#skip divorce this, #skip divorce that, okay but what was the inciting incident? What was the straw the broke the camel's back?
Because I think that Scott thinks that this is all Ilya Rozanov's fault.
They're at The Kingfisher, Scott's got an ice pack on his knee under the table because it won't stop acting up and he's got more tricky joints than not by the point. His entire body is screaming retirement, and he's a little pissed about it.
The only thing that makes him feel better is that Hollander is walking with a little bit of a limp after today's game. So when Ilya chirps him about being ancient he chirps right back, telling him to look after his own husband's geriatric joints. And Ilya looks over his shoulder at where Shane is standing at the bar, leaning his weight a little tenderly against it.
But Ilya doesn't rise to the bait, or defend his loving husband. No, the fucker just does that little chuckle that means he's gonna stir the pot even more and says, "Ah, no no no. We played The Bellboy last night. The Bellboy always needs it rough." and then he just fellates his beer bottle and winks at Scott like he just won the Being Gay Married Olympics.
And it sticks with Scott, more than he wants to admit. Sure he's heard them going at it through the thin hotel walls at All Stars, he's seen the hickeys and the scratches, he's heard the whispers about the Hollanov Fuck Machine, but this pushes him over the limit.
"Played The Bellboy", like it's a song on their pregame playlist, or a TV series to comfort watch. "Played The Bellboy," like golden boy Hollander can just put on a hat and transform into someone that gets fucked so hard he's walking funny the next day and likes it. "Played the Bellboy" like they picked it out of a lineup, a menu of options they flip through to see what they're craving that evening.
It won't leave his brain, and so the next time the Admirals play the Centaurs (get trounced by them, 5-1, Jesus), Scott finds himself slamming his beer down on the bar top of Monks and blurting out, "What else do you play besides The fucking Bellboy?"
And Ilya Ra-ra-Rasputin Rozanov switches to vodka, leans both his elbows onto the countertop, and opens Pandora's box.
This makes it so much worse. Worse because now he knows things he can't unknow about his friend and favorite enemy, about Mister Landlord, about Free Use Fridays at the cottage and custom collars for Ilya so he can be the good boy, good Puppy, about edging and cnc and plugs and lube in every room, about...
It breaks him. Truly, that's the only word for it. Breaks his brain like hockey has broken his body, exhausted and ready to be put out to pasture. Breaks him worse to think that they've been at it for over a decade and still discovering ways to play and explore before they tuck the filthiest parts of themselves back into their toy chest, step into the light, and proceed to be the best players at a sport Scott has spent his entire life striving to be good at.
So Scott comes home to his objectively lovely and smart and sexy husband and all he can see is the things they're not. They're not breaking beds and using safewords and playing Serial Killer and Victim or Museum Curator and Thief or whatever the fuck. And the worst part is, Scott doesn't even want to. He wants to want to, but he's exhausted by the idea of putting in even more effort beyond the way they have to find positions that don't hurt his battered joints, find time in the calendar between Kip's classes and his game schedule, find desire for this beautiful man he shares a life with in ways that feel more like a roommate than a lover.
One random Tuesday morning he's reading the latest GQ and flips past a photo spread of Shane Hollander and that motherfucker Ilya Rozanov, shirt unbuttoned and pants half down, crawling over his husband like he's staking a claim, like he's showing off his prize, like he's once again won the Being Gay Married Olympics.
In the background Kip is setting up the blender, chatting about his schedule, updating Scott on the Kingfisher drama he's missed, but all Scott can do is trace his fingers over the glossy photos and think, yeah, okay, you fucker, you won.
So when Kip asks him, "Babe, do you want extra glucosamine in your smoothie?" Scott doesn't think at all before he says, "I want a divorce."
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