Archive of Our Own

By the time Shane’s back at the hotel, he feels almost back to normal. His breathing has slowed down, his hands have stopped shaking. He doesn’t remember how he managed to get Rozanov’s clothes off and his own on, but he did. It wasn’t like Rozanov came after him. Not after Shane basically had a panic attack over hearing his first name out of Rozanov’s mouth.

Rozanov had tried taking it back, giving Shane an out, but Shane couldn’t—not after that. Not after that entire fucking day.

Fuck.

Shane.

It echoes through his head, the way Ilya—no, fuck, Rozanov—had said his name. In that moment, something inside of Shane had slotted into place, something that shouldn’t be there, something he’d been risking since the first time they kissed. Shane’s been playing with fire, and now he’s been burnt.

He debates taking a lap around the hotel, but even in Boston, people might recognize him. So he makes his way inside.

Hayden looks surprised when Shane walks into their hotel room. “You’re back already.”

“Told you, just meeting a friend.”

Hayden doesn’t look convinced.

“I’m gonna hit the gym,” Shane says and goes to his suitcase to pull out his workout clothes.

“You want company?” Hayden asks.

“No, I’m good. Just gonna run a bit to clear my head.”

Hayden raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. Shane’s never been more grateful for Hayden not pushing too far.

There are a few other guys from his team in the hotel gym, but Shane puts on his headphones, and they know not to bother him when he’s running.

He finds his rhythm, eventually, after battling to keep the memories of Rozanov and his fucking tuna melt away. He manages to fall into the familiar stride of burning muscles and burning lungs, and he doesn’t think about waking up in Rozanov’s arms, or riding him on the couch, or the betrayed look in his eyes when he called him Hollander, asking him to stay in that fucked up language they’ve been using for the last seven years.

Shane just runs.

When he’s done, he’s breathing harder than usual, and it takes him longer to catch his breath. He doesn’t pay it any mind.

The game the next day is a shit show. Neither he nor Rozanov plays particularly well, but everybody has off days. The commentators and the press are disappointed that they didn’t get their Hollander-Rozanov moments, the Boston fans are disappointed with their captain’s lackluster performance, and the Montreal fans are disappointed that Montreal didn’t win.

Shane’s disappointment goes deeper, carves its way deep into his body, but he ignores it. He never should have let it go on for so long.

Shane doesn’t really go out, especially not to hip, fancy restaurants that are hosting afterparties for movie stars. He hates the crowd, the attention, and he doesn’t really drink. So when JJ calls him about going out, he doesn’t really know why he says yes. Maybe because he’s been feeling off, a lump in his throat as if he’s getting sick, except he’s not. And maybe he can’t think about the reason why he’s feeling off. So Shane heads downtown.

It’s a night out like any other—Shane is a little awkward and a little overwhelmed, ordering beer so he doesn’t have to defend his choice of ginger ale—but then he accidentally sits down in a booth with Rose Landry. She’s as beautiful off the screen as she’s in her movies, and she’s kind and funny. Something just clicks when Shane talks to her. They talk forever and laugh, about her movies and about his hockey, and Shane can’t stop smiling. Finally, he likes a girl.

When he gets home, still giddy that he met a girl he really, really likes, he’s wrecked by a coughing fit. The weird feeling low in his throat is finally making its way up, and he coughs and coughs, dry and painful, and he briefly wonders whether it’s going to make him throw up when he feels something soft but undeniably solid at the back of his throat. But what comes out of his throat isn’t half-digested fries but a single flower petal.

Shane stares at it, uncomprehending. It’s impossible. He’s not in love.

And yet, right there on his bathroom floor, announcing his doom like it’s not delicately beautiful, is a small light pink petal, rounded at the bottom with a sharp tip.

Shane manages to get to the toilet just in time, and then he does throw up.

Shane ignores it. Well, first he googles.

There’s really nothing to be done about Hanahaki, the disease of heartache and unrequited love that spouts flowery growth in a person’s lungs. There are possibilities of cutting back the growth in a thoracoscopic procedure, but generally, those buy little time and the success is limited. So either someone falls out of love with the person, and it goes away on its own, leaving marred scar tissue behind, the severity depending on the length and intensity of the illness, or the love is reciprocated and it heals. The healing process takes time, depending on the severity of the illness, and proximity to the person that caused the Hanahaki is paramount, sometimes for months, to prevent a recurrence, but it can heal without any major lasting damage.

Shane still doesn’t believe he’s in love. His body got this wrong somehow. The internet claims it’s impossible, but he does find a thread on the Hanahaki Reddit about getting it without being in love.

There are a few people sharing their experiences, and one post especially gives Shane hope.

I swear, I don’t love her, but we’ve been hooking up for months now. We’re neighbors and it’s convenient, she’s a flight attendant and rarely home and I’m a first year intern at a hospital. We literally don’t have time and energy to find other hook ups, so we just fuck each other. I’ve started coughing up rose petals, but I just don’t love her. I hope no longer sleeping with her will make it go away.

The replies are split fifty-fifty, with people thinking the intern is in love with the flight attendant and just in denial about it or that the frequent sex and the resulting exchange of pheromones with the same person could trick the body into Hanahaki. After all, the exact reasons for Hanahaki, on a biological level, are still very poorly understood. The Reddit post is new enough that there aren’t any updates to the situation, but Shane decides this must be a possibility.

Without the sex—and the cuddling and the tuna melts and the ginger ale, his traitorous brain reminds him—Shane’s feelings, whatever they are, are sure to disappear. His body is going to realize it got it wrong. Especially now that he’s met Rose.

When nothing happens the next few days, Shane thinks maybe it was just a fluke. Maybe he just hallucinated the flower petal. Maybe he’s already cured.

But then he wakes up one morning, the lingering remnants of a dream that can only be about Rozanov leaving him with a hard dick and a wildly beating heart, and he coughs so hard, he almost falls out of bed. When he’s done, there’s another flower petal lying on his comforter.

Fuck.

He goes out with Rose. He actually has fun with her, even though the paparazzi are hounding them much worse than Shane’s used to. Rose is still in Montreal because of her movie, and Shane knows he’s famous here, but the level of attention Rose gets is insane. He hates it, but there’s nothing to do about it.

His parents are ecstatic that he finally has a girlfriend, and the ribbing from the team is a little much but ultimately comforting. He’s fitting in. He’s like everyone else on the team. He’s years behind, of course, most of the other guys are married with kids, but still. Shane has a girlfriend. Shane extricated himself from the messy and stupid thing with Rozanov. Everything’s going well.

Except for how he keeps getting coughing fits. Not every one of them produces a petal, but they get more frequent. There are sprays that can numb or soothe a sore throat, but there’s nothing to do against the disease itself.

Shane gets the sprays because he can’t cough every time he’s at practice or out with Rose. He manages to keep it in until he can go to bathrooms or until he’s back home, but then he’s punished with longer and more violent fits and bigger petals. It’s fine, though. Any day, it’s going to be over. He’s going to be fine.

Boston comes to Montreal, and Shane takes ten minutes in the bathroom before the game to hack up his lungs. Thankfully, his actual lungs stay in place, but there are three petals in the sink when he’s done.

Rose texts him before the game, Rozanov doesn’t.

It’s the first time they haven’t texted before a game.

Shane’s throat tickles. He swallows it down. He sneaks out one last time to numb his throat with the spray before he laces up his skates.

He can’t avoid Rozanov on the ice, but he’s not speaking to Shane. He doesn’t even look at Shane when they’re both sitting on the bench. They play in icy silence. The other difference is the much harder body check that throws Shane into the boards. It makes him cough so hard that he needs to stop skating. God, he hopes it looks like it’s just from getting winded.

He feels the petal in his throat and slams his glove in front of his mouth. He has nowhere to go, so he catches the petal in his gloves and pushes it back into his mouth and then swallows it down. It’s sickly sweet and sticky, but at least he won’t leave any incriminating evidence on the ice.

“You okay?” Hayden asks, suddenly next to him.

“Yeah, just a hard hit.”

“Fucking Rozanov,” Hayden growls.

“Fucking Rozanov,” Shane agrees, for entirely different reasons.

They win, but barely. It’s a miserable game. Just like the last one.

Shane seriously debates canceling on Rose, but he needs to get Rozanov out of his head, out of his body. It’s like his angry spirit has taken up residence in Shane’s lungs, dug his roots in deep, and is slowly taking over, not leaving Shane any space to breathe when he suffocates Shane from within.

So Shane goes out.

He laughs with Rose and dances with her, and everything is fine. Shane is absolutely fine, he hasn’t even coughed once. And then he spots the tall figure of Cliff Marleau. Which can only mean one thing.

The music thumps around him, a clear woman’s voice singing about all the things running through her head, and then Shane sees him, standing across the dance floor.

Shane takes a breath, fills his lungs and almost flinches, waiting for the inevitable coughing fit, but there’s nothing. For one glorious moment, Shane can breathe.

This is not enough.

Then he notices the woman in Rozanov’s arms, the woman Rozanov’s holding, kissing, and Shane feels the scratching in his throat, like a rusty razor blade dragging all the way down. His lungs hurt when he tries to breathe through it, his entire chest locking up in burning pain when he tries not to cough.

Rozanov spots him and stares at him, pinning him in place with burning eyes while he keeps dancing with the woman in his arms, his mouth on her ear. Because Rozanov is still hooking up with women, has always hooked up with women while Shane was the one home alone. While Shane’s now the one coughing up flowers.

Shane swallows, barely manages, and twists around just in time to cough into his hand. He almost doesn’t find the bathroom in the dark club, and it’s not empty, but the lighting is dark enough that hopefully no one recognizes him when he stumbles to the last stall and falls to his knees. He’s coughing until there are tears in his eyes, streaking down his face, and the petals keep spilling out of his mouth until the dark bathroom tiles are covered in red.

For a moment, still trying to get enough oxygen for his brain to work, Shane wonders if they changed color. Then he realizes the petals are still a soft pink. The red that’s covering them is blood.

Shane collapses onto the bathroom floor, and for the first time since this whole mess started, he allows himself to think about the fact that he may die from this thing.

His body isn’t getting the message that Rozanov is just a hook-up. A sick, twisted hook-up Shane hasn’t been able to shake for six fucking years, but he refuses to believe that what they have is love. That what Shane’s feeling is love. Because Rozanov certainly isn’t in love. He just told Shane that he’s still sleeping around.

He asked Shane to stay—something they never do—and he made Shane food—something they never do—and then he called him Shane—something he never did before. Shane is just confused, his body is just confused by Rozanov’s sudden and strange behavior. Shane’s still not over the fact that Rozanov had ginger ale. How did he even know that’s Shane’s drink of choice these days?

Shane bangs his head against the door. He’s never let himself think about what else he could want from Rozanov, has told himself that the longing he felt when they were apart was because he didn’t have anyone else to touch him and that the sex was phenomenal. But on the couch in Rozanov’s lap, hearing him moan Shane’s name after acting like a fucking boyfriend the whole day—Shane realized that that is exactly what he wants.

Shane coughs again, weakly this time. This is so fucking stupid.

Even if Rozanov is interested in more—whatever that more is—it’s impossible. And it’s certainly not love. Because whatever changed the last time they’d been together, Rozanov took it back immediately. Hollander, he’d said, and when Shane left, unable to go back to before, Rozanov hadn’t followed him. He’d wanted Shane to stay, but not enough to get up from the couch when Shane changed clothes in a panic and hurried out of his house.

Shane stares at the bloody flowers and considers dying. He doesn’t want to die. He can’t fathom dying.

Maybe. Maybe there’s a chance. A stupidly small one, and a stupid one period, because them being together is still impossible, but maybe… Rozanov knew about the ginger ale. He did ask him to stay, for the first time. And tonight, on the dance floor, Rozanov had looked at Shane with so much intensity burning in his eyes.

But there’s also Rose, kind, funny, beautiful Rose, who’s so much more uncomplicated despite being a huge movie star. Shane knows what his mind wants. What he wants to want. He just needs his body to go along with it.

Shane scoops up the petals from the dirty floor, flushes them down the toilet, and very thoroughly washes his hands. And then he goes back to the dance floor.

He spots Rose immediately, dancing elegantly, her sparkly dress reflecting all the colorful strobelights. Rozanov’s nowhere to be found.

Well, that’s a choice made.

Shane takes Rose home. He kisses her, and she tastes like champagne. Kissing her is easier than all the women he kissed before. Maybe this can really work.

She takes off her dress while she climbs the stairs to his bedroom, and all Shane can think about is how he dragged Rozanov up these very same stairs only months ago. Heat comes flooding in from the memories. Rozanov’s big hands on his hips and his back, tearing off his clothes, and Shane feels himself getting hard.

He climbs the stairs. He just needs to get through this, needs to make it work.

Shane tries to stay in the moment with Rose because it’s what she deserves. Her lips are soft, and he has to lean down to kiss her, her small hands are taking off his clothes, her soft body is pressing into his. He can’t stay with her.

It’s Rozanov he thinks about when they fall down on the bed, it’s Rozanov he thinks about when they fuck, it’s Rozanov he thinks about when he comes.

Rose seems happy afterward, like she enjoyed it, and Shane feels sick with it. It doesn’t help that the itch at his throat is back, this time accompanied by a faint, overly sweet taste.

Shane remembers the stages of Hanahaki.

One: coughing up petals, two: coughing up petals and blood, three: tasting and smelling the flowers, four: coughing up leaves and stems with more blood, five: suffocation.

Fuck.

Shane makes his way to the bathroom, tries to be casual, and then he coughs as quietly as he can, hiding under a towel.

Eventually, Rose is knocking at the door. “Shane? Sorry, but I kinda need the bathroom and—”

“Just one second,” Shane calls hoarsely, and frantically scoops up the petals and wipes the blood off the floor. When he stands up, another coughing fit gets him, and this time, he can’t keep quiet.

He hears Rose say something from outside the door, but Shane doesn’t understand the words. When he’s done, his throat on fire and another two petals lying in the sink, his mouth filled with a sickly-sweet taste, he looks into the mirror. Behind his pale face is Rose’s face, equally pale.

“Oh, Shane,” she says.

He collapses on the floor. He’s not coughing, but he’s still shaking. His vision is blurry.

Rose is next to him, wearing what’s probably his shirt, and takes him into her arms. “Fuck, I’m so sorry,” she says.

“It’s not your fault,” Shane manages to get out, because he can’t have her thinking she’s killing him.

She lets out a watery laugh. “Oh, I know, babe. We do not know each other long enough for this kind of intensity.”

Shane can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, this is some seven-year bullshit.”

Rose stares at him. “Seven years?”

Fuck. Shane can’t believe he said that out loud. “You can’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Yeah, no shit. This must be bad if it’s been that long. But seven years? I didn’t think Hanahaki takes that long.” She pulls a grimace. “Fuck, sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s, uhm. A recent realization.”

“How recent?”

“Tonight?” Shane says miserably, but he can’t deny it anymore. He slept with the nicest, most beautiful woman he ever met, who he actually likes, thinking about Rozanov the entire time, and then immediately coughed up a small flower bouquet.

Because he’s in love with Ilya Rozanov. Fuck, how did he let this happen? And how long has he been feeling this way?

He thinks back to texting him over the summer, the desperate way they came together at every game, summers before that, their painful first meetings, going back and forth, push and pull, on the ice and off. And then he’s back in a small gym, where Rozanov offered him a water bottle after getting drafted first. Shane remembers trying not to think about it at the time, but he knows, he just wanted to climb into Rozanov’s lap. Was that love? Probably not. He didn’t know him then.

He doesn’t even know him that well now. Except that he now knows that Rozanov is the best player Shane’s ever seen, dedicated and hard-working, crass and soft, confident and self-deprecating, a mix of contradictions who bought the specific drink Shane likes, who cuddled with him, who shared his clothes with him. And still sleeps with other people, women.

Fuck. Shane is so, so fucked.

“But…” Rose starts softly, pulling Shane out of his panic spiral. She looks at him with very gentle eyes. “You don’t have to tell me, of course. But I have a feeling you haven’t told many people.”

“No one,” Shane says. “He’s not—we can’t.”

Rose doesn’t look surprised. Shane blinks at her.

“Don’t get me wrong, that was nice.” She gestures back to his bedroom. “But usually guys are a little bit more excited about, well, me.”

“Sorry.” God, this is so embarrassing. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t use you, I swear. I really like you, and I thought, if I could just like you enough… I wanted to like you enough. And not only because of the Hanahaki. I thought I just needed to meet the right girl.”

Rose starts stroking his hair. “It’s okay. I get it. It’s a lot of pressure, and hockey isn’t exactly a queer-friendly space. Is there even anyone out?”

“No.”

“Could you—”

“No,” Shane cuts her off, and she lets him be, just holds him and strokes his hair.

They sit on the bathroom floor for a long time. Then they go to the kitchen, and Shane makes tea.

“It doesn’t really help, but it’s a little soothing,” he explains.

“Do you want to tell me?” Rose asks.

“It’s not only my secret to tell.”

Rose considers it for a moment, then she gently asks, “He’s a player too?”

Shane doesn’t nod, but his silence is probably all the confirmation she needs.

“But seven years. What makes you think he doesn’t love you back?”

Shane shrugs. “It’s… convenient. Low risk. And he’s not like me. He always has women too.”

“But Shane,” Rose says incredulously. “Are you telling me he could have an easy, low-risk relationship with a woman and he chose to hook up with another player, probably the most high-profile player in the MHL for seven fucking years, and he doesn’t love you back?” She stares at him with wide eyes.

“He told me just two weeks ago that he’s still hooking up with women,” Shane says. “And like, I knew that, so it’s not—” He huffs out an angry breath, feels the horribly familiar tickle at the back of his throat. Swallows it down. “It wasn’t news, but he went out of his way to tell me. After he made me a fucking tuna melt,” Shane says bitterly.

“A tuna melt?” Rose’s brows scrunch together.

“Nevermind. He—” Shane thinks back to Ilya looking at him. “He called me Shane.”

“Okay?”

“We don’t—it was the first time.”

“Well, that has to mean something.”

“We were in the middle of—” Shane makes an inelegant hand gesture.

“It could still mean something.”

Shane shakes his head.

“You have to tell him.”

“Why?”

Rose looks at him very seriously. “Because you’re dying, Shane.”

“I might fall out of love with him.”

Rose gives him a very skeptical look.

“And anyway, he doesn’t feel that way about me.” Shane takes a deep breath, thinks about the last time they were together. How different it had been. A glimpse into something he realized too late he desperately wanted. Only for Rozanov to take it back like it was nothing. To ignore Shane afterward. “He didn’t come after me. He chased after me for years to fuck me, but then he let me leave. And he’s found someone new already.”

“Are you a hundred percent sure? Not only ninety-nine percent but a full hundred? And even if you are, is not telling him really worth dying for, when there’s still a chance you’re wrong?”

It’s so tempting. Shane doesn’t want to die. If there’s even the slightest chance that Rozanov loves him back… but then what? It’s not like they can be together. And Rozanov… he could never go home. Shane thinks back to his phone call with his father, how worried Rozanov had sounded. How he spends every summer in Russia. But if he’s with Shane, he’s not doing that anymore. Can’t do that anymore. And Shane can’t ask that of him. Can’t ask him to give up his career and his home.

Shane shakes his head again, “I can’t. Even if we did, we can’t be together, not like that.”

“Is hockey really worth it? Shane, you’ll die.”

“That’s my problem, not his.”

Rose looks like she wants to protest, but instead she says, “So I guess there’s no point in telling you that Miles is basically halfway in love with you?”

Shane laughs and miraculously doesn’t have to cough.

“Seriously, though, Shane—”

“Please, just, let it go.” Shane coughs. “I’m the one who’s coughing up fucking flowers while he’s completely fine.”

The one thing Shane doesn’t want to beat Rozanov at, and he’s winning by a mile.

“Okay,” Rose says gently. “Then I guess you’ll just have to fall out of love with him.”

“Yeah. It’s gonna be easy, he’s an asshole,” Shane says with way more confidence than he feels.

Rose laughs. “That’s the spirit.”

When Rose leaves, she kisses his cheek and tells him to text. That they’re friends now. Shane likes that.

Over the next few weeks, Shane trains and ignores everything related to Ilya Rozanov. Falling out of love is his only shot at survival, so he does his best to forget about him.

For the first time in his life, he fails at something he truly sets his mind on.

The All-Star game is coming up, but there’s no way Shane can make it. He finally told the team doctor when he cornered Shane after practice. After a five-minute fight in which the doctor tries to convince Shane to just tell this woman, and Shane insists that his love is not reciprocated, the doctor finally relents and shifts into problem-solving mode. There’s a new experimental treatment to slow growth. It’s expensive, but it’s not like Shane’s been spending a lot of his money.

So while the rest of the MHL All-Stars go off to Florida, Shane takes an injury break and inhales a burning serum five times a day that makes him feel like his lungs are getting corroded from the inside.

It does make him feel a little better though. He needs to rest from the treatment; it’s not a continuous solution, because at some point it will actually destroy his lungs and not only the plants growing in there. His team doctor takes X-rays before and after.

Shane stares at the mess of stems and petals, crooked and winding in his chest, and thinks that it’s a pretty accurate representation of what it feels like everywhere. After the treatment, there’s no new growth, and it seems some of the flowers have even wilted. Shane certainly coughed up his fair share of wrinkled brown petals.

“So,” Shane says, trying for bravado, “Is this going to get me to the Cup final?”

The doctor gives him a sad smile. “Yes. But Shane, if you just told her, I’m sure—”

“There’s no her to tell,” Shane says, too tired to keep lying. It’s not like the doctor can tell anyone.

He stares at Shane. Swallows. “Well,” he says slowly. “I know you love playing hockey. But even if it means your career is over, isn’t living worth more?”

“Yeah, probably,” Shane says slowly. For one moment, he allows himself to imagine Rozanov saying he loves Shane back. And then he thinks about what would follow. He shakes his head. “It’s impossible. Even if he felt the same, we can’t be together. And we need to be, for me to heal, right?”

The doctor nods. “With how advanced your Hanahaki is, it will take weeks for the roots to die, even if the petals and the symptoms disappear much quicker. And afterward, you’ll be at risk for a recurrence for months. So yes, in order to heal, you will have to be with the person regularly for some time.”

Shane nods. “Yeah. And that’s just… not possible.”

“It is possible to fully heal,” the doctor says. “If you can just find the time…”

“No.” Shane could never ask that of Rozanov. “And anyway, it’s a moot point.”

The doc puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Shane says firmly. “Just get me to another Cup. Three years in a row. That’s a good legacy to leave behind, isn’t it?”

It’s the only thing keeping Shane upright and going.

The doctor nods. “Sure. Yeah.”

They have one more game against Boston before the playoffs. The treatment has been wearing off, and if Shane continues coughing at this rate, he’s going to have to take another week off before the playoffs.

He’s been ignoring everything that comes after. He’s been training harder than ever before, making up for the lung volume he’s losing with stamina and strength and precision. He’s probably never played better hockey than now that he’s dying.

He hasn’t told his parents. He knows he has to, but he wants to wait until after. Enjoy his last season of hockey as unburdened as he can and then deal with everything that comes after.

When he sees Rozanov on the ice, it makes something in him soar. He breathes lighter when he looks into his blue eyes at the face-off. His body, it seems, is shocked by the unexpected proximity.

Shane will take what he can get.

“You were missed at All-Stars,” Rozanov says.

“By you?”

“No. I was captain. But the others…”

Shane snorts. He thought the rejection would send him into a straight-up coughing fit, but getting teased by Rozanov is so familiar, such an integral part of their relationship, it doesn’t register like that. It’s just giving him the old feeling of anticipation.

“Well, let me show you why you got to be captain only because I wasn’t there.”

Shane wins the face-off, and he gets the first goal of the game.

At the next face-off, Rozanov says, “So you seem happy for a guy who got dumped.”

The press picked up on the fact that Shane and Rose are no longer together. Shane half-believes she leaked it on purpose to make it easier for him to get together with the person he loves, but he never outright asked her about it.

“It was a mutual thing,” Shane says, which is technically true.

He expects another dig from Rozanov, but he just stares at him, eyes dark and burning into Shane.

When the puck drops, it takes them both an embarrassing amount of time to move. This time, Rozanov gets away with it, but Shane chases after him. For the first time since he started coughing up flowers, he feels like he’s flying on the ice again.

He steals the puck from Rozanov, then he gets slammed into the boards, follows Rozanov, who got the puck, the two of them all alone because no one else can keep up. Shane gets the puck back, swivels and changes direction, leaving Rozanov behind.

Leaving him behind.

The coughing fit comes out of nowhere, no warning, no scratching, just a violent retching deep in his lungs. Then there’s someone careening into him, Shane’s flying into the boards, and he doesn’t have the muscle tension to brace himself.

There’s a hard thunk, and then he’s out.

He comes to on the ice on his back, still coughing. There are medics, and there’s Rozanov’s voice, low and frantic, asking “Is he okay?” over and over again.

“Don’t move your head, Shane, we’re gonna get you on the board,” one of the medics says.

Shane’s coughing again, feels the petal fly past his lips, and just hopes that no one notices.

“Fuck, is he okay?”

“Tell him I’ll be fine,” Shane manages to say. “Tell him I don’t blame him.”

Then he’s lifted and carried out of the arena. There’s applause, getting quieter as they’re rushing through the tunnel, and Shane wonders if that’s the last time a crowd will ever cheer for him.

He keeps coughing.

“Shane, you need to keep still.”

“Can’t,” he wheezes out. “Hanahaki.”

“What?”

“Fuck!”

“Get the fucking oxygen.”

It helps, a little, but Shane still loses consciousness.

When he wakes in the hospital, his parents are there. He closes his eyes for one more breath. He wanted to wait to talk to them until the season was over. Considering he’s in the hospital and there’s a dull pain in his shoulder and his arm is in a sling, his season is probably over.

He thought he’d have more time. He wants more time.

Slowly, he opens his eyes. His parents notice and come to the bed, his dad taking his hand and his mom stroking a hand over his hair. Shane just wants the talking part to be over so he can let them hug and comfort him, so he can finally drop the burden.

“How bad is it?” Shane asks around a scratchy throat. There’s a nasal cannula in his nose, feeding him pure oxygen. It helps.

“You have a light concussion and a broken collarbone,” his mother says, and Shane can tell she’s been crying.

They know. There’s no reason his mom would cry over broken bones.

“Shane,” his dad says helplessly, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I was going to,” he says. “I just wanted to get one more normal season. One more Cup.”

His dad is the one who starts crying first. Yuna Hollander has always been the rock of the family.

“Shane, what happened with you and Rose?”

“It’s not her,” Shane says, needing his mom not to unleash her fury on poor Rose.

She stares at him in surprise. “Well, then who is it?”

He waves her off. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Honey, I can’t believe they wouldn’t love you back,” she says fiercely.

It takes Shane a moment to register the pronoun she used. “They?” He repeats.

“We thought,” his mom starts. “That maybe… and the fact that you’re not together with the person you love, I can only imagine why.”

Shane opens his mouth, but what comes out is a hacking cough and two blood-stained flower petals.

His dad is there to prop him up, and his mom gets him a tissue to wipe his mouth.

“Thanks. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” his mom says firmly. “And honey, just… are you sure he doesn’t love you back?”

“Yeah,” Shane says quietly. “He knows I’m not with Rose anymore, and it didn’t matter. And I already saw him with someone else, which is not even… anything, because we were never even exclusive.” Shane inhales deeply, the pure oxygen feeling almost like a rush in his overgrown lungs.

His parents are looking at him with twin expressions of pain.

“But—” his mom starts, and Shane can’t hear again how Rozanov just must love him.

“Even if he did feel the same, we can’t be together. I can’t ask him to give up everything for me.”

David blinks in confusion, but Yuna gets it immediately,

“Another player?” she asks quietly, incredulously.

Shane just nods.

“Oh my baby.”

“Is it Hayden?” His father almost whispers it.

Shane has to laugh. “God, no. It’s, fuck, it’s so much worse.”

His parents stare at him in confusion. Not even with that hint is it occurring to them that he’s fallen in love with Ilya Rozanov. How could it? It’s inconceivable.

Shane laughs again, and then he’s crying, and then he’s coughing again, and he doesn’t know how long it takes before he can speak and breathe normally again. He’s dying because he fell in love with the one person he couldn’t, and no one will ever know.

His parents ask him for a name, but Shane doesn’t tell them—it’s not his secret to tell, and they accept that eventually—and then Shane needs peace and quiet. He’s pretty sure his mom is just plotting her next line of attack. The thought of Yuna Hollander going up to Ilya Rozanov and demanding to know why he doesn’t love her son would be hilarious if it weren’t Shane’s death sentence.

With the promise of bringing Shane a Snickers, his parents leave. No one talks about why he can eat whatever he wants now. Shane is alone with his broken heart, his overgrown lungs, and the knowledge that he won’t even get to play for the Cup one final time.

His life has gone from mostly pretty good to absolute shit in a matter of months. He doesn’t know how to deal with that.

And then the door opens, and Ilya Rozanov comes in.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Shane asks.

For a moment, there’s elation surging through him. He can’t help it, the impossible fantasy, Rozanov here because he cares about Shane.

But Rozanov’s face gives nothing away. And then he says, devastatingly calm, “I wanted to come check on you. Marleau, he feels terrible. I already chewed him out, but yeah.”

Shane nods. He shouldn’t feel disappointed. He already knew. “It’s fine. These things happen. Nature of the game and all.”

Rozanov nods, doesn’t say anything.

“Look,” Shane starts, because he can feel his throat itching, and he’d rather not embarrass himself even more in front of Rozanov.

But Rozanov interrupts him. “Did you tell her?”

Shane stares at him in confusion. “Did I tell who what?”

“Rose Landry,” Rozanov says impatiently. “About you?”

“What?”

“I know, okay,” Rozanov spits out. He reaches into his pocket. When he pulls his hand out and opens it, there’s a single wrinkled petal lying on his broad palm. Shane has seen enough of them over the past few months that he recognizes it immediately.

Cold panic fills his chest.

“Where did you get that?”

“At the game, before they carried you away. I took it. Did not want anyone else to see.”

“Thank you.”

“Yes. But. Have you told her?”

Shane’s just tired now. A bone deep exhaustion that’s pulling his limbs like lead into the mattress. Rozanov knows. Shane doesn’t know what Rose has to do with this; maybe Rozanov is worried she won’t keep his secret.

“Look, she won’t tell anyone,” Shane says.

Rozanov stares at him like he’s insane. “How does she not love you back?” He asks it like it’s the most incomprehensible thing in the world. “You are—” Rozanov gestures at him furiously. “How can she not love you?”

“Rose likes me,” Shane says, still trying to figure out what the fuck Rozanov’s problem is. “We’re friends.”

“Yes, but she should love you.” Rozanov’s yelling now. “You are best hockey player, and you are beautiful, and you are so, so boring, and you are good and competitive, and get flustered like angry kitten—”

“Wait.” Shane sits up even though moving hurts. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You have Hanahaki. You are dying.”

“Yeah, I know that, asshole.”

Rozanov looks ready to tear his hair out. “So how can she not love you back like you should be loved?”

And finally, Shane gets it.

“I really wanted to die without embarrassing myself.” He coughs—thankfully petal-free—and flops back onto the bed. “I don’t have Hanahaki because of her, Rozanov.”

Rozanov goes very still.

Shane should probably tell him that he doesn’t blame him. That Shane let this happen, that it’s his own fault for falling in love and not noticing. But in the silence between them, Rozanov’s words catch up with Shane.

You are best hockey player, you are beautiful, you are so, so boring and competitive, and get flustered like angry kitten.

He doesn’t know what to do with that. He knows what he wants it to be, but he can’t be sure.

Shane takes a breath. It hurts. He takes another one. Still hurts.

Rozanov stares at him, and there’s just pain in his eyes now. “You left.”

Oh god. Is this what hope feels like?

“I was scared,” Shane says quietly. “So scared.”

“And now you rather want to die?”

“I didn’t think you wanted me like that.”

“I asked you to stay,” Rozanov says, incredulously. “I made you food, I—I called you Shane and you ran away.”

Shane can’t believe this.

“Yeah, well, you also told me about all the sex you’re having with women, you fucking asshole.”

Rozanov has the audacity to look indignant, then his expression goes sheepish. “I—no. Not in a while. I just—wanted to see what you would say. What you are doing when you are not with me.”

“That was the dumbest possible way to do that,” Shane says, but he can’t stop himself from smiling now. This fucking asshole is making him smile.

“Okay, fine, whatever.” Rozanov wipes it away. “But why did you not come back? When you got sick, why not try?”

And that is enough to make Shane stop smiling. Because even if Rozanov wants Shane back, it’s still impossible.

“Because we can’t be together. And the chances I’ll heal without you… It’s not enough for you to just say you’re—” Shane breaks off because he doesn’t even know what exactly Rozanov feels for him. “Whatever we can have, it won’t be enough.”

“No.” Rozanov shakes his head. “What I feel for you is enough. And we will be together, and you will get better.”

Shane blinks rapidly against the burning in his eyes. “I can’t ask you to risk everything, just for me.”

“I asked first,” Rozanov says.

Shane can’t help but roll his eyes. “A tuna melt is not asking for a relationship.”

“You are very stupid,” Rozanov says. “And is my decision what I want to risk, yes?”

“Yeah, but—I mean, what would we even do?”

Rozanov shrugs. “We spend summer together. You heal. We keep it a secret. Lots of flying. Maybe… maybe I move to Canada when I become free agent. Better citizenship than in US for me anyway. We play hockey. And when we stop, we can be together.”

“You’ve thought about this,” Shane says, throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with the flowers growing in his lungs.

“You are dying. I thought about everything.”

“Even though you thought I loved Rose?”

Rozanov gives him the cocky smirk Shane would love to hate but just loves instead. “I thought maybe there was little chance it was not Rose.”

“It wasn’t Rose,” Shane says thickly. “It never was anyone else.”

And then Rozanov’s at Shane’s side, fitting his large hands around Shane’s face.

“It is same for me,” Rozanov says. “No one else ever mattered, Shane.” He leans down and kisses Shane.

It’s like Shane’s getting shocked by a defibrillator. His whole chest aches, but even though he’s getting kissed, oxygen is following into his lungs through the cannula in his nose. He manages to get a hand into Ilya’s hair and pulls him down.

Their kiss is sloppy and rushed, hungry in the way it always is when they haven’t seen each other for a long time, but there’s a desperate edge in the way Ilya holds him tight, the way he presses in closer, like he wants to devour Shane.

“I love you. Ya tebya lyublyu.” Ilya kisses the words into Shane’s mouth, breathes them into the space between them, again and again, and comes back to kiss him harder.

One of Ilya’s hands lands on the pillow next to Shane to prop himself up, and Shane just wants him to lie down on top of him and feel him everywhere, although that would probably be a bad idea.

His lungs are still hurting, cramping like a calf muscle, and Shane needs to focus on breathing. Ilya pulls back, like he knows, but he doesn’t go anywhere, kisses Shane’s cheek and his neck instead.

Shane tries to clear his throat so he doesn’t chase Ilya off with a full-on coughing fit.

“You know this is kind of unfair.”

“What is?” Ilya asks, kissing his way back up Shane’s neck and jaw until they’re face to face again.

“That I’m the one with Hanahaki and you’re just fine.”

Shane feels a little self-conscious about it, now that the initial shock of happiness of Ilya loving him has worn off and he can think. He wonders if it means that he loves Ilya more than Ilya loves him.

Shane’s pretty sure his anxiety is showing on his face, because Ilya’s expression goes very soft.

“Well, you are very stupid,” Ilya says and kisses the tip of Shane’s nose. “You ran away.” A kiss to Shane’s left cheek. “You did not want to face your feelings, so your body made you.” A kiss to Shane’s right cheek.

“Oh, but you’re so smart?”

Ilya gives him a very reproachful look. “I do not buy ginger ale for everyone.”

Their last day together flashes through Shane’s mind again. Ilya asking him to stay, Ilya throwing his own comfortable clothes at Shane, Ilya offering food, Ilya having ginger ale.

“Holy shit, you planned that,” Shane gasps out, has to cough a little but recovers quickly under Ilya’s concerned eyes. “That was like a date.”

“Was not date,” Ilya scoffs. Then he lifts a shoulder. “Okay, maybe was a little date.”

Shane tightens his hand around Ilya’s neck and pulls him down into a wild kiss. Screw breathing, this is what he needs. Ilya’s lips, sliding against Shane’s so familiar and still so thrilling, Ilya’s big hands cradling Shane’s face like he’s something precious, Ilya’s broad chest just touching Shane’s, not putting any pressure on him but close enough he can feel the warmth of Ilya’s body. Shane tries to get closer, feels dull pain throb in his shoulder, but he does not give a fuck.

There’s an annoying beeping, but he ignores that too because Ilya is there, slowing down and kissing him thoroughly between every quiet I love you like he wants his feelings to seep into every fiber of Shane’s being. Shane’s barely holding on, his shoulder aches, and his lungs cramp, but he keeps holding on, keeps kissing Ilya even though it’s making him dizzy with joy and arousal, and—the door to his room bangs open.

Ilya jumps back with his hockey reflexes, but judging by the shocked expression in the nurse’s and his parents’ faces, it wasn’t quick enough.

“The monitor,” the nurse says slowly, then clears her throat. “Well, it went a little crazy.”

Fuck.

Shane stares at his parents, who stare at Ilya in horror.

“No,” his mom says, then slaps a hand to her mouth.

“Mom, Dad,” Shane says, feeling a little insane. “This is Ilya. Rozanov.”

Ilya smiles a little awkwardly. “Hi.”

His parents are still staring.

Shane opens his mouth to try to explain, somehow, but he starts coughing.

No. This can’t be happening.

“Shane. Shane!” There’s a broad hand on his shoulder, supporting him, and a second hand rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Quiet words, spoken in Russian.

Ya tebya lyublyu, over and over again, in increasing desperation. Shane has an idea what they mean.

It takes a while until anything comes out. When Shane can finally breathe normally, he stares at the single petal lying in front of him on the starched white hospital sheets. It’s the familiar shape, and most of it is light pink. But the tip is brown. Wrinkled. Wilted.

The nurse picks it up carefully. Then she smiles at Shane. “Well, this is promising.”

“But—the coughing…”

“The growth in your lungs needs to go somewhere. But don’t worry, you don’t have to get rid of all of it yourself. Now that it’s dying off and won’t regrow, the doctors can go in and get rid of the worst of it.”

“He will be fine,” Ilya says, only half-phrased as a question.

“Yes, Mr. Rozanov,” the nurse says, the pause before Ilya’s name almost unnoticeable. “It looks like he’ll be just fine.”

Ilya looks back at Shane, and finally, he’s smiling again. It lights up his entire face.

Shane feels himself smile back, can’t help it. He’s going to live. And he’s going to get the man he loves.

He doesn’t know how it will work, doesn’t want to think about the recovery ahead of him, but there will be a recovery. There will be a future. With Ilya.

His parents come to hug him, and they’re all crying a little bit now. His mom then turns to Ilya and assesses him for a moment. Ilya looks at her warily.

“Okay,” Yuna says. “You love my son enough to cure his Hanahaki, so I will forget for a moment that you are a Boston player.” Then she steps up to him and hugs him.

Ilya looks a little surprised. “Uhm. Thank you?”

“No,” she says quietly, as she pulls back. “Thank you.”

It makes Shane feel warm all over, the way his mom looks at Ilya, and the way his dad goes to hug him too.

“So,” his mom says. “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know,” Shane says. “I didn’t have one until like ten minutes ago.”

“We will figure it out,” Ilya says. “Will be difficult for now, but…”

“I can’t play for the rest of the season, so I could travel with you. Meet up with you between games,” Shane says, and wonders if he should make it a question, but Ilya is just nodding along with him.

“Yes.” Ilya takes his hand. “And then we spend summer together.”

“I have a cottage, at a lake,” Shane says. He hasn’t allowed himself to dream about Ilya out there with him, kissing him right on the deck, but suddenly there’s nothing he wants more.

Ilay smiles softly. “I know. I would love to see it.”

Shane’s heart soars. “And next season…” Shane trails off, thinking about the horrors of logistics.

“We will make it work,” Ilya says determinedly. “I can sell one of my cars to pay for all the plane tickets.”

“You’d sell one of your cars for me?” Shane repeats. “Wow, you really do love me.”

“Eh.” Ilya shrugs, but the look in his eyes betrays his words.

“I don’t think you should be joking about this. Might be confusing.” As if to immediately disprove that, Shane starts coughing again, and the petal that comes out is even more wilted than the first one.

“I think is fine. See? Your body knows. I told you.”

Our bodies have always known, Shane doesn’t say, because his parents are here and he doesn’t need them to know that. But it’s true nevertheless.

“Alright.” Yuna claps her hands together. “Let’s take a look at Ilya’s schedule and make a plan to get you through the rest of the season. And then…”

“Then we’re gonna have to play the long game,” Shane says.

Ilya nods. “Will be worth it.”

A life together with Ilya Rozanov. Shane doesn’t think there’s anything worth more.