[Fic: Hockey RPS] Do What you Have To; Richards/Lundqvist; Richards/Lecavalier; PG-13
Second to last part in this arc of the 'Hide the Night'-verse (not counting the side-story I have planned with Vince).
Nineteenth in the Hide the Night-verse
Disclaimer: None of this is true. Any resemblance to existing places, and or names is entirely coincidental. No harm or offense intended. Title from a song by Sarah MacLachlan. Summary from the Richard Siken poem, "Dirty Valentine".
Warnings: one line of Google translated Swedish.
Do What you Have To
Brad Richards/Henrik Lundqvist & Brad Richards/Vince Lecavalier; PG-13
We're shouting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me/ spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls/ right out of my mouth./ You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.
Do What you Have To
So this is how it feels.
The realization that wanting everything and nothing at the same time is never as bad as getting nothing. He still thinks he is in a dream. Some kind of blissful, half-suspended one, but a dream all the same.
Except, as he steps from the showers, the slight chill from the air causing him to shiver, he knows it's not.
So close.
So close, and yet, so far.
He doesn't even dare look around the locker room in the Prudential Centre. He knows the looks that will greet him. The same feeling of knowing the ultimate goal was so close is a familiar one.
Brad eventually slides his eyes to Hank. He looks miserable. It is another indicator that he was not dreaming. Hank was like the one steadfast thing in his life at the moment.
Brad turns his attention to rummaging through his bag in an effort to avoid having to talk to any of his teammates.
He has a voicemail from the realtor in the Hamptons. Brad plays back the message. Even knowing he secured the rental he wanted for a few weeks in the summer was not enough to erase the misery of having the Rangers journey to the Cup cut short.
Brad checks his texts. If he was honest, he half-expected there to be a text from Vince.
Sorry.
That was the simple text Vince had sent him back when Dallas got bumped out of the Playoffs in 2008.
I'm not ready to see you this happy.
Brad has erased so many texts from Vince after that last one, until eventually, one day, they stopped. He supposed Vince had either given up, or he was indisposed.
In the off-season Vince spent a few weeks in Florida, before he went home to Quebec to see his family. Brad figured it was the latter, because, the idea Vince may have finally given up was too much to think about now.
He feels a warm hand on the small of his back. The touch is light, but it feels warm and heavy against his heated skin. Brad leans into it before he even hears Hank's calm voice float down to him.
"Brad."
His name rolls off Hank's tongue like sunwarmed honey. The single syllable is melodic, and sounds just as sweet as Brad knows Hank tastes.
Hank is fully dressed, his hair slicked back, and his eyes so bright Brad could get lost for days in them.
There is another reason Brad knows he is not in some half-suspended dream.
And, at that current moment, he was standing in front of him.
Hank was so good at keeping him grounded. He was like this one sure fast, steady presence.
The thought causes a lump to form in his throat. Brad forces it down and offers Hank a small, half-smile.
"The team's … you know, going to …" Hank's voice trails off, and he shrugs. "We don't have to -"
"No," Brad interrupts him, as he gets to his feet, and dresses hurriedly. "We should."
-»«-
They end up back at Brad's after a few rounds with the team. Hank makes his way through Brad's door, pulling Brad in after him, and pushes him up against the closed door.
They are breathless, and dizzy.
And, maybe slightly, just slightly drunk.
Brad wants to forget. Wants to forget how they laid it all out on the ice, and how it was still not enough. He supposes he should be used to this by now. The highs, the lows, the in-betweens. The adrenaline rush. It's a rush, a thrill ride, it's everything, and nothing.
He can still taste the gin and lime from Hank's glass earlier on his tongue. But, he's so fucking high on Hank. So high, and euphoric, he barely notices Hank is laughing into his mouth. The corner's of Hank's mouth keep turning up.
"Brad …"
"Hank …"
Saying Hank's name is like some unspoken litany. A litany in a language only Hank can hear and understand. Somehow they manage to stumble off to the bedroom.
Hours later, Brad holds Hank close as they meet in the middle of his bed, and he doesn't want to let go.
I am so in love with you, Brad thinks as he feels Hank's lips brush his forehead. But, he thinks the words sound clumsy, and all too real, that he can't bring himself to say them out loud.
"Thanks," he whispers instead.
"For what?"
Brad shifts his position, lays his head down on Hank's chest. He wants to stay like this forever. He wants to be this content, always.
"For keeping me grounded."
"Jag älskar dig," Brad hears Hank whisper, his fingers carding through the slightly damp strands.
I am so in love with you, Brad thinks. The moment passing him by. The words hang in his mind. The thought of how clumsy they sound weighs heavily on Brad's mind as he drifts off to sleep.
-»«-
Brad never thought he could love someone the same, or more than he loved Vince. It's slightly unnerving.
The morning after the loss, he and Hank sit at his kitchen table, breakfast food in the middle. He was still half-expecting to wake up to an empty bed. Which, is why as he watched Hank flip the pages of the paper, he could not help but smile.
"I want you to come to the Hamptons with me," Brad blurts out finally.
Hank's eyes flit up to his, a tinge of barely contained amusement in their depths. Brad watches as the bright lights from his kitchen reflect off Hank's hair, an almost halo-like effect briefly rob him of breath.
Hank folds the paper neatly, and sets it on the table, his hand on top of it, as he finally opens his mouth to reply.
Brad's phone rings, cutting off Hank's reply.
"Sorry," Brad mumbles, as he answers it.
"I'm downstairs. Can we talk?" the all-too-familiar voice says.
"I'll be right down," he answers flatly.
Hank eyes him questioningly as Brad gets to his feet.
"It's Vince," Brad answers honestly.
"Do you want me to come with you?"
Brad shook his head. "I'll be okay."
Hank's eyes softened. He sensed this was something Brad had to do on his own. "I'll be here when you get back," he said.
-»«-
The bright, Manhattan sun glares down as Brad emerges from his apartment building. Vince is standing on the curb, his back to the streets, hands tucked into the pocket of his pants.
"Why are you here, Vince?" Brad says, walking towards him.
"We should talk," Vince said simply, his fingers reaching out, the tips just brushing Brad's.
Brad chews on his bottom lip, and stares at the ground. Eventually, he nods in agreement. "We should." He gestures up the street. "Should we walk?"
Vince matches Brad's brisk pace easily as they make their way down the street.
They end up at Bowling Green Park. Vince sits on a bench, and looks at the red tulips in full bloom and the fountain. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, as he leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced.
Brad hesitates for a moment, before he takes a seat. The constant stream of tourists wander through the park, and pose with the Wall Street Bull, as he settles into his seat next to Vince.
Their position was one that invited conversation, but neither said anything for a long while. Brad glanced at Vince from the corner of his eye, before he let his eyes slide back to the tulips and fountain.
It was a few more minutes before Vince spoke. "Sorry about the loss."
"You came all the way from Tampa just to tell me that?"
Vince shook his head. Brad was quite sure he could see sadness in Vince's eyes as he turned to look at him, sliding his sunglasses off.
"Of course not."
"Then why are you here, Vince?"
Vince sighed. "I'm … I'm, damnit, Brad, I'm trying here."
"Trying at what, exactly?"
Vince turned his attention back to the flowers and fountain. "I'm trying … I've been trying to" - Vince finally locked his eyes on Brad then - "find out how to … how to … how to let you go," he finished on a whisper.
Brad blinked, his heartbeat increasing rapidly at Vince's whispered words. "Vince, we -"
"Brad, please," Vince began, "this is hard enough as it is."
Vince let his eyes drop to stare at his interlaced fingers. "I've been thinking about what you said that afternoon when you were in Tampa. About how … how we were over for a long time."
"Vince …"
Vince squeezed Brad's thigh in an effort to get him to stay silent. "I don't know if it'll get any easier to see you as happy as you seem now, but you were right about one thing."
"What's that?"
"It's time we let go. It's time we live. Even if we have to do it apart. You know we'll never leave this" - Vince moves a hand between the space separating them - "alone if we don't get out now."
"What are you saying here, Vince?"
"I think you know."
Brad stares at his own hands, thinks about how different everything would be if he had stayed with Tampa. If Dallas had never happened. If he had chosen Tampa over New York last summer. Would they have kept going wrong? He glances at Vince one more time. He doesn't want to think they would have. He wants to think they would still arrive at the same situation they were in now.
He can see how Vince is trying to hold it together now. He looks like a man defeated. Brad places a hand on his shoulder, leans closer.
"Say something, Vince."
Vince's eyes slide to Brad's. "I want you to tell me about Henrik. Tell me everything about him. His nicknames, his siblings, what kind of eggs he likes for breakfast, how he touches you …"
"Vince -"
"Let me finish. I never thought I would ever want someone, or need someone as much as I need you. You were everything I could ever want. I thought no one could make us happy except each other. That nobody had the right to make you happy. I never stopped to think about how different our lives got. I didn't care. So, before we walk away from us, let me hear my fill of you, and Henrik, because it'll be a long time before …" Vince let his voice trail off.
Brad leaned back against the bench, the wood digging into his back. He sighed around the lump in his throat.
"You and me …" Brad started, "we're finished?"
"We're finished," Vince agreed.
They sat in a companionable, yet awkward silence for a few more minutes before Brad finally got to his feet.
"Can I drop you somewhere?"
Vince shook his head. "I can't."
Brad nodded.
Unspoken: I can't be with you like this for any longer than is warranted.
They headed out of the park, and hailed a cab.
Just as Vince was reaching for the door handle, he heard Brad's voice. He turned.
"Henrik's nicknames are Hank, Henke, and the fans have taken to calling him King Henrik. You know he has a twin brother, Joel, and he also has an older sister. Her name's Gabriella. He likes his eggs poached, but he likes it when I make omelettes on Sundays. And, Hank, he …" Brad's voice was strained here, but he recovers. "He touches me like how he thinks I want to be touched. Slowly. Gently. Like we're the only two people on the earth, and we have all the time in the world. As if I'm never going to leave him alone."
Vince smiles. "Take care, Brad."
"You too, Vince."
-»«-
"I've been thinking," Hank says later that night as Brad sits curled at his side.
"Hm?"
Hank curls his fingers around Brad's shoulder, and presses his forehead to Brad's temple. "You still want some company in the Hamptons?"
"Only if it's you."
-»«-
They don't speak again, and, as they fall asleep that night, fingers intertwined, Brad listens as the night wears on.
The sound is comforting, and welcome, as he shifts closer to Hank, and runs his hand through the strands.
He lets sleep claim him, and never lets go of Hank's hand.
Nineteenth in the Hide the Night-verse
Disclaimer: None of this is true. Any resemblance to existing places, and or names is entirely coincidental. No harm or offense intended. Title from a song by Sarah MacLachlan. Summary from the Richard Siken poem, "Dirty Valentine".
Warnings: one line of Google translated Swedish.
Do What you Have To
Brad Richards/Henrik Lundqvist & Brad Richards/Vince Lecavalier; PG-13
We're shouting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me/ spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls/ right out of my mouth./ You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.
Do What you Have To
So this is how it feels.
The realization that wanting everything and nothing at the same time is never as bad as getting nothing. He still thinks he is in a dream. Some kind of blissful, half-suspended one, but a dream all the same.
Except, as he steps from the showers, the slight chill from the air causing him to shiver, he knows it's not.
So close.
So close, and yet, so far.
He doesn't even dare look around the locker room in the Prudential Centre. He knows the looks that will greet him. The same feeling of knowing the ultimate goal was so close is a familiar one.
Brad eventually slides his eyes to Hank. He looks miserable. It is another indicator that he was not dreaming. Hank was like the one steadfast thing in his life at the moment.
Brad turns his attention to rummaging through his bag in an effort to avoid having to talk to any of his teammates.
He has a voicemail from the realtor in the Hamptons. Brad plays back the message. Even knowing he secured the rental he wanted for a few weeks in the summer was not enough to erase the misery of having the Rangers journey to the Cup cut short.
Brad checks his texts. If he was honest, he half-expected there to be a text from Vince.
Sorry.
That was the simple text Vince had sent him back when Dallas got bumped out of the Playoffs in 2008.
I'm not ready to see you this happy.
Brad has erased so many texts from Vince after that last one, until eventually, one day, they stopped. He supposed Vince had either given up, or he was indisposed.
In the off-season Vince spent a few weeks in Florida, before he went home to Quebec to see his family. Brad figured it was the latter, because, the idea Vince may have finally given up was too much to think about now.
He feels a warm hand on the small of his back. The touch is light, but it feels warm and heavy against his heated skin. Brad leans into it before he even hears Hank's calm voice float down to him.
"Brad."
His name rolls off Hank's tongue like sunwarmed honey. The single syllable is melodic, and sounds just as sweet as Brad knows Hank tastes.
Hank is fully dressed, his hair slicked back, and his eyes so bright Brad could get lost for days in them.
There is another reason Brad knows he is not in some half-suspended dream.
And, at that current moment, he was standing in front of him.
Hank was so good at keeping him grounded. He was like this one sure fast, steady presence.
The thought causes a lump to form in his throat. Brad forces it down and offers Hank a small, half-smile.
"The team's … you know, going to …" Hank's voice trails off, and he shrugs. "We don't have to -"
"No," Brad interrupts him, as he gets to his feet, and dresses hurriedly. "We should."
-»«-
They end up back at Brad's after a few rounds with the team. Hank makes his way through Brad's door, pulling Brad in after him, and pushes him up against the closed door.
They are breathless, and dizzy.
And, maybe slightly, just slightly drunk.
Brad wants to forget. Wants to forget how they laid it all out on the ice, and how it was still not enough. He supposes he should be used to this by now. The highs, the lows, the in-betweens. The adrenaline rush. It's a rush, a thrill ride, it's everything, and nothing.
He can still taste the gin and lime from Hank's glass earlier on his tongue. But, he's so fucking high on Hank. So high, and euphoric, he barely notices Hank is laughing into his mouth. The corner's of Hank's mouth keep turning up.
"Brad …"
"Hank …"
Saying Hank's name is like some unspoken litany. A litany in a language only Hank can hear and understand. Somehow they manage to stumble off to the bedroom.
Hours later, Brad holds Hank close as they meet in the middle of his bed, and he doesn't want to let go.
I am so in love with you, Brad thinks as he feels Hank's lips brush his forehead. But, he thinks the words sound clumsy, and all too real, that he can't bring himself to say them out loud.
"Thanks," he whispers instead.
"For what?"
Brad shifts his position, lays his head down on Hank's chest. He wants to stay like this forever. He wants to be this content, always.
"For keeping me grounded."
"Jag älskar dig," Brad hears Hank whisper, his fingers carding through the slightly damp strands.
I am so in love with you, Brad thinks. The moment passing him by. The words hang in his mind. The thought of how clumsy they sound weighs heavily on Brad's mind as he drifts off to sleep.
-»«-
Brad never thought he could love someone the same, or more than he loved Vince. It's slightly unnerving.
The morning after the loss, he and Hank sit at his kitchen table, breakfast food in the middle. He was still half-expecting to wake up to an empty bed. Which, is why as he watched Hank flip the pages of the paper, he could not help but smile.
"I want you to come to the Hamptons with me," Brad blurts out finally.
Hank's eyes flit up to his, a tinge of barely contained amusement in their depths. Brad watches as the bright lights from his kitchen reflect off Hank's hair, an almost halo-like effect briefly rob him of breath.
Hank folds the paper neatly, and sets it on the table, his hand on top of it, as he finally opens his mouth to reply.
Brad's phone rings, cutting off Hank's reply.
"Sorry," Brad mumbles, as he answers it.
"I'm downstairs. Can we talk?" the all-too-familiar voice says.
"I'll be right down," he answers flatly.
Hank eyes him questioningly as Brad gets to his feet.
"It's Vince," Brad answers honestly.
"Do you want me to come with you?"
Brad shook his head. "I'll be okay."
Hank's eyes softened. He sensed this was something Brad had to do on his own. "I'll be here when you get back," he said.
-»«-
The bright, Manhattan sun glares down as Brad emerges from his apartment building. Vince is standing on the curb, his back to the streets, hands tucked into the pocket of his pants.
"Why are you here, Vince?" Brad says, walking towards him.
"We should talk," Vince said simply, his fingers reaching out, the tips just brushing Brad's.
Brad chews on his bottom lip, and stares at the ground. Eventually, he nods in agreement. "We should." He gestures up the street. "Should we walk?"
Vince matches Brad's brisk pace easily as they make their way down the street.
They end up at Bowling Green Park. Vince sits on a bench, and looks at the red tulips in full bloom and the fountain. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, as he leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced.
Brad hesitates for a moment, before he takes a seat. The constant stream of tourists wander through the park, and pose with the Wall Street Bull, as he settles into his seat next to Vince.
Their position was one that invited conversation, but neither said anything for a long while. Brad glanced at Vince from the corner of his eye, before he let his eyes slide back to the tulips and fountain.
It was a few more minutes before Vince spoke. "Sorry about the loss."
"You came all the way from Tampa just to tell me that?"
Vince shook his head. Brad was quite sure he could see sadness in Vince's eyes as he turned to look at him, sliding his sunglasses off.
"Of course not."
"Then why are you here, Vince?"
Vince sighed. "I'm … I'm, damnit, Brad, I'm trying here."
"Trying at what, exactly?"
Vince turned his attention back to the flowers and fountain. "I'm trying … I've been trying to" - Vince finally locked his eyes on Brad then - "find out how to … how to … how to let you go," he finished on a whisper.
Brad blinked, his heartbeat increasing rapidly at Vince's whispered words. "Vince, we -"
"Brad, please," Vince began, "this is hard enough as it is."
Vince let his eyes drop to stare at his interlaced fingers. "I've been thinking about what you said that afternoon when you were in Tampa. About how … how we were over for a long time."
"Vince …"
Vince squeezed Brad's thigh in an effort to get him to stay silent. "I don't know if it'll get any easier to see you as happy as you seem now, but you were right about one thing."
"What's that?"
"It's time we let go. It's time we live. Even if we have to do it apart. You know we'll never leave this" - Vince moves a hand between the space separating them - "alone if we don't get out now."
"What are you saying here, Vince?"
"I think you know."
Brad stares at his own hands, thinks about how different everything would be if he had stayed with Tampa. If Dallas had never happened. If he had chosen Tampa over New York last summer. Would they have kept going wrong? He glances at Vince one more time. He doesn't want to think they would have. He wants to think they would still arrive at the same situation they were in now.
He can see how Vince is trying to hold it together now. He looks like a man defeated. Brad places a hand on his shoulder, leans closer.
"Say something, Vince."
Vince's eyes slide to Brad's. "I want you to tell me about Henrik. Tell me everything about him. His nicknames, his siblings, what kind of eggs he likes for breakfast, how he touches you …"
"Vince -"
"Let me finish. I never thought I would ever want someone, or need someone as much as I need you. You were everything I could ever want. I thought no one could make us happy except each other. That nobody had the right to make you happy. I never stopped to think about how different our lives got. I didn't care. So, before we walk away from us, let me hear my fill of you, and Henrik, because it'll be a long time before …" Vince let his voice trail off.
Brad leaned back against the bench, the wood digging into his back. He sighed around the lump in his throat.
"You and me …" Brad started, "we're finished?"
"We're finished," Vince agreed.
They sat in a companionable, yet awkward silence for a few more minutes before Brad finally got to his feet.
"Can I drop you somewhere?"
Vince shook his head. "I can't."
Brad nodded.
Unspoken: I can't be with you like this for any longer than is warranted.
They headed out of the park, and hailed a cab.
Just as Vince was reaching for the door handle, he heard Brad's voice. He turned.
"Henrik's nicknames are Hank, Henke, and the fans have taken to calling him King Henrik. You know he has a twin brother, Joel, and he also has an older sister. Her name's Gabriella. He likes his eggs poached, but he likes it when I make omelettes on Sundays. And, Hank, he …" Brad's voice was strained here, but he recovers. "He touches me like how he thinks I want to be touched. Slowly. Gently. Like we're the only two people on the earth, and we have all the time in the world. As if I'm never going to leave him alone."
Vince smiles. "Take care, Brad."
"You too, Vince."
-»«-
"I've been thinking," Hank says later that night as Brad sits curled at his side.
"Hm?"
Hank curls his fingers around Brad's shoulder, and presses his forehead to Brad's temple. "You still want some company in the Hamptons?"
"Only if it's you."
-»«-
They don't speak again, and, as they fall asleep that night, fingers intertwined, Brad listens as the night wears on.
The sound is comforting, and welcome, as he shifts closer to Hank, and runs his hand through the strands.
He lets sleep claim him, and never lets go of Hank's hand.