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It's eight years, four months, and three days after Sid and Geno first met on Mario Lemieux's porch, and they're a long way from the nervous, excited rookies who stared at each other so long ago.
A fairytale or a poet or maybe a more ridiculous beat reporter might say that they looked at each other in that first moment and saw a glorious shared future stretching out before them—roaring crowds, the effortless glide of fresh ice, the glimmering silver arc of the Cup. But really all Geno saw was a broad, shortish kid with curly dark hair, wide eyes, and a big grin, reaching out to him with a stick-calloused hand. Who knows what Sid saw looking back, but Geno suspects it wasn't very impressive. He hadn't slept at all the night before from nerves, and his clothes were wrinkled from being rolled up and packed too many times.
Geno doesn't know why he's even thinking about it now, except Sid's welcoming smile is just the same all these years later as he reaches out to shake Perron's hand. The excitement is still there, the automatic kinship, whether he's welcoming an exhausted Russian runaway, an awestruck rookie, or a new winger in the middle of the season. The crinkles that have gradually eased their way into the corners of his eyes just add to the warmth.
That warmth lingers, even after Geno makes his own greetings and then sidles his way over to Sid in the locker room. He casually plants himself on the bench well inside Sid's personal space, even leaning into Sid's side obnoxiously. Contrary to public perception, Sid doesn't actually give a damn about personal space – at least not with his team – and he doesn't even glance up from tightening his skates. His mouth curves up, though, and the warmth settles pleasantly in Geno's stomach. He doesn't say anything as Sid goes through his small routines – checking the straps of his socks, smoothing his jersey, tapping the mouths of his gloves before pulling them on – and Sid doesn't pay him any attention.
“Okay, what?” he says when he's finally through, turning to Geno and letting the little quirk of his mouth ease into a full grin.
“Can't just sit on bench?” Geno asks, all innocence.
“Is that all you're doing?” Sid widens his eyes a little. Maybe someone who didn't know him better would read it as earnest – Sidney has a lot of practice with earnest, he's very good at it – but Geno just wants to laugh. “Sorry, my mistake.”
“I'm forgive,” Geno says comfortably, slouching further into Sidney's side. Sid rolls his eyes, suppressing a smile, and elbows Geno in the ribs. “Okay, okay,” he caves. “Came because I have problem, Sid. Serious problem. Only captain can fix.”
“Oh yeah?” Sid's eyebrows curve, encouraging.
“Very important,” Geno nods. “Have this teammate. Terrible, always he's steal my wingers—” and then he has to shush Sid as he starts to giggle. “Why you laugh?” he scolds. “I'm come to you for help, Sid, so bad.”
“Horny was back on your line before he went out!” Sid exclaims. “Who's stealing whose wingers again?”
“Suttsy's line,” Geno corrects, with just a hint of sulk. Maybe he's still a little sore over having to spend time shoved to wing himself. He'll play whatever role the team needs, of course, especially when they're literally decimated by injury, but that doesn't mean he can't prefer his natural position. “And don't distract me. Always you get to try first!” He shakes his finger in Sid's face, blatantly switching tactics.
“I'm just breakin' 'em in for you, G,” Sid chirps, winking in that terrible way that scrunches half his face and wrinkles his nose. Geno despairs of him. What did he do to deserve a wink-happy, unrepentantly winger-stealing captain like this?
“Face get stuck that way,” Geno warns, reaching out to poke the divot at the corner of Sid's grin. Sid ducks away, laughing, and Geno turns the gesture into a hair-ruffle in revenge, scuffling his fingers through the thick, fluffy strands as Sid yelps.
Eight years, four months and change, and that's the moment the bond snaps into place.
***
falling down a rabbit hole hitting every rock and root all the way down to the beginning
“think it might help to get things off your chest—” late of course he's late when is he not late he'll come strolling in and “always captain” tired laughter tired eyes brightening crinkling “is safe Sid trust me nothing gonna happen except Russia gold” they're not going to the whole season is going to there's no point in just talk talk talk “Geno? is Metallurg still—” numb downcast eyes failed failed this is my fault I didn't I should have done more should have done “best he's the best he's my I don't know” “Lokomotiv? yeah of course G no of course I'll call them for you god how many of these do you want me to sign—” dizzy he's so dizzy he's going to spin off the earth his head hurts he can't “I'm fine jeez sit down Geno how's your knee—” he knows the number he wants Sid's number he takes the pen scrawls 8.7m watches no one even twitch “are you staying? you'll stay won't you in Pitts—” jumping slamming glee clutching beautiful beautiful just like this never enough “WE DID IT WE DID IT G WE FUCKING DID IT” “how do you say 5 on 3—” “hi hello I'm trying to reach Ehvgeni Malk— oh oh hi I'm Sidney Crosb—”
Sidney's eyes are frozen wide, and there's an impossible weight pressing on his chest. Geno wheezes, tries to breathe past it with both sets of their lungs.
***
They're pulled from the game day roster immediately. The doctors don't bother giving an official explanation – the media can pick one from a hat. The team is told it's food poisoning.
It's not a hockey bond, their medical team stresses over and over. Hockey bonds – one of the more general 'working bonds' – only manifest in heightened synchronicity on the ice, one player functioning as an extension of the other. They're limited, not particularly uncommon, and often temporary.
Soulbonds are exactly as intimate as they sound, they're not at all common, and they're more permanent than a wedding vow.
“Is this—going to hurt us on the ice?” Sid asks when he can manage the words.
The shock of the initial connection felt like the flashbacks you're supposed to get while dying, if Geno is going to be a little dramatic about it – and he thinks he's fucking allowed. The flood of initial intensity has mostly subsided, thank God, but the bond is still shuddering a little, newborn and apparently queasy about it.
After an adjustment period to stabilize the bond, Dr. Vyas tells them, it should be totally manageable and not affect their playing. They stare at him in disbelief, because in the moment, with their brains still untangling overlaps and crossed connections, that barely seems possible. He repeats himself patiently. Several times. Using simple words.
“You're going to be able to keep playing hockey.”
Small blessings. Or the only thing that matters, depending on how you look at it.
A soulbond doesn't even have to be registered with the league, apparently, because it doesn't confer the same advantages as a hockey bond. Sid flares briefly with derision when he hears that, but his jaw is locked tight, so Geno is the one who snorts weakly and scoffs, “We don't need that.”
Sid gives him a half-hearted mental jab, but it's true. They still get suspicious mutterings every time they set each other up for a particularly pretty power play goal – so, frequently – but their standard tests have always turned up negative. Maybe as a result, Geno has come to view hockey bonds with a kind of smug superiority. Other players might need psychic cheating to score points, but he and Sid are just that good.
The soulbond throws an unwelcome wrench into that. The thought of people latching onto the bond as an excuse to overshadow everything they've worked so hard to accomplish together – it doesn't matter what anyone thinks, not really, but Geno is already grinding his teeth.
Not that it will stop people from speculating when they find out, but Dr. Vyas assures them soulbonds don't work that way, in any case. From the one well-documented case of a soulbonded pair of ice dancers, the bond might actually be a little disorienting on the ice before they learn to keep it properly balanced and submerged below the conscious level. There could be instances of doubled vision or shared pain from injuries, for example. Emotional resonance when the bond is unstable can also apparently feed into a loop that damages equilibrium, pushing the bonded pair into stressful heightened blah blah blah blah –
Geno grimaces, both at all the technical and medical English that's flying right over his head, and at the souring sinkhole of Sidney's mood pulling at him. It makes him feel like he's tilting, one foot stuck in quicksand. He gestures sharply, and Vyas closes his mouth, waits patiently as Geno struggles.
This is all giving him a headache. He wants to go home. He wants to fall asleep and forget that one of the most important and stable friendships in his life has just turned on its head.
He also wants to lean against Sid, press against his side like he was before this all started, but Sidney is sitting stiffly on the other side of the room, and it bothers Geno that it seems too far.
“Why this happen?” he asks finally. “Why now?” It’s such a cliche, but at some point Geno apparently absorbed the idea of soulbonding at first sight, and he feels obscurely betrayed at being blindsided like this, when Sid has been one of his rocks for eight long years.
Dr. Vyas looks at them with a neutral expression for slightly too long, from Geno to Sid and back.
“Those aren't easy questions,” he cautions eventually. “As much as we've learned about bonding, it isn't an exact science. Timing in particular can vary widely; late-forming bonds like this are far from unknown. As for why...” He trails off a little, then shrugs. “There are many schools of thought, as many things tie people together. A need for stability. Shared experiences.” His eyes flick between them again briefly. “Compatibility.”
There's a sharp sensation from Sidney, like a sudden stitch in Geno's side stealing his breath, and Geno's hackles go up for some reason. It sounds like a whole lot of useless 'we have no idea'; what are doctors for, anyway?
This time it’s Sid who cuts in, closing his eyes and digging his fingers into the bridge of his nose.
“Okay. Just - what do we need to do?”
Dr. Vyas pauses, then picks up some flyers to hand to them. Of course. There are always flyers, somehow. There were at least four for Geno's torn knee.
“There are some guidelines here that should help stabilize things in the short term,” he says. “Follow them, stay in close proximity, don't resist any kind of urge for physical contact.” Right, perfect, that will be so easy when the idea of touching Sid feels both utterly necessary, and a lot like reaching for a doorknob that Geno just knows is going to shock him. “But change as little as possible outside of that. It should take about two weeks to acclimate, maybe a week and a half if things go well – ”
“Boston in four days,” Geno says flatly.
Missing three, maybe four games in mid-season maybe wouldn't be the end of the world, but Geno isn't in a mood to be reasonable about anything right now. They've been the most consistent part of a wrecked line-up recently, and they're not injured – this isn't blood clots, or cancer, or a virulent infectious disease, or any of the other serious ailments sidelining their teammates right now. It's a goddamn soulbond, the basis of countless fluffy fairytales and trashy romance novels. They can deal with it.
“That's probably not a realistic – ” Dr. Vyas starts.
He doesn't get to finish. Through the wobbly chaos of the bond, Sid's resolve meets Geno's and solidifies like a steel beam spanning the distance between them. Geno doesn't need to hear it echoed in Sid's voice when he speaks, but it's admittedly nice.
“We'll be ready by then,” Sid says grimly. “You can veto it if you think it's medically necessary.” He doesn't add, But we're going to make sure it won't be, even if we have to spend the next four days living in each others' pants. He doesn't have to – it's carved in the set lines of his face.
Vyas raises his eyebrows, so Geno changes the subject before he can waste his breath.
“Can we not – be apart? We get sick?” he demands, already uneasy when he thinks about the distance between Canada and Russia in the long summer.
“There may be some emotional stress and discomfort at prolonged separation, but nothing that would cause long-lasting damage,” Dr. Vyas assures him, which is – so encouraging. Stress and discomfort. Exactly what Geno wants to hear. He wraps his fingers around his pendant and pulls, until the chain bites into the back of his neck and he can breathe a little easier.
After the endless examinations and the numbing whirlwind of a debriefing, Sid drives them both to his house. Geno valiantly bites his tongue when Sid slows and stops at yellow lights Geno would have blazed through even on a good day. Sid keeps clenching his jaw and revving the gas too hard, though, so it must be getting through anyway.
They end up sitting next to each other in the living room, and Sid's face is still a blank mask of damage control. It's the one he puts on after particularly bad losses, when he spends 20 minutes grinding out meaningless platitudes to the media because he won't touch the actual game with a ten foot pole.
It's totally useless when Geno can literally feel the pressure of Sid's hands clasped together, tight and white-knuckled. The hard knot of Sid's anxiety is sitting in Geno's stomach, tangled up with his own. He doesn't even know how there's room for all of it. Maybe there isn't. Maybe he'll throw it all up in a minute.
But he appreciates the effort to maintain some semblance of control. Sid's so good at that.
Images flick by in Geno's mind's eye, almost too fast to recognize – Taylor, Mario, Taylor, Geno racing down clean ice stretched out under bright lights. It's almost worse because it isn't a constant stream of input—more like a radio set to scan that only hits occasional bursts of music amidst the static, fading in and out.
“I'm sorry,” Sid says eventually, and Geno exhales a sigh. Exhaustion undoes some of the painful tension in his muscles, when concentrating on staying calm had only wound them tighter.
“What you sorry for, Sid?” he says, scrubbing a tired hand over his face. “Don't be stupid. Not on purpose.”
“I'm sorry this – messes things up,” Sid amends. There's a swell building through the bond—Geno's not even sure from whom—something with homesickness and the faraway laughter of children and the unpleasant echoes of a train derailing.
Geno has to squeeze his eyes shut briefly. He'd recently been wondering if having a family – his own family – was something he might finally be ready for, if he found the right person. Now he has Sid, and anyone else would have to be convinced they weren't a third wheel, would have to agree to share their life twice over, and Geno is just. Not thinking about that right now. Or for as long as possible.
“I'm sorry that – ” Sid starts to continue, and then his lips are tickling Geno's palm as he places it firmly over Sid's mouth, muffling more unwanted apologies.
“Shhhhh.” Geno ignores the slight narrowing of Sid's eyes above his hand—especially since the bond's roiling slows dramatically at the touch, the heaviness in them both lightening. Physical contact. Right. Check. Geno is momentarily distracted by how much better it feels before he remembers what he was saying and clears his throat. “Dumb reasons. I'm have to say sorry too if those reasons, and I'm not want to.”
Sid looks momentarily stumped at that, like he'd only considered the roadblocks that being soulbonded to a teammate might throw into Geno's romantic and domestic life, not his own. Which is maybe a little weird, but it's also very Sidney.
And it doesn't stop him for long, in any case.
“...Then, sorry for being too - compatible with you?” Sid manages to offer after a long moment. His lips quirk a little under Geno's hand, wry, when Geno shoots him a disbelieving look. Canadians.
“How compatible?” Geno grumbles, letting his hand drop with some reluctance. He can't leave it there all night, and it's apparently not going to keep Sid from talking, anyway. “You microwave water for tea. Barber.”
“Barbarian,” Sid corrects him automatically, and bizarrely, it seems to steady them both. Then again, there's nothing older and more familiar to them than fumbling with Geno's English – not even their hockey. “And shut up, it's just as good.”
“Barbarian,” Geno repeats, and receives a fractured wash of affection that does a lot to shore up his damaged optimism.
“Hey,” Sid says. When Geno meets his eyes, he tries a crooked smile. “We've got this, right?” He sounds about ten times as confident as he actually feels, but Geno will take it.
“Of course,” Geno dismisses. It's the only thing he can say, even if he has no idea if it's true. Then he leans forward and wraps his hand around Sidney's wrist, and it's a little easier to actually believe. “Not so much change, maybe. Still us.”
Yesterday, they knew they would be spending almost another decade together, at least. That's still the same today. The list of people who have left their city will only keep getting longer over the years—Army, Gonch, Max, Jordy, James. It's the nature of what they do. But Sid will always be a Penguin, and so will Geno.
And Sid has always been his touchstone. He hadn't known the word for it, that time he tried to tell the media what Sid was to him, but 'best' got the idea across fairly well. Maybe it's not what he would've imagined for himself, but when he pictured his future, he always saw Sid there in some form or fashion. Maybe that's why this happened.
There are worse people he could be bonded to than one of the best people he's ever known.
Anyway, it's not like they're actually married or anything. It's more like an indefinite contract extension, Geno tells himself. Between two people.
Sid takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “Right. Still us.”
His pulse under Geno’s grip slows as he continues breathing, and Geno can’t help but be lulled by it, his heartbeat slowing to match. After a minute he's startled to recognize it as a relaxation breathing technique, and he's tempted to laugh again, this time in relief.
Sid smiles at him again, picking up on it, and this time the eye crinkles make a re-appearance, faint but real. Sid knows what to do. Sid always knows what to do, just like on the ice.
Geno tries not to think of the many ways this may have fucked up everything they've ever learned about dealing with each other.
“We'll be fine,” Sid says.
***
And miraculously, they are - at least for a while.
Soulbonds are confidential, so no one outside the medical staff and upper management knows – not even the team. At first Geno thinks that Sid will want to at least tell the French Canadians, Kuni, the core, and braces himself for the possibility.
Instead, dread sweeps over Sid at the very idea. Geno catches an inadvertent tumble of images and impressions – Flower with his eyebrow quirked inquisitively – being trapped under a spotlight and feeling paralyzed – heavy pity, and – the taste of ice cream for some reason? Most importantly, he's swamped with an overriding fear of distracting the team when they finally have a chance of pulling it together after the long stretch of injury and illness.
The jumble of upset and rejection hits Geno so hard, unexpected and visceral, that he has to sit down and drop his head into his hands to deal with the vertigo. “Okay, okay, stopstopstop,” he mutters under his breath, and isn't even sure if it's actually out loud. It doesn't matter, though, because Sid's knees hit the floor next to him a heartbeat later and he curls his fingers around the back of Geno’s neck.
“Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, pressing remorse into Geno's skin. Geno's not sure whether that's actually out loud, either.
In any case, they agree to tell the team—all of them—after the season is over. Geno has his doubts about Sid's ability to keep it quiet for that long, anyway. Flower and Duper have noses like bloodhounds for secrets, Sid loses his ability to poker face when he's drunk, and the entire locker room in general is very attuned to changes in their captain's equilibrium. Okay, yes, and changes in Geno's too.
They follow the recommended bonding procedures vigilantly in the next few days, even staying home from practices, and things do seem to calm somewhat. Geno sleeps in the guest room closest to Sid's master, and they shuffle the beds so they're only separated by a wall. Although for a while they keep jolting each other awake with nonsensical static just before falling asleep, and there are some very strange merged dreams, it definitely helps to let the flow back and forth between them settle at a constant level.
They practice visualizing a tight rope, and keeping their balance even if it jumps and sways - not so different from visualizing plays, really. They touch constantly, brushing arms and shoulders when passing in the hallway or thighs pressing together on the couch when they're watching TV. Each touch is a relief, any sharp edges between them soothed and made safe.
There are admittedly hiccups.
Geno stubs his toe on the stupid raised threshold to Sid's kitchen and Sid yelps and drops his pan of hot lasagna, so of course they spend most of a day on Sid's rink testing and improving their tolerance for each others' pain. Some of their methods are probably ill-advised, but Sid's screwed-up face when he raises the needle to prick the sensitive underside of his arm is pretty funny.
The chess isn't a good idea at all – they're so competitive that even before the bond, the matches Geno persuaded Sid into sometimes ended in shouting. Now when Geno takes Sid's queen the wild annoyance ping-pongs between them until they both end up knocking pieces off the board.
Taylor calls one day, and Sid just glancing at her name on his caller ID gets Geno a riot of imagery and emotions, a rapidly spinning rolodex of memories, a powerful happiness shaded with apprehension. The intimacy of it leaves Geno aching and a little winded, feeling like more of a voyeur than he does even when sharing Sid's dreams, and Sidney freezes just as he’s raising the phone to his ear.
“I can...call her back?” Sid says hesitantly, looking at Geno in concern. He's still cradling his phone with his thumb poised, and Geno can feel how much effort it’s taking him not to answer.
“No, no,” Geno insists, rubbing at his chest a little to soothe the throbbing. “Terrible brother, you talk to your sister. I'm just go outside.” He picks up his own phone as he goes, because, well. It has been a while since he called his mother.
With work, though, things start to come under control. The bond settles into a surprisingly unobtrusive hum of awareness of Sid, his proximity, flickers of his emotions, and less random outbursts of thoughts and memories. It sometimes feels a little uncomfortably shallow to Geno, like sticking his foot out expecting to step down another stair and finding out he’s already hit the bottom, or like skates that are a size too small – but Geno clings to the balance of it, relieved for the semblance of normalcy.
When Boston rolls around, Dr. Vyas reluctantly clears them. The rink gives them a focus and clarity that Geno only wishes would stay with them away from it, clean passes and wordless, instinctive communication that has nothing to do with the bond. Everything seems simple on the ice.
At times Geno still feels like he’s straining restlessly toward Sid, some tension in him that wants to crest and break, but it usually subsides back to a manageable thrum once he finagles some sort of physical contact. At first he tries to be stealthy about it in public, brushing their feet together nonchalantly at lunch, wrapping around Sid in a mock-celly, or disguising it as a grope at Sid's ticklish ribcage to make him yelp.
Then there's a day that Sid politely cuts off his media questions, unceremoniously pulls Geno into a supply closet, and leans into Geno's side aggressively for almost five minutes, jaw tight and eyes fixed on a bottle of Windex. Geno eyes Sid for an impossibly fond moment, then settles in and just talks at him. He complains about Jen's pregnant reign of terror over his media obligations, chirps Brandon's new haircut, updates Sid on the plots of his latest Russian soaps. Eventually the aggravation unwinds from Sid's shoulders and he stops broadcasting the pulsing urge to wring a certain beat reporter's neck.
Geno gets a lot less self-conscious about stealing touches after that. Sid never minds, anyway.
He catches Tanger looking at him narrowly a few times, because God forbid Tanger miss anything, but it's Flower who leans over and mutters something in Sid's ear one day before practice, eyes flicking to Geno briefly. Sid goes a little red and the bond twangs with discordant embarrassment before he murmurs back softly.
Geno tenses, almost on his feet to run interference before he even realizes, but Sid catches his gaze from across the room and he runs into a feeling of negation like walking face-first into a padded wall. Geno huffs a little, sinking back onto the bench, and the sensation tinges a little with apology. Geno just shakes his head briefly to dismiss it, though he wants to roll his eyes. He gets it. The captain can handle himself.
He keeps an eye on them anyway, obviously, ready to go over at a wave of upset and be distracting whether Sid likes it or not. It doesn’t seem necessary, though - discomfort stirs in Sid’s stomach when Flower looks at Geno again speculatively, but Flower ends up just slinging an arm around Sid’s shoulders and reeling off something in French. Whatever it is makes Sid lean into him a little even as he wrinkles his nose and pretends to shrug him off.
"Flower find out about bond?" Geno mutters under his breath later, looping around to Sid on the ice. He eyes Flower suspiciously down at the other end of the rink, but he seems fully absorbed in his little bobbing goalie stretches.
"No," Sid says. "No, that was about something else. Nothing important." All that’s coming through the bond is a little muted self-consciousness, and his face is smooth, but Geno learned how to read Sid’s face before he learned English, and he’s not really convinced. He’s on the verge of calling Sid out on it when Sid flicks bright, focused eyes at him and transitions seamlessly into dissecting the Blues' PK, and Geno is sucked into debating zone entries before he knows it.
He feels less in the way of French Canadian eyes on him after that, in any case, so maybe it really wasn't anything.
Sid seems to have dedicated his considerable mental focus to relegate the bond to background noise. He's not shy about touching Geno more in passing, or about hanging around closer in general. If he thoughtlessly takes advantage of being able to slip more meaning across in a supposedly silent look or grin than he ever could before, well – they've never been able to rely entirely on words anyway.
Mostly, though, he seems determined to treat it – not clinically, it's far too warm and close for that. More as a new routine that he shares with Geno, like bumping souls regularly is the same as bumping fists before a game.
And maybe they would have been fine like that. Maybe that's exactly what it's supposed to be. Their fist bump is pretty much the opposite of meaningless, after all.
Except Geno keeps getting the nagging feeling that something is missing. He can't quite put a finger on it, but it only grows as time goes on. There’s the frisson of wrongness whenever Sid pulls away from a stabilizing touch, ducks out from under Geno’s arm to chat with someone else. There’s the intermittent, ticklish feeling that drives Geno crazy for a week before he realizes it’s Sid’s sweaty curls falling onto his own forehead, and then after that there’s the preoccupation with wanting to brush them back. There’s waking up from his pregame nap disoriented, his arm outstretched like he's reaching for something, and knowing Sid has jerked awake in his hotel room down the hall at the exact same time.
Geno tries not to think about it. Change as little as possible, right?
But more and more, he feels like he's in one of those Magic Eye illusion books that Gonch's daughters used to have – squinting at a jumble of random colors just the right way and having an entire invisible picture suddenly jump out at him.
During practice Geno feels a foreign tickle of thirst and thoughtlessly reaches behind the bench to grab Sid's Gatorade – then he hesitates, tripping not for the first time over exactly how natural it feels. Sid is just there in his mind, a comfortable certainty, like the weight of a no-look pass settling on his tape – or the warmth of someone sharing his bed.
Geno's brain freezes in a long mental hiccup. Meanwhile, his hand ignores him and finishes tossing the bottle to Sid, and his face still grins back automatically when Sid smiles at him in thanks. Geno watches Sid a little too closely, gaze fixed, as he knocks back his drink, follows the bob of his throat as he swallows.
So. Maybe things have changed a little more than he expected.
It doesn't help that he grew up hearing about soulbonds in bedtime stories and pop culture alike. Sadko and the Sea King's daughter, Ivan and the Firebird, romance novels, daytime soaps. In every story, there's at least two things that soulbonds definitely aren't: mundane and platonic.
So. What if theirs isn't, either?
It's crazy. It's the opposite of what he should be thinking when they've reached a kind of equilibrium.
He still can't get it out of his head.
By the time they go out in New York after an exhilarating close win, no one on the team blinks an eye when Geno slings an arm over Sid's shoulders, even when he leans on him heavily for half the night. Sid tolerates his weight mostly without effort, though not without complaint.
Sid slumps further the more beers he accumulates, too, lessening his value as an armrest. When he lolls his head into Geno's neck later, pink-cheeked and giggly, something tightens in Geno's stomach.
“Fuzzy,” he says, brushing his fingers through the curls at Sid's temple. “All fuzzy up here, Sid, like you drink vodka, not shitty American beer. How you weigh so much and still so lightweight?” There's a fizzy feeling through the bond, like carbonation.
Sid blinks up at him, syrup slow.
“Did you just call me fat?” he enunciates clearly. Sid may start breaking into laughter every two seconds when he gets smashed, may start skipping essential words without noticing, but he almost never slurs. It's a talent Geno envies. He sometimes feels like his tongue is too big for his mouth, even when he's not buzzed like he is now.
Geno hums noncommittally, then pokes his tongue between his teeth and grins.
“Rude,” Sid sighs. He's not even bothering to hide his smile – or maybe he's not able to. “You're the worst. Don't know why I like you.” He waves an arm imperiously. “Bond canceled.”
Geno snorts. They can joke about it now, huh? After a second he remembers to glance around and see if any nearby teammates were within range to overhear. Tanger and Perry are a little further down the bar, but they seem to be deep in discussion about something or other – Geno can't tell. The lilting sounds French, at least.
It seems safe enough to turn back to Sid, raising an eyebrow. “Canceled?” He pretends to think about for a minute, then says decisively, “Let's see.”
He lifts his free hand a little, and concentrates on the intention to reach out and squish Sid's cheeks until his lips purse like a fish. It's going to happen. He can picture it clearly. It's hilarious.
He hasn't even started to reach yet when some part of the thought must filter through, because Sid abruptly squawks and twists his face away. Geno bursts out laughing.
“Nope,” he manages through his chuckles. “Still there.”
“Ugh,” Sid says distinctly. His grumpy face just makes Geno laugh harder.
“Stuck with me,” he sighs eventually, tugging Sid closer.
“Well,” Sid says in annoyance, then doesn't continue, like that was a complete train of thought. Instead he just closes his eyes and drops his head back onto Geno's shoulder, like it's too heavy to hold up by himself anymore, and he knows Geno can support it. He seems to drift for a little while, and after a minute Geno almost doesn't hear him murmur, “Well. Okay.”
Geno's arm tightens around Sid, and he doesn't – actually want to let go.
He doesn't want to let go, and in that moment, he holds on too tight.
Geno pulls on the bond unconsciously, wanting more, wanting Sid closer even than pressed up against his side – but Sid doesn't move. Instead his brow furrows in confusion as the fizziness of the bond intensifies to a sharp fluttering, then crackling. Geno only just realizes he's yanked things off balance when the bond spins out of control in a dizzying, uneven swoop – again, and again, like a wildly wobbling top.
Geno makes a stunned noise at the backlash, his arm going slack, and Sid – turns green.
“Hrk,” he says.
Geno murmurs miserable apologies as he rubs Sid's back in the restroom, but Sid is mostly too busy heaving to notice.
“What was that?” Sid manages, long enough later that practically everyone who came out with them has had time to duck in, cluck sympathetically, and get in a little chirping over Sid's embarrassing lack of tolerance. Geno almost threw a roll of toilet paper at Flower when he poked his head in a second time, but Flower yelped, “I come in peace!” and held out a can of ginger ale, so injury to their starting goaltender was narrowly avoided.
“Don't know,” Geno hedges. Sid gives him a skeptical look, and Geno shoves the ginger ale in his face to stall a little. “...Maybe bad reaction?” he offers as Sid sips.
“To the beer?” Sid says doubtfully. They've had beer before, plenty of it, and as far as they know there's no warnings on mixing alcohol and soulbonds.
Geno bites his lip, then waggles his hand back and forth. “I pull on you, little bit,” he says finally. “Not sure why, or why it go so bad.”
“Oh.” For once Geno can't read the neutral tone to Sid's voice, and he's not getting anything from the bond but a lingering queasiness. Sid fiddles with his ginger ale a bit. “Maybe...don't do that again, then?” he says slowly. The corner of his mouth gives a weak twitch upward. “Doesn't seem like it worked out very well.”
Something in Geno flinches, but he can't exactly argue with that. All he can do is reach out and flush the toilet firmly. “Yes. Bad idea.”
“Right,” Sid says, and he almost seems to be speaking to himself.
Geno will just have to keep better control of his impulses. If the bond somersaulted at a simple pull for more from Sid, then it probably wasn't meant to be that way to begin with, right? So it's pointless to think about.
But the thing is. The thing is, Geno tries, but he can't really stop noticing Sid, can't stop wanting more, now that he's started. It's like trying to stuff the genie back in the bottle. His attention just - snags, on the most innocuous things. Sid’s hands, as he’s taping up his stick. The reflection in his eyes from the bright lights on ice. The ridiculous way he tips his head back as he laughs.
He finds Sid sitting in the empty stands at Consol one morning, just gazing up at the rafters. He’s looking at the banners, the 66 and the 21, but there’s a brief moment of double vision through the bond and Geno sees the 87 and 71 hanging there beside them in Sid’s imagination. Geno’s chest goes so tight he can barely breathe, but he must make some kind of noise from the aisle because Sid glances at him, smiling a little in embarrassment at his own passing fantasy.
“I know, I’m getting ahead of myself,” Sid says, laughing softly. “Florida tonight first, eh?”
“Yes,” Geno says roughly. He sits next to Sid, and presses their legs together. “Still lots more playing to do. But some day…” He glances up again, and hears Sid hum in agreement.
So, it’s not going away. And he can’t keep his eye from catching on Sid.
And eventually, he figures out that Sid can tell.
Sidney comes out of the showers one day both tired and energized after a hard practice. Geno can feel the loose warmth in his muscles overlapping with Geno's own, but Sid's mind is sharp and focused as he turns to his stall, still echoing with the sound of skate blades shredding the ice.
Geno can't help but love the bond when he's like that. It's such a satisfying sensation. It makes him want to drag Sid back out onto the ice immediately, skate with him for hours, except.
Sid is also wet. Dripping, in fact.
Geno's light chirping at Beau trails off as his eyes are drawn to a particular droplet, tracing from Sid's wet curls down the sinuous curves of muscle in his back. He watches red creep up the back of Sid's neck without registering what he's seeing, until he licks his lips and feels an immediate flare of heat that definitely doesn't belong to him. His gaze jerks up – but only meets tensed shoulders instead of Sid's eyes.
Sid doesn't turn around, but the bond spills over with a startlingly clear sensory cacophony replaying the drills they'd just been running in practice. It's like getting his bell rung, wires scrambling so Geno can't remember that he's not still wearing skates and wheezing from wind sprints. He doubles over and pants for breath, while across the room Sid staggers and catches himself one-handed against the wall.
The room rings with sudden alarm and concern. It takes five minutes of recovery and another forty more of being bundled off to the trainers to be poked and prodded at for dehydration or other mysterious maladies before they’re declared fine and Geno can corner Sid alone.
“What was that, Sid?” he asks, pulling up in the parking lot and crossing his arms until Sid turns and looks up at him reluctantly.
“I don't know,” Sid says, because they're apparently rehashing their conversation in New York, roles reversed. Geno can't help an annoyed noise, and Sidney holds up a placating hand. “Honestly,” he insists. “I was just trying to run through the drills again, and I must have – pushed too hard. I'm sorry.”
Geno frowns. “Why push drill at me? I just do them, too, you know, don't need remind,” he says pointedly.
Sid stays quiet for a little too long. Geno can be patient when he has to be, though, and waits without giving him an out. Sid always cracks at expectant silence.
“I guess I was trying to stay focused,” Sid says finally, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m just - trying to make sure this works.” He sounds tired, and Geno deflates a little.
There's still a faint high-pitched sound running through the bond, like the ringing in your head when it's too quiet and you're too alone.
They're not alone, though, neither of them, and that's the whole point.
“Okay,” Geno says. He has to uncross his arms, reach out and shake Sid a little when it doesn't look like Sid believes him. “Me too, you know? Most important thing.”
Sid's mouth crooks a little. “Yeah, I know.”
“Good.” Geno shakes Sid again gently for emphasis. “Can stop feeling all 'sorry' now, taste like maple syrup. Gross.”
That gets him a punch in the arm and a reluctant grin. “Fuck off. I don't even know what your 'sorry' tastes like.”
“Good to be me,” Geno agrees. “Too great, never do anything need sorry for. You're lucky guy, get such a catch.”
“Yeah G, you're the best,” Sid says, and maybe it’s meant to be wry, but all Geno can focus on are the smiling creases at the corner of Sid's eyes.
***
They both take refuge in routine a little bit after that. They go on a winning streak, and that's when Sid is most rigid in his habits. After losses he sometimes changes things up, trying to figure out what stopped working, or adopting some other quirk that he thinks might be the missing piece. People used to sneer at that sometimes, thinking he was trying to rely on superstitious luck to make his success, but they never thought that for long. Sid's ridiculous drive and work ethic dwarf his superstitions into insignificance.
In the end, it's routine getting nuked to hell that brings things to a head.
Coming up against the Kings back-to-back after the Ducks during an exhausting slog through the West isn't the greatest situation given the team's energy level, but the coaches are doing a decent job keeping everyone focused and on point.
Geno and Sid tap gloves and helmets in the tunnel, and as always the rhythm of it settles rightness into Geno's bones. The strength of that rightness twines with the rising thrum of noise in the building—the deep bass that's all he can hear of LA's music, the thunder of the waiting crowd cheering for their opposition—and it all sharpens to an anticipatory edge that curves Geno's mouth in a vicious grin.
They're going to stomp the defending champions in their own house.
Geno goes to hold Sid's eyes, eager to share the sensation, and finds Sid already staring back, intent and a little wild—and everything suddenly spikes, everything, the flickering light in the dark tunnel, the buzzing in his ears, the rasp of their breath.
In the chaos there's a sharp ache and one clear image—Geno, partially lit by the strobing lights and grinning at Sid like a madman. It catches Geno under the ribs and knocks the wind right out of him.
Sid lets out a punched breath at the same time, and it's not because Geno has abruptly fisted a hand in Sid's sweater and hauled him close, like he needs a grip on something solid to keep from falling over some kind of edge. Sid's hands leap up to brace himself and he grips Geno's arms just as tightly.
Us, Sid's soul is shouting, exultant. It's less an actual word than a resonance of every moment they've lived that echoes this one, right here and now. It's like the first time the bond opened, like falling into the sky, and Geno never wants to come down. We can do anything.
Geno draws a sharp breath and leans down without thinking, slides his nose against Sidney's until their lips are barely brushing. It's not a kiss – it can't conceivably be called a kiss – their mouths are both slightly open and they're just breathing each other in. Shaking a little. Breathing.
Then there's the siren wail welcoming in the home team—and Sid jolts like he's been shocked and jerks away, darting a panicked look at the rest of the team ahead of them. Geno crashes and goes abruptly numb, like he's experienced a fresh burn that's yet to start stinging. He almost can't believe that no one is looking back at them, but it must have only been a few seconds. It felt like an eternity.
“That can’t happen again,” Sid says hoarsely. He looks destroyed.
And he's right about that much.
They lose 5-1.
***
When Sid opens the door of his hotel room Geno holds up his peace-offering pizza grimly, like a riot shield.
He would give almost anything to be doing this back in Pittsburgh, and maybe not after a disastrous loss when Geno himself would rather be brooding darkly on his own. But they've still got the Sharks in less than two days.
Sid looks at him like the pizza box might be rigged to explode. They both wait stubbornly.
“Going to let me in, Sid?” Geno asks finally. He’s not above twisting his lower lip out a little.
Sid blows out a breath, and lets him in.
“Think maybe we should talk,” Geno says, toeing his shoes off and setting the pizza on the nearest chair like the thin excuse it is.
“Or we could...not do that,” Sid says persuasively, because Canadians are repressed. He knows perfectly well that they have to, and Geno can already feel his resignation. And taste it, actually—resignation apparently comes with an aftertaste of black licorice. Soulbonds are so bizarre sometimes. “We could go over game tape instead.”
Geno huffs.
“I think it might help, to get things off chest,” he tries again, choosing his words carefully. At first Sid’s eyes dart away and his brows furrow – then after a moment his face clears in surprised recognition.
Geno knows it’s a cheap shot, quoting Sid’s own careful olive branch last year when he approached Geno, weeks after Sochi, but well. It had worked on Geno. He'd unwound to Sid about the entire Olympic disaster slowly, first a trickle then a torrent of words, sometimes tripping into Russian when English got in his way. All the while Sid had just listened with steady sympathy and understanding.
Looking back, Geno suspects that was probably one of the seeds of the bond, if such a thing can even be narrowed down.
“You think talking will help stabilize things again?” Sid asks uneasily, but he's turned a little bit toward Geno and stopped pulling away from him in the bond, at least.
“Maybe,” Geno says. He thinks about it for a second, about the disjointed mess of a game they just played, the frustration and the guilt when the hole they were in kept deepening and they just couldn't connect. Thinks about the distracting flush of high fury in Sid's cheeks at a missed call that lead to a stupid slash, and the unbalance that's been haunting their steps. Then he admits, “That or maybe kiss.”
Sid splutters for a full ten seconds.
Geno nods. “Yeah, is what I'm think too. Talk first.”
“You – what – ” Sid stammers, then rallies and accuses, “It's not even a romantic bond!”
“No?” Geno knew this was going to be hard, but hearing Sid say that out loud, his face feels frozen.
“No!” Sid tugs at his hair a little. Then he catches the look on Geno’s face and he freezes, too. “...I mean. It’s not, right?”
“Could be,” Geno says with difficulty. The frustration of the game worsens everything that's been building over the past weeks, and he barely keeps himself from catching Sid's hands, pressing him against the wall, and showing him exactly how not-romantic it could be. Sidney's eyes widen, so some of that definitely leaked through. He doesn't step back, though, which Geno is taking as a good sign. Conflict is winding Sid taut as a bow, but there's also a fluttering warmth diffusing straight to Geno's stomach, and it's echoed in the slow flush spreading up Sid's neck and across his cheeks. “Sid, think it could be.”
“I – ” Sid falters, then grimaces in frustration. “It's not that I don't – ” He stops again, and takes a slow breath, in and out, to bring himself back to even keel. Starts over. “No, okay, wait. It doesn't work, the bond flips out when it's pushed too far, we've seen that already.”
That's probably important, but unfortunately for Sid, Geno's brain is still stuck back on 'it's not that I don't.'
“Sid,” he says, unable to keep a lid on his rising hope.
Sidney pulls up a little short, caught and looking a bit hunted – then sets his jaw. “Geno, it doesn't matter. We were doing fine, we had this under control. Changing things up is what's throwing us off balance.”
“Don't know that just from fuck up few times,” Geno argues. His arms ache from not holding Sid. “Not push from both sides yet. Or pull. Not try lots of things. We have to work at first balance - new one, can't even try?”
"Not if it's going to do to the team what it did tonight," Sid says harshly, and Geno flinches.
"How fix then?" he demands, English fracturing a little with frustration. "Not go away! Ignore? Put in box, sit on, push down until - blow up again?"
“...I don't know,” Sid says unevenly, looking away. “That's obviously - that's obviously not working so far. Maybe we can talk to Dr. Vyas, be sure that this isn't going to—”
“Idiots fall in love long time before doctor, Sid,” Geno interrupts. He says it as gently as he's capable of right now, but Sidney still reacts like he's been struck, rocking back with wide eyes. “If you think we need, then okay, but I'm not think we do. Not if you want, and I want.”
Sid just looks at him for suspended moments. His gaze doesn't waver, just pierces into Geno like he's trying to look though him without touching the tightly wound bond.
Geno is prepared to wait. Sid never makes decisions lightly, and so much depends on this one that Geno wouldn't blame him for taking all night.
But he doesn't.
Sidney hesitates, then takes a deep breath and holds out his hand. Geno's heart leaps into his throat, but he just reaches out and threads their fingers together, slower than he has to so he can linger over the slide into place. Sid exhales carefully, and it's like that first night, heartbeats syncing together as they dealt with the upheaval of so much they thought they knew. The wavering in the bond slowly goes smooth, ripples in water fading to still glass.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this,” Sid admits, and Geno feels a helpless surge of affection. Of course not knowing where the goalposts are has Sid adrift and scrambling. Sidney always knows what to do, always has the plan – or at least that's the expectation, and sometimes even he inadvertently buys his own press.
That's okay. Geno has his back in this, too.
“Same as always,” he says. “Win, be good teammates, be there for each other.” He lifts a hand and rests the backs of his fingers along Sid's jaw, running the pad of his thumb lightly over Sid's lower lip while Sid is still too surprised to protest, and adds, “Probably more kiss. We figure it out. Not much different.”
“...That's a little bit different,” Sid says, managing a dry tone even as his flush deepens.
“Bad different?” Geno wants to know.
Sid opens his mouth and then it just hangs there, working a little. The touch is steadying their bond, but that just means it's even easier for Geno to feel the cold sting of anxiety in Sid's stomach. Geno steps even closer, like by leaning over Sid he can block out fear, doubt, the entire rest of the world.
“What if it doesn't work,” Sid mutters, almost to himself.
Geno trails his hands down Sidney's sides, feels the expansion of his breathing. “We make work, Sid,” he murmurs. “Is what we do.”
Sid closes his eyes, swaying a little. When he speaks again, his voice sounds far away, a little strained. “Earlier. When we were in the tunnel. For a second, I thought – this is exactly what I'm for. This is who I'm for.” He opens his eyes again, and they're troubled. “I'm not for anyone, Geno.”
That's not quite what he really means, but Geno already knows. There's a jumble of looming camera lenses and microphones, a room – stadium – city – nation of people watching in ardent expectation, a weight that sometimes leaves Sid unable to stretch his lungs in a full breath. It’s a weight that he's nonetheless glad to bear. That he won't give up or let down, not for anything.
It's not that Sid isn't for anyone. It's that sometimes he thinks he has to be for everyone. And anything that gets in the way of that, in the grand scheme of things, can't be the right thing to do.
Geno knows the weight of those thoughts, and not just through images in the bond. It's why he talked to Sid about Sochi. It's why Sid is right and wrong at the same time.
“I know.” Geno strokes his thumbs again. “You little bit for team, little bit for fans, little bit for Canada.” Sid's shoulders unwind a bit with each word, so of course Geno adds, “But still for me.” Sid starts to tense, but Geno isn't done. “Just like I’m for you.” There's a suspended feeling in Geno's chest, like he's in freefall. “Little bit for team, little bit for fans, little bit for Russia.” He shifts, runs his hands up Sid's broad back. “But still for you.”
Sid’s eyes are very dark. They hold Geno’s gaze steadily for a long moment, then flick down to his mouth. There's a strange kind of pressure on the bond – like the weight of water pushing on a dam. Then, ever so slowly, Sid breathes out, and lets go – face opening up like every camera that’s ever been pointed at him is turning off, even the ones just in his own head.
Geno makes a small, involuntary noise, and leans down—but Sid twists his face away at the last moment. Geno can’t stop the hot stab of rejection from streaking over the bond, but he doesn’t even have time to pull back before Sid drops his head to rest on Geno’s shoulder, breath breaking unevenly on Geno’s collarbone.
And that's—that's good too, but it's nothing compared to the feeling of Sid deliberately reaching for him through the bond. Not sending a feeling or an image or leaking a memory, but reaching like he's trying to pass a spark between their chests, like the steady, inescapable pull of gravity on Geno's soul.
Geno stops breathing for a moment, feeling weightless—then he groans and reaches back, trying to fall into Sid and pull him closer at the same time.
Nothing breaks, spikes, or falters. Everything just expands, until Geno can barely recognize the edges where he ends and Sid begins.
They stand, wrapped up in each other, and lose track of time.
***
Sid says something eventually, what feels like hours later, but it's muffled and unintelligible.
“Can't hear you, mumble like teenager,” Geno murmurs, and does absolutely nothing to stem his bubbling wave of warmth when Sid digs his fingers briefly into the soft part of Geno's waist.
“I said, okay,” Sid mutters, lifting his head just a little so Geno can get a slanted look at his eyes, clear and unwavering. “Let's try it.”
“ 'It'...” Geno muses, still giddy with a languorous delight. If Sid's arms and the bond weren't anchoring him he's sure he'd be floating somewhere up by the ceiling. “Так романтично. Girls fall all over you, talk like that. I'm maybe swoon.” He'd keep going, the injured pout Sid is cultivating is too tempting, but he doesn't get the chance.
“I'll give you romantic,” Sid grumbles, and pulls Geno down into a kiss while he's still laughing.