HE HAS A LOT OF FREE TIME, NOW. Being kicked out of the one thing keeping him in the States has given him a lot of time to burn. He thought of going home, seeing mama again. Being around her, spending time in Sweden, would probably be better for him. He'd be more grounded there, supported more than whatever it is that King and Linnea and Trinh are trying to do for him. They're trying, yes, and it is sweet, but it falls flat.

Sweden didn't sound as appetising when he realised that he'd have to explain to his mama why he wasn't playing hockey anymore, and that, if he didn't get better, he may never play hockey again. He has a strong stomach, but he doesn't think even he could stomach the look on her face.

Free time has led him almost everywhere. He trails behind Linnea on her journeys to fashion shows, sits backstage and chats with her while three makeup artists work on her face and two hairstylists work on her hair. His own modelling gigs have been dying out what with his absence from the spotlight and King's helicopter parenting. They went to France and Germany, but Linnea pulled out of the show in Iceland when she caught bird flu in Milan.

It's fun, travelling without obligation. Kalle finds peace in it. It keeps his mind busy. And, plus, going to a bunch of capital cities and places with different cultures makes it that bit easier for him to eat. Under the pretence that he may never have such an opportunity to eat escargot or currywurst again.

The lady that King hired to pick Kalle's brain apart, a tiny woman in her fifties who always hugs him after their sessions, named Ms. Zeigler, somehow managed to equate from how little he'd opened up to her that Kalle's eating disorder (which was still a very daunting term for him), didn't stem from any body image issues. Which made sense. If he hated how he looked, he wouldn't be parading himself around, showing up on billboards, making as many public appearances as he did.

It was about control. Having control over something, anything, even something as simple as food. He'd been good, at the start, when he came to America. It was all exciting, all new. The haste of being at one place with another scheduled in fifteen minutes gave him a sense of purpose. Everyone was trying to get a piece of him, and it was great. He was the shit. Who wouldn't want that?

Turns out, after the first couple of months, he wouldn't. But he was already in too deep. Kalle's performances only got better on the ice, and as a result, people wanted more of him off of it to match. He was beyond burnt out by the time his rookie season had ended, but promises were already made on his behalf, contracts he had signed when he could barely read English, let alone scrawl his own name in it. And over time, it just built, and built. And built.

It was a scary thing, not having a say in what you did, where you went, when you did it. Like a puppet on strings, he did as he was told because what would happen to him if he didn't? He'd be difficult. A nightmare to work with. A snob who let fame get to his head. And that'd be worse than slinking into photoshoots without any sleep, or babbling through interviews on an empty stomach, or taking pictures with fans when, really, he wanted to strangle them and say 'Look at what you did to me.'

But, Ms. Zeigler says he's getting better. So, that's good. Even if Kalle wants to vomit at the thought of getting back on the ice.

❄︎

'FAILED HIS DRUG TEST.' 'Misconduct.' 'Breached his contract.' 'Got arrested.' 'Probably came out and the big guys didn't wanna take that fall for him. He's a giant fag, Rozy.' The idea that coming out can get you indefinitely suspended from the MLH makes Ilya's chest feel a little tighter as he inhales his cigarette, choking down the smoke with a lot more effort than he normally needs as his teammates' voices and their theories bounce around in his skull.

None of those estimates fit, though. Maybe the version of Kalle that they know, but not this version of him. The one splayed out on his back, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes as the hand slung behind Ilya's shoulders toys gently with the chain of his crucifix, sheets low around his hips, brown skin gleaming with sweat. His mind is somewhere else, which isn't uncommon for any of them after sex. Sometimes, the absurdity of their weird throuple situation hits Ilya like a truck, and it often gets worse after blowjobs or fucking or a specific, babbled string of words.

He doesn't want Kalle to think about any of those things, though. Not now. Not when it's them together and it hasn't been this way in literal ages. He sees Shane more than Kalle, and while he's definitely not getting tired of Shane, it always feels like there's something missing when it's just the two of them. Right now, as tender and fragile as it is, this moment also feels like it's missing something. It's rare for the three of them to be together. It's happened maybe three times since Vegas, for All-Star events and press and trade discussions and whatnot. But it's perfect when it does happen. Doesn't come with thinking, and somehow skips out on the whole guilt aspect of things. It's just them.

Oops. Ilya's thinking about it. 

"...Ew." Kalle scrunches his nose when he feels teeth against his fingertip, playful and nipping. He wiggles his hand out of Ilya's grasp and swats his mouth lightly, and though he laughs, he doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling. His laugh, also isn't quite there, as is the rest of him.

Ilya looks at him for a long moment and then rises onto his knees, only to flop back down and smother Kalle with his weight. The younger man makes an 'oof!' sound as the Russian lays limply over his smaller frame, his face smothering against the side of Kalle's own like an overly friendly dog. A hand pushes at his head, but he doesn't move.

"Get off of me." Kalle shows his teeth in what must be an attempt at intimidation, but Ilya smiles against the flesh of his cheek, and he turns his head away to hide his matching grin. His hand delicately traces the rivet between Ilya's shoulder blades once he's adjusted to the mountain of muscle weighing down on him, and the blond lets out a content huff at the feeling. "I'm going to die like this."

"That," Ilya begins, with that same wolfish grin, raising his eyebrows. "Would be a magnificent way to die."

"Of course you would say that." He shoots back, narrowing his eyes. He's met with a wiggle of eyebrows, and he rolls his eyes petulantly. Ilya doesn't speak for a long moment and instead just soaks in the feeling of skin-on-skin. It's been too long since he's had Kalle like this. Too long being two weeks. But, still. Too long.

Part of him wants to ask about it. His suspension. It felt empty today, playing the Emberhawks. Normally, Ilya's all for an easy win, but the whole match, he just felt overridden with concern. That, and the same empty feeling of emptiness, of a missing piece. How bad must things be for Kalle to be suspended? Nobody asks for a suspension. Was it drugs? A breach of contract, misconduct, a police report? Had he came out behind their backs? Was the MLH so against it, it got brushed under the rug so well that Ilya and Shane hadn't even heard about it?

Kalle isn't on drugs. With drugs and the intervention of them, there's withdrawal. He's not going through withdrawal. Ilya's been around it enough to know. A breach of conduct is unlikely considering he'd been crowned with the Sportsmanship award. It'd been a while ago, yeah, but something must've gone really wrong for him to switch course so suddenly. And coming out? That's not what happened. He can just feel it.

Maybe he's sick. Ilya thinks to himself, staring maybe a little too hard. The word 'sick' always brings himself to a time he'd like to forget. Being twelve and hearing that word thrown around constantly. Nobody calling it what it was. Still, nobody calls it what it is. Just 'sick.'

"...When's your next game?" Ilya asks, lifting his head to stare down at him with those blue eyes that are somehow so angelic, even though they belong to him. If Kalle can feel the pitched up pace of his heartbeat against his own chest, he says nothing. It's a layered question. An invite to open up if he wants to.

The brunet shrugs, making sure to look away as he does. His eyes drift to the alarm clock on his nightstand that reads nine pm, and his hand languidly drifts upwards to drum his fingers on the dark oak, his other hand still decorating Ilya's back with invisible shapes. When he looks back, Ilya's studying his face far too closely for his liking. Something flips in his stomach, and he doesn't know if it's dread or excitement. Whatever it is, Kalle doesn't have it in him for a second round. Or to hold that gaze for much longer. He flops his head back atop the pillows, baring his neck, which Ilya eagerly leans up to start pressing chaste pecks against. When he giggles, his throat bobs and his shoulders shake.

That's the laugh that Ilya knows.

"I will be at your game against Montreal." He says quietly, his hand drifting up the nape of a pale neck and rooting in the messy, slick curls there. He feels Ilya smile against him. It's a heady feeling. He brings his head forward, but Ilya keeps his face against the hinge of his jaw. He furrows his brows as he feels teeth graze just beneath his earlobe, a pleased noise falling from his parted lips. "King wants me to... Mh, show up. So people know I am not dead. Or doing heroin."

"You can go to hockey game while on heroin." The blond scrunches his nose, his mind fogging up slightly as his hands rake down Kalle's sides to hold his hips. He feels the rungs of his ribs a lot easier than he once did. He thinks that weight loss is a withdrawal symptom. His throat feels unnecessarily tight as he asks, "You are not on heroin, though. Right?"

"You could tell?" It's meant to be a joke, but with how the amusement in Ilya's features entirely slackens, Kalle doesn't think he found it funny. With a palm against his shoulder, he gently presses the blond up and off of him, until Ilya's straddling his hips. He eases up onto his elbows and shakes his head. "No. No heroin."

"Do you promise?" That feels far too personal.

"Yes." Kalle agrees mindlessly anyway, patting the outside of Ilya's thigh. He lifts himself up and off, plonking down onto the mattress as the smaller man throws the covers off of himself and stands up.

"Then what's...?" Wrong with you? goes unsaid. He hadn't meant to pry, but the longer that they dance around this topic, it gets harder to ignore. And it doesn't really help Kalle's case, the fact that he wants to keep it hidden. How bad must it be for him to not want to say anything about it? To keep it under several layers of secrecy?

Once he's tugged on his boxers, Kalle looks back at Ilya with a pinched face that suggests he didn't appreciate that question. He regrets asking it. Asking the start of it, at least. If he was ill, he wouldn't appreciate someone nosing around in his business. But, he supposes, Kalle must get that anyway. From reporters, gossip outlets, irritated sponsors.

"Lower body injury." Kalle speaks, thankfully. Ilya stares at him with concern.

"Too much sex," He continues, his voice echoing off the tiles of his ensuite as he continues to talk. "With your mother."

Ilya laughs at that stupid chirp, rolling over to lay on his back with his hands against his chest, listening to the sound of Kalle clunking around with the no doubt ridiculous shower he owns. But, unfortunately, with the mention of his mother comes the reminder of sickness. Kalle's sickness. Which he wants to hide.

The water starts to run in the background of Ilya's racing thoughts, and he only comes back to reality at the sound of a voice that isn't his. "Are you coming?"

The weight in the centre of his chest makes it considerably harder to get up.

❄︎

ILYA'S NEVER BEEN KNOWN FOR HIS PHENOMONAL TIMING, but this has to take the cake. The three of them are sitting in the lobby of the MLH headquarters, not a breath shared between them all as they wait. King got an email yesterday, requesting Kalle's presence for a meeting in Boston before Ilya and Shane's big game, to discuss. Discuss what? King didn't know. Kalle and Linnea didn't know. They still don't know, even as they wait like lambs to slaughter for the co-chairman to give them a scrap of time. They look like idiots, all dressed up. King and Kalle are in suits, and the younger man had been forced into King's cologne -- The pungent, middle-aged man kind that sears nostrils and lingers for too long -- And Linnea's in a simple black dress. 

Kalle's phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he pulls it out to receive a stern glare from his agent, but ignores the judgement to stare at the notification. He immediately slumps into his seat and pulls the screen closer to his face to ensure nobody seated on either side of him can see it.

Lily created an Untitled Groupchat with Katie and Jane. Say hi!

Jane: What's this for?

Lily: To plan awesome sex.

Katie: i wish i was a citizen
Katie: ask me why

Jane: Me why?

Katie: so i could buy a gun

Lily: You are so mean to me.

Katie: if i had a gun i would be meaner

Jane: Kal, why are you already in Boston?

Lily: Stalker!!!!!

Jane: His location is on, it's fair game.

Katie: i am at a meeting with the co-chairman of the MLH to discuss

Lily: Discuss
Lily: ?????????

Jane: Holy shit! Discuss what?

Katie: i have no idea but i am glad we are mutually terrified

Jane: Big word! Good job.

Lily: Do not praise him.
Lily: You will give him boner before his terrifying meeting.

Katie: i am going to turn off my phone now

Lily: Noooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jane: You'll do good, Kal!

He clicks his phone shut with a sigh and slips it into his back pocket again, lolling his head back between his shoulders and trying to take Shane's words to heart. He'll do good. He doesn't even know what this is about! He'll be fine. He's got this. This isn't scary at all. It's not like one wrong word or some botched translation will have him a has-been living with Mama and Arvid and only exiting the house under the most extensive disguises to hide the fact that he's a nobody. Not scary. At all.

"Kalle?" The pretty receptionist pokes her head up over the big desk. "Chairman Koskinen will see you now."

He doesn't even remember getting to his feet, but he does remember when King and Linnea stand up because the receptionist smiles at them awkwardly and shakes her head.

"Oh, uhm." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, and Kalle hopes that the pretty receptionist hasn't been withholding information from him for the past twenty minutes. "Just Kalle. Thank you."

King pats his shoulder and Linnea squeezes his hand, but even with their consolation and Shane's text bouncing around the rounded corners of his newly emptied mind, Kalle can't help but feel like this hallway isn't a hallway, and more a carpeted, sleek catwalk leading directly to his untimely demise.

He'd be half right.

❄︎

MIKAEL KOSKINEN WAS FINLAND'S PRIDE AND JOY BACK IN THE DAY, now retired, sitting behind a big, shiny desk and smiling at Kalle the same way the receptionist had smiled. It doesn't reach his eyes, nor does it reach the apples of his cheeks. Just a curl of his lips meant for aesthetics and nothing more. He's got bleach blond hair that starts to look grey the more you stare at it, skin that's flawless and more orange than what a natural tan would bring, and he wears chunky rings and wears a suit as well. He has the middle-aged man cologne smell and an ashtray on his desk. Good to see Kalle fits in.

"Ah, there he is! Mister Colmenares. The pleasure's all mine, really." His accent his long gone, warped into something that's uncannily American. Not that Kalle was around to see the start of Mikael's career, but he heard stories of him back at camps and training and junior championships back in Sweden. A Finnish kid who didn't speak a lick of English, went onto become one of hockey's greatest stars and lived the American dream. A wife, three kids, a big dog, a massive house, an undefeated legacy left behind him. He was a ginormous deal for Finnish hockey, and for Swedish hockey, too. A sort of legend. A myth.

Kalle never cared for hockey growing up, nor for Mikael. But it's still scary to be in a seat across from him alone, no matter how velvety and squishy it is.

"Are you enjoying Boston?" He holds his hands out to gesture to his office, which isn't as lived in as he'd assumed. It's neat, too neat. As if it's only occupied when absolutely needed. Not as if it has a view to die for, or a giant TV on one of the walls, or a Bonsai tree that's withering with neglect. That aforementioned ashtray is entirely empty, as if he's never even cared to do something as simple as smoke a cigarette within these four walls. Three walls, if you don't count the massive window that unveils the streets of New York bustling and moving around beneath them. 

"...I have been before." He smiles tightly. One of his last games was here. Him and Rozanov had headlines for scoring opposing hattricks in the same match. One Google search would've told you that. "But, yeah. It's a very nice city."

"Good." Mikael nods at him and stares at him for a long moment. A moment so long that Kalle rethinks every single syllable he spoke, until the sound of elbows meeting wood fills the cloyingly quiet space between them and the blond is leaning against the table and peering over at him, rubbing his stubbled jaw with a ringed hand. "Listen, I can tell that you're the kind of man who doesn't like to waste time. So, I'm gonna cut to the chase Kal-- Can I call you Kal?"

No, fuck you. "Sure."

"Kal, I wanna talk to you about your suspension." He lowers his voice to a whisper on the last word, like they're talking about something forbidden, a secret nobody else know about. The public have noticed Kalle's absence, it's been impossible not to, but the word 'Suspension,' hasn't yet made its breakthrough. It's not a term that's thrown around lightly in the sports world. It doesn't help that 'Medically Advised Suspension,' sounds far worse.

Mikael's hands thwap palm down on the desk and Kalle blinks at the sharpness of such a motion. The man in the chair drags himself back to sit upright, his seat rolling smoothly to draw closer. He finds himself wanting to reel back, but his chair doesn't have wheels. He's, unfortunately, rooted to the spot.

"Me and Commissioner Crowell have been talking. And, we've decided that, because we're the big dogs," He laughs. Kalle does not. He looks like a child being told off, eyes big and wary as he hangs onto every word, unsure of the turn that they're about to take. He steels himself to hear something awful.

'You're sick. You can't play. Ever again. Bye-bye.'

"What team do you want to play for, Kal?"

He blinks. Mikael is waiting for him to respond. Oh. He didn't imagine that.

His brows pinch as if he's heard a sentence in a language he doesn't understand. "I am... Not supposed to play. Until I'm better."

"No, I know." Mikael nods. "We can't get you back on the Emberhawks for that reason, but any other team in the league would be happy to have you. You're a superstar, man! You can't be tamed!"

"But..." He shakes his head slightly. "I can't play until I'm better."

"You are better, look at you! You're here, aren't you? Your limbs are working, your mouth is moving, still look pretty as ever. You've never been better, Kal!" He leans in again. "You think that some dork with a PhD can boss you around? He doesn't know you. We know you! And we know that any time away from the ice must be agony. And so, we're offering you a work-around."

Time away from the ice has actually been a breath of fresh air. Time away from the ice has been beautiful and reverent and somehow healing to a part of him he never knew was broken. Time away from the ice has him never wanting to go back.

"Any team. At all. Name a city, it's yours. Boston, huh? You like it here, don't ya? You and Rozanov on a team, shit, that'd break the league. Or you and Hollander? Eh?"

Kalle stares at him for a very long time, and then at the desk, and then at his shoes. Every time he moves his eyes, a different part of his body curls in on itself. It's the dawning realisation of two things-- Hockey talk makes his throat burn like he's about to puke, and they don't care because they want him back on the rink as fast as possible.

His sickness is not a concern, nor a priority, it's an inconvenience. They're trying to pin him with a coach that only cares about a big name and teammates that only care about the honour and brownie-points of playing with him.

He, weirdly, misses Coach Morrison. And King. And Linnea.

"I'm sick." Is all he says. Very quietly, at that.

Mikael sighs and drags a hand over his face as if this is really straining him, and when his hand comes away, his smile comes away too. What settles in is not as civil. Agitated and strung-up, rather.

"...Can I be blunt? I'm gonna be blunt." He says one right after the other, and he ducks his head to make sure Kalle's looking him in the eyes as he speaks. "You're in the middle of your twenties, Kalle. Early in your career, yeah, maybe we could accommodate for... All of this. But, now? We're doing this for you, man. You could be thirty by the time you come back, and whenever that happens? You'll have five more years of good hockey in you before someone hip checks a limb out of place and you're retired. Bam. Just like that."

"And Sweden?" He continues, rattling it all off like clockwork. Speaking very cruelly comes easy to him, as does the snarl while he does it. "Sweden's a hockey hotspot. They're training a bunch of tiny little Kalle's as we speak. Sure, they may not have the same Mexican, immigrant sob story, but that won't matter 'cause they'll be faster. Fresher. And you'll just be the old guy who took all that time off because he couldn't swallow a couple of antidepressants and get on with it like the rest of us."

 "We are giving you an opportunity." Mikael says with a dry laugh, like it's unbelievable that Kalle hadn't dropped everything at his beck and call. "We are going against our own protocol for you, and you're just plugging your ears and singing? Do you understand your own absurdity right now?" 

The silence is smothering.

Kalle doesn't move for a while, his tongue running repeatedly over his gums, his eyes unblinking and shiny. He has a point, as pessimistically as he put it. Hockey's a fast-paced sport, and not just physically. Players come and go all the time. Scouted, drafted, traded, benched, fading into obscurity. It takes a certain stardom to stay atop it all, to have your name brought to the front of the line repeatedly and consistently. And he has it. It's all anyone's ever told it. Risking that for a few months of downtime seems stupid.

But, there's him. Himself. Those months spent in peace and quiet, surrounded by people he loves. Travelling, lazing, breathing. For once. Without expectation and without eyes and without obligation. Just existing with his friends and his... Whatever Ilya and Shane are to him. And it seems equally as stupid to risk all sense of self, all his progress, all of his steps in the right direction and his pride to appease an asshole like Mikael Koskinen and all the foamy mouthed higher ups that have their fingers crossed for this meeting to go well and get more money in their pockets.

Kalle lets out a long, deep breath. He stands up slowly, trying to keep his composure as his lash line burns with such brutality and his hands tremble with frustration where he gathers them neatly in front of his stomach. Mikael's snarl broadens to a slow smile.

"I'm Venezuelan, you pig." He smiles.

Mikael's face drops, and before he can think of another hook to sink in or another scenario to guilt him, the doors already opening.

"Shove your protocol up your ass."

The door, promptly, closes.

❄︎

"I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT! What an arrogant fucking-- Ugh! There are no words, I'm speechless. Really, truly speechless." Despite his alleged speechlessness, King continues to ramble all the way down the street, puffing on his cigarette and tapping the digital keys of his phone with a force that would definitely affect its response time in the future. "He can't do that to you, that's textbook bribery, as well as endangerment. Business-wise, this would've been the perfect opportunity to shine light on men's mental health, but, no. Just charge through it and keep playing. What a fucking pig--! Did you tell him he's a pig?"

"Yes." Kalle responds, his arm looped with Linnea's. The three of them look remarkably stupid trudging through the busy streets of Boston, but traffic was too stiff to get their driver here, and cabs do more harm than good in the city. Talk about a dent in your wallet. "I tell him put his protocol up his ass."

"Atta boy! See, I keep telling you, you gotta start snapping back at people. They give you bullshit about your time off, you lob it right back at them. Nobody's business but ours." King's head whips back to smile broadly at him, and he nearly falls down the stairs to the subway because of it. He allows himself to smile silently at the 'ours.' The leader of their troupe takes his cigarette out of his mouth to balance meticulously as he trails down the steps, two shadows following behind him.

The subway station is always active in New York, and though Kalle and Linnea stay packed together, King steps away to take a phone call and piss simultaneously. The poor soul on the other end of that line. He hands Linnea his cigarette and tells them not to get mugged, which might be easier said than done, standing in the underground dressed in a Dolce suit.

Linnea takes a drag of the flaming nicotine in silence. And it's then, he realises she's been quiet the entire walk from the MLH building. Probably thinking about all the different ways she could gut Mikael and his stupid cronies. She speaks, smoke flying from her pink painted lips, but it's nothing to do with the audacity of Kalle's meeting.

"Are you going out with Ilya?" She asks. He turns his head and watches her and hopes that his expression of put-upon confusion is convincing enough. "After his game tomorrow."

"Oh." He sighs in relief. "Uhm... I don't know. We will get drinks, maybe."

"Ah." She nods slowly, never taking her eyes off of him, like she's expecting him to follow that up with something. He doesn't. Instead just turns his head and lifts his gaze to watch the people pass them by. "...You don't think you guys will?"

"It will depend. If he wants to or not. Maybe he will be too tired. Or too busy."

"He should. You need some time together, you haven't seen him in a while." She shrugs. "Kennedy always makes time for me. Whether he's busy or not."

"Kennedy is your boyfriend."

"I know."

King emerges from the grotty public bathroom and makes grabby hands for his cig, still talking to what must be Trinh through his phone's speaker. He gestures for them to follow and when Kalle lifts his leg, it takes a great effort for it not to buckle entirely under his weight.

It takes far too long to him to process the intent of that short and snappy conversation. By the time he did, it was far too late to bring it back up and defend himself. And so he spends the whole subway ride home feeling like his heart is going to fall out of his ass.

He thinks this is the worst today can get, but just before they disembark at their stop, his phone buzzes.

Lily: Katie
Lily: You will come too?

He's not sure if he likes what he pictures when he envisions Ilya's house. But, it's something to do.

Katie: delete this number weirdo

Jane: Hi! How was your meeting?

Katie: i told him shove something up his ass
Katie: so pretty awesome

Lily: Ummmm
Lily: Normally you should avoid making anal jokes to hockey chairmen

Katie: ok thanks writing that down for next time ilya

Jane: It couldn't have been THAT bad..

Katie: i call him a pig
Katie: i start crying in lobby
Katie: receptionist give me a tissue but it smell like flowers so my eyes burn
Katie: and now i am on subway and i think i am standing in pee
Katie: i do not know if it is pee from human or pee from animal

Lily: Home sweet home <3

❄︎

NOTES,
filler chapter scratches neck..
TUNA MELT CHAPTER NEXT! it just didn't feel right to start it without tying up some loose ends and also i started reading the long game halfway through this chapter and i got to shane's meeting with comissioner crowell and i wanted to do it too LOL

linnea knows.. AHH! or at least she thinks she knows.. hmmmmm.. maybe she does maybe she doesnt.. i dunnoooooo..

i love ilya and kalle guys. they are beautiful and so precious to me. my angels my sweet boys

gahgahagahhgha its 2am on a school night and i just woke up with a spidersense cuz i remembered i rpomised to publish this chapter and i couldnt go without.. sorry for the wait again guys but anytime i offer up explanation i somehow go longer wtihout writing again so i SHANT. the writers curse is real.

THANK U FOR 20K!! AHHHH!! i love u guys i love u guys thank u so much for reading and loving this book as much as i love it no matter how inconsistent my updating is or how badly these boys communicate with one another,, i love it when other people enjoy my writing it gives me life,, every comment and vote and read and kind message means more than u know like yes this is wattpad but also i would take bullets for u all,, not sure i could survive 20k bullets tho,, wuhoh

thank u for reading next chapter will be more interesting byebyebyebye