Chapter Text
“So,” Hayden says, tiny Arthur cradled against his chest. He’s looking at Shane, which puts Shane on edge immediately.
Shane swallows against the urge to cough. “So what?” he asks when Hayden doesn’t go on.
“When are you gonna join me in this nightmare?”
“Jeez, Hayd, you wanna get me pregnant, too?”
Hayden drops his gaze, smiling.
“I don’t think I’m ready; I think I still have some good hockey left in me.”
“You’re an asshole,” Hayden says fondly, but – what else can Shane even say in the middle of the Aquarium de Montréal? It seems like an evil place to be ambushed. “You ever talk to that ex of yours? What was it, Jennifer?”
“Uh, Jessica.”
“Jessica! You ever hit that?”
Jeez, Hayden. “Don’t say hit that,” Shane tells him tiredly. There’s not much he can do against the language prevalent in locker rooms, but they’re out and about in their free time, and he expects better of Hayden. Also, maybe it will distract Hayden from this line of thinking he’s going down.
“Sorry, Virgin Mary.”
Unbidden, an image of Rozanov on his knees flashes through Shane’s mind, the way his lips look wrapped around Shane’s cock, the way his hands find Shane’s ass, like he can’t help himself but touch. “I’m not…” Shane starts before he can lose himself in those thoughts. The scratch in his throat is back with a vengeance, strong enough he can feel it all the way down into his chest.
He clears his throat, swallows, swallows again, and gives a single, close-mouthed cough. His chest hurts. Damn. Just what he needs, mere days from the start of the season.
Hayden smiles and takes pity on him. “Here, tag! You are it!” he singsongs and passes Arthur over. It takes Shane a moment to juggle the tiny boy into a secure hold, still comparatively novel even though he’s been back in Montreal – back in the orbit of the Pikes – for over a month now. “Let’s go see Uncle Shane.”
Shane has the irrational urge to ask Hayden for a picture of this moment, to send to –
He swallows past the clog that’s been ever-present in his throat this summer and does not finish that thought.
“Look, I’m just saying, man – if you ever do, you could, like, bring her around, you know? We’d do couple stuff. It’d be fun.”
Jessica hasn’t been in the picture for years at this point. But it’s not her straight brown hair or brown eyes that flash through Shane’s mind when Hayden says couple stuff. Instead, he thinks of strong fingers and dark blond curls, plush lips in a smirk while the lean body arches back. At the Pikes’ dinner table. Which is a ludicrous thought. Christ, what is wrong with Shane? It must be the impending start of the season, the first game against Boston looming a mere two weeks away.
“I’m not…” Shane says, using Arthur’s squirming to trail off while he tries not to drop the boy. Hayden, asshole that he is, doesn’t even take his hands out of his pockets. “I mean, she’s… I don’t see her anymore.” If he sees anyone, it’s Rozanov. Not that they’re seeing each other. “I think she’s engaged, or something.”
But Ilya isn’t, a traitorous voice in Shane’s mind whispers. Rozanov. It’s Rozanov, he reminds himself firmly. They’re hooking up – and yes, they were texting over the summer, more frequent than they had in past years – but they’re rivals. Rivals who hook up sometimes, yes, but rivals nonetheless. Certainly not friends who are on a first name basis.
Shane takes a deep breath, and promptly starts coughing. And keeps coughing, because there’s suddenly something stuck in his throat, his lungs spasming like he’s been bag skated for too long.
He’s dimly aware of Hayden saying, “Woah,” at his side, and then Arthur is gone from his grip, which means Shane can focus on not throwing up from trying to cough up his lungs.
“Here,” Hayden says when Shane manages to stop long enough so he can straighten up again. He has Arthur tucked against him with one arm, holding out a bottle of water with the other. God, he’s such a dad. “You alright?”
“Thanks,” Shane says gratefully as he accepts the bottle. His voice is scratchy, and his chest still hurts, but the water helps. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Hayden’s face does a thing. “You sure? Are you – sick? Or…” he trails off, tilting his head in a small shrug.
Shane takes another gulp of water. “Or?”
Hayden shrugs again. “Or do you have a case of the… y’know. Flowers?”
“What?!” Shane yelps, louder than he means to. The aquarium is almost empty on a weekday like today, but he still can’t help but look around to make sure they’ve not attracted undue attention and will end up online. They seem to be in the clear. “No way. And I’m not sick – it’s just allergies.”
“Allergies?” Hayden repeats incredulously. “Dude, it’s October. In Montreal.”
Shane drops his gaze and shrugs. “Surely there’s some – tree or, or plant that is in season in October.”
Hayden snorts in disbelief. “Look, I’m not a doctor, but – you kinda sound an awful lot like Jackie’s sis did, while she and Marc were figuring their shit out.”
“I’m not. It’s – Jessica isn’t – I’m not –”
“Woah,” Hayden says again, and if his arms weren’t full of baby, Shane knows he’d be raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, man. Just, maybe get this checked out, yeah? Last thing we need is you toppling over on the ice.”
Shane rolls his eyes. He’s been fine, on the ice; and, anyway, it’s probably just anxiety over trying for a threepeat on the Cup that’s had him feel like his chest is too tight. But the ice is separate, special; he would never jeopardise the team.
“If you’re done coughing, it’s still your turn.” They do the whole song-and-dance again until Arthur is back in Shane’s arms. Hayden steps back, giving Shane another look. Shane can’t quite parse it – or maybe he also doesn’t want to. He looks down at Arthur instead.
“Just – Jackie has this friend, right?”
Shane doesn’t sigh, but it’s a near thing. He’s not interested, would rather focus on hockey and the team and hang out with Jackie and Hayden on his own instead of dragging a girl around who doesn’t even exist yet and still makes his skin feel too tight all over and his chest constrict.
He really, truly, cannot wait to get back on the ice – and have a very valid reason for why he’s too busy to date.
Shane isn’t stupid.
He knows about hanahaki – the flower disease, first described in Japan, where it gets its name from – because everyone does. It had featured in those excruciating mandatory health classes, along with learning about STDs and putting condoms on bananas.
Shane had paid attention, because he’d grown up knowing that school was important, even if he did end up pursuing a hockey career; that sexual health was important, especially if he did end up pursuing a hockey career. And STDs are a large part of that.
Not that the flowers are an STD, contagious but contained with a condom. They’re a stupid mental thing, more than anything else, stupidity about girls given physical representation. Shane has never really understood it.
Oh, he gets missing something so much it physically hurts. Real ice and the cold of a rink in the few months he gets off during the summer. His own bed at the tail end of a long road trip. The weightless feeling after getting fucked within an inch of his life, especially at this point of the pre-season. The rush of getting a puck into the net after a drought. The warm welcome of the Pikes’ living room.
All of these missing things sink into his bones, a heaviness that he most notices the moment it lifts. He can’t imagine any of them sinking into his lungs. And, anyway – flowers famously progress quickly. In Flowers by Your Name, Alissa, played by Rose Landry, is bedridden within weeks, until she finally makes the call and confesses to Gale, played by Adrian Dela Cruz. In Blooming Love, Evan Smith’s character is coughing up full flowers within weeks of starting his new job and falling for the smart and pretty scientist played by Landry. Even in Not All That Blooms is Love both Landry’s character and her co-star’s develop the telltale cough within days, though they don’t bring up leaves or petals until months later, in the middle of a tense chase through Manhattan. (Sometimes, Shane wishes Rose Landry starred in fewer hanahaki-themed movies, but at least she’s always a delight to watch on interminable plane rides.)
Meanwhile, Shane has had this scratching in his throat for years. Yes, it’s gotten worse with time, but he’s not coughing up anything. And anyway – he’d know, okay?
He spends the rest of the day at the aquarium mulling it over, trying to remember when it had started. Sometime in 2014, maybe, because it’s not like he’d been paying attention, though he remembers the screening they did for the Olympics and being warned that his blood levels showed an increased risk of contracting it.
Which had been stupid, of course, and then they’d won Gold at the Olympics, and nothing had ever come of it. And if Shane had been a little more vigilant towards new people, especially girls, he’d met then, that’s no one’s business but his own.
But anyway. He’d think he’d know, and he’s definitely not met anyone in those years who stuck out to him, so it cannot be hanahaki. Maybe it’s asthma. Or an allergy after all, because as it turns out, October is still weed pollen season in Eastern Canada.
Regardless, Shane makes an appointment with the team doctor, in part so Hayden won’t get Jackie involved, but mostly because if they’re gunning for a third cup in a row, he cannot afford to be anything but at his best.
“We’ll do the full battery,” Dr. Derksen – Marita, she offered, though Shane feels too weird calling his doctor by her first name to not stick with her title and last name – tells him when Shane shows up for an extended physical a week after the regular season starts. She’s a tall woman with the build of an athlete herself, and Shane wouldn’t be surprised if she played hockey herself. He’s never asked, though maybe he should. It seems like the sort of thing he should know, as captain. “I wanted to do that anyway; your ECG was fine, but the lung function test showed a significant decrease from last year; still above average, but below what we have on file for you.” She looks at him over the rim of her glasses. “It might be a remnant from the cracked ribs last season, so I want you in for an MRI at Montreal General after you get back from the road trip. Especially since you’re marked as an elevated risk for hanahaki.”
Shane swallows convulsively, clears his throat, swallows again. There it is again. That word. The word he hasn’t heard since high school outside of movies, only for it to be floated as a possibility twice in as many weeks. But – he has nothing to fear. There’s no way it’s hanahaki. He’d know.
With a reassuring smile, Dr. Derksen gets her equipment ready. It’s a well-known song and dance: blood draws, a saliva swab for something, a urine sample… not that different from pre-season physical. The referral to Montreal General is new, but that’s an issue for after the road trip, as Dr. Derksen had said. She makes him to another lung function test, too, and a treadmill test, and an EEG for good measure, and altogether it’s a good thing that practise this morning was optional because Shane ends up missing a good chunk of it.
It must show on his face, because Dr. Derksen gives him another look and then chuckles. “Go,” she tells him, “There’s nothing here that would keep you from playing, and we’ll go over the results once you’ve gotten the MRI done.”
“Thanks,” Shane says, and then flees before she can change her mind.
“So. Lily’s just a buddy?”
“What?” Shane clenches his hands against the urge to rub his chest, prickling all of a sudden. It’s psychosomatic and he knows it, a direct consequence of being so close to a possible diagnosis.
“Chill. I know you text some girl named Lily,” Hayden says, and Shane can see the exact moment it clicks in his mind. Damn Ilya – damn Rozanov – for choosing a flower as his own code-name. It’s a miracle, maybe, that he didn’t save Shane as Holly in turn.
“I don’t.” Blood is rushing in Shane’s ears, and he wants to run because if Hayden asks –
“Okay.” Hayden gives him a smirk that makes Shane’s jaw clench. “Go get laid, weirdo.”
Shane’s mouth opens, closes, opens again, and then he decides to just leave before Hayden can interrogate him again. He only starts coughing once he’s in the elevator, and miraculously manages to stop before the doors open on the ground floor.
Shane is still thinking about it, right up until Rozanov opens the door to his very pretty house with gorgeous, full glass walls. It’s a private property, with a long driveway that Shane walks up just to get the nervous energy out of his system that his aborted conversation with Hayden had instilled.
It’s ludicrous, anyway, what Hayden’s implying. Because, for one, Shane and Rozanov have been hooking up for years, and two, Rozanov isn’t a girl. There’s a brief, terrifying moment where Shane thinks maybe it’s because of that – because he’s hooking up with a guy when he should, like a good hockey player is supposed to, be pursuing a girl, but that’s not how hanahaki works. At least, he’s pretty sure that’s the case; it’s always been about confessing your feelings to your crush. Meeting someone and dancing around the inevitable, not an abstract concept.
Even if the thought turns Shane’s stomach. He goes out with the guys, sometimes even lets himself be dragged to the dance floor, but… it just doesn’t work for him. How is he supposed to focus on a relationship when hockey is his top priority? Much better to have this thing with Rozanov, where they’re both clear on what they can and cannot have.
Shane swallows the clog in his throat once last time, brushes his jacket out, and then rings the doorbell.
It’s odd being in Rozanov’s space for more than just sex. Usually, they show up, they fuck, and then one of them leaves. A hookup. Mutually beneficial, mutually impersonal. If you can call something impersonal that involves taking the other person apart – but it’s only ever been about that. Taking each other apart.
Okay, more often than not, it’s been about Rozanov taking Shane apart.
So it’s odd to have Rozanov ask him to stay, to nod off in his bed, to wake in Rozanov’s arms. Odd, but not terrible.
They talk while the food Rozanov prepares for them is in the oven, and it’s – it’s not exactly awkward, but it feels… tentative. Out of their usual depth, or maybe that’s just Shane. But he can’t shake the feeling that they’re on the brink of something else, right then. Something that can’t be, and Shane realises how impossible that is when Rozanov mentions his girl.
There is a girl I like here very much, Svetlana, Rozanov says, and Shane keeps his eyes on the screen showing an old hockey game because he doesn’t know what else to do. Doesn’t know what exactly Rozanov is going for, talking about all these women – about this perfect woman, who is cool, who knows him, who speaks Russian, who seems to love hockey, too – until he asks Shane about his own love life and. Oh.
Reality reasserts itself like a coach yelling at them to get their heads out of their asses and realising he’s zoned out while they’re down by three with five minutes on the clock. Of course. They’re hockey players – this can’t be anything more than hooking up. Which Shane is very much aware of. They’ll both settle down with a wife at some point – twenty-five is already late, for players, but maybe Rozanov also hasn’t found the right one (or is waiting for his Svetlana to be ready to settle down) – and have kids of their own, ready to continue their dynasty. This is Rozanov reminding Shane of what this is and what this is not, and Shane is almost grateful for it even as he has to swallow past the thing tickling the back of his throat, his stomach in a knot.
He is saved by Rozanov’s phone ringing, and the man excusing himself before he answers in Russian. Papa, is the only word Shane can make out, so. Family.
There is little he knows about Rozanov’s family – they’re only hook-ups, after all – and nothing for him to learn with the conversation conducted in a language he doesn’t speak, so Shane takes the opportunity to find the bathroom.
There’s been a cough building in his chest ever since he sat down at the kitchen island, and the door has barely shut behind him before he’s coughing, harsh barks that wrack his entire body. Shit.
Rozanov is back on the couch when Shane gets himself under control enough to leave the bathroom, spinning his phone between his fingers and staring into space. His gaze snaps to Shane’s, an odd expression on his face. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” Shane croaks, then clears his throat. “Sorry, just – inhaled a crumb wrong.” It’s a weak-ass lie, and he knows it, but he makes himself meet Rozanov’s eyes as best as he can. “How is your father?”
That makes Rozanov start. “Oh, you speak Russian now, too?”
“I know the word for father,” Shane points out. Papa is not a hard word to recognise, after all.
Rozanov stares at him for long seconds before he finally smiles, slaps Shane’s shoulder, and pulls Shane in so they’re curled up together on the couch. And Shane shouldn’t. They’re just hooking up – fuckbuddies without being buddies in the first place – but Rozanov is still shirtless and smells dark and comforting, and how is Shane supposed to resist that?
“Hollander,” Ilya says, hand reaching for Shane. There is an ocean between them, the waves rushing so loudly in Shane’s ears that he barely hears Ilya’s voice. “Hollander, please.”
Shane hears his own voice saying something as if he is submerged in the water too, whatever words falling from his lips bypassing his brain entirely. He’s probably not even making sense. It doesn’t matter. He has to get out, has to leave, has to forget the sound of his own name in Ilya’s voice.
Has to forget the shape of Ilya’s name on his lips, the way it had tumbled from his mouth in a rush.
It seems like that those two sounds have taken up residence in his brain and his chest, forestalling any coherent thought, keeping Shane from drawing in a breath.
They’re fuckbuddies. They will both have to settle down with wives and kids. They cannot be calling each other by their first names, because that will tip this over into something it cannot be for real. It will tip this over into something Shane actually wants, and he cannot want this, cannot have this.
He comes back to himself, coughing and coughing and coughing until he’s doubled over near the entry to Ilya’s property – to Rozanov’s property, he reminds himself, though he cannot shake the feeling that it’s a losing battle. He knows the taste of Ilya’s name now; how can he ever go back to calling him Rozanov?
Another coughing fit takes over then, fierce and painful until he feels something dislodge in his throat. Finally. He spits on the ground, gratefully inhaling the fresh autumn air of Boston in the middle of October.
His relief is short-lived as his gaze falls on the thing he’s coughed up.
In front of him on the ground is a leaf.
Pale green, veins and edges stark white, and coated in spit and phlegm. A fucking leaf.
Fuck.