#idk it's like... i think that petulant angry kid is who i am deep down and lord knows i shouldn't post this but

[indigodawns]

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[drabblemesilly]

Dylan Larkin #6.1

Requested by Anon:  Could you write one (Carter hart, Connor McDavid, Mitch, auston, eichs, Larkin or Nate Bastian) along the lines of: you're really shy and good friends with (player of choice) and they're super close and protective/supportive of you (like they know well so they'll like order stuff for you so you don't have to and they can read you really well) and they've kinda helped you become way less shy. But then one of their teammates makes a joke about like when will you guys date And while mentally panicking you do the whole "what no! We're best friends." And then afterward he's like really weird because he kinda just realised that he doesn't like being just your best friend and then he's really grumpy and like idk almost gets in a fight and is really reckless and then afterwards while you're waiting (because he's taking agessss) you get chatting to some guy and he's furious (idk if this is going to be wayyy to long omg) but he doesn't say anything and just doesn't  Just doesn't speak to you for ages and you're so furious so you don't speak to him and idk you can finish it (IM SORRY ITS SO LONG but I'm fuelled by angst).

*YOU GUYS! I LOVE THIS SO MUCH! This is a loooong request and so a very looong fic. You know I love me some angsty, Larks multi-parters. This is the first of 3, maybe 4, chapters. I feel so good about this and I hope you do too. Enjoy!*

Word count: 1,316

Pro tip: never kick a door open when you weigh next to nothing, no matter how angry or agitated you are. Really, you’ve tried kicking down Dylan Larkin’s front door twice now and the only thing it’s gotten you is a sore foot and a wounded pride. Damn it, Dylan. Why can’t anything just go the way they’re supposed to?

Why can’t he just answer your calls or respond to your messages? Fuck, he can’t even be bothered to show up to your Sunday brunch place – the one you’ve always gone to on Sundays if he’s in town and has the time. He can’t even make up excuses because they only had home games this week.

Toning down your annoyance, you gave the door another wild knock, “I know you’re in there,” you leaned into the banister, “Dylan! I can hear Mario Kart, bitch.”

You looked around the porch to look for a comfortable place to sit in, determined to stay here until Dylan opens the door and talks to you. At this rate, you’ll have to sneak into their dressing room at the arena to see him. Whatever in the world did you do?

Okay, so the last time you saw him was at Anthony Mantha’s apartment. That was Friday night and you were there to celebrate because he was finally going to be reinstated. You had fun, some booze… maybe a little too much booze, if you are being honest, and then Dylan brought you home. Like usual.

He hasn’t talked to you since. Which is very much not like the usual.

Taking out your phone, you opened your messages and stopped until you landed on his last message, ‘I’m outside,’ was what he texted you that Friday night, telling you that he was ready to go home and that you should be too.

It’s been almost two weeks since then and this radio silence thing has got to stop, especially after his fourth fight in as many games last night. Dylan Larkin fighting: out of the ordinary but always welcomed. Dylan Larkin fighting for four games in a row: uh-oh.

Why is he so freaking angry?

Your ears perked when you heard some sort of shuffling inside. FINA-FUCKING-LY.

Except your heart deflated when the door opened and Luke Glendening appeared.

“You look like you need another layer on you,” he said as a way of saying hello, a smile playing on his face.

“If that’s your way of telling me I should leave, better luck next time brother,” you replied, sliding your phone back into your pocket and crossing your arms on your chest, “I’m not leaving until whatever’s up Dylan’s ass crawls out of it.”

For someone so big and bulky, Luke didn’t make any sort of sound as he gingerly closed the door and leaned against it, “he’s really not feeling you right now, bud,” he shook his head, “I don’t know why.”

“You and me both,” you sighed, “he hasn’t talked to me in two weeks,” you rubbed your face, “I just want him to tell me what I did.”

Straightening, Luke dangled his house keys in front of you, “I’m gonna go grab something to eat,” he said, walking down the front porch and into the driveway.

You watched him stop and turn back to face you, “tell him you found these in the porch,” he winked before tossing his keys towards you, almost hitting you on the head, “blow him or something, kid,” he laughed, “he needs to let all those steam out.”

For the record, Dylan Larkin is your best friend and nothing more. It doesn’t look it now because he’s being a jerk but he was the one who helped you overcome your stutter back in 4th grade. When he was confused whether he should go the collegiate way or give up his NCAA eligibility and go to the major juniors, you stayed up all night with him listing the pros and cons. He was there, front and center, when you graduated and you cheered the loudest when he got drafted.

There’s no Dylan Larkin without you and no you without him. It’s just the way it is.

Except apparently, there is a Dylan Larkin without you and this particular Dylan… he’s not all that amazing. He’s angry and picks fights with men like Zdeno Chara and Tom Wilson.

You let yourself in the house and followed the sound of something cooking, finding Dylan chopping some nuts in the kitchen. He’s sporting a pretty good shiner, courtesy of his last conquest: Brayden Point.

Leaning against the archway leading to the kitchen, you nodded at his blackeye, “nice shiner you got there, bud,” you casually commented, trying so hard to not yell at him.

Aaaaand nothing. He didn’t say anything, like you weren’t even there.

Hopping on the bar stool just a few feet away from him, you picked a grape and started eating, “okay,” you shrugged, “you can ignore me but that’s not gonna get you anywhere.”

Still nothing. Woah, he’s good at this silent treatment thing.

“Really?” you shook your head, picking another grape, “you’re just gonna ignore me like you’ve been doing the last few weeks?”

Taking out a book from your bag, you wiggled in your seat, “then I’m just gonna stay here and make myself comfortable.”

“Suit yourself,” he muttered, turning around to toss the nuts into the pan.

You almost fell off the stool from sheer happiness. Holy Lord, he talks.

“’Kay,” you nonchalantly turned the page of your book, not really reading. Instead, you’re watching him move around the kitchen, shoulders so tight that he looked like he needed some deep tissue massage. His cheeks were tomato-red and the bruise around his eye looked as angry as he did.

Dylan Larkin, for all intents and purposes, looks like he is not in the mood to talk to you.

“Seriously, Dyl,” you sighed, closing the book before turning to him, “what’s up?”

“Nothing,” he said, avoiding eye contact, “you should go.”

“Oh,” you huffed, chuckling a little, “no one’s leaving until you untwist your panties, boo.”

That was the worst thing you could have said. Heh.

Rolling his eyes, Dylan shoved on hand into his curls and let out a frustrated sigh, eyes suddenly piercing you in place, “what do you want?” he spat.

“I just want to know why you’re ignoring me,” for all your fake bravado and macho stuff, you really can’t get mad at Dylan. He’s too important in your life that you just can’t risk it.

“We’re best friends,” he sounded so angry that you just sat there dumbfounded. His words were a conflict to his tone so you really don’t know how to respond to that.

“Okay?” you urged.

“You said,” he let out angrily, “we’re best friends.”

“We are best friends,” you argued, “we’ve been best friends for more than half our lives, Deedee,” when in doubt, use the childhood nickname he was never really fond of.

“You told the rookie that we were best friends,” he repeated, probably referring to Michael Rasmussen, who you were talking to at the party.

Now he just sounds like a petulant child, “we ARE best friends, what is wrong with you?” you finally stepped off the stool so you can poke his chest, “why are you so angry at me for telling people that you’re my best friend, that’s the truth. You’re my best friend, right?”

“I am,” he answered back, “and I’m not angry at you,” he said, eyes softening a little, “I’m angry at myself.”

“Okay now you just don’t make any sense.”

“You said we were best friends,” he said again, taking the plate he prepared, “just best friends,” he added so silently that you almost missed it.

Dylan gave you a lopsided smile, “think about that,” he shrugged, “you know where to find me.”