Chapter Text
Roz started coughing again during morning practice, and the assistant coach pulled him off the ice. Cliff exchanged a look with Connors, worried for their friend and their chances in the game that night. Montreal was on a six-game winning streak on the road, and the team was watching their hope of breaking it choke on air.
To everyone's surprise, Coach didn't scratch him. Roz stood in the locker room, gearing up for the game that night with a droop to his shoulders and his jaw stoically set. As LeClaire went over the last-minute lineup changes and shifts to strategy, Cliff kept an eye on his friend.
First period went fast, with Hollander dominating the puck every time he was on the ice, and the Raiders first line playing defense to limit his shots on goal. Rozy shifted and glowered about being moved to second line center, but Coach had been adamant about keeping him rested for the power-play. Even playing at 80% of his normal capacity, Rozy was better than most of their line-up but pitting him against Hollander for the whole game was guaranteed to wear him out. Rozy always pushed himself harder against his long-time rival.
Despite the changes, they were holding the Metros to a two-point lead (MTL-3/BST-1) by the end of the second period. LeClaire swore as Hammersmith took a hard check from Comeau, setting Hollander up to steal the puck and speed off for a last second goal attempt. He hauled back and took his shot, but the puck landed safely in Nelson's glove. With the night their goalie was having, the game would have been a shutout against any other team.
Roz's goal remained their only point on the board as third period started. His face was flushed, and his eyes were glassy as Coach frowned out at the ice.
"Fuck it!" Le Claire spat, glaring at Thériault’s smug smile. "Rozanov! You're up! Get us back in this goddamn game!"
Roz jumped the boards with less energy than usual, but Cliff thought you'd have to know him well to notice. Hollander's eyes narrowed as he approached the opposite side of the line.
"You look like shit, Rozanov," Hollander observed, flat and calm like he was commenting on the weather.
"Thank you," Roz replied, his attempt at sarcasm hampered by the rasp in his voice.
As the two of them bent for the face off, Hollander watched Rozy's face rather than the circle. Just before the puck dropped, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
"Fuck!" Hollander shouted. Sticks clattered to the ice, and Cliff tensed, instinctively preparing to fight. Instead, he watched in horror as Roz toppled forward into Hollander's arms.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Hollander braced himself to keep them both upright and whipped his head to one side. "Hayden!" He barked.
"On it!"
Pike started clearing a path for the medics, and it broke through Cliff's shock. He slid to Roz's side, dropping his gloves to get a decent grip on him. Hollander's gloves were already on the ice, and his knuckles were white against the black of Roz's jersey.
"Fuck, you're heavy," Hollander muttered to Roz. Cliff grabbed one of Rozy's arms and dragged it up over his shoulder; Hollander shifted so he could do the same. "Say something, if you're conscious," Hollander ordered.
Roz mumbled in Russian.
"That's not..." Hollander grunted as Roz's skate tried to slide backwards. "Keep your feet under you. You're not going to be happy if you end up on the ice."
"Not happy now," Roz grumbled. "Had plans tonight... sexy plans."
"I think those plans will have to wait, lover boy," Cliff told him, trying to inject some levity into his tone.
The trainers approached to help Roz off the ice, and he shook his head. His helmet clicked against Hollander's more than once, and he leaned away from Cliff. "No, sh-"
"Hey, you're good, Rozanov. Rozanov! It's ok. They're gonna get you taken care of, alright?" Hollander's voice was soft and oddly caring. Cliff was reminded of last season, their teamwork at the All Star game and Roz's worry as Hollander hit the ice during the playoffs.
Cliff shifted to one side and let the trainer take his share of Roz's weight. As he slid back, he saw that Roz's hand had dug into Hollander's jersey; the H O and L were crushed in his grip. Another trainer tried to take Roz's other arm, but he shook his head, clinging to Hollander.
"Careful, his hand's caught," Hollander told the trainer. Cliff watched as Hollander gently pried Roz's fingers open, cradling his hand as he draped Roz's arm around the trainer's shoulders. "You're okay. Let them help you. Let them help, okay?"
"Okay," Roz agreed, hanging his head as he moved away. Cliff blinked and looked around, noting that someone had already collected their gear.
"Hey, bud, you alright?" Pike got Hollander's attention, handing him his gloves and holding his stick.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
Cliff watched him tear his eyes away from Roz's back as he was half carried down the tunnel. Hollander was a terrible liar.
Cliff was glad he had taken the garage remote from Roz's car before they left the arena. Roz stumbled a few times as they walked from the garage into the house; whatever the team doctor had given him made him dizzy.
"Let's get you into bed, man," Cliff said, trying to steer Roz down the hallway.
"I need a shower. I smell bad." Roz wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I don't want to smell bad."
"I don't think you can stand long enough to shower," Cliff replied, shaking his head. He wasn't going to lie to Roz and say he smelled fine, but one stinking night wouldn't kill him... falling in the shower might.
He got them both into Rozy's bedroom and steered him towards a chair. "Can you get your shoes off and get changed?"
"My clothes are not in here. Laundry delivered this morning," he replied with a frown, swallowing to suppress a cough.
"Right," Cliff thought for a moment. "Laundry room is off the kitchen. Are they in there?"
Roz nodded, then he leaned forward and began to tug at his shoelaces.
Cliff was used to looking after drunk rookies, and he figured a sick Roz wasn't too different. The chair was sturdy, and even if he fell out of it, he wasn't far from the carpet. "I'll go get you some clothes."
Despite being unable to find the light switch, Cliff found the basket of neatly folded clothes beside a washing machine that he suspected Roz had never used. He grabbed the basket and carried it to the bedroom. He heard Roz on the phone, voice weak and raspy. "...Miserable and unhappy, and I stink."
With Roz on the phone with his "sexy plans," Cliff figured he had time to puzzle through the doctor's instructions. He set the laundry basket by the door.
Returning from the garage where he parked his car, Cliff set the plastic bag and printouts on the island. He could still hear Roz murmuring from the bedroom. Connors and a few other guys suspected that Rozy had gotten serious about a girl, but he was cagey when they brought it up.
The instructions from the doctor were dense and trying to read them made Cliff realize how tired he was. Skimming down the page, he saw something about fluids and breathed out a sigh of relief. He might end up calling the doctor for clarification on the rest of it, but he could get Roz a drink.
Maybe he wanted one of his ginger ales? They had just gotten back from a road trip, but Roz only drank them when he was having a bad day, so there were bound to be a few left. He opened the fridge and blinked; it was stocked with fresh food and two cases of ginger ale.
He heard beeping from the front door and his shoulder tensed. He swung the refrigerator closed again, waiting for the lock to error and the visitor to knock. When the electronic lock hummed and clicked open, Cliff's brows shot upward.
In addition to hockey specific orientations, Roz took it upon himself to give their rookies lessons in celebrity that ranged from fan interactions and club safety to home security. (He gave incredibly thorough and profane sex ed lessons, that included the words, "Your reputation reflects on your team. Don't be a selfish asshole in bed.")
One thing Roz was adamant about was not giving a key or door code to someone just because you were sleeping with them. Maybe he was finally going to meet Roz's mysterious girlfriend. There was a soft thump and a heavy sigh from the entryway.
"You're not dying, but you certainly haven't done yourself any favors."
At the sound of a familiar man's voice, Cliff froze. He shook his head, incredulous, and stepped around the corner to see... "Hollander? The fuck are you doing here?"
On the ice, Shane Hollander was unflappable. Chirps and hits, even borderline illegal ones, were met with either a flat profanity or a determined clench to his jaw (that nearly always led to an impressive play.)
In Roz's entryway, his eyes went wide with panic. "Ilya, Marleau is still here." He pulled the phone from his ear, and his breath hitched. Slowly, he ended the call and put his phone in his pocket. From the bedroom, Cliff heard a thump and a swear.
Blankly, Cliff took in the sight of a tired Shane Hollander, obviously showered and changed since leaving the arena. His Reeboks were kicked off beside an expensive black roller bag, and the strap of his duffel bag tugged on the shoulder of his hoodie. Hollander kept his eyes on Cliff as he carefully lowered his bag to the floor and half turned to blindly throw the deadbolt.
Cliff was staring, his tired mind trying to understand. Shane Hollander didn’t belong in Ilya’s house, casually dressed and barefoot. He belonged on the opposite side of the line as Rozy chirped him ahead of a face off.
Feet scuffed the carpet, and Hollander’s gaze flicked to one side. Cliff followed his eyes to where Roz swayed in the hall that led to the kitchen. His face was flushed, and he squinted as he glanced between them.
“Marly?” Roz blinked at him, frowning. “The fuck are you still do— ” He cut himself off, choking. His hand reached out to one side, grasping at the wall for support as he doubled over coughing loudly.
Hollander was past the kitchen and sliding an arm around Roz before Cliff could shake off his confusion. Even off the ice, that fucker moved fast. Hollander braced Roz with a shoulder under his armpit and murmured something soothing as they moved together towards one of the bar stools.
“Easy, I’ve got you.” Hollander’s voice was low, with that same gentle tone he had used on the ice. “Just lean on me and try to breathe. Slowly, okay?” Rozy nodded, letting himself fall into the chair. He held tight to Hollander even after he seemed stable in his seat.
Cliff opened the refrigerator again, grabbing a Gatorade from the door. “Try to drink something, man,” he said, twisting the cap on the bottle before he passed it across the island.
When Hollander shifted backward, Roz leaned toward him, holding on to Hollander’s waist and letting him support his weight. “No, Shane… Stay…” His voice wavered, weak and unhappy.
“Okay.” Hollander immediately agreed, pressing back into Rozy’s space and propping him up. Hollander's gentle expression hardened as he looked at Cliff. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Cliff ignored the suspicion from Hollander as he tried to puzzle through the scene; nothing about what Cliff was seeing made sense. While their rivalry had mellowed into respect and competition over the years, Roz and Hollander weren’t friends. And they definitely weren’t the sort of friends that visited each other's homes and… hugged? Because a hug was the closest word he had for what Roz was doing to Hollander in that moment.
Roz had wrapped an arm around Hollander’s waist as he finished his drink. The moment he emptied the Gatorade bottle; he dragged Hollander closer and leaned his face into Hollander’s chest. Hollander met Cliff's eyes, daring him to protest as Hollander put both arms around Roz and rubbed his back. There was a dramatic sniff and whine from between Hollander’s pecs.
“I can’t hear you,” he told Roz, tilting his head down to talk into his ear. “What did you say?”
“I said, I’m sick.” Roz leaned his head back but clung tighter to Hollander’s waist. “I haven’t seen you in two months, and I’m sick. You could have had time off at home, resting instead of being stuck here with me.” Roz clenched his jaw and glared at his countertop. His eyes were red and wet with tears.
Cliff shuffled his feet, not sure what he was intruding on, but feeling like he should have left the two men to their conversation. Roz might have forgotten him, but Hollander flicked his eyes over to the opposite side of the kitchen where he hovered beside the fridge. Cliff froze, determined not to interfere in whatever he had stumbled upon.
Roz’s jaw tensed and he pressed his lips together. He sniffed, his nose crinkling as he refused to look at Hollander. Despite his expression, Roz never dropped his arms.
“Hey.” Hollander’s voice was soft and gentle. “Hey, look at me.” He slid a hand down Roz’s cheek and cupped his jaw, tilting it up. The tender gesture resurrected a niggling suspicion Cliff had fostered years back when a drunken Roz had agreeably gone home with a girl and her boyfriend at a club. (It hadn’t been her ass Roz had been ogling as they walked out into the night.)
Their eyes met, Hollander's gaze steady, and Roz's flicking back and forth. Rozy's lips trembled, but he settled slowly, as though Hollander's focus soothed him.
"Ilya, I'm sorry that you're sick, and I absolutely wish you would take better care of yourself," he said, his voice quiet and firm. Roz tried to look away again, but Hollander nudged his chin back up. "But I am so glad I can be here right now. You have to understand, if you had collapsed on the ice while I was in Montreal or you were on the road... I would be losing my mind. So let me take care of you while I can, please."
"Okay," Roz mumbled. He dropped his head back down to rest on Hollander's chest, telling his pecs something that Cliff didn't catch.
"I love you, too," Hollander replied, once again rocking the world under Cliff's feet. He pressed a kiss to Roz's unwashed curls and rubbed his back. "Do you have any medicine you need to take tonight? What did the doctor say?"
When Roz shrugged unhelpfully, Cliff chuckled. "My sister says that men revert to toddlers when we’re sick. I never wanted to believe her, but I can see what she means." He passed Hollander the notes the doctor had printed out, sighing inwardly at Hollander’s guarded posture.
Hollander kept one arm around Roz as he held the page out, frowning and squinting. After a second, he sighed. "I can't read this. Ilya, you need to let go so I can get my glasses."
"No," Roz said clearly, finally turning his head toward Cliff. "He has a spare set, in the living room. Same table as the XBox controllers. One drawer down."
"Is that where those went?"
Cliff sighed, relieved to have a task, and he walked away from the couple as they murmured to each other. "Couple," he muttered to himself, still baffled by the evening's revelations. Maybe he would wake up soon and spend a few hours trying to psychoanalyze himself or maybe he would just blame his weird dreams on an off night.
He opened the console drawer where Roz kept video games and controllers, then he shook his head and closed it. When he opened the drawer below it, he snorted a laugh. "Forgot about your fucking stash, Roz."
Behind the box of condoms and single use packets of lube that Roz had been known to hand out to rookies along with his safe sex lectures, there was a pack of unscented disposable towelettes and a black plastic box. When Cliff opened it, he saw a pair of wire-framed glasses inside. How long had they been there without anyone noticing; what else Roz had hidden right under his nose?
In the kitchen, Roz relaxed his clinging embrace enough for Hollander to make sense of the medicine bottles and directions. "We need to get some food in you before you take these."
Roz wrinkled his nose. "Not one of your gross smoothies."
"They're healthy."
"They taste like lawn clippers."
Cliff chuckled. "Clippings, Roz. I think you mean they taste like lawn clippings."
"Whatever. They are green and gross, and they make me gag." Despite his complaining, Roz leaned heavily into Hollander's side.
"This from a man that eats McGriddles and smokes cigarettes."
"You two bicker like my parents," Cliff remarked.
"I like your parents," Roz mumbled. "They've been married a long time."
"Thirty-five years last year," Cliff confirmed. He opened Roz's snack cabinet and pulled out a handful of protein bars. "Here, eat this while we figure out what you have for real food."
Hollander opened one for each of them. "We set up the grocery delivery for us to cook a few times while I'm here, but not really the sort of things that you feed a sick person." He chewed on his lip as he thought. "There's stuff for sandwiches." He looked down at Roz and ran a hand through his curls. "Want a sandwich? You need something more substantial than a protein bar."
"Do you have a recipe? Going to make a dozen sandwiches?" Roz smirked at Hollander, blinking tiredly.
"No, asshole, I don't have a recipe for fucking sandwiches." Hollander kissed his temple before walking around the island to drag out a loaf of bread and a stack of ingredients. "It was one time," he muttered. "And we ate all the burgers by morning anyway."
Roz leaned his head on his hand, mechanically chewing his protein bar. Reluctantly, Cliff grabbed one for himself, watching with Roz as Hollander neatly lined up slices of bread. He only needed two tries to find a knife and a few spoons, efficiently spreading some sort of paste on all the bread slices before layering on slices of chicken and topping everything with some olive mixture and a spoonful of diced tomato.
"Thanks," Cliff said, accepting his plate. He took a bite, nodding approvingly. "Fancy."
Hollander shrugged. "It's what we were planning to make for lunch tomorrow. It's easier to make it now rather than figure out what else we have."
"We," Cliff repeated. "About that we business... "
"Not tonight, Marly," Roz requested, sliding his other sandwich half towards Cliff and laying his head down on the island even as he chewed.
Hollander kept an attentive eye on Cliff while he ate. Finally, it clicked. "You're still waiting on me to throw a punch, aren't you, Hollander?"
Roz shook his head, eyes wide. "He wouldn't, ever." His defense warmed Cliff's heart, even as he felt a pang at whatever led Hollander to be wary of some homophobic attack. "Cliff isn't like those fuckheads, Shane. I wouldn't be friends with him."
"Sometimes, people disappoint us, Ilya. You know that better than anyone." He dropped a pill on Roz's napkin and passed him another Gatorade. "Take your medicine so we can get you cleaned up for bed."
They fell into an exhausted silence as they finished eating. When Hollander started cleaning up, Cliff stacked up their plates to load into the dishwasher.
"My dad's sending me the list of things I need for Miracle Soup," Hollander told Roz. "I'll need to go to the store in the morning. I'm pretty sure we don't have what we need for it."
"Miracle soup?" Roz blinked up at him, not lifting his head. "You're going to make me soup?"
"Yeah, it's way better for you than anything you can buy. My dad's been perfecting the recipe since I was a kid." Hollander turned to the utensil drawers. "Do you have a rolling pin and a pasta roller?"
Cliff snorted. "Does he have a what?"
At the same time, Roz scoffed. "Do you own a pasta roller, Mr. Culinary?"
"No, because the only times I need one, I’m at the cottage and can borrow my dad’s." Hollander crossed his arms over his chest and managed to look like a stern parent, impressive given that they were all the same age. "But I'll need one for Miracle Soup, so..."
"I'll bet my sister's got one that I can borrow." Cliff heaved a sigh. "In fact, send me your list when you have it. Doubt you'll like the gossip that would come from Shane Hollander grocery shopping in Boston a day after the rest of the Metros have left town."
“Good point. Thank you.” As Hollander pulled out his phone, his shoulders finally relaxed. “Put your number in, please. That way I don’t have to get it from Ilya in the morning.”
Cliff typed the number into a text and sent himself a simple, “Hi.”
Roz blinked at them both and held out his hand imperiously. “Give.” Hollander didn’t hesitate to pass over his phone. As Roz tapped the screen, he cautioned. “Marly, no one can know about us right now. It is serious for a lot of reasons, dangerous for me and bad for Shane.”
He handed Hollander back his phone and held his hand out to Cliff. “What are you doing,” Cliff asked, even as he unlocked the device for him.
“Names. He will be Jane in your phone. You are Marla in his.” He shrugged. “People see you texting a woman, no one gets suspicious.”
“Clever,” Cliff took his phone back, smirking at the sight of Jane (Roz’s Girl) at the top of his text message. “So, your Montreal girl?”
“Is very pretty, yes?” Roz grinned up him, face still flushed but decidedly less miserable. His eyes met Hollander, and they shared a sweet smile that made Cliff consider redownloading a few dating apps.