Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais/Carter Vaughn

Characters:

Carter Vaughn, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais

Additional Tags:

Travel, Art

Language:

English

Series:

Part 9 of win conditions

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-07 Words: 12,268 Chapters: 1/1

The Decadence of Waiting

Summary

Patience and love are the potent mix that makes devotion.

Notes

After What Distance Makes, I got many requests for more of J.J. and Carter. I'm so happy that folks got invested in them and was thrilled to return to them!

Edited to correct: This story begins eleven weeks after J.J. and Carter talk in the Ottawa hotel.

"I fucking hate lines," Jean-Jacques grumbled.

"I know," Carter said, grinning at him. "You've mentioned."

"I don't know how this doesn't drive you crazy. You never sit still."

Carter had always been a patient guy. Some of that was natural inclination, but a lot of it was situational. He was the youngest of four kids with two C-suite parents and an overburdened nanny. A good chunk of his childhood had been spent waiting for someone to come home, give him a ride or pay attention to him. When he got into hockey, he'd learned to wait his turn on the ice too.

"And I'm not sitting still now," Carter pointed out.

They were standing in an enclosed courtyard surrounded by cold marble figures. Carter had spent much of the last five minutes flipping a penny between his fingers.

"How do you do that?" Jean-Jacques asked, watching the coin move.

"Here, I will show you, mon ami."

The French thing was way newer than the patience, but they were rapidly getting tied together in Carter's head with Jean-Jacques. Everything in his head was getting tied up in Jean-Jacques these days.

Devotion also wasn't new to Carter. He'd been an acolyte of his eldest sister since time out of memory. There were many family stories of him crawling, then toddling, then running after Fiona while she moved firmly forward. Fiona had only ever had her eyes forward, but she would leave her hand trailing in the air for Carter to grab if he was fast enough to get it. She was a surgeon now and sometimes Carter still felt like he was running after her, calling and texting in the few spare minutes off they shared. Whenever he had a real problem, Fiona was his first call.

She had liked the sound of Jean-Jacques, in his late night confession. He had spilled all to her only three nights after the hotel room in Ottawa.

"He sounds like a good match for you, boy or not, just…be careful with your heart," she warned. "You only get one of those."

"Medical advice," he'd teased.

"Love sick advice," she corrected. "If he makes you wait too long, tell him he'll have to answer to me."

"I'm not telling him I told you. I think he'd have a heart attack. Anyway, I may not even get a chance to give him my heart. He's kind of on the fence about it."

"He won't stay there," Fiona said with perfect faith in her prognosis. "You'll get what you want. You always do."

"That's not true."

"Then make it true. I have to go. Talk soon!"

Devotion wasn't something Carter gave out easily. He choose carefully before he set himself on someone, even if it seemed to happen in an instant.

Like when he was freshly drafted off the University of Denver team, Carter had shown up in the Admirals locker room, scared out of his fucking mind. He'd been greeted by a guy with hangdog eyes and an 'A' on his chest that everyone who knew anything about hockey knew.

"Hi," Scott had said, "you're the rookie? Vaughn, right?"

"That's me," Carter had said. "Carter is fine."

"Cool. Scott is good for me. They put you in the stall next to mine, I'll show you."

That had already been more than Carter had expected. On his first day on his university team, he'd been told it was the freshman's job to pick up towels. It wasn't until he noticed that none of the other new guys were doing it that the sinking feeling had started. Carter wasn't a quitter and he didn't fold to meanness easily. Instead, he found a way to get his own back, mostly by showing them up on the ice and finding his allies as quickly as he could. By the time he was drafted, he was an alternate captain and everyone's favorite good time guy.

He had not been looking forward to starting again with that shit. The pros might even be worse. In his worst worries, Carter imagined the great Scott Hunter might be a huge dick which would have been especially disappointed given how closely Carter had watched his career.

Instead, Scott introduced him around and gave Carter a full tour with a shy grin every time Carter cracked a joke like he wasn't sure he was allowed to laugh. The first practice went as smooth as it could though Carter spent a lot of time adjusting to not being the best by nature anymore. University of Denver was a great team, but they were collegiate and a lot of the guys weren't looking to stay in for the long haul. The Admirals were an experienced pro team that played with a sharp focus.

The locker room after practice was a little more raucous then it had been when he came in and Carter loosened up, chatting with anyone that was willing to give him a minute. Everything seemed fine until he got that cold jolt that told him the temperature of the room had changed abruptly.

The craziest part was that Carter hadn't even heard what Jabowski had said. He knew the tone, cutting through the otherwise congenial room. It wasn't the blatant slap of a slur, but the more insidious 'can't you take a joke?' tone that meant any reaction Carter gave would turn him into the reactive asshole, instead of the insulted.

All he got was the tone and a fumbling second to think of how he should respond. Before he landed on anything though, Scott turned from mild-mannered potential friend into the massive beast they called Hunter on the ice. Hunter wasn't hangdog at all. He was everything his name implied.

"What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Just. Say." Each word had it's own equal and important weight.

"I was just fucking around Hunter, calm your tits," Jabowksi cackled, "Fuck, you take everything so goddamn seriously."

Hunter was across the room in three steps. He didn't so much as clench his fist. He only stood, very calmly and quietly in front of Jabowski for several long seconds. The rest of the room went quiet. No one laughed.

"I do," Hunter said at last. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that if no one's laughing, then you're a shitty fucking comedian?"

There was a choked back nervous laugh from one or two of the younger guys, but all the vets were watching things with wary silence.

"Fuck you, Hunter. You're not captain and you never fucking will be."

Hunter was unmoved. "Grow up, Jabowski. Respect your fucking teammates."

"He's a fucking rookie. First day. I don't have to respect shit."

"You do, actually. Because he's already five times the player you are. Vaughn was the fifth draft pick this year. I seem to remember you were twenty-eighth? Ninth? Almost got sent back down last season too. So shut your talentless fucking mouth unless you have an actual fucking joke to tell that someone with half a brain would find funny."

To Carter's surprise that was that. Jabowski steamed, but didn't say anything else back. Hunter turned on his heels, met the eyes of every guy in the room, then stormed back to his stall and went on stripping out of his gear.

Silence reigned for all of five seconds, before chatter broke out again. The guys that seemed to like Scott the most were quick to pick up dropped conversations as if nothing at all had happened and the influence spread quickly through the room.

"Sorry," Scott said quietly to Carter when there was enough noise to cover it. "I blew my top. I should've let you handle it."

"We're cool," Carter assured him. That did it. He was hanging his proverbial hat on Scott's hook. Done. Over. Devotion secured. "Next time, yeah, definitely let me deal with it, but I appreciate the effort, man."

"Good," Scott said, but he still looked sorry. Maybe that was just Scott's face when he wasn't trying to make it look like something else.

That was kind of sad.

"Hey, I don't know where to fucking eat in this city and there are too many choices," Carter said. "You think you could show me a spot or two at some point?"

"Yeah," Scott said and the sorry of it all lifted a little. "Sure. You have plans tomorrow night?"

"Man, I just crash landed here, I don't have plans any night." Carter joked. Though it was a little too close to true for his comfort.

"Okay, let me give you my number."

Carter had no trouble with saying he loved his friends. He never had. Maybe it was how he was raised, maybe it was in his nature, but he never understood pretending that the guys he chose to hung out with were barely tolerable.

The first time he told Scott that he loved him was months later and a few drinks in. Scott had just bought his apartment and it was beautiful, high above the streets. The furniture hadn't been delivered yet, so it was just Scott and Carter sitting on the floor when Carter said, "I'm so happy for you, man. I love you."

Scott had blinked at him a lot about it then said it in return with a wet tightness. They didn't talk about it, but Carter said it every few months so Scott didn't think it was a fluke. The guy clearly needed to hear it.

It had been six years since that quiet moment and Carter still loved Scott. He loved Eric and Huff too. He loved his high school best friend Marcus, who still lived back home in Seattle doing something in finance that Carter didn't strictly understand. He had, briefly, loved the glorious Gloria.

Patience and love, the surefire mixture to devotion, a cycle that fed itself.

He couldn't say when that devotion got tied up with Jean-Jacques Boiziau, but it was here now, wound around the man like invisible ivy striving to cover the inviting soft brown of his skin. Not that Carter was taking that invitation.

Because he was being patient. He was waiting. On this line and for Jean-Jacques to give any sign or word that he was ready to continue their conversation.

It had been eleven weeks since the hotel room in Ottawa. A very long time to wait for something you wanted, but not very long to figure out if your entire view of yourself was wrong.

"Hey," Jean-Jacques said, kicking at the toe of Carter's sneaker. "Are you going to show me or what?"

"Yeah, of course," Carter said, shaking himself a little. "Okay, here. Sort of pinch the coin between your thumb and your pointer finger."

"Sort of?" Jean-Jacques asked, already grinning at him a little. Fucker.

"You don't want to hold it too tight," Carter explained. "Loose. Soft hands."

"D'accord. What then?"

Carter walked him through it and after two false starts, Jean-Jacques had it. The coin flashed over his fingers, far too confident and easy for someone who had just learned.

"They make this shit look hard in movies," Jean-Jacques scoffed.

"Maybe I'm just a great fucking teacher, asshole."

"Maybe," Jean-Jacques laughed. "I dunno. You confused the fuck out of the rook yesterday."

"It's a squiggly motion!" Carter groaned. "You saw it. What the fuck else do you call it?"

"I don't know, but not 'squiggly'," Jean-Jacques said, his accent making the word sound even more distasteful. It was a talent. Carter was a little obsessed with it. "You even got Scott confused."

"He was not confused, he was ignoring us," Carter said. "He does that."

"He does," Jean-Jacques agreed. "What do you think he's thinking about when he stares into space like that?"

"I used to think it was deep or like, strategy," Carter said as they inched up a few spots. "But now I think he's just planning dinner with Kip."

"You are probably right, even though that's a fucking boring answer."

"What would be less boring?" Carter asked.

"It's Scott. Could be murder!"

"He wouldn't actually kill anyone."

Jean-Jacques gave him a sly side eye, "Are you sure?"

"Mostly," Carter said with a wink. "But if he did, it'd probably for one of us."

"He is very loyal."

They made it to the door and were finally allowed in.

"What are we looking at again?" Carter whispered to Jean-Jacques.

"You have the memory of a goldfish," Jean-Jacques laughed. "American fashion or something. I don't know. Kip told me I needed to see it next time I went to the Met."

"I'm not even sure you told me in the first place, man," Carter complained.

He was relatively sure Jean-Jacques had told him, actually. Carter had mostly just heard 'want to hang out today?' and let the rest of the proposal wash in one ear and out the other. If Jean-Jacques had said 'Want to hang out today and do parkour?' Carter would've wound up in one of those ridiculous bougie gyms bouncing off padded fake brick walls without complaint.

"I said we were going to see a fashion exhibit," Jean-Jacques said with an eye roll. The coin danced over his fingers. "You said 'sounds sick'."

"No, I didn't," Carter said horrified.

"You did," Jean-Jacques said.

"Fuck," Carter groaned. "That's embarrassing."

"I thought it was cute," Jean-Jacques said with a shrug. "My West Coast boy."

And that was why Carter would have agreed to a knife throwing competition if Jean-Jacques asked. Who the fuck thought Carter was cute when he talked like a 90s movie reject?

"No one said that when I was growing up. I have no idea where it came from," he said. "I was possessed."

"You were something," Jean-Jacques agreed. "Look at that dress. Imagine wearing that? It looks too heavy."

"The mannequins give me the creeps," Carter declared after they shuffled forward to get a look into one of the antique-filled rooms. "Why did they give them noses?"

"No face would be better?"

"I dunno, man, it couldn't be worse."

Carter wasn't sure he took in much of the exhibit. Dresses and furniture were fine, but not especially interesting to him. It was nice to listen to the crowd get excited in a hushed way about things though. Quiet appreciation had not been big part of his life before and it was something Jean-Jacques had accidentally been teaching him.

It was funny because when they'd first met, years ago now, Carter knew of 'J.J' as a loudmouth party boy. After one ill-fated game in Montreal, some of the Admirals had wound up in the same club as the Metros, mostly avoiding each other. But Jean-Jacques and Carter had met up at the bar, the acknowledgement of the obvious thing tying them together overcoming the team grudge.

"Let me buy you a drink!" Carter had offered over the music.

"No, no," Jean-Jacques had grinned back at him, "you are our guest! Let me buy you a drink!"

They downed a shot together, elbow to elbow, shoved closer by the crowd. It had been too loud to talk, but it was a friendly enough moment that Carter had skated to the line at their next game to say hello.

It was an acquaintance built on a handful of 'hellos'. Nothing Carter learned in that time gave him any reason to contradict the going narrative: Jean-Jacques knew how to throw a party and not much else. He never had a WAG, but he made up for it by overseeing the Metros' social outings.

They didn't really have an equivalent on the Admirals. As Scott settled into his captaincy with Carter and Huff as his alternates, the tone of the Admirals' locker room was a little more subdue. Not in actual volume, but there was a lot less talk about getting black out drunk and having the kind of sex that made the team doctors nervous. The players on the whole were a little older and the younger guys who still liked to party jointly planned things without appointing an official leader.

By his fifth season, Carter had stopped hanging out with the younger guys for the most part. He was always kind to the rookies because that was part of the job when Scott was your captain, but his kindness stopped at the door of a club. When Carter went out, it was with visiting friends from college or guys from the other team that he knew for one reason or another. He kept it light and fast.

He'd been surprised when Jean-Jacques arrived that he seemed to have settled into a similar groove when removed from his former ecosystem. Restaurants and bars were of interest to him, but more as a connoisseur than for late nights. He had also added museums to the list of interests. Jean-Jacques wasn't quiet exactly, but he had lost the showy loudness that he'd once been known for.

Now he was the guy that pointed to a corseted dress and said to Carter, "Look at all the details. Imagine sewing that."

"Man, I can't even put a button back on," Carter said, following Jean-Jacques' finger. The nail was edged in blue paint. "How long do you think it took them?"

"Months or something. Can you imagine working on something that long?"

Carter raised his eyebrows at him. "You know we practice like a zillion hours a year, right?"

"Yeah, but we're not making anything you can touch after."

"Does that bother you?" Carter frowned. "Is that why you paint?"

"No," Jean-Jacques said, "it is different though. It'd be nice to have something to hold at the end of all of it even if we didn't win the cup."

"Says the guy with three cups to my one," Carter scoffed.

"So I know what I'm talking about," Jean-Jacques said, elbowing him.

They filtered out of the exhibit into the wider museum, before they could start playfully shoving at each other and pissing off everyone around them.

"We can go," Jean-Jaques said. 

"You didn't come just for that," Carter said. 

"I've been here a dozen times." 

"I haven't. I want to see things. Show me something you really like here." 

Jean-Jacques hesitated. A momentary, betraying thing that Carter tried not to take to heart.  

"I don't know anything about it," came the warning. "I'm not Kip. I don't really care who made it or why. It works for me or it doesn't." 

"Fine by me, I wouldn't remember it anyway," Carter said with a shrug. A white lie. He tended to remember the things Jean-Jacques said. 

The accent helped, the musical rise and fall captivating Carter as soon as Jean-Jacques started talking. Learning French wasn't easy exactly, but it was rewarding as Carter could decode more and more. Jean-Jacques' French was non-standard, he warned. Don't go to Paris and blame me if they can't understand you. It wasn't just the Quebec of it all apparently, but the homebrew of Creole peppered through it, the way the Boiziaus spoke it at home. 

"It'll be a walk," Jean-Jacques said, leading him away from the enclosed courtyard with the marble statues that always freaked Carter out a little. Maybe it was statues that bothered him in general, not mannequins in particular. "This place is huge."

"I've got nothing else to do, but be with you today," Carter said. Too earnest probably, but it earned him that winning smile and Jean-Jacques ducking his head a little as if to hide it.

God, Jean-Jacques was hot. Insanely, ridiculously hot.

Since Scott had come out to him, Carter had quietly inventoried himself and found some interesting thoughts that he had previously shoved unexamined into boxes. None of it was huge. He wasn't gay, he was sure of that. Women were far too fun and hot and easy to love for that. He felt tentative about 'bisexual' which seemed to imply an openness that he didn't think he had. Carter hadn't been harboring secret thoughts about men in general. 

He had, though, liked very specific men very much.  There had been Tobias in fancy prep school that Carter's parents had sent all their children through. Tobias had been the captain of the debate team and one of the few other Black students. They didn't actually have much in common, but Tobias ate lunch with him anyway, even as he shied away from the loudness of Carter's friends. Carter appreciated the solidarity. He also appreciated Tobias hands with their long slender fingers that moved through the air when he talked. 

In college, there was Dominic, his freshman roommates. They ate dinner together almost every night outside of the regular season when Carter had more free time. With Dominic, it had been his neck and the cut of his jaw. Carter had had a few idle day dreams of cupping his hand there and how it would fit perfectly against his palm.  

In the Admirals' years, Carter barely had room around hockey to find a girlfriend, let alone notice things about men.

Except maybe Jean-Jacques those few times a year. There wasn't a particular body part with him though. It was simply how he moved through the world that Carter coveted: a confident swagger and a smile that said he knew more than he let on.

So Scott came out and Carter inventoried. Then last winter when they were out playing in California there had been a a slick slender person with wide eyes and long dark hair at a bar. Carter had made an incorrect assumption of gender with a few beers in him. When they got back to his hotel room and Reef took off his pants, Carter was already hopelessly turned on. It seemed easy to go with it, to touch and be touched. They didn't do anything adventurous, but Reef was fun and had clever hands. They both got off and Carter enjoyed it a lot.

He didn't tell anyone because what was there to tell? It was like a dream, flitting away when he tried to remember the details.

Barely a month later, there had been Gloria, who had taken up so much space that it shoved the memory out of mind entirely.

Then Gloria had left him and instead of the void in his life that Carter had feared, he found Jean-Jacques taking up all the empty spaces. His accented English, his confident French, his obsessive secretive painting, his hysterically snobby food preferences that he wouldn't admit to until forced and then could rant about for hours, all of it clamored into Carter's space.

On practice days, Jean-Jacques took up his spot on Carter's couch. On game days, Carter crowded into Jean-Jacques' apartment. They stopped even discussing it after the first few weeks, their things cluttering up each other's guest rooms. 

The feeling that grew in Carter was undeniable and uncomfortable. Jean-Jacques had already had to run from one team, Carter wasn't going to make New York bad for him too. But he had to get his head on straight…so to speak. He'd gone to his one tried and true source for all things Not Straight.

"Come again?" Scott sputtered.  

They were sitting on the huge couch that took up far too much of the apartment's limited space. Scott and Kip still seem enamored with the apartment they claimed to be replacing any day now. Sometimes Carter thought they kept it out of sheer desire to have an easy way to say no to overnight guests. 

"I have a man crush and I'm trying to figure out if it's like...sexy or not," Carter said, took a sip of Scott's excellent whiskey and waited for wisdom. 

"What?" Scott asked. 

"You heard me." 

"Oh for fuck's sake," Kip said from the bedroom where he'd been 'giving them some privacy'. Difficult considering the space. "He's asking you if he's gay for someone, babe!" 

"Not exactly," Carter said. "But...yes?" 

"You like women," Scott said helplessly. 

"Most of the time."

"Most of the time," Scott repeated. "Since when?"

"Since always. It just never came up."

Scott stared at him. "Are you fucking with me right now?"

"No? Honestly, Scotty, I didn't think it was a thing. But now I've got a crush and I don't want to fuck things up if it's just a dude crush." 

"What is a 'dude crush'?" 

"Oh my god," Kip groaned and emerged around the wall. "Carter, can I crash this conversation?" 

"Please?" he pleaded. 

"Great," Kip said and sat down between them. "The answer to your question, babe, is that it's what men call it when they have a crush on a male celebrity or person in their lives. Qualifying it means you don't have to look at it as a sexual preference. Usually it really isn't anyway, just kind of admiring someone." 

"I do admire him," Carter said. "I also think about kissing him a lot." 

"Proud of you?" Scott offered like he wasn't sure it was even in the neighborhood of right. Carter would take it. 

"Thanks, man." 

"Of course we're proud of you," Kip said as if even having to state it was silly. "What are you actually asking?" 

Carter stared down at his hands. "I feel weird." 

"Welcome to the club," Scott said wryly. 

"Weird how?" Kip prompted. 

"I don't think he's going to feel the same way, so I'm not going to say anything. So what does it matter? Do I need a word for it?" 

"That's your call," Kip said with a small shrug. "I think labels are helpful sometimes. Sometimes they aren't. Maybe you're a little bisexual. Maybe it's just this guy."

"It's not," Carter mumbled. He thought about Reef's butterfly hands that landed softly on him. "There was a guy last year. Once."

"Was he good to you?" Scott asked, sharp like he might go find Carter's one night stand and beat his face in if he hadn't been.

Carter grinned at him helplessly. That was okay. Kip was doing it too. "Yeah, man. He was nice."

"Good," Scott said and the threat passed as quickly as it had come. "I get why you didn't tell me, but you could have."

"I was trying not to think about it," Carter admitted. "And I'm telling you now. Not like I've talked to anyone else about it."

"Scared?" Kip asked and it was gentle, not a challenge.

"Little bit," Carter said, considering. He thought about Jean-Jacques' hands. His lips. The paint under his fingernails. "I haven't had a crush this big I couldn't do anything about since high school. It kind of sucks."

"I hear you," Kip said emphatically.

"The last time I had a crush, I went after him and it worked out pretty well," Scott offered, his eyes sliding towards Kip.

"Smooth," Kip laughed, but he took Scott's hand in his.

Even if Carter hadn't liked Kip on his own merits, he would've done his best to make him his friend for the look he put on Scott's face. It made him look his age instead of a man who had lived a thousand lifetimes.

"I don't know if he likes guys. I don't even know how to find out without maybe ruining some things," Carter admitted. "I like having him as a friend."

"Oh, yeah, that is tricky," Kip acknowledged. "I fucked a lot of my friends though so I'm probably not the best for that kind of advice."

"I- what?" Carter asked.

"I've been out since I was in high school," Kip said with a shrug. "A lot of my guy friends were also some flavor of queer and sometimes we'd just have fun together. It's no big deal."

"My original plan was to not come out until my body quit on me and never date," Scott sighed. "So I don't know. I don't think we have the best advice for you."

"Okay, thanks," Carter said. "Really glad we talked about this. Very helpful."

"Is that sarcasm, I detect?" Kip asked wryly.

"Carter doesn't do sarcasm," Scott said. "It's real."

"No," Kip said flatly.

"I do sarcasm sometimes!" Carter protested. "But not right now. I am glad I talked about it. I feel better not keeping it to myself."

"How did you stay this sincere and survive professional hockey?" Kip asked.

It was probably not a serious question, but Carter actually thought about it for a minute.

"No one knows what to do with it," Scott said for him.

"Yeah, that," Carter said. "Everyone expects the mean mug and bragging. I just say what I think and mean it and the guys back off."

"Then punch someone," Kip added. Which was worth adding.

"When it comes to it," Carter agreed. "I'm good at that part too."

"I think it'll work for you. The being sincere thing. If this guy likes you at all, he'll be into it. Be sincere with him."

"I can do that."

Scott clapped him on his shoulder with his free hand. "I know you can."

That was the pep talk running through Carter's mind when Jean-Jacques had asked him to wait on that hotel room bed in Ottawa. The sudden moment when all of Carter's hopeless devotion flipped into possibility so quickly it made him dizzy. 

Carter could do a lot of things. He was great at waiting, especially for something he never imagined was coming in the first place.

The waiting had even taken on it's own pleasures. Following Jean-Jacques through echoing hallways, Carter could admire the dark denim jacket that framed out his shoulders and the way his pants hugged an ass hockey had built. Once or twice, Carter caught a woman giving Jean-Jacques a fast investigation with keen interest and it gave him a zip of pride.

Jean-Jacques took a right into a gallery and Carter followed him. He'd been half-expecting modern art. That's what Jean-Jacques' paintings were closer too. The loose outlines of color and smeary edges never even aspired to realism. Carter loved the vibrant implications of things in the few paintings Jean-Jacques had let him see. The wavy lines conveyed something to him that he couldn't even name.

That was not what sprawled out before them. They stood in one of the galleries with big old oil paintings, crisply realistic.

"Here," Jean-Jacques said and gestured with his chin at one.

There was a storm rolling in over a cliff, riding on the back of a wave. The little plaque said it was Winslow Homer's 'Northeaster' which left Carter no more educated than before.

"Have you seen a storm like that yet here?" he asked, "They come in spring sometimes. I grew up being rained on every day and it still surprises me."

"Not yet," Jean-Jacques said, glancing sideways at him. "You scared of lightening?"

"Nah. I like storms."

"Me too."

Jean-Jacques studied the painting and Carter mostly studied Jean-Jacques. He liked his profile a lot, especially when he was so intent that his face relaxed. Eventually he seemed to finish devouring whatever had gotten his attention and he moved on, Carter pulled along with him on an invisible string.

There were more pauses. Martin Johnson Heade's Hummingbird and Apple Blossoms required some study and then James McNeill Whistler's Cremorne Gardens, No. 2. Carter tried to figure out what they had in common, but as far as he could tell it was only that Jean-Jacques liked them.

"Why this one?" Carter asked as they stood in front of the long Cremorne Gardens.

"I like how muddy it is," Jean-Jacques said and leaned towards him a little. "I don't know. Like I said, it's just a feeling. Bored yet?"

"Not even a little."

They moved more aimlessly after that, the seemingly endless galleries twirling them through centuries of work. They did reach the modern wing eventually, but Jean-Jacques breezed through it with a careless: "I like the MoMa better".

"Let's do that next then," Carter said, following in his wake.

"You're not even looking at the paintings."

"So?" Carter grinned at him. "I'm having a good time."

Jean-Jacques gave him a speaking side-eye, but let it go. "I'm starving. Let's get lunch."

"Sure."

"Have you tried poutine?" Jean-Jacques asked as they escaped out into a gloomy spring afternoon. The clouds were gathered in tight, a threat of rain that hadn't manifested for two days.

"Don't think so. That's a Canadian thing, right?"

"Very. There is a place a few blocks that makes it. Not quite right, but close enough."

They got a table, tiny, their knees jostled together for lack of space. Carter enjoyed the adolescent thrill of their legs brushed together. Did Jean-Jacques even notice? If he had, he wasn't pulling away.

"How do you always find these places?" Carter demanded when they were deep into their dishes. The poutine was good and so was the plate of pickles that inexplicably came with it.

"I use Yelp like a normal person," Jean-Jacques said. "And I ask bartenders what their favorite restaurants are. That's all you need."

"That's all you need," Carter said with a shake of his head. "The cheese curds are cool. I don't think I've had those before."

"Didn't you go to college in one of the cheese states?"

"Cheese states?" Carter asked, a laugh climbing out of him. "I have to know what you think those are."

"How many states do you think I can name?" Jean-Jacques snorted. "I only know the ones with hockey teams in them."

"That's fair. I only know the provinces with hockey teams," Carter conceded.

It wasn't an unusual day off for them, the few that they got this deep in the season. They went out somewhere together, usually in the city, but sometimes they wandered around Tarrytown when they'd slept at Carter's condo. Then lunch and a walk. They liked to just kick around places together, sometimes talking, often not.

Eventually they'd settle in one of their homes, throw something on to watch and talk over it half the time. Tonight, it was at Jean-Jacques' apartment, so they could be closer to the rink for tomorrow's game. Dinner was something more sensible and meal planned, eaten out of tupperware on the couch which would've driven Carter's mother up the wall.

"Mine too," Jean-Jacques said when Carter mentioned that idly. "Manman does not like crumbs."

"Mine would say it's bad for digestion."

The TV cast its' glow over them and made Carter think of the painting still Jean-Jacques' oven. The one of him asleep. He thought of it often. He wondered if there were others now or if that was the only time Jean-Jacques would ever try to capture Carter on canvas. Maybe that's what he'd meant about having something to hold after so much work. Carter would like tangible proof of his patience and he wasn't sure he'd get the one he really wanted.

"The playoffs," Jean-Jacques said, setting down his empty container on the coffee table.

"Yeah," Carter said, scrapping the bottom of his own. "Seems more and more likely, huh?"

"Yes, but…" Jean-Jacques trailed off.

Carter watched him carefully. "But?"

"After those," Jean-Jacques said, his eyes on the TV. "Okay?"

The tiny candle flame that Carter had held his hand in front of and dared not to breathe on for the past eleven weeks flickered and grew.

"Okay," Carter said.

At some point between episodes of Cobra Kai, Jean-Jacques' hand landed beside Carter's on the couch. Any other guy that would be an accident, snatched away with a laugh or left unremarked if he was more relaxed. Between them though, it was an invitation and one Carter always took. He slipped his hand into Jean-Jacques' and let his head fall against the back of the couch, relaxation-mode fully engaged.

Carter was good at waiting, but sometimes this didn't even feel like waiting. It was more like learning to skate when he was a little kid, the first slow wobbly steps onto the ice that got more and more certain every time.

Maybe it wasn't waiting. Maybe it was just taking their time.

The Admirals made the playoffs, winning the first round so easily that the second round knock out took them all by surprise and sent them home to lick their wounds in foul moods. Scott's entire left side was a bruise and Huff had shin splits of all things. Carter had come out his shoulder aching and Jean-Jacques' knee was swollen.

"I have to go see my parents," Jean-Jacques said with a note of apology and they helped each other with ice packs in Carter's living room. "They think New York has swallowed me up. I promised them a week."

"That's okay, I should see my folks too," Carter said. "Everyone leaves the city in the summer. It's tradition."

"I liked it," Jean-Jacques said with some surprise. "Last summer. It was disgusting weather, but it was good anyway. Where would we even go?"

We.

Carter grinned at his slightly swollen knee. He wasn't even sure when that had happened.

"Let's go to Paris," he said.

"Paris," Jean-Jacques repeated with a faint note of disbelief. "Why would we do this?"

"The Louvair or whatever."

"The what?" Jean-Jacques asked.

"The big museum."

"The Louvre?"

"Yeah, that," Carter said. "You like museums and snobby food. I'm learning French. Why not Paris?"

There was no ready answer. When Carter looked up Jean-Jacques was staring at him like he could bore holes through his head.

"That is not a small trip," Jean-Jacques said carefully.

"We're not small guys," Carter said. "I keep meaning to go places just for fun, but I never wanted to go alone. We'd make good travel partners, don't you think?"

"Yes," Jean-Jacques said, a twitch of a smile stealing over his lips. "I want to go. Let's do that. How do we do that?"

"Scott swears by his travel agent. He always says it's better than using the internet. I'll get her number."

They did go home first, parting ways reluctantly. Both of them were still limping, miles to go before they were healed.

The week in Seattle was restorative. The weekend was spent with his parents, who doted on him, and his middle brother's very pregnant wife, who was grateful for Carter subbing in for Trent as her fetcher. A work conference was Trent's last obligation before the baby apparently. It was fun to play husband to her in restaurants and send his brother sly texts about stealing his woman.

On Monday, his parents went back to work and Trent retrieved his wife, taking her home with a sour look on his face as she complimented Carter's attentiveness. Carter met up with his high school best friend, Marcus for lunch at a very serious business-y lunch place. Marcus turned up in a suit with serious little round glasses on.

"You're a grown up," Carter said as if in shock. "How did that happen?"

"Shut your face, Vaughn," Marcus laughed. "Not all of us can play a game for a living."

For forty minutes, Carter really was a kid again, the two of them joking around like high school idiots, kicking at each other under the table. Before Marcus had to go back to work, they took a selfie outside. Carter posted it with a picture from the year they met with a 'Ten years and still going strong'.

Within five minutes there was a comment from @jjboiziau, 'You cheating on me already? Cannot trust Americans for two days.' and Carter grinned like a maniac. He liked the comment, then texted him.

 

Carter: Don't be jealous, baby, he means nothing to me.

Jean-Jacques: Fuck you. That's Marcus?

Carter: Yep. Met him for lunch.

Jean-Jacques: Why is he dressed for a funeral?

Carter: That's serious businessman shit.

Jean-Jacques: You have a good time?

Carter: Yeah. It's good to see him in person. How's home?

Jean-Jacques: My parents yelled at me for paying the bills. My sister yelled at them for yelling at me and now everyone is screaming. I went for a walk.

Carter: You okay?

Jean-Jacques: Yes, everyone will calm down in a few minutes and then we'll have lunch. Your family?

Carter: All good. Trent is still a dickhead, but that's normal. Parents are good.

Jean-Jacques: Spending time together this week?

Carter: They're working. I'll see them for dinner.

Jean-Jacques: What do they do again?

Carter: I don't know what's so funny about my parents being ad execs.

Jean-Jacques: It's not a real job. That is a TV job.

Carter: It's a real job. Gave us real money so I could hit puck.

Jean-Jacques: My grandmother paid for me.

Carter: I didn't know that. Is she gone?

Jean-Jacques: Three years ago. Saw me play in the big leagues at least. Never understood the game, but she would come a few times every season and always told me I was the best. She would pretend to be upset when I got in fights, but then she'd ask why I didn't hit him them harder.

Carter: She sounds fun. Wish I could've met her.

Jean-Jacques: Me too.

 

On Friday, Carter woke up late to someone knocking on his bedroom door.

"You'll miss the bus!" Someone called. For a split second panic flooded through him, before realization kicked in.

"Fuck off!" he said with a laugh, rolling out of bed. "Fi! I thought you couldn't make it back in time."

"I took a day."

He opened the door and Fiona stood there, five foot three if you counted her bun made of braids. Sweeping her straight off her feet, Carter gave her a bear hug as she smacked at him.

"Get off me!" She demanded, though he noticed she was hugging him back with the hand not slapping at his shoulder.

He set her down and she straightened her blouse with a huff. "I'm not taking you out for brunch now."

"Fiiii," he whined. "I'm hungry. Please?"

So yeah, maybe hanging out with his big sister made him act like a kid again. So what? It was fun. They caught up over brunch in a way that was hard to do through texts. Fiona had a long term boyfriend, but Carter had suspected he was on the outs for a long time, so had to act surprised when Fiona admitted they broke up.

"He was never going to be the man I thought he was," she sighed. "I just wish I hadn't wasted so much time on him."

"I don't think you wasted it," Carter said. "You became a kickass surgeon, got promoted, and bought a house. He was just like…in the way while that happened. And he didn't even slow you down that much. That's not waste, resistance training."

"I hate your dumb sports metaphors," she grumbled, but the smile twitched back onto her lips. "How's your waiting game going?"

"I think it's almost over," Carter said, suddenly very interested in his plate. Only Fiona knew. Carter hadn't even told Jean-Jacques that he'd said anything because it all felt a little embarrassing that he still told his secrets to his big sister. "The waiting. We're going to travel for a bit together this summer."

"Oh? Where?"

"Um. Paris? Nice too."

"No fucking way," she blurted, eyes wide. "Whose idea was that?"

"Mine?" He winced. "Is it stupid? He likes art and I thought he'd like the Louvre. He seemed into it."

"Into it? Do you know what I'd do if a man asked me to go to Paris with him?"

"Be into it?" he guessed.

"C, I would do things to that man that would be between us and the devil."

"Fi,noooo," he groaned. "I don't want to think about that."

"Get over yourself, I'm a grown woman," she rolled her eyes at him. "Anyway, yes. I think you're done waiting. When are you going?"

"A week after I get back. He's got a few media things to do and then we can go."

"Media things, huh? Not you?"

"He's got a good manager."

"Maybe you need a better one."

That might not be wrong. Carter's manager had gotten a little lax on getting back to him lately.

"Maybe," he agreed.

"I want to meet him if your trip goes well. I'll come to a game."

The thought of Fiona meeting Jean-Jacques made Carter's stomach flip. "Yeah, I'll check with him. If everything is still going good when the season starts."

"You'll make it happen," she said again.

Carter carried her belief in him back to New York. He packed bags, checked his passport, and bothered Scott into having lunch with him.

"How'd things work out with the travel agent?" Scott asked.

"Good. I'm going to Paris next week."

"Next week?" Scott's eyes went huge. "Before the playoffs finish?"

"Man, we're not in them. I asked nice and everything, got the thumbs up. No one needs me here to watch another team win it," Carter said with a shrug.

"You love watching the playoffs."

"So I'll watch them in Europe," Carter said. " I never go anywhere unless it's for work. I want to see something."

He waited for Scott to ask 'why can't you see something in July' which would be a very reasonable question and Carter would have to come up with an answer that wasn't 'Jean-Jacques said we might kiss after playoffs and I invited him to Paris and I'm going to kiss him in Paris. Scotty, I'm not waiting one extra second for that. Waiting time is over'.

Scott gave him a once over and said, "Okay, man. You want to share some fries? I'm still hungry."

"Fuck yes."

Carter loved Scott so much. He was going to bring him back a very dumb souvenir. Something to wear because Scott would feel obligated to wear it and it would be awesome. He'd get Kip a nice magnet or something. Or maybe a matching t-shirt. That'd be cute.

Jean-Jacques got home on Tuesday, but by silent agreement, they only texted about it. They were going to have fifteen days together in another country, it seemed right to leave a little more space between them for the last leg of this.

So instead, they saw each other in the airport at a heinously early hour of the morning. Jean-Jacques was way too well dressed for the time and place, tailored jeans, bright shirt and the damn denim jacket. Carter was in sweats because planes were not for showing off, but he felt a little underdressed now.

"Bon matin," Jean-Jacques said, leaning on the handle of his carry on. "It's too early to be alive. I wish we were both dead."

"Let's get through security and then coffee," Carter said sympathetically.

They loaded up on caffeine and slumped beside each other in the small seats.

"I told Yuna I would be in France and she said she might have an opportunity there, can you fucking believe that?"

"That she wants you to work on your vacation or that she knows people in France who can do a photoshoot with a week's notice? Cause I believe both, actually."

Jean-Jacques groaned, "It's insane."

"What did you tell her?"

"I said no. It's vacation and I'm not abandoning you to make bank."

Carter considered that. "What if you do it after Nice? If they can fit you in, we can push coming back out a day or two."

"You sure?" Jean-Jacques asked. "Really?"

"Really. Besides, I think I want some Yuna magic in my life, so I better play nice. Is she taking more clients?"

"For you, I think she would. She said you were 'not bad' when I mentioned you at our last meeting. That's a big compliment."

"I'll take it," Carter laughed.

They arrived at Charles de Gaulle punchdrunk from intermittent napping on the plane. Their luggage and their ride found them, and they moved in their delirious haze to a pretty hotel in some old building with a long French name with minimum fuss.

Jean-Jacques greeted the receptionist and got them checked in.

"Traveling with someone who talks the talk is the way to do it," Carter declared when they were delivered up to their room with minimal fuss.

"You could figure it out," Jean-Jacques said, but he looked pleased.

There were two beds, more for Jean-Jacques comfort than actual worry. No one here would likely give a goddamn who they were. Neither of them had ever brought up getting two rooms. If things went badly, then Carter supposed that could be arranged, but he couldn't imagine he'd want to stay here at all if they went that sour.

"Stay here or go out?" Carter asked. "We technically have dinner reservations in an hour, but if you're tired, we can-"

"We are going out," Jean-Jacques cut him off with a smile. "I'm not tired. Are you?"

"Nah, it's mid-day at home, right? Let's wander around. The restaurant isn't far."

The city was alive as evening gave way to true night, locals walking with authority and tourists meandering, pointing and flashing their phones for pictures. Just like New York, if New York was much, much older and had more building height restrictions. Settling into their rhythm together, they walked the streets, nudging each other when something interesting came into view, but otherwise mostly taking things in.

They found the restaurant a few minutes before their reservation and the view was worth the price of admission. Carter sat back, listening to Jean-Jacques order for them, likely asking very smart food questions, all serious business.

With a small grin, Carter stole a picture of Jean-Jacques pointing to the wine list, listening to the waiter with rapt attention. Behind him, the city glistened and all around them, several languages wrapped around each other. They had no where else to be. Their half-healed bodies had no punishment to be set to. It was another world.

"You're smiling too much, you'll make the French people nervous," Jean-Jacques chided.

"You're smiling too," Carter said.

Jean-Jacques shrugged. "I'm doing it in French. You're not advanced enough yet for that. "

"I blame my teacher."

"A bad student always does," Jean-Jacques said with a wink.

"We should talk more in French while we're here. I'll get immersion lessons. That's supposed to help, right?"

"If you want. Not the whole time though. There's things we should talk about that will need your English."

"Yes," Carter agreed, not sure who had suddenly stepped on his chest, but it'd be good if they got off. "Tomorrow? I just want to enjoy our first night. Keep it simple."

"Tomorrow," Jean-Jacques said with a hint of relief.

Dinner was rich and lavish, tiny plates by the score and wine that was likely wasted on Carter's palette. Jean-Jacques seemed to relish it though and that was all that mattered. They'd had the money talk quickly before they'd paid the travel agent. A clean split on hotel and airfare, then Jean-Jacques on the food and Carter on the entertainment. That had seemed reasonable. Carter hadn't counted on how it would feel when Jean-Jacques paid the bill and the waiter swept a quick curious glance over Carter.

Did he assume they were just friends or had he registered something more? A warmth spread through Carter as he considered what they looked like tonight. A matched pair, maybe, in whatever configuration people imagined.

The river called them after dinner and they walked alongside it.

"You'll paint this," Carter said.

"Will I?" Jean-Jacques asked wryly. "Is that an order?"

"No, it just already looks like one of your paintings, don't you think?"

Jean-Jacques studied the lights reflecting in the water. "Mm, a little. I do like the colors. But I think I'll see a lot of things to paint. I don't have enough space."

"You would if you'd sell some of them."

"Who would buy them? And don't say you."

"If you put them up on a site for sale, people would buy them."

"Because I'm a hockey player that paints like a freak."

"Like a guy who's already famous and talented and has another talent."

"No way."

"Way. You're good."

"What do you know?" Jean-Jacques scoffed, but his hand brushed against Carter's again. "I'll think about it."

The walking, the travel day, and the rich food all added up to an easy night's sleep in the comfortable beds. They'd fallen asleep next to each other a few times on couches, but it was new to wake up in a bed, look only a few feet away and see Jean-Jacques face pressed to a pillow. Carter didn't let himself stare, just levered himself up to use the bathroom and start looking for a place to buy the most ridiculous pastries he could. He left a note on top of Jean-Jacques' phone in case he woke up, then slipped out into the warm morning air.

The cafe he chose wasn't too busy, so he tried out his wobbly French and was pleased to find it effective enough to get what he wanted with only slightly judgemental looks from behind the counter. He bungled the ordering process, but they were in the center of tourism and must be used to it.

When he got back to the room, the closing door stirred Jean-Jacques and he sat up in the bed, rubbing at his eyes like a kid.

"I got us breakfast," Carter said, setting everything down on the table by the window.

"You did?"

Jean-Jacques crawled out of bed and Carter kept his eyes firmly on the coffee. Talking. They were going to do some talking. Which was very important and adult. Plus coffee and pastries that Carter had sounded out like a preschooler in front of a very hot woman, who regarded him like a particularly interesting bug the whole time.

"Yeah, got you your douchebag latte."

"It's pronounced 'flat white'," Jean-Jacques corrected mildly, "thanks."

"You're welcome," Carter said. "And there's like five different pastries in the box because they all looked insanely good, but I got you a pain au chocolat."

Flipping the box open, Jean-Jacques narrowed in on it and scooped it out. "It's still warm!"

"Yeah, I got there like five seconds after they flipped the sign to open, I think."

Carter watched as Jean-Jacques bit into it, tiny shrapnels of pastry raining onto the pile of paper napkins. His eyelids fluttered closed and he was communing with the bite of food in a way that should've been hilarious.

Instead, Carter was hopelessly turned on, watching how Jean-Jacques cradled that pastry in his hands, eyelashes sweeping over his cheeks, and his tongue darting out to catch the smallest fragments. Everything smelled like chocolate and coffee. Carter held his own cup forgotten in his hands.

When Jean-Jacques opened his eyes, he met Carter's with slow appraisal.

"What did you get for yourself?"

"Almond," Carter said. "Or pistachio. Something. I don't know."

"You don't know?" Jean-Jacques asked, a slow smug smile tugging on his lips. He lifted his thumb to them and licked away a spot of chocolate.

"Motherfucker," Carter groaned. "No. I don't know and I don't care. It's tomorrow. I need us to talk about this or I'm going to die."

"Yeah," Jean-Jacques said roughly. "I want you. I don't know how we do this, but I want to try."

"Great, can I kiss you now or should we keep talking?"

Jean-Jacques' cup met the table, mostly not spilling. The pain au chocolat went back into the box with it's two bites missing. Carter didn't wait for any other sign, he got up and came around the table and then bent down, hands cupping stubbled cheeks. It felt good against his fingers, just a little rough.

He leaned down to kiss lips rich with the taste of butter and sugar. The angle wasn't ideal and Jean-Jacques was a little stiff beneath him, but the kiss was still pretty spectacular. As it went on, Jean-Jacques softened beneath him and one broad hand landed on Carter's hip, burning warmth through cloth.

"Mhm," Carter murmured approvingly.

"You gotta either let me up or come down here," Jean-Jacques whispered.

"Yeah, okay," Carter groaned and took a step back so Jean-Jacques could stand up.

They were inches apart now. Carter waited, unsure if he should re-initiate or not. With a woman, he would have. He understood the ebb and flow of a hook up with a woman. Keeping some momentum going mattered. With a girlfriend, there could be a little more leeway, moments to adjust or take a time out without worrying so much about someone losing interest.

This was somewhere in between, this beginning thing between them. A person that Carter knew very well and yet was an entire undiscovered country.

Jean-Jacques made a sound between a laugh and a groan, before Carter found himself staring at the the ceiling.

"Did you push me?" Carter asked, laughing.

"I decided bed was better," Jean-Jacques said. He stared down at Carter for a single beat, then put on knee on the bed beside Carter's waist. "I'm not saying we fuck, I just wanted…."

"Yeah," Carter said and reached for him, getting his hands around his waist and drawing him down. "More kissing. The kissing is fucking excellent."

There was a lot more kissing and a lot more contact. Elbows planted, legs on either side of Carter's, Jean-Jacques was only barely not pressed to Carter. It was bliss. It was maddening. Carter slowly walked his fingers up under Jean-Jacques shirt. The strength he found was incredible, skin pulled over dense muscle.

With a grunt of annoyance, Jean-Jacques sat up, tossed off his t-shirt and sank back down into kissing. Fuck yeah. Carter had free reign and he took it, touching every inch of Jean-Jacques' back, tracing over muscle. It was nothing like touching a woman or that brief night with Reef. Jean-Jacques was not a man you mistake for a woman, no matter how dark the club got.

It was making Carter's head spin a little, but in the best possible way.

"Off," Jean-Jacques said, tugging at Carter's shirt.

"Yeah, fuck, okay," Carter said with a breathless laugh. He managed to get his shirt off while still mostly kissing Jean-Jacques.

The making out got intense and before long, Carter parted ways with his pants too and then it was only thin underwear between them. That sensation of an erection pressing against his own was new, and yet, unmistakable. Jean-Jacques was packing heat. The thought of all the things that could happen with that had been rock tumbling through Carter's mind most nights since March. What had emerged with the perfectly smooth desire to find out.

"I want to suck your dick," Carter blurted out.

"Tabernac!" Jean-Jacques groaned.

That was one word Carter had become very familiar with. It didn't really roll off the tongue like 'holy fuck', but it was nice to have variety.

"That a yes?"

Jean-Jacques kissed Carter's neck. "Yes. Fucking obviously."

It was a little more daunting when Jean-Jacques stood and pushed off his underwear. Dicks were not a mystery to Carter. He'd been surrounded by naked men a lot in his life. Those dicks had rarely been hard though and they certainly hadn't been coming towards him with intent.

The appeal was undeniable though skimming in under trepidation.

He wanted. He wanted and they weren't waiting any more.

Carter wrapped his hand around his future and sucked it down.

It was a first time with all the raw and awkward edges of it, but fuck if it wasn't still fun. Jean-Jacques approved enough of his technique to come hunched over him, swearing and petting at Carter's back without coordination. Then he returned the favor and it was as inexpert a blowjob as Carter's college girlfriend gave him on a tiny dorm bed almost a decade ago.

"Hm," Jean-Jacques murmured, sitting back on his heels, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand. "I'm glad no one else is here to see this because I think we're both fucking awful at this."

"We're not awful!" Carter protested. "We both came."

"Carter, I would have come if you sneezed one me after waiting so long," Jean-Jacques voice dripped with disappointment, "where are your standards?"

"In New York," Carter said, reaching for him. "Stop being over there and judgemental. Be over here and enjoy yourself for a minute, Jesus Christ."

With a huff, Jean-Jacques conceded. It took a little doing to figure out how they fit, but Carter liked putting his head on Jean-Jacques' shoulder. The room was warm with rosy light and now it smelled like coffee, chocolate and sex. Perfect.

"I did enjoy it," Jean-Jacques said hesitantly. "I should have said that first."

"It's okay. It's weird and new, but I liked it. I wouldn't mind practicing. A lot."

"We're very good at practice," Jean-Jacques agreed.

Not that they could start right away. Instead they drank coffee and ate their pastries still naked, then tumbled back into bed, making out until they could get hard again. A little mutual masturbation was much easier and it was really hot to keep kissing, open-mouthed and sloppy as they found their satisfaction in each other.

A nap was inevitable after all that and then they were rushed to shower and get out the door to make their timed entry. They blamed each other for the lateness, full of winks and stolen caresses as they got dressed.

The Louvre was a very large museum. The Mona Lisa was very small and each visitor had a bare few seconds in her presence. Neither of them were moved by her, which Carter almost felt bad about. There were a lot of other cool things to see though and Jean-Jacques brimmed over with excited energy. He kept nudging at Carter, their hands brushing, their shoulders bumping, or even a tug on his clothes to get his attention. They were never fully out of contact with each other.

"We can come back tomorrow," Carter told him as they wound through galleries.

"Other museums tomorrow," Jean-Jacques reminded him.

There were other museums, but they better make Jean-Jacques this excited or Carter was going to have words with the Rodin people. That energy paired with Carter's singing body made the world into a sensual delight. The statues with their perfectly carved asses, the longing portraits with hands pressed to their chests and eyes up to God, and the lush indulgent jewelry of long dead royalty stoked the embers of Carter's lust.

They ate lunch in full view of the Eiffel Tower and Carter only had eyes for Jean-Jacques' fork, the way it slid into his mouth and lingered there, savoring each bite.

"You're not eating," Jean-Jacques said amused.

Carter glanced down at his own forgotten dish. He had no idea what he'd ordered. "I'm not hungry?"

"Eat," Jean-Jacques ordered, shaking his head a little. He was smiling though, a very bright real smile. "You look like you're drunk."

"I am," Carter said merrily. "On you."

"That's a terrible line," Jean-Jacques said, still smiling down at his plate.

"Lines are for picking people up. I already have you. It's just the truth."

"Fuck," Jean-Jacques laughed quietly. "I didn't really think about what you'd be like once we got here. You're so…you."

"Yep," Carter said. "And you like me."

"I do," Jean-Jacques said, flicking his gaze up to him. Their eyes met and caught. "I really do."

"Good," Carter said, food getting colder still. "I like you too."

There were a lot of things not to like about Paris. Carter noticed exactly none of them. It was a beautiful thing when a place made good on its promises. All the romance of Paris in movies came alive for him. For five days, they reveled in food, art, and each other. Carter was no more the wiser about sculpture and paintings by the time they got on the train to Nice, but he did learn volumes about himself and Jean-Jacques.

He changed their hotel reservation in Nice. It was probably a great city. Carter would never know. They settled in to their king-sized bed and got serious about figuring out this guy-on-guy sex thing. It was fun to watch porn together, even if it resulted in just leaving it on to have a soundtrack that they layered their own over.

When they were too sore and chafed to press on, they emerged from their room ravenously hungry. They ate things that would make their team nutritionist livid and went back for seconds.

"I don't think I've ever done anything like this before," Carter said as they stretched out on a bench, looking out over the water. "I mean, I went on benders and stuff in college. Partied. Had a few wild nights. But this is a whole other level."

"It's new," Jean-Jacques agreed. He had sunglasses perched on top of his head, contentment radiating off him. Carter had done that. Or helped it along at least. "No hangovers this way."

"I don't want it to end."

Jean-Jacques glanced at him then away. "Are you planning on stopping when we get back?"

"No! No," Carter said hurriedly. "Just that'll it be different."

"Will it?" Jean-Jacques asked. He tilted his head back a little, catching the sun. "Why?"

Carter sat with that for a second. Why would it be different? They already lived in each other's pockets and no one blinked about it. They could keep staying over at each other's places, Jean-Jacques' on game days, Carter's when they had practice. They would still go out to dinner together, sampling a city full of choices.

They had, quite by accident, already set up a cover for themselves. They were best friends, of course they spent a lot of time together. Maybe someone would eventually notice that that neither of them had girlfriends anymore and comment on it, but so what? Neither of them were household names.

They stood in the shadow of their famous white gay co-worker, who accidentally cast one so long they could both hide in it. No one really cared what they were up to. Reporters asked them about other people when they interviewed them at all.

They could be bachelors together forever if that's what they wanted.

"Huh," Carter said.

"I know," Jean-Jacques said, a grin spreading over his face. "We're fucking geniuses."

"I want to tell some people."

"Scott," Jean-Jacques guessed, "Huff. Bennett. Kip. Kyle."

"Yeah. My family eventually. We don't have to tell yours. I get it."

"Thank you," Jean-Jacques said with a sigh. "I don't know. Maybe one day. I think I'll tell Shane and Hayden eventually."

"Only eventually?" Carter asked. The shape of that friendship eluded him. There was pain there and love. Some coldness. He couldn't tell.

"Maybe I'll bring you as my plus one to Shane's wedding and let them figure it out."

"Fine by me," Carter laughed. "We should probably tell Scott before that though. He and Kip will probably be invited too."

"You can tell him whenever you want." It sounded indulgent. Sweet.

"He's your friend too."

"I know, but he's your actual best friend," Jean-Jacques said with amusement.

"Because you're my boyfriend?" Carter asked and he wasn't even nervous about it. They were, obviously, doing this. It was nice to have a word, but it was only a word.

"Copain," Jean-Jacqued pronounced carefully.

"Copain," Carter repeated. "Like that?"

"Very Quebecois," Jean-Jacques said and moved a little on the bench. Only a inch or so, but it pressed them together from shoulder to high. "Talk French with me at the wedding and everyone will know who taught you. You stole my accent."

"You gave it to me," Carter corrected. "Word by word."

Then they got back to the hotel room, Jean-Jacques attempted to take it back, licking words straight out of Carter's mouth. The last of the awkwardness had left them. They touched each other with confidence, teasing and prodding their way to better and better sex. The windows were open, drawing in the sea.

Somewhere in between all the gluttony and lust, Jean-Jacques managed a few clear-headed moments to email with Yuna. They ended their decadent tour at a ridiculously expensive resort that they didn't have to pay a penny for. Carter got to spend a full day at a gorgeous poolside cabana by the Mediterranean eating free snacks while his boyfriend posed in tiny swimsuits for an Italian magazine.

"Sorry that went so long," Jean-Jacques said when everything was packed up and they were in their suite, jointly scrubbing the makeup off every inch of Jean-Jacques' body. They had even airbrushed his abs with something to make them stand out more.

"Are you kidding?" Carter asked, kissing Jean-Jacques' thigh. "This was one of the best days of my life."

"We have to win you a cup so you improve your standards," Jean-Jacques said as he cupped the back of Carter's neck.

"I think they're pretty high already. Hottest swimsuit model in the French Rivera is a great catch."

They fucked that night. Jean-Jacques on his stomach and Carter kissing his shoulders over and over. It was new and complicated, but it was also familiar and thrilling. Jean-Jacques went liquid under him when things finally clicked and his deep groans were almost as good as the clench of him around Carter's cock.

"I wish you could see this," Carter said, staring down at the place their bodies joined. "You'd paint it."

"Take a picture then."

"Are you sure?"

"We'll delete it later."

"After you paint it."

"Maybe."

New York was a thousand degrees when they got back, the sweltering unforgiving humidity fucking with both their hair before they were even through customs. They went back to Carter's condo, not even entertaining the idea of the splitting up again. Jetlagged and hungover from their indulgences, they collapsed into his bed and slept for ten hours.

"We should go to the gym," Carter mumbled when they woke up.

"Fuck," Jean-Jacques said.

They went to the one at the practice rink and teased each other over their diminished capacity. It would return easily enough. A few of the other guys were there. They were talking about the playoffs, the cup game to come next week.

Carter hadn't watched a minute of hockey while they were away. He made the right noises, heard Jean-Jacques do the same.

"We forgot about hockey," Carter whispered to him when the conversation drifted to another set of machines, leaving them behind.

"We didn't forget," Jean-Jacques said reasonably. "We took a break."

"I forgot. I was just thinking about you."

Jean-Jacques froze and then he smiled, a little shyly at him. "Shut up, Vaughn."

"No," Carter said and winked at him.

They were still mostly speaking in French. It was hard to translate himself, but Carter enjoyed the challenge of it. It was weird to break into English again now that they were home as if he were climbing out of a pool to discover the air he'd breathed all his life had gone a little colder and sharper.

"Let's go back to mine tonight," Jean-Jacques said while Carter added weight to the leg press. "See if Scott and Kip want to go out tomorrow night."

Carter beamed at him and pushed through his next set of reps like the weights had turned to balloons.

That night, Carter would watch Jean-Jacques paint instead of watching the final game. He would pretend to care about who was winning so his boyfriend wouldn't stop. The posture alone was insane, a slump over the counter with a canvas propped up against a liter of water. None of it looked comfortable or practical.

Carter's guest room was going to see a lot less use now. He'd push the bed aside and get an easel, a small table and a stack of paper plates. Having the bed there would be convenient. Carter could doze while Jean-Jacques painted, then coax him into bed when he got frustrated with his colors.

Whenever Carter showered, he'd find tiny flecks of color on his skin. Carmine on his hip, turquoise on the arch of his foot, and rose madder on his neck. If anyone looked too closely at him in the locker room, they might wonder about it, but no one would. They wouldn't pair the color under Jean-Jacques' nails with the tiny chips of it in Carter's most vulnerable places.

"You're staring," Jean-Jacques said, glancing up from a painting that would one day soon hang by Carter's front door.

"Je t'aime," Carter said softly.

The brush clattered over the counter, sending up a spray of tiny blue dots. They clustered over Jean-Jacques' wrist. They smeared over Carter's fingertips a moment later. They kissed like they were starved for it, despite how they had glutted themselves for weeks.

"Je t'aime," Jean-Jacques said, lips still parted in shock. "We waited so long and now we're going so fast."

"Or we took our time and now we're here," Carter said and pulled him down onto the couch.

When they sat down to dinner with Scott and Kip, they didn't have to say a word. Scott looked between them and started laughing.

"Wow," Scott said. "Paris, huh? Kip, you want to go to France?"

"Yes, obviously," Kip said. "Maybe tomorrow. Holy shit."

Carter would give them the novelty Mona Lisa sweatshirts he'd gotten later. For now, he basked in being seen by the people he loved. Around them, the noise of the Kingfisher on a busy Friday night rose and fell. Under the table, Jean-Jacques' hand rested on his thigh.

"It wasn't France," Jean-Jacques said, eyes a little wild, but his smile undimmed. "Just him."