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:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Omega Verse, Alpha/Omega, Hurt/Comfort, So much comfort, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Service Top Ilya Rozanov, seriously so much service, Ilya Rozanov's Love Language is Acts of Service, and that shoud be a tag, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Omega Shane Hollander, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, shane hollander deserves nice things, Ilya Rozanov Is A Nice Thing, blink and you miss it hockey, Schmoop

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of omega verse hollanov

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-09 Words: 6,476 Chapters: 1/1

Solnyshko (Always My Sunshine)

Summary

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice comes out scratchy as he rolls over to put a hand on Shane’s back. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just… the sheets.”

“Ah sorry, forgot to change yesterday.”

Of course Ilya already knows. He always knows. Shane doesn’t know how his body can contain all the love and gratitude he feels for this man.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “We got in late.”

or: Shane’s on suppressants, but every few months, he gets very mild heat symptoms. Ilya always knows when it’s happening. And he knows exactly what to do to help Shane through it.

Notes

This is not really a sequel to Secret Heat, but it could be. As it is, it’s a standalone look at what some h/c TLC could look like for omega Shane and alpha Ilya after a few years on the Centaurs together.

Many, many thanks to my wonderful betas ilikaicalie and masja_17 and to aythia for patiently holding my anxious hand!
This is just so very indulgent schmoop I wrote to cheer myself up when I was feeling down.

“Come on, come on, come on.” Bood’s leaning forward on the bench next to Ilya, almost hanging over the boards.

Shane and Luca are tearing down the ice, leaving the Montreal forwards behind them and deking around their defense. Holmberg’s falling behind, but he’s blocking their pursuers, so it’s two versus two in the neutral zone, and then it’s two versus one, and Shane has the shot, just needs to veer left and—he passes to Haas, who only fumbles for a blink-and-you-miss-it moment and then swerves and takes the shot on goal.

A better goalie might have stopped it, because Haas wasn’t in a perfect position, but Drapeau still has a chip on his shoulder playing Shane and never plays his best game against Ottawa.

Still, Shane should have taken the shot himself. He was in a better position than Luca, and Luca was clearly distracting the last defender. So why hadn’t Shane taken the shot?

Ilya has his answer two minutes later when the final buzzer sounds. The Centaurs swarm the ice to celebrate their win against Montreal, but Shane’s avoiding the thick of it, keeping to the edge of the happy mass of players.

Ilya skates over to him and fits a hand around his neck, right under his helmet. For just a second, Shane relaxes into it, then he pulls his shoulders up and shakes him off. Ilya hopes the cameras didn’t catch it, otherwise he’ll have to deal with another slew of speculative articles that their marriage is on the rocks again.

(Their marriage has never been on the rocks, but the tabloids love to speculate.)

What is happening is that Shane’s probably about to experience a dry heat, but that’s nothing to discuss on the ice. So Ilya starts herding the team off the ice, giving everyone his customary love you. If he’s doing it a little quicker than usual, no one seems to notice. Well, Hazy does, because he’s a goalie and a good friend, but he doesn’t comment, because he’s a really good friend.

Over the years, Ilya has become an expert at picking up on the signs of Shane’s dry heats. They’re subtle, because Shane’s meds are strong and Shane’s self-control is even stronger.

He gets cold more easily so he’s wearing hoodies more often, and is more likely to fall back on old habits of leaving his socks on in bed.

He eats a little more, snacks, even healthy ones, creeping into his meal plan. That one is fairly recent. Three months ago, Ilya saw him eating a Snickers bar and immediately canceled their evening plans.

Shane’s also a little more horny which is really not saying much because even after years of living together, of finally being able to take out the urgency of every time they come together, they still have a pretty active sex life. Granted, there are days they go without, after brutal games or injuries, but even then they can usually find the energy for lazy hand jobs.

But Ilya knows Shane well and he can read the signs. The way he’s a little more tactile but also a little more irritable. The way he stretches, that very specific way he draws a deep breath and makes himself tall, like he’s trying to give himself as much room as he can because he’s feeling cramped and heavy.

Ilya is the only one who notices.

Shane was always worried someone would pick it up in his scent, but the difference is so subtle, no one ever does. Even Ilya isn’t able to tell until he has his nose pressed to Shane’s skin. But then it’s there, almost imperceptible, a slight heaviness to Shane’s scent, something a little more earthy and primal underneath his usual clean scent of ice and clear spring morning.

Ilya hasn’t picked up any of the signs this morning, but maybe it’s just starting now. Shane doesn’t play badly when he’s coming up on a dry heat—Shane feeling uncomfortable is still a better player than most other guys in the league—but it can make the difference between making a shot on goal and passing the puck. Maybe the helmet strap caught his skin in an irritating way and made him flinch and lose his step. Maybe he was caught by a cold flash that made him shiver uncontrollably. Nothing too bad, but enough to make Shane lose his stride for a moment and pass rather than miss the shot.

A subtle thing only. Unnoticeable to anyone but Ilya.

Ilya worries, while he’s quickly showering in Montreal’s visitors locker room, about the strength of the meds being able to push down this part of Shane so deeply, but he also understands. Going into heat during the season would be a nightmare.

And these days, Shane lets his heat come twice a year instead of only once. Once at the beginning of summer and once at the end, before training camp starts.

The memories of Shane’s heats when he only let himself have one per year still haunt Ilya and he only knows how bad it was when he was there to help. Trying to imagine Shane going through it alone still makes his hackles raise and his fists clench and his eyes burn.

But it’s better now. He focuses on that. And maybe, if neither of them is going to go to All-Stars this year, they might have another chance for a heat together.

It would probably take some convincing on Ilya’s part. Shane still doesn’t like his heats.

And Ilya gets it, as much as he can. Yes, the sex is spectacular, mind-blowing on a level that cannot be achieved without hormonal overload, but everything around it isn’t fun for Shane. It’s the loss of control that gets to Shane more than any of the physical discomfort.

It’s not during sex. As long as Ilya is there taking care of him, Shane is fine. Shane is good. He lets himself fall apart in Ilya’s arms, trusts him to take care of him at his most vulnerable, which still makes Ilya’s head spin. It’s the most precious gift he’s ever received, and he never takes it for granted.

Shane has always enjoyed giving Ilya control, but it’s so much more when he’s in heat, when he’s truly out of it, when his strong limbs become useless and his already focused mind is unable to break out of the narrow corridor of getting what he needs.

The problem is that as soon as they’re not having sex, Shane still feels the loss of control, the demands of his body that he’s helpless to fulfill or suffer the consequences. It was a struggle to get Shane to a place where he accepted his need for blankets of a special material, that he was only able to tolerate food of a certain consistency, and that he absolutely craves melted cheese when in heat. He’s constantly at war with himself, wanting the proof of Ilya claiming him inside of him and rubbed into his skin and yet finding it absolutely gross.

Ilya does his best to help. He makes sure Shane’s heat blankets are always washed. He had some pillow cases made of the same material. He stocks up on food. He even makes tuna melts again. He balked at it when Shane asked for them the first time, but then Shane had shut down, hands kneading in the way they do when he’s denying himself something he really needs, so Ilya made a tuna melt and they made new memories afterward. Now it’s become a staple of Shane’s heats. And Ilya has become pretty good at keeping wet wipes next to the bed so he can wipe Shane clean the moment he scrunches up his face and starts squirming around in Ilya’s arms.

It’s work, and it isn’t easy, but it’s the most important work Ilya’s ever done in his life.

Shane is the best thing in Ilya’s life. And his heats, getting to be so close to him, sharing this innermost part of him, it’s a gift Ilya will never take for granted. It isn’t fair that Shane’s the one who has to suffer through it, Shane with his control issues, who needs everything just so to feel good, he’s the one whose body takes over and renders all his carefully constructed routines obsolete.

Ilya sometimes thinks he’d have a much easier time being an omega. He’s better at rolling with the punches, better at breaking routines.

Shane’s never been diagnosed but Ilya understood enough of the signs to read up on heats for people who are on the spectrum.

So he does his best to support Shane, whether he’s letting his heat come or whether it’s that time every three months where his meds are doing their job and the dry heat just simmers low in his body, the signs so subtle only Ilya picks up on them.

Sometimes even before Shane does.

It’s been a busy week, a brutal road trip that is ending in Montreal. It’s the third season away from Montreal and it’s still not easy for Shane. It’s still not the same as any other game, even though he plays well, manages to shut it out, but it costs him more and he’s more drained after. They beat Montreal 4-1 this time, so of course the media wanted Shane. Ilya had stepped in, told him to go shower, but Shane had shaken him off and done his duty.

Ilya uses the moment to call Pike and cancel their plans. They’re not going to be staying the night at his house and drive home tomorrow.

“What’s wrong?” Pike asks, clearly worried. “I saw Shane not take the shot at the end, is he injured?”

Okay, maybe Pike also knows Shane pretty well. But it’s the hockey of it, because Pike played with Shane for ten seasons. He doesn’t know what’s going on, not like Ilya does.

“Shane needs to be home right now,” Ilya says.

“What do you—oh. Oh. Yeah, of course, man. Just, um, take care of him.” Pike chuckles awkwardly. “I mean, you know—”

“Goodbye, Pike,” Ilya says, exasperated, and hangs up. He does not have the time to deal with Hayden Pike being awkward around his best friend’s designation or his sex life.

He keeps an eye on Shane when he’s out of the shower and getting dressed and the signs are more obvious now. He’s not engaging with the rest of the team, keeps his head down and his movements are jittery.

“Alright, everybody get their asses in gear,” Ilya yells over the locker room noise.

“Dude,” Dykstra complains, who is always one of the slowest in the shower.

“The sooner we’re home, the sooner you can celebrate with your better halves, yes?”

Dykstra snorts. “Yeah. Sure. You’re so selfless, Roz.”

The other guys laugh.

Hazy throws Dykstra’s shirt at him. “I’m with Roz on this one. We haven’t been home in ten days, and I for one would love to see my wife before she goes to bed.”

Thankfully, the guys hurry up. A few of them shoot Shane surreptitious looks, noticing the quiet, but Shane gets like that sometimes when he’s tired or done with being social, especially at the end of a roadtrip. Ilya doesn’t think they realize something else is going on. And even if they do—they’re out now. Shane’s out, all the way, and the team doesn’t care.

Well, there was one guy who did, but Ilya made sure he got traded when Shane signed with Ottawa. It wasn’t a hard sell; he’s pretty sure management would have traded half the team to get Shane Hollander on the Centaurs.

When everyone’s dressed and filing out of the locker room, Ilya keeps herding them along to the bus, which will take them to the plane. He makes Shane take a window seat and slides in next to him. He wants to take Shane into his arms, but he doesn’t think it would go over well. Shane’s holding himself stiffly, powering through the fatigue and whatever else is going on right now. Shane won’t let himself relax now, not on the short bus ride to the airport, and Ilya doesn’t want to offer the touch that could break the damn. It’s a toss-up whether he’s realized what’s going on—even after years, he’s sometimes a little slow about it—and the overlap of feeling drained after a long road trip and dry heat symptoms makes it difficult. Ilya has the advantage of the outside perspective.

“Fuck, Hayden,” Shane says suddenly.

“I talked to him,” Ilya says, like that’s normal.

Shane turns to him with wide eyes. “What?”

Ilya shrugs. “I canceled. Was a long trip. We’re both tired. And you didn’t look like you wanted to be social tonight.”

“I can always see Hayden,” Shane says stubbornly. “And we’re missing the kids, too.”

“We will find a weekend to visit,” Ilya promises. “Just not this one, hm? Not good timing.”

Shane’s brows furrow, which makes his nose scrunch up a little, and his freckles dance, and Ilya can only ignore the cuteness aggression that particular expression triggers in him because after years, he’s acclimated. If they were alone, he’d absolutely kiss Shane now though.

“I’m okay,” Shane mutters and turns to look out of the window.

Not realized it then. He is a little early. Maybe Ilya is wrong? It has been a grueling trip. But no, Ilya is almost sure. He tries to surreptitiously scent Shane, but all he can pick up is shower gel and the fresh laundry smell from Shane’s clothes. Still, his gut tells him he’s right.

He knows his Shane.

The drive to the airport doesn’t take too long. It’s ridiculous, taking a plane from Montreal to Ottawa, but they’re coming up from a long East Coast road trip, so the plane was already in Montreal and needs to go back to Ottawa anyway.

They don’t have to wait, can get right on the plane. Ilya herds Shane toward the back of the plane, sits down next to him and sends one glare down the aisle to make it clear that no one is to bother them.

The rest of the team is familiar enough with Shane on empty batteries that they give them a wide berth, the rows around them empty. Ilya gives Shane his travel hoodie as a blanket. It’s a testament to Shane’s low energy that he doesn’t even put up a token of protest, just curls into Ilya’s side and closes his eyes.

The flight isn’t long enough to be actually restful on a physical level, but Shane looks a little less like he’ll collapse in on himself at any moment when they land. Ilya drives them home after short goodbyes, and Shane doesn’t even notice that Ilya is speeding. It’s only a little anyway, but the urge to get Shane home, to get him into their bed, is growing stronger by the minute. Shane’s not putting out any pheromones that could trigger the alpha in Ilya, but there’s never been a big difference between what Ilya feels toward Shane and what his alpha side demands. So even without a real heat, Ilya needs to tuck Shane into bed, under the blankets he likes so much, and then fuck him silly. Make him some tea too, and feed him snacks, and stroke his hair, and bask in the warm satisfaction he gives off once Ilya has done all of those things, when Shane’s hands are in Ilya’s hair, and his lips are on his skin, and Ilya knows he’s done well.

They don’t even have sex when they finally get home. Shane’s already asleep in bed when Ilya is done putting their stuff away, because Shane hates waking up to unpacked travel bags with stinking laundry.

Ilya finally has a moment to pull up the calendar, does the math, and realizes that if he is right, Shane is in fact a little early. He’s going to hate that. Which means he’s going to need some extra TLC. Ilya needs to make sure though. Carefully, so he won’t wake Shane, he presses his nose to Shane’s neck, right to the juncture, where shoulder meets neck and his scent is strongest.

Under the smell of Shane’s facial wash and the aroma of his moisturizer is his natural scent, clean ice and something soft and bright, like an early morning standing on the dock at the cottage, the scents of nature muted by the dew clinging to leaves and blossoms. Ilya inhales again.

Shane shuffles a little closer to him and there it is. A little darker, a little heavier.

Ilya reaches for his phone and texts Bood that they won’t make it to his BBQ tomorrow. Then he orders groceries and sends a message to the dog hotel asking them to keep Anya for one more day.

It’s usually only one day that’s bad.

Ilya thanks his lucky stars for that and then curls around Shane to go to sleep.

*****

Shane wakes up feeling off. By now he’s experienced this particular kind of discomfort often enough in his life that he recognizes it immediately. Dry heat.

He sighs. In retrospect, the signs were there yesterday, but he hadn’t wanted to deal with it. It’s too early.

It’s not a science, of course. He doesn’t know if he’d be regular without the suppressants, but he has no desire to find out. And he doesn’t have severe symptoms every time anyway. When he was younger, his dry heats were mostly triggered, his suppressants doing their job otherwise. Nowadays, he’s taking different meds. He’s out now. The world knows. And he’s got Ilya. Living with an alpha makes the suppressants’ job harder, Shane’s body much readier to give in to its biological urges. So he lets his heat come twice in the summer. His doctor still isn’t thrilled with him, lobbies for him to go off suppressants over Christmas break too, but Shane knows it would make him miss one or two games.

Thankfully, Ilya understands the demands of the season and doesn’t pressure Shane, but Shane’s seen the way Ilya gets cagey about the next All-Star weekend. The Cens will probably send Luca Haas this season—the kid’s really grown up and has caught up to Troy in points playing on Shane’s wing—and even though the fans voted in Shane and Ilya the last two years, they could decline this year. Shane’s already seen half a plan formulating in Ilya’s head and considering how he’s feeling this morning, he might consider it. They’ve already proven to the league that they can still play—the cup win in their first season together and the Conference final win last year with a strong enough start to the season that they’re for sure play-off bound again this year—and the people still loved them enough that they sent both of them to All-Stars on fan votes. So they could take this year off.

Shane stretches in the sheets. He immediately curls in on himself again because they’re the regular sheets which Shane very much enjoys usually but hates during heats and dry heats.

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice comes out scratchy as he rolls over to put a hand on Shane’s back. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just… the sheets.”

“Ah sorry, forgot to change yesterday.”

Of course Ilya already knows. He always knows. Shane doesn’t know how his body can contain all the love and gratitude he feels for this man.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “We got in late.”

Ilya hums. “Why don’t you go make tea and I make the bed?”

Shane’s not a tea drinker, except for when he’s in heat. Pathetically he kind of wants to curl up in his blankets and ask Ilya to make him tea, but that’s ridiculous and also he needs different sheets if he wants to enjoy anything that could happen in their bed today.

So Shane trudges downstairs and puts on the kettle. He also makes coffee for Ilya. It’s the least he can do.

Every movement irritates him. His skin feels pulled taut and he’s cold because he forgot to put on more clothes than the shirt he slept in and a pair of sweatpants.

While his tea is seeping, Ila comes downstairs, carrying one of his hoodies in his hand.

Shane almost rips it out of his hands. “Thank you,” he remembers to say once he’s pulled it over his head.

Ilya just gives him a soft smile.

They drink in silence for a moment, then Ilya starts making breakfast. He makes eggs, enough for two. Shane has eased up on his diet, but he usually still sticks to egg whites only. Not today. He’d fought it, in the beginning when Ilya was there for his dry heats, but eventually Ilya had teamed up with Shane’s doctor, so now heat days, even dry heat days, are automatic cheat days.

And Shane is hungry. He really is. But Ilya is wearing his terrible Rick Owens drop crotch sweatpants and a tank top, and Shane has a very specific reaction to that outfit. Also hormones. Shane has learned there’s no point denying himself this. Not when he’s not in heat and especially when he is.

So he walks over to Ilya, turns off the stove, and goes to his knees in the middle of their kitchen.

“What—oh.” Ilya’s hand finds its way into Shane’s hair. “It’s like that, hm?”

Shane looks up at him while he’s pulling down the waistband of Ilya’s sweats. “Don’t pretend like you mind.”

He can’t, not with how his dick is already getting hard.

“Never,” Ilya says. “Just making sure.”

“Sure,” Shane says and then takes Ilya into his mouth. It’s one of his favorite ways to do this, take Ilya when he’s still soft and feel him harden in his mouth, feel the effect Shane has on him.

“Fuck, malysh.”

Ilys’s often soft with Shane, but when Shane’s like this, the pet names come out much quicker. Sometimes it’s exactly what Shane needs and sometimes it makes him feel babied.

Right now it’s the latter. So Shane sucks him harder, grips his ass tight enough to bruise and pulls him in closer.

“Fuck, okay.” Ilys tries to take a steadying breath, but doesn’t manage. His breathing is ragged, his hand clenching harder in Shane’s hair and he’s muttering Russian under his breath so slurred Shane would need to really concentrate to pick up on all of it. And right now, Shane has other things to concentrate on. Like breathing while he’s stuffing himself full of Ilya’s cock. Like realizing he wants Ilya’s cock somewhere else.

He pulls off and scrambles to his feet.

“Fuck me.”

Usually, Ilya loves to tease him. But not when Shane gets like this. Shane’s not entirely sure whether that’s because Ilya knows Shane doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with any kind of games when he’s this far gone or whether Ilya gets too far gone when Shane’s like this.

Either way, Shane gets what he needs. Ilya spins him around and pushes him against the counter while he’s opening the drawer where they stash the lube.

Shane had protested initially to having lube in the kitchen, but after the third time they’d fucked in the kitchen, he’d given in.

Then Ilya is there, working him open because Shane doesn’t get wet during dry heats, but he still feels out of control. He forces himself to relax so Ilya will go faster.

“Come on, fuck me, I’m ready.”

“No, you’re not,” Ilya grits out. “Let me.”

Shane groans and pushes back, knowing what the bowed line of his back does to Ilya. “Please.”

“Fuck.” Ilya gives him another finger and it fucking burns, but Shane doesn’t care. He doesn’t, he needs it now, and he doesn’t know how much of that he’s been saying out loud, but then Ilya’s fingers are gone and there’s the hot pressure of his dick, slowly pushing inside, too fucking slowly, so Shane tilts his hips, shoves back from the kitchen counter with his hands gripping the edge tight and fuck.

Ilya makes a choked off sound behind him and Shane’s head is spinning. He needs to take a moment, because it was too fast, he wasn’t ready, but he also needs exactly this, like breathing.

“Fuck, Shane, sweetheart, are you okay?”

Ilya’s hands are rubbing down his sides, soothing even though they’re a little shaky.

“Yeah.” Shane breathes through the pressure, slowly circles his hips to feel Ilya everywhere inside of him. “Yeah, this is exactly what I need.”

“You’re a wonder.” Ilya’s voice is low and awed. “Moye chudo.”

“Fuck me. Now, please.”

This time, Ilya listens. He fucks Shane exactly like he needs it, deep and hard, filling him up completely. Shane barely manages to stretch out his arms and brace them against the wall for some leverage, but he doesn’t need to because Ilya is putting all of his not inconsiderable strength into fucking Shane while holding him tightly in place.

It doesn’t take long like this, not with Ilya committed to making Shane lose all higher brain function while fucking him at a perfect angle with perfect strength and Shane comes all over himself before he realizes it’s going to happen.

The intensity of it leaves him gasping and shaking, heavily slumping over their kitchen counter.

Behind him, Ilya groans out his name and then follows right after Shane.

Shane’s floating, the high of a good, thorough fuck always carrying him through the initial discomfort of everything around him, but eventully the hard kitchen counter and the drying come become too much to ignore.

A disgusted noise crawls out of his throat. Ilya pulls back and immediately gets some kitchen towels which is not the right texture at all, but Shane will use it as a stop gap until he gets to the shower.

“Want company?” Ilya’s looking at him carefully, already knowing where Shane’s headed.

“Yeah.”

Ily’s smile is warm, and together they make their way up to their bathroom. In the shower, Ilya washes Shane’s hair and then Shane washes Ilya’s. There’s something so comforting doing these domestic things together now, being intimate without sex, just casual loving touches that don’t have to lead somewhere because they have so much time now. Sometimes Shane still can’t believe this luxury.

“Breakfast I think now,” Ilya says when they’re clean and dry.

On cue, Shane’s stomach rumbles.

Downstairs, Ilya reheats the omelettes and Shane makes them a smoothie to share. He’ll never get Ilya to drink anything green, but if he mixes a bunch of berries with banana he can usually sneak some spinach in there.

They eat at the kitchen island. The food is good, Shane definitely needed it, but it can’t distract from the way he’s feeling slightly off-center. Tense. Uncomfortable. Like his muscles are tight after a long workout except they’re not. He shakes out his shoulders, rotates the joints a little, not that it helps. He was so happy and relaxed fifteen minutes ago, and now he’s feeling like shit again. He hates this. And he knows wallowing in it makes him spiral more, makes him feel even worse, but right now he really can’t focus on anything but the creeping feeling of unease and the pinpricks of annoyance.

“We could go back to bed,” Ilya offers.

It would be cozy. But also stifling. And he knows that Ilya would immediately sleep with him if Shane wanted it, but he’s feeling the opposite of sexy right now. He feels heavy and ungainly, like his body wouldn’t move the way he wanted it to, the ultimate betrayal after shaping it into a perfect athlete’s tool.

“No.”

“Do you want more food?” Ilya asks.

Shane does not. Wordlessly, he pushes the plate away.

Ilya cleans up and Shane feels bad that Ilya already cooked and now also cleans, because they’re good about sharing household chores. But Shane also doesn’t want to move right now. He wants—well, watching Ilya clean the kitchen soothes something inside of him a little, while it also heating his body.

Fuck, this is ridiculous. This is one of the worst things living with Ilya—probably the only bad thing apart from Ilya’s socks everywhere, the man can shoot a puck into a goal from any position on the ice, but he can’t throw a sock into the hamper to save his life—having him around for every heat and every dry heat and noticing how much Shane reacts to Ilya doing things for him. Because he needs him. Because he can’t do this on his own.

No. That’s not right, Shane can do this on his own, he did it for years. It’s nicer with Ilya, sure, easier, but he can still do this on his own. He’s not helpless. He doesn’t need Ilya to wait on him hand and foot even if some stupid part of his hindbrain reads this as an alpha’s service that deserves to be rewarded.

“You should at least drink something.” Ilya is rummaging around in the fridge, but he turns around now, raising his hand with a water bottle in it. “More tea would be better probably, but maybe—”

“I’m fine, fuck.” Shane drags a hand over his face. “Will you just stop hovering?”

For a moment Ilya’s face falls, then he nods with a small smile. “Of course.”

He puts the water bottle back on the counter. And then he turns around to walk away, and Shane can’t stop the sound he’s making. It’s ridiculous because he needs to be alone right now, needs to pull himself together without the weight of Ilya’s gaze on him, but Ilya turning away like that, like he doesn’t want to be here in the first place, like it’s costing him nothing to go when it’s tearing Shane apart, it yanks Shane’s mood around like a boomerang changing direction, helplessly pulled back to its owner.

Ilya turns back immediately. He walks over to Shane, then pauses. Searches for something in his face before he leans in and presses a very gentle kiss to his mouth.

“I love you.”

Shane feels at least half the tension in his body draining. Unfortunately most of the space is taken up by shame. “Thank you.”

“Of course, solnyshko.”

Shane barely manages not to snort at that, because Ilya doesn’t deserve that. But Shane’s not feeling very sunny right now, despite Ilya’s reassurance.

Then Ilya leaves, but this time Shane doesn’t feel like he’s being left at least.

Shane goes down to their gym and does a simple stretching routine with the lights dimmed. It helps a little, but he’s still restless, still can’t settle in his body, still feels unmoored. And he knows what he needs. He doesn’t even know why he’s fighting it.

The suppressants work very well to keep the physical symptoms at bay. His scent stays the same, he doesn’t get wet, his sex drive is basically the same—Ilya always turns him on, that isn’t new—and he doesn’t run a fever. But the emotional symptoms, those are a whole different matter. He can do it alone, has done it alone, but fuck it sucks. And it’s not like this isn’t hurting Ilya too. Really, Shane knows that his stubbornness and his recalcitrance are also symptoms, so he swallows down the false pride keeping him down here.

Shane trudges back upstairs. He goes up all the way to their bedroom and pulls out the hoodie Ilya had worn after the game yesterday. He puts it on, finds his warm socks and then takes off his pants. He needs to be warm and comfortable, but he also needs skin on skin. It’s an unfortunate dichotomy, but this works reasonably well.

Downstairs, Ilya is on the couch, watching an ocean documentary with one of Shane’s favorite heat blankets next to him

Fuck, Shane is going to cry.

He manages not to, though he’s sure Ilya, the perceptive asshole, notices anyway.

But Ilya doesn’t say anything, just opens his arms, and Shane gratefully climbs into his lap. Ilya arranges the blanket around them and then puts his big, warm hands on Shane’s naked thighs.

The rest of the tension leaves Shane’s body, and he’s distantly aware he’s making some kind of purring noise, but he can’t be bothered.

Eventually, he notices Ilya’s nose in his hair, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head while his fingers gently knead Shane’s thighs.

“I don’t really feel like sunshine right now,” Shane says, a little nonsensically. Ilya called him that in the kitchen earlier, and it stuck with him, like a thorn under a nail.

He’s a bother right now, a burden he knows Ilya is happy enough to carry, even though Shane doesn’t want to be, and for Ilya to call him that…

“Ah, solnyshko,” Ilya says softly and Shane has to squeeze his eyes shut against all the emotions it makes well in his chest.

“You are always my sunshine. Does not matter if you’re sad or annoying or angry. Sunshine isn’t always pleasant either, no? Sometimes is too bright or gives you sunburn. But you always need it to live.”

Shane’s body finally gives up. He melts into Ilya, hands helplessly grappling at his shoulders while he buries his face against his neck. He can feel hot tears leaking out of his eyes, because it’s just too much. Too much love, too much gratitude, too much of a feeling that’s happiness with the lingering incredulity, not that Ilya loves him, but that a love like this can even exist.

“How are you the most romantic asshole on the planet?”

“I contain multitudes.”

Shane lets out a wet laugh and tries to get closer to Ilya. “I love you. So much. And I’m so so grateful. I don’t know how I’d do this without you.”

“You did for years,” Ilya says gently.

“Yeah, and it was killing me,” Shane says. Being without you was killing me, he thinks.

“Don’t have to anymore now.”

“I know.” Shane holds on tighter, but suddenly it isn’t enough. He still feels off, heavy, bloated, the opposite of sexy. But he needs Ilya on an elemental level, needs him with every fiber of his being, and he needs to feel it.

“Fuck me. Please, Ilya fuck me.”

Ilya pulls back enough to look at him, brows furrowed. “You do not want to have sex right now.

“Yes. No.”

“Shane.” He says it so patiently, so indulgently.

“No, shut up. I know I don’t want to fuck, but I want to be closer to you, as close as possible. Is that… Oh fuck, that’s so selfish.” Shane realizes in horror. Ilya just keeps on giving so much, and Shane wants to take even more. “Forget I said that.”

“Selfish?” Ilya asks, brows drawn together.

“Yeah, I mean you’re right I don’t want to fuck, I just want you inside of me, but you need to be hard for that so you need to want to fuck, and that’s just selfish so just ignore—”

Ilya shuts him up with a kiss. Just a press of lips on lips.

“Is my decision too, moya lyubov.”

Shane swallows. He already knew what Ilya would say and it makes his throat all tight.

“You want to stay here or go to bed?”

“Here,” Shane blurts out. He doesn’t want to move.

So Ilya arranges them on the couch, back to front. There’s lube in the couch table because they have lube everywhere in the house.

Ilya gently makes sure Shane is fully ready this time and somehow it isn’t sexual in the slightest. It’s gentle and loving and Shane lets himself relax into it.

When Ilya slides into him, it’s everything. He fills Shane up, steady and hot and inescapable. And then he just stays there, one arm wrapped around Shane’s chest, the other still gently rubbing his thigh.

Fuck, Shane is in heaven.

Ilya is breathing a little heavily, but otherwise there’s no sign he’s turned on.

“How, how do you even do this?” Shane asks.

Nothing about him or this is remotely erotic; he can’t even fathom how Ilya got hard right now.

“Is what you need,” Ilya says, like it’s that simple. “Is easy to do what you need.”

Shane blinks furiously.

“Also, I am cheating a little.” Shane can hear the smile in Ilya’s voice.

“How?”

Ilya takes a deep breath. “Your scent. Is very subtle, but I know what to look for.”

Ilya presses his nose into the juncture of Shane’s neck and shoulder. “Is enough to stay hard. Just have to lean into my alpha, and you smelling like omega, even just a little, is like siren call. Besides, solnyshko, you’re still the most beautiful man on the planet. I know you do not feel sexy right now, but trust me, you are always beautiful.”

“If I could propose to you again, I would,” Shane manages to get out because he doesn’t know how else to express his gratitude anymore.

“I know.” Ilya shifts a little, arranges them a little more comfortably. The way he moves inside Shane, that would usually light his body up with heat, just makes him feel anchored now.

“Also your ass…” Ilya’s big hand grips said ass and squeezes once. “I would have to be dead not to get hard when you offer it.”

Shane lets out a snort.

Ilya pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “Now watch the ocean fish.”

“This is a documentary about the Mediterranean Sea,” Shane can’t help pointing out. “So they’re not really ocean fish.”

Ilya blows a raspberry against the back of Shane’s neck. “Okay. Then watch the Mediterranean fish.”

Shane vows to write Ilya a really romantic letter once his brain is no longer swimming in heat hormone soup. Maybe he should also buy him a new sports car. They’re stupid and gas-guzzling death traps, but Ilya does love them. He thinks he’s heard Ilya talk about the new Porsche Spyder that’s coming out soon with Wyatt. He should ask Wyatt if Ilya mentioned a color or if he should just go with the brightest one they offer. Or maybe he could get a custom paint job in the Centaurs colors with Ilya’s number on it. And Shane’s. He’d love that, probably.

For now, loose-limbed, relaxed, warm, and so full of love Shane doesn’t know how he’s still on the human plane of existence, there’s one sentence he can say. It’s not enough, but it’ll have to do.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“I love you too, solnyshko.”