Impulse (Tyson Jost Imagine)
This is my entry for @antoineroussel ‘s summer fic exchange! This fic is for @senditcolton so I hope you like it! I know you said you’re in an angst period, but I accidentally ended up writing fluff-- hope that’s okay! I actually have 90% of another fic done, because I changed my mind about it at the last second lol
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this! It was inspired by the song Tattoos Together by Lauv
Rating: T
Pairing: Tyson Jost/fem!reader
Words: 3567
Warnings: light description of getting a tattoo
Summary: You’re not an impulsive person, until Tyson is involved. Turns out, some bad decisions mean more than you think.
As much as you try to control your impulsivity, as long as you’ve worked to learn to take a breath before making decisions, as much improvement as you’ve made in this particular arena, something in you snaps every time Tyson gives you his most earnest look and says “you wanna do something stupid?”.
Luckily, it usually ends up being fun. Like jumping into a pool at a wedding, or letting some kids at the park teach you to skateboard, or soaking all of JT’s socks in salt water so that they’re crunchy next time he puts them on and he has to practice with sticky feet. You’re not sure what overcomes you when he gives you that wide-eyed, excited look; you’re just glad no one else has the same effect. You couldn’t imagine how much more chaotic your life would be. This particular level of chaos is just right.
You’ve known Tyson since he was an awkward, gangly kid, dreaming of a future in the NHL. He’s achieved that particular dream now, and you love being able to remember every step he took to get here. Travel leagues had been your first introduction to not having him around all the time, but the two of you had made do. Sneaking through your window to talk and laugh loudly enough that you’ve realized in hindsight that your parents must have overheard.
Having that experience has made it easier to deal with him being away for most of the year. It also means that you’re perpetually waiting for him to come through your window to make you smile.
You’d spent most of the summer together, the rest of your friends understanding the time constraints and leaving you to be with him, for the most part. Between your work and his training, the time limit is even tighter, so you pack as much quality time in as possible. If you spend time with friends, he tags along. If his training runs long, you go cheer him on. You’ll probably have to dust your apartment come September, because you spend most nights at his place. Having his arms wrapped around you, his steady breathing ruffling your hair, is more than worth some cleaning.
It’s not, like, sexual. Your families had thought so at first, assuming it was a teenage romance. There had never been anything of that nature, though. Even as difficult feelings had started bubbling up in you over the years, everything had stayed strictly platonic.
He still has this hold over you, commandeering your thoughts year-round. Even when he barely has time to talk when the season ramps up, he still sits firmly in the back of your mind. Above all else, he’s your absolute best friend, the person who knows you the most. You think that’s a good enough reason for your near-obsession.
It’s a good enough reason for your inability to tell him no, too. For instance, he’s giving you that enthusiastic look that makes you smile back, and you know that you’ll do whatever he’s about to suggest.
“Let’s get tattoos,” he says, taking your hands in his own to shake them once in excitement, “Matching ones.” For the first time, you pause at the idea. Not necessarily because you’re mulling it over. More that there’s something so overwhelming about the prospect of him getting something so permanent to memorialize you on his body. A piece of you that he can carry around with him, like the little stuffed yeti you’d gotten him when he got drafted to the Avalanche. Only, there’s no chance of him forgetting this at home.
“I know a place,” you say, grinning and squeezing his hands. You’d gotten a few tattoos before, so you know that you can walk into the same shop and get served almost immediately. Your artist might have an appointment, but all of the artists there were good enough for your taste.
The shop is small, and the bell above the door jingles as you enter. You haven’t let go of one of Tyson’s hands for the entire walk here, but that’s not out of the ordinary. The woman behind the counter has tattoos winding up her arms, across the part of her chest bared by her tank top, up her neck. Her piercings are numerous, and the ones in her cheeks accentuate the smile that overtakes her face when she sees you.
“Hey Y/N!” she greets, leaning over the glass counter to give you a hug.
“Hey Valerie,” you say in return, “How have you been?” She was an apprentice when you’d been here last, but you’re sure she’s a fully-fledged artist by now. You chat with her for a minute or two, introducing Tyson as you do. He gives her his most charming, lopsided smile. She gives him a quick once-over before smiling back, giving you a sly look. You roll your eyes in return, but her approval warms you.
“I’m the only one open right now, but I can do you both,” she says, an offer you’re more than happy with. You’d seen a bunch of her work before, and you’re sure she’s only improved with time. Tyson looks to you for reassurance, so you squeeze his hand with a smile.
“Do either of you have an idea?” she asks. You feel stupid for a minute, because you hadn’t even thought of it on the way here. You were just overcome with the joy of Tyson’s suggestion. Luckily, it seems he’d given it some thought.
His suggestion is almost overwhelmingly sweet. Hell, it is overwhelming, if you’re being honest. When the two of you share a bed, you tend to hold hands in your sleep. It’s one of the sappier things you do, but it just fits right. That’s why you find your fingers entwined so often during the day, too.
The concept is simple and subdued. Almost secretive. A small sun and corresponding moon on the insides of your fingers, positioned so that they’ll match up when your hands are together. You agree immediately, already knowing Valerie’s next comment. She explains that hand tattoos, especially in places that experience a lot of rubbing, tend to fade and need to be redone. Apparently Tyson hadn’t known this, but you’d heard it before. You’re more than willing to get touch-ups, and it seems he is too.
The only thing you have to negotiate is who will get which symbol. You think he should get the sun, because he’s the embodiment of sunshine, but he returns the same sentiment. You feel like the moon more appropriately represents you, with your night owl tendencies and calmer disposition. You also think of how you’re just living parallel to him, reflecting the light that he gives off, but you don’t share that part.
Eventually, you convince him of your point of view, and he agrees that you’re the moon. You smile at your success, and Valerie gives you a look heavy with meaning. You’d introduced Tyson as your best friend, and you’re used to the looks people give you about it. Anyone from family and friends to near-strangers have and will make it known that you’re obviously in love with him. Which is true, and you don’t really try to hide, but is completely irrelevant. You’re obvious about your feelings, and Tyson has never reciprocated, and that’s all you need to know. If other people don’t understand, that’s their problem.
“We should swap them,” Tyson says, “So that we have each other around all the time.” Again, you’re amazed by how sweet he is. The concept is perfect, and Valerie takes a few minutes to make tiny patterns for each of you.
You’re used to the buzzy pain of tattoos, so the quick work is nothing to you. It hurts a little bit more than others had, because it’s in such a sensitive spot, but it’s still not bad at all. You hold Tyson’s free hand when he gets his, trying not to laugh as he flinches and scrunches his face up. Hockey players try to act tough, but they’re big babies.
Once you’re both finished and wrapped up, Valerie gives you the spiel about caring for a fresh tattoo, stressing that you can’t hold hands on that side until it’s fully healed. That means you won’t be able to do so when you sleep, but you think resting your hand next to his will be good enough.
Luckily, you have another hand. After you pay and say your goodbyes, you switch your typical positions as you walk so that you can twine the non-injured hands together. You both laugh about how weird it feels.
Tattoos take a long time to heal, and you know there’s not enough time before he goes back to Minnesota. The tattoos look great, even as the skin starts to grow back over them, and you get used to sleeping on your other side, because Tyson insists you still be able to hold your good hands while you sleep.
The drive to the airport is as bittersweet as it always is. Riding in the back of the car with him, he reaches out so your fingertips touch.
You have a system for the season. Every other night, Tyson will call or facetime you, and you’ll chat until he gets too tired and says goodnight. The way his eyes go sleepy and half-mast, his entire face softening, gives him away every time. You should probably cut him off once it starts, so he can get more sleep, but you’re too selfish to shorten your time with him.
The saving grace of the season is that he has to come to Edmonton eventually. If there’s pressure to spend time together over the summer, having him in town for one day at a time is the next level. Your friends know when he’s coming, because you’ll fly into a bit of a frenzy the couple days beforehand. Some of your newer friends try to calm you down and get you to rest, but the ones that you’re truly close with had given up on that a long time ago. They know you need to get the frenetic energy out, lest you explode.
It’s excitement and anxiety tangled together, wanting to make sure that everything is perfect for him. It doesn’t have to be, and he doesn’t expect it to be, but if you didn’t run around cleaning your apartment, you’d have to think. That’s never a good idea.
That’s especially not a good idea when you’ve spend the past couple months reminding yourself constantly that you shouldn’t rub the inside of your finger. The urge is like a kid rubbing the tags of their clothes or sucking their thumb— a way to comfort yourself with the reminder that Tyson is out there somewhere, and he still loves you. Which is the other problem.
Tyson has been your best friend for the majority of your life, and he’s loved you as such the entire time. Still loves you as such. As his best friend. But the selfish part of you wants him to love you differently. You want him to love you romantically, to stop seeing you as the awkward kid you once were and start seeing you as the adult you’ve grown into— as someone he could love in more ways than one.
You clean and arrange and prep because you don’t want to think about your feelings and the little tattoo on the finger where an engagement ring would go. You don’t want to think all the hopeful, impossible thoughts that keep springing up. You’re not stupid enough to believe that this is anything more than what it is. As much as you tell yourself that, you can’t get your brain to stop imagining love declarations that hurt as much as they make your heart float. There’s no point to getting caught up in all of that, just to disappoint yourself later. It’s not like you’re ever going to tell him how you feel, anyway. You’ve kept it to yourself for this long, forever isn’t that much longer.
You pick Tyson up after morning skate, sitting in the back seat with him while his mom and sister grill him from the front. He’ll have lunch with his family, but you always come alone to pick him up. You just can’t wait to see him.
They drop you off at your apartment shortly after, heading out to some restaurant you’d seen in an article some time. That means you have a couple more hours to yourself before Tyson comes over for his pre-game nap. You make sure the ingredients are ready for his snack later, before spending half an hour more staring at your laptop screen than actually watching the show playing on it. You grab some yarn and a hook and begin to crochet, hoping that doing two things at once will help you concentrate. Even if it doesn’t, at least you’ll make some progress on this year’s birthday presents.
A knock on the door announces Tyson’s arrival, and you have to scramble out from your pile of yarn to answer the door. You know he has a key, so he must have forgotten his keychain again. Hopefully he has it at the hotel and hasn’t locked himself out of his apartment… again.
He greets you with a huge hug, just as he has this morning. This hug is actually a little bigger, his arms just a bit tighter as he sways you side-to-side. You bury your face in his shoulder and enjoy acting like one of those annoying couples that dramatically reunite every time they’re apart for more than five minutes.
“I missed you,” he says, slowly walking you backwards without breaking the embrace.
“I missed you too, nerd,” you reply. You really have missed him, even if it’s only been a few weeks. Everything just feels more right when he’s here.
Tyson waddles you all the way into the bedroom, managing to kick his shoes off in the process. It’s more affection than you’re used to, but you’ll take it happily. Whatever happened during lunch must have put him in a good mood. Eventually, he has to let you go so that you can both get ready to sleep. You change into shorts and an oversized Wild t-shirt he’d gotten you after the trade. Changing together feels domestic, comfortable and practiced.
You still have time before he actually needs to go to sleep, so you clear your things off the bed and wake your laptop up. Tyson climbs under the covers first, holding out his arms so you can snuggle into his bare chest. It doesn’t take long to get situated, laying your head back against his shoulder to continue the show you’ve been watching together over FaceTime.
The show is a good choice, because it doesn’t take too much brain power to keep up with. You’re already kind of sleepy, so you don’t have much brain to spare.
When Tyson jostles you awake, someone on screen is dramatically kissing their love interest. It’s the middle of the episode still, so you’re pretty sure this romantic tryst won’t be all flowers and rainbows. Tyson pauses it and shuts the laptop, so you’ll have to find out later. Laying down with Tyson’s head on your chest is more important. He’s warm against your side, arms wrapped around your torso in two hot lines. Out of instinct, you press a kiss into his hair. He sighs in response, sinking further into you. The contact is helping bring back some of the tiredness that had begun to subside when he woke you. You’ve been so stressed— for no reason— that the relief of his presence feels like a weight off of you.
“You should move to Minnesota,” he says a few minutes later, apropos of nothing. It shocks you both more and less than you’d have anticipated. Him suggesting you pack up everything to be closer to him doesn’t surprise you as much as it should, but how little you oppose the idea floors you. Your friends, your family, your job, your home is all here, and you’d pick it all up, move to a different country, with very little convincing.
“Why?” Is the only question you can think to ask. He gives you a squeeze.
“I want my girl with me,” he says. My girl.
“You’ve gotta stop calling me that,” you reply, “People are gonna think we’re dating.” At that, he props himself up on one elbow to look at you.
“Aren’t we?” He asks. The question shatters all rational thought.
“Are we?” You ask in return. You’re wracking your brain for some conversation that you forgot or misunderstood, but you can’t fathom overlooking something so monumental. Besides, your brain is mostly just repeating “aren’t we” on a loop. The simple statement is ridiculous— ridiculous in the fact that it’s so casual, so sure of itself. Like this is something you should have already known. If it’s any consolation, Tyson looks just as confused as you feel.
“I facetime you every day,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“You facetime your mom almost every day,” you respond.
“I say I love you at the end of every call,” he says.
“You’ve always done that,” you dismiss, no less confused than you were sixty seconds ago.
“Because I’ve always loved you,” he says, as if it’s a foregone conclusion. He doesn’t tack on “as a friend” like you do when you think of his feelings. Just an outright, simple declaration of love. Like, love. Like what you’ve been fantasizing since the day in your early 20s that he’d brought you ice cream after a breakup and told you the guy was an asshole and you’d realized you would never love anyone the way that you love him. You almost slam your head into his, sitting up so quickly.
“You meant it like that?” You ask, bewildered. Why hasn’t he told you? Tyson’s smile is small and genuine.
“Y/N,” he says, “We got matching tattoos.” He pauses as you gape at him, before adding, “That touch when we hold hands.” Okay, yeah, that’s kind of a good point. Ill-advised decisions are a hallmark of your friendship, but the tattoo thing had been a little much, even for you. The thing is, looking back on the past couple months, nothing had changed. Everything you did were things you’d been doing forever.
“Nothing changed,” you say, only sort of a question. Tyson shrugs as best he can in his position.
“We’ve basically been dating for years,” he says, “so why would it?” Everyone had joked about that exact thing since you’d met, but it’s kind of true. You’ve always been closer than usual, even for childhood friends. Talking literally every day is also more a relationship thing than a friendship thing. Spending so much time together when he’s home that every invitation to hang out with a friend includes Tyson by default is also relationship-y. And sharing a bed. And his mom calling you her daughter-in-law. And saying “I love you” to end every call. Okay, so maybe you’ve been dating unofficially since you were teenagers. But still.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask. His smile turns sheepish.
“I kind of thought the tattoo thing would do it,” he says, “and then I just forgot to actually ask you out.” You smack his shoulder and can’t help but laugh.
“Of course you did,” you laugh, the overwhelming emotions finally breaking in the face of his stupidity. Forgetting to ask you out may be the most in-character thing he’s ever done. He laughs along with you, flopping back onto the pillow.
“The answer is yes, by the way,” you add, your smile threatening to split your face in two. What a ridiculous way to end up with the love of your life.
“No, no, you gotta let me ask!” He objects, sitting up again. You laugh again, motioning for him to continue when he just stares at you for a moment. The immediate switch to being serious almost gives you whiplash. His face is bright and earnest when he cradles your face in his hands.
“Y/N,” he says in a way that would be laughably sappy in any other circumstance, “Would you do me the honor of being my girlfriend?” You touch your fingertips to the back of one of his hands.
“Of course,” you reply. His genuine excitement makes your heart flip.
“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he says, and your combined laughter nearly makes it impossible. You manage it, his lips soft as they move against your own as if they’d been doing so forever. It’s the easiest first kiss you’ve ever had, years in the making. Your entire body is alight with the feeling, with the surety of it all, both physically and emotionally.
Eventually you have to part, because he really does need to sleep at some point. You can’t help but steal a few pecks as you settle back in, though. His head on your chest feels different, the shirt he bought you feels different, having his number plastered across your back feels different, and yet it all feels exactly the same as it always has. When he tangles his fingers with yours, your tattoos align for the first time.
