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“They think you’re so cool,” Henri said later at the hotel. “You could easily use your powers for evil. Get them to start some stupid trend or call you Big Dog.”

“I am a big dog,” Dylan said. They saw the line of guys waiting for the elevator and detoured to the stairs. They were only two floors up. “How would that be for evil?”

“Because that would be embarrassing for those young, impressionable minds.”

“You should call me Big Dog.” Dylan held the door open for him when they reached their floor. “It’d be cute.”

“I’m not young and impressionable.” He paused outside his room and raised an eyebrow. Dylan shrugged, so Henri opened the door and led them inside.

There was no routine when they traveled, other than secretly sharing a room. Sometimes there was sex (often there was sex), but not every night. There were days they were too tired to do more than turn on the TV and fall asleep together. Some nights they were physically spent but wired from a game, so they talked and talked, shared some cheap beer from the mini-bar, and talked some more.

As Dylan plopped down onto the bed, Henri tried to decipher which kind of night it would be. There was a low thrum of arousal that wouldn’t take much to ignite, but his current read on Dylan was that he was too distracted. If Henri initiated sex, Dylan would likely be receptive (he’d never been unreceptive). It was more trying to determine if that was the best use of their evening together when they wouldn’t get the chance tomorrow thanks to Sokolov.

And like that, Henri’s own interest in sex evaporated. Right. Talking, then.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Henri asked. He propped himself back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, a small attempt at a shield.

Dylan shot him a surprised look. “Why? It’s just a game. Yeah, they’re a divisional rival, but I've played Chicago a million times—” He stopped short when he caught Henri's unamused look. “Oh, right. Sorry, forgot who I was talking to. Uhh, nervous isn’t the right word. Alexei doesn’t make me nervous. If he thought it wouldn’t go well meeting his fiancée, he wouldn’t let it happen until the wedding when we’d all have to play nice.”

Henri reeled at how casually Dylan dropped Sokolov’s manipulative tactics. Somehow it was worse that Dylan wasn’t judging him for it.

This is just the way he is.

Henri didn’t know how to respond, but luckily Dylan didn't need him to.

“It’s just...a thing I gotta do tomorrow. It’s taking up space in the back of my mind, and I don’t like that. It feels more like an errand I don’t want to do and can’t keep putting off anymore. Which makes me feel guilty, because seeing a friend when I’m in town shouldn’t feel like an errand. And then I get annoyed because it’s not my fault that it’s not the way it used to be. And I’ve got Nover on my ass about the whole thing.” He let out a breath that was more groan than anything else. “I want it to be Friday.”

“Friday isn’t that far off,” Henri soothed. What he wanted to say was, “Then don’t go. No one is making you. No one would blame you if you said no. Say no. Spend the night with me.”

But it wasn’t his place to say it. He couldn’t even be sure if he wanted that for Dylan or for his own selfish reasons.

It was stupid to be jealous. He trusted Dylan, even though he thought little of Sokolov. Perhaps it wasn’t jealousy but envy. For all those years shared and the history that could never be unwritten between them.

“Friday is a million fucking years away.” Dylan sighed and leaned back against the headboard. He stared into space with an intensity that made him look like a general about to go to war.

Henri sat down next to him and placed a tentative hand on his bare knee. Instantly, Dylan blinked and smiled at him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Henri said. “What do you need?”

Dylan yawned. “A time machine. And failing that, someone to hold so I can fall asleep.”

“You’re getting old, Everett," he teased. “It’s only ten.”

“You’re getting mean, Baptiste,” Dylan quipped back. “Keeping my boyfriend from me. I’m old and need my sleep, and I can’t relax without him.”

He held his arms wide, and Henri fell into them without hesitation. He buried his face in Dylan’s neck to hide. Had Dylan really said that? Had he meant it? How was he supposed to react? He kissed the hot skin next to Dylan’s pulse. His heart was running like a jackrabbit being hunted. Henri couldn’t say nothing.

“Boyfriend, eh?”

Dylan drew a hand through Henri’s hair, pressing the tips of his fingers into the skin. Henri’s toes curled.

“Is that okay?”

Yes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been a boyfriend. I might not be good at it.”

Another yawn. “You’re the best at everything, Hen. You’re a top-tier boyfriend for sure.” He kissed the top of Henri’s head. “Thanks for putting up with…this. Chicago.”

Henri sighed. He laid his head on Dylan’s chest and traced the hairs on Dylan’s arm when he slung it around Henri.