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Easton’s still itching for a fight long after the game is over. He’s buzzing, almost spilling over with a restless energy that hasn’t quite left his brain yet, his internal systems frazzled. He’s received more than enough pats on the back and congratulations from the team, but it doesn’t erase the itchy feeling that’s taken over his skin.
“You’ll get ‘em next time. Your first fight is gonna be great,” Domi had said and whilst Easton appreciates his team for trying to cheer him up, they’re all repeatedly failing to understand why Easton is upset. It sounds insane, but Easton doesn’t want to fight and win. He’s never wanted that. He wants to lose, to feel his lips splitting open, blood trickling down, to admire the bruises blossoming across his skin.
To embed the wicked ways in which he deserves to be hurt deeper and deeper into the marrow of his bones until it’s a part of his very being.
It’s stupid and insane and feverish. He’s stupid and insane and feverish. He knows that, but he wants and wants and wants. He rarely wants for anything else, and he knows it’s probably a sign of something deeply fucked up with him, but, well… that hardly matters to him.
His phone lights up with a text, pulling him from his thoughts. It’s from the one person who knows how to settle Easton’s stupid mind, to calm the parts of him that want, for some foolish reason, to be hit, to be hurt.
Connor.
Easton reads the preview, sees the way Connor is chastising him for trying to fight, and scowls. The small slither of happiness that seeing Connor’s name had brought forth drains out of him before he can stop it. He locks the screen once more, slips the device into his pocket, and sinks down in his seat. He’s alone in his row of the coach, so he lifts his feet up onto the spare seat and rests his head against the window, watching the streets of Toronto passing by.
~
Connor’s waiting for him on the couch when he gets in, and Easton merely sighs and swerves into the kitchen. He doesn’t want to do this. Not tonight. Not ever, really. He doesn’t get why Connor fails to understand him. Sure, the part of Easton that Connor is trying to understand is the part of him that wants to be hit so hard he feels it for ages afterwards, but still.
“Hey, you alright?” Connor says. Easton grumbles under his breath and pulls a bottle of water from the fridge before turning and frowning at the sight that greets him. Wrong move. Concern flickers to life in Connor’s eyes, and Easton can’t help but scowl instead. “What’s up?”
“You’re leaning on your bad arm,” is all Easton can mutter in response. He’s still upset with Connor, still upset with himself, really, but he refuses to let Connor put himself in a position that’ll only aggrieve his injury and leave him out of play for longer.
“It’s fine. The doctors and the team think I’ll be back to it next week,” Connor says and oh. Easton hadn’t been expecting that. Of course, he knew Connor would be back to play soon, but Easton’s gotten used to having him around, always a source of comfort after a long game or another healthy scratch.
“That’s good,” Easton says. And it is. It is. He’s going to have to convince his selfish, undeserving brain that it is, but it is. Connor sighs and pushes off the doorframe, wincing softly. Easton immediately locks in on him and he’s gently pressing his fingers against the bulk of Connor’s shoulder before he can stop himself. “You need to be careful.”
“Hey, if I aggrieve it, you’ll get to have me around longer,” Connor says like that’s any sort of consolation prize. Easton glares down at him before sighing and pulling Connor into his arms. Connor immediately shifts and squirms around until the crown of his head is tucked under Easton’s chin. It feels right, like puzzle pieces slotting into space.
“I’m sorry I tried to fight today,” Easton mutters. Wasn’t what he meant to say, but it’s fine. Connor won’t be mean. He never really is. A soft huff and Connor’s breath tickling down the column of Easton’s throat. It makes Easton shiver, but he doesn’t mind. Any effect Connor has on him is welcome.
Connor pulls his head back and peers up at him. “You did the right thing, reaching in and pulling Höglander out of that two v one, but throwing your gloves down… there wasn’t a reason for that,” Connor says. Easton frowns.
“They teamed up on Stecher. I was just,” he swallows down the lump in his throat. “I was just playing the team game.” The words come out quiet, the embarrassment of what he’d done finally kicking in. The truth of what he’d done finally forming in his brain. He winces and slumps into Connor’s hold, forehead pressed against Connor’s non-injured shoulder. “I think I need help.”
“Talk to me, Cow, what’s going on?” Connor says. Easton whines and shakes his head, nuzzling further into Connor’s hold. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he has to. He knows he has to. He’s got to get it out of his head before it eats him alive, or before he does something truly reckless and stupid.
“I… it’s the draft,” Easton admits. He thinks past him would be mortified to discover he was confessing his depression over his placement in the draft to the very same guy who’d topped it. Yet here he was. Their bodies melded together in Easton’s dingy, barely lit apartment kitchen, and the truth is spilling out of him before he can even hope to stop it. “I know that, like, first round is better than fifth, but I was still twenty-eighth. And I didn’t even get to play for two seasons.”
“Easton,” Connor starts before Easton winces and tightens his hold on Connor’s waist, silently urging him to be quiet otherwise Easton will scamper away from this entire conversation with his tail between his legs. Cowardice seems the easier path to take, but he knows it won’t be the happier one. Connor presses a soft kiss to Easton’s temple and mutters an, “okay.”
“I get to the NHL, I score my first goal, and then I’m just…” The words sit on his tongue, but they won’t come out. He swallows, scrunches his face up, and tries again. “I got dropped to the Marlies. I get healthy scratched half the time, and it feels like… fuck, sometimes I wonder why I’m even here.”
“East…” Connor says and Easton can hear the heartbreak in his voice, but he still doesn’t move. Just presses Connor even closer to him, one hand sliding up his back to hook two fingers over the collar of his shirt. “This… the beat ups started internally, didn’t they?”
“I want someone to beat me up for once, just so I don’t have to do it myself,” Easton admits and fuck. His head and his chest feel lighter already. It’s almost like Connor’s punched him in the gut. Except that can’t be true, because there’s no pain, no loss of air, and he can feel Connor’s hands on him still, one underneath his shirt as he strokes at Easton’s lower back and the other buried in Easton’s hair.
And Connor would never hit him. His boyfriend has made that more than abundantly clear.
“Thank you for telling me this,” Connor says. That’s the final straw, the last little drop to tip over and make him spill. Easton pulls his head away from Connor’s shoulder and blinks wetly at him. Connor smiles and gently cups his face, cradling him like he’s something precious, something worth admiring. His thoughts must show on his face, or maybe he muttered something out loud, because Connor sighs and soothes his thumbs along Easton’s cheeks. “You deserve to be here, okay? You deserve to play in the NHL, to score goals and make assists and okay, maybe one day, start a fight. You deserve to be my boyfriend, too. But no matter what you think, you don’t deserve to be hurt.”
“I can’t help it,” Easton whispers. A tear drips from his lashes and catches on the join of his cheek and Connor’s hand. Connor smiles at him softly in a way that makes Easton’s heart jolt. He feels sick with love, and wonders if maybe this is what all those cheesy movies he secretly watches are talking about.
“You don’t have to do this alone. You can get help, or come to me, or speak to the team. Whatever you want, I’ll support it. I just don’t want you to get hurt, whether by throwing yourself into a fight, or by ruining yourself from the inside out,” Connor says. Easton sighs and closes his eyes tight.
“Okay. Okay, I promise,” Easton whispers. “Just… not right now. I’m too tired to make any sort of decisions.”
“And that’s okay,” Connor says. He presses a quick kiss to Easton’s mouth before he’s pulling away and crossing to the fridge. Easton blinks after him, a soft pout on his face. That was it? Just one peck? No. Easton wants more.
“Hey, come back here,” Easton says, whining petulantly like a child. Connor looks up at him, one eyebrow raised inquisitively, before he sighs and rolls his eyes fondly. He still crosses the room, though, letting Easton pull him in and kiss him until he’s satisfied. It takes a good ten minutes before Easton lets Connor go.
His chest doesn’t feel as tight anymore, his eyes are only stiff because of the dried tears, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to get hurt to be happy. Just maybe. He still tries his chances anyways. “I know out teams don’t play again this season but… next time we do, we should fight.”
Connor fixes him with a teasing look. “Oh yeah? Do you not remember how that went last time? I basically manhandled you,” Connor says. Easton flushes and ducks his head. He hadn’t forgotten that. How could he? Connor’s strength was more than admirable, and he thinks Connor is aware of Easton’s infatuation. He looks up and, sure enough, Connor is smirking at him. Easton’s blush darkens and he giggles before biting his lip, peering up at Connor through his lashes.
“I wouldn’t mind that happening again.”