They’d returned home last night after a week in Las Vegas, which had itself come after a week of nonstop parades and clubbing and bar crawls all around Ottawa. Shane didn’t think he’d ever been so exhausted. Somehow he’d slept on the plane for a solid five hours, only waking when the smell of the herbal tea Ilya got him from a flight attendant wafted past his nostrils. There wasn’t much better than being soothed by warm tea and the cuddles of an even warmer husband, that Shane knew for certain.

Ilya’s side of the bed was empty, and, as Shane found when he reached a hand over to brush against the sheets, cold. He scrunched up his face, hoping to relieve the lead-weight tension that was sitting in the middle of his forehead and around his eyes, but didn’t feel much of a difference. He sighed, still frustrated with himself for getting up so late, then rubbed at his nose and went downstairs.

Ilya was sitting at the kitchen table, humming along to some heinous Russian pop music and scrolling on his phone, a piece of toast on a plate beside him. “Good morning, Mr. Conn Smythe,” he said warmly when Shane sat down next to him. “I made some toast for you, but you have been sleeping so long that I ate almost the whole thing.”

Shane would tell people that while he was honored to have been awarded the Conn Smythe (again), the most important accomplishment was the trophy he’d won with his teammates. And while yes, that was true, he was secretly so fucking proud of himself. After the year from hell he and his husband had been subjected to, including having been disowned by his former team - those he’d considered family - he’d clawed his way back to the top. He’d left everyone who’d scorned him lying in a heap at the bottom of the pyramid. And snowed them in their faces with his skates.

He picked up the toast, which had a huge bite taken out of it. “Gee, thanks,” he said dryly, then finished it off, savoring the salty taste despite the fact that he was probably dehydrated. Ilya always made the best toast. (He probably soaked it in butter, but Shane didn’t really care about that right now.)

When Shane looked over after his finishing bite, Ilya was watching him with a gentle smile on his face. Shane put an arm around him and squeezed. “We fucking did it,” he said, ignoring the slight twinge in his throat when he spoke.

“We fucking did it.” Ilya guided Shane’s head down to rest against his shoulder, then pressed some kisses to it. They were quiet, Ilya no doubt reliving the same memories as Shane.

——

1-1 after the third. After all this team had been through - the punishing seven-game series in the first round, pushing through injuries and exhaustion and stress, everyone giving it their all on the ice in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, this would finally be the year - they were dying to get it done now. Today. If worse came to worst, they could lose this game and start all over again in Game 6. But the Centaurs did not want to go back to Oregon. “I want to hear OUR fans. I want to hear THEM scream,” Ilya shouted at the boys before the beginning of OT.

And so they fucking did.

Everything became madness after Ilya scored by beating the goalie on his far side. Shane had played and won in Montreal, one of the biggest hockey markets on Earth, and still he’d never heard an arena get as loud as this one. Then there was the team pile-up against the glass…Hayes zooming across the ice towards them, whooping, goalie stick flying in the air…the confetti, the crowd, Ilya’s sweaty curls sticking to Shane’s cheek, the WAGs kissing their men like they’d returned from war…none of the three other times Shane had been here were anything like this. This was unencumbered happiness like he’d never felt before, cranked up to a deliriously high level. When he looked into Ilya’s eyes, he knew why.

And then, the parade. Ilya, drunk on joy (and beer. Lots of beer), speaking eloquently to the crowd (until the “WE FUCKING LOVE YOU, OTTAWA!” which got the biggest cheer of the day) as tears streamed down his, Shane’s, and many of their teammates’ faces. This was more than just a win, but a beacon of hope for a city that had become a punching bag amongst NHL fans. “Ottawa Centaurs: There’s Always Next Year” was a slogan Shane had heard many times, even seen in person on more a few t-shirts around town. Nobody shit on a team like its own fans, but then again, the Centaurs hadn’t given them much to be optimistic about. Until now.

Finally, Vegas. Bood commandeering karaoke with a group of tourists from Guatemala, Ilya walking around the casinos doing his best De Niro face, Luca Haas making sure their younger teammates were staying hydrated and managing their liquor to a (semi-)sensible degree. Shane kissed his husband beneath the palm trees every chance he got, the most beautiful trophy in sports casually photobombing them in the background. Harris was thrilled to get some of this on camera, and for once, Shane wasn’t being shy about it. He had a husband, and he could kiss him! In public! (The champagne was helping, too.)

——

“It’s like a dream,” Shane mumbled, closing his eyes against the gentle carding of Ilya’s hand through his hair. How could he possibly feel sleepy again after he’d just woken up? Then again, he’d been up throughout the night from the sound of Ilya’s rumbling snores in his ear, as well as to frequently adjust the blankets and pillows. Nothing had quite felt correct against his body for the last few days for some reason. Even the sweats he was wearing right now felt strangely restrictive and a little itchy.

“It’s no dream. Not anymore,” Ilya replied, and Shane heard a little wobble in his voice. “It’s even better.”

Shane was about to tell Ilya that he loved him when he felt an itch tickle at his nostrils, then lodge deep inside his nose with an alarming quickness. He lifted his head and raised his elbow at the same time, muffling a soft “hd’tschh! ht’shiew!” and an involuntary little sigh into the fabric of his soft, comfortable Rozanov Centaurs tee. Immediately his eyes filled with tears, and he wiped them away with his thumbs. “Fuck, excuse me.”

“Ah, bless you,” Ilya said, sounding disappointed. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “I knew it.”

“Knew what? -snrf-” Shane winced at the stuffy snuffle that escaped him.

Ilya put an arm around Shane’s shoulders and rubbed gently at his bicep. “You are catching a cold, lyubimyy.”

“Ugh, no, don’t say that,” Shane complained, squeezing his eyes shut as if it could help him avoid his husband’s words. It didn’t do anything other than make the pain in his head intensify. “I’m just a little tired.”

Ilya frowned. “Being tired doesn’t hurt your throat. Or make you sneeze.”

How the fuck did he know…? Shane sighed again. Ilya was a fucking prognosticator, often able to tell how Shane was feeling just by looking at him. He was right every single time he voiced that Shane was getting sick - He’s just on a lucky streak, Shane thought, knowing deep down that luck wasn’t a part of this, especially judging by the discomfort in his throat and the everpresent tickle in his nose. Motherfucker.

Shane was determined to ignore his symptoms. They were going to have a great fucking day today, goddammit. “I’m fine, don’t worrihh…!” But the strong tickle returned, cutting Shane’s reassurance short as his breath began to hitch…and hitch…and hitch. As he stayed stuck in limbo, he was faintly aware of Ilya hopping out of his chair and power-walking out of the room. What the hell? Irritated and desperate for relief, Shane looked into the fan light above the table, hoping it would trigger—“hy’ih! h’ehh-? hsshiew! ah’ishhoo!”—something in his nose. He felt some wetness trickle out of his right nostril after the second sneeze, and he quickly covered his nose with a hand. Ugh, disgusting. He needed a—

Ilya returned with a box of tissues and set it on the table next to Shane. “Bless you, sweetheart.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Fuck, Ilya had even known that Shane was going to need tissues. Blushing, he took one with his free hand and dabbed beneath where he had shielded his nose from view. He felt himself turn even redder when he caught Ilya’s amused little gaze. “You don’t need to be shy around me. I think you have seen me blow my nose five billion times,” he joked, and Shane laughed and blew gently into the tissue. A kind of creeping exhaustion, the same he’d felt on the plane, was coming over him, and he couldn’t hold back the huge yawn that escaped him. “Aw,” he heard Ilya say softly, then warm arms wrapped around his shoulders and another kiss was pressed to the top of his head. “Too much fun. It’s catching up to you.”

Shane groaned. He’d take one extra night of being hungover over having a cold for a goddamn week. (Although…he was learning that it was harder to recover quickly from a hangover in your thirties than in your twenties, even as a world-class athlete. Especially when you slept next to a chainsaw-jackhammer hybrid of a man at night.)

“Wanted to make us breakfast,” he mumbled.

Ilya chuckled. “I think you’ve missed your window. But I could have pancakes and bacon any time of the day. When you feel better, of course.” He paused, looking contemplative. “I think I’ll get a McGriddle before I pick up Anya.”

Shane grimaced. “You’re gross.”

Ilya shrugged. “I know what tastes good.”

“You don’t know anything.”

Ilya tsked. “I know that my husband is a big meanie when he’s not feeling well. Lucky for him that his husband is so good to him anyway.” He kissed behind Shane’s ear, and Shane grinned and sighed happily. God, Ilya’s kisses always felt so good.

“I am lucky,” he replied. “Not everybody gets to marry an OT-goal-scoring-Stanley-Cup-winning hockey player.” He grabbed another tissue to blow into as the insufferable fullness filled his sinuses again. It…didn’t help much, and it made his ear pop a little.

“Yes. Is you and a bunch of very blonde women.”

Shane smiled beneath the tissue. “Lucky us, then.”

Against his better judgment, Shane lay back down in bed as Ilya got ready to pick up Anya from Shane’s parents’ house. He sleepily watched his husband change with an appreciative hum that came out beyond his control. Ilya winked at him and flashed him his six-pack beneath his tank top. “Woo,” Shane said softly as his eyes begin to droop.

“Back soon, milyy,” Ilya said in a hushed voice. Shane felt the blankets being pulled up to his chest, then lips pressing against his forehead as he drifted off.

——

The next day, laying in bed and watching Anastasia, Shane felt his nose begin to drip. He grabbed for some tissues and blushed furiously when Ilya paused the movie (again) so Shane could focus on tending to his nose. “There’s subtitles,” he mumbled before he blew, the sound soft and snuffly.

“Yes, but then you could not hear her singing, Shane,” Ilya said, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth (Shane was too tired to scold him for eating in bed) and turning to Anya in her enormous dog bed. “Who knew you had such a beautiful voice, my sweet girl?” he cooed as the Anya on screen sang “Once Upon a December.”

Shane laughed hoarsely, then coughed a little and rubbed at his chest, which had begun to ache a little. Ilya was at his side immediately, fussing with the blankets and petting a hand through his hair. “Make sure you’re drinking your tea, sweetheart,” he said, worry alight in his eyes. “It will keep you warm. Do you want a jacket?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said for about the twenty-fourth time that day. “I’m warm enough.”

Ilya searched his face for a few moments, then nodded. “Okay. But if you start sneezing again, I’m getting you another blanket.”

“Ilya. It’s July.”

“You can be chilly in July.”

“Yeah, maybe in Antarctica.”

Ilya reached over and cupped Shane’s face in both hands. “Shane. You are sick. Let me take care of you.”

Shane felt his cheeks warm again, and he realized that he was unable to relent. Not with those big sweet baby blues trained on him like this. “Okay.”

He felt himself wilting more and more as the movie progressed, and eventually he had to lay his heavy head against Ilya’s broad shoulder, then sit back up when it made his nose start to drip again. “Fuck,” he grumbled as something in his sinuses shifted, and he had to duck forward into a hastily-grabbed tissue. “hy’ITSChh’uu! hip’schiew! ISHhhuhh! hyihh-! hy’ishhhew!”

“Bud’ zdorov.” Ilya, who had paused the damn movie again, was true to his word and grabbed Shane another jacket because of course he’d been wracked with a full-body shiver after the sneezes. Shane drew the line when Ilya attempted to zip it up for him, however. “I can put on my own jacket,” he argued, then immediately sneezed into his elbow with a rapid “hy’ischh-ISHhuhh!”

“Mhm, okay. Bless you,” Ilya said, then continued zipping the jacket up to Shane’s neck. He…felt a lot warmer and cozier, actually, and he tipped his head back on Ilya’s shoulder and snuggled close in response.

“So what do you think of the movie so far?”

Ilya shook his head. “Is very unrealistic. That bat should at least be wearing a fur hat in this snowy weather.”

Shane giggled. Being sick wasn’t so bad when it was like this.

“I think I had a crush on Dimitri when I was a kid,” he commented a few minutes later.

Ilya gasped dramatically and put a hand to his chest. “Shane Hollander, you have a type? Are you trying to make me jealous of other hot Russian men with crooked noses?”

The buzzer for the end of the game is sounding. But that’s impossible. The game is still going on. Shane knows the game is still going on, because, alone in the home locker room, he can hear Coach yelling at him to get the fuck onto the ice. He’s late – the rest of the team have been out there for ages. But Shane can’t join them that because it’s not his Metros kit that’s hanging in the locker room; it’s his juniors kit. It’s his Kingston juniors kit, in the size that Shane wore when he was twelve – so comically small that none of it will come close to fitting. He can’t even get his feet into the skates, and it’s ridiculous to try but he’s trying anyway, because what else is there to do? And Theriault is still yelling that they’re losing the game – and the buzzer is going again – and that’s even weirder because the end game buzzer doesn’t ring twice – and now it’s ringing again, again, over and over and…

Shane opens his eyes. He’s not in the locker room anymore. He’s in his investment apartment, on the couch, where he meant to sit down just for a minute because he felt so exhausted after changing out of his suit. He sniffles, heavy and wet, because his nose hasn’t stopped running since he left the arena, and swallows painfully. He must have drifted off for… Shit. Half an hour, according to the time on his phone, which says ten minutes after ten, and he’s got five missed calls, and the buzzer is going again. But he realises now that it’s not the buzzer for the end of the game; it’s the buzzer for the apartment.

Rozanov. Shit.

He leaps off the couch far too quickly, and nearly collides with the coffee table, his proprioception shot from his body still being half-asleep and his head being full to the brim with congestion. He really needs a tissue, but he also really needs to get Rozanov – who is probably freezing cold, trying not to be noticed, and increasingly angry about what the fuck Shane is playing at. So the first thing he does is press the button to open the front door; he hears the thud of it closing seconds later. Then, he takes a moment to wipe away the crud that’s gathered in the corner of his eyes, and to slow his heartrate and breathing, because apparently being woken abruptly and sprinting a few paces is enough to make him feel like his chest is about to burst open.

The unfortunate consequence of being more awake is that Shane is more aware that he feels like shit. He was supposed to take cold meds before Rozanov arrived, but he hasn’t, and whatever little effect remained from the painkillers and decongestants that he took before the game has now gone completely. There is a stabbing headache behind his eyes, and a dull pain below his ears and across his cheeks. He’s cold, even though the apartment is heated to its usual temperature and he’s wearing a fleece-lined hoodie. So cold, in fact, that he shivers which is hell on his aching muscles – especially on the shoulder that took the brunt of the hit, and is already starting to stiffen. He should see the physio tomorrow, except that he almost certainly can’t because now that it’s not being held back by the meds, his cold is obviously and virulently contagious. He’s having to sniffle every few seconds to stop his nose from overflowing completely. And every time that he does, it triggers a prickling deep in the back of his sinuses that makes his eyes water.

Once his heart feels like it will stay inside his ribcage, Shane reaches into his pocket for a tissue that isn’t there, and then remembers there’s a box on the counter in the kitchen counter. But before he can grab some, he hears the approach of footsteps and a notably sharp knock on the door.

Rozanov wears the coat that he wore last night, and the red-rimmed eyes and pale colour that he wore during the game. His cheeks are flushed too, but whether that’s from the temperature outside or the temperature he’s running, Shane doesn’t know. He steps through the door that Shane is holding open without saying anything, just swiping the back of his wrist under is nose with a congested snuffle.

And then, it happens all at once. Shane has closed the door, and is turning back around, ready to ask Rozanov whether he’d like a drink, when he feels his shoulders slam into the wall of his apartment. It’s not enough to wind him, but, because of his body’s response to the virus and because he’s spent an hour being a punchbag on skates, it hurts. More embarrassingly, it draws a yelp of surprise from him, that the congestion in his head quickly turns into a damp splutter.

“… the fuck!”

Rozanov’s eyes are dark. His mouth is set into an insouciant expression that is entirely at odds with the force at which he has just accosted Shane. He has a fistful of Shane’s hoodie, and apparently no inclination to let it go. As Shane tries to shake off his grasp, Rozanov slams another palm into Shane’s right delt, pinning him back against the wall.

“You told your team that I am sick,” he snarls. His voice is a cracked rumble that resonates in Shane’s chest cavity.

“No.” Suddenly, the half-truths in which Shane has dwelt all day don’t seem to be providing him with the same protection. Technically, he didn’t tell JJ, or Hayden, or anyone else that Rozanov was sick, and so technically he’s not lying now. But he sounds like child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, especially because he has to punctuate his protest with a sniffle, and then because he decides to add. “You told your team about me, too.”

Rozanov snorts scornfully, or perhaps just because he can’t breathe through his nose.

“You miss easy pass from Pike. My teammates are not stupid like him. They would have noticed.”

“Hayden’s not stupid,” Shane snaps. “And you dodged every check that came at you in the first period – you think Boiziau wouldn’t have noticed that?” He sniffs, the pressure between his eyes almost painful now, but he’s not going to back down from this. “I didn’t have to tell him you were sick; he worked that out by himself once I’d pointed out how shit your skating was.”

Rozanov’s whole body tenses and Shane can something dangerous radiating through the heel of the hand that pushes deeper into his shoulder. If it was anyone else, Shane would think that he was about to get a punch to the jaw. But he knows instinctively that Rozanov won’t, would never, do that to him. He doesn’t even really do it on the ice. He doesn’t need to when he leaves most players reeling in his wake, and he prefers to give lashings with his tongue.

That’s kind of what happens now.

Rozanov pulls tighter on the fabric of Shane’s hoodie, and crashes his hungry lips into Shane’s. The kiss that Shane returns contains everything that he’s been holding back all day, through the game.

“I expect it,” Rozanov rasps, mostly into Shane’s mouth. He breaks the kiss, but tilts his head upwards, inviting Shane to pay some attention to his open throat. Shane happily obliges, trailing kisses down his throat, exploring Rozanov with his mouth, sucking and catching his teeth on the too-warm skin he finds there. Rozanov gasps, and chokes out a laugh. There is a damp note to it, and a crackle to his exhale. They really shouldn’t have let him play tonight.

“Everyone thinks Hollander is such a good boy. Hockey prince. But I know better.” Rozanov jerks his head back to centre so that Shane is forced to break off his kisses and look into his eyes. “I know what you’ll do to get what you want. I know what you’re like when you’re… desperate.”

Rozanov takes a step back, and looks down at Shane’s crotch, where the evidence of his desperation is already unmissable.

“Are you mad at me?” Shane asks, hoarse, breathless. He sniffs again, putting more energy to it, in the hope that it might stop his nose running for a few moments at least. The thick, wet sound makes him cringe.

“Of course.” Rozanov releases the hand that is pinning Shane’s shoulder, and rubs the cuff of his sleeve against his own nose. Then he tugs Shane’s hoodie upwards, exposing the waistband of his pants, and slips his hand beneath it. “But only because I know you like it.”

Through his underwear, Rozanov’s hand cups Shane’s hard-on, and Shane feels his hips buck forwards into his touch. Rozanov smiles now, his real smile, the one that changes his whole face; makes his sharp features seem gentler, makes his eyes twinkle and their corners crinkle in with surprising warmth. So Shane smiles too, even though his body still aches and his nose is still streaming.

Rozanov gives a final squeeze on his dick and then whips his hand away, placing it back at Shane’s shoulders.

“Don’t get too excited, Hollander. You need to make it up to me first.”

Shane is about to ask Rozanov just how he can do that when his nose decides that it’s finally had enough of the creeping itch that’s been building and retreating inside of it since he woke up. It starts to tickle more insistently, and when Shane sniffs to try to quiet it, this only triggers the tickle into a burning that makes his eyes fill with tears. There’s no time to slips out of Rozanov’s grasp. It’s all he can do to tuck his head into his left shoulder – the one that Rozanov isn’t pinning down – and pull the cuff of his hoodie over his wrist before he smothers the sneezes into the heel of his hand as best he can.

“huht’ISSHhoo!’ihSHhh’uu!”

The sneezes barrel into one another, Shane’s torso twisting painfully as his head snaps forward with each explosion. He’s making a mess of himself and his hoodie, but doesn’t have time to apologize before two more sneezes follow hard behind the first.

“huh’ISHHHeugh!...huh-huh… huh’EESHHuhh!...Fuhgk…”

The expletive is mangled by congestion and the damp cuff of the sweatshirt that Shane’s forced to sniff frantically into. He doesn’t dare to lift his head and he can barely look at Rozanov, whose usual expression of cool indifference has taken on an unusual softness, but hasn’t morphed into the disgust Shane had expected.

“Bless you.” Rozanov’s voice is uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he learnt the phrase from a text book years ago but has only just had the chance to try it out.

Shane tries to communicate gratitude with a tight nod. Anyone else would have stepped back by now – anyone sensible would have run a mile because Shane is being objectively disgusting – but Rozanov is still standing there, still holding a fistful of Shane’s hoodie, his hand perilously close to where Shane is trying to stem the flood now coming from his nose and preserve the last of his dignity.

“Sorry,” Shane mumbles, trying to extricate himself again, wincing at how full his head sounds. “I really d’eed a tissue.”

Rozanov finally lets go of Shane’s clothing, and while in any other situation Shane would be disappointed about this, it feels like a mercy. But because Rozanov cannot behave like a normal human being ever, he doesn’t let Shane leave to hide in the bathroom where he can blow his nose and get over the mortification of sneezing all over himself in the middle of their foreplay. Instead, Rozanov reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a handful of clean tissues.

For one terrible, inexplicable moment, something in Rozanov’s expression and the way he’s dancing the tissues from side to side in front of Shane’s face makes Shane think that he might be about try to wipe Shane’s nose for him. Thankfully, it doesn’t come to this. After one round of keep-away, and a satisfied grin when it elicits the desired “Fug’k off!” from Shane – Rozanov allows the tissues to be snatched from his fingertips.

Shane closes his eyes as he tries to clear his nose both thoroughly and quietly. He succeeds in doing neither, and he’s pretty sure that Rozanov is staring at him the entire time, with that cool, unreadable gaze that Shane thinks might haunt him for the rest of his life. He’s certainly staring when Shane lowers the tissues, more because they’re so damp as too be useless than because he can actually breath normally again, his dark eyes shining with what might be fever.

“You are a mess.”

Probably it’s the unusual cadences of his English, but Rozanov makes the phrase sounds curious, as though he hadn’t known that Shane could be like this. Even though Rozanov reduces Shane to a begging, panting, spent mess every time they are together; even though he’s devoted a good ninety percent of his interactions with Shane to precisely that end. And Shane’s dick twitches again just thinking about that – about how much of a mess he is for Rozanov, how much more of a mess he’s going to be by the end of the night.

Not that he’s going to tell Rozanov that.

“You’re not looking so great yourself.” That’s a lie, of course. Shane isn’t sure Rozanov could ever look truly unattractive, but he certainly isn’t now. Even with what seems to be a very heavy chest cold, Rozanov looks fucking hot. His curls are tousled from the wind outside, and with his flushed cheeks, he reminds Shane of the angels in those old Italian paintings that his parents dragged him round on trips to the National Gallery. The redness around his nose seems to make his lips look even pinker, which makes Shane even more wild about the thought of them on his own lips, his chest, his thighs, his cock.

Rozanov must know it’s a lie because he laughs and shakes his head as he takes off his coat, throwing it behind him so that it lands in a crumpled heap on the back of the couch. He’s dressed for warmth. No low-v t-shirt tonight, or shirt made from some delicate, silky material that makes Shane’s mind go pleasantly blank when he strokes his hands across it. Instead, he’s wearing an Addidas sweater that looks soft from washing and wearing, and sweatpants that are tenting in the same area as Shane’s own.

Well, clearly he hasn’t put Rozanov off.

The thought of what he’s doing to Rozanov, the fever he’s running, or some combination of the two sends a shiver cascading though Shane’s body. He hisses slightly as it grips his sore shoulder, the seizing of the joint sending an unexpected jolt of

“You are cold?”

“I… I think I have a fever,” Shane admits, with a sniffle that sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

“Do you want me to check?”

Shane’s no doctor, but he’s pretty sure the medically advised method of taking someone’s temperature doesn’t involve tugging off their clothing, and running your hands up and down their body. Nor does it involve slipping your tongue inside their mouth, as your lips press against theirs almost frantically. It definitely doesn’t involve placing your hands on someone else’s hips and grinding them forward into your own, so that your rock-hard dicks rub against each other through fabric that feels, at once, far too much of a barrier, and put under so much strain that it might tear any second.

But Shane doesn’t complain about any of this, because his mouth is too full of Rozanov’s lips, Rozanov’s tongue, Rozanov’s name – the last one escaping in a hoarse moan as he breaks their kiss to draw breath.

Rozanov is smiling at him. He leans back at little, eyes dark and dangerous. Shane can feel a familiar heat rising to his face. It’s not his fever; this happens every time Rozanov’s eyes dance over Shane’s body, like Shane is something that Rozanov wants to devour entirely, to possess immediately and for all time. Shane’s always hated that he blushes so easily, that his feelings appear as a pink flush across his cheeks, like the ink in those toy pens that gives up its secrets the instant a light shines on it.

Rozanov really likes it when he blushes. Shane can see the desire building in him, in the way that Rozanov’s tongue darts over his chapped lips, the way his eyes widen further, like he wants to see all of Shane so that he might know him completely. It should be awful, standing in front of Rozanov, feverish, sniffling and weak. Shane ought to hate being seen like that by anyone, but especially by Rozanov: the only person whom Shane has ever really thought of as competition, who Shane – in moments of gut-churning 3am honesty with himself – has ever worried might only not be better than he is, but better than Shane could ever be. Shane Hollander with a red nose, and sore throat, and a cold that is bad now and will be worse in the morning, is not a version of Shane Hollander than Ilya Rozanov should ever get to see.

But now that Rozanov is seeing it, it only feels awful in the good ways, in the ways that Shane always hates himself for wanting more of. Which means that maybe it’s not just ok that Rozanov sees him like this, but maybe that Shane wants Rozanov to see him like this - if only because Shane wants to know what it will make Rozanov do to him next.

“How’s my fever?” Shane asks, meeting Rozanov’s gaze and enjoying how much it burns.

“Bad, I think.” Rozanov teases his bottom lip in his teeth, runs a thumb across his nose, and then presses Shane hard against the wall, so that he can hook Shane’s hips over his own and take Shane’s weight, his impossibly strong arms wrapping round Shane’s torso, his fingers digging into Shane’s thighs. “Time to put you to bed.”

Shane is propped against the headboard, legs open wide, with Rozanov straddling him, their clothes scattered like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, a trace of their path to the bedroom. Rozanov’s mouth is exploring the swoop of Shane’s clavicle. Shane tightens his hands around the bedsheets, squeezing them until his knuckles hurt to make sure that he stays in the room, to stop himself from slipping off into some hazy, shimmering cloud of overstimulation.

Fevers always make his skin too sensitive, so right now, the brush of Rozanov’s lips, fingers, curls across his feverish skin is almost too much. He wonders if Rozanov feels the same, if fevers make him dread any contact but make his body more needy, so that any graze from someone else’s is almost unbearable but not being touched would be worse? Because that’s how this is making Shane feel, like Rozanov hands caressing his chest and his dick might make him scream out in pleasure and pain all at once.

Will a fever do the same thing to his cock? Shane’s never had sex when he’s been ill before, so he doesn’t know. But maybe it. Shit. That’s probably not what Shane needs. Sometimes just being with Rozanov, being this close to him, being allowed to touch him – fuck it, just being allowed to look at him without second guessing every which way that his looks might be read – sometimes it was hard enough for Shane to keep it together through all of that. The soft, wet, heat of Rozanov’s mouth on his chest is almost too much for Shane to stand, he can’t imagine what it would feel like if Rozanov placed it around his dick.

Rozanov doesn’t offer that, which is probably a good thing consider that he’s barely able to breathe through his fucked up nose. But he does wrap a slicked hand around Shane’s cock, before stroking up and down with practised tenderness. The moan slips from Shane’s lips almost before he’s realised, and he closes his eyes and throws his head backwards.

No, no, stop, stop, stop…

For a minute, Shane thinks that he must have said the words out loud, because Rozanov does stop – has stopped – nibbling at his throat. His hand is still curled round Shane’s dick, but it’s teasing strokes have paused. But no, Shane definitely didn’t say it out loud, not least because Rozanov would never have passed up with opportunity to laugh at him if he had. And now, even with his eyes closed, Shane is suddenly aware that the weight of Rozanov’s body has shifted, and there is a distance between the two of them that wasn’t there before. So what the fuck is going on?

“ngh’uhTSCHhhhh!”

At that sound, and Rozanov’s hand jerking tight around him and tugging sharply, Shane opens his eyes. Rozanov is sitting a bit more upright, his hand still on Shane, but his torso twisted away. His left arm is thrown up haphazardly across the lower half of his face, and he raises his head above it to take a shuddering breath before the next sneeze hits.

“huhh…hhh’GHHh’chuhh!”

For a moment, Shane held captive by the outline of Rozanov’s shoulders, the perfect v of his torso down to his waist. He can’t do anything but stare at how the muscles in Rozanov’s shoulders and stomach contract and release as the sneeze rips through him. Shane isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone sneeze that hard. His whole body is taken over with it, and then with the snuffling and tight gasps of breath that suggests the fit clearly far from over.

“hhhh’?.... hhy’yyyhh?... hhh’YHH’tschhhh!’Y’TTTschuuh!”

It an unusual sensation, yeah, but not an unenjoyable. Quite enjoyable, actually, when the sneezes jerk Rozanov forwards so that his hips crash forwards into Shane’s, the base of his shaft rubbing into the underside of Shane’s erection. Especially because, unconsciously, Rozanov’s grip on Shane tightens with each sneeze, enough to make Shane squirm and shift, to rub himself against Rozanov’s hand. And even when practically incapacitated by his sneezes, Rozanov notices that, managing a crooked half smile through hitching breaths and watery eyes, before sneezes again.

“hhh’DJJISHHH’ughhhh!”

Jesus, that one was strong. So strong that when Rozanov’s head snaps forward and takes his body with it, Shane presses up an arm to catch Rozanov’s shoulder, and wraps his other arm around Rozanov’s waist to brace him in position. And if this means that Rozanov’s hips are pulled even closer, up against his own, well that’s just a happy coincidence.

At Shane’s touch, Rozanov’s eyes blink open in surprise. His eyes are damp and dazed as they meet Shane’s, slipping away from focus for a second until Rozanov scrubs his nose into his forearm with determined violence. And then he coughs, with the deep crackling sound that Shane remembers from the rink earlier than night, though its worse now that Shane is closer to it, and there’s no noise to drown it out. When he finally lowers his arm, after swiftly ducking into it again for another wrenching “hhhh’GHHshhhhuh!”, his face is flushed, cheeks tear-stained, and nose scrunching with near-constant sniffles.

“Are you…”

Before Shane can finish, Rozanov pounces forwards to silence him with a very snuffly kiss.

“Hollander,” he growls, mostly mumbling the words into Shane’s lips. “If you ask me again if I want to lie down I will…”

This time, its Rozanov’s turn to be interrupted, not by a kiss but by Shane’s spur of the moment decision to combine the leverage he has at Rozanov’s shoulder with a sharp upward thrust from his hips at the same side. Off balance from leaning forward for the kiss, and definitely not expecting Shane to try something like this, Rozanov topples over to his left, which makes it easy enough for Shane to end up on top of him.

Rozanov looks up at Shane from where he is now lying on the bed, pupils blown, and with a smile registering unexpected pleasure – and, Shane lets himself think, a touch of admiration.

“I’m not asking this time,” Shane says, almost surprising himself when the words slip from his mouth.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov growls. “You have been practisi’ihhh’ hhhh’YSHHHughhh!” It’s all Rozanov can do to turn his head to one side and direct the sneeze into the comforter that neither of them bothered to pull off the bed. “Nghh…” The groan follows hard behind desperate sniffs and Rozanov clearing his throat harshly. “Can’t fucking stop…”

“I don’t care.” Shane grabs Rozanov’s dick, and enjoys the moan of pleasure that he gets in return. Maybe he is supersensitive after all. Rozanov’s hand is still loosely on Shane’s cock, and so, Shane places his other hand on top and begins to move them both in the same rhythm, indulging in a sigh of pleasure as Rozanov follows his lead.

“hhh’uhhh’?...Uhh’TSCHhh’EUGH!”

“Fuck!” It slips out without Shane meaning it to, because every time that Rozanov sneezes the grip he has on Shane unconsciously tightens, a squeeze and a jerk that is a deliciously sharp interruption to his otherwise sweeping strokes.

Rozanov laughs. “You like that, when I…”

“Shut up,” Shane growls, speeding up the pace of hand on Rozanov’s shaft. But he does, like it. Not the sneezing exactly, though they are both, he thinks, way, way past caring about the dubious hygiene of this whole encounter. But the side effects of the sneezing are… pleasurable. And judging by the way that Rozanov is looking at him, pleased with himself and brimming with desire, Shane knows that he is blushing again.

“Do it for me,” Rozanov says.

“What, sneeze?” Shane laughs, because he assumes he’s misunderstood. But Rozanov is nodding as he’s jerking Shane off, picking up his speed to match Shane’s own.

“Want to know what it feels like,” Rozanov breaths. “So do as you’re… nghh’GHTSchhh!… told.” 

Rozanov’s request is patently ridiculous, not just because its not something that anyone asks for during sex, but also because it’s not possible for someone to sneeze on demand. Except that it doesn’t take much to make Shane sneeze when his nose feels as sensitive as every other inch of him right now. It’s itched and prickled every time that Rozanov has sneezed, as though in sympathy with the tickle he can’t seem shake. And Shane really, really wants to do as he’s told, wants to do that so badly that his body feels like its vibrating with the urge. So, feeling less stupid about it than he ought to, Shane tilts his head back slightly, closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose where bone meets cartilage, and rubs.

From somewhere beneath him on the bed, Shane hears Rozanov whisper an almost reverent, “Wow,” which sends a shudder of pleasure thrilling through Shane’s body. Apparently, even if this doesn’t work, Shane’s eagerness to please is enough to please Rozanov, which also pleases Shane and so…

Fuck, though, it is working. The itch in the back of his nose is building, slowly but surely, teasing tears from Shane’s eyes as it does so. Concentrating on the sensation, and on the tension growing in his cock as Rozanov edges him closer and closer to release, and on the feeling of Rozanov in his hand doing the same, makes everything else in the room go black. After what feels like an age, but can only really have been seconds, Shane feels his breath catch once, twice, and then…

“hhh’EISSHHuu! hhuh'huh-YISHHuuh!”

“Fuck!” Rozanov yells, which must be from some combination of the way Shane’s grasp has tightened round his shaft, and the way that Shane’s hips have bucked against Rozanov’s dick with the force of the releases. “Oh, fuck Hollander, make me come…”

Not caring that his eyes are watering and his nose is streaming, Shane speeds up the motion of his hand even more, rotating his wrist as he does so in a way that draws a rough his from deep in Rozanov’s throat. And then all it takes is for Shane to rub his own cock against Rozanov’s, for everything to blur between their hands, and their dicks, and their moans, before Rozanov comes, with a strangled cry. The release splashes all over his and Shane’s stomach where, seconds later, it is joined by Shane’s as he comes and collapses forward into Rozanov’s arms.

It is a while before either of them moves, other than to place feverish, fucked-out kisses on the other one’s mouths. Shane is nestled into the crook of Rozanov’s shoulder, his limbs tangled round Rozanov’s body. Now the thrill of his organism is receding and the sweat on his body is beginning to dry, Shane can feel that he’s starting to shiver again. He should get under the covers, or put some clothes on, or maybe take a hot shower. But his instinct is to simply pull himself closer to Rozanov, as though the other man could provide all the warmth that he needs.

Rozanov, however, has other plans. He places a tender kiss on Shane’s temple but at the same time lifts Shane’s leg from where it lies across his thigh. Then he carefully sits up, depositing Shane’s head gently onto a pillow.

“Ngghh…Where’re you going…” Shane mumbles. “C’m’back…”

“Just a minute, sweetheart,” Rozanov whispers. Shane feels another kiss being pressed to his lips, and then hears footsteps are padding across the bedroom carpet.

Beneath the haze of head cold and afterglow, Shane hears water running. Not enough water for a shower, so maybe Rozanov is just cleaning himself up. Shane wriggles himself upwards until he’s half-sitting against the headboard, and studies the mess that remains on his skin. Maybe he’ll clean Shane up too. Shane secretly loves when he does that, or maybe not so secretly because he’s pretty sure he’s moans every time Rozanov wipes a warm flannel over his stomach and his dick and wherever else has ended up sticky and salty.

But when Rozanov does come back, its not a washcloth that he hands to Shane, but a mug of something warm, and with a familiar, cutting scent – acidic and medicinal – that cuts through even Shane’s stuffed head. It’s the same cold medicine that Shane made for Rozanov last night.

“You made this for me?” Shane says, which is stupid because who else is going to have done it. And yeah, Rozanov rolls his eyes.

“No, I make it for all the other hockey players with colds that I fuck tonight,” he says, which makes Shane laugh. Normally, this would be fine – good even, because the corners of Rozanov eyes crinkle when he manages to make Shane laugh, in a way that is utterly adorable and that Shane rarely gets to see to otherwise. Except now that his nose is so itchy, and his sinuses are protesting his movement to a semi-seated position, and so now Shane is going to sneeze while clutching a mug of very hot liquid.

The only thing Shane can do is thrust it back towards Rozanov, whose athlete’s reflexes allow him to take it without thinking.

“It’s not right?” he says, for a moment – maybe for the first time Shane has ever heard – sounding genuinely disappointed. “You don’t want it?”

The feeling of a sneeze building is not easy for Shane to speak through, but Rozanov sounds so crestfallen that Shane feels he has to try.

“Doh’hehhh…jusd…reallydeedto-oo’hhh’ISSHhhh’uu! – huh?’huh’ISHHHuuh!”

Shane feels something land in his lap, and opens his eyes to find the tissue box that was on the nightstand has been deposited there.

“So many sneezes,” Rozanov says, settling next to Shane as he blows his nose, and tries not to wince at the sound. “Though not as many as me, I think,” he adds, as he hands the mug back to Shane for a second try.

Shane gives a huff before taking a sip of his drink. Of course, Ilya Rozanov could even turn their colds into a competition.

“Is ok?” Rozanov asks, and Shane notices, approvingly, that he’s cradling a cup of his own, too.

“Yeah, it’s good.”

Rozanov nods. “I hear, better with honey,” he says, which makes Shane smile into his cup, until Rozanov adds, “And someone told me that you can’t microwave the water or it tastes funny, but I think he is a liar. And also boring.”

Shane is about to jab his elbow into Rozanov’s side when he remembers that they are both holding scalding drinks. So he settles for flipping Rozanov the bird instead. Rozanov grins in response, but it falters slightly as he looks at Shane, and Shane knows what he must be seeing. The pale skin, reddened nose, and inflamed eyes that Shane himself is seeing when he looks at Rozanov. Still, it is a surprise when Rozaonov reaches over and presses the back of his hand against Shane’s forehead.

Did you ever have a boyfriend who would feel your forehead to check if you had a fever? And did your boyfriend ever do that for you?

“I think you do have a fever,” Rozanov says, unusually serious. Shane nods and shrugs.

“Probably,” he agrees, allowing himself a little bit of a self-pitying sniffle. He hates being sick – who doesn’t – but he really, really hates how having a fever makes him feel. Like everything that usually stays so well hidden is suddenly right beneath the surface, and the cloth that is hiding it might be pulled off at any time. And so because it’s easier not to think about himself right now, he adds, “I think you have one too.”

Rozanov shrugs as well. “This will help, yes?” he says, holding up the mug as a gesture.

“Yeah, it will,” Shane says, taking another large sip from the mug. “Thanks.”

Rozanov looks down at his own drink, and smiles.

They lie there quietly, side by side, for several moments, their shoulders and upper arms touching. Rozanov must have retrieved his phone from his coat when he went to fetch the medicine, because he’s scrolling through messages and the Raiders Instagram account; Shane pointedly keeps his eyes on his mug so as not to see anything he shouldn’t. For his own part, Shane is content to lie and listen to the muted traffic outside, nowhere near dying away yet, and the snuffling, wheezing sounds of Rozanov’s breathing. Hopefully someone on the Raiders team would make him see a doctor before they flew back.

And suddenly, almost before Shane can think about the consequences of them, the beginning of a phrase is on his lips, almost spilling over before Shane can catch up with it.

“I wish - ”

 I wish you didn’t have to leave. I wish you never had to leave. I wish we could stay together all night, and every night after that.

But he can’t say that. Because this is what they do; they fuck and they leave before morning.

So, instead, Shane tries, “I wish I hadn’t gotten sick this week.”

Rozanov’s teasing huff comes out probably more congested than he’d intended. “So it’s ok if I am sick?”

“Shut up.” Shane swallows the last of the medicine and puts his cup on the nightstand. Then he curls himself into Rozanov, returning his head to its place on the other man’s chest. “Obviously, I wish that you hadn’t gotten sick either.”

It’s not true though. Or rather, it’s not that Shane wants Rozanov sick, but that he wouldn’t mind Rozanov being sick if he could stay and let Shane take care of him. Lying in the dark, as Rozanov starts to thread his fingers through Shane’s hair, Shane lets himself think about a version of the past few days where they weren’t having stolen whispered conversations, weren’t sneaking around at night, weren’t having to leave before the morning. Where instead of being in this stupid show-home, they were in his real apartment, where there was a kettle for tea, and pans to make soup. Where Shane could have tucked Rozanov up in blankets on the couch, and put on a stupid movies, and checked his temperature, and rubbed his back when his cough sounded bad, and played with his hair until he fell asleep. Something like that could be… nice.

Shane’s so busy thinking about this that he almost doesn’t notice that Rozanov is speaking again.

“But better we were both sick, than just one of us.”

Shane hums his assent, and is ready to let the silence fall again. But Rozanov, it seems, is not done with talking, even if his fingers have quieted their soothing motion across Shane’s forehead. When he speaks, he doesn’t look at Shane as he does so, staring off instead into middle distance at somewhere far away, or perhaps, somewhere a long time ago.

“I think I am not very good at being a sick person,” he says.

Shane laughs; even to his own ears it sounds thick and heavy, dragged from his lungs like a dull skate blade.

“No one is good at being sick,” he says.

Rozanov shakes his head, as though Shane has misunderstood something.

“I think,” he says again, “I am not easy to care for.”

It is such a strange phrase – not easy to care for – that, not for the first time, Shane wonders what is being lost in translation when Rozanov speaks to him. Not just because he is speaking English, but because there is so much context for who Rozanov is that Shane doesn’t know. Who made him feel this way, and how did they do it?

Those aren’t questions Shane can ask now; even if he could, Rozanov probably wouldn’t answer them. All Shane can do is hold him a little tighter, and press another kiss to his cheek

“I don’t think that’s true,” he says, forcing out the words as steadily as he can. “I… I want to take care of you.”

Even as he hears himself saying the words, Shane knows that he’s gone too far. This isn’t the kind of thing they say to one another. This is dangerous. And if Rozanov started it, then Shane’s taken it further. They are out in the middle of the thin ice they’ve been skating on for a while now, far from the shoreline, and if it cracks, and there is nothing beneath but drowning.

Luckily, Rozanov finds a branch to drag them back to familiar, safe, grounds. With another huff - half amusement and half derision, and, tonight, also mostly the congestion in his head - he looks down at his softening cock and then back up to Shane, one eyebrow raised with suggestive menace.

“That what you call this? Taking care of me?”

Shane, at least, can follow his lead.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Or maybe it was ‘taking care’ when you build whole gameplan around your teammates fucking with me because I’m sick? Make me skate so hard that stupid cold turns into nuumoneeya?”

“Pneumonia?” Shane replies, checking his translation.

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“That’s not a thing that happens!” And it wasn’t, right? “Anyway, you did the same to me.”

“Or when you leave me outside on freezing cold street for an hour?”

An hour? Fuck no, is he getting away with this.

“It was ten minutes!”

Rozanov tilted his head to one side as though he were considering this, and then said cooly, “I think more.”

“Shut up – no, it wasn’t. And I bought you cold medicine.”

“Which I make for you,” Rozanov responds, waving his mug as he places it on the other nightstand.

Shane is about to point out that he made medicine for Rozanov yesterday when he was ignoring the fact he was running a fever for Christ’s sake. But he’s interrupted by an annoyingly familiar sensation in his nose, that leaves him scrambling for the tissue box that – even more annoyingly – is only in his reach because Rozanov put it there.

“hhh’EISHHhhhh!’ISSHHhhhh!”

“And now you sneeze on me to try to win argument.”

Shane blows his nose sharply, and drags himself to a sitting position. Rozanov is grinning at him, and Shane knows there’s no point in continuing the back and forth, except that he can’t let Rozanov win after saying something so completely stupid.

“That doesn’d even make sense,” he grumbles.

“Yes, it does. And you are going to sneeze again,” he adds, matter-of-factly.

“What? No, I’b…” But he is. Right now. “hhh-IShhheuhh!... hhh’ISHHhhhewhh!

“Bless you,” Rozanov replies in a sing-song tone, his confidence with the phrase obviously increasing.

“Oh, fug’k off.” Shane gives Rozanov’s hamstring a soft kick, and shakes off the hand that is resting on his hip bone. He’s not sure where he’s going – shower maybe, or the kitchen for some tea, or to see if there’s something – anything - else in what he bought that might help him stop sneezing. But he doesn’t have to listen to this in his own… well, not actually his apartment, but a building that he owns.

“No, no, Hollander…” Rozanov’s wheedling tone can’t disguise the laughter in his voice, as he grabs Shane’s forearm, tugging him back towards the bed. “You cannot leave. This is not ‘taking care’. I will be cold.”

He pouts, and its adorable. Annoying adorable.

Shane is still about to tell Rozanov to go fuck himself when he realises, suddenly, that Rozanov has grabbed the arm furthest from him – so the arm that has the shoulder that didn’t get slammed into the boards, and so isn’t beginning to stain with indigo and burgundy bruises. The tenderness is so unexpected from Rozanov, who is a professional asshole first and a hockey player second, that it snatches the air from Shane’s lungs, and he thinks that the only way to get it back might be to kiss Rozanov and never stop.

As their eyes meet, he thinks Rozanov can see it. There’s something about the way that his grip loosens a little, about the tremble in his breathing as they are both frozen in the moment, trying to work out what the hell they are supposed to do next.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You have got to stop this, Hollander. Sell your fucking apartment. Delete Rozanov’s number. Don’t ever think about what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, whether he’s thinking about you. This has got to stop.

It’s not going to stop. 

A familiar sick feeling is back in Shane’s stomach, and he’s about to shake off Rozanov’s grasp, when he realises that he doesn’t have to, because Rozanov’s grip on him has already loosened. His upper lip curls, his nose scrunches upwards and his whole body crumples forward.

“hk’TSKHHHhh!’HUH’tschhh!’NGH’tschhh!..... huh’TX’schhh!.... hhh’TXX’SHHhhh!... uhh’huhh’DJSHHH’ghh!”

“Jesus Christ, do you always sneeze like that?” Shane mutters, extending the tissues to him.

Rozanov snatches a handful and blows his nose loudly. Then, he looks at Shane balefully over the tissues, and gives a reluctant nod.

“Well then, bless you, I guess.”

Rozanov finishes wiping his nose, though he’s still sniffling. He meets Shane’s eyes, and he’s not grinning now, and nor does he look like he’s about to rip into Shane again. It’s not even the cool, studied indifference that Shane is used to from Rozanov. It’s something quieter, less performed, more… sincere.

“Thank you,” he says. “And thank you for the tissues. And thank you for… ‘taking care’.”

He opens his arm, an invitation for Shane to return his head to Rozanov’s chest. It’s the worst idea in the world, and Shane doesn’t need asking twice.

“It’s ok. I… I don’t mind.”

I like it. I love it, actually. I would do it forever, if you would let me. Would you let me, Rozanov?

Rozanov tightens the arm around his shoulder, as Shane nestled his head back into Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov doesn’t say anything, but it feels, somehow, like he understands. They are silent like this for a moment, Rozanov teasing his fingers through Shane’s hair, Shane stroking the back of his knuckles across Rozanov’s bicep.

Oh, fuck it.

Shane clears his throat.

“Next time you’re sick… I mean, if you’re sick again, and… and you want someone to complain to, or I dunno… Well, you can, um, let me know.”

“You will ‘take care’ again?”

“Yeah, I’ll ‘take care’ again.”

Rozanov laughs again, and it’s still horribly congested – enough that Shane does start to worry that skating yourself into pneumonia might be a thing. But it’s also warm and kind. It’s laughter to wrap yourself up in against a cold day, and a colder world. Shane wonders who else knows that Rozanov’s laughter can sound like that.

“You will ‘take care’ from Montreal, when I am in Boston?”

“We can text. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever.” Rozanov leans down, and kisses Shane gently on the forehead. “Is your fever talking?”

“No,” Shane says, looking back up at him. “No, I mean it.”

“Ok.” Rozanov smiles, and it is beautiful. He is beautiful. Sick, and exhausted, and beautiful. “Ok. Maybe I do that.”

----

The interview and the photographs are published two weeks later. Shane discovers this when he arrives at practice to find the magazine’s front cover stuck on the wall in his usual stall. It’s someone’s – probably, JJ’s – idea of a good joke. Chirping their captain for being a pretty boy apparently never gets old.

Shane glances at the cover. By now he can pretty much guess the straplines word for word.

Hollander v. Rozanov - Head-to-Head with the Eastern Conference’s Greatest Rivals!

The cover photo is one that was taken at the practice: he and Rozanov facing off against one another. Because, like, they’re rivals? Really fucking original.

Carefully giving the picture only the most cursory glance, Shane turns back to his assembled teammates and their howls of laughter. He rolls his eyes, curses them playfully – whichever of you motherfuckers did this is skating laps – and makes a show of pulling down the cover, to some really old lines about when he’s giving up hockey for modelling – “because the pay is nearly as good and your workmates are hotter!”.

But Shane doesn’t screw up the cover and toss it in the trash, like he’s done on other occasions where his teammates have tried this gag. Instead, when no one is looking, he tucks in inside his kit bag in a space where it won’t get crumpled.

After practice, he’s deliberately slow getting changed, so that he’s the last one left in the locker room, once he’s told Hayden to go ahead and get them both a coffee, that he’ll be right out. And then, once the room is empty, Shane takes a deep breath and pulls out the picture.

Someone must have done some touching up or whatever, because neither he nor Rozanov looks anywhere near as sick as they actually were. The only real evidence is a tiny bloom of pink around the tip of Rozanov’s nose, and a pinched flush on Shane’s cheeks, both of which might be down to nothing more than the cold of the rink. Nothing that any one would notice. Almost like the two of them being sick never happened.

In fact, the more notable thing about the picture is that the two of them are smiling at each other. Not really smiling, or laughing, not like they were the day of the CCM shoot all those years ago, like they must be in some pictures that were on a photographer’s hard drive, but probably don’t even exist anymore. But they are smiling, lips quirking upwards in a way that might be read as confidence, or a playful challenge, or enjoyment of competition for its own sake, even though Shane knows that it was none of those things at all. And Rozanov knows it, too.

All at once, it strikes Shane that, aside from his parents, Rozanov probably knows Shane better than anyone else. And of everything fucked up about this whole fucked up thing they have, that might be the most fucked up thing of all.

He lays the cover on the bench, pulls out his phone and snaps a picture – to send to his mom and dad, if anyone asks. But he doesn’t send it to them; he sends it to Lily.

The read notification flicks up and immediately the three dots start flickering on the screen.

              Lily: Congratulations. You are second hottest hockey player in the picture

Shane huffs, and types his reply.

Good job they had Photoshop to make you look like you weren’t dying from a cold.

Shane is about to put his phone away, because Hayden’s going to start wondering where he is, but then something comes over him and before he can think too hard about it, he adds:

              You survived, then? No pneumonia?

Lily: No. I was not going to die before we could beat you in December

December. Six weeks. Nineteen games. Not that he’s counting. Shane taps his response with particular fervour.

              You wish

              Lily: You wish 😉

Shane stares at the message for a while. He knows it’s a dumb joke, in response to another dumb joke. It doesn’t mean anything. It can never mean anything. But still… But still.

You wish.

I do.

Wyatt must’ve known that their captain needed a distraction, because Wyatt’s just a sweetheart like that.

It’d been a bittersweet victory for Ilya tonight, winning in Boston – his old barn – to a chorus of boo’s and a torrent of abuse thrown his way pretty much any time he so much as touched the puck, by the same notoriously passionate fans that used to scream themselves hoarse cheering him on. The fans that had been proud to have ‘Rozanov’  emblazoned on the back of so many of their jerseys. He’d shrugged it off and been cracking jokes all night, pretending it hadn’t affected him, but for those with eyes to see, it had evidently worn at him. On the bus from the arena to the airport, and for the first half of the flight, he’d been sullen and unnaturally reserved.

It was a high stakes game with ‘must win’ media narratives attached on both sides. For the Centaurs, a crucial two points on offer to bring them within striking distance of clinching a play-off spot after a difficult loss in Pittsburgh at the start of their road trip. For the Raiders, a crucial two points needed to simply stay in play-off contention at all.

The Cens’ 4-2 win ended up securing the Raiders’ elimination from the play-off race.

God, no wonder the guys are tired.

Hell, Harris was feeling tired enough himself just watching on, covering it online. It was all worth it in the end, though, as they were going home with four points out of a possible six and needed just two more overall to finally get the ‘X’. One more win. Preferably at home, in front of their own fans, at their next game on Saturday night.

Tuning out the chatter and activity around him, Harris refocused his attention on his laptop screen, balancing on the tray table in front of him, the raw, ‘behind the scenes’ video footage from across the multi-day trip freshly uploaded onto into his Premiere Pro workspace.

He’d started these sort of multi-day, mini travel vlog style clip compilations a while ago now, and the fans had grown to love them. Really, they ate up any chance to get to know the guys beyond the rink and get a peek behind the curtain – Harris knew how that felt, given that he’d been one of them, growing up. Not to blow his own, or any of the rest of his team’s trumpet, but secretly liked to think that using their social media channels to break down a bit of that barrier between players and fans, showcase these guys’ personalities, had helped contribute to the Centaurs’ growth as a franchise. One silly TikTok meme trend video and silly questionnaire at a time.

Honestly, the team had become like Harris’s second family. They’d accepted him unconditionally, no questions asked. And as someone who grew up loving hockey, someone who the sport helped through some really tough times, but was essentially told by the culture at large that being gay put him at odds with that world and made him unwelcome within it, he’d never expected to be able to have… this. That family atmosphere, the healthy locker room environment they’d cultivated, was a major USP and it was something Harris loved so much about the team and about doing this job. He wanted to capture that; make it part of their brand.

They had a much-needed day off tomorrow, and technically, he could probably push the editing to Tuesday, but who knew what else could be sitting on his desk, or in his inbox, that he’d also have to deal with by then? No, it was easier to just lock in, do it now, and schedule it to post so he could forget about it. No matter the jealousy he felt creeping in that all the other guys were able to kick back and relax; their jobs done.

Exactly, Harris. They did their jobs tonight and won. So stop whining, even inside your own head, about having to do yours and just get on with it.

God, dinner felt like it’d been years ago at this point. Maybe he was a little hangry.

If he was being honest with himself though, it had probably more to do with the fact that he’d been feeling a bit icky ever since they took off. They’d dimmed the cabin lights to allow people to sleep, so the glow of the laptop screen was starting to make his eyes ache. Combine that with the weariness from the general lack of sleep accumulated over the previous few days, the recycled air drying out his throat, and the cabin pressure messing with his sinuses, making them thick and sore, and he’d admit he was definitely not the happiest camper.

But that wasn’t anyone else’s fault, so he should probably just keep to himself and not make his, admittedly rare, moodiness anyone else’s problem. He just needed to get back on solid ground, curl up in his boyfriend’s (magnificently toned) arms, in their own bed, and get a good, long sleep.

He only got as far as reviewing the first video file from the massive collection he’d just dumped into the software, when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. Speak of the devil…

He turned to find Troy hanging over the vacant aisle seat beside him, drawn back to him from wherever he’d been off goofing around with some of the few other guys that remained awake. He’d scored the go-ahead goal that led to the win tonight, a nasty 90mph wrister that Boston’s goalie had wrongly anticipated he’d pass to the centre where Ilya was deceptively tapping for it. Harris could’ve burst with pride uploading Troy’s individual ‘goal’ gif. Tonight’s first star, it’d clearly left him a little too buzzed to sleep.

Harris removed an AirPod.

“Hey…” Troy trailed off, eyes lingering expectedly on the empty seat. “Can I sit, or do you want to be left alone while you’re working?” As if to sweeten the deal, he brought his hand round from where it’d been hanging behind him out of sight, producing a can of Coke Zero and a little bag of salted pretzels. “I’m not above bribery.”

Despite his mood, Harris couldn’t help but smile. Turns out that’s just kind of one of Troy’s love languages – bringing him stuff, namely his favourite beverages and snacks.

Harris would bet he was some kind of retriever in a past life. “Of course, go for it.”

Before Troy could even move to sit down though, after another painful swallow, Harris caught himself. “Actually, wait! Before you sit down, while you’re on your feet, would you mind grabbing me a tea from one of the stewardesses, please?”

Troy glanced towards the back of the plane where said stewardesses, looking amused but almost as tired as the team they were serving, were unfortunately stuck in a conversation with a couple of well-meaning, but ultimately immature, rookies who seemed like they were trying to charm them in some way. Okay, a rescue mission as well. His mouth twitched into a smile.

“Sure, what kind?”

“Preferably green if they have it, but if not, really anything will do so long as it’s hot. And wet.”

The innuendo somehow flew right over Troy’s head. “You’re cold?”

Harris shrugged. “It’s always a little chilly on airplanes, right?”

Troy appeared to accept that as a valid answer, nodding before he went to go and retrieve the tea. By the time he came back, the steaming little cardboard cup looking particularly tiny in his rather large hand, Harris had given in and pulled a little bottle of aspirin out of his bag, shaking two pills out into his hand to wash down with the Coke Zero.

“What’s hurting?” Troy asked, brow now furrowed as he slid into the aisle seat.

“Just my head a little bit.” Harris waved it off dismissively. “Too many late nights on the road.” It felt a little bit silly complaining about being exhausted to someone who tended to wrack up over 20 minutes of ice time a night, on top of the same travel schedule Harris was experiencing, only even more frequently.

The travelling didn’t usually bother Harris this much, though. And with that, a tiny, foreboding niggle of doubt embedded itself. Troy’s questions were only making him feel a little more nervous as well. Stacking the chilliness on top of the tiredness…

On top of the sore throat on top of the sinus issues…

Troy handed Harris off the tea, making himself comfortable, oblivious to his boyfriend’s held-off, but impending, doom spiral. He leaned slightly into Harris’s side as he returned to his work, one AirPod still out, and hooked his chin over Harris’s shoulder, watching the screen. Although Troy impeded the full range of motion in his left arm, he was a welcome weight; a welcome warmth. Flush with a sudden affection, and with his fingers still warm from holding the hot cup, Harris curled his fist and brought them up to stroke Troy’s cheek. He basically melted into his touch.

“What’cha doing?” Troy eventually asked, his voice soft and syrupy slow.

Harris switched the tabs quickly between his editing software, the Centaurs’ Twitter page, and their Instagram account. “Just editing my little behind the scenes ‘DITL’s and replying to some comments.”

Troy looked confused, and Harris let out a chuckle. 

“‘DITLs’? Now you’re making up words just to confuse me.”

Harris barked out a laugh. “All this time and you still have no real idea what all I actually do day-to-day, huh?”

“For sure, yeah. You… come at us with a little mini mic and ask dumb questions,” Troy answered, his smile teasing.

Harris’s mouth dropped open, clearly indignant. “The questions your fans are clamouring for the answer to! Like ‘Did you make your bed this morning?’, ‘Is this princess treatment or bare minimum?’, and, my personal favourite, ‘Who on the team would be most likely to fall for a phishing scam?’”

Troy gave him a pointed look at that last one. Harris bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“I’m sorry, baby, but you’re just mad because most people chose you.”

“I fucking wouldn’t…” Troy grumbled, just like he had on the day Harris had gone around asking it, before mumbling, “...because I’d ask you first and you’d know.”

After that they settled into a comfortable rhythm – Harris working, Troy watching him work. Whatever the hot tea had managed to loosen up in Harris’s airways, worryingly, it had him alternating between clearing his throat and sniffling with an ever increasing frequency. Despite it being pretty much right in Troy’s ear, if he noticed or was bothered by it, he didn’t show it. Something about Troy watching over his shoulder in dazed, sleepy, silence, lulled by the low rumble of the engines, was only making Harris sleepier too, his eyelids getting noticeably heavier by the minute.

Finally admitting (temporary) defeat, Harris saved his progress and sat fully back, scrubbing the sleep from his eye.

“Ugh, I can’t wait to be back home in our own bed,” he said, partly through a yawn.

Troy tilted his head to look up at him, tired eyes shining with agreement. “Same. Still a little while to go yet, though. And we need to pick Chiron up on the way back.”

Normally, if they were away together for no more than a couple of days, they’d save hassle and money and just leave Chiron at Harris’s parents’ place. But when they were gone for longer, like this, they just didn’t want to impose on them or put them under any more strain with all the animals that were already running around. So they’d started putting Chiron in this fancy kennel – more ’doggie hotel’, really – type of place. Shane and Ilya take Anya there as well and had highly recommended it. Ilya had started to joke that she and Chiron were ‘cousins’ who were ‘going on vacation together’.

“Awww,” Harris cooed, picturing his fluffy little face and how excited he’ll be to see them again. “I’ve missed him so much.”

“Me too. The worst part of it is, though, is that he’s apparently having the time of his life. He won't want to come home with us.”

They’d been getting pretty frequent updates from the kennel staff, including pictures and videos of Chiron completing commands for yummy, nutritious treats, frolicking in wide open fields on one of at least two walks he got per day, and, adorably, making friends with the other dogs.

“Did you see the last load of stuff they sent over from today?” Harris gushed, already pulling his phone out.

They were very much an ‘opposites attract’ kind of couple when it came to the scale of how glued you could be to your phone – Harris was just about the easiest person in the world to reach at any given time. Troy? Not so much. Honestly, whether Troy had or hadn’t seen them, he just wanted to look at them again regardless.

“No! I saw the notification before the game earlier, but I was kind of locked in and didn’t want to take myself out of the moment.”

They huddled together over Harris’s phone screen as they poured over the assortment of pictures and videos, their gazes mutually adoring. As much as he loved Chiron and did just want to look at the pictures again, Harris would be lying if he said that he wasn’t also just simply enjoying being close to his boyfriend – suddenly feeling a little greedy about it. He just about resisted the urge to fully lay his head in the crook of Troy’s neck, to turn his face inward, away from the screen lights, close his eyes, and rest in the deep dip of Troy’s shoulderblade like he would do if they were at home.

“That’s totally his girlfriend,” Harris pointed out instead, gesturing towards the pretty, well-groomed springer spaniel that kept appearing in so many of the snaps, never too far from Chiron’s side. One of them was captioned “Chiron and Cora! Best buddies ❤️”

“Wow,” Troy mused, comically deadpan. “Our boy’s really straight, huh?”

Harris’s chuckle burst out of him in a rather undignified snort, the pain making him wince before he could fully catch himself. “Apparently so! Who would’ve thought? Sdnff. Where did we go wrong, babe?”

Troy ‘tsk’ed. “We didn’t raise him that way. And besides – he’s too young to have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or an… an anything-friend.”

“He’s two and a half now! Nearly three.”

“Exactly. He’s still a baby.”

Harris shot him a look. “Very much a teenager in the canine world.”

Troy averted his gaze, but dipped his head a fraction closer, mumbling. “Well he’ll always be a baby to me. Our baby.”

Harris’s chest fluttered. Oh God, that’s so cute I have no idea what to do with it. He sighed, but it came out warm and affectionate. “Such a protective dad.”

Unfortunately, it appeared like that fluttering didn’t want to stay in his chest. The hot tea had dulled the ache in his throat, and eased some of the pressure in his head, but now, from that, a crawling itch suddenly wound all the way up into the back of his nose. Gasping, he pulled out of Troy’s personal space, turning away and burying his face into the crook of his arm.

“hhh’UH’AEHTSSCH’hue!” Even muffled, the sneeze was loud and abrasive, cutting through the low din of the chatter around them as it tore out. Ouch.

“Bless you!” Wyatt chimed, his kind face popping up from over the back of the seat. It must’ve caught Shane, Ilya, and Bood’s attention as well, who were looking on as they briefly lowered their cards.

To Harris’s surprise, he found he couldn’t properly respond, his breath seizing in his lungs as he geared up for another, hot on the heels of the first. “Th-hh? Thanks, su’hhh…sorry– hhuh’EHTCHH’hoo!”

Huh. He barely ever sneezed more than once at a time. Which… could mean nothing.

“Bless you, man,” Wyatt repeated, standing up and reaching over the seats to clap a warm – firm – hand to Harris’s shoulder on his way out into the aisle, heading off towards the bathroom.

Troy’s brow creased. “You okay?”

Harris reemerged from his elbow with a reflexive sniffle. He’d really rather pretend he didn’t notice how heavy it was. But the thing about growing up with a chronic health issue was that you sort of got to know how your body worked on a much more intimate basis than most other people. You learned to be observant; tended to know when something was up. All there was beyond that was either denial or acceptance.

God, one more sneeze like that and he’s definitely going to need a tissue. Then it’s essentially game over. Did he even have a tissue? Probably somewhere.

Shit. Oh no. This really isn’t the time for this.

“Yes!” he said quickly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yes, of course, silly. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Troy considered that for a second, but didn’t appear to know how to put what he was thinking into words; like the right ones were just out of reach somewhere. “I don’t know. You just seem kind of…”

Harris held his gaze as Troy’s eyes flitted about, studying him. Something in him battled to help Troy out; usually he would. Just a couple more beats and then…

Troy gave up, dismissing his own thought with a shrug. “I don’t know. Never mind. Ignore me, I’m probably just…”

Harris’s mouth twitched into a small, private smile.

“Tired?” he supplied for him this time.

Troy gave a slow nod, yawning as he slumped down a little further in his seat. “Yeah, that.” He leaned back into Harris’s space once more like a clingy house cat. Getting a proper look at him now, Harris could see the slightly hollow-looking exhaustion in the ice blue of his eyes, post-game adrenaline all but drained away.

“Here,” Harris said, bending over to lift his scarf – large, woolen and adorned with coloured stripes – from where he’d discarded it on top of his bag after boarding. For it technically being Spring, he’d thought he’d been stupid for bringing it in the first place, only to be vindicated by the relatively unseasonable cold snap Boston was experiencing that actually made it entirely worth bringing. He folded it up, then propped it between his shoulder and the curve of his neck, indicating for Troy to lay his head down.

“Go ahead,” Harris prompted, when Troy didn’t immediately take him up on it, despite how tempted he looked by the offer.

“Are you not going to have a nap too?”

Harris’s smile turned regretful, peering at his waiting laptop screen. “I’m so close to having at least the first part of the video done – we only have about an hour left ‘til we land and if I focus, I know I can finish it by then.”

Troy shot him a familiar look, vaguely disapproving, but ultimately accepting. He was well used to Harris’s workaholic ways by now. In lieu of adding anything more, Troy tilted his chin up and pressed a quick, featherlight kiss to the underside of Harris’s jaw before finally laying his head down on his makeshift pillow.

“Ew,” Ilya and Bood chirped simultaneously as they passed by, the two of them and Shane having abandoned the game entirely and began making their way to their actual seats. Bood with a wide, teasing smirk, and Ilya almost comically straight-faced.

“Not in a homophobic way, obviously!” Bood rushed to follow up, full of sudden ‘potential allyship fuck up’ fear. “Just, like, in a lovey dovey, ‘get a room’ kind of way, y’know?”

“I meant it homophobically,” Ilya cut in, much to Shane’s horror, earning himself a smack on the arm as Shane shoved him onwards.

“Ilya! Jesus, sorry about him.”

It was all Harris could do to prevent himself bursting out laughing. Okay, so they’ve got a tired, cranky captain who probably shouldn’t be bothered for the remainder of the flight. Got it.

Meanwhile, Troy simply flipped them the bird before settling back in and getting comfy against Harris’s shoulder again.