Aki Does Things

Jake finished adding details, glitters, over the sketched bi flag he drew with makeup on Bob's cheek. He kissed it, smudged the edges, maybe in purpose, maybe not.

"There Bobby! All pretty and ready for your very first pride in Alice! You'll love it! You'll love them. Angel will love it too."

"Them--?"

"Some of our firefighters open the parade. It's tradition! Some very sexy ones, according to my old tata."

Jake winked, then, honest to god, squealed when he saw Javy in a not-really-shirt that left very little to imagination.

"Did he just call his own papa sexy?"

Ron remembered the feeling. Goose voice, his words.

"Never enough. Never good enough. You'll never be a pilot."

And he believed him, what else was he supposed to do? That was his RIO, he was supposed to always trust him, rule number one, or something along the lines.

Maybe he should just give it up, maybe it wasn't his place.

"Ron?"

He looked up, stared straight at Tom's face. It was like his face gave everything away already because next thing he knew, tom was walking up to him, grabbed his face in hands amd kissed him like the world was ending, amd maybe it was.

"Maybe you're not meant to be his pilot. Fly with me."

His face hurt.

It wasn’t exactly how Cliff Marleau had expected the day to go, if he had to be honest with himself.

Yes, the game was expected, of fucking course.

Yes, being so close to winning, yet not comfortably enough was expected too, they were playing the Metros after all.

Ye— No, Shane Hollander looking the wrong direction was not in his plans. Who the actual fuck looks back while chasing the puck at that speed? He couldn’t have moved even if he wanted, and he did want to, he tried. He—

His face fucking hurt, and maybe there was something broken. He almost hoped something was broken (but no, it would hurt worse if it was the case, he knew it, from experience). If something was broken, and it wasn’t, but if it was Roz maybe would look at him the right way, not like he just pancaked the Metros’ captain. Which was what happened, but not because he wanted to. Said captain decided to look away and crashed into him wrong.

What crashed just fine, though, barely 15 seconds later, was Pike’s fist. And the betrayed look Roz never stop giving him. But the fist first. That made him feel like he was about to black out right there, fall back and just lay there and— Oh God, Pike had to hate him so much now, right? Of course he did, he pancaked his captain and best friend, he would’ve been just as pissed is someone did that to Roz. He would’ve dropped gloves and punched the fucker who did it.

Except, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have really punched Pike, if it was the case, because he had promised, quiet and sweet and a bit half asleep too, to never raise a hand on the one and only he actually loved. Not even during a game. It wouldn’t be fair, it wouldn’t be right. No one in the right mind would ever, willingly, hit the person they loved, right?

So… Maybe he didn’t love him. Maybe not enough. Even though he told him just hours before the game, and Cliff believed him. Maybe he had been foolish, and a bit childish, believing that someone could actually mean it and—

Oh, his face really fucking hurt.

He wouldn’t complain, or whine, not aloud, not where everyone could still hear him. He’d wait until he was in his room in the hotel, when he would stick his face under cold water or perhaps grab an ice pack and hope that he would not wake up with a face double sized and purple. Highly possible, both options, actually. He deserved it, he pancaked— Okay, maybe he had to stop thinking of that hit this way, it was far from professional, and far from nice.

His boyfriend trying to break his jaw wasn’t much nice either. But it was… Not alright, no, he knew that much, just… a tiny, little bit alright, yeah? People get angry when those they love are hurt. And angry people tend to swing their hands around. And swinging hands sometimes collided with other people standing to close. Yeah, that was it. An accident. Hayds would never want to hurt him. He was angry, and swinging, and he had too close to his swing range, and too slow to duck.

Yeah, it made a lot more sense, put it that way.

Yeah, tomorrow he’ll go apologize. And then he will text Hayden and apologize to him too, for hurting his captain. He would not apologize back, because he deserved it, but that would be fine.

He curled up on the bed, sheets stiff and cold, an ice pack carefully wrapped in a towel pressed over his face, knees drawn to his chest as if he could will his too big body to become smaller and take less space. He would go see Hollander the next day, perhaps. Apologize.

What for? Not being able to step away when he got distracted? Yes, exactly that.he pancaked him on the ice, so it was his job to go and apologize. Hopefully he wouldn’t try to swing him too, maybe he will take pity of his purple, double sized face.

Tomorrow.

---------------

Baby.

I’m sorry.

I— fuck.

I should’ve never.

I promised and I still did it and I’m so sorry.

Baby?

Marley?

Just tell me you’re alright. Tell me you don’t want to hear me and my stupid texts and stupidest apologies.

I just— Tell me you’re okay and I didn’t hurt you more than I should’ve.

Well, of course I did, and I hate it. I hate myself for that.

I love you

You didn’t deserve it. You deserve better, and I’m such an ass and I punched you and—

I’m sorry. I love you. I’m so fucking sorry.

Cliff… please pick up.

Ilya had known, in all his years playing hockey, what fear feels like when he sees an injury, when a player goes down after a hit and doesn't immediately bounce back up, which was, usually, what Marlow always did, included that memorable time during practice when Ilya himself collided with him in a mess of skates and gloves amd limbs, resulting in two cracked ribs that Marlow only complained about a game against the Admirals after, the evening after the actual injury.

So, seeing him sprawled on the ice like that, his head slightly turned, not getting back up-- ilya tlrealized, suddenly, that he didn't truly know fear. Nor he ever considered the person he proudly called his best friend not to get back up after a hit from the one person Ilya found himself, over the span of too many years and too many sexual encounters, fall in love with.

// it could've been Hollander. // a small, almost fearful voice whispered in his mind. // it could've been his Shane laying there in the ice. Not moving. Eyes closed. Not breat-- //

No.

No, that wasn't-- that wasn't right. That wasn't true. It was just that Marlow hadn't moved yet, and they were all being so careful.

// what would you have done, if it was Hollander? // that small voice asked.

Ilya forced himself to blink, to breath, to skate a few strides closer.

It wasn't Shane, and the small voice liked to play on fears and what ifs and on that small, soft comfort that the man he loved was fine.

He sometimes hated that voice that drowned everything but his thoughts on Shane Hollander, because the one on the ice was the one person who let him stay at his apartment when he first arrived. Who helped him and corrected him and stopped him from making a fool of himself by insulting a reporter or two because english was weird.

He was the one always there, in between, he was warm and solid and with a soft voice when he called him Roz, he learned fast, just like Shane, loved hard and sweet and soft amd leaned into touches, melting into it.

And now-- now he wasn't moving as they rolled him out of the rink and Ilya couldn't tear his eyes away, even as traitorous thoughts kept saying "it could've been Shane. Be glad ot wasnt him."

Glad. How could he, when his teammate, one of the people closer to him, hadn't moved in minutes?

"'Lya!!"

Air. Oxygen. Fresh, blessed oxygen filling his lungs once more.

"Hiii!! You look... mmmh.."

He hesitated as Ilya walked closer, scrunched up his nose, furrowed the brow searching for whatever word was slipping through that concussed haze.

"... Kinda glowing and double and foggy."

Marlow frowned, unhappy with how weird Rozanov was currently looking.

"Well, you don't look too good yourself, Marly."

"Oh... not pretty?"

He groaned, unhappily, and for the first time since the collision, Ilya sighed and let a small smile cross his face.

Alright. He would be alright.

"Hollander feels guilty."

"Why...?"

"He knocked you out. Brutally."

"Naah... I turned. Tripped and turned-- no, turned and tripped and he was there and--"

He took a breath. Everything was supposed to hurt, he couldn't feel it, not through the haze of medications, but the knowledge of pain was there.

"Accident. That just accident. Hockey. Dont be mad."

Don't be---

The problem was, ilya couldn't be mad at Shane, ilya knew ot was a freak accident and it could've been the other way around and-- and he would've been pissed at Marlow if it was like that, so why the fuck couldn't he be mad at Hollander? He should've.

"No mad, Ilya..."

He asked again, cool fingers brushing his hand when he finally managed to figure out how to make his system convince his not injured arm to move and reach out.

"Okay. Okay, not mad."