The second time Geno went with Gonch to the grocery store, they passed a woman in the parking lot who smelled so rank, Geno tripped on nothing and nearly fell on his face. When he’d collected himself, he twisted to stare behind him, only to have Gonch pull him abruptly back around. “Don’t stare. It’s rude.”
“She smells like a toilet,” Geno marveled. Not even a toilet. Like the alley in back of a bar, regularly watered by drunks.
“They still do that here,” Gonch said. “Not often, but some of the traditionalists—”
“Do what?” Geno shot another glance behind him.
“Alphas. They mark their omegas with piss.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Geno asked, delighted by the shock of it. He turned for one last look. The woman was gone. “Fuck, that’s disgusting,” he said, but there was a tightening in his groin that said different.
Gonch was right – it wasn’t common. Still, at least once a week, Geno caught a whiff of someone that smelled like the inside of a urinal. He filed it away as one of those weird things Americans did, and he didn’t think about it.
Mostly he didn’t think about it.
Now, at the end of another broken season, Geno was thinking about it. “What?” Sid asked. “I thought we were kissing.”
“Kissing,” Geno agreed, and leaned in for more. Against Geno’s lips and under Geno’s hands, Sid was soft and pliant and eager and new. The sounds he made were endlessly fascinating, and Geno thought he’d never tire of trying to tease new ones out of him. And he smelled – fuck, ripe, all the time. His heats were orderly, as carefully maintained as a Swiss watch, but even now, three months out from the next one, his body was rich with the promise of the best things, of fertility and babies, and Geno wanted nothing more to spend those next three months with his nose buried in Sid’s crotch.
But he definitely wasn’t going to do that. Fuck.
Sid pulled back again. “What is it?” he demanded.
Sid looked unimpressed by Geno’s masterful deflection. “Look, if you want to fuck, then I want you thinking about me. Not about some random time Staal crosschecked you in game five and pissed you off.”
“Not think about playoffs,” Geno said, offended that Sid thought he would think about playoffs while he had Sid so willingly beneath him. Geno definitely had never done anything like that before. At least not recently. Or in the last twenty-four hours, anyway.
But Sid just kept looking back, eyebrows high.
Geno sighed. “I’m gonna miss you this summer.”
Sid softened. “Aw, G.”
Geno gathered Sid up in his arms – which, given Sid’s size, only happened because Sid allowed himself to be gathered – and pressed his nose to Sid’s neck. Geno’s scent marking was still strong and bright; he rubbed his jaw gently against Sid anyway. “Can’t believe whole summer.”
“Just until my heat,” Sid reminded him.
“So long,” Geno moaned.
Sid stroked Geno’s hair. “I have training to do, and you have—Russia stuff to do. It’ll be fine.”
Omegas were supposed to be the clingy ones. It wasn’t fair. “You not even smell like me then.” Geno couldn’t help but clutch Sid a little tighter at the thought. “No one even know you’re mine.”
“I’m pretty sure everyone’s going to remember I’m yours, G,” Sid says drily. “It’s not like Don Cherry lets anyone forget.”
“People in LA, they don’t know. They don’t even watch hockey.”
Sid scooted back and squinted at Geno. “You don’t think I’m going to forget, do you?”
“No!” Geno said, appalled. “No.” He stroked Sid’s arms. He knew better than to suggest that Sid might find an alpha’s scent right in front of him that appealed more than the memory of Geno’s, a continent and an ocean away.
“Well, I might forget,” Sid said thoughtfully, and Geno’s hair practically stood on end. “I mean, what kind of fucking have you given me lately?”
Geno growled and pushed Sid down onto the bed.
Afterwards, his back pressed to Geno’s chest and his ass still locked around Geno’s knot, Sid said softly, “I’m going to miss you, too, you know.”
“I know.” Geno’s hold on Sid’s waist tightened a little. He spread his fingers over Sid’s belly, wistful, though he knew as well as Sid that that wish couldn’t come true for years yet.
Even more softly, Sid added, “And I’ll miss you scenting me. I like everyone knowing.”
“Yes,” Geno agreed mournfully.
“But you can mail me your shirt or something sometimes. That’ll help.”
“Mm.” Geno knew exactly how little of his scent would transfer over to Sid via clothing. Of course he’d do it, because he and Sid both would find it a comfort, but it wasn’t the same.
“What?” Sid asked.
Sid huffed. “You have a better idea.”
“No.” Geno’s face heated, and he pressed it against Sid’s skull.
Sid reached up and poked Geno in the arm. “You have an idea. Come on, out with it.”
Geno’s pulse beat loud in his ears. Into Sid’s hair he mumbled, “Not good idea.”
“I want piss on you.”
Sid went very still in Geno’s arms.
“I know is old thing, very gross, most no one do it—”
“Fuck,” Sid breathed. His breath was sharp under Geno’s palm. “Fuck.”
It’d have to be that night; Sid was flying out to Worlds the next day. As usual, Sid arranged things. He decided Geno’s oversized shower was obviously the place and that they should both be naked – “Maybe I’ll let you do my clothes another time,” Sid said, and then he kept right on going, oblivious to Geno’s sudden, nearly painful hard-on.
He made Geno drink a lot of water. “I mean, I guess it’s a question of whether we’re going for concentration or volume, but—” He broke off, and his cheeks pinked.
“But you want be soaked,” Geno finished smugly. “Drip everywhere.”
“Fuck,” Sid said, staring at Geno, agenda forgotten.
Two tall glasses in, Geno followed Sid to the entertainment room. He settled in on the sofa and pulled Sid in close, and he worked on the third glass while Sid channel-surfed. When he finished that one, Sid asked if he wanted more.
Geno took a deep breath, weighed the heft of that water working its way down through him. He thought about Sid, coated in it, in Geno. “Sure,” he said. He’d hate to run out before he was finished.
Midway through the fourth glass, he was definitely feeling it. The pressure in his bladder crept up on him, dull, not quite painful, and then suddenly he noticed he was clenching to hold it in. He squirmed.
“Yeah?” Sid asked, voice cracking a little.
Geno grunted. “Wait little bit.” He finished the glass and set it aside. He tucked an arm around Sid and breathed him in, his sweat and the remaining hints of his aftershave, the faintest tang of garlic from dinner last night, coming out now on his skin. This was Geno’s last glimpse of his Sid before he drenched him in his own pungeance and sent him out into the world.
He pressed a kiss to Sid’s neck, just under his ear.
Sid shivered. “Now?”
“Antsy,” Geno teased. “You want so bad?”
Sid scooted away and turned around to look Geno. His eyes were very dark. “Geno,” he breathed.
Geno was abruptly done with waiting. He stood, took his hand, and led him to the bathroom. “Clothes off,” he reminded Sid. Sid began to strip, although the button of his jeans seemed to be too much for him. Geno sat on the closed toilet seat, pulled Sid in by his belt loops, and opened his button and his zipper. Sid shoved his jeans and his briefs down in one graceless motion and kicked them away, and he stood there in front of Geno, his mouth gapped open.
“Gorgeous,” Geno said. He stepped in closer. “Mine.”
Sid lifted his chin. “So you gonna claim me, or what?”
“In the shower,” Geno told him. “On your knees.” He realized he was still wearing his own clothes, and he hurried out of them. Then he turned and found Sid in the shower kneeling on the shower’s tile floor, hands splayed on his knees and eyes fixed on Geno’s dick, now swinging free.
Fuck, he wanted to fuck Sid right now, but he couldn’t. He reminded his dick what they were here for, which didn’t fucking help.
Perhaps in years ahead the day would come when Sid submitting and waiting and hopeful didn’t turn him on like a switch flipping. In fact he hoped it never did. That did not, however, help him now. He gestured towards his half-chub and shrugged helplessly. “Can’t piss like this.”
“No?” Sid beckoned, and Geno couldn’t have resisted if he tried, though he didn’t see what Sid could possibly do except get him harder. He stepped into the shower, slid the door closed, and planted his feet in front of Sid. Sid slid his hands up Geno’s thighs and rest them on his hips, and then he spread his thumbs across Geno’s belly and began to press.
Geno grunted at the spike of feeling, almost pain, lancing through his belly. “Fuck.”
“Feel how full you are?” Sid said, grinning up at Geno. “Do you really want to hold it?” He pressed a little deeper. That weight at the bottom of Geno’s gut seemed to double instantly, and he bowed his head at the new pressure. “I mean, you have to be pretty full by now. What’d you drink, like forty ounces in the last hour and a half?” Sid pressed the flat of his palm to Geno’s belly.
Fuck, Geno really had to piss. He swallowed. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath; heard Downs’ voice in his head, from that one time he’d volunteered to lead yoga – a boner killer if ever there was one. He inhaled again. Exhaled.
Opened his eyes, and there was Sid staring up at him, his hand still in place but his eyes huge – his Sid. Geno took himself in hand and shifted his weight.
A yellow stream began to trickle, and he shifted his grip to arc it over Sid’s back. Sid flinched as the first drops hit. Then he bowed his head. Geno tried to hold himself in check, to draw this out. His piss flowed down Sid’s back in pungeant rivulets, tracing paths of least resistance around the knobs of his spine, the wings of his shoulder blades.
“Everywhere,” Sid croaked. “I want it everywhere.”
“Tell me you want,” Geno commanded, as though he was in any better shape than Sid.
“Please, Geno,” Sid said, and the honest, naked plea in his voice was such a shock that Geno clenched himself shut again. Sid looked up, eyes full of want and something like longing. “Make me yours, Geno. Make everyone know.”
With his free hand, Geno threaded his fingers through Sid’s unruly curls and tightened his grip. Sid’s mouth gapped open. His breath came in soft pants.
“Close eyes, Sid,” Geno said.
In the end, it was another kind of exhale. Geno let go.
Piss poured down Sid’s face, across closed eyelids and trickling into his open mouth, dribbling from his chin. Geno angled piss over the crown of Sid’s head. He wanted to soak Sid’s hair with piss; he wanted Sid to fucking bathe in it. In two seconds Sid’s hair was plastered to his skull.
Geno was running low now. He released his grip on Sid and stepped around him, let piss splash where it would across his back, his ribs, his thighs. “Straight,” Geno said. Sid sat up, and Geno caught his chest in the final yellow dribbles.
Geno stared down at Sid, his dick limp in his hand, his bladder empty, his nose full of the stench of himself. “Sid?”
Sid lifted a hand to his face and tentatively wiped his eyelids. “Towel?” he said.
Geno grabbed the used one still draped over the shower frame. It was fine. He could buy more towels. “Not too much,” he said. “I mean—”
“Not too much,” Sid agreed. He patted very gently at his face, and then he opened his eyes. He stared at Geno with a kind of wonder, and then carefully he spread his knees and showed Geno his hard-on, red and dripping.
“Sid,” Geno breathed.
“Yours,” Sid said, pushing shakily to his feet. He stumbled into Geno’s arms, and Geno had to back up against the shower wall to keep his balance. Sid shoved his hard-on against Geno’s thigh. “Yours,” he repeated.
Geno couldn’t help but take him then and there, Sid’s face pressed to the shower wall, his skin clammy with cooling piss.
For the record, shower stalls are fucking uncomfortable places for knotting.
The next morning, absurdly early, Geno drove Sid to the airport. Other times he might have dropped Sid off at the curb; today he found a spot in covered parking and walked Sid in.
Sid reeked. Fresh clothes did nothing to mask it. Sid held his chin high, his lip curled in a smirk that Geno only recognized because he knew where to look. Every so often they’d pass some nice little elderly omega with a rolly carry-on who’d turn and stare. An alpha with a briefcase cast considering glances first at Sid, then at Geno as she strode past.
A tow-headed family speaking stood clustered next to security. As the central air carried Sid’s scent to them, a little boy said, high and piping, “They smell gross!”
Sid turned and gave Geno a sharp grin, full of teeth and filthy with promise. Then he stood up on his toes and gave Geno a kiss that was much too earnest for filth or teeth. “Three months, right?” he said quietly, just for Geno.
“Three months,” Geno agreed, closing his hands around Sid’s hips.
“It’s not that long,” Sid said, all evidence to the contrary. “And next time I see you, maybe I’ll let you put a baby in me.” Geno pulled back, shocked, and Sid turned a little sheepish. “Okay, no. But I’ll let you try, anyway. As many times as you want.” Then he gave Geno one last peck on the lips, hoisted his bag, and headed for the VIP line.
Geno watched him cut a fragrant swath through the crowd. Three months could not be over soon enough.