Chapter Text
Shane is pruny by the time he finally leaves the relative safety of the bathroom. His skin is tight and tender in places he doesn’t want to think about too closely. He pauses in the doorway, barefoot on the cool tile, like he’s bracing himself for something. He’s not sure what for, though.
“Are you hungry?” Kip asks.
He’s changed too. Kip is now in baggy shorts and a soft looking T-shirt worn thin at the collar. He’s perched sideways in an armchair, socked feet tucked beneath him, phone loose in his hand. He’s wearing glasses that look uncannily like Shane’s reading pair, and something about that makes Shane’s chest ache.
Shane thinks of keys on a harpsichord under bathroom lights.
“No,” he says quietly. “That’s all right. Thank you.”
Kip nods, accepting it without pushing.
The couch has been made up. Or part of it, at least. It’s a massive sectional in a wide L-shape that dominates the living room. Its cushions look deep and inviting. A careful nest has been arranged at one end: pillows stacked and angled just so and a soft baby-blue blanket (hand-knit, Shane thinks) is folded back and ready. A bottle of water waits on the coffee table like an offering. Somewhere in the apartment, something hums steadily.
“I’ve got your clothes in the laundry,” Kip says, deliberately vague on if it’s in the washing machine or the dryer. “I think I managed to get the stains out. They should be ready tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Chicago.
Shane’s stomach tightens. He’d told Hayden not to wait up and hadn’t said why. Hadn’t said anything at all, really.
“Do you have a phone charger?” Shane asks instead. His phone has been dead for hours or maybe longer. Time feels very, very unreliable tonight. “I need to set an alarm for tomorrow.”
“Oh- yeah. Yeah, of course.” Kip hops up and rummages through a kitchen drawer, metal clinking softly. He comes back with a charger and hands it over.
Shane takes it with both hands. “Thank you, Kip. For… all of this.”
Kip’s smile is small and a little shy. “It’s not a problem.”
He hesitates, then adds, “Are you sure you’re not hungry? I know you athletes eat pretty clean. I could make you a salad or something?”
Shane shakes his head, unexpectedly touched by the offer. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “Thank you.”
Kip bites his lower lip and nods, then glances at the time on his phone. “Scott’ll be here really late. Or early,” he adds. “He’s got a flight tomorrow too.”
Shane nods, because that’s the only response he seems capable of right now.
“Oh, here.” Kip crosses to the freezer and pulls out an ice pack. Shane watches as he wraps it carefully in a dish towel before handing it over. “For your eye. Or your nose. Either one. I can grab another if you want.”
“I’m okay. Thanks,” Shane says again.
He lifts the ice pack to his face and hisses quietly when the cold hits swollen skin. He adjusts it, trying to cover both his eye and the bridge of his nose at once, when a thought nudges its way forward.
“Your name is Kip?”
The man flushes instantly, pink blooming across his cheeks. It’s… kind of pretty. Kip is nothing like Ilya. He’s open where Ilya is closed and soft where Ilya is sharp. And there’s also the whole invited a bleeding stranger into an apartment he doesn’t even own thing that Ilya would not even consider.
Stop thinking about him, Hollander.
“It’s short for Christopher,” Kip says.
“How do you get-”
“I don’t know, man,” Kip admits with a small, sheepish laugh. “You can call me Chris if you want.”
“Does anyone?”
“Uh. No.”
“Kip it is,” Shane decides.
Kip smiles at him, warm and genuine. But then it fades, just a little.
“Shane,” Kip says carefully. “I don’t mean to pry-,”
“Then don’t,” Shane snaps.
The sharpness surprises them both. Kip visibly shrinks in on himself, shoulders drawing inward, and Shane winces.
“Sorry,” Shane says quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… complicated.”
Kip studies him the way someone might read a difficult essay in The New Yorker. Thoughtfully, like the meaning might reveal itself if he looks hard enough. He bites his lower lip again.
The gesture reminds Shane, uncomfortably, of Rose.
“You know,” Kip says lightly, trying for casual, “being strangers and all, I’m actually a pretty good option if you ever want to talk. That’s kind of the New York way.” He shrugs. “One time this little old lady complained to me for thirty straight minutes about her grandkids never visiting her when the L train was down. Never saw her again, but I think it helped.”
Shane licks his lips. He’s never been good at talking to people. They always seemed to vibrate on a different frequency then he did.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Kip adds quickly, voice getting softer. “If you don’t want to.”
He hesitates, then continues anyway.
“My friend Kyle- he’s a bartender at this bar I go to a lot- he was, like, seventeen or eighteen when he fell for his boss. This older guy who was married with kids.” Kip exhales through his nose. “The wife thought he was cheating, just… not with a teenager. She hired a private investigator. When it all blew up, he moved to New York. That’s how Kyle and I met. Not the affair part. The moving here part.”
Shane must look lost, because Kip gives a small, apologetic smile.
“Sorry. Point is, it messed Kyle up. Really bad. He had this warped idea of what love was supposed to look like. He knew when he was being treated like shit, I think. He just… didn’t care.” Kip tilts his head. “Does that make sense?”
It makes too much sense. Shane feels faintly nauseous.
Kip keeps going.
“His last boyfriend was the worst one. It got bad. Like- really bad. He broke Kyle’s arm once. We kept telling him to leave, but he didn't. Or couldn’t.” Kip’s voice drops. “The second time Kyle ended up in the hospital, the guy pushed him onto the subway tracks.”
Shane’s blood turns cold.
Kip swallows, eyes shining a little. “The train was delayed, thank god. People were able to pull him up before it came. But he still split his head open.” He taps his own skull lightly with two knuckles. “Needed a bunch of staples.”
Shane doesn’t breathe.
“We thought, okay- this is it. Your boyfriend pushes you onto train tracks, that’s automatic breakup territory, right?” Kip lets out a humorless laugh. “But when I visited Kyle in the hospital, there was this massive bouquet of roses from the guy.”
Shane’s throat tightens. “Did he take him back?”
“No,” Kip says. “He was going to. I really think he would have. But a bunch of us staged an intervention. He didn’t even want to press charges.” Kip looks down, picking absently at a cuticle. “The whole thing scared him enough to break up in the end. And his ex got arrested anyway.”
Silence stretches in the apartment. Shane feels like he’s got needles under his fingernails.
“I guess what I’m saying,” Kip continues carefully, “is that it’s complicated. Even when you know what’s right and wrong. Even when you know what you’re supposed to do.” He hesitates, searching Shane’s face. “You haven’t said anything about what happened. Not really. But you kind of remind me of Kyle.”
Shane feels exposed. Like Kip has flayed him alive and is peering into his organs.
“And whatever it is,” Kip adds, fumbling a little, “your hockey career, or… whatever else-” He grimaces. “You’ve got someone in your corner. Or- your net? Your goal?” He shakes his head, embarrassed. “You’ve got someone on your side.”
Shane can only stare at him.
This stranger- this kind, soft-spoken man who invited him in without asking for a single explanation- has somehow named everything Shane’s been refusing to say out loud.
He knows it’s wrong. He’s always known. No healthy relationship involves glass being thrown at your head.
Shane feels his face heat, a flush creeping up his neck.
Kip just smiles at him, like that knowledge alone doesn’t change how he’s willing to sit beside him.
“Well,” the other man says, standing, “help yourself to anything in the fridge or pantry. Scott’s got these chocolate protein bars that taste like dirt, but he swears by them.”
That earns the faintest tug at the corner of Shane’s mouth.
“It’s really late,” Kip continues, softer now, “and you look like you’re exhausted.”
He stretches, rolling his shoulders until something cracks pleasantly. “Scott’ll be back soon, so if you hear the door open, don’t freak out. Not a robber,” he adds, with a small smile. “I’ll have your clothes ready before you head out. Try to get some rest, okay?”
“Okay,” Shane echoes, hollow and thin, like the word has already spent all the strength he has left. He kind of has, hasn't he?
Kip pauses, studying him for a second longer, then nods. He doesn’t say anything else. He just turns off the overhead light and turns on the lamp nearest the couch, leaving a warm pool of light instead of darkness, and heads down the hall.
Shane sits there for a moment after he’s gone, the ice pack melting against his skin.
Then, carefully, like the couch might reject him if he moves too fast, he lies down.
It’s a long, long time before he falls asleep.