Page 29 of Game Misconduct

captain america is his actual nickname, over a picture of the Cons’ captain in the Cap’s gear. He was giving an impressive side-eye to a guy dressed as Raoul Duke—he apparently hadn’t gotten the theme memo, or he just didn’t give a shit. Danny recognized him under the shades. Jamie Ayer, one of Montreal’s d-men: right, the Royal had been in Newark that night. In between them was Reed, arms slung over their shoulders, beaming in a very un-Winter Soldierly manner.

The pictures kept coming.bee, the goat, he’d captioned Beatrice Morin, wearing white-and-gray armor and pointing her sword at Mike;mäkelä, he’s the goalie, so basically an alien. A stocky blond guy with sharp pointed features, a little shorter than Morin, staring solemnly, one-eyed, at the camera.

Some of these costumes are fuckin terrible.

they’re not bad except for jammer, idk what he’s supposed to be, but he looks like a complete douche

It’s from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

what?

Jfc Mike have you ever read a book in your life?

nah, too busy playing hockey

For fuck’s sake. And anyway, I meant YOUR costume is fuckin terrible.

ok point taken, it’s bad. sue me

You’re being awfully agreeable. Drunk enough, eh?

i could tell you to go fuck yourself if it’d make you feel more at home

Sure.

go fuck yourself

Again: I’d rather fuck you.

didn’t know you were into dudes who look like they’re melting

Danny thought about typing,I’m into you, but he knew that wouldn’t have gone over well and he was enjoying the chance to actually talk to Mike, to get a glimpse of what he was like with people he didn’t hate. What he was like when he wasn’t interacting with Danny. He sighed and poured himself another drink.guess I’m into some weird shit.

yeah, i figured that one out when you got down on your knees in an alley for me, bro

He frowned at the phone.Do you really want to start this now?

start what

Mike.

yeah, yeah.

Mike sent another snap of himself, flipping Danny the bird. In the interim more of the gray paint had been smeared away, and Danny felt a brief, bizarre moment of caveman jealousy at all of the people who could touch him, who were clearly touching him, when he couldn’t. When Mike probably wouldn’t have even let him. Or maybe he would have, if there wasn’t an entire continent between them.

You need to work on your chirps.

Instead of a response, another picture of his middle finger, his hand positioned in front of a lower portion of his torso. Danny stared at the shot until it vanished, at the lines of Mike’s abs and hips, the V leading down to the ridiculous pants and belt. He stared at the tattoos there, a fucking Doré woodcut, Jacob wrestling with the angel across his stomach, which was both the most appropriate thing he could think of for Mike, and also surprising from a guy who’d claimed to have never read a book in his life.

What Danny wanted was the time to pore over every single piece of ink on Mike’s body and figure out why he’d picked them, which would take more than the minute he had before the photograph vanished.

He knew what Mike was doing. He was trying to bait Danny into something, and on another day, Danny might have given in immediately, because Mike clearly wanted him, wanted whatever weird shit they had going between them. Tonight, though, something about the sadness of it all, the sheer hopelessness of this entire fucking endeavor, weighed on him. Sure, he could get off. It would probably be good; it would definitely be good. Mike was hot as fuck and together they were something combustible. He had a brief mental image of Mike jerking himself off, getting gray paint all over himself, streaks where his hands had been, streaks where Danny’s hands should have been.

And then it would be over, and Mike would either lose it because he’d said too much, or passed out, and Danny would be alone in his hotel room again. As much as he wanted it, the problem was he wanted it too much. The problem was he wanted things he couldn’t have. There was a moment where he almost considered telling Mike,I gotta go, and it would have been better for both of them in the long run. But he was a piece of shit, and he couldn’t.

You’re such a fucking brat, he said, instead.

you like it, Mike responded, like it was a taunt. It was, more than he would ever actually know.you like me.

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