Like You’ve Nothing Left to Prove (Breakaway #2)

by E.L. Massey

“I loved him against reason,” Eli shouts after Alex, “against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.” “I already said I would get it,” Alex shouts back. “You don’t need to woo me with Dickens.” “Ah, but I must always woo you, my love,” Eli argues, affecting a terrible English accent, “With Dickens or otherwise.”

“Do not break my boyfriend,” Eli says, looking pointedly at Toby. “I know he’s an overly competitive moron, but his ankles are also worth several million dollars. So if any of you so much as thinks about tripping him to prove a point, I will have you excommunicated from this family. Everyone knows I’m Abuela’s favorite. I can make it happen.”

Maybe this is just his life, now. Maybe after everything, maybe he just gets to be happy.

“Hey,” Eli says. “Hey,” Alex agrees.

“And my ass is, like, a hundred times better than his.” “It is. I love your ass.” “Thank you.”

“I want the whole everything with you. Joint Christmas cards and buying a house together and stupid inside jokes. And kids. Maybe. Someday. Mite hockey. Or figure skating. Or nothing on the ice at all. Maybe, like, chess. Just… Whatever they want. To be happy. I think we’d be really happy. You make me happy.”

“But it’s true. I’m just saying what’s in my head all the time when I look at you.”

Eli. Who he loves. Who is somewhere in the hospital right now, alone. And the realization is both terrible and a little cathartic: Eli is worth it. Eli is worth risking hockey. Not at some indistinct time in the future, but now. Right now.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Alex says. “Please, he’s my boyfriend. You have to let me see him.”

“You are a romantic fucking idiot,” he mutters, closing the laptop and shoving his face into Alex’s neck.

“I don’t think you understand how much I fucking love you.”

“Hey, Jeff,” Alex says. “Did you know that somewhere in the world, there’s a really rude goat named after you?” “Oh, no,” Eli says. “There’s a what?” Jeff says.

“Uh, yeah?” Alex says, tightening his grip on his stick. “I’d be a pretty shitty boyfriend if I wasn’t.”

And he realizes, somehow, that several journalists are only just now noticing Eli is in the room. Which is dumb because A. Eli is probably the most beautiful person ever; how do you just miss him? And B. There’s a whole German Shepherd standing right next to him, which isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

Eli is the personification of a sigh of relief.

Alex likes leaving his marks on Eli. That’s not new. He’s a possessive asshole, and he takes significant, maybe-more-than-is-healthy pleasure in seeing the places where his mouth has been on Eli’s body. Places no one else’s mouth will ever be. But standing there in front of the mirror, toothbrush limp in his hand, noticing a bruise Eli has left on him… Well. That’s something else entirely.

Alex is a hockey player, not a poet. He doesn’t have words for this kind of thing. But “love” seems really fucking trite for all the whatever that he feels. Or maybe other people shouldn’t be allowed to use the word “love” because they can’t possibly mean it the way he does.

“I more than love you.”

Eli sits up a little, elbow on Alex’s sternum, chin cupped in his palm. His hair is a riot of tangled curls and his eyes are kind of puffy and there are pillow creases on his cheek. He is quite possibly the most beautiful person Alex has ever seen.

“Well,” Eli says. “I can’t help you with terminology. But I more than love you too. If that helps.”

Kuzy takes one about the fight itself, a softball noting that Alex has never dropped his gloves before: ”I teach Alex to punch. Maybe shouldn’t say because his aim not so good. Makes me look bad. But we don’t need for practice if the league do the right thing.” His easy smile fades a little. “But I have warning for other teams if the league do the wrong thing. Anybody say bad things about Eli, my aim very good.”

“I fake-dated you for three months, and said I loved you in my head before I ever pined my way into kissing you in a fit of rage. I think we were worse.” Eli considers this for a minute. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair. On the plus side, that means they’ll probably be just fine, then. Look how great we turned out.” Alex tackles him. Gently.

“Have I mentioned I love you?” Alex murmurs. “Once or twice,” Eli says.

Eli is sleeping on him. It’s nice; Eli, so still and heavy and warm, bathed in watery morning light and completely unaware that Alex is staring at him like a creeper. But how can Alex not stare at his perfect curls and the scar that cups his ear and the lovely slope of his nose; the way his cheek is pressed to Alex’s sternum, his upper lip pushed up a little to expose one white canine. His bottom lip is wet.

Half of him wants to lock Eli up where there can be no accidents, no danger; when he is hurt, Alex is hurt. He knows it’s stupid, but if Eli were to die today, he thinks he would die tomorrow. Because Eli is…Eli. Because there is only one of him.

He’s never loved someone like this before. The thought of losing him is–– Alex can’t even think about it without his lungs seizing up. No one has ever had this power over him before, and it’s likely no one else ever will.

Alex is losing his mind a little. He remembers, suddenly, a line he read in a book somewhere: Love is the fire of life; it either consumes or purifies. Eli kisses him again, just as desperate as Alex feels, and Alex— Alex is consumed.

Alex slumps, burying his face in his folded arms on the counter. “I mean, I feel like it should be pretty obvious at this point that I want to marry you.”

Eli would throw himself at Alex if not for the fact that Alex is already a walking bruise. So instead, he calmly stands, brackets Alex’s worried face with both hands, and says, “I want to marry you so bad.”

Eli groans into Alex’s neck. “Regrettably,” he says to no one in particular, “this is who I’ve chosen to love.” “On purpose. You’ve chosen to love me on purpose.” “I have,” Eli agrees, not laughing anymore. “Kinda hard not to though.”

“Alex is being homophobic,” Eli mutters. “Oh?” Jeff says. “I won’t kiss him until he’s done with this paper,” Alex explains. “Ah,” Jeff says. “You should call HR, Eli. The NHL is very serious about homophobia now; I’m not sure if you’ve heard.”

Alex kisses him one more time. “Hi.” Eli blinks up at him. Smiles a little. Kisses him back. “Hi,” he agrees.