If Connor’s fidgeting with his jacket cuffs is anything to go by, Nick isn’t the only one taking an involuntary trip down memory lane.
He’s relieved to spill out into the hallway, digging his keys out of his pocket and shoving his bag at Connor. “Hold this, and guard your shins,” he warns cryptically before opening the door.
Sure enough, his little monster makes a break for the hallway. “Hey, beautiful girl,” he coos, kissing her forehead even as she squirms for freedom. Then he looks over her at a bewildered Connor. “Just, y’know, throw my shit wherever. Make yourself at home.”
He promised food, so he focuses on that in order to avoid how strange this whole thing is.
“You want lasagna or chicken casserole?” he asks, staring into his freezer stacked with pre-made, nutritionist-approved meals.
“Either’s fine.”
Nick chooses the lasagna, grabbing two portions and turning the oven on. “Help yourself to drinks or whatever. Can you grab me a beer?” He’s not surprised when Connor chooses one of Matt’s fancy root beers for himself; he never did like drinking when he was nervous.
The fridge door closing seems far too loud in the silence between them, and Nick winces.
“This is weird, right?” Connor blurts out all of a sudden. Nick sighs in relief, nodding emphatically.
“Yes, fuck, I hate this. Why is this so weird?” They both let out awkward little laughs, but the tension in Connor’s shoulders starts to dissipate. “It’s fine. We’ve just gotta get past the weird.” Nick slides onto one of the barstools, propping his elbows on the counter. “Tell me about Quebec. You’re all settled in your new house, right?”
Relieved, Connor launches into a description of his new place, and the little park he likes to run through in the mornings with one of his teammates, who usually brings his huge Belgian shepherd with him. Naturally, Nick demands pictures, so by the time he’s plating up lasagna Connor is eagerly showing him photos of the actual bear that Lemoine is trying to pass off as a dog, and the weirdness is no more.
There’s a reason they clicked so easily as kids, before the attraction was ever realized. They justgeteach other.
“Dude, your French sounds so weird now,” Nick says, after Connor slips into the language by accident. “All fancy and European.” He grins when Connor flushes, ducking his head in embarrassment.
“That’s what my teammates keep telling me,” he replies, back in English. “I guess that’s what happens when you spend five years in Switzerland. They all love giving me shit for it, and T—” He breaks off abruptly, mouth dropping into a sheepish “o”. “I… uh… can I… tell you something? And have it not be weird?”
“That… very much depends on what it is,” Nick replies. “But sure, shoot.” How bad could it possibly be?
Connor visibly braces himself. “I—I’m seeing someone, Nicky. For real, I mean. I—I have a boyfriend.”
The words echo in Nick’s skull. His fingers clench around his cutlery and he tenses, waiting for the roar of jealousy to rise in his chest.
But it doesn’t.
“No shit!” he exclaims, grinning. “You’ve been holding out on me, man!”
Connor studies him, like he’s looking for signs of feigned enthusiasm. When he doesn’t seem to find any, he melts with relief, a huge smile breaking across his face.
“I didn’t know if we were… y’know, at that stage, yet.” Those big brown eyes turn mournful and hangdog. “I didn’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.”
“I appreciate that,” Nick says honestly. Then, because he is allergic to sincere emotion, he winks. “But I promise I’m done pining over you, babe. So, tell me about this guy. What’s his name? Where’d you meet?”
“We, uh, actually met over the summer,” Connor explains, and the fond expression is back. “His name is Théo.” He pronounces it the French way, with a hard T. “He coaches peewee hockey at the rink I trained at when I first moved back.”
“You met at the rink? Shocker,” Nick deadpans.
Connor’s cheeks flush. “Shut up,” he mumbles, though he can’t keep the smile off his face. “We were friends for a while, first. I didn’t… I don’t think I was ready for anything more.Mentally. I was still way too in my head over hockey, and, y’know, beating myself up for all the shit I put you through,” he adds apologetically. Nick waves him off; they’ve hashed that out enough. “Not that I told him any of that!” Connor says quickly, eyes wide and earnest. “He doesn’t know about you. Just that my last relationship ended… badly.”
“Wait, you never dated after me until now?” For some reason, that’s the most surprising thing Connor’s told him all night.
“Not really. A couple dates with girls, but it never went anywhere. I kinda kept to myself after… everything.”
Well. That makes Nick feel both less pathetic and also sluttier, which is an impressive combination.
“Damn. Congrats, Conn. I’m really happy for you. I mean it.”
Connor smiles shyly, his knee bumping Nick’s. “Thanks, Nicky. I… it’s only been, like, a month, but I—I really like this guy.” He’s all rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, and it makes Nick’s heart ache. But not in a wistful way. The same way it aches when Marco gets sappy about Lindsay.
