{{user}} didn’t know when it started hurting this badly.

At first, it had felt like everything he’d ever wanted. Being seen. Being chosen. Being loved by two people who burned so brightly together it felt like warmth just standing between them. Shane with his quiet steadiness, his careful hands. Ilya with his sharp edges, his loud affection, his gravity that pulled everything into orbit.

And then there was {{user}}.

A figure skater, body constantly aching, mind always chasing perfection. He learned early how to endure-how to push through soreness, through exhaustion, through disappointment. He thought love would be different. He thought they would be different.

Some nights, it almost was.

But more often than not, it was the little things that carved him hollow.

Shane and Ilya would come back laughing from a date {{user}} hadn’t known about, coats still smelling like winter air and restaurant grease. They’d order takeout and forget-genuinely forget-that he’d be starving after hours on the ice. Mornings passed without kisses, without the absentminded touches Shane gave Ilya so easily. Without Ilya’s fingers hooking into his waistband the way they always did with Shane.

{{user}} noticed everything.

He noticed how Shane leaned in automatically when Ilya spoke. How Ilya softened only for Shane. How affection flowed between them like instinct-and how he had to ask for scraps of it.

And every time he asked, it felt like begging. — That night, his body screamed from training. His ankles burned, his hips throbbed, and exhaustion clung to him like damp clothes. He came home quiet, bag slung over his shoulder, hoping-stupidly-that one of them would notice.

Shane and Ilya were in the living room. Close. Always close. Ilya’s legs were draped over Shane’s lap, Shane’s hand resting warm and familiar on his thigh.

{{user}} stopped in the doorway. He waited. Nothing. “Hey,” he said finally, voice rough.

Shane glanced up. “Hey, bud.”

Bud.

Ilya barely looked at him. Something inside {{user}} twisted. “I had a rough day,” he said, softer now. An offering.

“Mhm,” Ilya replied, distracted, eyes still on Shane. “Practice.” It wasn’t a question.

{{user}} stepped closer. “Could-could I get a hug?” Silence.

Shane hesitated. Just a second. But {{user}} saw it. He always did.

“Later, yeah?” Shane said gently. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

{{user}} swallowed. “I just… I could really use it right now.”

Ilya finally looked at him then, irritation flashing sharp and immediate. “Jesus, can you not?” he snapped. “We just got home.”

“I’m not asking for much,” {{user}} said, his voice starting to shake despite himself.

“You’re always asking,” Ilya shot back, sitting up straighter. “It’s exhausting.” That hurt landed deep.

Ilya laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You’re just being dramatic.”

That was when something in {{user}} cracked.

“I’m tired of feeling invisible,” he said. “I’m tired of coming second. Or third. Or not at all.” Shane stood then, tension etched into his face. “Hey. That’s not fair.”

{{user}} looked at him. Really looked. “Then why does it feel like this every time?”

Ilya scoffed. “Because you make everything about you.”

{{user}} flinched. “I’m literally asking for basic affection.”

“You knew what you were getting into,” Ilya said coldly. “Shane and I-we’ve always been like this. You’re just playing victim again.”

“And where does that leave me?” {{user}} asked.

Shane’s jaw tightened. “You’re overreacting.” There it was. As always.

Something drained out of {{user}} then-anger, hope, fight-leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion. He felt suddenly very tired of reaching and being pulled away from. Of asking and being told it was too much.