Chapter Text
From the moment Kyrie Irving was drafted to the Cavs, Lebron knew he was one to watch. Lebron was younger then, of course, but he liked to think that he had an eye for talent even back then.
He’d seen it in himself, he’d seen it in Steph, and now he was seeing it in Kyrie, this scrawny, undersized rookie who was practically bursting to the seams with potential.
That’s how it had all started.
Upon joining the team, Kyrie had seemed equally drawn to Lebron, following him around during drills and games and post game celebrations like a puppy, all starry eyed and endearing.
It hadn’t been anything entirely new to Lebron at the time.
He was already a star then, after all, one that drew millions into his orbit, one that radiated life and hope and victory for everyone he made contact with.
But Kyrie had been more than a fan or a follower, more than a moth drawn to flame.
He’d been more like a match yearning for a spark, aching to unlock the unlimited potential burning within him.
And Lebron was a flame.
They’d had their honeymoon period, just like any team good enough to reach those ridiculous levels of success.
Kyrie had been adjusting well. Although just a rookie, he was hell to guard, and he sunk daggers and threes so easily it was like breathing. Just something that happened, something you could count on.
Lebron would lie in bed and dream about what was to come–rings and parades for his city, the O’Brien trophy high above his head and Kyrie by his side.
Lebron had seen the signs.
Kyrie had tried to be subtle, but he was only a rookie, and rookies were young and a little dumb. In general, they were not good at hiding things.
Kyrie was definitely not your average rookie, but Lebron had dealt with a lot of exceptional young players. Plus, he had been one himself. That meant that he was familiar with essentially everything a rookie could experience, from the crippling imposter syndrome to the exhilarating feel of a championship run.
He also knew the difference between hero worship and puppy love, which tended to blur together. Kyrie was beginning to fall towards the latter.
Lebron could see it in the way Kyrie’s body seemed to subconsciously turn to face Lebron’s as though he were a flower and Lebron was the sun, gravitating towards his warmth no matter how many other people were in the room. The way Kyrie practically shone when he was with Lebron, the way he would blush when Lebron brushed past him and would steal glances in the showers whenever he thought no one would notice.
It was innocent and more than a little flattering and Lebron knew that he should stop it before it got out of control, before someone got hurt, but he didn’t.
Now, he wondered if things would’ve turned out different if he had.
If Kyrie would’ve stayed.
After a few weeks of ignoring the truth, Lebron invited Kyrie out to dinner. You played so well tonight, he’d said. Let me spoil you. You deserve it, kid.
Trap set, he’d smiled and ruffled Kyrie’s hair. Walked away with a pit in his gut, the kind he knew would swallow him whole.
It’s just dinner, he told himself. But it wasn’t.
Lebron took Kyrie to an expensive restaurant with a name that neither of them could pronounce. All that mattered was that the food seemed fancy enough and Lebron could reserve a private room just for the two of them, one where there’d be no one to listen or judge or to see who Lebron really was.
He wondered if cologne could mask the guilt that was seeping through his pores.
Kyrie showed up in a suit that was a few sizes too big for him, looking more nervous than Lebron had ever seen him.
When he saw Lebron, he flushed.
“Damn. Sorry. Man, I feel like I underdressed.”
Lebron shook his head and forced a relaxed smile. “Nah, you look great. ‘Sides, you don’t have to dress up for me anyway.”
“Ok…”
“C’mon. Let’s eat.”
Kyrie was looking down at the menu, brow slightly furrowed. There was a small frown on his face, and it terrified Lebron.
It wasn’t because he was scared Kyrie wasn’t having a good time or because anything about Kyrie was remotely terrifying, but because Lebron thought that he was adorable. And that scared him.
“You can order whatever you want, y’know?” Lebron said. “I got more money than I know what to do with.” It was the least he could do.
“Thanks, Bron,” Kyrie said. “You don’t have to.”
“It’s my pleasure, Ky. Gotta make sure the best point guard in the world gets the best of the best.”
Kyrie flushed and began to gently fan himself with the menu.
“Man, I am NOT gonna last if you keep that up.”
“You’re gonna get a lot more of that, and not just from me,” Lebron teased. “Mr. Rookie of the Year.”
“Fuck, Bron!” Kyrie said. “Could you stop buttering me up and give me a minute to breathe? I ain’t on the menu!”
Lebron shrugged. “It’s just the truth,” he said.
“We both know damn well that it’s more than that,” Kyrie said, but he was smiling.
“You know what you want yet?” Lebron asked.
Kyrie looked a bit embarrassed. He was squinting at the menu.
“Um, to be honest, I don't know what half of this stuff is.”
Lebron was embarrassed by how much he liked the thought of introducing Kyrie to new things.
“That’s okay,” he said, trying to play it cool. “Want me to order for you?”
“Mhm.”
“I’ll get us both steaks,” Lebron said. “You need to get some more meat on your bones.”
“You are what you eat, huh,” Kyrie mumbled to himself.
Lebron forced himself to stare at the menu and memorize it backwards. I can’t do this, he thought.
“Do you drink?” Lebron asked.
“Huh? Oh, sure.”
Lebron considered Kyrie for a moment.
Is he even old enough to drink? Fuck, I forgot.
Whatever. One glass of wine never hurt anyone.
It’s not like I’m taking him out clubbing, Lebron reasoned to himself.
Besides, he had other sins to worry about, sins that made a single glass of wine look like the blood of Christ.
Kyrie giggled, oblivious to Lebron’s internal conflict. “Wait a minute, you tryna wine and dine me or something?”
Lebron froze. He felt like he was having a heart attack.
Or a stroke.
Or an aneurysm, or whatever horrible medical crisis people like him deserved to have when they got figured out.
Fuck, he thought. Fuck. All of a sudden, Lebron felt very, very stupid. Sure, Kyrie was a rookie. Sure, there had been signs that it (both the liking and the stupidity) was mutual. But that didn’t mean that Lebron had to make the first move and fuck it all up. He’d had the upper hand, after all.
Again, no matter how talented, Ky was just a rookie, and Lebron James was Lebron James. He could’ve taken it slow, damn it. Left just enough distance so it would be easy to convince Kyrie it was all in his head if things went south.
But no, he just had to—
“Bron?” Kyrie was looking up at Lebron, the little furrow in his brow from before deepening. “Um. Forget it. I was just joking, I d-didn’t mean—”
“Haha. That was a good one, kid,” Lebron replied.
“You sure?” There were still flashes of panic flitting through Kyrie’s eyes, and he was shaking slightly, squirming a little in his seat.
Lebron wondered if Kyrie was that scared of offending him or if the look on his face (Lebron himself) had scared him.
Either way, good.
“Yup,” Lebron said. “It’s good. We’re good.”
Kyrie didn’t look that convinced, but he nodded anyway.
“Food should be here in a bit,” Lebron said. He decided that he’d wait a while before taking Kyrie out to eat again, no matter how cute it was to see him tolerate feeling uncomfortable and out of place for Lebron’s sake.
It was too risky.
Thankfully, the food came without much fuss, despite the general pretentious air of the restaurant.
The waiter didn’t even glance at the two of them, just placed the steaks down and poured them each a glass of wine.
Lebron took a sip of wine and then began digging into the steak.
Honestly, he could tell when it was bad, but he couldn’t really tell the difference in quality between one nice slab of meat and another.
Hmm, that made him think about—
“How’s the steak, Ky?”
Lebron looked up to find that Kyrie seemed to be having a hard time cutting his steak. His hands were still trembling, and he wasn’t really applying much force to begin with. He didn’t seem hungry.
Now that Lebron had his food and had calmed down a bit, he no longer got any joy out of Kyrie’s discomfort.
“It's good I gue—”
“C’mere, Ky,” Lebron said. “Bring your plate.”
Kyrie cocked his head, confused, but got up. He stood in front of Lebron’s chair holding the plate.
“Um, what do I—”
“Sit,” Lebron said. There were only two chairs in the room, one of which Kyrie had just gotten up from.
Kyrie just stared at Lebron, looking even more confused.
“I don’t understand. Are we gonna switch seats, or—”
“Sit,” Lebron repeated. He patted his lap, and realization crashed onto Kyrie like a bucket of ice-cold water.
“Um,” he said, laughing a bit nervously, “I don’t know, man. I don’t—I don’t think I’m comfortable with doing that.”
Lebron scooched to the side and raised an eyebrow. His heart was racing. “You sure? Thought I’d help you with that steak. I noticed you were struggling a bit.”
“O-oh.”
Lebron laughed, hoping to ease some of the tension. “What did you think I was asking you to do?”
“Nothing. I was just…confused, I guess.”
“That’s ok. Want me to help?”
“I’m good.”
“It’s really no trouble, I just wanna make you feel comfortable. Promise I won’t make fun of you.”
“I—” Kyrie sighed. “Um. Sure. Thanks, Bron.”
“Ok, come a bit closer,” Lebron said.
When Kyrie hesitated, Lebron smiled gently. “Ain’t gonna cut you into pieces,” he said. “I just wanna teach you how to take care of this steak, here.”
“Take ca—I know how to eat steak, Bron.”
“Then this is just an easy review for you,” Lebron replied. “C’mere.”
Kyrie huffed a bit, but he obliged. He sat on the edge of Lebron’s chair.
“You know how to hold the knife, right?” Lebron teased.
“You said you wouldn’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not! Just testing what you already know.”
“I do, it’s just—it’s been a while. I don’t eat meat that often.”
“Ah, so this is a special occasion,” Lebron said. He was grinning.
“Don’t patronize me!”
“Ok, got it. No one will be made fun of or patronized, from now on.”
“That’s how it should be,” Kyrie said, but he was laughing.
“Now that we’ve got that all cleared up, let’s focus on the task at hand.”
Lebron decided that talking Kyrie through the process would probably be…pushing it, so he simply placed his hands on Kyrie’s.
Together, they cut Kyrie’s steak for him.
When they finished, Kyrie said. “Wow. Thanks, Dad.” Almost immediately, Kyrie froze. His hands tried to jolt away from Lebron’s, knife clattering out of his grasp and onto the plate, but Lebron’s hold on him remained firm.
Kyrie was trembling.
“It’s ok, Ky,” Lebron said. He stroked Kyrie’s back over and over, until Kyrie stopped flinching.
“I’m s-so sorry, Bron,” Kyrie said. He was biting his bottom lip and looking away. Embarrassed . “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “My d-dad just—he—”
“It’s no big deal,” Lebron said, although it was. “You just slipped up a bit, that’s all.”
“But I’ve never…”
“Shh.”
Lebron gently pulled Kyrie into his lap.
He could feel it all, now. The slight hitch of breath, the way that Kyrie’s heart was beating hard like Lebron was gonna cut it out of his chest, Kyrie beneath that suit, sinking further and further.
Lebron was falling, too.
He tilted Kyrie’s chin up to face him. He took in the delicate, babyish roundness of Kyrie’s face. The darkness of his eyes, widening and consuming and drinking in everything like each moment would be his last.
Lebron smoothed out the creases in Kyrie’s forehead, wondering if he was the hunter. Or perhaps he was an artist, and Kyrie his muse. A blank slate.
“I’ve got you, baby boy.”
Kyrie didn’t react. His gaze had retreated, and it was far away, now.
After a few minutes, Kyrie got up. Lebron let him go, his hold still lingering around Kyrie’s waist.
Kyrie shuddered out of it.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” Kyrie mumbled. “Can—um—I’m gonna leave now.”
“Ok. You got a ride?”
“Y-yeah.”
Kyrie left the room slowly, legs trembling like a baby deer’s.
Lebron sat back, watching him go. He wondered how long it’d take Kyrie to fall back into the trap.
Kyrie didn’t hang around Lebron during practice anymore.
Rather than a puppy, he was a stray now, trailing after Love or Varejao or anyone but Lebron.
Kevin came up to ask Lebron about it, a casual tone smoothing the edges of his worry. “Hey, did something happen between you and Kyrie? He’s been acting a little weird lately.”
Lebron absentmindedly shot a free throw, feigning nonchalance.
Swish.
“Nah, nothing I can think of off the top of my head,” he replied, which, ok, was a blatant lie.
“Ok,” Kevin said. “Great. Then would you mind checking up on him? He really looks up to you, so he might take it better coming from you.”
“Of course,” Lebron said. “I’ll do that. No problem.”
“Thanks Bron,” Kevin said. “You’re a great leader.”
If only he knew.
It was hard getting Kyrie alone, but Lebron James was Lebron James.
He found a way.
Lebron cornered Kyrie in the lockers after practice, once everyone else had left. Kyrie was usually pretty quick getting in and out, but Coach had pulled him aside to talk about some holes in his defence and a bit of unusually sloppy finishing (Kyrie had seemed very distracted lately), so everyone else had gotten a head start.
Kyrie was still quietly tugging on his street clothes when the last of the stragglers had left.
He looks like he’s lost in his own little world, Lebron thought fondly.
He didn’t seem to notice that only he and Lebron were left.
“Yo, Ky,” Lebron said. He was leaning against his own locker like the love interest in some cheesy teenage romcom.
It was supposed to be funny. Kyrie didn’t laugh.
“Oh. Hey Bron.” Kyrie was frowning slightly.
“So, what’s been going on lately?” Lebron asked. “You seem a bit out of it.”
Kyrie’s eyes widened, and the frown deepened.
“Out of it, huh?” He mumbled, almost to himself.
“Yeah,” Lebron said. “You alright?”
Kyrie laughed quietly. It seemed like even in an empty room he still didn’t feel like making a scene.
“Am I alright?” he repeated. “C’mon, Bron. Don’t start pretending to care now.”
“I’m not pretending, Ky,” Lebron replied. “I’m genuinely concerned for you.”
“Then why the fuck did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“When we went out to dinner, you treated me like a little kid. You humiliated me.” Kyrie was looking down, an upset blush rising on his cheeks. “I feel like you’re just messing with me.”
Oh, so that’s what it was. Lebron fought back a grin.
Lebron leaned in. “You want me to be serious?”
Kyrie whispered yes.
The space between them got smaller and smaller until Kyrie finally leaned in—
Lebron placed a hand over Kyrie’s lips.
Kyrie’s eyes were wide, shining from the sliver of his face that wasn’t covered by Lebron’s hand.
He looked mortified.
After a few minutes, Lebron removed his hand.
Not yet.
Kyrie replaced it with his own trembling hand. It was adorable.
He looked like he actually had been kissed.
“I’m s-so sor—” He stammered, stumbling as he fled from the room.
After the second incident, Kyrie was back to following Lebron around, but he was trying to hide it.
Lebron found it incredibly endearing. He also found it extremely obvious.
Whenever Lebron spoke to Kyrie, Kyrie would subconsciously duck his head in his jersey as if wiping some imaginary sweat and avoid all eye contact. He also kept agreeing with whatever Lebron said.
“Your shot selection was a bit sloppy today.”
“Yeah.”
“You think the team should party instead of playing tonight?”
“Uh-huh.”
And the worst of them all: “Damn, the refs are really onto something today, aren’t they.”
“Yeah.”
Kyrie’s agreement with Lebron’s extremely polarizing statement told Lebron something needed to be done.
He pulled Kyrie aside during half time and led him to the bench.
Then Lebron began to gently knead his shoulders, drawing a surprised gasp from Kyrie.
“Hey, loosen up for me,” he said. He was whispering into Kyrie’s neck.
Kyrie ripped himself away. “Bron! Time and place, man!”
“What, you’d rather me tell you that at home?” Lebron joked.
When Kyrie didn’t reply, Lebron continued. “No, seriously dude, relax! You’re so tense.”
“Then man handle it out of me,” Kyrie mumbled.
“Care to repeat that?”
Kyrie blushed. “Uh, I think Coach wants you.”
It was half time.
“Yo! Stop acting like y’all are a couple sitting courtside and focus on the game,” Varejao said.
After the game:
It was Lebron’s birthday, and he was having the time of his life.
The Cavs (and a few other NBA players) were all crammed around Lebron’s dinner table, which was covered in birthday cake and shots.
They didn’t go to a bar because some people (Kyrie) were underaged.
Also, Lebron liked hosting. It was fun.
Everyone, Lebron included, was drinking way too much. As you were supposed to.
“Yo Ky,” Lebron said. “Get me a beer.”
“Ok,” Kyrie said. He got up immediately and went to the fridge, weaving his way through birthday presents and drunk teammates.
Brad (this is not a real person) threw his arm over Lebron’s shoulder, laughing boisterously. “Get me one of those,” he joked. “I wish that we had more rookies. They’re so cute and obedient when they’re at that stage. Ky’s adorable, he’s like a little puppy.”
Lebron laughed. “You think so? Watch this. Hey! C’mere, Ky!”
Kyrie returned with the beer, looking up at Lebron through his eyelashes. “What?”
Lebron patted his lap. “Sit,” he said.
Kyrie paled a bit, hesitating. “Um, I don’t know if—”
“Aw, come on, Ky,” Lebron said. “It’s my birthday!”
Kyrie sighed. “Fine.”
There was a long, drawn out pause.
Then, he slowly stepped closer to Lebron and then turned to sit down.
Before he could finish placing himself at the very edge of Lebron’s lap, Lebron tugged Kyrie into his chest, resting his hands around Kyrie’s waist.
Kyrie let out a high pitched squeak before immediately covering his mouth, embarrassed.
Brad began laughing like it was the funniest thing on Earth.
“Shit, this is some next-level hazing,” he said between cackles.
They had caused such a commotion that some people around them were beginning to send confused looks over at Kyrie and Lebron, wondering what the hell was going on.
Love raised an eyebrow at Kyrie. You good? He mouthed.
Kyrie just looked away.
Brad was wiping a tear from his eye. “Yo, Bron. Can you make him bark?”
Lebron laughed. “Motherfucker. You’re into some freaky shit,” he said, but his hands were already tightening around Kyrie’s waist.
Bron whispered into Kyrie’s neck.
“Bark, baby.”
Kyrie took a deep breath and tried to convince himself that none of this was real.
He began to bark.
Unfortunately for Kyrie, his public humiliation happened to occur when the energetic song Lebron’s DJ was blasting transitioned into a calmer beat, meaning that his little performance expanded well beyond its intended audience.
Everyone in the room, many of which had already been looking over in their general direction, gradually fell silent.
Kyrie stopped, but the damage was already done.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Sounded like a dog. Bron got a puppy?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“Wait, wasn’t it—?”
“I think I saw Ky—”
“Y’all, Ky’s a bitch!” Brad slurred.
“Shit. That was Kyrie?” Someone shouted back.
“Damn right!”
Almost immediately, the entire room erupted with laughter.
“Anyone get that on video? Ky better not get traded, we got blackmail now!”
“Hey! Shut the fuck up you guys,” Lebron said, but he was also laughing.
Kyrie just sat there with his head in his hands.
When he finally gathered the courage to do so, he tore Lebron’s hands away and got up, scanning the crowd for an exit.
Lebron slapped Kyrie goodnaturedly in the ass, making him stumble.
“Good boy,” he said, which was probably the worst fucking thing Lebron could’ve said.
“C’mon Bron, feed him some shots!”
“Please don’t,” Kyrie said quietly, but Lebron wasn’t listening.
He turned to look at Kyrie with an expression so uncharacteristically soft that Kyrie knew that he’d stay and do whatever Lebron asked, no matter how much he didn’t want to.
“Let loose a bit,” Lebron said.
And then, quieter, so only Kyrie could hear, “I’ll make it good for you, baby. I promise.”
He didn’t need to say any more.
Kyrie took the shot.
And the next.
And the next.
Soon, he blinked and his head was lying in Bron’s lap.
A large hand was gently stroking his head, and when Kyrie opened his eyes, it gently helped Kyrie up so he was leaning on Lebron’s shoulder, instead.
Lebron then maneuvered Kyrie so he was sitting in his lap once again, this time facing Lebron.
Kyrie beamed up at Lebron. He felt warm and fuzzy and boneless, squirming a little in Lebron’s hold.
“I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout you, Bron,” Kyrie slurred.
Lebron could tell he was trying to whisper but Kyrie was so drunk that his words were actually well above normal volume.
Lebron didn’t mind. It was cute.
“Hmm? What you been thinkin’ ‘bout, baby?”
Kyrie pouted. “You’re still teasing me,” he said.
Lebron shook his head, smiling indulgently. “No I ain’t,” he said.
He shifted Kyrie so he was leaning in closer to his chest.
“Answer the question, Ky.”
Kyrie paused for a minute, trying to remember the question, and then responded.
“You don’t even know it ‘cause I’ve tried to-to hide it for so long, but I really, reeeally, reeeeeally like you,” he said.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I thought you said I play too much,” Lebron said.
Kyrie frowned and shook his head. “Whenever you tease me it kinda feels really good, but it also makes me feel kinda dumb,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before.”
“Do you know what that means?” Lebron asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“It means I want you to be my girlfriend,” Kyrie said, index finger poking into Lebron’s chest (he was trying to point but they were already so close).
“How ‘bout you be my girlfriend?”
Kyrie considered it for a moment then responded, his brow furrowed.
“But I’m not a girl.”
“Why’d you ask me to be your girlfriend then?”
“Dunno,” Kyrie looked confused. “‘Cause I’m supposed to get a girlfriend. And I liiiiiiiiiike you.”
“Boys aren’t small and pretty like you,” Lebron said.
The tips of his fingers could touch from where they hung around Kyrie’s waist.
“Then can I be your girlfriend?” Kyrie asked. “I mean, can I be yours?”
“Thought you already were.”
Kyrie flushed. “Didn’t know you wanted me back.”
“Aw,” Lebron said. “I ain’t making you feel wanted? I’ll have to make it up to you,” he whispered.
“You promise?”
“Course.”
“Mmm…” Kyrie yawned, nuzzling into Lebron’s chest. “Not right now though. ‘m tired. Wanna sleep.”