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"Shane Hollander. Do you know who you are?" The man in the mirror mocked him. Shane flinched, dropping the belt he was holding; the clutter of the buckle hitting the floor echoed in this empty room.
He looked down at his feet. His feet were weirdly shaped, and he tended to stand like a clueless penguin. He looked back up, pulling every ounce of his courage just to stare into his own eyes.
There was just a reflection of himself in the mirror.
Fucking hallucinations. He hadn't been sleeping much; the Centaurs were on a winning streak and he wanted to, at the very least, snatch a playoff spot on his first season with them.
He had already brought enough trouble with all that media circus. Besides he's the reason their captain had been so sad in the past seasons. He would have at least liked to pay them back with a win. Prove that he could still give something worthwhile maybe.
And yet, and yet. Fucking hallucinations putting thoughts in his thick fucking head, as if it still had some room to spare.
He crouched down to pick up his belt, and put in on. He stared at himself again. Nothing had truly changed. Still a disgrace but with his belt on his waist. He wondered whether he should put the belt on his neck, as one would do with a leash, for wasn't he just a faggot chink bitch to breed as said by that fucking coward winger.
He face was still purple and black, bruised to hell and back. Thank god, only one of his eyes were swollen shut. His knees were still torn and apparently one of them was sprained during the scuffle so he wasn't fully cleared yet. And the team doctor diagnosed him with flu when he went for check up yesterday.
Fucking flu of all things. He stayed regularly of the ice and now he caught the flu?
They would go on a roadie next week and he hoped that either his wounds or his flu would persist.
It was a bad thing to wish for; resting up and lazing all around at home while his team pulled their teeth to gain a playoff spot. Ilya would be disappointed if Shane missed this roadie even if he had been delighted when Shane brawled on ice four days ago.
"You're picking up my habits, lyubimyy," he had said while dabbing iodine lightly onto the cuts on his knuckles. Shane had laughed and pushed at him playfully with a familiar, "Fuck off." Ilya had been giddy then; he had gloated with his rowdier centaurs about how he had been rubbing off on Shane and how they (however impossible) would never be able to because Shane was his.
"He's mine, you fuckers! Yeah, that glorious man is mine and he loves me!" And Shane was so achingly fond and so achingly sad that he wished he could rip his heart out for Ilya to devour. He loved this version of Ilya, smiling, laughing, and being a noisy menace that he once was in Boston. He loved seeing joy on Ilya's face and his pathetic heart could burst from the love he had in store for Ilya.
And yet he's achingly sad. And overwhelmingly guilty because wasn't it his decision that made Ilya sad all these years. Ilya moved to Ottawa, moved to the worst team in the league just so they could be close and what did Shane give him except immense sadness.
Ilya had complied with his desire to lay low and hide beneath the Foundation and the friendship. Ilya had begged for one very minuscule thing—a fucking night out with his team—in the grand scheme of things, and what did Shane give him except tears? And he nearly died and Shane proposed and now that he thought back on this, he couldn't help but wonder if he was pressuring Ilya into a cage with him?
And all of that for what, to be outed in quite possibly the most humiliating way.
Perhaps being outed wasn't the most humiliating thing he had to face. It was the trip that did it. All of what he had built, every achievement he had bled for, all of it down the drain like the sand that met the rain. But in the end nothing else matters more than the pain he had dealt Ilya with.
Shane hadn't seen Ilya so happy in so long that he couldn't help but wonder if it was because of him. Perhaps he was the parasite, sucking out the joy in Ilya slowly until he was skin and bones. He hadn't meant to.
All he had ever wanted was them to be safe; he knew how cruel the world could be to people who were different from what they expect them to be, and he knew Ilya knew it too. He had gotten enough threats in his mail since he joined MLH simply because he was half Asian. At least he had an English last name; he didn't want to imagine what the other Asian player's mail might contain.
And Ilya was from Russia. He had not want to assume much but his blood relatives would have fed him to the wolves themselves. At least, with Shane, Ilya would get a Canadian citizenship like he wanted when he retired, and they would get to be together forever.
That was why he tried so hard to put a lid on the bubbling pot that was his stupid heart. That was why he had to disappoint Ilya again and again. Safe was better than risking it all when the costs might outweigh the benefits.
He simply didn't calculate enough. He didn't know how to keep Ilya from his sadness and keep them safe at the same time. He just wanted the both of them to be safe, and together.
And yet, and yet, all of it down the fucking drain. Lost to the unforgiving current that swept the slate clean. Perhaps it was karma; he had made Ilya lost Boston because of his own selfishness and now he must start over the way Ilya did. He didn't deserve Ilya; he's thankful that he got to keep him by his side.
Ilya looked so happy gloating about his dear husband that was Shane Fucking Hollander that Shane didn't try to correct him about the rage that pushed him into landing that first punch onto that left winger. It was not the rage that sparked from the fire that Ilya had always had in his eyes.
Ilya would forever be the ever present bonfire that warm him and keep him from the cold. Ilya's fire would burn away anything that might harm Shane if it could. Shane had gotten his strength from it many times over his shared life with Ilya. But that punch came from the lava of fury, the magma that had been burning in the inner rocky core of his that he no longer felt the need to contain.
It had been burning there for so long, contained only because he had to keep his facade of a golden boy. But he now let it rise to the surface.
Because nothing truly mattered now other than Ilya. He was the only positive left in his life of the sport he used to love so much. And oh wasn't that fucking selfish thinking of his own husband that way? Hadn't he hesitate when choosing between the two? Fucking loser.
Well, he would stand by what he believed now. Nothing truly mattered other than Ilya and wasn't that a feeling. Now he got to make stupid choices and take stupid penalties and punch the shit out of people the way he had wanted to since he started playing.
He felt hollow despite that. But he still had Ilya; warm and alive and happy and giddy and nothing else truly mattered after all.
He pressed his fingernails into the cut on his forearm. Blood welled up from the stitches and he rubbed it all over but it still wasn't enough to cover his entire forearm. He plucked a toothpick from the cup and stabbed into the now bleeding wound.
It should have hurt but all he could feel was frustration. Why wasn't he suffering for all that trouble he had given to people he loved? Why must they suffer when he stayed intact? He pulled the toothpick through the cut; the stitches came loose and his newly changed shirt was now stained irreparably.
'Fuck it' he thought as he ripped though his flesh once more with his toothpick. Another line in another part of his forearm. And another and another until the welts were bleeding red.
Fucking idiot, doing stupid things. But what else was new. Ilya would stay out late tonight because they were planning a party after the game and Shane had excused himself, just as he always did. He didn't know what to do at a party like that except linger near Ilya and dance with him when the music was right.
He was right to do so this time. He wouldn't know how to explain the welts when Ilya eventually discovered them. The cut was perfectly explainable; he exercised too much, he pushed something heavy. At least this way, he would have time for the welts to fade.
He still didn't want to go on that roadie. But Ilya would be happy if he could come with them, and wasn't it what they had planned for; playing on the same team, in the same cities, in the same hotel rooms.
Sometimes he missed Montréal like a missing limb. The familiar air of the life he had lived in for over a decade was gone. He knew he shouldn't complain; Ilya left his draft team too. But it sometimes hurt when he searched for the people he had grown up with on the ice only to find the familiar unfamiliar faces.
The red and black that appeared when he looked for red and blue hurt. Getting a call from one of his old teammates and talking about the Metros as if he was still on the team hurt. He missed pulling out trash Mitka left inside his locker. He missed the 'atta boy, Hollzy' and 'captaine's. But he missed the Olé Olé Olé at the Bell Centre the most. He knew it was illogical but he wished the Centaur fans would chant that instead.
How fucking pathetic. He had always been so weak; everything he had worked for had turned to dust now and he had hurt the man he loved countless times. He should be the one to protect Ilya, his sweet softhearted Ilya, but he had caused him pain and grief.
He sighed. It didn't matter now. They were now on the same team, they could be together publicly, and they could live in the same house. They were now together for real and well, that's more than enough. He'd take anything, come what may, as long as he got to keep Ilya by his side. He was so fucking lucky to have someone like him. His sweet, kind, loving husband.
He placed his blood-stained shirt into a tub of water to rinse the blood out. He'd wash it when he came back home. He told his parents that he would be visiting today and he intended to keep his word.
He opened the bottle of Amantadine and took out one pill exactly as he was prescribed. He sloshed the water in his mouth because he hated the chemical like smell lingering on his tongue.
He could already feel the flu receding; he had always been healthy probably because of the lifestyle he led and the stupid bird food diet he ate. And the medicine helped him move better. He was probably going on that roadie.
Well, it didn't really matter. When he must play, he would play. He'd probably take another stupid penalty again and make Ilya laugh as hard as he did that day. Nothing else truly mattered. He had a life and a home to come back to. As long as he had Ilya, he would be fine.
He locked all the doors and windows of their house, turned of the lights, and headed down the garage. He didn't bother texting Ilya since he'd probably arrive home the same time as him. He got into his car—his boring practical retired old man car as said eloquently by Ilya— and turned the engine on.
His car left the driveway.