Chapter Text
Thud, thud, thud.
The sounds of Shane’s heavy footsteps on the treadmill fill the empty gym. Sweat is already beginning to pool at his forehead and he attempts to wipe it away with the back of his hand, without losing momentum.
He increases the speed on the machine.
Thud, thud, thud.
He’s not even sure if it’s his heart beating or his feet against the running belt making the noise anymore. Not that it really makes much of a difference. His muscles ache, and he can begin to taste the familiar metallic taste in his mouth.
Still his fingers itch towards the speed button.
He presses it a couple of times, with the pad of his forefinger, the speed increasing even more. He's not sure how long he’s been running for, the numbers on the screen have started to look too blurry to make out.
He can only guess it’s been a while with the way his body is screaming at him to stop.
His phone rings, breaking him out of his thoughts rather suddenly, and he slams down on the red stop button, the machine coming to an immediate halt. He checks his phone and finds his mom’s contact picture flashing, the one of her birthday a few years back a large smile spread across her face, on the screen.
He swipes to answer, and says breathlessly into the receiver. “Mom. Hi.”
“Are you in the gym again?” His mom sighs, instead of a greeting, the disapproving tone in her voice evident even with the crappy signal from the basement gym.
“No,” Shane lies.
He can imagine her face, the ever present frown between her brows, as she leans against the wall next to the wall calendar. She likes to be close to it when she's on the phone in case she needs to note something down that he says that might affect her. He appreciates that she cares, but god sometimes it feels so suffocating.
“You have a shoot early tomorrow morning. What did we talk about when it came to eye bags and the extra time it would take the make-up artists to hide them?”
He knows she means well. Just wants him to succeed in the career he’s spent the better part of a decade working towards, but it doesn't stop the comment from getting under his skin.
“I know mom. I just needed to get out of my head for a bit.”
“Didn’t you–“ she starts.
“Go to the gym for a bit this morning. Yes, I did,” he finishes for her.
“Dr Sanchez did emphasise the importance of having a good amount of rest between working out.”
“Did you have anything important to say?” His voice comes out harsher than he realises and he immediately back tracks, feeling guilty. “Sorry I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”
The line goes quiet, and Shane would think she’s hung up if it wasn’t for the quiet breathing on the other side of the line.
“I just wanted to check on you before your big day tomorrow. Me and your dad are very proud of you. I hope you know that.”
“I do know that,” Shane says. “And I appreciate it, I really do. I think it's just the nerves from it all messing my head around.”
“And the prospect of meeting your favourite hockey player.” His mother teases, the humour returning to her tone and he cannot help, but roll his eyes.
When he had been younger and dreamed of playing for the big leagues he had been obsessed with Ilya Rozanov. The name that was predicted to break hockey records and be the highest in demand from teams all around.
“Mom!”
“Finally meeting the Ilya Rozanov. What would sixteen year old Shane say?”
“He would say that you’re embarrassing him.” Even when he says this he can’t stop the smile that is beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth.
They continue to chatter idly about what the next day will bring and how exciting meeting his idol will be. Not that Shane idolosies hockey players now he’s in his mid twenties. He's an adult now, too grown for those type of things.
It isn't Shane’s first rodeo, not by a long shot. He has been modelling since the age of twelve when he was first scouted for a Target kids commercial and ever since then he has found himself all over the world in front of all sorts of cameras whether it be grasping a hockey stick or posing for a camera.
But this. Modelling with one of the biggest names of hockey was different. It was the real deal and if he pulled it off he knew he would only get more opportunities that would push him just that bit further in an overly saturated industry.
He says goodbye to his mother, with a promise of going to bed soon, as she shouts a chorus of good lucks for the following day and hangs up.
Without his mother’s excited voice in his ear, the gym suddenly sounds oddly quiet and what had once been a good idea to let off some steam now feels lonely and bleak. He picks up his few belongings and walks out of the door, towards his hotel room.
Besides, it is important to get a good night's sleep before a shoot. His mom isn't wrong, dark eye bags were never a good look.
-
The next morning, the entire ride to the shoot Shane is a bundle of nerves, his knee bouncing uncontrollably, in the back of the cab. Previously, he has worked with this team of photographers before for a fragrance shoot so he has had experience with how they work, so thankfully it won't all new territory, but his partner for the shoot is a whole other ball park.
The make up artist tuts at him when he takes a seat in the chair, but Shane's mind is focused elsewhere so he can't even find it in himself to apologise for ever present the eye bags.
“I mean have you seen him?” Chrissy from makeup gushes to her co-worker, Gloria, as she fiddles around beside Shane looking for a particular brush.
“I heard he sleeps with everyone, so you might have a chance,” Gloria nudges her in the side with a knowing look.
Chrissy gasps, “Don’t even make a suggestion like that, I’m sure he wouldn’t stoop that low.”
Gloria gives her a slow once over, before her eyes return to her face, “Stoop that low?” She repeats as if she cannot believe what she has just heard. "Have you seen yourself?”
Shane has to agree with Gloria here. Chrissy's naturally gorgeous, with long blonde hair thats tied back into a French brace behind her back and a blinding smile that has Shane wondering why she isn't the one in front of the camera. She’s the exact type that Ilya Rozanov has been spotted out with leaving clubs countless times before.
“Shane, what do you think? Chrissy could pull him right?” Gloria says, as she begins to comb back his hair and part of Shane thought they had forgotten he was here.
“Nobody over the age of forty says pulling.” Chrissy whines.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course, you could.” Shane waves a hand at her. “You’re gorgeous.”
Chrissy sighs, but she doesn’t seem convinced, even though the two of them outnumber her and Shane is a guy, who likes women. Shouldn't that make his answer more convincing?
The conversation moves away from Ilya Rozanov, and his various affairs, to some other famous person that Shane isn't familiar with and he allows himself to sink back into the soft chair and zone out. He's happy to have their mindless chatter play in the background of his thoughts, It doesn’t take them long till they are finished with him and then he's being pushed onto the clothing department, who already have railings full of clothing waiting for him.
Shane pulls one of jerseys over his head, and stares at his reflection in the mirror. It feels strange seeing himself in one after not being on the ice since his teen years and part of him wants to rip it off before he spirals any further. He can't mess the hair and make up after they spent so long on it.
There’s the sound of talking outside the room, but Shane doesn’t pay it much mind. It is probably one of the directors discussing their next moves and where they want him for the first shoot.
That's till a well built, tall curly haired man, the exact one that has plagued his mind for too many days and nights walks in. The man stops, when he notices that the room isn’t as empty as he first presumed and Shane is standing here, in the middle of his try on session and fixes him with an unimpressed look.
Shane learns pretty quickly that Ilya Rozanov doesn't think much of him.
He holds his hand out in greeting and Rozanov eyes it with suspicion. “I’m Shane Hollander.” He introduces, trying to keep his voice level and not let free his inner super fan persona.
“Ilya. Rozanov.” A few seconds pass and eventually takes his hand, his grip firm and he thinks if Rozanov held onto it for any longer he would crush hand with a practised ease.
Shane isn’t sure what he expected from the other man. He’s heard the rumours, seen the video clips circling the internet about how much of a tyrant Rozanov is on and off the ice but having him here is different. He is a real person, no longer the untouchable public figure.
A tall slender woman, with glasses perched on her nose then decides to enter the room, stopping Shane from making any more decisions he might regret in the near future. “You both ready?” She asks and Shane nods and Ilya gives a gruff affirmative in response. Shane bites back a scathing comment about how he doesn't have to be here before following after the woman, Rozanov tight on his heels.
The shoot is — well it’s the same as most other shoots. Shane is dressed fully in sportswear for most of it swapping between the new range ofshorts and joggers every so often. They are pretty comfortable and Shane won't mind adding them to his ever growing wardrobe if they let him keep them after the shoot.
He’s always been able to follow instructions well when the director asks him to turn to the side or angle his body differently.
Rozanov however isn’t as easy. It’s not his first photoshoot. Not that Shane is keeping up with his work outside of the hockey side of things, just his personal life and playing on the ice is so intertwined it’s hard to keep them separate! And Shane keeps up with hockey so he sees it more as a same time same place kind of thing.
He’s not purposely seeking him out. He's just a very good hockey player.
“Stop pulling that expression.” One of the photographers yells and Shane glances to look at Rozanov, who’s glaring at the camera and doesn’t make any attempt to please her.
“Rozanov, come on.” Shane hisses.
He would prefer to not spend the entire day in the same position, and give himself cramp all the way down his bad leg. It might be a little game to some hockey player but for Shane this is his job, his life. If he doesn’t hit the mark then brands won’t want him and then what? A history degree, from a low performing college would only get him so far.
Rozanov rolls his eyes, as if this whole thing is an utter waste of his time, settling for a look on face that isn't exactly friendly but more approachable than his original one. The photographer realises this is the best she is going to get and sighs, and starts snapping photos. Shane is slightly worried about the turnout from the shoot but tries to not think too hard about it. at least he will look good.
“Alright, for this one I need you to both work together with me, okay?”
Shane listens intently as she describes the scene she is trying to set. Rival hockey teams, their captains facing off on the ice. “Remember eye contact.” She reminds them, returning to her post behind the camera once again.
Even though Ilya plays for Boston, the logo on his red jersey is purposely vague as Shane is wearing a similar one only blue.
They lean towards each other, their helmets still a good distance apart and Shane wonders what this would be like for real. If they were actually on the ice about to play each other. If he would be as nervous as he is now or would have the relaxed look that Rozanov seems to have perfected.
He looks up into the blazing blue eyes that stare back at him and his breath catches in his throat, and he swallows trying to dislodge it.
“That’s it,” the photographer says, gesturing with her hand. “Just a bit closer.” They inch towards each other, and Shane swears he can feel Rozanov's hot breath against his cheek, up this close. “Perfect. Just like that. Brilliant boys.”
It’s followed by clicks and the sound of rustling from the crew as they adjust their equipment. “We have got it. Thank you.”
Shane sags forward, the intensity of the scene catching up on him and leaving him feeling a little winded.
“Some eye contact too much for the Shane Hollander?” Shane looks up to find Rozanov watching him, a small smirk on his face.
“God forbid some of us actually care about our work.” He snaps back, and he almost feels a sense of satisfaction when a look of surprise flits across Rozanov’s face for a few seconds before it's replaced by something stoic, almost cruel.
“Ah yes. Work. Sitting back and looking pretty for the camera.”
The very few positive thoughts Shane still held about Rozanov pretty much vanish at this point. It appears the media was right about something for once.
“Okay thirty minute break,” Someone behind them shouts, clapping their hands together and everyone disperses on demand.
Shane brushes past Rozanov, and if it’s with more force than he usually would well that’s his own little secret, he purposely doesn’t look back as he passes one of the crew members his helmet.
He finds himself in a little break room, the only private place he has found in this damn studio, probably due to the faint smell of must floating in the air. He nurses a smoothie he got out of one of the refrigerated vending machines and tries to convince himself that pulling the sick card now isn’t a good idea. Even if the idea of having to see Rozanov again makes his stomach churn.
He can never eat much during shoots, the anxiety too encompassing to keep anything down, and today is no different. So he makes sure to take small sips of the green concoction, giving himself a bit of energy to keep him alive. He takes in the pieces of furniture in the room in an attempt to calm his racing thoughts. There's a hard sofa, in a black colour, a little water fountain with paper cups on top of it and a small coffee table. Apart from that the room is bare
The door opens, and then closes, and he looks up to find fucking Rozanov standing in front of him and Shane is suddenly filled with a sense of Déjà vu.
Rozanov clearly doesn’t have the same feeling as Shane as he drops down on the opposite end of the sofa, a full selection of foods bundled in his arms. Shane has to wonder how he maintains his physique when he puts so much crap into his body.
He thinks back to his carefully put together diet, the one he, his nutritionist and his dietician have spent years refining so he can always be his very best. So body can be the very best it can be.
“I feel you staring,” Rozanov says and Shane blushes and he looks away, not having realised he was looking in his general direction.
“I am not staring,” Shane mutters under his breath and takes a long sip of his smoothie to give himself something to do.
“Hm. What’s that saying? Take a picture, it lasts longer.” Ilya stretches out across the couch, looking incredibly relaxed while Shane couldn’t feel more of the opposite.
He starts to unpack the breakfast roll, filled with far too many ingredients and bites down on a large mouthful.
It’s disgusting.
“I am not gay,” Shane hisses across the couch and Rozanov raises his hands in surrender, the lettuce from the roll dangling dangerously from the edge of the bread.
“Never said you were. You said it.”
Shane cheeks heat up even more. He hates how Rozanov only needs to say a few words to push his buttons. How easily he can get under his skin.
Shane has always prided himself on his self control and his ability to control his emotions. But here. With him. Shane only sees red.
He gets to his feet, brushing invisible lint off his pants and walks out of the room. He doesn’t have a location in mind, just that he needs to get out. Anywhere, but with Rozanov.
The second day of the shoot goes slightly better. Goes better in the way that Shane avoids the break room and Rozanov by extension like the plague. Every time he looks in the general direction, of that room, he’s deeply reminded of that pitiful conversation they held for a couple of minutes.
He doesn’t miss the way one of the assistants leans against the door, waiting for Rozanov to step out and acting as though they are just passing when they bump into each other.
The sight makes him roll his eyes.
Look he can admit the man is good on the ice, one of a kind, that’s why he’s always respected him as a player. But off ice he is a self absorbed asshole who needs to be taken down a peg or two.
Shane washes his hands, glancing at his reflection in the bathroom before he steps out into the main corridor. They have pretty much finished the shoot - just a few touch ups required. And Shane is glad that it’s almost finished and he won’t have to ever work with that man again.
He thinks almost anyone would be a breath of fresh air.
He’s just about to make his way down the corridor, towards the main studio, when his eyes catch on something or more someone.
He watches from a few metres away as Rozanov pulls out a box of cigarettes and a lighter, standing in the far corner, the darkness of the hallway creating a look of mystery around him. If Shane hadn’t been paying attention he would have missed him entirely.
“I don’t think you can smoke in here—“ He cuts himself off when Rozanov levels him with an unimpressed glance before returning his attention back to the lighter. “I just mean… we are inside and you will probably set off the fire alarm.” He finishes lamely.
Ilya does a show of looking around. “I see no fire alarm.”
“I mean sometimes they can be inconspicuous.”
“Inconspicuous,” Ilya repeats, sounding out all of the letters carefully and Shane thinks now would be a good time for the ground to swallow him up or some other disastrous natural disaster to happen. He is sure Canada can conjure one up.
For some reason whenever he’s around the other man, his mouth begins to work on its own accord.
“It means when they are not easily noticed and are sort of hidden away.” He’s now rambling, and he knows he looks like a bumbling idiot talking about fucking fire alarms, but he can’t stop.
Ilya is looking at him with an amused look. The cigarette is now long forgotten in favour of staring at Shane.
“Shut up,” Shane says.
“I didn’t say anything,” Ilya replies.
“Your face did.”
“My face can say many things.” A lopsided grin spreads across Rozanov’s face.
Shane decidedly ignores that comment, he really doesn’t want to look into the deeper meanings behind his words. Especially when Rozanov has an uncanny ability to turn anything into a crude joke. Shane thinks it might be his final straw.
“You ever smoked before?”
Shane watches him intently as he places the cigarette between his lips and brings the lighter up to his mouth, with practiced ease. Once he lights the cigarette, he pockets the lighter, and takes a long drag, before exhaling the smoke .
“No – uh It’s bad for you.” He manages to stop himself from going on a tangent about modern research surrounding the effects of smoking. He's sure that Rozanov has familiarised himself with it before and simply doesn't care.
Rozanov offers the cigarette to Shane.
“Many things bad for you. Doesn’t make them any less pleasurable.” He puts emphasis on the last word, the word rolls off his tongue and he stares back at Shane. Shane represses a shiver at how the sounds coming out of his mouth, purposeful and dark, and doesn't let himself think what he would like saying his own name.
He’s surprised that Rozanov is familiar with the word.
“What do you know about pleasurable things?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Shane knows it the instant it leaves his mouth and he wants nothing more than to take it back. He has fully lost control of this conversation.
Rozanov waves the hand, holding the cigarette around in the air, and Shane clamps his mouth shut, trying to hold his breath as a cough starts to itch at the back of his throat., “I think you know the answer already.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“What are you really asking, Hollander?”
In all honesty, he doesn't know.
In almost all cases he would have skirted around Rozanov and fled the scene of the crime, but for some reason his feet refuse to move, keeping him in place. His brain isn't faring much better much fully fixated on pushing Rozanov to see how far he will go. To see what he would do.
“Nothing.”
Rozanov grabs onto his wrist, his grip is strong and Shane tries to pull away, but it only causes for his grip to tighten further. A small part of him thinks about the finger shaped bruises he will find tomorrow no undoubtedly littered all over his skin but his attention is caught by Rozanov, shaking his head, and letting out a small tutting noise, that can only be described as condensing, “I think you want to know…” His voice comes out even lower. “What it feels like…”
“This is a bad idea.”
Rozanov looks at him, almost as though he’s bored of this entire conversation while Shane feels as though his entire body is operating on fight or flight mode and that one more touch will set his body alight.
“We just say bad things can be pleasurable, no?”
“I don’t want to do anything with you.”
Rozanov drops his wrist instantly, almost as if he had been burned by his words. “Very well.”
Shane is suddenly very aware of the lack of contact. He didn’t like the feel of Rozanov’s skin against his own, per se, it was just the physical weight. The pull. The need. The ghost of his hand around him.
A stupid part of him wants to reach back out. Have his hands touch him again to see if it feels any different this time. If it’s just his brain playing tricks on him from his lack of intimacy recently that Hayden loves to keep reminding him of. He feels as though he’s teetering on the edge of something, and one move will lead him to something he can’t come back from.
He glances around, making sure that they alone, and nobody is watching them from the shadows and without thinking twice he shoves Rozanov towards one of the cleaning closets. Rozanov goes willingly, and when Shane kicks the door shut behind them, he lets out a little breathless laugh. “Fucking finally.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Shane says, crossing his arms across his chest and making sure there is a fair bit of space between them.
“You.”
He flicks Shane on the nose, and Shane scowls in response. “Enjoy playing hard to get.”
“You have not got me. I just don’t want any of the staff overhearing our conversation and coming to any conclusions.”
“Ah yes, conclusions,” Rozanov nods, taking a step forward and cornering him. Shane takes a step back trying to maintain their space, but it doesn't take long till his back hits the solid brick and Rozanov looks down at him. "And what would they be?"
Shane isn’t sure who moves first but then they are kissing. If you can call it that.
Rozanov's lips are rough against his own, punishing for putting up such a fight, as they press against him and it doesn't take long till his tongue forces its way into Shane's mouth. He tastes distinctively of cigarettes and Shane would put up a complaint if he isn't turning his mind to mush as his body begs for more. Shane’s hands remain at his side though, curling into his own shirt, refusing to reach out and touch Rozanov, even when he can feel him half hard against him.
“Get on your knees.” Rozanov says, breaking away from the kiss in favour of leaving sloppy kisses down his neck. Shane doesn't have it in him to warn him about not leaving marks.
“What?” Shane laughs, almost hysterically but Rozanov isn't smiling anymore.
“I said it in English." He frowns. "Get on your knees.” Wordlessly Shane finds himself complying, trying to hide the wince when his leg twinges at the action and watches as Ilya unbuckles his belt right in front of his face.
A hand comes to his face, swiping a thumb over his cheek. The softness from the touch, in contrast to the harshness he recently displayed almost gives him whiplash and Shane has to steady himself for a moment. "You okay?"
"Yes I'm fine," he bites back, doesn't want to think Rozanov to think that he's some fragile model who can't even get through a closet hook up.
"If you are not fine with this then–"
"For fucks sake Rozanov just let me suck your dick."
His cock is within his eye line, straining against the thin grey fabric of his boxer briefs. Cautiously he nuzzles against his cock through the material, he doesn't know what he's doing but he isn't about to let Rozanov know.
"Have you done this before?" Rozanov asks him, his hands falling to Shane's hair and he begins to card his fingers through it and Shane has to physically stop himself from doing something stupid, like leaning into the touch.
"Yes." Shane says, indignantly, and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Rozanov's boxers and pulls them down.
He's big, is his first thought, a rather overwhelming thought as he stares at him and Shane leans forward staring.
”You going to do anything but sit and stare.”
Shane shifts forwards, leaving a kitten lick on the tip, it’s a strange feeling, the warmth and faint saltiness, as he debates his next move.
"You can do more than that." Rozanov rocks his hips forward encouragingly, pushing his cock into his mouth.
Shane does his best to relax his jaw, taking more of him into his mouth and tries to copy what he enjoys, what he's seen previous girlfriends do before. He begins to bob his mouth, making sure to tuck his lips over his teeth, getting into some sort of a rhythm as Rozanov lets out a low groan above him, his hands tightening on the grip on his hair.
Shane moans at the feeling, sending vibrations up Rozanov's cock, and his head falls back, hissing through his teeth. Shane can't help but feel more confident in his movements, as his hand starts to jerk off what he can't fit in his mouth. It's a strange heavy feeling in his mouth, a feeling he's quickly becoming obsessed with, as he can start to taste the salty pre cum in the back of his throat.
"You like this? Having something in your mouth."
Shane does his best to nod, as Rozanov begins to rock his hips, with more purpose, more control, the tip of cock touching the back of his throat and Shane does his best not to gag. He doesn't want to mess this up and embarrass himself or something.
"Close," Rozanov warns, his voice coming out all gravelling and when Shane doesn't make any attempt to pull off he grabs his face forcing Shane to look at him. "Where do you want me to come? In your mouth? Your face?"
Shane feels himself get impossibly harder, in his own shorts, at the thought of his come running down his face. At being used as something disposable for his pleasure When Shane doesn't say anything he uses the hard grip on his hair to pull him off his cock.
"What do you want?"
"My mouth. Please." His voice already sounds wrecked and he can only imagine what he looks like, on his knees, with mixture of precum and spit running down his chin like some sort of needy slut.
"As you asked so nicely I will give you what you want." Before he has a chance to respond, he is already feeding his cock back into his mouth and Shane welcomes it.
He takes his down as far as he can go, till he can feel tears welling up in the corner of his eyes and continues hollowing his cheeks, staring back up at Rozanov, who's swearing in Russian under his breath.
Rozanov's eyelids flutter shut as he comes, and Shane does his best to swallow through it, but it's too much and it doesn't take long till starts to trickle down his chin, mixed with spit and other fluids.
Rozanov pulls him to his feet, his grip tight to stop him falling, and before Shane can make any attempt to wipe it off, Rozanov is kissing him hard. As if he’s marking his claim. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Shane knows he will be able to taste himself on his lips, and it makes him feel heady at the thought.
A hand begins to run down his chest slowly, teasing at his nipples though his shirt, making him shiver. His fingers stops at the waistband of his shorts. Rozanov quirks an eyebrow before his fingers dip beneath, not where Shane needs him. Just teasing.
He pulls his hand away, and Shane whines at the absence of his touch.
"So desperate. You love this don't you?" Rozanov taunts, but his hands moves back to where it was, and pulls back the waistband before letting it snap against his skin.
He cups Shane through his boxers, the move full of confidence that Shane can only feel deeply envy about.
Shane gasps into his neck at the contact, as removes his cock out of his briefs and begins to jerk him off. His hand is rough, so different to previous people he’s been with. Where they were small and slight, Rozanov is large and hard.
His movements are unrelenting, even when Shane grip tightens on Rozanov's body, his breathing quickening as he reaches the edge.
It takes an embarrassing little amount of time for him to come, spilling over Rozanov’s hand who guides him through it.
When he’s caught him breath, and doesn’t feel like his legs are about to give way beneath him Rozanov helps to tuck him back into his shorts, his touch is soft. And then it’s as if nothing happened, leaving only sticky feeling in his pants.
Rozanov steps forward, gives him a quick kiss before editing back. Shane watches as pulls up his own pants, the movements of his hands fluid as he does his belt.
"Not too bad for a beginner. But you'll be a pro in no time," he says, not looking at him.
"What?"
Rozanov laughs, it's not exactly cold, but Shane shifts nervously on the spot as though suddenly very aware of his being, as he didn't have his cock down his throat minutes before.
"Not a very good liar, Hollander."
Shane decides to ignore him. Rozanov is the last person he is going to turn to for feedback.
Shane reaches for the handle on the door, before stopping himself and turning. There's one more thing he needs to say. "This doesn't mean anything."
"I didn't think it did."
"About me. I mean."
Rozanov seems to catch on to his train of thought and smirks.
Shane hates him. He wishes he had the guts to punch him in the face.
"Yes, sucking dick is not gay."
"Fuck off."
He slams the door behind him and tries not to think of the metaphor of leaving him in the closet.