Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tyler missed Josh.

Sure, the breakup had been mostly mutual, the distance too great a factor, and demanding schedules mixed with time zones all resulted in a pile of excuses and apologies, but it still hurt. After spending three years straight with Josh by his side– two and a bit of those being romantically involved– it was hard to let go.

So he was looking forward to seeing him tonight.

Tyler didn’t know what to call them. They were more than friends, they talked to each other for hours on the phone when their schedules lined up, but they weren’t… officially together. Tyler, having been the 154th pick overall to Chicago, and Josh, already committed to Seattle since before college, left them in a strange not-quite-dating but not-just-friends situation. But whenever they happened to be in the same place at the same time– like tonight– they fell easily into each other’s arms (and beds).

Tyler played for the farm team, in Rockford, while Josh was a full-time NHL athlete. He was a dependable fourth-line left winger. He wasn’t flashy, his ice time had massively decreased since college, but he was having a great rookie season. They were only in October and Josh averaged 0.6 points per game. Tyler on the other hand, played left wing on his team’s second line. The AHL was a lot faster than what he was used to, putting him just above average on his roster. 

He wasn’t complaining. It paid fine, enough to get by plus a little extra to send down to his parents and keep his own savings. His three-year contract included a $70,000 AHL salary, and since it was a two-way, he’d be getting paid $775,000 if he was called up. The numbers made his eyes bug out of his head. Josh hadn’t told him exact values, but Tyler knew he was getting paid at least the NHL minimum salary and that was enough to make him a millionaire in two years. 

Tyler had just finished a game about two hours prior. Josh had been in Chicago for an hour now, probably checking into his hotel room. Seattle was on a road trip and was playing Chicago tomorrow night.

Rockford was an hour and forty-five minutes away from Chicago. But Josh had paid for a bus ticket and asked Tyler to spend the two nights with him, so he found himself staring at the highway at eleven at night as it passed by his window. A stranger snored next to him. 

Tyler was one of the first to exit the bus. He had a duffle bag on his shoulder and a sweatshirt on; there was no way he was getting on a long bus ride in clothes that felt like cardboard. Josh was waiting for him on a nearby bench, hood up, sunglasses on. Incognito.

“Hey,” Tyler said, approaching him.

Josh stood up so fast that it was as if he were shocked, but he gathered Tyler in a hug that lifted his feet off the ground. Josh’s arms were getting bigger by the day.

“You played well,” Josh said, still not letting go. “I caught the last two periods on the flight.”

Tyler pulled back just slightly so he could see his face. He lifted the sunglasses and smiled fondly at Josh’s red-rimmed and shiny eyes. “Are you crying?”

“I missed you,” Josh defended, pulling Tyler closer again. “I haven’t seen you in a month. Let me be sentimental.”

Goodbyes were tough, reunions were worse. All of Tyler’s pent-up emotions threatened to pull him under. He never really realized how much he missed someone until he saw them again. He didn’t realize how much of himself was missing until his chest was pressed up against the lost puzzle piece, wrapped in strong arms. “I missed you too,” he whispered, blinking back tears of his own.

“I have a surprise for you,” Josh said, finally letting go of Tyler. He dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pair of sunglasses in a clear, plastic bag. “They were giving these away at the last game.”

Tyler laughed, tearing open the plastic. The frames were turquoise, branded with the Kraken logo on the arms. They were light and cheap and would probably break as soon as Tyler put them on. But still, he pulled his hood up, placed the sunglasses on his face, and reached his hand down to hold onto Josh’s. 

They walked out of the bus terminal together.

In Josh’s hotel room, Josh didn’t wait a second before he grabbed Tyler’s face in his hands and kissed him so hard Tyler was sure he bruised something. He laughed against his mouth, dropping his duffle bag in front of the door before returning the kiss. The last time he’d seen him was just over a month ago. It was a month too long.

“Wanna go to the bar? Get a drink or two?” Josh asked after a minute of attacking Tyler’s face. “I’m starving.”

It was just after midnight. Tyler was exhausted, but he nodded, knowing Josh was still messed up from the time zones; it was only nine back in Seattle. “Sure.”

He grabbed a nicer shirt from his bag– a white dress shirt– and paired it with black jeans. It was only the hotel bar, after all. Josh was nearly bursting out of his own pale blue dress shirt. Tyler laughed at the way the button was just barely hanging on to both sides of the material over his pecs. One deep breath and Josh would be shirtless. 

“Shirt’s looking a little tight,” he said, looping his finger between the open fabric and ghosting his it over Josh’s chest. “You should probably take it off.”

Josh laughed. “Maybe later.”

“Maybe?” Tyler asked in a teasing tone.

“Definitely later.” Josh took his hand and grabbed his keycard.

Their relationship wasn’t a secret. They’d kissed on live TV, and that was an impossible thing to erase from the Internet. That being said, it attracted a lot of unwanted attention from the media.

“They ask you about Luke Prokop yet?” Josh asked, devouring his plate of nachos. Tyler picked at them. They sat on opposite ends of the booth, facing each other, their legs intertwined under the table.

“Yes,” Tyler said, annoyed. “I’ve never talked to this guy in my life. We haven’t even played Milwaukee yet.”

“They treating you okay?” Josh asked, suddenly concerned.

“Who? The media? Or the team?” 

“Both, I guess,” Josh said with a shrug.

“They’re fine,” Tyler said thoughtfully. “Teammates are cool. To be honest, I’m not sure if any of them care about my sexuality. They’re too wrapped up in hockey. There was, uh, one guy who refused to dress for pride night, but everybody else was chill.”

“Cool. Media?”

“Fine. The standard. How do you feel about pride night? What can you do better next period? What did you think of this call? Why do you think it’s necessary to tell people that you’ve had a dick up your ass?” Tyler joked. Josh choked on a chip. “Kidding! Kidding. But Twitter is a bad place to be.”

“Oh, don’t get me started on that,” Josh grumbled, wiping his hand on a napkin and reaching for his beer. “It makes me wanna claw my eyes out.”

“How are you?” Tyler asked.

“Pretty good. Sore,” Josh answered, wincing slightly. “Fell on my ass a few days ago and it still hurts to sit.”

“You sound like me after–”

“Time and place, Tyler,” Josh interrupted, shoving a chip into Tyler’s mouth. Tyler licked his finger and Josh withdrew his hand, wiping it on Tyler’s cheek. “You’re gross.”

Tyler quickly swallowed the mouthful of food. “You love me.”

Josh looked at him sadly. “I do.”

“I love you too,” Tyler said quietly.

He missed this. He missed this so much. He missed dinners together and joking and discussing future games, future plans. He missed lying in Josh’s arms and having existential conversations until the sun rose. He missed coming home to someone.

Instead, he came home to a dim, empty apartment. 

“You doing okay?” Josh asked seriously, tapping his fingers on the side of his glass. “Like, you know.”

“I’m…” Tyler started. 

Did he tell the truth? Even though he knew Josh couldn’t do anything about it, and it would only worry him more? Did he admit he physically couldn’t cook for himself, and that if it wasn’t for hockey, he probably wouldn’t even leave his place? Did he admit he was falling back into an exercise addiction, the same one that took almost two whole years to kick in the ass? Josh would worry. He had bigger things to worry about now.

“I’m lonely,” Tyler finished.

Josh frowned sympathetically. “No friends yet?”

Tyler shrugged. There were people on his team who would invite him out for drinks, work out with him, but beyond that? Nothing. These were people who trained for hockey their entire lives, Tyler included; there was no time, no mental capacity left, to make close friends. Their nights at the bar felt like work parties rather than a get-together.

“How are you doing?” Tyler asked, taking the focus off of him before he thought too hard about it.

“Been better, been worse,” Josh admitted. “I’m less afraid of planes, now. Instead of puking I just have very small panic attacks every time I look out the window or think too hard about the fact that we’re in the air.”

Tyler laughed. It had only taken three years of pretty consistent air travel to get Josh to this point. “Took you long enough.”

“My fear is perfectly valid, thank you very much,” Josh said with a roll of his eyes. He grabbed a chip. “See? Here comes the airplane.” He waved it through the air, finally pressing it against Tyler’s lips. “Crunch. Death. Destruction.”

Tyler grinned and allowed Josh to shove the chip in his mouth. “I ‘on’t fink dere’s’a mou’ ‘n–”

“Chew, then talk.”

Tyler swallowed. “I don’t think there’s a mouth in the sky.”

“You never know,” Josh said ominously. 

Tyler laughed, leaning forward, resting his arm on the table and his head on his arm. He looked up at Josh with his eyes all soft and his heart so big. 

He was so in love. He never stopped. He’d gone on one date, after Josh practically forced him to, but there was no question about it; there was no one else like him. No one else got Tyler like Josh. No one else brought that light to Tyler’s eyes and life. They were there for each other when meeting the parents, when the homophobic comments online got too much, and when they walked across the stage at graduation. Through the good and bad. Even on the top of the Eiffel Tower, even on the top of the Rocky Mountains, the only room with a view in it was a room with Josh.  

“What?” Josh asked, smiling crookedly.

Tyler had been staring. “I just like looking at you.”

“Such a romantic,” Josh teased. “You done here?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Tyler stood up and watched as Josh drained the last few dregs of his beer. 

Josh had already squared up with the bartender; there was no table service after midnight. Tyler linked arms with him, strolling to the elevator, a tired smile on his face. His eyelids were heavy and two in the morning had never felt so late. He missed when he was nineteen and invincible, staying up into the early hours without so much as a yawn. Josh seemed full of energy however; if he didn’t have to drag Tyler across the floor, Tyler had no doubt that he’d probably be skipping.

Finally in the privacy of their hotel room, Tyler undid that distressed button on Josh’s shirt. It was slower, more intimate than he would’ve thought, and with his cloudy mind, there was nothing more comforting. He parted the unbuttoned fabric apart, pulling the sleeves down so it rested halfway off Josh’s massive shoulders. Then Tyler fell forward, bent awkwardly so his face was on Josh’s chest, sighing contentedly.

“Having fun?” Josh asked, gently shaking the shirt off the rest of the way.

“Mhm,” Tyler hummed. Josh’s chest was warm and smooth, freshly shaven, and Tyler missed this. 

Josh let Tyler keep his face there for a second longer before trying to take off his shirt. “Work with me, man.”

“Mm’no,” Tyler mumbled. 

“Come on.” 

Tyler finally raised his head. The open washroom door caught his eye. Josh’s hotel room had a walk-in shower, about the length and width of a small hot tub.

“I need that,” Tyler said, pointing to it.

Josh looked confused for a second. “You wanna shower?”

Tyler nodded. Even though he showered after his game, the smell of bar food stuck to his clothes.

“Why’d you say it like that?” Josh asked with a laugh. 

“Dude, I’m so tired, I can barely keep my eyes open,” Tyler said, pulling his eyelids up to prove the point. 

“Is this your way of telling me to do all the work?” Josh asked.

“What if it is?” Tyler teased.

Josh finally pulled Tyler’s shirt off. “Whatever you say, your highness.”

Chuckling softly, Tyler slid out of his pants and then very obviously watched as Josh took his own off. He laughed at the knowing face Josh was making, then turned on the hot water.

There was nothing sexual about it. Josh was basically holding Tyler up, his naked body pressed against Tyler’s, warm water cascading down their skin. Tyler’s hands were flat against Josh’s shoulder blades, trying to maximize the surface area touching him. Josh’s left hand was resting just above the small of Tyler’s back, the other one cradling the base of his skull. 

The heat combined with Josh’s careful hands massaged the knots out of his muscles. The shampoo smelled like peppermint, oddly enough. 

“You’re at four hundred and eleven days,” Josh whispered, hands traveling down to Tyler’s forearms. 

“Yeah.” Josh kept better track of this stuff than he did. Josh kept a counter on his phone, the same one Tyler used, just to count the hours.

“M’proud of you.” Josh brought his arm up to kiss the inside of Tyler’s wrist, a move he had done so many times. 

Tyler was going to spend the rest of his life with this man, even if it meant requesting a trade. Even if it meant quitting and following Josh around the States and Canada. Once this all settled, once he’d saved up enough, he was going to find Josh and never let go. The biggest war was the waiting.

He missed feeling wanted.

He missed him.

He didn’t know he was crying until Josh turned off the water, and drops still fell from his cheeks. 

Josh knew him like the back of his hand. Tyler knew things that Josh had never told anyone else. He knew about the bullying, the panic attacks, the years of therapy. It was like the universe wanted them together all along, even with their rocky start.

Tyler missed falling into his embrace at the end of a long day. Instead, he fell into an empty bed. Josh made sure Tyler took rest days, he was there to distract him enough to eat a proper meal, so he didn’t have to feel the food sitting in his stomach or the texture as it slid down his throat. Josh congratulated Tyler on streaks he started and stopped over and over again, never once getting mad at him. Tyler knew it was bad to be so dependent on someone, but Josh made it so easy.

Tyler couldn’t cook for himself. He stared at his bowl of cereal until it got soggy and he couldn’t stand the texture anymore. Anything more than crackers and granola bars made him gag, and even then, they were difficult to force down on bad days. 

He didn’t want to fall behind. So he ran, not every day; only on days he didn’t have games. He outperformed a lot of his team in their VO2 max tests, in speed, in agility. He was finding it difficult to dial it down. His shin splints were returning. They weren’t an issue yet, but they were definitely getting there. Lying around made him feel guilty, and he was using up all his energy to exercise. There was nothing left of him by the end of the day.

But still, sleep was hard to come by.

He’d spread out in his queen bed, the empty space beside him too cold. He’d cry into his pillow most nights. It was force down breakfast, training, force down lunch, play a game, force down dinner, then return to his place at eleven at night and collapse into bed. On days he didn’t have games, he’d return at noon and lie on his couch until he felt guilty enough to go for a run.

It was undeniable. Tyler wasn’t healthy. He wasn’t skin and bones, the nutritionists made sure of that, but he definitely wasn’t eating enough for the amount of exercise he was getting. His mindset around exercise was toxic and fueled by self-hatred. He was lonely, not making an effort to make close friends, and he missed Josh. 

He missed his life before Chicago.

Josh wrapped Tyler up in a towel, frowning at the tears on his cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

Tyler fell forward against Josh’s bare chest. “I’m not doing too good.”

Josh laughed coldly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

The distance was too great. It was a hurdle neither of them could jump. 

They were drowning together, a million miles apart.

–

Tyler woke up to Josh’s eight o’clock alarm. He blinked in the light as Josh reached for his phone to snooze the alarm.

He groaned, rubbing his eyes before blinking and making eye contact with Tyler. “Hey.”

Tyler wordlessly pulled himself closer to him. 

“Ten minutes. Then I gotta go for a jog.”

“Can I come?” Tyler asked.

“Of course.”

Tyler was faster than Josh. Though he didn’t run the same distances as he used to, he kept his pace strong. It was raining and cold and Tyler’s socks were soaked by the end of it, but the warm shower afterward was worth it. Especially when hands and mouths started wandering.

“I gotta be at the rink for one,” Josh informed Tyler, hastily towel-drying his hair. “Wanna go for breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“I can’t have too much.” Josh was on a pretty strict diet, especially on game days. “What do you think about the hotel breakfast?”

Tyler and Josh sat at a table. A couple of Josh’s teammates said hello to them, shaking Tyler’s hand as they introduced themselves. Josh had toast and fruit and scrambled eggs, carefully portioned for the right macros. Tyler just had toast with peanut butter. 

Josh looked at him sadly. “You eating alright?”

Tyler shook his head. He stomached three bites before the bread felt too soggy in his mouth. Josh managed to convince him to have an apple.

“Cereal?” he tried, knowing that that had been the main source of energy in Tyler’s diet in college.

Tyler shook his head again. The options were Raisin Bran, cornflakes, and fruit loops, and the idea of anything soaked in liquid was nauseating. 

Josh hummed, problem-solving. “What do you usually eat?”

“Granola bars,” Tyler answered pathetically.

“Let’s go to the grocery store.”

There was a corner store just beside the hotel; they didn’t even have to step outside. A box of Quaker chocolate chip granola bars slid across the self-checkout scanner.

“Thanks,” Tyler said quietly.

Josh reached down and squeezed his hand. “Anytime.”

Everything was so stupid. It was all so stupid. Josh interrupted his thoughts by pressing a kiss to his temple, right beside his right ear, right beside that old scar. 

Tyler blinked away tears. 

He went for a walk while Josh was at the arena, talking strategy with his teammates. The rain had held up. He had a seat a few rows behind the visitor bench, where Josh could turn around and smile if he wanted, and he did frequently. Josh had bought two tickets in case Tyler found a friend; instead, he invited some random stranger in the line at the box office. 

His name was Tyler as well, coincidentally. He bought him a beer in exchange and proceeded to get absolutely shitfaced before warm ups were over. Tyler ignored him.

He only had eyes for Josh, anyway.

His skating had improved a ton. He alternated edges like he’d been doing it his whole life, instead of struggling like he used to in the pivot drills in college. There were many times when Josh would catch an edge and go flying, but now, he was graceful and made it look so easy. That had been the one advantage Tyler had over him. But it looked like they were equal in speed and edgework.

Instead of jealousy, he felt pride. Especially when Josh soared down the ice and deked around two defenders by himself, passing the puck to himself between his skates and shooting on his backhand, bar down. The goal horn was louder than Tyler’s cheers but he threw his arm around other Tyler’s shoulders and yelled anyway.

Josh skated by his bench and met Tyler’s eyes, winking. 

“Y’know him?” other Tyler asked Tyler. 

“Yeah,” Tyler told him. “He’s my ex.”

“Cool beans.”

Seattle won three-nothing. The Chicago fans had slowly trickled out during the third period, leaving a sea of turquoise-teal behind. 

Tyler abandoned other Tyler as soon as the game was done, heading down to the dressing rooms. He had a family pass that allowed him into that waiting area with the other NHL guests and families, and he watched as players slowly trickled out to hug their loved ones and in some cases, children. 

Josh was one of the last ones to leave. He smelled like industrial soap. “Hey.”

Tyler tucked his head into the crook of Josh’s neck. “You played well.”

He’d long since stopped caring about the stares. God forbid a man hug his best friend. Maybe more than best friend. Oh well. 

“That goal was for you,” Josh said, pulling away slowly.

“Against my team?” Tyler snorted.

“Yup.”

“Flattered. Did you cool down?” 

“Yes, mother. Fifteen minutes on the spin bike,” Josh told him, rolling his eyes. “Where’s your friend?”

“He’s not my friend,” Tyler said. “Found him in line at the box office. His name is Tyler.”

“He seemed nice,” Josh said with a shrug. “A bit… drunk.”

“You jealous?” Tyler teased. 

“Yup,” Josh deadpanned. 

“We could always just… date again,” Tyler said quietly.

Josh looked at him sadly. “You deserve someone who can be there, who can make time–”

“I know,” Tyler cut him off, “but I don’t want anyone else.”

“Can we talk about this later?” Josh whispered.

Tyler nodded.

It was well past eleven when Tyler brought it up again. They were sitting in a sticky booth in Menchies, Josh’s endless appetite allowing him to finish an almost one-pound portion of frozen yoghurt and toppings. Tyler had a small swirl of vanilla frozen yoghurt and two scoops of crushed oreos. 

“Why are you so hesitant about it?” Tyler asked. 

Even though there had been no context, Josh sighed and leaned back. “Tyler.”

“No. Do you not like me, or something?” he accused.

Josh looked at him sharply. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Why not?” Tyler dared. He was tired. He was angry. “Are you worried I’m going to cheat on you?”

“I’m giving you the option–”

“I don’t want the option,” Tyler interrupted. “I want you.”

“Just…” Josh trailed off, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want you to feel trapped.”

“You don’t get to tell me how I’m going to feel,” Tyler said bitterly. 

“You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get?”

“You deserve more than I can give you,” Josh said, tension in his tone and posture. “I’m horrible at long distance.”

“Would you cheat on me, then?” It wasn’t fair to Josh, but Tyler was too wound up. 

“We’re not doing this,” Josh said firmly. “Because you’re just going to get angry, and one of us is going to leave in tears, and–”

“I’m going to leave in tears regardless,” Tyler cut him off, “because I miss you.”

“Well, I don’t want–”

“So you can cry when you see me, but I can’t cry when it’s time to leave?” Tyler hit the table with his hand, conveying his frustration.

“That’s not what I said,” Josh stressed, his eyebrows low and irritated. “I’m doing this for you. I’m doing this because I care about you, and I know what you need, and I can’t give you that right now.”

Tyler scoffed. “You can’t tell me what I do and what I don’t need–”

“I can,” Josh said, his voice deep and serious. “I can, Tyler. Remember that first year? Before we got together for real? When I said that you can’t give me what I need because you’re using that energy to survive? Well, that’s me, and I’m not going to let you go down with me.”

“Josh–”

“I’m not good for you when I’m like this. You’re not good for me when you’re like this. So no, we’re not getting back together, until we can both pull our heads out of our asses and see past our own noses,” Josh said with finality. He rubbed at his temples like he had a headache. Maybe he did.

“I don’t mind going down with you–” Tyler protested before Josh cut him off.

“I mind. So the answer is no.” He crumpled up his napkin. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

He left without a backward glance. Tyler stared at the table, listening to the door chime as it opened and closed, and he watched Josh’s form retreat in the giant window. 

He pushed away his cardboard bowl. He’d only had a few bites, but now his tongue felt sickly sweet and his teeth hurt. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, forcing down the tears as he held his head in his hands to no avail. The table blurred and he moved his fingers to grip his hair, pulling hard as if that would alleviate the stress making his brain feel too small for his skull. The tears fell anyway.

Josh was physically only a few months older than Tyler, but he was miles more mature. Tyler knew he was right, and that he should respect when Josh said no, but rejection still stung like nothing else. It was hard to convince himself that it wasn’t because Josh didn’t like him even though that had been reiterated to him over and over. He needed to get it into his thick skull that the circumstances were just not ideal. 

Tyler was so close to quitting. It had only been a few months with his team, but he was miserable. Even with his whole team around him and fans filling up the seats, he had never felt more alone. 

He wiped his face with his napkin and threw away the trash on the way out the door. 

He’d been lower; he was holding onto the fact that he’d felt much worse and still survived. But still, it was hard to be happy when the person responsible for so much of his identity and joy didn’t want to define himself as such. It wasn’t about exclusivity, it wasn’t about whether he was liked or not; Tyler was too dependent on Josh, and Josh was too dependent on Tyler. While Josh was trying to remedy this, Tyler was just making everything worse, as usual. 

Tyler was a professional hockey player. That was all he had going for him. He’d never felt secure in his identity, but a three-year contract was enough proof to say that about himself.

The night was warm for October, the sky clear all of a sudden. Tyler could see the hotel in the distance. He chose to sit down on a bench instead.

He hated his stupid brain. His stupid brain and the way it ruined everything going for him. 

He was twenty-two, for God’s sake. He was twenty-two and over a year clean and he had a well-paying job, he was playing the sport he loved as a career, he should be grateful. He had friends in high places who frequently offered to pay for flights out to watch games or hang out. There were teams of people dedicated to Tyler’s success and helping him put his best foot forward both on and off the ice. But still, he found himself miserable.

His dad was proud of him. His family had accepted him for who he was, the only person holding some reserve being his oldest younger brother. He’d been low, but he hadn’t done anything stupid (ie. offing himself) since he was nineteen, and everyone had finally stopped tiptoeing around him. Chris called him every few days; he was up North, playing for Laval. Nick was a constant in his life still. His old teammates and housemates, while their frequency of contact had gone down, there were still the Happy Holidays and Happy Birthday texts to look forward to. Jamie had a great rookie year in Vancouver, his Young Guns card going for over two hundred dollars. Chris had played in one NHL preseason game and was still riding on that high. Maashous joined Nick’s beer league team, Paul played in Florida, Mark had a full-time job in media for the Columbus Blue Jackets, and heck; even Jenna had provided updates. She was part of the TSN broadcast team.

Everything had worked out.

So why wasn’t he happy?

He kicked his feet against the cobblestone beneath the bench, jamming his toes into the ground. 

Maybe it was time to get back on the meds.

They were expensive; he no longer had school insurance to cover it, and his current insurance only covered sports-related injuries. He’d slowly weaned himself off of them (without the supervision of a doctor, oops) over the course of his last six months of school without incident. But he hadn’t seen the effect that his friends had on him; now, lonely, he was miserable. 

He stared off into the distance, debating for about twenty minutes, before giving up and deciding to sleep on it. He wanted to get better; he’d seen and felt the other side of the tunnel, and he wasn’t going to let himself be sucked back in without a fight. Then, at least he could say that he tried.

He stood up finally, walking toward the Hilton Gardens. 

The hotel room was dark when he scanned his card and stepped in. A familiar lump was on the bed, a mess of curly, dark hair peeking out of the white covers. 

Tyler blindly picked out a t-shirt and a pair of boxers before entering the washroom. He tried not to look at himself in the mirror. 

Instead, he stared at the mess of scar tissue on his body. White, irregular, raised and obvious, he watched as they turned bright pink underneath the hot water of the shower. It felt too big with him all alone; there was no fighting for the shower spout, no extra pair of hands, no lips, no teeth, and it just made everything feel worse. 

He should have just gone home. 

He dried off and got dressed. Josh was sitting up when he exited the washroom, shirtless and beautiful as always. Tyler turned off the lights in the washroom and they were bathed in darkness once again. 

He blindly made his way to Josh, Josh’s arms finding him before he could. Tyler just tried not to cry as he fell onto the bed and collapsed against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Josh whispered. “You’re understandably upset. I shouldn’t dismiss it.”

“I should have respected your answer,” Tyler whispered back. His eyes slowly adjusted to the low lighting. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

“I love you,” Josh repeated. 

Tyler closed his eyes as Josh’s lips found his face, his nose, his cheeks, and finally his lips. They were very rarely together and the softness of the moment wasn’t lost on Tyler. The anger had long faded and the quiet reassurance of forgiveness and mutual love was strong in his mouth, in the way they moved in sync, tongues against teeth and lips against skin. Tyler was going to be marked up for days with the way Josh was determined to leave every inch of skin touched and tainted with his love. 

Maybe that was the point. Maybe Tyler would look in the mirror a few days from now, admiring the marks on his neck, reminded of Josh’s words and mouth and lips and tongue and body and–

Tyler let out a low groan when Josh moved his hips finally, his mouth never stopping. Tyler reached down and felt the heavy definition of his abdominal muscles, running his hands along like it was a washboard. Josh was firmer, heavier, his posture more proud than it was in college. He wasn’t old, by any means, but he was certainly older. He had one fake tooth and a scar on his lip from a high stick a few weeks prior. 

Tyler himself was no longer the skinny twig he was back then, either. He’d been lifting more than he did cardio, and his nutritionists monitored his weight and body composition down to the third decimal. He filled out his suit, he no longer fit into his old jeans, and his face was no longer so gaunt and sickly. When he smiled, his cheeks made lines dig into his skin. He wasn’t so cold all the time. He had colour in his face and hands instead of the paleness he’d been used to. Josh noticed in his quest to rid Tyler of his layers, metaphorically and literally, leaving them both naked.

He was taller, bolder, stronger. They both were. 

Josh finally flipped Tyler so that he was under Josh, Josh’s thighs bracketing Tyler’s hips. Tyler dug his hands into the meat of Josh’s ass, massaging, admiring the muscles that came with so many hours of skating and training. His old coach in high school had once told the team that he didn’t want to see a single flat ass on the roster; Nick had called his beer league team Bubble Butt in honour of him. It was also the name of his fantasy hockey team, the roster filled with Tyler’s old teammates and friends. 

Even though evidence of his friends’ love for him was everywhere around him, Tyler never felt more loved than in Josh’s embrace. 

And Josh was so gentle. He was everything. He was roaming fingers, dipping lower and lower. He was tangents of kisses and bites, distracting, enhancing. Tyler was a quarry, and Josh wasn’t letting any stone go unturned, finding new ways to love and feel, harvesting minerals and materials to build a castle of pleasure and fulfillment on the top of the crest of a wave, as impossible as it seemed. 

Josh was the impossible. And Tyler was letting the walls of his universe fall down, letting Josh rewrite the stars as he entered him slowly, attentive to every need, every sound, every movement setting off a string of fireworks behind Tyler’s eyes.

Josh’s voice matched the frequency of an oncoming train, muttering sweet nothings. Tyler was tied to the tracks, mercilessly feeling every little knot and pebble against his skin, the ridges of his teeth, the cold, rusty metal, the softness of swollen lips, the divots and calluses on Josh’s hands. Tyler was his. His devotion was whispered nonsense and dressed in sounds that emerged from deep inside his chest. 

The train crashed into him with little warning, making his back arch off the mattress, his mouth slack against Josh’s skin, their breaths becoming one. Josh’s sweat tasted like salt and home as he fell from his own tower, Tyler’s tongue mapping out his neck. Bitten lips felt like stamps of adoration on his chest. The heat coming off of Josh’s body mixed with Tyler’s; they had no beginning or end. They were one. 

Nothing else existed.

–

Tyler dreaded the morning.

He lay awake, head on Josh’s chest, steadily rising and falling with the confidence of the sunset and sunrise. Josh’s heart echoed in his ear. He counted the beats until he could count no more, his brain too tired to think.

There was nothing else he could describe it as. Love. Tyler was going to remain heartbroken until Josh felt ready. And that was alright; he’d wait. He’d wait a million years if it meant sharing another moment like this, the quietness becoming less of a dagger and more of a blanket, softening the words instead of weaponizing. Quiet used to lead to swirling thoughts and self-sabotage. Now, it led to warmth and belonging, peacefulness. 

It was worth it to be lonely if it meant he’d be happy later down the road. Even though things seemed fleeting, temporary, he just had to remind himself that the good days were going to come. It was easier said than done sometimes; when he kept his thoughts to himself, eating him alive with the heaviness of it all, it was difficult to see a point in continuing. It was difficult to feel like the brief moments of joy were enough to balance out the weight of the sadness.

But it was. He closed his eyes, Josh’s skin smooth against his cheek. It was worth it. 

He didn’t sleep. He couldn't; the morning would bring with it goodbyes and tears and he didn’t want this moment to end. But like always, time passed anyway. Both the bad and the good must come to an end. When Josh’s alarm went off at eight in the morning again, Tyler had already made peace with the short-lived nature of things.

“G’morning,” Josh murmured groggily, one hand shutting off his alarm, the other arm wrapping around Tyler. 

“Morning,” Tyler said, his voice croaky from disuse. 

They lay in silence, Josh’s hand idly stroking Tyler’s hair until his alarm went off a second time. He gently pushed Tyler off of his chest, sitting up, turning off his alarm for good. 

The morning sun filled the room with its lazy light. Any other Sunday morning would be spent in bed, but Josh had a bus to catch. They flew out to Chicago, and were taking the bus all the back to Seattle, making stops in cities along the way.

The goodbye was heavy in the air. 

They went down to breakfast together, Tyler’s stomach twisted in so many knots that he could only sip his coffee. 

“I’ll watch your game tomorrow,” Josh said. “I think we’re on the road at that time.”

Tyler just nodded. 

It had taken a couple of years, but he’d finally managed to get his voice box to work when he was upset. But still– he wasn’t perfect. During his worst, he still relied on non-verbal communication, not trusting his hitching breaths and stupid throat to work the way it should without sounding like a blubbering mess. 

“I’ll watch yours tonight,” Tyler said quietly after clearing his throat a few times. 

Josh smiled sadly at him. “Maybe I’ll score a goal again, then.”

“Maybe,” Tyler echoed. 

Two games in a row did a number on Josh. Tyler followed his patterns, memorized his stride, his routine. There was no way Josh was going to be awake to watch Tyler’s game, but still; the thought counted. 

“Cheer up,” Josh said lightly. “Here. When’s the next time we’re together again?”

Tyler pulled out his phone, checking the list they made together after analyzing their schedules. “Two months from now. In Ottawa.”

“Cool. I’ll–”

“Belleville is a good two and a bit hours away,” Tyler interrupted. “I don’t know how to make this work.”

“I could rent a car,” Josh offered. 

“You’re not doing that,” Tyler declined. “It’s too far.”

“Could we meet in the middle?” Josh asked.

“There’s nothing,” Tyler said, frowning at his notes. “Just little towns of two thousand people, tops. And it’s not like there’s a bus.”

Josh sighed. “When’s the next one?”

“Toronto, four days later,” Tyler said, humming thoughtfully. “That would work better. Marlies and the Leafs play like, twenty minutes from each other.”

“Perfect. When do you play?” Josh asked.

Tyler’s face fell as he read the schedule. “The exact same time as you.”

“That’s okay,” Josh said quickly. “That’s fine. We can meet up after. I’ll check on your game between periods, and– Tyler.”

Tyler couldn’t help the tears that sprang to his eyes. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, hiding his shuddering breaths. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Josh said gently, covering his hand with his, forcing him to look away from his phone. “Come on. Let’s go back to the room. It’s okay.”

“You’re not– you’re not done eating,” Tyler pointed out. 

“I’ll eat later. I have hours to eat.” Josh put a hand on his elbow. “Come on.”

Tyler let himself be led to their room again, discreetly wiping at his eyes even though no one but Josh was around. It was just so hard. Nothing worked out. Even the Seattle farm team was a whole twenty-ish hours away from the Kraken arena. 

Josh fell on the couch, Tyler in tow. “Sorry,” he said again.

That was all it took for Josh to fall apart. 

“I miss you,” he said against Tyler’s skin, cheeks wet with tears. “I miss you and I’m sorry. I wish things were easier.”

Tyler didn’t even try to speak. He wrapped his arms around Josh’s shoulders, as close together as he could.

“I can’t– I don’t know how to do this anymore,” Josh sobbed, voice raspy and quiet and broken, and Tyler could feel his lips moving. “You’re breaking my heart. I’m breaking my own heart. I don’t know how to make things better, Ty. I think– I don’t think I’ve ever felt this hopeless when it comes to us. There’s nothing we can do. And I’m trying– I’m trying so hard to be strong and look on the bright side, but I’m falling apart without you.” 

“I’ll quit,” Tyler blurted out.

“You’re not quitting,” Josh said firmly, amid his wavering tone. “You’ve worked too hard. I’ve worked too hard. It’s just– there’s only so much we can do.”

Tyler tried to calm down, breathing in Josh’s scent. He smelled like Old Spice and the peppermint hair conditioner. “We’ll see each other in Toronto.”

“How many days?” Josh asked, sniffling. 

“Sixty-seven,” Tyler answered. “We can make it until then.”

He finally pulled away, smiling weakly at him. Josh mirrored his expression. “I hope so.”

“I know so,” Tyler said, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

Tyler packed up his duffle bag. Josh packed up his suitcase. The team bus was waiting outside, Josh’s teammates slowly trickling in. The tears were always threatening to fall, but they both held on tight. 

“Sixty-seven days,” Josh said shakily, his suitcase and equipment under the coach. He put both hands on Tyler’s shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. 

“Sixty-seven days,” Tyler repeated. He pecked him on the cheek.

“You missed,” Josh said, grinning, although his eyes were shiny.

Tyler rolled his eyes but held Josh’s face in his hands, kissing him properly. He moved his hands so they wrapped him in a long hug instead. 

“Kick ass,” Tyler said, the first to pull away. “St Louis has nothing on you.”

“You’re gonna knock Laval on their butts,” Josh said fondly. “Say hi to Chris for me.”

“I will. I love you,” Tyler said, noticing the waiting coaches.

“I love you too,” Josh said. He squeezed Tyler’s hands. “I’ll see you soon.”

He turned away. Tyler took a step back, barely holding it together.

“That your boyfriend?” a teammate asked Josh. 

“Worse,” Josh answered. “He’s my Tyler.”

Josh disappeared behind the tinted windows of the bus. Two minutes later, the driver closed the doors to the under-carrier storage and started the engine.

They pulled away.

Tyler picked up his duffle bag, threw it over his shoulder, and started his walk alone to the bus terminal.

Chapter Text

“Joseph. I got a call.”

Tyler’s head snapped up to look at his coach as he undid his skates. A couple of players whooped, seemingly understanding the mischievous grin on the head coach’s face. 

“What’s up?” Tyler asked.

“Congratulations, man,” Pierre said beside him, giving him a pat on the back. 

“What?” Tyler looked at Pierre, then back up at his coach.

“You’re going up,” his coach said. “That Dach kid got injured.”

“He’s a centre,” Tyler said, the words going in one ear and out the other.

“You even listening to him?” Pierre asked incredulously. He was one of the oldest people on the team, sporting a massive beard, pushing his late thirties. “Kid, you’re in the league.”

“Oh,” Tyler said, realization settling in. He stood up. “Oh.”

“They wanted you. You played centre in college, yeah? It shouldn’t be for long, just a sprained wrist, but it’s hard to play when you can’t fit your hand in your glove anymore.” Tyler got tapped on the head with the clipboard. “You’re the next forward with a two-way.”

Two-way. Two-way? Two-way contract. Over ten times the current salary he was playing for. Holy shit. Even if it was just for a little while, it was still enough to make a huge difference. He could buy a car. A truck. 

Tyler sat down, then stood up again, then sat down. His skates were loose and his ankles wobbled. “That’s… a lot of money.”

“Hell yeah it is,” his coach said fondly. “Enjoy the big leagues. Expect a phone call later tonight, your next game’s tomorrow night.”

“Already?” Tyler exclaimed.

“Things move fast around here. They’re not waiting for you to be ready,” Pierre said with a playful punch. “I’ll see you on TV.”

Tyler’s heart pounded as he finally bent down to pull his skates off all the way. The National Hockey League. He kept his face low to hide his massive grin, embarrassed at how ecstatic that news made him feel. 

This was what he wanted. This was the dream he’d had since he was seven, when he attended his very first Columbus Blue Jackets game. His little team of five to seven-year-olds had been invited to play during one of the breaks in between periods, and when he saw his face on the jumbotron, that was it. He met a few of the players and got some autographs and swore that he would be one of them one day. And now, he was.

Even if it was Chicago. Even if it was one of the worst teams in the division. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. 

He needed to tell Josh.

His hands shaking like crazy, he pulled off the rest of his equipment and practically ran out of the change room. He held his phone to his ear and smiled at his teammates as they passed, giving out their congratulations. Josh picked up immediately.

“Tyler, you’re on–”

“I got called up,” Tyler blurted out, unable to contain himself.

“What?” Josh exclaimed. A car honked its horn on Josh’s end. “Shit. What?”

“I know.” Tyler was practically jumping with glee, excitement blooming in his chest. He felt like he was going to have a panic attack in a good way somehow.

“Okay, well, I was going to say you’re on speakerphone, because my sister’s in the car, but damn! Tyler, oh my God. Oh my God. Please say we play each other soon,” Josh pleaded.

“Congrats, Tyler,” Ashley said from somewhere in the car.

“Three weeks,” Tyler said; he’d memorized Josh’s schedule. “Game at yours.”

“How long are you–”

“Dunno. Just for an injury replacement.”

“Who was–”

“Kirby Dach.”

“What–”

“Sprained wrist,” Tyler listed breathlessly. 

Josh laughed, and Tyler could hear the smile in his voice. “Man. I’m so proud of you.”

“Dude, I’m like, freaking out,” Tyler forced out, unable to stop grinning. “I can’t wait to tell my dad.”

“What? Tyler! Why’d you call me first?” Josh yelled. “Go!”

“Okay, fine, you hate me–”

“Shut up. I do not. Go share the news with your family,” Josh interrupted. “I love you. I hate driving downtown, I need to concentrate.”

“I love you too.”

Tyler hung up, then walked out to the spin bikes to cool down. He held his phone to his ear as the dial tone rang.

His dad was going to be so happy. It wasn’t that Tyler thought he wasn’t proud of him or anything, but it was always clear that he could be better. His dad wanted to turn on the TV and see his son playing against big names, he wanted to see his son be a big name, and Tyler was finally going to get the very slim chance to fulfill his dad’s dreams. It was his goal as well as his father’s, even though his father seemed to be living vicariously through him most days.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad, it’s Tyler.” His family was one of the very last to still have a landline. 

“Hi! How’s it–”

“I got called up.”

There was a beat of silence before his father practically whooped with joy, the phone bouncing in his hands, making Tyler wince and pull the phone away from his ear at the loud noises. “Tyler. That’s incredible, oh my gosh. Kelly. Kelly! Tyler got called up!”

“To Chicago?” Tyler heard Jay say.

“Your brother’s in the NHL,” his dad said proudly with barely contained joy. “Come on. We’re booking the next flight out.”

“I play Columbus in three days,” Tyler said with a laugh. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Tyler, that’s great news,” his mother said, taking the phone from her husband. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Where’d dad go?” Tyler asked.

“He’s buying tickets,” Jay said, snickering. “Can I meet Gaudreau?”

“I don’t know about that.” Tyler idly pedaled, slightly out of breath from adrenaline and the bike. “I don’t play for Columbus.”

“You have to tell me how he smells,” Jay demanded.

“Alright, alright, I will,” Tyler caved. “I can tell you now, it’s probably sweat.”

“See if you can get in a fight. I wanna–”

“Tyler is not going to get in a fight,” his mother interrupted Jay. “Right, Tyler?”

“Right,” Tyler agreed. He wasn’t planning on it; he’d only dropped the gloves a handful of times in his life. 

“We are all very proud of you,” his mother reminded him. 

“Thanks, Mom,” Tyler said, his heart warming. He smiled at nothing, staring off at the blank wall in front of him. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you, Tyler.”

“Love you too. Bye.” Tyler hung up.

A few more phone calls and a little gleeful dance once he was alone in his apartment later, Tyler found himself in a taxi at seven in the morning, heading to a hotel. The hotel was practically an apartment in itself; it had a full kitchen, complete with cutlery and crockery, a massive king-sized bed in a separate room off from the main, an electric fireplace with a mounted TV, a TV across from the bed, and a walk-in shower. He stood, mouth agape, as he walked aimlessly around the rooms. He’d thought Josh’s hotel room was fancy, but he didn’t know it was the standard. 

He arrived at the arena at ten in the morning, for a practice that started at twelve. He shook so many hands and forgot so many names and faces almost immediately. The locker room was massive. There were a billion hallways and a billion offices and everywhere Tyler turned, there was an autographed jersey or picture on the wall. There was a giant mural of the captain and two assistant captains in between two office doors, stretching fifteen feet across and ten feet high.

“Number?” a lady asked, once he’d been directed to a print room.

Tyler frowned. 29 was taken by the goalie, his go-to. He closed his eyes. This was how he would be remembered, so he needed to make this count. He thought of Josh, originally thinking of something to do with his birthday, but then remembered that there was a much easier number to remember Josh by; the one he wore in Seattle.

“Twenty-one,” he said, opening his eyes. “Is that available?”

She nodded, clearly not one for words, as she ironed the jerseys right in front of him. JOSEPH. In thick, white lettering against the red jersey, then in black against the white jersey.

He texted Josh a photo. He responded immediately, with lots of exclamation points. 

Josh: !!!!!!! !!!!!!

Josh: That’s my number, idiot

Tyler: we can share

Josh: I can’t say no to you

Tyler bit his lower lip to keep himself from grinning like a dumbass. His chest had never felt lighter.

The equipment managers gave him a new helmet and gloves; most of the equipment was the same, between the farm team and the national team, so he kept his socks and pants. He watched in amazement as they sharpened his skates and stuck his number on the back of his helmet. He didn’t have to lift a finger. He’d brought two sticks with him, but they made him choose a third from a large wall of left-handed sticks.

Some man came up behind him and started measuring his torso and shoulders without saying anything, scaring the shit out of Tyler. But soon enough, a large backpack was shoved into his arms. “Warm-up gear, water bottle, towels, etcetera,” he was told.

Tyler just nodded, peeking inside, noticing a ton of neatly-folded Adidas undergear, tags still on. There was a baseball cap with the team’s logo, a toque, and a sweatshirt along with that, as well as socks and even boxer briefs. He lowered the backpack. 

“Thanks,” he choked out. This was feeling all too real. He knew it was a possibility when signing the two-way contract, but he didn’t think it would actually happen. 

The morning skate was spent throwing him in the middle of a line with various other players he’d watched on TV; Patrick Kane, Kimmo Timonen, Duncan Keith, to name a few. He tried not to look starstruck, but he was sure he was failing.

The ice was crisp. The air was cold, filling his lungs and making him feel rejuvenated. He was alive.

Dach played second line, usually, but Tyler was thrown around so many times that he learned of his linemates on the pre-game Instagram post; he was on the fourth line, with a guy named Antoine Bouchard and another named Ron Adamec.

“How you feeling, Joe?” his coach, Bob Murdoch, said. He wore an impressive moustache.

Tyler couldn’t speak for nerves. He nodded fervently. The tunnel was full of low chatter, the odd whoop of a teammate hyping someone up, and More Than a Feeling was blasting through the speakers. 

“Hey,” Murdoch said, stepping into Tyler’s space. “I chose you for a reason. Kick their asses.”

“Yessir,” Tyler stammered.

The stands were full; he’d never seen so many people, not even at the NCAA finals. There were old teammates watching him, probably old classmates, his dad and sister were in the stands somewhere– she went to a nearby college– and Josh was watching on TV. Heck, maybe old coaches were watching. Everything he did would be analyzed. He was first, heart buzzing in his chest, adrenaline making him want to sprint down the tunnel already and get it over with. 

“Breathe,” some random arena employee told him gently. 

Tyler puffed his cheeks up on an inhale, then slowly blew all the air out. He was still tense, still jumpy, but it felt doable. He’d done this before.

The employee’s walkie-talkie buzzed with a mumbled message. Tyler got tapped on the elbow, barely feeling it through the padding. “Go time, Joseph.”

Tyler closed his eyes and took another deep breath, then headed down the tunnel. 

He didn’t realize that he was practically sprinting until his blades slammed on the ice at top speed, the crowd erupting into cheers as he skated his solo rookie lap. The announcer’s words fell onto his deaf ears, and the pounding in his heart translated into strong strides. The faces in the crowd blurred together. He vaguely registered the pounding of fists against the glass, the thrum of the bass of the music, but ultimately the only thing he could hear was the wind rushing through his ears and the satisfying sound of his skates digging into the ice as he completed a few crossovers. 

Breathless, he came to a quick stop in front of his boards.

“You gonna knock ‘em over, or what, eh bud?” Kane asked, gesturing to the pyramid of pucks.

Tyler took his arm and toppled over the warmup pucks, the sound of dense rubber bouncing off the smooth surface a familiar noise. He’d done this before. He was fine. This was hockey, the same game he had always played. Sure, it was a home game against the Detroit Red Wings, but it was still the same game, no matter the logo or the salary.

The on-ice warm-up was a blur. He tossed a few pucks to a few kids, even if they had no idea who he was, and felt his nerves settle as he connected puck to tape. It was the same ol’ hockey game, the best game you can name, and he’d been training his entire life for this moment. So far, it was exceeding his expectations; he wasn’t sure he wasn’t going to pass out when he got his first paycheque.

The first period started sooner than Tyler was ready for.

The NHL was fast; so much faster than the AHL. These were the top players in the world, not just the States, not just Canada. The hits shook the boards. While Tyler had played with big men, every single one of these guys seemed to be double his weight and height. In the AHL, there were at least seven smaller people on a team, and they were the fast ones; but here, even the big were fast. And dangerous.

Tyler saw his teammates get thrown around, bouncing off the boards, rolling off of hip checks like it was nothing. Some Red Wing got hit into Tyler’s bench, falling backward, skates in the air, and just got pushed back onto the ice by his teammates like it was a daily occurrence. Maybe it was. 

It was ten minutes into the period when Murdoch tapped Tyler’s back, signalling for his turn next. Tyler kept his eyes glued onto the centre he was replacing. Crevier. 

Crevier approached the boards after sending the puck to his left winger, and Tyler hopped onto the ice.

His world narrowed to just include the rink. The faces didn’t matter anymore. It wasn’t like he could recognize anyone, anyway, except for Dylan Larkin, but that was just because he was well-known and the C on his jersey was impossible to miss. 

A covered shot in the offensive zone called for a whistle, and as centre, Tyler lined up to take the faceoff. He lost, the other player shoving him off his feet, and the play was off in the other direction. Detroit didn’t wait for support; they just barrelled down the ice as soon as the puck was on their stick. 

Tyler, although he had been held up, lowered his head and raised his stick, pumping his legs and arms as fast as he could to get back. He was the one who had lost the faceoff, so it was his responsibility to get the puck back. The gap between him and the player shortened as his thighs burned more and more, and when he was just in reach, he poke-checked the puck from the unsuspecting player. He kept his feet moving to avoid a hooking but there was no penalty on the play.

He’d just interrupted an NHL play. Against an NHL team.

He came off that shift with a large grin on his face, breathing heavily, the burn in his thighs a pleasant ache. Bouchard and Adamec gave him pats on the back.

“You’re fast, man,” Bouchard said, still catching his breath. He held his mouthguard in his glove. 

“You too,” Tyler said. “Good coverage.”

Bouchard snorted and turned away, finding something amusing. 

“Don’t be afraid to jump up,” the assistant coach said. “You’re playing very defensively. I know you don’t know them, but trust your defense and goalie.”

Tyler nodded silently. In the dying minutes of the first period, Tyler’s line hopped the boards to take a faceoff after a commercial break for a covered shot in the offensive zone again.

This time, Tyler won. He passed the puck back to his defense, who slowed the play down by backing up to the blue line. A defender swung the puck along the boards, the puck bouncing on the edge of the glass, going all the way behind the net and to the left side of the ice. Tyler picked it up just to get immediately smushed by a massive player.

Somehow managing to stay on his feet, Tyler pressed the blade of his stick against the boards, pinning the puck in place. His eyes were glued to the rubber disk below them, careful for random kicks that might dislodge the puck. More players joined the scrum, bodies jostling Tyler, and–

Ow. 

Tyler’s hand immediately came to cover his face, an automatic reaction to getting a stick in the fucking mouth. The iron taste of blood flooded his tongue. The pain was sudden and jarring and he forgot where he was for a quick second.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the raised arm of the ref. He grinned and returned to the fight for the puck, ignoring the blood for the time being.

Detroit touched the puck and the play was blown.

“Joseph,” the ref yelled, signalling him to come over.

Tyler took his right hand out of his glove and dug around his mouth with his tongue. Grimacing, he spat out a shard of his tooth into his palm, bloody and gross. He felt a dent in his lower lateral incisor.

The ref nodded, skating to the box. Tyler hopped off the ice and accepted a towel from the trainer, running his tongue over the imperfection.

“Detroit double minor. High sticking,” the ref said from centre ice.

“Nice one,” Adamec said, smiling a toothless grin at him.

Tyler would have smiled back, but he had a towel in his mouth. He settled for nodding. 

The period expired thirty seconds later. 

“Good job, Joe,” Murdoch said proudly, patting him on the shoulder as he headed down through the tunnel. “Gonna put that dental insurance to work, eh?”

Tyler grinned, bloody mouth and all. 

"Your gloves?" some teenager in the tunnel asked, hands out.

"Huh?" Tyler asked.

"Are you going to dry your gloves?" The kid gestured to a drying rack on top of a heater.

Years of hating the feeling of cold, sweaty gloves, gone. Tyler handed the kid his gloves with a smile on his face. This was the life.

He didn’t know what he expected was going to happen in between periods, but this was not it; teammates smoked in the shower, some had their eyes glued to their phones, and Adamec even took off the top half of his gear to lie down on the bench and take a nap. Tyler, not sure where he fit in, decided to just pull his phone out from his backpack.

Josh had texted about five minutes prior. 

Josh: You okay?

Tyler: just a chip. barely hurts

He turned on the camera app and took a look inside his mouth. There wasn’t much damage; maybe he could get away without a dental crown. A notification popped up and he tapped it.

Mom: You should wear a cage.

Tyler rolled his eyes and ignored her. 

Before he knew it, he was back on the ice for the second period; Murdoch had come into the change room for the last five minutes in their break to tell him he was on a different line. The numbers read: 21, 90, 44. 44 was Bouchard, but he didn’t know whose number the other one was.

He found out, climbing into a spot on the third line. 90 belonged to a young guy named O’Connor. He didn’t have much to say, instead keeping an eagle eye on the play, squinting in deep concentration. Tyler didn’t want to interrupt whatever was going on in his head. 

Five minutes into the twenty, he got tapped on the back. He quickly scanned the ice for the current centre; Volkov.

Volkov sent the puck down and quickly turned to get a change, his back to the play.

“Go!” Tyler yelled, a leg already over the boards, watching as Detroit gained possession and outskated both wingers and defense. It was just Tyler, if Volkov could get off the fucking ice. 

With not a second to spare, Tyler launched himself off the boards and skated as fast as he could to intercept the two-on-none at the blue line, turning it to a two-on-one. He channeled the best he could, his head on a swivel, keeping the second player visible in his periphery at all times. The player with the puck raised his stick, and Tyler fell onto his stomach and stretched himself out as far as he could.

His efforts were not in vain. A sharp pain from his thigh told him the puck had struck his body, effectively intercepting the pass. The puck bounced as Tyler tried to get up, then slid harmlessly toward the goalie, who covered it with a glove. The play was whistled down. 

Tyler glanced up at his goalie, grinning, still on his stomach. “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” the goalie said, giving the back of his knee a light whack with his stick once he had stood up. 

He chewed on his mouthguard, trying to mask the proud expression on his face; he’d just stopped a two-on-one. Sure, there was a bruise blooming above his knee, but he couldn’t care less.

Fueled with adrenaline and momentum, Tyler won the faceoff in their end. He passed it back, and then his defense passed it up the boards, where his right winger, O’Connor, collected it. Tyler followed behind, watching the play.

But then O’Connor was off. He was skating as fast as his feet would let him, making a break for the net, causing a one-on-two. Tyler slammed his blades into the ice as he launched himself forward, yelling the entire way. He dodged bodies and sticks as he skated past.

O’Connor wound up to take a hard shot. Tyler had just crossed the blue line.

A loud thwack followed by the blunt noise of the puck against the goalie pad filled Tyler’s ears, and he spotted it near the goalie’s pad; he hadn’t been able to control the rebound. Tyler, already flying down the ice, collected it and shoved it into the net before their goalie could even react. The ref blew his whistle, his arm straight out, and the goal horn sounded.

Holy shit. 

He’d just scored an NHL goal.

O’Connor was smothering him, and Tyler got passed around as his teammates swarmed him. Tyler’s mind had blanked at any sort of celly, and he just stood there, grinning from ear to ear, unable to believe what had just happened. He got shoved out of the crowd eventually and pushed toward the Home bench. He skated past his teammates, high-fiving them, their faces all blurring together as he rushed past a little faster than he normally would’ve.

“Good goal,” Murdoch said, grabbing onto Tyler’s helmet and shaking his head around once he had taken a spot on the bench.

Tyler spat out his mouthguard. “Thanks,” he said cheerfully.

“Thanks?” the coach teased. “Man. You kids are too humble.”

“Yeah, Joseph!” some guy with a heavy French accent said, grabbing onto his helmet and shaking it around. “One ‘eck of a debut, eh?”

Tyler sneakily read his last name. Crevier. “Thanks, man. Couldn’t have done it without O’Connor.”

“Ah, ‘e is not a rookie,” Crevier dismissed. “I do not give a shit.”

Tyler laughed. It was jarring that people on the fucking Chicago Blackhawks knew his name. He’d spent years idolizing them. 

“Joseph!” O’Connor yelled, a bright smile on his face. He removed his helmet, revealing a mass of brown, sweaty curls, almost falling into his eyes.

He looked a little like Josh, if he were older, Tyler remarked. The deep brown eyes were the same, especially the way they crinkled as he grinned. The difference was in the nose.

“Stole my goal, eh?” he said, giving Tyler a whack on the back. “Good one. You’re fast, man.”

“Thanks, uh…” Tyler trailed off, not sure if he should call him by his last name. 

“Nathan,” he said, holding out a sweaty hand. Tyler took his right hand out of his glove and shook it. 

“Tyler.”

“How old are you, man? I’ve never seen you,” Nathan pointed out.

“Twenty-three in a month,” Tyler said. “What about you?”

“Twenty-seven,” Nathan said. He leaned back to tuck his hair into his helmet again, keeping it out of his face.

“Really?” Tyler exclaimed. He would’ve guessed twenty-five, surely not late twenties. “You look quite young.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Nathan said with a laugh. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “That’s my mom, the crazy one wearing the glasses.”

Tyler looked behind Nathan at the fans by the glass. An older woman had glasses, but the frames were made to look like the Blackhawks logo. Nathan waved, and the woman waved back, ringing a cowbell. 

“Wanna go for drinks, after?” Nathan asked. “Kirby and I were gonna go, but you should come on out.”

“Kirby? Dach?” Tyler asked, confused. That was the guy he was replacing.

“Yeah, man. He’s a cool guy,” Nathan reassured him. 

“Sure, why not?” Tyler said with a nonchalant shrug. He wanted to smile so wide and jump up and down. NHL friends.

“Sweet, man.” Nathan did up his helmet strap and adjusted his visor. “We’ll catch the Seattle-Edmonton game.”

Tyler bit back a smile. The good thing about the time zones was that by the time Tyler was done with his game, Josh was just starting his; he could have his cake and eat it too.  

Detroit got a goal, and Tyler’s line was sent out to start at centre ice. 

His shift was uneventful, but when he got off, his coach stared a little too hard at him, deep in thought. Nathan had just gotten a hooking penalty; judging by the bashful grimace displayed on the jumbotron, it was something he was used to.

“No,” Tyler said, backing away, hands out in front of him.

Murdoch raised an eyebrow. “I just want to see how you do.”

“What if they score?” Tyler protested.

“What if they don’t?” Murdoch countered. “Join the line with Edward, Lo, and Ivan.”

Tyler nodded, squeezing in between two players, nerves alight. 

After two successful ices, Tyler and his new line hopped over the boards. Tyler squared up with the approaching players as they set up, ready to attack the shape Chicago had going. 

Tyler played on many specialty lines over the years– powerplay, penalty kill, three vs threes– but never with this high of stakes. This wasn’t anything more than a regular-season game, but to him, it was his debut. There was so much on the line. 

They had just over a minute until Nathan’s penalty was up. Tyler stood at the top, tracking the puck, adjusting. Detroit wound up, and—

Smack.

The puck bounced off of Tyler’s shin, hitting the hard plastic. Shocked, he fell to his knees, but he quickly jumped up, just in time to see his teammate ice the puck.

“Nice block,” Edward yelled. 

Tyler let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He had this. 

In a crazy sequence of passes, Tyler stopped two more pucks; a hard shot bounced off his thigh, then another one in the arm from that first shot’s rebound. Grimacing, he gathered the puck and iced it, then skated off. 

“Three blocks,” the trainer said, whistling. He cracked a chemical ice pack and handed it to Tyler.

“Thanks,” Tyler said, rolling up his jersey sleeve; an angry welt was swelling on the skin between his glove and elbow pad, the puck having hit one of the very few unprotected places on his body. He pressed the ice pack against it- it was going to bruise like hell. 

“Attaboy!” Murdoch yelled, standing behind Tyler with a smirk on his face. Tyler turned around to look up at him. “Told you. Three blocks, kid.”

“Yup,” Tyler said with a pained laugh.

He had two more shifts in the second period; he’d racked up about seven total minutes so far, which should feel like nothing, but each one left Tyler gasping for air and a metallic taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with his broken tooth. Tyler was fast, yeah, and his cardio was great, but the NHL speed required him to be dialed to eleven at all times. He was used to short thirty-second sprints and then conserving his energy.  In this game, though, he was coming off the ice at top speed, then going off the ice just as fast.

Josh: You’re crazy. You’re crazy

Josh: This is your fucking debut

Josh: I love you so much

Josh: Two more goals until a hat trick, just saying

Tyler smiled at his phone.

Tyler: not gonna make it

Josh: Famous last words

Josh: How do you feel?

Tyler: fantastic

Tyler: I could skate forever

Josh: You are absolutely kicking their ass right now

Josh: You got time to call?

Tyler stepped out into the hallway. He called Josh, smiling at a teammate who was also on his phone with someone.

“Hi.”

“Oh my God, Ty. You are on fire.”

Tyler laughed. “I don’t know what happened to me.”

“You’re good! You were never not good, man,” Josh exclaimed. “You’re lighting it up out there. Even my mom texted me about you.”

“My mom just told me to wear a cage,” Tyler relayed, but he wasn’t upset about it.

“If it was up to me, you’d wear a cage too.”

“You don’t wear a cage,” Tyler accused.

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

Tyler had never been so happy. He couldn’t even find a proper comeback, his brain buzzing with so much adrenaline that he couldn’t think properly. “You’re impossible.”

“I just want your face to stay intact,” Josh protested.

“And I want yours, too.”

“Too bad.”

Tyler stuck out his tongue, although Josh couldn’t see him. 

“I have to go, Ty. Coach is calling me over,” Josh said apologetically. “Kick their ass. I won’t be able to watch.”

“Good luck tonight,” Tyler told him.

“You too.”

Tyler hung up just as his own coach was calling them all into the change room, whiteboard in hand.

Gathering an assist to the game-winning goal and delivering a massive hit on a guy double his weight in the third period, Tyler’s confidence only grew. He cheered with his team when the clock wound down, raised his stick in centre ice in post-game tradition. They treated him like he was one of them. Tyler wasn’t an AHL player, not anymore, not after yesterday’s phone call. And he played like he deserved to be here.

He was headed down the tunnel when an assistant coach stopped him, a hand on his chest. “Hold on.”

“What?” Tyler asked, stepping aside to let his teammates pass by.

He tapped his headset. “I believe I’ve gotten some intel.”

Tyler looked confused for a second before clarity fell on his features. “Oh. Oh no.”

“Oh yes, man.” He clapped a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “Be proud of yourself.”

Tyler’s eyes opened wide, not believing what he was hearing. “This is my debut.”

“And it was a heckuva good one, Joe,” Murdoch said, catching the tail end of the conversation. 

Tyler stood still against the wall as the announcers called out Nathan’s name; he’d been fantastic, scoring the game-winning goal. Nathan hurried down the tunnel and punched Tyler in the shoulder as he passed. 

Then they called Tyler’s name. 

“Second star of the night; rookie Tyler Joseph, number twenty-one!” the announcer called, stretching out his name. 

Nathan had returned by the time Tyler finally unfroze and headed for the ice. “Go get ‘em kid!” he called with glee, pushing Tyler down the tunnel.

Tyler stepped out onto the ice, accepting three pucks from the bench staff. He looked around, finally taking in the cheers. 

These people were cheering for him. Not for his team, not for their win, but for him. He left his helmet on the bench and skated to the opposite side of the ice, tossing the pucks to the youngest group of kids he could find. He couldn’t wipe the goofy grin from his face; he knew he looked like an idiot, but he was too happy to care.

–

“I feel like we’re being chaperoned.”

Tyler laughed, glancing behind him, where his dad, sister, and Nathan’s mom were sitting awkwardly at a table with a plate of nachos between them.

“Look, man. If you wanna buy me a car, so I don’t have to keep driving her around, I’m all for it,” Nathan told Kirby. 

“Where’s your excuse, Tyler?” Kirby asked.

Kirby was Tyler’s age, a promising young hotshot with a slow start to the season. Clean shaven, with dark, thick eyebrows and a head full of hair to match, he didn’t look a day over twenty. He had his arm in a sling; he’d broken that same wrist during the world juniors and it had never been the same since.

“I’m a Molson two star,” Tyler said, raising his glass of beer like he was toasting himself. “That’s my excuse.”

“Well, I’m the third, and three is greater than two, so who’s really the winner?” Nathan bragged.

“Man,” Tyler said in fake disappointment, then glanced back at the TV. The game was back from their commercial break, halfway through the period.

Kirby and Nathan were talking, but Josh was on the ice; he wasn’t interested. He tuned out their voices and watched as Josh cross-checked a player in the back, leading to a penalty. The camera zoomed into his angry face. His jaw muscles worked as he chewed on his mouthguard, a scowl across his features.

“-eh, Tyler?” 

He blinked, turning his head to Nathan. “What?”

“Who do you know on there?” Kirby asked. He pointed to the TV. 

“Twenty-one,” Tyler answered.

“Dun?”

“How do you know him?” Tyler accused Nathan.

Nathan blinked slowly at him. “Because we’re technically coworkers, man.”

Tyler turned back to the TV, but they cut to a short commercial break. Embarrassed, Tyler kept his mouth shut.

“We also dropped the gloves at the beginning of the season,” Nathan said with a slight cough. 

“That was him?” Kirby exclaimed gleefully. “Dude. He rocked your shit.”

It was Nathan’s turn to look embarrassed. “You didn’t have to tell him, Dacher.”

“Anyway, what’s he to you?” Kirby asked, accepting another beer from the bartender. 

“He’s my friend,” Tyler mumbled, unsure of what to introduce him as. “Old teammate.”

When no one responded, Tyler looked up to see their faces. They both had evil grins stretching ear to ear. 

“You’re blushing,” Nathan pointed out in a teasing tone.

“I am not,” Tyler said to no use. 

“Relax, man. We’re dedicated pride night dressers,” Nathan pointed to both him and Kirby. “And… I might’ve read one of your interviews.”

Tyler looked mortified, hand tightening around his pint. He hated beer. He couldn’t drink it fast enough without gagging, and God, he needed to get drunk so bad.

Kirby elbowed Nathan in the ribs. “I thought we weren’t gonna tell him!”

“Hey, it just got brought up,” Nathan protested, “and Tyler’s not mad. Right, Joe?”

“Joe?” Tyler asked.

“That’s what Bobby calls you. D’you not like it?” 

“It’s… certainly not a name that’s been given to me before,” Tyler admitted. He didn’t hate it. He’d just have to remember to respond if someone called that name.

“Bob calls me Connor,” Nathan said thoughtfully. “Or Nate. Or Natey. Or whatever he feels like, you just learn to turn your head whenever you hear his voice.”

“He’s a weird guy,” Kirby told him with a shrug. 

“We’re heading out,” Tyler’s dad said, interrupting their conversation, placing a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. “Good job tonight, boys.”

“Yessir,” Nathan said with a smile. “Mr Joe.”

“Mr O’Connor,” Tyler’s dad said with a tip of his Chicago Blackhawks ball cap. “See you tomorrow. You staying in a hotel, or with us, Ty?”

Their next game was the one in Columbus. “Uh, I’ll stay with you guys, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” he said. He squeezed Tyler’s shoulder. “Proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Tyler grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Guess I shouldn’t leave my mother alone,” Nathan said with a sigh, watching Tyler’s dad and sister leave. “I’m gonna head out too. Early flight tomorrow.”

“Eleven is not early.” Kirby rolled his eyes. “Can you drop us off? Please?”

“Where you at, Tyler?” Nathan asked, pulling out his phone to the Maps application. 

“I’m actually just around the corner,” Tyler said. “Don’t have a place here. They got me a hotel room.”

“Luxurious,” Kirby said with a nod. “Okay. Let’s let mommy O’Connorey take the wheel. Hopefully she doesn’t crash this time.”

“Kirby’s the one who crashed the car with me in it,” Nathan told Tyler, holding a hand up to his mouth to relay the secret. “But he’s very embarrassed about it, so don’t tell him I said that.”

“I am literally right here.” Kirby whacked Nathan in the back of the head. 

Tyler laughed at their exchange, then turned around to square up the bill. 

“I already got it, dude,” Kirby informed him. “It was nice meeting you. Glad they picked a cool replacement.”

“Yeah, nice meeting you guys too,” Tyler said with a grin.

The walk to his hotel was quiet, just after midnight. He had an extra skip in his step.

Things were looking up.

–

Tyler’s mom was oddly excited when she picked Tyler up from the airport. Tyler quickly realized why when they finally pulled into their long driveway.

“Oh my God!” Tyler yelled, slamming the passenger door shut behind him, scrambling.

“Tyler!” his mother warned. 

“Sorry. Oh my gosh!” Tyler corrected, breaking into a sprint.

He slammed into Josh at full speed, arms wrapping around his neck as Josh stumbled under the force. “Hey, Ty,” he said softly.

“What are we, chopped liver?” Chris said sourly.

“Dude, it’s been so long,” Tyler exclaimed, rounding on him.

“Yeah, a whole week,” Chris teased, wrapping his arms around Tyler; they’d seen each other the game after Josh’s weekend over. “I’m on emergency leave. I told them my grandma died, so don’t go telling the world I’m here.”

“Missed you,” Nick said, accepting a hug. Last but not least was Mark, who settled for a handshake; he wasn’t one for hugs.

“You could’ve told me you were coming,” Tyler said, backing up to take a look at his friends. 

“I didn’t know I was coming until last night,” Josh said with a laugh. “How’s the Molson two-star?”

“Sore,” Tyler answered.

“No kidding.” Chris whistled, impressed. “Heck of a game, man.”

“How’s your team, Nick?” Tyler asked, embarrassed at the compliment.

“Oh, you know,” Nick said with a smirk, referring to his beer league team. “Killing it.”

Though it was October, the night was just warm enough to have a bonfire in their backyard. The smell of wet leaves and fire burned through the chilly night sky. Besides, Tyler had Josh as a blanket. Their friends had long been desensitized to their closeness over the years. Tyler sat in the lawn chair beside Josh, and Josh was awkwardly stretched across his own with his head on Tyler’s lap. He’d somehow managed to unscrew the arm rests between them; or he just broke them off. Tyler didn’t know.

“How’re you doing, Ty?” Chris asked. He sat in a cloth lawn chair, a blanket draped over him so that just his head was poking out.

“Pretty good.” Tyler was entertaining himself by lighting a stick on fire over and over again, reaching over Josh’s head to reach the fire. “Still riding on last night’s win. How’s Montreal?”

“Busy. Stinky. Hard to get around,” Chris answered, then pulled a face. “French.”

Tyler laughed. “You learning anything?”

“Nah. I miss having Jamie translate for me. He wanted to come down, but he had to play tonight,” Chris said regrettably. “His dad and sister were flying out to watch.”

“Too bad. I miss him.” Tyler pulled the stick out of the embers and watched as it glowed white.

“I got promoted,” Nick announced, curled up in his own lawn chair. “M’in the office now.”

“Cool. What’s your title?” Mark asked. He was spearing dead leaves with a pointy stick and shoving them in the fire, a periodic glow casting over his face in the dark. 

“Quality inspector. I walk around, look at things, then type up a report,” Nick answered. “Five hundred dollar bonus, though. Not bad.”

“You can maybe afford a bucket of popcorn tomorrow,” Mark joked.

“Or… you could just bring it to me, Markypoo,” Nick said, fluttering his eyelashes exaggeratedly.

“Honestly, maybe,” Mark said thoughtfully. “I get a break between first and second.”

Mark was in charge of the graphics played on the jumbotron, switching between cameras and queuing premade videos. He had awful hours, going from one in the afternoon to eleven, with two half-hour breaks. He frequently worked until midnight, though, gathering tons of overtime. Enough for him to take two weeks off, at this point. 

Mark glanced at his phone. “Speaking of, I gotta head to bed. There’s no way I’m gonna be able to stay awake tomorrow if I don’t fall asleep in the next… half hour or so.”

“I call not the floor!” Chris said quickly.

“I call bed!” Mark yelled.

“I’m not sharing with one of them,” Nick said, appalled, pointing between Tyler and Josh.

“We’ll share the air mattress,” Tyler offered, sighing heavily. “I feel like… we’re more inclined to cuddle than you guys.”

“If you ever catch me cuddling with this guy, shoot me in the head,” Nick pointed at Chris. Chris stuck out his tongue. 

Mark threw his stick in the fire and folded up his lawn chair, shoving it into its cloth bag. “I’m gonna shower, real quick.”

“Leave the door unlocked,” Chris teased.

Mark smirked. He swung the lawn chair over his shoulder and headed back to the house. Chris and Nick packed up, Chris dragging the blanket across the dirt. Tyler cringed.

“You guys not coming?” Chris asked, turning to Tyler and Josh. They hadn’t moved.

“We’ll stay out here for a little longer,” Josh answered for them both.

“Oh, good idea,” Nick teased. “Get it out of your system. If I hear a singular moan in the middle of the night–”

“Nick, I swear to God,” Tyler interrupted, rolling his eyes. 

“See ya,” Nick called over his shoulder, already heading back, Chris a few metres ahead.

They were alone.

The fire was low, nothing more than red embers. Tyler’s stick no longer caught on fire when he poked it into the mess of ashes. The smoke rose into the clear, night sky, the stars twinkling above them like little pinpricks in a cardboard box. 

“You played really well,” Josh said, looking up at Tyler. 

Tyler looked down and grinned at him. “You too. Watched your game.”

Josh closed his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m really proud of you.”

Tyler tossed his stick in the fire. “Sit up.”

Josh obeyed, eyeing Tyler curiously. 

Without warning, Tyler leaned forward and gently pressed his lips against Josh’s. They felt like home.

They’d spent a couple years together, Josh moving in to replace Jamie when he graduated. Not that it mattered, though; Josh had a double bed, and Tyler’s bedroom in the basement was turned into storage. Tyler hadn’t realized how much of a difference a window that let in proper sunlight made for his mental health. Or maybe that was just Josh. They acted like an old married couple in some ways, arguing over their hockey pool teams, and horny teenagers in other ways. 

Needless to say, they were constantly on each other. Every night almost. So being rudely ripped apart by a very long distance was not appreciated. 

The circumstances leading up to their… break up were a little awful. Not off-putting, but just unwanted; it hung over them like a thundercloud. Josh brought it up when they were packing to go home for good.

“I’m moving to Seattle in three days,” Josh said, staring at his suitcase that was bursting at the seams.

“Yup,” Tyler said curtly. 

“We should… talk about it,” Josh said carefully. “About the distance.”

Tyler didn’t want to. In fact, he had gone to immense lengths to avoid talking about the elephant in the room. “Fine.”

“I…” Josh started. Tyler knew what was going to happen. He’d seen it coming. With the way Josh looked at him a little too hard, like he was trying to take it all in. “I don’t know if we can make this work.”

“Why?” Tyler asked, staring at the floor. 

“We’re in different time zones,” Josh stressed, his voice wavering, “and you need someone who can be available when you need it.”

Tyler wanted to throw up.

“I can’t be there when you’re halfway across the country,” Josh continued. He sounded teary. “I can’t– you deserve someone who can give it their all. And I can’t. Not with the time difference. Not with the distance. Not with the schedule.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Tyler blurted out, finally gazing up at him; Josh was crying. “I don’t care if I don’t hear from you in days, I don’t–”

“Yes, you do, Tyler,” Josh interrupted, rubbing a hand over his mouth. 

Tyler wasn’t angry. He knew Josh was right. 

“I don’t want– I’m– I’m scared, man,” Josh admitted, breath hitching. “I don’t want to– to– to have a miscommunication over something, and I can’t fix it. I can’t be in a relationship where you can get me to shut up just by hanging up on the call. Whether we stay together or not, this distance is going to put a wedge between us, and I can’t have a falling out because of that.”

“But we’re not going to have a falling out because of you breaking up with me?” Tyler challenged, but he knew it wasn’t fair. There wasn’t even any malice in his tone. His chest just hurt so much. 

“Well, I’d rather have this conversation face-to-face instead of on a phone call,” Josh tried, wiping his eyes on the collar of his t-shirt. “Because– because– if you get angry, or upset with me, I can talk to you. But when you’re over a thousand miles away, I can’t. I can’t make sure that as soon as you hang up, you’re safe. As soon as you hang up, I don’t know what you do next. And I can’t risk something like this happening, and then you get upset, and then I lose you.”

“I’m not gonna kill myself,” Tyler whispered.

“Not even you can guarantee that,” Josh choked out. 

Tyler’s heart hurt so bad. 

“I love you, Ty.”

It took a few days for Tyler to say it back, but then he drove all the way to Josh’s house in his mom’s minivan and they sorted it out. They would keep doing whatever, just no labels.

Josh had called him a month into this arrangement, sobbing, terrified. In a mess of tears and shuddering breaths, he told Tyler that the main reason he broke up with him was because he couldn’t stand the idea of one of them doing something stupid and then having to break up and then Tyler just… offing himself. Because of him. He didn’t want to be the reason.

It killed Tyler how much his stupid mental health ruined everything for him. 

But it was okay. They lived between games. As the time went by, it got easier, and the weight of that conversation got lighter and lighter each passing day. They found each other in hotel rooms and in short hours when their paths happened to cross. It just made the moments together more valuable, but it also made the moments apart so much more miserable.

“Can’t go too far,” Josh whispered, breath heavy against Tyler’s neck. “Can’t– I’m not jerking you off outside.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Tyler asked, eyes closed, lips swollen. “But I have a better idea.”

“What is it?” Josh pulled away. 

The stick Tyler had repeatedly abused was lying harmlessly on the ground, half of it in the embers. He bent over and picked it up, staring at Josh with a wanting glint in his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Josh asked apprehensively, taking the stick from him, avoiding the hot end. 

“Never more.” Tyler lifted his shirt and sweater. “Mark me.”

All the breath left Josh in one harsh second, like he’d been whacked in the back with a stick. “Fuck, Tyler.”

The patch above his hip was exposed, clear, pale skin barely visible in the darkness. The tip of the stick glowed red-hot. Smoke came off of it in trails, wisping up into the night.

“There.” Tyler looked up at Josh, eyes gleaming.

The pain was sharp, making Tyler hiss through his teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut as the heat burned his skin cells. The stinging made his world spin, both with the pain and resulting arousal, and he threw his head back at the sensation. The ache remained long after the stick was pulled away. Josh took advantage of his exposed neck and mouthed at his Adam’s Apple. 

“Jesus,” Tyler groaned, his hand moving to cover his wound. Josh covered his hand with his.

“My turn,” Josh said, handing the stick to Tyler.

“You don’t have to,” Tyler reassured him.

“Nah. Let’s match,” Josh said offhandedly. He lifted up his shirt slightly, on the exact same side he had marked Tyler.

Josh didn’t even flinch. Tyler dropped the stick afterward and snaked his hand under Josh’s shirt to press his palm against the burn, their bodies touching, so close the stars seemed to spin even behind closed eyelids. Sure, scars would fade with time— Tyler knew that better than anyone— but for the moment, it felt so permanent. Lips and tongue and teeth hungry for skin and feeling were all that existed, the fire dimming, the darkness taking the rest of the world with it. If the light didn’t shine on it, it didn’t exist. 

“Get a room!” came a shout from in the house.

Tyler turned around and Josh looked over his shoulder. Chris was hanging out of his bedroom window, hand cupped around his mouth. Nick wolf whistled beside him. Tyler could see Jay’s bedroom curtains moving, his little brother’s face ducking out of sight.

Tyler pulled Josh to him again, throwing up a middle finger in the direction of the house, taking in one last desperate kiss.

“We should go in,” Josh said, pulling away with great effort. 

Tyler helped Josh pack up the chairs, tossing the discarded armrests into the bag; turned out, Josh had broken them. Tyler tossed a bucket of water over the coals, listening to the satisfying hiss of water evaporating quickly in the intense heat.

They shoved the chairs into the garage and quietly entered through the back door to a silent house. His parents had gone to bed long before. 

“Wanna shower?” Josh asked mischievously, hand under Tyler’s shirt, against his back.

“Basement,” Tyler said with no hesitation; their family was all upstairs. The basement bathroom rarely got used.

The water on their shared wounds brought the feeling alight again. Josh’s hands felt even better.

Chapter Text

Tyler and Josh slept on the air mattress. Nick had passed out on the couch. The other two claimed the twin beds.

The morning came quicker than Tyler wanted it to. Tyler and Mark had to be at the rink early, so Josh took his mom’s van and dropped them off before escaping to explore the city without them. Tyler wasn’t jealous; Josh sent about a million photos of them at the outlet mall downtown for no reason. Tyler got yelled at by Nathan for going on his phone in the middle of video review.

Tyler hit the ice, immediately savouring the adrenaline pouring through his veins. This was a feeling he’d missed when he was busy being mopey and depressed, keeping to himself and hating everything around him. He’d missed feeling alive. It was hard to remember the joy of the sport when he was stuck in his own head, so finally feeling everything, the pounding of his heart through his veins, nerves making his chest feel light and airy, adrenaline pushing his legs forward, it was all so overwhelming in a good way.

Tyler made it to the third line. Centre again. He spotted his friends and family in the crowd and grinned, knowing they probably couldn’t see him. But still; having people he knew there meant more to him than he thought it would. It was nice to see his dad’s massive smile as he wore a custom jersey; Tyler’s wasn’t available to purchase from the merchandise yet. His dad had gone out of his way to order it specially made.

He was back. He felt like he’d been born again. It was times like these that made him grateful to be alive instead of spiteful.

He felt like he was a little kid, everything new and wonderful. He felt the underlying excitement he used to feel when his father would pull him from school early for a hockey tournament. His mind was buzzing like it used to the night before big games, his gear packed and ready to go first thing in the morning. He missed the joy of anticipation. 

After blocking a shot in the first, Tyler limped onto the bench with his leg on fire. But still, his grin never left his face. There was nothing Tyler wanted to do more than play hockey. As soon as his leg stopped throbbing and he could put weight on it, he was out again like a rocket. His coaches couldn’t keep him down. He ignored Josh’s worried texts in between the first and second period to text his brother instead.

Tyler: Gaudreau smells like axe body spray

After charging the net on a two-on-one and sliding the puck between the defender’s skates to Nathan’s waiting stick on the other side, he gathered a point. A textbook assist; he drew the goalie to one side with a beautiful fake and let his linemate take the credit. Years ago, he would’ve been jealous, but now he was just happy to get his name on the scoresheet. He made a difference on this team. 

He’d spent nearly all his life thinking he was inconsequential, that he could just quit and no one else would notice. But now, people were cheering for him, and his name was on the NHL app itself; the one app, other than the phone and messages Tyler allowed notifications for. He hadn’t even taken a headshot yet, but his faceless, grey profile was already popping up on everyone’s phones. It was surreal.

Another assist in the third finished the game; 3-0 for Chicago. Sure, Columbus wasn’t the best team, and for sure wasn’t playing at their peak tonight, but Chicago played well. For the first time since putting on his jersey, Tyler felt pride. Even if the win was against his favourite team.

“That was so fucking good!” Josh exclaimed, his sunglasses and hat still on his face. He called it his disguise. 

“Joshua,” Tyler’s mom warned.

“Sorry, Mrs Joseph,” Josh said, but didn’t correct himself. “At this rate, you’re gonna catch up to me in like, two weeks.”

“I’m nowhere near close,” Tyler laughed. He high-fived the others.

He had to board the bus soon; they were flying right to Chicago again. Josh and Chris also had their own planes to catch. It was hard, saying hellos and goodbyes less than twenty-four hours apart, but he had to get used to it; he had no choice anymore. He stood outside the arena, on the sidewalk, the team bus idling.

“Love you, mom, dad, Jay,” Tyler said, distracted, as he waved goodbye hastily to his family. 

“Love you too,” Jay said, rolling his eyes at the less–than–enthusiastic goodbye. It was a school night, and Jay had to head back.

Tyler turned to Josh, throwing his arms around his neck. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for putting on a show.” Josh smirked, but his arms around Tyler betrayed more emotion than he verbally let on. Goodbyes were tough. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon,” Tyler whispered, closing his eyes and savouring the moment.

Tyler smelled like industrial soap from the shower he’d taken, mixed with arena chemicals and sweaty hockey equipment. Josh smelled like arena french fries, ketchup, and Old Spice deodorant. He smelled like home.

Staring wistfully over his shoulder as he boarded the bus, he mouthed a quick goodbye to his friends. His heart fell with every step. The adrenaline crash from the game was hitting hard, making his limbs heavy like he was carrying dumbbells everywhere he went.

“So,” Nathan said, once Tyler had taken a seat beside him. He had a wide, teasing grin on his face. “How was home? Got up to… anything?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Tyler scoffed without any bite. With hardly any emotion, actually– he swallowed the lump in his throat as his heart stayed on the other side of the bus doors. 

“Cheer up, man.” Nathan elbowed him. “You had a hell of a game.”

“Yeah,” Tyler muttered. He stared directly ahead of him, blinking rapidly; he was not going to cry.

Nathan seemed to sense it. He stood up. “Trade spots with me.”

Tyler looked quizzically up at him, but let Nathan clamber over him into the aisle and took his empty window seat. “Why?”

“I feel like you need to stare wistfully out the window,” Nathan informed him casually. “You know. Put in your earbuds and pretend you’re in a movie.”

That just made Tyler feel worse, in such a good way. He barely knew this guy; he’d met him almost three days ago, but he had a better read on Tyler than Tyler even had on himself. 

Tyler struggled with a sense of belonging since he was a very young child; he never quite fit in, not in daycare, not as a child, and especially not as a teen. He always laughed at the wrong times. Said the wrong things. He was late to jokes, took things too seriously, and never seemed to want to play with anyone in the first place; he was content being alone, at least until he wasn’t. Because then, it hit him like a bag of bricks.

Self-awareness was scary. He was suddenly aware of the space (or lack of it) he took up in life. He was another face in the rink, another face in the hallways, someone people knew of but not on any level deeper than that. But now, he had random schoolmates and old hockey teammates reaching out to him on social media. Sure, maybe they were motivated by Tyler’s success, but it was nice to be perceived. It was nice to know people knew who he was. 

Tyler put in his earbuds and, as his friend had said, stared wistfully out the window. Nathan kept his back to him, engaging in a lively conversation with someone across the aisle from him, giving Tyler what little privacy he could. Years of convincing himself he wasn’t good enough to be worthy of other people’s time and kindness had nothing on the insane turns life had just thrown him in, or at least for the time being. Everything had happened so fast.

“You okay?” Nathan asked quietly once they’d pulled into the airport lot.

“Yeah,” Tyler whispered, a smile on his face amid his teary eyes.

–

Like all things, it came to an end.

Tyler returned to an empty hotel room instead of an apartment. He struggled to cook for himself again. The adrenaline that usually coursed through his veins on game nights was replaced with apathetic indifference that drove him insane; it was the same old. He felt he should have a punch-in for the games.

He kept his performance up, at least. His streak of points was impossible to maintain, unfortunately, but it wasn’t like he’d run out of gas. Murdoch shuffled him around so many times over that Tyler had no idea what line he was on anymore. He was part of the powerplay line, then the penalty kill line, then the overtime three-on-three group all in one game. It made his head spin and he found himself looking out at the ice in annoyance instead of excitement. He didn’t know what he wanted; he didn’t want the stability of one line, but he also didn’t want to be tossed around like a pinball. He was never satisfied.

It rose to self-hatred. He was angry at himself for never being happy. He was angry for letting the novelty wear off, and it had only been one week and a bit. 

Everything was so fucking temporary. 

He came out to every practice, optional or not. His stamina was one of the best on the team. He hated what he was doing to himself, but he also needed it; because amid the uncertainty of his emotions, at least he was fast. At least he was strong. At least he was alive.

“Joseph,” Murdoch called to him one practice, “Dacher’s coming back today.”

Tyler nodded. He knew this day would come. He had been hoping it would be after he played Seattle, but he didn’t care. 

“We want to keep you,” his coach said, surprising him.

Tyler wished he felt happy about it.

Kirby and Nathan stuck by him, at least. He was painfully reminded of Nick and Chris back in high school. But another week passed, and Tyler just got quieter.

Nights were filled with lonely tears and ignoring his phone. Why couldn’t he just be fucking happy? Why was it so hard for his stupid brain to recognize that things were going well for once in his life? It was annoying, stuck like this, and he wanted to just shake some common sense into him. There were people who would kill to be in Tyler’s position. He had money. He had a roof over his head, he had teammates in high places, he had fame and an intact family. And yet he still fucking hated himself.

He had lots. He was leading an arguably successful life. But all he could focus on was what he was missing, not what he had. When would it be enough? His body felt heavy every time he stepped into his empty apartment, but at least he had one. And, come on– he was in the NHL. Surely that should have changed his brain chemistry just a little.

The thought of that was agonizing; no matter the circumstance, no matter the people, he would always be miserable. He had always been pessimistic, but this was a different level. He had the opportunity of a lifetime and instead of revelling in it, he pulled the blankets over his head in a bed he hadn’t made. Tyler didn’t care if there were people dedicated to maintaining and improving his performance, his overall life; he still found a way to mess everything up again. He wanted to go back home. To the bed he’d made all those years ago.

The more he thought of it, the more it got worse. He would get stuck in cycles; he shut out the world, ignored his teammates on either side of him, and got even more increasingly concerned glances from the few people who cared about him. He hadn’t texted Josh back for days and he was boarding the plane to Seattle in a week and a bit. 

So he kind of expected it when his assistant coach, Lindsay, pulled him into his office. Sure, he was performing fine, but it was clear to anyone who looked at him for more than a second that he wasn’t all there.

“How’re you doing?” Lindsay asked, his smile grim and forced as he sat down at his desk. Tyler took a seat in the chair opposite. 

“Not too bad,” Tyler lied. He’d felt out of it all day.

“Good to hear. Listen, uh…” He looked around awkwardly like there were hidden microphones he was trying to spot. “I’ve been hearing that a few teammates are concerned for your well-being.”

Tyler looked at his lap, his cheeks burning bright red. He wrung his hands over and over, thumbs rubbing against his palms, trying to massage feeling back into his bones.

“I’ve had three players approach me on three different occasions, so I just want to check up on you. How are you doing?” Lindsay tried again. 

“I’ve been better,” Tyler admitted, not looking up. “Who were they?”

“That’s confidential. But the issues they’ve come to me with, they’re worrying. I need you to be honest with me,” Lindsay said seriously. He folded his hands on the surface of the desk. “Are you hurting yourself?”

Tyler shook his head slowly. He wasn’t. He thought about it nearly every night, but he wasn’t.

“That’s not what they told me,” he accused.

“The scars are from a very long time ago,” Tyler said, steeling himself, trying to force down the waves of annoyance. “Three years.”

Lindsay nodded, obviously not convinced. “Regardless, I think you would benefit from entering the Player Assistance Program for a little bit.”

Tyler nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. He’d heard of it.

“That doesn’t mean you stop playing,” Lindsay reassured him quickly, as if Tyler was worried about it. “There’s no press release, especially if it’s voluntary, and especially if you don’t miss any games. If you take time off, or if you violate stage one, where you get suspension without pay, we’ll have to make a statement.”

Tyler finally looked up. “What do you mean?”

“This is mostly in the case for addiction, but for example, if you were to enroll yourself, stage one, then fail a drug test, you’d be put on stage two. If you violate stage two, it’s at least six months no pay. So on until violation of stage four, in which contract termination is on the table.”

“How would I violate..?”

“As long as you stay clean and are not a danger to yourself or others, I doubt you’ll move past stage one. This program was built mostly for addiction, but I promise they’ll help.”

Lindsay looked at him with kind, wide eyes, but there was also a little bit of an obligatory concern in there. This was probably in the job description: managing the upkeep of the player’s health and leading conversations. Heck, he’d probably done this before, probably was reciting a script he’d said a million times beforehand.

Tyler huffed out a deep breath, caving. What did he have to lose? “Okay.”

“Okay? You’ll do it?” Lindsay looked at him hopefully.

“Yeah,” Tyler confirmed. “I’ll do it.”

“Great! Uh, things happen pretty immediately.” Lindsay closed a random open binder that had been on his desk without writing a single word down. “I already contacted a representative in the hopes that you would agree.”

Tyler stared miserably up at him. “You mean, if I said no, you would have me enroll anyway.”

Lindsay sighed. “That’s one way to put it.”

Tyler rubbed his eyes, trying to find it within himself to give a shit about anything that went on. “Okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, Tyler.” At least he had the decency to sound genuine.

“It’s fine,” Tyler dismissed.

“Mrs Fouetter is outside. You guys can use this office.” He stood up, then placed a comforting hand on Tyler’s shoulder as he passed to open the door.

A lady walked in, said her hello to his assistant coach, then sat down in the desk chair. Everything about her was unapproachable, from her square, padded shoulders to her crisply pressed suit jacket and pants to her low bun without a single strand out of place. Even her tone told Tyler that she just wanted to get this over with. She held an expression so neutral it was like she’d never felt an emotion in her entire life.

“Please answer these based on the last two weeks, using a scale from never to every day.” Her tone was short.

She didn’t even introduce herself. Tyler mumbled an affirmative and she cleared her throat before reading from a folder.

“Little interest or pleasure in doing things?”

Tyler immediately recognized these questions. “Every day.”

“Feeling down, depressed, hopeless?”

He needed to be truthful, he reminded himself, or nothing would change. “All the time.”

“Trouble falling asleep or sleeping too much.”

“Most days. More than half.” Tyler couldn’t sleep at all.

“Feeling tired or having little energy.”

“All the time.”

“Poor appetite or overeating.”

“Uh, several days.” That was probably too optimistic. 

“Feeling bad about yourself, that you are a failure or have let your family down.”

Tyler took a second to think. The issue wasn’t that he felt like a failure– it was that he couldn’t find happiness in the success. “Honestly, not really.”

“Trouble concentrating on things.”

“Several days.”

“Moving or speaking so slowly that other people have noticed, or the opposite, being fidgety and restless?”

“Uh, not really.” He couldn’t really afford to be slow. His coach would have his ass.

“Thoughts that you would be better off dead or of hurting yourself in some way.”

Tyler swallowed nervously, fighting the urge to lie. “All the time.”

She finished the questionnaire with one last filled-in circle, then turned the page.

“History of mental health disorders?”

Tyler almost laughed. “Yes.”

“Which ones?”

“Uh, MDD.” He thought. He wasn’t actually too sure.

“History of attempted suicide?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

Tyler wanted to cry. “About three years ago.”

“History of self-harm?”

“Yeah.” Tyler’s tone was self-deprecating.

“When?”

“Uh, last year.” He never remembered exact dates. That was Josh’s job.

“Family history of mental health disorders?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you have access to a firearm?”

“No.” Unfortunately.

“Do you have intent to end your life?”

“No.”

That one was true. He truly, honestly, did not want to die. He just wanted to stop being so sad all the time. But there was no option for that, so a simple ‘no’ would have to suffice, boiling down thousands of what-ifs into a single word.

She nodded, scribbling on her clipboard. “We were contacted because of risk to your safety due to mental health. Are there any issues with addiction, the law, or domestically?”

“No.” Tyler was fucked up, but it hadn’t been anyone else’s fault but his own.

“Anything else we should know?”

“No.”

“Okay. Thank you. You will receive a phone call by the end of the business day tomorrow for next steps.”

She left without a goodbye, without another word, wind whistling in Tyler’s ears as she walked briskly past him to get to the door. Tyler waited a second before letting himself wallow, squeezing his eyes shut and slumping in his chair. He hung his head and rested his elbows on his knees, hunched over like it would lessen the pain in his chest. Everything about him screamed defeat.

How was this happening again?

Of all the times in his life, this one should be a happy one. He had an amazing job. He needed it drilled into his head by a thousand screws until it hit the right one and the thought stuck. Tyler had been happy with less; there were ups and downs, and there would be until he died, but he’d also been upset when everything was going the way he wanted. 

But then again, he'd never willingly accepted help like this; he hadn't closed off, hadn't gotten defensive and dishonest. Maybe it was time to turn over a new leaf.

As he entered his empty, dark apartment, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Hope.

He was going to get help. And he made a decision right then and there, keys still in the lock, that he was going to give it a damn good shot.

–

It was probably a placebo, but as soon as he filled his–fully insured– prescription for a low dose of Wellbutrin, it was like a switch went off in his brain.

Tyler was the one who was asking Nathan if he wanted to hang out. Tyler couldn’t remember a single time in his life that he’d actively sought out the company of another person. And just two days into DBT, he felt like he could take on the world, blurting out the full, uncovered truth into the receiver of his phone to his appointed therapist.

Like before, just like always, it was his emotional permanence (or lack of it) fueling the fire. When he was sad, it was like he’d never been happy, and when he was happy, it was like he’d never been sad. He bounced back like a rubber ball on the pavement, just four days later, back to feeling the way he did at the beginning of his NHL season. Lindsay looked at him like he’d grown two heads.

It was definitely a placebo.

By the time he boarded the plane on the way to Seattle, he’d already told his doctor that he felt he didn’t need therapy. Maybe it had just been a weird adjustment period, maybe he didn’t need the pills at all. His doctor looked more concerned than relieved at that statement, though, so Tyler agreed to keep going with the treatment plan. He was going to be the best. He was going to lead the healthiest, most fulfilling life. He was going to set a rigid exercise schedule and eat solid meals and be the most perfect example of the way a human should function.

His therapist told him he had an issue with black and white thinking. Whatever. He was happy now.

Warming up in the area just outside their change room, Tyler tossed the volleyball in the air and spiked it across the circle his team had formed. They were discussing other players’ styles, figuring out where they were lacking in skill to capitalize on their mistakes. It was harsh, hearing them talk about other people and their weaknesses, but it was part of the strategy. Still, it didn’t feel right; when it came to that, Tyler usually just kept his mouth shut.

“Isn’t number twenty-one your loverboy?” Irgashev asked once they’d reached Josh’s line on their list of players.

Tyler went beet red, keeping his silence.

“He is,” Nathan said gleefully, remembering from before. “Coach, when you see Dun out there, put Joseph on.”

Murdoch winked. “I’ll do my best.”

Tyler hurled the ball at Nathan’s head. 

As the discussion moved on, Tyler was still stuck. He hadn’t had the chance to talk to Josh since he texted him when the plane landed, and that was hardly a talk to begin with. Their first interaction face-to-face in three weeks and three days would be as opponents, armed with hockey sticks and sharpened blades. It wasn’t that Tyler was afraid of hurting Josh– if anything, Josh would be the one hurting Tyler based on size and strength– but he was afraid of how their dynamic would change. Would Josh act cold, like they’d never interacted before? Would he pretend he was just another team to beat? Would he act all soft and make his team mad at him, blame Tyler for Josh’s performance?

Turned out he had nothing to worry about. Their first time on the ice together was five minutes into the first period, and the face-off was immediately whistled down as two players dropped the gloves. Tyler straightened up, to the side of the action, not one to jump in on the action.

It was sort of custom to pair up with a player from the other team, as a watchful warning, making sure they didn’t try anything– a way of covering each other. Still, he startled when Josh wrapped an arm around his lower back. 

“Hey,” Josh said brightly, like there weren’t two fully grown men beating each other up ten feet in front of them.

Tyler mirrored him, his hand finding the small of Josh’s back. He gave it a soft pat. “Hey.”

They spectated, watching the fight like it was a sunset, until Tyler’s teammate toppled over, stripped of his jersey and helmet. His mouthguard lay on the ice at Josh’s feet. 

“Gonna get a goal tonight?” Josh asked, kicking the mouthguard away from him with the toe of his blade.

“Yup. For you,” Tyler said with a smile. It was like there hadn’t been a day between them.

Josh raised a joking eyebrow. “Against my team?”

“Uh huh,” Tyler said, too cocky. The refs sorted out the penalties, and Josh was gently pushed away from Tyler so they could get the faceoff going again.

Sure, Tyler pretended he hated it, but the evil, teasing side-glances from his teammates whenever Dun, 21, skated past their bench just made Tyler feel like a giddy teenager being poked fun at for a crush. 

Josh let a slapshot rip from the top, nearly missing Tyler as he dove to block it. Tyler’s goalie caught it in the chest, staying very still until the whistle blew. Josh wasn’t going to change a thing just because Tyler was on the ice, and that settled Tyler’s nerves a little. The last thing he wanted was to be considered at fault for his poor performance. Sure, they’d been a thing, and they were still way more than just friends, but Josh let a shot whistle just beside Tyler like his accident in college had never happened. 

The ref took the puck from the goalie’s glove. Josh was in Tyler’s face, visors pressed together, startling the shit out of Tyler. “That’s illegal.”

It would’ve been scary if it wasn’t… Josh. Playing into his game, Tyler grabbed the neck of Josh’s jersey and pulled him closer. “What is?”

Josh grabbed onto Tyler’s arm, forcing it down, making it look like a fight was about to break out. Josh’s tone was angry, his eyebrows low, a scowl on his face. “Being so handsome.”

It took everything in Tyler to keep the act up, a smile threatening to ruin it. He tugged on Josh’s jersey.

“Boys!” a ref yelled, skating between the two, wrapping his arms around Tyler and dragging him away.

“You’ll be sorry!” Josh called out, but he winked, and those words suddenly took on a different tone.

When Tyler got a change, Nathan elbowed him sharply– he always managed to hit Tyler where there was no protective padding. “The fuck were you two fighting about?” Nathan asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tyler muttered, but he couldn’t help the smile from spreading, his cheeks getting hot again.

Clarity dawned on Nathan’s features. “Save that shit for the bedroom,” he teased.

Tyler pushed him, grinning at his feet. 

True to his word, a quick centering pass from Nathan led to a Chicago goal, the credit going to Tyler. Josh stood in front of the crease and his defeated goalie, grinning, very obviously staring as Tyler hugged his teammates. It was 3-1 for Seattle.

Josh got teasing punches from his teammates as well. It was nice to see Josh having as much fun as Tyler was, opening up to others. His smile was so bright it rivaled the white of the ice, the harsh arena lights.

Tyler’s goal did nothing to turn the tables. Another two goals, and the third period ended 5-1. 

There was a difference, Tyler had learned, between the types of losses. It was possible to play well and still lose, and it was possible to play like shit and win a game. He’d been yelled at by many coaches about how they’d rather lose than win and play like they did. Wins were deserved, and some losses were deserved. This was not one of those times. The scoresheet didn’t reflect the effort. 

It was the most fun he’d had in a very long time, and clearly the rest of his team felt the same. There were claps on the back, fist bumps, and smiles amid the score. 

Tyler glanced around the change room, taking in the grins and the chatter, the missing teeth from flying pucks and sticks. 

He was happy. 

And he hadn’t even had time alone with Josh yet.

Josh rolled Tyler’s cutlery out from the tightly wrapped cloth it was in. He folded it once, bringing a corner to a corner to make a triangle, then placed the red napkin on Tyler’s lap.

“Such a gentleman,” Tyler said with a laugh.

Josh just smiled at him, eyes soft. He unwrapped his own set, sitting across from Tyler.

It was fancy, a restaurant with a name Tyler couldn’t pronounce. The lighting was dim, fake candles illuminating the table’s centrepiece, and low-hanging lights provided the rest of the glow needed to actually see around them. The tablecloth was the same dark red as the napkins. Tyler knew he would never admit this, but Josh was a romantic at heart. Grand gestures, elaborate dates, and expensive dinners were his love language.

But still, Josh made time for the little things. Tyler didn’t care whether they went to McDonald’s or a Michelin star restaurant; as long as he got to see Josh’s face. As long as he got to wake up the next morning to a sleeping Josh, hair messy, mouth agape, their legs tangled under the bedsheets. Some of Tyler’s favourite moments with him had been just existing with him. He liked to cook with him, liked to run the back of his hand along Josh’s stubbly face before he shaved, liked to kiss the morning breath away.

“Thank you,” Tyler said quietly, unable to stop his smile.

“Of course,” Josh returned. He opened the menu and placed it in front of him, staring at all the options. 

Tyler settled on Gnocchi. Josh opted to try Pollo alla Cacciatora, butchering the pronunciation so badly he ended up just pointing to it on the menu. 

“How are you?” Josh asked once their waiter took their menus away.

“I’m doing a lot better,” Tyler admitted. And he was. He hated to admit it, but the therapy was helping. 

“You seem a lot better,” Josh said fondly.

“What about you?” Josh had been struggling, Tyler knew. 

“I’m okay,” he said reassuringly. 

That wasn't enough. “You sure?” 

“Yes. Been making friends with the team.” Josh reached out his hand, palm up, on the table. Tyler put his hand in his. 

“I saw, yeah, you seem a lot more friendly with them on the ice,” Tyler pointed out, remembering the playful punches. “You’re joking. Laughing.”

“You made friends?” Josh asked.

“Yeah. Weirdly enough, with Kirby Dach? The guy I replaced? And Nathan O’Connor. But I’ve been attending more events, been participating more,” Tyler listed, surprised at himself. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m doing suspiciously well.”

“That’s awesome,” Josh said sincerely. His eyes were reflecting the candlelight, all warm and glowy.

“And, uh–” Tyler cut himself off, hesitating. He knew he didn’t have to tell Josh anything, he didn’t have to tell anyone anything, his medical team made it quite clear, but he owed him. Years of worrying about Tyler were probably doing nothing to help with the distance between them. Josh had admitted to staying up all night a few times when Tyler was struggling, waiting for a phone call, a text, something to tell him that Tyler wasn’t safe alone right now.

“What’s up?” Josh asked, breaking Tyler out of his thoughts.

“I’m in the player assist program,” he admitted.

Josh sat up straight, alarmed, his hand squeezing Tyler’s. “What? Are you okay? Isn’t that for– for– are you taking something?”

“I’m alright,” Tyler said quickly. “Not for drugs. Just for, uh–”

“Drinking?” Josh asked, his brow still furrowed.

“No.” Tyler squeezed his hand back. “Uh, general well-being, I guess. There was a little bit of an intervention–”

“Tyler,” Josh interrupted again, distraught.

“It’s not– just let me finish,” Tyler said, his chest hurting at the effect this had on Josh. “I’m okay. A few of my teammates noticed I was a little… down? They saw, uh, my arms, and, reported me, for lack of a better word. So… yeah. I don’t know.”

“Are you hurting yourself again?” Josh asked carefully, but Tyler could see the tiny freak out in his expression.

“No. But it’s not like the old ones are… not visible.” He found Josh’s foot under the table with his own and linked their legs together. “But it’s helped. Really. I’m on meds, mandatory therapy three times a week, constant supervision, weekly doctor’s appointments, mandatory check-ins, the works.”

“I’m sorry,” Josh said softly. “I’m sorry it came to that.”

“I’m being a hundred percent honest with you, Josh,” Tyler stressed. “I’m okay. I thought this would like, reassure you, or something.”

Josh took a deep breath, looking at the ceiling, then back down at Tyler. “I don’t think I’ll ever be completely reassured when it comes to you.”

Tyler looked down at the table, at their hands, ashamed. It stung a little more than it should.

“No. Tyler, that’s not– I don’t mean to– Jesus,” Josh uttered a prayer, calming himself down. “I think I’ll worry about you until the day I die. But it does take a load off my chest, knowing that you’re safe, and that people are keeping you safe. So, thanks. For telling me.”

“Sorry,” Tyler said quickly. The waiter came with their dishes on a tray, and Tyler and Josh let go of each other’s hands to make room. “Thanks.”

“Enjoy,” the waiter said, stepping away.

Tyler returned his attention to the previous conversation. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put a damper on–”

“I’m proud of you,” Josh blurted out suddenly, eyes teary. “I just– I just hate knowing you felt… bad enough to have others intervene.”

“Yeah, well.” Tyler shrugged, desperate to change the topic. “It’s only been a week, and it’s like I’ve never been depressed a day in my life. At this rate, I’ll be annoyingly optimistic in two weeks.”

Josh laughed, and Tyler grinned. He smoothed the napkin on his lap and grabbed his cutlery. 

“I’m better than I’ve been in months,” Tyler said cheerfully, spearing a gnocchi on his fork and holding it up to Josh’s mouth. “Now, eat. Before it gets cold.”

–

Three days later, Tyler arrived at his home arena, a tearful goodbye heavy on his shoulders. He miserably tossed the volleyball into the air, sending it over to Kirby.

“You good, man?” he asked, catching the ball and holding it under his arm.

“Yeah,” Tyler said with a shrug.

Kirby was definitely one of the teammates who reported him. And yet, he didn’t feel the same resentment he did back when Chris and Nick had told the guidance counsellors on him. Maybe he was growing up.

“Just… missing someone,” Tyler elaborated when Kirby gave him a raised eyebrow. 

“Your man, Josh, right?” he asked, tossing the ball in the air to Tyler. “Seemed like a nice guy. Sucks you guys are so far apart, eh?”

“Yeah.” Tyler sent the ball back to him with a volley.

“Is he your…?” Kirby trailed off. He returned it with a bump, his arms held out in front of him.

“We’re not… officially together.” God. He sounded like a teenager. He volleyed the ball back. “The distance is just too much, he thinks he doesn’t have the capacity to be a good partner so far away and so busy.”

“And you?” Kirby asked, kicking the ball in a high arc.

“I think he’s the best person I’ve ever met,” Tyler admitted. It felt weird to be talking about this with someone, so casually, like Tyler wasn’t in love with a guy. He hit the ball with his knee to keep it in the air. 

Kirby hummed, letting the ball fall into his arms. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”

“Guess so,” Tyler said non-committedly. A few other teammates had exited the dressing room and tossed a second ball into the group, causing a handful of fully grown men to be weirdly engrossed in a competitive game of keep-up. 

Kirby pulled him aside right before they stepped on the ice for the game. “Can I talk to you real quick?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Tyler said, a little distracted, nerves alight.

He took a deep breath. “I’m getting traded.”

Tyler blinked, the news hitting him like a brick wall. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Montreal,” Kirby said sheepishly, like it was his fault. Tyler knew how the system worked, the players were the pawns, moved around for money and someone better. “Sorry, I just wanted you to hear it from me, not from the news.”

“No, I get it,” Tyler reassured him quickly. “I’ll miss you, man.”

“And, uh,” Kirby started, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Regardless of where I am, I’m here for you, or whatever.”

Tyler held out his hand for a fist bump. He was well-versed in ending awkward conversations. “Thanks. Me too.”

Kirby hit his fist with his own, then they got ready for their signal. 

The news put a damper on Tyler’s mood, and the adrenaline didn’t hit as hard as it had the past two weeks. He shook his limbs, trying to shock some energy back into his body. This was not the time to back down. They had a chance against Winnipeg; though Chicago was bad, Winnipeg was not much better. 

It showed, his performance slowing. Sure, he was fine, maybe average on his team of pros, but he usually drove the play. Nathan was the one leading, pushing the puck up the ice and calling names, casting worried glances at a quiet Tyler whenever they were on the bench. 

“You okay?” he asked, head low so only Tyler could hear.

Tyler just shrugged. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Relieved, Nathan elbowed him right between his shoulder pad and elbow pad. “Holding you to that.”

Chicago up by one late in the third period, Nathan in the penalty box again, Tyler was sent in to kill the powerplay. Winnipeg had pulled their goalie.

A loose puck was sent from the defensive end to the offensive end, an embarrassing mistake from Winnipeg’s sixth player, having fallen in an attempt to keep Tyler’s defense from icing the puck. Tyler had a head start– he wasn’t the one on his ass on the ice, and he was fast to react to begin with. With professional training, he was probably one of the fastest on his team.

The puck hit the boards on the far end of the ice, just missing the empty net. Tyler, alone, picked it up behind the goal line and wrapped around to shove the puck into the net.

Too focused on the puck crossing the goal line, he realized too late that there was a player, a blur of dark blue, barelling straight for him in a desperate attempt to stop the goal. Tyler had just enough time to turn his head and squeeze his eyes shut.

A shoulder collided forcefully to his jaw, and his world went quiet.

Chapter Text

Josh had never booked a flight so fast in his life. 

He even forgot to be nervous on the airplane. He tried to watch all of Tyler’s games, either in-person (rarely) or on the TV, and seeing the hit made him want to puke.

They were on the road, making their way across the states, and Josh was in a hotel in Nashville when it happened. They had a game the next day. But all Josh could see was the unnatural way Tyler’s neck twisted, his still body, the blood running down his chin…

Tyler didn’t move even with all the fights breaking out around him. The referees had to push players away so they didn’t crush the already unconscious Tyler, lying on his back, limbs starfishing, eyes closed. And they stayed closed. The first-aid crew arrived, just two of them at first, but when Tyler didn’t open his eyes they waved for four more to slide their way over. They brought an AED with them. Josh had been standing one inch away from the television screen at that point.

They didn’t use it. They cut to a commercial break for privacy, and Josh had to angrily pace around his hotel room until the game came back on, checking flights to Chicago. There was one that left at midnight. If Josh rushed, he could make it.

He heard the announcers come back while he was packing his suitcase, throwing things around in a panic. 

“Poor kid,” Rick Ball, the announcer, commented. “He was having a heck of a month.”

“Yeah, Ricky, it looks bad. He hasn’t opened his eyes,” Darren Pang said.

Josh turned to the TV so fast his head spun, but maybe that was just panic. Tyler was on a stretcher. His limbs were strapped down, a strap across his forehead and chin, his neck in a brace. His eyes were closed, his mouth slack; blood was dripping from his lip. Josh felt bile rise in his throat as he stood, transfixed, helpless, as they slowly wheeled him off the ice. 

“Oh shit–” Ball said, his mic immediately muted as soon as he swore, and Josh’s eyes darted from the stretcher back to Tyler. 

His muscles were locked up, jaw clenched, medical personnel shouting and surrounding him on all sides, and the cameras immediately cut away from him to a worried fan in the stands before he could see what was going on.

“Sorry about that,” Ball apologized shakily. “I usually don’t swear. It appears to be some kind of seizure– let’s, let’s take another look at that hit, maybe.” A graphic played before Josh was subject to watching Tyler, his Tyler, fall on the ice. Boneless. 

He watched as Scheifele skated in slow motion, his shoulder hitting Tyler’s chin just as he wrapped the puck around and into the net. At this speed, everything looked worse. Josh could see the moment Tyler lost consciousness; he’d closed his eyes while bracing for the hit, but his face went slack immediately after his head whipped to the side.

“Oof. Look at his neck,” Pang said, his sympathy bleeding through the stream. “That’s not normal.”

Tyler’s head had been forced to the side from Sheifele’s shoulder, too far to the left. Josh swallowed a gag when Pang started commenting on the way his head was almost backwards. 

And a seizure. He’d had a seizure. Something was very very wrong, enough damage had been done, causing neurons to misfire. He hadn’t even woken up. Usually a lapse in consciousness was fleeting, even for injury, but Tyler’s brain had decided enough was enough and turned everything off. It was terrifying to think of what was happening on a biological level. Pressure or injury to the wrong part of the brain could cease his breathing, cease his heart rate, his body giving into the damage.

“They said he was breathing, Darren,” Ball informed him, the cameras cutting back to the ice, the stretcher and Tyler nowhere to be seen. “They’re taking him to the ambulance.”

“The refs are talking, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is a suspension. The open net–”

Josh turned off the TV. His chest heaved as he frantically searched through his contacts. He found his trainer, the first name that popped up.

“Hey, Joshua, I–”

“I have to go,” Josh gasped out, giving his room a quick once-over for anything left behind. “Sorry. Can you let them know? I’m not gonna be there tomorrow. I have to go.”

“Slow down–”

“I can’t. I can’t.” Josh found nothing and headed out his door, carrying his suitcase in one hand and his phone in the other. “Sorry. Someone I know just got badly hurt, and I–”

“I’ll take care of it,” his trainer said, giving in. “I’ll call you later to check up–”

“Awesome. Thanks. Bye.” Josh hung up and put his phone in his back pocket, using two hands now to hold his suitcase and run to the front desk.

“I’m checking out early,” he said, slamming his hotel key card on the lobby desk. “Room four-three-three.”

“Thank you,” the front desk staff member said, barely looking up. 

Josh stood outside while he waited for the taxi. He gave the driver an extra fifty dollars for making the twenty-minute drive in only fifteen.

He paid for in-flight wifi, spending the two-hour flight frantically texting Tyler’s sister. On Instagram, of all things, but it was the only way he could think of contacting her. She hadn’t been watching the game, but as soon as Josh told her Tyler was being taken to the hospital, she’d booked it to the emergency room.

CT showed very very small subdural haematoma– no surgery

He’s gonna live, right

They said probably

Not 100%

He’s breathing on his own now

High chance he will have permanent damage

How are you? Father?

Dad landed, just exiting terminal now

Doing ok. Scared

Bad hit to begin with, combined with other tbis not great

I have a test tomorrow

You are in the fucking icu

Email your profs and take a selfie w him

I haven’t seen him yet

They won’t let me

Why not?

Look man 

They have the crash cart on stand by im not getting in the way of that

When you two have kids promise me they won’t ever play hockey

We’re not even officially together

Let alone children

You can have children outside of being together

I don’t think that is anatomically possible atm

Oh

Right

The waiting was the worst. Josh looked so nervous on the plane that a flight attendant sat with him for a little bit, asking if everything was alright, then asked if he could breathe in for a few counts. He was one of maybe twenty people on the flight and he hated how all the attention was on him, but he couldn’t care. Not when Tyler was in critical condition. Not when there were worse things to focus on. It was taking everything in his power to not sob on the plane, settling for just a few tears at the questioning of the attendant. 

He didn’t even bother with a hotel room. He went straight to the hospital, lugging his suitcase behind him.

“Hi,” Maddy said, smiling weakly, sitting outside of a curtained-off room.

“Hey.” Josh looked at the closed curtain questionably. 

“He’s awake,” Maddy said, noticing his expression. “Just… not there.”

“Seizure?” Josh asked, out of breath, the only word on his mind. He felt constantly on the verge of puking.

“Yeah, something about antidepressants and getting hit in the head,” she explained. “They have him on Phenytoin.”

At that moment, the curtain opened.

Tyler’s dad was crying. 

Josh had known Chris for three years, now, and was practically part of the family. In all that time, Chris had been nothing but calm, cool, and collected. But his face was red, his eyes were shiny, and he was holding a wad of tissues in one hand. Josh didn’t know it was possible, but his heart fell even further. Dread weighed on his chest.

“Joshua,” he said, and then Josh was being wrapped in a hug.

“I’m so sorry–” 

“Don’t,” Chris warned, his voice wavering. “Don’t. He’s yours as much as he is mine.”

It felt weird to be hugged by a father who wasn’t his, but it was comforting nonetheless. But Josh was only an ex-boyfriend. Chris was Tyler’s father.

“Can I see him?” Josh asked.

Chris nodded, pulling away. “He, uh, he’s not responding to voices, but his eyes are open. Physical stimuli only.”

Josh swallowed his nerves and entered the little area, closing the curtain gently behind him.

Tyler looked so small. He had an oxygen tube going into his nostrils, monitors clamped to his fingers, IVs in the crooks of both his elbows. His head was shaved in random places, making room for electrodes on his scalp, connecting to a monitor on the wall above him. The ICP monitor sat to his left. An EKG showed the steady signs of life on its display, wires snaking from under the blanket. Josh winced at the catheter connected to the bag hooked onto his bed.

“Tyler,” Josh whispered, sitting on the chair to Tyler’s right. “Hey, baby.”

No response, except for a slow blink.

His eyes were blank, staring at nothing. It was scary. There was nothing happening, no recognition. The neck brace forced him to stare up at the ceiling.

Tyler had stitches in his lip. Josh’s heart was beating considerably faster than Tyler’s, a steady beep in his ears. Josh avoided the wires and found Tyler’s limp hand. 

Tyler’s brown eyes were unseeing. The light that had just begun to return had been ripped away. Josh didn’t realize how dead his eyes were, back when he was suffering, because now that there actually was nothing behind them, they looked the same. Cloudy from the lack of blinking, pupils dilated from drugs and probably head injury, there was no life behind those eyes. If it wasn’t for the rise and fall of his chest and the carefully monitored vital signs, Tyler could have been dead and Josh wouldn’t have been able to tell.

His hand was cold. Dead. Dead dead deaddeaddeaddead. 

“Can you hear me?” Josh asked.

Tyler closed his eyes.

He looked like he was sleeping. If he just ignored the tubes and the wires, it was almost peaceful. He was just sleeping. It was better than the unseeing gaze. Everything was okay.

Nothing was okay.

“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” Josh tried again. He watched his hand carefully, holding his breath, not even daring to blink and miss it. He hoped. He prayed. He knew it was in vain.

Not a twitch of a finger.

For some reason, that was what made Josh break. What started as a quivering lower lip ended up becoming non-stop tears. He lowered his head against the bedsheets, gasping for air, his eyes squeezed shut against the onslaught of sobs. He held onto Tyler’s hand like it was his lifeline. He brought his other hand up just to rest against Tyler’s chest, just to feel him breathe. It was taking everything in him to not sob audibly, cutting off the sound and turning them into hitches in his lungs instead. The curtained walls provided no soundproofing. 

Maddy said there was a high probability of permanent damage. What if this was all Tyler was going to be? Lifeless, unresponsive, relying on machines? Even though he was breathing on his own, his oxygen levels were just barely acceptable, even with the tube resting just inside his nose, funneling air directly into his trachea. What if this was it? A persistent vegetative state?

He wanted to throw up. 

It was worse when he remembered the incident in their first year playing together. The slow-motion trajectory of the puck. Josh saw the blood on his hands in his nightmares, Tyler dead to the world on the ice, panic making his vision blur. The part that hurt the most was when Tyler would wake up, terrified and in pain. And this, this was so much worse. 

Josh raised his head ever so slightly, just enough to see Tyler’s face. His forehead was void of any tension, his eyes shut and mouth slightly parted. His lower lip was too swollen to close. He was just sleeping. 

Josh brought the hand not currently clutching Tyler’s up to brush against his cheek. His skin was smooth against the back of his hand, slightly cold to the touch.

Maybe if Josh hadn’t hit him in the head those couple years ago, maybe Tyler would’ve been okay. Concussed, definitely, but without an ICP monitor for God’s sake. Without the hole drilled into his skull with a sensor stuck on his brain.

With every blink, more tears fell. Josh’s nose was getting stuffy but he didn’t dare move yet. 

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice wrecked. “I’m so sorry.”

There was nothing. Josh lowered his head again. He sniffed and exhaled through his mouth, his breath all shuddery and broken. 

His Tyler.

Tyler had been a teenager when Josh sent a slap shot to his helmet. Tyler had been a teenager when he collapsed in that practice. Josh could still see the way his legs gave out, he could still hear the sound his helmet made against the ice as it bounced off the surface. He could still feel the cold metal of the snaps as he undid Tyler’s straps with shaking fingers.

Tyler had been a teenager when Josh punched him in the face so hard that he toppled over and maybe lost consciousness for half a second. Tyler had been a teenager when he kissed Josh, breath hot like fireball, and then collapsed in his arms. He had stopped breathing— multiple times— and had to have Narcan injected into his bloodstream. He would have died. And it would’ve been all Josh’s fault.

Tyler had been a teenager, but so had Josh.

Josh had been a teenager when he picked up a naloxone kit— just in case— from the pharmacy, then searched up multiple videos on how to use it. He’d been a teenager when he carried Tyler’s body up the stairs and into the ambulance, when he held Tyler’s hand in the emergency department for long hours, when he sat in the passenger seat of Chris’s car in tense silence. Chris had cried the entire way back, tears quietly sliding down his face and dripping onto his jacket.

And now, in their early twenties, more mature and less afraid, Josh had never felt smaller.

—

Maddy ended up going to her class, anyway. Josh and Tyler’s dad sat side by side, waiting, blinking away tears. The doctors said he’d wake up any minute now, they said the pressure in his skull had stabilized and they were just waiting for it to go down, and only then could they assess the damage done. He just had to wake up first. 

It was awful. He watched the LCD peak and depress over and over again, counting the beats. He memorized the brand names of the equipment around him. He learned the meanings of the codes blaring from the speakers, his heart falling further once he knew the incidents behind them, feeling both sorry for himself but also guilty, knowing there was so much worse going on beyond these curtained walls.

Code white was frequent, the psych floors repeated over and over. Code blues rang all over the hospital. Code pinks made him want to cry and scream and curse the world. 

Tyler was alive. Even if he’d never be the same, he was still alive. The same could not be said for everyone. 

Code pink, six-west, six-three-four. 

A low sort of groan emerged from Tyler, and Josh’s eyes darted up from his phone. Tyler’s dad was faster.

“Tyler,” he said slowly. “How are you?”

Tyler stared at the ceiling, giving no indication that he heard him. But Josh could see his throat working, trying to force out a noise. For a brief, horrible second, Josh wondered if he’d respond at all.

“M’hurt,” Tyler rasped out, finally.

Josh let out a breath of relief. He was talking. He was breathing. He could hear things around him, he could respond, and that was already miles better than what Josh had been expecting– or dreading.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are,” Tyler’s dad said, a forced calm. “But you’re going to be okay.”

Tyler slowly brought a hand up to his face, getting tangled in the wires. He tugged at them briefly, eyes flicking down to see what he was caught on, but he wasn’t able to move his head.

“M’neck,” Tyler complained.

“You got some pretty awful whiplash,” Chris explained. “It’s just a brace.”

“Hm.” 

“Josh is here.”

“Hm?”

Josh looked anxiously at Tyler’s father, hesitant.

“Say hello,” he said. “It’s okay.”

Josh took a deep breath and leaned into his periphery. “Hi, Tyler.”

Tyler squinted at him. “Hi.”

“How are you?” It was a stupid question. 

“M’hurt,” he whimpered.

“Yeah.” Josh chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“M’neck is stuck,” Tyler complained.

“You’re in a brace,” his dad explained.

Tyler’s fingers traced over the hard plastic around his neck. “Oh. W’happened?”

“You got in an accident during the game,” his dad said.

Tyler blinked, surprised. “Oh.”

“Do you remember anything?” Josh asked.

Tyler went to shake his head, but the brace kept him from moving. He winced. “M’neck is stuck.”

“You’re in a brace, Tyler,” Josh reminded him.

“Oh.”

Tyler talked himself in circles. The doctor assured them that it was normal, and that the fact that he was alert at all was something to celebrate, and that the best thing to do would be to just repeat the information when Tyler asked. 

“Don’t tell him he’s said it before, it might stress him out,” his doctor said, a blonde woman with her hair in the tightest ponytail Josh had ever seen. It lifted her eyebrows up, like she was permanently surprised.

Josh caught glimpses of sleep across three chairs in the hall outside Tyler’s room. They’d moved him into a proper room with a door, and Josh listened to the cries of other patients for a few minutes after he’d woken up before entering Tyler’s room again.

He was awake, crying. Josh’s heart immediately fell.

“They did this to me,” he sobbed, neck brace off, twisting this way and that to look at his beaten-up body. “My head. They did this.”

“They’re here to help you,” Tyler’s dad said softly, a firm grip on both his hands. There was a trail of blood from Tyler’s forearm to a needle lying in the blankets; he’d ripped out his IV. Tyler’s dad was physically restraining him.

“They’re here to hurt me.”

“These doctors have been helping you,” he explained, and by the tired tone, Tyler’s state had been going on for a while. 

“It’s mercury.” Tyler successfully ripped his arm out of his dad’s grip and moved onto the needle in his left arm. “There’s mercury in here.”

“Don’t touch that.” Chris struggled to get Tyler’s arm down, capturing his wrist before he could rip out the other IV. 

“You’re on their side,” Tyler gasped, recoiling like he’d been burned. 

“There’s no sides, Tyler.”

“What’s going on?” Josh asked, finally making his presence known. Tyler jumped, startled, then squinted up at Josh with a horrified look on his face.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, venom in his tone. 

Josh’s breathing stopped for a second. “Wh-what?”

“Who are you?” Tyler demanded.

No way. There was no way Tyler didn’t remember Josh. He’d recognized him before, back when he’d first been lucid, back when he talked nonsense and asked the same questions five times in a row before falling asleep again and then repeating those questions. “Tyler?”

“What did you do? Get out. I don’t want you,” Tyler spat. “I want Josh.”

“I am Josh,” Josh reminded him, confused. His brain was sorting through every single thing he knew about traumatic brain injuries but it was coming up blank.

“What did you do with him?” Tyler asked tearfully, ripping his arms out of his dad’s grip again, but he just pointed at Josh menacingly. “Who are you?”

“What are you talking about?” Josh asked in a whisper.

“What did you do with Josh?” Tyler repeated, pulling out his other IV with a wince. “Where is he?”

“Tyler, no. Stay–” his dad said, cautiously picking up the needles and moving them slightly out of the way.

“You’re on their side!” Tyler exclaimed, pushing his father away from him. He moved on to ripping the sensors off his fingers, then tried to sit up. “They paralyzed me.”

“You’re not paralyzed,” his dad said desperately. “You’re just weak.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Tyler cried, ignoring his dad, “just bring him back.”

“I’m gonna go get a doctor,” Josh said nervously, backing out of the room. 

Tyler was inconsolable. Josh could hear him yelling from all the way down the hall, his voice wrecked, devastated. Josh didn’t know much about brain injuries, but something was very, very wrong.

“Misidentification syndrome. Capgras delusion,” the doctor said. Doctor Paige, that was her name, Josh’s brain helpfully supplied. 

“What’s that?” Josh asked, though he kind of already knew the answer.

“He believes you’ve been replaced by someone who looks and sounds exactly like you, but isn’t you,” she explained. “He’s stage four, confused and agitated, so hopefully it won’t last.”

“That’s–”

“It’s illogical. There’s no reasoning with it,” she reminded him. “It’s likely just an effect of the injury, maybe some of the meds he’s on, but we put him on haloperidol for now. It should help with the paranoia and delusions.”

Josh blinked back tears. “Can I see him?”

“You can try.”

It was in vain. The second Josh stepped back into the room, Tyler was on high alert.

“What is he doing here again?” Tyler asked coldly.

“Tyler, this is Josh,” his dad said with a sigh. His dad was the only person Tyler let approach him, even though he was still distrustful of him.

“He’s going to hurt me,” he said, and Josh recognized the early stages of panic, the way his chest heaved and the working of his jaw. The distress was radiating off him in waves.

“He’s not going to hurt you.”

Josh couldn’t even defend himself. He stood, frozen at the accusation, watching his Tyler break down over him. The signs he was careful to look for, the rapid heartbeat beeping on the LCD, the trembling fingers, it was all because of him. 

“I don’t know who you are. Or what you’ve done with Josh,” Tyler started, his voice tight like there was a pressure on his chest, “but leave me alone.”

“Tyler—” Josh choked out.

“What do you want from me?” Tyler yelled, terror clear on his face.

“I just—”

“Where did you take me for our very first date?” Tyler challenged.

“A Blue Jackets hockey game,” Josh answered immediately.

That wasn’t good enough, apparently. “What was the score?”

Josh ran his fingers through his hair in defeat, his mind blank. “Tyler, how am I supposed to remember—”

“Exactly!” Tyler shouted, like it proved his point. “Exactly. Get out.”

His dad sighed, looking apologetically at Josh. Josh nodded and left, blinking back tears. He sat just outside the door in a hard plastic chair, but he didn’t need to sit so close– Tyler wasn’t exactly quiet. Not when he was so worked up like this.

“Is Josh dead?” Tyler asked his dad. Josh’s eyes stung.

“No, honey.”

“Who was that?” Tyler sounded so scared, so small, his voice still gravelly from disuse. It was warming up, though, but the more he talked, the more worrying it all was. He wasn’t thinking right. 

“That was Josh.”

“That’s not him!” Tyler repeated, desperate to have someone understand. “You’re on their side. You killed him.”

Josh’s heart lurched at the accusation and he almost missed his dad’s response. “No one has killed Josh.”

“Then who is that?” Tyler sobbed, voice thick with tears. “He’s wearing Josh’s face, but that’s not him. I don’t know him. And if he took him, then Josh is dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

“Josh isn’t dead.” Tyler’s dad was beginning to break. “Please, Tyler, please just–”

“I can’t live without him,” Tyler whimpered. “I can’t.”

“He’s not dead, honey. No one is dead. Calm down–”

“Don’t touch me!” Tyler yelled. “You’re on their side. They killed him.”

“Tyler—”

“Take me,” Tyler begged. “Kill me instead. And if he’s dead, kill me too. I don’t want to be here if Josh isn’t.”

Josh had a hand clamped over his mouth so Tyler couldn’t hear him cry. Tears ran silently down his face, falling like his resolve, feeling so helpless it was suffocating.

There was nothing he could do. Not when Tyler couldn’t even look at him and see him as the person he was. Not when Tyler wouldn’t even let Josh in the room. He had to watch everything fall apart from a distance, unable to look away, nothing but a bystander to a deadly car crash. Disaster struck from every angle and Josh was watching the news as other people put their lives in danger.

“Tyler, nobody is dead,” his dad kept trying.

“Then where is Josh?” Tyler wailed. “Dad. They, they, Dad. He’s dead. They took his— his— his body. Dad. That’s not Josh, that’s— that’s not— please. I’ll do anything. I promise. I’ll be good.”

There was a small silence before his dad responded. “I don’t know how to help you.”

“Bring him back,” Tyler whimpered. “Tell them. I’ll eat their food. I’ll let them drug me. Just please— I need him back.”

“Son—”

“Please.” Tyler was sobbing. “I’ll do anything.”

Josh chanced a look into the room. Tyler had let his dad comfort him, wrapped in his arms, as Chris slowly stroked his hair. 

“They know what he means to me,” he said into his dad’s chest, voice slightly muffled. “And now they’re using his face to get me to do things. I’ll do them. Tell them I’ll do them. But they need to bring him back.”

Everything hurt so bad. Josh was nothing but a stranger to him, perhaps even less by the look of horror on Tyler’s face when he’d seen him.

He searched up the score. 4-1 for Toronto. 

–

Josh had finally slept in his own bed, for the first time in three days, checking in at a hotel right beside the hospital. 

He didn’t know the date, he didn’t know the time. The only thing he could say with certainty was that he’d missed two games, and it had been far too long without Tyler saying a friendly word to him. The raw fear in his eyes was enough to break Josh’s heart. He knew it wasn’t his fault, he knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault, but it still hurt so bad. There was no love in those eyes. Not anymore. Josh didn’t know if there ever would be, and he’d cried himself to sleep last night on that thought.

Even in that large, comfy bed, he slept more easily on those three chairs in the hallway, knowing Tyler was right around the corner. And he was right to, considering Tyler’s dad looked very distraught when Josh finally came back for the day. They’d said he was out of the woods, but anything could happen, and judging by the shakiness in Chris’s voice as he talked on the phone with his wife, it was something awful.

“Hold on– Joshua just got here, I’ll fill him in,” he said. The wavering tone wasn’t new, but the severity of it was. “He’s been a great help. Really.”

All Josh did was make things worse. He was in the way. He was banned from Tyler’s room because he would get too agitated, confined to a chair in the hallway. That was the opposite of “great help.”

He’d never felt more useless. Every time Tyler laid eyes on him, it was like he hated him. It was like they were back in college again, Tyler getting angry at the smallest things, hating Josh’s guts, while Josh was just trying to get closer. This was nothing compared to that text he got that one night after that dreaded game, when his former teammate outed him to everyone. 

I don’t think we should see each other anymore.

It hurt so bad Josh didn’t even know how to respond. So he didn’t. But knowing the mental agony Tyler was in and balancing the betrayal fresh on his mind was torture. He was constantly stuck in a limbo, not knowing if he should reach out as the bandages on his arms returned, or if he should respect Tyler’s wishes in fear of making everything worse. He forgave too easily; that was what his therapist had told him. So when Tyler approached him after a couple weeks of suffering, he was a bit hesitant.

But he loved him. 

And he still would. Even if Tyler never recognized Josh for who he was. Even if he had to spend his life in and out of the hospital. Josh had pushed for a break knowing they would get back together when the time was right, and no head injury was going to stop him. 

But Tyler might. And that was the scariest thought. 

“Love you. Bye,” Chris said into the phone before lowering it. He sighed. “Sit down, Joshua.”

Josh sat down in his chair. Chris sat down on the one beside him, head hung, stress lines etched on his face. He pocketed his phone with heavy limbs.

Had things gotten worse? Immediately, Josh’s mind went to a more serious brain bleed. Maybe he’d fallen and hit his head again. Maybe the pressure was too much, and now he’d lost motor functions, relying on machines to keep him alive, pumping the blood artificially through his body and forcing his diaphragm to contract and relax through technology. Maybe there was nothing behind those eyes. Josh would take the hatred over the empty, faraway gaze Tyler had held when Josh first saw him.

“He’s in full-blown psychosis,” he informed Josh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He, uh, they had to sedate him. He’s sleeping right now.”

Sedate? “What did he do?”

“He, he hurt himself with a can of coke. The metal,” Chris explained wearily, making a slashing motion across his left wrist.

Josh gulped, thinking of the timer he had. Four hundred and fifty-two days. “Badly?”

Chris shook his head, then shrugged. “He didn’t need stitches, just butterfly bandages.”

“Did he say why…?” Josh asked nervously.

Chris swallowed hard. “He said he would rather die than give us any information.”

“He tried to kill himself?” Josh asked in disbelief.

“He’s delusional,” Chris reiterated, falling apart, hands rubbing at his face like if he stopped something bad would happen. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

It felt weird to have a fully grown father break down beside him in a hard plastic chair, but Josh just put a hand on his back in a form of comfort. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to shake some sense into Tyler, ask him what the hell he was thinking, but he knew that wouldn’t work. The first thing the doctor told them to do was to not deny his delusions, and just redirect. But Tyler was hurting himself. Tyler just tried to kill himself, whether or not he was in his right state of mind. 

Tyler was terrified. He was scared, alone, and no one was taking him seriously. And Josh– Tyler got too worked up around him, so he spent hours outside the room, listening to him have panic attack after panic attack over the poisoned food, the IVs, over being restrained. Even though Josh knew it wasn’t real, and everyone else knew it wasn’t real, it was real to Tyler. And that just hurt something horrible.

“Stop. Stop. Please,” Tyler begged. “I don’t want to. Stop.”

Tyler’s dad had gone to catch a few hours of sleep in Josh’s hotel room, having been awake for nearly two days straight– he only dozed in the chair when Tyler himself was sleeping. Josh sat outside the door, as usual, useless. 

“Mr Joseph, you need to keep the IV in. If you won’t drink the water, we have to keep it in. If you rip it out one more time you’ll be restrained,” his nurse said.

“It hurts. Stop.” Tyler’s voice was panicked, thick with tears. “Stop. No. No, no, no, please please please, I don’t want— ow!”

Josh squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing. There was nothing he could do.

“No. I’m not— no!” Tyler nearly screamed. “I’m begging, please please please just stop.”

“You’re getting the NG tube unless you can eat your breakfast.”

“I don’t want— no! No. I’ll eat. I’ll eat. I promise. Please,” Tyler sobbed, losing his resolve. “I just— please stop touching me.”

“Here. Do you want me to read the ingredients? It’s sealed in its package. I promise it’s not poisoned.”

“I don’t trust you,” Tyler said tearfully.

“See? Here. You can make sure there’s no tampering.”

There was a brief moment of silence, filled only by quiet sniffling.

“There we go. You’ll feel better with some food in you.”

“I don’t want any more. It tastes funny.”

“Do you want another granola bar?”

“No.”

“Okay. You did well. Thank you, Tyler.”

The nurse stepped out, and Josh looked expectantly up at him, eyes hopeful.

“One granola bar,” he said triumphantly. “We’re gonna remove the ICP monitor today, so he needs something in him.”

“When’s the haloperidol gonna kick in?” Josh asked. They kept upping his dose, but so far the delusions remained.

“Two to six hours,” he told Josh. “We’re gonna try a different med if nothing works this time.”

“Okay. Okay,” Josh breathed. “Thank you.”

“I was doing some research,” the nurse said, “and I saw a case of Capgras delusion where the patient was able to communicate with her husband over the phone, even if she didn’t believe it was him in person. Something about frontal lobe damage, a disconnection between memories and the ability to recognize faces. So, he knows your face, but the disconnect means that something is just slightly off about you. But, if he can’t see your face, it just might work.”

“I can talk to him again?” Josh asked, tears pricking his eyes. He didn’t want to get so hopeful so soon, but it was killing him.

“We can try,” the nurse said.

“Okay.” Josh let his muscles relax out of relief, slumping in the chair like he hadn’t sat in days. “Let’s wait until his dad gets here. He’s the only one he lets near him, and if this goes wrong, I don’t want him to be alone.”

“Good idea,” he said. “He’ll go for surgery in about half an hour.”

Low-risk brain surgery. Practically nothing, practically routine, but the words brain surgery still made Josh shudder. This was a procedure they could do while the patient was conscious– and Tyler would be, sedated more than usual to keep him from getting aggravated– but that still did nothing to ease the fear. The doctors knew what they were doing. Josh wasn’t going to tell them how to do their jobs. But listening to Tyler cry and beg and plead for everyone to stop touching him made Josh want to kidnap Tyler and hide him away.

Tyler’s dad came back just before Tyler was lucid enough to realize what was going on. The ICP monitor was gone, the danger had passed. Josh waited anxiously, a little further down the hall, phone in his hand while he waited for it to ring.

He answered Tyler’s dad’s call and  held his breath.

“Josh is on the phone, Tyler,” he heard. “Do you want to talk to him?”

There was a small scuffle of sound. “Josh?”

“Hi, Ty,” Josh said, his voice wavering. Anticipation was flooding through his veins, replacing the dread with something easier, more bearable. Please. Please. Please. 

“You’re alive,” Tyler breathed out in relief. “Josh. You’re alive.”

Those were the most beautiful words Josh had ever heard. Breathless, raspy, but recognizable.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” He wiped at the tears in his eyes, letting out a shaky laugh. “Hey.”

“Dad. Go. I need to talk to Josh only,” Tyler said.

“Okay,” Josh heard. “I’ll be right outside.”

Chris walked the very few steps to the chairs and sat beside Josh in the hall. He had his elbows on his knees, palms pressed against his eyes, breathing shakily. Chris didn’t let himself fall apart in front of Tyler, but Josh could tell it was a massive effort.

“There’s this guy…” Tyler began in a whisper. “He looks like you and talks like you. But he’s not you.”

“I’m sorry.” Don’t deny. All Josh wanted to do was shake sense into him.

“I’m scared.”

Josh looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears that fought harder than he could. “You’re safe, Tyler.”

“I don’t know what I did, but they… they want something from me. But my dad’s on their side. Everyone’s on their side,” Tyler said, getting more and more upset. “Promise me. Promise me you’re on my side.”

“I’m… on your side, Tyler. I won’t ever leave.”

“They keep doing things to me. I’m scared. They keep injecting me with things and– and forcing me to eat and they tied me down. I’m so scared.”

“You’re safe,” Josh repeated, his heart wrenching at the small and terrified voice coming from his phone.

“Where are you?”

Josh looked at Tyler’s dad for direction, but he was staring at the wall, unshed tears in his eyes. “I’m safe, too.”

“I’m alone,” Tyler reassured him. “You can tell me.”

Josh didn’t know how to reply. “I… Tyler, I…”

“Are you okay?” he asked, and Josh crumbled.

“I miss you,” he sobbed out, shaking his sweater sleeve over his hand and using it to wipe his eyes. “I wish I could see you right now.”

“When my head stops hurting so much, they said I could leave. Just wait until then, then I’ll find you. I promise.”

Tyler was consoling Josh. This was so backwards. Josh couldn’t stop crying, his breath stuttering into the phone. He couldn’t say anything without it breaking off.

“Josh. Shit. You need to breathe.”

That just made Josh cry harder. 

“Hey. We’re going to figure this out, okay, man? We’re in this together. But in the meantime, you need to breathe.” Josh would have stopped Tyler if it didn’t sound like it was reassuring him as well. “Panicking isn’t going to help anything. You said you’re safe. You said I’m safe, and I trust you. Right now, we’re alive, and we’re safe.”

“We’re alive, and we’re safe,” Josh repeated, unsteady.

“Yeah.”

“I… love you, Tyler,” he forced out somehow, breath catching on his name.

“I love you too. I have to go. I think I’m going to throw up.”

Tyler’s dad stood up quickly, taking large strides back to the room. Tyler hung up, and Josh stared at his phone until the screen dimmed and his own teary face stared back at him. 

But… it worked. He could talk to him. Even if he couldn’t see him, he could talk to him.

He’d take what he could get.

–

“You should’ve just let me die.” 

Tyler was fighting again. None of the meds were working to help his brain catch up, and they didn’t want to sedate him unless it was dire. He’d been restrained again, refusing to drink the water, forcing the nurses to rehydrate him intravenously.

“Please stop, Tyler,” his dad begged, voice thick with tears.

“Josh isn’t coming back. I don’t want to live without him.”

Hearing it like this, when Tyler was vulnerable, drugged up, and scared, it just sounded so much more real. It was the truth. Josh bit onto the neck of his sweater to keep himself from crying out.

“When they let me out, I’m gonna kill myself.” The determination in his tone was scary.

“Tyler, please,” his dad begged. He hadn’t been privy to Tyler’s suicidal rants, not like Josh had, but Josh had no doubt that it hurt just as much, if not more.

“I just— I just— he’s gone.”

“You talked to him on the phone. He’s alright.” Desperation made it worse; that was what the doctor said. But how the hell were they supposed to comfort him?

“They’ve probably killed him already. Should’ve killed me while they were at it,” Tyler said sourly. 

“Stop!” his dad snapped.

There was a pause. Josh once again wished he were allowed in the room. It killed him inside, knowing he was so close yet so far, and not knowing what was going on. Josh could read Tyler like an open book if he’d just let him see his face. 

“I’m sorry, dad,” he said quietly. “I’ll shut up. Don’t cry.”

“I wish I knew how to help you.”

“Me too.”

Jordan, Josh’s younger brother, had once asked what he saw in Tyler, after witnessing a teary phone call at the kitchen table in the dead of night. Jordan wasn’t exactly the biggest fan; not when the only thing he’d seen was the effect he had on Josh, making him a miserable ghost, wandering the house like a lost soul. And Josh understood that– they’d only met a few times, now.

“He treats you like a therapist,” Jordan had said. He didn’t mean it in a vicious way, and besides, Josh couldn’t even refute that. “You can’t try to fix everyone you’ve ever met.”

Josh didn’t exactly have a great track record with that kind of stuff, either. But how could he explain the happiness that soared in his chest when he woke up to a bright smile, even on the cloudiest days? The passion and the fight he admired? The feeling only late nights could bring, the deep talks that went until morning, the comfort of a warm body breathing softly beside him? Josh couldn’t help but love Tyler. Tyler could hate him, want him dead, and Josh would still follow. He knew it was unhealthy, and he was working on it, and Tyler had been working on it too. He’d made leaps and bounds since he was a teenager. They both had.

“I just love him,” Josh had answered.

He didn’t love everything about him. But it was stuff that just proved he did. He hated how Tyler’s brain stopped him from seeing how great of a person he actually was. He hated how awful he knew Tyler felt some nights, awful enough to hurt himself, to try to end his life. But he loved him enough to do his best to remedy that. To love around it. To love the way he fought and tried harder, love the way he bounced back, love the way he opened up and shared how he saw the world, love the way he went to Josh in times of need.

And Jordan didn’t exactly know about his own bad nights. Nights when he was trapped in a spiral, one Tyler always managed to rip him out of. Tyler broke down Josh’s walls without even realizing it. He showed Josh how to trust again, how to stop living in fear of other people hating him, how to stop hiding the best parts of himself. It had been a while since Josh could actually be himself around someone.

In short, Tyler was the best thing to ever happen to Josh. Every up and down was worth it. Their rocky relationship in the beginning was worth it. Everything that had led up to this exact moment had been worth it. Josh could only hope that this moment was worth it, too.

“He’s sleeping,” Chris said, poking his head around the corner, ripping Josh out of his thoughts.

Josh sat down in the empty chair beside Tyler’s bed; there were always two, one for Josh, one for his dad, but one was always empty whenever Tyler was awake. Each day, there were fewer and fewer tubes and stickers on him. They shaved his head properly after the surgery, and Tyler freaked out until Chris told him that Kelly had done it. He only let his mom touch his hair. 

If nothing awful happened in the next twenty-four hours, Tyler was set to go home. They’d drive him the long hours back to Ohio in an ambulance, not quite trusting him to be okay in an airplane, miles off the ground and away from help if something were to go wrong.

And then it would be waiting. Waiting to see if things would go back to normal. Waiting as they weaned him off the meds. Waiting to see if the pain he always complained of dissipated, waiting to see if he’d ever recognize Josh, waiting to see if he’d ever touch a pair of skates again. 

Chris let out a deep sigh, staring at Josh sympathetically. “Son–”

Josh broke. He burst into tears and let himself be held by Tyler’s father, feeling both so young and so much older than he was.

Chapter Text

Tyler stared at his arm.

Confusion and dread swirled in his gut. Fear gripped the sides of his vision like a vice. He didn’t know the faces around him, he didn’t know names, but at least his dad was here. Without being prompted, he answered Tyler’s unspoken questions each time he could remember waking up. 

You’re in the hospital. You’ve been in an accident. That happened four days ago. These are your meds, this is what’s in the IV, you’re safe and alive.

The names of the meds flew right over his head, long names ending with the alcohol functional group, some of them brand names, some of them tongue twisters even for the people administering them. Foreign liquid flowed down a plastic tube, entering his skin just below the crook of his elbow. He didn’t know if it hurt; he was on so many pain meds he could barely speak without his tongue rolling out from between his teeth, muscles lazy and uncooperative.

Bits and pieces of broken memory returned to him behind his eyelids. He’d just been scolded by a nurse and forcibly lifted into bed after he’d tried to get up and ended up in a heap on the floor, ripping the IV out and disconnecting himself from various sensors. That had been, what, an hour ago? Two? Without knowing the time, Tyler felt untethered from reality, hovering above the world. Regardless, his dad hadn’t left his side since his little escapade. 

His dad looked… horrible. Tyler was sure he wasn’t much better, but for someone who hadn’t been in whatever accident had happened, his dad looked like he was on his deathbed. He was pale. The dark circles under his eyes reminded Tyler of the fact that they were related, along with the pained half-smile-half-grimace and pinched expression that he’d inherited. 

His dad noticed his gaze. He smiled reassuringly at him, then tucked the thin blanket over his arm so he didn’t have to look at it anymore.

“What happened?” Tyler asked, voice hoarse.

His dad looked conflicted. “You got hurt.”

“How?”

He just shook his head.

The white bandage, speckled with the dark brownish-red of dried blood, was anything but inconspicuous. The itchiness mixed with the pain of healing skin felt so familiar that it made him want to be sick. 

“Did I do it?” he asked, pressing further.

His dad looked at the bedsheets, chewing on his lower lip. “Yes.”

Tyler tore his gaze away, finally. He leaned back against the slightly inclined bed as nausea and pain forced him down. Disappointment flooded his veins, pushing the intravenous fluid elsewhere, and the shame burned hot in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it did nothing to stop the tears from sliding down his temples and into his hairline. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” his dad said, gently rubbing a cloth on his face, the rough fabric mixing with the haze of his senses. 

Everything just blurred together. He wasn’t sure if he was asleep or awake sometimes, waking up without ever being asleep, falling asleep without ever being awake. Time jumped and people came and went. His dad stayed, sometimes slumped over, head on the mattress to catch a glimpse of sleep, but mostly upright and ready to jump in at the slightest sound of distress. 

“Where’s Josh?” Tyler asked. He’d remembered seeing him, so he was somewhere. 

His dad just looked at him sadly. “He’ll be here soon. I promise.”

Josh didn’t come.

Tyler wasn’t sure how long he actually waited for, but it felt like days. But whenever he asked, it was always four days after his accident. Time stood so still and it was making him angry. He kept wanting to stand up, walk out of the room, and find Josh himself.

Other than the supernova behind his eyes, he felt alright. They’d weaned him off of a few meds– phenytoin, morphine– and he started to feel more like a person than a zombie stitched together by fear and anger. But the frustrations still built.

His dad had left for a second. It was now or never. The washroom? The vending machines? Tyler wasn’t sure, all he knew was that he looked over and the chair was empty, and he had no recollection of even waking up. The blanks in his memory correlated with the pain pulsing in his head; whatever had happened was serious.

He held onto the bedrail with shaking hands, swinging one leg over the edge.

“Ow,” Tyler grimaced to himself, his core muscles protesting. He felt exhausted from that one move.

After taking a moment to just breathe the black spots away, he swung his other leg over. He’d held his breath when he’d lifted his leg and he gasped, almost choking on a breath. He leaned over with his hands still holding on for dear life and tried not to throw up. The nausea was always present, always awful, its source a combination of the pain and whatever meds he was on. His inner ear was probably in shambles as well.

Once the urge to gag became less overwhelming, he slid off the edge and landed with both feet on the ground. Still leaning against the bed, he trembled as he shifted until he was on top of his feet, supporting the bulk of his weight. His legs felt weak, wobbly, like a baby deer taking its first steps. He was wearing yellow grippy socks. He wasn’t sure if he was wearing clothes under the hospital robe. But he was standing, and it was already way better than his first attempt, when he’d just slid right off the bed and onto the ground.

He took a deep breath, and, never letting go of the bedrail, he took a step toward the door. 

His knee threatened to buckle, but he got it under him. He was still standing. Ironically, he just noticed the bright yellow wristband on his left arm, all capital letters: FALL RISK. It was stained with blood.

When he held his balance, he moved on forward. Once he reached the end of the bed, though, he was faced with a dilemma: there was no more bedrail to hold onto. 

His face screwing up in concentration, Tyler squinted at the machines before him, hoping one of them had an extendable part. The door was maybe two metres away from him, his freedom so close; but there was nothing to hold onto between his bed and the doorway. After weighing his options, he sighed and braced himself.

He was going to have to walk. 

He tightened his core muscles, holding his breath as he carefully let go of the rail. He was shaky, but he could stand unassisted. 

His hand still hovered above the rail, just in case. But if he wanted to leave, he would have to trust himself. He shuffled one foot forward, just by a tiny bit, putting distance between him and the safety of the rail. When that held, he tried another, sliding his foot across the ground the best he could with the grippy socks, moving at a pace that would lose to a snail. He didn’t dare lift a foot off the ground.

He paused, halfway to the door, hands outstretched to catch himself. Lifting his gaze from his feet, shaking and sweating with exertion, he stared at the door.

He could make it. Probably. One big step forward, and he could catch himself on the door frame before falling. He was moving too slow, someone was bound to walk in and interrupt his progress. 

One big step forward, then he could touch the doorway. 

He lifted his left foot as high as it could go (not very high) before planting it on the ground, throwing his weight forward to propel himself, hands outstretched to grip onto the door frame to stop his descent.

Instead of going forward, he pitched slightly to the left, and with all his balance thrown off, he found the ground rushing toward him instead of the doorway. 

His hands found the edge of a cart that was against the wall with an empty food tray on it. A small moment of relief and mercy graced him for half a second before the flimsy plastic tipped over with his weight, the wheels providing zero support, flying out from underneath it and causing the cart to topple over. Tyler couldn’t do anything to stop it.

With a loud crash that made the world go black for a second, a stack of melamine plates joined him on the floor, then a small bin of plastic cutlery decided to keep him company too. Unopened packets of grape jelly littered the ground around him. Other than being disoriented as hell, the cart had slowed his fall just enough to keep anything from getting hit– namely, his head.

“Tyler!” a panicked voice called from behind him, and then he felt a presence.

He’d fallen on his side, facing away from the door. Warm hands cradled his head and turned him around so he was lying on his back. His vision took a second to clear.

The blurry figure above him morphed into a familiar face. 

“Josh,” Tyler stated.

Josh blinked twice.

“Josh,” Tyler repeated, louder, more confident. He held out a hand.

“Yes,” Josh breathed, grabbing onto Tyler’s hand and holding his palm against his scratchy cheek– Josh must have gone a while without shaving, the stubble coming back. “It’s me. I’m here.”

Unable to stop himself, Tyler used whatever little strength he had left to force himself up and fall against Josh’s chest. He was wearing a grey hoodie. Tyler buried his face into the soft fabric, Josh still holding on tight to his hand, tearful reassurances being whispered in his ears.

“I’m here,” he muttered over and over again, tears making his voice waver and break. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Maybe it was just because Josh was crying too, or maybe he’d just missed him so much, but Tyler’s eyes stung with emotion. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and said nothing, gripping onto Josh’s sweater like it was the only thing keeping him from falling.

A nurse found them eventually. Apparently his dad had left to go get something to eat and ended up falling asleep at the cafeteria table. They left him there, especially since Tyler was awake, alert, and mostly cooperative, a far cry from what he had been a day prior, he was told. A giant hole had taken over those memories, leaving nothing but crickets chirping behind. 

Josh sat in the chair by his bed this time while his dad slept. He didn’t stop crying. Whenever Tyler asked what was wrong, he just shook his head and said that he’d tell him later, after the meeting with the doctor in the morning, day five of his stay.

They were going to discharge him today with a laundry list of prescriptions and a very expensive trip in an ambulance. Apparently he’d had brain surgery. He was healing well, no complications, and the pressure in his skull was subsiding slowly. 

Physically, he was on the mend. But when he was meeting with his doctor, disconnected from all machines and tubes, someone else in the hospital bed he had previously occupied, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just slightly off. He squinted at her, his brain working overtime to figure out why he was so… afraid of her. 

“Do you know my name?” she asked Tyler, her badge hidden beneath the table.

“No,” Tyler admitted.

By the wince coming from his dad to the right of him, that was the wrong answer. Tyler chewed on his lower lip and tried not to look at anyone.

“I’m Doctor Paige,” she informed him. “I’ve been taking care of you these past few days.”

“Oh,” Tyler said plainly. 

“I’m going to step out for a sec, someone will come in soon,” she said, smiling at him reassuringly, standing up and rounding the desk to leave the office door. 

She didn’t shut the door. Tyler listened to the sounds of the hospital before turning to his dad. “What’s wrong with me?”

“You just hit your head,” he answered, sounding unsure.

A knock on the door made Tyler turn around, his stiff neck still protesting the movement. A woman walked in, smiling so bright he knew it was fake, false hope radiating in waves that made him feel uneasy. “Hello, Tyler.”

“Hi,” Tyler answered, squinting at her.

“Do you know my name?” she asked cheerfully, for what reason, Tyler didn’t know.

“No,” Tyler answered after a small hesitation. By the way the question was asked, he felt like he should.

“That’s alright,” she said, smile never wavering, sitting down at the desk. “I’m Doctor Paige.”

Tyler’s face fell. “You were just in here.” He’d hit his head way too hard.  

“It seems you have a bit of difficulty recognizing people,” she said, writing something down on a sheet. “Associative prosopagnosia, is what it’s called.”

Tyler looked at his knees. The wheelchair he was in wasn’t comfortable, but he held onto it for dear life.

She pulled out several sheets of paper and held one up. The printer ink made the photo unrecognizable. “This is your brain.”

She could have said that it was a sheep and he would have believed her.

“You suffered from what we call a coup-countrecoup injury,” she said slowly. Tyler couldn’t understand anyway. “You got hit here–” she circled an area on the photo with her pen– “and then your brain bounced back against your skull and hit this area.”

It wasn’t even technical jargon– his dad was nodding along, following. Tyler said nothing.

“The secondary impact is where we found most of the damage,” she continued. “Your right fusiform gyrus. The swelling impacted your inferior temporal gyrus, the area responsible for object recognition and assigning meanings to things, like faces. When we removed the ICP, we found that the swelling had lessened, but evidently, there is still damage.”

She was pointing at things with her pen. This was giving him a headache.

“Are you familiar with Capgras delusion?” she asked.

“No?” Tyler said, like it was a question.

“You experienced a form of psychosis for the first three days you were conscious,” she informed him. “I’m glad to see it’s gotten better. But because of the disconnect, you could recognize people, but not assign memories to them, making something feel slightly off. Mixed with the amount of head trauma came delusions, and you suffered from paranoia.”

Tyler looked at her, eyes wide and horrified. She was calm, cool, collected, spitting out these words like they weren’t something Tyler never ever wanted to be associated with. Worst of all, he couldn’t even remember much; just a lot of fear, people touching him, and the ache of missing… someone . Feeling alone and scared. He didn’t remember the events, just the feelings.

“Your, uh, partner,” she started again, hesitating awkwardly, “took most of your frustrations. Clearly he is someone very important to you, because you believed we had taken him and held him hostage to make you eat and take meds. In his place, there existed someone who looked like him, but was not him, as a result of the location of your injury. You became quite… aggressive.”

Tyler’s face burned bright red. He sucked on the inside of his cheek, shame and embarrassment worsening the headache. “Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she reassured him, finally putting the useless scans of his useless brain back down on the desk. “I’m just glad it got better. You’re being very cooperative.”

“Why didn’t you tell me I was all…” Tyler trailed off with a shrug, feeling sick to his stomach, the following word tasting sour. “Delusional?”

“Unfortunately, due to the nature of delusions in general, what you were experiencing was very real to you. There was no convincing you,” she said gravely.

Tyler wanted to die of embarrassment. Psychosis. That was the kind of thing that always happened to other people, the thing people always made fun of in fear it would happen to someone close. And Josh? Tyler had wondered why he remained outside the door until he came crashing down while trying to escape; it was because Tyler got aggressive. Delusional and aggressive. He felt so embarrassed that he was nauseous, but that could also have been due to a myriad of other issues.

Then Doctor Paige’s pager beeped, and she informed him there was a stretcher waiting for him to take him in the ambulance.

Tyler always slept hard after being concussed; the first time he’d been hit was when he was just twelve years old, and he slept for twenty hours straight. The patient transport trip was supposed to be five hours, and he remembered none of it. Just the beeping of his vitals and the low thrum of the motor, slipping into dreamless sleep so easily.

His dad and Josh had flown back, meeting him at the hospital in the family van. After a quick check of his vitals and symptoms, Tyler was thrown in the front seat of the van, strapped in, and Josh was sitting directly behind him practically breathing into his ear; but Tyler wasn’t going to push him away. Not after what he’d just put him through. He was afraid to learn of what he’d actually said, verbatim. 

They pulled into their driveway and Tyler pushed open the passenger door.

“Tyler, stop–” Josh started, hurriedly sliding the side door open. “Stop.”

“I can walk,” Tyler said, gritting his teeth. He tested the weight on his right foot, and when it held, he went to put his left one down, sliding out of the seat. He would’ve fallen straight to the ground had Josh not caught him.

“Slow down,” Josh scolded. He looped Tyler’s arm over his shoulders. 

“I’ve had concussions before,” he protested. 

“Not like this.”

Not like this. He’d been hospitalized for a concussion before– but that stay had been for less than a day, just enough to make sure he wasn’t going to die while he slept. This was so much worse than that. He could tell from his symptoms, from the way his dad and Josh hadn’t left his side, from the sympathetic looks from the nurses and doctors. The look of relief on his nurse’s face when he found Tyler and Josh together on the floor was almost laughable– that had been the first time Tyler had let Josh approach him, apparently.

His head hurt. His wrist itched– he still didn’t have an answer for that one. Vertigo stole his feet from under him. The antipsychotics made his head fill with cotton, the pain meds muted his senses until he couldn’t feel the ground beneath him, and the fear and dread surrounded him in blankets of uncertainty much heavier than the soft blanket thrown on top of him, lying on a mattress in the middle of the living room floor, stairs decidedly too risky for him. 

His parents and Josh were talking in the kitchen. Tyler didn’t bother listening. He was dozing, lying on his stomach, starfishing across the mattress. He could feel their gazes on the back of his neck, but the lull of pain and sleep was too strong to fight. He let it take him under.

When he woke up, it was no longer day; he’d arrived in Ohio around three pm, and made it home around five. The days were much shorter than they’d been, November clutching the sky with grey fingers.

He sat up and blinked the haze away. The coffee table had been shoved to the side to make room for the mattress, and he couldn’t see the digital radio clock from his position. He squinted, trying to make sense of the dark blobs around him.

“Hey.”

“Gah!” Tyler exclaimed, startling, turning his head so fast it made his neck spasm. He grimaced, rubbing the sore muscles. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” Josh said sheepishly. He’d been lying on the couch.

“What time is it?” Tyler asked.

“Almost midnight.”

Almost midnight? Tyler blinked quickly, horrified with himself. He’d been asleep for six hours, at least. “Oh.”

“You want dinner?” Josh asked. “The pain meds should be taken with food.”

Tyler was starving. But as much as his stomach begged for it, he could barely see straight for the pain. “Not really.”

“You haven’t eaten all day,” Josh scolded, but he sounded more scared than upset.

“It’s just– it’s–” His eyes fluttered closed when a particularly bad spike of pain made him wince out loud. He stopped rubbing his neck and instead cradled his forehead in his hands, as if that would do anything to stop it. He wanted to cut his head open and remove his brain until it calmed down. Head transplant. His was too broken.

“You okay?”

“I might puke,” Tyler warned through gritted teeth.

“Hold on– you were given something for that, cycli– bicycle– cycle-something,” Josh stammered, squinting at various pill bottles on the side table. “Cyclizine?” 

Tyler wordlessly held out a hand, his other covering his eyes. He felt something small get placed in his palm and he tried to swallow the pill, but there was a lump in his throat. “Water,” he croaked.

“Two seconds,” Josh said, jumping to his feet and walking quickly to the kitchen.

A juice box was placed in his hand soon after. He sipped it greedily, suddenly realizing how thirsty he was– he couldn’t remember the last time he actually had something to drink.

Once the urgency was over, he pulled the drink away from him and squinted at the label. Apple Juice. He frowned. 

“What’s wrong?” Josh asked nervously.

“This is juice?” Tyler asked.

“...yes?” Josh looked confused.

Tyler shrugged. “Just tastes like water.”

“Oh. Maybe it’s off-brand, I don’t know,” Josh offered. 

He ended up forcing a McDonald’s cheeseburger down Tyler’s throat once the anti-nausea kicked in. The salt just made his lips tingle, the pain stealing any joy.

But he fell asleep, full and warm, his head just a dull pounding in the background, with Josh on the couch beside him. His hand had long stilled in Tyler’s hair and steady breathing filled the room. Together.

–

No matter what he was doing, no matter the time of day, the pain hit like a brick wall every four hours. Like clockwork. The Tylenol-3 was to be taken every five to six hours, and the Advil he took to tide him over just didn’t work as well. 

Along with those pain meds came a cocktail of other drugs: anti-nausea, anti-vertigo, his original antidepressants, the lowest dose of haloperidol possible to taper off of that one. Josh had a million alarms on his phone with the names and doses written down. It would have been almost reassuring to have someone care about him like this; but the nervousness on Josh’s face each time he handed him something just made him want to cry.

He didn’t know what he’d done. He didn’t know what he’d said. But Josh had a panicked look every time Tyler stared too hard at him, when in actuality, he was trying to force his eyes to focus.

“I would so much rather be dead,” Tyler deadpanned, Josh holding a palmful of multicoloured pills.

“Well, you’re not, so too bad,” he sighed, used to this. 

Tyler kept insisting that the juice boxes were water. That worried Josh, worried his parents, and Tyler just wanted to scream.

“I’m not delusional,” he persisted, near tears, staring at the liquid he’d poured into a clear glass just to check the colour. It was still the golden hue he remembered. “Don’t look at me like that. Whatever this is, it is not fucking apple juice.”

Instead of his parents getting angry with him for swearing, they just exchanged nervous looks. 

“Why are you doing this?” Tyler exclaimed, his own voice making his head hurt, pain mixing with frustration. “Is this a prank? Do you hate me, or something? What are you putting in this?”

The original plan was to have Josh stay for a few days, taking a total of nine days from work, but based on his mom’s tearful phone call with his doctor earlier that day, it was looking to be longer.

“I’m not going fucking psychotic again,” Tyler spat, refusing to drink it. The untouched pills sat on a tea plate; he didn’t even trust the drinking water anymore. That was when his mom started crying and Josh had to leave the room. 

Tyler was on the couch, arms crossed over his eyes, trying to will the room to stop spinning. The sun streaming through the living room window was killing his head. He turned off the audiobook he’d been listening to just to pass the time, in too much pain to concentrate. He could barely see the phone screen to turn it off.

Josh was on a phone call in the kitchen, using their landline.

“...I promise,” Josh said into the phone. “I’ll keep up with the exercises.”

Josh had been running every morning, and did ab workouts on the floor while Tyler dozed on the couch. He’d been sleeping for the greater part of the day, never awake for more than four hours at a time. While Tyler was napping, sometimes Josh went down to the basement to use their dumbbells.

“Just one more week,” Josh begged.

Tyler knew what that was about. A pit opened in his chest and he rolled onto his stomach, face smushed in the cushions. 

“Okay. Thank you,” Josh said.

Tyler wanted to die.

Josh re-entered the room quietly and took his phone from the coffee table, where Tyler had left it. No one knew where Tyler’s phone had gone; it hadn’t been in the bag of stuff they collected from the locker room. He had a new one upstairs in his bedroom but his head hurt too much to set it up just yet. 

“Tyler?” Josh asked.

Tyler hummed a response.

“I’m gonna stay another week,” Josh informed him.

“Oh,” Tyler mumbled.

Josh sat down by his feet, on the other end of the couch. “How are you feeling?”

Tyler felt the tears rise immediately. That question always made him so emotional for no good reason. 

He felt gross. He was in so much pain, barely lucid enough to comprehend what was happening around him. The bandage had finally gotten removed from his wrist and he was able to see what he’d done to himself; just another three scars added to his collection. He felt guilty beyond words for breaking his streak, for whatever he had said to his dad and Josh to make them so afraid of him, and for taking Josh away from work. He felt bad for his parents and the medical bills, though they were trying to sort it out with Tyler’s association. He’d be having a meeting with his agent as soon as he could string more than five sentences together at a time.

As soon as his dad was home from work, they were going back to the hospital. Josh had already packed a bag. All over fucking apple juice.

“Why don’t you believe me?” Tyler said miserably, voice muffled in the cushions.

“I do,” Josh said.

Tyler scoffed. “No, you don’t.”

Josh said nothing, just ran his hand across Tyler’s calves. 

He was gross. He hadn’t showered in ages. He’d been hit maybe seven days ago, and he still hadn’t been able to bathe. Though he didn’t smell– or maybe Josh was just too polite to say anything about it.

“Can I take a shower?” Tyler asked again, for the fourth time that day. 

“You’re going to fall,” Josh said, like it was definite.

“Bath?”

Josh hesitated. “Your parents–”

“They’re not here now, are they?” Tyler challenged bitterly.

Josh caved. “Fine. But don’t expect anything more than just a bath.”

Tyler was positive he wouldn’t be able to handle anything more than just the bath if he even wanted to. He rolled his eyes and huffed out an agreement.

“And you’re eating first,” Josh continued.

Tyler froze, the mild frustration turning into fear. “No.”

“Yes,” Josh insisted.

“No,” Tyler begged, struggling to sit up on the couch. “Please. No.”

“Tyler–”

“If you believed me, you wouldn’t make me,” he protested, using Josh’s words against him. “Come on. You said you did. I swear, there’s something in there. I swear.”

Josh was crying, when Tyler finally managed to lift himself up properly. “I’m sorry.”

“Josh, please,” Tyler repeated, wiping his face hastily on his sleeve. “Please. I’m not just saying this. There’s something wrong with it!”

“I’m eating it alright, and I’m fine,” Josh said reassuringly, though the desperate expression on his face stole the effect from it. “You have to eat. You need to take–”

“Stop forcing pills in me!” Tyler yelled, still so weak that it came out more like a normal talking volume. “S’that why? You want me drugged up so you can– so you can– hurt me?”

Josh’s hands were trembling, and he was so pale he reflected the sunlight. “I’d never hurt you.”

“You did,” Tyler reminded him, hitting the right side of his head with the heel of his palm.

Too far, Tyler’s brain told him, his heart pounding faster when Josh’s face just crumpled. He slumped forward, hiding his face in his hands, and Tyler just sat there, frozen still by his own words. 

“I’m so sorry,” Josh gasped out, like it hurt him to speak. He stood up.

“Josh–”

He walked away. Tyler didn’t call after him, and instead watched him leave, up the stairs, where he couldn’t follow. He felt like a dog, confined to one level until he learned how to use the stairs again. 

The urge to hurt himself was so overwhelming that it was stronger than the pain already present, and he hadn’t taken any pain medication in a day, now. He dug his fingernails into the flesh of his left arm instead, folded forward, feeling so many things he couldn’t sort them through in his stupid useless broken brain. He needed a head transplant like, yesterday. Even if that didn’t exist yet, surely they’d take one look at Tyler and see the need for one as well. 

He fantasized about cutting his head off until everything slowed down just enough to be able to see without the spots dancing in front of his eyes.

He really wanted to try, to eat like everything was okay just to get Josh to stop crying. But there was something stopping him. An insurmountable suspicion, the gut feeling that everything was just wrong. There was something wrong with the food, the water. There was something wrong with him. 

With difficulty, he stood up, keeping a hand on the wall for support as he made his way to the kitchen. He sat at the table, the saucer of pills taunting him, and an untouched glass of both apple juice and another of just water sat beside it. 

The effort of walking to the table was a lot, but he didn’t feel like he was going to die this time around, at least. He rested his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands, hovering over the plate, trying not to cry on the pills.

He bounced his leg, trying to take deep breaths. Anxiety made his heart flutter in his chest. His head usually always pounded with his heartbeat, and now rapid pulses of pain made his hearing go fuzzy. His vision blurred, fading at the edges. His stupid brain.

Just take them. He wanted to. He wanted to be good, but he couldn’t swallow them dry anymore, not around the lump in his throat. He hated the effect he had on other people. He hated being bigger than he was; he liked it better when he could pretend his actions only affected him. He missed how alone he felt, because then he really could be alone. Now, he had to deal with other people caring about him. God forbid.

Tyler covered his eyes, rubbing them hard. He opened them. The pills were still there.

Josh wanted him to drink the juice– something about calories, about low blood sugar– he would have forced protein shakes down Tyler’s throat if dairy didn’t guarantee nausea so bad it rendered him incapable of even moving a finger. 

Breathing slowly, with intent, he picked up the smallest pill and placed it on his tongue. He didn’t know which one it was. He tried to swallow it, but he needed water.

Panic was bubbling up his throat and he stared at the ceiling, trying to stave off tears, his leg bouncing so hard it was shaking the glasses and the liquid inside. He wiped at his eyes and looked back down between the apple juice and the water.

The water at least tasted like water. It wasn’t safe, but it was safer than the juice. He grimaced, the chemical powder spreading across his tongue, and he reached for the glass of water. He tentatively held it up to his lips and took the smallest of sips; just enough to get the pill down before the disgusting bitter taste could flood his mouth. He replaced the glass, holding it with two shaking hands to keep it from spilling. 

He took another deep breath, trying to focus on the feeling of cool air rushing into his lungs. The tears just kept falling. He felt like throwing up, his stomach twisting into knots, but he’d done it. He’d gotten one down. He didn’t feel proud at all, he felt pathetic, and increasingly angry at himself for both not being able to believe everyone when they said that it was all in his head and for giving in to their demands. Distrust burned inside him, where he used to have a heart.

He just felt so stupid.

Was that so hard? His brain taunted him. But yes, it had taken almost everything in him to not push everything away and just pretend he swallowed the pills and drank the water to keep everyone off his back. It was so hard. And he knew it should be something so easy to do, he’d swallowed tons of pills over the years, sometimes too many all at once against the will of other people, but he just couldn’t. 

Unfortunately, due to the nature of delusions in general, what you were experiencing was very real to you. There was no convincing you.

Tyler didn’t know if it was just his brain tricking him, or if there was actually an explanation to this. He picked up another pill, a capsule this time, and attempted to swallow it to no success. He resisted the urge to spit it out, and in a moment of his brain just shutting off, he bit right into it.

The tiny beads exploded in his mouth, the texture like sand. But there wasn’t any strange chemical taste like he expected. He reached for the apple juice this time, trying to convince his brain into thinking that the poisoned drink was better than having chemical residue on his tongue. He took a tiny sip of the tasteless juice, washing down the disgusting texture. 

Tasteless juice.

Tasteless.

Oh.

He wasn’t delusional. He couldn’t taste. 

His hands shook so much that even holding onto the glass with both of them wasn’t enough, and it slipped and landed on the unforgiving tile with a crash. Pieces of glass flung across the floor, somehow making it into the hallway, too. But Tyler barely cared; not when there was a more pressing matter to take care of.

“Tyler?” Josh called from upstairs, alarmed.

He looked at the fruit bowl. A bunch of four bananas were sitting innocently in the purple stained-glass bowl across the table from him. He reached with difficulty to fetch one, then peeled it with shaking fingers. 

Heavy footsteps thundered from above him, fast and panicked. 

Tyler chewed on his lower lip, trying to keep it from trembling. Dread was pooling in his gut. He couldn’t breathe.

He took a tentative bite of the mushy banana. It was a little too unripe, the peel green and tough, but it didn’t matter. He pushed the food around his mouth with his tongue before swallowing hard. He confirmed what he’d been dreading.

“Ty!” Josh yelled, skidding into the kitchen, narrowly avoiding stepping on a piece of glass. “Oh, man. You okay?”

Tyler hated bananas. But that didn’t matter, not anymore. He could eat a raw onion for all that mattered. But for now, he was crying, eating the saddest banana he’d ever held. He tried a larger bite, but it didn’t make a difference. 

Josh must have thought he was going crazy– crying while eating a fruit he hated more than life itself, which was saying a lot. Maybe he was going crazy. Josh gently took the banana from him, his eyes red and puffy, afraid.

“I’m not delusional,” Tyler sobbed, using both hands to cover his eyes. The headache that always existed in the back of his mind was starting to consume him. “There’s something wrong with me.”

He couldn’t smell, either. He used to be repulsed by just the scent of the banana peel, but nothing had changed. The fact that he could stomach a banana was enough to tell him that something was seriously wrong. He stood up and made his way to the fridge, stopping to grab a spoon from the cutlery drawer, and then pulled out the jar of dijon mustard from the shelf on the fridge door. He popped it open and dipped the spoon into it before shoving it in his mouth.

Nothing. Just the gritty texture of mustard seeds.

He closed the jar and replaced it, then moved on to horseradish. Josh just stared at him from the kitchen table, clearly debating whether to stop him or let him continue eating willingly.

He may as well have been eating jello. The horseradish was tasteless, scentless. 

“I can’t taste,” Tyler cried, spooning horseradish into his mouth like it was his first meal in ages. Josh finally made a move, leaving the banana on the table and taking large strides across the room. He tried to take the spoon and jar from Tyler but he didn’t let go. “No.”

“This can’t be good for you,” Josh argued, pulling harder.

“No!” Tyler yelled, guarding the jar close to his chest. He could barely see, his headache was forcing his eyes shut. “It has to. This is the most disgusting thing in the fridge, it has to, I have to, there’s no way that I– I– I can’t taste, Josh. I can’t smell. I can’t. I can’t. I’m–”

“Eating horseradish isn’t going to help you,” Josh reasoned, finally succeeding in pulling the jar and spoon out of his grip. He placed it on the counter for now, closing the doors to the fridge. “Breathe, Ty.”

“I can’t,” Tyler gasped out, clutching at the neck of his shirt. His vision was whitening with every pound of his heart. Nausea rolled in his stomach. “My head. I’m gonna– I’m gonna pass out.”

“Sit down,” Josh said urgently, sliding his hands under Tyler’s armpits just in case. He helped him to the ground, lying him down on his back, rubbing his shoulder to provide what little comfort he could. 

With every change in altitude, there came a wave of vertigo. The doctor said it was unlikely that it would ever go away, based on the damage done. But she’d said nothing about his sense of smell. 

“I think I’m dying,” Tyler cried, the world fading at the edges.

“You’re not going to die,” Josh reaffirmed. “You’re– you’re alive. You’re here.”

Tyler awkwardly sat up, everything so heavy, just to fall back into Josh’s arms again; much like he’d done on the hospital floor. He only had the strength to hug him, these days. Or maybe that was just Josh– strong enough for both of them. 

“I’m never gonna skate again,” Tyler mumbled, once he’d calmed down enough to speak.

Josh didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. They both knew it was true.

–

Once he’d gotten over the initial fear and instead settled into quiet defeat, he choked down the pills again. It was hard to eat, but that was mostly because things just felt like slime sliding down his throat. Josh unpacked the bag for the hospital. 

His head was reeling after the phone call with his medical team and association. His dad had helped with the legal talk, repeating dumbed-down information to Tyler once he started getting that faraway look in his eyes, but still; everything felt just out of reach.

Because he’d gotten hurt under his NHL salary, he was still entitled to it for the remaining years of his contract. He’d be getting so much money just from doing nothing. If he'd thought he was a burden to society before, then that was nothing compared to how he felt now. He was a leech. They took care of the medical expenses and offered physiotherapy once Tyler was healthy enough, paying for a flight to Chicago to meet up with the trainers again. To see what was salvageable. For now, Tyler could barely stand up without wanting to puke from the pain.

At least he’d been deemed healthy enough to climb stairs. He slept in his room, curled up in the twin bed. Josh had spent all last week on the couch, unwilling to let Tyler be alone for the night, even though he’d been offered a bed, and he slept like a baby once he was on a proper mattress. 

He slept all the time. Whatever was happening behind the scenes, whatever neurons his brain was attempting to stitch together, it was taking the majority of his energy. The fatigue was crippling; he couldn’t even stand long enough to brush his teeth, he had to sit down on the closed toilet lid for those measly two minutes. He finally got his shower, at least, cold air rushing in each time Josh opened the washroom door to check up on him. 

It was suffocating, but at least he wasn’t conscious enough hours of the day for it to actually bother him. 

Because of his messed up sleep schedule, he woke up at strange hours. His symptoms varied from bad to worst. But as Josh kept repeating, he was alive, and even if that was the only thing he knew for sure, at least he made it feel like enough. 

“Josh,” Tyler whispered in the night.

Josh rolled over on Zack’s bed. “Yeah?”

Tyler didn’t know how to ask this question. He had scattered thoughts and his brain felt like mush.

To Tyler’s lack of response, Josh squeezed himself into Tyler’s twin bed. “What’s up?”

“How many days clean am I?” he asked.

Josh hummed, thinking. “Are we going to reset? Or no?”

“I don’t know.”

“What were you thinking in that moment?”

“I don’t remember,” Tyler whispered. “I just remember being scared. And missing you.”

“Did they tell you what you said?” Josh asked.

Tyler shook his head. Josh sighed heavily. 

“You’re not going to like it. Do you want me to tell you anyway?”

“Yeah.”

“You tried to kill yourself because you were convinced they were trying to get information from you, and you would rather die than talk.”

Tyler laughed coldly, shock spreading to his fingers. “I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“God.”

“I know.”

Tears sprang to his eyes, and when he tried to blink them away, they just fell down his face. “Josh, I–”

“Baby,” Josh mumbled, planting a kiss on his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

“What time is it?” Tyler asked instead of dwelling on it. Everything hurt when he thought too hard. 

Josh rolled over to glance at the radio clock, and Tyler felt him freeze. 

“What?” he asked, when he didn’t tell him what happened right away.

Josh rolled back over and wrapped his arms tight around Tyler, practically squishing him.

“What is it?” he pressed.

“Happy birthday,” Josh whispered against his temple.

It had never felt more like an insult. 

Chapter Text

Three weeks after Christmas, Tyler stood in front of the employee entrance double doors of the United Centre.

Sure, his sense of smell and taste hadn’t improved. Sure, he had debilitating headaches every few days. But he was back to being a normal person (for the most part) and was required a physical and PT to keep up with his half of the contract. If deemed physically unfit, he’d be back to another three months on the long-term injury reserve, but he was just honestly glad to be in an arena again.

He opened the door and managed a weak smile at the few employees he saw on the way to the change room. Then, a bright, genuine smile broke his stoic expression at a familiar face.

“Hey.”

Nathan dropped his shin pad and nearly tripped over his own feet to pull Tyler into a bone-crushing hug. “Tyler, my God.”

Tyler grinned against him. He didn’t know how much he missed him until they were right in front of each other. Standing in the middle of the change room, surrounded by guys he half-knew, he gave small nods of acknowledgment at the smiles his teammates were giving him.

“How are you?” Nathan beamed, pulling back to get a good look at him. He kept a grip on his forearms, holding him in place.

“Not great,” Tyler admitted, though he never dropped the smile. “Starting physio, trying to see if there’s anything worth saving.”

Nathan frowned. “Don’t say that about yourself, man.”

Tyler shrugged. It was the truth. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s basically scrambled eggs up here.” 

He’d started light exercises, unable to stand being still for so long. When Josh had left for the airport, Tyler had begged, screamed, cried, to be the one to drop him off, but his parents were adamant on getting a taxi. They hid his own driver’s license so he couldn’t sneak off somewhere. Sure, his concentration could be better, but it wasn’t like he was going to get in a wreck. Especially not with Josh in the car; he’d never be able to forgive himself. 

Still, being sedentary was driving him up the wall. He’d gone from being a professional athlete to a bedridden patient in the span of an hour. He’d lost weight, that was for sure, and definitely strength, but he had no idea by how much. Athletes came and went, they got injured, benched, replaced, and that was the truth. It was just a sad part of the industry he’d fallen into.

He was replaceable.

His physiotherapist, Dr Bourbaki, was a large, muscular man with greying hair and stubble. His uniform was a tad bit small; maybe on purpose. He’d gone through the itinerary– it started with a warm-up, then getting a baseline for his lifts and speed– then ordered Tyler on the ground. 

Tyler lay on his back, as directed. The bright lights of the doctor’s office made his eyes water. There was nothing in the room, save for the desk and the examination table. A singular poster highlighting the main skeletal muscles and a first aid kit decorated the bare, cinderblock walls. The desk was metal with a handful of drawers. Everything about it was cold, clinical.

He lifted his leg for a simple hamstring stretch, one foot in the air. 

“Straighten your leg,” Dr Bourbaki said, gripping onto his calf. “Lock your knees.”

Tyler did as he was told, until Dr Bourbaki started pushing his leg toward his chest. “Ow. Ow ow ow ow,” he gasped.

“You’re quite tight,” he remarked, not letting up. “Gotta loosen those hamstrings.”

Tyler bent his knee unwillingly, trying to keep his hamstrings from snapping in half. Shame made his cheeks turn red. 

“Stay there,” Dr Bourbaki clucked disappointedly. 

Tyler kept one leg awkwardly raised in the air, the back of his knee shooting sharp pain down to his foot. Dr Bourbaki grabbed a tape measure and started wrapping it around his upper thigh, muttering numbers to himself. 

“Other leg,” he said. Tyler obediently lifted his left leg, bracing himself for the same treatment.

Dr Bourbaki pushed on his calf again, making Tyler gasp in pain as he didn’t relent. His fingers gripped his leg so hard he could feel the beginning of bruises forming. The back of his knee was on fire, igniting the back of his thigh as well, and he desperately tried to relax in fear of his muscle tearing. 

“That hurts,” Tyler whimpered, fighting the movement.

“You’ve got a lot of work to do.” Dr Bourbaki let go. He measured the circumference of his thigh, practically at his hip, hands too close to be comfortable. Tyler shifted away automatically.

Dr Bourbaki glared at him, then pinned his hips down onto the table. “Stay.”

Tyler nodded, confused and scared. 

“You’ve lost a lot of muscle mass,” he commented. “Did you even try to keep up with your fitness?”

Tyler’s face burned and he stammered out an excuse. “I get– I get headaches.”

“You’ve got to push through the pain,” the doctor said, annoyed. “We’ve gotta build that resilience.”

He squeezed Tyler’s thighs. Tyler jumped, flinching, heart pounding. He felt trapped. Humiliated. He knew there was no doubt his fitness had declined, but he thought maybe he’d get a little slack for being bedridden for three weeks. There was no chance he was stepping back on the ice– he knew this, his doctors knew this, everyone knew this– so he thought this was just to see what they could do to preserve the little quality of life he had. 

“Let’s get a baseline for your lifts.” Bourbaki pulled away finally, gesturing for Tyler to follow him to the gym.

By the end of it, Tyler was near tears. He was, in all sense of the word, weak. He was nowhere near the typical professional athlete anymore, a far cry from the person he was before. He did a mile on the treadmill and nearly blacked out, he’d had to go down by nearly fifty pounds on his squat and leg press, and his chest press was just pathetic. He’d lost so much weight and strength over the past month and a half.

He felt gross. Sweaty, sick, with his physio’s handprints all over him. That was what confused him the most. 

He hated being touched. But this was his job. It wasn’t like Tyler wasn’t going to let the physiotherapist correct his form, touch his legs, measure his strength– that was what was expected. But that, combined with the humiliation, it felt like too much. He’d had handsy sports doctors before, but at least they were usually nice. Some of them even asked permission before touching him. 

This guy was mean. He didn’t ask. He just did. Tyler got that sense real quick; he kept his mouth shut, did as he was told, and pushed through the pounding in his skull. 

He sat with his head in his hands for a long time in the change room. 

When he exited the shower, Bourbaki was waiting in the middle of the change room. Tyler held the towel tighter around his lower body– he’d expected to be alone.

“Short shower. Ice cold. Those were your instructions,” he said coldly. 

“Sorry,” Tyler said, unsure of what to say. 

The doctor eyed him, up and down, scanning his body. He walked over and pinched the fat around his midsection, hard. Tyler fought hard to stay silent and still. “Seems body fat’s gone up. We’ll do a full body recomp. Gonna need to redo those tests.”

Tyler blinked quickly, eyes stinging. He took a few deep breaths.

“What happened here?” Dr Bourbaki said, grabbing Tyler’s left arm and turning it so his wrist was exposed to the ceiling. His grip was so tight it hurt. 

Tyler said nothing, just stared at his skin like he’d never seen it before, the ugly dark purple of healing scar tissue obvious against his pale flesh– they were from his psychotic breakdown in the hospital. There was a reason he requested another long-sleeve dry-fit shirt. Other tiny scars littered the surface, paler, more faded, but Tyler could feel the doctor’s gaze on every single one as he followed the path up to the inside of his elbow. Tyler knew there was no shying away from this guy– not after what he’d just experienced in the gym.

“Hm. At least you know to go vertically. Shame you didn’t go deeper, it might have worked,” he said, like he was impressed. 

Tyler’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. What the fuck?

Bourbaki dropped his arm and turned around, heading out of the locker room. “See you in two days, Tyler.”

Tyler quickly got changed, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.

The rest of the team was on the ice. Tyler would have stuck around to watch, maybe chat with the bench staff, but he called a cab and booked it back to his hotel. He just wanted to leave.

Back at his place, Tyler shoved his headphones on, laced up his running shoes, and listened to music full-blast as he ran for as long as he could. He focused on the words– anything to distract himself from what had just happened. He needed to exhaust himself before he dwelt on anything too hard. 

It was Bourbaki’s job. 

The ache in his shins and the pounding of his heart in his head felt deserving.

After another long shower, Tyler passed out hard on his bed, the pain meds making him sleepy. His body was sore from the exercise. But still, he woke up after a few hours, forever unable to rest for too long.

Missed call from Josh: 18:30

Josh: We’re still good to call?

Missed call from Josh: 19:00

Josh: Everything okay?

Missed call from Josh: 19:15

Missed call from Josh: 20:01

Josh: I have my game now. Sorry I missed you. Text me when you can

Josh: Love you

Tyler felt sick to his stomach. He’d forgotten he was supposed to call Josh at six-thirty, their first time corresponding in a week.

Tyler: sorry. my head hurt. couldn’t look at my phone

Tyler: i’m crashing

Tyler: gnight love you

He took another two pills and rolled over for more sleep. He’d missed his therapy appointment as well, but he didn’t care.

The next day was spent picking himself apart in the mirror. The change in his physical appearance hadn’t been his main point of focus, but after it had been pointed out, it was all he noticed. 

His collar bones were more prominent than before. Rather than slim muscle, he was weak. Fat and bones. His body fat percentage had gone up, even he could tell that without rigorous and fancy testing, and self-hatred coursed through his veins as he laced up his running shoes again. He needed to work on his cardio. He needed to shut off his brain and listen to music way too loudly so he didn’t have to hear himself think. 

He gasped and wheezed for an hour, hating himself the entire time. He used to be so good at running.

He wasn’t even a good athlete anymore. He wasn’t even fast. He didn’t know who he was.

Tyler sat on his couch with an ice pack over his eyes for two hours, then went right back outside for another run, unable to stand the guilt rising in his throat.

Sore, humiliated, dreading the worst, he showed up at the United Centre the day after.

The lock clicking behind him when Bourbaki shut the door to his office wasn’t just a lock; it was a death sentence. 

“Shirt off.” Bourbaki didn’t even say hello.

“Can I keep it on?” Tyler begged, already knowing the answer.

“Shirt off.”

Tyler peeled his dry-fit long-sleeve off of himself, feeling Bourbaki’s gaze everywhere. His cheeks flushed, mortified. 

“No new ones?” Bourbaki asked, grabbing Tyler’s arms and inspecting them, like he was disappointed. “I would’ve thought after last time, you might’ve hated yourself. I would have.”

Tyler just stared at him in quiet shock. 

There was no way this was okay. There was no way this was normal. Tyler hadn’t had many coaches or staff comment on the state of his skin, but at the very worst, they’d tell him to cover up. No one had made direct eye contact with the scars in the way that was happening right now. No one really even brought up the usual inappropriate questions, such as the method used, let alone encouraged it.

“Do I need to read you the numbers again?” Bourbaki asked, letting go of Tyler’s arms and picking up his clipboard from his desk. “Down forty-seven pounds on squat. Down sixty pounds chest press. Down–”

“Okay,” Tyler interrupted, feeling sick. He was quick to put his shirt back on. “I’m sorry.”

“Good. Let’s change that.” Bourbaki put the clipboard back down on the desk, heading for the gym. “Let’s head to the Bod Pod.”

“The what?” Tyler asked, nervously following, almost afraid to know the answer.

“Air Displacement Plethysmography,” Bourbaki said rudely. “Don’t they teach you anything?”

Tyler stayed silent, worrying his lower lip. 

Bourbaki led him to a small room, with a strange, white, egg-shaped machine in the far left corner. It connected to a monitor on its right. Bourbaki wiggled the mouse for the monitor and it powered up, the computer blinking to life. A logo flashed on the screen for a second before it pulled up random files.

“December first, male…” Bourbaki muttered to himself, typing furiously on the keyboard, filling in a chart. “Okay.”

Tyler just stood in the middle of the room, afraid to approach anything. The egg-shaped mechanism was hollow, with a window– he assumed he would need to sit in it, and that made him want to run. 

“Strip,” Bourbaki said, turning to Tyler.

Tyler thought Bourbaki was going to strip his clothes from him with the way he was marching, but he strode over to the door and locked it behind him. Tyler cursed under his breath as his heart stuttered for a second, pain soaring through his chest. He felt like throwing up. 

“Strip,” Bourbaki ordered again, more pointedly this time, seeing that Tyler hadn’t moved from his frozen position.

“Can I–”

“No.”

“Can you–”

“No.”

Tyler was going to ask if he could turn and look the other way, or if there was a towel or something he could cover himself with, but Bourbaki shut him down before he could even suggest it. 

Wordlessly, hands trembling, shame making his chest and face a bright pink, he kicked off his shorts and pulled off his shirt. He paused.

Bourbaki glared at him.

Tyler shed the last of his clothes, feeling like he’d just stripped himself of his dignity as well.

Bourbaki opened the pod, revealing a bench. “Sit.”

“What is it–”

“Sit.”

Tyler swallowed nervously and sat down on the hard plastic. The door shut again, and Tyler was left, trapped in a small area just large enough to fit himself. The air inside felt stiflingly hot.

He counted, just to have something to do, as the machine made clunking noises around him. He heard the woosh of air through valves. There was nothing more he wanted to do than curl his hands into fists and pound on the walls of– whatever this was called, but he knew that would only make it worse for himself. Beads of sweat rolled down his hairline. He tried to breathe as normally as possible and timed his breaths to his counting.

It was only three minutes, but it felt like hours.

The door opened and Tyler was quick to put his bare foot back on safe ground, the fresh air cold as it entered his lungs. Bourbaki was still looking at his charts and analyzing the numbers.

“Nineteen percent,” Bourbaki told him as Tyler was hastily pulling his clothes back on.

Tyler didn’t dare say anything. It was easier to stay quiet. 

“Your last measurement was a skinfold caliper, so that’s not accurate at all,” Bourbaki said with an annoyed drawl. “Either way, your body fat’s up by a whole five percent. Let’s try to get back down to thirteen or so.”

Tyler wanted to cry. He stared at his feet, his sock put on upside down in his rush to get dressed. He bent down and adjusted it to avoid looking at his doctor.

Bourbaki shut the program on the monitor and turned around. “Mile time. See if anything’s improved since two days ago.”

Tyler obediently followed him out of the room, shoving his feet into his running shoes.

Bourbaki pumped up the treadmill for a pace much faster than Tyler had run last time, the motor whirring so loud in his ears. He sprinted for his life as he stared at the dash, counting down the metres in his head, feeling like he was floating in a horrible way. His lungs burned. With each pound of his feet on the treadmill belt came a spike of pain to his head, stealing his breath away, making his vision go black on the sides.

“Stop.”

Tyler jumped onto the sides of the treadmill, leaning heavily on the handlebars. The belt whirred to a stop beneath him and he stepped off, panting. The vignette was taking over now, becoming black holes in his vision, the ground tilting beneath his feet. He sat down on the belt with his feet on the ground, his head in his hands. He felt nauseous.

“Up.”

“I’m gonna pass out,” Tyler gasped, feeling lightheaded. He swayed where he sat and he gripped the edges of the treadmill platform to keep himself from tipping over.

“Up,” Bourbaki demanded.

“I can’t,” Tyler insisted, a high-pitched noise filling his ears.

Bourbaki growled and squatted in front of him at the treadmill. He pushed two hands against the back of Tyler’s skull, so that his head was between his knees– Bourbaki’s knees. Tyler's face was so close to Bourbaki’s crotch that he could feel the body heat radiating off his skin, and he couldn’t do anything to pull back; not with his hands gripping Tyler’s neck like his head was going to fall off if he didn’t.

He felt like he was in that stupid pod again; vulnerable, naked, trapped.

Bourbaki gave him ten seconds before pulling away. “Up.”

Tyler stood up, but as soon as he straightened his legs, he knew he was going down. His vision went before his hearing, and that was the last thing he remembered.

He woke up on the examination table.

He blinked quickly, then slowly sat up, fighting nausea. The lights above him were so bright he had to squint to see. He’d seen them before– he must’ve woken up for a little bit earlier. It wasn’t unlikely for his consciousness to go in and out for a few minutes.

“Hello, Tyler.” Bourbaki was sitting at the desk.

Tyler just looked at him, then looked down at himself; he realized in horror that he was left in just his briefs.

Did he undress him?

“I’ll see you in two days,” Bourbaki said, not making eye contact, striding confidently out of the room.

What the fuck?

Tyler looked around the room; where were his clothes? The paper from the examination table was sticking to his back with dried sweat. His head hurt so bad that he squinted through his eyelashes, arms outstretched as he slid off the table, searching with his hands. There was no dark mass on the chair. There was nothing in the corners of the room. He was about to check the desk drawers quickly when he realized with horror that this wasn’t his underwear.

The change room was just down the hall. Tyler immediately sprinted barefoot out of the room until he was in the safety of a familiar area. He felt marginally relieved until he remembered last time, when Bourbaki had watched him shower.

Tyler needed to leave. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up and he hurriedly dug through his locker to find another set of clothes. He put on his sweater backwards but he couldn’t bother to fix it.

He didn’t let himself think until he’d hailed a cab and then walked into the front door of his hotel room, shaking.

Tyler stripped quickly, turning the shower to as hot as it would go, the sting of the water hitting his sore skin grounding him. He had to keep the lights off, his head hurt so bad, which unfortunately took away the visual help to stay in reality. He was losing himself. Steam rushed into his lungs instead of cool air, making everything feel fuzzy, suffocating, horrible. The air caught in the pipes screamed at him, shrill and incessant. 

Surely he didn’t.

There’d been creepy coaches. There’d been creepy parents. But no one had ever…

He couldn’t even wrap his head around it. 

That was his job. That was Bourbaki’s job. To push Tyler. To touch him. Figure out the best way to heal, find his weak spots, strengthen them. 

That was his job. 

But he’d–

No. 

He’d been unconscious.

He had to go to the hospital, God. His head hurt so bad and he couldn’t even tell if his world was spinning because it was so dark in the shower. He’d been out for, how long? Long enough for someone else’s underwear to be put on him. To be carried back to the office. He remembered being carried, he remembered bright lights, but he’d been in and out of consciousness.

He’d been unconscious.

What had–?

But if nothing had–

But then why–?

He couldn’t know for sure.

His skin didn’t feel like his own. He needed control. Something to feel clean. He needed to rub a pumice stone all over until he was red and raw and new. 

He didn’t know for sure.

He couldn’t know for sure.

He’d been unconscious.

The lack of definite knowledge made him feel like he was trapped in a waterslide, the end closed off, the tube slowly filling with rushing water. Each time he tried to climb back up, he slipped. A mad scramble.

He wasn’t in control anymore. 

Fingernails scraped at his skin, leaving red, angry marks behind. The hot water just made it worse. It stung, but still, he didn’t feel in control. Everything was falling apart.

He didn’t know anything.

Nothing felt real.

He didn’t know if he was still breathing. He felt handprints on his body, fingers gripping his arms, bruises on his legs. He turned the water hotter until it couldn’t go anymore.

It wasn’t enough. Everything hurt.

He turned off the water and threw on some clothes without bothering to dry himself off. The bathroom was filled with steam. He couldn’t see the ground, he couldn’t see his reflection, he didn’t know who was staring back at him in the large mirror. He probably had his shirt on inside out.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t know.

Would it have been better to be awake? Or had he been spared?

Had anything happened at all? 

His hands shook as he fumbled through his stuff for something. Anything. He’d take anything. He needed to cut the bruises off his body, from fingers that weren’t his. He needed to slice the feeling of hands on his skin from what was clean. If there was any clean left. He felt tainted. Unsure. Uneasy. His head was so foggy and it hurt so bad. His back burned a furious sting from surface-level burns from the hot water. He needed to burn until it blistered and bubbled and sanitized.

His hands found his shaving kit under the sink. He could barely get the zipper open, he was trembling so bad. 

But he managed.

Staring at the ceiling, a couple hours later, way too many pain meds shoved down his throat, he waited for the world to fade on his couch. His mind was reeling. He just needed everything to shut off. 

He needed to be himself again.

Who was he, anyway? There was no hockey. There was no job. There was no goal. He didn’t belong to himself anymore.

Had he ever? His entire life, growing up, he’d been subject to diets and plans. There was always someone molding his body into what he needed. There were disappointed looks when he didn’t hit those numbers, when he couldn’t lift that much, when he wasn’t the first. He worked hard, but there was always someone better. No matter what he did.

He had names on jerseys, a logo assigned, a number that sometimes didn’t belong to him. And he’d go back to his home ice and see someone else in that same jersey, taking over his spot, and there’d been people before Tyler who bore that number as well. Nothing was his. He was a different number in tryouts. He was a name in a spreadsheet, booted from the system as soon as he moved on. He was a hyperlink in Elite Prospects. He was the words others had given him. 

Skilled skater. Small. Fast. Lacking in stick control. Too light. Thin. Promising.

He was none of those anymore. He couldn’t even rely on the labels other people had thrown at him, much less how he defined himself.

Everything was so temporary.

He checked his phone. He’d kept Do Not Disturb on, afraid to be a person. Afraid to check his email. Afraid.

Josh had tried to call. He wanted to throw up from guilt. He wasn’t even Josh’s. Not exclusively. Not anymore. 

He was his mother’s son. His siblings’ brother. His friends’ friend. Josh’s… whatever. His coach’s player, his teammates’ teammate. His doctor’s patient. Those changed with the laps he’d done around the sun, passed from person to person, discharged, dismissed, disregarded.

But who was he to himself?

He didn’t feel real.

Missed call from Julie (therapy): 15:45

Julie (therapy): Hello, Tyler. This is the second appointment you’ve missed. Please call me back as soon as possible. Thanks. –Julie.

Missed call from Josh: 15:59

Josh: Text me please

Missed call from Josh: 16:24

Josh: You’re really worrying me

Josh: Please text me

Missed call from Josh: 18:43

Josh: We haven’t talked properly in two weeks. I miss you

Josh: Please let me know you’re okay

Tyler: sorry. im ok

He put his phone on his chest. It was almost eight at night. The city lights never turned off, and a dull yellow filtered in through the thin curtains. He could see shadows. His head was heavy, but it hurt less.

He felt sick. Maybe that was the meds. The chemicals soaked through his stomach lining, into his blood, inhibiting receptors. Poisoned the rest of his brain along the way. Muted his world.

He checked his phone again, turning off Do Not Disturb just in case Josh called the police or something.

Missed call from Josh: 19:55

Josh: Pick up

Josh: I’m booking a flight and time off work

Missed call from Josh: 20:04

Josh: Tomorrow, noon

Tyler didn’t have the strength to respond. His eyes slipped closed and his phone fell from his hand as the haze took over.

–

He woke up to banging on the door.

At least his head didn’t hurt. But in the second it took for him to regain awareness, it all came flooding back. Fear wrapped its hands around his neck. He slowly sat up, tucking his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants, and made his way across the room.

He opened the door.

Josh looked furious. He grabbed onto Tyler’s shoulders, trying to get a good look at him, but Tyler flinched away. It took him a second to remember why he had an aversion to touch. He felt eyes on the back of his neck, he felt body heat, he heard harsh words in his ears, he felt the sting and sharp itch of healing wounds. He felt the treadmill underneath his feet.

Josh looked lost, surveying from a distance. He still had an underlying anger, radiating uncertainty in waves, amplifying the anxiety thrumming under Tyler’s skin. The different wavelengths collided between them and created destructive interference so loud that Tyler couldn’t hear; or maybe that was just the usual static in his ears.

“Are you okay?” Josh asked, eyes narrowed, a crease between his brows.

“Yeah,” Tyler croaked. “Just woke up. Sorry.”

“It’s one o’clock,” Josh pointed out.

“Took too many– it’s fine. Just sleeping.” Tyler tried to be dismissive but his brain was all jumbled. The words didn’t line up the way he wanted them to, forming a mind of their own.

Their own. Who was he? Whose was he?

“Took what?” Josh asked.

“It’s fine,” Tyler repeated. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his face, just to make sure it was still there.

“Took too many what, Tyler?” Josh pushed, taking a step in. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Tyler insisted, turning his back to Josh and walking to the couch. He fell face down into the cushions.

Josh closed the door behind him. Tyler heard the click of the lock, and suddenly fear struck through his heart, so sharp it actually hurt. He sat up straight and gripped the cushions with white knuckles, keeping himself down so he didn’t rush and unlock the door. Just in case he needed to escape.

But nothing had happened.

Maybe.

“What did you take?” Josh asked firmly, standing above Tyler, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Pain meds! Whatever!” Tyler exclaimed sourly, standing up, unable to take the shadow looming over him. He stormed to the bedroom and closed the door behind him, but of course, Josh just followed a few seconds later.

“How many?” Josh seethed, slamming the bedroom door behind him. 

“I don’t know!” Tyler threw his hands in the air and fell onto the bed this time, but quickly stood up. He stayed on his feet, right beside the edge of the bed, until that felt too dangerous, and he took a step back. “It was just– whatever.”

Josh had a look of surprised exasperation on his face, his mouth twisted with annoyance and worry. 

Tyler stared back, at Josh’s shoulders, unable to make eye contact. He couldn’t take his eyes on him. He felt so hot and suffocated and he wanted to break the window behind him and jump out of it.

“What is wrong with you?” Josh asked finally, voice dripping with disbelief.

“Nothing.” Tyler gripped his left wrist behind his back. Control.

“I don’t believe you.” Josh crossed his arms over his chest again, staring him down. 

“Not my problem,” Tyler said rudely. “Can you go?”

Josh opened his mouth, then closed it, unable to form words. Tyler would have felt bad if he could feel anything other than pure fear. 

“Sorry,” Tyler said, though he knew he didn’t sound sorry at all. 

“Just– what’s wrong?” Josh asked. He wasn’t angry.

“Nothing,” Tyler repeated, his back to the wall, hands hidden behind him. He pressed his palms flat against the cool surface. “Nothing. Please. Just– just–”

Josh’s entire demeanor screamed worry. Usually Tyler would jump into his arms, aching for physical affection after relying solely on remote contact for so long. Josh had taken time off just to make sure he was alright. But Tyler stayed, as far away from Josh as he could, actively avoiding his touch. He wanted to pretend everything was fine and just hug him like he usually did but every single cell in his body was fighting.

His phone buzzed, loud in the silence of the room. Tyler fished it out of his pocket.

Incoming call from Julie (therapy)

Tyler turned his phone screen toward Josh, as if shoving proof into his face. “I need you to go for this.”

Josh nodded, eyes narrowed, but he shut the bedroom door behind him. Tyler was alone in his hotel bedroom.

He could answer the phone. He could make sure the higher-ups knew he was alright, God forbid they send the police after him. He could air out his grievances and process what he’d been through.

If he’d been through anything at all.

Would that be a mandatory report? Would there be enough evidence for a report? 

Was there even anything to report?

He wanted to cut his chest open and clean his organs one by one. The uncertainty was killing him. He should tell someone, open a case, make sure justice gets served or whatever. But if nothing had happened, then the backlash would be unfathomable. Bourbaki seemed like the kind of guy to not stay silent about the whole thing, taking it to Twitter, bashing him in newspapers. Tyler didn’t want any attention. And he’d be the boy who cried wolf. 

He just wasn’t sure.

It was his job. Being touched was part of being a patient of a physiotherapist. He’d had to strip for his body composition test, which was hardly a reason to raise suspicion, even with the odd, calculating stare he’d been subjected to. Maybe he hadn’t even been watching him shower– maybe Bourbaki had just walked in right as Tyler walked out. And yeah, he’d been mean about the scars, but it was nothing illegal.

Tyler could answer the phone.

Or he could curl up in a ball and ignore it, taking the precious time away from Josh to himself.

He turned on Do Not Disturb again and threw his phone onto the bed, before turning the lock of the bedroom door and crawling under the covers.

–

He woke up to Josh’s hand on his shoulder. Tyler nearly jumped out of his skin, brought rudely out of his dreamless sleep. “Jesus.”

“Are you okay?” Josh asked, his eyebrows knit together with worry.

It was dark out, but that didn’t tell him much– it was January. It got dark at four in the afternoon. Tyler pulled himself up, disoriented, leaning back against the headboard. “How’d you get in here?”

“You weren’t answering,” Josh explained, holding up a nickel; he must’ve used it to turn the lock. “Sorry.”

Tyler found his phone in the mess of the blankets and turned it on.

18:31

There were about twenty missed texts from Josh. “Sorry. Had Do Not Disturb on.”

“Why?”

“I…” Tyler squinted at him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “...didn’t want to be disturbed?”

“Yeah, but I was trying to reach you,” Josh protested sadly. Tyler almost wanted him to get angry. “You knew I was just in the room next door. Why would you lock me out?”

“I wanted privacy,” Tyler muttered, unable to maintain eye contact. He stared at his hands as he wrung them together in his lap.

“Tyler– look at me,” Josh said sternly, grabbing Tyler’s wrists in his hands, interrupting the movement. 

Tyler hissed in pain as he squeezed too hard, his teeth gritted as he tried not to cry out. He immediately regretted everything. He wrenched his arms from Josh’s grasp, but the damage had been done.

“You relapsed?” Josh exclaimed, suddenly yelling in Tyler’s face.

Tyler clutched his sore arm with his right hand, waiting for the stinging to subside. Panic crept into his periphery, along with shame, embarrassment, dread, and guilt. A cocktail of unpleasant emotions. He could feel the beginning of a panic attack settle in his bones.

Josh’s eyes were wide, filled with anxiety and dread. His chest was rising and falling, too quickly, matching Tyler’s.

“It’s nothing,” Tyler said, voice shaky.

“Tyler!” Josh yelled, not angry, just appalled. “What are you– why didn’t you tell me? When? Why?”

“I didn’t,” Tyler lied uselessly. 

“What the hell? Why?” Josh asked, taking a step forward, toward the bed.

The dam had broken. Tyler hid his teary eyes in his hands and tried to shrink away even though there was nowhere to go. Uncertainty made his heart pound. He felt hands on his shoulders, his legs, like red fire ants crawling on his skin. 

“What happened?” Josh asked again, softly this time. He sat down on the bed, keeping his hands to himself, folded in his lap.

Tyler, face still hidden, couldn’t even begin to think of one good reason. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated tearfully. He wiped his eyes and lowered his hands. “It just– I just did. I don’t know.”

“Nothing happened?” 

“I don’t know,” Tyler stressed, sliding out of the bed and trying to squeeze himself into the far corner of the bedroom. He pulled at his shirt collar with numb and shaking hands. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to open his airway, but the familiar rubber band tightened around his lungs and made it impossible to breathe. 

“You’re with me,” Josh reassured him, recognizing the way his breaths sounded. “In, out.”

“Don’t–” Tyler started, but cut himself off with a choked sob. He needed to be alone.

He rushed past Josh and pushed open the door to the ensuite before turning on the bathroom sink to as cold as it would go. He’d lock the door, but Josh had followed him in. 

Tyler turned around, hand out, putting distance between him and Josh. “Don’t touch me.”

Josh froze, then took a step back so he was in the doorway, hands up as a gesture of surrender. Tyler turned back to the sink and dunked his head under the running water, counted to ten, then straightened up and watched the droplets slide off his face and down the drain. The front of his hair was wet. His tears mixed in with the water, like he hadn’t been crying at all.

“I’m going to get you a clean shirt,” Josh said, backing into the bedroom again. The neck of Tyler’s shirt was all wet, too; this wasn’t exactly the neatest method to keep himself level, but it was far better than whatever he could do to himself. It was maybe the singular thing he actually retained from his therapy sessions.

Fuck. He had to respond to his therapist sometime soon. The task made his head swim, another wave taking him victim.

He dunked his head under the water again, counted to fifteen this time, then blindly reached for a towel as he squeezed his eyes shut and lifted his head. 

He pressed a fluffy towel to his face, breathing in the fabric, focusing on the feeling of the cloth against his skin. The coolness of the water spread from his cheeks to his neck, calming the adrenaline, forcing his heart to beat slower. 

“Hey,” Josh announced his return. Tyler lowered the cloth and turned around. “This okay?”

It was one of his hoodies from when he was still playing for the farm team. Tyler nodded and took it, but didn’t change just yet. 

He looked apologetically at Josh. “Can you– can you go?”

Surprised, Josh nodded and left the bathroom, closing the door gently behind him. “Leave the door unlocked.”

It took less than a minute to rip his wet shirt off. He didn’t know why he was making such a fuss. He still felt eyes on his bare chest for that split second he was shirtless. 

Josh was sitting on the bed when he exited the washroom, finally. Tyler sat down on the far end of the bed, near the foot– Josh was sitting against the headboard. 

“Tell me about your time back,” Josh said.

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t a question. It was sort of an invitation. There was no pushing, no forcing, and Tyler really appreciated it.

“I have physio tomorrow.” The words felt awful in his mouth. He wanted to rip his voice box out.

“Cool,” Josh said with a nod. “What are you guys doing?”

“Tests.” Tyler didn’t elaborate.

“Like what?”

“Mile time. VO-two max. Weights.” Tyler shrugged, even though he knew it was way more than that. Maybe. “Stuff like that.”

“Is it helping?”

“Yup,” Tyler lied.

Silence.

“What’s wrong?” Josh asked after an awkward beat.

Tyler picked at the cuticle of his thumb. The door to the bedroom was closed, but not locked; he could leave. He could run away. Half of him didn’t want to.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” Tyler blurted out, avoiding the question.

“What? Why?” Usually they shared a bed, but Tyler couldn’t even be in the same room as him for more than a few minutes at a time.

Josh would never hurt him. He’d always respected Tyler’s boundaries, checking in on him periodically, making sure he was still having fun. There’d been a few times when Josh flat out refused to do anything with him because Tyler was too upset; he wanted Tyler to be completely emotionally present if they were going to do anything sexual. Josh wouldn’t dare make him strip if he didn’t want to, he wouldn’t touch him in strange places without asking, and he didn’t even ask to see Tyler’s wounds even though he knew he’d been hurting himself. He wouldn’t ever do those things to him.

But still, just seeing another person in his vicinity made him feel naked. Even if that person was Josh.

“I just am,” Tyler answered hollowly. 

“I’ll take the couch, if you don’t want to share,” Josh said quickly. “I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.”

“It’s not my bed,” Tyler pointed out, the fact making him shudder. This wasn’t even his place. This was a hotel room that the association booked so that he’d have a place to stay. 

“I’m taking the couch,” Josh said with finality.

Tyler didn’t say anything. He just stared at his hands.

“I’m going to go get dinner,” Josh said, not pressing further. “You wanna come?”

“Not hungry.” Tyler shook his head.

“I’ll bring you back something to put in the fridge,” Josh told him. He stood up. “Can I, uh, can I go through your stuff? Just to– to–”

Tyler nodded, interrupting Josh’s stammering. He knew the drill. He was a clear basket case, so of course his sharps would be confiscated. Usually, Josh also took his meds, turning into his own personal pharmacist for however long he felt necessary. Sometimes it was Tyler who handed them over. Sometimes it was Josh who had to take them. Either way, this wasn’t the first time.

He didn’t really want to die. He just wanted a new body.

He snuck a few of his pain meds into his palm before Josh closed the lid of the orange prescription bottle, taking it into the main room to hide amongst his stuff.

–

Tyler stared at Bourbaki’s office door the next day. He was already three minutes late.

He couldn’t breathe.

Uncertainty made him nauseous. He’d woken up without a headache, miraculously, but he could feel a pressure against his temples. He hadn’t taken his antidepressants in a while, and he swore he could hear his eyes move from the withdrawal brain zaps. They left him disoriented and wincing in discomfort.

Maybe the lack of meds was making his panic worse. His throat was dry and he struggled to swallow, the lump in his throat making his lungs whistle. He felt sick. Tears sprang to his eyes, sharp and burning hot, a mixture of shame and fear so strong it felt like a dagger was piercing his heart. Static pumped through his veins instead of blood. Adrenaline made his hands tremble and his body sway, and he was unable to tell if his consciousness was fading or if it was just the tunnel vision. 

Either way, he spun on the ball of his foot and sprinted down the corridor, back the way he came.

He only made it around the corner before a hand grabbed his right wrist. Tyler stopped, too afraid to make a sound, turning around quickly to meet his defeat. Bourbaki’s cold fingers wrapped all the way around his bone, freezing his blood where it was. Tyler looked up with wild eyes.

Nathan stared back at him, mouth open, confused.

“I have to go,” Tyler blurted out, chest heaving.

“Okay,” Nathan said plainly, letting go of his wrist. “Let’s go.”

Tyler ran until he slammed his shoulder against the exit doors. He would’ve continued if his lungs could work, if his head stopped spinning, if it didn’t feel like he was breathing through a straw. Dark spots threatened to consume his vision. They blinked in and out, stars making an appearance, making him double over and fall to his knees on the wet grass outside. He coughed out dry heaves and had one hand wrapped around his abdomen, the other supporting his upper body.

January brought endless, cold rain. Everything was grey and damp.

“What happened?” Nathan asked, slightly out of breath. He was standing over Tyler, his hands on his knees as he struggled to even his breathing. 

Tyler shifted his weight back and pulled the neck of his shirt from his body, using it to cover his mouth as he grimaced, hiding the pain in his expression from his friend. He kept the other hand around his stomach. The sudden nausea wasn’t relenting. 

Nathan put a hand on Tyler’s back but he flinched away, falling into a seated position. He drew his knees to his chest automatically. The urge to be as small as possible wasn’t worth fighting anymore; he was long past pretending to be confident for his friends. 

“What happened?” Nathan repeated, keeping an arm’s length from him.

Tyler finally moved his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes. “I think— I think— the doctor did something.”

Nathan froze beside him. “What?”

“I think he touched me.” Tyler lifted his head cautiously, wiping his eyes on his shirt again. 

Nathan’s eyes darkened. “Bourbaki.”

Tyler raised his head fully, surprised.

“He’s been cleared. It was kept under wraps. But he’s not supposed to be alone with anyone. The verdict was— was— not guilty. But he was.” Nathan’s voice was trembling with barely-contained anger, enough to read between the lines, enough to know this was a personal story.

“I was unconscious,” Tyler blurted out.

Nathan looked at him in horror. “What?”

“He made me run until I passed out. And then— and then I woke up in his office. Not wearing my clothes,” Tyler recounted, digging his fingernails into his cheek. Saying it meant it was real. That it had actually happened. 

Nathan paled. “How long has this been going on?”

“Just twice. Or once. I don’t know– I don’t know– I’m–”

“Breathe,” Nathan interrupted him. “You’re going to pass out.”

Tyler nodded, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He felt sick from adrenaline and fear. Nathan stayed beside him as he hung his head and counted his breaths, not touching, not offering advice; just being there. A steady presence. To let him know he wasn’t alone.

Tyler raised his head again, the static subsided enough to speak. “I don’t know if anything happened.”

“What do you mean?” Nathan asked.

“I wasn’t awake.” Fear gripped him like a vice. He bit down hard on his lower lip and tried not to let his breathing run away from him again.

“Holy shit,” Nathan whispered.

“It could’ve been– it was nothing. It was probably nothing,” Tyler rambled, letting half-formed thoughts tumble from his lips. “I don’t know. I’m probably– it was probably– it was nothing. I’m sure. I think I’m just– it’s just– I’m– I can’t–”

“I’m going to hurt him,” Nathan growled through gritted teeth, his fists unclenching and clenching as if preparing for a punch. “They said they wouldn’t leave him alone. I’m going to hurt him.”

“Don’t,” Tyler croaked. “It’ll make it worse. I don’t even know if anything happened.”

Nathan looked near tears. “With Bourbaki’s history?”

Tyler didn’t know what to say. He’d only met the guy twice.

“What did he do?” Nathan asked urgently, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms. Tyler did the same.

“He, uh, he…” he started nervously, “he was just weirdly touchy. Mean. And he was in the change room when I walked out of the shower, and it looked like he’d been there for a while, but I don’t know. I really don’t know. And for the body composition test, he made me strip, and he stared a little too hard, and–”

“Like, completely naked?” Nathan interrupted.

“Yeah,” Tyler confirmed, feeling bare again.

“You know you’re supposed to be wearing, like, a bathing suit in those,” Nathan said in a horrified tone. “You don’t have to take off everything.”

Tyler wanted to throw up. He felt his diaphragm contract dangerously.

“Ty, I really don’t want to be the one to say this, but he definitely didn’t do nothing while you were passed out,” Nathan whispered.

He felt so sick. 

“I’m so sorry, dude,” Nathan continued, sounding as broken as Tyler felt, but his voice slowly got angrier and angrier as he ranted. “Bourbaki’s not a good guy. There was so much money into covering it up, and– and– they told me I was dramatic. That it was his job to touch me, and that I was exaggerating things, but I know. And they promised to never leave him alone with someone, just as a preventative measure. To get me to shut up. And they didn’t! And now– look! He’s– I’m going to hurt him.”

“I don’t know if he–”

“Just having you naked during a composition test is telling enough,” Nathan seethed, cracking his knuckles. “There was no reason to do that. You have to tell someone.”

Tyler stared straight ahead, blinking away tears that fell anyway. He felt disgusted. Violated. Like he’d never be clean again.

“It’s your choice,” Nathan whimpered, but it was clear what he wanted Tyler to do. “But I’m– I’m done. I’m quitting. I’m sick of nobody taking anything seriously, I miss Dacher, I miss you, I hate it here. I quit.”

Tyler’s heart physically hurt. Seeing Nathan so upset over something, over him, made guilt rise in his chest, and he swallowed a mouthful of saliva. “If– if you leave, I’ll have no one.”

“Don’t tell me you’re staying in this shit hole of an organization,” Nathan growled. “I know they hate me. Coach hates me. Everyone involved in the case hates me, because they think I’m attention-seeking. I just want out.”

“If you quit, they win,” Tyler forced out.

“If I quit, I get a break,” Nathan contradicted.

Tyler rubbed at his face with his hands, dragging them across his skin and relishing in the burn of the stretch. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe away the urge to vomit.

“Do you have your phone?” Nathan asked after a second.

Tyler shook his head. “All my stuff is in my locker.”

“I’m calling a cab, and I’ll get your things,” Nathan said, standing up on shaking legs, but he had a forced calmness to his tone. “And then you run, and you don’t look back.”

Tyler wanted to die.

Nathan waited with him at the curb, and after forcing a promise of an update out of Tyler, stood still while the taxi pulled away. 

Sure, there was the slim possibility that nothing had happened. But based on the conversation he’d just had, based on Nathan’s reaction, on the new information, it was hard to deny anymore. He felt like he was detached. His body was physically on the Earth, but his mind was elsewhere, ruminating over every word and cycling through what-ifs. Anger flooded his veins before it made way for sadness, then extreme guilt, then a hollowness that made him want to bash his head against the car window.

Instead, he tipped generously and climbed out of the cab.

“You’re back early,” Josh said, looking up from the couch once Tyler had opened the door.

Tyler chuckled weakly. “Yeah. Felt sick.”

“Anything I can do?”

Tyler shook his head, rubbing at his temples, feigning another headache. “I’m going to lie down in the dark.”

“Can I grab anything for you? Meds?” Josh offered. 

“Yeah,” Tyler said through a breath of relief. “Yeah. Please.”

Josh stood up and entered the bedroom. Tyler followed, but turned into the ensuite, falling onto the tiled floor.

“Here,” Josh said, holding out the bottle of Tylenol-3. He turned to fill a glass with water. 

While he wasn’t looking, Tyler poured five pills into his hand and popped them into his mouth, replacing the cap quickly. He accepted the glass of water and swallowed hard. What Josh didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Besides; it wasn’t like Tylenol-3 actually did anything besides make him sleepy. 

“Feel better,” Josh said gently, still cautious from the day before, carrying himself with the air of tending to someone’s sick grandparent. Afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid to set him off.

Tyler nodded and leaned against the bathtub, using his arm as a pillow. Josh shut the door behind him. Tyler was left alone in the dark.

And he just cried.

–

Josh woke him up with a hand on his forehead. 

Tyler scrambled backward with a surprised shout, hitting his back against the bathtub. Josh’s hands hovered in place, stunned silent and still.

“Sorry,” Tyler croaked, disoriented as hell.

“Bad dream?” Josh asked.

Tyler nodded. It was easier than trying to explain how his body didn’t feel like his own anymore. He slowly stood up, heart still pounding too quickly in his chest, trying to force the nausea down. It still hadn’t gone away.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Josh offered. “You’ve been cooped up here all day.”

“What time is it?” Tyler asked.

“Almost seven at night,” Josh answered, glancing at his watch quickly. 

Jesus. All Tyler did was sleep these days. He pulled a face at his own laziness and followed Josh out of the washroom.

The rain had let up for the evening. The city air was stale, and the lights hurt Tyler’s eyes. The drowsiness from the meds still hadn’t worn off and he felt like he was half a person.

Josh’s hand brushed Tyler’s hip. Tyler stepped back automatically, avoiding the contact. 

He knew it wasn’t fair for Josh. He knew that what was happening was incredibly wrong and illegal, but he also knew that by not saying anything about it, he was practically enabling it.

Did he want it?

Absolutely not. The intrusive thought made his lungs stutter. But to be honest, he knew he wasn’t going back. One hit to the head and he’d be dead, not just injured. So why didn’t he just announce it? Quit loudly? Reach out to a news reporter, or his coaches, and ruin this guy’s career and reputation? And honestly, if he was doing it to Tyler, there was a big chance he was doing it to others. How many of his teammates had to go through this? How many of them lived with the same secret on their shoulders? How many more Nathans were there?

He was part of the problem. He wasn’t the good guy in this. He was just as bad as the perpetrator. 

Maybe he deserved it.

“Tyler?” 

Tyler snapped back to the present, meeting Josh’s eyes. He smiled with no true emotion behind it. “Sorry. Thinking.”

Josh looked at him worriedly, but dropped it. 

Tyler tried to focus on what was happening now. That was what his therapist had said. 

His therapist had sent him a threatening email. She told him that if he was going to shut down like this, then she would have to enlist outside help, and he’d advance in the stupid player assist program and they’d have to issue a statement. He wasn’t even playing. His absence was explained by his injury, and he bet he could fight the protocol because of it. It wasn’t like he was doing drugs. At least, not ones that weren’t prescribed to him.

Josh’s hand brushed his. Tyler flinched. He tried to pass it off by putting his hands in his pockets.

Josh was talking. About something. Probably hockey, maybe? Tyler squeezed his eyes shut and tried to reset. 

“... you’re not even listening to me.”

“I am,” Tyler lied. He was trying to. He opened his eyes and stared at him, trying to show how attentive he was.

Josh looked at him hard, reading his expression. Tyler tried to force it into one of ease, but he could barely stay on top of his thoughts, and he knew it showed. It was useless lying to Josh. He knew him inside and out. 

“Okay, answer me, then,” Josh challenged, annoyed.

Tyler wanted to cry. “What was the question? Sorry.”

“What do you want to eat?” Josh repeated. 

Eat? Tyler could barely stomach crackers, let alone a full meal. He ate the bare minimum and watched his weight go down, feeling a sick form of satisfaction at the way his nutritionist sounded over the phone when he told her. It wasn’t exactly happiness when he saw a larger difference than the last weigh-in, but it was a small sense of pride, maybe. Whatever it was, it was better than feeling out of control. It was better than feeling like he belonged to someone else.

“Tyler.”

Right. Josh needed an answer. “Um, I’m not really hungry.”

“Fine,” Josh scoffed. 

Tyler was difficult to get along with.

He’d always been that way. Ask his brother; he could go on and on about how much of a ticking time bomb Tyler was, on the edge of an outburst, just one pin away from popping. He didn’t get violent when he was upset; it wasn’t an outburst in that sense. It was more passive-aggressive comments that hurt the others’ feelings, slamming doors, refusing to participate in conversations and whatnot. As he got older, he realized that sometimes, he just needed a moment to cool down. But he didn’t always get that.

He’d been awful to his siblings. To his mother, especially, convinced she was controlling and strict. In reality, she really was just trying her best. It wasn’t easy parenting a difficult child, trying to walk the line between discipline and life lessons. Tyler didn’t always make it easy for her, repeating behaviours he knew she hated and picking fights with Jay just to get a rise out of her. Why else would he be yelling at someone ten years younger than him? Jay was easily upset, screaming at Tyler for putting his toys on shelves higher than he could reach, for looking outside of his window during family car trips. Tyler disagreed for fun. Just to get a rise out of someone.

And then he fell apart in high school, and his parents finally clued into his behaviour, and things got a little better. But where was the support back when he was thirteen and wondering why he was so angry all the time? Where was the support back when he cried behind those very same doors he’d slammed? When he hated himself so much that he’d relied on breaking his own skin for relief, leaving him stuck in those same behaviours ten or so years later?

He’d struggled for longer than half his life. 

“-even like me, man?” Josh asked sourly.

Tyler had only clued in for the last few words. “Uh, I don’t know,” he tried, figuring that was a safe answer.

“Do you even know what I just said?” Josh said with a glare.

Clearly that had been the wrong answer. Tyler cleared his throat nervously. “Can you repeat it?”

“Do you even like me?” Josh asked, flat, like all emotion had been ripped from his body.

“Of course,” Tyler answered easily, but he still felt on the precipice of falling apart. “I love you.”

“Then why are you–?” Josh gestured to him.

Tyler watched his feet against the pavement. 

He should tell him. He should let someone else know, give Josh a reason for his behaviour. The fact that Josh had just asked if Tyler still liked him was breaking his heart. Josh had been his support system since college, and he’d been nothing but so kind and patient about his troubles. When Tyler needed space, he gave it. When he needed a second to compose himself, or needed help unstringing the words from each other, Josh pulled together sentences without forcing him to say anything. He just got him. He’d saved Tyler from himself multiple times.

The very first time really had nearly killed him.

Thinking about it too much made Tyler’s heart hurt, but he was already heading there anyway. He’d put Josh through so much. It was unfair to him. Josh didn’t need another reason to worry about Tyler, especially when Tyler really wasn’t planning on returning to physio. He’d talk to his lawyers, his managers, and quietly remove himself from the equation. He didn’t know if Nathan was planning on going out with a bang or not.

Nathan. Tyler had become friends with him because he looked like Josh, in a way. He was familiar. He was hurting. He knew he didn’t owe anyone anything, but Nathan carried a weight Tyler wanted to split. If he told someone, then maybe Nathan would get the closure he deserved. And Bourbaki would get time in prison.

Tyler didn’t want to burn the bridges just yet, but he didn’t blame Nathan at all if that was his plan.

Tyler blinked, and suddenly he was back in the hotel lobby. Josh was silent. Either he’d remained quiet, or Tyler hadn’t heard him speak at all, and he didn’t know which was worse.

Josh deserved someone so much better than Tyler.

Josh flicked the main lights of the hotel room on, tossing the keycard on the counter beside the sink. The door clicked shut behind them and Tyler startled, his heart beating too fast.

Josh cleared his throat, turning to face Tyler, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Are you… seeing someone?” he asked.

Tyler’s lungs froze. He couldn’t breathe. He felt sick, he felt hands on his body, places he didn’t want them to go. 

“It’s okay,” Josh said after a deep breath, interpreting Tyler’s silence incorrectly. “I mean, it sucks, but we’re not together. Like, I mean, I haven’t been seeing anyone, but it’s not like you did something morally wrong.”

Josh was too forgiving. Tyler wanted to peel his skin off his bones. Josh was simmering with anger and sadness, Tyler knew that look, and he was hurting Josh with this. He needed to be clean. Needed a hot shower. Needed to burn the skin cells that weren’t his off his body. Needed control over himself again.

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out but a choked sob. Josh looked torn between getting angry and comforting him, and Tyler knew Josh would do anything for him, and that was so much worse. Josh didn’t deserve this. He shouldn’t have to deal with the effect of whatever this is when he had nothing to do with it. This wasn’t his battle. This was Tyler’s.

So he did what he did best. He stormed off to the ensuite and locked the door behind him, falling to the ground in front of the sink. He sat back and leaned against the wall, staring at the blurring cabinet as the tears blended everything together. He was falling apart. He tried hugging himself, tried pulling on his hair, tried pinching his skin, anything to hold him together, but he felt the inevitable breakdown take over. 

“Tyler, unlock the door. You owe me that much,” Josh snapped from the other side. 

Right. And Josh still thought he was seeing someone else. Which wasn’t that far from the truth.

If he really didn’t want it, he would’ve fought back, no? Told someone as soon as it had happened? Especially after what he’d said about his stupid scars? Surely that was in violation of something. 

It’s not your fucking fault, Tyler reminded himself, hitting himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm, aggravating the beginnings of a headache, but it was harder to believe it. He had every opportunity to stop this and he didn’t. But it was a position of power. And did he really want his name plastered everywhere? He’d seen what the tweets said about his sexuality, he wasn’t sure he could take it if this news got out.

He knew it was wrong. It was wrong. This wasn’t his fault.

“Come on. You don’t get to be upset about this!” Josh shouted, pounding on the door. “Hiding away again! Self-sabotaging! I’m trying to talk this out with you!”

Tyler couldn’t. He hadn’t shut down like this in a long time. His throat was closing up, he couldn’t talk if he wanted to. 

He’d put in so much work, trying to get around the mental block that prevented him from forming words when he was upset, but he couldn’t. All of that progress was in vain. He felt like he was a teenager again, closing up at the slightest inconvenience, his friends making excuses for his sudden silence. Chris had been a real one for that, taking the focus off him with ease until he could calm himself down, same with Josh, but now Josh was angry at him. He’d disappointed him again.

That was all he did. He just disappointed everyone. His coach. His parents. His siblings. His friends. Himself. He wasn’t stable enough to keep it together for just a few months? He’d been happy for a bit. But of course, that didn’t last. Nothing did. And his friends, so pleased with his progress over the years, congratulating him on milestones, looking out for him and talking him down from the ledge more than a few times, were disappointed. Things were going good. And he’d ruined it all.

He got headaches. A lot of them. He couldn’t walk in the sun without feeling like it was a personal attack against his retinas. He was losing weight, on purpose this time around. He was exercising through headaches when he knew he should stop, he was doing all this even though he knew it was bad for him. All of that work had been for nothing. It didn’t even matter. It wasn’t worth it to get better just to get worse again.

His breath was slowing, defeat calming him, the accompanying headache starting to get unbearable. The pressure behind his eyelids always scared him.

His meds. They were out there, in Josh’s possession. He needed them before it got so bad he couldn’t stomach them, but he couldn’t get to them. And he couldn’t exactly yell at Josh to go away when everything was so overwhelming he forgot how to form the words in the back of his throat. 

He deserved the pain. He deserved to tough this one out, behind a locked door. He laid down on the hard floor, the cold tiles against his head doing just enough to lessen the pain.  

The doorknob twisted, and the dark room was filled with light. Josh had managed to twist the lock again. Tyler covered his eyes as it caused a spike of pain to drill into his head.

Josh sat down beside him with a heavy sigh, closing the door behind him. Tyler sat up and made space between them, feeling suffocated. He needed to be alone. 

“Why don’t you want to be near me?” Josh asked, hurt. 

Tyler squeezed himself into the corner between the bathtub and the wall, head against the porcelain tub. He was crying, still, he’d never stopped, but the pain was keeping the panic from taking control. He’d accepted the loss. 

It was happening a lot lately. He’d be freaking out over something, and then a switch would flip, and suddenly everything was inconsequential. He was done fighting. Nothing mattered.

“You want me to stay somewhere else tonight?” The anger was gone from Josh’s voice, too. Acceptance. 

Tyler didn’t know if he deserved that. He definitely didn’t deserve how understanding Josh was being, especially since he hadn’t denied that he’d been seeing someone else. Josh was operating under the pretense that Tyler had willingly sought out the company of someone who wasn’t him, and he barely even got angry at that. 

“I’ll go,” Josh said with a sigh, moving to stand up.

Tyler panicked and lurched forward to grab his sleeve, then recoiled as if he’d been burned. He exhaled sharply.

“You want me to stay?” Josh asked, confused.

Tyler didn’t know. He didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know what to do. 

Josh chewed on his lower lip, and Tyler could feel his gaze in the dark. He stood up anyway. “Well, I’m going to get ready for bed. I’ll stay on the couch, then.”

Tyler needed to die. 

Josh was obviously torn between making sure Tyler was safe, while still respecting the distance he’d unwillingly created. He looked like he wanted to get mad at him but was convincing himself as much as he was Tyler that there was no reason for him to hold a grudge for this “new relationship.” Josh had told him before, that he’d rather Tyler hate him than be dead, and prioritizing Tyler’s safety over his own emotional response was just so like Josh that Tyler needed to bleed out. 

He was so nice. And Tyler didn’t deserve nice things. Not like this.

No matter what, Josh had been there. Even when Tyler had abandoned him in fear of getting outed, even when he was being so unfair, the second Tyler needed help, Josh was there. In the church. Even in one of their very first encounters, when Josh had found him lying on a bench, and Tyler had no energy to keep the mask up; Josh had set aside their differences to make sure he was alright. 

And now, Josh thought he was seeing someone else, and he was still making sure Tyler didn’t do anything stupid. 

Tyler sat on the dark floor for God knows how long. It could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours later, when Josh walked back into the washroom, footsteps urgent.

“Tyler,” he said, alarmed. “Is it consensual?” 

Tyler looked up in fear, skin suddenly on fire, wrenched from his thoughts like he’d been pushed from an airplane.

“Answer me,” Josh said angrily.

Tyler shrugged stiffly, but he knew it wasn’t enough. Bile crept up his throat.

“Is someone hurting you?” Josh asked in the same tone.

Tyler just held his gaze on the door frame. He felt so sick. 

“Answer me!” Josh yelled, his arms reaching out for a second, an aborted movement as he remembered to keep his distance. “Is someone touching you?”

Tyler covered his mouth as a sob tore through his body, hot tears squeezing out of his eyes. 

“It’s a yes or no, Tyler,” Josh seethed, his voice shaking. “I need an answer.”

He could lie. He could let Josh think the worst of him, because even though they weren’t a thing, this was still betrayal. Just because he didn’t do anything morally incorrect, that didn’t mean that it didn’t still hurt. Josh had clocked that there was something wrong. Something to do with touch. He wasn’t going to stop until he fixed it. It was that drive that Tyler admired, just for a completely different subject. 

Or he could tell the truth. That would kill Josh, kill himself, make it all feel real. But he wouldn’t have to deal with it alone.

Tyler nodded slowly.

“Fuck!” Josh yelled, punching the wall, leaving a hole in the plaster. “Ow!” 

Tyler coughed out a sob, shoulders hunching, ending with a gag as his head pounded again.

“Fucking Chicago!” Josh said through gritted teeth, cradling his injured arm. Bloody knuckles turned purple. “I knew it. Fucking Chicago!”

Tyler hadn’t seen Josh this mad in ages. Maybe not since they tried to beat each other up. It was terrifying, but at least he wasn’t the recipient of his anger, even though he certainly caused it.

“Sorry. I’ll pay for the repairs. Fuck!”

Josh was livid. He didn’t usually swear so liberally, even though he wasn’t exactly the cleanest. This was awful. Angry tears were pouring down his face like a faucet.

“I swear to God I’m going to go— go— to the fucking— who was it?” Josh screamed, turning on Tyler. “Who was it? Who the fuck was it?”

Tyler covered his face with his hands, biting into the flesh of his palm. 

“Tyler. Fuck. I’m gonna kill them. I’m gonna fucking strangle them. This entire association is fucked! Tell me. So I can— I can— fuck!”

Tyler’s hands were too warm against his forehead. It didn’t do anything to quell the headache. He needed Josh to shut up, needed zero sensory input, but he couldn’t tell him to stop. 

“I’m gonna kill them,” Josh seethed, eyes squeezed shut, his injured hand held in front of him like he didn’t know what to do with it. The light from the door was still flooding into the room, and Tyler could make out his pained expression, whether it be from physical anguish or mental, he didn’t know. Maybe both. Tyler was certainly a mix of the two.

Tyler had enough of the bathroom floor. He stood up on shaky, stiff legs, his knees protesting after so long spent sitting down, and he brushed off Josh’s hovering hands. He needed his pain meds, like, yesterday. 

Without talking, without a word being exchanged, Josh left for the main room and returned with a ziplock bag of various prescription bottles. He dropped it on the bed and left again.

Tyler, confused, but in too much pain to question, sat on the bed and dug around the bag. He found what he was looking for and downed double the recommended dose using the water bottle on his side table.

A thump told him Josh had returned, and he looked up; he’d pulled the mattress off the pull-out couch and thrown it on the ground in front of Tyler’s bed, one side of it squished against the dresser. He took the extra bedding from inside the closet and threw it down as well before hastily making it. 

“Don’t want you alone,” Josh said angrily. He was still crying. 

“M’sorry,” Tyler croaked out, the first word he’d said in hours. 

Josh shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he blindly tried to pull the fitted sheet over the corner of the mattress. “Don’t. Don’t apologize for— for— fuck. You— you relapsed. Was it because…?”

Tyler didn’t nod or shake his head, but he knew the silence spoke for him.

“I’m going to kill them.” Josh’s hands were shaking too much, his right hand practically useless. He gave up on the sheet and moved to the pillowcase.

Tyler knew he’d have to talk about it. That was one of the downsides of telling someone he hadn’t been looking forward to; he couldn’t just drop the bomb and disappear and expect nothing to come from it. Knowing Josh, he wanted action. He liked to fix things. If something was wrong, Josh was tripping over his own feet to help the cause. 

An hour later, the lights off, Tyler gave up trying to sleep.

He knew Josh was awake. He never slept when he was anxious about something. Feeling brave, sorry, and craving comfort, he slid off the bed and onto the lumpy mattress below.

Josh sat up when his foot hit the mattress, then lifted the thin, scratchy blanket so that Tyler could lie down with him. Tyler couldn’t see his expression in the dark. But he let Tyler dictate what touch was okay, and he stayed on the one side of the bed, their hands meeting in the middle. That was all he could muster. Josh gripped his hand like it was a lifeline.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” Josh whispered.

“It’s okay,” Tyler whispered back. 

The meds made Tyler woozy. He fell asleep soon after, his grip going limp. 

Josh held on tight the whole night.