Chapter Text
Shane Hollander is sitting in the waiting room of the clinic, legs bouncing in front of him, and is doing everything in his power not to throw up. Or pass out. Or look afraid- really. There’s a small girl, can’t be any older than five, who’s staring at him with wide, curious eyes.
“Hollander,” Rozanov breathes next to him. He can’t place his hand on Shane’s thigh and squeeze like he wants, but he knocks his knee into his and keeps it there. “You give me headache.”
“Sorry,” Shane squeaks. He tears his eyes away from the kid in the corner and leans forward on his knees, bringing his palm up to his mouth so he can really get a good bite down on the inside of his cheek, chewing the torn up skin there already. Rozanov sighs quietly and flips through his magazine.
Truthfully, he’s not even sure why Rozanov is here. Well- it was all a blur, really. They were about to hook up, shirts torn off and pants discarded next to the bed, when Shane’s phone had started buzzing aggressively on the nightstand.
“Ignore it,” Rozanov had said, but it kept ringing, so Shane angrily grabbed it and clicked accept.
“Hon, you have your appointment in an hour. You can’t get out of it this time.”
“My- what?” Shane had asked, confusion in his tone. His mom clicked her tongue at him.
“Blood work, sweetheart. They want to see your baselines before we start you on those meds-“
Shane had hung up, staring at Rozanov, who was looking at him with a bored, amused expression. He was frantically apologizing, telling Rozanov that they could reschedule, but the Russian must have seen something in his gaze, in the way he carried himself, because all he did was grip Shane’s shoulder and shake his head.
“I drop you off.”
It doesn’t help that they were in Boston, anyway. Shane has a primary care physician back home- a kind, old woman who may or may not have been his pediatrician. It’s a stupid phobia, white coat syndrome, but it’s overpowering. Especially when it’s a new doctor, a new clinic, and the idea that a needle will be in his veins in no time, sucking the blood out of him.
It especially doesn’t help that Shane’s trying to look cool, look unaffected, in front of Rozanov. He’s not sure why, because the other man definitely knows what’s going on, but he doesn’t want to go through his regular routine when he gets blood work: cry, hyperventilate, pass out, repeat. It’s been a year or so since he last got this done- it’s a regular thing in the league, and Shane thought he’d be over it by now, but he’s just not.
“Stop biting,” Rozanov says. He peeks around the waiting room, spotting only the little girl and her distracted mother, and carefully slides a hand up Shane’s spine, stopping at the nape of his neck and squeezing.
It’s something he does during sex that drives Shane insane. Scruffing, he had told Rozanov, when he’d asked what it was called. Something someone does to a baby animal.
Anyway- the effect is immediate. Shane releases the bloody skin from his teeth, his shoulders relaxing, and tries to breathe. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice they have company until a small tap is felt on his knee.
He whips his head up, panicked, and tries to chill the fuck out when it’s just the kid. She looks at him, then up to Rozanov, then gracefully pulls a stuffed animal from behind her back.
“My mom gives me this when I’m scared,” she explains, full of confidence that Shane wishes he had. She gently places it in his lap.
“I’m not-“
Rozanov squeezes his neck again. “Thank you,” he says to the girl, who giggles at him.
“Your voice is funny.”
Shane’s eyes dart to Rozanov, expecting him to look annoyed as he always does when someone comments on his accent, but instead, he has a soft look in his eyes.
“I come from different country,” he explains, keeping his hand on Shane, who has begun to run his fingers through the soft fur of the stuffed bunny. He can’t tell if it’s this, or the smooth drawl of Rozanov’s voice, but he’s starting to relax. “Far away.”
The kid nods seriously. “I come from down the street.”
“Ah, must have been long travel day,” Rozanov jokes. She doesn’t seem to get it, but laughs anyway, if only at the way he speaks. Shane looks up, making eye contact with the girl's mother, who gives him a gentle smile.
“My mom says needles don’t hurt if you don’t look at them,” the kid says to Shane. “And if someone who loves you is with you and blows on the needles so they aren’t itchy.” She directs this to Rozanov, who blushes slightly and removes his hand from Shane’s neck. He instantly misses it.
“Olivia?” A nurse calls from the desk. Shane goes to hand her back the stuffed animal, but she shakes her head.
“I’m not a baby anymore.” Ouch. She walks herself up to the nurse and reaches up to hold her hand, her mother coming over to them quickly before stopping.
“She has cancer,” her mom says quietly. She watches as Olivia follows the nurse into the room. “Doesn’t get to see many people. Sorry about that.”
“No need for sorry,” Rozanov says. He’s tense, tense in the way he always is when someone talks to him around Shane, but he can tell he’s forcing himself to be normal, as if this situation is normal. You do not go to the clinic with your arch rival who you’re casually having sex with because he’s scared of needles.
“Keep it,” Olivia’s mom says to Shane. “We have a million of them.”
As soon as they’re alone, Shane starts to panic again. Rozanov watches him for a long moment before leaning in closer.
“Look,” he says, tapping on the magazine. “This place has good taste.”
Shane looks over at the paper, scoffing when he sees himself posed up with his Rolex on display. He fidgets with the one on his wrist, eyes fluttering shut as the breath gets stuck in his chest, and his lungs are burning, aching as if he can’t actually get any oxygen-
“Breathe,” Rozanov’s voice is there, the magazine discarded. He takes a breath for courage and reaches over, grabbing Shane’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You will pass out before they bring you inside.”
“I- I should just go,” Shane says, standing up. He shakes his hands out, trying to expel the anxiety in his body, and begins to pace. “I don’t need the medication, I’m fine, everyone’s just dramatic-“
“Clearly.”
Shane glares at him, expecting Rozanov to be looking at him with judgement- amusement. Instead, his eyebrows are pitched together, a frown on his face, and if Shane wasn’t so freaked out, he would notice that it’s a look of pure concern etched across his stupidly handsome face.
“Hollander,” he stands as well, taking Shane’s hands again. “You will be fine. Needle will not hurt you. Big strong man, right? You make fifty-one goals last season. Needle is scary for small man, like Pike, but you are brave.”
Shane scoffs again, but stops when he finds himself close to tears. He wants to whine, wants to walk out, wants to bury himself in Rozanov’s chest and inhale his scent-
“Shane?”
He practically jumps out of his skin, flinching away from Rozanov and letting his trembling hands drop down to his sides. The nurse is looking at him expectantly, but Shane’s feet aren’t moving- they can’t. He feels like he’s waiting for his execution.
“Come, take bunny,” Rozanov says softly. He reaches down for the stuffed animal, holding it up to Shane’s chest, and does a stupid little wiggle with it. Shane brings his hands up to hold it tightly. “Let’s go.”
Shane forces himself to take one step, then another, and soon, the nurse is right in his face. She walks him back behind a curtain, into a separate room, and Shane realizes his mom must have mentioned his phobia over the phone when she booked the appointment. He’s taken back into a single room with a clinical bed.
“Ah, you go to lay down room,” Rozanov speaks from behind him, and Shane jumps again, not having expected him to follow.
“Your mother mentioned you have a history of fainting. Is this correct?” The nurse asks, no judgement in her tone, as she reads off of a clipboard. Shane nods, standing far too close to Rozanov. “Alright, have a seat.”
He waits for Rozanov to give him a nod, and makes his way over to the bed, laying down. The moment his back hits the paper, his chest tightens even more, and he feels as though someone is pressing down on his heart with all their strength. It sort of feels like when Rozanov pins him to the bed, but it’s far less sexy than that. Perhaps the least sexy thing on the planet.
He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he chokes on a sob, humiliated in a way he’s never felt before. The nurse is moving around, narrating her actions as she grabs the supplies, but Shane can’t fucking breathe-
“Sit him up,” Rozanov’s voice cuts through the panic. He reaches for Shane, grabs him by the armpits, and hauls him up into a sitting position. Rozanov rests one of his big hands on Shane’s chest, the other coming to his back, holding him in place. “Come, breathe, you are okay.”
Shane coughs, his fingers white from where they’re clenched in the fur of the stuffed animal. He thinks of Olivia, hopes she has someone to comfort her while she gets injected, and the thought only makes his chest hurt more.
“Hollander,” Rozanov pleads. “Deep breath.”
Shane squeezes his eyes shut, trying to work through it, trying to think positively. He wants to ask Rozanov to choke him out- not like that- to press against his throat and cut his airway off so he can be unconscious for this.
Shane flinches when something soft touches his nose. He opens his eyes, spotting the bunny right in front of his face, and he can’t help the weak, wet laugh that escapes his lips. Rozanov looks fucking ridiculous, bent down next to the bed, a 6’4, nearly 300 pound man holding a stuffed rabbit by its neck and making it press kisses to Shane’s face.
He realizes then that the nurse must have stepped out to give them privacy. He lets out a shaking breath, his nose scrunching up when Rozanov nuzzles his cheek with the stupid thing.
“You look like bunny,” he comments.
“What’s- what’s it in Russian?”
“Krolik,” Rozanov says. Shane repeats it, clunky with his Canadian accent, and whispers it over and over again as the nurse reenters the room.
“Think you can hold onto him if he faints?” She asks, and Shane looks at her in confusion before realizing she’s talking to Rozanov. The man nods, and she motions at him, and soon, Rozanov is at his side, one arm around Shane’s waist, the other holding onto his right wrist.
“Okay, Shane. We’re just gonna tie the band around your arm. Can you make a fist?”
Shane tries, but his hand is trembling too much- he’s too weak. Rozanov’s large palm slides over his knuckles, holding his hand into a fist, his grip tight and overbearing. She ties the band tightly around his bicep, the pressure making him squirm, and he flinches roughly when she rubs the alcohol swap over his vein, trying to pull away.
Rozanov keeps his grip on him, his other hand rubbing soothing circles into his side, and it feels more intimate than anything they’ve ever done in bed.
“Breathe,” he reminds Shane. He ducks his hand under Shane’s shirt, knowing skin-to-skin helps soothe him whenever he’s too worked up, and squeezes the soft tissue around his waist. “Is okay. I am here.”
Shane squeaks in a very manly manner when she inserts the needle, once again trying to pull away, but Rozanov holds him tight. Shane cries softly, turning his head and pressing it into the junction of Rozanov’s neck, inhaling him deeply.
“So good, you are doing so good,” Rozanov says quietly. Shane starts to relax the more time that passes, but they need multiple vials, and as his adrenaline wears off, he starts to feel the discomfort of the needle in his arm. He must make a noise, or shift, because Rozanov ducks his head and blows a cool breeze of air across his arm, dulling the sensation.
The nurse takes the needle out, holding a cotton pad to him, and Shane feels like his world is spinning. He pulls his head out of Rozanov’s neck, blinking the dizziness away, and makes a little hm noise before his eyes roll to the back of his head.
Before he passes out, he can feel Rozanov’s tight hold on him, one of his hands coming up to hold onto his neck as he keeps him steady.
Shane’s universe fades into darkness, but he’s not scared- Rozanov is here, and when he’s here, nothing bad can happen.
He wakes up in the car, Rozanov slightly out of breath, and the stuffed bunny buckled neatly in the backseat.
Idiot.