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[more-unknown.livejournal.com]

Hey everyone! I'm new. And this is my first slash. Seriously. I hope you like it.

Title: Suddenly (stupid title, but I couldn't come up with a better one)
Author: Me, more_unknown.
Pairing: Petr Sykora/Pascal Dupuis. . .nope, no idea how I came up with it, either.
Summary: Petr is discovering things pretty quickly. And he's just so gosh darn cute.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This has never happened, and, as I extend my heart to Sykora's wife and kid, it never will.


He always thought that when he grew up, he would be an explorer. Unfortunately, the teachers in school had been very clear about the fact that the age of exploration was over. Satellites show what the Earth looks like from space. Nothing is left unmapped. The closest you get to discovery is getting lost on a back road and suddenly finding something mildly interesting--like a great barbecue shack or the world's largest fiberglass cupcake.

However, when Petr Sykora found himself pressed up against a wall in one of the Mellon Arena's cavernous passageways by Pascal Dupuis shortly following practice drills, their tongues carefully exploring each other's mouths, he wondered if discovery was really that lost on the men of contemporary society.

He had been sick that week and had come back to practice for the first time in awhile, skating well and feeling great altogether. They had done a quick scrimmage that day, though as soon as he got possession of the puck he had been checked roughly into the boards by someone--he never saw who, because he was suddenly face-down on the ice and his shoulder hurt like hell. He didn't want to move for a few minutes, but soon someone was there to help him up. He told Therrien what happened and skated slowly to the bench, but behind him he could hear his coach's motivational rage at whoever had hit him. He assumed it was someone new, like Bissonnette, someone who needed reminding that Penguins practices weren't supposed to be rough. It was a minor incident that he soon forgot, as his shoulder was better within a few moments and he was able to return for the last half of practice.

Petr was on his way out of the locker room that afternoon when he caught a glimpse of Dupuis out of the corner of his eye, still wearing his Under Armour and looking kind of pissed.

"Hey man, what's up?" Petr said, employing the manly upwards-nod so favored by guys these days wishing to express coolness and familiarity. Pascal shrugged and said nothing, but changed his pissed expression to an incomprehensible smirk. Petr stopped at the smirk. It meant that Pascal might say something witty or interesting. The two weren't close friends, but in their short time together on the team they had experienced a lot of shared moments. Somehow they often ended up alone together--Petr often wondered if Pascal intended for it to happen. He was occasionally shy and liked to hang back from all the younger guys when they went out to party. Petr was the same way, since hitting age thirty especially, and they had at times stood outside bars together, beer bottles in hand, shooting the shit. He was a huge fan of shooting the shit in general.

The smirk did indeed yield a comment--though it was neither witty nor interesting. He said, "Do you want to go get a drink with me?"

"It's three o'clock," Petr said. "A little early to be drinking. Do you need to talk about something?"

It all happened so fast. They were walking out together, even though Dupuis wasn't fully dressed yet. He was saying something vague about being emotionally exhausted. "I feel a little out of place in Pittsburgh sometimes," he was saying. Sure, he had tons of friends, he was saying, but after the exhausting Cup run he had spent what felt like zero time with his family and zero time with people who liked him, who got his jokes, who liked to drink with him. . .it was a very blurry collection of sentences, made harder for Petr to understand since they both spoke English as a second language. But he was starting to feel achingly bad for Pascal. The guy was hilarious, fun to be around, and a great drinking buddy--but apparently those things don't do much to satisfy a soul.

Petr looked around himself and suddenly realized that they were far away from both the locker room and the exit. Pascal was looking him in the eyes. He didn't know how to explain it, but Petr suddenly realized who had checked him earlier in practice. It was just Dupes' weird way of crying for attention. Suddenly all those shared moments combined in Petr's head to a friendship, though perhaps one that had been neglected due to the insanity of the postseason, the offseason, and the hectic week of training camp. He felt terrible. He reached out a hand and placed it on Pascal's shoulder to communicate that he felt so terrible. And a hand reached back. Before he knew it, so had Pascal's entire body.

There was a brief moment before Pascal kissed him. It contained only a roaring silence, like being underwater. And then it happened. Pascal's tongue flicked in and out of his mouth, tasting him in small doses. At first Petr didn't do anything, but he didn't resist either--there was something warm, shared, and secret about it that he was enjoying far too much. And then he himself went exploring.

His tongue answered Pascal's firmly yet gently and his other hand groped at the other man's thighs and hips. As he became more comfortable, he allowed his tongue to probe deeper and deeper into Pascal's mouth. Neither man relaxed. It was an urgent, heavy form of communication. Arm muscles tensed as it became a full-on embrace between the two men, and no body part was exempt from the fevered touching. Petr could feel himself bruising with it.

Ironically, it was Pascal that broke the kiss, and their eyes met. With that look, Petr suddenly realized what had happened, and his mouth closed tightly. He gulped. He had never felt so conflicted before about anything, and he couldn't stand the simultaneous feeling of wanting more but knowing that it is ridiculously, painfully wrong. The two realizations had come in such quick succession--that Pascal was his friend, and that he enjoyed kissing him. Pascal's eyes gave no clue as to what he was feeling, and, bravely, Petr tried to kiss him again.

"No," Pascal said. "Maybe not."

"But--"

"Are you ready for a drink now?" Dupuis was smiling again. This couldn't be good.


They were exiting the arena together, with Pascal now dressed properly in a button-down shirt and jeans, and he had his sunglasses on. Petr suddenly hated how aloof Pascal was being about all of this. He was an aloof guy himself, but when things got serious he had a way of coming back down to earth. This was serious. He resisted the urge to walk closer to Pascal, to experience again the way he smelled.

They arrived at Pascal's car and got in without speaking. Dupuis started driving and flipped on 105.9. "Hanging by a Moment" by Lifehouse came on, which he sang along to, out of key, and mispronounced half of the words. Petr felt like Pascal was pretending they weren't sharing the same space--and he was probably right. The other man didn't acknowledge his existence until they pulled up at Pascal's apartment building, when he said, "No, we're not going to my apartment, we're going for a drink." He paused. "But I didn't want to take the car there because I plan on getting shitfaced. We're walking." Petr nodded stiffly in agreement.

The rest of the night was something that Petr would only ever be able to recall as short filmstrips in his mind. He remembered going into a dive bar with Pascal, and it was suddenly like nothing had ever happened. They were bullshitting at the bar and other guys would come up and join the conversation, sometimes saying things that were totally irrelevant or in completely bad taste. There were those shared moments, warm and soft around the edges, where they could experience a private joke without having to say a single word. The laughter would come with the taste of the shots they consumed, and they consumed more than either cared to acknowledge.

"I've lived in Pittsburgh my whole life and I've only ever left twice," said an older man who was dressed like he'd just gotten off work doing something very labor-intensive. "What the fuck's so great about New York anyway?"

Feeling worldly, Petr smiled at his friend, and Pascal smiled back, then turning to the rest of the bar to say, "Well, the only women you see in New York with 80's hair are prostitutes. . ." Everyone laughed. There weren't any women in the room to argue with.

Eventually, the two were working on new rounds of shots together in a corner, and the loneliness crept back into the conversation. Petr tried to add some of his own, even the lonely parts of himself that he was already at terms with, to try to commiserate. He wasn't thinking about the kiss. Through the fog of the booze, it seemed like a dream. A good one, but still an unbelievably faraway dream. "I know what you mean," he was saying. "Sometimes I just want to get lost, where no one can find me. I want to explore the world more. I've been plenty of places, you know, but nowhere that hasn't been seen a million times. It's depressing." He shrugged and laughed.

"Yeah. I feel like getting my mind off this endless job we have would bring some clarity," Pascal said. "Name a place you haven't been."

"Umm. Africa?" Petr said.

"We should go sometime," Pascal said, and then giggled into a vodka shot that he tipped straight down, eyes wide at the ceiling.


Two hours later, Petr was seeing that same face again. Pascal was staring at the ceiling, avoiding Petr's gaze. After walking back to Pascal's apartment, things had gotten especially fuzzy. Petr recalled being angry. It seemed he had gotten up the courage to mention what had happened after practice, and Pascal didn't want to talk about it. "It was a mistake," he had said, and shrugged. "It won't happen again. We're friends, Sykora. What do you want?"

Somehow it had all culminated in the two of them making out on Dupuis' bed. Petr had taken the initiative this time, and had managed to get Pascal down at a vulnerable moment, even though his friend was slightly bigger. And he had kissed him. Pascal wasn't fighting back, either--just complacently kissing back, holding Petr gently at his waist. When the kiss broke, that was when Dupuis refused to look him in the eyes, like a child pretending to ignore another on the playground.

Petr had tried to lure him back into the kissing. He had kissed Pascal's neck, ears, and shoulders. He had tried to make jokes, which is, he discovered, hard to do when you're a six-foot-tall man straddling another and neither of you has ever been in that position before. It became even harder when he realized he was drunk--possibly more drunk than Pascal was--and he was probably making an ass of himself. But Dupuis wasn't having it. He said, without looking at Petr once, "You don't think I want this? But it's difficult to think about. I know I started it. But now you are drunk and you don't know what you want."

Petr suddenly realized he had an erection. "Oh, I think I do. . ." he replied. Giggling. "You looked great in practice. Obviously your defensive play is as sharp as ever."

Their eyes met, though Pascal's were lidded, as if trying to curb their expressiveness. "We're friends, Sykora. I don't even think of myself as gay. I don't want to fuck up our friendship trying to figure out if I am."

Petr climbed off, finally, and sat next to Pascal on the bed. "I'm not gay either," he said, sleepily. The liquid courage was wearing off. "I think right now I'm just sick of the same shit I always deal with. Would you believe it's harder to figure out what a man wants than what a woman wants? And I always thought I was pretty good at women. But I'm married and I still don't get it."

Pascal grabbed his hand. It was a firm grasp, but warm. His hands were worn, like all hockey players' hands seemed to be. Petr knew this from the handshakes he'd given--by now there had been thousands. But he'd never felt a hand on his like that. Pascal maintained his grip as he sat up next to Petr and put another hand on his cheek. "Maybe I'm wrong," Dupuis said, more laughter coming through his crooked teeth. "Maybe we both know what we want."

He kissed Petr again. This time, it was not so much of a kiss as a touching of lips, and Pascal did it slowly, trying to find the softness just within Petr's mouth without using his tongue. Pascal's eyes were closed, but Petr's were open, looking embarrassed by what was happening--but he knew he couldn't stop himself from going further. He felt a drunken guilt staggering into the back of his mind about that, but stopping didn't seem like an option.

He closed his eyes and, without giving it another regretful thought, kissed back. Gently. It was easier this time; the fever pitch was gone and all he could manage was tenderness. It warmed the blood everywhere in his body to be experiencing something new, though he didn't want to jump into it too quickly, lest he ruin the feeling. He parted Pascal's lips with his tongue. It felt like discovering an entire new ocean. They sat there for awhile, maintaining polite distance, the only parts of their bodies that touched being their hands and their mouths. Their heads turned, trying new angles, feeling the scruff on one another's faces.

They laid down, and this time Pascal was on top, massaging Petr's shoulders, arms and sides, feeling the muscles there, still kissing. Petr couldn't help but enjoy it. He broke the kiss and started unbuttoning Pascal's shirt, trying not to giggle, as it would be a reminder to both of them of his drunkenness. There was nothing new underneath the shirt, which disappointed him. As an athlete, male nakedness was something you had to get used to. He saw Dupuis half naked a lot, though of course he had never looked at him like that before. He was a big guy, extremely strong. It was hard to tell he was so big because he was such a fast skater, but there it was. It was shocking.

Petr touched as much of Pascal as he could, and carefully removed the shirt. Pascal was looking down at him, expressionless, and Petr thought for a moment, carefully dragging his nails down one muscular arm, and then grabbed at his friend's crotch with the palm of his hand, pressing, trying to get some emotion out of that face. Dupuis tried to harden the line of his mouth, the position of his eyes, but couldn't--he broke out into a smile. Laughs turned into deep breaths, and deep breaths turned into soft moaning. Petr pressed, then fondled, the growing mass in Pascal's jeans. He was trying to figure out how weird it would be if he tried to take them off, and was reaching for the belt buckle when his friend stopped him.

"No," Pascal said. "You're still wearing everything, Sykora."

He reached down and lifted off Petr's shirt. He was trying not to show the same fascination that Petr had displayed for him, because that would have given something away. Petr could tell that Pascal was enjoying being in control of this particular situation. Normally, he couldn't stand this kind of ambiguity from a person. It was one of his largest hypocrisies--it's hard to get to know Petr Sykora, but he expects better of you. He thought those words to himself and tried not to feel guilty. He didn't want to play give-and-get with Pascal. He wanted to be the one on top. Yet he knew that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

Pascal allowed for a few a few tantalizing glances at Petr's body, and then closed his eyes. He looked frustrated. "Are you sure," he said, patronizingly, "that you want to do this, Petr?" Petr looked up at the other man, trying to let the question not make it all the way from the ears to his brain. He didn't want to think the word, "Yes." He didn't want to think the words, "You look so amazing right now." But he thought all of those things. He said both of those things. Pascal opened his eyes and nodded. The next thing Petr knew, he was lost in Pascal's frantic, passionate kissing.

It started slowly, Pascal's tongue tentatively going deeper and deeper into his mouth, but the more that Petr kissed back the faster they moved. They grunted, swore, and clawed at each other. Pascal kissed Petr's bare shoulders, occasionally biting, grinding his hips into the man below him. Both men were suffering desperate erections that begged to be relieved, but Pascal was demanding that they maintain some control. He continued to bite and suck at the other man's torso. Petr's back arched, he squirmed anxiously, he moaned and bit his lower lip.

Suddenly, as Pascal was kissing the tops of Petr's hips with his tongue, he stopped. He came up to face Petr, looking him intently in the eyes, as if waiting to see who would blink first. He opened his mouth as if to kiss, and Petr followed his lead, his tongue coming to the front of his mouth to plunge into Pascal's, but the other man pulled back. And smirked. The lopsided smile made Petr squirm. Pascal moved in to kiss again, but instead sucked gently at the corners of Petr's mouth. He kissed Petr's cheeks. He faked the kiss again. And again. And again. Each time, he would kiss another part of Petr's body instead, as Petr's tongue moistened, desperately wishing to taste the inside of the other man's mouth. After the third time, Petr giggled. "Triple deke," he said. Pascal moved in to kiss again, but, having learned his lesson, Petr reached up promptly and pulled Pascal's head down, forcing him to complete the action. And it was not just kissing. They were grinding their hips into each other, reaching blindly for the belts and zippers to each other's pants.

Satisfyingly, Petr got his prize first, and reached into Pascal's underwear to touch his cock. He wrapped his hand around it, not too firmly, impressed by how big it was. Even drunk, he couldn't believe that he had caught himself thinking that. Pascal was still fumbling at Petr's belt, and, not wishing to get too far behind, asked him to stop. Petr was still on the bottom--he felt he had no other option. Pascal was able to undo the belt buckle and pull down the jeans and the boxers in one, clean motion. Petr laughed, as it took him a few seconds to realize he was naked. He felt cold. His chest was heaving--he was at the same time nervous, aroused, and exhausted. Pascal had climbed off the bed and was standing over Petr, holding his jeans up with one hand, staring, looking slightly awestruck. Petr looked bashfully at the way his penis was standing straight up. If they didn't do something soon, he thought he might die--that was all the vodka talking.

Pascal had stepped out of his clothes and surveyed Petr some more. Petr guessed from his face that he was trying to figure out what to do. It was a face screwed into concentration, the forehead wrinkling, the eyes slightly narrowed. Eventually, he climbed back onto the bed, his expression softening. "What do you want to do?" he asked Petr, and, without thinking, Petr decided that the best thing to do would be to go down on him. He tried to think of every blowjob he had ever received and apply all that knowledge into the task at hand, but it was still an exploratory mission. He knew what it was like to see a city on a map and be able to find a landmark, but once you were down on the street it was quite different--unmarked alleys, unexpected roadblocks, one-way streets. But he did his best, trying to control his teeth. Pascal was running his fingers through Petr's hair, looking down at him observantly. Every time Petr ran his tongue up the shaft, sucked on the head, or found a sweet spot, Pascal became more and more incapable of observing. Taking this as a sign that he was doing well, Petr overcame his gag reflex and allowed the top to touch the back of his throat a few times. Pascal went crazy. He moaned, even let out one choked scream. Now that he'd made his friend vulnerable, Petr thought he might try something else.

He rolled Dupuis over, and he obliged, muttering something under his breath. "What did you say?" Petr said, planting a kiss on the back of his neck.

"Just that this was my plan for you," Pascal said. Petr couldn't see it, but there was an ironic smile there.

"Too bad," Petr said. He still felt like he didn't have any other choice, like if he had wanted to, he couldn't have left the room. Something was happening.

He kissed Pascal's back, running his tongue up and down his spine, whispering things in his ear that were all at once passionate, teasing, nonsensical. He knew he wouldn't remember anything he said the next morning, and yet he hoped he would.

Finally, he put himself inside Pascal, pulling the other man's hips towards his, and the sensation was instantly gratifying. He felt totally enveloped, every corner of his body was instantly warmed. It felt tight. He wondered if Pascal had ever done this before, but in the middle of this thought, he was interrupted by his voice, the same soft, honest voice that had told Petr all of his thoughts and problems only earlier that day: "It's okay, Petr. You're fine. Keep going."

So he thrusted slowly, and he was surprised that with each thrust, he liked it more. He reached around for Pascal's cock, jacking him off perfectly in rhythm with his own hips, trying to time the motion well. Pascal was slightly hesitant with his own movements, and Petr could tell that he was in pain a bit. He went deeper, finding the other man's prostate and giving it all the attention he could. Pascal let out loud, involuntary moans. He screamed Petr's name a few times, which Petr tried not to hear, tried not to like--but he did. He thrust even harder, matching the speed with his hand on Pascal's cock, which was beginning to tighten the way cocks did just before they came. He had never done this with a man before, but he knew the sensation well--he had one, didn't he? He felt his own getting so ecstatically warm and sensitive that he didn't know what would happen if he didn't come soon.

Pascal came first, though, letting out one final moan, his whole body tensing around Petr's cock--and then Petr followed, collapsing against Pascal and instinctively covering him in wet, passionate kisses.

They laid down next to one another in the bed, not touching, looking up at the ceiling. The silence was awkward, but there was an inexplicable warmth in it. "Thanks," Pascal said, choking on the word. Petr looked at him, finally, and reached out a hand to touch Pascal's shoulder. Before anything else could happen, though, his cell phone sounded its text message alert, and he had to reach for his pants to get it.

"Who's that?" Pascal said, facing Petr for the first time in what seemed like forever.

Petr looked back. "It's Geno. He's wondering where I am because he's bored. And he sent me a picture of some giraffes having sex because he thought it was funny." He closed the message window, and before he could close the phone, Pascal leaned in and got a look at his background.

"Dude," he said, "is that you standing next to a giant cupcake?"