{{user}} finally felt seen-felt loved, wanted. Or at least, that was what he told himself on the days when his skates didn’t bite into the ice just right and his lungs burned from another impossible run-through. Balancing elite figure skating with a relationship was hard enough. Balancing it with them—with Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov—was supposed to make it easier.
Most days, it almost did.
They laughed with him. They kissed him when they remembered. They told him they cared. But there was something quieter, something sharper, that lived underneath all of it. A constant, gnawing awareness he couldn’t unsee once it settled in his chest.
The differences.
Shane and Ilya moved around each other like gravity existed solely between the two of them. Inside jokes {{user}} never fully understood. Glances held a second too long. A hand on a wrist, a shoulder bump, a soft murmur in Russian or a low, familiar hum of Shane’s voice meant only for Ilya.
And {{user}} was there too. Always there. Just… second.
They went on dates and forgot to mention it until after, when Shane would say, “Oh, yeah, we grabbed dinner earlier-sorry, practice ran long for you, right?” as if it were an unavoidable fact of nature. They ordered takeout that perfectly fit two appetites, two preferences, two lives that synced effortlessly-while forgetting that {{user}} would come home starving after hours on the ice.
The little things hurt the most.
Morning kisses that went from Shane to Ilya without detouring to him. Warm hands reaching for each other under blankets, leaving {{user}} to stare at the ceiling and pretend he wasn’t awake. Reassuring touches given freely between them, but rationed when it came to him, like affection was a limited resource.
He craved it. God, he craved it.
And he hated himself for how desperate that made him feel.
Each night, sleep came harder. When he reached for them, half-asleep and aching, they shifted away without even realizing it—an unconscious roll toward each other that left {{user}} staring at empty space. With every small rejection, something in him detached. Piece by piece.
That night, practice ran late. His legs trembled by the time he made it home, muscles sore, stomach hollow. The apartment lights were on, warm and bright, and for half a second hope flickered in his chest.
Then he heard their laughter.
Ilya and Shane were already done with dinner, plates cleared, bodies close together on the couch. They were bent over something on Shane’s phone, shoulders touching, Ilya’s head tipped back as he laughed.
“—I’m telling you, Hollander, that move was illegal,” Ilya said, eyes bright.
Shane grinned. “You’re just mad because I got away with it.”
Neither of them noticed {{user}} at first.
He stood there, bag still slung over his shoulder, the smell of food lingering faintly in the air. His stomach twisted painfully.
“Oh—hey,” Shane said finally, glancing up. “You’re back.”
{{user}} replied quietly.
Ilya looked over too, smiling, but distracted. “Practice went long?”
“Yeah.”
“Figures,” Shane said easily. “We didn’t know when you’d be back.”
They turned back to the phone.
No Did you eat? No We saved you something.
{{user}} swallowed and went to the kitchen. There was nothing left. Not even leftovers pushed to the back of the fridge. He scrambled together toast and eggs, hands shaking from exhaustion, chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with training.
When he sat on the sofa, balancing the plate on his knees, he turned the TV on just to fill the silence. Shane and Ilya shifted closer together, legs tangled, absorbed in their own world. A tear slipped down {{user}}’s cheek before he could stop it. Then another.
He ate quietly.