Shane feels sick. His face is burning hot, his throat feels butchered, and he just wants to lay down, preferably somewhere cold, and close his eyes. He has a scheduled hookup with Rozanov though, and maybe he's not that sick really. Maybe it's just hot in here. Would be silly to skip the sex he's been waiting for months, so, fuck that. He's going.
Except the moment they get to action, he almost throws up on Rozanov and has to run away to the bathroom, splashing his face with cold water and praying for the tiled floor to swallow him whole.
Rozanov waits at the door, brows furrowed, and Shane is fucking mortified. He keeps stammering apologies, fully expecting to get kicked out. Rozanov will probably never want to meet with him again, and it makes Shane's eyes fill with never-spilling tears.
Except suddenly, Rozanov's lips are on his forehead, and Shane trembles in anticipation for a kiss - but instead of that, Rozanov grumbles, "Hollander. You're burning. Are you an idiot?"
Shane wants to say that no, and by the way, an idiot is very unlikely to be called a hockey genius, it's just illogical, so there. But Rozanov's hands are on him, gentle, cooling palms on his feverish cheeks. Hands guide him to the bed, undress button by button until he's in just boxers - so maybe yay still sex?
Oh. No. Instead, he gets a pill and water - Rozanov holds the glass with one hand, as if not trusting Shane not to drop it. His other hand is on the back of Shane's head, fingers scratching at the short hair at his nape, and Shane has a lump in his throat.
Then suddenly there's a wet cloth on his forehead, more cloths wrapped around his wrists and ankles. They're blissfully cold, but also stinky. Shane wrinkles his nose.
"Is good vodka, do not make this face." Rozanov's voice sounds a bit muffled.
Shane wonders why he turns him into a vodka-smelling Egyptian mummy, and apparently he says it out loud, because Rozanov laughs.
"For your fever. Would be better with, how you say it, vinegar! Mama did it for me when I was sick."
Shane wonders if you can get drunk through the skin, because he's probably having a fever dream: Rozanov's climbing into bed with him, propping Shane's head on his chest, carding fingers through his short hair, petting his head, talking about...something. Shane's not sure what he's saying. He's suspecting half of it is in Russian.
Rozanov's voice is a nonstop gentle soft rumble - Shane closes his eyes and sees it as the waves that ebb and flow through his body. Soothing it.
He wakes up in Rozanov's arms, held firmly but carefully. The world feels more coherent, like Shane's head cleared up a bit.
"You shouldn't be so close." He mumbles to Rozanov, mouth so dry his lips and tongue are sticky. "I'll pass it on to you."
Instead of a reply, Rozanov makes him drink more water, then plants a kiss on his lips.
"No. Is a bottom virus. Tops do not catch it."
"You're such a fucking asshole." Shane feels his cheeks heat up again and tries elbowing him in the ribs.
Fast forward to a few days later, and the Raiders captain is down with a fever - nothing serious, but rest is required. Shane is kind of pouting that he can't return the favor, and can't help but text: 'Bottom virus huh?'
Rozanov replies with a 'Shut up. Will kick your ass in two weeks for getting me sick.'
Shane smiles. 'Hope you have vodka there. Worked like a charm.'