Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To Patrice, there was nothing more beautiful than the idea of escapism through paint.

Ever since he was young, no matter what was going on in his life, there was a three-legged easel set in the corner of his room and his supplies organized there at the ready. That was his home. Patrice couldn't think of a time where he was unable to find solace in the texture of the strokes- the vibrancy of the colors. 

There was nothing better to him than the smell of new canvas, the click of the uncapping of a bottle of paint- nothing better.

It gave him a sense of purpose- meaning. Even god would be hard-pressed to convince him that it wasn’t his reason for being on this earth.

There was nothing. Nothing more beautiful than the idea of escaping into paint- losing himself in the magic of creation.

Except for now. Fuck now.

“What the hell?” Patrice muttered in frustration, his face running warm as his eyes glossed over his labor of the past week. His labor that- he couldn’t seem to get right for the sake of the world.

“Crisse,” He exhaled, tossing his brush into the jar beside him. It landed with a slight splash as he slouched back in his stool, his back in egregious amounts of pain from the past three hours of sitting upright.

“Something wrong?” He heard a low voice mutter from beside him.

His eyes darted to the side to see David’s perfect sketch that he hadn’t put a brush to quite yet. David always had more of a knack for drawing people- figures. His sense of anatomy was a little wild, Patrice thought. What he would give for that.

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue through a heavy sigh. “It’s nothing Krej.”

“Needing uh,” David paused, cocking his head as he observed Patrice’s canvas. “Need help? Looks good to me.”

“Thanks man but it’s just…”

It wasn’t good. Patrice sure as hell didn't think it was good. 

In his honest opinion, it kind of sucked. 

The perspective from his reference was off, the proportions as well- he thought the musculature looked almost lumpy- and the shadows looked… well, for lack of a better word, they looked fucked.

“Nothing. Think it’s just me. I might need a break.”

“Take one if you need one man,” Krej sighed, leaning back in his stool in a similar fashion as Patrice. “Can’t force it.”

“You’re right.” Patrice said, letting his head hang as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, you’re right. I’ll ask Jim what he thinks and I’ll see if I should pack up for the day.”

“Good deal.”

Their professor was making his rounds like he did every day, but it felt so much longer- the time it took for him to get to him on this day in particular. 

Patrice knew that he was a bit of an idiot to expect Monty to come slap the brush out of his hand and get out of his class for being a derivative disgrace, but hell if that wasn’t exactly what he felt would happen.

“Hey… Patrice. You look a bit lost.” Monty said, breaking Patrice violently out of being trapped in his thoughts. “All good over here?”

“Yeah,” Patrice said immediately, his head snapping up to look his professor in the eye. “Yeah, of course. Thank you.”

Monty paused to laugh for a moment, his eyes glossing over Patrice’s canvas and then the man himself.

“You know you can be honest, right? Truth be told, I encourage it.” Jim laughed, hoping it would be contagious to his obviously troubled student. It was not. 

“I’m not going to smite you with a brush or anything for struggling.”

Patrice considered his words, only nodding in response as his eyes stayed glued to the canvas.

“Is it the anatomy? Nothing I see is bad here, Patrice.”

“Nothing you ever see is bad.” Patrice said quickly, regretting the snark as soon as he heard it escape his mouth.

“I’m only honest with you. You’re a good artist. But nobody’s going to believe that until you do.”

Patrice only contemplated his words, sighing at his week of labor. There was nothing special about it. A meaner teacher would have called it derivative- nothing special. Maybe even straight up bad. They would have said that his proportions were off- the musculature- everything. There was far too much wrong with the painting. 

“What’s wrong with it?” Monty challenged, the smile slightly faded from his face. “You think there’s so much wrong with it, tell me what it is.”

“Uh…” Patrice paused, pursing his lips as he took time to think. “The musculature. The anatomy. It doesn’t feel right. The perspective is shifted from my reference and I was trying to match that.”

“Patrice tell me…” Jim paused, trying to observe the faults Patrice had listed, but coming up short nonetheless. “How comfortable are you painting people?”

It wasn’t a question Patrice should have been floored by, but it was. He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, but painting was tough. Painting people was especially tough.

He always felt like he came up short in one way or the other.

“Okay, I guess…?” Patrice sighed, deciding that that was his sign to pack up for the day. “It’s fine. It's something we need to do, and we do it.”

“So... not comfortable at all then.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said. How often do you draw people when you don’t have to- in full form?”

“Not… often, but that doesn’t mean I hate it.”

“I asked if you were comfortable with it- not whether you hate it.”

“Fine.” Patrice breathed, looking at the painting he could barely stand once more. “I guess I’m not as comfortable as I would like to be.”

“So you’re willing to work on it.”

“Anything I can do.”

“Tell you what…” Jim paused, glancing at the clock. “We have a model coming tomorrow night. I know you’re not scheduled for tomorrow’s class- and I’m sure you want a break from me- but we have one more slot left if you were interested. Painting with a live model changes things. It’s just what you see- not a regurgitation of something someone else has done from a reference. I think it could really help.”

Patrice thought about it, and he wasn’t sure which of the thousand ways of ‘that’s mortifying’ he could have said.

He knew exactly what this was. Being part of a circle of canvases staring down some random naked person was on his list of things to never ever do.

But in that moment- maybe it was the desperation to figure out how to get this fucking portrait right- he lost all inhibitions.

“Yeah.” He sighed, unable to tear his eyes from his work. “Yeah, put me down.”

“Excellent.” Monty smiled, eying his desk where he presumably had the list for tomorrow night. “It’ll be fun. And if it’s not, I hope you’re not a fan of our hockey team.”

“What?” Patrice said quickly, cocking an eyebrow as he tried to process how those two very distinct things could possibly be related.

“You already said yes Patrice!” Jim said, already walking away from him.

"Going tomorrow?” David asked suddenly from beside him.

“Uh… guess I am.” Patrice sighed, standing up as he pushed his stool back. “You?”

David only paused to laugh, which worried Patrice more than anything.

"You're funny.”

Chapter Text

It had been over 24 hours since Patrice had touched anything related to painting. 

He wasn't sure whether he was saving his artistic capability for tonight’s session or whether the muse had just flipped him off and left, but he couldn’t pick up a brush or his sketchbook for shit.

The sun was setting over Boston, and he only had a morning class today, so he'd commuted straight from his apartment. The anticipation that he’d been experiencing for the entirety of the day was another form of hell. Mentally preparing for this three hour session had been more taxing than anything he’d ever experienced. 

He wasn't so sure that he should have agreed to this. Improving his art truly couldn't have been worth the anguish was what his mind told him in that moment. But even he, not even that deep down- knew that was false.

Realistic portraiture tortured him since he was young- he always found himself getting tripped up over the smallest details- scrapping a work because, in his mind- no matter what he did- it was fucked.

The drive over to the university was nothing short of hell. His anxiety had been giving him a tough time about this ever since he agreed to it, parking felt like an impossible task, and it had been raining on and off all day.

He'd grabbed a coffee on the way over, expecting this to last well into the night. He wasn't even much of a coffee guy, but he'd needed caffeine much more steadily recently with the end of the semester coming. 

Sighing heavily, he held his steering wheel tightly as he ripped his keys out of the ignition and pocketed them.

The off and on rain was back on, forcing him to twist over and reach over his seat to grab his umbrella.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his umbrella as he exited his car, making a beeline for the art building. The walk in the rain calmed him more than he gave it credit for. He wished it was longer once he got to the building. He gave the umbrella a firm shake and closed it before entering in the double doors. Taking one large swig of his coffee, he navigated to the studio. 

This was it. This was what he agreed to. It’d be fine. He was sure of it.

The assortment of people in the class were interesting. A good lot were older than him- by much- about four were younger, and a scattered few looked about the same age. Not a single face was recognizable from any of the classes he’d taken through the years.

“Great.” He muttered under his breath, placing his umbrella in the basket near the door.

He supposed he must have been late to the 9:00, even though he arrived at 8:50. There was one easel that wasn't occupied or didn't have someone’s bag resting against it. 

Just as luck would have it, it had to be the one that the empty chair in the middle of the room was directly facing.

“Of course.”

He walked over, ridding himself of the deceivingly heavy messenger bag and placing it on the floor by him.

He looked around the room, surprised so many of the students were here while the model was nowhere to be seen. He supposed they must be changing in the closet or one of the adjacent offices.

But when it was 8:59, he assumed they were running late. A reasonable assumption.

At 9:10, he felt his first pang of annoyance. He knew it was only ten minutes past, but he'd been here since 8:50- and others longer. You were telling him the model couldn't make it on time?

“Sorry guys,” Jim said, shrugging as he walked to the center of the room. “Should be here… soon. I hope.”

He checked his watch, furrowing his brows as he made a beeline for his office. 

Patrice looked over his shoulder, able to see Jim pick his phone up through the glass and tap away.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!” A man exclaimed, running in so fast that Patrice barely had the time to look away from the window to Monty's office before he was in the middle of the room. "Sorry Monty!”

The man was panting heavily, his face and hair sopping from the rain outside. His socks were mismatched under his sneakers, but the most striking thing about him had to have been the fact that… he was outfitted in a bathrobe.

And with the context of the session, Patrice had to assume that he was outfitted in- nothing- but a bathrobe.

“Brad.” Monty said, a grin on his face as he walked out of his office. “Nice of you to finally join us.”

"I'm sorry! I was leaving my friend’s place- been in the ‘burbs since last night- and I was already running late. But there was this tortoise in the road. I had to brake, obviously, and I waited a little while, because the road was empty and I wanted him to take his time- but I eventually just got tired and picked him up. Also traffic was awful. Weather too.”

"For a model session, we kind of need the model. Just keep that in mind for next time.”

“Next time?” The man grinned a grin that Patrice could only describe as absolutely shitfaced. “You’re re-booking me before I even finish this gig up?"

The man snorted, glancing at one of the people on the far side of the circle. "Can you believe it? Guess I'm a talent.”

"Just sit Brad,” Monty said, laughing through his words. "Do you want a towel?”

“I’d love a towel coach,” The man said, toeing his shoes off and taking his mismatched socks off in succession. “Thanks.”

He sat himself on the chair, running his fingers through his hair that managed to look perfect despite the water.

He took the towel with an outstretched arm, wiping his hair down and shaking his head when he got the majority of the water out. 

Patrice was strangely captivated with everything the man did. He did it with a level of effortless that Patrice found himself both strangely obsessed with and slightly jealous of. Not that the two events were mutually exclusive.

Suddenly, without warning, the man casually walked to the mostly empty apron rack, removed his robe, and hung it up.

Patrice’s eyebrows shot up slightly at the sight, suddenly finding it a bit more difficult to breathe.

Despite the man's short stature, he was rather built- certainly more than Patrice was expecting. 

Good for practicing musculature he supposed.

The man walked back to the chair slowly, a slight smirk on his face as he essentially strut back.

"Get comfortable Brad. It’s the next three hours.” Monty, laughing as he leaned on the doorframe of his office door.

“I’m literally going to be the best model you’ve ever had.” Brad said confidently, sitting down on the chair and testing positions.

He found one he liked and stilled- casual, nothing special. He leaned back in his chair, one leg out and one in, his left arm bent and placed on the back of the chair.

Patrice still was finding a hard time believing what was happening in front of him. 

He wasn't sure why. This was what he was expecting- this is what he knew he was coming to. He just… maybe didn't know that the model would be the overly energetic, braking-for-tortoises man in front of him.

He wasn't sure why his brain was acting like those qualities changed anything. This was a professional setting. He was a professional.

It was fine.

He was fine.

The session started off normal enough, the man who’d been energetic only moments prior was able to be still and silent. The piano music from the speakers carried through the room- the only sound for now being the strokes of pencil against canvas and the small splashes of water in the jars.

It must have been ten minutes without any human voice in the room, but of course, that was broken by their model himself.

“Is this a piano version of Summer of ’69?” The man said, his face contracting in a smile as he looked to the office.

“Yep!” Monty yelled back from the office, eliciting a snort from the model.

“Do you just have this on loop?”

“Brad, you're here to model. Model!”

“Embarrassing that it took me this long.” He said to one of the people to his side.

Ever since that first interruption, he hadn't stopped talking. He'd jest with everyone around him, and Patrice didn't even feel the need to complain.

Unfortunately the man was rather funny and decently good at staying still.

He had no impact on Patrice's focus, which- not to toot his own horn or anything- was razor sharp.

He’d gotten a basic outline of the man's body done, in the position he was sitting in.

He wasn't sure how sketching bodies had gotten that much easier solely with the change of inspiration, but he was proud of his work. There was still a long way to go, he thought- but small victories.

Small victories.

“Hey,” The man said, a smirk on his face that Patrice sure as hell wasn’t planning on painting. “You.”

Patrice ignored his words on instinct, rolling his eyes slightly as he only looked up to observe the man's features.

“Hey,” He said again, slightly louder and much more directed at him. He even threw in a small snap, which Patrice deemed characteristic despite not knowing anything about him. “Ignoring people isn’t nice.”

“Aren’t models supposed to be still? Silent too, but you’re fine breaking that rule.” Patrice said quickly, hoping that that was where the subject was going to end.

“I’m special.”

“I can see that.”

“Is that really a rule?” The man said, cocking his head as a smile began to grace his face once again.

"I'd hope so.”

“Always been a bit of a rule breaker, that’s why I asked.”

"Is that so?” 

“Yeah.”

Patrice hoped the dry prompt with absolutely nowhere to go from there would stop him.

The man must have taken the hint, which Patrice was relieved about.

No more words out of his mouth.

For about thirty seconds.

“So what’s your name?”

“Patrice.”

The man looked almost amused, which Patrice furrowed his brows at. Nevertheless, he continued to darken the outline that he had made of the man’s chest.

“Patrice? Are you French or something?”

“Québécois.” He said, now more irritated than anything.

“Cool.”

Patrice nodded, flashed him a quick, slightly-forced smile, and got back to emphasizing his collarbone.

“Aren’t you going to ask me mine?”

“Look man-”

He didn't need the cocky model to know that he registered and remembered it from his conversations with Professor Montgomery. He didn't need to see another shitfaced smirk from this man.

“It’s common courtesy to ask people their name. Patrice.”

Patrice sighed, praying that the man would let go of the topic and let him work. If he’d known the model would quite literally berate him for three hours, he would have given Monty a ‘hell no’ yesterday. No matter how much it improved his art.

“What’s your name?”

“Brad!”

Patrice bit back an ‘of course’ and went back to observing him.

He was conscious not to look too long- Brad would absolutely have a comment, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to hear it. But for the moment, Patrice thought he was safe. Brad started conversing with the people around him, which was a relief.

He had to hand it to him- the man was pretty funny when he wasn’t bothering him as he sketched. Patrice wasn't above smiling when he said something funny to any of the people around him.

“That smile for me Patty?”

“Sure.” Patrice snorted involuntarily as Brad tilted his head toward him.

“It totally is.”

“I’ll let you believe that.” 

“Because it’s true!”

“Of course.”

In less than a second, Brad had completely diverted his attention to the painter next to him. 

“Woah man!” He exclaimed suddenly, striking fear into the heart of Patrice’s neighbor. “At least buy me dinner first! I'm not even a tough guy to please.”

The younger guy next to him tried to muster a response, but came up short- mainly stuttering at Brad’s words.

“I- sorry, shit I'm sorry.” The kid’s face ran red and he immediately directed his attention to the floor.

Patrice could immediately see the amused form of regret on Brad’s face, which was a lot more endearing than he would have liked to admit.

“No, man! Fuck, I’m kidding. Stare as long as you need. I’m sorry!” Brad said through laughter and a couple voice cracks. The kid’s face almost went a shade of beet. 

Patrice tried to suppress the smile coming on as Brad tried to comfort the boy through the boy continuing to profusely apologize, but it was a massively unsuccessful mission.

“You on the other hand,” Brad said suddenly, turning his attention to none other but him. “I do expect dinner.”

“How's IHOP?” Patrice rolled his eyes, not taking them off the canvas.

“Perfect!” Brad smiled, placing his hands on the stool and slightly rocking back and forth. “How's seven tomorrow?”

“I was kidding.”

“Sure Pat.”

Patrice wasn't sure where the new nickname came out of, but he wasn’t going to protest it.

Simply because he didn't have the energy. It wasn't like he liked it or anything.

Patrice always lost track of time when he was painting, but this session was the most time-blind he had ever been. It had been about ninety minutes out of the full one-eighty, and people had started packing up their things.

At least half the people in the room looked like they were finishing up for the night, and it floored Patrice how good every single one of their canvases looked.

He couldn't figure himself out.

“You guys have until 12, just wanted to remind you,” Monty said suddenly, walking out of his office with his phone in his hand. "Brad's my prisoner till then.”

“Doing time for a crime I didn't even commit,” Brad said, faux-sadness in his voice. “The justice system of Montgomery is messed.”

“Maybe you, Jake, and Tyler shouldn't have snuck into my studio to try huffing paint.”

“I was just accompanying them! I was trying to make sure they didn't get too fucked up. You should be thanking me. I was trying to help.”

“You help by keeping them out of my studio and not huffing paint. And plus, you didn't want to help clean up my office and workrooms like they are, so here you are. And you volunteered to bare all, so I don't want to hear it."

Patrice snorted quietly at the narrative that he’d put together in his head from eavesdropping, which he immediately regretted. Brad, in his typical fashion took immediate notice.

"You think my suffering is funny Pat?”

“One might use the word hilarious.”

“Asshole.”

“Bad choice of words for you right now,” Patrice chuckled to himself, continuing to work on painting the reference outline of his sketch.

Brad’s jaw went slightly slack at his rebuttal, but Patrice could have sworn that he saw a proud glint there for something like a moment.

Patrice went back to painting and Brad went back to joking around with some of the dwindling population of painters. 

It was almost another hour of the painters leaving slowly, saying their goodbyes to the professor and to each other- Patrice supposed he must have been the only one in here that didn't know anyone else.

It wasn't long before he was the only one left still working. It felt like an immense amount of pressure, but at least Monty was here with his office light on.

“Hey Patrice?”

Fuck.

Patrice turned around slowly, meeting the eyes of a completely packed up Professor Montgomery.

“You can lock up, right?”

“Oh, uh,” Patrice paused, his eyes darting to the wall clock, to his canvas, to Brad, and then back to Jim. “Yeah, of course.”

“Don’t give Brad the key, eh?”

“Ha,” Patrice chuckled somewhat awkwardly as he looked back at his model. "I won’t.”

“Hey…” Brad started, with an undertone of indignation that he knew he was in the wrong for.

"Good night Brad.” Jim said, giving him a look that Patrice was sure Brad was perfectly accustomed to.

“Night coach.”

“Night Patrice- thanks for keeping eye on him.”

Patrice only laughed, waving goodbye with his unoccupied hand.

“For the record…” Brad started, his eyebrows slightly raised. “I don’t need anyone to keep an eye on me.”

”I’m sure you don’t.” Patrice said, sneaking a quick glance at Brad’s leg.

And that was the end of that conversation. Patrice felt like he ended many of their conversations. Repeatedly. 

That didn't seem to faze Brad though.

“You’re hard at work.”

“I am.” Patrice said, this time not taking his eyes off the canvas. He let himself glance at his watch and immediately felt guilt. It was nearing 12- no matter how annoying the man had been, Patrice wasn't trying to keep him here cold and naked until midnight. “So are you. When are you planning on heading home?”

“Whenever you’re done man,” Brad said with a shrug. “I’m good for it.”

“Sorry for uh…” Patrice paused, trying to find the words. “Keeping you so long. You can head out if you want, it’s getting late. That can't be too comfortable.”

“Patrice, son of Quebec.” Brad laughed, finding far too much humor in calling him that. "I just said I was good for it. I have a shit sleep schedule, I promise.”

“Alright then.” Patrice said softly, sneaking another glance at Brad.

“You know you can look for more than one second, right?” Brad chuckled, looking directly into Patrice’s eyes. “That’s kind of the point.”

Patrice had no response, but continued to follow through on a brushstroke near painted Brad’s jawline.

“I really don't mind.”

Patrice snorted at the sincerity in his voice. “You did actively volunteer to sit naked in a studio for three hours. I assume you don't mind Brad.”

“Ouch. Touche. Burning a naked man certainly isn’t on the list of the nicest things you could have done today.”

"But it is on the list of fun ones.”

“Patrice’s got jokes.” Brad muttered, a tired smile making its way onto his face. “Can I get a last name to work with?”

“Bergeron.”

Brad let out a sound that Patrice immediately looked up at.

“Your name is Patrice Bergeron.”

He wasn't sure whether or not to mention that his full name was Patrice Bergeron-Cleary, unsure of whether or not that would alleviate the ridicule or make Brad double down.

“Yes.”

“Patrice Bergeron, son of Quebec.”

“How many times are you going to call me that?” Patrice raised his hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, immediately regretting it as he felt the cold paint on his face.

“As many times as I can work it in, fils du Quebec.”

Patrice stopped, furrowing his brows. “You know French?”

“Un peu,” Brad smiled proudly. “As much as I could pick up from my family and high school.”

“Huh,” Patrice nodded in acknowledgement. “Nice.”

They both went silent for a moment, Brad only breaking it by yawning.

“Fuck, I'm sorry.” He said quickly, after putting his arm back down. “Did I fuck it up? I feel like that's the most I've moved in the past three hours. Fuck man, I'm sorry.”

Brad apologizing profusely for… literally nothing- was horridly endearing to Patrice who had to work harder than ever to hold back a smile.

"You're fine."

"Are you sure?”

“Entirely.”

A few moments of silence passed before Patrice spoke again.

“So Brad.”

Brad’s head nearly snapped up at the mention. Patrice hadn't instigated a conversation between them like this once.

“Yeah?”

“Where are you from?”

“Oh me? Halifax.”

“Nice. Never been actually.”

“Oh man, no way? Fuckin’ beautiful. Love Boston. But I miss it so much. A little too much sometimes.”

The sincerity in Brad's voice was hellishly captivating, and he couldn't help but look at him for a moment too long.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Brad said quickly. "Just a little homesick I guess. Been a while. Semester’s almost up though. Couple months. Just gotta get through playoffs- finals. It'll be good. Thanks man.”

“Of course.” Patrice said, his mind running a little when he heard the word playoffs.

He already knew Brad was an athlete, but- he wasn't really sure that he processed it to that point.

It made sense, he thought. Hell, he'd been observing his physique for hours now.  

He thought about asking for a moment. About playoffs. Just a moment.

“What about you?” Brad said quickly, hoping to divert the subject. “Heading back to Quebec in a few weeks? For spring break?”

“Something like that,” Patrice said softly, adding some color to Brad’s face. It was the slowest he’d ever painted simple portraiture, but he couldn't help but feel accomplished about it.

The sense of it being off that he felt earlier wasn’t there anymore, and he couldn’t really stop looking at his work. 

He was proud.

Brad decided not to press after the cryptic answer, and rather quieted down a bit.

So much so that Patrice had to look up at him and make sure he was breathing. When he did though, he noticed something he definitely didn’t like.

“Are you shivering?”

“What?” Brad said quickly, trying his damn hardest to stop shaking. “No. No man, I’m good.”

Quickly, he glanced up at the ceiling, putting his brush down in the jar of water and standing up. 

“You’ve been under that fucking vent for three hours.”

“It just turned on,” Brad said softly, flashing him a winning smile. "Honest. I'm good!”

“Yeah, we're stopping.” Patrice said quickly, shooting a glance at the clock and back to his easel.

“Dude- Patrice- I'm fine, I swear-” Brad said, his best feat of rhetoric as he got up from the stool.

“Uh-bup-bup.” Patrice said, refusing to let him keep him from packing up. “Not 12 yet. You're still a model. Models sit.”

“Pat,” Brad said, a smirk back on his face. “Let's be honest. I'm always a model. But seriously- I don't want to fuck up your… process or whatever. I can finish this out.”

“Well. I'm tired.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.” Patrice admitted, taking his apron off with one hand, and walking his jar of brushes to the sink with the other. He began to wash off his brushes with the intention being to leave them to dry before Brad interrupted him.

"Patrice- dude, this isn't funny. Can you actually finish out for the night? I'm fine. Come back here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Patrice walked over, a brush in hand. It was one of his smaller ones, bristles covered in a dark green. Brad wasn't sure what he was using it for in terms of his body. Maybe something to blend into his eyes.

Rather than stopping at the easel, the taller man continued to walk at Brad, swiping a green streak of paint across his cheekbone.

"What the fuck?"

Brad stared dumbfounded for a second, his brows furrowed.

"Fuck," Patrice muttered softly, his brush rising to Brad's face again but this time hitting a quick dot on his nose.

"Hello?"

"My model's been compromised. I can't work anymore. This isn't my process."

Brad scoffed, his eyes unfurrowing in realization as he sat back and watched Patrice walk away without another word.

"You artistic types are real assholes about your process."

"What can I say? What works, works."

He washed the rest of his brushes and left them to dry before walking to the rack. He hung his apron on the rack, same place as always before grabbing Brad’s robe to walk it over to him. The moment he touched it, he damn near dropped it. He wasn't expecting it to be that wet and cold still.

“Brad, this is fucking sopping.”

“Oh. Was hoping it dried off. I’ll be okay.” Brad shrugged, still shaking slightly.

“What building are you in?”

“Oh, I live off-campus.”

“And you think you're going to be able to drive home- freezing- in the rain- in this.”

“Yes…? Plus, I don't think it's raining anymore, so...” Brad chuckled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

“It's almost like you want to catch your death.”

Patrice thought about heading to the bathroom and wringing it out for him, but the issue that it was fucking freezing still remained.

“Okay, I have an idea.”

“Holy fuck Pat, no way.” Brad said quickly, a smile on his face. “I got one too. Same time. That was telepathy.”

Patrice only smiled at the man's excitement for it and thought about what he needed to go do.

“Do you want… to say our ideas at the same time?” Brad said, a shitfaced grin on his face.

Patrice snorted- of course the first model he’d ever paint and be alone with for just under an hour was the most ridiculous man he'd ever meet. “Why the hell not?”

“Okay. 1… 2… 3…”

“I have a spare set of clothes in my car.”
“We take one of those aprons, put it around my front- another around my back, and we tie them.”

Brad's sentence went on much longer than Patrice's but he showed absolutely no intention of stopping.

"What the fuck?” Patrice laughed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You heard me. It’d look like a cool apron dress. I could rock that.”

“I’m getting you the spare clothes. Stay.” Patrice said quickly, putting the robe back on the hook and walking out without another word.

He tried to convince himself that his abrupt leaving was driven by the desire to get Brad warm, clothed, and home safe, and not to hide the smile on his face, but he supposed actions could have multiple virtues.

He practically raced to his car and back, for no other reason than wanting to get himself home and in bed.

No other reason.

“Dude?” Brad said, head practically snapping up from the down-facing position he’d been holding his head in. “Are you the fuckin’ Flash or something?”

Patrice entered quickly, continuing his quick jog into the room and only stopping once he got to Brad.

“Here. I don’t uh… it's just the sweatshirt and pants, I’m sorry.”

“Dude, you've done more than enough.” Brad said thankfully. He slipped the sweatshirt on quickly, a look of relief washing over his face as he did. "Holy fuck that feels good.”

“Better than the apron dress?”

“… better than the apron dress.” Brad muttered, looking down at the peeling logo on the front. “Not better looking though. What the fuck is that? Wait. I feel like I’ve seen it before. But I can't remember it for shit.”

“Nordiques logo.” Patrice said quickly, nodding at the peeling red and blue.

“The Nordiques. The Quebec Nordiques? How do you have an adult size of this still?”

“One and only. Before we were robbed.”

“Robbed? Don’t tell me you have a grudge against Colorado or something.” Brad snorted, slipping the sweatpants on as well.

“I do actually, but it’s too late at night to get into that.” Patrice smiled, noting the way Brad looked much smaller than he was in his clothes.

Brad snorted, tying the string around his waistband tighter as Patrice took his canvas off the easel. 

“Can I see?” Brad asked suddenly, hoping to get at least a small glance before Patrice headed to the drying rack.

“Oh I,” Patrice paused. “I don’t usually- I'm not really done- it's just-”

“Totally get it,” Brad interrupted with a smile. “Shouldn't have pressed. Don’t worry."

“Thank you.” Patrice said, quickly turning on heel and heading to the drying rack.

“‘Course.”

He placed it quickly on the drying rack, making a beeline to the easel and grabbing his bag.

“So Patrice…” Brad trailed off, resting one leg on the chair he’d occupied for three hours. “Can I walk you back to your dorm? As a thank you?”

Patrice ignored the heat he felt on his face and smiled.

“I live off-campus. But no thanks necessary. We’re even. You did kind of just sit here naked ’til midnight for me.”

“Of course,” Brad chuckled. “Anytime.”

“You can let me walk you to your own car as a thank you. So I can at least try and make sure you don’t enter your home the way you entered the studio three hours ago?” Patrice offered, unable to meet Brad’s eyes as he did.

“Hey-” Brad laughed. “I don't run into that many places in soaked bathrobes.”

"Why do I doubt that for some reason?”

“Ass.” 

Patrice only smiled and head to the door. He grabbed the key from the bowl Monty always leaves it in when Patrice needs to work late in the studio, and collected his umbrella from the basket as he waited for Brad to put his shoes on.

Brad stopped on the way out, grabbing his robe from the apron rack.

“What?” He said, characteristically accompanied by a stupid grin. "It's monogrammed. It also has my keys, but you know. Less important.”

“Of course.”

Once they're both out, he locked the door, sliding the key back through the crack.

The campus was quiet. It always was at this time of night.

But today, there wasn't a single soul out, which Patrice found odd. There was always at least one person- even when he left the studio that late.

He supposed he cashed in on his person-sighting by walking with Brad.

“Where’s your car?”

“Just down that way.”

It was a nice night, the sky was clear, the rain had gone away- albeit a little too late for anyone to enjoy it.

Nice night for a walk, Patrice thought.

"What's your major Brad?” Curiosity overtook him the second he lost his inhibitions, which was a dangerous combination.

“Oh uh,” Brad paused. "Business administration.”

“Oh.”

“Well you didn't have to sound so disappointed!” Brad joked, elbowing Patrice slightly. “No, I like it. I do. That and it's not the worst workload to balance with hockey.”

“I’m not disappointed!” Patrice said indignantly. “I think that's great.”

“Suuuuure.” Brad teased, shoving Patrice off the sidewalk a bit. “You, Pat?”

“Hm?”

“Your major?”

Patrice hesitated for a moment, meeting Brad's eyes before speaking.

“Uh… I'm pre-law, actually.”

“Oh? I mean, that's really cool. Balancing painting and-”

“You don't have to pretend, Brad.” Patrice interrupted with a laugh. “Yeah, my parents just wanted me to have more security than I would have with an art major, my dad's a lawyer, and I was always a big reader so… pre-law. But I’m minoring in art history. God, I love it.”

Brad smiled, cocking his head to the side as he observed the almost-giddy look on Patrice’s face when he talked about his minor. “I love that you love it.”

“Oh shit!” Brad stopped dead, breaking out of his blissful state of autopiloted walking. “I had to drive… past this car to find my spot.”

He immediately started walking backward, making a backup sound quietly as he did.

Patrice suppressed a smile at him, turning to see him by his car with a grin on his face.

“This is me.” He said, softer than Patrice expected. “Thanks for the clothes man.”

“Thanks for the... uh,” Patrice paused for the right choice. “Not clothes. Not wearing them I guess?”

“Don’t flatter yourself Pat. It usually takes at least three dates. These are extenuating circumstances.” Brad winked as he opened his car door.

Patrice only smiled, shaking his head as Brad got in.

“Night Brad.”

“G’night Pat.”

He stood by while Brad pulled out of his parallel slot. His own car was just a few slots behind. He waved a final time, watching Brad’s car drive off before turning on heel to get to his own.

“‘Not wearing them I guess’,” Patrice scoffed to himself as he unlocked his car. “I'm a fuckin' idiot."

Chapter Text

Waking up the next day was nothing short of an experience.

Patrice felt like he’d been hit by a bus, which made absolutely no sense. He hadn’t drunk anything. He didn’t sleep horribly, which was new. He had a pretty odd dream though, he thought. Something about going to a clinic that Monty had hosted to help him with… his depiction of anatomy?

Dream. Something like that. It was a little too outlandish to be real life, he thought.

He sat up, letting his eyes adjust to the light streaming into his room. It was strange, but no matter what, he couldn’t shake the tired off his bones. 

His legs swung from the bed for a minute or two before his feet touched the cold wooden floor of his apartment.

He sighed, furrowing his brows at his backpack slouched at the edge of his bedroom. 

He never put it there.

He had to be tired as hell for him to put it anywhere but against the leg of his dining room table right when he walked into his apartment.

Squinting his eyes, he thought harder about last night. It wasn’t a dream, he realized quickly.

“Oh, shit-”

Going about his morning processes afterward was a more atypical experience than usual mainly because he couldn’t seem to get last night out of his head.

It was when he was eating his cereal silently and mentally reviewing every detail of last night that Patrice received his first correspondence of the day.

He looked at his once-buzzed phone and sighed, somewhat with disappointment.

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure who he thought it was going to be, and trust him, he loved Krej with all his heart- but…

Krej: Hey Berg. You have studio time today?

No, he didn’t but he kind of wished he did. He’d felt especially inspired since last night.

No I don’t

You?

Krej: I do. Come?

Absolutely

Monty there?

Krej: Yes.

Patrice got ready quickly, happy as hell that he didn’t have a single class today.

Well, not until tonight, and everyone knows evening classes don’t count.

He loved evening classes- the crisp evening air as he walked there and the stars shining above him as he left. They made him feel at peace.

He was practically on autopilot by the time he made it to the studio. He tended to get like that when he was thinking. He always managed to fixate on the silliest things.

Last night wasn’t silly, he corrected himself.

Brad was an experience. An experience he’d love to have again, but he wouldn't kid himself into thinking that would be a two-time thing.

It was his fault, after all for feeling butterflies as he got him a spare set of clothes, as they walked in the night air and discussed their majors, as Patrice made sure that Brad got back to his car safely. It was his own fault.

The younger man had been there doing a punishment. Patrice had the ability to be realistic about that fact. He wasn’t so sure he’d see him again except from the bleachers after going down to a game sometime.

The thought made him a bit sad.

He kept walking from his car, entering the building just as he had yesterday. This time, without the torrential downpour.

He made a note of the hook where Brad’s monogrammed bathrobe had hung and stopped short of a laugh.

It's monogrammed. It also has my keys, but you know. Less important.

“Krej!” Patrice exclaimed, walking faster the second he saw the other man. “Hey.”

“Heyyyyy Patrice,” David said, stretching out his greeting for the remainder of the black stroke that he had been painting over the pencil outline. “How was yesterday?”

“Really good actually Krej,” Patrice said, a smile in his voice. “I had a nice time.”

“That’s good,” Krej nodded, painting over another pencil stroke with a smooth line of black. “Saw your canvas in your cupboard. Looked good.”

“Really?”

“Really. Nice model too.”

Patrice had no qualms with that statement.

“Yeah,” Patrice nodded quickly. “Yeah, he was nice.”

“You really focused on the musculature. You don’t usually. Was refreshing.” David said, hyper-focused on painting over the outline.

“Thanks, Krej.” Patrice said, a laugh on his tongue. 

David saying all these things without a second thought was enough to make him combust in laughter, but he wouldn’t.

“Hey boys,” Monty said after a beat for Patrice, dashing through the small pathway where the storage rooms were. “How was closing out, Pat?”

“Oh, it was great.” Patrice smiled, giving Monty a thumbs up.

A thumbs up.

He never did that.

“Did last night help you at all?” Monty said, seemingly in a hurry but calling Patrice over with his finger.

“Oh, more than you know,” Patrice said gratefully, nodding. “I wasn’t on the spreadsheet for studio time today, but I was hoping I could maybe…?”

Patrice trailed off intentionally, gesturing to where Krej was sitting- where he’d been standing only moments prior.

“Of course! You’ve always got studio time Patrice, you know that.”

Patrice smiled, thanking him.

“Brad inspire you that much?” Monty snorted slightly, ignoring the odd sound that escaped Patrice’s mouth.

Patrice tried to keep his face from running hot there, but that was a tall ask. To not be visibly red was all he asked for.

“He was helpful.”

“Glad to hear that. Might ask him back sometime.”

“Oh yeah?” Patrice said, hating the feeling in his stomach when he considered seeing Brad again. 

“Sounds like he’s been really helpful,” Monty shrugged nonchalantly, an intentional gleam in his eyes.

Patrice only smiled.

“Shit,” Monty said suddenly, his eyes darting to the clock above Patrice’s head. “I gotta get going. But you knock yourself out. 

Patrice nodded dutifully, making a short glance at the storage hall.

“But not literally. Please. Get some air if you feel lightheaded.”

Chapter Text

“What’s got you like that March?” Brad heard, slightly startled when a voice suddenly appeared beside him on the bench. “Why’re you here early?”

“Oh, hey Pasta…” Brad furrowed his brows as he took in the sight of his teammate. “Trying to get back on Monty’s good side.”

“Stop it,” Pasta said quickly, an unexpected punch landing on Brad’s shoulder.

“Ow! What the fuck was that for?” Brad said, scrunching his nose as he tried (and failed) to hit David back.

“Why are you like that?”

“Like what?”

“You look lost. Like you’re thinking about something.”

“And you look you're like an asshole.” Brad exhaled, standing up.

“Hey,” David furrowed his brows. “I didn’t do shit.”

Brad stared for a moment, his shoulders falling as he finished his breath out. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he got up and stepped out onto the ice beside Pasta. 

“Just tired, I think.”

“We didn’t even have practice yesterday.”

“Other stuff,” Brad mumbled, lengthening his strides across the neutral zone. 

“You alright?” Pasta said, suddenly concerned as he looked Brad in the eye.

“I’m fine.”

“Hey,” Pasta said, coming to a sudden stop, causing Brad to stumble just a little. “You can tell me. Anything going on. You know that.”

“I do. I do Pasta,” Brad said, with an annoyed, but endeared sigh. “I’m fine. I swear.”

He was fine. More than fine, really. But he didn’t really know what to say.

His fixation on the random art student from Monty’s class had him befuddled.

“You lie,” Pasta said simply, skating backward away from Brad, still keeping his eyes trained on him. “But I’ll be here when you want to tell the truth.”

“I’m fine!” Brad continued to protest, knowing he should just drop it. 

He was grateful for David’s support, of course, but god. That man was a presser.

Truth be told, he wasn’t even sure what was going on with him.

He had a good day yesterday- a good evening- a good night- so what the fuck was up?

“Fine.” David huffed, skating away. “You’re a bad liar March.”

“God,” Brad rolled his eyes, a smile playing at his lips as he watched Pasta skate towards the goal. “Not lying!”

Brad thought about how unbecoming it might be for him to toss his buccy to the side and lie face down on the ice, eventually deciding against it.

Only by a narrow margin though. 

God, he really couldn’t figure it out- it hurt his head.

Last night felt like a dream. 

Which was an odd way to describe what was supposed to be a punishment. He knew that.

But hell, how else could he describe it? Being in the studio (without having to keep his boys from getting too high off paint fumes), was fun, and he enjoyed doing Monty that solid. And most of all-

Patrice.

He guess he could thank Tyler and Jake for that one.

“Hey, man,” A quiet, tired voice said suddenly as he skated up to him.

Speak of the devil.

“Seggy-” Brad said, a smile appearing on his face. “Rough night?”

“Mmm-” Tyler groaned, going to pinch the bridge of his nose but hitting his cage. “Ow.”

“Didn’t you have to clean Monty’s office early yesterday too?” He questioned, cocking his head to the side. “You went out last night?”

“I did- and no.”

“Then what’s got you absolutely fucked up?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody?”

Tyler only gave him a smile and scrunched his nose.

“Oh, you whore,” Brad giggled, hitting him on the shoulder as his eyes almost automatically tracked to the purple mark on Tyler’s neck.

“How was that uh-” Tyler hesitated, in thought. “What’d Monty have you do instead? Hope it wasn’t too bad, man- I still feel bad.”

Brad could only give him a shitfaced smirk.

It was absolutely Tyler’s fault that they’d gotten caught.

Brad didn’t mind his punishment- no, not at all. But- hell if he’d let Tyler live this down this quick.

“Model for one of his late art classes.”

Brad watched, satisfied as Tyler’s look of regret morphed to one of confusion and then petulance. “What?!”

“Yeah,” Brad said casually. “It was fun.”

“You should have asked for alternative options- that man’s office is a mess.” Brad snorted. 

“Yeah. I know. I fucking cleaned it.”

“Womp womp.” Brad said, pursing his lips to hold back a laugh. “Womp, fuckin’, womp.”

Brad snorted, skating off, knowing Tyler was following close behind.

“No, how is that fair?” He exclaimed, disbelief still heavy in his voice.

“I slaved for 5 hours in that office Brad! Five!” He protested, holding up his hand and straining especially hard to spread his fingers inside his gloves.

“You’re telling me that all you had to do was stand around with your dick hanging out?!” 

“Yeah, about.” Brad snorted. “I got to sit, actually.”

“Oh my god,” Tyler scoffed, skating ahead of Brad to stop them both. “I am exhausted. And you got to have a bunch of art hotties ogle you all night?”

Brad let out the most insane snort at that one, unable to control his laughter as he looked at Tyler. 

It’s not like he was even wrong about the art hotties.

Or, hottie, he should say.

Regaining his composure, he was finally able to speak.  “As if you weren’t having the time of your life last night Ty. Did the girl who stayed over burn you with her curling iron?”

“Hey-” Tyler said, pausing as he gave Brad a pout.

“Was a guy this time.”

The rest of practice went embarrassingly bad- Brad told Tyler about Patrice and the class last night, much to Tyler’s chagrin.

But Tyler was right- Brad did get off too easy.

Turns out Monty did not yet forgive Tyler, Brad, and Jake- turns out they did not get let off as easy as being models and cleaners for a day.

They did have to bag skate.

And Jake did end up needing a bag.

“What the fuck, man,” Tyler said, scrunching his nose as they entered the locker room behind each other.

“Big breakfast this morning,” Jake said woefully.

“Not anymore.” Brad snorted, patting him on the back as he walked by.

Jake only rolled his eyes, his annoyance melting into a smile as his roommate sat down next to him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, Matt just cooked last night and this morning.”

“Mm, tough to resist that.” Charlie clapped him hard on the back and looked at Tyler. “You seem to have had a fun night too.”

Chuck scrunched his nose, noting the marks that Brad noticed earlier on his neck trailing down to his chest.

“Hey- ayyy. Don’t look at me.” Tyler said quickly, a shitfaced smirk on his face as he kept on looking forward. “Not like I had as good a time as Brad last night.”

“The hell does that mean?” Jake asked, still hunched over a bit. “Didn’t he have Monty restitution last night?”

Brad only grinned, full speed ahead on packing up.

“I did, yeah.”

“Tell ‘em,” Tyler said, rolling his eyes.

“Mm. No.”

“Guess what his punishment was Jake?” Tyler scoffed.

Jake furrowed his brows, focusing on Tyler first. They both knew what they had to do in that office.

“What was it?”

“He had to model.”

Jake paused, his eyes widening in disbelief and returning to their normal state in a matter of seconds. He furrowed his brows, closing his eyes and leaning back.

“Model?”

“Model.”

“Seggy, we were in there for five hours.”

“Hey, so was I-” Brad interjected. “Maybe more.”

“This is fucking bullshit!” Jake exclaimed, standing up as he looked at Tyler.

“That’s what I said!”

“Hey- just because my work was different from yours doesn’t mean it’s less important,” Brad pretended to feign a sniffle. “I was punished too.”

“Yeah, real punished by the guy who took you home last night,” Tyler scoffed, a laugh in his voice. 

The room went silent, brows furrowing or rising as everyone only looked to Brad for confirmation.

Locker room talk was nothing new within the group, but everyone was almost slightly aware of Brad’s dating habits. Hell, his taking-people-home habits.

Mostly in that they didn’t exist.

Not since freshman year.

“No, no,” Brad chuckled, suddenly really uncomfortable in the spotlight. 

He really didn’t like the attention from the boys about this.

“He just walked me back to my car, it was late… cold.” 

“He's a real gentleman.” Tyler chuckled, elbowing Brad in the ribs.

Brad cocked his head, noting his smile. It was a genuine one, sweet.

“Don’t get me started on your gentleman,” Brad snorted, hitting Tyler back.

“Woah-” Jake exclaimed. “Woah- backtrack.”

Charlie furrowed his brows too, taking in the sight of  Tyler. “Someone tied Tyler Seguin down?”

“Someone tied Tyler Seguin down,” Brad affirmed.

“Ay-” Tyler said suddenly, throwing a towel. “No, it’s nothing. Was just a night.”

Brad squinted his eyes, processing as the rest of the locker room teased him for a little then moved on.

Brad however, ruminated.

Just a night.

He sure hoped Patrice wasn’t just a night.

But what could he do?

Brad had immediately slowed down his speed undressing and packing up, watching the locker room clear out one by one.

The last one standing other than him was Tyler.

“What’s going on with you, man?” Tyler said quickly, concern in his voice as he turned back from almost having a foot out the door.

He adjusted his cap, making sure it sat firm on his head in its backward position.

Brad snapped out of his stupor, looking up. “Oh.”

“Nothin’ Ty. Just wanna chat with Monty.”

“Yeah?”

Tyler nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing as he turned back and set his bag down on the bench by the door.

“You like him.”

Brad’s head snapped up, his natural reaction to laugh. “Monty? That’s a bit weird Seggy. Wild allegation. I'm not too into bald guys, I gotta say.”

“You know what I mean.”

Brad’s smile melted away immediately as he rested his back against his cupboard. He’d never seen Tyler that serious.

The silence in the room hung heavy. Things were odd between them in this regard. 

They’d both fallen for each other sophomore year- it was well-acknowledged by both parties. But Tyler knew that Brad’s wounds from freshman year- from his last relationship- were still healing. He wouldn’t do that to his friend. Brad wasn’t ready, and he’d never be the one to force him.

Time passed and it became a thing of the past.

“Brad…”

“You deserve to be happy, you know?” Tyler said softly, pursing his lips as he rested his sticks against the wall. 

Brad nodded, mostly on autopilot. “Mm.”

 “Patrice makes you happy.”

That was the last thing Tyler said before he grabbed his sticks, grabbed his bag, and walked out.

Brad pursed his lips, letting his head rest on his cupboard for a moment before he got up and finished packing. 

For a moment, he wondered whether Monty just left out the front, electing not to go to the locker room that smelled of sweat and vomit.

He’d almost reached the door before he heard a booming voice from the rink access door to the locker room.

“Brad!” Monty said, furrowing his brows as he walked over, still on his skates.

“Hey, Monty,” Brad said with a smile, nodding.

“Sorry about the skate, but I saw Jake and Tyler giggling about it earlier during that third drill and thought they didn’t quite learn their lesson.”

“Ah,” Brad shrugged. “All in the name of improvement.”

“Good attitude.” Monty smiled, hitting him slightly on the shoulder with his removed glove. “What do you need Marchy?”

Oh.

“Oh.”

Brad didn’t quite think through what he stayed behind to ask.

“Yesterday. That was fun.” He said slowly, nodding.

“Mm?”

“If you ever need, you know- help like that again. Modeling or just help around the studio even- I’d like that.”

“You liked that?” Monty said, scrunching his nose. “Maybe it shouldn’t have been a punishment.”

“Ha,” Brad said quietly. “Yeah. Tyler and Jake were complaining.”

Monty furrowed his brows, noting that Brad didn’t seem to be his usual, jovial self.

“Oh, well Tyler and Jake got what they deserved. They’re the ones who got high, no?”

Brad laughed softly, playing with a piece of tape on the knob of his stick that had lost its adhesiveness. “I’m no angel here.”

“Oh, that was never what I said.” Monty laughed, trying to lighten the mood as he clapped Brad on the back. “What’s going on with you March? 

“Nothing, nothing. I’m good.”

“You seemed to be having a nice time with Patrice last night. Glad you gelled.”

“What?” Brad cocked his head.

“One of my best students, one of my best players. Good stuff.”

Brad smiled, turning his eyes to the floor.

“Really?”

“Oh, don’t you act modest,” Monty said, mimicking Brad's patented celly as he threw his hands up in the air and raised a hand to his ear. “But… yeah. Of course. We’d love to have you.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t do a lot of live painting sessions but- if the class had a good time and you don’t mind doing another- consider it done. I just provide the venue.”

Brad smiled, nodding. He wished he didn’t feel that annoying bubbly warmth in his chest, but he did.

He did, and he couldn’t shake it.

“That’s great!”

“Just give me your availability, yeah?”

“Yeah absolutely-” Brad grinned. “Thanks, Monty!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t you have a class to get to?”

“Thankfully not ’til this evening.” Brad nodded. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Brad snorted almost immediately, ignoring the warning look on Monty’s face. “Or your lack thereof.”

Monty only shook his head, rolling his eyes as he threw a discarded towel at the man trying his damn hardest to hide his elation.

“Keep it up and you’re the only one skating suicides next practice.”

Brad’s face lit up in a laugh, his eyes crinkling as he picked his bag and sticks up to head out the lobby access door. He was almost out the door before Monty spoke again.

“Oh, and Brad?”

Brad only turned around in response, his eyebrows raised and lip jut out with attention.

“… don’t you want his number?”

Chapter Text

Brad couldn’t particularly remember the last time that he had a number he was so afraid to use.

High school maybe.

He stared at his worn roll of white stick tape, thinking how many tape jobs he had left in it.

Two maybe.

Maybe. 

The word haunted him often.

He said it more than he would have liked.

He’d been trying to say it less lately— to just say yes. And it had been working, he thought.

Until now.

He stared at the black, slightly blotted numbers written in Monty’s half-dry Sharpie.

Patrice Bergeron.

What a perfect name, he thought.

The man was just angelic.

His Quebec Nordiques adult-sized sweatshirt and the shorts that were just a little tight around Brad’s own waist sat folded at the corner of the room.

He wondered how he’d get to returning it.

Maybe that was his in.

Hey Patrice!

It’s Brad from the painting thing

Good time to return your sweatshirt??

And an address to work with?

No. 

Brad threw his head back against the pillow and threw his slightly disgusting roll of tape to the other side of his bed.

Those texts would give Patrice the opportunity to say no, and he couldn't afford that.

And although the Nordiques fan and Avalanche hater would most likely never be caught dead saying such a thing, he figured he wouldn’t risk it.

Something felt right with him.

Something in the— threeish hours they spent together.

He could be delusional. Or— or! He could be extremely intuitive with where this could go and end up boring his and Patrice’s future adorable hockey-playing, artistic children with how many times he’s told them the story.

“And THEN— your dad RAN to his car and grabbed me some clothes— I’d been cold for the last three hours. It was the stupidest shirt I’d ever seen— an NHL team that didn’t even exist anymore. The Nordiques. But he loved it, and I loved it too. Go Bruins though.”

“Go Bruins!”

The thought came to him so fast that he didn’t have time to think about how he didn’t want a love story. Not right now, at least. Not since…

Impulsive thoughts, Brad thought.

Everybody had them.

Brad shook it off, literally. He rose a little from his laid position to shake his head a few times and snap his focus away from the washed, dried, and folded clothes at the corner of the room.

A friend crush was all it was. Patrice would be a great friend, he thought.

He got his phone out of his pajama pocket, closing his eyes tightly as he scrunched his nose.

He already saved Patrice’s number in his phone— he had the second he got the number from Monty. 

He wasn’t sure why he kept the tape around— it made him a little nervous.

He thought about cutting the piece with the number off but ultimately decided against it, under the guise of not wanting to waste any valuable stick tape.

He also knew he was pretty full of shit.

He opened his messages to start a new conversation and began to type.

Hi Patrice! It’s Brad

Brad rolled his eyes and deleted the message immediately.

He was not that boring of a texter.

How does one start such a conversation, he thought.

Fuck.

He tried a few more variations of a greeting before he gave up.

Tomorrow, maybe. 

Maybe Monty dicks around in his art classes the same way he does with the team. Maybe he’d get a text from Patrice before he could even send his own.

Suddenly, Brad got an idea— it seemed like a long shot, but Brad remembered Patrice mentioning a spreadsheet about getting studio time.

Time slots. 

Something like that.

He couldn’t just show up randomly— two days after— that’d be too obvious. 

He needed that spreadsheet.

Almost on instinct, he went to text Jim. 

Coach 

Hi

I have a question

Brad loved Monty for many reasons, but reason number one had to be response time to texts.

The man had an extremely admirable immediacy.

Hey Marchy. All good?

YES perfect actually

Can you do me a favor?

Brad observed the text bubbles quietly, sitting up as the suspense ate at his insides.

What is it?

So

You know that spreadsheet for studio time that your student from the class was mentioning??

Patrick maybe?

Would you consider sharing that :)

There was a beat of silence but aside from that, the reply was immediate.

Brad.

Yes coach!

Are you seriously trying to arrange a meet-cute with my student? Who I KNOW you know is named Patrice?

Brad’s eyes widened as his face went a little hot. He wouldn’t use those words.

Meet cute has romantic connotations

I just think we’d hit it off as friends!

Mhhhm. I can’t send you the Google Sheet link Brad. Giving out student information is unethical.

To other students??? To TAs?? I’m BASICALLY a TA

Or did you forget you had a STUDENT assist with your class the other day

Brad. You already have his number. That was questionable in itself. That’s the extent, I’m sorry.

But what if he doesn’t want to talk to me

I can’t give him the choice

What if he doesn’t like me

I need to MAKE him like me with more in person Brad time

I’m waiting for the day you graduate so I can call you the biggest fucking idiot the world has ever seen Marchand.

Also do you know how psychotic you sound?

I think you just did???

Ouchie?

Brad Marchand I’ll suspend you three games.

You wouldn’t.

Try me actually. 

Stop being an idiot Brad

Monty :(

Monty :((

Please :((( 

He’s so smart and worldly and kind I’m just scared

I mean it makes sense he’s so smart

He’s yoooouuurrrr student after all

Brad.

Monty PLEASE

I can’t give out student information.

Brad sighed, throwing his head back against the headboard and rolling his eyes.

Next time Monty needed someone to spray down the loaner skates, he was down his only guy.

There was a beat of silence before Monty’s text bubbles appeared again.

But… if you wanted to come to my classroom right now, it wouldn’t be ill-advised.

Holy shit? 

Brad furrowed his brows. Two days after is a little less than ideal and awkward-looking, especially for a business administration major who hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since elementary school.

MONTY I LOVE YOU

You’re welcome Brad.

Hey would you do me one more favor?

Remind me to look at your player forms later so that I can hit you with your full name next time

What do you want?

Pretend you called me in?

Lord.

You’re collecting pucks for the rest of the season. By yourself

DEAL. EASY

THANJNYOU

He took less than a moment to look at the screen before immediately deciding that the spelling of his own texts weren’t his problem.

He jumped out of his bed, stripping from his pajamas quickly.

He looked at his reflection in his full-length mirror, squinting his eyes. 

He’d showered only recently so he looked fine waist-up. He was wearing his team-issued sweatshirt and formerly some plaid pajamas.

He decided the sweatshirt was okay to keep— people liked hockey players. 

He quickly put on a pair of jeans from yesterday, grabbed Patrice’s clothes, pocketed his keys, and ran to his door.

All good, he thought. Everything was okay. Everything would be.

No big deal.

He drove faster than he ever had in his life in those following moments, he thought.

His apartment wasn’t too far from school, but it wasn’t exactly close either.

It was a good 15 minutes away under good conditions and this time of day likely had the best conditions possible.

Brad was burning daylight.

He pulled into a spot he absolutely wasn’t authorized to park in, and parked a little crookedly as well. He quickly scanned the lot for Patrice’s car before realizing that he had no clue what Patrice’s car even looked like.

Ah.

Brad all but slammed his car door shut and haphazardly hit the lock button on his keys twice and ran through the entrance to the arts building.

He knew his way to Monty’s classroom by heart only after a good two other times— it was a bit of a complicated route, but he’d always had an uncharacteristically good memory. 

When he entered the doorframe of the studio, he didn’t even take the time to look at the actual workspace. 

He had to make this look natural.

Through his periphery, he gauged a few students scattered throughout the space. He furrowed his brows, not taking the time to make a full observation.

Natural.

In another life, he was an actor, he liked to think.

“Monty! What did you need me for?”

He went in swinging, his eyes focused on Monty’s office door and nothing but.

Monty however, looked a bit annoyed.

Valid, Brad thought, furrowing his brows when he clocked Monty’s arms outstretched toward him.

“Get in here.”

Monty closed the door behind Brad firmly, eliciting alarm from some of the students scattered around the room.

“Do you even check your texts?” Monty asked in somewhat of an exasperated whisper-yell.

“I was driving!”

“Oh. That’s strangely responsible of you March.”

“You’re so mean to me Monty. I’m pretty responsible.” Brad muttered, rolling his eyes as he pulled his phone out of his back pocket.

Patrice just left.

“Fuck!”

Brad threw his head back, alternating between looking outside and looking back at Monty.

“This cannot be fair.”

“You know what you could do?”

Brad perked up immediately, a smile wide on his face. “Yes Monty?”

“Call him.”

“You’re genuinely the worst person! I already told you I can’t.”

“Since when has Brad Marchand been so scared of something that isn’t the face-off dot?”

Brad’s jaw went slack at the comment and Monty’s accompanying smirk, but even he knew his limits of talking back to his coach.

He did not want to be bag skating two practices in a row.

Jim smiled, tilting his head as he sat down in his chair.

“Just talk to him Brad. He doesn’t bite.”

“I sure as shit hope not. Remember that asshole from last year? Brandon something? Brendan?”

“Lord.” Monty scoffed, recalling a player who had been fired up enough to take a bite out of one of his own.

“Did he tell you where he was going at least?”

“Brad, as a trusted adult in your life, I feel obligated to tell you that this is how many stalking cases start.”

“Monty,” Brad said, pouting as he cocked his head and sat down. “Please? No more. If this doesn’t work, I’ll use his number.”

“He said he had a study date.” Monty shrugged, leaning back on his desk.

“So not an actual date—” Brad said quickly, not sure what really lead him the knee-jerk request for clarification.

“Brad—”

“So like at the library?”

“Bradley.”

“Most study dates are at the library. But we do have a few libraries. Ah.”

“Brad, stalk my student and you’re getting scratched.”

“Just confirming, god.” Brad laughed, tilting his head.

“I don’t involve myself in my students’ personal lives.”

“Okay well— the stick tape with half-dead sharpie on it begs to differ.” 

Monty paused, his lip jut out in acknowledgment as he nodded. 

“Mm. Touché.”

Chapter Text

Patrice felt a sense of unease as he went about his day.

He thought it was livable before— he felt that he’d be able to shake off the weird, light feeling in his stomach ever since the session, but no.

He’d gone to the studio to continue working on the painting of Brad, feeling particularly inspired and hoping that by some stroke of mercy, he wouldn’t find his mind as occupied with the model as he’d been.

But no.

Life was cruel.

He’d spent nearly two hours in the studio before he decided to call it quits for the day, having a pre-scheduled study session with Sidney. 

They had a quiz in torts that upcoming Tuesday and Patrice, if he hadn’t been the optimist that he was, would have already accepted defeat. But he figured he might as well give it a shot if Sidney would review with him.

The man was an effective review partner— he stayed far more focused than any of his other friends he reviewed with.

The one time he reviewed with Krej, they both ended up failing.

Never again, he thought.

“Sid, question,” Patrice said, taking the clicker of his pen out of his mouth and setting it down on his binder.

“Shoot.”

“You’re from Nova Scotia, right?”

“Cole Harbour.”

“What’s it like?”

“Oh, it’s beautiful. Great place to grow up.”

“Do you know a Brad? By any chance?”

Sid laughed, a big laugh— his head thrown back as he sighed slightly.

“You can’t not know a Brad growing up in Nova Scotia.”

“Marchand, his name is Brad Marchand.”

“Patrice, what?” Sid exclaimed, his face contorted in an effort to understand. His face washed over in some sort of realization that was interrupted by the librarian shushing them.

“Sorry,” they mouthed in unison, Patrice’s eyes still zeroed in on the prize.

“Brad Marchand as in my literal teammate?”

Patrice’s face went red, a smile creeping in from the corner of his mouth.

“Something like that,” Patrice laughed quietly, his eyes locked on his law textbook.

“Honest to goodness, what is wrong with you?”

“What?” Patrice asked, genuine confusion in his voice. “Big playboy?”

“Oh, quite the contrary. Trying to segue from Cole Harbour to Brad is ridiculous is what I meant.”

“I couldn’t just ask!” 

“You absolutely could!” Sid exclaimed, drawing another dirty look from the librarian shelving right next to them.

“Sorry!” He said verbally this time.

“No, but tell me about him,” Patrice insisted. “Please?”

“Okay well,” Sidney said, his nose scrunched as if he were trying to recall.

“Are you two close?”

“Not as close as him and some of the other guys,” Sidney nodded, cocking his head. “But he’s good people. We did play together when we were younger too. Or against each other, I should say.”

“Oh,” Patrice nodded, his eyes slightly squint as he awaited Sidney actually giving him something.

“You want more.”

“Way more.”

“First, tell me how you met.”

Patrice broke out into a smile at this, resting his head on his hands as he figured out the words.

“You know I paint.”

“Understatement.”

“You know your coach— also my art teacher.”

“Oh, holy fuck. Is that what him and Segs were talking about? Punishment for something?”

“Yeah, he accompanied two of his teammates— your teammates— to huff paint in Monty’s office and they got caught.”

“Did he?” Sid squinted.

“He only did it because he wanted to make sure they didn’t get too high!”

“Already up in arms about him, eh?”

“Stop.”

Patrice wanted to press further, ask a million questions that Sidney probably didn’t have a sliver of an answer to.

What’s his favorite food, favorite genre, favorite color— Patrice wanted to know it all.

He felt odd— obsessive. He hadn’t felt this way about anyone in a long time.

He felt a little pathetic too, he did not need to be thinking this much about a man who most certainly wasn’t thinking this much about him.

“What did you mean when you said ‘quite the contrary’?”

“Hm?”

“I asked if you thought he was a playboy.”

“Oh— yes. No, he’s been out of the game for a bit. Bad ex. Don’t know much about it though. I was a sophomore and he was a freshman. Him and Tyler might have had a brief thing but I’ve never been clear on that.”

“I see. Tyler, paint-huffing Tyler?”

“Paint-huffing Tyler.”

Patrice let them get back to torts after that, but his brain still wandered to the occasional Brad thought.

Bad ex.

Patrice couldn’t really stomach the thought of someone treating Brad badly.

Brad— so effervescent and kind and willing to go out of his way for anyone.

It was a terrible thought.

Eventually, the dying evening sun had begun to stream in through the large, stained-glass windows and Patrice and Sidney had highlighted all they could.

“How you feeling?” Patrice asked, squeezing his head in his hands. 

“As good as it gets, I think.” Sid nodded, leaning back. “I should head out maybe.”

“Yeah? Got something going on?”

“Just a little dinner.”

“Oooooh,” Patrice grinned, giving him a look.

“Don’t ooooh me Berg— are we forgetting who interrogated who about their teammate?”

“Shut up.”

“I don’t think I will.” Sid gave him a smirk— an expression that looked somewhat unnatural on his face.

“You suck man—” Patrice scoffed, handing him his rubber-band-tied stack of notecards.

“Thanks,” Sid said, placing them carefully in his back. “I’m sure you’ll be doing the same soon enough.”

“Oh, you fucking ass!”

“SHHHH. Heavens forbid you two be quiet, right?” The woman who had periodically been on sound control finally exploded, much to Patrice’s shock.

Never once had he been yelled at by a librarian.

“I’m going to have to ask one of you to leave.”

Patrice went to pack his things as well, following Sid’s suit. He intended on staying a little while longer, but he supposed he didn't have to.

“No, Pat, stay.” Sidney nodded. “I was just going. Sorry again.”

The woman didn’t dignify either of them with a response, only scoffed and walked away.

“Ouch.” Sid nodded, his lips pursed.

“We’ll discuss this at length later.” Patrice shook his head and laughed quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Have fun on your date!” Patrice said as Sid swung his backpack over his back.

“You seriously cannot be talking.” 

“I absolutely can!” Patrice whisper-yelled back, only to be answered with a wave of Sid’s hand.

He loved the library. He loved it when he was with someone, he loved it when he was alone— he found that was always able to be occupied there.

He was drained for the day— academically, at least.

He got his headphones and sketchbook out, shading random parts of the page until his lines began to form something cohesive.

The figure was a little too familiar for comfort.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been mindlessly sketching the number one person on his mind, but that person seemed to come from the page.

“Patrice? Patrice, my savior Patrice? Is that you?” Patrice suddenly heard a discernible voice call from afar.

He looked up, his brows furrowed as he scanned the large space between rows of bookshelves for a familiar face.

“Pat!”

“Brad?”

He smiled as he perceived the younger man barreling toward him in a grey sweatshirt and jeans.

His hair was slightly disheveled, but had a soft and flowy look to it— a sharp contrast from his rain-soaked hair from the night they met.

“Hey!” Patrice said, a smile on his face as he stood up. “How are you?”

“I still have your shirt!” Brad announced triumphantly, garnering a few disgruntled looks from students trying to study and some nearby library staff. He might have been louder in that one time than Patrice and Sidney had been throughout their entire conversation.

“I swear man, I’ve been keeping it in my car, but it’s getting hot out and I’ve been scared your old ass Nordiques decal would just melt. And then you’d be sad. And that’d suck.”

“Oh,” Patrice smiled, closing his book quickly. “There’s no need.”

“Hm?”

“To give it back, I mean. You can keep it.”

He wasn’t proud of how much effort it took to not utter the words “it looks good on you”.

“Keep your beloved Nordiques sweatshirt? Hell no man- if I kept it, I’d feel guilty. And then I’d buy you a new one. But try as I might- it would keep magically turning into Avs shit. And you’d kill me.”

Patrice laughed, finding Brad’s demeanor far funnier than he should have.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Gently maim me?”

Patrice shook his head. There really wasn’t a way to win with him.

“If that’s what you want.”

Brad stood there for a moment, smiling as he observed Patrice.

“So what are you up to?”

“Oh nothing, just uh,” Patrice paused, nudging the sketchbook away. “Just some stuff for econ.”

“The book with ’sketch’ scribbled on it is stuff for econ? You’re not very organized Patty. Lemme see.”

“Ha! No.” Patrice said, his grin present in his voice as he held the book away from Brad.

“C’moooooon, not even for me?” Brad did his best to put on his best, most impressive puppy dog eyes, and he could have sworn he saw Patrice budge for just a moment, but it was fleeting.

“No.” Patrice said, a smile still on his face as he tucked it away into his backpack. “Not for your eyes.”

“Sit down,” Patrice invited, pulling out the chair beside him. “What are you doing here?”

“Woah,” Brad said, putting a faux-affronted hand to his chest. “Just because I’m a killer on the ice does not mean I can’t be a killer in the classroom.”

Patrice rolled his eyes as he threw his head back. “You’re so right, that’s my bad. Looking for a book?”

“Yeah— can’t find it though.”
“Really? Have you asked anyone?”

Brad’s eyes widened slightly as he nodded. “Yeah, they said it was checked out.”

“Oh.”

“What class is it for?”

“What if it was just for my pleasure Pat? Did you consider I read?”

“You said you were a killer in the— ah, fuck, never mind. You’re right, that’s my bad,” Patrice giggled. “What book?”

“Love in the Time of Cholera.”

“They don’t have Love in the Time of Cholera?”

“Popular pick, I guess.” Brad shrugged, letting his head rest on his hand.

“I’ve got a copy if you wanted to borrow it?”

“Really?” Brad smiled. “I’d really like that.”

“Yeah of course,” Patrice returned the grin, sliding in one of his torts sticky notes and flipping it to the back. “I’ll text you.”

“Yeah?”

Patrice only nodded, a soft smile on his face. One of those smiles that you think about and reminisce over.

Brad eagerly scribbled down his digits, messing up a number or two and having to scratch out over them.

“Amazing penmanship.”

“Oh, shut up.” Brad laughed.

“This cool, nice artist guy asked for my number- I can’t be excited?”

“You’re a loser,” Patrice laughed, getting out his phone and quickly putting Brad’s number in.

“Yeah, I can be,” Brad said quietly, a soft smile on his face.

“You wanna go for a walk? I’ve had enough of library for a day.”

“That’s perfect!” Brad beamed, standing up. 

Patrice gave him a small look— somewhere between endeared and humored before he picked up his things.

“Actually— you hungry?”

“Hm?”

“It’s about dinner time. You feel like eating anything?”

Brad smiled wide— the kind that showed no teeth but let your eyes crinkle big-time. The kind of smile Patrice thought belonged on Brad’s face.

“The hell are you smiling about?” Patrice laughed, hitting him softly on the shoulder. “That a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.”

Brad had already gathered the rest of Patrice’s things into his hands and was handing them to him one by one.

“Thank you—”

“You got it.”

They walked out of the library in silence, Patrice maintaining a knowing look with Brad as they walked toward the large doors together.

Patrice didn’t need to get two Nova Scotians thrashed by a slightly overdramatic librarian today.

“You feel like anything specific?” Patrice asked, closing the door behind Brad.

“Mm, not really. What do you feel like?”

“Whatever you feel like, you know.”

“That’s not helpful Bergeron.”

Patrice snorted at the use of his last name and nodded.

“How about burgers? Go for a drive too maybe?”

“Yeah?” Brad said, having a difficult time containing the smile spreading across his face. “Oh, shit.”

“Hm?”

“I drove here.” Brad sighed. “Just send me the address, yeah?”

“What? You don’t trust my driving?” Patrice said, it being his turn to be fake offended.

“What? Oh, no!” Brad scrambled quickly. “I just don’t want you to have to drive me back here.”

“That’s your problem?” Patrice laughed. “It’s nothing, I promise.”

“Pat, I’m serious, I don’t want you to have to—”

“Brad, do me a favor?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and consider it done.”

Brad smiled, trying to keep his shaky exhale quiet. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

The walk to Patrice’s car was short— the man knew where to find parking, Brad thought. Legal parking too.

“Sorry for the mess,” He said quickly, opening the passenger door and throwing some papers in the backseat.

“Oh, it’s not bad at all,” Brad snorted. “My brother keeps the messiest car you’ve ever seen.”

“Make yourself comfortable yeah? Seat might be a little tight, it’s not usually in use.”

Brad smiled, putting his hand on the lever and taking it back a little.

Patrice buckled his seatbelt quickly and pulled out of his spot swiftly.

“So Patrice Bergeron- son of Quebec.”

“Yes Brad,” Patrice said, a fake sense of exasperation in his tone as he looked over at the younger man.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Hm?”

“I know, I know— it feels like we’ve known each other forever. It’s part of the Brad Marchand charm package. But we don’t! And we should get to know each other.”

Patrice rolled his eyes. There’s the guy from class.

“Okay, well, where do I start?”

Patrice thought back. 

“Well, I was born in Quebec City.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“Shut up!”

“Sorry, sorry.”

Patrice laughed— a hearty laugh. One he hadn’t laughed in a while. 

“Man, you suck,” Patrice said, able to turn fully as he stopped at a light.

They were the first car at the light— the brilliant red illuminating Brad’s features almost masterfully.

He looked beautiful, there was no real way around it.

“Guilty,” Brad winked, expecting another loud condemnation from the man. It never came.

“I was born… in Quebec.” Patrice tried again. “I lived with my parents and my brother. Dad had a law firm, still does— brother works there. Mom’s a writer.”

“That’s cool as shit actually—” Brad said, nodding. “My family just builds houses.”

“Like that’s not cool as shit?” Patrice scoffed. “Show me some pictures sometime.”

“Will do.” Brad smiled, sucking the inside of his cheek. “Do you think you’re gonna work there after graduation? The firm?”

Patrice wished the expression on his face wasn’t so obvious. The look on Brad’s face dropped immediately.

“Assuming you— wanna go to law school, I mean— I know we talked about this and how your heart wasn’t really in it— fuck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Brad said quickly, directing his eyes toward the ground.

“Hey, hey,” Patrice said quickly. “No, I’m sorry. They want me to, yeah. Sometimes I just get thinking about it— it sucks a little. Not having your family behind you in something you want so badly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The hell are you apologizing for?” Patrice laughed it off, making sure to give Brad a reassuring look. “No, my fault for being a downer on our excursion. Just bothers me sometimes.”

“Hey, I’m here for you man. Always. Doesn’t matter whether you think you’re being a downer. I know you’re not, yeah?”

Patrice only smiled and nodded.

“Alright Brad, you don’t get away scot-free asking about my life. Your turn.”

“You can’t just Uno reverse my question at me.”

“Ah, just did.”

“You have to ask a new one!”

“New question after you answer the first question,” Patrice smirked. 

Brad could tell he was having way too much fun with this, so he indulged him.

“Alright, uh— born in Halifax— two parents, Kevin and Lynn. Two sisters, one brother. Rebecca, Melissa, and Jeff. Grew up on the ice really, ate, slept, and breathed hockey. I was always kinda small, which I had to make up for with my play. I’m really good at wake surfing, fun fact. I have a big scar on my lower back from a BMX accident— uh, what else?”

“Oh my god, you’re such a hockey player.”

“What?”

“90% of your about me was the most hockey shit I’ve ever heard.”

“What! Okay, maybe the stuff pertaining to hockey, but—”

“Tell me something about you that isn’t the most quintessential hockey player thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Okay— fine.” Brad paused to think for a moment. “Big into poetry. I love poetry— lots of clubs and things.”

Patrice considered for a moment, squinting his eyes.

“You are such a liar!”

“Okay, fine!” Brad relented. “But it’s a repeated lie that my brother tells people all the time so that they make fun of me. That could be the fact.”

“Fun fact. Not a funny repeated lie.”

“Mm, fine.”

“I play the guitar? My brother and our friends— we used to have a band.”

Patrice took a moment to consider again.

“That’s still pretty hockey player. But I’ll allow it.”

“Yes!” Brad pumped his fist in triumph and grinned. “My turn to ask a question?”

“Yes.”

“If you could be any animal— what would it be?”

Patrice loved how time flew with Brad— he loved how every single question managed to be more ridiculous than the last.

He loved when he just burst out into random facts on what chemicals make fireworks certain colors and what rollercoaster models take into account the heartline of the rider.

Before he even realized, he’d pulled into the drive-in.

The diner was a favorite amongst students who went to their college but Patrice had rarely visited it with company.

He got out of the car quickly, running around to Brad’s door but ultimately being too slow.

“You come here often?” Brad asked, his eyes bright with the neon colors of the drive-in’s exterior.

“Often-ish? Don’t fully know what possessed me today—”

“I like it. Maybe it’s the ghost of me.”

“You’re right here, Brad, I don’t think it’s your ghost.”

“Maybe it jumped universes. Are you the supreme ruler on ghost law Patrice Bergeron?”

“That I am not,” Patrice laughed, opening the door for Brad as he shook his head.

“I love this place!”

“Oh yeah?” Patrice began to ask, his eyes on Brad as he looked at the counter.

“Yeah!”

“Brad!” 

Patrice looked over at the counter where a young boy stood, wiping a milkshake glass with intermittent waves to Brad.

“One of my freshies.” Brad explained quickly.

“Matty P!” Brad exclaimed, reaching his hand over the counter to do some handshake that Patrice didn’t think he could learn if he tried.

“This is my friend Patrice!” Brad said brightly, clapping him hard on the back.

“Hello—”

“Hi!” Matt smiled at them brightly, watching Patrice’s face. “Need a minute?”

“I’ll just take a small cheeseburger and a black coffee please,” Patrice said quickly. 

“Small cheeseburger and a black coffee,” he repeated, punching some codes in on the monitor. “And Brad, the usual?”

“The usche. Thanks bud.”

“You got it!”

The second Patrice reached for his wallet was the second before Brad tried to induce a heart attack in him.

“Hell no. No friend of mine Patrice. No friend of mine.”

“I literally asked you if you want to go to dinner. I’m paying—”

Patrice managed to get his card out with his other hand, but Brad had his phone out and ready to pay.

“Potsy— come on, whose are you gonna take?” Brad said, batting his eyes at the boy. “Matt it’s meeeeeeee—”

“Hey, Matt— I know we just met but— please take mine.”

The boy was nothing if not amused.

“I think there’s one fair way to settle this.” He paused for dramatic effect, the most shitfaced smirk on his face.

“Rock. Paper. Scissors.”

“Ah, go to hell, I wish Johnny was working.” Brad scoffed. “Threaten him with a bag skate and he folds.”

“You two ready?”

“Is it best two out of three?”

“I wanna leave it up to chance,” Matt said simply. “Patrice seems like he’d analyze your last move and figure out your game.”

“And I wouldn’t analyze Patrice’s moves?” Brad asked indignantly. “This feels like anti-Brad propaganda, frankly.”

Patrice stayed zeroed in. Matt had a good read on him.

He would do that.

If there was only one round, Patrice knew he had to make the most of it. Brad didn’t seem like a paper kind of guy. Either scissors or rock. 50/50. Patrice could either play rock or paper.

“Okay—” Matt said. “Enough time. Rock, paper, scissors, shoot—”

Paper.

Rock.

“Fuck!” Brad exclaimed, stomping his foot as he threw his head back. “I fucking hate you both.”

“Can you throw in a large fries with that actually?” Patrice said, a smug grin on his face as he slid over his card.

“Yeah, absolutely.”

“Sucks to suck Brad,” Matt shrugged, the widest grin on his face.

“I’ll show you who sucks at practice,” Brad mumbled, his nose scrunched.

Their food was ready astoundingly quick. It was usually pretty fast, but Patrice noted that it might have been especially fast this time.

Brad didn’t look fazed.

“Enjoy,” Matt winked at Brad— who was notably still seething from losing rock, paper, scissors.

Patrice nodded a thank you and reached for his coffee mug.

“Why do you need coffee?” Brad furrowed his brows. “Something due?”

“Torts quiz,” Patrice sighed, thinking about whether to mention that that’s what he was studying with Sidney.

“Torts?” Brad said, somewhat of a confused smile on his face. “What, you gotta bake a cake or something?”

“No,” Patrice laughed, pausing for a sip of coffee. “Civil wrongs.”

“What about civil rights? Martin Luther King didn’t die for this Pat,” Brad giggled, biting his straw.

“Oh my god!”

Brad looked on fondly as Patrice shut his eyes and mouth, doing his best to not spit his coffee out all over the younger man.

“Sorry, sorry!” Brad yelled with a grin. “My apologies.”

“You’re horrible,” Patrice sighed, the smile on his face portraying quite the contrary.

“I’ve been told,” Brad grinned, sitting back as he ate a fry. “Can I have a fry?”

“So you did just eat one,” Patrice smiled, sliding the whole tray over nonetheless.

He liked how easy everything was with Brad.

He found himself thinking about this a lot, but it was valid, he thought.

Brad made everything feel lighter— more worthwhile.

“Stawwwwppp,” Brad said, flicking his wrist. “I shouldn’t.”

He reached for another and then gave Patrice a serious look.

“Do you want a national championship man? You can’t be giving me fries!”

“You asked!”

“You ordered!” Brad exclaimed, reaching for another fry.

Patrice scoffed playfully and slowly inched the paper container away from him.

“Couple fries aren’t going to hurt you.” Patrice paused.

“You say that now, but you don’t have to see me at practice tomorrow.”

“Then stop eating them!”

“I can’t, they’re too good!” Brad said, quickly placing another in his mouth before pushing the tray fully back at Patrice. “Eat them.”

“I don’t want them!”

Brad laughed, kicking Patrice lightly under the table. “If I eat one more fry, you’re going to the gym with me.”

“How is that fair?” Patrice exclaimed, giggling nonetheless. “Give that here.”

He reached for it, but to no avail. Brad pulled it closer, took a fry between his fingers, and waved it in the air.

“Oooh,” Brad said, his voice high. “I told you Pat— I told you, if I eat this fry…”

Patrice leaned back, a scoff on his tongue.

Brad really was the most ridiculous bastard.

“Ooh— ope— Patrice, I swear—” was the last thing Patrice heard from his mouth before he head the loud crunch of Brad’s teeth against the fry.

“I told you!” Brad exclaimed, smiling at Patrice. “Looks like you have to go to the gym with me now.”

“That is what it looks like, doesn’t it?” Patrice smiled, reaching for a fry as well.

Brad was quieted at that, only smiling fondly at the older man as they finished their food.

The rest of dinner went uneventfully— Brad would have ventured to guess that it took less than ten minutes to finish up and get everything thrown away.

Time passed annoyingly fast with Patrice, Brad thought. Brad wanted all the minutes— all the hours with this man.

Which were weird thoughts to have about the man he’d met only recently, but he couldn’t particularly say he cared.

“Wanna drive?” Patrice asked, tossing him the keys as Brad walked past the door Patrice had been holding open.

Brad had to pivot on his heel, an alarmed expression painted across his face as he dove slightly for the keys.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Patrice smiled. “Little night drive before we get you back to your car?”

“Hell yeah!”

Patrice’s car was extremely nice, Brad thought. A relatively recent Audi, maybe bought at the beginning of college.

Despite the objective niceness though, Patrice kept a bit of a messy car. He’d already apologized for it, and hell if Brad didn’t think everything this man did was endearing anyway, but it was true.

The engine roared to life right as Patrice clicked his belt buckle beside him. His face was illuminated beautifully by the various colored neon lights facing them from the diner.

Brad smiled, looking to the side as he pulled out of the slot.

“So where are we headed?” Brad asked, his eyebrow raised.

“Wherever you want,” Patrice said drowsily, sitting back with a lazy smile on his face.

“You know coffee is supposed to wake you up, right?” Brad jabbed.

“Oh shut up.”

“Woah,” Brad said, a slight gasp on his lips as he pulled out onto the road. “This thing has a hell of a pickup.”

“Hm? Oh yeah,” Patrice nodded. “Oh yeah, I love it.”

“You sure you want to let me drive?” Brad asked, the nerves apparent in his voice.

“Yeah, I trust you,” Patrice said easily, which he noticed Brad sat up noticeably taller at. “If you’re not comfortable Brad… I can take over.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Brad muttered quietly, turning to check the blind spot as he merged into a lane that merged onto the highway. "Locked."

“You go out at night often?” Brad asked, his voice soft.

“Often enough,” Patrice replied back in the same tone of voice. “When I need to clear my head. So pretty often.”

“Yeah?”

“The stress gets to me sometimes,” Patrice admits after a beat. “That’s why I feel like I’d make a not-so-great lawyer. Painting’s an outlet.”

“You’re damn good at that outlet,” Brad nodded, making Patrice laugh. “But yeah, no, I get it. It’s scary. The future.”

“It is,” Patrice sighed.

“I know I can’t— talk much with my fuckin’ business major but, I can try to understand where you’re coming from. Through hockey if nothing else.”

“No, that makes sense,” Patrice said softly. “The future is scary no matter what.”

“Amen.”

Silence hung heavy in the air for several moments before Brad spoke again.

“What scares you most? Like stresses you out.”

He could tell Patrice was caught off guard by the way he looked over— the way his eyes were wider than usual, the red lights from the cars in front of them shining in them.

“Scares me the most?”

“Me? It’s— it’s all the work I’ve done not being realized, you know? Like— I thought getting drafted was the best moment of my life. Sure as shit wasn’t— too high— but I have a shot, you know? I have a chance to show people something. Like going to school has been great development, you know? I just— I worry about it is all.”

Patrice nodded throughout Brad’s answer, driven to consider his own answer to this question.

“It’s gonna work out, you know,” Patrice said his teeth slightly grit together as he considered his own answer. “I want to say the same. My fear.”

“Oh?” Brad cocked his head, his eyes still on the road.

“But… I’m not so sure it is. Losing everything I’ve worked hard for. Yeah, it would suck, but— I don’t know. I just… maybe it would be a blessing. Maybe. Some fortuitous twist of fate. I don’t hate what I do, no. My heart’s just never been in it.”

Brad was quiet at Patrice’s sudden vulnerability. He supposed it was a justified amount of vulnerability for what he’d just shared.

“It’s gonna be okay man,” Brad spoke just above a whisper. He removed one hand from the steering wheel and placed it on Patrice’s shoulder. “You’re gonna end up where you’re meant to be. I’m sure of it.”

The older man looked at him with wide eyes that he wished he could have turned around to fully perceive.

“I really do hope so.”

Brad nodded, a determined smile on his face as he reached for the media dials of the car.

“Enough of that Debby Downer shit, yeah? What a stupid question on my behalf.” 

Before Patrice could even assure him that it wasn't a stupid question— that Brad wasn't being a downer and that Patrice appreciated the opportunity to talk about it— Brad turned the dials slow until some pop country station came on and he could recognize the song.

Patrice giggled, scrunching his nose as he took in the over-the-top accepts.

“This is what you like listening to?”

“I GOT A BRAND NEW CHEVY WITH A LIFT KIT— WOULD LOOK A HELL OF A LOT BETTER WITH YOU UP IN IT—”

“Holy shit!”

The drive went so much faster when the pair weren’t talking about their deepest fears and instead decided to chat about what they were watching on Netflix— what Sex and the City character they resonated most with— stupid shit.

Brad was a bit sad about how fast time went with Patrice in general. It sucked a little, he thought.

“It’s getting a bit late,” Brad said reluctantly, reaching out to turn the radio down when he realized that he was seeing campus buildings once again.

He remembered where he parked his car relative to the photonics building— or at least he thought.

“You remember where you parked?”

“I think so,” Brad said, raising an eyebrow. “It was illegal, I think.”

“Brad!”

“Oh, don’t worry, I do it all the time.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Brad found his truck pretty quickly— it was, indeed, an illegal parking spot for him. The pair parked Patrice’s car beside Brad’s and hopped out.

“You’re gonna get towed one of these days you know.”

“Cross that bridge when we get there,” Brad grinned, getting out and getting his own keys out. “Will you help me answer the bridge troll’s riddles?”

“What?” Patrice couldn’t hold back his laughter.

“The bridge troll. It has riddles. I said we’ll cross that bridge when we get there but we need to answer the riddles first.”

Patrice laughed, shaking his head as he leaned against his car.

“Yeah, Brad. I’ll help you answer the riddles.”

“Hooray!”

“Okay, have a seat now,” Patrice shook his head, noting the click of the lock and opening Brad’s truck door for him.

“You’re gonna be able to get home okay?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Brad smiled, his head leaning against the headrest of his driver’s seat.

“Are you sure?”

“Patrice Bergeron— son of Quebec. Are you worried about me?”

“Literally always.” Patrice scoffed, rolling his eyes with a smile. “Or have we already forgotten about Mr. Apron Dress from a few nights ago?”

Brad smiled, feeling his face get just a little bit hotter.

It was from the humid night air, he convinced himself.

For sure.

“Drive safe, okay?” Patrice smiled, his thumb running up the door handle on the driver door of Brad’s truck.

“Aye. Aye. Captain.” Brad grinned turning slightly to the steering wheel as Patrice stepped away. “You drive safe too, yeah?”

Patrice nodded, a smile growing on his face. “Thank you. Have a good night Brad.”

“You too Pattycakes.”

Brad couldn’t particularly stop smiling as he watched Patrice’s eyes roll back in his head, his feet walk over to his car, and his little wave as he drove away.

Chapter Text

Brad lied about many things in his life.

He also felt subsequently gross afterward. 

He did not like to read— he certainly didn’t like to read Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Or, he didn’t think he would, at least.

“Oh, you fucking freak.” Brad muttered to himself, letting his head rest on his steering wheel.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Okay, it’s fine, you’re fine. One stalkery is fine. One. If he wasn’t interested, I would stop. But he’s interested. Right Lucky Luce?”

Brad gave the miniature golden laughing cat on his dashboard a glance.

“Don’t give me that look.”

“Okay, I know my approach was questionable today Luck. But love makes you do stupid things!”

“Or— not love. I just think he’s a cool guy. Even if I did like him, which I don’t— it’d be way too early for that. Right? Too early.”

“Even though he makes me feel happy, and safe— and wanted. And makes me feel like what I have to say matters— too early. Right Lucky?”

Lucky, true to his nature— nodded.

“You’re right Lucky.”

“Do you think he’s sweet?”

“Yeah, me too.”

Text me when you get home?

“See! He’s the sweetest!”

Aye aye captain

Patrice had been saved as “Hot painter guy 🎨” since Monty had given him his number.

He giggled at it, the glow of his phone screen lighting up his face in the dark car.

Drive safe

As if commanded, he started his drive almost immediately. He reached back home in less than 15, no speeding involved. He couldn’t exactly find it in his heart to disobey Hot painter guy 🎨.

Brad loved his apartment but hated parking garages. He didn’t need to watch the exorbitant amount of crime docs that he did to know that nothing fun happens in a parking garage this late at night. It’s either a net neutral or a net negative.

Things could always be worse for him, he supposed. But they weren’t exactly stellar right now.

He got out his phone, remembering the orders.

Hey Berg I’m home

In the parking garage

Scawy

You’re okay?

The Québécois man hit back immediately, bubbles appearing the second that Brad sent his last message. Brad didn’t expect a response but found himself pleased and smiling as he stepped out of the vehicle.

Do you want me to call you?

Brad snorted a small snort, the sound resonating throughout the lit concrete structure.

He made it feel like less of a nightmare scenario.

Nahhh I should make it

But if you don’t hear from me

You know where to start looking

Stop that

Patrice Bergeron

Son

Of 

Quebec

Hi Bradley

Are yoooooou home????

You better not be texting and driving

I am, yeah

Home, I mean. I think I live a little closer than you

It’s not a competition PATRICE.

Brad found himself laughing at how stupid he must have looked, maniacally grinning at his phone in the elevator. 

Ahhh well if I was losing it, I’d say it wasn’t a competition too

Asshole

Losing something you’re not used to Marchand?

It ISN’T actually, if you’ll so kindly check our team’s record

How many of those goals did you score?

OOOOOH A SOLID SOLID AMOUNT IF YOU DO YOUR RESEARCH

Somehow, Brad found himself at his own door the second he hit send on the message. He looked up in surprise, a smile on his face on his face as he read back the shiny gold numbers on his door. 

That sure as shit was his apartment.

You would have said you lead the team if you led the team.

I might ride wood Pat

But it sure as shit ain’t pine

Also that’s not FAIR you can’t expect me to lead in goals with the 92 Czech fkn juggernauts we have on this damn team

And like. Sid

You know Sid

I do know Sid

Brad wished he could have seen Patrice’s face as he read the first two texts there. He could picture the law student red as a tomato, the corner of his lips slightly quirked up as he tried to hide his amusement and endearment.

Watcha doin?

Sitting on my couch texting you

Duh.

Why aren’t you in bed

It’s late

A growing boy like you needs your rest

I haven’t showered or changed

Oh noo are you in your outside clothes

With all the germy germs

I am as a matter of fact

You’re one of those?

Noooo

Also “those” seems derogatory.

It is.

Just so you know

Brad giggled, knowing he was giving him entirely too much shit for it. It wasn’t wholly unreasonable— his brother was like that as well. It made torturing the guy pretty easy growing up.

Meanie 😢  

Sometimes ;-)

Holy shit

Fuckballs

I still have your clothes

Brad don’t worry about them

I’m worrying

You don’t need to!

If you’re that stressed about it you can return it when I bring you the book. We’ll see each other

Guess we will ;-)

Someone wants to see me again?

We’ve very much established this, yes

Bro thinks I’m cool

Unfortunately, yeah.

Brad paused for a moment, smiling at the screen, as he traced the edges of his phone case. It was battered, beaten by the years. He refused to get another one, and he didn’t think anyone on god’s green Earth had the ability to make him.

Send a pic

Brad felt as if he was on autopilot as he typed that. In the best possible way. The kind of autopilot when it’s so easy with someone that you barely even had to think about what you were doing.

Why?

Well

I’m not texting a grey P Pattycakes

I deserve better

YOUUU deserve better than to BE a GRAY P

God, you’re impossible

Why do you interchange the way you spell grey

Brad hated the fact he could see Patrice’s smiling face as he read his words.

The man proceeded to send a simple selfie, slightly corporate in the way his shirt was buttoned to his Adam’s apple. The (presumably) phone was directly level with his eyeline and he looked… stressed. And a little bit constipated. 

Is this your Linkedin profile picture

Let’s do that once again with feeling

Brad

ONCE

Again with feeling

This time Patrice seemed to want to sent over one that was awkwardly angled down, his eyes oddly unfocused at the camera. The background was questionable and overall he looked pretty lost. A bit like he needed to send in a headshot and there was nobody around.

You look like a guy who started a sports podcast that he’s inconsistent with after he got cut from his high school hockey team as a senior

Oddly specific experience. Couldn’t be you though.

You made the team presumably, playing college hockey and all

No actually I got cut my senior year and they didn’t let me play junior

Not a chance

Heheh yeah I was lying :)

Do you take joy in trying to deceive me?

I want’t even deceived I know you’re not that ass at hockey

A wee bit of joy my lad

Those guys just tend to be

LUHOOOSERS is my point

You don’t want to look like them in your profile picture 

One more time 

Third time

Charm

3 2 1 go

Brad had to catch himself smiling in order to consciously stop.

The man was holding a chicken of all things, his smile wide as the small beak grazed his chin. He was in a plaid shirt and looking right at the camera, but his gaze was softened this time. Welcoming.

Perfect!

This will make a good placeholder

PLACEHOLDER

We did all that for a placeholder?

Well DUHHH

When I TAKE the perfect picture of you

THEN it will be subbed in

This is profile picture etiquette Pat

I never really set profile pictures

For anyone really

If you don’t know now you KNOW

Aye aye captain

I’m not the captain :(

Not yet, no

Brad began to type, but paused. 

He was sure the bubbles appeared and disappeared on Patrice’s screen. He hoped he didn’t cause any anxiety.

That was a sweet sentiment. Really sweet.

Lot of faith in me eh?

One could argue the most.

You should go to bed maybe

Bro you can’t just say that and make me go to bed

Ooh, watch me.

Patatatata

Hi Bradley

Go to sleep

You’re a meanie >:(

Just want you to get rest

I’m sure you have important pucks to hit tomorrow

You’re an important puck I wanna hit tonight dawg

Brad. Bed. Now.

Now THIS I can get behind!!!!

Brad was audibly laughing at this point his smile wide as the phone screen illuminated his face in the dark.

There was a slight lull before Patrice texted again.

One thing before you go?

Anything Pit pat

Send me a picture for yourself?

Chapter Text

Patrice had never once set a contact picture.

Not once.

Maybe that’s why he found such difficulty in sending the right one to Brad initially. Which is why he found it weird that it made such immediate sense in his head to set one for the younger man.

Brad sent one quickly— it was one of him on the ice, his helmet likely freshly off and hair wet. His hair was slightly shorter in the image than it was now, but long enough so that one could discern the wet quality of the hair easily. His lip was jut out and as was his hip. He looked off to the side with somewhat of a crooked look in his eyes.

It would be a hell of a painting, Patrice thought.

You look good

Oh I know ;)

The hips chica

They never lie

You’re such a loser, goodness gracious

With a comma after loser and IM the loser?

You’re gonna have to replace this one once you take a good one

Understand?

He smiled at the younger man’s absolute insistence on profile picture etiquette.

You got it

Goodnight Brad

So meannnn why do you want me to sleep

Do you not think I’m cool to talk tooooo

Consider that I think you’re so cool to talk to that you deserve a good night’s rest.

I hate you

You don’t mean that

No, no I don’t :)

Goodnight patty cakes

Goodnight Brad

Patrice smiled as he closed his phone and set it to the side.

What the fuck was he smiling about, he thought to himself as he caught the momentary joy on his face.

It was late and cold in his apartment. He always turns on the thermostat directly before he goes to shower to come out to something warm, but he was slightly preoccupied today.

Lost in thought.

Mostly thoughts about the hockey player turned art model who still happened to be a hockey player.

Patrice didn’t particularly remember the last time someone had occupied his brain like this. Maybe there wasn’t a time.

He got up slowly, his bones slightly begrudging of the cold in his apartment.

He’s a disappointment to Quebec sometimes. At least to three of its residents. He was endeared with Brad called him a son of Quebec, but hell if it didn’t sting just a little.

He liked to take showers to clear his head. Being clean was always something that soothed him. Drowning out his thoughts in actual water made things make sense. He wasn’t particularly sure why.

Some things though, not even a shower could help shake.

He walked to his bed, old junior hockey shirt adhered in places to his slightly wet frame. He felt a bit nostalgic tonight. The outfit consisted of that shirt and boxers, the towel thrown around his neck to observe the little water dripping down from his hair.

Clean, he could finally found himself able to lie down on his bed. He reached for his phone, pausing for a moment as he saw his only contact with a profile picture.

There was never more of a lack of clarity in his brain than when he navigated out of the aforementioned chat and to his fellow torts-sufferer.

Sid.

What are your thoughts on Nova Scotia?

Patrice. What the fuck actually?

I want to know

I grew up there Patrice. We talked about this today.

That doesn’t answer my QUESTION like what are some delicacies, the staples, favorite regional things

Go to bed. You need to study more tomorrow.

Is that why you’re up

Why isn’t that why YOU’RE up?

Can you just help a man out

You already tried this earlier, remember? Do you want me to interrogate him for you or something?

Is that on the table?

Bergeron.

Crosby.

I just want to know just help me find out

You know you can ask him, right? He’s a very forthcoming individual. I’ve heard more stories than I’ve wanted to. Far more.

:(

He’s rubbing off on you. Listen, we have a team bonding activity tomorrow and I kind of have to be mentally present for that as the captain. I can eavesdrop. Final offer.

I’ll take it!

How was your date!

He’s really rubbing off on you. It’s embarrassing. Goodnight Berg. Study or sleep.

Patrice smiled, his eyes rolling back slightly as he closed them. His eyes stayed on the roof, his mind grateful for the fact he didn’t have a popcorn ceiling. It was something he thought about every time he looked up.

He hated that his mind immediately went to wondering if Brad liked popcorn ceilings. Or if Nova Scotian Moon Mist ice cream is a real thing. How Brad was a ray of sunshine like he’d never known.

He opened his phone back up and navigated to Instagram. He didn’t follow Brad, not yet. He wasn’t a big proponent of social media but hell if he wasn’t a proponent of stalking the hell out of his people of interest.

Brad was far from hard to find.

bmarch63

Good lord, Patrice thought.

Brad Marchand #63

@pkumenshockey

📍 BOS

His account was public, it made sense for him. It was pretty classic hockey boy. Good number of posts, mostly group shots— he could spot Sidney in a few.

What a loser, he thought to himself.

@marchymunch was written just below the cut.

He squinted, scrunching his nose as he clicked on the account link.

Daily digest 😱

(Maybe monthly if your lucky)

Patrice forced himself to wince at the wrong ‘your’ when he caught himself smiling.

The profile picture was Brad with a facial mask on— cucumbers over his eyes— the whole shebang.

The account was private of course, he knew better than to follow it just then.

He navigated back to Brad’s main and scrolled. And scrolled.

He caught himself trying to find anything even vaguely romantic before chastising himself for it. He knew that he wasn’t romantically involved with anyone and hadn’t been for a while, but he couldn’t stop his curiosities.

He tried not to think about it too much, the concept of someone treating Brad poorly.

It was still unfathomable to him.

He continued to scroll further and further back, only more enamored the more he scrolled.

He’d been posting for years, maybe since the app existed. Patrice, personally, had taken ages to make an account. It was partially driven from his desire to avoid distraction but also by his fear of the public eye.

He thinks of deactivating often.

Not so much right now.

He was on a decade-old post when his heart stopped.

He watched the pink heart formulate in horror as he put the phone face down on his chest and shut his eyes tight.

“Fuck.”

He scrolled to the top, hit follow, closed out, and pushed his phone to the far side of his bed. Might as well. Patrice shut his eyes tight enough to see color before rolling over.

Brad was never going to let him live this down.

Chapter Text

Brad was up with the sun, a rare occurrence for him, oddly well-rested from the night.

He woke up to his phone beside him, only charged to 57 percent.

Fuck.

He didn’t have much of a taxing day today. No classes, as he could recall.

If he did have any… oh well.

The only thing on his radar for the day was team bonding.

He didn’t particularly feel inclined toward going— his mind and body had been absolutely exhausted lately and the team bonding activities that they had been partaking in hadn’t helped.

Team bonding.

Lately, it had been more physically taxing than one might assume. It had been a lot of the gym, and the few odd activities that Monty and Sid had picked. Rock climbing had him especially sore.

But today was good. Today, he was happy. Just a movie. He was excited, actually.

Sid would probably drag a few beanbags into the media room and Brad would be able to relax and catch up on rest and maybe think about a certain painter.

Getting ready was the only battle he had to face to get there.

“… Pixels,” Brad said slowly, squinting his eyes as Sid struggled with the projector.

“Pixels!” Tyler exclaimed while Sid stayed silent.

“You want to watch… Pixels?” Jake chimed in, his brows furrowed.

“Out of all the Adam Sandler movies?” Charlie scrunched his nose, his eyes tired. “There’s a lot…”

As far as Brad could recall, this had been one of the more taxing lead-ups to playoffs.

Truth be told, he may have preferred simply practicing over team bonding as of late.

“… and whose idea was this?” Brad said, skepticism still clear in his voice.

“It’s been brought to my attention that… our bonding activities have been a bit physically taxing lately. One of our teammates suggested this one, and we thought it could be a good time. This teammate of yours didn’t particularly leave me alone about it, so if you have any qualms, you can investigate and take it up amongst yourselves.” Sid stated, eyeing the assortment of beanbags he’d dragged in— borrowed from various dorms and some campus facilities.

Brad looked over at Tyler, who had a small smile on his face as he looked up at the screen.

“The escape room had me knocked out for the weekend,” Tyler affirmed with a loud sigh.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Anything involving using your brain tuckers you out,” Brad scoffed.

“What the fuck?” Tyler said indignantly, hitting him just above the collarbone.

“Fuckin’ bitch, you know my clavicle’s been bothering me since our last game.” Brad exhaled sharply, his eyes moving from Tyler to Sid.

Sidney sighed loudly as if to say be nice.

The movie had already started, Adam Sandler’s child self biking down the road to meet Kevin James’.

“Looks like you as a kid, tubbers,” Brad said, swinging his arm back hinged at the elbow as he went to hit Tyler in the stomach.

He ignored that essentially all he hit was the man’s six-pack.

“Fuck you!” Tyler exclaimed, retaliating the hit in the form of a kick to Brad’s shins.

The movie continued to progress, the room largely quiet aside from the occasional soft murmur. Everyone was exhausted.

Sid committed to at least 2 team bonding activities a month, but Brad didn’t particularly understand why. He was pretty damn bonded to the team, he thought. Pretty damn bonded. Hell, he’d made out with his liney more times than he would have liked in the past.

“Will you two be able to control yourselves or is our team bonding going to have to be my Ironman training routine?” Sid said through an exhale, staring daggers in Brad and Tyler’s direction.

"You do Ironmans Sid?" Tyler said, incredulity in his voice as he cocked his head.

Sid only looked at him.

Tyler pantomimed zipping his lips and Brad looked down to the floor. He got out his phone, seeing if Patrice had texted him any from last night.

Nothing.

He sighed, and put his phone down, not bothering to look at the rest of his notifications.

“That you?” Tyler whispered, his eyes darting over to Brad. “That’s about how tall you are right? Give or take.”

“Shut up,” Brad muttered softly, shooting a glance at Sidney.

He wouldn’t ever admit aloud how much not receiving a text from Patrice soured his mood, but he breathed through it. Didn’t let Tyler see the disappointment on his face.

“What’s up?” The younger man said, immediately furrowing his brows.

“What? Nothing.”

“You made a face. That just wasn’t a typical Marchy ‘shut up.’ What’s up?”

“You’re reading too far into it. Watch the movie.”

The movie continued on, Brad observed how almost formulaic the start of Adam Sandler movies tended to be. They were a bit of a guilty pleasure for him.

He let himself focus on the film, allowing his phone to sit directly under his thigh as he looked up at the screen.

“Does anyone want popcorn?” Sid asked suddenly.

The room erupted in excitement and enthusiasm, hands raising— far too lazy to retrieve it themselves.

“It’s Skinny Pop though. We’re still sticking to our meal plans.”

Half the population of hands dropped and Brad watched with a slight grin. He hadn’t been too good about his meal plan lately.

With that, he thought about looking at his phone but decided against it. Right up until he felt a buzz.

Almost visibly perking up, he opened up his phone, the screen illuminating his features in the semi-dark.

what’s up fuckwad

He looked to his side and rolled his eyes. Tyler.

Nothing! Watch the movie asshole

Did you not pick this fuckass shit

its a fucking masterpiece dickhead.

but on a real note im here to talk if you need anything ok bro

you fuckingdick

Brad rolled his eyes externally but felt warm on the inside. He really was lucky to have Tyler in his life.

In closing out of messages, he managed to see one of his notifications from Instagram.

@pbcleary37

Brad gasped quietly, his eyes lighting up as he clicked the tab.

He had a like on a photo from the account. A photo he had posted… 7 years ago.

He smiled brightly, turning to obscure his face a bit more.

Patrice Bergeron

He had no bio and 15 posts. Private.

Brad felt no shame requesting him... he smiled again thinking about the 7-year-old post.

His profile picture was him in professional attire, posing with a man who looked very similar to him. The man seemed to be about the same age, maybe a few years older, maybe a few years younger. Brad wasn’t great at statistics but he understood a margin of error.

He threw his head back onto the beanbag, upset that it would take however long Patrice took to approve his follow request in order to peer into the man’s life.

He wondered if Patrice tried to take a peek at his private account but was unable. He grinned for a second and decided, fuck it.

Switching accounts, he followed the older man from his private as well.

Navigating to his messages, he shot him a text.

Morning pattycakes

Fils du Quebec

Bandit of the night

“God, are you even paying attention?” Tyler pouted, suddenly breaking the silence that Brad had crafted around him.

“Not particularly, no.”

“This is where it gets good!”

“He just showed up to the White House. He’s dicking around in the White House.”

“Exactly!”

Tyler replied to him in indignation, his eyes forcefully sad and lip jut out for pity.

He looked to Sid, who wasn’t looking back at him.

Brad rolled his eyes. He knew Tyler well enough to know what his brain was sounding like in that moment.

Sid, he’s not watching my movie.

Brad knew that Tyler knew better though.

It was this or family bonding bag skates.

Brad squinted at his phone, staring down at his follow request. He listened to Tyler mutter beside him as if the younger man hadn’t seen this movie at least five times. 

“Well, duh, that’s not the real Madonna. My goat was never that fucking creepy.”

“God, why isn’t he listening?”

“Would you listen if you were the Prime Minister and I told you aliens were coming to get us?”

“Brad, would you nail Qbert if it meant bagging Lady Lisa?”

That was the only thing to snap Brad out of his Patrice-induced stupor.

“What?”

“Oh, sorry— we aren’t there yet.”

“Are you hungry?” He leaned over, asking Tyler under his breath. “Was gonna go get a muffin.”

“And miss the movie?” Tyler essentially whisper-yelled, a pout on his face.

“Seggy, I don’t know how to tell you but I truly couldn’t give less of a fuck about Adam Sandler fighting aliens.”

“Do you even hear what an awful sentence just came out of your mouth? You can not care about Adam Sandler, or you can not care about aliens. Both? That’s not possible.”

“Seggy…” Brad said, a small laugh on his breath.

It was what he loved about him— that he couldn’t deny.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

Tyler only beamed at him, his eyes lit up. Brad wouldn’t take that away.

It wasn’t even thirty seconds after he directed his attention back to the screen that his phone buzzed under his thigh.

Brad? You’re up so early?

Brad let out a soft gasp, looking to both sides as his phone illuminated his face. Brad should have been grateful in that moment that Tyler Seguin was an Adam Sandler worshipper or he would have clocked him immediately.

“Is that you in the locker room?” Tyler said aimlessly, vaguely in Brad’s direction as he kept his eyes locked on the screen and spilled Skinny Pop all over his chest.

Brad could hear what was going on— Josh Gad was going around slapping the asses of every army man in sight. Valid take, he thought.

However, he had no verbal response.

Help me help me

I’m being forced to watch a terrible movie

Also it’s not that early

What do you take me for.

Just wondering why 🤔

What’s up with you?

Team BONDING berg

I’m being forced to watch PIXELS.

I’m so tired

I’m hungry

I got up later than I should have. No breakfast

Ya boy is about to DIE

Do you want me to bring you something? I can

Brad almost jumped back from his phone at the text, his brows furrowing as a slight gasp escaped his lips. What a horrible gentleman.

Patrice Bergeron was such an asshole.

What

No you’re so sweet though

I wouldn’t put you through that

It’s no trouble. I can’t cook to save my life so it would just be me picking you up something, but thought that counts, right?

Nooo

It’s not the thought that counts?

My maman doesn’t often steer me wrong, I must be honest

No!!

Thought counts

No food for me

Aliens are attacking. I have to serve my country

You’re Canadian, Bradley.

Brad smiled at the text, trying to think of a response as he looked up.

He caught Tyler staring at him dead-on, his eyes locked on Brad’s, shortly darting to his phone.

“Who’re you texting?”

“Nobody.”

“Doesn’t look like nobody.”

“Really.”

“Let me see.”

“No.”

“It’s painter guy.”

Tyler made somewhat of a triumphant face and looked back to the screen.

“I know you March. You’d have to get me replaced by pixel aliens for me to not know you.”

“You’re annoying.”

“I’m right.”

Brad only smiled, his eyes darting between his phone screen and Tyler’s grin.

The attack on England was happening now, little green mushrooms floating out of the sky.

Brad scrunched his nose. He wouldn’t mind if England was obliterated by centipedes.

“You think I could do that?” Tyler said, his eyes glued to Adam Sandler stealing the blaster and running across the green. “I think I could do that.”

“The Prime Minister is so unapologetically British…” Tyler muttered under his breath. “I guess I get it, but you could be a little ashamed.”

Brad snorted, rolling his eyes.

“Level two— I’d ask you Marchy. I’d ask you to help me take down level two.”

Working for the Weekend began to play in the background, reminding Brad of the drives back from practice when he was younger. Maybe he liked this movie more than he thought. Maybe he loved his best friend just enough to tolerate it.

“We could take down the aliens?” Brad asked, a quizzical look on his face.

“Easily. You and me? Easily March.”

“Well, I’m glad you have faith in me.”

“Make no mistake— I’d carry you.”

“Oh my god, that British fuck. ‘Well thank god for that!’ Shut up!” Tyler exclaimed under his breath.

“Honestly, you know what? You’re my Tattoo. I’m Mr. Roarke.”

“Shut up!” Brad whisper-yelled before punching him in the shoulder.

“Marchy and Seggy.” A loud voice boomed from the front of the room. “Come on.”

“Sorry, Sid!” Tyler said, laughing as he rested his head on the back of the beanbag.

Brad only rolled his eyes at Tyler before shutting them tight.

“March, what are your thoughts on Mini Coops— I don’t really like them. Not a fan of the taillights.”

He really didn’t know when to be quiet. Brad, regardless, humored him.

“Think they’re okay objectively Just feel like everyone I’ve ever known with one was annoying though.”

“Makes sense. Perfect size for you. And you're annoying."

Brad decided to forgo the retaliation and in turn, forgo getting yelled at again.

He’d get back Tyler later.

“Dude, if you ever got our planet destroyed because you had fuckass cheat codes on your visor… I’d be so pissed.”

Brad looked over, brows furrowed to try to process the statement.

He opened his mouth to speak, his mouth dry and thoughts slightly scattered as he tried to focus on the film. It lasted for less than thirty seconds, his phone buzzing almost immediately.

Brad

Come outside

Brad furrowed his brows and looked at Tyler.

“I have to go— I’ll be right back.”

“What— No, Marchy— it’s the best part—”

“Segs—”

Brad gave him a look that turned his pout into a look of understanding.

He got up from the beanbag with marginally more difficulty than it should have taken a college athlete, but he charged forward. He gave a quick nod to Sid who looked at him with confusion as he got up, but some sort of realization as he went out the door. He didn’t particularly give much thought to it until he saw Patrice Bergeron standing just outside the glass paneling to their media room.

“Patrice Bergeron. Son of fucking Quebec.”

Brad stopped dead, giving Patrice a look of disappointment through angled-upward eyes.

“I said I didn’t want this.”

“You said you didn’t want to give me the trouble. Two very different things.”

Patrice smiled softly, holding two bags in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “I just got you black coffee— I wasn’t sure what you’d want. I know there’s cream and sugar in the rec center lounge so I figured you’d have some up here? If there isn’t, I can run and get you some—”

“Mr. Bergeron,” Brad said suddenly, interrupting Patrice’s runaway train.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.” Brad laughed, accepting the coffee and taking a sip. “I do typically drink it black. Onto the important questions— how did you…”

“Sid’s location.”

“Pat, you shouldn’t have.” Brad looked at him, something softening in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Patrice's eyes were catching the sunlight in all the right ways, eliciting an even bigger smile from Brad. Glass windows adorned the end of every hallway— the blinds were there for show at this point.

“What is wrong with you?”

“I was worried. Muffin and sandwich too.” Patrice said, handing him the other two bags. “Or uh… croissanwich. Whatever they called it— some hybrid thing. They didn’t have regular bread… I asked. If you have something you actually want though, I can run back to a different—”

“Where do you get the time to be a painter-lawyer with all this damn running? You want me to talk to Monty about talking to the track coach Pat?”

“God, you’re so…” Patrice laughed, eyes crinkling and head thrown back. “You’re so…”

“Gorgeous… brilliant? Perfect? Beautiful? Sweet. I could go on. Say when.”

“Something like that.”

Brad stepped back, a smile on his face as he looked up at Patrice’s. “You liked my decade-old picture yesterday night.”

“It was seven years!” Patrice replied indignantly.

“You counted?” Brad snorted, even more amused.

“I knew you’d do this to me!”

“Folks— our generation’s brightest legal mind. Preemptive striking a poor, innocent civilian.”

“God, you suck.”

“Like I’ve told you before— guilty.” Brad winked, letting a laugh die in his chest as he took another sip of his coffee.

“Did you get yourself anything?”

“Ah— usually skip breakfast unless I get up around 4… 5.”

“You masochist.” Brad gasped. “We’re going to brunch one day. That’s not negotiable. On me. Also not negotiable.”

“Brad!”

“You just bought me breakfast.”

“Two things and a coffee. You’re not paying for brunch.”

“At the campus Starbucks. I just know they fleeced you.”

Patrice rolled his eyes and leaned back on the wall. “You’re an asshole.”

“Guilty. As. Charged.” Brad smiled, scrunching his nose.

“You better get going, eh? You’re gonna miss too much of Pixels.”

“God, don’t remind me.”

“I don’t want to keep you. Miss five minutes of that movie and the world gets taken over by aliens. Literally.”

“Don’t leave me.” Brad pouts, tipping his head forward and looking up at Patrice. “I’ll be miserable.”

“Text me when you get out. I’ll be around.”

Brad tried to suppress the way his entire body felt like lighting up. “Really?”

“Really.”

Patrice smiled at him before checking on anything else he needed for the umpteenth time before turning on heel and walking down the long hall of light.

Brad couldn’t help but linger for a moment and watch him as he left.

He walked back into the room as inconspicuously as he could. True to Patrice’s word, the world was indeed getting taken over by aliens.

He made his way back to his area, avoiding the gaze of hangry hockey players who were having their snacks policed by Officer Crosby.

“You fucking left in a worried hurry to get food? I’m never speaking to you again.” Tyler pouted, his eyes on the green and white bags in Brad’s hand.

“Muffin of forgiveness?” Brad offered, a smile on his face as he outstretched his arm downward toward the beanbag.

“Well, shit.”

Tyler took the bag, immediately taking it out and sparing no time in ravaging it.

“Hungry?”

“You have no fucking idea.”

Brad smiled at the crumbs all over Tyler’s upper lip and shook his head as he bit the sandwich... croissanwich. Whatever.

His eyes almost rolled back in his head after the first bite. He owed Patrice his life, he thought.

He got out his phone to text the man another thank you.

Bergeron

You may just have saved my life

My stomach is no longer trying to devour me inside out

Well, I’m glad Marchand, that was the goal

I’m gonna get you back for this, you know that

Is that a threat?

Something like that

Watch out PB Cleary

You sound like a childrens’ book author

That’s Beverly Cleary, Brad

Brad laughed at that his eyes darting between the texts on his phone and the life-or-death Donkey Kong on the screen.

I’m about to be Runaway Ralph

Deep cut

You a childrens’ book enthusiast Bradley? Feel like I learn more about you every second

Brad laughed— a little too loud— eliciting a punch in the arm from Tyler.

“Watch, this is the best part!”

“You’ve said every part for the last hour-thirty was the best part.”

“No, no, I mean it this time!”

Brad laughed, rolling his eyes slightly and going to shoot out just one more text to Patrice.

Listen my buddy’s beggin me to watch the movie

He picked it

He’s so fuckass but he loves it Jesus I’m sorry

I’ll be back in 20ish?

Yeah. One text.

He paused for a moment before unlocking his phone to do one last thing.

Sharing his location, he typed out a final reply.

Also here

Don’t feel like you have to use Sid’s next time ;)

Chapter Text

Patrice was barely a few steps out of the rec building when his phone buzzed in his back pocket. With a smile, he took it out, seeing Brad’s texts to him.

There was something about the way the younger man texted that drew him in. He already knew he took profile picture etiquette (something Patrice was sure he made up, by the way) seriously, but he also took texting rather serious as well.

He enjoyed it. He’d never known anyone to text with that much fervor— that much personality bleeding through their words.

None of Brad’s personality was lost through the process of removing the feelings from his brain, putting the feelings into words, letting the words flow through the network and repopulate into pixels on his own screen.

The magic of phones was its own thing. Perhaps Brad was right to treat it as sacred.

Take your time Bradley

He was able to put his phone down for less than a moment before it buzzed again.

Did you just bring Brad food?

He was surprised it took this long for Sid to text him— he chuckled thinking of Brad eating the food in a room full of hockey players just as hungry as him.

Why yes I did

He said he was hungry

Thanks for the assist on that one

Patrice smiled at the self-assessed cleverness of his response and sat down on the retaining wall directly outside the building.

You non-consensually using my location isn’t an assist really, but you’re welcome.

You shared it indefinitely!!

How is that not consensual

So, you’re saying a married spouse deserves sexual favors from another spouse just because they are indefinitely together?

Objection! Misleading

Oversimplification

Overruled.

What a FAULTY faulty analogy Sid

Hey that’s what you said 🤷‍♂️ .

Also, stop bringing my boys food that doesn’t align with their meal plans. Playoffs are expeditiously approaching.

Patrice snorted at the message. He thought it was rather funny on a few accounts. First, the word expeditiously. Sid needed to spend more time with the team, he thought. Second, Sid had a lot more to worry about in terms of Brad adhering to his meal plan. He thought back on the night they’d spent together at the diner.

Brad’s beat-up sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as he looked at him like he was the only man in the world. Maybe Brad looked at everyone like that.

He wasn’t a man that lacked in charisma— that much he knew since day one.

Boy, singular

I’ve only corrupted Brad

I’d assume Brad’s corrupting YOU.

We might need you ready to go come playoffs, Bergeron.

Nice try Crosby, haven’t played since I was freshly able to drink

You know, in most provinces, that’s 19.

You know I mean 18

A year off, potato potato.

Patrice smiled. He really did miss hockey sometimes. A lot, really.

It just made less and less sense as he got older to keep pursuing. Saying his father wasn’t exactly supportive was an understatement.

I miss it sometimes

Yeah

Idk

You’ve always been a hell of a player and I think you know that.

Thought you were looking to be drafted up until when you told me you weren’t.

“Yeah, me too,” he almost typed.

Patrice sighed, wondering how to respond to it. The way he’d survived losing hockey up ’til this point was truly just to not think about it. He closed out of the chat, his thoughts in a weird place— melancholic, but knowing he made the right decision. The most practical one, at least.

Before he could formulate a proper response, Brad texted again.

You around pattycakes?

He closed out of the chat with a sigh, wondering if he should walk back into the rec center.

Movie’s over, wanna hang?

Patrice tried his hardest to suppress a smile, doing a piss-poor job.

I’d really like that yeah

I’m sorry though, I keep forgetting to bring you the book

It’s chill we can go back to yours to get it if you want

I just wanna hang and have no rush to get the book so

It’s whatever you want

Woah Bradley, no dinner first?

He watched as the bubbles appeared and disappeared, his heart rate quickening. His chest felt tight, anticipating Brad’s response. He hoped he hadn’t overstepped his bounds.

You’re so funny Bergeron, how come no one gives you credit?

That’s MY line pattycakes

A sigh of relief which Patrice didn’t know he had in him escaped as he jogged back up the stairs.

I think it’s just you that doesn’t give me credit Marchand

Hmm…

Nope!

Patrice smiled, looking down the entryway for Brad. Many of the players had their stuff packed up and were already out the door.

He didn’t think Pixels was that bad of a movie.

A few minutes had passed, then ten, then twenty.

About a hockey team’s worth of people had filtered themselves out of the area, confusing Patrice. No Brad, no Sid.

You okay Brad?

He sent the text to no reply, getting up at the five-minute mark. The longest five minutes of his life, he thought. He counted it down second by second, thinking five minutes after a ‘you okay’ text would be the optimal time to go.

He walked quickly to where he was before, but just a little past. The beanbags that he could see through the edge of the window were gone and the trash was filled to the brim. All the chairs were nearly pushed back in, and Brad was knelt near the door, tying up one of the trash bags.

“Hi,” Patrice said softly, a smile on his face as he looked down at the younger man’s head. “All good there?”

“Oh my god! Patty! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were waiting. We were just helping Sid clean up a bit.” Brad smiled, getting up and looking over his shoulder.

“Hey Siddy.” Patrice smiled, angling his eyes upward.

“Hi, Patty.”

Patrice rolled his eyes, choosing not to verbally acknowledge Sid’s taunt. He outstretched an arm to help Brad get back on his feet when he needed it and tried not to beam when he took it with the brightest smile that Patrice had ever seen.

The room had three people left— Brad, Sidney, and a third person he’d never seen. Well, never in person, at least. He was all over Brad’s social media— looking friendly enough. In that moment though, it felt as if his gaze was intentioned to burn holes in Patrice’s face. The man walked closer— and closer, eventually standing right next to Brad.

“Hi, I’m Patrice!” Patrice smiled, poking out his hand to shake the man’s hand and hopefully shake his cold gaze too.

“Tyler. Tyler Seguin.”

“This is my friend Seggy I was telling you about!” Brad smiled more, obviously not picking up on the energy.

“Patrice Bergeron…” Patrice nodded, realizing he was going to lose the grip strength contest that Tyler turned the handshake into. “It’s very nice to meet you, I’ve heard a lot.”

“All good things,” he tacked on quickly, looking at Brad.

“What are you studying?” The man seemed almost unshakable.

“Criminal law, pre-law. Art history minor.”

“Oh, very impressive. You an artist?” Tyler looked at him with a surveying gaze— scrutinizing— nothing could escape him and Patrice could see that.

“Here and there…”

“Oh, he’s selling himself short,” Brad exclaimed, his eyes bright. “He’s amazing.”

“I’m sure. You work with coach?”

“Oh, yes. He’s great. Got me out of more slumps than I can count.”

“That’s something we share.” Tyler cracked the smallest semblance of a smile, allowing an in for Brad to jump in.

“Live, laugh, love that bald man. God forbid I ever get hit with that though. He can pull it off. I think my nose is too big to look good bald. Even buzzed is dangerous territory.”

“Don’t sell yourself long, you look awful buzzed.” Tyler chuckled, smiling the first genuine, full smile that Patrice had seen that whole conversation.

“Sell yourself long?” Brad gasped, his jaw slightly slack. “Do you come up with new ways to be mean to me every night before you go to bed?”

Tyler only chuckled and hit him in the arm.

“If you boys wanna head out, we’re done— I just need to shut off the projector.”

“Yeah— yeah, let’s get out of here. Thanks for letting Seggy live his dream of showing the whole team that god awful movie Sid,” Brad chuckled, elbowing Tyler and looking up at Patrice. “He’s the culprit I was telling you about.”

“Guilty as charged,” Tyler said, his joking demeanor gone once again— not a trace of humor in his voice.

“I’m excited.” Brad smiled up at Patrice. “You know what you wanna get up to?”

Patrice only shook his head, endeared at the younger man’s ability to do anything. The possibilities were endless. He’d always been one to desire an itinerary or need time blocks to function. When he looked at the younger man, however, that Type A bullshit melted away. At least a little.

Just a little.

“Segs, you wanna walk out with us?” Brad asked, picking up his small canvas bag adorned with nothing but a school logo and a pin from orientation three years ago.

“Might hang back for a bit March, I wanna grab the rest of the snacks,” Tyler said, nodding slightly unconvincingly. “I haven’t bought groceries in the past 2 weeks.”

“Dude! You can’t not buy groceries!”

“I’ll go this weekend, chill, chill.”

“Brad, make sure he gets groceries please.” Their captain suddenly interjected, exhaustion raw in his voice. “Healthy stuff. Please. We have playoffs.”

Brad raised his arm to his forehead to salute Sid and turned to Tyler. “We’re going to Trader Joe’s buddy.”

He turned to Patrice with immediacy. “It’s the only place he likes to shop for food.”

“It makes shopping fun and whimsical!”

Brad only rolled his eyes and looked back at Patrice. “My best friend.”

Patrice smiled at Tyler once more. “It was really nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” Tyler said affirmatively, his lips pressed into more of a smile than he'd given Patrice the entire conversation.

Good enough for now, Patrice thought.

“Away we go?”

“Whenever you’re ready.” Patrice smiled, watching Brad walk closer to the door than he was.

“Bye Seggy! Byeeeee Siiiiiiid!”

Tyler watched the hall, waving as the shorter man practically skip-led Patrice out the door.

He sighed keeping his eyes on the door until Sid broke the silence. Whether it took a minute— whether it took five, he couldn’t really tell.

“Segs?”

“Hey, Sid.”

“You happy? Was team Pixels to your liking?” The older man chuckled, fiddling with the projector. “You know how to turn this off?”

“Uh…” Tyler paused, cocking his head. "Yeah, I think so. And yeah, I did. Thank you for that."

Sid furrowed his brows at the younger man, narrowing his eyes a bit as he assessed. It was like a switch had flipped. There wasn’t a lot that could flip that switch in his liney’s mind.

“Everything okay with you Seggy?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”

The right wing got up on the table and reached up, his shirt rising up just above his hip.

A loud beep was heard and the board went completely dark.

“That’s not… how it usually turns off when we do media,” Tyler said, his voice quiet— worry woven in his brows.

Sid furrowed his brows. “Don’t worry about it. Talk to me.”

“What about?”

“Tyler.”

“You know him?” Tyler said after a beat.

“I do, yeah. We knew each other a bit when we were younger and we’re both pre-law. We’re also just friends, but…”

“When you were younger?”

“Yes, through hockey.”

“He plays hockey?”

“He did, yeah. Up til juniors.”

“He’s good. Is he an asshole?”

“Not… really, no. Not at all, actually.”

“Hockey players are just generally assholes."

"Note that you're a hockey player saying that to another hockey player," Sid rolled his eyes. There wasn't exactly a lack of merit in Tyler's statement.

"Seems sweet.” Tyler continued, disregarding Sid's words. "I suppose."

“He’s a good guy,” Sid said plainly, nodding as if it were a fact of life.

Perhaps it was.

Sid pretended that he didn’t notice Tyler’s eyes tracking to the doorway with great conviction.

“And you’re sure?”

“Pretty sure yeah.”

“Sid, pretty sure isn’t good enough,” Tyler muttered, his voice more serious than the captain had ever had the opportunity to hear it.

“Segs, listen. He’s a good guy, I know it. I’m sure. Why are you interrogating me?” Sid’s words were exasperated, but he was proud of Tyler for looking out. He knew why he was being interrogated.

“I just…” Tyler sighed.

“You know what he’s been through man. He’s also never been as into anyone as long as I’ve known him. And that says a lot. You know how we were early sophomore year.”

“Yeah,” Sid said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. About all of it. I can’t promise you that he won’t get hurt, but I know Patrice. He wouldn’t hurt him. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, really.”

Tyler looked as if he desired nothing more than to be more combative.

Well Brad isn’t exactly a fly, is he?

“Has he talked to you about Brad?” Tyler said, furrowing his brows.

“He keeps asking me about Nova Scotia.” He said tersely, looking over his shoulder for either of the involved parties and their potential to come back. “He asked me about fucking moon mist Seggy.  Do you even know about moon mist? I’m tired. And he’s done it repeatedly too.”

Tyler paused to nod, squinting his eyes. “And you know he likes him back?”

“He likes him back in the most insufferable way possible. And he’s way too respectful of a guy so knowing him, he’ll never make the first move. Especially knowing Brad’s history.”

“He knows Brad’s history?”

“I mentioned a bad ex and that’s all.”

“Has Brad told him anything?”

“That— I’m not sure. But I can ask.”

Tyler paused, swallowing hard. “I can’t see my best friend get hurt again.”

“None of us want that Seggy. Patrice would be the last one to do it, I’m telling you.”

Tyler paused, his lips pursed and eyes locked on Sidney’s. “Okay.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Sid questioned, his brows furrowed.

“So… are we going to try to get them together?” Tyler said, his voice steady. The unsure tone and worry had melted away, concerning Sid more than anything.

“We?”

“Two pining idiots off our respective backs. I know I’m not the brightest, but that sounds like a hell of an incentive.”

“Don’t we have a playoff run to focus on?”

“The way this is looking, Patrice comes to a game and Brad finds a way to fall over a toe pick on the power play.”

Sid nodded along until he heard 'toe pick'. Tyler was in the throes of protective madness, he supposed.

“Tyler, hockey skates don’t have toe picks.”

“Ex-actly.”

Sid inhaled deeply and exhaled with just as much force. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a plan then.”

“Operation Batrice is a go then.”

Sidney paused, pouting in confusion. “Sorry, what?”

“Batrice. Unless you prefer Bra-trice. But that would look a bit like Beatrice typed and saying bra-trees is kinda weird. Prad if you want. Pad? That’s worse, no?”

“You keep me young Seguin, I’ll give you that," Sid spoke gravely, suppressing the quietest laugh.

"You’ve got a deal, yeah.”

“Sweet!”

Chapter Text

“Well, what do you want to do?” Brad turned to Patrice, the smile on his face was the most genuine that it had been in a very long time.

“I’m up for anything— the day is young.”

Brad rolled his eyes and practically skipped ahead. “Wanna get lunch?”

“Didn’t I just bring you food?”

“I’m a growing BOY, Patty. I’m hungry.” Brad whined, cocking his head to the side. “Plus, I gave Ty my muffin. He was pouting too much.”

Patrice’s brows furrowed for a moment, but he nodded. “Oh, I see.”

“Oh shit… I hope you’re not mad.” Brad said suddenly, his demeanor shifting. “I know you got it for me— I’m sorry. It’s just that Tyler gets real grumpy when he’s hungry— and he hadn’t eaten all day. And he gets hunger migraines if he doesn’t have a starter meal for the day… learned that freshman year— the hard way too. Anyway, I’m sorry—”

Patrice was frozen, looking at him, unable to get a word in edgewise as the younger man rambled.

He almost laughed, but refrained from the action.

“Brad— Brad. You’re totally good. Don’t apologize… I bought you the food, didn’t I? It’s your right to do whatever you want with it, yeah— don’t panic.”

“Sorry.”

“Dude, apologize one more time and I’ll have you bag skating until your first playoff game. Don’t forget I have an in with your cap and coach, eh? Nobody’s upset, I promise.”

Patrice smiled as he noticed the worry on Brad’s face melt away.

“Monty doesn’t like you more than he likes me,” Brad said indignantly, crossing his arms with more petulance than a toddler being told no.

“Has he ever asked you to paint his daughter’s birthday banner?”

“Well… no. But that’s because I can’t paint!”

“I got a leg up on you there then, don’t I?”

“Well… I can skate better!”

Patrice looked at him— sly, slightly conniving.

“Okay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Nothing, Bradley, just said okay.”

Patrice looked over, winking at the younger man.

“You think you’re a better skater than me.” Brad gasped, greatly exaggerated mock offense on his face.

“Hey, I never said that.”

“You emphasized said!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“There are a lot of ways to say that sentence—” Brad continued, his lip pouted and indignant eyes looking up. “I never said that, I never said that, I never said that, and I never said that.”

“Oh— okay, well… I never said that.”

“Well, now you’re just saying it because I pointed it out.”

“Maybe.”

“So you think you’re a better skater than me!”

Patrice only shrugged, having far too much fun toying with the left winger.

“Noooo,” Patrice smiled, stopping just in front of Brad. “I’m sure you’re great.”

“I am, if you’ll check the record and my record this season.”

“Totally.”

“I could skate circles around you, Bergeron.”

“Is that so?”

“Entirely.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Patrice only smiled and continued to walk in front of him. “Do you need anything else?”

Patrice looked at the coffee cup still in Brad’s hand.

“Are you genuinely still hungry? I was only teasing.”

Brad looked at him. Just looked at him, the older man’s eyes soft, genuine,  caring— not expecting anything.

“Oh— no, I was kidding. I think I’m okay…” Brad replied softly, subdued.

“Well… you just let me know, yeah? We can get you whatever. My day is free.”

Patrice paused to direct his eyes upward, noting the gray skies forming in the Boston afternoon.

Brad paused— not paused his walking, that he kept pace with— but paused his brain a little. His brain that was running constantly— his brain that never felt like it had a break, no matter how much Tyler says it’s on vacation. The safety he felt around this man he’d only just met was a bit alarming, and it worried Brad just a bit. He felt like he should stay silent for the first time in a while. He’d felt like he should stay silent before, certainly… but never in this way.

“You okay? Hope I wasn’t too forward, I just know you mentioned you get hunger headaches in the morning too. Back at the diner last night.”

Brad furrowed his brows, cocking his head slightly. He had no recollection of any such conversation. “Did I?”

“Yeah… I think!” Patrice said with a slight nervous laugh, Brad able to hear the Quebec come out almost fully in his intonation. “My brother used to get them, is all. He used to be a bitch about them, too.”

Patrice paused, worry immediate in his eyes.

“Not that I’m calling you a bitch— the too was referring to like— how he solely was a bitch about them. You know? Like—”

Brad laughed, endeared as all hell, angling to cut his stupid ass off.

“Relax, my pattycake, pattycake in a dish.”

Patrice was more baffled than anything, his confused face breaking into one of the biggest smiles Brad had ever seen. His expression was still laced with confusion, but the charm of it was something else.

Brad didn’t know how he did it.

“I think those are two separate clapping games, Bradley.”  Patrice smiled softly, rolling his eyes.

Patrice was almost uneasy with how easy things were with Brad.

It confused him— overjoyed him— upset him— made him feel like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Bringing him the food this morning felt less like a chore and more like there was no place he’d rather be.

“What do you want to do Bradley?”

“I think you should pick Patrice. Seems only right. I feel like I’ve been too in charge lately.”

“Fair, fair.”

“Well… I had a spot, but…” He trailed off, reaching around for his phone in his pocket.

“Does it look like it's going to rain?” Patrice said, his eyes narrowing as he squinted up at the sky.

The sky was darkening slowly, but surely, especially for the morning time.

“Weather’s sucked lately. I wouldn’t be surprised.” Brad said, a soft smile on his face.

“Shit,” Patrice sighed softly, pursing his lips and looking down at the younger man.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, that... I can’t tell you. Gotta save it and the element of surprise for another time.”

“Already making plans to hang out with me again, eh?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Patrice said simply, moving on far too fast from Brad’s perspective.

The younger man stood still for a few moments longer, just staring.

“It’s cold too. Cold and rainy. This sucks.” Patrice said, exhaling heavily.

“Tell me where you wanted to gooooo,” Brad pleaded, a smile on his face as he looked at Patrice with the sweetest eyes he’d ever seen.

“I can just tell you absolutely love ruining surprises for yourself, don’t you?” Patrice laughed, looping his arm around Brad’s waist and pushing him in front of him. “Did you drive here?”

“I did not! I try not to take the old boy on these mean streets all that much. It’s a beater, but it’s my beater. Not meant for idling in day-to-day traffic.”

“Totally get it, my car in high school was something of the same.”

“I live pretty close to school too, so… it’s nice. I don't typically take her out on the town all that much.” Brad smiled, his eyes drawn to Patrice’s hand as he jingled his keys. “The day you… met me…”

Brad paused to laugh, his eyes rolling as a slight blush rose in his cheeks.

“I was coming from Tyler’s that day.”

“Tyler’s the house in the ‘burbs?” Patrice raised an eyebrow quizzically.

A hockey bro homeowner in college was an interesting idea.

“Awww, Patty, you remember what I said that night? As I was rushing in soaked and naked?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I have a categorically good memory. Speaking of soaked… we better walk with a purpose.”

Patrice looked at the storm clouds almost fully brewed in the sky. Almost as if on cue, it started to drizzle. A little more than a drizzle. Also, he was thinking about how he was a liar. Maybe the universe— the rain god— decided he also hated lying as much as the sunshine.

Patrice had a bad memory. A terrible one, even. He remembered the night he broke down crying at 10 after watching his brother be lauded for his verbatim word-vomit on contractual law.

He’d never be that guy.

He’d been trying to make up for it ever since.

But something was different with Brad. The words that the younger man let out of his mouth echoed in Patrice’s brain like it was nobody’s business. It wasn’t fair. Not at all.

Maybe he’d ask him to read him a textbook one day.

“Mr. Marchand,” Patrice exclaimed finally, a smile on his face as he jogged over to the passenger door of the car. The car they had already somehow gotten to— the car he had to park rather far today.

“Oh, Mr. Bergeron!” Brad exclaimed delightedly, his hair already slightly sopped as he threw his body into the passenger seat that he looked just so, so right in. He gasped as the rain kicked up immediately when he got in, large pellet-like raindrops absolutely hammering the windshield of Patrice’s Audi.

Patrice couldn’t help but smile as he pictured how easily his hair would get wet playing hockey.

“You okay?” Patrice yelled over the rain, crouching slightly as he peered into the door.

“Never been better!” Brad yelled back, beaming more than Patrice had ever seen. “Get in, get in!”

Patrice ran around the front, throwing himself into the car quickly before he could get too wet. The ship had sailed a bit on that ask, but hey, at least Brad was only speckled with water.

“Pat!” Brad exclaimed in mock-exasperation.

“Yeeeesss?”

“Why’d you do that?!”

“Do what?”

“Get yourself all wet!”

“Well, I kept my friend all dry—“ Patrice paused, laughing softly as his eyes tracked to Brad’s head. “Mostly dry. So who’s the real winner?”

“You’re unreal, Bergeron. Un. Fucking. Real.”

Patrice only laughed his back cold against the leather as he felt the German engine roar to life.

“I love your car,” Brad said, looking over as the wipers did their thing. “It’s so you.”

“Just call me a soulless corporate sellout, why don’t you?” Patrice laughed, letting his head rest on the seat.

“I meant sleek and classy, asshole,” Brad said, his voice loud, but somewhat shaky. Almost as if he was putting up a front of confidence.

Patrice looked over at him quizzically to see slightly nervous eyes.

“I’m sorry— I didn’t mean it like that.” His breath was caught up somewhere.

“Hey… no, I was kidding,” Patrice said quickly, steadying his voice to provide reassurance. “I know you didn’t mean it that way. I was just joking, Bradley.”

“I know it’s a sensitive subject… I’m sorry, man, I really am.”

“Listen to me, and you’re gonna listen well, you understand?”

Patrice looked over to make some of the most intense eye contact that he had in a while.

“I was kidding. I think I’m fucking hilarious. And I’m also gonna be the best fucking corporate sellout the world’s ever seen. And hang my fuckass paintings in my shiny corner office.”

Brad still looked upset, which Patrice hated. His spark dulled immensely when he felt like he had hurt somebody. Patrice disliked the way his eyes changed.

Without thinking, he put his hand on Brad’s thigh.

“Stop thinking about it.”

“Your paintings aren’t fuckass.”

Patrice interrupted him— or maybe Brad interrupted Patrice. They said it at the same time,  which caused them to burst into laughter all the same.

“They’re not! Don’t call them that.” Brad stressed petulantly. “You’re literally— Bergeron.”

“I… am.”

“No, you don’t understand. They’re… Bergerons.” Brad repeated. “I was going to say you’re Picasso, Monet— but you’re not. They’re not. They’re better.”

“Bergerons.”

“Such a nerd.” Patrice laughed softly, his chest tight in a way that it hadn’t been in so long. Brad’s sweetness was almost unbearable. “Thank you. That means a lot, you know. Especially for someone who hasn’t seen one.”

“Well of course. Bergeron.”

“Don’t stress, yeah?” Patrice said once more, his voice low, but sweet as he removed his hand and returned his full attention to the rainy road.

He enjoyed the silence Brad fell into when he was at peace. He loved listening to the younger man’s voice— hearing him speak, hearing everything he had to say, but the silence he fell into when he felt comfortable was a different beast. It made time move faster, yet slower, at the same time. The silence hung, but not heavily. Lightly, if you could believe it. It was peaceful, plentiful. The world was full of possibilities when Brad Marchand was silent.

“Holy shit?” Brad gasped, eliciting a look of worry from Patrice.

“Something wrong?”

“My… oh my goodness?”

Patrice looked over quickly, his brows furrowed as he looked to Brad’s face of worry.

“Tyler. Seguin.”

“Your friend? The one I met earlier?”

“Yeah, him. He’s a fucking slut.”

“Oh.”

“No, I mean. He’s a slut.”

“I heard you the first time.”

Brad shook his head, his eyes expectant of Patrice to understand him. When he saw no glimpse of recognition and a well-up of confusion, he sighed, turning his phone over.

“Dude, it’s the guy he’s fucking. Dirty fucking dog, bro. Before playoffs? I mean, I knew, I just didn’t think it was post-level serious.”

Patrice looked at the phone closely, cocking his head and squinting his eyes a bit.

The red light shone at them through the gloomy Boston afternoon. The rain served as their soundtrack as Patrice analyzed the Close Friends story.

“Shit, is that Jamie?” Patrice whispered, his brows furrowed as he looked up at Brad for confirmation. His attention was split dangerously between the road and the phone, but Brad looked just panicked enough for him to give the man a majority stake of his attention.

“Jamie?”

“Jamie Benn… he was in an ethics class I had last year. Not one of the ones you take for fun. Doctors and lawyers mostly.”

“DOCTOR?” Brad said, his eyes wide. “Tyler’s fucking a DOCTOR?”

“He’s a good-looking guy, nice… enough. I don’t see why not. I think… either pre-med or pre-dent. I can’t remember.” Patrice shrugged. “Good at group work. For the most part. Fell asleep at my house once, but so did Sid.”

“And… you’re sure it’s this Jamie character.”

“Pretty sure… I recognize the tattoo. I hope I’m not mistaken. Why?”

“Is he nice?”

“I would say so.”

“Better be.”

Patrice exhaled somewhat hard before laughing. “You know… you two really love each other.”

“What?” Brad laughed back, an endeared sense of confusion in his brows.

“You and Tyler.”

Brad smiled fondly, slipping his phone back in his pocket. He paused, furrowing his brows. “What’dya mean?”

“I think he was ready to shoot me just a few minutes ago,” Patrice exhaled through a laugh and scratched the back of his neck.

“What? Noooooo,” Brad smiled a smile of slight confusion. “He’s a sweetheart. He’s genuinely one of the sweetest people you’ll ever know, I promise.”

“Does he tend to be icy at first?”

“Not really. But there’s a first time for everything!”

“So he hates me.”

“No!”

Patrice exhaled through his nose, hard.

“Did I do something earlier? He seemed mad.”

“Oh, absolutely not, he was just tired. Cranky. I didn’t really pay attention to his favorite movie, it might have ticked him off. I should text him.”

“Why wouldn’t you pay attention to Pixels?”

“I was texting you!”

“I’m not more important than Pixels.”

“Why does everyone DICKRIDE a movie where Kevin James is president and Q*bert gets boned and everyone’s chill with it?!”

Patrice laughed, finding it hard to keep his eyes on the road as Brad talked about Tyler’s whoreish conquests.

Not that Patrice thought he was a whore or anything. He’d be working overtime to get on that man’s good side.

“Here we are.” Patrice finally said softly, pulling into a conjoined parking garage. “Shouldn’t have to worry about the rain anymore.”

Brad stopped speaking to observe his surroundings. “Taking me back to yours? Without a first date? You think I’m easy like that?”

“What? No— that’s not what I—”

“Relax Bergy boo. Excited to see your crib.”

“This is a nice ass apartment complex, by the way—” Brad said, his head on a swivel as he looked around.

“Daddy’s money. Little incentive to keep me doing what they want.” Patrice rolled his eyes ever so slightly— in the sweet, subtle, Patrice way that Brad had come to observe. “Grateful, though.”

“Respectfully, Pat,” Brad said, his brows furrowed as he looked over. “Nobody’s entitled to your gratitude. And with what I know about them, they might be least entitled.”

“You’re sweet.”

“I’m right.” Brad emphasized, his body rocking forward slightly as Patrice rolled into his parking spot. “Doesn’t mean we can’t take absolute full advantage of your sexy apartment, but… fuck your dad. Respectfully.”

“You’re an enabler, you know that, right?”

“Fully aware. I’ve been told I’m great at it, too.”

“I’d like to agree with the sentiment.”

Patrice smiled as he locked his car, observing Brad under the minimal daytime parking garage lighting.

He led him to the apartment, taking the route that he’d taken hundreds of times.

It felt different, though— the sluggish step was gone, he walked with a straighter spine. His lungs felt like they inflated more— the quality of the air he was taking in felt like it was straight out of a cannula.

Even through all his observations, though, he felt like they got to the door in almost record time.

Brad raised an eyebrow as he looked at the door. It just looked heavy. The golden numbers glistened back at them, reflecting light differently moment-by-moment as Patrice opened the door.

“Dude…” Brad said, his voice losing steam as he got through the word. “Holy…”

“Ugh, I know.” Patrice sighed. “Stupid.”

“Patrice Bergeron, prince of Quebec?”

“Oh, hush.”

Patrice stepped inside behind Brad and closed the door behind them. “I’ll go grab you a towel for your head and change. Make yourself at home.”

“You’re telling me the guy Tyler’s fucking fell asleep on that couch?”

Patrice looked over. It was nothing special. Black, leather, postmodern. Soulless, he thought. His father had picked it out. He’d furnished most of the apartment, to Patrice’s chagrin.

A home is meant to be lived in, he remembered pleading with his father.

“As long as the guy Tyler’s fucking is Jamie.” Patrice shrugged. “He did fall asleep on that couch.”

“Did you charge him rent and a cleaning fee?”

“You’re ridiculous.” Patrice scoffed, the smile not leaving his face. “Go sit, make yourself comfortable.”

Brad sat, dramatically careful, an act of showmanship that Patrice couldn’t help but laugh at.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, water, chocolate milk?”

“Would it be fiendish to ask for more coffee…” Brad said, a laugh heavy in his voice.

“Not at all,” Patrice smiled, making his way back to the fridge. “I will warn you, though, the only coffee I can make well might be too sweet for you.”

“Respectfully, Pat, I just need caffeine.”

“I can give you that.” Patrice winked, turning his back to his kitchen.

He quickly grabbed a clean kitchen towel from his drawer, looking back at Brad.

“Head’s up!” He yelled, perhaps a little too late, as he watched the towel sail across his living room and into Brad’s lap.

“Crazy aim and arm, Bergeron.” Brad laughed, grabbing the towel and going to dry his hair with it.

“What can I say?” Patrice said, getting the milk going in a saucepan. “I’ll change and be right back, yeah?”

“‘Course.”

“Feel free to get the TV going— or you can take a look at the DVDs or something. Oh! I’ll get the book I owe you.”

Brad just sat and stared, his chest light as he watched the angelic man move about his suite. The flat that looked like it was straight out of How I Met Your Mother. Brad wouldn’t be surprised if Barney’s thousand-foot TV descended right then and there from the roof.

“If you need anything, let me know, yeah? Just holler. Should be back quick enough, but…”

“Y’know how there are people who are terrible hosts? Just absolutely awful?”

“Yeah…”

“You’re too damn good. It’s scary. Just pretend I’m not here, yeah?” Brad chuckled, leaning back on the couch unsurely. “Go do your business.”

Patrice looked as if he wanted to say something, but only smiled.

He went to change, semi-consciously into his junior tee that he’d worn to bed last night. Slightly for the reason that he was damp from the rain and wouldn’t be able to shower, so he might as well not waste a fresh shirt.

But also slightly for the reason that part of him wanted to impress Brad.

Just a small part of him.

He changed back into the shirt and shorts, patting his body dry as he went.

He’d never changed quicker, he noted.

He went rushing back into the living room to find the milk at a sufficient boil, and Brad smiling at him from the couch.

“Didn’t I tell you to make yourself comfortable?” Patrice chuckled as he walked by. “Why are you sitting like someone drew a chalk outline for your ass to be in?”

“Oh, Patrice.” Brad sighed, shaking his head. “You’re acting like my voluptuous ass could ever be contained in a chalk outline.”

“You’re annoying.”

“I’m right. I don’t do those bag skates for nothing.”

“You do those bag skates because Sidney Patrick Crosby would have your head otherwise,” Patrice said, his eyes rolling back as he poured the coffee into two ceramic mugs that he’d painted a few years ago.

One was an imitation of Van Gogh’s Irises, and one was a painting of the Boston Public Library he’d done from memory.

He’d lived there sophomore year.

Patrice finished making the coffees, holding coasters under them as he set both mugs on the coffee table in front of Brad.

“Your coffee, sir,” Patrice said, half-bowing in a way that Brad couldn’t help but roll his eyes at.

“Thank you kindly.”

Brad took a sip, his eyes widening as he did.

“What the hell is in this?”

Patrice’s face fell into worry, which Brad immediately rectified. “No, it’s spectacular. What are your secrets?”

“A magician doesn’t tell,” Patrice smiled, exhaling a sigh of relief. “Want anything else? Cookies? Digestives?”

“Digestives? A pretty face gets away with a lot, but being British around me is unforgivable.”

“I’m going to go get those cookies now.” Patrice laughed, getting up swiftly as he made a beeline for the kitchen.

The silence didn’t last long.

“Oh fuck!”

Patrice looked over, his eyes wide as he took in the scene. The mug was on the ground, fully intact, the coffee spilled out across the white rug. Nothing to worry about, in his eyes.

“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m so sorry. My hand was shaking, and I thought I had a better grip on it than I did— Oh my god,” Brad gasped, falling to his knees immediately and attempting to grab the liquid, hot coffee with his bare hands.

Patrice rushed back over from the kitchen almost immediately, dropping to meet the younger man.

“Hey— hey.” Patrice whispered softly. “Stop.”

“No, shit, shit, shit, fuck, shit fuck.” Brad continued, his voice shaking as he grabbed at the Kleenex box that Patrice had on the couch. “Christ—”

“Brad.” Patrice said suddenly, placing his hands on his chest without thought. Brad looked at him with slightly wet, panic-stricken eyes. “Breathe.”

“No, I’m so sorry— your carpet— oh my god, fuck.”

In Brad’s panic, Patrice entirely didn’t note the hot coffee all over Brad’s shirt and shorts.

“Brad!” He yelled without thinking.

“I’m so sorry! I can pay— I can—”

He looked at him with eyes Patrice didn’t like.

They were scared, stricken with fear and panic in a way that Patrice hated to see those typically bright, sweet ones. The brightest and sweetest, even.

Patrice took a second to exhale, assessing how far-reaching the coffee splashes on Brad’s shirt and shorts were. They weren’t too bad, but there was a patch on his torso that worried Patrice the most.

“No, hey. Stop.” He said softly, calmly.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care. Is your chest okay?”

“It’s okay— it’s fine— your carpet—”

“It’s just a rug,” Patrice said sternly, his eyes locked on Brad’s black, athletic shirt. “It’s all over you—”

“Can you take it off for me?” Patrice asked softly, his eyes darting nervously between Brad’s eyes and chest.

“Patty, it feels like you forgot, but there’s nothing you haven’t seen there,” Brad said through a sort-of wet laugh.

“You know what I mean Brad—”

“No dinner?” Brad chuckled nervously, his eyes still fearful and nearly welled-up. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey… listen. Quebecois coffee is mostly milk— a splash of whiskey. You know, my mamman always said to never cry over spilled milk. You stop that.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“Did it hurt you?” Patrice asked sternly, the hand on Brad’s shoulder carefully tracking downward.

Brad stayed silent.

“Did it strike you or splash you?”

“Splash— I’m alright.”

“Nothing hurts?”

“Just a little.”

Patrice got up with a nod, wordlessly walking over to the kitchen and grabbing some paper towels and a spray bottle.

Brad watched him silently as he wet a paper towel and wrung it out.

He walked back, meeting Brad at his level once again.

“Take it off.”

“What?”

“Your shirt.” He handed him the damp paper towel for his chest, leaving a mess of some dry Bounty on the floor. It really was the least of his worries.

Brad removed his shirt unsurely, the coffee getting stickier on his chest.

“Can I take this?” Patrice said, putting his hand on the shirt as he gestured to the back of his house.

“No, no— I wouldn’t want you to waste a wash cycle on me.”

“God, who said I didn’t have laundry to do too?” Patrice said with a smile. “You’re so self-absorbed. Noooooot everything’s abooooutttt you Bradleyyyyy.”

The genuine smile that was elicited from Brad was a step in the right direction, he thought.

“Shouldn’t we do something about the carpet— I—”

“You and this carpet,” Patrice said, a false exasperated sigh on his breath. He smiled, spraying a couple of sprays of the bottle he’d brought over onto the mess of paper towels.

He watched the younger man wipe down his chest and exposed parts of his legs with the wet cloth through stolen glances as he scrubbed the floor down a bit.

“You let me take care of that. Please?” Patrice shook his head, still laughing. “There’s Neosporin in my bathroom drawer— right side. And grab a shirt and a pair of whatever from my closet.”

“I couldn’t take more of your clothes.”

“You could, can, and will,” Patrice said, getting up.

“If you’re not gonna go get something, I’ll get you something. You’re not on Naked and Afraid.”

Patrice said it sternly, but kindly. Brad loved the look in his eyes. The forcefulness balanced almost perfectly with care. Brad liked that Patrice was careful with him— like he was a bit of a porcelain doll, although if either of them had to be a porcelain doll, it would certainly not be the tan Nova Scotian.

He had never had someone be careful with him before.

“You’re so annoying,” Brad said with a laugh, his shoulders relaxing for the first time he spilled it.

He didn’t really know how to react.

Patrice paused for a moment, taking in the smile and observing the stark contrast.

“You never have to worry about me getting mad at you like that, okay? No matter what it is. We can always figure it out, whatever it is. There’s always a solution.”

Brad stared at him for a moment longer than would have been appropriate before he exhaled, smiled, and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t ever thank me for that.”

Brad’s heart was still racing as he made his way down the hall to Patrice’s bedroom. There was a lot less personality on the walls than he’d expect from him, with what he knew, but his bedroom was a different story.

Brad assumed he didn’t spend too much time in this house outside of his bedroom and office. His office, from the little glance he was able to gather, had even more personality than his bedroom.

He went immediately to his closet, hoping to intrude the least he could.

Patrice trusting him to go into his living space like that was a bit shocking, not as any commentary on Patrice, but mainly because people never really trusted him to navigate around.

He thumbed through the sweatshirts hanging, looking for anything that would fit him well enough.

Despite the selection of starched white shirts— Armani, from what Brad could tell, and the pressed Ralph Lauren polos, Patrice seemed to keep a good five outfits in rotation.

Brad noted this from the wear and tear.

Some of the shirts hanging in his closet— all of the formal ones— looked new.

But among the other hanging things…

One was a heather grey PKU sweatshirt, the crew collar frayed at every possible location. Brad could tell he loved that one with his heart. Maybe it was the one he wore to all his senior events in high school. Maybe it had sentimental value. He wouldn’t touch that one.

Another was a Quebec Nordiques hoodie— not the one he gave him, of course, because he still had that. It was a different one, more details on the sleeves, but only the simple logo on the front. He didn’t need to take multiple articles of Patrice’s defunct hockey team.

The other things Patrice had hung were a light grey GAP hoodie, a faded CCM lace-up sweatshirt, and a Ralph Lauren bear sweater. The bear looked a bit like Patrice on the night they met, Brad would say. All distinguished and gentlemanly.

Maybe Brad was just fucking crazy.

He didn’t want to further intrude by going in the dresser, so he decided to finalize one of the garments in his closet.

He took the hoodie off the hanger, noting the deep cut in the neck as he folded it over his arm. He swiftly made his way to the bathroom to find the ointment, the air conditioning vents hitting his naked torso in the worst places.

Patrice’s room was messier than he’d expect from him, but it felt like an organized chaos.

He found the Neosporin exactly where Patrice said he would, applying a pea-sized amount across the slightly tender area.

He paused, not wanting to put the hoodie on over the fresh layer of ointment.

He thought about calling out, closing his mouth before he could get a sound out. He didn’t want to be more demanding.

He felt demanding.

He looked in the next drawer over for some gauze, or at least began to before he heard a knock at the door.

None other than Patrice, knocking on his own bedroom door.

“Can I come in?” Patrice called, his voice soft, his mostly-disappeared accent resurfacing.

“Yes!”

“You decent?”

“You’ve painted the curvature of my dick!”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Patrice said, resting his head against the bathroom doorframe as he observed Brad closely. “Respecting your privacy— grands dieux non!”

Patrice smiled, holding the box of gauze Brad was looking for in his hands.

“Don’t speak poutine,” Brad shrugged, making a kissy face as he batted his eyes.

“We literally talked about how you knew French the other day.”

“I said un peu!”

Brad smiled, his eyes rolling further and further up as Patrice moved closer.

“I’m sure you’re no stranger to wrapping yourself in gauze,” Patrice laughed, placing the box down on the counter behind Brad.

“I’ve never had to wrap my chest,” Brad pouted. “What if I do it wrong?”

“You’re a menace,” Patrice laughed, rolling his eyes. “Get up on the counter.”

“A menace?” Brad sighed. “Little old me?”

Brad met his eyes, stumbling back as his lower back hit the counter.

“Little old you,” Patrice laughed, his eyes scanning Brad from his legs to his head as he boosted himself onto Patrice’s bathroom countertop.

“Well… French lesson of the day— ‘grand dieux non’ is like god forbid. Heaven forbid. It translates literally to ‘great gods, no.’”

“Great gods non!” Brad mimicked, a French accent thick on his tongue.

Patrice only laughed, shaking his head as he gently lifted Brad’s arms up to his sides. “Hold like that for me?”

He quickly wrapped the gauze around Brad’s torso, hitching it on his right shoulder. “All good?”

“Perfect!”

“Do you need new shorts?”

“Nah, didn’t get my legs too bad.”

“Alright… well. You know where to find this stuff, yeah?” Patrice said softly, his hand still on Brad’s shoulder.

Brad thought it was absolutely absurd how much his voice calmed him.

“Thank you,” Brad said quietly, his voice suddenly a lot more somber than it was.

“What’re’ya thanking me for?” Patrice, without thinking, placed his hand on the small of Brad’s back and supported him as he pulled him off the counter.

It left an awkward amount of distance between them, leading Brad to giggle as Patrice spun them free from each other.

“Making sure I don’t break my ankles?”

“Well, of course.”

Patrice led them out of the room first, leaving the door open if Brad ever needed to get anything else. “Feel free to move about, yeah?”

The two men walked back to the living room, Brad sitting cross-legged where he was sitting before.

“I’m so sorry about your rug again. Send me the cleaning invoice. Or the receipt for a new rug. I might have to pay you back once I sign my ELC though—”

“Bradley Kevin, one more word about my rug and you’re getting kicked out.”

“Into the rain?”

“Into the rain.”

Brad laughed, getting out his phone and navigating over to his camera to record.

“Let the record state that Patrice Bergeron-Cleary desires to kick a poor boy out onto the streets during a torrential downpour. Potentially a hurricane.”

“Brad, we’re in Boston.”

Brad laughed, shutting the recording off and tapping Patrice’s nose with the corner of his phone once.

“Oh, did you ever figure out what’s up with Jamie and Tyler? Or potentially-Jamie?” Patrice asked, brows furrowed as he kicked his legs up on the coffee table.

“Shit, I was going to text him. I’ll do it now.”

“Oh my god, can I see?”

“Aaaabsolutely."

Brad rolled his eyes, as if it was obvious, turning his body to rest his legs on the couch and have his back against Patrice’s shoulder.

SEGS

What’s with your story?? Post-worthy guy?? Why haven’t we talked about this

The response was almost immediate. Within less than a minute, for sure.

you didn’t ask

too busy hating pixels and me to care

“Dude, he’s so dramatic.” Brad laughed, rotating a little bit.

“What’d he say?”

“He said I hate him and Pixels.”

"Well, you weren’t paying attention to Pixels.”

“Patrice, are you on my side or his?”

“Right now… his.” Patrice said with a nod. “I need to get on his good side.”

“You’re an ass.”

SEGS that’s not true

u complained to your boo you literally want me to die.

Brad’s eyes widened as he rotated back just a little bit more. “Should we watch a movie?”

“Anything you want.” Patrice smiled, grabbing the remote. “I can scroll?”

“Yes pleaaaase.”

Patrice is just a friend segsss no boos here

Aw Seggsy you’re still the apple of my eye you know that

85% of my attention span

No need to be jelly

my boyfriend loves pixels

anyone who loves me loves pixels

no jello here

Brad gasped, slightly louder than intended.

“Something wrong?”

“Jamie’s his boyfriend.”

“Is that crazy?”

“It’s just— it’s not easy to tie him down. Many have tried, many have failed.”

“Really? How long has it been?”

“Well, I first saw the hickey less than a week ago.”

“Maybe it’s been longer?”

“Nah, if Tyler Seguin doesn’t get a hickey on day 1 of seeing someone, something’s wrong or not serious.”

Patrice only nodded, his face twisted in consideration.

“Shit, I forgot to text back.”

BOYFRIEND???

NAME NOW

nope only cool kids get 2 know

“Dude, he’s fucking with me.”

Jamie Benn.

how tf.

no i’m not doing this rn

“Oh, Seggsy.” Brad sighed. “I always figure it out.”

“Hockey player forgetting an important assist? Classic.” Patrice said, rolling his eyes playfully.

“Shut the hell up!”

So I’m right?

mayb. text later if you wanna be friends still

TYLER

toodles

“Oh my god.”

“Sorry to steal my attention away—” Brad said, shutting his phone off and placing it to the side. “You have my full attention.”

“Okay,” Patrice said, a forceful breath exiting his lungs. “I have a movie idea. You’re either going to like it— or hate it.”

“Hit me.”

“So— it’s called Bon Cop, Bad Cop. And it’s the greatest film ever created.”

Brad smiled at the way Patrice let himself go when saying ‘bon.’ They brought the damn baguette to life, it sounded like. It was one of the most endearing things he’d seen.

“Bon Cop, Bad Cop?”

“Bon Cop, fuckin’ Bad Cop.”

Chapter Text

The film opened interestingly, with static and a French broadcast playing over the typical studio logos and plugs.

“Is he having a seizure, Pat?”

“Welcome to being a Quebec sports fan,” Patrice said softly, an impossibly charming Québécois twang in his tired voice.

“What’s with all this mascot hate? I think we can be Canadian and love mascots.”

Patrice only smiled, admiring how much Brad talked when he felt comfortable. The glint in his eyes when he was just able to go on and on.

The film cut to a masked man threatening a terrified man who was tied up in a chair. The masked man wielded a hockey stick as the man who was tied up absolutely begged for his life.

“Dude what the fuck.”

“Who’s that guy? Desk Job man? Is he a main character? Why’s his son so mean to him?”

“That… would be Detective Martin Ward. He’d be ‘bad cop.’”

“Why’s he bad? He seems sweet. I can’t imagine the Qubecois cop is all that nice—”

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong? Is he nicer than him…?” Brad said, furrowing his brows and almost fully turning his body to face Patrice.

“No.” Patrice laughed, letting his head rest on the back of his couch. “Fair point, Marchand.”

Patrice pronounced his last name in the intentionally French way, which made Brad feel more giddy than he would have liked to admit.

Mar-chahn.

“I try Bergeron. I try. Martin’s cute. I enjoy Martin.”

A few moments passed, with the movie then cutting to an entirely different apartment, a brown-haired man in a grey tank top making breakfast.

“Oh, but he’s hot.”

“David Bouchard.”

“Hot name. French Canadians are hot people.”

“Oh, well, nothing I haven’t heard before, but thank you,” Patrice said, bracing for the pillow that Brad would so inevitably hit him with.

“Shut up!”

The movie continued, with Brad asking more questions and getting more questions answered than he would have ever thought possible. He got more and more comfortable as the movie progressed, his questions getting stupider and his body getting more comfortable against Patrice’s.

He wasn’t exactly sure how or why the older man was putting up with him.

The rain continued to rage outside, the thunder crashing in near-30-second intervals.

Brad loved the concept of the film, the sheer ridiculousness of which the problem was presented. A man hanging over a welcome sign between provinces. How positively absurd.

The movie progressed with speed. Brad didn’t like how fast time passed when he was with Patrice. All he wanted was more time. He always had too much of an issue with being in the moment, letting his brain flood with all the worries of the current moment. With Patrice, all the concerns of the current moment dissipated. All he could worry about was the end of things.

Nobody had ever made time pass faster.

“Oh, Quebec is fuckin’ gorgeous, dude.” Brad sighed softly, managing to take in the scenery despite the cops bounding through the cobbled streets.

“It’s gorgeous. I miss it a lot. Skating. My library.”

"Such a nerd,” Brad laughed softly, hitting Patrice gently on the shoulder.

“I said skating first!”

“Excited to go home? You know— aside from…”

Brad felt like he had made a mistake as he watched Patrice’s face fall, but Patrice quickly recovered from the change in expression. Whether it was for Brad— whether it was for himself— that remained a question.

“You know, yeah—” Patrice breathed, nodding his head slowly as he directed his eyes at the wall right behind Brad.

“You can see your friends at least? They going home for the break?”

Something else changed in Patrice’s eyes— the way his eyelids fluttered down ever-so-slightly. Brad instantly chastised himself for it, mentally. He wouldn’t try to say sorry— it’d only make it worse, he felt.

“Ah… you know.”

“Not sure I do,” Brad said, the conversation getting away from him like a snowball down a hill. He didn’t know what to say, which was a first. His brows furrowed as he noted the consecutive ‘you know’s, and he only pushed onward. Which... maybe he shouldn't have...? It was inconclusive.

He never really got the hang of skiing, really. Despite how good he was at skating— the balance that came with it. Every time he tried, it had felt like a 1:1 metaphor of the runaway snowball that was his life.

“Just… I don’t know. Leaving wasn’t one of the best feelings, but… it was pretty damn good. They were never the ones for me.”

Patrice smiled— a radiant one that made Brad feel confident again. It was odd how receptive Brad felt toward Patrice’s demeanor— the changes in it. It felt like he had a finger directly on one of Brad’s nerves, and Brad wouldn’t have it any other way. There was something so comforting about the presence of the older man— the way he portrayed his hurt.

Brad laughed— a loud one, a genuine one, taking Patrice in in the evening sun.

“I get that.”

“No, you don’t.” Patrice smiled again, this time softer, turning his body to take Brad in as well. He rested his arms on the back of the couch, and his head subsequently on it. “And that’s okay.”

Brad hated what a spectacular read he had on him— he’d never felt like that. His lowest point was a different kind of low, the kind driven by the innate desperation to be loved and cherished romantically. Definitely one of the lowest lows, but not the kind Patrice was talking about.

And that was okay.

The dying sunlight streamed in through the windows, hitting his dark eyes just right for Brad to see the gold flecks in them. More than anything, he wasn’t sure how the people Patrice used to know didn’t see the merit in him that Brad saw within just two days.

“You know you were always too good for that town anyway. Any town. Whichever town.” Brad shrugged, the earnestness in his own voice surprising even him. “Too good.”

“Shh,” Patrice rolled his eyes, unable to keep the smile from breaking out onto his face. “Pay attention to the movie. This is why Tyler was gunning for me. So distracted! And it’s not even my fault.”

Brad rolled his eyes, knowing he could shower Patrice in attention forever. “It’s entirely your fault actually.”

Brad did his best to pay attention from then on out, because even a slight inkling that Patrice was indeed irritated and didn’t want him to speak during the movie worried him.

He certainly wasn’t mad about it— the plot was hilarious, and not once could he pretend to know what was going to happen next.

As the movie went on, he made a note of the craziest thing to happen thus far— as of now, in the lead— was David and Martin getting high from a marujuana house burning up.

“Do they want each other?” Brad asked occasionally, cocking his head at Patrice’s large screen as the sky outside only got gloomier.

David was sat up on Martin’s kitchen counter as the older man spoke to him in his native tongue.

The Ontarian’s French was not bad— not bad in the slightest.

“You know— I can definitely see that.”

“Pat, they’re eyefucking.”

“Eyefucking?!” Patrice laughed through a gasp, his head on an absolute swivel as he looked at Brad. “What could you possibly mean by that?!”

“Fucking someone with your eyes Pat.” Brad rolled his as if it were the most obvious thing ever. “I’d show you, but you’d fall in love with me or something. They always do.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Marchand.”

Brad’s attention was ripped away the second that Iris came back onto screen and began to flirt with David.

“Dude! His sister is stealing his boyfriend—”

“I hated this subplot actually. If you can even call it that.”

Brad’s crazy count had a new frontrunner from there on out— David screwing Martin’s sister as they both moaned about the Québécois liberation movement.

“Dude, he just wanted him, that’s why he fucked his sister. You’re a lawyer Patrice. Tell them it’s legal.”

“Brad, I am not a lawyer yet!”

“Aw, poor Martin is jealous. It’s okay baby.”

The scene was certainly not for the faint of heart— Patrice nearly reached for the remote and skipped right past it, but he let it slide for the jokes he knew were incoming from Brad.

“Pat… can you be honest with me for a second?”

Brad turned to Patrice suddenly, his voice earnest and quiet.

“Anything.”

Brad took a deep breath, in… out… he rested his hands on Patrice’s thigh and met his eyes with a conviction that Patrice had never seen from him before.

“You need to be honest.”

“I promise you nothing less.”

“Do you— Patrice Bergeron— make people moan about Quebec liberation in bed—”

Brad asked with a completely straight face, which Patrice was entirely prepared for.

Entirely. Prepared for.

“I do. Yes. I also have a camera in my headboard and paperwork to sign before we hit the mattress.”

“You dirty French devil— I knew it.”

“Gotta collect evidence to get the Nordiques back— my form of signatures. Think of it as a petition.”

“I do not find you funny!” Brad said… with a laugh.

“You sure about that?”

The men fell back into a comfortable silence until the fictional commissioner of the NHL made an appearance.

The “NHL” maybe.

Brad was unclear.

“Harry Buttman?!” Brad gasped, his hand clasped to his mouth. “You Québécois lose one hockey team…”

“We lost two!” Patrice yelled indignantly, his head falling back in apparent despair.

“Atlanta lost two, too! Both from after the Great Depression, Patrice! You don’t see them making ‘rage against the machine’ movies with the machine being Gary Bettman!”

“Maybe they should! This movie is spectacular!”

“Well… I can’t disagree with you there.”

Brad laughed, his nose scrunched and eyes crinkled at how easy things were— how entertaining it was the get the older man all riled up like that.

The rest of the film was spent in silence, only gasps and sighs of relief— rinse and repeat. There was a kidnapping— two, actually. The mascot— whatever the fuck it was, was slightly terrifying, and Brad found himself inched ever so slightly toward Patrice.

“God, that was fucking amazing. I’m heartbroken it’s over.” Brad sighed dramatically, flopping backward onto the armrest of the couch.

“You liked it?”

“Oh, I adored that Patrice Bergeron, son of David Bouchard.”

“Crisse!”

Patrice laughed, a big hearty one that almost had him doubled over.

“Was not that funny!” Brad exclaimed, clapping hard on Patrice’s back a few times as he was bent over his knees on the couch.

“You did the pronunciation!”

“Well, I couldn’t just call him Day-vid.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Brad said, his voice suddenly quieter as he cocked his head.

“As long as it’s not about my Quebec liberation sex habits… fair game.”

Brad smirked as he grabbed the remote and scrolled back to the most recent place he could remember it in.

“What does this mean?”

“Tabernak?” Patrice said as he tilted his head at the screen. It was the only word here that made sense for Brad to be asking about.

“Bless you.”

“It means fuck, Bradley.” Patrice chuckled, observing the shitfaced grin on Brad’s face.

“It means fuck Bradley? Didn’t know there was a whole word for that. Should I be flattered or offended?”

Patrice rolled his eyes and hit Brad hard on the shoulder.

“It means fuck, Brad. Fuck comma Brad.”

“Tabernak means fuck?”

“Yes.”

Brad paused, looking deep in contemplation as if he was processing it.

Patrice almost felt proud for a moment, saying something that could make the verbose Brad Marchand that speechless.

“What… the… tabernak?”

Of course. What was Patrice expecting?

“Tabernakin’ crazy if you ask me.”

“Shut the hell up.” Patrice said, eyes to the side, laughing with his chest as his head hit the back of the couch slowly.

“As opposed to shutting the hell down? I’m not sure how the tabernak to do that. Not sure what the tabernak you Québécois people are on, but holy tabernak man.”

“Brad, one more word I swear to god—”

“Sorry, sorry. Didn’t think you’d take it that serious, tabernak.”

“I hate you!” Patrice exclaimed through a laugh, unable to bring himself to look at Brad’s smile.

“No,” Brad paused, leaning in to gently tap his nose. “You don’t.”

No, he didn’t.

Patrice smiled, his eyes tracking down to his nose to observe Brad’s oddly well-manicured finger.

Perhaps Tyler had something to do with it.

“Can I get you anything? More coffee, snack, ice cream, bagel— well, it’s a mini bagel.”

Patrice got up quickly— quicker than Brad could even process the loss of the touch.

“Oh… no, no I’m good.” Brad was doing the absolute most to hide the slight dejection on his face— the even larger amount of pain he felt in his chest. He didn’t think Patrice would have him leaving so soon after the movie. Maybe they would chat a little— or something. It hurt Brad a little bit.

The rain had stopped mere moments ago, maybe that’s what it was.

Maybe Patrice thought it was smart to get him home while the rain was on pause— nothing personal.

“Popcorn maybe…?” Patrice prodded, his back turned on Brad as he rifled through one of the higher cabinets.

“Not sure that would travel great Patty,” Brad chuckled, his humor, as always, a mask.

That would have been when Patrice turned around in absolute utter confusion. His brows were furrowed, and his shoulders had fallen forward noticeably.

He put both hands on the island and narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly. His eyes tracked to the window, taking note of the weather that he hadn't thought about since he was drying himself off.

“Where do you think you’re going Bradley?”

Brad only stared, slightly dumbfounded.

“Travel from my kitchen to my couch? Dude, we’re watching Bon Cop, Bad Cop 2.”

“I thought—”

“You thought wrong. You don’t have anything to do?”

Brad shook his head, doing his absolute best to keep a smile from breaking out onto his face.

“Butter or no butter Brad?”

“Pat—”

“Why don’t you make it, actually— I have one of those old-timey popcorn machines in the game room.”

“Really?”

“Martin to my David or whatever— you gotta learn how to use the popcorn machine.”

Chapter Text

Brad woke the next morning, relieved that he only had his entirely fuckass theater and culture class which he got stuck in to fill his artistic impacts requirement. Why PKU of all colleges required that, he’d never know. A tier-1 research institution should not be on some liberal arts BS, but Brad digressed. He only had a 2-hour class at 5:00, and he could not be happier about it.

He stood, slightly rocking on both feet atop a bright orange tile at Dunkin as he waited to hear his name being called for two items he would not consume.

A peace offering of sorts.

Tyler’s texts to him lately toed the line between actually upset and jokingly upset, and he was having a hard time reading his liney.

Better safe than sorry, he thought.

“Brad!” The girl yelled with a smile, and Brad received Tyler’s fruity-ass order with the same expression.

“Thank you so much!”

“You have a wonderful day, sir!”

“You too!”

Being called sir by a girl his age was slightly jarring, but the mental pause he experienced pushed him to pull out his phone and text Tyler.

He probably should have done this earlier— Tyler would definitely yell at him, but he knew he had no classes until the evening, and they were slated to do this today regardless.

He’d deal with it.

Wake UPPPPP Seggsy boo

Be ready in 5ish I’m picking you up for TJs

The response from Tyler was immediate, which Brad was pleasantly surprised by.

trader joe’s?

You’ve never once called it that

But yes

Something wrong?

no

Seggy talk to me

Brad furrowed his brows. Good thing he bought the donut.

ill b ready in cinco

may b diez

Segs

Brad waited a minute or two for a response to no avail.

He was still parked outside the Dunkin when he sent the text, a blueberry donut and blueberry-infused cold brew waiting for Tyler in the seat and cupholder, respectively.

It took a lot longer than it used to to get to Tyler’s, which Brad often felt sad about. Or, at least he did. For a bit. Before realizing he could just stay at Tyler’s house as much as he wanted. Well, one of his dad’s real estate group’s houses if they were being accurate.

He pulled up by the curb, stopping just before the oddly protruding mailbox, which he’d almost hit a million times before.

“Just park in the driveway!”

“I just wanna pull right off!”

“Reverse fucking park!”

“ No! ”

Brad smiled, thinking back on the exchange as he hopped out of his truck, grabbed Tyler’s mail, and stood at the front door like a guy waiting on a date. In another life, for sure.

He rang the doorbell once, then twice, then thrice, holding Tyler’s daily paper that he knew was not being read.

Slowly, the door opened.

“What the fuck is that?” Brad gasped, his eyes locked on Tyler’s chest.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Morning sunshine,” Brad said, holding out the mail like a bouquet. “What the fuck is that.”

“Sleep shirt. You gave me five minutes notice asshole.”

“Where the fuck did you get a Canucks shirt? Forget you’re from Brampton? Ah, to be fair. I’d try my hardest to forget too.”

“Shut the fuck up and get in here,” Tyler muttered groggily as Brad toed off his shoes. “You loved it when I took you back for winter break that one time.”

“That I did! Big Brampton guy, unfortunately. Pobody’s nerfect. Place looks nice— cleaned up for Jamieeee?”

“Maybe I just like to keep a clean house, dickhead. Not everything is something to do with Jame.”

Brad almost let his expression change at the nickname, but bookmarked it for later for him to make fun of. When it came up again, when— not if— Brad would absolutely attack. When the time was right.

“I was here two days ago, Seggsy. That is not the case.”

“Did you eat?” Tyler said, quickly changing the subject as he nodded toward the fridge. “I can offer you an uncut dragonfruit and Lucky Charms.”

“Who needs Lucky Charms when I got you, bud? Thought we could grab something on the way?”

“Meal plan approved?”

“Oh, most definitely not.”

Tyler smiled at him with the grin Brad loved to see. It was crooked, but ever-so-slightly— so hard to notice. Hard to notice for anyone but Brad. His shoulders fell forward in the t-shirt that was far too loose for him. The Vancouver Canucks had a new puckslut in town, apparently.

Tyler Paul “Puckslut” Seguin did not have a bad ring to it, Brad thought.

“Grab whatever still. If you want. I’m gonna change.”

“You look great as you are Segs!" Brad yelled, tossing a sock ball that Tyler had left on the couch at his ass. “In your fuckboy trophy!”

“Shut the fuck up—”

Brad smiled to himself as he heard the retreating footsteps, getting his phone out and navigating to the contact of the man he once again could not stop thinking about.

Good morning kind and sweet uber driver from last night

How are you

Me?

With Seggy boo bear

Yoooouuurrr best friend

Brad sent the text and turned his phone off, his anxiety surrounding the actions having gone away nearly completely as of late.

He knew what to expect— for the most part.

He really didn’t expect an immediate response from Patrice. Not at all. The man was pre-law, and gorgeous, and close enough with Sidney Crosby to call him… Siddy…? Apparently?

His face broke into an absolutely pleased grin as he watched the notifications slide in from Hot painter guy 🎨.

Good mooooorning Bradley!🌞

SO sorry, in my 8 AM. I would have texted good morning but I was running SO late

I’m usually so good about that stuff you’ll have to forgive me

How was your night after I dropped you off?

Aw shucks Patrizzle

No need for that

Maybe not a need.

Definitely a want

Brad giggled at that— audibly. He thanked his lucky stars that Tyler was in his bedroom trying to find a knit infinity scarf chunky enough to hide the mess that Jamie Benn had left on his neck.

My night was miserable after you dropped me off because I missed Daveed and Martain my glorious kings of cinema

That IS the typical low once someone’s been exposed to the epic highs of BCBC. Sorry to have done that to you

It’ll hurt. But I’m better for it

They will revive that beautiful franchise one day

Attaboy Bradley

How is Tyler?

Brad pretended that absolute butterflies didn’t materialize from ‘attaboy.’  How positively absurd.

He’s fuckin Jamie NASTY and RAW and I’m scared to go in his bedroom

Probably smells like the monkey pavilion at the zoo

BRADLEY

SOME decorum and respect for your best friend

Stop riding him buddy

Jameeeee will beat your ass

He’s calling him JAME??

Yes.

He’s WHIPPED

You’re not ready for the kicker Patttycake. Prepare yourself.

I’m prepared.

No. I’m talking like 3 fingers spreading it type prepared

Brad you are SUCH a man. Such a weirdo

Tell me

He

Was

Wearing

A

Canucks

SHIRT

2 sizes too big for him and… BEAT up…

AND the collar was all stressed as if someone had been pulling down on it nonstop

Damn they’re fucking raw.

RAWWWW

I’m sure he’s texting him in there right now

Don’t be too mean to him

Aww but it’s my passion

He knows I love him

Just be delicate with him okay? You said it’s hard to tie him down right?

He’s going through a myriad of emotions

I’m sure he’s feeling a lot of emotional turbulence right now and it’s important to be NICE Bradley

Oh Saint Patrice

You’re so mature and wise

That was my nickname in juniors ;)

No way was it actually???

Yeah lol

Saint Pat and Bergy

Stop Bergy is adorable

Join the hockey team so I can call you that. Now

You can call me Bergy anytime Bradley

Brad blushed— a little too much at the offer.

Hockey nicknames were peak intimacy to Brad. Nicknames, actually. He loved them. Watching people get creative with him was his favorite thing ever. He was Brad in every area of his life— already nicknamed— something about the way Patrice would call him Bradley was so endearing. Something about the way Tyler and he almost exclusively called each other what they did on the ice— so endearing.

He loved nicknames.

Only if you call me Marchy ;)

At that, he tore himself away from staring deeply into his phone screen and looked out Tyler’s living room window for a moment before yelling for him.

“Stop texting Jamie and come out here!”

“I’m— not texting Jamie.”

Tyler came bounding out of his bedroom, his hair slightly wet as he wore a striped rugby shirt with maroon and white stripes. The PKU hockey logo was on his left chest, and he was wearing shorts that looked suspiciously like board shorts. They blended into daily wear just enough, though.

Brad had the same shirt— kind of. He hadn’t seen it in ages, but he had a picture framed in his home of the two of them in those shirts, all Stepbrothers style. Brad thought he looked oddly dashing. He’d have to find his own shirt.

“You look nice. Did you take a whole shower?”

“Kind of…”

“What do you mean kind of— that was a yes or no question.”

“Yes. I showered.”

“Busy night?” Brad winked exaggeratedly, eliciting no response from Tyler.

No response.

“Seggy, what’s going on with you?”

“I’m just tired, I think.”

Brad furrowed his brows and scrunched his nose. Tyler saying he was “just tired” meant he was angry. Infuriated even. Brad was a human lie detector when it came to his best friend. And Tyler knew it. He wasn’t acting like he knew it, but he knew it. Just because Brad wouldn’t acknowledge it right now did not mean he was letting it slide. He wanted that on the record.

“Ready to head out, Seggsy?”

“Well, of course.”

Tyler moved behind him with a noticeable lack of his usual fervor, which Brad noted as well.

They both walked out to his car— the car that Brad had driven Tyler around in hundreds of times. Hundreds of times that Tyler prematurely pulled the handle, and Brad yelled at him for child abuse.

Today he only waited by the passenger door patiently.

Brad narrowed his eyes, unlocking the car and watching Tyler as he hopped in silently. He knew something was wrong, even if Tyler refused to tell him literally anything.

No matter how mad his best friend may have been at him, though, there was one thing he never was able to resist.

“Oh, Brad,” Tyler said softly, his lip slightly pouted. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Tyler held the blueberry donut gingerly, his eyes tracking to the drink in his designated cup holder. Brad’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly at the use of his first name, but he figured he’d address it later. No need to ruin the moment.

“Right. I wanted to.” Brad smiled, turning slightly as he tilted his head against the driver’s headrest.

“You’re sweet March.”

“You’re a growing boy, Segs. It’s my job to make sure you’re getting your nutrients.”

“From my blueberry donut and blueberry iced coffee?” Tyler said, laughing as he sipped his drink.

“Oh, but of course. Blueberries are on the meal plan and everything.”

“Siddy is gonna kill you.” Tyler laughed, almost visibly cringing from the words out of his own mouth.

“Dude, don’t even come near me with that. It disturbed me just as much as you. Can’t believe our captain likes my— Patrice— more than us. His right and left-hand men. Literally!”

Tyler paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Your what?”

“What?”

“Your what— you said my— and then you said Patrice.” Tyler said, all ‘aha’ as if he’d caught him in something.

“I misspoke.”

“No— no you didn’t. Are you two…” Tyler’s eyebrows raised as a shit-eating smirk made its way onto his face.

“No— no. Not ready to date yet. Plus, I have hockey to focus on. And school.”

“What are we learning in micro?”

“Shut up.”

Brad smiled as he felt them fall back into their comfortable silence. Tyler… wasn’t the happiest right now— for whatever reason. He would figure it out, that he knew, but it was nice to have his best friend back for a bit.

“So you on the other hand— tell me about this guuuuuy.”

Tyler’s face showed no change in expression as he stared out the large window of Brad’s old truck.

“Which TJ are we going to?” He asked, his brows furrowed as he stared at his phone.

Brad narrowed his eyes, looking over in exasperation from the driver’s seat.

“Boylston Street. Now tell me about YOUR boy de jour.”

“First off— do not call him that. Second, there’s less French ways to call me a slut. Patrice Bergeron gotten into you?”

“No!”

“Not yet.”

Brad scrunched his nose and looked to the side. “You’re funny. Gross. But funny.”

“So Jaaaaamie.” Brad pushed, yet again to no avail.

“We’re going to the TJs near STK?”

“SEGS!”

“STK Boylston or Red Room Boylston? They’re both on Boylston.” Tyler said, his voice seemingly all business.

“STK. Now tell me about your guy’s STK—”

Tyler let out a reluctant laugh at that, his pursed lips breaking into a smile as he looked to the side.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Says the one who looks like he took a vacuum cleaner to his neck!”

“It does not look that bad.”

“Tell me about him!”

“A gentleman does not kiss and tell.”

“Since when do you struggle to talk about your conquests? Since when are you a gentleman?”

“Callin’ me a whore?”

“Not calling you a prude.”

Brad grinned at Tyler from the driver’s seat, the way he had hundreds of times before, but noticed the lack of a glint in Tyler’s eyes.

“Seggy man, talk to me. I want to help.”

“Nothing. Really. Just missed you, I guess. Been eventful lately.”

Brad pouted, looking to the side. He supposed he hadn’t been too attentive towards Tyler lately— with everything that had been going on.

“Awww, Segs. Is that what you’re a grumpy Gus about?”

“Guess so.”

Brad paused, looking to the side with the single moment of red light that he had left.

“Segs, talk to me.”

Tyler only continued to stare out the window, his breathing even as he watched the world pass.

“Fine. You don’t have to talk to me. Right now. Be my DJ though?”

Tyler smiled at that, taking his phone and navigating to Apple Music.

He put on the shared playlist that he and Brad started in sophomore year for bus rides, scrolling through the songs.

“Did you know Bryan Adams was nine in 1969?” Tyler said, furrowing his brows. “I’m sure he got his first real six-string— not so sure about the rest.”

“Freakayyyy—” Brad laughed, his head on the headrest as they drove head-on into the spectacularly horrible Boston traffic.

“Summer of ’79 also just doesn’t have the same ring to it— makes sense, too. He would have been 19? Can’t blame him.” Tyler shrugged, looking back out the window.

They fell into a comfortable silence for a good five minutes before Tyler spoke again.

“Oooh, sexy painter is blowing up your phooooone. You can’t even see— no CarPlay.” Tyler teased, holding Brad’s phone by the window.

“What’d he say?” Brad gasped quietly, doing his absolute best to play it cool as he looked to the side.

“I’m not reading your phone sex texts, March.” Tyler rolled his eyes, swiping down and moving to turn on Do Not Disturb.

“No— don’t turn on DND right after he texted— he’s going to think I got annoyed and it’ll make him sad—”

“Awfully considerate of you,” Tyler said, the slightest hint of bitterness in his voice.

“Well, I’m a considerate guy, you know?” Brad said, narrowing his eyes at the sun beaming into the windshield. “Hand me my sunnies?”

“Yeah.” Tyler reached into the right corner of the glovebox, pulling out the ancient Ray Ban case. He knew the car and its contents like the back of his hand. The leather was fraying in every imaginable place, but Brad wouldn’t replace it in a million years. Even if he got new sunglasses.

Tyler knew that about him. He’d tried to get him to replace it before to no avail.

“Thanks bud.”

Brad put them on, and they continued to drive as Springsteen by Eric Church played at a medium volume through his Brad’s car’s speakers.

They found easy parking on the street outside the Trader Joe’s, which almost never happened.

“What a great day—” Brad commented as he hopped out of the car and ran around the front to meet Tyler at his door. “My phone?”

“Yeah.” Tyler handed his phone to him silently and pulled out his own.

“Did Jaaaaamie text?”

“I know for a fact that Patrice did, so why don’t you focus on that?”

Tyler smirked, navigating to what Brad assumed was his messages as he walked toward the door and left Brad to lock the car.

Tyler’s fingers were tap-tap-tapping away, which Brad found hilarious and endearing. He loved leaving people on delivered for at least 3 hours.

“I’m not fuckin’ desperate March, I don’t intend on looking like it.”

Brad checked his own messages to see a two word text from Patrice.

Aye March :)

Brad felt the smile creep onto his face, but stopped himself, knowing Tyler was mere footsteps ahead of him. However, when he looked up, it seemed Tyler had his head buried in his own phone— smiling.

“What did Jaaaaamie say?”

“My teammate in Western Civ finally responded to my fuckass Outlook, if you’re asking what I’m smiling about.”

“You know it’s just an email Ty— you don’t have to call it an Outlook. Also— you’ve never once been that smiley about anything school-related.”

“God forbid a boy try to take his education seriously, right?”

“God forbid.”

Tyler rolled his eyes, entirely ignoring the shitfaced grin that graced Brad’s face as he grabbed the cart.

“You’re ridiculous.” Tyler scoffed, walking toward and through the flower section.

“And you’re ridiculous for not telling me about him! Why won’t you tell me?” Brad pouted, resting his elbows on the cart handle and leaning his tilted head on the heels of his palms.

“Get the shopping list out.”

“The groceries are for you! Get your list out.”

“Don’t have one— guess we’ll have to meander.” Tyler smiled, tossing the Trader Joe brand cheesy puffs into their cart. “Good place to be for that.”

“Meander? What, did Dr. Benn teach you that word?”

“Maybe he did.”

“He make you moan SAT words in bed or something? How does one accomplish that with Tyler Seguin?”

“1) You’re gross. 2) You’re an asshole. 3) I wouldn’t know.”

Brad paused, his jaw slightly slack and the cart stopped as Tyler gently placed an angel food cake in the cart.

“Wha’dya’mean you wouldn’t know?” Brad furrowed his brows, his eyes darting between Tyler’s face, Tyler’s neck, and the angel food cake in the cart.

“Maybe I haven’t had sex with him.”

“No way.”

Brad stood silently for a moment, narrowing his eyes and simply observing Tyler’s demeanor.

“You haven’t had sex with him yet?!” Brad said, sort of a whisper-yell in the small store.

“God, you act like I’m fucking irredeemable!” Tyler laughed, somewhat bitterly, as he turned away from Brad to face the dark-chocolate-covered espresso beans that had gotten him through sophomore year.

“No— Seggy.” Brad protested, a slightly nervous smile on his face, until he realized that Tyler was being completely serious. “Seggy, come on."

Seriousness on his best friend's face was terrifying to Brad. He had no clue what to expect.

He’d only seen that emotion grace his best friend’s features about three times in the course of knowing each other, and every single one was seared into his brain to this day.

“No, whatever.” Tyler said, taking entirely more steps down the aisle than Brad thought he needed to. He looked down at the different flavors of mochi before continuing to look down the aisle. “I wanted shrimp tempura. Let me know if you see it.”

“Segs—”

There was panic in Brad’s voice— he could hear his own voice shake. The lack of amusement on Tyler’s face was a sight he hated seeing, and being the cause of it might have been the one thing that was worse.

“You know I loved you, right? I wasn’t just angling for a good fucking lay? Not sure you got the memo on that one, March!”

Tyler laughed again, placing a box of moon cookies in the cart.

Meal plan be damned.

“Where is that damn shrimp?”

Brad stood silently, the palms of his hands now firmly gripping the handle of the cart as Tyler continued to scavenge for the shrimp tempura.

The organization of this store was absurd.

“Segs, that’s not fair. I loved you too.” Finally, he was able to get the words out slowly. Finding them was hard. Mainly because the topic was hard.

He did love him— and he knew Tyler loved him too. The love they had for each other changed over the years, that was certain enough. The man got him through the hardest times of his life, all while being his rock both before and after.

“Ah, well!” Tyler exclaimed, finally finding the box of frozen shrimp and throwing it in. “Could have fooled me, bud.”

“Seggy.”

The words cut far deeper than Brad ever expected them to. Brad always saw their period of turbulence as a moment of brief awkwardness before they fell back into the rhythms that they knew so well. Maybe they should have talked about it more, maybe Brad should have tried to heal intentionally and tried to try things again with Tyler— maybe. But he never did.

He didn’t know Tyler thought about it like this.

“We went from best friends to whatever the fuck that was and back into the best friends we were always meant to be. I don’t have hard feelings.”  Tyler said curtly, avoiding eye contact with Brad in every way possible. He looked at the roof, the signs, the groceries behind his left ear— but not him.

“You can wait in the car if you want— thanks for bringing me. Give me like ten.” Tyler shrugged it off, his tugging on the far end of the cart, which Brad loosened his grip on. Without another word, he pulled it forward, grabbing the handle as it went by him, and steered it onward. Quickly, he walked with haste from Brad toward the cheese.

Brad was left standing in the aisle, his arms hanging limp by an ornately drawn-upon blackboard as he thought back on their years together.

The way they met at orientation, the way Tyler, who was the life of the party already, managed to actually stumble over his words around him. He remembered the two semesters of misery with his ex, and the way Tyler was there for him at his lowest. The 3 AM phone calls, walking him to class, and enlisting the team in an ever-so-purposeful way to keep Brad out of the house and away from his at-the-time boyfriend. 

Tyler was a better friend— and a better man than Brad ever could have dreamed. It wasn’t hard to fall for him, no— not at all. Brad hated to admit it, for certain, but he’d be remiss to say that some of the falling for Tyler didn’t overlap ever-so-slightly with his relationship.

His ex-boyfriend hated Tyler, and for what in his albeit demented mind would be a well-justified reason.

Tyler punching him at his own birthday party didn’t really help.

Brad had drunk the drink his ex-boyfriend had given him, had an immediate reaction, and only had one person to call.

“We’re going home .”

“We— talked about trying this— doing this together— it’s fine.”

“He spiked your fucking drink, I don’t care .”

“We talked ab… out it.”

“Today? Recently? Did he tell you and stay with you?”

Brad could only remember shaking his head as his vision swum.

“Don’t move— don’t you think about moving.”

Tyler came back within moments and took Brad back to their dorm, and Brad woke to Tyler’s wrapped knuckles waking him gently to tell him there was no practice that day.

Not for him.

For someone who wouldn’t have made it through college without him, he was being more than a bit of a terrible friend as of late.

The sinking feeling was impossible to overcome, and Brad knew it would be until he could properly talk it out with his best friend. He went all the way through the aisle he was left standing in and scanned the produce wall at the back of the store. No sign of Tyler. The area that the cheese was in was also entirely empty, leaving him to search.

He looked aisle by aisle, feeling almost like an officer hunting down a person of interest in a store. The Bon Cop, Bad Cop franchise had gotten to him.

Thanks Patrice.

How many possible aisles could he make his way through in the worse Trader Joe’s on Boylston— the sad one in a basement that Tyler and Brad always went to for nostalgia? There really weren’t that many options for aisles, he thought, cursing mentally as he finally peeked his head into the furthest-in aisle, the skincare one.

Tyler was looking at the natural body-glitter sunscreen kit when Brad engulfed him in a hug from behind.

“I fucking suck.”

“Dude!” Tyler gasped, falling backward slightly as Brad caught him.

“Seggy, I’m the worst.”

Tyler turned around, the last box of the body glitter sunscreen in his hands.

“Well, you’re not the best, that’s for sure. That’d be me.”

Brad only shook his head.

“I’ve been a shitty friend lately.”

“Aw, well.” Tyler smiled softly, welcoming more comments as he held out his arms. “Can’t hold ya there.”

“I suck to the maximum possible extent.”

“Nooooo, don’t say that,” Tyler smirked, putting the body glitter sunscreen gingerly in the area of the cart typically dedicated for young children. “I don’t want to hear about that. Talk to Patrice!”

Brad rolled his eyes, knowing how Tyler was— how he deflected with humor like a goddamn disco ball.

“I’ve been so preoccupied, and so much has gone on with you— and you got me through the worst years of my life— and even if you didn’t— you’re my best friend. And you deserve better.”

“Bradley Kevin Marchand,” Tyler said, rolling his eyes as he tapped Brad’s chin upward.

“Holy shit, we have so much to talk about. And something’s bothering you and you won’t tell me, unless this was it— and we’re going to have a long talk in the car or over lunch or something— but you’re going to fucking talk to me Segs, and I’m going to listen.”

Tyler smiled in the sweet, genuine way that Brad had grown oh so accustomed to. The left side of his mouth quirked up as the rest of it followed suit and he let his lip jut out. “You’re sweet.”

“Groceries are on me. For being an ass. And we’ll watch Pixels again and be so, so engaged.”

“March— love the offer— so kind— I do not think I can take any more Pixels,” Tyler said, exhaling hard through his nose as he giggled quietly.

“Any more? You watched it once lately dude— this is some fake fan ass shit.”

“Twice, Marchy. I watched it twice in just as many days.”

“Twice?” Brad let his brows furrow as he let his eyes unfocus on the PKU hockey logo on Tyler’s chest. “When…”

He took a moment to think, realizing as he observed the upward quirk of Tyler’s lip.

“You serious?” Brad asked with a large grin. “With Jamie? Dude, he’s perfect for you.”

“I know. He suggested it, too.” Tyler sounded giddy, his head falling back and his eyes bright in the way that Brad loved to see.

“You serious?”

“Dead!”

Brad laughed, smiling at the crinkles by his best friend’s eyes. He reminded himself to not let the actual conversation they had to have get away from him— that was important.

Brad took control of the cart back, as was essentially an unspoken tradition all of their grocery trips, while Tyler pranced around and picked up whatever he damn well pleased because well, why wouldn’t he? Brad’s paying.

“Make sure you get some stuff actually on the meal plan also? Cros’ll bomb me.” Brad laughed, watching Tyler pick up Trader Joe’s version of… Takis?

Wow.

“Your boyfriend wouldn’t let that slide. Jamie told me alllllll about that sweet, sweet man.”

Brad stepped back for a moment, furrowing his brows.

“My boyfriend?”

“Patrice Bergeron. Or Patrice Bergeron-Cleary, I should say.”

“No Segs, Bergeron is fine.”

“Yes, like I said, Bergeron-Cleary. You didn’t deny that he’s your booooyfriend.”

“Well he’s not my boyfriend.”

“You want him to be?”

“Not looking for a relationship, like I said.”

“Brad.”

“Tyler.”

“You haven’t dated anyone since…”

Brad only nodded.

“I’ve done my due diligence. Patrice is a good guy. I was worried, because why wouldn’t I be— but he is a good man, and I found like 30 character witnesses.” Tyler rambled, tossing two tins of mints in the cart as they approached the checkout counter.

“And deserves better.” Brad scoffed, watching Tyler make his last-minute additions. “Were you actually trying to threaten him yesterday? He was convinced you hated him.”

“He brought you breakfast at a team event, risking the wrath of Sidney Crosby. He clearly likes you! And duh. Not vetting the last guy properly was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

“He calls him Siddy. I think he’d have been fine.” Brad said, his shoulders caving slightly inward as he cringed.

“Do not remind me— that shit really did make my skin crawl. Felt super out of place. It pushed me to do recon.”

“Who are you talking to about him?”

“Well, I talked to Sid, who was cryptic, but useful for Sid standards. And then I talked to the sweetest boy on the whole planet—”

“Jameson Benson, we get it, move on— what’d he say?” Brad rolled his eyes, hitting Tyler’s shoulder lightly.

“They took an ethics class last semester with Sid, they all studied at Patrice’s house— once they fell asleep on his couch and he made them mini pies in the morning? I don’t know how you found a Stepford boyfriend but—”

“Good friend. Good pal.”

“Oh, and he’s loaded? How’d you manage that?”

“How do you know that?” Brad said with a smile, rolling his eyes slightly as he thought back on the older man’s humility.

“Jamie! Apparently, Patrice is the biggest ‘don’t worry about it’ guy on the face of the Earth. He would sneak his card to the host or the cashier every time ”

“First— of course he is. Second— what is this pre-professional circle-jerk they have going on?!” Brad said, an uncontrollable laugh escaping him. “The way Patrice described it, I barely thought he knew Jamie.”

“Dude, Jamie too! Until I pressed and pressed. Can’t believe this is their standard of ‘barely knowing each other.’ We should set them up on a friend date. There are some guys I talked to once at a party on my spam.”

Tyler paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Do you think our boyfriends fucked each other and then fucked our captain?”

“YOUR boyfriend— Segs. Your boyfriend. And for what it's worth— I don’t… think they did. But— they did take that ethics project pretty seriously.” Brad said, his eyebrows knit in confusion as he laughed hard.

“No, ‘cause I want to take a smart person class to be in a group with Mr. Bergeron now. He pays for your meals and makes you pies for breakfast? Sign me up.”

Brad laughed as the cashier bagged everything up. Things were so easy with Tyler. He was going to do his best as a friend to make sure that they always would be.

“Dude, if I find out Sidney Crosby fucked my boyfriend, I’m going to be pissed.”

“He did not do that.”

“You only deny it because you don’t want Patrice to have fucked Sid!”

“Why would anyone want that for anyone Segs— what the fuck—” Brad laughed, an absolutely horrified look on his face.

The pair laughed as they walked back to the car, Tyler holding the paper bags with the same anxiety that he did every time. The anxiety and paranoia that he’d had since freshman year.

“They wouldn’t give them to you if they’re that susceptible to ripping Seggy—“

“They don’t care . I already paid for my groceries March. And it’s not like they can give you plastic. It would fuck their ‘nature daddy’ vibe.”

“ Nature daddy?! ”

“Nature. Fucking. Daddy. It’s working. I’d fuck Joe.”

“You’d fuck Joe. ”

“Yeah dude, he’s loaded. Trader by day, day trader by night. He’d take good care of me.”

“Oh my god, Tyler shut up !”

“So who’s the angel cake for?” Brad said, a smirk painted across his face.

“Me? I like angel cake?” Tyler said, his eyes darting to Brad’s as he closed the car door.

“No, you don’t. You’re a heavy-set cake guy. Tuxedo fiend. You could go for a sponge cake, but you wouldn’t ever go out of your way.”

“Maybe I’m a changed man.”

“Maybe Jamie likes angel cake?”

Tyler only smiled, a blush rising and reddening in his cheeks by the second.

“It’s sweet. You’re sweet.” Brad said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He really was so proud of how much he’d grown.

“He treat you good?”

“So good.” Tyler smiled, bringing his hands to his face as he leaned forward.

“I’m glad. I’d kick his ass if he didn’t, you know. That will forever go both ways.”

“Yeahhh, yeah.” Tyler giggled— that was the word Brad would use, at least. It was a pretty solid giggle. “We went to lunch yesterday.”

“How’d you come into possession of his Canucks shirt? He from Vancity?”

“Who said it was his?”

Brad furrowed his brows— Tyler was not one to be able to bullshit him. He never was. “It is.”

Tyler grinned at him sheepishly, his boyish charm on full display. The glint in his eyes when he was thinking about Jamie was absolutely peak, Brad thought.

“Yeah, it is.” Tyler smiled, scratching his temple as the blush rose and deepened in his face.

“So with the most respect possible, friend— how the hell did you come into possession of that without banging a Vancouverite?”

“Same reason there’s a Nordiques sweatshirt in your backseat?” Tyler said, giving him a knowing smirk that Brad could just punch him out for.

Brad’s jaw dropped slightly as he gave in to a proud smile. “You notice everything, asshole!”

“Always have bud.”

“So your reasoning… is that you sat naked in front of him for 3 hours and were cold and wet from the rain and an AC vent so he ran to his car to give you the spare clothes he always kept on him?”

“Not even a little— no.” Tyler laughed, eyes rolling back as he seemingly recounted the events of last night.

“Uh… you really want to know about the shirt? You won’t make fun of me?”

Brad opened his mouth— almost letting himself say an absolutely ridiculous sentence. “When have I ever made fun of you?”

The answer was a lot.

“I promise Seggy.”

“Do you want the long version or the short version?”

“When have I ever wanted or gotten the short version from you?”

Tyler made a face, and Brad immediately knew he fucked up.

“That is not what I—”

“Ew. Jamie will hear about this.”

Brad snorted into a slight laugh. “Okay Draco Seguin. Tyler Malfoy?”

“Oh— Tyler Malfoy is tough.”

“I have to agree— wait, no getting sidetracked— tell me about Jame. All the details.”

Tyler’s confident demeanor melted away the second Brad hit him with Jame.

“You’re an asshole. I know you know that.”

“I do.”

Tyler rolled his eyes, reclining his seat slightly as he turned his body and looked to Brad.

“We hung out all day yesterday— he’s— the sweetest. And he’s so kind. And considerate. What if I told you I went to a three-hour molecular genetics lecture and lab for him?”

Brad’s jaw dropped at that— it took a special man to make Tyler Seguin invested in any schooling. Molecular genetics? Different beast. He wasn’t sure he could game that from Tyler.

“I called him— after we got out of team bonding— and he was just so absolutely worried about me from the jump— I told him I needed to debrief.”

“About me and Pat?”

“About confidential matters, March. Not everything’s about you!” Tyler rolled his eyes, flashing him a smile as his way of letting Brad know that he was indeed accurate. “But… yeah.”

“He was hell-bent on the dining hall— for some reason— poor boy. I told him I wanted to go out and get him lunch— he suggests the diner. Good god.”

“Hey!”

“He works there— Matt and Johnny are making the food— I love them, but my boyfriend does not need to spend more time there than he does.”

“Fair, fair.” Brad nodded, his eyes knit with investment.

“Just like how you’d never take Patrice to the New York Stock Exchange— what’s up with that, by the way?”

“What?” Brad’s confusion came out as more of a laugh. “Could you possibly be talking about—”

“Jame told me about his investment portfolio.”

“Dude, I don’t know about his investment portfolio— continue the story!”

Brad was still rather confused, but dog-eared this factoid to ask Patrice about later.

“But yeah, he uh— finds me— lying on this hanging bench waiting for him. Swings with me for a bit, lies with me. We just talk for a little before we decide to walk— out of nowhere it starts pouring.”

“Wait, me and Patrice got caught in that too!” Brad exclaimed, his expression of joy and relatability melting away as he saw Tyler’s lip quirk up.

“Already on double dates with us? You have to lock him down first March. He’s hot.”

“Oh my god, shut up and finish your story.”

Tyler laughed, hitting him in the arm as he took another bite of his donut.

“Yeah, so— we start getting pelted by… whatever it was— hail? Sleet— I don’t know. It was cold and wet and I didn’t like it. But I grab his hand and get us under whichever shelter was closest— his hands are on my waist and he almost swings me into the door of Tresca.”

“You went to Tresca?”

“It was spectacular. The lady puts the menus on opposite ends, and obviously, I make it a point to put our menus next to each other and sit with that glorious man. I found out he’s taken ethics, I found out a lot of stuff about him—”

Tyler paused, overseeing the look on Brad’s face.

“Why’d you make that face? You made a face.”

“No— nothing. Just Patrice mentioned something about ethics and Jamie.”

“Oh March, we’re nowhere near the shock of the century I had. Just you wait. But yes, I was complaining— about you, sorry about that. And he gets to the conclusion that this entire thing was based on, and I quote— ‘painter guy showing him real genuine kindness.’”

“I am not that easy to please!” Brad exclaimed, an uncontrollable laugh escaping him.

“I beg to differ— but— here’s the kicker— he works at the diner as I’ve said.”

“As you’ve said.”

“He ditched Matt and Johnny the night that— you and Patrice went to the diner together.”

“You serious?”

“Dead. He ditched them to come see me. And that’s when I posted the story— that you didn’t look at for a billion years.”

“14 hours Segs.”

“Versus sub-14 minutes! Whatever— that’s not the point— the point is, I was complaining about how you would have seen it if you checked your Instagram— I said there was no excuse to not see it with how much you were on your phone— and excuse me for this— but I said that I would have felt fine about everything if you talked to me or engaged with me or— and I quote ‘talked about anything that wasn’t Patrice Bergeron for thirty fucking seconds.’ Yeah.”

“Seggy—”

“No, no— nobody’s mad. However— we’d been referring to him as ‘Painter Guy’— right?”

“Right.”

“Tell me why I say Patrice Bergeron and Jamie starts choking on his pasta. He gives me his full name— full name. Bergeron-Cleary, and tells me his major. I’m dumbfounded.”

Brad laughed, scrunching his nose. “Do all these pre-pro assholes just know each other?”

“That’s what I said. That’s where the fucking ethics group comes in.”

“Oh I heard about this,” Brad said, rolling his eyes with a smirk.

“My boyfriend fell asleep on your boyfriend’s couch! As I mentioned! He fell asleep mid-presentation-making and Patrice just put blankets over him and Sid.”

“Not my boyfriend, Tyler.”

“Oh, yeah, speaking of my boyfriend, I called him that on accident— I kinda have been calling him that to people. I really like him. But not to him— I hadn’t called him that. I start stressing out— like stressing, and he puts a paper ring on my finger that he made from the straw wrapper.”

“Oh fuck you Segs.”

“I know,” Tyler leaned his head back on the car seat headrest, his voice absolutely giddy.

“But yeah— we end up talking and he asks about practice, I said Sid was exhausted of us— which, true. And then I said that uh— I would just push back whatever to hang around him, and so I did. I met his co-RA, I went into the lab with him— the class was so much smaller than I expected, but his prof just set me up a station? Wore his sister's bedazzled lab goggles. Was great. He’s the smartest person I know. Genetic molecules are no joke.”

Tyler let himself give in to a pout. “He’s so sweet, Brad. I wanted to keep hanging out after— and he did too, but he was so stressed about his midterms. I proposed a study date, which he beamed over— nerd.”

“He took me back to his… and he let me use his Mac, which was so well-organized, by the way. Like that man knows how to make use of a widget. You could learn a thing or two.”

“Hey!”

“We all could. He’s perfect. Anyway, he looks at me lying on the beanbag, and tells me I can have anything from his closet. I picked the Canucks shirt.”

“You picked the Canucks shirt? You picked the Canucks shirt? You picked the Canucks shirt?”

“I picked the Canucks shirt.”

“You’re a smitten, fuckin’ kitten, aren’t you?” Brad beamed, punching Tyler hard in the shoulder.

“Says a guy who recently wore the logo of a nonexistent NHL franchise of a city he is in no way associated with.” He said, wincing as he placed a hand over where Brad hit him.

“Necessity, not choice!”

“Would you wear it right now?”

Brad rolled his eyes, making a zipped lips gesture.

“Nobody deserves this more, you know that— right?” Brad said softly, his eyes sincere and head cocked.

“Ah, hush,” Tyler said, tilting his head back as he looked at Brad with endeared eyes.

There was a comfortable silence that hung for a bit, the two men being able to relax for what felt like the first time in a while, just enjoying each other’s company.

Tyler had a sense of serenity in his face that Brad hadn’t seen throughout maybe all of junior year.

The look of love from Tyler Seguin was easy to distinguish from his other looks.

That boy was smitten.

“Anything else to talk about?” Brad sighed, looking to the right as he leaned his head back on the car seat headrest. “What’s been bothering you? Was it just me not being around?”

“Don’t know.” Tyler shrugged, his smile and serene expression faltering just a little.

“Bull-shit.”

Tyler paused, turned to stare out the window toward the Trader Joe’s, and back to Brad.

“I’m never going to judge anything you say, Segs. Just know that.”

“That’s the real bullshit. Don’t play in my face like that.” Tyler laughed, apparently trying his damn hardest to change the subject.

Brad just hit him with the glare he knew he would have a difficult time being under.

Tyler inhaled and exhaled slowly, rolling his eyes as he looked at the truck roof he’d watched for thousands of hours before from a fully reclined car seat.

“I guess…” Tyler breathed again, glancing back at Brad before quickly glancing away. “More than anything— I was just scared of losing you.”

Brad’s face fell, and his heart dropped all the way to his feet. The words came out slightly choked, and he couldn’t even think about how Tyler felt as if that could ever be a possibility.

“Seggy.”

“I know it sounds stupid, and it was far more presumptuous— oh my god, do not make fun of me, I’ve known big words since before I met Jamie— than it needed to be, but it just kinda hurt. I know Patrice is new, and exciting, and different— and nothing like me— and it kind of just got in my head. I don’t know. I should have talked to you instead of turning into a… fuckin’ recluse.”

“Oh— Seggy.”

“Yeah, I know it’s stupid. I know.”

Brad’s shoulders were slumped forward, and his body was almost entirely turned in his seat to face Tyler.

“I could never replace you. I would never replace you. Tyler Paul. Dude.”

“I told you it was stupid. And unbased.”

“No, I made you feel that bad. That’s on me. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you— you have to know that.”

“Not true.” Tyler scoffed through what he would never admit was a sniffle.

Brad took a second to reach all the way into his backseat and grab a tissue box and set it on his own lap. “I wouldn’t.”

“Do you think about— us— back in the day— a lot?” Brad asked softly, taking out a tissue and twisting it into a rope.

“Not— really. Sometimes. Rarely. Times like…”

“When you feel like I’m drifting?"

“I wouldn’t say it like that— our friendship. Drifting from me, I guess. Because I’m juvenile and— kind of a wreck, to be straight with you.”

“You said it pretty good earlier Segs— we’ve been through different phases— different parts of our lives together. You’re allowed to have feelings about our past— more than allowed. We'll always be juvenile wrecks together. You're my best friend.”

Tyler nodded, taking a tissue as well and placing it flat in his lap.

“I think I might have been hung up on… us… longer than you thought I was?” Tyler said, his voice softer than Brad had ever heard it. “I would never hold it against you that— you were in a different place than me and you made a call I didn’t entirely agree with. I wouldn’t ever fault you for that— I think it just stuck with me longer than… I thought it would.”

“And that’s more than okay— I hope you know that. I’d never feel weird about that, ever. Never make you feel weird about it. And I know you’re past it now.”

“Oh, totally.” Tyler laughed, raising his hand and mimicking a racecar absolutely zooming by. “Zwooosh.”

“Okay asshole, nobody asked you to do all that—” Brad laughed, hitting him on the shoulder.

“Do you want me to be in love with you?” Tyler exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “Boat has sailed on that one, buddy. I’m trying to lock down free teeth cleanings and gently placed hickeys for life.”

“So he is pre-dental.” Brad noted, nodding as Tyler hit him back.

“Dude, this Patrice recon has got to stop.” Tyler laughed— one of those head-tilted-back, open-mouthed laughs that Brad loved so much.

“You’re getting info on Pat from Sid and Jamie!”

“Well, that’s okay. It’s okay when I do it. I’m a PI and they’re my knowing and willing informants. Jamie’s my SSI. Super Sexy Informant. Like Jesus man, his name is Patrice Bergeron, not Patrice Berge-recon, okay? Let him be. I know you’ve always had trouble reading and all, but he should not have to suffer for it.”

“God, you’re an asshole! And you’re not funny—”

“I’m the funniest, and you know it.” Tyler said, taking another bite of the donut that he hadn’t had the appetite for when he received it earlier. “Wanna bite?”

“Fuckin’ duh.” Brad took a bite, relishing the blueberry flavor that had gotten him through the last two years. The glaze cracked and crumbled at the edge of his mouth, which he licked on instinct. “So we’re okay?”

He talked through a mouthful of donut, which he knew Tyler would laugh at.

He did.

“More than.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Obviously.”

“What’s Jamie’s favorite flower?”

Tyler paused, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“What’s his favorite flower?”

“I wouldn’t know—”

“Yes, you do.”

Tyler rolled his eyes, exhaling hard.

“Fine. He likes lilies. God— who even knows if they’re his favorite though? There’s so many possible—”

“Flashy. Extravagant. Colorful. Just like you. Makes sense.” Brad smirked, his hand on the keys. “The lilies in there looked like old stock. We’re gonna grab some flowers for your booooooy.”

“Bradley Kevin Marchand, I do not need to be wingmanned.” Tyler said, his voice slightly panicked.

“I know who you are, and I know you’re going to try to play aloof with him about this— but our first playoff game is this Saturday. And that man is smitten. And I know you are too. And as two hockey players, we need to lock down that damn dentist, okay?”

“Oh my goodness! We’ll have insurance! And NHL money! We do not need to exploit my would-be hypothetical husband!”

“Hush— we’re buying him a nice bouquet and you’re asking Jaaaaame to the gaaaaame this Saturday.”

“Marchand— he’s such a busy guy—”

“He’d make time for you, Seguin— you told me that entire story and you think he wouldn’t make the time?!”

“A hockey game is a long time to take out of his midterm study schedule. It feels like longer, but we can’t forget that it’s been less than a week. A perfect less-than-seven-days but still less than seven days. He’ll think I’m clingy.”

“That boy?” Brad’s jaw dropped, his eyes rolling the furthest back possible that they could in his head. “He took you to lunch, a lecture, a lab, and then kept you around for a study date. You went on a study date.”

Tyler opened his mouth to protest, but Brad interrupted him first.

“Tell you what— you ask him… and I’ll ask Patrice.”

Tyler quieted at that, the edge of his lips lifting in a smirk. His eyes glinted mischievously, and Brad realized what a grave error he’d made. Anything that elicited that expression from Tyler almost always ended in disaster.

Well, fuck. It was too late now.

“Oh yeah?” Tyler said, his voice low as he stuck out his hand.

“Yeah.” Brad met his hand, a slight blush rising in his cheeks as he looked anywhere but Segs.

“Fuckin’ deal.”

Chapter Text

What even is a tort.

It sounded like a type of cake. Maybe it… was a cake?

Patrice could have sworn that there was indeed a type of cake called a tort— maybe he was misremembering his high school European history class, but he was pretty sure it was a Polish desert.

Maybe he was wrong.

Maybe not…?

Patrice had been zoned out for an indeterminate amount of time, his eyes unfocused and his vague gaze situated on the whiteboard behind Sid.

They were in one of the university’s many study rooms, a change of scenery that Patrice had suggested to— help them mentally— of course, but mainly to converse about a certain hockey-playing business major without the wrath of intense librarians being inflicted upon the duo once again.

He couldn’t focus.

Not in the slightest.

He kept thinking back to Bon Cop Bad Cop, and the way… Brad had his head in his lap at some point— when the room got dark and the thunder was crashing incessantly above Patrice’s high-rise apartment. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way his breathing slowed when he was rolled to face the TV, Patrice’s hand, initially on his shoulder for stability, lowering along with the sun to his waist at some point. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Brad air-fried the Dino nuggets Patrice had in his fridge for dinner before he drove him back to his place. Couldn’t stop thinking about how he wished he had stayed, even though that wasn’t really plausible at all. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he texted him from Tyler’s earlier this morning when he was in contract law. The way he texted him to tell him everything that went down at the Trader Joe’s.

“Patrice.”

The voice was sudden, sharp— unexpected, which— that wasn’t exactly fair to Sid, but that’s where Patrice was at. He wasn’t able to think about anything but #63.

“Yes Siddy boy?”

The captain of the hockey team looked disgruntled, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

Patrice supposed he had a different hockey player to pay attention to… sitting right in front of him.

“Are you thinking about torts?” Sid asked plainly, his brows furrowed and his voice slightly judgmental.

“I don’t think I can take torts anymore,” Patrice whined, sighing dramatically, his head nearly splitting the table with the force he came down with. “I hate it.”

Sid nodded, but placed a soft hand on his shoulder.

“Shift your perspective. We’re lucky that PKU offers it. The vast majority of undergraduate programs wouldn’t dream of offering it.”

“First off, you sound like an admissions officer who works on a— I don’t know, like a commission per-student. Second— maybe they shouldn’t dream about it. There’s four fucking people in our class and one refuses to speak to me. Third— don’t try your hockey captain bullshit on me.”

“Pre-professionals are a prickly bunch sometimes.” Sid sighed, tilting his head back. “Also, I just yell at them. I’m being really nice to you right now.”

“It sucks.” Patrice exhaled, the urge to push Sid’s glasses up his face strong. What could he possibly be seeing?

“What if I wanted genuine companionship? You would think people who would know exactly what you were going through would be just a little more empathetic, right?” Patrice groaned, slightly sinking into his spinning chair.

“Their thirst for blood is a little stronger than their feelings of camaraderie… I feel.”

“It sucks dude.”

“Less than a week with Brad and he’s already influencing your speech?” Sid snorted, finally pushing up the glasses and shoving Patrice playfully.

“Oh my god— shut up.” Patrice said, a laugh on his tongue and a faint heat rising in his cheeks.

“What was up with that by the way? My team bonding activity that bad that he texted you an SOS? It was his best friend’s idea, by the way.” Sidney scoffed, slightly indignant. “Tyler picked it. Speaking of—”

“Crisse, dude. He hates me bad. But speaking of pre-professionals and Tyler—”

“Why would those ever be in the same sentence—” Sid said, his nose scrunched.

Patrice kicked him once in the shin, hard.

“Ow! What the fuck!”

“Don’t be mean to him.”

“What the fuck—”

“Oh— my god, I don’t even want to talk about it. I need to get back on better footing with him… or get… on? Better footing? Bad start. I feel horrible. I don’t know what I did, but I’ve been mulling it over— and I stalked his Instagram for a bit— he hates me.”

“He likes you.”

“No he does not.”

“He’s just protective over Brad. He has been since freshman year.” Sid said it casually, but it gave Patrice more pause than Sid could have guessed.

“Yes, but why?”

Sid sighed heavy, pursing his lips as he took his glasses off and put them to the side.

“Brad’s been through a lot— he carries so much with him, but you’d really never know.”

Patrice had seen some of Brad’s odd behaviors, his sensitivity to Patrice’s tone, his immediate assumption of the worst, his inability to react proportionally to a mess-up— Patrice knew this. He knew the base information— bad ex, early in college, doesn’t date.

But nothing more.

“His ex from freshman year— messed him up so bad. It was two semesters of hell— he suffered, his academics suffered, his game suffered— but Tyler was propping him up constantly. There were times that it was a Weekend at Bernie’s situation, if I’m being honest. He’s a good friend. They met at orientation— spent every waking moment together— roommates for two years, at school and then in Brad’s apartment. Listen—”

Sid paused, as if it pained him to speak about the subject. Perhaps it did. Patrice thinks it would pain him as well— it did, with what little he knew. He also noticed Sid’s hesitance with the word ‘friend’, but he let it slide for now. There were more important things at hand.

Just the idea that someone could treat a sweet soul like Brad with the malice that had been alluded to since they’d met was absurd, and Patrice hated every second he poured into trying to fill the gaps.

“Segs did his absolute best trying to keep him out of his ex’s place— away, busy. And he did a good job. The best job he could. This made him... a bit of a public enemy for… you know. After they ended things, Brad was a shell of himself for my sophomore playoff run. It took him a while to get back to his jovial self— even the level of jovial that he had been throughout the relationship.”

“Who… did the breaking up?”

Sid paused, contemplating the information further.

“It was less of a… formal breakup… than most.”

“Over text?”

Patrice narrowed his eyes as he took in the sight of Sid processing that. He looked almost constipated, his lips almost pursed into a straight line.

“Dude, I’m not— gonna judge him,” Patrice said, his voice almost hurt. He wouldn’t judge Brad for whichever way he got out of the relationship that was hurting him that bad. He wasn’t sure he could ever judge him, much less for something like that.

Sid took a moment longer to breathe before speaking quietly.

“By… knockout. Punch. Slam.”

Patrice furrowed his brows as he slowly shook his head. “Brad wouldn’t…?”

“Good read,” Sid said, somewhat gravely. “It was Tyler.”

Patrice’s eyes widened in slight shock, but he supposed it made sense. “He knocked him out?”

“Destroyed him. One punch is what he wanted to get in— it quickly turned to two, three. Asshole never stood a chance. Tyler never bragged about it either— which was so unlike him. Never brought it up.”

Sid paused to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“It was at a party. I was not there. I had secondary sources.”

Patrice only stared. Tyler really was the real deal.

“Segs he… can be extreme, but he… was there. Every waking moment of every day— on the ice, off the ice, in the locker room and out. I can tell you that. Brad was—” Sid’s voice went quiet as he licked his lips and breathed in hard through his nostrils.

He looked up at Patrice, a slightly pained expression on his face. Patrice only held up a hand.

“You don’t have to say anything. I wouldn’t want to— overstep. I’d hate to know anything major he didn’t tell me himself, you know?”

Sid smiled.

“Tyler just needs time to get to know you. I promise. I’ve endorsed you. It’s a matter of time. He’s actually launched a bit of a plot, I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“A plot…? To…” Patrice squinted, worried for what he was going to hear next. “What—”

“Get you two together,” Sid said, absolutely exasperated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“But Brad doesn’t date.”

“He didn’t. Yeah.”

Sid smiled, returning his vision to his torts textbook and putting his glasses back on before Patrice kicked him in the shin once again.

“Will you stop doing that? I feel like you consistently forget I am the captain of the university hockey team and I need functional shins.” Sid hissed, venom in his tone as he stared at Patrice through the big librarian glasses that he just could not take himself seriously in.

“What do you mean, didn’t— did he say something?”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“God!” Patrice exclaimed indignantly, his palms flat on the table. “Because I’m your friend?! What good is having one of my best friends captain the two most interesting people in my life if he won’t tell me anything?!”

“Two?” Sid snorted, leaning back. “You that invested in Tyler now?”

“Super invested actually. I helped Brad figure out who his mystery booooyyyfrienddd iiiiiiissss.” Patrice smiled proudly, absolutely enthralled with the fact that he did, indeed, have something to lord over the Nova Scotian that he was— (no offense) far less interested in.

Sid sat up straighter at that. “Boyfriend?”

His eyebrow raised, then lowered, and he scooted in closer to the table as Patrice’s smirk grew wider and wider.

“Maybe— or did I mean… hook-up?” Patrice pursed his lips, bringing his index finger up to his mouth. “How could I know? How could little old me—”

“Bergeron, fucking spill.” Sid sounded like his life depended on finding this information out— maybe it did.

Patrice only laughed. “Depends. What do you have for me Crosby?”

Sid rolled his eyes, sliding a paper into his textbook and shutting it.

Patrice gave him a somewhat confused smirk, to which Sid shook his head and pushed the book away.

“You really want me to not succeed in life, don’t you?”

“Yale law,” Patrice said, pointing at Sid. “You’ll be fine.”

“Not if Harvard law keeps trying to distract me.”

“You know I haven’t heard back.” Patrice rolled his eyes, trying to keep his exasperation as a thick-enough mask for his nerves.

“I know things.” Sid shrugged. “Now spill.”

“Wouldn’t you know about Jamler then?”

“I don’t concern myself with the personal lives of my teammates. Also, Jamler is a horrible couple name.”

“We all know that’s not true.” Patrice rolled his eyes with a smirk. It was fun to watch Sid squirm.

“Patrice, please.”

He looked at him with pleading eyes, his head cocked ever-so-slightly to the side. “Please.”

“Ah, how could I say no to that.” Patrice smiled, tapping Sid’s nose slightly. “On one condition though.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ll tell you what I know regarding the terror twins and you.”

“The terror twins? Don’t call— them that!”

Patrice took a split second to contemplate why he stumbled over the word ‘them’ like that. He did almost say Brad. Hopefully Sid didn’t catch it.

“You’re awfully defensive of them for someone who’s never had to watch Tyler fall off a rock climbing wall because he didn’t properly secure his harness and then watch Brad try to subsequently catch him in his arms from 20 feet below. Almost effectively breaking my 1L’s back two weeks before playoffs?”

“When was this?” Patrice laughed, picturing the scenario in his head. “Please tell me you have a video.”

“One of the younger guys might. Ty’s belay— rope— thing— the rope— snapped down from his harness when he was at the very top. He starts screaming— March is like, ‘just climb down!’, Segs is like ‘I can’t move my limbs!’. They’re going back and forth for 30 seconds until Brad just tells him to let go— Tyler starts screaming— screaming. Brad won’t stop telling him to jump— Tyler’s like you want me dead, all this. And then he goes silent for like 10 seconds before he tells Brad he’s coming down. Brad gets down on one knee, puts his arms out— and manages to break his fall well enough.”

“And where were you during this, Captain?” Patrice grinned, slightly accusatorily.

“I was getting Tyler’s fucking Gato bottle from Brad’s car because he asked.” Sid seethed.

“And when was this?”

“When they were freshmen, stupid kids.”

Patrice liked hearing about how his— Brad— contributed to Sid’s greys.

“Oh, well you can’t even fault them for that— what, they were freshly 19 maybe?”

“It was two weeks ago Patrice.” Sid said gravely, with the fullest eye contact he’d ever made with him. “I was lying, it was a team bonding activity. From two. Weeks. Ago.”

Patrice actually managed to snort at that. Maybe they were the terror twins.

“They’re so sweet. I like how they take care of each other.”

“That is what you take away from this story? You’re too fucking far gone. I don’t even wanna hear about Ty and Jamie.”

“You sure? He calls him Jaaaaaaame.”

“No way?”

“Brad told me.”

“So you and Brad are texting about Tyler’s love life while Tyler and Jamie presumably text about your love life— so this is just a big circlejerk of emotions and you— where do you want to go with this?”

“Absolutely nowhere. Brad doesn’t date.”

“That man wants you.”

“He does not.”

“You see him from some odd, elevated Patrice Bergeron perspective. The rest of us mortals see him from eye level, absolutely giddy over ‘hot painter guy.’ Running out from team bonding and pissing off his best friend to go see hot painter guy.”

Patrice managed to blush at that— he could feel an embarrassing heat rising in his cheeks as he watched Sid casually doodle a flower as he dropped that bomb on him. He wouldn’t acknowledge it— not fully. That would be weird.

“You’re the last person who should be saying the words ‘the rest of us mortals.’” Patrice attempted to deflect, not entirely sure that he was doing a good job at it.

“Is Jamie really dating Tyler?” Sid asked, his head cocked. “What do you think they talk about?”

“Sid!” Patrice gasped, hitting his arm hard. “That is so mean!”

“Ow—” Sid rubbed his shoulder, his eyes slightly crinkled as he winced. “It’s just— Jamie’s so— and Tyler’s so— he’s always studying and— you know, us too— and Tyler’s… he’s not stupid, but he’s not— scholarly. And for good reason, I mean, he’s going to the show, I get it— I’m not trying to be mean.”

Sid flustered may have indeed been one of the funniest things that Patrice had ever seen. It was fun to make Yale Law trip over his words. He savored it. He didn’t get this sight often.

“Dude, I think you underestimate him.” Patrice shrugged.

“Does Brad know you dickride his best friend— does Jamie know you dick-riiiide his boyfriend?”

“Do you know that Tyler likes sneaking into people’s classes to hang out with them?”

“Yeah man— he’s snuck into constitutional for a bit to talk to me recently. You were there.”

“Did he really?” Patrice said, shock more than apparent in his voice. “He’s stealthy.”

“He’s good. Been doing it since his freshman year. He’d sneak into the gen eds that he didn’t have with Brad to talk about… you know. Life and all that. His ex did a pretty decent job of trying to keep him away from Segs and the team unless he absolutely had to be there. I think that’s where the habit started.”

“Sneaking into classes?”

“Yeah. He’s gotten way braver with it. Gen eds are an easy sneak. He snuck into torts once, actually. Right into your seat. You weren’t there. You and Monty were at the conference.”

“This was recently then—” Patrice said, equal parts shocked and mad that he missed this maneuver. Torts was a difficult sneak.

“Literally January. I’m thankful him and Brad share so much of their schedules or he would never be in class.”

“Does he sneak into everyone’s classes?”

“Well— no. Me when he needs something from me… and only Brad, really. He gets around, he sees a lot of the guys whenever he wants. Doesn’t really feel the need to.”

“So someone whose class he might sneak into— is a considerably special individual… you’d say?”

It was times like these where he felt like law really was for him. As long as Sid didn’t claim he was leading the witness, he was good.

“Yeah, pretty much. He wants to spend the most time possible with them. Ergo, Brad.”

“Does it… take a while for him to get comfortable enough to sneak into someone’s class?”

Patrice felt like he was absolutely talking to a witness on the stand. A bit ambitious for a pre-law student, sure, but that’s how he was trained to think since he was a kid. A little sad, he thought, but hey— hate the game, not the player.

“Uhh— I mean, I suppose there’s a standard waiting period. He’s not going to sneak into one of your classes and threaten you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Patrice smirked, thinking that Tyler should put him on his good side just for the pro bono work he was doing to defend him to his hockey captain.

“So… there’s no way he’d ever sneak into one of Jamie’s classes. Right?”

“Hell no— dude, he’s in the highest sciences this school has to offer. Tyler’s not sneaking—” Sid paused, his jaw dropping slightly as he went on. “No.”

Patrice only sat back, crossed his arms, and smirked. “Yeah.”

“Dude.”

“Molecular genetics— I think. Lecture and lab. Over three hours. And then apparently Tyler suggested a study date.”

“Are you lying?” Sid said, his jaw almost entirely slack at that point.

“Why would I lie—”

“Brad told you this?”

“Every bit. Heard straight from Tyler earlier today.”

Sid let out a sigh and nodded. “So he’s in love.”

“Deeply, apparently.”

“Before playoffs, really?” Sid said, leaning forward as he rested his head in his hands.

“You’re cool with him hooking up but not finding genuine companionship? That’s fucked Crosby.”

“He’s a hockey player. No. He’s Tyler Seguin. That’s his normal. This is— less normal. What if he’s distracted?”

“What if Jamie’s at a game and he plays like it’s a Stanley Cup Final Game 7? Shift your perspective.”

Patrice smirked, the urge to get his phone out to call Brad increasingly strong.

“Man, I got practice,” Sid said, his voice indignant. “I don’t like that you’re more on the terror twins' side than you are mine.”

“The terror twins are so sweet,” Patrice smirked, sitting back in his chair and closing his book as well.

“God, I have to get out of here. We actually do have evening practice. You— are making it difficult for me to look at Brad the same.”

Sid stood up, his shoulders drooping as Patrice continued to smile up at him.

“You’re so miserable Sid. Surely your Jaaaaaaaaaame is out there too.”

“God— making it difficult for me to look at Tyler, too.”

“Because he’s in love? Don’t be such a downer Siddy. Lock in.”

“Brad teach you that?”

“Mon dieu. Go to your damn practice,” Patrice laughed, knowing Brad would absolutely ridicule him for his diction and intonation throughout that sentence.

“I’ll be skating your boys extra hard today,” Sid said with a laugh that didn’t seem like it was conveying much humor.

“God, don’t tell them it was me.”

“That’ll be the first thing I tell them.”

Patrice let his smile grow, leaning all the way back in the seat as he watched Sid slide his laptop into his bag.

“Don’t do that.”

“Want them to skate a Minnesota mile?”

Sid looked at him with eyes that were entirely threatening and would entirely follow through.

Patrice only raised his own hand to his lips, made a zipping gesture, and subsequently threw away the key.

“Bye Pat. Don’t fuck my 1L out of commission.”

Patrice moved to open his mouth, but Sid held up a finger as he was walking out of the glass room.

“Ah-bup-bup— more miles for them. Say anything and I skate your boyfriend and his boyfriend til they both throw up."

Patrice’s eyes widened, shaking his head furiously as Sid only smirked and left.

“Byyyyeee Pattyyyy.”

Patrice let out the breath he had been holding on to with his lips sealed and got his phone out almost immediately. He navigated to his messages with the person who had lately become his favorite contact, his favorite passage of time... Bradley Kevin Marchand.

Bradley. Brad news

Fuck.

He sent it quickly. Too quickly. Before he proofread it.

The Freudian slip was a little more than embarrassing, but he supposed it was close enough to the word he’d meant originally. He guessed.

He smiled at the 10-minute voice memo and his reaction right above it— a pod, Brad called it— that he’d sent him, updating him fully on the whole Tyler situation.

But that was about all Patrice had to smile about.

Fuck.

He could picture Brad’s shitfaced grin on the other side of the screen— at least, when he saw it. He was sure that Brad had class or engagements or—

BRAAAAAAAD NEWS???

News about MEEEEEEE?

:)

🙄🙄 You know I meant BAD news

Ugh but how could any news be bad when its about meeeeheeheeee

Patrice couldn’t. Stop. Smiling.

It was miserable. It was a miserable existence and he’d condemned himself to it. His facial muscles hurt more and more with every blue bubble sent his way. The soreness and numbness in his face was not unlike when he got hit in the cheekbone with a mediocre slapshot in juniors. That was when he learned helmets, even after practice— were not optional.

Oh, Bradley.

So I was studying with your best friend in the whole wide world

Sidney Crosby. And. Well we may have been talking and I may have said some things about you and Tyler and well

I don’t know

Thinking you’re cool or whatever. The both of you. Even though Tyler kind of wants to kill me

He does not!!

THAT ASIDE. Sid kind of wants to bag skate you now

I’m sorry

DUDE

I’M SORRY

IS HE SERIOUS????

Paaaattttt 😭

I HOPE HE ISN’T BUT. Oh my god let me make it up to you I’m so sorry

No I’m not mad :)

I think it’s sweet you annoyed him THAT much

Small price to pay for praise from the saint himself, no?

You’re such a jerk oh my god

Patrice felt the heat rise in his face like nothing he’d ever felt before. Brad was such a jerk. Such an asshole, such a rat, such an evil and horrible man.

Guilty ;)

Patrice sat back and laughed, picturing Brad’s sweet face staring down at his phone screen. He hated how he could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. He was falling. Almost embarrassingly fast. But he’d never say anything. He wouldn’t.

You with Tyler?

No :( all alone in my apartment :(((

Offered him a ride to practice after we got lunch together and did some extra post-TJ shopping

Little slut said he had to go meet someone

Bradley!

I will NOT be surprised when he pulls up to practice being dropped off by Jaaaammeeee

When is praccy by the way?

Patrice sat back, knowing the next thing he was about to type was incredibly brave and incredibly stupid.

Such a hockey player still Pat

Come play

I saw your juniors jersey framed in your penthouse

Not a penthouse Bradley, it isn’t the top floor

Also it was framed for a reason

Retired </3

Penthouse VIBES baby

The vibes.

ALso I’ve seen ur quads in shorts. Unretire anytime and you could rival Sid for 1c ezpz

Oh yeah?

Well I’m flattered you think my place is that cool

And I’m flattered you think I could EVER rival him

It’s the coolEST

Also you can

Also

Praccy’s in like an hour and a half

Why do you askkkkk you wanna do something?

Precisely, actually

🤓☝🏼

…

Kiddinnnggg :)

Brad Marchand you are truly are the worst

Patrice felt a small pang of fear the moment he sent that, but it subsided the second he saw bubbles appear.

At least I’m the best at it :)

What do you wanna doooo

The rink open?

Open for praccy but there’s no public skate today bc we have evening prac

They kinda cut public skate hours around yoffs

Aw shit

Patrice sighed. He had an idea— he thought it was sweet, but he was having a difficult time letting himself be sweet. It was a dangerous game that he was playing and he knew it. He loved being around Brad. Simply being in proximity to the younger man invigorated him. But he also knew it was a slippery slope— it was only a matter of time before he fell. Fell harder, he should say.

And there was no world in which Patrice would ever do that to him. None.

It took a double buzz from his phone to snap him out of his stupor, and he didn’t have the awareness or the conscientiousness to continue to worry about a potential outcome. Brad made him release all inhibitions.

Maybe this was more dangerous than he even suspected.

Y? Do you feel like skating?

Sk8er boy?

Forget it Brad

No worries

Don’t give up so easily Pattycakes

I’d expect someone with as many racks as you to know how to use his damn connections

Do u have 500+ on LinkedIn

Patrice could audibly laugh at that. For a moment, things felt alright. He was overthinking. He was overthinking bad. Everything’s okay.

He inhaled, exhaled, and got himself to stop laughing before he replied.

You’re such an asshole!!

Yk who the rink IS open for?

Meeee

You suggesting what I think you are?

Meet me in TEN Patty. Steps of the rink. Have your skates. If you don’t have them. That is cool too. I’ll figure it out. I’ll bring the rest.

Godspeed soldier.

Patrice could only smile at the younger man’s once-in-a-blue-moon use of proper-enough punctuation.

He looked down at himself. He wasn’t dressed to the nines by any means, which was good. Wide-leg heather grey sweats— a hoodie— fuck.

A hoodie.

The garment was a recent purchase, the unblemished maroon and the near-overwhelming scent of the college bookstore coasting up to his nostrils.

Brad was never going to let him live this one down.

His morning started normally— his 8 AM, texting Brad— which had apparently become a slightly pivotal part of his routine in the last week— and then heading to the think tank for his and Sid’s noon study session.

His morning class, though largely light, delivered the crushing blow to him that his gel highlighter was on its last leg. A last leg that gave out entirely by the end of the lesson.

No matter, he thought, that was what the campus bookstore was for.

While he was there— buying highlighters, he’ll remind you, he saw the section that his hardworking peers and dedicated PKU staff had set up. It was topical, it made sense with playoffs looming.

Patrice may have bought a hoodie.

A PKU hockey hoodie that was maybe a size too large for him, but it felt like a hug.

It was a little embarrassing really.

Now yes, he was fully aware that there was not a 63 across the back of it— nor was there a 63 embroidered into the sleeve. But Patrice knew Brad, and Patrice knew Brad was a shithead who wouldn’t let him live this down regardless.

He sighed with a smile on his face, knowing he’d rather feel Brad’s ridicule than anything else.

Patrice packed his things up quickly, his thin Mac easily sliding into his backpack. He was barely invested in the class that Sid and him met up so often to study.  He only had his Mac out, his notes sparse on a Notion document.

He checked his phone periodically as he exited the library, checking for texts from Brad that he knew didn’t come. The forward was one of the few people whose notifications he didn’t turn on hide alerts for. He would have known if the younger man texted him.

His car was parked close to the think tank library— he’d planned it this morning to have been able to easily meet Sid. He walked from there to his class, the class to the bookstore, and back to the library.

His skates were always in his car— he stayed prepared. The habit started when he got his license— when he’d drive around Quebec at night— the stress from school almost too much for a 17-year-old to bear.

Winter nights when the lake was frozen over— when nobody had his location— when it was his skates and him against a world that sought to sever that connection.

And nobody cared, really.

His father was always busy, his mother always traveling— and his brother— well— Cambridge Law School wasn’t a world away, but it might as well have been.

As he contemplated his slightly sad personal life, he almost tripped over a slightly misplaced brick. It made him laugh. He always fell victim to it in the same exact way. You’d think he’d know the brick right outside the library by now, but he didn’t. It always found a way to surprise him.

He walked to his car with haste, tucking his backpack away low in the back seat. He noted the spare hoodie he had lying in his car— it was navy, plain. Nothing incriminating blazoned across the front.

He contemplated for less than a moment before closing his car door.

The troops should know he supports them, he thought. Even if it got him ridiculed.

He grabbed his skates out of the cardboard box in his trunk, the box he kept a slightly disturbing collection of odds and ends in. He had both his hockey skates as well as roller skates he’d bought freshman year— his gym bag, and a fluorescent cowboy hat that was formerly able to light up.

Closing the trunk, he locked his car and began to walk over to the rink. He didn’t expect to see Brad there yet— Patrice only had to walk from the library to his car to the rink, but Brad had to get all the way from his apart—

Patrice nearly stopped dead.

He’d never seen Brad with a backwards hat on, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone wear one better. He held two sticks, freshly taped from what Patrice could tell, in his right hand, his left hand and arm occupied with holding his massive PKU Hockey bag.

There were few things Patrice didn’t miss about hockey, but his bag was certainly one of them.

“Patty!”

Damn.

Patrice looked up the stairs of the arena with a smile as he took in the sight of Brad in all his quintessential hockey boy glory.

“Hey Brad!”

He sped his walking up into a jog and skip-stepped up the stairs. He felt and heard his untied laces hit the ground as he ran, making him remember how much he fucking loved it— the exhilaration before one stepped out onto the ice, the smell of the locker room, the feeling of the tape roll around his middle and ring finger.

He missed it more than anything.

Patrice was glad he got closer to the door and further from the stairs before Brad attempted to engulf him in the most threat-to-life hug he’d had in a while. In doing that, Brad nearly let his sticks drop to the side. Or— well, they would have if Patrice didn’t catch them both.

“What are you wearing?” Brad smirked, his eyes darting down to Patrice’s chest.

“Oh, uh— was laundry day.” Patrice smiled softly, knowing Brad was going to catch on at some point. He might as well have a little fun.

“Recent buy?”

“Oh, this? Oh no, I’ve uh— I’ve had it. Freshman year I went to a few games with my uh— my ex.”

Patrice wasn’t sure why he chose to lie about it in that way— he supposed it was based in truth. He did go to more than a few games with Andrew.

Brad gave him a soft smile, but there was an undeniable knowing glint in his eyes.

“Didn’t know you were such a big fan of our hockey team, Monsieur Bergeron— quel est ton joueur préféré?” Brad said, a smirk on his face as he scanned into the arena.

“Sidney Crosby,” Patrice said, returning the smirk and watching Brad’s eyes roll back. “But... your French is good.”

“I will change that. Je vais changer ça…?”

Brad sounded unsure, which Patrice thought was the sweetest thing in the world.

“No, no, that was perfect.” He assured him, hearing his own slight, residual accent coming out in his speech. “A little formal, but that’s high school French, non? You get the Québécois in it with a little exposure.”

Brad laughed quietly, in a way that Patrice wouldn’t be remiss to describe as a giggle.

“You think my French is good?”

“You definitely don’t need a tutor.” Patrice grinned as Brad led him to the locker room with a laugh. “Want me to leave?”

The younger man was walking backwards at that point, but stopped dead.

“You’re funny.” Brad laughed, hitting Patrice’s shoulder hard.

“Ow!”

“How ever will I get my Québécois twang without you? Think about the detriments, Patrice!”

Patrice ignored the flutter of warmth that rose in his chest.

“Guess you need to keep me around,” He replied, his smile almost impossible to hide.

He grabbed Brad’s sticks out of his hand, eliciting a pleased hum from the younger man as he continued to lead him into the arena.

“It’s easier to go through the locker room,” Brad grinned, scanning his key card once again.

“Special access— I feel so exclusive.” Patrice laughed.

“VIP, baby,” Brad said with a chuckle. “Go lace up—”

Brad took his sticks from Patrice and walked over to his stall, sitting down in front of Tyler’s as he unzipped his beat-up bag and took his skates out. He placed the bag on the floor and let the sticks rest against the wall as he looked up at Patrice.

“C’mere, take mine.” He gestured to his stall, patting the seat next to him.

Patrice took a moment to get over the pause he was experiencing. It was just Brad’s stall. There wasn’t much intimate about it— pretty common D1 dressing area. He’d seen them before.

“Oh— I can just—”

Patrice toed his shoes off and gestured to the open area around him.

“Dude—” Brad scoffed. “C’mon. Sit. My stall isn’t hallowed ground. And even if it were, who better to grace it than the Saint himself?”

Without another word, Brad grabbed the beat-up New Balances that Patrice had been wearing moments prior and stuffed them into his cubby. Brad said it with a casualty that baffled Patrice— he couldn’t remember the last time that someone looked at him like that. He wasn't sure Brad knew the gravity of his words... the way his heart almost stopped every time he said something like that.

Then again, why would he? Patrice was the one making it weird in his head. 

Fuck.

Snap the fuck out of it, he thought to himself.

Maybe the stall wasn’t hallowed ground to Brad, but Patrice couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this. He’d revered hockey since he was young. In another life, maybe one of the stalls said Bergeron above it. But it wasn’t this one, and he’d done his damn hardest to not get hung up on it over the years. The potential, the talent— nothing meant anything when you had a pre-determined life. A pre-determined track for the rest of your life.

“What are ya waiting for!” Brad exclaimed, grabbing one of the hockey sticks that he’d left resting against the wall, hooking it around Patrice’s waist, and pulling him in.

“Woah!”

Brad only smiled and nodded his head toward the seat.

Patrice sat down, shaking his head as he loosened his laces and slipped his foot in.

“Remember how to do it, Bergy?” Brad teased, nudging him on the shoulder. “I can assume my public skate hero role if you need me.”

Brad got down on one knee, his skates fully tied as he kneeled in front of Patrice.

Patrice laughed, scrunching his nose as he kicked Brad’s knee lightly.

“I think I’ll be okay,” He laughed, standing up and mock-checking Brad.

Gotta keep him on his toes.

“One thing.”

Brad reached down quickly, grabbing his helmet and snapping the cage onto Patrice before he could say another word.

“We have to protect that pretty little head of yours.”

Patrice felt his heart skip a few beats through the momentary process, but playing it off was something he was both immensely trained and skilled at.

“Really?”

“Can’t have you hurt Berg! Sid’s study buddy out for the season? He’d kill me.”

“The ‘really’ was about your Oreo cage.”

Brad had the audacity to be shocked about this, putting his gloved hand to his chest and letting his jaw drop slightly.

“It maintains sty while letting me see, asshole,” Brad said with a laugh, returning the check before he handed him his second stick.

“Alright, alright,” Patrice said softly, his smile growing as he felt the weight of the stick in his hands again.

“You want gloves?” Brad said suddenly, his eyes wide and genuine.

“Non, non, I’ll be fine.”

Brad nodded and began to walk out toward the rink entrance. “Well, if at any time your hands get cold—”

The atmosphere of the arena was something special— even empty. Patrice hadn’t been here in so long. To be on the ice— in his skates… was to feel at home again.

He looked over at Brad, the way his cap was still backwards on his head as he stepped, fittingly, backward onto the ice.

“You ready, Bergeron?”

“I’m not sure I've ever been more prepared for anything in my life, Marchand."