//April 1, 1998//

//'This isn't over, you know.'//
//'That supposed to be a threat, Chrissy?'//
//'It's not supposed to be anything, Roy. It's just a fact.'//
//'Promises, promises.'//
//'You know, one of these days, someone's going to shut that mouth for you.'//
//'Like I said, `promises, promises.'//

*~*~*~*~*

March 5, 2005

Near the end of the third period and thankfully my vision is blurred enough that I can't see and won't remember much of what is going on – when something catches my attention. I know, I know what you're thinking: `Something interesting in a Senators/Flyers game?!' It caught me off guard, too.

So off guard that for a split second it washed me back in my own life. Similar time of the year and game. I shake my head hard to focus. Esche has come out of the crease to join in the scrape. That kid's got guts. I might have to pay him a visit someday. Chico barely has a chance to mix it up before Lalime's out of his own crease and making a beeline for the Flyer goalie. Esche seems to welcome it, and reminds me even more of an old `friend' of mine. They're swinging at one another, and Lalime starts to strip Esche. Once his jersey hits the ice and Patrick's is halfway off, the cameras cut away. Presumably because nothing interesting is happening in that fight. I know the truth. I know the kind of fire that inspires that, and I know how badly Lalime was waiting to hear Esche moan his name.

I snicker at the television. Is there anything being done in hockey that I didn't do first? These kids need to get original. Tipping back my beer, I let the neck rest against my lips a little longer than I need to. Although I won't admit it out loud, I miss having long, hard cylinders in my mouth. Just wish it was flesh and not glass.

Trying to clear my head of where that direction of thought will take me, I close my eyes. I have to force them open a moment later when there's a knock at the door.

It's him. I know it is.

My eyes are the shade of dull that a complete lack of surprise will bring. I manage to hide my pleasure and excitement well– holy fuck, he's really here. I clear my throat and lounge against the door frame. "You lost, Chrissy?"

Without a word, he pushes past me and charges into my living room. I don't even mind until he eyes the swarm of empty bottles on the coffee table and then picks one up. I slam the door. He turns, wags the bottle at me, and smirks.

Oh, hell no. I hurry across the room, grab him roughly by his arm, and pull him against me. "Why the fuck are you here?"

His smile fades, but doesn't disappear. Color has risen quickly and strong to the apples of his cheeks. He's looking at me like I should know.

"Answer me, Osgood!"

"Quit making demands! Christ!" He yanked his arm away. Pausing a moment, he gave in and started rubbing his arm where I had grabbed him.

So I gripped him again, slamming our bodies together. Quit making demands my ass. Who came _here_? Besides, it's my place– I'll do whateverthefuck or whoeverthefuck I want. When he threw his arms around my neck and met my lips hungrily, I knew he wouldn't put up much of a struggle.

I reach behind my head to unhook his arms. He's so distracted by the ministrations of my tongue that he doesn't notice me close my fists around his wrists. A moment later, he notices: I've thrown him roughly against the couch.

He caught himself with his fists, and leaned panting against my white furniture. Stroking my knuckles over his cheek, I almost sighed as the room filled with tangible heat. Chris leaned forward to hint something into my ear, but I didn't want to hear it. I was resolved to giving him exactly what he wanted tonight, but since I was pretty damn sure why he came here, it would be on my terms. I gave him a deep kiss that left him dizzy before spinning him to face the television.

I slammed his stomach against the edge of the couch, and knocked his feet apart with a kick. Half tempted to kiss the back of his neck, instead I dipped my head down to run my tongue up his spine.

Chris shivered and growled, "Damn it, Patty... need you NOW...."

I smiled at the magic words: beating around the bush is for some of our pussy-whipped league-peers. The wait for Chris to get serious had been long and hard.

Fortunately, I was skilled at handling long and hard things. With playtime over, Chris in my possession, there was one last barrier. I yanked his pants down as roughly as I had pulled him against me. Ridding myself of my own boxers, I placed my hand on the small of Chris' back– keeping him still.

As Melrose made some stupid comment about the tension between Lalime and Esche, I drove into Chris so hard that he pitched forward and moved the couch.

"Fuck it, Osgood! Don't scuff my floor!"

"Fuck off, Patty. It's your own damn– ughn!"

"That's right– shut your mouth and enjoy the ride."

Sandwiched between the soft cushions and my hard chest and abs, I would have loved to stay still and relish the feeling. But I had been estranged from his tight ass for too long, and I did just promise him a ride. Chris shifted and I'm sure he could feel just how deep I was inside of him. Already, I felt my cock swell, pressed arousingly against his tunnel walls.

Wrapping one arm around him, I pulled us upright. Chris steadied us against the couch, and I let my other hand caress the pale curve of his hip. He was slightly bent over, still reeling with the feeling of having me fill his emptiness.

"Watch them," I growled in his ear.

Thanks to the lack of anything else remotely interesting, ESPN replayed the Lalime-Esche fight ad nauseum, each time cutting away at what I was sure was the pivotal moment.

He knew what I expected him to see, and he moaned in recognition. He moaned watching the clip, and I began to thrust against him.

His breath came out in little sobs. "That was a long time ago. We were younger. And dumber."

"It wasn't all that long ago, Chris. It wasn't so long that you forgot how good I felt."

Pulling slowly out, pounding in, over and over again, it wasn't long before Chris was near the edge. He had wanted me again for so long, and waited for me so long before that night in April 1998, that there was no way he could hold out for much longer.

"How long did you ache for me, Chris?"

I moved my hand from his ass, over his stomach, and pinched a nipple through the thin cotton teeshirt. It was less of a caress and more of a possessive rake as my nails skimmed along his thighs and ass.

My voice was a low growl in his ear, "You know, you can be really amazing…"

Chris squeezed his eyes shut, lost in the moment, and whimpered back, "So are you, Patty…"

As he clenched around me, I knew the fiery waves were building in his stomach. I rammed into his tightness faster and faster, growling, "Why the fuck are you here? Answer me this time, Chrissy!"

"Told you... this... wasn't over!" He could barely form the sentence as I slammed against him.

"Thought... you were joking. It was April... Fools' Day, you know."

"Then... I'm the fool... for thinking I... could talk to you."

"Kinda. Who... the fuck wants... to talk?"

"Not you,... I'm guessing?"

I'm not putting out the effort to form anymore damn sentences, so I just shake my head. I don't even try to hide my smirk. It's wasted on him since he's facing away. But I can see in the reflection off the television that he returns it.

"No... fuck! C'mon, Chrissy!"

Ok, neither of us knew what the fuck I was talking about– but it didn't matter. I was giving him what he wanted and now I wanted him to return the favor. I knew I could hold out longer than him. `C'mon, Chrissy– fucking cum!"

At that very moment, he cried out, "Oh my fucking god, YES! Fuck, Patty! Yah!" His seed shot out in an impressive arc, and I bellowed my own release, spurting up into his ass with a few last thrusts.

The television went to commercial, and the two of us fell into a satisfied silence.

I caught my breath, and caught the image of him reflected on the tv screen again. He's still smiling, but has the decency to try to look mildly annoyed. "Fine then. Fight or–?"

"Or." I cut him off with words and movements, turning him around and pressing him against the far wall with my body. Without losing a beat, his arms are around my neck and his chin is titled up. Who am I to disappoint?

I press my lips against his, pushing my thighs closer to his body. I can feel him swelling again. Not that I can blame him for wanting another ride.

"It's always `or' with us, Chris." With that I push myself away from him and let my eyes take in the full figure. I shrug as if I'm unimpressed before continuing. "Now pull up your pants and get the fuck out of my house. No one invited you here and you're bugging me now."

I can't tell if he looks annoyed, hurt, disappointed, or what– hell, all of the above and then some.

"You know this isn't over between us, Roy."

"Or so you've said. Tell me something, Chrissy. When will it be over?"

"Whenever you can grow the fuck up and have a conversation with me. Someday you're going to have to face who you are, Patrick. I might be around. I might not."

I hoped that he would be, but to admit that would almost be like admitting I had ever been wrong. So instead I leaned in towards him as if I was going to kiss him. His entire body froze, but I just smiled. "Don't hold your breath, Chris."

I turned away and strutted towards my couch. Slumping down, I closed my eyes and tried to get back to the relaxed state I was in before he showed up. I could feel him watching me the whole time, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. After a few moments, I heard my front door creak open and slam shut.

Opening my eyes, I looked around my deserted living room. My beer bottle was still clutched in one hand, the television still murmured annoyingly.

I got up to turn it off and turn in. Taking one last pull on the cold glass bottle, I thought to myself, `Fuck. I really wish some people would keep their promises.'

*~*~* fin *~*~*