Chapter Text
On his way to the appointment, Scott almost turned the car around twice. The first time, a grey Toyota cut him off at the kerb, scratching the side of his poor Honda. After consoling the driver - a seventeen-year-old girl who bawled her eyes out for a good fifteen minutes - Scott spent another fifteen contemplating whether he should interpret the nigh-accident as a divine sign not to show up. However, despite being a hockey player, he was not the superstitious kind and refused to let a novice driver with an LA accent stand between him and a scheduled commitment. The second time he lost conviction, he couldn’t blame anything but his own snagged nerves. He pulled up at a sorry-looking cafe on the East-West Arterial, ordered a jasmine tea and intimidated his stomach into settling.
Despite the external and internal hitches, he arrived at his destination half an hour in advance. Before he could talk himself into waiting in the car - which would’ve led to speeding off all the way to Mexico, then further south to Chile - he walked in.
The waiting room had leapt out of some hygge-hipster wet dream. Exposed brick walls, industrial shelving laden with sourdough-making books, lit candles and not one, not two, but three salt lamps. Thankfully, the smell of cedar and bergamot was mild in the air. His headache was only moderate, and he intended to keep it that way.
“Scott Hunter?” Out of the corridor came the assistant, a woman no older than twenty-five, with rosy cheeks and miniature strawberries dangling from her ears. In addition to Dr March and the concierge downstairs, the total number of people who might rat him out to the press, in some near, apocalyptic future, escalated to three. “I’m Doctor Gabriella March. More than happy for you to call me by my first name, if that’s alright with you.”
Ah. Not an assistant, then. Back down to two whistleblowers. Praise be.
Doped on relief, he managed a smile as he shook her hand. “Scott.”
“Nice to meet you, Scott. What brings you here today?”
“For the last time, Gabe’s safe. She doesn’t have any social media, and I’ve never heard her talk about a patient once. Not even anonymously, to vent.” Pauline flipped yet another pillow, but the remote was nowhere to be found. Between her own mess and her new roommate’s boxes taking up the rest of the floor, the apartment could’ve used one of those professional declutters advertised on the subway. “Plus, if she tried anything, which she won’t, she knows I’d come after her with a crowbar and a gallon of bleach. It doesn’t get safer than that.”
Scott checked under the coffee table for the third time. “But I am-”
“Not that famous, okay?”
Easy for Pauline to say. It was him going viral on YouTube for the way he’d knelt over Shane’s body, cradling his head with trembling fingers after West had rammed him into unconsciousness. Him on the TV screen, exchanging one look with Ilya, and dropping his gloves to unleash his wrath on Vancouver. Him on countless magazine covers, photographed in the frozen section of the grocery store, of all places, because his popularity had skyrocketed out of the blue.
By the way the internet was singing his praises, one would think he’d led the Admirals to the cup. Instead, all he’d done was handle the fallout of their spectacular loss. After Tommy’s cold chest had caused him to collapse on the ice in the second period, there was nothing they could do to stave off their opponents. During the post-game interview, Scott had praised his roster’s skill and stressed how the NHL made it common practice to pressure sick players to keep pushing. Not his fault if the sound-bite had been retweeted by a dozen high-profile athletes and caught the attention of commentators and podcasters all across North America. His face was still on Times Square, for the love of God, a whole week since they’d been booted out of the play-offs.
Given the unforgiving spotlight glaring down at him, a little caution was justified when looking for psychological assistance.
“Not all of us are hockey obsessed,” Paul ranted on. “I had to beg Gabe to come to our play-offs watch parties, and she was only interested in Shane’s butt.”
By all accounts, Scott was not a jealous man. When fellow players bitched about other men checking out their WAGs, he rolled his eyes and suggested they grow up instead of moaning. Or stop dating supermodels altogether.
That was before, though. Now, he had two - two, did his greediness know no bounds? - gorgeous humans ensconced in his own apartment, awaiting him. Now, despite his resistance, he and jealousy were becoming acquainted at an alarming speed.
“That’s just what I wanted to hear, thanks,” he gritted out.
“What? Shane does have a nice butt. Second only to Ilya’s.”
Too bad there was no effective way of asking his best friend to stop talking about Ilya and Shane’s bodies without giving away the fact that he was familiar with them in the biblical sense. At least, the remote found it suitable to jump out of its hiding place by the sink and into Pauline’s hand, effectively distracting her.
“Ah ah, gotcha, you bastard.” Before Scott could hope she’d drift into safer topics, Pauline took a turn for the worse. “Gabe’s gay, by the way. Kink-friendly too, if that’s what worries you.”
Hard to say which prospect was more appalling: lesbians ogling his boys’ asses or him having to sit in front of a stranger and own up to his degeneracy. Once again, he cursed himself for booking the appointment, then for needing it to begin with.
“Earth to Hunter?” Of course, Pauline wouldn’t let him backpedal. Not after she’d quite literally held his hand as he called the practice. While her frown managed to contain both sympathy and frustration, only the latter made it to her voice. “What, were you planning to go into therapy and lie through your teeth every time romantic relationships come up? How did that work out for you last time?”
“I wasn’t planning on lying,” he muttered, just to shield his dwarfed ego before conceding. “Fine. I’ll try not to lie. But I still need to be careful.”
“Scott. I would never send you to someone who might screw you over. Now can we please watch Breaking Bad?”
Dr March’s actual office was much more understated than the waiting room. Nonetheless, Scott’s leg muscles kept bunching and releasing, over and over, gearing up for the escape that he wouldn’t grant himself. Not this time.
“My friend Pauline recommended you,” he said, perusing the artwork on the wall with unwarranted thoroughness. Then, he realised: “Was- am I allowed to tell you that? It doesn’t affect the whole therapist-patient confidentiality thing, does it?”
If possible, laughter made March appear even younger. Perhaps it was her front teeth, a touch oversized, or the dimples that surfaced on the sides of her mouth. Scott was about to be picked apart by a Girl Scout with multiple degrees and good intentions.
“It’s fine! I love Pauline; I don’t think I’d have survived high school without her. I’m glad you’re friends: she’s the sort of person you want in your corner.”
On that, they could agree. Yet, Scott’s assent came out stunted at best, constipated at worst.
“Yeah, she’s great. I’m lucky to have her.”
Total silence followed, but for the Newton’s cradle click-clacking away on the desk. At this point, Scott should say something. Anything. Maybe he’d comment on the paintings he’d spent a whole five minutes staring at, except he couldn’t conjure much other than a cringe-worthy: ‘These are colourful’. Maybe he’d ask March about her history with Paul. He should at least sit down and stop stinking up the room with his discomfort. One hundred seventy-five dollars an hour wasn’t enough to compensate the doc for dealing with his shilly-shallying.
Notepad in hand, she didn’t look put off in the least.
“How would you rather we did this? You could tell me about how you’re feeling right now. Or do you want to talk about what made you decide to come here today?"
All of a sudden, it was a matter of now or never. Of starting on the right foot. Of whatever platitude befit the situation, which was most of them. Before he could concoct some elaborate, misleading speech about how he believed therapy might improve his private and professional life, Scott ripped the sullied band-aid that kept him together.
“I’m seeing someone.”
March nodded. “Tell me about it.”
Three days after Vancouver, the swelling on Shane’s face had abated. So had Scott’s fear… to a degree.
His mind had been supplying too many horrifying scenarios for it to dissipate completely. First, his boy dying on the ice, in front of the two men who loved him and thousands of unworthy spectators. Second, when he and Ilya had made it to NYC Health after the blur that had been third period, that Shane’s brain had been damaged beyond repair. So it felt like upon hearing him whimper in garbled English with a French accent, then vice-versa. The terror imprinted on Ilya’s face would haunt Scott for years to come, and so would Yuna and David’s voices, hysterical over the patchy phone line. Regardless of his own panic - a steaming black pit located where his diaphragm used to be - he’d convinced them not to jump on the next flight back from Cancun. He’d repeated what the doctors had said - “Just a nasty fracture of the collarbone and a concussion, no permanent damage to worry about” - to the Hollanders, himself and Ilya, until it’d somewhat stuck. The considerable remnants of the shock he’d dealt with by sitting vigil by Shane’s bed, holding Ilya’s hand. If someone saw, to hell with it: couldn’t two heterosexual men despair over their injured lover who also happened to be a man?
“Your nose is so straight. Like, sooo straight. Have you never broken it?”
Shane made the fourth attempt to pet Scott’s nose, but desisted halfway and let himself fall back into the wheelchair. Every now and then, he appeared to remember they were sitting by the hospital exit doors, where anyone could whip out their phone and snap an incriminating picture.
“Not really,” Scott said, “A lifetime in professional hockey and no broken nose… what a miracle, hey?”
“Mhhh. They probably haven’t on purpose.”
“You’re not making any sense right now, darling.”
“No, no, listen: you are so handsome. So they don’t break your nose, because they don’t want to mess up your face.” Bless opioids for giving Shane a respite from both pain and guilt. He’d shed bitter tears over the Stanley Cup slipping out of reach, then some more at the messages of love and support the fans had sent his way. Through it all, despite the kid’s disappointment, Scott had thanked God that he was worrying about hockey. If Shane could still worry about hockey, none of him had been lost in the brutal body check that had rung his bell. “I used to have a poster of you in my bedroom, you know?”
Scott gripped the kid’s semi-finished ginger ale harder. “I know. Your father told me.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember that. I wanted to kill him. He really likes you, my dad. And my mum. Everyone likes you, but no one likes you as much as I do. Ilya, maybe. Maybe it’s a tie.”
Seventy-two hours prior, Scott had been arranging his retirement - fuck the league, fuck it all - so he could care for a version of Shane that spent entire afternoons watching Bob Ross with glassy, lost eyes. He’d have dedicated the rest of his days to changing his diapers and not regretted a single one of them. Cut Scott some slack for being on the verge of crying from the relief of having his boy back, safe and sound.
“You’re high as a kite, aren’t you?” he mused.
“I feel good. Like, reeeeeally good-”
“I’m glad.”
“- never felt better. No, wait, that’s a lie.” Through the drug-induced fog, Shane found the coordination to bat his eyelashes at him. “I felt better the other night, when you fucked Ilya. It felt like you were fucking me too. I can’t wait for you to fuck me too.”
Heart slamming against his ribs, Scott scanned the surroundings. No changes from his last reconnaissance: by the bus stop, an elderly couple was still squinting at the bus timetable; a few feet from them, a family of five were having a loud argument in what sounded like Portuguese. Nonetheless, Scott ought to shut Shane up before he drew attention to them and found the solution in his limited toolkit.
“Shhh. Have another sip. And to think these meds are meant to make you sleepy.”
Shane dodged the straw with another pout.
“But I am sleeping,” he insisted. “Anyway, I had a whole plan to ask you something the other night.”
The fact that Scott’s palms were damp around the can had nothing to do with condensation.
“I don’t think this is the right time for that sort of conversation, sweetheart. Why don’t we wait until we get home?”
“I was planning to ask you: can we take turns at picking movies for our slumber parties?”
Relief washed over him all at once, overflowing in laughter. “What?”
“It’s unfair that Carter gets to pick all the time.” Around the media, Shane adopted this distinct, conciliatory tone the team had nicknamed Canadian-smooth. He’d also taken to deploying it whenever he wanted something and tried to be subtle about it. “I mean, he has good taste, but the rest of the team should have a say. It should be more- more… democratic. Democratic, you know?”
Scott laughed harder. Fat. Chance.
Aeons back, on a fateful flight to Dallas, three rookies had persuaded him to watch some slasher film called ‘Hostel’. Six years later, he still hadn’t recovered, nor had his faith in other people’s cinematic taste. Jalo had the entire ‘Scary Movie’ series on repeat every time they flew, and his giggles were loud enough to rouse the entire cabin. Cliff refused to watch anything but National Geographic.
At the cost of coming across as a dictator, Scott would sooner die than let his lot have a say on movie night.
“Shane,” he said around a smile, “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”
If he agreed to consider it five minutes later, it was nobody’s business but his own. Placated, Shane glanced around and latched onto yet another absence to fret over.
“Where is Ilya?”
Images of his Honda, reduced to a heap of mangled metal, flashed in front of Scott. Ilya had countless qualities: driving wasn’t one of them.
“He’s getting the car.”
Shane hummed and tilted his head so the waning sunlight could better warm his face. He ought to be immortalised for posterity, greasy hair, post-hospitalisation stubble be damned.
“I didn’t need a wheelchair, you know?” he whispered, “But he likes it when I let him fuss over me. You’re similar, that way.”
As if summoned by the words, Ilya pulled up, bumping the wheel against the sidewalk. Under his sunglasses lurked dark circles that spoke of two sleepless nights. While Shane’s speedy recovery had lifted his spirits, the call he’d taken that same morning had sunk them again.
Based on the shouting coming from the speakers and Ilya’s compliant silence, Scott assumed Grigori Rozanov was displeased with the Admirals’ performance and blamed it on his son. He’d also come to the belated conclusion that, if he ever had the chance to meet the man, he’d rip his throat out for ever daring to speak to his precious boy like that.
“This car is a joke. I’m buying you new one,” Ilya sneered as he got out of the driver’s seat and walked around it to open the passenger door. “So you stop feeling guilty about daddy thing, yes? I can be your sugar daddy, so we are even.”
Scott didn’t even have time to check if anyone had heard, because Shane was dragging him to the backseat, laughing.
“We met at work, at the beginning of the season,” Scott said, like he’d rehearsed in the car. A string of neat semi-truths, no embellishing details that might compromise him later. “They are new to the city, away from family, so it started off with me looking out for them. Also, they are… younger than me, by about a decade.”
He braced for disgust. None showed on March’s face, so he forced his fidgety hands into stillness and continued.
“Even though I noticed them straight away, I didn’t plan on acting on it.”
A nod. “That makes sense, workplace romances can be messy. What made you change your mind?”
Oh boy - to what event exactly should he pinpoint the cataclysm of his personhood? To Ilya committing act after act of psychological terrorism? To Shane revealing he was the mastermind behind it all? Could Scott even blame them for his demise, or had it been inevitable, encoded in his DNA? Perhaps the thirty-six years he’d endured without them had been nothing but a waiting game, bound to detonate in a burst of light.
“They are quite persistent, to say the least. For some reason, they noticed me too.”
Out of everything, that’s what made March tilt her head, causing her earrings to jiggle.
“You sound surprised by that,” she said.
The throwaway comment was enough to tip him into a full-on rant. About Shane’s multi-year real estate investment plan, remarkable in its own right and unbelievable for someone under fifty. About Ilya’s exquisite cooking, borne of natural talent and refined through cooking classes he’d begrudgingly admitted attending when their crazy timetable allowed. Soon, the monologue intended to flaunt his boys’ excellence - so March would understand what an anomaly it was for them to give Scott the time of day - digressed into something much worse. Plans about secrecy and moderation out the window, he gushed about how they’d been trying and failing to teach him to play FIFA. How Ilya insisted they watched RuPaul Drag Race, and Shane always sneezed three times in a row.
Trivial, vital details escaped him in what would later turn into a landmine. The life-expectancy of his fabricated narrative was anchored to the fortunate anonymity of they/them. Gender-neutral, third-person singular. But how likely was a single person to both go to sleep at two in the morning and wake up at six for a run?
And yet, despite the risk of being busted, he couldn’t help himself: someone on earth had to know how lucky Scott Hunter was to have Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov in his life. Someone whom he could sue if they ratted him out.
“It sounds like you are spending a lot of time together,” March pointed out during one of the few pauses he had to take to refill his lungs.
He beamed. “Yes. More so in the last week. They’ve moved into my apartment while they recover from a health complication.”
“Nothing too severe, I hope?”
“Thankfully not. But it is giving us the chance to know each other better, since our relationship started off quite intense.”
Fuck.
He hadn’t planned on bringing up the sex before the fifth appointment.
“Are you comfortable with explaining what you mean by intense?”
No, but he’d backed himself into a corner, and it’d be suspicious if he refused to answer. He was a grown man. He could talk about sex.
“Sexually intense,” he forced out.
“I see! So are you saying it’s no longer sexually intense?”
Yes. No. He didn’t know. His appetite hadn’t disappeared in the least. Whenever he caught sight of either of his boys, his loins would ignite. Even worse, if they were together, doing something as mundane as reading hockey stats out loud to each other. Worse still, when they would turn towards him with the same desire written all over them.
No one had made a move since Scott had first railed Ilya. They hadn’t even had a conversation about it, or about how they’d proceed from there. The lack of communication would be terrifying if the three of them hadn’t been under this eerily serene spell, punctuated by cuddles on the sofa and late-night making-out sessions.
Since it was oh so easy to pin it down to something - anything - else, Scott had kept postponing the unavoidable showdown with the elephant in the room. After all, they were recovering from the play-offs. After all, they needed a break to process the mind-blowing sex and life-altering feelings. After all, Shane was injured.
To top it all off, they’d got into their first proper fight, so the timing hadn’t been ideal.
One morning, after an otherwise forgettable slumber party, Scott had rolled out of bed to find his sofa wrecked. Caved in, all the way through. With the money the nameless culprits had left on the counter - three-hundred dollars - next to a poorly redacted apology note - he’d bought the biggest, sturdiest sofa on the market, an ugly lump that could withstand the weight of a dozen moronic hockey players.
Given the size of it, he and Ilya could’ve stretched their arms and legs to full capacity and never bumped against each other. Instead, they’d lain so their toes would touch and keep the misery of their banishment away.
“What you think about this one?” Ilya flipped the phone towards him, then turned it back around before Scott could make out what was on the screen. “No, too much mileage, is not good.”
“I didn’t mind the green one,” he said, just for the fun of prompting yet another grimace.
“I’m already looking at used cars because you are too stubborn to get new, I’m not buying you a used Fiat- ah, this one is perfect. Is very sexy.”
For this round, Scott was presented with a caramel-coloured, spaceship-adjacent monster of a car.
“Sex- I’m not buying a Bentley!”
Ilya smirked. “You are right, I’m buying for you.”
Arguing was futile, and Scott’s morale was too bruised for it anyway. His anxiety ebbed and flowed, roaring like a billow every time his gaze drifted to the door of his bedroom, left ajar. In there, Shane was alone, fast asleep. Or alone and questioning whether he should call his parents and spend his recovery in Canada instead. Maybe he was packing right now, after deciding that this unlabelled thing between the three of them wasn’t worth-
Ilya’s heel, merciless and benevolent, dug into his side.
“Pay attention to me.”
“Ouch- Ilya!”
“Look.” The kid sighed like he was dealing with a mulish toddler. Whatever he was about to say, it warranted putting the phone down and his most unbothered expression up. Scott’s heart rate accelerated. “Hockey is the most important thing in Shane’s life, so he is pissed. He’ll get over it.”
And as much as Scott wanted to believe it, he couldn’t. He couldn’t shake the sight of Shane, right arm tucked in the sling, marching into the living room with his PC held out in accusation. On it, the frozen frame of Scott, clad in his gear and towering over a bleeding opponent, while Ilya wrestled another one to the ground.
“What the fuck is this?”
Retribution. The price Vancouver had to pay for hurting his boy; that’s what it was. A scrum of epic proportions, so vicious the commentators had called it ‘an episode of collective psychosis’. It was also something the team had agreed to keep from Shane so as not to upset him and his convalescence.
In hindsight, Scott should not have waited for him to find out on his own. And he should’ve known better than to handle his reaction with a weak:
“The nurse said you’re not supposed to look at screens.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Ilya’s sudden pallor.
Shane, for lack of better words, imploded.
“Oh, I’m sorry, am I being naughty? Maybe I’m overreacting. Being dramatic. Maybe I should be grateful for you two idiots putting your careers on the line for me, what do you think? The caption says you broke Ruiz’s jaw, Scott - are you out of your fucking mind?!”
“I sent him and his wife a gift basket.”
“Oh my God, Scott,” Ilya’d whimpered, “Shut up.”
Too little too late. Now a concerning shade of purple, Shane tore Ilya apart - “And you!, you are here on a work VISA, did you forget that or what?” - before going back to lambasting Scott - “You could’ve been suspended. You could’ve lost the C, and all because you were thinking with your dick!”. There was no stopping him, so he had ended up stopping himself due to a pounding, shouting-induced headache. He had refused to let either of them accompany him as he had retired to the bedroom.
Fast forward six hours, he and Ilya were still in exile, and Scott was reheating the same pathetic excuse.
“The game was thrown already. It was the third period.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Hunter, I know that. Shane knows that. But he’s pissed and in pain, so we still have to sleep on sofa. It won’t be the last time, anyway.”
Because he was desperate for a distraction - and reassurance - Scott latched onto the implication.
“What was your first time?”
“I called Shane a slut while he sucked me off.” Even though Scott hadn’t said a word, the little shit gave him the side-eye. “Don’t make that face, you would, too.”
For a moment, Scott considered it: he pictured having Shane under him - flushed in something far more pleasant than rage - and calling him anything other than lovely. The mere thought of Ilya daring as much, however playfully, made him wriggle his nose in distaste.
“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, with absolute certainty.
“Well, I thought he might like.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t.”
Ilya’s eyes went dreamy. “He didn’t let me touch for a week.”
“Good.”
“Very.” Just like that, as if they’d got to the root of their predicament, he went back to online window shopping. “This Mercedes is not bad, but colour is awful.”
How Ilya could be that unbothered that was beyond Scott. He had no framework for whatever this was - a lover’s spat, a romantic dispute, a relationship-ending fight. Growing up, he hadn’t witnessed any besides the one, more dream than memory. He recalled his dad raising his voice, only to be shut down by mum, who said they shouldn’t argue in front of him. Then, they’d died, his grandparents had taken him in, and they were too old to get mad at each other. As a teen, Scott would eat at a friend’s house, see their parents fight and think to himself, ‘Gosh, they’re getting a divorce.’ Each time, the food would turn to rubble in his mouth.
“Scott.”
Ilya was staring at him with sharp eyes.
“Sorry.”
“You know what will make Shane forgive us?" The foot that had been resting on Scott’s side trailed southwards. "Some gooood dick.”
Despite knowing full well it was a joke, Scott spluttered, scandalised. “He’s drugged!”
“See? You two are just the same. Serious, boring, and have a weak backhand.”
Shane’s voice, muffled by the meds and the distance, shrank them to insignificance.
“You know I can hear you, right?”
“Blyat,” Ilya muttered, looking at Scott for guidance.
As though Scott hadn’t already proven, over and over, that he hadn’t the faintest idea of what the fuck he was doing.
“Sorry for being loud, Shane,” he tried.
A few seconds later, the door opened to reveal him, pearl of great price and righteous executioner. He regarded Scott first, Ilya second, with a raised eyebrow.
“Maybe I should only let Scott into bed.” Shane pointed his chin in his general direction. “Since he’s at least apologised.”
Ilya all but fell to his knees. “Noooo, moy lyubimyy, I am sorry. I am so sorry for being loud.”
It’d have been pathetic hadn’t Scott been this close to genuflection himself. Shane, though, had already retreated into the darkness of the bedroom. He waited long enough for them to despair - Ilya did actually slide off the sofa, pressing his face into the cushions - before absolving them.
“Are you coming or not?”
At the concession, Ilya scrambled to comply. Scott didn’t, unsure whether ‘you’ included him, too. Until an exasperated grunt reached him from across the apartment.
“Both of you.”
Later on, back in his bed, with Shane slobbering on his forearm and Ilya's breath tickling in his ear, Scott swore he’d do everything in his power not to mess this up.
Outside, the sun bathed the stout buildings in white, blinding light. It ought to be almost eleven o’clock. With luck on his side, Scott would make it back home for lunch.
“Do you miss it?”
The last obstacle standing in his way was ten more minutes of self-imposed humiliation.
“Do I miss what?” he asked, like an idiot.
“The sex. It can be difficult - and confusing - to go from having intense sex with someone we care about to none at all.”
Unlike in press interviews, he couldn’t glare at his interlocutor, nor imply how distasteful it was to ask such personal questions. There, while being served to the vultures, he still held a modicum of authority, granted by his jersey number and the reputation it came with. Here, he’d come willingly, and willingly he’d subject himself to weekly oncologic surgery. The success of the operation, alas, depended on his willingness as much as on the doctor’s skill. So he rolled his sleeves up, and down he brought the knife.
“Sex is not- it’s not what this is about, for me. I mean, I do want to have it, because it’s so good. I want to have all of the sex with them.” The fact that March didn’t grimace at his juvenile phrasing was a testament to her professionalism. Scott, on the other hand, was on his merry way to spontaneous combustion. “But it’s also been nice to have a break from it, if that makes sense. To get closer in other ways. So I’m more than fine with not having it, right now.”
Delivery aside, a pretty accurate, genuine answer. After almost four decades of starvation and one mind-altering night of rapture, he could function without sex. Piece of cake. Give him Shane and Ilya, healthy and happy, somewhere in his vicinity, and he was set. Some nice extras would be daily kisses, please and thank you, and an unenthusiastic handjob once a year, on his birthday. Anything more was decadence, not necessity, no matter how much his grumbling stomach suggested otherwise.
“It sounds like you have something really special with your partner, Scott. The thing that interests me is how this relationship inspired you to consider therapy. Would you mind elaborating on that?”
Two minutes until the end of the session. He must’ve spent all his sanity tokens because English had stopped making sense.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“No worries, it was a bit of a convoluted one.” March had rested her notepad on the table by her side and was tilting her head again. Forty-five full degrees to the left. Bad, bad omen. “I first asked you what made you decide to book this appointment, and you answered by telling me about this amazing bond you’ve formed with a new person in your life. How does that relate to you being here today?”
Scott opened his mouth.
“Take your time to think about it, please.”
Scott closed it. He thought about it, you’re welcome. He thought about it for so long that they ran over time by a few seconds. He pushed the blade through the stubborn tissue of his reticence. Isn’t that what you do, to remove a tumour?
“I know I’m not-”
Normal. Normal was the right word for it, but he couldn’t say that because he knew what it sounded like.
“- I know I have some issues. I know I do. And it’d be unfair on them if I didn’t at least try to be better.” Surprisingly, telling that truth didn’t hurt one bit. God willing, he might be cured. “I want to be better for them.”