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Long in the Tooth

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“How’s it hanging,” Marty said, tucking himself into the bench next to Lu.

“Little to the left,” Bobby said. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’,” Marty sid.

On the ice, Sid skidded to a stop in front of Jamie Benn and said something. Benn nodded, serious as fuck, and then they went right back to taking shots on Carey, who stoned them like a motherfucker.

Marty whistled.

“Yeah,” Bobby said.

“Huh,” Marty said. He scratched his cheek.

How’re you taking it? he didn’t say. Doesn’t bother you, does it? 

It didn’t. It didn't bother Bobby, being the assumed second-string to a kid like that. Bobby was a hundred years old, and Jesus Price was the real deal.

Also, he already had a gold medal. Bobby had never had the temperament that made him want to fight with people just to prove himself.

Carey — well, Carey was still learning.

Pricer finally gave one up, and as Sid and Benn high fived, Bobby watched him try to set the ceiling of the rink on fire with his mind.

Hell, who didn’t have something left to learn?

“Wow,” Marty said. Everyone knew that Bobby and Marty got along, as the resident old dudes, but god, Bobby kind of loved the man, sometimes.

“Uh huh,” Bobby replied.

“And you’re rooming with him?” Marty said, sparing Bobby a look of faint pity and concern.

“Mm,” Bobby said.

“You gonna teach him your zen ways?”

“Valium couldn’t teach him my zen ways,” Bobby said. “That is an angry young man. It’s like rooming with a Rush song.”

Marty smiled. Carey sprayed some water on his face and turned back to the fight.



The fight never ended for Carey, was what Bobby was getting. Carey was the best there was, in Canada and what was looking like the whole fucking world, and that still wasn’t good enough.

It would never be good enough. He could be — he was breathtaking; he had a nation watching him in awe. They wiped Norway all over the ice in the group stage and the stadium was on its feet and it still wasn’t enough.

It was what it wasn’t enough for that made Bobby not give a shit. He couldn’t ever prove himself to the crazy nationalists or the racists. He was never going to be good enough for that, but, you know, fuck it. People would still talk that shit, because that’s what people liked to do, but some people were beneath his notice.

There had been days that whole teams were beneath his notice. There had been moments when entire crowds were dismissed, because they didn’t know shit. Yeah, sure, he had bad days, but he knew when they were. 

Carey didn’t know, or he didn’t care. He did splits in the hotel room, ate only trainer-approved meals, and called his parents every single day. He was a good kid, and he was a hardworking kid, and he was gonna have to learn, someday, that some people weren’t worth the noise that came out of their mouth-holes when they fucking talked.



Carey gave up one goal in the game against Norway, and it did not sit well with him. He worked harder; he did more splits in the hotel room.

“Jesus, kid,” Bobby said, “are you trying to hurt yourself?” and Carey looked up and flushed a bright, guilty red.

He looked like he was going to try to explain himself, but what the fuck ever to that.

“Go to bed,” Bobby told him, instead of waiting to hear about it. 

“I — okay,” Carey said.

“You won, kid,” Bobby said. “You won, okay? That’s all there is to it.”

Carey nodded, his face shadowed, and went to brush his teeth.

Jesus, Bobby thought.



Once upon a time, long ago, John Tortorella had cornered Bobby in front of the entire Canucks locker room and said, “Sometimes, Luongo, it seems like I can’t fucking tell you anything.”

“Well,” Bobby had said, “I guess sometimes you’re right,” and that had been the beginning of the real, true end.

Bobby liked to listen to “Can’t Tell Me Nothing” before big games now, in Torts’ honor.



PK slid into the seat beside him on the bench and stole one of Bobby’s headphones the next morning, at the half-practice before they played Austria for the group stage.

“My boy,” PK said in a voice of deep appreciation, and Bobby felt a warm bloom of total understanding unfold in his chest as PK doubled down and rocked his shoulders to a music only they could hear.

Carey didn’t listen to anything but Dwight Yoakam and gospel, or Bobby would sit him down with Kanye West and teach him something about the unending and necessary hubris of self-confidence.



Bobby shut Austria out, 6-0. It was easy; they made it easy for him.

Carey folded himself into a pretzel on the floor of their room, his face a concentrated mask of ill-concealed rage.

“It helped that they sucked,” Bobby said from the bed. Carey’s head snapped up.

“What?” Carey said.

“Austria,” Bobby said. “It was pretty convenient of them to be fucking abysmal at hockey. You know.”

“Okay,” Carey said.

“Anyway, you’re stressing me out,” Bobby said. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Stretching?” Carey said, a note of skeptical assholery creeping into his voice.

“It’s night time,” Bobby said. “Night is for sleeping, or for fucking, I guess, but given that it’s night time in our charming Russian Olympic internment camp and I’m not really in the mood, you should get your ass up off the carpet,” he fixed Carey with a look that he hoped conveyed how sketchy Bobby found the carpet, “and go to sleep.”

“Is this how you win?” Carey sniped, pulling himself up. “You just sleep 14 hours a day, like a cat?”

“That’s why I’m so limber,” Bobby yelled as the bathroom door closed. “Fucking feline!”



Even Bobby would admit that the game against Finland was… tense. 

They won it, though. They got it done, and overtime was still time; the game was on until it ended, and when it ended they were on top.

Bobby watched Pricer stalk off the ice and scowl his way through his shower and wondered how flame-retardant their hideous furnishings really were.



“Look,” Bobby started.

“What,” Carey cut in.

“We have three days off,” Bobby said reasonably, closing his book and crossing his legs on the bed. 

Carey was at a natural disadvantage, being as he was lower down and also still in a goddamned split, but he had one hell of a fuck off face despite it all.

“I’m not telling you not to train,” Bobby said. “I’m just telling you not to be completely insane about everything for the rest of your life.”

Carey blinked at him, and then the stiffness in his shoulders seemed to give way, to sag.

“So, what, are you just gonna sleep for three days?” Carey said, his voice a little — a little bit lost, and oh. Oh, kid.

“No, but I am going to sleep tonight,” Bobby said. “What’s the deal, seriously? We had practice at the rink. You don’t need to kill yourself again here.”

“I can’t just sit around,” Carey said. He tucked his legs up underneath himself and sat up straight, ready as anything, ready to fucking go. Bobby wanted to shake his head, and maybe shake Carey, too.

“Have you considered taking up a hobby?” Bobby said. Carey raised both his eyebrows and scanned their room with a truly impressive look of disdain.

“I could always count the ceiling tiles again,” Carey offered dryly.

“All right, fine,” Bobby said. “I thought ahead and brought a book, but I will accept that there aren’t a lot of new pursuits to find when you live inside a cardboard box.”

“Yeah, I’m not seeing any real great ideas,” Carey agreed, slouching back into his seat on the manky fucking carpet.

“Well, don’t leave it up to me,” Bobby said. “You can lie on the floor all you want, I just want you to be still.”

“‘Lie on the floor’ isn’t really a hobby,” Carey said.

“It’s going to be, kid, if you can’t think of anything else.”

“That’s your suggestion? Lie on the floor?”

“Yes. Lie facedown on the fucking floor,” Bobby told him. “You like it down there so much anyway.”

“Fuck you,” Carey said, but he rolled forward and stretched out to pillow his cheek under his folded hands, like he was napping in the sun.

“Hands by your sides,” Bobby said. “Pillows are cheating.”

“What? Fuck you,” Carey said again, surprise in his voice.

“Creature comforts are for the weak,” Bobby said from the bed where he belonged.

“Blow me,” Carey retorted, but he dragged his hands out from under his head and put his cheek on the carpet.

“You can turn your face to the side,” Bobby said magnanimously, even though Carey already had.

“How long am I doing this for?” Carey groused.

“Until I’m done,” Bobby said, opening his book again. 

“I hope you die,” Carey said flatly.

“And I hope you come up with a better way to occupy your time,” Bobby told him. "We’ll see which happens first, eh?”



“What’s your book about?” Carey said after a silent fifteen minutes. Bobby hadn’t expected that kind of longevity to this tangent; he’d kind of assumed Carey had fallen asleep.

“The Panama Canal,” Bobby said.

Carey paused for a moment. “How’d that go?” he asked finally, clearly struggling for a conversation-starter.

“Well,” Bobby said, “everyone was an asshole, got killed, or both, but somehow the book’s still boring.”

“Hm,” Carey said. Bobby cleared his throat.

“‘Then’,” Bobby started, “‘Monsieur de Lesseps is one of those men —’”

“I’m not a little kid,” Carey said. “I don’t need a bedtime story.”

“Fooled me,” Bobby said. “‘— is one of those men who know how to please. He begins by enjoying hugely those popular attentions, and because he wishes to retain them he tries to deserve them.’”

“Is this supposed to be educational,” Carey said from the floor.

“No,” Bobby said. “It’s supposed to make you quiet. ‘Which’ — you interrupted, this is referring to the previous sentence —”

No, really,” Carey said.

“‘Which was perhaps as good an explanation as anyone ever offered of why the old hero did what he —‘“

“Who wrote this?” Carey cut in.

“David McCullough!” Bobby said. “It’s fucking insulting; his other books were actually good. Anyway, the rest of the paragraph is about how all the laborers died, the end.”

“Great story,” Carey drawled.

“Beats the Split City workout,” Bobby said. Carey was still down there, his chest pressed into the carpet. He looked moderately comfortable. His arms were by his sides and his eyes were half-closed.

His foot twitched, and Bobby caught the tension in the long line of his legs.

He looked — he wasn’t moving, but he was fucking ready. Bobby let his gaze linger too long and Carey glanced up and met his eyes.

Oh, Bobby thought. Hell.

He looked like he was dying, like the only thing keeping him from sitting up and going right back into it was Bobby’s half-open mouth, Bobby’s next word.

“Kid,” Bobby said. 

I’m not a little kid, he thought suddenly, but Carey was silent. Bobby closed his book and put it on the bed beside him.

“It’s bedtime,” he said, which got him a blink.

Are you okay? Bobby wanted to say. He wanted to say a lot of things, but Carey was down there ready to vibrate out of his skin and unwilling to break eye contact, and he clearly needed more than gentle concern.

“Okay,” Carey said, and then his shoulders shifted and he went to sit on his heels.

“Did you hear me say you could move?” Bobby said without thinking, which was maybe not the way he should —

Carey hit the carpet like he’d been shot. All right, then.

He wasn’t looking at Bobby now.

“It’s bedtime for me,” Bobby continued, “but I don’t feel like listening to you roll around and stress until the sun comes back up —”

“I’m not —”

“I’m asleep, not dead,” Bobby said. “I can hear you.”

Carey’s face was still turned toward Bobby, but his eyes were closed all the way now. The muscles in his back clenched under his T-shirt, then released.


“I can also hear when you sing in the shower, and the humming thing you do when you’re brushing your teeth,” Bobby said. “I can hear when you jerk off while I’m brushing my teeth,” and oh, there it was, “which, by the way, oral hygiene is important, but that’s like four minutes, tops. You got a kink or something there?” 

There it goddamn was. Bobby was kind of a terrible person for enjoying this, but Christ, Carey was wound tight.

Carey’s back was beautifully, perfectly rigid; Carey’s ears were slightly red, and Bobby was enjoying the shit out of this.

Oh, kid, Bobby thought. Was this hazing? Maybe. Whatever.

“Look, I know I’m old,” he started, ready to go into the many positives of not jerking off like you were in a race, and Carey’s face abruptly went fully flushed.


“I’m not that old,” Bobby said, fighting a smile. What the fuck was going on down there? “Don’t go making it a thing.”

Carey sucked in a short breath and bit his lip. “Okay,” he said roughly. Wow. Shit.

“I’m old enough to have done this before,” Bobby ventured. “I’m old enough to have figured out how to chill the fuck out, so there’s that.”

Carey was laying very still. He was breathing, at least.

“I’m old enough to know better,” Bobby said, his voice even, “and I’m certainly old enough to know how to take more than four fucking minutes to get off.”

Carey briefly stopped breathing, and Bobby decided to stop talking for a minute.

There were things that were reliably hot. Blowjobs; nobody didn’t like a blowjob. Enthusiasm, that was a plus. A sense of humor, though that was hit or miss for some people.

Bobby talking about his own dick — Bobby talking vaguely about masturbation — that was not one of the reliable ones.

Carey was breathing again, but he was breathing hard, subtle little rushes of air that Bobby could fucking hear; Bobby wasn’t stupid.

Carey, well. Bobby had his money on clueless over stupid, and Bobby was rapidly finding he could work with clueless.

“Why, kid,” Bobby said smoothly, “you need me to tell you how?” and Carey made one hell of a noise.


“Sit up on your knees,” Bobby told him.

Bobby slept like a cat, but Carey moved like a fucking tiger, sinuous as hell. He was sitting on his heels faster than Bobby could track.

Well, shit. His basketball shorts didn’t hide much; his dick was half-hard already. His eyes were down, stuck on the floor in front of his knees.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” Bobby said, and shucked his sweatpants and tossed them onto the dresser. He swung his legs around to sit on the edge of the bed in his T-shirt and boxers.

“Shit,” Carey whispered. Bobby snapped his gaze back to Carey’s face.

There was something else going on here. There was — Bobby wasn’t sure what the problem was, but there was more to this than Carey getting wound up by a rough game.

“You wearing anything under those?” Bobby asked, and Carey shook his head. His lip was between his teeth again for an instant, and then he let it slip. 

His posture was perfect. He was fighting the pace of his breathing; he was fighting something

He wanted this way too bad.

“Take ‘em off,” Bobby told him, “and I’ll decide what you get for it.”

Taking off his shorts necessitated Carey standing up, and when he was done, he was standing between the ends of their double beds, partway in front of Bobby, his hands trembling and his dick way more than half hard. Bobby stood up in front of him.

They were listed as the same height; in his stocking feet Bobby wouldn’t have put money on which one of them was taller. 

He felt taller now.

“Not bad,” Bobby said, because standing around with your dick out was nerve-racking, even if you’d been promised an admittedly somewhat ambiguous orgasm.

Carey made a soft sound in his throat. His hands flickered at his side for a moment.

Way too fucking bad, Bobby thought.

His dick was — objectively, it was pretty nice. He was cut and he was hard as hell, dark red at the tip, and Bobby could probably get him off in two minutes at this point, never mind four.

Bobby leaned back and looked him over. There were a lot of options. “Did you bring lube?” he asked. Carey’s cock jerked.

“No,” he said. “No, I —”

“Look at me when I’m talking,” Bobby said. “What the hell is wrong with you? You did know you’d be here for more than two days, right?”

“I — I don’t need it,” Carey said, dragging his eyes up to meet Bobby’s.

Holy shit, kid, Bobby thought.

Bobby licked the pad of his thumb and stepped forward. Carey kept his eyes up, but Jesus Christ. He looked like he was coming apart; he looked like he was going to come all over the carpet the second Bobby touched him.

Bobby’s thumb slipped over the head of Carey’s dick, slick with spit, and Carey’s whole body just fucking lost it.

“Oh God,” he whimpered, “oh, Jesus —”

“I need it,” Bobby told him, his thumb still circling, Carey’s shoulders twisting in place, his thighs tensing, god damn

“I — oh God,” Carey said. 

“And we’ve established that you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” Bobby told him, “so, right now, you need it.”

Carey’s dick was wet with more than saliva when Bobby let go, and his eyes followed Bobby's turning face with something approaching desperation.

“You look good,” Bobby said before he went for his bag in the bathroom. “Just hang on for a second.”

His toiletries bag was right where he’d left it, sitting in the single bathroom drawer, with the half-full tube of lube in the side pocket.

His face was right where he’d left it, too, and he paused to put his fingers on his temples and give himself the what the fucking fuck you are a crazy person look he deserved.

What the fucking fuck yourself, his reflection stared back. What exactly do you expect to do out there??

Good question, self, Bobby thought, and picked up the lube and went back into their room.



Carey was in the exact same place Bobby had left him, standing stock-still at the end of his own bed in nothing but a T-shirt. His ass was fantastic.

Self, you've had worse ideas, Bobby thought.

This was insane; this was absurd. What the fucking fuck, indeed. Bobby knew what he was doing, but Carey didn’t, and if — 

“Bobby?” Carey said softly.

“Hey, yeah,” Bobby said. “I’m right here. Just admiring your ass, kid.”

Carey shivered. Jesus.

Carey was still hard when Bobby came around to face him, because Carey was 26 years old and on fucking fire in the net and completely incapable of relaxing. Bobby could remember that, vaguely, though not at 26. He’d figured his shit out by 26.

“Hey,” Bobby said again. “You look good, kid. You look great.”

“Okay,” Carey said. His eyes were locked on the floor again. His cheeks were pink, again. Still. Bobby was going to be fucked looking at him after a game now.

From this distance, face to face, Carey was clearly taller. 

“Look at me,” Bobby told him, “when I’m talking to you.”

Carey was taller, but his hands were shaking again. His eyes were fucking huge.

“When I say something nice, you say ‘thank you’,” Bobby said.

“Okay,” Carey whispered.

“Get on your knees,” Bobby said, and Carey went down like a stone, impossibly graceful. Of course, folded down on the floor, his face was way too close to Bobby’s dick, whoops. That wasn’t where Bobby was going with this.

Carey’s eyes flickered down and then snapped back up to Bobby’s face without Bobby even having to —

“Thank you,” he said.

Ohhh my God, Bobby thought, his brain momentarily incapacitated.

Carey licked his lips and kept his eyes on Bobby’s. His mouth was as red as the tips of his ears.

Oh, no.

“Turn,” Bobby managed, taking a step back toward his own bed. The lube was still in his hand; he may have briefly forgotten he had hands.

Figured your shit out by 26, eh, he thought blankly at himself. Jesus fucking fuck.

He knew what he was doing, but he’d been thinking he'd have to do more than that to get them here.

Carey’s body shifted to face Bobby’s as Bobby sat on the edge of the bed. Bobby didn’t seem to have to do much of anything, which was — not what he was expecting. 

“Good,” Bobby said, just as a test.

“Thank you,” Carey said. 

This was too easy. Carey was too easy for this, for him.

For him, which might be a problem. 

“A little closer,” Bobby told him, and lifted his hips to pull his boxers off as Carey shuffled over on his knees.

Carey’s breath rushed out of him on a whine, and then he was tilting his face in, focused on Bobby’s dick instead of his eyes, moving with some intent —

“Stop it,” Bobby said, against impossible odds. “You’re not sucking me off.”

Carey looked disappointed. Bobby kind of wanted to — fuck, no, he was not going there.

“Fine,” Carey retorted, a little of his sass sneaking back in, and Bobby smiled.

“No ‘thank you’?” Bobby asked, spreading his legs slightly. Carey was all of six inches from Bobby’s cock, his mouth soft and a little damp, and Bobby wasn’t above fucking with him if that’s what got them through this without him giving in and fucking Carey’s face.

“It wasn’t a very nice thing to say,” Carey replied hoarsely, smiling back.

“I don’t need your help to get off,” Bobby said. Carey’s smile slipped, his face shading with lust.

“I know,” he said, hushed.

“I can get myself off,” Bobby said, “I don’t have a problem with that.”

“I know,” Carey repeated. His lip was between his teeth again, just for an instant. His hands were perfectly still at his sides.

“You’re the one who needs it,” Bobby told him, perfectly steady, and Carey swallowed a coarse noise.

Carey’s mouth was halfway open now, red as cherry soda; Bobby needed to get the show on the fucking road. The lube was warm from his palm when he opened it and squeezed some onto on his right hand. 

Carey came partway up on his knees, one of his hands brushing Bobby’s calf. Bobby reached out and grabbed his chin without a second thought.

“Sit down,” he snapped. This was hard enough without Carey taking liberties. “Do that again and I’m going to smack you in the face, do you hear me?”

Carey’s eyes widened, a flash of white around his irises, and he sat hard on his heels. 

“You’re the one who needs it,” Bobby said again, still clutching Carey’s jaw.

Carey’s dick jumped. Fuck, maybe he really didn’t need lube. Maybe he was that wet every time, slick over the tip and dripping down the length of his cock. Holy shit.

Either way, Bobby holding his face was doing something to Carey: his eyes went even darker and then fluttered closed for a moment. Bobby took the opportunity to wrap his hand around his own dick, wet with lube and oh, oh shit. Shit, that was good.

He needed to be careful, or this wasn’t going to be much of a demonstration.

He was barely moving, twisting his fist up and down his cock as slowly as he could. He had a point to make, and he wasn’t going to make it if he didn’t watch himself.

“Look at me,” Bobby said. “I’m doing this for you; pay some fucking attention, kid.” 

“Oh my God,” Carey said the second his eyes opened. He very obviously didn’t know what to do with his hands. Bobby let go of his face and leaned back.

“Say ‘thank you’,” Bobby said. He pushed his hips up without moving his hand. Jesus. 

“Oh God,” Carey whimpered. “Thank you.”

Bobby dropped back onto his elbow and looked up at the ceiling and took it as slow as he fucking could, glacially so, dragging it out — god damn

Carey was at his feet, kneeling, waiting. Watching him; watching him like a fucking hawk if the noises he was making were any indication. Those little vocalizations were probably going to murder Bobby, but ho, shit, did he sound good down there.

Every time Bobby’s thumb and fingers met over the head of his cock, Carey’s breath hitched. Bobby could feel the heat coming off him.

“How long do you think you can last?” Bobby said. Fuck, he sounded rough. He pressed his thumb hard under the head of his dick on the next upstroke, like — oh, Christ, that was good.

“I — now?” Carey said breathlessly. “I —”

“You’re not touching yourself right now,” Bobby rasped. “And I don’t think even you can come from watching me jerk off.”

Carey whined, suspiciously wordless. Bobby stopped fucking his hand and sat forward.

“If you’re jacking off, I’m going to smack you for real,” he said on the way up.

“I’m not,” Carey said immediately, his voice on the edge of cracking. “I’m not, I just —”

Carey was just — Carey was just hunched over slightly, his fingers digging into his thighs until the skin blanched, his stomach curving away from his dick. Carey was breathing through his mouth, heavy and fast. His eyes were still on Bobby’s hand.

Well, on Bobby’s cock.

“You’re not, of course you’re not,” Bobby said. Holy hell. “You’re doing great, kid. Put your hands behind your back.”

It occurred to Bobby that if he kept this up — if he kept going like this, he was going to come on Carey’s face.

Carey’s mouth was open, and he looked fucking starving. His arms had moved already, folded behind his waist. God.

Shit. Pay — pay attention, kid,” Bobby said. He’d been jerking off for, what, ten minutes?

The wall clock said twelve minutes, okay. That was a start.

“I am,” Carey said, thick and wanting. “I am, Bobby, please.”

Holy crap. He sounded like he’d been sucking dick already; he sounded like he’d been choking on it. It sounded fucking good on him.

Twelve minutes isn’t that bad, Bobby thought hazily.

“‘Please’ — ah, fuck — ‘please’ what?” Bobby asked. His dick was aching, and his hand was speeding up without his having a say in it. Carey looked more and more lost every second, every time Bobby’s dick flexed in his hand, got darker, got harder.

Fuck, Bobby wanted to come.

“I — I don’t, nothing,” Carey said.

Bobby took a breath and pushed himself back on the bed, another six inches away from Carey’s face, away from Carey’s mouth.

Of course he doesn’t know, Bobby thought. Get your shit together, Luongo.

“You don’t get — get anything yet,” Bobby said. Shit, shit, he was —

“Okay,” Carey gasped.

“You will,” Bobby promised him.

“Thank you,” Carey said, “thank you,” and the single remaining fuse in Bobby’s brain shorted out.

Fuck,” Bobby groaned. Fuck it, fuck it, he was fucking done. He changed his grip and dropped back on the bed and started jerking off like he fucking meant it, oh Jesus. Oh my God, oh God, Carey was — he didn’t want to fucking look at Carey, heavy-limbed and shifting on his knees, his arms where Bobby had put them, his dick painfully hard, wet and arching up toward his stomach —

Oh,” Carey said, choking, in time with Bobby’s hand, in time with the push of his hips, “oh, God, oh, oh fuck —”

Bobby slammed his feet onto the floor and fucked his hips up and came all over his T-shirt.

Motherfuck. Oh, wow.

Carey was honest-to-God panting when Bobby sat up and wiped his hand off on his shirt. Seventeen minutes, according to the wall clock. Bobby shrugged mentally.

Good enough.

“All right,” Bobby said, slow and a little stupid.

He sounded stoned. Goddamn, he felt good.

Carey’s biceps flexed and relaxed. He was staring at the stain on Bobby’s shirt, at the place where his hand had bunched the fabric between his fingers.

“Do your knees hurt?” Bobby asked.

Carey shook his head. “No.”

“Not even a little?” Bobby said skeptically.

“No,” Carey said, and it sounded like please.

“Give me your hand, then,” Bobby said. Carey didn’t flinch when Bobby took his hand and turned it palm-up on his knee; he didn’t make a sound when Bobby squeezed some lube out onto his index and middle fingers.

“Show me,” Bobby said, and Carey made a noise like he was dying when he got his hand on his dick.

Fuck, he was hard, and he was loud, and Bobby had the sudden, panicky thought that Carey was going to come like that. 

Carey's hand went tight and then he deliberately relaxed, nothing in the room but the sound of his breathing. Thank God.

He was trying — fuck, he really was. 

Bobby stretched his own leg out and nudged at the inside of Carey’s left knee.

“Spread a little,” Bobby said. “You’re doing good.”

“Thank you,” Carey panted. 

“Slow down,” Bobby told him, and Carey made a broken, high-pitched noise in the back of his throat.

He didn’t really slow down. His eyes were flickering shut at ten-second intervals. His hips kept rocking up off his heels and back down in aborted little movements, and he was only managing a half-lidded gaze when his eyes were open. Even that was glazing over.

“Carey,” Bobby said. Carey’s face jerked up; his eyes opened again.

“I’m sorry —”

“Don’t be sorry,” Bobby said, “just do what I tell you.”

Carey’s hand finally, finally slowed, dragging up and down his dick like it hurt to touch. His hips were shaking with the effort of holding still. He wouldn’t stop tonguing his lower lip; Bobby didn’t think he knew he was doing it.

Carey was so easy for this.

“Perfect,” Bobby said, encouraging. “That’s what I want to see.”

Carey’s dick jerked in his fist, and he went still for a moment.

“Thank — thank you,” he said. His hand started moving again, even slower. His thumb drifted up to the tip of his cock on every upstroke, meeting his fingers. Jesus, he had been paying attention.


For Bobby: he was so fucking easy for Bobby.

Bobby reached out and drew his fingertips down the side of Carey’s face.

“That’s right,” Bobby said. “That’s good, Carey.”

“Oh, God,” Carey said. “Thank you. Fuck.”

“Ten minutes,” Bobby said, glancing at the clock. “You’ve got six left. Pace yourself.”

“Fuck,” Carey moaned. “I can’t. I can’t. Oh shit.”

Bobby pulled his fingers back and flicked Carey on the side of his jaw, hard.

“Agh!” Carey blurted, jerking his head away.

“I know you can do this,” Bobby told him.

“I — Bobby —”

“If I can do it, you can,” Bobby said, tapping him on the chin. “Just listen to what I tell you, kid.”

Carey’s face tilted up to look at Bobby again.

Oh, shit, Bobby thought.

“Thank you,” Carey said.

He was so far gone. His shoulders weren’t twitching anymore; his eyes were a thousand miles away, drunk and spun-out. His hand was still working on his cock, glistening with lube and perfectly slow.

“Good. You’re doing good,” Bobby said, because that was what he needed to say.

He needed to be real fucking careful now.

You needed to be more careful a long time ago, Luongo, he thought. Fucking fuck. You dumb fucker.

“You look amazing,” Bobby said. “You look amazing like this.”

Carey’s breath caught, but he didn’t blink. Oh, hell. 

“You look amazing in the net,” Bobby said. “You’re doing so well, kid. Three minutes.”

Carey turned his face into Bobby’s fingertips.

“Thank you,” he said, barely audible.

Bobby slid his thumb over Carey’s cheek and pushed down on his lower lip.

It gave, easy; so fucking easy.

“Look at your mouth,” Bobby said wonderingly. “Jesus, Carey.”

Bobby left his thumb there, pressing and releasing. Carey didn’t move to do anything, just worked himself even slower. His balls were drawn up tight, and his dick was so red it was almost purple. Bobby was getting sympathy pains just looking at him.

“Two minutes,” Bobby said. “You’re gonna suck me off one of these days, kid,” he swore, and, oh, that got a response.

“Shit,” Carey moaned. “Thank you.”

“You think you can put up with that?” Bobby asked him.

Carey pulled in a ragged breath. He nodded.

“You ever sucked dick before?” Bobby said, then bit his tongue. Now was not the time for personal —

“No,” Carey said. “No.” He pushed his cheek against Bobby’s palm, and Bobby let go of his lip and pushed back.

“You’d be so good at it,” Bobby said. “One minute. You’re so good, Carey.”

Thank, thank —”

“Fuck, look at you,” Bobby said. “I love it.”

“Oh, God,” Carey sobbed. “God, Bobby.”

“Go on,” Bobby said. “Come.”

It was like flipping a switch. Carey’s fist tightened and was suddenly flying, sound pouring out of his mouth where it pressed against Bobby’s palm, filthy fucking groans and whimpers, hot as fuck and rapidly reaching a critical point —

“Oh,” he groaned, “oh —”

He came with his whole body, from the roll of his head against Bobby’s hand to the fucking curl of his toes, and Bobby found himself holding his breath as Carey’s hand finally stopped moving. There was come smeared down his hand, and on the carpet.

Carey slowly tipped his head down until it was resting on Bobby’s knee.

Bobby petted his free hand over Carey’s hair; his other one was trapped under Carey’s face. Eventually he would need it back.

Eventually. Eventually, either Carey would blink and look up at him and smile, or.

“Carey,” Bobby said quietly.

Or this.

“Get up on the bed,” Bobby said, pulling Carey over with him. He went, if sluggishly, and Bobby dumped him backward onto the bedspread.

He was a mess. His shirt was sweat-stained in the pits, and he was about to — 

“Fuck,” Carey whispered, lost, and he started to shake. 

Bobby pulled his own disgusting shirt over his head and muscled Carey under the blankets. It was fucking cold in their room anyway, and worse now.

“Hey, kid,” Bobby said. Carey curled up against him and sank his nails into Bobby’s arms like iron spikes. 

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Bobby thought. 

“You still look good,” Bobby said, which was mostly true. He brushed Carey’s hair off his forehead. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Carey wasn’t crying, at least. He was cutting off the blood supply to both of Bobby’s hands and maybe ruining the rest of his career, but that was more or less Bobby’s fault.

“You did great,” Bobby said. “You’re doing great.”

Carey drew in a shuddering breath and relaxed his fingers.

“I love it,” Bobby said. “Fucking amazing, kid.”

You don’t need me, he thought. You’ve got this.

“I’ve got you,” he said instead.

It went by fast. Carey was breathing normally in less than five minutes. His hands had gone gentle on Bobby’s arms, their regular weight again.

“Sorry,” Carey mumbled into Bobby’s chest.

“Shh,” Bobby said. “You’re fine. That was on me.”

Carey stayed silent for at least a minute, long enough that Bobby wasn’t sure he hadn’t passed out. 

“That was,” Carey said, “that was good.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Did you think it wouldn’t be?”

Carey’s eyes were dark again, heavy with fatigue. Bobby would need to get up to turn off the light, but it probably take Carey all of thirty seconds to go to sleep once he stopped trying to form thoughts. He could get the lights after.

“I try not to think about it,” Carey said, and, oh. Oh.

“Think about it,” Bobby told him, grinning.

“Wh — I, uh, okay,” Carey said, his voice rough and delightfully breathy.

“You’re good, kid,” Bobby said. He made an effort to tuck Carey against his side. “You get us through the semifinals and I’ll let you suck my dick.”

“Okay,” Carey said, muffled against Bobby’s shoulder.

“Say ‘thank you’ when I say something nice to you,” Bobby said, which was a bad fucking idea. Carey exhaled in a rush.

“Thank you,” he said.



Bobby woke up at 11pm, sticky and sweaty and 60% covered in Carey Price, with all the lights on.

“Move,” he told Carey, shoving at him.

“Nn,” Carey said, and went.

There was dried come on the carpet — nasty fucking carpet — and Bobby’s shirt was on the bedside table. Bobby made a weak effort to clean the floor with it, and then threw it in the ‘dirty’ side of his suitcase and brushed his teeth and shut off the lights.

“Hm,” Carey said. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bobby told him. “You’re too warm.”

“Fng you,” Carey said into the pillow, apparently not relieved of his back-talk skills even in unconsciousness.

Good, kid, Bobby thought, crawling in next to him.