it’s easy to get lost in michael’s eyes. sam does it all the time, and it’s kinda actually dangerous. like when he’s in the turning lane, or at practice when mack’s shooting pucks at 95mph past his visor, or when he’s making misa his stupid grilled fucking cheese and ends up with his palm in a hot pan.
“fuck,” he bites out, and still manages to get it perfectly crispy. on a plate, beside a pile of ketchup.
“’re you ok, dick?” mis asks, taking little bites around the crust before getting to the good stuff. sam’s running his hand under cold water and like, does it look like he’s good? it looks like he’s stupid, mostly.
sam notices how mis’ pupils get all huge when he’s interested or like, determined; when he’s talking about upping his lat pulldown pr or something. he notices how they’re different when he’s watching tape and tearing himself apart. they get all wet like he’s gonna cry, but never does, talking about how he wishes warso would let him play just like, 5 more minutes a game. “i know i’m good for it,” misa gulps, and sam believes him, and he— his lashes are so long, almost like a girl’s. fuck. sam doesn’t know what to do with that, tucks it away for later.
they’re laying on the couch, legs tangled together, and misa seems just content, yapping about…something. his eyes look so bright, like the sun’s reflecting off them, turning them kinda red, kinda gold. and sam can’t stop looking. he’s vaguely aware that his mouth is falling open but not aware enough to snap it shut.
“did’ya see, dick—” sam didn’t, doesn’t say anything except misa right in front of him, so… pretty or something. he looks happy, til he scowls and kicks sam in the shin. fair enough. “dick. did’ya see? graffer said in the groupchat to come over for dogs and beers.”
sam pretty much does whatever will keep mis smiling like he is, so they’re in the car and they’re at graffer’s and sam has a thought he’s only ever really had once or twice before, like when london lost the mem cup, that he’d rather be alone with mis than around all these damn people. and he likes these damn people a lot, but not more than he likes michael misa.
and like, sam argues that he doesn’t have to justify himself to himself but he’s sitting there, unopened miller light in front of him, watching mike happily scarf down 3 hotdogs with ketchup on them and nothing else, and he’s thinking, it’s not fair that misa has seen me cry but i haven’t seen him cry. and god, i wonder what it’d look like. another thought to tuck away for later, he guesses.
the toffoli’s halloween party comes around, and mis lets sam fuck him. lets, sounds kinda pathetic. allows him the honour? whatever. he kinda stumbles into the opportunity even though he’s wanted it for like, ever really. since he got the concept of fucking down. and he’s not really been shy about saying so, but michael misa is a brick wall, and sam’s never been quite brave enough to explicitly say, “that wasn’t a joke, michael. please take your pants off.” but now’s his chance, ‘cause they’re both like six solo cups of the halloween punch that cat made deep and misa keeps burrowing into his shoulder. “i’m not having fun anymore,” he whines, and sam tugs them away, back to misa’s side of the house.
in his bedroom, sam sits misa down on the bed and starts unwrapping his stupid costume, cape and dress, leaving him in just boxers and the tank he usually wears under his pump cover. “you wanna cuddle?” he asks, and that’s normal. lately, at least, and sam lowkey thanks god for it. mike shakes his head though, and his eyes look so dark, like bottomless pits, worried maybe. unhappy for sure. wanting something? sam’s throwing shots in the dark here and like, it’s fine if mis doesn’t wanna cuddle. they can do anything, pretty much.
mike flops back on the mattress with an oomph, and his shirt rides up a little. sam legitimately feels like he’s having a traumatic neurological event. he’s seen it before! misa has abs, not just freshly pumped after his workout, but pretty much always. rippling stomach, sam sometimes says in an exaggerated voice, rolls the r. it makes misa blush and giggle and whatever, but his mouth has gone dry now. no words. he walks closer, and their knees knock together and misa goes, “d’you think it’d be weird if we hooked up?” and maybe it would be, or maybe not, and sam can’t give a shit. he might explode if they don’t. if he can’t get his hands dirty.
the next morning, sam wakes up first and, on account of how misa can be dreadful as fuck before 11am, probably worse when he’s hungover, he doordashes two coffees over. all mike’s pillows ended up on the ground, so he picks them up and pulls his sweats on, even though he’s kinda sticky and gross, ‘cause he’s gotta go meet the delivery guy.
when he gets back, mike’s up, poking at a new little bruise sam sucked into his shoulder. his hand flys down to scratch his nuts or whatever when he sees sam round the corner and neither of them say anything about it. they go back to normal.
after the sharks’ winning streak gets broken in calgary, the guys are all a little drunk because goody buys a bottle of tequila and lets everyone come lick their wounds in his room for awhile. mike is being sooo clingy and he keeps berating himself even though after mack, he was prolly the closet to actually putting something in the net. they sit around and play spades. sam washes toff. mike finds space between sam’s chair and the wall and parks himself there.
eventually, when goody kicks everyone out, sam drags him back to their room by his wrist.
“what are you doing?” he demands, not a real question with an accessible answer. sam knows, doesn’t care, forcing mike against the wall and licking into his mouth before either of them can stammer out something idiotic. they haven’t talked about it at all in the weeks since the first time, but sam keeps finding himself deep inside michael, nailing himself to the cross of those little sounds he makes. he doesn’t know what to say about that, can’t think of a good excuse. it feels good, it makes mis feel good, and sam never— he never— mis’ bottom lip is wobbling, and his eyes are shut tight, trying to find his footing with sam’s knee rocking between his thighs.
sam fucks into misa, hard and maybe breaking something in the bed. (kind of a fantasy sam has.) it’s unkind, dangling mis in the air like he’s a fragile, a vessel sam’s gonna smash to get out all this pissed off energy. and misa takes it so well, pushing back when sam presses in, chorus of little unh unh unhs sliping between his lips. it feels like a bundle of rope unspooling in sam’s stomach. “so good,” he huffs, “so good at this. made for this, mis.” and misa whimpers and snuffles but he doesn’t cry and sam wonders again what it would take to get him there. a little bit he wonders, and then feels pretty gross about wondering. tries sooo hard to turn it off, for real, promise. but then there’s this glimmer of wetness around misa’s lashes and sam’s thumb can’t help but drag it down his cheek. automatic!
that’s not what makes him come though, hand cupped against misa’s face, squeezing a little, pressing his temple, urging more to spill out of him. it’s not. swear. don’t ask.
that, or something like it, happens a lot now, and they still never talk about it. not a word. not in the morning when sam’s muscles are tired and mis is his usual cranky self, sometimes a little sorer. sam leaves a kiss on his forehead and gets him an advil from the toffoli’s bathroom pharmacy and toff’s so defeated he just grumbles, “thanks for being quiet last night” into his coffee cup. definitely not when they try different stuff, meaner stuff, a little meaner at least. stuff where misa ends up with rug burn on his knees and a surprisingly deep bite mark on his pec and he needs 20 minutes of getting so up in sam’s space he’s basically sniffing his armpit to come back down from wherever he was. heaven, maybe.
sam doesn’t mind. he the opposite of minds because seriously, it’s the best he’s ever had. so good. mikey’s so good. for him, he tells himself, feels a little high on it. all this cake just for me? bigheaded. he’s so good, and yet, sam doesn’t call him baby, or anything approaching sweet. he calls him mis. he calls him mikey. he calls him michael in this two octaves lower voice that makes him feel kinda corny but it really does somethin’ for mis. he calls him greedy once and flinches from how hard mis’ nails dig into the muscle of his back. but no baby. absolutely not. baby is dangerous. baby is boyfriend shit. baby is what you say when you’re not pretending this is just something you keep doing because it keeps happening and who even knows how?
the night before they both fly home for christmas break, same plane and everything, and mike’s so sleepy, but he begs sam for it. “dickie please,” he fusses, makes grabby hands like a needy little baby. “if we don’t, i’m not gonna see you for like, 3, 4 days. i’m not gonna get to—”
and sam knows. so mike’s presses his face against his thigh, hair a mess, blinking slow like every thought has to walk through a snowdrift to get to his mouth. and sam should’ve probably just told him to go to bed, because sam is respectful and responsible and other things that it’s important to be, but mike is also looking up at him like that, eyes all big and doe-like, and fluttering closed and then snapping open again, muttering something about wanting to make him feel good, so. you know. restraint is something for other people to deal with.
sam guides him, cradles the back of his head and it’s sweet at first. mike is so obviously too drowsy to be making strategic decisions about sucking cock, so he does these little kitten licks at first, then must decide he’s gotta try harder, mouth warm and clumsy around sam’s length as he tries to make up for being uncoordinated by being ambitious. very on brand, sam thinks, distantly, through the haze of how do i get him to quit hockey and do this forever instead. misa keeps at it even when sam’s fingers twist through his curls and he coos, “mis, come on, let’s crash,” which does take a lot of strength to do, by the way, saying he doesn’t want it. he wants it bad, he’s just uh. trying to be a considerate guy. he would let mis fall asleep there, live there if he wanted to.
and mike looks offended by that. he tries to take sam deeper, a few inches and then the rest of the way, proving a point, and for one perfect second, he gets there. humming, proud of himself maybe, before his throat closes hard and his eyes fly open, all wide and panicked, fingers digging into sam’s thigh, this small punched cough catching in his chest and sam trying to keep his cool, nudging under mike’s chin with two fingers, easing him off.
“hey, i got you,” sam says, soft. i promise, soft. and then, stupid, “don’t push yourself, dummy.”
mike’s eyes are all wet now. big and dark and shiny, tears caught in his lashes, face flushed from coughing and trying to hold it in. his chews on his lip so hard the skin starts to split around his teeth and blinks, rapid like he’s trying to keep the tears gated behind his lids. and sam is fucked up. he never wanted mis hurt, or scared or thinking even for a second he’d done anything wrong. sam would never want that. he would probably go to prison to keep it from happening, or do some other equally life-ruining thing. and mis is looking up at sam, his nose is all scrunched and pink, eyes getting closer to pools every time he blinks.
sam gets his hands under mike and hauls him up, face buried in the juncture between sam’s shoulder and neck. “baby, no,” he whispers, “don’t cry, don’t cry, you’re not— you’re not dumb. you’re so smart, mikey” and mike’s just nodding into him, fingers twisting nervously into the bedsheets.
then he starts moving again. little shift against sam’s lap, open mouth dragging wet and aimless over sam’s neck like he forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. sam feels the second it happens, the way mike’s breathing changes, the way his hands stop clutching the sheets and start pushing weakly at sam’s chest instead, trying to get back to exactly where he wants to be. unmatched eagerness. sam must be the luckiest guy in the world.
“fuck that’s. that’s my good boy,” he stammers, breaking through all the fence posts he’d imagined would keep their vibe in tact (that’s my bro! not my good boy! both can be true, perhaps) and mike’s eyes get huge like he’d never considered that’s something someone could say to him. he starts weeping again, lanes of tears running down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. real crying, but not because something hurts, maybe just because his body can’t keep itself is check and so much is going on. and sam isn’t sure if it’s okay to think it’s as hot as he does, barely controlled urge to fuck up into misa’s throat. his poor throat, probably a little strained, and sam doesn’t know at this point. welcome to his dark twisted mind?
mis is just trying to make him feel good and he does so well at it. he teaches sam the distinction between good tears and bad tears. there’s crying because something hurts, which sam will not allow, and then there’s crying because your brain’s turned to goo. mis gets that way by getting checked on and getting called baby and having sam so deep in his throat he’s gotta breathe through his nose about it. and even though mike’s trying to tell him it’s okay, really good actually, sam feels so much shame about how hot it is that it loops back around into being its own separate kink.
he keeps wiping mike’s face with his thumb, keeps saying stupid soft shit like, “that’s my boy,” and “you needed this so bad, huh?,” and mike keeps nodding, making these wrecked little noises like every word is making him better-worse. like sam being gentle is somehow more embarrassing than sam being mean. like baby did exactly what sam was afraid it would do, change the vibe somehow, except only here, only like this, only with mike looking up at him with wet lashes and a mouth he still wants to use.
after, when mike’s recovered enough to be annoying again but not enough to fully look sam in the eye, he goes, murmurs against sam’s stomach, “it seemed like you got more into it.”
sam’s on the defense too quick because he know mis is right. “no. what?”
“when i—” he stops, jaw working. if he’s feeling anything like sam, maybe wondering if he’s said too much. “when i cried.”
sam considers fleeing the country.
“i didn’t like that you were upset,” he says, which is true.
mike looks at him then, suspicious and still a little pink around the eyes. “but you liked it when i cried.”
sam opens his mouth. closes it. thinks about lying, but unfortunately mike is looking at him like all expectant, big bug eyes (affectionate), and sam’s already called him a good boy while he had tears running down his cheeks, so honesty is kinda the name of the game right now.
“maybe,” he concedes. “not bad crying. not if you feel bad.”
sam says, quieter, “just. you looked pretty.”
and mike pulls this face, complicated and disastrous, embarrassed and pleased and furious about being pleased, and probably furious at sam for being such a freak. and fair enough.
outside the privacy of their rooms, nothing changes, because of course it doesn’t. except the few dangerous times when it does. mike still calls him dickie and steals his phone charger and acts like sam is annoying for knowing exactly what he needs. sam doesn’t call him baby in front of anyone. obviously. he is not suicidal. he calls him mis, mikey, idiot, hey, get your shit, because those are normal things to say to the guy you just watched ride you until he was in tears.
and then one day, months after this whole thing started, they’re leaving il fornaio and sam sees the phone on the table. doesn’t think about it. not even for a second. just grabs it and says, “baby, your phone.” just like that. not sexy. not even soft, really. automatic. the same voice as drink your gatorade, mis or arms up, bud.
and then the whole world keeps turning. forks clinking. someone laughing by the bar. mike stopping dead for half a second, before his lips turn up and into a grin.
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