Fic: Imperfection: Quid Pro Quo

[bratri_ve_zbrani]

Title: Imperfection: Quid Pro Quo

Rating: R for mild sex

Pairings: Vladimir Sobotka/Alexei Kovalev

Disclaimer: Never happened.

Note: A LOT of creative license taken here. It would help to know that Kovalev had a resurgence after a bad '06-'07 season and had a strong '07-'08. This happened to coincide with Sobotka's first season in America '07-'08. This is based on the repercussions of a chance meeting during the summer of '07 (which didn't actually happen, I'm just laying it out there as background info). The story itself occurs post-season of '09-'10 (summer 2010). I'm also ignoring the fact that Kovalev probably can't walk b/c of his torn ACL...

 

READ THE NOTE BEFORE YOU READ THE FIC. It will make a bit more sense.

 

 

Vladimir is a light sleeper; anything louder than a whisper chases his dreams and pries open his eyes. He jerks awake, momentarily confused by darkness and blinded by wakefulness. 

 

He's dreaming of the playing hockey with teammates of skeletons, bones held together by dry sinews and skulls where faces should be. Strangely enough, he is not terrified, merely reminded of the bone church his grandfather took him to when he was young. He was four then and too young to know that he was awestruck by the remains of the deceased.

 

A bony defenceman is crushing him into the boards when the rink drops away, and he blinks up at his bedroom ceiling. It's the sound of his front door closing quietly that caught his sleeping ears, followed by familiar footsteps in his living room. He's awake but still disoriented, and he stares for a while at the sliver of light seeping through the crack under the bedroom door.

 

His arm feels too heavy, his fingers tangled, and he grapples with the cell phone on the night stand as he pulls himself to a sitting position.

 

Quarter to two.

 

There are two people with the keys to this apartment, and only one of them who would show up at such ungodly hours.

 

"Alexei?" He calls out, peeking his head through the doorway of his bedroom.

 

A duffel bag has been haphazardly tossed on the couch, a suit jacket draped on the armrest.

 

He clears his throat this time, wincing as it catches dry, before calling out again. "Alexei?"

 

"Volodya?" The aforementioned intruder emerges from the kitchen looking apologetic, "I'm sorry… I must have woken you." His fingers are curled around a cup with an amber liquid that Vladimir knows is not apple juice even though he himself keeps no alcohol in his own apartment.

 

It's the Duty-Free bag on the coffee table.

 

He shrugs, less concerned about losing sleep than he is for Alexei, who must sense his worry. "What?"

 

Vladimir's eyes fall on the drink in his hand. "Are you drinking again?"

 

It's not much of a welcome back or welcome home or welcome anything, but he's gripped by fear at the thought that Alexei might hurt himself.

 

"What? No," He answers. "I mean, this one, yes, but not like that."

 

Vladimir believes him. He believes everything Alexei tells him unconditionally.

 

"This is my first drink since my last visit, actually."

 

"Okay." He closes the distance between them, gently pulls the cup from Alexei's hands, and keeps his eyes locked with Alexei's as he downs the rest of the drink entire glass, grimacing at bit at the end.

 

Alexei watches Vladimir with a hint of astonishment, brows climbing halfway up his forehead. The young Czech does the strangest thing sometimes.

 

"Thirsty?"

 

The cup settles on the counter with a clink, and Vladimir tiptoes to brush his scotch-tinted lips against Alexei's. "I thought you were still in Moscow," he says, fingers already working themselves down the buttons of Alexei's shirt.He might have been asleep a few minutes ago, but he knows where this should be headed. At least, he knows where he wants it to be headed.

 

"I was." Alexei's hands slip under the threadbare fabric of Vladimir's shirt, cool against sleep-warmed skin. "Up until about twelve hours ago."

 

Alexei's fingers are coarse and callused, and as they graze over pale skin, Vladimir shudders at the touch and presses closer to his erstwhile lover. "You said you were going to stay until the end of summer," he murmurs against Alexei's throat. "How was the flight?"

 

"That was my original plan, but... Moscow has changed," he answers by way of explanation, "and it's not very interesting without hockey. As for the flight... the usual."

 

"The usual hell, you mean. But why Boston?" Vladimir says, groaning when Alexei pushes him against the partial wall separating the living room from the kitchen.

 

"Vacation. I got us tickets."

 

"Did you?" he buries his finger into Alexei's hair. He absolutely loves Alexei's hair, "what to?"

 

"Red Sox." He seems awfully proud of himself. "First row seats. It's baseball," he adds as if Vladimir might not be privy to the team that may as well masquerade as a religion in the city. Once the Bruins were eliminated from the conference finals, baseball overshadows everything within hitting distance these days.

 

"I've heard baseball players have a great ass."

 

Alexei chuckles, "I prefer yours," moving his hands over Vladimir's and squeezing lightly to make his point.

 

"I know you do."

 

"Any day," he adds, sliding his hands under Vladimir's shirt, "raise your arms."

 

Vladimir obliges. "And you," he insists, "You, too," because he really cannot wait to see his Alexei naked again, feel him skin on skin.

 

"Volodya," Alexei kisses him on the nose as his shirt pops over his head, leaving his shock of blond hair in disarray, "so impatient."

 

"So are you," he says because he can feel the Russian's erection pressing hot against his hip. He wraps his arms around Alexei's neck and rubs against him full body, hooking an ankle around Alexei's calf. He loves being twenty-two, almost twenty-three now, when sleepiness is no obstacle for his libido, and he plans to take advantage of his youth with Alexei as much and as long as humanly possible.

 

Alexei moans, and Vladimir grins up at him, biting his lip. He loves that he can do this to Alexei, with Alexei, and his face kind of hurt from smiling so much, utterly giddy with happiness that Alexei came all the way to see him. He disregards the twinge in his right cheek where it pulls slightly from a fresh scar where the stitches pulled out just two day ago.

 

Occupational hazard.

 

They've learned by now to disregard them by now, but Alexei still brushes his lips against the new strip of pale white skin before kissing him in earnest, licking into Vladimir's mouth. He tastes like scotch, they both do.

 

He pushes Vladimir up against the wall, pleased when Vladimir sighs at the pressure then squirms impatiently because he wants to Alexei to "move, damn it!" but his bare feet don't touch the hardwood floor anymore when the it's the pressure of Alexei's body holding him up.

 

Vladimir really gets off on this. It's kind of nice to be pinned like this - much preferable to getting mercilessly plastered point blank against plexiglass - and his hips thrust involuntarily, helplessly against Alexei.

 

"Bedroom, Alexei," he whispers, keening "the bedroom."

 

"Not here?"

 

"Kind of," he winces at the way his spine is grinding against the wall, "uncomfortable."

 

"It is," Alexei agrees and gently eases him down.

 

Vladimir loves this about Alexei. On the ice, he is such a force, fearless without reservation, yet he's so gentle and careful with his lover. If anything, Vladimir has never met someone more anguished to leave even so much as the faintest trace of a bruise. The Russian has a past that could have made him into a darker person, yet he isn't and Vladimir is convinced that there is an outlasting quality in Alexei, an incorruptible soul that made him look a second time the first night they met.

 

All season long, he dreaded and anticipated in equal measure the games against Ottawa. He played all of them… uncomfortably, trying to skate and sit still while half hard with his concentration was shot to hell. Instead of keeping track of the play, his eyes strayed too often to Alexei, utterly enthralled. On the rare occasion that their eyes met, those moments were enough to drown out the stadium roar.

 

Once, they got into a scrum after Jared Cowen tried to board Michael Ryder behind the net, and in the ensuing fight, Vladimir stupidly volunteered himself while Shawn Thornton watched in disbelief. He wasn't thinking at all, just spurred by the fact that he hated to watch Alexei get into these fights, however uncommon it might be. "Leash your fucking dogs," he'd yelled, "They're going to kill somebody one day." It wasn't anything incendiary, just something his junior coach in Prague used to say to the other coach when their goons went out of line.

 

When Alexei shouted back, "Trust me, I know exactly how to keep a bitch under control." Vladimir remembers the cold sadness that made his lash out blindly though the referees held him back before he could throw a real punch. He skated back to the bench, no penalties for either team, face burning in shame and hurt and pain, and pointedly ignored Alexei's anguished gaze the remaining fifteen minutes of the game.

 

Later that night, he let Alexei sit outside his apartment door for half an hour, listening to his apologies through the door. In reality, he'd forgiven him the moment the game ended, but he was trying to call his anger, too, and remind himself the emotions express themselves every differently during a game. That it was neither of their fault.

 

They blurted "I'm sorry" at the same time when he finally opened the door and that was that.

 

Besides, he didn't want to waste time being angry at Alexei.

 

Like now, his heart fills up with warmth when Alexei takes him by the hand, cool fingers wrapping around his warm ones, and leads him toward the bedroom. He follows captivated by the shift of muscle on Alexei's back, and while he's not sleep drunk anymore, arousal and exhaustion is a one-two punch that makes him pliable and complacent. He smiles when Alexei backs him against the door, cups his neck, thumbs tucked under his jaw, and kisses him again, wet and slow this time.

 

Still, he has enough urgency to reach down for the belt on Alexei's jeans.

 

Alexei's breath hitches as Vladimir reaches under the edge of his boxers and curls his fingers around Alexei. "I want you to fuck me," he whispers, lips pressed to the lobe of Alexei's ear, just because he likes to talk lewdly and watch Alexei's eyes turn dark with want and lust.

 

He snickers when Alexei actually does pick him up this time.

 

Vaguely, he's aware he shouldn't be so glad that another man can do this to him but Alexei is laying him down on the bed so carefully, like he's a 1000-piece puzzle he so carefully put together and might fall to pieces before him. It's a fitting metaphor he thinks.

 

Their relationship didn't come about overnight though it feels that way sometimes, the way the fit and move in tandem like gears in clockwork. The circumstances are always aligned against them, poised under the knife of distance and pinned by the constant assault of caution and paranoia. No, they came together slowly, piece by piece, sometimes at the wrong place the wrong time, and they toiled to make this work. The hurt they shed to carefully construct what is now theirs, it goes a long way to explain why they're so good to each other and careful not to ruin a good thing so meticulously and carefully constructed.

 

It makes it that much more precious when they can touch each other this.

 

Vladimir lifts his hips when Alexei pulls on his boxers and squirms , hands grasping the bunched up fabric of his sheets. He feels exposed, lying naked when Alexei is still half dressed, sitting back on his heels, but being vulnerable to Alexei is safety at its best.

 

He feels untouchable to anything but Alexei

 

"I want to see you," he whines.

 

"You do see me."

 

"I'm serious. I want to see you naked."

 

Alexei smirks, moves infuriatingly slowly, folding his pants and even tucking his socks into a ball. The meticulous son of a bitch, he does this just to get him worked up, knowing that Vladimir's much improved patience goes only so far as his age can take it. It's worth it though, when Alexei settles over him, skin on skin from head to toe, and Vladimir arches against him and reaches up to run his finger through Alexei's hair.

 

Has he mentioned how much he loves Alexei's hair. He's confessed this to Alexei, who pretended to be offended and asked if Vladimir would still love him if he ever went bald. Vladimir told him that with all the fancy stuff he puts his hair through, he would have lost his hair long ago if he had to genes for it.

 

He shifts to reach for the night stand and grabs haphazardly at the lube and condoms. He finds the fancy bottle, next to the Czech bible, and something else rolling around next to it.

 

Vladimir is laughing hard at the stunned expression on Alexei's face, "don't ask. Just, don't ask."

 

"Later," he says, but he's already picturing the young Czech doing all kinds of dirty things to himself, "you can show me."

 

Vladimir's about to come up with some witty reply when he gasps at the shock of cold gel and closes his eyes, willing his body to relax. It's been a while after all, and he moans through the first, second, then third fingers, and he tries to talk through his shaky breath when Alexei curls his fingers and something white hot spreads through his gut. His toes curl  and he draws up his knees further.

 

"I'm ready," he pants impatiently, "Alexei." He spreads his legs farther, blushing at his own boldness, but he doesn't know how else to convey his need. "please," he whimpers, "prosím, Пожалуйста." If Alexei doesn't move, it thinks he might just start sobbing from desperation.

 

Alexei pushes into him slowly, gritting his teeth from the effort of holding himself back, cursing when Vladimir jerks up against him. He can't seem to stop moving, heels digging into the mattress, the stomach muscles jumping, "Více, prosím. Více."

 

"Stop," he rests his on Vladimir's hip, just against the deep of bone and muscle, which only makes him twitch from the touch. "I don't want to hurt you."

 

"You won't." He rolls his eyes; sometimes, Alexei treats him as if Vladimir has never done this before, which he would appreciate if it were true. "Верьте мне."

 

Trust me.

 

He uses the little Russian he knows often because Alexei likes it, a lot, when he does, just the same way he's touched when Alexei makes an effort to pick up a little bit of Czech here and there.

 

Alexei smiles at the Russian words. He hopes that he'll understand everything Vladimir tries to tell him one day - they bought each other language learning CD's and he listens to his during road trips and on the plane. He wants to give everything he has to offer, even if it makes his head hurt, for this precious person that brought him hope. He has never met someone who can smile so candidly, uphold such unconditional compassion. He's not the most religious man, but he knows this is what it must mean to be blessed. To have Vladimir like this - what a privilege, what honor - to be given the opportunity to cherish him like this.

 

"Моя aнгел," he whispers. My angel.

 

"What did you say?" Vladimir asks. He wraps his legs around Alexei's waist and tugs, pulling him down.

 

"You want to know?"

 

"Hmm…" He shifts his hips, urging Alexei to move, and tightens himself around Alexei's cock for good measure. "My something, you said," he says, breathing in little huffs. "What am I?"

 

"My angel. I called you my angel."

 

Vladimir laughs at this and the vibrations are nearly enough to break Alexei. He reaches for a pillow and grips Vladimir just below the waist, "Arch your back a bit," and slides it under, Vladimir sighs at the eased pressure and grips Alexei by the arm.

 

"Better?"

 

Vladimir huffs in frustration and grinds his hips, "Come on."

 

Alexei thrusts in earnest, his eyes fixed on Vladimir, sinking into the tight heat, and the soft whimpers he can elicit is wholly gratifying. He feels consumed, delivered, by the feel of being inside someone he loves.

 

It's Vladimir who comes first, he usually is, spilling into Alexei's hand and coating his fingers. After that, it's Alexei who's the desperate one while Vladimir who moans languidly, spread out soft and supple in Alexei's arms despite the hard planes of muscle that make it that much more intoxicating and addictive.

 

People don't know, they just don't know the joy of having a lover happy to receive anything offered to him unconditionally, and when Vladimir arches his back to rub himself on Alexei's stomach, he comes a second time in a deceptively quiet fashion and Alexei follows, moaning into Vladimir's mouth.

 

Vladimir is too gone and tired to complain about the weight on top of him, and he hisses a bit when Alexei pulls out. It really had been a while, hadn't it?

 

"You okay?" He asks for the umpteenth time.

 

"I'm fine, just a bit sticky," he glances at his stomach and at Alexei, who looks down at the mess and grimaces.

 

"I'll be back."

 

The bed shifts and tilts, and Vladimir watches him heading toward the bathroom, admiring the view and grinning at himself. He rolls onto his side, tossing the pillow somewhere off the foot of the bed, and he shifts and turns to his side,  feeling the wet warmth trickle out, and whimpers. That was just, god, he surprises himself sometimes. If he weren't so completely spent...

 

Alexei walks out of the bathroom with a wet washcloth in hand to the sight of Vladimir writhing and shifting on the bed, looking thoroughly debauched. He rubs his face and tries to shake off the onslaught of lust and want. He could again tonight, but Vladimir was looking utterly exhausted when he first woke up and right now he looks... completely debauched. He chuckles at the thought of a debauched angel. As silly - and maybe even blasphemous - as it sounds, he thinks this is exactly how it would look.

 

"You sure you're okay?" he asks again, just to be sure.

 

The dopey smile he gets in response is answer enough. He moves Vladimir's limbs like a marionette master, and he's amused by the way they drop like putty as he cleans Vladimir almost reverently, keeping his touch gentle as the washcloth dips against the inner thighs and between his legs.

 

Vladimir smiles with drooping eyes, and Alexei wonders if knows that they just forgot the condom or if he's just too tired to care right now. "I forgot the, uh, the condom," he says.

 

The smile gets wider and Vladimir shrugs though it's more of a slight movement of his shoulders.

 

Relieved, Alexei settles down beside Vladimir, pulls the cover over them both and turns out the lamp light, content to be in this cocoon of happiness.

 

He's almost certain that Vladimir is asleep when he hears the whispered "I love you," words slow and slurred in the drug of post-coital, pre-dream state haze. "Я тебя люблю, Я тебя люблю."

 

He laughs. The accent is almost perfect. "Said it enough?"

 

"I'll say it until you believe me," Vladimir mumbles against his skin.

 

"I do believe you."

 

He feels the impression of a chin on his shoulder, and he knows that the young Czech is looking at him. "Not always," Vladimir says plaintively, crawling to drape himself on top of Alexei. He props up his elbows on the much broader chest. He is by no means light, but Alexei has never once complained about this somewhat awkward position.

 

The night light in the bathroom is just enough to expose the sadness in Vladimir's eyes and the truth about he's just said, Alexei wants to look away in guilt.

 

What Vladimir says is true. Most of the time, he believes that he is loved.

 

But it's most of the time.

 

Occasionally, he has his doubts. Not because of anything Vladimir does or says, but he went thirty-two years before he found Vladimir. Thirty-two might be a blink of an eye to some higher observer, but to him, it felt like a never ending shift, running ragged as time ticked by.

 

How is he supposed to show gratitude to someone who turned his life around, someone who brought the spark he  had lost and fueled it unconditionally with their devotion? He wonders where he would be today if he hadn't met Vladimir that summer three years ago, the young man who he'd underestimated.

 

Vladimir who didn't judge him.

 

Even the recent troubles, the free agency, the rumors, the criticism, Vladimir was an unwavering anchor.

 

Alexei has long been a skeptic of most good things in life, but with Vladimir, it's so easy to believe they're true. But old habits are hard to break and don't they say that good things never last>

 

"Моя aнгел," he says, mute for any other adequate response.

 

"Alexei," Vladimir sighs and his voice turns solemn. If there was one thing difficult about loving Alexei, it's the belief he has in Vladimir that he doesn't want to disappoint. "'I'm too flawed," he says softly, "as are you."

 

"I know."

 

"Do you?"

 

"Yes," he says, decisively.

 

"Okay," the rueful smile on Vladimir tells him everything he needs to know, "alright."