Chapter 1
Alexei walks up the unfamiliar flight of stairs with an ominous sense of foreboding settling in his stomach.
He'd played horribly tonight: zero goals, one assist.
The Navigators hadn't swept the floor with them— Greenwood could still hold their own when Alexei was playing like shit— but they'd still taken a hit.
Alexei had tried to focus on the game, to not let outside influences mess with his play style.
But that strategy had been left to the birds when, during their first face-off, Shane had smiled at him around his mouth guard.
Earlier, before the game, he'd sent Alexei a text.
A different address, presumably his actual apartment.
I am so fucked,
he'd thought, tripping up the face-off and watching Shane skate away with the puck.
He couldn't find it in himself to give a shit about the minor loss.
His mind, sluggish and dulled by the thought of what he had to do that evening, had never touched down on the ice.
He was in Shane's home, drifting in and out of different rooms, wondering where he'd inevitably end up breaking his own heart.
When Shane had scored the first goal, he'd spit the mouth guard out, screaming out a triumphant "Yeah!" as he bumped helmets with Nash.
He'd returned to the face-off with a smile, and all Alexei could think of was the first time they met.
You will not be so nice when we beat you.
Their sticks had lined up, Shane's knocking playfully at his own, and he thought of Shane.
Imagined him stripped down and soap-soft, skin still heated from the post-game shower.
He imagined wrapping him up in his own duvet, not the one at their secret sex loft, but his.
The one that smells like him, head resting on a pillow he'd probably spent hours reading about on f/insomnia.
He'd want the perfect pillow, to match his perfect mattress, to optimize his perfect routine.
Perfect Shane, with his perfect life and his perfect body; his perfect little smile, dimming as Alexei would press his body down into the sheets and tell him he cannot have this anymore.
You will not be so nice when I hurt you.
Alexei frowned down at their playful stick handling, and Shane stole the puck during the second face-off.
He is silent now, standing before the door that will lead him out of the stairwell and onto Shane's floor.
He steadies himself, running his hand down his face until his palm cups his own neck.
He twists it, stretching to the left, then the right, pushing off the inevitable, pushing off the most painful goodbye he has ever spoken, next to that of the one he never got to offer his mother.
He thinks of someone else standing here, maybe in a few years.
Another man, one who Shane does not have to covet.
A man who has, perhaps, met his doting parents.
Who they like, because he is kind to Shane, and he doesn't ram him into the boards every chance he gets.
Or, maybe, this man is not standing here at all.
He is standing outside a restaurant, flowers held loosely at his side, as he waits to
very publicly
share a meal with a man whom he tentatively loves.
How can he not love Shane, after all?
This man, who does not yet exist, but who is waiting in the confines, ready to jump as soon as Alexei cuts the string tying his heart to the ribs just beneath Shane's left breastbone.
Alexei's hands ball into fists, and he swallows down bile.
Sick with jealousy over a man who is not real.
He pushes his way through the doorway, checks carefully for the proper apartment number, then, taking a deep breath, he knocks.
He hears the pitter-patter of unsocked feet approach the door, the unlocking of the security latch, and then it's open, Shane's flushed face staring up at him from around the door.
"Hi," he says shyly, opening the door wider so Alexei can step through.
He does, taking note of the well-organized shoe rack to his left.
He begins toeing off his sneakers, and Shane preens.
"There are slippers, if you'd like," he says quietly, like his own consideration for others embarrasses him.
Alexei's answering smile is tight, and when he slides his feet into the slippers, finding them to be a perfect fit, he swallows down the lump in his throat.
He needs to leave, now, before Shane's out anymore money on this half-baked relationship.
When Alexei turns, Shane's looking up at him, expectant, a blush still painting his cheeks.
It makes his freckles stand out, and Alexei hates that he can't lean down to kiss them.
He takes a small step back, placing a minuscule amount of distance between them, but Shane notices.
His smile dims, and he self-consciously rubs at his nose with his sleeve.
Alexei steels himself, shoving both hands in his pockets and looking down at his feet.
He mentally berates himself for his cowardice, for not, at the very least, meeting Shane's eyes when he breaks his heart.
He thinks, perhaps, he is as weak as his father always told him he was.
"Whitfield I—" he doesn't miss the way Shane flinches at the sound of his last name, arms crossing across his chest in a protective gesture.
Alexei swallows thickly, trying again.
"There is something I would want to discuss." He doesn't think the wording is right.
It's never right, in this stupid, nonsensical language, but he guesses it doesn't matter.
A breakup is a breakup, pretty easy to convey in any language.
A lot easier to translate than his love, apparently, as it's seemingly taken Shane upwards of eight years and one failed girlfriend to see that Alexei is maybe, just maybe, a little more into just his body.