Chapter Text
Chapter 9
Theo can’t sleep.
He thinks that's probably fair considering all the … everything that happened that night. Only, it’s not his parents that he’s thinking about when he finally stops trying to will himself into dream land. It’s Dev.
It’s: I’ve known people like that.
It’s: I wasn’t always this size.
Theo reaches for his phone on the nightstand, opens a new browser window, and searches: Dev Asan.
The first dozen or so results are all about the draft (twenty-third pick, first round) and his team’s performance at World Juniors the year before (a hard-fought American gold medal, an undisclosed injury). He’s not even sure what he’s looking for, but on the second page of results, Theo sees an r/hockey Reddit headline:
Asan a no-show for draft combine after “altercation” with former World Juniors teammate Spencer Braxton.
He clicks into the thread.
A week after video footage was shared online of draft prospect Dev Asan getting into an “altercation” with former World Juniors teammate and current Milwaukee Wolves player Spencer Braxton, he’s now failed to show up for the draft combine, despite committing to attend. No news as to why, but from last reports he’ll be missing scheduled meetings with the Wolves, Captains, and Hounds.
EDIT: Asan posted a vague apology citing personal reasons but I’m not sure I buy it. Has anyone seen his face since the fight with Braxton?
The first comment, with a number of upvotes that Theo finds disgusting is:
No one has seen the kids face outside a hockey helmet in years. 😷😂
Followed by:
Not surprised. Asan has always been a diva. Which has an embedded thread of responses 43 comments long that’s mostly comprised of people calling each other stupid.
Next is:
Pour one out for everyone who was betting on Asan going first round.
That has a similar argument thread beneath it with comments both agreeing and disagreeing like:
Your delusional if you think skipping the combine is gonna drop him from the first round. Hes one of the best blueliners on the US world junior team the last two years. His play speaks for itself.
Another is:
I’d punch Braxton too, if I could reach that high.
Theo opens a new tab and Googles: Spencer Braxton.
There are a lot more results.
He’s also a defensive player, big and smarmy looking and has a smile that Theo is certain cannot be his actual teeth. He was drafted thirteenth overall three years before to the Pens, was traded to the Wolves after two seasons, and played on two US World Juniors teams.
Theo opens another tab and searches: Dev Asan + Spencer Braxton.
He looks at the number of results—the first page is all videos with the same thumbnail of a dark club interior—and abruptly decides he needs to adjust his approach.
Is it weird that he spends the next five minutes quietly moving his PC, keyboard, and one of his monitors into the bathroom so he can use the outlet by the sink, sit sideways on the closed toilet, and open PyCharm?
Probably.
Is it weird that he’s writing code at 2am to query a news API for articles that include
person_one = "Dev Asan"
person_two = "Spencer Braxton"
with parameters filtering for text articles in English or French, sorted by timestamp, descending?
Also probably.
He spends another five minutes debugging the script—stupid fucking missing curly bracket, stupid fucking Python—before running it and skimming the results.
There’s one cluster of articles from earlier that year with timestamps that match up with the draft combine. Then nothing for nearly three years prior. There’s another cluster about the 2022 US World Juniors team and Theo clicks into one of the English headlines, scrolling through the roster that includes a headshot of Dev.
He looks … small.
His cheeks are hollow in the way that teenagers look when they’re growing too fast. His eyes are dark and serious. His mouth is a flat line.
The article lists the players’ statistics and ages, and one thing immediately stands out: Dev is the youngest at sixteen. And only barely sixteen. Braxton, the captain, is nineteen.
Theo tabs back to the results and scrolls through a few other articles, translating the French ones, but they’re more of the same.
There’s only one additional story from a year prior to that, a small publication highlighting upcoming talent. It notes Dev, fifteen, had just joined a U16 AAA team. But the only overlap in the article is a one-sentence reminder that Braxton, currently on a U18 team, slated to attend World Juniors, and likely first-round draft pick, had previously been part of the same U16 team.
Theo sighs, scrubs a hand over his gritty eyes, and goes back to Google to find the video—sound off.
It’s short: 18 seconds of shadowed club footage. Dev is standing, hood up but no mask, against a wall, looking painfully uncomfortable, hand knotted in the strap of his bag. Braxton walks in front of him. He leans in close, says something that makes Dev take a step to the side, sliding along exposed brick, except Braxton follows him. He reaches out to knock off Dev’s hat, fists his hand in Dev’s hair, and drags him forward again, Dev’s head twisted at an uncomfortable angle so he can yell something in Dev’s face.
Dev punches him.
It’s a good hit.
Except Theo doesn’t get to see the aftermath because someone steps in front of the camera, the angle abruptly changes to show the filmer’s shoes, and then it ends.
Theo downloads the video, imports it into his editing software and scrolls through it slowly, frame by frame, zoomed in on Dev’s face. There’s not much he can do about the quality aside from upping the sharpness and decreasing the blackpoint—there’s no magical “enhance” mode, despite what movies might lead one to believe—but it’s enough that he can see Dev’s expression better.
And Theo isn’t surprised that he mostly looks angry. If someone had grabbed Theo’s hair like that, regardless of the words that accompanied the action, he’d be pissed too.
But it’s not just anger.
He zooms in until the footage pixelates. Zooms back out. Slides frame by frame as Dev’s arm rears back—forward—back—forward.
Here, it’s anger. No question.
But before …
Theo rewinds further. Braxton knocking off Dev’s hat. Braxton curling his fingers into Dev’s hair. Braxton pulling.
There. Right there, when Braxton first drags him forward. When, for a moment, Dev is forced to look up at him to meet his eyes.
There, it’s fear.
Theo leans back, fingers laced behind his neck, and chews on his lip, studying Dev’s frozen face.
I’ve known people like that, Theo thinks.
I wasn’t always this size, Theo thinks.
He saves the video and tabs back to the first 2022 World Juniors article. Dev’s height is listed as only 5’ 11,” weight 170lbs, as compared to Braxton: 6’ 2” and 210lbs. Theo checks their current stats: Dev: 6’ 4” 230lbs, Braxton: still 6’ 2” and 215lbs. So not a massive difference, back in juniors, but certainly enough for a 19-year-old captain to bully a newly 16-year-old rookie. Enough for bad blood. Enough for a fight.
Theo shifts back to PyCharm, writing two new scripts: one to curate a list of any existing news articles about Spencer Braxton with filters on key words like “misconduct,” “altercation,” and “controversy,” and one with a whileTrue: loop and time.sleep(30) addition accompanying the first script’s parameters to run indefinitely and alert him if any new articles appear.
He’s tabbing back to look at the results from the initial request when he’s inhospitably reminded of his physical location by a knock on the door.
“Theo?” Dev says.
Fuck.
“...yes?” Theo answers.
There’s an uncertain pause.
“I was waiting for you to finish whatever you’re doing, but it’s been ten minutes and from the light under the door it looks like you’re having a rave in” — Dev turns the handle; opens the door — “here.” He takes in Theo’s position with a bemused expression.
Theo tries to look casual.
Which is difficult considering he’s sitting on a toilet in his pajamas with a keyboard propped on his bent knees, hunched like a gremlin toward the monitor on the counter next to a psychedelic PC precariously balanced in the sink basin.
“I needed to check my email,” Theo says stoically.
Dev, eyebrows judgemental, only responds, “Sure, that’s plausible. Can I pee, now?”
***
They get back to the house just past lunchtime to a pile of delivery boxes on the front porch and no one in sight. Dev inputs the key code Eli had given him and they tumble over the threshold, loaded down with bags of Theo’s stuff.
By the third trip, Eli, Alex, Sydney, and Matts have all appeared, traipsing in from the back porch to stand in the entryway. Sydney and Matts look like they’ve been in the pool. Alex is gleaming under a coat of suntan oil. Eli is wearing a flowy kaftan, oversized sunglasses, and a black wide-brimmed hat that makes him look like a grieving widow whose wealthy husband met an untimely and potentially suspicious demise. Hawk, despite her close proximity to Eli, appears innocent of any wrongdoing.
“I got your note,” Eli says, tone indicating he has questions.
Theo had stolen a Post-it from the hall calendar, written
Dev and I are headed up to Vanderbilt to get my stuff. Back tomorrow. —Theo
and left it on the counter the morning before.
Alex looks like he’s examining them for injuries. “Everything go okay?” he asks.
“It was fine. Got all my stuff.”
Theo trips for the second time on one of the boxes and bends down, dragging it over the threshold with a groan. “Holy shit. What’s in this? A body?”
“Oh,” Eli says congenially, “does Amazon deliver corpses now?”
“I know some people I’d like to send corpses to,” Alex murmurs.
“I know some people I’d like to be the corpses,” Sydney says.
“Who?” Matts asks with a gravity that maybe they should all find concerning.
“No,” Sydney answers.
“It’s a weighted blanket.” Dev bends to open the box. “I left mine in Montreal, so.”
His hood is pulled up, but he isn’t wearing a mask—hasn’t worn one for the entire morning—and Theo feels weirdly proud about that.
“You need help unloading?” Matts asks.
“Nah, we’re almost done. Thanks, though.”
“Well, we’re day drinking by the pool if you’d like to join us,” Eli says, toasting them with the crystal goblet in his hand.
Theo salutes and they troop back outside, Eli saying something about forcing Matts to go get his guitar. Theo and Dev carry their haul up the stairs to their rooms before reconvening in the kitchen to raid the refrigerator for lunch.
Dev doesn’t change, not that Theo expected him to, but Theo takes advantage of the fact that he now has access to his clothing again and digs out a pair of swim trunks and a rash guard.
He notices Dev’s attention as he considers his food options and waits to see if Dev is just going to stare or actually say something.
Eventually, he does. “Worried about sunburn?”
It’s a question couched in another question and Theo could take it as slight—an invitation to an argument. But he’s also starting to become acclimated to Dev’s brand of awkwardness, so he stifles his knee-jerk response and pauses, head in the refrigerator, before leaning back to meet Dev’s eyes, giving him and his hoodie an obvious once-over. “Are you?”
Dev winces in a way that’s meant to be seen. “Sorry. Is it––I figured you’d prefer to be shirtless to swim. After…” his hand makes an aborted movement that likely is meant to encapsulate their first bathroom encounter. Only Theo isn’t actually that brash, as much as he’d like to be. Not when he’s slept and isn’t riding dangerously high on a combination of hurt and anger.
Theo grabs a yogurt at random, pulling the top as he hip-checks the refrigerator door closed.
“I worked hard for this body. And I wanted it for a lot longer. Since before it was possible. So now that I have it I’m, you know, proud of it.”
“You should be,” Dev says.
“Yeah? You saying I’m hot?”
“Objectively,” he mutters.
Theo grins, licking the lid. “But I’m also not quite confident enough to just…” he makes his own weird little hand gesture.
“Unless you’re trying to bait people you think might be transphobic?”
Point to Dev. Theo allows that with a nod.
“What would you have done if I was? I’m––” Dev pauses, like maybe he’s talked himself into a corner and isn’t sure if he should continue. His voice drops as his brow furrows, words apologetic despite being true. “I’m a lot bigger than you.”
Theo tries not to let that chafe. “I was looking for a fight,” he admits. “It’d been a long day. I was pissed. And I can handle the average guy, even someone your size, if I can get them on the ground. Not that I’d need to, considering Eli is here. Did he show you the gun safe? Queer people from Alabama scare me.”
Dev doesn’t appear particularly reassured by any of that.
“Turns out I was the asshole in that situation, though.” It occurs to Theo he still hasn’t apologized for that. It feels simpler, now, under Dev’s concerned gaze. “Sorry.”
Theo sticks his tongue directly into the yogurt pot because he doesn’t remember where spoons are.
“Are you going to do the top surgery thing?”
“Dev Asan,” Theo exclaims. “Have you been googling?”
“Maybe.”
Theo is delighted. “I am, yeah. I was originally planning for fall this year, but that’s on hold until I get new insurance sorted out. I didn’t have much boob to start with, so I’m doing keyhole surgery.”
“What’s that?”
“Not enough Googling, apparently,” Theo says loftily once he’s swallowed, but he continues nonetheless. “Basically they pop your nipples off, remove the tissue, and then sew them back on.”
Dev hisses through his teeth, grabbing his own pecs. “Jesus. Ow?”
“I mean, I’ll be asleep for it. And then they’ll have me on some good drugs after. But the recovery isn’t bad, from what I’ve heard. And then I’ll be done. The T already has me like 90% happy with the way I look. And I’m not sure I want to do anything downstairs.”
Dev looks like he’s trying really hard not to think about Theo’s downstairs. He glances at Theo’s trunks, seems to realize where he’s looking, and immediately, purposely, redirects his attention to Theo’s face.
“T is testosterone?” he asks, strangled.
Theo doesn’t laugh at him because that would be mean, and not mean in the way Dev seems to like. He takes another bite and talks around it. “Yup. That’s why I’ve got a sharps bucket in the bathroom cabinet. I inject myself weekly. It’s kind of a miracle, though it’s also done some things I didn’t necessarily want.”
“Things like what?”
“Like it took six months for my voice to start changing, but ass hair?” He licks the spoon clean. “Week two. Bodies are the worst.”
“You do not have a hairy ass,” Dev argues. “You hardly have leg hair.”
“Excuse you.” Theo sets the yogurt aside so he can hook one thumb in his waistband and pull it down his hip. “Exhibit A.”
Dev huffs as he comes around the island. “Please. That? It’s so blonde you can’t even…”
And then.
And then that’s Dev’s hand.
On his ass.
Warm and calloused and warm and—
“Aw,” Dev says, “it’s fuzzy. Like a peach.”
Theo wants to be outraged except it’s hard to generate outrage because. Hand. Ass.
“It is not.”
“It is.” Dev gives him another considering pet and Theo does not think about the fact that Dev’s hand can entirely span one of his butt cheeks with room to spare. He doesn’t.
“Or like,” Dev continues, oblivious to Theo’s minor mental breakdown and the fact that his still-moving thumb is actively contributing to it. “Have you ever touched a hairless cat? They have a sort of fine downy thing going on. It’s similar.”
“My ass does not feel like a hairless cat, what is wrong with you?”
“I did say peach first, but you didn’t like that.”
Theo tries to wrench away except Dev’s fingers are now well inside his trunks, and the elastic waistband is not helping Theo’s attempts at separation. Instead, he manages to trip on his own feet, dragging Dev with him, resulting in an awkward half-collapse against the refrigerator. Dev smells like coffee and throws heat like a furnace and is stupidly, needlessly huge as he grins down at Theo, laughing.
Everything is terrible.
“Hey guys,” Eli says from the hall, “do you––”
They all freeze when Eli enters the kitchen.
Actually, no. Now, everything is terrible.
Eli considers them for a moment—Theo against the refrigerator, half-turned with one fist in Dev’s shirt; Dev with his hand pretty egregiously down Theo’s pants—and immediately spins back around.
“I don’t want to know,” Eli says.
“Wait,” Theo starts.
“Nuh-uh,” Eli says. “I’m delighted y'all are getting along now, but I cannot tell you how much I do not want to know.”
“Theo was just showing me his ass hair,” Dev clarifies.
“I said I don’t want to know,” Eli repeats. And then, louder, as he returns to the hall, “ALEXANDER PRICE. I TOLD YOU I WANTED BABIES. BABIES, ALEX. YOU GAVE ME HORNY TEENAGERS.”
“I’m twenty,” Theo says.
“Wait,” Alex yells from the patio. “Are they having sex in the kitchen?”
“NO,” Theo and Dev both shout back.
Dev’s hand is still in Theo’s pants.
Theo smacks his arm until he withdraws it.