Summary:

Shane has a system. It includes a forgotten sweater. Sometimes, confrontation was a soft gray sweater, puddled next to a bed. Shane had spent the better part of his life only confronting people on the ice. It was so much easier to be pulled along the rest of the time, nodding at the right times and smiling faintly when he wasn't sure if something was meant to be funny or not. Sometimes, he pushed back a little with his parents because he knew they'd still love him, even if his rare shows of mild defiance bemused them, but otherwise, he found it best to keep his opinions to himself. Head down, watch the puck, tune the rest of it out. Until Rozanov. "You like this," Rozanov challenged. "You want this?" Shane did. Fuck, but he wanted it. He wanted Rozanov's jackal grin and cackle. He wanted his bite and his shove. Rozanov, who had never backed down from a fight, who liked to instigate them whenever he could. Shane wanted to devour that fire and have it for himself. It was so much easier to tell Rozanov to fuck off when they were in bed than it was anyone else in much more sensible situations. "What happened to nice polite boy?" Rozanov mocked as Shane arched underneath him, cursing and clawing at him. "Fuck you," Shane breathed out. "Harder." "Please," Rozanov nipped at Shane's bottom lip. "Say it." "No," Shane grinned at him, too wide and wild. "Rude," Rozanov declared and laughed, adjusting his position minutely, before going harder. And then Rozanaov left with an obscenely filthy kiss, licking the envelope on the promise of another time. Both of them were still tacky with sweat and come. A shower would be smarter, but there was a flight to catch. Traces of Shane would be stuck to Rozanov for hours, lingering under his tank top and painted on under his pants. The thought was enervating and Shane got up to shower alone, touching all the slightly sore places where Rozanov had been like following a hiking trail deep into the woods. Damp and exhausted, Shane shuffled back into the room and spotted the sweater. For a moment, he froze. Would Rozanov still be close enough to return it? Surely not. The race for the red eye would've already begun. Had he left it here on purpose? If so, for what? A taunt? A question? Or had he discarded it entirely by accident in his rush? Shane picked it up and ran his hands over the material. It was probably cashmere, if only because Rozanov would like something expensive like that. Shane started folding it automatically until it was a neat rectangle in his hands. Then Shane was stuck. Did he pack it in with his things? Carry it with him for months until he might see Rozanov again? And do what? Return it? Was that a thing he could do? Oh, sorry, you left this on the floor last time you fucked my brains out. I didn't know if it needed to be dry cleaned, so I didn't wash it. What was the protocol on that? Shane stood mostly naked in front of a bed that was drenched in their hit and run passions, dithering over returning a sweater. "Fuck you, Rozanov," he said tiredly to no one at all. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Shane hung his head low, rolling it from side to side, trying to undo the sudden tension in his neck. His fingers dug too hard into the sweater. There was a stray hair caught at the neckline, a tiny vein of gold in gray stone. Shane plucked at it, pulling it out. As soon as it was free, it curled up again, clinging around his finger. There was no one here to watch. No one to see. Nothing to hear. Shane still hesitated. Then very slowly, he lifted the sweater to his nose and sniffed. Cigarette smoke, a hint of sweat, and all too familiar cologne. That's what Rozanov's hair smelled like too, the brush of curls over Shane's face almost like another hand caressing him sometimes. Fuck. Shane never fully unpacked after away games. There wasn't a point. Instead, he had a careful system with a laundry bag and neatly stacked clean clothes beneath. The sweater should go in with the dirty laundry. Instead, he folded it between his clean hoodies, pressed there like a flower caught between pages of a book. If there had really been a confrontation with the sweater, Shane was almost positive he'd lost. When he finally got home, the sweater should've gone to live in a drawer in his apartment until he was sure he had a chance of seeing Rozanov again. But Shane didn't usually unpack the clean clothes from his suitcase. It was part of the system. He only had to assess what was still there and add things back in before leaving. Even his little bathroom bag had had the same refillable containers since rookie season. Top off as needed. So, the sweater stayed in his luggage. Shane didn't think about it. Much.