Chapter Text
Watching Matty Stewart at a party was like watching a goalie walk out to play the puck and have it slide right between his skates into the net. There was a certain sense of inevitability to it as the goalie left his crease, followed by the swift cringe of second-hand embarrassment, but as long as it wasn’t happening to your team, it was generally pretty funny.
Maybe Adam should feel bad about it, but tonight, in this moment, seeing Mat hunched over a solo cup and failing to smile at a girl—that was not his goalie. Seeing that petite, stacked brunette cut her losses and make some excuse to walk away from him—it was the puck sliding guilelessly across the goal line, another point in Adam’s column.
Matty was just a little too awkward, a little too serious. It was worse around people he didn’t know—Matty didn’t like people he didn’t know. He tolerated them, maybe. The secret was you had to win him over, and to do that you had to get past the slightly bored, slightly cold set of his resting expression, and the one-word answers you got in response to obvious opening lines.
“So this is a cool party!”
“Yeah.”
“Your team is doing pretty good this year, right?”
“Yeah.”
“This house is kind of crazy.”
“Yeah.”
Matty Stewart was maybe the last person on earth to approach a girl at a party, and the first person to (accidentally? obliviously?) blow off any that dared approach him. At parties, Matty Stewart got himself a drink and then hovered at the exact mid-point between the kitchen (alcohol) and the beer pong table (teammates), waiting to be pulled in either direction throughout the night like a buoy drifting a predictable ocean current.
“Hey,” Adam sidled up to him, keeping his voice low enough that the music almost drowned it out. “What’s up?”
Exactly as Adam had angled for, Mat stepped in closer, leaning in to hear. “Just got a drink,” he gestured vaguely with the solo cup in his hand. “I think Rig and Leroy are just about done getting their asses handed to them here.”
Adam looked over at the pong table, where the unlikely duo of Rig (actual goalie, gentle giant) and Leroy (tiny, annoying, borderline Napoleon complexed) were indeed steadily falling to the greater pong prowess of Lip and Bailer, both of whom were less drunk and more bloodthirsty.
“You up next?” Adam asked, stealing the drink out of Mat’s hands. Fruit punch with a stinging bite of vodka at the end, like watered down cough medicine.
“Eh,” Mat shrugged. He was wearing a thin white t-shirt tonight, and the perpetual gold chain that glinted even in the low, blue-tinged light. “I haven’t seen Deter around. Think he got busy.”
Deter, the other half of the Wolverines’ best pong pair, had been trailing an absolute smokeshow around like a dog on a leash for the last two weeks, so if he was lucky at all he was indeed very busy. Adam took another furtive swallow before he handed the cup back to Mat, licking his lips and thinking that now he knew what the inside of Mat’s mouth tasted like. Sticky sweet, cherry-berry and Smirnoff.
“I’ll go in with you if you want,” Adam offered, stepping a little closer, enough their arms brushed. It felt like the closest they’d been since Matty had left his bedroom, a week ago, even though that wasn’t true—it couldn’t be.
“Eh,” Mat grimaced. “You’re kind of shit at pong, though.”
“Wow, okay, don’t spare my feelings or anything,” Adam elbowed him, even though it was maybe a little accurate. “I guess if you’re not gonna play, uh— maybe we could…”
Mat turned to look at him as he trailed off, eyes clear-dark and focused, almost black in the poor light, and for a sliver of a moment Adam felt suspended. Everything sharp and quiet, the way things looked when there was a hole between a goalie’s blocker and glove, and Adam knew he was going to punch the puck right through it.
“Maybe we could go upstairs.”
Mat wasn’t a very expressive person, but Adam was watching. How those dark eyes sharpened, how the fingers holding his solo cup tightened enough to slightly indent the bright red plastic.
“And do what?” Mat asked.
Adam swallowed, stepping even closer. He reached to palm Matty’s hip—lightly, casually, like maybe he’d done it accidentally, just steadying himself. Mat didn’t look away from him.
“I don’t know,” Adam said lowly. “I’m sure we’ll find something to keep ourselves busy.”
Abruptly, Mat tipped back the rest of his drink, swallowing it down. He crushed the cup, half-starting forward, then glanced around himself a little awkwardly, like he’d just remembered there were other people here around them.
Adam bit the inside of his lip, and didn’t flinch when Mat stepped more deliberately in towards him, like he was moving in slow motion, one aimless hand ghosting over the curve of his waist, touching him back—hot and surprising.
“Don’t follow me right away,” Mat said in an undertone, as he brushed by.
Adam’s stomach clenched. He had to force himself not to turn around and try to catch Mat—to grab his wrist to stop him or yell at him or kiss him—or just turn and stalk out of the party entirely. It was petty—Adam didn’t like being told what to do, and he knew. He knew that if they walked up the stairs together nobody at this party would give a single shit. Nobody except for Matty, who’d needed the bottom of his drink to say yes to Adam, here.
But he’d said yes, and Adam didn’t think he could be the one to say no.
The thought burned.
Mat left up the stairs. Adam took his time, making a gin and tonic in the mostly empty kitchen, something bitter to wash out the taste of Mat’s stupid fruit punch. He drank more than half of it before he went around the crowded living room, up to the second floor, nobody watching him do it, nobody giving a single shit.
+
Mat’s room was dark and peaceful when he pushed past the threshold, slightly cooler than the rest of the packed-full house, and when he shut the door behind him it muffled the party enough that Adam could hear the soft stirrings of acoustic guitar from a speaker. The lights were off except for the warm glow of a reading lamp, illuminating the Leafs jersey hung up on the wall, the thick textbooks marked with their rainbows of index tabs, the desk chair piled with unfolded laundry.
Matty was sitting back on the half-made bed, a playlist he’d queued with some sad indie song strumming quietly. Adam had assumed that Matty didn’t really do this that often—take someone back to his room, hook up at parties—but maybe he was wrong. Maybe Mat had moves.
He downed the last quarter of his drink, the clink of ice loud in the quiet. When he lowered the glass Mat was there in front of him, bare feet planted on the floor, one finger hooked into the belt-loop of Adam’s jeans and pulling him in. Moving first, which was also a surprise.
“Come here,” Mat said in a half-whisper, just as the gin hit the bottom of Adam’s stomach, and Adam leaned down to kiss him.
Mat’s mouth was sweet and hot, Adam’s bitter and cold from the drink, and he was bent over with one hand planted next to Mat’s hip, the other still clutching his lowball glass. Fingers gripped at his shoulder, pulling him forward, and he steadied himself against falling by bracing against Mat’s knee, feeling him jump a half-second later as the cold condensation of the glass made a dark ring on his jeans.
“Come on,” Mat said, and Adam left his glass on the floor, stripped his t-shirt and got the front of his jeans unbuttoned before Matty grabbed for him, impatient, dragging him down. It was pretty obvious what they were both here for, but when Adam climbed up on top Mat only slid a hand into his hair and kissed him again, hungry and distracting.
He was buzzing, halfway to cranked already, but he remembered—Mat’s face, closed down and unreadable, mumbling. You wouldn’t like some guy climbing all over you. “Mat— Mat is this— good?” he managed, in between dragging kisses. “You know— you can be on top, if you want.”
“Nah,” Mat smiled like he’d never said the words, squeezing at Adam’s hip. “I think I like the view from right here, Sniper.”
“Dude,” Adam grimaced. “No hockey nicknames while I’m trying to get at your dick.”
Mat laughed. “Yeah, fair enough,” before pulling him down again.
Mat’s hands were twice as confident as the first time they’d done this, and they’d been plenty confident by the end of that—after Adam had shown him how, had told him what he should do.
The hungry noise Mat made when Adam’s body arched into him went right to his gut, made him feel shivery-good, and he’d be right on board if Matty wanted him on his back again, spread out underneath. Adam’s knees wanted to fold, he was losing focus already—panting into the kiss as Mat’s hands trailed down over his ass, the outside of his thighs, and teasingly back up again.
“Shhh,” Mat stilled his hand where it went reaching for his belt, hushing Adam’s groan of annoyance. “Relax. There’s no rush.”
“Matty,” Adam’s cheeks went hot, but he managed to steady his voice again as he said, “I wanna see you, come on.”
Mat looked up at him, his thumb brushing over the bone of Adam’s wrist. His dark hair was stupidly mussed already, shaped by Adam’s hands, falling over his forehead and into his eyes.
“Okay, yeah,” he murmured. “Guess you can take off my shirt, then.”
The ghost of a smirk on his lips, like it was some kind of reward. Teasing—being a complete bastard on purpose.
Adam felt his face get a little hotter, but he pushed his hands up under Mat’s t-shirt and wrestled it away, hands trailing over the broad expanse of bare chest, winter-pale and lightly dusted with dark hair.
“Happy?”
Mat’s grin was all cheek. Adam bent to kiss the crooked smile from his mouth before he could get any ideas. “Take off your pants,” he mumbled against Mat’s lips, and then started to do it for him when Mat only kissed and kissed him. Adam tugged sharply at his waistband.
Mat huffed, finally kicking them down and off the side of the bed. “Naked enough for you?”
Adam stripped his own and climbed back on top, thighs spreading around Mat’s waist, both of them still in their underwear because Mat was a freak, but that was fine. They were so much closer like this, skin to skin, and Adam could be patient. Probably.
“Yeah,” Adam sighed. “Okay. You can have your way with me now.”
“Oh good,” Mat’s eyes crinkled. “I’ll get right on that.”
He was very smiley tonight.
Maybe it was the vodka, but probably it was more the unexpected opportunity to get laid. Adam would take it either way, and didn’t resist when Mat’s hands pulled him down and into place. It felt so good to feel Mat’s body, lithe but strong, familiar by sight but new in its near bareness, against his. They really hadn’t done enough of this last time: kissing with almost nothing in between.
“You’re like a cat,” Matty murmured a little wondrously, petting full-body down Adam’s bare spine. Adam arched up into it, automatic, instantly ceding all deniability. Matty laughed. “Are you gonna start purring?”
“Maybe if you rub me right,” Adam quipped, trying not to pant too obviously about it.
Mat’s hand stroked through the back of his hair, then scritched right behind his ear exactly how you’d get a tabby cat to like you. Adam suppressed a grin, rolling his eyes with an exaggerated huff.
“Not doing it for you?”
“Try a little lower,” he hinted.
Mat raised an eyebrow, hand trailing down his throat, over his chest. He found a nipple and pinched it hard enough to ache.
“God,” Adam twitched, and Mat did it again, looking interested. “Lower.”
“I don’t know,” Mat said, licking his thumb. The next drag over Mat’s nipple came with a sore, sweet throb that shot right down to his groin. “Seems like you like this.”
Mat’s curious eyes on him made him want to hide, or to roll over and show him everything.
“Matty,” Adam whined. It only made Mat grin and use both his hands to rub at Adam’s chest, then duck down to apply his mouth.
“Ungh,” Adam let out a truly embarrassing groaning noise, leaning back despite himself so that Mat had more room to work. Both of those big, sure hands wrapped around the dip of Adam’s waist, hauling him closer into his lap as Matty licked a stripe up his sternum, put his teeth to the edge of Adam’s pec and bit down.
He wasn’t sure Matty even got what it was doing to him. It was more than turning him on. Adam had never slept with someone who touched him the way Matty did. Who’s hands on his skin made him feel so— so owned.
Not that it felt possessive, exactly. It wasn’t demanding, not like Mat was trying to hold on too tight. There was just—no hesitation. Mat’s hands were easy and sure, dragging Adam around and holding him in place. It was a given that Matty could touch him, tease him, tear him apart. Try anything. Take anything.
It didn’t make sense—that feeling. Even when Adam had leaned over and kissed Matty for the first time in the middle of the afternoon, it had been a bit of curiosity, a bit of why not, a bit the sight of Mat’s worn knuckles wrapped around his highlighter, his big hand dwarfing it. Adam hadn’t known.
“Jesus,” he groaned a little, fingers threading through Mat’s dark hair, holding him down. “Fuck, Matty.”
Teeth scraped hard over his nipple, and Adam’s whole body hitched, grinding against Mat’s stomach. “You do like it,” Matty smirked up at him with his mouth red, his cheeks flushed, looking like he liked it too.
Adam laughed roughly, hips pushing forward. “You know what I’d like more?”
“Hard to say,” Mat’s fingers wedged under Adam’s waistband. “You’re being so subtle.” He pulled back the elastic and let it snap against Adam’s skin.
“I can make it more obvious,” Adam offered, reaching down to cup himself through his briefs. Mat’s hands tightened on his waist, just watching. Eyes going darker. He leaned forward and left a stinging bite just below Adam’s lower ribs, then his hip, face very close to Adam’s cock, breathing on it.
Adam swallowed. “You wanna—”
“Let me see,” Mat interrupted, so Adam pushed down his underwear and then balanced up awkwardly on one knee to slide them off.
Both their breath came a little faster, and Adam felt weirdly tight—nervous, with the way Mat was staring so intently, his face hard to read. “You don’t have to,” he started to say.
“No I— I’m not gonna,” Mat spoke quickly, eyes flicking up to his. “I won’t do that.”
“Okay,” Adam said.
“Just my hand,” Mat said, and Adam nodded breathlessly, because that was fine, it was more than fine. Mat’s eyes flicked back up to him, dark as the bottom of a well. “You wouldn’t use your mouth.”
Adam’s skin prickled. He felt awkward, kneeling up like this, but would it be weirder to basically be sitting on Mat ass-naked while they had this conversation? It sounded weirder.
“I mean,” Adam demurred. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Mat twitched, his hand on Adam’s thigh stuttering a little, shocked. As if it were really that shocking. When—what was it that Mat had said. Was it really so shocking, when Adam had clearly been around?
Matty shook his head—denying something, or trying to chase a thought away.
“No,” he said, pushing his thumbs into Adam’s hips, the defined ridge of bone there. “You don’t— We don’t have to. Just your hand, okay?”
“Okay,” Adam said softly, wondering why the hell he was letting Matty get away with this, why he couldn’t summon a smirk or an eye roll, when—if it were anyone else—he’d have cut his losses already, because seriously. It was a dick, not a rattlesnake. Hooking up with closet cases was like jumping on thin ice, fucking asking for that cold water to close up over your head. But here Adam was, whispering. “That’s okay.”
Mat hurried to strip off his own underwear, and he pulled Adam down to the bed, so they were on their sides, facing each other. He reached out a hand for Adam’s hip, scooting on the pillows, edging closer and closer, until they were breathing on each other, knees bumping, bare skin brushing everywhere, and Matty ducked in fast and kissed him. Then it was like he was allowed—he let himself be hungry, fingers tightening, pressing up into Adam in a hard hot wave.
Adam groaned, reaching back for him blindly, finding his cock and pumping it, eating the moans out of Mat’s mouth and he didn’t care. He’d let Matty get away with anything, all of it, because Adam had been wanting this since the moment he’d caught sight of Mat in his stupid white t-shirt with his stupid chain, drinking from his stupid red solo cup, awkward and unapproachable and secretly cherry-flavoured. It felt amazing. The kiss was sloppy and off-centre and they were just—humping each other, fuck, writhing against each other, and it was the best fucking thing ever.
“Like that?” Mat growled in between breaths.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Fuck yes,” instead of saying please.
He didn’t like to beg, and he didn’t need to. Mat was jerking him tight and slow, just like Adam had shown him how, like he’d memorized the way Adam wanted to be touched. It made him feel—too much, overheated, and it just got worse when Matty’s hand gripped his thigh and hitched it high on his hip, sliding in close.
They came together like magnets, legs tangling, kissing like they were on a clock, time running out. Adam’s nipples sparked with a deep-seated ache every time their chests stuck and unstuck, everything a little tacky with sweat, Mat’s free hand gripping hard at the bend of his waist. Hard enough to bruise. Adam rolled onto his back, pulling Matty over him, and they were there, again—Mat’s broad weight between Adam’s splayed-open thighs.
Wrists awkwardly crushed between their bodies, they both let go, gasping in stereo as they pressed that much closer together, sliding in against each other, velvet wet and hot—both of them leaking like crazy, all over. Mat’s hips rolled, Adam felt the sharp bite of teeth against his collarbone, the tickle of Mat’s chain dragging scratchy and a little cold over his chest, and then both his hands were gripped and pinned back, above his head.
“Stay like that,” Mat ordered, breathlessly.
Adam’s chest squeezed hard. Before he could even pretend to argue Matty was kissing the breath out of him, groping him, nails scratching down his chest rough enough that Adam arched up with a whine, but he didn’t move his hands.
Matty hunched over him, knees sliding in under Adam’s thighs. He fisted them both—both their cocks in his hand, and his hips hitched and rocked restlessly, pushing into his own grip and rubbing his cock against Adam’s in a slide-and-drag that felt insane, too good for what it was. Matty curled in—kissing him and rocking down against him, free hand clamped around Adam’s forearm, squeezing him so hard. Dimly, the sound of acoustic guitar filtered in, a little surreal in the moment, out of place.
“Harder,” Adam murmured, sweating. “God. Mat.”
Their eyes met, and Mat’s thrusts turned fast and erratic, his hand squeezed them tighter, and Adam knew in that minute, that split-second: Matty was thinking about fucking him.
Adam groaned and spilled first, again, hips lifting off the bed with it. He almost wished he’d held off, just to see if Mat was doing that on purpose, drawing Adam over first—but it was a vague thought, flimsy and washed out beneath the opaqueness of his pleasure. His toes curled in, and he wanted Matty with him—caught Mat’s face between both hands and kept kissing him while he went unfocused, body jerking as he fucked his own hand, hot and slick with Adam’s come. Adding his own.
“Fuck,” Mat said, still thrusting a bit. “Jesus.”
Adam stroked the short hair at the back of his head, kissing him until he sighed and collapsed down onto the bed beside him. Finally, Adam recognized a song, as Tyler Childers began to croon.
Driving through the roadwork, oh the work they took forever on. The road cones blur like memories, of the miles we shared between.
It wasn’t quiet—under Mat’s music, there were the sounds of the party downstairs, muffled laughter and thick bass pounding up through the floor, drunk people yelling along to a song they all knew—but the little island of Mat’s bed was still and calm. Almost peaceful. Both of them breathing deeply. Settling.
Adam didn’t say anything.
Mat didn’t say anything.
Their breathing evened out.
Seconds ticked by, with Adam watching Matty out of the corner of his eye—the long, lax stretch of his body, strong and ropy with muscle. The bruises on his arms from a too-rough check and the ones mottling his legs from stray sticks and blocked shots, from doing what needed to be done out on the ice. Mat was frequently quiet—on the bench, at the blue line, with a stick in his hands—he watched the play and rarely called it, and when he wanted the puck he tapped his stick or he whistled, but he knew how to say what he wanted, here. He knew how to ask for it and to say no and to move Adam’s body around and to make it stop moving, any time he wanted.
It grew inside of Adam then, slowly—this latent, automatic tension that swelled in his chest, almost like he was holding his breath, and he realized he was… waiting for it. For Mat to make a move, to say something, to tell him what would happen next and that—that wasn’t like him at all.
Winners didn’t stand aside and wait. Leaders didn’t hold off for someone else to make the call, and Adam had—chased this, asked for it, chosen this, but he’d done all his winning in Mat’s bed, with Mat’s hands sure and tight on him. His victory was in Mat’s mouth, warm and soft, kissing him as he came down.
Laying in the dark waiting to hear Matty’s voice asking him to stay, to say he liked it, that he wanted more, again, to see how far they could take it… Adam wasn’t that guy. He didn’t play those games— had enough people who wanted him not to run after the ones that didn’t, and thirsting over Matty Stewart would be courting the kind of disaster anyone could see coming from a mile out. A guaranteed loss.
Adam hated to lose.
With a sigh, he rolled up to sit, grimacing a little at the feeling of come cooling on his skin.
“Hey,” he said, because there was no use making it awkward. “Any chance you’ve got, like, some tissues or something?”
“Oh, shit, yeah,” Mat pushed his hair back and rolled out of bed, sounding a little far away, like he’d been lost in his own thoughts. “Sorry, didn’t mean to leave you hanging there.”
“You’re good,” Adam answered reflexively, and held his hand out when Mat got back from the bathroom.
Mat ignored it and sat on the bed with him, moving to rub Adam down with an actual full-size shower towel. His cheeks were still a little red and he was distractingly still naked, sort of sweaty and disarranged in a way that was really—fuck—working for him. Adam tried to wave him off.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s my turn for clean-up,” Matty said easily, using a corner to wipe off what he could. “Let me be a gentleman this time, Straker.”
Adam managed a smile, rubbing a hand through his own hair in an attempt to settle it down. It was probably a lost cause—he could feel the rawness of his own mouth and the hot impression of Mat’s teeth marking his collarbone and ribs, a few inconvenient souvenirs to take home. As soon as Mat drew away Adam reached for his pants, crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the bed.
Mat watched him pull them on. “You heading out?”
“It’s kind of late,” Adam said, hunching up one shoulder in a shrug. He leaned back to get his fly. “Don’t want to put you out or whatever.”
Mat’s face sort of blanked and then went a little awkward, almost caught out. Shit. That had maybe been too honest.
“You’re not— I mean. The bed is pretty big,” Mat offered earnestly. “You can crash if you want.”
And watch you regret it the next morning when the boys happen to notice me creeping out of your room with sex hair and a hickey?
Adam hid his grimace.
“All good, man,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head. It was one thing to tease Mat into a post-coital snuggle. Another thing entirely to take the scraps of what he wanted, handed out like an afterthought.
“You sure?”
Matty had put his own boxers back on, and he was looking at Adam with that too-serious expression on his face, just a shade off from the very-serious expression he wore when he was studying, folded over a tough problem set, or out on the ice well after practice had wrapped, focused to perfect some finicky bit of stick handling. Figuring something out.
Adam managed a smile, for both of their sakes.
“Positive,” he said, standing up to check his reflection in the mirror hanging behind Mat’s door. Not bad—and everyone out there was hopefully too drunk to notice the smeared look of his mouth, or put two and two together. “I’ll see you later, man.”
“Yeah,” Mat said, but he caught Adam’s wrist as he reached for the door. “Hey, we’re still on for Tuesday, right?”
Tuesday. Basketball—some stupid bet between the forwards and the defence because Money and Lip didn’t know when to cut their loses. It was likely to be one of the more embarrassing 4 on 4s ever played in the CCRB.
“For sure,” Adam said. “You think I’d miss the chance to show your ass up?”
“In your dreams, Straker,” Mat smiled, and pushed up on the balls of his feet to lay a kiss on him. It was mild and sweet—chaste, really—and it threw Adam completely off his guard. He managed not to freeze up, not to lean in too desperately, and if he was blushing when Mat pulled away it was for sure too dark in the room for him to notice, thankfully.
“See you later, man,” Mat prompted him, licking his red mouth, and through some gargantuan act of will Adam made his hand move and operate the handle of the door.
As soon as it cracked open the sounds of the party rushed in, shattering the quiet calm of the room as abruptly as a vase knocked off its shelf. Adam couldn’t close it again no matter how much he wanted to.
“See you,” he said, and walked out—down the stairs, through the warm, packed crush of bodies in the living room and out the front door.
The night air hit him in the face—cold and a little damp, stinging at his overheated cheeks. After two blocks of dragging his feet over cracked pavement, the wrung-out quality of his body started to fully set in, along with the sense that he’d fucked up, somewhere, because there was no good reason for him to be feeling like this. Luckily it was only three blocks to Deputy House, where he could finally peel himself out of his dirty clothes and burrow underneath the covers, shivering still a bit with the cold.
Adam turned over and pressed his face into the pillows, letting out a massive sigh. It helpfully made the pillow nice and warm against his icy face and cheeks, and didn’t do anything for the little ache sitting like a stone in the centre of his chest.
It didn’t mean anything—it hadn’t meant anything.
One moment, one kiss that probably boiled down to a bit of reflex, an ingrained habit, hell—maybe even just politeness. Mat could be polite— he was— he had—
Adam flushed hot with the memory of being underneath him. Rolling over, again. Matty’s big hands at his waist, squeezing at the back of his neck, pressing down on his wrists. Adam’s body staying exactly where Mat wanted to put it.
Adam shuddered. He didn’t mind working to get what he wanted—he liked it, liked the chase, but this wasn’t like that. Mat could be caught, over and over and over, and he could smile and be sweet and charming and even a little mean, and he could touch Adam exactly the way he wanted it, but he still wouldn’t— It wouldn’t change—
It was useless. Adam tried and failed not to wish he’d stayed there, back in Mat’s bed, where Mat could have kept him, effortlessly. If only he’d wanted to.