Chapter Text
Shane Hollander was dead. And to his chagrin, it seemed that he was in hell. He found himself in a large room decorated mostly in shades of red, black, and grey. There was a large window next to where he was reclining, but outside he could see nothing but flames. Startled, he tried to sit up, but heard a deep voice speak into the cavernous room.
“Hello Mr. Hollandar.”
Shane looked across the room to where the voice had spoken, and saw a man seated in the corner. A beautiful man. Was this the devil? He looked the part - languidly sprawled across a leather club chair like a giant cat.
But was the devil Russian? Shane was sure that was a Russian accent.
“Where am I?” Shane croaked, and was embarrassed to hear how rough his voice sounded. And of all the things that really mattered right now, (Was he alive, or dead? Was he in heaven, or hell? Who was in this room with him?) embarrassment over the quiver in his voice should be the least of his worries. Actually, it looked like he was in a very expensive, if not darkly themed hotel suite.
“You think there are hotel rooms in hell? With the quality of leather you're sitting on? The man asked, one eyebrow raised, his lips twisted in a mocking little smile.
Shane looked down, and he was indeed reclined on a butter soft leather chaise lounge- à réglage continu. Nice. His hands gripped the sides, desperate for something to hold onto; the coolness of the metal grounded him, and helped raise the hope that maybe this wasn’t hell after all - despite all appearances.
“Good eye, but listen, I am not devil.”
“But you can…”
“Read your thoughts? Yes.”
“So this is hell?”
The “not-devil” laughed. “Is that what hell is to you Shane Hollander? Being heard? Well, yes. I guess it would be.”
Shane tried to muster up the indignation to bristle at that, but couldn’t manage it. In fact, that was hell to him. Being exposed. Being seen. Losing control of himself, and how he was perceived… The flames out the window could only kill him. Or….
Shane looked at the man again, and couldn’t help but notice his long legs, and the way the fire light made his curls seem golden. He looked away quickly, deciding that was a bad idea. If he really could read his thoughts, it was best to have as few as possible. He pushed himself up further up in his seat, needing to feel grounded -wanting to place his feet on the floor - wanting to feel ready, (though for what he didn’t know). But this room - this place, felt so foreign, so off, that even touching the floor felt dangerous; so he just hunched forward slightly, his legs still too elevated on the chaise to feel anywhere near comfortable.
Shane asked, “So, who are you then?”
“I’m your jailer. Mmm maybe?”
“But you said - “
“Or your jail-mate? I’m your judge and jury. Or maybe just your guide? You are not in hell Shane. But -” and here, the man tilted his head back and forth, as if he was explaining the differences between oranges and tangerines, and not discussing the complexities and fate of Shane's everlasting soul, “you’re not in heaven either. You did bad thing Mr. Hollander. We’ll see if you are bad boy.”
Shane stood up. Suddenly the potential danger of the room paled in comparison to the fact that he was alone with a man that looked like…. that, who’s job it was, was to literally judge him, AND who could read his mind…..oh god. He felt his heart start to race, as panic began to set in. He really fucked up this time. His throat and chest felt tight. Suddenly, and with shocking vividness, he remembered the lake - and dying. Sort of. He had flashes of immense clarity dashed through fog. He remembered the pain.
“Relax.” the maybe-devil said, adjusting himself in his chair. “Reading mind is part of what I do here. It’s ah…..” he spun his hand in a slow circle, thinking how he wanted to phrase the next part. “It’s how I know for sure what to do with you.”
“Do with me?” Shane asked, as he began to creep towards the door at the far wall, and watched as the man's lips curved into a tiny smirk again. The gesture pulled only slightly at one half of his pink lips. Shane watched as he licked them.
“Da” the devil said. “I am your custodian here in Limbo. And… I would not do that if I were you.” He tisked, and tilted his head subtly towards the door Shane had been eyeing. Shane didn’t dare move another inch.
“Limbo?” he asked. And tried desperately to remember anything about what the fuck Limbo was supposed to be, but his mind still felt sluggish, and unable to fully accommodate this new reality. He felt pressure all over his body, as if he was still under the water, but he was no longer cold. Minutes ago he would have considered that a blessing, but already he was starting to feel uncomfortably warm.
“You will call me Roz.” The man said as he reached for a glass on the table next to him. It was full to the brim of ice, and dripping condensation on the table’s wooden surface. Shane watched the glass as it moved to the man’s lips, and then back again in a lazy arc. Shane was trying to keep up, but all he managed to say again was,
“Limbo?”
“Yes.” Roz said, sounding irritated now. “This is what I just said, no?”
“Yes, right. Sorry.” Shane said, trying to sound appeasing. He lowered his eyes, and tried to take stock of the room around him, without being noticed.
Roz sighed, and brushed his curls back from his brow. “It’s okay.” he said as he took another long drink from his glass.
“Sit back down.” It was clearly an order.
Shane looked back at the chaise. He had only made it maybe 4 feet away, and now his attempt felt ridiculous - a fool's errand. And while the distance he managed was measly, the few steps it took to walk back felt like a total loss. A failure. Humiliating. But what else could he do? Well, he wasn’t going to recline in that thing - that was for damn sure. He’d just sit on the edge, so he could listen to what Roz had to say, and then think of another way out of here.
This devil - Roz, was the picture of ease as he reclined back in his seat. One elegantly turned ankle rested on his knee, as he looked Shane over. He took his time looking, so Shane carefully looked back. Roz was dressed in formal attire; black slacks, and a white shirt, still tucked in, but unbuttoned almost to his belly. Shane noticed that he was barefoot, which for some reason made the room feel suddenly smaller.
He still avoided eye contact, but managed to speak.
“Can I ask one question, please?....Uh Sir”
Roz made a dismissive huffing sound that had Shane peeking up at him.
“No, ‘Sir’. Just Roz.”
Shane felt his cheeks flush, but he needed to push on.
“You said, I’m in Limbo, but you’re not the devil. So, what are you?”
Roz shrugged one shoulder as if the question was boring, or at least unimportant.
“I am me.”
Shane eyebrows lifted, not sure what to do with that answer. He didn’t want to push his luck, but that answer gave him nothing. Roz must have seen something in his face though, because he sighed mightily and pushed himself up from the chair, as if dealing with Shane’s questions was the most banal of tasks.
He walked over until he was standing not a foot away from Shane, taking up all the space, and all the air with it. Shane finally looked up into his eyes, desperate to back away, but fuck if he was going to lie down infront of this thing.
Roz looked down at him with fire in his eyes. Shit. Was that actually fire? Something smoky and golden flared like ribbons in his gaze, and Shane felt himself grow weak the longer he looked into them.
A feeling of deep and unbearable heaviness took him over. He’d never fainted in his life, but was horrified to think that was what was about to happen. He used all his strength to not shrink away, to let himself fall or be weak. He could do this. He was the number one player in the NHL! He was an Olympic gold medalist! He was.….”was”, his mind reminded him. You're nothing now. Less than. You're not even alive.
To his horror Shane heard himself let out a whimper of despair, just as Roz took him by the chin. His grip was absolute, and he forced Shane's face up to meet his gaze again. When did he look away? He couldn’t remember.
“I am the demon Roz.” He spoke, and Shane felt the sound reverberate in his chest. A high pitch ring started in his head, an alarm over which only Roz’s voice could be heard. Thunder over a monsoon.
“I am your custodian. Your master. While you are here, you belong to me, and I alone will decide your everlasting fate.”
Shane was losing his battle of consciousness, and felt his sagging body trying to rip his face from Roz’s granite grip. The last thing he heard before Roz released him to let his body fall backwards on to the chaise was,
“So tell me Shane Hollander - why did you try to send your own soul to hell?”