Could I do #48 for the song prompt? (For parswoops ofc bc I am nothing if not predictable)
okay so this is a PERFECT pimms song but tbh... it's also GOLD for just anything with Kent, so I was SO PUMPED when I saw what you'd picked
48) boy - maisie peters
Boy, you think I'm dumb, tryna pull one on me like I've never been kissed You had a couple of exes and I know that they let you get away with it But you're a boy And I can tell that you've never been hugged boy And I can do better than this, oh better than this
Kent's first NHL goal is a beautiful power play goal from a mess in front of the net, and Jeff wants nothing more than to hug him, so he does.
Or, well, he tries.
Kent is flying around the ice, yelling his blonde head off, avoiding absolutely any contact until he slows enough to get to the bench and get his fist bumps and a little cuff on the shoulder from the captain.
He does come back for little acknowledgements, but that moment, right after his goal - he's totally, wholly alone.
Jeff sends up a little prayer of thanks that people's attitudes and team cohesion aren't topics reporters like to drill him on.
It's not as notable, after that, that Kent ducks away from hugs, both on ice and in the locker room. He doesn't do anything as showy as that first night, but he still slips out, slides from under the plies, takes only claps of recognition instead of full body slams, leaves people behind to slam themselves into walls, makes it so that he's never the tactile center of anything.
It's a little weird, because Jeff's seen pictures of his Memorial Cup run, and he's not sure anything could have fit between the top line of that team when they were cellying. So it's, you know. It's a little insulting, if nothing else.
And then, come December, Kent's drunk and kissing Jeff, and Jeff's sure it's a one-time thing, and then it's not. They're making out in every available closet, perpetually going out on dates, staying in and hanging out and watching old vampire rom-coms as an excuse to eat shitty pizza on Jeff's couch instead of in Lamby's basement, and it's.
The thing is, Kent still won't let Jeff hold him. Kiss him? Sure. Pin him? Yeah. Smack his hand away from the carrots he's chopping up for salad? Okay.
But a hug after a bad game? Nope. Cuddling while watching what is arguably one of the worst movies Jeff's ever seen? Abso-fucking-lutely not.
The first time he tried, Kent practically jumped six feet in the air and almost ran out the door of the apartment, and the only thing that kept him in was the fact that it was 2am in Vegas, and he hadn't bought a coat.
Jeff's let him get away with it because, like, personal space and improvement.
But it's April, and the Aces are mathematically out of the playoffs, just barely eked out by the fucking Flames, and Kent still won't let Jeff do anything for him.
Jeff is, just a little bit, fucking done.
It comes to a head after they lose in a spectacular blowout against the Wild, 6-0, last road game of the season. They make it back to the room, and Kent immediately drops the cover he'd had in the hallway to duck questions from vets, plops down on the bed, and goes dead to the world.
Jeff sits down on the bed next to him and gently, gently, rests his hand on Kent's spine.
"Hey," he whispers.
Kent jumps, tenses.
"Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, shrinking into himself.
Jeff's hands fly into the air.
"Whoa, hey, I'm sorry," he says, voice defensive. "I was just trying to be nice to my boyfriend, don't mind me."
"You could not," Kent growls into his pillow.
"Don't do that," Jeff spits back. "Don't do the fucking I'm angry I'm an asshole so I'm gonna yell at Jeff about it thing, that's not fucking fair to me."
"Shut up," Kent tells him, and puts a pillow over his head. He signs something, angry and sharp, and though it's not one Jeff knows (he's got "I love you", "Thanks", and "What" down, but that's about it), he knows it's one Kent signs often to the person who takes up so much space in Kent's head it's intolerable, sometimes.
"I'm not him," Jeff nearly yells. "I'm not going to tear you down, I'm not going to hit you or... or... fucking die! I don't know, okay, but I'm not him, and if you don't..."
He takes a deep breath.
"If you don't know that, that I'm not him, then I can't do this, because I can't do that to myself, and I can't let you do that to yourself, either."
He slides off the bed, puts on his shoes, grabs his duffel from next to the door.
"I love you," he whispers to the silent room, and he slips out the door.
