Page 3 of Twisted Needs

Anders leans against his shoulder, half asleep already. He brushes a hand through Anders’s messy hair, while the kid practically melts against him.

“What’s a pyro?” he asks his brother, mumbling it.

And then, as the hours of restlessness grab hold and refuse to falter, Anders falls asleep in his arms before Luca can even find an appropriate answer to give him.

CHAPTER 1

STAND DOWN, KILLER

PARKER

We’ve settled into winter hockey, which is arguably the most wonderful time of the year.

By January, the chaos of early-season starts thinning out. Training camps are long over, preseason obligations are dead, and the team has finally stopped feeling like a group of strangers shoved into matching jerseys. No blockbuster trades hanging over our heads, so there’s no scrambling to rebuild chemistry every other week. Just a solid lineup and enough routine for life to start feeling a little more predictable.

I’ve always been predictable. I’m a creature of habit, so routine is probably the only thing that holds me together most days. Especially at home. After months of accidental clashing over laundry schedules and the occasional argument over cleaning out the coffee filter, Anders and I have fallen into a routine that’s easily made everything function a little more autonomously.

I didn’t think much of it when I first offered to let him stay here for his senior year.

My best friend and former teammate Luca moved to Minnesota three years ago after signing a contract worth an obscene amount of money. He has a wife and three daughters, and stability mattered more than geography at that point.

Anders staying behind in D.C. for school just made sense. Georgetown’s close enough to my townhouse that the commute is easy, and honestly, the house was too quiet before he moved in anyway. The only issue now is that I can’t walk through the front door without evidence of him everywhere. Tonight is no different.

The first thing I see when I step into the living room is Anders asleep on the couch with an open book spread across his stomach and noise-canceling headphones hanging crookedly over his ears. The lamp beside the couch blankets him in a warm glow. One of his socked feet hangs off the edge of the couch cushion while a throw blanket bunches around his waist like he’s kicked it away in his sleep.

I’ve come home to this more times than I can count now, and the longer he’s here, the harder it is to remember what life was like before I had him around every day.

The fridge is full of expensive green juice and strange organic fruits I still can’t pronounce like rambutans and lychee. Half my pantry has been reorganized according to whatever system exists solely inside Anders’ head.

And of course, I still always have to straighten his shoes that he lazily kicks off by the front door. I used to not care as much, but one night I came home from the airport late and ate shit the moment I tripped over one of his chunky sneakers.

The kid has always slept like the dead. Even when he was little, Luca used to joke that Anders could sleep through a natural disaster if he was comfortable enough. He still curls inward the same way he did as a kid, one hand tucked loosely against his chest and his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

I’ve known Anders for his entire life, or just about. I was there when Luca got custody of him, standing right behind him in the court room alongside our other teammates. I still choke up when I remember the tears of joy that sprung from his eyes when the judge awarded him full custody.

But there becomes a point where he’s no longer a kid. He doesn’t need saving anymore. I think it’s the most dangerous thought that’s ever crossed my mind.

Carefully, I reach down and run my fingers through the loose curls spilling across his forehead. “Hey there, sweetheart,” I murmur. “Fell asleep on the couch again?”

“What the f—holy shit, dude.” Anders startles. “You fucking scared me.” His eyes blink open wide with confusion before slowly focusing on me. For a second he just stares, dazed and heavy-lidded beneath the warm lighting, before his shoulders loosen with recognition.

“Pet’ka,” he groans roughly, his voice wrecked with sleep. “What the hell, man? I was so close to lucid dreaming. You know I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Fucking Pet’ka.

The kid heard my mom use the endearment once and has refused to drop it. When I first immigrated to the States, I thought Americanizing Pyotr to Parker would spare me the trouble. Anders causes nothing but.

“It’s getting late,” I tell him quietly, stepping back before I linger too long. “If you’re planning on sleeping down here all night, I don’t think the book’s gonna make a very good blanket.”

He lets out a sleepy hum and drags his headphones down around his neck. The couch creaks softly as he stretches, arms lifting above his head beneath the slightly oversized sleeves of his shirt that’s almost as baggy as all the jeans he hoards.

Anders closes his book carefully before setting it beside the scattered papers littering the coffee table. His laptop’s still open up to a half-written document. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him writing. When he was younger, he would spend hours writing fantasy books. Luca always had them bound into physical copies so Anders could draw the illustrations.

“You’re home late,” he says. His eyes move over me slowly in a way I pretend not to enjoy. “Well, don’t you look nice…”

“That sounds a little backhanded,” I laugh dryly.

A ribbing grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Finally found a puck bunny who’s up to your standards?”