"York, man," Anson demanded, pounding on the door to the cramped hotel bathroom, "can you hurry it up? You've been in there for ages now!" York rolled his eyes as he rinsed the last of the shaving cream off his face. It hadn't been that long.
"Fine, fine, be out in a few." He waited until his friend had retreated enough to sigh loudly, rubbing a hand out over his face. He'd hoped last night had been a nightmare, some fantasy gone completely wrong, but unfortunately, it was all true, judging by the barely visible marks left by Comrie.
No, he reminded himself, not Comrie. The Mike Comrie he'd seen before last night wouldnt tough drugs with a ten-foot pole, let alone spend more than a millisecond trying to crawl into his skin. Even then, it would be for the sole reason of causing him bodily harm.
So, it was a completely drugged up Comrie who had been with him last night. Which only made the situation a lot worse.
He had been completely and utterly sober, where on the other hand, the kid... hadn't been. He should have been able to tell at the first strange comment, the first giggle, hell, even the fact that Comrie was coming onto him should have tipped him off.
He might as well have taken advantage of him.
York turned off the tap, shaking his head as he leaned against the counter. This train of thought was getting him absolutely nowhere. It was only the latest in a long line of fuck-ups, nothing new.
Well, nothing other than the fact that this time hed involved the one person he desperately wanted to keep out of his life, if only to protect him. Comrie didn't have to know about any of this, it would only drag him down, burden him with all of York's problems. He didnt deserve that.
He didnt know when a detached acknowledgement that Comrie was good looking had turned into an intense desire to pull him into the nearest enclosed space and do unspeakable things to his body, he only knew that it had happened, leaving him to deal with the consequences.
It was easy to see that Comrie couldnt care less about him. He'd made it quite clear- ignoring him except for a few insults here and there on the ice. No matter how much he tried to twist it to try and make it seem otherwise, the fact remained.
It wasnt surprising, really. Anyone he cared about always ended up letting him down and not nicely either- in the end. He should have realised sooner it would be the same with Comrie.
"Mike?" Anson asked, knocking again. "What the fuck are you doing in there, fucking brain surgery?"
"Anson..." he said slowly, unsure of what to say. He couldnt exactly tell his friend he was agonizing over Mike Comrie. Thankfully, he was interrupted.
"Look, Im going to use Shawn's shower, alright? God knows whats taking you so fucking long." York could hear grumbling and the hotel door open and close, and then silence. He almost wished Anson had stayed. He hated silence. It only made the loneliness that much more empty.
Oh, he wasnt lonely in the literal sense of the word, he had the team, a few close friends, but none of them understood. They all had their perfect little lives, never stepping off the tightrope, always safe in the air. They didnt know what it was like to fall.
And fallen he had.
He shook his head, opening the travel kit to put his toothbrush away, and his eye caught a small glint of metal. His hand reached out for it, but he forced his hand to grip the counter instead.
No.
He promised himself he'd stop.
He looked back at the blade that he, for some reason, kept with him even when he tried to stop. It was almost like his personal security blanket, he felt more afraid when he left it back at home, strangely enough. He didn't know why, but it was enough to make him keep it with him on every trip.
Sometimes he could just ignore it, but now didnt seem to be one of those times. He tried, but couldnt stop his eyes from always trailing back to it, his fingers inching closer.
Maybe it could help.
Nothing else was working.
No.
He couldn't fall into the trap again. Hed made it for a week. The last cuts were beginning to heal fully, only a few scars remained. He could be free of it; free of the questions, free of the excuses, and maybe this time he could quit for good. He could climb back up without falling again.
He couldnt fall again.
But he already was falling. Maybe it could help him climb.
No.
He could walk the tightrope again.
Or walk the edge of a knife.
Either way, wasnt it the same?
No.
Fly, it seemed to be saying. Let them walk, I can take away everything, make you fly. Leave them to walk their perfect little lives, and soar.
Fly.
His fingers wrapped around the blade, and he brought it out, holding it against his arm.
He would fly.
Just this one last time, he would fly.
