Page 40 of Speak in Fever

But wanting and knowing what to do about that want are two different things, and Percy has never been good at the emotional navigation required for serious relationships.

When he finally makes it to his house, he takes his shoes off at the door, throws his travel bags in his bedroom to rot on the floor for a few hours, and immediately texts Rath: Just got home. Want to come over for dinner?

The reply comes back within a minute: Yeah. Give me twenty.

The quick response makes something warm unfurl in Percy's chest. Rath doesn't hesitate, doesn't play games or make Percy wonder if he's interested. He just says yes, like spending the evening together is exactly what he wants to be doing.

Here's the thing: Percy doesn't do relationships.

He doesn't do casual hookups either, for that matter, at least not anymore.

Percy almost exclusively plays hockey, and when he's poured his heart and soul into his training and his game, there's not a lot left to give to another person.

He's given up on finding someone who understands his grueling schedule, his trainer-directed diet, his strict routines that keep him grounded, and the traveling that happens for months on end.

It's hard to ask someone to accept all those things and also find something about him worth dealing with it for, so he stopped trying a while ago.

His dating history is a series of relationships that started with promise and ended with some variation of "you care more about hockey than you do about me," which was usually true.

Percy has always been single-minded in his focus, dedicated to his craft in ways that don't leave much room for romantic complications.

But this thing with Rath is new in a lot of ways that scare him.

He's never been with someone who makes his blood pulse hot through his veins with one scorching look across the ice, and he doesn't know what to do with that intensity now that he's allowed to want it.

He wants Rath desperately, in ways that feel both physical and emotional and completely outside his previous experience.

He wants to spread him out on his bed and discover every sound he can make, every way to make him gasp and arch and fall apart.

He wants to take him apart piece by piece and then slowly put him back together.

He wants to find out all the things that make Rath tick, wants to watch him win games and score goals and become the player Percy knows he can be. He wants—

It feels serious, is the thing. They've only hooked up a handful of times, and it already feels sudden and too soon and overwhelming.

The things Rath makes him feel are more complicated than they should be from a casual arrangement with a teammate.

Rath makes him feel things he's never felt before, makes him want things he's never wanted.

So he knows they should talk. JP is right about that.

But Percy doesn't know how to talk about feelings, has never been good at the emotional vocabulary required for serious conversations.

He's had plenty of girlfriends leave him for his inability to prioritize them, and he's had plenty more leave because he can't voice what it is about them he's even interested in beyond the physical.

He's just bad at emotions—not feeling them, but knowing what to do with them, how to translate internal experience into words that might make sense to another person.

The kitchen provides a welcome distraction from his spiraling thoughts.

Percy goes through his fridge and finds enough ingredients to make some sort of grilled chicken with whole wheat pasta and marinara sauce—nothing fancy, but solid fuel that fits within his nutritional requirements.

He's methodical about the preparation, finding comfort in the routine of cooking, the simple pleasure of creating something nourishing.

He's just finishing plating the food when he hears the doorbell and goes to let Rath in.

"Did you make food?" Rath asks, eyes widening as he steps into the entryway and kicks off his shoes.

"Of course I made food," Percy says, closing the door behind him. "What did you think we were going to eat?"

"I don't know. Protein bars? Sadness?" Rath grins, and the expression transforms his entire face. "This smells amazing."

Rath looks good—relaxed and comfortable in jeans and a soft gray hoodie that brings out his eyes.

His hair is still slightly damp from his post-flight shower, and Percy can smell his shampoo, that clean scent that's become associated with comfort and want and home in ways that should probably worry him.

They eat in the living room on the couch, watching reruns of House Hunters where some unfortunate couple is going to buy a fixer-upper they're completely unprepared for, and Percy tries to focus on his food and not on the visible hickey on Rath’s neck that he himself put there.

The mark is fading now, purple bruise settling into yellow-green, but it's still clearly there, still obviously what it is.

Percy remembers making that mark, remembers the way Rath had gasped and arched beneath him, the way his hands had fisted in Percy's hair. The memory makes his mouth dry and his common sense fuzzy.

"JP cornered me about my intentions with you," he says during a commercial break, which he thinks is probably the best opening line for this conversation as he's going to get.

Rath rolls his eyes, but flushes all the same, color rising in his cheeks in the way that always makes Percy want to kiss him. "Did he offer to duel you for my honor?"

The response is so perfectly Rath—deflecting with humor while still betraying his embarrassment—that Percy can't help but smile. "It didn't quite come to fisticuffs, but it was a near thing. You guys have been close since last year, huh?"

"Yeah, he's a good guy." Rath chews a mouthful of pasta and swallows before continuing, not quite meeting Percy's eyes. "I, uh, I talked to him about you. Before."

Both of Percy's eyebrows raise in surprise. "Before?"

"Before we hooked up," Rath clarifies, setting his empty bowl on the coffee table with careful precision. The flush has worked its way down his neck now, and Percy can see the edge of another fading bruise just above the collar of his hoodie. "Before, you know, everything that happened."

The phone call had been weeks ago, so it's not that surprising that Rath might have confided in his best friend about his attraction before they'd acted on it.

It's just... there's something about the way Rath says 'before' that gives Percy pause, like there's more to the story than he's letting on.

Percy collects their empty bowls and carries them to the kitchen, using the time to process what Rath has told him. When he returns to the living room, he sits next to Rath on the couch instead of across from him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Rath's body.

The proximity seems to affect Rath the same way it affects Percy. Without hesitation, Rath swings a leg over Percy's thighs and straddles him in one smooth motion, settling into Percy's lap like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Percy tilts his head up to capture Rath's mouth in his own, and there's no other way to describe it—Rath melts against him like he's been waiting forever for exactly this contact.

He tastes like tomato sauce and something that's uniquely him, and Percy licks into his mouth hungrily, opening Rath up underneath him and holding onto the back of his neck with one large hand.

Rath can take care of himself on the ice.

He's got a mean right hook when provoked and can take a hit from players twice his size without backing down.

But here in Percy's lap, with Percy's hands on his neck and hip, he feels small and precious and completely trusting in ways that make Percy's chest tight with protectiveness.

The surge of want that washes over him has Percy biting his way into Rath's mouth, swallowing every whimper and gasp it earns him. Rath gets his revenge when he grinds down into Percy's lap, against his rapidly hardening cock, and Percy groans against his lips at the friction.

But there's still something nagging at him that he can't get over, the conversation with JP echoing in his head alongside the weight of what Rath had said about talking to JP 'before.

' So he pulls back reluctantly and presses a sweet kiss to the tip of Rath's nose, a gesture so tender it surprises them both.

"You said you like me," he says, because he definitely remembers that part of their first real conversation.

It had been so open and vulnerable, delivered with a honesty that had taken Percy's breath away.

Because he might have guessed that Rath was attracted to him physically, might have suspected that Rath looked up to him professionally, but the simple admission of genuine affection had been something else entirely.

Rath hums contentedly, his eyes fluttering closed as he leans into Percy's touch. But his expression shifts when Percy's hands grip his hips more firmly, holding him in place instead of encouraging movement.

"Rath," Percy says carefully, "how long ago did you talk to JP about me?"

He can tell immediately from the way Rath's face shutters that it's not something he's supposed to know, that this question is leading somewhere Rath doesn't want to go.

That reaction says a lot already, tells Percy everything he needs to know about the timeline he's trying to understand.

If he's not supposed to know how long Rath has wanted him, then the answer is probably longer than Percy expects.

Rath twitches like he might move, like he might get up and put distance between them, but Percy's grip tightens on his hips instinctively. The physical restraint makes Rath's frown deepen, but he doesn't actually try to leave.