#the amount of time Alex grabbed Henry's waist and Henry his hair has made me weak in the knees

[aneshb25]

RW&RB movie scene re-draw: Hands on his waist and hands through his hair (Part 1/?) "KISSING IN THE RED ROOM"

[cha-melodius]

💙 For the ficlet game! 😘

💙 drunken kiss / tipsy (warghlbargl somehow this got to be 618 words do not perceive me. read all the kiss ficlets)

It wasn’t that Alex was against wine tours as a concept. He’s a bourbon and beer guy, and can think of plenty things he’d rather be doing on one of his few days off other than being carted around Long Island in a limo with nine strangers. He’d promised June that they’d do whatever she wanted for her 29th birthday, though, and the fall foliage and wineries tour was what she’d chosen. Most of the other people who’d signed up were women, including a group of four older women wearing t-shirts emblazoned with Sexy at 60! and three college girls who giggled every time he looked at them.

The last two tour participants were a pair of men who could not be more different—one bold and bright, with turquoise hair, pink sunglasses and a million-dollar smile, and the other quiet and reserved, wearing khakis and a simple blue button-down rolled to his elbows. His smile was smaller, rarer, but there was something about it that drew Alex in, that made him want to know more. June, Nora, and Pez—the bold one—had become thick as thieves immediately, which meant that Henry—the quiet one—had been pulled into their circle as well.

Four wineries in, they’re all tipsy and feeling good. Henry’s smiles have gotten broader and more frequent, partly from the wine but also because Alex has been entertaining himself by trying to pull as many of those smiles out of him as possible. The rush he gets when he receives one that’s wide enough to show Henry’s gums and crinkle the sides of his eyes is dangerously addictive, actually.

At the fifth winery, Alex sits across from Henry and crosses his legs under the table, reaching his foot out to slide along Henry’s calf. Just a brush at first, but expression on Henry’s face—his eyes darkening as his tongue darts out to wet wine-stained lips—emboldens Alex the next time.

Then Henry abruptly pushes his chair back and stands up. “Pardon me, I think I need some air,” he says, even though they’re sitting outside.

No one else bats an eye, and Alex would think he fucked up except Henry gives him a Look that is quite clearly an invitation. Alex isn’t entirely sure what excuse he gives, only that moment’s later he’s following Henry into a grape-leaf covered pergola. The moment he turns the corner he’s being grabbed by the arm and pressed up against the a wall, and then Henry’s inches away.

“I’m not usually one for doing this drunk, but Christ, you’re making it very hard not to kiss you,” Henry murmurs, his wine-soaked breath washing over Alex’s lips.

“Good thing I’m just tipsy,” Alex says, though that’s maybe stretching it. His head is swimming a little and he feels warm all over, though that might be the Henry of it all. He twines a hand in the front of Henry’s shirt and pulls him closer, until his body is pressed against Alex’s. Still, Henry hesitates. “C’mon, sweetheart. Make an exception.”

Henry laughs and nudges his face closer, brushing his nose against Alex’s. “Well. You are exceptional, love.”

Alex might whimper, but thank fuck Henry closes the gap between them before he makes a complete fool of himself. Henry’s lips are soft and he tastes like wine and fancy cheese, and Alex lets himself get lost in it for an amount of time he chooses not to think about.

Finally Henry pulls away, though not far. “Should we get back to the tasting?”

Alex slides a hand onto his waist, holding firm. “In a minute. I think I’ve had enough wine. What about you?”

In answer, Henry kisses him again.

[fanforthefics]

Take Your Time

My contribution to week 3 of the @sidgeno-fluff-fest, for the prompt “kids”. (Suspend your disbelief as to timing, okay? It’s for the story, go with it). Comes in at about 4k of ridiculous wishbaby fluff. 

“G, G! G, guess what!”

It’s a little like counting seconds after lightening waiting for the thunder; Geno has the amount of time it takes for five-year-old legs to cross the locker room to brace before he’s hit around the knees with fifteen kilograms of child. Geno takes the hit, stumbles back dramatically.

“What, solnyshko?” Geno exclaims, grabbing the boy by his waist and hoisting him into the air. Henry giggles, loud and endearing as his father’s. “What happening?”

“I’m going skating today!”

“Skating, yes?” Geno swings Henry back down. The other guys around the locker room are still changing, not paying any attention to the child running around their midst other than probably watching their language a little bit. Henry’s always had the run of the place, maybe even more so than any of the other Pens children. “Go skating before.”

“Dad says I can do it on my own today!” Henry informs Geno, grinning. He has his father’s smile, like he has his father’s hazel eyes that widen excitedly at the prospect of skating.

“Did he?” Geno asks.

“He did,” Sid agrees, coming in behind his son. He sets two gear bags down on the bench—of course Sid already has a full gear bag for his son, Geno can’t bring himself to be surprised—with a sign like they’re much heavier than they are. Geno gives him a quick, worried look, because he still remembers the exhaustion of those first few months with Henry, but Sid just looks the same sort of tired as he usually is late into the season. “If—”

“If I’m good for Tim during practice, and I promise to eat all my vegetables after,” Henry recites. He makes a face at Geno, who laughs.

“So many rules, Sid!”

“I’ve never been above bribes.” Sid shrugs. “Now let Geno alone, Henry. What did I say about running away?”

“It’s just the locker room!” Henry protests.

“Yeah, it’s just the locker room, Sid,” Tanger agrees, and Henry lunges from Geno’s arms into Tanger’s.

“Uncle Kris, Uncle Kris! I’m going skating!”

“Are you?” Tanger asks, as he and Geno manage the handoff with a little more grace. “Gonna be a D-man like your godfather?”

“Nu-uh. I’m gonna score all the goals, like dad!” Henry announces, which gets a round of coos and laughter from anyone listening.

Henry continues telling Tanger about how good he’s going to be at skating, and Geno drifts over to Sid. He hasn’t moved to get changed yet—there’s still time before the optional skate this morning, and he has to drop Henry off with the trainers who watch him when Sid’s at the rink and doesn’t have another babysitter. Instead he’s just watching Henry with Tanger and Shearsy and Muzz, who are all listening intently as Henry chatters at them. He’s as talkative as Sid in a good mood, just all the time. It makes Geno wonder about Sid as a kid; if he had this enthusiasm but was beaten down by the pressures of being who he is.

It doesn’t matter, really; Sid’s got soft eyes as he watches his son and his team, the same soft eyes he’d had four years ago when he’d called everyone to his home and presented them with his son, the basket he’d appeared in still in the corner of the room.

Geno watches Sid watch Henry, and doesn’t kid himself that his gaze is any less fond.

“Hey,” he says, nudging Sid with his hip. “Henry skate today? You decide is finally time?”

“Yeah,” Sid sighs. His lips twist for a second. Everyone’s been teasing him about when he’ll put his son on the ice since Henry turned two, but he’d been adamant he wouldn’t do it unless Henry asked. Everyone had been a little worried about if Sid would break, when Henry didn’t start asking immediately. “If he wants to, I’m not going to stop him.”

“He baby Crosby. He be fine.”

“That’s sort of what I’m worried about,” Sid admits, still watching. Tanger’s put Henry down, and now he’s helping Phil wrap his stick. No one on this team pretends that the captain’s son doesn’t have all of them wrapped around their little fingers. Those first few months, when Sid refused to put him down for longer than the space of a practice like the universe would take him away if he let go, really made an impression. “Or—what if he isn’t? It’s not like we really know his genetics.”

“Half you, at least,” Geno tells him. He’s not entirely sure of the science, but he knows that much. “And all Henry. He good.”

“Yeah,” Sid echoes. He worries, Geno knows; he’s worried since that first day, because Sid has been practicing parenting with the team since he got his first letter and having a son has just spread the fretting. He worries that Henry will want hockey, and that he’ll live his life with Sid’s name hanging over his head; he worries that Henry won’t want hockey and Sid won’t know how to relate to him. He worries that Henry’s missing something, growing up without another parent other than the universe; he worries that the ever-shifting Pens roster doesn’t give Henry enough stability.

“You good,” Geno repeats, nudging Sid again. “Best dad. Henry be fine. Great at skate, great at anything he wants. Maybe be goalie. Make Aunt Taylor proud.”

Sid actually knocks on wood, which makes Geno laugh. “God, don’t even. I told Flower we were doing this and he overnighted me the smallest goalie mask he could find.”

“Is cute?” Geno asks, and Sid shakes his head, grinning.

“It’s pretty adorable,” he admits, pulling out his phone. “Look, here.” He flips through to his pictures, and yeah, it’s adorable—Henry grinning through the mask, all dark curls and big eyes and chubby cheeks; the next one of him in Sid’s lap, Sid frowning a little like he’s trying to figure out the best angle for the selfie and Henry tugging on his dad’s hair. Something pangs in Geno’s heart, looking at it.

“Da-ad!” Henry whines, throwing himself at Sid. Sid hands the phone to Geno and lifts his son into his arms as smoothly as he’s ever put a puck into the net, then takes the phone back. “I want to show Tim my skates!”

“Okay, guess we’re going,” Sid chuckles. He looks over Henry’s head, to Geno. “Tell Dan I’ll be right out, eh?”

“Yes yes, know you won’t be late. Go!” Geno swats Sid’s ass, just because. Sid glares at him. They’ve never needed words to communicate, and that includes nonverbally swearing at each other because kids are in the room. “Sooner go, sooner Henry can skate. Show you how its done.”

“Yeah!” Henry agrees, and wiggles down from his father’s grip. Sidney gets a hand around his before he goes running, and they walk out together, hand in hand.

Geno watches. There’s that pang again.

“You know he’ll be back right after practice, right?” Horny says, straight-faced. “You don’t have to miss him.”

“Know,” Geno says, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t miss Henry. He doesn’t even—it’s not even envy, really. It’s just. Something. Something shaped like a night they don’t talk about.

///

After practice, some of the guys head out, but somehow the word went out that it was kids day, so Alex has been deposited on the ice, and Isabella, and all the other little ones. Geno’s not sure if Sid set a trend, or it’s a conscious thing to do so the reporters hanging around hoping for something to write about don’t focus on Sidney Crosby’s wishbaby son’s first steps on the ice.

“Ready?” Sid asks, hovering at the door with a hand on Henry’s shoulder. He’s still in full gear, minus his gloves, which makes Henry—in just his skates and a helmet—look comically small in front of him.

“Yeah!” Henry bounces a little. Geno pulls out his camera, trains it on them. Sid will want this. Not to mention Henry’s grandparents, aunt, and oceans of honorary uncles. “Dad, come on!”

“Okay,” Sid agrees, and steps onto the ice, pulling Henry with them.

It’s not dramatic, really—Sid’s holding onto both of Henry’s hands, skating backwards and tugging Henry along—but it is adorable, Henry’s brow furrowed and lips pressed together as he concentrates on staying upright.

“You’re doing great,” Sid murmurs, in what’s definitely the same tone he uses on scared rookies. His face, though—god, it’s the face he had the first time Henry walked, the first time he spoke. His face in that moment, when Geno’d come in with Tanger and Flower, debating with them about just why Sid had summoned them and wondering if it had anything to do with the night before, when they’d found him holding a baby in his arms. He’d looked up, and it had been with this face that he’d said, “this is my son.”

Henry pushes forward, a little stronger. “Let go,” he orders. Sid pauses. “Dad!”

“Okay,” Sid agrees, and lets go.

He stays close, hovering just out of reach—but Henry takes his first few faltering steps on the ice alone. Geno can’t breathe.

Then Henry’s arms start flailing, and he loses his balance and falls on his butt with a surprised ‘oof!’

Geno bites down hard on his lip so he won’t laugh. Henry looks like he’s not sure whether to cry or not.

“Diving!” Geno calls. He hits pause on his phone, skates forward. “That penalty, Henry. And bad habit. Not take after papa in this.”

“Hey,” Sid complains, but he’s not serious. Henry’s clearly distracted, watching them; Sid reaches down, and pulls Henry to his feet. “You okay, Henry?”

“I fell.”

“Yeah,” Sid agreed. “It happens.”

Geno leans down. “Want know secret?” he asks. Henry nods. “Your papa falls lots.”

“So does Geno,” Sidney adds, with a look that’s as good as a check. Geno pushes him. Sid lets him slide. “Hey! No penalties in front of my son.”

“Not penalty if you not get caught,” Geno retorts. He turns to Henry. “Want skate with me?”

“Okay,” Henry agrees, and holds out one hand to Geno. He keeps his other hand in Sid’s, so they skate a little way like that, Sid and Geno watching Henry closely.

A laugh and the click of a photo, and Geno looks up to see Tanger holding his phone pointed a them. “That’s one for the Christmas card!” he yells.

Sid makes a face, then looks around. “Hey, Alex?” he calls, to where Tanger’s son is taking shots on Muzz. “I think your dad needs practice blocking.”

“Okay!” Alex calls, and cheerfully charges his dad. Tanger cackles and skates away.

“Can I do that?” Henry demands, watching—he’s never liked that Alex is older and can therefore do more than him.

“Let’s get you going slow first,” Sid suggests, and Henry pouts.

“I don’t wanna go slow!” he protests, his whine just like Sid’s when told that no, IR means rest.

Geno swoops around behind Henry, grabs his shoulder. “We go fast then!” he says, and starts to go, pushing Henry in front of him as he gets up to speed, he focuses in on Olli, mainly because he’s closest and also because he makes eye contact at the wrong moment; he gets the picture quickly and starts going in front of them. Henry’s laughing madly, and Geno holds on tight.

Olli lets them catch him after a few minutes—it’s hard, skating with a kid—and Geno high fives Henry. When he looks up, Sid’s watching them. He’s smiling a little, nothing wary or unsure. Geno falters, not enough that Henry does but enough that he has to look away. Sid’s certainty has always been overwhelming, intimidating. Sid knows what he wants, with enough power that he wished a son from the sky. Geno’s never been able to be sure. If he had been—well, things might have gone different that night.

“G!” Henry stomps. It almost overbalances him; Geno steadies him. “Can I try on my own again?”

“Da, solnyshko,” Geno murmurs, and lets him go. He keeps his arms close; he won’t let Henry fall. “Good. Do so good.”

///

It doesn’t take long for Henry to tire and start getting fussy.

“Time for lunch and a nap,” Sid says, as he unties Henry’s skates. He’s swinging his legs in a way that’s making Geno nervous for father and son both, but Sid dodges the blades adeptly.

“Just like his papa,” Geno points out, which gets a snort from Haggy and a wrinkled nose from Sid.

“Is that joke ever getting old?”

“No,” Geno tells him. “Not until one of you is not cranky without lunch and nap. I think Henry stop first.”

Sid gives him another glare. Geno grins back as innocently as he can. After ten years, Sid isn’t fooled, but he usually gives in anyway.

“I hope he does,” Sid agrees, and tugs Henry’s second skate off. “Okay, bud. Just hang out with G while I get changed, and we can go home, okay?”

“But I’m hungry now,” Henry whines.

“Want play matching game?” Geno suggests. Sid sighs, but Henry perks up. Sid doesn’t approve of the matching game, a phone app Geno had downloaded on the advice of one of his friends in Russia who said that it could keep kids occupied for hours and was good for them, but it works in a pinch.

Geno opens the app and gives his phone to Henry. He keeps half an eye on him and half an eye on Sid as they change, quick and efficient.

“Coming for lunch?” Sid asks, as he pulls off his underarmor. Geno only looks a little.

“Yes,” Geno tells him. “Not let you give Henry boring food.”

“It’s healthy.”

“Boring,” Geno retorts. “Mama sends more recipes, she says good for growing boy. Make big as his papa. We try.”

“She did?” Sid smiles, like he’s surprised. Like Geno’s mother doesn’t send recipes and toys and whatever else she thinks of whenever she can, and demands pictures. Sometimes, Geno thinks she knows, too. “She didn’t have to—”

“She want. She steal Henry, if think she could get over border.” Geno isn’t entirely joking. “Is good for me. Stop ask me about grandbabies.”

“Well, you are’t getting any younger, G,” Sid observes, in his best media voice. Geno throws a sock at him, and gets a laugh in response.

He thinks about it though, on the way to Sid’s. He remembers being twenty-five and feeling like the world was open in front of him—he’d won a Stanley Cup and plenty of other awards; he was going to the Olympics to win, he’d been sure, a gold medal on Russian ice. He’d been ready to take the world by storm then, that evening as he’d pulled into Sid’s driveway. He’d wanted everything and nothing all at once.

Now, he pulls into Sid’s driveway. Sid’s only started driving slower since Henry, so he beat him back; Geno lets himself in anyway, and heads to the kitchen to start pulling together some sandwiches. For all his effort, Henry is his father’s son, and when he’s already in a mood presenting him with something new isn’t going to make it any better.

A few minutes later, he hears the door open.  “In kitchen!” Geno calls.

Sid appears a second later, Henry in his arms. His head is soft on Sid’s shoulder, his limbs limp, his body steady in Sid’s strong arms.

“Barely made it five minutes in the car,” Sid says quietly. “Now he’s out cold.”

“Wake up for food?”

Sid shakes his head. “He had a snack before skating, he’ll be fine. I’ll put him down.”

“I grab gear from car,” Geno offers, because he knows Sid won’t ask, but it needs to be done.

Sid smiles at him, all easy affection, his eyes as warm as they were ten years ago, five. “Thanks,” he says, and pets over his son’s hair, soothing, and Geno—something catches in him. Sticks. Holds.

“I’ll be right back,” Sid says, and heads upstairs.

Geno goes out to Sid’s car, gets the two gear bags, brings them into the mudroom where they belong. Then he goes upstairs.

Sid’s still in Henry’s room. Henry’s laying on the bed, asleep in the sweet way of kids, with his cheeks flushed and his thumb in his mouth. Sid, as Geno watches, leans down, brushes a lock of hair off of Henry’s face, pulls the blankets up over him. Soft, easy movements. He’s so good at this. He’s always been so good at this, at fatherhood, at anything he put his mind to. He’s never needed anyone else, really. Never asked for it. Not for the last five years, and before that—

Sid looks up, smiles at Geno again, puts his finger to his lips. Geno nods, and steps back out of the door. Sid’s there a second later, shutting the door quietly behind them.

That quiet follows them back down to the kitchen, even after Geno distributes the sandwiches he had made. It’s an easy silence. They’ve never needed words. Or at least, not usually.

“You ever think about that night?” Geno asks. He’s been eating standing up, and now he sets his empty plate down at the counter, leans against it so he can watch Sid where he’s sitting at a stool at the island.

Sid blinks. Chews his sandwich, swallows. “What night?”

Right. Not even Sid knows everything. “Night where—night before Henry come,” Geno says, because that’s easier then ‘the night we had sex and it was great and it might have been something except then the next day you had a baby.’

“Oh.” Sid sets down the sandwich. He’s eying Geno more in confusion than wariness. “That night.” He lets out a long breath. “What do you want me to say to that, G?”

“Not know, just—we never talk. I think, talk next day, but then—”

“Then Henry,” Sid fills in. “Yeah. I know it was weird, and it seemed like you were a little freaked, but by the time I’d figured stuff out with Henry, it didn’t seem like an issue anymore.”

That’s a fair description of what had happened. It feels paltry, though. Those few words can’t describe the feeling of Sid’s body against his, of laughing into Sid’s mouth and skin, of how he’d tasted; how his mouth had felt; how everything had felt, like it had all come together.

“He not issue. Henry never issue.” Sid’s smile flashes, quick and sweet, and Geno feels that thing in him settle more. “But—we have sex, then you get baby, Sid. Maybe we should have talk.”

“Talk now, or have talked then?” Sid asks. Geno makes a face, and Sid holds up his hands. “Just clarifying.”

“Then. Now. Sometime.” Geno shakes his head. English is the worst. “Sid, why Henry come then?”

Sid lets out a long breath. In another time, Geno might feel bad for pushing Sid like this—Sid, who hates to reveal anything—but Geno’s waited five years to be in a place where he wants to know this. And Sid’s not making a face like he’s mad, or uncomfortable. Just thoughtful, and almost wistful. “I don’t know. It wasn’t—like, it was you, but. It was everything, you know? The lock-out was done, the concussion was gone. Everyone I loved was there. I was ready. And then we, and…It felt like confirmation. That I was where I was supposed to be.” He looks up at Geno, his eyes calm and sure. “I’m not sorry. About that night, or Henry.”

“Me neither,” Geno agrees. He thinks Sid knows that, but it’s good to be sure. Sid doesn’t look surprised, at least.

“Good. Is that enough talking?” Sid looks hopeful, and it hits Geno all over again, how much he loves this man.

“Sid—why not ask?”

“Ask what?”

Geno takes a breath. “He come after we had sex. You alone with him, and is because of me. Could have asked.”

Sid presses his lips together, but he’s shaking his head, almost smiling. “He came with on name for a reason, Geno. I saw you, when I told you—there was a second when you thought he might be yours too, and you were freaked. I wanted him. I was ready. I didn’t need to pull you in too.”

Of course Sid saw. Sid sees everything, and he’s been Geno’s captain for years, long enough to read him.

“I’m not ready then,” Geno agrees, because he hadn’t been. Sid’s right. He takes a step closer. On the high stool, they’re the same height, and Sid’s gaze is watchful and ready, waiting for the puck to drop. “I am now.”

The only sound is Sid’s indrawn breath. “G.” His voice is rough. He swallows, and its clearer. “Geno, don’t say that if you aren’t sure.”

“I’m sure.” Geno steps forward against. His thighs are almost brushing Sid’s knees. Sid still hasn’t moved. “You not have to want, know you and Henry good, you not need, but—” Geno shrugs. “Love you. Love Henry. Want you both.”

“You’re sure?” Sid repeats. His eyes haven’t moved from Geno’s face. “This isn’t easy to walk away from.”  

Five years ago, he’d have run. Five years ago, he’d been young and stupid and hadn’t known that he’d never get his heart back from this man, or that the little boy upstairs would steal it just as completely.

Geno’s not as good as Sid at certainty. It takes him longer. But he can get there in the end.

“I’m sure,” he says again. Sid watches him for a second, for—something, Geno’s not sure what.

Then he nods, and suddenly they’re chest to chest, pressed close with Sid’s arms around Geno’s neck. “Good,” Sid says, and in that word and the moment after Geno can hear everything he doesn’t need to say. Then Sid’s lips curve up, heat coming in after the warmth. “Because we probably have about forty-five minutes to have sex before Henry wakes up.”

Geno yelps out a laugh, and grabs at Sid’s hips, pulling him even closer as Sid chuckles. “You not wasting time.”

“You take every minute you have with a kid,” Sid replies. “You’ll learn,” he adds, and cuts off Geno’s reply with his mouth.

///

They manage to make their time, though they’ve both only just finished pulling clothes back on when the door opens and Henry comes in. If he’s surprised about finding Geno in his father’s bedroom, he doesn’t show it, just climbs into the bed and settles between them.

“I wanna read fairy tales,” he announces. “G, please read?”

Sid’s grinning, but he shifts his arm so Henry can settle under it, and then Geno’s faced with two sets of big hazel eyes. It wasn’t like he was going to say no in the first place, but now it’s impossible.

“Okay,” he agrees, and takes the book Sid hands him. It only takes them a little bit of repositioning to get comfortable, then Henry’s sitting on Sid’s lap and Sid’s pressed up against Geno, so they can all see the pictures.

Geno takes a second to look at them—Sid and the son he wanted so certainly drew him from the sky. Then Sid looks up at him, and smiles, and there’s that same certainty in it. Geno would drop from the sky for that smile, he thinks. He’ll keep it as long as he’s allowed. 

“G!” Henry slams a heel into Geno’s thigh. “Read!”

“Okay, okay.” Geno opens the book. Sid rests his head on Geno’s shoulder, and Henry’s leaning forward, intent on the words he can’t read yet. “Once upon a time…”