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ezlebe · 2 years

Note

Tom & Greg playing in a charity (soccer, golf, basketball, etc) game for Waystar (or Gojo)

Greg glances across locker room bench, hunching slightly into himself, as he blindly tugs at his laces. He pauses at Kendall, struggling with the eyelets, then Roman, who is pouting at someone on staff doing it for him, then over to Tom, only to frown with a blink – he’s… got his own skates. And a lace puller. Where did he get a lace puller?

“Is that a lace-puller?”

“Not everyone enjoys straining their fingies, Greg-ster,” Tom says, grinning and chirpy, continuing to yank at the crosses of his laces. He glances up to Greg after he’s finished the boot, offering the tool with a spin against the tops of his fingers. “You want a go?”

“No, I –” Greg stares at it a beat, then shakes his head while finishing lacing his own in a pair of loops. He's a bit taken aback by how... earnest Tom is, too, compared to the rest of the room, though that's not really that weird. “I don’t really like how it feels when it’s too tight.”

Tom barks out a loud laugh, shaking his head while moving on to the next skate. “Okay.”

“How old are those?” Greg asks, as he furrows his brow, then feels his face heat when he realizes a beat late that might be received pretty bad. “I-I mean, they’re not brand new?”

“That was a terribly judgmental tone, Gregory,” Tom says, reaching out and thumping Greg at the shoulder, as he throws the puller into the bag at his side with a wave of his other hand. “They were new in 2006, thank you. I did get them sharpened before we flew up here.”

“Oh, cool,” Greg says, then kicks out his feet to show a line of frayed thread at the sides of his own skates. “Mine are old, too – it was, like… really hard to find them?”

“From the Bigfoot Skate Emporium, huh?” Tom says, standing up with a slap against the thighs of his hockey pants. “Did you get them sharpened?”

“Uh, a while ago,” Greg says, turning his foot to look at the blade. “It was like the winter before I moved to New York.”

Tom drops his chin with a nod, then lifts it when Greg stands up next to him. “Huh.”

“Jesus fuck,” Roman says, looking up, as the staff member moves back and away. “You two dicks are even taller.”

“That is how skates work, Rome,” Tom says, mouth flattening with sarcasm, as he raises both his brows and his tone into a chipper mock. “They go under your feet.”

“Can you like skate now?” Greg asks, remembering a birthday at the ranch that was probably twenty years ago, where Roman had gotten the dubious privilege of being something Logan and Ewan agreed on – that he was useless.

…On ice.

“Fuck you, I can skate,” Roman says, mouth setting into a tight-lipped scowl.

“Not really,” Kendall says, voicing his disagreement with a flat puff of a scoff. “I think the last time Rome ice skated was that one birthday you’re totally thinking of.”

Roman swipes out, but doesn’t make any actual contact. “That’s not true! You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about – you were coked up that whole weekend.”

“I don’t think… I was,” Kendall says, sighing deeply through his nose.

“Can’t confirm, though,” Stewy says, with a mocking click of his tongue, sitting down on a bench at an empty locker with a hand wrapped around a tall ceramic coffee mug. “I wasn’t invited to that.”

“Why the hell are you here?” Roman demands, rounding on Stewy while badly straightening out his jersey, then gritting his teeth visibly when he realizes it’s on backward. “You weren’t even part of the fucking negotiations.”

“I couldn’t miss this,” Stewy says, gesturing with a wave between walks of the locker room. “A once in a lifetime chance to see the CEO of GoJo crash and burn at something stupid.”

“You want to be useful and gear up, Hosseini?” Tom says, leaning into the edge of the lockers with a lift of his chin. He looks sort of like he’s posing, or something, but that could just… be a consequence of something lurking in the back of Greg’s head, perhaps, from a few embarrassing sort of magazines with real hockey players. “We only have fucking Ray as another defenseman and Davis as a goalie, to round out people who know what hockey is.”

Ray makes a face, tight-mouthed and dissatisfied, but otherwise keeps his eyes down at the screen of a phone. Ximena is still listening to her headphones, head intermittently bobbing, and it’s pretty much the same to how she looks in any meeting.

“Come on, now,” Stewy says, waving dismissively, a sneer curling the corner of his lip while he sweeps his eyes around the locker room. “Matsson wants to bond with his newest ugly stepchildren. And I only risk my neck in real sports, like steeplechasing.”

“RIP Donut,” Kendall says, briefly bobbing his head and chin disappearing into the plastic neck of his pads.

Stewy mimes pouring out his coffee onto the mats. “RIP Donut.”

“What do you, uh… mean ‘crash and burn’?” Greg asks, rubbing his palms together with a glance toward the exit out onto the ice. He doesn’t know who all is on the GoJo team except Matsson, and probably Ingvar, but he hasn’t gotten any impression from Matsson that he would choose a sport to do this with that he was bad at in any capacity. “Did someone at GoJo get hurt, or something?”

Stewy pauses with his coffee halfway to his mouth then tilts his head, eyes markedly sweeping to Tom, then back to Greg, then down the rest of the bench, as a brow climbs up his forehead. “You don’t know – wait, do none of you know?”

“Stew,” Kendall says, exhaling a shallow, weary sigh.

“Huh,” Stewy intones, finishing his sip with a few clicks of his tongue.

“Know fucking what?” Roman snaps, as his hands wrap tight around the edge of his bench.

“Huh,” Stewy says, leaning back against the lockers with a lazy shake of his head. “Interesting.”

Greg furrows his brows slowly, then glances at Tom; the only one of them, outside Greg, who had brought gear of his own. He’s really only one of them that makes sense for Stewy to be referring to, really, since Stewy knows Tom from a long time ago in some vaguely secret capacity that Greg is wary of digging into, so that does… mean he knows things that Greg doesn’t about Tom. It always makes his stomach churn when he thinks about it.

A snide voice echoes from the door. “You all look like you’re dressed up for a costume party.”

“Fuck off,” Roman says, predictably jumping up from the bench, as he gestures up and down the pads. “You should be in this shit.”

“I chose not to return to the company, so… No, I shouldn’t,” Shiv says, taking a few more steps into the locker room with a glance at each of them, then gesturing with a flick of her hand, before crossing it again over her stomach. “I’m just here to mock with Stew.”

“I’m supporting,” Stewy insists, gradually raising a fist near his shoulder, pumping it once, then twice, as he speaks in an unmistakably mocking voice. “USA, USA.”

“I’m Canadian,” Greg mutters, kneeling down and grabbing a Waystar helmet from under the bench.

“You’re only as Canadian, as we are British,” Roman sneers, grabbing his own helmet and stick. He wobbles markedly on his skates while going toward the door, despite firmly still being on the rubber mats, which is not a hugely great sign for the game.

Greg tightens his hands on the stick that was labeled at the locker; it’s tall, at least, but having a stick that fits is only like barely what it might take to do okay. He watches hockey, like a lot, but he hasn’t played it since it was for a grade. “Are we perhaps allotted some time to practice, you think?”

“Fuck, I hope not,” Kendall says, yanking at a glove over his hand with a few shakes of his head. He winces with a glance up, as they enter the main arena. “I want to leave as soon as possible. This is as bullshit a stipulation as no personal jets.”

Greg peers around the rink, catching Matsson with his team in the other bench. He wonders if they’re any more prepared; if Matsson told them about this more than a week ago.

“I think there’s a half hour or so until the actual start,” Shiv says, answering the question more accurately beyond the silence of Kendall’s sullen response. “Maybe Rome will learn to skate.”

“What like are we playing?” Greg asks, setting his stick to the side, and nervously tightening his own gloves.

Roman sneers with a scoff. “Hockey, you idiot.”

“Positions,” Greg clarifies in a mutter, looking over Roman’s head and toward Tom with a harsh rub against his nose.

“I can be center,” Ray says, looking down while moving his stick back and forth like he’s ready for the puck. “Yeah?”

“As if, you’re playing center,” Tom disagrees, his voice setting surprisingly firm for present company, while he turns at the waist and then on his skates, fixing on Ray a particularly toothy, shark-like smile. “Do you even know what a face-off is?”

“I mean, yeah. It’s the – “ Ray stammers, drifting backward, plainly unused to being at the focus of anything, let alone Tom offering this particular sort of tone. “Like they drop the puck onto the ice.”

“They drop the puck,” Tom taunts, voice lifting just a bit more, confident and mean about it, not at all laced with his usual veneer of perky agreeability. “You can barely speak up in the weekly morning meeting; you think you can look GoJo’s center in the face – perhaps, Lukas himself – and sweep a puck out from under them?”

Ray offers a limp shrug, eyes darting between either end of the arena.

“No,” Tom says, then swings his stick out, making contact with Greg’s hip. “You’re a d-man with Greg.”

Greg exhales a grumble of protest under his breath. “Tom. I don’t want to be a – ”

“You think either of your cousins has the on-ice presence to intimidating anyone into anywhere?”

“Fuck you, Wambsgans,” Roman snaps, slumping into the edge of the wall with a clatter of pads.

“You look like a middle-schooler next to Dear Cousin Greg, Romy,” Stewy says, settling into a corner of the benches with a click of his tongue.

Shiv snorts with a quick glance up from her phone. It doesn’t get any sort of reaction, though, from a bored looking Gerri or Karl napping just a meter or so down, who serve as the only share of their crowd.

“I can’t, like…” Greg shakes his head, rubbing up his nose with a flattening of his mouth. “I won’t like be able to shove anyone into boards.”

“Look at those nerds,” Tom says, waving his stick around toward the GoJo team on the other bench; it’s not a wholly inaccurate judgment, since Matsson, outside himself, doesn’t seem to have padded the team with stockholders who happen to be the general shape of… well, a Tom-sort of person. “You won’t have to shove anyone, you just have to skate near them; buddy, it’s not a real game.”

“Okay, like who made you the coach?” Kendall grumbles, rolling his stick between his hands.

“The coach doesn’t play, Ken,” Tom says, “I’m yoinking the C for captain.”

“I don’t want to be a d-man,” Greg says, hearing his voice begin to lower, but it’s more worth getting his way with Tom, at the moment, than anything his cousins might turn into a taunt. “Can’t I be goalie?”

“No, buddy,” Tom says, speaking slow, responding more with condescension than acquiescence. “You’re big and, as long as no one looks in that face of yours, just a little scary on the ice. You’re on fake-out duty.”

Greg exhales a shallow sigh. “But – ”

Tom rolls his eyes with an insultingly low snort. “It’s not a debate, Greg.”

Greg looks around at Kendall and Roman, but Kendall just puts his hands up, and Roman doesn’t seem to be paying attention at all. He glances for Ray, but he seems to have gone out on the ice while no one was looking at him. “Why can’t it be – ?”

“No,” Tom interrupts, flattening his voice with a jerk of his chin in the direction of the ice. “Davis is the goalie – she played that for fieldhockey.”

“But…” Greg mutters, thinning his voice and softening his mouth, trying to get Tom to budge, “That’s different.”

“It is, but I’ve seen you try to catch – ” Tom cuts himself off, eyes sweeping to the side and narrowing while his lips roll across his teeth.

Greg raises his brows slowly, rocking slightly on his skates while drawing his shoulders back.

Tom lifts a gloved hand, holding it for a pair of beats, then clears his throat. “You know what? I’m not going to address it, except to repeat the no.”

Greg slumps back into the wall with a harsh scoff to the back of his throat. “You should, like… let me to make up for that.”

“He shouldn’t even be in charge,” Roman interjects, in a low, snide grumble.

“I think I already made up for it a lot,” Tom says, ignoring Roman while throwing both his hands out with a sweep and nearly smacking Kendall with the stick. “In every possible way.”

Greg glances out to the ice, rubbing his fingers up against the edge of his helmet. “Not every, obviously.”

Tom shifts his jaw, then rolls his eyes hard. “Gregory, get on the fucking ice, and I’ll assist for like as many goals as I can.”

Greg raises his brows with a peek to the side. “Yeah?”

“Of course, you silly goose,” Tom taunts, voice pitching, his stick tapping at the edge of Greg’s skate boot. He reaches back, balancing on the boards while stepping onto the ice. “As long as you’re out there guarding any one of Matsson’s weedy little dicksuck board members.”

“I get that you’re some kind of a bitter asshole, Wambsgans?” Kendall says, cutting in front of Greg without even a glance toward him, while following Tom out with a wobble. “What about me and Rome?”

“Don’t fall, to start with,” Tom says, flatly, skating backward toward the middle of the rink. He pauses abruptly while offering a significant point to where Roman is uneasily shuffling down onto the ice. “Actually, don’t slam anyone close to either doors onto the bench.”

“It’s fucking hilarious you really think this is actually going to be a competition,” Roman mutters, getting a little more balanced on the ice, sweeping his legs forward, but… Yeah, they’re going to lose really hard.

“True, sure, but – ” Tom reaches up and pats hard at his own shoulder. “It’s a whistle stop for dislocation town.”

“Or whatever happened to Määttä,” Greg says, voice low, and scratching at the side of his jaw with a wince.

Tom comes to a pause near the middle of the rink, and sucks at his teeth with an exaggerated hiss. “Did you have to bring that up, you big buzzkill?”

Greg lifts his shoulders with a shake of his hands in front of him. “It was a, like – a Wild game…”

“Fuck off, how did I not know you were a big fucking stereotype before today?”

“Those are not the skates I provided,” Matsson interjects, before Greg can answer, skating between them while his head tilts back and forth; he’s donned in a Gojo branded solid black jersey, new pads, altogether identical to the ones that he’d left in the locker room for them to find today in a Waystar navy. “Interesting.”

“Oh, yeah – why?” Kendall says, leaning into his stick with a glance down toward his own skates. “Are these rigged to blow after first period?”

“Hah,” Matsson says, typically neutral, a flat smile briefly crossing his mouth. “That might keep it interesting.”

“Fuck you,” Roman mutters, lifting his hands to grip and shift at the pads across his chest. “Why couldn’t you pick a real game, like baseball.”

Matsson raises an eyebrow for a silent beat, then tilts his head. “I have some interest in games based largely on statistics, but strictly for gambling.”

Kendall scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. “Great,” he says, smacking his stick lightly against the ice in an evident attempt to get Matsson to focus back at him. “How the hell are we going to run this circus?”

“Informal, obviously,” Matsson says, stretching his back with a lazy tilt of his head. “But I think some contact would be okay, as we are all wearing the appropriate gear. Outside that, I have some… doubts that any majority here know the rules.”

“Not wrong on this end,” Tom interjects, voice lifting into a taunting sort of pitch, trailing at the edge with a sharp, barking laugh. “We have a field hockey player goaltending, and a Canadian loose on the rest of the ice.”

Greg rolls his eyes downward, sweeping his stick against a line carved shallow by his own skate.

“I picked Adeoye because he is large,” Matsson says, looking over his shoulder at his own team with a low tut under his breath, then back with a lift of one shoulder. “I’m not sure the sport even exists in his home country, but he does seem to skate better than Roman.”

Roman exhales a hissy growl that he badly attempts to disguise as a laugh.

“Roberston is a similar situation,” Lukas continues, unheeded, turning one of his gloved hands palm up. “But she played rugby in some place called Bundaberg, so is not too wary of doling out a hit or two.”

“Bundaberg,” Greg echoes, rolling his lips around the word, as he glances over his shoulder toward the GoJo team. They all sort of look the same.

“Hah,” Tom says, as he skates back and forth a meter or so in some version of pacing. “You want to throw the sticks out onto the ice to grab at ‘em, for the real nostalgia effect?”

“I’m not familiar with… whatever that is,” Lukas says, plainly condescending, as he looks up and down Tom, then at the ice with a raised brow to their feet. “Though the mental image of Hirsch being forced to do with Roman’s stick is an amusing one.”

“Explain to me again how this is team building, if we’re on like opposite teams?” Kendall asks, plucking at his Waystar jersey with a flattening of his mouth.

“It gives you an opportunity to take out some of your frustration about the restructuring of your company after the death of your father.”

Greg drops his head with a widening of his eyes at his skates, then looks back up when Tom badly muffles a snort behind his face mask. He has to bite at his lips, curling his nose, and looks away before either of them can fall into real laughter.

“What the fuck?” Roman snarls, lurching forward and nearly onto his face, saved only by the fact he’s got a stick.

“Would you prefer I lie?” Lukas asks, blandly, blinking down in a way that somehow manages to be mocking and neutral.

Kendall offers an awkward grimace, skating forward with a ungainly tug at Romans jersey to draw him back. “Do you want to just get this over with? I know it’s not… on the hour, or whatever, but –”

“If you’d like,” Lukas says, tilting his head just so with a glance to either end of the rink. “If you feel your team is… properly acclimated to the ice.”

“As much as it can be,” Kendall says, half under his breath, looking to the side while rubbing at the top of his helmet with a gloved hand. “Tom was, you know… trying to give us positions – is that really necessary?”

Tom sneers with a significant glance toward Greg that speaks to the volumes of insults he’s keeping tucked behind his tongue.

Matsson offers a soft, somewhat mocking tut. “…Some organization is recommended.”

“Sure, no, yeah,” Kendall says, reaching up and rubbing at the top of this helmet. “But is it – are you doling out positions, except a goalie?”

Matsson blinks particularly slow, seemingly bemused, then seems to realize this is more of an argument between Kendall and Tom. He is silent for another moment, then gestures, somewhat oddly, toward the ref. “You will, at least, need to choose someone to fight initially for the puck.”

“Sure,” Kendall says, wetting his lips, then offers a few half-nods, skating backward with an awkward sort of swing backward of his stick. “Yeah. Wambsgans can do that. Whatever.”

“Thanks,” Tom says, so cheerful that it’s clearly just snide. He skates up with a roll of his shoulders in the pads, head turning back and forth in an evident stretch. “Let’s remember we could’ve warmed up, but… yeah. Whatever.”

Greg wishes that they could, too, as he skates backward to take a vaguely defensive position, while the rest of GoJo does the same. He probably won’t actually guard anyone, but he keeps his eye on Adeoye, anyway, who really isn’t quite as wobbly as Roman, but he still looks kind of like he might fall over if Greg skated too close to him.

Matsson steps across from Tom, and there must be some signal to the referee to start, though it is unclear. A clock blinks on in bright red distraction, 15:00, a low horn, and the puck is thrown in the center.

Greg tenses in anticipation, hunching over his stick, but then he feels like he only blinks and Tom is across the rink, on the other side of all five members of GoJo, with a puck sliding into the net. He stares at Tom celebrating a little too emphatically, too loudly, but not necessarily unexpectedly, and isn’t quite sure what he just saw; he does suffer a fleeting sense of sullenness – what had happened to him getting a goal? He peeks to the bleachers on a whim, catching Shiv staring up from her phone in just as much disbelief. Her eyes catch his, then, and there’s an excruciatingly awkward moment before they both hurriedly look away at the same time.

“What the fuck just happened?” Roman says, wobbling up next to Greg with a wag of his stick where the GoJo team is staring at Tom like he just did a magic trick.

Because Tom might have done a magic trick.

“I – I guess he plays hockey?” Greg says, swallowing hard, heat flaring up into his ears; yeah, Tom really plays hockey. Crap. He didn’t think the Tom thing could get worse, and it just got way worse in a sudden swoop he never even expected.

Roman scoffs harsh under his breath. “Like you didn’t know?”

Greg looks down, biting at the inside of his lip. “What does that like mean?”

“You know what it means,” Roman mocks, mouth curling at the edge in a mocking sneer. “You two’re so attached at the hip that you practically share one giant asshole.”

Greg stares back steadily for a pair of beats. “I think… you’re just unhappy no one likes you.”

Roman snarls outright and lurches, both hands hitting Greg in the middle with surprising, somewhat painful force through the pads.

Greg only just manages to keep balance with a brief, ungainly stumble on his skates. He sets his jaw and shoves back without really thinking, feeling angry and nine-years-old in a way Roman can only make him, as palms make contact with padded shoulders.

“Asshole!” Roman snaps, as he falls onto the ice with a choked shriek. He kicks out with his skate, then trying to dive forward over himself, gloved hands glancing at Greg’s knee. “Sasquatch fuck!”

Greg skates backward with a few pumps of his legs out of the way, doing his best to ignore a thought about how easy it would be to kick back and actually reach.

“Alright, alright,” Tom says, as he quickly appears in front of Greg with a wave at Roman with his stick. “Same team, you two caricatures of men.”

“He started it,” Roman says, stumbling back up with the help of Kendall yanking at under his armpits, though there’s a shaky moment where visibly threatens to upend them both. “He – ”

Greg feels his jaw tighten, shaking his head while halfway reaching up to scratch at his brow before he remembers the gloves.

“No one believes that’s true,” Kendall interrupts, idly swiping ice from Roman’s back before he jerks away with a gesture behind himself. “Not even Ray.”

“Oh, sure,” Ray says, appearing both eager and wary at being included in the joke. “Ximena, too. And she’s not paying attention.”

“More concerning,” Matsson interjects, skating up with Ingvar close to his shoulder, and both giving Tom a marked side-eye. “The teams are evidently suffering a markedly considerable lack of equal footing.”

“And?” Kendall says, flatly, with a twitchy manner of imitating a careless shrug. “You totally… chose most of the team, man.”

“I was not properly informed, which is a… to say the least, marked trend for Waystar Royco,” Matsson says, leaning into his stick, mouth flat and narrowly regarding Kendall, and altogether appearing like an entirely unwelcome, unintentional impression of Grandpa Ewan. He looks over to Tom with a low tut. “Wambsgans, you play the first two periods, but not the last.”

“Hey, now,” Tom protests, skating in a vague half-circle from one side of Greg to the other, then back again, waving his stick low to the ice. “How is it my fault no one wanted to warm up?”

“…Or Hirsch switches teams to even it out,” Matsson adds, looking toward Greg with a slow blink and a point of his stick. “Also fair. You yourself implied he was one of the only others who could play.”

Greg tightens his grip on his stick, regarding Lukas’ team beyond him with a slight bite against his cheek. He peeks toward Kendall, who seems mostly apathetic, then Tom, who is already looking back, somewhat unsurprisingly, but it still makes him hurriedly drop his eyes toward the ice with a shift on his skates while heat flares against his neck.

“Alright, I’ll throw the game,” Tom says, sweet-voiced but annoyed, then rolls his eyes with a sweep toward the banners on the ceiling. He throws his hands out with an over dramatic kick out that sets him a few meters further away. “Got to keep this family together.”

The game restarts and it sucks that the periods are only fifteen minutes; it takes less time for Tom to, in a way, cheat for them. The weirdest part is that he doesn’t even seem rusty, like he should be, doesn’t flinch when he gets checked by Bundaberg, hip glancing into the boards, and doesn’t fumble – it’s like he’s practiced, but they only found out they were doing this a week ago.

He does actually try to play with the team like they’re a real team, but only to some degree; he passes to Greg a couple of times, but Greg only dribbles it a few meters down before he hurriedly passes back, never really trying to shoot, and probably, accidentally actually being defense. Tom even passes to Kendall, who only manages to panic in that quiet way he does, tripping over himself, accidentally hitting it back, where GoJo slips it out from under him and Ximena actually gets to do something in the net.

He gets six goals altogether before he’s kicked off by the, so far, mute ref who likely just doesn’t speak English.

“Should I fake an injury?” Tom jokes, as he skates off, suddenly grabbing his shoulder with a slump. He pauses, halfway to the bench, spinning around on his skates, and points to where Roman is lazily, if miserably, hanging at the boards. “Not that I care, but can we bring the little guy off, too? I think he’s tired.”

“Shut up, scroteface,” Roman protests, but it’s half-hearted at best, and he’s making a face like he’s almost sea sick.

“He’s an equalizer,” Matsson says, looking in the same direction with a wry curl at the edge of his mouth. “No.”

Tom throws his hands up in the direction of Roman, as if to convey that he tried, then backs around to the door and climbs off ice.

Greg peers from the corner of his eye, as Tom yanks his helmet off, watching him run his fingers through sweaty, mussed hair above a flushed face. It makes him swallow hard, a flush rising under his own skin, and then he feels it gain a resentful edge when Shiv and Stewy visibly lean in and start chirping Tom with leering eye rolls and smirks, respectively, while he’s stuck out here.

He should’ve just gone to the other team.

Tom turns around, as he sets his helmet onto the wall, and his eyes catch across the rink on Greg. He smiles wide, waving big, then offers a thumbs-up.

Greg waves back while the heat worsens in his face, curling his shoulders and hunching into his pads. He turns back to the center with a start at a low clear of Kendall’s throat, and pretends he cares that Ray is on the line now waiting for the puck. He skates backward, as it drops, and grasps quickly that the environment on the ice is totally different now that Tom isn’t on it.

It could just be Greg, personally feeling like this is less fun, but truly everyone seems more relaxed on GoJo’s side. He watches Ray fail to get the puck, like Tom predicted, and hears Roman curse and fall behind him, then sees Kendall hesitate with a visible reluctance to get in the middle of it, and realizes with a groan under his breath that he might… really have to try to get the puck, to play for real, if he wants all the goals Tom got to actually matter.

It is kind of annoying.

He really was never really a player outside mandatory gym in school, but he can skate pretty okay, and… if he’s fast enough, maybe no one will be able to check him. He really doesn’t want to get checked, like not even a little.

He has a fleeting, untimely thought about getting checked by Tom… into the boards, sort of pinned, maybe, but… No, yeah.

No.

He skates a wide, easy arch around the GoJo team, realizing it’s about as cohesive as Waystar when it comes to stick handling and passing, even simply skating with the puck, and it’s weirdly easy to slip in. He takes opportunity when someone labeled Jamison is fumbling around, and yanks the puck from her between strides.

“Hey!” Jamison chokes, losing balance on her skates and falling onto the ice, then bursting out laughing while throwing out her hands. “Sorry, Luke! He’s really big up close!”

Greg knows he’s a pretty fast skater, mostly because his legs are long, so he’s across the ice before anyone that’s scrambling after him. He doesn’t really know if he can get the puck in, though, and just whacks it when he hears someone skate in close behind him.

“Good job, buddy!” Tom yells, voice echoing the rink, before Greg even realizes the puck has shot cleanly into the net.

Greg stares at the puck as the goalie hands it back to the silent ref. He’s a little shocked, really, and jumps a bit when he hears a low huh next to him.

“You weren’t… trying, before,” Kendall says, narrowing his eyes, looking up at Greg with a slant to his mouth. “Were you?”

“I didn’t like need to?” Greg says, looking back to the bench and waving first at Tom, this time, who pumps his fist back at him.

Kendall stares at Greg’s ear for a weirdly charged beat, then harshly clears his throat while turning away. “Jesus, sure. Of fucking course.”

Greg regrets the play, just a little, because now everyone is watching him. It’s sort of exciting, being even considered good, and being actively blocked, but mostly he’s… kind of annoyed? If Tom hadn’t shown off, either, and was still out here, they might’ve like been able to sort of work together on everyone concentrating on Tom and not even noticing Greg, but instead he’s out here having to figure out how to take the puck on his own, because like the only other people who seem to be able to even skate are Ray and half of GoJo.

It just sucks. It’s probably, like… technically more fair, but it still sucks.

GoJo only manages to get two goals in the last period, though – both assists off Matsson, who isn’t quite as fast as Greg, but is enough that he scares him into abandoning the puck.

It’s not exactly Greg’s best effort, but just shows more that Tom should’ve been out there, because he does not want to get checked. He also could have passed, he maybe had openings, but… Ray is a dick. He didn’t want to do it.

Tom is waiting in the bench, out of most of his pads and skates, now only in a black long sleeve and socks. “Hey, bud,” he says, reaching out and clasping a hand on Greg’s shoulder, as he climbs up off the ice. “I had no idea you could use those legs!”

“Um, thanks,” Greg says, his voice suddenly failing him at the toothy, approving grin turned up at him. He doesn’t usually see that expression unless he’s done something morally vague, so this is… sort of existentially really nice. “I guess I can.”

“Also, damn,” Tom says, taking a step back with another scoff under his breath, holding out his arms while looking Greg up and down from his skates to his helmet. “Is this how everyone else feels talking to you? It is annoying how tall you are, do you know that?”

Greg can feel his face just getting redder, managing a weak sort of shrug and a laugh.

“Oh, hey! Shiv says she saw they have some bastardization of chili cheesy fries, here,” Tom says, raising his brows with a markedly, bewilderingly excited tone. He points backward toward an evident concession stand, where Karl and Shiv are already standing waiting for something for themselves. “Be right back.”

“Okay?” Greg says, tugging his gloves off, then looking around with a stumble when he gets a shove to move at the middle of his back. He mumbles out a sorry by reflex, but like really doesn’t know why Roman couldn’t just walk around him.

“Do we get anything for winning?” Roman demands, from Matsson, as if he had done anything but test his pads.

Greg tucks his helmet into his elbow, sweeping his fingers through his hair while trying to both loosen it and put it back in place.

Matsson appears to think for a beat, then tips his head with some finality. “Satisfaction.”

“I put up…sixt-seventeen reels,” Stewy says, from his corner, feet kicked up, and it’s apparent he’s talking more to Kendall than the room in general, even if he’s pretending that’s not the case. “You get free humanizing of the elites. You’re welcome.”

Kendall exhales a groan, slumping onto the bench next to Stewy while trying to tug out of his jersey with his gloves still on his hands. “What the fuck is wrong with you, dude – trying to tank our stock?”

Greg sets his helmet down and pulls his jersey off, too, folding it over an arm; he looks down and pauses, staring at the one labeled Wambsgans over a pile of chest and shoulder pads. He peeks to where Tom is at the concessions with Shiv and Frank, as he slowly picks that up, as well, to fold at his arm.

“You should sound like that, man. You sucked at this toothy and sloppy,” Stewy says, then turns his phone around to show the screen. “Bomb finally got some good PR, though I’m not sure it’ll make up for anything else.”

Greg feels his mouth flatten, as he briefly scans the comments that Stewy’s swiped up under a reel of Tom skating with the puck around the GoJo team. He catches athleticism used in various forms a lot, but a few too many mentions of his age, too.

Kendall starts tugging free of his gear with a flat turn to his mouth and a frustrated glare past Greg toward the concessions. “How’d you even know Tom was good at hockey, man. I don’t think Shiv knew, and I know Greg didn’t.”

Greg feels his expression tighten further, looking down and picking at the pads around his elbow.

“A million years ago it was a stupidjock pickup line: Tommy Wamb-y gave up millions in the NHL to make millions on the mean streets of New York,” Stewy says, looking briefly up from the screen with a wide eye roll and a mocking scoff. “Absolutely no chance. Naturally, the clique wanted him to shut up, so Lillie looked into it with all the power of 2002’s World Wide Web – turns out, he did play since basically he was born until he got an MBA. No NHL scouting, though.”

“It’s such… bullshit you knew him and never said anything, Stew,” Kendall mutters, yanking at the laces of his boots with a tight pinch, which Greg sort of totally understands, at his lips.

“Fuck’s sake, Ken, you met him,” Stewy say, voice pitching snide, and shaking his head once while his brows raise high up his forehead, though his eyes stay on the screen. “Multiple times. You were… evidently, on way more shit than I thought.”

Kendall sighs under his breath in a way that sounds a lot like a fuck off, pushing away from the bench to approach the boards. “Hey man, Lukas, you’re not… dissatisfied with how this went?” He asks, turning to Matsson, who’s still leaning against the boards, but now with his gloves off. He’s got a phone in his hands, scrolling with a thumb, and a short lean and peer reveals he’s looking at Stewy’s Instagram. “Yeah?”

“No,” Matsson says, looking up with a flat near-smirk and a considering tilt of his head. “I found this… a very interesting experience; perhaps, we should revisit. I’m not often so surprised.”

“What?!” Roman hisses, rearing back, nearly falling off the rubber. “Revisit? Fuck you – fuck that.”

“Roman, get dressed,” Gerri interjects, reaching out and thumping at the corner of Roman’s shoulder pad with her knuckles, and immediately, blessedly shutting him up. “You and Kendall are needed on a plane in two hours to fly to Amsterdam. …And likely Hosseini, since he that’s certainly why he’s actually crashed this aspect of the merger.”

Stewy clicks his tongue without looking up from his phone.

“Great,” Roman snarls, throwing up his hands while stomping toward the locker room.

Greg watches Roman go, as he awkwardly cracks himself out of the rest of his upper body pads. It was sort of fun, but he’s not sure if he wants to do it again, either; he especially doesn’t, if Tom getting sidelined for just being able to like play is going to be the usual.

“Hey, bad news,” Tom says, appearing behind Greg’s bench with a exaggerated groan of disappointment. “Evidently, they were out of chili and they won’t just do cheese and fries.”

“Oh,” Greg intones, peeking backward up with a pair of blinks. His eyes get drawn past Tom, watching Shiv wag a phone at Kendall, who tries to snatch it out of her hand. “Um… that sucks?”

“But cocoa,” Tom says, offering one of the two to-go cups in his hand. “That I would bet it all is only some Nordic version of Swiss Miss.”

Greg shrugs and reaches out, only for Tom to yank it back. He curls his nose, looking up under his brows, “Tom?”

Tom makes a face and gestures toward the locker room with a jerk of his chin. “Uh-uh, you’re not out of all that shit, yet.”

“Like, you aren’t either,” Greg says, looking down at the pile everyone has collectively just dropped at the bench, rather than put back where they found in the locker room. “Or anyone.”

“Jesus Louisus, just go,” Tom says, gesturing with the cups, a second time, then starting to move toward the hall with an actual step forward.

Greg reaches up and scratches down the line of his jaw. “What about your skates?”

“Oh shit, yeah,” Tom says, backtracking with a pair of steps and offering a cup with an emphatic wiggle. “Take it, buddy.”

Greg grabs the cup and tries for a sip, then flinches and hisses at a boiling burn at the tip of his tongue. Alright, so… turns out maybe Tom had been trying to be nice in that particular halfway way where he is trying to pretend he isn’t doing it.

Tom gathers the skates toward his chest like a pair of puppies in one arm; he then makes a face, looking around, then grunts with a shrug and kicks out with a socked foot for Greg to move toward the locker room. “Forward.”

The cups get set on top of lockers while they dress down, back into sweaters and overcoats, collectively ignoring the showers, though they probably really shouldn’t; it’s not clear why Tom or anyone else doesn’t, but Greg still has too many visceral memories of his experiences with public shower fungus from the hostel. He would only like to experience that once in his life, and he didn’t think about bringing his shower shoes for the rink.

He tucks the jerseys into the same bag as his skates, thinking about offering Tom’s to him, but he’ll do it later just in case Tom says something weird about him being sappy, or something, for taking keepsakes. He can just keep Tom’s with him until they get back to New York.

Tom slings his bag over his shoulder, then starts hounding Greg for being too slow. He picks up the cups, shuffling forward, then back, going on about dekes, all of a sudden, but Greg must have missed a couple of threads of thought, so isn’t sure what led up to it.

The rink is on the shore of a lake lined with public benches, and Greg finds himself drawn to sitting on one of them. The cars are probably waiting, and he watches Ximena get in one behind, it looks like, Karl and Shiv. It’s an almost pleasant sort of cold out here, though, reminds him a little of home, and he hasn’t exercised so much probably since high school, so he is going to, in a way, reward himself.

Tom doesn’t even ask, just plops down onto the bench beside Greg with a smack if his lips. He hands over the cocoa, then pulls out his phone, swiping and tapping at notifications.

Greg takes a sip of the cooled cocoa, peeking at Tom, then looks down as he rolls the cup between his palms. “So… you’ve never like said you played any sports?”

Tom exhales a loud, harsh sigh, shoving his phone into the inside pocket of his coat.

“And, um…” Greg shrugs, finding himself irked again that he didn’t know, but also that, considering how Tom played, it isn’t just an old college thing like Stewy had implied. “It didn’t seem like you were, uh… really like out of practice, at all?”

“Am I being interrogated, right now?” Tom mockingly demands, then grumbles under his breath in a manner that leads into a low sigh. “I may have recently joined a little fun time league, after I… got demoted.” He clears his throat, stretching against the bench with a single-shouldered shrug. “Sky Rink. The games are late Thurs. 10, sometimes 11pm.”

Greg thinks he might’ve noticed Tom tired some Fridays, but that could’ve been anything – he kind of texts at all hours. “Oh.”

“It wasn’t a secret,” Tom says, a bit too quickly, too cheeky, to really be the truth. “I just didn’t think you’d give a shit.”

“Was that bruise like the first time we, um… we ever –?”

“How the fuck do you remember that?” Tom interrupts, voice stretching out in exaggerated disbelief, but he’s smiling, too, and he rolls his eyes toward the lot with a tut. “That was just some pickup game – supposed to be no contact, by the fucking way, yet a dickhead from Queens decided I needed a shiner.”

Greg chews at his lips for a pair of beats. “…What’d you, like… say to him?”

“I play a clean game, Gregory,” Tom says, turning his nose up with a harsh, amused twist at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t even remember. It must have been a real damned sore spot, though.”

“Could I – I like come watch?” Greg asks, hunching and leaning down into his hands, rather than bringing them up, and taking a shallow sip of the chocolate while glancing slightly up and sideways at Tom. “Your games?”

Tom looks back with a rapid pair of blinks, brow furrowing deep over his eyes in evident, almost offensive bemusement. “If you want to,” he says, slowly, “It’s not… It’s kind of boring, though; really it’s not exciting, buddy? It’s not the NHL.”

“Like, I assume they don’t kick you off the ice?”

Tom exhales a weak snort, looking out across the lake. “Only for penalties.”

“Then yeah, like…” Greg shrugs and takes another sip. “I want to watch, Tom.”

Tom takes a breath and rubs his hands down against his thighs. “Oh fine, we can make a night of it – give you dinner and a show.”

Greg nods with a bob of his head, as he takes another hunched sip from his cup. He stares steadily across the lake and shifts carefully on the bench to press his knee against Tom’s next to him; a moment later, a hand slides up and sets just as softly against the knob of his spine.

He peeks up, once the cocoa has gotten almost refrigerater-cold. “What do you play?”

“Defense, usually,” Tom says, tapping against the line of Greg’s shoulders with a turn of his fingers. “Sometimes winger.”

“Oh,” Greg mumbles, into the sipper of the cup. “Do you like have jerseys?”

“Yes,” Tom says, slowly, his voice gaining a dubious slant that threatens to turn quick into a taunt. “We have jerseys.”

“Like, what colors?” Greg asks, catching his teeth on the plastic edge of the lid.

Tom is quiet for a few beats, then his hand shifts, and his voice is far too close. “…Why?”

Greg blankly stares across the lake. “So I can form a, uh – a mental image?”

“Green and gold,” Tom says, his next breath a low laugh.

Greg hums and tries to imagine Tom in that, rather than Waystar, when sweaty and red faced stepping off the ice. “What’s the like, mascot?”

“A wolf,” Tom says, while his hand suddenly slides in a distracting sweep across the curve of Greg’s shoulders. “Are you painting a nice picture of me, Gregory?”

Greg scratches across one of his brows, as he shrugs and digs his ear into the inside of his shoulder. “Uh, perhaps.”

“Now, tell me,” Tom says, as he curls in closer, warm and all but hugging Greg from the back, arm hooked around a shoulder while his chin digs into the opposite one, close to Greg’s ear. “Does someone have an interest in hockey beyond good play?”

Greg debates attempting to lie, but it’s kind of exciting… that thought of Tom being explicitly aware. “Um, like that could be a manner in which I might describe it.”

“That is…” Tom takes a deep breath, then exhales it with a pitchy bark of a laugh. “It’s not unwelcome.”

Greg manages a pitching hum, turning his heel to set his thigh flush to Tom’s on the bench.

#tomgreg #you ever turn a guy into a hockey gary stu #i dont even have a reason they did this except matsson was like i have no one to play game with so i force people i pay #this is like the beach episode but it's on ice

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logan-puller · 3 years

Audio

Listen to my Podcast named ‘Logan Puller Talks About Upcoming Home Decor Trends’ on #SoundCloud #np

#SoundCloud #music #Logan Puller Maryborough #logan puller #home decor #decor #home decor trends

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oneletteredwondered · 3 years

Note

Ayo what are your thoughts on the new episode.

I liked it a lot of course, love bratty remus with all my heart

I think theres going to be a lot of people who confuse anxiety and intrusive thoughts after this cause again, thomas reaction to remus is anxiety, not the intrusive thoughts itself

And I also think theres going to be a lot of people who think remus is. Good? After this? And like. Hes not. He really isnt good. He wanted to make thomas upset literally the whole day AS WELL as logan. He wanted to push his buttons and make him mad.

Whether or not that had any possible good outcome has yet to be seen, but I dont think it was remus doing if there is. Maybe janus cause hes a string puller, but remus is just there to make thomas wanna kill an image of his crush

#my post #answered #ts spoilers

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whereisstevethestove · 4 years

Note

4 with anaroceit, or loroceit?

Prompt: 4. ‘The king is missing’ with Roman, Janus, and Virgil. For the 300 Follower special here! (x)

TW: Implied Torture:)

AO3 Link (x)

In the three years that Janus of Onryx had been a companion to the king, not once, not twice, but almost fourteen times that the man had gone missing. Most of the time, he had been found hiding somewhere on the grounds, so not exactly missing, but it did add some spice, so he dealt with it.

So don’t judge him if he was rather indifferent to the guard that had burst into his personal study.

“The king is missing.”

“Don’t bother me, I’m busy.” Janus flipped a document over, pulling out a candle so he could wax seal the back.

“He’s not in the palace.”

“Do I care?”

“Janus, please, he was here last.” the guard shifted nervously as Janus lit the candle, still indifferent.

“Let me finish this up and I’ll do your job for you.”

...

The king, meanwhile, was being insulted by a rather cheeky young man. Roman had said good morning to Janus and then had snuck out of his own palace to head to the surrounding town.

Roman loved his job, he loved the people, but he hated how it made it difficult to just go out and observe.

Anyway, he had made it to the edge of the town, where the poorer people lived when the voice assaulted him.

“Looks like a little royal got lost, eh?”

Roman paused. There wasn’t anyone in the area and so he slowly turned in a circle, one hand flinching to his sword. “Where are you?”

“Does it matter? Well, I guess it does, you do look higher ranking than me by any chance. I’m on the roof to your right.”

Roman turned and looked up to see the owner of the voice, who was lounging on the thatch roof of a small shack, smirking.

“Hello Princey.” Roof guy said, waving. “Here to tax me again? Honestly, at this point, might as well take the skin from my neck before I commit high treason.”

Roman sputtered. “I... I was just taking a walk... Thatcher in the Rye.”

“Very creative for a royal. I’m not a thatcher. This isn’t even my roof.”

“It’s not?”

“No, it belongs to the rich fucker who is gonna force me off it.”

Roman really wished that his father had taught him how to talk to people like this. He honestly had no idea.

“can I get a name?”

“Nah.”

“Well, Nah, how can I help you?” Roman swept into a bow, feeling a bit silly to be bowing to a dirt covered person on a roof, but they laughed.

“A royal, bowing to me of all people! Must be my unlucky day. You can’t help me. When I said that I didn’t own this roof, I meant it. It’s eviction day, I’m just waiting to be dragged off in chains.”

The nonchalant way that he seemed to accept it was jarring to Roman. Yet, behind the dirt and the wary gaze, he could see very real panic in the other’s eyes.

...

To say that Virgil was having a good day was a lie. First he’d had woken up to the reminder that this was his last day of freedom and when he decided to make a last, bold but stupid stand, the freaking king had shown up.

He was playing dumb in hopes that King Roman would laugh it off and hopefully leave before the count could show up.

God, it’d be embarrassing to be dragged off kicking and screaming if his royalness was watching.

Unfortunately, the king was still talking and Virgil could see a cloud of dust from about a mile off, which could only be caused by horses.

“Do you know who I am?” The king’s voice pulled his eyes back down. Virgil shrugged.

“You’re dressed like a common folk, but your clothes are too clean and you wield a sword. Most likely a royal boy running from his mommy and daddy for a day out.” Virgil looked back up to see that the dust was closer, probably arriving within the next five minutes.

“How dare! I am an adult.”

“Cool, I don’t care. Run off royal, before the wolves come.” Virgil waved his hand dismissively and the king looked taken aback as he swiveled around to see the approaching count with his entourage.

“Virgil! Get down from there.”

Virgil rolled onto his back, taking in the sky. “Can I take a week to think about it?”

The count sighed, hell it was loud, Virgil could hear it from here, almost fifteen feet away.

“Do you want to be forcefully removed?”

“I mean, I would have gotten off the roof if I wasn’t expecting a fight.” Virgil flipped over again, glaring at the count, the king lost in the small crowd of people that had started to gather outside of their nearby homes to watch.

It happened pretty fast. One of the entourage walked his horse forward, reached up and yanked Virgil down by the hair.

Virgil fell, landed on the dirt with a thud and then scrambled to his feet, attempting to book it before the man from before grabbed his hair again.

“Sorry.”

“It’s whatever I guess. You were hired for this right? Can’t hold it against you.” Virgil said as roof puller got off his horse.

“I have to tie you up.”

“Fair enough.”

The ropes were the worst, and it was only now that Virgil’s bravado left him as he was thrown on the back of a horse, completely at the mercy of the count and company.

He looked up as the horse started to walk, catching a glimpse at the crowd.

“Bye! Wish me luck as I rot!” One last jab, fake snark as a hope to the others that he wasn’t about to be broken.

Virgil then closed his eyes, and quietly began to cry.

...

Janus had finally finished what he needed done when another guard ran in, further annoying him.

“We found him.”

“Thank goodness, I was so worried.”

“He wants to speak with you.”

Janus stood and pushed his chair back, following the man to where Roman’s study was.

His partner was pacing the study, dressed in what looked like a poor disguise, hands running nervously through his hair.

“Ro, what’s wrong?”

Roman looked at him. “Just something I saw today. Do we really tax people so much?”

Janus let out a quiet sigh. “Honey, you might want to sit down.”

“No, I want to know the answer. I just watched someone get tied up and taken because they couldn’t pay! How is that fair!” Roman whirled around, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes.

“We try to do it percentage based. The person you was taken probably owed private tax.”

Roman turned again and Janus walked over, stretching out a hand. “Did you get a name? We can look into it.”

“Virgil. I don’t think he had a surname. But Janus, they ripped him off his roof and just.. took him, it was horrible.” Roman took Janus’ hand, still shaking a bit as his partner folded him into a hug.

“We’ll look at it, promise.”

...

Roman waited a week before looking back with the records finder to see if there was any clue where Virgil was.

Logan was annoying, but at least he did his job better than anyone. He handed Roman a stack of transcripts, and when he looked through it, it was all trade receipts between Virgil and the Count Burgess, and the prices slowly got higher with no explanation to why or what was being traded.

At least he had a location now. Roman took Janus and a few guards on the journey to the Count’s estate.

Needless to say, the Count was surprised to see the king knocking on his door.

“Your Majesty. To what do I owe the pleasure, and with so little warning?”

Roman stepped forward as the Count bowed. “Just looking for someone. Virgil was his name. There’s no record of him after you settled your debts with him.”

“But of course. Come in?”

The group entered and Roman shivered. Everything was perfectly clean, but even then, it all just felt shifted to the left.

“I don’t have many that come to me for financial aid, but when they do, it’s always delightful to help them out. Of course, the poor boy couldn’t pay me back...” the Count turned and opened a door. “He’s down there, two at a time.”

Roman gave Janus’ hand a squeeze before nodding to the Count. “I’d prefer to go first.”

“But of course.”

The pair went down the stairs, it being eerily silent.

“Now, before we enter the backrooms, I’d prefer you don’t have me killed, I’m only collecting my debts.”

Roman narrowed his eyes. “You say that as if you are doing something that would warrant death.”

The Count shrugged. “You seem to be the overly emotional type you Majesty. I learned my method of debt collecting from your father, so forgive me if I do offend you.”

Then he opened the door.

...

Virgil woke up, feeling like death itself had sucker punched him. He didn’t bother opening his eyes, it was dark, of course it would be, he was in the dungeons after all.

Something felt off though.

“Is he okay?” “MMMMmmm, no, the infection is pretty bad. I’m sorry Ro. He’ll probably be in and out of consciousness over the next few days.” “Thank you.”

Virgil tried to open his eyes, yelped in pain from the natural sunlight and then tried to roll away, pain flaring absolutely everywhere.

“Hey, you’re okay now. Promise.”

Virgil didn’t respond and he felt a hand rest on his forehead.

“I’m so sorry etoile. Just rest okay?”

Virgil nodded.

Something warm covered him and he drifted off again.

...

Janus was surprised that Roman had let the Count live. After everything had gone down, they’d returned to the palace with one less Count and one patient in need of severe healing from the injures and undernourishment from just one week.

They were laying in bed when Roman first asked him.

“Am I bad because of what my father did?”

Janus rolled to his side to look at his love. “You saved Virgil, right?”

“yes, but~”

“No buts Ro, you did better than any king I know. You’re a hero.”

“Hmm.” Roman muttered before scooting closer to Janus. “I’m worried. Patton said that he’d get better, but I still worry.”

“How about you let the funny magic man do his healing, and I’ll make sure that you don’t go stir crazy waiting for your crush to wake up.”

“Not a crush.” Roman protested.

“Virgil is very pretty though, you told me that. And you seemed to put a lot of effort in for one person who owed debts to a person.”

“Okay, fine, you win Jan, but you’ll see once he’s coherent. He’s wonderfully snarky.”

Janus laughed quietly. “Fair enough.”

...

Roman wasn’t in the country when Virgil first awoke and was actually functioning past a fever dream and a few mumbled sentences.

Janus was there however, and Roman was right.

Virgil was incredibly snarky, and also very antsy, further proven when he tried to clamber out of the bed, almost falling before Janus caught him.

“Let the fuck go of me.”

“I’m sorry, I’d rather not have staff clean blood from your face off the ground when you collapse.”

Virgil hissed and Janus begrudgingly let him go, hands still hovering just in case.

“Roman’s going to be disappointed that he didn’t get to meet you.”

“We’ve met.”

“Ah yes, the roof incident, I’m well aware.”

“Fuck you.”

...

It took a long time for the scars to heal. It took even longer for Roman to work up the courage to ask if Virgil would court him.

And it was Janus who asked in the end anyways.

#anaroceit #sanders sides #virgil sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #human au #medieval au #300follower special #not countdown

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snowdice · 5 years

Text

Sometimes Labels Shift (Mini Fic Series 9)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Virgil & Patton, Virgil & Missy (the dog), Patton & Missy, Patton/Logan (background)

Characters:

Main: Virgil, Patton, Missy

Mentioned: Logan

Summary: Virgil gets his first lesson about walking dogs.

Notes: So, have I mentioned that some of Missy’s personality is based on my parent’s dog and also how that dog is an asshole?

This is a dealing with events set after my story Sometimes Labels Fail.

Missy trotted happily in front of Patton and Virgil, stopping to sniff every so often, but not to the point where Patton had to tug on the leash. When they had to stop at a cross walk, Missy sat between them and Virgil reached down to pet her briefly. Patton smiled at him while they crossed the street and entered the park.

“Do you want to try taking the leash?” Patton asked.

“Sure,” Virgil said, eyes lighting up slightly and holding out his hand for the leash.

Patton smiled and placed the leash in his hand. “Be careful,” he cautioned. “She’s a…” He released the leash and, as though she had been waiting for the opportunity, Missy bolted into the park, the leash slipping between Virgil’s fingers before he could close them. “… puller.”

Virgil’s eyes were wide. “I-I’m so sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Patton was quick to reassure, “but we’re going to have to catch her.”

“Yeah, okay, yeah.” They both took off after the dog who, despite her short legs, streaked across the park at a breakneck speed. They chased her past the baseball field and through the community garden. They did not chase her into the pond when she dove into it, but they were hot on her muddy footsteps once she decided to come out of it. The whole time they were screaming her name.

She got distracted enough by a rabbit that dashed into a hole in the ground that they were able to gain some ground on her.

Patton dove for the leash and missed it by an inch, falling to his hands and knees in the mud as she dashed away once again. “God dammit where is Logan when you need him?” He slammed his mouth shut and turned to Virgil. “Don’t repeat that.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve heard worse than that.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“It’s fine. You’re an adult; you can say shit like that.”

Patton sighed and flopped onto his butt. “I don’t know rather to be proud or disappointed.”

Suddenly there was a ball of fluff on his lap and muddy paws on his chest. Apparently, Missy had realized they weren’t chasing her anymore and had gotten bored.

Patton glared at her and picked up her leash. “Missy, you…”

“Bitch?” Virgil offered.

Patton shot him a look and groaned as he got to his feet. He ruffled his hair softly. “I do not approve, but good one.”

Virgil smiled at him, just edging on cheeky. Cute. But you know who wasn’t cute right now?

“Bad dog,” Patton said firmly. She wagged her tail, unrepentant. “Bad dog,” he said again.

“Yip, yip!”

“I don’t think she believes you,” Virgil commented.

“She knows I love her too much to stay mad at her,” Patton sighed. “Well, I think that’s enough exercise for all of us, don’t you think?” he asked Missy.

“Yap!”

Patton offered the leash to Virgil and he blinked at him. “I just fuck-sorry messed it up.”

“I’ll make sure you have ahold of it this time,” Patton promised. “Plus, you just got a good lesson about why you have to hold on to her tightly.”

“Um, okay,” he said and cautiously held out his hand. Patton gave him the leash and his fingers curled around it before Patton released it. Missy didn’t make any move to run away this time, sidling up to him, ready to get going. “You’re a muddy girl,” he cooed at her.

“We’ll have to give her a bath when we get home,” Patton agreed. “Ever given a dog a bath?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s basically like wrestling a small gorilla, but with water.”

Virgil cracked a smile. “Sounds like a good time.”

Want to read more? Click below!

Labeled Master Post.

My Masterpost.

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #patton sanders #platonic moxiety #labeled universe #logan sanders #logicality #sometimes labels shift #sometimes labels shift mini fic #fluff #adriana writes

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dyke420-69 · 4 years

Text

Cinder AU

Summary: Logan is a well known mechanic throughout Ladonia. Sadly, he's a cyborg and, where prejudices are common, he's stuck with a terrible stepmother and sister. At least he has Talyn, the android with a faulty chip!

The screws of Logan's foot have rusted, the thread wore down to a smooth cylinder. His hand ached from fighting the nails as he struggled to loosen it. By the time he was able to be free from the damn thing, he pulled it out with his prosthetic steel hand and noticed the hairline threads had been stripped clean.

Tossing the screwdriver onto the small table, Logan grabbed his heel and ripped the foot off. A spark came from his hands and he jerked, almost pulling out the wires that still barely attached his foot to him.

He fell back into his chair, with a relieved sigh. A freedom came from letting go of that foot. He hated that foot for 4 years, now, he swore to never put it on again. He wished Talyn would be back soon with the new one.

Logan was the only full service mechanic in Ladonia weekly market. His booth only hinted at his profession from the boxes of android parts crowding the wall. The booth was shady, hidden between the thrift booth, filled with old clothes and electronics, and a bar, with alcohol always hinting at the air surrounding it. They frequently complained about the scent of oil and rust in the air but even though the scent of parties from the bakery across from it covered the scent. He knew it was just because they didn't like him.

An old table separated Logan from the shoppers as they passed by. The place was filled with shoppers and hawkers, children, and noise. The sound of bargaining from the robotic shop, even though it was still too big of a price. The hum of hover cars and hopeless voices giving them their receipts as they continued to buy frivolous things. The netscreens that covered everywhere and would never shut up with advertisements, news reports, and gossip.

Logan's auditory interface was able to dull the noise to a white noise but today a melody lingered over the rest that he couldn't stop from hearing. A ring of small children were standing in the middle of the shops, singing -"Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!"- and then laughed as they fell down onto the pavement, forcing the others to as well.

A small grin attempted to come to Logan's lips. Not so much at the song, it made him creeped out, the song about a phantom song about pestilence and death that gained popularity in the last decade. But he did love the glares as shoppers tripped over the pile of children. The inconvenience of having to step over the children irritated the shoppers and Logan adored them for it.

"Rosa? Rosa!"

Logan amusement faded. He found Helen Smith, the baker, pushing through the crowd, covered in flour. She grabbed the little girls arm, "Rosa, I told you not to play so close to that android-"

Helen locked eyes with Logan, pursed her lips, and pulled on her daughter's arms. The girl whined, attempting to pull her arm out her mother's grip to cross them, then huffing when she couldn't. Logan glared at their back, rolling his eyes. The remaining children left, going back into the swarm of noise, taking their cheerfulness with them.

"For fucks sake, wires aren't contagious. Stop acting like it," he grumbled to empty air.

He stretched, his spine popping in several places. He ran a dirty hand through his hair, attempting to comb the curls, then grabbed his old work gloves. Logan covered his steel hand first, and while his hands were already beginning to sweat, he was already more comfortable with his glove hiding his less… humanly parts. He stretched his hand, working out the cramp that had formed the base of her thumb from working on his foot, and swept his gaze over the market. He spotted many white faced androids but none were Talyn.

Sighing, Logan bent under the table to look through his toolbox. After digging through his mess of wrenches, wires, and screwdrivers, he found the fuse puller that had been long since buried at the bottom. One by one, he disconnected the wires that still barely attached his foot to his ankle. He couldn't feel.them through the thickness of his gloves, but his retina scan was helpfully telling him he was losing a limb.

With one last yank of a wire, his foot dropped to the floor.

The feeling of freedom was instant. For once, he truly liked him and had very little worries.

He shoved the wires to make room for the foot, setting it upside a shrine to letting go of the past among the numerous lug nuts and screws she had scattered through the table, before grabbing an old rag and cleaning the grime from his ankle.

THUD.

Logan jumped, bumping his head onto the underside of the table. He rolled his eyes as he sat back in his chair, his glare first landing on the lifeless droid just sat on his table and then to the man behind it. His eyes widened at the surprised chocolate colored eyes and brown hair almost every girl in the country, and probably others as well, has probably drooled over a thousand times.

His irritation faded.

His own shock was also quickly extinguished, melting into an apology. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize someone was back here," he said.

Logan barely heard him over the blankness of his mind. With his heartbeat quickening, his retina display scanned his features, so similar from all the years spent hearing and seeing him on the netscreens. He was taller in real life and his gray shirt and jeans was nothing like the fine clothes he's usually seen in. Yet it still only took 2.5 seconds for Logan's scanner to measure his facial structure and make a match to his image in the net database. Another 1.2 seconds later and information he already knew flashed on the bottom of his vision in a thin green text.

Prince Emile, crown prince of the [INSERT NAME]

ID #001252647

Born December 16, 108 T. E.: A press meeting is scheduled by Crown Prince Emile to discuss the ongoing letomosis research and possible ideas to an antidote--

Logan suddenly launched himself up from the table, nearly falling from forgetting about his missing foot. Catching himself with both hands on the table, he managed to give an awkward bow. The retina display faded.

"Your highness," he was able to stutter out, glad that his foot, or lack thereof, was hidden by the table.

The prince flinched, and scanned behind him to make sure no one saw before hunching over the table "Maybe, um,-" he put a finger to his lips-- "on the royalty stuff?"

Wide eyed, Logan gave a shaky nod, "Of course. Whatever you'd like, How can I- Are you?- Uh" he gulped, his throat feeling like sandpaper.

"I'm looking for a Robert Logan?," the prince asked, "are they here?"

Logan dared to lift a hand from the table, using it to tug the glove higher on his wrist. Staring at the bustle of the crowd behind the prince, he bit his lip, "I'm Robert Logan."

His gaze followed the hand he planted on top of the androids round head.

"You're Robert Logan?"

"Yes, your high-" he cut himself off.

"The mechanic?"

Logan nodded, "How may I assist you?"

Instead of answering, the prince leaned down, bending his neck so that he had no choice but to meet his gaze, and flashed a smile at him. His heart flinched.

The prince stood back up, forcing Logan's eyes to follow.

"You're not hardly what I was expecting."

"Well, you're hardly what I expected." Unable to hold his gaze, the mechanic pulled the android to his side of the table. "What seems to be wrong with your android?"

The android looked brand new but Logan could tell from the shape of its mock feminine body, it needed an upgrade. The design was smooth, though, with a spherical head atop an hourglass body and a gleaming white finish.

"I can't get her to start," said Prince Emile, staring as Logan inspected the android. "She was working great one day, and the next, nothing."

Logan moved the android to where its sensor lights faced the prince. He was glad he had a routine for his hands and a routine for his mouth, something to focus on so he wouldn't get too flustered and overheat again. "Have you had problems with her before?"

"No. She would get monthly check ups from the team of royal mechanics. This is the first problem she's ever had."

Leaning, Prince Emile picked up the small foot from its shrine, examining it from curiosity in his hands. Logan went taunt, slightly shaking as he squinted at the wire filled hollow center, messing with the flexible joints of the toes. He used his oversized sweatshirt to clean off a small smudge of grease.

"Aren't you hot in that?" Logan questioned, quickly regretting turning back the prince's attention onto him.

For a swift moment, Prince Emile almost looked self conscious. "Dying," he said, "but I'm attempting to not be noticed.

Logan considered saying it wasn't going to plan but decided not to. The lack of an assembly of screaming people and news reporters surrounding them was enough evidence that it was working better than originally thought to be. Instead of looking like the famed heart throb, he just looked crazy.

Swallowing, Logan turned his attention back to the android. He found up the barely visible latch and pulled the back panel open. "May I ask why the royal mechanics aren't fixing her?"

"They attempted but couldn't figure it out. Someone suggested you. I figured why not." He set the foot back down and turned his gaze to the boxes of old and beaten down parts- parts for androids, netscreens, hovers, and port screens. Parts for cyborgs."They say you were the best mechanic. I was expecting someone older."

"Do they?" He mumbled.

The prince wasn't the first to voice his surprise. Most of his customers couldn't comprehend that a black teenager could be the best of his trade, and he never answered why. The fewer people who knew he was cyborg, the better. He was sure to go mad if everyone looked at him like Helen Smith does.

He prodded some of the wires in the back panel with his pinky. "Sometimes they just break down when older. Maybe it's time to get a newer model? I could tell you some good ones?"

"I'm afraid that won't be needed. She contains a lot of the government's secrets. It's a matter of national security that I am able to retrieve it…. before anyone else."

Stilling, Logan glanced at him.

He returned his stare for a full 3.5 seconds before breaking into a grin. "I'm joking. Valerie has sentimental value as my first android."

A blue light flickered in the corner of Logan's retina scanner. His optobionics has picked up on something he'd missed- an extra swallow, a small change in tone, a hand going a little too still.

He was accustomed to the little blue light. It was a common occurrence to see it flashing there in the corner.

It signaled someone was lying.

"That's funny," he said.

The prince narrowed his eyes, as if challenging him to correct him. A strand of thick hair fell over his eyes. Logan broke the little staring contest they had.

"Tutor 8.7 model," he read aloud from the slightly raised words, inside the faintly lit panel. This model was used almost 20 years ago. Ancient. "She looks to be in perfect condition."

Quickly pulling back his arm, he hit the android hard against the side of its head, catching it right before it hit the floor. He set it back as the prince calmed himself down from the shock.

Logan quickly turned it around and pressed the power button, but it didn't turn on. "You'd be shocked at how often that actually works."

Prince Emile let out an awkward chuckle, "Are you sure you're Robert Logan? The most renowned mechanic in Ladonia?"

"Logan, I got it!" Talyn rolled out of the hustle and bustle of midday shopping, their purple sensor flaring. Lifting a pronged hand, they banged a brand new, beautiful, steel plated foot onto the table, right beside the android. "It's a huge improvement, barely used, and the wiring looks great! Plus, I got it down to 650 univs instead of the 800 originally. Must be my beautiful looks."

Logan jolted. Balancing on his human leg, he seized the foot from Talyn and threw it behind him. "Thank you, Talyn. I believe Aramoana will be quite happy that you got their replacement foot so cheap."

Purple flashed as Talyn said, "I don't understand."

With a tight lipped smile, Logan waved a hand towards their customer. "Talyn, please respect our newest customer." He spoke softly, "His Imperial Highness."

#logan sanders #sander sides #sander side au #Sanders Sides Cinder AU #Cinder AU #emile sanders #lomile #logan x emile

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