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Summary:

Arturs never thought about facing the exact same kind of this. But, apparently there is still more ‘room for improvement’.

Notes:

i don't know what am i doing, but here's Arty when he talked about his journey in Latvia and me feeling so endeared about his very soft hair in the intro: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BRB6uiJh-Y

basically using characters for the plot. very hasty but i like how this fic is going. enjoy!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

He never thought about facing the exact same kind of this. But, apparently there is still more ‘room for improvement’. 

The change of air; the vibes, if he remembers the word correctly, is shifting to one of many lows back home when he was still a Latvian forward in Junior. Everyone wanted a piece of becoming his team’s goalie, taking parts in practice and in the actual games. It was crazy, being shorthanded in a position in which the player doesn’t have to skate long, and to himself, it was absurd. He didn’t think he would be taking a bigger part and became a full devoted goalie after that. 

But he was happy, happier than he would ever be at that time. His team thanked him, and like any good backstory, he had met and learned from the bigger boys in the bigger league; U18. The boys bonked and hollered with enthusiasm as high as the sun, if he might dare. Those were awesome times. 

And then, there were low lows. 

And he thinks it is happening again right now. 

After breaking the line from the tunnel, Arturs finally sits and feel his spine muscle coming back alive. The numbness after playing basically full shift every game, and not just any game but playoff ones, is getting painful and longer than he would like to manage. So just like his physio trainer said, there will be a bucket of ice pack besides his changing seat to wash the numb away, and he goes with it everytime. He puts it on the top of his head, goes with his body relaxing to the back of the stall. 

He still watches his teammates and equipment guys scurrying around the visitor’s locker room, before he catches social media people quietly taking moments on their devices. There is no W this time, so the media agenda toned down a bit. Though, he feels the beat reporters will be here anytime soon. Arturs sets the ice lower to the nape, let it drapes his neck from the back like a travel neck pillow, and his body goes slacker. 

He doesn’t know how long his eyes closed, but when he opens up, it is none like what he sees right now. 

So the ‘weird’ familiar vibe is really coming back, eh. 

“You alright?” 

Arturs finds himself smiling at Miller, answering him. He is standing tall in front of his slumping body with a quirked brow. He has been told that it was funny, to ease the other party’s tension. “Sore in the back, it’ll be fine, thanks.”

The weird vibe is still going strong, but he realizes it is only some eye stares. Nothing intense like Junior, but the shivers in his arms still not go unnoticed. He looks at Miller with a tilt, letting some part between the neck and shoulder touch the ice. 

Miller is one of the stares, and he looks so open-sure about it. He goes from looking into his eyes, tracing the ice, a bit to his mouth, then ducks down to lick his lips. Making a show. “We’d like to have a drink in the hotel pantry after this.”

Arturs sees more heads turning up on him, his teammates making a show too. He tries to put on his best considering look, his best polite rejection look. But he laughs instead. “Sure,” and thinking about how smooth that is, even for Miller. Judging from his amused expression, he knows most goalies' protocol is keeping to himself after an L and sleep it off, more hours than any players. But sure some things can be changed, and Arturs can make one right now. “See you then. Good saves.” The palm that ruffles his damp hair is light, and Arturs tries not to think how a large hand can do that. Soon after Miller steps out, the stares are still there but he is confused instead. If all his teammates are worried sick about him, why does it feel like a fire and not a calm wind on his spine?

---

Going out after losing with a big score gap is not on his favourite things to do, not just a goalie thing. But he understands the bonding time and brotherhood of them all, and he never experienced losing a playoff game in a league he dreamed of going since he was 12. So the rookie mind works, and it wants to learn something from this sharing activity too. 

He is mostly down with the beers, not a big vodka guy just because he is barely past 20. The guys are not much, just Miller, Myers, Zadorov, Boes and Pettersson. Two last guys come in a package, however. “Just us?” 

Miller quirks his brow like in the locker room earlier, and tips the bottle with so much grace as a cat. “They’ll come, if they want.”

Boes hands him a bottle, and it is already uncapped. He murmurs thanks. Tipping his bottle up, he considers this: maybe the staring-up-too-intense thing is just a looking-out-for-my-buddy type, and not like back then. Maybe people who really are worried sick (and all of them are sitting right now with him) are not that intense like his Junior head coach and teammates. It is nothing like his low lows then, so maybe he can rest assured?

He still wants to know the meaning of their vibe, though. 

Nothing talks after his second beer, and mostly they just shared about each other’s train of thoughts during the first period, when Hӧglander scored their only goal. It was funny, to say the least, when they meticulously bumped some ideas and strategy that never really went anywhere, and it went to their wingers never made the shots and just waited for the center and defensemen to make plays. That was horrendous to watch, he says this after one of them laughing about it, because he clearly saw all of that being played out and not-played out right in front of his eyes. And they just laugh harder and harder. 

Maybe this silliness is what they really needed. Maybe Arturs just so happens to flick the trigger and put out the misery fire. Maybe they usually do this exact indirect play review with Demmer and DeSmith, and Arturs is their messenger when they get back and lock in from IR. He doesn’t know where he goes after this. 

The beers are slowly getting to him, and his mouth loosens and loosens, just like his usual drunk. “You guys feelin’ better?” Arturs drawls. Zadorov is eyeing him from his corner of the booth, his eyes are calculating something before deciding to get amused. “Why wouldn’t we?” he says while dipping his chin, eyes flitting right and left of Arturs’ eyes. Arturs feels more aware of everything going on, just like his usual drunk. “I mean,” he picks at the beer bottle’s sticker label, and it gives. Rolling it down more slowly and unrushed, from the way Zadorov kicks his shin under the table. He rolls his shoulder up from his elbows-on-the-table, looking back at Zadorov. “I, I think that’s why we’re here.”

“To lick each other’s wounds?” Boes perks up from Pettersson’s shoulder, and Pettersson just sits there with his eyes closed. Maybe he’s already asleep. But Boes starts moving and turning, and Pettersson’s brows meet. Boes looks at their teammates except Arturs in some sort of very amused expression, more than Zadorov, more like he can’t believe someone disliking coffee in the morning just for the idea of it. “Dude, it’s for you.”

Arturs stops the sticker rolling. He shoots back at Boes. “What?”

Miller shrugs and jut his lip. “Not started yet, though.”

“We can, now, if you want.” Myers adds, before everyone rises from their seat and watch Arturs in the same eerie timing. 

Arturs feels he missed something here, some part of this sharing activity that maybe got lost in translation. He hates that it still happens sometimes, even if he has been good around Canadians since his OHL season. But again, their teammates are not very Canadian to begin with. Zadorov and Pettersson got his attention with the way they are so calm about this. So it is not a lost translation? 

“Can someone,” he starts with the slosh of his brain and stomach, “can someone tell me,” Arturs feels his brain is making a wave out of nowhere, his vision is dancing and the stomach is burning up his core, “tell me what. What is this.” He settles in with a gulp, and shows a pointed look to his teammates’ faces. They are still standing up and ready to go, to where he still doesn’t know. Looks like a big deal and not going back to their sad beige hotel rooms from the way they look kind of locking in. Locking in what, his brain still adds in the middle of its rolling wave. 

And the last answer before his eyes closed in is a warm arm around his shoulders, guiding him up. 

---

His feet feel cold. It climbs to his thighs and wrenches his forearms. He can feel the solid vertical surface behind his back, flat and pressing the more and more his consciousness back. 

Wait

There is a tug on his shoulders. Arturs’ eyes come alive. 

Blue eyes meet him with a frame he does recognize. He wants to say something, but the grogginess falls heavier. His throat is clicked and not helping. 

The blue eyes’ face starts to split into a smile, a reassuring one. His hands never leave Arturs’ shoulders. “You scared me there.”

Miller is still holding him up when he huffs out relief. Why, Arturs thinks slowly. Oh right, I passed out

“Sorry,” is the first time that hits right to his throat, and he can feel rather than see that Miller does not agree. “None of that. Come on, let’s get you a warm bath.”

The roadmap and intention to this may be clear: he passed out in front of his teammates from all the funny things, the boys helping him up to his room, and Miller is the one who is father enough to take care of him out of them. Well, he is literally a father of two, so maybe the rookie responsibility hits harder than any of their teammates. He lets another gulp when Miller is helping him up from the sweatpants, anchoring his hands on Miller’s shoulders when he steps out of it, and gasps when Miller is suddenly just, helping him with the shirt too. 

“I can do the rest.” Arturs says quietly, too aware of his bashfulness. Thankfully Miller gives in, and lets the space around them widen. 

Arturs takes the room around him. It is not his, and definitely without a bed. 

No wonder it feels cold

“Your bathroom?” he lets a beat pass before asking. Miller tilts his head, considering something, then his face falls.

Disappointment, maybe.

“Yours, though. That bag?” he points to the sink. Definitely Arturs’. Though he doesn’t remember putting it there; it was on the overhead rack from what he gathered through his soggy mind. But he ignores it. 

Miller makes him step into the warm tub behind him, and he tries to remember how long Miller wakes, shakes him up while waiting for the warm tub to full. “How long was I out?” he asks after those large palms find his place on his hair. Back to his head.

These are nice

“Forty minutes? Don’t worry about it.” Miller starts a light massage to his scalp and Arturs sinks in. He is well aware of how he looks right now, but he doesn’t care. His throat is not that clicked, and he is happy to show it. “The boys went out?”

Miller just massages him. Arturs continues. “Well I think it’s not enough just with the beers, so if they needed,” he makes a quick escape to look into his hands, “women, they could.”

Miller moves to his shoulders. His body is closer to Arturs’ right side. “They already have.”

Arturs is fighting off the shivers. “That’s, that’s good.”

Soon after his tight muscles are wearing off and his vision is not swimming, Miller is handing him a towel and just waits near the door. Arturs, putting his clothes on again, giving him a question mark look. But Miller turns and is already heading off. 

To a chatter he so knows, maybe just forty minutes ago. 

Before anything else, Pettersson hits him with the arching brows. Arturs opens his mouth to ask, but the warm palm goes in again, this time at his lower back. “Our boy’s alright.”

“He turned out fine.”

“Well look at him go, so red.”

“His eyes still dazed, though.”

“He’s a bit limpy, isn’t he.”

Everyone is just, talking at the same time and, Arturs is just standing there. Well, maybe if standing in front of the nearby wall is still called standing, because Zadorov’s right. He can’t quite feel his knees. 

And the warm palm is still there. Maybe it is why he can stand in front of the wall in the first place? If anything, he could be slumping right off to the floor, embarrassing himself again to his teammates. 

Also, against any of the absurd his eyes and body are experiencing, Miller just manages to be the anchor. “Wanna feel better?”

Arturs opens his mouth again, looking at Miller with slitted eyes. He can do no more than this now that his muscles are more relaxed. Warm bath maybe does something to him. 

“Let’s get you there.”

A second later, his back already hits the bed. His head is looking purchase of something softer, a pillow. Someone offers and lifts his head onto it; Myers. His eyes are falling close. He feels the comfort climbing up to him, to his smile, and he huffs. 

His feet are still dangling, and the vibe is weirder. Definitely the intense stares from the heads, curious heads above him. “You want anything?”

It sounds like Boes. Arturs still doesn’t let his eyes look back at his teammates. 

He prepares for it, though. 

“Hug me.”

He can almost taste the stillness in the air. After a beat, finally someone goes. 

And he doesn’t expect it to be Myers. His long legs are touching Arturs’ left side, arms closing around his shoulder blades. It feels wrong, if feels less fitting, so Arturs is shrugging a bit and tries a leg to Myers’ waist. Myers goes still, but he waits. Finally Arturs swings his other leg and closes in Myers’ body like a limpet. 

And Myers goes as he wished: holding him up off the bed. He gasps nonetheless. 

“Fuck,” Myers says, apropos of nothing, “Fuuuck.” He breathes behind the crook of Arturs’ shoulder. 

“Focus, man.” Boes chimes. Arturs glances up to his eyes, suddenly more aware of his eyes than the others’. It feels drilling. He locks eyes with him for seconds longer, then drops his head around Myers’ nape. Feels better

A hand comes up to his hair, brushing it with a low chuckle. It’s cold to the scalp, and Arturs refuses to elaborate more now that his eyes are dropping. “Way cuter than I thought.” It sounds like Boes. 

His grip around Myers’ shoulders becomes duller the more his hair and scalp are leaning to the touch, and soon Myers holds all of his weight. “Whoa, whoa, you tired?”

“Why,” Arturs starts, ignoring what Myers asked. He has something prodding on his mind that needs to get out. “Why you guys…” he huffs a little, feeling so blissed out already, “still here?”

A hand catches his jaw slowly, and Arturs almost hitches. “To take care of you.” Before he can blink, a soft brush to his lips makes his brows startle and his mouth slacks. A sigh fills in his mouth, and Zadorov wraps his lips around his. It makes a low churn inside his stomach gets wobbly and. Warm

Zadorov slips off and Arturs finally looks up. His eyelashes are already clampy and the palm of his hands sweaty. But Zadorov, or any of his teammates here, doesn’t seem to really care. They radiate safe space to him. Arturs thinks, loudly, that this is new and nothing like back then. Not the low lows he was so afraid to experience again. This is the best feeling I have ever

“This fine?” He watches Zadorov’s lips as he says it. He nods so fast, thoughts being cut but he sure is fine, eyes still looking glossily at him. Arturs tries some words, “I’d like that,” and glances lazily around, catches every face, and feels himself smiling, “and I trust you guys.”

He doesn’t know what he is asking, yet it pings right inside of him, knowing his teammates would never hurt him. And so he sinks in. 

He’s still on Myers’ hold, secure around him, but slowly it gets warmer with so many touches on him. His crown, the back of the neck, between his shoulders, down his spine, even a ghosting once-over in front of his face. He doesn’t open his eyes, let the other senses perk more and, someone kisses him again. He doesn’t know who, but the palm on his jaw tells as much. When Miller lets go, there is an exchange of talks that get lost in his ears, and soon he feels Myers strides and he gently puts him back on the bed, feet dangling on the bedside. 

He feels so exposed now that Myers isn’t holding him. The arms that he used to hug Myers’ shoulders are stuck in the air for a bit, doesn’t know what to do with them, until someone fills in Myers’ spot and hugs him back face down. This person is so warm, and Arturs gets lost raking alongside his shoulder blades and feels his stomach relax. He hums happily, stroking his cheek to the man’s jaw. The man’s hands are snaking behind him, crossing on his back tightly, and all Arturs knows is puffing the air inside of his lungs and finding his teeth flashing out, close to the man’s ear. “Whoa,” he hears someone say that sounds like Pettersson, “I was right about his teeth.”

“His fucking fangs, man.” Boes chimes. 

“Really neat, eh? Wonder what it’d feel.” Zadorov adds. 

“Look after you’ve got to hold him.” Myers says with a low voice, “I mean, I came to help out a rookie but, dude, never thought it’d be like this.”

The conversation dulls out in the background, soon as the man above him fills in with a calm voice, “You want anything? Anything,” his face turns and makes Arturs’ head tilt to the side, knowing too late that his neck stretches out more like this, the same time the man’s nosing down his neck, “Anything, Arty.”

His hip jerks involuntarily, and there he feels a hot pressure on his stomach, and goes into it. The man grunts. “Give,” Arturs’ voice turns more breathy, “give it to me.”

The man slides his face off his neck, hovering above him, and there is an intensity that makes Arturs finally open his eyes. He blinks, because of course it is Miller, holding him and letting his palms rest on the most tired muscles of his body, spreading his warmth right into his core, as if he was just out of the tub. He wonders why it takes him some time to guess Miller’s voice. “Arty.” he asks, but doesn’t continue. Arturs hitches a little; something glints on Miller’s blue eyes, he can’t know what it is, before Miller bows down and catches his lips. It’s chaste, doesn’t push his lips apart, but the way Miller slides forward between his legs, up and up, makes his head follow his lead. Arching his back, pushing his neck until he can feel his throat getting tight, the blood racing and making his head spin. Before he knows it, his crown plants to the bed and his mouth slack upward, panting. Miller puts his mouth down, down, until it rests hotly on his collarbone.  

“Jesus,” 

A beat. 

“Heard he’d never used a hot shower, now we know why.”

Arturs never felt so clear-headed. His slitted eyes are letting a view of the blank hotel ceiling, grounding him. He huffs between loosening his fists to Miller’s pit-fire back, and relishes the weight of Miller on him. 

Soon enough, Miller gets up. Arturs doesn’t know why, but he immediately rolls to his side, clutching around the shoulders. Cold

“Hi Arty,” someone dips behind him, his mouth hovering on the nape, “wanna hug?”

Arturs just hums, but leans his head back. Again, his neck is peppered with kisses and solid brushes of day-old stubble, and that tells him who’s draping him now. Boes’ touch is different from Miller’s, more pressed and brave, stinging into his waist and chest, hands roaming everywhere. He squirms a little, overwhelmed sure, but that just makes Boes pull him in his core, until Arturs tucked and can’t move anymore. His wrists are wrapped in Boes’ palms, in front of his chest, and he breathes harshly. Too intense

Boes stops nosing his hair. “Yeah?” Popping up next to Arturs’ ear, like he had joked about all of this attention. 

Arturs just side-eyes him. “You,” he is struggling to find his voice loud, and tries again, “back down, Boes.”

But he doesn’t get up, his breath is puffed out the side of Arturs’ face. Sounds like a scoff. “Yeah, right.” He does loosen up around Arturs’ shoulders, but what he does next throws a yelp out of Arturs’ throat. He scratches Arturs’ skin between the neck and shoulder; something blunt and light. “You like it.”

It doesn’t sound like a question, and Arturs feels a need to make a point and face Boes. His side where Boes bit is slightly damp and aching. But maybe it comes a little off, because Boes only smiles. It looks less innocent than any smile Boes ever put on, that he know of. “I know those fangies could be put on use.” 

Arturs snaps shut his mouth, didn’t realize he had it on display. But apparently Boes still surprises and faster than him; a finger slips between his teeth, and Arturs bites without meaning to. “That’s it, baby,” he encourages, curls his finger until it hits the soft part inside his cheek, the blunt sides of the canines digging deeper now that Arturs struggles hard. It dawns on him that it only backfires. “Boys, I think this is it.”

Boes turns his head gently into the others’ direction, and he sees Zadorov make a move from the couch. He towers over both of them, Arturs’ body facing him. He lowers a hand from his sweats’ pocket, a thumb making its way to Arturs’ cheek. Brushing a little, then he huffs a smile. Arturs can see his face slowly form more fond. “I don’t think you’d ever be more beautiful.”

Then he dips his thumb to his tongue, just below Boes’ finger. He shuts his eyes, feeling a lot more than he can keep. So Arturs lets go. The inside of his mouth wraps easily around both fingers, he can feel two of his upper canines leaving traces of blood from Boes’ already. Barely gulps around the thick of his saliva. 

“Always giving your best, eh.” Against the haziness, he can hear Myers say around it. “I think we can keep you anytime Demmer and Casey fucks up, yes?” Zadorov is smiling ear to ear above him, ducking his chin to level his eyes. Arturs lets many of his nerve endings lead him, so he nods. Anything to make this happen again. 

The fingers slowly slide out, and his neck muscle falls his head back to the mattress. He lets his eyes rolling, blinking, savoring the tang taste of blood and saltiness, swallowing around it. It is not, like, bad. He actually likes it. 

“Think I just got ‘vampired’.” Boes makes jokes, still behind him, but he keeps his hands and legs to himself. Breath ghosting on Arturs’ nape. Zadorov adds around a thumb he sucks in, eyes still staring at Arturs, “Good boy,” and he smiles. Shivers run up Arturs’ spine, and he clutches at himself again, feeling faux cold. “Do we make him worse, or?”

Pettersson asks sharply, Arturs can hear his vague worry. “Nah, he needs time to know he needs it. This.” Myers stresses the last word. 

Arturs sure needs more time. The boys really heard Myers, or already established something behind his knowing, that they give Arturs to breathe in between. Between what, his brain adds senselessly. 

He thinks he already knows.  

Notes:

just happy to fill in, Arty needs some love! also yes this is also for Arty's fangies <3