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(this undeniable thing)The first thing Brodeur does is tuck his and Geneviéve’s gilt-framed wedding picture in the top drawer of the nightstand.“Don’t want her looking at us,” he explains.Sean shrugs. Wives have never been a problem for him before. Brodeur is a goalie, though. Goalies have their own set of quirks and strange, stupid rules only they seem to know, in addition to the usual weird crap that comes along with fucking married guys.Brodeur closes the drawer with an oddly gentle touch and sits on the end of the bed. He looks at Sean, his sharp blue eyes expectant, and leans back.Thick, warm tendrils of want uncurl low in Sean’s belly and he folds to his knees in front of Brodeur. He slides his hands slowly up Brodeur’s thighs, feeling the firm muscle under the fabric of his designer slacks. He can feel Brodeur tense slightly, under his light touch, and then release.Sean hooks a hand in Brodeur’s belt and unclasps the buckle, sliding it out of his belt loops. Sean’s callused fingertips brush accidentally against the pinched skin at Brodeur’s waist and he tenses again. If Sean didn’t know any better, he might assume Brodeur had never done this before. He knows he has, though. He has the yellowing bruises on his hips to prove it.“What’re you gonna do?” Brodeur asks, voice thick with lust.“Shut up.” Sean opens Brodeur’s pants and tugs the zipper down. “You’re ruining the mood.”Brodeur bats Sean in the head with his palm. “Wanted you to tell me what you were gonna do, idiot,” he grumbles, mildly.Sean pinches Brodeur on the thigh, and he hisses through his teeth, thigh jumping under Sean’s hand. “I’m better at showing than telling.”-(i’m your villain)Avery emerges from the alley shadows like a noir film villain. The only thing he’s missing is a long, tan trench coat. Marty doesn’t think Avery would ever be caught dead in one, though. Not flashy enough for him -Marty spits and curses at the fact he knows Avery well enough to know that he would never be caught dead in a trench coat.“What do you want?” Marty asks.Dull gray, slushy snow squelches disgustingly under his boots, and he makes a face, scraping his sole against the brick wall.“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” Avery says, sounding breathless and excited. It’s probably just the cold that’s wrapping around both of them, though. Marty’s chest feels frozen and tight.“Wasn’t going to,” Marty grumbles, shoving chapped hands into his jacket pockets.“Why did you, then?” Avery asks, stepping under a flood of street light. The rounds of his cheeks are bright red, and his eyes are wild, dark.“I don’t know,” Marty replies, shrugging his shoulders, wishing he could shrug this - this thing with Avery off too.Avery moves forward in two quick strides and Marty isn’t expecting it, isn’t quick enough to get out of the way. He backs into the wall, butts his head up against hard, unyielding brick. The cold seeps into this clothing, chills him to his core.Avery is so close, too close to him now. His eyes are too dark, slivers of green ringing the pupils. He presses his hands against Marty’s chest, pushing him back into the brick. Its rough surface chafes against his skin, scraping his scalp and a patch of bare skin, where his jacket had slipped, raw.-(you see yourself in me)Brodeur never fucks him face-to-face. Sean figures it’s guilt - guilt that it’s Sean and not Geneviéve he’s got bent over the kitchen table - or something, but he’s never bothered to ask. He doesn’t really mind, as long as he gets off.Brodeur always grips him tightly enough to leave bruises. Sean thinks that’s mostly the point. That Brodeur wants to see purple, finger-shaped marks bloom on the pale, thin skin of Sean’s hips.Sometimes Brodeur wraps his fingers in Sean’s hair, if it’s long enough, or around the back of his neck. He pushes Sean’s face into the smooth surface of the table, or into the 300 count bed sheets. Sometimes he jerks Sean’s head back until his neck hurts, and runs his teeth up along the length of Sean’s throat.He whispers French between the wings of Sean’s shoulder blades. J'ai envie de toi. J’deteste-toi. The unfamiliar words curve warmly over Sean’s shoulder blades. J’ai besoin de toi.Sean doesn’t know what they mean, arches back against Brodeur, who tightens a hand around the back of Sean’s neck in response. He feels Brodeur’s teeth worry at the shell of his ear.Brodeur wraps an arm around Sean’s waist and pulls him back against his chest. Sean tips his head back, savors the feel of Brodeur’s mouth as it presses light kisses down Sean’s jawline. It comes to a stop at the junction of skin where neck meets shoulder.Their breaths are rough, ragged, braided into one.Brodeur grows still and time stretches between them. He pushes Sean face down into the mattress and rolls off of him.Sean tries, tentatively, panting for breath. “Marty?”Brodeur’s eyes snap on him at that, and Sean squirms uncomfortably under the spotlight. He likes the spotlight, craves attention like it’s food and he’s starving for it. He doesn’t understand why - he just doesn’t understand.Brodeur hurls sharp words in French like stones. Sean props himself up on his elbows and follows Brodeur to the bathroom with his eyes.The door slams with a finality that twists in Sean’s gut.-(you used to be all right—what happened?)Marty reaches out and pinches the inside of Avery’s elbow, rubs his thumb against the ink on his forearm.“ ‘You used to be all right—what happened? ’ ” Marty looks at Avery and furrows his brow. “What’s it mean?”Avery glances down, traces lightly over it with his fingertips. “It’s a reminder.”“Of what?” Marty is curious now, despite himself. He reaches down to touch it too, and their fingertips brush. He jerks his hand back, as if Avery’s fingertips had burned him.Avery shrugs, allows Marty to prod his skin. Marty twists and pinches the skin, distorting the tattoo’s message. “A reminder of - getting to a certain place and trying not to end up there again.”“Oh,” Marty says. Avery’s explanation doesn’t serve to clear anything up, so he lets it go. He crawls on top of Avery and presses him into the mattress, moves on to explore the other marks - old, silvery scars, fresh red ones, scars of every shape and size - on Avery’s body.They’re much more interesting anyway.-(we must never be apart)It’s dangerous, meeting up with Brodeur at his home like this. Geneviéve and their two youngest, Anna and Max, are gone for the weekend, spirited off to her parents’ in Montréal or something. Sean wonders if she knows, if she suspects Brodeur is cheating on her. Although, it’s not entirely appropriate to call it cheating, Sean thinks. Brodeur would have to be unfaithful to Geneviéve to be cheating on her, and Sean is pretty certain Brodeur’s thinking of her when they fuck. He won’t ask, though.Sean feels like the other woman, and he can’t help but wonder if this is what Geneviéve felt like when she and Brodeur were sneaking around behind his ex-wife’s - her sister-in-law’s back. The thought - that he and Brodeur’s wife could have something in common - makes him feel uncomfortable, makes his skin itch.“What’s on your mind?” Brodeur asks, voice hazy with sleep.Sean feels his large, warm hand land squarely on his bare back. Sean shrugs. “I dunno, nothing,” he says, tugging at the bed sheets wrapped around his thighs.Brodeur hms and rolls onto his stomach, tucking a pillow under his head. “You just looked like you were thinking about something,” he murmurs, drowsily.“It was nothing.” Sean stretches out beside him and steals a pillow for himself. He puts his head down and studies the sweep of Brodeur’s deltoid, where it tapers into the triceps and then disappears under the pillow.He turns his head to the wall and closes his eyes. Brodeur’s breathing evens out beside him a few minutes later.I was right, Sean thinks. It was dangerous. His thoughts grow thick and heavy with sleep and he fights against it, ineffectually.He can feel the gravity of sleep tugging on him, and then Brodeur is shifting next to him, slinging an arm loosely over his shoulders, saying, “Okay, Sean, goodnight,” and he gives in.