Chapter Text
Jacket is, meticulously, sorting his tapes. Greetings: English; German; French; Italian; Spanish… Warnings: English; German; French; Italian; Spanish… Calls: English; German; Fr-
He feels someone watching him.
He looks over his shoulder. Sokol.
Sokol is quick to glare at him when he has been discovered to be staring. He stops looking, turns away.
Turns those blue eyes away from Jacket. Those pretty blue eyes…
Wait. What? No.
Jacket doesn't think about Sokol like that. He doesn't.
And yet he continues watching him, as the Russian goes back to his hockey practice. Watches how his tailored suit hugs his body, moves with him. Notices where his hair curls a bit at the nape of his neck, where he’s let it get slightly longer than his normal cut. Sharp jawline. Attractive cheekbones. Those fucking eyes .
Jacket clenches his jaw and swiftly turns back around, glaring at his table and the tapes. Then he feels bad. His tapes don't deserve that. The glare shifts into a frown, and he lets out a small huff. He balls his hands into fists and knocks on the table a couple times, frustrated. He can't focus now, Sokol fucked up his organization. Made him lose his rhythm. Stupid fucking pretty boys… Pretty boy. A pretty boy.
No. Stop. What the fuck.
A frustrated noise rumbles in Jacket’s throat as he lowers his head and presses his hands to his forehead. He sighs, heavily, and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.
He shouldn't be so angry but Sokol fucked up his sorting and is obnoxiously pretty and it’s just not fair .
Shit. He’s doing it again. Thinking he’s pretty. What the hell is up with him today.
Jacket grumbles and rubs his face before standing up, adjusting his letterman. He takes a final look at his not fully sorted tapes before walking off down the hall to Wolf’s workshop, taking extra care to not look at Sokol while he does so.