Fic: My father's father craves the earth - Part I

[bratri_ve_zbrani]

Title: My father's father craves the earth - Part I

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: Vladimir Sobotka/Blake Wheeler

Disclaimer: Never happened.

Note: A kink meme just ran away from me. It's a full blown fic now and I make no apologies. Any suggestions, criticisms - even ones that sting - are totally welcome. I probably need it. Also, Blake Wheeler and Vladimir Růžička, Jr. resemble each other somewhat, they're about the same height and weight.

 

 

Blake didn't realize how much he missed the cacophony of foreign languages until it starts coming back: first with Vladi as he spent more time in Boston than Providence, Krejci and him stuck to each other like Siamese twins, comfortable in each other space, then Miro in conversation with Chara, and Seidenberg in league with Marco.

 

Boston isn't the most diverse in terms of nationalities on the team; their roster isn't flooded with names that end in -ova or -ski or -strom or -berg, but they have enough to claim international flair. English is still the primary language, of course, but it doesn't take much effort to pick out the foreign words.

 

Marco and Dennis's language isn't the most pleasant one to listen to, like spicy food if you like that sort of thing, but it's intense and imbued with force in a way that matches their personalities. Blake can't really tell the difference between Czech and Slovak, and Miro tried to explain the minute differences but... he just gave the Slovak a blank look of incomprehension and they decided to leave it at that.

 

Still, he likes to let the vowels and consonants wash over him, the occasional French included, and when it's Vladi speaking, God, it's that much better.

 

It's just that he forgets. When it's just the two of them, Vladi makes an effort to speak English, which makes for frequent stops and pauses in their conversations. Then he'll hear Vladi speaking in Czech, especially with the occasional European media that show up, and the words will pour out of Vladi, rolling off his tongue in smooth succession like skates crossing over in flawless transition.

 

According to David, Vladi has a filthy, filthy mouth when he speaks in Czech, cursing under his breath after every bad play, and Blake only nods in agreement because it's so, so true but in a totally different way.

 

Still, he won't deny that it can get difficult not to feel left out; in the dressing room, on the ice, David and Vladi volley words back and forth at each other until Chara will skate over to laugh and intervene their foray of jest, and suddenly, their world seemed unattainable.

 

Silly, yes, how insanely jealous he feels sometimes, of David, of Miro, all of them who can get through to Vladi in a way he probably won't be able, even if he were to start picking up a foreign language tape right now. The irony of this is not lost on Blake.

 

But he thinks that he's a bit closer now.

 

Here.

 

Right here in Prague, Vladi is so completely in his element. The fondness that Vladi has for this city is palpable, his eyes alight and glowing with pride, and it's a reminder that Vladi must be more homesick than he ever lets on. Vladi tries hard to be mature - he often fails, but give the guy some credit here - and part of that seems to include hiding the pangs of nostalgia that touches everyone, including Blake, who's lucky enough to be on the same stretch of land he was born on.

 

What it must be like to be an ocean away, Blake can only imagine. Boston is a nice place; Blake knows that, Vladi knows that, but it's not home. Vladi really knows the streets of Prague the way he's grown to know the planes and lines of Blake's body, confident and without hesitation, tracing the subtleties like secret alleyways. Vladi wasn't born in the city, but he might as well have been.

 

He takes Blake to the apartment where he used to live, the river-side bench he carved his initials into, now faded and worn but the elements, the park he used to roam to clear his head.

 

After the afternoon skate, he drags Blake to a quaint little bar he used to frequent. Apparently he wants to introduce Blake to some of his former teammates from Slavia. There, Vladi is just like any other guy, exchanging handshakes and rough pats on the shoulder, grinning without the edge of discomfort caused by feeling out of place.

 

It's nice to see Vladi like this, shoulders loose, at ease. He tugs on Blake's arm and pulls him forward, babbling away in Czech, and Blake recognizes his name and hokej and Boston Bruins mixed into his introduction. Suddenly they're all shaking his hand. Most of them seem to know just enough English to say, good luck - for the game he presumes - and nice to meet you, Blake, and it's strange to hear his name pronounced like that outside of the bedroom.

The 'a' seems either prolonged or cut short and the 'k' is imbued with a hoarse undertone, but then again, Vladi calls him "Wheels" when they're out in public, except with a whistling 'v' sound instead of a proper 'w'.

 

And Blake loves that about him, loves that Vladi always leaves out the articles in English. That he's a softie on the inside and sniffled into Blake's shoulder when they watched Marley & Me on the laptop, curled into each other like newborn kittens on the couch. And he really, really likes this side of Vladi, too, because it's refreshing.

 

Vladi seems preoccupied, dragged away by one of his friends toward one of the back walls. Blake can't make out what they're saying, but they're pointing out old photograph that makes Vladi smile.

 

"You," a gruff voice says. The stranger's taken a seat beside Blake. "You play with Vladimir," his accent is thick and heavy, "Blake Wheeler, yes?"

 

"The one and only." The man he's talking to is a bit older, introduces himself as Marek; he's short but painted from head to toe in intimidation. Blake glances in Vladi's direction, wondering if this guy is another one of Vladi's odd group of friends.

 

"You two, you are friends?" he asks Blake.

 

"Of course."

 

"Then you know. Vladimir," Marek says, and Blake really wants to know how to say Vladi's name like that, all guttural and feral. These sounds, it's a tragedy they don't exist in English, in bed especially. But he needs to pay attention to what this guy's saying, "is a good person."

 

"Um… what?"

 

"But sometimes," Marek makes a vague hand gesture, as if he's searching for words, "he is... stupid," the guy's face loosens a little, and Blake laughs at this, chuckling. Vladi's usually pretty responsible but, yeah,  he does have some idiotic tendencies, especially when he's had too much to drink. "You," he reaches up to put a heavy hand on Blake's shoulder, "you watch him," Marek says, "protect him."

 

And he gets it.

 

This Marek guy, Blake has no idea who he is, but he's on Vladi's side; he wants Blake to look out for him because they both see the side of Vladi that's kind and pure and naïve: a good kid who gets stupid with the world sometimes, sends drunk messages in Czech and calls him at 2 AM, making no sense whatsoever.

 

He didn't need to be told though, not by Marek, not by anyone. He never realized he had a protective streak until he met Vladi. He never really had a jealous streak either - until he met Vladi, and it's rearing its ugly head right about now because the guy that dragged Vladi off is standing too close to him, arms too casually and intimately looped around Vladi's shoulder. Blake doesn't realize the fact he's making a face, all narrow eyes and pursed lips, until Marek laughs and pats his back a little too hard.

 

He stumbles from the force, which speaks to how deceptively strong this Marek guy must be, who's maybe a hair taller than Vladi, but Blake keeps his eyes fixed on Vladi, who's oblivious as always, and makes his way through the cramped tables and chairs.

 

Vladi beams at him as he approaches and takes Blake by the wrist, "Wheels! I want you to meet Růžou!" He has a hand on the elbow of his friend, who is looking at Vladi with just a tad too much fondness. "He is good friend."

 

This guy, Rujoe or whatever, is as tall as Blake and just a wide, hair a close shade of brown and blond and cut short like his own, eyes with the same hazel hue, and despite the fact that their facts are quite distinct, the similarities they share are so uncanny as to be disturbing, and it'sfucking with his head a bit.

 

"Blake," he introduces himself with a smile he hopes won't give away the mild mistrust pitting at his gut.

 

"Good to meet you," Růžou replies, his grip confident and dry, "Vlad'a speaks often of you." The words ease some of the jealousy, but Blake can't seem to get Vladi's friend from under his skin, not when the guy glances at where Vladi's hand wraps around his wrist and smirks knowingly.

 

"Likewise," Blake manages, giving a final nod before Vladi drags him toward the wall he was looking at.

"Look, me, seven years past." The wall has row of team photographs, and it's the oldest one with Vladi in it that he's pointing to.

 

The frame is marked 2002-2003.

 

He looks so young, so fucking young, but he hasn't really changed much either. The only real difference is the canary yellow hair, long and shaggy like a mop on his head. "You look like a twelve year old in this one," Blake says, knowing how Vladi feels about being underestimated in age.

 

"I was not twelve," Vladi says seriously, and it's so endearing that Blake ruffles his hair, not that there's much ruffling to do. He didn't do his usual ritual with the gel, and it's so soft, easy to reach with their height difference, and Vladi's overdue for a haircut. The strands slips through Blake fingers like feathers, smooth and inviting.

 

He can smell the faint whiff of the hotel shampoo, which brings so many dirty, perverted thoughts to mind and, god, he needs to get out here before he puts himself into some compromising position. He leans close to whisper, lips right against Vladi's ear.

 

"I want to fuck you," he whispers out of nowhere. "Vladimir." Saying it just the way that Marek said it, the Czech 'r' rolled just so.

 

He's a decent guy, more or less vanilla, but maybe it's the fact that they're both guys or something, but it pushes him to do reckless things, like whisper dirty talk with Vladi's friend standing three feet away. And Vladi stills, going suddenly boneless, and Blake really hopes that nobody saw the shudder that thrilled through Vladi and shook his spine just now because it might as well have been porn for all he cared.

 

That's for him to see, and it comes of as a bit possessive, another to add to the list of streaks he's already got going when it comes to Vladi. But so what? Sue him for it.

 

"I bet you'd let me fuck you on the bar right now. Right fucking here, in front of all your friends here."

 

Vladi's adam's apple shifts as he swallows; he nods to the things that Blake is whispering, reaching back surreptitiously to grasp Blake by the thigh though his hands aren't big enough. Hockey players have notoriously thick upper legs, and Vladi's hands aren't small but they're not particularly large either. They're warm though; Blake can feel them even through the denim, just like he can feel the blush creeping up Vladi's neck, his breaths coming in measured rhythm to get some semblance of control.

 

Goddamned intoxicating.

 

To know that he has this kind of effect on Vladi, it's addictive in the best of ways. Blake glances at the friend standing nearby, and it's his turn to smirk now, satisfied by the confusion he sees.

 

"Let's go," he says quietly, eyes locked with Růžou, and oh, that's definitely jealousy flaring in his eyes. Funny that.

 

It takes some time before they make it out of the bar; everyone wants to chat with Vladi, ask how he's doing, is Boston good to him, his new teammates, are they as good to him as they were, how he's not so skinny anymore but could still afford to put more muscle on that frame of him. Blake doesn't know, really, what they're asking him, but these are the things he imagines they would ask. He stays close behind, smiling in incomprehension, thinking this must be how Vladi feels in Boston sometimes, especially in the maelstrom of press and media buzzing around their dressing room before and after games.

 

So he says nothing really except for thank you in Czech when they pass him his third tap of beer. The bartender is a fan of the Bruins apparently and even more so now that Vladi's on the team. He complains in broken English how hard it is to catch games here, and he seems like a decent guy, like most of the people here.

 

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the kind of people someone surrounds himself with, and Blake can tell that Vladi has done well in that regard, even if he's not quite fond of that Růžou guy. He keeps looking at them with an expression that Blake can sympathize with. He would be upset, too, if someone else had Vladi the way he did. It's a guess, and it's something he will have to ask Vladi later at the risk of an answer he might have trouble accepting.

 

Mostly, though, he wants to drag to Vladi to the floor and have his way with him. He really must have thing for Czech, or rather, Czech from Vladi's mouth, because Blake is practically vibrating with anticipation, hands clenching in his pockets, afraid for what he might do if they weren't.

 

"Come on," he whispers. So he's impatient, but anyone in his position would be.

 

"I'm trying," Vladi hisses back, and it's another five minutes before they're finally, finally waving good bye and rushing down the streets.

 

"What did you tell them?"

 

"Team dinner."

 

He huffs at this in amusement, "Did they buy it?"

 

Vladi frowns, "buy what?"

 

"Uh, did they believe you, I mean."

 

"Ah, yes. I think so."He adds, "But… Marek, I do not know. He knows everything."

 

Blake nods; he kind of got that impression, too.