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One. tap. two. tap tap. Three. Tap. four. Tap tap tap. FiveSix. tap tap—
“Hollander! Khvatit! Tap tap taptaptap— is giving me headache!”
Fuck.
Shane was having a bad day.
He had felt it coming on all week, with the playoffs coming up. Pressure building in his gut, his head, his throat. And, of course, This fucking Boston game was just the cherry on top, because with Boston came… But he couldn’t think about him right now. Not with how things left off, Shane standing in that elevator like an idiot, screen swimming.
We didn’t even kiss....
Christ. It was months on months later and Shane still wasn’t sure if his failure to send that text had been an act of grace or masochism. How would Rozanov have responded? How did Shane want him to respond? The truth is that despite the embarrassment and anxiety that was eating at the edges of his cooling desire, Shane would’ve run right back up to that ridiculous hotel room if he had felt even slightly welcome to. He would’ve done anything the man had asked him to— he had done anything the man had asked him to. So why couldn’t Shane ask for what he wanted too?
But that was a horrible idea. Has he always been this stupid? Or was this just divine punishment for letting himself get distracted by some fruitless conquest that would never pay off. Sure, it felt completely amazing and mind blowing and… different. Important. But Shane really wasn’t sure how much longer he could ride this rollercoaster. The turmoil and the obsession that had been brewing in him for almost a year now was proof enough that he should’ve exited the ride a long time ago, for everyone’s sake. It was starting to make him feel sick.
No— he couldn’t think about this right now. Not when Ilya Rozanov was sitting three feet away, pointing out his… whatever this tapping thing he had picked up lately was. Now he’d had to start over, of course. Because it wasn’t enough to wear some dumb lucky socks, or leave his garage door open, or tape his sticks just so, like the other guys. It was all that plus…. this. Shane felt a wave of shame push over him, just another in a set of tides that had been rolling in and out all week. Eroding the shore.
One. tap. Two. tap tap.
There was nothing in particular that was causing the rising tension in Shane. It had just been a weird week. Travel days meant an interruption to his routine, which meant less sleep. They meant an ever changing schedule, which meant more energy trying not to act like a complete freak when his friends all decide that it's totally cool to blow off the dinner reservation he’d made last month and go to a bar instead. They meant sharing a room, and losing his tooth brush, and unhappy away fans, and cramped airplane seats, and— when in Boston— checking his phone compulsively even though he knows he shouldn’t. Even though he should just let it lie.
But Shane just couldn’t help it. It consumed him.
Three. Tap.
He thought, distantly, that maybe he should be the one to reach out to Rozanov. The phone goes both ways and all, and maybe what had happened wasn't even like… a thing to him, not the way it had been to Shane. Maybe Rozanov just rolled over and went to sleep when the lock on his door clicked shut that night. Maybe it was just another encounter in a long string of encounters. He hoped so, despite the wave of jealousy the thought brought him, but Shane doubted it. He couldn’t even really remember exactly what had happened himself, just that it went memorably sideways.
He remembered, vividly, how Rozanov turned to ice beneath his palms. It was like watching a fog descend over his eyes, body stiffening, face closing. But what had even happened? Maybe Shane had asked too much, been too much. Was that even possible? Play by play by play, Shane had slowed that night down, trying to analyze what the exact moment was where it went wrong because, for a while, it had been going so right. Despite the rocky start at the awards earlier that night, it had felt like he was slipping back into his rightful place as he glided into Rozanov’s suite. Like a restoration of some kind, the noise in his head instantly quieting.
Shane had done everything that was asked of him, and done it well based on the feedback he received. He knew he did a good job, he could see and feel and touch the confirmation of that. So what was it? It must’ve been something afterwards. The personal questions? The cuddling? He needed to figure this out so he could stop obsessing over it. It was times like these where Shane wondered if everyone else spent as much time on decoding their own lives as he did. Thinking ahead, looking back, in the moment— everything was up for scrutiny. He was continuously gathering data for classification, and filing it away for next time. Shane considered his attention to detail to be his winning quality, but it was in times like this where it just completely overwhelmed him.
Four. tap tap. FiveSix. tap tap tap. Se-ven. Tap tap. Eight. Tap. nine—
A hand on his back made Shane start. Hayden looked at him expectantly, concern on the periphery. “You good man?”
No.
“Uh. yeah. Sorry. just…” Shane rewound the count in his head. He was aware that Hayden was speaking to him, but he just needed to get through this set and then he’d be okay.
One. tap. Two—
“... for the face off? Shane?”
Hayden grabbed his shoulder, and Shane flinched away for real this time. He felt a sharp emotion boil over in him— panic? Fear? Anger? Exhaustion? Maybe all of it, who knows.
“What, dude, What!” Shane immediately regretted snapping on Hayden, but it was all he could do not to scream. It was way too loud in this arena, and way, way too bright. So bright he could swear he could hear the fluorescents buzzing over the jeers of the crowd, drilling straight through his eye and into his skull. Shane could feel it in his teeth.
Hayden’s face now showed pure worry. “The face off, Shane. They’re waiting. Are you—”
“Yes I'm fine.” Fuck, when had that happened? Shane hadn’t even heard the buzzer go off. He looked to the scoreboard— 0-2, Boston. When had Boston even scored at all? He really needed to focus. It’s not like tapping his stick was going to help him avoid a career ending injury anyway, which is what his brain had been telling him all week. That wasn’t reality, It just felt that way. Right?
Abandoning his ritual, Shane hopped the boards, and skated out, a feeling of unfinished business gnawing away at his already stripped down bones. Jesus, it was so fucking loud in here. Shane felt like crawling out of his skin. He smacked the heel of his glove against his helmet a few times, clinging on to the fleeting comfort the feeling gave him. If he could get through this period, he could calm down during the intermission. He certainly wouldn't be doing his team any favors in his current state, but his absence would probably hurt them more— which was the primary reason Shane hadn’t just pulled out of this game completely when he realized how horrible he was feeling. No, the disappointment coming at him would only make things worse. Plus, of course, he was secretly hoping that seeing Ilya Rozanov would help, even if only on the ice. Maybe if he could catch a glimpse of him, he could divine his mood, see if there was any sort of coldness left in his face. Maybe he would even find softness. Shane pushed this desire down and tried to swallow the anxiety that was burning its way through his esophagus because, well, here was his chance.
Ilya had a chirp prepared for this moment— he’d been workshopping it for weeks, hoping they’d face off at this game. He had a formula: It needed to be pithy and suggestive, Inflammatory, but playful. It had to make Shane’s face scrunch in annoyance, his freckles emphasizing every hill and valley— just the way Ilya liked it. He had carefully edited down his ideas until he had a winner that was sure to make Shane slam him into the boards out of spite. Ilya loved it when he played hard.
But the thought of chirping Shane Hollander immediately exited Ilya’s mind when he finally got a good look at him.
Shane had looked… not so great this game, that was for sure. It was a trend Ilya had been noting for the last week or so— he was sloppy, unfocused, making stupid mistakes that were surely earning him a talking to after every game. Ilya had thought maybe he was hurt but keeping it on the low, or maybe he had been sick and trying to power through, but seeing him up close, Ilya decided it seemed much deeper than that.
He seemed like he was going to blow.
“Hollander” Ilya said as privately as he could, hoping to draw the man’s eyes. Instead he just smacked his helmet a few times before getting into position.
Over the loud speaker, a siren began to blare, announcing some sort of fan segment on the jumbotron above them. Shane jumped at the sudden calamity, grimace deepening, and, alright, now Ilya was definitely sure it was deeper than a bruised rib. Should he do something? Surely that counted as flinching, maybe the ref would eject him for it if he made a stink but….. no, it looked like that wasn’t going to happen. Ilya straightened out, pretending to adjust his grip if only to buy himself a little more time.
Maybe he shouldn’t be worrying about Shane Hollander so much. It’s not like he had texted Ilya in the last few months anyway. He needed to focus on the game.
“Is all okay, Hollander?” Ilya cringed as the broken phrase came out of his mouth. Stupid fucking English. “Eh…everything with you?”.
Shane hit his head again. What was that? Where had he seen that before?
“Fine.” Shane clipped, wincing out a reply as if that one syllable was a considerable drain on his life force. Ilya decided to be bold.
Ilya scoffed, “Is not fine, but we pretend for now, da?”
He had hoped, foolishly, that this light nudge would spark something in the man across from him, be it anger, or annoyance, or gratitude— something to show signs of the real Shane Hollander, and not this… puppet. He looked on in mild horror as his words only seemed to make Shane crumble further. His hands were shaking.
Had he said something mean by accident? Gotten some words crossed in translation? Maybe he should just shut up. Deciding to do just that, Ilya dropped his stick down onto the ice, the sound making Shane flinch again. Whatever. If he wanted to play a shit game and not take care of himself, that’s on him. Ilya certainly wasn’t going to go easy on him because of it.
It wasn’t hard to win the face-off, in fact it was like… what is that thing the Americans say… taking candy from a baby? Ilya almost felt bad. Did no one on his team see what he did? Or his coaches? Fucking assholes. But it didn’t matter. Shane Hollander was not his problem.
Ilya charged down the ice, effortlessly completing his teammate’s all but clean pass. He was better than his comrades, and he knew that, but sometimes it was frustrating that he was the one who had to pick up the slack. A sloppy pass here, a dropped puck there— it was all extra energy he had to expend covering others' mistakes when he could be using it to further his own game. It wasn’t ego for Ilya, not really— I mean, yes, he had an ego about it, but he knew objectively that it was true. That he was just the better player. It didn’t mean that he didn't respect his teammates, or that he didn’t enjoy playing with them, but sometimes he wished he could be on a line with someone like….
Well, but that couldn’t happen. Maybe at an All Stars game one year— that is, if the powers that be would ever let it happen. Ilya had been sorely disappointed when year after year the league did backbends to ensure that he and Shane were on opposite teams. I mean, odds vs. evens? Europeans vs. North Americans? What’s fucking next: blondes vs. brunettes? It frustrated Ilya, this rivalry thing. Sure, he enjoyed the attention it brought him and sometime he thought he really did hate Shane Hollander with his stupid fucking hair and perfect french and Rolex ads. But, no. He didn’t hate Shane.
And maybe that was his problem.
Ilya rounded the corner, successfully fending off a particularly brutish Metros player’s attempt to intercept the puck cradled in his stick. He was running on pure instinct, almost foresight. Ilya felt like he could see the future when he played hockey, it was something that had always brought him an enormous sense of wellbeing. And as the power play began, he could see the future now. Ilya felt good about this one— besides Godzilla who was far too slow to catch Ilya anyway, he was completely unguarded as he looped around the Metros net, setting up a shot. This would be number 32 for the season, a bit under the mark but… oh well. If Montreal was going to keep handing him goals like this, maybe he could get back on track tonight. He passed to his teammate to his right, accepting the puck back when he was in a better position to slap it right through the Metros goalie’s weak spot. Right into that tiny, vulnerable window between his left elbow and knee. He could just see it as he—
The whistle blew.
“Chto za khuinya!” Ilya swore.
The crowd was roaring, on their feet, as Ilya looked around. Aside from their goalie, He was alone on the Metros side; a fact that confused him until he saw what was happening at the other end of the ice.
Shane Hollander, with his gloves off, wailing on Marleau. Now that was a first.
Over, and over, and over Shane whipped his fists at the Boston player, taking more hits than he was landing, but he didn’t care. He just couldn’t control himself anymore. Marleau had checked him hard as he was racing after Ilya— after he had stupidly left him unguarded— and though the shock of his body slamming into the boards was a temporary relief from his overwhelm, the relief was quickly replaced by blinding anger. It was like all of his shame and anxiety and upset from the last week was pouring out of him like lava. It wasn’t Marleau’s fault. The sound of the board rattling and the skates scraping the ice and the fans screaming and banging on the glass just became too much. The smoke and the roving lights in the stadium was too much. The feeling of his socks bunched in his skates, of his jersey hiking up was too much. Ilya taunting him asking him if he was okay was too much. This whole fucking week was too much and thats why when the relief melted into anger, he just started swinging at the nearest moving shape. It could’ve been anyone.
He knew he’d get a call from his mom after this— a realization that only served to make him feel even worse. After all, Shane didn’t fight. Even growing up he’d never let the other players goad him into it, no matter what kinds of names they called him or how dirty they played. And now, because he’d garnered that reputation, no one even tried. Though entertaining to watch, Shane always thought fighting was pointless. It deeply confused him— what good did it do? Why give the other team a leg up when you get nothing in return? But all that logic had left him now. He felt tears swimming in his eyes.
It was honestly impressive that Shane was still on his feet. The two had been fighting long enough that multiple other fights had broken out across the ice, the more opportunistic players getting in on the excuse to take out some of their aggression. The fans were going crazy, screaming and banging on the glass like they were hungry animals in a zoo. They were going to be showing replays of this fight all week.
Despite his worry, Ilya smiled privately as he raced over towards the brawl, musing on the situation that was playing out before him. Shane Hollander can’t do anything halfway, that was for sure. But his amusement was quickly cut short when Marleau landed a punch squarely on Shane’s jaw, sending him crumpling to the ground, helmet skittering across the ice. In a flash, a dog pile had formed, everyone tripping over one another, skates clashing. He could see Shane at the bottom of it all— thank god he wore that stupid fucking neck guard— crammed up against the boards as a mass of bodies writhes above him, everyone still throwing punches anywhere they could connect them.
Ilya wanted to slap Shane on the back. He thought idly about how if Shane was in a bad enough mood to fight, then he certainly wasn’t in the headspace to be teased about it. He probably still would, though, but maybe gentler than he normally would have. Truth was if he hadn’t been so worried about the man, he would find this all so incredibly hot. He still did, a little bit.
Ilya’s concern continued to override his momentary enjoyment as the refs pulled the brawl apart, everyone slowly disengaging with final shoves or spats. As the fighters began to disperse, a pit grew in Ilya’s stomach— Shane wasn’t getting up. He lay there, crumpled on the ice, face hidden but body betraying his pure panic. He was doing that thing again, smacking his hand into his head, only this time with no helmet or gloves to protect him. Ilya decided to chance a closer look, skating up to the scrimmage as a cold feeling washed down his spine.
Ilya knew that he probably shouldn’t be doing this, but he was banking on everyone being too distracted by the chaos around them to notice. The refs were all trying to break up Marleau and JJ now, and Ilya took the opportunity to crouch down in front of Shane. Now that he was up close, he could hear small droning sounds coming from Shane, his hands now pulling at his hair— which, Ilya thought, was slightly better than the hitting.
“Hollander, can you hear me?” Ilya murmured as quietly as he could. Some shitty country song blared from the speakers above him, and he tried to move his body to shield both him and Shane from the noise and cameras.
And that’s when it clicked for him. This— the hitting, the sounds, the shutting down— he had seen it before.
His niece Sasha had always been a little bit different than the other girls her age. Despite being the smartest and funniest kid Ilya knew, she didn’t have many friends. Or, really any, to be honest. Alexei had told Ilya once that Sasha didn’t seem to want friends, that she would become shy and withdrawn when approached by kids wanting to play. Ilya couldn’t imagine this was true. What kid doesn’t want friends? Especially one as talkative as Sasha. Every time he was home, it was non stop ice skating, horses, or the entire life stories of whatever long dead monarchs she had discovered in a library book and latched on to lately. She loved the Romanovs especially, though his brother thought them an inappropriate topic. Though it could get repetitive, Ilya loved to listen to her talk about her interests. He loved to see her face light up when he asked her questions, showing her he was listening. He knew Alexei probably wasn’t.
It seemed to be a great source of embarrassment for his brother, that his daughter was an “outcast”. Alexei had been extremely popular growing up, even more than Ilya had. After all— Ilya, for all his popularity, had hockey to focus on. Alexei was a free agent, totally down for any and everything. Everyone knew Alexei, and everyone wanted to be his friend. Ilya could imagine watching his friend’s children grow up, form bonds, and grow more and more independent would bother him when his own child just couldn’t seem to get it. It was a stupid reason to be embarrassed, but Ilya could admit that it was genuinely hard sometimes with Sasha. She could get overwhelmed very easily, and small things could set her off into fits of upset and rage. Like the time they had gone to the mall together last time Ilya had been home between seasons— Sasha hadn’t wanted to go, but his brother had dragged her along despite her protests. She had been clearly uncomfortable with the hustle and bustle of the crowded shopping center. When the bracelet Ilya had made with her the day before had snagged and broken, Alexei wouldn’t let them stop to collect up the beads. That had been her last straw.
After that Ilya did some research. He had decided that next time anything like this happened he wouldn’t be powerless to help her. Since his brother clearly wasn’t going to try.
Ilya looked around him and back down at Shane, a memory resurfacing among the storm of worry that was raging in his mind. Now that Ilya thought about it, he had seen this in Shane before, too. He just hadn’t connected the dots.
Like last season, after a particularly tough loss, when Shane stormed into Ilya’s hotel room and grabbed him roughly. He seemed frantic, agitated, and kind of… well kind of out of it. Just a little bit. Ilya had assumed it was just the bad game, or the pent up anger about their situation, or the texts Ilya had sent him before the game, or some combination of all three. And hey— Ilya was okay with Shane Hollander working out his agitation on him, but when he noticed the tremor in Shane’s hands he had pulled away.
Shane had insisted he was fine, swore up and down he just was having a bad day. That he needed this. He begged Ilya to fuck him, and once Ilya had seen him calm down and loosen up— once he thought he was okay— Ilya did. It was all a bit out of character for Shane (not the pissiness, of course, but the rest of it), but Ilya had decided that Shane was an adult and if he insisted he was okay, then he was. He would just take it easy, give Shane what he needed, and take nothing more for himself. That was enough for Ilya anyway.
They hadn’t even been five minutes in when Shane had suddenly cried out for Ilya to stop, breath choking in his throat.
Ilya had, of course. He practically flew across the bed the second Shane had told him to stop, and Shane had… well he had curled up into a ball, face down on the mattress. His hands were over his ears, breaths coming ragged and raw, and he was rocking back and forth slightly. Ilya remembered the way his stomach had dropped in that moment, a wave of fear and guilt washing over him. Had he done this? He was being so careful, he had been paying such close attention to how Shane was feeling, but had he missed something? Did he hurt him?
Ilya had crawled back over to Shane in a flash, placing a hand on the man’s back only for him to violently flinch away, a high keening noise coming from his throat.
After that Ilya had just sat next to him, panicking silently and quietly checking in every so often. After a while, Shane had calmed down, and quickly took his leave despite Ilya’s protests. Ilya had wanted to check in on Shane later that night, but he had talked himself out of it. He probably didn’t want to hear from Ilya anyway, not after that. Not after whatever it was that Ilya had done to make that happen— in fact, he probably wouldn’t want to see Ilya anymore at all. Despite having let this memory slip from his mind after many successful encounters since, he had fretted over that night for months. It wasn't until Shane had texted him a few months later to meet up in Boston that Ilya had let his anxiety ease.
Ilya still wasn’t sure if it was his fault or not, they never talked about it. But it never happened again.
He ducked, speaking to Shane in a low voice, “Hey Hollander, I am here. Is okay, everything is okay. We just need to get you back to your team…”
And how exactly was he going to do that? He didn’t want to touch Shane, out of fear of getting him even more worked up, but someone had to. Shane seemed to relax a little bit at Ilya’s voice, letting it break through the panic a bit. Good. That was good, right? A good sign. Now if only he could get him to stand up…
A hand grabbed Ilya roughly by the collar, throwing him back.
“Che, blya!”
Ilya swung around to see who had grabbed him and was met with the face of a stern ref.
“Back off Rozanov.”
Putting his hands up, Ilya did just that. He knew better than to fight the ref. That would just draw more attention to the situation, something he was certain Shane wouldn’t want. Plus, his coach would probably kill him if he got a game misconduct.
“Okay, okay. I go now”
Suddenly, another Metros player appeared at his right— Hayden. Fucking hell he hated this guy. Shane seemed to trust him though, and that’s what he needed right now.
“What’s your fucking problem man? Leave him the hell alone”, Hayden practically growled at Ilya, dropping down to one knee in front of his crumpled teammate. “Shane? Buddy, are you okay? Do we need the medics?”
“Woah! Am not trying to start fight Hayden.” Ilya put his hands up again, hoping to seem as non threatening as possible. “Will not start fight, just—“
“Yeah? Then how about you get out of here before I start one.”
Ilya rolled his eyes, his annoyance with Hayden momentarily overtaking his concern with Shane, who thankfully seemed to be getting his wits about him as the two bickered. He would never understand why Shane liked this man so much, but he hoped he could at least be discreet. That he wouldn’t go telling everyone about Shane’s freakout and Ilya’s mysterious knowledge on the subject. Or about how much he seemed to care. Ilya pressed closer to Hayden.
“Shane, buddy, I’m gonna call the medics, okay? just—“
“Is no need for medics. Make sure he can get quiet. Is too loud in here, da Hollander?” Ilya said privately, hoping to draw Shane’s eyes. Shane, who had pulled himself into a sitting position just nodded once absently, jerkily, looking very far away. Looking a little ashamed. Fuck. Had Ilya done something wrong again?
“Is no problem, Hollander. Is too loud for me also.”
“Quiet place, Noted.” Hayden said with a very noticeable edge of hostility. He seemed dismissive but, to Ilya’s relief, he helped Shane to his feet and did just that.
Ilya watched as Hayden skated Shane over to the bench, Shane’s arm slung over his shoulder. He looked very drained, but more alert. What a fucking nightmare. Ilya hoped that the cameras hadn’t caught too much of it as the two disappeared into the locker room. He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.
And now he had to get back to the game.
Good thing their star player is out, Ilya thought darkly, this should be a breeze. Taking a deep breath in, he skated away, shaking off the unsteadiness in his hands. On the exhale, Ilya repeated his mantra as of late:
Shane Hollander was not his problem.
—
One. tap. two. tap tap. Three. Tap. four. Tap tap tap. FiveSix. tap tap. Se-ven. tap. Eight. tap tap tap. Nine. Tap tap. Ten. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Shane let out a breath, sinking even deeper into the cushions of his. He could just die.
His mom had called him before he was even off the ice, of course, asking him what had happened. He hadn’t known what to tell her— a panic attack? No this was different. It felt different— he didn’t feel like he was going to die like when he had a panic attack, he felt more like…like he was going to explode. Like he needed to stop everything in and around him before he splintered into a pile of shards. As if he, Shane, was shoved to the corner of his own mind while everything else ran on overdrive. It was something that just happened to him from time to time for as long as he could remember. He had mostly done a very good job at keeping it to himself, of getting alone and handling it. It was unfortunate that the only two times he had failed at that were in front of Ilya Rozanov. Oh, and also an entire stadium full of people and tv cameras, everyone probably all wondering why Rozanov was standing in front of him, speaking to him so…
But he didn’t really know how he had spoken to him. He couldn’t really remember anything but the blinding overwhelm and the feeling of his fingers twisted in his own hair. Rozanov could’ve been taunting him, for all Shane knew. Thank god for Hayden, who had helped him back to the locker room, put his head between his knees, and told him to breathe. Hayden also seemed to assume it was a panic attack, but putting him in the quiet dark of the locker room had been the right choice to help him calm down. Maybe it would be easier for everyone and himself if he decided that it was one.
And Ilya, crouched over him… Rozanov, crouched over him. But he couldn’t think about that right now, the optics of it all. He’d probably have an actual real panic attack and die on his nice leather sofa.
Shane’s phone rang, causing him to jump slightly. Hayden. He picked up, and tried to sound much more relaxed than he felt, “Hey man, what’s up?”
Hayden sounded relieved on the other end, “Nothing much, just wanted to check in. After, you know…”
“Yeah. Yeah it’s fine. I’m okay. I was just having a bad day, not feeling well, you know?
“I get it man, it happens to the best of us”
Shane took a steadying breath, and broached the subject, “And I wanted to, uh. I wanted to thank you for what you did. Getting me out of there, into the locker room. I think that helped a lot.” There was a strange pause on the line before Hayden answered. Shane felt a twinge of anxiety rise in him. He hated phone calls.
“Yeah well, thank Rozanov, it was his idea. I wanted to call the medics on your ass but he insisted.”
What? Why would…. How would he even….
Oh. yeah.
“Oh. Weird.”
“Yeah. I almost didn’t do it but he looked so… I don’t know man. Weird though, right? He certainly took advantage of your absence though, Jesus. We got creamed.”
Hayden kept talking, recapping the rest of the game that Shane had missed— but Shane wasn’t listening. He was thinking about what had happened last season. It had haunted him for over a year now; the frightened look on Rozanov’s face, the worry… He shouldn’t have pushed it, pushed Rozanov— but he did. And as his punishment, It was probably one of the top most embarrassing and horrifying things that had ever happened to him. He was powerless to stop it in the moment, the sensory overwhelm mingling with his horrible day to concoct a special sort of all consuming panic. Shane had been grateful that Rozanov hadn’t tried to bring it up in the year since, but rather had graciously taken his return as an apology.
But the icy shame of this memory was a whisper compared to the warmth that filled his chest at the thought of Rozanov protecting him on the ice. Thanks to him, Shane hadn’t been subjected to the horror of having paramedics tell him he was just having a panic attack or… something. That there was nothing wrong with him physically, nothing they could fix.
Jesus.
Shane wondered absently if Rozanov had meant to block the camera mounted directly across from where he had collapsed, or if it had just been a happy accident. He should call him and ask, and of course he needed to thank him for—
But that was ridiculous. They didn’t call each other.
Shane let out a sigh, admonishing himself for once again looking for excuses to break their code of conduct. He’d just have to wait for the next time they were in the same city. That is, if Rozanov ever wanted to see him again. Shane secretly hoped that he would, but that was a flame he couldn't carry out in the open, lest the cool breath of reality blow it out. Nothing would be worse than that.
And so he hid that desire, deep in his chest cavity, and guiltily let its heat burn up his insides. One day he’d be brave enough to put out the fire— to extinguish it and save himself— but for now, he greedily basked in its warmth.