11.23.98
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Victor strode down the hall, keeping the urge to swat the light fixtures with the hockey stick he carried firmly in check. He wasn't sure why he was so perturbed, and he'd been seething since the start of the second period. Meyers Schroedecker had slammed him into the boards and took the opportunity to growl several detailed and choice things concerning Victor and Marc into Vic's ear.

"You like being his little...? Hm?" The words had echoed in his head and burned in his heart throughout the rest of the game. Vic had sat, silent and sullen, during the post-victory dinner. Marc had tried to draw him out, his smile fading a bit with each failure.

Vic had excused himself as soon as was humanly, politely possible, citing a need for a good hot soak before he froze in a seated position, or something equally inane and harmless.

Marc had watched him go with dark and shadowed eyes, wondering what was wrong with his friend. They -had- been mashing through a lot of stuff, lately, maybe he just needed some space... So Marc remained downstairs, halfheartedly joining in the bantering of his teammates.

Victor rifled through his pockets, looking for the key to their room. He couldn't find it... Figured, somehow. The weight of the day crashed down on him, and he sagged against the door. He just wanted... He just wanted... Vic slowly straightened up as he remembered that he -had- someone with which to share Schroedecker's ugly words, Except that Marc was still downstairs. He wasn't very interested in going back to the restaurant, particularly after having stomped out earlier, not to mention growling at the elevator boy. Sigh. He wandered back to the elevator alcove and plopped down on the couch across from the doors, waiting.

"Hey, Vic... You feeling better?" Marc-Paul waited for the other man to join him before continuing down the hall.

"Hey... More or less. Better than at dinner." Rising, he picked up his stick (which he'd been carrying around unconsciously for most of the evening), falling into step beside the other defenseman.

"I noticed that you were a little...out of sorts, earlier." Marc fished the keys out of his pocket, handing one to Victor. "And you didn't eat much, either."

"I wasn't hungry. I... You remember Schroedecker checking me? He... Said some rather nasty things." He watched his partner open the door, taking the keycard from his outstretched hand.

"What did he say to you?" The tone of his voice suggested that he'd happily rip Meyers' spleen out and feed it to him.

"Not... I don't want to tell you, but it's... It was-" Pausing, Vic orders his thoughts and props his stick up against the wall. "I'm not telling you until you promise to react like a human being, instead of a twit running on his brainstem!" The tone was far firmer than he'd intended, but it was far from snippy.

"Victor... Oh, all right, I won't kill him. Honest. Now, what did he -say-?" Marc closed the door, secured it, then moved past Vic to sit on one of the beds.

"Are you -sure- you want to hear this? It was... I don't even like -thinking- about it..." Victor plunked down on the other bed, opposite the man. "They... Marc, they were incredibly offensive questions pertaining to a... An aspect of our lives that doesn't even...Hmph."

"Vic, we -have- to deal with it. This is bothering -you-, at least, to the point that it might interfere with your game. Just -tell- me and let's get it over with." Marc made a face, then leaned down to start unlacing his shoes.

"Okay, but remember, -you- asked." Taking a deep breath, Vic closed his dark eyes and sprawled backwards onto the bed. "He... Schroedecker asked me if I liked... If I liked being your bitch, and... If we made it on the team, by sleeping to the top... He wanted to know if... Which of us..." His failing voice reasserted itself, one hand rubbing slowly across his eyes. "I refuse to go any further. Half the stuff he said was nothing but lies and speculations..."

Marc watched his supine teammate with an undefinable, unaccountable ache growing in his chest. He'd kill the bastard anyhow, and beg Vic's forgiveness later... He wanted to do something to reassure or comfort the other man, but he had no idea where to start.

As for Vic, he found, much to his dismay and horror, that some of those hissed words had given his imagination a catalyst it hadn't needed, one he hadn't wanted. Words that reminded him all-too-vividly of waking up with a warm leg braced over a hip, or falling asleep to the soft stirring of breath along the back of his neck... No, no, -no-. They... He did NOT need this... This... -Wanting-. He kept his eyes firmly shut, afraid of what he might give away if he sat up and looked at Marc. Conversely, he asked himself, are you afraid of seeing the same in Marc's? No. Maybe. Who knows?

Shoulders hit the wall, hard enough to maybe bruise, heated palms holding them there. Eyes glitter in the dim half-light of the hallway, "Listen to me. I love you dearly, but... We're going to have to be making another decision, soon, all right? And..." Words trail off as forehead comes to rest against one of the aforementioned shoulders. "I think I've already made mine. I... I love you," He said, again, miserably, keeping the other man pinned to the wall.

"That's not what you mean, though." His voice was raw with some restrained emotion, fury at the manhandling, perhaps, or banked desire. Buried desire, he amended, only recently exhumed and acknowledged. Maybe.

"What do you mean, it's not? Of course it is." This was... Slightly ridiculous. Two grown men, holding each other up in a rather public hallway, arguing over the meaning behind one of the most powerful sentences in the whole of the human experience. Marc squashed a threatening giggle before it could escape and held on to Vic a little more tightly.

"It's -not-. I don't know how I know, I just -do-. You... You mean something else." His hands had a life of their own, sliding along Marc's ribs with nary a by-your-leave from Vic. Or Marc, for that matter.

"I do?" He sounded genuinely surprised, lifting his head to set his chin on Vic's shoulder.

"Yes... I'm not sure -what-, though. Maybe..." How could so much be crammed into so little space and time? One or both of them was trembling, and Marc's heart was thrumming under his hands like the heart of a bird, or a mouse, or some other small living thing that was easily frightened. Not so different from his own, which felt as if it might be trying to escape its bone prison.

"Maybe what?" A whisper as hoarse as Vic's, fingers curling deeper into the fabric of the softly worn shirt covering those shoulders...

"Maybe... You..." He wasn't sure he could do this, try as he might to actually speak the words his mouth was forming, struggling to comprehend... And then there was the risk of breaching, or disrupting, or somehow ruining things as they were by taking this last step, vocalizing this thought that he wasn't sure he wanted to...

"Vic? Please-"

"Shh..." The faint plea stirs some instinctive desire to comfort, and he lifts a hand to brush at Marc's face. His fingers come away damp, and his resolve (or something) buckles... Or solidifies. In this case, it's very hard to know just what the heck is going on. "I think... You want me."

The answer to the near-accusation was a long time in coming, all but inaudible when it did. "Damned right I do..." And with that, as with most admissions, some before-unnoticed stones fell from him, leaving him feeling as if he might be borne away on Vic's next exhalation.

And then there was only time to be briefly thankful for the muscles that Victor had acquired over the years as one arm wrapped around Marc's shoulders and the other angled down, mostly around his waist, trying for his hips while their mouths came together with such haste their teeth accidentally clicked.

Vic ignored the minor hurt it caused, abandoning his previous chasteness as their tongues almost fought with one another... This was farther than they'd ever pressed, this counting and recounting of teeth, and he thought he might be in danger of falling asleep like this, warmed and woozy from the mere pressure of Marc's body against his...

"But..." The word is a bare thread of sound, spoken rather ineffectively on an indrawn breath as Marc pulled away.

Victor's only response is a querying eyebrow raised over one half-open eye.

Said eyes have caught Marc's fancy, the low lights glittering there and adding to the rather wanton air surrounding the slightly taller man. He stares for a bit, aware of nothing more than the heat of the body before and against him, and his own astonishment.

"But...?" The quiet prompt is hard to say, Vic rather unwilling to loose whatever hold he has on Marc-Paul.

"But... Not in the hallway. We already have enough on our plates without adding public indecency to the menu." His lopsided smile is teasing, though, and he doesn't seem very inclined to move.

He flicks a glance up and down the hallway, but there was only the muted glow of streetlights at one end and the nearer, greenish-white light of the Exit sign to be seen. Shrugging lightly, Vic bent his head again and kissed Marc; short and light and teasingly sweet. The teasing was, perhaps, unintentional, and it didn't exactly telegraph any of his preferences to his teammate, but the rather serious look he assumed afterward did. Nodding, Victor slowly let his arms drop, silently ruing the loss of contact.

Marc smiled softly through everything, stepping back and catching one of Vic's hands before leading him back to their door.

Once through it, they fell on one another like ravenous- Well, no, they didn't.

Ahem.

Once inside, their dance of intimacy gave way to the shuffle of awkwardness, leaving them looking at anything, everything but one another and the bed. Either bed, really.

"Ah..."

"Er-"

"You first-"

Laughter, a bit strangled at first, mellowed into more genuine chortling after a few moments. Their mirth edged them closer together, and before they knew it, they were perched on the edge of the nearest bed, leaning together.

"Vic, I think..."

"...Not tonight?" They didn't finish one another's sentences very often, more from ingrained habit than any preference. "It's just..."

"A little too soon." Marc was pleased (not to mention a tad surprised) that the words carried neither disappointment, regret, or relief. He didn't know exactly how he felt, and he didn't think that -now- was a good time to try discussing 'feelings'.

"Rather." He touched his friend's hair, lightly, fingertips sweeping down to follow the contours of eyebrows, cheekbones, bridge of nose and chin.

They conveyed their appreciation of the other's understanding in a last, lingering glance, before the romantic little tableau was completely upset by sirens shrieking past, the sudden blare of the television in the next room, and a rather enormous yawn on Marc's part.

"Mph. I vote we try to sleep, now, if the firehouse down the block will let us..." The show next door had been turned down, the street quiet again.

And so they did.

I know, I know, lame ending. But really, do -you- want to read about them brushing and flossing and carefully folding their dirty clothes, setting out the next day's outfits, and all with only one more kiss before falling asleep?

Oh.
You do.
*Blink*
Maybe next time.
*Sweet smile*

Special thanks go to my mother, for the "dance of intimacy/shuffle of awkwardness".