Work Text:
Jack's seen grainy footage of previous draft years. It's actually illegal to film it for anything other than the purposes of scouting, but once things are out they don't really care. Still, he regrets watching them. Regrets knowing that Matthews had held Laine within inches of his life before intervention and that's why he'd gone first. Regrets the fact that he's seen Connor McDavid standing victoriously above some poor kid with his intestines squelching between his fingers like some kind of grotesque war trophy. The exact same fingers Jack's seen used for some damn beautiful hockey. And that’s all this is about. Hockey.
( There's footage out there of Quinn that he'll never, ever watch. You don't go seventh overall without tearing a few throats out. )
—
The problem with hockey players is that you can't leave them alone together. They'll tear each other apart.
It's why they have junior players wear cages instead of visors. So they can keep teeth from straying out of mouth guards in to any flesh, like a muzzle disguised as gear, as extra protection. As if there was any actual care given to protection of the junior players before the draft. They are all disposable until their name is called.
It's why they only have one round in the draft. Not enough survive anymore, not with the way prospects are nowadays. Too feral, too far gone. Teeth too familiar with the grooves of skin and bone, the taste of blood and the crunch of skulls under weight. They play good hockey though, and that's all that's wanted of them.
They let the deaths stretch over time, the whole year before the draft becomes a free for all of savage tendencies coming to light, of suppressants wearing away to leave the bare bones of who the players really are. All the beasts within unleashed at last. It’s later when they force them together to quicken the culling.
They do it in all major sports leagues, but the NHL has the highest death rates by far. They have the least amount of regulations and the highest level of viciousness bred into the players. The efficiency of weeding out weak bloodlines and even weaker minds is too intoxicating for organisations though, and so nothing changes. Despite protests, despite the loss and the tears, despite the horror of seeing a pick with fresh blood on their jowls grinning sharply at the family of a lesser player.
The league is lucky that players settle well enough once on NHL teams. It’s something to do with the environment that brings them down a notch. They aren't tame, but it's closer to it than the feral state of young prospects. They’re less likely to rip into a weaker teammate midway through a cup run, or to challenge a captain. Jack knows his parents are lucky he sits between Quinn and Luke. Two siblings playing the same position is asking for a bloodbath.
They sedate them for the draft, while they're amped up on testosterone and death. They let them lumber on stage with blood still crusted under their nails. The snarling smile as they receive the jersey, facing the families of those they've eliminated. Killed.
Top prospects spot the weak ones easy. They smell like sulphur and acid heavy in your throat. They don't taste nice, either.
The really weak ones, those who shouldn't even be there, just bone fodder given to help more talents stay alive, are always the worst. They keen for help like puppies before a starving wolf, and they're devoured in seconds.
Even harder to swallow is when you see one go down beneath a mass of writhing bodies. The number one rule is don’t let them get you to the ground. If you fall, you’re dead.
—
It's not murder, it's just sport.
—
Growing up with siblings born too close together was a dangerous risk that Jack’s parents had chosen to take. It was a lot of years filled with the snapping and snarling of three boys all trying tear each other limb for limb to remain the lone victor of the crop. It never exactly settled into peace, rather their parents had grown quicker and smarter, and they’d been allowed to take these new instincts out on the players around them, rather than each other. It works. And the Hughes can proudly boast the perfect bloodline with three surviving boys. So far, anyway.
Surviving your draft year is something else entirely.
—
They keep the prospects in compounds for a few months before the draft. It helps cut the numbers down quicker rather than letting them go at it in the streets across several continents. It lets them monitor them closer, helps them tally the kill sheets and gives the scouts a central place to observe them. This is the new version of a scouting combine.
Jack thinks it's just another way to let kids get their throats slit in the middle of the night when they think they're safe in bed.
When they bring you in it’s a lot of heavy doors and concrete hallways. Cole is already at the compound when Jack arrives, hackles raised and eyes distrusting. But once Jack sees Cole standing by an empty bunk in the dorm with a wide smile and blood streaked cheeks, his instincts settle. Cole’s always had a pretty smile, even marred by gore. In fact it appeals to Jack more in a way he’s not sure he’s proud of.
Jack bares his own teeth in a returned grin, hipping Cole to the side and tossing his gear bag onto the bottom bunk. There’s other eyes watching from the shadows of the other bunks, but Cole pays them no mind and Jack follows suit. They will always stare, scouts, prospects, and even fans.
They end up tousling on the floor by the end of it, faux snarls filling the silent space. It’s not vicious, just their way of saying hello and becoming reacquainted.
—
Jack nuzzles Cole's throat, lips tracing the gentle throb of his carotid artery. He doesn't feel the urge to bite, to tear through muscle and stringy flesh, especially not with how trusting Cole is. He doesn't think he'll ever feel the instinctual pull to maim when it comes to Cole.
He runs a single finger down Cole's bare spine, relishing in the fact it causes Cole to jump forward and tuck himself closer. Jack smiles and Cole huffs against his shoulder, pinching his side meanly in retaliation. It rises a whimper from Jack's throat, and that's when he catches the gaze.
The gleaming eyes across the room belong to Turcotte. His dark eyes glitter deadly beneath the low light, locked onto Jack's. A deep rumble starts in his chest.
"Don't be an idiot, Jack," Cole snaps, shoving him back down with a hand to the chest. He hadn't even realised he'd sat up. Jack sighs but obliges, sticking the finger up at Turcotte behind Cole's back if not just for the annoyed grunt he receives back.
But then his full attention is back to Cole, as it so often is in this place. It's a much needed distraction from the urges gnawing at the base of his skull, the ache slowly settling in his jaw. He can curb his instincts when he has Cole, if not entirely then at least to the point of not actively searching for weaklings and fodder.
He tugs lightly at Cole's hair, "How many?" Jack already knows the answer, but it's a distraction.
"Only two today, both fodder level, both in C block."
They ration them across the dorms, making sure there's a sparsity of top prospects amongst the bone fodder. It would be a bloody massacre to have all the top guys in the same area, breathing the same testosterone filled air. No doubt the even separation also helps them split up the practice teams for when they get their much needed ice time.
Jack lets the soft relay of information lull him into a light daze.
—
"I wish we got in on skill alone," Cole whispers into Jack's collarbone. The air in the dorm in cold and both their breaths cloud in the silent air. It's rare for nights to be quiet here.
"They count this stuff as skill anyway," he says, tapping his pink-tinted nails against bare skin. There's none of that typical urge to let them sink into the flesh though.
"You know what I mean, Jack."
He does. Knows that Cole wishes for the time when draft days weren't filled with sharp smiles and bloody cheeks, rather just pure elation and families only turned teary with joy. He knows that Cole longs for when players weren't bred for like pedigree dogs, tested like thoroughbred horses.
"Yeah."
It not much about hockey anymore.
—
There’s blood still stuck in the grouting of the tiles beneath his feet. Jack rubs a toe over it, but it doesn’t budge. It’s probably not from this draft year, if Jack had to guess, and if he wanted to venture further, he’d say that he could almost picture the body beneath him. A garnet pool beneath a bare body, a cracked skull.
A hand slaps down on his bare shoulder, inciting a warning hiss from Jack’s throat as he whirls around.
“Sorry.” Cole is sheepish as he smiles, handing the bar of soap over before he moves to take his post as guard. You always need to have a buddy in showers, lest you end up another bloodstain on the tiles. And the ones that go in the showers are never pretty, this Jack knows. There’s still some that risk it, those that have no one they’ll turn their back on for even a second.
—
The first time one of the top prospects really, properly goes after Cole, Jack gives in to the burning ache in his gums. They sit side by side and watch that morning as his rank gets bumped up on the electronic board they have in the cafeteria. It's a satisfying feeling, sating the gnawing urge for a little while.
Cole knows what he did, but still curls up against his chest in Jack's tiny bunk that night. His breaths come heavy and wet against Jack's neck. His rank had dropped, and now he has a bigger target on his back.
They don't talk about it the next day.
—
Kakko stretches his long neck out to gaze curiously at Cole, eyes flicking back to Jack every few seconds. He's prying, metaphorically picking around for a soft spot, a place to push against. Something that'll set one of them off, at least. He's looking for some blaring fault, a hole in the exterior that he can claw his way into. He's no doubt a predator.
Jack grinds his molars, chest puffed out.
"He's just looking, Jack. Chill."
Cole's too casual for this. Breakfast is usually civil, but not enough to relax. Not enough to feel safe. The show of ease goes unnoticed by no one.
"He's not just looking, he's fucking staring," Jack hisses, stabbing his fork down into his omelette. It rattles the table, inciting growl from Dach at the end.
Cole smiles, "Well, so are you."
Jack's not here to reason. He won't hear excuses and he doesn't much care. "They should muzzle him."
"Dude, he's actually nice. Most of the Europeans are."
Cole manages to pilfer a chunk of the omelette from his tray in the distraction of Jack's obnoxious scoff.
"Yeah, he's nice till he gets his teeth in your throat." Jack flashes his own teeth in annoyance. Kakko smirks.
—
The day of the draft is when all the tension and aggression really peaks. It reaches a point of being suffocating and unescapable, leaves teeth gnashing in place. But they never let them entirely reach the breaking point, instead they pump them with the sedatives. It’s a precursor to the later dose, helps so that they aren’t completely dopey on stage.
Transportation is okay, it’s the waiting that’s the rough part. They’re lined up and expected to stand and wait till the staff have monitored and can be assured everyone’s ready to go. It means having your legs strapped together and arms bound beyond your back. It aches after a while. Jack doesn’t fight the restraints like the rest of them. It’s not worth the extra dose of sedative they’ll give him for his efforts. He can see Cole across the room, wide-eyed as he watches a pair of weaklings tearing into each other, arms littered with gaping bite marks.
Some of them are old and weeping gunk while others match the canines in each others mouth, still lazily dripping with fresh blood. How they got out, Jack doesn’t know, but they’ll be tased apart in due time. Once the scouts have seen all they wish to see.
That’s when he sees it, from the corner of his eye, Cole’s arms shifting from his sides, jaw clenching tighter and eyes growing wilder. Like he’s about to move, to try and struggle against the bonds like the rest of them. That’s when Jack finds himself jerking forward, a nasty snarl high in his throat. “Don’t.”
It’s a reaction fuelled by fear, of what will happen if Cole succeeds, or if a prospect already free is enticed by someone trapped and struggling. But the on-hand nurse deems it as him not having the correct dose of sedatives in his system. If Cole gets out, Jack won’t we able to help him, and the fodder still in contention see red in their last reach for freedom.
Cole settles again with a pained gaze Jack's way. Jack breaths a sigh of relief.
—
They call his name first. Jack stands and lets his siblings surround him, rests amongst the soft purr of his brothers for the few allowed moments, relishing in the rare peace between the siblings. They still scent like competition, acidic on his tongue.
Before it festers, he's being pulled away, forced up the stairs and into the bright lights. All the hands grip his fingers too tight, and the jersey chokes him as it's yanked awkwardly over his head.
He wants to claw his way out, fight and twist and rip. Tastefully coat the colour of his jersey with a more familiar shade of red. He doesn't. He smiles a full mouth of perfectly clean white teeth, and allows the incessant clicking of cameras. Lets them groom and touch and talk.
New Jersey. Jack carefully doesn't let the vividly coloured images of crushing Hischier's dark-haired skull with his bare hands take too much of a hold in his mind. Wouldn't want to be getting any ideas too soon.
—
Cole drops down. They don't let Jack watch, but he can hear it. The sound systems rings loud and clear where they have him locked down to settle.
He knows he’s the reason Cole dropped down in the draft. It happens on the rare times you find pairs of players in drafts. They monitor and pick who they think is the more dominant of the pairing, the one doing the heavy lifting in the symbiosis.
He stood too close, shadowed him too much. Jack hadn't let them distinguish the pair from each other properly. It had turned into Jack becoming the hulking guard dog protecting Cole. Too many times where Jack had flashed his teeth while Cole reasoned.
He finds he doesn't regret it too much, even if it meant letting Cole go to Montreal. It was better than Vancouver, or LA. The Canadiens meant he's closer to Jack.
—
Jack was wrong. Montreal isn't better, and they should never have let him watch the five-minute delayed replay.
He doesn't want to let Cole go. Doesn't trust them in Montreal, not after what he'd seen, not after the look he saw in Weber's eyes when he called Cole's name, shook his hand. He's seen what players like that can do.
( He has to remind himself that Montreal still has players like Gallagher and Kotkaniemi with their throats intact. Cole will be fine. )
When they do eventually have to say goodbye, Jack ducks his head in close and finally just bites. And bites and bites. Cole jerks beneath him, but Jack just bites harder. He yanks his head to the side, jerking Cole like an animal would the flesh on carrion. When the skin finally gives with a kind of pop, the blood comes hot across his tongue and he can faintly hear the impending chaos around them, but he doesn't let go. Not yet.
Cole pushes his fingers through Jack's hair, resting them gently against his skull while he twists the soft strands in a show of his pain. He doesn’t try and push Jack away though, despite the fact that his instincts must be screaming for it. You should never leave your neck unprotected, let alone allow someone to sink their teeth in. Jack just purrs, relishing the fact that this is a clear show of trust.
Jack finally releases, teeth pulling away with a strange squelch. He doesn't completely pull back, instead choosing to rest his lips against the slick surface of the wound. The blood is beginning to thicken as he laves his tongue over it one- two times.
Then he pulls away and the heavy silence is shattered, their bubble of peace finally popped. It’s loud and flashes, flashes of shrill noises and flashing limbs. A snarling Quinn is being held back by both his dad and Luke. There's a sharp jab as a needle is forced into the thick skin of Jack’s neck and a is muzzle pulled over his red stained lips.
It’s a rush of people, but Jack can still see as Cole is swallowed beneath the bulk of both Weber and Gallagher, before his few is blocked by the sneers of the rest of Montreal's camp. Assholes, he's not their’s. Cole belongs to him, not Weber and certainly not to Montreal.
He's drowsy, the suppressants working quick to sedate him. But even as he slumps over, he calls for Cole, whining a high pitched thing low in his throat. Jack's vision blurs to the view of a growling, struggling Quinn, set off by the violent commotion. Jack knows he won't see Cole again. At least not soon.
They'll note the incident on their files, mark it with red pen and a warning. They won't play across the ice from each other, especially not without Jack being both muzzled and doped up. One of them will be scratched when the time comes for them to play against each other's teams, a rogue injury out of nowhere or whatever bullshit they come up with at the time.
He can hear Cole calling back though, the distinct howl that Jack would recognise anywhere. It's muffled and distant, a faint echo in Jack's ears but it does the job. It placates Jack into relaxing for the suffocating mash of limbs reaching to restrain him. They'll find each other again, that he knows with no doubt. Drugs and bindings won't stop him when it matters, it won't change the mark he's left on Cole's neck.
Let Weber try and overrule that one. Let any of them try.