by Laney Cairo
"We all dream about the abyss, about lettin’ go of the rope,” Dale whispered. “I won't let you fall, I've got hold of you."
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Chapter Nine
When your car has both broken down and been wrecked, it's time to call the specialists.
The pain crept in around the edges, one tendril at a time, starting in Shane's back, neck, head and feet and spreading out slowly, and he kept his face buried against Dale's chest long after he'd stopped sobbing, holding out against the pain.
Dale's fingers were gentle, stroking his back carefully, but he smelled of sorrow and Shane had the feeling that he'd missed something somewhere, or said something stupid. He could hear Perry in the back yard, hauling garden furniture around by the sound of it, and intermittently scratching and digging outside the window. It would be good for her to live somewhere with a real garden for a while.
Shane needed to make plans, or at least phone calls, needed a shower, too, and he must have said something out loud because Dale kissed the top of his head.
"Would a bath help?” Dale asked. “With the pain?"
"I've seen your bathroom,” Shane said.
"I can clean the bath,” Dale said, and his fingers trailed down Shane's back and brushed over his buttocks, intimate but not sexual, and it made Shane want to stay right where he was. “Have you thought about just coming out? About being an openly gay footy player?"
Lying there, being held by Dale again, so sore he could hardly breathe, Shane tried to imagine a life without being closeted. He wasn't sure he could.
When he didn't answer, Dale sighed. “Do you want me to go and take the mess out of the bath and scrub it?” Dale asked, and Shane nodded.
"I need painkillers, too,” he said.
Dale's last house hadn't had a bath, but this one did. It was a deep, tiled rectangle, and Shane put the lid of the toilet seat down and sat there, trying not to moan, while Dale emptied the dirty clothes out of the bath.
The codone started to work, taking the hurt out of Shane's belly, and the sight of Dale kneeling naked in the bath, scrubbing brush and bottle of detergent in hand, bashing away at the layers of grime, turned out to be amusing.
"Stop fucking giggling,” Dale said, and Shane gritted his teeth again and tried to stop.
"Sorry,” he said through pursed lips. “Just can't remember seeing you clean anything before."
"When's the last time you scrubbed something, pretty boy?” Dale asked, and they both burst out laughing. Shane kept laughing, even after Dale squirted his bare legs with some kind of cleaner spray.
The bathwater smelled of ammonia and detergent when Shane clambered into it, a pleasant relief after the vile floral gunk that Madison insisted on using. He lay back in the water and closed his eyes.
"Hey,” Dale said, and an arm slipped under his shoulder, making him jerk his eyes open. “Don't think you should be in there alone when you're out of it."
"Feels good,” Shane said, and it did, floating weightlessly in the hot water, easing all the aches deep inside him.
"Sit up,” Dale said.
Shane struggled up out of the water, and Dale clambered into the bath behind him, sending water slopping over the sides, soaking the clothes piled on the floor.
"Oops,” Shane said. Dale settled behind him, a leg on each side, and Shane leaned back against him. “Much better,” he said sleepily.
"Is it?” Dale said, and he kissed the side of Shane's face, his stubble brushing against Shane's. “Don't go to sleep,” he said, and his arms tightened around Shane's chest.
"No,” Shane agreed, and he wrapped his arms over Dale's and squeezed them. He wanted to play ‘Do You Remember?', but the past was a minefield and he wasn't sure he was thinking straight, there were too many broken places inside his head. “What's for dinner?” he asked instead, and he tried to remember being hungry.
"Lasagna from the freezer,” Dale said. “I went online this morning and ordered dog food for Perry, too, since Lindon only brought a small bag with him. I figured Perry ate the most expensive food there was, as befits a ferociously groomed monster."
The water was cooling, spider webs draped around the corners of the room, and when Shane lifted a foot out of the water, it was starting to wrinkle. “Will you fuck me again?” he asked.
Dale was quiet for too long, and Shane listened to the tap at the other end of the bath drip.
"I'm not sure,” Dale finally said.
Shane twisted as much as he could, given that his shoulder was useless, Dale was holding him securely and his toe was stuck in the tap temporarily, to try and see Dale's face.
"I wouldn't have thought it was that difficult a question,” Shane said, frowning at the side of Dale's face. “You, me, sex. It's worked before."
"Things are not clear,” Dale said, and Shane managed to yank his toe out of the tap and turn all the way over so he could see Dale's face clearly.
He looked exhausted.
"I'm so sorry,” Shane whispered. “I was stupid, I thought that my career was more important than what you and I had."
"You're not even talking about a career here,” Dale said, and he might as well have been miles away, instead of holding onto Shane in a tub of cooling water, for all the distance between them. “You're talking about some kind of popularity contest."
This was where they'd been when Shane had ended it before, and Shane had to tell himself that all those miserable months and a hell of a lot of heartache meant that this was no longer an argument they should be having.
Shane nodded, with a gentle slosh of water, and managed a small smile. “It sucked,” he said. “It was a completely new and different kind of hell. Would you still love me if I came out?"
"I didn't think it was the immutability of my love that was under discussion here,” Dale said, and his eyes were smiling at Shane again. “Want to get out the water?"
Shane was tired, the kind of deep-down exhausted that meant he had to lean against the basin and let Dale dry him. Dale patted his face dry last; it was sore over the top of all the other pains, and Shane winced.
"I want to take some photos,” Dale murmured. “Of the cut and bruises. And I think you should consider filing assault charges against her, and talking to a real lawyer, not just a corporate lawyer who brings you fermented whale vomit."
In the mirror, Shane's face was mottled and dark on one side, and the small dressing was stark white. It looked like he'd been beaten up.
"It all sounds too difficult,” Shane said. “Don't want to have to do that."
* * * *
A box was buried in the bottom of Dale's closet, beneath his snow gear and his boots, and when Dale dragged it out, clothes of Shane's filled it.
"I meant to get rid of it,” Dale said. “Never got organised."
The clothes smelled a little musty, like all of Dale's house, but the worn jeans and battered T-shirts were old friends that Shane had thought were gone.
He sat on the couch in the living room, door to the deck open and Perry squirming happily in his lap. Dale was on the phone in his study with the door closed, being lectured by Shane's mum, and the idea made Shane all silly inside.
Though not as much as having some of his old clothes back did. While he was well aware of Dale's propensity to hoard, Dale had moved house during the past year, and inertia alone didn't explain the clothes.
Dale leaned over the back of the couch, handed the phone back to Shane and said, “You owe me one."
Shane kissed Dale on the cheek and took the phone. “After I've rung everyone else who is gunning for me,” Shane said.
He had a list beside him, dictated to him by Lindon and written in a wobbly hand since he couldn't get his fingers to grip the pen properly.
Lawyer next.
The call took four minutes, which no doubt Shane would be billed for, and he put the phone down on the couch and stared numbly at Perry, who was savaging one of Dale's shoes. He must have made a
sound, because Dale knelt down in front of him and said, “Shane? What's wrong?"
"Madison's, um, started legal proceedings against me. There're papers at my lawyers..."
"What kind of legal proceedings?” Dale asked, and his palm cupped Shane's unhurt cheek.
"She wants the apartment, half the house in Scarborough, half my income for the time we were together, and spousal support. And there're breach of contract papers for calling off the engagement."
Dale sat on the couch beside Shane and hugged him gently. “Thing is,” Shane continued, hiding his face against Dale's shirt, “if I can't finish this season, then I might have to pay out my contract with the Hammers."
Dale kissed Shane's scalp, little kisses right where Shane's head was pounding. “Wait and see what Rachel has to say,” Dale said. “Before you start panicking about that. What did your attorney say to do?"
"He's going to talk to the divorce specialist in the company,” Shane said.
"Call him back,” Dale said. “Right now. Tell him Madison assaulted you yesterday."
* * * *
Perry had to be locked outside when the lawyers arrived, since apparently thousand dollar suits and badly behaved dogs were an unacceptable combination. The divorce lawyer, once Perry was removed, was positively gleeful when he examined Shane's face. “This is marvelous,” he said. “This makes such a difference."
It took time, writing out statements and having photos taken, and Shane didn't make it all the way through without losing his composure, though his contract lawyer and the divorce lawyer were either polite enough or so completely indifferent that they didn't comment.
"I'll handle the police,” his contract lawyer said. “At least at the beginning. They'll want to take their own statements, but I can use the ones you've just done to start civil action.” He looked at Shane speculatively for a moment. “This isn't my area of expertise, but I think you should call your manager. This is inevitably going to be public."
"Oh, God,” Shane said, and he felt like he was going to cry again.
When the lawyer had gone, and Perry was back inside, still demolishing Dale's shoe, Shane wiped his face, forgetting for a moment that one side was sore.
"Well?” Shane asked. Old territory, Dale hated Lucky Lukowski, whose job it was to negotiate the crocodile-infested waters of Shane's football career and handle his endorsement deals and public appearances.
Dale shrugged. “He's right. If there was ever a time you needed Lukowski, it's now."
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Chapter Ten
There's that bit, after your car is wrecked, where the tow truck operator shakes his head and says, ‘Back axle is fucked, I'm going to have to call for a flat bed truck.’ And all you can do is hope your insurance covers it.
Shane was in distress, his fingernails digging into Dale's hand, but Dale couldn't tell if it was pain, fear or withdrawal.
The doctor Rachel brought with her was a rheumatologist called Alan, a thin man with long fingers and a gentle smile, and his fingertips left indents in Shane's knees when he examined them.
"I agree with Rachel,” he said. “Based on your blood results and your joints, you've got Reiter's Syndrome, sometimes called reactive arthritis, as a complication of a gastric infection a while ago."
"You can fix it?” Shane said, and Dale decided that as soon as the doctors had gone, he was cutting Shane's nails.
"We can help,” Alan said.
Shane cried, just a bit, when Alan put a hypodermic in first one knee, then the next, and removed syringe after syringe of viscous, pale yellow fluid.
"How does it feel?” Alan asked quietly.
"Fucking weird,” Shane said without opening his eyes. “I can feel the pressure going off from the inside."
"This is the icky bit,” Alan said, and he fitted another syringe, this time full of clear liquid, onto the needle. “Putting the cortisone in."
"Is that it?” Shane asked when both of his knees had been done.
"Not a chance,” Alan said. “I'm going to prescribe oral cortisone, but I want to give you an injection to get you started.
"I can't take oral steroids,” Shane said. “I'll fail drug testing for weeks."
Alan shrugged. “Your inflammatory factors were in the thousands, rather than tens. I want you to take indomethacin, too, and I'll prescribe something to stop you from getting gut problems from that. And I suspect that you'll be needing methotrexate, but I can make that decision in a week's time."
"A week?” Shane said, and he looked panicked. “I've got to be back at training."
Alan shook his head regretfully. “Three to six months before you're back to normal, six weeks off work at least. I can write you a medical certificate for your employer."
Shane looked shattered. He shook his head mutely, and Dale picked his hand up and kissed it. “Hey,” he said. “We'll sort this out. If you're sick now because you got food poisoning on a team Bali trip, everyone will have to put up with it."
Rachel sat on the other side of the couch from Dale and took Shane's other hand. “Yesterday, you asked me about coming off opiates and benzodiazepines. It's not going to be easy; do you still want to do it?"
Shane nodded. “Yeah, I'm either trashed, asleep or in pain, and this has got to stop."
Rachel nodded. “I understand. Doing it while you're already in pain isn't a good thing, but on the other hand, you're not trying to keep on working and pretending nothing is happening. Will you trust me?"
Dale wanted, more than anything, for this not to be happening right then. Frank had gone through hell getting clean, and all he wanted to do right then was tuck Shane up in his bed and keep the man safe, but Shane said, “Yes, I need to do this."
Rachel touched his cheek, the cut and bruised one, and said, “You've been to a bad place, but you're safe now."
* * * *
Rachel had taken away every opiate in the house, even the analgesics Dale had left over from when he'd had work done on his teeth the year before. She'd taken the muscle relaxants, valium and sleeping pills, too.
All that were left was a plain white bottle, unmarked or labelled, with a small number of tablets in it, and a whole regime of anti-inflammatories for Shane. The white pills were an opiate of sorts, and Shane could have four a day, six hours apart. He'd had a cortisone injection, and the first pill, and had gone to bed.
He wasn't asleep, his breathing was too sharp, but Dale stayed beside him as the room darkened, stroking his back, keeping him company.
Perry was on the bed, too—in triumphant possession of it perhaps—nose on her paws, quiet and still for a change, with Shane's arm slung over her.
The smell of garlic from the reheating lasagna filled the house, and Dale was sure that there were weighty thoughts he should be having, difficult decisions to be made, but words kept slipping away from him, and he lacked the will power to chase them down. He would stay there, with Shane and the dog, until the room was dark.
The doorbell rang, and Shane muttered in the dark and hunched his shoulders, so Dale left the light off and padded through the dark house.
Perry joined him, making little wuffing noises around Dale's feet, then pressing up against the crack of the door as Dale opened it and flicked the porch light on.
He got hold of Perry's collar in time to stop her from plunging through the door, and dragged the dog back.
Lucky Lukowski stepped through the open door and Dale stood back to let him in the house. This had not been in any agreement he'd signed. He'd already let two Prada-shod sharks into the house that day, no one had told him about a third one.
It should have been an uncomfortable moment, while Dale worked out whether he actually wanted to greet Lukowski at all, but Perry had gone ballistic, hurtling around the kitchen and dining room.
"Hi Lukowski,” Dale said, scratching at his stubble a little.
"Nice dog,” Lukowski said. “I'll go get Shane's stuff."
Lukowski w
as old guard, having played Aussie Rules in the Seventies, and he'd turned that experience, an MBA, and a fancy suit into a career of herding generation after generation of new players through the national footy draft and into merchandising. He walked like a man that had had every joint in the lower half of his body replaced. It had been his idea to arrange for Madison to date Shane, and that was almost enough for Dale to just slam the door in Lukowski's botoxed face.
Dale settled for standing guard at the door, fending the dog out of the way, while Lukowski dragged two suitcases across the porch and into the hall. “There's more,” he said. “At his apartment. I didn't have space in the car to bring it though."
Dale nodded as Perry leapt up onto the larger suitcase, and Lukowski touched his arm.
"How is he?” he asked. “I was so worried when Gordon rang to say Shane had disappeared."
He sounded genuine; he was genuine.
"He's sick,” Dale said. “Really sick."
Lukowski nodded. “Thank you, for being here for him."
The dog disappeared down the hall, and there was a muffled shout from Shane.
"Guess he's awake,” Dale said, and he led Lukowski down the hall to his bedroom.
The bedside light flicked on, revealing Perry clambering over Shane as he struggled to sit up. Dale lifted Perry off Shane's chest and helped him upright.
"Lucky!” Shane said, and Dale held a squirming Perry while Lukowski and Shane exchanged some blokey back-slapping.
It was easiest to just carry Perry out into the yard. He dropped Perry on the deck, then locked her outside. Really, his ability to deal with disruption was wearing thin.
Lukowski was examining Shane's face, bedside light turned toward Shane, and he looked upset. “...sorry. This should never have happened."
Alright, it was Dale's bedroom, his bed even, and he sure as hell wanted to know what had been going on, so he rubbed the sole of each bare foot on the leg of his jeans and sat on the bed.
"Madison's mum's flown in,” Lukowski said to Shane.
"Madison?” Shane asked, and Lukowski shrugged his shoulders.