ansel

Connor doesn't know anything about pianos. He knows Fraser can't stay the night because he has to practice.

Those two facts become very expensive.

Fraser pours the developer. The chemical sting of the fluid fills the tray, sitting thick under the low, bleeding red light of the school’s photography club darkroom. He slides the blank paper into the bath, and he waits. He watches the silver halides react, watch the shadows slowly bleed into existence out of nothing at all.

That is what Connor is to him. A slow exposure. Fraser had spent his entire childhood watching Connor come into focus. The sharp line of his jaw emerging where a child’s softness used to be, the widening of his shoulders, the sudden gravity of his presence in a room. Fraser records it all.

Fraser doesn’t say anything. He just lets the paper soak. He watches the picture form, slowly coming into view.

The shutter speed on his thrifted Canon is fixed, a limitation he can’t change. And Connor is always, always moving too fast. He is a streak of crimson-red on the ice, a smear of light under the flickering porch lamps of basement parties. Fraser stands at the edge of the kitchens, his fingers tightly wrapped around a solo cup, watching Connor share cheap whiskey. Everyone adores him. Everyone wants to catch the hem of his jacket.

Connor thinks he is hiding, but Fraser looks through the viewfinder and sees the hollow space right beneath Connor's ribs. He sees the exhaustion in the curve of Connor's spine when he finally climbs back through Fraser's bedroom window at four in the morning. Fraser wants to click the shutter. He wants to scream, Stop running, let me freeze you right here, with me. But the lens can't track him.

Fraser took the peewee hockey coaching gig for one reason and one reason only: the band. Between buying and maintaining their equipment and upgrading Connor’s heavily abused drum kit, his wallet is permanently on life support. He had spent the last two years dealing with every flavor of hockey parent imaginable. From the screamers to the ones who thought their eight year old was the next Sidney Crosby. Through it all, Fraser has been a consummate professional. He keeps his head down, smiles politely, and never, ever crossed a line.

Until now. He has never done something so profoundly stupid in his entire life.

The whole drive to the rink, Fraser’s sneakers are drumming manically against the floor of Easton’s sedan. It has been a couple of days since the incident, and Fraser has spent every waking hour driving himself crazy, replaying those text messages over and over in a looping reel of pure agony.

When he had finally cracked and confessed the whole thing to Easton yesterday, Easton had just exhaled a cloud of smoke, and said, "Hey, you gotta chase that bag, man. I respect it."

Fraser had immediately launched into a defense, arguing that there was absolutely no bag to be chased, and that Fraser had just committed a humiliating, career-ending sin.

Now, the familiar corrugated metal of the rink comes into view, and Fraser’s stomach twists five ways.

"Chill out," Easton mutters, glancing at him from the driver's seat.

Fraser’s knee gives an involuntary jerk. "I’m gonna get fired."

"You’re not."

"You don’t know that, East!"

"Well, one way to find out." Easton pulls the car up to the curb and puts it into park.

Fraser stares at the double doors of the arena. He is going to lose his meager paycheck and be forced to beg for a job as Connor’s miserable co-barista. "Thanks for the ride, East."

"Off you go, you sugar baby," Easton drawls, a wicked smirk on his face.

Fraser’s eyes widened in sheer horror. "Don’t even joke about that!"

He throws the car door open. Hoisting his heavy gear bag over his shoulder, he begins the dead man walking march into the rink. The cool air of the AC doesn’t do anything to cool the hot blush creeping up his neck. There is barely anyone in the lobby yet. Inhaling a sharp breath, Fraser plots his escape route: head straight for the locker room and hide away until the kids arrive in a protective pack.

That is the plan. Until a high-pitched voice shattered the quiet.

"Coach Fraser!"

Oh my god, he wishes the earth would swallow him whole right now.

Fraser freezes, his guts heaving as he slowly turns around. "Hey, Junie."

Junie comes sprinting across the rubber mats toward him, her blonde pigtails bouncing wildly against the sides of her head. "Coach Fraser! Coach Fraser! Do you want to see my new skates? Look! They have pink laces!"

Fraser forces a strained smile, but his eyes automatically drift right past her. Standing up by the bleachers, leaning casually against the railing, is Jeremy. He is holding his phone to his ear, talking softly. This is officially an out of body experience.

"Um, can you wait just a second, Junie?" Fraser pats her head as a reconciling gesture. "Why don’t you go play with the cones by the bench while you wait for the others?"

"Oh, okay!" Junie chirps, oblivious to the crisis occurring, and scurries off.

Fraser takes a deep breath, his heart is hammering against his sternum. It’s better to deal with it now, he tells himself. Be a mature person and fix this. He marches over to the stands, ripping the band aid as quickly as possible.

As he approaches, Jeremy lowers his phone, tapping the screen to hang up. He looks at Fraser, his expression completely unreadable.

Fraser clears his throat, "Mr. Swayman."

Okay, good start.

Jeremy tilts his head, his dark eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Oh. Hello?"

Fraser wants to dig a hole into the rubber floor mats and die in it. The worst part is that Jeremy is fighting back an amused smile. And it’s really obvious, too.

"Mr. Swayman, I am so incredibly sorry for texting you like that the other night," Fraser rushes out, the words tumbling over each other in a panicked torrent. "It was completely inappropriate, and I totally understand if you want to take this up with the league manager, or if you want to switch Junie’s schedule to find a different coach, or-"

"Why are you calling me that?" Jeremy interrupts.

Fraser pauses, everything in his head evaporates. "What?"

Jeremy chuckles lowly, shifting his weight. "Mr. Swayman? I thought we were on a first name basis, Fraser."

Fraser blinks behind his glasses, his hands tightening on his bag straps. "I, I don't-"

Jeremy dismissively waves his hand. "Either way, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about."

Fraser’s jaw drops. "What?"

Before he can process the lifeline Jeremy is throwing at him, Jeremy’s phone begins to vibrate in his hand. Jeremy glances down at the screen, though his eyes remain fixed on Fraser.

"It never happened, right?" Jeremy says softly, holding his gaze for a stretch. He taps the screen to answer the call, stepping past Fraser toward the exit. "I gotta take this real quick, it's my ex-wife."

Fraser stands entirely rooted to the spot, his mind a screaming void. Jeremy literally just pretend deleted the entire memory to save him from dying of embarrassment. A dizzying mix of profound relief and a weird, fluttering heat rushes through his veins. Jeremy doesn’t hate him. He isn’t getting fired.