Work Text:
"C'mon, Carts," called Richie from the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder.
"Gotta go, man," said Jeff to Quickie, who was telling him about some awesome new restaurant he found the other day.
"What?" said Quickie. "I thought you were coming to get lunch."
"Gotta walk Arnold, I promised," said Jeff, shrugging apologetically.
"Can't Richards walk his own dog?" said Quickie.
"But it's Arnold," said Jeff blankly.
"Jeff!" called Mike, frowning.
"Yeah, yeah," said Quickie, waving a hand. "Go be with your family or whatever. I'll see you later."
Jeff clapped his back and jogged to catch up with Mike, bumping his shoulder as they headed out. "Demanding, much?" he said, throwing him a grin.
"Arnie and I don't like to be kept waiting," said Mike seriously. "What did Quickie want?"
"Lunch," said Jeff. "Some awesome new Mexican place. We should check it out sometime."
"Sure," said Mike easily.
Later, Jeff watched Mike throwing a bit of driftwood for Arnie to fetch and didn't even try to hide the stupid smile stretching his face so wide it ached a little. The sun was so bright here; he was squinting even behind his sunglasses and cap, sweat itching at his hairline, the nape of his neck, and sand sticking to his legs. It was pretty much perfect.
He'd been in LA nearly seven months now, and he was still living at Richie's place. Richie hadn't said anything about him leaving and Jeff didn't bring it up. He liked their routine: eating breakfast with their backs against the kitchen counter, sleepy-silent, shoulders bumping; driving to the rink together; coming back home to take Arnold for walks on the beach; trading off chores, Jeff doing the cooking while Mike took out the trash or did laundry; sprawling on the couch with a couple of beers and the TV, feet up on the coffee table, ankles brushing.
Sometimes they went to the gym, or bypassed the beach to go for runs around the neighbourhood. Sometimes they joined the guys at a bar or a club. Mike spoke to his mom every Sunday, and Jeff called his whenever he remembered, or when they needed help with shit around the house. He'd spent one Saturday helping Mike repaint the railings on his deck.
It was disgustingly quiet and domestic. Occasionally Jeff caught himself thinking about their time in Philly, the crazy drinking and partying, the frat houses and the girls.
Him and Mike had been just as close then, and Jeff hadn't loved his life any less, but there was definitely something different now, something more settled, a little less frantic and buzzed.
He figured it was probably just what happened when you got a bit older, got the partying out of your system. Maybe a bit to do with the trade as well, and just wanting to bask in everything finally being okay again, in Mike, just hanging out and taking up each other's space.
He was just-- he was really fucking happy, and maybe he wanted more time to appreciate it or something, longer stretched-out moments where he was sober and thankful.
This was it's own kind of drug, anyway, the sun heating his skin and the salt-sticky water clinging to his calves as he followed Arnie into the waves, and Mike's grin, creasing up his eyes and his cheeks, a little bit flushed beneath his stubble, making Jeff's heart beat just a little bit faster.
When it came to the ice, they were on again from the get-go. Jeff was glad; he hadn't doubted it at all, really, because it was them, but he'd wondered, which wasn't the same thing.
It was all in his head, the logical part of his brain, the part that knew his stats from those eight months adrift and realised they weren't anything to write home about.
But well, he'd been eight months in fucking Columbus, without Richie, and that counted for a lot, more than it probably should, more than was really healthy.
Honestly though, Jeff didn't care. He was in LA now, where he should be, and they were lighting it up.
Starting out with the Kings near the end of the season meant they hadn't had time to really get into much of anything, even if it'd been great, but now they were heading off a new one, back in LA after a brutal roadtrip-- fucking Europe, seriously, and Philly too, which had probably been harder than travelling to another continent. So yeah, life was good.
They'd got the Flyers 3-2, Mike with an assist and a proud tilt to his carriage that Jeff found more impressive than anything. He'd stuck close in the tunnel afterwards, slinging an arm over Mike's shoulder and letting him relax into his side, let out the tension he'd been holding the whole game, breathe a little shakily into his neck. "You did good, Richie," he'd said, voice low, and Mike had looked up at him, smiling tired but not unhappy, and said, "Yeah, you too."
It was weird, leaving the place he'd used to call home, used to think he'd always call home, and coming back to LA, the snap from cold, grey Pennsylvania to still-warm California.
It kind of cemented how LA was home now though, Richie's place was home.
They killed it against the Blues their first game back, 5-0, which deserved an extra few drinks on top of the ones already in line for the homecoming. Jeff headed out with everyone afterwards, detouring home with Mike to drop the car and then cabbing it to the club.
He lost Mike in the fight to get to the bar, but he figured the guys would be obvious enough that it wouldn't take a lot to find them all again. He spotted them before he even had his beer in hand, and shoved his way over once he'd paid.
"Oh, thank God," said Stolly as Jeff approached. "Mike's been looking for you."
"Yeah?" said Jeff, grinning and bumping Mike's shoulder as he took a sip of his beer. "Miss me, Richie? We've been here five minutes. Maybe ten. Long fucking time."
Richie just rolled his eyes, grinning around the neck of his bottle.
"Yeah, I think he thought you were being shipped back to Columbus or something."
"Don't even joke about that, man," said Jeff, making a face.
Richie said, "Trust me, if Carts was being forced back to Columbus, you'd be hearing it."
"Protest, eh?" said Stolly.
"Tantrum," said Mike, smirking.
Jeff elbowed him. "Shut up, asshole. Just 'cause you lucked out and came to LA first."
"You got here too, didn't you?" said Mike.
"Yeah," said Jeff, smiling helplessly at him. "Yeah, I did."
"Damn right," said Richie, nodding. "So quit whining."
"You love it," said Jeff easily.
Richie just shrugged, but Jeff knew what he looked like when he was holding back a smile.
He ended up pretty buzzed a couple hours later and squashed in a booth with Stolly, Quickie and Brownie, and Mike, obviously. Somehow they'd ended up on opposite sides, and it was probably weird, but Jeff hadn't even realised how unsettled it made him until Richie hooked an ankle around his under the table and shot him a small, soft smile. Then he'd relaxed back into the seat, letting his eyes drift half-closed and the conversation wash over him along with the music.
He blinked properly awake a while later when he realised he needed to use the bathroom, and elbowed Quickie next to him. "Move, man, gotta piss," he said.
"Ugh," said Quickie, but he stood up long enough that Jeff could scramble out.
"Hey," said Stolly, smirking, "Mike, do you need me to move so you can go with him?"
"Yeah," added Brownie, "I hear Coach was thinking about making a sneak trade while Jeff's busy taking a leak, you might wanna guard your territory or whatever."
Jeff rolled his eyes and threw Richie a grin, and Richie grinned back, socking Stolly in the arm.
He was used to the chirping about the whole trade thing; it didn't bother him at all.
Like, he'd take it and a lot more if it meant he got to be here.
He got stuck behind a group of college-aged kids on his way back, which was frustrating and also terrifying. Which was terrifying in itself, actually-- Jeff couldn't figure out when exactly he'd gone from being knee-deep in groups like that, trying to pick up, to...well, here.
Sometime while he was caught up worrying about bigger shit, maybe.
By the time he made it to the booth Quickie looked mostly out of it, and not at all like he'd be inclined to move, so Jeff sighed and climbed awkwardly over him, ignoring the grunted, half-coherent protests and settling heavily back into his spot.
"What the fuck took you so long?" said Mike, jostling his leg under the table.
He left their calves pressed together though, so Jeff figured he wasn't actually mad.
"Fuckin' college kids," he said.
"Shoulda shown them who's boss, Carts," said Richie, smirking.
"Asshole," said Jeff fondly. "You can go mess them up if you want."
"I don't get it though," said Brownie to Stolly. "Is he a flight risk or something?"
"Carts is the least likely flight risk ever, come on," said Stolly. "You cried actual tears of joy when you heard you were coming to LA, didn't you, Jeff?"
"Fuck you," said Jeff mildly. "What are they talking about?" he added to Richie.
Richie just shook his head, taking a long-suffering sip of his beer.
Jeff had always been jealous of his ability to be so eloquent through such tiny gestures.
Maybe that was him reading into it too much though, because it was Mike, what did he know.
"But then why-- "
"It's PTSD, I'm telling you," said Stolly. "Richie's traumatised. Obviously Jeff's not going to leave, but he's like-- conditioned into making sure he's still around now, or whatever."
"What the fuck," said Mike blankly.
"Oh hey, right, like the conditioning stuff we do, sort of," said Brownie.
"I guess," said Stolly slowly.
"Just because none of you losers know what it's like to have actual friends," said Jeff.
"Hmm," said Brownie. "Maybe. Still weird though. And Stolly, if you start keeping track of everything I do like Mike does with Carts here, I want out. I need my space, you know?"
"I feel you, man," said Stolly, holding out his fist.
Jeff still wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about, apart from it having something to do with him and Richie and their...everything, maybe. He thought about it, tilting his head.
Sometimes Jeff wondered whether he'd be as close as he was with Mike if it weren't for hockey. Professional hockey had a way of throwing guys together and amplifying everything so that you got tangled up in them whether you liked it or not, right through from peewees to pros. You couldn't escape it. But then he thought, don't be stupid, because it was Mike. Jeff was-- it was Mike, and yeah, looking at him, he thought it would've been inevitable either way.
Some of the other guys he maybe wouldn't've ended up as good friends with, sure, but not Richie.
Friendship was all about circumstances, anyway. Who you went to school with, who you lived next door to, who you worked with, stuff like that. It was probably dumb to think about why they started out, and what ifs. Like-- like meeting people, meeting important people, it didn't matter-- say your wife was your highschool sweetheart, that didn't make it any less legitimate than someone who met their wife in a bar bathroom; she was still your wife.
Then he realised that he was essentially comparing his friendship with Richie to a marriage, and downed the rest of his beer in one long swallow, coughing a bit.
It was easier to drown dumb drunk thoughts in more alcohol than to sober up.
And whatever, fuck Stolly and Brownie, him and Mike were fine. They were awesome.
"Hey, Carts," said Mike, nudging his leg.
Jeff hummed, blinking, and refocused his gaze.
"I'm gonna pass out soon," said Mike. "Wanna head home?"
"Yeah," said Jeff. "Shit, me too."
"So drunk," said Mike, but he was grinning, shoving at Stolly and Brownie to get out of his way.
"Quickie, get the fuck up, I'm not climbing over you again," said Jeff. "Way too drunk for this shit."
"Lightweight," mumbled Quickie, but he moved so Jeff could fall out of the booth and into Mike, who could be relied on to stay relatively steady even when drunk.
It was seriously awesome. Jeff let Mike guide him outside, and leaned into him on the ride home, not quite falling asleep but drifting a little on the heat of Mike's shoulder.
"We're home," said Mike eventually, nudging Jeff with his cramped-up elbow.
Jeff hummed, getting himself out of the cab while Richie paid and waiting by the front door. He had keys, obviously, but he thought Mike would appreciate him not fumbling over them for ages.
"Loser," mumbled Mike fondly as he unlocked the door.
"Shut up," said Jeff, yawning. He tugged his shirt over his head, leaving it pooled at the bottom of the staircase, and followed Richie up. Richie paused in the doorway to his room, catching one of Jeff's beltloops as he made to keep going down the hallway.
Jeff blinked, and Richie let go without saying anything, but Jeff mumbled, "Yeah, okay," and moved after Richie into his room. It was one of those things, like-- Richie wasn't actually asking, and Jeff knew he'd be cool either way, but he did it sometimes, in different situations, just-- just little touches, little nudges and bumps, to let Jeff know it was okay.
Whatever it happened to be, but just...okay.
And now, well...so he slept good with Richie, whatever.
They'd passed out in the same space enough times that he could say that with certainty, and also that it wasn't weird, just-- just normal, easy.
"Okay?" said Richie absently, looking up from where he was shucking his jeans.
"Yeah," mumbled Jeff, crawling under the covers on the far side of the bed.
Richie always liked to sleep on the side nearest the door.
"Cool," said Richie, switching off the lights and ducking in next to him. He didn't spoon Jeff, exactly, but he sort of shifted up against his back, knees nudging the back of Jeff's thighs, knuckles brushing lightly over the bumps of his spine. "Night, Carts."
"Night," said Jeff, breathing out and settling in, warm and comfortable.
He woke up to a pretty decent hangover and Richie poking his bicep.
"Ngh," he mumbled, rolling over and blinking slowly.
"Morning, sunshine," said Richie. "Get up and make me some coffee."
"Make it yourself, oh my God," said Jeff, trying to pull the covers over his head.
Richie had an anticipatory hold on them though. "Come on Carts, you make it better," he said.
Jeff sighed. It was true. "Fine," he said. "Fuck, my head."
Richie grinned at him. "Shouldn't drink so much, Cartsy," he said.
"You had at least as much as me, asshole," said Jeff.
Richie hummed in agreement. "Guess my metabolism kicks your metabolism's ass then."
"You still need coffee though," said Jeff, sitting up. "So I win."
"Sure," said Richie easily, elbowing him and climbing out of bed.
Jeff scrubbed at his face and smiled fondly into his hands.
"Rough night, boys?" said Quickie when they got to the locker room for practice, which was ridiculous because he looked worse than either of them.
"You look like shit, you hypocrite," said Mike, heading to his stall.
"Probably because I went home all by my lonesome," said Quickie, sighing all fake-sad.
"We're roommates, dumbass," said Jeff.
"Yeah," said Mike. "Worked out pretty good for me, I had someone to make me coffee and no screaming child bursting my eardrums." He threw Jeff a small grin.
"Fuck you, Richards," said Quickie, but he shut up after that.
Mike had most of the guys over for a grill before their three-game roadtrip.
He threw the invite out in the locker room one time after morning skate, and Penner, because he was a dick, said, "Yo, Carts, did he run this by you?"
Jeff rolled his eyes and said, "It's his place," even though Mike had checked with him, actually.
Penner just gave him a look and said, "Okay, pretend your weird thing isn't weird, whatever."
Jeff flipped him off. He wasn't pretending, he knew Mike's place was more theirs than just Mike's these days. He just didn't feel like making a whole deal out of it.
It was one of those weird things he felt kind of wary about since Columbus; they'd talked everything up so much in Philly, their friendship and how they were going to play out their careers there, and look how well that'd turned out. He wasn't superstitious or anything dumb like that, but he also wasn't going to tempt fate unnecessarily anymore.
Whatever this thing was, it was theirs, his and Mike's.
As long as they were in LA together, Jeff kind of just wanted to shut up and enjoy it.
It was a pretty chilled affair, anyway, Doughy and Penner taking charge of the grill as soon as they arrived and everyone else hanging out with their beers, not going too hard because of the roadtrip, just shooting the shit and getting loudly competitive over the Wii.
Quickie did turn up with a bottle of vodka and a sly grin though.
Mike just rolled his eyes and said, "Jesus, Quick, we're not your frat boy escape from reality."
"Shots?" said Quickie, ignoring him.
"No shots when there's a flight in the morning," said Brownie from his place on the couch.
He was playing Mario Kart and trying to beat Stolly into submission with his feet at the same time; it was a weird contradiction of captainly responsibility and utter childishness.
"Fine," sighed Quicke. "Bring out the mixers, Richards."
"We have beer or Coke," said Mike, tugging the bottle from Quickie's grasp.
"Gross," said Quickie, making a face.
"Then go to the fucking store, princess, Jesus," said Mike, rolling his eyes.
"You go to the store," said Quickie.
Jeff socked him in the arm. "We could use more salad stuff," he said to Mike though.
"Fine." Mike sighed and grabbed his keys. It was a two-minute trip by car, anyway, so Jeff knew he wasn't actually pissed. "C'mon, Carts," he added absently as he made for the door.
"Dude," said Stolly, catching Brownie across the head with his controller and ducking rapidly out of his retaliatory reach, "He's not gonna get traded while you're at the store, chill the fuck out."
Mike just said, "Beat him up good, Brownie," and Jeff flipped him off and followed Mike, because what the hell, they always went to the store together.
"Weirdos!" Stolly shouted after them, and, "Ow, motherfucker!" presumably at Brownie.
Mike paused on the front step. "Do you think the place will still be here when we get back?"
Jeff laughed, shoving him towards the car. "Two minutes, Richie," he said. "What could possibly go wrong?"
"A lot," said Richie darkly, and Jeff felt a weird clench of...something, before Richie laughed and elbowed him and it passed.
"Excellent," said Quickie, snagging the bag with the mixers when they got back. "Come on, Carts, grab a controller, these two idiots need some time out."
"Yeah, in a bit," said Jeff absently, glancing over his shoulder towards the kitchen, where Richie was unpacking the other bag. He ignored Quickie's eyeroll and followed him in.
Mike looked up with a smile, spreading the salad stuff out on a chopping board. "What's up, Carts?" he said.
Jeff shrugged. "Nothing." He leaned against the counter.
"Okay," said Mike easily, starting up cutting an onion.
Jeff just stood there watching him, until Mike looked up and said, "Gonna help?"
"Huh?" said Jeff, blinking. "Oh, yeah. Pass me a knife."
Richie slid one across the counter and bumped Jeff's shoulder as he moved in next to him, grabbing a couple of cucumbers and starting in, warm where they were pressed together, shoulder to hip.
It was a pretty fucking nice day, all up.
They lost their last game on the road.
Because they weren't in LA, they went out to find a suitable bar and get suitably smashed, where usually most of them would head home to lick their wounds in relative peace and sobriety. Jeff went with them because Mike did, and because he'd missed a one-on-one late in the third that should've sent them into OT, and he wanted to forget about it for a bit.
Mike said, "Don't beat yourself up, man," in the car on the way there.
Jeff snorted and said, "Yeah, I'll just let the other guys do it for me."
"Shut up, moron," said Mike, elbowing him. "Quit feeling sorry for yourself or I'll do it. It's just one game. We'll kill it next time."
"Yeah," agreed Jeff, smiling a little. Richie always made him feel better. "Thanks."
Mike rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were curled upwards.
Jeff got pretty shitfaced anyway, and it was kind of fun, in the end, less depressing than he'd been imagining, nice to just throw back the drinks and enjoy the haze, leaning into Richie in their booth, warm and damp with sweat, watching the guys come and go, the girls he'd think about hitting on if he wasn't too wiped to do much more than lift his drink to his mouth every couple of minutes, and if he didn't-- well. He just kind of didn't feel it, period.
Whatever, he was pretty content with his life right now.
"Hey," he said, turning his head to look at Mike. "Hey, Richie, you gonna hook up?"
"Nah," said Richie easily, sipping his beer. "And leave you here by yourself?"
"You're a good friend," said Jeff, grinning at him sloppily.
Mike grinned back.
"You two," said Quickie from the other side of the booth, pointing with his beer.
"Uh," said Mike, after a silence. "Were you actually going to say something?"
"Huh?" said Quickie. "Oh, right. You two." He gestured with his beer again. "Is this about the trade thing? Because like, Mike, I'm pretty sure Jeff's not gonna get snatched up by the fuckin' Red Wings or something if you let him go chat up some chick."
"Jeff can do what he wants, asshole," said Mike.
Jeff just made a face and said, "Ugh, fuck, Detroit."
Mike huffed a laugh against the back of his neck. "No one's making you go to Detroit, Cartsy."
"Good," said Jeff. "I can only handle one shithole alone in a lifetime, you know?"
"Yeah," said Mike quietly, squeezing his arm.
"Huh," said Quickie. "Well, then I guess Jeff not wanting to hook up makes sense, you know."
"I-- what?" said Jeff, blinking bemusedly. "I'm just not feeling it, man."
"You feeling Mike?" said Quickie, waggling his eyebrows disturbingly.
"I'm feeling like you're gonna get punched if you don't shut up pretty soon," said Mike mildly.
Jeff grinned and saluted Quickie with his beer.
"Shit, Jeff," said Quickie, face going all focused and serious, leaning forward a little. "I'm just saying. You'd go back to fuckin' Columbus if Mike went there first, wouldn't you."
Jeff stared at Quickie, acutely aware of the loud but suddenly oddly insubstantial noise of the club, Mike's warmth against his back, and the fact that yeah. Yeah, he probably would.
God knew he hated Columbus more than any other place on Earth he'd ever been, but if Mike went back there, Jeff wouldn't even think about not following him.
That was...huh. Not surprising, exactly, but definitely something.
Something he was way too drunk to think about right now.
They headed back to the hotel pretty soon after. Jeff let Mike lead him, leaning heavily on him in the elevator up to their floor. Mike was good at holding him up; always had been.
He peeled himself off to go to his own room once they stumbled out, but Mike just curled his fingers around Jeff's wrist and said, "C'mon, Carts," quietly.
Jeff blinked but went easily, letting Mike draw him into his room, because it was Mike, and all he really wanted was to go wherever Mike went. He could feel how drunk he was, how dangerously uninhibited, but that didn't stop him from fitting himself around Mike in the warm bed and whispering, "I like being able to go home together," nonsensically into his neck.
Mike's hand tightened briefly where it was bunched in his t-shirt, and he whispered back, "Yeah. Yeah. Night, Carts," unclenching his fingers and smoothing them over Jeff's back.
Jeff was already mostly asleep.
He thought about it on the plane home, legs stretched into the aisle and leaning against Mike's shoulder, who was dead to the world.
He knew it was weird, objectively, this whole thing with Mike. Their friendship or whatever. He did. He knew not all buddies or even best buddies were like them.
It was just that he didn't care.
It didn't feel weird, it felt normal, it felt good, so why the fuck should he make it weird by thinking about how it looked to people who weren't them? He'd been through enough crap, and letting things get to him when he was happy just seemed like a really fucking dumb waste of his time.
Mike was Mike, his Mike, and you didn't count on spending your whole career playing with someone unless it really meant something, unless you knew in your bones it was just the way things were supposed to be. That was what Jeff believed, anyway.
Like, people said that shit all the time, and maybe they didn't always mean it, but they had.
Which was why Columbus had been the worst, and why LA was the best, and why he was maybe a little bit weird-- weirder, whatever-- about Mike these days. Also maybe why people didn't get that.
He didn't think it was uncalled for. He thought anyone who actually was in their situation would be the same.
He'd always wanted to be wherever Mike was, and Mike had always liked knowing where Jeff was at any given time. He couldn't picture it being any other way.
The thing was, though, sometimes he could picture it being more. Not different, just more. Like when he woke up next to Mike after the nights they'd fallen asleep together and Mike blinked at him, sleep-creased and soft, or when Mike skated to meet him after a goal they'd scored, grinning wide, and he almost had to stop himself from leaning forward and pressing their mouths together, just because he could, because he wanted to.
Because it felt right, in that moment; like it was just the natural next step.
Like Mike in the mornings or Mike grinning on the ice or Mike all the time, really, was there to be kissed. By Jeff.
God though, Columbus must've fucked him over so bad, because it was like this weird...something holding him back, like maybe he was still waiting for Mike, hanging around this place Mike wasn't, waiting for him to tell Jeff it was okay.
He wanted it, he was pretty sure, he did, because it was Mike and he couldn't imagine anything better than him, but he didn't know-- fuck, he just didn't know.
It was so dumb. Jeff scrubbed a hand over his face and scowled at the back of the seat in front of him. He didn't care about what anyone else thought, that was true, but he cared about what Mike thought.
And he wasn't great at-- at dealing with feelings and stuff. Clearly.
That wasn't a secret or anything. And the truth was, again, he didn't care, because as long as the important stuff was covered, as long as Mike knew that...well, as long as he knew, it was all good, and Jeff didn't have to deal with anything else, because it was just understood.
Mike got it.
He didn't know if Mike got the whole wanting to make out thing though.
Which meant that maybe Jeff needed to say something. Only then, he was so happy now, things were pretty much perfect, like, fuck, he'd gotten to come to LA, he'd gotten exactly what he wanted, a locked-down career with Mike again, and that was-- was that really all worth-- not fucking up exactly, but changing, just so they could make out, and, and fuck, or whatever.
Jesus. This shit was not supposed to be so confusing.
Nothing about his relationship with Mike had ever been confusing.
Everything going on around them, sure, but shit, the solidity and certainty of their whole friendship was what got him through the other stuff. Was the only thing that got him through.
So...he didn't know. He wanted to kiss Mike, badly, and maybe turn their already-practically-dating into actually dating, but he didn't want to make it weird-- really weird, weird for them-- or worse, uncertain.
He coudn't handle that. He needed this, them, to be okay, to be solid.
He had a bit of an epiphany in the cab home. It was the dumbest fucking epiphany in the world, considering it was something he'd been repeating to himself for as long as he could remember, and also for hours on the plane just now, but: this was Mike.
It always came down to that, and to the fact that he trusted Mike better than anyone.
Which meant that he couldn't really fuck this up, because Mike wouldn't let him.
He knew that, because Mike had said, the day they'd both been traded, their last phonecall of the night, when Jeff had been curled up in his bed hollow-eyed and empty somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, "We're gonna be okay, Carts. Even if-- we're always gonna be okay."
Jeff had believed him then, and all the way through Columbus, and he still believed it now.
"Hey," he said, as Mike dumped their bags in the hall. Mike turned to look at him, and Jeff palmed awkwardly at the back of his neck.
"Carts?" said Mike, stepping closer. "You okay, man?"
"Yeah," said Jeff. "I just, I was just thinking, I guess."
"Okay," said Mike slowly.
"About what Quickie said, you know."
Mike frowned.
"You know, how I'd probably follow you to Columbus if you went there," said Jeff. "I just-- I wanted-- it's true, you know? I fucking would. And I-- is that weird? I mean, I know it's weird, I guess, but I-- do you mind? I don't even notice anymore, I don't care, but I kind of want-- "
"Carts," said Mike. Jeff stopped talking, but Mike didn't keep going either; he was frowning, frustrated.
Jeff opened his mouth, but then Mike pushed him back against the wall and tugged him down into a fast, messy kiss.
"I know," he said when he pulled back, staring at Jeff's mouth. "Me too, Carts, Jesus."
"Oh," said Jeff stupidly. Then he blinked and grinned, bright and blinding, his Mike grin, because fuck, of course they were on the same page here, they always were. "Oh, fuck, Richie."
"Yeah," said Richie, smiling back. "C'mere, Carts."
Jeff went, ducking down to meet him halfway, let Mike kiss the shit out of him.
"This was kind of dumb," said Mike when he pulled back. "We could've been doing this for seven months. I just-- it was pretty fucking great having you back at all, you know?"
"Yeah," said Jeff, pressing their foreheads together. "I-- me too. I mean, you know."
Mike rolled his eyes. "Eloquent, Carts," he said.
"Shut up," said Jeff. "I-- I missed you, okay? You were the only thing that got me through and I still-- I still missed you so fucking much, it was fucked up."
"Not fucked up," said Mike, mouth curling up. "Just us. The trade was fucked up."
Jeff huffed out a laugh. "Yeah," he said. "The guys may have had a point though."
"Fuck them," said Mike.
"Actually," said Jeff, eyes dropping to Mike's mouth, "I was thinking you could fuck me."
Mike groaned and jerked forward to kiss him again, wet and messy and full of tongue.
"C'mon, Carts," he said when he pulled away, grabbing Jeff's hand and tugging him to the stairs.
"Yeah," said Jeff, grinning stupidly, and followed.