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Harris has to hand it to Kyle, because the man has completely outdone himself. The normally chill and laidback atmosphere of the Kingfisher has been utterly transformed for Pride. The dozen or so pride flags that typically dot the walls have multiplied to the point that pretty much every surface of the bar is now covered in rainbows. Rainbow bunting and streamers hang from the ceiling while several portable strobes paint the bar in kaleidoscoping rainbow light. The effect is both incredible and incredibly gay.
The music is louder than usual tonight too, and most of the tables have been moved, shoved up against the walls to create more space for dancing. Pounding club beats pump from the bar's new speakers and across the writhing sea of bodies pressed together on the makeshift dance floor. The dance floor from which Harris is currently attempting to extract himself.
“Seriously, I need another drink!” Harris shouts, laughing, over the music, as his very drunk and very handsy boyfriend once more reels him back in and plants a sloppy kiss on his mouth. He allows himself a moment of distraction, kissing Troy back messily. Then with a laugh into Troy’s open mouth, he gives his boyfriend a gentle shove, pushing him back and into Ilya and a currently-on-break Kyle who have been dancing beside them.
“Watch him for me?” he yells, mostly to Kyle, because Ilya's as least as wasted as Troy is, maybe even more. Kyle nods at him, and a moment later, Troy is swallowed by the crowd, allowing Harris to finally shuffle, shove, and elbow his way over to the bar. He grabs another Drover family cider from the guy filling in for Kyle – because, of course, Scott and Eric pay to import that now – and takes a long pull. Then he takes another. He hadn't realized just how thirsty he was until he felt the cool liquid touch his parched throat.
He's also sweaty, sticky, and even a little bit winded, and now he's starting to wonder if maybe he should take a break before heading back onto the dance floor. Scanning the bar for the rest of their group, his gaze catches on Shane leaning against the wall a few feet to his right. The beer he'd been drinking earlier has been swapped out for a can of ginger ale, and he appears to be enjoying watching his husband's antics on the dance floor judging by the bemused smile on his face. Harris makes his way over and settles in beside him.
“Couldn't keep up with them?” Shane asks by way of greeting.
Harris laughs and shakes his head. “We can't all be professional athletes,” he replies.
Shane grins at him. “To be fair, some of us are professional athletes,” he says, gesturing at himself, “and still can't keep up when the two of them get going.”
Harris throws his head back and laughs even harder, because Shane's not wrong. They'd established as much the first time the Centaurs’ won the Stanley Cup, after Harris and Shane had awoken the next morning to find their respective significant others still upright and drinking straight from a bottle of banana schnapps that neither of them could remember choosing to acquire. Once Troy and Ilya have committed to having a good time, they are a force.
Suddenly, the beat pulsing through the bar shifts in a way that Harris feels more than hears, and then a new song drops. Harris can't say he recognizes this one, but the other patrons clearly do, because delighted screams go up from the crowd, and Harris feels the already frenetic energy on the dance floor increase impossibly more. Looking out, Harris tries and fails to spot Troy among the mass of bodies. He's debating the merits of diving back into the fray to find him when he hears even more wild screaming and a moment later, realizes why: Ilya has climbed up on the bar and is now pulling Troy up behind him.
They're so fucking lucky Scott and Eric own the place, or their asses would have been getting bounced about thirty seconds ago.
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane groans and buries his face in the hand not holding a ginger ale. Harris pats his shoulder with a laugh.
The two of them look positively ridiculous up there, especially Ilya, who is currently wearing a tank top that reads very nice and gay below a picture of a dog, Mardi Gras beads in bisexual colors, and rainbow sunglasses – inside, at night. Troy’s rainbow mesh crop top and full body glitter looks positively ordinary by comparison.
Kyle's back behind the bar now, feeding them shots of vodka, which they proceed to down one after another, spilling probably twice as much of the liquor as they manage to actually consume. At this point, they're barely even dancing, just scream-singing incomprehensible lyrics at each other in between knocking back shot after shot. Finally, Ilya just steals the whole damn bottle and chugs a truly concerning amount of alcohol before handing it to Troy who proceeds to do the same. The crowd is going absolutely insane, and Harris dearly hopes no one is recording, because he's pretty sure it'll be easiest to just go ahead and quit his job if this scene goes viral.
“Does one or both of you need to go collect your man?” Harris hears Scott’s voice ask. He tears his eyes away from the spectacle on the bar to find Scott standing with his arm around Kip on the other side of Shane.
“Absolutely not,” Shane tells him with conviction. “When they're like this, they're each other's problem.”
Harris laughs in agreement, because that's something else they'd established after that first Cup win. What he doesn't add though is that he genuinely loves seeing Troy like this.
Because Harris can still remember the version of Troy he'd first met just a few short years ago right after he'd been traded to Ottawa. The Troy he'd met then had been quiet, withdrawn, and miserable, radiating self-loathing from eyes that always looked one wrong word away from spilling over with tears. He'd been heartbroken, friendless, and so painfully desperate for any sort of human connection that he'd glommed onto the team's social media manager of all people just because Harris had extended to him a simple baseline level of kindness. Not that Harris is complaining about that part, of course, but the fact remains that when he thinks about that sad, lonely version of the man he loves so deeply, his heart hurts in a way his cardiologist can’t fix.
So Harris will never once take for granted the opportunity to experience this version of Troy. The Troy up there on that bar right now is happy and free, completely at ease with himself and exuding unrepentant joy from every pore rather than barely suppressed pain. He has Ilya beside him, Harris waiting for him, and dozens of other friends who love and support him, even if some of that support is currently coming in the form of ill-advised amounts of alcohol. As Harris watches this Troy dance and sing and celebrate himself, he wishes impossibly that he could record this moment and send it back in time to show the Troy he’d first met, the one who would never have believed he could be allowed to have this.
Look at everything that's waiting for you.
Eventually, the music changes once more. Kyle, with some prompting and assistance from Eric, helps Troy and Ilya down from the bar, and the pair of them make their stumbling way over to where Harris and Shane are standing.
“I lost you,” Troy pouts at Harris once he's close enough to be heard over the music, reaching out with both arms and making a grabby motion. Harris chuckles and steps forward into Troy’s arms, letting his own come up to rest on Troy's shoulders as their foreheads tip together.
Beside them, Ilya is flattening himself against Shane who in turn is grousing, “Stop it, you're sticky!” But he's laughing as he says it and making zero moves to push Ilya away.
Troy’s a sticky mess as well, but Harris doesn't particularly care, not when Troy is now kissing him, deep and open-mouthed and possibly a bit too filthy for a public space. Harris moans shamelessly into his mouth. As they break apart, Troy slides his hands down Harris's waist, looping his fingers through Harris's front belt loops, and leans just slightly back.
“Was that too much?” he asks with a nod of his head back towards the bar.
“Definitely not,” Harris says with a shake of his head, chasing Troy's lips for another kiss. “I like seeing you happy.”
Troy obliges him with the kiss – and then another and another – as he tugs Harris forward until they're pressed flush together from chest to pelvis. Harris can't help but notice that they're both half-hard. “Bet you can make me even happier,” Troy murmurs against Harris's lips as he grinds their hips together.
And, yeah, Harris thinks he can probably do that.