Chapter Text
June, 2026
The beginning of the end, not that Sid knows it at the time, is the golf trip at the end of the season.
There's nothing remarkable about it, other than the fact, maybe, that it comes after their first, first-round elimination in years. Bittersweet, in that no one expected them to make it even that far this year, with their rookie coach and aging core, but mostly just bitter right now, coming off a hard-fought, devastating 2OT loss to Philly.
Of course it had to be Philly.
He can't even take much consolation in the fact that the Flyers only made it one more round, partly because he knows, deep down, that this team wouldn't have made it any farther — certainly didn't have it in them, this year, to topple the Canes — and partly, because everyone knows this trip will be the last time this version of their team is together.
No one will say it out loud, least of all Sid. Least of all here. But this off-season is going to hurt.
He'll lose a handful of the newer guys, as he always does; some that he still feels he's barely gotten to know, and others that he's sure he'll still call his friends many years into the future, even if they're not playing for the same team anymore. Sid's used to that by now, even if it never really gets easier, watching the trades go down week after week from his house in Cole Harbor, or a camper in some far-away place. And with that, of course, there will be all these new personalities and play-styles to learn and adapt to before the team is battle-ready again come fall, and that's always a challenge in itself; one Sid welcomes, despite the headache it often becomes in the moment.
He's prepared for all that: all those predictable pains. But this year, staring down the twilight of his career — seeing all the guys from his draft class and hanging up their skates, one by one, just for their grown sons to pick them up again — feels especially hard. Makes his throat feel achingly tight every time he lets his mind linger there for too long.
It's not an existential thing. Not yet, anyway. He knows he's got a few more good years in him, barring the threat of that imminent, career-ending injury he's still, somehow, managed to evade. But it's also no secret Sid's never been a fan of change. He manages, because he has to, for the sake of the other guys — the rookies, especially — but it's also no secret he attributes much of the courage he possesses to face all that change, as it comes, to his core.
Even when Mario had left the keys to the city in his hands, and it was hard, and he wasn't ready, and some days he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready, he'd been able to take comfort in the fact that he wasn't standing alone. He'd still had Gonch to lean on when things got hard, and then, later, he'd had Geno. Then Flower. Kuni. Tanger.
Now, there's just Geno and Tanger. The only ones left from that first big win in 2009. The only ones who still remember Sid at his darkest, at his lowest, in 2011, but who'd fought for him and beside him, through blood, sweat, and tears, and more injuries than anyone should ever have to weather, and helped him bring the Cup home again, twice, just a few years later. And maybe they never got that fourth win, and maybe things haven't gone their way these past few years, but they're all still here — not as quick and lithe as they once were, but still undeniably competitive, and the wealth of their shared experience is invaluable in its own right.
Sid may not be done yet. But lasting no-move clause aside, everyone's seen Tanger's plus-minus these past few years, and the rumors are already flying about Geno, and the contract that still isn't signed.
Logically, as someone who's lived through enough 'tough-decisions' summers, and as someone who knows Kyle, and knows Geno almost as well as he knows the sport, Sid knows most of those rumors are unfounded; that, sooner or later, this will be settled, and he'll have Geno back in September. But the part of him that isn't logical — the part that wanted to cry, a little bit, hearing Geno seriously entertain the possibility of leaving him for another team, 'only for Pittsburgh, always with Sid' be damned, apparently — can't help but worry, every day that passes without word from the team, or Geno himself.
The end is coming. It might not be this year, and it might not be next, but it will be soon. And Sid doesn't know what he'll do when it does. He doesn't know how he'll walk into that dressing room alone, for the first time in twenty-two years. How he'll step out onto the ice every game day without Geno behind him, not even in spirit.
For now, all he can do is slap on a smile and see his guys through one last hurrah on a premier course under the Georgia sun, before the finals are through, and reality catches back up to them.
He thinks he's succeeding, too, after that first day. It takes a few holes, and a few drinks, but by the time they're settled in for dinner, moods are light, and smiles come easy, and there's little chance for the conversation to drift back into dangerous work territory with everyone already preoccupied with ribbing Dewey for his awful performance, or trying to figure out exactly how Raks managed to cheat, because he simply must have, with a score like. Even Sid, for all that he still finds himself unable to sleep once he's back in his own room again, ends the evening feeling loose and distinctly relaxed, in a way he hasn't since the early days of the season. Maybe before.
The knock comes after midnight, quiet enough that he might not have even heard it, if he wasn't still awake, mindlessly tracing the swirling patterns in the paint above his head. But he is, so he does, and he forces himself to roll off the still-made, too-squishy bed, and amble to the door, half-expecting to find an especially drunk or high twenty-something, caught up in their feelings, who he'll be obligated, as captain, to supervise through the night. That's rare anymore, especially with this roster, but it would hardly be the first time. And, well…it has been a rough season.
Instead, he finds Raks and Karl — more-or-less sober, and looking very uncharacteristically serious as they hold Sid's trembling, pale-faced rookie up between them.
Kindy is putting on his very best impersonation of a sad, wet kitten, it seems, dressed only in his damp swim trunks and flip-flops, with a beach towel slung carelessly around his neck. His eyes are downcast, steadfastly focused on the cracks in the floor beneath their feet, but Sid can still plainly see that they're rimmed red, and puffy from recent tears.
"Hey," Sid frowns. Kindy is still a baby, only nineteen, which might normally mean very little in the world of professional hockey, but Sid runs a tight ship. If the rookies drink, it's only what the vets give them — and never enough to impair, outside of select private parties. Which is all to say, he knows the kid isn't drunk, and that begs the question, "What's up?"
Raks's face is grim, fingers tight around Kindy's still-scrawny arm. "Spoons and Lizzo found him like this by the pool," he says, clipped. "He's dropping."
Sid's blood goes cold.
"Oh, shit," he hears himself whisper.
Officially, Kindy isn't a sub. Officially, no one in the NHL is — not even the goalies, even though they've been allowed in the minors and PWHL for at least as long as Sid's been playing.
Unofficially, he's one of nearly 70. And those are just the ones Sid knows about.
Now, Sid isn't so naive or narcissistic as to think he was the first, back in 2005, but it's not like he'd been scrutinizing the vets too closely back then, and if he had met anyone along the way who'd been looking back at him, they'd certainly never brought it up; never offered any advice, even, that could be construed as anything other than normal or professional. Sid would know: he'd spent weeks, probably, in 2010, running through every interaction he'd ever had in the five years between his draft day and what became Tyler Seguin's. The day he realized he wasn't alone.
Twenty-two-year-old Sid hadn't known much. Oh, he'd known how to stay on his feet no matter what shit the other team threw at him, and use his low center of gravity to his advantage, when it was warranted (and sometimes, when it wasn't). He'd known, finally, what it was to lead, and to lose, and to inspire; what it felt like, to stand at center ice, under the wash of lights and confetti and cheers, and feel the weight of Olympic gold around his neck, and to hoist the fucking Cup above his head. But all those other inconvenient necessities of life outside of hockey — taxes and mortgages and romance and laundry — still eluded him.
So, maybe he hadn't known exactly what it was to be a sub (and still doesn't, in fairness. All he's learned has been through the occasional session with a discreet professional on the road, when it truly can't be helped any longer). But he had known, if only on some instinctive level, what it was to look like one.
And subs…well. They looked like Tyler.
It hadn't made a lot of sense, even to Sid, at the time. Tyler wasn't unattractive by any measure, and maybe, in certain lights, his brown eyes had looked a little bigger and more…cow-like, as Marchy might say, than the average baby dom in the Combine. But he'd also been big: tall and thickly defined in the way the subs on TV and movies, and on the arms of older players, never were. He'd had a presence, too; this effortless swagger that painted him in just the right light, as some shallow, cocky jock. He was the kind of guy you'd expect to find in a club with all the prettiest girls on their knees for him, and not the other way around.
But Sid had seen him standing up there next to Hall and Gudbranson, a little wide-eyed and dazed under the brim of his new Bruins hat, and his hand had been shaking from more than nerves as he held up his two fingers, and Sid had just known.
It hadn't been hard to arrange the call. He felt a bit like an asshole, framing it the way he did, but shit, what kid hadn't wanted to talk to Sidney Crosby? Tyler certainly had, until Sid opened his big, stupid mouth and spilled his darkest secret to him — this kid five years his junior, who should have been having the best week of his life, filled to bursting with pride and hope for all that lay ahead, but instead was stuck listening to Sid crash the fuck out over finally, finally having someone like him to talk to about all this. Then, maybe not so much, but by then, it was too late. They were both in it, and they both knew, and they both knew that they knew, and all that was left to do was figure out where they went from there.
Not terribly far, as it turned out. Not right away. They'd exchanged numbers and a few sparse texts over the next few months, but texting was dangerous even then, so if one of them was feeling dysregulated (usually Tyler, because Sid had staving off drops down to a science, by that point) they kept it to short, terse calls in the dark of their hotel rooms, talking each other through the worst of it in whatever way they could.
And then, somewhere along the way, someone stuck Tyler in the same room with Brad Marchand, who took the opportunity to out himself just as Sid had, albeit in a much less dramatic fashion. And Tyler, not knowing what else to do, had added a new number to their chat, and it'd been the three of them against the world until the 2013 draft that added Jo Drouin to their midst, never mind the Dallas trade that followed. Even then, they'd been four, until the next summer brought Jared McCann, and then Davo and Mitch and Roope and Vince Dunn the year after that, and on and on and on they went. And maybe they'd lost Marchy somewhere along the way, when having all those people in his pocket started to feel more like a liability than a fun, secret, little fuck you to all the GMs and pundits and conservative fans who adamantly maintained a sub could never hack it at their level, but it had still felt worthwhile to have built this thing that was just for them; somewhere safe for all the bright-eyed, up-and-coming, in-way-over-their-heads, secretly-submissive kids to land.
It's not a perfect system, and certainly not at its current capacity, but it's something. A place for community and mentorship, and venting in ways that most of them just can't in any other setting.
The important thing — the thing they stress to every new member, before they even consider granting them entry — is that no one outside their group finds out about the chat.
In theory, that's not a hard rule to stick to. All their phones have locks. Nowadays, even their apps have locks, and a few younger guys go the extra step of disguising the notifications as something else, if they keep them on at all. And if, god forbid, a guy got careless, and someone looking over their shoulder got an eyeful of a text preview, well, that wouldn't be the end of the world either, necessarily. It's not as if they spend every waking moment comparing their dream doms like a bunch of lovesick teenagers. A lot of guys barely talk at all, and the ones that do are professional athletes, first and foremost, which means Sid spends a not-insignificant amount of time stopping dumbass kids from trying to warm their gas station, cheat-day burritos in their microwaves with the tin foil still on them.
But. It also can't be overstated how much Sid would not normally talk to most these people, or this many of them at once (he's spoken to the Seattle guys maybe once in the past three years, and still isn't confident he could pick anyone's rookies but his own out of a lineup), and he suspects the same is true of many of the members of the group. A preview is one thing, but if someone outside their group were to ever open this chat, and try to piece together the invisible thread that connected everyone inside…Sid doesn't think any of them would like the outcome.
Kindy dropping, Kindy getting caught…that's all fucked up enough as it is. Christ, he's just a kid, barely out of his first year, and one mistake later, it all very well might be over. As his captain, and an older sub, and his friend, that's the only thing Sid should be focused on right now.
But then, they all threw away any right they had to self-preoccupation the moment they became willingly and inextricably linked by years of digital receipts. So, Sid doesn't think he can be blamed for the way his eyes immediately seek out the phone clutched in Karl's free hand, dark and quiet and deceptively harmless, even as Sid's own buzzes softly away on the nightstand under an onslaught of new messages from last year's crop.
Dead.
Thank fuck for small favors.
"I'm sorry," Kindy warbles, blinking hard. Sid gets the sense it's not the first time he's said it. He also gets the sense that, despite the way he's made himself small and malleable and contrite between them, the apology isn't really for Raks or Karl's benefit.
"Hey, no, bud. You're fine," Sid says, soft and smooth and soothing; the same practiced, supportive team dom tone he uses to talk guys off the edge of oblivion when things get hard and no one can remember their last decisive win, or their last mistake-free shift. He swallows down his own mounting panic like a golf ball-sized pill, satisfied for the time being that the rest of their network isn't in danger, and shifts aside to let the three of them inside.
Kindy doesn't look any happier about being out of the hall, out of sight of passersby, but at least Karl's shoulders lose some of their tightness — relieved, maybe, at the prospect of being relieved from this responsibility.
"Who else saw?" Sid's looking at Kindy as he asks that, the shadows under the kid's haunted eyes and the red of his chewed-up lips even more pronounced in the golden lamplight of Sid's room.
But, of course, no dom in their right mind would expect a dropping sub to answer a question like that, so it's Raks who says, with a bitter scoff that makes Kindy flinch, "Only everyone."
"Fuck," Sid hisses, and — fuck, yeah, this is bad. If it had just been Spoons, Lizzo, and these two, then maybe, maybe they could have handled that…but it wasn't. And there's nothing for it now, no way to make them all unsee or unknow.
Sid's at a loss, and he knows he needs time to think this all through, but that's time he doesn't have, because Kindy's still dropping, still shivering between two stressed-out, posturing doms (one and a half, anyway, because Karl does both), and….
Sid needs to get him away from them. That's actionable. That's something he can do. Something he has every right to do, in his position.
"Okay," he lets out a breath, and hopes it doesn't sound as shaky to them as it does to him. His feet carry him into their bubble, despite all the danger signs flashing behind his eyes. He fights against all of his deeply buried instincts screaming at him to make himself small and unobtrusive, and stands tall as he reaches between them to take Kindy's cold, bony shoulder in hand. "Come on, Ben, come sit down."
Raks visibly struggles with letting go, but they do both allow Sid to bundle Kindy into his arms, and put him safely out of reach behind them on the edge of the bed. It's…easy, even, which shouldn't come as much of a surprise as it does. After all, this is exactly why they came to Sid's door in the first place, isn't it? To hand off the vulnerable teenager to their captain, who the team switches have knelt for time and time again on the road, and who always lends a shoulder or an ear to the rookies when they need it, and who obviously should know exactly how to help now, with two decades of experience under his belt.
The joke's on them. Sid's never felt more lost in his life.
But it won't do for Raks or Karl to see that, so he puts himself in front of Kindy — looking small and fragile and so very young, curled in on himself under his towel on Sid's mattress — and crosses his arms over his puffed-up chest so they can't see how his fingers tremble with adrenaline. Smiles, in that same plasticky, fake way he's been smiling all weekend, and says, "I've got him from here. Thanks, guys."
"Yeah," Raks finally seems to sag a bit, even if his eyes keep seeking Kindy out over Sid's shoulder. "Right. We'll give you some privacy, then. We can call Muse on the walk back, make sure —"
"No!" Sid startles even himself with how quick and forceful the denial comes out, but…no. They can't. That is the worst thing they could possibly do.
The three of them blink at each other for a long moment, and then Raks and Karl turn to each other, exchanging a very confused look.
"No?" Karl repeats unsurely.
Sid sweats. "No, I just mean — thank you, Raks, for thinking of that. But you don't need to bother the coaches with this."
There are those increasingly bewildered looks again. Only now, they're mixed with something that looks terrifyingly like suspicion.
"Sid," Raks shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. Like if he does it enough, Sid's words will tumble back around into the thing captains are supposed to say in times like these, and not whatever bullshit they just heard come out of his mouth. "What the fuck?"
"We can't keep this a secret," Karl laughs a little, but it's more nervous, incredulous, than anything. The strained little smile on his face falls away when Sid doesn't budge; doesn't take it back. "Dude. This is something the staff need to know about."
Raks nods, throwing out an arm for emphasis. "What if he drops on the ice?"
"What if Karl drops on the ice?" Sid challenges, far more calmly than he feels. "What if you do?"
Raks gapes at him.
And then, his eyes go suddenly flinty and dark — a look Sid's never once found himself on the receiving end of before today, and never wants to again.
"We are managing our dynamics," he says slowly. "I have a collared sub, and Karl has emergency doms on the team. What does Kindy have?"
"Kindy has a career," Sid bites back, quiet but sharp, holding Raks's eyes stubbornly. Anger makes that a whole lot easier than panic does, he finds, so he lets it flow through him now — all twenty-one years' worth of it, filling up the empty space inside him. "You really think he gets to keep that if this gets back to Dan, or Kyle?"
He lets them sit with that for a minute. Lets them run through the likely series of events in their heads, starting with that first report to Muse or Bones, Vyas or one of the trainers.
There'd be an internal investigation, first and foremost. Kindy would be taken for evaluation expeditiously, during which it would be discovered that he'd failed to appropriately disclose his designation to the team, and on his work papers for the the U.S., if not his passport (because while Canada was not the shining beacon of social equity and humanitarianism some Americans liked to think it was, at least they no longer required dynamics to printed on government IDs like some other counties still did). They'd probably test his blood, and find his cortisol far too high and his cocktail of drop hormones too low, and from there they'd learn that, not only was Kindy a liar, but he also wasn't taking care of himself outside the rink.
That, of course, would make him a candidate for guardianship — even if the simple fact that he was living as an uncollared, working sub, in a county which found that detestable, didn't.
He'd be shuffled along expeditiously to social services, and meanwhile, the media would write sob stories about the poor, neglected, abused teenage sub who'd gone a whole year being beat to hell by doms and switches and nulls in a high-contact sport he didn't belong in (nevermind the punches Kindy threw himself, or all the goals he scored for the Penguins and his previous teams, or the fact he'd beat out hundreds of doms and switches and nulls as a first-round pick). Dubas and the front office would quietly buy him out of his contract, content to wash their hands of the PR nightmare he'd become rather than go through the arduous process of amending the league rules, or sparing any of their precious corporate lawyers to fight for his right to play. Then, if he was very lucky, Kindy would be deported back to Vancouver, where he might spend a few weeks in a federally funded institution for confused and self-hating subs, and eventually be released back into the custody of someone who wasn't either of his parents, but was still, probably, a close relative or family friend.
If he was unlucky, the U.S. government, in all their benevolence, would decide he was far better off with a good, Christian, American dom of strong moral fiber, ready to swoop in to rescue him from the flawed Canadian system which allowed him to be hurt in the first place.
Either way, Kindy would be gone — his career over, his autonomy, his identity, and perhaps even citizenship, stripped away forever. Sid and the others might never learn what became of him, in the end.
It's precisely the threat of that ultimate ending that Sid's clung to all these years, through the highest highs and the lowest lows. The times he spent squished against Geno, drenched in champagne and sweat, basking in his warmth and his infectious joy, and understood with devastating clarity what it must be like to trust someone enough to let them in completely; when he wondered, fleetingly, how good it would feel to sink to his knees right there on the dressing room floor, knowing that Geno would catch him. Other times, back in the early days when he was still in Mario's shadow, and when even some of his own teammates had seemed hellbent on knocking him down a peg, when he'd watched Nathalie settle herself at Mario's side at the end of a torturous game day, and physically ached with the desire to join her there. To feel Mario's hand brushing through his own hair and his strong thigh beneath his cheek, and to think of nothing else but being still and soft and good, for once.
But a moment of temporary bliss had never felt worthwhile, staring down the lifetime of suffering that might follow. So Sid had grit his teeth against all those insidious urges, and forced his feet to carry him back to his own room, into his own bed, to ride out the drops that inevitably followed him denying his body what it truly wanted; licked his wounds in privacy until the next road trip rolled around, when he could take the edge off with a pro who didn't know who he was, and who he'd never worry about seeing again.
It hadn't been easy, but it'd been right. The only safe choice.
Raks and Karl, it seems, don't wholly agree with that assessment. The discomfort in their faces, as they follow him down that road, clears too quickly, and hardens into that sort of righteous determination only doms can hope to possess. But what else had Sid expected?
"Some things are bigger than hockey, Sid." Karl finally settles on, and he actually has the gall to sound all condescendingly sympathetic about it. Like, yeah, sucks for Kindy, but hey, them's the brakes!
Sid fixes him with an icy look of his own. "Don't you think that should be Kindy's call?"
"No," Raks says. "Not if this is how he fucking deals with it — just, ignoring the problem!"
Kindy is still horribly silent behind him, but Sid can see him wincing in his periphery, shoulders hiked up to his ears. He's in a bad way now, but not in a way that's unfixable. Too much more of this, though, and he might very well sink to a place Sid can't reach, and then they'll both have to find some way to explain why the kid looks like death warmed over come breakfast — if Sid can bear to pull him out of bed at all, that is.
"Like I said: I'll handle it," Sid tells them again, unyieldingly firm. "I'm going to take care of him, and you're all going to pretend this night never happened."
Raks and Karl, predictably, do not like that. Not one bit. But where Raks looks like he's preparing to square up to fight Sid for Kindy's honor, Karl just seems concerned. He's cocking his head, glancing between Sid's eyes, seeking out the joke, or the hidden concussion, maybe; something to explain why Sid isn't letting them ruin Kindy's life.
"Sid…" he finally pleads, small, and almost betrayed.
It takes a lot of effort for Sid not to snap back at him, to keep his cool, because Karl, of all people, should understand. Raks can't, because he's a dom, and they never do, but Karl…Karl lives in both worlds. He's old enough to remember the first switch ever drafted, and he's had to put up with all kinds of shit from every team he's ever played for: less pay and less recognition and higher standards than any dom has ever been held to, and more that Sid probably doesn't even know about from inside the dressing rooms. All because of that tiny letter next to his name that says he needs to submit for a few hours each year.
He should be on Sid's side, here. He should be jumping in to protect Kindy, not advocating for his choices to be stripped from him, just as Karl's own choices have been stripped from him far, far too many times — some of them, in Sid's own room, even.
But that's just what you get with switches, Sid's learned. Guys capable of understanding exactly how small and useless and afraid a sub must feel in a dom's shadow, and who keep forcing them to their knees in spite of it.
"Unbelievable," Raks sneers, scrubbing a hand down his face, and Sid finally breaks his one-sided staring contest with Karl to round on him.
"Do you have something more to say, Rickard?" He spits, stalking closer. He holds his chin high even as Raks glares down his nose at him, taller than Sid on his best day, and more so now, since he's still in his shoes. "Go on. Say it."
Raks doesn't flinch. "I thought you were a better dom."
"That makes two of us," Sid shrugs back, unmoved. "I guess we're all disappointed."
Raks's lips twist with palpable disgust. He tips his head towards Karl, and then storms out without another word, letting Sid's door slam shut behind him with enough force to rattle the frame.
Sid manages to hold himself together by the skin of his teeth, but the shock of it seems enough to finally squeeze a sob out of Kindy, and then another, and then he's falling to pieces on Sid's bed, shaking like a leaf as the words flood out of him in a big, barely comprehensible rush.
"I'm sorry," he babbles. "I'm so sorry. I didn't notice until they tried to talk to me a-and I tried it, the pinching thing like you showed us, but then Blake saw and yelled at me —"
"Hey," Sid takes a purposefully deep, slow breath as he sinks down next to the kid and pulls him into his side. Rakell…that isn't over, not by a long shot. But it also could have gone much worse, and besides, Kindy needs all of Sid focus on him right now. "I'm not mad at you, Ben. It's going to be okay."
"It's not," Kindy argues, shaking his head against Sid's chest, and making a mess of his shirt in the process. Sid shushes him gently, burying a hand in his thick, damp, sandy curls before letting it slide lower over his nape — a mockery of a real scruffing, but it makes Kindy melt all the same.
"We're going to figure it out," he assures, because that's what Kindy needs to hear right now. Privately, Sid's never felt more unsure of anything. "You're not getting fired over this, I promise you. I won't let that happen."
Kindy makes a wounded little noise against his shoulder. "Raks was really mad."
"Let him be mad," Sid says. "He'll get over it once he sees how well you're playing next season."
Kindy grumbles his dissent.
Okay. New plan, then.
"Do you want to try kneeling?" Sid offers, carefully turning Kindy's blotchy face to the side, where he can meet his eyes, glassy and miserable and unfocused as they are. "You might feel better."
Kindy hesitates, because above all else he's a very sweet boy who knows how much Sid hates this part of being the captain — how much it unsettles him, even after all this time, to have someone try to submit to him that way. But he's also learned by now that Sid wouldn't be offering if he didn't think he could handle it, and that he's far too stubborn to be argued out of it once he's made that assessment. So, with a little nudge from Sid, he lets the towel go and slips off the bed, settling himself gracefully between Sid's spread legs with his head pillowed against his thigh.
Normally, Sid would make him put a cushion down first, but the rug seems soft and plush enough for the few minutes Sid plans to keep him here. While he's getting comfortable, Sid takes another breath in and tries to settle himself down, too. Wills his racing pulse to slow (because facing down angry doms is also something that never gets any easier, especially when they're doms he cares for) as he curls his fingers back into Kindy's hair, anchoring himself as much as he is keeping Kindy down.
"I shouldn't have come," the kid mumbles, some indeterminate time later, soft and just slightly slurred with the edges of subspace. He feels looser, warmer, beneath Sid's hands, but not by much; no longer teetering on the edge of a drop, but not wholly freed from the guilty spiral of his thoughts yet, either.
Sid sighs, scratching lightly at his scalp. "You were right to come. It was fun up until now, right?" Kindy shrugs noncommittally, but Sid soldiers on. "It's not as bad as it seems right now. We can move past this."
"You don't understand," Kindy says, squirming until Sid relents and lets him up. Once he's free, he crawls back onto the bed to slump heavily against Sid's side. And probably, Sid shouldn't let it happen — should tell him to get back down there until he's all the way back in that warm, fuzzy place Sid's never quite managed to reach himself — but selfishly, all Sid can do is sigh in relief and hug him closer, breathing in chlorine and salt and sun. "I was texting Berk when I went fuzzy. M-my phone was unlocked. If they'd looked at it…"
Sid's fingers still in the middle of the swirling pattern he'd started to trace along Kindy's bare bicep.
"But they didn't," he confirms. "Right?"
The kid huffs at him. "No."
"Then it's okay, kiddo," Sid says. "It was a close call, but you got past it, and I've got you now. Whenever you start to feel off again, you can come to me — no one's going to question it anymore."
"How do you do it?" Kindy asks. It's a question Sid's been asked, over and over again for years, even though the younger guys never seem to like his answers, or lack thereof, very much. "How did no one ever…"
"Well. Letting yourself be coached keeps you level, and pain can help keep up if you feel yourself slipping at a bad time. You know all that already," Sid starts, patient. Those are things he usually doesn't need to teach — things kids pick up on in the minors, soon after they present. "But, when you can't catch yourself in time, like tonight…being down looks a bit like being drunk, from the outside. And when we all get together like this, it's not weird to see guys drinking, so…I blame the alcohol, mostly. Everyone thinks I'm a dom, and I am a lightweight, so they've never had reason to look much closer."
Kindy blinks up at him warily. "And…after?"
"After, you drop," Sid says quietly. "Sorry. There's no fighting that part. And it sucks in the moment, but you survive it, and you let the other guys think you're hungover the next morning."
Kindy swallows audibly, dropping his head.
"It gets easier," Sid tells him. "It's a lot right now. It's your first season, first time playing at this level, first playoff push…just, cut yourself some slack, okay? You'll learn."
Or, maybe he won't. Maybe he'll fly home tomorrow, and it will be the last time Sid ever sees him.
Kindy's thinking it too, Sid can tell. He's picking ruthlessly at his thumbnail, blood oozing out from a crack in the skin, and forming a tiny red crescent beneath his nail.
Sid looks away.
"What if they tell Bones?"
"They won't," he says unconvincingly. And then, in the absence of any other platitudes to offer, he suggests, "Why don't you go get ready for bed, eh? I'll get the spare made up."
Kindy nods slowly. "Yeah, okay." There's a pause as Sid watches the kid's face pinken. "Actually, could I…"
He gestures loosely at Sid's queen-sized bed. Sid grins in spite of himself.
"Yeah, bud. We can do that."
=====
"Should I get finger food?" Kindy asks the next morning, just outside the doors to the club restaurant.
He's looking…not quite like himself, still, but undeniably better than he was last night. That's to be expected after a drop, though, if Sid remembers correctly. Besides, the wrongness of it all probably isn't as easy to pick up on as it otherwise would be so long as Kindy's on Sid's arm, because as it happens, he's the one sporting the dark circles and bloodshot eyes today.
Kindy had conked out pretty quickly once Sid had turned off the lights and tucked him against his side. Sid, on the other hand, had found himself staring at the ceiling once more, mind running a million miles a minute with worst-case scenario after worst-case scenario as he listened to the soft, slow puff of the kid's breath against his shoulder, all the way into the early hours of dawn, until they'd been drowned out by the morning chorus outside.
And, as such, it takes him a lot longer than it rightly should to process Kindy's question. "Uh…what?"
"Like, you know." Sid doesn't know, and he indicates as much with a helpless shake of his head, much to Kindy's chagrin. They're alone in the hall, but he still leans in closer to Sid, dropping his voice into a whisper. "Should I kneel?"
Oh. Right.
"No. We're not feeding into it," he says. Even the thought of Kindy tucked away under the table, just like all the other pampered subs at this resort, is enough to make Sid shiver in revulsion. "Just, do whatever you normally would, okay? I'll be right behind you."
Kindy nods easily, and then they're both stepping past the threshold, into the waiting masses of teammates and other weekend guests.
Karl accosts them there, before the hostess even has the chance to open her mouth. He bypasses Sid entirely (which is honestly a bit of a relief) and sidles up right next to Kindy with a warm smile.
"Kindy, hey!" he greets, flashing a wink and a dismissive nod at the hostess before slinging an arm around Kindy's shoulders, and walking them towards the long table at the back of the room, along a wall of big, bay windows. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine. Better," Kindy stammers. He glances back sharply at Sid, eyes silently pleading for help. "S-sorry about all that, last night."
Karl stops short, so abruptly Sid almost crashes into him. His expression goes scarily blank, scarily fast. Still quite firmly in dom headspace, then.
"No, no, that's not — you don't ever have to apologize for dropping, Ben," he says very sternly, shooting Sid a mildly accusatory look over the kid's head before softening again. "Do you want to come sit with me and Cookie?"
And Sid decides that's probably his cue to cut in. He slots himself between them, gently pushing Kindy halfway behind his back; stares Karl down from under the brim of his hat. "I've got him."
Karl's jaw ticks minutely, as do those of a handful of the other guys at the table, watching. But he doesn't kick up a fuss.
"Yes. I meant both of you," he says curtly, waving them along with an after-you gesture. "We saved a seat."
Sid glances back at the single empty chair between Cookie and the one holding Karl's jacket. He sucks his teeth.
"Better make it two seats, Karl."
"Oh," Karl blinks, like he hadn't even considered the possibility Kindy might want to sit at the table with everyone else, the same way he's been doing for the entire time they've known him. It's not clear if it's Sid's impatient tone that does it, or Kindy's big, scared eyes, but Karl does ultimately relent, and drift back towards the front desk. "Right. I'll find one."
"You know, you do kind of feel like a dom sometimes," Kindy whispers to him, lips pulled into a tiny, faintly impressed grin.
"Thanks," Sid says dryly. "I try."
In the end, Kindy winds up next to Cookie — partly because Cookie is a null, and Sid's pretty sure Cookie likes and trusts him as much as he likes and trusts Cookie, but also partly because Karl's vacated seat has Raks on the other side. And as much as Sid really doesn't want to brush elbows with Raks all morning, it certainly feels like a better option than leaving Kindy in his place, or sitting all the way at the opposite end of the table with the fourth-line guys where Karl is now, and leaving Kindy alone.
He wonders if Raks thinks it's a power move of some sort. That would suit Sid just fine, too.
"Hey, bud," Hayesy smiles brightly from across the table, breaking the uneasy silence that had settled over the team as they entered.
"Morning," Kindy mumbles back hesitantly from behind his menu, face beet-red. Sid's fairly certain he's not really reading anything, and that's all but confirmed when their waitress flits over to them a few seconds later to collect their orders, and Kindy just stares at her blankly.
With a sigh, Sid plucks the paper from his hands and orders for both of them — which doesn't score him any points with Kindy, but at least earns him a handful of approving nods from around the table.
"Cap's taking good care of you, eh, kid?" Mo grins, wagging his brows. His eyes are almost uncomfortably soft beneath them, though; filled with a fondness normally reserved for his wife and daughters.
"Yes," Kindy nods, just once, resolute. "Sid's been great."
With that, the worst of the tension in the room finally seems to ease, and slowly, all the side conversations start back up again. Kindy still gets a lot of lingering looks, especially when Sid makes no move to help him with his meal when it arrives. But no one else comes swooping in to offer their help, either — not even Raks, who hasn't stopped scowling at Sid since he sat down — which Sid will count as a win in his book.
He waits until everyone's more or less finished with their meals — his own, still barely picked over — before he leans back and clears his throat, wordlessly calling the table to attention.
"I'm only going to say this once," he begins, low and deliberate. He drags his gaze back and forth along the rows, making sure to meet everyone's eyes at least once. "I get that this was unexpected, and you guys are probably feeling like you need to act some type of way now. But you don't. Okay? We're not going to treat Kindy any differently than we have all year. We're going to keep this whole thing between us, and you're all just going to have to trust that Kindy and I are handling the dynamic stuff privately."
There's a lot less nodding than he'd like to see.
"Is that understood?" he presses, hardening his tone, and relaxes back against his chair only when he's drawn some form of assent out of all ten of them.
Raks, however, isn't content to let it end there.
"You took it really well," he mutters wryly, clearly meant mostly for Sid's benefit.
Sid grits his teeth, stabbing at a bit of cold egg white on his plate. "I'm sorry?"
"Kindy dropping," Raks helpfully clarifies. "It's just, you didn't exactly seem surprised."
Sid's hand stills. "I didn't think me freaking out would have been helpful, no."
There's a scoff — loud enough to lay a hush over the group again.
"Sure."
"What exactly are you implying?" Sid asks, forcing himself to turn his head, and meet the other man's eyes head-on. This is closer than he'd ever normally allow himself to come to an angry dom, though, outside of a face-off or scrum, and Sid is just praying Raks can't see the fear hidden behind his glare.
"Guys…" Karl warns.
They pay him no mind.
"You knew," Raks hisses, lips curving into a mean, humorless grin when Sid doesn't deny it. Can't, with the way his mouth's gone suddenly dry and cottony. "Yeah, you did, didn't you, asshole? You already knew he was a sub, and you did nothing."
Fuck.
"If you've got a problem with the way I handle my team, you can take it up with me privately," Sid manages to grit out. Manages not to flinch or cower, even, when Raks rises halfway out of his chair, looming over him in his periphery while Sid addresses the rest of the table. "That goes for all of you. You have an issue with me, my door's always open. But you keep it away from the coaches."
The table wobbles as Raks slams down a few obscenely large bills, even for this place, and storms out of the restaurant without another word — Karl hot on his heels.
Sid grips his own thigh tight beneath the table edge, nails digging into his skin, sharp enough to break the skin; enough to make his eyes water. But he doesn't flinch. He doesn't simper or cry or slide uselessly out of his chair, and he doesn't fucking drop.
A low murmur has started up around him again. Not a happy one, this time.
It's punctuated by a sharp, gasping breath that tears Sid out of his own head, and the fog that's started to gather there — has him twisting to face Kindy. His eyes are wide and a little wet, and he's staring sightlessly down at his half-finished meal, rigid with stress. He hasn't managed to catch the attention of any of the doms yet, not even Hayesy, but Cookie's looking between him and Sid like he half expects the kid to detonate at any moment.
Sid steels himself, and settles a hand firmly around the base of Kindy's skull. He squeezes until it takes — until Kindy goes slack, and bile rises unbidden in Sid's throat, and then he leans in to mutter, quiet and rough, "Few more bites, bud. You're good."
If he says it enough times, maybe it will come true.
====
The team flies home to Pittsburgh the next morning without further incident.
There aren't many more words exchanged at all, actually — not with Sid or Kindy, at least — on the plane or at the airport after, as everyone breaks apart for the last time, and heads to their next gates or their waiting cars outside.
Sid can't tell yet if that's a good sign or a bad one, them being left to their own devices (or shunned, in Sid's case, which fucking hurts…though, not nearly as much as losing Kindy would hurt). But, at the very least, he knows no one broke down and called the coaches or dynamic services in the night, because Sid sees Kindy all the way through to the line for his flight into Vancouver, and watches from the sidelines as he's moved along swiftly through every checkpoint. No flags or blocks on his passport, or random searches, or officers swooping in to detain him outright.
Sid makes sure to hug him extra tight anyway, before he lets him board; painfully aware of all that might change between now and September.
Because there's nothing, really, to say this flimsy line he's drawn in the sand will continue to hold, with all this added distance, and abundant free time to ponder over and dissect everything that happened this weekend. The other guys don't agree with how Sid's handled things — that's already been made abundantly clear. But he'd like to hope that, after so long, after knowing Sid and being his friend for months or even years, they'd at least trust him enough to know he would never do anything to hurt Kindy. Wouldn't allow him to truly hurt himself in any way, either.
Sid doesn't know one way or the other. He won't, until something happens, if it happens, and frustrating as it is, there's probably nothing more he can do to diminish the chances of that.
For now, all he has is the knowledge that Kindy is safe back in Canada, under the roof of a family who knows exactly how much hockey means to him, and would never dream of doing anything to jeopardize it. The knowledge that, with Kindy formally removed from the chat, and phone cleared of anything otherwise incriminating, Sid and the rest of the league subs remain well-insulated, too.
It could have been worse, he keeps telling himself, as he drags his luggage up the driveway to his quiet, empty house. He doesn't plan to linger — still aches to be back home, after another long year, but…for all that he loves and misses his home in Nova Scotia, home also means family, and Nate, and being recognized even more often than he is here. And Sid just doesn't think he can handle all of that right now. Needs a day, or maybe two, to lick his wounds a bit, and get his game face back on, before he can face everyone else.
God forbid Nate might come barging in at a bad time, and find Sid rotting in bed, trembling through the aftershocks of a drop
And, speaking of people barging in —
"Sid!"
Sid trips over his feet, nearly wiping out right here in his entryway, as a loud, familiar Russian voice calls out to him from the front yard.
For a moment, he's sure he's misheard. Geno isn't even supposed to be in the county right now, but…no, that's definitely him, stomping across Sid's lawn with Tanger at his side; all lightly- tanned skin and wide, obnoxious smiles, and a sort of urgency and purpose and rigidity in their steps that would tell Sid, even without considering their sudden and unexpected return to Pittsburgh, that this is not going to be a causal meeting between old friends.
"What," says Sid, "the fuck."
"What?" Tanger frowns innocently, climbing Sid's steps uninvited. "We live here, too."
Sid glares back at him, unimpressed. "Not in June you don't."
"Well," Geno shrugs, but says nothing else — just stares up at Sid with big, hopeful brown eyes from the foot if his steps.
Sid lets out a heavy, weary sigh.
There's no getting rid of them now, even if Sid really wanted to, which…he doesn't, actually, despite his exhaustion. Maybe because of it. So, he simply steps aside and lets his house be invaded, as he always does.
They kick off their shoes while he wordlessly rummages through the crispers of his fridge for his last few beers, and then, when they've all settled around the island there, he crosses his arms and asks, "Did Raks call you?"
"Among others." Tanger, at least, has the decency to look sheepish. "They all seem pretty worried about you."
"They're pissed at me," Sid corrects, and watches warily as they exchange another look.
"It's…big, Sid," Geno hedges, almost nervously. "Serious."
Oh, if only they knew.
"I'm aware," he sighs, taking a long pull of his beer. "And I'm handling it."
Geno nods slowly. And there's one of those long, uncomfortable pauses Sid is, unfortunately, becoming very well acquainted with.
"Sid," Kris starts carefully. His own drink sits untouched in front of him. "You know we trust your judgment."
"Do you?" Sid scoffs.
"Yes," Kris says firmly, like he's offended Sid could think otherwise. Beside him, Geno bobs his head very seriously in agreement. "This just…doesn't make a lot of sense. What we've heard, anyway."
"We talk?" Geno asks.
"We can talk," Sid tells them. They're already here, after all. "Just leave Kindy out of it. He went through enough this weekend."
They soften considerably at the reminder of their poor, distressed, baby sub. "Of course," Geno nods.
"So," Kris invites. "Tell us what happened."
Sid arches an eyebrow. "You already know that."
"I know what Raks and Spoons say happened," Kris corrects him, almost gently. It's all a very far cry from the merciless dressing-down Sid normally gets from Tanger, when he fucks something up; makes a call his alternates don't agree with. Sid can't help but wonder how bad off the other guys made him out to be, if they're taking this much care to tiptoe around him like this today. Maybe they think he's finally snapped. "Tell us your version."
"He 'spaced by the pool," Sid says, which he didn't technically see — only knew, from Raks's accounting, that he'd dropped there — but Sid had also heard the whole story again from Kindy himself, after the dust had settled, so he knows it's not inaccurate. "Spoons and Lizzo found him later, dropping, and called Karl and Raks over, and they brought him up to me."
Geno and Tanger are both nodding along patiently. "You take care?" Geno prompts. "Have him kneel for you?"
"Yes," says Sid. That's technically truthful too, even if Sid suspects they're imagining a much longer, more productive kneeling session than they'd actually managed.
"Then you say, 'don't tell Muse or Dubas.'" Here, Geno's frown seems to deepen, darken, and Sid feels his hackles rise.
He takes another fortifying gulp of his beer. "Obviously."
"Okay," Kris draws out the word slowly. "Explain it like it's not obvious, maybe."
Sid really dislikes doms, sometimes.
"How many subs are there in the NHL, Tanger?"
"None, officially," he obliges. His eyes seem to clear a bit, then, sharpening with understanding. "You think the front office would get rid of him?"
Sid shrugs unhappily. "He's good, but it's only his first year, and he underperformed in the last month." None of them would say as much to Kindy's face, of course — and certainly none of them hold it against him, especially given the rest of the team's performances — but facts are facts, and that's the only currency their front office deals in these days. "He's not valuable enough for them to have that fight with Bettman over yet. He could be, when he's older, but not now. They'd cut him loose to save themselves a scandal."
They seem to falter at that, leaning back in their chairs and staring pensively down at the table; the labels on their bottles.
"Maybe they fight anyway," Geno offers.
Maybe, being the key word. Maybe it would turn out okay. Maybe Kindy would stay on his line, and be allowed to keep living with Bones, and maybe, in a few years, there'd be enough precedent set that subs could be drafted openly and outright, and all the rest of them could start creeping out into the light too, one by one, when they felt safe enough to do so.
Or, maybe, Geno would be proven horribly, irreparably, wrong.
Sid doesn't like dealing with maybes.
"It's a lot to risk. I'm not putting his career on the line at nineteen. That's not happening," Sid shakes his head decisively. "Besides, that's not all he has to lose."
There's another uncomfortable pause as the two of them think about that very hard and, disappointingly, if unsurprisingly, come up blank.
"What else?" Kris asks.
"Everything?" Sid says back, as levelly as he can, but…fuck, it's hard. He doesn't understand why they don't understand. "Whether Kyle keeps him in the lineup or not, social services would have to get involved. And they'd want a guardian assigned — some dom he doesn't even know, probably, and maybe they'd say no more hockey anyway, and it wouldn't matter what the league has to say. But the important thing is, he doesn't want to be out. He doesn't want a dom."
"Course he not want," Geno huffs, but before Sid can round back on him, Kris cuts in again.
"It seems like he's scared of subbing a bit, right? Or nervous of doms, at least," he asks, and doesn't even wait for a response before he's pressing on. "He's young, probably doesn't have much experience, and the whole idea of putting himself at the mercy of a stranger…yeah. I'd be scared, too, if I were him. It makes sense."
And that was…not what Sid expected. At all. He doesn't want get his hopes up yet, but — shit, is Kris actually getting it?
"Is not a reason to ignore, though!" Geno argues, gesticulating wildly.
"No," Kris agrees, and Sid abruptly feels himself deflate. So much for that. "Sid, he needs to be 'spaced. That's just a fact."
"And like I told you," he says stonily, as he steadily tears his beer label into tiny pieces. "I'm handling it."
"Okay," Kris says again. His voice has dropped, softened into something mild and unobtrusive and nonthreatening; the tone he'd use to coax another dropping dom through his post-game routine after an especially shitty night. "But it also sounds like, maybe, you're more worried about tiptoeing around some really unhealthy boundaries of his, than you are about giving him what he really needs."
Sid bristles, glancing up sharply at him. "What? You want me to force him down?"
Kris raises his palms placatingly. "That's not what I said."
But it is, in some way, what he meant. Sid laughs humorlessly. "Jesus."
"Sid," he sighs. "I understand why you feel protective, I do. But he shouldn't be afraid of subbing. Or of doms. He shouldn't be going so long between scenes that he drops into 'space front of the team on a weekend trip. That's not healthy for him. And if you're also acting like everyone else around him is out to get him, or destroy his life, you're going to really fuck him up in the long run."
Sid is alarmed to find his eyes burning. He blinks hard and clenches his jaw; squeezes his bottle hard to hide the way his fingers have started to quake.
"He trusts me," he eventually manages, after clearing his throat. He stubbornly avoids looking at Geno's frustrated, worried pout, and Kris's piercing eyes.
"That's good. I'm glad there's someone on the team he can be honest with," Kris says, earnest and soft. "But you're not getting any younger, bud. He could have twenty years ahead of him, but we're all the age that any year might be our last." Sid blinks harder, and it doesn't help. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "What does he do when you're gone?"
"I'm not just going to abandon him!" Sid hisses without looking up.
"You'll have to," Kris points out. He doesn't sound and happier about it than Sid does. "You won't be able to be there all season long for him, not even if you move here permanently. We travel too much."
"Can't be there always even now," Geno cuts in, and now he's gentled his tone, too, and Sid's throat feels like it's closed up entirely. "What if you hurt?"
"The trainers need to know, Sid," Kris insists. "There needs to be a system in place for him, for his own safety. Look at Arty and Karl — we don't ask just one person to look out for them."
"The answer's still no," he forces out. His voice cracks dangerously around the words, but it gets stronger as he goes on, and pushes anger back to the forefront. "Not unless you can give me some assurance they won't cut him, and ship him back to a sub house in Vancouver."
Kris, finally, lets a bit of frustration show through his carefully constructed facade. "You know I can't say that for certain. But —"
"Exactly," Sid mutters, and starts to slide out of his chair.
"No, listen," Kris hisses, hand shooting out to catch Sid's wrist.
It only lasts a second. Kris probably doesn't even register, really, that he did it. But Sid does. Combined with the sharpness of Kris's voice, it's enough to make him sink, dazed and breathless, back into his chair — and thank god for the chair, really, because if Sid had made it just a few more steps away, he'd have gone straight to his knees. Wouldn't that have been fun to explain.
Geno gives Sid an odd, quizzical look, tilting his head to and fro like an incredibly oversized dog. But whatever he's thinking, he seems to dismiss it quickly enough, returning his attention back to Kris.
"I know it's not perfect," the other dom is saying, oblivious to the near-disaster he's just caused, and the distress he's left Sid in, "but things have changed since we started out. The world's a different place. Just because no one's drafted a sub yet, doesn't mean they can't."
"But, even if…" Geno hesitates. "Maybe is not so bad."
"What?" Sid chokes.
"I love Kindy," he says. "But, if he maybe get sick here, or hurt, because he doesn't want anyone to know, this is not good."
"Drop sickness is no joke," Kris tacks on. It's probably mostly because of that pinch to the pressure point in his wrist, but Sid's starting to get a little dizzy, glancing back and forth between them as they steamroll right past all the very valid, very well-reasoned points he's made. He pinches hard at his arm beneath the table; shakes his head in both denial, and a desperate bid to clear it. "Neither is dropping on the ice. You know that. If, even now, the league decides they can't protect him…then, I'm sorry, Sid, but he shouldn't be out there."
"For the last fucking time," Sid snaps. There's no need to go grasping for the anger this time — it's just there, hot and insistent beneath his skin. "I'm handling this. Just me. No one else is getting involved. What happened down there, stays down there, and that's final."
Geno makes a low, growly, disgruntled sound from somewhere deep in his throat, and the two of them stare Sid down from across the table, looking distinctly displeased in a way that, shamefully, makes Sid's chest ache. But whatever they see in Sid's expression must be enough to convince them they're not going to win this argument. Not today, anyway.
"Okay, Sid," Kris says coolly, pushing his untouched beer aside, and rising back to his full height. Geno does the same beside him, pushing in his chair with a lot more force than is probably necessary. "But let's get one thing straight."
Sid doesn't move, doesn't breathe, as Kris winds around the table to his side, and stops there, staring down at him — one hand braced on the table right in front of Sid, making the veins in his corded forearm pop.
"I love you like a brother. I'd trust you with my fucking life," he says, quiet but fierce. "But if I see that kid start to struggle this year, I'm stepping in — with, or without your blessing."
"And if you fuck up his life," Sid murmurs back, reaching down deep inside for the courage to lift his eyes to the dom's face. "I'll never forgive you."
Kris holds his glare resolutely until Sid is forced to look away with a hard swallow, lest his heart beat through his fucking ribcage. And then, with one last click of his tongue, he raps his palm against the wood, and says, "You know how to reach us if you want to talk."
"See you in few months, Sid," Geno waves glumly.
And then they're both gone. And Sid's alone, once again, in his grand, cold, empty house, with two fingers cutting off the circulation to a delicate patch of skin on the inside of his elbow, listening to the distant rumble of his phone pinging against the countertop behind him — counting down the minutes until he can step back out onto the ice again, the only place where everything still makes sense.
He doesn't stand up again for a very long time.