Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Something was wrong with Shane. Something was terribly, and utterly wrong. He was sick. He didn’t know where he had picked it up, and no one else around him seemed to have it, but Shane knew he was. He was diseased with a sickness he’d never experienced before.

He had gone to his regular GP, and she had said he was perfectly healthy. But Shane knew that couldn’t be right. He had a terrible illness. One that was making him think and do terrible things. Things that were affecting the people around him. Specifically Matt. Well. Only Matt.

The symptoms had started almost exactly seven days ago. Since then, Shane hadn’t felt like himself. His head was rotating, he was constantly nauseated, and he could barely eat or sleep or really…do anything.

Like Shane had said, he was sick. And for maybe the first time in his life, he had no idea how to fix it.

Shane laid on his back across Matt’s bed, and stared up at the ceiling with his phone held above his face. He turned it one way, then the other, squinting at the screen like a very peculiar problem might reveal itself if he looked closely enough. It did not. “I think my phone is broken,” Shane muttered.

Across from him, Matt sat on his desk chair with his legs stretched out onto the bed, one ankle crossed over the other and heels resting on Shane’s thighs. “Okay.” He didn’t even look up.

Shane turned his head to glance at him. “Do you think you could take it to the same place that fixed yours?”

Matt hummed. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” His eyes stayed on his laptop for another second before he finally tossed Shane a stare. “Why do you think it’s broken, though? I mean it looks fine.”

Shane made an agreeing sound, then held the phone back up over his face. “No reason,” he mumbled. He shifted the phone a little, refreshing his messages again, even though he had already done that about seventy-eight times in the last week and knew there would be nothing there. Why was there nothing there? 

“...If someone tells you they’re going to message you and then they don’t,” Shane asked, trying to sound casual “What does that normally mean? Reddit said one thing but then Rose said another, so I’m not quite sure which is the right—”

A chair scraped before Shane could even finish and Matt was up, suddenly on the bed over him, one hand braced beside Shane’s shoulder. “Who are you expecting to message you?”

Shane blinked up at him as Matt took the phone from his hand and opened it before Shane could decide whether to stop him. “Matt…” He laughed.

“Who?” Matt repeated, already scrolling.

Shane smiled a little, because there was nothing to find. That was the whole point. “Just this guy.” he sighed, and before he could help it his brain added…

Who I almost kissed.

There it was! The sickness!

Those were the fevered thoughts that had riddled Shane’s mind, body and soul. They refused to be repressed and forgotten, no matter how hard he tried. They would not disappear and that was strange. Shane could repress anything. It was mostly why he and Matt had lasted as long as they had. Whenever his brain told him to run, Shane knew how to shut it down.

But not this time. These thoughts came anyway. No matter what he did.

Shane shook his head and swallowed down. “I thought he could maybe be my friend.” He grabbed my waist, “I met him last week,” He whispered words, “and we talked about hockey and stuff and he said he would message me to watch a game,” He leaned in close, “but I haven’t gotten anything.” He almost kissed me. 

Shane closed his eyes and tried to push his disease back to where it belonged, and be in the moment with his boyfriend.  Matt’s thumb stopped moving, as for a second he did not say anything. Then he looked down at Shane, still hovering over him, phone in his hand. “A guy?” He repeated, words stitched in the world's finest disbelieving silk.

Shane’s smile faltered. “Yeah. A friend guy. Hockey, school friend guy.”

Matt’s mouth twitched like he found that funny, “A friend guy who talks to you about watching hockey games together and school.” Shane nodded, calm as anything but it only seemed to make Matt more skeptical. “Does he go to a frat at our school? Do I know him? Did you meet him here?”

Shane shook his head, doing everything he could to remain collected and pleasant. He could have written a thesis on that sentence. Matt knew that if this man belonged to a frat, then he probably knew him, or at least knew of him, which meant this guy knew the rules. Matt could relax. The man probably was just a friend, an acquaintance or, at the very least, someone existing inside Matt’s same controlled world. Not a feasible threat in the slightest of ways.

All the men at the frat had watched the Dallas situation unfold. They knew Matt could turn on anyone if he needed to, and when he did, he would take it to the fullest possible extent. Nobody inside that world would risk becoming next.

But if this man belonged to none of it, if Matt didn’t know him and couldn’t puppet what he did, then who knew what might happen? For all Matt knew, Shane could find himself tangled around the stranger on some street corner at two in the morning, whispering words directly into his mouth and almost brushing lips.

“No. He’s Russian.” Shane said, bringing a hand up to tug at his eyelashes. “He just came over to Canada, I think. Or at least that's what Rose said.”

Matt’s face did something strange again. “So a Russian hockey-school-talking guy that's friends with Rose?”

Shane wiped his eyes and let his hands fall back against the mattress. He stayed there for a few beats before looking at Matt again. “Do you want to meet him?”  He knew the words could be taken as patronising so he wasn’t surprised at all when they made Matt push to stand with a fire in his eyes. 

He was still holding Shane’s phone as though he had forgotten he’d been the one who’d happily ever started this. “I only know one Russian,” Matt lashed, “He’s the leader of that hell frat at McGill. When everything went down with Dallas, that Russian and his black-haired, blue-eyed lackey led the charge to shut down our chapter.” 

He began pacing, “So forgive me for making sure you aren’t fraternising with the enemy. I’m such an overbearing boyfriend, right? I want to make sure you aren’t being lied to, and somehow that makes me a terrible boyfriend.” He threw out his free hand. “On a Sunday, of all days. God’s day. I am a terrible boyfriend. I missed mass this morning for you and now I’m terrible.”

His walking quickened. “So whatever, Shane. Go out and make a fool of yourself because you think some hot guy genuinely wants to talk to you about your boring shit. Be my guest. I’m too stressed over the presidency you forced me into, remember, to put up with your tone. So, go and—”

“Matt.” Shane swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

He said it steadily enough to cut the sentence like a sandwich, clean in half. Matt stopped his marching but did not look much more unruffled so Shane waved him over with an exhale. He wasn’t really affected by those speeches anymore, they lost their razor edge about two years into their relationship. He just knew what Matt was really saying underneath it and how he needed to fix it.

Matt hesitated, still caught in whatever frantic line of thought had dragged him from frat politics into jealousy. But still, he came forward, and when Shane tugged lightly at his wrist, Matt stumbled onto the bed with a little huff.

Shane waited until he was lying back before swinging one knee over him and settling carefully on his hips. He took his phone from Matt’s hand and placed it beside them on the bed. “Okay,” Shane smiled, smoothing both hands over Matt’s chest. “First of all, I think you are spiralling over nothing. I didn’t mean it in that way. Let’s just breathe.”

Matt scoffed, but his hands went to Shane’s thighs anyway. “It was not nothing. Your tone was very clear, Shane. I don’t think you know how you sound sometimes and how it—”

“Well, I’m sorry then.” Shane interrupted, “Lay on your back while I sit on you and massage your shoulders to show you how sorry I am.” He moved his hands in little circles just below Matt's neck. “Forgot about it all for a moment.” 

Matt’s mouth twitched despite the anger he was still trying to show and Shane felt ridiculously pleased by it.  “There,” Shane said, softer. “See? Better.”

Matt grabbed Shane’s hips and moved them in slow little circles of his own.  Shane let out a small moan before he could stop it, yet quickly pressed a hand to Matt’s sternum. “No, not that. You relax.”

Matt dropped his head back against the bed and let out another groan, this one tired and dramatic enough that Shane chuckled. He walked his fingers in a little pitter-patter over Matt’s chest, morning light until Matt squirmed beneath him and gave him an annoyed look. 

“You haven’t said happy birthday yet, by the way.” Shane whispered, putting on a delicate voice.

Matt rolled his head to the side and looked away, “Can’t that be what this is now?”

Shane felt a tide of old, mouldy hurt begin to rise, but that was fine. He knew how to keep that inside. And, like Matt always said, Shane knew he sometimes had a tone. “Maybe,” he conceded. “But I’d still like it said with words, if you could.”

“I sent you flowers yesterday with a card.” Matt started. The momentum rebuilt from only minutes before. “Do you want more? Just let me know and I will organise—"

Shane sighed and shook his head, “No.” This wasn’t worth it. “Thank you for those. They were really pretty. The card’s already on my wall, because your message was too lovely to throw out.”

Matt grew a smile, pleased with himself, and nodded like he had been waiting for the credit. “You’re welcome. The florist helped me out, so I can’t take all the praise. I just described how neurotic you were and—”

“Neurotic.” Shane repeated, and slid his hands up Matt’s chest and framed his face with his fingers. 

Matt found Shane’s hips again, pulling him into another slow roll. “Not me though, I didn’t roll my socks when I put them away today. I felt like living life on the edge.”

Shane smirked back and as the cold wind rattled the window, he let it be easy with Matt warm underneath him and the day still early enough that it could be better than waking up alone and going about as if it was a normal day. “Oh wow, first the socks and then who knows. That’s a gateway drug, if I've heard of one.”

Matt bit his lip and let his hands slide into the back of Shane’s pants. “I think the only gateway drug here is you. You’ve made me a junkie for it.”

Shane pulled a sceptical face but leaned down and caught Matt’s mouth with his own. The kiss was heated before their tongues even met.

Heat like that might have fogged another person’s thoughts, but Shane refused to let it fog his. He stayed deep deep inside his own head, fully present and alert, to keep every movement methodical with steps he had learned from YouTube videos and books. All of it to make sure the kiss was good for Matt.

Would Ilya have kissed him differently?

God, shut up.

Ilya was over. He was done. He loved Matt, so go away. It was one walk. It was one hour. Move on.

“I thought maybe we could go out for dinner,” Shane said between kisses. “Rose is still in New York with Svet, and my parents called this morning, but they’re at the cottage now and barely have service. I still wanted to do something, though. Maybe. For my birthday. So I thought we could—”

“Aren’t we having your birthday party tomorrow night?” Matt interrupted. “There. Birthday stuff sorted. Now, shh.”

He brought one hand to the back of Shane’s head and held him exactly where he wanted him, pulling his mouth back down before he could rattle it off about anything else. It worked far too well. Shane’s lips stilled against Matt’s and when he finally came up for air, their faces were still touching.

Matt squeezed Shane’s hip again, already smiling as he dissolved the conversation out of the room before it could solidify into anything inconvenient and Shane let him. He let himself have this. If this was what there was, then he would let himself have it.

Ilya squeezed your hip too.

Shane jumped in his body as the little voice came again. He shoved it down and tried to return to the mindset that had been carved into him. This was good. This was all he needed. Matt was different now. Matt was changing. They’d been through so much and this was what was best for Shane.

But it didn’t quite work.

Remember when Ilya squeezed your hip? Did it feel better than this? Evaluate it. His fingers were there. Remember when he almost kissed you? Did it feel better than this? Evaluate it. His lips near yours. 

Remember when Ilya talked to you about hockey? Did it feel better than this? Evaluate it. His words.

Remember when—

Fuck. 

Matt was good. Matt was different. Matt is…

…less. 

No. No! Shane’s just sick. He’s confused. Him and Matt are in a rough patch and the smallest amount of attention has contaminated him. This isn’t real. It was one hour. This is not real. He hates Ilya.

Has he messaged you?

Stop! Why wasn’t it working anymore? Maybe he just needed to forget harder.

Shane had a quick look at his phone. His empty phone. And pulled off his shirt.

Matt smiled up at him, and ran his palms over Shane’s chest. “Happy birthday, babe.”

It’s less. What does that mean? That a day with his boyfriend is less than one walk?

Shane squeezed his eyes closed. Focus. Make the voice go away. Make this work again. Get the sickness to stop. “Just fuck me.”

—

For what remained of his birthday, Shane decided to go to the arena.

It wasn’t one of his practical days, and he wasn’t even sure anyone from the college team would actually be there, but he went anyway. The cold smell of freshly shaved ice, and his sense of importance that lived somewhere within it, was exactly what he needed today to shake everything from the past week off. Ilya’s almost something and then missing in the atmosphere message, and Matt’s strange resistance to making any plans or being seen with him in public. He needed it cured, removed from his system before it could register into any deeper colours in his mind. 

The only place he knew that could do that was the rink, somewhere people looked at him and saw how impressive and necessary he was. Because he was. Both impressive and necessary.

Shane pushed through the glass doors and started down the long hallway toward the medical room. He’d only barely made it halfway when three guys in blue and white stumbled out of the locker room, laughing and shoving at one another in the careless way Shane remembered doing when he was captain of his own high school team.

Something he thinks he would still be if his mother had installed the idea of money and stability into him.

One of them looked up and locked eyes with Shane, who stood a few feet away, his bag slung over one shoulder and his own blue jumper pulled neatly over his torso. “Hollzy!” Drapeau called. His entire face lit up. “Thank fuck you’re here. Dickhead Comeau here checked me too hard at practice yesterday and fucked up my shoulder.”

The brown-haired man next to him, Shane can only assume is Comeau punched Drapeau’s arm while correcting, “It was already fucked. Just like the rest of you. You should've stayed in your goalie cage if you’re so fragile.”

Drapeau had a few of his own cutting words about that, and so the back and forth started. JJ, who was behind them both, hyped them to continue. “Fight, fight, fight!” He yelled fist in the air.

A humoured look loosened across Shane’s face before he could stop it, pulled free by the sheer petulance of these Three Blind Mice. He always liked seeing people act like this, people who felt free enough to be childish and difficult and entirely themselves. It made him feel, for a second, as though he didn’t have crushing responsibilities or expectations or a reputation to maintain. Like maybe he could have fun too.

The closest he had come to feeling that way was during his walk with Ilya. 

Shane re-arranged his expression and forced the bubbling hurt from that thought far back down. Maybe that was why Ilya hadn’t messaged. Ilya probably hadn’t enjoyed it nearly as much as he would have with someone who knew how to be young and free without having to try. He molded his features into the one he used for people he labelled patients in his head and rolled his eyes. “Give me two seconds to set up, and then I’ll call you in, okay?”

All three of them let out a wounded panic.

“Coach is making us do suicides,” JJ said, hurrying forward like Shane might escape if he didn’t plead his case quickly enough. “Just let us come with you now. Hollzy, please, man. Come on. We’re friends, right?”

Unconsciously, Shane opened his mouth to say, No, probably not. 

Rose and Svetlana were his friends. Everyone else just…wasn’t.

His mind sorted people that way without asking him first. Friend or not friend. Inside or outside. There never seemed to be any of the blurry, indistinct space in between that everyone else moved through.

Shane waved his hand with a sigh and continued toward the medical room. “Whatever.” That was safe enough. A collection of rowdy whoops erupted behind him, following Shane down the hallway like applause. They all piled through the office door and spread themselves like homemade butter across the room.

Shane, settled by the routine of it all, went straight to the desk. He dropped his bag beside the chair, pulled out his laptop and opened his previous clinical notes. When he looked up again, Drapeau was already sitting on the treatment bed, spine straight and hands planted eagerly on either side of him, like a child eager for the lollipop that came at the end of an appointment.

Shane looked between the other two. “Is it just Drapeau today, or do you guys need anything?” It wasn’t the most professional way to ask, but neither was the way JJ had positioned the model skeleton in the corner so its middle finger was raised at the room.

“Nah, I’m good.” JJ said, stepping back to admire his work. “My lady has gotten really good at massages, so I’ve got one of you at home.”

Shane’s face furrowed at the dismissal. “She has almost four years of training and expertise in preventing you from sustaining career-ending injuries?”

JJ paused, his hand wrapped around the skeleton’s wrist. “…No?”

Shane nodded. “Perfect. You’re next.”

He turned his head towards Comeau in question. Comeau had folded himself into one of the chairs by the wall and was staring intently at his phone. At Shane’s attention, he looked up, made a strangely fearful face and shook his head. “Oh, no, man. I’m good. You just do whatever you need too on this pair.”

Shane began laying his soft-tissue tools out on the desk. “Are you sure? Is your knee feeling better? I have it written down here, you dislocated it a few seasons back.”

Comeau rubbed beneath his nose and looked around the room. It was only a glance, but something in it made Shane’s hands stop.

The three men seemed to speak between themselves with their eyes. Drapeau suddenly became absorbed in one of the anatomy posters on the wall. Comeau dropped his gaze to his phone and JJ turned back towards the skeleton that no longer required his thirteen-year-old like attention.

Shane tilted his head, hesitantly, “...What’s going on?”

Nobody answered.

It made a sinking and embarrassing feeling begin to fill up Shane’s stomach. He had an inkling of what this might be. Or well, his disease did. “Guys.” He let out an exasperated breath. “Come on. Really?”

Comeau lifted one shoulder. “You and Matt are back together, though, right? James said at breakfast you left his room looking thoroughly fucked.”

Shane dropped the tool in his hand onto the desk and dragged both palms over his heating face. “No, we’re not back together. We’re just…hooking up again. But, what does that have to do with this?” He looked between them, genuinely baffled. “Matt knows this is my profession. This is my career. He isn’t going to care if I work on you.”

It was Drapeau who scoffed this time. “I don’t want to find out if that’s true.” He scratched the back of his neck. “The three of us are in his frat, Shane. He’s the president now. He could…” Drapeau trailed off. “I don’t know.”

Comeau nodded, apparently deeply agreeing with the sentiment.  “We were okay about it before, but he’s our president now, Hollzy. It’s different.”

Shane’s head snapped towards him. “Matt knows I have a contract here. It’s fine.” He turned back to the desk and picked up one of his tools. “Great, now that we’ve cleared that up we can contin—”

“Look, you didn’t have to get back together with him,” Comeau interrupted, pushing himself out of the chair. He crossed his arms over his chest. “After Dallas, we all would’ve understood if you didn’t. But you guys are basically joined at the hip again! The President and First Lady now. It’s all anyone can talk about. And now, Matt can excommunicate us if we move wrong, so you have to understand how we don’t want his first lady feeling us up—”

Shane scoffed and tangled his own arms tightly across his chest. He couldn’t even begin to pull that apart. It was wrong and painful in so many familiar ways, he’d come to associate with anyone from Alpha Di.  “Feeling you up?” he demanded. “You mean doing my medical and deeply trained sessions? You won’t let me be your team’s medical practitioner now because I might have a boyfriend? Which again, I do not.”

JJ let out a slow breath, finally deciding to add his two cents in as he felt the way the breeze was beginning to flow.  “It’s not a boyfriend, Shane, that's the issue. You know it’s not because of a boyfriend. I am an ally.” His voice became quieter than the others had been. “It’s Matt. You gotta give the guys some slack here.”

The simple, yet heavy words weighed down every inch of space.

Flush staked claim on Shane's skin as he looked around the room. His eyes blurred too, but he forced the water to evaporate beneath the fury moving through him. This was supposed to be the place where people understood what he was worth. He had come here today because the certainty of that had seemed too high in the clouds for anyone to touch. This was supposed to remind him everything was perfect as it was.

“Even if we were back together, you know I’m the best,” Shane insisted, feeling heartbreak begin to drown the fire in his voice. “You know I am. You aren’t going to find another student who’s better for this team than me. So what if Matt excludes you from one or two parties? Does that really matter more than having the best physio keeping you healthy all the way through finals?”

Drapeau rubbed it through his hair. He had been the goalie who led Shane through his practicals, encouraged the others to attend his sessions and explained the benefit of every treatment Shane gave them. Maybe that was why Shane still expected him to say something that would pull the entire conversation back into place.

Instead, he delivered the final blow. “You are the best, Hollzy. That’s not even a question.” Drapeau shifted uncomfortably on the treatment bed. “But you’re also Matt’s, and Matt could do a lot more to us than you could do to stop him.” His eyes softened. “I’m sorry. Comeau’s right, we shouldn't be here.”

Shane felt the flay of the sentence as if Drapeau had shined a light straight through his body. 

Guilt poured into Shane’s body before he could recognise the sheer inhumanity of that sentence. Because that was right. He was supposed to be Matt’s. Shane had stayed awake late into the night wondering whether that was why the universe had cursed him with this condition. It wanted him to feel the full weight of what he had done. To understand how completely he had betrayed Matt in a single hour. How Ilya had set his bones on fire and led him into deep water before Shane even realised he had left the shore.

If you think these things about someone else, are you really Matt’s anymore? If you do these things?

Yes, he is. Once this passes, yes he will be once more. He just had to let it pass.

He stared at all three of them one final time and nodded. He spun around, presenting them with his back while he wiped quickly beneath his eyes, gathering every drowned part of himself. He couldn’t give up complete hope yet. That’s not who he is. Empty mouths don’t get fed.

“Can I still…” His voice caught, and he swallowed. “Your shoulder, or…”

Drapeau looked terribly ashamed of what they had painted across the walls of the room, but not ashamed enough to change its hue. “Tommorow?” he said. “I’m dropping out of the house anyway, so I don’t really care. But, I think you need a minute. I would get Hayden but…he’s out today.”

Shane sniffed once and quietly began packing up his tools again. He gave a brisk dismissive wave, and hoped they got his idea of acknowledgment. He even pretended to pick up his phone and take a look at notifications, when there was none he felt the tears come back stronger.

Thankfully, Comeau did. He gestured towards the door. “We should probably then…”

Shane nodded without looking at any of them and after a few seconds heard shoes moving across the floor, followed by the hinge opening and closing of the door. And then he was alone. 

He felt the illness take over every speck of himself.

He was so alone and sick.

He was so sick.

—

The next three hours, Shane would later decide, were the quietest of his life.

He sat at his desk and listened to the arena continue outside the closed door. Members of the team shouted to each other down the hallway. Locker-room doors opened and slammed. Skates scraped over the floor as players came back, left again and moved in every possible direction.

Yet, nobody touched his door.

And Shane realised it was going to be this way now.

He had studied for three and a half years. He had worked with this team for three and a half years, first as an assistant, then as a junior, and now as their medical practitioner. He had spent years learning their bodies, their injuries and the stupid ways they tried to hide both from him.

Now none of it mattered because they were a little afraid of his boyfriend.

It was Shane’s final year of college, and the only team through which he could complete the placement hours he needed to graduate wanted nothing to do with him because of his boyfriend.

Do something then.

Shane tried to push the voice down and made a trying noise with it. “Go away. Please. You’re ruining everything.” He muttered.

Has he messaged yet?

Shane squeezed his eyes shut.

Why hasn’t he messaged yet?

Go over the whole walk again and figure it out.

You almost kissed him.

You have something wrong with you.

Ilya’s hands on your waist. 

You're Matt’s.

Ilya’s lips touching yours.

It didn’t feel enough anymore.

Ilya.

Ilya.

Ilya.

Ilya.

Check your phone.

Has he messaged yet?

Why hasn’t he messag—

Shane stood so quickly that the chair rolled backwards and struck the wall. He shoved everything into his bag without putting any of it in the proper order he normally followed. His laptop went in before its charger. His tools were dropped loose into the wrong compartment. He didn’t even check that every pocket was zipped before swinging the bag over his shoulder.

He was halfway across the room, reaching for the handle, when finally, after three hours of nothing, the door opened by itself, revealing a man Shane only vaguely recognised standing on the other side.

He had perfectly styled black hair and piercing blue eyes. Not the good kind of blue eyes, though. Not the kind with ocean green mixed through them and a foreign stare. But blue eyes all the same. Both of them stopped with a jerk. The man appeared just as surprised to find Shane standing so close to the door as Shane was to find him there.

Automatically, maybe because his body recognised the wrongness of him before his mind did, Shane’s gaze dropped to the jersey stretched across the man’s torso. He caught the McGill crest before returning to his face. “I think you might be in the wrong office.” he muttered, almost amusedly, to himself. “Mcgill’s physio is down the hall.”

For a moment, the man only watched him. There was something almost knowing in his eyes, paired with a wide smile and very white teeth. The old clock in the medical room managed only a few loud ticks before he extended his hand and, instead of speaking, let out a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’m Troy Barrett. I was actually looking for you.”

Shane stared down at it. His eyebrows drew together, unable to stop himself from shifting half a step backwards. He knew the hand wasn’t a trap or anything. But was he sure? You can never trust these college athletes. They were one step away from putting glass in someone's skates this close to play-offs.

“Okay, man of few words. I like it.” The man grinned and withdrew his hand. “Shane Hollander, right? You’re the Metros’ physio? I’m the assistant captain for the Redbirds. Vice president of a McGill frat too. Can I come in?”

Shane felt the man look past his shoulder and into the room, but he didn’t move. He stayed exactly where he was, blocking the doorway, a clear and very obvious answer to his question. 

Troy let out an embarrassed breath in the silence. His shoulders drew in, and his confidence seemed to deflate into something that might have been intended to resemble shyness. But Shane could tell the emotion didn’t belong to him. It belonged only to whatever he was about to try to say next.

“You’re sceptical about what I’m doing here. That’s good, keep that.” He battered his eyelashes, “As you can probably tell, we’re not technically supposed to be in this arena right now. Not our practice time.” Troy glanced down at himself. “But, our physio is on leave, and I think my ankle shit itself last night. I caught one of the Montréal guys this morning, and he told me to come in here and see Shane Hollander. So, here I am.”

He turned and tapped the sign on Shane’s door.

“Montréal Team Physio. Office hours Monday to Friday, nine to five. Shane Hollander.” Troy turned back and punctuated the end of his speech with a small clap, pleased with how thoroughly he had explained himself. “If there was a number I would’ve called it, but it’s lucky I could grab you on your way out instead. Were you off to lunch? I can pay for it if you want,” He gave a wink, “To cover your services. You look like a salad guy, are you a salad guy?”

Shane stayed blinking at the man, he tried to follow the thread of words and questions but by the seventh string he’d fumbled the fabric. He squinted at Troy and looked him up and down, “I guess.”

Troy beamed. He pointed toward Shane with a grin and playful scrunch of his face, “I knew it, you look like a salad guy. Let me come in and I’ll get you one on our way out. Sound good?” He attempted to take a step forward.

Yet, Shane, again, stayed planted where he was. “I pack my lunch. So I’ve already got my salad, thanks.”

Troy paused with his face in a frozen grin, he reached up and scratched his forehead, “Well, it’s more just the idea of the salad. But…I can get you a coffee then.”

Shane tilted his head further, in the doorway and started to wonder what this man's interest was in buying him something, “I don’t drink coffee.”

Troy looked as if he knew exactly what this was, “You play a hard game, Shane Hollander. But, I understand. I understand.” He spread his hands on either side of his head in this giving up motion. 

Shane squinted, “I’m not playing anything?”

Troy nodded and put his hands neatly behind his back, “I’ve heard you’re the best, and my ankle is really important to me, so—“

The compliment washed something over Shane that typically wouldn’t. He had never had a player from another team turn up at his door and ask for his services before. He wasn’t even sure if he was allowed to treat him.  Yet, his entirely rule-following body must have shifted the multiverse, because as Troy must those three little words, Shane suddenly didn’t care if he was allowed to or not.

That’s right. He was the best.

Ilya thought so too.

If Montréal didn’t want to give him the time of day because of his boyfriend, then Shane would give it to someone who actually wanted his help. He settled his face back into its professional arrangement and moved aside, using one hand to direct Troy into the room. “Fine, Come in.”

Troy limped past him with the enthusiasm of a skip and a jump, then sat in the same place Drapeau had occupied. Shane closed the door behind him and turned around to find Troy waiting with that same overly willing grin and for the first time since a week ago late night walk, somebody acted like they needed him.

Shane walked back to the desk and began pulling everything out of his bag again, undoing the mess he had made when he’d shoved it all inside. “So, your ankle. What did you—”

“I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

Shane glanced over his shoulder to find Troy was watching him with his head tilted to one side. “You’re very familiar.” Troy effused.

Shane offered him a small shrug and a polite smile. “Maybe. Now, about your ankle. Do you think the pain is coming from the joint itself, or does it feel more like ligament dam—”

“You used to go to Alpha Di parties, didn’t you?” Troy once again cut in, “With Matt Brooks. I went to them too, before I transferred. I think maybe I know you from there.”

Shane grinded down his annoyance at the subject change again. Bedside manners had always been the section he scored lowest in during his practical exams. Apparently, patients didn’t enjoy being told to stop talking and answer the question they had actually been asked, even when doing so would make the entire appointment faster.

So Shane kept his expression flat. “Yes, I did. Matt’s my partner.” He wheeled his chair closer to the treatment bed. “Now, can you extend your leg and rotate your ankle for me?”

Troy nodded and followed the instruction perfectly. “I thought that was right. I used to go to those parties with this friend in freshman year. We were so close before I learnt who he really was. He hurt a few people and I decided it was best to distance myself. I think you might’ve met him after that. He frequented those parties a lot. You might even say he ran them by the end.”

Shane nodded absently at the words and watched the movement. He reached forward and took Troy’s ankle between his hands and repeated the rotation himself, slower this time, feeling for any resistance in the joint. “Does it hurt when I press anywhere here?” His fingers moved around the outside of the ankle. “I’m not seeing any reduced range of motion, so I’m trying to work out where the pain is coming from.”

Troy suddenly gave a theatrical flinch. “Ouch. Yep. Right there.”

Shane stopped. Troy hadn’t flinched until after Shane finished touching his muscle. 

“But anyway.” Troy smirked. “You were always sitting in that little president’s room with Dallas and his crew, right? Last year, my friend Luca accidentally found himself near it. He came back reporting that the normies weren’t allowed inside. Anyone who wasn’t one of Dallas’s friends. But you were. Luca saw you go in.”

Shane’s hands stilled around his ankle as an image returned to him, blurred by fireplace light and alcohol and words he had spent the years since trying not to remember. 

“What happens in there?” Troy questioned. “I’ve always been so curious.”

Shane shifted in his chair and swallowed. “Can you turn your ankle inwards for me?” he forced himself to mutter, “I’m going to hold your lower calf and see whether there’s any reaction.”

Troy followed that instruction perfectly too. Shane pressed and watched his face, finding nothing. Not even the instinctive pull backwards Shane expected from someone whose ankle had apparently shit itself. Annoyingly, he still couldn’t find anything wrong.

Maybe he was rusty. Maybe the Montréal players knew he wasn’t as good as he kept insisting he was. Maybe everyone did, and that was the real reason nobody had knocked on his door. His sickness had taken away something else that he thought would never change for him.

Shane let out a frustrated breath and rotated Troy’s ankle in the opposite direction himself. “Can you give me a few more details about how you injured it?” he asked. “Is this a long-term problem, or is it relatively new?”

Troy’s face shifted into a peculiar expression, like he was sharing an inside joke Shane had not been invited into. “You could say it’s a long-term injury.” His bleached teeth shone. “A very long-term injury.”

Confusion pulled Shane’s eyebrows further together. “Have you ever needed surgery for it? Or medication?”

Troy laughed. “I wish it were that easy to get rid of.” He leaned back on his hands, with an almost condescending twinkle,  “No, I’m finding that the things you really want to get rid of can be very, very difficult to do so.”

Shane’s fingers loosened around his ankle as he stared at the black-haired man. What the fuck? Is this guy talking about. “…So, no surgery?” He quietly replied, when he realised the man was done.

Troy shook his head before giving a simple grinning wink. “Nope.”

Shane gave a short nod and pushed to his desk to open one of the drawers. He had always known McGill people were weird. It was one of the reasons he didn’t choose McGill even if it was his dads school.

He pulled out one of his physiology textbooks, found the section on ankles and began skimming it, trying to refresh himself on whatever the fuck kind of pain Troy had just described. They hadn’t taught him about that in any of his lectures.

Shane brought his thumbnail to his mouth and bit down on it before glancing back. Troy was still sitting on the treatment bed, smiling as he watched him. “Would you say it’s a deep pain or closer to the surface?”

Troy chuckled, “You know, my therapist asked me the same thing once.”

Shane’s face drew like a rope together. He put the book down and fully turned,  “You had another physiotherapist? What did they say?”

Troy gave an amused noise and made a vague gesture as if something had flown right over his head. Like wind, or a bird passing, or something else Shane was apparently supposed to understand. That's when he realised, Oh, this was one of those situations. The one where people didn’t mean exactly as they said and Shane was supposed to magically pick up the truth in the air like some personable wizard. 

A defensive brick wall built strong inside his chest and Shane shoved the draw closed. Crossing his arms over his chest, as he chastised, “Look, I can only help your ankle if you answer my questions. If you don’t, then I—”

Troy jumped off the treatment bed. He landed on both feet with a hop, his full weight balanced perfectly between his ankles as though neither one had ever hurt in the first place.

Shane gawked at him.

“I have a question for you, Shane Hollander,” Troy advanced. “Do you think you can answer it?”

Shane stood as well. Every part of him wanted to step backwards, but he knew it would look like retreating, and he wasn’t going to retreat from someone in his own office. “If it’s medically related, then yes. If it’s anything else, probably not.”

Troy nodded, giving a little point and took a step closer. “I can have your number?”

A burst of air flew out of Shane, he took the inch away now. “Excuse me?”

Troy arranged his face into what Shane thought was meant to be something attractive or flirtatious, but Shane wasn’t as easily affected as he had been for a certain Russian man. Instead. Anger quickly stitched into every facet of himself. “Your ankle isn’t hurt, is it?” He looked down at it and then back at Troy. “What… Why are you even here then—”

“Another question,” Troy’s index finger rose again, “Does anyone else know Matt lied when he said he did everything in his power to stop Dallas?” He patronizingly scrunched his face,  “Or is it only you who knows that? Well, you and me.”

Oh no.

Shane flinched as though Troy had struck him. He took a heartbeat, shaking his head with a small shrug and brought a hand up to tug at his eyelashes,  “I don’t…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Troy took another gain forward. “Right.” he agreed. “You know you're not as good at lying as your boyfriend. Or as anyone else that protects the people that were also in those rooms.”

Shane accidently hit himself into his spinning chair, and grabbed the plastic before he could trip, but he couldn’t steady his memory that spun with it.

No one ever brought up those parties or rooms. Because no one ever knew too. Not those rooms filled with people he only knew through his boyfriend. The nausea that grew inside his stomach now had nothing to do with the previous.

Shane wanted to wash those parties from his mind forever. The parties where words had been thrown around that Shane still wanted to forget, and where he had kept looking towards the person he loved most, waiting for him to make it stop. But Matt had only laughed with everyone else. Matt only enjoyed it like everyone else. Matt would only guilt him back into those rooms each time.

“I think you should leave,” Shane tumbled out.

Troy rolled his eyes and stepped away in a tired moan, giving about two feet of space between the desk edge and the wall. “Shane, come on—”

Promptly, Shane used the gap to squeeze past Troy. If Troy wasn’t going to leave, he absolutely would. He crossed the office and pulled open the door, moving out into the hallway at lightning speed. His heart was racing. His mind flashed through everything he had spent the last few months forcing back down.

Matt loved him. Matt loves him.

Matt hadn’t known what Dallas was saying. That’s what they agreed, and that’s what he said to Rose. He hadn’t understood what Dallas meant, or in the way he meant it. If he had, he would have done something. If he had, he would have changed his mind and stopped it.

“Shane,” Troy called from behind him, following back out through the door.

Shane didn’t hesitate. He just kept walking.

“Shane, just give me your number.”

He felt like he was going to have a panic attack.

“Why are you protecting him?”

Shane didn’t know whether Troy had actually said that aloud or if it was only his memory again, repeating what he had yelled at his boyfriend over and over for years.

“You can see how he’s hurting people, and you’re still protecting him.” You can see how he’s hurting me, and you’re still protecting him.

He kept moving and covered his face with both hands, trying to calm his breathing and block out the fluorescent lights that were making themselves at home in the back of his brain.

“Shane, say something in Japanese.”

“What do you mean you don’t speak it? What kind of Asian are you?”

Breath in.

“Don’t worry, Shane. We’ll find you a purse to match your outfit.”

“I mean, Matt’s still basically straight. Look at Shane.”

Breath out.

“Shane, sit on my lap. There aren’t any chairs left.”

“Matt, you let the whole team have a turn, or are you selfish?”

Breath in.

“They say this shit to everyone.”

“You know what they’re like when they’re drunk.”

“Can you please just laugh so we can move on?”

Breath out.

Troy’s voice came from behind them again. “Matt is hurting peopl—”

Shane’s mind suddenly became too small to contain him. He exploded over his shoulder. “Matt hasn’t hurt anyone.”

Anyone but me.

Sickness, please. Not right now. Leave Shane alone. Leave. You’re ruining everything.

“He’s not like Dallas,” Shane continued. “What Dallas did was evil. Matt was the only person who reported him. Well, him and Dallas' old best friend. So maybe look that up before you start throwing accusations around.”

Troy gave a small hum, like he was pleased Shane had finally agreed to participate in this little bombardment. “Did he report him, Shane?” he asked. “Or did you?”

Shane stumbled in his steps.

“It might be Matt’s name on the report, but the English is a little too astute to be believable. Did you forget to dumb it down?”

The hallway seemed to narrow around Shane.

“How did Matt react when he found out his best friend was being expelled in his name?” Troy continued. “Or did you only find out Matt knew when he used it to win the presidency Dallas left open?”

Shane could no longer feel where his body ended and the floor began.

“It must have been quite a shock when he stood in front of everyone and said, Vote for me because I reported Dallas, when you knew damn well it was you. You knew he was lying, but you didn’t say anything. Why, Shane? Why did you let him do that?” His voice turned feather-soft, as though that could make any of this kind. “I know it had to hurt, watching him treat everything Dallas did as excusable right up until condemning it became useful to him.”

It hurt like nothing else. It hurt so bad that they broke up and Shane’s dark room and his blue sweater became his whole world. 

Shane whispered to himself, “Stop.”

Troy pressed on. “I have a lot of questions that only you can answer, Shane. Matt needs you to stay silent so he can keep looking innocent. He only needs you to protect him.” His eyes remained fixed on Shane back. “No one would listen if I exposed him, I know that. Just like how you knew no one would listen to you if you put your own name on that report.”

Shane’s eyes watered.

“Give me your number, and show Matt you’re willing to talk if he doesn’t step down. That’s all I need to end this. Just give me your number.”

Shane could feel Troy at his heels, but he kept moving, unsure what might happen if he stopped. Walking that quickly while unable to see was probably a bad idea. Because, all at once, Shane walked directly into a wall. Or something that felt like one.

He bounced backwards, his hands flying from his face as his feet disappeared beneath him. He was about to embarrassingly stack it in the middle of a busy hallway when two hands caught him firmly around the forearms and held him upright.

Very familiar hands.

Hands Shane had dreamt about for the past week.

Hands that were supposed to have been writing him a fucking message.

Hands that had made him ill.

“Ilya?” Shane said at the same moment Ilya whispered, “Shane?”

Shane’s eyes shot open to see a portrait mix of blue-green eyes and blond curls. They didn’t look the way they had when Shane last saw them in the elevator. There was none of that strange, distant disillusionment in them this time. This time, they simply looked shocked.

Shane breathed in with a gulp, feeling the hands grow snug around him in recognition. He couldn’t follow Ilya’s gaze for long as it tracked over every corner of Shane’s face rapidly. He didn’t seem to be gathering the same information Shane was, he apparently didn’t care what Shane last looked like instead, only about how he did now.

The redness of his skin, and his faint breathlessness. The shine in his eyes and fear on his eyebrows.

Shane’s features wiped the shock of their bodily collision from Ilya’s face entirely as he reached a frown and let his fixation lift over Shane’s head towards something behind him and the frown only grew deeper.

Troy. Right.

For a moment, Shane had somehow forgotten about Troy. That very loud, boisterous man who knew far too much about things that were never supposed to be spoken about again, things everyone was meant to have simply moved on from, that had now gone completely silent.

Fuck. Probably because this looked bad.

Shane and Ilya, arm in arm.

This looked very bad.

Shane knocked Ilya’s hands away with a combination of speed and precision and took two quick steps backwards, the perfect distance between someone who had a boyfriend and not almost kissed on a Montreal corner. He straightened his clothes and cleared his throat.

The three of them stood in an uneven triangle, but Shane might as well not have occupied his corner of it, for the other two men only stared each other down. All the panic and anxiety that had filled himself only seconds ago dwindled into a stark, desert atmosphere.

“Shane,” Ilya suddenly said, pinning Troy with his eyes and voice gravel low. “Is this man bothering you?”

Troy scoffed and opened his mouth, but Shane was quicker. 

Something about standing beside the Russian made him calmer. It was a strange calm, one he didn’t know how to describe. Like this whole day had been a room Shane was trapped inside, and that one question had somehow been both the lock and the key to its door he’d been stuck behind for months.

“Yes,” Shane declared, finally getting control of his hyperventilating lungs. “He is.”

Troy rolled his eyes towards him and gave him a condescending smirk. Yet, Shane could only see it for a second before his entire view was replaced by a broad back and blond curls.

Ilya stepped directly in front of him. What the fuck?

You like that.

“You heard the man,” Ilya said with the movement, “You’re bothering him. Like annoying fly. Are you annoying fly, Barrett?”

Okay, Shane hadn’t said that. He would’ve corrected Ilya if he could, but every time he tried to step out from behind him, Ilya somehow knew exactly where he was going. Through some weird fucking sixth sense, he moved with Shane in a sort of defensive cha-cha slide.

Shane stepped left.

Ilya’s body went left.

Shane stepped right.

Ilya went right.

Which was extremely annoying because he didn’t need Ilya doing this for him. He was perfectly capable of protecting himself. He was a fully grown man. He had done track. If necessary, he could run for days.

“I thought this didn't involve you anymore, Ilya?” Troy questioned. “Hollander and I are just having a nice chat about his number. Weren’t we, Hollander?”

Shane didn’t reply. He accidentally stopped paying attention to the voices or the words. His focus had locked entirely onto the Russian barricade blocking his view.

Shane tried going right twice.

Ilya went right twice.

Again? How?

“Seems like really good chat, Barrett,” Ilya affirmed,  “Do all your conversations end with people running away from you? You must have really good sneakers. Are they Adidas?”

Shane went left, then right, then left and left again. He almost had him. At the last second, Ilya blocked him again. Jesus, fuck.

Ilya didn’t even know what he was fighting here. Why was he blocking Shane out of the conversation altogether? Who did he think he was, ignoring Shane for an entire week and then appointing himself the lead soldier in Shane’s army?

Screw him!

Yes, screw him.

“Only when they have something to hide, Rozanov.” Troy replied far too happily. “Or protect. You love protecting Matt, right Shane? I bet you sleep real nice in that presidential suit you won for him too—”

Ilya interrupted the black haired man with a moan, and tiredly sunk his hands on either side of himself, “Again annoying fly, Barrett. No wonder he ran. You are already hurting my ears.”

Shane moved right, but before Ilya could follow, Shane reached forward and hooked one finger into the back of his shirt to keep him still. His finger caught on the material of Ilya’s…Redbird shirt?

Shane blinked down at it. The confusion stumped his escape all together. Why was Ilya wearing a RedBird shirt? Exactly the same one Troy was wearing. Wait. Did Troy and Ilya know each other?

He kept hold of the material while he examined it, using the small point of contact to ground himself as his brain hurriedly reevaluated the situation he was currently stuck in. If Troy and Ilya knew each other then…maybe Ilya knew Matt. And If Ilya knew Matt then maybe—

Suddenly Shane was pulled out of his thoughts, by one of Ilya’s hands sweeping silently behind his back and settling near his tailbone, palm open in invitation.

Shane stared at it. Ilya must have mistaken the tug for something else, because what on earth was that for? What was Shane supposed to do with that? Slowly, he released the edge of Ilya’s shirt and with all the hesitation of someone answering a question he hadn’t understood, slipped his single finger into the open palm.

Ilya’s hand closed around it like a snap dragon, and he held it strong in its refuge.

Wow.

A breath escaped Shane, and the sickness seemed to leave with it. Seven days of indisposition, noise and relentless spinning vanished from his body all at once. His thoughts fell silent as beneath his skin, a velvet electric buzz spread through every place the disease had occupied.

It was not the cure Shane had been looking for. But he let himself sink into it anyway. Finally, finally, he could breathe. 

Ilya didn’t correct his choice, as well. So Shane could only hope he had somehow made the right one. Maybe this was what Ilya had been asking for after all. He doesn't know why, but he didn’t hate it. It kind of felt nice.

“I think now is a good time to go home, Troy. Go back to Harris Park. You’re done here.”

Troy laughed again and the hand around Shane’s finger squeezed once. The buzz was intoxicating. “We’ll see about that. You hear me, Hollander? Anyway, I have a team to get back too. You’ve made it clear, Ilya, that apparently you don’t.”

Shane could hear Ilya’s eye roll in his reply, “Oh, boohoo. Did you learn that speech from Mighty Ducks? You are the Drama Queen, Barrett. Annoying fly and now Drama Queen, is big day for you, no?”

The comment must have been Troy’s final straw. He finally seemed to realise he wasn’t going to get anything more than snooty replies from either of them in this hallway. He tried to look at Shane one last time, but Ilya followed the motion and blocked him again. So, Troy drew in a harsh breath, “Fine, then,” he muttered, turning on the spot and began retreating down the corridor.

Shane deflated behind Ilya’s body with every footstep until, at last, Troy was gone. Then, before he could consciously decide to do it, his forehead fell against Ilya’s back and he stayed there, his single finger still held safely inside the Russian’s hand, trying to ride the vibrations his seemed addicted to producing.

What the fuck had just happened? How had the entire day turned so quickly? 

Shane couldn’t even begin to understand it before Ilya turned beneath him, jostling his forehead away. The instant their contact broke, the poison flooded back through Shane’s body, and the hum of peace he had only just found was ripped away.

In his face, the serious expression Ilya must have been holding that entire time melted as his gaze began reassessing every inch of Shane’s face. “Are you okay?” He whispered.

His voice barely disturbed the air between them because of how close they were. There was hardly a ruler’s length of space separating their bodies, yet Shane felt every centimetre as though the molecules between them had suddenly become something physically real and cruelly determined to keep him from making contact again.

Shane stared at Ilya in silence, and let the question grow mildew. He knew Ilya was asking a nice sentiment. He knew that. He could recognise, somewhere beneath the sudden stoking fire in his chest, that Ilya had just done a nice thing. 

But for some reason that only made Shane…angry. 

Shane hadn’t been angry for a second with Troy. 

He had been a lot of things, but anger wasn’t one of them.

Yet, now, he was angry.

Because this man had ignored him for a week. A whole week. And now he was standing here in the rink that had always been Shane's safe space, besides today, like he was a sexy knight in shining sexy armour. 

No. He wasn’t allowed to do that.

He couldn’t just rip away everything Shane knew and then disappear.

Shane had spent days checking his phone in increasingly stupid ways. He had opened his messages at breakfast, before class, after class, in the bathroom, on Matt’s bed, under the table at lunch like a pathetic freak. He had planned, in his head, an entire hockey night with Ilya before Ilya had even bothered to text him.

He had searched it, actually searched it, lying in bed with his phone too close to his face, typing things like what to eat with friends when watching a hockey game. He had thought about cutting up carrot and celery sticks. He had thought about hummus. He had thought about whether Ilya would laugh at him for that and order a pizza or eat it anyway.

And then Ilya had not messaged. At all.

So no, Shane did not particularly appreciate being rescued by Ilya and then gently asked if he was okay. 

“Wouldn’t you like to fucking know,” Shane spat, utilising the three years of emotions Troy spun up and whatever withdrawals he seemed to be going through, “Don’t ever do that again. I can handle myself.”

Ilya paused where his stupid well built, large body held him and blinked.

Shane did not wait for whatever face he made after that, as he turned and walked out down to the lobby, pushing through the front doors with too much force and stepping into the cold before Ilya could say his name again.

He kept walking at first, out into the cold, his bag thumping against his side and his face still hot with coals. He made it several steps down towards his car before the absence behind him became too obvious to ignore. No footsteps. No annoying Russian voice. No Ilya appearing beside him with some infuriating little comment that made it impossible to stay angry in the right way.

Nothing. 

Shane didn’t want him too obviously, but for some reason in the ever-growing list of disappointments Ilya Rozanov was becoming, that one fit right in. 

Shane stopped on the pavement and stared down at it, trying to hold back the feeling that had held him hostage for the past week after infecting him during one single walk. The one that made him guilty and ugly and…this.

Just leave, Shane. Walk away. Go tell Matt what Troy knows. Just go. Take another antihistamine.

Shane tried to lift his foot, but realised he couldn’t. His body remained fixed in place. Why? Why was he stuck? He had been running for the door only moments ago. Then one look at that blond-haired man, one touch from him, had allowed the feeling Shane was almost free of to reinhabit his body. Now it was keeping him in the one place he shouldn’t want to be anymore.

His team didn’t even want him here. And yet… What was wrong with him? Everything inside of him wanted to turn back inside, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have an actual reason.

Shane looked over his shoulder. “Fuck you,” he fumed to the empty space,  “Fuck you and your curly hair, and your laugh, and your smile, and your…Redbirds jersey, and—”

Wait….Why was Ilya in a RedBirds jersey?

Shane stood there for another second, waiting for this question to move somewhere useful, but it did not. It only circled back around, hotter now, because apparently he had lost complete control over his body and his brain had decided that the only logical solution was to ask Ilya to his face.

Exactly. Perfect. 

A reason. Now he can go back.

Go back.

Shane spun back around and marched through the doors again. When he made it just before the entrance he unfortunately did not spot Ilya anywhere anymore. So like a spider lost in a room, Shane went on a hunt.

He walked past the front tables, then down the showers, then weaved through the rinks stupid little labyrinth of meeting rooms and shelves and hidden corners. Every few steps, he found his anger rearranged itself into a newer version. 

He rounded another corner and then stopped so suddenly his shoes squeaked against the floor. Because, there, tucked into the very back-left corner of the locker rooms, out of sight of almost everyone else, was Ilya…and Troy.

Troy was sitting on one of the benches, leant back on his hands as if he’d never had a worry a day in his life, while Ilya stood over him with one hand braced on the metal and a finger pointed close to Troy’s face.

They were talking intensely enough that Shane could feel it from where he stood half-hidden in front of the window. He couldn’t make out everything, so he just silently watched the back and forth and tried to lip read.

“—do you need me to give you a list of hobbies?” Ilya smiled, “You and the team are supposed to have a lot of new free time, yes? Or did you miss that meeting?”

Troy rolled his eyes. “Ilya, if two magnets are so different why do they keep coming back to each other? Okay, you found out B1 likes to watch. Big whoop. But, B2 keeps letting it happen. I don’t see how that changes anything.”

“It changes everything.” Ilya stepped closer. “Look, here is a list I put together for Haas. Painting. Knitting. Maybe bull riding. I can see you being a very swimmer. We could do this together.” He gestured impatiently. “See, lots of things to do besides this. Pick one. I do not care which. Just pick.”

Troy smiled. “Maybe I’ll take up hunting. Are we finished? I have a lot to do, that Alpha Dear won't strike itself. Thanks for the idea, though. You’re right, hobbies are fun.”

Ilya lifted one waving hand between them, building to interrupt once more. However, his line was halted when Troy wrapped his fingers around the skin and dragged it out of his face, instead using the momentum to restart whatever spill of words he wanted to fume out. 

Which words in particular? Shane was not sure.

Because that's when he stopped trying to lip read the odd casual conversation. 

When the illness inside him, the feeling now inexplicably tethered to the Russian, lit up like a Christmas tree, overwhelming every one of Shane’s senses until none of them functioned properly.

That was the hand Shane had touched. 

The palm that had opened behind Ilya’s back and waited for him. 

The fingers that had closed so carefully around his single one.

Shane knew the warmth from that touch couldn’t possibly still be there on Ilya’s nerves, but it felt as though Troy had placed his hand directly over it anyway. Directly over where Shane had been. 

A hot and swirling viper twisted beneath his ribs. Ilya’s hand wasn’t Shane’s property, but that doesn’t mean Troy should be touching it either. The sight made his blood boil. 

Evaluate it.

They were tucked back here on purpose, hidden away like this was private. Like they had things to say to each other. Planning hobbies and activities. Having some secret little conversation.

Like they were friends. Were they friends? ‘Maybe we could do it together.’

The nausea made Shane’s flesh want to peel off like paint stripper.

Did they message back and forth and watch hockey together eating hummus? Did they talk about Shane and all the terrible things he had supposedly been complicit in? Was that why Ilya had gone MIA? Because Troy was his friend and had convinced him Shane was someone he wasn’t?

Had they gone on a walk?

Shane, with more fervor than he’s ever had, locked back into the conversation, but by then it was already over. Ilya looked over at Troy. For a second, something almost like acceptance passed across his face, but it didn’t last. He nodded once, and waved Troy off.

Shane could have sworn birds sang through the plaster walls.

Shane looked at Troy and, despite everything, could not help feeling a little smug. It was horrible. He knew it was horrible. And yet, Troy being dismissed in front of him put something pleased right under his ribs.

Troy walked over to the door and opened it half way, before looking at Ilya. “We’re good right?” he very clearly questioned now, body in the open doorway. “You know why I need this.”

Ilya wiped his chin and nodded, "I know why you think you need it."

Troy seemed to relax, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

The bird died and Shane’s smugness went with it.

He quickly hid as Troy walked out the swinging door and disappeared in the hallway again, leaving himself in the hidden corner and Ilya alone under the bad lighting and whatever the hell tomorrow was supposed to mean. 

So they did know each other. Ilya knew the man that seemed to know everything and the only person left out of the loop was Shane.

Go, the voice said. Go get him.

So, in his ever failing resistance to his week long disorder, Shane did. 

He waited a beat of ten before strangling his hand around the strap of his bag and stepping through the door. He walked straight up to Ilya with enough force that his boots hit the floor in thuds, stopping hard at the long end of the bench. 

Ilya’s head snapped toward him and for the second time that day confusion ran strong across every vein of it. He didn’t give Ilya the chance to ask why he had come back before beginning what he had returned to do. He just needed to get in and get out as quickly as possible. “Ilya, can I talk to you for a second?”

Ilya narrowed his eyes down the hallway Troy had disappeared into only moments ago. “Shane,” he said with a little too much forced politeness. “I don’t think that is a good idea. I’m sorry for the hallway. I'll make sure that this is the last time we see each othe—”

Shane tilted his head. The last time they should see each? Why because he was good with Troy? Why was Ilya still looking for Troy? Why wasn’t he looking at Shane? Had Shane really been the only one decrepitated by their walk?

His stomach hurt.

“Why? Because of Troy?” Shane stung, dragging Ilya’s attention back towards him with a bite in his voice.

Ilya gave Shane what he wanted and blinked back at him. “Shane. I really think is best you go, before—”

“How do you know Troy?” Shane cut in loudly.

Ilya's face dropped. “What? I don’t…I—”

Shane nodded, and gestured forward in a little petulant circle with his hand, “You were just in here talking. You’re wearing the same jersey as him and know each other's names. You’re planning to go swimming. So, how do you know him? I think I know so don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to me again, like you already have.”

Ilya's face seemed to sink faster, “Shane. Okay, you know. That’s…just listen first. I didn’t know your situation. If I did, the walk would have never happened. Troy warped a lot of detai—“

Shane’s pulse flared into frantic beats. “Oh, so you agree. You do know Troy. It’s because you’re on the same hockey team, right? Did he tell you not to message me? Is that why you promised me you would and then didn’t? Is that why you…on the walk, you almost…” Kissed me, “...and then, didn’t.” Please don’t tell me, that’s why you almost kissed me and then didn’t. 

The words only came at his same heart rhythm flowing ailment inside his veins.

“Troy doesn’t know everything, just for your information. He might think he does, but there’s a substantial middle section missing between that speech and when Matt and I got back together, so don’t let him tell you he knows everything. But, you could’ve just messaged me and said you’d changed your mind. You didn’t need to keep me waiting and waiting and worrying that Sveta had given you the wrong number. If he told you something and you changed your mind about everything, you should’ve just fucking messaged me anyway.”

Ilya froze, apparently still trying to assemble a conversation whose subject changed every three seconds. A few moments later, he seemed to catch up. “…What?”

Shane laughed and waved one hand dismissively. “But don’t worry about it anymore. I don’t want you to message me now. We’re done. We’re nothing.”

Ilya stared at him, one eyebrow lifting as his confusion deepened beyond belief. “…Yes,” he said slowly, pulling at his ear, “I know.”

Shane laughed again, but there was more gravity in it this time. More hurt caught in his sore throat. Another symptom. Was Ilya really so determined not to message him even once that he wouldn’t argue with any of that? He would simply accept that they could be strangers to each other, and the world could continue exactly as it always had?

Shane shifted his weight and crossed his arms over his chest. Then, because he had apparently lost all autonomy over his tongue in the same place he had lost his wellness, he continued. “What are you doing with Troy tomorrow?”

Ilya looked baffled once more, which was starting to become a very annoying habit. He shrugged and lifted one hand to scratch the side of his nose. “Nothing,” he said. Then he threw his hand vaguely towards Shane, meeting his snappy tone exactly where it was. “Is that okay with you?”

The answer waiting on Shane’s tongue was supposed to be, You can do whatever you want. Or, I don’t care. Or even, Yes, I guess, if you’re suddenly open for business but just not to me.

That was what he meant to say. But on this strange affliction, for reasons Shane could not locate and absolutely did not want to examine, what came out instead was…“Well, I’m having a party tomorrow.”

Okay. Wrong. No. Abort. This had gone in completely the wrong direction. What happened to getting in and getting out as quickly as possible? What happened to running straight to Matt and telling him what had happened today? To trying to go back to the way everything should be?

What happened to any of that?

The words made Ilya stand up straighter and the way he did it, almost made Shane smirk.

The buzz is almost back. Keep going.

Ilya nodded and looked away, like he was calculating what that little fact was meant to mean and how obvious he was allowed to be about wanting it to mean something more. “Cool,” he droned, eyes bouncing everywhere they could touch.  “Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool. Cool.”

Shane stared at him as he nodded too, mostly to himself, and found the words came easier now that he had Ilya’s deep stare again, “Yeah, cool? Well, fuck you, Ilya. Fuck you. You don’t get to ignore me for a week and then show up asking if I’m okay. You don’t get to do that. So, fuck you.”

Ilya’s mouth opened but Shane did not wait to hear all of it. He only gave a small hupmf and turned to walk away. He’d just made it out through the locker room door when he had to bite his lip to stop his very annoyed and very angry smile, because finally he heard footsteps following him.

His fever broke.

“Do you want me to come tomorrow?” Ilya called out. “To this party?”

Shane spun around so quickly his head almost turned with the vertigo and familiar adrenaline. He scoffed with the reply, “No! Or…maybe, if you messaged me. But not anymore. I don’t want anything from you anymore.”

Ilya did not look offended. If anything, he looked like Shane had said exactly what he’d hoped he’d say. He fixed his eyes on Shane’s face. “But, you did once. That is what you are saying. You wanted me to message you. Like really message you. Me. That is why you are this angry.”

Shane shook his head baffled. Didn’t he heavily imply that in the elevator? Hadn’t he said that a million times by now? “No,” Shane ordered, “I think you should message Troy. You’re on the same team as him. He’s your friend. So, message him.”

For a second, Ilya only stared at him like a bulb had clicked on in his head. His eyebrows rose and hands settled on his hips. “You are jealous,” he said softly. “No, you like me.”

Shane let out a mocking breath again, louder this time, because the first one apparently had not been enough to protect him. “I don’t like you. You make me sick.”

Ilya wiggled like a giddy reshuffling of his feet, “A good sick, I think, yes? You like me.” 

Shane shook his head with a scowl, “In case you’ve gotten a concussion since I last saw you, please remember I have a boyfriend.”

Ilya nodded slowly, but a smirk took residence on his face and general demeanour. “Yet, you wanted me to message you? And to come to this party, yes? Even though you have a boyfriend.” He wiped his lower face, “Is this why you came back?”

Shane retreated like a rubber band. “No!” The word came out with genuine indignation, “I came back because Troy is sticking his head into places it doesn’t belong, and you apparently know him. Which is rich, because over the past week I started to think that maybe you didn’t know anyone. But maybe you just know Troy. Maybe—”

Ilya smiled. “Wow. I did not expect this, Shane. This is big shock. Truly.” He teased, “You are so jealous.”

Shane sputtered around the wrath rapidly building inside him. “I am not!”

Ilya pulled his mouth to one side and raised his fingers in a tiny pinch. “Just a little.”

“Stop!” Shane snapped. “I am not jealous, I just…is Troy on your hockey team or not? Are you friends? That’s all I want to know, that’s why I came back.”

Ilya gave him a look that made heat pool in the lowest part of Shane’s stomach. “If I tell you, will you admit that you are jealous?”

Shane shifted his weight onto his left foot, trying to redirect the flooding tingle somewhere less uncomfortable, then shrugged with what he hoped was nonchalance. “I guess if you tell me, we’ll find out. Not that there’s anything to tell. Because I am not.”

Ilya’s expression stayed thrilled for a moment, before hesitation seemed to sweat through his skin with every silent seconds that ticked past. He glanced at the locker room door.

Shane might have found that strange in any other situation, but he had just come very close to declaring Troy the worst person imaginable. Of course anyone would be wary of admitting they were associated with that. Redbirds or not.

Shane was almost grateful when Ilya finally gave him a straight answer. He scratched his nose, “That is actually funny you say that, because we are not friends.”

Shane gave him a disbelieving look. “Really?”

Ilya cleared his throat and nodded. “We are just on same hockey team, like you said. I…barely know him. I just saw you panicked and I thought I would step in. Then after, he comes up to me and starts talking, and I say, Troy Barrett, I do not know you, but he just keeps talking, and says weird thing about tomorrow.” 

Shane pressed his tongue into the side of his mouth and shook his head. “So, you’re telling me it's just a coincidence that you're on the same hockey team and you didn’t message me?” He breathed in, “That’s what you want me to believe?”

Ilya wiped his nose, “Yes. Biggest coincidence. We are just same hockey team. Good job, Sherlock. Great investigating. You figured it out.”

Shane gave the words three inhales to settle before he released a satisfied breath.

He could have tried to dissect why that was exactly what he had wanted to hear, but he had mostly stopped trying to understand the voices in his head and the feelings taking over his body. All he knew was that something inside him relaxed.

“So what is verdict, Mr. Jealous?” Ilya’s smile returned. “I gave you my part of deal. Is very pretty and smart Shane Hollander jealous of…” He tilted his head, pretending to search his memory. “What did you call me before? Ah, yes. Stuck head Troy?”

Shane could have opened his mouth and thrown back a reply, but then he stopped. Wait. That was actually a good question. Shane doesn’t think he’s ever actually been jealous before in his life. So, how did he know if he was or not?

Eliminating Ilya’s face as a variable, Shane closed his eyes and went perfectly still, ready to take stock of the strange harmony inside him, and, more importantly, determine whether it evaporated once the visual stimulus was removed.

Feeling? Are you still here? Knock, knock. Feeling…where are you? If you’re there, can you let me know what you are now?

Do I need to pull out the Reddit search again?

Hello, you’ve been pestering me for a week and now you’re quiet?

Knock, Knock?

Nothing.

Yes! Shane had done it. Finally, it was gone, exactly as he’d known it would be. He had been right. It had been a passing sickness and now he was free. Now he could leave and finally sort out the other aspects of his life. Matt, for example. Troy knowing about the speech. Troy knowing about Shane’s report. Finally, he could be a good boyfriend again. 

He knew it’d pass just like he’d said every day since the walk. All he had to do was open his mouth and tell Ilya just tha—

Something poked his cheek.

Shane flinched away from the probing finger with a jolt and opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the brusquely defined arrow at the centre of Ilya’s upper lip and the way it stretched flat when he grinned.

“Shane Hollander to Earth,” Ilya taunted. “Are you meditating or somethi—”

Buzz. Buzz. The feeling returned tenfold. 

Shane flung both hands out, batting away every part of Ilya he could reach, then turned on his heel. “Fuck you, asshole.”

Damn it. He had been so close. He’d had it. He’d had it. Fuck, what was he going to do? He didn’t have time for this right now. He didn’t have time to be diseased.

The Russian joined with almost a trip after him. “Now, Shane. About this party, I've decided I will come. I want this very much.”

Shane arranged his face into its most disinterested features. “Well, apparently you want a lot of things that you suddenly don’t want the next morning. So maybe you shouldn’t come.”

Ilya caught the meaning beneath Shane’s words in the same perfect way he seemed to catch everything Shane accidentally placed there. 

He let out an almost nervous laughter and ran his fingers under his jaw, “There are a lot of things I secretly want but do not do. Just because I do not do them does not mean I don’t want them.” His gaze returned to Shane. “Sometimes it only means I do not expect the very pretty things to want the same things too.”

Shane stopped and looked at Ilya. He turned the sentences over in his hands and tried to tear apart every strange bump contradicting that answer in the answer itself.

“All right.” Shane lifted his body straight, “Tell me why you didn’t message me, then. If it wasn’t because of Troy, why didn’t you? You have to have a good reason, right? I want to hear it. And if it’s acceptable, then maybe…just maybe, you can come to my party. We can have another deal.”

Ilya drew a breath deep into his chest and looked away. Shane considered tapping his foot through the long silence Ilya seemed trapped inside, but he wanted this reason to be good almost as much as Ilya seemed to want to make it one.

Eventually, Ilya glanced back at him and began tugging on his earlobe. “I thought maybe after the walk I…misread things. Or…hoped. Or…” His gaze drifted past Shane towards the doorway Troy had disappeared through. The excitement drained from his face. “I thought I should probably leave you alone. That even if you did maybe like me a little, it was not real because…well. Just because. I did want to message you. Every day. But I would not have. I will not lie and say I was going to.”

I wanted to, but I wouldn’t have.

Shane knew there was a deeper meaning inside those words when they were strung together, but his body reacted only to what they said on the surface. Nausea rose into his throat and, without his permission, his face fell completely. If a transcript of their conversation were written down, this was exactly the ending Shane should have expected. So why did it feel as though Ilya had just punched him in the stomach? Why did it make the poison inside him almost make him curl into a ball?

Ilya watched Shane’s face. His gaze travelled over every corner of it before flicking towards the doorway again. For a moment, he looked as though he were standing between two separate decisions. “Fuck,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “But now you come back again and tell me…this. And it changes things, right? It changes all of it. If we like each other, why would we let anything get in the way? Maybe this way is better. Then none of it has to follow you. I can make sure. Yes. Better for you.” He nodded faintly.

Shane scrunched up his face as the man seemed to be negotiating entirely with himself and whichever devil or angel was sitting on his shoulder. He watched as the uncertainty disappeared from Ilya’s expression and something reckless replaced it as he studied Shane. 

“So maybe we could just forget all about the walk, yes?” Ilya smiled. “Is much easier. Maybe everything before that too. It was only one hour. We could do that. That is fine. We start again here, just you and me, completely separate from all of it.”

Every sensible part of Shane’s body started screaming at him…no, they could not. Go back to the car. Sit down. Drive to a priest to perform whatever exorcism was necessary to remove this buzzing spirit from your body. Don’t accept the offer. Don't do it. Don’t.

But, there had to be something wrong with him. There had to be. There was no other explanation for why, after all of that, after the bar and the pen and Troy and every terrible warning sign his brain had lined up so neatly in front of him, Shane still reached into his pocket. Still unlocked his phone, and handed it over. 

“Give me your number and I’ll think about it. Don’t tell anyone though. And absolutely do not tell Matt.”

Shane didn’t know what he wanted from Ilya. He only knew what seven days without him had felt like, and he didn’t want an eighth.

Ilya took it with speed and typed away with such ferocity the object nearly tumbled out of his hands. “Believe me I will not.”

Shane stood there, burning with embarrassment, watching as Ilya slowly typed something into his phone with a disbelieving smirk on his face. This was a bad idea. This was a terrible idea. He was a terrible boyfriend. He was giving into the sickness that was ruining everything.

Ilya looked up from the phone, with a glow in his eyes. “I will be there at six.”

Shane snatched it back and shook his head. “No, you will not. I am still thinking about it. I don’t fully trust you. There are just a lot of…moving pieces today.”

But there was something different in the way Ilya held himself now. He looked like someone had placed a miracle he had only ever dreamed of directly onto the table in front of him. He smiled more widely than Shane had ever seen and pointed at him. “I will earn your trust. We will do one of those trust falls at party, yes? I think you’ll like that. Falling into my arms like you did in hallway.” His smile turned wicked. “You might even get your freckles all red again.”

A horribly exposing sound escaped Shane. “That is not what happened. My freckles didn’t…they didn’t anything.”

Ilya kept pointing at him as he began stepping away. “Mmh. They definitely did. All red like cherry apple. Same red as when we were on that corner and you almost kissed me.”

Shane couldn’t help the way his stomach flipped when Ilya finally acknowledged the corner. He had spent the entire week feeling as though he were going crazy over what happened there, as though he might have imagined all of it. Now Ilya had acknowledged it too, and Shane felt the sudden urge to rise onto his tiptoes and nod again, just to keep him talking about it. 

“You almost kissed me!”

Ilya lifted both hands in mock offence.  “I don’t think so. Even tonight, I have pretty boy’s voice in my ear saying, Ilya, I want you to come to my party. Pretty, pretty please. If you do not come, I will be so sad. So sad. And still, I do not kiss him.” He nodded solemnly. “I am strong like this, you see. You might not be so strong when you see me at party. I will bring good dancing shoes for us.”

Shane tried not to let either corner of his mouth lift. “Well, you’ll have to use your dancing shoes another time, because you’re disinvited. I’ll show you how strong I am by not opening the door when you knock.”

Yet even as he said it, Shane knew he would.

That was the awful thing he was beginning to learn about himself. Lately, there had been a lot of versions of no between Shane and Ilya. Every single one of them seemed to change its mind before Shane did.

“You are too nice to do that,” Ilya smiled after him. “I know this now. It is too late.”

Shane kept walking, but the smirk came before he could stop it. Because, damn it, Ilya was right. He let out a sigh and looked back over his shoulder. “Werent we forgetting about the walk? You don’t know anything about me anymore.”

Ilya’s smile spread slowly, “No I don't, dorogoy. You are full of surprises.”

Shane decided that he was not going to ask what that meant. He was not. So he turned away and walked down the hall toward… somewhere. Away, mostly. 

When he looked back once more, he saw Ilya standing frozen there with the stupidest smirk Shane could imagine. He shook his head like something had happened that he could not quite believe, then pointed at Shane once more. “I will be there. And message you. Because you want me too. And I will not tell your boyfriend.”

What the hell had Shane done?

Shane turned his head forward again, and sighed and kept walking. “Don’t be late, then. I mean that.”

Ilya shook his head with a look of determination, and yelled just before Shane turned the final corner, “I will be there.”

Shane pushed through the rink doors and headed towards his car that was parked directly in front of the door with a smile still stretched across his face. He considered looking over his shoulder and yelling, Whatever idiot, but his cheeks had grown too large on either side of his grin for even a sliver of the word to escape.

Because that was what Ilya was.

An idiot who had this strange superpower to take over whatever atmosphere had settled over a room and replace it entirely with himself. Yet, unfortunately, he seemed determined to use that power exclusively to make an idiot of himself.

Shane unlocked his car, climbed inside and shut the door. But as he turned the key he saw Ilya’s head pop around the corner of the lobby. His eyes looked for Shane in the sea of cars and once located he gave a small wink. Shane let out a breath, and flipped him off.

Ilya, in his never ending smooth way, pretended to catch the insult in mid-air. He brought it carefully to his chest and gave Shane his most touched, grateful expression.

Shane rolled his eyes and shifted the car into drive. He began creeping forward. Ilya’s expression fell into annoyance. He threw both hands out and mouthed, wait.

He hurriedly pulled out his phone, waved it above his head and began typing with both thumbs. So Shane wasn’t particularly surprised when, ten seconds later, his car chimed. “Unknown number sent a new text. Would you like to read it?”

Shane put his foot on the brake. “Yes.”

“It says: I will be there. Would you like to send a reply?”

Shane slowly lifted his head until he stared at the roof of his car, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yes. Reply: Goodbye.”

The car paused. “Sent!”

Shane watched through the glass as Ilya received it. He looked down at his screen, rolled his eyes, then looked back at Shane. Finally, he nodded, lifted one last wave and disappeared from sight. The moment he did, something cold seemed to seep into the car and settle in all the space Ilya had somehow been filling from across the parking lot.

Shane frowned at the empty lobby as whatever lavender haze had settled over him was pulled away with Ilya. He shook his head clean of it, lifted his foot from the brake and finally drove. He should have been focusing on the real world and how terribly, drastically wrong everything had gone today. How he was going to fix any of it before the whole thing fell even further apart.

His team. His placements. Troy. Dallas.

Matt.

God, Matt.

Shane knew getting back together with him hadn’t been the best idea, but he hadn’t expected it to open into this black hole he no longer knew how to escape. He was caught in its gravity now, dragged so deeply into its atmosphere that even if he found a way back, the re-entry might ruin him.

He knew he should care about that right now. He should be thinking about it. He should probably call Matt and warn him.

But…

It all seemed so far away now. Like it mattered to a different Shane Hollander. One who no longer occupied the body Shane was sitting inside. Because Shane didn’t feel like himself. Or maybe he felt like a new version of himself.

Maybe Rose was right, it’s a new year. 

His phone chimed again, and Shane couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he rolled his eyes.

“You have two new messages. One from My Matt and another from Unknown Number. Would you like me to read them?”

Shane sniffed and turned on his indicator as he approached the corner. “Yes.”

“Reading My Matt: I just sent another bouquet to your apartment. Make sure you get it before Rosie throws it out. Gotta do president shit, so turning my phone off. Night, ILY. Now, reading Unknown Number: Really? A Jeep?”

Shane sat in the quiet and waited for the inevitable voice to return.

“Which message would you like to reply to?”

Shane breathed in. Which one? He swallowed before opening his mouth. “Reply to Unknown Number.”

“Sure! What would you like to say?”

The corner of Shane’s mouth turned towards the sky. He could feel his skin warming pink, even though these were only words he was saying in the privacy of his own car. “It’s a practical car. Good in the snow.”

“Sent!”

Shane’s fingers began tapping against the steering wheel. He could practically count every second that passed.

“New message from Unknown Number. Would you like me to—”

“Yes!” Shane exclaimed, already annoyed by all the prefacing.

“It’s boring.” His car simply said.

Shane scoffed and opened his mouth to tell the car to reply, but another chime interrupted him.

“New message from Unknown Number: But you are boring. So I like it.”

Shane shifted in his seat, smirking helplessly at the traffic around him.

“Would you like to reply to My Matt now?” The car changed direction so quickly, in the mindless way machines did, that the smile was still sitting on Shane’s face when the name reached him. It slowly disappeared. A small prick of guilt caught beneath his ribs. He cleared his throat. “Just say, ‘I love you.’”

“Sent!”

The car seemed quieter after that. Shane tightened his hands around the steering wheel, trapped with himself again.

Fuck. What was he going to do? 

He supposed he would find out tomorrow.

Happy Birthday, Shane fucking Hollander.

Make a wish. And make it slavic.