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can a 4yo be sent to juvie

Max blinks.

Another message comes through before he can finish processing the question.

or is there a minimum age requirement?

hypothetically speaking

if they were to commit a crime

would they need a lawyer?

And... okay, what?? It's 7am on a Tuesday. He is in no way prepared for... whatever this is before coffee.

Brow furrowed, Max blearily presses the button to start the machine and stares at his teammate's texts, not sure whether to laugh or call an ambulance as he tries to figure out if Luca is losing it. A snort gets caught in his throat as his phone buzzes one more time (a, “times of the essence here m8” that earns him an immediate eye roll) and he taps the call icon before the defender has the chance to text him again.

"Do I need to drag you in for a psych eval or something, Oliveira? What the hell's going on?" Max can't help but tease as soon as the dial tone breaks into silence.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up." There's a rough, almost strained quality to his voice that Max can't quite place. "Me kid’s tried to kill me, and I don't want her going to prison. Your roommate does criminology."

He says it like it makes perfect sense. Like this entire interaction has been completely normal.

Max hears the catch at the end of the word and barely pulls the phone away from his ear before there's a sharp intake of breath and a harsh hH'itzsSCHhh! echoes down the line. The sniff that follows is so audibly congested it makes Max wince even as the missing pieces of this very confusing morning finally slot into place.

"Figured you'd be best to ask."

"Salud." He's unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "So, what? Harley brought a cold home from daycare and now you want me to ask my roommate if you need to worry about keeping your toddler out of prison?" His shoulders tremble with silent laughter. "... For attempted murder?"

Luca's irritated sigh crackles through the line, and Max's lips twitch again as he puts the phone on speaker and pulls out the ingredients to start on the breakfast he'd been intending to make before he'd been blindsided.

"Brought home a cold, he says." Max tries not to laugh. He fails, the sound breaking through in the form of an unattractive snort as Luca's voice dips into a croaky, poor imitation of the striker's accent. "You're joking! Not a cold, the bloody plague. Mate, I'm telling you, I can see the light. "

A handful of diced tomatoes land in the pan, and the clatter of the cutting board being dropped into the sink masks the breath he takes to avoid laughing at his friend outright as he rolls his eyes. Max waits, fingers tapping the counter in time with three drenching sneezes, and wrinkles his nose at the disgusting, gurgling quality of the noseblow that follows.

"Salud, dinero, amor."

Jesus, he really does sound awful.

"Nnd... sorry. So, gonna ask for us?"

"What? Dude, no. A cold isn't-"

"Plague."

"Whatever it is, I really don't think legal repercussions are something you've got to worry about here. You know, on account of she's four, and I sincerely doubt anybody is going to pursue an arrest of anybody over some normal household contagion. It’s a cold, not a felony."

He pauses to crack a few eggs into the pan and tosses the shells into the trash. "Besides, Lucs, the chances of you dying of the flu are beyond slim."

hH! hhH? heh-ehhh... hH'iTZSCHhh'uu!

"Salud."

A soft groan and another round of soupy sniffles sound over the line.

hhEH'tsSCHhhiew! "Guh... Says you. Gonna make sure Coach hits you with a proper 'I told you so' at me funeral- hH!"

hH'dztschh'eh!

A bright laugh bubbles up from Max's chest unbidden, and he gives a placating hum. "Bless you, bless you. I'm sure you will, and then I'll feel very guilty and regret not listening to you. Blah, blah, blah. But I'm still not bothering Jonah with a question that stupid."

Luca's only answer is a sneeze that just sounds indignant, like it's trying to prove the centreback's point for him.

"Bless you, sneezy." Max shakes his head with a fond huff. "Seriously though, man. No offense, but you sound like shit. You okay?"

Another cringe-inducing sniffle crackles through the line, and he hears him clear his throat. "Yeah, fine. Not gonna make training today, though."

Max hums, tossing two slices of bread into the toaster. Idle fingers swipe a few crumbs off of the counter as he steps back over to the stove and chuckles, the smell of coffee slowly filling the kitchen.

"Yeah, no shit, dude. You need anything? I can stop by the pharmacy before practice. Take Harley for a bit, let her watch drills if you need to rest?"

But Luca is already grunting in protest before he's even finished speaking.

"No, I'll be right. She's napping."

A muffled fit of coughs breaks through, sounding like they hurt. Real convincing, man. But pushing the issue has never gotten anybody anywhere with Luciano Oliveira, so Max only hums.

"Alright. Well, text if you change your mind, dude. You know none of us would mind stopping for you. I'll tell Coach you won't be in for a few days."

Luca only grunts, a vocalization Max has long since learned to read enough to pick up on the embarrassed gratitude behind the sound, and sneezes again.

"Salud. Go get some rest, Luca. And feel better, okay man?"

There's a pause filled with snuffling, and Max can practically see the way he's knuckling at his nose hard enough to rub it raw— something the whole team’s gotten used to witnessing every spring. He can even hear the congestion clicking faintly over the line before it fades into a sigh.

"Yeah. Might do. Cheers, mate."

Max makes a mental note to grab the cold meds and backup box of tissues from his spare closet when he leaves for the field later. Luca may have said he didn't need any help, but he thinks he knows the man well enough by now to recognize that he would benefit from a fever reducer at the very least.

Tonight, the NHL’s gathered in Las Vegas to celebrate the Art Ross Trophy, awarded to Ilya Rozanov for his impressive numbers he’s put on the board throughout the season. It seems like estranging Shane has only improved Rozanov’s game lately, while Shane’s team keeps asking if he plans on showing up to games anymore. Maybe Shane was just a distraction. 

Maybe it’s for the best. 

Hockey isn’t the only thing Rozanov’s absence seems to be impacting. 

Shane uses the motion and noise of everyone standing to muffle a cough into the sleeve of his suit jacket. 

He’s been feeling run down for weeks now, tired and hazy, sure, but now it’s blossomed into a cold that he just can’t seem to shake. 

Everyone begins to migrate to the ballroom for the after party but Shane lingers behind to cough in peace and tug at the sweaty, chafing collar of his dress shirt (and catch a glimpse of Ilya). 

He watches Hayden pass in front of the stage and towards the banquet hall. (The stage is empty). 

“You haven’t congratulated me on my victory yet.” 

Shane startles, soul ejecting right out of his body, like Ilya had jabbed him with a cattle prod. It scares him shitless. He whirls around and Ilya is standing behind him, hands clasped behind his back. He looks smug, but Shane can’t be entirely sure because he starts coughing before he can speak. His nose is starting to run again. 

There are a lot of things Shane could say to Ilya. Fuck off, why haven’t you answered my texts, I missed you, I’m so lonely without you, I hate you, I need you, please please please please please don’t disappear on me again, fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, and so on. But people are watching, because they are always watching but their gaze is especially heavy when it is the two of them. 

(Rozanov is a mess. Curls stick to his forehead. He’s sweaty all over, sticky and flushed down his chest. He’s smiling, tenting himself above Shane by caging him in with his arms. Shane’s left leg fell asleep an hour ago and lightning tingles in his toes but he doesn't want to move. Rozanov lowers himself and kisses Shane’s eyebrow and then his nose. 

“Your freckles. They are like stars. The Moon will get jealous.” 

Shane feels a little less self conscious about his freckles after that.)

Tears spring into his eyes with immediacy, brimming and waiting there for permission to fall. If they do, Shane will not give Rozanov the satisfaction of watching them. He really has to blow his nose now too.

“I’ll see you at the after party, Rozanov.” 

── ♡︎.

“We want you to be the face of our winter catalogue. A photoshoot to launch our new cologne, and then feature you in a series of sweaters and watches, all Hermès, all for our 2014 collection…”

The ice in Ilya’s drink has melted, now it is flat. He takes a sip anyway, affording him a glance across the room at What’s-His-Fuck One, Two and Shane Hollander. What’s-His-Fuck One is so loud, he keeps laughing for the entire room to hear and throwing his arm around Hollander which seems to jostle him out of a stupor every time. 

Hollander is disassociating, neither listening to his friends or to anything happening around him at all. He looks sad, but more than that, he looks tired. Hollander coughs into his fist, which he has been doing all night. Not that Ilya has been paying him any attention though.   

What’s-His-Fuck makes another joke, which riles up their entire pod again, and Ilya watches Shane wince and step away from the group. He says something quickly, and no one even acknowledges it, they just close the circle to accommodate for his absence. 

“Mr. Rozanov?” The brand ambassador he cannot remember the name of is looking at him expectantly. 

“Talk with my manager,” says Ilya, already halfway across the room before he realizes that he probably should’ve thanked him for his time. Whatever. 

Hollander almost beats him to the bar, but Ilya intercepts him a foot from the last open stool at the island. 

“Shane Hollander,” mutters Ilya. ”Are you enjoying the party?” 

There is a rosy flush to Hollander’s cheeks as though he’s been drinking but Ilya hasn’t known Hollander to drink before. The bridge of his nose is particularly pink, and the rest of his face is decidedly…puffy. 

“Fuck off.” Shane snaps. Ilya’s eyebrows raise at his tone. It is surprisingly callous for Hollander, who is typically so reserved. His voice is hoarse, like he’s an hour or two from losing it. Hollander looks miserable, ruffled in his very handsome suit, but uncomfortable and tired most of all. Like he’s sick. Hollander is so affected by Ilya. It’s addictive (he’s terrified). 

Ilya feels like a cat, playing with its food. He takes a sip of his watered down drink, because ruined vodka is a better flavor than guilt. 

“Ah.” Ilya grins around the lip of his cup, resting his teeth atop the glass. “Are you angry at me?” 

Hollander’s eyes bug out of his head, teeming with a poorly contained frustration. If smoke could come out of his ears, it would. 

“Are you sure you want to do this here?” He hisses through his teeth. He takes a step closer so only Ilya can hear. “People are starting to stare.” 

(For a rookie, Shane is surprisingly proficient in sucking dick. Ilya is trying his hardest not to thrust into his mouth and hurt him, but it’s growing more difficult as Shane learns what feels best. And Shane is a fast learner. 

Suddenly, Shane pulls off of him with the most lewd pop! His lips glisten with spit, plump and perfect. Ilya worries that he’s hurt, that his hair has been pulled too hard or Ilya’s squirming hips are too much to take, or that he’s simply unengaged. 

“Did you know you have a heart shaped mole on your thigh? Right here?” Between panting breaths, Shane manages a smile and points at the mark on Ilya’s leg. “Look. You’re not looking at it.” 

“I was about to cum and you were studying my marks?” 

Shane ducks his head, sheepish. “They’re cute.” 

Ilya drags Shane to his feet so he can kiss him again.)

They have attracted the attention of Hollander’s groupies at least. A few of them glance over at them, and then whisper amongst themselves. Are they waiting for a fight to break out? Or are they wondering when the best time to ask for an autograph is? (Can they smell the lust on him? Or worse, can they hear Ilya’s heart carving itself in the likeness of Shane Hollander?)

“What are you drinking?” 

Hollander looks foreignly at the glass in his hand. He clears his throat once and then again a little harder, behind a neatly closed fist. He sniffles softly. “Um, snf! Ginger Ale.” 

Ilya laughs breathlessly. Charmed, he pats Hollander on the bicep and steps around him to the bar. Ilya pats the bar top. “A shot of vodka for myself, and a glass of water for the captain.” 

Ilya motions to the singular stool open for Shane to take: a truce. This is neutral ground, too many people around, he’s sorry, he wishes he were better, he will do this again. 

Hollander stares at him for a while. Ilya wonders what he sees. His bottom lip quivers and Ilya’s body aches with the desire to kiss that tremor of uncertainty away. Hollander accepts the truce, and sits.  

The bartender sets the shot glass and the water down side by side. Ilya reaches over his rival’s shoulder for the shot glass, breathing in as he does. Hollander smells like his usual cologne, which is warm and earthy but there is also a medicinal undertone as well. Minty. 

Ilya takes the shot, no chaser, and returns his shot glass with the lukewarm cocktail from earlier. Shane takes a sip of his water. 

“Finish your water,” purrs Ilya, into his ear. Shane’s breath comes out soft and uneven and perfect. He registers the command, and blinks slowly, balancing on the brink of submission. Ilya continues. “Then go to the bathroom in the west wing hallway. Lock the door behind you.” Ilya steps closer until his front is fully flush against Shane’s back. “I will meet you there in two minutes. I will knock twice.” 

Ilya steps away from Shane, taking all the warmth with him by the way Shane shivers. 

“Yes?” 

Shane nods shakily, his brown eyes sparkling with obedience. 

“Good.”

Ilya turns on his heels and makes his way over to Marleau and his girlfriend. Behind him, What’s-His-Fuck Two rushes over and asks Shane what he wanted. 

Shane’s voice shakes when he whispers, “he told me to finish my water.” 

── ♡︎.

The time limit on Shane’s cold and flu medicine has run out. He tried battering his cold into submission but its breached containment. There is nothing more he can do but submit to the full weight of this cold until he can mercifully dose himself with another round of medicine. 

“ng’hieww!” 

Even stifled, the single stall bathroom makes the sneeze ring louder than Shane appreciates. He tears a paper towel free, and blows his nose. He’s done that far too often tonight, with thin bar napkins and rough paper towels. His nose is beginning to sting. 

He throws the paper towel away and washes his hands. 

He finished his water, like Ilya told him to. 

“h’sxch—yew!”

And now he’s standing in the bathroom waiting for Ilya to come collect him. Just because he said so. 

Is he an idiot? They haven’t spoken in months, even after Shane sent numerous texts to check in and yet, he still blindly followed Ilya’s orders to stand in the bathroom for him. Shane clearly hasn’t learned his lesson. 

Shane washes his hands and dries them again. 

He followed Ilya blindly into this and the likelihood of getting caught is far too high for this to even be worth it. He’s too sick for a hook up, and he’s angry at himself for even wanting it.

Pressure pulses behind Shane’s eyes. His head aches from the offensive overhead light. The mirrors are not kind and magnify how sick and gross he looks. The sound of his own breathing diagnoses him, phlegm crackling on each inhale and whistling on the exhale. He wouldn’t even be here if his mom hadn’t said it was so important. Maybe it’s best if Ilya doesn’t show up and leaves him alone to his misery in this lonely bathroom stall. 

“ngch—hew!”

Shane sneezes into his elbow first, leaving the crook of his arm wet, then frantically waves his hand in front of the automated paper towel dispenser. He rips a paper towel free and folds it over his nose. It scratches and rubs his upper lip raw. A miserably itchy tear rolls down his cheek. It hurts. 

“hh’ishhue! —tssh!” 

The paper towel is soaked. He tosses it away, and unevenly tears the next piece before the dispenser has even finished whirring out the entire piece. 

“tsshiu!” 

There is a knock at the door, two strong raps. 

(Totally totally totally totally totally this is totally fine.)

“Uh, h-hang odn,” croaks Shane. He needs to wash his hands, he still needs to sneeze, he needs Ilya to not find him like this but Ilya lingering in the hall is an even worse outcome so—

Shane unlocks the door.

Ilya saunters in, locks the door behind him and then turns to lean against the door. He folds his arms and watches Shane expectantly. 

“You thought I would not come.” 

Shane glares at him over the edge of his wet, crumpled paper towel. “Ndo.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows. He waves noncomittally at Shane’s face. “You are just crying, then?” 

“Ndo…I’m not…hh…oh God…” Shane puts as much distance between him and Ilya as possible, turning towards the sink. He crumples the abused paper towel in his fist and tucks his face into the crook of his elbow instead. He can feel the sneeze coming from far off, needling at a spot along the wall of Shane’s nose that makes his eyes water. His breath comes in trembling, shallow pants but doesn't snag into a deeper precursor hitch. 

Ilya’s dress shoes click on the tile as he crosses the room. Shane glances into the mirror and sees Ilya sidling up behind him. The tickle retreats mercifully. Ilya settles behind him, arms bracing either side of the counter so Shane is caged between the sink and Ilya. (Ilya is warm and the width of his chest is familiar). 

Ilya’s hand finds his waist, and even through a suit jacket his touch is searing. He rubs his thumb across the dip of Shane’s back. His blue eyes are piercing, watching Shane intently through the mirror. 

Shane steadies his elbow with a free hand over his face. “nG!” 

Ilya breaks into a wide grin. 

Shane uses his free hand to try and shove Ilya away from him but Ilya smacks his hand away with a laugh and presses into his back, pinning his crotch to the sink. If he blushes any hotter, he will incinerate himself.  

(Shane Hollander dies from hot, steamy, kinky sex! More on that and the weather at 7 PM!)

“hcH—yiew! hH? h’tss—yew!”

Ilya squeezes his hip, in lieu of a blessing. Shane appreciates it. 

“You are in the weather.” Rozanov says, gravely serious.  

The prickling in his sinuses evaporates enough for Shane to trust his ability to lower his arm. He feels like he is covered in germs. Still, Ilya manages to coax a small, crunchy laugh out of him. He turns in Ilya’s arms to face him, against the counter.

“Under the weather.” 

“Under?…” Ilya pauses and considers the correction, like he’s trying to make sense of the idiom further. He frowns, before he accepts the phrase for what it is and lets it go. “You have done one hundred sneezes tonight. They are too small, yes? Not so useful. But your nose? Very cute.” 

Ilya hums fondly and taps the side of his knuckle to the tip of Shane’s nose.

It’s suddenly all too tender. Ilya is here for sex, that much he has made clear and Shane has romance weaved into his DNA. He believes in the fairytale of love. He is wrung dry for Ilya Rozanov and this facsimile of care is a farce.  Ilya does not care about Shane, Ilya does not love him (but it is dawning on him with nightmarish clarity that Shane just might love Ilya). He has a weak spot in the shape of his initials. Parading around like it is anything less is going to kill him. 

A tidal wave of emotion cleaves Shane in two and tears rush into his eyes. Again. 

Shane is too tired to raise his voice, his chest aches too bad. He pushes Ilya’s hand away. He hiccups through the emotion, chest wrenching. “What do you want, Rozanov? I’m not in the mood to be toyed with tonight.” 

Ilya is quiet but his jaw continues to tick, the muscle flexing and pulsing. He is clearly thinking about something, but he doesn’t share. Shane doesn’t let the tears fall, he doesn’t share. 

“I want to kiss you.” 

Shane prays that one day he will have a firmer resolve. He’s dizzy. 

“Yeah, well, I’m sick so you can’t.” 

“I know I should not, but I want to.” Ilya’s hand slips up the nape of Shane’s neck, threading in his hair. “You make logic very difficult, yes?” 

Tension turns Shane rigid. He lowers his head until it rests on Rozanov’s sternum; he can't see Shane cry. It doesn’t even feel like he’s crying, tears just slip out of his eyes and roll down his cheeks and drip onto Ilya’s very nice jacket. He’s very tired.

“Shh…shh…” Rozanov pets his cheek with the back of his hand. He brushes the wetness from each of his cheek, muttering hushed phrases that Shane cannot understand but they sound reverential, like a promise or a vow. Shane’s lashes flutter shut, his pulse racing as the rest of the world fades away and he is reduced to the sensation of Ilya’s heart beat thumping under his cheek. “Shh.” 

Ilya’s ministrations pause and his hand abruptly cups the back of his neck again. It almost startles Shane, but Ilya doesn’t stop moving, slipping a few fingers beneath the sweaty collar of his dress shirt. Shane lifts his face, curiously. Ilya grumbles, and then completely startles Shane when he presses his cool lips to his forehead. 

Ilya hums. “You have fever, you know this?”

Oh. Well that would explain the…everything. 

Shane groans. Ilya leans back, and Shane’s eyes don’t track him. He’s mentally floating in the middle of nowhere, far away. 

“Let me—no, I am not going anywhere. I am just grabbing this, look.” Ilya places a hand on the back of Shane’s head when he whimpers. Ilya reaches past him to the paper towel dispenser and rips a long section off. He folds it into a neat square and nudges the faucet on. He soaks the paper towel and then squeezes out the excess water. 

Shane doesn’t particularly care to look. He is at the height of his misery for the day. His eyes are grainy and itch, which is neither better or worse than the stinging burn in his throat. Congestion is cemented in his head, which makes breathing alone a herculean task and the quiet reprieve of the bathroom has been the least overwhelming place he’s been all day. Ilya brushes the cold towel down the bridge of his nose which makes Shane’s eyes fly open with a gasp. 

“Izvinit,” Ilya apologizes. He uses it enough that Shane can recognize it now. He wipes the flimsy makeshift cloth over Shane’s brow bone, and then down his temple. He wipes the tear tracks from his cheeks, and then down his chin. “Only you make being sick cute. Being sick is gross, everyone else? Ew, gross. But you are cute.” 

Like magic, all the tension, the fear, the insecurity, the anger; it stops. 

Shane wants to share this with the entire NHL. He wonders how many of them are loved behind closed doors. It is an award to be seen. 

“Tip your head up,” he taps his chin. Shane complies automatically. Ilya makes a pleased sound. “You listen so well for me.” 

Shane sniffles and Ilya folds the paper towel over his pointer finger and wipes beneath Shane’s nose for him. It is cold but feels nice on his abused nostrils. He feels untethered, fuzzy and light. 

“h’eschh! hH…cH—yew!”

“Bless.”

With his dry hand, Ilya kneads his knuckles into Shane’s cheeks. He pets circles up and down his neck and up to his hair line. Shane turns his head this way and that, following Ilya’s movements, hungry for praise. 

Shane’s head feels too heavy to hold up. He lets it drop unceremoniously against Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Look at me,” whispers Ilya. He pets his finger down the length of Shane’s nose. He’s fixated, petting the bridge over and over again. “Don’t fall asleep. No, no, no, you cannot sleep on me here. Look at me.” Ilya grips him by the chin, forcing him upright. It takes a moment for Shane’s eyes to focus, and when they do, Ilya is doing a poor job of concealing a smile. Shane sniffles a few times, then frowns. 

“Go tell your teammates goodbye.” Ilya sandwiches Shane’s cheeks in his hand, forcing his lips to pucker. “My hotel is two blocks over, room 1608.” 

Shane worries if Ilya lets him go, he will topple over right on to the bathroom floor. His face feels cooler, head a little clearer. He wipes his wrist beneath his nose to keep it from running and then grimaces when he remembers his shirt costs nearly as much as a car payment. 

“I’m too sick to do anything tonight. I’m sorry.” 

Ilya shakes his head. “No, no, I want to…”

(Ilya declines four separate calls before he decides maybe he should answer the fifth. He takes it in the bathroom, and by the sound of his tone, it isn’t a very happy conversation but what did Shane know? When he comes back, the mood of the night shifts and a hook up doesn't really feel appropriate anymore. 

His eyes are sad but Shane isn’t brave enough to ask why. 

Shane pushes up and motions to his lap. “C’mere.”

“What?” 

“Let me rub your shoulders.”

“Why?”

Shane pats his lap more insistently. “What is this? Twenty questions? Just trust me. Come here.” 

Ilya rolls his eyes theatrically, but crawls up the length of the bed. He settles over Shane’s legs like an oversized cat. When Shane begins to knead his back, Ilya lets out a heavy, guttural sigh. He tucks his face safely in Shane’s thigh and doesn’t say anything. Shane doesn’t ask anything of him, and holds no expectations. It’s quiet.  

Ilya falls asleep like that. 

Shane leaves before he wakes up, but knowing he is able to put Ilya to sleep is like a badge of honor.)

Ilya's throat bobs, and he wets his lips. The bathroom feels very small and hot. “Just come.” 

Shane wants him so bad his teeth ache with it.