Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories:

F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

David Hollander/Brandon Wiebe, David Hollander/Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

David Hollander, Brandon Wiebe, Yuna Hollander, Shane Hollander, Original Characters, Ilya Rozanov, Roger Crowell, Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Flashbacks, Old Flames, and they were ROOMMATES, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Love, bisexual awakening, Hand Jobs, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Homophobia, Teammates to Lovers, Gay Sex, Anal Sex, First Time, Loss of Virginity

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-26 Completed: 2026-08-04 Words: 114,826 Chapters: 15/15

people you may know

Summary

“…I had a thing with one of my teammates. It doesn’t matter who, and I’m not going to tell you. …The truth was, I’d been half in love with him before we first hooked up… I was nuts about him. But he was… he said he didn’t feel that way about me.”

“It all fell apart when I told him I loved him.”

- the long game, ch. 32

we all know coach brandon wiebe had a “thing” with a former teammate.

what if that teammate had been david hollander?

Notes

friends, countrymen, girls and gays, here it is: the dwiebe au.

for starters: YES i am aware that coach wiebe and david hollander are not the same age LOL and yes i have read all the gc books. we are playing in the space here. i wanted a world in which "david hollander played hockey for mcgill" and "brandon wiebe had a Thing with a teammate for a while" overlapped. so here we are.

this is a passion project that would not leave me alone and will be chipped away at over time. how often will it update? don't know don't ask. trope and character tags will be added onto as things progress and more stuff and people get mentioned and introduced. the "present" timeline from the books/show will stay (mostly) canon-compliant while the past will be basically all me bc i am working with SCRAPS over here.

dedicated to my head deacon cat, without whom i never would have ruminated on this so much that an entire Thing came of it.

now strap in and get ready to ache with me!!!! yay!!!!!!!

Chapter 1: the ties that bind

LOS ANGELES - 2009

This is not a love story.

There are moments in the man's life that he would describe as love stories. When he first started playing hockey. When he met his wife. When they started their family together.

But this — this long, jagged, almost-but-never-quite-healed injury of a tale — is not one of those moments. It's not a single moment, either. It's months and years and decades of feelings that twist like knives, of memories that pang like bruises.

This is not a love story. This is a war wound.

Like most wounds, this one owes its life to the weapon that created it. The weapon that birthed this wound is not a weapon at all, not in the physical sense, but rather a name:

Hollander.

The man — Brandon Wiebe — has not thought about that name in twenty years.

At least, that's what he tells anyone who asks. In truth, it's only been in the past few years that he's been able to go a day without thinking back to those fateful years of college when the name Hollander was synonymous with devastation. It's still in the back of his mind, the edges of the wound always raised, outlined with the rough, thick scar tissue that comes with how many times he's torn it open over and over again throughout his life, but it's been dormant for months now.

Despite this, the name absolutely bombards him from all sides today. He had, admittedly, detached from hockey to the point that he had absolutely no clue what the draft class looked like going in this year. He's shown up to chat with some old friends and mutual connections to start probing for a coaching position next season. He's itching to get back to the ice in some capacity, and he wants to make sure his daughters are taken care of and set up for college one day.

And Brandon Wiebe is completely blindsided when the draft picks are called and he hears the name Shane Hollander.

Surely not, he thinks as he watches from the fringes of the crowd. It's not the same family, it's just a coincidence, it can't be…

A spotlight has found a trio of people that are hugging and smiling and celebrating together. A boy with dark hair and even skin kissed with freckles has detached from a couple that have to be his parents to step forward and accept a jersey. The spotlight follows him, applause cresting in the room as cameras flash, but Brandon's eyes remain stuck to the couple he leaves behind.

The woman is stunning, even now. She stands ramrod straight in an expensive-looking gown, her hair sleek and masterfully styled. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, her face alight with joy and pride.

She still sends a shiver of terror down Brandon's spine.

And the man…

Brandon hasn't given much thought to what David Hollander would look like as a middle aged man. It had hurt too much to even try. It was a version that could never belong to him, so he didn't even allow himself to daydream it into ephemeral existence.

But when confronted with the reality of a David Hollander twenty years removed from the last time Brandon had seen him, all he can think is he looks just like his father.

That isn't quite right, either, but it's how Brandon knows for absolutely certain that this Hollander and that Hollander are one and the same. Because he has seen that face before. Those piercing blue eyes.

Twenty years of running. Of looking the other way. Of forcing himself to move on. And now, when Brandon was almost convinced he had finally managed to pull it off, here he is again: stomach in knots and head full of one thing: Hollander. Hollander. Hollander.

This is not a love story.

This is a war wound that is, once again, beginning to slowly bleed.

MONTREAL - 1988

McGill University was as beautiful in person as the brochures promised it would be.

Elegant stone buildings and wide, brick-paved walkways made Brandon forget, just for a moment, that he was still in Canada. He was a long way from home, but the architecture and landscaping and general air of the campus around him made him feel like he had taken a flight to Europe, rather than the other side of his home country.

Taking a deep breath, he shouldered his duffel bag and started hiking towards the admissions office.

It was hard to shake the paranoia that, at any moment, someone was going to grab him by the arm and shove him off the grounds. People like him didn't belong in places like this. The students he passed only reminded him of this fact further. They were all dressed in clean, crisp clothes, hair styled and jewelry on display, bookbags made of genuine leather with designer logos expertly stitched into the covers. Several stopped and stared as Brandon hiked up the walkway, trying to keep his head down.

His eyes caught the tips of his scuffed and frayed Converse with every step. His fingertip worried at a hole in the strap of his backpack, the same one he had dragged through all of high school and still had with him because it was still intact and he couldn't afford a new one. His duffel bag, he knew, was faded and stained and worn with years of rough road trips with his past hockey teams. Everything about him was faded, ragged, dull.

Poor.

Brandon swallowed his shame and trudged on ahead. He had just as much right to be here as anyone else. A sports scholarship was an achievement, dammit. Especially a hockey scholarship. Especially a hockey scholarship in Canada. Brandon's grades had been good. His hockey had been better. He made the cut fair and square, regardless of his family's tax bracket.

The admissions office interior was just as old money and upscale as the exterior. Vaulted ceilings, tons of polished stone and marble accents, carved wood beams and trim. Sound ricocheted insanely in there, like ice shattering over and over on an otherwise silent lake. It smelled faintly dusty, undercut with the ever-present smell of too many people who had used too much hairspray that morning.

A woman with aggressively red lipstick and a smart blue blazer smiled at him from behind a plexiglass window at the high, marble-topped counter. "What can I do for you, sweetie?" she asked, giving Brandon the same pitying look that most people regarded him with.

"I need to sign in, I think?" he answered, hands sweating as he fumbled with the pocket of his jeans. "I just got here, I…"

He fished out a crumpled letter from his pocket and smoothed it out the best he could on the counter. He passed it under the window to the woman, who took it in a manicured hand and looked over it for half a second. She looked back up with a smile and slid it back to him.

"Of course," she said pleasantly, the letter doing a better job of explaining himself than he had. "You need to head on up to McConnell Hall. Just follow the signs." She nodded and pointed to one of said signs, directing him to the dorm building in question.

"Thanks," Brandon said, tucking his letter back into his pocket before pivoting away from the desk and following the signs.

The directions took him out of the admissions building and back out to the sun-drenched campus. It was quiet, all things considered, as he had arrived two weeks early ahead of the crowd to get settled in and meet his new team. The further he went, the fewer people he saw and the less pressured he felt to keep his head down.

This allowed him to really look at what would be his home for the next four years. The grounds were immaculate, the skyline open and dotted with charming European-styled gables and rooftops. Once he got further from the main campus, he caught sight of the rounded exterior of the athletic facility, Molson Stadium. Its high windows glittered in the sun from its red brick face. Everything about it looked sharp and clean from the outside.

I'm going to play hockey there, Brandon thought, his stomach flipping at the thought. Gone were the poorly-maintained community rinks and school gyms of his grade school days. Crisp red and white flags and banners with the school's logo stitched onto them snapped in the almost-too-warm late summer breeze. The architecture was designed to look older, upscale, but everything else about the campus felt brand new. Expensive.

Brandon thanked every lucky star that he had gotten this scholarship. There was absolutely no way he would have ever gotten here without it. Kids like him, fatherless and impoverished and living in the shadow of an addiction his mother just couldn't ever seem to kick, didn't get opportunities like this any other way.

Hockey had come to him the same way sleight of hand and amateur magic tricks had: as a way to have fun. Street games and skirmishes on barely-stable pond ice in the winter had given him an excuse to get out of the stuffy, depressing hovel of the apartment where he grew up in Vancouver. He played on any team that would take him — and the older and more skilled he became, the more teams wanted him.

By the time he graduated, he was almost, almost good enough for the NHL draft. Almost.

He could have gone with one of the lower level leagues, of course. Those weren't nothing, but they weren't what he wanted. Being scouted and making a name for himself throughout high school and in juniors had opened his eyes to the fact that he was allowed to want things. Big things, even.

And not just hockey things, either. He was allowed to want a future bigger than their one bedroom apartment. Bigger than the comic book store he had a part time job at to keep a few dollars in his pockets. Bigger than waiting at his mother's bedside when she inevitably relapsed again and again, wondering if this was going to be the binge that finally killed her.

He was allowed to want an education. A degree. A backup plan in case hockey wrecked him early on, the way it could wreck anyone with one bad hit. He was allowed to be smart about his life, his future. So he was going for it.

McConnell Hall rested at the bottom of an easy incline down the street, a boxy, modern-ish construction that looked like a checkerboard of white paneling and tan brick. It was smaller than Brandon had been expecting, but that was okay. It felt less intimidating that way. More like the apartment complex he had grown up in, but not in the suffocating way that it had come to be the older he got. This looked like the memories Brandon had of his childhood, when he had yet to become conscious of his mother's struggles and their financial distress. Bright, clean, promising.

He checked in at the front desk, gave his name and fetched the crumpled letter from his pocket again just in case, but it wasn't needed. The ancient woman crouched behind the cluttered desk passed over a room key, a chipped, laminated tag proclaiming his dorm number. Brandon nodded his thanks, shifted the weight of his bags, and headed for the stairwell.

His dorm was on the fourth floor. He only passed one other person as he hiked up the stairs, the building still relatively quiet in the pre-semester hush. Brandon was grateful for that much. He'd feel better being established here ahead of the other, likely wealthier students. As if the virtue of simply getting here before them would prove, without a doubt, that he belonged here, too.

His door was smack in the middle of the hallway — and it was standing open. Music drifted out into the hallway from within. Bruce Springsteen, he thought, but wasn't quite sure. He was only ever able to listen to music on a choppy radio at home, and he didn't always catch the name of the song or the artist before it was whisked away forever, the chorus or guitar riff stuck in his head as the only evidence that the music existed out there at all.

This was not that, though. The sound was clear. A nice sound system, then. Belonging to his roommate… who was almost certainly better off than Brandon. Fuck.

This was the part he had purposely put off thinking about until now. He knew he would have a roommate, that it would be a fellow teammate to help him get used to the schedule of both hockey and classes. He had been hoping against hope that he would beat them here, too, but this was clearly not going to be the case. Swallowing his nerves and putting on a brave, calm face, Brandon forced himself to walk forward and step into the open room.

The other body in the room was turned away from him. Big hands with long, elegant fingers were shelving books in a slightly crooked row. Wide, sloping shoulders worked beneath the back of a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt. The hint of a sunburn peeked out from the top of the collar, right below the beginnings of a thick head of dark, wavy hair. The other boy hummed to himself as he worked, oblivious to Brandon's presence behind him.

The sound system, as Brandon predicted, was very nice. Large speakers and a control panel full of knobs and dials. A cassette player and a record player in one. It dominated most of the space on one of the desks, which his roommate had clearly claimed as his own. Several albums were shelved above it, their colorful spines boasting the disposable income that allowed this boy to not only enjoy music, but own it for himself, as well as the means to listen to it whenever he wanted in the highest quality that Dolby Digital sound could provide.

You deserve to be here, Brandon reminded himself. Money or no money. He cleared his throat and stepped further into the room, drawing the boy's attention and causing him to turn around.

"Oh! Hey!" he said, a row of straight white teeth that had no place in a hockey player's mouth flashing at Brandon with the words and the smile that wrapped around them. "I'm David. Nice to meet you. You must be Brandon, eh?"

David slotted the last book — a well-loved paperback — onto the shelf, and reached for Brandon's hand. His eyes were a brilliant, piercing shade of blue, and he wore… glasses. Perfectly round, gold-wire framed glasses that perched on a straight nose. His face creased on the sides when he smiled, not dimples, but smile lines that belonged to a man ten years his senior at least. David was a person who had spent entire years smiling, to have earned those lines this early in his life.

And Brandon was just… staring at him. He had expected a cold shoulder, snobbish indifference, or even outright hostility. Not… this. He belatedly shuffled his bags around to offer a hand in return. David's hand was warm and dry, the palm callused like his own. He gave it a firm shake, his smile widening, before releasing Brandon and turning back toward his bookshelf.

"We can swap sides, if you want," he offered, despite the fact that he had clearly almost fully unpacked already. "I want you to feel at home."

Brandon tried not to let his bewilderment show. What is this? A trick? A hazing ritual in the making? "No, that's fine, it doesn't matter to me," he replied, dumping his bags on the unclaimed bed on the other side of the room.

The mid-afternoon sun was cutting across his bed in sharp, sizzling lines through the window. It highlighted the frayed seams of his backpack straps in glaring detail, and Brandon rearranged his bag to hide it.

David didn't seem to notice. He grabbed the box he had unpacked and started breaking it down, cardboard folding down flat until he could chuck it into a nearby trash bag. The poor kid that Brandon would likely always be screamed at the waste. That's a good box! he wanted to exclaim. Save it for later! But he made himself look away and focus on unpacking his few possessions instead.

"Is the rest of your stuff downstairs?" David asked.

"Oh, uh, no, this is all I brought," Brandon replied, wanting to recede into his body like a turtle.

How pitiful his life was in comparison to David's. The expensive sound system. The row of books. The line of albums and records. The nice duvet already draped over the other bed on top of the standard-issue bedding the dorm provided. All Brandon had was a few changes of clothes, a few photos tucked in his barely-together wallet, and a pair of running shoes that probably wouldn't last another winter. What he had brought with him wouldn't even fill two whole drawers in the built-in dresser.

David had every opportunity to mock him for it. But instead, he just grinned and nodded. "Traveling light. I like it. Took me forever to drag my stuff up here. Your back will thank you for not being like me!"

And that was it. This easy deflection, this implication that Brandon was in any way smarter or better off than David for not having so many possessions, left him feeling unmoored. He didn't know what to do in the face of such blatant grace (or, perhaps, stupidity), so he just nodded and focused on re-folding and arranging his clothes in his drawer. They smelled faintly of cigarettes and mildew, even having come this far from home. He would need to wash them all soon, before it became too noticeable, but for now he just wanted to get settled in and get his bearings.

He was also hoping against hope that, now that David was unpacked, perhaps he would have something else to go do and leave Brandon alone for a moment, but this was clearly not going to happen. David parked himself soundly on the opposite bed and watched Brandon for a moment before reaching for something under the bed. He pulled out a milk crate that was full of magazines and pulled one out to read.

Brandon's eye caught the title on the cover without meaning to. The New Yorker. Interesting choice for a hockey-playing college student. He would have expected Playboy.

It became evident in about two minutes that the magazine was a pretense, though, because soon David was talking again. "You have a long trip in?" he asked blithely, glancing up over the rims of his glasses.

"Oh, uh, yeah," Brandon replied. "I'm from Vancouver."

David let out a low whistle. "Dang. Didja fly in?"

Brandon nodded. It had been the first time in his entire life that he had ever been on airplane, all by himself at that, and it had made him want to die. He had saved up every penny of his paltry paychecks to afford a plane ticket so that he wouldn't have to hop from bus to bus for three thousand miles. He would have, of course, if he had to, but he was very thankful that he didn't have to.

"Mind if I ask why you came here? There's plenty of great schools on the west coast," David went on, letting the magazine flop onto his chest.

Brandon tried not to bristle at the interrogation. He's just being friendly, he told himself. He's getting to know a teammate. A roommate. Relax. "It was a good offer," he supplied. "McGill is a good school, and I wanted to play hockey for the 'Birds. So… here I am."

David let that information sit for a moment, then decided it was sufficient, or at least that he didn't want to press any further. "If you say so. We are a pretty good team."

Brandon glanced over and caught the smirk he had heard in David's tone. "What position do you play?"

"Center," David replied, because of course he did. Which probably also made him — "Captain. You?"

"Left winger." Brandon had finished unpacking his bags, and now tucked the empty duffel into the drawer beside his clothes. His backpack was hung from a bedpost, waiting to be stuffed with textbooks and folders and supplies.

"Oh thank God," David exclaimed, and for whatever reason, Brandon believed him at once. It didn't sound sarcastic. Nothing about David felt sarcastic or mean. "Our best winger graduated last year. I was hoping we would get someone in this year."

That both relieved and pressured Brandon. On one hand, it was always nice to be wanted, but on the other, he hoped he would be able to live up to expectations. "When does practice start?"

"Two days. Most of the guys are here, but our goalie is coming in from Manitoba, and our coach had a baby last year and is putting off coming in until the last possible day." He sat up, letting the open magazine roll unceremoniously from his chest to his lap. "Wait, where's your gear?"

Brandon's neck burned with embarrassment. He had nothing else to occupy his hands with, so he just stared at the floor. His hockey equipment had been thrifted and patched and cobbled together from mismatched sets and sizes. He couldn't afford to check another bag on the flight anyway, so he had just left it at home. He had been assured he would be provided with everything he needed at the university, so long as he could get himself there.

Now he was here, without even a pair of skates to his name. "I, uh, left it at home," he answered, feeling like he was already failing a test that he hadn't known he would be taking. "It's old as hell anyway, so…"

"Oh, gotcha," David went on, and just like that, the pressure was released. No further interrogating. No grilling for details. Just a pleasant flow onto the next topic. "We've got plenty of stuff, so you'll be fine. The skates won't be profiled to you, though —"

That made Brandon laugh. Profiled. Like he was some fancy professional. "My last pair had a bend in the blade on the right foot," he chuckled, so startled by the suggestion that he willingly gave away this pitiful, vulnerable detail. "So if you see me skating weird on my right side, it's from that. Anything will be better than those old beaters."

It was ammunition, freely given, and Brandon hated that he had said it as soon as it had left his mouth. But David just smiled, looking for all the world as if this was just an amusing footnote to his curious new roommate and not something that might make him a glaring liability on the ice.

"I bet it makes you harder to predict," was all he said in response. "I'm looking forward to getting back on the ice with everyone."

Brandon didn't know what to do with a person like David. He was so… polite. Turning every blunder and shortcoming into something positive or, at the very least, neutral. Back home, the neighborhood kids would have started fights over some of these things. He'd been teased relentlessly for his crooked gait on the ice in high school, even though he hadn't let it affect his speed. And here was David, with his comforts and his money and his captaincy, acting like Brandon was a wildcard in the making instead of what he really was in all likelihood: the weakest link.

He didn't trust it. He wanted to, because it would make his life here so much easier, but he just couldn't. It wasn't how he was brought up.

The album that had been playing softly on David's stereo finally reached its end, leaving silence in its wake. David glanced up, but didn't make a move to get off the bed. "Wanna pick the next one?" he offered.

Brandon just stared at him. "Huh?"

"The music. Unless you want some quiet, but it's a little too quiet in here without everyone moved in yet, if you ask me." David gestured to his shelf of albums. "Pop one in, if you want."

God, this was so weird. The one time Brandon had gone to a friend's house and they had a cassette player, he had been forbidden from touching it. It had cost too much for him to go breaking anything on it or ruining one of the tapes, of course. To be offered the chance to choose an album and operate this glaringly expensive piece of equipment felt illegal.

But… Brandon was allowed to want things now. He reminded himself of this as he tentatively rose from the bed and meekly scanned the spines of David's collection that he had hauled here from wherever it was he called home. Brandon was allowed to want to listen to music, to want to pick what surrounded them in the otherwise empty air of this barely-lived-in dorm room, and he was going to choose something, dammit.

The choices were varied and mystifying. Pink Floyd. Prince. Madonna. Motley Crue. AC/DC. Michael Jackson. The Top Gun soundtrack. George Strait. His fingers landed on a somewhat-familiar looking cover and pulled the case free. Despite the many buttons and dials on the stereo, it was relatively straightforward on how to load and unload tapes, so he freed the former (it was, in fact, Bruce Springsteen) and replaced it with Duran Duran, carefully closing the hatch and pressing play.

"Ooh, Rio," David remarked. "Good choice. The case for that one's on the shelf," he added, nodding to the Springsteen tape in Brandon's hand.

He nodded, found the case, and put it right back where he found it. There. He hadn't broken anything or made it worse by being in its proximity and being poor. It was fine. The tightly coiled thing in his chest that was waiting for someone, anyone to push back against his presence here at this esteemed university relaxed just a fraction.

Today could have gone so badly. David could have been a complete shithead. But he wasn't. He was just… normal. Kind, even. It probably didn't matter to him in the slightest, but letting Brandon be here and touch his things and determine even one aspect about their shared space was a gift that Brandon hadn't even known that he needed.

It was a gift that Brandon would think about every time he heard a song from that album again, years and years later. The gift of a soft landing when his life, up until that point, had been nothing but crashes.

LOS ANGELES - 2009

Twenty-one years later, Brandon stares into the unforgiving blue-white glare of his laptop. He's hunched over the desk in his hotel room, the noise of the city and the events around him muffled by the thin walls.

He knew he shouldn't have done it. He shouldn't have chased this particular rabbit. But seeing David Hollander again today has derailed him completely. Memories he hasn't looked at for years have been pelleting him like a fucking hailstorm.

He promised Valerie he would call tonight, but all he could manage was a text letting her know the footnotes of his day and that he was going to bed soon. It's late in Toronto, anyway. She and the girls are likely fast asleep. This is what he tells himself as he stares at the webpage before him, the mostly-white layout searing his eyes in the dim hotel room.

Facebook. A modern invention made to irritate and intrigue. Reconnecting you to people you possibly never wanted to be reminded of again. A testament to the networking power of the internet and the digital age. It is here that Brandon ends up, looking at the thumbnail of the profile he has searched up and hunted down and arrived at.

Not that he had to hunt very hard. Two scrolls down, he was treated to the ever present "People You May Know" tab, and two profiles down, there he was: David Hollander. Works at Treasury Board of Canada. Studied at McGill University. His profile photo is slightly grainy, backlit by a brilliant summer sun, a glittering lake framed with evergreens and mountains behind him. His wife under one arm, his son under the other, three matching smiles and eyes hidden behind sunglasses all pointed at the camera.

Twenty-one years, and he's right here all over again. A direct line of communication right at his fingertips. Hell, they might even be staying in the same hotel. They were certainly still in the same city. How many yards separated them from each other? How many steps would Brandon have to take to end up face to face with the man who broke his heart for the first time?

He can find out, and that scares the shit out of him. The "send message" button taunts him on his laptop screen. He can shred through those years of scar tissue and let the wound gush and gush until it bleeds out. Or he can leave well enough alone, stitch up the leaking seam at the fraying edges of the scar, and walk away.

Easy enough to say. Harder to imagine, especially when David's son is in the NHL now. The very league that Brandon has a good feeling he will be coaching in come August. He's had a lot of promising conversations today, and he feels certain an offer will find him in the coming weeks. He can try to run, but the name Hollander has found him, and it's not going to leave him alone any time soon.

Grief, like man, is an endurance predator. All it has to do is start walking in your direction, and you're already fucked. You can run, you can sprint, you can try to hide from it, but in the end, you will get tired. You will lie down and roll belly up and surrender, because the most exhausting thing isn't the running away. It's the pretending that the grief isn't there. That it isn't steadily, inch by inch, day by day, gaining on you.

After all these years, the predator has become almost alluring in its inevitability. A seduction, even. You know this ache. Part of you wants to feel it again, just to see if it's still as sharp as it was back then. Press your thumb to the blade and see if it can still cut you. Try it. See which one is stronger now: your skin or the steel.

There is, of course, the possibility that David doesn't even use this thing. He may never see the message. But the possibility that he might is tempting and terrifying enough that Brandon reaches for the touchpad and clicks "send message."

He stares at the empty field for a long time. So long that he almost gives up completely. But then he blinks, eyes burned with the afterimage of the webpage on the backs of his eyelids, and when they open again, he's typed out a simple message:

Saw your boy's draft today. Congratulations. We should catch up sometime. His phone number lies at the end of the message like a loaded gun pointed right at his own face.

He doesn't have to send it. The inverse of the lesson he learned before classes at McGill even began was this: yes, he is allowed to want things, but he is also allowed to walk away from them, too.

The first lesson always stuck with him more than the second.

He clicks "send."

Chapter 2: runnin' down a dream

Chapter Notes

OTTAWA - 2009

Brandon Wiebe is not fond of first days.

This has held true for most things in his life. First day of school, first day at a new job, first day at training camp — the list goes on and on. He likes when things are already underway, his life already adjusted to make room for the routines and habits that whatever Thing is going on in his life has made necessary. The learning curve, the getting started, the trial and error, it all wears on his nerves.

This is especially true when a first as big as the first day of kindergarten is multiplied by three.

Brandon and his wife Valerie are lucky. Incredibly so. They went from no children to three children in one fell swoop, an extremely high risk pregnancy that demanded Brandon retire a full year earlier than he had planned, but he didn't mind. His absolutely incredible powerhouse of a wife had brought three healthy baby girls into the world all at once. He had lost the right to complain about just about anything for at least the next ten years.

However, being blessed does not mean being carefree. Three children meant three times the expenses. Three times the worry. Three times the milestones. Three times the joy. Triple the birthdays, triple the doctor's appointments, and now triple the nerves going into their first foray into education at the ripe old age of four.

On top of that, it's Brandon's first day as well. Training camp begins today, and he will finally meet his team in its entirety.

Following the draft, he received three offers for coaching jobs: two assistant positions and one head. Even as an assistant coach, he would have been comfortable in the other two positions. They were big teams. Successful teams. Teams that could afford comfy salaries for him regardless of how far they were from his then-home of Toronto.

But they weren't Ottawa.

Ottawa was the only one offering him the position of head coach right off the bat, completely untested. He had only his NHL career to lean on for experience, as well as a few stints coaching camps, so it was beyond generous for them to even consider him for the job. The pay was more than enough. The move wasn't too terribly far, all things considered.

But it was Ottawa. Boring and bland and home to the most lackluster team in the league.

It was home to something else, too, but Brandon wasn't going to look too closely at that.

Now, as the house clamors with noise and movement, Valerie calls for the family to gather together for a photo. Brandon kneels behind the three girls, all dressed in matching uniforms, and beams at her camera from beneath the brim of his Centaurs ball cap. Marie, Grace, and Sally aim their gap-toothed grins at their mother, the flash goes off, and the moment is forever sealed in digital film on her point-and-shoot Canon.

"Okay girls, time to hit the road. Daddy's got to get to work," she announces as she stashes the camera at her desk.

Brandon hugs each girl in turn, their bushy, curly hair tickling his face. "Bye Daddy!" they singsong one after the other. "I love you!"

"I love you too, baby," he tells each one as he releases them to their mother, who's jingling her keys and shouldering her purse. He pecks her on the cheek as they pass each other in the garage, loading the girls into the minivan and securing each one into their car seat.

"See you tonight, honey," Valerie calls before they get behind the wheel of their respective vehicles. "You're gonna do great. Good luck."

"See you," Brandon replies, getting one last look at her. Her dark, smooth skin pops from the white and cream tones of her fleece jacket. Her hair is worn in close, coily waves on her head, and her sleek, frameless-style glasses are perched perfectly on her broad nose.

He is still so fond of her. So taken with her beauty.

He makes himself get in the car before she can tease him. The garage door rolls up behind them and he waits, letting her back out first. Three little hands wave to him from the rear window as her van departs, and Brandon smiles and waves back as his girls pull out of the drive. He backs his Jeep out once it's clear, closes the garage, and heads to the rink.

It's not his first time going there, at least. He toured the facilities upon his hiring, met the front office staff, set up his own personal office. But it will be the first time he meets with both the returning players as well as the newly drafted picks for the Centaurs and starts working with them before the preseason begins, and Brandon's trying not to get too in his head about it.

He played for several different teams between the NHL and the AHL over the years. Meeting the guys was always his least favorite part. But that had been when he was on their level, just another guy on a line with them, expected to show up and pull his weight and do his job on the ice. Now he would be in charge of them. Responsible for them. And he had no history to back up his supposed authority with besides a lackluster career that didn't include a single Cup or Olympic honor.

Misdirection, he reminds himself as the stadium comes into view. Lead their eyes where you want them to go, not where you don't.

Brandon arrives far ahead of everyone else, as he feels any good coach should. The parking lot is still mostly abandoned when he gets there. He swipes his brand new key card for entry into the building, dumps his keys and wallet into a locked drawer in his brand new desk, and pulls a brand new spiral notebook from a shelf before heading rinkside.

It's all but silent in the cavernous arena, the only sounds being the low hum of cooling machines to keep the ice in place and the ambient buzz of a few overhead lights. A faraway banging echoes in the empty space as a maintenance worker hammers away at something unseen, but other than that, it's just Brandon and his thoughts.

He plops down on the home bench and cracks open his notebook, scrawling the date in the top corner of the page. The previous head coach had left notes and his playbooks behind, but Brandon wants a fresh start. He doesn't want to disrespect those who came before him, but the Centaurs aren't exactly the hottest team in the league. Whatever the previous coach was doing, it clearly wasn't working.

The familiar scents of rubber and cleaning solution wash over him as he writes and sketches, and without even being conscious of it, his thoughts inevitably drift back in time.

MONTREAL - 1988

Brandon slipped out of his dorm room before the sun had even begun to rise.

The two days between arriving at McGill and waiting for practice to start had been… fine. David was nice. Normal. A bit too friendly, maybe, but it could have been so much worse. They had both been in and out a bit, David asking questions and Brandon carefully dodging them and giving the smallest answers possible.

But this — getting on new ice for the first time — warranted no audience. Brandon wanted privacy. He wanted time to ease into things so he wouldn't feel like a baby duck learning to swim in front of his new team. He jogged from the dorm to the McConnell Arena in the gray pre-dawn light, rejoicing in how his body responded and woke up before most people even opened their eyes for the day.

A janitor let him into the stadium, the only other soul who was present and conscious at the same time as Brandon was. He pointed him in the direction of the locker room before pushing his cart down the dim, quiet hall. Brandon made his way there, flicked on the lights, and let a tentative wave of excitement pass over him.

It was glorious.

Stalls filled with fresh, well-maintained equipment lined the walls. Crisp red and white jerseys hung in each one, accompanied by gleaming pairs of skates and new rolls of tape. Sticks stood lined up in the rack beside the wall like soldiers in formation. It wouldn't look like this for long, Brandon knew, but for now he could bask in the uniform, untouched perfection of the space.

He stepped over to the stall for number 4. The nameplate was still blank, as was the jersey bearing the number, but it was the number he had requested and been approved for. In a couple of weeks, his name would be stitched across the shoulders and stamped on the nameplate, as long as he proved he could pull his weight with the team. This would be his stall. His jersey. His place.

He changed into a fresh set of gear in silence. He admired the way everything fit like it should, tight to his body, allowing him to move with ease, nothing snagging or hanging up on anything else. The skates were in his size, the blades freshly sharpened, completely straight and solidly mounted. No bent blades. No wobbling heels. No threadbare spots in his pads or socks.

He caught sight of himself in a floor length mirror and just stared. He no longer looked like the poor kid who scrapped on scummy pond ice or in slushy back alleys with whatever makeshift equipment he could find. He looked like a real, honest-to-God hockey player.

Brandon didn't know how he felt about that, but he knew he certainly didn't feel bad about it.

The curved interior that housed the rink was lit only by a few tracklights in the rafters, but it was enough for Brandon to see by. The shadows of championship and Olympic banners fluttered against the far wall, the school crest painted huge above them all. He could just barely make out the inscription beneath: Est. 1877. Over a hundred years of hockey had been played here, the oldest organization for the sport in the world.

And Brandon got to be here.

He stepped onto the ice, his blade carving a clean line into the fresh surface, and his heart started to race. This was real. He was here. Brandon Wiebe had made it to McGill.

He started easy, skating laps around the edges of the rink, getting a feel for the space and the new skates. He held a stick loosely in one hand, twirling it on occasion. He was never able to keep his hands still for long. The weight of it was perfect, the balance just right. He'd had so many shitty, cracked, half-exploded hockey sticks in his past. This one was solid. New. Professional grade.

On impulse, he tossed the stick up, twirling it end over end, gliding to a stop beneath it as his eyes tracked it above him. He caught it with two fingers, spun it around his head, swapped it to his other hand. He had dated a majorette in high school, and she had taught him how to toss and twirl batons with her.

He skated another lap before fetching a bucket of pucks from behind the bench. He set up and practiced shot after shot into the net, delighting in the way the stick cut through the air and answered every minute adjustment of his wrists. He was so used to shitty equipment that he wasn't prepared for how easy it was to work with good, reliable tools. His shots were wide at first, but he quickly schooled them to the precise, snappy goals that he knew he was capable of.

Then he started getting more complicated. He scattered pucks all across the ice at random and navigated one through them all, picking up speed as he wove through his invented traffic jams with ease. His stick flashed and slammed over and over, right side, left side, right side, left side, back and forth, scooped up, dangled, and fired his puck smack into the center of the net. Brandon laughed when he saw the mesh ripple.

He could do this for hours. He could this for days.

"Having fun?"

Brandon nearly dropped his stick as he spun in an arc toward the voice. David was standing at the home bench, hands in his pockets, glasses reflecting the pale light off the ice back into the arena before him. Brandon's heart stuttered with old fear.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to spook you," David added. "That's some crazy handling you've got there. You do a lot of trick shots back home?"

Brandon flushed, sheepish and shy. "Mostly just messing around," he muttered, voice barely carrying over the ice. He skated a little closer so he could be heard, nudging pucks aside with his stick. "They probably wouldn't work in a real game."

David shrugged. "We'll see about that. You ready to meet the guys?"

No. A small, selfish part of Brandon wished he could have the whole day to himself. He liked the team aspect of the sport, sure, but he didn't want people analyzing him and picking on him and taunting him about his status or background or anything else. "I guess."

David smiled, but it wasn't the same open, easy smile he'd been giving him at the dorm. He looked, Brandon thought, a little like how he felt. Tense. Nervous.

Then it occurred to him. "Ready for your first day as captain?" he asked.

That tense smile turned brittle at the question. "I hope so," David sighed, his shoulders sagging. "I've been playing with most of them for the past couple of years, so we know each other already, but…"

"But you've never had to, like, boss them around," Brandon supplied.

He'd never captained a team before, at least not officially. Sometimes guys listened to him, but sometimes a bigger and louder dude would step in and overshadow him completely. It was a shitty feeling, and he found himself hoping that David wouldn't be on the receiving end of it. He was nice. Brandon didn't want to see him suffer for that. Not when there weren't nearly enough nice people in the world as it was.

"Yeah," David agreed, and Brandon felt bad at the note of doubt that crept into his tone. "I just hope I'm good at it, y'know?"

Brandon frowned. "You're gonna be great at it," he insisted.

He knew very little about David Hollander as a hockey player or as a person, but what he did know instilled faith in him. If he had to vote for a captain, David would have been his choice, too.

David left to get changed, and Brandon took the time to gather up all the scattered pucks off the ice. He tried not to let himself slip into a pouty mood as he dropped them back into the bucket. His mother and his teachers used to lecture him about his inability to share with others, but he always felt that was unfair. He didn't ask to be an only child. Unlearning his tendencies to withdraw and hog things for himself had been difficult, and he still struggled with it some days.

He was mostly over himself by the time David returned and glided out onto the ice with him. He kept fidgeting with the newly stitched C on his jersey, his glove ghosting over it multiple times as he did laps and got warmed up.

Brandon was tired of seeing how much he doubted himself when he hadn't even gotten started yet. So he stacked pucks in a tidy tower at center ice, rotating on his skates to track David's laps, and the next time he caught him picking at the C on his shoulder again, he fired a puck straight at him.

"Hey!" David squawked as he banked sharply to one side to absorb the worst of the impact with his shinguard. "What was that for?"

"You keep messing with your new badge," Brandon said simply, shrugging and holding his arms out wide. "If you do that in front of the other guys, you're gonna look like a wimp. So stop doing it and I'll stop shooting at you."

Even from halfway across the ice, Brandon could heard David's snort. "Whatever. I'm not messing with it. Watch where you shoot those."

He took off around the rink again, Brandon following his movements, admiring his form. Unlike himself, David had the fluidity and confidence of someone who had been raised in good, well-made skates and pads. His edges were clean, his center of gravity pinpointed and precise, moving up and down with the slightest of adjustments. The stubbornly curling ends of his shaggy hair fluttered out from under his helmet with his momentum.

And he was fidgeting with the C again.

Crack!

"Jesus — seriously, dude, stop!" David hissed as he narrowly avoided being hit by the puck that instead bounced harmlessly off the board.

"I will when you do!" Brandon called back.

Even from here, he could see the flush rise up stubbornly in David's face. He could also see the way his mouth wobbled as he clearly fought to keep from smiling or laughing, his brow knit with determination. It screamed I'm mad at you, don't make me laugh right now, and it made Brandon laugh.

"Rookies," David huffed.

He abandoned his laps to join Brandon at center ice. He waved Brandon aside as he took up a stance like a golfer beside the stack of pucks, leveled his stick, and exhaled. He then proceeded to bury each one in the net, one right after the other, rapid fire. They shot forward in a single-file line, each hitting almost exactly the same spot in the back of the mesh as the one before it.

Brandon whistled. "Pretty," he complimented, because it was. Not an ounce of effort or force was wasted on David's part. His speed and precision were seriously impressive — at least, as long as there was nothing in his way and no one else on the ice.

Still, David grinned at him, blue eyes turned to brilliant sapphires by the pale reflection from the ice beneath them. "Thanks," he said.

He didn't look nervous anymore. He wasn't picking at the C on his jersey. He looked comfortable. Confident. Brandon was satisfied that he had done his job. He couldn't stand a captain that acted like a loser before anything had even happened.

And it came just in time, too, because whoops and laughter began to float into the barn and echo back to them on the ice. David looked up, squaring his shoulders, and gave Brandon a poke with his hockey stick. "Come on, then. Let's go meet the rest of the guys."

The rest of the Redbirds came in twos and threes. David parked himself and Brandon by the bench and slapped names and labels on each guy as they skated out. Brandon knew he wasn't going to remember them all right away, but hey, that's why they all wore their names on their backs.

Some stood out to him, though. "Bob Bernard, goalie," David stated as a broad, squat guy made even broader and squatter by his huge pads clomped onto the ice. He had all the grace of a drunk rhinoceros, but he grinned ear to ear at them and flashed a smile riddled with holes when he passed back, taping his glove companionably against David's as he went.

"Hey, C! Did you bring my records back? You better have," Bernard said in a voice that was much too loud for a face-to-face conversation.

"I brought your dang records back, Bernie," David huffed, but he was grinning back. "Come by our dorm later for them. Also, this is Brandon Wiebe, one of our rookies this year." He patted Brandon's shoulder, which he could have done without, but Brandon didn't remark on it.

Bernard tilted his head, which was oddly block-shaped both from his bone structure and his sharp, flat-top buzzcut. "That's a weird name," he said, but clearly it wasn't weird enough for him to go in depth, because he just skated off toward the crease without another word.

"Goalies," Brandon said with a half-shrug.

David made a noise that was caught between annoyance and agreement. "Basically, yeah."

Next to catch Brandon's eye were a pair of huge defensemen with matching ginger-red hair and a mess of freckles spattered across their milky white skin. "Brandon, this is Smitty and Smitty. Smitty Squared, this is Brandon."

The (apparent) twins both reached for Brandon's helmet and drummed on it, beaming at him like he'd told them the world's funniest joke despite him not having said a word. "Fresh meat!" they whooped before taking to the ice.

Brandon watched them go, ears ringing from the drum session that occurred on his head. "Uh," he said as he watched them skate in progressively tighter circles around each other. "I guess they have first names too?"

"Oh, yeah, Kyle and Dougan," David supplied. "But no one can ever keep who's who straight, so don't worry about it. It's really fun swapping them on the lines and confusing the opposing team."

There were three other freshmen on the team, which just reminded Brandon of how competitive this was. How precious his place on the roster was. He eyed the three other rookies — Jansen, Morgan, and Albright — and committed as many details about them to memory as he could. Just because they were on the same team didn't mean they weren't also his competition.

The last person that stuck out to Brandon would have stuck out to anyone. He still had his helmet tucked under his arm when he stepped onto the ice, allowing long, flowing locks of blonde hair to tumble down his shoulders and flutter in the breeze behind him. His eyes were green and mirthful, sizing Brandon up as soon as he spotted him at David's side.

"And this is my alternate captain," David said as the tall, statuesque man approached. "Alois St. Claire, this is Brandon Wiebe."

"Ah! The bebe!" Alois exclaimed. His accent was thick and French — and not in the Quebecois way, either, but in the actual French way. European.

His impression on Brandon was further solidified when he grabbed Brandon's shoulders, leaned in, and kissed him on both cheeks, punctuated with loud, exaggerated mwah! mwah! sounds.

Brandon could feel his heartbeat in his toes as a full-body flush descended on him. "Umm," he stammered. "Hi."

David nudged Alois away gently, laughing nervously. "Easy, Alo, don't traumatize him," he chuckled. "Alois is, uh, very French."

Alois waved David off, rolling his emerald eyes and pouting his full lips. "And you are all prudes," he huffed. "Welcome to Montreal, sweet Brandon. Do not let their butchery of my mother tongue hurt your heart."

Brandon watched him skate off to join the rest of the team in stunned silence.

"Yeah," David said, responding to nothing but the look on Brandon's face. "He has that effect on people. But he's a solid hockey player and people like him and listen to him. Even though he's…"

David trailed off. Brandon peered at him and raised a brow. There was a word there that was not being said, and was begging to be said, and would not be said by either of them except under extreme duress.

"European?" Brandon supplied instead, and both of them laughed.

Their coach arrived last, which Brandon thought was weird, but he remembered that David had mentioned he'd just had a baby over the summer. "Sorry I'm late," the man said as he hurried into the barn, clipboard in hand. "Hopefully you're all warmed up and ready to start, yes?"

A general murmur of assent floated up from the gathered players.

Coach Dubois nodded, looking pleased. He was young, maybe only ten years older than Brandon, and he seemed like the kind of person who was always flustered and stressed out. This became painfully apparent as practice went on. Every time a play fell apart or a line didn't mesh, Coach Dubois started wringing his hands. When the Smitty twins started bickering over one tripping the other, Coach was frantic to diffuse the situation as quickly as possible, as if afraid someone would overhead them arguing.

For a hockey coach, he seemed very averse to confrontation.

"He wasn't like this last year," David murmured to Brandon from the sidelines. "He's… different now. Frazzled. Guess having a kid will do that to you."

That was… less than encouraging.

They tried a few line combinations and drills on the ice, but between Coach Dubois's wavering grasp on his team and the general mood that people weren't ready for summer to end and didn't want to go back to class, nothing was clicking. People didn't know each other's names yet and were calling to guys who had no clue they were being signaled. Passes didn't connect. Bodies kept getting tangled up in the lanes from a lack of awareness. Tempers were flaring, barely kept in check by David and Alois.

By the time practice was over, the team was cranky and unpleasant. Guys were snapping at each other and looking for any excuse to shove and sling insults. Poor David was withering and looking small. He probably should have said something to wrap up the day on a good note, but nothing was coming to him. Brandon didn't envy him.

In the locker room, the agitated mood was cut through by a loud clapping. "Okay, everyone écoute," Alois called over the sound of gear slamming against metal and dropping to the floor. "We are getting lunch at Gert's. Go shower and hurry back, ouais? This is not optional!"

Loud groans followed this announcement. Brandon wasn't sure why, besides people wanting to get away from each other after a disjointed first practice. He was starving. "What's Gert's?" he asked as Alois sauntered past.

"The campus bar and cafe," he replied breezily. "Lovely little place. You will like. Hurry up now!" He patted Brandon's sweaty hair before he trotted toward the showers.

Brandon caught David frowning into his stall, brow knit over his reappeared glasses. "I should have thought of that," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he chucked his gloves into his stall and pulled his jersey back onto its hanger.

Brandon poked him in the ribs. "This is the part where I'd shoot a puck at you," he said quietly, grinning in a way that he hoped was friendly. "It's just the first day, and Coach had some weird stuff going on. Don't get so down about it."

David gave a half-hearted smile back in response. "Yeah, okay," he sighed. "C'mon, I don't want Bernie to take my favorite spot at Gert's."

Once showered and dressed, David and Brandon joined the disordered line of their teammates that were making their way across campus to the bar. It wasn't until they were walking in the door (and his stomach was snarling with hunger) that Brandon realized he would need to actually pay for something here, unlike the cafeteria that was included in his tuition. His light, frayed wallet felt like a burning coal in his pocket.

His unease went unnoticed as the team piled into the bar and began claiming seats at booths and the wraparound bar. Brandon found himself crammed into a corner in a booth, David on one side and Alois on the other. They were both taller than him, hemming him in like a child sitting at the grown-ups' table.

"Save my seat," David instructed as he got up to place an order. "What do you guys want?"

"My usual, please," Alois said, handing over a crisp bill from his wallet.

Fuck. "Ah, I'm good, thanks," Brandon replied, his mouth feeling tight and cramped around the words. His skin burned with shame.

David didn't miss it. "We just skated for like, three hours," he pointed out. "You've got to be hungry."

Brandon swallowed and took a deep breath. Better to get it over with now than have to keep dodging and pretending he had money hidden away somewhere that didn't even exist. "I don't have any cash on me," he said quickly, forcing himself to hold David's gaze. "I was… going to wait to eat at the cafeteria."

David blinked at him. Brandon braced for him to either laugh or make a big fucking deal out of it. Poor people exist, sorry to break it to you, he thought bitterly.

But David just waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Seriously, we're here. How about a sub? They have a really good roast beef one. You like roast beef?"

Brandon couldn't decide what was worse: being mocked, or being a charity case. Please stop being so nice to me, he wanted to beg. I have no way of paying you back. But he didn't because it was just lunch for God's sake, and it was just this one time, and Brandon wouldn't rely on David Hollander's generosity again if he could help it.

"Sure," he said meekly. "That sounds good. Thanks."

David beamed at him and headed to place their order. Brandon sagged back into the booth, the hunger in his stomach turning sour.

Alois draped an arm around his shoulders beside him, heedless of how he tensed up at the far-too-casual touch. "Merci beaucoup, mon ami," he said, apparently to Brandon, since he was the only one around. "David likes to take care of people. It's why we picked him for captain — well, most of us did. He gets fussy if you don't let him help. He's disgustingly helpful that way."

Brandon tried to shrug Alois's arm off of his shoulders, which just made Alois lean closer to him. Alright then. "I'm starting to see that," he muttered.

Alois squeezed his shoulder before finally letting him go and withdrawing his arm. "Let him help. It's just what he does." He leaned forward on the table, chin propped up in one hand, and smiled that stunning, charismatic smile at Brandon, green eyes alight with humor that was undercut with a very real, very serious fire. "But if you take advantage of him, I will hurt you. Badly."

It made Brandon blanch. "I wouldn't —"

"I know," Alois said quickly, cutting him off. "But I must say this to be sure we are on same page, yes? David doesn't know how to say no to people. He is much too kind. That is why he has me to be cruel for him, but only if I must be. So don't give me a reason to be cruel, and we will get along wonderfully. Ouais?"

Brandon just nodded. It was oddly relieving to know that someone else saw that David was a sucker in the making and was actively looking out for him. It did nothing to change his mind about relying on David's kindness as little as possible, though. If anything, it made Brandon's resolve stronger. Alois was strange and affable, but he definitely did not want to run afoul of him.

David returned shortly after with their food: some sort of salad with a hunk of crusty bread for Alois, poutine for himself, and an absolutely enormous sub sandwich for Brandon. They dug into their food in silence, eyes drawn to the rest of the bar as they ate. The tense atmosphere from practice was gone now, with several clusters of players gathered around tables and barstools eating and drinking and laughing easily. At least now people wouldn't be stressed and pissed off when they parted ways.

"So, bebe, tell me about yourself," Alois insisted once Brandon had polished off his sandwich and felt blissfully full and content.

"Do you have to call me that?" Brandon asked.

"What?Bebe? It is what you are! All freshmen are tiny enfants to me."

"Alois, we're only two years ahead of them," David pointed out as he sipped his ginger ale. "We're not even seniors."

Alois shushed him, leaning around Brandon to press a finger to David's mouth. His long hair dangled into his plate, narrowly avoiding a pool of salad dressing. Brandon squirmed between them, uncomfortable.

"Ignore him, Brandon," Alois went on as he leaned back into his side of the booth. "Where are you from? What are you studying? What do you like besides hockey?"

"Vancouver, broadcasting communications, and, umm." Brandon glanced down at his hands in his lap. "You have to promise not to laugh."

"Oh? I make no promises until I know what I am promising first." Alois tilted his head, a dark, sharply curved eyebrow quirked at him.

Fuck it. They already knew he was poor, might as well go straight for broke. "I like magic tricks."

Both David and Alois made surprised sounds, leaning in closer on either side of him. "Yeah?" said David, looking far too genuine for Brandon's liking. "What kind? Can you show us one?"

"Sleight of hand stuff. Now-you-see-it, y'know?" Brandon tried not to fidget in his seat. "You have a quarter?"

David did, of course. He handed it over and he and Alois watched closely as Brandon started rolling it over his knuckles, the silver coin flashing in and out from between his fingers. He always gave them enough time between movements to visually confirm the coin was still there. Then he quickly turned his hand, palmed the quarter, and…

"Mon dieu!" Alois exclaimed when he turned his hand back over and the coin was gone. "How did you do that? It was right there! David, did you see it?"

"I was just looking at it!" David laughed. "You're not even wearing long sleeves! What the heck?"

Smiling despite himself, Brandon reached behind David's ear, flicked his wrist, and produced the quarter pinched between two fingers once again. He flashed it at them with a flourish, drawing whoops and applause from them both. It was the easiest trick in the book, just an act of misdirection to make them look in the wrong place at the right time, but the thrill they got out of it made it worth every hour Brandon had put into practicing and perfecting the trick.

"Can you do that with a puck?" Alois asked, still chuckling.

"He can do more than that," David answered for Brandon. "If you didn't sleep in so much, you would have been able to see him stickhandling this morning. He's a magician on the ice."

Brandon flushed and had to look away. "Like I said, it's just showing off. Trick stuff. I don't think I can get away with half the stuff I do in an actual game with actual rules." He handed David his quarter back, refusing to keep even that much.

"We'll see about that. Will be interesting to have a little ace up our sleeve this season, yes? Maybe you can throw the other team by releasing doves in their faces," said Alois with a knowing smirk.

An ace. It was only the first day and they had a long way to go as a team, but Brandon found himself feeling hopeful. He was still braced for the rug to be pulled out from under him, but maybe it wouldn't be as hard of a fall if and when it happened.

By the time they left the bar that afternoon, Brandon couldn't even remember what they had all been upset about.

OTTAWA - 2009

Brandon Wiebe is not a fussy coach, nor is he a hardass. He is fair, he is calm, and he has a clear vision for what he wants for his team.

He prides himself of being able to communicate this to his guys clearly on the first day. Practice goes well. He can already see where things are changing for the better, noting the impressed and pleasantly surprised looks on his players' faces when passes start connecting and plays fall into place. He leaves that evening feeling accomplished, and, against the odds, like he has made the right choice in signing here.

His only lament is the fact that more than half of his current roster is over the age of thirty. On one hand, it makes his job easier, because they're all seasoned and experienced and know what the hell they're doing. On the other, he knows he is about to be saddled with surgeries and injuries and impending retirements. The smart thing to do would be to start making cases for trades in the new future for fresh meat, but Brandon hardly feels he has the right to do that when he just got here.

It's a cross to bear. It'll be fine. It's worth more to him to build bonds with his current guys and let them know he has their back than to blow everything up and leave the guys feeling shaken and unsure. It's not a Cup-winning strategy by any means, but… it'll do. It'll be fine. For now.

He goes home, kisses his wife, hugs his daughters. He can still hug all three of them at once, but just barely. Soon they'll be too grown for that, he knows. The march of time is relentless, and nothing has made him more aware of it than watching his little girls grow and change with every passing day.

He opens his laptop just long enough to check Facebook. Nothing. It's been three months now since he sent his message to David, and it feels like he might as well have fired it off into the void. He probably won't respond. Brandon tells himself. Probably won't ever see it. The website will likely fade into obscurity and get shut down before he even knows it was sent.

"How did it go today?" Valerie asks as they stretch out on their bed, their girls snugly tucked in and long since asleep.

"It was… okay. Better than I expected. We'll see how it goes from here."

"Oh, okay. Not terrible? Not soul-crushingly bad?" Val's tone is airy, almost teasing.

Brandon snorts. "No, nothing like that."

"Well damn. I guess I can put this away, then." She reaches down and comes up with a leather harness dangling from a finger. A black silicone dildo bobs in the ring, one Brandon is intimately familiar with.

"It was horrible," he says quickly, rolling toward her and laying his head pitifully on her chest. "I don't know how I'm going to go back. I might kill myself, oh God, Val, it's the worst thing you can imagine. Please help me forget about my horrible, terrible, depressing job."

She laughs and grabs the lube. "That's what I thought."

Chapter End Notes

the flashback sequences are gonna be a bit of a slow burn, so y'all can have a little pegging as a treat.

up next: a david pov and an unmerry christmas~

HUGE shoutout to wisdomcrashedandburned on tumblr for giving me SOOO many useful details about mcgill!!! this is the point where i found out that a) playing hockey for mcgill is actually a HUGE deal thank you very much ilya, and b) mcgill is a Gay School and has been for a Long Time so this is gonna be fuckin fun. that being said a ton of details are still going to be biblically inaccurate to facilitate my agenda so apologies to the mcgill students and alums that happen to stumble upon this thing.

sidenote: i am creating ocs as fast as i can to flesh out this roster and campus so bear with me if they end up vanishing or being inconsistent down the line okay i'm old and i have a terrible memory as it is

as always, thank you so so much for reading and commenting, it makes me so happy to see others getting as invested in this trainwreck-to-be as i am <3 if you want to yap (or watch me spiral and spitball in my padded cell) i am always posting away on tumblr.

Chapter 3: footloose

Chapter Notes

*rafiki voice* it is time.

OTTAWA - 2009

David Hollander should, by all accounts, be happy.

It's Christmas. He's home with his family. His brothers and their wives and children have all come to visit and stay over. His holiday bonus at work was actually worth something this year. He and his wife are in good health despite their advancing age. His only child has been drafted to the NHL and won gold at his final World Juniors tournament.

And yet, David Hollander is not happy.

It's not that he hasn't tried to be. He's argued with himself over and over that he needs to be. That he needs to trust in the people around him when they tell him that they're doing what they want to do and what they believe is best. He's kept quiet and stood aside and been as supportive as he can possibly be.

He knows arguing isn't going to change anything. That it's only going to make things worse. He knew that in June. He knew that in September. He knew it an hour ago. He knows it now, as he walks into the kitchen, where Shane is pulling up the trash bag to take it out to the dumpster like the responsible son he is.

And he opens his stupid mouth anyway.

"Y'know kiddo," David begins, and already Shane's shoulders are tensing and bunching up toward his ears. "It's not too late to think about college. There's still time to put in some applications if —"

"Dad," Shane sighs, using that tone he always uses when diffusing anything resembling an argument. The tone that says I'm tired of having this conversation, and I love you and I don't want to hurt your feelings, so please let it go. "I'm good. I want to go ahead and go to the league next year. I'm ready."

A peal of laughter trickles in from the living room, where David's brothers and their families are seated and swapping stories with Yuna. Oblivious to the standoff happening on the other side of the kitchen wall. It's a reminder of what Shane won't have when he moves to Montreal — at least, not in the frequency he has it now. His family. A support network. People who know and love him.

Montreal is only a two hour drive away, but David still feels like Shane is planning to move to Japan. I'm ready, he insists, but how can he be? David's been trying to tell him that there's so many things he has never experienced before, things he won't be ready for if he dives in headfirst like this. He's been mostly home-schooled for the better part of the last year, so focused has he been on hockey.

"I know you feel that way," David tries again, cautious but insistent. "But there's a lot more college can teach you than just book smarts, y'know. Life lessons that will help you a lot in the long run."

Shane sighs. "I don't need to learn how to do a keg stand to be a top hockey player," he says, his tone growing brittle at the edges. "I just… want to play hockey, Dad. You know that."

David fights back the wince he feels his body try to coil into. This isn't about you, David, Yuna had gently told him once, when he had mentioned his concern. This is his life. He has to be able to make his own choices. It's nothing personal against you, honey. He reminds himself of that now, even though it certainly feels personal.

Shane seems to belatedly realize this, too, because he raises a hand in surrender. "That's not… I didn't mean it like that," he scrambles. "I'm sorry. But this is what I want."

David makes himself nod. He makes himself smile, knowing it doesn't reach his eyes. "Okay, kiddo," he replies. He completes his task that originally brought him to the kitchen as he places his empty coffee mug in the sink. "I just want to make sure you're considering all your options."

Which is a stupid thing to say, because he knows his son. Shane has considered his options, however feasible or scarce they may be, and determined the one that leads him directly to his main goal: play good hockey.

David wishes so badly he could explain that there's no such thing as just playing hockey at that level, though. If that was all Shane would ever have to do, he wouldn't worry about him at all. Shane is the best. He will do anything and everything to remain the best. That has never, not even for a moment, been a concern for either of his parents. It's everything else that worries David — the events, the publicity, the peer pressure in the locker rooms and at board meetings, the scandals, the parties, the politics. There will be no way to prepare his son for any of that, and it scares him.

"I am, Dad," Shane says with a shrug and a gesture towards the back door. He's ready to be done with this conversation. "Thanks."

David nods and heads back to the living room, hoping the remnants of his dread don't show on his face.

Gathered around the tree, his family all sit in a sea of blue and red swag. The Metros sent them a PR package for the holidays, and Yuna has distributed hoodies and pajama sets and fleece blankets and slippers to everyone who will sit still long enough. It's just another gut punch, another reminder that his boy, his one and only son, is going into the corporate machine that is the Montreal Metros franchise, and David can only hope and pray that he comes out on the other side in one piece.

"David!" squeals Tammy, his brother Rob's wife. "I made a Facebook account last week! Accept my friend request you silly goose!"

David blinks at her. He had forgotten he even had a Facebook account of his own. He made it last Christmas when the family was gathered, added everyone who had been using it at the time, and then promptly forgot about it. He's not sure he even remembers the login information.

"I will," he says noncommittally. "I'll have to go find the password for it though."

"Well go do it now before you forget! Do you want me to show you how to put it on your phone?" Tammy is already starting to extract herself from the couch, shrouded in a Metros Snuggie.

David waves her off. It gives him an excuse to get some time to gather his thoughts in private, at least. "Don't get up, Tammy. I'll go do it right now. I'll be right back."

Tammy flops back into the crook of Rob's arm and burrows back down into her Snuggie. David slips from the room and heads for their home office, where his desktop rests in perpetual sleep mode. He wakes it up, tracks down his notebook of login names and passwords, and is pleased to find he did, in fact, write down the one for Facebook last year.

Once the webpage loads, he logs in, accepts Tammy's friend request and a few others, and goes to close the window out again when his eye catches on another notification in the corner of the screen. Message requests: (1). Curious, he clicks on the little dialogue box icon.

He has to read the message four times to be sure he's seeing it correctly.

Brandon Wiebe: Saw your boy's draft today. Congratulations. We should catch up sometime.

There's a phone number at the end, as well as the date sent. Six months ago.

All David can do for a while is just sit there and stare at the text on the screen. His eyes are locked onto the name of the sender. Brandon. A man he has not spoken to in twenty years. He feels like the air has been knocked out of him. Like he's been laid out on his back by a truck.

Feeling like he's stumbling through a daze, he checks the profile. Brandon Wiebe. Works for Ottawa Centaurs. Studied at McGill University. Married. His profile photo is a crisp, professional headshot of himself in a Centaurs ballcap and jacket, a flat black and red backdrop behind him. Official team graphic, then.

David could never be prepared for how he feels as he opens the full size of that photo. His eyes snag on all the immediate differences first: the shorter hair, shot through with gray, the crow's feet around his eyes, the worry lines between his brows. The familiar shines through right after: the lopsided way he smiles, even for a work portrait, the knowing glint in his dark eyes, the scar across the bridge of his nose that still hasn't faded, even after all these years.

Brandon, he thinks, awestruck. My Brandon.

It's a stupid thing to think. Brandon hasn't been David's anything in decades. Never was his anything, if he's being technical about it. The only things he will claim are roommate, teammate, and, in moments of painful nostalgia and vulnerability, friend. Anything else was a fantasy at best and a fallacy at worst.

Still.

David jots the number from the message down on a Post-It and tucks it into his pocket.

Feeling even more out of his mind than he did before, he returns to his family in the living room. Yuna gives him a quizzical look as he sits down beside her, but David just shakes his head. He doesn't want to rehash the drama with Shane again, because it's plain to all of them whose side Yuna is on in that case. He sure as hell doesn't want to bring up the fact that Brandon Wiebe has returned from the dead to haunt him, and despite everything, David wants to let him.

So they keep drinking eggnog, getting rowdier and more boisterous until, finally, the adults get too tired to keep it up anymore and start trudging off to bed. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation plays at a low volume in the background, credits rolling by the time it's just David and Yuna left in the room. The fire has burned low in the hearth, the glowing embers sizzling and crackling on the ashen logs.

It's been a good Christmas. David should be happy. He wants to be happy.

But David is not happy. And he has no one to talk to about it, except, possibly, someone who might have decided at some point in the last six months that he actually doesn't want to talk to him again after all.

David won't know until he tries.

Yuna gives his shoulder a squeeze before heading upstairs to bed. Once he hears the bedroom door close behind her, David checks the charge on his cell phone, grabs his boots and parka, and trudges onto the snow-covered deck. It's not comfortable by any means, but maybe it'll help him keep things brief if the conversation doesn't go as planned. Give him an easy out if he feels the need to shut it all down and turn tail again.

He pulls out the note with Brandon's number. It's so late. He probably won't answer. Maybe David will just leave a message and let Brandon come back to it when — if — he feels like it. Yes. This is fine. This is normal. Just old classmates playing phone tag, trying and probably failing to catch up twenty years later.

David dials the number and presses the phone to his ear. He counts the rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Braces for the voicemail recording and starts hastily trying to organize his thoughts for a message that will make sense. A fourth ring —

The ringing is cut short. There's a muffled, scratchy noise over the line, and then, "Hello?"

Brandon was sleeping, and David knows this, because he knows that tone. That slightly slurred, low-octave tone Brandon always had first thing in the morning, or whenever it was that he was pulled from his sleep.

It has been twenty years, but David's far-reaching memory and the present moment suddenly find each other in the space between then and now. The hands of time meet in the middle, and in the middle is this: Brandon Wiebe, barely conscious on the other end of the phone line, his voice the same as it was all those years ago.

David forgets to speak. Language is stolen from him in the face of this surreal, impossible moment.

"Hello?" Brandon asks again, slightly more focused, and everything comes rushing back.

"Hey, Brandon," David replies, voice trembling slightly, words breathy and hushed like a secret whispered in the dark. "It's me, David."

For a nerve-fraying second, he expects the call to cut off. "Oh," Brandon says after a heartbeat, and then, "Hang on a second."

There's more shuffling sounds. Fabric likely scraping against the phone. What sounds like muffled footsteps. He's getting out of bed and leaving the room, David realizes. He doesn't have the first clue on how to feel about that.

After what feels like a lifetime, Brandon returns. "Hey, Hollander," he says quietly. "It's… it's good to hear from you."

David hugs himself tightly against the bitter cold of the night around him. He feels weightless, like he'll start floating away if he doesn't focus on keeping his feet on the ground. He's scared. He's relieved. He's heartsick.

"You too," he replies.

He has no idea what to say next. There's so many things he wants to say. So many versions of this conversation that he drafted over and over in his head throughout the years. Versions where he sobbed and apologized and begged for Brandon to come back. Versions where they both screamed and yelled until one or the other slammed the phone down. Versions where they both silently and mutually agreed to never speak of it again, to pretend everything was normal and fine, that they were just friends and teammates and nothing more.

He has never drafted a version that looks like this: both of them all but whispering into a phone in the dead of night on Christmas Eve, a tentative feeling of relief at hearing the other's voice thrumming delicately between them.

"Having a good Christmas?" Brandon asks, shocking David out of his stupor.

"Oh, yeah," David responds, mostly on auto-pilot. "Got the whole family here. It's the last one before Shane goes off on his own next year."

"Man, that must feel weird," Brandon goes on. His tone is so even and calm. He never did treat David like he had to walk on eggshells with him, and David's grateful that somehow he still doesn't. "I have no clue what we'll do when the girls get to that age."

David's heart stutters in his chest. "Girls? You have kids?" he asks, stunned.

"Yep. Triplets. They're in kindergarten." Brandon huffs a low laugh to himself. "I, uh, got started a lot later than you and Yuna."

A hot, sick feeling flashes over David at the reminder. At the sound of Yuna's name coming from Brandon's mouth. But he doesn't sense the malice there that he expected. Brandon didn't even skip a beat when he said it.

Would it be hoping for too much, he wonders, to think that maybe Brandon has forgiven them? Forgiven him?

The weight of it all is starting to overwhelm him. Shane. Yuna. Brandon, of all people. David exhales heavily, breath fogging thickly in front of him in the frosty air. He drags a hand through his hair. "Wow," he makes himself say. "That's — that's really great, man. I'm happy for you."

It's not untrue — but like so many things between them, it's not a full truth, either. And no one has ever been as keen at rooting out those half-truths and almost-lies than Brandon.

"You sound stressed, David," he says pointedly. "Something wrong?"

David's resolve not to dump all his woes on Brandon five minutes into speaking with him again lasts for all of three seconds. "I'm just… worried. About Shane. And I feel like I can't talk to anyone about it, because everyone is so excited for him, and I don't want anyone to think I'm not incredibly proud of my son, because I am. I'm so proud of him, my God. But…"

"But he's going down a path you never did," Brandon supplies with ease. "One you can't prepare him for."

David shudders, and it's not just from the cold. Even after all this time, Brandon is able to cut away the fat of an issue and get right down to the bone. "Yes," he sighs. "Exactly. I… I want him to go to college. God knows McGill would be thrilled to have him. I want him to have those experiences and learn those life skills and make those connections. Him not having that… scares me."

"Hmm." Brandon falls silent for a moment, and David chews on his lip. He's stepped too close to the fault line, he thinks. Reminded them both too sharply of those nights spent together in a shared dorm room, side by side on the ice in the McConnell Arena, body to body as they drank and danced and laughed until dawn at Gert's.

Maybe it's the Christmas spirit that makes Brandon err on the side of grace and fondness. The season of giving and gratitude and all. Maybe it's just the whiny, bellyaching tone that David feels he's slid into, the self pity peaking until it turns into pity from a third party, reflected back at him. Either way, his voice is warm and kind when he finally says, "He's missing out, for sure. We had some good times back then."

David could cry. If it weren't so cold that the tears would freeze on his face, he probably would. "Yeah," he whispers, swallowing hard. "We really did."

MONTREAL - 1988

The parties began the same week that classes did.

Some were tamer than others. The campus-organized events and mixers were usually pretty stale affairs. Tailgates and watching parties organized around both the college sports teams and professional ones were livelier, but ran more chance of being chaperoned by older people who wouldn't let things get too rowdy. The real action, the kind that most people wouldn't remember most of by the next morning, lay in the off-campus ragers that various people hosted from their rented apartments or wealthy parents' summer homes that had been converted to college lodgings.

As captain of the hockey team that year, David found himself with invitations to all three types of parties.

David was fine with parties. He had a system for going to parties. He told himself that everyone had a system, not just him, but the older he got and the more people he talked to, the more he suspected this was just a lie he was telling himself as a hollow comfort. That was fine, though. His system worked for him.

He leveraged the number of people who he suspected he would know there against the amount he probably wouldn't, multiplied that number by the amount of nasty rumors he had heard about the host, and divided that against the amount of teammates he knew for sure were going. If he came to a number he felt was safe, he would go. If the number felt dangerous, he wouldn't. Simple. Numbers were always simple. It was the people that made things tricky.

The first party he went to that year was hosted off campus by the captain of the football team. The number David had calculated in his system had not been an entirely safe one, but he felt like he was obligated to go. One captain showing respect for another. Sports solidarity or something like that. Plus, he knew Alois and Bernie were going, and as soon as he mentioned it to Brandon, he had said yes.

Brandon did not need to pause and think it over. He didn't need to stare at the ceiling and do mental math that made no sense to anyone else. He heard a question, he answered, and it was settled. David admired that kind of decisiveness. Envied it, just a little. It made life so much easier.

And so, at eight PM on a Saturday night, he and Brandon arrived at a posh townhouse a few blocks away from campus.

David took a moment to size the situation up. The townhouse was three stories tall. The windows in the neighboring units were all dark, save for one. Neighbors, then, but it was always possible that they were students, too. A cluster of people were sprawled on the small, neat lawn passing a bottle around. Toilet paper fluttered from a nearby maple tree like wilted streamers in the early autumn breeze. Music rolled out onto the sidewalk as the front door slammed open and closed over and over.

Van Halen, David thought, and felt steadier. It was always better when he recognized the music that was playing.

Brandon caught his hesitation and bumped him with his shoulder. "You okay?" he asked.

David glanced down at him. Brandon looked the way he usually did, wearing a worn t-shirt and jeans that had seen better days along with his faded Converse All Stars. He'd run some product through his thick, black hair, pushing it back from his face in a way that accentuated his striking cheekbones and brow. His deep brown eyes were steady and unflinching as David swallowed and nodded.

"Yep. Listen, if you need to leave or run into any trouble in there, just come find me, okay? I don't want you getting hurt."

Brandon rolled his eyes. "I appreciate it, Cap, but I'll be alright. I've been to bigger shindigs than this." He shrugged a shoulder and headed toward the house, leaving David to follow in his wake.

Once they were through the bottleneck of the front door, David was immensely grateful that he had someone to follow. The volume of the music was catastrophic inside the walls of the place, the floor shaking and framed art on the walls vibrating from the pulsing and screaming of a yet-unseen sound system. It smelled like cigarettes and spilled liquor and cheap incense in there. The smoke in the air made the room hazy and stung David's eyes.

He wanted to leave instantly, but he had made his mind up. He drew up his mental checklist of tasks he wanted to accomplish before he considered leaving. One: find and say hi to Alois and Bernie. Two: Do the same with the host, the football captain. Three: Have at least one drink and talk to at least one person he didn't already know. Simple. Easy.

At least, he hoped it would be easy. He followed Brandon through the absolutely crushing throng of bodies that writhed in the hallway around him. Where was Brandon even going? Neither of them had ever been here before. How did he even have a destination in mind?

His destination, it turned out, was the most logical one: the kitchen. Here, coolers and tubs of ice lay open, full of beers begging to be taken. Brandon plucked a can seemingly at random out of a bed of ice. He didn't open it right away, instead bringing it up to his throat and holding it there for a moment. David watched for a moment as the condensation rolled slowly down his tan skin.

Drink. Right. This would be the place he could start checking things off. David was more discerning about his selection, tugging a bottle of Heineken from a cooler on the floor and cracking the lid off under the hem of his shirt. He took a few sips to help ground himself, praying the alcohol would start working to loosen the tight line of nerves that twisted in his shoulders. God, it was so loud.

"Think they can hear the music?" he shouted in Brandon's direction as he watched a whirlpool of bodies circulate around what looked like a witch's cauldron that people were pouring leftover cans and bottles into and stirring with what looked like a PVC pipe.

When he looked to his right, though, Brandon wasn't there.

David blinked, scanning the room for him, but he couldn't pick him out in the crowd. Clearly, in the time he had taken to open his bottle and try to get his bearings, Brandon had kept moving and blended into the flow of traffic.

It's fine, David told himself. They had only just arrived. It was still early, and Brandon seemed very much at home in a setting like this. He could take care of himself. David had tasks to accomplish, anyways. Armed with only his bottle of ale, he started fording the stream of people.

He found Bernie easily enough. The large, loud goalie was in the den, where the music was coming from, pouring from four-foot-tall speakers on either side of a glassed-in entertainment system. The whole thing looked like it cost a mortgage. Bernie was looking through the albums shelved beside the unit, bellowing his opinions on the music selection to someone David didn't recognize. She was about half Bernie's size, though, and he just hoped he didn't get drunk and clumsy and flatten the poor girl.

"Bernie!" David yelled over the deafening roar of Queen that threatened to blow his hair back at this range. "How you doing?"

"HUH?" Bernie yelled back.

"HOW YOU DOING?"

"GOOD! YOU?"

"GOOD! LOOK OUT FOR WIEBE, OKAY?"

Bernie squinted at him. "HUH? LOOK OUT FOR DWEEBS?"

David shook his head. "WIEBE. BRANDON. ROOKIE WIEBE."

"OHHH. OKAY, WILL DO CAP." He punctuated this with a thumbs-up.

David nodded and quickly removed himself from the room. His ears were ringing now, and he suspected they would be for hours to come. It was a wonder Bernie could even hear the goal buzzer on the ice with how loud he listened to music sometimes.

Trying to distance himself from the assault of noise in the den, David started making his way up the stairs. It was like trying to hike through an active avalanche. People had no discernment for up or down, it seemed, weaving from side to side on the staircase. Something sloshed down the back of David's shirt, and soon he stank of beer. A girl's foot turned as she stepped down in front of him and she tumbled fully down into his arms, squealing like a hog. He returned her carefully to her feet and deposited her into the arms of her friends, who blocked the entire staircase with their three bodies as they helped her limp the rest of the way down.

By the time he got to the second story landing, David wanted to take a nap. His back was sticky with beer and sweat. His eyes still stung from the smoke. His glasses were sliding down his nose as his face got sweaty and flushed. But he had two — no, three — more things to check off his list. So he took a deep swig of his drink, sucked in a big breath, and trudged on.

The first room he stumbled across was an office. A circle of people was scattered on the floor, passing around a heady-smelling joint and giggling at random passages in various books they'd pulled off the shelf and strewn across the floor. They didn't even look up when David stuck his head in. None of them were anyone he was looking for in particular, so David kept on trudging.

Next was a rec room of sorts. A few drunk people were using several pieces of gym equipment in very dangerous, very wrong ways, and David had to pull himself away before he had a panic attack or tried to yank them off and stop them. Again, no one he knew and no one he was looking for, so he wasn't going to make it his problem.

A line of people was pressed to the wall around the corner in the hallway, leading to what David assumed was a bathroom. He made a note to hold it until they were out of here if the wait was going to be that long as he located and started up the next flight of stairs to the third floor.

It was quieter up here, and that was a relief for exactly ten seconds. Then noises made their way over the sounds from below. Sighs. Moans. Laughter that was decidedly not just about a good joke. The doors up here were all closed, so David turned to head back down.

"Ah! David!" someone called, and David turned instinctively toward that familiar accent.

Alois was framed in a pair of open double doors leading out onto a balcony at the end of the hall. He wore a loud silky shirt that was unbuttoned to the bottom of his sternum and flared leather pants that left very little to the imagination. His long blonde hair flowed over his shoulders in huge, voluminous waves, illuminated by the distant full moon.

David headed for him, grateful for the clean, cool night air as he stepped outside. He didn't even mind the cigarette Alois held aristocratically between two long, elegant fingers. One he could handle. The entire pack that was simultaneously being smoked inside was too much.

"I'm stunned you came out tonight, you little hermit," Alois teased. "Did they run out of buckets of rice that needed to be counted and tallied?"

David gave him a nudge and leaned carefully against the iron railing of the balcony. It overlooked the backyard, where a few people were screaming with laughter as they stripped off their shirts. "I party," David said defensively. "You know that."

"You party about as often as a monk touches himself, David," Alois retorted, vulgar as always. David blushed. "Which is not to say it never happens, but it's a rare event indeed."

"Yeah, well," David said, and he didn't expand on that thought, because there was nothing he could say to that. He decided to move on. "Didn't think this was your scene, either."

"Oh, it's not. I came for this." He drew a small baggie from his pocket and dangled it in front of David's nose, shaking it too fast for him to begin to identify what substance it held. "I'm heading over a few blocks to a much better party now that I've got it. Try not to party too hard, eh Brother Hollander?"

David bit back the scowl he felt trying to bloom on his face. Alois knew what his opinions on drugs were, and David knew that he didn't care. "You too, Alo," he said, patting Alois on the bicep.

Alois nodded, put out his cigarette under his heel, and left David standing there alone. The night breeze felt good against his sticky, flushed skin, but he was just staring down over a yard of half-naked strangers, and it made him self-conscious enough to retreat back into the warm, smoky, loud confines of the town house and begin the treacherous hike down the stairs.

He went back over his mental checklist as he picked his way around students and athletes and strangers. He'd had a drink. It wasn't helping him relax, which was unfortunate. He'd said to hi Bernie, however loudly. Said hi to Alois. The football captain was likely behind one of those closed doors with guests, so that one probably wasn't going to happen.

Which left talking to one person he didn't already know.

That goal was one he had inherited from his parents. They emphasized the importance of making connections wherever you could. You never know who might be a worthy business partner or a means to furthering his career, his father said. You never know when you could meet someone and fall in love with them, his mother said. You can't just cling to your brothers and us, both of them said. You have to make friends.

And David had, really. They just all happened to also be on the hockey team, same as they were in grade school. Was it such a bad thing to have something in common with his friends?

Yes, his parents insisted. You need to meet people outside of hockey, especially if you're not going to play hockey forever.

As much as his father wanted David to play hockey forever, he knew he wasn't going to. It was a hobby, something he loved, but not nearly with the zeal and dedication that Alfred Hollander wanted him to pursue it with. College was probably the last time he would play on a real, structured team.

So David made himself navigate down to the ground floor again. He found his way to the living room, which shared a vibrating wall with the den. The music was only a fraction quieter than it was in the den, and David fought the urge to keep walking until he was spit back out onto the sidewalk.

On the sofa, he finally found Brandon. He was surrounded by people, a girl on either side of him, leaning over his shoulders. Someone had found a deck of cards and handed them over, and David watched in fascination as he flipped cards over and pulled them from thin air and made them practically dance between his fingers.

"Is this your card?" Brandon asked a guy sat across from him, flashing him the seven of diamonds.

The guy shook his head. "I knew you were full of shit," he shouted back.

Brandon blinked at the card, dazed. "Huh? Oh, sorry. Check your pocket, man."

The guy reached into the pocket of his jeans. His eyes went wide. He pulled out a card that he obviously had not put there himself. "What the fuck?" he asked, staring at the ace of spades in his hand. "What the fuck!!"

Everyone squealed and clapped and bounced in their seats. Brandon just shrugged, grinning.

He was in his element. It was so loud in the room, and the lights were dim and made David's eyes tired as he fought to make out people's faces. Someone had grabbed his elbow as he was standing there, and they were practically dragging David down toward the floor, as if gravity were tripled on them and they were using him to stay upright. Brandon was unbothered. David was so bothered he was about to scream.

He opened his mouth to say something to the girl that was leaning on his arm, and nothing came out. Words stuck in his throat. His head hurt. His ears were ringing. Someone had put a new record on in the next room, and he didn't recognize it. It was something French, something he had never heard before, and somehow they were cranking it up even louder. Was no one else going to say something about the volume? They were going to blow out those expensive, beautiful speakers, and then what? Someone would be so mad. The neighbors had to be furious.

David became immediately, terrifyingly aware of the fact that he was about thirty seconds away from vomiting.

Brandon looked up from his cards. His dark eyes evaluated David for the barest of moments, and then he was just… standing up. Saying goodnight, goodbye, nice meeting everyone, see you on campus. He stepped over to David, detached the drunk girl from his elbow, and confidently piloted them through the ever-thickening crowd and out the front door.

They stepped away from the yard just in time to dodge the chaise lounge that someone threw out a second story window. David's stomach lurched painfully as he heard the wooden frame of the furniture crack into pieces.

It had been a great party, if you liked that sort of thing. Definitely a memorable first college party, and here David was being the fuddy-duddy spoilsport who could barely make it to ten o'clock. He felt like he ruined Brandon's night.

"Sorry," David choked out through the tightening in his throat.

Brandon shook his head. He kept them walking, and the movement and fresh, cool air helped settle David's stomach. The city around them was silent in comparison to the rage of noise that the house party had been, though the ringing was still going strong in David's ears. He was just relieved that he no longer felt like throwing up.

Once they made it a couple of blocks, Brandon brought them to a stop beneath the metro line. He nudged David against a concrete pillar and pushed on his shoulders until he gave in and leaned against the sturdy, hard surface. It was so nice to have something behind him that could do the heavy lifting of being upright for him.

"There," Brandon said, satisfied.

He leaned in close. His lashes were so black and thick over his eyes. He smelled like cigarettes and peppermints. His face was so, so close, and for a horrifying moment, David thought he was going to —

"Relax," Brandon chuckled. "Your eyes are kinda red. Did anyone give you something? Smoke anything weird?"

"Oh," David said, voice thin and wavering. "Uh, no. Just a lot of smoke inside. Makes my eyes itchy."

Brandon nodded, leaning back. There was nothing self-conscious about his posture. He was shorter and stockier than David, but he carried himself like he was five inches taller than he really was, as if daring people to look down on him.

Brandon wasn't the kind of guy who practiced jokes in the mirror days before he went to hang out with his friends. Brandon wasn't someone who agonized over whether or not he should show off a magic trick at a party for so long that by the time he decided to do it, everyone had already gone home. Brandon just did things. Brandon just talked to people. No hesitation. No mental math.

What was that even like?

Behind him, the concrete pillar started to shake. A train was coming on the elevated tracks overhead.

Brandon looked up, hearing it too. A grin split his face, crooked white teeth shining in the streetlights. "Oh, good," he said, like he'd been hoping for this. "You need this. When the train passes over us, we're gonna scream. Okay?"

David blinked at him. "Why?"

"Trust me. Ready?"

David was not ready. He did not understand. But a scream did sound pretty good after that chaotic party, so he watched Brandon, who watched the tracks. The shaking of the supports got stronger. The shrieking of the metal rails got louder.

When the engine shot over their heads, Brandon screamed. It was huge, guttural, almost wounded-sounded. David joined him, startled by how Brandon just went for it. No holding back. They yelled and shouted and screamed until the metro was finally past. David was lightheaded and his throat felt bloody and raw, but he felt better after. The ringing in his ears was quieter, somehow. The noise in his head had finally fizzled out.

"There," Brandon panted, voice crackling and hoarse. "Better?"

David swallowed and winced. He was going to sound like he smoked a pack a day for a few days, but it was worth it. "Better," he basically whispered.

Brandon smiled at him.

They walked back to campus, bumping shoulders as they went, and when they got back to their dorm, David was asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow.

OTTAWA - 2009

David can no longer feel his feet, and his hands aren't going to last much longer. Still, he remains on the deck in the snow, chuckling quietly as he and Brandon reminisce.

It's good. It's easy. And it's so painful he wants to weep. But he doesn't want to hang up. He's half convinced that this is the only call he'll ever get, and once they hang up, he'll be plunged back into another twenty years of silence.

He doesn't know if he can bear it, now that he's broken that seal. Now that he's heard Brandon's voice again. Now that he knows that he's here, right here in Ottawa, coaching the team that David has rooted for since he was four.

"Y'know, Dave," Brandon says after his laughter trails off, "I know you're worried about your boy, but… it's not all bad in the league. He'll have his team. He'll have people around him. And he'll have you and Yuna, of course. I know it sounds scary if you've never been in it, but it really is the opportunity of a lifetime. I don't regret it, myself."

The knife twists, hot and sharp despite the numbing cold of the night around him. David knows he doesn't mean it that way, but he can't help hearing I don't regret leaving you buried in those words.

"Pity Ottawa didn't draft him instead," David sighs, dodging the pothole in his heart. "At least then I'd know for sure he was going somewhere good."

Brandon snorts over the phone. "You've seen our record so far this season, right? I don't know about good."

David rolls his eyes.

"Seriously, though," Brandon continues, as if he can tell. "Let him go. Let him try. And be there when he needs you to be. It'll make all the difference."

Brandon would know, because Brandon had become an orphan three years into his NHL career. David only knew that because he had heard it through the grapevine, from a friend of a friend of a friend. They had long since stopped talking when Brandon's mother had died, and David hadn't let himself linger on how heartbreaking that was.

Had Brandon had anyone to come home to in those days? Anyone to come to his games and call him and tell him they were proud of him? David doesn't know, and he doesn't think he can ever ask, and so he fills the empty space with the optimistic suggestion that, yes, Brandon had someone then. Even if he didn't, he has people now. A wife and three daughters.

His life, thankfully, is full. David couldn't have asked for anything more than that.

His son's life will always be full, David promises. He an Yuna will always be there to support him. Go to as many home games in Montreal as they can. Travel to the away games that they can spare. Visit often. Bring him food. Call every night, if he allows it.

But God, David just wishes Shane had someone in his life that would be able to look at him in a crowded room and know at once that he needed to be alone. Someone who would walk him to the metro line and stand under the rails and scream at the trains until he stopped feeling like he was going to explode.

David hadn't even known he needed that person in his own life. Not until Brandon Wiebe had just shown up like he was always supposed to be there.

The possibility existed, though. Maybe that person was in Montreal right now, doing card tricks at a coffee table, waiting for Shane to arrive.

"You're right," David relents, and he feels like he loses something when he says it, something he had been holding onto so stubbornly it now has claw marks in it. "I will. Thank you for listening. For taking my call."

"Of course," Brandon says, talking around a yawn. They've been on the phone for at least an hour. David's fingertips are beyond numb.

And he doesn't want this to be the last time he hears from his friend. "It's been so good to hear your voice again, Brando."

The nickname tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. It feels like a bridge too far, but Brandon just hums in a way that David knows means he's smiling. "You too, Bowie," he replies, and the fondness in the name is so strong that David just about falls over. "Don't be a stranger. Give me a call if you need anything."

It's more than David deserves. But he'll be damned if he refuses such a blatant gift. It's Christmas, after all. You don't refuse gifts on Christmas. "Same to you. Merry Christmas, Brandon."

"Merry Christmas, David."

After an hour and thirteen minutes, the call finally ends.

David returns, numb and shivering, to his warm home. He sits in the living room and lets the feeling return to his feet and hands. And there, alone in his living room on Christmas, he stares at the ceiling and bursts into tears.

Chapter End Notes

alright gang here we go the train has left the station and we are CHUGGING ALONG

comments and kudos sustain me on my tiny little island of dwiebeism so thank you as always to everyone who engages and enjoys this story <3 another update SHOULD be coming very quickly on the heels of this one so look forward to that sooner rather than later!!

as always, feel free to come yap at me in my cardboard cathedral over on tumblr.

Chapter 4: touch too much

Chapter Notes

MONTREAL - 2010

One year after the draft, David and Yuna Hollander move their only child to a new city.

It's new to Shane, anyway. It's an old stomping ground for his parents, who met there in college. Yuna is elated, the high carrying her through the past year with impressive zeal. She was born and raised in Montreal and the Metros all her life. She has prepared for this possibility since Shane was a child, as if by setting everything up just right, she could ensure his future was set in stone. French lessons. Hockey school. Private tutors to fill in the gaps when Shane was on the ice more than he was in class.

David joked that she was a soothsayer or a witch, but really, the only magical thing about it was just how dedicated his wife had been to making this dream happen.

They follow behind Shane's car on the two hour drive from Ottawa. Like everything else in his life, Shane takes his driving very seriously, obeying every law and never inching even a fraction above the speed limit. David, who taught him, will always be proud of that.

Yuna is in the passenger seat, responding to emails and making phone calls and arranging everything to be just right for Shane to start his new life without them. She will never, ever admit it, but David knows what this is when he sees it. She's worried for their son, just like he is. Her worry manifests in the overcompensation she feels she needs to do on his behalf, the way she orchestrates as many details as she can to try to make things as fluid for Shane as possible.

David, on the other hand, is silent. He still has his worries, of course. Mountains and mountains of them. He will have to have faith that everything will work out for the best. He reminds himself of the reassurances Brandon tried to impart upon him at Christmas. I don't regret it, he had said, and David has to hope that Shane won't, either. He makes himself relax his grip on the steering wheel and breathe.

When they arrive in Montreal, David does his best to be calm and supportive. Shane's building is huge and sharp and modern, all crisp lines of steel and glass that gleam in the midday sun. They park in the garage below and begin unloading boxes and suitcases from the two cars. It'll take a few trips, but David doesn't mind. The movement and the light work gives him something to do other than fret over his boy.

He tries to gauge Shane's mood in the elevator. He's doing his best to look excited and brave, but David can see the way his eyes are a little too wide, the way his jaw is a bit too tight. They've been here before when they were touring units a couple of weeks earlier, but now reality is setting in. Shane will be living here now. He won't go home to his parents after his games anymore. Won't have anyone waiting for him after practice. He'll be on his own.

David had gone through the same thing, so many years before, when he went to college. That experience had been strangely comforting, though. Being surrounded by so many other young people who were also on their own for the first time had softened the blow. Knowing he could turn to any other freshman on campus and go "Isn't this wild? Are you scared too?" helped him feel less alone.

Shane won't have that, and it makes David's heart ache, just a little.

This hadn't been their first choice — or at least, it hadn't been David and Yuna's. Shane was more than happy to consider living by himself right off the bat, but his parents had tried to convince him to go the more traditional route and room with a veteran player first. The support would be good for him, as well as getting him introduced to the team schedule and routine.

When they went to meet the one player who had offered Shane a room, though, Yuna had zeroed in on the sneer he met them with at the door and had turned them around and left. The season hadn't even started, yet the resentment that Shane was being brought into the team in the hopes of saving the franchise had been evident from the first moment the man had laid eyes on their son.

How did that saying go again?

It's lonely at the top.

David tries not to think about that now as they step off the elevator and Shane unlocks the door to his unit, which occupies an entire floor to itself. Being alone was what he preferred, in truth. He was an only child, and he liked his space. This place, already pre-furnished with new, nondescript pieces, was probably perfect for him.

But it feels hollow and cold to David. It is a world removed from their home, the place where Shane grew up. There are no family photos on the walls. No smells lingering in the kitchen from hundreds of meals cooked and eaten together. No scuffs worn into the floors from days upon days traveled in the same patterns from door to door, weaving around furniture and corners. He says nothing, because Shane is grown now and can make his own decisions. Still, David hopes the isolation he feels here won't extend to the rest of his son's life.

He drags the cooler he brought from home over to the fridge and loads up the shelves with pre-portioned meals that he had made up the night before. Shane has always been particular about food, and it's only been more pronounced the older he got and the more aware he was of keeping himself in peak condition. Yuna was many amazing things, but a natural in the kitchen she was not. David doesn't mind. He likes cooking for his family, making sure everyone has what they want and what they need to eat. He's sure the fancy meal service Shane and Yuna have set up to begin next week will be more than proficient, but David wanted to be sure he still had a taste of home, too.

They make two more trips down to the garage to get the rest of Shane's things from the cars. Shane had packed well, but he was also still a teenage boy. Yuna had made sure all of his important documents and supplies were packed, while David had tucked in things Shane hadn't thought about yet but might miss later: his bathrobe from the back of the bathroom door, an afghan they'd had since he was three that lived on the back of their sofa, Shane's pillow off his bed that still smelled like home.

He didn't unpack these things for his son. He left them boxed up, letting them be what he hoped was a welcome surprise when Shane started settling in after they had left.

Their time is winding down as the day wears on into the early evening. David and Yuna don't have any other real excuses to linger, and as much as they know Shane loves them, it's clear that he's ready to start his new life now. It is a strange, novel sensation, feeling like guests in their son's home for the first time, rather than one unit sharing a space as they have been for the past eighteen years.

They hug him tightly and remind him, over and over, to call. To text. To send letters or postcards if he's feeling really wild. Shane promises he will, that they'll see each other all the time, that he's only a couple of hours away. Assures them, over and over, that he'll be fine. Don't worry, he tells them. He'll be just fine.

David fights back tears as they return to their car and drive away.

Yuna reaches over and rubs his shoulders as he drives. "He's got this, honey," she says quietly. "Everything will be just fine."

David knows this is probably true. But all he can think about are those empty rooms and cold, flat walls and a city full of strangers and his only child dropped into it all, like a drop in an ocean. It takes every ounce of will not to yank the steering wheel and turn around and go right back and fetch Shane and shield him from the world.

"I still wish he could have been drafted to Ottawa," he says unprompted.

Yuna makes a disgusted sound. "Ottawa isn't Montreal. You want him to win a Cup at some point in his career, David."

It hurts.

It shouldn't, because David knows, intrinsically, that Yuna takes sports a bit too seriously, but not more seriously than her family. It shouldn't, because she's probably right, and because David can't argue with that. Ottawa hasn't brought home the Cup in decades. It's a backwater team in a bland, boring city, and their son is a star that deserves to shine in the biggest way possible.

But it hurts. It hurts because the Centaurs have been David's team for years. It hurts because that's their home. It hurts because he just wishes for even a moment, she would acknowledge his worry and be on his side about this. Even if it didn't change a single thing, he just wishes she would smile at him and say I know, honey. I understand.

But marriage is about picking your battles, and David does not want to pick this one again, so he doesn't. They drive home in silence.

The house, when they return, is much the same as it was when they left that morning. The differences are small, at least in the main areas. No more bags of hockey gear leaning in corners and spilling out of closets. No more skates hung up on the wall above the shoe rack. No more pre-portioned meals in the fridge, because David had taken all the ones they had left and put them in Shane's new kitchen.

Most of all: no more Shane.

David and Yuna go about their evening as usual. They have dinner. They watch the news. They get ready for work in the morning. They head up to bed at their usual time.

As Yuna makes her way to the bathroom to start her several-step skincare routine, David pauses and lingers in the doorway to Shane's room. The basics of the space are still there — the bed, the desk, the dresser — but everything personal has been tidied away and packed up. Moved two hours away to Montreal, to a place where Shane will be sleeping alone for the first time that night.

David knows he should pull the door closed and go to bed.

He does not pull the door closed. He does not go to bed. Instead, he wanders into the empty room, easing down on the edge of the mattress. He takes in the layout that has remained unchanged for the better part of the last ten years. Shane has always been a creature of routine; once he got the room set up a way he liked, nothing ever moved again.

So many mornings spent rousing Shane from sleep before school. So many nights reading him to sleep or tending to his bedside whenever he was sick or had a nightmare. Now he was all grown up and gone off on his own.

David glances to the nightstand, a two-tiered piece Shane's had since he was eleven. It's been cleared of everything, including his alarm clock. On the second level, however, pushed to the back, is the small white noise machine they got him for his birthday five years ago when he started having trouble sleeping.

David swears softly and brushes his thumb over it. Will Shane be able to sleep tonight without it? Should he hop in the car and drive down with it? Should he — no. David makes himself stop. It's just one thing. Shane is an adult now. David will text him about it in the morning. He will survive one night. It'll be fine.

He makes himself leave the room, casting a last glance over his shoulder before tugging the door closed. He heads for his own bedroom and settles in on his side of the bed while Yuna putters around in the bathroom, the sink hissing sporadically behind the door.

Shane will be fine, David reminds himself. There's plenty of ways to deal with restlessness before bed.

He knows this very well.

MONTREAL - 1988

During his junior year at McGill, sleeplessness had a name: Brandon Wiebe.

David had had roommates before. First had been a fellow freshman who snored like a train. David bought earplugs by the bucketful, but he got through the year eventually. Next had been another freshman who was prone to having full conversations in his sleep, including laughing at his own weird, eerily paced jokes. More earplugs got David through that year, too.

For the first couple of weeks, sharing space with Brandon was easy. He was mostly neat, kept to himself, but was always happy to chat when David was in the mood. His things did not wander over to David's side of the room. He never touched anything of David's without permission, even though David wasn't really the type to get up in arms about it even if he did. He had grown up with two older brothers, after all, and had come to expect at least some meddling with his things as a result.

He didn't snore, which was a blessing. He also didn't talk (or laugh) in his sleep, which was a miracle. Overall, David was beginning to feel that Brandon was the perfect roommate.

At least, he was, until about a week after the party they went to at the football captain's house.

David was out cold. Practice had been ruthless that day, as their coach was finally remembering how to do his job. His classes were starting to get difficult, too, ramping up with quizzes and papers now that students were settling into their schedules and midterms would be fast approaching. When David had nodded off with his head buried in his statistics book, he had just cut off the lamp and dragged himself into bed, exhausted.

Until something made him wake with a start.

At first, he thought he was dreaming it. It was a strange, choked sound, coupled with thrashing and thumping. A sharp, high keening noise made David jolt fully awake and glance around the room. It was dark, with only the barest hint of outside lights streaming through the blinds that were drawn over their window. He fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand and turned on his lamp.

When he looked at Brandon's side of the room, he found the source of the noise. Brandon was jerking violently in his sleep, breathing jagged and heavy, thin, animal sounds clawing their way from between his clenched teeth. He looked like he was in pain.

"Brandon?" David mumbled, leaning toward him but not getting up just yet. "Brandon. Hey, man, wake up. Are you —"

Brandon's eyes snapped open. His pupils were enormous, shrinking rapidly in the light, and he looked… scared. Young. Like a terrified little boy. He was curled in on his side, his whole body rigid, the sheets tangled and twisted hopelessly around him.

He flopped quickly onto his other side, facing the wall. "Sorry," he muttered, his back to David. "Bad dream. I'm sorry that I woke you."

That seemed like a massive understatement in David's opinion. "Hey, bud, it's okay," he said gently. "Are you okay? Do you want to talk —"

"Go back to sleep, David," Brandon said firmly, and that was that.

"Okay, yeah. Night." David flicked off the lamp.

They didn't talk about it in the morning. They didn't talk about it at practice, when Brandon kept missing perfectly good passes and shooting several feet wide of the net. They didn't talk about it at all, because David wanted them to be friends, and it was very obvious that talking about whatever had horrified Brandon in his sleep so badly the night before would make him shut down and push him away.

So they never talked about it.

It happened again two weeks later, as autumn was deepening and the air was growing sharply cold. This time it was a thud that pulled David from sleep, a wayward fist or knee or elbow snapping out and striking the wall beside Brandon's bed. He turned on the light, called Brandon's name, and when he came awake gasping and swiping at his face, David didn't push it. They turned out the light and rolled back over and went back to sleep.

David wondered. And he worried. But he didn't push.

Then the dreaded midterms came.

David was most worried about statistics. He needed it for his degree, and he understood it,but it also tangled in his mind and stressed him out, because there was way, way too many variables in it. He always felt like every question was a trick question. He doubted himself on every answer. He needed to ace this class this year, and it was stressing him out to the point of madness.

The night before the exam, he was laying awake, staring at the ceiling. Equations and formulas and practice questions snarled and swirled in his head. He could close his eyes and see the numbers ticking up and down. He could feel the pressure of his pen in his hand as his fingers started to sweat. He was going to fail, and it was going to tank his grade, and, and, and.

He couldn't afford not to sleep, though. He was a full time student and part time athlete. Sleep was vital for him to function. He had several systems and tricks to get him there when his mind refused to quiet or when the building around him was too loud, but none of them were working tonight. Every distracting tactic he had fell apart within seconds. He kept coming back to that test, to the looming dread, and he was starting to get sweaty from the stress despite the chill that hung in the room from the slight draft that came in through their window.

He sighed to himself, glaring holes in the dark ceiling above. There was one thing he could try that usually worked when nothing else did.

David turned his head, peering through the semi-solid darkness. Brandon was still and quiet in his bed. David could barely make out the outline of his body in the low light, his side rising and falling steadily with his breath. Asleep, David decided. Probably.

As quietly as he dared, David pulled the tissue box from his nightstand under the covers with him. He rolled over to face the wall. He slid a hand down his pants, his cock quickly perking up with interest. It had been… a while since he'd last gotten off, so hopefully this would be a quick fix. An easy release to settle his mind and body.

He grew up with brothers and playing hockey. He knew how to be quiet and discreet. It felt rude, and he could wrangle with the guilt of that later on, but right now he needed something to help him relax, and this was what he had left. His cock stiffened eagerly in his hand, overly sensitive. This was good, he thought. This wouldn't take long at all. All he had to do was relax and think of Phoebe Cates in Fast Times At Ridgemont High, water dripping down her perfect body, perky tits bobbing in slow motion before her, nipples hard and peaked.

David strokes. His breath came faster. His body warmed to the point of bordering on discomfort. Just a little more. Just a little closer…

And it slipped away like a slick bar of soap jumping out of his hands. David sighed into his pillow and slowed down, building his speed back up gradually. Okay. New fantasy. The sex scenes from that raunchy fever dream of a movie that Bernie had told him about. What was it called? Two Moon Junction. Weird movie. But lots of good shots of a fully nude Sherilyn Fenn.

He tried to chase the half-remembered frames of the movie in his head, his hand working faster and faster. Come on. Just come on already…

But he couldn't. The crest was there, right there, but some unnamed block was keeping him from climaxing. His balls were starting to throb from the frustration. His wrist was getting cramped from the weird angle. He tried all the tricks — fondling his balls, twisting slightly at the head, thumbing his barely-dripping slit, and none of it worked. It came close, maddeningly close, but it just wasn't enough.

"Fuck!" he hissed into his pillow. This hadn't helped him at all. Now he was hot, sweaty, keyed up, and had a wonderful case of blue balls brewing.

On the other side of the room, he heard shuffling.

He tugged his pants up and went still. Maybe Brandon was just rolling over in his sleep. He would settle in a bit, and…

"Do you, uh, need help?"

The words were like ice water being thrown at David's back. He flinched like he'd been zapped with a cattle prod, looking over his shoulder. Smooth, Hollander. "Huh?" he asked, voice way too high to be normal.

"You sound like you're trying to light a fire under the blankets over there," Brandon pointed out in the dark.

David blushed from his hairline to his toes. He wanted to crawl under the bed and die, left to rot and be found as a mummified ruin by next year's class. Here lies captain David Hollander. He died of terminal embarrassment when his roommate caught him frantically trying to jerk off four feet away.

"It's not — I wasn't —" David floundered, desperately trying to salvage this situation. He was supposed to be a good example. Brandon was his rookie. This wasn't just embarrassing, it was… inappropriate.

"Dude, relax." Brandon was sitting up, pushing off his blankets. "Men have needs, right? And you're not gonna be able to sleep like that, so…"

David's heart was hammering in his chest. What was he talking about? Was Brandon… gay? But… no, right? Because Alois was gay, and he had never offered to give David a handjob. So what did that mean??

Trying to fill in the blanks himself was getting him nowhere, so David tentatively rolled over and peered through the dark. "You want to… help me get off?" he asked, bewildered. "Why? Are you —"

"I'm not gay," Brandon said quickly. "But it's like, not a big deal. You need your sleep. You have a test tomorrow and we have a game this weekend. Just trying to be helpful."

Helpful. Right. Brandon… Brandon was a helpful guy. He had seen right through David's attempt to be cool at that awful party a few weeks ago and gotten him out of there and had never teased him for it. He backed David up when he asked the team to try things out or to pay more attention. He even offered to take both of their laundry down to wash and brought it all back up, never losing a single sock.

It was just one thing. A little thing, really. David was a guy. Brandon was also a guy. They both had the same equipment. It wouldn't be his first time seeing a dick. Brandon was offering.

And David really, really wanted to get off and go to sleep.

"…Okay, yeah," David mumbled, reaching for the light. "If… if you don't mind, you really don't have to —"

"Oh my God, Hollander, chill."

The light came on. Brandon got up and stepped across the few feet of space between their beds. David swallowed and sat up awkwardly, pushing back the covers and swinging his legs over the edge of his mattress. His erection strained in his sweats, raw and impatient. Brandon sat beside him on his bed, hip to hip, and waited.

I'm really doing this, David thought, then decided quickly that he would file this away into his mental box labeled "college experiments." It would get nestled in between jaeger bombs (way too strong) and bootcut jeans (a maybe — he was still debating that one) and he would never think about it again.

You streaked across the park as a freshman on a dare, he reminded himself. At least only one person is looking at you right now rather than the entire campus.

That monumental humiliation made this one feel far less intimidating, if only for a moment. With that in mind, he tugged his cock free of his pants and looked away, staring off at nothing. His heart slammed against his ribs, making his cock bob in time with his pulse.

Brandon gave a low, quiet whistle. "Damn, Hollander, save some for the rest of us," he joked.

David couldn't help it — he snorted in response. "Can't help it. They didn't exactly, ah, let me choose."

Brandon just hummed in reply. He was seated on David's left, and only now did David remember that Brandon was left-handed. He reached for David, reaching across his own body to do so. He planted his free hand on the bed behind David, leaning… close. David closed his eyes and tried not to notice.

He gasped a little when Brandon's callused palm closed around him and started slowly stroking him, long, deliberate movements from base to tip. It was so much more intense when it was someone else's hand. He'd done this with girls a handful of times before, but it was rare that they knew how to get the angle and the speed and the pressure right on the first try. Brandon's hand was warm and steady and practiced.

David was barely able to breathe.

He kept his eyes closed, biting his lip. He was still so far in his head, made all the worse as his thoughts spiraled out ahead of him in light of this new and confusing situation. What did this mean for him? Did this make him gay? Did he need to talk to Alois about this? No, no, he would never let them live it down if he knew. Would Brandon tell anyone about this? Surely not. Right? But what if he did? What if —

It was taking forever again, and it wasn't going to get any better, because David wasn't able to just let go and relax.

After a few more minutes, Brandon snickered to himself. "Y'know," he murmured, startling David as he remembered how close he was to him, how he could feel his breath against his neck. "This would probably be faster if I just blew you instead."

A few things happened at the same time.

Unbidden, David's mind invented a new mental image. Brandon, on his knees, full lips parted, tongue reaching out and lapping at David's cock. His thick, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. His dark eyes turning up to meet David's in a silent question. Heat streaked through David at the sudden, vivid picture. It zipped down his spine in a white-hot current and burst through his pelvis, jerking his hips forward. His mouth fell open in a broken gasp, and he came so hard he bowed over himself, his release spattering on his Star Wars sleep shirt and Brandon's fist.

They stared at the mess. Blinked. Looked up and stared at each other.

Flustered, David tore the shirt off, wadding it up inside-out and throwing it with his dirty clothes. Then he was just watching Brandon, wide eyed, goosebumps prickling on his bare skin as he came back down to earth and tried hopelessly to ground himself after whatever the fuck that was.

David swallowed once and made himself speak. "Umm. Thanks," he stammered. And then, because he was a good, polite, Canadian boy, he asked, "Do you want me to, uh —"

"Nope," Brandon said quickly, standing up and all but throwing himself back into his own bed. He tucked himself in and rolled over, facing the wall. "Don't mention it. I'm good. Night, David."

Right. Don't mention it. Don't mention Brandon's offer, don't mention the far-too-casual-to-be-casual joke, don't mention that anything tonight ever happened. David could do that. Totally.

"Okay, yeah, sure. Night, Brandon."

David laid down and turned off the light.

By the grace of God and all his lucky stars, he fell asleep at some point, his mind a wild tangle, his body humming with a newfound energy, his curiosity suddenly, devastatingly piqued toward the body in the other bed.

In the morning, Brandon was already gone, his bookbag missing as well. David told himself it was fine. Brandon obviously didn't want to make a big deal out of it, so David wouldn't, either. It was fine.

His dirty clothes hamper stared at him like an accusation. He got dressed, took his laundry down, and went to his exam like he was going to the gallows. He sat for his test, opened his booklet, and felt his mind go instantly blank.

Fuck.

David clawed his focus and his memory back by force. He trudged through the questions, eyes flicking anxiously up at the clock over and over. He knew the material. Had studied it backwards and forwards. It was a struggle, of course, but it wasn't anything he'd never seen before. He had this.

He managed to get halfway through the test before his mind started to wander again. and when it did, it went precisely where he didn't want it to. Memories of the night before started flashing into his head, completely uncalled for. Brandon's breath on his neck. His thick, muscular thigh pressed to David's. His strong, steady hand grasping and stroking David's cock. The lewd suggestion that he should blow him instead, the mental image that had painted itself so vividly on David's brain in response —

This is actually a nightmare, David thought frantically. Instead of being naked in class, he was just staring at the page, wasting time, as he grew increasingly, maddeningly hard.

He shoved the memories of the night before down. He started shutting his brain off completely, answering questions blind, only half-reading his own answers. Grade be damned, he had to get out of this classroom. He had to get away from all these people, who he was starting to suspect could see the inappropriate images from the night before being broadcast straight from his mind onto the chalkboard. His skin burned as if he'd been branded.

When he was finally done with the test, he didn't even check back over his answers. He shuffled awkwardly to the front of the room, turned in his work, and hastened out of the building as quickly as he could without flat out running. He didn't stop until he reached his dorm, not even when people called out to him on the sidewalk or in the hall. His hands fumbled with his keys, barely getting the door unlocked without dropping them.

He slammed the door behind him, locked it shut, and froze.

Brandon was there, sitting up quickly on his bed, yanking a pillow over his waist. His eyes were huge, his skin flushed and slightly sweaty. His shirt was rucked up on his chest, his muscular abdomen exposed, and his jeans were in a discarded pile on the floor. He clutched the pillow over himself like a shield.

"Fuck," he whispered.

David didn't know whether to bolt or scream or just crawl under the bed and wait for death. His cock was straining against his underwear, clearly outlined against the front of his pants. Brandon's rumpled, heaving, mid-pleasure state was doing nothing for the raging pressure that was screaming for release.

"Were you —" he asked, his voice thin and strangled.

"Maybe." Brandon's eyes flicked quickly between David's face and his groin. "Were you gonna —"

"Maybe." David swallowed hard. He kept staring at the pillow that Brandon had pinned over his hips. "I can — I won't look. Or I could, uh, I can go somewhere else, sorry, I should have knocked, I —"

"Hollander." Brandon's tone was controlled now. Calm. His initial shock had passed and he was taking over the situation. "Sit down."

He patted the mattress beside him and scooted over to give David room. David was trembling by that point, but he obeyed. His heart fluttered in his chest and his cock felt like it was trying to lean toward Brandon, like it had a mind of its own. Brandon watched him closely, eyes half-lidded, posture impossibly relaxed.

"How was your test?" Brandon asked.

The mundane nature of the question made David laugh, a sudden, too-loud sound. "Horrible. I totally blanked. And I got… distracted."

Brandon smirked. "I can see that. Can I?" He gestured toward David's belt.

David nodded. "…Please."

Brandon moved slowly and deliberately as he unlatched David's belt and opened his fly. David stared at the bedsheets while Brandon gently tugged his cock free, fingers wrapping around his base just the way he had secretly hoped he would. God, why did this feel so good?

"You used up your one free ride, though," Brandon murmured. His free hand lifted the pillow from his lap and he angled his hips closer. "Return the favor, yeah?"

Return the favor. Yes. That's all this was. Brandon did him a solid, and now David would pay him back, and then they could stop doing this. Tit for tat, or whatever the expression was.

He glanced over, eyeing Brandon's own rigid cock. It wasn't as long as David's, but it was thick, the head a dark, glistening red, the shaft uncut. He filled David's palm easily, heat radiating off of him. He made a low, rumbling noise of appreciation as David began to stroke him, hips rolling slightly into his hand.

"Good. That's good. Just like that." His voice was quiet, his breath warm near David's shoulder. Brandon leaned his head closer and David felt himself bowing to meet him. Their foreheads rested against each other, their breath mingling, as they watched the other work.

As David stroked and was stroked in return, face inches from his teammate's, the only sound their skin on skin and their rapidly increased breathing, something horrible happened: his mind went quiet. His anxiety about his statistics test vanished. His dread about the next four exams he had over the next week ceased to exist. He felt himself finally start to truly relax, to go slack, to embrace the warm body beside him as a comfort, not a threat.

Nothing else, not even hockey, had been able to do that until now.

I could kiss him, David thought blindly, reeling the thought back in just as quickly as he had it. His cock was leaking in Brandon's grip. He had to remind himself that this was… nothing. This was the last time. Closing a loop. Brandon wasn't into guys and neither was David.

But he was staring at Brandon's slightly open mouth when he came.

He squeezed — perhaps too tight — around Brandon, and then Brandon was coming too, ducking his head and gasping against David's shoulder to muffle the sound. David worked him through it, a wild, inexplicable part of him not wanting to stop, to try and wring another orgasm out of him so he could see that blissful, unguarded look on his face again, but when Brandon finally came up for air, David made himself let go.

"Whew," Brandon sighed, reaching for a box of tissues on the nightstand. "There. I needed that. Econ is driving me crazy. Thanks."

David swallowed, accepting a proffered tissue and cleaning himself up. "Yeah, sure. No problem."

They cleaned themselves up, Brandon got dressed again, and they went their separate ways for the rest of the day. David's mind was calm in the rest of his classes, and when he went to bed that night, he fell asleep within minutes.

Chapter End Notes

happy belated easter jesus ain't the only thing that's been rising if y'know what i mean

sidenote: while i have a general idea of where i want this fic to go and what i want to touch on in it, i'm very much open to suggestions for other scenes! is there anything you'd like explored through this lens, such as a canon event that either brandon or david or both were present for? a prompt or idea you think would be interesting to narrate through their relationships? i'm more than happy to spitball ideas with y'all~

as always, if you want to yap at me about this most blessed and janky cathedral of mine, you can always find me on tumblr.

Chapter 5: saturday night's alright (for fighting)

Chapter Notes

cw for period-typical homophobia and slurs. gotta love the crazy eighties.

OTTAWA - 2010

The Centaurs' home opener is against Montreal.

They're not ready for it, and Brandon knows it, but he also knows it doesn't matter. He can try to prep his team all he wants, but the fact of the matter is that they're old and slow and many are too set in their ways to adapt to the new plays Brandon has tried to introduce. He had seen minimal improvement during training camp. There's always a chance that they'll surprise him, of course, but he isn't optimistic.

He gives his usual speech in the room before they headed out. Do your best, work together, stay focused. The response is lukewarm. The results will be much the same, if their last season is anything to go by. Swallowing his defeatist attitude and refusing to let it show on his face, Brandon heads out to the bench.

It should feel natural, by now, to be behind the bench dressed in a three piece suit instead of full hockey gear, but it still chafes at Brandon as he watches the arena slowly fill to its usual half-capacity. He hates these fucking suits. He hated them when he was in the league as a player, and he hates them now as a coach.

Brandon watches as the Metros step out onto the ice for the first time. Tracks them as they warm up in wide laps and deep stretches. His eyes snag on numbers and names until he finds the one he's secretly looking for.

Hollander.

Number 24.

Just like his father.

The sight of that name and that number stitched on the same jersey shouldn't shock Brandon as much as it does. He knew, however remotely, that Shane Hollander played under that number, same as David. However, seeing it here, in Brandon's home stadium, mere feet away as he glides by on the ice, still makes him stop and stare.

Reflexively, Brandon glances up into the stands. This is their hometown, after all. David and Yuna are probably up there somewhere, watching their son. Probably will be for every game Montreal plays here, and every game Ottawa plays in Montreal.

And why shouldn't they be? Their kid has done something incredible. He's already being talked up as a generational talent. Brandon has seen the CCM commercial he shot with Boston's Rozanov, shot and aired before either of them had even played a single NHL game. He's the next big thing in hockey, and it's a good thing that his parents get to be there to watch it happen. A great thing.

A thing Brandon never had.

He just hopes they're all prepared for what that entails.

The show goes on. The lights flash, the anthem plays, the lineups are announced. The starters take their place on the ice as the rest of the lines wait in the wings. At center ice, across from the Centaurs' veteran forward, Shane Hollander bends for the face off.

His stance, the angle of his stick, everything is exactly like his father.

And like his father, Shane is fast.

He snags the puck easily and takes off. Brandon can't even be upset about it. The burst of speed that propels him as he tears through the neutral zone is astounding. If Brandon had anyone on his own team with that kind of momentum, he'd already be daydreaming about a playoff run. Instead, he watches as his guys scramble to try to catch and block Hollander in their zone, and is completely unsurprised when they fail. Just three minutes into the first period, the goal horn blares and the stands shake with noise.

Good for you, kid.

It's not until the second period that Brandon realizes the fatal flaw in Montreal's new strategy.

It's clear that they've reworked all their plays to center around Shane whenever he takes a shift on the ice. The problem though, is that his speed is working against him. His wingers can't keep up, and he's working double time to sink his shots by himself with no one lined up ahead of him to pass to. He's good, but he's going to be exhausted by the time his shift is up.

He also has no one around to protect him as he jets directly into enemy territory.

This becomes painfully obvious when on of the Centaurs' d-men corners him against the boards, wrestling him for the puck. Hollander has his head down, trying to keep it in his sights, when the other man jerks an elbow up sharply. It collides right with Shane's nose, and a spurt of blood stains the ice.

Brandon winces.

But Hollander doesn't even seem to notice. He spots his winger, Pike, and slaps the puck over to him, landing it perfectly on his teammate's tape. Pike slams it home into the Centaurs' net, and the horn blares again. Shane skates off to his bench, glove pressed to his bleeding nose, eyes bright and focused despite the already deepening bruise beginning to spread across his face.

Brandon forces himself to breathe. He rolls his shoulders, surprised at the tension there. He should have been worried for his own team, praying they would somehow force a turnover, but instead he had been watching the rookie take an elbow to the face and worrying as if he were one of his own daughters.

Snap out of it, he nagged himself. They're all somebody's son. You know that.

But they weren't all David Hollander's son.

And they weren't all playing on a level that set them entirely apart from everyone else on their team.

ONTARIO - 1988

Two months into the season, Brandon still only had two people he sat with on the team bus: David and Alois.

He wasn't unfriendly with the rest of the team, exactly. He got along fine with everyone, really. Brandon flowed easily in social situations. He had become especially adaptable since coming to McGill. He could, typically, shed the skin of the cagey, impoverished kid who smelled like cigarettes and sour laundry and shapeshift into the person he wanted to be: amicable, easy going, charming, even.

But he knew it was a fragile act that took care and precision to maintain, and the more distance he kept between himself and others, the less he had to work to keep those appearances up.

The first weekend of November, the Redbirds were packed onto their team bus and heading to Kingston to play Queen's University. Snow had since begun to fall, heralding a long, cold winter and painting either side of the salted highway pure, icy white. The rest of the team was chatty and jovial, bundled in pairs in their rows and laughing across the aisle, but Brandon wasn't in the mood for any of it.

He had called home before they left. It was only the third call he had placed the entire time he had been away at school. He loved his mother, but it was less painful to keep her held at bay. Every time he spoke to her, she sounded worse. Weaker. Sicker. But he still felt that tether of responsibility toward her to at least check on her and let her know he was alive and well in return, and so he called.

"Hi, baby," she had sighed into the phone when the long distance call had finally connected. "How's school?"

"Hi Mom. It's fine."

The sociable, chatty person he pretended to be always withered and died in the face of his mother's frail, breathy voice. He knew he should ask how she was doing. If she was able to look for work. If the landlord had ever gotten around to fixing the leak in the roof. But then she might answer, and she might tell the truth, and the truth might upset him and make him feel like he needed to go home, and he couldn't do that right now. So instead, he forced himself to say something else entirely.

"I scored well on my midterms," he reported, and that was true. Despite the odds — and the distractions he'd recently been dealing with in the form of his roommate — he had done better than he had expected.

"That's great, honey," his mother replied. It was a statement that required more enthusiasm than she had the energy to give it, and it made Brandon's throat feel tight. "And you're making friends? Getting along with your roommate?"

Firing pucks at David's anxious form. Crowding into a booth beside him at Gert's. His voice drawing Brandon from a night terror in the darkness. His breath stuttering against Brandon's shoulder as he came in his hand.

Brandon swallowed. "Yeah, Mom. He's great. We're… friends."

"That's good, baby. That's really good. You need people in your life."

Nope, nope, nope. His eyes started to sting. She was about to start lecturing him about building a support system. Maintaining connections. Keeping people around him so that he wouldn't be alone in the world when she…

"I know, Mom. Everything's good here. I just wanted to check in." Brandon rushed the words out before the crushing weight and dread of the inevitable could catch up to him.

"Okay, sweetie. Take care of yourself. I love you." His mother, at least, knew to spare him the front row seat to her decline.

"Love you too. Bye." He hung up the phone before he could start to cry in the phone booth.

Now he was sitting with his forehead pressed to the frigid glass of the bus window, staring at the featureless white landscape outside as it rolled past. Alois was draped in an impossibly elegant sprawl beside him. David was toward the front of the bus, chatting with Bernie about something, but Brandon wasn't paying attention. Between the turmoil of talking to his mother and the attraction he was feeling for David, he didn't feel like putting in any effort to being social on the ride to Kingston.

Alois was able to sense this. His long blonde hair was pulled back into a low tail. He looked like a sports model in his Redbirds jacket, which he paired with a thick wool scarf in the exact same shade of red as their team emblem. His keen emerald eyes kept peering in Brandon's direction, but to his credit, he didn't try to force him to talk.

But then David threw his head back and laughed so hard his glasses got knocked askew, and Brandon couldn't help but stare at him from the back of the bus.

Brandon wasn't gay. He had told David that, and he hadn't lied. But he hadn't told the full truth, either, because he also wasn't straight. At least, he didn't think he was.

All his life, he had been told to look and behave a certain way to be a man. All his life, Brandon had harbored a rebellious streak. That rebellious streak looked those expectations in the face and said sure, I will, but I'll admire that vision of masculinity the way others do, too. So he played sports and worked out and got into more schoolyard scraps with other boys than he could count, all the while allowing himself to quietly, secretly, oh so privately desire them, too.

He probably would have been fine if that was all he ever did.

But then David Hollander, perfect, kind, innocent David Hollander had gone and reminded Brandon than he wasn't perfect. That he wasn't innocent. That he, too, had needs of the flesh that demanded to be met. And Brandon, in his foolhardy, overconfident way, had offered to assist.

They hadn't done anything else since that night and the morning that had followed. They certainly didn't discuss it. David was tiptoeing around him in the lockers and wouldn't even look in his direction in the showers, but they were still functioning just fine. Their line on the ice was solid. They maintained normal, casual conversation in their dorm.

But every time they brushed shoulders in a doorway or made eye contact or slid into their respective beds at night, Brandon felt the ticklish little knock behind his ribs that had first reared its head when David had leaned his forehead to his own and breathed and stroked and came beside him.

Brandon was allowed to want things. And he wanted more.

"Hey," he said to Alois, his voice pitched low enough that only he could hear. "Is Hollander seeing anyone?"

Alois scoffed. "David?" he asked, incredulous. "Non. David is like, ah, a turtle with girls. He takes so long trying to figure out how to talk to them that by the time he finally works up the nerve, they've usually decided he's not interested in them and moved on. Is quite pitiful, truly."

"Hmm," Brandon huffed in reply.

It was the wrong thing to do, because Alois immediately fixed him with that heavy, sharp gaze. "Pourquoi? Is someone inquiring about our capitaine?"

Brandon could lie. He prided himself on being a pretty good liar. But even he didn't feel confident in getting away with deception in the face of the French menace that was Alois St. Claire — and even if he did, he didn't really want to. If someone, anyone was going to know, it might as well be Alois.

"Yeah," Brandon sighed. "I am."

Alois blinked. His sandy lashes fluttered rapidly over his green eyes as he processed this information. "Brandon!" he gasped, his voice still low, but his expression blown wide open with the scandal. "I did not think you the type!"

Brandon just shrugged. "It's something I'm… trying. Y'know."

It was much more than that, but he didn't want to get into it here, with his teammates crowded onto a bus, barrelling down the road toward their next game.

Alois made himself settle, composing himself in record time. His expression of delight and surprise fell into one of careful sympathy, though, as he followed Brandon's gaze to the front of the bus, where David was now chatting with one of the Smitty twins. "David is wonderful. But he does not play for our team, mon ami. Not like that."

Alois… didn't know. He had no idea what Brandon and David had done together, because he had never had any reason to believe David would do anything like that with another guy. It clearly wasn't something they had ever discussed before now.

"Hmm." Another non-answer, but this time, Alois let it go. Brandon let the topic die before he could say something really stupid.

But he didn't quit staring at David until he turned his head and caught his eye. David grinned at him, wide and open and genuine, and Brandon felt his stomach flutter in response.

Brandon was allowed to want things. But he wasn't sure if he would ever be allowed to want David Hollander.

The guest locker rooms at Queen's University were stale, cold, and uncomfortably cramped. The team was practically piled in on top of each other as they dressed for the ice. Elbows and kneecaps kept smashing into each other at odd angles and legs kept tripping over gear and bodies on the floor. The aging fluorescent lights overhead buzzed so loudly they could be heard over even the loudest of their teammates.

Every additional body in the cold cinderblock room was painfully obvious, as every inch of space was coveted by the team. This was why, when a random man in an ugly brown suit shuffled into the room and started speaking to Coach Dubois in low tones, the Redbirds noticed.

Brandon was on the other side of the room, lacing up his skates. He glanced up when he caught Coach glancing between the random new man and Alois, who was re-doing his hair before he put his helmet on. Brandon watched Coach frown, say something else to the man, and navigate the treacherous tangle of hockey players as he made his way over to Alois's stall. He tried to pull him aside, but the room was so cramped, there wasn't anywhere else for them to go. Alois just stood there, hands frozen in his long hair, as he listened to their coach with an ever-increasing look of shock spreading over his elegant face.

"C'est quoi cette merde? Why? This is ridiculous!" Alois shouted, and all other conversation died in the room as every head turned in their direction.

"What's going on?" asked David from his stall. He looked sharp and strong in his compression shirt and pads, his jersey still in his hands. His glasses had been tucked safely away with his clothes, lending a more rugged look to his features.

"They want to bench me!" Alois snapped. "Tell them to fuck off!"

A wave of confusion passed over the room. People were looking around and muttering to one another, eyes bouncing from David to Alois to Coach to the unknown man who was huddled in the corner by the door, looking like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him.

Coach Dubois raised his hands, trying to settle his team. "Relax, everyone, just — listen. Apparently there's been some concerns raised by Queen's —"

"Concerns?" David cut in, stepping forward.

"What kind of concerns? That we're gonna whoop their asses?" Bernie chirped from his stall.

Coach blanched. He always crumbled under pressure from his players, and now was no different. He looked desperately to the man in the corner, who swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

"Our players have some… safety concerns. Everyone is just trying to stay safe and healthy —"

Alois snorted. "There it is. Health concerns. They're afraid to share the ice with a faggot, yes? In case I bleed on them and give them AIDS? Casse-toi." He spit on the floor for emphasis.

The entire room was silent.

Alois made no effort to hide who he was. Brandon admired him for it, even when it was arguably incredibly stupid. He was their fastest skater and had the second-most points on the team so far that season. If he was a less impressive player, Brandon doubted this would be brought up at all.

"We're not benching Alois."

All eyes swung to David. The look on his face was one Brandon had never seen before. His sharp, dark brow was knit with challenge, his head tilted up to accentuate the hard cut of his jaw. He looked nothing like the kind, nervous boy Brandon had come to know. For the first time since meeting him, he looked like a captain.

"Hollander, that's not your call to make," Coach replied, but his voice was thin and weak. "If Queen's has concerns —"

"Then they can get over themselves and meet us on the ice," David snapped. "We're not benching my alternate captain to make them feel better about the fact that they can't beat us unless they start deciding which of us gets to play."

A loud roar of assent went up at that. "Yeah! Fuck Queen's!" one of the Smitty twins shouted.

Coach Dubois looked pale as a glass of milk. "Now just wait, I —"

"We've all had the same physical exams. We've all been cleared to play. We're all going to play." David was unflinching in the face of their waffling coach. He stopped addressing him completely, turning to the Queen's rep in the corner and stalking over to him. He stabbed a finger at the man's chest, blue eyes blazing with righteous indignation.

"And you can tell them if they want to forfeit, we'll happily take the win on our record."

The cold, cramped locker room shook with roaring voices, Brandon's own among them.

If they had any other man as their coach, David probably would have been stripped of his captaincy right then and there. But Coach Dubois was frazzled and green and had no idea how to wrangle back the respect of his players in the face of such brazen challenge and refusal to bend, and so David's word became law.

The Queen's rep was red in the face, but there was nothing else he could do. "I… very well. Please standby. I need to discuss with our coaches and staff." He scurried from the room like an overfed rat.

Everyone started talking at once when the door slammed shut behind him. David paced back over to Alois, their heads ducking low together as they spoke, shutting out the rest of the team for a moment. All Brandon could do was watch them, awestruck at this strong, brave side of David that he had never seen before.

He wasn't sure if he was allowed to want David Hollander.

But permission be damned, Brandon wanted him more than ever.

The start of the game was delayed by nearly an hour.

The Redbirds waited in that horrible locker room, fully dressed in their gear, stretched out on narrow benches and leaning against the walls and staring at the water-stained ceiling. At one point, Bernie started singing "Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer On the Wall" and the team threw things at him and booed until he stopped.

But finally, finally, the Queen's rep popped his weaselly head back in long enough to say that the game was on.

Time seemed to fast forward to compensate from there. Brandon blinked, and they were lined up on the ice for the anthem, the Queen's players glaring at them from the other side. He blinked again, and he was at the line with Queen's winger, the other man's eyes hateful and harsh as they stared him down.

At center ice, David was composed. His face betrayed nothing as he bent for the face-off. Queen's center, the moron, wasn't even looking at him. He was looking to his right, where Alois was sneering at the other winger on his end of the ice. The Queen's winger was leaning away from him, as if afraid that even being near him would give him a disease.

The puck dropped. David could have won it with his eyes closed. But his eyes were wide open and daring when he snatched it away and took off across the neutral zone.

Queen's might as well have not even been on the ice. They were slow, and none of them wanted to be anywhere near Alois, who zipped through their defenses with ease. He was laughing as he skated circles around them, passing the puck back and forth through their feet to David like a pair of cats toying with the same mouse. Less than three minutes in, he sank the first goal and crashed into David, both of them cheering and grinning from ear to ear. Brandon piled in on top of them and shook them both.

It kept up like that until the third period.

By then, it was 4-1 for McGill. Since Queen's refused to get close to Alois, the Redbirds just kept feeding him the puck and letting him score. He had a hat trick by the middle of the second period, and David had added insult to injury with a goal of his own. The team had agreed, inasmuch as they agreed on anything, that this night belonged to Alois and Alois alone.

In the face of their obvious defeat, however, Queen's became vicious.

As soon as they took to the ice for the final period, the shift was clear. Suddenly, Brandon was fighting for even an inch of space on the ice. Regardless of the puck's position or possession, Queen's players were crowding him against the boards and aiming for his skates. The boards were rattling like an earthquake was hitting with how often bodies were being slung into them. Over and over, the same slur was hurled at them. Faggot, faggot, faggot.

It wasn't just dirty. It was lawless.

And the refs just watched it happen.

The only penalty they called, of course, was on Alois. A convenient way to get him off the ice so that Queen's could enjoy their pummeling without restraint. He watched with barely-contained rage from the box as the Redbirds struggled to simply stay upright through the rest of the game.

With five minutes left in the period, a clusterfuck formed along the boards. At least four people were all fighting to get the puck, pushing and shoving, stabbing down with their sticks. Brandon was right in the middle, desperate to scoop the puck out and flick it over to David, who was being held at bay by Queen's center.

He was so close. He almost, almost had it. A huge defenseman for Queen's was looming over him, the arena lights blocked out in his shadow. He was at least half a foot taller than Brandon, and probably a good fifty pounds heavier, too.

Brandon shoved away from the wall of muscle and clipped the puck free of someone else's skate. He hooked the neck of his stick around it, pulled it closer…

Slam.

Brandon wasn't looking up when the rock-hard point of the defenseman's elbow came at him. Pain exploded out across his entire face, streaking down like forks of white-hot lightning into his teeth and up into his skull. He slumped against the boards, was shoved further up the ice, and crumpled as he fell.

His ears rang with the impact. He was dazed, unable to properly take inventory of what was hurt. He tried to open his eyes, but the left one was covered, somehow. The left side of his face was warm. He touched his glove gingerly to his eyelid and it came away dripping red.

Something was thrown to the ice and slid across, coming to a stop right in front of him. A glove. Its mate was flung a few feet away.

Brandon looked up in time to see David Hollander — kind, genuine, nervous David Hollander, who couldn't handle a crowded party for longer than two hours or ask a girl for her number without agonizing over it for weeks beforehand — clock the Queen's defenseman square in the jaw.

The game exploded.

Brandon couldn't keep track of who was fighting who. The noise in the stands was obscenely loud for such an anemic crowd. Linemen were trying to get him off the ice while simultaneously trying to keep the Queen's and Redbirds players from literally killing each other. Whistles were blowing. People were screaming and swearing and shouting. A voice boomed over the PA system calling for everyone to return to their benches.

At some point, Brandon was herded into the penalty box, as it was the closest and safest place to stash him while the rest of the team went in for blood. He slumped there next to Alois, who put a protective arm around him while someone poked at his split eyebrow and muttered under their breath.

"I don't say this often, mon bebe," Alois called over the noise, "but I was wrong. David definitely plays for our team."

Hours later, they were back in their dorm room.

The end of the game had been a mess. Injuries had been sustained by the majority of both teams. The winner had not been officially declared. It had been such a blatant disregard for the rules of the game that it was being debated if the game should count for either team at all. It was going to be a dramatic pain in the ass, for sure, but Brandon didn't care.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, the lights all turned off. He had three stitches in his eyebrow. His entire left eye socket was swelling shut, the orbital bone all around it screaming in pain. An ice pack was carefully pressed against his battered face, and Brandon leaned fully into it.

David stood before him, outlined in the watery orange glow from the streetlight outside their window. He held the ice pack in the same hand he had punched the defenseman with. His lower lip was puffy and swollen from being split open on someone else's fist. Shadows were gathering beneath his eyes.

Brandon rested his hand over David's. Felt the broken skin across his knuckles. Felt the slight tremor in his fingers. He looked up at him with his one good eye and tried to smile. "Surprised the hell out of me, Hollander. I never thought I'd see you throw down your gloves like that."

David's jaw fluttered with tension. "I don't like seeing you hurt," he said, then blinked. "I mean… I don't like seeing any of our guys hurt. We're a team. Mess with one of us, mess with all of us, y'know?"

A strange, tight feeling went through Brandon's chest. He latched onto the first part so quickly, just for David to immediately backtrack. One step forward, two steps back.

But it was clearly a day of surprises, because suddenly, David was leaning closer. His free hand carded softly through Brandon's hair. The warmth of his body radiated out like that of the sun reaching toward the earth.

"…But I hate seeing you hurt the most."

Brandon just stared at him. Something shifted on a tectonic level between them, and he was terrified to move an inch, lest the ground give way beneath him and he fall through four floors of sleeping college students to the unforgiving bedrock below.

David took a deep breath and slowly, deliberately stepped back, making sure Brandon had a good grip on the ice pack before pulling his hand away. "Get some rest, Brandon," he said softly as he took another slow step back.

Brandon couldn't argue. He was exhausted and sore and ready to collapse for three days straight. He stretched out on his bed, an entire catalog of hurts raising their heads as he did so. He hissed and winced with each one, rolling over so he could keep the ice balanced against his bruised eye socket.

He had gotten the shit kicked out of him, and he would happily do it over and over again, because it had served the most miraculous and incredible purpose: it had proven that David Hollander wanted him, too.

OTTAWA - 2010

There is no bloodbath on the ice between the Metros and the Centaurs, because Brandon has taught his guys better than that. Montreal wins, 4-1, much like the other, less civilized game long ago.

The teams line up and shake hands and pat shoulders. Maybe it's hometown pride for Ottawa's own, or maybe they just remember their own rookie days, but each of the Centaurs grins at Shane as they pass him. A flush spreads beneath the freckles and the blooming bruise across his nose as they pepper him with well wishes and compliments. It is, Brandon thinks, no less than what he deserves.

Brandon gives the same consolation speech as always as the guys head for the showers. Good work, you did your best, we know where to improve for next time. The season stretches out ahead of them, months and months of possibility, and even though he doesn't expect much to change, he can at least act like he believes in their team.

As he heads out to his car in the parking lot later, he overhears the Metros laughing and recounting their game as they file onto the charter bus for the airport. Brandon pauses in the shadow of a streetlight and freezes.

Off to the side, a couple stand with one of the players, visibly fussing over him. Even from this distance, Brandon can make out exactly who they are. Yuna's entire face is a worried frown as she delicately probes at her son's battered nose. David is a few steps away, rigid as stone, the same open, tortured look on his face as when he stood over Brandon's bed and held that ice pack to his bruised face.

Brandon's chest feels suddenly tight.

It's a two-pronged hurt: seeing them again, doting over their son, injured by his player. How awful it must be for David, who knows how hard those punches can be, who knows how unforgiving the ice is when you get shoved down onto it. Having to watch his son endure the same pain and grit that he did must be its own special hell.

And then there's the personal pain, the deeper, quieter pain, because Brandon never had that when he was in the league. He had no one at his games to fuss and fret over every bruise and bloody nose. He hopes Shane understands how lucky he is to have this, even though he can imagine the ribbing his teammates will give him for it on the bus.

Promise me you'll quit playing those awful games, Brandy, his own mother had begged him as a child when he had come home scuffed and cut and dirty from a match of street hockey. I can't stand to see my baby hurt.

He had never found the words to explain to her why hockey mattered to him so much. Even now, when she's so many years dead and gone, he still doesn't know how to make it make sense. Maybe he never will.

Across the parking lot, David's eyes begin to wander. Brandon ducks away and heads for his car before he can see him. He's not in a place to face them, not while he's sorting out the strange guilt he feels over bloodying their son's nose, even if it wasn't his elbow making contact with Shane's face.

Valerie is waiting up when Brandon gets home. He gives her a kiss and slips into the girls' room, where the three of them are all fast asleep. He kisses each on the forehead, grateful that the hands he holds them with are no longer the same hands he smashes against his opponents on the ice.

He is so, so thankful that none of his girls have ever wanted anything to do with hockey. He prays they never do.

In the morning, after Val and the girls have left for the day, Brandon flips thoughtlessly through sports channels. He's scheduled the practice for later in the day to give everyone some breathing room. The only thing worse than losing a game, he knows, is having to show up at the asscrack of dawn for practice the next day.

It's only when Shane Hollander's face fills the screen that he pauses.

A short woman is interviewing him in French, the live closed captions creeping up from the bottom of the screen to interpret. Even without translation, he catches the big names the woman is spouting off, likely comparing Shane to them. Serena Williams. Tiger Woods. No pressure, Shane. Just a normal conversation to have.

When Shane replies, Brandon hears himself gasp.

His French is perfect — and not in the Quebecois way. He speaks it formally, the way it's spoken in France. The way Alois spoke it. He would have beamed with pride to hear David's son speak his mother tongue on national television the way he believed it was intended to be.

Brandon knows that there's no way it's a coincidence.

Oh, David, he thinks, his heart breaking just a little.

He wonders, not for the first time, when he will stop being surprised by the depth of that man's devotion.

Chapter End Notes

up next: the 2011 nhl awards~

is any of this realistic for a college hockey game in 1988? don't know don't care. i'm going fully balls to the walls I Do What I Want mode for this one for the Plot. so if any of this reads as wildly fantastical, please do us both a favor and just pretend it doesn't okay thanks <3

as always, feel free to come yap at me in my cardboard cathedral over on tumblr.

Chapter 6: you can check out any time you like

Chapter Notes

quick note: this chapter takes place all in the modern timeline and alternates between brandon and david's POVs.

LAS VEGAS - 2011

Brandon Wiebe had been a professional hockey player for seventeen seasons. Six in the AHL, eleven in the NHL. He has now been an NHL coach for two.

In all that time, he has never won any NHL award.

He had been nominated twice for the Lady Byng, but that was it. He never played on a Stanley Cup-winning team, somehow always managing to get traded right before a team hit their stride and made the playoffs or right after they'd won the year prior to his signing. His first two seasons with the Centaurs have been less than impressive. There is no coaching award in his immediate future.

With that in mind, there is no good reason for him to be present during this year's awards ceremony at the Palms Casino Resort. But here he is.

A perk (or, rather, a side effect) of playing for as many years and as many teams as Brandon did is that he knows people in the league. People that are still playing. People that do win awards at these things.

His goalie from his last team, Isaiah Hayward, is nominated for the Vezina Trophy. His brother was supposed to be there as one of his guests, but had to cancel last minute due to a stomach bug. Brandon and Isaiah were always good friends, and so the invitation had been extended. Brandon didn't have anything else going on, and he was pretty sure Isaiah had it in the bag, and he wanted to go support his friend.

So he got on a plane bound for the middle of the fucking desert in June.

He began regretting it pretty quickly, because the only thing anyone seemed capable of discussing was who was going to win the Calder. There are three nominees, of course, but there may as well only be two.

Hollander and Rozanov.

Brandon has seen plenty of both of them throughout the past season. Hollander is a given, of course, and Rozanov is a menace. Both skated circles around Brandon's aging roster, trouncing them on both home and away ice. The two are the buzz of the league. Brandon can't go thirty seconds without seeing their faces or hearing their names.

It's a repeat of the draft from two years ago all over again.

And just like the draft two years ago, Brandon is now trapped in an event center with the Hollander family.

It's not the worst thing right now, sitting anonymously in the crowd as the presentations take place and the awards and given out. Isaiah wins the Vezina, as he should, and Brandon stands and applauds with the rest of his team as he goes up to accept it.

When they reach Rookie of the Year, the entire room goes silent.

Hollander, Rozanov, or Lemaire.

Even before the name is called, Brandon finds them in the crowd. David and Yuna bracket their son on either side, just like they did at the draft. And just like at the draft, when his name is called as the winner, they stand and wrap him in a huge hug and watch him take to the stage with tears in their eyes.

Brandon claps, because that's what you do. His gaze is locked on David, three rows away. David faces the stage, watching his only child, oblivious to Brandon's presence in the same room.

This is what the rest of my career is going to look like, he thinks suddenly. Orbiting the Hollanders while their golden child dominates the sport. Watching David live a life we never could have had.

How bleak.

Shane wins Rookie of the Year.

David can't put into words how proud he is. Shane needed this after coming in second for the draft. He doesn't talk about it, but David knows that it's always stung that first pick overall went to Rozanov and not him. Then again, first pick would have meant going to Boston, so David has never been too upset about how everything shook out in the end. Montreal was where he was meant to be.

They descend into the bar for the after party as a family, Shane hoisting the Calder over his head with a shy smile and a deep blush. He hasn't yet learned how to brag, and David privately hopes he never does. They're set upon by people the moment they reach the bottom of the stairs, but this part is Yuna's time to shine. David shuffles to the back of the action, accepting a champagne flute from a hovering tray at his elbow and scouting out a good spot to sit down.

David has never been comfortable at events like this, and he doubts he ever will be. It hadn't occurred to him, when Shane had been drafted two years ago, that this was going to likely be a norm for them now. Shane is hard working and dedicated, and he's an exceptional player. He is going to be nominated for something every year, if David has to guess, and every year this is where he will end up.

That fluttery, slightly panicked feeling that David has become familiar with over the past few years rears its head again. He sips his champagne in an attempt to muffle it. His wife and son are still at the base of the stairs, surrounded on all sides by sponsors and agents and players and managers, all talking at once, all trying to get insight into the league's finest rookie. It's like watching feeding time at the piranha tank, and his family is the main course.

It's fine, he tells himself. This is what Shane wanted. What they had worked so hard for and prepared so diligently to adapt to. David polishes off his glass of champagne and forces himself to look away from the writhing mob that surrounds Yuna and Shane, taking in the rest of the elegant, dimly-lit room.

He hears him before he sees him.

At the long, glossy bar, a group of men are toasting to someone. Someone says something and they all laugh. David's eye catches on the familiar toss of a dark head of hair right as the warm, lilting laugh fills the room and cuts above the din of conversation. His heart stutters in his chest, his limbs going slightly numb.

Brandon's photo on Facebook has not done him justice in the slightest.

Even from across the room, he cuts a sharp, imposing silhouette in his dark suit. He's far from the tallest man in his party, but that hardly matters. His natural gravity makes everyone else angle their bodies in his direction, their heads all turned toward him even when he's not the one speaking. He looks at ease, effortless, as he always did whenever he was at a party or social gathering. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be than right there.

For a split second, David is twenty-one years old again. For a split second, every atom in his body leans in the direction of Brandon Wiebe's voice and frame, beckoned by his pull to go and stand next to him. He can see it so easily, how simple it would be to get up and weave around the scattered people in the room and sidle up beside him. To put an arm around his shoulders and smile down at him and immediately be brought up to speed on whatever joke he had just made or whatever topic they were just discussing.

"Honey?" Yuna asks, suddenly at his elbow. "Are you done with this?"

David blinks. His hands are braced against the armrests of the chair he's commandeered for himself, as if he's about to push himself to his feet. He returns to his good senses and nods as Yuna plucks up his empty champagne flute and sends it away with a passing waiter.

"Thanks," David croaks, his throat suddenly dry. He clears it and looks around the room. "Is Shane —"

"He's mingling. Scott Hunter is talking to him, which is good. He's a good role model for Shane. Maybe they can exchange info and stay in touch." Yuna nods to herself, eyes scanning the room like a hawk.

She knows everyone in this room. David understands this by the way her dark gaze catches and lingers on various spots, darts and drifts around when a voice or a name is lifted above the rest. This is not a simple little cocktail party to her. This is a chess game, a battle, and she's positioning everyone in the room into the most advantageous array she can.

And it would be fine, admirable, even, if she didn't spot Brandon at the bar. Her eyes narrow and David's chest squeezes almost painfully as he realizes what she's looking at.

"That's the Centaurs' head coach, isn't it?" she asks, tilting her head slightly. "He certainly wasn't nominated for anything tonight. What on earth is he doing here?"

It's a good question. A smart question. A very Yuna-Hollander-would-ask-that question. David probably should have been wondering the same thing, but for his own personal reasons, he hadn't thought about anything other than the flash of Brandon's teeth against his tan skin when he smiled or the line of his broad shoulders in his suit jacket when he spotted him at the bar.

"Hmm? No idea. He probably knows lots of people here, though. He's with Hayward; he won something tonight. Probably why he came." David knows he sounds spacey and distracted as he answers, but at least it's something.

Yuna doesn't notice or seem to care, though. "I need to talk to him," she declares, and much to David's horror, starts walking in that direction.

David is on his feet far faster than he should be. He trips in front of his wife to stop her from advancing toward the bar. "Yuna — wait, hang on, they're having a conversation, let's not, okay?" he fumbles, bracing himself for the incredulous look she is sure to pin him with.

She opens her mouth to retort, but a cheer from the other end of the bar interrupts her. They glance over to where a cluster of active players are slamming down empty shot glasses, Shane among them. Yuna makes a strangled sound. "He's not old enough to drink in the States," she says tightly, openly debating on going over and saying something, but ultimately she appears to decide against it.

"It's his big night," David says, patting her arm. "Let him live a little. Besides, how often does Shane drink back home, anyway?"

"True. Now then." Yuna turns back to her original mission and David prepares to cut her off again, but thankfully, there's no need.

Brandon is gone by the time they turn around.

Brandon catches sight of Yuna Hollander heading his way right after he takes another sip of his drink.

He chokes. His group of former teammates slap him on the back until his throat clears, at which point he sees through watery eyes that David has intercepted his wife. Oh God. Brandon clears his throat again, abandons his glass, and gives a hoarse excuse about finding the bathroom before he bolts.

He can't imagine what Yuna wants from him, but it can't be anything good. She always has a determined, serious look on her face, even when she's trying to undercut it with a pleasant-looking smile. Is she upset with Brandon about the past? Is she trying to ward him off of David? Tell him to stop contacting him and go away?

In Brandon's defense, he and David haven't spoken much since the phone call at Christmas a couple of years ago. They exchange a text here and there, mostly David remarking on Ottawa's games whenever the Metros play against them and they're in attendance, but that's it. Their communications have all been brief, stilted, and suffocatingly polite.

So what does Yuna want?

Brandon would rather not find out.

He wishes sorely that Val were here with him, but Val is at home with their girls, and even if she wasn't, she despises parties like this. It's much kinder to let her stay where she's comfortable, even it means Brandon now feels like a hunted stag, alone in the woods, outrunning a hound.

He ducks into the crowd, keeping low, which is easy enough with his shorter height compared to the room full of taller-than-average hockey players. There's a table in the corner that holds more of his former teammates from the team before last, and he claims an empty seat there and slides effortlessly into their company. He's met with smiles and well wishes, how-have-you-beens and how-is-Ottawa-treating-yous. Brandon meets them all with ease, though his eyes keep darting over their heads to scan around for Yuna Hollander.

It's one thing to suffer through proximity with the Hollanders at these events. It's another thing entirely to be confronted with them. He still doesn't feel ready for it, even after all these years. He's not ready to stand in front of either of them and either have it out about their shared past or pretend that the past didn't even exist. Both options feel catastrophic. At least over the phone, it feels held at bay. Manageable.

But here, in a ballroom full of his peers and coworkers and friends, it feels like a double-headed death sentence.

He tries to listen and participate in the conversation at the table, but his mind is racing, his eyes drawn constantly to the room's perimeter. He expects a hand to land on his shoulder at any moment, for a pair of dark, clever eyes to lock with his and paralyze him where he sits. Orbiting the Hollanders was one thing. Knowing that Yuna was trying to get to him, was actively seeking him out, was another entirely.

And God, what would he even say to her? Would he be able to stay composed and hold a conversation? Would he be calm in the face of an accusation? Of an awkward confrontation? Or would the words just bubble out of him?

Sentences and trains of thought are pulling themselves from the tangled ether of his mind. Curling into hard, tangible shapes, like bullets. Loading themselves into the chamber of his mouth in advance. The best offense is a good defense, or some shit like that. All he's doing is blatantly ignoring his former teammates and setting himself up for failure, but he can't stop himself. Feelings and thoughts that he hasn't looked at in decades are clawing their way to the surface, and now it's all he can think about. There's a hair trigger jammed in his throat, waiting for Yuna Hollander to pick him up and blow the barrel up in her own face.

The first time I kissed him was an accident and the second time was on purpose and every time after that was a revelation, an act of God, my own personal universe learning to understand itself in the shape of his mouth and his hands on my body and his voice in my ear and I've gotten over it, I have, I've moved on, I'm happy, but I'm not sorry for any of it because without him I wouldn't have known what love felt like and sounded like and tasted like, and God only knows how long I would have stumbled around in the dark, chasing empty shapes, hoping they were the real thing, if he hadn't so clearly shown me in full color what it means to be seen and held and loved, and I owe him that, and I won't apologize for any of it, even if it very nearly killed me when you came along and sent all of it slamming into a brick fucking wall.

"Wiebe?" asks one of the men at the table — Altman, from Detroit. "You're starin' off into space, brother. How much you had to drink?"

Brandon's mouth smiles without his permission, a reflex, a defense mechanism programmed to go on like a motion-activated floodlight. "Sorry," he says easily, his inner hurricane completely concealed. "I was thinking about something else. What were you saying?"

Yuna has satisfied herself with the next best thing to speaking with Brandon, apparently which is talking Isaiah Hayward's ear off.

She dragged him over from his group of teammates and friends when Brandon had gotten away and has been talking to him about his opinion on who has the best starting forward line in the league right now for the past fifteen or twenty minutes. David, relieved that the emergency of keeping Yuna away from Brandon is over, has slumped back into a chair, nursing a Sprite, as he doesn't tolerate alcohol well anymore and the champagne has already left him feeling more buzzed than he would like.

Plus, he needs the clear soda to help settle his stomach. That had been far too close. David is a grown man, a father, an employee of the government, but Yuna honing in on Brandon and going after him like a missile had made him feel like a college student all over again, trying desperately to be quiet in their dorm while he fucked into Brandon's fist in the dark.

He feels like his guilt is written all over his face. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand, suppressing a groan.

At some point, Shane wanders up from the twisting knots of partygoers, flushed and a little glossy-eyed himself. David's guilt doubles. He's supposed to be supporting his boy, looking out for him at his first big NHL event, and here he is, clearly tipsy and probably all sorts of overwhelmed, the way he tends to be in settings like this. David's been managing his own stupid crisis instead of being there for his son. He sits upright and smiles at Shane, ready to help in any way he can.

"I'm just gonna step out for some air," Shane reports. "Just for a minute. I'll be back."

Oh. Okay. David refuses to let the disappointment show. Shane is grown now, too. He doesn't always need coddling and babying. "Sure," he replies. "I'm going to try to convince your mother it's bedtime in a minute anyway."

He's far enough away from Yuna that she doesn't overhear, which is a blessing. Shane snorts and smiles back. "Good luck," he says before slipping back into the crowd and presumably out of the room.

He's not supposed to worry — but David Hollander is not able to not worry about his only son. It's not lost on him that, while everyone has wanted a piece of Shane tonight, no one has really been there for him the way his parents have. A whole season with his new team, a damn good season at that, and yet he doesn't seem to have any close friends here with him. Where is his team captain? He should be here to support his star rookie. Where is his coach? If they're in attendance, they certainly haven't made it a point to keep Shane in their orbit.

It leaves a bitter taste in David's mouth.

He never would have done that if it were his team, his rookie. He would have been here with him, acting as a right hand man if he had to, making sure no one harrassed or hazed him too much.

It's not just the father in him that feels that way, either.

It's what he would have done for Brandon, too.

Not that he ever needed to. Brandon always took care of himself — and then took care of David, too. Swooping in to extract him from a party that had raged on too long. Serving him a gorgeous pass to finally sink the winning goal of a long and bloody game.

Would he look after Shane like that if David asked him?

He looks up, trying to find Brandon again, but he can't see him. It's just as well. At least Yuna can't find him, either. Hopefully.

David turns to ask her if she's ready to head up to bed yet, only to find that she's no longer where he left her. Hayward is heading back to his friends at the bar, and Yuna…

Yuna is at large. Again.

Brandon prides himself on having good survival skills. Usually.

He's been on his own to some degree or another for most of his life. Running around his neighborhood and apartment complex alone from a very young age while his mother slept off a hangover, taking himself to school when even the truancy officers wouldn't have cared whether or not he showed up, bouncing around North America from game to game and team to team as a pro hockey player.

Brandon knows how to avoid being mugged and pickpocketed in strange cities. He knows very well how to throw a punch and how to get out of most holds from the front and behind. He knows how to map out all exits and storm shelters, especially at venues here in the States. He knows when it is and isn't considered safe to eat shellfish (never, in his opinion, but that's besides the point.) He will never shower during a thunderstorm. He hasn't gotten this far in life by being unaware of his surroundings.

And yet, he makes the fatal mistake of thinking himself safe after another glass of whiskey and an hour of conversation with old friends.

When he stumbles away from Detroit's table, alone and undefended, he thinks he's made it. He's going to head to his room and get some sleep and fly home in the morning. His close calls are behind him. It's over. It's fine.

It is not over, though. And it most certainly is not fine, when Roger fucking Crowell himself strolls around a corner and pins Brandon right where he stands with those beady eyes and Veneer smile.

"Wiebe," he says, voice chilling and flat despite the actor-worthy smile he cups around his words. "Didn't expect to see you here. Enjoying the evening?"

Brandon's palms begin to sweat before he even gets halfway through his sentence.

The last time he spoke with this man, he was threatening to have him banned from the league.

Crowell had been second in command for the commission back then, dispatched to do the then-commissioner's dirty work for him. Brandon had found himself in hot water when the captain of his team at the time (Toronto? Edmonton? He can't even remember which team it was now) had been entirely too vocal about his homophobic views in the locker room. Brandon, ignoring every survival instinct he had honed over the years, had socked him in the jaw. And the eye. And the throat.

He had been traded the next week.

With that trade came a warning, delivered in person at some Marriott hotel somewhere, from Roger Crowell's own thin lips: Do not ever do this again. If you do, you will never play in this league again. You won't even be able to find a beer league that will take you. Do you understand?

The captain had been the one in the wrong. He should have been the one being chewed out as he healed from his broken face. But no. It was Brandon, young and raw after having placed an order for a white casket and ten dozen yellow roses and a burial plot in Montreal a few months before, who was taking the brunt of Crowell's discipline. It was Brandon who had to shut up and keep his head down and let boys be boys, vitriol and violence be damned.

It is Brandon who, even now, can barely form the words to respond to this specter of a man that has him backed up against a wall. But he hasn't made it this far without being able to think on his feet.

"Came to support Hayward," he finally coughs up. "His big night and all."

I also played in your league for eleven seasons. I also coach one of your teams. I can be here if I fucking want to be you sack of shit. I've earned it.

Crowell's meaningless smile doesn't move a fraction. "Ah, yes. He's a wonderful player. He's earned the Vezina." The unspoken insult is there, the implication that Brandon always suspected but could never prove. Unlike you. You didn't deserve anything, and so you never received anything but a bad back and numbness in your hands.

There was always a reason Brandon never won an NHL award, and it wasn't just that he played for shitty teams. He had been a good player. His goals had carried teams for years, won more games than ever would have been possible without him. That wasn't ego speaking — it was fact, plain and simple.

But once you're out with people on the inside, you're out forever. That is never going to change, not until Crowell finally breathes his last rattling breath and croaks.

Brandon wants to tell him to go fuck himself. To go slit his throat on a broken bottle and bleed out on the same stage where he gave his bland, boring speech earlier. The booze in his blood is heating up, loosening his tongue, and he can so perfectly hear himself saying the words. Can so easily imagine the way his stupid gray face will slowly morph into shock and offense at the words Brandon wants to sling at him. He's about to open his mouth when his salvation comes in the form of his greatest torment.

"Brandon! There you are!"

Yuna fucking Hollander steps around Roger fucking Crowell like he's not even there. She's so small beside that scarecrow of a man, shining in her sparkling golden gown, her perfect white smile aimed right at Brandon. He actually steps back as she closes in on his space, until his back is flat against the wall behind him.

This cannot be fucking happening to me right now. I'm getting gangbanged by both of my worst nightmare scenarios at the same fucking time.

Her presence, at the very least, makes Crowell back off. His brittle gaze turns to her instead, sizing her up. Brandon watches him underestimate her in real time. Thinks about what a horrible mistake that is for anyone to make, most of all Crowell. Yuna Hollander is a force of nature.

Brandon knows this better than most.

"Mrs. Hollander," Crowell croaks, because of course he knows everyone and everything. Every name and face and team and statistic is cataloged in that vicious, venomous mind of his, ready to be pulled out and weaponized whenever needed. "Congratulations to your son. He's a fine example for the upcoming generation in the league."

Yuna glances at Crowell, registering his presence and identity without skipping a beat. Brandon has always envied how unflappable she is, even in the face of chaos. "Oh! Thank you, commissioner," she says, the same bright, winning smile plastered on her face. "We're so proud of our Shane."

Crowell glances between them, mentally gauging if he should stay or go. Yuna, expert that she is, has since pivoted her attention back to Brandon, and while he burns beneath the intensity of her focus, he is at least relieved to see that she's succeeding in shutting Crowell out and turning him away.

"I will definitely have my eye on him going forward," Crowell says, voice quiet in a way that makes Brandon's teeth itch. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, both of you."

He finally departs, allowing Brandon exactly one deep breath before he has to turn and face the woman who ruined his life.

He feels like his heart is going to jump up through his throat and fall from his mouth. His earlier fury at Crowell is jarringly replaced with the even-earlier dread about what he might say to Yuna. She's smiling at him, but that means nothing. He's seen her cut men down in a party dress and pink lipstick before. Yuna Hollander smiling at you means as much as a mean dog wagging its tail. You're liable to get bitten regardless if you make a wrong move.

A desperate, miserable feeling shoots straight to his core as she opens her mouth to speak. I loved him, he thinks, as if he can ever, ever tell her that. I loved David and it didn't matter. He loved me and he couldn't admit it to anyone, least of all himself. I'm not sorry. I do not want your forgiveness. I just want —

"You remember me, right?" Yuna is saying, and Brandon makes himself focus. "From McGill? I'm David's wife, Yuna."

She stabs a hand out in front of her for him to shake. They've met, but it's been so, so long since he last saw her. I'm more of a hugger, actually! She had said the first time David brought her around. Had wrapped her tiny frame against Brandon's as he stood there, still as stone, staring at David over her shoulder as his world crumbled in front of him, and Yuna was oblivious to it all.

She does not make him hug her now. He takes her hand and forces a nod. Shakes her arm twice before letting her go and retreating as if burned. If she finds him odd, she doesn't remark on it. He's bracing for the inevitable, for her to raise her voice or say something cutting in that same level, pleasant tone, probably while maintaining that perfect, megawatt smile while she does it.

I'm not sorry, Brandon reminds himself. He's only sorry that he let himself get caught with her, alone.

"I don't mean to be rude," she says, and Brandon holds his breath. This is it. This is the part where she sends me to hell. "But I really need to talk to you about your starting line. They're just so old. Surely you guys have more pride than that?"

The air floods out of Brandon's lungs in a rush.

Hockey. Yuna is standing before the man who her husband had a relationship with immediately before her in college, and she is talking about fucking hockey.

He laughs. It's a breathless, hysterical little sound, but it comes out without permission. He runs a hand over his hair and swallows. "I — yeah, I know," he makes himself say. "But they've been there a long time. I'm not gonna shove them under the rug before they retire. They've earned the right to go out with dignity."

Yuna frowns, an expression that takes up her whole face in its disappointment. God, how did Shane survive growing up with her? If Brandon's own mother had ever pinned him with a look like that, his entire life would have been different, just to avoid ever having to see it aimed at him again.

"That's sweet, but it's not going to win you guys any games. Surely they have enough pride in their team to know when they need to step aside for new talent, right?"

Brandon feels lightheaded. Yuna Hollander is talking to him. About his hockey team. She mentioned David in passing. As if he's not the axis upon which their entire relationship with each other revolves, the blacked-out window that neither of them can fully look through to see the other on the opposite side. David could drop dead across the room, and Yuna would probably at least finish her train of thought before she left to go do something about it.

Which makes a nervous, sad little part of Brandon's brain pipe up: What if she doesn't know?

That thought is reinforced when a hand clamps down on Yuna's shoulder. "Yuna," pants a new voice, a voice Brandon would know in death, half a world away. "What are you doing?"

David is there, about to bodily drag Yuna away. He looks pale. He's winded. As if he's been sprinting around the hotel in search of his runaway wife. The anxiety in his face is so loud, Brandon could probably have seen it from across the city. It flashes in his wide blue eyes like a neon sign that says GUILTY.

"What?" Yuna asks, her polite composure flickering in irritation as she's interrupted by her husband. "I was talking to Brandon here about the Cens' starting line. We all know it needs work, honey. This isn't a controversial opinion. Right, Brandon?"

She glances at him for backup, and Brandon wants to die. He's so close to them. To David, who stares at him like he's looking at his corpse instead of his living self. He looks tortured as he hovers behind Yuna, hand still gripped on her shoulder.

"Right," Brandon agrees, desperate to just get away from them. He needs to sit down. He needs to sit in a dark room by himself and stare at nothing. He needs to call his wife. God, he needs his wife. Val would know what to do. She always does.

David clears his throat and starts to get a hold of himself. He pats Yuna's shoulder and rests his other hand on her other shoulder, gently rubbing her arms. It's so familiar. So easy. A movement repeated thousands of times over dozens of years. The casual gesture of a body that knows another body, inside and out. It makes Brandon's ribs ache.

David used to hold him like that, a lifetime ago.

"It's getting late, honey," David says, the picture of an annoying and controlling husband that they all know he couldn't be even if he wanted. "Let's head on up to our room, yeah? I think Shane went on ahead to bed. Early flight back home in the morning, remember?"

Yuna glances at him, mouth set in a stubborn line. She clearly has more to say to Brandon about his line setup, but an unspoken understanding passes between them. She relents. She reaches up to rest a hand over one of David's and nods. Judge and jury agree to let him go free.

"Okay, honey." She turns back to Brandon and smiles again, quick and easy and not at all performed. "Good luck next season. Maybe we'll see a Cup in Ottawa soon."

They all know it's not going to happen, but that's okay. It's the nice thing to say. Especially when you're the one with the all-star son who will probably win every award known to man before he's thirty. Brandon forces a smile back and nods. He glances at David for the barest moment before they're turning away, heading for the elevators.

Only once they're completely out of view does he sink against the wall behind him and stare down at his trembling hands.

David listens to the sink running in the bathroom and closes his eyes. Draws air into his lungs and slowly lets it back out. Focuses on the constant, static-like sound from the other room until the leftover panic has finally eased out of his veins.

He has always been a relatively healthy person. He stays active, taking long walks and hikes and eating in a way that allows him to largely forget how old he actually is. His joints are starting to complain, especially when it rains, and he's almost completely gray through his hair, but he still feels good. Sound. Stable.

Until he saw his wife had cornered his ex-boyfriend and was speaking to him directly. Then he was pretty sure his heart began to fail.

The tight, sharp pain that had been shooting through his chest with every heartbeat had finally eased, now that he and Yuna were safely tucked away in their hotel room. David had changed out of his suit and into his pajama pants and shirt, the loose, soft fabric helping to soothe his frayed nerves.

He had asked Yuna what she and Brandon were talking about. Hockey, she had said. What else would she be talking to a head coach for an NHL team about? At the NHL awards no less?

She didn't catch the barely-contained panic that had been bubbling under the surface. She didn't see him hold his breath until she gave him her answer. She didn't know what Brandon Wiebe meant to him.

She would never know.

David glances at his cell phone, charging on the night stand. He feels terrible about the whole thing. He wants to apologize. And… he wants to see Brandon. Really see him, face to face, for the first time in so many years. The frenzied rush he had been in when he finally caught up to Yuna didn't count. They were both so nervous. So scared. He wants to see his friend and not feel like they're all being held at gunpoint.

He wants to look at him without worrying about what his wife may see on his face when he lets himself really look at Brandon Wiebe again.

He sends a simple text. Are you still at the party?

He gets a response much faster than he expected. No. Going to bed?

It absolutely should not make David's stomach flip the way it does to read those words. They feel far too familiar. Far too much like Brandon murmuring to him in the dark of their dorm room, asking if he's asleep, if he needs help getting there, if he wants —

David types back. The water in the bathroom shuts off. Yuna zips up one of her toiletry bags. No. Thought I might check out the rooftop tonight.

The light in the bathroom flicks off and Yuna emerges, transformed from the glittering, elegant creature of the awards and into the comfortable, dressed-down woman she always became before bed. She drops her bag into her suitcase, tucks away her shoes from the evening, and pads over to the other side of the bed, where she assembles her medications and eye drops and nasal spray for the night.

Another text comes through. When were you thinking?

David has never in his life cheated on his wife. Not physically, not emotionally, not even in a joke made about how he found someone else attractive. It's never happened, because he's never wanted to cheat on Yuna. He still doesn't want to cheat on Yuna. And he never will. But God damn him if he doesn't feel, horrifically, as if he's having an affair right now, texting Brandon right beside her in a hotel bed.

Fifteen minutes?

Yuna tucks her legs under the covers, pops a sleeping pill, and turns out the light on her side of the bed. She slides her silk sleeping mask over her eyes, lies down on her side, and goes still. She will stay there for the next eight hours, David knows. She goes under fast and doesn't move an inch the entire night. She never has.

"I might take a walk," David announces quietly. "I'm still a little keyed up from all the action, I think."

"M'kay honey," Yuna sighs, already halfway to unconsciousness. "Don't forget your room key."

She accepts it so easily. He has never given her a reason not to. He has never been unfaithful. He has always done exactly what he has told her he would do, whenever he said he would do it. The only secrets that have ever existed between them were the innocent kind, the kind made to conceal surprise parties and Christmas gifts and the discovery that David was making her favorite for dinner that night.

That, and the secret that has always been Brandon Wiebe.

David slips out of the room in slippers and a black bathrobe from home. The door shuts behind him like an accusation. His phone and hotel room key are like stones in his pockets as he heads to the elevator.

He has to take a flight of stairs from the top floor to the roof. The door to the stairwell is propped open, and it's with a jolt that he sees someone slumped on the stairs there, looking forlorn. It's Ilya Rozanov, of all people, leaning against the wall as he sits on one of the concrete steps. He smells like cigarettes, and his eyes are heavy-lidded. He looks like he's… pouting.

Well. Shane did beat him out for Rookie of the Year. It's not a great show of sportsmanship, but David remembers how it felt to be nineteen and to lose out on something he really wanted. He won't judge him. Much.

Rozanov blinks and looks up at him, seeming to remember he's still on earth with everyone else. "Sorry," he says, voice low and rolling in his thick accent. He gets his long legs under him and stands, still decked out in his tuxedo, bowtie hanging limply on either side of his neck from where it's been left untied. "I am in the way."

"Not at all," David says, giving him a small smile. "Good view up there?"

The Russian nods once. He eases his hands into his jacket pockets and starts shuffling toward the elevator. "Very nice. Very… memorable."

It's an odd choice of words, but then again, David only speaks one language fluently himself. His French, despite being Canadian and having a wife from Montreal, is and has always been stilted and awkward. He nods and heads up the stairs as the elevator dings in the hallway behind him.

Rozanov wasn't lying. The view is impressive. The perpetually lit strip of Las Vegas glitters and sparkles in neon and halogen and LED sprays below, a kaleidoscope of color and light. Cars weave through the veins of streets in dots of red and white lights. Music thumps from a live show, hidden from his sight by a neighboring building.

But none of it holds a candle to the sight that greets him when he hears the door to the roof open and he turns around.

Brandon has likewise changed out of his suit, but he hasn't quite dressed down to the degree David has. He wears dark jeans and a long-sleeve Centaurs shirt. He carries himself with a confidence that doesn't reach his face, but when he spots David against the railing, his features soften. A smile, familiar and true, blooms over his mouth and lights up his dark eyes.

"Hey, Bowie," he says, in the flesh, not through a phone speaker or a screen, and David is grateful to the railing at his back, because he's pretty sure he would fall right over the edge of the building into the neon ocean below without it.

"Hey, Brando," he says back.

David steps toward Brandon. Brandon steps toward David.

There is so much David wants to say to him, now that they're face to face. I'm sorry. I miss you. I'm glad you're here. You look amazing.

But he can't say anything, because suddenly they're hugging, Brandon's strong arms wrapped tightly around David's middle, and the lights of Las Vegas begin to blur as tears crowd into his eyes.

Brandon doesn't make a conscious decision to hug David. He had told himself, as he rode the elevator and climbed the stairs and opened the door, that he was going to be casual about this. Professional, even. They have way too much undisclosed baggage between them to go barrelling into anything more.

But then he sees him, bundled in his bathrobe and slippers like the cozy little dork he was back in college, and Brandon's resolve evaporates.

He slaps David's shoulders soundly before finally leaning back. "It's… it's good to see you," he says, smiling hard enough that his face aches.

"You, too," David replies. His blue eyes are shining with unshed tears.

Brandon fights the urge to reach up and swipe them away with his thumbs. "You're not wearing your glasses," he observes.

"I got that Lasik eye surgery a few years back," David announces, and Brandon's heart does a funny thing. It sinks. Like he told him that someone died. "I don't need them anymore. We'll see how long it lasts, though."

Brandon's fucking mourning the loss of those gold-rimmed glasses in a way he has absolutely no right to, so he makes himself take a step back to open up space between them. He's vastly underestimated how much of an effect being close to David again would have on him. He reminds himself that there's a reason he got as far away from him as possible after things… fell apart.

"You've been doing okay? Big night for you guys," he says, desperate to fill the air with something other than his own longing.

"Yeah, we're good. Proud. We knew Shane was going to win." David glances down, kicks one slippered foot, looks back up. "You probably had a lot to catch up on in there, with everyone in the same place. Lot of your guys still playing?"

"Oh, yeah, plenty of them. They're starting to get old like me, though. Hayward's hips aren't going to keep forgiving him for all those splits."

David nods. He presses his lips together in a way that Brandon knows means he's about to say something heavy, and Brandon braces for it. "You talk to any of the 'Birds still?"

It's a close shot, but not one that's close enough to wound. "Rarely. You?"

"Some. Bernie sends a Christmas card every year. Last I heard from Dougan, he was looking into coaching in the AHL." He pauses. Swallows. "And Alois —"

"I know about Alois," Brandon interrupts. He doesn't want this moment overshadowed by their shared grief. "Damn shame."

White casket. Ten dozen yellow roses. Burial plot in Montreal.

Brandon pushes it away.

"I see Yuna's as spirited as ever." Brandon huffs a nervous laugh. "I was so afraid she was going to bury her heel in my crotch," he chuckles, unable to help himself. "She scares the shit out of me."

"Why?" David asks, looking genuinely perplexed. "She's always liked you. Even if she has criticisms of your starting line."

Brandon blinks at him, his earlier suspicion digging its heels deeper into his mind. "I mean, I was worried she might have hard feelings. About us."

Realization dawns suddenly on David's face, and with it comes something worse: guilt. "Yuna doesn't know about that," he says quickly. "Don't worry."

Don't worry.

It would have been gentler if David had punched him in the chest. With a knife. A chill, heavy and complete and solid, sinks into Brandon's limbs. He feels like he just fell through the ice on a frozen lake in January. Like he's not in the middle of the desert in June.

"She doesn't know?" Brandon asks, his voice quiet and strained even to his own ears. "You never told her?"

David looks bewildered. "Of course not," he says. "It's not… it wasn't… I mean, it's not like you told your wife, right?"

The bone-deep cold feeling is suddenly replaced with hurt. Anger. Resentment. "I did," Brandon spits. "On our third date."

It had been necessary. Brandon had taken Valerie to dinner that night. Had been hoping she would take him home with her after. She had looked stunning, eyes shining under glittery shadow, her dark skin swathed in cream-colored silk. But then she stopped him dead in his tracks.

"I like you a lot, Brandon, and I want to get to know you more," she had said, leaning on her elbows, head tilted. "But I feel like you're shutting yourself off from me, and I don't have time for stuff like that, so if you're not willing to open up more, we probably shouldn't bother wasting each other's time. Yeah?"

She was completely right, of course. It was the same thing he always did whenever he tried to date. As soon as things turned toward the mundane and emotional, he ran away. He refused to answer direct questions about his past relationships. He flinched away from the hurt place inside of him, as if turning away from it and ignoring it could make it go away.

By that point in his life, he had finally gotten tired of running. Of being alone, day in and day out, of having no home or family to come back to after the crowds went quiet and the ice was empty and the season was over. He had no one but himself to blame for how things had turned out, and only he could fix it.

So he decided to be brave and try.

"I like you a lot, too," he had told Valerie.

And then he told her everything else.

By the end of the night, he was in her bed fighting tears as she held him between her thighs. She cupped his face and brushed his tears away and didn't flinch as he buried his face in her neck. She didn't let him hide, but she didn't judge him when he revealed his pain to her. She thanked him for being honest. For working through it with her.

He married her because she was the first person since David that had felt so easy to love. She knew what he was, who he was, and loved him loudly no matter what.

Valerie loved Brandon the way that David still, even now, refused to.

David just stares at him, looking gutted and stunned. "You… she knows about us?" he asks, eyes wide.

"Yes. I had to tell her to make it work. To help her understand me." Brandon swallows, squares his shoulders. This is one of the moments he's rehearsed over and over in his head, and he wishes it wasn't happening, but he's also glad that at least now he can get it over with and leave no more room for guessing or confusion. "You really fucked me up, David. For a long time."

David winces as if struck. "I didn't — we weren't —"

Brandon holds a hand up to stop him. "Don't, okay? Just don't. Don't stand there and tell me what we had wasn't serious. Don't tell me it wasn't real. It was real to me. And I think we both know it was real to you, too. Why else would you have run away?"

David swallows hard. He opens his mouth again, but then lets it fall shut.

I am only ever going to be his dirty little secret, Brandon realizes, the pain shooting through him like razor wire being dragged through his body. I am the jagged piece that doesn't fit into his neat, wonderful little life.

Some things never really change.

Brandon just shakes his head. "But hey, I guess it was worth pretending it didn't matter, right?" He holds his arms out wide, gesturing to the rooftop around them, the casino beneath them, the skyline that stretches out in a dazzling array of artificial starlight. "You got the girl. You got the family. And your boy is gonna rock the league for years to come. So I guess it shook out okay. Worth a little blood under the nails at the end of the day, right?"

It's mean and bitter and entirely unfair. It's everything Brandon has felt for twenty years, bottled and compressed and thrown in David Hollander's face like a Molotov cocktail.

The look on David's face is the definition of agony. "Brandon," he starts, but Brandon steps away from him and angles his body toward the exit.

"Have a nice life, David. Tell Shane congratulations."

He leaves the roof before David can try again.

Chapter End Notes

up next: the sochi olympics~

aaaand if anyone needs me i'll be in witness protection bc trust me i've seen y'all's comments and i know i'm in big trouble about the a-bomb. i'm so sorry. but look!!!! angsty old men!!!!!! okay bye!!!!

if you still feel sore about it you can come yell at me over on tumblr.

and special shoutout to cat as always for keeping me on task and motivated and proofreading and just being a kickass friend and always being down to yap with me ily girl and i'm very glad we met <3

Chapter 7: can't fight this feeling

Chapter Notes

cw for brief mentions of drug use, drug addiction, and overdose.

MONTREAL - 1988

Something changed after the game against Kingston.

David started walking with his head held a little higher. His shoulders a little more square. Heads turned in his direction whenever he walked into the room at practice. The disjointed, awkward energy among the team dissipated. Even with Dubois's flaky coaching style, David managed to coax them into fighting shape.

It felt like they had really gone through something together after the bloodbath against Queen's. The majority of their lineup had come away bloodied or bruised in some fashion, and as they healed together, they dominated.

They won their next two games, and by the third, they were a menace on the ice. David watched with fierce pride as Alois exploded down the far side of the rink with the puck, the clock ticking down in the last minutes of the third period. He whooped as Alois shot to Brandon, who dodged a defenseman and handled circles around him before passing to David, who squared up directly in front of the goalie, cranking his stick back for a slapshot —

And then slid the puck last-minute to his right, where Alois was sweeping back up after circling all the way around the net and sailing up on his wing out of absolutely nowhere, moving faster than the goalie even thought to keep up with. The goalie dropped low to fend off the shot that never came from David, allowing Alois to sink the puck high in the net right over his head.

The Redbirds won 4-0.

The game was at home, and the high of their third consecutive victory carried them all the way from the ice to the showers to Gert's, where the drinks were flowing and David didn't even know who was buying them. It really wasn't his thing to drink, but bottles and glasses kept finding their way into his hand and cheers kept being raised and shots kept being passed around. He was too happy and energized to say no.

Especially with Brandon pressed to his side for the entire night.

Girls kept coming up to them in Redbirds jerseys, batting their lashes and hanging off their arms, but Brandon never once left David's side. He was glued to his left the same way he would have been on the ice, laughing loudly and telling jokes and belting along to every song the jukebox cranked out from the corner of the bar.

"You should find someone to go home with tonight!" Alois cackled over the music at one point, leaning in too fast and sloshing his drink dangerously close to Brandon's shirt. "You earned it!"

"Who says I'm not?" Brandon called back, bold as anything, and glanced up at David with a look so hot that David felt his pulse stutter.

Alois glanced between them, smiling ear to ear, and ruffled Brandon's hair with his free hand. "Bon pour toi, mon ami," he laughed before slipping back into the writhing knot of bodies that was crammed into the small space.

David suddenly wanted to be anywhere but there. Brandon caught his eye and winked. Winked. David thought that was just something people did in movies, but there Brandon Wiebe was, looking flushed and loose and devilishly handsome in his Redbirds jacket, and suddenly David felt like his legs were going to melt from underneath him.

Brandon chuckles as David's weight sinks against him for a moment, arm tightening around his waist in a way that made his heart kick painfully against his ribs. "I think Cap has had enough for one night," he says smoothly, angling them toward the door and dropping his empty beer bottle into the trash. "You guys make good choices."

Alois swatted at Brandon's arm as they passed him, lips curled into an entirely too knowing grin behind the rim of his glass. David felt like he might combust from the bemused look in his green eyes.

The walk through the snow that was lightly falling over the campus helped sober him up a little, at least. His and Brandon's breaths came out in thick puffs before them as they trekked back to their dorm building, snickering to each other as they fought to keep each other upright whenever they hit hidden patches of ice. Despite the cold, David was just… happy.

It was a feeling he thought he was familiar with, but hadn't truly known the depth of until recently.

Brandon brought something out in him that he hadn't realized was even there. He encouraged him to be looser, to be louder, to both stand up for himself and also to say yes more often to social opportunities. He dragged David out of his dorm room to hang out at Gert's instead of just sitting by himself all night listening to music and pretending to study. He didn't force him to go to parties, but he extended any invitations he received.

Brandon was fun. Brandon was a very good friend.

And David was… drawn to him.

He had tried to convince himself that it was a weird trick of proximity and shared orgasms. That the all-encompassing rage he had felt against Queen's when their defenseman smashed his elbow into Brandon's eye was just a symptom of close friendship, of his natural proclivity to feel protective of his rookies as their captain.

But he couldn't explain away the way Brandon had leaned into his palm as David cradled his bruised face and confessed that he couldn't stand to see him hurt. He couldn't justify why he looked for Brandon in every room he walked into. Why he hoped he would bump into him between classes as he walked around campus, just so he could see him and see how he was doing throughout the day.

And he definitely couldn't afford to put words to why he couldn't stop touching Brandon as they tripped up the stairs to their floor. Why he kept nudging him and ruffling his hair and tugging at his clothes. Why every grin and barely-smothered fit of laughter made his insides feel like a freshly shaken can of soda, ready to explode.

Brandon crowded in behind David when they finally got to their door, chuckling quietly against his shoulder as David fumbled over and over for his key. His cold fingers probed under David's jacket and poked sharply at his ribs, making him snort and bite his lip.

"Stop, M'gonna drop my keys, Wiebe," David muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but his face was split open in a grin the whole time.

After what felt like a year, David got the door open. They nearly fell over the threshold into the dark, shutting the door way too loud behind them as they tried (and failed) to stifle their laughter in their hands. Brandon started fighting with the laces on his shoes and pitched forward, his head butting roughly into David's stomach, and David reeled as he braced against his shoulders to keep him steady and not let his face go any further south.

At some point, both of them had abandoned their shoes and jackets and hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. They leaned clumsily against each other, their silhouettes highlighted in bleary weak orange light from the street light outside, and David tried to ignore how hypnotized he felt just from listening to Brandon breathe.

He also tried to ignore how painfully hard he was in his jeans.

That plan was shattered, though, when Brandon stepped closer and palmed his cock through the denim, making David gasp.

"We both know you can't sleep like that, Cap," Brandon murmured in the dark. His breath skated over David's throat. The dark played tricks on him; he was underestimating exactly how closely Brandon was pressed to him, how few inches of space were between their faces.

David swallowed. Nodded. "Y-yeah," he stammered. "You wanna help me, uh —?"

Brandon's hands came up to his shoulders in response. He shoved David back onto his bed, reminding him exactly how strong and sturdy he was, which did nothing for how David's cock was straining in his boxers. He didn't have time to think about that, though, because Brandon was crawling on top of him straddling him and pushing him flat back onto the mattress.

"What are you —" David fumbled, the alcohol slowing his reflexes and making him lag behind as Brandon moved faster than he could keep up with.

"Something you'll like," Brandon panted in response, fingers deftly unhooking David's belt and pulling open his fly. "Trust me."

Trust me. David did, which was the scary part. He trusted Brandon to be there when he shot the puck across the ice without looking. He trusted him to back him up when he made a call on a play. He trusted him in his space, day in and day out.

So he didn't hesitate to go limp beneath Brandon as he tugged his erection free from his clothes. He didn't even protest when Brandon's hands left him completely to work his own fly open. The reward for his brief moment of patience was the hot, firm press of Brandon's cock against his own, a sensation so novel and erotic that David's hips jerked up sharply of their own accord.

"Oh my God," David whispered.

"Told you." David could practically hear the smirk in Brandon's voice. "Lotion."

David reached out blindly for his nightstand. The generic bottle of hand lotion was right where he left it. He pressed it against Brandon's arm and held it there as he pumped a healthy dose into his palm before he flung it down to the floor. He'd worry about it later.

For now, he rolled his head back and moaned as Brandon took both of them in his slick palm and stroked them together. The lotion was cold, Brandon's hand was warm, and Brandon's cock was scalding. David's head was spinning with the myriad of sensations.

"Shh, Hollander," Brandon whispered, leaning over David as he worked them both in a slow rhythm. "Gonna wake the whole floor up."

"Sorry," David hissed, rolling his hips beneath Brandon and relishing in the resistance he was met with in the form of Brandon's solid weight on top of him. "It's — God, it's so good —"

Another high, sharp sound tore from David's throat as Brandon's palm twisted around their cockheads. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and tried to bite back his moans. God, it was so much. Brandon's breath picking up above him, his heavy weight pinning David down, their cocks dripping precome against each other as Brandon stroked them together. David wanted to keep it down, because no one could know about this, because he didn't want to be rude, but he also just wanted to throw his head back and —

"David," Brandon hissed, inches from David's face. "Come on, man, quiet, I'm almost —"

"I'm trying," David whined, knowing how desperate he sounded and entirely unable to do anything about it. "Oh God, Brandon, fuck —"

Another moan was building in his throat. His orgasm was cresting recklessly, faster than he was prepared for, his entire body taking him by surprise. Brandon had his free hand braced on the headboard, unable to slap it over David's open mouth, and as the sound began to emerge from his lips, he made a split second decision and went with the next best thing, apparently.

He crashed their mouths together, open and wet, and swallowed the shocked, wrecked noise that burst from David's throat as he came in Brandon's hand.

Their mouths were still locked when Brandon came right behind him, the mess pooling on David's stomach between them. He leaned away once they were both still and quiet, a string of saliva tethering them together.

David held his breath.

Then he craned his neck up and chased after Brandon's mouth, kissing him. Brandon answered him at once, pressing back with force, licking into David's mouth and nipping at his lips, and David just melted beneath him.

At least, until he finally realized what they were doing.

Mutual masturbation was one thing. He could maybe even excuse… whatever this new thing was. But this was kissing. Kissing another boy. Kissing his rookie. Kissing his roommate. This was definitely, unarguably not allowed.

He leaned back against the pillow and pulled away, eyes frantically searching for details of Brandon's face in the near-darkness. Brandon was heaving over him, breath hot on David's face.

"What are we doing," David breathed into the space between them, unable to even summon his voice, which had been so ready to volunteer itself just moments before.

"I don't know," Brandon replied, sounding as stunned as David felt. "Do you… do you want to stop?"

We should. This isn't right. This isn't safe. We can't do this.

"No."

They sat up, Brandon's knees still bracketing David's hips, and tugged off their shirts. Cleaned themselves up. Kicked off their pants and slid beneath David's sheets. Brandon tucked his body under David's, his rough, callused hands roaming down David's back and tangling in his hair, and David kissed and kissed and kissed him until his brain was wholly, utterly silent. He could have heard a pin drop in Halifax if he wasn't completely enraptured with the musical cadence of Brandon's breathing against his own mouth.

In the morning, David's first thought was I need to explain this, we were drunk, we will never speak of it again. Brandon's body was pressed to his, his head down and butted up against David's chest, legs tangled with his own. David swallowed and started constructing a speech…

…Only to have it fall apart when Brandon stirred, mumbling, and peeked out from under the covers at him. He smiled, a small, contented little expression that David had never seen before, and snuggled closer to him.

"Mornin'," he mumbled against David's collar.

"Morning," David murmured, pressing a kiss into Brandon's hopelessly rumpled hair.

He lay still and waited for his mind to start screaming at him again. For plans and logical explanations to invent themselves. For the panic to set in now that the alcohol was gone from his system and the brilliant light of day was shining in through the blinds, leaving no question about exactly who was in his bed and what they had done together last night.

It never came.

Despite this, they still didn't talk about it.

David had expected things to grow tense and awkward between them, but Brandon's nature simply didn't allow for it. They still went to practice. They continued to win games. They kept to their own beds and schedules during the week, going to class and studying and gearing up for the end of the semester before Christmas break.

But on the weekends, their boundaries blurred. They touched and kissed and fell asleep in the same bed, two bulky hockey players crammed into one twin-sized bunk. David found himself looking forward to the weekends even more than usual, if only so he could wake up with Brandon's forehead pressed to his chest or his back or his shoulder and tug him closer and breathe him in first thing in the morning.

They didn't talk about it.

In a way, it felt like they'd already discussed it as much as they needed to. What are we doing? I don't know. Do you want to stop? No. It was still true. David still didn't know what they were doing. He still didn't want to stop.

And that was fine, because life went on. Winter came barrelling in, short days and long, frosted nights. Campus twinkled with Christmas lights. The Redbirds racked up wins and anticipated a run at the championship in the spring.

David was content to keep going like that, so long as he didn't have to stop and look too closely at any one thing.

Their comfortable routine was broken, though, when he woke to the sound of thumping and quick, panicked breathing coming from Brandon's bed.

It was a Wednesday night, and David had gone to bed early, once again fatigued and stressed from his statistics coursework. He rolled over at the noise, aware now of what it was, but this time, he didn't feel right just calling out to Brandon and waking him. Something behind his ribs pulled him to get up out of bed, ease back the covers on Brandon's, and slide in beside him as he thrashed and muttered in his sleep.

"Brandon," he said quietly, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Hey, bud, easy. Wake up. Bran —"

Brandon startled awake, going stock still in the bed. David had foregone the light, so he couldn't see his face. He waited a second to see if Brandon would shove him out of his bed, if he would roll over and tell him not to mention it. He was braced for either possibility, at that point.

What he wasn't prepared for was the way Brandon's breath suddenly hitched.

"Brandon?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

Brandon grabbed at his shirt, buried his face against David's chest, and broke down into jagged, pained sobs. David was floored for a moment, belatedly bring his arms around him and holding him close as his entire body shook. Every muscle beneath his skin was jumping and wound tight. He clung to David like he was the last human on earth.

"Hey, hey, easy, it's okay," David babbled gently against his hair, rubbing slow circles between his taught shoulders. "I've got you, bud. Easy. Breathe. It's okay."

It took several minutes before Brandon's breathing finally began to even out. David's shirt felt soaked, but he didn't care. His chest ached with every hiccup and sob that tore out of Brandon's throat. He just wanted him to be okay.

Finally, the worst of it subsided. Brandon relaxed in David's embrace, sniffling and shivering slightly. "Sorry," he whimpered in the dark.

"It's okay," David assured him, tugging the covers tighter around them, trapping their body heat as much as he could. "You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to. But if you do, I'm here. I've got you."

Brandon took in a shaky breath, let it back out. He was quiet for so long that David began to wonder if he had worn himself out and fallen asleep, but then he spoke.

"It's my mom," he said, his voice so small and quiet that David almost didn't hear him, even this close. "She, umm, does a lot of drugs. The kind with needles. And sometimes she takes too much."

David's heart sank. Despite their shared warmth, he felt a chill run across his skin. It didn't feel right to interrupt, so he stayed silent, stroking Brandon's hair and rubbing his back.

"I was four when I found her. The first time."

The wind went clean out of David for a moment. "Oh, God, Brandon," he sighed, unable to help himself.

Brandon just kept going. "I had to ask the neighbor to call an ambulance. I couldn't reach the phone. I had to stay in a foster home for a few months while she got clean. I thought it would be okay when we finally went back home together." He paused, swallowed, shuddered in David's arms. "But then it happened again when I was ten."

David's eyes were burning. He blinked the tears back. He had no right to them, not now, not while Brandon was baring his soul. "I'm so sorry, Brandon," he said, knowing the words were useless, but needing to say something.

"In the dreams," Brandon went on, as if David hadn't spoken at all, "I find her, and it's too late, and I'm trying to bring her back. She was dead the second time. The paramedics had to shock her until she came back. But in the dream, she never comes back, and I'm still four years old and I can't reach the phone and the door won't open and I can't get help. I'm just stuck, staring at her on the kitchen floor, and it's all my fault."

God. David squeezed Brandon tight, swallowing hard against his own stupid tears. He can see it so clearly: that scared little boy, alone in the world, trying so hard to save his mother who should have been saving herself, if only for his sake.

It reminded him how lucky he was, that he never had to know what that felt like. That he had both his parents and his two brothers to lean on while growing up. David had always been held. Had always been provided for and looked after and loved. No one had been looking out for Brandon, and it made his soul ache to think of him fending for himself for all those years.

"It's not your fault, Brandon," David tells him firmly. "You're not responsible for any of it. You know that, right?"

He felt Brandon nod against his chest. "Yeah," he said wanly. "I know. I just… I think she's gonna die soon. I'm just waiting to get the phone call. I don't know what I'll do when it comes."

Instantly, David's mind ran leaps and bounds ahead of reality. You'll come live with me. I'll take care of you. My family will be your family. You won't ever be alone again. He didn't even know where that sentiment came from; he just felt it and knew it to be true, even if it made no sense.

But he couldn't say any of that. So he stroked Brandon's hair and held him until he fell asleep in his arms, and this time, he slept soundly through the night.

December deepened, and with the dropping temperatures and the impending Christmas break came the anxiety of finals.

As usual, statistics remained the bane of David's life. He was so ready to be done with that damn class. The night before his exam found him at his desk, music playing softly on his stereo, a headache working its way between his brows. He tugged at the roots of his hair, desperately trying to burn the material into his memory but feeling hopelessly like it wasn't sticking. Words slid around in his brain like water off a duck's wings.

"Glaring at it won't make you remember it better, y'know."

David glanced up. Brandon was stretched over his own bed, notebook open on his pillow. He stretched slowly when David looked at him, back arcing and hips lifting up in a way that made David's mouth go dry.

"You never know," he muttered, quickly returning his attention to his textbook before he could get too distracted. "Maybe if I screw my face up long enough, it'll stamp the answers onto my brain. Muscle memory or something."

"I don't think that's how it works," Brandon snickered.

"Oh, so you're a biology major now?" David didn't look at him, because he could already sense that Brandon was fully focused on him now instead of his own studying, and he couldn't afford the distraction.

Brandon didn't answer. David could hear shuffling, covers sliding around as Brandon moved, the floorboards creaking quietly as he got off the bed and stood up. Do not come over here, he thought, but didn't say out loud, because as much as he needed to focus, he would be lying if he tried to deny that he always wanted Brandon closer, now. David sought out his touch, his scent, the warmth and the dense, solid bulk of him, and he cursed himself for it, but he couldn't figure out how to make the wanting stop.

Brandon drew nearer. David glanced to the side, where he had stopped near his elbow. He swallowed hard. "Brandon —"

"I just wanna help, Cap," Brandon purred.

David's cock immediately began to stand at attention. Brandon knew damn well the effect it had on him when he called him Cap outside of the rink. Before he could call him out on it. Brandon was sinking to his knees and awkwardly crawling beneath David's desk, tucking his muscular frame beneath the wooden surface.

"Wiebe," David hissed. "What are you —"

Warm, strong hands began to knead into David's thighs beneath the desk. "Keep reading," Brandon said from below. "I'll help."

Dear God in heaven. David chewed his lip and stared down at the textbook in front of him, but there was absolutely no way to ignore what was going on between his legs. Brandon slowly tugged him out of his sweats, stroking him to full mast with agonizingly indulgent motions. It was made all the more erotic by the fact that David couldn't see what he was doing. He could only react as it happened, pressing his fist to his mouth to try to keep quiet.

He might have been able to bite back his gasps, might have been able to even try and focus, until he felt the warm, satiny press of Brandon's lips against his shaft.

David made a choked sound, palm smacking down on the desktop. "Brandon, wait," he panted. "I've never —"

Unseen but certainly felt, Brandon's tongue licked a long, wet stripe up the side of David's cock. He made a humiliatingly high-pitched squeak, clapping his hand over his mouth, his face burning. He could only sit there, trembling with barely-contained pleasure, as Brandon gave him his very first blowjob.

It was something David had been teased over relentlessly in high school. He had once admitted he was waiting for marriage, and then that was all anyone could talk about for a month. He had received exactly two handjobs from girls before he met Brandon, and even those had made him feel guilty, as if he had somehow compromised the girls despite their very willing participation in the act. That wasn't sex though, so in David's mind, it didn't count.

But oral sex was sex, and that was where he drew the line.

Until now, apparently.

David had nothing to compare the feeling to, so as far as he was concerned, this was the best thing that had ever happened to his cock. Brandon's mouth was warm and wet and willing. He lapped at David's cockhead until he whined, biting on his knuckles to smother the sound. Brandon took his time, licking and kissing along the shaft, nuzzling at the base, cupping David's balls and rolling them in his fingers.

David came, hard and fast, when Brandon suddenly throated him all the way to the root.

"Oh my God," he gasped, gripping the edge of the desk in a white-knuckled hold. "Oh my God. Oh my God, Brandon, oh my God." He felt Brandon's throat flex around him as he swallowed. Swallowed. He sagged in his chair and fought to keep from passing out right then and there.

Brandon wriggled out from beneath the desk with a grin, his mouth red and wet, his dark eyes glinting triumphantly. "There," he preened. "No way you'll fail that test now."

He was right, which was the worst part. David not only passed his exam the next day, he aced it.

He burst into their dorm after he got his results, Brandon looking up from where he was pouring over another textbook at his desk. "Hey," he said with a smile, turning to face David as he strode into the room. "How did it —"

David cut him off by attacking his mouth, kissing the breath right out of his lungs. Brandon made a surprised sound beneath his mouth as David pressed them together, so happy he could scream.

"I passed," he panted against Brandon's lips when he came up for air. "I passed, Brandon. It's over. The semester's finally over."

Brandon smiled into his kisses, angling his head to nuzzle his nose beside David's. "I knew you would," he murmured. "Good job."

David was elated. Ecstatic. The course he had dreaded so much was finally halfway over, and he was about to go home for break, and Brandon was here, rooting him on and kissing him and praising his hard work and —

"What are you doing for Christmas?" he asked before he could even think about it.

Brandon went still, leaning back a bit. "Oh, uh, I was just… gonna stay here, I guess."

David's joy dimmed at the thought of Brandon, alone in this room for weeks, spending Christmas by himself. It was one of those thoughts that, if he pondered it too long, he was sure would make him cry.

"No." David gently pushed Brandon's hair from his forehead. It was getting long, and David privately hoped he would never cut it. "You can't spend Christmas here by yourself. Come home with me."

The mirth fully left Brandon's face. He glanced away, expression shuttered. "David, I can't do that," he said to the floor. "That's not… that's your time with your family. I don't want to intrude. I'll be okay here, really."

David tucked his knuckle beneath Brandon's chin to tip his head back up, holding his gaze. "You won't be intruding. I want you there. It'll be fine, really. I can call and tell my parents in the morning and we'll take the bus home together. Come on."

Don't make me beg, because I will, David thought. He couldn't stand the thought of Brandon here alone. Worse, he couldn't stand the thought of sleeping without him, of being where he couldn't see or hear him, but he wasn't going to interrogate that worry right now. Right now, he just needed Brandon to say yes.

"David…" Brandon sighed, and he could see the fight taking place behind his dark eyes. The desire to say yes, the obligation to say no.

David kissed him again, soft but insistent. "Please?" he whispered against his mouth.

Brandon took a deep breath. "Okay," he relented. "But only if you're sure it's okay with your parents."

David wanted to run down the hall whooping and shouting. "It will be. I promise. They're gonna love you."

He tugged Brandon up and over to his bed, and they stayed there until the world went dark and quiet around them.

Much, much later that night, David lay awake, gently brushing a thumb over Brandon's eyebrow as he slept. He usually had a concerned little divot right in the middle of his forehead when he slept, but whenever David was near him or touching him, it smoothed out. It made him look younger, softer, more vulnerable.

It made David's heart do funny things. Made his mind wander in a way he knew was terrible for them both.

Not wanting to slip into that particular panic spiral, David forced his thoughts elsewhere. It was a Friday, and classes were wrapped up. A lot of students had already left for home that afternoon, but plenty more were still on campus, set to depart for holiday destinations throughout the weekend to come. In the morning, David would buy an extra ticket to Ottawa and drag Brandon onto the bus with him, bound for home.

For now, though, there was one more thing he wanted Brandon to see before the break. He nudged Brandon's shoulder and started to get out of bed. "Hey," he said quietly. "Wake up."

Brandon mumbled and groaned, frowning as he rolled his face down into the pillow. "Whuh?" he slurred, blinking as David turned on a lamp.

"Get up, sleepyhead," David coaxed, standing up and grabbing his clothes. "Get dressed. We're going out."

"We are?" Brandon asked, slowly sitting up.

"Yeah. Come on, get up. I want to show you something." David tossed Brandon's pants at him with a grin.

They walked through the freezing night side by side, shoulders pressed tightly to each other. It took all of David's self control to not just sling an arm around Brandon and tuck him snugly to his side as they walked. It was well below freezing, and part of him was regretting leaving their warm bed, but this felt important.

"Where are we going?" Brandon asked, even though by then their course was clear.

"You'll see," David replied, dodging a pile of snow that had been haphazardly shoveled into a mound along the walkway.

Their destination was familiar: the rink. It was dark and abandoned at this hour, and Brandon shot David a bewildered look as they approached, only to blink in surprise when David pulled open the one door he knew would be unlocked. He ushered Brandon inside, closed it quietly behind them, and slipped through the dark, cold halls and corridors that lead to the ice.

There was a light on in the barn, just enough to illuminate the ice with. "What —" Brandon started to ask as they approached the stands, but David shushed him.

"Shh." He nudged Brandon further into the stands, overlooking the rink. "Look."

The sound of blades carving the ice reached them from afar. David peered over Brandon's shoulder to the rink below, where a lone figure in all black skated. Tinny, quiet orchestral music bled from a handheld radio perched on the boards, weakly wafting up to them.

The lone skater was putting on a show worthy of the Olympics. Tight, dizzying spins, wide, graceful arcs, stunningly fast sprints and glides around the edges of the ice, crescendoing into a jump and a double axle that made Brandon gasp. A long tail of blond hair floated out behind them like a brilliant golden flag.

"Holy shit," Brandon whispered. "Is that Alois?"

"Yeah," David replied. He dared to step closer, resting his chin on Brandon's shoulder. Brandon let him, leaning back against his chest, and David indulged further and wrapped his arms around Brandon's waist. "He's amazing."

That was an understatement. Alois had trained as a figure skater from the time he was four years old. His parents had apparently been appalled when he refused to try out for the French Olympic team, instead taking up a hockey stick and signing with a local team in Paris.

David could understand their outrage, honestly. Alois's form was gorgeous. His speed was incredible. He could still land a triple axle, though he did so rarely because it scared him and he didn't want to break an ankle and miss the season. Other hockey players would talk shit about his figure skating background and use it to justify hurling even worse slurs at him on the ice, but there was no denying that figure skating made Alois a far superior skater than all of them combined.

They watched, barely breathing, as Alois swung into a wide arc around the entire rink before coming to a stop at center ice, one leg extended. He began to spin like a top, building in speed as he started off low to the ground, gradually extending his body to his full height as he spun faster and faster, arms extended overhead. He was nothing but a black blur for a moment, coming to a dead stop when the music abruptly crested and ended.

Everything was quiet for exactly five seconds.

Then Brandon whooped and started clapping, making David jump behind him and quickly pull his arms away. Alois squawked at center ice, a hand pressed to his heart as he found them in the stands. "Mon Dieu!" he swore, making his way to the boards as Brandon and David started heading rinkside. "Don't do that, bebe! Could have given me a heart attack!"

"Sorry," Brandon chuckled as he and David leaned forward over the boards, where Alois docked before them. Sweat glistened and glittered on his skin like a dusting of diamonds in the thin light overhead. "That was fucking amazing."

"Ah, merci, mon ami," Alois panted. He was glowing with that post-exertion high that David knew all too well from his own drills and workouts and skates. "Is not what I used to be able to do, but…"

"Oh, stop being so modest," David snorted. "We both know you could have qualified for Calgary last year if you wanted."

Alois just rolled his eyes, the closest he would ever come to blushing. "What are you two doing here anyway? Semester is over, ouais? Don't you want to catch up on your sleep?"

"I wanted Wiebe to see you skate," David explained, glancing at Brandon, who looked back and smiled at him. "It's a once in a lifetime kinda thing, in my opinion."

Alois wasn't listening to him, though. He glanced conspiratorially between the two of them, and David felt heat creeping into his cheeks as he remembered his arms around Brandon from behind. He wondered if Alois had seen them like that, just for a second. Wondered what it was he saw between them as they stood here, shoulder to shoulder. Alois was grinning like the cat that ate the canary, but whatever observations he had, he kept them to himself.

"Mmm, yes, once in a lifetime," he said blithely, holding David's gaze.

Something tightened in David's chest. Ever since he had met Alois, he had inspired him to be better. To be brave. It wasn't something David was always capable of living up to, but he made him want to try. He was so loudly, brilliantly himself. He didn't apologize for being excellent. For taking up space. For wanting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it.

David wanted to know what it would feel like to do the same.

"So," Alois went on, pushing sweat-slicked hair from his forehead. "Christmas plans?"

Brandon didn't answer. He looked to David for direction, and David squared his shoulders and didn't flinch from Alois's searching green eyes. "We're going to my place," he announced, slinging his arm over Brandon's shoulders and pulling him closer. "Taking the bus up to Ottawa tomorrow."

There. A statement without words. An admission, an attempt at being brave. Brandon didn't pull away, and David didn't try to hide.

I don't know what this is. I don't know what we're doing. But I don't want to hide from my best friend.

Alois's teeth flashed as his mouth dropped open in a delighted little gasp. "David. All this time I have been obsessed with you, and Brandon gets to go home with you and meet Alfred and Susan? You wound me. I am crushed."

David chuckled, Brandon trying and failing to smother a snicker beside him. "Sorry, bud. Maybe next year, yeah?"

Alois turned his nose up prissily. "Hmph. Only if you buy me a ring first, mon amour."

OTTAWA - 2014

Many, many years later, David still remembers how he felt in that empty arena, his arm around Brandon's shoulders, Alois smirking at him in his figure skating sweats. He felt safe. Seen. At ease.

It had been the happiest he had been to date.

Which is probably why now, at the ripe hour of four in the morning, David is dabbing tears from his eyes as Tchaikovsky plays over a figure skater's program on his television screen, broadcast to him all the way from Sochi, Russia.

He tells himself he's watching this segment for Dev, one of the boys Shane had trained with briefly when he was growing up. They went to the same rink for a while, shared a coach and schedule, had been friends in the loosest definition. David had hoped they would stay in touch over the years, and maybe they have, but they certainly aren't close friends.

Not like David and Alois had been.

Grief is a funny thing. David has read that the human mind cannot conceptualize total absence, that it invents things to fill the space where something or someone used to be once they're no longer there. Phantom limb pain after an amputation and dreams where loved ones since passed still live and breathe and speak. It has been almost twenty years since he stood beside a grave in Montreal and dropped a yellow rose onto a white casket, and even now, he almost thinks he can just pick up the phone and call Alois and ask him what he thinks about this year's competition.

He misses his friend.

On the TV, Dev executes a beautiful triple axle, arms spread wide as he lands and glides into a wide turn. His costume glitters beneath the arena lights and the commentators commend his technical skill. It goes without saying how brave he is to be there, despite the hostile environment against queer people in Russia. No one is broadcasting the athlete's sexualities in their stats, of course, but in this particular sport, it tends to go without saying.

Alois would have spit in their faces and laughed if they tried to keep him off the ice, just like he did against Queen's. He feared nothing. He made everyone around him brave.

The stairs creak behind David. Yuna shuffles into the living room, yawning hugely, wrapped snugly into her fluffy robe and pajamas. She sinks into the couch cushions beside David, who wraps the afghan around her and tucks her into his side. She huffs, glancing at him with a smile.

"This isn't hockey," she remarks.

"I know," he replies, rubbing her arm. "But Shane's buddy Dev is competing. He's about to get his score."

They watch as the judges announce the points. Dev's face lights up as he realizes he scored high enough to advance to the medal round. People cheer and coaches hug him and the commentators remark on how important this is for Team Canada.

This, David thinks, is the reward for daring to be brave, even when it's hard.

The only other person he could possibly talk to about this is Brandon, and they haven't spoken since that disastrous night in Vegas nearly three years ago. David felt terrible about it, knowing he needed to make it right somehow, but never finding the words. He has no idea how to go about repairing the fragile bridge that he had completely demolished between them.

Yuna doesn't know. She's pressed against him right this moment, and she still doesn't know. David has never told her. He's always been too afraid of what she would think, of what she might do, even though it's so far in the past now. He's not even sure what exactly he worries she will do. Leave him? No. Hate him? Unlikely.

So why can't he ever just make the words come out?

He's never going to be able to even try to reach out to Brandon again until he stops being afraid. It's not fair to himself or to Yuna or to Brandon to keep pretending nothing ever happened. He owes it to them, and to himself, and to the memory of his best friend, who always inspired him to be better. To be brave.

David misses his friend.

He can't ever get Alois back. He can't ever call him again and chat and lean on him like he always used to. But he can put in the work and at least try to make things right with Brandon. That is a friend that, despite everything, he may still be able to win back. To be worthy of. To deserve.

But first he has to be brave.

He squeezes Yuna's shoulder, makes sure she's still awake. "Honey," he says, fighting the tremble in his voice, "I need to talk to you about something."

Chapter End Notes

up next: christmas with the hollanders~

hello from witness protection! i will remain here because i know it's not gonna get any better lol! (worry not i made myself cry plenty writing this one. such is life.)

hopefully the increased sex acts in this chapter make up for the gut punches. it's the least i can do.

as always if you want to come yell at me or yap about the sad old men, you can do so over on tumblr.

Chapter 8: with bells on

Chapter Notes

GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY i did not mean for this chapter to be this long OR this delayed in posting. apologies for the wait!!! enjoy the christmas chapter in may!!!

if you see any typos or grammar issues no you don't.

OTTAWA - 2014

Christmases with children are always a practice in logistics and timing.

When to buy the gifts, where to hide them, when to wrap them, how many to purchase, how much money to spend, and how to spend it in a way that both quantifies your love for your offspring without plummeting you into financial ruin.

Then there's the scheduling: when does school let out and get back in, when do we see the grandparents, are we going to church this year, is someone hosting brunch or dinner, what on earth are we going to do for the faraway New Years Eve?

For the past nine years running in the Wiebe household, these questions have been asked in triplicate.

Brandon and Val are a power couple in the realm of parenting. Brandon, glued as ever to a strict calendar thanks to work, handles the scheduling and the long-range planning. Valerie, meanwhile, navigates the tricky, arise-in-the-moment situations and thinks on the fly. This is really the only reason that the pair feel even remotely confident in their "big" gift for the girls this year.

Brandon had started researching and shopping around in July. Valerie had begun stockpiling additional supplies and hiding them in the attic in October. The payload itself had been secured three days ago and kept safely at her parents' house until Christmas morning.

And now, as the girls finished shredding through the brightly colored paper and ribbon that concealed their (admittedly small) Christmas hoard, Val meets Brandon's eye from across the room and nods. He slips away to the garage, carefully moves the package into the comically large box he's prepped for the occasion, and carries it, wiggling, back to the living room.

"Okay, girls," Val announces, getting the triplets' attention. "This is your big gift from me and Daddy. You'll have to share it, alright? It's a big responsibility, now. Can you girls share?"

Three wildly curly heads in varying states of disarray bob eagerly in the affirmative.

"Good. Now, be gentle with it, okay? No screaming or throwing or running around."

Brandon sets the box down before his daughters. Sally plucks off the lid, Marie shoves her head inside, and Grace gasps —

"A PUPPY!!!"

A golden head pops out of the box, pink tongue flicking out to bathe Marie's face in kisses. She falls back in a fit of giggles as her sisters reach to pull the dog out of the box. Brandon holds his breath.

The dog — a ten-week-old golden retriever puppy — wags her tail and barks and immediately begins launching herself at the girls, one after the other. Despite the request for them not to scream, they shriek with giddy laughter, running around the living room and bounding from each piece of furniture to the next as they frantically fight to keep the puppy from nibbling their toes.

All their other, smaller gifts are quickly forgotten. Their wild joy carries them like a current through the rest of the morning. They barely even pause in their play to eat breakfast.

Brandon is relieved. He had worried the three girls would be too much for the puppy. One nine-year-old girl is intimidating enough, but three? He wouldn't have blamed the dog if she had curled up and played dead in the face of such energy and zeal. The breeder had assured him, however, that her dogs were all temperament tested and proven to make great family dogs, even among several young children.

Still, though, he can't help but wait for the other shoe to drop, because that's just the kind of person he is doomed to always be.

The shoe drops that evening, when the girls are collapsed in a heap on the sofa, How The Grinch Stole Christmas still quietly playing on the TV. They form an impressive, nigh-impenetrable phalanx when they sleep in such a manner, and the (still yet unnamed) puppy is whining and scratching at their limbs from the edge of the couch cushions, wanting to be included.

Grace, violent sleeper that she is, thrashes an arm out and socks the puppy in the nose. The dog yelps and scampers away, tail tucked, to hide under the coffee table. A puddle quickly darkens the rug beneath her.

Brandon watches all of this with a sigh. The girls have done leaps and bounds better than he and Val were expecting, all things considered, but there will definitely still be growing pains as they adjust to their new addition. Val has made it abundantly clear that they will not, under any circumstances, be the shithead family that gets a puppy for Christmas and then dumps it at the shelter by Easter.

Brandon slowly kneels on the rug and coaxes the puppy to come to him. His back complains loudly with the downward motion and even louder when he stands, puppy in hand, but he bites back the old man grunts and groans that try to creep out of him. Better to let the girls sleep — and to not let the puppy know that he's weak. Dogs, he's been told, can sense weakness.

He's also been told that the best way to potty train a new puppy is to always take it outside when you want it to go, even if it's already had an accident in the house. This is how he ends up in the snow in his rubber rain boots and house robe, shivering as the puppy romps through snow drifts ten time her size and carves a small pathway for herself around the backyard. She's getting absolutely nothing productive done, but at least she's seemingly forgotten Grace's wicked unconscious backhand.

He knows, of course, that Grace didn't hit the dog on purpose. She wasn't even awake. But still, the memory keeps playing over and over in Brandon's mind, even as the dog jumps and vanishes into another huge pile of powdery snow, blissful and free. She has a home now, a new family, but the family hasn't yet adjusted and expanded to include her in the way it needs to yet. For now, the dog is still an outsider on the fringes, allowed to look but not touch.

He knows the feeling.

OTTAWA - 1988

The bus ride between Montreal and Ottawa was a steady three hours.

Brandon used that time wisely. It gave him the much-needed space to prepare himself for this holiday with a bunch of strangers — and David. He used the ride to remind himself how he should act around David, how much space they should keep between themselves, how much touching was appropriate for a couple of friends and teammates, how to keep fondness from overflowing into that new, giddy territory of adoration that Brandon had let himself topple into headfirst in the past few weeks.

Not touching David on that bus ride was agony. They allowed their shoulders to press against each other as they sat side by side, but that was it. Brandon longed to wriggle under David's arm and tuck himself into his side, wished he could rub his face against David's shirt while David carded his fingers through Brandon's hair, but they couldn't.

Such was the tradeoff for spending Christmas with a family instead alone in their empty dorm room by himself.

"You're sure this is okay?" Brandon had asked for the millionth time, even as he was boarding the bus with David a few hours earlier.

"Dude, yes, Mom was totally fine with it. Only thing is, uh, well…" David had trailed off as they took their seats and got settled in.

"Is what?" Brandon needled.

"Well, my brothers are already there with their wives and my nieces and nephews, so there's not, like, a guest bed free. Probably not even a couch — not that I'd make you sleep on the couch, God." He stumbled over his words, looking alarmed at his own almost-suggestion. "I just mean — we'll have to share my room together. If that's —"

"David." Brandon raised a brow at him and gave him a long look. "I think we're past that point by now."

David blushed at a speed that couldn't possibly be healthy, but was annoyingly endearing. Brandon wanted to bite him until he cried. "I know, but — we can't, y'know, not with my family around, we'll have to —"

"David," Brandon repeated, giving him a friendly nudge in the ribs. "Relax." He stole a glance around the bus, where other passengers were boarding and adjusting themselves in their seats, before leaning in to murmur against David's ear. "I won't put any moves on you in your childhood bed, promise."

David made a pained noise and shriveled into his seat, his face nearly as red as his scarf. Brandon smirked and leaned away from him to stare out the window, wondering if David was beginning to regret his decision to invite him along yet.

Nearly three hours later, though, as they were passing the Ottawa welcomes you! sign, it was Brandon who was feeling antsy and agitated. David had told stories and anecdote about his family before, but they were abstract pieces of information. Bits and bobs that could have belonged to anyone's family, really. Brandon didn't really know anything about them, just like he was certain they didn't know the first thing about him, either.

"Hey," said David beside him. He grabbed Brandon's hand instinctively and squeezed his fingers, just for a second, before dropping it just as quick. "Seriously, stop worrying. My family's fine. They're glad you're coming."

Brandon tried to laugh it off. "I mean, they should be," he huffed. "I'm the guy who's been making you look good all season."

His attempt at bravado died, though, as the bus pulled into the station. The doors swung open, he and David disembarked and collected their bags, and made their way toward the parking lot.

David only had to scan around once before spotting what he was looking for: a bronze station wagon with faux wood trim wrapped around the sides with a small woman in a tan coat waving a hat over her head to get their attention. "There's Mom," he announced as he began to stride toward his mother.

Brandon swallowed his nerves and followed after. He wasn't religious in the slightest, yet he found himself praying that he didn't exude some sort of aura that screamed Hi Mrs. Hollander, I'm Brandon Wiebe, and I've been deflowering your son. He felt like his heart was going to pound straight out of his ribcage and though his skin and skitter into the snowbanks that lined the lot.

Up close, the woman was soft, slightly round in the middle, laugh lines and crows feet etching their way into her fair face. Her light brown hair was thick with gray streaks, and her eyes were a lovely shade of gray. "Welcome home, honey!" she exclaimed as they approached, dragging David into a one-sided hug that he couldn't return with his bags in his hands. "How was the trip?"

"Long," David laughed, muffled in his mother's hair. He was so much taller than her. "Glad to finally be here." He leaned away and straightened, nodding to Brandon beside him. "Mom, this is Brandon. Brandon, my mom."

Brandon shuffled his bag to his other hand, offering his right to shake. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hollander," he said, the words tumbling out in one rushed string. "Thank you for having me on short notice."

Mrs. Hollander batted his hand aside and wrapped him in a similarly tight hug, her arms surprisingly strong around his neck. "Oh, honey, call me Susan!" she insisted as she patted him soundly on the back. "It's wonderful to meet you. Goodness, these shoulders! So broad! But are you eating enough, hon? Here, let's get you boys to the house so you can finally have a homecooked meal."

They were herded into the station wagon with their bags and swiftly departed from the bus station, Susan talking all the way about people Brandon didn't know. David nodded along and added commentary here and there from the passenger seat, casting evaluating glances into the backseat through the rearview as they drove. Brandon just nodded back, bracing himself for the main event that awaited.

Ottawa, he noted, was not nearly as lively as Montreal, nor as grand. What little he could see of it wasn't impressive, and grew even less so as they moved out into the obvious suburban sprawls. The houses here mostly looked the same, differentiated only by their assortment (or lack thereof) of Christmas decorations lining the roofs and dotting the lawns. The streets were neatly plowed, the driveways all uniformly shoveled.

It was precisely the kind of safe, normal neighborhood that Brandon had pictured David growing up in.

The car finally came to a stop in one of the cleared driveways before a large brick house. It was similar to the rest of the houses on the street, save for the conservative strings of lights that trimmed the roof and the wooden sign on the door that read "The Hollanders". It was far from a mansion, but it was also vastly bigger than any home Brandon had ever been inside before in his life. Two stories of house towered over them as they hopped out of the car and started dragging their bags inside, every window framed neatly with drapes on the inside.

It smelled exactly like David did, amplified by a thousand.

It was also very, very noisy inside. Voices were crashing around each other from multiple directions as soon as they walked in the front door. The TV was blaringly loud in the den, a hockey game clearly blasting from the speakers. Dishes clicked and clanked in another direction from the unseen kitchen. A baby was crying upstairs and footsteps were thudding overhead to go and comfort it.

Brandon felt like he had walked directly into a tornado.

"We're home!" Susan called into the house.

The noise did not abate or pause. No one called back, but a head popped out around the corner. A young man wearing glasses with the thickest lenses Brandon had ever seen grinned at them, his blue eyes made enormous behind the thick glass. "Davey!" he chirped, tossing a hand towel into the kitchen before making his way over and wrapping David up in a hug. "Shoot, look at you! When did you get so huge?"

David shrugged him off, jostling him with a sheepish look. "Knock it off, Mark," he mutters. "Brandon, this is my brother, Mark. Mark, Brandon, my roommate and liney."

Mark let David cringe out of his grip and turned to Brandon, offering a hand. "Put 'er there!" he said, loud over the ruckus of the house.

Brandon shook his hand and smiled. He recovered easily from the shock of the chaotic house, regaining his social footing with relative speed. "Nice to meet you, Mark," he replied.

Susan had since shucked off her coat and gloves and whisked into the kitchen, where she was loudly discussing dinner plans with the other people there. Mark ruffled David's hair and went to join them. "Sounds like Vietnam in there," David observed. "I'm staying out of the way. C'mon, let's go put our stuff upstairs."

Brandon was grateful to not be thrust directly into that fire just yet. They passed the den on the way to the staircase, where the volume from the hockey game on the huge television set was loud enough to make ones' ears bleed. Brandon, curious, glanced in as they passed, just long enough to see flashes of red and black jerseys on the screen. A Centaurs game. A single figure was slumped in a recliner a few feet from the screen, gray eyes glued to the action as he swirled a half-empty beer bottle in one hand.

"My dad," David offered as they headed up the stairs. "He's… intense about hockey. If you need him, that's where you're gonna find him."

Brandon highly doubted he would need anything from the man, but he filed the information away for later regardless.

The noise of the first floor fell away as they reached the second story landing. The crying from earlier had silenced, and as they walked down the narrow hall, they passed a bedroom with the door cracked. A young woman was rocking in a chair beside a travel crib, rocking a baby to sleep. She glanced up as they passed and pressed a finger to her lips. Brandon hurried after David, trying to walk as quietly on the carpet as possible.

"That's Robby's wife, Tammy," David whispered as he stopped in front of a door and juggled his bags to turn the doorknob. "They had their Lyle back in the fall. They have a toddler, too. Little Emma."

So many names. So many people. Brandon felt like he was learning a new hockey team roster from it all. He just nodded as David opened his bedroom door and ushered him inside. And then…

Then he was standing in David Hollander's bedroom.

If David's corner of their dorm was a window into his life, his bedroom was the full portrait. A sturdy bookshelf dominated one wall, beside which a small, crowded desk huddled in a corner. Hockey posters and band posters both contended for space on the striped wallpapered walls. An empty table surrounded by vinyls and cassette and CDs lay to one side, the apparent former home of David's stereo which was now at their dorm.

And jammed into a corner beneath a window was his bed. A full size, thankfully, though it would still be a bit snug for the two of them. The bedding matched the rug, which matched the drapes, which matched the wallpaper. It was all very catalog-coordinated in faded blue and cream pinstripes, but Brandon didn't mind. It was cozy. Neat. Safe.

The kind of space David deserved to have. The kind of space Brandon never did.

When Brandon turned to David, he found him staring back at him. There was a strange look on his face, and it took a moment for him to blink and tuck it away. "What?" Brandon asked.

David shook his head. "Nothing," he replied, setting his bags down next to what Brandon assumed to be his closet door. "I just… I'm glad you're here. With me."

A flicker of warmth flushed over Brandon's skin. He smiled at him and forced himself to be still. He wanted to reach for David, to press close to him and breathe him in — but he couldn't. Not here. Even with all the chaos in this house, he wouldn't risk it. He could keep his hands to himself for a week and a half. It would be fine.

Except for the fact that he saw the way David's hand twitched up in his direction before he dropped it quickly back to his side.

Ten days was a long time.

Two hours later, Brandon was hovering awkwardly in a corner while the Hollander clan set the table for dinner. Susan insisted that Brandon was a guest and didn't need to help, so he pressed himself to the wall and watched as the swarm of people moved in and out of the room around him. The long dining table was piled high with food and dishes and glasses and cutlery, all gleaming under the brass light fixture that dangled precariously low overhead. Brandon was wondering if the table was going to buckle under all the weight.

Around him, pale faces with blue eyes and glasses swept around. Woman with teased hair and bulky sweaters squeezed past him. Men laughed too loudly and reached over his head to pass casseroles and heavy trays to each other. David shot him apologetic glances whenever he passed, but he was kept moving in the fray until the table was finally set, not an inch of the plain red tablecloth beneath to be seen through the clutter.

Susan scurried off to summon Fred to the table. David's brothers, Robby and Mark, sank into chairs on one side of the table, sandwiching David in between them. This left Brandon smack in the middle of the table with Tammy and Mark's wife Linda on either side of him. A high chair was set up at Tammy's elbow, where Emma was stationed, kicking her chubby little legs enthusiastically as her mother tried to tie her bib behind her head.

Susan returned with Fred Hollander in tow. He was stocky, solidly built, with the same blue eyes as his boys. The resemblance stopped there, though, for his eyes held none of the light and warmth that David's did. His gaze was brittle, watery, and cold. It reminded Brandon of the ocean in winter, a churning, freezing vacuum that forbade anyone from getting too close.

Fred took his place at the head of the table. Susan buzzed around a bit longer before finally seating herself at the opposite end. She smiled at everyone gathered. Fred smiled at no one.

"Looks great, Mom," David said as everyone began to pass dishes around and make up their plates.

"Oh, thank you, sweetie," Susan said with a grin. "I had plenty of help, though! Mark and Linda have been absolute angels, and Robby went and fetched some things for me last-minute."

"It was a bloodbath," said Robby with a feigned shudder. He was the eldest, Brandon now knew, and he worked as a sports commentator for the local news station. He had the kind of face and voice for such work, his brown hair cut in a neat, corporate-appropriate style, his teeth white and straight. "I had to fight three little old ladies in the meat section just to get this roast."

With Christmas so close, Brandon figured it wasn't an exaggeration. He picked at his meal, self-conscious about eating too much in front of strangers. It wasn't something he thought about at school, with his meals included in his tuition, but any time they went to Gert's or off campus to eat, Brandon made up whatever excuse he could to either not go at all or to go and feign a lack of appetite. David had long since begun ignoring his excuses and just ordered for him, which he hated, but at least he could make it up to him when they got back to their dorm.

Now, though, he had no such recourse, and it was gnawing a hole in his composure like a starving rat.

"So, Brandon," said Mark, who peered owlishly at him over the table through his thick glasses, "tell us about yourself. Where are you from? What are you majoring in?"

Brandon plastered on a smile and slid into his elevator-pitch disguise. "I'm from Vancouver," he replied, which earned him a cacophony of opinionated noises, none of which he was able to decipher in the moment. "I'm studying broadcasting and communications."

"Yeah?" Robby asked, leaning over his plate and narrowly avoiding sinking his sleeve into a lake of gravy. "Like television network stuff?"

Brandon nodded. "Yeah, I figure if hockey doesn't work out, I'd like to get into that kind of work. Sports broadcasting and the like."

A snort came from the head of the table. Three sets of blue eyes, all lined up in a row across from him, darted toward their father.

"Dad," Robby said, voice bordering on admonishment, "don't start."

Fred Hollander ignored his eldest son, pinning Brandon beneath that anemic gaze. "You any good at hockey, son?" he asked in a gruff, gravelly voice.

"He's great at hockey," David said at once, sitting up straighter in his seat directly across from Brandon. "He's leading the team in goals so far this season."

I barely have four more than you do, Brandon almost shot back, but somehow he sensed that this was not the right move. He was in unfamiliar territory, and there was a dynamic at work here that crackled with tension like a power line in a thunderstorm. He kept quiet, despite the conversation being about him.

Fred snorted. "That doesn't mean anything," he huffed. His eyes never left Brandon's, as if David wasn't even there. "Have you been scouted any? Been in any prospect lineups?"

"A little," Brandon said, sheepish. "A couple of guys asked me about the draft when I was in high school, but I really wanted to go to college, so —"

"He's at McGill on a hockey scholarship," David interjected. "A hockey scholarship. At McGill. He's really, really good."

Brandon wanted to shrivel up and disappear.

At the very least, David's outburst drew Fred's ire toward him, relieving Brandon of that chilling gaze for a moment. "If he was really good," Fred growled, "he'd be in the league. Not wasting his time with college hockey."

Fred might as well have slapped David. Brandon's skin burned. His breath came in thin pants.

What the fuck?

Fred leaned back in his chair and resumed spearing food with his fork, shoveling it gracelessly into his mouth without looking up at his family again. David withered in his seat, silent, and the meal carried on around them at a muted volume.

Fred was the first to leave the table. Once his plate was cleared, he just got up and shuffled away. The sound of a hockey game once again came screaming from the den, and Robby just shook his head. Apparently, the family was in silent agreement to not discuss it. Brandon was content to let that agreement stand.

Once they were all done eating, he offered to help with cleanup and was immediately denied. At a loss for what else to do, he took the opportunity to head upstairs and grab a quick shower. The house had three bathrooms, he was told, but with so many people crammed under one roof, he didn't want to get in the way during primetime.

Once finished, he lingered in David's room, looking around and peering at his stuff, not touching anything. His music collection as far more extensive than the selection he had taken with him to McGill. He had photos of himself and his family and presumably old friends from school tacked up around his desk, his glasses too big for his face back then, his smile more gap-toothed than now. Trophies and pucks and framed trading cards in display cases lined the shelves in the spaces in front of and between the books.

A framed photo front and center on the shelf most eye-level with Brandon caught his eye. It had to be David and his brothers, for they all had similar goofy grins and fluffy brown hair in almost identical bowl cuts. They were all in hockey gear, wielding sticks that looked too big for their bodies and waving arms over their helmeted heads.

All three of them had played hockey, then. And now, apparently, only David still did.

"Dad wanted us to go pro so badly."

Brandon jumped and turned. David was framed in the doorway, a tight, tired look on his face. He stepped into the room and softly closed the door behind him, blocking out the leftover strings of sound from the rest of the house.

"Robby shattered his hip when he was seventeen. He was on track to be drafted the next year, but… well. He never skated again after that. Mark was a great goalie, but the older he got, the worse his eyesight became. It runs in the family, but his was really bad. By the time he was fifteen, he couldn't sight the puck down the ice anymore. Can't block what you can't see, so he quit, too. Then it was just me."

Brandon was rooted to the spot. David shuffled slowly to his bed and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress, the old wooden frame creaking with his weight. He clasped his hands between his knees and stared down at them.

"I don't want to go to the league. I don't want to be told where I'm going to live and play and destroy my body in the process. I like hockey. It's fun. I'm good at it. But I don't want it to be my whole life, y'know? Dad just…" He sighed and shook his head. "He never could accept that."

Brandon had no idea what to say to that. The demands and expectations of a father figure were alien to him. He'd grown up without them entirely. He couldn't imagine the pressure Fred Hollander had put on his sons to throw themselves headlong at this dangerous and demanding sport, only to come up short and be found wanting over and over.

He sat beside David on the edge of the bed and slumped over, resting his head on his shoulder. Brandon's entire body breathed a sigh of relief at the contact. It had been strange and difficult, being so close to him all day and unable to touch him like he wanted. David leaned back, heavy and substantial, and sat in silence with him for a long time.

When they finally went to sleep, it was with a blockade of pillows between their bodies. It wouldn't do for someone to burst into David's room in the morning and find them tangled up together, so Brandon had to make do with the small movements the bed made when David moved, or the close-but-not-close-enough sound of his breathing.

"Goodnight, David," he murmured into the dark over the pillows.

"Goodnight, Brandon," David replied, sounding a thousand miles away.

Bright and early the next morning, David's bedroom door cracked open.

"Boooys!" Susan called cheerily. The smell of breakfast food cooking in the kitchen below wafted into the room along with her chipper voice. "Rise and shine! Get up and get dressed please! We're heading into town for some last-minute shopping. Breakfast is on the table!"

The door closed back with a soft click. Brandon groaned and rolled over, shoving pillows away from his face. Miraculously, the barricade between them had held, keeping him from squirming up against David's side.

David sat up and stretched, yawning and reaching for his glasses. "Mornin'," he said blithely, looking relaxed and refreshed in the morning light.

Brandon for his part, could have easily slept another five hours. David had to bully him out of bed and throw clothes at him from his bag, teasing him for his sluggish pace.

"We're supposed to be on vacation," Brandon whined as he dragged a threadbare sweater over his head. "You sleep in on vacation. Your mom knows that, right?"

"Quit bellyaching," David chuckled as he ran his hands through his hair to smooth it away from his face. "We can nap when we come home, okay?"

There was a warmth in that notion that, even if they couldn't fulfill, still helped motivate Brandon into dressing, brushing his hair and teeth, and stumbling down the stairs after David.

Breakfast was just as involved as dinner had been. Dish after dish was crowded into the middle of the table, and Brandon barely had room on his plate for everything. The Hollanders swarmed around, some sitting, some standing, some in perpetual motion with the morning chaos as everyone seemed to be setting about their own plans for the day. Lyle was fussing and refusing his bottle while Emma made a massacre of her scrambled eggs. Mark was squinting at the morning paper, his nose inches from the text. Fred was, as usual, sequestered in the den.

Once they had eaten, Susan ushered David, Brandon, Robby, and Mark out to the station wagon. Brandon was crammed into the back seat between David and Mark, while Robby stretched out his bad leg in the passenger seat beside their mother up front. The day was blustery and cold, with thick clouds crowding in close overhead, promising snow before nightfall.

"I'm going to go out on a limb and guess you two haven't gotten your wives anything yet," Susan chided as she drove through the cookie-cutter suburb toward Ottawa proper.

Mark and Robby spluttered and rushed to defend themselves, both claiming innocence and asserting that, yes, they both had already bought and wrapped several things for their wives and stuffed them under the tree for Christmas morning.

"Well, good," said Susan, smiling smugly to herself. "And for your father and me?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought. It's alright, I'll pretend not to see whatever it is you boys find while we're out."

On his left, David elbowed Brandon lightly and smirked at him. The conspiratorial air in his expression communicated clearly that this was a regular occurrence. A strange flutter went through Brandon's stomach at the idea that he, of all people, was being allowed in on the secret habits and dynamics of this sprawling, tight-knit family at Christmas.

Within the hour, Susan had claimed a spot in the densely crowded parking lot of the Bayshore Shopping Centre. A veritable ocean of parked cars spread out in all directions around them, and Brandon worried briefly about how they were ever going to find the station wagon again as Susan resolutely headed toward the sprawling shopping complex that rested in the middle of the lot like a giant island mass. Apparently, the concern of getting back to the house when their spree was done wasn't his to bear.

Brandon was no stranger to shopping malls. Like any other adolescent in the eighties, he had spent countless hours with his school friends milling around the common areas and arcades back in Vancouver. Occasionally, his mother would come to him with a random wad of cash, and they would traipse through the stores and snatch up all manner of frivolous and brightly-colored wares until the money was all gone.

Brandon had been too young to ask about where the money had come from in the first place, or to care what the answer would have been either way.

It was that melancholy memory that hung over him as he trailed after the Hollanders, checking off store after store: Steinberg, The Bay, Eaton's, as well as candy stores, gift shops, sports suppliers, shoe stores, clothiers, appliance stores, electronics shops, on and on and on. Rivers of bodies writhed through the huge, echoing corridors, walls of noise settling over their heads as voices were bounced back down onto them from the skylights overhead.

This was, he realized, what he had been afraid of when David had first extended the invitation to him to come for Christmas: trailing after his host family like a stray dog, watching them argue over which deluxe fishing pole Fred would prefer for the lake and helping them try on new winter coats and jackets in the aisles because the fitting rooms were overrun already. David and is brothers loaded purchase after purchase into bags and boxes and carts, and all Brandon could do was stare in horror at the price tags.

The pallor of poverty hung on him as he stumbled across things he really did like. A genuine, hand-tooled leather jacket in his exact size. A thick green scarf. A travel radio with a CD player. Things that, had he belonged to this family in earnest, he could have just waved a hand at and had given to him without a second thought, save perhaps being sworn to act surprised in two days when he unwrapped it beside the tree.

He was staring at a pair of Bauer skates when David came up to him, arms laden with bags and packages, and gave him a gentle nudge with his hip. "You okay?" he asked, eyes soft and earnest behind his glasses.

Brandon dragged his attention away from the several-hundred-dollar pair of skates and forced a smile. "Fine. Just looking at the skates."

David looked at the display podium he had indicated, a spotlight shining down on the skates in question. He whistled his appreciation and nodded. "You got that right," he said, awestruck. "Hey, would you mind taking these real quick and finding Mom and Robby? I gotta make sure Mark didn't get lost."

Brandon accepted the burden of David's haul and tottered out of the sports store, peering around the stack of boxes carefully. He wasn't tall enough for this.

Luckily, he came across Susan and Robby soon enough near the food court, where they were parked on a bench surrounded by their purchases. Susan was fretting over the sheer amount of things they had amassed in the past hour, a frown on her face and a crease of worry worn between her brows.

"I think we may need to rent a truck," she tutted as Brandon arrived and carefully added David's parcels to the hoard.

"They won't let you drive it inside the store, Mom," Robby pointed out.

"They have, like, luggage carts near the exits," Brandon offered. "I saw them on our way in."

"Oh! Good!" Susan beamed. "Brandon, sweetie, would you mind —"

He was already nodding and heading for the nearest door. Between Susan's age and Robby's hip, he didn't need to be asked twice, and really, he was glad to help. He all but swam through the throngs of people until he secured a cart, wrestled it back to their resting spot, and helped them load everything up. David and Mark returned with even more stuff to add to the top of the pile, and by the time they finally left the mall, all four of them were having to work to both push the cart and keep things from clattering off of it in the parking lot.

It took no less than half an hour to find the car in the parking lot, and even longer getting everything loaded into the back of the station wagon. A few large boxes simply wouldn't fit, which turned into a debacle of David and Brandon climbing on top of the car and tying them down to the luggage rack with every available piece of fabric and twine they could find.

By the time they got home, the sun was about to set. Brandon was exhausted and starving and ready to go right back to bed.

"It's like this every year?" he asked David incredulously as they helped bring in their spoils to be divvied up and wrapped later that night.

David grinned and nodded. "Every year."

Maybe it was for the better that Brandon wasn't a member of the Hollander family after all.

After her second overdose, Brandon's mother had gone through an intense religious phase.

That was the only time they had ever gone to church. For a solid four months, Brandon had been dragged to service every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening, understanding none of it and always complaining to his mother about how bored he was. The church was barely even a church, confined to a cinderblock building that had been a mattress store before it had been gutted and refurbished into an impromptu chapel. The preacher always told them that God was everywhere, but Brandon never could imagine someone that important frequenting the drafty building that still smelled like mothballs and dust.

So when Susan announced the following evening that they would be attending service for Christmas Eve, Brandon was understandably hesitant. Far be it for him to dig in his heels and refuse to go, though, so instead he found himself staring at his meager assortment of clothes, trying to determine which was nice enough to go to church in.

"Here." David handed him a crisply ironed button-up shirt and a cardigan, both still on the hanger. Brandon took them both and blinked, uncomprehending. David rolled his eyes and ruffled Brandon's hair. "For tonight. They should fit, but I can look for something else if they're too small."

Brandon was able to roll with the punches on most things. He didn't like being caught off guard, didn't like looking unprepared or awkward. But he had never borrowed David's clothes before, not even when it was freezing and there were three feet of snow on the ground and his own patched and faded jacket was nowhere near warm enough for walking around on campus. It felt like a bridge too far, and if he was being honest, he didn't trust himself not to keep whatever he borrowed from David forever.

And now he was just… being handed this nice shirt and this cozy sweater to go over it. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Brandon accepted them both and turned to get dressed. The house was a commotion of sounds outside the bedroom door as always; wives calling to husbands, children kicking up a fuss and either screaming or shrieking with too-loud laughter, a hockey game recap once again blaring on the TV downstairs in the den. Someone was using a hair dryer in the bathroom, a constant, mechanical droning.

Which was probably why, when Brandon peeled off his shirt and felt David's lips on the back of his bare neck, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around, expression quizzical, and David blushed, glancing at the floor.

"Sorry," he muttered, skin going scarlet. "I just…"

Brandon glanced at the bedroom door. He weighed his options. Then he rushed in, claiming David's mouth in a too-rough kiss that came just shy of splitting his lip on David's teeth, before pulling away and turning back around to get dressed.

It was nothing, in the grand scheme of things, especially compared to the way they had been practically trying to inhale each other during the last few weeks of the semester. But after three days of keeping their hands to themselves and trying to stay on their best behavior, it felt like an oasis in the desert to even brush his lips to David's for the barest moment.

When he caught David's eyes in the mirror behind him, he could tell he felt the same way.

Brandon busied himself with his shirt to keep from turning back around and throwing David onto the bed. It fit him almost perfectly, because of course it did. He wanted David to take it off of him with the same gentle reverence that he did everything with.

Plagued with his deeply inappropriate desires, he opted to wait downstairs for everyone.

The Hollanders' church of choice was not a cinderblock building that used to sell mattresses and reeked eternally of mothballs.

This was a proper cathedral, old and refined, with vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows and plush carpets lining the aisles. The pews were weathered yet polished with a loving hand. The lights were kept low, and as they filed in, they were each handed a white candlestick. Brandon held his carefully, worrying for a moment that it would start to melt in the heat of his hands.

The family apparently had a spot that they frequented, because Fred Hollander lead them in a train to a row that he shuffled awkwardly into. He settled onto the creaking wooden pew, Susan right behind him, and his children and their spouses and their children all followed suit. Brandon was at the very tail end of the procession, crammed up against the arm of the pew, the aisle right beside him.

"Sorry it's so cramped," David apologized, as if he had any control over the congregation's attendance. "There's always a really big turnout for holidays, y'know?"

Brandon didn't know, though he could have guessed. He just nodded and turned to face the front, the stained glass depiction of the crucifixion over the altar an imposing backdrop for whatever was to come.

He couldn't help but feel distinctly judged by the deity depicted in the glass as he sat there, a fraud among these comfortable, well-to-do suburbanites, wearing David's borrowed clothes like a beast draped in sheepskin among the flock. This church, much like the shopping mall and the clean, copy-pasted street on which the Hollanders lived, was just another place where Brandon Wiebe did not truly belong.

His quickly descending spiral into an inferiority complex was thankfully staved off when the service began. They opened in prayer. Brandon bowed his head respectfully and stared at his shoes, because he figured that even if anyone was up there taking requests, they probably wouldn't listen to his. Then they stood to sing, a choir assembled at the front to guide them all, and Brandon mumbled along the best he could.

On his left, David was the picture of commitment. He sang perpetually off-key, something that Brandon had learned about him early on and couldn't help but be endeared by. When he caught Brandon staring at him, his mouth ticked up in a grin and he aimed the faintest of nudges at his ribs with an elbow.

Much like when he first met him at McGill, David made quick work of banishing Brandon's worries. His demeanor conveyed only one thing: you belong here with me.

The rest of the singing and the service passed by in a blur. Toward the end, the pastor was going on about God sending his only begotten son to earth to light the way, and that was when the candles they held finally came into play. One by one, the congregants carefully passed their flames on to the neighbors, until the whole chapel glowed with soft light. Brandon felt the whole thing was an unnecessary fire hazard, but he still held his breath in awe as David leaned toward him, holding the flame of his candle to the wick of Brandon's until it finally caught. He barely remembered to pass his light on, so enraptured he was by the way the candlelight threw the features of David's face into sharp contrast inches from his own.

Once every candle was lit, the congregation sang a rendition of Silent Night, a song that Brandon mostly knew. It was then that Brandon felt the appeal of the whole performance: candles winking in the otherwise dark chapel, voices lifted in harmony in the cavernous space, the smell of smoke and incense tangling in the rafters. Despite his lifelong agnosticism, he got chills down his spine.

Once the song was over, everyone blew out their candles, and the room went very dark for a moment while the lights were slowly brought back up. Beside him, David leaned in close, and his hand danced ever so lightly down Brandon's back.

Of all the gestures he took part in that night, that one touch was the only one that had felt truly holy.

Christmas morning dawned bright and early with something being dropped directly onto Brandon's chest.

He flinched awake, rolling out from under the cursed pillow barrier that he had apparently been trying to burrow underneath in his sleep. A large, brightly wrapped box had been place right on his chest, a huge glittery bow right on top. David stood beside him, practically wiggling in place as he waited for him to wake up.

"Wha'sis," Brandon mumbled, speech not yet fully returned to him.

"Open it," David told him. "It's from me."

Brandon took the box and sat up, placing it in his lap. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and fixed David with what he hoped was a disapproving look. "David," he sighed. "I can't —"

"Open it," David insisted. "Come on. Please."

Brandon bit back the frustrated sigh in his chest and started carefully pulling open the bow and the paper. It felt sacrilegious to tear into it when it had been so perfectly wrapped. David rolled his eyes beside him, but he didn't rush. Brandon pulled the paper open until he revealed…

A box. A shoebox. A large shoebox. A Bauer branded shoe box.

"David," Brandon said tightly. "I can't accept these."

"Yes, you can." David leaned over, tapping the box. "This is your skate size, right?"

It was. Of course it was. Even after months spent in borrowed skates, David knew Brandon's size by heart. "Yeah," Brandon croaked, "but I —"

"Brandon," David said quietly, tipping his chin up until he had to look at him. "It's Christmas. It's a gift. I wanted to get them for you. I wanted you to have them. Besides," he trailed off with a grin, brushing his thumb softly over Brandon's jaw before withdrawing his hand. "We're going for the championship this year. Imagine how fast you'll be on these."

That, and nothing else, was the only reason Brandon swallowed his further objections. This wasn't about him, he told himself. This was about investing in the championship run. David had already gone on and on about how great a player Brandon was. It made sense he would want to outfit him in better equipment to get better performance out of him. This he could accept, because any other explanation was more than he could stand. More than he felt he could ever deserve.

"Thank you," he finally choked out.

At a loss of what else to do, he carefully lifted the lid off the box. The skates from the store display looked back up at him from a nest of tissue paper. The leather was immaculate and stiff. The blades, beneath their guards, were razor-sharp. They had never been worn. Had barely ever been touched, save to package up and ship to the store.

And they were his.

"Come on," David said, thumping him on the shoulder. "There's more downstairs."

Brandon's head spun. "What?"

"Hey, the skates were my idea, but everything else was all Mom," David replied, hands held up in surrender. "If you wanna get mad at someone, get mad at her."

Which was, of course, impossible. Little Susan Hollander was beyond reproach, which she surely must have counted on. Brandon had walked past the tree in the main living area several times now, the puddle of presents around its base growing larger every time he saw it. How many of them were now addressed to him? He wanted to scream. These people.

He followed David downstairs, both of them in pajamas still, and found the Hollander clan gathered around the tree, plates of pancakes in their hands and wrapping paper piling up like multicolored snowbanks. "Merry Christmas!" they all chorused at the two of them when they arrived.

Susan scurried over, wrapped in a flannel robe, and kissed Brandon on the cheek. She deposited him into the last unclaimed chair in the room, David plopping down on the floor at his feet. Pancakes were handed to them both, and while they ate, Susan and Mark's wife Linda delivered wrapped boxes to them in two separate piles, one for David, one for Brandon. David's pile was bigger when all was said and done, but not by much.

His heart in his throat, Brandon started to unwrap the presents addressed to him. All the while, his brain screamed at him. I can't accept this. I don't deserve this. They don't owe me a single thing.

But those thoughts were useless in the face of reality. One by one, he pulled gift after gift from their boxes. The travel radio with the CD player. The plush green scarf. Even the sturdy black leather jacket. Everything he had touched in passing at the mall two days ago was now his, along with new socks and a brand new backpack. It was just as well; one of the straps on his old one was just days away from snapping off entirely.

"I… I don't know what to say," he stuttered once the bounty was laid out before him. Everything was new with tags and still in the original packaging. Nothing handed down, nothing bought used or secondhand. Combined with the skates upstairs, his gifts had to total up to a larger sum of money than Brandon had ever possessed in his entire life.

"Say thank you and keep all of it," David said with a chuckle. "We already tossed the receipts."

The room laughed with him. Brandon said thank you and that was it. He combined his gifts with David's to take upstairs later and huddled in his armchair, absently watching baby Emma play with her new toys on the rug.

By noon, Susan roused herself and recruited David and Mark to help her with the breakfast dishes. David left him with a wink and followed his mother into the kitchen.

"Hey, Brandon," said Fred as David turned the corner. "C'mere for a minute."

Oh God. Brandon couldn't possibly accept anything else from these people, let alone from Fred himself. That was the last thing he wanted to do, but what was he going to say? Brandon swallowed and got to his feet to follow as Fred ambled down the hall and into the den.

Brandon had, up until that point, only glanced into the den from the hallway in passing. The view was narrow from the hall, limited to the back of the recliner pointed at the television set. Once he actually stepped into the room proper, though, he was more than a little intimidated by what it held.

To say this was a room for watching hockey was a gross understatement. The walls were packed with framed posters and series rosters, signed jerseys, pennants and banners, mounted pucks, and shelves and shelves of commemorative trinkets and memorabilia. There was barely a square inch of space left free from Centaurs merchandise or branding. The room was swimming in black and red.

Peppered in with Ottawa, though, were a few other teams. A signed portrait of Wayne Gretzky was crammed in with the 1984 Olympic roster. There was something commemorating every single Stanley Cup run since the sixties, even if it wasn't a year when Ottawa had won. The air itself in the stuffy room seemed to scream hockey, hockey, hockey.

It was not a TV room. It was an altar to an obsession.

"This is what it's all about," Fred announced, sweeping an arm around to indicate his fanatical collection. "If you're not playing with all of this in mind, why play at all?"

Brandon glanced at the TV set, above which was mounted a large steel and resin cast of the NHL logo. This, then, was the heart of this unhealthy fixation. The league itself was the deity to which Fred Hollander was willing to sacrifice his three sons upon the altar of sport to appease.

Never mind the fact that NHL players couldn't even compete in the Olympics until that very year. If you got paid to play your sport, you couldn't make the national team. It had been college players like himself and David that made up Team Canada and represented their country on the world stage until just a few months ago. Never mind that the vast majority of NHL players retired well before forty, and what were they left to do then? Limp through the rest of their lives with broken bodies and battered egos?

Brandon bit back his retorts. This was not a reasonable man, he had since decided. There was no point in trying to get him to understand logic. He would be wasting his breath.

Fred didn't seem to notice. He paced to a shelf, plucked out a book on the founding of the Centaurs, and thumbed to a seemingly random page. "David's already a lost cause. He won't go pro, and it's a damn shame. Doesn't have the guts. Robby was going to be the next Gretzky, I promise you that, but that damn fall took him out for good. And poor Mark. His eyes aren't worth a bat's. Nothing got past him when he was a kid, though. He was born to guard the crease, until he wasn't."

Brandon's stomach turned bitterly over his breakfast. The man talked about his own children like they were just… property. No better than livestock or fighting dogs.

It was the same way everyone else talked about players already in the league. To the rest of the world, those men stopped being people when they got drafted and put on those jerseys. But to Fred Hollander, that was the only time when they were human at all.

From the book, Fred pulled out a small business card. He closed the book and placed it right back on the shelf, where it lined up perfectly with a dozen other volumes. "My boys won't ever make it big, not like they should have," he sighed, his tone almost implying that his children may as well be dead for all the good they were to him. "But you? You still have a chance, son. Don't let it pass you by."

He handed over the business card to Brandon, who took it between two fingers as if it might burn him. It was simple, clean, a typed card with a man's name and a phone number, as well as an office address in Toronto. Typed beneath the name was the title: NHL talent scout.

"Just tell me you'll think about it," Fred said with a look in his eye that felt slimy and wrong. "Hang onto that. Devin's a good guy. He wanted to talk David into the draft, but David turned him down. Lucky for you, his old man has better sense."

For a heartbeat, a fantasy played vividly and violently in Brandon's mind. The card crumpling in his fist as he reeled it back and then sent it careening forward into Fred Hollander's unpleasant hangdog face. The beautiful sound of glass shattering as he pulled down every framed jersey and roster portrait and Cup poster in the room and smashed them to pieces. The symphony of fabric and paper shredding as he tore up the pennants and banners and books in his bare hands.

Instead, he just nodded and quietly pocketed the card. "Thank you," he mumbled, angling toward the door. "I'll think about it."

Fred clapped him on the shoulder and smiled at him. Smiled. It was more affection than he had shown to any of his flesh and blood since they had arrived, and he barely even knew Brandon. "There's a good kid," he said, an unmistakable glimmer of pride in his brittle blue eyes. "I know you'll make the right decision."

Feeling like he was running out of air in the red and black room, Brandon turned and fled up the stairs.

That night, as they lay in bed with the pillows between them, Brandon stared at the ceiling, a cold, heavy feeling in his chest. It had nothing to do with him, in the grand scheme of things: Fred Hollander's worshipful obsession with the NHL, his loathing for anything that wasn't up to his standards as far as hockey went, his disappointment and dismissal at his sons' accomplishments. But it still panged in his chest, like a lead slug lodged behind his heart.

He had no father to speak of. But in the fantasies he had entertained when he was a child, where a man came along and recognized Brandon as his own right away and scooped him up and loved him instantly, he had been fiercely supportive of him in all things. This reality — a father that was physically present but absent in every other way that mattered — was so much worse.

David was asleep beside him, peaceful and at ease. If this utter rejection ever caused him to lay awake at night the way it did Brandon, he had long since outgrown it. To have been so long exposed to such indifference that he had grown used to it made Brandon want to scream.

He couldn't stand it anymore. He rolled over in the narrow bed and snatched the barrier of pillows out of the way, wriggling closer to David beneath the heavy covers until the warm, familiar shape of his body pressed to Brandon's own. David mumbled and slowly came awake, his arms moving to tug Brandon closer even before his mind could catch up.

"Mmnh," he muttered in the dark, a hand pressing between Brandon's shoulders and rubbing between the blades. "You okay? Was it the dream again?"

"No," Brandon whispered back. He buried his face in David's shirt, taking a deep breath to ground himself in his familiar scent.

David was waking up further, and with waking came remembering that they couldn't do this. Not here. "Brandon, we can't —" he started to say, but Brandon clung tighter to him.

"I know. I just…" Brandon sighed. His body was gratefully unwinding from all the closeness and contact, and he didn't want it to end yet. "Your dad is a dickhead."

David instantly went rigid beside him, and Brandon regretted his words. "What?" he asked quietly, voice spiking with concern. "Did he say something to you? I swear —"

"No, he didn't — it's not about me." Brandon stroked David's chest to soothe him and calm him down. "He just… I don't like how hard he is on you. I hate how he talks to you. And your brothers, for that matter. I don't like how he never goes to our games."

David relaxed a bit, exhaling heavily. "Oh," he sighed, petting Brandon's hair. "Yeah, he… yeah. He's just like that."

Brandon's jaw tensed. "You keep saying that. Like it's okay. It's not okay, David." He shifted until he was propped up on his elbow, careful not to dig it into David's gut. He peered down at him in the darkness, frowning.

"He doesn't see how great you are. He doesn't know how you can get the whole room to listen to you and fall in line and work together on the ice. He doesn't know how smart you are in the moment, how fast you can think. He's never seen you read a play from the other end of the rink. He has no idea what he's missing, and for what? Because he thinks college hockey is inferior? That's bullshit, David. You're fucking incredible and he should be so fucking proud of you, all the time, and he should tell you that, and —"

"Shhh." David tugged on Brandon's arms until he got him to lay back onto his chest, once again petting and consoling him. "You're gonna wake up the whole house if you keep going on like that."

Brandon pressed his ear to David's chest and huffed a sigh, tuning into the steady beating of his heart against his ear. "It's just not fair," he whispered indignantly. "You're amazing, and he's missing out on all of it."

David was quiet for a moment. Then, barely audible, he asked, "You really think all of that about me?"

Brandon nodded against his chest. "I know it. It's all true. You're the best."

Then David was twisting them around, rolling them over until Brandon was pinned beneath him in the bed, covers tangled all around their legs. He kissed the breath out of him and Brandon kissed him right back, desperate to reflect the full sentiment behind his words in every way that he could. His hands bunched in David's shirt, pressing him closer.

You are amazing, David Hollander. I need you to know that. I need you to believe it.

David snaked a hand between their bodies, grinding the heel of his palm into Brandon's groin and pulling a gasp from him. "But we can't —" he started to protest, but David kissed him into silence.

"I can't," David corrected, and Brandon could feel the sheepish grin carving its way into his face. "I'm too loud. But you can do it. You can be quiet. Let me…"

His hand slipped quickly beneath Brandon's clothes, and he barely had time to bury his mouth against David's shoulder to muffle his sharp breaths as David started to stroke him, rough and raw and quick. Brandon's hips rocked sharply underneath him and he had to force himself to be still, lest the old wooden bed frame start creaking.

"David," Brandon whispered weakly against his neck. "I can't, I'm —"

"I know," David replied, kissing Brandon's temple. "It's okay. Come on."

Brandon gritted his teeth and bit back the sounds of pleasure that so badly wanted to escape him as he came into David's fist, the mess instant and sticky between them, but Brandon didn't even care. He'd shower in the morning and do his own laundry when he could. For now, he was nuzzled deep into the crook of David' shoulder as he caught his breath, David's weight warm and solid above him, his lips pressed to Brandon's hair, and he didn't want to move an inch.

You are perfect, David Hollander. I wish I could tell you. I wish you understood.

Instead, he fell asleep in his arms without another word.

OTTAWA - 2014

Two days after Christmas, Brandon is back in his office at the Canadian Tire Center. He's going over plays and line arrangements, as well as a smattering of prospect portfolios that are being projected for the draft in the summer. He knows it's foolhardy to count those chickens before they hatch, but he has big plans for his team. He's been helping the owners and managers with the rebuild, and it's been going well. He doesn't want to lose momentum, and for that, he tries to keep his gaze as far forward as possible.

It's been a relief finally having younger, more able talent on his team. Zane Boodram and Nick Chouinard were drafted one right after the other in the past two years, and they've been more than pulling their weight on the ice. The Centaurs still lost more games than they won, but at least they weren't getting shutout in every single game anymore.

Brandon is thinking over the gaping hole that is their goaltending when he gets a text. He swipes it open, finding a photo from Val, who is still home with the girls. She has sent a photo of the three girls in a pile, all asleep on the floor, with the puppy curled up right in the middle of them. They are still fighting over which Disney princess to name her after, so she remains "the puppy" in Brandon's mind. The pack has finally accepted the new baby, Val has captioned the photo, and Brandon smiles. He knew it wouldn't take long.

He sends back a heart emoji before backing out of their text thread. Beneath it is the message he received two days ago and never replied to. He opens it again and stares at it, chewing his lip.

Merry Christmas, Brando.

It's not the first thing David has sent him since the last time they spoke. Earlier in the year, he had simply sent I told Yuna. I'm sorry. Brandon had never replied. It had taken David far too long, in Brandon's opinion, and he's still somewhat bitter over it.

Still, the fact that Yuna finally, finally knew the truth about them did help him relax a little. He had ranted to Val for hours at a time about the whole thing and she had just nodded along patiently, providing commentary only when absolutely necessary. She thought it was important for him to work through this in whatever way he felt was best, because she knew it had affected him so very deeply.

Now the ball is, once again, in Brandon's court, sitting there pitifully, begging to be returned. Give me something, the text might as well say. Say something. Anything.

He's about to type a reply when there's a knock on his office door.

"Come in," Brandon calls, setting his phone to the side. Fate apparently has other ideas about when he should get back to David.

The door opens to admit the absolutely ancient Greta, who manages the mail and other physical correspondence that comes in and out of the front office. The woman does not believe in computers whatsoever, but she will never lose a single envelope or misplace a stamp. She is hauling an awkwardly shaped box, her small bent frame struggling with the length of the thing.

Brandon gets up as quickly as his back will allow to help hold the door for her and bring the box inside. "What in the world is this?" he asks as they prop the box up in a corner.

Greta shrugs a humped shoulder, handing over a stack of envelopes from her cardigan pocket. "It's addressed to you, Coach," she says simply before she turns and shuffles back out into the hall, closing the door behind her.

Brandon tosses the rest of the mail on his desk and grabs a boxcutter. He turns the long box around until he finds the return address. He can't hold back the exasperated laugh that escapes him when he finds it. It is, of course, from David. Shaking his head, Brandon carefully cuts the box open.

Within is a brand new, state-of-the-art fishing pole.

Unbidden, memories come flooding back. A lake in high summer. Trees rustling in the wind. Loons crying over the water. A dull pocketknife carving letters into the worn wood of a dock. The sun on his skin and David's body pressed tight to his own. A summer he never wanted to end, that plays on repeat in his dreams, all thrown back into his face with this one token.

Within the box is a Christmas card, and inside is scrawled a simple, unsigned request:

"For old times' sake?"

Brandon grabs his phone.

Chapter End Notes

up next: for old times' sake~

because i know people are gonna ask and because i read ALL the comments on the last chapter: no, we do not see the actual conversation of david coming out to yuna and telling her about brandon, nor the immediate aftermath. it will be addressed later on, but it wasn't a scene i really felt invested in writing. that's where creative liberty comes in! that conversation can look like whatever you want it to. for the sake of the story i want to tell, i don't want to get TOO bogged down in specifics in the modern timeline. that's for the flashbacks because i'm a sentimental and angst-fueled hag like that. hopefully this glimpse at shane's shitty grandfather makes up for it LMAO

ALSO as a rescue and shelter worker and volunteer i must firmly state that i do not believe in puppies as gifts!!! don't do that!!!! this is fiction!!!

as always, if you want to yap, reblog the post, or send me tear-stained testimonials, you are invited to do so over on tumblr.

Chapter 9: feels like the first time

Chapter Notes

MONTREAL — 1989

The U Sports Championship game had gone into overtime, the score tied at 2-2. McGill was battling it out against Saint Mary's, a long, grueling game that had both teams on their last legs. Everyone was dragging their feet on the ice, faces red and sweat-drenched, hands beginning to shake around their sticks, but they couldn't stop yet. The title was on the line. Everything they had worked for all year was dangling in the balance.

The puck was trapped in the Redbirds' zone for what felt like an eternity. Bernie was standing on his head to keep it out of the net. David and Alois had two of the Huskies pinned against the boards, the puck caught somewhere between the four of them, all trying desperately to wrench it free, when Brandon swept in like a ghost. Smooth as butter, his stick poked in, scooped the puck loose, and away he went with it. David and Alois shouldered the Huskies away from them and went tearing after him to assist.

The Smitty twins were on fire, keeping Huskies pinned away from Brandon as he streaked through the neutral zone. Brandon was a fast skater, especially in his gifted skates, but no one was faster than Alois, who outpaced him just shy of the blue line. One they were both safely across, Brandon passed to him, just in time to get checked by a Huskies' defenseman.

David made himself focus on the net. On the stretch of ice ahead of him. He crossed the line and hung back, keeping clear of traffic, staying open as an option. Alois swooped in toward the net, but there were too many bodies there for him to do anything. He swung around the back of the net, passed to Brandon, and got locked in a check with the same defenseman that checked Brandon earlier, the Saint Mary's player mistaking him as the real threat that needed to be neutralized.

"David!"

David didn't think. He didn't look. He didn't need to. He cranked his stick back, angled his body, and sighted the spot just above the goalie's right shoulder. When he swung his stick forward, the puck was right there in front of the blade, cracking off the tape like a gunshot. Delivered there with Brandon's impeccable timing for David to sink into his targeted spot in the net.

As the goal horn blared, the definition of the winning move played in David's mind, taught to him by his father so many years ago, before Fred Hollander's obsession with the sport had turned into a tyrannical mandate:

A one-timer is a shot that occurs when a player meets a teammate's pass with an immediate slapshot, without any attempt to control the puck on their stick.

An effective one-timer requires precise timing on the part of both players involved, especially the shooter.

The reason it is called a one-timer is that the player has only one time to connect.

Bodies slammed into him and piled in around him, none closer than Brandon's, who was screaming right into his ear, his face tucked against his neck as David was crushed on all sides by his victorious teammates. David glanced down, beaming, and very nearly kissed him right there on the ice in front of everyone. Brandon's brown eyes shone with unmatched joy.

They had done it.

There were, of course, celebrations. David and Brandon attended none of them. Appearances be damned, they went straight to their hotel room, locked the door, and started tearing off each others' clothes.

The roadmap of their journey to the championship was stamped across both of their bodies. Huge watercolor bruises, healing and still-split knuckles, and a cut that had to be stitched shut over Brandon's eyebrow marked the long and painful trek that had brought them here. David dragged his tongue over a deep purple bruise on Brandon's collarbone, while Brandon pressed sharply into a matching one on David's hip. They moaned in unison, a chorus of pleasure elicited from pain.

David felt like he was vibrating from the hard-fought win. The season was finally over. The week ahead of them was totally free, the championship game slotted right at the beginning of their spring break. He walked Brandon backwards toward the bed they'd been sharing since arriving at the hotel and pushed him down onto it, bending to pull his pants and briefs off and add them to the rumpled pile on the floor.

"What do you want, Hollander?" Brandon asked from up on the bed, grinning impishly as David knelt between his knees. "You wanna fuck me?"

God, yes. David had wanted that for weeks now. But he couldn't do it here, or at their dorm, or anywhere else in Montreal for that matter, because it wasn't… right. He wanted it to be perfect. He'd confided in Brandon at last about his inexperience, and Brandon had admitted that he'd never been with anyone like that before either. Not on the receiving end, anyway. It was uncharted territory for them both, and David wouldn't set foot into it unless they were completely and totally alone.

But he could still give him this much, at least.

"Tomorrow," David sighed against Brandon's inner thigh. "Once we get to —"

"Yeah." Brandon threaded his fingers through David's hair and tugged, urging his face closer to his twitching cock. "I know. God, I just…"

David took him into his mouth before he could finish that sentence. Brandon liked to do this when he was wild with need, hissing all the dirty things he wanted David to do to him in his ear and driving him insane, and it made David so hard he thought he would die. Better to cut Brandon off now, before he worked David up so badly that he threw all his carefully laid plans right out the window.

Brandon bucked up into David's mouth with a gasp, and David took him eagerly. His blowjobs were still deeply imperfect but highly enthusiastic, and by the time Brandon came down his throat, he was a whining, whimpering mess. Then, greedy minx that he was, he flopped over onto his stomach and lifted his hips invitingly. Dark eyes shone over his shoulder at David, who groaned as he got to his feet and stretched his body out across Brandon's, pressing his chest to his back.

"I can't wait til we get there," Brandon whispered, the heat in his voice simmering down to a low boil that went straight to David's balls. "Can't wait to feel you inside me."

"Jesus," David muttered, dropping his head to mouth at Brandon's shoulder. "I swear, sometimes I don't think you're even real." He ground his hips forward, rutting between Brandon's cheeks, and Brandon pressed back tightly against him with each thrust.

"Gonna make it so good for you, Bowie," Brandon sighed, and David moaned against his skin as chills skittered down his spine.

The nickname had stuck ever since a conversation they'd had a few months ago. They'd been complaining about how average their names were. David had turned it around, pointing out that Brandon could easily be shortened to Brando, as in The Godfather himself. Brandon had laughed and countered with the most famous David he could think of, which was, of course, David Bowie. It was a name that no one had ever called him before, and probably no one ever would again, and it made David feel so seen and present and known.

"You're already so good for me, Brando," he panted, nuzzling the back of Brandon's neck. "You're perfect."

Brandon sighed beneath him, hitching his hips up to meet David's once more. "David," he purred, and that did him in. David came with a gasp, release painting Brandon's bare back and leaving him absolutely spent.

David flopped over beside Brandon, who immediately wriggled up against his side and butted his forehead to David's chest. It was how he always slept: head down, pressed as tightly to whatever part of David he could reach. They had discovered over Christmas break that, as long as they slept together, Brandon didn't have any night terrors, and so they had shared a bed every night since.

"You're gonna love it so much," David muttered, pressing a kiss into Brandon's hopelessly tangled hair. "It's my favorite place in the world."

It was bordering on too close, too tender, too personal for whatever it was they were supposed to be to each other. David had noticed he was doing that more and more lately, but he didn't know how to stop. He felt hopelessly entwined with Brandon, and he would be lying if he said he wanted to untangle himself from him even a little.

It didn't matter, though, because Brandon had already passed out beside him.

In the morning, as they were packing their bags, someone knocked on the door. Alois stood in the hall, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, blond hair swept back into a tail. When David answered, he thrust a plain black notebook at him with a grin.

"Don't look at it yet," he warned with a wink. "Wait until you two get where you're going. You can thank me when we get back to campus, ouias?"

David squinted at him, immediately suspicious. "Thank you?"

"Like I said," Alois laughed, waving over his shoulder as he turned to head down the hall. "Save it until after the break. You two enjoy yourselves out there in the wilderness."

David watched him go, instinctively lifting his arm and draping it over Brandon's shoulders when he came to stand beside him and peer out into the hallway. "What did he want?" he asked.

"Something weird. Come on." David tossed the notebook into his bag, zipped it up, and hefted it up onto his back. "Don't want to miss the bus."

With the break kicking off that week, the team was scattering to the wind after their win. David and Brandon had brought everything they needed with them to the hotel, so they left and headed straight to the bus station, where they boarded yet another ride bound for Ottawa. This time, Brandon didn't hold back from leaning against David's shoulder, because they wouldn't have to perform for anyone in the days ahead.

This time, they were heading to the cottage.

ONTARIO - 2015

This is, in retrospect, probably a terrible idea.

Then again, both David and Brandon have had months to back out. To think better of it. To text and say sorry, actually, we probably need to never speak to each other again, thanks for the offer, have a nice life.

Neither of them has, though, so now David is standing in the kitchen of the Hollander family cottage and trying not to wear a rut in the floor from his pacing.

David had discussed this with Yuna thoroughly. He had made sure she was okay with him inviting Brandon over once the weather was warm enough. That it wasn't a bridge too far, that she was comfortable with it, that she understood it was strictly friendly. She had been accepting (if a bit stiff) when he had told her the truth about himself and Brandon, but David was pretty sure that, as long as their relationships had never had any overlap and never would, Yuna wasn't going to think too much about it.

David still wasn't sure if he was thankful or resentful for this.

As noon creeps closer, David pops the latches on his tackle box for the fifth time and opens it up, checking over everything at the dining table. It's the same worn, scarred table that has been in this cottage for the past fifty-something years, wobbling sharply on one leg when David leans too far to one side. It's just a table, a slab of wood and four legs, but it's seen so much. Christmas dinners and summer cookouts. Birthday parties and bill paying nights and card games and so, so many meals.

A spring break and a summer vacation that would forever remain unspeakable.

It reminds David of Shane's offer the year before, when he had started construction on his own cottage a few miles away, if David and Yuna would like him to ask about what it would cost to tear this cottage down and build it back bigger and better when they were done with his. David had shot the suggestion down far too quickly, he knew, but the idea of losing this place made him physically sick.

As David closes the tackle box and latches it shut again, there is finally a knock at the door. Instantly, his heart jumps up into his throat. He takes a deep breath and tries not to hurry to the door. He can be normal about this, he tells himself. He's just going fishing with a friend.

Brandon is standing there when he opens the door, dressed comfortably in a worn Ottawa Centaurs tee, cargo shorts, and boat shoes. A sunfaded blue ballcap shades his dark eyes from the sun. He smiles, careful and reserved, when David answers the door, fishing pole in one hand and plastic cooler in the other.

"Ready?" he asks, and the illusions David had of inviting him inside are silently shattered. This is fine, he tells himself. He's lucky to even have this much. He won't push for more.

David grabs his tackle box and a bag of ice out of the freezer before locking up and joining Brandon in the drive. His pole is already in the back of his SUV, as well as a large rolling cooler stocked with sodas and a couple of beers. He slings the ice in with them as Brandon stows his gear in the back, and then they're off to the nearby marina.

It's odd, driving in silence with Brandon in the passenger side. It feels like a lifetime ago since they rode in the same vehicle together through these tranquil backwoods. David allows himself a sly glance to his right as the light flashes in strips through the trees. The stop-motion effect renders Brandon's face in two timelines, at once both himself as he is today and who he was two and a half decades ago.

When Brandon catches him looking, he is a dizzying combination of his present reality and every gilded, smitten memory David has of him, and David has to quickly tear his eyes away before he crashes the damn car.

"You find the place okay?" David finally asks, desperate for anything to fill the air of the cab.

"Yeah," Brandon says with a bemused huff. "You can't really forget this place."

It's a simple enough statement, but it makes something warm and almost painful unfurl in David's stomach.

The marina is sleepy and practically abandoned when they arrive. The serious fishermen took off long ago, before the sun had truly risen, and the hobbyists and vacationers have yet to make their way to the lakeside in earnest. It's not really a good season for fishing, yet, but it's warm enough and the weather is bright and easy.

The fishing boat David keeps there is nothing fancy. It has seating enough for four people, modest storage for supplies and fresh fish, and a full tank of gas in the motor, put there by David the day before. It's another thing that Shane has offered to purchase a replacement for, and unlike the cottage, David is seriously considering taking him up on it.

Once their coolers and gear are onboard, they shove off from the dock and putter out into the open water. The wind is nonexistent and traffic even more so, leaving the surface of the water still and flat as a sheet of glass. David eases them out into open water and they tread along in silence, both men simply enjoying the peace and quiet that the lake and its surroundings provide.

David drops anchor near a spot he knows is usually good for trout and bass. They bait their hooks, cast, and lean back in their seats to wait.

But the silence weighs on David like an anvil slung around his neck.

Their correspondence ever since Vegas has been stilted and curt. David can count on one hand the number of phone calls they have shared since then. They text about once a month, more while they were planning this trip, but other than that, they have only barely reconciled after their disastrous last meeting. It burns in David's gut like a stab wound.

"I'm glad you came out here," David finally blurts out. "You didn't have to. Just because I sent you the pole… you could have said no. I would have understood."

"I know." Brandon picks up his pole and starts slowly reeling it back in, pausing every now and then to see if a fish will take notice. "I guess… I don't have a ton of friends outside of work. I figured it would be nice to do something that wasn't focused on hockey for a change."

David is thankful that he's facing away from Brandon, because he's sure that his expression is one of pure shock. Brandon made friends as soon as he walked into a room. How is it that he's been in Ottawa for over five years and barely has any?

"Well, so long as the lake is thawed, you're welcome to come out here with me," David replies without thinking about it.

They ease up a bit more from there. Brandon, bless him, asks about Yuna. He asks about Shane. About David's work. And David asks the same. Learns Brandon's wife and daughters' names, the private front office drama at the Centaurs' HQ, the gossip about the upcoming draft.

Within an hour, they both have a beer in hand and have turned their bodies toward each other, poles forgotten, wide, easy smiles on both their faces. David tell a horrible joke and Brandon shows him a magic trick that he had shown him a hundred times before in the past, and it's enough. It's more than enough. It's incredible. It's miraculous.

Time melts away on that lake.

ONTARIO - 1989

By the time David and Brandon got to the cottage, they were both about to lose their minds.

First had been the three hour bus ride from Montreal to Ottawa, where Mrs. Hollander picked them up and brought them to the house. They didn't even set foot in the house proper; they only went there to transfer their luggage to one of the surplus cars the Hollanders still had from when their boys were still at home, thank Susan for picking them up, and then peel out of the drive and head out into the woods.

David hadn't been this excited to get to his family's cottage since he was a little kid heading there for summer vacation. It would always embody the best things of his childhood — freedom, joy, togetherness. A haven for unstructured days spent lounging in the sun or swimming in the deep, cool water. Long, bright mornings and warm, star-studded nights. Theirs certainly wasn't the biggest or grandest cottage on the lake, but it would always be his favorite.

This was only further cemented when he watched Brandon wander up the gravel path to the door ahead of him, looking around as if he couldn't fully believe he was there.

Once they were through the door and had dragged in all their things, Brandon was on David instantly, pressing his back to the wall, hands seeking skin beneath his shirt. David laughed, stomach full of giddy butterflies, and tried to work free of his hold. "Wait, wait, hold on, I'm starving, man. Mom sent some sandwiches with us, let's eat real quick, okay? And then…"

Then. Then they would retire to one of the bedrooms and leave the door open and shed their clothes and…

David hustled over to their luggage before he forgot how to breathe.

They ate a late lunch out on the back deck that overlooked the lake, the sinking sun twinkling off the water. Brandon had fished something out of David's bag, and he came up with the black notebook that Alois had given them. He flipped it open and David nearly choked on his food.

"Oh," Brandon said simply. "I didn't know Alo was so… artistic."

The notebook was… graphic. Detailed sketches of male anatomy littered the pages, along with chunks of text in Alois's elegant, looping script describing how best to perform every sex act one could imagine (and several that David had never even tried to.) David only glanced at it, feeling deeply embarrassed, but Brandon was eagerly reading over Alois's notes and examining the diagrams.

"He gave me a care package, too," Brandon announced as he flipped past an incredibly lifelike drawing of an erect penis. "Lots of lube and condoms. Some of them are flavored."

David silently buried his face in his hands. God. He hadn't even had sex for real yet, and already, it was the most mortifying thing he could think of.

When the sun had set and left them in the half-light of twilight, they went inside, the notebook abandoned on the dining table. David did not feel anymore confident than he had before, but Brandon seemed grounded and comfortable. His was arguably the more intimidating role that lay before them, after all. Surely, David could muster some courage and be brave for him.

He pulled Brandon close in the kitchen and lowered his head to press a kiss to Brandon's throat. Brandon tipped his head to the side, his thick black hair falling away to unveil more skin for David to taste. He sighed beneath David's touch, body melting into his grasp, hands tugging greedily at his clothes.

"C'mon, Bowie," he purred. "Take me to bed."

His stomach doing somersaults, David took his hand and lead him to the bedroom he usually claimed when they stayed there. It was plainly decorated, only a couple personal items compared to the collection in his bedroom in Ottawa, but it was clean and airy and his. Brandon grabbed his duffel bag along the way, letting it fall to the floor once he stepped inside.

"So," David asked, his mouth suddenly dry, "how do you, umm…"

Brandon grinned at him, a look that would usually look mischievous if not for the undercurrent of shyness that was thrumming through him."Sit up against the headboard," he suggested, nodding toward the stacks of pillows. "And take off your clothes."

David shimmied out of his jeans, pulled off his shirt, and moved to comply while Brandon fetched some things from his bag and arranged them on the side table, placing the lube and condoms within easy reach. David tried not to look at them for too long; they were a reminder that this was happening, that it was real, and he was so scared that he would get performance anxiety and blow it in the absolute worst way possible.

Once David was in place, Brandon stripped all the way down. The soft light of the lamps rendered him in an amber glow that made it impossible for David to tear his gaze away. Even the lingering bruises and cuts on his body were made beautiful in the golden cast on his skin. David wanted to touch him everywhere, taste him everywhere. He looked like a god, and tonight, he was David's personal, private deity.

Brandon straddled David's hips and settled into his lap, hands resting on his shoulders. David's went automatically to Brandon's hips, fitting perfectly into the cradle of his pelvis. Brandon rested their foreheads together, and David fought to keep breathing.

God help him, he was shaking.

They had hardly ever done this before. The frantic handjobs and rutting and blowjobs executed in the daylight were fast, usually with one or both of them with their eyes closed or looking down or carefully away from the other. Otherwise, everything they had done up until now had been in the dark, quiet and covered and concealed. Faced with everything like this, so close and personal and intimate, David was about to come undone.

Brandon kissed the corner of his mouth sweetly, the barest brush of his lips on David's skin. "It's okay, Bowie," he whispered. "Relax. It's just me."

That's the problem, David thought pitifully. He wanted this to be good for Brandon, too, who had never taken it before. He wanted to make him feel as good as Brandon made him feel. He wanted it to be perfect.

Brandon didn't let him stew too long in his panic, though. He pressed the lube into David's hands, nuzzling under his jaw and stroking his chest. "Come on, David," he prodded, breath tickling David's ear. "Get me ready. I wanna feel you."

David was going to die before this night was over. Even if he wanted to back out, there was no possible way he could say no to that. He took a deep, trembling breath, and snapped the cap on the lube open. He doused his fingers in it, clueless to how much he would need, but he figured more was better than less. Brandon pressed closer to him, pulling his hips nearer for David to reach around.

At the first nudge of David's fingertip against his hole, Brandon gasped. David froze, terrified, but Brandon ever so slightly leaned back, chasing the feeling. "It's okay," he murmured, cock stiffening between them until David could feel it nudging against his stomach. "Come on."

The sound Brandon made when David pressed his finger inside of him would be burned into his mind forever. At first he sounded pained, but the further David pushed the digit inside, the more the sound morphed into one of ragged, deep-seated pleasure.

"Good?" David asked around a thick, dry tongue, desperate for assurance.

"Good," Brandon panted, burrowing his face deeper into the crook of David's shoulder. "Don't stop."

David obeyed. He worked the digit in and out, collecting every sound Brandon made like secret treasures he could revisit later. Between them, Brandon's rigid cock was weeping precome, which in turn made David burn with need. By the time he added a second finger, he had all but forgotten his earlier fears. All he wanted now was to keep wringing those moans and gasps from Brandon's lips.

"Fuck, David," Brandon whined after a while. "I need to come. Can you —"

He didn't have to finish his request. David's free hand slid between them and he stroked Brandon to completion, the groan that flew out of him when he came cementing itself as the crown jewel of the entire experience. He looked like living art in the lamplight, body arced on top of David's, ribs straining against his skin as he heaved for breath. David drank in the sight of him and wished he could look at him like this forever.

Brandon slumped forward and David carefully withdrew his fingers, wanting to hold him but also feeling like he needed to wash his hands. Brandon seemed to sense this and snickered against David's neck, reaching for something on the side table. He grabbed a damp cloth and handed it to David, who gratefully took it and wiped off his hands.

"Okay," said Brandon once David had tossed the cloth across the room. "Now you."

David could only watch as Brandon tore open a condom wrapper and pulled out the thin ring of rubber. "You ever put one of these on before?" he asked, and David blushed deeply as he shook his head no. Brandon's impish grin deepened. "Ever put one on a banana in health class?" he needled.

David poked him in the ribs before he could wriggle out of reach. "Shut up," he groaned, rolling his eyes, but he couldn't deny he was thankful that Brandon could still crack a joke in this moment.

He watched as Brandon scooted back to sit on David's thighs and took his cock in hand, carefully sheathing the condom over the head and shaft. It felt odd, but only or a moment. The rubber warmed rapidly against his skin, and David was quickly able to forget it was even there.

"Here," said Brandon, tugging at David's hips. David inched further down the mattress, reclining beneath him, and lay propped up on his elbows as Brandon once again straddled his hips, muscular thighs holding himself up above David with ease.

Time was suspended for a heartbeat. Brandon swallowed. David sucked in a shaking breath. His heart was pounding almost painfully behind his ribs.

"Ready?"

David would never be ready. David had been ready from the day Brandon had walked through the door of their dorm room. He had told himself he was waiting for marriage, but really, this was what he had been waiting for: someone who saw him, and liked him, and accepted him as he was.

"I'm ready," David whispered. His hands trembled as they rested on Brandon's thighs.

Nothing — absolutely nothing — could prepare him for how it would feel as Brandon sank slowly onto his cock. Judging from the gasps and wide eyes from Brandon, he felt the same way.

"Fuck," Brandon hissed, barely halfway down. "Jesus Christ, Hollander, you're so —"

"I'm sorry," David babbled, nails digging into Brandon's legs. The hot, tight grip of his body was driving him insane.

Brandon huffed a breathless laugh, and the motion sent tremors all the way through him and into David's balls. "Why are you apologizing?" he chuckled. "For having — shit, — a big dick? Don't be sorry."

David smiled bashfully up at him, holding himself still as Brandon worked his way down. Once he was fully hilted, they moaned together, a deep, drawn-out sound that was punched out from under his ribcage. David's pelvis was wound tight, begging for motion, for more, but he held still until Brandon had time to adjust.

Brandon leaned forward, hands splayed out on David's chest and holding him down. Slowly, so slowly, he began to move, rocking back and forth on top of David, the weight and friction as he rode him sending white-hot bolts of pleasure straight up his spine. It was imperfect and stilted and arrhythmic, but David didn't care. He rolled his head back against the bed and groaned, fingernails scrabbling on whatever parts of Brandon he could reach.

He was staring into Brandon's deep, dark eyes when he finally came, face cradled in Brandon's hands, his name on his lips like a fevered prayer.

This was for you, he thought helplessly after, when they were shower-damp and tangled naked in the sheets and each other's arms. I waited for you.

The rest of the week was lost to obsessive, all-consuming lust.

Once the nerves of the first foray had been conquered, it felt like a dam had broken open within them both. David woke the morning after hard as a rock, humping against Brandon's thigh. They barely had the wherewithal to slap a condom on before they were fucking again. In the shower after, they couldn't keep their hands to themselves. After lunch, David laid Brandon out on the dining table and took him again.

By the end of the week, there was scarcely a surface they hadn't had sex on in the whole cottage. David forced himself to spend the last day deep cleaning, ridding the property of any and all traces of their escapades before they went back to campus, while Brandon did his level best to distract him with suggestive conversation and small, too-tight clothes.

"I'm going to miss this," he pouted as David scrubbed the dining table for the third time, convinced there was still a crusty spot stuck to the surface of the wood. "When we go back."

David glanced over at him. For the first time in weeks, Brandon had a sullen, despondent look to his eyes. He was staring off into the middle distance, an unhappy tilt to his mouth. David's chest twinged. He wanted to kiss the frown away.

"We can come back, y'know," David suggested. "In the summer. You're more than welcome to stay here with me if you want. If… if you're not going home."

Brandon's mouth shifted, twisting inward as he chewed on his lip. "I'll think about it," he replied, eyes finally drawing back to focus on David once more.

But David knew, as he leaned over and kissed him breathless, that Brandon had already made up his mind.

ONTARIO - 2015

In the end, they don't catch a damn thing.

Not that it matters to David. By the time they park the boat back at the marina and load everything back into his car, he's feeling lighter than he has in months. He can look at Brandon without feeling pain and guilt. They can speak without skirting around sinkholes of hurt. It's not yet perfect — it may never be perfect again — but it's something.

They return to the cottage as the sun is setting, turning the woods and the sky above them into a brilliant, blazing shade of orange. Brandon transfers his things to his own car before looking back to David, fidgety and unsure. "Do you, uh," he mumbles, clearing his throat and trying again. "Mind if I borrow your bathroom before I head home?"

David nods out of habit. "Sure, of course," he spouts without second thought. He lets Brandon take the lead, time and memory once again doing that funny thing where they overlay with the present. Here is Brandon, grown and married with children, walking up the gravel path to the Hollander cottage. Here, also, is Brandon, nineteen and brimming with anticipation as he approaches the cottage for the first time. David's throat feels tight for just a moment.

He unlocks the door and lets Brandon head inside. It's not as if the layout of the building has changed at all since he was last here; he should still remember where the bathrooms are. With him gone, David busies himself in the kitchen, putting away drinks they didn't open and scrubbing the grime from his hands at the sink.

He's once again staring at the dining table where he made love to Brandon that spring when he returns from the hallway, hands pushed into his pockets. Brandon pauses before rounding the corner, his gaze drawn to a photo on the wall. Knowing how David and Yuna have decorated the place, it's probably one of Shane, or maybe one of the three of them together.

"Why didn't you ever tell her?"

David crosses the room to peer around the corner. The photo in question is, in fact, one of him and Yuna, Shane as a toddler cradled between them in too-big winter wear and bright red snow boots. Yuna is beaming, her picture-perfect smile aimed right at the camera, while David is looking down at them both, visibly infatuated.

It's a photo that might not have existed, had Yuna known back then. He'll never know now.

"Same reason as everything else I messed up," David sighs, defeated. "I was scared."

Brandon glances at him, his face hard to read. The floor feels like it's tilting under David's feet. It's doing strange and painful things to him, having Brandon back here again after so long, the entire context of their relationship completely warped from what it once was. It pitches further when Brandon asks, "Did you ever tell anyone?"

David shakes his head. He can't pull the word from his throat, can't untangle the shame of keeping what they had hidden for so long. "Did you?"

Brandon looks away, back to the photo. "I didn't have anyone to tell."

David's stomach drops. "Your mom?"

"Died two years after I dropped out." Brandon sighs, running a hand through his hair before settling his cap back onto it. "The only person I had left outside of the league was Alois, and he already knew. And then he died, too."

So many things David should have done differently. So many regrets. He wishes so badly he could reach across time and —

"It's alright, David," Brandon says suddenly, cancelling that train of thought. "Really. I… I wasn't fair to you, back then. You had your reasons for not telling Yuna. You had so much more to lose. I'm glad you told her in the end, but… I don't know. Maybe you never should have had to."

He nods toward the photo on the wall, smiling faintly. "It turned out the way it was supposed to. You two work together. You had a beautiful kid who's about to make a playoff run. Everyone says it's Montreal's year to bring home the Cup."

David can only nod.

"And, really, I wouldn't do anything differently. I love my wife. I love my girls. I like my life and my job and my team. I'm where I'm supposed to be." He pauses, takes a deep breath. Turns to face David fully, looking up at him, and David is fairly certain his heart comes to a full stop in his chest.

"But if I could change just one thing," Brandon says, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "I would change the last time I kissed you. So that I would know, for sure, that it was the last time."

It's been decades since David skated seriously, but he still remembers the sickening, almost-thrilling lurch when his blade would catch a bad spot in the ice and send him flying face-first, all his momentum turned against him. He feels that same thing now, lungs burning for air as he holds his breath.

"You still can," he hears himself say from somewhere outside of his body.

Brandon looks at him for a long moment. David knows it's going to happen, the way he knows that the sun is going to set and that summer will soon arrive and that one day, however many years from now, he's going to die. He knows this, because even after all this time, he knows Brandon Wiebe like the inside of his own eyelids.

Brandon leans forward and kisses David for the last time.

Brandon's mouth is thinned from time. His stubble is something fierce, scratching against David's own. They don't touch outside of their lips, just a soft, closed-mouth press. It's fitting, David supposes, that it happens here, in this place that held such a life-changing first for them. His romantic relationship with Brandon can, at last, be neatly bookended with a final kiss.

Brandon's eyes shine with unshed tears when he finally leans away. He closes his eyes and exhales heavily, the tears tumbling down his face, and he nods to himself. "Okay," he whispers, swiping away the tear tracks and composing himself in record time. "Okay. Thank you."

David swallows hard and nods. "You too," he chokes out.

The floor no longer feels like it's going to pitch him into a yawning abyss. Time settles, no longer overlaying the past with the present. Now David sees Brandon as he is and nothing more: a man of middling age with a life of his own, an olive branch extended out towards him. A former lover, yes, but most importantly, a dear, old friend.

He walks Brandon out to his car as the sun begins to sink beneath the horizon. They hug briefly, and for the first time in decades, the contact does not jostle the old wounds. It does not bring David down to his knees with memory and longing and regret. It is simply what it is: a warm embrace.

"We'll do this again in the summer, yeah?" Brandon asks as he opens his Jeep and climbs inside.

"Definitely," David promises. "Hopefully by then we can actually catch something."

Brandon shoots him his trademark grin, and David returns it without thinking. "Good. Don't be a stranger, Bowie."

"You either, Brando. Be safe getting home."

David watches Brandon's taillights shrink down the road until they vanish out of sight. He brushes his lips with his fingertips, just for a moment, and is at peace.

Chapter End Notes

HAPPY PRIDE!!!!! HERE'S SOME OLD MAN YAOI TO CELEBRATE!!!!!

this one is smaller (thank god) than the last chapter and wasn't part of my original outline, but i felt it needed to be included.

just a heads up: we're going to be VERY david-heavy for a few chapters here just because of how things unfold in canon and i need his POV to get them across. and yes, shane and ilya will finally be returning soon, don't worry. we had to do some work backstage before we got to the big pivotal moments okay!!!

couple of quick things before i forget again:
- if you've wondered what david and brandon look like, this post has young/current dylan walsh (david) along with my fancast for brandon, the lovely billy wirth.
- likewise, here is alois. like to a t. he's just a silly goofy deeply effeminate dude okay. his hair is better than yours. sorry.
- FULL credit to this post for the one-timer thing. i don't even go here re: that fandom but cat sent me that comic and i had to go lie down. i'm normal about this shit.
- the saint mary's huskies are, in fact, a real team. however the redbirds did NOT win the college championship in 1989. it's true, i lied about real hockey history for the sake of fanfic. i shall be arrested forthwith.

as always, feel free to yap with me over on tumblr.

Chapter 10: time after time

Chapter Notes

MONTREAL - 2017

"Do you think he's okay?"

David glances to his right, where Yuna is perched in a folding seat in the stands beside him, wearing a matching Hollander jersey. The Metros and Raiders are on the ice below, stretching and warming up. David's eyes find #24 with practiced ease, tracking Shane as he skates toward center ice and comes to a stop in front of #81.

"Rozanov?" David asks, because seeing his jersey reminds him suddenly of the headline he had spotted a couple of days ago. He can't imagine how hard it must be to lose a parent during the playoffs, especially when he's the same age as Shane.

"What? No, Shane." Yuna shakes her head, her sleek curtain of hair swaying with the movement. "He's been acting weird for a while now. I hope it's not affecting his game."

Weird was one way to put it. Shane had begun the year with a girlfriend, a beautiful, high-profile actress who seemed perfect for him in every way. Less than a month after telling his parents they were dating, though, he informed them that he and Rose had decided to simply be friends. Then there was the All Star game that David and Yuna had watched from their vacation rental, where Rozanov had been obnoxious yet seemingly friendly toward Shane, and Shane has been vacillating between anxious and delighted ever since.

They didn't have much time to catch up with him today before the game, but when they had seen him, he looked excited. Practically buzzing. It was a nice change, in David's opinion. Ever since his back-to-back Cup victories, Shane had started approaching hockey less like a game and more like a military battle. He took everything so seriously now. David mourned privately the child who had squealed with unbridled joy whenever he scored a goal, so happy to just be on the ice and in the moment.

David shrugs and leans back in his seat. "If he needs to tell us something, he will," he says mildly.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out to glance at the screen. Good luck to your boy, read a text from Brandon, and David smiles. You too, he sends back, which is promptly answered with a laughing emoji. The Centaurs had clawed their way to a wildcard slot in the playoffs that year, but three games in had seen no results for them so far. With any luck, their opponents would knock them out today and put poor Brandon out of his misery.

It's difficult to put into words how relieved David is to have his friend back in his life. True to his word, Brandon had returned the summer following their fruitless fishing trip, making the drive out to the lake every other week or so to shoot the shit with David and reflect on the old days. They had done the same thing the next year, too, and now plan to do it again this summer as well.

It's nice. They're solid. They lean on each other throughout the season and speculate on teams together. They've even begun planning a double date for the next time they're all in Ottawa. David is surprisingly eager to meet Brandon's mysterious and apparently charming wife.

It is, at long last, the relationship David has always wanted to have with Brandon in the present.

Down on the ice, the teams clear out and the surface is refinished once more. The lights come down, opening montages and fancy laser shows play from the Jumbotron, and the anthems are performed. David and Yuna sing faithfully along to O, Canada, and David knows that on the ice below, Shane is doing the same, just as he has since he was little.

Then the teams are lining up to face-off at center ice, Shane bent low across from Rozanov, the rink glowing white under the brilliant lights of the stadium. David's breath always catches at this point, a long-remembered reflex from his own hockey days. No matter how old he gets, that thrill of waiting for the puck to kiss the ice for the first time will always set off a flutter of adrenaline in his belly.

As he typically does, Shane wins the draw, peeling off toward Boston's zone. David releases his held breath and settles himself. Unlike Yuna, who is bloodthirsty for every minute of every game, David prefers to save his energy for the third period.

He's about to sit down when it happens.

When Shane was four, he was a menace on the ice, and not in a skilled way. He would tear off in any direction he could, gleefully gaining as much speed as his little legs could muster as he pushed himself further and further along. He slid and tripped and fell over and over, and each time, he would resolutely claw his way back up to his skates, a stubborn set to his round jaw and his dark little eyebrows.

Back then, when his pads and helmet were bigger than he was and his stick was barely as long as his whole body, David didn't worry as much. Shane was so small, back then, and the ice was so close to him even when he was upright. It was such a short distance to fall.

Twenty-two years later, it feels like Shane falls forever when Cliff Marleau barrels straight into him and knocks him down. Yuna gasps, a ragged, terrified noise wrenched from deep inside her lungs, and David's chest aches as he watches Shane crumple on the ice.

He doesn't get up.

David forces himself to count to ten before he snatches up his and Yuna's jackets and throws the strap of her purse over her shoulder. He takes one of her shaking, sweating hands and pulls her toward the aisle to begin their descent toward the exit tunnel. They're both familiar with the back passages of the Bell Centre; even in an almost-panicked state, David can navigate down toward the access hallways that will take them to the team facilities where, hopefully, his son will soon be arriving.

They're intercepted by a staff member, who pulls them into a different corridor and hustles them along, hard concrete and buzzing, unforgiving fluorescent lights illuminating the path. David feels like he is speed-walking through a cave.

People approach and pass them. People talk to them. Yuna seems to hear them, nodding so hard that David wonders how her neck doesn't ache, but he feels like a grenade has gone off in his face. His ears are ringing. Words blur into long, unintelligible strings as they're spoken in his direction. All he can hear is the crack of hockey pads slamming against each other at full speed on the ice, the collective intake of breath as the whole crowd absorbed the aftershock of that earthshaking hit.

They emerge into a loading bay at the same time that a stretcher is rolled down an opposing corridor. David's knees wobble at the sight. He grips Yuna's hand tight enough to bruise.

"Oh my God," she exclaims, hurrying over. "Is he —"

"M'okay, Mom," Shane slurs, and the relief of hearing his son's voice nearly does David in right then and there.

He has known, ever since Shane strapped on that first set of pads and kiddie skates, what he was signing up for. Things that seemed normal and second nature when he played hockey were suddenly put into stark, terrifying contrast. The blinding speed at which bodies moved across the ice. The hundreds of pounds of force put onto a body in motion when it was suddenly slammed into the boards by another, equally large and fast body. Razor-sharp blades on their feet and blunted ends of sticks flying around at face and organ level.

It was fine and fun and all part of the game when it was David.

Now that it's his son, his one and only, his baby boy, it boggles the mind that he ever let him set foot on the ice to begin with, knowing all too well that it could end like this.

An ambulance soon arrives, doors flung open to admit the stretcher Shane is strapped onto. "I'll meet you there," David tells Yuna, nudging her toward the back of the vehicle. "You go. Stay with our boy."

Yuna doesn't need to be told twice. She boards the ambulance like she belongs there, leaning over Shane with pure agony on her face. The doors slam shut, the lights and sirens sound, and David is left to make the trek to their car down in the parking garage alone.

He spends the drive trying desperately to keep himself calm. Shane was conscious and communicating, if nothing else. The neckbrace and spinal board just look frightening, he tells himself, but its probably not as bad as it looked. Hopefully. And besides, it's hardly the first time Shane's been hurt.

It's just the first time he ever got knocked down and couldn't get back up.

David will be seeing that image of Shane still on the ice in all of his nightmares from now on.

At the hospital, he's quickly reunited with Yuna in the waiting room.He's informed they're checking Shane over and making sure he's stable. Everything blurs together as they wait, then get ushered to a private room, where they wait some more until Shane is finally wheeled in, a sling over one shoulder and his right arm cradled within it.

The doctor delivers the verdict: fractured collarbone and a concussion. The collarbone is an easy fix, all things considered. David's stomach twists at the word concussion. He's been reading too many articles in the New Yorker about the effects of repeat trauma and injury to the brain. But his boy and his wife are here and they need him to be calm, so David swallows down those worries and puts on a brave face for them both.

David and Yuna both need things from home if they're going to stay a few nights in Montreal, so David volunteers to make the drive. He's on the highway to Ottawa, shooting through the dark, when his phone rings.

"Is he okay?" Brandon asks as soon as the call connects. "That hit was brutal. Jesus."

A degree of tension unwinds in David's chest. "Yeah, he's okay. Fracture and a concussion. The hockey player special."

"Thank God. I'm sure he's bummed that he's going to miss the playoffs, though."

"He'll live," David replies, a reminder to himself as much as anyone else. "Did you win your game?"

A pained groan from Brandon that makes David snort. "Yes. Goddammit. Now we have to keep going through this slog. If we make it to game seven, I'm going to walk in front of a bus."

They talk for a while, Brandon's voice keeping David company as he drives through the night. He gathers what he and Yuna need from their house and turns right around to head back to Montreal. It's obscenely late by the time David finally returns to the hospital, eyes stinging from strain and exhaustion.

When David slips back into the room, he finds Shane asleep in the hospital bed and Yuna bathed in the light of her phone screen, frowning behind her reading glasses as she taps furiously away. On the bedside table, a vase of lilies rests, filling the room with their cloying scent.

"Who sent flowers?" David asks, trying not to jump to unkind conclusions. Lilies are funeral flowers, after all. Someone out there has a sick sense of humor.

Yuna shrugs. "Shane wouldn't say, but it looked like he knows. He was so happy to see them when they were delivered. Maybe it was Rose?"

David stares at the lilies for a long time, even as his eyes grow heavy with sleep. Rose should have sent roses instead.

MONTREAL - 1989

It started with a cough.

It was sudden — a loud, hacking cough that exploded out of Brandon's chest, rattling wetly. He blinked in surprise at himself, rubbing the front of his shirt as David looked over at him from his desk.

"Damn, Brando," David remarked. "You alright, bud?"

"Yeah," Brandon replied, before seemingly second-guessing himself. "I mean, I've felt kinda groggy today, but I figure it's just allergies or something. I'll be okay."

They dropped the subject and went back to their respective books. There was only a month left in the school year by that point, and exams were fast approaching. Both were determined to study hard and get good marks on their finals, even if that meant seriously cutting down on their "extracurricular" activities together. Brandon coughed a few more times, drank some water and then some tea, and insisted he was fine.

That night, though, David woke to Brandon's entire body wracked with coughing. His breath whistled sharply through his ragged throat when he was able to drag in air. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and his skin burned to the touch.

"Jesus, Brandon," David hissed, pressing his hand to Brandon's damp brow. "You're burning up. We need to get you to a doctor."

Brandon shivered violently when David tried to fling off the covers, groaning and writhing in the sheets. "No, don't," he complained weakly. "Cold… body hurts… just —" He was cut off by another coughing fit that threatened to snap him in half.

David was starting to panic. He wished desperately that his mother were there. Mothers always knew what to do when people got sick. They knew when it could be treated at home in bed and when it was time to go to the hospital. How long as too long to let a fever rage? What was the saying? Starve a cold, feed a fever? What was the difference? Or was it feed a cold, starve a fever? He couldn't be sure, and it was killing him.

The one thing he knew was that he had to do something about Brandon's fever. He carefully unstuck himself from Brandon's side and got out of bed to rummage through his belongings. He squinted in the dark without his glasses as he searched for his bottle of Tylenol, which he snatched up and tipped out three capsules into his palm when he found it. He returned to Brandon with the pills and a bottle of lukewarm water and helped him sit up to take it. He was so woozy that he could barely stay upright long enough to swallow.

"That should help," David told him, pushing Brandon's soaked hair off of his fevered brow. "Just give it a little time, okay?"

Brandon nodded wanly, leaning heavily into David's hand. "Don't leave me," he whined, his voice sounding like he tried to swallow barbed wire. "Please. I'm scared."

Brandon had, up until that point, been as healthy and hale as anyone his age. He seemed immune to hangovers. Any time a cold or stomach bug went around on the hockey team, it miraculously passed him by, even when David couldn't count himself as so lucky. Whatever this was was nasty, and it had come on fast and strong.

"Okay," David promised. He didn't want to get back in bed with him, because he didn't want the excess body heat keeping his temperature elevated. So instead, he rested his head and arms on the mattress, one hand woven with Brandon's, and slept there on his knees for the rest of the night, just listening to him cough and struggle to breathe.

As soon as the first light began to stain the sky outside, David roused Brandon and helped him get dressed. He walked painfully slowly with him down the stairs of their building and across campus to the student clinic. A trip that should have taken fifteen minutes took nearly an hour, simply because Brandon kept stopping to cough and catch his breath.

At the clinic, Brandon insisted that David stay with him. David was relieved. He didn't want to leave him like this. He was quickly deposited into a tiny exam room, wax paper crinkling under him on the table as he shivered and coughed into his hands. David paced in the small space, unable to be still.

When the nurse finally came in to take his vitals and get some information, David made himself sit rigidly in the lone armchair in the corner. She took Brandon's temperature and started jotting down notes on a clipboard.

"Do you smoke?" she asked, her tone pleasant if not bored.

"No, ma'am," Brandon answered raggedly.

"Have you been outside the country in the last two weeks?"

"No, ma'am."

Her pen scratched against the clipboard. Then, "Have you had sexual intercourse with a person of the same sex or a known intravenous drug user?"

David went cold all over. He looked up at Brandon, who was determinedly not looking back at him. Brandon swallowed and cleared his throat. It looked like it hurt.

"Just one," he finally said, his voice small.

"And have they been sick as well?"

"No, ma'am."

That was all. The nurse took some more notes, told him to sit tight, and vanished.

David stared at Brandon. Brandon stared at the floor.

For the first time since they had started hooking up, it occurred to David how completely and utterly stupid he had been. They used protection, sure, but only when David was actually topping Brandon. What about everything else? God, David had swallowed. He never even thought to ask if Brandon had been tested. If he knew whether or not he was —

"I don't have it," Brandon said suddenly, cutting through David's internal panic.

"I didn't say you did," David replied, words blurring together.

"You were thinking it. I don't have AIDS, David. I'd have… I wouldn't do that to you."

David felt, suddenly, like a shithead. Of course Brandon would have said something. He felt shitty even assuming there was a possibility of it.

But he knew, too, that not everyone was as careful as they were. He knew Alois in particular was rather cavalier in his private life, and any time David had tried to ask if he was feeling well or if he was being careful, Alois just brushed him off. Very rude to ask these questions, David, You should know this, he would say haughtily before skating off or changing the subject.

They didn't have more time to discuss, it though, because the doctor came in and started poking and prodding at Brandon's throat and chest without preamble. David shrank in his chair, trying to make everyone forget he was even there. He felt guilty for a number of reasons. He both wished he wasn't there and refused to leave.

"You seem to have a nasty case of the flu, Mister Wiebe," the doctor informed Brandon after a moment. "And with that fever you keep spiking, I'm going to recommend you stay overnight for observation. I'll send a note along to your professors excusing you from class."

Brandon shuddered, still looking clammy and miserable. "Okay," he groaned. "Thanks."

They moved him upstairs to a better room with a real bed. He asked David to get his books and his work from his classes, if he could, and David promised he would. He hated to leave him there at the clinic, but his day was just getting started, and as long as he wasn't also sick, David really needed to get to class.

The day dragged by like a slog. David barely listened to his lectures and forgot to take any notes. He collected what readings and assignments he could from Brandon's classes. Once classes were finally over, he rounded up books and a change of clothes for Brandon and shoved them in his bag to take to the clinic.

On his walk back to the campus clinic, he was stopped by a group of horticulture majors who were selling flowers for their class trip to the botanical gardens. They'd grown them all themselves, they proudly announced, and had wheeled carts overflowing with vibrant blooms. Peonies and daisies and violets and irises in every color popped out at David in tight, full bunches and bouquets.

The cart that really made him stop, though, was the one with the roses.

Brandon was asleep when David finally made his way back to his room, flowers in hand. He quietly set his bag down, fetched water for the plastic vase he had bought with the roses, and set them in the window where Brandon would see them. They were full and bright and cheery in the otherwise bland, sterile room, and when Brandon's eyes fluttered open, they went straight to the flowers.

"Are those for me?" he croaked, voice sounding even worse than the last time David had heard him speak.

"Figured you could use a pick-me-up," David said, praying he sounded as nonchalant as he was trying to. "Do you like them?"

"Yeah." Brandon was still staring at them, looking awestruck, eyes slightly glassy and skin flushed with too much heat. "No one… no one's ever bought me flowers before."

I will buy you roses every single day if you want, David thought. White for innocence, pink for admiration, red for —

The thought hit him so hard, so fast, that it nearly fell from his mind straight to his mouth, but he bit it back just in time. "Isn't that silly? Guys like flowers too. They're nice. Everyone should get flowers when they're sick," he said instead.

Susan Hollander had no daughters until her eldest two sons got married, but it didn't stop her from passing on her knowledge on the language of flowers to her children. Roses are the boldest and most emphatic messengers, she told her boys at the grocery store one day, where they all leaned over refrigerated bundles of flowers and inhaled their artificially sweet smells. Choose them carefully if you choose them at all. The color, the season, the number — all of it means something.

The horticulturists had had them in all colors: white, orange, pink, yellow. But it was the red that made David reach out and pluck a single stem from the bunch.

Red, like the color of Brandon's battered Converse All Stars. Red, like the Redbirds' emblem on their hockey jackets and jerseys. Red, like the blood they had both spilled on the ice over the season.

Red, like —

No.

He had returned the flower to its bucket and moved to the side, pulling three yellow stems instead. Three was a good number. Three meant — No, dammit, he couldn't do three. But he could do six. Six was good. Six was… safe. Especially since he highly doubted Brandon knew the first thing about flowers besides the fact that they grew from the ground and bees liked them.

Six demanded nothing of the recipient, as so many other numbers did. No insistent be mine or you are the one or, God forbid, I love — No. Six was simple. It was an admission, quiet and sincere, and could be simply taken as that.

Yellow said friendship. Yellow said fidelity.

Six said I want to be yours.

And now, as Brandon stared at the half-dozen yellow roses in his windowsill, David couldn't help but feel like he already was.

Brandon's flu passed. The rest of the semester followed.

In no time at all, they were sitting for their final exams. They got their scores. They both passed everything with flying colors.

The year was over.

They went to party after party. Bernie, their goalie, had muscled his way through to graduation, and his was the biggest party by far. David and Brandon drank and screamed to Van Halen and laughed until they could barely speak. They returned to their half-packed dorm room and fucked until sunrise, then passed out on David's bare mattress, dead to the world.

It wasn't until three in the afternoon that pounding on their door finally pulled them from sleep. The room was stuffy and overly warm. Their skin stuck together wherever they touched. David groaned and dragged himself away from Brandon, stumbling into a rumpled pair of jeans before answering the door, squinting without his glasses.

"Mon Dieu," Alois scoffed. "You look like death warmed up."

"Thanks," David deadpanned. "What do you —"

"You're not leaving yet, are you? Come over tonight." Alois was craning his neck, trying to see past David into the dorm room behind him. David pulled the door tighter around him to spare Brandon's dignity.

"Kinda partied out," David reported, to which Alois threw his head back and groaned.

"Oh come on, we are not going to party. Just a small get together, yes? Just us three. No going out or big crowds, I promise. Be there by eight."

He turned with a flourish, hair fanning out around his shoulders, and strode down the hall before David could protest.

That left them with five hours to wake up and return to life. They took turns going to the showers, inhaled a bag of chips that David had forgotten he had brought back to their room, and resumed packing up their stuff. They had to be out by the end of the week, but that was okay. David had already told his mom to pick him and Brandon up in the station wagon the next day to head back to Ottawa.

Their room was almost completely bare by the time they were ready to head out to Alois's off-campus apartment. All of David's albums and magazines and his precious stereo were carefully packed up in boxes that they had purloined off the local liquor store. Brandon's bags were slumped at the foot of his bed, his gifted skates lovingly stowed back in the same box they had come in until he got back onto the ice in the fall.

Some stupid part of David loved seeing their things packed up, because he knew they were going to the same place after this. They weren't splitting up for the summer. He got Brandon all to himself until the fall semester started, and they were already talking about living together next year, too. Endings made David anxious. He didn't like goodbyes.

He was so, so happy that he didn't have to say it to Brandon. Not now, anyway.

They walked to Alois's place in the evening, the long stretch of the day just beginning to wind down and cast deep, slanted shadows over the city. They paused only once, under the metro line, and their eyes met and matching grins spread across their faces. They stood there until the train came rattling by overhead, at which point they screamed in each other's faces until they were breathless and gasping for air as they wheezed and laughed.

His whole body buzzing with happiness, David grabbed Brandon's hand. They were off campus now, and most of the people who knew them were gone for the summer anyway. Even if they weren't, though, David wasn't sure he would have cared. He threaded his fingers through Brandon's and squeezed, tugging him toward the sidewalk.

Brandon squeezed back and didn't let go.

Alois answered the door in what David could only describe as his grandma's nightgown, a silk kimono robe slung over it and slipping off one shoulder. A massive wineglass was cradled in his other hand. "You are late," he snapped, which was barely even true, but he ushered them inside regardless.

David avoided coming to his place, because Alois entirely too fond of incense and scented candles. The space gave him a headache, and although it seemed as if he had aired it out before their arrival, he could still smell the undercurrent of lilacs and fake lavender. He didn't have time to fuss over it, though, because Alois was pouring him and Brandon equally huge glasses of wine and handing them over with a toothy grin.

"To the reigning champions," Alois declared, raising his glass. "And to surviving another year."

"Cheers," said Brandon and David, tapping their glasses carefully together and taking a drink. David liked the wine that Alois bought, something sophisticated and slightly floral, but he could tell that it wasn't Brandon's favorite. He hid his grin behind his glass at the face Brandon was trying not to make.

They sat and talked and laughed. Alois had set out a cheese platter for them, and they picked at it between bursts of conversation.

"Oh! Did you hear?" Alois exclaimed, leaning forward and nearly dragging his robe through the open mouth of his wineglass. "DuBois is quitting. Something about focusing on his family. Maybe we'll get a coach that is worth a damn next year, ouias?"

David had heard, but he had also suspected it was a rumor. Alois didn't spread unfounded gossip, though, so if he was repeating it, then it must have been true. "Huh," he mused, sipping his wine and letting it buzz pleasantly in his skull. "Yeah, a more focused coach would be nice."

"Nice? David, without you, we would never have made it past the first semester as a team, let alone brought home the title. Don't make that face! You know it's true!"

Brandon nudged David's shoulder, smirking at him. "He's right, Bowie," he teased. "You were our coach this year. McGill needs to cut you a check."

David was shrinking into his own shoulders, crumpling like a paper bag under their praise. His face burned bright red. "Alright, alright, whatever you say," he conceded, which just made them all laugh.

"Oh, come on, get up, we need to celebrate!" Alois waved at them as he got up and scurried over to his record player. David rolled his eyes as he watched him select his favorite record: Whitney. Immediately, he cranked the volume up to complaint-inducing levels as he started shimmying and bouncing around to I Wanna Dance With Somebody.

"Come on, he's not going to stop until we humor him," Brandon chuckled, setting down his glass and tugging David by the hand. His dark eyes were glossy and mirthful, his crooked smile making David's stomach flutter. He was powerless to resist as he was pulled to the middle of Alois's throw rug in the living room.

David Hollander could name just about any song and artist that came on the radio in the first five seconds. He could find a hole in any goalie's coverage if given enough time. He had passed his stupid fucking statistics course and never had to take it again. But one thing he could not — and would never claim to be able to do — was dance.

Still, he laughed and swayed awkwardly around as Alois and Brandon jumped and gyrated around the room, arms up and hips rocking suggestively as they crashed into each other and threw their heads back and bellowed the chorus in ear-splitting dissonance. Thank God for the wine, at least, or else David would have pressed himself to the wall just to stay out of their way.

At the key change, Brandon spun towards David, who opened his arms and caught him against his chest. Brandon laughed, a full, bright sound, and looked up at David with all the joy and care in the world.

Red roses, David thought, before ducking his head to kiss Brandon fully on his smiling mouth. He makes me feel like red roses.

Alois screeched beside them, arms flailing like a giant flightless bird, but David didn't pull away. He smiled against Brandon's lips and flipped Alois off before going back in, deeper and hungrier, tasting the wine on Brandon's tongue. Alois cackled and swore at them in French, demanding they get a room, but David could only hear Whitney Houston giving voice to his own heart's wishes.

Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody, with somebody who loves me.

ONTARIO - 2017

Once Shane is discharged from the hospital, it's decided he will go home with David and Yuna. Summer is nearly upon them, so they figure they might as well head to the house, grab some things they need, and head out to lake to get the season started a little early. Shane remains in a sling and wears his sunglasses both in and outdoors, but David is just relieved to see him outside of the hospital.

He watches his son in the rearview mirror on the highway. Catches the way his fingers keep tracing over the petals of the now-drooping lilies that he insisted on bringing with him from the hospital. In a couple more days, they'll be fallen to pieces and completely withered, but Shane wouldn't let them throw them out, and so they sit between his knees in the backseat as David drives.

People had come to visit him in the hospital, of course. His team, his coaches, even Ilya Rozanov once, when David and Yuna had been downstairs having lunch in the cafeteria (though David wonders if Shane was remembering that last one correctly, or if it was the morphine talking.) But no one that David could point to and pin with the delivery of the lilies had ever walked through that door.

Shane is now a two-time Cup winning captain of an Original Six hockey team, but even now, David finds himself wishing his son had thought a little harder about college. Sure, he might not have gone on to have the accolades and the trophies and the fame that he has now, but to David, that might not have been the worst thing. He might have been looser. Happier. More content.

It's worth it, in David's opinion, to learn how to fall in love.

A Whitney Houston song comes on the radio, and David turns it up, just a little.

If nothing else, Shane's injury allows the Hollanders to enjoy the playoffs at home together as a family for the first time in years.

David delights in preparing game night spreads for Shane and Yuna to snack on as they bounce between games early on in the series. Ottawa, much to Brandon's chagrin, scraped through to game six, where they are finally knocked out of the running. David is cleaning up after dinner when he gets the text from Brandon. I'm finally free. Thank God. And then, See you soon?

David smiles. He texts back very, very slowly, not adept at using his phone with one hand, the other still submerged in dishwater. Yes, he sends. Boat will be ready. Already, the lake stretches out in his mind, its glassy surface reflecting their faces back up to them as they peer over at their fishing lines.

He's still daydreaming about the boat and the lake two weeks later, when the final game of the playoffs begins.

Yuna is smug, leaning back against the couch cushions, wineglass in hand. She's been predicting the Admirals' victory for days now, ever since the Raiders were knocked out. Shane is watching, rapt with attention, brow knit in the middle as his eyes trace the skaters on the TV. The fate of that years' Cup decidedly sealed, David returns to his refuge in the kitchen to cobble together a new casserole recipe he's been wanting to try.

The game passes by in much the fashion that Yuna and Shane assume it will. San Francisco scores early in the first period, only to be answered by New York three minutes later. They cap off the second period with another goal each for both teams, but when the third rolls around, New York bullies San Francisco out of their way and leads 4 to 2.

"Good for them," says David as he returns to the kitchen to check his casserole. He brings Yuna's wineglass with him, topping it off before cracking the oven door. He decides to turn the oven down and give the casserole ten more minutes.

He hands back Yuna's wineglass and reclaims his seat in the living room just in time to see the game clock zero out and the Admirals throw up their gloves in celebration, piling together in a cluster of red jerseys along the boards. Shane has his phone in his good hand, texting far faster than David could ever hope to one-handed, eyes flicking between his messages and the TV.

David watches the proceedings as the teams shake hands and prepare to bring the Cup out onto the ice. It's been a long time since his own father berated him for never going to the NHL, but something in David's chest still goes tight at the sight of the Cup being placed on its podium on the the ice. He's nearly fifty years old, but he can still hear Fred Hollander hissing in his ear: That should have been you.

That lingering unpleasantness is banished, though, as David watches the family members of the players begin making their way out onto the ice. This is always David's favorite part, and has made him cry more times than he cares to admit. This year threatens to be another tear-jerker, as poor Scott Hunter has no one coming out to congratulate him besides Roger Crowell himself. He's an orphan, David remembers, and has no partner that anyone is aware of.

At least, so it seems, until Hunter makes his way toward the side of the rink, his gaze fixed somewhere in the crowd. The commentators are equally confused as the cameras pan out, trying to spot who it is he's gesturing to the audience. When a man in a denim jacket stands and makes his way down the stairs, the cameras close in, tracking him all the way down to the boards. The man hops them to step out onto the ice with Hunter, who towers over him in his skates.

David can't help but feel his jaw drop as Scott Hunter, who has just captained his team to the Stanley Cup, bows his head and kisses that strange man full on the mouth in front of the entire world.

His memory slams him back to Alois St. Claire's living room, where he kissed Brandon Wiebe in full view of one other soul for the first and only time, because it was the one and only place where it had been safe for him to do so. That tiny Montreal apartment is a world away from center ice at Madison Square Garden, but for just a moment, they are one in the same, separated only by space and time.

"Oh, wow," says Yuna, unable to look away.

David peels his gaze from the screen. She's staring at the TV, wineglass forgotten in her hand. Shane is equally dumbfounded, mouth open and eyes wide, until his phone lights up in his palm.

Oh, God, David thinks suddenly. Shane.

And then Shane is standing and turning away, walking out of the room, without a backwards glance.

A thousand thoughts crowd into David's mind. What does this mean for the sport? What is Shane thinking right now? What the hell am I supposed to say?

Could that have ever been me and Brandon?

He reaches for the remote and Yuna collects herself. "Well," she remarks as David turns the TV off. "That's… wow. Good for him. Wow."

David looks at his wife, and she melts, just a little. They stand and she embraces him, rubbing his back.

"I don't know what you're feeling right now," she confesses into his shoulder, "but I'm here. Okay?"

David nods, leaning back to look at her. He loves her so, so much. He chose her, all those years ago, because she saw him and liked him and because he wanted to. He still wants to.

But he now wonders if it would have turned out differently if he had ever felt, even for a moment, that he could have chosen Brandon instead. If he had the opportunity to choose another man, the way Scott Hunter just did in front of millions of people.

And clearly, he's not the only one wondering about that, because his phone begins to ring on the coffee table.

Yuna squeezes his arm. "Go ahead," she says with a smile. "I'll get the casserole." David kisses her before grabbing his phone and heading for the back door.

"Holy fucking shit," Brandon says as soon as David picks up the call.

David snorts, incredulous. "You can say that again." He leans back against the wall of the cottage, gazing up at the stars that reflect down into the lake below.

They sit in silence for a while, the wind through the trees and the crickets singing the only sound for a long time. "I can hear the bullfrogs," Brandon says, so suddenly David starts. "Through your phone. You at the lake?"

"Yeah," David replies.

He sighs, closing his eyes and listening to the song of the lakeshore, his memory drifting without his permission. These same sounds had sung him and his family to sleep year after year, season after season. He had held his newborn son on this dock and listened to them serenade in the night. He had kissed Brandon under the moon, their feet in the cool water, and felt like he could fly.

He drags himself back to the present with an almost painful lurch before he says, "I always wondered how different it would be. If we had… I don't know. Been born later. If we hadn't…""

If we hadn't loved each other too soon. If the world had been more ready for us.

"Yeah, me too." Brandon grunts, presumably shifting his position wherever he is. "God. Seventeen seasons in the league. Now coaching for eight. I've been here since the first Pride nights. Since they announced You Can Play. But I still never thought…"

"I know. I never thought so, either."

David stares up at the brilliant glowing pearl of the moon overhead. It feels like a floodlight beaming down right on him. Premature queer male past his prime, center stage. Even the idea of labeling himself as such feels so alien. So… unearned. Alois had been the bold one, the one who laughed in the face of bigotry and hatred. Scott Hunter is a true hero, now, for everyone in the sports world that felt the way he did. A symbol that they can now point to and say I can be the best and kiss whoever I want. The two are no longer mutually exclusive.

David never could. David had been a coward.

"You okay, Bowie?" Brandon asks after a moment.

David keeps replaying Shane walking out of the room after that on-screen kiss. Keeps trying to decipher the split second of his expression that he had caught before he turned his back. Was he upset? Amused? God, disgusted? He and Yuna had raised him to be kind and accepting of everyone, but the fact of the matter is that Shane only belongs to them in pieces, and those pieces grow smaller and smaller every year. He keeps more and more from them, David knows, and whatever they don't get, he gives to the league.

And the league has never been a haven for the open-minded.

"I'm okay," David replies quietly, and he hopes that he means it.

Chapter End Notes

up next: two summers at the cottage

today on "things i have googled for this fic": whether or not lake muskoka has bullfrogs.

if you feel the need to come beat me with hammers, you can do so over ontumblr.
while you're at it, you should reblog the fic post.

Chapter 11: i'm on fire

Chapter Notes

ONTARIO - 2017

"I need to reschedule our trip, Brando. Let me get back with you later."

"Oh, okay, no problem." Brandon pauses on the other end of the line. "Is… is everything okay?"

"All good. We'll catch up later on, alright?"

"Yeah, okay, sure. Just let me know, Bowie. Talk to you later."

David hangs up and pockets his phone. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hands. His heart is still beating unpredictably in his chest, sending sparks of misplaced adrenaline shooting through his bloodstream. He regrets not being able to get out onto the lake with Brandon today, but this day very quickly became about something other than himself. Still, the water and the company would have been a balm to his frayed nerves, his raw heartstrings.

Once he feels that he looks mostly put together, he strides back into the dining room and resumes his place at the table. He gives what he hopes is a friendly smile. "Sorry," he apologizes. "Had to make a quick call. So… do you like spaghetti?"

"Yes, very much," replies Ilya Rozanov.

He is sitting in the same chair Brandon used to sit in a thousand years ago, in another life that refuses to let David move on. David feels like he's staring down the barrel of a cannon, forced to watch his son inexplicably repeat his own follies in real time, and the worst part is that Shane doesn't even know he's doing it.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to happen at all. But David had been on his way to the marina to meet Brandon when he remembered he left his phone charger at Shane's place a few weeks before and he really needed to get it, so he swung by without even thinking about it, just a quick in and out, and as he was on his way out he had seen his son tangled up with Ilya Rozanov against the glass of the back door, and…

And now Shane and Yuna are coming back inside and sitting back down, both looking tear-stained but relieved, and all David can think is My son is not going to survive this when it ends.

Yuna is strategizing, planning, already ten steps ahead of the rest of them. She was more visibly shaken than David, who had just been trying not to let his devastation and panic show on his face, but now she is at her finest, a cutthroat agent looking for every angle and advantage she can secure ahead of time. David thanks God and all his angels for Yuna, because he has become functionally useless.

He excuses himself to the kitchen, where he finishes preparing a massive serving of spaghetti to bring to the table for everyone. He had been so frazzled when he got back from Shane's; he had just started throwing food into pots and pans blindly while stumbling over his retelling of events to Yuna, before Shane and Ilya had arrived to explain themselves. He had blinked and then, boom, spaghetti had appeared before him, like one of Brandon's magic tricks.

Brandon. How can David see what Shane and Ilya have and not compare it to what he and Brandon shared? How can he be reminded of it in this very house and not remember how it was so good until it wasn't? How it ended and they didn't speak again for twenty years? How can he look at this boy — this man — that his son loves as he sits in Brandon's spot at the table and not immediately fear for how he's going to break his baby's heart?

The facts of their trysts and relationship swirl dizzyingly around David's head as he loads a serving bowl with pasta and grabs the tongs and forks. Since rookie season. The summer before. I have only ever loved one person. Me too. It hits David over and over like rain, like hailstones, like lightning bolts. The way his son has loved in fragments, hidden away in hotel rooms and late night meetings, in fake names and code words and stolen glances.

The way Shane, like David before him, stole away with his lover to this same lake, in the same season, for the same reason: to be able to love him loudly, in the open, for the first time.

David brings the food to the table. The Hollanders serve themselves, but are all too dazed and caught up in the details to actually eat. Rozanov has no issues about this, however, inhaling pasta and nodding along as Yuna weaves her intricate web in real time. David is quiet, overwhelmed with his own thoughts, trying desperately to keep his son at the center of this instead of himself.

But when Shane suddenly drops his head down onto the table, David is powerless to help. He just watches his son, an outward reflection of both their inner turmoil, and feels far too burdened to even begin to help.

And then Rozanov is leaning over, a gentle hand on Shane's neck, coaxing him out of his head and back to the present. David has seen Shane spiral many times, watched him quietly shut down until he could no longer function, but he has never seen someone so expertly swoop in and remove him from his own mental trap. His eyes linger on Rozanov's hand on Shane's neck, a hand he's seen curled into a fist and swung on the ice several times over the years.

He is reminded of their earlier question: Weren't there any nice men in Montreal?

It was the same question he had heard decades earlier, when he met Yuna's parents for the first time. They were murmuring as David had left the room for something, and on his way back, he caught the question like a stray bullet around the corner. A hockey player? Really? Weren't there any nice men at that school?

David had stared down at his hands, then, remembering the times they had been bruised and bloodied from his sport. The hands that had cupped Brandon Wiebe's injured face and smoothed the worry lines from Yuna's brow. The hands that would one day hold his newborn son.

Maybe he's like me, David thinks now, watching Shane lean toward Rozanov and allow him to kiss him right in front of his parents. Maybe he loves harder than he hits.

"Since rookie season," Yuna whispers, tears in her eyes, a wobbly smile on his face.

Their baby is in love. And despite all of David's worrying, all of his wishing that Shane had done things differently, he knows now that he was never alone. He always had his person right there with him, even when no one could see.

"The summer before," David corrects, because all good things on this lake happen in the summer.

After Shane and Rozanov (Ilya, David reminds himself, he had asked him to call him Ilya) leave that evening, David feels hollowed out. Wrung dry. A husk of a person in both the best and the worst way.

He and Yuna clean up after dinner. They put away the leftovers. Yuna is buzzing at his side, clearly wanting to talk and talk about everything they've missed over the past seven years, but David just can't get into it right now. He needs think. He needs to sleep for about a week.

He needs to tell Brandon.

Once the kitchen is secure and the sun has begun to set in earnest, David slips out the back door and plods down to the dock. The weathered wood creaks loudly as he steps out onto it, reminding him sharply of all the places where the boards are threatening to rot away completely. He knows the safe way by heart, though, and he steps easily around the soft places until he reaches the very end.

He eases himself down onto the wood. He shoots off a text to Brandon, rescheduling for the lake in three days. He'll tell him everything then.

His hand reaches for a spot on the dock post, partially covered by lichen, which he scrapes away with his thumbnail. Only one other soul knows what he's uncovering. He runs his thumb over the carving there once it's unveiled, his chest feeling like a cavern of love and grief combined. He traces the lines reverently, their shape and configuration burned into his memory for all time. The Hollanders' dock would be branded with those initials until it crumbled into the waters beyond.

D.H. + B.W.

1989

ONTARIO - 1989

"Oh my God, Hollander, you have got to be kidding me."

David glanced up. He had his nose buried in the newest edition of The New Yorker, deeply invested in an article about water pollution. Brandon was standing over him on the dock, bare chested and glowing in the sun, water dripping from his long black hair. He still hadn't cut it, and it flowed well past his shoulders now in a thick, luxurious mane. He would rival Alois for best hair come the fall.

"What?" David asked, feigning ignorance.

"You're reading? It's summer! Get your ass up! Reading is for school, old man."

"It's a really good article," David insisted.

Brandon groaned and rolled his eyes. "You are so boring sometimes, Bowie. Here, let me show you how you're supposed to do this."

He reached for David's magazine, which David snatched away with a yelp, rolling off of his Adirondack chair and landing hard on the dock with a thud. Brandon was on him in an instant, reaching for the issue, which David slung away onto the grass to keep it clear of his dripping hands. Then they were just wrestling, Brandon pinning David beneath him and grinning down at him before dipping his head to brush their noses together.

"That's more like it," he purred, rolling his hips against David's and making him gasp. "Now you're having fun."

He kissed him out there under the full sun, deep and filthy and wet, his soaked swim trunks grinding against David's board shorts until he was painfully hard and uncomfortably damp from the lake water. David didn't care, though. He couldn't think of any other way he would prefer to be spending his summer vacation.

Having Brandon at the cottage for spring break had given him just a glimpse of what it would be like to be with him all the time, with no one around and no one to see or hear them. The summer was proving to be even better, an extended cut of David's new favorite movie, one that started over every morning with Brandon in his arms and in his bed.

They usually kissed each other awake, slow and lazy, sometimes ramping up to more. They then dragged themselves to the kitchen and had breakfast regardless of the actual hour of the day. From there, the long summer days stretched with endless possibility, and they chose their own adventures accordingly.

Most days, Brandon insisted on a swim in the lake. He adored the water, and David was thrilled to watch him cut through the surface with his golden, toned body, arms pulling him forward through the water, legs kicking furiously to propel him onward. Sometimes they raced in the water, and when one of them got frustrated at losing, they moved their races to the grass, chasing each other on foot instead.

There were scenic hiking trails all around the lake, and Brandon wanted to walk them all. David was happy to oblige him, packing meals for them early in the morning and setting out on foot. They wandered the woods for hours, David pointing out all the birds and insects and woodland animals he knew by heart, Brandon taking it all in with wide eyes.

"We don't have any of this in the city where I grew up," Brandon explained once in a hushed tone as he watched a woodpecker hop from limb to limb overhead. "I've only ever seen this stuff on TV."

David wished he had a camera, just so he could capture how awestruck Brandon looked, silhouetted among the evergreens, head tilted up to the canopy above, mouth parted with silent wonder. He wanted to save every moment of it, catalog every instant as he shared his childhood refuge with this boy that he cared for so deeply.

Evenings were spent outside on the back deck, huddled around the fire pit, listening to the loons and the bullfrogs and the crickets sing to each other in the dark. Brandon was obsessed with s'mores, apparently, and made new outrageous combinations each night. David never could have imagined that he would tolerate being handfed a mess of melted marshmallow and chocolate and graham cracker, but there he was, leaning forward and opening his mouth whenever Brandon said "Taste."

Some nights they would stretch out on a blanket on the lawn and gaze at the stars, David patiently pointing out the constellations and the brightest stars in the sky. Brandon gasped and sat bolt upright when he saw his first shooting star, slapping David on the chest and pointing up with his other hand. "Did you see that?!" he exclaimed. "That was crazy! Holy shit, Bowie! That was an actual shooting star!"

David beamed at him, pec stinging from the slap, far too happy to watch Brandon's excitement to care. He made it a point to wish on every shooting star they saw, after that, and his wish was always the same: that the summer would never end.

The nights, once they finally turned in for the day, were strictly for rest and pleasure. Their nighttime routine had become synonymous with sex, to the point where they were both hard and eager when they stepped into the bedroom. They fucked in every way they knew how, not resting until they both were satisfied, and only then did they wash up for the night and fall into bed, limbs entangled, sleep claiming them swiftly once their heads hit the pillow.

It was in this perfect, hedonistic haze that two months slipped by, every hour like ice in their fingers' heat.

"Have you ever thought about switching?"

It was mid-afternoon, the sun hot overhead, the windows thrown open to let in what little breeze could be captured off the lake's surface. It was too hot to move, to think, really, and David and Brandon were slung haphazardly across the unmade bed in nothing but their underwear, the ceiling fan clicking away at an exhausted pace overhead.

David lifted his head and peered over at Brandon. He had long discarded his glasses on the nightstand, content to stare at nothing while he focused on staying still to keep as cool as possible. "You mean, like, in bed?"

"Yeah," answered Brandon, who rolled slowly onto his side and propped his head up on his hand. "Would you want to? You can say no."

David's stomach flipped. He and Brandon had gone through almost every sex act Alois had illustrated for them in his dirty little guidebook, and all of it had been mindblowing and new and fun for David. But up until that point, any time there was penetration involved, Brandon was always on the receiving end. He liked it. David liked it, too. But David was also… curious.

"Maybe," he mumbled, chewing his lip. "Would you… want to?"

Brandon snorted, leaning closer. They were very purposely not touching, as even a moment of contact made their skin stick together and sweat pool between them in the heat, but his breath on David's neck made him shiver.

"Are you really asking if I would want to fuck you, Hollander?" Brandon asked, voice deep and quiet, and the promise in his tone made David's cock stand straight up in his boxers. Brandon grinned, heated and hungry, and reached down to palm David's groin for just a moment.

"Jesus," David whined, arcing up into that touch involuntarily. "Would you? Please?"

Brandon brushed a kiss over his lips, the merest hint of contact, and snickered as David tried to chase after him. "I will," he promised, pulling his hand away and flopping back on his side of the bed. "Once it gets dark and cools down, though. It's way too fucking hot right now."

The afternoon dragged for what felt like an eon.

But, as it always did, the sun eventually set. Night closed in, warm and sticky, and the house finally felt less like an oven as the temperate dropped outside. The two of them had a light supper before Brandon herded David back to bed, laying him down among the rumpled sheets and crawling on top of him. He kissed him breathless, slow yet demanding, and David wrapped his legs around Brandon's hips to hold him close to his body, heat be damned.

"Turn over for me," Brandon whispered after a while, and David was quick to obey. He pulled his knees up, allowing Brandon to tug his boxers down and leave him exposed to the open air. David shivered as Brandon ran his hands up the backs of his thighs.

"I never stick it in before I go down on someone," Brandon proudly proclaimed, and David was confused for a moment, because it would have made more sense for him to stay on his back if that were the case.

"What are you —" he started to ask, but was silenced by smooth, wet glide of Brandon's tongue lapping over his hole. David sucked in a gasp and gripped the sheets, blushing from his toes to his hairline. All he could think as Brandon licked against and inside of him was holy shit holy shit holy shit.

"Brando," David moaned brokenly after a few minutes, unable to take anymore. "Please, I need —"

"I know what you need, Bowie," Brandon murmured behind him, callused hands stroking David's sides soothingly. "Easy. I've got you. Relax for me."

He knew, remotely, what the next part would be like. He had done it for Brandon several times by then. But actually feeling a slick, firm finger push inside of him made David cry out, burying his face in the pillow. Brandon just waited, rubbing his lower back with his free hand while David adjusted. When the burn finally subsided, he glanced over his shoulder and nodded for Brandon to continue.

Unlike David had been at first, Brandon was confident. He was steady. He took his time with David, opening him up on his fingers slowly, Never giving him more than he could handle. David had never felt so vulnerable before, and he was grateful that of all people, it was Brandon who was seeing him like this. Who was making him feel like this.

David trusted him, and because he trusted him, he let Brandon decide when he was ready. It felt like ages, but at last, Brandon seemed satisfied and withdrew his hand. "Okay," he said, patting David's hip as he reached for a condom. "You ready for me?"

"Wait." David awkwardly wriggled onto his back again, his thighs stiff and sore from so long in one position. "Can we… I wanna see you. Please?"

Brandon smiled at him, leaning forward to kiss him deeply. David craned his neck up into it, pressing closer, wishing he could meld their bodies together in that moment. He felt so open and raw. He wanted Brandon to shield him, to fill him, to hold him as tight as he could and never let go. His heart was slamming in his chest, his throat and eyes starting to burn. The feeling of needing to be closer closer closer hit him so fast that made his head spin.

When Brandon pulled away, he blinked, looking alarmed. "Hey, hey," he said quietly, taking David's face in his hands. He swiped his thumbs over David's cheekbones and brushed away tears. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

David shook his head, sniffling. "Nothing," he replied, leaning back in to press their foreheads together. He felt like his insides had been carved out, and the only way to feel whole again was to be as close to Brandon as he could. If he wasn't touching him in that moment, he felt like he would die.

What is wrong with me?

"Are you sure? You're —"

David silenced him with another kiss. It was less of a kiss and more of a resuscitation attempt, mouth-to-mouth, a desperate exchange of oxygen to keep David alive. He felt like his chest was caving in, like he was cracking open, and he couldn't explain why. He didn't know what was wrong with him, but he knew how to make it better.

"I want you," he sighed against Brandon's lips when he broke away. "Please, Brandon, I want this. Please."

Brandon still looked wary, concern clear in his deep brown eyes, but he nodded and swallowed hard. "Okay," he said. "It's okay, Bowie. I'm here."

I'm here. It was what the loons called to each other on the lake, over and over. Where are you? I'm here. I'm here. I'm right here with you. Like the loons, Brandon was right there with David, and David was realizing he never, ever wanted him to be anywhere else ever again.

He wanted Brandon with him. Inside him. Beside him. He wanted him to stay, always and always.

Brandon hooked his hands beneath David's knees and pushed his legs up to his chest, a comforting pressure among the overwhelming sensation that was brewing behind his ribs. He leaned forward, a heavy weight pressing down on David, and when he finally pushed inside, David threw back his head and sobbed.

"David, man, am I hurting you? Do you need —"

"Keep going," David gasped, frantic. He was breathing in sharp, jagged bursts, fully crying, but not because it hurt. It didn't. It felt good. It felt right, just like everything else about the two of them together, and David didn't know what to do about how right it felt. "Just — don't stop. Please don't stop, Brandon, fuck —"

Brandon took a deep breath and rocked further inside. As soon as he so much as nudged David's prostate, David was screaming with pleasure, clawing at Brandon's shoulders, shouting yes, yes, yes, more, please, more, until Brandon finally abandoned all pretense of caution and put his head down and fucked into David until the headboard was banging against the wall.

David couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when he came. His ears were ringing, the tips of his fingers tingling, and he was pulling in air like he had almost drowned. Every drag and thrust of Brandon's thick cock inside him felt like he was being brought back to life over and over. He clung to Brandon's neck and wept into his shoulder until Brandon finally followed him over the edge, climaxing with David's name on his lips.

Brandon collapsed beside David and immediately pulled him into his arms, squeezing him tight enough to bruise. David felt like he was on the verge of hysterics by then, but the pressure of Brandon's grasp helped immediately. He started to settle, face buried in the crook of Brandon's neck, encased in his scent and his strength and his warm, solid body beside him.

"Okay, okay, easy, David, it's okay," Brandon babbled mindlessly, running his fingers through David's hair, keeping his grip around him as tight as he could, until his arms were shaking from the effort. "I've got you, I'm right here, it's okay. Easy, baby, easy."

Baby. They had never called each other anything like that before. They'd never dared. It was a bridge too far, a step too close. But David's whole body went slack as soon as it hit his ears. He needed to hear it, then, because like everything else, it was right.

He needed to get up. He needed to go wash his face and the rest of himself, drink some water, let Brandon know he was okay, really, he didn't know what came over him but it was nothing, he was good, but God, he was suddenly so tired. He never wanted to move again. Brandon was gradually relaxing beside him, his hold weakening, but it was okay. David was okay, because they were together, and as long as they were together, everything would be fine.

His last coherent thought before sleep dragged him blissfully under was the worst one he had ever had: I love you, Brandon Wiebe.

When David woke in the morning, he immediately began to have an anxiety attack.

Brandon was snuggled against his side, head down, oblivious to the panic that was singing in David's veins. He very carefully untangled from him, determined not to wake him, before he quietly shut himself in the bathroom and had a meltdown in the shower.

It wasn't the sex. David knew that much. He took careful inventory of his feelings, of the reasons and motivators behind each of them, and he knew the sex wasn't the root cause. Rather, it was what the sex had finally forced him to confront about himself, what he had been dancing around and refusing to look at in the hopes that if he just didn't acknowledge it, it would go away. He could then pretend it had never been an issue. He could pretend that he wasn't completely and utterly fucked.

But he couldn't pretend anymore, because last night had made it so astonishingly clear: he was in love with Brandon.

David had never been in love with anyone before. Not like this. He had had crushes on girls, had dated here and there to lukewarm results. But he had never in his life felt the way he felt about Brandon. He had never wanted someone so badly, all the time. He had never missed someone so much when they walked out of the room. He had never felt so completely at home with another person that wasn't his direct family.

It terrified him, because he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't know what he could do about it.

Once he had stood under the spray until the water went cold, David crept from the bathroom, dressed in silence, and padded out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Brandon never stirred, effectively dead to the world. That much, at least, was a mercy. David needed time alone to have his crisis.

There was exactly one person in the entire world he could tell about this, and luckily, it was well past morning in Paris. He snuck into the small, seldom-used office, closed the door behind him, and placed a long distance call. His mother could complain about the bill later. Right now, he needed to phone a friend.

"Bonjour, St. Claire résidence," answered a woman David didn't know.

"Bonjour," David replied. "Ah, is Alois —"

"Alois!" the woman yelled over the phone. David winced, as if her voice would ring through the cottage, too. "Téléphone!"

There was some shuffling, some footsteps, some muttered French, and then Alois's voice purring, "C'est Alois," into the phone.

David sagged with relief to hear his voice. "Alo, it's me," he sighed. "I have a problem."

Alois snorted. "Then you should probably call the Mounties, ouias? I cannot do much to help you from here."

"No, no, not like — it's about Brandon." David rested his palm against his forehead and leaned an elbow against the desk he was seated at, the handset growing slick in his sweaty palm.

"Oh," said Alois, instantly sobered. "What is the matter? He is at your cottage with you, yes?"

"Yes. He's still asleep. Last night, we… we had sex."

Alois was quiet for a moment. David could almost see his face doing something annoying as he tried not to laugh. "Ah… I believe you've been doing that for a while, no? Is that not the reason why you are vacationing together in the first place?"

David pinched the bridge of his nose until it hurt. He had left his glasses in the bedroom, and it was leaving the world around him blurry and out of focus. "No. I mean yes. We have. But last night was… different. I uh. I… I was the uh. The catcher. And he pitched."

Alois was quiet again. "David, I don't understand," he finally said, his tone flat and genuinely confused. "Are you saying you… bottomed?"

David's stomach did something funny and stupid at the word. "Yes. Yeah. That's… okay, yeah, that's what we did."

"Well? Was it bad? You can just tell him if you do not want to do it again, mon ami. I am sure he will understand."

"No! No, it… it wasn't bad. It was… good. Really good. But I… fuck." David let his head fall to the desk with a soft thunk. "I think… I'm in love with him, Alo. And I don't know what to do."

Across the Atlantic ocean, Alois sighed, a wounded, sympathetic noise that carried across the airwaves to his best friend in Canada. It was a sound that confirmed what David feared: he was doomed. "Oh, David," Alo murmured, and it felt like David had just told him someone had died.

"I know," David groaned. "I tried… I didn't want…" He cut himself off with an exasperated exhale. He started winding the phone cord around his fingers, desperate for something to do with his free hand.

"I mean… you could always tell him," Alois suggested gently. "He likes you a lot, David. He has for a long time."

"That's not the same thing as… this," David lamented. "What if I tell him and he doesn't feel the same way? Then we're stuck here for two more weeks together before we head to campus, and then we're on the hockey team together, and then —"

"Arrêt, David. Stop. You are catastrophizing again. Breathe."

David breathed.

"Bien. Now. Say you don't tell him. What then? Aren't you living together off campus next semester?"

"Yeah," David confirmed miserably. Brandon had been resistant to the idea, but David had persisted. He wouldn't be able to live in the dorms as a senior, and he didn't want to move away from Brandon. The Hollanders were going to pay for everything, which Brandon hated, but he had eventually conceded.

"Okay. So you wait and tell him after school is back, yes?"

"And then one of us has to find another place to live if it doesn't work out." The thought made David's stomach drop. Every time he turned around, things got more complicated and messy.

"Maybe," Alois allowed. "But maybe not. And… maybe this is just a hormonal thing you are feeling. Very vulnerable, taking it from another man. And he was your first for the other way around too, ouias? It's natural to feel this way."

That made sense. And it should have made David feel better, to have a logical explanation for this, but it didn't. He didn't think it was a temporary thing. He didn't think this had just suddenly happened because of the sex. This had been building for weeks, for months, and David had only just now stood his ground and faced it.

"But," Alois went on, reading into David's prolonged silence, "if not… If this is how you really feel, then… maybe he feels the same way, David. You'll never know unless you tell him. You have to give him that chance, too. To decide if he accepts the way you feel and wants the same things you do."

David's heart did a quick, fluttery thing in his chest. He could see it so clearly, then, Brandon's eyes going liquid soft and his hands cupping David's face. Could see him smiling and pulling David close, their noses nestled together. Could hear him sigh and say I love you too, Bowie, before tipping his chin up to kiss him.

He wanted it so bad that it hurt. His chest actually, physically ached with how badly he wanted Brandon to love him back.

"Don't do anything stupid," Alois advised, reminding David that he was still on the line. "I think you should wait until you get back to McGill. And then… you should tell him, David."

David's throat was tight. "Okay," he acquiesced.

"And David?"

"Yeah?"

"For what it's worth, I think you are safe. I think he feels the same way. Why else would he put up with your terrible puns and slow skating?"

David huffed a laugh, feeling shaky and weak with relief. "Thanks, jackass," he chuckled.

"Any time, mon ami. Now stop panicking and go back to your lover. Not all of us are so lucky as you."

David said his goodbyes and dropped the phone back into his cradle. He stared at it for a while, his mind reeling, his stomach a riot of butterflies. Alois's words kept spinning over and over in his head, sending fresh waves of excitement through him every time he rehashed them.

I think he feels the same way.

David hoped so. He didn't know how he would survive if he didn't.

Brandon woke soon after, loose and lazy and content. He slung his arms around David's waist as he stood cooking eggs and sausage at the stove, forehead butted solidly against the back of David's neck.

"Mornin'," he mumbled into David's shirt. "You sleep okay? Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm good," David told him, poking at their food in the skillet with a spatula. He leaned back into Brandon's embrace, taking note of how the spikes of anxiety and restlessness died away whenever Brandon was near him.

He was good. He was with Brandon. He was perfect.

They spent most of the day in the water, swimming laps and racing and splashing each other. They dunked each other beneath the water and tossed each other in off the dock until they were exhausted from the exertion, at which point they sprawled out on the dock to dry in the sun.

They lay there, side by side, faces turned to the sky, until Brandon looked at David and David looked at Brandon, his heart swelling as he drank in the sight of him. The water droplets glittered on his bronze skin, tanned so dark from the summer spent beneath the sun. The rays above turned his eyes to the color of strong tea. His smile dimpled one cheek, ever so slightly, and David had to bite his tongue until it hurt to keep from just blurting it out.

I love you.

He couldn't tell him. Not yet. But he could do something else.

"Stay here," David said as he got to his feet and bounded up the hill to the cottage. He felt Brandon sit up and watch him go, but he wasn't gone long. He came back shortly, a folding knife in one hand, and plopped back down on the dock beside Brandon.

"Whatcha doin'?" Brandon asked as David flicked the blade out and scouted a good spot on the nearest post. He rested his chin on David's shoulder, watching.

"You'll see." David focused as he dug the blade into the old wood, carving carefully until he had etched out a letter. Then another. A plus sign. Two more letters. Then the year. When he was done, he folded the knife back up and slid it in his pocket, leaning against Brandon's side. They sat there and looked at his handiwork for a second, something tight and complex curled behind David's sternum.

Brandon reached forward after a moment, brushing sawdust away from the wood. He traced their initials with a finger, his eyes dark and impossible to read. David watched him, praying he understood, that he would know without being told exactly how he felt.

I love you. I want to stay here with you. I never want to forget this summer. I never want to forget you.

When Brandon finally met David's eyes, he looked completely and utterly at peace.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For bringing me here. For everything."

David kissed him, the sun and the water and the cottage their only witnesses.

Their final week of summer break did not belong to them alone, but was instead shared with the rest of the Hollanders.

David and Brandon had known they were coming, of course. It was tradition for them to all spend at least a weekend at the lake together in the summer. It had become more and more difficult to do so with everyone splitting off and getting married and having kids, but they still managed.

Once again, David deep cleaned the entire cottage. They hid the condoms and lube and made triple-sure that Alois's sex guide was hidden safely at the bottom of Brandon's suitcase in the closet. David adjusted a few trinkets and curios in one of the bedrooms to give it the appearance that Brandon might have been sleeping in there prior to his family's arrival. No one ever needed to know that they hadn't spent a night apart in over eight months by that point.

His parents arrived first, late in the evening on a Friday. David knew without asking that they had come out straight from work that afternoon. He and Brandon met them at the car, where Susan beamed and hugged Brandon tight around the neck as he offered to carry her bag.

"Oh Brandon, you're a peach!" she squealed. She gasped when she leaned back, brows shooting up behind her huge sunglasses. "Oh my goodness, look at you! You're as brown as a berry! How much sun have you been getting out here?"

David's chest was tight and warm, because she was fussing over Brandon like he was one of her own children. Brandon ducked his head bashfully, smiling ear to ear as he lugged her bag to the cottage. David followed with his father in tow, Fred Hollander grumbling about hoping the fish would be biting after they'd stirred up the water for so long out here. The man was particularly skilled at making even a vacation sound tedious.

In the morning, Robby and his family joined them, the kids loud and demanding, Tammy fussing over all of them as they settled into one of the bedrooms and buzzed around the cottage. By the afternoon, Mark and Linda brought up the rear, taking the room beside David and Brandon's. Linda plead a migraine as soon as they got there, and she locked herself within with the curtains drawn. The Hollanders (and Brandon) retreated outside to the dock to give her some peace and quiet.

Quiet, however, was a rarity once all of the family was gathered for the week. The babies would cry or shriek with excitement every other minute, it seemed. Fred parked in front of the television set and turned it up as loudly as it would go, regardless of what was on. Susan was constantly making phone calls to her friends at home and to the house sitter, rambling from the office in what was absolutely not an inside voice. Mark and Robby were constantly bickering and joking raucously, often pulling David (and Brandon) into it with them.

"Sorry," David whispered one night as his brothers began to hoot and holler from the living room. He and Brandon retired early, both beginning to get antsy after three days of keeping their hands carefully to themselves. They were facing each other in bed, now, the door locked and their hands pushed deep inside each other's clothes.

"Don't be," Brandon replied, and David could feel him grin against his own mouth. "I like your family. It's… it's nice. Having so many people around."

David leaned back a little, running his hands slowly up Brandon's lean back. "You don't have any siblings, do you?" He couldn't believe he never asked before then.

Brandon shook his head against his pillow. "It's always just been me and Mom. Sometimes the quiet was the worst part." Brandon scooted closer, nuzzling against David's jaw. "So the noise is… it's okay. Really."

David threaded a hand through Brandon's long, flowing hair and cradled his head against his neck. Several intense, wild ideas darted through his head. Ideas that weren't possible. Ideas that were reinforced by the wonderful, horrible images David already had in his memory.

Brandon beside him on the ice. Brandon seated with his family on Christmas morning, eating pancakes and opening presents. Brandon laughing with David's brothers and helping David's mother in the kitchen and gamely talking hockey with David's father. Brandon slipping so seamlessly into David's family that it was almost as if he had always been there.

He could remember how it was when Robby and Mark had met their wives and began bringing them around. Robby and Tammy had gone to school together, and when he was out with his shattered hip, she came by their house every single day after class to catch him up on their lessons and make sure he was doing okay. They got married the summer after they graduated, eighteen and clueless, but still going strong ten years and two kids later. Linda had crept up on them all even quieter, unknown to them one day and then there at Mark's side the next, and she had simply never gone away. David felt like he had blinked and he was at their wedding, when he hadn't even known they were engaged.

And he and Brandon could never have that. God, would Brandon even want that if they could? He still hadn't told him how he felt. The want and feeling was enormous, a cannon ball trying to explode out of his mouth, and it was there every minute of every day, demanding to be felt.

He wanted to tell Brandon that he loved him. He wanted him at every holiday and family dinner and summer vacation that he would let David drag him to.

The want stayed with him through the week, until it was seven days after this family had arrived and they were about to go back to Montreal and his family was about to scatter to the winds once more. Fred was a commander at his post behind the grill as he turned sizzling hot dogs and burgers over the flames, their scent mingling with the green, loamy smell of the lake that surrounded them all the time. David had been wrangled into helping him, which mostly consisted of standing uncomfortably close to the heat and handing his father utensils and holding plates for him.

It gave him a perfect vantage point up on the deck, though, to see down to the dock and the water beyond, where Brandon and Robby were helping Emma into the water, bright inflatable floaties on her arms. Robby wasn't a reliable swimmer after breaking his hip, so he was perched on the bank and easing Emma into the shallows, where Brandon was knelt nearby with his hands outstretched to her. She waded bravely toward him until he caught her, at which point he caught her and lifted her over his head like the Stanley Cup itself, both of them laughing and beaming under the August sun.

When Brandon handed David's niece back to her father, he looked up toward the cottage and caught David's gaze. He was still smiling wide enough for David to see at a distance, and it made it suddenly hard for David to breathe.

It would be so easy, he thought, for Brandon to fall into step with the rest of his loud, sometimes-suffocating family. Like Tammy and Linda. Just there one day and every day after that, unquestioned and eternally welcomed.

For that bright, brilliant moment, David could see it. The impossible dream that maybe, just maybe, could come true.

He wasn't going to wait until they got back to campus to tell Brandon how he felt, he decided. He would tell him that night, before they had to catch their bus in Ottawa in the morning. He would offer his heart and his life and everything that came with it, and they could figure out the rest together, because they would have time. It would all come together. It would be —

"Hey, Davey, help me with these jugs, yeah?"

Mark's voice jerked David back to the present. He blinked, looking at his brother, who held an empty five gallon dispenser under each arm. David shook himself from his lovesick daydreaming and trotted into the empty cottage with him to help make enough lemonade to supply a football team.

The two worked in silence at the kitchen sink for a while, patiently letting the jugs fill up halfway, adding the powder mix and sugar for the lemonade, and then turning the water back on to finish filling. David kept glancing out the window, trying to find Brandon among his family members on the lawn and in the water.

"Hey, bud," Mark said, drawing David's attention. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," David replied.

He sometimes forgot how formidable Mark used to be as a goalie. How he could track a puck through traffic for minutes on end. How the tiniest adjustment to a skater's stance or speed or grip on his stick could tip him off to where the puck was going to be shot toward the net. How he could look at any hockey player, even out of their skates and off the ice, and know exactly what position they played and how they behaved in the rink.

David had forgotten that Mark, like all goalies worth their salt, saw everything, even with his diminished eyesight.

He was reminded the way a body is reminded that fire burns: too late.

Mark asked, "Are you and Brandon… a couple?"

The question landed like a heart attack. A stunned, startled scoff worked its way out of David's throat, because he was too petrified to respond any other way. "What?" he snorted, voice thin and high and wavering. "No, God, what are you talking about?"

Behind his glasses, Mark's matching blue eyes were keen as they bored into his younger brother. David had rarely lied to his family growing up, but he knew that, if he ever needed to, he could get away with it with the rest of them. But he could never get away with a lie with Mark.

"David," Mark pressed, and David's resolve shattered.

"It's not — it's not, like, serious or anything," David muttered, his words crashing into each other, tumbling over themselves as they hurried out of his mouth. His skin burned. His stomach was turning. He had just been picturing a future where Brandon was folded into his family with ease, and now he was hurrying to deny and downplay everything he had ever felt for him. "We're just — I'm not —"

"Hey, easy, Davey, relax." Mark clapped a hand soundly on David's shoulder and gave him a little shake. "It's none of my business, really, I just… I see the way he looks at you. And how you two are always together. And… yeah."

David forced himself to breathe. He felt like he was about to fly apart into a hundred pieces. Mark was still filling the lemonade pitchers, but David was hundreds of miles away, his head ringing like a struck bell. "You can't tell anyone," he hissed. "Mom and Dad —"

"Whoah, no way, bro. I'm not gonna say a word. I don't think they have any idea. Your secret's safe with me." Mark ruffled David's hair like he always did when they were growing up, and for a moment, David allowed himself to exhale. To hope. "Besides, you're still on track to graduate, right?"

David nodded. "Yeah, that's all fine. It's not — he's not, like, a distraction or anything, don't worry."

"Then there's no problem, yeah?" Mark smiled at him, and David wanted to hug him. His brother saw his open, unbearable affection for Brandon and said it was okay. He wasn't broken or disgusting. It would be okay.

At least, until Mark opened his mouth again and ruined everything.

"It's just an experimental phase you're going through. That's what college is for, yeah? Sex and drugs and parties. It doesn't mean anything. You'll grow out of it and find the right girl once you graduate."

When Mark had played hockey, he had been best friends with a defense named Alan. Alan used to come over all the time. He ate dinner with the Hollanders and stayed over on the weekends. Even when Mark had to quit the team, he stayed friends with Alan.

Then one day, during his senior year, Alan stopped coming over. Mark didn't mention it. He graduated high school, met Linda, and married her. Quiet, never-quite-happy Linda. Childless Linda. Normal, expected, conventional Linda.

You'll grow out of it.

"Did you?" David asked, his voice less than a whisper. "Grow out of it?"

Mark's eyes had gone frosty. His grip was, for a brief moment, painful on David's shoulder. "Yeah," he replied, his voice dry and cracking. "I did."

And you will, too, because that's what you're supposed to do. Boys don't fall in love with other boys. They meet nice girls and settle down with them. Even if that's not what they want.

The future David had been daring to envision for himself and Brandon died like an ember floating into a lake.

"Come on," Mark said, clearing his throat and hefting one of the lemonade jugs in his arms, as if their conversation hadn't even happened. "Help me bring these outside."

That night, as Brandon lay burrowed against his chest, the only thing David told him was "Goodnight."

ONTARIO - 2017

“Sorry about the other day.”

It's three days later, and David's sitting on the lake with Brandon, their lines cast in the mirror-still lake, the sun beaming down overhead. Midsummer pulses at them from every angle, hot and heavy and hazy.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about. Everything okay?”

Fwip. Whirrr. The fishing rod whistles and hisses as it’s cast far out onto the glassy surface of the lake. A formation of geese fly overhead, their reflection cast down upon the water’s face. David watches them fly as he adjusts his reel and settles into his seat on the boat.

“…Yeah. It’s just, uh…” He rubs at the back of his sweating, sun-warmed neck. “A lot.”

“Oh.” Brandon's fishing rod makes a cranking sound as his line is pulled back in. Ripples in the same V formation as the geese fan out from the line as it is drawn back to the boat. “You… wanna talk about it?”

The geese call to each other overhead. A loon honks in reply. Where are you? I'm here.

“Shane came out to us.”

David's not looking at him, but he can feel Brandon's head whip in his direction. He grips his rod a little tighter, and not because of a bite on the line. “Oh, wow. That’s… that must have been unexpected.” His voice is tight, trying and failing to keep from getting alarmed.

David shrugs and shakes his head. A joint pops audibly with the motion. “Not entirely. But he’s…” He looks up and meets Brandon's gaze. “He’s seeing… Rozanov. From the Raiders.”

Brandon's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Words never come. He looks stricken. David watches the pain play out on his face as he, too, realizes that Shane is living an echo of their own life, all those years ago. As Brandon relives and revisits the pain of those days, the silence of those decades.

"Yeah," David says, though Brandon still hasn't spoken yet.“And I just… I can’t help but wonder if somehow… this is because of me.”

Mark's voice echoes back to him. You'll grow out of it. I did. But David doesn't think Shane will.

“I don’t think it works that way,” Brandon says quietly. His dark eyes are open and earnest. David has always been safe in those eyes.

“I know.” David sighs again. He stares out onto the water. “He’s talking about signing with Ottawa next year. Moving up here.”

“Shane?”

“No. Rozanov. He’d move to Ottawa for Shane.”

Brandon makes a noncommittal noise. “Sounds serious.” He busies himself with baiting his hook again.

“Yeah. I think they are. And…” Their eyes meet again. “I think they have a chance. I really do.”

Unlike us. We never stood a chance.

David has to hold out hope that Ilya won't break his son's heart. He has to, because to believe otherwise is more painful than every memory of Shane taking a hit or falling down on the ice. He'll never forgive himself if, somehow, his misfortune at love got passed down to his only son.

Brandon is silent for a moment. Whatever he thinks about the situation, he keeps it to himself. He casts his line back out. Ripples spread from a single point on the water's surface as his hook crashes through it, gradually dying out. David watches them, reminded of the way the pain of the past grew duller and duller, until he was able to almost forget it had happened.

Almost.

“I’ll take care of him,” Brandon says after a while. “If he signs with us. We've got a good group at the Cens. I'll make sure he's looked after."

David glances his way. His smile borders ever so slightly on too fond. “I know you will,” he replies.

The lake, as ever, is silent and still beneath them, a mirror reflecting back who they are and who they used to be.

Chapter End Notes

up next: the beginning of the end.

oh my god. okay. i'm so sorry. i had a somewhat different vision for how parts of this chapter were supposed to go but david hollander himself possessed me and said "hey, actually, this is how i felt back then. isn't that great?" and i blinked and this happened.

it's angst city from here on out babes. we all knew this part was coming. next update may (also) be a bit slow to come as i'm due for a reread of the long game to get ready for it LMAO so thank you in advance for your patience as i drive this bitch off the bridge <3

and also hello and welcome to all my new readers! i read each and every comment (even if i rarely reply OTL) and y'all's feedback and kudos sustain me <333

if you feel the need to come beat me with hammers, you can do so over on tumblr.
while you're at it, you should reblog the fic post.

Chapter 12: love is a contact sport

Chapter Notes

cw: brief mentions of drug overdose, parental death, and period-typical bigotry.

also, we are now soundly in TLG territory, so spoilers ahead if you have not read it.

OTTAWA - 2018

If Brandon didn't already know better, he's pretty sure he would have been floored by how different Ilya Rozanov is in person.

Then again, Brandon's been in this world a long time. He knows the signs of an act when he sees one. The showboating, the loud, obnoxious antics on the ice and in the press scrums, he's seen it all. Very few of the players that act like that to the public are really like that in private, he knows. It just takes too much energy to be that on all the time.

Still, it's a welcome relief when Rozanov shakes his hand and tells him "I promise to work very hard for you."

Brandon watches him throughout that first day, tracking him as he steps into the locker room with his new teammates. Listening to the pitch of his voice as its thrown against that of Boodram, the current captain. Brandon doesn't need to be a psychic to know that that is a potential sore spot in the making. Rozanov was captain of the Raiders for years; it's only a matter of time before discussions about transferring the C to him start cropping up.

For now, though, he is all small, surprisingly nervous smiles and tentative good humor. A dog meeting a strange pack, wagging its tail hopefully, waiting to see if it will be accepted or jumped.

"Hey, Roz, you like country music?" Chouinard asks.

Rozanov swallows, as if he senses there is a right answer to this question and he dreads getting it wrong. "Ah, no, not really," he replies, his accent sticking in places.

Chouinard offers him a fist to bump. "Good man," he says with a grin. Rozanov taps his knuckles against Nick's. The tension dissolves.

At least, until Dykstra crows, "Oh, fuck you, Nick," and the rest of the room thrums with laughter.

Some of the tension bleeds from Rozanov's frame. His shoulders loosen. He moves with less apprehension. The pack accepts him. David will be so relieved.

Brandon and David have already agreed not to discuss their own relationship with Ilya and Shane. It feels too much like a conflict of interest, and Brandon knows that if it were him, he would feel cheated. Like he wasn't earning anything on his new team with his own merit. Brandon has already told himself he will be objective and fair, but it will be something he will have to consistently check himself on to make sure he's not lapsing into unconscious bias.

Even if Brandon didn't know so much about Rozanov's personal life because of his connection to the Hollanders, though, staying objective would be difficult, if only because he reminds Brandon so much of himself.

He had watched the press conference that Rozanov and Shane had done together announcing the launch of their charity and hockey camps. Had seen the unguarded honesty and pain in the Russian's eyes when he bravely told the world that his mother had taken her own life after battling depression when he was a child. That, coupled with the news of his father's passing from the year before, had confirmed to everyone that Ilya Rozanov was now an orphan.

Brandon had just turned twenty-one when he was told his mother was dead.

The medical examiner back in Vancouver had been trying to reach him for weeks. She had been found in their apartment by the landlord after their neighbors complained of a terrible smell. No one knew how to get in touch with Brandon, her only next-of-kin. They had contacted McGill, but were informed he had dropped out. It was only when an avid hockey fan of an intern started combing through first the NHL and then the AHL rosters that they finally found Brandon, playing for the Calgary Sparks.

He still remembers the searing, stabbing pain in his chest from holding in his sobs as he quickly dressed in the locker room, having just come off the ice from a game. His conversation with the examiner had been agony. I don't have the money for a trip to Vancouver, we don't have a burial plot — you've already cremated her? No, that's — okay, yeah, I'm sorry, can I, umm — sorry, can… you can send those through the mail? Okay, yeah, this is my address. I'm so sorry. No, no, it's okay, yeah, thank you for doing that, thank you for telling me, thank you. I'm sorry.

A week later, the worst delivery he had ever received came to his shitty apartment: his mother's ashes. Plain cardboard box, stamped three times with a glaring HUMAN CREMAINS label in heavy red ink. Inside that box had been another box, plain cardboard, with his mother's name and date of cremation, and within that box was a clear plastic bag of pale gray matter. That was all he had left of the woman who raised him.

Her cause of death, when Brandon had asked with a trembling voice, had been relayed to him with the grave, tired cadence of someone who had had to repeat themselves one time too many: complications resulting from AIDS.

Brandon had borrowed a teammate's car for a day and drove out to Banff National Park, the box in the passenger seat, his eyes sore and scratchy from the days spent sobbing into his pillow. He took the box and hiked the trails until he was completely alone, surrounded by huge, rustling trees painted in every shade of autumn. He scattered his mother's ashes beside the lake and sat on a fallen tree until night began to close in and a park ranger had to guide him back to the parking lot.

Even with the ranger beside him, Brandon had never felt more alone in his entire life.

So it's a relief, seeing Ilya Rozanov, an orphan like Brandon, move through the world with the knowledge that he isn't alone. He has someone who loves him, even if that love is hidden safely away. He has a new family, one that Brandon knows firsthand will support him through anything, because that's just how the Hollanders are.

On the ice, the Centaurs run through their drills and practice plays, and woven into the cracking of pucks off of sticks and the carving of blades on the ice, the sound of laughter floats up into the rafters. It rings there at the top of the barn, and Brandon knows without needing to be told that it means everything will be okay.

MONTREAL - 1989

David had been staring out the window of Gert's for the past fifteen minutes.

His withdrawn silence was unnatural, at least to Brandon. To the rest of the team, though, it went largely unnoticed. The Smitty twins were complaining loudly about their new coach, Coach Carden, and the rest of the guys who were crowded around their booth were joining in.

"It's like the man's never known joy in his entire life," Dougan lamented. "I mean, who orders bag skates on the first day?"

Coach Carden did, as they had come to learn.

They hadn't gotten five minutes into their first practice of the new semester before the man was yelling at them. Friends who hadn't seen each other all summer were snapped at, told to be quiet and pay attention, told they all looked like they had gotten fat and slow over the summer. When David had tried to respond, Coach had all but lashed him to the bone.

"You may be the Captain, Hollander, but I'm the coach around here," he spat. "When I want your opinion, I'll give it to you."

A day of grueling skates and drills had followed, scarcely leaving room for any of them to catch their breath. When David and Brandon returned to their brand new apartment that afternoon, they had both collapsed on their respective beds and passed out until dinner.

That disastrous first practice had been two weeks ago, and it hadn't gotten any better. Every muscle in Brandon's body still screamed in protest whenever he moved in any direction. He hadn't even been inactive over the summer, but the punishing pace that Carden was pushing them at right out of the gate made him feel like he had been hit by a truck.

"Is a good thing we are all moved into our places already, ouias?" offered Alois. "Imagine moving furniture on top of this. Merde."

Brandon glanced at David again. David kept staring out the window, his eyes glazed and faraway.

They were living together off campus that year, and it should have been amazing, especially after the summer they had just shared. It was a quaint little pre-furnished two bedroom a few blocks from both campus and Alois's place. It hadn't been redecorated since the sixties, but that was alright. Easy enough to move some things around a little and put their own stuff up to cover how dated the furnishings were. They would hardly ever be there, anyway, between classes and practice and games. It was mostly just a place to sleep — and a place to fuck.

At least, it should have been.

As soon as they moved in, though, David had claimed a bedroom and then shut himself way in it. He claimed he was tired, that he was just trying to get his head settled before practice and classes started back up. But it had been weeks since they had gotten back to Montreal, and David barely spoke to Brandon most days. His door stayed shut, with no invitation for Brandon to join him. For the first time in months, they were sleeping separately, and the night terrors were already starting to creep back in.

Brandon still didn't know what he had done to fuck it all up.

With the added stress of Carden's brutal tutelage at practice (and his venomous son Jackson, their new starting goalie), David had gone from distant to downright absent. Some days they went without saying more than a handful of sentences to each other all day. Brandon couldn't help but feel like a stray dog, huddled at the doorstep of someone who had once given him food and shown him kindness, unable to understand what had happened to take it away.

He tried to tell himself that it wasn't about him. It was David's senior year, after all. He had a lot of pressure to do well and graduate with his class. With the championship title secured last year, he had even more eyes on him as team Captain to bring home another in the spring. There were plenty of reasons he could have been pulling away and shifting his focus off of Brandon.

But those reasons didn't make it hurt any less.

Especially since Brandon was deeply, hopelessly in love with him.

He had realized it less than a month into their summer together. He had woken up one morning and rolled over to face David, whose face was still lax and soft in sleep. As soon as those baby blue eyes had blinked open and a smile had made its slow, shy way onto his face, Brandon had felt the words jump recklessly into his mouth, barely held back at the last minute.

Good morning. I love you.

He had narrowly avoided spitting it out right there, first thing in the morning on a random day in early July, but God, he had wanted to say it every day since. He had wanted to say it when David was reading on the dock. He had wanted to say it while they lay beneath the stars and watched them break free and streak across the sky. He had wanted to say it more than ever when David had carved their initials into the dock post, because it felt like maybe, just maybe, David would have said it back.

But he hadn't. He was too scared. Everything was going so well, and Brandon had grown up knowing that at any moment, the bottom could and would fall out from under him and leave him stranded and alone. Besides, David was a guy. There were just certain things that guys didn't tell each other, no matter how deeply they felt them.

So Brandon kept his mouth shut, and they came back to Montreal and moved in together, and now he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, because David was suddenly acting like a completely different person.

"Hollander, man, you haven't even touched your fries. Are you even listening to us?" Dougan asked, leaning over the table to tug the plastic basket of fries closer to himself.

David blinked and glanced at him, reminded that he was still on planet earth. "Oh, yeah, sorry," he mumbled listlessly. "I'm not really hungry. Knock yourself out."

Dougan claimed the fries for himself. The conversation about how much of a shithead Coach Carden was resumed.

David stared out the window for the rest of the outing.

Brandon had called his mother a grand total of four times since the last semester had ended. Each of those calls had been placed from the office at the Hollanders' cottage, usually while David was still asleep or busy cooking for them, and none of them lasted very long. The summer had been a haven, a bubble removed from the pain of Brandon's reality back home, and every call to Vancouver invited that pain to bleed in and taint his reprieve, so he kept them few and far between on purpose.

Now, though, he didn't have that excuse. Everything else sucked, so why not pile it on further?

The second week of classes, Brandon ducked into a phone booth on campus and dialed the house. The phone rang only one time before a recorded message informed him that the number he had dialed was no longer in service and that he should hang up and try again. Sighing, he hung up, fed more precious quarters into the machine, and tried their neighbor's number instead.

"Alo?" said Mrs. Dansk when she picked up the phone. She was an immigrant from somewhere in Eastern Europe, but neither Brandon nor his mother knew exactly where.

"Hi, Mrs. Dansk, this is Brandon from next door," Brandon said politely. "Is my mom home? Our phone is out."

"Oh! Wait, wait," said the older woman. They was a clatter and shuffling in the background as she presumably set the phone down and went to see if Brandon's mother was next door.

Brandon slumped against the wall of the booth and braced himself for the worst. Mrs. Dansk had a spare key to their apartment, and had ever since the first time Brandon had asked her for help calling the ambulance. Was she having to let herself in? Was this going to be the day that Brandon was told that his mother was missing, or worse, dead? He took a breath and held it until his ribs started to ache.

The phone clicked and clattered again. Then, "Brandy? Are you there, baby?"

Brandon let his breath hiss out through his teeth at his mother's voice. "Hey, Mom," he replied. "Phone's out again?"

"Oh, yeah, I got behind on the bill, but I've almost got enough to get them to switch it back on. I'm so sorry baby, I should have sent a note or something and let you know." She paused, and even though she was probably holding the receiver away from her face, Brandon could still hear her coughing wetly. When she returned, her voice was rough and thin. "How's school?"

"Fine." He stared down at his shoes while he spoke, forcing himself to divorce his feelings from the conversation entirely. Blocking out the mental image of his mother huddled over their neighbor's phone, probably looking too thin and too pale and too weak to hold herself up for longer than a few minutes at a time.

"That's good, baby, I'm glad. And how is, oh, what's his name — David? Your roommate?"

He's fine. He just won't talk to me anymore for some reason, even though we're living together and spent the whole summer together. "Yeah, David's okay. He says hi." If he wouldn't speak to Brandon in reality, he could at least pretend to speak to his mother.

"How sweet. Okay, baby, I should probably run, but I'll get the phone turned back on soon okay? It shouldn't be long. Are you coming home any time soon?"

No. "Yeah, maybe, I'll see." He had absolutely no money for a plane or bus ticket to Vancouver, but she didn't need to be reminded of that. Maybe he could find a work study this year to try to start putting some money back.

"Okay, baby. I'll get the phone back on. Take care of yourself, okay? I love you."

"Love you too, Mom. Bye."

The line cut almost before he could finish his sentence. He dropped the receiver back into its grimy cradle and sighed. Instantly, he felt like gravity had increased on him a hundredfold. His feet felt heavy as he trudged from campus toward his and David's apartment. If his mother couldn't afford to pay the phone bill, what else was she going without? Was she eating? What about the rent? Would their landlord evict her? Would she have anywhere to go? How long had she had that cough?

He had no way of knowing, and even if he knew, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about any of it.

By the time he got home, Brandon felt like he had been walking for days. His body felt like it was lined with lead. He just wanted to sleep. He dropped his bag on his bedroom floor, flopped face-first onto his bed, and willed sleep to come to him before the tears could.

Which was, of course, a mistake.

It started the way it always did. Brandon was standing in the hallway of their apartment back home, the one bedroom open and empty on his right, the bathroom closed on his left, the bathtub constantly dripping on the other side of the door. The living room yawned open ahead of him, static on the TV screen.

He knew, as he always knew, that this was a dream. A crashing plane with no emergency eject. He knew, as he always knew, what he would find when he walked to the end of the hall and turned to the right to face the kitchen. No matter how many times he had this dream, it never changed. No matter how badly he wanted to, he never did anything differently.

He stepped forward. He reached the end of the hall. He turned to his right.

His mother lay on the cheap, peeling linoleum. Her pale brown hair splayed out around her skull, like someone had taken a gun to her head and boom: anemic chestnut waves everywhere. Her skin was paper-white, almost translucent, the veins beneath a startling shade of blue. A pink-tinted froth pooled from her mouth and onto the floor. Her gray eyes were glassy and vacant.

Remembered panic and adrenaline guided Brandon's dream-self to the counter. Some nights, when he had the dream, he was a little kid again and he couldn't reach it, just like it had been in reality, that first time. Tonight, he's grown. He can grab the phone. But all he got when he lifted it to his ear was a dial tone like a flatline, reminding him their phone was cut. He couldn't call an ambulance.

Brandon pivoted, stepping around his mother's body on the floor, a horrible voice screaming in his head that she's dead already, it doesn't fucking matter, she's dead and you let her die, she's dead and she was all alone and it's all your fault, you did this to her, you left her alone, you let her die, you let her die, you let her die. He grabbed the doorknob, trying to let himself out to yell for help, to go bang on Mrs. Dansk's door, but the door wouldn't budge. The knob wouldn't turn. His hand slipped off the scarred yellow-gold knob. He was trapped, unable to get help, unable to do anything.

On the floor, his mother slowly turned her head to stare at him with her hazy, dead eyes. "Brandon," she said, but her voice sounded warped and muffled, like she was talking to him underwater. "Brandon, wake up. Brandon. Brandon."

"Brandon!"

He screamed himself awake.

Hands were on him, gripping his shoulders tight. Someone had been shaking him, and now they stopped, cupping his face and petting his hair. "Brando, hey, hey, easy. You're awake. It's okay. I'm here. You're awake. It's okay."

David. David had finally come to him.

Brandon's heart was still thundering in his chest. The fear and helplessness from the night terror was still seeping out of him. Nothing was fixed. Nothing was better. But David was here now, and Brandon wanted him. He needed him. He collapsed against David's chest and sobbed into his shirt, and God bless him, David held him and rocked him and shushed him until he had cried himself out.

"I'm sorry, Brandon, fuck, I'm so sorry," David babbled as he held him. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm here."

Brandon's throat was in tatters from his screaming. He was too tired and frayed to ask what David was sorry for, so he just didn't. He pulled on David's shirt until they were both laying down in his bed, and when he fell back into sleep with David's arms around him, it was blessedly dreamless.

Nothing improved after that.

David was still distant, though he did at least try to make an effort to be more present at home. When Brandon felt like a bad night was on the horizon, he would wordlessly stand in David's doorway, waiting for an invitation, and whenever David noticed him, he opened the covers to him and silently admitted him into bed at his side.

Practice was still torture. The team was definitely getting whipped into fighting shape at record speed, but it came at the cost of their cohesion and ease with each other. Everyone was constantly tired and sore and on the defensive from their coach's constant critiquing, and scuffles were becoming more and more common.

Beneath it all was an undercurrent of intentional discord, and its source was clear.

Coach Carden's son Jackson was an impressive goalie. No matter how much Brandon disliked him as a person, he had to admit that he was exceptional at his job on the ice. Where many of Bernie's saves had felt like luck, Jackson's were pure skill and calculation. If the team wasn't constantly tearing itself apart at the seams, they would have been looking at a highly competitive season.

As it was, though, Jackson seemed equally as concerned with pissing off as many of his teammates as possible as he was with defending the net.

Alois was his favorite subject. He couldn't enter Jackson's field of vision without drawing a homophobic remark about his skating or his stick-handling or his hair or what he'd been doing the night before. They couldn't get through a single practice without David snapping at him to shut the fuck up.

"If you are so obsessed with me, you could at least buy me dinner," Alois sighed at point.

"And catch your gay cancer? No fucking way, faggot," Jackson sneered. "You can rot in hell all by yourself."

David had started forward at Jackson, but Brandon caught him with the back of his forearm and pushed him back toward the bench. "Come on, Bowie, leave it," he pleaded. "Coach will make us do suicides again if we get into it with him. He's not worth it."

David glared down the ice at Jackson, jaw set and eyes bright and brittle, and Brandon felt something in his chest start to ache.

Things came to a head when it was time for their first game against Kingston.

The guest locker room was just as cold and uninviting as it had been last year when they played there. The chill was biting in the room, seeping right through their skins as they changed into their gear as quickly as possible. Brandon was convinced he could see his breath in there.

The cold may have distracted him from the unwelcome visitor's presence, if not for his loud and ugly mustard-colored suit. The pop of yellow in the bleak and chilly room drew Brandon's attention immediately. He tracked the man across the cramped space as he sought out Coach Carter and bent his ear. This man was different from the one last year, but his energy and purpose appeared to be the exact same. Carden's eyes flicked toward Alois as they murmured behind his clipboard, and Brandon's body lit up with dread.

"David," he muttered, elbowing him on his right. "It's happening again."

David looked up from taping one of his battered fingers, following Brandon's gaze across the room. "For fuck's sake," he hissed under his breath. He bit off the tape, secured it around a knuckle, and squared his shoulders as he made his way over to Alois's stall to stand sentry beside him.

Unlike Dubois before him, Carden made no effort to be discrete. He turned from the man in mustard and pinned Alois with his flinty gaze. "St. Claire," he called. "You're off tonight."

"No, he's not," David challenged immediately, arms crossed over his bare pads. "We're not doing this again."

The room went still. All eyes swung up to the scene unfolding before them. Most of them knew how this had played out the year before. They glanced furtively between their coach and their captain, anticipating which of the two would triumph. Despite the cold, Brandon felt himself start to sweat.

Something sharp and mean passed over Carden's face. "Queen's has legitimate concerns about health and safety. We will respect that. You're off the ice tonight, St. Claire."

"How are they legitimate concerns?" David pushed back brazenly. "Do they have copies of his medical records? They can't demand he not play just because -" He stumbled to a halt, the reality of his own words suddenly catching up to him and shaking his otherwise confident speech.

"Because he's a fag?" offered Jackson.

It happened quick.

One second, David was standing beside Alois, staring down Carden across the room, and the next, he was pivoting toward Jackson's goalie stall, snatching him up by the chest guard, and slamming him back against the wall hard enough to echo into the room. He narrowly avoided bouncing the back of Jackson's skull off of the exposed cinderblock behind him.

"Hollander," Coach Carden snapped, but he might as well have been in another building.

Jackson was grinning, laughing to himself. "What's wrong Holly? I hurt your feelings? Gotta stand up for your boyfriend, right?"

David hit him. Hard. Blood flew in a spray from Jackson's mouth.

"HOLLANDER."

Coach shouted loud enough to shake the rafters. His reprimand came just as the Smitty twins shook themselves out of their stupor and reached for David, pulling him off their goalie and dragging him to the other side of the room. Brandon's chest was burning, and he realized he was holding his breath. David was still brimming with rage, knuckles swelling from where they had crashed into Jackson's jaw.

"That is enough. You're out, too. Go wait on the bus, both of you. I'll deal with you two later." Coach Carden pointed toward the door with the finality of a guard directing prisoners to the gallows.

David didn't bother to argue. He angrily tore his gear off, pulled his sweatshirt and track pants back onto his body, and stomped out into the hall with Alois at his side. Alo cast a last worried look over his shoulder at Brandon, who just stood there uselessly and watched it all happen.

Great. Now they were down their fastest skater and their power center.

"Wiebe," Carden snapped, and Brandon braced himself for a lashing that he didn't even think he deserved. "Can you play center?"

Oh. Brandon swallowed. "Yeah, I can," he replied, voice tight and pinched.

"Then get your ass out there. You're taking the opening face-off."

They took to the ice, Queen's players all sneering at them, smug with their victory at benching Alois.

The Redbirds lost, 4-0.

David didn't talk about it.

Two days later, when they went back to practice, they started getting changed into their gear when David froze.

Brandon glanced up, following his eyes, and felt like he'd been punched right in the chest. "No," he breathed. "He can't do that."

Except Carden could, and he had. The C was gone from David's practice jersey. So too was the A on Alois's.

David just stared at it for a long time. Brandon was about to reach for him when he started woodenly taking off his gear again. The rage with which he had done so in Kingston was gone, replaced with hollow, abject misery. He let his gear drop into his stall, dressed in his street clothes, and turned to leave the gym.

"David, come on," Brandon called, but David didn't even turn his head.

The door echoed behind him as it shut, heavy and final.

Brandon started to shed his own gear to follow after him, but a hand on his shoulder made him stop. "Let him go," said Alois quietly. His green eyes were hard and shuttered, the mirth smothered from them in light of the weeks of abuse. "Play your game. Not his."

Brandon didn't want to practice, though. He wanted to run after David and comfort him. But David had been so cagey and withdrawn lately. Maybe he didn't even want that. Maybe he just wanted Brandon to fuck off and leave him alone.

Besides, David wasn't planning on going pro after college. They both knew that. Brandon wasn't decided yet, but he wanted to leave the door open if he could. He needed his time on the ice. He needed to be where people could see him play and prove himself, just in case he wanted to look at signing with a professional team some day.

So he stayed. He pushed through Carden's punishing bag skates and suicides and handling drills. His wrists ached and his legs burned and his lungs screamed with the cold and the tremendous effort of pushing his body as fast as it could go across the ice. He kept his head down and followed orders.

He was rewarded at the end of the day with a pat on the shoulder from Carden and a curt nod. "Good work today, Wiebe," he said, and it felt like a worse insult than anything his vile son had ever said.

But it was better than nothing.

When he finally got home, limbs still trembling and sore, David was sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Brandon dropped his gear bag by the door and toed off his shoes. He stepped toward the couch and David extended an arm out to him without looking at him. Unwilling to look that gift horse in the mouth, Brandon crawled on top of him, stretching his body out on top of David's, and melted against his chest.

They didn't speak for a while. David played with Brandon's hair and rubbed small circles on his back, while Brandon stubbornly fought off sleep. He was so tired of sleeping through what little precious contact he got with David these days. He wanted to savor this if he could. He took in a big breath and let it out in a weary sigh.

David's hands wandered lower, until they were pushing up the hem of Brandon's shirt. His fingernails scratched dully against Brandon's skin, and he hummed with pleasure. Then he was pulling Brandon's shirt off altogether and coaxing him to roll over until David was on top of him, kissing him hard, teeth digging into his lips.

Brandon's body responded immediately. It had been so long since they had sex. He wanted it. He missed it. But God, he was so tired. Everything hurt. And the couch was so cramped, so impersonal. He wanted to be in one of their beds, taking it slow and sweet, but David's mind clearly wasn't anywhere near that space. He was grabbing roughly at Brandon's hips and yanking his pants down, kissing him less like a kiss and more like a bite.

It felt like he was angry at Brandon, even as he was trying to fuck him.

Brandon finally got his hands between them and pushed David's chest, freeing up a few inches of space. "Wait," he whispered. "We should talk, yeah?"

David stared down at him, blue eyes filled to the brim with pain and fatigue. Brandon almost gasped as he stared back. He had never seen David look so sad. His face crumpled into an expression of open, agonizing need.

"Do we have to?" he asked, voice wobbling.

Brandon should have said yes. He should have insisted that they talk about what had happened at the game. That they talk about what was going on with their coach. That they discuss whatever had been bothering David since they got back from the lake. These were wounds that were festering, making them both miserable, and nothing was going to get better until they addressed them head-on.

But God damn him, Brandon couldn't say that with David pinning him with those tear-lined baby blues, his body warm and heavy and familiar on top of his, promising a return to closeness that he hadn't felt since they came back from the cottage. He wanted to talk, and he wanted to be intimate with David, and he knew he could only have one of those things. So he chose the latter.

"I guess not," Brandon muttered, pulling David back down to kiss him again.

They fucked on the couch, fast and hard and quiet. David had rushed the prep, as if he wanted to get the act over with, and Brandon had to bite his fist to keep from crying out when he pushed inside too soon. Again, he should have said something, should have told David to stop, to slow down, but he couldn't bear the thought of David giving up altogether and pulling away again. So Brandon muffled his yelps and hisses in his hand as David thrust into him roughly and told himself that it was fine.

Everything was fine. It had to be fine.

When they were done, they showered. Their bathroom was small and the shower stall was barely meant to hold one full grown male, let alone two, but they made it work. Brandon was thankful for the close quarters, because they at least made it harder for David to avoid him. He pressed his back to David's bare chest under the lukewarm spray as David washed his hair for him, drinking in his presence, trying not to wince at the sting that sometimes made itself known whenever he moved a certain way.

David was working the lather from Brandon's hair when he finally said, "Maybe I should quit."

"No," Brandon said, not needing clarification about what he meant by that. "You're not quitting the team. We need you. Don't let Carden run you off."

David sighed. It echoed off the cracked tile like ice breaking over a lake. "Why keep fighting if I don't even see a future in it? I need to focus on my classes anyway."

Brandon turned to face him, looping his arms around David's neck. His heart was suddenly hammering with anxiety. His skin felt hot all over despite the failing water heater that couldn't get their shower to a decent temperature. Panic was gripping him, sudden and tight.

He felt, inexplicably, like David wasn't just talking about hockey.

"Don't quit." Brandon meant to say it firmly, decisively, but his voice had fled him. All he could do was whisper. "Please. Don't quit."

Don't quit on us. Don't leave me. Please.

David looked so tired. "Okay," he mumbled, leaning in to kiss Brandon softly, and Brandon was grateful for the shower around them as it masked the tears that slipped from his eyes.

They slept in David's bed that night, arms wrapped loosely around each other, Brandon's head down and pressed to David's chest, but as the night settled in around them and sleep refused to come, Brandon felt like they were a thousand miles apart.

OTTAWA - 2021

There is no malice or backstabbing or heartbreak when Zane Boodram bequeaths the captaincy of the Centaurs to Ilya Rozanov. The decision is made unanimously after just one season of him playing with them.

Rozanov enhances their play by tenfold. Once comfortable in the room, he brought an undeniable energy that the group had been sorely missing for a while. Everyone likes him. They especially like the goals he brings home for them time after time, win after win.

Their good fortune doesn't end with Rozanov, either. The same season he takes the C, they sign Wyatt Hayes from Toronto as their new starting goalie, and he immediately makes an impression on the ice. Goaltending was the biggest hole in their defense for a long time, but as soon as Hayes takes over the crease, that hole is well and truly sealed. For the first time since he started coaching for Ottawa, Brandon feels confident he will see several shutouts in the months ahead.

They start to win more and more. Rather than scrapping for a wildcard slot in the playoffs, the Centaurs become real competitors for a spot in their division. Against all odds, they become a team that delivers consistent results. A team that can go toe to toe with Montreal or Boston or Detroit.

When another gift is dropped into their lap in the form of a mid-season trade, Brandon is almost too stunned to speak. Another cast-off from Toronto joins his team on the ice in the form of Troy Barrett. The man has the energy and personality of a kicked dog, to be sure, but he's an excellent winger when he gets in the right headspace. Brandon watches his closely, encourages him gently, and is pleasantly surprised when Barrett blooms and begins making a real difference to their game.

Finally, finally, it feels like they have all the pieces they need. The guys all seem to like each other. Their plays are connecting and translating into goals on the ice. They're playing smart and avoiding major penalties and injuries. The sports networks and podcasts are all talking about them.

After a sound victory in Carolina, Brandon starts letting himself dream about it. He reminds himself of the most crucial lesson from McGill: he is allowed to want things.

What he wants now is to see his team win the Stanley Cup.

As the Centaurs board the plane to Tampa, it almost feels like they've already won it. They're loud and boisterous and still celebrating their victory. Harris is filming them dancing in the aisle, laughing with them as they clamber about the cabin. Rozanov and Barrett are talking, grinning, even, which Brandon will always be grateful for. Those two were the ones he was most worried about getting along, considering their pasts.

Brandon takes his seat near the front of the plane, where he's unofficially chaperoning the rookies. Young, LaPointe, and Holmberg are clustered together, heads bent over their phones, and Haas is two rows back, joking with Dykstra.

Brandon is so, so proud of them.

They've become a team that he would have killed to play for when he was still playing. His teammates had always been ambivalent at best, downright hostile at worst, and usually indifferent the majority of the time. None of them had ever felt like friends or brothers the way the Cens do. It is a feeling Brandon hasn't seen replicated since his time at McGill.

He wishes, suddenly, that he could call his mother and tell her about them.

Her birthday passed him by the week before, just another day in January that he hadn't even thought about until he really looked at the date and realized what it was. It never fails to make him feel strange whenever he realizes that he has since outlived her in every sense of the word. He has seen more years than she ever did. Seen more things than she ever saw.

The thought makes him glance over his shoulder. His gaze seeks out Rozanov at once, the man who has far more in common with him than he will ever know. He wonders, idly, if Rozanov does anything for his mother's birthday when it passes him by. Maybe he should ask him about it.

As he watches him, Rozanov pulls out a magazine from his bag and settles into his seat to read. Brandon's eyes snag on the cover, and he smiles to himself. The New Yorker winks knowingly back at him from the back of the plane.

The plane is about to take off. Brandon shoots a message to Val and the girls, letting them know he'll call when he's checked into the hotel in Tampa. Then, on a whim, he sends a message to David as well. Good trip so far, he texts. I think our boy might bring the Cup home to Ottawa soon.

He's about to switch his phone off when he gets a reply. Not if our other boy keeps it in Montreal another year ;)

Our boys. Brandon grins as he shuts off his phone and tucks it into his pocket. He glances over to make sure the rookies are all fastened into their seats before leaning back and closing his eyes, daring to envision a victory parade throw Ottawa, the Cup held high over their heads.

When he wakes, it's to the sound of his team screaming.

Chapter End Notes

up next: what's the deal with engine failures anyway??

WHEW BOY i am not having fun anymore guys this fully and truly sucks now. sick and twisted that when you set out to write tragic old man yaoi you actually have to, like, write the tragic parts. next time will sadly be worse. and then the time after that even more so. YAY!!!!!

i am a sap and romantic at my core so writing conflict and angst is deeply against my nature and i Do Not like it but alas! it's required for the story i wanted to tell. fear not dearest readers i am suffering right alongside you as the crash this car off the bridge. hand in unloveable hand or whatever the kids say.

thank you SO much as always for reading, sharing, and commenting!! i know i've slowed to crawl on this (i do be putting it off bc it's SAD) but knowing folks are anticipating it and appreciating it helps motivate me to keep working on it <3

if you want to come wail in agony with me, you can do so over on tumblr.
while you're at it, you should reblog the fic post.

Chapter 13: if i could turn back time

Chapter Notes

alexa, play nightingale lane ;A;

SOMEWHERE OVER FLORIDA - 2021

The first steep lurch of the plane stirs Brandon from his sleep. His eyes crack open, but nothing seems amiss. Just some strong turbulence. He's been on more flights than he can possibly count at this point; no sense in getting worried about a little bump. His eyes slide shut again, sleep opening its arms to him once again —

BANG.

Brandon has spent most of his life around men and boys. He has heard the deep, bellowing laughter of a drunk teammate carrying across a crowded bar. He has heard the frenzied shouts of a team fresh off a win ringing in a locker room. He has even, on occasion, heard the broken little sounds a man makes when he receives the worst news of his life. So many thousands of hours spent in proximity to other men will put you in the unique position to learn what they sound like in almost every circumstance you can imagine.

But now, as the plane shudders and suddenly drops like a fucking stone, Brandon has the distinctly unpleasant privilege to learn what a plane full of grown men sounds like when they all think they're about to die.

The Ottawa Centaurs scream.

Each is worse than the last. The vets are most distinct, their voices constant companions in Brandon's day-to-day life with the team. Boodram, expecting his first child back home, with the team since his draft day. Chouinard, voice high and crackling as he cries out about a fire on the wing of the plane. Dykstra, whose drawling voice is reduced to a desperate refrain: Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

The plane buckles and heaves, stabilizing and no longer in freefall, but somehow that makes it worse. Now Brandon feels like he's waiting for the entire thing to explode in midair, or worse, go back into another steep drop. His entire body is sweating like he ran a marathon. His heart is jackhammering behind his ribs. He wonders, absently, if he's reached the age yet where this kind of stress could kill him.

But he doesn't have time to focus on that. Beside him, LaPointe is clutching his hand, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, his face as white as a sheet. The flight crew is moving through the cabin, instructing everyone to assume the crash position, heads down, hands over their necks, feet flat on the floor.

"LaPointe," Brandon hears himself say. His voice is remarkably steady. "Lean forward. Like this." He assumes the position himself, folding over his lap, the seatbelt digging painfully into his waist, but he doesn't care. Pain is proof that he's still alive.

Maybe it's the fact that Brandon is his coach that finally stirs LaPointe from his paralysis. He folds in half, still gripping Brandon's hand, his entire body shaking like a leaf. He turns his head to meet Brandon's gaze, his pupils terrified pinpoints in his head.

"I don't wanna die, Coach." He's barely speaking above a whisper, but they're close enough that it doesn't matter. Brandon can hear every terrified pant of breath that the rookie sucks in. "God, I don't wanna die, oh God, please, I don't wanna die."

Brandon doesn't want to die, either. He wants to hold his wife again. He wants to see his daughters turn sixteen in the summer. He wants to pet his dog. He wants his team to win the fucking Stanley Cup.

"Look at me," he says, still clueless as to where this solid, self-assured air has come from. "We're not gonna die, okay? It's gonna be okay."

LaPointe nods, lip quivering and eyes welling with terrified tears. Brandon's gut sinks further as he remembers that the kid is only a couple of years older than his own daughters. He grips the boy's hand tightly, knowing that if it were any of his girls in the same position, he would want someone to be there to hold onto them. To tell them it was going to be okay, even if it absolutely wasn't.

God, please let me see my family again.

When the plane thuds down, Brandon braces himself for the worst. But then they level out, no longer in flight, but on pavement, the landing gear rolling down a runway. They're on the ground. They landed.

They're alive.

The cabin of the plane shakes with the cheers of the team, none louder than their captain, who definitely has tear tracks drying on his face. Brandon sits up and melts against the back of his seat, gasping for air.

It's over. He's still alive.

Red and blue and amber emergency lights flash through all the windows. As the plane comes to a stop and the crew prepares to eject them all onto the tarmac, Brandon leans over and gestures to Young and Holmberg, who are trembling in the front seats on the other side of the aisle. "Boys," Brandon calls over the din. "Come here."

They don't have to be told twice. They quickly unbuckle their seatbelts, clamber over their seats, and collapse in the bulkhead before Brandon and LaPointe. The three rookies cling to their coach and to each other, either laughing or sobbing or both. Being at the epicenter of three teenagers is familiar territory for Brandon, at least, and he feels himself relax by degrees.

Thank you, he thinks to whoever was listening tonight.

Predictably, the team ends up in the hotel bar once they reach their lodgings in Tampa.

The rookies shouldn't be drinking, but Brandon is far from litigious after what they've been through. He lets them each sneak a sip of good whiskey, unable to keep from snickering at them when their faces screw up from the burn. He sends them upstairs after they've had a chance to settle and tells them all to call their families.

Rozanov has snuck off somewhere by himself, and Brandon doesn't have to wonder about what he's doing or who he's calling. One by one, the other guys trail off to their rooms, deep in their glasses to numb the horror of the past few hours. Brandon waits until most of them are gone from the bar before allowing himself to go to bed. He has a paranoia that makes it hard to pull himself away from where he can have his eyes on them at all times, but he knows that's pointless. They made it. They're safe.

He had called Valerie at the airport, but had to cut it short to coordinate with emergency personnel and a rep from the league. Now, alone in his dark hotel room, he finally calls her back.

"I've been doing research," she informs him as soon as she picks up. "We are going to sue the manufacturer of that engine for everything they've got. The airline, too. Oh my God, babe, do you have any idea how many failures and incidents they've had in the past five years alone?"

"I have to get on another plane in two days, honey," Brandon reminds her. God, he's exhausted. "Best not to tell me until I get back home."

They chat for a while longer, Valerie's tirade eventually dissolving into an aimless ramble about her work and the weather, and Brandon is so content to just let her talk. Her voice is smooth and warm and familiar, and it helps rid his system of the lingering adrenaline that wouldn't otherwise go away.

"Babe," she finally says. "You're snoring."

Brandon blinks awake, smacking his dry mouth. "Am I?"

"You are. Get some sleep, honey. I love you so much. We'll see you soon. Good luck at your game."

"I love you too," Brandon repeats, feeling like he needs to say it a million times now. A trillion, even. It still wouldn't be enough. "Goodnight."

They hang up, and Brandon should really get up and change and get under the covers, but he physically can't make himself move. The room is already dark, the halls already quiet. He lets sleep come back to him and hold him under again.

At least, until his phone rings.

He squints through bleary, dry eyes as he lifts his phone in the dark. It's two in the morning. The piercing light from the screen stings his eyes and he almost drops it back onto the bedspread, but then he registers who's calling.

"Hey, Bowie," he croaks when he answers. Fuck, he needs some water.

"Jesus Christ almighty," David exclaims, exasperated. "Are you okay?"

"I'm not dead, so yeah, I'd say so." Brandon slowly sits up, his back twinging sharply and making him wince. "Not my favorite flight ever, to be sure. How are the boys?"

"They've been better. We're all pretty shaken up. When we heard about the plane…" David cuts himself off with a pained sound.

"We're all okay, David. Nobody was even hurt. Best case scenario. It's okay." Brandon got the feeling he would be having a version of this conversation with several people over the coming days.

"I know. I know. I just…" David sighs loudly into the phone speaker. "Brando, I'm going to tell you something, and I should have told you a long time ago, and I'm sorry I never did, but… I need to tell you now."

Something tender and not-quite-healed aches within Brandon's chest at David's words. He's not sure he likes where this is going. "David, you don't —"

"I loved you, too." David takes in a shaky breath. "I did. God, I did. And I should have told you, but I didn't, because I was afraid. I was a fucking coward. I just… I need you to know that. I'm so sorry I ever let you think I didn't feel the same way."

Brandon has argued this very point to himself so many times. He has told himself that David didn't feel the same way. He's told himself that he did feel the same way, but he wouldn't admit it. He has cursed David's name over this particular point of contention. He has pitied him. He has even been thankful to him, because his life would be so unbelievably different if not for David's rejection of Brandon's feelings.

Still, he has never been able to prepare for how it would feel to have the words spoken aloud, more than thirty years later.

"Thank you for telling me," Brandon finally replies after a long, silent pause. "I… I forgive you, Bowie. Really. It's okay."

Would it have mattered even if you had told me then? he wonders, not for the first time. Would you have stayed? Would we still have a life together? Or would it have just gotten worse? Would we have hated each other in the end? Would we have ever reconnected like we have?

He doesn't know, and David can't tell him, and as he says goodnight and hangs up and returns to darkness, he tells himself that that's for the best.

For the first time in three decades, he finally has closure on one of the most painful moments of his life.

OTTAWA - 1989

David was playing like a demon.

His game had gotten intensely physical ever since he lost the captaincy. The C had transferred over to their second line center, Josef Crowder, who didn't play nearly as well as David, but it was out of their hands. The A passed to Dougan Smitty, which was a small relief, at least.

It shook Brandon, somewhat, to see David so reckless and aggressive on the ice. All of his calculating composure was gone. Now, he was racking up roughing penalties and taking every opportunity to smash other players into the boards, regardless of whether or not it was helpful to the play. If you got in David Hollander's way, you were getting checked, no question.

Brandon hated it, but he also knew there was no point in trying to talk to him about it. He kept his head down and played his own game.

They were playing against Ottawa now, which felt deeply ironic. Part of Brandon wanted to scan the crowd for David's parents, but he was sure he wouldn't find them. It was still a college game, after all, and he doubted Fred Hollander's stance on that changed just because his son was in town. Besides, they were David's family. Not his.

As Brandon was fighting for the puck along the boards, David slammed another player against them just inches from his face. The walls rattled with the force of the impact and the player went down. Brandon fished the puck away from the tangle of skates and sticks just as the whistle was blown. He could hear the rest of the Redbirds groan from across the ice.

Another penalty. Another power play for Ottawa.

After what felt like three hours of slogging through the game, they lost, 3-1.

The bus ride back was surly and quiet. Guys murmured to their seatmates, but no one was shouting or laughing or joking like they used to. All eyes kept darting up toward David, who sat alone at the front, shoulders hunched in his team jacket, eyes trained out the window. Brandon sat as far in the back as he could, Alois beside him at the window.

"Are you going to tell me what is going on with him yet?" Alois asked quietly. They were far enough away that David couldn't possibly hear them, but it still made Brandon's breath hitch nervously.

"I don't know," Brandon confessed. "Everything was fine over the summer. As soon as we got back here, though… he totally changed. He won't talk to me. Things are… weird between us."

Alois frowned, his manicured brows furrowing. "That is so odd," he mused. The late October landscape was gray and wet through the window behind him, washing out the colors of the autumn foliage and rendering everything in a slick, depressing shade.

Brandon shrugged, returning his stare to the middle distance. "It's… whatever. It mostly sucks because I…" He stopped and swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. "Because I love him."

Alois went still, as if he'd been shot. He made a stunned little sound that drew Brandon's attention. "Does he know that?" he asked, eyes going wide. "Have you told him?"

Brandon snorted. "No. Feels like a supremely bad time to say anything at this point."

Alois shook his head. "No, Brandon, you should tell him," he urged, a hand resting firmly on Brandon's shoulder.

"I should?"

Alois nodded emphatically, his loose blond hair swaying. "Yes. You didn't hear this from me, but… David told me —"

Alois didn't get to finish that sentence.

The bus suddenly jerked to one side and then the other, tossing its occupants wildly. When it veered to the other side, it kept leaning, and Brandon's heart leapt into his throat as he felt the bus tip onto its side and roll off the road. He was thrown hard into Alois, whose head whipped to the side and smashed through the window in a spray of glass. Brandon screwed his eyes shut, grabbing onto Alois and refusing to let go until the bus finally slid to a stop.

For a moment, everything was silent.

Then the groaning and wailing began.

David saw the car coming.

He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone on the bus. He wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone at all, which was nothing new. He'd been stewing in his own indecision for months, falling deeper and deeper into a pit of antisocial behavior and misery, and another lost game did nothing to pull him out of it. He sat up front and sulked.

He was rewarded for his brooding by being one of the only people to see the car coming straight at them. It was attempting to pass another in front of it, but it was a two lane road, and the maneuver had put it on a sudden collision course with the team bus.

The bus driver swerved to avoid impact out of instinct. The bus jerked one way and then the other, overcorrecting and skidding on the wet pavement, and finally leaning hard into a death roll on one side that took it off the road entirely. Guys yelped and screamed as they were dumped out of their seats and thrown around like clothing in a dryer. David was lucky; seeing the car gave him just enough time to grab the seat and cling to it, keeping him anchored though the tilt and ensuing slide off the road.

But he didn't feel lucky when his teammates started becoming aware of their predicament. Of their new injuries.

"Alright, easy now! Stay calm!" called Coach Carden, and for once, the team seemed relieved to hear his booming, no-nonsense voice. Coach would take care of them. Coach would make sure everything was okay. "Everybody stay still. Don't move unless you absolutely have to. I want you to listen to me and sound off when I call you number. Tell me if you're okay or if you're hurt, alright? Number one!"

One happened to be his own son, Jackson, the shit-eating goalie that David loathed so much. "I'm okay!" he called back to his father, who kept on rolling.

"Number two!"

Josef Crowder, their newly minted captain. "I'm okay!" he called.

"Number four!"

Brandon.

"Okay," Brandon called from the back of the bus. "But St. Claire's hurt real bad. He's bleeding."

David didn't think. He half-crawled over the sideways seats in the bus toward Brandon's voice, ignoring Coach as he shouted for him to be still. David peered over the seats until he found Brandon and Alois, crumpled against the broken window that was now pressed to the sodden earth. Brandon was helping Alois prop himself up, and blood was streaming from a gash at his hairline, dyeing his golden hair red.

"Alo," David gasped, reaching in to help Brandon pull him upright.

Alois cried out when David grabbed at his left arm. "Arrêt," he hissed. "Broken. Don't touch."

David's hands withdrew, but he stayed where he was. He met Brandon's eyes and felt fresh pain lance straight through his heart.

We could have died just now, and he never would have known how I feel about him.

And maybe that would have been for the best, because he had been trying to ease his way out of those feelings ever since they returned to campus. Ever since Mark had looked him in the eye at the cottage and assured him you'll grow out of it.

Because his brother was right. No matter how David felt about Brandon, there was no future for them. They wouldn't be able to get married and have a family. Hell, they wouldn't even be able to stay together once David graduated. He would probably return to Ottawa, where he was hoping to get a job with the government. Brandon would still have two more years of school in Montreal. It was better that they wrap this up now than have it be an even worse thing later on.

But David didn't know how to go about that, because he still loved Brandon. He still wanted him, every day, all the time. He hated himself for it, and he hated that he couldn't just to the right thing and break it off with him like a man. He knew he was making it worse, but he was also selfishly hoping that he was making it easier for Brandon to hate him. To resent his sudden distance and change in demeanor.

Now he was going to have to start all over again, because they could have died just now, and all David could think was that if Brandon had died, he would have died, too.

Bags and loose items had all been thrown around in the bus, and a towel had landed near David's new perch. He snatched it up and handed it over to Brandon, who carefully pressed it to the wound at Alois's temple. There was so much blood. It was making David nervous. All the horrible things everyone always hissed behind Alois's back came screaming to the forefront. Was it safe to be near him? Would they refuse to treat him at the hospital?

Alois caught David staring at him and tried to smirk. It turned into a grimace instead. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, Hollander," he croaked. "Stop looking at me like that."

He wasn't able to look at anything for much longer, because the sun was already setting outside. Soon the lopsided bus would be plunged into darkness, broken up only by the passing headlights of the cars on the road. Someone found a flashlight and passed it to Coach Carden, who carefully made the rounds to those who had reported injuries during the roll call. When he got to Alois, he scowled.

"That doesn't look good, St. Claire," he remarked flatly. "When the ambulances get here, I want you on the first one."

"Yes, Coach," was all Alois said in reply.

They were lucky, all things considered. It took only an hour for emergency vehicles to arrive and begin offloading the students and faculty. Everyone was crammed into ambulances and police cars and even firetrucks before being shuttled to the nearest hospital for evaluation. It was a tiny little place that ended up receiving them, and the Redbirds easily filled all the free space in their emergency department, but they didn't care. They were out of the rain and the dark and the fallen bus, and that was all that mattered.

Alois and two other players were whisked away on gurneys when they arrived to tend to their more serious injuries. Everyone else was visited one by one by a nurse, lights shone in their eyes, heartbeats listened to through stethoscopes, any notable hurts poked and prodded to judge whether or not they warranted extra care. Once they were declared sound, they were sent out into the waiting room, which slowly filled up as the emergency room emptied.

David was checked out last of the group, insisting everyone else go ahead of him. He was fine. He knew he was fine. Nothing on him even hurt, really. He had been so lucky. He just kept seeing all the blood on Alois's face, the haunted look in Brandon's dark eyes. His chest was aching by the time he stepped into the waiting room, where his teammates were huddled in small groups in chairs and couches and even on the floor. There was a line for the phone booth in the corner, and David went to stand in it, knowing his mother would have a fit if she heard about this and didn't get word from him.

After he finally placed a call home and let his parents know he was okay, he went to find Brandon.

He found him tucked away in a corner by himself, eyes trained down at his hands, which still bore the rusty splotches from Alois's head wound that he had helped tend. He flinched when David said his name.

"Hey, easy, it's just me," said David as he crouched down on the floor beside him. "What a night, yeah?"

Brandon shrugged, returning his attention to his hands. "Yeah, no shit," he sighed. He sounded exhausted. "How are we getting home?"

"I heard they're rounding up volunteer drivers back on campus. Teachers and faculty and stuff. They'll send cars for us. We're not that far from home. Only about twenty minutes or so." David shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at Brandon's profile and warring with himself.

Should I tell him now? he wondered, and then immediately shot that idea down. No, that was terrible timing. They had just gone through a deeply traumatic event, and their friend was going to be in the hospital for at least a week. David wasn't sure when an appropriate time to break things off would be, but he knew it couldn't happen now. He would just... keep waiting.

The night dragged on around them. People came and went. Staff checked in on them, offered them drinks and cold sandwiches and change for the vending machines. Eventually, Brandon fell asleep with his head on David's shoulder, and David tried not to dwell on it. He told himself he wouldn't miss it when he ended things with Brandon. He wouldn't look for him in every room anymore, wouldn't reach for him in the middle of the night, wouldn't long for his presence at his side like a phantom limb.

He had never been a good liar, least of all to himself.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Coach Carden called for them. Someone was there to ferry them back to campus at last. It was one of the arts professors, making his fourth trip that evening, and David and Brandon couldn't have been more grateful.

"What about St. Claire?" David asked their coach.

"They're going to monitor him tonight and then transfer him to Montreal in the morning. I'm told he's doing well, though he's probably out for the season. Broken collarbone and left shoulder, and a concussion from the window. Damn shame."

Damn shame. David felt hollow at the news. Here he had been thinking about quitting just because he and Carden and Jackson couldn't get along, and poor Alois was being forced to give up hockey probably for the rest of his college career. It just didn't seem fair.

Then again, nothing about his life felt very fair.

The professor shepherded them into his backseat and drove them through the night, the windows speckled with raindrops. David and Brandon didn't speak, and the professor didn't try to make them. They stopped at the front entrance of the campus, got out, and watched the car drive away. Then they hunched up their shoulders and made the walk to their apartment in continued silence.

It felt like they had been gone a month when they finally let themselves inside. The clock on the stereo claimed it was past two in the morning. They didn't even bother turning on a light. David was so, so tired. His body hurt from the game and the stress and the many uncomfortable positions he had been in since the crash. He wanted to sleep for a year.

But Brandon had grabbed his hand somewhere along the way, and now he wouldn't let go.

David started to tug away, but Brandon gripped him tighter, pulling back. "Please," he begged into the dark, voice hoarse and crackling. "Not tonight. Don't leave me alone tonight. Please."

Fuck. David couldn't say no to him. Not now. Not when they could have died. So he went slack, allowing himself to be lead into the bathroom. They shed their clothes and stepped under the tepid spray of the shower. Brandon scrubbed Alois's blood off his hands while David pressed his back to his chest, praying Brandon couldn't feel the way it was breaking in his chest.

Then Brandon was turning to face him, kissing him, guiding his hands down and around to his ass. "Please," he whispered against David's mouth, and since David was going to hell anyway, he did.

He worked Brandon open and kissed him until the water was completely cold. He allowed himself to be led, dripping and nude, to Brandon's bed. He fell in on top of him, Brandon's kissing growing desperate as their bodies pressed together, his hands grabbing fervently at David's arms and shoulders and hair.

Don't let me go, Brandon was screaming without words. Don't let go.

But he had to. David couldn't hold him anymore. He wanted to. He wanted to more than anything. But he couldn't.

This would be the last time.

He fumbled around in the dark until he found the lube. Brandon was writhing beneath him, urging him on, and he was wrapping his legs around David's hips before he could find a condom. When David tried to pull back to protest, Brandon yanked him down hard and smashed their mouth together again, nearly splitting his lip on Brandon's teeth. Fine, then. Bare it was.

The urge to cry became unbearable when David sank into Brandon's tight, raw heat. Brandon sighed, a relieved, blissful little sound that heralded more to come, and David couldn't take it anymore. He was so thankful it was dark in the room as he blinked through his tears and rocked in and out of Brandon's body, trying to pace himself, to make it last.

Brandon's hand found David's where it was clutching the sheets beside his head. He threaded their fingers together and David bucked harder into him, doing his best to disguise his sobs beneath a moan, beneath panting breath.

I love you so much, he thought, every cell in his body screaming against it, for it, with the crushing, all-encompassing weight of it. You're my favorite person in the world, and I can't keep you. I have to let you go. I love you. I love you. I'm so sorry.

Brandon came so loudly and so abruptly that it startled David. His rhythm stuttered as Brandon's body bowed in an arc up off the bed, pushing hard against David and gripping him so tightly that he was seeing stars. God, the way his voice crested and broke over the waves of his orgasm would be seared into David's memory forever.

"Don't stop," Brandon begged through heaving breaths, still twitching and shuddering in the aftershocks. "Please don't stop, Bowie."

I have to, David thought hopelessly. I have to stop loving you, and I don't even know how. I'm sorry.

This, though, he could finish. This much, at least, he knew how to conclude. He put his head down, sliding his arms under Brandon's shoulders and pressing him as close as he could. He buried his teary face in Brandon's neck and fucked into him, hard and fast, treasuring and mourning every soft, punched-out unh, unh, unh he whimpered into David's ear until, finally, he came inside him, hard and drawn-out.

And then it was over.

They lay there, Brandon buried under David's body, limbs wrapped like choking vines around him, both of them breathing out of time. David's inhales kept hitching sharply with his hiccuping sobs, but Brandon knew him too well to be alarmed by it yet. The thought just made him want to wail even harder, made his heart shatter even further. Who else in the entire world knew David like this? Had seen him for who he was, down to the core, to the point that they knew he sometimes got so overwhelmed that he wept during sex?

No one. No one but Brandon, and quite possibly no one ever again.

And now David had to let him go.

It was the worst possible timing. He hadn't even pulled out yet, for God's sake. He was still going soft inside him, but he had to say it. He had to cut the cord and turn them both loose now, before he could swallow it back down and draw the suffering out another week, another month, all the way to graduation. He owed Brandon that. He owed him as much of a head start as he could get to forgetting about him. To using the rest of his college experience to drown out the memories they had made together.

David wished he could make him understand that this, however painful, was a mercy.

He finally lifted his head and rested their foreheads together. Brandon's fingers laced together at the back of David's neck. He took a trembling breath and opened his mouth.

"Brandon —"

"I love you."

The words landed in David's brain like nuclear bombs. Panic lanced through his entire body. Had he said that?

"What?"

"I love you, David," Brandon said again, even, confident, decisive.

Brandon had said that he loved him.

Brandon loved him.

It was the most horrible thing in the world.

"No," David muttered, his body feeling full of static. His ears were ringing. He leaned back, trying to get more air into his lungs. This was so much worse than if David was telling him they just couldn't do this anymore. He was going to do the very thing he had tried so hard to avoid.

He was going to break Brandon's heart, too.

"No," he repeated, pulling out at last, feeling beyond disgusted at his own body, his own actions and words. He stumbled out of bed, reeling in the dark for balance. "That's not — that's not what this is, Brandon."

Every word was a razor blade tumbling from his mouth, slicing him open as they fell out.

Brandon sat up in bed, silhouetted by the streetlight shining dimly through the window. "Are you serious?" he asked, voice brittle, not yet sure if it wanted to be hurt or furious or both. "What the fuck else do you think this is, David?"

"We're both men!" David exclaimed. "We can't —"

"We live together, David. We spent the summer together at your family's cottage. I've met your parents. Your siblings. I took your fucking virginity!"

As if David needed the reminder. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Like the darkness in the room was coalescing into something tangible, something opaque and heavy, and it was about to wrap around him and smother him. He had to get out. He had to leave.

David lurched toward the door. He staggered through their dark apartment, unwilling to turn on a single light, lest he catch a glimpse of his reflection somewhere. He couldn't stand himself. He didn't want to see his own face. He wrenched open drawers in his room and grabbed clothes blindly, dragging them on and all but tripping into his shoes.

When he hurried back into the living room, Brandon was standing in his bedroom doorway. He'd found some sweatpants and put them on, but that was it. His long black hair framed his angular face, blending into the deep darkness behind him like a shroud.

He looked so small.

"Don't do this," he pleaded, the heat gone from his voice and leaving only hurt in its wake. "Don't act like there's nothing here. Like you don't feel something too. Like this isn't —"

"We can't," David said again. He had to cling to that fact. Had to repeat it over and over until it was clear to them both that it was the only truth that mattered. "I'm sorry, Brandon. We can't."

David yanked open the door and bolted out into the pre-dawn chill.

He didn't look back.

The problem with David's plan (or lack thereof) was that nothing was open at four in the morning.

The bars were all closed, the diners had yet to open, and the roads were all but deserted. He wandered aimlessly for awhile, his legs piloting him around and around the blocks near their apartment before eventually pointing him towards campus. If nothing else, he could at least find a bench to park himself on as his life fell apart.

He rounded a corner, the shrouded, gabled rooftops of McGill's hallowed halls looming high overhead in the dark, and ran smack into someone, nearly bowling them over. Loose leafs of paper and several notebooks went flying.

David flinched back as if struck, shaken out of his misery and vacant wandering by the reality of another human being out and about at this hour. He was no longer the sole survivor on an alien world. Now he had another presence to contend with, one that he had nearly flattened in his single-minded pursuit of nothingness.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," David mumbled, bending to start picking up the papers he had scattered upon impact with the other person. "I, uh, didn't think anyone else would be out at this hour."

"It's okay, the person replied, gathering up more of the papers and notebooks they had dropped. They suddenly gasped, drawing David's attention. "Hey! It's you!"

When David looked up, he felt dumbstruck. The person was a woman, and not a woman he had ever met before. Her skin was tan and her eyes were dark and almond-shaped. Her black hair was cut in a feathery style, settling in fluffy layers around her face. She was smiling at David as if she had known him for years.

"Uh," he stammered. "It's me?"

"Yes! Oh, wow, this is so crazy. You're David Hollander, right? Captain of the hockey team? Well, former captain — god, Carden is such a moron for that. I was literally just working on a story about the bus crash. Oh my God! Are you alright? I can't even imagine. Here, let me take those, God, you must be exhausted —"

She was talking a mile a minute, and David was content to let her. His head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton. All of his thoughts felt like raw, stinging wounds left open to the air, and if he looked at any of them for even a moment, they all started to bleed. This woman and her huge stack of papers and apparently vast knowledge about him were all welcome distractions from his agony.

He handed back her papers, which she stacked neatly in her arms once again. "I'm Yuna," she introduced, shuffling her load into one arm to offer a hand. He stared at for a moment before realizing he was supposed to shake it. He did so, marveling at how small and soft her hand was compared to those he was used to touching. Compared to —

Nope. David reeled away from that thought immediately. "Nice to meet you," he said. "Though you already know who I am, I guess."

Yuna smiled at him again, all teeth, and David almost felt himself blush. She had a star-studded smile, one that was both flattering and intimidating at the same time, especially when you were the primary target of its radiance. She was shorter than him by a considerable amount, but even with her small frame, her personality and presence seemed huge.

She was, David realized, the kind of girl he would like to get to know. If only she hadn't met him on the worst day of his fucking life.

"I work for the school paper," she continued, unprompted. "I cover sports reporting. I've been to all the Redbirds's games. I couldn't believe it when I heard your bus had crashed coming back from Ottawa." She paused, frowning and pulling her stack of papers and notebooks closer to her chest. "Seriously, are you okay? You look…"

You look like you just survived a bus crash, put your best friend in the hospital, and then threw your heart in a blender. David hadn't seen his reflection in several hours, but he was certain that those things could be conveyed on his face. "I'm fine," he replied, and he could hear the hollow exhaustion in his own voice. "I mean, I'm not hurt or anything. I just, umm…"

I can't go home, and I don't want to be alone.

Yuna was still frowning at him, her neatly trimmed brows knitting right in the middle. "Here," she said, taking a step forward and nodding back to the street that would take them off campus. "Why don't you come with me. I'd love to interview you about the game, or whatever else you want to talk about. We don't have to discuss the wreck if you don't want to. I know it's late, but…"

"That sounds good."

It sounded better than wandering around in the cold waiting for sunrise, anyway.

David followed Yuna back to her place. She talked, he listened. The street she lived on looked vaguely familiar, and it was with a jolt that he realized it was the house that the football captain had been renting the year before when David attended his disastrous party. Another echo of another memory he would never be able to untangle.

The townhouse was silent now, though, and looked completely different from the chaotic whirlwind state is had been in when he was last there. Everything was clean and orderly (and a bit frilly), and it smelled nice inside. Something light and sweet, blending into a lingering smell of coffee the closer they got to the kitchen. Looking at it now, David would never know that several thousands of gallons of alcohol had once been housed in this very room.

"Sit, please," Yuna instructed, setting her stack of papers on the bar and fetching another notebook and pen. David eased himself into a seat at the breakfast table in the corner. He folded his hands on the table and stared at them as Yuna bustled around. "Do you want anything to drink? Here, let me at least get you some water."

A glass was placed beside him on the table before he could accept or refuse. "Thanks," he replied, realizing then how dry his throat was. He took a sip and waited.

Yuna finally sat, took up her pen, and smiled at him again. "Okay," she announced, mostly to herself. "So. David. How's the season going for you so far? It's been a rough start, yeah?"

You have no idea. "Yeah," he answered lamely. "It's been hard getting a feel for the new coach and new players. We're… struggling."

Yuna's pen zipped across the page as they spoke, a tight, spiky scrawl that David couldn't really decipher from where he sat. "I'll bet. Do you want to talk more on that? How different is Carden's coaching style from Dubois's? Where do you think you guys are lacking the most?"

It was oddly comforting, being able to talk about hockey with an outsider like this. Yuna knew her stuff, which was a welcome surprise. David didn't have to explain anything to her. He even got the sneaking suspicion that she might know more about hockey than he did. She also spoke to him as if he were still the captain, which David didn't realize how much he had missed until that point. It felt like his input and opinion on the team didn't matter ever since he lost the C, but Yuna made him feel like his insight was still valuable. Still needed.

It didn't take long for him to open up about everything regarding the team. He even railed against the horrible attitudes and mistreatment Alois had faced for his sexuality, which drew a shocked look from Yuna as she continued to write.

"How stupid," she tutted, shaking her head. "He's your fastest skater and has the meanest backhand on the team. Who cares if he's gay? You need him. Especially on the same line as you and Wiebe? You three are a monster together. Why don't they get that?"

David swallowed around the sharp, jagged pain in his chest. "Some of the guys do, but they don't get a say in the end. It's frustrating. And Wiebe's started playing center lately, so…"

"Yeah, I saw that," Yuna remarked. "He's good. Really good. Is he going pro after school? He should. I've never seen anyone make a puck just disappear the way he can. Like a magician or something."

David's eyes wandered toward the doorway of the living room. He wondered if that deck of cards was still here somewhere, tucked away in a drawer, sticky and forgotten. "Or something," he concurred.

They kept talking. Eventually, discussion about the school team fizzled out and they started discussing their favorite professional teams instead. Yuna was born and raised there in Montreal, and had been a Metros fan since she could walk and talk. David decided not to hold it against her. She set down her pen and propped her chin up in her hand as they talked, the overhead light making her dark eyes glitter as they grew wide with excitement.

David had never met a girl who was so enthusiastic about hockey. In his experience, they usually knew just enough to get under the covers with someone on the team, or else they simply tolerated it as a hobby of their boyfriend. Yuna was the first girl who seemed to truly live for the sport with a devotion rivaled only by his own father.

And David liked that.

At some point, the darkness in the rest of the house began to lighten, a watery gray shade of dawn leaking in through the windows. Yuna seemed to shake herself out of a trance, realizing how long they had been talking. David's glass of water was long since empty.

"Oh, wow, you probably want to get going, huh?" Yuna said sheepishly as she closed her notebook.

David shrugged. He really, really didn't, but he couldn't explain that to her. "It's Sunday. I don't have anywhere else to be." A huge yawn suddenly clawed its way out of his throat, though, immediately rendering him a liar. "Well. Except maybe bed, but…"

"Our couch is decently comfortable," Yuna offered at once. It occurred to David that perhaps, now that she had finally snared him, she was afraid to let him out of her sight again. It seemed like she had been trying to find him for an interview for a very long time. "My roommates probably won't be up until noon, anyway. If you wanted?"

Before today, it was absolutely not in David Hollander's nature to couch surf in a random girl's townhouse that he had just met. It was also not in his nature to completely shatter the heart of the boy he unfortunately loved, either. Today was a day of strange and shitty firsts for him. "Sure," he agreed. "Just a quick nap. You won't even know I'm here."

"I'm holding you to that, David Hollander," Yuna said with a wink. "If you snore, I'll write all about it. You will never live it down."

As he settled onto the antique couch in the living room where Brandon had seen him and saved him from a party that now felt like it had happened to someone else, David wondered just how much of this experience would follow him throughout the rest of his life.

Chapter End Notes

up next: love lies bleeding/funeral for a friend

oh boy. how are we doing gang? still having fun? still enjoying the ride? good cus i'm not LMAOOOO

did you know that when you set out to write tragic old man yaoi it gets?? tragic?? i'm as shocked as y'all are. unreal. sick and twisted. and it's just gonna get worse!!!

special shoutout to @Tuesdaycoming for beta'ing this chapter <333

if you want to come wail in agony with me, you can do so over on tumblr.
while you're at it, you should reblog the fic post.

Chapter 14: funeral for a friend/love lies bleeding

Chapter Notes

yes, theydies and gentlethems, this is The Big One. this is the one where alois dies. i am warning you now so you can choose wisely when and where you read this chapter. i am not liable for any tears shed on company time or snot smeared on public transit. trust and believe i was right there with you while writing this one. okay sorry love you bye.

MONTREAL - 2021

Alois St. Clair was born on Valentine's Day.

He always used to say that that's why he was such a good lover. It was destined, of course. Set in the stars. Framed in thick white lace and nestled on a heart-shaped pillow of red satin. Even after he had loved them and left them, his lovers would always think of him on the holiday of love, because they would never be able to associate that date with anything other than him.

Brandon had never slept with Alois, but he had loved him dearly. He, too, can think of little else whenever Valentine's Day rolls around every year, even after being married for so many years and having so many Valentine's Days with Valerie. It really was a simple truth, even after all this time.

Alois had been a huge, charming, bombastic presence in his life. Statues should have been built in his image. Trophies should have been named in his honor.

Instead, Brandon stands at a grave in Mount Royal Cemetery with a bottle of flowery pink wine in hand, patiently unscrewing the cork by himself in the cold, just as he has every year for the past twenty-five years.

"Y'know, every year, I lie to myself and try to tell myself you're gonna work your gay magic and warm things up a little for this day," Brandon rants to Alois's headstone. "And every year, you sit up there and giggle at me while I freeze my ass off out here drinking wine I don't even like. Some friend you are."

The headstone doesn't reply.

Brandon gets the cork out of the bottle eventually, lifts it in a toast, and drinks straight from its mouth. It's the same stuff Alois had served him and David whenever they visited his apartment in college, and though Brandon has never acquired a taste for it, he always makes sure to buy a bottle before it sells out for the holiday for this very reason. He doesn't care for it, but it was Alois's favorite, and so he pours some out into the snow-crusted grass before taking another swig.

Brandon sighs, his breath misting in the chilly morning air. He made sure to take this day off every year, no matter how intense the season was or whatever else he had going on in his life. People always thought he took Valentine's Day too seriously as a result. While it was true that he had plans for a nice dinner with his wife, this was the real reason Brandon always made sure he was free on this day every year.

Alois had always been there for Brandon when he was alive. It's the least he can do now that Alois is gone.

"David told me something recently. After I thought I was about to join you in that big dance hall in the sky. He told me he loved me, back then. Did he tell you? Did you know? I think you did. You were so fucking mad at him. Almost more than I was. You had to have known. God. What a shit position for you to be in. You deserved better than us two closet cases, Alo. You had the patience of a very gay saint."

It's probably several levels of sacrilegious to say that in a deeply Catholic cemetery, surrounded by statues of angels and other icons of the faith, but Brandon's never cared much about the church. He takes another drink.

"His son's gay, y'know. I told you that a couple years ago, didn't I? Lives right here in Montreal. Plays for the Metros. Getting married soon. Married. To a man! Can you believe it? God, Alo. I wish you could be here to see it. The progress we've made."

Brandon wasn't supposed to know that his star center was engaged to that of the Montreal Metros. The only reason he knew was because of David, who had called him in great big blubbering tears after Shane and Ilya had told him and Yuna about their engagement. His baby was getting married. Brandon was so, so happy for them.

But, for all their progress and steps forward, there was still so much that needed to be done. Shane and Ilya were still a secret to the rest of the world. They were still in hiding.

"Oh my God! I almost forgot! Troy Barrett came out the other night at our Pride game! I swear, I did not set out to coach the single gayest team in the league, but it just keeps falling into my lap. You should have seen the look on Val's face when I told her. I think she thinks I'm doing this on purpose somehow." Brandon shakes his head and takes another drink from his bottle.

"You're not?"

Brandon nearly jumps all the way out of his skin. He whirls around, heart stuttering, and finds a familiar face a few paces away. Wine sloshes all over his hand from where he clutches and swings the bottle.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Bowie! Don't fucking do that!" Brandon wheezes. "I'm not used to anyone talking back to me out here, y'know! Scared the fuck out of me. You want me dead, too?"

David laughs, hands in his coat pockets, as he makes his way up the hill to stand beside Brandon. "Sorry, Brando. I couldn't resist." He nods to the bottle in Brandon's hand. "Share?"

"Don't tell me you like this shit," Brandon says dubiously as he hands over the bottle of wine.

David knocks back a respectably deep drink, then makes a face. He shakes his head as he reluctantly swallows. "Nope. Still don't like it. But it's for Alo, so."

Brandon accepts the bottle back, cradling it in one arm. "I was just telling him about the wild year we've had," he says quietly. "I wish he was here to see it."

"Yeah," David sighs. "I wish he could have met Shane."

Brandon wishes that, too.

MONTREAL - 1989

As soon as Alois got home from the hospital, Brandon was on his doorstep.

"Oh, mon bebe, come here," he sighed as he ushered Brandon into his apartment and closed the door behind him. He had a bandage on his forehead and his left arm was in a sling and cast.

Brandon dragged himself inside and sank onto Alois's couch. Alois sat beside him and Brandon just… gave up. He flopped over onto his side with his head in Alois's lap and sobbed.

After David ran out on him, he hadn't come back. It wasn't until late the next night that he came slinking back into their apartment, and by then, Brandon had been going through several of the five stages of grief in rapid, random order.

First had been denial. Surely, David was just having a moment of panic. Any moment, he would storm back into Brandon's room and sweep him up and kiss away all their problems and tell him that yes, he did love Brandon too, that everything was fine, that they would spend their lives together and everything would be wonderful.

But as dawn crept over the horizon outside and Brandon cried until his eyes burned, that fantasy died away. Anger was left in its wake. Fury that David had the nerve to turn his back on Brandon after everything they had been through. After everything they had done. Brandon knew he felt the same way. He had to, right? Why the fuck else would he move in with him? Spend the summer and Christmas with him? These weren't things mere friends did with each other, not to mention the sex. Brandon hadn't ever been this involved with any of his past girlfriends. This was real, and David was too chickenshit to face it.

Fuck him.

Brandon slept through most of the day, heartsick and fatigued. When he finally did drag himself out of bed, the bargaining began. He had jumped the gun. He should have just kept quiet. When David came home, he would apologize. Say it was a mistake, that he didn't mean it. He'd do whatever he needed to do to get them back to the way they had been before. No matter how Brandon felt, he knew they couldn't ever be serious together. Not in the way that mattered. He would swallow it down and convince both himself and David that this was still casual. That they could still be friends and hook up and it wouldn't affect anything in the slightest. He could do it. He could.

But by the time the sun had set again, depression settled deep into Brandon's bones. He felt heavy and tired. He sank further and further into the deep, pathetic well that was his life. His ailing addict mother. His unknown and anonymous father. His inability to find a stable relationship. His place in the world as a solitary creature, pretending to all the world that he was some social savant, some charming, adaptive guy, when really all he was was a sham. A heaping load of emotional baggage that no one would ever want to claim. A tangle of issues that was better left alone.

Brandon was easier to leave than he was to love, and he feared that would be true for the rest of his life.

Even after he heard David finally come home, he didn't come out of his room. He hadn't spoken to him since that disastrous last time. Now, he wept until his throat was raw and dry and his chest ached as Alois petted his hair and tutted over him and handed him tissue after tissue.

"I just don't understand," Alois muttered. "Why would he run out on you like that?"

Brandon sniffled and scrubbed angrily at his face. "He doesn't feel the same way," he moaned. "It was stupid. I was stupid. I should have just kept my fucking mouth shut."

"But he…" Alois shook his head, trailing off. He rubbed Brandon's arm and let him continue his pathetic display on his lap, and that was more than Brandon could have asked for at that point, so he didn't push him on what he was going to say.

One he had well and truly cried himself out, Brandon got up, washed his face, and turned to leave. Alois made a surprised sound. "You're going back? To the apartment?"

"Yeah," Brandon sighed, grabbing his jacket. It was the nice leather one the Hollanders had bought for him at Christmas. He hated that he would never not be able to think about that. "It's… it doesn't matter. My classes are insane this year anyways. I'm just going to focus on that and get through the year and then he'll graduate and be gone for good. It's fine."

Alois stepped closer and carefully pulled Brandon into a hug. "My door is always open, mon ami. Come any time you need, oui? I mean it. Any time at all. There's a key over the doorway if I'm not home. Let yourself in."

Brandon couldn't fathom doing that, but he nodded as he pulled away and promised he would if he needed to. Then he was off, making the lonely walk back to his and David's apartment.

When he arrived, the place was empty. David's keys and coat were gone. His last class should have ended two hours before, and yet he was out. Hockey practice had been postponed indefinitely after the crash, as at least half the team had some minor to major injury or another. They were anticipating at least two weeks until they could get back on the ice, if not longer.

Which meant that David was avoiding him.

Fine. Whatever. I don't even care.

Brandon stomped to his room, snatched up his skates, and left for the rink. Practice may be off, but he was still able to go and run drills by himself. He had no intention of letting the impromptu break get in the way of his scoring goal for the season. He would keep himself sharp. He would focus on his game.

He practiced his stick handling and trick shots and edgework until his wrists and ankles and hips were screaming. He pushed himself harder and harder, blades biting deep into the ice as he tore through lap after lap, sweat cold and sticky as it cascaded down his back and chest. His heart felt like an engine being revved to the point of collapse, and even then, he kept going. It was so much better than the emotional hurt he was going through. So much easier to focus on the burn in his lungs and the strain in his muscles.

He could do something about that later, when he ached and shook and could barely stand. He could medicate and stretch and massage away the pain in his body.

He couldn't do a single fucking thing about the pain in his heart.

David fell into dating Yuna the way people fall off of bicycles: fast, hard, and entirely on accident.

Following his nap on her couch, he woke late in the morning to the sound of several female voices talking over each other in the kitchen. It took him only a moment of eavesdropping to figure out they were talking about him.

"Oh, so when Yuna drags home some random guy and dumps him on our couch, it's fine. But when I do it —"

"Ricky stayed on our couch for a month, Inga. It's not the same."

"It's only been one day! This one might end up staying that long too!"

"He is not staying for a month. He has his own place! It was just late, and I still have things I wanted to ask him…"

They kept talking as David got to his feet and quietly made his way to the kitchen, peering around the corner. Two other women had joined Yuna at the counter. One was incredibly tall and had deep, smooth black skin that David almost never saw in Canada. The other was more run of the mill, with pale skin and almost white-blonde hair. Both were cradling mismatched ceramic mugs, pinning Yuna between them with their interrogation.

"Honestly, I'm surprised it's taken her this long to drag a hockey player home," the pale one snickered. "Seriously, it's not natural for women to like men's hockey as much as you do, Yuna. Not even where I'm from."

"You marry your cousins where you're from, Inga," Yuna snapped, clearly at her patience's end with this line of conversation. "I'm not a goddamned puck bunny."

It felt like David was about to witness a true catfight when the dark-complexioned woman glanced up and noticed him. "He wakes," she mused with a grin, sipping from her mug.

Yuna and the other one — Inga — whirled to face him. Yuna smiled at him instantly, her razor-sharp expression vanishing with the movement. "Hey!" she said brightly. Inga rolled her eyes beside her. "Did you sleep okay? You want some coffee?"

David accepted a mug and sat down at the bar. Yuna's roommates bored into him with their gazes, and he fought the urge to squirm.

"David, these are my roomies, Inga and Sizakele," Yuna introduced. "You can ignore them, really."

"Umm, no, he cannot," said the darker one — Sizakele. "We have questions. Especially if he is going to be on our couch again." She glanced sidelong at Yuna, brow creeping up toward her hairline. "Or in your bed."

Yuna swatted at her. David wanted to die.

But, then again, he deserved this. After what he had done the night before… no. He couldn't think about it. He wasn't ready to face it yet.

So he sat there and fielded their questions, many of them repeats of the answers he had given Yuna the night before, and after what felt like a year, the two women seemed satisfied. They exchanged a glance, nodded, and moved to head back upstairs.

"Good job, Yunie," Inga called over the banister. "He's not half bad."

Yuna flipped her off.

Her roommates gone, Yuna settled down and produced her notebook and pen yet again. She asked David more about the team and the season so far. They ambled easily in and out of their topics, seemingly never finding the bounds at which they ran out of things to talk about. Time moved on around them, but to David, it felt like it was standing still.

He didn't leave until well into the evening. Yuna walked him out, leaning in the doorway, and David made himself be brave when he asked her, "Can I see you again sometime?"

She said yes.

He walked home alone, in the dark, feeling the most inexplicable tangle of emotions he had ever experienced. He felt like he was walking away from a good dream and heading back to a nightmare of his own making. He was both hopeful and horrified for the future. He felt seen, and he felt like a fraud.

Mostly, he had no fucking idea how he should be feeling at all.

The apartment was dark and quiet when David got home. Brandon's door was closed. David swallowed the anxiety that started spiking in his bloodstream as he padded softly into his own room and closed the door behind him.

He should probably knock. He should probably explain himself. He should probably do literally anything other than run and hide and pretend the past year had never happened. But doing something required a courage that he just didn't have. He wasn't brave enough to face Brandon, just like he wasn't brave enough to fight for him and earn him, either.

So like the coward he was, David went to bed instead.

They spent their time in the weeks that followed religiously avoiding one another.

Any time they were both home, they stayed locked in their bedrooms. If David needed something from the kitchen or had to use the bathroom, he pressed his ear to the wall to listen for any sign of Brandon moving around in the apartment beyond first. He was sure Brandon did the same. They became exceptional at staying away from each other, even in their shared space. If acting like you didn't exist to your roommate was a sport, they would both be tied for first place.

David's class schedule was light, with only a couple of credits needed for the remainder of his degree. That, coupled with hockey practice being postponed, made him suddenly very available.

Yuna took full advantage of this.

David had found where she usually parked herself in the library as she worked on her assignments and her column, and from there, they would spend hours whispering back and forth. He walked her to her classes and then walked her home from campus in the evenings. She often invited him in, where they just… kept talking. Even as her roommates slid past with grins and giggles, they never did anything besides talk. David wasn't ready for it, and Yuna didn't push. He liked that about her. He liked that, before anything else, they were becoming friends first.

Not unlike the last… thing he had been involved in.

"I have tickets for the Metros game tonight," Yuna announced one Friday afternoon as they headed for the edge of campus together. "Do you want to go with me?"

David blinked at her, his stomach tickling in a funny way. "What, like, a date?" he blurted out, dumbstruck.

"If you want it to be," she replied coyly.

Get a grip, Hollander, David commanded himself. This was what people did in college. They met people. They went on dates. They went places together and didn't have to hide whenever they were in each other's presence. This was good. This was normal.

And he found himself really, really wanting to go with Yuna. To see her outside of just school and home. To watch her watch their favorite sport. To see how she lit up over her team.

"Sure, but… I have a confession to make." David leaned a little closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "I'm an Ottawa fan."

"Well, they're playing Boston, so that's just fine, isn't it?" Yuna replied with a wink. "I'll pick you up at seven."

He was so awed by her bold, smooth manner that it didn't even occur to him how horrible that was until he was halfway home.

Brandon had been staying out late a lot. Maybe he would do it again tonight. It was the start of the weekend, after all. Maybe he would go out to Gert's with some of the team. Maybe he was meeting a girl himself. Maybe he was doing literally anything besides coming home to sulk. David went home, got changed, and stared at the clock, praying that Yuna would arrive before Brandon did.

But ten minutes before seven, the front door opened. Brandon shuffled inside, hung up his keys, and headed for his room. His door shut with a sound thud, his hockey bag hitting the floor a moment later. David listened at his own door with his heart in his throat.

He hated this. Why did it feel like he was cheating? He and Brandon weren't anything. He had made that clear, and Brandon wasn't pursuing him. It was over. Whatever they were doing before… it was finished. They were just moving past it.

But when there was a knock on the door, David felt like he was going to have a heart attack. He lunged for his bedroom door, but Brandon had evidently already been halfway to the kitchen, so by the time David threw open the door to his room, Brandon was already unlocking the deadbolt.

"Wait —" David tried to say, but Brandon was ignoring him with a vengeance.

The front door opened. Yuna stood there, blinking in surprise. "Oh! Hi! I'm here for David," she explained, oblivious.

Brandon's dark eyes flicked onto David like heat-seeking missiles. That look could have cut glass. It could have stopped a train on the track. It felt like David would catch fire if he stood pinned by it for too long.

That look was not the look of someone who was moving on, as he was. That look was one of pure, distilled hurt.

David stepped forward, grabbing his coat and trying to muscle Brandon out of the way. "Hey, Yuna," he said, his voice a high, nervous flutter of its usual self. "This is Brandon, my roommate. We better get going, yeah?"

Yuna looked past him back to Brandon, smiling wider. "Oh! Brandon Wiebe, right? You're such a great player to watch!"

Brandon reeled slightly, the sullen, pained look on his face flickering as her impervious optimism was turned full force onto him. "Oh, uh, thanks," he muttered, the first words David had heard from him in weeks. He belatedly made himself stick out a hand in her direction to shake.

"Oh, I'm more of a hugger, really!" Yuna informed him as she strode forward and just… grabbed him, giving him a quick but tight squeeze.

Brandon's tired eyes met David's over her head, and David watched helplessly as tears sprang into them.

He ducked away when Yuna pulled back and mumbled for them to have fun, all but shoving David out the door and closing it firmly behind him. Yuna tilted her head slightly, looking to David quizzically, but he just shrugged.

"It's, ah, his sophomore year," he said by way of explanation. "Y'know how that is."

Thankfully, Yuna did. She nodded sympathetically before they headed down the stairs and onto the street, bound for the Bell Centre.

Time flew past, and David spent most of it with Yuna.

She was everywhere. Once practice was back on, she was waiting for him outside the rink. She waited for him outside the lecture hall every other day so he could walk her home from campus. She was at one of the few parties David allowed himself to be pressured into attending right before Christmas.

And she was standing under the mistletoe.

David was on his own. The Smitty twins had dragged him there, but had abandoned him pretty much as soon as they walked in the door. Brandon wouldn't be there, David knew, because he wouldn't allow himself to be caught in the same room with him.

So when he bowed his head to kiss Yuna for the first time, he didn't bother to scan the room first. He was a boy, kissing a girl, and it was fine. It was normal. It was expected. He didn't have to hide. He didn't have to keep her a secret.

He liked that. He hated himself for liking that.

There was no fear or shame when he pulled back and met her eyes. He didn't even mind when someone slapped him on the back and wolf whistled in his ear. Yuna smiled at David. David smiled at Yuna. He liked her, and she liked him, and he could actually, really do something about it.

He was about to kiss her again when his attention snagged on something over her shoulder. He looked up, and he froze.

Alois was staring at him, open-mouthed, from across the room. As soon as David looked up at him, he turned on his heel and dove through the crowd to go somewhere else.

Shit.

"Hold that thought," David said to Yuna, who was frowning slightly at him as he started to walk away. "I, uh, need to talk to someone really quick about a class."

David took off through the packed townhouse, shouldering around bodies and squirming through tight corridors. He tracked Alois's unforgettable head of hair as it wove swiftly through the throngs of people, heading for the door. David followed doggedly after him, narrowly avoiding knocking over a girl carrying an enormous drink as he did so, until he finally burst through the door, hot on Alois's heels.

"Alo!" David called as Alois began to stride across the street. He didn't stop, so David broke into a jog to catch up to him. "Alo, wait —"

"Por quoi?!" Alois snapped as he reached the other side of the street, spinning around beneath a streetlight. His hair was curled and coiffed, and he was wearing what looked like a very expensive cashmere sweater. The light shining down on him made him look like an avenging angel, outlined in righteous golden light. "What do you want? Seems like you have plenty to keep you busy in there."

"Don't do this," David pleaded. "You don't even know her. She's —"

"I don't care, David," Alois hissed. "What the fuck are you doing? What is wrong with you? Over the summer you tell me you are in love with Brandon, and then you turn around and break his heart out of nowhere. Now you are with some whore?"

Every hair on David's body stood on end, bristling with indignation. "Don't talk about her like that," he snarled. His voice didn't even sound like his own.

"Fuck her!" Alois shouted, getting in David's face. He was no longer in a sling, but he carried his left shoulder slightly higher than his right, his left arm tucked close to his body. "Brandon told you he loved you, and instead of telling him you felt the same way, you ran away. You're a fucking coward, David Hollander."

Despite the December chill, David's entire body felt scalding hot. "You don't understand, Alo," he insisted. "It's not that simple."

Alois scoffed, backing away. "I understand plenty, David. Big, strong hockey player wants to fuck his teammate in secret until things get too real for him. Then he runs and hides in the nearest cunt he can find. Happens all the time." He paused, green eyes hard as emeralds, and sighed, his whole frame deflating with the exhalation. "I guess I just thought you were better than that. But it looks like I was wrong."

David opened his mouth to argue, to try to refute Alois's claim, but Alois was already turning and walking away into the dark. David stood there under the streetlight until his face was numb, and only when he could no longer feel his fingers did he finally retreat back inside to the party.

"Thought you had run off," Yuna said as she slotted herself at his side. "God, you're freezing!"

"Sorry," David muttered, entirely distracted. The party held no more interest to him. It was just noise and strong smells and too many people in too small a space, and he wanted out. "Long conversation. You wanna get out of here?"

She did.

When they got to Yuna's place, she asked David to come inside. He did so, shedding his coat in the entryway and hanging it up in a motion that he hadn't even realized had become habitual. Yuna did the same before pressing close to him and standing on tiptoe to kiss him once more.

The angry static buzz in his mind went silent beneath her touch.

"Come upstairs," Yuna whispered against his mouth.

She slid her hand into his and led him up the stairs. Down the hall. Through the last door at the end and into what must have been her bedroom. She shut and locked her door behind them, gave him another kiss, and started taking off her clothes.

David did the same.

Later, when they lay spooned together in her bed, skin bare beneath her thick duvet, David buried his nose in her hair and sighed. She wore it long, even then. He had always loved long hair.

"Do you have plans for Christmas?" he murmured against her neck.

She didn't.

Brandon spent Christmas with Alois.

He had put up a small, tacky little tree made entirely of silver tinsel and decorated with a variety of what could only be described as well-curated garbage. The base was wrapped in a silk purple scarf, and there were two present shoved beneath it, nearly as big as the tree itself. Alois handed both of them to Brandon on Christmas morning with a small smile.

"Merry Christmas, Brandon," he said quietly, nudging the prettily wrapped packages into his lap.

Alois had gotten him a new pair of boots and a new sweater, both of which he desperately needed. His Converse had holes in them, and his favorite sweater was growing threadbare through the shoulders. "Thanks, Alo," he said, biting back the instinctual apology that tried to follow after. The obvious, pathetic statement of I didn't get you anything. I couldn't.

Alois cooked, something heavy with herbs and butter that Brandon had never heard of but ate nonetheless, and they watched It's A Wonderful Life that night on his tiny living room TV set. He spent the last week of the year on Alois's couch, diligently ignoring the ache that never went away behind his ribs and forcing every thought that attempted to wander in David's direction to lie down and be still.

When the break was over and he returned to practice, Brandon went right back to what he had been doing for weeks. He stared straight ahead on the ice, narrowing his focus down to their coach and the puck nothing else. David was there, he knew, but unless he was talking about hockey, Brandon didn't acknowledge him. He glossed over his familiar frame in his periphery out of necessity.

If he let himself look at David, he knew he would never be able to stop looking. He would get distracted and skate right into the boards, all the while wondering why couldn't you love me back? so loudly that the thought would probably echo off the ice and into the rafters of the barn for the whole team to hear. His bleeding heart would bleed out, turning the white ice red, and they would have to melt the whole slab down and start over to get the stain out.

Which was, of course, unimaginable. So he kept his eyes forward and focused on the game and never once let himself look in David's direction.

There was a chance, however slim, that maybe he could have continued like that for the rest of the season. Maybe he could have created a blind spot so big that he could truly forget David was there. Maybe it would have been fine, carrying on like that until David graduated in the spring.

But then, in the last week of January, Brandon forgot his wallet in the locker room after an afternoon practice. He jogged back to grab it, having showered and dressed quickly so he could leave before David could appear. As he was leaving and passing the showers, he overhead voices.

"Your girl gonna be out there waiting for us, Holly?" asked Dougan Smitty. "She's hot. Is she looking for more than one hockey player?"

A towel snapped loudly around the corner, echoing off the tiled walls. "Don't be gross, Smitty," David replied with a laugh. "Yeah, I'm sure Yuna's waiting for me."

"You must like her a lot. All this time, I ain't ever seen you with a girl before. Is it serious?"

"Kind of, yeah. I took her home to meet my family over the break."

Brandon's eyes were starting to sting. His breath was getting shallow. He needed to leave, needed to go home before David could follow and impose himself on him, but he felt rooted to the spot. His legs were stiff and unbending. He couldn't make himself move.

Smitty whistled. "Damn. She the one, then?"

There was a pause. And then, almost inaudible over the echoing of the water splashing off the floors, David answered. "I think so. I… I'm gonna ask her to marry me."

Marry me.

The world collapsed around him.

Brandon went from standing stock still to running. He didn't even register himself moving, the winter air biting at his skin, burning in his lungs. He ran out of the rink, off of the campus, and didn't stop until he reached the metro line, where he bent at the waist and braced himself on his knees as he sucked in too-fast breaths that felt lined with razor wire.

He had put up with so much. Had shoved down his huge, painful feelings for months. Had danced so skillfully around David in their own home that he was almost able to pretend he lived alone. He had been able to cooperate with him on the ice and in their games and stay out of his way on campus.

But this was a bridge too far. This was more than he could stand.

Three months ago, David had been in his bed. Inside him. And now he was going to propose to some random girl that he seemingly just met.

The train came screaming down the track overhead, rattling Brandon down to his bones. He heaved in a huge, stabbing breath, and screamed until he was sure his throat would bleed. He hollered until he felt like he would black out right there on the filthy, slush-lined street. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling like he was breaking in half, and screamed his pain to the world, cold and alone.

When the train and his voice both were gone, he staggered the rest of the way home. He flung a bag onto the bed and started throwing his clothes and books and meager belongings into it. He left all the gifts David and his family had given him behind, except his skates and the business card from Fred. He locked the door behind him and left his key under the mat.

He trekked to Alois's building in the dark, his bags heavy on his shoulders. When Alois answered the door, Brandon once again broke down.

"He's getting married," he wailed, and Alois's face fell as he shepherded him inside.

When he could speak without sobbing, Brandon slumped on Alois's couch once more. "I'm dropping out," he announced.

"Brandon, don't," Alois begged. "He isn't worth giving up your education. He will be gone in a few months, and then —"

"I can't do it, Alo. I can't see him with her on campus and know…" He sighed, feeling more and more of his heart breaking apart. "I can't. I'm sorry. I need to get out of here. Can… can you help me?"

He normally would have bitten off his own tongue before he asked anyone for help. For money. But the thought of spending another week, another semester in Montreal made him want to die.

It must have shown on Brandon's face, because Alois just nodded. "Of course, mon ami. Anything you need."

What he needed, it turned out, was a bus ticket to Calgary.

Brandon called the number on the business card Fred Hollander had given him the year before. It rang three times before, finally, a man picked up. "Yeah?" he demanded in a deep, gravelly voice.

"Umm, hi," Brandon mumbled into Alois's phone. "My name is Brandon Wiebe. I'm calling for Mister Reese."

"Speaking."

"I currently play for the McGill Redbirds, sir. I'm a forward. I know it's late in the season, but I'm hoping to sign on with a professional team as soon as possible. Can you help me?"

"Hmm. McGill, yeah? What did you say your name was again?"

"Brandon Wiebe, sir."

"Yeah… yeah, I recognize that name. I saw you play in the finals last year. How's your scoring record so far this year, kid?"

Shit, considering the gaps in McGill's season from the bus accident. "Not bad, sir," Brandon lied.

"Hmm. Tell you what, you called at a good time. Calgary's AHL team is in need of a center. Theirs blew out his ACL two days ago and he ain't coming back. You interested?"

The words clanged around in his head like rocks thrown down a steel tunnel. Calgary. AHL. Center. The details really didn't matter, though. It was a way out of Montreal, and Brandon was going to take it. "Yes, sir. I can be on the next bus out."

"Sounds good, kid. Be here by Friday. We'll see you at the head office." And with that, Reese hung up.

In the morning, Brandon headed to the admissions office on campus. He informed the woman behind the desk that he wanted to withdraw from all his classes. She frowned, her red lipstick from the year before having been exchanged for a shade of brown, but she passed him the forms anyways. Brandon signed them, turned in his textbooks, and left.

He went to the bus station, where he bought a ticket with money borrowed from Alois for the next bus to Calgary, which would be leaving first thing in the morning the next day. Ticket in hand, he walked back to Alois's apartment to re-pack his things and get ready to leave.

He was staring at the water-stained ceiling above Alois's couch when someone banged on the door.

"Merde," Alois hissed, striding out of his bedroom wrapped in a red silk robe, his hair halfway up in rollers. "People should know better than to come banging on my door this late."

Alois opened the door, then immediately tried to slam it shut. A hand grabbed the frame, stopping him. Brandon sat up.

"Alo," said David from the doorway. "Please. Have you seen Brandon? I just need to know —"

"He doesn't want to talk to you, David," Alois hissed, trying to shoulder David out of the way. "And neither do I. Fuck off."

David glanced into the living room over Alois's shoulder, his blue eyes snagging on Brandon. Being under his stunning, pained gaze made the wound in Brandon's chest shred open all over again.

He loved those eyes. He loved that boy. And it was killing him, because he would never, ever be able to have him again.

"Brando," David said beseechingly, ignoring Alois's continued attempts to fend him off. "Please, just talk to me. Please."

Something in Brandon broke beyond repair.

"Talk to you?" he asked, getting to his feet and stalking toward the door. "Talk to you? You mean the same way you talked to me after you fucked me and then ran out on me? The same way you talked to me after I told you I loved you and you fucking ran? Or how about the way that you talked to me after, when you were avoiding me and inviting girls over to our fucking apartment? What about the way you talked to me about how you're going to fucking propose to her?!"

Alois, in the interest of not being caught in the crossfire, stepped back. With each accusation, David fell back little by little from the doorway, until Brandon had run him out onto the landing completely. The neighbors were going to complain, but he didn't care. He jabbed a finger at David's chest, all the hurt and fury he had ever felt welling up to the surface as tears welled in his eyes.

"You're a coward," Brandon spat, his voice trembling. "I never want to see you again. You hear me David? We are done. Get out of here. Go."

David swallowed, his face pale. He lifted a hand in Brandon's direction, his expression open and pleading. "Brandon —"

"Go!" Brandon snapped. He shoved David toward the stairs with both hands. David staggered back several steps, genuinely caught off guard. "Fuck you. I hope she's fucking worth it."

Those pitiful, gorgeous blue eyes would haunt Brandon's nightmares for decades to come.

Before he could do anything else stupid, Brandon retreated back into Alois's apartment. Alois slammed and locked the door behind him. "Why don't you go get a shower before your trip, ouias?" he suggested gently as Brandon stood in the middle of the living room, his whole body shaking. "Go wash up. I'll get some food for us."

At a loss for what else to do with himself, Brandon went. Alois's hot water was even worse than his and David's had been, which felt fitting. He stood beneath the uncomfortably cool spray and tipped his head back. His head hurt. His chest hurt. He felt heavy, as if weighed down inside by stone. The tears flowed freely, and Brandon let them.

This is the last time, he swore to himself. This is the last time I will cry over David Hollander. It has to be.

He stood in the shower until his skin was numb and his tears had finally run out.

In the morning, before the sun had risen, he hugged a half-awake Alois goodbye.

"You will stay in touch," Alois commanded sleepily. "You will call me every week. You will tell me whenever you are in town for a game. You can disappear on everyone else, but you are not allowed to disappear from me, yes?"

"Okay," Brandon agreed into his shoulder. He would miss the way Alois smelled, like cigarettes and rose water and cheap incense. "I will. I love you, Alo. Thank you for everything."

Alois squeezed him tight enough to bruise. "I love you too, bebe. Be safe. Call me when you get there."

Brandon walked to the bus station alone, his bags thumping against his back. He passed the metro line where he and David had screamed together, young and wild and reckless. He passed the townhouse where they had gone to that first party together. He passed their apartment building, where David probably wasn't even staying anymore.

Montreal had been so bright when he had first arrived at the end of last summer. So full of promise. Now, shrouded in snow and ice, it felt like a grave of itself.

Brandon boarded the bus, gave the driver his ticket, and thumped into a seat in the back. He watched the city roll by in the pre-dawn gloom, falling away to desolate, open road as they left it behind and headed west, outrunning the rising sun.

He left Montreal and McGill and David Hollander behind, and he didn't look back.

OTTAWA - 1995

"Honey! Phone's ringing!"

The phone always seemed to ring whenever the Hollanders were trying to get out the door for something. Today was no different. David was tying Shane's shoes for him, getting him bundled up and ready to go to peewee hockey practice. Shane, to his eternal credit, was always great about these things, so long as everything went in the same order every time before they got in the car. Hat first, then coat, then mittens, and lastly his shoes.

Yuna had just swept in from starting the car to let it warm up in the driveway. She plucked the ringing phone off the cradle and answered in her usual tone. "Hollander residence, Yuna speaking!"

David tuned her out as he got Shane's laces tied and did a double check to make sure his gear bag was all ready. It never failed to amaze him how much stuff a kid his size still needed for hockey. He was grateful his Christmas bonus last year had been generous, because none of it was cheap, either.

Yuna intercepted him as he and Shane headed for the back door to go out to the car. "It's for you," she announced, trading the phone for the hockey bag. "I'll take him to practice. You need to take this call."

The grave shift in her demeanor made David's alarm bells begin to sound. "Oh, okay," he mumbled, taking the phone and patting Shane's head affectionately as he and Yuna headed out the door. "Good luck, bud. Have fun." Then he brought the receiver to his ear and paced slowly back into the kitchen. "David speaking."

There was a rattling sigh on the other end of the phone, and then, in a tired, thin voice, "David. Hello."

David's knees buckled slightly as his mind wrapped itself around that voice. He hadn't heard it in so long. He sat down hard at the dining table, still sticky with syrup from that morning's pancakes. "Alo," he replied, the air knocked out of him. "Hey, man. How are you?"

"Not good," Alois replied. "I'm dying, David."

His entire body lit up, as if he had been suddenly plunged into boiling hot water. His heart ratcheted up, despite the fact that he was sitting still. His palms were sweating. His breath suddenly came in quick, shallow pants. He glanced out the window, which framed his suburban street in bright, clear sunlight on that chilly January day, and all he could think was I can't possibly be getting this news on a day as beautiful as this.

"Where are you right now?" David heard himself ask. "Can I come see you? Just tell me where you are, I'll hop in the car —"

"I don't want you to see me like this, David." Alois coughed, a wet, wretched sound, and David's throat started to close up. "Don't want you to remember me like this."

David's eyes began to line with tears. His dining room grew blurry behind his glasses. "What can I do?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"Just listen," Alois said. David fought to keep from sniffling so he could hear him over the phone. He had never sounded so faint. So quiet. "You are well? Happy? You and Yuna?"

David swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he ground out. "Yeah, I am. We are."

"Good. That is good." Another ragged exhale, as if every word cost Alois an unimaginable amount of strength. Maybe it did. "I wanted to apologize, mon ami. I… I was unfair to you, back then. Too harsh. I am sorry. I judged you too much."

David scrubbed a hand across his face, knocking his glasses askew. He took them off entirely and set them on the table. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he said too quickly. It wasn't true, really, and the apology was welcome, even after all that time, but he couldn't stand the thought of this weighing on Alois as he was on his deathbed.

"Let me be sorry anyways, yes? I could have been a better friend to you, and I was not. I am sorry, David."

The pain in David's chest was becoming unbearable. He carefully breathed in through his teeth and swiped his tears away. ""Okay," he said carefully. "I forgive you, Alo. It's okay."

Alois let a breathy hum loose, as if a weight had been lifted from him. "Thank you. You have a bebe yes? A little one?"

"I do, yeah." There was no way to keep the wobbling out of David's voice now. "Shane. His name is Shane."

"Can I ask something of you, David? Just one thing?"

"Anything, Alo. Anything at all."

"Get him a French teacher. A real one, not that hideous Quebecois garbage. Make sure he speaks my mother tongue properly. Could you do that for me?"

A tear-choked laugh made its way to the surface. "Yeah, I can do that," David said. "We'll get him a real French teacher. I promise."

"Good. Good. Merci, David." Alois coughed again, longer and harder, and David's chest felt like it was caving in on itself. "Thank you, mon ami, for calling me your friend when most would not even look at me. You are a good person, David Hollander. I pray you and your family have a long, wonderful life."

It was becoming impossible to breathe. "I miss you, Alo," David confessed. "I wish I could see you again."

"We will see each other again someday," Alo assured him. His voice had thinned down to merely a whisper. "I love you, David. Take care of yourself."

"I love you, too, Alois," David replied, biting back a sob. "Goodbye, mon ami."

"Au revoir, mon ami."

Click.

David set the receiver down on the table. He crossed his arms and rested his forehead on them and wept.

Alois all but dropped the phone into Brandon's waiting hand. He hung it up gently before returning to Alois's bedside, brushing his limp blonde hair from his brow. His lips were dry and cracking again, so Brandon fetched him some water and held the straw to his mouth imploringly.

"Mmh," Alois grunted as he took a sip. "Merci, Brandon," he whispered after he had swallowed.

Brandon didn't blame him for not wanting anyone to see him like this. His skin was mottled with sores and had gone sickly pale, almost to the point of translucence. His hair was thin and dull. He had lost so much weight, to the point that Brandon worried that his bones were going to protrude through his skin in places.

"That's everyone?" Brandon asked.

Alois nodded once. "Oui. That is everyone."

He'd had a list of people he wanted to speak to one last time, before he got to where he could no longer speak. Brandon had dutifully helped him track down all their numbers and sat beside him as he delivered his farewells to everyone on his list. David had been the very last, and he was relieved the call was finally over.

Alois had called Brandon two weeks earlier and told him he was dying. Brandon, who had signed with Detroit the year before, had dropped everything to fly to Montreal and take care of him in his final days. His family in France had cut him off once they heard he had AIDS, leaving him stranded and alone on the other side of the Atlantic.

Alois was the last constant Brandon had left in his life, having kept him company through letters and phone calls ever since he had fled McGill. Now he was going to lose him, too.

"I hope you two can reconnect someday," Alois sighed.

The thought was too painful to even consider, so Brandon pushed it aside. He grasped Alois's hand, his skin cold and stretched taut over his bony knuckles. Brandon had painstakingly painted his nails pink the day before, and the color screamed at him from Alois's washed out nailbeds.

"We gotta talk about arrangements, Alo," Brandon told him calmly.

"I know," Alois heaved, breath rattling wetly through his lungs. "There's a costume in my closet, the black and teal. Bury me in that. And my skates, God, please bury me in my figure skates. I loved those skates."

Brandon had grabbed a notepad and was jotting everything down. He felt like he should probably be more upset, but he had wept over Alois so much already. All that was left at this point was wrapping up the details of his life as neatly as possible.

"Okay. Any preference for the casket? Flowers?"

"White casket," Alois said with a conviction he hadn't had in weeks. "Clean. Pretty. And flowers… no lilies or carnations, God. Roses. I want roses. But they can't also be white, can they? Merde."

A traitorous flicker of fondness ran through Brandon as a memory resurfaced. A small vase in a windowsill, a small bunch of yellow roses basking in the light. "What about yellow?" he suggested.

Alois considered it, then nodded. "Ouias. Big yellow roses. Lots of them. That will be nice, I think."

Brandon wrote it down. "And who should be told about the funeral when it's set up?"

"Just the team. I don't know if any of them will come, but…" Alois trailed off, staring at the ceiling. He looked exhausted.

Brandon scribbled it down anyways. "I'll make sure I get their addresses and numbers. Anything else?"

Alois turned his head slowly, regarding Brandon with tired, sad eyes. "You are too good to me, Brandon," he lamented.

Brandon reached for his hand again and gave his thin fingers a squeeze. "It's the least I can do, Alo. Really. You've been the best friend I ever could have asked for."

He died on a Wednesday, two weeks before his birthday.

The funeral was everything he had requested. Black and teal figure skating costume, matching black figure skates laced with his white hockey laces. White casket with matching satin trim. Ten dozen golden roses. A burial plot high on a hill in Mount Royal, with a view of the city.

Every single member of the Redbirds came.

Brandon watched them from the bottom of the hill, huddled in his car. He had paid for and arranged everything, but he couldn't bear to show his face to his teammates. To David. He felt hollow and tired in a way he wouldn't be able to truly mend for many, many years to come.

As his former teammates tossed roses down into the grave onto Alois's pearly white casket, Brandon quietly drove away, headed back to Detroit. He passed the park and the metro line and stopped at the light at the intersection that, if he turned right, would take him back to McGill.

If he closed his eyes, he could still remember that brilliant August day when he had first set foot on the historic campus, wide-eyed and tentative, clueless as to how much his life was about to change.

The traffic light turned green before him, and Brandon took his foot off the brake and drove away from Montreal for good.

OTTAWA - 2021

From: stacey.a@ottawacentaurs.org

To: brandon.wiebe@ottawacentaurs.org

Subject: [No subject]

Have you seen this? Call me.

[link]

Chapter End Notes

up next: a video is posted. a wedding is held. a centaur comes home.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA SOOOOOO THAT FUCKING SUCKED LMFAO. god i have not cried that hard in a LONG time. but i knew this was what i wanted to do when i set this story up and goddammit i am nothing if not committed to the bit. also i am SOOOOO SO PAINFULLY AWARE that you can't just call a random scout/agent and get signed to an AHL/NHL team oh my god believe me i know but i needed this to work for my own stupid purposes so just roll with it i BEG.

thank you again @Tuesdaycoming for helping beta this chapter <3

i do want to take a quick moment to get on my soapbox here. it's very easy for our generation and younger to forget or not be aware of how badly HIV/AIDS decimated our communities. By the end of 1995, over six MILLION cases had been recorded worldwide, and the death toll for 1995 ALONE was over a million. we have come a very long way today, and HIV is no longer the death sentence that it used to be, but it's important to remember how many were lost to this disease and the global mishandling of its spread. how many suffered due to bigotry and stigma. how many of our queer elders would still be here today if not for this epidemic. i know we like to have fun and celebrate queer joy here, but we must never forget the people we lost along the way who made it possible for us to have spaces like these and stories we can connect through today.

alois was my ode to all the loving, vibrant souls lost to this disease in the 80's and 90's, including several people from my own childhood. i am blessed to have queer elders in my life, but i would have had roughly twice as many if not for HIV/AIDS. i definitely recommend educating yourself further on this topic if you feel so inclined, and would start with the book "and the band played on" and/or the documentary "how to survive a plague." they are both heavy, harrowing works, but they are a vital piece of queer history that should never be forgotten.

okay, okay, i'm done now. one chapter to go, y'all. thank you SO so much for reading and sticking with me this long, guys. we're almost there. this will be the last chapter featuring any flashbacks to the past. it's all uphill from here. maybe. hopefully. i swear this has a happy ending guys i really do.

if you want to come wail in agony with me, you can do so over on tumblr.
while you're at it, you should reblog the fic post.

Chapter 15: landslide

Chapter Summary

the happy ending :')

Chapter Notes

OTTAWA - 2021

Brandon decides, five minutes into his impromptu stakeout, that he's glad he never had any interest in being a bounty hunter.

He's been awake for way too many hours already. It will be many more hours until he can finally sleep. His presence was demanded at an emergency meeting that morning, and right after it had concluded, he got in his car and came straight here, to this placid, cookie-cutter suburb. He had parked his SUV at the edge of the drive and made himself comfortable as he waited for the home owner to return.

Now, with nothing left to do but wait, he seethes.

The meeting had been bullshit. The entire situation was bullshit. Understandable bullshit, of course, because he understands the system and culture to which be belongs all too well. But bullshit nonetheless.

It's also bullshit that he even has to be here at all. It's his decision to be here, rather than handling this particularly unpleasant errand over the phone, but still. This shouldn't even be an issue. None of this should even be happening.

But it is.

Brandon is about to indulge in a nap when a car pulls into the drive. He stirs, finally cuts his own ignition, and gets out, bracing for impact. "Ilya," he calls from the end of the drive. "You got a minute?"

His star center looks like hell. He is tense as he turns to face his coach. He sighs, looking defeated, and gestures toward the house. Brandon takes a deep breath and follows him inside.

Within, the plucky little hairball at Ilya's feet turns on Brandon, placing itself between the two men and barking defensively. It would be intimidating, if the dog weren't thirty pounds at most. Ilya reaches down to pet her head and soothe her. "Is okay, Anya. He is a friend."

When he looks up at Brandon, his eyes are almost pleading. As if he's not sure whether or not that statement is still true. It's a look that resonates deep with old, long-forgotten wounds in Brandon's heart. A look that he's sure he's worn several times himself over the years.

Brandon crouches and offers Anya the back of his hand to sniff. It's the same move he tells people to use with his own dog, though Goldie has never met a stranger (or had an intelligent thought in her life.) "Nice to meet you, Anya. I'm just here to talk to your dad." He gives Ilya what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "She's cute."

"She is the best," Ilya replies, almost defensively. Brandon is never going to try to argue that point with a fellow dog owner.

They move into the kitchen, where Ilya makes them both an Americano at his ungodly expensive-looking espresso machine. Once they are both seated at the kitchen table, Brandon steels himself to begin his speech, not entirely sure where to start. He doesn't want to be here, telling Ilya this news while he's already going through a personal hell of untold proportions. But he owes it to Ilya for his hard work on the team to do this in person, as delicately as he can.

He owes it to David, to take care of one of their boys so he and Yuna can focus on the other.

"So," he begins brilliantly, trying to keep his tone light. "I'm guessing your, um, appearance in Pike's video was unintentional."

"Yes." Ilya's voice is flat and hard. His walls are completely up, and Brandon doesn't blame him one bit. It possibly would have been easier if his nude photos had been posted online instead. This is, in its own way, so much worse.

"I'm sorry," Brandon says. It's such a hollow, useless word. Sorry. As if he personally did anything to contribute to the situation. As if he alone can atone for the evils their world is and will inflict on him in the weeks to come. "That's terrible." Understatement of the century.

Ilya remains silent, sipping his coffee. It's a good tactic, letting Brandon fill in the space for them both. It's a tactic Brandon used himself plenty of times during his career, when conversations with his team and coaches and the press were going ways he didn't like. Back then, though, it was just as often that he left them in silence because he simply didn't know what to say.

He's older now. He's lived and learned, loved and lost. Now, he knows what to say. What he needed to hear when he was Ilya's age and younger, dragging his broken and battered heart through the world, completely alone with no one and nowhere to turn to.

"You care about him," Brandon states. "Hollander."

Of course you do. You and I are the same. We are both damned to love whosoever bears that name. To hell with the consequences.

Ilya stares down into his coffee. He seems to shrink in on himself a little. A dog waiting to be beaten. A wound preparing to bleed. "I love him," he says, so quietly Brandon can barely hear him, even sitting this close to him.

How many times has Ilya been able to say that out loud to someone other than Shane? Not nearly enough, if his timid, fretful delivery is anything to go by. His adoration has been a secret far too long in the keeping.

"And I'd say the feeling is mutual," Brandon says, before hastily adding, "Based on that video, anyway."

Not that he would know, of course. Not that David has told him how Shane and Ilya mourn each other like lovers away at war whenever they're apart. Not that Brandon has been keeping tabs on how Ilya distances himself from his team in their downtime so he can savor every spare moment away with Shane.

Ilya's mouth twitches up ever so slightly. Fondness melts his features like the first gentle rays of sun in the spring. "It is very much mutual," he confirms.

But joy — for people like them, anyways — is far too fragile to withstand the brunt force of reality for longer than a few moments at a time. His face falls again when he meets Brandon's eyes and hesitantly asks, "How bad will this be?"

The dull, rusty knife of anger twists in Brandon's gut again. He schools his face into gentle sympathy, fighting down the roaring, defiant beast in his chest. "I don't know," he admits. He knows how bad it currently is, but is clueless to how much worse it will get before it's all over. "Crowell has ordered you both be benched for a bit. He wants it dealt with, whatever that means."

There's no way he can keep the full venom out of his words. The meeting that morning had been the truest test of his patience, of his growth as a person. Sitting around the conference table with the management and coaching and PR staff while Crowell ranted and raved on speaker phone about propriety and tradition and public perception made him want to put his chair through the fucking wall. The desire to tell the commissioner to go fuck himself had never before been so strong.

But Brandon has to buy a car for his daughters to share soon and will be adding them to his and Valerie's auto insurance. They want a big sweet sixteen birthday party over the summer. They all want to go to college. The old, familiar instinct ingrained in him from growing up poor forbids him from jeopardizing his career and income.

Besides that, Brandon loves his team, patchwork and quirky and almost comically queer as it is. They're going to the playoffs again, and Brandon feels good about it this year.

He still wants to win the fucking Cup.

So he kept his mouth shut and let Crowell make his demands and imagined how much fun it would someday be to find the old fuck's grave and piss on it.

"I'm sorry," Ilya says again, but with less pity this time. He doesn't mean it, and Brandon is glad.

"Don't be," he says. "You have nothing to apologize to me for."

Ilya blinks, brow quirking up. "No?"

"No. Fuck Crowell. He's never liked me anyway, and it's pretty clear he's never going to like our team, either. Who cares. It may not be worth much, but you have my support, whatever happens." It's bold and reckless and entirely stupid to say out loud, but Brandon is so sick of stepping around the league's pride. If players and staff suffering in silence is the price they have to pay to uphold that legacy, then it's simply not worth the cost.

Ilya swallows, looking unmoored. It's the most frank (and probably the most angry) Brandon has ever sounded in a conversation with him. "Thank you," he finally says, his expression open and genuine.

Brandon knows he can stop here. He can call it a day, pack it up, tell Ilya he'll miss him on the road. But when he leaves and boards that plane for Buffalo, Ilya will be here, alone with his dog, and possibly feeling more alone than ever. It's a feeling Brandon is far too familiar with. The feeling that clung to him like a second skin as he left Montreal behind, that came to him and held him in place until the sun went down in Banff after he released his mother's ashes. It's a sticky, paralyzing feeling, and though Ilya puts up a loud front, Brandon knows that the heaviness sinks in when he thinks no one else is looking.

He thinks about his life. About his past. The hard, painful lessons he learned that got him where he is today. He makes a decision.

"I'm going to share something with you that I've only ever told my wife."

Ilya's face did something complicated for a moment. The outward equivalent of thinking Oh, God. "Okay."

"During my career, I had a… thing with one of my teammates. It doesn't matter who, and I'm not going to tell you, but… we fooled around. For a few months." It comes out in a halting, jumbled rush. Ilya just stares at him. Smooth, Wiebe.

Brandon grimaces, wincing at himself. "I'm not telling this right. The truth was… I was nuts about him. But he was… he said he didn't feel that way about me."

This, he now knows, isn't true. But it's a cleaner version than the truth, especially considering who the person in question is.

"He was scared," Ilya supplies.

You have no idea, Brandon thinks. "Maybe. Maybe he just wanted to experiment. Get it out of his system. Maybe he felt closer to the way I did than he let on." All things he had told himself over the years. All but one that have since been disproved. He waves a hand. "Anyway. It all fell apart when I told him I loved him. He, uh, didn't take it well. We went our separate ways."

Brandon's beginning to wonder if it was worth telling Ilya this. If the massive amounts of white lies are cancelling out his intended message. "Basically, this is all a very long-winded way of saying that I have your back. That I understand."

More than you can ever possibly know.

Thankfully, Ilya falls back on his old self. "This team is very gay," he remarks with an impish smirk.

"I think the young folks would say I'm bisexual," Brandon snorts.

"Bisexual! Great, yes, me too," Ilya all but cheers. The heavy gloom finally leaves his frame, his eyes lighting up again.

It was worth it, Brandon decides.

He assures Ilya that he will be talking with the rest of the team, but neither of them are worried. They know their players. Ilya will be safe with the Centaurs, even if he isn't safe anywhere else. That fact makes Brandon beam with pride.

"I should get going," he announces, glancing at the time. He still has to get on that plane. "I'm sorry you aren't coming with us."

The two of them stand. "Me too. Thank you for coming. It has helped," Ilya tells him, cementing the assurance that Brandon made the right call in doing this in person. In trusting his captain with his story, however piecemeal he had to give it to him.

Brandon doesn't think about it. He pulls Iya into a hug, the taller man dwarfing him for a moment. He slaps the Russian's broad, strong back for good measure. "Stay strong, Captain. We'll be needing you for the playoffs. If there's anything you need, you just let me know, yeah?"

Ilya smiles with all teeth as he pulls back. "Keep winning."

Brandon grins, giving him a wink. "With this team? Easy."

Shane is eating a candy bar.

David is trying not to stare at him while he does it. He can't remember the last time he saw Shane even touch anything not approved by his nutritionist or trainers, let alone dare to actually eat it. Part of him worries, because all he has done ever since the video came out is worry, but a tiny part of him breathes a sigh of relief.

He and Yuna had gotten in the car and headed straight for Montreal as soon as they were made aware of the situation. They weren't sure what they would actually be able to do when they got there, but they knew their baby needed them, and so they went.

Acid feels like it's going to burn a hole straight through David's abdomen from the stress. It started spiking when he first saw the video, and it's been building and building ever since. He's since gotten very good at not letting Shane's life and struggles become about himself, but God, the first thing he thought when he saw it and the response online was I would have hurt myself if this had happened to me and Brandon.

It was a wild thought, considering the stakes had never been anywhere near as high for him and Brandon, but it still screamed into David's mind. Once he had pushed that aside, though, his full focus had been on Shane. Shane has always been so private, so particular about how he is perceived and viewed in the world at large.

He prays that love will be enough to see him and Ilya through this. That they won't reject each other and go underground the way David had when things got real and raw. He has faith in Shane and Ilya, but he also knows firsthand how strong the urge to run and deny everything can be, especially when faced with something as daunting as this.

"Farah and I are working on a statement," Yuna announces. She's been in crisis management mode all day, moving rapidly between her phone and her laptop and taking call after call.

Shane just stares out the window, grinding the candy bar to dust in his jaws.

Both of them are in their own personal hells, David knows. Shane just came home from the rink, where he had been bluntly informed that he was benched until further notice. It's a slap in the face for Yuna, who has loved the Metros as long as she has been alive, and it's all but the end of the world of Shane, who is looking forward to the upcoming playoffs in a couple of weeks and can't stand to be denied time on the ice.

"This is so fucking stupid," Yuna mutters as she begins feverishly typing a response on her laptop. "It's not like you've been caught doping or committing a violent crime. It was just a —"

"Mom," Shane snaps, one hard, sharp word.

Yuna stops, huffs a heavy exhale through her nose, and returns to her email.

David glances between them. He loves both of them more than anything in the world, but when times are tough, they turn into an immovable object and an unstoppable force. It means complete and utter destruction for anyone and anything that gets in their path, so David does the wise thing and stays out of it.

While the two of them wage their individual wars, David restocks Shane's kitchen. He cooks the meals he knows Shane likes and will eat, as well as the ones he hasn't let himself indulge in in a long time, just in case. He strips the beds and does the laundry. Shane pays people to do all of these things, he knows, but he can't do anything else to fix the situation, so he has to keep himself busy with this instead.

Nothing really changes and nothing really resolves by that night. After inhaling a meal like it had also personally insulted him, Shane shuts himself up in his bedroom. Yuna is still networking like a madwoman when David finishes with the dishes and puts the leftovers away. He wordlessly pulls her phone from her hands to make her stop, and though she fixes him with a withering stare for a moment, she finally sighs and allows herself to be herded off to bed.

"It's not fair," she states to the ceiling as she lies beside David in the dark. She hasn't even taken her nightly sleeping pill. She wants to be fully conscious for this rant, and David makes himself stay awake to listen. "These players cheat on their wives and get caught drunk driving and even assault people and they get to keep playing. All Shane ever did was fall in love. What the hell is wrong with that? What's wrong with the world?"

"I don't know, honey," David sighs. It would be easier to share her fire if he hadn't already lived so much of this himself. If he didn't know exactly what the problem was, and the fact that he was completely unable to fix it. "All we can do is stand with them and love them and fight for them. We know they didn't do anything wrong. We raised Shane to be a good person and he is. Ilya is a good person, too. People surely have to know that."

He feels Yuna roll her head from side to side against her pillow. "I have given this stupid franchise so much of my money and time. I gave them my only son. And this is how they thank us?" She fidgets, rolling over to face David in the dark. "I'm only going to say this once. You might have been right. Shane might have been better off in Ottawa, Cups be damned."

David is too stunned to speak.

In the morning, Shane receives an email from the Commissioner himself. Crowell wants a meeting between him and Shane and Ilya. The idea makes David's stomach fall to his knees.

"Call your lawyer," Yuna insists. "Do not set foot in that building alone, Shane."

Shane is shaking his head, looking withdrawn, eyes glazing over with a thousand yard stare. "I don't need to do all of that, I just —"

"Shane," Yuna continues, placing her hands on his shoulders and forcing him to look at her. "If you won't bring your lawyer, then make sure you record the meeting. You start before you even walk through the door, okay? And you don't cut it off until you get outside the building. Do you understand?"

Fear makes an appearance in Shane's face, and David's heart clenches painfully at the sight. He's a grown man, almost thirty years old, but that wide-eyed look of terror makes David feel like he's a toddler again, running to hide behind David's legs whenever the neighbor's dog would bark at him through the fence.

Nothing, be it hockey or Stanley Cups or massive scandals, will ever change the fact that Shane is still his baby.

Shane takes a deep breath and collects himself. He swallows hard and nods. "Okay. I will. Thanks, Mom."

Yuna hugs him tight, as if she can shield him with her own body from the world. David puts his arms around them both, the need to protect his family howling uselessly in his chest. Love is not enough to shelter them from the cruel lashings of the world.

He just hopes it will be enough to get them all through to the other side.

In the end, it is not the video and its fallout or the meeting with Crowell or his coaches' venomous responses to the situation that does Shane in.

It is a simple mistake, one made by players dozens of times every game.

It's game seven of the playoff series against Ottawa. David has been cheering for Ilya and Shane both, as has Yuna. They alternate which jersey they wear to each game depending on the city they play in. Tonight, Yuna is in her tried and true Metros blue, while David sports his beloved Centaurs red and black.

David admires Shane's tenacity more than ever. He can't fathom having the strength to go through everything his son has endured and still get on the ice every other night to battle it out in these games. He will never not be awed by his son's capacity to keep pushing himself, even when David would have given up long ago if he were in Shane's place.

The game has gone into overtime, a gritty, nail-biting tie that has dragged out tooth and nail. Both teams are flagging from the long shifts spent on the ice. Bell Centre is trembling with the deafening roar of the crowd. David can barely bring himself to watch the face-off, completely at a loss for who he wants to finally score the winning goal.

The puck drops, and then they're off. The forwards tangle in the neutral zone, a cluster of numbers fighting for possession. Troy Barrett checks Shane, who recovers quickly and whips back around to poke the puck away from Ilya. He's reaching with his stick, about to snag the puck and tear off with it and make for Ottawa's zone —

And he trips.

Even from where he's standing in the crowd, David can see the jerk run through Shane's body as his edge snags a bad spot in the ice. It's a small, quick reflex, but David played for too long and has watched Shane play for even longer to not know it when he sees it. It's a mistake. A fluke. Rotten luck.

"Oh no," Yuna groans beside him, hands pressed to her chest. "Oh, God."

Shane goes down. Ilya keeps the puck and darts forward to sling it into the net.

The Metros' run for that year's Stanley Cup comes to an abrupt, uneasy end.

David feels sick as he watches Shane kneel on the ice, staring forlornly as the Centaurs crowd around Ilya in celebration. As Hayden Pike skates up to him and pats him on the shoulder. As the teams collect themselves and line up to go down the ranks and shake hands along the center line.

Behind the bench, Brandon looks up into the stands. He spots David and Yuna, and he waves to them, too far away for David to be able to decipher his expression. David swallows his apprehension for a moment, and waves back.

"Come on, honey," Yuna says, gathering her things from their seats once the processions are over. "Shane's gonna need us."

They wait outside the locker room, both chewing their lips in uncomfortable silence. Yuna's hand reflexively twitches toward her phone several times, but she makes herself leave it be. David is glad for it. Whatever opinions people have about the outcome of the game, he knows it's not going to be pretty. They can't afford to be shaken by it right now. They need to be there to support their son.

After a stretch of waiting, Shane barges out of the locker room, a pinched, pained look on his face. Further down the hall, the media begin closing in, microphones outstretched, but Shane pivots and strides off, leaving both his parents and the reports in the dust. "No comment," he snaps over his shoulder, his frame receding quickly down the corridor.

Yuna looks stricken. Shane is still the captain. He has an obligation to speak to the press. He can be fined for refusing, but clearly, he doesn't care about that right now. "Sorry, everyone, please reach out to his agent for further comment," Yuna tells the press before grabbing David's arm and hurrying after Shane.

They follow him out to the parking garage, where Shane comes to a stop before his car. His shoulders are tight in his game-day suit. When he turns to look at his parents, his eyes glitter with tears. He leans back against the door and glares up at the parking garage ceiling, his body shaking with barely-contained sobs.

"They think I fell on purpose," he spits, lips wobbling with the words.

If David thought his heart could never break again, he immediately discovers that he was wrong.

It's the final, horrible straw to break the camel's back. All the years of Shane being on the fringes of his own team, of never truly being embraced by them until he started captaining them to Cup victories. The judgemental and envious glances cast at his back as he worked himself to death to earn his many accolades, smothering his own personal life in exchange.

All of it comes crashing to the forefront of David's mind like a trainwreck. He wants to burn down the entire Bell Centre with the indignity of it. With the bitter, vile betrayal of it all.

"What?" Yuna gasps. "Who said that? I want names." She finally whips out her phone, and David has no doubt she's about to call in a veritable army on Shane's behalf. But Shane doesn't need an army, at least not in this very moment. He just needs his parents. His family. He needs people who love him, and always have, and always will.

Shane shakes his head, his furious, hurt expression buckling under his misery. "I've given this team everything, and…"

And then he's fully crying, and just like when he was a little boy, David rushes to him at once. He wraps his arms around his son and holds him close. He rubs his back and pets his hair and gently rocks him from side to side, just like he did when Shane was little and didn't understand why their routine had changed, or why he couldn't go to the rink when it was closed, or any number of things that were so, so much smaller and easier to manage than this giant beast of a crisis.

David misses, not for the first time, when he could fix things for his boy. When he could sit him down and explain things in a calm, soft voice until Shane calmed down and stopped crying. When he could bandage his skinned knees and soothe his fevers and make everything better. This is the worst part of parenthood, he realizes: not being able to fix it, even after your children are long since grown.

Shane sniffles against David's shoulder after a moment, his many years of self-discipline cutting his grief and his pain short. David can feel him shove it all back down, cram it back into that tight little box inside himself, and he wishes he didn't have to. He wishes Shane would scream and yell and have a fucking tantrum, because if anyone deserves it, it's him.

"It can only get better, right?" Shane asks, and he sounds so small and tired and worn down. He leans back a little, his eyes catching over David's shoulder. "Oh God," he says in Yuna's direction. "What now?"

Yuna is frowning at her phone, which she quickly pockets. "Nothing important," she says through a tight, forced smile. "Let's go home."

"You were checking Twitter, weren't you? What's everyone saying?" Shane demands.

Yuna shakes her head. "Like I said. Nothing important."

They slide into the car, Shane in the back, David at the wheel, Yuna in the passenger seat. Yuna leaves her phone in her pocket, but David can tell from the glow in the rearview mirror that Shane is scrolling through his own as David exits the parking garage. His brow is knitting in the middle, tighter and tighter, and color is once again rising high in his cheeks. It's the same face of upset he always gets right before he gets so distraught that he makes himself sick.

David makes a decision.

Rather than turning left out of the parking garage, he turns right. Yuna glances at him, puzzled. Shane is too distracted to notice. He weaves through the familiar streets of downtown, dodging through the traffic that is streaming away from the stadium after the game. He drives away from the Bell Centre for a few blocks before he finally pulls over, turns on his hazard lights, and parks the car.

Shane finally looks up, confused. "What's going on?" he asks. "Where are we?"

David just cuts the engine and steps out of the car. "Come here."

No less confused, Yuna and Shane follow. David strolls ahead until he's standing under an overpass. The night around them is dark and slightly humid. They've moved far enough away from the stadium that, for the most part, the street is quiet.

Until the distant shriek of brakes and wheels grinding on tracks begins to pierce the evening.

"Son," David says, settling a hand on Shane's shoulder. "When the train goes by overhead, I want you to scream as loud as you can."

Shane just blinks at him. "What? Why?"

"Just trust me." David smiles at him before tilting his head up, waiting for the metro to pass overhead. The ground beneath his shoes starts to vibrate, and the clattering of the train grows ever louder.

Shane clearly doesn't think David is going to do the same thing, because when the train roars over their heads and David roars right back at it, Shane jumps, looking terrified. Yuna laughs, ever a good sport, and suddenly she is screaming too, doubling over as she forces all the air and noise from her small frame.

Finally, with the train blaring by over his head and both his parents taking in huge breaths to scream yet again, Shane Hollander gives himself permission to not be okay. For just a moment, he lets the pain and frustration and anger of the past decade boil over. He opens his mouth and screams.

The next morning, as David and Yuna drive home to Ottawa, David decides he can be passive no longer. His son is hurting. His son may even be in danger. He has to do something, even if it terrifies him. Shane has been so, so brave all his life. It's time for David to be brave, too.

He taps on the screen in the console and pulls up his contacts, keeping a watchful eye on the road between actions. Yuna's frown is nearly audible. David never fiddles with screens or devices while he's driving. He ignores her and tabs to where he needs to be, then presses "call."

The phone rings once, twice, three times. He's worried that he's missed him, that the team is already on a plane, or he's in a meeting with the rest of the coaching staff, but then:

"Hey, Bowie," Brandon says warmly. "Good game last night. My condolences to Montreal."

"Hey, Brando," David replies. "I'm in the car with Yuna. We've got you on speaker."

It's the first time the two of them have been in each other's direct line of contact since that disastrous night in Vegas, nearly ten years ago. There's a blip of surprised silence, but then Brandon takes his own leap of faith. "Hey, Yuna. How are you?"

Yuna is smiling when David glances at her in the passenger seat. "Good morning, Brandon. I'm fine. Your boys are on fire this season. You've really turned that team around."

It's praise of the absolute highest caliber coming from Yuna Hollander. David thinks he can hear that reflected in Brandon's voice when he responds. "I had a lot of help and some pretty lucky draft picks," he chuckles. "But thank you. I'm incredibly proud of them. Especially our boy Rozanov."

It warms David's heart to hear it, but he knows he can't just sit here and let the good feelings glaze over the task at hand. "Brando, I need to talk to you when you get some time. I know you're busy as hell but…" His voice gets pinched and rough at the end of his sentence as he remembers Shane's crumpling face in that parking garage, his pained, ragged screams under the metro line, echoing all the way into David's own battered past.

"What's wrong? Is Shane okay? That was a nasty trip in overtime. What shitty luck."

"His team is accusing him of tripping on purpose," Yuna says sharply. Her goodwill toward Brandon is now soured with the memory of Montreal's insolence and stupidity. "They think he let Ilya score."

"They what?" Brandon gasps. "Are they stupid? Surely if Shane was going to hand us the series, he would have done so before game seven. And going into overtime no less! It doesn't even make sense, not to mention how insulting that is to both Shane and my team."

"That's what I said! Can you believe that shit?" Yuna exclaims, leaning forward in her seat. "Montreal has been my team my entire life, but… God, this is the most asinine thing I've ever heard."

To his surprise, the warm feeling from earlier has not gone anywhere. In fact, hearing the two of them passionately agreeing over this just makes it bloom bigger in David's chest. "I don't know if he'll go for it," David continues, "but I'm hoping he'll consider pulling his no-trade clause over the summer. I want him out of there. They don't deserve him after this."

Brandon is quiet for a moment, likely thinking. "Hmm. I don't know what our cap space even looks like. And a lot of that will depend on how we shake out in the playoffs, too. But… he would certainly be welcome here. Taken care of. You have my word on that."

"And he would be home," Yuna sighs. "It would be nice."

"It would," Brandon agrees. "I don't get to make any of those decisions, of course, but we do need a bit more depth at center. If the managers ask me when trades come up, I'll be sure to let them know. We'd be honored to have Shane on our roster."

Daid exhales heavily, some of the tension finally leaving his frame. "Thanks, Brando," he says. "I appreciate it. We'll catch up later, okay? Good luck against New York."

"Thanks, Bowie. You two just take care of Shane. I'll look after Ilya."

David and Yuna both tell him goodbye, and David hangs up.

The car is quiet for a long time. Finally, Yuna reaches over and takes one of David's hands, pulling it into her lap. "I like him," she announces. "I can see why you do, too."

David squeezes her hand in his own, smiling at her briefly. "I owe him a lot," he says. "I'm… I'm glad he's in my life again."

Yuna smiles back. "I am, too."

The day that Shane signs with Ottawa, David and Yuna pretend that they've never spoken to Brandon Wiebe a day in their lives.

They shake his hand, all in turn, and smile and nod and blab on and on about what a great opportunity this is, how happy they are that Shane is finally playing for his hometown, how excited they are to see the progress that the team will surely make in the years to come. Ottawa had been knocked out of the playoffs during their series against New York, but now everyone feels confident that next year, with Shane on their side, the Cup will come home with them.

Harris Drover is taking a million pictures for the team's socials. Shane is holding up a newly stitched Centaurs jersey, his name and number proudly displayed on the back, a matching ball cap perched on his head. They get some of just him, then some of him and his parents and the owners, and then a group shot of everyone who happens to be at the office that day, coaching staff included.

The owners even tell Shane that they reserved a table for him and Ilya at a very exclusive restaurant downtown for that evening. An early wedding gift, they explain. Shane blinks at them, a nanosecond of fear highlighting his features before he remembers that people know now. They know, and here, at least, it's okay. Ottawa will not punish him for loving the same man for a decade the way that Montreal did.

Shane is home, and he is safe.

David meets Brandon's eye as they're leaving, and Brandon winks at him behind Shane's back.

David and Yuna's wedding was a tense, sparsely-populated affair.

They got married in June, a month after graduation. They were happy, they were eager, they were ready to start their lives together. Yuna was thrilled that David wasn't pursuing hockey past college, because she never wanted to be a WAG. David had a job lined up and waiting for him with the government in Ottawa. They had just moved into a tiny apartment together. Everything was perfect.

Except for… everything else.

David's family was lukewarm at best toward Yuna. He was suddenly and uncomfortably confronted with the fact that he had never really examined his family's politics or worldview before he brought Yuna home to meet them. He hadn't thought anything of it, not even when Yuna had shyly asked if they knew she was Japanese on the bus ride home.

But the way his father's lip curled and his mother's smile faltered told him everything he needed to know.

They came to the wedding, because they were still people who considered themselves good parents. Yuna's parents came, too, though their disdain for the Hollanders was even more obvious. They didn't approve of David. They didn't like that he was white, that he played hockey, that he so thoroughly embodied what it was to be Canadian at the time.

But if their families had hoped to drive them apart, all their disapproval did was push them closer together. Yuna beamed in their wedding pictures in the small, non-denominational church they had rented for the ceremony, while her parents scowled in the background. She forced them to take dozens of group shots together out of pure spite, delighting in the abject misery on everyone's faces.

It had made David sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had made the right decision in marrying her. That she was the one for him.

Today is nothing like that.

There are so, so many people strewn across Ilya's back lawn. Clumps of adults are sitting and standing around. There's dozens of people moving through the house. The back door opens and closes, opens and closes. The trays of snacks David had made and brought with them have already been demolished. He wishes he had the foresight to make more.

Most of the Centaurs and their families have come, as well as much of the staff and front office. Some of the guys from Boston have showed up, as well as a few of Shane's former teammates from Montreal. Even Rose Landry is there, making waves and turning heads everywhere she goes.

As the gathering reaches what feels like a fever pitch, Yuna gives David a nudge toward the stairs. "Go check on Ilya," she urges. "I'll make sure Shane is ready to go. Let's get these boys married!"

David beams at her and plants a kiss on her cheek before heading upstairs. It takes him some time, as his knees remind him more and more every year that they could have done without all those years of bag skates and hard pivots on the ice. He climbs and then makes his way down the hall, where the door to Ilya's room is standing slightly ajar.

Ilya himself is inspecting his reflection in a full-length mirror. He's in a burgundy suit that's been expertly tailored to his muscular frame. His curls have been combed back and tamed with product. He's pressed and tucked into his outfit so neatly that he looks like he just stepped out of a menswear commercial.

"Sheesh," David says, drawing Ilya's attention. "I was going to offer to help you with your tie or something, but you clearly don't need my assistance."

Ilya smiles at him, charming and handsome, and fetches a case containing his cuff links. "You can help me put these in," he offers.

David chuckles and steps closer. The gold and mother-of-pearl studs catch the light as he holds them up. "I appreciate you trying to make me feel useful."

"Shane doesn't need help?"

"Yuna's got him." A silent understanding passes between them. If Yuna's on the case, no other help will ever be needed.

David falls silent as he carefully threads the link through the material of Ilya's dress shirt. It occurs to him, not for the first time, that Ilya's own parents should be here. Then, right behind that thought, comes the depressing realization that, even if they could be, they might now want to be. His understanding of Russian culture is still limited, but he knows that a wedding like this would never be possible over there. That Ilya can never, ever return to the place of his birth.

It's something David has so easily taken for granted. He drives by his high school and childhood home and the hospital he was born in all the time. Whenever he visits Montreal, he drives past McGill and smiles. The map of his lived experience is small, but he still has access to most of it.

Ilya won't get that, and regardless of how he may feel about it, it still makes David sad.

"We could only have one child," David says suddenly. "We thought about adopting, but we decided in the end to just focus on making Shane the best person we could. I think we did an okay job of it."

They had to have, because how else would Ilya have ended up here? They taught their boy to be kind. To reach out and include others, especially when they looked upset or alone. To always be a good sport and to appreciate the strengths he saw in his opponents.

Shane had seen the loneliness in Ilya, even if he didn't know how to name it at the time, and he had reached out. Ilya had been brave, and reached back.

Now they were going to be married. They were going to be family.

"We couldn't be prouder of the man he's become," David continues. He's long since secured the first cuff link, and now he's staring at Ilya's wrist, knowing he's about to make himself cry. "I don't have any Stanley Cup rings, but I have Shane."

Shane, who just turned thirty. Shane, who has redefined the possibilities in this sport that he and his family have loved for so long. Shane, who, had David done anything even slightly differently, might never have existed at all. David will never regret any decision he ever made that brought his baby boy into his life.

Ilya swallows. His lip wobbles ever so slightly as David looks up and finally meets his eyes. "I'll take care of him."

"I know," David tells him as he busies himself with the second cuff link.

It's a relief to hear out loud. David had worried for so long that Shane would be alone in the world — an only child, consumed by his career, never settling down, never building a village or making lasting connections. Ilya is a blessing in many ways, not the least of which is the fact that, when David and Yuna are gone, Shane won't have to spend the rest of his life by himself.

He will be seen. Taken care of. Held.

That, David believes, is worth more than any amount of trophies or records or fame.

"What I'm trying to say — and Yuna's always been the better speaker — is that I've always felt so lucky to have a son as wonderful as Shane that I never expected to be blessed with a second one."

When David glances up, he sees Ilya fighting back tears. His own vision has gone blurry, and it has nothing to do with the lasik beginning to revert. He finishes clasping on the cuff link and straightens, taking a deep breath.

"It's not fair that you don't have your family here on your wedding day," he tells Ilya. "And I'm not trying to overstep, but —"

The rest of his sentence is crushed from him as the massive Russian pulls him into a tight hug. "My family is here," he says over David's shoulder, and it's all he can do to keep from getting his tears all over Ilya's crisp suit.

"We are truly never beating the 'gayest team in the league' allegations now."

Brandon snorts. He's chatting with Troy and Harris, a sweating glass of pink lemonade in one hand. Valerie is beside him, glowing in a sunflower yellow dress. His daughters are somewhere among the guests, alternating between ogling his rookies and ogling Rose Landry, who is blissfully unaware of their stares as she moves through the throngs of people.

"Were we trying to? It's not hurting our numbers, that's for sure," Brandon counters, nodding at Troy. "If anything, it's been all uphill since you and Rozanov signed on. Hell, maybe by the time I retire, we'll be the first all-queer NHL team in history."

Valerie rolls her eyes. "You say that as if it's not a very real possibility," she chuckles.

Thirty years ago, Brandon could not have imagined the world he is living in today. He could not have imagined that he would be head coach of a team with not one but several out queer players on the roster. He could not have imagined Scott Hunter's bravery at center ice as he kissed his now-husband live at the Stanley Cup final.

He certainly never could have imagined that he would be here, at David Hollander's son's wedding, about to witness him marry another man. Another hockey player. One he had been seeing in secret for over ten years.

Between the outing and the pressure from Crowell and the fallout of the playoffs, Brandon had privately been bracing for David to tell him any day that Shane and Ilya had broken up. That they couldn't take the scrutiny, the mockery, the threats to their careers. Brandon would have understood. It would have been shitty and painful and disappointing, but he would have understood it.

It happened to him and David, after all.

But unlike him and David, Shane and Ilya stuck it out. They chose each other. They fought for their chance to be together, openly, for all to see. They didn't fly apart or hide or quit. They saw this out to the end.

Now, Brandon's eye catches on movement as Ilya himself strides across the yard, David in tow. David finds his gaze through the crowd and winks.

"It's happening," Brandon says, nodding toward Ilya as he parks near the justice they have invited to officiate.

Their group turns and shuffles closer for a better view. Back at the house, Shane emerges with Yuna at his side. Nobody says anything, but the crowd suddenly goes quiet. There are no chairs on the lawn, no formal aisle, no altar or podium, but that doesn't seem to matter. Shane and Yuna descend the back porch steps to the grass, and the guests part before them like the Red Sea.

They make their way across the yard to Ilya and David and the justice. Yuna glances at Brandon as she passes and smiles at him from ear to ear. She used to terrify him. Depress him. But now all he feels is joy on her behalf.

Their family unites at the end of the lawn in front of the justice, Shane and Ilya facing each other. They mutter quietly to each other, they recite their vows, and even from where he's standing, Brandon can see them both struggling not to cry. They exchange rings. The justice proclaims them married. Ilya grabs Shane and dips him in a huge, sweeping gesture as he kisses him. Everyone cheers.

"We are married!" Ilya roars, hand clasped in Shane's, and Brandon has to pinch himself to remind himself that this is real. It's not a dream. Two male pro hockey players have just been married right in front of his very eyes.

He is grateful that he has lived to see this.

He glances past the newlyweds, to where David is swiping tears from the corners of his eyes. He meets Brandon's gaze and gives him a shaky smile.

He is grateful for that, too.

The day wears into evening, and no one seems to want to go home.

Fairy lights twinkle from where they've been draped over bushes and through tree limbs. The guests have gone from standing to largely sitting on assorted blankets on the grass. Brandon sips a bit of champagne, his only glass of the night, while Valerie and Yuna chat nearby. Brandon had worried, when they were first introduced, that they wouldn't have much to talk about, but they clearly found something, because they've been talking for close to an hour now.

David joins them, grunting as he slowly takes a seat beside Brandon on the blanket. His knees crack loudly with the effort, and Brandon can't help but laugh. "Easy there, old timer," he snickers. "Don't hurt yourself on my accord."

"I'd like to see you laugh when it's time for you to get back up," David huffs, his tone light. "I know your back isn't what it used to be."

That's too true. The lack of seating at this arrangement is the only thing that Brandon wishes were different. It's going to be really embarrassing if Val and the girls have to help pull him up to his feet so they can go home.

"How are the guys? Anything left for them to do?" Brandon asks.

"They're over the moon. Yuna wants them to have a first dance. I think they're trying to figure out what song to play."

Brandon raises an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you don't have a very strong opinion about that, DJ Bowie," he teases.

David's smile is easy and fond. "I thought about making a suggestion," he says, "but I think I wanna Dance With Somebody is too gay even for this."

Brandon's chest does a funny thing, all at once both fluttery and tight. It's a feeling he can only think of as nostalgia in physical form. "Alois wouldn't have let you get away with that," he reminds David.

"Oh, I know," David agrees. "He wouldn't have let them get away with not having any damn chairs either."

They laugh at that, a bright, full-bodied sound, and only when the music turns back up do they stop and catch their breath.

Shane and Ilya have moved toward the center of the yard again, wrapped in each other's arms. They start to sway to the music, a song that Brandon's heard on the radio before but can't for the life of him place the artist or title to. Some things have never changed for him, even after all this time.

It is less of a first dance than a first rotation, as hockey players typically aren't known for their dance moves. Still, it's tender and sweet and beautifully framed with the string lights and the upturned faces and smiles of their friends and family. A victory lap for a war hard fought. A war finally won.

David leans a little closer, until his shoulder is pressed to Brandon's. When Brandon looks, he can see his blue eyes are once again shining with tears. David catches him looking and shrugs. "You'll go through this one day," he murmurs. "Possibly three times. You'll be a crybaby about it, too."

Brandon's eyes wander reflexively, picking out his daughters in the crowd. Sally is on her phone. Marie is watching the newlyweds dance with adoring eyes. Grace is talking to Young — and has been ever since they arrived. That's a conversation Brandon does not look forward to having with either of them. He tables that thought for another day.

When the song ends, Shane and Ilya just stand there and hug each other, as if they're the only two people in the world.

"We should get going," Brandon announces to both his wife and their hosts. "Thank you for having us. It was a perfect day."

Everyone gets to their feet, and David does, in fact, laugh at Brandon when he finds his back has locked up and he needs a hand. David pulls him up carefully, both of them grunting with the effort, and he draws Brandon into a hug once he's upright again.

"Thank you for coming, Brando," he says into Brandon's shoulder. "Thank you for everything."

Brandon hugs him back tightly, patting him solidly between the shoulders. "I wouldn't have missed it for the entire world, Bowie."

He's never meant anything more.

For the first time since Brandon began coaching for Ottawa, the Canadian Tire Center has just as big a crowd outside the building as it does inside.

It's astounding. This sort of thing only ever happens in Montreal, where the city lives and breathes and bleeds hockey. He doesn't even want to think about the nightmare that traffic will be once the game is over, the streets bloated with out-of-towners and tourists all trying to get to their overbooked hotels for the night, all at the same time.

That's a worry for later, though. For now, the Centaurs' fans are here, and they're waiting for them.

His boys line up and get ready to take to the ice for their home opener of the season. No part of the building is free from the walls of noise that press in from both the inside and outside of the arena. It makes some of the guys look nervous, but despite his first game in his new colors, Shane looks perfectly composed.

This isn't chaotic noise to him. It's the sound of coming home.

Brandon claps him on the shoulder, grinning up at him. "Ready?" he asks.

Shane nods, his dark eyes clear, his mouth curved up in a smile. He smiles so much more these days. "Ready, Coach," he confirms.

"Atta boy," Brandon says, squeezing his shoulderpad. "Knock 'em dead, kid."

The lights go down, the fog machine revs up, and the music cues in. The Centaurs start rocketing out onto the ice, and if Brandon thought the crowd had been loud before, he is wholly unprepared for the surge in sound when the team makes its debut appearance for the season.

When they announce Shane's name and number, the roar grows so loud that Brandon is sure the building will need foundational repairs after this game.

The rest of the team follows, and not once is there a pause in the crowd's collective exuberance. they cheer and scream and roar for what feels like a year. Even when Brandon steps out of the tunnel and takes his place behind the bench, he feels like the most well-loved man in Ontario.

Overhead, the Jumbotron cuts to the crowd, picking out David and Yuna in their matching #24 jerseys, both in black and red. Val and the girls are in the row next to them, faces painted and silly light-up ornaments in their hair. They wave at the camera, and Brandon waves back.

The Centaurs have all completed their first lap of the ice and come to a halt. Ilya and Shane face each other for a moment, both grinning wildly at each other, the pictures of happiness and peace.

The lights flash, and for a split second, Brandon's eyes do a funny thing. The black and red of their jerseys switches to red and white. The centaur on their chests is replaced with a red bird. Ilya's delighted blue eyes become David's, and Shane's clever brown eyes become Brandon's own.

The past looks back at him, there at center ice, and it smiles.

The lights flash again, and the present is back in focus: two men, openly married and in love, about to play at the highest level of their sport together for a packed house.

A lot of decisions were made to get to this point. A lot of pain was endured. A lot of mistakes were made. But Brandon knows, in this moment, that he wouldn't do a single thing differently, because this is the most perfect outcome he ever could have hoped for.

In another life, he and David might have made it work. If they had been born later. If they had been braver. If they hadn't loved each other too soon.

But in this life, they made things work for Shane and Ilya instead.

Brandon is more than at peace with that.

After all, this is not a love story.

This is a war wound that has, at long, long last, fully healed.

Chapter End Notes

holy shit. it's done. this fever dream, backbend of a fic that was spawned from the most unserious of ideas that has made me cry so fucking much is finally complete. what the fuck.

NOW THAT SHE'S FINISHED: do have an accompanying playlist for this fic that is organized the same way the chapters are. the songs correspond to the chapters and have songs that directly relate to said chapter right under them. best listened to in order!! the handful of songs at the end are more of a general vibe for the overall story. enjoy!!

NOW THEN: i wanna say THANK YOU to everyone who has read, bookmarked, commented, shared, recommended, etc etc this fic. i have been a writer for a long time but i did not start writing fic until this year, and i have been made to feel soooo welcome and seen in this space ever since i started sharing my work. the community here and engagement has been so lovely and fulfilling and i have met so many wonderful people along the way, oh my god. i'm so grateful to this silly little fandom.

HUGS AND KISSES FOREVER to my darling head deacon cat, without whom i never would have gotten this fucking thing off the ground. also to my loons, my mutuals, my frequent yappers: y'all are the best. thank you for playing in the sandbox with me and becoming people i genuinely consider friends. life is so beautiful oh my god.

i really hope this ending is satisfying and poignant all things considered. i knew going into this that i did not want brandon and david to get back together in any real way aside from rekindling their friendship. the ways they hurt each other and messed up in the past are the point!!! as is growing as people and forgiving each other and supporting each other later in life!!!

much of the dialogue between david/brandon and shane/ilya is taken directly from the last few chapters of the long game. i just fleshed it out and provided the interiority of the characters on my end.

and just one more time in case anyone else has had their worldview permanently altered by this damn fic like i have: this is an au!!! brandon wiebe is NOT close in age to david hollander in the books. please don't get mad if/when they announce his casting and he's way younger LMAO i am the one making shit up over here not the showrunners.

i do not currently have any plans for a sequel buuut... we have a whole third book coming out next year soooo... who knows!

jfc okay i'm gonna shut up now THANK YOU EVERYONE AGAIN FOR COMING ALONG WITH ME!!! if you want to stick around for the other crazy shit i'm cooking up, come yap or follow me over on tumblr.
while you're at it, you should reblog the fic post.