Archive of Our Own

Troy glanced out his dismal hotel window, staring vacantly at the darkened strip mall below. Yellow lighting slanted unevenly across a sea of empty parking spaces, casting shadows over an enormous snowbank at the far edge of the plaza. The lot was empty, stores closed. Not a soul around, as far as he could tell.

You’d hardly think it was a Friday night. But maybe that was just another outcome to be expected of Ottawa.

A whole month, and he still hadn’t found anything worth pursuing in the dismal city he’d been forcibly relocated to. He’d known Ottawa was a government town –sleepy and understated, much like its hockey team. It didn’t have Toronto’s nightlife, or Montreal’s thriving culture, or Vancouver’s culinary scene. Hell, at least Winnipeg had die-hard fans. 

Ottawa was just…Ottawa. 

Of course, it didn’t help that he was staying near the Censplex. The enormous, purpose-built arena seemed entirely on its own, an island of athleticism nearly thirty minutes from the downtown core. There was no nightlife there –just a few strip malls and hotels, like the one Troy had been residing in for 38 days….and counting. 

On the upside, he’d be moving out soon, relocating to the luxurious downtown high-rise that Bood and his wife had recommended. He’d finally be rid of the drab beige carpeting and the strip-mall view. Unfortunately, the upscale apartment was still in fucking Ottawa, so it wasn’t likely to make much of a material difference. 

He sighed, turning away from the bleak winter scene and plucking his phone from the cheap wood-veneered side table. For what felt like the hundredth time, he typed in a search: things to do in Ottawa. He was rewarded with the same list of results he’d come to know by heart. Museums, tours of parliament, and hockey games. Great.

And the worst part was, even if he truly hit the depths of desperation that would have him queuing up to view the collection of seemingly-identical rocks at the Museum of Nature, he couldn’t. Because everything in this stupid town seemed to close at 6pm.

Reflexively, he checked the time. 9:10pm.

Yup, even the Starbucks would be closed by now. 

With a groan, he flung himself backwards onto the hotel bed.

Well, time for another early night.

-

The next day brought a little winter sunlight, and more importantly, a 9am practice. Troy liked early practices. They established a comfortable sense of routine. More importantly, they also meant he didn’t have to start the day staring blankly at the strip mall parking lot.

But today’s morning practice was especially good, because Harris was there. Cheerful, familiar Harris, the lone bright spot in this miserable city. Harris, who didn’t seem to care that he was the most hated man in the NHL. Who’d welcomed Tory with open arms and did his best to make him feel integrated into the Centaurs, despite the circumstances of his arrival. 

Harris had been standing in the lobby with a portable mic when Troy had emerged from the dressing room post-practice, hair still damp from the showers. 

“Good morning,” he’d waved, looking entirely too chipper to be working on a Saturday morning. A collection of brightly coloured pride pins flashed on Harris’s wool sweater, glinting in the sunlight that streamed in through the Censplex’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “You’re just in time, we’re filming some new behind the scenes content. Who’s your dream road roomie?”

“Uh,” Troy mumbled, because what the hell kind of question was that? “Anyone who doesn’t snore, I guess.”

Harris rolled his eyes, but the smile didn’t leave his face. “Practical. I wouldn’t have expected anything less from the guy who’s favourite dessert is salmon. But hey, at least you’re consistent. Ilya wasn’t much for the question either; he picked Chiron.”

“I can see why.” Picking the team dog was possibly an even safer answer than the one Troy had given. But Ilya probably wasn’t thinking like that –he’d practically built his reputation on sleeping with the hottest women any city had to offer. Ilya definitely didn’t have Troy’s kind of secret. The man just seemed to really like dogs.

Harris seemed to have realized Troy’s thoughts had wandered off, because his face settled into an expression of patient amusement. Shit. 

“So, uh. What do people do for fun around here?” Troy asked, because it was the only topic he could think of.

Harris laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. They were very nice eyes, Troy thought. And then swiftly stopped thinking, because that was the sort of impulse that would get him into trouble. “Around here? Nothing really, unless you count watching the Centaurs.”

Troy tried not to let the disappointment get to him. “Oh.”

Harris’s smile turned playful, seemingly having caught on. “I said there’s not much to do here. There’s lots of options downtown.”

Troy couldn’t help himself. “Like tours of parliament?”

Harris laughed again. Troy tried not to focus on how nice it sounded. “Okay, yes. That’s definitely one of them. But Ottawa’s loads of fun; you just have to get out and explore.”

Troy thought of the empty parking lot again. Loads to explore didn’t really seem to fit, unless you were exploring how many discarded Timbits a family of raccoons could scarf down in a single sitting. “Okay,” he said instead, a little doubtfully.

Harris raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe me.”

Troy backtracked, suddenly acutely aware of Harris’s proud status as a fourth-generation Ottawan. “No. I mean, yes, I believe you. It’s, uh–”

“No worries, buddy,” Harris smiled again, cutting off the impending apology before it could materialize. “I know we’re not quite Toronto, but Ottawa’s got its charm. How about I show you?”

“Show me? Like, a tour?”

“Sure,” Harris chuckled. “A true Ottawa tour with all the highlights. You’ll fall in love before you know it.”

I doubt it, Troy thought, the parking lot fresh in his memory. Then again, he really didn’t have anything to lose at this point. And spending time with Harris was …nice. In ways he didn’t want to interrogate too much.

“Alright,” he nodded, resigning himself to a whirlwind exposé of Canada’s dullest, greyest city. “That sounds good.”

“Great.” Harris was beaming now, his face set in a broad grin. “This is going to be so much fun. Tomorrow’s a day off; we could do it then if you’re free.”

“Sure.” Troy was always free. He had a feeling Harris knew it too, but it was nice that he’d pretended otherwise.

“Perfect. How’s nine sound? I’ll pick you up.”

“Don’t you live downtown? Isn’t that like, super out of your way?”

Harris waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. I like the drive; it’s scenic.”

Troy’s mind flashed to everything he’d seen of Ottawa so far. Starbucks. The Censplex. The highway. Nothing that really counted as scenery. “Is it?”

Harris laughed again, far too loudly. “Just you wait.” His eyes flicked across Troy’s shoulder, settling on Bood and Haas as they made their way into the lobby. He sighed apologetically. “Oh. Looks like that’s my cue. I’ve got a few more interviews to get through.”

A flash of disappointment cut through the timid anticipation that had been building in Troy’s chest. “Right, of course. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Harris’s smile softened. “I’ll see you before the game?”

The fluttery optimism did a swift rebound. “Yeah. See you then.”

-

Unsurprisingly, the Centaurs lost the game. 

And when Troy finally made it back to the hotel, his room was as uninspiring as ever. Outside the window, snow squalls raged across the empty expanse of the parking lot. A lone plow was fighting a losing battle against the elements, cruising sad circles through growing white drifts.

It should have sent him straight into another spiral of self doubt. But unlike most nights, Troy found he was too distracted to traverse his tangled mangrove swamp of failings. 

All through the post-game debrief, he’d been consumed by thoughts of his so-called “tour” with Harris. He couldn’t help but wonder how they were going to fill an entire day. Surely museums could only be tolerated for so long –not that he’d been to one in years.

But really, even if Ottawa turned out to be exactly as dull as Troy anticipated, it wouldn’t be a total write-off. He’d still get to spend the day with Harris, and that definitely shouldn’t make him as giddy as it did. He’d probably look forward to anything Harris suggested.

On cue, his phone vibrated on the nightstand. A new text from Harris flashed on the screen: Dress warmly tomorrow! And don’t forget your skates.

Huh. That…wasn’t what Troy had been expecting. He bit his lip as he typed out a response. Is this a surprise practice or something?

Harris replied within seconds. Nope! Something way better. The text was accompanied by a string of indecipherable emojis: a hockey skate, a snowflake, an ice cube, a beaver, and a few hearts in Centaurs colours.

Troy found he was smiling in spite of himself. Alright. Skates and a jacket. Anything else?

Barely a moment later, another reply. We’ll be outside, so just remember to dress warmly. I’ll see you at nine!

The fond, fluttery feeling was back in Troy’s chest. See you then.

-

At eight o’clock the next morning, Troy threw back the cheap hotel curtains to reveal a vibrant blue, cloudless sky. Radiant sunlight streamed through the window, painting the drab hotel furnishings in shining gold.

It looked spectacular. And to top it off, soon he would be with Harris, ostensibly enjoying the best Ottawa had to offer.

Sure, he didn’t have high hopes for the city. But still, he couldn’t fucking wait.

A quick glance across the parking lot confirmed it had largely been cleared. The mountain of plowed snow looked to be towering over the low-rise buildings now, oddly pretty in the sun. More importantly, it meant he could jog across to the Starbucks and grab Harris a latte before they met up, provided he got ready quickly.

He pulled on his coat and boots, then contemplated a hat. It really didn’t look cold. Hell, it was probably the first time he’d seen the sun in weeks. Probably fine without it.

Minutes later, as the force of the cold stole the breath from his body, he was regretting his decision. Sunlight dazzled across fresh-fallen snow as he hurriedly jogged across the parking lot toward the Starbucks. He practically fell through the door when he arrived, hurriedly unzipping his jacket so he could press his frozen fingers into the lukewarm fabric of the sweater he’d worn beneath.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered to himself, trying to rub some circulation back into the joints.

“Cold one today, eh?” 

He glanced up to find a cashier watching him with an amused smile on his face. Behind him, a girl who looked about 16 years old was smirking into one of the blenders.

“Yeah. I guess so.” Truthfully, he’d never felt anything so cold in his life. Growing up in Vancouver, his typical winter consisted of a brief rainy period between November and February. On the rare occasion that it snowed, it had usually melted away with the day’s sun. Toronto hadn’t been a huge change from the status quo, either. Set on the shore of Lake Ontario, its winters were short and wet, and never seemed to drop below minus five. A slightly thicker coat had been more than enough to bridge the gap.

But Ottawa –that was another story. It was only mid-December and already they’d been hit with no less than three major snowstorms. His teammates kept talking about all the fresh powder at the ski resorts in the nearby Gatineau Hills. Someone had posted pictures of a two-storey snowman towering over a house downtown. Everything was perpetually covered in a fine layer of roadsalt.

But still, he didn’t think anything could have prepared him for the bone-numbing cold he’d felt this morning.

The barista seemed to anticipate the cold better than Troy had, setting one paper cup inside another before making Harris’s latte. Troy could appreciate the insulative effort for what it was, even if he doubted its efficacy. The barista did the same for Troy’s plain black coffee, then handed both drinks over with a teasing smile. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks.” He’d need it.

He did his best to jog back across the parking lot without spilling their coffees, setting them aside with the concierge in the hotel lobby. He’d need to run upstairs to grab his skates before Harris arrived. And a hat. And fuck, maybe some gloves if he’d remembered to pack any during his whirlwind move from Toronto.

He made it back down to the lobby just in time to see Harris’s truck pull up in the loading zone out front. Through the hotel’s enormous glass doors, he could barely make out Harris’s waving figure.

The brief walk from the hotel entryway to the truck felt uncomfortably cold, but it was almost immediately counteracted by the surge of warmth that filled Troy’s chest when he threw open the passenger door to reveal Harris’s beaming face.

“Hey buddy!” Harris exclaimed, his cheeks rosy with the cold. “You ready for the tour of a lifetime?”

“Sure.” Troy couldn’t help but smile. “Not to oversell it or anything.”

Harris just grinned wider. “I couldn’t if I tried. Trust me, I’ve got an action-packed itinerary for us.”

Maybe it was just Harris’s usual enthusiasm, or the unusually bright sunlight was fucking with Troy’s head,  because he actually felt pretty hopeful that Harris would be right. If anyone could make this miserable city interesting, it would be him.

“Can’t wait,” Troy found himself smiling back, then remembered the two coffees clutched in his hands. “I got you this, by the way.” 

“An eggnog latte?” Harris exclaimed, accepting the sugary concoction with an eager smile. “Thanks. You really know how to tip your tour guide.”

It was a joke. Normal dialogue between two guys hanging out. And yet Troy couldn’t deny the thrill that warmed his spine at the offhand comment. He really, really didn’t need to dissect that right now.

“Maybe,” he grinned instead. “We’ll see if the tour lives up to the hype.”

Harris laughed again, a loud, unfettered sound that seemed to reverberate through the truck’s small cab. “What, are you going to leave me a bad Google review?”

Troy couldn’t imagine anyone leaving a bad review after meeting Harris, but that didn’t seem like a normal thing to say on a Sunday drive. “You’ll just have to find out.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence as Harris pulled away from the hotel, heading for the highway. Troy couldn’t fight the surge of vindictive pleasure as they passed the strip mall and its enormous parking lot. Take that, he thought viciously. I’m off to better things now.

If some of the self-satisfaction made it into his expression, Harris didn’t comment.

-

They were about ten minutes into the drive when he noticed Harris side-eyeing him cautiously. “So, it’s pretty cold out today.”

“Yeah,” Troy nodded. “Chilly morning, for sure.”

“Right,” Harris said, in a tone that suggested he was trying to be diplomatic. Uncertainty curled low in Troy’s stomach. “Are you going to be warm enough?”

Troy glanced down at himself. He was wearing his black wool peacoat, which had always been warm enough in Toronto. He’d forgone his usual Centaurs ballcap for a team-branded toque, and although he hadn’t managed to find his gloves, his wool-lined pockets were well-insulated. And besides, he usually ran pretty hot.

“Yeah, I think so. Why?”

Harris bit his lip, glazing across the dash to meet Troy’s gaze. “As long as you’re sure, pal.”

For the first time, Troy managed to wrench his attention from Harris’s face and fully take in the other man’s outfit. Harris was wearing a thick navy parka and a Centaurs toque like Troy’s, although Harris had chosen to add a number of colourful pins to the brim. A pair of solid-looking ski gloves sat resting behind the gear shift. A glance downward revealed sturdy winter boots thick with insulation, in contrast to Troy’s Blundstones.

A trickle of doubt entered Troy’s mind. Maybe he’d be better off waiting until he could pick up some warmer winter gear. But Harris had gone to the trouble of planning an entire tour for Troy, and he didn’t want to mess that up. He also didn’t want to go back to his dismal hotel room. Compared to either outcome, the prospect of mild frostbite wasn’t especially offputting.

“I’ll be fine,” Troy said, hoping it came across as confident. “And besides, I get paid to spend my life on ice. I’m used to a little cold.”

Harris nodded, flashing him a smile. Troy tried not to dwell on the way his eyes seemed extra green in the bright morning sunlight.  “Well that’s good, because there’s plenty of ice where we’re headed.”

Troy laughed, settling into the familiar enthusiastic sound of Harris’s morning chatter. And if he noticed Harris subtly cranking the heat, he didn’t say anything. 

-

They parked in the Glebe, in the laneway of a red-brick Victorian house with three mailboxes mounted by the door. A small series of steps led to a compact wooden porch, currently occupied by a series of snow-covered recycling bins.  

“What’s this?” Troy asked, a little surprised.

“Oh,” Harris waved a hand dismissively. “This is my apartment. Well, the building, anyway. I’m in the third floor unit.”

Suddenly, Troy found himself very interested in the nondescript old home. Harris came here at the end of a long workday. Harris lived here. What would his apartment look like? Probably filled with colourful, quirky decor, knowing his personality.

“Earth to Troy,” Harris called, throwing open his door and stepping down from the truck. “You ready for the best day of your life?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Troy hurriedly did the same, shivering as the cold air immediately started seeping down the neck of his jacket. Fuck, it was freezing out.

“The tour’s all walking-distance from here,” Harris explained, gesturing expansively at the quiet, snow-covered street like it was something to marvel at. “This way we don’t have to worry about parking.”

“Sounds good,” Troy nodded, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. 

Harris eyed him thoughtfully, his perceptive green eyes flicking between Troy’s expression and the deep snowdrifts lining the street. “While we’re here, I’ve got some spare gloves in my apartment. There’s a scarf too, if you want it.”

Troy found himself in an unexpected conundrum. On one hand, he really wanted to see the inside of Harris’s apartment, and this looked to be a perfect excuse. He could picture Harris making coffee in an old, sun-drenched kitchen, happily situated among a collection of colourful bowls. His fridge was probably covered in magnets. He probably had real art on the walls, or photographs of his friends and family. Troy wanted to find out for himself.

On the flipside, he still had his pride to maintain, and he didn’t want to prove Harris right about the gloves. He knew it was stupid. It was every stereotype about fragile masculinity and bro culture rolled up into one colossally dumb decision. But he wanted to…he didn’t know. Impress Harris? Prove that he could endure this frozen hellhole of a town? Show himself that he could push through the cold like he’d pushed through everything else over the past two months?

Or something. 

He wasn’t going to interrogate that line of thinking either.

“Nah, all good,” he said instead. “Come on, you said you were going to give me the tour of a lifetime. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

Harris laughed brightly, his eyes seeming to sparkle in the morning sun. “Alrighty then, eager beaver. Grab your skates; we’re headed to Lansdowne.”

-

Troy didn’t know what the fuck “Lansdowne” was supposed to be, but as it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long to find out. They made their way through the neighbourhood until they came to a main street, its sidewalks already packed with families and Sunday morning shoppers. Cafés and restaurants advertised a plethora of competing brunch specials, while an array of shops promised sales on everything from cookbooks to snowboards. 

The whole way, Harris didn’t stop talking. “And there used to be a streetcar line down Bank Street,” he chattered animatedly, gesturing at a nondescript burgundy pole jutting out from the sidewalk. “Not since like the ‘50s, but still, it’s a nice bit of history. It was probably a lot better than the transit we have now, to be honest.” 

“Doesn’t Ottawa have light rail? Troy asked, because he thought he’d heard something about it at a team dinner once. He was pretty sure it had opened fairly recently, though he’d never ridden it for himself.

Harris’s cheer seemed to dim a bit. “Don’t get me started on the light rail.”

“Alright then.”

They passed a bank, then a soap store, then a sex shop advertising an assortment of garishly-coloured vibrators and lingerie. “Now that got quite a stir in the neighbourhood Facebook group,” Harris grinned, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Let me tell you, delicate sensibilities were offended when they opened a few years ago.”

Troy grinned back, fighting back a blush as they passed the enormous pride flag hanging between two scantily-clad mannequins in the window. “Oh really? Sounds like quite a scandal.”

“Yeah. Some folks thought the displays were pretty risqué. It made the neighbourhood newspaper and everything.” Harris’s tone was light and teasing, but Troy could have sworn the pink in his cheeks darkened a bit while they walked. Did Harris shop there?

“Risqué, huh?” He tried to remember the display in the window. It hadn’t looked especially salacious. “If that’s a scandal, they should see Toronto. Someone might have a stroke.”

Harris laughed again. “No kidding, buddy. The Glebe can be a bit stuffy like that, though. You’re moving to Centretown, right?”

“Yeah, why? Do they also have a low-grade scandal?”

Harris grinned conspiratorially. “Oh sure, every neighbourhood has a scandal. But Centretown is a bit more laid back than the Glebe. And it’s got the gay village.”

“Really?” Troy tried to keep his voice even as a sudden wave of anxiety coursed through him. He hadn’t realized he was apparently moving into the queer neighbourhood. “That’s cool, I guess.”

Harris kept walking, like he hadn’t just launched Troy into a mid-morning sexual crisis. “Yeah. It’s bumping when the parade goes through in August.”

Fuck. In Toronto, the gay village at Church & Wesley was very, very distinct. Distinct enough that he’d never spent time there, because if Dallas Kent ever found out he’d never have heard the end of it. Pride flags hanging from every shop window. Rainbow street art. A host of businesses with obviously queer names, like Woody’s or The Men’s Room. 

Was Ottawa the same? Had Troy just outed himself without even knowing it? 

“That’s cool.” A million questions flashed through his head. Wyatt and his wife had stayed in the same building Troy was planning to move to. Had Wyatt not known either? Or did people not make assumptions because Wyatt was married to a woman?

“It’s pretty quiet most of the time,” Harris continued with a smile, as though he could read Troy’s mind. “Feels just like any other urban neighbourhood, plus or minus a few queer stores and community groups. And there’s a rainbow crosswalk, I suppose.”

“Oh, okay.” Thank god. He kicked the heels of his boots a few times against the sidewalk, trying to force some circulation back into his feet. They’d barely been outside for ten minutes, and already he could feel the tips of his toes going numb.

“Want to nip into a cafe for a bit, buddy?” Harris asked, his voice tactfully neutral. 

“What, so you can get another latte?” Troy countered, fighting a smile. Much as the fussing was annoying, it was also a little endearing. “Is that why you’ve got us walking past all these restaurants?”

“You’d accuse me of tailoring the tour for my own selfish interests?” Harris laughed, and thankfully dropped it. “Of course not. But a latte is good for the soul, and besides, not all of us live like monks.”

“I’m not sure what kind of monks you’ve been hanging out with, but I don’t think they usually play NHL hockey.”

They came to a large series of new buildings fronting onto a large pedestrian plaza. Immediately, Troy could see why Harris had wanted to bring him here. It was exactly the kind of thing Harris would go nuts for. 

Christmas trees, red bows, and large wooden candy canes adorned the small white picket fence around the square. Rows of little wooden huts lined the perimeter, advertising a broad array of local goods. A band was playing on a snow-covered stage toward the centre. Wood smoke drifted through the crisp morning air, emanating from a series of firepits that had been set up in the centre of the plaza.

“Welcome to our first stop,” Harris exclaimed, gesturing sweepingly at the Christmas market. “Morning treats at Lansdowne.”

Troy had to admit, it really did look interesting. Maybe not as extravagant as the St. Lawrence Market in Toronto, but it had a certain down-to-earth appeal. He might even be persuaded to get a snack from one of the many baker’s stalls, if he could find anything that wasn’t absolutely loaded in sugar. Harris probably wouldn’t be much help with that particular task, unfortunately. The man’s palette seemed to perfectly match his disposition –sweet. 

They meandered through the plaza, stopping every few meters to check out different stalls. Harris kept up lighthearted chatter, pausing every once in a while to give Troy the behind-the-scenes gossip on a local vendor. It was simple. It was nice.

It would have been even better if Troy’s feet weren’t fucking freezing. His toes had curled to frigid points in his boots, chilled even more than he’d thought possible by the sedate pace of their walk. His hands weren’t faring much better; turns out his pockets could only do so much.

He looked at Harris, who seemed entirely at home in his thick parka. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the morning light as he talked animatedly about the vendors, waving his gloved hands through the frosty air.  His dimpled cheeks were flushed a deep pink from the cold, but it only made him seem more adorable.  Like two rosy apples that Troy increasingly wanted to take a bite from.

Just two guys casually hanging out, eh? Fuck.

Thankfully, Harris cut off his train of thought as they arrived at the next stall. “Oh look, wool mittens,” he remarked, in that infuriatingly familiar diplomatic tone. “Aren’t they cute?”

“They seem warm,” Troy acknowledged. The cheerful older couple manning the festive little display beamed. “Thank you,” the woman said. “They’re 100% alpaca wool. Soft and perfectly toasty.”

“Sounds awesome,” Harris remarked, because he was clearly committed to the hard sell. “Perfect for a day like today.”

Troy rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Alright, I admit it. It’s cold out. If I buy a pair will you lay off me?”

“Who, me?” Harris pretended to look affronted, but Troy could see right through it. “You’re accusing your tour guide of undue influence?”

“Yes. Exactly that.” Troy picked out a pair of white and navy mittens, then added a pair of thick-looking socks for good measure.

“My Google reviews may never recover,” Harris lamented, sighing dramatically.

“Good.”

“Ottawa Tourism will hear about this, you know. The organization takes this sort of thing very seriously.”

“That’s nice. Tell them I say hi.”

Troy paid for the mittens and socks, cheeks heating as the older couple giggled along with Harris’s increasingly elaborate protests. He turned to leave, but was stopped when the older man waved a second pair of socks hurriedly in their direction.

“Oh Harris, before I forget, could you take these over to your dad?” Troy’s jaw dropped as Harris beamed at the couple, accepting the socks and tucking them into one of his pockets. “Of course. He’ll really appreciate them; the current pair are on their last legs.”

“Always working too hard,” the woman tutted. “No wonder he goes through socks so quickly. But we appreciate his help trailering the new animals the other week.”

“I’m sure he enjoyed it,” Harris smiled. “You know how he is; always needs an odd job to keep him busy.”

Harris waved goodbye soon after, and they walked in silence for a few meters until they were absorbed into the crowd and safely out of view. Whereupon Troy immediately rounded on him accusingly. “You knew them all along?”

Harris threw his arms up in playful defense, smiling slyly. “Whoa there, buddy. No need to get excited about it. Their farm is down the road.”

“You set me up,” Troy accused, fighting down a laugh. “You really do have illicit connections.”

“Hey now,” Harris grinned. “I set you up with a great pair of handmade mitts. You should be thanking me.”

“I don’t know about that. Seems like you’re getting kickbacks.” But he slipped the mitts on anyway, and –wow. They really were warm.

“Better?” Harris asked knowingly. Troy laughed, shaking his head. “Let’s keep exploring.”

They circled the market some more, eventually ending up at a stand selling elaborately-topped hot chocolates. Harris got a sugary monstrosity featuring torched marshmallows, graham cracker crumbs, chocolate shavings, and whipped cream. Troy, because he was sensible, asked for a plain one.

They sipped them by a large firepit, where Troy tried to surreptitiously warm his frozen feet. The chill was worryingly persistent down there, and it seemed to be spreading steadily upward. Somewhere nearby, a very young child was having a meltdown while her frazzled mother tried to extract maple taffy from her hair. 

It was, all things considered, the best morning he’d experienced since arriving in Ottawa.

Without really meaning to, his mind drifted back to his time in Toronto. Mornings there had been different, for sure. He’d lived in a spacious condo a few blocks from Scotiabank Arena, in the heart of the entertainment district. Every morning he woke up to a sweet view of the CN Tower and the glittering blue expanse of Toronto Harbour beyond. He’d gone out to restaurants with guys from the team, partied with Dallas Kent, and enthusiastically embraced the nightlife. Well, as much as someone in his position could, anyway. It wasn’t as though he was dancing much, and he certainly never brought anyone home.

But he’d never quite felt like this. His circumstances in Ottawa were objectively worse, but– 

“You ready for the next stop on the tour, pal?”

Troy blinked, realizing Harris had already managed to finish his hot chocolate. A glance toward his own cup revealed it was still half-full and quite likely lukewarm. 

“Yeah, why not?” he grinned, tossing the remnants of his drink in a nearby bin. “What’s the next stop on your secret agenda?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, buddy. But it’s going to blow your mind.”

-

One very windy walk later, Troy could confirm his mind was blown. As was his hair, his ears, his beleaguered toes, and everything in between. Ottawa seemed to be one giant wind tunnel.

At the centre of the whirlwind was Harris, eyes bright with pride as he gestured sweepingly at a long, frozen expanse. “Here we are,” he exclaimed, as though he was announcing the seventh wonder of the world. “The Rideau Canal Skateway.”

“I think I’ve heard about this,” Troy said, watching groups of skaters make their way across the ice. It looked to be a large canal basin, fully frozen for the winter and plowed to create a skating surface. Staircases protruded down from the tops of the concrete walls, bringing would-be skaters down to ice level.

“It’s 7.8 kilometers,” Harris recited promptly, as though he was reading from a travel guide. “Over 15 kilometers round trip, if you’re going end to end.”

“I can believe that,” Troy murmured, watching a group of skaters emerge from what appeared to be a small chalet at the edge of the ice. Beyond its cheerful red exterior, the skateway stretched out in a long, twisting ribbon, eventually disappearing into the city at either end. “This is wild.”

“Glad you think so,” Harris beamed. “You might say I’m not such a bad tour guide after all.”

“I never said you were a bad guide. Just corrupt.”

“You take that back.”

“Never.”

To Troy’s great delight, the rinkside chalet was heated. He spent longer than necessary lacing up his skates in the warm, windproof structure, taking the opportunity to pull on his new wool socks from the farmers’ market. Outside the glass windows, a besieged group of parents valiantly attempted to corral a boisterous U12 hockey team. 

Kids who looked barely taller than Troy’s hipbones zipped across the ice, laughing and shouting as they darted around the frozen surface in what appeared to be a high-contact game of tag. Their bright white jerseys were pulled taut across thick jackets, giving the impression of a bunch of highly-mobile marshmallows. A tall redheaded man who seemed to be their coach called half-hearted instructions, to little effect.

Troy wondered what it was like, playing hockey without the pressure to perform. He’d always loved the sport, but even as a kid he’d known the weight of his dad’s expectations. He’d been playing AAA by the time he was ten and in discussions with scouts at twelve. Every practice, game, and training camp was an opportunity that couldn’t be wasted. He couldn’t recall ever just… horsing around, like the kids were.

Something small twisted in his stomach. It almost felt like envy.

“You ready, buddy?” Harris’s voice seemed softer than usual, and Troy realized he must have caught him staring. 

“Yeah. Totally.” He tore his gaze away from the rowdy kids, throwing Harris what he hoped was a confident grin. “What happens if my tour guide has trouble keeping up?”

To Troy’s relief, Harris laughed. “You might have to go a little easy on me. Not all of us skate for a living.”

Despite himself, Troy felt smug satisfaction curl low in his stomach. He was practically born on the ice. It didn’t matter that he was cold, or that the entirety of the NHL hated him, or that he lived in a hotel room at the edge of the known universe. On this ice, he could impress anyone. Including Harris.

He tried not to think too hard about why that mattered so much.

Troy took to the ice, ready to put on an impromptu skills demonstration for Harris. Finally, he was in his element. But before he could manage more than a few strides, Ottawa once again managed to thwart him.

Very quickly, Troy realized the ice wasn’t like that at the Censplex. It was harder, for starters. Like skating on granite. His blades didn’t so much cut into the ice as grind over it. The surface was also uneven as hell, relative to the professionally-maintained ice standardized across NHL rinks. 

“How do you manage this?” he gasped, narrowly catching his balance after snagging one of his blades in a small fissure. Beside him, Harris glided effortlessly across the bumpy surface.

“I’m used to it,” Harris shrugged, smiling encouragingly. “It’s natural ice. Haven’t you skated on a pond before?”

“Fuck no,” Troy replied, frowning at the canal as though it had personally wronged him.  “I grew up in Vancouver. A cold snap like this would have shut the city down.”

“Oh, right.” Harris took a moment to recalibrate, then forged on with his usual cheery optimism. “Well, don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

Troy didn’t dignify that with a response. He didn’t need Harris’s encouragement; he was a fucking NHL All Star. He could manage some pond ice. It was a classic Canadian experience, or whatever. The sort of shit sponsors ate right up.

He cut a series of long, smooth strides, bracing himself against the uneven surface and ignoring the chilly wind making its way down the neckline of his coat. His skate blades skittered uncertainly across patches of roughened ice, sending tension through his legs. Fleetingly, he wondered what would happen if he broke an ankle. Nothing good, probably.

He glanced backward to see Harris slowly skating after him, already surprisingly far behind. His pink cheeks were pulled upward in a proud smile, and when he caught Troy’s gaze he gave him a double thumbs up. 

Well, that settled it. Injury risk be damned, he was absolutely not going to back out now.

A familiar, instinctive rhythm settled over him as he picked up speed, the ice surface gradually improving as he made his way toward the centre of the skating track. Soon he had settled into his usual warm-up pace. And really, Harris hadn’t been wrong –once he got going, the ice didn’t seem so bad. 

It was nice, being able to skate as far as he wanted without needing to turn. The canal was huge and uncrowded, devoid of the usual spectacle of NHL hockey. The bright winter sun hung high overhead, glittering off the snowbanks lining the edges of the plowed skating surface.

Suddenly, the cold didn’t seem as biting. He’d always felt at home on the ice, and out here under the clear blue sky was no exception.

Something in Troy’s chest cracked open a bit. 

He did a few lazy circles, swooping across the large expanse and marvelling at the blur of scenery, then headed back toward Harris. His tour guide was about a hundred meters behind him by now, but Troy closed the distance like it was nothing, feeling an involuntary smile split his cheeks as Harris laughed. “You look like you’re having fun.”

“Maybe,” Troy admitted, gliding artful circles around him. “This is actually pretty cool.”

“High praise,” Harris grinned. “Looks like Ottawa’s not so boring after all, eh?”

“We’ll see. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on this.”

Harris beamed at him. “Well don’t worry buddy, we’ve got all winter ahead of us. We can come back again.”

Troy’s stomach swooped in a way that had nothing to do with skating. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

They made their way down the frozen canal, talking and laughing as they cruised through the city. Harris was definitely a slower skater, but Troy figured that wasn’t exactly a fair comparison to make. Not everyone found themselves strapping on an oxygen mask and pushing the limits of the human body on a skate treadmill every other week.

Besides, it was nice to just exist for a bit.

“How far are we going?” he asked eventually, as the picturesque houses and public buildings blanketing the edges of the canal gradually gave way to thick strands of trees. The cold was already seeping its way back into his skin, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not when he was actually having fun for the first time in months.

“I reckon we could head up to Dow’s Lake for a bit, then come back downtown for lunch.”

“Right.” Troy didn’t know where the hell Dow’s Lake was, but it couldn’t possibly be too far. “Did you learn to skate out here?” he asked instead.

To his surprise, Harris’s usual cheer seemed to wane at the question. “Nah, the canal isn’t open long enough for that. My parents taught me at the local community centre. And I’d go skating with friends sometimes, once I was older.”

Troy’s mind flashed back to one of his first real conversations with Harris, when they’d driven to a barbeque at Bood’s place a few weeks prior. They hadn’t talked much, but it had probably been the first genuine human interaction Troy had experienced in Ottawa. “Right. I forgot you never played hockey growing up.” 

Troy meant it innocuously enough, but he wished he could take the words back the second they were out of his mouth. Their effect on Harris was immediate; he went oddly quiet for a moment, his smile flickering into something a little less bright.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Right.” Way to go, Troy. Suddenly he felt like a massive dick. Something in Harris's tone had sounded almost wistful, like he’d wanted to play but hadn’t been able to. Was it the gay thing? Troy wouldn’t be surprised if it was; hockey culture started young and didn’t take kindly to non-conformity. He’d only made it as far as he had by acting like a fucking asshole. 

But Harris wouldn’t do that. He probably couldn’t if he tried; there didn’t seem to be a mean bone in his body.  He tried to picture Harris hiding himself to fit in and found it was difficult for a number of reasons.

Troy let out a breath, watching as it crystallized in the cold air. “I’m sorry.”

Harris glanced at him curiously, probably wondering if Troy was being genuine. “It’s okay.” He smiled again, more genuinely this time. “I was a huge fan though. You definitely don’t want to know what my bedroom looked like.”

“What, you’ve got a bunch of posters or something?” Even despite the lingering undercurrent of uncertainty, Troy absolutely wanted to know what Harris’s bedroom looked like. And given how well the tour was going, that interest seemed unlikely to wane. Not good. 

“I had posters,” Harris corrected with a laugh. “But can you blame me? What’s a lonely gay teen supposed to do, living out in the country?”

“Get a little extra friendly with some hockey posters,” Troy teased. “Think way too hard about stick handling.”

He flushed, suddenly worried he’d gone too far. But Harris positively cackled, his laughter booming out across the ice. “Maybe. But I don’t kiss and tell.”

You absolutely should, Troy thought desperately, as Harris threw him a playful wink. Images of Harris alone in his bedroom flew unbidden across his mind, each one more salacious than the last. You should tell me everything. He attempted a nonchalant laugh instead, trying not to let his sudden interest show.

Troy really should have been watching the ice, given the conditions. But he just couldn’t bring himself to look away from Harris. His cheeks were pink with cold, his eyes were bright in the sunlight, and there was just so much happiness etched in every line of his handsome face. He looked absolutely adorable, the discomfort from moments before long forgotten.

Of course, it all had to go to hell.

Abruptly, Troy’s blade snagged in yet another fissure. He pitched forward sharply, yelping with surprise, and just barely managed to keep from face planting into the ice. His knee took the hit instead, channeling all his forward momentum straight down onto the frozen waters of the UNESCO Rideau Canal.

It hurt like hell.

“Jesus fuck,” he gritted out, as Harris hovered uncertainly beside him.

“You alright, buddy?” he asked nervously, shifting on his skates. “I really hope so, because I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to coach Wiebe otherwise.”

“I’m fine,” Troy groaned, forcing himself to his feet. His kneecap was already radiating the kind of bone-deep ache that he knew from experience would end in a rainbow of bruises. It felt like it was about to fall off. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure? That looks like it hurts.” Harris eyed him worriedly as Troy tried to stretch out his leg and brush a layer of snow off his jeans. The fabric beneath was already soaked, because of course it was. 

“Yeah, totally. I’ve had worse.” Troy couldn’t help but sigh. Falling in front of Harris was just his luck. And right when things had been going so well, too.

Harris studied him for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “We’re only a few minutes from the next chalet. Let’s grab a BeaverTail and rest up.”

It was so typically Harris. Kind and considerate, and just too damn good. “You don’t need to do that,” Troy replied quickly, embarrassment running hot through his frozen veins. He didn’t even know what a fucking BeaverTail was, although knowing Harris it was probably very sweet. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

“Seriously, I want a BeaverTail,” Harris grinned, nodding up the canal in the direction they’d been heading. “Are you going to deny me my Sunday morning treat?”

Troy saw the deflection for what it was. He bit anyway, because he was finding it increasingly difficult to deny Harris anything. And because it had been far too long since someone had fussed over him –and horrifyingly, he kind of liked it. “I thought that was the hot chocolate.”

Harris huffed good-naturedly. “That’s my Sunday morning drink.”

Troy raised an eyebrow, finally following Harris back into an easy glide. “And what was the eggnog latte, then?”

“That’s coffee, it’s different.”

“Oh right, of course.”

They made their way up a narrow, tree-lined channel until the canal opened back up into a broad, flat expanse. Dow’s Lake, Harris clarified proudly. Or at least, Troy thought that’s what he said; it was difficult to hear him over the roar of the wind coming across the frozen lake. Valiantly, he tried to pull his collar tighter. It didn’t seem to help much.

Fuck, this city was really cold. And it was only mid-December.

They queued up in front of the BeaverTails shack, shuffling their skates against the windswept ice as the smell of fried dough wafted overhead. A bright red menu board boasted a selection of long, deep-fried pastry strips coated in an array of nauseatingly sweet toppings. Exactly the sort of thing that would have the team trainer in tears, and which would probably delight Harris to no end.

“Let me get it,” Troy said, nodding at the assortment of pastries. “It’s a thank you for the tour.”

Harris laughed, his cheeks dimpling adorably. “Oh buddy, you keep that up and I’ll start to think you’re enjoying this.”

“I am,” Troy said quickly, then bit his lip. “I mean, it’s fun.”

Harris beamed at him, then rocked forward on his skates to bump their shoulders together. “Even though your guide is allegedly corrupt? A baseless and slanderous allegation, by the way.”

“You can’t fight the truth,” Troy grinned. “But still, he runs a good tour.”

A gangly-looking teenager dressed head-to-toe in Ottawa Centaurs merchandise took their order, slouching against the red wooden serving counter to give them both a bored once-over. Fleetingly, Troy worried about being recognized, but despite the kid’s apparent enthusiasm for NHL apparel, he didn’t even bat an eye when Troy pulled out his wallet. 

They took the pastry to one of the heated chalets, where Harris did pornographic things to a fried mountain of chocolate, brownies and Nutella while Troy tried to work some feeling back into his legs. His bruised knee throbbed with the movement, but Troy was thankful for the distraction as Harris slowly licked Nutella off his hands, his pink tongue flicking over the pads of each fingertip.

It was a good thing all of Troy’s blood had left his extremities, or he’d be having a very visible problem. 

“So, where are we headed next?” he asked instead.

“I figure we’ll head back downtown,” Harris smiled, his tongue darting out to lick an errant crumb from the corner of his lips. “I’ve got plans for us.”

Troy swallowed heavily. “Cool.”

“It’s going to be rough though,” Harris sighed, returning his attention back to the remnants of his pastry. 

Unease prickled up Troy’s spine. Surely the city couldn’t get any colder. “What do you mean?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice,” Harris grimaced. “I keep forgetting you haven’t skated outdoors much. It was downwind the whole way here, which means unfortunately, we’re headed upwind the whole way back.”

Well, fuck.

Troy looked down at his feet. He still couldn’t feel his toes, though he supposed that was probably a mercy at this point. It was certainly preferable to the rest of his appendages, which were aching fiercely. Repressing the full-body shivers was a surprisingly difficult task.

“It’s no big deal,” he shrugged, willing himself to believe it. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

-

The trip back was, unfortunately, not fine. 

As soon as they’d left the chalet, the wind had managed to steal all of the residual warmth he’d reclaimed in the chalet. Barely ten minutes in, Troy was seriously debating calling an Uber to take them back to their starting point. The only thing that stopped him was Harris, who looked positively radiant skating next to him. His blonde hair shone in the sunlight where it protruded from beneath his toque, framing the edges of his face. And wow, even squinting against the wind, it was a handsome face.

Finally, when Troy feared his feet might drop off from the cold, they reached a large stone bridge protruding over the canal. Troy practically threw himself into one of the benches, tearing off his skates and squeezing his frozen toes in his lukewarm fingers. Gradually, the two extremities averaged out to a consistent bone-numbing chill. Warm enough to keep blood flowing without providing any sort of comfort.

“You doing alright, buddy?” Harris asked, looking cheerful as ever while he calmly unlaced his own skates.

“It’s fucking freezing out here,” Troy replied. He realized that might sound a bit harsh, so he managed a strained smile. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s good for circulation, I think.” 

Harris nodded slowly, but he didn’t look like he was buying it. “Probably best that we warm up for a bit, eh?”

Troy contemplated arguing, then decided to take the opportunity for a strategic retreat. “I wouldn’t mind. We could find a Starbucks or something. Sit down for a bit while we put another stop on your treat parade.”

“It’s not a treat parade,” Harris huffed. “This is a high-quality tour of Canada’s capital. Ottawa Tourism is paying me by the hour.”

“Do they know about all the kickbacks?” Troy joked, still rubbing fruitlessly at his cold toes. “Should I be reporting this somewhere?”

“Go ahead and try,” Harris grinned. “A famous NHL All-Star touring the downtown, taking pictures on the Rideau Canal and shopping at the Christmas Market? They’ll love it.”

Famous for all the wrong reasons, Troy thought. But Harris was still smiling at him, and for whatever reason, the self-flagellation didn’t land as hard as usual. “I can’t believe you,” he scoffed instead, grinning at Harris’s offended look. “You’ve got this town wrapped around your finger. It’s a conspiracy the whole way up.”

“You’ll never know for sure,” Harris laughed. “Now come on, I know just the place to warm up.”

-

He probably should have known better, Troy reflected, as he stared bemusedly into the glassy gaze of a taxidermied snowy owl. Of course Harris would have something weird up his sleeve.

His suggested warm-up spot wasn’t a cozy downtown cafe, as Troy had been expecting. Instead they’d walked a couple of blocks to the Museum of Nature, an elaborate stone castle-like building that towered over the surrounding neighbourhood. Its glamorous interior was exactly like the glossy tourism photos had advertised, with the addition of about a hundred screaming children racing about in snowpants.  

“It’s better if we go during free night,” Harris was saying, as they made their way through an enormous gallery of taxidermied birds. Glass eyes of all shapes and sizes stared down at him from enormous display cases. “It’s a little busier, but worth it for the savings.”

“It’s $24, I’m really not worried about it,” Troy murmured, transfixed by the owl. “Why do they even have all these?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they inherited them from some British collector,” Harris shrugged. “It’s probably on the wall somewhere.”

Troy managed to tear his gaze away from the owl, only to end up transfixed by an assortment of colourful songbirds, each one suspended in flight. “And this is your favourite gallery?”

Harris laughed, loud as always. “You looked cold. This seemed…summery. In a way.”

Troy rolled his eyes, but he was grinning too. There was something about Harris’s smile that made Troy feel at home. “A bunch of stuffed birds? Ottawa’s summers must be weirder than I thought.”

“You don’t know the half of it, buddy. I hope you like humidity.”

Some future sense of self-preservation pinged in the recesses of Troy’s mind, but he ignored it. He’d deal with summer when it came.

They kept meandering through the gallery, weaving their way through increasingly elaborate displays. Birds of every size, shape, and colour regarded him from elaborate tableaus, accompanied by Harris’s commentary. He clearly wasn’t a bird person either, because he largely seemed to be reading from the little informational panels next to the displays. But every once in a while he’d add his own colour commentary.

Like now, as they approached an enormous turkey-like bird with…unique assets. “Now here’s a looker,” Harris grinned. “It says he’s a Greater Sage Grouse. Seems he’s ready to hit the town.”

Troy stared. “I didn’t know birds could have those. Like, breasts.”

“Those are his gular sacks,” Harris read reproachfully, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation. “They’re a demonstration of his virility as a mate. And it’s rude to stare, you know.”

Troy cracked a smile. “Really? Seems like he’s kind of into it.”

Harris laughed loudly. As Troy was coming to expect by now, a few heads turned in their direction at the noise. “I can’t believe I’m bringing you on this awesome tour and you’re ogling other men. Let’s keep going, you goof. Before you get us thrown out.”

Troy felt his cheeks heat. Shit, did Harris know he was gay? Had he given something away? No, that was stupid. Harris was just playing around. 

Fucking hell. It was the the first time Troy had ever been clocked checking out another man in public, and it had been a fucking bird. What a milestone.

Harris continued to lead him through the exhibit, oblivious to Troy’s second sexuality crisis of the day. Troy followed cautiously, wondering how many more he’d experience before the tour was through. They hadn’t even had lunch yet.

Toward the end of the gallery, they came to a large display of songbirds placed carefully in concentric rings across a section of the gallery floor. It looked like an odd, feathery mosaic.

Troy had never bothered to pay much attention to birds before. There hadn’t been a point, really. But here, as his wet jeans gradually dried and his heart worked its way back down to a normal cadence, he found himself admiring the varied colors in their plumage.

“Wow, they’re really something.”

“Yeah,” Harris nodded. “It’s amazing how many birds migrate through the Ottawa Valley. Dad’s big into it.” 

It really was amazing, Troy reflected. Weird that they were all over the floor, though. The area had been roped off to prevent people from stepping all over the exhibit, but still. Odd.

Just then, a young woman who looked to be just out of high school came up beside them. “Excuse me,” she cut in smoothly, “My name’s Angela McKenzie. I’m a journalism student at Carleton University. Would you have a few minutes to share your thoughts on the new exhibit?”

“Uh,” Troy stalled, looking at Harris. He wasn’t really supposed to do interviews without running them through the Centaurs’ media relations team, although this didn’t really seem like a professional interview anyway. Had this woman even recognized him, or did she just think they were tourists visiting the museum?

“This is for one of your classes, right?” Harris asked, sounding far more composed than Troy would have been. “For the Capital Current?”

“You’ve done this before?” the girl asked, not sounding surprised. “Sorry to ask you again, then.”

“No worries,” Harris smiled. “Always happy to help. Ask away.”

The girl looked questioningly toward Troy, who had been trying to disappear into the background. When their eyes met, he found himself reluctantly nodding along. “Uh, sure. Okay.”

“Great. This won’t take long.” She clicked a microphone into the base of her phone, then held a small receiver up in their direction. A few more seconds of fiddling on the screen, and then she smiled. “Alright, that’s the audio sorted. I’ll make this quick; I just wanted to get your thoughts on the new exhibit. What’s running through your head right now?”

How the fuck I’m supposed to answer that question, Troy thought. 

“It’s a powerful message,” Harris replied smoothly, as though he’d had the response memorized. “The diversity of species here is incredible. I’m so glad we got to see it.”

“Perfect, thank you,” Angela nodded, as if this was nothing new. Troy supposed it probably wasn’t. Still, he couldn’t fight the rush of nerves when she turned her unsettlingly earnest gaze on him. “And you? How does it make you feel?”

Troy forced what he hoped was a confident smile. “It’s pretty cool. I like all the variety. Lots of colours, you know?”

Harris and Angela stared at him for a moment, seemingly taken aback. And then Harris’s lip wobbled precipitously. He looked like he was trying to hold back a laugh.

Shit. Troy’s stomach dropped. “What?”

Harris’s smile grew, but he managed to hold himself together. Mostly. “Oh buddy,” he wheezed, his voice tight. “These are all birds that have died from window strikes. It’s a message about conservation.”

“Oh.” Troy felt his cheeks heat. He met Harris’s eyes, and suddenly, the absurdity of the moment hit him. He was in a museum for the first time in a decade, toes still frozen, legs soaked from the knees down, and fresh off the biggest pair of gular sacks he’d ever seen. And now he’d given an interview to some student about how he apparently hated the city’s bird population. 

It was too much.

He barked out a strangled, sudden laugh. And then the dam broke, and Harris was laughing too, his loud voice booming across the gallery. More heads turned in their direction, but Troy couldn’t find it in himself to care. Even Angela looked amused, her lips quirked in a small smile.

“Oh pal, that was too good,” Harris gasped, cheeks rosy. His hand found Troy’s shoulder, where he leaned for support. “Best quote ever.”

“Shut up,” Troy griped, even as his heart fluttered traitorously. He could feel the heat from Harris’s hand seeping through his wool coat and into the muscle of his shoulder. He got himself under control, then turned to Angela. “Is it okay if we don’t use that?”

She let out a small laugh. “Don’t worry. Even if you hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have used it.”

Harris gave her his name while Troy stood mutely beside him, relieved to be off the hook. A few moments later Angela was gone, off to find fresh subjects to interview. Harris turned to him, lips quirked in a playful smile. “Well pal, you ready for lunch?”

“Please. I think the birds are judging me.”

“I don’t blame them.”

Troy laughed, relieved to put the taxidermy behind them. Although, maybe he could be persuaded to return one day. If Harris wanted to go.

-

They spent another 20 minutes walking through the biting cold, then grabbed lunch at a pub about a block from Parliament Hill. Troy ordered tomato soup in the faint hope that it might restore some feeling to his extremities, though he feared it was a losing battle. Across their tiny shared table, Harris was happily enjoying a grilled cheese that seemed to be more cheese than bread. 

To Troy’s immense envy, Harris still didn’t seem to be particularly cold.

He also didn’t appear to be even remotely curious about the white plaster hand sitting on a pedestal a few feet from their table. Encased in a small glass box, it lay beneath an enormous portrait of a man who seemed to be from a bygone era. 

“That’s kind of weird,” Troy observed, nodding at the display.

“Mmm?” Harris hummed indecipherably, cheese dribbling between his fingers. It shouldn’t have been as cute as it was.

“The hand,” Troy persevered. “What even is it?”

Harris spent another few moments chewing, then lazily licked an errant string of cheese from one fingertip. Troy tried not to stare openly as Harris’s pink tongue flowy flicked over the skin before disappearing between his lush lips. For the second time in as many hours, Troy fought desperately to get a grip on his imagination. 

Fucking hell, he wouldn’t be able to look at grilled cheese the same way for a long time. 

“That’s the death hand,” Harris explained casually, forcing Troy’s train of thought back to the present. “Victorians used to make these weird plaster casts of people when they died. Kind of a way to remember them, I guess.”

“Right,” Troy nodded, as though that was completely normal. “And that’s just regular decor around here?”

Harris laughed, his voice booming across the pub. “Not quite. But if it makes you feel any better, it’s a replica. The real one’s at the Bytown Museum.”

Troy looked at the stark white hand inside the glass case again. “So it’s a fake plaster cast? How’s that any less weird?”

Harris shrugged, but his eyes glinted playfully. “Look at you, suddenly so interested in Ottawa’s history. This tour must be really inspirational. The guide’s probably amazing.”

Troy snorted. “I just think it’s weird to have a fake death hand in a restaurant. Sue me.”

“Really making me work for that five star rating,” Harris sighed melodramatically, sitting back in his chair. “But alright, here’s the story. Way back in the 1860s, a nationalist politician named Thomas D’Arcy McGee was assassinated not far from here. Now, normally they’d do a plaster bust, but since he was shot in the head, well…there wasn’t enough left.” He shrugged, gesturing to the plaster cast.

Troy finished the thought. “Hence the hand.”

“Exactly.” 

“Weird thing to celebrate.”

Harris raised an eyebrow, his lips quirked in a smile. “You’ve got to hand it to the pub owners. They’ve got vision.”

Troy snorted, tracing a spoon through the last dregs of his soup. “You’re terrible.”

Harris gave him a look that suggested he wasn’t buying it for a second. “You love it.”

I do, Troy thought. He stared into his soup bowl instead, willing himself not to blush. “You’re not getting a five star review with that attitude.”

“Tough customer,” Harris chuckled. “But if you thought the death hand was weird, you’re going to love what comes next.”

“Oh yeah? What is it?” Against his better judgement, Troy tried to imagine their next activity. Hopefully it wasn’t anything too cold. Hell, he might even be up for another museum if it meant he’d get to spend time with Harris indoors.

Harris smiled mischeviously. “I won’t spoil the surprise. But just you wait.”

-

The surprise, as it turned out, was more horrifying than anything Troy could have imagined.

They stood in front of another large stone building, shivering in the wind with a collection of students and tourists as a black-robed tour guide spoke at length about the ghost of a teacher who died a century prior. They’d been on the Haunted Walk for nearly forty minutes already, and Troy felt as though his bones had turned to ice. It didn’t help that the sun was already setting, despite it only being four in the afternoon.

“They say you can still see her prowling around after dark,” the guide was saying, to a chorus of interested murmurs. Troy was only partly listening; most of his attention was fixated on her woolen cloak and fleece gloves. The flickering fake candle in her stage lantern looked enticingly warm, like a crackling fire in a warm chalet.

He could really use something like that. Maybe Harris was building them up to it. Maybe the unending saga of increasingly stationary outdoor activities was intended to throw him off his guard, and they would actually end the night in front of a roaring fire somewhere.

Fuck, he’d take one of Harris’s sugar-laden lattes if it meant he could feel his chest again.

“–don’t you think?” Harris whispered, drawing Troy back into the fresh hell of their guided walk.

“Huh?” 

Harris tried to chuckle quietly, but nonetheless managed to draw the attention of everyone in their tour group. The cloaked guide gave them an annoyed look, then resolvedly continued reciting architectural statistics on the gothic stone building in front of them. 

Troy didn’t care. He’d do a lot to keep Harris smiling at him, tour be damned. Unfortunately, he really wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Even his bones felt frozen.

“Should I be flattered?” Harris whispered, once other participants had been successfully enraptured in the nuance of Ottawa’s municipal heritage designation process. “I feel like you paid more attention when I was the one giving the tour.”

“You’re a good guide,” Troy admitted, trying to keep the fondness out of his voice. Harris beamed anyway, so maybe he wasn’t all that successful. Somewhere over his shoulder, the cloaked tour guide was scowling again. Oops. 

“Does that mean I’m getting my five star Google review?” Harris asked, waggling his eyebrows. 

“We’ll see.” Troy paused, fighting back a full-body shiver. Boldly, he added, “You’ll have to earn it.”

Harris’s resulting smile was downright devious. “Demanding, aren’t we? I take you all over the city and you’re still holding out. What’s a guy to do?”

An increasingly-familiar parade of fantasies marched across Troy’s mind. But for once, there was something even more appealing than Harris. He’d tried to hold off, but fuck, he knew when he was beaten. He glanced guiltily at the tour group, hoping it wouldn’t put a damper on Harris’s spirits. “I wouldn’t mind warming up somewhere, to tell you the truth.”

He braced for –he didn’t know what. Disappointment, probably. Around them, the remaining members of the tour group began to make their way down the sidewalk, presumably off to the next supernatural hot spot.

But Harris stayed put, smiling easily at Troy as though he was the only sight worth seeing. “It’s definitely getting pretty nippy,” he agreed. “We could grab a hot drink somewhere. Or we could go back to my place to warm up.”

Troy shuffled his frozen feet. Somehow, the cold had managed to subsume every part of him, including those which would conventionally have prevented him from staying something stupid. Which is probably why he felt bold enough to ask, “We could do both?”

“Yeah?” Harris beamed. His cheeks looked rosier than usual, and Troy optimistically thought it might not have anything to do with the cold. “I make a mean mulled cider. It’s a Drover Farms special; everyone loves it.”

A bitter gust of wind rattled through the frozen city, dragging curtains of snow from the rooftops and showering the streets below with fine white powder. Their breath mingled in icy clouds, and Harris’s beard glimmered as though it were beaded with a thousand frozen diamonds. 

For the first time all day, Troy didn’t feel the cold. He fought back a triumphant grin. “That sounds perfect.”

-

They took an Uber back to Harris’s apartment, because Troy would rather swallow his pride than spend another half hour trudging his way back through Ottawa’s frigid streets. He spent most of the ride trying to subtly lean into the heat vent nearest to him, not that it helped much.

Thankfully, he soon found himself leaning against the windowsill in Harris’s tiny kitchen, still wearing his peacoat as he watched Harris add spoonfuls of spices to a simmering pot of cider. His beleaguered toes were stuffed into a large pair of borrowed fleece slippers, worn at Harris’s insistence.

“I can’t believe you made it through the day in that little coat,” Harris remarked, his eyes glinting playfully. “I’m surprised you didn’t say anything sooner.”

Troy shrugged, fiddling with the sleeve of his coat. “I was having fun.”

Harris chuckled, rolling his eyes fondly. “You goof. There are plenty of indoor things we could have done.”

Troy raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Like museums?”

“Not just museums,” Harris smiled slyly. “Don’t underestimate the tour of parliament. We’ve had some pretty wacky prime ministers. McKenzie King used to hold seances with his dead dogs.”

Troy couldn’t help but laugh. “Right.”

There was an easy silence while Harris ladled cider into two large ceramic mugs emblazoned with rainbows. It was a testament to their day that Troy didn’t even bat an eye at the symbolism. Optimistically, he’d exhausted his quota of sexual crises for the next little while.

“Seriously though,” Harris continued, “I’m glad you had fun.”

“Me too.” And then, feeling more brave than he’d been in a long time, Troy hesitantly added, “We could do that on our next tour. The parliament thing. If you want.”

The smile that split Harris’s face seemed especially wide in the warm yellow glow of the kitchen lights. “Next tour?”

Troy swallowed. “Yeah. Um, if you’re accepting bookings.”

Harris bumped their shoulders together, and Troy realized his cheeks were rosier than usual…almost as though Harris was blushing. “Consider it a date.”

-

Harris had insisted on dropping Troy back at the hotel himself, despite Troy’s half-hearted attempts to call an Uber. They’d largely ridden in comfortable silence, watching the downtown slowly fade into the rearview as the truck’s heater whined with effort. It was comfortable. Easy. Troy couldn’t help but wonder if it would be this way coming back from a real date with Harris.

Maybe one day, if he played his cards right, he could find out.

The rest of the evening was uneventful, albeit restorative. He spent an indulgent half hour under the scalding spray of his shower, slowly thawing the ice from his bones. On the heated towel rack, his sodden jeans steamed dry. He stretched out his knee against the edge of the tub, pressing his fingers over the swollen bruise thoughtfully. It ached, but in a surprisingly good way. Like a souvenir. 

Just before bed, Troy found himself gravitating to the familiar view from his window. Beyond the glass, featureless lamp posts cast a dull yellow light across the empty strip-mall parking lot. The enormous snow pile loomed imposingly over the darkened storefronts, threatening an avalanche. Beyond that, he could just make out the faint glow of the highway. 

Harris’s words floated through his mind, unbidden. You’ll fall in love before you know it.

Troy smiled. He’d be moving downtown in a couple of weeks, to a building that was practically around the corner from Harris’s apartment. In the gay village, no less. He’d probably end up skating the canal again, and seeing another museum, and going on the cliche tour of Parliament Hill usually reserved for seniors and elementary school kids. It would be bitterly cold, and Harris would detour them to a slew of local cafes.

He couldn’t fucking wait.