Chapter Text
Leno did not know Tom and Dylan were together.
Nobody’s mentioned it to him in the last month or so since his debut, and frankly, there was no clear indication from the couple, either. Or maybe there was, Leno isn’t sure, he didn’t exactly come into this league expecting to come across two NHL players dating, let alone his own teammates. That’s probably the last thing he would have ever expected, that kinda doesn’t happen. He thinks. He isn’t so sure now as he helps Ovi lead a stumbling drunk Tom to the backyard of his home, his captain nodding and agreeing to everything the brute winger is saying like this happens all the time.
“Your husband is this way,” Ovi says when Tom loses focus and starts backtracking. Ovi’s drunk too, but Leno’s noticed he has the ability of absorbing alcohol in such a way that the only difference is the tone of his voice: he talks like a military sergeant in an old school comedy film.
Leno snaps his head from where he had been focusing on where they’re walking to look up at Ovi, a little difficult with Tom’s heavy arm over his shoulder. “Husband?”
Tom and Dylan are married?
“Wife!” Tom corrects in a woeful shout, and he looks a little devastated. “I miss him.”
Ovi takes more of Tom’s weight and Leno is grateful for some relief. “He’s here,” he says, tugging Tom, and therefore Leno, in the direction of the small bonfire where a few of their teammates lingered. Leno feels like a ragdoll as he’s dragged along, and against his own will really. Tom’s got him in a stupidly solid chokehold/hug that Leno can’t break free of, so he’s subjected to all the cringy things Tom is crying about now.
“Where’s my wife, my husband, my beautiful lady,” Tom howls like he’s in a Shakespeare play, all mournful and sad. Leno is confused.
“I’m confused,” he says out loud, and while Tom ignores him and continues his theatrical display of a tragic widow, Ovi acknowledges him with a toothy grin.
“His wife-husband,” is all he gives, like that’s the answer to anything ever.
Finally, they make it to the others, Tom’s incessant crying catching everyone’s attention and breaking off whatever conversation they were having. Dylan is immediately on his feet, reaching for Tom with his arms open wide.
“Oh, baby. Come here.”
Leno and Ovi are abandoned without a second thought, which, rude, but Leno’s glad to no longer be carrying the weight. He watches curiously though as Tom happily settles into Dylan’s arms, nuzzling him as Dylan coos what Leno thinks are endearments against the side of his head.
There are so many questions swimming in Leno’s brain that he doesn’t even know where to start or who to ask, so he just kind of shuts up and sits down for now. Someone eventually passes him a drink—a bottle of water, and he takes sips as the conversations start back up as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Like Leno’s whole perspective of what you should and should not do in front of the hockey bros isn’t currently being shattered into a million splintering pieces.
And nobody seems to care. Nobody bats an eye. Tom and Dylan sit down, so close they’re practically in each other’s laps. Kissing. Kissing.
And not the sloppy sexy “I’m not gay but I’ll put a show on for the boys” kind of kissing either. No, these are intimate, sticky and sweet kisses. Firm presses of the lips and dreamy eye contact.
Leno’s first instinct is to gag and be grossed out because he’s an immature little weasel rookie, but he’s an immature little weasel rookie who’s easily impressionable, and when he notices that no one is commenting on the obvious display of affection between two grown hockey players, he doesn’t comment on it either.
He can’t stop watching though, and he wonders if that makes him some kind of perv. Because like, Tom and Dylan are pretty attractive, probably good kissers too, and—
And Leno stops himself right there. His face heats up and he thinks it’s time to look elsewhere, so he turns his attention to the flames of the bonfire and tries very very very hard to think about literally anything else.
Eventually Leno is dragged into a few conversations that thankfully distract him enough. The guys have been great at including him despite him not understanding years of inside jokes, but luckily there are a good handful of guys who are new to the team this season so he never feels left out when something goes over his head.
And it’s a nice night out. Ovi’s mansion is huge, with an even bigger backyard that feels secluded and endless. He can see lightning bugs begin their journey up towards the trees, and maybe the birds are settling in for the night, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything about birds. He reckons the bats might come out soon though.
“Lenny,” a voice calls, and it’s a little whiny so it takes a second for Leno to recognize who it belongs to. Only Tom calls him that.
Leno risks a peek over at him, and breathes a sigh of relief when it’s clear that two lovebirds aren’t kissing anymore. But Tom is holding a hand out, his eyes soft.
“C’mere,” he slurs, and tips sideways, only saved from falling off the bench by Dylan grabbing onto him and keeping him upright.
Jesus, he’s absolutely sloshed.
Leno gets up though and makes his way to him, because whether he’s drunk or not, when Tom Wilson says “come here”, you come. Only Ovi and Carly can ignore him. Leno is just a rookie, a pre-rookie even, since next season will technically be his actual rookie season, so he listens and he goes.
“Yeah?” he asks, and Tom smiles at him. A genuine one, not a smirk or a mocking grin. There are crows feet at the corners of his eyes and wow, did Leno seriously have to notice them right now? He’s never noticed crows feet on a single person ever in his life. Who cares about crows feet and crinkling, smiling eyes? Leno, apparently.
He’s knocked out of thinking too much about them when Tom firmly grabs his arm and pulls. Hard.
“Hey!” Dylan chides when Leno stumbles into Tom’s lap, and Leno is about to apologize—he didn’t mean to sit on his boyfriend, er, husband. He doesn’t want that smoke, not even from Dylan, the most docile player of their team. But Dylan smacks Tom on the shoulder, and says, “Be careful with him,” like Leno’s made of glass.
“Sorry,” Tom mumbles, and then his big tree trunk arms are being wrapped around Leno’s middle, pulling him crushingly close to Tom’s chest. Leno doesn’t squeak like a chew toy or anything, definitely not.
He has absolutely no idea what the fuck is happening, though.
A hand touches his forearm, and he turns to face Dylan and meets his gaze.
“He’s touchy when he’s drunk,” Dylan explains, eyebrows scrunched like the worry wort he is, “I’ll make him stop if you want.”
If you want, like there’s a possibility that Leno wants to be let go. As if there is a world in which another Ryan Leonard exists and does not want to be held like a big baby.
It’s too difficult to lie, Leno’s never been very good at it, so he just shrugs and says, “No, I’m fine.”
And he is fine. Totally fine, actually. But also he’s freaking out. Tom drops his chin on Leno’s shoulder, nuzzles him like he did Dylan earlier, and Leno can only pray to a god he thinks he still believes in that Tom can’t feel the way his heartbeat is thundering underneath his skin. And Dylan has yet to remove his hand from his forearm, so there’s that. Oh, and also, Leno can feel the plain of Tom’s abs against his back.
But the night just continues on like normal, and Leno sips his drink (a bottle of water) and tries to ignore the powerful thighs underneath him, and definitely does not listen to Dylan’s soothing voice as he argues with Dewey over something, nor does he pay any attention when Dylan gives up, rolls his eyes, and lays his head on Tom’s shoulder, right behind Leno’s own. He cannot ignore the way Dylan’s breath catches on the back of his shirt, however.
Maybe a half an hour goes by like this, just the three of them doing whatever this is, and eventually Leno decides it’s fine to melt into it. If everyone else is okay with it, then. Well. What is there to really worry about? The team has already voiced their opinions on Dylan and Tom’s relationship by not voicing anything at all, so what’s a little snuggling going to do?
He’s more worried about his own feelings about the whole thing, but that’s for another day. For now, he accepts the embrace and dozes off to his teammates’ chatter and the crackling of the fire.
****
“Leno.”
Someone is shaking him, and he mumbles out a weak protest. He’s warm and comfy. He doesn’t want to get up. But whoever is calling him is insistent, and he’s shaken again, a little more violently.
Leno blinks his eyes open. He takes in the dying embers in front of him before his name is called again.
“Leno. Hey.” It’s Dylan, and it takes a bit of effort to turn his head and look at him. “Dubie’s heading out, do you want to go home with him or stay here for the night?”
It takes a few seconds for Leno to respond, to remember where he is. It isn’t until there’s movement behind him that he remembers, oh, he’s in Tom’s lap.
Yeah, he should probably get going.
As much as Leno is amazed by Ovi’s giant mansion, and he’s sure there’s space for him to spend the night, Leno would very much rather sleep in his own bed tonight and...think about some things.
“I’ll go with Dubie,” he says, and Tom, who’s been in a completely different drunken world this entire time, chooses this moment to acknowledge the rookie he’s had anchored to his lap.
“What?” Tom whips his head sharply. “You’re leavin’?”
“Yeah.”
Leno starts to get up, assuming the iron arms around his waist will drop the moment they meet resistance. They don’t, and Leno’s attempt to stand turns into an awkward lurch forward. Confused, he twists his torso around to meet Tom’s sad, very sad, eyes.
“Don’t go,” Tom says meekly, and Leno’s never seen him make that face before. Didn’t know that he could to be honest—Tom has a very masculine face, but it’s crumpled in a way that makes him look innocent and so, so unhappy.
“Um,” Leno tries, but he doesn’t know what to say.
“Stay,” Tom says, “You can sleep with us.”
Leno’s tiny weasel brain takes that meaning to a whole different planet, his face heating up so fast his vision turns fuzzy. He’d be swaying on the spot if he wasn’t currently jailed by Tom’s iron arms.
He doesn’t catch Dylan’s inquisitive look, but does hear him snort and say, “Let’s get you home, kid.”
“Nooo,” Tom whines, digging his chin in between Leno’s shoulder and neck. Leno can smell the alcohol on his breath, as well as Dylan’s usual cologne, and once again he’s fighting for his life trying not to think too hard about why Tom smells like Dylan and why he likes the smell.
It’s a struggle, but Dylan does manage to unlatch Tom’s arms and help Leno up. The loss of all that warmth is devastating, but Dylan keeps an arm around his shoulders as he walks with him towards the house, and Leno finds himself leaning into his side, telling himself it’s just because he’s cold. Tom stumbles after them and babbles complete nonsense all the way up until finally Leno is handed off to Dubie.
“Sure you want to go?” Dubie asks him, leading the way to his car. “It’s not everyday you get to sleep over at O’s.”
Leno looks back at the mansion, and he catches Tom and Dylan on the porch. They kiss each other a couple times before going inside. He hastily turns away.
“No, I’m good,” Leno says.
When he’s back home and in his own bed, he tries his best to not think about Dylan’s hand on his arm, or Tom’s chest pressed against his back, or the fluttering in his gut every time the two men kissed.
He does, however, think about the team’s lack of surprise or reaction towards their teammates’ obvious coupling, and what that might mean for him in the future.