You Could Make a Life

by Taylor Fitzpatrick

  *

  The only break in the drudgery of game, road trip, game, hotel room, game, is when Alex comes down for a game. Or more accurately comes down to see his little sister, who's getting her degree in history at McMaster, but when Alex mentions it, Dan invites him and his sister to the Saturday afternoon game, and they take him up on it.

  Dan comes out to meet them after the game. Diana gives him a slightly sceptical look, suddenly so adult looking, eighteen and too cool for the guy she totally had a gigantic crush on when he was with her brother, not that Dan would mention it, no matter how obvious it was. But he guesses she's outgrown that, or Alex has finally gotten through to her about the futility of crushing on gay guys (Alex had groaned about her inability to pick a guy actually interested in girls—also not dating her brother), because she offers Dan a hand to shake instead of plastering herself against him for a hug like when she was thirteen and still had braces.

  They go out for dinner and drinks after, and Diana bows out after the meal, claiming being underage as her excuse, like there's any way she hasn't figured her way around that, or that anyone in Hamilton actually enforces it. Hamilton was everyone's favourite place during his Juniors years purely because it was so easy to get drinks. Dan doesn't call her on it though, figures now he's just the boring friend of Alex's since the shine wore off.

  He does, however, look mournfully at Alex once they've settled down with some beer, saying, "She doesn't like me anymore."

  Alex laughs at him. "You miss a teenage girl having a crush on you?"

  "It was adorable," Dan says sadly.

  "You poor thing," Alex says, and orders them a basket of fries, which is against Dan's diet, but who gives a fuck.

  "So," Alex says. "How's Hamilton?"

  Dan gives him a look.

  "That good, huh?" Alex asks.

  "I don't know," Dan says. "I moved away from my family, team, and friends so that I could stay with my boyfriend in Montreal. And this isn't Montreal. Also I'm playing for a shitty team. And it smells like rotten eggs here."

  "It really does," Alex says.

  "Not helpful," Dan says.

  "Well it does," Alex says. "And I'm not the best person to talk to about this, since I think following Freckles was pretty stupid even before the rotten eggs thing."

  "Oh my god," Dan says, "Seriously, what do you two have against each other?"

  "Are you kidding?" Alex asks. "Please tell me you aren't this stupid, Dan, I don't want to have been with someone this stupid."

  "I am this stupid, I guess," Dan says. "Whatever 'this' means."

  "Okay," Alex says. "Listen closely, because I am saying this just once so you don't let it get to your head."

  "Okay..." Dan says.

  "Silence," Alex says. "Total silence."

  Dan nods.

  "I was totally in love with you," Alex says. "And it wasn't mutual, and that's fine, but you were my first love and all that bullshit, and then you fell head over heels for Freckles and he doesn't even have freckles, Danny."

  "He does sometimes," Dan argues.

  "Silence," Alex repeats.

  Dan sits back, nods.

  "Look," Alex says. "You probably don't get this, because you have this fairytale fucking first love that there are literally articles written about, but it's kind of hard to get over your first, and Freckles is a douche and doesn't deserve you, so."

  "So," Dan repeats.

  "So," Alex says decisively. "So I'm going to get us another drink."

  "Okay," Dan says dumbly.

  Alex comes back with two beers, and Dan sips his in silence for a whole minute before curiosity overtakes him. "But then why does Marc hate you?" he asks.

  "Uh," Alex says. "Because I've had sex with you and he's insanely possessive of you?"

  Dan mulls that one over. "Huh," he says finally.

  "You are too dumb to live," Alex says, sounding incredulous, and then digs back into the fries.

  Dan snags a fry, finishes off the basket with ample help from Alex, drinks his beer and then has another. It's totally diet breaking, and too much alcohol, but Dan's been eating right and drinking barely anything since he got stuck in Hamilton, not really interested in making himself at home in a place he doesn't want to be home, so he figures he's allowed one night out.

  Beer three leave him pleasantly buzzed, slouched in his chair. The TV in the background is playing Montreal's game against Buffalo, and Dan peers up occasionally to check the score, but otherwise lets it go.

  It's either the beer or actually having company for the first time since Dan got sent down, since he turned in on himself, but he actually tells Alex how much the whole situation fucking sucks, how much it's getting to him, instead of glossing over it like he always does with Marc and his family.

  "This isn't the first time you've been sent down," Alex points out. "Like, even in the last few years."

  "It's different," Dan says. "I don't know, this time feels permanent."

  "So play for someone else if they don't want you," Alex says. "You just said someone else would take you."

  "But—" Dan starts.

  "But Freckles," Alex cuts him off. "Who wouldn't do the same for you."

  "That's not fair," Dan says quietly.

  "No?" Alex says. "Neither is him making you uproot your entire life to follow him, just to get stuck here."

  "He didn't make me," Dan argues.

  "God," Alex says. "I don't want to talk about this. Another drink?"

  "One more," Dan says.

  Alex goes to get them another round, comes back looking determined. "Look," he says. "You're my friend, but this is fucking stupid."

  "What is?" Dan asks.

  Alex takes a slow sip of his drink. "Whenever you and Freckles are about to break up—"

  "We've never broken up," Dan interjects.

  Alex sighs like Dan's dense. "Whenever you want to piss him off," he says, and when Dan opens his mouth, cuts him off with, "consciously or unconsciously, I don't know, you come to me. Why is that?"

  "You came here," Dan says.

  "Yeah," Alex says. "I did."

  They're sitting close, Dan suddenly realises, at the same time he realises that if he kissed Alex, Alex would let him, kiss him back and take him to bed and not expect anything from it. And suddenly Dan wants that, wants to lean in that little bit more, wants that controlled claustrophobia of being on his knees in a bathroom stall, of hooking up with someone without ever learning their name. Misses it, because he knows it's over now. What he's got is Marc 600 kilometres away. What he's got is Marc tearing it up every night and still making the time to call Dan, evaluate games and individual play and just share breath across a phone line. What he's got is Marc. That should be enough, and it is, most of the time, but not tonight.

  "Why did you?" Dan asks, finally. He doesn't even know what he wants the answer to be.

  "Because I'm stupid," Alex says. "And I never learn from my fucking mistakes."

  Dan swallows. Alex's knee is pressed against his under the table, the only human contact he's had outside of hugs through padding, high fives and fist bumps, fucking phone sex.

  "Alex," Dan starts, stops. Doesn't know what to say.

  "Let's just," Alex says, trails off, looking around the room. "Hockey," he says suddenly. "Let's just watch that."

  They do watch it, the Habs up 4-2 in the third, Marc rocketing around, easily identifiable just by the way he skates. It closes in, 4-3, but Marc ends it with a lazy wrist-shot into the empty net, another point on record, even if he'll roll his eyes about the idea of a goal on a wide-open net actually meaning anything.

  When the game's done Dan settles the bill, and Alex doesn't even complain about it like he usually would. "Want to come over?" Dan asks, once they get outside. "I think the Canucks are playing."

  Alex doesn't give a single shit about the Canucks, and they both know it.

  Alex doesn't say anything for a minute, doesn't even look at him, before he final
ly says, "Yeah, okay."

  Dan's hotel room is a five minute walk away from the restaurant, something Dan took into account when they went there, but he doesn't think he was planning this, whatever this is. Doesn't know, other than that it's a bad idea, that once they get there he should just call Alex a cab, but instead he offers him whisky, the only thing he has in his room, a mostly full bottle, but no glasses, he doesn't even have that, just the bottle, the two of them handing it back and forth, the Canucks game on the TV, muted, like an excuse.

  This is familiar, this is so familiar, from when they were dating, but after, too, handing a bottle of liquor back and forth, getting steadily drunk, knees nudging, not talking much because they've never had that much to talk about, when it comes down to it. Right now, this is the closest thing Dan's had to home in weeks, and maybe that's why it happens. He reaches for Alex instead of the bottle, and Alex meets him halfway, mouth hot against his, familiar in a way that almost aches. He fits well against Dan. He's always fit well against Dan, and it's so easy to lose himself in it, the heat bleeding out through Alex's jeans, the slide of Alex's tongue against his.

  Dan finds himself on his back, Alex's weight over him, so slight that Dan can feel the notches of his spine through his shirt. Alex gets a hand on his belt, the clinking of it like cold steel to Dan's nerves, hand sliding under his underwear, and it's been years since anyone's touched him but Marc. His jeans are tight but Dan can still get his hands under them, his underwear, Alex's skin hot under his hands. Dan knows how sweet he's always taken it, knows that it'd be easy, easier than stopping.

  He rolls away, tries to catch his breath.

  Alex looks somewhat dazed, eyes half pupil and lips shiny wet, and Dan wants to pull him back in so much it's all he can do not to.

  "Fuck," Dan manages, choked, then louder, "fuck." Rubs his hands over his face.

  "I'll call you a cab," Dan says into his hands. This time he actually does, and they head outside, where it's comparatively safer, wait for the five minutes in complete silence. It's only when the cab pulls up that Alex speaks. "I'm sorry," he says.

  "Don't," Dan says. "This is on me."

  He hands the driver a twenty despite Alex's protests, watches the cab drive off before he goes back inside, grabbing the bottle of whisky and taking a swig like medicine, getting the taste of Alex out of his mouth. He stares fixedly at the Canucks playing the Oilers, still muted on TV, tries not to think. It doesn't work, not even a little, and when the period ends he paces the room, worn carpet beneath his feet, and thinks about what he could tell Marc, what the fuck he could possibly say.

  He hasn't figured it out by the time he calls Marc. "Did you see my beautiful goal?" Marc asks, instead of a greeting.

  "Would have been better with a goalie," Dan chokes out.

  "What is wrong?" Marc asks, and Dan closes his eyes, fists a hand in the comforter beneath him.

  "I fucked up," Dan says. "I fucked up and I miss you and I'm so sorry."

  "Jesus, Dan, are you drunk?" Marc asks.

  And god, he must be scaring him, he's talking like he's fucking insane. He feels insane, and drunk, and so small.

  "I almost fucked Alex," Dan says, finally, rips the band-aid off all at once.

  Marc's quiet so long Dan almost thinks he's hung up, but then he says "why?", so soft that it's barely a word.

  "I miss you," Dan says, and he knows how pathetic that sounds, it sounds pathetic in his head and it's even worse when the words leave his mouth. "I miss you and everything's fucked up and he was there."

  "Getting you drunk and saying pretty things," Marc says evenly.

  "It wasn't like that," Dan says. He doesn't know why he's arguing, it's only going to make things worse, but all he can think about is the cold war Marc and Alex have been waging for years, one he was apparently too stupid to understand. They always call him that, both of them, and maybe they're right. He's feeling pretty fucking stupid right now.

  "What, he just happened to be in the neighbourhood?" Marc asks. "In Hamilton?"

  "Marc," Dan says. "Marc, I kissed him. Okay? I started it."

  "Yes," Marc says. "I understand that part."

  Dan squeezes his eyes shut until they burn. "I'm so sorry," he says.

  "Why did you stop?" Marc asks.

  "What?" Dan asks.

  "Why not fuck him?" Marc asks.

  "Because I love you," Dan says, and it sounds so inadequate, but it's all he has. "Because I wanted it to be you."

  Marc's quiet a long time. "Sober up," he says, finally. "I will talk to you tomorrow."

  Dan does sober up, because he barely sleeps, stares at the ceiling, at the wall, presses his face into his pillow, waits until morning hits. Practice is optional, which is good, because when it gets light the hangover hits, starting behind his eyes and staying there. He should have drank water. It isn't like he didn't have the time to, looking around a dark room and wanting, more than anything, to be home again, even if he no longer knows where home is.

  He forces himself to order breakfast, and the headache ebbs a bit after he's had some coffee, some toast. Thinks about calling Marc, but it's not even eight yet, and he doesn't think waking Marc up would help his case any, not that he deserves to have his case helped.

  He's blankly watching Sportsnet when Marc calls around noon. Post morning practice then, probably right before lunch and a bit of time to read, the nap they usually take together, Dan's arm slung over Marc's side.

  "Hi," Dan says, picking it up immediately. "Marc, hi."

  "Why did you?" Marc says, sounding miserable.

  "Because I'm a fucking idiot," Dan says, immediately. "Because I'm an idiot and I missed you and this city is killing me, and he was there."

  He can hear Marc breathing, the inhale, exhale, a shade too fast.

  "I just want you," Dan says. "I don't—it's not him, okay, or anyone else, you're it for me. I wanted it to be you, and it wasn't, so I stopped. That's why."

  "We have a three day break," Marc says. "Starting tomorrow."

  "Yeah?" Dan asks, confused.

  "Can I come down?" Marc asks, sounding small.

  "Yes," Dan says. "Jesus, yes, please."

  *

  Marc does come down, must start the drive right after his game like an insane person, because Dan's phone rings at five in the morning and he shuffles out to meet Marc in the parking lot, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Marc looks tired and small and sad, and it always kills Dan to see him like that, but it's so much worse knowing he's the cause. When Dan pulls him in, tentative, Marc goes, buries his face in Dan's neck and stays there for awhile.

  "Come to bed," Dan says, quiet, and Marc does, follows Dan to his room, strips down to his briefs and crawls into bed beside him, wrapping himself around Dan like the particularly clingy blanket he always is when they're horizontal, like nothing has changed at all, which is more than Dan deserves.

  "I need us to be in this together," Marc says softly, just when Dan's starting to drift, pulled down by the warmth of Marc against him, the steadiness of his breathing. "Are we?"

  "We are," Dan says, "I promise, we are."

  Marc exhales, and Dan finds his hand, threads their fingers. "We are," he repeats, and presses a kiss to Marc's mouth in the dark.

  xiii. dig in your heels

  If Dan had a choice, they wouldn't have left the hotel once during Marc's way too brief visit, but he doesn't have one. Hasn't had many, lately, not where it counts, though he's not particularly proud of the choices he has made. Dan's got a game that night, and Marc follows him in early, promises not to give anyone a heart attack with his presence while Dan gets ready.

  Marc peeks in the locker room fifteen minutes before ice time just to be a total ass, Dan thinks, because there are a lot of heart attacks happening. He watches half the team scramble, and a couple of the bolder and less proud guys slinking over to get autographs.

  Marc obliges, and turns his media bright, totally fake faking faker charming smile on ev
eryone before making his way over to Dan's stall.

  "I said no heart attacks," Dan says. "I didn't just mean fans."

  "But they are my team," Marc says, innocent. "One day I may play with them, and they will remember that I was so wonderful, I came to wish my boyfriend luck and was nice to all."

  "Dick," Dan says, knocking Marc in the side with his glove. "Go away, stop distracting them, if we get any worse I think our coach is going to have a psychotic break and murder us all."

  "I am not distracting them," Marc says.

  "Half my team is currently working up the nerve to ask you out," Dan says. "Go away."

  Marc does, but not before turning up the wattage of the 'I am so charming, I am not a total jerk, really' smile and waving as he leaves. Dan thinks Morley actually swoons

  "Dick," Dan repeats under his breath, grinning at his skates as he finishes getting ready.

  They lose in a blowout, because of course they do. Everyone leaves dejected, and Dan hears Morley bemoaning the fact that they embarrassed themselves with Lapointe watching to murmured agreement from the room. Dan snorts and undresses quickly so he can hopefully get out of there before Marc comes back in and receives a group apology or something.

  *

  They don't talk about Alex.

  Or, Dan brings it up once, Marc asks him if it's something that's liable to happen again, and then, while Dan's stuttering his way through how unlikely that is, changes the topic. Dan's not an idiot, and it's not like he wants to pour salt in the wound for either of them, so he drops it and it doesn't come up again.

  They hibernate the best they can with the schedule Dan has, delivery, room service, Marc stretched out on Dan's horrible comforter in the only time it's ever had any appeal. Marc stays as long as possible, probably pushing it, and Dan has to say goodbye at the door because if he walks Marc to the car he doesn't think he'll be able to help himself from climbing in the passenger seat.

  "Soon," Marc says, when he leaves, and Dan holds onto it like a mantra.