ROCKET

Do you think the reason you've spent this much time on that theory is because you're trying to subconsciously convince yourself you're worthy of loving?

I run my fingers through the back of his hair, holding him gently against my shoulder. I knew he had some issues, some things to work on, some things to figure out, but I didn't know it was this bad.

Turns out his neglect runs a lot deeper than I had thought.

It's not entirely uncommon for a guy to feel completely lonely all the time due to what the societal pressure says male on male friendship can be. We all feel that at some point. I got lucky with Steph and our relationship. People have told us we act more like girl best friends than boy best friends and that is very much a good thing. Steph and I have never been short to tell each other what we're feeling at any time and why, we've never been short to give hugs or even cuddle depending on the day. We're more like brothers than friends and it makes complete sense with us. 

Most guys, like the boys on the team and I, are general friends, they'd never agree to hug their best friends or tell them about their day or anything of the sort, just because that's what's expected of them. But they'll still be there for their friends in times of hurt and often they know what to do for them and why, just because they're close.

I had assumed his social neglect out here was just insecurity about people finding out about his sexuality, that the reason he's never anything but professional with the guys is only that.

Turns out it's probably a long result of being ignored. It's probably just his own instinct telling him that getting close to people just gives them opportunities to hurt him. It's his own protective shield.

"Shhh," I rub his back, trying to get him to breathe, or let me breathe, his grip is a little strong sometimes. Guess that's the downside of being close to a heavyweight. 

"I'm s-sorry." He mumbles, leaning against my shoulder.

"You're okay, c'mere." I slide off the counter, taking his hand. God, he looks miserable. I drag him away from the kitchen and toward his staircase, pulling him up the thin stair, surrounded on both sides by dark wood and a couple lamps leading up the staircase. I'll give him this: his house is a literal fantasy. I love it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like my little artists loft style thing with big open spaces, but his house feels like the inside of a castle, all dark wood and rustic lights and deep tones. He looks absolutely gorgeous standing anywhere in here, his bright white hair on the earthy tones and lights that feel more like candlelight than LEDs. He always looks like some sort of angel on dark backgrounds, he just has that ethereal quality about him and I'm beyond into it. 

"What are we doing?" I hear him yawn from behind me.

"Sleeping."

"Huh?"

"It's midnight, Håkon, I've been here for five hours. We're sleeping because I'm not driving home delirious."

"Hm, okay." He agrees.

"I need clothes, though, we're not dating yet and I don't want to wake up with the urge to do that all over again."

He blinks at me. "Ah, alright, here," he puts his hands behind his head and yanks his hoodie up and over, ruffling his white hair on the way off.

"I'd trade you but my shirt would be a little on the tight side for you." I mumble, pulling it off as I say it.

He hums a response and we work side by side, getting ready for bed. I brush my teeth with my pinky finger linked with his, the closest I'll allow myself to come to hand holding with a guy I can't date. It helps that he's left-handed. Left side defensemen tend to trend left-handed. So, my left hand in his right hand is the perfect combination of non-dominant hands.

"It's nice that you're left handed, means we can both have dominant hands." I mumble over my toothpaste.

He spits into the sink, sticking the brush back in. "Nico and Fen are like that too. She's right and he's left. Though, I don't think they hold hands regularly." He brushes over his teeth one last time,

"Mhmm, they spend more time in headlocks with each other than holding hands." I spit out my own toothpaste and then look up at him, allowing myself a long minute to take him in. His eyes rest softly on mine as I look at him, they're dark. His eyes are probably the darkest thing about him, everything else is pale, his skin is lacking any coloring it might have gained over the summer, being the dead of winter he's probably the palest he can get over the course of a year. His hair is thick and white, shock white, slivers and dashes of silver in it. His eyebrows and eyelashes are slightly darker, more silver than white, but definitely light enough to appear absent from far away.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" He asks, pink starting to creep into his cheeks.

"Ever considered you might have albinism?" I respond, rushing out the sentence as fast as I possibly can, I have no idea if that's offensive or not.

He frowns, a crease forming between his eyebrows. The longer I look at him the more probable it becomes in my head. I know a lot of Swedish people thanks to hockey, and he's by far the palest person I've ever met. "Yes, but I haven't looked into it?"

I shrug, reaching up to push his hair out of his eyes. "You're a couple shades paler than your sister in all the pictures I've seen of you two. I've never seen pictures of your parents but I've always assumed siblings tend to have the same complexion."

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, then pulls it in to bite on, concentrating on what I said. "I've never really thought about it, I mean, it makes sense, given what I look like, but aren't there other things that go along with it?"

I shrug, I'm not sure, I've never looked into it. So I pull out my phone and look it up. He takes the time to floss his teeth and use some mouthwash. I stand still, toothbrush hanging out of my mouth as I read.

"Do you have eyesight problems?" I ask, looking up at him.

"No, well," he pauses. "Reading glasses. Nothing else."

For some reason my heart cannot handle the thought of seeing him in reading glasses. I stare at him for a long second. "That's adorable."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing," I clear my throat, looking back at the Mayo Clinic article. "Sensitivity to light?"

He shrugs. "I figure most people don't like being in bright light, do you?"

I look up at him. "Uh, I mean, it's normally fine. Do you not like it?"

"Hate it, makes my head hurt."

I squint at him, mentally slapping him then getting on a plane to Sweden to beat the hell out of two people. "It says it's normally diagnosed and noticed at birth."

He shrugs again. "I mean, it's not life threatening or anything, knowing or not knowing doesn't matter too much."

"Yeah, but if your parents knew then they probably should've told you at some point, like, hey, Håkon, I know this is a little weird but you have a genetic tag that means your chances of skin cancer skyrocket and you have to wear sunblock every time you leave the house." I point at the 100 spf sunblock he keeps on the bathroom sink for every morning.

"Ah, yeah."

"And you've come up with an entire reincarnation belief system but haven't run across the thought of being just a little too pale?"

"Listen, Rocks, I'm a lot darker than I was, if that makes any sense, and everyone I've ever hung out around hasn't mentioned it, plus, everyone in Sweden has the same general type of skin tone. Plus, I do get a little darker in the summer. I'm not special."

I grumble under my breath in Czech, careful that he doesn't know what I'm saying: "Damnit, Håks, just because nobody noticed doesn't mean it's not there."

"Why are you staying here tonight?" He pulls back his sheets, letting me in.

"Uh, dunno, it's really cold tonight and I really liked sleeping with you that once, I don't know, I just miss it."

"What do you mean?" He asks, choosing the side that's facing the door. I wrap my toothpick limbs around his chest, positioning myself so I can play with his hair.

"It's comforting," I mumble, running my fingers through the top of his head. "I like it when you're right there. And lord knows I'm an absolute whore for cuddles."

He lets out a short burst of laughter, his smile lighting me up from inside out.

I nuzzle my nose into the top of his head, breathing in whatever magical vanilla shampoo he uses. "And you had a rough couple of hours. I'm not sure why the comment about a father broke you like that but I want to be here for you."

"Why?" he mumbles, threading his fingers through mine.

"Because I really care about you."

He lets out a long breath, his chest deflating against mine. "Why?" It comes out meekly, like he thinks he's being a bother with it.

"Because I kind of want to spend the rest of my life with you, even if we're just friends." His back stiffens, a clear look of panic on his face. "I like you, Håkon, a lot, and I'm going to love the absolute hell out of you when we get there. I know I've known you for only a couple of months total, but I want you to be there when my hair goes white."

He rolls over, shifting to get his position right, just staring at me, hands knotted up with mine. "I hate to ask again, but why me? You could have-"

I press a finger to his lips, then wrap my arms around his chest, nuzzling into his neck. "You gotta stop telling yourself you're not worthy of things, not worthy of other people's attention and care. You are, you're beyond worthy. Just accept it, okay?"

He mumbles something softly in Swedish, his wide and deep vowels resting gently against my hair.

"Why does Swedish get to be so pretty?" I mumble against his collarbone. "When I talk in Czech I sound like a pubescent fax machine."

The sharp gasp of laughter that bursts from his chest catches me mildly by surprise but I don't mind it at all. "Rocket... Rocket I- you say something so incredibly sweet and then you just have to add something like that. I'm... you're the single funniest person I've ever met."

"Thank you, where's my crown?" I squeeze him a little, trying to get any closer. "I'll wear it every day. Funniest person Håkon Rex has ever met. Maybe I'll get it on my helmet."

"Don't do that," he laughs lightly, rubbing his hand up and down my back. I'm starting to think my love language is touch, this is the most comfortable and happy I've felt in a couple days, wrapped up in his arms under the heavy covers, listening to him breathe.

"Mm, Håkon?" I mumble, curling up further into him, his heavy arms around me. "What do you think your job was in your past life?"

He takes a deep breath in, brushing his nose against my head, running his fingers through the back of my hair. "I've always liked painting for no apparent reason, maybe I was a painter."

I blush all the way up to the top of my head. That's adorable.

He lets out a small hum of comfort. "What about you?"

"I think I was Tony Hawk."

"Rocket, Tony Hawk is still alive." He brushes his fingers lightly over the back of my neck, his nails brushing my skin ever so lightly. "Any little interests?"

"Hm, maybe an archaeologist." I mumble. "We gotta sleep, game day tomorrow."

"Right," he yawns, pulling me into his chest. "Thanks for staying with me."

"No problem." 

***

so i'll hope you through the rising tide, 

that i'll be here and you can lay by my side,

you can rely on me you know.

lay by me - ruben

***

we're getting there boys, he's getting better slowly

-rabid