Chapter Text
His apartment building is thirty-five stories high.
Auston’s condo sits on the tenth floor, there’s no balcony. Instead, Auston finds himself perched on the window ledge, feet dangling precariously over the edge. It’s three in the morning and despite the usually bustling street of Toronto, the world outside is dead. The streets are empty, it’s quiet, and only the occasional car will pass by.
He’s not sure why the windows open wide enough for him to fit through. Maybe it’s a Canadian thing? Or his apartment building just wants to fuel his burning desire for the sweet, sweet embrace of death even more so. Either way, one wrong move and Auston’s going to wind up a flat pancake ten stories below, and as tempting as that is, and it really is, his Mom would probably kill him (ha). So here he is, sitting on the edge of a window imagining what it would be like to fall through the air. Imagining what it would be like if he just ended it right here and right now.
Relieving.
Most likely anyway.
White droplets of snow lightly flutter down from the cloudy night sky. The soft flakes fall gently over Auston’s arms, and on the tip of his nose. He shivers at the contact, perhaps it wasn’t his best decision to perch out here with only a thin sleeved shirt protecting him from the cold. It’s a form of torture, he supposes. Sitting on a window ledge ten stories high, his skin exposed to the the chilly breeze and icy snow that leaves his lips blue and chattering and the hair on his arms standing up in an attempt to protect him from it.
Auston thinks back to the game earlier tonight. The Shit Show, as he’s been calling it in his head for the past four hours. A loss on home ice sucks on a normal night, but a 4-0 loss to fucking Buffalo of all places, it hits harder than anything. It saps any self-worth he has left in him every time he thinks of every missed shot, every turnover, and the faces of the blue-donned fans in the stands as they realised there was no salvaging the wreckage the game had become.
So, here he is. Four hours later, staring at the snow covered concrete below. Imagining himself falling, not for the first time this week. He should probably tell someone about that. About the way his chest constricts with dread every time he has to wake up. About how each second passes in slow motion, taking over his days and forcing him to keep his eyes open when he’d rather just let them shut. For good. Except, Auston’s not sure how he’s supposed to go about telling someone that the reason the bags under his are because the weight on his chest presses down too hard at night and forces him to curl up fully clothed in the cold shower until the weight eases off. It usually doesn’t. Or how sometimes he sits in his living room till 5am, replaying every interview that questions his ability, pits him against Laine and confirms every fear Auston’s ever had.
The snowflakes begin to fall heavier and the gentle breeze blows harsher, whipping past Auston so fast he feels himself wobble where he’s sitting. He sighs, finally relenting against the cold, and clambers back in through the window. The apartment is dark inside, just like the thoughts swirling around through his head. It’s barely any warmer inside and what little warmth there is does nothing to soothe the cold chill that’s settled beyond his bones. The weight in his chest grows heavy, along with Auston’s footsteps. If he listens close enough, sometimes he can hear the ball and chain on his feet dragging mercilessly behind him.