Page 22 of Speak in Fever

He looks up when the door opens and his eyes widen when he sees Percy.

The naked vulnerability in his expression lasts only a moment before the shutters slam back down.

He lowers his hands and shoves them in his pockets, like he's already closing himself off, and Percy takes a deep breath and walks over to him.

"I don't want to talk to you," Rath says when he's five feet away. His voice is steady but Percy can hear the exhaustion underneath it, like he's been fighting this battle for too long.

"Look, I'm sorry about that back there. I didn't mean to overstep.

I just thought—you looked uncomfortable, and I—" He what?

He didn't like seeing him get hit on by other guys?

That's a weird thing to think all of the sudden, almost out of nowhere.

Like he has any claim on Rath whatsoever.

The shock of the thought almost veers him off course and makes him forget his trajectory, but he shakes his head and carries on. "We need to talk about the other day."

"And I said I don't want to talk to you," Rath pushes off the brick wall and comes two feet closer, hands now fisted at his sides.

There's something desperate in his posture, like a cornered animal.

"What part of that don't you get, Cap? Or does what I want not matter as long as you get what you want out of it? "

Percy flinches, thinking suddenly of that heated phone call all those nights ago—the way Rath sounded, breathless and wanting, the trust he placed in Percy's hands—and feels a rush of guilt like a storm washing over him. "Rath—"

"What is even the point, huh?" Rath bites his lip, looks down at the ground for a moment before his gaze snaps back up, hard and bright with unshed tears.

He's almost vibrating, he's so angry, and it's not like Percy can blame him.

"I just don't understand what you get out of all of this.

Does it like…get you off to fuck with my head?

Is that it? This is some sort of game to you? "

"What? No! I wasn't—"

"I trusted you," Rath seethes, and he's shaking now, face flushed and—fuck, Percy doesn't know what to do. The words come out broken, like they're being torn from his throat. "I looked up to you and you—you said you believed in me, and then—"

He can't finish the sentence, but Percy can fill in the blanks. And then you tried to get me kicked off the team. And then it was all a lie. And then you made me believe in something that wasn't real.

Percy knows explicitly that his right to touch Rath off of the ice is something he's taken for granted and now it's gone, just like their chemistry, just like their chances at a championship.

He knows the last thing he should do is touch him, knows that any physical contact right now will probably be interpreted as manipulation or coercion.

But in that moment the urge to reach out bypasses his brain and goes directly to his hands.

Percy takes the last step forward and grabs Rath by his shoulders, thumbs resting on the pale exposed skin at his collar.

Rath flinches like Percy has struck him, like they're about to come to blows in the middle of this alleyway, his whole body goes rigid with shock or fear or both.

But Percy doesn't give him a chance to pull away, doesn't give him a chance to retreat behind his walls again.

"I want you on the first power play," Percy blurts out, the words coming out louder than intended in the quiet alley.

Rath freezes underneath his grip. He stares up at Percy with wide eyes, his face flushed and his expression shocked, like he can't quite process what he's heard.

Percy holds his breath, like that will help. Like suspending his own breath will somehow make the words sink in, will somehow undo all the damage of the past few days.

"W-What?" Rath manages, his voice almost a croak.

"You overheard me talking about Miller," Percy explains, and it comes out almost all in a rush, he's so desperate to clear the air between them.

"Miller isn't ready to be part of the team.

Miller needs more work. I told Coach that Miller should be sent back down to the AHL for more development time. "

Rath is still frozen solid in his hands, but some of the tension leaves his face. Slowly, ever so slowly, some of the rigidity seeps out of his shoulders. "You— But, I thought—"

"I told coach I want you on the first power play," Percy says again, because he feels like it bears repeating.

The truth of it rings in the space between them, solid and undeniable.

Maybe it gives too much away, maybe it shows his hand in a way that will complicate everything, but he can't help but add, almost pleading, "I want you on the ice with me. "

The admission hangs between them, heavier than Percy intended. He can see the exact moment when the words hit Rath, when understanding dawns in his expression like sunrise after the longest night.

"Oh." There's a familiar dusting of pink across Rath's cheekbones that isn't the flush of anger anymore, but something softer, more vulnerable.

He relaxes finally, the fight goes out of him all at once, and Percy reluctantly lets him go and takes a step back, now that it seems like he isn't in any danger of running off again.

Rath stares at him for a long moment, breathing regulated, his chest rises and falls in a rhythm that Percy finds himself unconsciously matching.

For once in his life, Rath Platts seems to be at a loss for words.

Percy knows this is the moment when Rath could bring up what happened on the phone.

There's no better time than now, no better opening.

The air between them is charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.

Rath could ask what it meant, what Percy was thinking, what exactly Percy thought he was doing getting off to the sound of Rath's voice.

He could demand explanations that Percy isn't sure he's ready to give, could push for clarity about feelings that Percy himself doesn't fully understand.

But, for whatever reason, Rath doesn't go down that road.

He doesn't ask about what happened between them, doesn't demand accountability for the intimacy they shared.

Doesn't accuse Percy of anything else or demand explanations that would put Percy's status on the team—and his own peace of mind—in real jeopardy.

Instead, he rocks back on his heels, hands sliding back into his pockets, and looks finally at ease for the first time all week. The harsh lines of tension that have been carved into his features for days start to soften, and Percy feels something loosen in his own chest in response.

"Being on the ice with you is all I wanted," Rath says quietly, instead of any of the hundreds of things Percy is afraid he would say.

The simple words hit Percy with unexpected force. Not just the agreement, but the trust implicit in them—the willingness to believe Percy, to take him at his word despite everything that's happened. It's more than Percy deserves, and he knows it.

Percy doesn't think he's getting off that easily from this whole mess—there are still too many unresolved things between them, too many questions that need to be answered eventually.

But he's grateful that they won't hash it all out at this exact moment, in this alley behind a bar with the distant sound of traffic and other people's conversations providing an inadequate soundtrack for the kind of conversation they'll need to have.

"Come back inside and I'll buy you a beer," Percy says, as a peace offering. The words feel inadequate for the magnitude of what just passed between them, but they're a start. "We can discuss line formations for next week."

"Riveting conversation as usual from you," Rath chirps, but there's a glint in his eye that's more playful than anything, the first hint of his usual sharp humor that Percy has seen in days. It feels really, really good to see it—like catching sight of the sun after a week of storms.

As they make their way back through the bar, Percy can see the other teammates notice their return, the subtle way the tension in the room shifts now that whatever was wrong between their captain and Rath seems to have been resolved.

Torres catches his eye from across the room and raises his beer in a small salute, and Percy finds himself almost smiling in response.

They claim a small table in a corner that's quiet enough for conversation but public enough to feel safe, and Percy signals the bartender for two beers. When they arrive, Rath takes a long sip and then looks at Percy with something that might be curiosity.

"So," he says, his voice careful but no longer hostile, "first power play, huh?"

"You earned it," Percy says simply. "Your instincts get better every game, your positioning is solid, and you have the best shot accuracy on the team after JP."

Rath flushes slightly at the praise, but he doesn't deflect it the way he usually does. Instead he nods thoughtfully, already turning the conversation toward strategy. "What kind of formations were you thinking? Because I had some ideas about how we could improve our zone entry..."

And just like that, they're back to talking hockey, the familiar rhythm of strategic discussion providing a safe harbor after the emotional storm of the past few days.

It's not a complete resolution—Percy knows there are still things they need to address, conversations they need to have about boundaries and expectations and what exactly they are to each other.

But for now, it's enough to sit across from each other and plan plays, to watch the animation return to Rath's face as he sketches out formations on cocktail napkins, to feel like teammates again.

Even if Percy is increasingly certain that what he wants from Rath goes far beyond anything that can be contained within the neat boundaries of team dynamics.