I was hiding under your porch because I love you.

The Habs come back to Nashville the fourth week in November. They're playing in Dallas the night before, so they don't get in until late -- it's a little after 2 a.m. when Carey texts, just landed.

if youre too tired we can reschedule, PK says, even though it'll be months before the Preds make their one trip up to Montreal.

quit being dumb, Carey says, so PK starts getting ready.

He brushes his teeth, rinses with mouthwash. (His bathroom cabinet is still full of the stuff, and so is the linen closet down the hall.) He runs a brush over his hair and spritzes on his good cologne, the one he only uses on special occasions. He puts on the sky blue boxer briefs that make his ass look amazing, the summer weight grey wool slacks with the button fly, and a button down shirt in the softest, palest dove pink.

be there in 5, Carey says.

PK lights the candles, then goes downstairs to wait. The neighborhood is silent, and he can hear the cab pull up, the door open and shut. He doesn't even wait for Carey to knock before he opens the door. Carey's wearing a hoodie and track pants, the comfortable shit you wear on a flight. He looks tired, but it disappears when he smiles at PK.

PK steps aside to let him in. When he turns to lock the door, Carey presses up close behind him. He ducks his head to kiss the side of PK's throat, slides his hand over PK's waist and down to squeeze PK's cock through his slacks.

PK swallows back a gasp and says, "Wait, wait."

"I've been waiting," Carey says against his skin, but he steps back.

"Come upstairs," PK says.

Carey takes his shoes off like a good Canadian boy and leaves them in the front hall. PK takes his hand -- Carey smirks, but allows it -- and leads him up the stairs to his bedroom.

Carey stops dead in the doorway.

PK's turned out the overhead lights and left just the ones on the bedside tables on. There are candles burning on the dresser and the window sill, and the whole room has a soft, warm glow to it. There's a bouquet of roses on the table next to the arm chair, a split of champagne in an ice bucket and two champagne flutes, two tiny, expensive chocolate truffles on a china plate. The covers on the bed have been folded back, red rose petals scattered on the smooth, crisp sheets.

Carey looks at PK, surprised and wondering. PK feels his face go hot. "I just--"

Carey shakes his head and kisses him, closed-mouth, chaste. "Yeah, okay," he says. He straightens PK's collar. "Sorry I'm under-dressed."

PK manages a laugh. "We can fix that pretty easily."

Carey smiles back, just the tiniest bit dirty around the edges. PK clears his throat and goes over to the table with the champagne. He opens the bottle, pours for both of them. There's just enough for two small glasses -- they're both playing tomorrow, after all. He hands one to Carey.

Carey's taken off his hoodie. He's wearing a plain, tight grey t-shirt underneath. Nothing with the Habs logo on it, PK realizes. Carey holds his glass out and PK clinks his against it.

"Cheers," PK says.

"Happy anniversary," Carey says. PK goes still. "It's what this is, isn't it?"

"Yeah," PK admits. "Close enough, anyway."

They've never really celebrated their anniversary. It's hard to, when you're not sure when things changed. When drunk hook-ups and friends with benefits became something more. But PK's always counted from the beginning of the season, because that was always when it felt real again, when he could see Carey every day again. He can't anymore, so he wants -- this.

"So," Carey says. He's not smiling, but his whole face is soft, affectionate. He takes a sip of his champagne, then looks at the table again. He picks up one of the truffles. He holds it out to PK. PK lifts a hand to take it, but Carey pulls it back, clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

PK lets out an amused huff. He drops his hand, and when Carey holds the truffle out again, PK leans in to take a bite. His lips brush Carey's fingertips as the taste of the truffle fills his mouth, bitter chocolate and caramel and sea salt. He lets it melt across his tongue as Carey eats the other half.

PK swallows and picks up the other truffle, holds it out for Carey. Carey bends his head and takes a bite, neat and delicate, his eyes never leaving PK's face. PK takes another sip of champagne and puts the other half of the truffle in his mouth.

When Carey kisses him again, he tastes like chocolate and champagne. Carey spreads his hand over the nape of PK's neck and licks gently, sweetly into his mouth. He kisses PK like they've got all night, like they've got all the time in the world. He lifts his head finally, and his eyes are dark and heavy, his cheeks flushed.

PK licks his lips and all he tastes is Carey. He drinks the rest of his champagne in one gulp and puts the glass on the table. (He misses; the glasses bounces soundlessly on the carpet and rolls under the table. He doesn't even notice until the morning.)

Carey tosses back the rest of his champagne as PK reaches for him. PK slides his hands under the hem of Carey's t-shirt, pushes it up to bare his stomach. Carey pulls it off over his head and PK runs his palms over Carey's abs, the curve of his ribs.

Carey kisses him, his hands coming up to undo the buttons on PK's shirt and PK's hands tighten on Carey's waist. Carey kisses the hollow of PK's throat, presses his mouth to PK's skin as his shirt opens, a kiss for every button he undoes.

Carey goes to his knees to kiss PK's stomach. He untucks PK's shirt and undoes the last few buttons. PK shrugs out of the shirt and lets it fall to floor, as Carey reaches for the first button of his fly.

Carey folds back the placket and sees the line of buttons behind it. He looks up at PK, pointedly raises one eyebrow, and PK laughs breathlessly.

Carey unbuttons each one slowly and deliberately, then pushes the fabric down over PK's hips to his ankles. PK braces himself on Carey's shoulder and steps out of his pants.

Carey slides his hands up PK's thighs, leans in to rub his cheek over PK's cock where it presses hard against his boxer briefs.

PK pulls in a soundless breath. "Okay, come on, you're the one who's overdressed now," he says.

Carey rolls smoothly back up to his feet. He takes a few steps back before he pushes his track pants and his boxers down. He's posing just a bit for PK, making sure PK gets the best angle on the flex of his thighs and the jut of his cock.

Even Carey can't make taking his socks off sexy, though, and he doesn't even try, just sits down on the foot of PK's bed and peels them off. PK shimmies out of his boxers and goes to stand between Carey's thighs.

He smooths Carey's hair back off his forehead and bends down to kiss him. Carey slides his hands over PK's hips and ass. He hitches himself back on the bed, tugs PK with him, until they're stretched out together on the sheets, still kissing.

PK can't get enough of the feeling of Carey's bare skin against his, the slide of his hands, the taste of his mouth. He rocks his hips forward and his cock bumps and drags against Carey's. Carey's hands clench on his ass. They're both hard.

PK runs his lips over Carey's collarbone, nips and sucks a bruise into the inside of Carey's bicep. Carey runs his fingernails delicately up PK's side in retaliation, and PK yelps and squirms away from the sensation.

Carey follows, rolls them both so PK is on his back. It turns out rose petals stick to your skin if you're making out naked on top of them. PK picks one off of Carey's shoulder.

Carey slides down PK's body to pick up where he left off. He flicks the tip of his tongue over PK's bellybutton, trails a line of kisses down PK's stomach to the top of his thighs. PK's cock slides against his cheek and PK's stomach tenses. Carey looks up at him, keeps his eyes on PK's face as he licks a stripe up the underside of PK's cock.

"Shit," PK says. His hands clench in the sheets as Carey takes the tip of his cock into his mouth.

Carey swallows him down in tiny increments, pulling back then sliding down a little further each time.

PK's cock bumps against the back of his throat, and PK lets out a deep, shuddery breath. Carey hums. It sounds, feels, smug.

PK nudges Carey with his knee. "There's lube in the nightstand," he says.

Carey lets PK's cock slip out of his mouth with an obscene pop. "You want--?" he asks, and rubs the pad of his thumb over PK's asshole, dry.

"Yeah," PK says. "I want you to fuck me."

Carey's nostrils flare and his lips part. He surges up and presses a quick, hard kiss to PK's mouth, then leans over to open the nightstand drawer.

He finds the bottle, sits back on his heels between PK's thighs. He pops the lid on the bottle, spills some over his fingers. Then he takes a minute to just look at PK, his eyes sliding over PK's cock and thighs and chest. PK puts his hands behind his head, because he knows it makes his pecs and arms look even better.

Carey smiles. He knows what PK's doing, but it doesn't take any of the heat out of his eyes.

He rubs one slick finger against PK's asshole, then presses in, slow and smooth. PK inhales, flattens his hands against the headboard. He's fingered himself plenty of times lately and pretended it's Carey, but you can't get the angle right by yourself.

Carey glances up at PK's face. He twists his hand, curls his finger up and finds that bundle of nerves inside PK that sends a shock of heat through his gut. Carey opens him up slowly, patiently, one finger, then two, his thumb rubbing over the rim of PK's asshole stretched around him.

"God," PK says finally. "I'm good, I'm ready."

Carey blinks, lifting his head. He wasn't teasing, he was just -- distracted. PK almost laughs. Carey eases his fingers out of PK, slicks his cock up. "How do you want it?"

"Like this," PK says, drawing his knees up, spreading his legs wider. He wants to see Carey's face.

Carey nods. He grips the base of his cock, lines it up against PK's ass. He pushes in, not slow, but not rushing it, either, his face perfectly, fiercely serious. Carey fills him up, leaves him breathless. When he's all the way in, Carey bends down and kisses PK's open mouth.

PK digs his fingers into Carey's back, wraps his legs around Carey's waist. Carey takes a quick, ragged breath, and then starts fucking PK in earnest. His strokes are fast and deep, hitting that sweet spot every time, sending starbursts of heat through PK's body. PK can feel his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach, something hot and shining and tense coiling up under tight his skin. He steals kisses from Carey's mouth, in between their gasping breaths.

His cock slaps against his belly with the force of Carey's thrusts, leaving wet streaks against his overheated skin. PK reaches down and wraps his hand around himself. He gives himself a couple of clumsy strokes, slides his palm over the slick head of his cock. Carey lifts his head and meets PK's eyes, and just like that, PK comes.

It feels like something bright and golden breaking open inside him, spilling through him like liquid sunshine. He clenches down around Carey's cock, and Carey's mouth falls open, his hips stuttering. The sharp little strokes send aftershocks through PK's body.

PK slides his hand up to the back of Carey's neck, pulls him down into a lazy, sloppy kiss. Carey moans in the back of his throat and he comes inside PK, his whole body shuddering with it.

Carey's elbows give out and he collapses onto PK. PK pats his back, brushes another couple of rose petals off him.

For a long moment, they just lie there in the afterglow, their breathing evening out. PK's body feels completely boneless, Carey's body a solid, reassuring weight holding him down, his cock going soft inside him.

Finally, Carey eases himself up and pulls carefully out of PK, then less carefully flops over onto his back. He looks wrecked, flushed and sweaty and speckled with beard burn.

"Dibs on the bathroom," PK says.

Carey makes a go ahead gesture. PK takes one last minute to lie next to Carey, then goes to clean up.

When he comes back, Carey has blown out all the candles, folded up their clothes, and put them on the dresser.

He stops to kiss PK, quick and soft, then goes into the bathroom.

PK puts a towel down on the wet spot, even though the benefit of sleeping alone in a king bed means he can mostly avoid it. He turns off the other bedside light, checks his phone, makes sure the alarm is set.

Carey comes out of the bathroom and goes over to the dresser, gets his phone out of his pants. But he doesn't start getting dressed.

Instead he comes back to bed. PK watches him climb under the covers, put the phone on the nightstand.

Carey sees him watching. "I'll be back in time for team breakfast," he says. "And if Julien doesn't like the fact that I didn't sleep in the hotel, he can suck my dick. What's he going to do, bench me and make Montoya do the back to back?"

PK laughs, something warm and soft unfolding in his chest. Carey leans in, cups PK's jaw in the palm of his hand, and gives him a lingering kiss.

Then he lies down on his side, his back to PK. "Now, come on, it's our anniversary. Spoon me."

So PK does.