Chapter Text
Beginning of December 2013. Ottawa.
As the year entered its last month and brought what was sure to be a harsh winter with it, given how there was already a foot of snow on the ground in Ottawa, Shane actually felt kind of okay. He hadn't told anyone about finding his old hockey memorabilia at his parents' place—neither them nor Rozanov. And based on how it hadn't come up during any of the three phone calls he'd had with his parents over the past two weeks since his visit, his snooping had gone undetected.
And even though those calls still made him extremely anxious, each of them had gone fine. His parents seemed to have learned to back off on talking about Rozanov, or about anything heavy, really. They asked about the benefits of Shane's diet during the first call, which Shane had been happy to share. During the second one, Shane had enough courage to ask his dad about any future art exhibitions that he may be able to attend, which had very obviously thrilled David based on his enthusiastic answer that there should be one in the upcoming year around springtime. And by the third call, Shane had been able to force himself to talk to them about the summer camp, though only after stuttering out that he'd rather none of it get back to Rozanov.
That last development could only really be credited to Paulina. After Shane managed to finally text her back, she had taken the initiative to arrange a Skype call for them to catch up. She had given him a bit of shit for being so flaky in his responses via text, which had him apologizing profusely, but ultimately just seemed legitimately happy to be in touch with him. Shane hadn't given her enough credit for how perceptive she was—which made a lot of sense, of course, when she was pursuing a degree in social work—as during the call she quickly noticed that he avoided answering any personal questions. She didn't seem to take that personally, either, just smoothly switched to talking about her studies and her girlfriend.
It had been nice. Shane had hung up on that call feeling a bit lighter, enough so that he told his parents about the summer camp when on the phone with them the following day. He didn't end up telling Rozanov about it because…well, their last real conversation had been so awkward and tense.
The last several conversations, really. The one after Shane had visited Montreal, and then the one soon after that, when Shane had begrudgingly brought up his desired plan for his next heat cycle, whenever that would be.
"I just want to be in the house alone," Shane had blurted out, and Rozanov had stiffened. "Just me, no visitors. If…that's okay."
"Is okay," Rozanov had replied after a long pause. "No Yuna or David?"
"No. No, not yet. We're…better, but not at that point yet. But maybe they can call me a few times a day, once it hits. So they can come if anything happens."
Rozanov had simply nodded, mostly to himself, before wandering off to his room. And that was that, and they had a plan.
Shane hadn't thought much of the topic since that conversation a week ago, other than a quick call to Dr. Turner's office a few days before now, when he just wanted to know if it was a concern that he still hadn't had another heat cycle. The doctor had reassured him that no, not at all—there was nothing that could be done to predict it, and as long as he wasn't having any weird abdominal pains, then it was just a waiting game. Shane had accepted that answer and resolved himself to just wait.
He was able to keep himself busy in the meantime, all things considered. Most mornings, he had the additional task of shoveling the long driveway, which took a decent chunk of time. Rozanov had asked him once if they should get a snowblower, which they could easily afford, but Shane had declined. He actually liked the chore, the repeated action of hauling snow off the pavement, and the regular exercise it provided. He always woke before Rozanov, anyway, so it made sense that he be the one to clear the driveway before his husband had to leave for the airport for an away game, or had to head downtown for a home game.
Today was the latter, and it was a home game that, embarrassingly, had Shane on edge. For the first time that season, Ottawa would be playing against the Montreal Voyageurs. On their home turf, sure, but the Centaurs admittedly had a pretty poor showing of fans during home games from what could be seen from the broadcasts. And with Montreal being so close, it was likely that the Ottawa arena would be flooded with Voyageurs fans.
And Montreal was doing really fucking well. Shane had been unable to bring himself to watch any Voyageurs games since they had dropped him, but still followed their stats. Recently, though, he couldn't even do that anymore, because while it was hard to read anything about what was supposed to have been his team, it was even harder to do so when they were winning game after game without him.
He hated the part of him that resented how the Voyageurs hadn't fought for him at all, despite how hard he tried not to and despite how long it had been. Shane surely would have made the team better sooner than this if he had ever played for them. He maybe would have even been captain by now, or at least assistant captain. He would have—
Shane pinched his forearm in an attempt to stop that train of thought. There was no need to think about those things anymore. It was a Saturday, and the game would be that afternoon, so Shane would just need to find something to keep himself busy to avoid any bad feelings over not watching it. He was caught up on laundry, so it would have to be something else. Organizing the office, maybe. Or clean his bathroom, even though he kept it pristine every day. Or…oh! He could deep-clean the home gym; it had been a while since he'd wiped down the mirrors in there, after all.
First, though, he needed to eat lunch as his rumbling stomach reminded him. It was midday, already a couple of hours after Rozanov had left the house for the upcoming game. Shane yawned and idly reached under his sweater to scratch his tummy as he wandered to the kitchen and opened the fridge. He reached for one of the containers of chicken salad he had for lunch each day this week before pausing.
The draft from the fridge felt really, really nice. Shane hadn't even realized he had been feeling warm until now. He took a few more moments to enjoy the cool air before shaking his head and quickly closing the fridge. He stumbled toward the thermostat to check whether it was set too high, but no, the screen stated it was set to the usual temperature of seventy degrees, which it was always kept at during the winter months.
Huh. Maybe it was malfunctioning or something. Shane would ask Rozanov about it later, once he got back from the game, to see if they would need to call a technician out to the house to check things out. For now, though, Shane retreated to his room for a quick moment to change into shorts and a tank top. That did help, which was a relief.
"Hope I'm not getting sick," Shane muttered to himself as he reentered the kitchen after turning the thermostat down a few degrees.
He didn't go for the fridge at first, though. He wasn't craving chicken. Something was calling his name from the pantry, and it turned out to be the canned tuna that was kept in there. Humming to himself, Shane snatched one can up before also grabbing some chickpeas, a cucumber, and a tomato from the fridge. All within his diet. It didn't take long to whip up a salad from the ingredients, and he ate the meal more voraciously than he usually did.
It actually took effort to clean up after himself, wiping down the counters and washing the dishes in a reluctant manner, whereas he usually did it automatically. He even opened the window above the sink while he was at it to let more cool air into the house. The view outside was beautiful. Smooth snow leading up to the hedge that surrounded the house on each side, with a few scattered trees. No wildlife to be seen, of course, with the outside temperature being this low. Too bad—Shane always kind of liked seeing birds or squirrels frolicking around out there.
A light wave of dizziness had Shane turning off the kitchen sink so he could slink to the living room and sprawl on the couch. Wow, he really must have eaten too fast. He would probably need to quarantine himself in his bedroom or something if it turned out that he was coming down with something. Ottawa was still doing pretty well this season; not as good as Montreal, but good enough that Shane would feel awful if he got Rozanov sick.
Hm. He idly wondered if his husband was nervous for the game. The Centaurs hadn't beaten the Voyageurs in a single game during the past several seasons, so the pressure was probably sky high. Shane absentmindedly wiped at his mouth, and his hand came back slightly wet. His stomach grumbled again, which was perplexing. Had he somehow managed to simultaneously eat too quickly and also not eat enough?
He didn't really snack between meals, ever, so he wasn't sure what else he could eat. An apple, maybe? Or some olives? But a snack wasn't really what he was craving, though. Not something savory or salty. He wanted something…sweet. Sweeter than fruit. Maybe something creamy. Definitely something that wasn't within his diet.
Yes, something creamy. Rich, creamy, maybe a bit tangy. And with some cinnamon sprinkled on top. Shane's mouth began to water despite his best efforts to repress it. Not cake, that would be overboard, but something similar. A pie? No, that wasn't quite right. Brownies? No, chocolate wasn't really his thing.
"Cheesecake?" Shane wondered out loud, and felt his heart flutter in response. Yeah, that was the craving.
Cheesecake. Cheesecake?
Wait.
Shane hadn't realized he had closed his eyes until they flew open as he nearly launched himself off the couch.
Tuna is your favorite meat, apparently.
His gaze shot toward the kitchen, where there was the empty can of tuna in the garbage can.
Cheesecake.
Shane groaned and scratched the back of his neck. Weird cravings, an inexplicably elevated body temperature. There were no body aches or pains or cramps yet, but the signs were still pretty clear. It was finally happening again.
Shit.
Before he could think better of it, Shane pulled out his phone, thumbs flying to dial a number. He needed to tell people what was happening, right? Dr. Turner would need to know. His parents would need to know. And, of course—
"Shane? Is everything okay?"
Shane inhaled sharply. Fuck, alright, he had apparently called his husband. "Uh, yeah," he stammered out, flinching at the sound of lockers clanging that came through the phone. "Sorry, you're busy."
"No, I—oh, fuck off!" Rozanov seemingly covered his phone with his hand as the noises became muffled, though Shane was still able to hear what sounded like whistles and jeers.
Fuck, what was Shane doing? All he had to do was text Rozanov that the preheat had finally arrived. Why had he called him?
"Oh god, sorry," Shane whispered, hands shaking as he drew his phone away from his ear to hang up the call.
"Hollander, stay," Rozanov suddenly said as if he knew what was about to happen. "I'm not in locker room anymore, so what's wrong? You never call me."
Shane froze. "I, uh, didn't eat my prepared lunch."
There was a pause, then a confused and simple, "Okay?"
"It was chicken salad."
"Yes, I know. Was the chicken bad?"
Shane began to shake his head, then shook it harder upon realizing his husband couldn't see him. "Uh, no. I just wanted something else. Tuna."
"…Okay?"
Yeah, that disbelieving tone was fair. Shane winced and threw his head back. He couldn't even say the words out loud. So fucking embarrassing. He couldn't hang up now; Rozanov would just keep calling back until he got some answers. But what was Shane supposed to say? Hey, sorry, I know you're about to play a huge game, but just wanted to let you know you can't come to the house afterward.
Nope.
"Are you coming back to the house this evening?" Shane asked instead of saying that, then immediately regretted it.
"Yes, idiot," Rozanov bit out, sounding aggravated. "When have I ever not come straight home after Ottawa game?"
Shane didn't know the answer to that. "Uh…"
"Why?"
"Huh?"
"Why do you ask?"
Shane ran a hand across his forehead, and it came back slick with sweat. Ew. "I, ah, thought the thermostat might be broken, but I think I'm just…overheating," he babbled, then held his breath.
"Ah," Rozanov murmured, letting out a long exhale as the understanding seemed to click. "You in preheat?"
"Yeah, I think so." Shane's eyes shot all around the house. It wasn't extravagant, nor especially large, but it felt too big right now. "Will you come back tonight?"
Rozanov huffed an incredulous chuckle. "What? No, that is not plan."
"But—"
"Hollander, the plan is that you stay home alone. You were very clear about that."
Shane scrunched his nose and shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, but…what if something happens?"
"We will tell your parents to call you regularly, remember?"
"What if I don't want them to?" Shane whined, not even bothering to be embarrassed about it. "It's weird. Shouldn't you just call me? Or just be here?"
"Fuck," Rozanov groaned. "What the fuck are you saying."
"I just—!"
"Hollander, you want to call me multiple times over next few days? Or have me home while you are in heat?"
Shane's shoulders tensed with shame, his heart dropping to the base of his stomach. "It's just a thought," he grumbled. "It went fine last time. Besides, with my luck, it'll just be another false one."
"Yes, well. With my luck, if I'm home, it will be real one."
"What?"
"Nothing," Rozanov sighed. "Hollander, we had plan. That cannot change now, when you are not in your right mind."
"I am in my right mind," Shane protested feebly. "My brain isn't like, hazy or anything. And I'm not in pain."
"Yet," Rozanov reminded quietly. "And what would happen, hm? If I do as you say and come home, then months from now you again reveal that you resent me for it again, because you were not in right mind?"
Crap. Shane moved the phone away so he could whimper without the microphone picking it up, curling up into a ball on the couch. Yeah, he felt fully coherent right now, but Rozanov's logic made sense. But…Shane turned his head to dig his nose into the couch cushions. But they just didn't smell right, and that couldn't be fixed. Not without…ugh. He reluctantly brought the phone back to his ear.
"If you feel fine now," Rozanov was in the middle of saying, tone neutral and matter-of-fact, "then you can set out the ginger tea so it is ready when you need it. And get heating pad from the closet now. Blankets should be in there too."
"But I washed them," Shane complained without thinking. "They haven't been scented since April, so they won't help."
"…What does that mean, Shane?"
"I…" Shane trailed off, then felt mortified as his words caught up to him. "Um!"
"Shane," Rozanov hissed, and it sounded dangerous and promising and disbelieving all at once before the tone switched into something almost hopeful. "You are upset that they do not smell like me?"
"Oh my god," Shane moaned, completely embarrassed. "You don't have to say it out loud like that!"
"No, is okay—"
"Shut up, never mind. You can't come back to the house like you said, so just forget it."
There was a long, long pause. Long enough for Shane's heartbeat to pick up. He tugged the neckline of his tank top up to his mouth to suck at it nervously. He hadn't been lying when he said his mind wasn't hazy, but why was he blurting things out like this? His association with his husband was still awkward and tentative, and this would only make it worse. So humiliating, so—
"I have not washed my bedsheets," Rozanov said out of nowhere.
Shane's mouth dropped open, letting his shirt fall back into place on his chest. "Uh, what?"
"I did my laundry yesterday," Rozanov said patiently, "but not my bedding. If you need something that smells like me."
Shane's head spun for multiple reasons. Yes, he knew that Rozanov had scented the blankets last time, but he'd assumed that was an instinct-driven decision as opposed to a conscious one. Rozanov saying this now…implied that he wanted Shane to have alpha-scented items during his heat. Or false-heat, or whatever. Which in and of itself was insane, but what was even more insane was…
"But you won't come back to the house," Shane said dumbly, not even able to refute wanting something scented. "So how would I get your bedsheets?"
"You can go get them."
Shane's heart skipped a beat, then ramped up to an even higher rate. Go get them. His eyes flitted to the hallway that led to Rozanov's room. He only went to that hallway to clean the bathroom once a week, since it was separate from the bedroom and therefore accessible to Shane. But that bedroom…Shane hadn't even gotten close to the door since September, when he had almost followed his husband through it in a fit of rage during that dumb argument about mopping.
The thought of going in there had never even crossed his mind. That was Rozanov's space, and Shane wasn't allowed in there.
"What?" Shane breathed, completely perplexed. "No, I can't go in there. It's the rule."
"I am telling you it’s okay."
"No, no." Shane shook his head vehemently, then groaned when the action made his temples hurt. He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "No, that's not right. I can't, especially when you're not here."
"Is okay," Rozanov repeated, slow and soft. "Is normal to want alpha's scent during heat. Just hormones. So if you want, you can go in there. I have nothing to hide."
"I won't snoop," Shane scoffed, offended, then shrank in on himself. "No, it still doesn't feel right. I'll survive."
A moment passed, then Rozanov whispered, "Shane. Where are you?"
"In the house."
"Yeah, no shit. Where?"
"On the couch."
"Get up. Go to my bedroom door."
Shane was on his feet and moving before he could even register it. Once he did, he wasn't even upset about it. It felt…good, somehow, to just listen to orders without worrying about trusting them. Or about trusting the person issuing them.
"Okay," Shane said once he was right in front of the sleek black door.
"Twist the doorknob," Rozanov murmured. "Is it locked?"
Shane twisted it, and there was no resistance. "No."
"No, because I have nothing to hide. Go in."
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Shane didn't know what he had expected; he had never put much thought into his husband's bedroom, but it was surprisingly nice. More clean and tidy than Shane would have thought for a room he had never cleaned himself. The furniture was simple: a large bed, one nightstand, a dresser, and a television on a stand directly across from the bed. No decorations on the wall, no personal trinkets in sight. The wood of the furniture was dark—mahogany, probably—and the bedding was even darker, almost black.
The sight of the room didn't matter anymore, though, once the scent hit Shane's nostrils. His knees almost gave out. Ah, fuck, that was good. Simultaneously sweet and spicy like cinnamon. Crisp and woody like pine. Not overpowering, though, despite being in the den of an alpha. Shane knew this scent from the many, many loads of Rozanov's laundry he had done, but this was different. This scent had built up over the years, seeping into the walls and the floors and the furniture. Shane's eyelids fluttered as he felt his nostrils flare.
He was snapped out of his daze by the sound of deep chuckling in his ear. Right, he was still on the phone.
"Is okay," Rozanov said reassuringly despite the amusement audible in his tone. "Just a room, right?"
"Right," Shane repeated automatically, then blinked. "Wait, why were you so against me coming in here then?"
"Don't worry about this right now. The sheets have my scent, yes?"
Shane sighed and stumbled toward the bed. Rozanov's bed. That Rozanov slept on. That was fitted with Rozanov's sheets. That smelled like him.
He wasn't totally lost to his preheat. He knew that, because he was able to refrain from collapsing forward onto the mattress.
"Yeah," Shane breathed, all he was able to say.
"Yeah, so there you go."
"I don't…" Shane took a step away from the bed, nervous. "This feels wrong, I can't just take these."
"Yes, you can."
"I can't! They're yours, and you're not here, and…and I can't tell myself what to do right now."
The last part was whispered, quiet enough that Shane somewhat hoped it hadn't been heard. But it had been, given the sharp noise that came through the phone's speaker.
"Do you want me to tell you what to do?" Rozanov asked, and it, surprisingly, wasn't teasing. Just completely, utterly sincere. Shane nodded to himself. "Hm?"
Shane cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. I guess."
"Put phone on speaker and place it on nightstand. Tell me once you have."
His hands fumbled with the phone to obey. Once he had, Shane asked, "Okay, can you still hear me?"
"Mm-hm," Rozanov confirmed, his voice almost a purr. "Good, Shane. Now put pillows in a pile on floor."
Shane's nose wrinkled. "That's gross."
"Floor is clean, I promise. Do it."
He did.
"Now do the same with sheets," Rozanov continued.
Shane did, though not before carefully folding them. Doing so revealed that the fabric was actually a very dark brown, based on how the light from the windows hit it, instead of black. It was a familiar color, but Shane couldn't quite place it right now.
"Done?"
"Yeah," Shane said, ignoring how he had kneeled next to the pile of sheets and was kneading them with his hands. "Now what?"
"Now take them to your room. Sheets or pillows or both, whatever you want."
Yeah, okay. Shane nodded to himself as he gathered everything in his arms. His legs were starting to grow shaky and slightly pained, but still no cramps yet, so he managed to lug it all out of the room, down the hall, and across the living room to his own room. Maybe it was the preheat clouding his mind, or the alpha scent clogging his nostrils, but he didn't even care that the fabric was dragging on the floor. He had swept earlier, so it was probably fine.
"Fine," Shane said dreamily as he entered his room. It smelled like him, just like the guest room smelled like Rozanov, though he was usually nose-blind to it by now.
But now, contrasted with the new scents of Rozanov…wow. Wow, the smells all blended together quite nicely. Cinnamon and citrus, like a key lime pie. Pine and mint, like a centuries-old forest.
"I did it, Rozanov," Shane chirped happily once the sheets and pillows were on top of his bed. There was no response. He looked around, confused, before slapping a hand on his forehead. "Fuck, I'm so stupid."
He pinched himself a few times to sharpen his mind before heading back to Rozanov's room, where he had stupidly left his phone on the nightstand. Had he been this much of a dumbass during the previous preheat? God.
"Sorry, I'm here," Shane said as he picked up his phone and switched it off of speaker mode to hold it up to his ear. "I, uh. It's all in my room now."
"Good," Rozanov said, not sounding at all annoyed by the intermission. "Very good. Your voice is more clear now."
"Hah, yeah. Sorry."
"No sorry. Did you get the heating pad?"
Shane swallowed. "Uh, no, not yet. I'll grab it in a second, after we hang up."
Rozanov hummed. "You have meals prepped in fridge, yes?"
"Yeah."
"I will tell Yuna and David to call you." A whine escaped Shane's throat without his permission at that, and Rozanov clicked his tongue. "Is best option."
"I know," Shane said dejectedly. He shook his head and quickly backed out of the room, moving to the open window in the kitchen to take several breaths of fresh air in an attempt to clear his head. "Um, anyways. I think I'm good, so…good luck in your game, I know it starts soon. Sorry for calling like this right before it."
Rozanov breathed in sharply, then let out an uncharacteristically enthusiastic noise. "Yes, I will win it just for you."
Shane bristled, and his shoulders tightened. "Shut up, asshole."
"No, I am serious!"
"Whatever," Shane muttered as he shut the window, then turned back toward the living room thoughtfully. "Well, I won't be able to watch it anyway. I don't have a TV in my room like you do."
An exasperated sigh sounded through the phone speaker. "Why does this matter?"
"I can't stink up the couch."
"I do not care, just watch it in living room. If you want."
Shane rolled his eyes. "No, I'll probably be exhausted after this cycle again, and it'll take a while to get my scent gone, which you'll hate."
"What?" Rozanov asked incredulously, and Shane could almost picture his expression based on that tone.
"Uh, you hate my scent?"
Rozanov exhaled, long and loud. "Oh my god, Shane. We do not have time to discuss this right now. Just…just no, idiot, I do not hate your scent. Opposite. If you need any other food, text me and I will order it to front door."
Before Shane could try to respond to any of that, the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his face and looked down at the screen in disbelief to see that, yep, his husband had hung up on him. Rude. Especially after a lie like that. Shane's last heat cycle had been plagued by memory loss, sure, but he definitely remembered Rozanov pinching his nose while in Shane's room. And if Rozanov somehow liked his scent, then why had he never commented on the fact that Shane always wore scent patches around the house?
Whatever. Shane grumbled to himself petulantly as he padded to his room, then scowled at the bed. It wasn't right, not at all. But no matter how he rearranged the dark brown sheets from Rozanov's room or fluffed up the matching pillows, it wasn't right. It was close, though. Smelled mostly right, though not strong enough. Whatever.
Shane would worry about that later. He needed to take the fever reducer Dr. Turner had prescribed him. And he had a game to watch back in the living room.
He ended up needing to retrieve the heating pad to drape it over his cramping thighs halfway through the game, but his eyes remained locked on the television the whole time. They actually started watering at one point. It was an absolutely insane game. The first he had ever seen between these two teams since Rozanov had signed with Ottawa, and it was brutal. The Montreal players were intent on landing hits on Rozanov as often as they could, legally.
This kind of repeated hits would have discouraged anyone lesser, and would have severely impacted the performance of anyone normal. But Rozanov didn't seem human in this game. He seemed to get more and more riled up with each hit, more and more skilled, to the point that apprehension was visible on the Voyageurs' faces by the time Rozanov had scored a second goal against them.
By the third period, the rest of the Centaurs seemed to rally behind their captain, putting their all on the ice. Shane had never seen anything like it from the team. The roar of the crowd—which was, indeed, mostly Montreal fans—had faded to uneasy silence by the third period, when the Centaurs were up by two goals. And by the time the third period was down to two minutes and Rozanov scored a hat trick, the game was decided.
Shane let out a disbelieving chuckle, still curled up on the couch with the heating pad in his lap while he feebly attempted to massage his aching feet. Holy shit, that may have just been the biggest upset of the season so far. He idly wondered if his mom was disappointed in her team or happy for Rozanov before pushing that thought out of his mind. It didn't matter right now.
Maybe the Centaurs would make it to the playoffs after all. Shane took a moment to ponder whether the prospect of not needing to come back to the house was what had made Rozanov play so well, was what had allowed him to play like he used to. Before the NHL.
Oh well, Shane thought as he headed back to his room to go to sleep. It certainly had nothing to do with him. Maybe there was a secret hookup waiting for Rozanov afterward or something.
Shane was vaguely able to register that he was slightly more cognizant this heat cycle, though not by much. He was aware that he was still losing chunks of time. One moment, it was the morning after the day the preheat started, and Shane was sitting on the floor in front of the open fridge while devouring all the fruit within it.
The next moment, his phone was ringing while he was standing in a hallway, the door to the home office inexplicably open behind him. He frowned at that for a moment before pulling the phone out of his pocket to answer the call with a light chirp.
"Hi, honey, how are things?"
Ah, that was his mother's voice, though it sounded nervous. "Fine," Shane said, shutting the door to the home office before crouching into a low squat. God, his neck itched. "What's up?"
"We heard you're in preheat again," David said tentatively.
Oh, Shane was on speaker phone then. He hummed as he picked off his scent patches. "Yeah, I am, but it's just gonna be me this time."
"Yes, we know," Yuna said. "You're okay with that?"
"Hm?" Shane tilted his head to the side, then hissed as a sudden cramp in his abdomen forced his balance askew and forced his butt to hit the floor. Ow. "Oh, yep. Sorry, I just…I can't tell yet if it's gonna be another false one, so I just want to be on my own."
"That was the plan anyway," David said cheerfully, but it sounded forced. "Well, if it's alright, we're gonna keep checking on you periodically. So make sure you keep your phone charged, okay?"
"Okay," Shane murmured, gaze flitting toward the hall that led to Rozanov's room. Nope, no, even in heat, he couldn't go back in there. It wasn't right. He shook his head before speaking again. "Yeah, that's totally fine. I should go now, though. My legs hurt, and I need to lie down."
"Yes, go do that," Yuna cooed softly. She hesitated for a moment before adding, "We're always here for you, Shane. Always have been. Take care of yourself, and…and we…"
Shane's brows furrowed when nothing else came. The wall next to him looked dry, so he absentmindedly brushed the side of his neck against it until a sheen of his scent oil was left behind. "Yeah, I will. Bye, guys."
The next time he was coherent enough for his memory to be reliable, he was in the shower. The water was ice cold, but his skin still felt hot to the touch.
And touch he did. He had, for some reason, foregone his washcloth and was instead lathering himself with body soap using his bare hands. That felt kind of nice, like he was massaging his own muscles.
They were still tense, but not cramping for once, which was a relief. Shane sighed as he dug his fingers into his hipbones. It didn't hurt there, but the pressure still felt glorious. He glanced down, noticing that his skin was somehow both pale—like it always got in the winter—and red—like it evidently would always get during his heat cycle.
Would it look good if it were purple with bruises?
Weird thought. Shane shook it away, trying to remember if he had washed his hair, but he couldn't. Oh well, it wouldn't hurt to shampoo it again, so he did. A low purr rumbled deep in his chest each time his fingers snagged on a tangle, tugging at his scalp, but he ignored that, too.
Okay, he thought once the shampoo was rinsed out. He was clean, he could get out now and go back to his bed. He shut the water off and moved to grab a towel, then froze at a sudden throb between his legs. Oh no.
A glance down confirmed that, yep, he was hard. Shane wasn't one to masturbate often, if ever. Not since the…the bite. It just rarely appealed to him anymore. But, fuck, it was hard to resist now. Especially when, after running a towel over his body, new wetness flooded his thighs.
Shane's legs buckled, and he guided himself down to his knees. He shuffled forward on them until his forehead hit the cool wall of the shower, panting slightly. Yeah, fuck. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so worked up.
Or, well, he could, but he didn't want to think about that right now. All he wanted to think about was…
A loud keen sounded from his throat as one hand remained on the shower wall for balance while the other reached back around his hip. Shit, was he really doing this? He hadn't ever touched himself…back there. Not like this, not for pleasure.
But when his pointer finger skimmed his slick hole, his keen intensified as a shudder wracked his spine. God, that felt good. His breath quickened as his finger circled the pucker of his asshole, not yet dipping in like he was teasing himself. He adjusted his weight so he could bring his other hand to his throbbing cock, and let out a strangled moan.
His failed stints with beta girlfriends years ago, before his marriage, had informed him that he was of a decent size, especially for a male omega, but Shane couldn't help but wish he had something heavier in his hand. Something thicker, longer. He sighed dreamily as he simultaneously began to pump his dick and dipped the tip of his finger into his hole.
He would have been embarrassed about how quick his release was in any other situation. In this one, though, it just brought heavenly relief. He moaned wantonly with it as his cock spurted across his stomach and fresh slick gushed out, soaking both of his hands.
"Hah, fuck," Shane panted, closing his eyes with the effort it took not to keel over right there in the shower. His legs trembled with the waves that wracked his entire body.
Wow, holy shit. That intense of an orgasm left him dazed and, somehow, not cramping at all, as if it had fully relaxed all of his muscles. It didn't take long for the pain to begin to creep back in, though, and that nearly had Shane throwing a tantrum.
Fuck. He needed to take another shower.
Later—perhaps on the same day, there was no way for Shane to tell right now—he wrapped himself in the sheets from Rozanov's room and whimpered. It was dark outside his bedroom windows, though he had his bedside lamp on. All it seemed to illuminate, though, was how empty his room seemed, and how the scent on the sheets around him wasn't strong enough.
"Ah, Jesus," Shane groaned the next time he woke up, hands immediately flying up to rub at his aching temples.
He blearily registered that he had ended up on the floor of his bedroom, still entangled in dark brown sheets. His nose wrinkled as he sniffed them and, oh, yuck. They rank of sweat and slick. They would need to go straight into the washing machine while he replaced them with some of his spare bedding.
Wait.
Brown sheets?
Oh god. Shane flew up into a sitting position, ignoring his splitting headache as he reached for his pocket to grab his phone and—oh, shit, he was only in boxers. Fuck. He blinked rapidly as he stumbled to his feet to search around until he found his phone on his mattress that was still fitted with his usual navy sheets, and it thankfully still had enough battery to turn on.
No missed calls, which was a slight relief. The call log showed that he had received and answered several calls from either of his parents, so those check-ins had been regularly implemented and carried out. The date indicated that four days had passed since the Ottawa-Montreal game, which meant…two days of preheat and two days of heat? Shane frowned. No, that hadn't been a heat. Dr. Turner had told him that a real one would be at least five days without an alpha to share it with, and that he would feel refreshed and exuberant afterward. The short timing and the splitting headache, combined with the drowsiness in his body, strongly suggested that it had been another false one.
Was it over now? Shane took inventory of his body. The lower part of it was sore, but not cramping, and his abdomen didn't ache. The only thing that really hurt was his head, which was the same thing he had experienced the last time his false heat had ended. Okay, so probably over.
Instead of relief, Shane felt a sudden downpour of dread. Unwanted memories flashed through his mind. That fucking mortifying call to his husband—had he really been so shamefully submissive and obedient like that? Had he really asked Rozanov to stay in the house for the heat cycle, and craved his scent out loud when that request had been denied? Shane eyed the brown sheets on the floor distastefully. Fuck, he remembered eating…a lot of fruit, and maybe some of the prepared meals? What if he had eaten a bunch of things outside of his diet during the lost memories?
His stomach lurched, and he swallowed quickly and repeatedly to keep from vomiting. Nope, no, he couldn't think about that. It wasn't like he had followed up on Rozanov's last offer to request weird food to be delivered to the house. Right?
Shane's fingers shook as he opened his phone again to check his texts. Phew, the last one that had been sent was dated before the preheat had started. Okay, that was good, at least. No cheesecake.
"What do I do," Shane whispered to himself, wrapping his arms around his torso.
This was mortifying. He…he should text his husband that it was over, right? No, not yet. He needed to clean up first.
Both his bedding and Rozanov's went into the washing machine first. Then he took a long, hot shower. Then, when Shane was getting dressed and saw more snow falling outside, he panicked and put his coat on to go outside. Fuck, yep, the driveway was caked with snow. The SUV and Rozanov's sports car were in the garage, thankfully, but it still took a while to shovel. Long enough that he transferred the laundry to the drying machine during a break from it. By the time the driveway was clear, the dryer was done, so Shane folded Rozanov's sheets to leave in a basket along with the pillows outside his room before putting his own back on his bed. The whole living room needed to be sprayed down with scent neutralizers too, and the kitchen was cleaned afterward for good measure. The garbage can was full of tuna cans and fruit containers and probably half of a chicken salad, so Shane took out the trash so it wouldn't stink up the place. There were used scent patches in the hallway outside the home office and home gym, which also went in the trash.
And then Shane needed to take another shower, because he had gotten all sweaty.
Hours passed before Shane had settled back on his newly made bed. He was hardly even settled, though, instead curled up into a tight ball with one thumbnail between his lips to gnaw on it. Anxiety bubbled through his chest, leaving his breath shaky in its wake. He was at least certain that the false heat had fully passed, given how he was no longer losing chunks of his memory, but with that realization came intense trepidation.
His phone was in his free hand, and the screen showed his text history with his husband. The most recent one had been sent by Rozanov the morning before the Montreal game to inform him that he was heading out of the house, which Shane had never responded to.
Shane tried to type multiple messages now, but kept deleting them just moments later. Should he apologize for how…inappropriate that call had been? Should he thank Rozanov for staying away from the house, or curse him for it? Should he just keep it simple and inform him that it was over?
Should he give up and just text his parents instead, and trust that they'd relay the information to Rozanov?
Ugh, no, that was cowardly, wasn't it? Shane bit down harder, scarcely noting that his thumbnail was hurting from how short it now was. This was too weird. Too overwhelming, too scary, too—
Shane yelped as his phone suddenly started buzzing in his hand. He brought his thumb out of his mouth so he could fumble with it with both hands, trying to right it so he could see who was calling.
Oh no. By the time he was holding it properly, it seemed he had accidentally hit the answer button, because the call was now active. The caller ID displayed at the top of the screen made his stomach hit rock bottom. Oh no.
A concerned voice rumbled through the speakers, but it was too quiet to hear. With shaking fingers, Shane hit the speaker button before quietly saying, "Hello?"
"Hollander?"
"Um…" Shane's grip on the phone tightened. "Um, yeah. Why're you calling now?" Why now after not calling since this started, Shane couldn't bring himself to ask.
"You have been typing and deleting texts for ten minutes," Rozanov said bluntly, continuing before Shane could contemplate that. "Heat over?"
"False one again, but yeah."
"Okay." Rozanov went silent for several moments. "Want me to come home? Or stay here in hotel for longer?"
What? Shane tilted his head, confused. "Huh? Why would you stay longer?"
"If you want."
"It's your house," Shane protested.
"Yours too," Rozanov shot right back, and Shane didn't have the energy to dispute that. "What do you want?"
"It's…I mean, my scent should be cleared out by now. I made sure of it today, but I guess it could still be lingering."
"Not what I asked," Rozanov groaned, exasperated, then softened his tone. "Shane, what do you want?"
Shane bit his lip. "Uh…come back, I guess." There was a weird grumble on the other side of the call that Shane couldn't do anything about but disregard. "So you can sleep in your own bed, before you need to go to Michigan. Tomorrow, right? Or, wait, is it the day after tomorrow?"
"Oh my god." A long string of annoyed Russian phrases sounded—probably annoyed, it was hard to tell sometimes—before, "Yes, okay. I'll be home soon. I'll bring food."
And again, the call ended before Shane could respond. His phone slipped from his fingers, and he buried his face in his hands with a low groan. God, this was a nightmare. Fuck, okay, at least he had gotten the place cleaned up. All the common areas should be aired out and scent-neutralized by now. The driveway was shoveled, the sheets were cleaned.
Crap, the sheets! Shane's skin prickled like it was icing over. He had never washed Rozanov's bedding before—somehow, that was way too intimate for a relationship like theirs—so he didn't know if it had been the right move to leave them folded in that basket. Would it be more polite to remake the bed for him? Shane squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. No, no way. It had been hard enough to go into that room while actively in preheat and while actively being given permission to do so over the phone; there was no way he could even open that door to shove the basket inside Rozanov's room.
The best move was just for Shane to stay in his room, surely. It wasn't like he was in the right state of mind to cook something, even if Rozanov hadn't said he would bring food. How long would that even take? He didn't know what 'nearby hotel' Rozanov stayed in. God, how long did he have?
Shane was pacing around his room by now, head pounding even more with each step. Eventually, he thought to grab his phone to send his parents a quick text informing them that the cycle was over, and thanked them for checking in on him. He could only remember one of those calls; hopefully, the others hadn't involved anything embarrassing, though pondering that wasn't helping him at all in this moment.
He winced at a fresh flash of pain between his temples. At least he had medicine for that in his bathroom, which he retrieved next to take. Then he yelped and checked the bottle of pills Dr. Turner had prescribed, remembering how she had carefully warned him to only take one a day and not remembering how many he had taken other than that first afternoon. It took way too long to dump the bottle into one palm to count them, but it was a small relief to find that only four were unaccounted for, one for each day that had passed.
At least his heat-addled self hadn't messed that up.
As he put the pill bottles back in the medicine cabinet and closed it, Shane's reflection caught his eye. His eyes were slightly red above dark circles. The rest of his skin was back to the usual tone it adopted at this time of year, pale enough that his freckles popped unappealingly. His hair was mostly dry, so he ran a comb through it in an attempt to somewhat tame his appearance before opening new scent patches to pop on.
Ugh, what was he doing? What did it even matter what he looked like? Was he subconsciously preparing himself to, what? Go greet his husband at the door?
No chance. Shane tried to swallow his nerves as he reentered his bedroom, tugging on a large shapeless hoodie. No, he would just stay in here and lock the door. Wait, was that a bad idea? Would that be rude? No, it should be fine, Rozanov wouldn't come try and open it.
Unless...Shane gulped. Unless Rozanov thought it was fair game to do so, now that Shane had gone into his room. That could be a possibility. Did that mean Shane should lock it? That way it would be safe if Rozanov tried to come in, and if he didn't and just knocked instead, Shane could just unlock it before answering. But then what if unlocking it ended up being loud enough for Rozanov to hear, and he ended up getting upset that Shane had locked the door?
Shane's hands fiddled with the lock for way too long. Lock, unlock, lock, unlock. His ears were beginning to ring. In this state, he wouldn't be able to hear the front door opening from his room. Lock, unlock, lock, unlock. He wouldn't know when Rozanov arrived at the house until it was too late, and then he would either be knocking on Shane's door or be trying to open it. Both equally terrifying.
Lock, unlock, lock, unlock, lock.
Honk.
The lock clicked to the unlocked position one more time as Shane paused. A honk? The house was too far from the road to hear a honk from there, especially in Shane's room at the back of it, so it must have come from the—
Two more honks sounded. Yep, they were coming from the driveway. The panic in Shane's head cleared enough for confusion to replace it. Was that…had Rozanov ordered food to be delivered or something? That didn't make much sense. What kind of delivery driver honked instead of ringing the doorbell?
Cautiously, Shane cracked his door open just enough to hear better. The house was silent, so the sound of the garage door opening and then closing a minute later was clear. Oh. Rozanov. Shane frowned to himself. Why had he honked? Had he expected Shane to come out and greet him, like Rozanov had when Shane accidentally honked after his doctor appointment in October?
He had no time to contemplate it before the front door clicked open. Shane quickly closed his own door, heart picking up its pace yet again. No, he still wasn't ready. Without really thinking about it, Shane hurried back to the bathroom to turn on the shower. There, that was something at least. He knew based on his last heat cycle that the shower could be heard from outside his room, so that would be a momentary excuse to stay in here for now.
Wait. Shit, he hadn't locked his bedroom door!
Shane left the shower on and tiptoed back into the bedroom, absurdly feeling like he was playing a game of cat and mouse with the wind. He kept his eyes locked on the bedroom door, waiting for a knock to sound from it or for the doorknob to twist or at least for a shadow to appear in the crack beneath it.
But nothing happened. There were no noises, no voice, no knock, no anything. No shadows indicating movement on the other side of the door, no unlocked doorknob twisting. The silence lasted for an unknown period of time before Shane's phone buzzed in his pocket, nearly scaring the living daylights out of him. His parents? Oh, no, it was a text from…
Rozanov, 2:23 PM
Pho is on dining table if you want, same as last time. I also got a salmon salad from different place, is on tray outside your door. I will stay in my room for rest of day, if you want.
Shane stared down at the phone in his right hand, baffled for so many reasons. Why had his husband gotten food from two different places? And how? Was the hotel really so close that he'd had time to make two stops before reaching the house in the time since their call had ended just an hour ago? Shane looked back up at the door and tilted his head. He was certain that he hadn't seen any shadows passing from beyond it, and definitely hadn't heard a tray being set down on the hardwood floor on the other side. Was it a trick, or was Rozanov really somehow able move so quietly?
And was it a lie that Rozanov was in his own room and not waiting right outside Shane's, ready to confront him? Shane's hands trembled. Maybe he should just stay put and not open that door at all. He took tiny steps toward it, shuffling his feet to muffle the sound, and pressed his ear against the wood of the door. Nothing. His left hand went to the doorknob, ready to lock it again.
He looked down. His simple gold wedding ring winked back at him from his trembling fingers. He hadn't eaten at all since snapping out of the false heat that morning, and his diet had probably been shit over the past few days.
Dammit. Shane bit his lip, then slipped through the door before he could talk himself out of it.
Rozanov wasn't waiting on the other side of it, nor was he in any of the common areas. There was indeed a tray with some kind of salad bowl to Shane's left, and another single lonely bowl perched further away on the dining table. Shane let out a long breath. He couldn't even tell if he was hungry, but found himself creeping toward the dining table to confirm that, yes, it was the exact same pho order from months ago, complete with the jalapenos on the side.
He glanced to the side at the hallway to Rozanov's room. The basket with the sheets wasn't there anymore, and no noises came from that area of the house.
Shane gnawed on the insides of his cheeks. He kept a strict rule of not eating in his bedroom—outside of his heat cycle, at least—so if he upheld that and ate now at the dining table, he would need to do it quickly and do it knowing there was a risk of Rozanov coming out at any point.
Would that risk even be so awful, though?
His right hand still clutched his phone, and he lifted it to see that his sweaty grip had caused a jumble of letters to be typed in an unsent message to Rozanov. Whoops. Shane quickly erased it, then sighed. Fuck it. He couldn't stand being impolite, even now.
Shane, 2:32 PM
Thanks. And I'm sorry.
The response was immediate.
Rozanov, 2:33 PM
Can we talk? Is okay if no.
Shane's vision blurred as he locked his phone and put it back in his pocket. "Yeah," he croaked out, completely lost as to why he was doing this.
His voice was quiet, but Rozanov's door immediately opened like he had been listening for it. Shane averted his eyes, pursing his lips to keep them from quivering.
"Hi," Rozanov said gently. Shane peeked up to see that he was wearing a dark V-neck and sweatpants, barefoot where he loitered just outside his bedroom with the door still open behind him. From this angle, it was impossible to see into it. "You, uh…" Rozanov's eyes flickered curiously past the living room to Shane's closed bedroom door. "I thought you were taking shower."
That wasn't what Shane expected him to say. "I did?" Shane said, confused, then winced when he realized that he had left the shower on, and it was audible even from the kitchen. "Oh, I just forgot to turn the water off."
"Uh-huh," Rozanov hummed, gaze moving to just above Shane's eyes. To his forehead? "Sure. Okay?"
"Okay," Shane echoed, not really sure what to say.
Rozanov took a slow step forward. "No, are you okay?"
Shane blinked, then let out what he hoped was a casual chuckle. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"
"Shane."
"Wait," Shane said, concerned at a sudden thought that came to him. "Did my parents say something?"
Rozanov shook his head, confused. "Why, did anything bad happen?"
"No, but I…" Shane sucked his teeth and looked away. "I only remember one of the phone calls where they checked in, so…"
"Ah." Rozanov took another step closer. "Maybe you should sit down. To eat, hm?"
Yeah, probably. Not to eat yet, though, but to keep his legs from either buckling or launching him back to his room, which were equally likely. Shane sat in the chair that the bowl of pho was set in front of, but didn't touch it, instead folding his hands on the table.
Rozanov finished his approach to the table to also sit, right across from Shane. "Want to talk about it?"
"About the false heat?" Shane asked, and his husband rolled his eyes but nodded. "Uh, I mean. It was fine. I'm just…sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
Shane looked at the entryway hall. "I shoveled earlier today, before you called me. But it's still snowing, so sorry if that gave you trouble pulling in."
"You think I cannot drive in an inch of snow?" Rozanov questioned disbelievingly, then raised his hands. "Wait, wait. You shouldn't have shoveled at all."
"There was four days' worth of snow," Shane protested.
"I could have parked in street and shoveled myself," Rozanov argued back.
"But your upcoming game in Detroit—"
Rozanov threw his head back and groaned. "Whatever, forget the shoveling. Do you feel okay? Any pain?"
Shane shrugged, shuffling in his seat uncomfortably. "I woke up with a headache like last time, but I already took something for that."
"And before that?" Rozanov prompted. "During the heat?"
"False heat," Shane corrected automatically, which earned another exasperated groan. "No, I…well, yes, but it wasn't as bad this time, from what I can remember." His cheeks heated against his will. "I took those fever reducers Dr. Turner prescribed, so…I think that helped."
Rozanov nodded, then cocked his head to the side. "What did she say about the headache?"
"Huh? Oh, I haven't called her yet today."
"But you had one last time too."
"Well, during my last appointment, she only asked about the symptoms I had during the cycle, not after. So, yeah."
Rozanov balled his left hand up on the table, the ring on it glinting in the light from the windows. "You will tell her at next one."
"Okay," Shane said, growing a bit annoyed. "Okay, I'll call tomorrow to schedule it."
"Good."
A minute of awkward silence passed before Shane couldn't help but point out, "You honked."
"Yes." Rozanov's fist uncurled so he could gesture toward the master bedroom. "To warn you when I got home, in case you wanted to hide."
"I don't hide," Shane muttered, peeved. Rozanov lifted his eyebrows, undeterred. "Oh, shut up. Why would I even need to hide?" Was that phone call at the beginning of the preheat as embarrassing for you as it was for me, was kind of what Shane really wanted to ask.
Rozanov raised one shoulder casually, but his eyes were serious. "Don't know. You seem very concerned about the Detroit game this week."
"Well, yeah, sleeping in a hotel before traveling for that isn't good," Shane said, going on without thinking. "It was lucky that I didn't mess up the Montreal one for you on Saturday by calling right before."
"Aha," Rozanov remarked, almost…triumphantly? "So you do remember that call."
Shane's eyes widened as he mentally cursed himself. Fuck, he wished he had thought of pretending that he didn't remember, but now it was too late. He hung his head, defeated. "Yeah," he admitted quietly to the sad bowl of pho that was no longer steaming. "I guess that's what I was actually apologizing for, earlier."
"Okay, why?" Rozanov asked immediately. Shane glanced up, but there was no trace of amusement or tease in his expression, just sincere curiosity. "Was just a phone call."
Shane was flabbergasted. "Right before a game," he explained slowly, like he was speaking to a child, "against Montreal."
"Okay?"
"I asked for your sheets and took them out of your room!"
"Uh, no," Rozanov huffed, "maybe you don't remember everything. You did not ask, I offered."
Shane scowled. "Whatever. So?"
"Hollander," Rozanov said lowly, tapping a finger on the table, but Shane refused to look at him. "Shane, is not big deal. Just a phone call, just hormones."
"It was embarrassing!" Shane exclaimed, eyes stinging. "You should have hung up as soon as I said I was in preheat!" Before Shane went and made a fool of himself like a fucking useless, needy omega.
"I could not do that; I had to make sure you would be okay on your own."
"But you hung up later."
"Yes, because you were saying stupid shit and the game was starting soon," Rozanov said impatiently. Shane finally lifted his eyes from the table to look at his husband, who was already staring back intently. "Do you remember? Last thing you said."
It took a moment to recall, and Shane nodded when it clicked. "That…you hate my scent?"
Rozanov nodded right back. "Yes. Stupid. Why would I hate it?"
The list of reasons was too long, so Shane chose the most obvious one. "You literally had a clothespin over your nose last time."
"Because scent was strong and I needed to stay focused."
"Okay," Shane said, then scratched the back of his neck where his patches didn't cover. "Okay, I guess, but I've always worn scent patches in the common areas of the house."
Rozanov pointedly tapped the cloth on the side of his own neck. "Yeah, me too. Makes you feel more comfortable here."
That was true, but… "I don't hate your scent," Shane whispered, then immediately pinched the back of his neck for admitting that.
But Rozanov didn't make fun of him, just raised his eyebrows. "No? Even outside of preheat?" Shane didn't answer that, but his blush was confirmation enough for Rozanov to grin. "Then there's no problem. Congratulations, we are finally husbands who do not hate the smell of each other."
Shane bit back a chuckle. "We should still wear scent patches outside of our rooms, though," he reasoned, and Rozanov's smile fell. "Like you said, it keeps things more comfortable." If Shane's nostrils were constantly filled with that pine and cinnamon concoction, he would never get anything done around the house. "We don't need you being a walking, talking Christmas tree all year round."
"…Christmas tree," Rozanov repeated incredulously, then scoffed. "Would be fitting though."
"I mean, this month, yeah, but then Christmas will be over."
"Will still be fitting."
Shane felt like they weren't having the same conversation anymore. He searched Rozanov's face but couldn't find anything, then realization hit when his eyes lowered. "Oh, because you're religious?"
"Because I'm—what the fuck are you talking about," Rozanov deadpanned, and now Shane was really confused. He pointed at the crucifix necklace, and Rozanov rolled his eyes. "No, I'm not religious."
"But the necklace—"
"Was my mother's."
Shane's heart dropped to his stomach, and all thoughts of the weird conversation about their scents disappeared. "Oh," he said quietly, because…shit. "Sorry, I didn't know."
Rozanov shrugged casually. "I didn't tell you."
"But I didn't ask."
"I didn't expect you to."
An impasse, one Shane had no idea how to overcome. He sort of wanted to inquire more about the subject; he wanted to know more about Rozanov's mother, since all he knew was that she had been a great cook, had loved her son, and now that she had been religious since this was her necklace. I know my mother still cares about me and always will, but she is not here, Rozanov had said during that stew dinner, not in person. He had been referring to the necklace, surely. Which also made Shane curious about why Rozanov only sometimes wore his wedding ring on the same chain. Sure, it was a way to keep the ring safe when he was playing hockey, but it wasn't as meaningful as the necklace, so why not just leave it at the house or something? And if the purpose was safekeeping, why did Rozanov sometimes go through the trouble of taking it off the necklace to wear on his finger? It made no sense.
But he couldn't ask about any of that. Rozanov seemed tense as hell, shoulders stiff and one hand scratching at his ear, so Shane felt like he couldn't push the subject right now.
Just change the topic, maybe, to something safer and way less personal. Hockey? "Well, anyway, good job on Saturday," Shane offered. There, simple and casual and not complicated at all.
"What?" Rozanov uttered, looking and sounding totally lost. "Good job with…what?"
"The game," Shane said, confused why this needed clarification. "You know, your hat trick?"
Rozanov dropped his hand from his ear and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, his gaze flickering between Shane's eyes. "You watched? You never watch Montreal games."
Shane was perplexed by how he knew that, but just continued in what he hoped was a nonchalant way. "Well, I watched that one. Not in my right mind or whatever, or I had nothing better to do. I never realized your pain tolerance was so high."
"My…huh?"
"You took, like, a lot of hits, but it didn't seem to affect you."
Rozanov's eyes widened slightly, just for a moment, before narrowing in what seemed to be annoyance. "Montreal always plays like that against us."
"Oh." Shane hadn't known that. "Still, though. It was a good game, especially because it's been so long since Ottawa beat the Voyageurs. Your first time doing it, and as captain. Celebrating afterward must have been fun."
"Alright," Rozanov sighed, throwing himself backward to sprawl in the chair. His chest rose with a deep, deep breath. "Maybe talking now was bad idea."
"What?" Shane asked, puzzled and a little hurt. He had genuinely been trying to compliment his husband. "What do you mean?"
Rozanov gestured between them. "Conversation is all over the place. You are recovering, and you need to eat."
…Oh. Shane's shoulders raised and curled inward tensely. Had he upset his husband? It seemed so, based on the way Rozanov was now avoiding eye contact. He had thought congratulating him on the win against Montreal would be safe, but evidently not. Or had it been asking about the necklace? Or even before that, did Rozanov somehow feel emasculated that Shane had shoveled the driveway? That had mostly been to delay texting his husband, sure, but Shane had thought it was still a nice thing to do before Rozanov arrived.
Or was Rozanov pissed about coming back to the house in the first place? He had asked Shane if he should stay in the hotel, which Shane had eventually declined—had Rozanov been hoping that Shane would say yes? In case you wanted to hide, Rozanov had said as an explanation for honking. He'd wanted Shane to hide, hadn't he?
It made too much sense. Fuck, Shane was such an idiot. Rozanov even told him that he was an idiot. Often. And here Shane was, steering the conversation all over the place and being annoying and insensitive, all without even touching the food in the bowl in front of him or the food still on the tray by his bedroom door. Fuck, he was—
"Shane."
Shane flinched and suddenly realized several things at once. His vision was fuzzy and his cheeks were wet, indicating that his eyes had not only welled up with tears but that those tears were actively flowing. His left thumb had found its way into his mouth again, and his already too-short nail had been bitten even more to the point that it was starting to really hurt. His other hand hurt too, where it was clenching the seat of his chair so hard that his fingertips were numb.
And, within his swimming vision, Rozanov was closer than before. Now kneeling right next to Shane's chair, Rozanov must have darted out of his own chair so fast that it had been thrown back far from the table. Shane blinked rapidly, expelling a few more tears until his vision cleared enough to watch Rozanov slowly—so very slowly—raise one hand to tug Shane's away from his mouth by the wrist. Rozanov's face was all pinched brows and pursed lips; whether he was annoyed or concerned, Shane didn't know.
"Shane," Rozanov said again, so gently. His lips twitched when their eyes met, but Rozanov's eyes still seemed so…sorrowful. "No need to cry. You will murder me with those big sad Bambi eyes if you continue to."
Shane's lips parted enough for a tear to slip between them, and the salty taste of it pulled him out of his self-deprecating thoughts as much as that peculiar statement from his husband did. "You've seen Bambi?" Shane rasped, hating how weak his voice sounded.
Rozanov exhaled sharply through his nose in an almost-laugh. "No crying right now," he repeated, offering no answer to Shane’s question.
The hand still clasped around Shane's wrist maneuvered until they were both scrubbing at Shane's cheeks to wipe away the dampness on them. A stray thumb even drifted across the bridge of Shane's nose, where he was certain there were no tears.
"Whatever you panicked about that made you cry, is not true," Rozanov continued confidently. Shane wondered if Rozanov’s knees hurt from kneeling like that for so long. "I should have let you rest instead of asking to talk, but is okay. Heat went okay, so that is good." Shane opened his mouth, and Rozanov was quick to correct, "False heat, whatever. Nothing bad happened. Doctor will help with next steps, but you don't need to worry about this now."
Their hands were still resting on Shane's face, and both moved with the motion of his slow nod. "Okay," Shane whispered, his mind blissfully beginning to stop racing so fucking hard at how genuine his husband's tone seemed.
"Alright," Rozanov whispered right back, getting to his feet without removing his hand from Shane's face. His left hand, Shane realized when warm metal brushed the corner of his mouth. "You want pho or salmon bowl?"
Shane could only dumbly stare up at his husband for a few moments before being able to respond. "Um, the salmon would be healthier. I need to get back on track with my diet after the past four days, so…" He trailed off and lightly gulped at the unblinking, unamused stare he received. "But I want the pho, I think."
A lazy smile stretched across Rozanov's face, and his fingers tapped Shane's cheeks thrice before pulling away. "Okay."
Neither of them moved further. Shane felt like his chest was on fire, until he realized he hadn't been breathing. He did so, sharp and quick, before looking down at the bowl of pho. "I need to heat this back up."
"Do you?"
Shane looked back up at his husband, whose expression seemed…challenging. A deep, mostly forgotten part of Shane rose to that challenge. "Can you heat it up for me?"
Rozanov's smile widened. "Mm-hm."
"And store the salmon bowl in the fridge for later?"
"Yes, Shane," Rozanov said, his tone almost happy despite the whirlwind that had been this conversation. "Good omega."
And if that made Shane's heart skip a beat, then that was for him and only him to know, and for him to hopefully never need to acknowledge in the future.