Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Vampires, Blood and Injury, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampire Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-03 Updated: 2026-03-29 Words: 4,691 Chapters: 3/6

with teeth

Summary

In fall 2016, Shane Hollander goes missing during a night out clubbing with his teammates.

Or: Shane doesn't meet Rose. He meets a woman with very sharp teeth. And by sunrise, he is a changed man.

Notes

Chapter 1

Shane wakes beneath a low bridge, under the wet piece of cardboard that he thinks has saved his life three times over now. There’s no blue left in the sky, and hardly any stars either. It’s November, gray and grim, with a thin layer of dirty snow at the sides of this road, wherever it is. Maybe still Pennsylvania.

He feels disgusting. His face is sticky with tears, his neck and shirt dirty with his own blood. The first night he woke up, he was lost in horror at himself, at what had happened to him. The second night, a skinny fox tried to creep past him, and he . . .

It’s the third night now. Shane’s mouth feels filthy too. His teeth are too sharp. And either he’s lost his mind, or he’s never ever ever going to play hockey again. There’s no going back.

Three days ago, on the last night of his life, he was just trying to be normal. Going out with the guys, dancing at a club in Philly. He wasn’t even fucking enjoying himself. But a beautiful woman started dancing with him, and it felt good to think maybe. Maybe there was hope for the life he always wanted, or was always supposed to want—a wife, kids, being just like every other guy on the team.

The woman had taken his hand, led him out of the club to the sound of wolf-whistles from his teammates. Shane can’t remember exactly why he followed; it’s all a haze.

Then—pain in his neck that wasn’t all pain. It was pleasure, but a weird, wrong pleasure, as though someone had put a needle in his brain and injected feels good in there. It didn’t feel good. It felt like he was dying.

The next thing Shane really remembers is lying in a ditch by the side of a road here in the middle of nowhere, just scrubby bushes and forest to both left and right. The sky had been lightening, just enough to turn a pale gray.

Shane’s skin had started to feel tight, as though it was being sunburned. At the same time, a terrible drowsiness, like being drugged, was trying to swallow his consciousness.

A few hundred yards away, a bridge. Shelter from the sun. 

Shane had staggered into that sweet darkness, and found, even better, a large sheaf of cardboard among the detritus, the soda cans and other trash people must have dumped there.

He’d pulled it over himself just before sleep took him.

Now, three nights later, Shane knows what he is. He knows his life is totally, totally fucked. He knows that, although his phone is in his pocket, turned off like it was at the club because he was afraid he’d get drunk and message Ilya, he can’t call anyone for help. If he calls his mom or his dad or Hayden, they’ll call the police, and then—someone will find out what he is, and they’ll, god knows, lock him up in some American government lab, or just kill him—

But. There is one person who might not call the police if Shane asks. There’s one more person who might come.

Ilya is playing in New York City tomorrow. He was in Florida this morning, so he’ll probably already have landed in New York. 

Shane’s thought of Ilya a lot since he—was bitten. He has curled up here, shivering and hiding and crying, and hated himself for wasting his life. Shane could have kissed Ilya so many times over these years when he was missing him. He could have stayed, that day at Ilya’s house, instead of leaving Ilya there alone. He could have enjoyed one more touch from Ilya before he died.

With grimy fingers, Shane turns on his phone to do exactly what he was trying not to do three days ago. Maybe Ilya will call the police. Maybe he’ll be repulsed when he sees what Shane is. Maybe he won’t come.

Maybe he will.

Shane thinks maybe the police will be able to read his text messages, if they’re searching for him, so instead he sends a single Instagram message to Ilya: Dylan Reese bridge, Pennsylvania I think. Please come alone. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t call police. Sorry.

He turns the phone off again.

Shane only knows the name of the bridge from a small metal plaque bolted onto it. He just has to hope Ilya can find it by Googling.

There’s nothing left to do but wait.

Hiding under his cardboard from the occasional cars driving by, Shane watches his Rolex with eyes that can see in perfect darkness. It’s mid-late November—actually, it’s almost American Thanksgiving, isn’t it?—so the sun has been setting early, before 5. 

Between 5:30 and 6, a few more cars pass by along this fairly deserted road. By 7, it’s quieter again. So Shane is taken aback at 7:20 when a car brakes harshly and pulls to the side of the road just past the bridge. The next moment, a car door slams.

It can’t be—

Ilya’s cologne, carried on the cold wind, and the hair product smell Shane recognizes from putting his face close to Ilya’s curls. More than that, the good scent of Ilya’s body, which makes Shane think of sex and—and a taste, something else Shane’s body desires—

Fuck, Shane’s been so stupid, not questioning whether Ilya was safe with him. But he feels okay, not like he’s going to attack Ilya or anything. He just wants. He always wants when he’s with Ilya.

Then it’s Ilya’s footsteps, too, racing closer. A light, like a torch, scanning over the road under the bridge, and Ilya’s voice saying in a harsh whisper: “Shane?”

Shane’s shaking as he pushes the cardboard away and stands. He’s never looked so messy, and he doesn’t even know what Ilya will see on his face as the glare from Ilya’s phone’s torch function shines on him.

“Shane,” Ilya says in a voice that breaks. He’s wearing a hoodie, with his hood up; he looks exhausted. And as beautiful as ever.

What Shane possibly say to him? So he says nothing as Ilya runs to him and grabs Shane’s dirty self by the biceps. 

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya’s expression is raw. Shockingly, a tear is crawling down his cheek. “You are okay?”

Ilya’s hands rub Shane’s arms, and Shane has to close his eyes so he doesn’t cry too. “Sorry,” he says, knowing it’s not enough. 

“Is okay.” Ilya’s voice is rough. Without warning, he’s suddenly pulling Shane close, holding him tight, and Shane melts into him, grimy as he is. 

Then he’s being pushed away again. “You’re fucking bleeding!” A fierce glow that forces Shane to open his eyes: Ilya is using his phone’s torch to look at the mess on Shane’s skin and shirt.

“It’s okay, it’s—not what you think,” Shane says. He’s so bad at lying. 

“Not your blood?” Ilya’s eyes are wide, desperate. Shane has never seen him this way.

“Can we just go?” Shane asks. “Please?”

“To hospital?”

“No, I can’t. I . . .” Shane doesn’t have anywhere to go. The unbearable truth of it overwhelms him—there is nowhere for him now—and his throat is closing up again.

Ilya’s callused hand is on his cheek. “Okay, my house? You will come to my house. Yes?”

Turning his face into Ilya’s touch, Shane says, “Yes.” To be in Ilya’s bed again, nice and clean, with Ilya behind him—

“Good.” A wet sniff. “Come.”

Ilya manhandles Shane across the road, over to a boring sedan that doesn’t seem like Ilya’s thing. Before Shane gets in, Ilya strips off his own hoodie and puts it on Shane, zipping it up carefully to cover the blood. Shane pulls the hood up over his head and gets in, and on the other side of the car Ilya does likewise.

From the driver’s seat, Ilya asks him: “Are you going to tell me anything?”

Shane looks at the starless sky. No moon. He doesn’t have it in him to think of any excuse. “I don’t want to,” he says. He wishes Ilya would touch him again. He doesn’t know whether Ilya ever will, especially not once he knows.

Ilya exhales deeply. “Okay.” A few more deep breaths. “You want this to stay a secret.”

“Yeah.”

“If I miss the game tomorrow, people will pay too much attention.” Ilya’s tapping his fingers on the wheel. “You need to drive. This is rental car from New York. You drive it back to my house and wait there. I will stay in New York, play Admirals tomorrow, come back, and return the car. But, no—you can’t drive right now. Can you?”

“I can do it,” Shane says. If nothing else, he can see well in the dark. “How far is it to your house?”

Ilya takes out his phone and taps on it. “Six hours. Three hundred miles. It’s a lot.”

Shane shakes his head. “I can do it.” He can’t let himself be spotted; the only safe place in the world for him is Ilya’s house, and he needs to be there. It’s about seven-thirty now—he can be in Boston by 2 a.m. Well before sunrise.

“Take my phone.” Ilya hands it to him, as if it’s that simple—as though his phone isn’t the key to his whole life. “To unlock is 1221. Okay?”

“Not 1410?” Shane asks him. It’s not funny, because nothing is funny, but Shane has the weird urge to laugh. One-two-two-one, Ilya’s whisper; he didn’t realize Ilya remembered.

Ilya smiles, though it’s a small smile that’s awful to look at. “Once we are both at my house, I will change it for you. Deal?”

“I guess so.”

So they switch seats. Ilya puts an address in Google Maps to take them back to New York, where Shane will drop him off and then keep going.

On the still-empty road, Shane takes them east.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

When Shane first goes missing, Ilya doesn’t really believe something is wrong. He doesn’t let himself think so. Shane surely has just turned his phone off or something, right?

As the days pass, the weight of Shane’s absence becomes more crushing. It creeps into headlines: LAST FOOTAGE OF MISSING MLH STAR REVEALED. Shane was in a club in Philadelphia; a beautiful woman took him by the hand and led him out. And that’s it. The fucking useless police have nothing else to say.

There’s talk about it among the Raiders, of course. Most of the guys pretend not to be that emotional about it, but they’re shaken. This is Shane Hollander, perfect, untouchable—nature’s counterbalance to Ilya, the womanizing asshole. Is it just Ilya’s imagination, or is everyone secretly thinking it should have been you? 

The game in Tampa is weird. No-one’s playing their best. Their cheers are muted. 

The next morning in Florida—as soon as Ilya turns on his phone, he looks for news of Shane, of course. All the internet has to offer him is a video of Shane’s parents. Looking old, fragile, heartbroken, they announce that they’re offering a million-US-dollar reward for any information that helps locate Shane. 

That’s what finally makes it real to Ilya. There, sitting in his hotel room, he curls over his knees in bed and weeps as he hasn’t wept since childhood. Yes, Ilya has no right to cry over Shane—won’t even be welcome at his funeral—but he’s doing it anyway. Amid the grief, there’s a hatred for his own foolishness too—he’s given so much of himself away to a wish that was always hopeless. He just thought that once he lost it all on this bad bet, the worst outcome would be seeing Shane thriving at a distance on the ice, not caring about Ilya at all.

On the way to New York, while he sits in the eerie hush of the Raiders’ jet, Ilya thinks: Okay. If Shane is gone, I go too. The decision is like taking a deep breath after almost drowning. 

Until a few minutes after he arrives in his hotel room in NYC, when he checks his phone yet again, compulsively—to see a message from Shane.

Of course Ilya knows it’s probably a trick. Kidnappers, maybe, who want two MLH stars for the price of one. That’s okay. He rents a car, brings his phone and his full wallet with him, just in case. Just in case, at last …

He arrives at the bridge Shane had mentioned. He pulls over, expecting a gun in the small of his back. Instead—

Shane’s pale, miserable. But alive. He’s alive, and Ilya truly can’t believe it. He can’t believe that he’s holding Shane in his arms. He can’t believe that he’s the one Shane called, that he’s now holding the heaviest responsibility he’s ever known—of fixing this when he doesn’t even understand what’s wrong, and Shane won’t tell him.

Shane’s cold and shivering, so Ilya puts his own clothes on him. Tries to think of a plan while English sits heavy on his tongue and Shane’s courage and honesty make Ilya fall in love with him all over again.

They drive east. Shane mostly doesn’t talk. Ilya looks out the window and grips the fabric of his sweatpants to prevent himself from putting his hand over Shane’s on the gear stick. Ilya cannot let himself freak Shane out again. 

Watching the rental car pull back out into traffic after dropping Ilya off is the hardest thing Ilya’s ever had to do. As Ilya numbly goes down into the subway, heading back to the hotel, Shane is in his heart and everywhere.

In the underground dark, Ilya speeds into the heart of the city, and he is maybe the only person in it, or anywhere, who knows that Shane is alive. The knowledge glows in him, and it hurts.

It’s late, ten-thirty, by the time Ilya is near his hotel again. He makes a stop at a convenience store nearby to get a flip phone, which he uses to text Shane on his own iPhone.

This is Ilya. Text me back when you’re home.

He waits. Nothing. Of course, Shane is a safe driver. He wouldn’t text while he’s on the road. 

At the front desk of the hotel, Ilya asks the receptionist to put him through to Marley’s room. Marleau seems mostly impressed that Ilya has managed to “lose his phone” within five hours of arriving in the city. All the guys have assumed that Ilya disappeared to go to a strip club or maybe something even more scandalous, and Ilya doesn’t feel like correcting them. Let them think so. 

Ilya would really like to go out to a club and get shit-faced, but Marleau says none of the guys want to because yeah, of course, they think Shane Hollander is dead and everyone’s behaving like a family in mourning.

In the end, Ilya gets a bottle of vodka sent to his room, drinks some of it, and gets a terrible headache. Belatedly, he remembers he’s eaten nothing for dinner. He has no stomach for food now. He just lies on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling like shit with no will to help himself until he hears from Shane.

At exactly two thirty-eight a.m., Ilya’s cheap cellphone pings. He flips it open.

I’m home now.

Ilya’s eyes fill with tears again. No problems on the drive?

No, Shane replies. 

You need anything that’s not in the house? Medical supplies, Ilya means, mostly. 

No, Shane says again. I’m wired from the drive but I might go to sleep in a few hours. If you call and I don’t answer, that’s why.

Suspicious. Okay, Ilya says. Okay. If he had a real phone he’d look up exactly what “wired” means in this context but whatever. Whatever Shane wants, it’s okay.

He sets his head on his pillow again and falls into sleep.

The game the next day is probably one of the worst that major league hockey has ever seen. Thank god everyone else’s performance is just as dogshit as Ilya’s. Because this is the fourth day now, and they think Shane Hollander is probably dead. At breakfast, the guys were wondering whether the game would be canceled. At what point does the league admit that its brightest star is gone?

After the game, Ilya texts Shane again. You’re still okay? A weird echo of their first time. 

I’m fine, thanks, Shane replies. I think I reversed my sleep schedule. I slept all day. I’ll probably be awake all night.

Ilya just catches himself before he types I know how to help you sleep or something similarly stupid. Shane is in a bed in his house but probably not Ilya’s bed. If it were any other situation, Ilya would be trying to win Shane over again, but now, with whatever huge secret Shane’s hiding, Ilya can’t risk it. What’s between them is too breakable.

Horribly, Ilya has to spend one more night in this hotel in New York, surrounded by guys in shock that’s turning into grief. He can’t even get a reprieve when he wakes up, because one of the rookies went to hook up with a girl in some college dorm and caused a whole new panic when some of Ilya’s other teammates thought he had also been kidnapped. It then takes the rookie hours to get back to the hotel, which makes them late for their jet’s scheduled departure, and that makes them even later because a rainstorm moves in and they can’t get clearance to take off. 

Ilya certainly never gave a fuck about how airplanes work before, but at this point he’s surely close to being able to make this one fly away purely with the power of his mind. He needs to get to Shane, who hasn’t texted him back this morning.

While they’re stuck on the side of the runway or whatever, Ilya takes out the vodka he brought in his bag and, after some contemplation, drinks right from the bottle. 

Marleau takes it away from him. “Roz, aren’t you driving home from Logan? We’ll be in Boston by two-thirty.”

Ilya is not in a mood to play around. “Fuck you, Marly, give it.”

Marleau, who has longer arms, holds it out of Ilya’s reach. “The Hollander thing’s got us all fucked up, Rozy. We’re all feeling it. But I’m not gonna let you crash your car.”

“Fine.” Ilya covers his eyes with his hand. It’s true that he needs to be able to drive to see Shane anyway.

They land at Logan a few minutes later than Marleau predicted, and it takes a little while to get off the plane, though far less long than it would flying commercial. Still, Ilya’s losing his mind as he speeds westward along I-90 toward his house in Chestnut Hill.

It’s fucking 3:45 pm by the time Ilya gets back to his own house. The rental car is there, and the sun’s getting low in the sky already. 

Quietly, in case Shane is sleeping, Ilya unlocks his door and leaves his suitcase by it. He sheds his coat, kicks off his sneakers, steps into the slides he wears in the house. The place is silent. As though no-one is here.

There’s no sign of Shane’s presence in the kitchen. No dirty dishes, but of course Shane is so tidy, he’d never leave a mess. 

No sign of Shane in the living room, either.

Ilya goes first to his own bedroom. It’s empty, the bed still perfect as his cleaning service always leaves it.

The next bedroom has a closed door. Ilya isn’t going to wake Shane or touch him. He just needs to know Shane is okay and here.

Carefully, Ilya opens the door. The room is dark, the blinds fully closed, and there are even lengths of cloth—sheets?—draped over the windows. But there’s no sound of breathing.

When Ilya pushes the door open wider, he can see by the light from the hallway that something is in a heap on the bed—yes, Shane is here, curled up under the covers. It’s so quiet, though. Ilya still can’t hear Shane breathing, and he’s utterly still.

Ilya’s own breaths are too loud, like spasms, as he walks closer, drawn to Shane by the same magnetism Shane has always possessed.

“Shane?” Ilya says.

No response. 

Ilya touches Shane’s hand where it’s holding the blankets.

Shane’s skin is cold. 

Ilya’s crawling onto the bed, grabbing Shane’s limp body so Ilya can press his fingers to Shane’s neck.

No pulse. When Ilya holds his ear to Shane’s chest, there’s no heartbeat.

Ilya’s face is wet. He can’t breathe, because the silence of this room is pressing on him, crawling down his throat.

Chapter End Notes

😈

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

Everyone in this story is having a real bad, sad time, so . . . warning for that in general? Also mildly ableist discussion of mental illness ("crazy" etc).

Shane’s shirt is wet.

Someone—Ilya—is clutching Shane to his chest, rocking slightly, shouting in Russian. No, not shouting. Crying. What Shane feared was blood on his neck and chest isn’t, maybe. Maybe it’s tears.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

After those three horrible days by the road in Pennsylvania, Shane thought he had used up every last part of his own ability to freak out, but apparently not. It’s all too much, all his fuckups pouring into him like cement, weighing down his arms and tongue when he tries to speak. Shane’s fucking dead, he’ll never play hockey again, and now Ilya knows and is completely freaking out too. 

Shane can only curl his fingers into Ilya’s sweatshirt, push his face hard into Ilya’s shoulder in a weird, desperate attempt to ground himself with the only comfort available to him. When Ilya starts pressing sobbing, joyless kisses to Shane’s ear, Shane twists to capture Ilya’s mouth with his own.

Ilya stops still, so Shane does too—long enough that it’s no longer a kiss, just two people with their lips meeting uncomfortably. The way Ilya is holding Shane is uncomfortable too, but Shane’s still gripping Ilya’s hoodie. He’ll die if he lets go, or if Ilya shoves him away—

Suddenly, Ilya’s moving again, dropping Shane on the bed and straddling him, kissing him again. At least now it’s something like a real kiss, although Ilya’s tears haven’t stopped. His body is shuddering with them. His hands are roaming over Shane’s skin too fast, frantically.

Shane’s crying now, too. He really didn’t . . . it’s not that he thought Ilya totally didn’t care about him, but he never imagined Ilya so destroyed, his usual cocky confidence totally shattered. Shane loves him, loves this strong body that’s clinging to him now. Wouldn’t be able to go on if Ilya told him he was horrible, disgusting, after Shane has lost everything else in his life. Ilya is all he has left.

Where they’re pressed together, Shane is getting a little bit hard, and he thinks Ilya is too. Ilya is starting to grind against him and grope his chest, and of course it’s great, because Ilya’s touch always is. At the same time, the pleasure of it is twisted with wrongness: Ilya’s sobbing again, and so is Shane, and the arousal in Shane is barely there, maybe more physical than something he feels. He’s grinding back, though—because if he’s being crushed by Ilya’s body, maybe he’s real and Ilya is really with him, at least for now.

Russian. Ilya is talking in Russian to him, and Shane has to say, “Ilya. English?” He’s supposed to say Rozanov, isn’t he, but it’s too late. 

Ilya’s hips still. He pushes himself up on his elbows, leaning over Shane so they can speak, and for the first time Shane gets a good look at Ilya’s face. It’s almost unrecognizable. Because his features are so red and swollen from crying, but also because he’s wearing a horrible, hollow expression that’s as un-Ilya as anything could be. “My Shane,” Ilya says. “Thank God I am crazy.” He traces his thumb over Shane’s cheek. “As long as you are here.”

Words are sticking in Shane’s mouth. Unimaginably, he’s fucked up even more by doing this to Ilya. Ilya, who he loves. “You’re not,” Shane says. “It’s me.”

“No,” Ilya says, his mouth going flat. “You are not dead. You are here, talking to me!” His voice breaks.

Terror starts to tighten around Shane’s ribs. There’s no escaping this, no other excuse Shane can make. “Yeah. I’m.” Shane swallows. “A vampire, I think. I know it’s unbelievable.”

Ilya starts laughing an odd, empty laugh. “Okay. You are vampire. But you stay with me.” 

Shane wants to say something in response, but it’s getting really hard to breathe. 

“Shane.” Ilya’s hand smoothes over his hair. So caring. How he was that night, long ago, when he kept asking, is okay? “I am here. Don’t have panic attack.”

“Not—helpful.” Shane closes his eyes. Does this even matter? He can’t exactly die if he can’t breathe, right? 

Lowering his full body weight onto Shane, Ilya tucks his face into the crook of Shane’s neck and holds his wrist in a tight grasp. “Don’t panic. I have you. Will not let you go.” His voice is rough.

Ilya’s strong frame, his warmth. His hand on Shane’s wrist is a grounding point, and slowly, the fuzzy terror constraining Shane fades. “Don’t,” Shane says. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never.” Ilya bites Shane’s collarbone through the shirt he borrowed from Ilya’s drawer. The action seems to spark some thoughts for him, because he pauses and says, “This is why blood was on your neck?”

“Yes.”

“You are serious?”

“Yeah, Ilya, I don’t know what to tell you! I didn’t think vampires were real, either, until like three days ago.”

Ilya rolls off Shane, lying next to him on the bed instead. Their eyes meet, which is always awkward, and even worse now that they’re both tear-stained wrecks. This isn’t what they’re supposed to be to one another. They’re meant to be hookups. Easy, casual. 

That lie is pretty much ruined now. Along with everything else.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. Hoping to comfort Ilya, he touches his arm. “I didn’t think about how it would look, me lying here.”

Ilya closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Don’t talk about it. I—can’t talk about it.”

“Okay,” says Shane. Ilya isn’t returning Shane’s touch, so Shane removes his hand and takes in Ilya’s face, the face he thought he might never see again. Ilya’s mouth is so full and beautiful and expressive. It has a hundred different shapes, depending on how Ilya feels at that moment. Shane isn’t sure what the tremulousness of it means now.

After a while, Ilya reaches over to turn on the bedside lamp behind him, then lies down next to Shane again. His eyes tracking over Shane, he asks, “What parts are true?”

“Parts of what? My story?”

“No, vampires. The—what is it—myth.”

Shane doesn’t want to talk about this, either. The bite, the pain, the realization of what he was.

Ilya’s hand settles over the back of Shane’s neck. Comforting. In response, Shane moves one of his legs over Ilya’s, tangling them together. 

Ilya doesn’t back away.

“The blood. Not going out in sunlight. Sleeping during the day. I think my teeth are sharper, but not, like, fangs.”

Ilya puts his thumb to Shane’s lips. Of course Shane lets it in—the sensation is nice, familiar—and Ilya carefully traces along the edge of Shane’s teeth. “Yes. I think sharper,” Ilya says. When his thumb leaves, Shane misses it.

“You believe me, then?” Shane asks.

Ilya smiles a smile that doesn’t seem happy. “Mm. More like, I am probably crazy, but it’s okay. Is in my blood. It’s not bad after all.”

“You’re not crazy.” Shane strokes Ilya’s cheek, which is tacky with drying tears. “Don’t talk that way.”

“Okay.” Ilya leans forward, kisses Shane, pulls him into his arms. Shane holds Ilya, too, and as they kiss, he can pretend they are what they were before: two men drawn together, unable to break apart.

Chapter End Notes

Why am I not updating my 50k WIP? Idk maybe later today. I needed to write some misery and suffering first.