exhales, defeated, but not done. “you’re impossible.” kevin answers without any heat behind the response.
“yeah.” the bed remains untouched. the space between them feels thinner and heavier.
the last words hang between them, heavy and unresolved. neither of them moves for a beat too long.
kevin exhales through his nose, slow and meaningful, forcing himself to come down from the tension of him and sami’s argument. kevin uncrosses his arms.
his shoulders drop a fraction, resigned. “fine.” the word is clipped, not generous. he signaled toward the bed without looking at it. “we’ll… split it.” sami’s eyebrows lift slightly.
“…split it.” not a question, rather an acknowledgement of how bad that sounds. kevin keeps talking, faster now, like if he doesn’t, he’ll change his mind.
“middle line. our blankets stay on our respective sides.” he motions down the length of the bed, imaginary divider sharp and precise. “no—“, he stops himself, rephrasing. “we’ll just sleep.” the specificity gives him away.
these aren’t rules for sleep. they’re rules for containment. sami nods once. “okay.” he doesn’t argue because that honestly might be worse. sami places his bag on his side of the bed. kevin mirrors him on the left.
they move like they’re respecting something fragile, something they both know won’t hold by the time they wake up.
the past energy from their fight drains out, leaving something quieter behind. heavier. more intimate in a way neither asked for. they aren’t squared off anymore. aligned.
just… separated by some rules! sami clears his throat. “you good??” not sarcastic nor pushing, just asking his good friend kevin a question. kevin nods once.
“yeah.” a lie small enough to pass. kevin heads towards the bathroom, but pauses first. “i’ll—uh… shower first.” he doesn’t wait for an answer. sami watches his disappear into the bathroom. listens to the click of the door.
he exhales, long and slow. water starts running in the bathroom. sami sits on his side of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the carpet. the argument is over, yet nothing was resolved. a good 40 minutes later, the bathroom door opens.
steam follows first. kevin steps out, hair damp, t-shirt changed, expression neutralized.
sami looks up from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, never having changed positions. their eyes meet for half a second too long. “bathroom’s free.” casual. controlled.
“yeah. cool.” sami stands immediately, like he’d been waiting. they almost collide in the narrow space between bed and dresser. both stop short at the same time.
the room is in no way small; but it feels smaller now. sami steps to the side to pass. so does kevin. they shift the same direction. pause. then mirror each other the opposite way. a quiet, shared exhale.
“we’re coordinated.”, sami lightly says half-under his breath. the joke is soft.
“unfortunately.”, kevin replies with a smirk. they finally manage to pass: sami’s shoulder brushing kevin’s chest lightly as he slips by. neither reacts, but neither misses it.
the bathroom door shuts, water running again. kevin moves around the room—opening his bag, setting out toiletries, folding his hoodie with more focus than necessary.
he moves like someone who needs tasks to keep his mind from running wild. also about 40 minutes later, the bathroom door opens while kevin’s near the TV stand. sami, sleeves pushed up, toothpaste in hand.
he passes, but because there’s only one sink, and they’re deciding who’s using it first. “you using it??” kevin glanced behind him.
“go ahead.” if they were standing next to each other, they’d be side by side. close. too close for strangers. too… normal for what this is.
while sami is brushing his teeth, kevin is also there, cleaning up the bathroom before they conk out. in the mirror’s reflection, they look almost aligned. familiar angles. familiar height difference. shoulders nearly level.
sami’s still brushing his teeth. kevin’s washing his hands slower than ever. their elbows touch. kevin shifts first, just enough that it doesn’t seem like a visceral reaction. sami leans forward to spit into the sink.
when he straightens, the back of his hand grazes kevin’s forearm. bare skin to damp skin. a fraction of a second. they both freeze. “—sorry.”, sami says, almost automatically.
“it’s fine.”, kevin responds instantly. neither looks at the other directly, but in the mirror, they’re looking at each other. sami wipes his mouth with a towel.
kevin steps back to give him some space. they exit the bathroom almost in sync. again, a near-collision in the doorway. kevin pulls back his side of the covers carefully. sami does the same on his side. the invisible middle line is observed.
respected. at least, for now. sami bends to plug in his phone on the nightstand next to him. kevin shifts to allow him more space to bend. their legs graze. this time, it lingers a beat too long. not accidental. not entirely. neither comments.
sami reaches for the lamp on his side and so does kevin, on his side. “you okay?”, sami asks, softer now, checking on kevin.
“yeah.” the lamp clicks off on sami’s side. then kevin’s side. darkness. the room settles. the mattress is dipped under shared weight. neither moves closer, neither moves away.
their breathing finds a rhythm. almost the same. the room is dim—city light bleeding fairly through the curtains. neither is asleep, but both are pretending, trying to get there.
their breathing has almost synced. almost. sami shifts slightly on his pillow. the sheets rustle. he stares at the ceiling. then, casually: “…you remember columbus??” a beat. not a lick of context, no explanation, just the name of a city.
there’s no hesitation from kevin. “which time??” his voice is softer than it’s been all night. that’s the slip. he didn’t guard his answer, or measure it. he just answered.
“the one where the rental car smelled like burnt popcorn for three hours.” a quiet huff of laughter leaves him before he can stop it. “and you swore it was the engine.” a pause. then—
“it did smell like the engine.” a moment. “…never mind, popcorn doesn’t smell like that.” he turns slightly on his side without realizing it; facing sami now.
“it was popcorn. the guy before us left a whole bag under the seat.” sami turns too, now they’re facing each other in the low light. “you made me pull over twice.”
“because you were panicking!!” a quiet second. then kevin laughs. not loud, but it’s real. the earlier sharpness dissolves a little. they’re not arguing or negotiating space…
they’re remembering. “you almost fought the rental desk guy over the deposit.” kevin snorts softly.
“badly.” there’s no edge in kevin’s voice now. no tight jaw. no squared shoulders. just familiarity. comfort. sami’s voice softens.
“we didn’t have money for another car.” kevin’s smile fades just slightly.
“yeah.” a minute. quieter now, “we didn’t have money for a lot of things.” their memory does the work of not elaborating. years compressed into a few sentences.
in the faint city glow, sami studies kevin’s profile. no armor right now. no defensiveness, just… kevin! “we always figured it out.” kevin doesn’t make a response right away. he swallows.
“yeah.” but he sounds less than certain. the silence returns. but, it’s warmer now. not sharp. not braced. their shoulders are closer than before. not touching. but… closer. kevin doesn’t move away. the quiet after the columbus story lingers for a moment. neither of them rushes to fill it. the darkness feels less heavy now. their voices stay low, almost instinctively.
“god, those drives were brutal.” sami shifts on the pillow.
“eight hours for a show with like… twelve people in the crowd.” kevin huffs softly.
“twelve would’ve been good.” a second. “remember trois-rivières??” sami groans immediately.
“don’t remind me.” kevin turns slightly onto his side again.
“…you’re counting the bartender.”
“hey, he watched the whole show!” kevin lets out a quiet laugh. the tension in the room loosens another notch.
“you slipped on the ropes.”
“i didn’t ask!!” kevin’s shoulders shake slightly with a muffled laugh. the laughter fades naturally. not awkward. just tired. sami stares at the ceiling again. “you ever think about how stupid that was?” kevin hums.
“driving across provinces for gas money and hot dogs.” a minute.
“sometimes not even gas money.” sami’s voice lowers slightly.
“…i thought i was gonna quit that year.” kevin turns his head somewhat toward him.
“…you never told me that.” sami shrugs against the mattress.
“didn’t want you to know.” kevin frowns faintly in the dark.
“why??” sami exhales slowly.
“because you seemed so sure.” a break. “like you already knew you’d make it.” kevin lets out a soft, incredulous breath.
“you acted like it.” kevin stares up at the ceiling now.
“…i was terrified.” the words come simply, with no dramatics. sami turns his head partially.
“of what?” kevin thinks for a moment.
“that it wouldn’t work.” a silent little while. “that we’d wake up one day and realize we wasted ten years chasing something stupid.” the room goes still again. but, this silence is reflective.
not defensive. “yeah.” a breath. “i thought that too.” kevin turns his head toward him again. sami huffs quietly.
“we probably should’ve talked about that back then.” kevin chuckles under his breath.
“yeah.” they lie there in the dark. years of shared struggle condensed into a few quiet admissions. no bravado or performance.
just honesty they didn’t have the language for back then. sami shifts slightly on the mattress. the space between them narrows just a fraction.
neither acknowledges it, but neither moves away. the conversation slows again. but now, it feels natural. like something opening rather than closing. sami is still on his back. then, he turns his head to a certain degree.
kevin’s silhouette is closer now. facing him. sami blinks once, surprised by it. but, he doesn’t comment. the distance between them has shrunk just enough that the mattress dips differently.
the invisible middle line kevin established earlier suddenly feels less… rigid. neither of them mentions it.
as kevin settles his legs more comfortably, his knees shift forward in some measure. they brush lightly against sami’s. just fabric against fabric. soft. brief.
both of them freeze—not dramatically, just a small stillness. the contact is unmistakable. not painful nor intrusive. just there. normally, one of them would move. adjust. apologize.
create space again. this time? neither does. sami shifts, to some extent, on his pillow. not away. just enough to get comfortable. his leg stays where it is. still lightly touching kevin’s. kevin becomes aware of the contact a moment later.
his instinct flickers: “move!! reset the boundary!” but… he doesn’t. their breathing shifts barely. not faster. more aware of what’s happening. the quiet feels different now. closer. after a moment, sami speaks; voice low.
“you still awake?” kevin answers nearly instantly.
“yeah.” neither of them moves. their legs are still touching. the contact is light enough to ignore. but, neither of them are ignoring it.
what was once a strict boundary now feels… negotiable. not crossed but not as defined as it first was. just quietly altered. the room remains dark and quiet.
kevin and sami lie facing each other. the space between them is smaller now. and neither of them tries to change it. kevin exhales slowly. he’s not frustrated. more like someone who’s decided to stop pretending.
“…this feels like a bad idea.”, kevin throws out. his voice is calm and thoughtful. not accusatory. sami doesn’t ask what kevin means. he already knows. instead, he sets his head at an angle somewhat on his pillow.
“yup.” a bit passes. kevin moves marginally, still facing sami.
“not because it’s…”, he pauses, searching for the right words, “…wrong.” another breath. “just dangerous.” sami’s brow furrows faintly. he considers it instead of reacting promptly.
“dangerous how?” he’s not challenging kevin, he’s genuinely curious. kevin lets out a quiet, humorless laugh.
“because once you cross certain lines…”, he gestures vaguely between them under the blanket. “…you don’t get to pretend they weren’t there before.” a break. “everything changes.”
sami stares at him for a moment. then nods slowly. “yeahhh, i get it.” he repositions fairly on his pillow, getting more comfortable. their legs brush again with the movement.
after a moment, sami speaks again. “you know what’s funny??” kevin raises an eyebrow lightly.
“what?” sami shrugs gently.
“i don’t think it’s dangerous. i think it’s inevitable.” kevin blinks. the words hang in the air between them. it’s not dramatic at all. honest, though.
kevin studies sami’s expression in the dim light. “you say that like you’ve already made peace with it.” sami huffs a silent chuckle.
“i think i did a long time ago.” he glances briefly toward the ceiling before looking back. “you’re the one still negotiating with it.” kevin opens his mouth like he might push back. then closes it again. because… sami isn’t wrong.
the conversation has finally reached the thing they’d been circling. after a moment, kevin speaks again. softly. “we don’t have to do anything tonight.” sami nods.
“i know. but, we’re not pretending anymore either.” they stay exactly where they are. facing each other. legs still lightly touching. nothing dramatic happens. nothing needs to.
kevin’s gaze drops briefly—not away, just… lower. to the space between them. the narrow gap that used to feel necessary. now it’s there, being ignored. kevin inhales slowly. his hand shifts against the mattress.
not toward sami, but closer regardless. his fingers flex against the sheets. there’s hesitation there; not fear, exactly. it’s awareness, kevin would say. of what this would mean. ploddingly, intentionally, kevin lifts his hand.
he moves it across the small space between them. not fast or impulsive. his hand hovers just before reaching sami. a few inches away. close enough to feel his heat. he pauses there.
not pulling back. not finishing the motion, suspended. sami’s eyes track the movement the entire time. he doesn’t interrupt or speak.
he understands exactly what kevin is doing. (and, what he’s not doing.) the moment stretches. kevin has made an offer, unspoken. he won’t force it. he won’t close the distance himself. sami exhales softly. he’s not nervous at all.
he shifts forward: a small, conscious movement. sami moves into the space kevin left open. his hand meets kevin’s. contact. their fingers don’t lace instantly. they just… rest together. palm to palm. warm. steady. kevin’s breath catches.
barely noticeable! but, he doesn’t pull away. his hand adjusts slightly, settling into the contact, accepting it. neither of them says anything. there’s nothing to explain. no joke to soften it.
no denial to hide behind. this isn’t like the brushes before or the accidental touches. this is chosen… on both sides. sami doesn’t tighten his grip. doesn’t push further.
he just stays, letting the moment exist without rushing it. kevin’s thumb budges to a limited extent. kevin’s gaze lifts from their hands back to sami’s face. the distance between them feels smaller now than it actually is.
sami is already looking at him. kevin leans in slightly. it’s subtle. careful. like he’s still giving sami time to stop him. sami doesn’t move away. doesn’t joke. doesn’t deflect. instead, he shifts forward too, closing the space kevin left.
the distance between them disappears slowly. not rushed or clumsy. measured. like they both know exactly what they’re doing. no force. no urgency. just contact.
just the barest brush of skin against skin, like a question neither of them dared to ask out loud.
kevin’s mouth is warmer than sami expected, or maybe it’s just the way his own breath stutters against the other man’s lips, betraying the chaos beneath his carefully controlled exterior.
there’s a faint taste of coffee—black, bitter, the kind kevin drinks like it’s fuel for his endless rage—and something sweeter, like the candy sami always steals from the catering table when he thinks no one’s looking.
the first touch is almost chaste. almost.
but then, kevin exhales through his nose, a quiet, rough sound that vibrates against sami’s mouth, and sami’s fingers twitch where they’re still tangled with kevin’s, like he’s fighting the urge to grip tighter, to pull him closer, to demand more than this fragile, hesitant moment. they don’t deepen it right away.
there’s a heartbeat. two, three. where they just hover there, lips barely pressed together, breaths mingling in the scant space between them.
sami can feel the stubble on kevin’s upper lip the way it scratches just enough to make his own skin prickle with awareness.
kevin’s hold on his hand secures, just for a second, like he’s grounding himself. or, maybe he’s making sure sami doesn’t bolt. sami’s brain short-circuits. he’s kissed people before, sure! but this?? this is kevin.
the man who’s spent years pretending he doesn’t exist, who’s called him every insult in the book, who’s also the only person who’s ever really seen him. the realization hits him like a body slam: “oh. oh, oh fuck. we’re actually doing this.”
kevin’s thumb drags over the back of sami’s hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of his bones.
the callouses on his fingers catch on sami’s skin, rough and real, and sami shudders, his lips parting on a breath that isn’t quite a gasp, but isn’t steady either.
the tension from earlier doesn’t spike. it settles, like a weight sliding into place, heavy and inevitable.
kevin’s free hand (because of course he’s still holding sami’s other one, like he’s afraid to let go) lifts just enough to brush against sami’s waist, fingers splaying over the dip of his hip.
not grabbing. not pulling. just there, a silent promise of more. sami leans in. just a fraction.
just enough to chase the warmth of kevin’s breath the faint scent of his cologne; something woodsy and expensive, the kind of thing sami would tease him about if he weren’t currently drowning in it.
his own hands are currently trapped between them, but his fingers curl, nails digging into kevin’s palm like he’s trying to anchor himself to this moment, to him.
kevin hums, low and rough, the sound vibrating through sami’s chest.
it’s the same noise he makes when sami lands a particularly good insult, or when he’s about to say something devastatingly honest. sami’s stomach flips. he’s enjoying this.
the kiss becomes more certain. not faster nor desperate.
steadier, like they’re finally admitting to themselves what they’ve both known for years: this was always going to happen.
kevin’s lips part, just a little, and sami follows, their breaths mingling in a way that’s almost obscene. there’s no awkwardness, no second-guessing.
just the slow, deliberate slide of kevin’s tongue against sami’s lower lip, teasing, testing, and sami melts, a quiet whine catching in his throat. kevin’s fist on his pelvis fixes, fingers flexing, and sami can feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of his shirt, branding him.
he wants to laugh, because of course kevin’s hands are this big, of course he can span sami’s waist like it’s nothing, but the sound dies in his throat when kevin’s teeth graze his lip, just enough to sting.
“fuck.”, sami breathes against his mouth, and kevin smirks. actually smirks. the bastard. their breathing shifts, syncing again in a different way now.
sami can feel the rise and fall of kevin’s chest against his own, the steady thump of his heartbeat where their bodies press together.
the space between them closes naturally, like gravity’s finally decided to work in their favor. sami’s hands, still trapped between them, slide up kevin’s chest, fingers splaying over the solid muscle beneath his shirt. he can feel the ridge of scars.
old injuries, old battles. and the realization that he’s allowed to touch them, to trace them, sends a jolt of heat straight to his gut. there’s no need to prove anything. no need to escalate. this isn’t about intensity. it’s about recognition.
kevin’s mouth moves against sami’s like he’s memorizing the shape of him, the taste of him, the way sami’s breath catches when kevin’s teeth scrape over his bottom lip.
sami’s hands tangle in kevin’s hair, gripping the short strands like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go.
they’ve spent years pretending they don’t care, pretending they don’t see each other, and now there’s nothing left to hide behind.
kevin pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together, his breath hot and uneven against sami’s lips.
“took you long enough.”, he mutters, voice rough, and sami laughs, breathless and giddy, because of course kevin would say something like that, even now. sami grins, dragging his thumb over kevin’s swollen lower lip.
“worth the wait, though, yeah?” kevin’s answer is a bruising kiss, his hands sliding under sami’s shirt to map the skin there, and sami arches into the touch. the room settles almost immediately after. no dramatic shift, no sudden movement.
just a quiet that feels… different now. the city light still filters through the curtains, faint and steady, casting soft shapes across the bed. neither of them says anything.
there’s no awkwardness pressing in, no need to fill the space. their breathing is the loudest thing in the room—slow, even, close. they don’t separate. that’s the first thing.
what started as careful distance earlier in the night is gone without either of them acknowledging it. sami shifts slightly forward, barely noticeable, like he’s just getting comfortable; but it closes the space fully. kevin doesn’t hesitate.
doesn’t pause. he just… stays there with him. kevin’s arm moves first, almost absentminded. it slides across the space between them, settling lightly around sami’s side. not tight. not hesitant. just there. sami exhales softly at that.
not surprised, not startled. just aware. his hand comes up, resting against kevin’s chest, fingers relaxed like they’ve done this before. they fit differently now.
not carefully positioned, not avoiding contact. aligned. their legs tangle under the blanket. not intentional, but not corrected either.
the earlier “rules” have been distant for a while now. pointless. sami moves his head somewhat against the pillow, closer to kevin. there’s a moment where it feels like one of them might say something. define it, joke about it, do something about it.
neither does. because there’s nothing unclear about it anymore. kevin’s hand adjusts against sami’s side. a small movement, thumb brushing once, slow and lost. not a question, nor testing. contact that stays.
sami’s fingers press faintly into into kevin’s shirt in response. subtle and automatic. their breathing evens out gradually. it just happens.
sami’s head dips slightly, closer to kevin’s shoulder. he pauses there for half a second. not unsure, just aware. kevin doesn’t move away. that’s all the answer he needs.
sami lets himself rest there fully. kevin’s hand shifts just slightly against him—a small adjustment, a quiet acceptance.
no tightening grip. no pulling closer. just staying. after a long beat, sami murmurs: voice low, almost gone in the space between them. “…you okay??”
kevin’s answer comes just as quiet. “yeah. you…?” sami hums faintly.
“yup.” the air conditioner hums softly. a car passes somewhere outside, distant and irrelevant. inside the room, everything stays still. they don’t fall asleep immediately.
but, they don’t pull apart either. just lying there. like this was always going to happen. like they finally stopped getting in the way of it.
morning creeps in soft. pale light slipping through the curtains, stretching across the bed in thin lines.
the room is quiet except for the low hum of the AC and the faint rustle of sheets when someone shifts.
kevin wakes first, but not fully; that half—conscious state where nothing feels urgent yet. he doesn’t open his eyes right away. just breathes in… slow, steady… and then pauses.
something’s… different. there’s weight against him. warm. close. kevin’s eyes open gradually. his focus sharpens in pieces. there’s the ceiling. there’s the light. there’s— sami.
curled into him, head tucked near his shoulder, arm loosely draped across his side. there’s a split-second window where kevin’s instinct could kick in. “pull away!! reset!! pretend this never happened!!” it doesn’t, though. kevin just… lies there.
processing. sami’s leg is hooked lightly over his. their bodies fit together like they didn’t even think about it. kevin exhales through his nose, so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. no annoyed. aware, though.
his voice comes out rough, low with sleep. muttering, “you always take up this much space??” sami doesn’t move right away. there’s a small shift.
a barely-there smile pressed into kevin’s shoulder. muffled and amused, sami replies, “you’re not exactly on your side of the bed either.” neither of them untangles.
no sudden separation, no awkward shuffle to opposite edges. if anything, sami settles a fraction closer. kevin’s arm is still around him. he doesn’t remove it. his hand moves, in some measure, against sami’s back. unconscious. orrrr, maybe not.
there’s no “about last night.” no jokes to soften it. just stillness and the fact that neither of them is trying to undo it. the daylight makes everything clearer. no shadows to hide in now. but, nothing feels exposed. it feels settled.
sami lifts his head just on a small scale, enough to look at kevin. hair a mess, eyes still half-lidded. he studies him for a second. kevin looks back, squinting slightly in the light.
there’s no hesitation in it. sami asks him, softly, “we’re good?” making sure they’re on the same page. kevin doesn’t take long.
“yeah. we’re good.” sami lets his head drop back down against kevin’s shoulder. kevin doesn’t push him off. they stay there. like getting up isn’t the priority yet.
morning fully seals into the room. the outside world exists again: schedules, travel, everything waiting. but in here?? nothing feels rushed. nothing feels like a mistake.
