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ohmyeyesmyeyes · 1 year

Text

lover of mine - n.hischier

nico hischier x f!reader

warnings: swearing, angst, description of injury/bruises etc, sad nico, mentions of vomiting/dizziness, medical inaccuracies

word count: 21k

You were in your room, having just got back from a late trip to the store for some last minute bagels and milk – you weren’t doing anything in particular. You were sitting on your office chair, eyes occasionally drifting to the essay waiting for your corrections on the table, but you found it hard to tear your attention away from your phone. There wasn’t anything specifically attention grabbing that you were scrolling through, mainly just browsing Instagram and replying to some messages from friends.

There was no jeopardy surrounding the evening: it was dark outside, around eight – so not too late that you felt like you had to rush to sort things out, but late enough to deplete your energy levels completely to the point where you couldn’t really bring yourself to work.

Your bedroom door was open, vague chatter from the Devils match playing in the living room – your roommate, Maisey, wrapped up in the whirlwind that seemed to accompany any fan of hockey. The last time you’d seen her she was leaning towards the TV, her elbows on her knees as she shouted words every couple of minutes.

It was a routine quickly becoming familiar to you both; usually you’d be sitting next to her, both yelling profanities at the TV in synch, but in an attempt to distance yourself from the drama in your relationship at the moment, you’d decided to take a step back somewhat. You could still watch the highlights and every now and then you’d sit in and watch with her, but there was only so much of watching the matches anymore that you could take without being reminded of your recent heartbreaks and tribulations – all because of a certain captain.

Needless to say, when her shouting stopped and an eerie quiet descended from the living room, the commentating getting louder as though Maisey was trying to listen even more carefully to what was being said, it didn’t escape your interest, and your curiosity peaked. You paused, your thumb faltering as you threw a cautious glance at your door, still no sign of any rustling or movement that indicated she’d only turned it up to take the bins out or have a quick toilet break. In fact, apart from the occasional flickering from the light of the TV, the only thing you could see was the ajar bathroom door from across the hallway.

You furrowed your brows, ears straining to pick up the quickfire chatter as something ugly and dreadful settled itself in your mind and chest. You tried to dissect the sensation, but the tightness of your chest and the cold chill of your bones could only pull you in the direction of foreboding.

“Maise?” You called out, slowly hauling yourself off your chair, phone switching off as you turned into the hallway.

When you looked down the corridor to the sofa just in sight, you could see Maisey’s worried gaze peek over the back, and you gravitated towards her, “Yeah?” She asked, blindly fumbling for something as you got closer.

It was only when you rounded the corner to cast a glance at the TV, heart thudding against your sternum in anticipation of seeing something you didn’t want to, that the commentary cut off, the screen turning an abrupt black. You could see your reflection looking back at you, the momentary flicker of people in black tracksuits crowding around a horizontal figure crumpled against the boards.

You looked to Maisey on the blank screen, who was looking at you with an essence of anxiety, awkwardly spinning the remote in her hand, her eyes burning holes in the back of your head as though she expected you to react.

To what?

“What’s wrong?” You spun around, moving to take a seat next to her, completely unaware of what had been playing out before your entrance.

You knew there was a Devils game tonight, she’d been watching it when you came back from your little trip and unloaded the fresh produce into varying cupboards, and you’d even cast curious glances at it when you were looking in the general direction of the TV, but you’d immediately hidden yourself back in your room with the honest intent of finishing some work before bed.

She shrugged, acting nonchalant as her shoulders drooped, “Nothing.” She mumbled, “I thought you were working?”

You nodded slowly, feeling some tension begin to wear off at her lack of urgency, “I tried to, but I can’t concentrate. It’s too late to think.” She nodded, twisting her mouth awkwardly, “Why’d you turn it off?”

She shrugged again, pulling the remote away from you before you could even move to turn the TV back on, “Just…Nico was playing.” You fought a wince, a wave of sadness clenching in your chest, “I didn’t want to upset you.”

You were grateful for her consideration, but her subdued, almost too-casual demeanour was off-putting and quite frankly irritating. You could tell she was hiding something from you, that much was obvious from the way she hid the remote out of your sight and made no move to turn the TV back on even despite your reassurances. You’d seen some of Nico’s games recently, she knew that – and she also knew that you had nothing against her watching them in the front room.

And it wasn’t like you and Nico were over – even if it had felt like it recently, although that was the definition of being on a ‘break’, wasn’t it? You’d agreed (after much deliberation and many tears on both your behalfs) that a rather reluctant break was needed; little to no communication…it was rough. It was also the first time in two years that you hadn’t gone two weeks without speaking to Nico, or even seeing his face on FaceTime, and you were kind of dying. Or, at least it felt like it.

It was difficult trying to sleep lately, hence why you’d been trying to get into bed earlier – mind seemingly intent on torturing you with images of Nico and replaying conversations and moments.

You’d lost count of the number of times you’d had to remind yourself that this break – although temporary – was essential for your relationship, and it was no secret neither of you wanted to break up. That had been made abundantly clear the last time you had spoken when you were both speechless in his front room before you’d reluctantly left him there.

And Maisey knew this, she respected this, which was why you found it so hard to believe she was telling the truth.

“You know I don’t mind watching the games.” You said, tilting your head in interest when she squirmed under your gaze, “Are you okay?”

Your heart was hammering in your chest when she turned to look at you, brows knitted together and eyes wide, chewing on her bottom lip, “I–” She hesitated, “The game wasn’t very interesting.”

You nodded, attempting a smile even despite the thick atmosphere. You had been friends with Maisey since high school, so you knew when she wasn’t telling you something, but you brushed it off, respecting whatever reasoning behind it – you trusted her, so if she was avoiding telling you something, you knew it was within reason.

“Do you want some tea or a drink?” You asked, switching the topic of conversation to avoid maintaining the awkward tension.

When you looked at Maisey she was eyeing your phone. And almost as though she’s willed it into existence, the screen lit up.

Her eyes snapped to you, where you’d frozen half-lifting yourself off the sofa, and there was an immeasurable panic in her face. It had something dropping in your stomach, dread pooling throughout your body, and you swallowed anxiously, your mouth drying.

“You should answer it.” She said, thrusting it towards you.

You blinked, taking it numbly and without allowing yourself to dwell yourself into a pit of your own panic, clicked the answer button.

You sat back on the sofa, vaguely aware of Maisey switching the TV back on, muting it instantly, but you were too focused on trying to hear what someone was saying on the other side of the line to even glance at the TV.

“Hello?” You asked, voice somewhat shaky.

“Hi, is this Y/N L/N?” The voice on the other side was stern, and at the mention of your name you paled. Usually if someone began a call like that it was to schedule an appointment of sorts, but judging from Maisey’s sombre reaction and prediction, you knew it was something worse.

“Yes.” You replied, tucking your hands into the arms of your hoodie to stop them from trembling.

“My name is Oliver Crosby, I’m one of the physios from the Devils Hockey Team.” You closed your eyes momentarily, before opening them to the TV, your eyes frantically scanning the ice for any sign of Nico’s familiar #13 C jersey. The sluggish movements of the players immediately had you guessing something had happened, because the Devils players seemed to be hanging around near the bench, and even the Capitals were skating absentmindedly. You shared a look with Maisey – she was sympathetic, biting her lip, “I’m calling on behalf of Nico Hischier, you’re listed here as his emergency contact–”

“Has something happened?” You interjected, horrified at the mere prospect.

It seemed Oliver had expected a reaction of sorts, because he responded without hesitation, “He’s alright, not in any immediate danger. He made contact with another player and we’re waiting for an ambulance. He’s in a lot of pain and we’ve assessed him as thoroughly as we can; we think he’s got a concussion, a separated shoulder, and a broken collarbone.”

You let out a breath, “Right.”

“See, he keeps asking for you is all, won’t really let us do anything until he sees you. We would ask you to come to the Center, but with the amount of pain he’s in, and the severity of the concussion, we think it’s better if you could meet us at the hospital, is that alright with you?”

It took you a beat to answer, the information overwhelming, but Maisey was already holding out her car keys towards you, a reassuring smile on her face.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Was all you could manage, briefly fighting the urge not to hurl.

“Okay, thank you, we’ll tell him you’ll meet us there. If we get there before you – oh, the ambulance is pulling up now – I’ll wait by the entrance.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine. I should be about fifteen minutes.” You were trembling, not allowing yourself to look back at the screen, instead focusing on your lap. You honestly didn’t know how you hadn’t at least stuttered through the entire conversation, let alone not started crying.

His reiterations of Nico’s pain only escalated your concerns, and you already knew you wouldn’t be coming home tonight.

“Great, that’s amazing…” Oliver paused, and over the commotion in the background, you could vaguely hear him talking to someone else in the background, before his voice became clearer – at the same time, Maisey had climbed off the sofa, and was rooting around to pick up your coat and a pair of suitable shoes, “I know this is all pretty scary, but he’s gonna be just fine.”

You nodded, shivering, “I just–He’s kind of…This is the first time anyone’s rung me as his emergency contact–”

“–We tend to enact that protocol when injuries require immediate medical attention, i.e. the hospital – even more so when it involves a head injury.” Oliver’s tone was grave, but understanding, and his ability to read you even through the phone had you guessing you weren’t the first…whatever, that had said that to him.

His honesty was refreshing, but it did little to ease your churning stomach.

“Fuck.” You whispered under your breath, a hand going to rest on your stomach, “Yeah, okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“See you then. Please drive safely.”

“Always will. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

And then you were pocketing your phone, and shrugging your coat on from where Maisey had held it up ready for you, struggling with the zip as you fought to calm your nerves. You wouldn’t be able to drive if your hands were shaking, let alone your brain firing off warning signals.

Maisey placed her hands on your shoulders, steadying you, “Do you want me to come with you?”

You shook your head, “I think I’ll be okay. You don’t need the car tomorrow do you?”

“No.” She offered you a small smile, squeezing your shoulders in a reassuring manner, “Text me when you get there, and feel free to ring me at any point. If you want me to, I can start getting a bag ready–”

“No, that’s fine, most of my stuff is still at his anyway, and I don’t know what’s gonna happen after the hospital, so don’t bother.” You inhaled through your nose, thanking the universe for sending you an angel like Maisey and planting her on your timeline of life, “Thank you, though.”

She brought you closer, wrapping her arms around you in a much-needed hug, which you reciprocated, not really wanting to pull away.

“I love you.” You said, not really knowing how else to convey your utmost appreciation.

“Love you too,” she pulled away, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, “Let me know how he is.”

You nodded, pulling away completely before snatching your bag from the table by the door before walking out and into the car park – your mind so completely stuck on Nico’s condition that you bypassed Maisey’s car entirely, having to double back and press the unlock button to pick it out of the sea of vehicles.

When you switched the engine on, the sudden blaring of the radio had you automatically smashing your fist against the control panel, turning it off and calming your racing heart at the shock of the sudden sound. The car remained silent the entire ride to the hospital, you not really able to stomach listening to whatever songs were playing at that particular time, which, realistically, would only irritate you – and drove with the passenger window half down, needing to distract yourself with the white noise of the road.

And when you pulled into the dark parking lot of the hospital, the first thing you did was seek out Oliver near the side entrance. He was a familiar silhouette – one you recognised as having seen around the Center on game days before, and he was standing in front of the door, his eyes jumping over empty faces until he saw you above their heads, immediately meeting you halfway and placing a comforting hand on the crook of your elbow, already talking your ear off before you could spout a greeting.

“We’ve got him scheduled for an MRI–” he opened the front door, and you lent closer, trying to hear him over the busy corridors of the ER, “it’s not for another fifteen minutes, though.” He pulled you to one side, stopping short of a curtained off room.

You gulped, not expecting it to have been so close to the entrance, and felt your eyes naturally drift to the gaps in the curtains. You could see there was a low light – possibly from a bedside table. There was a head of hair directly next to the door, one you could just make out. You let out a sigh you hadn’t known you’d been holding, and turned back to Oliver.

“He was on our gas and air and when the ambulance came they got him an IV of morphine.” Oliver started, glancing at a clipboard you hadn’t realised he’d been holding, “It looks like we were right; definitely a concussion, a pretty serious one – but it doesn’t look like they’re wanting to keep him for overnight observation; it also looks like he’s broken his collarbone, but the MRI should confirm that, and he’s definitely separated his shoulder, too.”

You paused, “How long will he be out for?”

He winced in response, and you felt something tighten, “It depends on the results of the MRI. Purely from the separated shoulder, it could be anything between two to at least ten weeks.”

You let out a breath, brows shooting up your forehead, “Shit, he’s gonna be so bored.”

Oliver nodded in agreement, “Oh yeah, you’re gonna be sick of him by the end of it,” he joked, “I can talk to you afterwards about treatment, but he hasn’t stopped asking for you.”

You nodded, your anxiety spiking as your attention flickered to the closed door on your right, “What’s he like?”

“He’s been complaining of dizziness and he’s a little bit confused – doesn’t remember what happened, but it’s expected with his grade of concussion.”

You nodded, making a mental note of his symptoms, before thanking Oliver and heading inside. Like you’d seen through the blinds, there was only one light on in the corner of the room, and you made sure to shut the door softly, not knowing if any particular sounds would trigger something or irritate his head further.

Honestly, you were a little weary of his confusion, and it had occurred to you that the reason he’d been asking for you consistently and diligently was because he didn’t remember what exactly had happened between you both, but at the end of the day, you didn’t really care if that was true or not, because the first thing you did was look at him; his entire left side strapped and braced up, his right arm home to an IV. His eyes were shut, a deep frown on his face as he winced occasionally, a cardboard dish resting on his heaving chest.

He wasn’t wearing his game pads, but his leggings were still on, and there was a hospital gown draped across his body, tied at the back, you suspected – easy access for the doctors to look and assess his shoulder.

You didn’t really want to look at it, mainly because you’d never been the best at looking at injuries deeper than a surface scratch, but also because you were fixed entirely on his face. His brows were pulled together, his mouth twisted to keep a groan at bay. He’d scrunched his eyes up, and you could see his uneven breaths from under the gown. His hair was wet with sweat, and he still had that post-game glow, his cheeks red with exertion.

As you shut the door behind you gently, your attention switched to the person sitting on your right, who – upon noticing your arrival – stood up, flashing you a comforting smile as he walked out straight after you. You cautiously placed your bag on his empty chair, taking a seat on Nico’s uninjured side.

He made no reaction as the doors opened and closed, and although you desperately wanted to soothe that ache and touch him, you didn’t want to startle him and make him tense his shoulder at a sudden touch, or overstep your boundaries.

“Nico?” You whispered as softly as you could, fearing something in the room would break if you raised your volume even a little more. You shrugged your coat off onto the back of your chair and lent as far forwards as you could without making contact with his outstretched arm.

At your whisper, something flickered across his face, and he slowly peeled one red eye open. Your fears seemed almost irrational when he attempted a shaky smile, before immediately snapping his eyelids shut and pushing himself further into the mattress.

His palm opened, and you took it as a signal to touch him, one of your hands holding his as tightly as you were comfortable with, and your other going to rest at his wrist, not daring to touch anywhere higher on his arm out of fear you’d knock his IV.

“How’re you feeling?” You cringed at the question, having already been debriefed on his symptoms, but he showed no protest, squeezing your hand.

“Fucking hurts, ‘nd missed you.” He struggled, almost fighting for breath.

Your heart seemed to shatter in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you were reaching up for him, eyes stinging, as you ever-so-carefully threaded your fingers through his sweat-ridden hair, peeling it off his forehead. His brows softened slightly at your delicate touch, and before he attempted to move into your palm, you spoke up.

“Don’t move or open your eyes, you’ll make yourself dizzy.” You whispered, leaning closer to the bed and fighting with yourself. The last thing you wanted was to cry. Nevertheless, you couldn’t help the watery laugh that escaped you when Nico grunted in protest.

“But I want to look at you.” He complained, eyes still screwed shut.

“You can look at me plenty when we get home, okay?” You negotiated.

He hummed, seemingly content with that promise, even if the ‘home’ had slipped from your lips unconsciously. He didn’t seem to notice, though.

“I missed you too.” You pressed a kiss to his free shoulder – the skin hot and salty under your lips, finding some amusement in the way you were practically stretched across him, one hand in his, your other in his hair, and your head near his.

His mouth curled up, lips twitching somewhat at the contact, and you breathed a soft, quiet laugh against his skin at the momentarily emotional relief you read on his face.

“Didn’t think you’d come.” He muttered after a while of silence, your hand still gently working his hair, not wanting to intrude too much in case his head was still sore.

But at his comment, you froze, hand stilling, and you had to look at the ceiling to suppress the tears that almost broke free, “Don’t be silly…” The chastise was half-hearted, before you resumed your previous motions, “I’m always gonna show up when it comes to you.”

“I really wish I could look at you right now.”

Even despite his condition, Nico was managing to compose himself a lot better than what you’d originally imagined. Sure, his speech was a little slow – as though he had to think hard about talking and thinking, and you could tell the small conversation was beginning to wear him out a little. He’d softened, relaxed, a product of a comforting touch and the effect of the painkillers.

Then, almost as if he’d lulled himself into a false sense of security, he seemed to pale, and before he could control himself, he was opening his eyes, and you could sense something was wrong purely because he’d tensed, and your body seemed to know what he needed before your mind had even registered it, because you’d lifted the cardboard bowl from his lap right under his chin, rubbing a soothing hand down his arm as he chucked up the contents of his stomach – not that there was much left to spew.

He groaned, clamping his eyes shut and breathing heavily as you reached for the box of tissues on the side of the table, hastily wiping his mouth. You couldn’t tell if the groan was from the dizziness or the pain from having moved his shoulder fractionally.

He groaned something in German, squeezing your hand even tighter as his face screwed up.

“I take it that’s not the first time that’s happened tonight?” You asked, carefully placing the carton on the side, not really knowing where to put it – you were sure there was a protocol for human waste in a hospital, but you'd have to ask someone when they’d come to pick him up for his MRI.

He grunted in response, slowly lowering himself back on the propped up mattress with a sharp wince, “Twice in the ambulance.”

You sighed, brows knitting together, “Oh, baby.” There was a small part of you that felt a little guilty for not going to his recent home games, let alone watching them all on TV live.

Maybe if you’d have been there, he wouldn’t have been so alone in the ambulance. You knew that Oliver and his partner were a capable set of hands, but there was nothing as daunting as travelling to the hospital by yourself, dazed and in pain, and lacking a familiar support network.

Before you could say or do anything to ease him, the door was creaking open, Oliver offering a polite smile – eyes inevitably drawn to the carton – with a string of people in uniform following behind him.

They all ensured to keep quiet, not wanting to disturb him too much – though you knew as soon as they’d wheel him out of there that that effort would be wasted, because the corridors in the ER were anything short of quiet. The lighting was harsh as well.

Oliver gently explained what they were going to do, though you both had an inkling none of it really mattered to Nico, considering he remained stoic, a firm grip still on you, and you took the liberty of digesting the information, a cautious glance thrown at his shoulder. It was strapped against his chest, his arm in a compressed sling of sorts. You imagined the contraption was fitted around his back, keeping his separated shoulder in place, and the sling at the front could only be to stabilise his suspected broken clavicle.

You nodded along to Oliver, only when it was time to wheel Nico out, he gripped you even more, a groan of disapproval passing his lips as the porters attempted to wheel him. It was safe to say they didn’t get too far.

Despite his eyes still being closed, you could sense the panic across his face. His brows were furrowed, and where there was a wince on the bottom half of his face, now it looked more like someone had drawn a smiley face and rotated it 180°, because that was the frown now decorating his mouth.

“Come with me?” He mumbled, gritting his teeth.

You shared a look with Oliver, already knowing there wouldn’t be much point, “I can’t. By the time you’re in the room for the MRI, I wouldn’t be able to touch you anyway, and Oliver says it’s going to be a quick in and out procedure until they get the information they need.” You squeezed his hand.

“Stay here?” He all but whimpered, brows dipping in question. His mouth quivered – he wasn’t about to cry, but you could tell the separation (both of your relationship and of the current moment) was having him doubt your whereabouts.

“Hischier, I’m coming home with you.” You laughed softly, placing a kiss on his forehead when the tension in his face seemed to dissipate slightly, “I’ll stay here until you get back.”

“M’kay.” He grumbled, the right side of his mouth quirking upwards.

___

It was a dire struggle trying to get a well-built, 6’1” hockey player into the passenger seat of your car when he was half-conscious, unable to use an entire shoulder, and exhausted. Oliver had wheeled him out of the hospital, promising to email you a report of exactly what to do with him as soon as he found himself in front of a computer (which you were incredibly grateful for), but he’d had to scuttle off and ring management with the updates, which left Nico blinking tiredly, a cardboard bowl on his lap and unable to move properly for you to sort out.

It had taken a long three minutes trying to wrestle him in through the door, you being incredibly careful not to bang him against the frame or hurt his shoulder in any way – your heart practically leaping to your feet every time he groaned or grunted in pain.

Nevertheless, you’d managed, arms aching after the exertion. You switched the engine on, casting a short glance back at him as your car lit up, but he’d lent his right shoulder against the side of the door, his cheek pressed against the glass.

Neither of you had said much when he came back after the MRI scan – there wasn’t much of a need to considering all your questions had been answered by Oliver, and the ones you had for Nico would be pointless considering he wasn’t entirely there enough to even process your words, so you’d stuck with holding his hand, his grip tight against your own, until he had to be coaxed to change into spare clothes that someone had thoughtfully packed when they were all waiting for the ambulance.

And in the car, as you pulled out of the car park, taking extra precautions to turn corners slowly and braking gently, trying your best not to disturb him. He was asleep, or at least trying to, his right hand cradling his left to his chest, that telltale furrow of his brows and crease on his forehead letting you know he was still in an immense amount of pain. You kept the radio turned off, and you tried to keep the heating in the middle, not wanting to freeze him or cook him – he’d had concussions before, and he always had trouble regulating his body temperature, so you’d negotiated.

When you pulled into Nico’s parking spot and killed the engine, there were a few seconds where you kept your hands on the steering wheel, leaning forwards slightly to rest your forehead on your arms.

You’d tried to keep everything bottled inside before you made it into the apartment, but the stress of the last few hours, most of it sitting and waiting for results, had taken its toll on you. You were exhausted, but the worry for the man curled up next to you overwhelmed you to the point where you couldn’t decipher the heaviness in your chest when you glanced at him, even out of the corner of your eye.

You felt your breathing hitch, eyes pricking for a second before you pulled yourself together. It was no use sitting and moping in Maisey’s car when you had to attend to Nico. You’d barely let yourself feel it properly for thirty seconds before you were taking a deep breath and leaning across the console, placing a hand on Nico’s thigh.

“Honey, you need to wake up.” You said, hand gently squeezing him.

He shifted, frowning, and before you could give him a little nudge, he blinked, “I-Can we stay in here? I don’t really want to move.” He muttered, trying to tuck himself further into the crevice he’d nestled himself in.

“No, we need to get you into bed. Lots of pillows, too, because you need to be propped up, and if you stay in here, you’ll only end up more uncomfortable.”

You waited, but it took a while for him to answer, seemingly gathering the courage to actually move.

“Okay, then.” He sighed, straightening up in his seat, eyes still glued shut.

You moved over to his car door, opening it gently. It wasn’t far to walk to get inside Nico’s apartment: he was on one of the top floors, but the walk from the car park to the lobby lift was short. You knew, however, that it would be almost double that time if he couldn’t stand up properly or walk in a straight line with his dizziness.

It was a hobble and a half – lugging Nico into the lobby and then having to shove a paper bag under his mouth if his breathing got heavier and he lent against the wall. You had to stop four times, and out of those four, he threw up once. Thankfully, you’d managed to make it past the desk and into an empty lift, so there weren’t any wandering eyes or nights ruined by the sight of someone hurling in the corridor.

It shocked you to know that his inability to remain upright and walk fluently in a straight line wasn’t because of an injury to his legs, but sheerly due to the fact that his concussion was that bad, and he was that drugged up on painkillers, that he couldn’t see straight.

It felt like an injustice that the hospital didn’t lend you a wheelchair.

He was almost catatonic when you sat him on the edge of the bed and unzipped the hoodie he’d been given. Only one arm was through the sleeve, so it was relatively easy to remove, but it didn’t stop the twinge in your chest every time he groaned or made a noise of pain.

You felt it almost inhumane to force him to clean his teeth or put on his pyjamas when he couldn’t keep his eyes open for longer than three seconds in one go, so you worked quickly in propping up his pillows like you’d seen them do in the hospital, and took his hat off his head once more, running your hands through his hair so it wouldn’t bother his nose.

You had to clench your jaw when, even in the darkness, you could see how pale he was, how he fought to keep his head up straight. It made you feel nauseous looking at his half-conscious state.

“You still with me, hm?” You whispered.

You were as soft as you could be with your touches, as quiet as your voice would allow you for it, and you hadn’t turned on any lights on entry. Trying was all you could do considering the fact you didn’t exactly have the knowledge you were comfortable with in looking after him in the state he was in.

His lashes fluttered against his cheeks, and he hummed halfheartedly.

“I’ve put up your pillows behind you, but you need to shuffle back a bit.” You started, halting when you heard his breathing get ragged for a moment, fearing he was about to be sick again, “You good? I’ll help you.”

He sniffed, eyes opening enough to see the room around him, and he turned, anchoring his shoulder to his chest as he looked back at the shadow of his pillows. You let him manoeuvre himself, not wanting to intrude further, but ghosted a hand on the back of his t-shirt just for precautions, until he slowly lowered himself onto the pile, huffing a contented sigh.

You saw his entire body relax, and you reached towards the foot of the bed and draped the duvet over him. He didn’t react, so you left the room to fill up a glass of water and took out some of the medication Oliver had given you in a plastic bag before placing them on his bedside table. You were about to leave the room again to take off your own coat shoes when you heard him grumble something under his breath.

You paused initially, not sure if he was complaining about something or just huffing and puffing, but upon hearing your silence and stillness, he cracked one eye open.

“Stay here?” He whispered clearer, his good shoulder twitching in the direction of the space on the bed you usually occupied.

You swallowed nervously. You wanted to. You wanted to crawl under the covers with him and just watch him like a hawk the entire night for your own peace of mind, but you were also aware of the looming black hole in your relationship.

You guys were on a no-contact break, and something felt wrong about climbing into his bed before having a conversation about the entire thing.

But then again, he’d been advised not to think too hard – literally. And by doing what he says, you guessed it’d spare his thinking…for arguments sake.

Truthfully, you also wanted to make sure he was okay, and if you were across the hall, he wouldn’t be able to shout for you as easily as he would if he just reached out across the mattress.

He must have sensed your hesitation, even through the darkness and with his eyes closed, because he reached his hand out, just catching yours, “Please.”

You sighed, squeezing his hand in a way of reply, and you could tell from the slight smirk that momentarily flashed over his face – almost like he’d forgotten his pain for the briefest moment (and that alone made you cave and crumble completely) – he’d known he’d win you over with that simple action.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You gently untangled your hands, lifting your bag over your shoulder and making your way around to your usual side of the bed, “Will you be okay if I go for a quick shower?”

Your side hadn’t been touched. Some books you’d left behind but knew you wouldn’t miss were still stacked on top of each other; your digital clock was still there, as was the empty dish for your jewellery. Though, contradicting your previous observation of untouched, organised madness, you could tell he’d dusted around it. Two weeks meant dust was inevitable, yet there wasn’t a single speck of residue on your fingertips when you swiped your finger across the top.

Your bag found its usual home on the chair next to the radiator, and you turned back to him. He was watching you. His eyes were open wider, and you could see them glisten in the dark.

“I’ll be fine.” He whispered.

You attempted a smile, taking your coat off and placing it next to your bag.

You could still feel his eyes on you as you made your way to the chest of drawers at the foot of your bed, taking out a pair of your pyjamas, which – in your rush from leaving before – consisted of an old pair of Nico’s boxers and a Darth Vader long-sleeved t-shirt.

The thought of shooting him one last look before you left the room hurt too much to dwell on, so you left the room without saying another word, not turning on any lights until you reached the bathroom on the other side of the house. You knew he’d have questions as to why you didn’t just use the en-suite, but…you needed the privacy – somewhere to just let a few tears slip down under the water, because as much as you tried to deny it, it hurt even being in the same room as him.

Not only had he almost sent you to an early grave because of sheer worry and panic, but two weeks felt like too soon, and you’d already made your decision, but you didn’t want him thinking you were taking advantage of him needing someone to look after him to just pop back into his life again, much less if he hadn’t even made a decision yet.

Being back in this house, this area, this car, this stupid bathroom, where – even if it wasn’t the one you’d primarily use – he still had your body wash and hair care bottles lined up, like he was waiting for you to come back – and that tangible taste of knowing exactly how easy it would be for you to just infiltrate back into his everyday life, for both of you to coexist around each other like it was the easiest thing apart from breathing, felt like torture.

And you knew if you got back into bed with him, you might not even be able to sleep properly. You’d be terrified that he’d stop breathing through the night and you wouldn’t be awake to notice it.

The only thing that seemed to solidify the whole situation was the endless texts from Maisey and Jack, not to mention a few other friends too, and the entire ESPN page raving about how long he might be out for.

That was another thing: if Nico didn’t have hockey, what did he have? Sure, he’d find some way to get himself back in the gym and near the ice at least, but he’d miss the general euphoria and adrenalin of playing with his guys.

“So…” he was crying, a hand over his mouth. His eyes were red, and tears were dripping down his cheeks, but his shoulders weren’t heaving. He was sitting on the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees from where you were sitting on the floor, your hands resting on his kneecaps, not much better than him, “How long should w…we do it for?”

You shrugged, not really finding an answer. You weren’t sure if there was a correct answer to that question. It couldn’t be too soon, or else you’d both still be fresh from whatever had blown up here, but if you left it too long, neither of you would have the courage to rehash everything.

“A month?” You suggested weakly.

You didn’t want to do it for a month. A month was too long. Please say a month is too long–

“A month?” His brown eyes flickered up to yours, brows furrowing somehow even more, and his expression crinkled after holding your gaze, “I don’t–It’s too long.”

You sniffed, “What do you suggest, then?” It hadn’t meant to come out so sharp, and you hated that it did, hated it about a hundred times more when he looked at you again.

“I’ll miss you too much.” He admitted quietly.

“I think that’s the point of going on a break.” You laughed bitterly, squeezing his knee.

“I already know what I want, and four weeks won’t change that.”

You sighed, retracting your grip on his knees and sitting back on your heels, “Nico–”

“Do you not want me anymore?” He sounded so wrecked in himself you had to do a double-take, your own tears beginning to melt down your cheeks.

“Come on, you know that’s not it–”

“Then what is? Because I really don’t see the issue. I want you, I love you, and I think you feel–”

“Of course I fucking love you, but this is different–”

“Explain it to me, then!”

“I’m trying! Only every time I do you interrupt me.”

You were both glaring at each other, frustrations rising to a boiling point as the pain of the past few weeks all emanated through the fiery stares. He sighed, leaning back against the sofa and flourishing his hand for you to go ahead.

“I want this to work so badly, but we both come home after work, and we don’t talk to each other. Sometimes we can barely stand looking at each other because it’s just another thing to maintain after an exhausting day, and that’s not right. It’s not healthy for either of us, and I don’t know about you, but it really fucking hurts me when that happens.” You took a breath, watching him carefully. You knew he understood what you were saying because he’d softened and his chest was hitching as though he was forcing himself not to break again, “I miss when we used to come home and not feel like being with each other was a chore. I want that again; I want us to hang out here and not get drained just forcing conversation.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I don’t want a break,” you admitted, voice soft, “but I think it’s the best thing for us.”

“Three weeks,” he interjected, making eye contact with you, “and then if we decide this really is worth it, then we go to couple’s counselling.”

You turned the handle, and the shower stopped. You made sure to take as long as humanly possible, using a towel to squeeze your hair out and taking what was left in the cupboard and using it on your skin. Then you took twice as long as usual in cleaning your teeth, and slowly put on the pyjamas, taking extra care not to slip on the water that had gathered on the tiles.

On your way back to Nico’s room, you made a quick detour to the living room, pulling his laptop out from under the chair. Oliver had told you he’d emailed the recovery plan to Nico, only you didn’t know where his phone was, and his laptop was the next best thing. You lugged it back to the room, quietly shutting the door behind you upon noticing he was asleep already.

You had to tiptoe to the bed, gently lifting the covers so the draft wouldn’t wake Nico up, and you settled yourself in, making sure to plug your phone in to charge, and lifted the lid of the laptop.

The screen was bright but after dimming it and logging onto Nico’s email, eyes eagerly drinking up every work Oliver wrote, you found yourself almost hypnotised by it all. Oliver’s report was brilliant – very informative – but it didn’t stop you from obsessively googling the actual injuries so you could visualise what had gone wrong in his body and where.

Each word you read only seemed to send your heart plummeting, and made you cast anxious glances to Nico, who’d slumped slightly against his mass of pillows.

He wasn’t snoring – he never did. His chest was rising and falling rhythmically, the action pulling the sheets each time he inhaled, but you could hear his heavy breathing. The lack of silence you’d become accustomed to was oddly comforting. It was something you hadn’t realised you’d gotten used to in the past three years of living together, but that first night in Maisey’s house only seemed to highlight his little idiosyncrasies, or lack of them.

Were you being dramatic?

Two weeks was all you’d spent apart, and in hindsight, it wasn’t a lot of time at all – especially not in comparison to the four years of previous dating history, but four years of Nico and then a day without made you realise how other-worldly it felt not being with him.

Maybe you were, in a way, being completely rational?

____

You woke up to the feel of a draft against your back and the sound of retching.

You barely had time to wipe the sleep from your eyes before you registered what was happening, leading Nico into the bathroom by the crook of his elbow, his good arm clutching the bedroom bin under his chin.

It was difficult trying to navigate in the dark, but you could still make out the gleam of the toilet bowl. You hesitated, flushing it first just because boys aren’t the most hygienic of people, and then knelt on the tiles, aware of the fact that you were currently on his injured side.

Nico followed suit, sitting on the cold floor and passing you the bin as he hovered himself over the toilet, breathing slowly as his eyes fluttered shut.

You were operating automatically when you placed the bin in the bathtub, and then turned your attention immediately back to Nico, his hair hanging in his face.

Headband.

Your eyes looked to the sink station just above him, trying to pinpoint where your other dish for hair ties was, and you stood up, carefully sidestepping him as you blindly reached a hand out, fingers tracing the marble surface until…bingo. You snatched up an elastic headband, before crouching back down on the floor next to him, rubbing a soothing hand across his back.

“The room’s spinning.” He said, clamping his eyes shut, gripping his own leg with his hand.

At his admission you faltered, retracting your hand, “Is it okay if I touch you?”

“Yeah.” He took in a deep breath, his entire body shuddering.

You’d been dizzy before – it was an oddly recurring thing you’d grown out of, and it was horrible. Waking up dizzy completely threw off your balance and sense of the world around you, and the fear of it all had you shaking – not just because you were cold. It was a genuine shock to the system. You hadn’t had one in a year, but whenever you did, Nico seemed to have a sixth sense because he’d do what you were doing for him right now.

And him saying he’s okay with you touching him only cemented the idea that actually having someone to touch you anchored you to solid ground.

So you replaced your hand on his back, your other playing with the elastic headband you’d acquired, silently waiting for him to calm down before you asked if you could move his hair out of his face to stop it getting drenched – both from sweat and the other alternative.

You could feel his heart hammering in his chest through the palm on the back of his ribs.

“I’m gonna put a headband on you, okay? You don’t have to move or turn your head, just let me know if you’re gonna be sick.” You said, shuffling yourself on the floor so you were somewhat facing him – again, incredibly conscious of the sling contraception taping his entire left arm to his chest.

You were slow with your movements; sliding the band over his head and letting it drop to the base of his neck – the speed of your usual movements might have overwhelmed him – before slowly dragging it back up his face, careful not to clip his nose as it brushed his fringe out of his face.

How you’d not managed to notice it in the hospital was beyond you, but when you lifted his hair up, there was still a visible redness from where his mask had dug itself into the corner of his head. Usually it meant the sponge stuck to the skin or whatever, but this one looked different. There was a bruising quality to it, and you found yourself inching closer to get a better look at it.

“Boards.” Was all he managed.

You knew he wouldn’t be able to see it, but you nodded.

Oh.

___

It had been about fifteen minutes since then, and both of you had nearly fallen asleep against various surfaces: Nico against the cupboards, and you against the side of the bath.

It was Nico straightening and hovering over the toilet again that caught your attention, but he paused, brows furrowing.

Then there was a grumble and a groan, and almost comically you saw him look at you out of the corner of his eye.

You’d frozen, sure you’d mistaken the sound for something else, but with the way he’d eased up and gradually gotten to moving his head and eyes around without getting caught in a bout of dizziness, something had undoubtedly changed.

“Are you hungry?” You asked, fighting a smile.

“Yeah.” He answered, visibly confused as he placed a hand against his stomach.

You lifted your watch up to your face, the screen illuminating the room.

7.18am.

You almost laughed at the hilarity of it, because you knew his morning alarm was always set for 7.20, and without fail, he’d always end up waking up a few minutes before – partly due to routine, and also partly because his stomach always woke up before he did.

“It’s nearly twenty past seven. You good to move back into bed?” You began to stand up, offering him both of your hands, but he groaned and without hesitation you were kneeling in front of him again, brown furrowed as you searched his face for some sign of discomfort.

He could do with taking some painkillers if he’s finished throwing up.

“What’s up?” You asked, your eyes darting across his face from his pinched brows to the slight curl of his upper lip.

He was clearly in some sort of pain, not that it was entirely surprising, but you asked anyway, preferring to have a rundown of his symptoms instead of guessing.

“Shoulder, head, chest.” He listed, squinting up at you.

You furrowed your brows.

You’d accounted for his head and shoulder, but his chest…Did they miss something on his MRI?

“Your chest?” You sank to your knees, level with him.

He seemed to be breathing normally, his chest wasn’t hitching when he inhaled and exhaled, and his breathing wasn’t rattling. Truth be told you didn’t really know what you were supposed to be looking for, least of all through a t-shirt — which would be another challenge to overcome when the time came for him to shower.

“Chest.” He repeated, nodding as his hand came to rest right over the source of pain.

You were sure you were pulling a face, and when you made eye contact with him, it was clear he was implying something else. His eyes had softened, the creases having faded out, and he swallowed nervously when you looked at him.

It had you wondering if it was the first time he’d realised you were there since last night; he was so out of it from the painkillers and concussion you didn’t know how much he’d have remembered, but the intense way he was gazing at you had you faltering, your brain going blank for a moment.

You knew what he was implying. It was hard not to once he’d moved his hand right over to his heart, and you were pretty stunned to say the least.

Honestly you wanted to talk about it as well, the elephant in the room that you’d pushed to the back of your mind after prioritising him over your own wishes, and you knew now wasn’t the time to discuss it, even if the look on his face had your confidence dwindling by the second.

“I can’t do anything about that right now.” You mumbled, twisting your mouth to the side rather regretfully as his face fell.

“Why?”

“Because Oliver said you’re not supposed to be thinking much for at least another day or two. Something about the concussion and it inhibiting your ability to think and do.” You weren’t lying, it had been part of the recovery plan for his concussion, something you couldn’t quite understand the specific logistics of, but it seemed reasonable.

You also weren’t too sure how much you should believe what he was going to say until you were certain he was back to his usual mental activity.

“I can think clearly.” He insisted, frowning slightly as he pushed back at your excuse.

“I’m sure you can, but that’s a discussion for a later time.”

“Later, when?”

“When you’ve had painkillers, eaten and drunk something, had a shower, called Luca yourself and updated him, had a good few days of rest…”

“Why?”

You sighed, beginning to get a little frustrated with him. You’d given him a reason backed up by medical advice and a list of priorities and he was still fighting back — albeit not with his usual vigour and quick wit, but it was to be expected.

“Because you don’t need to stress yourself out—”

“I’m not stressing myself out. If anything, dragging this conversation out is stressing me out.”

“And arguing on the bathroom floor knowing you don’t have any painkillers in your system and aren’t in bed with a plate of food is currently stressing me out.” You pressed a hand to your cheek, refraining from rolling your eyes.

It was still dark in the bathroom, the automatic lights fitted under the sink gently illuminating the tiled space, but your eyes had gotten used to the darkness after a good amount of time, so you could see the lost look on his face.

It made you feel guilty, but you weren’t about to break doctor’s orders if it meant following them would help him get back on his feet quicker — even if this one little factor might not play a large role in his recovery.

You yawned, deciding to change tactics seeing as you were both a little hurt from that topic of conversation, “Do you want to shower first or eat?”

The rumble of his stomach answered for him.

—

Nico had only stayed in bed for eight minutes before you heard his feet enter the kitchen from where you were leaning over the hob, scrambled egg cooking in the pan.

You hadn’t expected him to stay still much but you’d hoped he would. He’d had some more painkillers and you left him with the TV remote but he’d clearly gotten bored of early morning programmes and wandered out into the hall, even despite your stern advice.

That’s all it was, really. Advice. You knew it would be futile trying to tell him exactly what to do, because it would only frustrate him, knowing his entire day was set out by your concerned orders, and at the end of the day, Nico did what Nico wanted.

And he clearly wanted to stand as close as he could to the pan. You heard him take a deep inhale from over your shoulder, and a moment later the familiar rumbling of his stomach could be heard even over the noise of the extractor fan.

“It’s only gonna be another two minutes.” You promised, dodging around him to take the four slices of toast out of the toaster and making quick work of spreading butter onto them.

It was a routine you weren’t entirely used to, but one you’d seen Nico follow countless times before, and you didn’t want to seem too proud of yourself, but it was easier than what he’d made it out to be. Whenever he made eggs on toast he’d manage to splatter some egg all over the countertops and he’d fall over himself in an effort to take the toast out of the toaster but then remember he hadn’t gotten any plates out. It was always an awkward dance of wrong timings but it used to be your favourite morning entertainment.

That, and he always used to cook without many layers of clothing on.

Now, however, it was you performing a similar routine, only this time having to dodge him as he remained standing in between the island and the hob. You guessed he did it on purpose because every time you had to pass by him, you had to brush last slowly so as to not disturb or accidentally knock his arm.

He only moved when you were dishing out the egg on top of the toast, and even then he seemed to stretch his back before wincing and making his way back into the bedroom, the sound of the TV turning off following a moment later.

You paused, waiting to see if he’d decided to stay in bed or was simply turning off the TV before choosing to eat at the island, but when he made no reappearance you were forced to carry both plates into his room. He was settling himself against the cushions again, and although you hadn’t noticed it when you were cooking, his cheeks seemed to have regained a little more colour.

He always got pale when he was hungry, but this was something else. Did pain make people lose colour?

Maybe.

As he was leaning back against the cushions another thought occurred to you, and you stopped where you were, mind racing to come up with an immediate solution.

“What?”

“I’ve just realised now that you can’t actually cut up your food.” You replied, and it seemed Nico had only thought of that issue then and there because his gaze slowly trailed from you to his arm and then back to you, “It’s okay, I’ll leave mine in the microwave—”

“You can eat yours first—”

“Your stomach says otherwise.” You laughed softly, placing his own plate on his lap before replacing yours in the microwave to keep warm.

When you got back, Nico was looking at you expectantly, a proud smile on his face, “We can share both plates. That way we both eat now.”

Admittedly, it was probably one of the most effective ideas he’d ever had.

“Sure.” You nodded, climbing onto your side of the bed. You’d turned on your bedside light before you’d gone in to the kitchen, not wanting to startle his eyes too much and give him another headache, but you both knew he’d have to get used to a little bit of light, and even though it was on the dimmest setting, you could tell he was trying his darndest not to look in that direction.

You took a seat directly next to him, your front angled towards the side of his torso, and took the plate off his lap and placed it into yours.

Neither of you said anything as you took it in turns, carefully balancing each forkful before feeding him a bite and then taking one for yourself. It stayed that way until both plates were demolished and both your stomachs were significantly fuller.

It was the sound of your phone dinging that caught your attention, and you leant over to your side of the bed, reaching for it.

Jack: Do you want me to drive Nico’s car round?

You: Please. When do you want to come over?

Jack: Does 11 work for you?

You: Yeah, see you then.

You switched off the phone, pushing yourself back up and into Nico’s line of sight. He had an eyebrow raised and you rolled your eyes at his nosiness.

“Jack’s coming by to drop your car off at eleven. It gives you enough time to shower and maybe have a nap if you feel like it.”

He nodded, and you took the silence as an opportunity to stack up the plates and take them into the kitchen, leaving them to soak in lukewarm water as you headed back into the bedroom. You had every intention of asking what Nico wanted to do next, whether he’d rather shower or sleep before Jack came over, but you’d found yourself facing his back, his t-shirt half taken off as he struggled to lift it over his shoulders.

You waited for a moment, wanting to give him an opportunity to at least try to undress himself so you couldn’t be accused of coddling him, but it was clear from the way he huffed and then audibly ‘ow’d’ before relaxing his entire body, part of his t-shirt somehow wrapped over his head that he was having a particularly hard time.

He stumbled, blindly spinning on the spot, and you found yourself automatically reaching for him – God forbid this man hurts himself even more – and steadied him with a hand tugging at the band of his shorts and on his good arm, the one that happened to be caught up in the shirt he was trying to take off in the first place.

“I’m stuck.” He grumbled, and the shirt moved, exposing the tired bags under his eyes through the neckline.

“I didn’t notice.” It was a half-hearted attempt at trying to conserve some of his dignity, and he huffed in response, rolling his eyes at you through the neck of his t-shirt.

All it took was one quick glance at the knot of material to figure out what he’d done, and it did leave you glad that you’d shot down his previous attempts at The Talk in the bathroom earlier, because he clearly wasn’t anywhere back to his normal range of thinking – Nico was intelligent – seeing as though he’d forgotten to take his sling off in the first place.

You pulled his shirt back down before reaching for the clasp – a big, bulky plastic thing that looked as though the arm pinned to his chest would fall into a usual sling, the kind that someone with a broken arm would usually wear – and turned to him, a stern glint in your eye.

“I’m gonna need to unplug this to take it off so please,” you emphasised the last syllable, “keep it held with your other arm.”

He nodded, wordlessly moving to grip his elbow, before steeling himself by closing his eyes and screwing his face up. You could see the steady, controlled rise and fall of his chest, as though he knew to keep himself breathing regularly because no matter which way you approached this, it was gonna hurt like a bitch.

Your fingers found the clip, and squeezed.

The tension keeping his arm to his chest slackened, and Nico bit his lip in pain as it fell away, before you pulled the material over his head – quickly snapping the headband off his head as well.

He peeled open one eye, looking straight at you expectantly, “What now?”

Your eyes widened, “I don’t know. Don’t you know?”

“No.” He shrugged with one shoulder, before his jaw dropped and he fought a sharp intake of breath at the discomfort shooting across his back. “Why don’t you know?”

“Because it didn’t come with a fucking instruction manual, I–” you halted, trying to recall if Oliver wrote anything, “Okay, you’re gonna have to drop your arm.”

“I don’t want to do that.” He shook his head.

“Then I’ll have to cut you out of your shirt.”

“No.” It was a fierce protest, one that left little to no room for argument – and was remarkably stroppy.

“Do you want to stomp your foot, too, and get it all out of your system?” You were smiling now, and you saw Nico’s eyebrow twitch upwards slightly at having caught you, before he slowly drew his sore shoulder down.

You pressed your lips together, trying to maintain a front that wouldn’t let him know that his pain was beginning to make you uncomfortable, because even though his mouth remained shut, you could tell from the way he seemed to tremble and the way the hairs dangling in front of his face were being blown, that he was having to force some exertion into not groaning out loud.

He did it, and looked straight back at you, his smile a little wobbly. Even though it had only been a matter of seconds, it looked like he’d worn himself out after hours of practice. The bags under his eyes seemed heavier and more prominent, and any trace of previous amusement had melted from his features, leaving nothing but the expanse of someone that desperately needed to sleep, and even more desperately needed a shower.

You wanted to smile at him, offer some comfort, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it just yet.

“Okay,” you cleared your throat, not sure if you could feel your heart beating or breaking in your chest, “if you slip your right arm through the sleeve and over your head, you should be able to just pull the rest of the shirt off your other shoulder.”

Instead of jumping to undress himself, he inhaled, tilting his head in your direction, a question clearly written on his face. You tried to brush it off, instead reaching forward to brush your hand along the hem of his shirt, trying to encourage him to take it off, because the quicker he did, the sooner he’d be able to sleep, but he didn’t budge.

“What?” You asked, retracting your hand. You were still standing pretty close – enough so you could see his mouth twitch and something flicker across his face. “Do you want me to leave you…?” You trailed off, feeling a haze of uncertainty wash over you.

“No, I need you to help me shower–”

“Shower?” You laughed.

He nodded slowly, his good hand going to cradle the hand on his bad shoulder, as though he was itching to pin his arm back up.

“Okay…” you swallowed nervously, “Why were you looking at me like that?”

“Did you Google how to take a shirt off with only one functioning shoulder?”

You breathed a short laugh, hand going back to tug at the hem of his shirt, this time internally cheering when he lifted his arm up, allowing you to lift the shirt up with it, purposefully covering his face with the material so he couldn’t see you blush. You guessed your silence was enough of an answer, though, because when the shirt popped back off his head, coming to hang around his injured one, he was attempting a grin.

His dimples were the first thing you noticed. It was funny how you didn’t truly realise how much you’d missed seeing them when he smiled until he was smiling at you for the first time in a while.

Nico’s dimples meant he was happy, even if it was momentary, and you’d take that over the melancholy any day of your life.

Which was why you found yourself smiling silly at him without even realising it.

“You looked it up.” He said, his voice a little higher in excitement, and you swore his smile widened because his dimples looked deeper, and something in your chest fluttered and then clenched, and it seemed that entire internal reaction was synonymous with the fact that your eyes had trailed from his face to the deep blotches on his skin – blotches that were so dark and so large you’d noticed them when you were looking the opposite way.

Holy fuck.

Your brows knitted together, your smile no longer on your face as you gently dragged his shirt off his injured arm, letting it drop by your feet.

It was a horrific sight. You’d never seen gore or many injuries on other people in your life, and even though Nico had been injured before, it wasn’t anything like this. Looking at his shoulder – generally speaking – was like looking at tyre marks on a race track. The bruises were so dark they almost looked like dirt in the night, and they crawled right from the back of his neck, down across his collarbone, and followed in a left movement until the colour seemed to fizzle out just below his shoulder joint on his arm.

You knew it was bad; a broken collarbone with a separated shoulder – yet the visual confirmation seemed not to do the diagrams of what had happened to the inside of his body any justice at all. This was real, and it was…ugly. It turned your stomach to know the lump on his collarbone was where the bone had snapped, and that the bump on the top of his shoulder was where it had separated.

“I’m okay.” He reminded you gently.

You hadn’t noticed it, but you were squinting when you’d seen the blossoming legion, trying to block out the sight to some extent – a natural reaction to stop yourself from crying, too, because it was difficult looking at the mess of it all.

And when your gaze all too gratefully slid back to his face, he was regarding you with an element of shyness. He’d crooked his jaw, eyes flicking awkwardly between your face and reaction to the shirt on the floor, and you wanted to just gather him up in your arms and not let go, because he had no choice but to be vulnerable with you, as much as you wished it was a choice, he didn’t have a say in the matter. The truth was that he only had one good shoulder, and he used that one to hold the broken one with – meaning he couldn’t really move.

Couldn’t cook eggs, cut the bread, butter the toast, take his shirt off, shower.

It was a big adjustment for someone usually so capable, and you knew then and there that he was in for a tough recovery – not only because of the frustration, but because he was bound to forget and then he’d work himself up.

“I know.” You replied, biting the inside of your cheek, “What does it feel like?”

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, “It feels like someone’s wrapped really tight tape around the underneath of my shoulder…but then it feels like the only thing keeping everything in place is my skin.”

___

You were in for another shock when he’d turned around to step into the shower. You hid it better this time, managing to keep your mouth shut as your eyes trailed over the slightly paler marks on his back, and recovering your shock in time to smile back up at him when he turned back around, dipping his head under the water and letting out an audible sigh of relief as the warm water bounced off his skin.

You had to laugh at the fact that he kept his shorts on, but you understood why he did it, even if he didn’t voice it. You almost made the comment about how it wasn’t anything that you hadn’t already seen, but he was making an effort to respect the break you were both still on, even if he had pinged the elastic band and looked at you with raised brows, as if to say ‘this is your own doing’.

“Is it warm enough?” You asked, cheek leaning against the side of the glass door as you watched him step further under the water, the droplets streaming down his body, darkening his shorts.

There was a moment where you thought he hadn’t heard you over the roar of droplets from the shower, but when you looked back up at him, it was clear he’d caught you staring. You rolled your eyes, knowing you were blushing, and stepped into the shower, closing the glass door behind you.

You’d opted to stick to wearing your clothes too, and the slight frown Nico had tried to hide as you stepped in with him wasn’t lost on you, but you hid your smile well when you reached for the rack in the corner, picking up the shampoo he was still using from when you bought it three weeks ago and piling a good amount onto the palm of your hands.

Nico was tall, that fact remained quite obvious, especially when he couldn’t lower his neck down to your exact height because of the shooting pain he’d get emanating from his back and shoulder, but you made it work. There wasn’t that much of a height difference between the two of you, even despite his hulking frame, so you were able to reach up fairly easily to take your time to rub the sweat and grease from his hair, your nails raking deliciously against his scalp. By the end of it, his forehead was resting in the crook of your shoulder, and if it weren’t for the way he lifted himself back up, blinking slowly in the process, you would have assumed he’d gone to sleep. His good arm was still holding his sore one, and after you reached up to rinse out his shampoo, his hair practically squeaking between your fingers, he looked just about ready to collapse.

“You know how you said if you didn’t have hockey, you’d have probably stayed in school?” You found yourself asking, desperate to keep him awake so he’d be able to sleep properly before Jack came.

He hummed, head still tipped back into the shower, exposing the veins in his neck and bob of his throat in a way that had you not really knowing where to turn your attention. You didn’t want to look at his shoulder, but you also didn’t want to get caught looking at the softened contours of his stomach, because you’d already been caught checking him out earlier…he was making it difficult, though.

You supposed the water didn’t help, either. He always looked sort of romantic when his hair was wet and droplets of water were rolling down his skin.

“What do you think you’d be doing as a career if you stayed on?”

You retracted your hands from his hair, figuring the shampoo was washed out enough, and tucked some of his hair behind his ear before you reached for the conditioner. You were drenched to the bone; the clothes you were wearing were soaked, the material clinging to your skin, and you could feel your hair frizzing up with the humidity, and although the water was warm, you could feel the cold air picking at you seeing as though you weren’t entirely under the rain of the water.

Nico’s cubicle was pretty big – a half-frosted glass cube with a rain shower and a bath attached at the end, just below a silver rack of products, both your own and his.

Nevertheless, it felt as though there wasn’t enough space between you both. Especially not when he reopened his eyes and slouched a little in your direction so you could reach to lather the conditioner into the ends of his hair.

His brows furrowed, a crease forming in the middle of his forehead as his mouth pouted slightly. His eyebrows always seemed to accentuate whatever emotion he was feeling, and usually when he was confused, or thinking hard about something, he tended to look…sad – something he was doing right now.

“I think…a teacher?” His eyes slid down to yours, almost as if searching for some form of validation in his answer, considering he’d phrased it as a question, not entirely certain of himself.

You nodded, mildly impressed. He’d suit being a teacher, he already had the authority from his Captaincy, but would he still have that same trait if ice hockey was completely out of the picture? You couldn’t possibly know.

“What subject?” You’d finished putting the conditioner in his hair, your fingers now twirling at the ends, purposefully curling his hair against his forehead and resisting the urge to smirk at the baby curls plastered there. Only, when you could tell he was getting suspicious of your repetitive motions, you turned back to the rack, taking the comb and spinning back to him.

“Maybe Literature…o-or…” he stuttered, and when you turned your attention to his direct eye line, you blushed.

Your t-shirt. It was stuck, displaying…everything. Everything being the lace bra you’d found left in your drawer, not the same colour as the grey t-shirt you were wearing.

Funny.

He was blushing too, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he awkwardly fought to look anywhere else, his eyes fixating on something behind you. Despite the unavoidable awkwardness, you found yourself smothering a smile, reaching the comb up to straighten the curls you’d created, until his hair hung in thick curtains past his eyes, his nose poking out.

You laughed softly, finding his new look amusing, “Literature or…” You trailed off, encouraging him to carry on.

Just as his chin bobbed – a sign he’d opened his mouth to resume talking – you combed his curtains sideways, having way too much fun with the whole thing than you probably should.

“Latin.” He was smiling, his cheeks a healthy rosy colour, “Are you enjoying yourself, there?”

“Thoroughly.”

There that damn dimple was again.

You pressed your lips together, sucking in one cheek to try and stop yourself from smiling, but as soon as you’d registered the dimple, you could feel your smile slowly slipping from your face. He seemed to acknowledge the fade, because his dimple disappeared again, and the creases around his eyes unwrinkled.

“I’ll just head outside,” you pointed to the door, “let you wash.”

“Wait,” his voice interjected, just as your hand touched the cool glass door, and you turned, “before you do, please could you wash my right side? I can’t with my left—”

“Sure.” In hindsight, you maybe did agree a little too quickly, but over your own ministrations of ‘how did I not think of that before?’, you didn’t particularly notice the way Nico’s brows shot up his forehead, his mouth parting slightly at your supposed eagerness.

___

Nico had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, his body freshly rejuvenated and feeling significantly more comfortable than he did hours earlier. He’d initially snuggled as far down into the duvet as he possibly could, with every intention of asking you to stay with him when he slept, knowing you could use both the rest and relaxation after everything, but it had escaped his mind entirely when his eyes shut of his own accord.

He supposed he was grateful for the quick onset, because ever since he’d woken up in the early hours of the morning, head feeling like it had been used as a jackhammer for the inside of a bell, shoulder on fire and numb, his stomach rolling, and the desperate and sudden need to extract himself from the bed and make his way as quickly as he could to the bathroom in complete darkness, and his own perspective on what was up, down, left and right entirely skewed by the dizziness that caught him when he’d so much as even opened his eyes – he was feeling guilty. It had gotten to the point that every time he looked at your tired eyes or caught you looking at him in a way that had him feeling like he was going to throw up (for different reasons), he felt like he might combust with it.

Every time he looked in your direction, all he could do was picture you in his position, and imagine himself in your place: he imagined the extent of his concern, so much so that he’d probably be less able to keep his cool around you, unlike you. He’d be in a constant state of panicked frenzy, asking you questions the entire time, adjusting your pillows, repouring you a glass of fresh, cold water every five minutes so there weren’t any bubbles clinging to the inside of the glass. He’d be a complete mess.

He’d have called his brother, parents, Jack, Maisey, Oliver and anyone else he could get his hands on to ask for a second, third and fourth opinion on whether or not he should adjust the thermostat because you might get too warm when you were sleeping.

Quite simply, he wouldn’t know how to function, and he knew that although the roles were reversed currently, you were probably just as clueless as him.

You tended to have better coping mechanisms and ways of dealing with it that he wouldn’t necessarily even be aware of. That was where the two of you contrasted: he was more outgoing and vocal, tending to think out loud and not mask what he was feeling as easily as you, whereas you would gather in on yourself and just…deal.

And he hated that he knew he was the source of such stress. He didn’t want to burden his incapabilities upon you in any way, let alone confine you to his apartment (although you seemed to do that willingly) and act as his personal carer. He didn’t know why you hadn’t complained – scratch that. He did. Because he knew you’d rather make sure he’d be looked after properly than leave it in the less trusted hands of someone else.

He definitely didn’t know why you were acting as though nothing had happened before the incident. How you were able to be in such close quarters with him without feeling like your heart was getting ripped out of your chest, because he had that going for him on top of everything else. Or maybe you did, and just hid it better.

He didn’t dare voice it, and he was a little ashamed of his own wants and needs, but whenever you looked at him, the actual motion: how your eyes would slide casually over something and then they’d lock with his like some sort of magnetic force, he just wanted you to kiss him and tell him he’d be okay. Granted, you’d already done the latter, many times this morning, but he wanted you to kiss him and tell him you loved him, because when you didn’t do that – when you refused to even venture into that area of conversation – he was forced to think the complete opposite, and then he felt truly broken because he felt betrayed by his own body being so fragile, but his state of mind and brain went haywire as he was being pulled in every sort of emotional direction.

It all boiled down to confusion, though. Maybe it was the concussion, maybe it was the painkillers, but at the end of the day, Nico felt confused. Your tender actions: a hand on his back, making him breakfast, washing his hair – your damn teary smile in the shower played on a loop in his mind – he felt loved. You made him feel like he mattered, like you cared about him, but what came out of your mouth juxtaposed it so ridiculously that he felt like you didn’t love him.

He knew what he wanted from you, and what he didn’t want, and he needed to tell you before something happened, because he felt like he was constantly on the precipice of something happening – jeopardy. He feels like he’s running out of time to tell you, and that if he doesn’t let you know as soon as he can, something irreversible is going to happen, and then you’ll be gone for good and he’ll have to leave New Jersey because every street corner has some sort of memory attached to you, and he doesn’t want you to leave and he doesn’t want to leave New Jersey.

It’s a constant, crippling sense of panic that he needs to get under control before he says something and ruins it all.

But he knows you won’t listen to whatever he has to say – not for at least another couple of days – because something Oliver wrote has you thinking he can’t think properly or something. All he knows is that it has something to do with his brain and the fact that he has a pretty serious concussion, and that you’re too fucking stubborn to even jest with him about it.

That had been made pretty clear.

It was also that sense of inevitable doom that had him startling from his nap, the tensing of his entire body as he somewhat lurched in place sending an agonising stab of pain everywhere. It hurt so bad sometimes that he couldn’t decipher if he'd hurt something else; it seemed to dissipate across the rest of his body in an effort for him to cope with the level he was enduring.

He noted, however, that his head didn’t feel like it was being used as some sort of carousel. His dizziness had faded, at least for the moment.

And just as he was about to haul himself out of bed, that shot of adrenalin having woken him up, he heard the distant sound of voices filtering in through the crack under the door.

It was 11.13; Jack must be here.

Then he stopped his motions, because the voices sounded muffled, and from experience, that meant the both of you were whispering about something, and knowing he was supposedly asleep and in another room, he guessed you were talking about him. Which is why he cautiously lifted the duvet off himself, careful not to make too much of a sound as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and crept – avoiding the squeaky floorboards – to the door.

He wasn’t about to open it – not when the noise would catch your attention, but he knelt on the floor and pressed his ear to the handle.

He was curious, and in desperate need of some sort of confirmation from you because he knew Jack would at least try to coax some answers out of you, and probably embarrass him in the process by revealing how mopey he’d been in training or something.

“–don’t believe you.” It was Jack, his voice lowering at the end, playing into his statement.

“It’s not a matter of belief, it’s the truth.”

Oh. You were frustrated already.

“Do something about it, then.” Jack protested. Nico could imagine him rolling his eyes, but given the unexplained context of the situation he’d found himself listening in on, he couldn’t gauge the mood.

“No.”

“Why not? You can’t coexist, care for, and live together for what’s probably gonna be at least for a few weeks, and not talk about it.”

“I haven’t even thought that far in advance, I thought you were talking about immediately.”

Jack scoffed, and Nico could hear him splutter a small laugh, “Not immediately, no. But better sooner than later, before you both get the wrong ideas and end up hurting each other even more.”

Nico heard you sigh, and he pressed his ear closer against the metal, “Is this the part where you fulfil your duties and tell me–”

“–That he’s been moping–” there it was, “and sad for the past two weeks? I hope so. He’s been insufferable, not in the overbearing way, but he looks like a kicked puppy and he’s not been smiling at me as much, and I swear every time he gets a notification on his phone, he teleports to it or something. I’ve never seen him move faster over a News app notification before.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What?”

This time it was Jack’s turn to groan, “You’re both depressed over the entire thing, okay, and I know for a fact, that the only thing that would solve it is if you just talked about it.”

There were some words exchanged that Nico couldn’t quite make out, and before he could make his way into the bathroom to flush the toilet and make it known that he was awake, something caught his ear.

“Why did you phrase it like that? ‘He’s not been smiling at me as much’?”

Jack laughed sheepishly, and Nico grinned.

“Usually when he sees me he smiles. He’s just been doing this half-smile thing, and it’s really, like, jarring.”

He heard your laugh tinkle through the door, and something throbbed in his chest, “Oh, you poor thing.”

“Shut up.”

“But how are you going to survive not seeing him in training for at least a couple of weeks? Is it going to affect your performance? Do I need to arrange FaceTime calls so you can see his face and let yourself be inspired?” You quipped, and Nico could imagine clearly the mocking concern you had on your face, maybe even a comforting hand to Jack’s arm, fully playing into the narrative.

“You know what? FaceTime sessions seem like a good idea.”

Then there was another round of silence and mumbling. Once more, Nico made to heave himself off his knees, but he was stopped once more.

“–Kicked puppy–”

“–It’s the eyebrows!” You both chimed, and Nico rolled his eyes, this time moving himself into the bathroom, not before making a quick stop at the mirror.

He furrowed his brows. Then pouted. Then smiled, lifting his brows up.

He didn’t know what you were talking about – kicked puppy? No way.

Anyway, it seemed like the two of you had stopped talking about a subject pertaining to Nico’s own desires, and despite being a little disappointed with the lack of ‘what-are-you-thinking?’ he received from your end, he decided to flush the toilet and wash his hands, schooling his tired face in the mirror before picking up a pair of socks and wandering down the hall into the living room.

Jack was sitting at the kitchen booth, his chair spun around to face the sofa, where you were leaning across the back.

Jack grinned at him, though Nico didn’t miss the way his eye slid to the sling, but you only offered a small smile. It looked like you weren’t really in the room with him, your mind clearly occupied to some extent

“Back from the dead?” Jack stole his attention, and Nico nodded, trudging to take a place next to you on the sofa, once more feeling guilty when all he did to greet you was hand you a pair of socks he couldn’t put on without your help.

“Something like that.”

You put your mug down on the coffee table, happily taking his socks—

“No coffee.” You stated sternly, Nico’s eyes zipping straight to yours in protest.

The protest died on his lips when he saw the hardness in your face, not a single part of you budging until he’d rolled his eyes and turned to Jack; then you put his socks on for him, seemingly satisfied with his compliance, even if he was a bit bitter about it.

“You okay?” Nico found himself asking, arching a brow at Jack, who (despite his best efforts) was watching the entire exchange with a broad grin painted on his face, and as much as Nico tried to deny it, Jack looked as though he knew something he didn’t.

He saw how you shook your head out of the corner of his eye, and Jack’s smile dropped a little. Nico could still clearly read it in his eyes, though.

Something was up. He’d missed something.

Instead Jack took a deep breath, composing himself, “I think I should be asking you that.”

Nico shrugged with one shoulder, ignoring the sharp pain across the expanse of his back, aware of the fact that both you and Jack were watching him with eagle eyes, trying to deduce if any movements caused him any sort of pain. He was used to attention to some varying degree, but this length of detail and scrutiny made him want to go back to bed.

He knew it wasn’t the effect either of you desired, but to Nico, it felt like you were pitying him. Granted, he was pitying himself, but to have it come from a teammate and close friend and you was a little

overwhelming. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

“I’m fine.”

Jack raised a brow, disbelieving.

“It’s painful, but I can manage it.” He tried again, and Jack nodded, pulling a face.

“Did they say how long you’d be out for?”

“Six weeks for the shoulder and maybe up to twelve for the collarbone.” This time it was Jack’s turn to shrug, and Nico’s turn to pull a face as an unspoken, mutual agreement seemed to pass through them.

“So about seven weeks, then?” Jack asked casually.

You paused, mid-sip of coffee, your eyes darting between the two of them with an obvious confusion written on your face. You knew Nico would have been eager to get back to playing, and the twelve weeks recovery isn’t even guaranteed in the first place, but it was still quite optimistic – especially considering the extent of his injury. Shoulder and collarbone? Mad disaster.

Fucking hockey lore.

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t say anything.

It was Nico swinging his head to look at you that caught your attention, and when you swivelled slightly to look at Jack, who was already awaiting some sort of answer to something. He raised his brows, and you cast an unsure look back at Nico, who swallowed nervously.

“Sorry?” You turned back to Jack, who’s smile had dipped, and you got the awful feeling you’d done something wrong. Nico had looked at you with something akin to anxiety, as though the answer to an unheard question was so important that something hung in the balance depending on what you were going to say.

Jack’s eyes slid over to Nico momentarily, “Did you see it?” He asked softly, and it briefly flashed through your mind that the reason you hadn’t heard him in the first place was because he’d asked it in such a gentle tone it sounded like a whisper of white noise.

Dread punched in your stomach, and you felt yourself stiffen slightly. You knew what he was insinuating, but you still furrowed your brows, trying to hold off from seeing the inevitable hurt that would crumble on Nico’s face when he heard the answer. Something had been hanging in the balance – you rarely missed one of Nico’s games; if you weren’t there in person, and even if you were busy with work, you’d have the game on mute in the background – something to occupy your mind with and show your support.

Dread because Nico could tell when you were lying, and because there was no way you could get around this unless you just told the truth. You wished Jack wasn’t there to witness the awkwardness that was about to envelope the entire room and dash the previous light-hearted atmosphere Jack had unintentionally created with his casual conversation.

You didn’t say anything, afraid your voice would give you away before you could actually tell the truth, so you let your brows speak for themselves, in the hopes that Jack would repeat it for a third time and once more allow you to stall for a little longer.

You wouldn’t feel so fucking guilty if Nico didn’t already look like a kicked puppy.

“The game last night, did you watch it?” He hesitated, and you could see that he’d read between the lines on your face and was already regretting asking it in the first place.

Jack was close with Nico, which also meant he was also pretty close with you. He was beginning to see the downside of that, knowing he’d asked a question that was about to tear a rift in your already rocky relationship. The way Jack could see it, you and Nico were hanging on by a rope – one that he’d just severed a few strings of, completely unintentionally – and he also knew that it would be due to some sort of misunderstanding: that Nico would just assume that the reason you weren’t watching his games was because you’d decided that you were going to leave him…something that kind of broke Jack’s heart because the two of you had just talked about it before the toilet flushed, and he knew for a fact that you didn’t have any intention to leave him.

Of course, with Nico’s recent ramblings in training, he wouldn’t exactly let himself see past your answer, and would probably spin a reality based on nothing but baseless words put together with no context at all.

You swallowed, Nico already yawning out of the corner of your eye – probably a pre-established escape tactic to excuse himself.

“No.” You paused, trying to remain steady as you held eye contact with Jack, fighting with yourself not to look in Nico’s direction, “I had to do a last-minute shop, and catch up on some work. Maisey was watching it, though, and I could hear the commentary.”

It was a slight lie. You couldn’t hear much of the commentary – just the mumble of it in the background and through the walls.

Instead, Nico nodded, as though he’d been expecting that answer, and when you looked at him, he was offering you a sad sort of smile, a crease between his brows and a dimple on his cheek. You were watching him closely, trying to decipher exactly how he felt about your admission, but he wasn’t giving you much to go on.

“It’s probably for the better.” He said weakly, yawning again.

You shared a look with Jack.

“Yeah, it was pretty rough.” Jack agreed, shrugging at you behind Nico’s back.

You nodded, feeling the need to contribute to the conversation before the awkwardness consumed the room and sucked out any chance at maintaining a normal conversation for the sake of Jack’s own comfortability, “Maisey switched it off after it happened so I couldn’t see anything. Then my phone rang.” You took a sip of coffee.

There was an unspoken kind of heaviness that settled over the room – Jack looked at the floor, and Nico’s sad smile dropped into a frown.

If you were being honest, it felt like they were both mourning something you were unaware of.

“Are you guys okay?” You asked, a little tentatively. You were definitely missing something.

“Yeah.” It was Nico who got to answering quickest, shocking you, “Just…I kind of hoped they’d never have to use the emergency contact. It’s just–It must have been–I’m sorry.” He stuttered, before yawning.

You couldn’t even tell him it was okay, whatever he was apologising for, because the next thing you knew, he was pushing himself up off the sofa and walking back to the bedroom, muttering something to Jack under his breath, to which he smiled and nodded understandingly.

You waited until the door shut behind him before you turned to Jack, pressing your lips together.

“He’s not offended.” Was all he said, and you could tell just from the tone of his voice alone that he knew something you perhaps weren’t quite aware of yourself, “It’s just in his head.”

“What is?”

“This idea that you’re gonna leave him.”

___

You waited three hours after Jack left, trying to gain the courage to go back into the bedroom, cursing yourself because you hadn’t possibly thought that Nico would have ever doubted that you loved him. You’d tried to convey that through your actions recently, but looking back on it, you didn’t entirely give as much of yourself away as you’d thought you had, so not reading the subtle signs were understandable.

And you had avoided the conversation of your relationship as much as possible, and you knew how dejected he was over it, but you were following orders. He wasn’t supposed to think about complex things for some reason, because his concussion was so severe, and you really did want to talk to him about it all.

It just scared you, but you’d face that fear head on right now if it meant that he’d stop hurting and wallowing or whatever the hell else he was doing in that room. You knew he wasn’t asleep, the TV could still be heard through the wall. Brooklyn 99. An easy watch – good.

You’d been sitting on the sofa, trying to do something with your hands to fight the urge to bite your fingers, not able to switch the TV on in the living room just in case he needed something from you. Your book was on the cushion next to you, the pages splayed out because you kept picking it up and putting it down, not able to focus on anything else.

You hadn’t felt this anxious in a long time. Your heart was thudding, and it felt like there was a hand gripping your lungs.

He was afraid you were going to leave him.

Fuck.

Jack’s words kept thudding around your mind like they were put on a spin-cycle, and you alternated between feeling slightly relieved at the fact that the thought of you leaving him scared the shit out of him, but then feeling guilty that you were the cause of that insecurity.

It had you doubting your mutual decision – emphasis on the mutual – to take a break because life was pretty much getting in the way of your relationship, and there was a void of…real comfort and love, almost, and you both felt yourselves dwindling and drifting away from each other.

Fuck.

You were going to have to do something about it before all this uncertainty consumed the entire house and left you both too scared to talk about it. If you let it fester too much it would only come back to haunt you and then it’d ruin you both to completion and past the point of no return, and that was the last thing you wanted – ever.

You loved that man, sad eyebrows and all, and if you had it your way, you’d go into the bedroom this instant and tell him that, but something was stopping you.

His injury, for one. That because he was hurting, he was vulnerable, and you hated that your mind made you think that because of that, he’d be relying on you because he just needed somebody there with him.

Ultimately, if the roles were reversed you knew you’d want him to be there for you, to look after you and provide some sense of comfort when you needed it the most.

Fuck.

Your fist pounded the end of the sofa, once, twice. And then you pushed yourself up off the cushions, not allowing yourself to freak out before you reached the door, and you twisted the handle, opening the door just a crack. He might have fallen asleep with the TV on in the background, and if that was the case, you weren’t about to wake him up for what you were about to say.

Somehow the sight before you was even worse.

You stepped through the door properly, making a beeline for the bed, trying to focus on anything other than the sound of your own heart shattering inside your chest. He was slumped down under the duvet, his free arm slung over the top of his head, but it wasn’t that that caught your attention.

It was the deep set bags under his eyes and the way he blinked like he was using all of his effort to keep himself awake. It was also the way his mouth was pulled down into a sad, crestfallen frown on his face – one that he didn’t have the chance to change when he initially looked up after you opened the door – and the tissue he had crumpled in his fist.

When he saw you, he sighed, but didn’t protest when you moved over to lay next to him, your cheek pressed into your pillow.

He’d been crying.

He didn’t make a move to show you any attention, and you were glad for that – he couldn’t see the way you blinked to prevent yourself from crying, or the way you had to fist the pillow in your hands to refrain yourself from reaching out to touch him.

“How’s your head?” You asked lightly.

He blinked, “My head’s fine. I’m fine.” He replied, somewhat grumpily, his jaw clenching.

You were unphased; he was frustrated and tired, so you didn’t take it to heart, “Do you want to do something tomorrow?”

The question seemed to pique his interest, because his jaw slackened and he tilted his head towards you, allowing you to see his red-rimmed eyes, “Like what?”

You shrugged, “A walk? Get some fresh air.”

His eyes flicked to the screen briefly, seemingly considering something, “Sure.”

Your chest contracted at what you were about to say and ask him, anticipation lingering in your tense muscles. You fought with yourself, what you were about to submit to going against all professional advice and all rational thinking on your behalf – the same kind of thinking you’d made a point of reiterating in the past twenty-four hours – shit, you couldn’t even last that long without giving in to him – and a part of you felt a little sheepish and almost embarrassed because your insistence had been heavy.

“Um…” you hesitated, blinking harshly, before turning back to his awaiting eyes, “Do you maybe want to talk tomorrow?” You pressed your lips into a line – there was absolutely no going back from this.

He swallowed, his lips parting in shock, brows furrowing slightly, “About what?” He was a little breathless, and you had the sneaking suspicion he already knew what you were talking about.

“Us–”

“Yeah. I’d like that.” His mouth twitched up slightly, accentuating his tired eyes.

You pushed yourself up with your shoulder, nodding, “Okay.”

You were unsure of where to go or what to do, so you let yourself stay in that position – watching the TV. It was one of your favourite episodes.

“Do you want to watch it?” It was Nico, hand holding out the remote.

You couldn’t read his face properly, and you hesitated, “You need to sleep.”

“I can still sleep if you want to watch it.”

“Okay.”

___

You couldn’t speak for Nico, but the fresh air on your face felt like a godsend. The stuffy air of the house – no matter how many windows you’d opened and shut because it got too cold – was no match for the way you felt infinitely fresher once you’d reached the local park. You could practically taste the air it was that refreshing, and you honestly just wanted to drink the entire thing up, because you didn’t know how long Nico would be able to last before the pain meds wore off.

He’d told you earlier that his head felt better – the dizziness had worn off, his vision was clearer, and he felt less cloudy. He just had a constant headache, and honestly, you could tell he felt better – he was more with it than he had been.

You were both sitting on a bench overlooking the giant pond, you sitting sideways with one leg on the floor and the other tucked under you, and Nico with his back straight. Neither of you had spoken much on the walk over, either too immersed in the fresh air or entirely overcome with nerves for the impending conversation, so the silence enveloping the both of you was a little uncomfortable.

“How’s Maisey?” Nico started, clearing his throat.

The question was clever, a sly way to work up to the main topic of conversation.

You smiled tightly, swallowing nervously before you answered, “She’s good, been watching every Devils match…I think there’s something going on with her and Jack, you know? She hasn’t told me much but they’ve been ‘hanging out’ quite a lot.”

Nico turned his head, the hat shielding his face somewhat, but you could tell this was the first he was hearing of it because he frowned, opening and shutting his mouth as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation, “They have?”

You nodded.

“Jack’s not mentioned it, but I guess I’ve been a bit distracted lately.” He cringed, looking down at the floor to avoid looking at you, “They’d actually fit each other well.”

“She balances out his madness–”

“A voice of reason–”

You both spoke at the same, and the synchronisation elicited a small laugh that seemed to break some of the awkwardness, lighten the atmosphere slightly.

Until Nico spoke.

“So, you haven’t been watching my games?”

It felt like the air had been stolen from your lungs. It wasn’t that you felt confronted by the question: it was one you’d been expecting since the conversation yesterday with Jack, and even with the way Nico asked it you could just tell he was as hesitant at approaching the conversation himself.

It was just a bit of a blunt transition from Maisey, and your nerves seemed to come crumbling down almost instantly – as soon as he asked that.

You shook your head, embarrassed but already knowing inklings of what he thought, “I haven’t watched every game. The highlights – I watched some of those.” You took a breath, steeling yourself to look at him. When you did, you took in the kind eyes, intent on soaking up every word you spoke, and couldn’t help but smile – albeit a little bitterly, “It just hurt seeing you.”

He nodded, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the limp sleeve of his hoodie. He looked devastated, but the nod of agreement eased you slightly.

Then Jack’s words echoed through your mind. This idea that you’re gonna leave him.

Somehow remembering that little slice of the conversation put everything in perspective. Admittedly you hadn’t really believed Jack when he said that, but when Nico wet his lips and looked directly away from you, his chest rising and falling a little faster in the material of his hoodie, only seemed to paint this heartbreaking image of him right in front of you. He didn’t look surprised by your admission, but he was on the verge of saying or doing something, and it had you wondering if he’d honestly expected you to leave him after it all.

He had been expecting it, hadn’t he? He’d been looking at you differently the last couple of days. When you left the room to fetch him something, you could always feel his burning gaze on your back watching you intently from where he was sitting – afraid of something.

And the shower?

He’d thought this entire time that you looking after him would be the last time for everything, and you felt silly not having caught onto it before.

You opened your mouth to speak, tell him your true intentions, but he moved jerkily, and you paused. The hand that was playing with his sleeve suddenly stuck up, and he produced a piece of paper. It was lined and crumpled, as though he’d balled it up one too many times before reopening it – as though he’d changed his mind. You could make out the indentations through the folded up paper on the back.

What the fuck? Did he write notes, or something?

He took in a shuddery breath, rolling his eyes at himself, and you leant forwards unintentionally, curious as to what it was. You expected him to recoil, hide it from your view, but he did the opposite. He turned a little towards you, and he must have misjudged how quickly and how close you’d suddenly placed yourself, before the rim of his hat knocked into your forehead, the cap falling onto your leg.

He stopped, eyes flicking between your blushing, retreating figure to the cap that you’d made to pick up. You took the liberty of resituating it on his head. You knew it was cruel considering where his mind was taking him, but you couldn’t help swiping some strands across his forehead.

He drunk up every single motion you made.

“I–” he cleared his throat, “I wrote something that…I don’t know how to say everything that’s going on in my head, but I wrote this a while ago, and I,” he pushed it in your direction, his eyes lingering on the lines, “I want you to read it – not out loud, but just read it, please.” He rushed it all out, blinking at you with something akin to desperation, his jaw clenching and unclenching as the side of his mouth twitched upwards unconsciously.

All you could do was nod, “I can read it.”

He sat backwards, seemingly relieved, and turned back to face the park, just as you unfolded it and looked at his familiar scrawl at the top of the page. The writing was a little shaky–

“I’m sorry if you can’t read it. My hands shook the entire time…I’m sorry.” He shrugged, swallowing, not looking at you.

You turned your eyes back to the page, and you swear your heart stopped for a millisecond. The date. The fucking date was the day after you agreed to go on a break.

“You don’t have to apologise.” He’d been doing that quite a bit lately, “Why were you shaking?” Was what came out of your mouth.

He muttered something under his breath, shaking his head as though he thought it was silly, but over the wind and the chirping of birds, you didn’t quite manage to catch his mumblings.

“Sorry?”

“Because I think you’re going to leave me.” He admitted, keeping a straight face and refusing to look at you.

The honesty was startling, and you knew you should have said something to alleviate his clear anxieties about the whole thing – tell him you weren’t going to – but the words caught on your tongue. You so desperately wanted to let him know, but your body couldn’t physically function the way you intended it to. You felt stuck, trapped inside your own skin – claustrophobic, even – at the weight of his words. So you swallowed nervously, turning your eyes back to the paper.

You read it four times.

The first to read it. The second to double-check your eyes weren’t deceiving you. The third to make sure you hadn’t missed anything. The fourth to commit as much of it to memory as possible.

You were oblivious to the way his fidgeting seemed to worsen the longer you continued to stare at it. You knew Nico was intelligent, and despite him not writing this in his native language, it was incredibly eloquent. He was honest, straight to the truth – and parts of what he mentioned scared you, but in a good way. A really good way. It was a short passage, not even half a page, but it said everything it needed to say and more.

Your eyes kept snagging onto the last line, and you had to fight with yourself not to cry at what he’d said.

I can’t predict what decision you’re going to make, but I want you to know that I’m always going to love you. Even if you break my heart – especially then.

You had to take a while to digest what exactly he was saying in that–

“I’m always gonna love you too.”

Your mouth moved faster than your brain, but upon immediate reflection, you didn’t think it was the wrong thing to say. You didn’t know what else you could have said. You were so overwhelmed by the mere presence of him sitting in front of you, the way your chest ached at his written words, and the way your eyes pricked when he nearly snapped his neck to look at you after you’d spoken. You’d never seen anything like it – never felt it.

You wanted to press pause on the entire thing just to dissect it, but you knew any refusal to answer his questions and figure the mess out would be crucial – and you didn't want to put him through it even more, not when you were spending an unknown stretch of time in such close quarters like you were.

You had to sort it out, and it was looking like the bench was where you’d be doing most of that.

He didn’t say anything, just watched you closely as you used your sleeve to wipe your eyes. You weren’t exactly crying, but water was slowly trailing down your cheeks, and you sniffed, taking the time to gather your thoughts.

“I don’t know what to say…” you hesitated, and he took a sharp inhale, about to say something, “but I don’t want to leave you–I’m not leaving you. I pretty much decided that the second I left.”

“You did?” He huffed a watery laugh, hurriedly swiping at his own eyes. His brows were furrowed slightly, but he was smiling shakily.

You both felt it, that release of weight that had been hanging over the both of you like a dark cloud. It was remarkable the way the pressure seemed to lift off your chest.

“Yeah.” You felt your chin wobble, and you folded and unfolded the paper in your hands. The irony in the fact that it was your hands now shaking was amusing.

There was a moment of silence, the both of you absorbing exactly what it all meant, taking in the simple complexity of the fact that you weren’t ending things with each other – very much the opposite, if his letter was anything to go by.

“I’m not leaving you either, by the way. I didn’t actually say it.”

“The letter said plenty.” You replied, resting your arm along the back of the bench, your chin sitting on your fist, “But it’s nice to hear it.”

He smiled, and unlike yesterday you took comfort in the fact that his red rimmed eyes weren’t because he was feeling down.

“So we try again?” He sniffled, angling his body so you were both sitting directly opposite each other. His positioning was awkward – his uninjured arm mirroring you by resting his head on his fist, his elbow on the back railing.

You nodded, watching as his cheeks flushed in excitement, his smile lines cracking through his demeanour. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stop yourself from blushing at the sheer excitement and overwhelming sense of adoration coursing through your body. You were sure your pupils were as dilated as they possibly could be, and despite wanting to pull your attention away from Nico – a bit of breathing room – you couldn’t quite bring yourself to do it. It was when he raised an eyebrow, beginning to laugh that you remembered you’d forgotten to answer his question.

He didn’t mind, though.

“Yes.” You smothered a smile by tucking your face into the crook of the elbow on the railing.

You weren’t sure you’d been this flustered around Nico since you first started dating four years ago.

“Could we take it slow?” He asked, his hand reaching out to pull the material of your hoodie away from your face.

You nodded, resurfacing again, “Counselling?”

You felt fingers brush strands of your hair out of your face, and when you looked at him, you found he was nodding, brown eyes scanning every millimetre of your face as though he was drinking you in. Other than the shower, this was the first instance you’d both freely been able to look at each other in minute detail – to the extent you both desired. Sneaking glances when the other wasn’t looking didn’t exactly count.

For example, you could see that there was a splodge of red under his bottom lip, presumably from where he’d been tugging at it between his teeth all of last night. You’d opted to sleep in the spare bedroom, sure that he’d be able to make it through the night – besides, you both knew that you needed your space if you were to have the discussion the next day.

You could also see that he was refraining from doing something, because there was a small crease between his brows – a crease that told you he wanted to do something badly. You had a feeling you knew what it was, but you’d let his need linger a little longer.

“I think counselling is the right way to go, yeah.” A beat, “I want to do things right, take it slow, talk things out more. I don’t want a repeat of…this.”

He twirled some of your hair around his fingers, his eyes marvelling the movement, until he followed the strands to your face, and you broke out into a smile – not holding much back as you let out a short, breathy laugh.

“We’ve already made that mistake.” You agreed.

He sighed, “You know in that letter?”

You hummed.

“I meant it, you know. When I said I think you’re the only thing I got right.”

You rolled your eyes, feeling smaller under his gaze, “What about hockey?”

He grinned, “Hockey doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Hockey chose me. That’s different from me choosing you.”

You narrowed your eyes, still smiling, “How?”

“Because…” he trailed off, “I had to make choices when it came to you, ones that might have ended differently if I, say, hadn’t looked in the front window of the cafe that day, or hadn’t kissed you for the first time after the third date–”

“You took way too long.” You laughed.

He smiled, denying it as he waved a hand, “I think I waited just the right amount of time. I made all the right choices when it came to you. Hockey I didn’t really have to think about; it was all laid out for me – there weren’t as many things to think about compared to when it came to you.”

You sighed, pressing your lips together momentarily, before trailing your eyes to his smiling face and red-tinted cheeks still covered in some scruff. Your hand reached up and touched his chin, then his cheek, feeling the prickle that left your fingers tingling. It was a nice contrast he’d grown into the past couple of years, one that you’d grown to love, though you missed seeing what his face looked like clean-shaven.

You still loved him the same – that never changed.

You seemed to be reminded of that fact when he tilted his head into your palm, placing a kiss there and taking your wrist in his hand and gently tugging you closer. You obliged, of course you did.

“I love you.” You said.

His smile softened as he gently slid his hand from the grip on your wrist to be clasped between you both, “What happened to taking it slow?”

You shrugged, “I just haven’t said it in a while – I wanted to let you know that hasn’t changed.”

He blinked, his smile unwavering, “I love you too.”

There was also an unspoken acknowledgement under that reminder. There was still a lot you both needed to sort through before you even ventured into the realm of dating each other again – though the material left of each other that defined ‘dating’ was limited. There was only so much you could talk about without having heard it all before.

“I was thinking,” he started, his eyes flicking up to yours to catch your reaction as you raised a brow, “you don’t have any plans tonight, do you?”

You were toying telling him you did, that maybe you’d already organised something with Maisey, just to see how he’d react, but it was a little too soon to be teasing him like that, “My plans…involve making sure the captain of the Devils is recovering nicely.”

He nodded, pulling a faux inquisitive expression, “That’s incredibly convenient for me, actually. I happen to be the captain of the Devils–”

“No way.” You laughed.

“And, as the captain of the Devils, I was wondering if you’d like to hang out later. Maybe watch a movie and have dinner?”

You tilted your head, “Like a date?”

“Your words not mine.”

“What happened to taking it slow?”

He shrugged, “We can still cuddle, right?”

“I don’t know.”

He scoffed, “It’s a yes or no.”

You rolled your eyes, “I’m talking about your shoulder. Cuddling is going to be pretty fucking limited.”

He nodded, his mouth forming an ‘o’, proving he hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead, “Kissing?”

You laughed, “Out of the question.” The comment was verging on being sarcastic, and the roll of his eyes proved he got the message, but you carried on, “We’re taking it slow. You need to focus on recovering in time for the playoffs–”

“Actually,” he held up a playful finger, “when you kiss me, my body releases endorphins, and they contribute to better mental health, and also reduce pain levels in the body. Lucky me,” he gestured to his shoulder, “I’m in a good amount of pain and in need of some endorphins to reduce th–”

You reached a hand up to take off his hat in the midst of his educated rambling, and you saw he could read what you were doing because the earnest protest in his eyes dimmed, and he swiped a tongue delicately over his bottom lip, a smile growing on his face. You could hear the thoughts beginning to fall away in his mind when he followed you with his eyes, his free hand settling in your hair on the side of your head. You had to praise him for it, because he didn’t for one second falter in what he was saying, but the mischievous twinkle in his eye gave him away almost immediately.

He angled his face towards you, and you both leant forwards, connecting your lips. It was short – the kind of kiss you’d usually share after he’d win a game and you were both in public. Celebratory – happy. You barely felt the gentle scratch of his scruff on your chin or the warmth of his mouth before you were pulling away. He didn’t let you get that far, the hand entangled in your hair keeping you nose to nose with him.

You were both smiling, and you weren’t mad that the only thing you could actually see properly were his eyes, staring directly into yours. You bit your lip – half trying to stop yourself from laughing, and half-trying to keep yourself from doing it again.

As much as you didn’t want to, it was essential to keep things slow – it was the right thing to do, despite the annoyance that came with it.

“So, kissing is on the cards?” Nico joked, unwinding your hair from his fingers gently to tuck the curtain that had fallen behind your ear.

“To compensate for the lack of cuddles? I might have to think about it.” You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, replacing his hat back on his head.

“Remember: the endorphins.” He smiled, though you knew he’d let you actually think about it.

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“How long are you going to think about it, though?”

#nico hischier oneshot #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier x reader #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

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