Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Shane Hollander, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pregnancy Scares, Mpreg | Male Pregnancy, (Insomuch as it can happen), Unsafe Sex, Team Dynamics, Shane Hollander Plays for Boston, Breeding Kink, Hotel Sex, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Situationship, Humor

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Tin Roof Rusted

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-29 Words: 4,975 Chapters: 1/1

Tin Roof Rusted

Summary

"Oh my God, what?" Shane demands, nervous now.
Ilya swears in Russian again. "Is, um. The condom."
Fuck. "What about the condom?"
"On porvalysa," he says, like he can't fucking bring himself to say it in a language that Shane can understand. Then he finally looks at Shane, mouth covered like he's a cowering dog afraid to show Shane his teeth. "It broke."

Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander are twenty, on top of the world, and a little irresponsible about it. This is the crash.

Notes

Some context for this universe exists in this post on Tumblr and the comments therein. If you do not wish to go to a secondary location, I believe that you can understand most of what happens in this fic knowing these things:

Click for ~Lore~

- The MOHL is the Male Omegas Hockey League. The players are affectionately called moles, both by each other and fans.
- The MOHL (Omegas) and the NHL (Alphas/Betas) are sibling leagues that travel together, share administrative staff and training facilities, and basically operate as I imagine a 'double-team' franchise would operate. They play games against teams from the same cities, typically on the same or consecutive days. (i.e., if Detroit comes to Boston, both Boston teams are going to play against the congruent Detroit team) The Boston teams are the Raiders, obviously, and the Boston Bayonets.
- The Bayonets drafted Shane first pick of the 2009 MOHL draft. Ilya, as in canon, was drafted by the Raiders.
- There is a culture of queerness that exists within the MOHL that the NHL doesn't have, mostly because the toxic masculinity of the NHL is largely absent in the MOHL due to male omegas sharing a common background of oppression, and a different locker room culture. It's much easier to be gay/queer in the MOHL, in that it's accepted at all versus more or less IRL-accurate blanket hostility towards queerness in the NHL.
- 'Queer' is kind of nebulous, as you can imagine it would be for a universe such as this. Terms like 'gay' are a little less cut-and-dry in this context. Typically, if you are attracted to someone of the same designation and gender as you, that's a homosexual relationship. Opposite-designation, same-gender relationships like Shane and Ilya's are less stigmatized than full-on 'homosexual' relationships (NHL players have definitely married male Omegas before--not all the time, but it's happened) but Shane would still catch flak for it amongst those less enlightened, and probably the press as well.

"Oh shit."

Shane is still a little too blissed out to pay attention to the shift in Ilya's tone, laying there with his forearm thrown over his forehead and his heels kicked into the pillowtop of the mattress. Earth's gravity is returning slowly. He locks back in a little more when Ilya shuffles backwards on the bed several times, moving jerkily like the orgasm stole from him the knowledge of how his knees work. He's swearing under his breath, like he isn't sure he wants Shane to hear.

"What?" Shane mutters. Ilya has reached the edge of the bed, where he's sitting with his feet on the floor and his forehead against the heel of his hand. It's not a great look on someone who just fucked Shane and then laid on top of him and let his cock go soft. It had been a nice ten minutes.

Jesus fuck, Shane literally cannot have one single nice thing.

"Uh," Ilya says.

"Oh my God, what?" Shane demands, nervous now. "Blood again? I told you, it doesn't fucking hurt—"

Shane, they've discovered, is what Ilya calls a bleeder. Some omegas are. Men more than women. Some consequence of omegan biology. Something about blood vessels too close to the surface, Ilya's cock isn't nine inches but it is big, and pretty thick, and he isn't gentle when Shane says harder harder oh my god please harder.

"No," Ilya says. He swears in Russian again. "Is, um. The condom."

Fuck. "What about the condom?"

"On porvalsya," he says, like he can't fucking bring himself to say it in a language that Shane can understand. Then he finally looks at Shane, mouth covered like he's a cowering dog afraid to show Shane his teeth. "It broke."

"Fuck," Shane says. He slams his head back against the pillow. "Fuck."

"I will go to drug store," Ilya says, standing up and stumbling around looking for the clothes he'd thrown around an hour ago. When they were having fucking fun and not spiraling together like a pair of doomed starts making a black hole. "I will get—what's the fucking thing called—"

"I don't know!" Shane yells. "I don't know what it's called!"

So they sit there and stare at Shane's phone screen while he Googles pill you take after condom breaks, and Ilya has his jeans on but no underwear and he's clutching his shirt between two hands in such a way that the collar is never going to be the same shape again. Shane is naked and there is cum on his thighs and it feels—

It feels a way that he's going to ruthlessly compartmentalize and never think about again, because everything about this situation sucks so goddamn bad and he isn't allowed to do anything but hate it all.

"Morning after pill," Shane tells him eventually. "You'll have to ask for it at the counter."

"You are supposed to take it in the morning?"

"No, it's just—it's a name, it's like—it's just called that." Shane bends over his lap and picks at his eyebrows, still scrolling down the google result info on Plan B. Ilya slaps at his hand. "Fucking what?"

"You'll hurt your fucking face," Ilya mutters, standing up to put his shirt on.

"Let's not worry about my fucking face right now."

Ilya squats in front of him, hands on his knees, mouth and jaw intense. He says, "I always worry about your fucking face." Then he kisses Shane’s stomach, which is a weird fucking thing to do considering everything, and then he says, "You will shower. I will be back."

He leaves, and Shane showers, and then he sits on Ilya's stupid huge couch with his knees pulled up to his chest. He takes out his phone and spins it in his hands for a little while and then he dials Patty's number, panics while it rings, and almost hangs up when he answers.

"Hey." Patty sounds terribly fucking normal, because this is a normal fucking day for Patty. He's probably walking the dog or cleaning the bathroom or having lunch with Orlando. Whatever those two do on their off days. Shane lived with them for almost a year and he doesn't really know. Too busy sneaking off to fuck Ilya Rozanov in every unoccupied corner of the city of Boston.

"Hey," Shane says. He's picking at his eyebrows again. "So, um. If I'm sick tomorrow, do I have to tell Sisco, or—" Sisco, the Bayonets' medic, is an omega himself, and pretty chill about most things. Shane would rather melt into the floor than explain any of the things he would have to explain if Sisco asked why he had to dose himself with an insanely high dose of hormones on a random Wednesday afternoon.

"Yes, Hollander, you have to tell the team doctor if you're sick." Patty doesn't sound pissed, but he doesn't sound happy.

"I might not be. But I might be. I don't know."

"Hollander."

"I have to take a medication," Shane says. "And I don't know if it'll make me sick or not."

"You're taking a medication that Sisco doesn't know about?"

"No. Well, yeah, but it's over-the-counter, it's—not, like, a prescription. I guess."

Patty gusts a sigh against the receiver. "Hollander, you should really call Sisco."

"I don't want to make a big deal out of this," Shane mutters. "I just—if I'm sick tomorrow, do I have to call Sisco? Or can I just call Coach and tell him I'm not feeling well—"

"Shane."

Shane mutes the phone, sets it down, puts his face in a throw pillow and screams. When he's done with that, he picks it back up. "If I tell you, please don't tell Cap."

"First of all, no." Nothing has really changed in Patty's tone, aside from perhaps a little exasperation. Shane is used to his mother and the coaches she used to wrap around her fingers, who would already be in Defcon 6 by now, so it surprises him that Patty is just totally uninterested in hitting the fucking roof. "I'm not gonna lie to my husband, rook."

"I'm not a rookie anymore," Shane hedges, fingers worrying the hem of the throw pillow he'd screamed into.

"You'll always be my rookie," Patty says, not without affection but also not without condescension. "Anyway, Hollander, I don't wanna know shit about what you've gotten yourself into. But you should call Sisco. You guys treat him like he's the boogeyman sometimes, I swear. Like he's cackling in his lair trying to figure out how to put you on LTIR. His literal job is to look after your health. If you have a health issue, call the fucking doctor."

Shane lets the silence ring over the line for exactly twelve seconds.

"Have you ever had to take the morning after pill?"

Patty does actually sound like he's hit the roof a bit when he says, "Jesus fucking Christ, Hollander!"

"Jesus Christ," Shane echoes, forehead in the throw pillow.

Orlando's voice is very close to the phone when it carries over the line. "What's happening with Hollander?"

Patty says, "Jesus Christ. Fucking nothing. I'm handling it." His Boston accent is almost unintelligible at this point.

Orlando says, "Can I—"

Patty says, "No, motherfucker, you fuss over these rookies enough as it is." Then there's a pause as what sounds like several doors in Patty's house open and close. There's an echo when he talks again. "Hollander, you need to call Sisco. I've never taken one of those pills because I'm gay and married to another omega but from what I hear, the over the counter ones aren't strong enough to work on a 200-pound guy. You need something stronger. You need to call the fucking doctor."

While he talks, Ilya has slipped back in the door, sat on the edge of the couch and pressed his ear to Shane's chest. There is a bag from the pharmacy two blocks away in his lap. Shane thinks that he must have run all the way there and all the way back.

"You called your captain?" Ilya mutters.

"No. Patty."

"You called your assistant captain?"

"Hollander!" Patty barks. "I am hiding in my garage from my own husband! This is fucking disrespectful! Call Sisco!"

--

The Plan B is still sitting on the counter when Shane returns from his walk of shame to Sisco's office, and then to the pharmacy to retrieve the prescription. He'd had half a mind to return to his own apartment and pretend not to see Ilya's texts for a few days, but even in his spiral he was aware of what an inconsiderate move that would be. Ilya feels bad about this whole thing, as evidenced by the rush to problem-solve earlier in the day and the six-pack of ginger ale he'd thought to buy alongside the pill, and the way he'd fucking run to the pharmacy and back, and the way he'd been texting Shane the entire time he'd been sitting in Sisco's office, answering questions and providing information that he would have thought would require actual torture to extract from him this time yesterday.

"Sisco says I should take a pregnancy test in two weeks," Shane says, first thing after walking in the door.

Ilya has been busy ripping the drug store receipt into tiny pieces on the kitchen counter and maybe pretending to eat, if the nearly-full meal prep container at his elbow is any indication. Shane has been gone for just over three hours—Sisco was already on campus at the Bayonets-Raiders training facility, thankfully—and the sun has gone down in that time. They’d been fucking at, like, two o’clock in the afternoon for no good reason aside from having nothing better to do. Shane remembers that Ilya had said, Americans call this 'afternoon delight', as he'd been sliding inside earlier. Shane wants to forget about that. Shane also wants to never forget about that.

The point is that Ilya has a little pile of tiny, ripped paper shreds in front of him which are disturbed into a flurry when Ilya twists abruptly to face Shane and say, "I thought the pill is for fixing the problem."

"It doesn't, like, help if I'm already ovulating," Shane sighs. "Or something."

"You are not in heat."

Shane sighs again and rolls his eyes. "Omegas don't only ovulate during heat. It's just a time of heightened fertility. Alphas are still fertile outside of rut."

"Well, yes, but alphas, you know..." Ilya makes a gesture that is vaguely indicative of ejaculation. "And when you are not in heat, you don't—"

"Ilya. Do you think getting wet and being fertile are the same thing?"

Because he clearly wants to live another day, and also maybe because he wants the conversation to be over, Ilya says, "No. No, this would be...uh, bad to think."

"Uh-huh." Shane glares at him the entire time he's filling a glass with water, popping the pill out of the blister pack, and swallowing it. He looks at the time on the microwave, which somehow only reads 7:49 despite it genuinely feeling like the middle of the fucking night if Shane were to consult the thumping behind his eyelids.

"I'm going to lay down."

Shane considers being a bitch about everything and going to one of the guest bedrooms, but something in his animal hindbrain forces him to seek the comfort of the familiar. He throws himself atop the comforter of Ilya's big stupid bed and wraps himself in it like a child. The bedding is fresh. It smells like the scentless detergent that the laundry company uses, which nonetheless is not scentless. It also smells like Ilya's woodsmoke-and-ozone pheromonal scent. Or maybe just the mattress beneath him does. Shane wonders if it smells stronger right now because he's stressed, or because he just fucking wants to smell it.

He spends a few moments attempting to discern if he can smell himself underneath it all. Ilya will never tell him. To be fair, Shane has only asked twice. If his scent ever lasts on Ilya after he leaves. One time, Ilya told him that he smells like an ice rink and so he smells him everywhere he goes. Another time, Ilya went quiet and his lip wobbled a bit and then he said, "Do you want me to tell you that you smell sweet? Sweet like maple syrup? You smell like omega, Hollander. Would be bad if I walked around smelling like omega."

Shane hadn't known how to feel about that, offended or relieved or disappointed or nothing.

He falls asleep, wakes up. Feels nauseous and paces in front of the toilet for a little while and eventually forces down the urge to puke by sheer force of will because if he pukes, he has to call Sisco and get another dose. And then do all of this over again. And then still wait two weeks to see if it works.

He leaves in the morning and goes home. They put him on the injured list for the game that night and inform him that he's still expected to spectate the NHL game, despite being out for the MOHL game. It doesn't surprise him. He almost considers taking the fine and not showing up, a popular move amongst the NHL and the reason why the NHL box is usually devoid of all but a few guys, one of which being a distinctive head of curls. It is not, however, a move tolerated amongst the MOHL. That way lies an uncomfortable conversation with Coach and Orlando and possibly the GM. It's not something he has the patience for right now—less patience than he has for sitting in the MOHL box and watching the Raiders duke it out with Detroit for a few hours. Shane genuinely enjoys watching good hockey, despite the universe trying to make him resent it.

At eleven o’clock, he’s in the locker room while the Bayonets dress, sitting in his stall in his gameday suit and trying to ignore every smell in the room. Orlando shoots him repeated, inscrutable looks. He dresses with one eye on Shane the whole time, sits in his stall with his arms crossed and stares at Shane like he’s a puzzle, bores a hole into the side of Shane’s head with his eyes as he’s kneeling on the floor to let Patty wrap an elastic around his locs.

“Something on my face, Cap?” Shane says finally, tired of it.

Orlando screws his mouth up, crosses to Shane’s stall. Sets a heavy hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Hey. So. You’re an adult, and I’m not your mom—”

“I need to be more fucking responsible,” Shane says. “I know. I fucked up. Yeah, Cap. Thanks.” He thinks, not for the first time today, about how much money was involved in his ELC. About Boston moving Hell and Earth to draft both he and Ilya onto their joint teams. About Orlando calling him the Bayonets’ good luck charm when they’d won the O’Brien Cup the year before, Shane scoring the final game-winning goal as a rookie.

Orlando rolls his eyes. “Jesus, you’re worse than Patty and you’re not even Catholic. Ain’t even what this is about. Accidents happen. I was gonna say, if you need anything…you know, Patty and I are here for you.”

“Patty is still mad about being called about stupid shit on his day off,” says Patty, who pulls no punches. Shane is just glad that the other Bayonets are used to Patty’s bullshit and tune him out like white noise. Other conversations continue without pause in every corner of the locker room. “A fucking disturbance of the peace is what it was. Patty would like to go win the fucking game now, Orlando. Send the rookie to the box.”

“Not a rookie,” Shane says.

“Not a rookie,” Patty says. Shane thinks that maybe even Ilya can do a better Canadian accent than that. “You look like shit, Hollander. Go sit in the box.”

Sisco had called the reason for Shane’s scratch a lower body injury sustained at home. That is what the press reports and that is what Coach Barry has been told, evidenced by the fact that he has a completely placid look on his face when he claps Shane on the shoulder as he’s exiting the locker room and on his way up to the NHL box. Jenna, the Bayonets’ media manager, steers him clear of the press before they can start calling his name.

In the box, as predicted, the only NHL players present are Ilya, Marleau and Connors, and a handful of the older guys who Shane knows to have a certain amount of respect for the moles, possibly to do with Orlando’s reputation. Marleau has been locked into Ilya’s orbit since day one, so it’s no surprise that he follows Ilya’s lead vis-à-vis MOHL game attendance. Connors is…a truly fascinating guy, on several levels, and seems to be simply enamored with the MOHL style of hockey.  

“They don’t give us nearly this much food,” Shane mutters when he sees the spread laid out for the NHL guys. “There’s twenty moles in this box on game days and we have to fight over, like, six sub sandwiches cut in half.”

Ilya says, “Do you want some fucking food, Shane?”

Shane rolls his eyes and hunkers down two seats away from Ilya.

Keeping the distance lasts until halfway through the first period. Shane is loathe to be seen with Ilya in public under most circumstances, especially at anything work-related. People take him less seriously when they perceive him to be hanging off Ilya’s arm all the fucking time, and every time they’re seen together feeds the rumors that Shane feels like he’s constantly trying to outrun the validity of. But it’s worse that Ilya keeps turning his head to the side, moving his body to catch Shane’s eye, clearly distracted from the game. The other NHL guys are obviously noticing.

Shane jerks his head during a goal celly, the Dropkick Murphys' I'm Shipping Up To Boston blaring at bone-melting volume while the Bayonets converge. “Get the fuck over here,” he snaps.

Ilya is, at least, calmer with his knee and leg pressed the entire length of Shane’s for the rest of the game.

The game ends at two o'clock with a neat win. By that point, Shane’s tie has become his greatest enemy and he is so tired from being constantly aware of his own body that he feels like he’s spent the last three hours inside a derailing train.

“See you later,” Ilya says, rising to join the NHL guys on their way down into the locker rooms for their own game. He’s unbearably handsome in his suit. Shane does, actually, sort of wish that he’d held his hand now. Or kissed him. Or was kissing him now.

“Okay,” Shane mumbles. “Bye.”

The tie makes a disappearance when he goes home to nap and does not go back on before the NHL game. He fields a call from his mother during the Raiders’ warm-ups, assuring her in five different ways that he’d only sat out the game as a precaution, his eyes glued to 81 gliding around on the ice below. During the game, he nurses a ginger ale which he sips whenever his mouth starts to fill with too much saliva. Tolerates Patty sitting next to him, unspeaking, for almost an hour before he says, "I know you’re mad, but I'd like you to forget about that whole thing yesterday. If that's okay."

Patty says, "What are you fucking talking about, Hollander."

Shane smiles into his soda can.

--

They are in Florida two weeks later.

Shane slips into a pharmacy across the street from the NHL/MOHL's typical hotel in Sunset with a ballcap pulled so low on his forehead that it overlaps his eyebrows. Ilya stands there like a bodyguard, broad back shielding Shane from anything that even so much as resembles a security camera. Shane can't help but think that they wouldn't have to be so furtive about it if Ilya, whose face had already been a presence on TMZ, hadn't insisted on coming along. They look suspicious as fuck.

"You're being suspicious as fuck," Shane hisses, as he reads the back of a third brand of pregnancy test. Not recommended for use by male omegas. Fucking fuck. Whatever. He picks up another one. "Help me figure out which one of these to buy."

"Is not like they have Russian on the package," Ilya snaps.

"You're perfectly fucking literate in English, dipshit," Shane snaps back. "Car and Driver isn't published in Russian either."

They eventually figure out that the correct pregnancy tests are in a wholly separate part of the store, in the 'omegan health' aisle alongside assistive devices for heat and conception. The correct pregnancy tests are also in distinctive packaging that make it clear who the audience for them is.

"Do you think it's weird that they just assume male omegas are married to men?" Shane mutters, staring at the image of two smiling men on the side of the pregnancy test. What are you so fucking happy about, Shane thinks.

"Female alphas are rare," Ilya hedges. He's staring at a container of lactation cookies with a very strange look on his face.

"So are male omegas," Shane says, with forced casualness as if that isn't something he's thought about at least once a day since he presented. How fucking stupid and unlikely it all was. How everything had fallen apart in a way that he never even thought it could have. The anger still lives simmering just under the surface of his skin when he thinks about it too much.

He adds, "Let's go," because he needs to get out of this store and, more importantly, he needs to get Ilya out of this fucking aisle. It's doing weird things to his own sanity.

It's a four minute walk from the pharmacy to the hotel room. Single rooms for MOHL players are basically unheard of, and Shane's roommate is D'Arcy, who is one of six children and has never heard the term ‘privacy’ in his entire life. Ilya is also still sharing this year, a consequence of his ELC, but his roommate is Connors and Connors is an insane person who likes sightseeing before a game. Finds going to tourist traps relaxing, or something. Connors is also one of several Boston Raiders who are unambiguously aware of Shane and Ilya's not-relationship, because Ilya doesn't know how to throw the fucking deadbolt over the door, so there's that.

They crowd into the bathroom together and Ilya doesn't even pretend not to watch Shane piss. It's weird and alpha-y of him and in another world at another time it might be weirdly erotic. Right now, it's annoying.

The brand of the test is Know Now, and it's one of the digital ones that just straight up says Pregnant or Not Pregnant. Shane sets it on the counter, face-down, and sets a five minute timer on his phone and then crouches down and wraps his arms around Ilya's knees and waits for the beep.

"If it is positive," Ilya murmurs, hands kneading Shane's shoulders, "We will...make it fine."

"Yeah," Shane whispers. "Sisco had some options. It's...like, not easy here, with the protests and everything. But it's doable."

"You can always go back to Canada for a little while," Ilya suggests, though in a tone that Shane recognizes as the one where it's not really Ilya talking. It's Ilya saying what he thinks he's supposed to say. Being a martyr about shit.

"Maybe. But I don't really..." he sighs and pushes his forehead further against Ilya's knees. "I don't know. I don't want to talk about it."

"We might have to in...uh, three minutes."

"Then let's talk about it in three minutes. Fuck."

In three minutes, the timer goes off and Shane stays there with his head down and his eyes closed. Ilya turns off the timer, and the test taps against the counter when Ilya, presumably, turns it over.

"Shane," says Ilya. "Is okay. Negative."

Shane hugs Ilya's knees to himself in a way that he can tell almost unbalances him. "Fuck! Thank fuck. Oh my God. Holy shit. Thank God." He stands up, checks for himself, and then throws it in the trash with the energy of a slapshot into the net. He turns to Ilya and says, "Fuck me. Fuck me right now." It’s been two weeks, because Shane has been in pain and annoyed and, honestly, in a pissy mood. He’s also been blindingly, hormonally horny.

A grin cracks onto Ilya's face, though Shane can tell he's surprised. "Is what got us into this problem, no?"

"Don't use those cheap fucking condoms," Shane hisses, "and we won't have the fucking problem again."

He's elected not to tell Ilya about the IUD he'd gotten the previous week. He's not sure why. Maybe he's worried that Ilya would be an alpha about it. Given that Ilya isn't really an alpha about anything, he doesn't think that's it.

Ilya throws the deadbolt on the door before he puts Shane on the bed, eats him out for a little while and then fucks him with his shirt on, cross necklace hopping, pants around his thighs. Shane whimpers and whines the way he knows Ilya likes and someone in the next room yells, "Come on Rozanov, fuck!" and Shane kicks the wall.

"Do you ever think about it?" Shane asks, panting, hand fisted in Ilya's hair.

"Think about what?" Ilya asks, like he couldn't be less interested in the answer. He hikes Shane's thigh up further on his hip. "Fucking you? I think about all the time. I fuck you in my dreams. I close my eyes and I see me fuck you. Ugh, fuck." He bites Shane over his clavicle.

Shane throws his head back. "Uhn. Fuck. Yes. Uhn. Uhn." He grasps onto Ilya's face, a hand on his cheek and a hand on his chin, forces him up until he can see those pale eyes glazed into want. He presses his thumb into the beauty mark. "Do you ever—ever think about doing it on purpose?"

"Shane," Ilya groans. "Oh God. Shane."

"You would make beautiful babies," Shane tells him, because he's insane, and because it's pretend, it's all pretend—they are a pair of twenty-year-old morons and Shane can't even get his shit together enough to stop fucking an NHL player when their leagues are actively rearranging fraternization policies in order to stay ahead of the scandal their badly-hidden situationship is constantly on the cusp of causing. If the GM of the Bayonets knew how Shane had spent the last two weeks of his life, the man would die an early death. Probably of a heart attack, possibly of spontaneous combustion.

It's all pretend, nothing real about it, but Ilya drags him to the end of the bed and uses all of the power in his incredible legs to fuck Shane absolutely through the mattress.

"I give you my babies," Ilya growls, sounding like a fucking porn alpha for the first time in Shane's memory. Maybe he says this shit when he fucks other people, who knows. "I, fuck, I fill you with babies and people will see. They will know."

"Oh my God," Shane says. "Oh my God. I'm coming."

He does. Then Ilya does that crazy thing where he pulls out and takes off the condom and comes on Shane's stomach, and that's almost hotter than the other thing. The thing they're probably not going to do again for awhile, if the paranoid way Ilya handles the condom afterwards is any indication.

Shane will tell him about the IUD, eventually. Once he's done processing some of these complicated feelings inside of him. He'll also probably tell Ilya that he still thinks about the way it felt that day, Ilya leaking out of him and onto the sheets.

Today, right now, Ilya comes back into the bedroom with the toilet paper roll and wipes the cum off Shane's chest, crashes down next to him on the bed, wrestles him for a minute. They end with Ilya's head in his lap, cheek against Shane's soft dick.

"Sorry about...everything," Shane mutters eventually. He's not entirely sure he should be apologizing, and he kind of hates apologizing, but his mother raised him right and the last two weeks really have been quite the awful fuss.

Ilya shrugs. "Happens. Is always the risk, with sex. We are adults. We handle our shit."

"Yeah," Shane sighs, though he isn't sure that all aspects of his response were particularly mature.

"Is not the first time," Ilya tells him. “Happened with a friend, before.”

"Oh," Shane says, and doesn't even realize his body has gone stiff until Ilya twists his neck and looks up the length of Shane's body at him.

"No, sorry, I mean—" Ilya shakes his head, sighs. "English. I mean, I helped a friend. Was not because of me. The guy wasn't answering her texts, so she called me. I went to appointment with her, I held her hand."

"Oh," Shane says again. He hesitantly puts his fingers back into Ilya's hair. "That was nice of you."

"She is good friend, we are close."

The air goes quiet for a moment. The sun drips down another degree in the sky. The room goes a little bit darker.

"So...have you ever...with anyone else..."

Ilya snorts. "No, Hollander. You are only person I have ever accidentally come inside. Fuck, you are competitive about pregnancy scare now?"

"Maybe," Shane says, pretending that he isn't grinning at the ceiling. "I dunno. Maybe."