I.
now I kiss up to God my fists
and I pray to keep my head
though I like your pretty eyes better blackened
and my fists all fucking red
through sickness and health
I've kissed up to God for two years, I have focused...
on the cameos made by the tiger in the valley of the fucking locust

-glassJAw, Motel of the White Locust



Don't think, don't think, don't think.

I repeat the litany over and over in my head. Pretend it doesn't hurt and it won't. Control what you can; slow breathing, slow thump thump thump of your heart, and let the rest go. Because there's nothing you can do.

It doesn't stop me from flinching in reaction as I watch a curled fist smack with meaty impact against his cheek. Doesn't quell the wounded animal whimper caught in my throat or the nauseous clench of my stomach as it roils with fear. It simply keeps me silent. Silent as fist rises and falls again and again with a wet sound like paint hitting concrete, harsh gasps the only other noise to break this thin-as-steel quiet. Blood explodes and it's hard to trace its source; the raw wounds splitting swollen knuckles or the shattered ruins of the nose beneath them?

The abuse drags on in silence for three endless minutes until finally the grating ache of fists forces an end. The body crumpled on the floor is unconscious, blissfully unaware of its state. His pale face is slack and slick with tears, bruises already forming beneath the gory mask of blood. And still, he is beautiful.

I fall to my knees and crawl closer to him, heart beating painfully in my chest with fear. Now that the violence is over and I no longer need to maintain silence I feel the terror rise inside of me. I touch his broken nose and a tiny whimper of agony escapes me. My angel, my poor, my poor.

"It's okay, angel," I murmur gently into the shell of his ear as I scoop him into my arms. He groans in his stupor and then cries out in unknowing pain as I lay him as gently as I can on the bed. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay now." Reaching up to brush away pale blond hair damp with sweat, soft as spun silk under my fingertips. He moans again and reaches for my hand, grip tight enough that I can feel bones slide and grate. It's all I can do not to pull away when his fingers dig into the sore, skinless flesh of my bleeding hands, but he needs me, needs me now. "Shh, it's okay, Nikky," I soothe, pressing a kiss to his ruined lips as his short fingernails scrape my swollen knuckles. "I won't let anyone hurt you."



II.
Whispering you stare
Wanting you don't care
Kiss me make me cry
How did I wind up here

Wishing you were dead
Why are you in my bed
Ignore what's jeopardized
It's only me denied

-Leah Andreone, You Make Me Remember



I awaken to pain.

Light streams through the open window directly into my eyes, blinding me as I blink dumbly like a newborn kitten. My knuckles resemble freshly ground beef and feel as though they've been thrust into the blades of a lawnmower. My head aches, my back is stiff from the position I've been sleeping in--curled around Nik--and my tongue tastes like a strip of rotten meat in my mouth.

And from that point the day just gets worse.

I lift my head to look at the clock and groan as the blurry numbers slide into focus. 6:00 am. We don't have to be at the rink for morning skate until ten. The thought draws my gaze to Nik, still soundly asleep, curled up beside me in the sprawling California king-sized bed. One look makes my stomach flip and quickly edits the thought I just had. I don't have to be at the rink until ten. There's no way Nik can play today.

I start to feel sick just looking at him, and so I clench my jaw and force myself to continue. I did this, the least I can do is face it. The thought brings me close to vomiting. I did this.

It doesn't look as terrible this morning as it did last night, before I carefully cleaned the cuts and washed the blood away. Both of his eyes are blackened, one darker than the other, an almost pretty plum color like a wine stain on white carpet. There's a nasty gash on his cheek and his bottom lip is split, but the damage isn't as extensive as I thought. The blood from his nose made it look worse last night; or maybe the alcohol just clouded my memory.

I press a kiss to the uninjured corner of his mouth and slip quietly from bed, careful not to wake him. He needs his rest.

I stumble naked through his apartment and into the bathroom, groping tiredly for the controls to the shower. I flip the heat all the way up and force myself under the spray, grinding my teeth as the water hits my back. It's the kind of shocking heat that feels almost icy at times, scalding with a bite of chill. My skin feels like it's melting, and I hope it is, in a way. I'm shaking by the time I turn the tap off, and as I towel myself dry I catch a glance of myself in the mirror. I look like I've been skinned alive.

It's the only penance I have to offer.

Nik's still asleep when I drive to the morning skate, and I stay away for the rest of the day. We play Edmonton that evening and lose. Badly. I play like I've never seen a puck before and come out of the game a minus 3. Daryl doesn't say anything, just stares at me with arms crossed and mouth a thin line of disapproval. No one speaks to me in the locker room, and I dress in strained silence.

Nik's awake when I return that night. He looks like death warmed over and I have a feeling I don't look much better. We don't discuss what happened last night. I complain about the game and Nik laughs and smiles and we pretend that nothing happened. Only after we crawl into bed I pull him into my arms and make love to him more tenderly than I ever have in my life, and I fall asleep with a heavy heart to the sound of his muffled sobs.



III.
the guy who put his hands on you
has got nothing to do with me
and the bruises that you feel will heal
and I hope you'll come around
'cause we're missing you
and you used to speak so easy
now you're afraid to talk to me
it's like walking with the wounded
carrying that weight way too far
concrete pulled you down so hard
out there with the wounded

-Third Eye Blind, Wounded



We rise early the next morning to catch a flight to Edmonton, where we'll play the Oilers again on their own ice. The trip is excruciating; the plane is deathly quiet, the loudest silence I've ever heard, heavy with things unsaid. Nik sleeps against the window and I hold vigil in the isle seat, too tense to rest. I catch a curious glance every now and then from one of our teammates, but each time our eyes meet they're quick to look away. No one asks Nik what happened to his face. No one wants to know.

No one ever wants to know.

Stop it I order myself. Stop fucking thinking. The mantra's easy to repeat but difficult to practice, especially with the evidence of those thoughts sitting right beside me. Especially with the stinging throb in my knuckles, a painful reminder of my shame. Especially since tonight we're...no, no, block the thought, breathe breathe breathe, but it won't stop...tonight, tonight...

"Scott?" Nik's worried murmur registers vaguely in my mind as I lurch from my seat, stumbling down the isle at a tripping run. Mike Ricci leaves the tiny airplane bathroom just as I arrive and shoots me a concerned look as I shove him out of the way, all but tearing the flimsy bathroom door off before throwing myself inside. My knees hit the cool metal floor and I have just enough time to lean forward before my stomach convulses and I empty last night's meal into the toilet. My hands shake as they clutch at the stainless steel, and there are tears in my eyes. I rise slightly to lock the door before I vomit again, over and over, shaking and sobbing and on my knees, alone.

***

No one speaks as we file into the lobby of our hotel. Even Nabokov remains quiet, the normally jovial goaltender frowning with an unaccustomed somberness. Darryl looks us over carefully, the silence stretching like warm taffy as his sharp eyes take everything in. He hesitates for just a breath before assigning rooms, gaze lingering on me as he announces the rooming pairs have remained the same. I snatch the keycards from his hand without meeting his eyes and all but run to my room, leaving Sunny to chase breathlessly after me.

I'm already laying face down on one of the beds by the time I hear the door sweep open, the mechanized lock clicking softly as it slides into place. There's the comforting rustle of Nik putting the bags away, shoving the suitcases into the closet, normal background noises that remind me I'm not alone. I hear his footsteps approaching, muffled by the dense shag carpet, but I'm still surprised when the bed dips beneath his weight and his hand rests gently at the small of my back. How can he stand to touch me? I can barely remain in my own skin.

"Are you okay, Scotty?" he murmurs, voice sweet with concern. Oh Nik, don't, please don't. I can't bear your kindness right now.

"I'm fine," I reply tightly. "A little tired."

"Oh," he answers. His hand has slipped beneath the hem of my shirt and is making slow progress up my spine, rubbing soothing circles into my aching muscles. "Do you want me to leave you alone, then?" Nik whispers, and there's a disappointed lilt to the question. I turn my head to face him and my heart clenches at the sight of him. Laughing blue eyes framed in bruises, boring intently into mine with a look that is all innocence. On anyone else that look would be contrived, but this is just Nik, good-hearted and guileless. Pure.

"Come here," I order huskily, my voice not quite my own. He leans forward obediently and his eyes close as our lips meet, melting into the kiss. There's no bitterness or fear to his touch, just love, and a quick eagerness to please. Like a puppy begging for affection, love me love me love me. My eyes sting and I can't control the tears that spill down my face. "Scott? What's wrong?" How can he look at me like that? Why doesn't he hate me? It's driving me mad, this need for anger, for guilt, for punishment. I search his eyes time after time for rage and all I find there is confusion. He's not mad at me, he just doesn't understand. I wish I had answers for him.

But I don't. So instead I shake my head at his concern, wiping the tears from my eyes, and return my lips to his. He sighs and wraps strong arms around me as I plunder the sweetness of his mouth. I lick the heat from his lips as I slide my hand along his side, eliciting a shiver and a groan. He's beginning to pant now, arching his back desperately as I suck at his pulse, my trembling fingers unbuttoning his pants. I plunge my hand into his jeans and swallow his startled moan, all my attention focused on him, on bringing him as much pleasure as I have pain. His kisses are my Hail Mary's, his groans my rosary. Touch by touch, he makes me clean again.

"God...Scott..." His chest heaves with the effort to draw breath, and I allow myself a smile, brushing my lips reverently across the smooth skin below his navel. His hips tremble, then buck desperately as my mouth moves lower, encompassing him. Glancing up I see his hands clutch frantically at the pillow, wanting to tangle in my hair. But he knows better, knows better than to try and touch me right now, or I might stop touching him. I don't do this much, he knows it scares me, and I'm sure the gesture is not lost on him, incoherent as he is right now.

My hands shake as they pin down his hips and I press him a little harder to the mattress, trying to control the trembling. Close my eyes and try not to think about what I'm doing, think only about how much I love Nik, how much I want to make him happy. A shudder runs through his body and his toes curl as he comes, whispering frantically in a language I don't understand. "Knull, jag alskar dig, sa mycket...sa mycket..."

"I love you too," I whisper tenderly into his shoulder, holding his tired body close. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Never again, I promise, I'll never hurt you." I mean it with every inch of my soul.

I always do.



IV.
I always wonder what it takes
fifteen stitches and a soft parody
to make my eyes be like deceit
believe the sting proves heart to me

now I know that you love me
thank God that you love at all

-Deftones, Dai The Flu



Everything's more or less okay until I step onto the ice that night. And then somehow, in the space of a single look, my whole world ends, and what's that old saying? Not with a bang, but a whimper.

I catch a glance at him from the corner of my eye and have to consciously train my attention on Daryl to keep from staring. My pulse is racing and I realize with a great deal of irritation that I'm trembling. It never gets any easier, even after all these years, and seeing him in the old uniform brings back so many memories...

"Thornton, get your sorry ass on the ice, motherfucker." Nolan, not Darryl; far too energetic an order for our coach. I stumble from the bench and out onto the ice without so much as a defiant scowl, because the sheer, unadulterated loathing in his voice sounds barely restrained by reason. I've often wondered which of us would win a fight if it ever came down to that, and I can sincerely say that I never want to find out.

I close my eyes and skate a few small figure-eights, trying to get my breathing under control. Get it together, Thornton, I scream in my head, lining up opposite Edmonton's starting line for the opening drop. It's just a fucking game. Stop being such a goddamn woman. My lips move silently in repetition.

"Still talking to yourself, Thornton?" The reckless derision in that oh-so-familiar-voice drags my eyes open to stare at the man across from me. No, no, wait, he's not...

Thornton, you fucking idiot, my mind yells. You're playing center now. Darryl brought in Alex Korolyuk to fill Nik's absence and switched me with the first line to center Owen and Graves. Hence my current position in the face-off circle, lined up against Edmonton's newest acquisition. Hence him.

I wonder how much they would they would fine me if I threw up at center ice.

***

I make it through three shifts before I come into physical contact with him, a fact that both astounds and thrills me. Next shift, though, I skate on and tail him as he races to the corner for the puck, and what am I supposed to do? Explain to my teammates I can't check him because the thought of us actually touching makes me want to cut my own hands off? I take a deep breath and suck it up, pumping my legs as fast as they'll go as we break away in a mad dash for the puck. He reaches it first but I'm half a second behind him, smashing him into the wall with a satisfying *crunch* that reverberates through the glass. I flick the puck unconcernedly to Owen and skate for the point, but his taunting call follows me.

"Hey Thornton, that your boyfriend I saw hanging 'round the benches earlier? He's really pretty." Don't. Listen. Think of something else. Like hockey. Hockey would be good right now. "You give him those nice bruises?" I stand up a little straighter and he laughs, skating close by to murmur in my ear. "I thought so. He looks like a bitch."

"Fuck off, Jason," I hiss, trying to tune him out and focus on the puck.

I can see his grin without even looking, hear it in his voice. "Maybe I'll fuck him after the game instead."

I swear, my gloves are off before the last word even leaves his mouth. My scabbing knuckles tear and bleed in protest as I clench my hands in his jersey, hauling him close until we're face-to-face. "Don't you ever fucking touch him," I scream, shaking with rage as he leers insolently. "Don't you fucking look at him, or I swear to God I'll..."

"You'll what?" he spits, baring perfect white teeth in a practiced sneer. "Hit me? Go ahead, Thornton, hit me. I fuckin' dare you."

I stare at him for an endless moment, memories rushing unbidden back to me. Fist connecting with soft flesh, an explosion of pain. Rage a white hot fire in the belly, fueling the violence; and blood, everywhere blood...

He's laughing right into my face now, fearless, victorious. I open my mouth to refute it but no words emerge, just an inarticulate cry. Then there are hands on me, dragging me to the penalty box, with all the dignity of a child being sent to their room. There's the roar of the crowd, and Owen screaming 'fucking ridiculous'; but mostly there are his blue eyes boring into mine, laughing, laughing at me.



V.
why is my choice between the bat and the belt
each time I hear about the hand you've been dealt
spare me confession it's confession you sell
maybe I'll fall behind, but I don't mind
'cause I'll catch up

-Foo Fighters, Wind Up



We lose the game, again, and Darryl unleashes a tirade upon us such as no one has ever heard before, but for once I really don't fucking care. I shower and stop by the hotel to drop off my equipment, and then I go about getting good and fucked up in some of Edmonton's beautiful bars. Nikky tries to follow me but I scream at him to leave me alone, and the look in my eyes must convince him that screwing with me tonight is not the best thing for his health, because he leaves me alone.

I fling myself into the first taxi I see and order the driver to take me somewhere close and cheap. Ten minutes later I'm standing in a shady alleyway, squinting up through the darkness at a small sign that reads simply 'Lush'. I glance behind me once to the street, then shrug and head inside. I'm not thrilled with the idea of getting hammered in a part of the city I'm not familiar with, but I reason that I can hold my own against just about any trouble that comes along. And I really, really need a drink.

I don't know what the inside of the club looks like, I'm not paying attention; they could be sacrificing small furry animals in a food processor for all I know. I head straight for the bar and slap a $20 down, then order a shot of Cuervo Gold with the command to keep them coming. Tequila has got to be the most gorgeous thing in the world, aside from Nik first thing in the morning. Fuck, why did I think that? I obviously need to drink more.

Eight shots more or less floor me, and the ninth is just the final nail in the coffin. Not only do I not remember what was upsetting me, I don't remember where I am, or my name, or other trivial little details like that. I guess I can declare this a success.

Except...I catch a jumbled sentence over the pandemonium of the crowd, and it's in a voice I do remember. Fuck. Fuck me. Trust me to know Nik's voice in any state of intoxication. And what the fuck is he doing here, anyway? I distinctly remember telling him to fuck off, followed by numerous bad things that would result if he ignored me. Fucker.

Only, as I swivel on my stool to look for him, I realize he isn't here for me at all. He's lounging at a small table with someone else (someone else? Nikky, what the fuck?) talking and sipping a Molson. I peer intently at him, trying to decipher his expression with my rapidly decreasing powers of observation. He's not laughing, which is good, or even smiling that I can tell. In fact, he looks almost...sad...?

Gee, Scott, what the fuck you think he'd be sad about?

The person with him turns slightly to beckon for another round, and the flash of a familiar face almost shocks me sober. What the fuck is my boyfriend doing having a drink with Todd fucking Marchant?

Okay, I can't take this, the pure notknowing is killing me. Maybe, if I can get just a little closer...hey, look, that table's empty...I'll stay really quiet...

"...know what to say." Todd sighs, and takes a sip of beer.

"...have to know someth...can't unders...at happened?" Dammit, the background noise keeps fluctuating around me, cutting Nik off mid-word. I creep just a little closer, straining to hear.

Nik's staring down at his hands, all his attention focused on peeling the label from the back of his beer. He looks really, really pretty. I half consider walking over and kissing him before I remember that I'm supposed to be spying. Right, no more shots for me.

"At first it just...normal, you know? Kind of things...a lot. No big deal." Todd pauses, and Nik lifts his head questioningly.

"And then?" he asks softly.

Todd sighs again and chugs down the rest of his beer before setting the bottle down, staring into its empty depths for some sort of inspiration. "...all knew what was happening. But no one...anything. Didn't want to fuck up the team, I guess. After awhile...pretty bad." Still not quite close enough. I lean forward a few more inches, grabbing the table for support as the chair rocks dangerously beneath me. I have to know what they're saying.

"And no one did anything?" Nik looks like he might be crying. Todd squirms under the tearful scrutiny, finally looking away.

"We didn't know what to do, Nik. It would have torn the team apart. Eventually he got traded, and it was over." Marchant takes a long drink from his fresh bottle, eyeing the ground uncomfortably and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but here.

"My god," Nik whispers. He sounds so small and scared, it makes my stomach twist to hear it. He stares disbelieving at the scarred tabletop, trying to come to grips with whatever revelation he's just discovered. "He...he did this to Jason, too. To both of us..."

Todd's head snaps up at that, a look of confusion crossing his features. "What?" he questions, drawing a curious glance from Nik. "Is that what you...who told you that?"

Now it's Nik's turn to look confused. "You just did," he responds uncertainly.

Todd simply stares at him and shakes his head. "Nik...Scott didn't do anything. It was Arnott who hit him."

And following that statement, in the grand theme of this entire fucked up week, I lose my balance and topple to the floor, landing right at their feet.

"Scott?"

I have a feeling the night just got exponentially worse.



VI.
Three times alone this week,
I was supposed to be a rockstar
I only beat you when I'm drunk
You're only pretty when you're crying
We are supposed to be
The ones who set the air afire
Three times alone this week,
I was made into a liar

-glassJAw, Piano



I stare up at him from my back on the floor, watching him watching me. I know I reek of tequila, and even through several layers of intoxication I see the flinch in his eyes as he realizes that I'm well and truly gone. The change that comes over him is subtle, but instantaneous. Fear. Of course. I've taught you to fear me, haven't I, Nikky? And what a good job I've done.

"Scott?"

I heave a sigh. "Hi, Nikky," I reply lamely, slightly sobered by my collision with the floor. But only slightly.

"What are you doing here?" That smooth, perfect brow furrows in concern and, irrationally, I want to hit him for caring. Instead I answer evenly,

"Drinking. D'you think you can help me up? Hi, Todd." Marchant nods vaguely to me, his face still registering shock. And...pity? Oh, fuck /you/.

Nikky leans down to me and extends a hand, and my chest tightens unexpectedly in longing. The way the light falls, the slow spin of the alcohol, the pleading, tender look in his eyes--it all combines in a way that's painfully breath-taking. He looks like an angel reaching down to save me from the depths of hell. An angel, /my/ angel.

And all at once the pieces click, and I fall into his arms with the shriek of a wounded animal begging for an end to its pain. Nik staggers at my sudden weight but steadies himself, wrapping those wonderfully warm arms securely around me as I sob into his chest. Holding me like I've held him so many nights while he cried, only I was always the source of his pain. And still, holding me. Loving me. Understanding.

"Nik," I gasp wetly against the tear-stained fabric of his t-shirt. "Nik, I'm sorry, don't leave me. I'll change! I'll get help, I will. I don't want to hurt you. Oh god, I don't want...I don't want this..."

Nik's chest swells beneath my cheek as he inhales deeply, releasing the breath in a long, tired sigh. I love you, that sigh says. I love you despite all the reasons not to. But you hurt me too much. I can't live like this any longer.

And as I pull back to stare at him the words I've imagined tumble from his mouth.

"I love you, Scott. I've loved you for a very long time. And I understand now why...you are the way you are." Nik's eyes are fathomless pools of compassion, sucking me under, pulling me in. But the next minute they freeze, hardening into something not unkind, but very sure. "But that doesn't make it okay. Nothing does."

"Nik--" I begin desperately, but he silences me with a kiss.

All the yearning and hurt and inconsolable grief behind his words is poured into that kiss, crashing against my lips with bittersweet impact. I let the protest die on my tongue and surrender to the moment, the last moment I may have with him, because I was too fucked up and stupid to see what I had and cherish it. It lasts only a moment before he pulls away, leaving me cold and empty, a shell of a man. There are tears in his eyes, though I can barely see them through the tears in mine. And still, he smiles that beautiful, gentle smile.

"Jag alskar dig, Scott," he murmurs, stepping backwards, away from me, away from us. "But this ends now."