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The first spurt of come hit the back of his throat. Henri’s own neglected dick twitched; he ignored it and sucked Dylan through two more spurts before easing off him and swallowing.

“You feel better?” Henri moved his fingers in a couple of slow, shallow thrusts before he pulled them out.

“Come on me,” Dylan begged. He sounded both fucked out and desperate. As if he were on the verge of passing out or exploding into a million pieces. “Mark me up.”

They avoided leaving actual marks on each other. No hickeys or bruises, nothing that would last and raise eyebrows. No traces for their teammates to find and ask about, because a lie of omission was very different from outright denying it. But Henri had quickly learned that Dylan loved having evidence on him, no matter how briefly. Come and sweat, delaying a shower or washcloth to feel it a little longer. And clothes. He loved putting Henri in his clothes. Henri no longer knew which Turkeys shirts were his, sometimes suspecting none of them were because Dylan had hidden them all.

So it was never a surprise when Dylan asked, but always awakened something inside him. That dark, possessive side that he’d never felt connected to before Dylan.

Because you’ve never been in love with anyone before Dylan.

He shut the thought down before it ruined him.

(Too late. Months and months too late, but if he never looked at the feelings directly, he could pretend they were less than they were.)

Dylan moved more onto the bed and spread his legs wide in invitation. Henri climbed onto the bed, kneeling between his legs and draping himself over Dylan. He rested on his left arm, making sure to avoid Dylan’s shoulder, and took his cock in his right hand.

“I won’t last long.” He expected a few minutes, but Dylan pulled him in for a kiss, licking into Henri’s mouth like he was trying to taste himself.

Henri lasted five strokes before he spilled all over Dylan's chest.

Dylan guided him to the bed, tucked in on his left side. They lay there, breathing heavily, with Henri dangerously close to falling asleep.

“You’re gross,” Henri said, more to wake himself up than because he actually cared. “I’ll clean you up.” He didn’t move.

“It’s okay.” Dylan kissed the top of his head and held him tighter. “I don’t mind.”

And in that moment of weakness, when he was tired and briefly able to let go of his worries about stupid Edmonton and Dylan’s shoulder, he drifted off. He dreamed of Dylan’s hand carding through his hair and whispered promises.

I’m going to win you a Cup. You’ll just have to help me lift it this time.

We’re going to play here together until we retire. Or I’ll follow you wherever they send you.

I’m so fucking gone on you, Hen. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me since I moved to Albuquerque.

It was the best sleep Henri had had since the playoffs started.

Nover (May 2024)

You good?

Dylan

Yeah

Dylan

This is the worst you’ve played since Sokolov left and that was different because you looked lost

Last night you were trying and it was bad

Okay but me playing badly is still better than most people

Yeah maybe but most of those guys wouldn’t be getting top line minutes on a team going into a game seven of the Western conference finals

So can I get an honest answer here

It’s fine I’ll manage it