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Tom gets the news not by phone call or even a text. He gets the news scrolling through his Twitter feed on a break in between a meeting with BASH and an afternoon session with his trainer.
“NEWS | The Capitals Acquire a Second and Third Round Pick in the 2020 NHL Entry Draft from Colorado for Andre Burakovsky.” The tweet reads and Tom almost stops breathing, emotions caught up in his throat. He knew Andre had asked for a trade, but he hadn’t actually believed it would happen. Not after they gave him a qualifying offer.
He takes a deep breath, his throat still tight and clicks out of the app. He pulls up his texts where to his immense disappointment he doesn’t have any messages from Andre and decides to send one himself.
‘Were you going to tell me?’ He writes before deciding that it sounds too accusatory and deletes it. He knows just as well as any player that they don’t necessarily know they’ve been traded any sooner than when the news is made public. ‘Good luck in Colorado. Gonna miss you.’ He settles on instead.
He stares at the screen for a few minutes, hoping that even though it’s nine o’clock at night, Andre will check his phone and message him back. But, nothing comes, so he pockets his phone and heads to the locker room to get changed for his session with his trainer.
He’s tired and exhausted when he finally makes it back to his apartment. He toes his shoes off, hangs his keys on the hook next to the door, and slowly wanders into the kitchen, poking through the refrigerator to find something to snack on, he settles for a stick of string cheese and an apple, before making his way over to the couch.
He starts to reach for the remote when his phone buzzes gently in his back pocket. He fumbles to remove it as quickly as he can. It’s not from Andre much to his disappointment, but it is from Mike.
‘It’s gonna be ok. You can call me if you need to.’ The message reads and it’s enough to almost shake Tom into tears. He can feel them welling behind his eyes, threatening to spill over if he blinks the wrong way. It’s not supposed to happen like this. He’s not supposed to lose both of them. But especially not Andre.
He takes another deep breath, trying to keep his composure, when there’s a knock on his door. He’s not expecting anyone, so he doesn’t get up. He’s listened to so many podcasts about murderers that he knows that’s how people got murdered in the seventies. If it’s a delivery, they’ll leave it outside the door or they’ll leave a note and he’ll sort that later.
But, after several minutes there’s another knock followed by a long exasperated sigh and a muttering of what Tom’s pretty sure is Swedish before whoever is behind the door is yelling. “Tom, come on! Open the door,” the voice yells.
He’s definitely heard that voice before. It’s low and syrupy and in comparison to everyone else he knows who speaks Swedish, it only belongs to one of them. The problem is he’s pretty sure he’s back in Malmo if his latest Instagram story is to be believed.
Tom slowly hoists himself off the couch, pockets his phone, and very deliberately makes his way over to the door. “Andre?” He says carefully.
“Who else dummy?” Andre replies. “Are you going to let me in or not?”
He cracks the door slightly and peers around it to find that standing on his doormat is in fact Andre. He looks exasperated in a way that Tom’s never seen him look before, but that could just be jet lag. Tom’s definitely sure he was Sweden yesterday. But, then again, Andre only has a backpack with him, and that would just be silly to fly across the Atlantic with only a backpack.
It doesn’t matter. Andre’s here now. Tom pulls the door open all the way and gestures for him to come in, which he does.
“I thought you were home for the summer.” He watches as Andre carefully unties his shoes and leaves them by the door.
“Oh,” Andre says. “I...y-yes. I was home.” He’s not looking at Tom and Tom can’t help but frown as he watches Andre look around the apartment as if he didn’t live there with Tom and Mike for a bit.
He continues to follow Andre’s movements as Andre makes his way into the kitchen and pulls out a glass from the third cabinet he tries, which is only odd because he definitely should know where Tom keeps the glasses. He hasn’t moved them in the three weeks since Andre left for Sweden.
Tom leans against the kitchen counter, watching as Andre gulps down the large glass of water and then refills it only to drain it again. “Bro, what is up with you?” He asks, rubbing his hands across his face and then into his hair. Something is definitely up. Everything about this is just strange.
Andre drains the glass and places it gently on the counter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nothing. Everything is fine.”
“I don’t believe you.” Tom rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you try telling me the truth before I pin you to the carpet and make you tell me the truth?”
Andre stares at him with a look that Tom swears he must have learned from Nicky. He looks a little intimidating, but nothing like Nicky does with that look, so Tom assumes he’s still pretty safe. “I can’t,” Andre replies.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yes,” Tom says, exasperated with the conversation already. “Can’t implies that there’s some circumstances or external forces or something preventing you from telling me. Won’t means your just a jerk--”
“Fine. Both. I can’t and I won’t.” Andre spits the words across the counter.
“So, what...you get traded less than twelve hours ago and all of a sudden you’re a jerk?” Tom crosses his arms and shrugs, a frown pulling at his lips.
Andre takes a deep breath and settles his with a stare. “No. That’s not it.”
“Then why are you being so weird?” He drops his arms to his sides, all of the tension draining out of him.
Andre shakes his head and presses his lips together and Tom wants to run over - ok maybe not run - but move quickly toward Andre and pin him against the refrigerator to make him stop looking like that. He doesn’t, though. He plants himself firmly on the against the kitchen counter and watches as Andre makes his way over to the backpack that he dropped just inside the door before making his way back to Tom, holding something behind his back.
Tom doesn’t say anything. Sometimes waiting Andre out is the best bet. He’ll talk when he’s ready, but after what feels like forever of the two of them awkwardly standing around, Tom can’t help himself.
“So, what do you have there?” He asks, fiddling with the seams of his pants.
Andre takes a deep breath and then produces a CD in a clear jewel case with the words “Everything I Could Never Tell You” written in scratchy black handwriting across it. When Tom doesn’t reach for it immediately, he gestures with it for Tom to take it. So he does, though he’s not sure what he’s going to do with a CD in the year 2019.
“Ummm--”
“It’s for you--”
A pause. “What?” Tom looks down at CD and back up at Andre again.
“It’s for you, ok?” Andre tries again. “It’s...well...you’ll see…”
Tom opens his mouth to start to say something and then closes it again before finally settling on, “Ok. Just...what am I supposed to do with a CD?”
Andre sighs. “I--You have a CD player. Use that.”
“I don’t though. I haven’t since like 2012.”
“You can play it on your computer then.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I know your computer has a disc drive.”
Tom smiles. “Nope. It doesn’t.”
Andre stares at him for a few moments and Tom can clearly see the wheels in his head turning and then his face drops. “Fuck. It’s 2019 isn’t it.” It’s not a question, Tom notes.
“Yes,” he replies.
“You gave that away the moment I got here. I should have realized it the moment I got here. I don’t know how I missed it. I mean you look like you’re twenty five. Fuck. I undershot,” he groans.
And oh. Is this Andre actually from the future? He didn’t think time travel was actually possible, but Andre being from the future makes sense with everything he’s saying and why he looks like he’s got to be about twenty seven.
“Burk...Andre, what’s going on?,” Tom says, taking a step toward Andre and watching as he moves a step.
“Don’t worry about it. I have to go.” Andre shakes his head and starts toward the door.
But Tom can’t let him go. Not like this. He still has too many questions. He throws the CD on the kitchen counter, steps in front of Andre, and backs him up against the wall, hand beside Andre’s head. He looks up and down Andre face and this close, he looks slightly wrong. He hadn’t noticed it all the way before, but this close to Andre he can tell something is different. Andre’s hair has a few more grey strands and his eyes look a little more tired.
“Tom,” Andre says. It’s not a warning, but there is something in his voice and Tom wants to figure out what it is.
“What?” Tom replies.
“Please let me go,” Andre says. “I...I need you to--”
“Just tell me what’s going on,” Tom interrupts.
“I can’t. It’ll mess things up--” Andre pleads.
“As if things aren’t already messed up,” Tom says.
Andre blinks and leans back into the wall. “What do you mean things are already messed up?”
“Come on. You know exactly what I mean. I know you were having a hard year, but I didn’t think you’d actually keep the trade request.” Tom can’t look at him while he says it. “I...I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you.”
When Tom finally looks up at Andre, Andre’s biting his bottom lip with a sad expression on his face. “God I wish you had a CD player,” he says, which makes Tom chuckle.
“Why don’t you just tell me what’s on the CD,” he says because it’s not a question and it just seems so fucking obvious that that would solve all of their problems.
“I’m afraid it’ll break the rules,” Andre replies.
“You break rules all the time. What’s stopping you now?”
It takes Andre a minute, but Tom can see the realization on his face. “I’m blaming you if something goes really wrong,” he replies.
“What else is new?” Tom says, letting Andre free from where he had been boxed against the wall. “Now, what the fuck is going on.”
Andre shakes his head and moves toward the couch, where he promptly flops down as if he’s a marionette and he’s just had all of his strings cut. “I am not the Andre you know,” he starts.
“Ok.” Tom furrows his brows and waves for Andre to continue on. He moves to the other side of the couch and sits.
“To be clear, I’m from the future.”
“Yeah, I got that Burk. You’re not as subtle as you think. Why are you here?”
“Well, I wasn’t supposed to actually be here. I was supposed to be back in 2014--”
“You know I didn’t have a CD player then either, right?”
“I know that, but Beags did and you could have stolen it for this.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Fine, fair. Go on.”
Andre takes a deep breath and stares directly in front of him. “It’s a compilation of songs and some of my spoken journals--”
“You don’t keep--”
“I do in Colorado. Not the point. They’re to tell you I love you,” Andre says finally, looking down at his hands.
And there it is. Tom presses his lips together and he can feel his heart beating in his throat and he just stares at Andre.
“Say something,” Andre blurts out after about five minutes of them sitting in silence. There’s a look on his face that Tom’s only ever seen once before and it was right before Andre was told he couldn’t play in the second round of playoffs due to his hand. It’s one of uncertainty and Tom can’t stand it. It needs to disappear now.
He takes a deep breath and crosses the couch toward Andre, searching Andre’s face for any sign of hesitation before he leans forward and presses his lips to Andre’s.
The kiss is quick and as Tom pulls away, Andre stares back, eyes wide. “What?” Andre manages to choke out.
Tom shakes his head. “You’re an idiot.”
“How am I the idiot?”
“I’ve...God, Burk--”
“But, after I left for Colorado...”
Tom presses his lips together and closes his eyes. “I don’t know what happens. We just traded you today. I texted you after I saw the trade news. But you or past you, I guess, hasn’t texted back.” He opens his eyes and watches as Andre’s face falls.
“You text me?...I never get that text,” he says. “We chirp each other on Instagram all summer and you wish me well on Twitter, but we...”
“What?”
“We...we fall out of touch. We don’t talk anymore, Tom. And it kills me. It...I play well. I get top line minutes, but I--”
Tom rushes toward him and crushes Andre against his chest. Andre doesn’t get to finish his thought, but Tom doesn’t care at this point. How do they let it get to this? Even Mike and him keep in touch. But, Tom’s determined he’s going to hear from Andre now. Even if he has to call him at all hours of the night.
He pulls this Andre from his chest and looks at him. “If this is the moment that everything goes to absolute shit, why were you trying to go back further?”
Andre shakes his head. “I didn’t know this was the moment. I thought it was before this.”
Tom nods, he can see all the moments between the two of them where things could be something more and aren't. Andre’s thinking here actually makes a little bit of sense and then a thought hits him. “How did you even find time travel technology in the first place?”
“I didn’t,” Andre replies. “Cup wish.”
“No,” Tom says, disbelief evident in his voice. “Those are really rare.”
“Yeah,” Andre replies. “But, I might undo that win with this.”
“Yeah, you might. Why would you do that?”
“Because this was...is more important.”
Tom takes a deep breath. “I’ll change it. Your future...our future. I should have done it a long time ago.”
“Why didn’t you?” The hesitation evident in Andre’s voice.
“I thought I had more time,” Tom replies.
Andre nods, but he smiles. “I hope we do have more time.”
“We will,” Tom says. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Good,” Andre says, smiling at Tom and Tom smiles back.
And that’s all it takes, apparently, for Andre to poof out of existence, leaving nothing but the CD behind in Tom’s apartment on the kitchen counter where it was left.
Tom pushes himself off the couch, and walks to the kitchen, staring at the CD for a moment before he grabs his phone from his pocket. He scrolls to Andre’s name in his phone and presses Andre’s Swedish number, knowing that his American one won’t work until fall when Andre’s back stateside.
The phone rings and rings and goes to voicemail, which makes sense since it’s one o’clock in the morning in Sweden. He doesn’t leave a message, instead he hangs up and dials again. This time the phone rings three times before a tired and syrupy voice picks up.
“What?” Andre groans. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I know and I’m sorry,” Tom says. “But, we need to talk.”