Chapter 2
"I'm going to get the doctor," Naidu says in what he probably thinks is a calm tone, but it's belied by the way he sprints out of the room. And then it's just him and Dane fucking Blackwood, who's still looking at him with an expression like his world is crashing down all around him.
Grigori can't take those dark, anguished eyes.
"Get out," he bites out, then turns to face the wall so he doesn't have to watch Blackwood walk away from him.
The water bottle is leaking all over his hands– he wipes them fruitlessly on the thin blanket and tries not to think about everything he's lost.
The term, he's told, is temporary retrograde amnesia.
Grigori doesn't need the direct translation to understand: he forgot things.
Ten years of things.
It's 2024: he's thirty-four, not twenty-four, and he plays for the Oakmere Stallions, not Fairbrook.
Apparently, so does Dane Blackwood.
"It's not uncommon, after a head injury," Dr. Klein is saying.
Grigori has been mostly silent during the exchange; the panic is paralyzing him.
This has to be some sort of mistake– but he knows, grimly, that it's not.
It's impossible not to be reminded of his father and his twin broken brain.
He thinks of the Anglic phrase about the apple and the tree.
"The only thing to do in situations like this is wait.
Certainly don't add any additional stress on top of the concussion."
"For how long?" Naidu pushes.
In Blackwood's absence, Naidu seems to have appointed himself Grigori's second in command, guarding the foot of his bed loyally.
"These things take time," Dr. Klein says, which isn't a fucking answer.
"I would avoid overwhelming him, but feel free to catch him up with the necessary information." To Grigori, she says, "Go in for a check up after a week if you're still having trouble remembering things or severe migraines.
Until then, take it day by day."
" Naidu says, for some reason.
am going to make someone else do that." So much for a guardian.
"Do what?" Grigori demands.
He hates feeling helpless like this, so out of the loop on his own life.
He's largely indifferent to most things; he can't imagine what would make Naidu react like that.
He has the sinking feeling it has to do with Blackwood.
"Blackwood," Naidu is saying through the open door, "Get your ass in here.
This is above my pay grade."
Grigori hears, "He doesn't
know-
" before Blackwood's face appears again, paler than before.
He gnaws on his bottom lip, not meeting Grigori's eyes.
Nothing like his previous entrance, when he busted through the door like he owned the place.
He was so happy to see Grigori.
"Hi," he says, cautiously.
Grigori doesn't return the greeting, tempted to bare his teeth.
He hates that Blackwood is seeing him like this, laid out so vulnerable in bed.
The door clicks closed as Dr. Klein and Naidu exit, leaving him and Blackwood staring at each other.
Well, Grigori staring at Blackwood– Blackwood can't seem to move his gaze away from the wall next to Grigori.
"I'm sorry if I'm not the one you want to see right now," he says.
"I– fuck.
I just figured that you should hear everything from me."
"Everything," Grigori repeats blankly.
The way Blackwood says it makes it sound like a burden.
Blackwood lets out a shaky breath, and then squares his shoulders, determined.
He finally meets Grigori's eyes.
"Everything."
Grigori studies this thirty-four-year-old Dane Blackwood, with his longer hair– almost to his jaw– and developing laugh lines.
He wonders who's making him laugh, if he's with someone for real now.
The thought makes him want to puke, or maybe bang his concussed head against the wall.
There's no ring on his left hand; that should mean something.
"Okay, Blackwood," he says.
"Tell me what I missed."
As it turns out, he missed a lot.
He left Fairbrook for Oakmere, has been the Captain for the past few years, and led them to a recent Cup win.
Adrian Fletcher is gay (what), and so is Evan Chandler
(what)
, who is also on their team for some reason.
Blackwood left Millhaven for Oakmere, but they play on different lines (he has no idea how Oakmere affords both of them.
Maybe Blackwood got really, really bad in the past decade).
They run a charity with hockey camps, which explains the familiarity in public.
"We're together on the power play," Blackwood confides with a small smile.
"And we're good," Grigori says, making an educated guess.
"We're the best," says Blackwood firmly.
It's too much to digest at once; he doesn't respond to much of it.
His father is dead– the fact is unsurprising, but it hurts in a way that's unexpected.
Like pressing on a bruise.
His father has been unwell for a long, long time; he wonders what their last conversation was about, if he even remembered Grigori.
"Well," he says, after they've been sitting in silence for several minutes.
"That is–"
"And we're married," Blackwood blurts, then immediately looks like he wants to die.
"You're my husband."
" Grigori says.
Fucking what?
His Anglic is still mostly eluding him, but he's 99% sure he knows that word.
Husband.
As in, married.
To a man.
Blackwood.
Blackwood, who is mortified, his face pink and turning pinker.
He soldiers on.
"For three years now.
Um, we've been together, officially, for around seven.
But obviously, before that, you know."
Grigori doesn't know how to respond.
Very rarely is he at a loss for words like this.
"You do not wear a ring," he says, somewhat nonsensically.
Married.
Blackwood reaches into his shirt collar and pulls out a chain with a plain ring dangling.
"We don't wear them during games," he explains.
"But, um, we like to have them on us somehow."
We.
He and Blackwood have always been distinctly separate from each other– in teams, in lifestyles, in personalities.They were opposites in almost every way imaginable, intense attraction to each other aside.
Not once has he thought to group them as a "we."
"I am tired," Grigori says, unable to continue this conversation any fucking longer.
"Has been a long day." His brain is a dark tangle of thoughts and questions he's not sure he wants answers to.
"Oh, yeah, of course," Blackwood says, taking it for the dismissal it is.
"It has been a long day.
I'll, um," he makes an aborted motion with his hand, as if he were about to reach for Grigori.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodbye," Blackwood says, tightly.
Grigori just nods at him, and pretends not to notice the look of heartbreak that creases his stupid, gorgeous face.
he thinks, leaning back into the pillows.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
No chance in Hell he'll sleep tonight.
He's going to spend the next few hours the way he so often does:
mad at Blackwood for existing, and mad at himself for needing him.