YETI

Campout rooms last year were just the hotel buddies, which we get to pick for ourselves, which means I should have Fen, like I do for roadie hotels. But I don't because Nico shuffled things around to stick different people in different rooms so she could have Fen. I got Rocket. Which is scary. I don't need him with me while I'm sleeping. My brain will shut off. The rooms are like what I assume American dorm rooms are, two twin beds and no room. 

So, after Steph almost burns the place down, and I get to make fun of Fenrir for clearly staring at Nico's ass when she walks away from our group, we start to get ready for bed.

It's not bad. Nobody's showering, we don't even have showers. It's just twenty-eight guys brushing their teeth side by side. But Rocket chooses my side. His shoulder is close enough to feel the heat radiation, and when he bends to spit out his toothpaste, he brushes up against me.

Then, Nico walks down the halls and shuts off all our lights. You know, before shutting the door behind her. She shuffled two things so that she didn't have to sleep in the room with Hadley this year, and instead, her and Fen get quality time. From what he's said, they basically live together. She's still got some of her stuff at the rink, and sometimes she sleeps at the rink, but mostly, she's with him. And from what I've heard about that, which I told him 'please, no more details', that gets pretty, well, hot and heavy, sometimes. He's head over heels in love with her. He's madly in love with her.

"Rocket," I roll over to face him. "I wasn't going to ask, but normally I sleep in just boxers, and I know it's weird to ask permission for this, but-"

"Yeah," he shrugs from where he's sitting. "I wasn't going to ask you either, but." He stands up and drops his sweatpants right out.

My insides do a little flip flop that makes me a little queasy. Rocket's fast to grab the back of his shirt and slip it over his head. 

Then he yawns, stretching straight up, fingers brushing the ceiling, long lithe body stretching, muscles pulling and tensing, toes curling down into the floor. He's in boxers, just boxers. I'd suffocate if he was in briefs. 

I can't look away from the way the moon coming in the window is lighting him up, making the hair on his legs and on his stomach shine silver. I can't look away from his thighs, long and cut and gorgeous. I can't look away from his abs, from his arms, from his wrists, from his yawning grimace. 

I force my gaze away as he opens his eyes again from the stretch, listening to the creak of the bed as he sits down, then it's my turn. 

I take a deep breath and stand up, following what he just did, dropping my pants and pulling my hoodie over my head, much faster and much more awkward than he did. 

Then I stand there for a second because I feel like he's got his eyes on me. I don't know for sure, but I feel the little pressure of it. I turn just my head and catch him looking down.

Weird.

I shake it off and get into my sleeping bag contraption.

Rocket clears his throat, which catches my attention. 

"Yets," He starts to talk, a silky ease behind my nickname. "I'm probably not going to be able to sleep, just warning you, and if I do, I have a nasty sleep talk habit."

"Uh, okay, and yeah, I probably won't sleep either," I sigh. "I don't like cabin-type places."

"I just don't like sleeping bags," he laughs. "I did boy scouts for one year, and a tree fell right next to the tent during the campout. Hasn't been the same since."

I want him over here. He's probably warm. I'm not warm. I re-convince myself that's the only reason, "yeah, no, I," I clear my throat and regain my train of thought. "It's just this place, it's off-putting."

"Isn't it haunted?"

"Do you believe in ghosts?" I blurt that one. I want to know him, I want to know more of him. I want to know everything. 

He pauses, "kinda?"

"Why?" I mumble.

"I don't know, I don't really believe actually in ghosts," he's staring at the ceiling. I watch him staring at the ceiling. I keep tabs on his side profile. The slope of his forehead and the gentle ridge on his nose. The curve of his lips. "I believe in bad omens, you know, like bad karma for a place? A lot of death making it all gross. But actual spirits? No, not really."

I take a breath. "I like to think of the lingering idea of a person," I mumble. "It's not them, but they linger."

"Like a fart in an empty room," that makes me laugh outright, shocked, loose, loud. 

"Yeah, I guess," I take a breath. "Like an idea, like they're gone, but, they have some part of them that stays."

"Like their aesthetic?" Rocket rolls over to face me. Then we're making eye contact across the room. His hair is flopped out across the pillow, long and thick and hickory brown. 

"Nah," I shake my head. "Like, you know how they say that after you die, your soul lives on? Maybe if you've got a rotten enough heart, the heart stays."

Rocket's quiet after that, "some horrible fragment of you stays here?"

"And then maybe, if there's enough of them, it makes the whole place haunted," I shrug at him and he shrugs back, thin shoulder raising up to his ear. I can't peel my eyes away from his long limbs and the jut of his hip on it's side in the blankets. 

Then he rolls away and I think he's done, making my mouth go dry wondering if I said the wrong thing. "If hell's hot, does that mean heaven is cold, that's always a question I've had."

"Maybe," I shrug. "But if it's cold, then there's hockey."

Rocket laughs. "Ah, I probably won't end up in heaven."

"What makes you think that?"

"Dunno," he pauses. "I'm just not all that spectacular, I'm, I dunno. If all the shit they say is a sin is true, I'm going straight to hell."

I bite my bottom lip, pulling at the skin, "I, ah, I don't know. Maybe, but, I just, maybe it's content of character?"

"Person over actions, I get that," Rocket lets out a long sigh. "I'll probably end up in hell for premarital sex though."

A burn starts in my stomach, begging me to ask ask ask, "are you some sort of player or something?"

"Me?" he snorts, "nah, I've never really dated, but I feel like that'll be the straw that makes whoever is up there go 'Nah, we don't want that one,' or something."

"Then I'll be there with you," I run my hand through my hair.

Rocket clears his throat once, then pauses, "I didn't pin you as a guy that wouldn't wait."

I cringe, shoulders jumping up and going tight, "what do you mean?"

"You feel like a guy that would wait," Rocket mumbles, "I don't know what it is about you, but I feel like you hold that level of... I dunno. Self control."

"No, no," I shift a little. "I passed that point a long time ago."

Rocket's quiet for a couple of minutes, and for a second, I think he's fallen asleep, but then he breaks the silence, "so girls really do dig the white hair, huh?"

That catches me off guard for a second before I remember, "I guess," I sigh. "Nobody can handle too much of me, though, they get bored after a couple of weeks and it's back to square one. I stopped actually dating a while ago."

"Oh."

"Now it's mostly just a hookup cycle. I'm bored with it," I want to bite off my tongue to keep it from moving but the momentum can't stop my self control. "I want to fall in love, but again, nobody's ever felt like that for me," I roll to look at him but my brain is repeating idiot, you're an idiot. Why did you say that? "What about you?"

"Nobody," he sighs. The weight on it breaks my heart. 

"There has to be someone, somewhere, right? You're, I dunno, you've got everything, you're interesting and fun and all that, it has to get you somewhere?"

"No, not really," he mumbles. "My mom has always been there for me, but she's worked so hard for everything I have, I guess I have Steph, but, we don't really share much, well, I don't share much," his voice breaks at the end. "As for that shit, the love shit, it's... always been empty on that side. S'just how it works for me." 

"See, you've got them, and that's enough to start from. And, and people are stupid if they don't want to love you like that. That's dumb, you're- you've got everything. But you have good people behind you, they're always there for you. You're not alone at all."

He scoffs, hard and rough and tough. It surprises me, "I've got nobody, Rexy, not after those two. Then it's just... I dunno. It's nothing past that. Other than them you're the last thing out there, and I've only known you a few months." 

"But," I bite down on my lip. "People love you." 

"People," he grits his teeth, I watch his jaw flex from across the room. "Such a loose word. People love you too. You know what that's like." 

"No, not like they love you," I try to shut him down. "People tolerate me, people adore you. You're lively and, and explosive, and, there's, you're-" 

"I'm fun. People like being around me because of who I am to them. People don't like being near me. People run when they get close 'cuz it's all just fucked once you get under my surface." 

My mouth is dry, I want to hug him. I hate hugging people. I want to hold him. I don't know what to say, "Rocks..." 

"Listen, Yeti, I'm having an awful couple of days, alright? This is nothing, I'm fine, it just hurts." 

I lick my bottom lip, wetting it against the cold air, "can you talk to someone about it?" It squeaks out quiet. I don't know how to handle his emotions. I know everyone else's, he's... different. 

"I have two damn options, Rex," he lets out a wry laugh, "one doesn't fucking know and the other hates me because of it, so no, I can't talk to someone about it. Plus it's all my fucking fault so what right do I have to be hurt about it when it hurt them worse, huh? It's a fucking wreck, Yets, just let it rest." 

"You want to talk about it," I make a bold claim, knowing it could cost me the last few months of trying to get him to trust me. 

He's quiet. 

"It's tearing you apart," I whisper. "It hurts." 

He pulls his bottom lip into his teeth and I watch his chest shake on an exhale. My eyes trace the ridge on his nose in the moonlight, the crease in his brow, his side profile. He's chewing on his lip, tearing it to bits, trying to keep it from quivering. 

He breathes out hard, his figure shuddering in the lowlight. "You know about my dad, right?"

"Yeah," I keep my voice quiet, trying not to startle him. 

"He only disowned me, really," Rocket clears his throat, but doesn't talk for a moment. "Not Mom. She left him because I had nowhere to go, she came here, Ontario. She started all over again for me, but she loved my Dad and, and she had to choose me over him."

"Oh, Rocket," I mumble. "She wanted to-"

He rolls over, glaring at me, stopping my voice dead in my throat, "I was thirteen, Yeti. What other choice did she have?"

"She could've kicked you out," I mumble, "Rocket..." 

"I was thirteen and it was my fucking fault, alright? She had to go with me. I was too young. And it hurts every year right now because..." he cuts out, coughing. 

"...because this is when it happened?" I try. 

He scoffs, "I couldn't give a shit about the anniversary of that. I give a shit about my brother's fucking birthday. I give a shit that he's twenty and I haven't seen him since he was ten. I give a shit that my Mom hasn't seen her son since he was ten because I decided to do something stupid and selfish. I give a shit that- that-" he coughs and then rolls away from me, shoulders shuddering.  

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm kneeling on the floor next to his cot, one hand shakily extending out to place on his shoulder. He jolts under the touch, bare skin jerking as his muscles tense under my fingers. 

"It's midnight," he chokes out, letting me brush my palm across his arm, trying in a stupid way to comfort him. "I'm not even home. Mom- Mom gets him a cake every year and we, fuck, we act like we're..." he can't finish it over his voice. "Celebrating. We act like he's just not there and not like we don't know him anymore. She acts like she doesn't hate me and she acts like she doesn't realize it's my fucking fault." 

"Shh, shh, hey," I whisper. "It's not your fault." 

He picks up his head, shaking my hand off his shoulder by sitting up on his hands, looking over at me, "it is. It always was, it's, I'm the fucking issue. If I just, If I hadn't-" 

I'm shaking my head, he's watching me now, words gone, just an angry red glow on his cheeks and nose, "your Dad did it. Your Dad decided. You were thirteen, you were so little. You didn't know, you couldn't have known. You're not the issue." 

That breaks him and I watch in slow motion as he crumples into my chest, shaking and warm. So so so warm. His skin is silky, tanned, his lungs are heaving to get the air they need, his hair is soft against my cheek. 

I secure one arm around his waist, lifting the other to hold against his hair, knowing this isn't something guys just do, knowing how much pain he has to be in, knowing how hurt he has to be, knowing how awful this must be. 

His legs stretch, pushing his body into my kneeling form, probably fixing a crick or discomfort. 

His hand splays out across my bare upper back, chest to chest, skin to skin, he's clinging to me like he needs me. Like I'm holding him steady. Keeping him from breaking into a million bits on the floor. 

"What's his name?" I ask, quietly, stroking his hair and trying not to crumble with him. 

He shakes, goosebumps rising across his shoulders, "Roman." 

"Did he look like you when you were little?" If I run my hand down his spine, I can feel the ridges from the bone, soft to the touch because of his skin. 

He nods into the crook of my neck, "we looked just like my Dad did when he was that age, I, I don't know anymore." 

"Did he play hockey?" 

"Center." 

"Mhmm," I let out, "what was his favorite color?"

Rocket coughs, his breathing is evening out, "orange." 

"What did he want to be when he grew up?"

"Engineer, just like me and Dad." 

"Starting to feel a little better?" 

He nods. 

"Alright," I brush my hand back over his hair again, knowing I'll never get my hands out of it if he doesn't stop me soon. "What was his favorite food?"

"Bacon." 

"Least favorite?"

"Avocado." 

I smile, "a man of good taste, I can honor that." 

"Supposedly avocado tastes like clean dick," it comes out quiet but knocks me straight off my feet. I have to stifle a laugh in the back of my throat, trying not to startle him. "I wouldn't know." 

I can't force myself away from the realization that it does, so I lie, "can't say I know either." 

His back shakes but this time it's a laugh and he pulls back, one hand still on my arm, fingers wrapped around my triceps, one hand up and wiping off his eyes, "I'm sorry about that, I just got snot all over you and, I dunno, that was just weird." 

"Not weird," I have the urge to yank my hand away but instead I use it to push back his hair, getting it out of his eyes. "You needed it." 

"Do you... do you always run cold like that?" He gestures at me, taking his hand off my arm. I ache for it back almost instantly. "Body temperature wise." 

"Um, I'm not sure, I don't really have a way to check. You might be the warm one." 

He sits back, looking at me, still kneeling. 

"You're good at that," he eventually says. 

"I... sure." 

"You have a good body for hugging," he breathes out, settling back against his hands. 

"I don't use it much." 

"Does nobody hug you?" He picks up his gaze back to my face, and when I shake my head, he looks genuinely thrown off. "Not even your parents and stuff?" 

"Ah, no, we're not really that type of family." 

"When was the last time you got hugged?" 

"With or without sex or a goal?" 

"What?" That caught him off guard. 

"Like, with or without it being in the context of sex or after someone scores." 

He frowns, "without." 

I shrug. 

"Really?" He tips his head the other way. "Yets, buddy. Come here," he opens his arms and tries to get me to lean into it. "Don't lean away, I know you, get in here, you need this." 

I let out a soft laugh, leaning forward and setting my shoulders into his, not moving my arms and letting him squeeze me for a couple seconds. 

And then he's laughing and holding me to his chest and warming me up, the soft sound of his voice curling around my body, bringing me into him further, making me melt into his arms. It's comforting, it's good. He's laughing and he feels alright and he's not crying anymore. If hugging me does that for him I'll force myself through the discomfort any day. 

"Oh, buddy you're blushing, look at you," he ruffles my hair and gives me one last squeeze, warming up my chest from the inside out. "Good, now you take that big pink blush of yours and get some sleep, we've got a lot of Nico to deal with tomorrow and I'm not making you do it tired because I made you hug me." 

***

things will get better, mhmm, things will get good. 

-things will get better - vian izak

***

MY SAT IS TOMORROW AND I WAS PRAYING IT WAS GONNA GET CANCELLED BUT IT DOESN'T LOOK LIKE IT. 

-rabid