OMG, ZINE PLEASE! VOLUME 3: #TRIPLETROUBLE IS NOW LIVE!
Explore the shenanigans, celebrate the triumphs, and dive into the inner workings and dynamics of all your favorite trios. Got some PolyFrogs ideas? Want some Tadpoles content? How about an unlikely trio you think the world should know about? It's all welcome for this issue! Go forth and wreck havoc with #TripleTrouble!
To our contributors, thank you for your months of hard work to pull together another year of Zine, Please!! This zine would not be possible without your captivating stories and beautiful artwork. And to our readers, thank you for your months of patience and continuing to drum up hype to keep motivated.
With that being said, you can now read #TripleTrouble NOW at the link below! Again, thank you all oh-so much, and we hope to see you in the next one!
Lower Body Injury
Hollanov - Rated E - 20.8k - 3/4 Chapters - ONGOING
Their annual California (and Vegas) road trip was far too long for Shane and Ilya’s liking. Shane had reinstated his ‘no sex on the road’ rule after Ilya’s hat trick in San Jose and they were both dying inside.
Once home, it didn’t take them long to chase each other up the stairs. It had been far too long for the both of them. Finally in their bedroom with no one to possibly overhear them, they went for it - only maybe a little too fast.
OR
From the sudden lack of dick in his ass, Shane knew something was wrong.
But if you never try, you'll never know
Hollanov - Rated T - 14.3k - Complete
Throughout the final year of his contract with the Voyageurs, Shane, his family and friends, and hockey fans all wonder what he’s going to do about his expiring contract.
Change is scary. Voicing that you're scared – to others but mainly to yourself – is scarier.
and so the sealion fell in love with the loon
Hollanov - Rated E - 4k - Complete
The moment Ilya suggested he could marry Svetlana, Shane saw red. He feels like he could kill Ilya for saying this so casually. How dare he suggest that. After all they've been through, the lying, the sneaking around. Did all of this mean nothing to Ilya?
Shane wanted Ilya and he's willing to do whatever it takes to make sure Ilya is his forever.
Final Boarding Call
Hollanov - Rated G - 2.2k - Complete
Eyes still glued out the window, Ilya watched as they taxied to the runway. He noticed his leg starting to bounce again but was powerless to stop it. To anyone else on the plane he must look like a nervous flyer.
He was finally on his way to Montreal. Finally on his way to Shane. Finally able to hope for something more.
Come On, Let’s Get You Your Chicken Parmesan
Hollanov - Rated T - 2.4k - Complete
After their meeting with the commissioner, Shane and Ilya finally get their first proper date. It might not be what they wanted their first date to be like, but fuck it. They were out and they might as well make the best of it.
Check Please!
And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, inersion of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.
Parswoops - Rated G - 10k - Complete
A collections of 100 drabbles. Kent “Parse” Parson and Jeff “Swoops” Troy. Though they only appear together once in an extra, they are more that two underdeveloped characters on screen?
Kent Can Do It With a Broken Heart
Past Kent/Jack - Rated T - 9.7k - Complete
Kent knows what they're all thinking: He's having the time of his life. But he's not, how could he? Kent's alone in Vegas with the knowledge that the love of his life is alive but doesn't want anything to do with him anymore.
How will Kent survive his first year in the NHL with a broken heart?
Spoiler alert: He cries a lot but he's so productive, it's an art. Cause he knows he's good when he can even do it with a broken heart.
5 Times Kent Parson’s Ass Looked Fantastic
Parswoops - Rated E - 9.7k - Complete
When you’re surrounded by professional athletes all the time, odds are you’re gonna find an ass that looks fantastic. Unfortunately for Jeff Troy, the only ass he finds fantastic is Kent Parson’s. It’s fine when they play on different teams and don’t know each other. It’s another issue when you’re line mates and best friends.
You Didn’t Ask The Question
Parswoops - Rated G - 6.7k - Complete
Kent and Jeff had both been through this before. One more goal and they would have forced a Game 7. Losing in the Conference Finals wasn’t the same as losing the Cup, but they were so close. No matter when you lose in the playoffs it hurts.
But Kent had Jeff. And Jeff had Kent. And that's all that mattered.
How is he?
Parswoops - Rated T - 3.6k - Complete
They had their fair share of incidents on the ice. Bad checks over the years, finding themselves at the bottom of scrums, crashing into the net, mainly Kent since he annoys the shit out of goalies by being in their space.
As always, on-ice incidents happened out of nowhere. Things are quick to develop on the ice. Simply the wrong place at the wrong time.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I did get distracted by mentally gnawing on Jack and Swoops’ relationship or lack thereof and the intricacies but!! Here’s the first part of my pimms injury fic :)
Of course thanks to @amandayetagain for the support legit would not have gotten written if we couldn’t go insane together
Read on AO3
Note: Chapters won't be coming out daily, just when I can get to editing them.
The flight back to Vegas passes in a blink. Kent flies business class with Kit in a carrier under his seat and manages to fall asleep before the plane hits cruising altitude. He wakes to a flight attendant shaking his shoulder, and finds that he slept right through the landing.
There’s just enough time for him to swing by his apartment and release Kit back into her familiar domain. She scampers into the bedroom and hides under the bed; she’s never liked traveling. The only reason he brought her to New York was because she likes being away from him even less.
He heads back out with just enough time to grab an Americano from a local coffee shop and chug it on the way to the rink.
“Jesus Christ in a sidecar, Parser,” Swoops says by way of a greeting when Kent walks into the locker room. “That bad?”
“Tell you later,” Kent says, and goes to change into his skates.
Practice is hard but it’s what Kent needs. They skate suicides and do passing drills and take endless shots on the goals. Kent drinks his weight in Gatorade and sweats it right back out. When the team finally gets off the ice, Kent feels ready to collapse, but he also feels renewed. The strenuous activity, the intense focus, the presence of his team beside him; it all serves to wash out whatever poisons—chemical and mental—that were lingering in him from last night.
“Hey, Parser,” Swoops calls across the locker room as they’re stripping off their gear. “You wanna grab dinner?”
Kent barely ate breakfast and only had over-priced pastries for lunch. “Yeah. I’m starved.”
“Cool. Finch, Sunny, you in?”
Five other guys end up joining them. They hit up a family-run bar and grill that’s too out-of-the-way to be found by tourists but has lots of experience catering to hungry athletes. With preseason less than a week away, they’re taking every last chance to bulk up and add on those last ounces of muscle that could make the difference between keeping the puck on their stick and ending up shoved aside. Kent’s long since given up trying to use his size as an advantage, and aims for speed and agility instead.
“So, Kent,” Swoops says once their food has arrived. “Parson. Parse. Parser. My man KP.”
Kent’s got a chunk of steak in his mouth and can’t defend himself verbally, so he gives Swoops the finger.
Swoops is not deterred. “How was the reunion?”
Five other sets of eyes turn to stare. Kent swallows his food and says, “Fuck you for telling everyone.”
Finch rolls his eyes. “Dude, you’re tired and hungover. Obviously you did something in New York besides just training.”
“I liked you better as a rookie,” Kent says. “You had more respect for your captain back then.”
“Moushiwake-gozaimasen, Kent-sempai.”
“I’m gonna kick your ass in the parking lot after dinner, Finch,” Kent says, and kicks him under the table while the other guys laugh.
“So?” prompts Sunny. “How was the reunion?” Sunny—Leonard Morrison—is one of their d-men. He has thick eyebrows and a weathered face that is perpetually lost under a wiry beard. He’s possibly the scariest-looking motherfucker Kent has ever met in his life and could not be a bigger softie underneath. He volunteers at soup kitchens during off-season and hasn’t missed a single publicity event involving animals or kids.
“It was okay.” Kent’s got a beer in front of him and he’s being careful to pace himself. He doesn’t need to get tipsy and have his mouth run away with him about certain hot Russian details that the team—supportive, ride-or-die type dudes that they are—do not need to know about. “It was about what you’d expect. Expensive food, lots of booze, and people talking about the stock market and their yachts.”
Swoops makes a sympathetic noise. “Not really your speed, huh?”
Kent shrugs a shoulder. “The booze was good.”
And that’s it, really. Everybody can see that Kent would rather move on from the topic, so they do.
Kent likes that about the Aces. They live in and play for one of the flashiest cities in the country, but they’re some of the most down-to-earth bunch guys in the league. On the ice they’re lethal, but as soon as the skates and the helmets come off and they go out for a beer, they’re completely chill.
Kent came out to them—some individually, the rest in a group—a couple months before he decided to come out to the public. Before then, he’d always gotten the feeling that they knew about him but were giving him the courtesy of their silence. The NHL wasn’t a safe space for queerness. The day he’d come out to the team had been one of the most frightening of his life.
Because if they’d rejected him. If they’d refused to skate with him. If they’d turned on him.
If they’d given any indication that the time they’d spent on the ice with him meant less than their own prejudices…
But they hadn’t.
He’d told Swoops over pizza and beer at Swoops’ place, in the middle of a Star Wars marathon. He’d meant to come out that night, anyway, but not in the exact moment that Darth Vader told Luke Skywalker about his true parentage. The words had just sort of exploded out of him.
“Swoops, I’m gay.’
Swoops had looked at him for a long moment, during which Kent’s heart had nearly beaten out of his chest, and then he’d said, “Okay. You want another beer, Parser?”
Kent had wanted several beers. “Yeah. Please.”
“Cool.” He’d smiled, patted Kent’s shoulder, and gotten off the couch. When he came back with two fresh cans—one for him, one for Kent—he’d put on a low voice and intoned, “Luke, I am your gay father.”
Kent had cracked up so hard he got the hiccups.
When he’d told Finch, the kid had nodded stiffly and offered to fight anyone who gave Kent shit about it.
When he’d told Sunny, he’d ended up in a fierce hug that had lasted longer than was socially acceptable but which he had really, really appreciated.
When he’d told the rest of the team, in the locker room after a routine practice, he’d had to put his hands in his pockets to hide the trembling. He’d kept a clear voice and even gaze through willpower alone. He’d been so ready for the worst.
Not everyone on the team was one hundred percent okay with it. There were guys who wouldn’t shower at the same time as him anymore, whose smiles and words were more blandly polite than they used to be. But nobody had outed him to the press. Nobody had hassled him or given him a hard time. Nobody had refused to skate with him, or asked to be taken off his line. In the weeks following his announcement, he’d gone into a few games feeling frankly terrified of getting checked because someone purposely let an opponent through, or missing out on a shot because someone ignored his pass or wouldn’t pass to him when he was open.
And then the Aces won their third Stanley Cup with Kent as their captain.
Skating across the ice with the Cup above his head had felt like the biggest middle finger given to anyone ever.
He’d come out shortly after. The media circus had been insane.
The death threats had been worrying.
The invitation to his high school reunion had been the icing on the cake.
Things are better now. The press is still interested in Men’s Hockey’s First Openly Gay Player Ever, but not with the manic intensity of before.
Kent gets to go to practice, go out for dinner with his teammates, and go home to his apartment without feeling like he’s being stalked by hopeful gossip rags.
His apartment is incredible. He thought that five years ago when he moved into it and he still thinks that now. His favorite part is the view. He’s outside the more tourist-ridden parts of Las Vegas but his balcony gets a fantastic view of it. During the day, the city glitters with sunlight and millions of attractions, and at night it fucking glows.
It’s ridiculous and loud and gaudy and Kent has come to love it.
He gets himself a glass of vodka—no reason, he just wants vodka, there’s no double meaning behind it—and goes out to the balcony, firmly closing the door behind him. (Kit’s not allowed on the balcony because Kent’s paranoid as fuck and is always afraid she’ll slip and plunge to her death.) Instantly the cold night air hits him, cutting through his jacket. Out in the desert, the daytime temperatures can be punishing. But what surprises people is how those same temperatures can plunge at night. Kent spent his first summer in Vegas astounded at how often he pulled the blankets up at night or reached for his fuzzy socks once the sun went down.
Now, he appreciates the duality of desert weather. He likes that the sun will be so hot and the night so cool and clear. He likes looking out across the city and hearing the distant din of unending entertainment.
On Kit’s first night in his apartment, Kent had sat on the couch with her and looked out the windows. “Look, Kit,” he’d said, completely straight-faced. “Everything the light touches is our kingdom.”
Kit had flicked an ear and jumped off the couch.
Kent has nobody out here to share his weirdness with, though. He has nobody to talk to, nobody to distract him.
Inevitably, he thinks about Alexei.
Kent’s still blown away by the discovery that Alexei was the Alexei Mashkov, back in the day. He wishes his date with Alexei was something he could talk about, because he wants more than anything to say Alexei’s name to the team and see who reacts. Would it ring a bell for anyone else? So many kids—and Alexei and Kent were kids, back then—go through the NHL draft every year. So many new players joined the NHL rosters each season. Alexei’s story was tragic, but not unique. Missing out on the NHL due to injury was a rare occurrence, but it happened.
Jack’s injury had been self-inflicted, but the result had been the same. One day he’d been an hockey darling, and the next day he was a cautionary tale.
The difference was, of course, that Jack had eventually found his way back to hockey.
Alexei had found his way to a small corner of the American midwest, pandering to the insecurities of rich, lonely, desperate assholes like Kent Parson.
Alexei had gone to Kent’s door knowing exactly who Kent was. Kent had spent the whole night with him, even half-recognized his name, but not given a flying fuck about the fact that Alexei was a real person until the truth had been shoved in his face.
And even after that, he’d spent the rest of the night questioning Alexei’s integrity. Alexei had been Kent’s rock when he needed it most, had been sweet and attentive, had gone above and beyond what he’d been paid to do, and Kent had let it all happen without comment because he was too busy being wrapped up in his own fears to see it.
Careful not to spill his vodka, Kent folds his arms on the railing and puts his head down on them. “I’m such a jerk,” he mumbles against the leather of his jacket. “I’m such a jerk.”
Just because it was a paid date didn’t mean the kindness hadn’t been real. Or the way he’d felt slow-dancing in Alexei’s arms.
Fucking hell, but Kent is messed up.
He’s about to go into preseason. He doesn’t have time for dating, paid or otherwise.
He thinks about Alexei’s lips in his hair and the murmured “solnyshko” and how that’s the closest he’s ever felt to being openly loved by another man.
He never knew how badly he wanted that until the other night.
Sirens begin to scream faintly from somewhere in the city. Kent picks his head up and sips his vodka. The burn is good. He watches the twinkling city and thinks.
In five days, the Aces will fly to Colorado and play the Avalanche. Then it’s about another week until their game in NYC against the Rangers. A week is cutting it close to schedule a date with an escort as high-end as Alexei is. But he needs time to think about this, to analyze his own motives before he jumps ahead. God knows he’s learned the consequences of his impulsiveness.
Kent got lucky with Alexei’s availability once. Maybe he’ll get lucky again. And if he doesn’t, he’ll take that as a sign that he needs to think it over some more, or drop the matter altogether. It’s a cowardly way out of making his own decision. He knows that. But he’s only human, and it’s all he’s got the courage for.
He finishes his vodka and goes back inside. The desert is too cold at night for one person out here alone.
****
The Aces fly to Colorado and beat the Avalanche in a shut-out. Their rookie, Pavlo Voloshyn, gets two assists and his first goal. The team goes out to celebrate, right before climbing back on a plane to fly to the next city.
Half the guys spend the flight sleeping. The rest read, listen to music, or bicker over something that Kent can’t make out but which they sound extremely impassioned about.
Kent stays out of it, mostly because he’s too busy staring out the window at the clouds and listening to Katy Perry’s Waking Up in Vegas on repeat. It seems like a good theme song for his life.
Shut up and put your money where your mouth is.
That’s what you get for waking up in Vegas.
The Colorado game is over. Now he has to make a decision about Alexei.
How the fuck did this creep up on him so soon? It feels like just yesterday he was standing on his balcony and putting off that day’s problems for later.
It’s ‘later.’ And Kent’s even less sure than he was before.
“Whoo boy, but those clouds must be fucking interesting.” Swoops slides into the seat next to him—the one Finch had been occupying but left half an hour ago to join the Aces’ debate.
Before Kent can stop him, Swoops steals his bag of peanuts. “Do you know you do this on every single flight?” Kent says. “You come in and steal my peanuts. Never my pretzels, just my peanuts.”
“Yep.” Swoops opens the bag and dumps the whole contents into his mouth. He chews for several minutes. “It’s tradition.”
“It’s theft.”
“You don’t even like peanuts that much, Parser.” Swoops makes a face. “It’s unnatural.”
“Your face is unnatural,” Kent replies. It’s not his best work.
Swoops clearly agrees. He finishes his mouthful of airline peanuts, swallowing hard, then makes the sound effect for something falling off a cliff and exploding at the bottom. “That was sad. This whole conversation is a disappointment, actually.” He settles into the seat. “So? What’s up?”
Kent sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “A whole lotta shit I can’t tell you about, Swoops.”
Swoops hums. “Is it, like, gay shit?”
Kent spends a second too long figuring out whether to confirm or refute that, which turns out to be the same as giving a positive answer.
Swoops gives a low whistle. “Damn. You meet somebody at the reunion?”
The one thing Kent values most about his friendship with Swoops, besides the fact that it’s his longest friendship in the Aces, is how easily Swoops will roll with whatever Kent says. And Kent has said some pretty unbelievable shit in the near-decade they’ve known each other. Up to and including a very drunken and mortifying confession about all the ways Kent misses Jack Zimmermann.
(Kent still owes Swoops an open ear to a sordid tale of Swoops’ choice in the future. Kent really does not want to hear a single word about the pleasures of pussy or tits from anyone, much less Swoops, but he thinks he owes him after his drunken recounting of the magnificence of Jack’s…everything.
“For fuck’s sake, Parson, I gotta be able to look Zimmermann in the eyes next week when we play the Falcs!”
Kent does not deserve Swoops.)
So when Swoops looks at him with that open expression, like he’ll hear anything Kent has to say without judgment (if not without chirping), Kent almost spills his guts.
At the last minute, he reigns himself in. “Kind of. It’s…complicated. The situation and the guy.”
“Good complicated or bad complicated?”
Kent sighs. “Maybe both.”
“Damn,” Swoops repeats.
“Yeah.”
Swoops shifts in his seat. “You like him?”
I like his smile. And his voice. I like how it felt when he held me. “Didn’t hate him.”
“You get his number?”
Not exactly, but close enough. “Yeah.” Sighing again, Kent says, “I know what you’re getting at. I know you’re gonna tell me to call him. It’s not that easy, trust me.”
“Not saying it would be.”
“I mean like it is really complicated.”
“Mm.”
“We are talking top-tier complicated nonsense, Swoops. The kind of complicated shit that means that, like, regardless of how I feel? It’s probably not even worth to call him. Even if I did like him.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Man, shut the fuck up.”
“Guys!” Finch suddenly appears above the seats in front of them and nearly gives Kent a heart attack at 45,000 feet. “If cavemen and astronauts got into a fight, who would win?”
Swoops and Kent stare. Kent recovers first.
“Wait, is this—is this what you’ve all been arguing about since takeoff?”
Finch nods.
Swoops checks his watch. “For forty minutes.”
Another nod.
Kent groans. “Oh, fine. Do the astronauts have weapons?”
****
They touch down in Vegas and have exactly fourteen hours before the next game.
Kent skates, strategizes, play-wrestles Sunny in the parking lot outside the rink, answers a call from his mom in his car, goes to a team dinner, goes home, watches TV, and falls asleep on the couch.
He does not call the escort agency.
The Aces win 3-2 against the Capitals.
It’s Tuesday. They’ll fly out to New York on Thursday and play the Rangers on Friday.
Kent’s running out of time to make a decision.
He wakes up Wednesday morning with one thought firmly lodged in his head: Fuck it. He digs his phone out of the bed sheets and calls the agency.
Miracle of fucking miracles, Alexei is actually available the day after Kent’s game.
He makes his reservation and hangs up before he can changes his mind.
One thing is certain: he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but it’s not going to stop him from doing it.
see, the thing i love about the check! please fandom is that there's 625 fics on ao3 with Swoops tagged, despite the fact that he's not actually a character, just some random guy we saw in a couple comic panels and gave a name to. it's great!!
Kent decides to start the new year off right: by seducing his best friend. It doesn't go quite as planned.
~~~
It’s twenty minutes past midnight on New Year’s Day, and Jeff Troy is in his absolute favorite place in the world: sitting on a couch with Kent Parson.
They’re a little tipsy but not drunk; they decided to forgo any big parties this year and instead stayed in and watched When Harry Met Sally, though the movie ended an hour ago and Kent’s huge flat-screen TV has been cycling through generic landscape photos instead and Kent’s toes are tucked under Jeff’s thigh as they chat about nothing.Kent’s toes are tucked under Jeff’s thigh as they chat about nothing.
There’s a lull in the conversation and Kent looks over at him. “I never got the point of New Year’s Resolutions. New year, same Kent. Just gonna keep fucking up my way through life.”
“You’re not a fuck up,” Jeff says, like he always does.
“Sure,” Kent replies, just like he always does. One of these days, Jeff is going to get him to agree.
Kent sighs and leans his head back on the sofa taking another swig of his beer, probably long since gone warm. “Staying in was a good idea but I could really use a lay. It’s been ages.”
“It’s the middle of the season. You complain about this every year.”
“Yeah, well, doesn’t make it suck any less.”
Kent opens his eyes and looks over at Jeff.
Jeff raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“We could always kill two birds with one stone.”
“Oh?”
“Could be fun! You know, just a little stress relief between friends.”
“Kent…”
“Come on, come on! Talk dirty to me, Swoops.”
Jeff looks at his best friend, his best friend who he’s also a little bit in love with — and who he wishes cared about himself as much as Jeff does — and he takes a chance.
“You are valid and deserving of love just as you are.”
Tears spring to Kent’s eyes and Jeff immediately knows that this didn’t go how he wanted it to.
“What the fuck, Jeff?”
And he knows it’s serious because Kent never calls him Jeff.
“Kent, it’s not that I don’t wanna hook up with you. It’s that it would never just be a hookup for me and I can’t do that.”
Kent stares at him, his eyes still wet, and Jeff waits to be kicked off the couch, out of the apartment, even out of Kent’s life. He waits for something, expecting anything and everything — everything except what Kent does.
Which is to close the gap between them and kiss Jeff softly, like he’s something fragile. Something precious.
His eyes flutter shut on their own and it takes him a moment after Kent’s lips have disappeared from his to open them again.
Now it’s Jeff’s turn to ask: “What was that?”
Kent gives him a crooked little smile. “New year, new Kent.”
“Really?”
“Maybe this is the year that I finally let myself,” Kent took a deep breath, “ask for what I want.”
“And what is it that you want, Kent?” Jeff asks, leaning closer but not quite closing the difference.
“It’s always been you,” Kent whispers. “Just didn’t think you’d want a fuck up like me.”
“You’re not a fuck up,” Jeff says like always.
“Sure,” Kent says, but there’s a glint in his eye that tells Jeff he might actually believe it this time. “And what if I was your not-a-fuck-up?”
“We’ll work on the wording,” Jeff says with a smile and leans in to kiss Kent again. “Happy new year, Kent.”
Could I do #48 for the song prompt? (For parswoops ofc bc I am nothing if not predictable)
okay so this is a PERFECT pimms song but tbh... it's also GOLD for just anything with Kent, so I was SO PUMPED when I saw what you'd picked
48) boy - maisie peters
Boy, you think I'm dumb, tryna pull one on me like I've never been kissed
You had a couple of exes and I know that they let you get away with it
But you're a boy
And I can tell that you've never been hugged boy
And I can do better than this, oh better than this
Kent's first NHL goal is a beautiful power play goal from a mess in front of the net, and Jeff wants nothing more than to hug him, so he does.
Or, well, he tries.
Kent is flying around the ice, yelling his blonde head off, avoiding absolutely any contact until he slows enough to get to the bench and get his fist bumps and a little cuff on the shoulder from the captain.
He does come back for little acknowledgements, but that moment, right after his goal - he's totally, wholly alone.
Jeff sends up a little prayer of thanks that people's attitudes and team cohesion aren't topics reporters like to drill him on.
It's not as notable, after that, that Kent ducks away from hugs, both on ice and in the locker room. He doesn't do anything as showy as that first night, but he still slips out, slides from under the plies, takes only claps of recognition instead of full body slams, leaves people behind to slam themselves into walls, makes it so that he's never the tactile center of anything.
It's a little weird, because Jeff's seen pictures of his Memorial Cup run, and he's not sure anything could have fit between the top line of that team when they were cellying. So it's, you know. It's a little insulting, if nothing else.
And then, come December, Kent's drunk and kissing Jeff, and Jeff's sure it's a one-time thing, and then it's not. They're making out in every available closet, perpetually going out on dates, staying in and hanging out and watching old vampire rom-coms as an excuse to eat shitty pizza on Jeff's couch instead of in Lamby's basement, and it's.
The thing is, Kent still won't let Jeff hold him. Kiss him? Sure. Pin him? Yeah. Smack his hand away from the carrots he's chopping up for salad? Okay.
But a hug after a bad game? Nope. Cuddling while watching what is arguably one of the worst movies Jeff's ever seen? Abso-fucking-lutely not.
The first time he tried, Kent practically jumped six feet in the air and almost ran out the door of the apartment, and the only thing that kept him in was the fact that it was 2am in Vegas, and he hadn't bought a coat.
Jeff's let him get away with it because, like, personal space and improvement.
But it's April, and the Aces are mathematically out of the playoffs, just barely eked out by the fucking Flames, and Kent still won't let Jeff do anything for him.
Jeff is, just a little bit, fucking done.
It comes to a head after they lose in a spectacular blowout against the Wild, 6-0, last road game of the season. They make it back to the room, and Kent immediately drops the cover he'd had in the hallway to duck questions from vets, plops down on the bed, and goes dead to the world.
Jeff sits down on the bed next to him and gently, gently, rests his hand on Kent's spine.
"Hey," he whispers.
Kent jumps, tenses.
"Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, shrinking into himself.
Jeff's hands fly into the air.
"Whoa, hey, I'm sorry," he says, voice defensive. "I was just trying to be nice to my boyfriend, don't mind me."
"You could not," Kent growls into his pillow.
"Don't do that," Jeff spits back. "Don't do the fucking I'm angry I'm an asshole so I'm gonna yell at Jeff about it thing, that's not fucking fair to me."
"Shut up," Kent tells him, and puts a pillow over his head. He signs something, angry and sharp, and though it's not one Jeff knows (he's got "I love you", "Thanks", and "What" down, but that's about it), he knows it's one Kent signs often to the person who takes up so much space in Kent's head it's intolerable, sometimes.
"I'm not him," Jeff nearly yells. "I'm not going to tear you down, I'm not going to hit you or... or... fucking die! I don't know, okay, but I'm not him, and if you don't..."
He takes a deep breath.
"If you don't know that, that I'm not him, then I can't do this, because I can't do that to myself, and I can't let you do that to yourself, either."
He slides off the bed, puts on his shoes, grabs his duffel from next to the door.
"I love you," he whispers to the silent room, and he slips out the door.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Jeff "Swoops" Troy
Characters: Kent "Parse" Parson, Jeff "Swoops" Troy, Minor background characters
Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Alternate Universe- Jeff isn't in the NHL, Implied dom/sub, references to Jack’s overdose
Summary:
It's great that Kent's team is supportive of the whole being gay thing, now if they could just believe him about the having boyfriend part of it.
