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“You can’t bribe me into giving you Kuni with borscht.”
“Thought, easy with your jaw,” Geno says, shrugging, like he cooks for them every night. And maybe if Sid was, say, James, that would work. But he’s not, and he’s not giving up his left wing. Not after he’s already had to give up half a regular season, several weeks of his shortened season, and the first game of the playoffs, not to mention the scoring title.
The borscht does smell really good, though.
Sid figures he can accept the bribe offering itself without actually being bribed (like hell is he giving up Kuni, especially for a bowl of soup), and he is hungry. The tentative truce even makes it halfway through dinner, until he sees Geno open his mouth, his expression too serious for lighthearted dinner conversation. Sid rolls his eyes.
“Here we go.”
Geno huffs. “I just think - “
“That Kuni needs to play with you and James. You’ve said that already,” Sid reminds him. He can hear himself, knows he sounds more snippy than the conversation maybe deserves, but he’s tired of having it. What’s the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing, or having the same conversation, a million times and expecting a different result? “But things were going great with me and Kuni and Duper before I broke my jaw. Why break up a good thing? There’s no reason to fix something you know works.”
Geno just stares at him, unimpressed. “Kuni work just fine with me and Lazy last year.”
Sid blinks. “Yeah, when I was concussed.”
“So Sid get first pick of linemates? Because Sid best.” Geno’s words are getting more clipped, and they’re both getting mad again, but Sid just can’t stop himself.
“No, because I play my best when I’m with them,” he points out. “It’s the playoffs. Don’t you want me to be at my best out there?”
“Sid best more important than my best?”
“I didn’t say that.” Sid exhales sharply, trying not to reach up and rub at the side of his face. Everything’s starting to ache, but if there’s one thing he’s gotten good at over the past couple years it’s not showing when he’s hurting.
“Sound like it to me.”
“Can we just - not do this right now?” Sid asks flatly. The last thing he wants to do is fight with Geno when he can already feel a headache beginning behind his eyes.
“Okay,” is all Geno says, and it’s clearly not okay, but Sid goes back to his soup anyway. They’ll figure it out. Later.
:::
Later doesn’t seem to be the next morning, because Geno is still asleep when Sid gets up and dressed to leave for the rink. He’s quiet as he changes - Geno’s not a morning person by any standard, and the last thing Sid wants to do is resume their fight now, of all times - and eases their bedroom door closed behind him. He knows from experience that if he leaves it open, as soon as Jeffrey wakes up, he’ll lumber in and jump on top of Geno.
On his way to the garage, he stops in the kitchen to make sure the coffeemaker is on. They have it set on a timer, but Sid doesn’t always trust that. He grabs Geno’s favorite mug from the cabinet while he’s at it, and leaves a cereal bowl and spoon on the counter too. There’s no point in making Geno go digging through the cabinets for all that when Sid can go ahead and get it out for him.
He gets to the rink early, which he prefers. CONSOL is quiet as he takes his usual route through the halls and to the locker room. His edges have been feeling a little dull, so he takes his skates to Dana to get them sharpened while he works on a couple new sticks, and by the time everyone else is getting ready, Sid’s already out on the ice. He’s even managed to beat Dustin. It’s good, though, because he can use the time to work on the accuracy of his shot. It’s not the same without a goalie, but extra practice can only help.
To call practice a shit show would probably be going too far, but everyone is off their game this morning. Passes aren’t connecting where they should on line rushes, guys are forgetting plays that they’ve known all year, and he doesn’t even want to think about the power play right now. Sid deals with it the best way he knows how - keeping his head down and throwing himself into the drills with even more intensity.
He can’t say the same for Geno. His expression grows darker with every missed pass, every time that Iggy isn’t right where Geno wants him to be and every time that he tries to move back to the right, leaving James to drop back so he’s on the left side, until Geno’s face resembles nothing so much as a storm cloud.
Sid’s never been so glad for practice to be over, and after he showers, he escapes as quickly as he can to the video room to go over tape with Tanger.
:::
Sid really, actually gives going back to Mario’s serious thought when he gets in his car that afternoon. He even goes so far as to make a turn that would take him in that direction, rather than toward Geno’s, before he remembers that he’s a grown-ass man. He feels that headache growing between his eyes when he walks in the door, though, and he doesn’t make it farther than the couch. Jeffrey looks up from his spot on the rug only briefly, completely unimpressed, before returning to his nap.
Actually, a nap sounds pretty good. Sid doesn’t even bother laying down, just leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes.
A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when, a few minutes later, he feels the couch dip next to him and Geno’s hand slide up the back of his neck and into his hair, causing Sid to slump against his shoulder. It’s much more comfortable than his previous position, and he makes a quiet, pleased noise.
Geno hums, sounding half-fond, half-annoyed. “Spoiled,” he murmurs. “Worse than Dixi.” He scratches right at the nape of Sid’s neck, dragging his fingers through the baby-fine hairs there, because by now his hands automatically know what Sid likes best.
“Am not.” Sid rolls his eyes, then winces a little. “You spoiled that cat worse than any animal I’ve ever seen.” He tilts his head a little, arching his neck to press into Geno’s touch.
“Just like cat,” Geno says, like he wasn’t even listening. Sid could make a disgruntled sound in response, but his headache is quickly becoming a distant memory as Geno’s fingers thread through his hair over and over again, occasionally pausing to brush a piece back off his forehead. Sid knows he’s let it get too long, but this feels so good that he can’t bring himself to want it cut shorter. Besides, getting it all cut off would mean the season was over, and he’s not ready for that, not yet, won’t ever be ready for that unless it ends with him at center ice with the Cup again.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
“For letting spoiled captain keep my winger?” Geno asks. Sid scoffs.
“You know I don’t - “
“ - make final call. So Sid says.” Geno sounds amused, though, not irritated.
“I don’t.”
“Mhmm.”
Sid nuzzles into Geno’s shoulder. “No, just….” He tries to find the words to describe what it means that they can argue about hockey, to the point that they’re practically yelling at each other in the locker room, and then when he comes home they’re still just - them. “For this,” he settles on finally.
“Love you,” Geno says simply.
“Even when I’m being a giant brat?”
Geno just laughs. “Of course.”