Epilogue #2
He wrote this song in January. Months ago, back when they couldn’t even call what they had a relationship, back when Nick was so afraid of falling but so far over the edge already. These words, this feeling, this is what Matt’s been keeping inside him for the last nine months.
The crowd, smart cookies that they are, have caught on and are screaming the refrain along with him—tens of thousands of people, singing along to words that were written for Nick.
Words that tell the story of them—the way they found each other, somehow condensed to a song that reaches right between Nick’s ribs to cradle his heart with the tenderest of hands.
Casey and Joel harmonize on the backing vocals as Matt works his guitar, back arching gloriously and sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes.
Then he stops, letting the instrument hang from its strap, reaching out to Nick with both hands as his gaze softens into that affectionate warmth Nick knows so well.
He sings the final refrain, voice raw with emotion, eyes glistening with love.
Nick can barely hear the fade-out of the music as the ringing in his ears meshes with the screams of the crowd. His hands tighten around Matt’s and he’s astonished to see his boyfriend actually looks shy, like that wasn’t literally the most romantic fucking thing in the history of human existence.
“Oh my God,” Nick whispers, close enough to the microphone to be heard. The crowd whoops, and Matt chuckles.
“So … what d’you think?” he asks, as wide-eyed and hopeful as a little kid holding out the art project they’ve worked so hard on.
“I’m so in love with you right now,” Nick blurts, and they both grin at each other because apparently this is just going to be a thing whenever Matt sings for him.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Spencer starts chanting, the crowd picking up the chant immediately.
Nick laughs, looking at Matt, and the dork actually wiggles his eyebrows at him.
Nick hauls him into a fierce kiss, trying to remain at least a little aware that they’re in public and on a big screen but mostly just needing this beautiful man to know how utterly gone on him Nick is.
“I love you,” Nick tells him again, the barest whisper; this one is just for him. Matt’s whole face lights up.
“Love you too, baby.”
With a show still to finish, Matt pulls back and lets Nick go, though he grins lopsidedly. “You can stay and hang out if you want. I can get you a chair. A Grand Marshal throne.”
Nick looks around the stage, spotting a platform of higher staging left from the previous performance.
He walks over and hops up to perch on the edge, swinging his legs with a smile.
“I’m good here!” he calls. And, when it turns out he’s loud enough to get picked up on Casey’s mic, he raises a thumb and forefinger as if sizing up a photograph with Matt in the center—more specifically, Matt’s ass. “The view’s pretty great.”
A chorus of wolf-whistles and cheers meets his response, making Matt laugh again. “Are you flirting with me, in front of all these people? You scoundrel, Nick Tiernan.”
Nick blows him a kiss, giddy with adrenaline.
“All right.” Matt turns back to the crowd, picking up the mic and bouncing around the stage. “Now that my stage has gotten at least ten times prettier”—he throws a wink back at Nick—“let’s hit you with another song. Did you like that one?”
“YES!” the sea of people screams back.
“Awesome. Because while we’re sharing secrets, I’ll let you know that, like, at least five songs on our new album? They’re all inspired by that beautiful man right there.” He turns to point at Nick, whose jaw drops. Sorry, what now?
“What can I say? When a man finds his muse, the words just spill right out. But … you’ll have to wait to hear the rest of ’em until the album’s out. Sorry.”
There’s a loud chorus of groans. When Nick gets home, he is going to drag Matt to his computer and demand he play through the entire album and tell him every single song that is about Nick because oh my God what.
“You think that’s bad?” Casey cuts in, tossing her hair. “We have to deal with this love-drunk idiot all the time.”
“Excuse you!” Matt argues, affronted. “This is Pride!” The crowd cheers. “And I am being proud of my amazing boyfriend who I love very much.”
He whirls back around to the audience, and with the stage lights on him all Nick can see is a silhouette: broad shoulders and big arms and a guitar held aloft like some ancient god of music, come down to bless mortals with his gift.
“Because this is Vegas, baby, and you can love whoever you want in this city!”
Nick cheers along with the crowd too, pumping a fist, because damn right this is his city and if he can drag the fucking NHL into the twenty-first century then who knows what else they can achieve. “So we’re here, and we’re queer, and we love you so much, and this next song is for all of you.”
They go straight into “Queer as in Fuck You,” and it gets a huge scream of joy right from the first chord.
Nick has the best seat in the house as he watches Matt lose himself to his performance, watches the crowd sing back to him and move with him—people are crowd-surfing, there’s a dozen different Pride flags emblazoned across all kinds of clothing and banners and even skin, and Nick is right here in the middle of it all.
He is the Grand Marshal of Las Vegas Pride, and he is a three-time Stanley Cup winner.
He is captain of the Nevada Dragons and he is Matt Hudson’s boyfriend.
He is openly and unashamedly gay, playing the game he loves most at the peak of his career.
And he is going to go home tonight and probably get mocked to hell over text by Connor LaPorte when the video of all this inevitably ends up online, as if Connor didn’t kiss his boyfriend at the NHL awards in front of hockey royalty and everybody on goddamn ESPN.
And then he’ll wake up tomorrow and go and play some hockey, because this is his life, the best possible version of it. Every incredible, exhausting, exhilarating second of it.
And he never knew it could feel this good.