Page 26 of Speak in Fever
The question is casual, practical, but it makes Rath's face heat up anyway. Because the truth is, he has shared beds before—with girlfriends, with teammates during junior hockey when accommodations were tight, with his sister when they were kids and someone was sick or scared.
I've never shared a bed with someone I wanted before , Rath thinks to himself, and swallows thickly.
"Right," Rath says instead. "Okay."
Percy nods and gets up to unpack his things, apparently treating this development as a minor logistical adjustment rather than the emotional minefield it represents for Rath.
Which is probably the healthy, mature way to handle it, and probably what Rath should be doing instead of standing frozen in the middle of the room trying to figure out how he's going to survive three nights of this.
Percy moves around the room with his usual efficiency, checking that his suits are hanging properly, organizing his toiletries in the bathroom, setting up his laptop on the desk by the window.
He's dressed casually—those well-fitted jeans and the gray sweater that looks impossibly soft—but he still moves with the same purposeful precision he brings to everything.
Watching Percy in this domestic context is doing things to Rath's brain that he's not prepared to deal with.
There's something intimate about seeing someone organize their personal space, about watching the small rituals that usually happen in private.
Percy folds his clothes with military precision, arranges his toiletries in a specific order, plugs his phone charger into the outlet on his preferred side of the bed.
"I'll just..." Rath gestures vaguely toward his suitcase, which is still sitting unopened by the door. "Get unpacked."
"Sure," Percy says, not looking up from whatever he's doing with his practice equipment. "Team meeting's at seven. Dinner after."
Professional, normal conversation about professional, normal things. Rath can do this. He can share a hotel room with Percy like a rational adult human being without making it weird or revealing that he's been having increasingly inappropriate thoughts about his captain.
The problem is that unpacking requires Rath to move around the room, and the room suddenly feels much smaller with Percy in it.
Every time Rath needs to access the closet or bathroom, he has to navigate around Percy's presence, hyperaware of the space between them and trying not to let their shoulders brush when they pass each other.
The closet is generous by hotel standards, but it still means they're sharing hanging space, Rath's suits and dress shirts mingling with Percy's in a way that feels more intimate than it should.
Percy's clothes smell faintly of his cologne and laundry detergent, and Rath has to resist the urge to linger longer than necessary when he's hanging up his game-day shirt.
Percy, meanwhile, seems completely unbothered by the close quarters. He hangs up his suits with the same methodical precision he brings to everything, organizes his toiletries with military efficiency, and generally behaves like sharing a hotel room with teammates is completely normal.
Which it probably is, for him. Percy's been playing professional hockey for seven years, worked his way up through junior leagues and college hockey before joining the Thunderbirds.
He's probably shared rooms with dozens of teammates over the course of his career, probably doesn't think twice about sleeping arrangements or personal space boundaries.
Rath, on the other hand, is trying not to stare at Percy's forearms as he hangs up dress shirts, trying not to notice the way his t-shirt pulls across his shoulders when he reaches for something in the closet, trying not to think about what it's going to be like tonight when they're both lying in the same bed trying to sleep.
Percy has good arms, Rath has always noticed that.
Strong and defined from years of hockey training, with a constellation of small scars that tell the story of his career—a thin white line across his left wrist from a skate blade, a small divot near his elbow from a puck that got past his padding, the slightly crooked knuckle on his right hand from a fight in his rookie year that Percy never talks about.
Rath knows these details because he pays attention to Percy in ways that are probably unprofessional, because he's spent hours sitting in meetings and on team flights cataloging the small physical details that make Percy who he is.
"You okay?" Percy asks, and Rath realizes he's been standing in front of his open suitcase for several minutes without actually unpacking anything.
"Fine," Rath says quickly, grabbing a handful of t-shirts and shoving them into a dresser drawer with less care than they deserve. "Just tired from traveling."
Percy studies him for a moment, and Rath has the uncomfortable feeling that his captain can see right through the lie.
Percy's always been good at reading people, at knowing when someone's struggling or distracted or not performing at their best. It's part of what makes him such a good captain, but right now it feels like a liability.
But all Percy says is, "You should get some rest before the meeting. It's going to be a long few days."
"Yeah," Rath agrees, grateful for the suggestion. "Good idea."
Except now Percy is settling back on the bed with his book, propping pillows behind his back and making himself comfortable, and Rath realizes that "getting rest" means lying down next to him.
On the same mattress. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body and hear the quiet sounds of his breathing.
This is fine. This is totally fine. People share beds all the time without it meaning anything.
Rath just needs to treat it like any other practical sleeping arrangement and definitely not think about the way Percy looks relaxed against the pillows, or how the afternoon light from the window catches the gold highlights in his dark hair and makes him look younger and more approachable than he does in his captain mode.
Percy has taken off his shoes and socks, and Rath can see his bare feet where they're crossed at the ankles.
It's such a small, human detail, but it makes Percy seem more real somehow, more accessible.
Less like the untouchable team captain and more like just a person who gets comfortable in hotel rooms and reads literary fiction in his spare time.
Rath grabs a change of clothes and escapes to the bathroom to shower and get ready for the team meeting.
The bathroom is spacious and well-appointed, all marble surfaces and gleaming fixtures, the kind of place where he can take a few minutes to collect himself and figure out how to handle the next three days without losing his mind.
The shower helps, hot water washing away travel fatigue and giving him a space to think without Percy's presence scrambling his brain.
He stands under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat work out the tension in his shoulders while he tries to formulate a plan for surviving this situation with his sanity intact.
Professional distance. That's what he needs. Treat Percy like any other roommate, focus on hockey and team obligations, avoid any situation that might lead to a repeat of whatever happened during that phone call. Simple, straightforward, completely doable.
By the time he emerges, wrapped in one of the hotel's plush towels, he's almost convinced himself that this is going to be fine.
Then he walks back into the room and finds Percy stretched out on the bed in just sweatpants and a t-shirt, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking comfortable and domestic in a way that makes Rath's chest tight with want.
Percy's changed clothes while Rath was in the shower, trading his jeans and sweater for clothes that are clearly meant for lounging.
The sweatpants are gray and well-worn, soft-looking in a way that suggests they're favorites, and his t-shirt is navy blue and fitted just enough to hint at the shape of his torso underneath.
His hair is slightly messed up, like he's run his hands through it, and he's propped against the pillows in a way that looks effortlessly attractive.
He's got one ankle crossed over the other, and he's holding his book with one hand while the other rests on his stomach, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against his ribs.
Percy glances up when Rath emerges from the bathroom, and Rath catches the way his eyes briefly take in Rath's appearance—the expanse of bare legs, his bare chest—before returning to his book.
There's something in Percy's expression, a flicker of heat that reminds Rath exactly why they're in this awkward situation in the first place.
"Bathroom's all yours," Rath says unnecessarily.
"Thanks," Percy replies, and his voice is definitely rougher than usual, like maybe seeing Rath in nothing but a towel is bringing back memories of that phone call, of the things they said to each other in the dark.
Rath changes quickly into his pre-meeting clothes, hyperaware that Percy is just a few feet away and could theoretically see him if he happened to look up from his book.
The knowledge makes every movement feel charged with possibility, especially given what happened the last time they were alone and talking in low voices.
Percy has seen him undressed before in locker room contexts, but this feels different—more intimate, more loaded with the memory of Percy's voice telling him exactly what he wanted to do to Rath's body.
Rath pulls on dress pants and a button-down shirt, the same professional attire he wears to all team functions, but somehow getting dressed feels different with Percy in the room. More intentional, more aware of how he looks and whether his clothes fit well and if Percy might notice.