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The thing about Sasha is that he’s really big. Everyone knows the statistics, how they say he weighs 235 and stands 6’3” without his skates. But not many people actually understand how big he is when you’re right up on him, in his space, breathing the same air.
Sasha is really big. He’s solid and broad and tall and heavy and Nicky trips over his legs before he even realises that anything is wrong. It isn’t until he gets lost on his way to the bathroom that his brain catches up with his surroundings and he realises that something is really, really wrong. He stands perfectly still in the dark for a long time before he’s able to shake himself into moving and follow the familiar-but-different path to Sasha’s bathroom. He leaves the light off for a few seconds, hoping it’ll change what he sees in the mirror. It doesn’t.
“Fuck,” he says to his reflection. Swedish sounds weird in Sasha’s voice, too round and too harsh all at once. He says it again anyway and scrubs at Sasha’s face with Sasha’s hands, suddenly very awake and very not okay. Sasha’s watch is on the counter and Nicky reaches for it, swearing at the time but getting dressed anyway.
If anyone gets to wake me up at three A.M., he reasons, it’s me.
Sasha’s sleeping hard when he hears someone come through the front door. It doesn’t wake him all at once, which he thinks is strange, but when he finally registers what he’s hearing, he’s up and out of bed ready for a fight.
And then, his face is getting very familiar with the floor and Nicky’s cursing in Russian in his ears. The strangeness of that doesn’t register until he’s pushing himself to his knees and looking at Nicky’s long, bony fingers against carpet he doesn’t recognise. It’s then that the sound of Nicky’s voice—and more specifically, his voice speaking Russian—registers to Sasha’s sleep-addled brain. He sits back on his haunches—front door forgotten—and stares at Nicky’s hands.
“Good, you’re awake. Why are you sitting on the floor?” Sasha’s never heard his own voice at a distance before. It sounds strange and raises goosebumps on his skin, which might be because it’s strange and might be a Pavlovian response unique to Nicky’s body. Because, ya know, he’s in Nicky’s body.
“I fell down. You center of gravity is weird,” he says. Instead of, please tell me you know what’s happening? Or I’m so sorry for being an idiot, or Thank G-d you’re here, Nicky, fix it, or any of the other things that are racing through his head. Nicky laughs and it’s such a Nicky sound that even though it’s his voice and coming out of his face, he feels himself relax. Nicky crosses the room in the dark without hitting anything and offers Sasha his own hand. He stares at it for a few seconds before he takes it and lets Nicky pull him up off of the carpet.
“I need a drink,” Nicky says as he leads Sasha through his house in the dark. It’s the first thing he’s said that’s sounded right in Sasha’s voice. Sasha laughs with Nicky’s mouth and decides he’ll need two if he’s expected to get through whatever this is without losing his shit on anyone.
“We have to tell the kids,” Nicky says, leaning on the island in his kitchen with Sasha’s hands folded in front of him. Sasha looks like he might bolt at any second, or like he might forget how to breathe and fall off of his stool. Nicky would find it funny if it wasn’t his body on the line. Sasha lets out the same bitter laugh he always uses when he wants Nicky to know he’s being an idiot and doesn’t want to say it out loud. Nicky hates the way it sounds in Sasha’s voice and he doesn’t like the way it sounds in his own any better. It only takes Sasha a few extra seconds to realise he’s serious.
“That’s crazy, Nicky. Can’t tell anyone,” Nicky pinches the bridge of his—Sasha’s nose—and closes his eyes against the pressure of what he knows is going to be a killed stress-headache. Somewhere in the back of his mind he worries about getting a migraine, and then he remembers that he’s not in his own body and barely resists the urge to laugh.
“Sasha, if we don’t tell them they’re going to notice and then everyone is going to know,” Sasha looks like he’s going to argue for half a second and then he must realise that Nicky’s right because he nods and reaches for the bottle on the counter. Nicky thinks for a second he’s going to pour himself another and then sighs in fond annoyance when he tosses his head back and drinks straight from the bottle.
Nicky fishes Sasha’s phone out of his pocket and swears in Swedish at the Cyrillic keyboard. He doesn’t turn any lights on as he walks—somewhat unsteadily—to his room to get his.
“I’m so tired I’m dead,” Tom is saying as he comes through the door. He’s wearing his pyjamas like the rest of them and immediately flops over the arm of Nicky’s couch and onto his stomach. Andre laughs sleepily at him and then cards his fingers through his hair when he scoots up to use his thigh as a pillow.
“Why are we here?” Andre—apparently too tired for English—asks Nicky’s face. Nicky laughs and accidentally chokes on his water when he sees the complete lack of understanding in Sasha’s—his?—eyes.
“We need to tell you something,” Nicky says, coughing between words until he can breathe. Christian sits bolt upright in his chair and Andre sucks in a harsh breath. The rapid-fire exchange of ‘since when does Dad speak Swedish’ and ‘do you think that means he understands all the things we say about him’ is too much for even Nicky to follow clearly and he sighs at the ceiling.
“Boys, shut up. Sasha still doesn’t speak Swedish and I won’t tell him you talk about him if you don’t tell him I do, now can we move on?” The twin looks of horror on their faces are almost as funny at the comical way they nod in agreement. The movement jostles Tom back to consciousness and he turns his big eyes on Sasha and Nicky.
“If you two are finally going to get married or something, why couldn’t you have waited until practice to tell us?” Nicky’s heart feels like it falls into his feet and he’s immediately glad to be wearing Sasha’s much darker skin. He knows that if he were himself, he’d be read down to his neck.
“I tried, he won’t marry me,” the look on Nicky’s face is so unmistakably Sasha that even Tom sits up and takes notice.
“What the fuck is happening?” Nicky’s really glad—for the second time—that he can’t get a migraine out of all this. He only feels a little sorry that Sasha’s probably going to wake up with one.
“Wait, is that why you’re fighting? Papa told you he wouldn’t marry you?” Christian seems to be the only one fully aware of what’s happening and a wave of pride hits Nicky in the chest. Then, he turns his keen eyes on Sasha’s face and Nicky feels like he’s been stripped down to his soul. “Did you at least tell him why? Or did you let him think it was because you didn’t want to?” Nicky takes the bottle from where Sasha’s left it on the counter and drinks until he feels better.
“It would be so much easier to drink this all away if I was in my own body, you stupid Russian,” he says as he puts the bottle back down on the counter.
Everything is—mostly—fine. Sasha and Nicky spend so much time together that pretending to be each other really isn’t as challenging as it could be. But playing hockey isn’t the same as showering or working out or talking to teammates or driving. Playing hockey as Nicky is going to be hard.
Sasha is furious when he wakes up the next day and Nicky’s face is still looking back at him in the bathroom mirror. He curses at his reflection and the world for a full two minutes before he decides he’s ready to get dressed. He’s halfway through another rant about how inconvenient it is to be stuck in the body of the man you love right after you ask him to marry you and he tells you he won’t, when something falls out of the pocket of the sweatshirt he’s pulling over his head and lands on his foot. He pushes Nicky’s hair out of the way and looks down to see a velvet box on the carpet.
Every angry word he’s thinking dies in his mouth as he picks it up and flips it open.
“Nicky, you stupid idiot,” he says to the ceiling of Nicky’s closet, surrounded by their clothes.
“We need to talk, Nicky,” Sasha says, invading Nicky’s space in the way only Sasha can. It’s less effective, maybe, since he’s in Nicky’s body and Nicky takes up less space, but it feels almost the same. Sasha’s always taken up too much space for his body and it’s grounding to see that he’s retained that ability even through the craziness that is the situation they’re in.
“We need to play, Sasha,” he says softly, eyes still locked on the stick he’s cutting. Even in Sasha’s body, Nicky knows himself too well to think he’d make it through that conversation and be able to play. He exhales and ignores the very-Sasha look on his own face, “the rest can wait.” Nicky collects his sticks—already cut and taped to his preferences—and shoves them at Sasha. He takes Sasha’s and slides past him out of the room.
Sasha thinks they might have made it through the game without incident, if it had been any other game against any other team. The only thing that could have made it worse would have been if they’d been in Pittsburgh, surrounded by the worst fans in the league, because then Sasha might really have done something stupid.
Stupider, that is, than punching Evgeni Malkin in the face with Nicky’s fist.
Sasha’s done a lot of stupid things in his life, but he knows the second he sees Nicky’s own look of panicked fear in his features from the bench that this one is very near the top.
In his defense though, it’s Zhenya’s own stupid fault. Sasha hadn’t been planning on doing anything particularly rash or exceptionally stupid. And then—after some prodding, because he forgot that Nicky’s a center and Nicky takes face-offs—he skated to the dot and planted his feet with Zhenya directly across from him. If he were really Nicky, he wouldn’t speak Russian and therefore he wouldn’t have understood what Zhenya said just before the referee reached in to drop the puck. But Sasha isn’t Nicky and Sasha does speak Russian, and Sasha brought his fist up under Zhenya’s visor and hit him in his big ugly nose before the referee or the Penguins or Zhenya himself had time to process what was happening.
Sasha wasn’t even sorry about it, until he realised that there was blood on Nicky’s glove and that Nicky looked like he was ready to jump the boards and kick his ass.
It was the longest five minute major of Sasha’s life and it got worse when he skated back to the bench because Nicky wouldn’t even look at him.
With ten seconds left in the third, Sasha sees Nicky across the ice wearing his face and an expression that’s so Nicky he wants to laugh. Nicky sets the play up so beautifully that Letang has no chance to defend it. The puck rips across the ice, hits the stick Sasha’s holding, and goes in over Murray’s right shoulder.
“Enjoy your star,” is all Nicky says to him before he skates to the bench. Sasha feels about two feet tall.
“Can we talk now?” Sasha asks the dark room, knowing that Nicky’s there somewhere. He can almost see the outline of him in front of the window by the time he answers.
“Talk?” Nicky says, his own bitter sharpness coming through clearly in Sasha’s voice. He turns, arms folded over his chest. “Talk about how you didn’t give me a chance to explain? Or talk about how you’ve been strutting around in my body acting like you have no idea who I am? Or talk about I just got my first fighting major for a fight I didn’t start, didn’t finish, and wasn’t even on the ice for? Tell me, Alex, what do you want to talk about?” Sasha’s heart feels like its breaking. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of Nicky’s sweats and looks at the floor.
“I know about the ring, Nicky. I know you want to marry me,” Nicky’s voice sounds broken around the words, and even though it’s Sasha’s fault—even though he’s the one that feels broken—the sound of it makes his heart hurt.
“It shouldn’t have taken you finding the ring to know I wanted that. You should have known because you know me. You should have known because I’ve spent the last decade of our lives trying to show you. But you didn’t,” Sasha’s never seen his own shoulders curl in the way they do right then, like Nicky thinks he can make himself small enough that he’ll disappear.
“Why you say no?” He’s terrified to know that answer, but he has to ask. Nicky snorts a laugh and leans back against the window.
“Because I don’t want to be the reason you can’t go home. I won’t be the reason,” Sasha’s heart stops beating and he feels sick to his stomach.
Sasha wakes up the next morning in his own bed, in his own body, and feeling like hell.
“Holy fuck,” Nicky says when he pushes his hair off of his forehead. He flips the lamp on and looks at his knuckles, swearing again when he sees the cracked and bloodied skin. It takes three more seconds for him to realise he’s looking at his own hand. He turns the light off, drops back into his pillows, and goes right back to sleep.
Today was going to suck, but practice was optional and not having to deal with the coaches and with Sasha seemed like it might make the day suck a little less. He was asleep before he could talk himself out of it.
“Nicky?” Sasha calls as he slips through the front door. He’s never used Nicky’s key to let himself in when he knows Nicky doesn’t want to see him and it feels weird. He hasn’t felt like a guest in Nicky’s house in ten years. He puts his keys and his phone on the counter, kicks his shoes off by the door, and walks as quietly as he can up the stairs. Nicky’s sound asleep when he gets to the door of the bedroom and he can’t help but stare.
“How you beautiful even when you sleep?” He asks Nicky’s back, following the sunlight from where it lights up his curls to where it kisses the smooth skin of his back.
“You think too loud,” Nicky grumbles into his pillow, shifting but not turning over. Sasha laughs to himself and leans against the door frame. Nicky pulls one arm free of his pillow and throws the covers back on Sasha’s side of the bed. “Get in or leave. I’m sleeping.” Sasha’s not too proud to admit that it feels good to strip out of his t-shirt and slide into the bed beside Nicky. He doesn’t like sleeping alone and he’s out within minutes with the heat of Nicky’s body so close.
Nicky’s not in bed when he wakes up and Sasha wishes he was surprised. He hugs Nicky’s pillow and lays in the bed for a long time before he feels ready to get up.
“I’m sorry I hit Zhenya,” is the first thing that comes out of Sasha’s mouth when he finally gets out of bed and drags himself to the kitchen. Nicky looks up from his coffee and regards him with sharp eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Sasha remembers not to stare at his feet while he talks and forces himself to stay back, in case Nicky doesn’t want to be touched. He looks soft in the morning and Sasha knows himself well enough that he’ll touch if he can.
“I’m sorry I hit him,” he says again, “And I’m sorry I yell at you, and I’m sorry I didn’t let you explain, and I’m sorry I’m let you think those things. I’m sorry I let you go to sleep upset,” Sasha wishes he knew how else to explain, but he doesn’t, so he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and waits for Nicky to say something.
“Come here,” Nicky says finally, putting his mug down on the counter. Sasha walks obediently around the island and exhales shakily when Nicky tugs his hands free of his pockets to gather him in a hug. Sasha buries his face in Nicky’s morning-soft curls and slides his hands under Nicky’s t-shirt to rest on the sleep-warm skin of his back. For the first time in a week, he breathes in a full breath of air.