i don't usually post direct to tumblr but it's short so enjoy!!
Trevor knows why Jamie's here the second he sees him standing in the doorway. It's closing in on midnight and Jamie is shifting from foot to foot on Trevor's front step, hands in his pockets. He looks cold. He looks a little guilty.
"Are you gonna let me in?" he asks, and Trevor's impressed by his attempt at normalcy.
"For sure, dude. You don't have to ask—you know that." Trevor steps aside and Jamie brushes past him and into the house. It makes Trevor feel all staticky.
"Looking good in here," Jamie says. He drapes his jacket over the back of Trevor's couch, nodding at the sparse walls and barely-unpacked boxes like they're abstract art pieces he doesn't really get. And he still hasn't met Trevor's eyes.
Jamie used to get like this sometimes, back at the beginning. Back in Anaheim when neither of them really knew what they were doing, only that it was so, so good. He'd hover and hem and haw until Trevor backed him up against the nearest surface and kissed him until he went loose again. Eventually, Jamie had learned how to ask for what he wanted. Eventually, Trevor had started to forget what it felt like to sleep alone.
Trevor had been wondering if things were going to be the same in Philly. Tara seems nice, Jamie seems happy. Trevor had decided he wasn't going to expect anything, but—they've fucked through other relationships before, and Jamie's here right now, looking just as nervous and anticipatory as he had at eighteen. Trevor's stomach squeezes. Christ, he really has missed him.
"I literally haven't changed anything since you were here on the weekend," Trevor laughs.
"Whatever, it still looks nice," Jamie grumbles, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Do you need the grand tour again?"
"No, I—I've definitely got it," Jamie says. "Are you a shoes off household?"
Trevor sighs. He had sort of forgotten just how much prodding it takes to get Jamie around to what he actually wants to say. And this time, like—they haven't fucked the whole time Trevor's been here. They haven't fucked since before Jamie was traded. Trevor is not willing to take his swing until he nails down exactly what's happening here.
Like, he's pretty sure he knows. High nineties, percentage-wise. But Jamie is—ostensibly somebody else's now. Trevor's been trying not to think about this, but after a year apart maybe somebody else knows Jamie better.
"If your twisted Canadian mindset is telling you to take your shoes off, then go for it. Mi casa es su casa, Jim." Trevor spreads his arms wide, gesturing grandly at his echoey living room. He's getting around to decorating. Someday.
Jamie nods, toes his shoes off. No retort to the Canadian insult. Yeah, he's definitely working himself up to do something.
"So what brings you here tonight?" Trevor prods.
Jamie shrugs, ducks his head. "I dunno. Felt like I hadn't—I dunno."
"Right, of course. Is there something on your mind, bud?" It's seriously like pulling teeth. Trevor is prickly all over with anticipation. So much is different on the Flyers, and he just wants—something the same. Jamie has always been steady.
Jamie sighs, long and slow, finally looks Trevor in the eyes. He takes a step closer and tugs on one of Trevor's hoodie strings. "Nothing. Nothing, I just—I actually think I might want the grand tour after all?"
And like, if that isn't a request Trevor doesn't know what is.
They're making out before they even make it to the second floor, every inch of Trevor's skin alight with such a familiar touch. Jamie's impatient, almost antsy in a way he isn't usually, but—lots of things aren't usual right now. Maybe Jamie's just changed.
The way he lays Trevor out on the bed is exactly the same, though. He's just firm enough to make Trevor's stomach go liquid, but he laughs at all the stupid jokes Trevor makes anyways like he doesn't even think they're stupid. And he leaves the same mark he always does, scraping his teeth over the thin skin right behind Trevor's ear so it'll be hidden by his hair.
Trevor has missed getting his hands in Jamie's hair. It's a little longer now, a little softer—maybe Tara made him start using real conditioner. Trevor digs his fingers into Jamie's scalp, relishing the sharp breath it elicits from him.
Jamie fucks him thoroughly and slowly and so fucking closely, like they have never really done before. It's almost clingy, Jamie's chest pressed against Trevor's and hiding his face in Trevor's neck. The only light is from the small lamp on Trevor's bedside table—he hasn't put a lightbulb in the overhead yet, so the dull lamplight shines gold down the sweat on Jamie's back. It's sentimental sex. It's married people sex. It's sappy people sex. Unfortunately, Trevor likes it a lot.
Afterward, he can tell Jamie wants to get up and do something—shower, change the sheets, or, god forbid, leave—so Trevor keeps an arm locked tight around his waist when he curls into Jamie's side. He's tired—traditonally, they've both passed the fuck out right after sex. It's warm in the room and if Trevor lets himself drift he can pretend it's California.
"Dude. Fucking missed this," he mumbles, face smushed against Jamie's shoulder.
It takes Jamie a second to reply, but when he does Trevor can tell by the waver in his voice that he isn't lying. "Yeah. Me too."
"Show up on my doorstep anytime, Jimmer. Waltz right in." Trevor's halfway to sleep and even closer than that to saying something he shouldn't, so he's glad when Jamie reaches over to turn out the light.
"Sure, Z. Anytime," he says into the dark, and Trevor knows like he knows everything else about Jamie that it's a goodbye. No matter how many things change, some just stay so painfully the same.
Trevor sleeps like shit, and when he wakes up Jamie isn't there. It's not a surprise, but it hollows out his stomach anyways. He drags himself out of bed to make coffee.
Stationed on his new couch in his new empty living room, the first thing Trevor sees when he opens Instagram is a post from Tara, dated twenty hours ago. Her hand in Jamie's, engagement ring on her finger. The worst part is that Trevor isn't surprised. He isn't hurt, he's just—he swipes to the next slide because he can't stop himself, like when you press against a bruise just so you can feel it ache. Jamie's face pressed up against Tara's, looking so good together like they always do. They look happy. They look excited. If Trevor was anyone else, he'd feel that way for them too, probably.
The post is just those two slides. There's no caption. Trevor puts his phone down. His coffee machine beeps to signal that it's done. The day goes on.
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